#(henry's wearing purple under his clothes for reasons--)

[afreakingdork]

Sandwich Spot - A Weak Spot One-Shot

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Villain Donatello, Fear, Intimidation, Original Male Character, Friendship, Minor Injuries, Harassment

Synopsis:  An elderly sandwich shop owner feeds a mutant one night not realizing the bond he's inadvertently formed until it's time to retire.

Huge shout-out to @some-guy-named-dominyk for jokingly fleshing this out with me!

This work is optional. If you are sensitive to threats and harassment, feel free to skip ahead to chapter 6!

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

Chester hummed as he turned the sign on the door. The motion was an easy one that came with years of practice. As soon as the letters that spelled out ‘closed’ turned inward, his hand traced downward to the lock. Smiling to his elderly reflection, he then turned to shuffle around the counter. Some would shy away from their age, but Chester found each wrinkle to be a notch in what he’d survived. With the grill pre-heated, he moved to prep until the first customer came in. Opening before dawn had been a point of contention with Henry, but Chester found the solemn quiet before the sun rose to be the perfect slice of time before customers hobbled in. He found it difficult to express how he enjoyed their sleep addled faces. There was an honesty there that wasn’t present at other hours. There was also nothing like the feeling of wiping your brow after a long drone of knife work and pretty pans of sliced ingredients ready for assembling all before the metaphorical rooster crowed.

As he slid a box of lettuce across his prep table from where the delivery guy had generously placed it to mind his back, there was a huge crash outside. It wasn’t quite startling, but it did bring his eye up. With the shop’s inner lights glowing brightly, the outside appeared pitch black. Setting down his knife on the cutting board, he moved toward the register. Though he’d been robbed a few times over the years, he refused to let it shake him. His existence was a protest, anything beyond that was easily weathered. More often than not, these would be assailants were kids that simply needed an ear and a full stomach to be talked down. It was part of the reason why he’d settled into this little corner shop after retiring out of his other career; that and it reminded him of his grandfather’s deli.

As if right on time, the bell sounded. Chester craned his neck and saw a hunched form flip the sign back to closed. The figure then turned to scurry further inward only to find that the shop was little more than a single room with no proper seating. Seemingly cornered, the person turned and Chester’s mouth dropped at the sight: a green skinned mutant wearing what appeared to be a matte black trash bag and purple bandana that was utterly drenched in blood. There was no apparent source other than the fact that half his face was clear from the tacky liquid while the other was soaked through to the point where his eye had sealed shut under the sludge.

Sound refused to come out of Chester’s mouth as he moved on instinct. His eyes left the figure as he bypassed napkins entirely to grab a few clean cotton towels. He ran one of which under the sink and then brought them to the counter. There he found the mutant now seemingly composed from where he had just been in a frightened flurry. The mutant’s posture was perfect and he dropped his gaze to the cloths for only a moment.

“This is a restaurant?”

Chester jarred and his hand fell from where he was still offering the towels. “Yes…?”

“I presume since you are open now that you serve breakfast?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“What if I don’t want breakfast?”

“Son…”

The mutant hissed at the word.

Chester blinked as he watched the corner of the mutant’s lip come up to show his disdain through clenched teeth. Having a good gauge for that kind of thing, Chester pinged the boy as being in his late 20s. This seemed like a point of contention and the mutant clearly had no interest in addressing his wounds so Chester set the towels down.

“I haven’t properly done prep yet, but if you don’t mind waiting I could make you something?”

Though his back remained rigid, the mutant’s eyes searched Chester’s face intently.

Chester gave a little understanding smile and took to folding up the dry towels while the boy made up his mind.

“Do you offer your full menu at all hours?”

“I can assure you this isn’t a chain. We open at 4am, close at 2pm, and serve food. It’s as simple as that!” Chester put on a smile that the neighborhood found him famous for. He then finished folding and brought an eye up to find the boy scanning the menu overhead.

“I’ll have the hard salami.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. We’re out of that.” Chester sucked his bottom lip in and turned to keep from laughing.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy bristle. He then huffed with enough annoyance that it brought both his eyes open.

“You just said-”

“I’m gonna make you something special.” Chester turned away from the register, left the wet towel behind, and heard the padding of the boy’s feet as he moved to close the distance.

“You have no idea what my palate is like!”

“I don’t!” Chester’s voice hit a clear amused high note.

“Then…” There was another sound that Chester identified as the mutant putting his hands on the counter. “What is this!?”

“Well…” Chester drew out the word as he opened up the door to an oven. The faint smell of freshly baked bread flooded the shop. Using one of the dry towels, he then pulled out a rack and set it on an awaiting bench. “I just get a feeling is all.”

Chester heard a snort so loud it overtook the sound of him closing the oven. “’Trash for mutant scum?’”

That wasn’t right.

He slung the towel over his shoulder and turned his clear gaze right at the boy. “Not in this establishment. Never.”  

The mutant took the comment casually and his face expression didn’t change.

Chester didn’t expect it to. Instead, he made a show of getting a fresh loaf and cutting into it. “I’m actually going to make us both my favorite. I have pretty good taste if I do say so myself, but if you still don’t like it after you try it, then I’ll make you whatever you want.”

The mutant folded his arms onto the counter and set his bloodied chin atop them. He watched studiously as Chester went through the sandwich making process. The elderly man cut, assembled, and dressed two meals before wrapping them in a learned tug of parchment paper. He then crossed back over to the register and pushed one completed sandwich to the boy before taking his own.

Chester took his time unwrapping what he had just swathed. He meticulously folded down the parchment until it created its own little placemat just as he grandfather had shown him as a boy. Then he turned the halved sandwich twice before achieving the perfect angle to pick it up. Grabbing the meal to take a bite, he caught the mutant on the tail end of mirroring his methodology. It warmed his old heart. He watched as the mutant gave him one last wary eye before chomping down. The boy chewed in slow motion, taking in every bit of the flavor before scarfing it down in a frenzy. Chester smiled behind his bread at the youthful appetite. The two ate in silence and Chester even pushed his other sandwich half to the mutant who consumed it without a second thought.

When the boy was done, he gingerly took a napkin from its offered basket and dabbed his mouth.

Chester tilted his head with a chuckle. “You missed a crumb.”

The mutant’s face scrunched up and he reached for another napkin.

“Allow me.” Chester made a show of going for the wet towel and the mutant’s hand slowed in its extension. The tridactyl appendage then rerouted, but Chester was closer. He snatched up the rag and shoved it into the bloody side of the boy’s face. He then was able to give it a few good scrubs before the boy swatted him away and spat like an angry cat.

The belly-busting bout of laughter it pulled from Chester rang cheerily through the shop. When the man finally came down from the giggles, he found the mutant stewing in the spot. The blood from around his eye was smeared, but it had been cleaned partially away.

“Better?” Chester hummed and offered the rag again.

The mutant denied it with a fold of his arms and a turn of his head.

“At least I’ll know you ate well.” Chester nodded and moved to clean the counter off.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t be silly.” Chester paused from grabbing the trash to wave the statement off.

The boy continued to stare when the door opened.

“Ah, just a moment-” Chester called out and, in a blink, watched as the boy simply vanished. Staring wide, he leaned over the counter and searched frantically. The suited man that had just entered watched curiously as Chester shuffled around the counter and out onto the shop floor. “I…”

“Are you alright?” The businessman asked.

“Um… yes. Please excuse the mess…” Chester drifted off in a spin as he realized there wasn’t a trace of blood to be found. In fact, beside the parchment still on the counter, there wasn’t a single sign that the mutant had been there at all. “I… I apologize, did you happen to see…?” Chester looked the businessman and the confusion he saw there told him all he needed to know. With a furrowed brow, he returned to his post and collected the trash only to reveal a hundred dollar bill under the boy’s folded parchment. He startled at it and tucked it away before mumbling off a few more apologies and taking the new customer’s order.

-

Chester had been prepared to write the exchange off as a New York oddity when exactly one week later the boy showed up at lunch time. This time he was pristinely pressed in a tailored black outfit and coat. Amongst the rush, Chester could only spare him a double take as the boy asked for his usual. It gave the elderly man a small pause to smile at the youth before he rang him up for an approximate sandwich. He watched in dismay as another hundred dollar bill was placed on the counter along with a wave of a hand noting that change should be kept. Chester tried to protest, but the arch of a brow argued otherwise. Grumbling to himself, the older man accepted only to shout for his assistant to double said order in some kind of recompense. The mutant waited with the others who warily gave him a large breadth. It brought out Chester’s voice as he called for orderly lines when waiting as a sly statement to stop the discrimination. Though he hadn’t looked back, Chester could feel an odd satisfaction waft off the mutant.

He wasn’t sure if it was that act or the meal itself that started the long standing tradition, but for the next week and every one after, the mutant would come. He would order the same sandwich, at the same time, without fail. It made Chester’s heart swell and the only reason he never had the sandwich readily prepared was that he wanted it to be as fresh as possible. He wished for only two things: that the boy would stop overpaying and that he would come even 15 minutes earlier than his chosen time. If the latter were the case than at least Chester could afford some small talk with his best customer. The mutant was staunch and couldn’t be swayed in the little time they had during their exchanges, so Chester resigned himself, albeit with minor annoyance. He set up the excess money in a little charity fund and donated it to the first reputable mutant fund he could find.

For years this routine went on. The only interruptions were from Chester announcing closings for either vacations or family gatherings. The mutant took the notes with a nod of his head and his parting words would announce his arrival on whatever date would fall next in the cycle. It was in this way that time marched on until a worsening back and roughhousing grandchildren began to wear on Chester’s body. He adored the clientele he’d fostered, but this had always been a post-retirement foray. It started with an expiration date and with that nearing, Chester made the appropriate preparations.

That is, all but one.

He knew the neighborhood would try to throw him some kind of party and Chester detested the thought. In his mind it was better to write a tear filled goodbye and wander off into the night as a fond memory. In time with his expiring lease and securing final sales on his equipment for that next Monday, Chester continued to work with his customers none the wiser.

Wednesday

It was with five days left that the mutant showed up for his weekly sandwich. As soon as Chester saw him in line, it brought forth a memory of the scared, bloodied boy that skittered in that fateful morning. The elderly man felt his eyes getting misty as the mutant approached. Chester had always given the boy forewarnings and because of this, something felt very wrong as he imagined him walking up to find that note on the door.

“I’ll have my usual.”

“That’ll be $5.79.” Chester played the same lines they said in a tongue and cheek fashion. The hundred dollar bill appeared on the counter. Chester took it with the same sigh and shake of his head as he opened the register to produce a point of sale. “Oh, and one more thing…”

The break in the script caught the mutant’s attention. “Yes?”

“This…” Chester had to swallowing the growing lump in his throat. “It’s been a pleasure to feed you all these years, my boy. I… I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be closing this Sunday and that I wish you all the best.”

The mutant stared at him with the same even expression.

Chester used a shaky hand to retrieve a receipt and stab it onto a pin with many others. “Next-!”

“No.” The mutant announced, slamming a hand down on the counter.

“N-no?” Chester startled along with a few other customers in proximity.

“You’re just going to close?” The mutant leaned forward, his hand sliding across the counter with the motion. “Just like that?”

“Well, yes. If you could keep it down-”

“What is it?”

“What is… what?”

“Is it business? Has it been slow? I can supplement that.”

“Business… wha-? No…!”

“Threats?” The mutant dropped his tenor and removed the black mask around his mouth with one hand. “Consider whoever is squeezing you squashed.”

Chester did not like the amount of satisfaction dripping from the wicked smile that appeared on the mutant’s face so he gave an awkward laugh. “Nothing like that!”

“Then what!?”

“I’m old!” Chester huffed. “I’m tired… I’d like to see my family more.”

The mutant frowned.

“I truly apologize. You’re the only customer I’ve told… planned to tell! Well… Really I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I don’t want any how-to-do… Wait, is that right?” Chester brought a hand up to his chin to consider it but dismissed the appendage in a wave when it got close. “I doesn’t matter. The point is: I’m closing and I’ll miss you.”

“Then don’t close.”

Chester watched the unmoving mutant until his own gaze hardened. “I’ve made up my mind.”

The two stared at each other for a long moment before the mutant broke away to join the pick-up queue. Chester swore he heard something about how they would see, but he ignored it as the next guest stepped up.

Thursday

It was the mid morning lull between commuters and the lunch rush where Chester double checked his inventory. He was on a pretty good train to finish out his stock pretty evenly with the close and had already coordinated sending his final stock to a food pantry when the door to his shop opened.

“Just a minute!” He called out and did the last few tallies on his clip board. He went to wash his hands and approached the counter drying them on a towel hooked into his belt when he saw a familiar mutant standing at the register.

“You-”

“Taper your hours.”

Chester folded his arms. He expected a celebration from his customers. He had not accounted for a fight. Though, watching the mutant now, he long knew the boy had a penchant for staunchly doing things his own way.

“I’m letting my lease lapse.”

The mutant’s shoulders rose with irritation. “Re-sign.”

“I believe it’s been filled.”

“Check again in half an hour. I guarantee it will be vacant.”

Chester wasn’t sure what that meant.

“My boy, I can’t maintain the space!”

The mutant leaned forward in a manner that accentuated his height. “Then hire someone. I’ve seen the books. You make more than enough.”

“You’ve seen-?”

“You already have a hand for the lunch crowd. Keep them on for the entire day if you’re concerned with a trustworthy hire.”

“That’s-”

“Or hire your family. You mentioned wanting to spend more time with them for whatever reason that may be.”

“Boy-”

“Donatello.”

Chester blinked. That was the first time he had gotten the mutant’s name. “Donatello, it’s a lost cause. I already sold everything.” Chester took a step back and extended his arms to gesture all around him. “What’s done is done. I can apologize again, make you your favorite, but this shop will close Sunday.”

“I-” Donatello opened his mouth and then snapped it shut.                                                            

Chester watched as the boy’s brow came down as he thought hard.

“I only eat my sandwich on Wednesdays.” Donatello noted and gave Chester a curt nod.

“Something else then…? Let’s not leave it like this…” Chester reached out a hand and Donatello recoiled away as if it were toxic. Chester brought it in slowly and Donatello inched towards the door. “Please…?”

With one last searing glare, Donatello stormed out of the shop.

Friday

Chester had barely been able to focus on work with his cell phone ringing off the metaphorical hook. He wasn’t exactly sure what was happening. First it had been his sister who had strangely asked if he planned to push back closing. He corrected her and had only been off the phone a few minutes when his daughter-in-law called. Her conversation had been much lengthier and consisted of almost quoted factoids about long term business success. He had tried to interrupt many times, but she kept plowing through her explanations as if she were possessed. He almost didn’t want to leave the call when she’d finished her speech. She insisted she was fine now which only worried him further because that meant she hadn’t before. Regardless, the conversation had come to a close and Chester desperately tried to man the counter.

That was, until his mother called. He hadn’t spoken to her since her birthday as she lived in a home upstate. It was her wishes when she had little mind left, but seeing as how she didn’t these days, her call came especially alarming. He tried to ask her what nurse had put her on when she said she began thanking him for his visit.

His blood ran cold.

He insisted he hadn’t seen her and she gave a little laugh. It rang with how feeble she was. She switched topics and started going on about her father’s sandwiches. He sagged at the register and motioned his lunch employee to take over. He listened to her reminisce somewhere between lucidity and fairytale as she recounted baking bread. It tugged at his heart strings so intensely that after the call, Chester took to the back alley and shed a few lonesome tears.

When he’d put himself back together and reclaimed his post, he saw the bobbing shape of his son-in-law outside. He straightened as he saw the man dip down and just knew what must be in tow. As soon as the door opened he heard her voice.

“Gam’pa!”  

Chester stepped back from the register just as the little girl rounded the counter with reckless abandon. She collided with his leg and he smoothed her hair out instantly where it was already getting messed.

“Hey, pop!”

“W-what brings you two by?” Chester dipped down and hoisted his granddaughter onto his hip, much to his back’s protest. “Don’t you have work?”

“Strangest thing…”

Chester could feel the cold sweat on the back of his neck.

“Our office was… booked for a private event?”

Chester’s granddaughter pulled from her grip on his shoulder to reach for the buttons on the cash register.

“You… you work at a car dealership…” Chester balked, turning his body so she couldn’t reach the machine.

“Yeah… To say it was a new one was an understatement!”

“Oh…” Chester hiccupped and used the motion to set his granddaughter on the counter.

“I saw the guy talking to my boss and then he came up to me.”

“You saw him?!” Chester leaned forward with a little too excitement. He found the other two parties staring at him so he shrank down to hand his granddaughter a straw. The little girl delighted over the object. “I-it’s just… What kind of man would do something like that?”

His son-in-law squinted and craned an elbow to the counter to toy with the straw wrapper. “He was totally covered up, but real tall. He asked me if I knew any places that catered so I guess he’s got big bucks? Some people like a showroom with cars I guess.”

Hundred dollar bills came to mind.

“Did you recommend him any place in particular?” Chester gave an odd smile.

His son-in-law gave a knowing laugh. “I’d have recommended your place if I knew you’d still be open!”

“He… he didn’t ask?”

The man bobbed his head curiously. “Do you know the guy?”

“No!” Chester jolted and watched again as the two eyes tracked him. With jittery hands he took the straw his granddaughter was nibbling on and wove it into the shape of an animal. She squealed at the sight of it.

“Is something going on, pop?”

“Did you come straight here?”

The son-in-law’s arm faltered and he used the falling motion to straighten his back. “Oh… the, uh, guy said something about using the time to see family so when I picked up Jade from daycare I asked who she wanted to see most and she-”

Hearing her name, the granddaughter animated  out of her game of pretend. “Pop-pop!”

“That’s… me…” Chester mumbled, taking her outstretched hands and giving them a shake.

“What’s going on?”

“N-nothing.” Chester refused to look at his son-in-law until the heated gaze finally pushed his eye. “Nothing, I’m sure of. It’s all just an odd coincidence.”

“How so?”

Chester went on to explain the other calls, but not Donatello. Just because the mutant had showed up two days in a row upset about the closure didn’t mean he would resort to something like this.

Saturday

“Are you still closing?”

Chester sighed at Donatello’s form from across the counter. The boy had come during the mid morning lull again.

“Yes, my boy. I have not changed my mind nor will I.”

Donatello clicked his tongue. “I’d rather hoped to avoid this.”

“Avoid what?” Chester leaned his weight against the register. He didn’t need to strengthen his resolve as it was rock solid, so all it left was a tedious waiting out process.

“I’ll buy it all.”

Chester straightened.

“The whole thing. I’ll buy this whole damn building.” Donatello slammed a pointed finger into the center of the counter. “I’ll kick every single tenant out. I’ll buy the whole block if I have to. Just come to work. One day a week.” Donatello leaned in.

Chester’s heart sank at the look there. It was somehow both devoid of emotion and yet oozing pure malice.

“Even if it’s for one single hour.”

The way Donatello’s head lolled to one side hinted at unspeakable terrors.

“I’ll triple… No.”

Chester shuddered as he thought he saw drool in the corner of the boy’s mouth.

“I’ll quadruple your pathetic retirement fund.”

The counter creaked under only the strength of that single digit.

“Just say you’ll do it.”

Every cell in Chester’s body screamed at him to take even the smallest step back; anything to put an iota of space between him and what was rapidly devolving into a mere creature of nightmares. He had no idea where all this was coming from. That first night he had seen an odd sight in regards to the mutant, but this was something else entirely. He couldn’t image this was the same boy he had known for all these years.

No.

He wasn’t sure he knew this man at all.

“I won’t.”

It sounded like something cracked as Donatello’s head rolled all the way forward; it was a manner that Chester imagined only an insect could. Donatello’s back seemed to ripple as he retracted from the counter. From where his finger had been, there was a fissure that splinted across the counter.

“You won’t.”

There was something unhinged about the way he repeated the sentiment.

“No, I won’t.”

A rippling bark of laughter so synthetic burst from Donatello that the man clutched at his stomach as the cackles split his cheeks.

“Can’t…”

His back rippled again, but this time it looked as if huge worms were crawling underneath it.

“Or won’t…?”

Chester’s urge to step back was bypassed as one heel hooked his other ankle. The shop traveled around him at blurry speeds. He heard the smack of his body against the pavement and then the quiet of cold. When he rose up, his lunch employee was shouting in his ear.

He stared at her.

Rather, he could see her shouting, but the words weren’t reaching his ears.

Fear shot through him.

He shoved against protesting limbs.

It seemed like too many people were behind the counter.

Chester scrambled to his feet and looked out at the shop floor.

Several customer hovered nearby in abject horror.

All their lips moved.

He put a hand down on the counter to steady himself.

Where one of his senses was down, others were still there.

He lowered his gaze and traced the crack in the counter with his fingertips.

Sunday

Against all his loved one’s and doctor’s recommendations, Chester had gone to work. It wasn’t as if he were hospitalized, but at his advanced age the doctor had pressed him to just leave that final day to his employee.

He couldn’t.

This place had been such a joy to him.

He wasn’t going to let his health take that from him.

That or anything else.

Thankfully his hearing had returned and he only had a minor concussion to show for it. Those his head had hit the floor, he thankfully hadn’t even needed stitches. It made laying in bed a bit uncomfortable and his back was worse for wear, but none of that would keep him from his customer’s smiling faces.

They were none of the wiser to the closing though he had received a few bouquets and homemade meals for his health. They were meant to be left with the shop staff so he was scolded a few times for having been there when he should be resting. He took the praise in stride and only scarcely watched the clock as the midday lull passed.

Before he knew it, closing time approached. As the final minutes waned, his employee packed up the rest of the stock for the food pantry and he waved her off as she drove the rented truck away to deliver it. With a slow shuffle, Chester crossed the threshold over to the door for what he knew to be the last time. He reached out and turned the sign on the door. The letters spelled out ‘open’ turned inward and his hand traced downward to the lock. It was in the afternoon sun’s cast that he saw a shadow darken  the handle. Retracting out of surprise, Chester fumbled as Donatello opened the door.

“I’d rather you not fall again.”

Chester’s mouth opened and closed several times but nothing came out.

Donatello gave him a look before closing the door behind him.

“Why…?”

“Why what?”

“Why won’t you let me retire in peace?”

“Do you think I’m here to kill you?”

Chester flicked his gaze down in thought for a moment. “I suppose not.”

Donatello gave a hum of approval. “I took to you for many reasons, that being one of them.”

“That?”

Donatello gave him another look and went to inspect the crack on the counter. The mutant sneered at it as if it were distasteful before leaning his body in front of it as if to hide the evidence. “Sell me the recipe.”

Even through his fear, Chester gave that weighty sigh. “There’s no recipe, you know that.”

“I’ve tried to recreate it.” Donatello folded his arms in irritation with one of his hands going to pick the fabric of his other sleeve. “It must be the bread or the ingredients. I’ve tapped all your suppliers to recreate exactly what I’ve seen you do 197 times, but not a single one was right.”

“You stay up all night doing that?” Chester adjusted himself near the door.

Donatello didn’t even flinch.

It wasn’t like Chester meant to flee, but the fact the mutant seemed to think it’d be in vain if he has was chilling.

“It’s been an ongoing process.”

“Oh?” Chester finally latched the lock and moved to complete the rest of his closing checklist.

As he rounded the counter, Donatello followed him and then resumed the same position again to block the crack.

“I…”

Chester put up the few clean dishes.

“I didn’t run.”

Chester made a noise of interest, but refused to look back.

“When you fell.” Donatello clarified.

Chester moved to Donatello’s side only to count the till.

The mutant didn’t move.

“I ran out and alerted the closest person likely to call 911. Then I remotely hacked your phone to text your lunch employee to come in early. I watched from the nearby rooftop and then shadowed the ambulance to the hospital.”

All of those things made some sense, but they also didn’t in so many ways.

“I didn’t-”

Chester brought his head up and, without looking, put a hand to Donatello’s shoulder. “I know, my boy.”

Tense muscles seized there, but no further movement occurred.

Donatello stayed rigid throughout the rest of close. He only moved to follow Chester out the back after he retrieved his lunchbox and made a show of turning off the lights. Making sure the back door locked, Chester rounded the building and struggled to pull the shutters down. It was only then that Donatello truly animated and took over the task. Chester handed him the key and Donatello locked the shutters in kind. Chester made a motion for Donatello to hold out his hands and the mutant followed suit. He had the man hold his lunch box as he procured a laminated note. He then took his time taping it securely to the shutter for all to see the closure would be permanent.

Instead of taking the lunchbox back from Donatello, Chester simply zipped it up and pushed the object into the man’s chest.

“I hope I’ve finally made myself clear and you realize you can’t always get what you want.”

Donatello kept his gaze stiffly down to the bag.

“Especially with those means.”

With no response, Chester took a tentative step back.

