#well i suppose that's a question for an ask. excuse me (walks to your askbox)

[jichanxo]

re:titles> and i'm surprised how people name their projects after they are done! for me, it's easier to centre a story around one or several words, and harder to fit a whole-ass completed story into a really short description. how does it work for you then? (and good luck with senseific's title, i know you can do it)

this got long. uh.

that makes sense in a way, having it picked out early is just picking out your point of focus so that whatever you write matches what you’re trying to convey (at least that’s how I’m understanding you?) I suppose the inverse, deciding late, is more like going with the flow and seeing what surfaces as the most important theme/imagery/whatever… though I can definitely understand it being difficult to pick out what’s the most important part when you’ve written a lot. I guess in the end it’s about decisiveness? or at the very least picking something that Does The Job. Not all of them can be winners after all.

in cases where the fic title is the same as phrasing within the text (3:21am, Passing Grade, Memorisation Game), it feels more natural to see what words come naturally through writing as opposed to deciding beforehand. It’s certainly a bit literal but it captures what I think are the defining features of those fics.

“3:21am” is from the setting, which is incidental really, but it sets the scene well enough.

“Passing Grade” refers to the Kitakata sensei au (so school themed) and is also a direct quote from Yagami’s flirting in that fic.

“Memorisation Game” is a reference to the emotional core of that fic – Yagami missing Kuwana, rationalising his attempt to call his number as a game so not to feel so pathetic about it.

For reference, my document titles for these fics are: “yagami late 3am.docx” (referring to the pov and the setting), “kuwagami sensei eating.docx” (referring to the au and the main thing I use to get them to interact for that fic), and “kuwagami card fic.docx” (the initial idea being about yagami keeping kuwana’s business card). It’s a little funny how blunt they are, but it makes it easy to understand at a glance what everything is.

I guess the commonality here is that you can see what my starting idea is from the document titles, but by looking at the title of the posted fics, you can see where my writing ended up in terms of emotions or themes. “card fic” is the idea I started with, the instrument to get the ball rolling, but by the end of the writing, the final, most clear idea within that fic was memorisation game. I had some idea it was going to end in that direction, but I didn’t have those exact words until I wrote them out.

It’s probably a similar process for my other titles, and not just the literal ones, now that I think about it.

“kuwagami deep wound.docx” refers to the imagery I was trying to use in that fic which became → Wound Pried Open, which is… similar, but the “pried open” part I think calls attention to the idea of Kuwana doing it, of it being on purpose, not just the wound itself but the process of agitating it intentionally, which is… more important than just a reference to the wound on its own. I started that fic thinking “man the kuwagami stuff I make is so clean, I should write something more grimy” and ended it with… well… wounds as a vehicle to explore this idea of painful intimacy.

So I suppose what I’m saying is that deciding later leaves room for me to find the core of the story naturally after starting from my initial idea.

[aurorawest]

Title: not really sure how to feel about it, something in the way you move Author: @aurorawest​ Rating: T Characters: Stephen Strange, Loki Relationships: Loki & Stephen Strange Word Count: 5,888

Wrote this for the no excuses writing meme, askbox version - @mareebird sent me POV and I (of course) got extremely carried away. Please find below chapter 3 of Sleight of Hand from Stephen Strange’s POV.

How was it possible that he got so much mail? He wasn’t exactly giving this address out—if anything, he’d kind of fallen off the grid. But somehow, they still found him. Exterminators (huh, if only they knew), his alma mater asking for money (not even the med school; what was this, the liberal arts school? Christ), an offer to renew the extended warranty on the car he’d wrecked along the banks of the Hudson (had he even had an extended warranty?).

Stephen Strange flipped through envelope after envelope as he stood in the Sanctum’s foyer. How many trees had died just for him to toss this stuff in the trash?

There was a sound upstairs, distant enough that it wasn’t coming from the second or third floors. That meant it was coming from the attic. Stephen grimaced. Only one possible source, then, since Wong wouldn’t go up there. Hard to blame him, considering who had been living up there for three months.

He stood there for a second, listening as footsteps drew closer, and then he went back to flipping through the mail. Their houseguest would be there in three, two, one…

“Oh good, it’s you,” Loki of Asgard sneered from the stairs. Stephen glanced up at him. “You know, I don’t think your lackey is relaying my complaints to you.”

Feeling a muscle twitch somewhere in the region of his temple, Stephen looked back to the mail. He guessed Loki of Asgard maybe wasn’t appropriate anymore, what with Asgard being vaporized and New Asgard being off limits. “It might be because you keep referring to him as my ‘lackey’—which is apparently one of the nicer things you’ve called him.”

‘Goat’s arse,’ ‘feeble-minded cretin,’ and ‘tedious shepherd of a pile of musty, worthless tomes’ were among the epithets that Wong had relayed to him. “So you two aren’t friends yet,” Stephen had said. Wong had given him a flat look and walked away. There was a certain art to Loki’s venom, Stephen had to admit, but it took a masochistic streak to enjoy being the subject of his bile.

Of course, Wong had also mentioned that Loki had sneeringly referred to him as ‘Beyoncé,’ which had given Stephen pause, and not in a particularly good way. He didn’t like to think of Loki and him being anything alike.

A sneer still on his face, Loki said, “Your hurt feelings aren’t any of my concern.”

“Uh huh. You’ve made that pretty clear.” There was nothing worthwhile in this pile of mail. He tossed it on the table. Loki was obviously spoiling for a fight and Stephen didn’t really want to have it here in the foyer. There was too much furniture in here and some of it was probably valuable.

Instead, he gathered a bundle of the Sanctum’s magic to teleport them to the study and twisted it—

—Only to come up against a solid, hard barrier, like a pane of glass. It felt like someone had punched him in the gut and he tried not to stumble. Loki was staring at him, a blazing look on his face. So. Loki didn’t care for that method of transportation, and he’d come up with a way to stop it. “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure out how to do that,” Stephen said, trying to smile a little.

“Don’t patronize me,” Loki snapped back.

Stephen held up his hands. Christ. Never a quiet moment. Loki looked like he was going to kill someone. Probably worthwhile to calm him down. “Okay,” Stephen said. “Let’s talk. But do you mind if we do it in the study? I need to sit down with a cup of tea; I’m exhausted. Interdimensional squid monsters don’t just defeat themselves.”

When Loki didn’t object to this, Stephen summoned a cup of tea for himself, only half full, because otherwise the cup would shake and he’d spill hot tea all over his fingers. Burn scars on top of the surgery scars; what a look. No wonder he couldn’t get a date. Tea in hand, he asked, “Want one?”

There was a tense moment, and then Loki nodded. Another cup materialized on the table where Stephen had tossed the mail. He was half convinced Loki wouldn’t lower himself to going to get it, but he did, and the two of them went into the study.

While Stephen made his way to a chair, Loki lingered in the doorway, his fingers wrapped tightly around his cup of tea. His expression was the kind of closed-off anger that Stephen had always thought was easy to read and easy to deal with. Angry people were boring.

Loki, though, wasn’t boring.

“Have a seat,” Stephen said, gesturing at the other armchair as he sank down into his favorite one. Loki didn’t. He remained on his feet, looking stiff and out-of-place.

No. Wrong phrase. He didn’t look out-of-place in the Sanctum. He never had. At first it had really bothered Stephen. Now, he just tried not to think about it. There were a lot of implications to Loki looking like he belonged at the Sanctum that were better left untouched.

Maybe the right word was unwelcome. Loki looked like he felt unwelcome.

“Did you have a good day?” Stephen asked, taking a sip of his tea. The question was probably unnecessarily sarcastic. But something was kicking at his chest, agitating him, making him irritable. It wasn’t Loki’s mood. He could handle Loki’s foul mood—hadn’t be been doing it for three months? Granted, he tried to stay out of Loki’s way as much as possible, and the feeling was mutual.

Sometimes he’d catch himself looking up the stairs towards the attic, wondering what Loki was doing up there. What did a god do to keep himself from getting bored? Besides insult Wong? What did Loki do to keep himself from getting bored? The answer seemed obvious: get into mischief. But there’d been a distinct lack of mischief. Stephen didn’t know if he was thankful or worried that he just hadn’t noticed it yet.

Clearly, Loki had picked up on the sarcasm. Not a surprise. Not much got past Loki, especially if he thought you were insulting him—and he seemed to usually think you were insulting him. “Oh, yes,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “An absolute peach of a day.” When Stephen shrugged, anger flashed through Loki’s eyes like knives. His voice tight, he snapped, “I’m sick and tired of being locked up here, wizard. I’m sick and tired of being in that room, wasting time. I’m sick and tired of you telling me that it’s for the good of the universe for me to rot in this house.”

Stephen had been watching Loki’s fingers clench more and more tightly around the cup during this speech, which was the most he’d heard Loki talk since that day he’d arrived outside the Sanctum, falling on the sidewalk, Tesseract in hand. She, Stephen guessed. Loki had been a woman at the time. To this day, Stephen didn’t really know why, but he’d recognized her immediately. No question in his mind that he had been looking at Loki.

He waited for Loki to go on, but he just gulped down his tea, wincing. The cup vanished once the tea was gone.

There was silence. Then, Stephen asked, “Are you done?”

“Did you want to hear more?” Loki asked.

It almost made Stephen smile. But he wasn’t supposed to smile at Loki. Loki was the guy who had attacked New York in 2012. He was a threat. He wasn’t a good guy.

That was oversimplifying everything, and Stephen hated it when people oversimplified things. At Stark’s funeral, Stephen had approached Thor, because…well, he didn’t really know anyone else there, except the Guardians, and he’d pretty much exhausted all the conversational possibilities with them within five minutes. And there was the Parker kid, he guessed, but he could do better than chatting with a high schooler.

Saying he ‘knew’ Thor was kind of overstating it, but at least they’d had more than a two second conversation. But he knew he’d made a mistake right away. Thor had been drunk and definitely hadn’t wanted to talk; after attempting to make conversation for a minute, Stephen had given up and walked away.

