#v. in my defense i have none for never leaving well enough alone. ( modern | writer )

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings​ said:  ❛ you’ve got to stop using your fancy ass rich-people talk , okay ? ❜ from declan!

She can’t stay for too long; she hates it, just a little bit. Brooklyn’s been good for him but she has the distinct sensation that a piece of her heart is simply too far from her at all times, and these visits are always too brief. Astoria arrived this morning at nine, will be boarding the train back home tomorrow around noon, and if she could convince him to just come home she would try, but there’s a part of her that knows that he needs this. Just like there’s a part of her that’s terrified that he’s never coming back, and it’s the same part of her that selfishly wishes that everything could go back to normal, even though she knows that this is better for everyone involved.

     There’s no noise upstairs and it aches. There’s no one knocking at the door at two in the morning and it aches. And when she’s here, visiting for barely a day and a half, the rest of her is closer to Boston, and the ache of missing Declan is painful, but the ache of missing Damien is unbearable. ( That’s why it’s so unfair. She knows. Still, she hates to consider it. ) 

     “All I said was brunch!” It’s easier if they keep things light. She’d flung herself into his arms the second she’d seen him, walking toward Penn Station with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, and beyond the initial affection they’ve been tiptoeing around one another a bit. Declan won’t admit to a relationship with Rhiannon, so she doesn’t know how to ask if it’s still okay if they kiss or share a bed ( all things they’ve done a hundred, a thousand times without thinking twice ); he’s been leaving Damien’s texts on read lately, and so she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to talk about how Damien’s been or if that’s a topic that should be left for later. She’s not even sure if she’s still allowed to wear the items of clothing they keep accidentally stealing from one another, or the hoodie she’d swiped from his closet after he moved, or if that’s a degree of intimacy that they need to leave behind in the midst of everything changing. 

     So, teasing each other about brunch, about hybrid meals on the Upper East Side, is much easier than starting to approach those questions. For now, they’re curled up on the couch together, Astoria’s legs stretched out across his lap, his hand gingerly on her calf and the other hanging off the back of the sofa. It’s close without being too intimate, without crossing any lines; why does it keep happening that she doesn’t know how to be with him? “I told my grandfather that I was coming down to visit you and he made the reservation for you and me just in case. The guy they’ll bump for us if we go doesn’t tip well. We’d be doing them a favor, and besides, I’m buying. I know it’s stupid that you have to wear a jacket for brunch, but the crepes are to die for. It’ll be fun!”

     Easier to argue about this than his anger ( “You’re allowed to be mad,” she’d said quietly, “and I will listen to you vent about it for the rest of our lives, but you cannot bring that anger to him” )  or his sense of betrayal ( “You aren’t seriously thinking of leaving, are you?” she’d asked, sitting on her hands to make sure he couldn’t see how they were shaking. “How am I supposed to do this without you? How am I supposed to do any of this without you?” ). 

     Just come home, she wants to say, but she’s afraid to ask mostly because she’s afraid that he’ll tell her that he’s never coming back. She hesitates, for just a moment, before she clears her throat. “I can stay longer, if you want me to, but — you know you can send me home whenever you want, right? I don’t want to impose.” ( Since when has she cared about being an imposition? Since when has she tried to make herself smaller, to make herself take up less space, with him? Even when things were bad before, they still found their way back to each other with relative speed and ease; maybe it’s just that then, they were both admitting that something was wrong. ) “And we don’t have to do anything I’m suggesting. I just want to hang out with you. Totally up to you.”

[scarletjedi]

You said that you don't have to choose a Ray in Due South, because both Rays are wonderful for different reasons. Can you talk about those reasons? I love RayV, but I've had a hard time liking Kowalski. There's something about his personality that irritates me.

Sure! 

Remember, that all of this is my opinion, and one that has been shaped and polished by 20 years of fanfic. This is also long, hence it’s under the cut :D

I wanna begin by saying that I loved Ray V first. When I started watching Due South (because I read a .rtf fic names XDS - a crossover between X-Files, Due South, and Star Wars that I came to though Star Wars and read because I knew X-Files and figured I could learn enough about Due South to make it work), the show was playing on TNT in the afternoons, and may have actually been *before* Ray Kowalski made an appearance. 

I watched the first two seasons, I started reading Due South fic alongside Star Wars fic. I discovered Slash, and read a few Ray V/Fraser stories with my Luke/Wedge and Luke/Biggs fic, but at the time I was mostly reading Fraser/Frannie or Fraser/Thatcher. 

I didn’t dislike Fraser/Ray V, but I was young -- young enough that I worried about my parents finding the one slash fic that I dared print out (my dad had the internet, my mom didn’t. So, I’d print out stories on the weekend and read them over the week). 

Then I found out about Ray K and I stopped watching Due South. I was pissed! You can’t just replace one half of the duo! It doesn’t work like that! But, eventually, I came back. I missed Fraser, and figured I’d give Ray K a shot - and I loved him. They knew not to make him try and fill the same niche - and, when they finally met, the clash between them was perfectly done to highlight the different roles they filled. I dived headfirst into Fraser/Ray K fic (partially because I was older and had lost my hesitation around slash fic, and partially because my mom had finally gotten the internet). 

And that, I think, is the crux of the issue. Ray V and Ray K offer Fraser a different relationship because they’re different people and satisfy different needs - thus telling a different story. 

Let’s begin with Ray V. 

When you look at the beginning of the series, Fraser, like the protagonist of any fantasy story, is orphaned (literally, the first scene is Bob Fraser’s death) and alone- he’s the odd duck, the isolated character to facilitate his travel. it’s hard to go off and be a hero when you have responsibilities at home (hence why in Star Wars Luke doesn’t leave Tatooine until Owen and Beru are killed, or why Harry Potter is hated by the Dursleys). With no siblings (yet), and his mother and grandparents dead before the series, Fraser has no family. 

The driving force of the series is thus born, Fraser is looking for the killers of his father - the last of his family (even if he was a terrible father). The family relationships in the show are all very important, and are highlighted in different ways, thus giving us the theme of the Ray V seasons - the importance of family. 

Because, Ray V is *lousy* with family in a way that most Italian-American families are - you don’t always like your family, but you *all* gather for dinner when Ma makes her Sunday Gravy. And, in the *pilot* when he’s known this crazy mountie for less than 12 hours, he invites Ben HOME to his FAMILY for FOOD. (Ben is clearly uncomfortable, and it’s played for comedy, but it’s also heartbreaking. Ben is not used to effusive emotion --or any emotion-- and he is certainly not used to so many people acting like such a family.) Ray, in a sense, adopts Fraser. 

Now, you can say that taking Fraser home could be a “meeting the family” moment, like bringing home a new girlfriend. Ray is defensive of Fraser’s honor when Frannie hits on him, after all. 

But, there’s something about it that smacks more of *family* to me - he brought Ben home to be his *brother* and give Ben the surrogate family he has missed. (hence why Frannie throws herself at him - and also why Fraser keeps turning her down. Textually it’s because she’s his best friend’s sister, but thematically, she’s his new sister as well) 

Further, Ray V doesn’t react with jealousy when Victoria blows into down on her ill wind - he’s proud, and supportive, and then defensive when he realizes how terrible she is for Ben. 

I mean, yeah, Mrs. Fraser does dance with Ray V, but it’s because Ray V is the “safe” option. Now, if you want to say that’s because Ray V and Fraser are lovers? I can see why! It was certainly important in the few fics I have read, and I see it.

I think, ultimately, Ray V as Fraser’s New Family was the intent of the writers, and the writing on this show is *tight*. It makes sense that, with a plot focused on finding what ended your old family, you find new family. 

But then came the brief hiatus, Paul Gross taking over more creative control, and Collum Keith Rennie. PG said in an interview that they’d taking Ray K in a new direction, “very homoerotic, the fans will love it”

And...they did. Ray V’s telephone call - the ache in his voice because he knows that he’s not gonna be able to say goodbye (like Bob) is palpable, and feels almost like a breakup, signaling a shift in tone. This is no longer a show about the search for family - Ben found his family. Even with Ray V off screen, there’s no doubt that Fraser is a Vecchio -- but about finding a *parter* 

There’s red ships and green ships but no ships like partnerships. 

This half of the show gives us not only this line, but highlights the relationship between Buck and Bob (that was began in Ray V’s season), and focuses more than ever on pairing Fraser off (with more female love interests than Victoria, even though none of them pan out) and on Ray K’s divorce. 

Textually, they are two bachelors lonely for love. Thematically, the focus is on romantic parings, not brotherhood. 

“A partnership is like a marriage, son” 

Ray K comes in, and he doesn’t try to be Fraser’s brother. Fraser has a brother, and wouldn’t welcome Ray K to try and fill Ray V’s shoes. They spend an entire episode showing all the way Ray K would never wear Ray V’s shoes (and not just because Ray K wears boots like Steve McQueen and Ray V wears Italian Leather), and also showing us that Ray K *is there for Fraser anyway*, symbolically taking a bullet the way Ray V did. 

(We also see Ray K fall hard for Fraser’s sister in a way that’s dropped, showing the audience, thematically and sub-textually, what they can’t textually because of the censors)

This new Ray, he’s sharp, he’s prickly, he’s “d-u-m, dumb” the way Vecchio was slick, as a way to disarm and play off of the straight forward image of Fraser’s serge. He’s a paradox - a crack shot who wears glasses, a vulnerable tough guy, a romantic punk. He gets under Fraser’s skin in such a way that Fraser begins to relax around him as well. I admit, I have an existing fondness for the tough-guy-with-a-heart-of-gold, and Ray K is that to a T. He’s not perfect (stalking his X, hello), but he tries to be better, and that I appreciate. It makes him a dynamic character. He has a temper, but he flashes quickly and then cools - it’s a good foil to Fraser’s simmering anger. 