Seeing the mutant would make no move, Chester’s shoulders relaxed.

“I’m sure you’ve guessed what’s in there. Consider it my parting gift. Stay away from me and my family.”

Donatello gave a curt nod and Chester turned to leave.

He made it down an entire block before he turned a corner and hailed the nearest taxi. It wasn’t a luxury he typically indulged in to get home, but he’d make an exception. He asked the driver to take an odd route and the driver agreed if only for the larger toll. Reaching his little rowhouse, Chester stepped inside and took his time removing his shoes. The scent of stew wafted around and he checked the peep hole one last time before allowing himself to indulge in it.

He rounded through his living room to the kitchen where his husband stood over the stove in a kitschy apron.

“Hello, dear!” The other man called out, not taking his eyes off the pot he was stirring. “How is the second time retiree doing this fine afternoon?”

Chester smiled. “Harry, now that it’s over and you won’t worry, have I got a story to tell you…”

NEXT

[cowperviolet]

A Guide to Medieval Childhood

Our popular imaginings and depictions of medieval childhood tend to be somehow both scarce and bleak. It’s often supposed that childhood as a category didn’t really exist until the twentieth century, and that even the highborn children before that blessed time were regarded as basically inconvenient mini-adults until they were old enough to fight or marry, respectively.

The sources we have tend to favour the royal families and the high aristocracy with some wealthy merchants thrown in the mix, so, unfortunately, the information below would mostly be concerned with these groups - although I’m going to do my best to include some facts about the lives of children from lower social strata, too.

Infantia, or infancy

As Maria von Trapp used to sing in technicolor meadows, let’s start at the very beginning - it is, after all, a very good place to start.  

A mother rarely gave birth unattended - and I’m not talking about medical professionals; more often than not, these would be represented by a sole midwife. However, having a close friend or a relative with you as you are waiting for the baby to arrive was a practice well-established by the early fourteenth century even among royal women, whose births, marriages and deaths alike were always ruled by strict ceremony.

In their case, as in the case of all great families of the land, the practice also had a purely pragmatic side - additional companions mean additional witnesses who would be able to swear, should a scandal arise, that the little heir really arrived in the lawful way and had not been, say, smuggled into the bedroom in a pan. (In the case of the British royal family this precaution eventually led to the Home Secretary being obliged to attend all royal births, and was only done away with in 1930, when the late Princess Margaret was born).

Of course, for all the companionable support, the birth was not without its risks - for the child even more so than for the mother. It was for that reason that, uniquely, the Church allowed the midwives to baptize newborn - or unborn - babies in case they don’t survive by the time the sacrament in question could be performed properly by a priest.

If everything went well, it was the time to prepare the child for an ‘official’ baptism in the local church, which was going to not only save his soul for the world to come, but to help his standing in this one - after all, being baptized in a particular church meant being integrated into the larger community of the parish. The mother could rest - she was not required to attend the christening (or, rather, she couldn’t, as she would only be able to enter a place of worship again after being purified via a brief ‘churching’ ceremony on the fortieth day after giving birth). The child’s godparents would have been there to stand in her stead.

In fact, many contemporaries considered that a woman needs at least a month to properly recover after birth. Nor was it supposed to be a time of solitude - receiving female visitors was both allowed and encouraged.

Meanwhile, the child would be transferred into the care of a wet-nurse. Breastfeeding your baby yourself usually signified that you simply cannot afford wet-nurse of good character. The good character part of the job description concerned itself both with the purely physical characteristics - the wet-nurse had to be a little below thirty, to have white teeth, sweet breath, and a child of her own not above eight months of age, otherwise her milk could be considered stale - and the moral ones. It was believed that virtues and vices both could be transmitted through milk, and thus it was imperative to choose a wet-nurse both sensible and respectable.

Once hired, she rarely left the baby’s side - contemporary writers acknowledged that leaving an infant to cry is harmful for the child’s health, both mental and physical, and therefore a nurse should always be at hand with either her breast or a lullaby. In the highest households of the land, such as that of the royal children of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, one or two women were also employed as specifically the child’s rockers, tasked with, well, rocking their little charge to sleep - though not too quickly or too harshly, ‘for fear of making the milk float in [her] stomach’.

Every medieval baby, regardless of his family’s income, was swaddled from birth and until he was about eight or nine months of age: not only would he be kept warm, the parents judged, but it’s also going to help his limbs grow straight. A ‘breechcloth’ – essentially, a premodern nappy - was a piece of easily-washable linen, doubled over and then fastened into place with pins. Then a linen shirt would be gently placed over the infant’s body, after which the swaddling bands proper – sometimes three yards long – would come out. They were long, narrow pieces of – you guessed it - linen.

This swaddling part was universal for everyone; however, even here, before the child could partake in any fashion proper, the class divides came out to play. Babies from wealthier families could sport crimson mantles and bands decorated with gold embroidery (sometimes coordinated with that on their mothers’ outfits, like on the famous Cholmondeley Ladies painting at the top of this post).

Another – perhaps, more familiar to us – sphere of baby-related conspicuous consumption was the cradle. When, in 1494, the son of Beatrice d’Este and Ludovico Sforza was born in Milan, the proud father presented his guests a four-poster cradle covered in white satin, where the little heir now lay. When Lucrezia Borgia gave the d’Este family an heir, she splashed out on the cradle for the little Ercole even more. According to contemporary witnesses, the cradle was located under tent-like Moorish-style silk draperies done in the Este colors. It was on a platform encased in a great carved and gilded canopy, six feet long and five feet wide. The cradle proper was curtained in white satin, with the sleeping baby covered with cloth-of-gold.

The weaning tended to come, by our standards, rather late: some contemporary arguments recommended three years for boys and two years for girls (the former, after all, were expected to lead more active lives, and thus needed their mother’s nutritious milk more). Even then, hard food was to be introduced gradually – starting, for instance, with a chicken leg the child could chew on.

Once out of swaddling, the boys were dressed in smocks, and the girls in gowns – not that there was much visual difference between the two, mind. Regardless of their parents’ social standing, they all also wore tight linen caps that bore the charmingly hobbit-y name of biggins.

Naturally, the higher one stood upon the social scale, the more ornamental these gowns and smocks tended to be. The toddler Princess Elizabeth, who was the daughter of Henry VII and thus the aunt of her much more famous namesake, was dressed on separate occasions in a green velvet gown edged with purple tinsel and lined with black buckram, a dress of black velvet edged with crimson, or a kirtle of tawny damask and black satin. Admittedly, these were mostly for ceremonial occasions, and in the privacy of her yellow ochre-coloured chambers even the princess probably tended to wear something more comfortable. In winter, she was kept warm with furred robes fastened with silver buttons and caps trimmed with peacock feathers, and, regardless of the time of the year, indulged with sweets made from sugars flavoured with rose and violet, as well as with fruits from sunnier climes like pomegranates, quinces, and almonds.

Royal families were never noted for modesty of consumption in any era, but even the middling merchants of Florence were often criticized for spoiling their children with fine clothes. Fra Dominici wrote scathingly about parents who dress their children in ‘fancy garments, stamped shoes, short waist-coats, tight and fine-knit hose’. Neither did he approve of toys like “little wooden horses, attractive cymbals, imitation birds, [and] gilded drums,” recommending instead more virtuous playthings like “a little altar or two, … little vestments … little candles … [and] little bells,”, so that the children could pretend they were acolytes or priests. Three guesses no prizes as to which category ended up being the more popular one.

Some types of toys would have been surprisingly familiar to us – for example, doll furniture. In Germany one could find whole doll kitchens with dishes, meat plates, cutlery and furniture since the 1550s at the latest. Wealthier girls were also bought so-called fashion dolls that showcased, you guessed it, the latest fashions in the land.

Of course, poorer children had to make do with dolls stuffed with straw, and play with such props as animal knucklebones or wooden wheels.  However, it doesn’t mean that their lives were completely devoid of fun. Contemporary paintings, such as Peter Brueghel’ Children’s Games (1560), show children playing blind man’s bluff, ‘paper, scissors, stone’, roll hoops and rock barrels.

Pueritia, or childhood

A child’s education started with learning his (or, rarer, her) letters. A rather charming contemporary advice recommends the parents to do it by carving each letter on a piece of fruit, and reward the child with the fruit in question if the letter is correctly identified. These kinds of basics could be learned at home (though, if you decided to choose the method above, better do it specifically in the kitchen) – however, once the rudimentary parts were done with, the paths of learning could branch wildly.

The wealthiest families hired tutors for their children, and these posts, prestigious and coveted as they were, could sometimes become subjects of competition. For example, when the future Elizabeth I grew old enough for her first lessons, it was assumed that these are going to be provided by her aunt and godmother, Lady Troy. However, the less highborn, but more ambitious Katherine Champernowne had other ideas; Henry VIII ended up being impressed by reports of her as a woman of good education, and appointed her to be his daughter’s governess in 1536. She held that post until 1544, when her precocious charge overgrew the standard highborn lady’s curriculum that consisted of reading, embroidery, music, riding, falconry, and chess. After that, the scholar William Grindal became the princess’ tutor, introducing her to classical authors such as Plato.

Latin and, to a lesser extent, Greek literature was not exclusively the preserve of the upper-class education. The cathedral school of St. Paul’s, for instance, taught children from middling walks of life - such as one Geoffrey Chaucer, the son of a wine merchant - and placed a great emphasis on the learning of Latin. The recitation of the Latin alphabet started with the sign of the cross and ended with ‘Amen’: quite a sign of respect, coming from a religious institution. The school’s library was full of books on logic, law and medicine, as well as such still-popular classical hits as Aesop’s Fables.

The boys (unlike in the more flexible world of private education, school pupils were invariably male) also owned some books of their own: contrary to a common misconception, even before the invention of printing press books were not necessarily objects of luxury. For example, when in 1337 John Cobbledick left twenty-nine books to Oriel College, each of them was priced at about 6 shillings. Two centuries later, when William Chatsworth sent his beloved wife Bess of Hardwick gifts during his sojourn in London, he included some learning materials for their children: three French grammars, a copy of Cosmografie de Levant, and psalms in French.

Charitable institutions could sometimes take care of the education of poorer children: for instance, in 1542, the Alderman William Dauntsey of London directed in his will that his executors should build a charity school of eight chambers (one of them for the schoolmaster) in West Lavington, Wiltshire.

Boys who could boast some musical talent had an unusual route for both education and promotion: chapel choirs. Many noblemen - and noblewomen such as Margaret Beaufort, the mother of Henry VII - engaged in cultural patronage, supporting at times dozens of choristers. Margaret herself had hired a composer, Robert Cooper, who was entrusted with finding gifted boys for her chapel from ‘London, Wynesore and in the west country'. She also made sure that, apart from musical education, the boys in her choir received tuition in Latin: in January 1506 the same Cooper was responsible for purchasing five 'gramer bokes ... for the chyldryn of the chapell', costing 4s 3d. Their education ensured that, after growing out of their roles in the choir, the boys would be able to continue academic studies. One Thomas Freston left Margaret’s chapel at the age of 13 to attend Winchester College, while the 1460 statute of Tattershall College specified provision for ‘four poor boys’ who were 'teachable in song and reading, to help the choristers, each of whom is to have commons and clothing and all else that the choristers do'.

Girls could be educated in convent schools; some, though by no means all, later chose to enter these nunneries as actual novices (they couldn’t legally make such a decision until the age of twelve, however, just as they couldn’t legally consent to marriage). Within the convent walls, as outside them, their comforts depended a lot on their parents’ standing - if their entry fee was generous enough, the girls, whether they came as pupils or little novices, could count on having a bedroom to themselves, a generous provision of wood to burn in their fireplace, and rare foodstuffs for their tables. When Edward I’s daughter Mary entered the convent of Amesbury as a novice in 1285, at unusual (and frankly illegal) age of seven, her lifelong allowance included an annual provision of twenty tuns of wine from the Bordeaux claret merchants and forty oaks as kindling for her fireplace.

Convents were supposed to foster the life of prayer and quiet contemplation, which was even harder to get used to for her teenage novices than it were for the secular boarders, who weren’t,  after all, handled as strictly. However, even in a nunnery, there was a certain softening of the rules when it came to young girls. For example, at the Feast of St Nicholas, the patron saint of children, the youngest novice was named the Girl Abbess and allowed to lead the community in dancing and revelry.

Adolescentia, or adolescence

This stage of life was thought to start at about fourteen and end in one’s early twenties. Highborn children of both sexes were usually sent to foster at the homes of friends or relatives of equal standing, both to finish their education and to establish useful connections. When the teenage Jan of Brabant was sent for foster at the English court, he devoted his years there to perfecting the arts of jousting and hunting with falcons, as well as the less official, but nonetheless useful skills of party planning, people-charming, and careful gambling. His future bride Margaret of England, meanwhile, was improving on her feminine arts of weaving and embroidery, often spending substantial sums on gold thread and silks of different colours.

The machinery of altar diplomacy was already in full swing by the time they reached that age, even though marriage proper - with the consummation implied - was usually still a few years in the future. The fate of Margaret Beaufort, who gave birth to her first husband’s son at age thirteen, was considered grotesque and frankly unsafe; after all, it’s no coincidence that she could have no children after. For instance, Thomas Aquinas cautioned in his Mirror for Princes that consummation should be delayed until the woman had reached the age of eighteen, and the man twenty-one.   

The complicated diplomatic and legal negotiation process behind such agreements was left to the heads of the families and their respective employees, without the involvement of the betrothed ones themselves. After all, it included such charming tasks as drawing a complete summary of all villages, farms, rents, forests, and windmills belonging to the future groom’s family which would be able to provide the income for the bride’s dower, or widow portion, in case she outlives him - a pretty significant possibility, considering.

Lower down the social scale, marriage arrangements were not so pressing a concern - urban artisans, male or female, often married only in their mid-twenties. When their children reached adolescence, they usually worried about arranging an apprenticeship for them rather than a betrothal.

A child could be apprenticed to a master who practiced one of the trades regulated by the guilds of the town. These included mercers, grocers, fishmongers, drapers, tailors and even artists. The training usually took seven years, during which the master in question was obliged not only to educate the apprentice, but also to feed and clothe them and generally treat them like a member of their family (which usually also meant having them help around the house). This way, the future artisans spent their adolescence in a situation of indenture and completed their training in their early twenties. The ultimate dream after that was becoming a master in their own right and acquiring one’s own workshop; but, like people in their early twenties everywhere, most were too broke for that, and ended up working as journeymen in their master’s workshop for some more years - or sometimes for the rest of their lives.

Although the most prestigious trades, such as those of mercers or goldsmiths, only admitted men, others - the tailors, the bakers, the printers, the bakers, sometimes the painters - were open to apprentices of both sexes. Female artisans often ended up marrying their colleagues from the same guilds, and then keeping workshop together, but sometimes they kept their trade and conducted their business separately.

At this point, gaining the trappings of trade and marriage, they progressed into the adulthood, and thus beyond the scope of this post.

Sources:

Devices and Desires: Bess of Hardwick and the Building of Elizabethan England by Kate Hubbard

Daughters of Chivalry by Katie Wilson-Lee

The Lives of Tudor Women by Elizabeth Norton

Chaucer: A European Life by Marion Turner

Kisby, Fiona. “A Mirror of Monarchy: Music and Musicians in the Household Chapel of the Lady Margaret Beaufort, Mother of Henry VII.” Early Music History, vol. 16, 1997, pp. 203–234

The Early Modern Italian Domestic Interior, 1400–1700: Objects, Spaces, Domesticities by Erin J. Campbell et al.

[deathonyourtongue]

Winter Passing | Chapter 12

Summary: After car accident leaves him at the base of a mountain with no sign of civilization for miles, a breakup is the least of Henry’s problems. Just as death’s icy fingers begin to coil around him, salvation presents itself in the form of an old cabin in a clearing. Despite years of being told fairy tales and ghost stories that warn against such things, he uses his last of his strength to reach the cottage. When he wakes, he finds not a demon, but an angel, long removed from the insanity of the modern world. Pairing: AU!Henry Cavill x OFC Word Count: 3.3K Warnings: A wee bit of angst. A/N : To make up for the last update, this one was far easier to hash out, and ended up being longer than I even planned. Enjoy!

Stepping foot inside the coven took Henry’s breath away. Gone was any sense of Roman architecture, replaced by the arresting columns and vaulted ceilings made fashionable by the Gothic movement. Looking up, Henry’s eyes widened as he realized the pinnacles of the ceilings were open to a sky that seemed not-of-earth. Stars shone not only white, but pink, purple, and blue, while the moon looked as though it might sink into the entryway at any moment, hanging so close, Henry felt like he could reach out to touch it. 

While he knew that they’d just been out in the sunlight, being under the cover of darkness inside somehow felt more fitting. Hand clasped tightly in Olivia’s, Henry found himself unable to move, rooted to his spot as he took in the grandeur and magic of a sky so familiar, yet so very, very different from his own. Were it not for the feel of Olivia’s soft palm against his, Henry would have sworn he was in a dream.

When he finally managed to tear his eyes away from what was above him, Henry took in the impressive surroundings, finding them equally as captivating as the night sky. Each stone archway was intricately carved and immediately caught his gaze. Some told part of a story, like the stations of the cross, others were adorned with what he could only imagine were symbols important to the coven; some simply held filigree the likes of which he was accustomed to seeing in ancient buildings all across Europe. Every 20 paces or so was an ornate candle-lit chandelier, the yellow of the flames contrasting nicely against the wash of blue light from the night sky. Marble statues twice his size and portraits painted during the renaissance flanked each walkway, Henry finding it oddly bittersweet that he wouldn’t have time to take in each one. It took a gentle tug on his hand to bring Henry out of the whirlwind of art and history, and looking down at Olivia, he couldn’t help his sheepish smile. 

“I know. It’s a lot to take in. We don’t have much time. Dinner’s in half an hour,” Olivia smiled knowingly, jerking her head towards one of the two grand staircases. 

“Is this a formal dinner?” He asked as they followed an usher up the stairs, Henry’s voice soft and almost conspiratorial as they went. 

“Yes, but don’t worry, you won’t be underdressed. There’s a reason I packed light,” Olivia winked, pausing behind the usher as the man opened the door to her apartments. 

“Bigger than I imagined,” Henry breathed, walking into a room fit for a 14th century princess.  An ornately-carved, four-poster bed covered in navy velvet took up the majority of the room, with a matching mahogany fireplace across from it. As he watched Olivia step over to it, Henry had to press his lips together to keep from chuckling. Unlike the hearth back home, this one was taller than Olivia, allowing enough space for her to walk into it if she chose. 

“Shall I be wearing chainmail for tonight’s festivities?” He joked, Henry moving to take a seat at the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on Olivia as he watched her start a fire with a simple snap of her fingers. 

With the room well on its way to being adequately heated for the night, Olivia gave Henry a deadpan smile. “Hardly, unless you consider a tux the modern equivalent,” she replied, moving to stand between his legs, her expression softening as she met his gaze. 

“Thank you for coming with. I know it’s a lot in a short span, but I feel better with you here, rather than leaving you alone out there with no idea how to defend against that apparition,” she whispered, stroking her hand across his cheek, grinning at how his stubble felt against her fingers. 

“I’m thrilled to tag along. This has been incredible and we’ve only just arrived,” Henry whispered back, cupping Olivia’s face in both hands before giving her a sound kiss, leaving no doubt that he was there for her, and enjoying every moment of it. 

Though Olivia wanted nothing more than to fall back into the soft sheets and connect with Henry the way they tended to do whenever they had a free moment, she knew the schedule was tight and that Theofina would not appreciate their tardiness. 

“Alright handsome, get up, time for your fitting,” Olivia smirked, knowing it would take a bit longer to prepare Henry than it would for her to dress. “Arms out, legs slightly apart, like you’re at the tailor’s, please.” 

She watched the confusion grow on Henry’s face, Olivia hiding her smile as she walked slowly around him. The idea had been in her head since the first invitation, but had finalized only as they’d driven from Rome to the gates. 

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her right hand until it was level with Henry’s chest. Like he’d seen happen before, waves began to form right in Olivia’s palm. This time however, the water was the color of the sea at midnight, the waves far calmer than he’d seen in the past. Mesmerized by the glint of the water against the moonlight that filled their room, Henry didn’t notice Olivia moving her left hand into position. 

A sudden burst of cold hit him, forcing Henry to shut his eyes momentarily as he shivered against the temperature change. When he opened them again, he found himself donning a navy tuxedo jacket with black lapels, a white shirt with labradorite buttons, slacks the same inky blue as the jacket, and to top it all off, a black bowtie and patent-leather Oxfords. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror next to the hearth, Henry found that Olivia had even managed to style his hair, his curls defined and not weighed down in the slightest; it was the best he’d ever looked, for any event he’d been invited to. 

“Wow.” He managed, smoothing a hand over his lapel admiringly. 

“That’s nothing. Watch this,” Olivia smirked, giving Henry a wink before stepping back. With the same left hand raised, this time towards herself, Olivia raised both hands over her head as she began to spin. Henry watched as the water in her palm began to cascade down, coating her as though it were paint. With one final spin, her street clothes vanished, a gown fit for a queen in their place. 

Henry gasped out of instinct, having never seen Olivia look more stunning. With a lace-covered bodice and a train that mimicked the ocean waves she was a master at creating, Olivia looked every inch the powerful witch Henry knew her to be. It was the color, however, that put the cherry on top. A deep hue reminiscent of the sky above them, the color against Olivia’s olive skin was breathtaking. Mouth ajar, Henry stood transfixed, more impressed by the woman in front of him than of any statue or painting. 

The coven hadn’t seen a human in its midst in quite some time, or so it seemed, at least to Olivia. As they descended the grand staircase, she knew all eyes were on them, and for once, was grateful for the veil those of her order wore during any event. Dyed to match her ensemble, Olivia felt secure in the knowledge that she was one of the best-dressed at the celebration of Imbolc, a fact confirmed when she heard several other witches’ teeth clicking as she passed them on their way into the great hall. 

Stopped at the door only to be given a candle, Olivia let any thoughts of others disappear as she closed her eyes, took a breath, and remembered those who had come before--most importantly, her mother. 

She took in the hall as she opened her eyes, finding peace and beauty in the multitude of white candles that filled the room, knowing that if nothing else, she’d enjoy a proper celebration of Imbolc, not the simplistic version she was used to year after year. 

“You’ve set tongues wagging,” Estrella’s voice made Olivia beam, and in looking over, she found her closest friend looking immaculate in a gold and black ensemble that brought back memories of wars long forgotten. 

“You kept them,” Olivia mused softly, reaching out to touch one of Estrella’s many gold arm bands reverently. 

“How could I not?.”

The two touched foreheads, saying more with silence than they ever could with words. Henry watched the exchange with respectful interest, realizing for the first time how little he knew of Olivia’s history. Whatever had occurred between them, Henry knew it had only served to bring them closer, and for that, he was glad. Olivia had seemed like such a solitary creature at first, that knowing she had at least one friend who was like blood to her, eased his heart a little. 

It was Theofina’s voice that broke the moment, her low tone one that immediately called for respect and attention. No matter what they were doing, the whole of the coven stopped to listen. 

“Welcome all to our celebration. Imbolc is a time of hope and renewal of strength. Of new life, and growth. A promise of things to come and a light at the end of the darkness. We come together tonight not only to reamplify our power, but to grow stronger as a coven. Welcome to all who are joining us for the first time, or for the first time in years. May you seek that which you wander for. Let us begin the feast!”

Not five minutes into dinner and she could feel the stares directed at Henry, most of them lustful in quality. The women of her coven had never bowed to the societal pressure to be modest or demure. If they wanted a man, they made it plainly apparent, and despite being a mere mortal, the women of Athanato Fengari wanted Henry. 

Olivia’s only saving grace was that Henry seemed to pay them no mind, his attentive gaze fixed solely on her and his plate as they ate. Bolstered by tender touches to her back and hair, Henry silently made it clear he only had eyes for her, and as dinner progressed, she relaxed and began to actually enjoy her food. 

Just as she was finishing her plate of Parthian chicken and fire-roasted vegetables, Olivia felt a tap at her shoulder. Looking up, she came face-to-face with Theofina, the older woman wearing a wry smile that immediately put Olivia on edge again.

“Nice of you and your…plus one to join us,” she greeted, her tone withering as she looked down at the couple. 

“Thank you for having us,” Olivia said, feigning a smile for the benefit of everyone watching. Without looking, she knew that everyone in range was looking at them, not only because Henry was human, but because Theofina so rarely singled people out during festivities. 

“It’ll be your first Imbolc in the coven since--”

“Yes, since then,” Olivia cut her off, not about to let Theofina air out the past in front of members she didn’t even recognize. Though she was under no illusion that her history wasn’t been spread like wildfire each time a new class of girls initiated into the coven, she didn’t want anyone getting the pleasure of hearing it from the horse’s mouth.