He’d almost stepped on Rocket Raccoon, who was on his way to Thor and who had glared at him and muttered something that had definitely begun, “Fucking wizard…” under his breath.

Stephen had bitten back the urge to tell him how many raccoons he’d hit over the years. “What’s with Thor?” he’d asked. The weight, the hair, the beard, the booze, the crushing defeat slung around his shoulders—it wasn’t really a ‘what’s with him’ kind of question, but Stephen was hoping Rocket would give him the short and surly answer.

Rocket had rolled his eyes. “Gee, I dunno, where should I start? Dead mom? Dead dad? Dead sister? Dead brother? Blown up planet?”

Which was when Stephen had known. Loki was dead. Banner’s story about Thanos attacking the Asgardian refugee ship hadn’t included the fates of the Sons of Odin. But this had clinched it. No one had told him what had happened and he wasn’t about to ask Thor or his friend, the woman with the sword who had glared at anyone who had looked sideways at Thor. But Stephen had gotten the feeling that Loki had gone down fighting, that whatever had happened between the guy charging him with a couple of knives and Loki’s death, that him and Thor had made up.

It also made everything he’d seen make a shit ton more sense.

When he’d looked at those fourteen million, six hundred and five futures and found the one where Thanos was defeated, he’d looked further ahead. Of course he’d looked further ahead. How did he know there wasn’t something worse coming right after Thanos? He had to be sure he was choosing the right one. So what had he seen? Death. So much death. His own, over and over and over and over again. His own and everyone else’s. In the end, Natasha Romanoff’s and Tony Stark’s. Steve Rogers’s, too, in a way.

He’d seen Thor, an absolute wreck of a man who needed to find something on his own before he could find the thing he really needed, which was his brother. Yeah, the dead brother. Because Stephen had seen Loki, too. Loki, living at the Sanctum, Loki befriending Jane Foster, Loki and Thor together, Loki—

Well. The point was, he’d seen Loki.

There were actually a lot of reasons he didn’t want to smile at anything Loki said, and to blame it on him being ‘the bad guy’ was disingenuous.

Carefully, Stephen set his cup of tea down on the table next to his chair. Did he want to hear more? That was an open question, and he wished it wasn’t. “I think I get the general idea,” he said. “You know you’re not confined to that room, right? You’re free to go anywhere in the house.”

Not that anyone had ever actually come out and told Loki this, because the fact was, there kind of were places that Stephen and Wong didn’t want him going. Once or twice, Stephen had caught Loki slipping like a shadow through the house, trying not to make eye contact with the Sanctum’s other occupants, but staring longingly into the library. Stephen had almost told him he should go in and read whatever he wanted. But something had stopped him. Maybe that had been wrong.

Loki snorted. “And trip one of your booby traps? I don’t think so.”

Stephen took a fortifying breath. “Don’t get into anything you’re not supposed to, and you won’t.”

Loki’s face twisted. “And how, pray tell, am I supposed to know what I’m allowed to touch and what I’m not?” he snarled.

“You’re a wizard, aren’t you?” Stephen asked, unable to stop himself from throwing Loki’s preferred slight back in his face.

“Master of Magic,” Loki shot back, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Right.” This was going nowhere. Antagonizing each other wasn’t going to solve anything. Loki was stuck here and they both knew it. “Look, we’ve been over this. I’m sorry about keeping you here, but this is the way it has to be.”

Clenching his fists, Loki said, “It has to be this way, does it? I know you can look into the future, so tell me why, exactly, the universe’s fate hinges on me being stuck in this house. It seems just a bit unlikely.”

No argument there. Fourteen million futures unlikely. But Loki didn’t know what. Steepling his fingers in his lap, Stephen said, “If you’re referring to the fact that I used the Time Stone to see if we could beat Thanos, yeah. I looked past that moment to make sure there wasn’t some kind of world-ending, Avengers-level event coming right after it. I saw possibilities.”

They’d had this conversation several times already. That part usually went okay. It was the next part that pissed Loki off. Narrowing his eyes, Stephen went on, “What I saw was that it’s better for the universe for you to be here. I wouldn’t presume to tell you the fate of everything rests on you crashing in the attic room. But I can’t let you leave. There’s too much probability that millions of lives are at stake.”

There was devastation on Loki’s face. Stephen didn’t relish it. He didn’t like causing this man pain. Man? God, he guessed. But he knew Loki didn’t see it that way. He knew Loki thought he got off on being a prick.

Well, maybe he had, at one point in his life. Not so much anymore. At least, not to Loki, who, three months into this unwilling roommate situation, was pretty clearly very damaged, hurting badly, and profoundly lost. And goddammit, Stephen knew that feeling so, so well.

“What do I care for millions of lives when my brother—” Loki paused and seemed to gather himself. “—when my brother needs a kick in the arse, preferably from me?”

Then again, Loki didn’t always make it easy to not be a prick.

And it was better if he pushed Loki away. It didn’t necessarily seem smart to make the God of Mischief hate him, but it ultimately seemed preferable.

“That’s sweet,” Stephen said. “I hope he can feel the love, even if he thinks it’s coming from beyond the grave.”

Anger twisted Loki’s face. “I didn’t ask for this,” he snarled. “I was ready to die. You lot are the ones that messed up the fabric of space and time. The only reason I’m here at all is because someone let a group of rank amateurs loose in something they knew nothing about and couldn’t possibly hope to understand the ramifications of. So if my presence here is such a problem, such a wrench in the continued existence of the universe, blame them. I’d tell you to take it up with your counterpart in the other timeline, but—oh yes, I had to erase it from existence, so I suppose you’ll never know why he was so adamant that I be sent here, to you, in this particular year.”

Another big speech from Loki. Stephen had noticed that when he got upset, when he got agitated, he talked more, his words spilling over each other like rocks tumbling along the riverbed in a swift current. His anger didn’t make him less eloquent. There was something admirable about that. To be honest, there was something mesmerizing about watching Loki get more and more angry. His fury was something to behold—like something wild, like a storm, like something that no one would ever be able to control. There was something kind of beautiful about that.

And, nope. Better for Loki to hate him.

Keeping his face impassive, Stephen asked, “Is there more you’d like to say?” When Loki remained coldly silent, he went on, “You know, I couldn’t keep you here if you really wanted to leave. You stay because you think what I’ve told you is true.”

Harsh laughter tore itself out of Loki. “What can I do but assume it’s true? Do you know what I’ve been through?”

“Only what you’ve told me. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”

“Your sympathy means so much.”

Stephen knew he was pushing every button Loki had. It wasn’t that hard. He had an unfair advantage, after all. He’d seen the future. But even if he hadn’t, he still thought it would be easy. There was something about Loki that was easy to understand, when he should have been impossible. And Stephen really, really didn’t want Loki to be easy to understand. Not for him. Definitely not for him.

Meeting Loki’s eyes, Stephen said, “Loki. I’m not keeping you here because I have some sort of vendetta against you.” Loki just glared at him, so Stephen sighed. “Your brother has things to do and he needs to do them without you. You can’t help him right now. That’s what I’ve seen. There are a lot of possible outcomes, but in most of them, you staying out of Thor’s life right now is best for everyone.”

Stephen had known this wasn’t the right thing to say. But he had to admit, even he hadn’t guessed just how wrong it was.

Something…happened. Magic screamed out of Loki, blasting into everything in the room. It slammed into Stephen, a shockwave that passed through his skin and lungs and bones, roaring through him, invading him, and for what felt like forever, he couldn’t breathe.

This was the sort of thing he’d trained for, though. This was what made him a Master of the Mystic Arts. This was what made him Guardian of the New York Sanctum. As glass and wood shattered around him, he called a spell to his hands and cast it, magic flowing from his hands. Everything in the room stopped, suspended in midair, a tableau of frozen destruction. The only two things moving in the room were Loki and Stephen.

Stephen flicked a hand and everything settled back to where it was supposed to be. This was the first time he’d really seen what Loki could do—it was the first time Loki had unleashed his magic. And unleashed was the word. Loki’s chest was heaving. His eyes were bright with rage and his face was open in a way that Stephen had never seen, even if it was only open enough to be twisted with fury and pain.

He was…magnificent. Incandescent. He looked every inch a god.

And Stephen Strange did not want to think so.

So he waited a moment. Steeled himself. And then, he said dryly, “Looks like I hit a sore spot.”

The other thing, that hadn’t been meant to wound. This definitely had been.

Knives appeared in Loki’s hands. “Shut. Up.” His voice was shaking. An attack would be easy to stop, but Stephen didn’t want to have to do that. His shoulders still heaving, Loki said, “I would rather be trapped in your pocket universe, falling into infinite blackness, then have to look at your insufferable face and listen to your smug, sanctimonious, pedantic explanations about why I’m here for one—more—SECOND.”

How hard did he want to push? How much did he want to make Loki hate him? Stephen had to look away from him. Watching Loki, enraged, threatening him, radiating anger, was a little too much like looking at the sun. “That can be arranged,” Stephen said, folding his hands in his lap.

Loki stepped forward, holding his dagger up, leveling it between Stephen’s eyes. “You’ve wanted to since day one. Put your money where your mouth is, sorcerer.”

At this, Stephen looked back up to Loki, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze. He could see Loki thinking about it, those blue eyes of his cracking with anger, with dislike, maybe even with hate. Hell, if their positions were reversed, Stephen would probably be tempted to stick a knife in his own chest to shut himself up.

This was too much. There were good reasons for Stephen to antagonize Loki; good reasons for them not to be friends, or even friendly. But this didn’t sit right. He couldn’t keep doing this.

Loki lowered his arm, sagging, as his fingers loosened around his dagger. Stephen’s eyebrows drew together. What was happening? Why was Loki giving up? That seemed unlike him. In the encounters they’d had, Loki had always snarled a vicious parting shot before stalking away. Nothing seemed to cow him.

That wasn’t right though, was it? Loki was cowed. Thor and Loki were like mirror images of each other. One wore his pain and brokenness on the outside, the other stuffed it down and papered over it with rage. But at the end of the day, it was the exact same pain.