Remember, Fraser told Ray V about Victoria, and Ray V was sleeping. 

Fraser tells Ray K about Gerrard. and Muldoon. and Bob. 

Ray K tells Fraser about Stella. and the Bank. and Beth Botrelle. 

The audience gets more of Fraser underneath his serge as a result of his relationship with Ray K - who is, himself, an “orphan” (estranged and living at a distance, his closest “family” is his ex-wife) can connect with Fraser on that level because he gets it in a way that Ray V, who has never not had his family, can’t fully. 

All of this comes to a head in the finale, when the Rays meet, and we see them clash - this is the “bringing the boyfriend home” moment. Ray K, the “boyfriend” meets Ray V, the “brother”, and the Brother wants to know if the boyfriend is good enough. They tense, and then they both go after Fraser because Fraser draws people in his wake like he walked through a line of streamers. 

They go north, and Ray K steps up as Fraser’s parter, taking an interest in the North in a way that Ray V never did (Ray K goes on the quest, Ray V tried to install modern plumbing). An that quest? The closest to “ride off together into the sunset” that I’ve seen outside of Disney. 

Ultimately, Ray V sees Fraser like his family: He doesn’t need to understand him, because he loves him and that’s what families do. 

Ray K sees Fraser like his spouse: What he doesn’t already understand, he tries to because it’s important to Fraser to be understood. 

Both are amazing partners for Fraser to have. Both fill different niches. Both are telling different stories. 

[overcaffeinated-creative]

Solus Vetra, Modern AU

Title: I have the Best Work Stories Ever

Rating: T

Characters: Unnamed New Guy, Solus Vetra, Pre Vizsla, Akaan Kast

Summary: A new guy gives a first person run down of the wildest day in his blossoming Kyr’tsad career. Solus shows off what makes her a total badass. Assume they’re operating within an American HQ.

Notes: This was inspired by the introduction scene of Natasha in Iron Man 2. You know the one. There’s a lampshade for it.

Being the New Guy always sucked. If there is someone to be blamed for something going wrong it will be you. Food and coffee runs also became your job without your approval. The really sadistic bastards made up things for you to find on wild snipe hunts to supposedly find. No one cared if you have known each other half your damned lives (looking at you, Conner, who has shared my room for ever family thing since birth) because you are Fresh Meat. If leaving out key information could result in something funny they just had to do it. Because all that matters in the end is there’s a new di’kut around HQ to be tormented until the next batch arrives.

Take for example, no one telling me that Vizsla’s personal assistant was one of those vode. Basic warnings were given (because they’re all shebs but they’re not intentionally malicious shebs) about how things ran. Careful with the loud noises if her name is highlighted red on our intra-communication network, don’t mind the black Husky in the service vest (his name is Sen and they openly argue with each other), and the sweet black and silver Cadillac CTS V in the parking lot is hers. It was to be given a wide berth and never, ever startle her when she’s getting in or out. Things can (and do) go sideways with sparks.

Getting to their sheb quality was no one ever braced me for what she looks like. See, Solus Vetra is one of those bathed-in-the-blood-of-the-Ka’ra, born-in-a-fiery-burst-reeking-of-Mandokarla, my-loyalty-is-only-to-the-true-Manda’lor names. Anyone who knows their history knows Aliit Vetra was one of those old school families; as in ancient old school. The kind that is (still) dripping money, are very proud of being Mandalorian, and who have the past to make Renaissance Borgia look tame and never got caught doing any of it. So, this petite, smoking hot, white haired, Asian chick was not who I pegged for Solus Vetra. (In fact, I found out my pick for Solus Vetra out of seeing the Higher Ups was actually Bo-Katan Kryze...a different level of Traditionalist asskicker but not the PA) Every single time I had seen Vetra she was dressed to the nines, wearing labels even I know mean Wealth, and darting around with her face buried in a tablet and wearing this tweaked Google Glass display. Basically, I would have bought her as one of the Duchess’ people before Vizsla’s...well ever. There was too much Silicon Valley Tech Start Up in her look.

Assuming makes an ass out of you and me as the saying went.

Near a month into my tenure with the company was when the Day of Reckoning all went down. In the span of three hours she went from Pepper Potts with her unruly boss and love of art to Natasha Romanoff with everything you would expect of the world’s best spy. (Seriously, I want to know if we have a Black Widow Program and if that’s where we found her. Because she is scary.) First, came The Argument with the Boss that would have made a lesser man piss himself. Few hours later, she popped up in the gym sparking The Beat Down to her vocal heckler. It cemented her as Certified Badass in my mind and shot her to the top of my “Never Ever Fuck With” List.

The Argument was held in an adjacent meeting room to the fourth floor supply closet at 10:23 AM. I was down there looking for this weirdly specific ink cartridge for our satanic printer when this feeling of doom washed over me. I swear the room dropped ten degrees while clicking suddenly picked up. It was like gearing up for a boss fight in the wrong area of a video game. You just knew shit was about to go down and it was not going to go in your favor at all. Instead of some kind of insectoid monster making the noise it was the rapid fire click of $1200 USD, real python pumps (I got curious enough to Google how much her red soled kicks cost and the answer is more than my rent) beating down on the tile floor with a Purpose.

I have to say a Smart Man would have waited for the danger to pass and ran away. This is where I say I am not a smart man. Di’kut is the right title for me because I stayed to eavesdrop...and maybe a little (a lot) of stunned silence freezing me into place. See, she cornered ‘Alor in the recently emptied meeting room with this chilled civility. I heard the door close with this crisp professionalism (how is that even possible?) before she started reaming him. 

It turned out Vetra was a Smart Person because she had a lot of languages to yell in. I lost track of the clearly individual ones after the five mark. Whatever he did (I speak English and Mando’a with some passable Spanish to her rapid fire Everything) it had to have been bad if she was suicidal enough for this. Everyone, and I mean everyone, knows Vizsla can be a giant kad when he feels like and he always feels like it. When he started yelling back I had the kneejerk reaction to go help her. Again, Vetra is Small and I am a Dumbass. Before I could move, her voice shot up a couple more decibels in the angriest (and I had Dred Priest overseeing part of my training) Mando’a to have ever been uttered. Then it was drop a pin and hear it echo for eternity silent.

Conner sent three texts while I was holding my post (and my breath) behind several stacks of xerox paper. Just to keep him from blowing my cover I shot back it was taking a while to dig around and he left me alone. It was a good thing because without their yelling-and with my luck-I would have gotten busted. Until this, I would have picked getting busted by Vetra...every time really. I knew what she looked like smiling in a good mood without someone dying. A’lor only smiled when things were going to shit for someone else. Now...now it was way harder. Since she had the gett’se to get in the Manda’lor’s face and live. But, he was not only a giant kad but one who could survive her wrath. I had no winning options except to hope for a mercy kill from a heart attack or something.

My internal strife stopped when I heard them pass by the closet door and they were...laughing? What in the hell had I missed falling down that rabbit hole? Twenty minutes ago she threatened to cut his gett’se off and parade them around with the stick he kept up his ass. Now, they were friends? What kind of fucking magic did he just pull? Could I learn it? Holy Shit. Pre Vizsla knew how to laugh? Without murder and chaos raining down around him? What kind of magic did she have?

Keeping it on the safe side I waited another ten minutes to return to my desk.

Witnessing The Beat Down was one of the best things to happen in my twenty years of living. Seriously, it came straight out of a movie it was so unbelievably awe-inspiring to see. Angels sang, the lights of the heavens shined down, and I watched the best ass kicking to have ever went down this year and possibly ever. A little digging around and the offer of enough uj cake even got me a full on video of the event. It makes the bad days better in twenty-five seconds.

Everything kicked off when I stopped by our gym when my shift ended at one. The shellshock from overhearing The Argument kept my head shoved pretty firmly up my ass. (I mean, that had to go down in some kind of history right? PA owns Manda’lor with words alone. It was going down in my history.) Conner picked up on something being off enough to leave my ink cartridgeless ass alone. I think he assumed I walked in something I shouldn’t see. Namely that nympho from Recruitment climbing some of the ground team guys...again. Why in the hell he was into men who could pass for hockey goalies, missing teeth and all, I would never know...fucking Canadian.

Somewhere between changing into workout gear and returning to the main room Vetra had shown up. Okay. I mean, I guess anyone could work out here and she was a Vetra? I had to assume she had at least basic self defense training. That had always been a huge part of the Mando Culture, especially with the Traditionalists. On second glance, I saw she was still in her outfit of the day. She even had her tablet with the intention of getting Kast to sign something. That made way more sense. Yeah, she would square off verbally with her boss but this would not be a verbal battle. Knowing how to defend herself was important; throwing the ground forces around moved away from that. It went more into the, “This is going to horribly wrong. Why are you brushing up the Basics with them?” because they could break her.

Remember, how I said I’m a dumbass and not to make assumptions? This is a good time to remember that I am one because I made the same mistake twice.

But, so was Akaan Kast.