“Well, you know the offer still stands, even though you’ve chosen a mere human as your temporary companion. We have…ways of making it work. All you have to do--”

Olivia stood abruptly, her face mere inches from Theofina’s. There was heat behind her glare, and though she stood firm, her hands shook visibly. 

“I will never agree to that arrangement and you know it. I see now the true reason why you summoned me. I should have known things would never change with you still in power. My mother was right about you. Absolutely right.” Olivia spat, her eyes filled with fury and anguish for the past. 

Without allowing Theofina time to respond, Olivia fled the great hall, tearing into a run as soon as she was outside the room, not stopping until she reached the scrying pool in the garden. Tears washed down her cheeks as she collapsed at the edge of the inky water, not noticing it slowly begin to swirl. 

Henry, who’d bolted out of his seat as soon as Olivia had left the room, was only a few steps behind, his strides getting longer as he stepped over the beginnings of the newly-planted hedge maze that would soon envelop the pool. His expression softened when he saw Olivia curled over, hands covering her face. 

“My love?” He spoke softly as he approached, Henry reaching out to smooth a hand down Olivia’s exposed back, before taking her chin in hand so she could meet his gaze. She could only manage a moment’s glance, before a fresh wave of tears caused her face to crumple in grief once more. Henry moved swiftly, sitting down and easily bringing her into his protective embrace. Cradling Olivia close, he simply held her as she cried, knowing better than to offer platitudes for a situation he still didn’t fully understand.

Slowly, the sobs turned to whimpers, then to the staccato silence of someone trying to regain their normal breathing pattern. Eyes closed, Henry could feel the pain radiating off Olivia in waves, crashing against his own heart despite the fact that she was composing herself.

“I’ve always wondered if my mother’s death was truly an accident. Witches, in general, aren’t exactly the type to have accidents. We don’t kill easy. Theofina’s unrelenting need for the power that runs through my veins--that ran through my mother’s--makes me wonder if the rumors are true. And her wanting me to get pregnant...Gods, I could only imagine what she would do to the infant. It’s why I had it all removed in the first place.” 

“You had a hysterectomy. That’s why you said I was shooting into a desert.” Henry remembered their conversation, understanding now why she could speak on the subject with so much more ease than other women who’d had the same procedure under different circumstances. Olivia nodded, turning her gaze to the scrying waters. With a wave of her hand, she brought up a scene that though silent, nevertheless made Henry immediately hold her tighter, his expression creasing in pain for his beloved. 

There in the murky ripples, was a scene reminiscent of the Spanish Inquisition. Olivia’s face contorted in a perpetual scream as Estrella worked quickly to remove the organs that both women knew couldn’t stay. Panic filled the room, Estrella continually looking over her shoulder between cuts, urged on by her friend’s pain and need. Olivia’s face was pale and clammy, each muscle strained taught as she fought to remain conscious through the ordeal. Unconsciously, Henry cupped her head, pulling it flush to his chest before kissing her crown over and over again. 

“Estrella was kind enough to help me; she risked not only her life, but her place in the coven for me. She was quick with the blade, and ensured I recovered properly.” Olivia’s voice lowered to a whisper before she added, “She keeps that which is most sacred hidden away, where even I can’t find it.” 

Henry squeezed her close, holding on tightly, until the image on the water had passed, replaced by that of an older woman. Looking closer, Henry recognized the face immediately, though the fear associated with it vanished, the new version of it full of life. Kind eyes nearly identical to Olivia’s stared back at him, the woman’s expression filled with joy and appreciation. 

You were made for her as she was made for you. Keep her heart and she’ll keep yours. Remember… Life is full of surprises.

Jolting as he heard the voice clear as day in his head, Henry looked down to find Olivia’s tears had returned, this time hand-in-hand with a smile just as bright as her mother’s. 

“Mater,” Olivia whimpered, reaching out to touch the water, her fingers stopping mere inches from the surface as she realized that moving the water would break the image.

“I miss you so much. There wasn’t enough time. You still had things to teach me.”

The words, coupled with Olivia’s tears, left Henry’s own vision blurring. Though he had no idea how long it had been since her passing, he knew to count himself lucky; his own mother was still alive and just a phone call away. Without realizing it, he began to rock Olivia, tears slipping down his cheeks as he watched the two communicate in silence. 

A rustle in the garden made them both look up, Henry quickly wiping his tears as he readied himself for another confrontation between Olivia and Theofina. Instead, he found Estrella and a few other women standing  just beyond the hedge maze, each holding a candle. 

“It’s time, sister,” Estrella spoke softly, her expression one of understanding as she caught sight of the tear tracks on Olivia’s face. With a discreet wiggle of her fingers in the water, Olivia made the image of her mother disappear before standing. Taking a deep breath, she wiped a hand over her face, Henry watching in awe as any sign of her tears disappeared, Olivia looking as fresh and put together as she had upstairs, hours before. Wiping his own eyes once more, he followed her as she cut back across the hedges and joined her sisters. 

Watching as the line of men and women shuffled ever closer to the door of the great hall, Henry began to feel his nerves take over. Though he knew how to do it, he’d never considered himself a great dancer. He watched, hugging Olivia from behind as each couple in front of them were announced and promptly took the floor, moving swiftly around the great hall in what he could only assume was a Foxtrot or some variation of it; whatever version it was, it included far more spins and turns than he’d ever done with anyone. 

Squeezing his hand, Olivia smiled up at him reassuringly. “Don’t fret. I’ll be the one getting dizzy,” she joked, giving his forearm a gentle jostle. 

As their name was called, Olivia moved into position, slipping one hand in his while the other slid up to his shoulder. With a bright smile, she counted down and moved them out, leading only for a moment until Henry got his bearings. 

The candles seemed to flit in and around them, dancing it seemed, along with everyone in the hall. Before he knew it, they had already lapped the room, not one foot out of place. Head held high, Olivia beamed up at him, pride and love clear in her gaze. 

The more they danced, the more time seemed to slow. Looking at all the blurry, passing faces in the crowd, Henry could feel the energy being created, each spin and turn amplifying it to such a degree that he wondered whether those in the outside world could see it, a homing beacon of sorts.

He was in awe, shaking his head as they went for another lap, unable to fathom how every movement felt so light and effortless; it was as if he’d been a ballroom dancer all his life. Though he was almost positive a certain element of magic was involved, he couldn’t put his finger on when it had happened, and dared not think too hard on it lest it break whatever hold on him it had. 

Instead, he waited for the swell of the music, and when the time was just right, he leaned down and kissed Olivia with all the love he had in his heart, hoping it was enough to lift the heaviness of the day, if only for one, perfect moment.

[parnelbedlam]

12th century England and the Wayhaven Chronicles

Let me preface this with I am not trying to bash Sera’s work in anyway. I am a fan of the Wayhaven chronicles and don’t want this post to be seen in the wrong light. I love seeing fanart and writings of the text and in no way mean to hurt anyone with this post, rather I’d like to help inform on this particular area.

I understand that this work is fiction, that it isn’t reality but does seem to reflect our world just with a hidden supernatural spin. As such it stands to reason that the 12th century in Wayhaven is the same as in the real world (or at least closely resembling). But because it is fiction it doesn’t have to conform to reality and thus this may all be moot.

If you’d like to learn a bit more about 12th century England please read on if not just ignore this post.

(any pictures used that are not credited are taken from the Historia Normannis re-enactment group)

So straight off the bat, regarding Adam/Ava and the 12th century there are some things about them that simply don’t fit the period.

Now to understand why I care about a few small details; I have been a 12th century re-enactor in England for the past 6 years (and a multi- period re-enactor for around 8) . As such while there is definitely much more I can learn I do have a fairly good grasp of the early Norman period (in England as least). My group aims to portray Norman life in England from peasants to Nobles and I’m heavily involved in the drapery.

1. Adam/Ava’s name is slightly off

So ‘du’ means ‘of’ in French but here’s where every English school lies to their students; The Normans aren’t French. Rather they’re Vikings who were given land by the French. Anyway with that bit of history out of the way the connective used for names by the Normans in England at this time isn’t Du but De so De Lacey, De La Ware ect.

Fun fact; Adam/Ava would have had several ways you could refer to them as last names weren’t what they are now as such they would have been refered to as Adam De Mortain, Adam Fitz[insert father’s name here] (Fitz mean son of) or Ava of (wherever they lived in England).

From what I understand Adam isn’t the most popular name in the 12th century, he’s much more likely to be named William, Stephen, Henry, Steven, Robert or Richard (note how many kings and royalty of the time have those names). Adam become more popular as a name around the 13th cen but this is something I would have to look more into to properly comment on so take it with a pinch of salt.

Ava is fine I think? Ada works as an alternative that’s the name I use on encampment. Some popular ones of the period are Matilda, Eleanor, Margaret, Isolda is another (Emperess Matilda and Eleanor of Aquitaine are some incredible women who do not get enough credit in history)

The doomsday book is an excellent source for understanding names in England at the time (it’s basically a survay of England and a portion of Wales ordered by William the Conqueror a couple of decades after he became king).

2. Gender Roles in Norman society

Norman society had gender roles, it just did. Less so for peasants (some crafts were seen as more a man’s domain or a woman’s but that’s about it, didn’t see many men embroidering and women doing blacksmithing) but very clear ones for nobles.

Noble women basically ran the estate, they had the keys for the coffers, the doors and handled the money. Their power and status was signified by a large ring of keys they would wear on their belt with the only other person having this being a steward. After all if you have lots of keys and those keys are made of say brass which is more expensive then cast iron you must have a pretty big estate and wealth.

Men in contrast showed this with a sword at their belt. Contrary to media swords were not something anyone had access to in the middle ages, they were expensive (think luxury sports car) and only really good for killing people. You can’t really use it to cut your bread or skin a rabbit, if you did have some extra money for wargear you would buy a helmet or some armour before you bought a sword. Even most mercenaries didn’t use swords, it was symbol of wealth.

Noble men were taught from an early age how to fight and were squired to knights to learn the ways of warfare (they didn’t just learn how to fight but it was a large part of their education).

Women didn’t fight on the battlefield at all, knight Ava would not have been a thing. Women did occassionally command armies such as if their castle was being besieged but they didn’t fight as knights. I know this was done so that there weren’t any differences between the characters of Adam or Ava but in reality it wouldn’t be a thing.

Some of the things both were taught though was horse riding and hunting, as well as poetry and music. There were pleanty of noble men who were troubadour and women who were trobairitz (travelling musicians/composers, not quite like how bards are portrayed as today).

3. Battlefield Etiquette and armour

Knights don’t kill other knights they took them hostage. This was because a dead knight was worth what he was wearing but an alive knight could be ransomed back to his family for much more. As such it was seen poorly if you did murder a knight when you could have taken them ransom (most knights would surrender if they felt they were in danger, people aren’t stupid).

Plate did not exist in the 12th century, what was worn was maille (or chain maille except maille means chain so it was just called maille). This is more so what Adam would be wearing;

What he’s wearing is a badded gambison under the armour to protect against blunt blows (like from a mace) while on top of that he has maille to protect against slashes (he’s also got his cloth undergarments underneath is all). The cloth on top is a surcoat and would be of your heraldry or your lords heraldry and basically signified to everyone else that you were a knight (so difficult to kill and very good at killing).

Underneath the helmet the maille overs his head and neck (called a coif) and then under that he has a padded arming cap. As such it’s a little difficult to wip your helmet off movie style and you’re face would be covered in oil and sweat, hair sticking to your head. Maille is really good at pulling hair out so you would always have something underneath it (ealier periods, like the vikings, who didn’t wear gambisons wore their tunic underneath).

4. Fashion

This is more just to give an idea of what fashion in the 12th century was like. Media tends to portray the medieval period incorrectly, as dirty and dull and with random bits of fur and leather strapped to people (really Vikings tv show? fur on the outside of your cloak to get wet?)

Much to the opposite, people in the medieval period were clean (they washed) they didn’t just leave dirt on themselves and given peasants didn’t have too much money they kept very good care of their clothing as they couldn’t just get another one everytime they ripped their dress or tunic (or buy the fabric to make another).

Bright coloured clothing was also very popular, it’s harder to dye clothing a bright or deep colour and some colours (purple and black) could only be achieved through using rare dyes. So if you had a bright dress it showed you had more money. Norman’s weren’t so big on jewellry so they showed wealth through their clothing; the colour, the embroidery, the quality of fabric and if it had excess fabric.

-----------

So lets start with Ava.

I’m going to assume that Adam/Ava’s family were upper nobility so had a fair bit of wealth behind them.

Firstly woman’s heads were covered, it was seen as immodist for a woman of age to show her ears (only harlots do that). Mostly what was worn was a wimple which is basically a linen head scalf like so;

But Ava is a noble so she has some other options open to her such as a veil (similar to wimple but flows down the back of the person) or the risque barbette which was very fashionable among the upper nobility.

(maniacal medievalist - wordpress)

Dresses covered the body and just barely touch the floor, low neck lines aren’t in yet so the only skin a woman would be showing is her hands and face (and neck if veil or barbette). You wouldn’t really be able to see her collar bones as that is about where the neckline of the shift and dress are.

Dresses were tight fitting and were worn with a shift underneath (made of linen and basically under garments), Normans (with more money) would dye the shift either white or a contrasting colour. The neck hem and wrists of the dress were often embroidered (if you were very rich you could embroider it with prescious stones and metal thread)

Noble women would often have long impractical sleeves that were embroidered and had a contrasting colour inside to show off their wealth (less wealth smaller bell sleeves). (If say hunting, tight fitted sleeves were recommended, bell sleeves are really impractical for doing anything)

Next we have Adam.

Men’s fashion in the 12th century was similar to women, they wore long tunics (longer the richer you were) with a linen shift underneath, they also wore linen braise (basically underwear) with tight fitting woolen hose (basically stocking). It was the fashion to show off your calves.

Men’s clothing was also embroidered and they wore hats or linen coifs on their heads (it’s only really recently in history where it has become the norm not to wear a hat). The neckline would also be about around the collar bones.

Also quick side notes; cloaks don’t have hoods, hoods are a separate piece of clothing that cover the shoulders

Rings aren’t popular yet, you’ll see much more metal studs on belts or precious stones on clock pins then you’ll see rings. Cross necklaces for men are common, rosaries on the belt for women (richer women would have precious stones on the rosary).

-------------

If you’ve gotten this far thank you for reading this, I do appriciate it. This post was made because while I love Adam/Ava and seeing fanart of Ava as a knight, but as a 12th century re-enactor the inaccuracies grated on me (something that plagues many re-enactors who care about authenticity in media, aka the Vikings and Assassin’s Creed Valhalla are horrible representation of what the vikings looked like please stop media).

I hope this post has been informative of the 12th century, it’s one of the lesser known periods of the medieval age and there’s a lot of misinformation about it. As stated at the top this post is purely to help inform about the period and is in now way meant as an attack on the work, Sera or others.

I hope you have a good day.

[noirxxholic]

Whumpmas In July 6: “Water”

So FIRST OF ALL, this is based on a prompt I saw one million years ago, and I CAN’T FIND IT. So apologies to whatever wonderful whumper once wrote a prompt about the villain collapsing on the hero’s doorstep, telling them “I had nowhere else to go.” Here’s my very belated take on it, for an also-belated @whumpmasinjuly day 6.

Contains: Lady Whump, Villain Whump, Hypothermia, Implied Sexual Assault, PTSD, Trauma Bonding, And Of Course Drugs

---

It was Mid-November now. A few days before the fourth anniversary of the day Gretchen had kidnapped him, the moment that marked the jagged break between his past and his present. Two weeks after their most recent interaction, a fiasco that ended with a dozen mobsters dead and Archie in the hospital with a gunshot wound -- his first, surprisingly enough, considering how many other injuries he had survived so far. Recovering under the eagle eyes of Henry and Susan and Fergus had been a nightmare, with all of them hellbent on keeping him from relapsing no matter how much he argued that he had literally been shot and how on earth could that not be enough of a reason to make an exception. But they had finally let him out of the hospital, and he had finally convinced them that he didn’t need them hovering over him every second of the day, and he was finally alone.

And he could finally get high. 

It was a miracle that nobody had gone through his bloodstained clothes, rolled up and stuffed in a plastic bag to take home from the hospital like the world’s worst souvenir. So when Susan finally left and he ripped open the bag and dug through the ruined fabric, the illicit bottle of Oxycodone was still there, in the jacket pocket. He had only taken a few that night, and they were so small and packed so tightly there must be nearly a hundred still. He took three, stretched out on the couch, and was floating blissfully away from himself when he heard the knock at the door.

It took a minute for Archie to identify the sound as a knock, and not just because he was spaced out. It was more of a dull and uneven thud than the sharp noise of a usual knock, and after the first sound there was nothing at all for thirty seconds. It was a wet night, as most nights were in Portland in November, and he thought maybe it was thunder or a fallen branch or just the rain itself, which had its own personality and could be as obnoxiously persistent as Susan sometimes. But then the noise happened again, and this time it came two times in a row, and he was sure it was at the door, not the window, and he was sure it was an intentional, human noise.

This presented its own set of problems. What he wanted was to ignore it until whoever it was went away. Unfortunately, people had a tendency to assume he was in trouble if he didn’t respond to them right away, and at this point he couldn’t really blame them for that. So he had to deal with this, whoever it was, and if he wanted to avoid another stint in rehab he had to deal with it while acting convincingly sober. Great. 

After grabbing the prescription bottle off the coffee table and stuffing it under the couch cushions, Archie made his way across what felt like a mile-wide expanse of carpet to the door, and clutched the handle for dear life until he could focus his eyes and at least mostly focus his mind on reality, holding onto it like an eel as it kept trying to wriggle away in different directions. 

He opened the door. 

She must have been supporting herself entirely by leaning on the door, because as soon as it swung open she collapsed, falling forward into the room. Archie managed, barely, to catch her, so that she slumped against him instead of hitting the floor. He kept her mostly upright with an arm around her waist and one around her shoulders, while her head lolled against his shoulder. He pulled her inside and kicked the door closed behind them. A glance toward the couch convinced him it was much too far for him to lug her there, when it had felt like an epic journey just to get himself from there to the door. Instead he lowered her as gently as he could to lie on the carpet in front of the door, kneeling beside her.

“Gretchen?” She was drenched -- and now he was too, just from holding her briefly -- and shivering wildly. No surprise -- she was wearing a thin, short, white dress, practically transparent and clinging to her, enough to show that she really was wearing nothing but that -- but even Archie was able to ignore the effect of that in the face of how badly she was doing. Her hair was a matted nest full of twigs and leaves. The rain was torrential, sure, but this couldn’t be just from the rain. Had she been in the river? 

Almost every inch of skin was purple and yellow and green with bruises and spattered with mud and with blood -- hers? someone else’s? There was no way to tell with the mess that she was. But that wasn’t nearly as concerning to him as the cold and the wet, the shivering and the shallowness of her breathing and the lack of any response to his voice. He cupped a hand around one of hers and touched her cheek. Fuck -- she was ice-cold. “Sweetheart, are you with me?” 

He shouldn’t have called her that. Not when he was actually worried about her, not when the catch in his fractured voice made it sound like he actually cared. He said it all the time, but always ironically. At least he could blame it on the pills. 

Regardless, it must have worked, must have cut through her numbness. Her eyes fluttered open -- of course they did, of course even in this condition her eyes would flutter open like Sleeping Beauty’s, startlingly blue and clear. “Darling. . . I didn’t. . .“ her lips were almost as blue as her eyes, and they weren’t moving easily, so her speech came out heavy, muddy and slurred almost too much to understand. But Archie was used to focusing his whole attention on her, her words were too often a key to life or death, so he picked out the fumbling syllables easily. “I didn’t know where else to go. . . .”

“It’s okay -- you’re okay, I’m here.” He was suddenly intensely grateful for, of all things, that awful winter when the river flooded. It had given him enough experience with hypothermia that he knew everything he needed to do, nearly on autopilot. “We just need to get you out of your wet clothes and dried off and wrapped up warm.”

“Sounds like you’re just trying to get me into bed,” she mumbled, eyes drifting shut again. 

“Yeah, that’s right.” He wasn’t sure if she was joking or if she was just too out of it to understand the reality of the situation. She was half-right though, bed would be the easiest place to get her warm. “If I help you, do you think you can you make it there?” It was farther than the couch, but if she could make it there, he wasn’t going to let the few extra feet stop him. 

“Uh huh,” she said, not very convincingly. 

“Okay. Sitting up first.” He tucked his hands under her shoulders and pulled her up to a sitting position. She leaned drunkenly against him. This was not a good start. “Standing now, okay?”

“Mm hm.”

He got his feet under him and helped her wrap his arms around his neck -- none of her limbs were moving well on their own. But they made it up, somehow, and down the short hall to the bedroom, Gretchen leaning heavily enough on him so that he was half-carrying her. She sat on the bed, managing to stay upright, though swaying. 

“Okay, we have to get this off of you.” It was only as he reached to get her out of the waterlogged dress that he realized it was the same faux-blood-spattered nurse costume she had been wearing on Halloween. What the hell happened to her? But it wasn’t time for that. He reached around her to unzip the dress, but she flinched violently away from him, shaking her head wildly, eyes open wide in fear. 

“No.”

She spit it out sharp and clear and commanding, in a weird contrast to her fearful reaction. Archie pulled his hands away like he had touched a hot stove, completely overloaded by the bizarre contrast of responses. The fear was something he had never seen from her, terrifyingly out of character, but the snap of the “No” was a warning tone he had learned -- painfully -- to obey. 

“Gretchen,” he tried, speaking softly, keeping his distance. “I'm not going to hurt you. I’m trying to help. You came here because you knew I would help. But you have to take that off to get warm. I can lend you clothes -- they won’t fit and they won’t be pretty, but they’ll be warm and dry. Okay?”

She stayed frozen still for a moment, then seemed to thaw, little by little, and finally nodded.

“Can I take it off now?” 

She nodded again.

He moved closer again, cautiously, and carefully moved her hair out of the way to test whether touching her was actually safe. She stayed still -- well, as still as she could while shivering -- as he unzipped the costume dress, then peeled it up off her legs and over her head. 

She was in worse shape even than he had thought. The bruising was worse along her chest, around her neck, on her thighs. There were probably a couple of broken ribs, at least. 

His feelings weren’t completely compassionate, though. It was nice, in a way, to see her hurt in a way that had actually managed to cut through her usual cool demeanor, and it was even better to see her naked and vulnerable and needing him. Disgusted with himself, he kept his eyes averted as he dried her hair with the towel by touch and pressed it carefully against her skin, knowing that rubbing could make the situation worse, though he couldn’t remember exactly why. Finally he helped her into a T-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants with a drawstring tie that could hold them on despite how big they were on her.

“Okay, now is the part where I get you in bed,” he said as he pulled back the covers. She gave him a cursory smile at that as she lay down and huddled into the blankets as he tucked them around her. 

 “Do you -- do you have any pills?” Her voice was hesitant -- embarassed? Archie couldn’t quite believe that, but that was certainly what it sounded like.

“Yeah -- but I don’t think you should take them, they can mess up your heat regulation --”

A dry, cracked laugh burst out of her throat, turning quickly into a cough. “You have no room to talk,” she said once the cough had died down. “Give me the pills.”

The trek back to the living room didn’t seem as long as it had before -- either his own pills were starting to wear off, or he was just able to focus better through the haze when it was for a purpose. He retrieved the pills from the couch and ran warm water into a glass before taking them back to her. He supported her to sit up just enough to take the pills, tapped two out into his hand and tried to hand them to her, but her hands were still shaking and her fingers wouldn’t move. She shook her head and stuck out her tongue. He laid the pills on her tongue and held the glass to her lips, working hard not to start shaking himself and spill it all over her, as a hundred memories crashed into him of times when these roles had been reversed, when she had fed him pills whether he wanted them or not, or held a cup for him to drink to wash down a burning spoonfull of drain cleaner. 

As a reward for not having a panic attack over a glass of water, Archie took another pill himself as soon as she was finished. He sat on the edge of the bed, a hand resting on top of the covers on her shoulder, and they stayed in comfortable silence for a minute. Long enough for him to start thinking that, now that she was safe and not going to die of hypothermia, he should start thinking about how to get her locked up. There were handcuffs in the drawer of the nightstand; if she was as impaired as she seemed it wouldn’t be hard to get them on her --

“Darling?” Her voice was faint, but it pulled him back from his vague planning to the here and now. “Will you hold me?”