Sounding defeated, Loki said, “Do it, Strange. I promise I’ll only blame you a little bit.”

Christ. Seriously? Did Loki really think Stephen was going to trap him in a void, falling forever, or until Stephen felt like freeing him? Well, to be fair, he guessed he’d done it before. But those had been extenuating circumstances.

Extenuating circumstances. Right. His whole life was a series of extenuating circumstances, now. He had an Asgardian prince living in his house and he hadn’t informed anyone—except people he trusted at Kamar-Taj—that Loki was here at all. Extenuating circumstances: if he was right about what he’d seen in this future, then Loki would never be a threat to Earth again.

Stephen’s list certainly didn’t think so. A few days after Loki’s arrival, his name had disappeared from it. Stephen had thought something might be wrong with it and he’d checked it, a pit of ice forming in his stomach. But of course nothing was wrong with the list. He already knew Loki wasn’t a threat. Every time things played out exactly the way he’d seen them play out with the Time Stone, he felt a little more sick. Most of it was fine; most of it was great, but he’d caught a glimpse—there was a future that he didn’t want, and if he could nudge things just a little off course—well, it would be better for everyone.

Watching the anger flicker out of Loki’s eyes was like watching a storm recede. No pocket dimension for him. Anyway, he’d find his way out of it before long. “Yeah,” Stephen said, “I’m not going to, but your permission’s noted.”

They couldn’t keep going like this. Stephen was pretty arrogant, but even he wasn’t cocky enough to think he could break Loki. But something—stupidity, sentimentality, shortsightedness, all of the above?—made him realize that he didn’t even want Loki thinking he was trying to break him. That wasn’t who he wanted to be, not for himself, and not for Loki, either.

All of the above, definitely. With a really large helping of stupidity. Taking a breath and tilting his head to disguise his own swirling thoughts, he said, “You know…you might have a point. Not about the pocket universe. But about being cooped up. It’s probably bad luck or something to keep a god under house arrest, even here.”

The daggers vanished. “I’m listening,” Loki said warily.

Stephen got to his feet, mainly so Loki wouldn’t be able to see his face. Up until this point, he’d been a mainly passive observer in the events he’d seen. He’d give up the Time Stone to Thanos, but other than that, he’d set nothing in motion. His job was to be part of all of it, not to guide it. But there were certain things that he’d glimpsed, things that he didn’t understand how they could come to pass without him initiating it. The problem was, he didn’t know when any of it was supposed to happen. A year from now? Four months? Next week? Today? There was no way to know. The Time Stone didn’t subtitle dates at the bottom of its visions.

Which left him to use his own judgement. There was a time when just about the only person’s judgement he’d trusted was his own. The bizarre vicissitudes of his life had taught him better. Humility made him hesitate. How did he know this was the right time? If he set things in motion now, he couldn’t stop them. What if he acted and it wasn’t time? What if he had it all wrong?

He cast spell after spell to clean up the room, feeling Loki’s presence at his back. As the last lampshade fit itself back into place, a realization hit him like a train. Humility? He thought he’d learned humility? He was still the same arrogant son of a bitch he’d always been. This wasn’t about him. It had never been about him.

He recognized the pain Loki was in. This was about Loki.

There was no way for him to know the right time to set events in motion. But it didn’t matter. Loki needed this now, whether it was the right time or not.

Stephen hesitated for another second. Once he spoke, he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t undo it.

He turned around to face Loki, who looked like a caged animal, desperate to run but with nowhere to go, his rage barely subsided, simmering just under the surface. And Stephen spoke. “I shouldn’t even be telling you this. I’m breaking every patient confidentiality law on the books.”

Surprise flickered across Loki’s face, though he immediately wiped it away. “Then please don’t feel compelled to.”

Stephen ignored him. “I was at the hospital today—”

“Why?” Loki interrupted. With a pointed look at Stephen’s hands, clearly meant to be cruel, he added, “Don’t tell me they’re letting you cut people open?”

He deserved that. But it still rankled. He thought he actually preferred the knives. “I thought you said you were listening,” Stephen said. Loki backed down, holding up his hands. The expression on his face had returned to wariness. “I was visiting a friend,” Stephen went on. “While I was there, I walked by a room that listed the occupant as Jane Foster.”

This was…not exactly a lie. Stephen had been by Metro-General recently—not today, but within the week—and he had seen Christine while he was there, but he’d gone for the express purpose of seeing if Jane Foster had taken up residence there. The little ball of ice in his stomach had grown a bit more when he’d seen her name on the door.

Loki started at the name and immediately scowled.

“Someone you know?” Stephen asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

“An acquaintance,” Loki replied, raising one eyebrow.

This shouldn’t have charmed Stephen, but against his will, it did. Something in the arch of that eyebrow, the glint in Loki’s eyes, which wasn’t quite mischief but was sharp and pointed and keen as those daggers he carried around on his arms. God knew Loki had never tried to be charming in his time at the Sanctum. Somehow, that made the flashes of his natural charm way more genuine and likable.

“Uh huh,” Stephen said. “Friend of Thor’s, right?” Loki shrugged and Stephen grew serious. “I looked at her records. Another broken rule, by the way. Same Jane Foster. She’s dying.”

“Of course she’s dying,” Loki said, shrugging again. “You humans are in a perpetual state of mortality. It’s just what you do.”

Less charming. Stephen felt his lips thin. “She’s terminally ill. She has weeks. Maybe a couple months, if she gets really lucky.”

This seemed to hit some kind of nerve. Or maybe Loki just realized he was being an asshole. Finally, he said, “I see. And?”

“And nothing.” There was still a shattered vase in the corner. Stephen magically repaired it and it settled back into place on the table that held it. He tried not to take a deep breath and make it obvious how much he was bullshitting his way through this conversation. This was it. “Unless you want to go see her,” he said.

If this had been a movie, the music would have swelled and then abruptly dropped away at this point. The audience had to be clued in that this was a Big Moment. But of course, only Stephen knew that. Loki had no idea. His eyes narrowed and he asked, “Why would I want to go see her? I barely know the woman. My brother was the one who couldn’t stop mooning over her.” Something seemed to occur to him and he quickly added, “He dumped her, by the way.”

To be totally honest, Stephen didn’t care about the love lives of the Asgardian royal family, or lack thereof. But there was something kind of sweet about Loki insisting on this point, which told Stephen that it absolutely wasn’t true, and Jane had definitely dumped Thor’s ass.

“I was under the impression you wanted to do something nice for your brother,” Stephen said.

Loki made a series of spluttering noises, then finally managed, “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“You don’t say,” Stephen said, his tone deadpan. When Loki glared at him, he added, “Why don’t you think about it?”

“Why don’t you let me go tell my brother that I’m not dead?”

Point to Loki. Probably. Stephen had kind of lost track. He’d felt like this was a game he was going to lose from the moment Loki had appeared on the sidewalk outside, anyway. He sighed, less at Loki; more at the situation. “Do you really want to do this again today? I just got done cleaning up.” This drew an unwilling snort of laughter from Loki, and Stephen felt a tendril of an emotion that he wasn’t willing to name unfurl ever-so-slightly within him.

“By the way,” Stephen said, to distract both of them from the fact that he had just made Loki laugh, “Thor isn’t even on Earth right now.”

Picking at the armor on his hands, Loki said, “I know.”

Stephen felt his brow furrow in surprise. Loki looked at him, taking this in. “You do?” Stephen asked.

“I heard you and Wong talking about it.” Loki looked almost guilty. He cleared his throat and said, “Something about some people calling themselves the Guardians.”

Huh. Well. What else had Loki heard?

“You have good hearing,” Stephen finally said.

With a faint smile, Loki replied, “I’m very good at overhearing things that people don’t want me to.”

Good to know. Stephen wished he’d known it three months ago. He’d have to comb through his memories to figure out if Wong and he had talked about anything sensitive within Loki’s impressive earshot.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stephen said.

Exiting a conversation at the right time was a skill Stephen had always prided himself on, and he knew this one had run its course. Something momentous had happened here, though Loki didn’t know the half of it. Stephen didn’t know if he felt like a puppet master or a puppet himself, a marionette whose strings were being jerked around by the universe the same as everyone else’s. He just happened to know about it.

Loki seemed like the kind of guy who you could have really in-depth philosophical discussions with. Get him started on a conversation about free will, and Stephen had a feeling he’d be fascinating. Stephen had heard him invoke the Norns, and as soon as that particular argument had ended, he’d pulled out his phone to google the word.

The Fates. Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld, the most important of them. They wove mortals’ fates, pulled at the threads, followed them, tangled them, untangled them. Stephen had no idea what Loki thought about free will, but he had a feeling it was complicated.

Another thing Stephen was good at? Leaving a difficult conversation on top. He held out a hand and Loki stared at it. His open confusion was kind of satisfying. “Oh, sorry,” Stephen said. “The cup you vanished. I’ll take that back. They’re antique. I’m trying to keep the set together.”

Total bullshit. They were from the thrift store a few blocks over, and before that, probably Kmart, and there were already several pieces missing.

But Loki didn’t know any better. Stephen didn’t even know why he was messing with him. Maybe just to see if he could. There was, after all, the aforementioned feeling that he’d lost this game before it had even started. Anything to get the upper hand, no matter how temporary it was.

Smirking, Loki twitched his fingers, and the cup appeared out of thin air, dropping into Stephen’s palm. Without another word, Loki turned to leave. But then, in the doorway, he stopped and turned around. “How do I get to this hospital?” he asked. “In case I do decide to go see Miss Foster.”

Check. Did the Norns play chess? Whatever. Stephen wasn’t sure he believed in them.

Then again, he hadn’t believed in magic either, had he?

