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Drabbles, She Wrote | Murder, She Wrote

A series of stand-alone drabbles and ficlets set within the Murder She Wrote universe. Most focus on Jessica/Seth, but characters and pairings may vary.

Writer's Block | Jessica/Seth

Jessica Fletcher had writer’s block. There were tell-tale signs that Seth had come to expect. Jessica would lock herself away in her house, brainstorming through all hours of the night. Her front lawn looking dishevelled, the bike sitting unpolished by the gate, and a stack of mail forgotten on her front doorstep. It usually hit when she was 100 pages or so into the book. Before anything was concrete. While there was still wiggle room for the plot and its characters to take on a life of their own. Like a dutiful student, Jessica Fletcher would work her way through her writer’s block. Day and night if she had to. The last time this had happened, Seth resorted to locking her typewriter in his car until she ate a proper meal, showered, and took a nap.

AO3 (x) FF.Net (x)

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Nursery Rhymes | One-Shot

Emelius slipped out of the kitchen, side-stepping Cosmic Creepers as he felt a plan start to form in his mind. It was time to make their house a home - and every home with children in it had a nursery.

Read on AO3 or FF.Net.

[typewriterandhistory]

Drabbles, She Wrote | Murder, She Wrote

A series of stand-alone drabbles and ficlets set within the Murder She Wrote universe. Most focus on Jessica/Seth, but characters and pairings may vary.

Chapter 3: Seth’s Culinary Drama

“Well, this is a disaster.” Jessica said, one hand on her hip as she used the other to clear away the smoke. Out of all of Seth’s culinary adventures, this one took the biscuit.

“I prefer the term ‘minor inconvenience’ please.” Seth called over his shoulder, taking his head away from the oven as he dropped the Le Creuset deep dish onto the counter.

The chicken was overcooked – to say the very least. The top was virtually burnt to a crisp.

Jessica took a step back as she looked at the remints of the Chicken Waterzooi. Seth had left his copy of Julia Child’s ‘Mastering the Art of French Cooking’ in her kitchen with a promise for them to work their way through her recipes.

AO3 (x) FF.Net (x)

[typewriterandhistory]

Drabbles, She Wrote | Murder, She Wrote

A series of stand-alone drabbles and ficlets set within the Murder She Wrote universe. Most focus on Jessica/Seth, but characters and pairings may vary.

Just Because - Jessica/Seth (x)

The emerald caught his eye first.

Then the intricacy of the setting.

The way the prongs held the stone at just the right angle to catch the light.

It gleamed the same way her eyes did when she had an idea.

Before he knew it, he was haggling the store owner over the price of the brooch.

2. Right Person, Wrong Time - Jessica/Seth (x)

Judy’s question had caught her off guard.

While it wasn’t the first time someone had asked her it, the question was one she often preferred to skim over. She didn’t expect to get away with that in her current company.

“You never even thought about going back to the altar?” Judy asked, popping another bite of food into her mouth.

FF.net // AO3

[typewriterandhistory]

Tonight, I can't give you Paris | Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs

That’s how Andrea Sachs found herself walking into the Ritz as the elevator doors were closing on Miranda Priestly in the arms of the latest Mr Priestly. Andy hadn't realised that the coffee cup was out of her hands until a well-meaning attendant rushed over to her, crying "Madam, are you okay?" as they rushed to clean up the spilt coffee. She had known that there was a risk - even a mere sprinkle of hope - that she might run into Runway's renowned Editor in Chief, but not like this. Trust Miranda Priestly to use Paris Fashion week for her honeymoon.

Read more here

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Dear Professor Browne | One-Shot

When Professor Browne joins the army, Paul writes to him to keep him up to date with the going ons at Perringeyes.

Read on AO3 or FF.Net or below!

The week after Professor Browne joined the army, Paul asked Miss Price to help him with his writing. “He needs to know what’s happening, so he knows what he’s missed when he comes back,” Paul insisted, sharpening his pencil as Miss Price sat down beside him at the dining table.

With a look of determination of his face, the young boy set about to write as much as he could on the parchment. Once he was done, he carefully placed it inside the envelope before setting off in the direction of the post office.

*

Eglantine had almost forgotten about the letter until two weeks later.

“He wrote me back!” Paul exclaimed, jumping from one foot to the other as he raced through the house with his newly acquired letter in hand.

*

The next month, Paul broke his arm riding Mr Jelk’s bicycle while the man was inside the house enquiring about the children’s ‘spiritual education’.

“Ma, it hurts” Paul cried, gripping his arm to his chest as he wailed. Eglantine had been so quick to wrap her arms around the wounded boy that she had almost missed what he had called her.

Paul had never known his parents. Charles was the only one of the trio with any real memories of them and even then they were few and far between.