Archie looked at her long and hard, trying to read some kind of mischief in her expression. But she only looked cold and hurt and scared. He rubbed his face and sighed. “Yeah, why not.” He slipped under the covers and she shifted so he could put an arm under her, and she tucked herself up against him, head pillowed on his chest. She was still cold enough to make him shiver too, and he gasped aloud when she slipped an icy hand under his shirt. He started to protest -- holding her was one thing, but this was going too far -- but she slid her hand up, across the patchwork of scar tissue she had made of his stomach, up to rest over the heart she had cut into his chest. She let out a contented sigh and relaxed against him, palm resting still against his chest. His protests died half-voiced. It was comforting to her, he realized, grounding, to be able to touch her work. It was fucked up, but if it helped, he wasn’t going to take it away from her.

“Promise you won’t kill me in my sleep,” he murmured.

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“Fair enough.”

[autodiscothings]

Since I’ve already drawn a pretty extensive lookbook/concept for Ori’s wardrobe last year for @citadelfashionweek, I thought I’d expand on how I keep her consistent and (hopefully) recognisable as a distinct character, despite the different outfits I’ve painted her in.

INSPIRATION 

Ori is based on a lot of different women, which is a very Henry Lawson thing to say of me, I know.

I could only fit so much on one page, but those key people and concepts are what I always somehow include a bit of with each piece of drawing or writing I do.

I don’t think she‘s a direct spit of Miranda due to the nature of cloning, but certainly shares her jawline and mouth shape. Out of all the references I have saved, Adriana Lima and Sara Sampeio pop up more than most; Ori is not a copy of either, but just shares a similar face and body type I can remake as hers.

Personality wise, she has Hepburn’s fire and do-as-I-please attitude, but with Grace Kelly’s charm about it. I reference both a lot when I describe her to others; an odd mix of good girl/stubborn girl, but it works.

She’s a smart colony developer who is learning that successful charities are run like businesses, and will tailor her outfits depending on who she’s working with; the latest example was a heavily corseted dress for a gala thrown in benefit of the asari.

While I think Ori is elegant with her clothing, I don’t think for one moment she is an avant-garde cool kid. She wears pearls, satin and tulle, for god’s sake- I don’t think she could pull off Jack’s boob straps and tattoos, or Peebee’s rumpled jacket. There’s something still held together about her, even with a lot of leg on show; thigh high sock boots are about as rugged as she gets.

Which brings me on to the last Ori-spiration point, Nicholas Ghesquière’s Balengiega’s shows. His version of a Balenciaga woman is what Ori wants to be when she grows up, but makes do with what she has on the Citadel. I can pinpoint a specific collection (S/S 2003) that pushed her aesthetic:

Vogue still has high resolution photos of the show, go have a look- it’s miles away from Wang and Gvasalia’s Balenciega, but you can see bits of it in the current LV collections.

You can also see that the original concept artists were influenced by it, at the time ME1 was being made this Balenciega was the height of trendsetting.

Ori’s make up and hair is immaculate and changes with each painting, but the constant is the colours for lipstick and eyeshadow; always in shades of purple and pinks, from silvery lilacs to dark black-plums.

Her hair is always chin length, but the parting and style can change. Depends on what suits the painting, really.

CANON ORI

As a wise person once said:

Considering Bioware changed her face model from ME2 to ME3, I can do what I want. But in all seriousness, what I kept from in-game Ori:

An all purple outfit is a choice, not an accident. I went with it being her signature colour; the purple heart emoji 💜 is one of my most used for a reason.

She still has bobbed hair and (sometimes) dark lipstick.

That she looks different to her sister; I give Ori bigger eyes and a more cheerful expression.

Kept to the in-game silhouettes, but ditched the asari floor length dresses. I write and draw content that takes place after the Reapers are exploded, anyway; history shows that the more sombre fashions will always be replaced with fun and flirty, especially postwar.

minor detail: under her original in game outfit are thigh high boots, which I still write and draw her in:

TL:DR ON HOW TO ORI LIKE AUTODISCO:

Shades of purple, both for clothes and makeup. Will wear heels around the Citadel, to the point of: how, though?

Tailors herself for the occasion, to a very calculated degree. 

Pearl earrings or pearls somewhere on her outfit, usually in the form three studs in both ears.

Charismatic and cheerful, or at least good at making you think she is; the sun to both Miranda and Kolyat’s moon.

An it girl, but not a vapid one. Silver screen quality when you meet her, will charm your socks off.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The Young Man in the Linen Cloth

by Henry Melvill

"Now a certain young man followed Him, having a linen cloth thrown around his naked body. And the young men laid hold of him, and he left the linen cloth and fled from them naked." - Mark 14:51-52

The facts of our text are abruptly introduced and just as abruptly dismissed. The young man is brought suddenly on the scene, and we are not informed whether he was a disciple of Christ. There is no mention of his motive in following Christ at such a moment and in such a dress. As soon as he has escaped from the crowd, not a word is added which might assist us in understanding why Mark interrupted the course of his narrative to insert what seems to have so little to do with the tragic story of our Lord's closing scene.

Our Lord had just passed through his fearful agony in the garden when he was met by Judas, who was accompanied by a great multitude with swords and staves to seize him and take him to the high priest. Gethsemane was at the foot of the Mount of Olives, and therefore Judas and his crew had to take Christ through the suburbs of the city, where any tumult in the dead of the night would have been most unusual.

Now the common thinking is that this young man, awakened by the strange disturbance in the street, had thrown a sheet round him, being the first thing that had come to hand. He then rushed down to find the cause of the uproar. Finding that Jesus had been apprehended, he determined to follow in order to see how the matter would end. But if this were all, it would really be hard to say for what purpose the facts have been recorded. What information, or what instruction, does it furnish us in any way in keeping with the tremendous occurrences which the evangelist Mark had taken in hand to narrate?

Let us be ready to acknowledge that there is good ground for concluding that Mark designed to convey some more important lessons for us, when he brought this unknown young man into his narrative and just as suddenly dismissed him, as though a spectre had suddenly arisen in the midst of the crowd and just as suddenly disappeared.

We will begin by examining the "dress" this young man wore. You often meet with the mention of linen in the New Testament, but you are not to think that whenever the word occurs in English the same word occurs in the Greek. For example, you read of the rich man in the parable who was "clothed in purple and fine linen." You read also in Revelation that it was granted to the Lamb's wife "that she should be arrayed in fine linen, clean and white, for the fine linen is the righteousness of saints." But the linen spoken of in these cases is defined in the original by a totally different word than that used in our text. Indeed, the word used in our text occurs but seldom in the New Testament, and it relates to the garment customarily used to wrap around a dead body. "When Joseph of Arimathea had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth"--in a clean sindon, for that is the word used; or as we should probably have said, in a clean shroud.

Now we do not wish you to conclude from this that the word was never employed except in respect to the raiment of the dead, for such was not the fact. But it was employed to denote a particular kind of garment, not just any covering that a man might throw over him even though it happened to be linen. If a man were awakened from sleep and had thrown a linen sheet around him, he would not on that account have been said to clad himself in the sindon. In fact, the sindon was a cloak made of linen that was frequently worn in Jerusalem, especially in summer. But besides serving as a covering for the body, the sindon was turned to a religious account. It was the cloak upon which the scrupulous observers of the law were accustomed to fasten those fringes you read about in the Book of Numbers; and the Jews commonly covered their heads with a sindon when they prayed. Therefore, while anyone might wear the sindon merely as an ordinary garment, others might wear it by way of religious distinction; that is, they might wear it in such a manner as to make it indicative of special strictness, of a rigid adherence to the laws of God or the traditions of the elders.

And this latter would appear to have been the case with the young man of whom we read in our text. It is expressly noted by Mark that this young man had the sindon "cast about his naked body." He had nothing on but the sindon; and this was not usual. What then seems more likely than that the young man who followed Christ was a devotee, one who assumed a peculiar sanctity of deportment and therefore wore only the sindon that he might show greater contempt for the body and more rigorous habits of self-mortification?

There is no reason for supposing him to have been a disciple of Christ. In all probability, he was not. But he was one of those Jews who practiced great austerities and whose dress was meant to indicate a claim or pretension to extraordinary holiness of life. Neither is it to be concluded that he had just been roused from sleep and had hurried down as one eager to know the cause of the tumult. It is just as likely that he may have been with the crowd from the first, may even have been as firmly established against Christ as any of the rest. Upon this supposition, then, what are we to make of the conduct of the multitude? Why did the mob fall on the young man and handle him so roughly? What light does his rough handling throw on the events narrated by Mark of Christ's sufferings? Our answer is as follows: From the manner in which the multitude treated the assumption or appearance of extraordinary holiness, we may learn something of the temper by which they were incited and thus be guided to right conclusions in regard to their hatred of Christ.

It was a religious hatred against Christ that moved the great body of the Jews to demand his crucifixion. It is easy to speak of the political feeling and disappointment experienced when Christ gave them no hope of setting up a temporal kingdom, thereby advancing them to sovereignty over their haughty oppressors. And no doubt this political feeling had its part. But in many there may have been a dogged resolution that they would rather have no Messiah than one not likely to fulfill their dream of national supremacy, that Christ was rejected in spite of a thorough conviction that he was the Messiah. The parable of the wicked husbandmen implies as much: "When the husbandmen saw the son, they said among themselves, 'This is the heir; come, let us kill him, and let us seize on his inheritance.'" You observe that they distinctly knew the son. They did not act under any mistaken idea or false impression as to who he was. They deliberately proceeded to kill him because he was the son, because he was the heir, because as such he stood in the way of their covetous and ambitious designs.

However, pertaining to the great mass of the Jews, it is hardly to be thought that it was the feeling of political disappointment which made them so bitter and malignant against Christ. After all, on mere political grounds our Lord might have well suited the people. He could heal all their diseases and had the mastery over evil spirits; and though he was disinclined to assume the character of a king, they might make him a king in spite of himself and then see whether he would not wield his powers in advancing them to greatness. But Christ did not suit the Jews as a leader because he would make no truce with their evil passions and allow no indulgence to their lusts. It was the holiness of our Lord that all classes of the Jews felt most galling. Had he made greater allowance for human frailty, had he not so expanded the morality of the law as to make a lustful look adultery or a vicious thought murder, many would have given him their allegiance and become his disciples. But Christ displayed and demanded the strictest purity of action, word, and thought.

And if it were this dislike of holiness of life that chiefly moved the multitude, we may naturally find some exhibition of the fact in their conduct. It would not, indeed, be any open declaration, for even the worst will hardly confess that it is goodness which they hate. But it would be some passionate outburst of temper, something that would satisfy without being so openly direct.

This is what we have in the narrative of our text. A young man is seen in the crowd whose dress lays claim to special strictness and sanctity of life. Immediately the real feelings of the crowd break out. They give vent to their bitter animosity at holiness and jostle this young man, laying hold of him and stripping him of that garment which plainly showed his devotion to religion. Thirsting for Christ's blood because he had reproved vice and required righteousness, they could not tolerate among themselves even the appearance of a superior holiness. Therefore they turned on him as hounds upon their prey, and he was forced to escape naked. Nothing could more distinctly inform us that the main cause of the hatred shown to Christ was the holiness of his life and the purity of his doctrine than the multitude seizing and forcing this young man, whose dress indicated pretensions to extraordinary sanctity, to leave the linen cloth with which he was clad and flee for his life.

[timeagainreviews]

The Fabric of Time and Space

Hello friends! It's been quite a busy time for me. Not only did we have a houseguest for about a week, we got a dog! She's an adopted Irish greyhound named Aoife, and she's a good old girl. Needless to say, lots of things happening. I wanted to write sooner so that I could talk about the death of Terrance Dicks, but finding the time was difficult. While Dicks was a bit of an old school writer when it came to women, I absolutely love "The Horror of Fang Rock." However, one of the things for which Dicks was most beloved was his Doctor Who prose. Whether it be the Target novels, or even the BBC range, chances are that if you've read much Doctor Who prose, you've read some Terrance Dicks. Which is why I plan to do something I've never done on here, and that's to review a Doctor Who novel, specifically- The Eight Doctors. Mind you, I'm going to re-read it, just after I finish these Dark Crystal books.

Speaking of Dark Crystal, how many of you have been watching the new prequel? I've been a bit obsessed, myself. It's captured my imagination in a way I haven't felt in years. For those of you not in the know, I was born in the far off year of 1983, just one year after "The Dark Crystal," entered theatres. However, it wasn't until around 1994 that I even became aware it existed. I remember this because the night I bought two Flintstones movie books, there was a display for "The Dark Crystal," in enticingly green Disney style VHS cases. All of these things released around 1994. I was perplexed by this Jim Henson movie that somehow went completely under my radar. I took my books home that night. The Dark Crystal would have to wait a bit longer.

One of the things I loved most about my copy of "The Flintstones: The Official Movie Book," was the pictures of the Jim Henson Creature Workshop fabricating the dinosaur puppets. Something about their ability to create something realistic while still looking like a cartoon resonated with me. I wanted so much to do that job. Since then I've always had a passion for filmmaking and movie magic. Watching "The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance," has rekindled that childhood love I have for the Creature Workshop and character design. As per usual, this got me thinking about Doctor Who. Specifically, its costume design. So I thought I might keep it simple and talk about the costumes of each Doctor. Where better to start than at William Hartnell?

First Doctor

Style: "Edwardian Grandad"

To me, the First Doctor will always look the most like the Doctor the first time we see him in "An Unearthly Child." Topped with an Astrakhan hat and shrouded in a black cape, he cuts a mysterious figure framed by the door of the TARDIS. His costume was a team effort between Maureen Heneghan and William Hartnell who was adamant as to what he would and would not wear. The decision was to make him slightly Edwardian, as the time period would look somewhat out of place, yet not too far removed from the 1960's.

There's something delightfully camp and yet simple to the way he dresses. Nothing about his wardrobe seems out of place. Even his slightly manky fingerless gloves make sense for an old traveller twisting knobs and flicking switches on his fantastical machine. Sometimes leaning on a cane, and other times standing tall holding onto his lapels with his dark ring glinting against the light. He's an enigma and just a touch out of time.

Second Doctor

Style: "Cosmic Hobo"

When the 60's counterculture movement had started to shake up the status quo, we saw learned men like Timothy Leary and Richard Alpert abandon their stuffy collegiate positions for newfound roles as acid gurus. Much like these wild professors, we see the same thing in the Second Doctor's attire. It's as if the First Doctor partied so hard that he regenerated, and his disheveled clothes were whatever he was wearing when he woke up the next morning.

At the time, we had men like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi popularising words like "cosmic," and I believe it caught on in the Doctor Who production offices. Costumers Daphne Dare and Alexandra Tynman really brought a sort of anarchic spirit to the Doctor's attire that I believe has really carried on throughout the series. While I'm glad the stove pipe hat was annexed early on, I loved the additions of things like his giant fur coat held closed with twine. There's something so very Doctory about a man who looks like he sleeps in boxcars that can also attune his mind to build a perfect white cube. He really is far out, man.

Third Doctor

Style: "Space Dandy"

I've heard it said that there are two men that can pull off ruffles- Jimi Hendrix, and Jon Pertwee. And my god, does he ever? Primarily designed by Christine Rawlins, he was influenced by Adam Adamant's wardrobe. However, the biggest inspiration behind his crushed velvet and scarlet lined capes was colour television! Colour! Colour! Colour!

There's a lot of timeliness tied up in his garb. The increasing abundance of colour TV mixed with a post-60's desire to cut loose. This new night-time apparel was a way for gents to relax after a long day in their office suits. Leave it to the alien time traveller to completely ignore this fact and wear said nightwear in the middle of the day. Not only does the Third Doctor introduce a trend of the Doctor stealing his clothes from hospitals, he also marks the first major shift in apparel. The First and Second Doctors may have worn different ties, or trousers, but their overall look remained consistent. The Third Doctor's look adhered more to a wardrobe, or a style of dress. And boy does he have style!

Fourth Doctor

Style: "The Bohemian"

Once again, we see a continuation here of the style of the previous two Doctors. There's a bookishness, mixed with counterculture. Costume designer James Acheson, based a lot of the Fourth Doctor's look on Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s painting of his friend Aristide Bruant. Bruant was a man known for his wide brimmed hat and long scarf. As legend has it, Acheson commissioned a woman named Begonia Pope to knit the famous scarf. Only instead of stopping at a sensible length, this witty little knitter used every last spool of yarn she was provided.

As much as I love Tom Baker's costume in it's versatility and appropriate alienness, I am less a fan of the series 18 redesign by June Hudson, which was notoriously meddled with by John Nathan-Turner. While I rather like the new scarf, the all burgundy ensemble with question mark lapels seems to me like the first time the costume felt like a costume. That being said, there is something timeless about Tom Baker's look that even carries on into its various redesigns such as in "The Talons of Weng-Chiang," or "The Horror of Fang Rock." So much so, that even today if I go out in my Thirteenth Doctor cosplay, you always get some joker saying "Hey, where's your scarf?"

Fifth Doctor

Style: "Beige Cricketer Dad"

Before I had ever watched the Fifth Doctor's episodes, I used to look at his costume and contemplate what kind of guy would dress like that. The cricketer uniform with that red piped coat, and those garish pinstripe pyjamas over white trainers is a definite statement, but what is up with that celery? You can imagine my further confusion when I discovered Davison's portrayal was slightly more subdued and less eccentric. It made him almost the weirdest Doctor in that such a normal seeming guy would dress like his five year old picked out his clothes.

Hell, even the celery is there for a pretty mundane reason. It changes purple in the presence of certain poisonous gases. Very practical. They didn't even illustrate this purpose, we were told about it in his last episode! And you know how I feel about "show, don't tell." Regardless, I can't help but kind of love this outfit, question marks and all. I don't know if it's because I'm a fan and we grow to love this show, warts and all, but there's a reason it's on my list of costumes to cosplay. It's unmistakably the Fifth Doctor, even if it doesn't really make much sense.

Sixth Doctor

Style: "Hot Alien Mess"

Out of all of the Doctor Who costumes, I don't think a single one has been more notorious than this one. Unlike the Fifth Doctor's costume which piqued my curiosity, my initial thoughts upon seeing the Sixth Doctor's costume was "Well that was a mistake." And I wasn't wrong, it definitely was too much. Though in many ways, it also marries so well with the rest of his tenure. John Nathan-Turner's goal was to have a completely tasteless costume to match his tasteless vision for the show. He gave poor Pat Godfrey the thankless task of bringing this monstrosity to the screen.

Though, like I said, you do get used to it, as it does fit Colin Baker's irascible narcissist. I totally believe that an alien might find something like that fashionable. Even his little cat badges on his lapels inspire something I think is essential to his character. He's a big loud tomcat yowling until people stop what they're doing and recognise his brilliance. This is another one of those "I can't help but want to cosplay it," outfits. I especially like his tropical look in "The Two Doctors." It would have been nice to see more this variation in his run, such as the original black design or even the blue one we got in other media. Sigh.

Seventh Doctor

Style: "Tweedy Eccentric"

Remember how I mentioned in previous articles that the Seventh Doctor era was a series of course corrections? This is a definite one of those. We're back to something a lot more subtle, like the First or Fourth Doctor's eccentric professor vibes. But my god, those question marks just won't die! You ever have one of those friends who just can't help themselves? You can give them good advice, but at the end of the day, they're still going to do things their way? That's JNT with these goddamn question marks.

I really love the Seventh Doctor's era as I feel like the show was on the up and up. The writing was getting back on track, and Ace and Seven's chemistry was brilliant. So when you look at the Doctor's jumper, it's a kind of visible evidence of JNT being dragged kicking and screaming into this new era. Yet, funnily, when we see the Eighth Doctor movie, the Seventh Doctor's new waistcoat seems somehow less exciting. There's a certain playfulness sacrificed for realism. Perhaps JNT was onto something with his campy vision.

Eighth Doctor

Style: "Anne Rice Vampire Boyfriend"

It's going to be hard for me to view this costume without rose-tinted glasses. The Eighth Doctor is my first Doctor, so his costume will always have a place in my heart as one of the greats. But which costume? Well, of course I mean the first one from the TV movie, but my god has the man had some costume changes! Be it book, comic, or audio, the man has changed his clothes. My favourite being the unjustly maligned "Dark Eyes," variant, as I had always wondered why the Doctor never wore jeans.

Marking the second time the Doctor stole his wardrobe from a hospital, his original costume, designed by Jori Woodman, seems geared toward evoking a more classic look. A little Hartnell, a little Pertwee. For the most part it works, but I could see the argument some have made that it is a bit "costumey." In its defence, it is a costume. By the time we see McGann again in "The Night of the Doctor," we get a more subdued version of the movie look, befitting the modern series. Gotta love a man who can pull off a neckerchief.

War Doctor

Style: "Metrosexual Post-Apocalyptic"

Sadly, there's not a lot of information on the War Doctor's ensemble. But I believe you can learn a lot simply by looking at it. It's design by Howard Burden (who also did the Eighth Doctor redesign), is meant to be a sort of dark in-between of the Eighth and Ninth Doctors. Which makes a lot of sense, really. His costume looks like the clothing of a man at war. Utilitarian in it's form an function, it looks designed for durability and versatility.

I've often felt the War Doctor would not look out of place in the Fallout universe. He still wears the bandolier of a woman he couldn't save in a previous life. So much of his costume is meant to tell a visual story of a Mad Max-style road warrior. Funny then that the man still has the time to form the perfect faux-hawk coiffure and manscaped goatee with just the right amount of neckbeard. It's more of that visual storytelling I love so much- the Doctor may be a man lost at war, but he's still a bit of a narcissist. Brilliant.

Ninth Doctor

Style: "Navvy Bloke"

Christopher Eccleston has been in the news a lot these last few days due to the release of his new book "I Love the Bones of You." We've learned so much about his time as the Doctor that talking about the look of his character has become a bit of a tough subject. A lot of the man's look is now intrinsically tied in his body dysmorphia, which was at its worst when in the role as the Doctor.

I say it's "tough," in that I do want to talk about how he looked like no other Doctor Who came before him. His northern bloke look and sound almost dared the audience to reevaluate the Doctor they thought they knew. His costume is almost a non-costume. Black leather on black trousers with an assortment of dark coloured v-neck jumpers were a far cry from the question marks and long scarves of the Doctors before. Yet despite all of these differences, he quickly dispelled any doubts many longtime viewers had. He was the perfect Doctor to breathe new life into the show. These last few days have shown us just how lucky we are to still have such a man with us.

Tenth Doctor

Style: "Hipster Geek"

People often times call Matt Smith's Doctor a hipster. But who's the one wearing horn rimmed glasses and Chuck Taylors with a form fitting suit? You want to talk about first impressions from a photograph, my first thought was "hipster geek." And I love him for it. David Tennant's Doctor is such a charismatic goofball, that it's hard not to love him. And I honestly can't think of a better costume for him. I will say however that I think this one falls under that "costumey," look I've mentioned before. There's something very Scooby-Doo about a guy who owns two of the same suit in reverse colour.

I also love the simple fact that he's wearing actual Chuck Taylors. I'm surprised more Doctors haven't. Even with the logos on the sides whited out, you can spot the real McCoy (or Tennant) a mile away. Top all of this off with that marvellous coat of his, and you've got a real super hero look. Just picture it- his coat blowing in the breeze as it clings to his matchstick frame, his hair and eyes trembling with Time Lord fury. He's iconic as hell and it's no wonder he's caught the hearts and minds of so many fans.

Eleventh Doctor

Style: "Young Old Man"

I absolutely love Matt Smith's Doctor, especially his early look with the tweed and floppy hair. Ray Holm really came out swinging with this costume as it bred countless one-liners about his bow-ties and love for a good fez. If you've ever seen pictures of other Eleventh Doctor costume concepts, you'd realise what a stroke of genius that bowtie really was. He just doesn't look like the Doctor without it. I believe it was Smith himself who suggested the bowtie.

I would not say I am as onboard with the later purple suit the Doctor wore with Clara. It just lacked the subtlety of the tweed. And that top hat looked especially out of place, which is funny when you consider how good the black top hat looked on him in "Let's Kill Hitler." While I would not say the purple ensemble was a total failure, it's got nothing on his original look. Which, if you'll recall, was also stolen from a hospital.

Twelfth Doctor

Style: "Punk Magician"

Peter Capaldi is the first Doctor I ever had to wait to see the costume reveal. I had gotten into Doctor Who around the tail end of Matt Smith's first series. I remember my first reaction to Howard Burden's costume being something like "Huh." I didn't really love it. Perhaps it was the mixture of it being new, and not having already been established as the Doctor's clothes, but I was slow to come around to it. Capaldi's inspiration behind the costume was David Bowie's "Thin White Duke," persona, which is a telling bit of inspiration considering what a dark point it was in Bowie's life.