See, Akaan Kast was a cycle ahead of me in training with a reputation for being both a bully and a show off. He thought because he was directly assigned to a company in HQ he was a Big Deal. “Kasts are always around the most powerful," he liked to brag, “Because we are the most powerful and recognize our own.” However, that did not get him an invitation into the Nite Owls or the A’lor’s personal company. Both ate him alive even if he refused to acknowledge it. (If I toasted the gods for that good fortune a few different nights no one had to know.) He also had this Thing for trying to impress Traditionalist girls. (Don’t ask me what it was because I tuned it out every time he tried to pontificate on the subject.) Plus, Priest liked the guy and that is all anyone needs to know.

Point was Kast was being up to his usual antics and Vetra was taking None of It. Everything in her body language screamed “Predator ready to maul a man’s face off” masked behind this stone cold smile. Picturing her with pinned back ears and bared fangs looked too right. All she wanted was him to sign something on her tablet but he was being Difficult. The last man who made her life Difficult was chewed up and spit out with words alone. This was going to be funny as hell to witness.

“Kast, sign,” she huffed while jabbing the tablet into his chest. “Then we both can get back to our jobs.”

“You can call me Akaan and I’ll call you Solus,” he started off in complete ignorance. Except not. He clearly knew he was riling her up. “What if we trade instead? You get a true combat lesson then I’ll sign.”

“Kast, do you damn job. Sign now. That’s an order.”

“Can you really give orders as a personal assistant? Thought you job was to fetch coffee and answer phones.”

All eyes were sneaking glances at them by this point but no one was stepping in. I was a little confused. Some of these people had to have been around when Vetra first come through. Some of them even looked amused at her being hassled. I knew Kyr’tsad had a Reputation but I thought taking care of their own was part of it. Letting Kast be a kad to their own wasn’t taking care of her.

“If I’m echoing an order of the Manda’lor I can.”

“Just a fifteen minute lesson? It's been a while since you've been out in the field. Wanna make sure you can keep that pretty little head on.” I gagged at this point. How disgusting could someone be? How could he thing this was even going to work in his favor? Was she supposed to be impressed with his only okay muscles and terrible (Ba’buir would call it Americanized) attitude? Did he really think insults would work?

“Fine.”

Anyone who has ever met another human being knows fine is past “Fuck You” on the Scale of Responses. But, Kast looked pleased with himself while Vetra pointedly left most of her belongings on a bench. Which was a lot of belonging to just be moving around the office. Tablet, Goggle Glass, ear piece, earrings, watch, bracelet, shoes, cell phone, suit jacket, and top shirt? I guess if I paid that much (I had no idea the real price but I could only imagine) for a button up I would avoid getting it dirty too. Course I’d never pay who knows how much for a shirt no matter how soft it was.

I edged closer to their makeshift ring to see what was going down. Fantastic choice on my part. See, Kast made some off-handed comment about the cutesy tattoo he could see through her undershirt. He asked what it was prompting her to offer a clear view; a colorful Barn Owl nestled on her hip. Here, Barn Owls had a special meaning because they were only for the Nite Owls. The Nite Owls, being Kryze’s personal team of unmatched Spec Ops ghosts who could probably destabilize an entire first world country over night or something ridiculous. So, Huge Deal.

I put several fragments of thoughts together all at once; Kast did not. He asked why she had that Mark of Honor. Made some vague comment about why it was important “just a personal assistant” could not just wear it around. As the cherry on top he even tried to lecture her on the rules and demanded it be removed. I could detect the jealousy in his voice. He wanted one of those tattoos and would never get one.

Have you ever seen a six foot, three inch wall of could have been Alabama linebacker get his ass handed to him by about five feet and some change of definitely could be a model? I just did. It. Was. Awesome.

Before he could finish his spiel she had him on the ground. Not with dirty shots, simple but effective basics, or even an unexpectedly lucky flail. Hell no. It was like watching absolute poetry in motion. A twist of the hand in front of her face, launching her body up and over his arm to flip him forward, with his neck trapped between her thighs and his arm pinned. That held down hand looked like it was really hurting with the way she had it twisted. Everything Solus Vetra did in that moment was built to show the fuck off. When I said Natasha Romanoff I meant it.

He tapped out and she waited a few seconds longer before releasing him to gracefully rise. “Your lesson got my suit dirty. I’ll have payroll deduct the dry cleaning costs from your next check. Providing there is one of course.” In a flash she popped back up while he remained sprawled in an undignified heap. Hands on her hips, red lips pulled into a feral smile she looked down at him, “I’m the Alii'alor of Vetra and a Nite Owl within Kyr’tsad. I earned my colors and you have earned nothing. You challenged both my honor and my authority. Good luck explaining that one to A’lor.”

I have no idea if I am in love or if I am going to be scared for my life from here on out...maybe both...definitely both. At least, Kyr’tsad is fun to work for if it is a hot mess.

[carelessgraces]

@potterstillstinks​ ( plotted starter )

She’s an adult. If she keeps telling herself this, at some point, it’ll sink in: she’s an adult, and this will be fine. This will all be fine. Not that she thinks there’s much of a chance that Draco will actually, really, truly freak out, like in earnest, not the way she’s freaking out — 

     — she had chalked it up to stress and called it a victory, pleased that the long hours spent on the Bellefleur case had ended up giving her a break from the cramping and the discomfort, and then it had occurred to her today as she was swinging out of the office to buy lunch next door, so she’d popped into a Duane Reade and squatted over the office toilet, and —

     — it’s in a little plastic baggie, stuffed in her purse, because she gets the feeling that they’re going to need proof. It’s beside the other three tests she’d taken, before the day came to a close, and she was grateful, for once, that Draco was working late, because it meant that she had an hour or two at home to sit with her hands over her face, taking very, very deep breaths. She’d lit a candle for ambiance and put on a documentary about penguins in the background until she’d calmed, and then she’d settled in to wait for him. 

     No coffee. No alcohol, either. She can switch to tea for a while, but that many months without wine may just drive her insane. Astoria’s trying not to think about it when she hears the door open. 

     She doesn’t move from where she’s sitting, only gestures for Draco to sit down on the couch beside her, and once he’s done that she clears her throat and tries to speak, and fails spectacularly. Astoria shifts, casts a glance towards the waddling penguins moving together across the ice, takes a long breath. Tries again. Fails. 

     “So. Uh.” She runs a hand through her hair, clears her throat once more. Her voice is hoarse, now that she’s managed to say something. She should have planned something cute. She should have planned something with a world’s best dad mug, but she’s only just wrapped her brain around it herself. Astoria folds her hands in her lap and looks up at him again. 

     “ — remember when we talked about kids? And I said, I didn’t want too many, and you said, the more the better, and we agreed that two was a respectable number, and then we said that we would just... see what happened?”

[carelessgraces]

@stfreds​​​ said: ‘ she’s coming. the woman. the small, angry penguin woman. ’ ( hello new name for Astoria on Fred's phone ) ( derry girls sentence starters | accepting )

She looks up at the words before lowering her face into her hands again, her head pounding, her mouth dry. “That’s a nun, you fucking degenerate. Do they not have nuns in Texas? Or did you move out to the West Coast and decide you could be as lawless and godless as you want? Good morning, Sister Agnes,” she adds, raising her head again as the nun passes. Californian nuns are something else, she’s decided. She and Sister Agnes always chat over breakfast while Fred watches warily, and it’s rarely Astoria saying anything remotely shocking. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” 

     Sister Agnes scoffs and lets out a booming laugh. “Beautiful day for a hangover, you mean,” she corrects. “Does Father Michael know you drink that much on a Tuesday?” And Astoria’s so thoroughly shamed by it that she doesn’t say a word while their new company orders her coffee and slips out of the diner. 

     Fred, in a galling show of Fred-ness, looks smug. “I’m the degenerate?” she drawls, and Astoria offers up a gesture that she wouldn’t dare make in front of a woman of God. It’s good to have a conversation that doesn’t make her want to cry, even if it’s Fred being mean, but Fred did offer her a couch and a place to rest her head when Astoria had called, voice thick and hands shaking, to say, We broke up. I just feel empty. 

     “Lick rust,” Astoria groans, and Fred drops a kiss to the top of her head. “God. What a week. Worst breakup of my life, and now you’re meaner than I am. Everything’s upside down. I hate it.” 

     Fred falls silent for a moment, and then says, voice careful, “It’ll be okay. You’re going to fall in love again.”

     But she only looks up at Fred, at her sweet face and her warm eyes and the worry that she’s hiding there, and when Astoria shakes her head, Fred doesn’t look surprised. This one was different. Is different. There’s no going back from this. “I’m really not,” Astoria says, sounding pained. “He’s it, Fred, and I fucked it up. And now Sister Agnes knows I can’t hold my tequila. And I don’t know where to go if he’s home, and I can’t go back.” 

     The only thing worse than Fred being meaner than her is Fred being kind. Astoria feels an arm snake around her, and she leans into Fred without waiting for an invitation. “You come here,” she says quietly. “That’s it. That’s what you do. You find me, and we figure it out.” 

     They eat breakfast in a companionable silence, Fred’s arm tight around her shoulders.

     ( For all her willingness to make Astoria’s life more difficult, Fred says nothing when they get back to the apartment and Astoria tugs Fred after her to the couch and can only fall asleep with her head on Fred’s shoulder, a gentle hand around hers. )

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings​​​

Damien, 

     I’m in California today. It’s been less than a week since we broke up and my friends keep telling me that it’s not going to hurt forever but I think it might. I wanted to lose myself in some bad decisions but all I did was think of you. Fred’s been trying to take care of me, but I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. No matter how much I drink, I am still going to love you, and no matter how much I drink, you are still going to be three thousand miles away from me, in the place that we shared. Just out of curiosity, are you sleeping with me gone? I’m really not. I manage an hour or two at a time and then I’m awake and staring at the ceiling. 