With a small smile, Stephen said, “We’ll get you a Metro Card.” He couldn’t read Loki’s face. Probably he didn’t know what a Metro Card was. Lucky guy. In all seriousness, though, Loki was, what, a thousand something years old? But he didn’t know much about Earth. Given an opportunity, he’d probably learn everything he could about it. And that reminded him. The library. Giving Loki free rein in there was something he should have done a long time ago. Wong would hate it, but…Stephen would pick up his tuna melts for a month or two and he’d get over it. “And Loki? I think you’ll find that the library has a number of books that might interest you.”

There was an impossibly long silence while Loki stared at him. Would he accept this? As peace offerings went, it was pretty paltry. Peace offering? Stephen kept his face still, but inside, he snorted at himself. He guessed so. For the past three months, he’d either outright ignored or tried to alienate Loki. Something momentous had happened here without him knowing, too. This relationship had changed. Stephen had Seen Things, but he didn’t have a roadmap. He didn’t know where this was going. He didn’t know what to expect.

The knot of ice was still in his stomach, but it seemed to thaw a little. Maybe he wasn’t entirely a toy of the Norns.

Finally, Loki inclined his head, a graceful, courtly gesture that reminded Stephen forcibly and viscerally that this was a prince. It wasn’t something that he cared about, per se. He was a person first and foremost. And last, when it came down to it. But somewhere in the middle, he was a prince, a god, a onetime villain. And he was also a brother, a son, and—

Definitely not a friend. Not to Stephen, at least.

“Thank you,” Loki said. Stephen nodded to him, and Loki turned and walked away, his footsteps quiet on the wood floor.

No, not a friend. But maybe, just maybe, not an enemy, either.

[sunshinemiranda]

After Hours - Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader

Summary: Based on the prompt: “I have a key to the theatre, and sometimes I go there when I need to think. Apparently so do you.”

Words: 5,296 (ren and i are just...yeah)

Warnings: Swearing. 

A/N: From Ren (@alexanderhamllton) - Guys, it happened!!! Here’s my first collab with Liv, which I’m so so excited about, we wrote the whole thing in one afternoon and I couldn’t be more proud of the result. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I do <3

From Liv - I am still dizzy from how much I enjoyed writing this. I finally had the honour of collaborating with Ren (aka real human sunshine) and it was so much more than I could have ever hoped for. Honestly, it is amazing. Happy reading!

askbox | masterlist

There is something very beautiful about a theatre without an audience. It is filled to the brim with potential, all these seats just waiting to be filled, an empty stage that could become an entirely different universe. The lights are dimmed down, and from inside a deserted Richard Rodgers, it is as if the entire world has stopped spinning.

You didn’t recognize the set anymore. Romeo and Juliet had faded to reveal two new love interests: Eliza and Alexander, their names synonymous with the Broadway musical. From the show you were a part of to the hit-show Hamilton that took over your old workplace, you only recognized the empty seats, so familiar to you even though you never had to step on stage; it took many promises of not touching a thing to your friend Jonah, who worked with the security of the place, to let you in.

Crew members are ghosts, who aren’t able to have an excuse to be on stage during the show’s run, but they are beyond useful. They are the backbone of the art the audience sees. You stood in the middle of the stage, looking out at the wide expanse of space, filling the air with your thoughts. In a room like this, your ideas and dreams had room to stretch and grow, lifting their waif-like limbs. Silence fell heavy, and remained unbroken. Slowly, your eyes closed and surrendered to a feeling of infinite peace.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

You whipped around with a very loud, “Holy fuck,” and found that someone else seemed to spend their time in deserted theatres too.

“Who are you?” His voice was careful and intimidating, a combination rare to your ears, especially when you visited the theatre.

“Who are you?” It didn’t even cross your mind that you weren’t in a place to ask that question.

“I asked first.” He quipped, the shadow of a smile starting to tilt at his mouth.

“I asked second!” You hurried, then closed your eyes with a visible cringe. This was going horribly. “Sorry. You just sort of freaked me out with the whole, Phantom of the Opera style sneak-up.”

“I can respect someone that makes a Phantom reference,” he replied with a smile. “I’m Lin.”

“[Y/N],” you replied, crossing your arms. Why you were so defensive was beyond you, especially because the guy didn’t seem threatening at all. “I was a crew member on Romeo and Juliet, if that helps to explain my presence,” you took the small key from your pocket, shaking it so he’d know you were telling the truth. “I still have a key. Coming here kind of calms me down, sorry for intruding.”

He chuckled, looking past you at the rows of seats. “God, I can relate to that. I love coming here after hours. It’s like the calm after a storm. The water is still.”

An unexpected smile came to your face and you nodded, letting your crossed arms fall. “Yes! Exactly.”

“But seriously. You can’t be here.”

“Oh.” Your brow furrowed. “Right, sorry about that. I’ll show myself out.”

“You didn’t let me finish. You can’t be here. Let’s not let anyone find out.” He grinned, reaching his hand out for you to shake. It was an offer for what seemed like an adventure. “Deal?”

“Deal,” you replied, shaking his hand. “So… Lin. What brings you to the theatre after midnight?”

“I would really like to know your excuse first. I mean, this is my play.”

“I asked first,” you joked, making him chuckle.

“The pressure. The show is everywhere, and I’m proud of it, I really am, but it can be overwhelming. People expect too much, you know?”

“Not really. Romeo and Juliet didn’t do very well,” you smiled, walking towards the front of the stage before sitting there, your legs dangling over the edge. “But I do see your show everywhere, so I can only imagine the pressure.”

“Wasn’t this version the one with Orlando Bloom?” Lin asked, before sitting down next to you.

“Yep, turns out fame doesn’t compensate the lack of theatrical talent.”

“Ooh, harsh!” He pulled a hand to his chest as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “That’s Legolas you’re insulting, right there.”

“I’m not scared of an elf who never runs out of arrows.” You grinned.

He laughed, and it struck you that it was a good one. It came right from his chest, full-breathed, as it sort of took over his body. In the low lights, the shadows only allowed you to see aspects of his face. From what you could decipher, he was far prettier than any Romeo Montague could have been. With the echoing of both your laughs dissipating into acoustics bouncing off the walls, a silence fell that was more comfortable than you thought it would be. It struck you that Lin was a natural with people.

“Being on this stage makes me want to belt some Shakespeare,” you laughed, and he raised a mischievous eyebrow before standing, reaching out to pull you up with him.

“Now that’s something I want to see.” Lin grinned, ignoring your protests and hurried off stage to sit in the audience.

“Hey!” Blushing with embarrassment now, you squinted to search for him in the seats. “There’s a reason why I was in the crew and not cast, you know.”

“I’m waiting, Ms. [Y/N],” his voice called. It made a smile grow on your face.

“Before I start, I wanna say that you asked for this!” You warned him, before clearing your throat. “Should I go for Romeo and Juliet, or is that too cliché?”

“Whatever you like, I’m just the audience!” He shouted.

A pause settled into the theatre, and you closed your eyes, focusing on yourself. Every night, through working backstage, you would always take the time to admire one monologue. It was your favourite.

“Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; for thou wilt lie upon the wings of night whiter than new snow on a raven's back.” You stepped forward, unable to see him in the audience, but ultimately alert to his presence. “Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night, give me my Romeo, and, when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun.”

There was a long moment of silence, filled with electrifying tension, before he made his presence visible by standing and delivering the most enthusiastic standing ovation you had ever seen in your life.

“Okay, tell me again why you were in the crew and not on stage starring in the thing?” He laughed, running to the edge of the stage before climbing to meet you there. “That was amazing, you knew every line!”

“Thank you, I- I really liked that monologue, it was one of the few things I genuinely enjoyed about this gig, besides the place.” You looked around, remembering the many nights where the theatre was empty, without a set, without any props backstage, and you had total freedom to just wander around discovering all the little quirks it had to offer. “Have you guys found the secret room yet?”

“Secret room? I don’t think anyone’s found that yet,” he answered with a smile. “Do you know where it is?”

“I do, but it’s a secret after all,” you smiled, Lin shooting you a look.

“C’mon, you can’t just tell me there’s a secret room and not show me where it is, that’s just plain torture!” He argued dramatically, making you roll your eyes and laugh.

“Fine! Are you ready to climb some stairs?”

“Not at all.”

His answer made you laugh, and before you knew it, the two of you were taking the stairs backstage before heading down a small corridor, the ceiling so low you had to crouch before you had the space again. It was a small room, filled with old cables and mechanic gear, and on the opposite wall, a window. It didn’t open and you never figured out if it was because it was broken or sealed somehow, but it gave you a view of the stage no other room in that whole theatre would.

“It’s not that big of a deal, but it’s a fun place to watch rehearsals, you can see the wings and the stage at the same time,” you explained.

He stared, wordless, out the window, eyes widening as he took in the sight. You would see the entire Richard Rodgers kingdom from this point. His silence started to make you nervous.

“Legends say this was the old tech room before they got moved up there,” you pointed. “That’s why you can see everything.”

“[Y/N],” he murmured, turning toward you with wide eyes. The way he said your name sent a thrill down your spine. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” your voice was almost a whisper.

You came back one night a week after that. And so, it seems, did Lin.  The two of you explored every nook and cranny of the theatre, and after-hours exploration became the day of the week you looked forward to the most. It became a silent pact that every Wednesday would be the night to meet up and engage in all kinds of shenanigans: you felt like a teenager again, sneaking around with a guy you just met in the middle of the night.

“Okay, Avenue Q or Book of Mormon?”

“Hands down Book of Mormon. Avenue Q is great, though. I just have a soft spot for Andrew Rannells.” You grinned, reaching into the bag of yogurt covered pretzels sitting on the stage between the two of you.

“She likes Andrew Rannells. A girl after my own heart!” He pulled a Southern Belle swoon, fainting back onto the stage as you laughed. 

“And you got to have him in your show too, lucky thing, ugh, I hate you.”

He reached over and snatched the pretzel you were holding inches from your mouth, grinning as he bit into it. “You would never.”

“Try me, Miranda. Wait, Singin’ in the Rain, or Sound of Music?”

In complete unison, the two of you announced, “Singin’ in the Rain.”

“I’m so whipped for Gene Kelly.” You sighed.

“You and me both.”