For me, the Twelfth Doctor's look truly comes together over time. I think it's somehow tied to his hair. The wilder it got, the more I liked his look. I absolutely love the hoodies and the First Doctor inspired trousers. There's something so perfect about a black jumper bespeckled with holes allowing the white shirt beneath to shine through like stars. The cosmic hobo is back in a punk rock fashion. There's something very lived in about the Twelfth Doctor's style that really resonates with me. He may be the eldest Doctor of the modern series (unless you count John Hurt), but there is something undeniably youthful about him

Thirteenth Doctor

Style: "Godspell Casual"

Jodie's costume was another one of those "Huh," moments for me. It was such a departure from anything before it, bar maybe the Ninth Doctor's jumpers. However, it only took me a few days to get used to, as compared to multiple episodes with Capaldi. A female Doctor was something I had pondered over for such a long time, that I had some expectations as to what she should and shouldn't be wearing. I definitely wanted her in sensible footwear and no floofy skirts. I wanted her like an adventurer. Think Rachel Weisz in "The Mummy." So when she showed up with a pair of high water trousers and comfortable boots, I was pretty happy. It was her t-shirt I was most taken aback by. It seemed a little more casual than I expected, but when you consider she's been a bloke her entire life, having no nonsense clothes is very much the Doctor.

It's not hard to imagine why this was the second Doctor I've cosplayed (the other being Four). There's lots of symbolism tied into the coat that Ray Holm and Whittaker devised together, and I love that they put that much thought into it. At this point it's still early days in her character. Aside from a blink and you miss it scarf or a red shirt, we've not seen a whole lot of wardrobe variation. Rumour has it she'll be donning a pair of black trousers is series 12, which I'm all for. I'd also love to see her wear some grey checked trousers like Hartnell and Troughton. Or even a black and white version of her current look. There's so much versatility possible in her costume. I hope they explore a bit of it.

And that's it for now, friends. I hope you enjoyed this article. I tried to put a little bit of research into it. While I was writing it, this blog turned one year old! I can't believe I've been doing this for a whole year! It's such a wonderful sight to see when you all like the posts and share them. Knowing I've resonated with someone like yourselves feels a little less lonely. Expect to see a Sixth Doctor review corresponding with his blu-ray (I missed the Third Doctor Blu-ray/Pertwee 100th birthday). I'm also planning on covering "The Edge of Time," VR game if they ever decide to release it! Oh and I might start covering the Dark Crystal as well, because I really love that show. I hope you are having a great weekend!

[nevergiveupneverrun]

Bodyguard - Chapter Thirty-five “The smile that lights up...”

Hello, I hope you’re all doing great. Here is chapter thirty-five of my story Bodyguard. I’m so sorry for the long absence, I had a lot of things to do, but now, it’s summer break so I will have more free time to translate. I’m sorry by advance for the mistakes… English isn’t my first language and I do my best. Here is the link of the previous chapter because it’s been a long time since the last update: Click Here.

I hope you will enjoy this chapter :) 💛

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- Ok, we find ourselves at the entrance to the market… - Do you think you’ll arrive soon? Asks Rosie in the handset. - I’m waiting for Amelia, and we’re leaving immediately after, so in about twenty minutes. I have to leave you, sorry, see you later. I quickly hand up the handset of the house, after my last words. I preferred to avoid conversations from the direct line of the chalet: even though I knew that the probability that the crazy man is locating us in almost non-existent, I preferred to take no risks… and calling from a phone booth was a much safer option. But I could not really explain it to Rosie, it would expose her to one of the reasons for our presence and endanger her indirectly.

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I put on my leather jacket while scanning the house quickly. Our arrival a bit hasty had almost put aside the place so special that I found. Memories, images were inseparable from this small nook of Canada, anchored in the mountains. My eyes are then on the single photo frame of the room, present in a shelf installed in the living room. A photograph that crystalizes my past and the man I am… I take advantage of the absence of Amelia and I quickly get rid of this photo frame. I hesitate a few seconds then I join the kitchen and put it in the drawer that was not used, left empty until then on the buffet. I immediately return to the living room while I perceive steps resound on the stairs. And it’s a white apparition that runs down the steps. I need to blink several times to convince myself that this is not a mirage or a hallucination caused by the fatigue of the last days. But at the end of the third blink of successive eyes, the image becomes more precise and confirmed under my eyes… a special white lace dress that I had not seen for many years. Who dresses perfectly… Amelia, detached and slightly curly hair, falling along her shoulders. A silhouette, a dress that troubled me at first: Rosie’s words instantly return to my mind, the resemblance even more striking and disturbing when I see her dressed in one of my mother’s favorite dresses… I look at her and discover that she ha also put on white wedge sandals: an impeccably matched look that makes me realize that fashion is only an eternal restart… the 70s can mingle without false notes in the 21st century. - Excuse me… I took a little longer than expected… I always observe her without a word, captivated by her image: she was simply beautiful. She perceives my insistent gaze and scans herself, placing her attention on this dress. - Uh... I… I might not have had to… but I don’t have much to wear… almost nothing at all and I took a look in the wardrobe in the room and discovered a series of clothes… I spotted very pretty summer dresses, I tried this one… and as she is at my size… but I can change, it’s probably a bad idea, I don’t even know who it belongs to… She turns around as I recognize her lack of self-confidence strengthen over her words. I hold her by sliding my hand against her arm. - Don’t change yourself… it suits you very well… and if these clothes can be useful… - But the owner might not agree? - She would approve, I reassure you… I feel her indecisive, not really satisfied with my answer but I don’t develop more. I seize her leather jacket and my scarf on a nearby chair and hand her. - Can we go? She nods while putting the jacket and scarf, still a little troubled by my mysterious answer but doesn’t ask any other questions. - Your hand is better? I asked while recovering my wallet as I slip it into a pocket of my jacket. - Yes, I changed band-aid, but it’s already almost healed, by tomorrow there will be nothing left. I smiled weakly and grabbed the keys of the motorbike while heading to the crash-helmets placed on the living room table. - Are crash-helmets really necessary? Asks me suddenly Amelia. - It’s more careful… and it’s mandatory… - But if you don’t go fast… you drive carefully… it’s just that it’s so beautiful outside… I wish I could feel the breath of the wind freely on my and the heat of the sun on my face… I hesitate in front of her request. We did not have to hide here, we were several hundred miles from Seattle, in a secluded part of the mountain. And concerning the Driver’s Manual, we could get rid of it, the feeling of freedom is more important than the respect of the rule. Especially considering our context. - Ok, we can do without, but promise me that you will be careful on the motorbike, no clumsiness because, without a crash-helmet, a shock or a fall can be serious… She nods, smiling weakly at me. - Ok, so let’s go! I wave her to the entrance and locked behind her. The sun is sparkling and reinforces the beauty of the landscape: the edge of the forest a few steps from the chalet, the golden wood of this house that stands out by capturing the rays of the sun and a look back reveals me the reflections of this little emerald lake that springs against the chalet.

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Amelia is waiting for me next to the motorbike while watching intensely the landscape that surrounds us. Unlike our arrival the day before, I am reassured by noticing some lights dancing in her pupils, but she doesn’t make any comments. I get on the motorbike and slip the keys in the ignition. I feel a hand rest on my left shoulder while a slight breath makes me perceive the movement of Amelia in my back to settle behind me. Reflexively, I put my hand on her thigh behind me, but I forgot she was in dress… the position imposed by the motorbike has noticeably raised it and it is her skin that I feel under my fingers. - Hold you well… I detached my fingers quickly, this contact was unforeseen and I didn’t want to embarrass her… or increase my trouble. I feel her arms encircle me and her hands rest firmly on me. - I don’t clutch you too hard? - No, it’s okay… are you ready? - Yes, let’s go… I feel a hint of enthusiasm in her voice that makes me happy: a small foray into this joie de vivre that seems to be slowly returning. It only remained for me to relight gradually. I start the motorbike and we start at a moderate pace. We travel for several meters the path that crisscrosses the forest and that leads up to quickly lose several meters of altitude. We thus find the clearing and the tranquility of a mountain road. I remain attentive to Amelia’s contact with me: the pressure of her hands, the sensation of her body just behind me, focused on my handling of the motorbike to avoid any risk of accident or fall. I fork after a few minutes following the direction of a sign to the village we were going to join. We thus finish by distinguishing contours of residences then quickly a panel of entry of the village. I reduce a little more pace while in a few seconds, we reach the center of the village where I park the motorbike on small parking.

.

I let Amelia go down first while she leans on my shoulder. I leave my motorbike and then take a look at the place a few steps from us, where I spot traders’ stalls, so specific to market day. I scrutinize the scene a bit more and recognize Rosie, settling a greengrocer. - Rosie is here, we join her? Amelia nods and I slide my hand behind her to guide her. We are getting closer to the market activity and I meet Rosie who is smiling at me instantly and comes to meet us. - Hello Owen, she said, making me two kisses. She then turns to Amelia and I notice she stops a few seconds discovering her. - This dress fits you wonderfully Amelia, she whispers kissing her in turn. Owen, you were right to offer her your mother’s dresses, they have the same silhouette… Amelia finds my eyes and I detect the surprise in her eyes, Rosie has revealed the identity of the owner of these clothes. - Good, kids, I started doing some food shopping. Amelia, there is very nice clothes stand with little dresses that should please you, we should go! Owen, there are also shirts for you, but I think you have what you need in the chalet. - Yes, it should be fine… - Ok, so let’s go there! Amelia peers me a few more moments, intrigued by the information that Rosie just gave her, then she follows my long-time accomplice. I walk alongside Amelia and we walk along with several stalls until she stops in front of a florist. Rosie turns around, perceiving our stop and observes Amelia leaning towards a bouquet of flowers. - Henry has the most beautiful flowers in the area, says Rosie smiling at the stallholder on the side, cutting stems of roses. - These peonies are beautiful, I’ve never seen with such a bright pink… she says in front of a bouquet of pink and white peonies. - He has his secrets, our Henry. - A bouquet would make you happy, miss? The stallholder suddenly asks Amelia. I scrutinize her while she observes the flowers with a spark in her eyes and in particular a bouquet on which her eyes come to linger: a bouquet of white and purple peonies with roses, roses associated with an original touch that give some flowers of sunflowers. She remains silent for a few seconds while looking at this bouquet then raises the head towards the florist.

- No, thanks sir, she finally answers. But you have very beautiful flowers.

- Thank you, Miss, have a good day.

Amelia smiles at him before moving forward to continue our progression in the small market.

Rosie passes us again and we stop only two stalls farther, at the outer shop of a merchant of clothes.

- Jenny, here is the young woman I told you about.

A woman in her forties appears on the side and comes to meet us.

-Good morning Miss. I thought I heard that you needed clothes.

- Uh… yes, indeed, answers shyly Amelia.

- Rosie put me in the secret, resumes Jenny smiling. And I put aside several outfits to try, if you want, I can show you.

Amelia turns to me furtively and I encourage her with a smile.

- I really like your dress, by the way, style 70s that are all the rage right now. I think I just aimed in my choices. So, first of all, you have these two summer dresses.

Jenny presents to Amelia a long dress that looks like the one she had in Campeche and a shorter dress, light blue with straps.

- I also have jeans if you want, pants or capri pants and a whole series of T-shirts and light sweaters for this time of year. What do you say about it?

- It’s… very pretty…says Amelia staring at the outfits successively held by Jenny.

- Maybe it’s best to try them, right? You have a small space behind the curtain to change.

Amelia looks at me again, hesitant.

- Go, try it. Take your time.

I smiled at her and she finally walked away with Jenny to take a close look at the outfits and visibly choose the ones she would try.

Rosie is repositioning herself beside me by watching her.

- She is really beautiful…

- What? - Stop Owen, I see that you stare at her blankly. You are as transparent as your father was with your mother. I’m happy for you by the way…

- Rosie, it’s just a friend, do not start to imagine things that don’t exist.

I then notice Amelia’s gaze heading in my direction a few moments before she goes back to Jenny and disappears behind the fitting room.

- Things I imagine, huh?

Rosie asks with a crooked smile on her lips.

I don’t reply to her innuendo, it could last hours with Rosie if I fed her doubts.

- Thank you for preparing the house before we arrived… it was perfect.

- It’s okay. I see in any case that Amelia seems to be better than yesterday, less closed, more relaxed. - Yes, it takes time, but she takes over little by little. - All the better. There is nothing harder to bear than to see such a beautiful young woman sad and withdrawn.

The sound of a curtain we discover is heard and Amelia appears to us again dressed in the long dress that Jenny had shown her previously.

A long pink dress that brings out the blue of her eyes.

- So, what’s your opinion?

She asks us shyly looking at us.

- My opinion doesn’t count, I think. The opinion of a man is always the most important, replies Rosie.

I cross her eyes and I discover a touch of mischief that does not surprise me in the least.

I redirect my attention to Amelia while swallowing and preparing my answer.

- It suits you…

- Just that? You’re not going to convince her with that, Owen! Rosie launches by my side smiling.

She wanted to lead me hard and she took pleasure in the situation.

I keep my eyes fixed on Amelia who looks down, a little disconcerted visibly by my answer. I had to express my opinion clearly… not really the fields that I master best, or that I do it most easily, but I would have to force myself for the days to come.

- No, I mean… she fits you perfectly… you are… you are gorgeous…

Her eyes suddenly appear to me as her head is raised.

And one more detail captivates my attention: a smile emerges on her lips, spontaneous and candid smile, the first in a long time and I react in the same way in return.

- Well, I think this outfit is approved… more than approved, by the way, Rosie concludes.

I quickly drop my eyes while feeling the warmth on my cheeks when I see the insistent look of Rosie on me.

I hear the curtain close and Jenny slips a new outfit to Amelia.

- You must be sincere with her as you just did… did you see her smile? At this moment, she forgot the drama she has just lived and all thanks to you, do not forget that…

I nod as she picks her basket of hands.

-Well, I’m not very useful here anymore. I’m going to finish shopping and I’ll bring them home. With the clothes, you will not really have a place to bring back everything.

- Thank you, Rosie, actually, it’s going to be complicated with the motorbike. - No problem. Are they any particular things that I have to buy maybe?

I dig in my jean pocket and give her some shopping that I took care to scribble on a paper.

- If you can buy me what is on this list…

Rosie browses the words of the eyes while smiling lightly after finishing.

- Ok, I should be able to find all that. See you later. - Thanks, again.

She disappears after one last smile and I find myself alone waiting patiently for the end of the fitting session. Amelia will try five additional outfits, some for which I will not see her out and others for which she will ask me again my opinion.

An opinion that was summed up systematically to approval on my part, because everything suited her… everything suits well to her.

.

After about an hour, she reappears in the white lace dress she had donned for the day. Jenny then hands her two packets of hands and I go forward immediately to seize it. I notice, however, that Amelia is concentrated on a pile of clothes that I don’t distinguish precisely on the side. - Is it you who pay, sir? - Yes, it’s me. - Owen… Amelia whispers protesting. - No discussion… Jenny smiles slightly in front of our exchange as I present my credit card. Amelia is repositioning herself by my side and waiting patiently for me to finish before giving something to Jenny… a dark blue shirt. - Do you want to add that? Because we just paid for your purchases Miss? - No, that’s apart… it’s XL, it'll have to suit you, or you want to try it? She asks me looking at me. - Amelia… it makes me happy, don’t feel obliged to… - You lost a lot of things too… and I’m sure you don’t have your famous shirt of that color anymore. You told me you only had one. - Yes, but… - So I offer it to you, it was the one I preferred and it is almost identical… so XL it will be fine? - Yes, it should be fine… She gives her credit card in turn to Jenny then slips the shirt into one of the packages. - Thank you very much, have a good day! Jenny launches us as we walk out of her outdoor shop. I’m watching Amelia as we walk down the aisles of the small market, still surprised by her attention. - You want to see something else? I finish by asking after a few steps. - No, I think we went around. I notice a telephone booth, installed in a corner of the place. - I will make a phone call. The motorbike is a few steps away, I let you join it, okay? And most importantly, stay next I don’t lose your eyes. - Fine. Give me a package, you will be less loaded. I’m actually handing her a package and staring at her as she walks away a few meters to stand near the motorbike while I enter in the telephone booth. I compose a number that I know by heart, before hearing a familiar voice while keeping my attention on Amelia. - Jackson? - Hi Owen… it feels good to hear from you. - Yes, you too, your line is always safe? - Don’t worry, I have the same devices as our old headquarters on my line so nobody can listen to us or filter the calls. Good, tell me, everything is fine? - Yes. We arrived safely yesterday… and Amelia takes over little by little… - She is going to need some time, April is very worried, you know. - Reassure her, I watch over her… - I will tell her, she is not at best either. I go to see her regularly… This detail surprises me, but I didn’t question him more. - I’m going to have to leave you, I don’t want to talk too long and Amelia is alone waiting for me. Tells April and Nathan that everything is fine. I will give news if I can quickly. - Fine, see you soon! - See you, Jackson. I hang up and notice that Amelia is turned away from me, head down to the package she put on the motorbike, visibly reconsidering her purchases. I leave the booth and walk again in front of Henry’s stall with this bouquet that automatically captures my attention. I can not help but think of the smile that I was able to trigger a few minutes earlier… and I had before me an opportunity to spark another. I concretize my idea in a few seconds while taking care to hide it behind my back. When I get closer to Amelia, my steps inform her of my presence and she immediately turns around. - Everything is fine? Can we go? - I don’t know… are you sure you have not forgotten anything? She touches her jacket to feel her wallet in her pocket and looks up at me, with a touch of misunderstanding on her face. - No, I have everything… - Yet, I think you forgot… this… I finally announced, revealing the bouquet that I hid behind me. The bouquet she had scrutinized on our arrival at the market. I look at her with attention and her reaction makes me happy: her eyes light up and a beautiful smile emerges on her lips. A smile that revives all the features of her face and gives her an almost dazzling aura. - How… well when… she stammers while finding my gaze. - It seemed to please you… I saw how you look at it just now. She stays silent for a few seconds, alternating her eyes between the flowers and my face. - Yet, I made comments on another bouquet. - Did you prefer the other? - No… no… I prefer that one. I’m just surprised you noticed. - I am attentive when you are concerned. You should know now. She seizes the bouquet and breathes the perfume of flowers for a long time. She then looks up and stares at me with that same smile. - Thank you so much… - You’re welcome… it makes me happy to see you smile… I answer her by briefly sliding two fingers against her cheek. And hope wins me at this moment. As a wish, I wanted to make and see it fulfilled very quickly. Because I was hoping that this smile was the beginning of a long series… and that soon it would be nothing more than shouts of laughter that would resonate… annihilating the crying and anxiety that still haunted her.

                                      –––––––––––––––––––––––

Thank you for reading. 💛

Tell me which days you want me to post a chapter, please!💛

[ma-lemons]

March 25: Dreams

Oscar Dorothy’s typical day at the bed and breakfast.

“Dorothy! Dorothy! Wake up!” an oh-so-familiar voice called. Oscar, startled woke up.

“Wait... Dorothy?” His name wasn’t Dorothy. He looked at his bed, at his surroundings. He... he wasn’t in Argus, either! He was in the loft of his barn... he was home. Home? How did he get home?

“Oz, what’s going on?” Oscar murmured. The headmaster didn’t reply, and it occurred to Oscar that if he was back home then maybe he wasn’t possessed.

“Is this a flashback? Before Ozpin?” he muttered to himself.

Perhaps so. Either he had been knocked out for some reason or he had fallen asleep.

“Dorothy!! The guests will be up any minute! Come help me serve breakfast!” He realized immediately that his aunt was calling for him... or Dorothy.

“Who the heck is Dorothy? What guests?” Oscar grumbled to himself, shoving himself out of bed. When he walked over to the mirror, he realized he was in pajamas he had never owned in his life. They were white and blue checkered. He had on bright red slippers, quite fuzzy.

“Dorothy Oscar Pine, if I have to march upstairs and get you, I will pull you by the ear!”

“Dorothy Oscar Pine?”

Oscar hoped and prayed as he zipped down the loft that his mother had not named him Dorothy and everyone not was just calling him by his middle name.

He met his aunt downstairs, and she looked... younger... and more cheerful. Her brown hair was wrapped in a bun and her face held more vigor and color. Oscar wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with himself.

“Dorothy, why are you still in your pajamas?” His aunt huffed, exasperated.

“Uh...”

“Hurry up and meet me in the kitchen.”

Oscar nodded and headed back the stairs, where he dug into his drawer, in search of clothing. Strangely enough, there was only checkered shirts and jeans. He wasn’t sure what was happening with the white and blue pattern but when did he own a pair of jeans?

“This dream is incredibly strange.” Nevertheless, he changed into his clothing. If it was a dream, he was bound to wake up any moment, right? It was best for him to stay under control and go with the flow.

After changing into his clothing, he headed out of the barn and towards the familiar farm house that he called home. Except, it wasn’t so familiar. His old, yellowing home was now twice as big and painted in a bright yellow pattern. The roof looked good as new and the home looked like it house a hundred people!

“Woweeee, we must be rich,” Oscar whistled impressively. He cracked his knuckles before entering the huge house. It was quite silent, but very prettily furnished. Paintings hung on the walls and plants and knick-knacks were laid out in every corner. Oscar almost lost his way to the kitchen, but he managed to find it. He simply followed the smell of frying eggs.

When he entered the kitchen, he was greeted by his aunt, and a strange man.

He knew this man very well. But his quite difficult to believe he was standing in front of him. Why would someone dead be standing in front of him?

“I—Uncle Henry? Oscar gasped, his mind spinning. In front of him was his uncle, the man who had died of pneumonia when he was about 8 years old. Here he was, looking rejuvenated and lively. His beard was trimmed and his warm eyes still looked the same as it did years ago.

“Yes... good morning to you, Dorothy,” Uncle Henry snickered. He reached over to the boy in shock and patted him on the back.

Oscar shook out of his daze. Okay. He could pretend it wasn’t weird to see his dead uncle. “Could you guys call me Oscar? I prefer it... to Dorothy.”

“Really? You had no problem with it until now. When we told you your folks named you Dorothy becuase they wanted you to be a girl, you didn’t mind at all,” his aunt shrugged. Oscar was trying to wrap his head around why his parents would ever name him Dorothy, even if he was supposed to be a girl. It didn’t matter, he reassured himself. It’s just a name. And this was just a dream.

His thoughts scattered, Oscar went to his aunt and helped her make pancakes on the griddle. His aunt and uncle chatted lively, and even Oscar got in on the conversations. It turned out, he missed this. He missed his family, and he missed his farm.

“According to the weather report, there’s a twister coming in any day from now,” his uncle sighed. “We have to tell the guests.”

“Oh, have some faith, Henry. I told you there is no twister coming so you have to believe me. My gut never lies!”

“Well, this handy device that came out—a scroll—told me there is a twister coming! You never listen to me, lady! Dor—Oscar, tell your aunt she’s crazy.”

Odcar giggled at the bickering, and continued flipping pancakes. He let the sweet smell of butter and berries engulf him as he continued his duty.

“Ung...good morning Miss Em. Good morning Mr. Henry. You too, Dorothy,” a sleepy voice came from the hall.

Oscar knew this voice. Without a doubt.

“Good morning, Red. And actually, he prefers to go by Oscar now,” he heard his uncle chuckle.

Red? Oscar slowly turned his head to see Ruby, decked out in her usual red cape and very un-Ruby-like dress.

“Uh, hey... Red. Hi.”

Oscar could feel his face turning red as he turned his attention away from this Red, and back to the pancakes.

“Oh, well good morning, Oscar. What you’re making smells good.”

Oscar nodded with a “Mhm” becuase he was too afraid of spewing nonsense. The girl he was hopelessly in love with was also in his dream?

“Is your sister awake, Red?”

Red shrugged. “I’m not sure. Goldie likes to sleep a lot. She and Belle aren’t exactly early birds.”

Goldie? Belle?

There was a strange feeling growing in Oscar’s chest as he poured a spoonful of batter onto the griddle.

“I’m gonna go get them up. I’ll talk to you later, okay, Oscar?” Red called from her spot.

Oscar threw a thumbs up before returning to his pancakes. He could feel the sweat on his palms as he faced his aunt and uncle.

“You are such a strange boy. After all these months, you’re still shy.”

“Uh, what?” Oscar asked, his blush deepening. His aunt smiled knowingly.

“After this batch, go set the table. We’ll eat breakfast and then you get the rest of the day off. How does that sound?” she asked. Oscar didn’t know what else to do, so he nodded.

After finishing the pancakes, he went to set the dining table. It was long and could seat up to about 20 people. Oscar thought about how Red was similar to Ruby, and how everyone he cared about was in a strange dream together.

“When will I wake up...”