     I don’t have anything to say. I miss you. I love you. I hate this.

- Astoria

Damien,

     Yesterday, I went back into the city to get to our old campus. I’m taking a class on horror this semester, and I wanted to visit special collections and take a look at the Frankenstein manuscript we got on loan a couple of years ago. I couldn’t do it, though. I just sat under our tree and I reread Hamlet for the millionth time. When I got to Hamlet’s letter I cried hard enough that a few people stopped to ask if I was okay. I’m not, for the record. I hate this so much.

     I actually mentioned the letter I wrote you in California to my creative writing professor in my fiction workshop. It came out before I could stop myself from saying it. He says I should keep writing. He says that heartbreak turns an amateur into a master, and that I’ll want to remember how I felt, someday. I think he’s full of shit, but he’s the professional. He thinks that it might help to keep a record of the things I’d want to tell you, and that it might soothe the part of me that grieves.

     So I guess I’ll keep writing. I think he might be onto something. Journaling always felt weird to me and this doesn’t. I think it’s because there’s a piece of me that feels like you’ll read all of these someday. 

     In that case: I love you, I love you, I love you, I have loved you practically since we met and I will love you probably for the rest of my life. 

- Astoria

Hi Dames,

     I was at our favorite coffee place in town and I accidentally ordered our usuals. I sat with yours open next to me while I worked. I didn’t drink it, but if I closed my eyes and breathed in it felt like you were there with me, and I could tell myself that you were just in the bathroom and you would be back soon.

     Got an apartment of my own, so that I’m not living out of a hotel. I fucking hate it. It’s one of those luxury apartments that comes pre-furnished and everything’s shades of white and grey. At least my misery is solar-powered, right? 

     [The next paragraph is scribbled out, but still readable if held to the light.]

     Do the pills keep you warm at night or have you found somebody else to do that yet? If you’d asked me a year ago I would have said that you’d never let me walk out that door without putting up a fight, but what the fuck did I know? You’re the life of the fucking party and the life of the party doesn’t go home alone.

     I’m thinking about getting a plant. Maybe if I bring something living into the apartment besides me, it’ll give me a reason to like it. 

     If I stop saying that I love you, it’ll fade eventually, won’t it? I know I’m never going to love anyone else like this and I’ve accepted this but it would be fucking miserable to spend my entire life wanting you this badly when you don’t want me anymore. 

- Astoria

Hey,

     I’m in urgent care! Nothing too serious, just a bunch of cuts on my foot. You know how every girl we know cuts her hair when she’s fucking miserable? That’s me now. I don’t know if I should be proud or embarrassed that I’m such a cliché. But my hair is cute, if a little crooked, and I was just so furious that I threw the scissors and busted the mirror up. I cut my foot really badly when I left the bathroom, though, and now I think I need stitches. My foot’s wrapped up in a towel and a plastic bag, and walking’s gonna be a bitch for a while. 

     Turns out my creative writing professor is married to a recovering addict. I’m crying more than usual these days, which I think is to be expected, and I ended up excusing myself from class early to let it out. He waited for me outside the bathroom and told me to come with him, and he brought me to the 24-hour diner just down the road from campus. His wife’s been an addict since she was about seventeen and he helped her get sober. 

     He told me I did the right thing. He said that sometimes, someone needs a big shock to make them realize that this can’t continue. That’s what I hoped that I was doing. He told me that it’s better not to be around than to be around and making things worse, and I hated hearing it, but he was right. I was making things worse. I was going to get a coffee but he insisted I actually eat something, because he said I “looked like a Victorian ghost.” Which is fair — I haven’t been eating much and it shows. 

     So there I am, going through a milkshake and a stack of pancakes almost as tall as I am and sharing a plate of fries with this seventy-year-old with a beard that reaches his chest, and he told me stories about how he left his wife when she kept refusing to get help. And he told me about how they got back together and he married her and how they’re celebrating fifty years married next summer. He told me that the only way out is through this, and that I’ve got to remember that this isn’t you, not really. My Damien wouldn’t let me leave without trying to fix things. But my Damien is struggling with something that makes him a little bit less mine. 

     Addiction is a disease, he said, and I’ve heard it before but the way he said it made so much sense. And you can’t help someone who’s sick if you’re too caught up in yourself to do it. He said there’s no shame in not being able to do it, but that I have to be realistic about it. 

     I’m so sorry, baby. I’m not cut out for this yet but I will be, hopefully someday soon. I was bleeding all over the bathroom and I kept thinking that I wished you were with me to drive me to urgent care before I realized that right now, you don’t need to be taking care of anyone else. I’m sorry I was so self-absorbed and I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner, how bad things got. And I know you’ll never read it but I’m sorry for what I wrote last time. I was angry, and you are the last person in the world I should be angry at right now. 

     I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you. I hope you’re okay tonight and I’m thinking about you, every second of every day, and missing you more than I know what to do with, and I think someday we’re going to find our way back to each other, and when we do I’ll say it in person: I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.

Love, always, 

Astoria

Dames,

     You looked tired tonight. I wanted to ask about the program but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want you to get self-conscious or anything, and I figured that if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me yourself. I don’t know if I’m supposed to know at all. 

     Do you have any idea how good it felt to kiss you again, or to have your hands on me again? The only problem is that now I feel empty and about a million times more alone than I did before the party. That bite on my thigh is going to bruise and I keep pressing it like I need the reminder that what happened tonight was real. Is this even healthy for you? 

     My parents set me up with that guy. He asked where I went and I told him I was fucking my ex in the bathroom. I don’t think they’re ever going to set me up again. I’m expecting some horrified phone calls in the morning. Honestly, he should be grateful — I didn’t stick around and waste his time. I didn’t tell him all of the details. I didn’t tell him that this was the first time I wasn’t either numb or angry or sad in months. I didn’t tell him that this was also the first time I managed to come since the breakup, despite the very expensive vibrator I bought when I moved into the apartment. And I didn’t tell him that afterwards, while you held me up against the door and I held onto you, I buried my face in your shoulder and kept whispering that I love you too quietly for you to hear, and that it’s the only thing I’ve said in months that doesn’t make me feel like a liar. 

     We probably shouldn’t do this again. I don’t think it’s good for either one of us.

     If I don’t write this I’m going to call you and tell you that I love you for real. 

- Stori

Happy birthday, baby. I’m drunk and I’m stupid and I love you. 

Hi, baby,

     Semester’s done! The horror class was great, and so was the postcolonialism class. I’m not worried about them. The fiction workshop was a little rougher, and I ended up changing my project at the last minute. Dr. Harrier insists we have all of our meetings on campus somewhere that they sell food, so he can make sure I get at least one meal in me, and this time it was sandwiches and he kept pointing his straw at me before putting it in his drink. 

     “Miss Grim,” he kept saying, “you need to write the thing that haunts you, or it will haunt your writing until you do.” And he’s right. Everything I’ve produced for his class is shit. 

     So I wrote about you. Not really you, and not about addiction, or a breakup, or losing the other half of you, but it’s about you, and me, and it’s about grief. There’s this Doctor Who quote, I think, that keeps floating around the internet: “What is grief if not love persevering?” I thought a lot about that. It’s a horror story, and it’s about loving the thing that kills you. I don’t know if the thing that kills fictional-you is me or the coke and the pills, but there it is. I don’t know if I’m ever going to reread it, or let someone else read it besides Dr. Harrier, but I’m proud of it.

     Do you think we’re ever going to find our way back to each other? I mean, really find our way back to each other, and not just fucking in empty bedrooms at our friends’ houses? Every time we’re together you kiss me like you want me to come back home, and then you tell me that this is a mistake and we shouldn’t, and we should play by our own rules. I know this is stupid, but I don’t think that we can even just call it “fucking,” at this point. I think it’s too intimate for that. Is this what people mean when they get precious about calling it “lovemaking”? God, I think I’m that person now. 

     Doesn’t matter, right this second. What matters is that I somehow love you more than I did when we split and I think maybe there’s something broken in me, because you’re not supposed to love someone more after a breakup, even if you’re fucking around, but at least if I’m broken I know I can still love you, and so long as I can do that maybe I don’t need to be fixed. 

Love, always with love,

Astoria

Hi, baby,

    Adelaide said that you’re in a program. I think something bad happened but she won’t tell me, even if she looks different lately, and kind of haunted. But I’m proud of you. I’m really, really proud of you.

    Would you ever have started treatment if I hadn’t left?

- A

Damien, 

     I got a job! Three days a week working in one of the admin offices on campus, and it keeps me busy. In the meantime, I keep scribbling ideas for my thesis. Dr. Harrier liked my short story and said that he wants to work with me, so I think we’re going to do something on horror. I think he was onto something, about these letters. Maybe the record is a good thing. 

     I haven’t been writing as much lately and I don’t know if that’s a sign or not. I see you more, now, and that means that I spend most of my free time trying to remember every detail of the last time we were together and counting down the days until I see you again. I made an appointment for a couple of new tattoos. One on my ribs, one on my collarbone. It’s going to be a bitch of a session but I’d rather do it all at once than split it up. 