You lay down beside him, staring at the rafters in the ceiling, realizing that in doing so, you had closed the space by a considerable distance. He was close enough for you to reach out and trace the contours of his face, run your fingertips over his cheekbones and tap your index against his nose. Of course, you didn’t. But the thought was there anyway.

“Turn around, bright eyes…”

The quiet of the theatre was perforated by his voice ringing out softly, and you grinned. Stepping, as quietly as possible, closer and closer, you made your way to the orchestra pit where he was sitting at the piano, accompanying himself.

“Every now and then, I fall apart!” your voice startled him, but he knew that song like the back of his hand.

“And I need you now tonight,” your voices blended together while you both sang between smiles, Lin looking at you in adoration as you raised your eyebrows, surprised with the fact he didn’t even flinch before starting a duet with you. He played the notes without taking his eyes off you, and while a few weeks ago this would have intimidated you, now you wouldn’t trade that for the world.

“There’s nothing I can do, total eclipse of the heart...” you both finished the song together, the last notes he played floating around you before the silence.

“[Y/N].”

“Lin.”

“You didn’t tell me you could sing. That was beautiful.”

“It was beautiful because you were carrying it with your voice and the piano. Don’t get ahead of yourself now.”

“Hey, have I ever lied to you?” He grinned standing and taking your hand to tug you closer. “Here. I’ll show you the piano arrangement so you can carry it on the piano and your voice. Just like me.”

He placed his hands over yours to play the chords and melody with you, but you couldn’t spend a second of that time concentrating. He was so close, and smelled like cologne and the wood on the stage. The warmth of his hands was sending your head into a reeling mess.

“You’re not concentrating, are you?” He grinned.

You shook your head, looking down and hiding a smile when a strand of hair fell from the back of your ear. Lin’s hand slowly moved to put it back in place, and you couldn’t help but turn to face him, his lips now inches away  from yours. Your eyes shifted from his eyes to his lips, for a split second before you came back to your senses, biting your lip. He was so close, it wouldn’t take much to just move an inch and kiss him senseless, in a way you had wanted to for a while now.

“Mr. Miranda, have- oh, I’m so- I’m sorry.” Jonah opened the door abruptly, making you and Lin jump apart like scalded cats. A blush worsened the colour already on your cheeks, and Lin refused to look you in the eye.

“It’s okay, Jonah, what happened?” Lin replied, running his fingers through his hair while calming himself down.

“Just letting you know I’m leaving earlier tonight, I changed shifts with Marco and I thought it’d be better to let you know...” Jonah replied, scratching his head, his cheeks flushed.

“We’ll leave soon, Jonah. Thanks.” The security guard nodded before taking a weird bow before leaving, making the both of you giggle. Lin turned to you, a sheepish smile on his face. “I guess we’re not staying for long tonight.”

“From experience, I can say Marco is not the friendliest person I know,” you commented, now incapable of looking Lin in the eyes without blushing.

“Finally, someone says it! We better get out of here before he finds out we’re intruding.” He laughed, trying his best to smooth over the awkward moment.

Outside the theatre, the two of you said quiet goodbyes accompanied with shy smiles, and by the time you got home, your head was reeling with that same dizziness. God, you had it bad.

Lin was alone on the next Wednesday. She’s probably just late, caught up with some extra work, he thought, but the feeling of dread stuck in his stomach through the two hours he sat at the Richard Rodgers and pretended he had “work to do”.

He couldn’t help but absently wonder if it was his fault that you weren’t there. Maybe the “Almost Kiss Incident” had scared you away. The worst part of that realization was the fact that he might not have a chance with someone he’d fallen head over heels for. It made an endless feeling of inadequacy settle into his stomach, leaving him restless and messy.

Later that night, he asked Jonah if you had left a message, a sign, anything. But you didn’t. He didn’t have your number, or an address, but Lin also felt it wasn’t his place to ask you about you not showing up that night. It was technically a silent agreement, no strings attached, but he didn’t feel that way about it. He never felt that way about it. He only hoped that you didn’t either.

He started coming there on the nights that weren’t the “schedule” for you guys. He would try Mondays, Thursdays, Sundays, any time that you might be there just in case you had mixed up the dates or couldn’t make it on Wednesdays anymore. But he didn’t see you. Jonah noticed how Lin started to come more often and decided to step up, as your friend.

“Mr. Miranda?” his voice echoed in the empty theatre, where Lin was reading a book, pretending he wasn’t using it to waste time while waiting for you.

“Yes, Jonah?” he replied, without taking his eyes from the book.

“She’s not coming tonight.” The statement made him look, a mix of concern and disappointment on his face. “She usually doesn’t come that often. She started coming every week because of you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jonah,” he said, faking a smile.

“Sir, with all due respect… Before you, she would only come here maybe once a month, sometimes not even that. Her family doesn’t live here, in New York.” The security guard’s words made Lin realize how abnormal the whole situation was: you were both strangers until you met that one night, the random encounters turned into scheduled nights and that, in his head, was not the reason why he liked that theatre in the first place. Lin nodded, closing the book before saying goodnight to Jonah, leaving the building by the back door.

The next night Lin showed up after-hours was a Thursday, not a Wednesday. He didn’t have a show that night or any hope of finding you there anymore. This time around he actually needed the silence. When he got to the theatre, Jonah hurried towards him the moment he entered.

“She left a note last night,” he announced, holding a grin.

“She came here?” Lin couldn’t hold his disbelief, that quickly turned into a smile.

“Yes, sir. Asked for you and everything. Told her to leave a note in your dressing room but you didn’t show up today.”

“Ironic. It’s the first time in months I take a break on a day that’s not Saturday, and this happens,” he joked, before patting Jonah in the shoulder, heading inside the now empty theatre. “Thanks man.”

When he got to his dressing room, he immediately noticed the note, written on the back of one of those ads people hand out in vain on the streets, taped to the mirror.

Lin,

I’m sorry I didn’t come the past few weeks. I had an emergency with my parents and had to leave right away, didn’t know how to contact you. I’m back now, as you can see. I hope you haven’t forgotten about me yet. See you next week?

Whipped for Gene Kelly,

[Y/N]

PS: Here’s my phone number, can’t believe you didn’t have that already!

He smiled, grabbing his phone to save your number in his contacts within moments. There was no way he was going to go another two weeks without talking to you. He needed that. You didn’t hate him! Lin laughed to himself before folding the note and putting between one of the notebooks he kept around.

To: [Y/N]

From: Lin

See you next week.

Lin’s sleep schedule was fucked. Honestly, he had started sleeping till 1 on the weekends, falling asleep at 4 (on an early night), and all because of two things: he spent all his time waiting for his best girl at the Richard Rodgers, and without the after midnight talks that calmed him, it was too difficult to fall asleep. Without [Y/N], there seemed to be no organization in his life. When she appeared in the doorway, like an angel come to lift him from the groggy mess that was his life recently, he rubbed at his eyes, disbelieving and wondering if his lack of sleep had started to make him delusional.

“You look like crap, Miranda.”

It was the best thing he’d heard all month. Without a second thought, he hurried off the stage and surged toward you, pulling you into an unexpected hug that was long overdue. You stumbled a bit, at the sudden weight of his grasp but, with a laugh (and a blush), you were wrapping your arms around his waist and revelling in his warmth.

“I missed you, [Y/N].” He murmured into your hair, the strength of his hold telling you that he wasn’t planning to let go any time soon.

“And I missed you.” You replied, a bit of hurt tugging at your heart while you said this. He had no idea how you really felt.

He moved away, letting his hands slide down to take hold of both your hands instead. “Come on. We’ve got catching up to do.”

He led you up to the stage, the regular spot at the edge of the stage just waiting for the two of you. As you sat down, he twisted sideways, and before you could question his strange methods, his head nestled into your lap and he actually sighed, as if he had been waiting for this physical contact, this moment. Your heart fluttered.

“So, any special reason why you look this tired?” You asked, slowly combing his hair with your fingers.

He hummed, eyes closed as he took the moment to find repose. When he spoke, his voice was soft and mumble-y. “Mhm. Was waitin’ for you.”

Thank God he was turned away from you, because a flaming blush spread across your cheeks like wildfire. Did he have any idea how beautiful he looked, half asleep, with his head in your lap? It was altogether unfair, and your heart tugged again, the way it always did when he was around.

“Lin…” You breathed. “You need sleep, you dork. What the hell were you thinking?”

“That you hated me, or something.” He murmured. “I came here so many times, [Y/N]. So many times. And you weren’t here. I know some of the things I do are disappointing, but I couldn’t deal with the fact that I might just lose you. So I had to fight for it. I guess losing sleep is my way of doing that.”

“Stupid, stupid, thing.” You scolded, your heart starting to beat a thousand times faster at his words. “You aren’t disappointing, Lin.”

He smiled, choosing not to reply as you felt his breaths even out. Looking down, you brushed a hand over his cheek, curling over his body to see his face. 

“Lin? Are you-are you asleep?” You held back a chuckle that might jostle him and wake the sleepy figure once he nodded. Instead, you just kept on carding through his hair, looking down and endlessly staring at him, admiring, thinking over and over again about how much you adored this dork.

“You are so bright, Jesus, I’m sure you could power these stage lights for ten years.” The statement came from somewhere you had stashed away all your thoughts about Lin, including your feelings. It wouldn’t hurt to say them while he couldn’t hear, right? “I admire you so much, you have no idea. Don’t let yourself think you are inadequate, or useless, or just not worth it. Because you aren’t. You are the leader of this successful show, you have created so many things that have taken the world by storm. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t met you here.”

A small smile had crept up on his lips as he tried his best to keep the sleeping facade in place. Unbeknownst to you, he had been listening, and all his hopes about a future with you became possible. He quickly pushed the smile from its place to listen to your words again. You didn’t notice.

The next day, Lin looked like a Puerto Rican ball of energy backstage. The whole cast and crew noticed he was on a roll, and Tommy hated to be the one to contact him about the bad news.