“Morning,” a voice murmured behind him. Oscar jumped, turning around to see Ren in front of him. He still wore his long green hair but his clothing looked much more traditional, as if he was some emperor. It occurred to Oscar that Ren might not be “Ren” in his dream.

“Uh... good morning. Breakfast his almost ready. You... you can sit here!” Oscar smiled, pulling out a chair. Maybe-Ren sat down in the chair with a nod. Oscar heard loud footsteps from the stairs and looked up to see what he thought to be Nora and Jaune, followed by Red and who appeared to be Weiss, Yang and Blake.

“Hey, Red told me you want to be called Oscar,” Yang said. She looked so unlike herself, her muscular build was strange with the dress she wore. Her hair was in wild curls and in short, she looked a bit of out of place. But so did everyone else. Jaune was in full armor as well as Nora, except Nora was wearing fur. Oscar glanced at Blake who wore a simple blue and white dress and Weiss, whose hair was cut short. He had never been more confused in his life.

“You’re Goldie,” he murmured to himself, eyeing Yang. He could tell becuase of her hair. So perhaps Belle was Blake.

Oscar, thinking of his theory, went back inside the kitchen and brought out the food. He guessed the only guests were the 7 outside. His aunt and uncle sat down and Oscar did too, next to Red.

“Good morning everyone, I hope you slept well,” Aunt Em smiled. Everyone murmured good mornings to one another before serving herself. Red beamed at Oscar before spooning fresh fruit into her plates.

“Hey, you wanna go walk Toto with me after breakfast? It’ll give us a chance to be alone,” she whispered into his ear. Oscar, a bit alarmed, gave himself a moment before nodding.

“You two planning to go on a date?” Nora teased.

“No!” Oscar yelled. Everyone, including Red, turned to face him. She looked a bit hurt.

“Uh, I mean...”

“We are. I mean usually couples go on dates with each other,” Red snorted, shoving a sliced strawberry into her mouth. Oscar watched her, trying to process the words that just left her mouth. A couple?

Way to go, Oscar. You have a dream about Ruby where she’s your girlfriend. Not only is that impossible, it’s incredibly stupid.

Everyone focused on their plates and began to eat. Oscar avoided eye contact with Red the entire time and bolted from the dining room as soon as he was done clearing the table.

He sat on the porch with sweaty palms, waiting for Ruby to appear. He was hoping that he would wake up before that happened, even trying to pinch himself, but no such luck.

“Hey, you ready to go?” Red’s voice appeared behind him. Oscar heard panting and a jingle which meant the dog was with her too. He stood up and gave a nervous smile. Looking down at her dog, he saw that he looked exactly like Red’s dog, Zwei. She had shown him a picture of the beloved pet once.

“Uh, yeah, yeah.” Oscar offered to take Toto’s leash, but Red claimed she was fine. They started to walk. Side by side, Oscar felt strange next to the older girl. Somehow, in his dream, he and Red/Ruby were the same height, instead of him being a good four inches shorter than her.

Stop this fantasy now, Oscar. It’s time to wake up.

He tried pinching himself again, only for a red mark to be left behind on his skin. He tried to focus on the rising sun ahead of them, rather than the vast silence that had overtaken them both. He focused on the small purple flowers that grew near the creek or the roots that grew out of the yellow bricks in the road. Smells, he tried to focus on that too. The smell of home... the smell of something that made sense to him. Not magic and wizards and evil sorceresses. Just the farm.

“Oscar?” Red piped up all of a sudden.

“Hm?” Oscar replied, feeling a bit sheepish.

“You don’t want to break up with me, do you?” Red asked. Oscar turned to look at her, only to see her face was serious.

“No... no, I don’t. I’m just a little out of it today,” he promised. Even if it was a dream, he wasn’t in the mood to make Ruby cry. Red’s face reddened a little, as if she was embarrassed.

“I dunno. I mean... maybe it was a mistake. Asking you out. I’m not sure... if you felt forced into being with me,” she drawled out.

Whoa. She had asked him out? That changed a lot of things.

“No, no, Red... I really do like you. I was just a bit tired this morning and I promise I’ve never felt forced into this relationship.” Before continuing, he sucked in some air and grabbed Red’s free hand.

“I do like you. I swear. You’re beautiful and amazing and smart and all the things that make me feel happy,” he said. His feelings were honest, at least. He felt these feelings for Ruby in real life and he loved her. Even if those feelings weren’t reciprocated. But that was okay. He would be patient, and even if it never happened, he would still be okay.

“Really?” Ruby stopped walking and gazed at him, her eyes sparkling. Oscar figured his dreams were a tad bit too indulgent, but what the heck. If it was a dream, then it wasn’t real right?

Toto panted and ran around in mini circles. Oscar took what was probably his 6th deep breath of the day and he leaned into Ruby, pressing his lips onto hers.

Several thoughts ran through his head.

First, he had never kissed anyone in his life, so he was quite inexperienced.

Second, he was kissing Ruby.

Third, he was kissing Ruby.

And fourth, his heart was probably beating at 700 miles a second and suddenly, he was getting very, very warm.

Some time in the middle of this fantastical kiss, Oscar felt himself floating further and further away from Ruby. It was like everything around him was fading to grey. He was still there, and he could see a flickering image of him kissing Ruby, but it was like he was out of his own body, watching himself.

“...He’s full-on making-out with it.”

“This must be some dream.”

“Ewwww.”

Oscar felt a sudden sense of dread when he woke up in his own bed, team RWBY, JNPR, Qrow and Maria watching him. And he was smooching his pillow.

“I can explain,” he looked around, embarasssed. He couldn’t even meet Ruby’s eyes, but he already knew she was laughing her head off. Why did he let himself get caught kissing his pillow? Who kissed their pillow?

“Don’t worry, Oscar, this happens to everyone,” Ruby snickered. Qrow burst into laughter, waving his scroll. “I got it on video. I dunno who you’ve been hanging around, but the only person who’s done this I’ve known is your old man, kid.” Qrow replied to Ruby.

Ruby shrieked even louder and Oscar was even redder. Ozpin chewed him out mentally for letting himself be caught in that situation. Needless to say, he always had an... active imagination. But he didn’t need to worry. The good news was that the only person who knew what happened in the dream was himself!

[lilacmoon83]

Finding You Always

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 187: Arabian Nights

A portal opened in the desert of Agrabah and deposited the four of them. Summer and Bobby looked around in wonder, as they had arrived on a cliff side overlooking an incredible, expansive city.

"Wow...so this is Agrabah?" Bobby asked. Snow and David smiled, as they joined hands.

"It is...and that's the palace," David replied, as he and Snow shared a smile at the wide eyes of their children, for they were seeing their beloved book that they had been raised with come to life before their eyes. Now, they would begin the journey of consulting all the Kingdoms and then bringing everyone in their nine realms of story together.

"I think we better have a change of wardrobe though. Our Storybrooke attire is a little out of place," Snow mentioned, as she pulled the Chalice out of her bag. She used its magic to give them Enchanted Forest clothes so they would look the part of the visiting dignitaries that they were.

Summer's outfit consisted of a deep purple colored leather tunic and gray pants, complete with slate colored riding boots. For David, she chose a crimson leather tunic with gold trim, black leather pants, and riding boots. For Bobby, she chose a tunic was much the same color as Charming's, but she had put cloth pants on her son. And she chose her favorite new attire for herself; her white warrior-Goddess type tunic dress and knee high white riding boots.

"There...now we can go," Snow said, as they made their way down into the city and mingled in the busy Agrabahn marketplace. They eventually found their way through the marketplace and to the gateway to the palace.

Naturally, they were stopped by the guards when they reached that point.

"No one passes into the palace," the guard stated gruffly.

"We're friends of Princess Jasmine and visiting royals," Snow responded regally.

"We've been told of no visiting royals," the guard responded.

"Then you should inform Princess Jasmine that Queen Snow and King David are here. Let her decide if she would like an audience with us," Snow said authoritatively.

"Look woman…" the guard said dangerously, as he attempted to intimidate her. David glared at him and put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Stand down Aziz...I've seen Queen Snow use a bow and a sword for that matter. She'll destroy you," Jasmine commented, as she appeared with her pet tiger, Raj, on one side and Aladdin on the other. Snow smiled and they rushed to hug each other, as the guards all took a knee. Jasmine pulled back and gasped when she saw the kids.

"This can't be Bobby...he was just a baby the last time I saw him," she exclaimed, as the boy gave her a sheepish look.

"I know...it's been a while," Snow mentioned.

"And Summer...look at you! You're practically grown!" she added, as they hugged, while David and Aladdin shook hands.

"It's great to see you all again," Aladdin said.

"You too...we actually have something exciting to discuss with you both and your father," he told Jasmine. But her face was marred with a bit of sadness and Snow frowned.

"Is everything okay?" she asked. Jasmine nodded.

"Father's health isn't the best these days," she mentioned.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Snow offered.

"Thank you...but he will be happy to see you both and he'll insist in a grand dinner this evening. Perhaps you'll join us and we can discuss your news," Jasmine offered. Snow smiled.

"We'd like that," she agreed. They were led into the palace and given very lavish quarters they gave to visiting royals. The chambers had a sitting room, complete with plush furniture and large, plush pillows on the floor. Then there were three separate bedrooms all with washrooms as well.

"Wow...you can see the entire city from this balcony!" Bobby mentioned excitedly, as he and Summer rushed out to look. Snow and David put their arms around each other and watched them fondly. One of the servants informed them at that point that dinner would be served soon and Snow called the kids back in.

"Okay you two...this is a formal dinner, so we need to dress the part," Snow said, as she went to the closet to look at the attire that was provided for royal visitors/

"But...aren't we already dressed formally?" Bobby asked. David smiled and chuckled. They had adapted to life in Storybrooke without much of the royal pomp and circumstance, so they hadn't really felt the need to teach the kids about this stuff. After all, travel between realms had not been easy and for many years, they thought that Storybrooke would be it for them.

"These are formal traveling clothes. We need formal dinner and ball type dress, which here in Agrabah is attire that is still formal, but a bit lighter and more airy due to the climate," Snow admonished.

"Is it going to be itchy and uncomfortable like that dumb tux you made me wear to Henry's wedding when I was seven?" Bobby asked. Snow shot him her best mom look and he shrunk back.

"I mean...it was great, but itchy and the bow tie was awesome," he offered unconvincingly.

"Stop digging yourself deeper, kid," David admonished, as Snow gave them an amused look.

"You'll survive," Snow said, as she picked out something for her son. She went about picking out the rest of their outfits and they proceeded to get ready for the evening ahead.

~*~

Fandral sat beside his wife in his Throne, as she addressed their court from her Throne. She was informing them of the coming merger of the realms and her decision that they would be a part of this new undertaking. Fandral didn't have much patience with some of the elder members of her court. They were too stuck in the ways of old and had once supported her Uncle, King John's, tyrannical rule without question. They claimed they were afraid to go against him, but Fandral knew their fear of John had little to do with it. Her Uncle was capable of being ruthless, as well as greedy, irrational, and even evil. But he was also a man child that threw tantrums when he didn't get his way, so he was skeptical about how much fear he really invoked.

No, fear had little to do with their support of him. They spent their years under John lining their pockets with gold and getting richer, while the people suffered and poverty grew. When they unseated John, he was sure that her court was going to try and exert control and intimidation over Rose disguised as "advice". But he had watched with pride as she entertained none of their nonsense. She had put every single one of them in their place and promised that, under no circumstances, would her Uncle's policies and dictation continue. She no longer allowed them to tax her people into poverty, while stockpiling their hard earned gold in their own accounts. And twenty-years since they had taken the Kingdom back, their people were prospering. They trusted Rose and Fandral and he expected the news that they would be going to a realm where the opportunities for further prosperity would be well received by them. But her court was going to be stubborn as usual and attempt to exert some kind of control. How he loathed how they spoke to her, but his Rose let none of it bother her; the sign of the true Queen she was.

"My Queen...if I may," the Duke interjected.

"You have the floor Duke Gantry," Rose allowed.

"I understand your friendships with these...people are important to you, my Queen. But do you really feel that moving our entire Kingdom to a new land is the best idea?" he questioned.

"This has much more to do with than just friendships. This new land has opportunities that our world does not. And we're not leaving this land at all. We're bringing it with us too," Rose said.

"My wife is correct. The modern medicine alone will increase the life expectancy of our people exponentially," Fandral chimed in and she nodded to him.

"But there are sorcerer's and mediums that can be consulted for magical cures," the Duke reminded. Fandral could see his wife suppressing an eye roll, as she often had to do in the presence of her court.

"Magic always comes with a price and most of our people cannot afford the amount of gold or willing to give up their first child in exchange for magical favors. And it is absurd to let charlatans like that hold their magic over our heads as they often do," Rose admonished.

"Yes...in Storybrooke, medicine and care is widely available for everyone at little or even no cost. Queen Snow and Queen Mother Regina have developed programs to make sure even those with no funds can receive the care they need," Fandral added.

"It seems that Queen Snow relies much on charity to serve her people," the Duke stated distastefully.

"Providing adequate care for her people or ours is not charity," Rose said sternly.

"And medical advancement is not the only reason we will benefit. The educational opportunities in this new land are far superior as well and offered to people of all backgrounds and classes," she added.

"And there is no talking you out of this move?" the Duke questioned with a stern stare and Fandral had to smirk, as his wife returned his stern stare. As expected, he withered a bit under the Queen's stare and backed down.

"No...because this move will ensure prosperity for our people for all time," she declared. Fandral smiled at her and slipped his hand into hers. It didn't matter what her greedy court thought. This was a very good move for them and their people. He knew that Rose hoped they could see beyond their greed, but he had lived long enough to know that people like them would not. But that didn't matter either, for they wouldn't let a tyrannical rule like her Uncle's have control of the fate of their people again. And the uniting of the realms was the next step in their prosperity.

~*~

Boston

2018

Cecily looked around the penthouse apartment with an air of scrutiny and then shrugged.

"I suppose this will do," she said.

"It's a far cry from Federal Prison, which is still a possibility if you don't give me a good story," the Major reminded. Cecily smirked.

"Trust me...I've got your story. That is...if you got me what I asked for," she replied. One of the Major's subordinates handed her a paper bag and she extracted a white book from it, emblazoned with the words "Once Upon a Time".

"I'm failing to see how a copy of a book of fairy tales by a nobody author is going to be what I want to hear," she replied, as she tossed the book to Cecily. The dark haired woman smirked.

"Henry Swan is not a nobody author...he is the author and this book, though a copy, will tell you everything you want to know about the Nolans. Or as I know them...the Charmings," she responded, as she sat down and flipped the book open.

"If you want to know how David Nolan, who hasn't aged a day in thirty-fives years, ended up on the side of the road in 1983 with his infant daughter...then you only need to start at the beginning," Cecily told her, as she showed the woman the illustration. The Major scanned the text and noticed that it matched up with the events in the police report from that night.

"Start telling me everything," she ordered.

~*~

Storybrooke

Present day - 2023

"...I just keep telling myself that it's not a big deal. It was a curse...but I still woke up last night in a cold sweat," Leo explained, as he sat on Archie's couch.

"You were reliving the assault," Archie surmised.

"Was it really assault though? I didn't say no...I even reciprocated," he muttered.

"Yes, it was assault and you know that. You're trying to blame the victim here and that victim is you," Archie replied.

"The curse stole your ability to say no...but Jack was in possession of all his faculties. He knew you would never consent to sex with him if you had your memories. That's rape," the ginger haired man added.

"I know…" Leo admitted.

"I just want to move on from this," he added.

"Admitting it is the first step and your assaulter has received justice for what he did. The best way to move on is to find happiness," Archie advised.

"I have...I'm in love with Elsa," Leo said. Archie grinned at that.

"Then I don't think I have to tell you that love will heal those wounds that Jack inflicted upon you emotionally and psychologically," he replied. Leo nodded, smiling slightly.

"Mom and Dad always say that love heals. I know that I'm not the only one having nightmares. I know that my mom is still having them from her time being locked up in the mental hospital," he said.

"And like you, your mother will be seeing me for therapy and I'm glad you both are getting help with what you've been through," Archie replied. Leo nodded and stood up.

"Thanks...this really helped. I didn't want to admit that I was raped, but I was and I think I can move on now," the blonde said.

"Then the man that victimized you has truly lost in every way possible. He did what he did to you, because of his hatred of magic and his need to exert control over you, because of that hatred. But he loses when he no longer has power and I think you'll find now that you have accepted that you had no ownership in what he did to you...the nightmares will lessen. They won't stop completely right away...but they will stop eventually," Archie promised. Leo nodded, feeling more and more certain by the minute.

"Thanks Archie," he said, as his session ended and he left, feeling a bit of weight lifted off him, as he finally accepted what had happened to him and that it was out of his control.

The healing process was far from over, but he had a very loving family that he knew would help him get through anything. Not to mention his girlfriend and it helped knowing that they would soon be in the same place. That complication to their relationship was soon going to be a thing of the past and now that he was able to look forward and move on, he knew exactly how he wanted to begin doing that. So he made the short trek to the pawn shop.

The bell on the shop chimed, as Leo stepped into the pawn shop that afternoon with Graham beside him. Belle smiled from behind the counter and Gideon ran out to hug both Leo and his wolf.

"Hey buddy…" Leo greeted, as he ruffled the boy's hair.

"How are you, Leo?" Belle asked. He sighed, but nodded with a smile.

"Good...better than I have been in a long time. I...I just saw Archie. I promised my parents I would start seeing him after...after what Jack did," he mentioned. Belle squeezed his hand.

"I'm so sorry that happened to you, sweetie. I think it's really good that you're talking about it though," she said. Gold nodded.

"And Jack got what he deserved," he added. Leo nodded.

"He did...but I'm ready to move on and that's kind of why I'm here. I hope you can help," he replied. Belle smiled.

"I hope we can too. What do you need?" Belle asked.

"Well...I'm here to pick out an engagement ring," he announced. Belle gasped and then hurried around the counter so she could hug him.

"Oh Leo...you're going to propose to Elsa?" she asked. He nodded, as he looked down shyly.

"Yeah...I've been wanting to for a while now, even before the mess with the curse. And since we're not going to have the conundrum of living in different realms between us...I don't want to waste anymore time," he said.

"You lost two years with her...even if she only lost days," Belle realized. He nodded.

"Then you need the right ring...and I think I might have the one," Rumple chimed in, as he led them to his jewelry case, which had an impressive assortment of rings.

"This is a rare white sapphire," Rumple said, as he pulled out the impressive ring, which was transparent in color like a diamond, but had a slight pale blue tint to it.

"Wow...it's even got a light blue tint to it. It's perfect," Leo said.

"Not quite...for Elsa, we should add an enchantment," Rumple replied, as he waved his hand over the ring and a tiny snowflake appeared inside the ring. Leo grinned.

"You're right...that's even better. I'll take it," he said.

"Have you told your parents yet?" Belle asked.

"Not yet...I'm going to propose first and then we'll tell them. I figure that will be the easiest way to make sure my Mom only throws one party," Leo joked. Belle giggled.

"You laugh, but I'm serious. If I tell her before, she'll want to throw a pre-engagement party, an engagement party, and then a post engagement party," he added.

"She's not that bad," Belle chided.

"Yes she is," Rumple chimed in.

"You know he's right. She did a carnival when Henry graduated and wanted us to all sing at Emma's wedding," he reminded, as they chuckled. Leo paid for the ring and Belle found a small, blue velvet box for it.

"Congratulations," she offered.

"She hasn't said yes yet," he reminded, but Belle only smiled.

"But she will," she said confidently. He grinned and waved, as he left to be on his way back to the reserve.

~*~

The three of them waited for Snow to finish getting ready, as she had picked out their attire before getting ready herself. Their clothing was made of much lighter and airy material than they were used to, but they definitely looked the part of visiting dignitaries participating in local dress. Snow came out in a crimson satin dress that had gold accents. The dress was sleeveless and she wore a tiara, signifying her status as a visiting Queen.

"Wow…" David uttered as he put his arms around her and she did some admiring of her own, as his own crimson tunic dipped in a v His tunic was a mix of satin and cloth, with gold accents and his black pants were cloth as well, since the climate was a bit too warm for leather. Summer's dress was very similar to Snow's, except it was a deep purple color with silver accents. And Bobby wore a very similar outfit to David's too, only his

Dark blue with silver accents.

With that, they exited their chambers and made their way to the main dining hall. The Sultan was seated at the head of the table, to which Snow and David offered a bow of respect. Their two children followed suit and the Sultan waved them over.

"It is wonderful to welcome you both back to my Kingdom. Last time, we did not get to celebrate how you helped save my Kingdom from Abis Mal and Jafar," the Sultan praised.

"We're excited that we could finally return too, Your Majesty," Snow said.

"You have brought your young ones," he mentioned, as he took interest in the children.

"Yes, Your Majesty. This is our daughter Summer and our son Bobby," David replied, as their children bowed respectfully.

"Welcome young ones...perhaps you'll join me in a treat of a little baklava," he said, motioning to the plate of confections in front of him. Summer and Bobby smiled, as they tried some, as the Sultan enjoyed some too.

"Father...not too many sweets. It's not good for you," Jasmine chided.

"Bah...I'm an old man, my daughter. If I'm going to go...then I'm going to go enjoying myself," he argued. She sighed.

"Do you know what his illness is?" Snow whispered to her.

"No...but Aladdin says he has suspicions from his time in your land," she replied.

"He's always thirsty, his sight is diminishing...so if I had to guess, he's at least diabetic and I'm sure there are a slew of other things, most of which are at least treatable back in Storybrooke," Aladdin told them.

"You know he'd never agree to go. That's why he's been busy making preparations changing the laws," Jasmine added.

"Changing the laws?" Snow asked. Jasmine smiled.

"Well, as you know, Agrabah has a bit of a chauvinistic past. Aladdin and I are married now, but even though I am royal by blood, the current law would not allow me to become Sultan. It must be a man or my husband," she explained.

"Which isn't fair. Jasmine deserves to lead Agrabah. I'm more than happy to rule with her, but I don't want a job that should definitely be hers simply because I'm a man," Aladdin added, as they shared a smile.

"She loves this Kingdom and her people. She should be Sultan," he said.

"Father agrees. I told him that we could improve his health if we visited Storybrooke, but he does not like the idea of traveling to another realm," Jasmine replied. Snow and Charming exchanged a glance.

"What if we told you that there is a way that you might not have to and that modern medicine could soon be available to all your people, regardless of income or class?" Snow questioned. Jasmine looked at her in surprise.

"I'd want to know how," she replied.

"Me too," the Sultan chimed in, as Snow nodded and began to explain her plan for uniting the realms.

~*~

The Queen regarded the woman, as she swept into the room.

"Mim...let me guess, you're here because of Merlin," she stated. At the mention of that name, Madam Mim nearly got red faced and stalked toward the newcomer.

"Don't tell me that smooth talking hack is the reason you're here too?" she questioned. The Queen smirked.

"No...I'm sure you'll be happy to know that he's dead. I'm here, because of a good-hearted, fair little princess that has a big mouth and the true love she shares with her idiot husband," the Queen answered. Mim smirked.

"Defeated by true love...how embarrassing," she teased. The Queen clenched her teeth.

"This was no ordinary true love...this was a love championed by the Gods of Olympus," the Queen snarled.

"Let me guess...the truest love in all the realms," a voice said distastefully. The Queen looked intrigued by his obvious knowledge.

"Yes...how did you know?" she questioned.

"Because I was once a proud warrior and brother in arms to Nezha or better known as the mighty Dragon King," he replied.

"Ah...one half of the second pair of truest loves," she recalled.

"Yes...we were brothers in arms and we conquered the lands. The people worshiped us like the dragon Gods we were...until she came along and changed him," he spat.

"My mother always told me that love is weakness," the Queen said.

"And it was for him. She was a Princess from a mysterious island Kingdom and softened his heart. They married and began a benevolent rule. I was constantly chastised for my violent nature. But the last straw was when that Olympus harlot deemed me unworthy of being their Guardian. Instead, Sun Wu, a legendary dragon warrior was chosen as the Guardian instead," he explained.

"He was an incredible warrior, but a simpleton. I challenged him in battle and lost. The Dragon King cast me out and I was exiled through a portal he opened up using his Dragon staff. I ended up here," he continued.

"Sounds similar to my exile. The next truest loves saw to it that I was exiled too," she responded.

"Then we have much in common. I am Shan Yu," he introduced.

"The Evil Queen," she said. Amora scoffed.

"There is no way love could be that powerful...it's absurd," she commented.

"I'd like to agree, but I'm afraid they are quite powerful and to the point that it defies logic most of the time," the Queen reasoned, as she clenched her fist.

"What I wouldn't give to find a way to return to Storybrooke and crush them both," she hissed.