“It’s okay, son” Eglantine said, resting her cheek against the crown of his head as they sat on the ground. In the distance she could hear Charlie running to fetch her motorbike and sidecar, while Carrie went in search of a blanket to wrap around Paul.

Eglantine was glad that for once the British weather had held up and it wasn’t raining cats and dogs. Thankfully when they made it to the doctors, Paul was able to be seen right away. Eglantine held his good hand as the doctor set his arm back in place.

“You’ve been very brave, Paul” She assured him, using her free hand to wipe away the dried tears on his face with a handkerchief. “Not as brave as Professor Browne though,” Paul sniffled, his arm now resting in a sling as the doctor prepared the plaster for his cast.

“Oh I think he would say that you were a very brave little boy,” She disagreed, wishing in that moment that Emelius could have been there. He would have known exactly what to say to take Paul’s mind off the pain, and he would have known what to do to calm her own fears.

“I’m...I’m gonna write...and tell him,” Paul hiccuped, his tears looking as though they had finally reached their end. By the time they had returned home, Paul was fast asleep in the sidecar, the combination of the exhaustion and the lull of the motorbike having set him off to sleep.

Eglantine was greeted by Carrie and Charlie as she carried the sleeping Paul into the living room. “Is he okay?” Carrie asked, looking as though she had bitten her nails down to their beds while waiting for news on her brother.

Eglantine nodded her head as she headed towards the stairs, “Help me put him down, would you?” She asked, manoeuvring towards the children’s bedroom as Charles held the door open for them while Carrie turned down the blankets.

The first thing Paul asked when he woke up an hour later was not for a pain soother for his arm, but rather about their dear magician.

“Do you think I’ll still have my cast on when Professor Browne comes home?” Paul asked, as he scribbled away with his letter, thankful that it wasn’t his dominant arm that he had broken. “I wouldn’t think so,” Eglantine assured him, fluffing the pillows behind his back before sitting down next to the boy on the travelling bed.

If she had her way, Emelius would be back before Christmas, but war was an uncertain thing.

The child look disappointed for a moment before nodding to himself, “I’ll just have to draw him a picture of it then,” Paul resolved, already getting to work with adding a sketch of his cast to his letter.

*

For Paul’s birthday, Eglantine gifted him with his own pet rabbit.

“Thank you, Ma” Paul said, resting his head on Eglantine’s shoulder as she balanced both him and the newly acquired rabbit on her lap. “I know what I’ll call it!” He declared, holding the rabbit in his arms outstretched towards his foster mother.

“Naboombu!” Paul announced, before tucking his rabbit under his arm as he jumped off Eglantine’s lap, already heading up the stairs towards his writing set.

*

“What are you going to ask Father Christmas for?” Egalatine asked, stirring the pot on the stove as Paul sat on the countertop next to her, peeling the carrots before adding them to the stew.

“A new writing set, Ma” Paul answered, scrapping down the carrot in his hand as he concentrated on the task at hand. “‘Cause I know Professor Browne can’t be with us this Christmas, but I wanna make sure he knows what’s occurring” He explained, looking across the kitchen at the cardboard shoe box where he kept all his letters from the only father figure he had ever had.

It had quickly become one of the most prized possessions in the household.

Paul knew his brother and sister also wrote to Professor Browne, but not as frequently as he and Miss Price did. With every letter Eglantine set, there was one from Paul. It only took a few weeks before the box started to become weighed down with letters and telegraphs.

*

The week the children’s adoption was made official, a box of assorted confectionary and chocolates appeared in the post. It seemed Emelius really could procure anything. The box had been sent by a fellow officer who was on shore-leave, who had enclosed a note from Emelius himself.

“Wishing I was there to celebrate with you all. In the meantime, enjoy these treats for me, and keep practicing your juggling. Until we’re back together again. With all my love, Emelius”

*

“Paul, you have a letter waiting for you at home.” Eglantine informed the boy when she picked him up from school one Spring morning. When they reached the gate of the house, Paul set off up the lane, disappearing into the house in search of his letter.

“Where is it, Ma?” Paul called over his shoulder, confused to find no letter on the side dresser where the post was kept. There was a parcel for Carrie - a new book most likely - but no letter in the familiar cursive writing of their beloved magician.

“I believe you’re looking for this,” A voice said, coming from the kitchen doorframe.

Paul almost fell over Cosmic Creepers as he barrelled towards the kitchen door. “Professor Browne!”

*

The letters would turn to notes between the pair. Little reminders left in the boy’s lunchbox of a cricket game that they would listen to on the wireless, or helpful hints from Paul when it came to choosing their Sunday outing.

One day, just as naturally as it had happened with Miss Price, Paul stopped writing ‘Dear Professor Browne’ and started writing ‘Dear Pa”.