     You wrote the poem from Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia in one of my books. I don’t know when, but I recognized your handwriting and I knew what it said before I read it and it felt like someone knocked the wind out of me. Do you have any idea how good it felt to see that? I haven’t heard you tell me you love me in months and I don’t even know if you do anymore, but this was almost like that. Is it creepy if I put your handwriting on my body? Maybe just a couple of words. Maybe just “I love.” That’s the most important part, anyway. 

     For what it’s worth I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m never going to want anyone else. I’ve tried. I really have. I’ve had a revolving door of first dates and none of them do anything for me. The thought of someone else’s hands on me makes me sick — even sicker, actually, than the thought of your hands on someone else. I keep hoping you’re going to forget about me and find someone better, who actually deserves you, and that you’ll be happy, and that in ten years we’ll look back on this and laugh. I’ll still be in love with you by then but maybe you’ll be happy with somebody who’s not a fucking coward. 

     Who knows? Maybe it’ll be me again someday. I keep practicing speeches in traffic or in the shower, any time I have a minute, for all the ways I’d tell you that I love you and I miss you and that I’d rather be fucked up with you than healthy somewhere else. God, I hope it’s me. I hope you forget about me and find someone better but I hope so much more that you’re going to knock on my door one night and tell me that you want me to come back home. 

     I love you so much. I know — some writer I am. But I don’t think the words exist for how much I love you or how badly I miss you.

Yours,

Astoria

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings said: “  hey i got something for you look!  ”   *holds up middle finger* from declan bc we both know this is him to a t ( prompts for emotionally stunted idiots | accepting )

"Yeah, but, you like her, right? You like her, like her, don’t you?” 

     And Astoria knows he does, because if he didn’t like her Declan wouldn’t have bothered going out with her at all. It’s not that she was intending to ambush him — Rhiannon needed a recommendation for an artist at the last minute, and Layla’s work really is good. She could have warned Declan that this might happen, but he’d have been on edge and in his head about it even if they never crossed paths, and he’d have suspected the worst for too long. And then what would have happened when poor Rhiannon went in for the last coverup she needed only to be greeted with Declan flitting away from her like she was hazardous waste? 

     Men, she thinks, pressing her tongue against the back of her teeth and trying not to react more than that. Damien’s jealousy was amusing in the moment, but a little concerning afterward, and she’s been fixated on that beyond what she thinks might be necessary; Declan’s aversion to meeting anyone is bordering on the absurd, and Rhiannon really is a good fit for him. At the very least, they’d be good friends, if he’d let anyone get to know him that hadn’t been filtered through Damien first. ( She wishes they realized what she did — that they need balance. That Declan needs someone who prioritizes him over her, or Damien, so that he’s as well cared for as they are. That if he’s with someone who understands why Damien matters to him, why Astoria matters to him, there’s a chance that when things change, it’ll only be for the better. Trade in the queen size mattress for a California king, and the girls can sleep on the sides and let Damien and Declan get the constant attention they both want and need. That Rhiannon’s not just a good fit for him; she’s a good fit for the family they’ve built. )

     “Look, I know it was sneaky, but she needed an artist, and if there was a chance that she could run into you while you were acting like yourself and not stiffer than a Republican senator in an ethics hearing then there was a chance you guys could actually have a conversation without you losing your nerve. Which happened. You listened to Kelsey’s weird band and you had a drink. Maybe you got to first base. Second?” She narrows her eyes, leaning forward and nearly spilling her coffee in the process. “Third? Oh, my god, did you go home with her? What did she think of the piercing? Who did she way was better at eating pussy, me or you?”

     The look Declan gives her can only be described as exhausted with a side of disgusted, and Astoria sets her coffee down on the table and stands up to follow him as he heads towards the front door. 

     “I’m sorry for meddling and I’m sorry for being right and making it harder for you to scold me but you have got to give me details. I know you’ve got details for me.” Astoria reaches to catch his hand and just barely misses, and he turns around and sticks his tongue out at her. 

     “Hey,” he says, opening the door behind him so he can head up the stairs to his apartment. “I got something for you. Look!” And he flips her off, sticks his tongue out again, and closes the door behind him, just barely missing Astoria as it swings shut. 

     She can hear him moving around the apartment when she goes back inside, and she moves to the laundry chute and she shouts, “Congratulations on the fondling!” When that doesn’t get an answer, she adds a plaintive, “I love you!” 

     ( It only takes a minute for him to respond, a muffled love you too that makes her grin in spite of her worries and her distraction and the growing concern that he really is angry with her this time around. )

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings​ said:  ❛ we are rich , and we’re hot . ❜ from damien!

“Hi. My name’s Astoria. My boyfriend’s an addict. I don’t think he’s sober right now. This isn’t my usual group, but I needed to go somewhere today, even if it was an hour away, and uh, I don’t know. Felt right that this one’s in a Catholic church? Felt kind of like a sign.

     "My, uh. My hands freckle. The rest of me doesn’t, really — sometimes I get a couple around my nose, but for the most part, it’s just a bunch across my hands. And I’d never noticed it, but he pointed it out, the first time we’d met? He spilled coffee on my books and he was helping me pick them up and he said something about it. I don’t even remember exactly what. But I think about that all the time when I see it now. And I’d sworn off dating for a while, wanted to finish college without another disastrous relationship after an ended engagement, but, I mean, sometimes you just know, right? And I knew. And he asked me if I wanted to go out sometime, and I said yes. He walked me halfway to my next class before remembering that he had one of his own to get to.” 

     She pulls the sleeves of her cardigan over her hands, slouches in the metal folding chair. The chairs are all chipped tan, the tables creaking and thin, and the church basement smells of cheap coffee and air freshener. It’s oddly comforting. She looks down at the little white Styrofoam cup held between her knees and she collects it in her hands, takes a long drink before she speaks again. 

     “I really didn’t play it cool. It was my intent, but I didn’t. We kissed before the first date even started. I took him lingerie shopping for the first date.” There’s a little ripple of laughter, even from the priest, who looks only gently disapproving. “A couple of weeks later we were out and it rained unexpectedly, and my shirt got soaked through, so he gave me his and he walked through the street in just this designer leather jacket, and like, he’s covered in tattoos. Covered. And I cracked a joke that people were looking at us, this girl wearing a shirt that fell to her knees and this fucking — sorry, Father — this tool in a crazy expensive leather jacket and no shirt, and he just laughed and he said we are rich, and we’re hot. Why wouldn’t they? And as stupid as it sounds, at that moment I realized, I was in way over my head, and I didn’t want anything to change. He was standing there with his arm around my shoulders, cracking stupid jokes, and I looked at him and thought, this is it, for me. There’s nobody else. And I didn’t realize it until much later, that that’s what I was thinking, but that’s what it was.

     “So, uh, when the partying got worse, I didn’t realize it, at first? And I don’t think anything’s ever going to haunt me like that does.” The woman next to her, the mother of a recovering addict, hears the break in her voice and reaches for her, slipping her hand into Astoria’s unoccupied one, and Astoria casts her a grateful smile. “It was just weed and drinking, at first. Then shrooms. A little bit of acid. Some molly. I didn’t ever go that hard — I don’t like being so drunk or high that I lose control, and so like, I tried acid and molly once or twice and didn’t want to do it anymore. Tried coke, hated it. But he didn’t. He’d try something and love it, and I was working on my thesis and we were together for a year at that point and I just kept thinking, it’s fine, it’s fine, everyone parties. That’s what you do in college. But it was the coke and the prescription shit — sorry, Father — that really messed him up, and I’d try to get him to slow down and he’d insist it wasn’t a problem. And we sort of fell into this little limbo, where we’d both lie and say things were fine, and I’d try to plan and it would overwhelm him, and he’d go out and it would overwhelm me. And after two and a half years he looked at me and he asked me if I still wanted to be with him, because we’d barely talked except to argue, and — it was awful. I ended things. He overdosed not too long after, and his best friend and his sister found him, and he survived and joined a program, and I didn’t know. I suspected but I didn’t know. His sister told me when he started trying to get sober. It was a lot of false starts, but it was something. And we’d run into each other and hook up, and feel worse than when it started, because, like, this was it? This was it. And we were screwing it up and screwing each other over. So about six months after the breakup we got back together for real, and I know it’s not what the program recommends but things were good. 

     “And I know that relapses happen. I do. I know that it’s not their fault; addiction is a disease and it messes you up. I do get that. I expected that there would come a time when he’d have to start at day one, again, and when we got back together we agreed, no lies, and I’d cool it on the planning for the future, and we’d take it one day at a time. I started going to the support group locally, practically religiously. I didn’t tell him I was coming here, tonight; I wasn’t sure if I was going to lie to him, but I just said I’d be out for a bit and kissed him goodbye and he didn’t ask, so I didn’t volunteer. His best friend is with him. I think he relapsed around Halloween. There was a party — he wanted to go, there wouldn’t be hard drugs there, and I didn’t argue, because he told me he needed to be able to figure this out on his own. And we were separated for, like, maybe forty minutes? And then on Thanksgiving, we were at my aunt’s, and he was — having a hard time. I chalked it up to holidays. His family fucking sucks. Sorry, Father. But they do. But it’s been getting worse, and worse, and like, I’m not afraid he’d hurt me? I’m not ever afraid he’d hurt me. I know that wouldn’t happen. But I do come from a background of domestic violence, and you know how, like, the air changes, when a man starts losing control? Even if you’re as safe as anyone could be. The air changes. And the air’s been different with him for a while, now. And last night we had some friends over. And it — it wasn’t god. His best friend’s new girlfriend — maybe-girlfriend, I think they’re involved but we’re not sure — she stayed with me for an hour or so after everyone left and she told me, honey, it’s not your fault, but I mean, I’m with him all the time, and I didn’t see it.” 