"That won't be happening. If you haven't noticed, there is no escape from this place," Mephisto chimed in.

"Or perhaps there is…" Mim interjected.

"What are you talking about? Not even the all powerful supposed great Pharaoh is able to escape this place," Amora retorted.

"Before now, it would have been impossible...but now there may be hope," Mim responded.

"Hope...please don't use that word," the Queen said distastefully, but she was ignored.

"By hope..you mean there might actually be a way to return to a living world?" Mephisto questioned with great interest.

"We were always told it was impossible," Amora agreed.

"It was...until now," Mim stated, as she looked at the Queen.

"As much as I'd like to leave whatever this place is...I don't know how," she refuted.

"We will not be leaving this place," a new voice said. It was deep and powerful, which matched the imposing figure that entered the room. The man wore a typical looking armor and head dress that one might expect of an ancient Pharaoh. He held a gold and blue scepter in his hand. The top of the staff had a frightening bronzed jackal head with glowing emerald eyes and the end of the scepter had a forked end.

"We will be taking this place with us when you cast another curse, Queen Regina," he continued.

"And who are you exactly?" she questioned in return. Mim shot a pulse of magic at the Queen and forced her to her knees before him.

"Show some respect!" she demanded.

"It is okay, Mim...she has a right to know the identity of the man that will soon be the Supreme ruler of the remaining nine realms from which we hail," he said, as the Queen got to her feet.

"I am Seth...ancient God of evil. Ten thousand years ago, the Olympians could not kill me, so they banished me here to Nephilim. But with your help, Queen Regina, we can all have our revenge on the heroes that have wronged us..."

~*~

"And that, is essentially the plan we are proposing to all the Kingdoms. It's a chance to unite our Kingdoms and provide the best life for all our people. The land that Storybrooke resides in has unique advantages that this one doesn't," Snow purported.

"And you expect us to believe that this medical science, as you call it, can treat the Sultan's ailments and succeed where magic potions have not?" The Sultan's new Vizier questioned.

"Magic can do a great many things, some that possibly even science cannot. But when it comes to medicine, the advancements we have in Storybrooke are superior," Snow said.

"She's right...our daughter is a true prodigy when it comes to medicine and has a gift like none that has ever been seen. She combines the practices of magic and science to a level that is nothing short of remarkable. If anyone can help improve the Sultan's health and quality of life, as well as the lives and health of all the people, it's our daughter Eva and our son-in-law, Paul," David added.

"And there are more benefits than just medicine. Long ago, all the ten realms in our sector were one. We do not know what cataclysm tore them apart, but we feel that it is our duty to unite the realms as they once were and we feel that this will create a lasting peace," Snow implored.

"And you lived in this place for many years, Aladdin?" The Sultan questioned. He smiled.

"I did, Your Majesty, and I can attest that it's true. The educational opportunities alone make it worth it, but the medicine and technology improve people's lives. What are considered serious ailments to us here are minor, treatable, and sometimes even preventable diseases there," Aladdin stated.

"And from my little time there, it seemed like a wonderful place to raise a family," Jasmine added.

"As future Sultan, it is your decision, my daughter," the Sultan said, as he smiled at her.

"And my support is behind this completely," he added. Jasmine smiled and hugged him.

"Then you can count on Agrabah wanting a part in this relocation," she announced, as she and Snow hugged.

"This calls for celebration!" The Sultan announced, as music began to play. Snow and David didn't waste an opportunity and joined Aladdin and Jasmine, as well as many others, on the dance floor to participate in a traditional Agrabahn dance.

~*~

That evening, after putting the children to bed, Rose and Fandral took an evening stroll through their lush gardens in the palace courtyard. Rose loved being in the gardens at any time, but under the moonlight was possibly her favorite time, for her favorite flower always bloomed in the moonlight. The midnight Irises were a rare breed that only grew, as a rule, in the edge of realms. But on one of their many journeys there, they had brought some seeds back with them and cultivated them in her garden. They were not easy to grow and required a lot of tending to, but she loved days where she got to spend so much time in the gardens. It was where they had fallen in love, after all and realized their feelings. So spending an evening in her husband's arms among the blooming midnight Irises was the definition of the perfect evening.

Fandral gently trailed soft kisses along her neck, as they lay together on a blanket beneath the stars.

"I love you so much…" he rasped, as he still marveled at how perfectly she fit in his arms.

"I still do not know who smiled upon me and deemed me worthy of you, my angel," he added.

"I got pretty lucky myself, my handsome warrior. I don't like to think about what would have happened to me had you not come into my life. My Uncle might have succeeded into forcing me into a loveless marriage with some horrible Duke or Lord of some kind," she told him.

"Mmm...perhaps we can say that we saved each other. I know that you saved me and not just from a mortal wound. You've made me a better man," he confessed.

"And you've made me happier than I ever imagined," she said, as their lips met passionately.

"Mmm...do you know what tomorrow is?" She asked playfully.

"Oh, I could never forget. It is exactly twenty-years since you gave me true love's kiss, broke that dreadful curse, and we escaped the Land of Untold Stories," he replied. She smiled, as he kissed her again.

"That day started out very scary, but it had a very happy ending," she recalled fondly, as she remembered their escape and then a very extended reunion once they made it through the portal.

~*~

Flashback

Twenty-years ago

The muscles in her legs burned in protest, as she and Hyde ran beyond the marketplace and into the vast woods surrounding the asylum. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breathing was ragged, but she would not stop, for the life of her beloved hung in the balance. Hyde pulled her along, as he could run much faster and cover greater lengths with his longer legs. She heard a ferocious roar in the distance and the sound of arrows thwacking into what she could only hope were trees.

They finally reached the next clearing, where three hunters had a monstrous looking bear cornered.

"STOP!" Rose pleaded, as they threaded their arrows again. But she was ignored. Hyde stepped forward.

"You will call off your arrows now," he ordered.

"You may rule the asylum, warden, but out here...this is our domain," one of them spat in return. Hyde advanced and the man shot an arrow, which was easily caught by the former and broken in half like nothing.

"If you do not want to find yourselves locked up in my asylum, then you will stand down," he growled. The three of them backed away, as Rose cautiously approached the bear.

"Fandral…" she uttered.

"That wench is crazy!" one of the hunter's exclaimed, capturing the bear's attention, as it growled.

"The next word any of you utter will be your last if you speak again," Hyde threatened, silencing them.

"Fandral...please…" Rose pleaded. The bear looked at her intently and slowly sat back on his haunches. She smiled.

"Yes Fandral...it's me," she said softly. She heard Hyde grimace behind her and hold her head.

"Rose...you must break the curse. Hurry…" he pleaded, as Jekyll started to fight his way out. She turned back and saw the bear gazing at her with a tenderness.

"You'll need this...to escape back to your land! I...acquired it for you," Hyde bit out, as he struggled to get the words out and tossed the ornate looking key at her feet. She picked it up and looked back at the bear, just as Jekyll emerged.

"No...kill it!" the ordered, as the hunters raised their bows. But Rose's lips touched the bear's nose and a wave of rainbow magic exploded forth from them. There was a blinding flash then, as the bear morphed into a humanoid form, breaking the curse on Fandral and returning him to his true state.

"Rose…" he breathed. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

"Fandral…" she squeaked, as he took her in his arms again at last.

"No...Rose, we belong together!" Jekyll pleaded. She looked at him with fear and tears in her eyes, as she clung to her beloved.

"Rose...who is this?" Fandral asked.

"He is someone I thought was a friend...but turned out to be a monster," she answered.

"Hyde is the monster! He's turned you against me, please Rose!" Jekyll pleaded, as he stepped toward them. In a move that was almost faster than the eye could see, Fandral brandished his sword and kept the doctor at bay. But the look in Jekyll's eyes was pure madness.

"Shoot him!" the doctor ordered to the hunters. They raised their bows, but Fandral expertly blocked all the arrows with his sword.

"You'll have to do better than that against an Asgardian, gents," Fandral commented, as Rose used the key Hyde had given her and a glowing doorway appeared.

"My love…" she called, as he took her hand and they fled through the door, leaving the crazed doctor behind. Jekyll let out a cry of anguish and frustration.

The door opened and deposited them back in their homeland and Rose nearly collapsed in relief against her husband.

"Oh Rose…" he uttered, as he swept her into his arms and spun her around.

"You saved me...again!" he exclaimed, but noticed the haunted look in her eyes.

"I've missed you…" she cried brokenly, as he held her tightly.

"Oh my angel...what has happened? Who was that man? Did he hurt you?" Fandral asked, with an edge in his voice at the last question. If that bespectacled man had hurt her, then he would use that key to return and avenge his beloved.

"No...he tried. It's a long story, but I'm fine," she assured, but he didn't look convinced.

"Please my love...I finally have you back and that is all I need," she promised, as he pulled her close again.

"I want you to tell me everything that has happened," he said, as he cupped her beautiful face in his hands.

"There will be no bottling your feelings on this...I'm here now. You saved me and I shall save you from the emotional turmoil that I sense in you, my darling Rose," he added. A few tears slipped down her cheeks and she relished his embrace, almost wondering if she was dreaming. The last few months without him had been excruciating, especially the cold nights. But that was over now and she knew that everything she had gone through was worth it for him. And now she could take comfort in him.

"I will tell you everything...but right now I just want you to hold me and kiss me," she requested and he gladly obliged, as he held her flush against him and kissed her with wanton passion.

"And I want to find a quiet place to camp for the night under the stars and then I want my husband to make love to me," she added desperately when their lips parted. And she wasn't surprised when he swept her into his arms like she weighed nothing and carried her off into the forest.

~*~

Rose's cheeks still colored at the memories of that impassioned night beneath the stars. The next day, they had revealed that they were back to their allies and waged the attack on her evil Uncle. They had won the battle and forced him and Sir Hiss to flee the realm. They took her Kingdom back and began what was a prosperous rule.

"You helped me through what Jekyll almost did to me and I will help you through the emotions I know you are feeling at what your people have gone through," she promised, as she rested her head on his shoulder. He smiled and kissed her hair.

"I know you will, my angel. I know I can get through anything with you by my side," he promised in return, as they continued to gaze up at the stars, safely ensconced in each other's protective embrace...

[windless-hurricane]

Pennywise and the Dancing Girl

Chapter 6: She's the Life of the Party

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SUMMARY: Emma has an unknown past with the clown of many names. IT to the ones he haunts, Pennywise to himself, and Robert Gray to her. Although she hates and regrets this, she lives with it anyways. However, that begins to change once she meets Henry Bowers, the local asshole.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Enjoy the drama!

WARNINGS (for the entire series): Explicit language, violence, graphic scenes involving blood and/or death, some sexuality, and some underage drinking and drug use.

WORD COUNT: 3.3k

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

PENNYWISE AND THE DANCING GIRL MASTERLIST

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"A party," I asked softly.

"Yeah," Henry responded, stubbing out his cigarette against the curb.

"Where at?"

"Greta's." My face immediately grimaced at the name. Greta. I didn't like her at all. She was a freshman like me, but a complete bitch for no reason. She just thought she had power over people because she had money. She was a basic brat.

"Greta's such a bitch though," I informed them, taking a hit from Vic's cigarette.

"A bitch who can throw a party," he added smartly.

"It's only because she has the house for it," Vic stated, taking the cigarette from me. That she did. Her house was practically a mansion. Meanwhile, I lived in some trashy storage unit.

I felt someone nudge my shoulder and lifted my head, looking over to Belch.

"You down," he asked with hopeful eyes and I couldn't help but smirk a bit. Belch always had a cute way of asking things. Confusion would overwhelm his voice and his eyes would go wide like a puppy's. He did it with everybody. He just never noticed.

While his eyes did a good job of convincing, I was still unsure. I've been to plenty of parties; but more often than not, they were full of unnecessary and childish drama. I just wanted the drinks, music, and pretty lights, but that would be especially hard to obtain at a place like Greta's. She was the queen of gossip and bullshit.

"You said you would," Henry announcing, causing me to roll my eyes.

"I said maybe," I corrected bluntly.

"You know one day your eyes are going to roll right out of your head."

"Good, then at least I won't have to look at your ugly mug anymore."

"Ugly? Who was the one checking me out at the quarry?" I froze. He noticed that?

"I was not, and how do you even remember that?"

"Oh, believe me, sweetheart. That face was not easy to forget."

"You act like you're so innocent. You were clearly checking me out that day too."

"I wasn't the only one," he defended, pointing to Vic and Belch. "They were too."

"Don't throw us under the bus with you," Vic chocked.

"You just looked nice," Belch mumbled with a reddened face and I really couldn't be mad at him.

"Don't worry about it. I forgive you and Vic, but not that perv over there," I gestured to Henry.

"Perv?!"

"Guys," Vic called out. "This isn't going to get us anywhere. It's just one question." He looked at me. "And it's completely up to you. Do you want to come to the party?"

"She's probably too much of a prude to," Henry muttered, leading me to glare at him.

"I'm not a prude. I'm going," I stated boldly. "When is it?"

"This Friday at 7," Vic responded.

"Cool then." And I grabbed Vic's cigarette, bringing it to my lips and inhaling deeply.

"Do you want us to pick you up from your house," Belch queried and I coughed in panic.

"No, no. Um, I can just meet you guys there."

"You know where she lives?"

"Yeah, I've seen it plenty of times."

From the corner of my eye, I saw that Henry was watching me. I bit my lip. I was too jumpy and he noticed, and he definitely wouldn't forget it either. He had too good of a memory.

__________________________________________

So, here I was, standing in front of my tubs of clothes and wondering what I should wear for the party. Did I just wear what I normally did? Jeans, t-shirt, and a jacket or something prettier?

I looked over to the very few dresses that I had, placing my hand under my chin. I wasn't a big dress wearer though. Wait. Why was I even considering a dress? I'm not trying to impress anyone...or am I? Henry immediately popped into my head and I gasped, shaking my head. Nope, nope. Not him. You only dress to impress yourself. That's who.

I face palmed, continuing to gaze at the clothes. Why was this way harder than I thought it'd be? 'Just think.'

'Ok. I change my mind on the dress, but I do have a skirt somewhere. I think it's a black one. I'll just have to find it. Then, I'm wearing tights because I don't want to be that scandalous. As for a shirt, white would work. Jacket, definitely my denim one and I already know what shoes I'm going to wear. Cool, this could actually work.'

I nodded my head as started rummaging through the tubs, grabbing the skirt, a pair of black tights that didn't have holes in them, and a white shirt. I looked in the mirror as I put each item on and so far, it had looked great.

Now for the final touch, my white pair of Doc Martens. I remembered when they first came out and they were so gorgeous, I just had to have them despite the cost. I treasured them a lot and they were perfect for this outfit.

I slipped them on and after a few poses, I was good to go. All I needed was perfume. Got it. Deodorant, done. A few touch ups to my hair, cool.

Alright, you could do this. I grabbed my jacket as I left the bunker.

__________________________________________

It was a bit of a far walk to Greta's, but I also ran from the Neibolt house to the bunker before so this wouldn't be a problem. The only thing that could possibly slow me down would be an unexpected visit from an unwanted entity. It was rather annoying. All the voices trying to guilt trip me and all the red balloons, but I couldn't indulge in him. It was what he wanted. He was a pest like that. I mentally sighed.

These flashbacks seemed to have become a constant too. It was like I couldn't catch a break. I could just be sitting next to Vic or Belch, laughing, and all of sudden everything would turn dark and they would be replaced by others. The same happened with Henry a lot too. I had my moments where I would just be looking at him and he would abruptly be replaced by the boy in my dreams. It irked me and successfully made me feel guilty too. I just wanted it to stop.

Then, I started hearing the loud music in the distance and was grateful that the walk managed to stay peaceful.

I grew closer with each step and wondered if the guys were already there. I wondered if they would start without me. Henry probably would, but I think Vic and Belch would be more considerate. I didn't actually care. I just didn't want to be left alone because they were the whole reason I was going.

After a few more minutes of passing other mansions, I finally stopped in front of Greta's. The reason I remembered was because of its ugly color - green. Not saying that green was an ugly color in general, it was just the shade of it - swampy green. It was also the house that was basically flowing and surrounded by a bunch of kids, pushing to get in.  I recognized most of them from school, but they obviously didn't recognize me.

I sighed and glanced around. Amy was nowhere to be seen. Maybe they thought they could be cool by being "fashionably late."

I hope their definition of it wasn't hours late though. They hadn't warned me. That was why I only came 20 minutes late. If they decided to pull that, I was going to be very upset and most likely throw vulgarities at them. Until then though, I might as well wait inside.

(HENRY'S P.O.V.)

We pulled up in Amy and I instantly hopped out as Belch came to a stop. I looked towards Greta's and it seemed like the party was already under way with the house lit and the music blaring. There were a few kids outside and none of them were Emma. Where was that weirdo? She was probably already inside, picking fights with people.

I smirked as Vic stood beside me.

"You think Emma's already here," he asked and I nodded.

"Probably. Let's go."

I walked up the pathway and through the door with them following close behind. The moment I walked in, the kids close by flinched and moved aside uneasily. It was enough to make me smirk again.

I glanced around quickly and the house was close to packed. Everyone was either down here or upstairs, but somehow the blue and purple lights of the disco balls captured everything. They were pretty cool.

But there was still no sign of Emma. Where could she be hiding?

I turned to Vic and Belch and raised my voice,

"See if you can find Emma." Luckily, I was somewhat audible and they both nodded in response, leaving in opposite directions.

I went from room to room, everyone clearing an easy path for me. I finally came to the dining room and stopped dead in my tracks.

I found her.

...and wow. She looked...amazing.

She stood there and looked...absolutely beautiful. I didn't know which it was: the clothes or the lights. The clothes were definitely different, but not the bad kind. It was like she was carefree and not trying to hide for once, and the lights only accentuated that.

I could actually see all of her. The way her hair fell against her face and curled right at the end. The curve of her nose and fuller cheeks. The deep brown of her shining eyes. Every scar from the ones on her neck to the one framing the side of her face. The plumpness of her pink lips.

How did I not noticed this before?

Well, I did, just not as vividly. I had noticed her cuteness. The way her cheeks would rise when she'd smile or laugh and how her eyes would squint as she did so. I noticed the softness and warmness of her skin when she would accidentally or purposely touch me and how small her hands were compared to mine. I noticed the gentleness of her voice behind all the harshness. However, this was all on a whole new level that I appreciated much more.

I was disappointed I didn't see it like this sooner, but I was seeing it right now. I was seeing her right now and I could do something about it.

I took a step forward, but someone beat me to it. Vic beat me to it. I curled my hand in a fist and watched as he leaned closer to her ear, whispering something.

(BACK TO EMMA'S POV)

"Do you want to get a drink," Vic asked loudly. Normally, this would've hurt my ear, but the music  was close to deafening and there weren't a lot of options.

"Yeah," I responded with a nod.

He pointed to the counter and led me over. As we walked, I finally noticed that it was a small bar. I cocked an eyebrow, shaking my head. Rich people. He made his way behind it and I sat on the stool opposite from him.

"So what'll you have?!"

"What?!" He laughed.

"What'll you have?!"

"Oh! Only your finest," I joked.

"Only the finest for the finest girl here!" I snorted, watching as he filled a red cup with something obscene.

He set it in front of me and poured another cup for himself.

"What is it," I asked.

"Um, vodka!" He observed the glass bottle in his hand and laughed. "I think!"

"What a great bartender," I giggled and he titled his head, smiling.

He came back around and sat beside me. I took a quick swig and let the burning sensation take over, finishing with a small 'Ah.' Meanwhile, his face scrunched up in distaste.

"Lightweight," I asked jokingly.

"No, course not," he retorted with a smirk. "You?!"

"Not a lightweight either!" We continued to drink in a comfortable silence, well, comfortable loudness.

"I never got to ask you, but uh, well, you don't have to answer," he started, making me look at him. I hummed,

"What is it?!"

"Well, what happened," he asked as his pointed to his own face and traced along his temple. He wanted to know about my scar? I brought my hand up to my face and covered it softly.

I shook my head, "I don't remember!"

"Really?!"

"Yeah, it must've been when I was little or something because I don't remember when I got it!" It wasn't a complete lie.

"Your parents never told you?!" I gasped quietly. Parents?

And something suddenly sparked in my head. There was a man, a woman, just small glimpses. I had to push them away.

"Nope!" And he nodded, causing me to relax.

"Sorry, if I was intruding!"

"No, not at all," I smiled. "Just no one ever asks about it and I never expected you to!"

"It just seemed like it hurt!" I laughed.

"It probably did!" Enough for it to scar, it most likely did.

I left my hand fall and it accidentally grazed his arm.

"Sorry," I muttered, but he only smiled. We stayed like that for a few moments until he spoke again.

"Wanna dance?!" My face immediately flushed. Dance? Dance? Really? Why?

"I don't know how to dance," I yelled back.

"Then, you can learn!" He stood up and placed himself in front of me, reaching out his hand while I stared in shock.

"Emma?!"

"Yeah?!"

"May I have this dance?!" I shook my head in disbelief before smiling.

"Sure!" I took his hand and stood up with him as he led me to where other kids were dancing their hearts away, or trying to.

I was incredibly tense as we stopped and stood in front of one another, my hand still in his. He pulled me closer and placed my hand on his shoulder. Then, he gently took the other and did the same. Finally, he put his hands on both sides of my waist.

"You need to calm down," he laughed.

"Sorry," I apologized, loosening up a bit. "So, how do we do this?! Is there some kind of special foot pattern or what?!" He shook his head.

"You just sway!" And he did. So I followed shortly, looking up at him.

It was unbelievably calming facing with him. For a second, I felt like there was no Gray. That maybe I was just a normal teenager.

Towards the end of the song, he leaned his forehead against mine and I didn't move away. I simply shut my eyes. When I opened them back up, I gasped and stumbled back. Henry?

I blinked repeatedly and he became Vic again.

"Are you ok," he asked with concern riddling his eyes. What the hell just happened? He just fucking turned into Henry. It was almost like one of my flashbacks, except it wasn't a person from my past. It was someone from now. It was Henry. What the hell does that mean?

"Yeah," but I was interrupted by a crashing sound that caused us both to pull away. What the hell was that? And somehow, I knew.  

A crowd of kids began to gather and we both looked at each other, feeling the impulse to add onto it. So we did, but I wanted that clear view.

I pushed through kids, not caring if I was shoving or earning glares. I just needed to confirm it. Once I got to the front, I was met with broken glass and a beyond pissed Greta.

It looked like someone broke their wine case and who else could it be but the only guy walking out of the house?

I quickly headed towards the door and made my way out. I glanced around the area as I walked down the pathway, finally spotting him to the side.

I walked over quietly and sat beside him on the grass, not saying anything. He was just staring out into space, but I'm pretty sure he noticed I was here. He just didn't want to say anything either.

I looked at him and his expression was so stern. He seemed angry, but not quite. He wasn't there yet. He also didn't seem drunk.

"Why are you here," he questioned hardly and I looked away.

"I just came to see what was going on," I responded.

"Why aren't you off with your boyfriend?" I furrowed my eyebrows. Boyfriend? What? Was he talking about Vic? What shocked me even more was the disdain that laced his voice.

"What boyfriend?"

"Who do you think?"

"Vic?" He didn't answer. "He's not my boyfriend."

"Didn't look like it." Was he mad about this?

"If you were talking about when we were dancing, it was just dancing. People can do that without it meaning anything."

"Not with the way he was looking at you."

"And? Even if there was something going on, why would it matter to you," I asked, clearly irritated.

"Well, it doesn't."

"Ok then," I added, taking a short pause. "Anyway, what was that all about?"

"Nothing, someone just pissed me off." Of course. Something always had to happen when he was pissed off...my eyes widened. Just like what happened with Ben. I turned to Henry quickly.

I never forgot what I saw. I always planned on bringing it up, but when we were alone...and we're alone now.

I nodded, "Oh." I paused again.

"Hey, Henry?"

"What?"

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you and it's about that day at the arcade."

"You mean when you stopped from going in there?"

"Yeah."

"What about it?"

"Well, I saw it." He tensed up.

"Saw what?"

"I saw what you did to him - to Ben."

"And?" Did he really just say 'And?'

"And? Really? You literally scarred him for life and all you have to say is and?"

"How do hell do you know it's going to scar?"

"Because I've had my fair share," I explained, gesturing to my face. "And his is not going to heal completely. It's going to stay with him and he's going to have to look back on that everyday. He's going to have to deal with the fact that some insecure douchebag marked him."

"What the fuck did you just say," he asked menacingly, standing up. I wasn't going to let myself be towered over.

"You're not deaf," I stated, picking myself up to join him.

"Goddamnit, Emma. If you were anyone else, I'd be beating the shit outta you."