“Lin?” Tommy knocked on the doorframe of Lin’s dressing room before entering, revealing a half-dressed Lin being mic’d. “We have a problem.”

“Jasmine’s dress suffered a small… accident. No one knows for sure, she swears she didn’t trip, but the fabric of the Maria skirt was ripped in the back, really badly. Like all the way up to the bodice.” Lin’s eyes widened as he took in Tommy’s words: today was the day off for the wardrobe crew. One of them was available for emergencies, but added to this, there wasn’t enough time.

“D-Don’t worry, I know someone.” Lin waited a few seconds until they finished mic’ing him up and got to his phone, searching for your number in the contact list.

“[Y/N]?” His voice was rushed, but Lin was not the energetic type of nervous, he was methodical, and you recognized his tone right away.

“Everything okay?” You asked immediately, his tone setting off alarm bells in your head.

“Can you come to the theatre, like, right now? We had an incident with Jasmine’s dress and-”

“I’m leaving work right now, I’ll be there in ten, okay?” You quickened your pace, dodging people in the street, making your way to the Richard Rodgers.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he replied, relief taking over his voice.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you joked, hanging up the phone as you broke out into an almost-sprint.

By the time you got the theatre, Lin had already left a pass for you to come in, making it easier for you to rush your way to the dressing rooms. You ignored the looks from the cast that you only heard stories about and knocked on Lin’s dressing room door. When he opened, he was in all his Alexander Hamilton glory.

“Hey, Mr. Hamilton,” you smiled, trying without success to hide that you were the human version of the heart eyes emoji and it was getting embarrassing fast.

“Thank God you’re here!” His greeting was interrupted by the speakers announcing there was two minutes to places, and he rushed with you to the girls’ dressing room. “Jas, this is [Y/N], she’ll fix your dress, just… Show her the way, okay?”

“So you’re Lin’s guardian angel!” She greeted you. You didn’t have time to blush and simper at that but oh, how you did. A red colour spread across your nose bridge and you didn’t notice that Lin didn’t look any better. Stuttering, he hurried out of the room. Jasmine took the red dress from the rack. It looked bad.

“Jesus,” you murmured, staring at the tear that ranged from the hem of the skirt, all the way to the ties on the back.

“I know.” Jasmine sighed, sheepish.

“Okay. We can’t let these stitches be seen, so we’re going to do this inside out. You have red thread, right? Give me some time with the needle. I promise you, I’ll get it done.”

She handed you the sewing kit for emergencies and thanked you as many times as she could before someone called her to places, leaving you alone with your task. You took a deep breath before getting into work. The songs went by as you sewed the dress calmly, being careful to not let anything to visible. She’d need a whole new skirt later, but that would have to do it for now. When you finally finished, ‘History Has It’s Eyes on You’ was almost over. Reaching over to hang the dress in its place, you admired the work you managed to do in such short notice.

Jasmine rushed into the room, still wearing her yellow dress, squealing when she saw the red skirt fixed. “You are amazing!”

“It’s no big deal, just be careful with it. You’ll need to ask wardrobe for a new skirt later, okay?”

“Paul will kill me,” she laughed, her nerves mixed with relief. You helped her get dressed, being extra careful with the fabric this time. Once she was in her red costume, Lin knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Jas called, and he peeked in, closing the door behind him before looking up to see the repairs you’d made. He froze, speechless and not able to believe his eyes.

“She really is a guardian angel,” Jas grinned, breezing past him with a wink that you missed.

An awkward silence filled the room and you made yourself busy with fidgeting at the hem of the sleeves on your shirt.

“So how’s the show go-” You attempted.

“I love you.”

If there was any air in that room, you couldn’t tell. Your jaw dropped (quite unflatteringly) and you were about to answer when someone rushed into the dressing room.

“Lin, Lac has a few things to talk to you during intermission, if you could come real quick...”

“Uh, I-sure, yeah,” he replied, his eyes shifting from the stagehand to you. “I’ll be right back. Or after the end of the show, please-please stay until the end of the show?”

You nodded before Lin got literally pulled from the dressing room, his eyes never straying from yours. That left you alone once again. You took a deep breath, processing the words he just threw at you moments before he exited. It was too good to be true, right? It wasn’t possible. Nothing like this happened in real life. This was the ending of some sap’s favourite rom-com, not your life. Too many thoughts weighed too heavy on your mind, so you surrendered to distraction, deciding to watch the rest of the show from your secret room.

The view was even more extraordinary than you remembered. The lights looked different from up there, the performances looked more sharp and you noticed the patterns on the dance moves as the second act came on. Tears rolled down your face as you watched the last moments of the show, and you missed the final bows as you made your way downstairs once again. It was just when the cast was returning to their dressing rooms, still fully dressed in period costumes, that you found Lin. He met you halfway up the last flight of stairs, the steps levelling the two of you out just enough for him to look right into your eyes.

“Secret room?” He asked, his voice slightly above a whisper.

“Yep,” you replied, popping the ‘p’ and making him chuckle. “Listen, Lin, I just-”

Within seconds, he surged forward, hands cupping your jaw as he pressed his lips to yours, soft, forgiving, and altogether the sweetest moment you had ever witnessed. You reached up to brush your fingers over his cheek as he pulled away, searching your face to see if his decision had been a mistake. After seeing only soft eyes that looked adoringly back, a slow grin spread across his face.

“Thank you,” he whispered, letting his forehead rest against yours. His eyes closed momentarily.

“It was just a ripped costume.”

“No, I mean for everything. For always believing in me, for being the reason I fall asleep happy at night, for making me feel adequate. You are everything I need, [Y/N].”

His declarations resulted in a bright red blush and as screams and applause from his castmates surrounded you, you noticed (for the first time), that the both of you were in the middle of the after-show rush. You giggled, hiding your face on the crook of Lin’s neck as he turned around with a smile that could light up New York city.

He led you down the staircase, hand tucked into yours and still clad a Hamilton costume. The smile he kept giving you, he looks he didn’t have to sneak anymore, all of it had made your heart feel lighter than air. This was possible. It didn’t always happen, but some people were lucky enough to experience that.

“Lin.”

“Mhm?”

“That time on the stage, when you fell asleep in my lap. You were awake, weren’t you?”

He turned to you, eyes bright with mischief as he shrugged shamelessly. “I’ll never tell.”

You rolled your eyes, bumping his hip with yours. “I hate you.”

“I love you.”

You tried to fight it. You really did.

“Dammit, I love you too.”

“Oh thank God,” he grinned. “Otherwise I don’t know what I would have done.” 

[alexanderhamllton]

Piece of Heaven [Okieriete Onaodowan x Reader]

[write-a-thon tag]

Summary: Oak helps you with your maid of honor speech for your best friend’s wedding.

Word Count: 2,426

Warnings: None, this is pure fluff y’all

A/N: “Ren, are you posting this a day earlier because you got a block for all the other days atm?” The answer is yes, BUT, I promise I’ll try to make up for it in the following week,I have ideas, just didn’t have any inspiration to write them yet besides this one. Oak was always one of my favorites and it makes me so happy that I got to write for him again, I hope you like it!

askbox | masterlist

“And in closing, congratulations on finding someone who you think you can put up with for the rest of your life.” Your arms fell to your sides as you finished reading your notes.

“This is going to be the worst Maid of Honor speech in the history of the written word.”

“I know,” you agreed, leaning against Oak’s dressing room vanity in defeat as he tried to hold a smile. “I just- I hate this. I hate that she’s getting married! She’s my best friend and he’s just an asshole and they have nothing figured out and-”

“Are you sure you’re not just trying to use this wedding as an excuse for your mid-life crisis?” He joked, getting an eye roll in response.

“I’m not even thirty, Oak. I’m nowhere close to the age of a mid-life crisis.” You slowly walked over to the couch where he was sitting, falling by his side and placing your legs over his lap. “You’re one of my best friends, Oak, please tell me you know how to fix this.”

“Not really, no.” He said, squeezing your knee before holding your legs so he could get up and start getting ready for the show. “I know you have to start rewriting this thing. It’s awful.”

You threw your head back, slowly closing your eyes as you tried to put your thoughts together. Was the speech really that negative? As you opened your eyes and looked over your notes, you had to admit Oak was right: it was indeed, awful. “Help me!”

“What? No way,” he grabbed a water bottle before turning to you again. “You have been friends with Addie since… Forever. If you can’t write this, no one can.”

“Bullshit, I have no way with words and you have done spoken word in high school.” You got up, and started to walk towards him with the best puppy eyes you could possibly make. “Please, Okieriete, you’re the only one I trust with this.”  

“I hate when you get my name right,” he replied, rolling his eyes as a smile appeared on his face. “Fine, but you owe me.”

“Ahh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” You wrapped your arms around Oak’s neck, feeling his arms around you as he chuckled. “My place, after the show?”

“Sure, I’ll meet you there.” You nodded before grabbing your purse and heading out of the Richard Rodgers, feeling the winter breeze against your face and the weight of the maid of honor commitment getting a little lighter. There was still a huge list of things to do before the wedding that weekend, but at least you’d get someone’s help with one of them.

The rest of the day was a blur after meeting Oak at the theatre: You went to over six stores trying to find all the things Addie wanted at her bachelor party, trying out the dress she asked you to wear and calling the caterers and the flower company. You came back to your apartment with your arms sore from all the bags, tired both mentally and physically.

You were still lying down in your bed, without even changing clothes, when your intercom buzzed. You got up groaning and allowed Oak to enter the building, your head falling against his chest the moment he appeared at your door. “You look like crap.”

“Thanks, you too.” You snapped before letting him in. “How was the show?”

“Same as always, Diggs almost fell into the pit during his slide in Reynolds Pamphlet, pretty funny,” he replied, dropping his backpack by the floor before sitting in your couch.

“One day it will happen, and you’ll get me footage of it.” His laugh echoed in the living room and you smiled, heading to the kitchen to a mug full of coffee. “One cream, two sugars. Just how you like it.”