     The woman beside her squeezes her hand, and Astoria bites down on her lip until she tastes blood. She hates crying in public, but it seems to happen at these meetings; sometimes it’s just a relief to have somewhere to aim what she’s feeling, sometimes it’s guilt, sometimes it’s shame, sometimes it’s fear. The man on her other side holds a hand out, offering her a tissue, and she tucks her coffee between her knees again before she takes it and wipes under her eyes. 

     “And I don’t know how to talk to him about this. I don’t know what to say.” 

     The priest looks at her with all the kindness in the world; she doesn’t think she deserves it, but she’s grateful for it anyway as she gathers her coffee again. It’s practically just cream and hot water, vaguely flavored like how coffee should taste, and it burns her tongue, but it makes her feel a little bit grounded. What a profound collision of the sacred and the profane — above them, in the church proper, a choir is practicing for Christmas mass. Here, she bares her soul for strangers and asks them to assign her penance. “What do you want to say to him?” asks the priest, and Astoria takes in a shuddering breath.

     “That I love him, mostly. I meant it when I said this is it. I’m not going anywhere. In sickness and in health, you know? And, like, we’re not married, but — he’s the other half of me, I think. And not in a creepy women can’t be complete on their own way, but like... we met and it was like we’d been waiting for each other this whole time. Like everything conspired to push us together at just the right moment, when we needed each other the most, when we were the right versions of ourselves to love and be loved. I want to tell him that I love him and that I’m here for whatever the next step is. I want to say that I’m here to help with whatever he needs, and that if he wants help, I want to help him. I want to say that I’m not going anywhere, and that I’ll call his sponsor for him if he wants, I’ll come to meetings with him, whatever it takes. He’s — he’s got some abandonment issues. I can’t blame him. He’s got reason for it. And I don’t know how to ask him what’s going on if he’s not ready to tell me, or how to make it clear that no matter what happens, I’m all in. I just want him to be okay. Whatever it takes, I want him to be okay.” 

     She’s crying in earnest, now, and she sniffs and lets out a little hiccup as the woman beside her squeezes her hand once more. The priest nods, a small and sympathetic smile on his face, and he clears his throat. 

     “Maybe we can help you find the right words?”

     She stays half an hour later than she’d intended. The woman introduces herself as Susan and leaves Astoria with her number and a tight hug and a promise to keep them in her prayers.

     Astoria drives home with an ache in her heart and a headache from the crying and a fear of the worst — but these days, that’s nothing new.

He’s awake when she gets home, caught in a moment of rare quiet, rummaging through the closet to dig out a warmer coat for the coming winter; he stops when he hears her and he smiles, and her breath catches in her throat the way it always does when he looks at her like that. Some days she looks at him and she loves him so much it feels like a growing pressure in her chest, like if she can’t find an outlet for it, she’ll simply burst. 

     “Hey.” He smells and tastes like smoke when he leans forward to kiss her in greeting; her cigarettes are sitting on the dresser, and she’s sure one or two are missing. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks... perfect, beautiful, exactly like himself, entirely like someone else. “Missed you, today. You look tired. You okay?” 

     She takes his hand in hers and presses a kiss to his palm, his wrist, his fingers. “Hi, baby,” she says, voice quiet, and she takes in a long breath. It needs to happen. “Can we talk?”

[carelessgraces]

@urobouris​​ said: 24; a kiss on the neck. ( the overwhelming desire to kiss | accepting )

There is empty space beside her, and the strangeness of it wakes her, her hand passing through the air where another body usually rests. Astoria sits up, still half-asleep, and for a long moment she stares at the unoccupied pillow next to her, trying to remember why it’s strange, trying to remember why the bed feels so wrong when she’s the only one occupying it. It takes her a minute, elbows a little weak when she leans back on them, and she falls back on her own pillow with a huff of breath as she wakes a bit more. A glance at her phone lets her know that it’s nearly three in the morning, and a few more minutes of blinking determinedly at the ceiling makes it clear that he hasn’t slipped out of bed to use the bathroom. 

     Slowly, she sits up again, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. It’s not entirely unheard of that one of them is awake into the early hours of the morning, but she’s always a bit uneasy waking in the middle of the night to find him gone. ( There is a corner of her mind that always worries that something’s happened to him, that Umbrella’s found a way to get to him, though she has no doubt that if Albert were taken from their bed in the middle of the night, she would be dead. ) 

     Feet shoved into a pair of slippers, she grabs a bathrobe on her way out the bedroom door, and she shrugs it on while she makes her way to the kitchen, eyes adjusting to the dark. She has grown accustomed to this space, his space, with surprising ease; more and more, it feels like home. He keeps a box of her favorite late-night tea beside the kettle, for the sake of ease, and her favorite mug beside it. Tonight, she makes two cups, carries them both carefully to his office, the book she’d forgotten in the kitchen that evening tucked under her arm. She’s not surprised to see the warm glow of a light through the half-open door, and she makes sure to make some noise as she moves through the halls towards him.

     ( They have learned to move around one another with surprising grace and ease. She makes a point not to startle him, or make him feel cornered or threatened, even if she knows he is infinitely more powerful than she can understand. She thinks the overabundance of caution is simply a symptom of her affection for him: when you love someone you take the extra steps. And she does love him, more than she can quite say. )

     “Morning, sunshine.” She nudges the door open with her toe and waits in the doorway for him to invite her in. 

     Albert looks up from the laptop in front of him, and he offers her a small, tired smile, nodding at the unasked question. 

     Astoria comes in, deposits both cups of tea on his desk and the book beside them. “Chamomile and valerian and mint,” she says by way of explanation, even though he knows already, and it’s tea he bought her so she would feel more at home. Once her hands are free she walks behind him, leans forward to wind her arms lightly around him and drop a kiss to his temple. She could read whatever he’s working on, but she barely understands half of his work when she’s fully awake. “My love,” she murmurs, stifling a yawn, “it’s late.”

     “I know. Did I wake you?” He turns to face her, and she responds with another kiss, this one to his lips.

     “No, don’t worry. I woke up and you weren’t there; I wanted to check in.” 

     He looks surprised at that. It always strikes her as desperately unfair that even small affectionate efforts are alien to him, and not for the first time, she wishes she could tear the heart out of everyone who’s had the chance to show him tenderness and refused. One of her hands falls to his chest, the other slipping into his hair to stroke idly, and she dips her head to press a kiss to his jaw. Almost unconsciously, he leans into her touch, and he lets out a slow, quiet breath. “Just working. Nothing wrong. You should be sleeping,” he says, but there’s no real heat to his voice. 

     “Can I help?”

     “Have you become a virologist since yesterday?” he teases, and Astoria laughs quietly in his ear. One of his hands comes up to catch hers. The gesture is thoughtless, as if he’s done it a thousand times, and she smiles in spite of her tiredness and the late hour. 

     “No, but I watched an episode of Grey’s Anatomy with necrotizing fasciitis to fall asleep, so I’m sure I learned something,” she says, quite seriously, and she presses her lips to the side of his neck, just above his pulse, as he chuckles. “You’re sure you’re alright?” 

     “I promise.” He lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of her fingers. “Give me an hour more, and then I will join you.” 

     “Do you want company?” 

     “Company?” 

     “I know I can’t help, but I’ll be awake at least long enough to drink the tea, and sometimes it helps to have another body in the room.”

     “And how can you guarantee that you will not be terribly distracting?” he asks, and Astoria presses another kiss to the side of his neck, just below the first one. 

     “I’ll sit across from you and read a book and keep my robe tied. Hand to God. Consider me here only to improve the scenery.” Another kiss, this one lower still. “But if you’d rather I went back, I can. You’ll just have to deal with more Grey’s when you come to bed.” 

     “You can stay.” She grins against his skin, lifts her head to bring her mouth to his in thanks, and when she stands, she smooths his hair, trails a finger along his jaw. Idly, she picks up her book and her tea, and she settles comfortably across from him. There’s no sound but the clicking of keys on his laptop, punctuated occasionally by a quiet sip from his cup, the gesture no doubt intended as a concession to her. 

     ( She is appalled by how few people have shown him kindness, appalled further by how few people have shown any care for him as a man and not a weapon. There are times when he almost seems unsure of how to respond to being treated with softness, and it only inspires her to soften further. He inspires something monstrous in her, but to him, she is endlessly tender. ) 

     Somewhere in the twelfth chapter she nods off, empty cup on his desk and book in her lap, his eyes on her and a small, affectionate smile playing at his lips. ( She wakes only long enough to follow him back to bed, falls asleep wound around him, the majority of the bed empty in favor of clinging to him. )

[carelessgraces]

@acercontego​ ( plotted starter )

In her defense, pacing inside the house would have been much weirder, and probably would have tipped Genevieve off that there was something happening. It’s reason enough to take it outside, Astoria’s shoulders hunched as if to shield herself from the cold, while Iain and Genevieve are working on another chapter of The Magician’s Nephew on the couch inside. 