“Thanks.” He sipped the drink before placing it on the coffee table, and you remembered how he can’t drink it when it’s too hot. “So, how's the speech going?”

“I didn't even had time to think about it, I just got home. But,” you said, running to you purse and getting the handwritten notes you red to him earlier, “what about you read this while I take the quickest shower ever and then we can rewrite it?”

“Okay, just… Hurry. I wanna go home and sleep.” Oak took the notes, his eyes widening as he went through your rushed handwriting. “How am I supposed to understand this?”

“You can read Lin’s notes, you can read my notes. I’ll be right back.” You replied, running to your bedroom and the bathroom right after that. Not even fifteen minutes later, you were back in the living room wearing your pajamas and with a towel on your head and another mug of coffee, this time for yourself.

“So, I read it and…” Oak started once he saw you, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not bad, technically speaking. You’re not a bad writer but… You sound frustrated.”

“How can I be frustrated?” You said, sitting next to him with your legs crossed. “My best friend of over 15 years is getting married to a guy she loves and I’m here, single and… Okay, I think I get where you’re coming from. But I’m happy for her, I swear!”

“I’m not doubting that, relax. Is just that… You can make it sweeter. It’s her day, shower her with compliments and leave your complaining for me, okay?” You nodded, rolling your eyes as he flashed you a smile. “Now, where’s your laptop? I can’t work with your handwriting.”

Once you handed your laptop to Oak with a blank document opened, he started typing. He would ask you questions about your friendship whenever he needed to complete his line of thought, also asking for details on a childhood memory of the both of you, using that as the key paragraph before a sappy ending while you walked around the house brushing your hair and getting some snacks for the both of you. Before you knew it, he stopped typing; you couldn’t say you weren’t mesmerized by how fast that was. At least not until you noticed the clock in the bottom right of the screen.

“Shit, Oak… It’s almost one in the morning.” You commented, your head resting against his arm as he finished checking for grammar mistakes and misspelled words. “Are we done?”

“I am done, you have to read this and say it in front of the mirror until it looks like you mean it.” He glared at you as you looked up to him rolling your eyes. “No eye rolls this time, I’m serious. Addie is pretty cool and deserves your effort, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, getting up slowly as Oak cracked his knuckles. You took the now empty mugs to the kitchen when an idea struck you. “Hey, Oak?”

“Yes, [Y/N]?”

“Do you wanna go with me?” You asked, leaning against the kitchen’s door frame.

“To sleep? I think we are not in that level in our relationship yet,” he joked, grabbing his backpack from the floor.

“No, dumbass! To the wedding, I could use a friend besides the bride.” He stared at you for a few seconds and you forced a fake smile, trying to make him laugh. “Please?”

“I guess I wouldn’t like to miss your speech.” Oak answered, shrugging. “I’ll see if I can take my day off from the show on saturday instead of tuesday.”

“You’re the best, did you know that?” You asked.

“Yes, yes I know.”

You were all over the place. Still a bit hungover from the bachelor party, you were following Addie the whole day while she prepped herself to the wedding. You were the maid of honor, afterall.

“I still can’t believe I’m getting married!” Addie squealed, making the hairstylist stop his work for what appeared like the millionth time that afternoon.

“I can, you’re making me wear a long dress and give a speech in front of an unknown crowd,” you commented, sipping on the champagne glass that clearly wasn’t there for you.

“Don’t be so dramatic, [Y/N], you’ve known my family for years.”

“Yeah, but not your friends, or coworkers, or the whole other half of the guestlist,” you commented, finishing the glass and getting up from the comfortable couch and walking towards your best friend, looking at her eyes through the mirror. “I’m happy for you, Addie.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “We’ve come so far, haven’t we?” “Well, you have. Steady job, a husband, a dog and before you know it you’ll be having kids.”

“[Y/N], you have the steady job and… And a cat, I know you’re not a dog person. Also Oak! He’s nice and-”

“Wait, what does Oak has to do with this?” you interrupted, confused.

“Isn’t he your boyfriend?” Addie asked. “I mean, you guys are together all the time, you even added him to the guest list last minute.”

Your eyes widened as you tried to discover where that idea came from. ”No, we are just friends, that’s all...”

“I mean, he is boyfriend material [Y/N], you should really consider.”

“Can we just not talk about it today? This is your day.”

“Okay...” Addie’s eyebrows raised as she decided to leave the subject alone. You texted her family a few times until the ceremony, making sure everything was okay. When it was time, you both headed to the church.

As you arrived you found Oak in the crowd of people waiting outside the church to get in. After quickly talking to the groom’s parents, they helped you by asking everyone to take their seats while you talked to Oak.

“You made it!” His jaw dropped for a few seconds before you were in his personal space, hugging him like you always did. “Let me just say you clean up pretty nicely.”

“Thanks, you too.” He said, his hand instinctively not letting go of your waist for a moment before he noticed and hid it in his pocket. “I’ll go in, you can-” he asked, pointing to the car where Addie was waiting to hop off.

“Yeah, I’ll find you after the ceremony,” you said, walking towards the car once Oak entered the church.

The whole ceremony was tiring. Beautiful, but physically draining: your feet would be screaming if they could, and the only thing keeping you from sleeping was glancing at Oak every once in awhile, holding your laugh as he pretended to sleep for a few seconds during the priest’s speech. Once the ceremony was over, and the now married couple walked out the church, you met with him outside.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you cry there,” you teased, noticing the confused look on his eyes.

“But I, I didn’t-”

“I’m joking. It was sweet though, wasn’t it?” You said, slapping him playfully in the arm as you walked towards his car to go to the reception.

“Yeah, I can do better,” he shrugged.

“I bet you can,” you replied, rolling your eyes.

As the moment of your speech began to approach, you started to feel like you’d pass out. You had to sit at the main table with the bride and groom at least until you gave your speech, leaving Oak only a few tables away with a bunch of strangers.

You really didn’t think this plan though.

“It’s your time,” Addie whispered. You got your speech from your clutch, opening the folded paper before getting up and hitting the crystal glass with a knife.

“Excuse me? Excuse me guys, I would like to say a few words about this couple right here, especially the bride, my best friend, Addie.” And so you began half-reading, half-reciting from memory the whole page Oak wrote about you and Addie: how fortunate you were to have her in your life even in the darkest moments and how lucky you felt to be in such a important moment of her life. “Finally, I just wanna say congratulations on finding someone that recognizes how amazing and irreplaceable you are, Ads. I love you.”

The guests erupted in applause and you looked directly at Oak, that had a proud smirk on his face as he clapped to you. A few minutes later you were finally released from your maid of honor duties, being able to go talk to Oak. “So, how did I do?”

“Better than I expected,” he admitted. You smiled and made a head motion to the balcony, getting a nod in response before he followed you there. The cold breeze was a bit hard on you, making you shiver, but Oak promptly took off his blazer and placed them on your shoulders. The balcony was stunning, something you and Addie considered when you helped her pick the place. Decorated with fairy lights and park benches, it looked like a small piece of heaven when contrasted with the lights and concrete of New York. “So...”

“So… Thanks for coming,” you smiled. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m trying to be grateful here, for once, okay? Let me have this, weddings make me emotional.” He laughed before nodding for you to continue. “I’ve been thinking about... A lot of thing since this whole maid of honor thing happened, and I went through so much stress, but you were always there for me when I needed, you were a constant that I am really grateful for having.”

“Are you declaring your love for me, [Y/N]?” He teased, unsure of how to react.

“I don’t know... would I regret if I were?”

“I really doubt that,” he replied, his voice almost a whisper as he took one step closer to you, being now close enough to touch.

“Then I am,” you whispered, his lips turning into a smirk before he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a kiss. It was sweet, it was collected, as if he was afraid you’d fade right there in front of him.

But you did the opposite, your hands finding their so familiar place in the back of his neck, now not pulling him into a hug but into a deeper kiss. The world was just you, Oak and the piece of heaven in the middle of the concrete jungle. As you both stopped to catch a breath, he whispered, “Just to clarify, you did write this speech, right?”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” you replied, making him laugh before pulling you back into the kiss.

[sunshinemiranda]

First Impressions - Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader (Chapter III)

Summary: With all that’s been going on, Jasmine decides to go away for a while, and when Renée announces something, the suffocation seems to be endless. You decide to visit your aunt and uncle, but they are intent on visiting Pemberly, the home of one Mr. Miranda. 

Warnings: None. 

Word Count: 2,370

A/N: This chapter is a little more down than the other ones have been, but the ending is LOADS of fun (wink, wink!). I wanna dedicate this one to @musicalmiranda who has been so much help and I also wanna say “thank you my new friend is so sweet and helpful and great” to @cinnamonbuneliza. I love you both. 

askbox | masterlist

The term listless fell short when it came to describing the Bennet household. Jasmine had not left her room for three days and had resigned herself to staying in bed or knitting, trying desperately to distract herself. Your heart ached for your sister. She was, as always, trying to be the perfect eldest sibling and when asked how she was, she would pull up her best and fakest smile and assure you with hollow words that she was, “just fine”. You knew better than to believe that façade.

The hunt for a reason why the Ramos’ party had left Netherfield so abruptly ignited in practically the entire town of Hertfordshire. Everyone was gossiping, a much beloved hobby in small towns such as the one you were unlucky enough to live in. The people here thrived on such trivial matters. In fact, the Goldsberrys were much involved with whispers of the public, Renée excepted. They had visited your household yesterday for an early lunch and over dinner, Mrs. Goldsberry had quelled the curiosity of your mother’s.

“Apparently, Caroline Ramos said it was due to ‘poor taste on her brother’s part’ when it came to choosing a bride. The words ‘unwanted connection’ were choice phrases.” Mrs. Goldsberry’s beady eyes gleamed at this word. “Oh, Mrs. Bennet! I should very much love to know who Mr. Ramos was considering for marriage.”

Your mother made an immediate excuse and ushered the Goldsberrys from her house, Renée sending you apologetic looks over her shoulder all the way out. For once, you were glad for your mother’s loose tongue; at least it had gotten your family out of that.