     ( “I won’t stay,” Iain had promised. “I’ll head out once he gets here, but ‘Stor, you’re going to make her nervous, if you’re all fidgety while she’s waiting to meet someone important to you. And if you’re serious about this guy, this needs to go smoothly.” There are worse things than having a supportive ex, especially one who knows you that well, one who will step up despite the immense potential for awkwardness when old collides with new. ) 

     She takes a seat on the front steps, picks up the mug of tea she’d set down moments before when she’d decided to give pacing a try. It’s just that she’s never done this before. It’s only been a couple of years since the divorce was finalized, and Iain had gotten to a serious relationship first — and the new Mrs. Blackwood is such a staple in their lives now that Astoria can’t quite remember the concern that things wouldn’t work out, that meeting the daughter and seeing the daughter with the ex would be scary.

     The tea is getting colder, but Astoria downs it as quickly as she can, and she’s on her feet again and resuming her pacing by the time she sees Ben, walking down the sidewalk towards her. And at once, it’s like a release — the tension bleeds from her shoulders, her jaw, and her hands unclench at her sides, and the pacing slows to a stop as he gets closer. ( He’s good for her. He’s really good for her. The thought brings a smile to Astoria’s face, despite her earlier nerves. ) 

     When he’s close enough, Astoria reaches for him, stands on her toes to brush her lips against his in greeting. “They’re inside,” she says, and she shivers a little. She chalks it up to the weather. “You’re sure you’re ready?”

[carelessgraces]

@urobouris​​ said: ❛ How many haven’t wanted to slash the throat of some boor across the dining room table? ❜ ( wicked sentence starters | accepting )

She lets out a snort of laughter at that, fingers pressed to her painted lips, eyes flickering up to meet his. “Fair,” she concedes, and she reaches for the glass of wine in front of her. “But — oh, he was vile. Well and truly vile. Too vile even for me to work with him, and you know I can stomach a lot.” Everyone deserves a fair and competent defense, but not everyone deserves her, as far as she’s concerned. Astoria takes a drink, then smiles at him, infinitely fond. 

     There is no better balm to soothe her after a long week than his company. He’d been upstate for ten days before returning to Manhattan, and she’s surprised to realize just how much she’s missed seeing him, day in and day out. Astoria lets her gaze settle, and she feels a sudden warmth growing in her chest at the sight of him, sitting across from her. “I passed him off to Ainsley. He had a contract waiting for him Monday morning, I’m sure, but it’s out of my hands, now, and at the very least, we’ve learned that even I have limits.” 

     She hesitates for a moment before she continues. “But speaking of cases — I do have a few things to tell you. Do you want to talk business tonight, or would you rather wait until tomorrow? If you do, I promise, I’ll keep it brief.”

[carelessgraces]

@urobouris said:   “Your shoulders are tense, Astoria.”   ( training / sparring | accepting )

She lets out a quiet snort of laughter, takes in a long, deep breath as it quiets. “I told you,” she says, “weapons make me nervous — ”

     There are long, familiar hands settling on her shoulders, and it’s silly, but it almost feels as though her nervousness is being drained away. She thinks it’s the natural result of Albert being so damnably calm at all times, and there really is little, if anything, that fazes him at this point.

     And she’s rambling a little, a sign both of her unease and of her absolute trust in him. The Astoria Grimani who walks into a meeting is unflappable. She’s smiled, bored and bemused, at men twice her size threatening her, screaming at her, outside a courtroom; she’s found it charming when politicians and police offer vague threats. Any anxiety she feels is kept for herself, folded neatly away to be dealt with later, and the thought of anyone knowing she’s capable of discomfort or insecurity makes her itch. 

     But she doesn’t mind if Albert takes note of it; they’ve been working together more than a year now and she thinks there’s no one in the world who knows her half so well. He squeezes her shoulders gently, long fingers keeping a comfortable grip on her, and he moves his hands slowly to her upper arms, as if to keep her steady. 

     “We can stop if you would prefer,” he says, “and resume tomorrow,” but Astoria shakes her head. 

     “If you think it’s important to know, then I should learn sooner than later.” She feels him nodding behind her, rather than sees it, and Albert moves to stand behind her, Astoria’s back pressed flush against his chest, his arms wound around her, his hands covering hers. The gun isn’t loaded; he’s an excellent teacher, has refused to do anything that might endanger her in the slightest. 

     “There will be recoil,” he warns, and he pauses for a moment, before — “Is it a general discomfort with weapons?”

     For a long moment she’s silent, and she settles into the position he guides her into. It feels strange in her hand; it’s an unfamiliar weight, but an instrument chosen specifically for her, again by Albert’s careful eye. “Experiential,” she says finally. “I've held a gun before. Granted, it was almost fifteen years ago...” She lets her voice trail off for a moment, waiting for him to interrupt. He doesn’t.

     That’s the problem with Albert, one of very few: he listens too closely. It makes her feel terribly exposed, though she’s learned by now that that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. 

     “I had some violent extended family,” she says finally. “I don’t know how to use one of these but it’s not for their lack of trying to teach.”

     “Had?”

     “They’re dead now.”

     He lets out a quiet hum, one that sounds almost approving. She’s almost afraid that he’ll push — and she trusts him, entirely, but it’s not a conversation she’s ready to have. Instead, he releases her, takes a step back to get a better look, moves to her side to examine her. 

     “That’s better,” he says approvingly, “you can lower it,” and when she does as he’s asked and set the gun on the table in front of them he offers her one of his small, rare smiles. “Are you ready to continue?”

     It’s an out, she realizes, a chance to take what she’s told him and back away. ( She’s fourteen again and her hands are shaking and there’s a voice in her ear telling her not to fuck it up. She’s fourteen again and she’s crying and she can’t quite find it in her to pull the trigger, even when she sees the look in Evander’s eye that always precedes an outburst. They’d always used that euphemism to describe it, as if he were a child who couldn’t control himself during a tantrum, and not an adult leaving her with a bloody nose and a black eye. ) 

     ( She’s twenty-eight and she’s standing beside a man who’s made it clear that there are few lines he won’t cross to protect her, even from himself. ) 

     She clears her throat, presses her palms to the table, takes in another slow breath before she answers. 

     “Yes,” she promises him, “I’m ready.” ( She means it. )

[carelessgraces]

@potterstillstinks​​ said:   ❤️ for a romantic kiss.   ( choose a kiss | accepting )

She doesn’t care about this holiday. Really, she doesn’t; she can buy herself candy whenever she wants, and the restaurants are all filled beyond capacity, and you cannot find a decent seat in any theater in the city, and there are just generally too many bodies encroaching on a single space, and Astoria can’t stand it. Now, a quiet evening at home, away from the crowd, that’s something appealing, but when she’d told Draco that she intended to spend Valentine’s Day catching up on her shows, so really, he didn’t have to plan anything, this is not a test, he’d been a good sport but he’d clearly been disappointed. 

     ( See, she’s not much of a romantic, all things considered, but he is. It’s funny; they’re such a good match in so many ways, but there are times when he’s absolutely incomprehensible to her. That’s not the sort of thing her grandfather had warned her about in his thousand-plus attempts to set them up before they met, but she’s learning. ) 

     And there really isn’t anyone else in the world she’d do this for, though she won’t admit it, not quite yet. ( It’s been less than six months. You don’t say this to someone with less than six months under your belt. It scares them away. You especially don’t say this to someone when you haven’t gone public. ) Three weeks, she’d spent working on this, practicing it a hundred thousand times, and she’d asked Draco over to spend the evening with her but she hadn’t mentioned this — so the first thing she does when he’s inside is kiss him half-breathless in greeting, and the second thing she does is whirl him around so that his back is to the interior of her apartment, and he can only see her and her closed front door.

     “Do you trust me?” she asks, and Draco frowns.

     “A little less when you ask me like that,” he says warily, but he’s a good sport. Good enough that he only laughs and shrugs when Astoria holds up a blindfold.

     It’s not actually a blindfold; it’s a sleep mask, and he holds up his hands as if in surrender. “Do what you must,” he tells her, and he stands patiently as she slips the mask over his eyes and takes both his hands in hers. 

     She’s silent as she leads him, even when he sniffs and says, sounding delighted, “What did you order? I don’t recognize this.” She’s even silent when she sits him down, and when she moves to stand behind him, and when she settles her hands gently against the sides of his neck and sweeps down to press her lips to his cheek. 

     “No laughing,” she says sternly. “Promise?” And once he’s agreed, she takes the mask off and tosses it onto one of the unoccupied dining room chairs. 

     He’s silent as he takes it in, one hand moving absentmindedly to curl around her wrist while her thumbs brush along his jaw. She waits, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, as he takes it all in: the candles flickering in the windows, and the gentle glow of the lights dimmed just so, and the wine she’s selected to pair with the meal. 

     Three weeks. Three weeks, she spent practicing — a light pesto over rotini with roasted vegetables. She’d taken a week to choose the recipe, agonizing over whether or not it was too much garlic to be romantic, before simply buying a fresh tube of toothpaste — which she has sitting next to his place at the table, sticking out of a little bag with a ribbon tied around the top. A sauvignon blanc, grassy, lots of grapefruit and a hint of honey, to pair with it. And, simply because she’d wanted to prove to herself that she could do it, a very, very simple bruschetta with mozzarella on toasted bread. She’d burned it the first four times she did it. And then the sixth and seventh, too. There are a few burn marks on her forearms from the more disastrous encounters with the roasting pan, too, but all things considered, it wasn’t that bad. 

     On the credenza there are a few wrapped gifts for him, too, and there’s a dessert in the kitchen, and she bought the best coffee she could for after dinner, and she bites down hard enough now that she actually tastes a little bit of blood on her tongue.

     He’s been silent for a long moment, and it’s starting to make her uneasy. Astoria clears her throat, and she lets out a little laugh. “It’s too much, isn’t it?” she asks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed — ”

     “You did all of this?” He looks up at her, finally, and she nods. “The food? You did all of that?”

     “Mm. Yeah.” 

     Draco looks back at it wonderingly. She’s not sure why; he’s made her things a thousand times more complicated. She’s almost embarrassed by the simplicity of it. “But you don’t cook,” he says, and he sounds amazed. “You said the last time you boiled water you set your sleeve on fire.” 

     Astoria shrugs one shoulder, even though he can’t see her. “I practiced,” she says finally. “I wasn’t sure if I chose the right thing, but I couldn’t go much more complicated if I didn’t want to totally blow it.” 

     “And you said you don’t like Valentine’s Day.”

     “I don’t. You do.”

     “You don’t like grand gestures.”

     “Draco,” Astoria says, cheeks flushing with embarrassment, certain she’s somehow, somehow, managed to ruin this before it’s even begun. “I like you. That was reason enough. It’s okay if you don’t want it, seriously, I won’t be mad, I just wanted to try — ”

     Draco stands and turns to face her, tilting her face up and toward him. There is something impossibly soft in his expression, and for a moment he looks as though he’s struggling to say something, but the moment passes. His eyes flicker down to take in her clothes — a dress he’d complimented a few weeks back, a comment he’d made in passing about liking that color and cut for her, a comment she’d held onto ever since. Shoes she knows he likes. Underneath the dress, lingerie he’d bought for her, to replace a set that they’d torn to pieces during a particularly enthusiastic romp. 

     Somehow, his expression softens even further, and Draco meets her eyes again, his lips curled into a smile. “It’s perfect,” he insists, and he moves one hand to tuck her curls behind her ear. “I cannot believe you did this for me.”

     Tentatively, Astoria leans forward to kiss him, and Draco immediately pulls her closer. The kiss is slow, and easy, like she’s been doing it her whole life, and when Draco pulls back for breath, he presses a kiss to her nose.

     “I can’t believe you did all of this for me,” he says again, and Astoria shrugs.

     “You’ve had so much going on. And you’re always so good to me, and you always, always know what I need, and I just — I wanted to remind you that I see all of that, and I appreciate that, and I appreciate you, and this could all be absolutely awful — ” But she’s rambling, she knows, and he’s offering her the most bemused and indulgent smile she’s ever seen him wear. Astoria steps just a bit closer, and she drapes her arms around his neck as his own slip around her waist. “I care about you,” she says, cheeks burning red, “a lot, and I just — you deserve for someone to take care of you, too. You mean a lot to me. I wanted you to know how much.”

     “Enough to risk cooking?” he teases, and Astoria leans forward to kiss him again. This time, she sets the pace herself — her kiss is lazy and sweet, and if she weren’t worried the food would get cold she’d take her time with him now. 

     It still takes her more than a minute to step back, and she gestures toward the table. “Come on,” she says, and she’s grinning, now, “let’s eat, and then we can brush our teeth and settle in with a movie, or head right to bed — whatever you want. Seriously. I just want you to have a good night.” 

     Draco trails a few kisses down from the corner of her mouth to her throat. When he lifts his head again, he smiles at her, like she’s the most marvelous thing he’s ever seen. 

     “You mean a lot to me, too,” he says, and he takes her hand in his and presses a kiss to her palm. “I’m already having a good night. I just want more of you.”

     Dinner is a success; the food is fine, the conversation is filled with laughter, the wine is a hit. So is coffee, afterward, and the plum pastry she bought from the bakery around the corner — maybe next year she’ll manage that one, too. ( And she’s thinking of next year, with him. And the year after that. And the year after that. ) 

     ( He makes her think about a future. He makes her think about a lot of things. Mostly, he just makes her happy. ) 

     ( Someday, she’ll ask him if he’s thinking those same things, too. )

[carelessgraces]

@potterstillstinks said:   🎉   ( new year’s kisses | not accepting )

She’s very nearly drifted off to sleep at her desk when he saves her — a very big cup of coffee, probably picked up right before the coffee shop downstairs closed, and what appears to be a very deformed snowman cake pop. Astoria props her chin up on one hand and uses the other to hold up the cake pop for inspection, and Draco laughs, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

     “So they put the nose in the wrong place,” he says, and Astoria bites half of it clean off the stick, shrugging.

     “Frosty might haunt my nightmares,” she says around a full mouth. “Worth it, though.” She finishes the last of it, grinning at the sound of Draco chuckling behind her, and she lets out a contented sigh. Sugar. Chocolate. If that can’t get her through working on New Year’s Eve, nothing can.

     Well. That, and her delivery man. Boss’ granddaughter or no, her office is relatively small, but there’s still just enough room for Draco to pull up a chair beside her. “It’s going to be a long night,” he says apologetically, and Astoria just shrugs one shoulder.

     “The company makes up for it. You don’t have to be here, though; I know it’s just so I’m not by myself.” 

     “Pretty sure I’m the reason Ainsley’s still hazing you.”

     “Oh, definitely. He thinks I got the job because of my grandfather and I’m keeping the job because of you. He’s not wrong, though — if it weren’t for the knowledge that it would be hard to keep up a relationship when I’m serving twenty-five to life for the brutal premeditated slaying of one of the named partners...” 

     Draco laughs, and he shakes his head. Still, he looks a little guilty — going public had been his idea, after all, but Astoria doesn’t blame him. She chose to do it. The benefits far outweighed the costs, and a few late nights didn’t change that. 

     “I’m not sorry he knows,” she says, just in case Draco’s still wondering whether or not it was the right call. “I’m not sorry anybody knows. What I am sorry about is that we’re missing the office party — I was planning on making sure all the new hires knew you were taken. Just in case.” Not that she needs to make the effort to get the message across; Draco’s not exactly shy about their relationship, and the way he looks at her when he’s proud of her, the way he softens when they get a few moments together over a cup of coffee, the little smiles and the squeeze of his hand around hers when they only have a few seconds when they pass by each other in the halls... 

     Still, he likes her territorial, and she’s always happy to oblige. “Next year,” he promises, and he does look a little relieved. ( As if she could ever regret this. Or them. ) “You’re sure you won’t get in trouble for having me here?”

     “Hey, if Ainsley wants to explain to my grandfather why he insisted I be alone at midnight on a holiday while waiting for a file delivery, he’s welcome to do it, but somehow I don’t think he’ll bother.”

     “I thought they were equal partners.”

     “Nope. There’s a reason his name comes first on the letterhead. Can I tell you a secret?���

     “Always.”

     “His eventual hope is for you to buy out Ainsley, when he retires. He’s planning to support you with the board, whenever it comes up. And then, later on, he wants me to buy him out.” 

     “Shit.”

     “Yeah.” Astoria turns in her chair to face him, and she reaches forward, runs a hand through his hair. He kisses the inside of her wrist in response. “What do you think, sweet thing? Would you mind me coming first?”

     “Don’t I always make sure you come first?” he retorts cheekily, and Astoria laughs. 

     “I’m serious.”

     “So am I. I’m not threatened by your success. You can boss me around. Call me into your office whenever you want. We might want to get you an office with real walls, and not the glass...”

     “You’re telling me you don’t want to bend me over a desk in an office with glass walls?”

     “Scratch that. Glass walls everywhere.”

     The digital clock on her computer screen reads 11:59pm. Astoria lets out a comfortable sigh and she leans forward, brushing her nose lightly against his. “Any closing remarks?” she teases.

     “Just that I’m looking forward to another year with you,” he murmurs, and before the clock changes, before midnight can strike, he’s leaning forward to kiss her, slow and sweet and lazy, like he could do this all day. ( So could she. ) 

     “I like that you’re the first person I see in the new year,” Astoria whispers when he pulls back, and he presses a kiss to her nose.

     There’s a knock on the door, and the real delivery man, the one she’s been waiting for all night, hands her a parcel; she signs for it, smiles, watches the security guard walk him back to the elevator. Once they’re both gone, she leans forward, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. 

     “You know,” she says, “if you’re serious about the glass walls, we do have a board room.” 

     ( He’s out of his chair so fast he almost knocks it over as he stands; she’s laughing and kissing him the whole walk down the halls and up the stairs. )

[carelessgraces]

@serendpitous​ said: ❛ i’m not used to people trying to kill me ❜ / brooke

She misses Boston. She misses Dublin. She’s not much of a fan of New York, though she’s been promised that she’ll love it the more time she spends here — the volume and the sheer density of the population and the way that she always feels both impossibly anonymous and perpetually watched. ( It’ll pass. She’ll fall in love. She’s always fallen in love with cities with a strong identity, and she’s sure this will not be an exception. ) 

     But she loves Brooke already, and she lets out a theatrical sigh and she links her arm through Brooke’s as she reaches up to adjust her scarf for her. 

     “I don’t think the traffic counts as a murder attempt,” she says indulgently, but she’s grinning, bumping her hip lightly against Brooke’s as they walk. “I think that’s just part of living in this city. I’d say I’d take you to Boston, where it’s safe, but Massachusetts drivers are nightmares, so that’s more a threat than a comfort.” 

     When they reach the crosswalk, waiting for the signal to turn, she stops and she presses a kiss to Brooke’s cheek. “You’ll get used to it,” she promises. “In the meantime, I’ll buy us dinner and drinks, and you can tell me about the rest of your day, beyond the potential fatality of it all.”

[carelessgraces]

tag drop part six.