There seemed to be no shelter from the incriminating squint of the public. You and your sisters frequently loved to walk to Meryton to visit town, buy things at market and look through shop windows, but even that luxury had lost some of its luster. Time and time again, you would see a pair of women remain silent as you passed by with Jasmine close, and time and time again would you hear giggling behind your back, and the odd, “that’s the one I was telling you about.” If it hadn’t been for your lovely older sister’s presence, you would have torn that woman apart. Instead, Jas had murmured quick words to quell your anger just long enough for her to pull you away. She fell silent after that and disappeared back into her room as soon as you returned.

The entire house seemed to be cast in a dark gloom, until Colonel Forster and his wife came for dinner. Though frivolous and not materialistic at all, the Forsters were kind enough and made it clear that they were intent on a big ordeal of a trip to London. Though Lexi pleaded and pleaded with every way humanly possible to beg, they brushed her off with a gentle but firm hand. They hadn’t planned to take any of the Bennet girls along but the moment they saw how miserable Jasmine was, they swept her up and promised her that a vacation away was all that she needed. You encouraged the notion, for you knew that some time away from a family that did nothing but pry would help.

“I’ll miss you,” you sighed to her as you pulled another gown for her to fold into her bag.

She smiled, reaching to grasp your hand. “You could always come with us. Really, I’m sure Mrs. Forster would hardly mind.”

You shook your head, giving her hand a squeeze before dropping it. “No. They need me here. Without you, one of the two sides of logic will be absent. That can surely lead to nothing but chaos and anarchy.” You knew that without Jas, the experience at home would be horrifically boring, but you were determined to make it through this.

She laughed at that, lightly and for the first time in a while and suddenly you felt sure of your decision, if it was just to see your sister laugh.

You had expected a mundane feeling to everything, but the reality seemed to be much worse. Lexi’s constant complaints or chatter, Sasha’s endless giggling, and Mandy’s attachment to the piano, however painful she was to listen to, surrounded you. The only solace to find was sweet Renée. She had been away for a while; busy, you assumed, after the Goldsberry ball. But it had been almost two weeks since that outing and you were just about to propose a visit to her house when a knock at the door signalled that the very person you needed was here.

“Renée!” You rushed her at the door, collapsing your arms around her in a hug. She laughed, returning it

“It’s so wonderful to see you, (Y/N). I’ve come here with some news.” Her expression turned serious at this and you automatically frowned. Nodding, you led her into the parlour and sat down across your friend.

“Tell me.”

“Well,” she paused, taking in a breath and staring at her hands. This wasn’t at all like her. “(Y/N), I’ve come here to tell you I’m engaged.”

The room fell so silent that you could swear you heard Sasha’s laugh all the way from Meryton. All you could do was stare.

“To a Mr. Diggs.” She added, looking up at you.

You didn’t say a word.

“Oh for goodness’ sake, don’t look at me like that.” She pleaded, reaching across the table for your hand.

You swallowed hard, looking down at your clasped hands. “Why now?” You whispered.

She let a breath out. “I’m 27, (Y/N). My dowry is not a fortune of any kind; my name is not worth anything. This is an offer for a comfortable home. It’s a lot to be thankful for-“

“You don’t love him, at all, Renée!” You argued.

“Not all of us can have the luxury of that!” Her voice rose to the volume that yours was at but remained kind. She never spoke angrily to you.

You stopped abruptly at that. She was right. You had been stubborn enough to believe that marriage for love was possible for everyone but that was not the truth. Renée was compromising. She would have a good life, safety, but she would remain unsatisfied. You took her hand again, looking at the friend you had cherished since childhood. Renée Diggs. You couldn’t bear to think of that.

“Congratulations, Renée. Really. All I want for you is happiness.” You managed a smile and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and left soon after that.

The hope you had had for your time to get better here was slowly being extinguished. You needed to go away. A vacation would serve you well. You wrote a letter to your uncle and aunt, saying that you would love nothing more than to visit them in London. In a week’s time, they had sent back an adoring reply and your family supported the outing (excepting Lexi, for the purpose of jealousy). After two days of packing, you stood on the porch, kissed your mother and father goodbye, hugged your three sisters and stepped onto the carriage. This is good, you assured yourself, and for the first time in a while, you believed that.

“Oh, my dear, come in, come in! You must be so tired after a long trip.” Mrs. Gardiner, your sweet aunt, ushered you in with her arm, pressing a lipstick imprint to your forehead.

“Thank you, auntie.” You sent her a smile, passing your luggage off to the bowing butler at the door.

“Come, my love. Would you like a bite to eat?”

“Yes, please. The road from Longbourn to London is a long one.”

Over a late dinner, your uncle and aunt ask a thousand questions about what there is to know of what is happening at home. You hesitate but tell them that the Ramos’ party came and left, Jasmine went on a trip with the Forsters and Renée Goldsberry had become engaged.

“Ah yes, I’ve heard of this Ramos character!” Your uncle raised an inquisitive brow at you. “What do you know about his close friend, uh…Mr. Miranda, was it?”

You paused at that, a little shocked. “Well…not much.” That was truth.  

A little taken aback at your vague words, your aunt and uncle shared a look and then appeased you with an understanding nod.

“Time for bed, my love.” Your aunt smiles, standing to lead you to your room.

The next morning is a flurry, as you get ready for your trip around the country. Your barely unpacked bag is loaded onto the carriage, a quick breakfast eaten as fast as possible and by the time eight o’ clock had come, the Gardiners and yourself were on your way to a much needed outing. You passed through a beautiful forest after visiting the outskirts of London and sat at a picnic in the fields to have lunch there.

“There’s a huge house around here, supposed to belong to somebody rich. Called Pemberly House, I do believe. In Derbyshire.” Your uncle mumbles.

Your head snaps up as you hear a mention of Derbyshire, remembering Renée’s words at the Goldsberry ball, but you remain silent, hoping and praying for the best.

“Who owns that place again, dear?” Your uncle asks.

Tilting her head for a second, your aunt looks up with realization. “Mr. Miranda, yes! You’ve met him, haven’t you (Y/N)?”

You swallow down a piece of apple, suddenly finding it hard to speak. “Ye-Yes. Yes, I have.”

“Mm, I’ve got a desire to see that place of his! Heard he’s got a wonderful pond for fishing.”

You nearly spit out your food at your uncle’s words. No, you think to yourself. This outing cannot be ruined by that overly entitled man, not this one.

“Let’s not.” You blurt and your aunt and uncle look over curiously.

“Why not, my darling?” You aunt asks.

“He’s so…” you swallow again, trying hard to find the right word. “The house, it’s huge. He’s so…rich. I hate seeing the way people brag with that.”

Your aunt chuckles and pats your hand. “Don’t blame poor Mr. Miranda for that. It wasn’t his decision to be heir to so much money! It’ll be fun, my dear. And besides, men like these ones are never at home.”

You hoped and prayed the entire way there that you would not see that man. If you did, you would ignore him completely. That was your plan, for what little you knew of his character was all bad and you discerned, for a fact, that he had had a foot in the separation of Jasmine and Anthony. Your vow to hate the man for eternity had not been forgotten.

Mr. Gardiner had been right in calling the house “huge”, and “magnificent” would cover the appearance as well. Tall and reaching with graceful rafters, the building seemed to shine in the perfect sunlight reflecting off its pond’s clear waters. You almost laughed at the ridiculous size of the place.

The maid at the door let you in with a hospitable grin and toured you around the grounds. You were shown beautiful, high-arched dining halls, lovely guest rooms that were hardly ever used, tiled bathrooms of the highest quality. And then she brought you to the gallery. There were paintings everywhere, and you delighted in the beauty of the art around you. The pieces were wonderfully chosen you but you stopped short on a portrait of the master of the house. Mr. Miranda, you realized, did have intelligent brown eyes, ones that seemed to haunt you. The artist had taken no shortcuts to paint him accurately and you found yourself stood in front of the painting, looking. Simply looking.

“That is my master.” The maid smiled. “Is he not a handsome man, miss?”

For a second you didn’t reply, thinking over your options. The truth was always the best.

“Yes.” You murmured, gaze still on his face. “Yes, I dare say he is.”

“And this,” the maid gestured to the other wall, where a painting of a beautiful dark-haired girl was hung. “Is Phillipa, the master’s sister.”

Your aunt gushed at the prettiness of the younger Miranda, and your maid took that information to heart.

“My mistress is at home at the moment. Would you like to meet her?” The maid offered.

Before you could decline the offer as politely as possible, your uncle was already accepting and you were swept along without a single consultation. Already, you were nervous.

You heard Phillipa before you saw her, heard the tones of a pianoforte and a clear, sweet voice ringing out. She was a lovely singer. The maid knocked at the door and pushed it open, curtsying to her mistress and stepping aside to let the three of you in.

“A Mrs. Gardiner, a Mr. Gardiner and Ms. (Y/N) Bennet, visiting from London, ma’am.”

She had stood gracefully from the piano, dark hair swung over one shoulder and with a sweet smile that seemed to emanate brightness. However, as soon as your name was mentioned her eyes flickered to you immediately.

“Oh Ms. Bennet!” She ran to you, clasping your hands as if you were already old friends. “I have heard so much about you!”

“Really?” You questioned, forgetting all manners at the surprise of the notion.

“Oh, yes! My brother is constantly mentioning you. In fact, he arrives back from town today. How delighted he’ll be at your being here!” Phillipa was smiling, showing two sets of perfectly white teeth.

Your heart dropped into your stomach at that. Mr. Miranda would be here, and soon. You had to find a way out.

“Phillipa?” You heard a voice call from down the hall. You knew that voice. You knew that quick, purposeful stride.

With all logic flown from the window, you turned to the exit, prepared to simply run, when the double doors flew open and there stood the last man in the world that you ever wanted to see again. His eyes widened and his balanced expression disappeared for the first time. Lin-Manuel had lost his composure.

You swallowed.

“Mr. Miranda.”

“Ms. Bennet. What a surprise.”