"That is exactly what I mean. You don't care about what you do to other people. You just care about yourself and what you could do to make yourself feel better."

"Emma," he warned.

"I'm not done. I know why you don't want me to keep going because if I do, you'll have to face the truth that you don't want to hear."

"Don't think that you know anything about me."

"I know everything about you, Henry. I know that the reason you lash out on everybody is because you feel completely powerless."

"Shut up!"

"I know that the reason you want everybody to be afraid of you is because deep down, you're terrified."

"Stop!"

"I know how weak and vulnerable you actually feel and it scares you at how easily I was able to figure you out."

"No!"

"Yes and you know it. Whatever's going on with you, yeah, it sucks, but it doesn't excuse what you've been doing. It's wrong. Hurting people is wrong."

"Yeah? Well, I would do it all over again." And that set me off edge because almost involuntarily, my fist collided with his cheek. He landed on the ground with a thud, but I didn't feel any remorse for him. I simply glared down at him.

"Once you stop being an asshole and realize I'm right, then you can come back to me. Otherwise, don't bother showing your face."

With that, I stormed off.

(HENRY'S POV)

I let my head fall back against the ground as I fought the saltiness clawing at my eyes. Fuck. I covered them quickly.

What the fuck did I do?

END OF CHAPTER 6

[neonnerd29]

My first writing post!

So I write stories sometimes when I get the feeling for it and I just finished a mini fic for one of my stories that if nowhere near completed. I decided to post the little fic here because why the hell not. 

So this is gonna need a bit of explaining. The main characters Alana (cause I’m super creative) and Alex are agender twins that got adopted by Henry and Jake when they were eleven. For the first nine years of their lives they were in an abusive house with their biological parents and lived on the streets for two years. They have a bunch of things wrong with them I’m not projecting slightly what and Alana is mute. They have two service dogs, Ben and Cas who are SWEETHEARTS AND THE MOST LOYAL CREATURES EVER. They work through the twins’ issues and the kids learn what a family truly is (Aww how sweet). 

In this little fic, Alana is super stressed to the point of breaking and this is what happens when I’m really tired and emotional and just need to let things out. BTW, the twins are fourteen in this, so this is three years after they’re adopted. 

I hope whoever if anyone reads this enjoys it! I might post other stuff on here, idk, I’m tired and need sleep.

Alana gritted their teeth, swinging their arms around harder, determined to finish with a better score this time. Sweat dripped down their back, making their tank top cling to their skin while their pajama bottoms swung with the movements they made. Tears slipped from their eyes and pooled at the bottom of the VR headset, making them want to clean their cheeks but they couldn’t, not now, not when they’re doing so good.

Today had been a bad day, adding onto the stress that had been building up for the past week. They were frustrated and more depressed than usual, becoming more and more distanced from the people around them. They fought it out fairly well, but tonight they broke. They couldn’t take it any longer, they just wanted to do something to realease the stress trapped in their mind.

They didn’t feel like playing music tonight, not having the motivation for a one-man band. They wouldn’t wake Alex up just because it was a bad night tonight, no sir. Ben and Cas were sleeping at Alex’s feet when they got up about thirty minutes after getting in bed, being careful not to disturb the sleeping forms. They paced downstairs for ten minutes, wanting something to do but having no ideas before something hit them and they instantly sprang on it.

They slipped on the VR headset their Grandparents had gotten them and Alex for Christmas and put on their big headphones, the ones designed to block out outside noises. They selected the game Beat Saber, a rhythm game where you hit blocks with lightsabers in time to a song. Their frustration showed as they selected a song that they had been working on for awhile now, the hardest song they’d ever tried. It was a Custom Song, made by someone who probably wished others to suffer along with them, to the song Through The Fire And Flames. They didn’t even warm up before throwing themself into the song, beating out their frustration to the fast-paced beat.

So now here Alana was, crying, sweating, swinging the VR controllers in the middle of the living room, trying to let out some of the stress that had accumulated on them. And it was working. They’d been at it for about two hours now with no breaks, smashing the same blocks over and over again until they started to progress in the song, learning and memorizing more of the god-forsaken map with each try.

They made it to about two minutes until the end of the song when the tears in their eyes finally caused them to lose, them not being able to see the screen correctly. If they could have, they would have screamed from frustration at their loss. As it was, they let out a large, shaky breath of air, taking off the headset and headphones before walking into the bathroom.

They turned on the faucet, not bothering with the lights, and scrubbed at their face until all sings of their tears were washed from their cheeks. They started at their reflection for a moment after turning off the water. They nodded to themself, stealing their expression before walking back into the living room, more determined than ever.

They put back on their headset and headphones, picking up the controllers and selecting “Restart”. They took a deep breath before raising the controllers, hitting the first notes perfectly on time.

They stayed there for four more hours, becoming so good at the level that they could make it to the end with a B grade, something not easily accomplishable at all. They smiled slightly at their victory, glancing at the clock on PlayStation menu screen. They blinked at the time. Was it really already 04:07? They sighed, rolling their shoulders back, popping them in and out of their sockets. They glanced once more at the time before clicking back onto the game. A few more tries couldn’t hurt.

…

It was 07:48 when Henry came downstairs, yawning and making a beeline for the coffee pot in the kitchen. He started brewing some as his husband followed him down, walking into the living room to turn on the news before gasping and squealing softly.

“Henry, come look!” Jake bounced on his toes excitedly, all the fuzziness from just waking up gone as he took in the sight before him.

One of his children, Alana, was sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep. They were only wearing a dark purple tank top that had the saying “Everyone Tells Me To Follow My Dreams, So I’m Going Back To Bed” on the front and black and purple plaid pajama pants. They seemed to have collapsed on the sofa, one leg dangling off with the other bent, one arm above their head with the other draped over their waist. There were dark bags under their eyes, which was a little unsettling but their face was relaxed at the moment, their lips slightly parted.

Henry shuffled into the living room per his husband’s request and chuckled at the scene before him. He turned to look and was not surprised to see that the PlayStation seemed to have been used within the past couple of hours, with the VR headset placed on top with Alana’s noise cancelling headphones and the two VR controllers.

“Rough night, I presume,” Henry mumbled, wrapping an arm around Jake’s shoulder and drawing him into his side. Jake nodded along with his words, turning to press a kiss onto his husband’s lips before pulling away, walking carefully and quietly into the kitchen. “Let’s not wake them, who knows when they finally crashed. They could use the sleep.”

Henry nodded and took one last look at his sleeping child before smiling and following his husband to the coffee pot.

…

It was around 08:23 when Alex woke up, slightly disoriented at the fact that they were the only one in their bed. They looked around before heading downstairs. They appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, rubbing their eyes tiredly and trying to fight off a yawn. The married couple cooed at their other child looking so tired.

Alex had on an outfit very similar to Alana’s, which surprised nobody in the room, but the color scheme did. Alana and Alex had seemed to have switched colors last night, Alana in Alex’s usual purple and Alex in Alana’s usual red. They had on a red tank top with the words “I Can’t Be Held Responsible For What My Face Does When You Talk” across their chest and red and black plaid pajama bottoms covering their legs. They must have put each other’s clothes on last night, the men thought.

“Where’s Alana and Ben and Cas?” Alex slurred, their sleepy mind still trying to catch up with their body.

“Ben and Cas are in the backyard, presumably to do their business. As for Alana…” Henry gestured to the living room. Confused, Alex followed their dad’s instructions, only to sigh at the sight before them. They returned to the kitchen and sat down across from their dads as they put their head on the table.

“Lots of stress lately, I expected them to crash sooner or later. Turns out it was sooner…” The twin trailed off, huffing before picking their head back up. “At least, when they wake up, they’ll feel better. And, if I’m correct on which game they were playing, they’ll have a new record on a level in Beat Saber. Probably Through The Fire And Flames, I’m betting. Good stress reliever, that song is.”

The men nodded along at their child’s words. “How long do you think they were up for? Jake asked, glancing into the living room before returning his eyes to his only awake kid at the moment.

“Probably somewhere around twenty-three to twenty-four hours, if they didn’t sleep before they got up and only actually crashed around between 06:00 and 07:00.” They reasoned, not missing the painful glances their dads gave each other. They sighed again. “Look, Dad, Papa, this happens sometimes. It’s not the first time and it most certainly be the last. We’ve both stayed awake for far longer than twenty-four hours, and it’s not that big of a deal when we do. The only reason they’re crashing so hard right now is because of the stress. So don’t worry; they’ve got this. And if they don’t, well, they’ve got us three, right? Not even counting Ben and Cas.”

The couple smiled at their child's words and they leaned into each other, looking adoringly at the fourteen year-old in front of them. “Yeah, they do, kiddo. They sure do.”

And if Alana woke up at 12:30, no one mentioned it. They only made a big lunch and sat and talked (or in Alana’s case, singed) about what they would do for the evening. And if, when they played Beat Saber later that night, Alana could pass the Through The Fire And Flames level with an A, well, no one would say anything about it, other than congratulate them on their performance. They smiled and bowed, blushing happily. And if, when night time came around that Saturday and it was time for bed, the previously-stressed teen snuggled up to their twin under the covers, Alex said nothing, only smiled and pressed a kiss to their forehead, patting their hair until the two fell asleep with two big huskies trapping their legs under the blankets.

Alex was right. This wouldn’t be the last time Alana found themself in a situation like this, frustrated and determined and working too hard on something to take their stress out on. But it never got out of hand. They always talked to their twins of one of their dad’s when things got too much for them. And nobody ever mentioned when Alana was suddenly really good at a game or a new song. They just smiled, beaming at the small, stressed little mute they all loved.

[juniperhillpatient]

Summary: Reddie sleepover with a side of spookiness and angst. Trigger warning for implied child neglect, pedophilia mention, and cursing - much milder than anything in the movie or book. Part two to THIS fic but it could also be a one-shot

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

"And this is my favorite part! Look at all that blood!" Richie waved the comic in front of Eddie's face, pointing excitedly at the picture of the zombie on the page of the Tales From the Crypt comic. The zombie was oozing from every surface. Guts spilled from between exposed bones in the zombie's ribcage in pink and red globs, and Richie loved the disgustingness of it. "Isn't that just great!" Richie himself thought it was fantastic, but Eddie looked like his mind was somewhere else. 

Richie plopped down on the bed beside his friend, tossing the comic aside. He cleared his throat and spoke in his best old lady voice, mimicking the way the old lady who sometimes yelled at him for riding his bike over her grass sounded. "Alright, talk to Granny, Eddie Spaghetti, what's going on? Why are you being so quiet? Afraid the big bad zombie is going to climb right off this page and eat you up?" Richie grinned at Eddie, proud of his perfect impression, but his grin faded. It was no fun if Eddie didn't laugh like he usually did. "What's wrong Eds?" he asked in his normal voice. 

Eddie sighed, looking away, out the window. "Sorry, he said. It's a great comic, that zombie really is fantastic." Eddie paused, again staring out the window. It was dark outside, so there was nothing to see except the stars and the abandoned sidewalk across the street. Richie suddenly realized why the zombie disturbed Eddie so much. 

The leper. Eddie must still be thinking about that stupid leper. Richie felt a swell of anger. If he could, he would knock that stupid old hobo across his disgusting, rotten head.

"Look Eds." 

"Don't call me Eds, you know how I hate it." 

"Whatever Eddie Spaghetti." Eddie rolled his eyes, but stayed quiet this time, waiting for Richie to continue. "The leper isn't going to get you." 

"How do you know?" 

"I just know my good boy," Richie was now speaking in a British guy voice. He didn't really know how a British guy applied to the situation, but it sure was nice to be somebody else when he had no clue what to say. "I abso-positive-o-lutely guarantee it! I'll swear on it. That leper is gone. He's out of town picking lemons and limes down in Florida or someplace, and blowing some other, much better-looking kid! He's surely forgotten all about the skinny little boy with asthma that wouldn't even give him a dime for a blowjob!" 

To Richie's relief, he got a small grin out of Eddie. He grinned back, proud of himself. Boy, that was one thing he could do! He wasn't much of a leader like Bill, but he could usually get a smile out of his friends even when they were feeling down, even when they were scared, even when they were scared out of their minds as Eddie seemed to be of that leper. 

The lamp across from them gave the room a warm glow. Richie had hurriedly tossed a bunch of clothes and stuff into the closet when they got upstairs and stacked his school stuff in a pile that he liked to pretend looked sort of neat. He yawned. He wasn't sure what time it was, but it had to be late, well past midnight. Eddie yawned as well, and lay back, plopping his head on the pillow. 

Richie got up to put the comic away before turning back towards the bed. He tried to hide his alarm when he saw that the pillow around Eddie's messy brown hair was stained red. Clearly, he did not do a good job of hiding his alarm, because Eddie sat up fast, looking scared. 

"What's wrong-" Eddie started to ask before looking down and seeing the blood stain. "Shit, I'm sorry!" he said. "I didn't realize I was still bleeding! You really made me bump my head bad earlier you dick!" Despite his words, there was no anger in Eddie's voice. 

"No, you're not," Richie said, coming over to assess the damage. There was only a little blood on the pillow. "It's just from your hair. If you were still bleeding it would be worse. Okay uh, let me think." He thought fast. "Here," he fumbled in one of his drawers and pulled out an already blood-stained T-shirt, handing it to Eddie. "Just put this under your head." 

Eddie held the shirt gingerly between his index finger and thumb, eyeing it with some suspision. 

"Cripes Eddie, you don't think I have leprosy do you?" Richie said with some indignation. "It's clean I just couldn't get the stains out." 

"What the hell happened?" Eddie asked, still eyeing the shirt like it might bite him. 

"What the hell do you think?" Richie muttered. "Henry Bowers and his goons. One day after school. It's nothing. It was a while ago. Just use the shirt to make sure you don't get any more blood on my pillow, would you?" 

"Yeah," Eddie said, putting the shirt on the pillow. Richie headed for the door. 

"Where are you going?" Eddie asked sleepily. 

"To get a sleeping bag from the basement since you decided to hog my bed, you little shit," Richie said and left the room. 

The hall was very empty, and there seemed to be a lot of shadows that he couldn't place the sources of. Don't be a baby, he told himself. They're just shadows, Richie, not clowns or mummies or lepers. Because you didn't see any of that. Now, why's that, do you suppose? Hm? Why did everyone in the gang but you see something? 

Richie tiptoed down the hall, not wanting to wake his parents. He didn't think they would say much, but suppose they went in to check on Eddie and noticed the blood? He couldn't have them calling up Mrs. Kaspbrak. He doubted it would happen, but it was a risk he was not willing to take. 

He made his way down the stairs, and to his horror, he sensed something prowling behind him as he walked. 

A monster. It's a monster! It's a monster and it's coming for me! Oh god, it's going to kill me! Richie thought, hopelessly. 

He could smell It. It smelled like a dog's breath, but worse, with hints of blood. He couldn't make himself look back, he just couldn't do it. He heard a creak on the steps, and before he could think it over or look back, he was hurtling down at full speed, all thoughts of waking his parents gone. 

He rushed through the big empty living room and pressed himself against a wall. He looked around, and there was nothing. It was just his imagination. 

That's what he called being a baby! What a scaredy cat! Look at Richie Tozier, afraid of an odd smell and a creaking step! Monsters aren't real, Richie, said a voice in his head that wasn't quite his own but certainly wasn't one of his fun impressions, monsters aren't real and even if they were they wouldn't pay any attention to a waste like you! 

He shook off the unwelcome thoughts and made his way down the hall to the basement door. He opened it up and looked down the steps. Each step had a space between and Richie was faced with the horrible idea that someone (something) was down there and if he took a step down the stairs, it would grab his ankle and yank him down. His heart was racing in his chest. 

He took a deep breath and began walking down the steps. He froze when he saw what was at the bottom. It was his father, but it wasn't really his father. Richie could tell that something was very wrong. 

"Dad?" he asked, hesitantly. 

It was his dad's face, but the eyes were wrong. His dad had brown eyes, like him, and these eyes were bright, piercing blue. Also, his skin was too pale, and it looked almost crusty. The most off-putting part was that his dad was wearing something Mr. Tozier would never in a million years have worn. It was a silver clown suit with orange buttons. 

"Hi-ya Richie!" Richie gulped. That sure wasn't his dad's voice. It was a high and wavering, spooky voice that sent shivers down his spine. It was a clown's voice. Richie got the idea the voice was supposed to be silly, but he sure as hell wasn't laughing. It was a horrible voice, a voice Richie wished he had never heard and hoped to never hear again. 

"What are you?" he asked, staring down the stairs at the thing in the shadows that was not his dad. 

He wanted to bolt, but it was as if his legs had turned to cement. He couldn't seem to move, let alone run. He could feel cold strands of sweat running down his forehead. 

"What do you mean? You know me, Richie! Geez! You've known me your whole life. What's gotten into you, son?" This time it was his dad's voice, and Richie wished immediately that it would go back to the clown voice. 

"Come on down! Don't you want to play? I've got balloons, Richie! I've got lots of balloons!" The dad-thing began to pull balloons out from behind him. there was an illogical amount of balloons back there, way more than could have possibly fit behind one man. 

There were red balloons, and pink balloons, and green, and yellow, and purple. First, the dad-thing was holding handfuls of strings, and they were drifting towards Richie. Then, there were so many balloons Richie couldn't even see the dad-thing. The basement was filling up with balloons, and they were starting to drift up the steps towards Richie. 

"Come on Richie! You know you want one! They float! Isn't that neat? If you come down here, you'll float too!"

For a horrible moment, Richie wanted to reach for a balloon. For reasons he couldn't explain, he wanted to grab a balloon and run down there, and see if it were true that he would float. He wanted to float through the air like a balloon and - 

"And nothing," he muttered out loud, and finally got his shit together and bolted. 

He ran through the living room and up the stairs and back to his room without pausing. 

He wanted to float!? What was that bullshit? Hell no. He must have been taken over by temporary insanity. 

Richie didn't stop until he was back inside his bedroom with the door shut and locked behind him, panting heavily, his heart pounding with the intensity of a thousand drum players having a rehearsal in his chest. 

"What's wrong?" asked Eddie, now wide awake and sitting up in bed. 

"I saw It," Richie said and burst into tears. 

He ran over to the bed and buried his face in the pillow, sobbing. He realized in the midst of his sobs that he had never cried in front of the other guys except when he got beat up by Henry Bowers, and those were a different kind of tears. Maybe. Maybe they weren't. After all, those too were tears of defeat and fear and shame. Richie couldn't stop. He kept thinking about his idiotic ass had almost reached for one of those balloons like a dummy victim in a horror flick. 

"Hey," Eddie was rubbing his back. "It's okay. Just take a deep breath or it'll be you having an asthma attack!" Eddie forced a shrill laugh. 

"It's a good thing you're not the funny one," Richie muttered, sitting up and leaning against the wall. "You suck at it." He gave Eddie a forced grin, which Eddie didn't return. 

"Just tell me what happened," Eddie said. 

And Richie told him. He started crying again in the retelling of the story, describing how first he had imagined a monster chasing him down the steps. He stumbled when he got to the part about the monster being his dad, and Eddie's face darkened. 

When Richie was finished, Eddie just hugged him, and he leaned his head on his friend's shoulder for a moment. When Eddie let go he felt a sense of loss. He had felt like the monster was in another world when Eddie was hugging him like it surely couldn't get him if he was in Eddie's arms. 

"Anyway," he said, trying to hide his thoughts from his friend. "I couldn't get a sleeping bag, uh, obviously." 

"I mean it's your bed," Eddie said. "And if it weren't for you I'd be spending the night in the emergency room because of a stupid bump on my head." 

"We can share the bed," Richie said. "No homo, of course." 

Eddie rolled his eyes, and lay down, resting his head on the blood-stained shirt Richie had given him. Richie got up and turned out the light. There was a pause. Richie could just feel Eddie's nervous energy going crazy, or maybe it was his own nerves, he couldn't tell. Either way, he turned the light back on before climbing into bed and pulling the blanket over both of them. 

"Hey Richie," Eddie said after a bit. 

"Yeah?" 

"Why did you think the monster showed itself to you as your dad?" 

"I don't know," Richie rolled over to look at him. "Maybe it was my dad. Maybe he was just getting off a good one." Eddie gave him a look. "Okay that doesn't seem too likely does it?" 

"Are you scared of your dad?" 

"What?" 

"I mean It showed up to Ben as a mummy, he must be scared of the mummy, and it showed up to Bill as his little brother's ghost, that's obviously pretty scary. We both know why it showed up as a leper for me. So why did the monster show up as your dad?" 

"Well jee Doctor Kaspbrak," Richie said, in a timid voice, a shaking voice, which he meant to be a mental patient. As soon as he started doing this voice, he found that he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. It sounded much too much like himself. It was too late to stop though. "I don't know. Aren't you going to ask me how it made me feel?" 

"Fine," Eddie said, annoyed, rolling over. "I won't ask." 

"Oh come on," Richie muttered in his regular voice, glad to be rid of the mental patient voice and vowing not to use that one again. "Look Eds, I've really got no idea why it showed up that way." 

But he did know, didn't he? 

Dad, look at this, I scored a hundred percent on this math test! Look it! Look! My team won the soccer tournament in gym class! Dad! Hey! Pay attention, would you? 

Richie squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to think anymore tonight. He hoped Eddie was serious when he said he wouldn't ask anymore because he didn't want to talk anymore, for once. Yeah for once Richie Tozier was about ready to stop talking and just be quiet, just shut the fuck up as everyone was always telling him to do. 

"Eddie?" But boy oh boy it didn't matter how much he wanted to shut the fuck up because he couldn't do it, that was one thing he sure couldn't do. 

"Yeah?" 

"Since we're playing shrink, what did you mean when you said we both knew why the leper appeared to you?" 

"Huh?" 

"You said," he imitated Eddie's high voice as best he could "We both know why It showed up as a leper for me." 

"Did I?" Eddie mumbled, sleepy. Then, after a moment, "Don't imitate me, Richie. Goodnight." 

"Hey," Richie shook Eddie's shoulder. "Talk to me or I'll start tickling," Eddie grumbled but turned around to face him. 

"You already know I hate germs. The leper was like a walking infection." 

"It's a little more than that, though, huh?" Richie asked. "Isn't it?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"I don't know," Richie said. This was half true. "Duh you're afraid of disease, but I mean, what else scares you?" They were very close. 

Richie was not at all expecting what happened next. 

Eddie leaned in and kissed him, and in that moment he felt like there really were no such things as monsters as if he were the most important person in the whole world, and as if he and Eddie were only two people on the planet. It was the best feeling he'd ever had. 

Eddie stared at him, wide-eyed, and Richie stared back, his face growing hot. 

For once in his life, Richie Tozier was absolutely speechless. 

Weeks later though, Richie would say to Eddie that during their first kiss he had realized that maybe it didn't matter what scared them or why as long as they knew what made the fears go away. 

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

A/N: I’m not gonna lie I’m thirsty for validation + I want to make sure anyone who was interested in reading part 2 knows there is one so I’m gonna tag people I remember being interested in part 1. 

If you didn’t wanna be tagged I’m sorry don’t feel any pressure to read and if you want, just ask not to be tagged in the future and you won’t be

aNyWaY

@skeletontozier  @mechanicalhabits @hair-fiber @punkpisces00 @evalocity

Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read my writing, hopefully, it turned out alright <3 I am not far enough in my re-read to be sure if I’m getting everything right, sorry if this isn’t exactly canon compliant 

[jugandbettsdetectiveagency]

The Serpent and The Swan - Ch.1

After expecting a marriage to Prince Archibald, Princess Elizabeth is shocked to hear of her new match to Prince Forsythe - a Serpent. What begins as a less than ideal match soon turns into something quite different, but nothing is ever as it seems when it comes to royalty.

Back at it again with a new multi chapter! I don’t know how frequent updates will be for this one, so bear with me, and I hope you enjoy! Sorry mobile readers, I had to put it under a cut <3

Read on AO3

“Elizabeth, where are you?”

Those four words haunted her – day in, day out. If not those it was something similar. Elizabeth, you have to come here. Elizabeth, you can’t wear that for dinner. Elizabeth, please stop doing that. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth. She was so tired of the sound the name made as it rang out through the castle. She had enjoyed, however, the tone her sister, Polly, used as she said it in mocking, causing her to hide her giggle behind her hand before their mother caught them.

Polly. Thoughts of her sister clouded her mind as she walked past the tightly locked door that led to her sister’s quarters. Or, more accurately, what used to be her sister’s quarters. Defiled and disgraced, Polly had been banished from the castle, disowned by the Cooper faction as an example of where ill morals would lead you if you let them.

Betty scoffed. She didn’t see Polly’s dismissal from court as a punishment. No, Polly had succeeded in getting what Betty knew that she herself would never manage to obtain – freedom. When she could Polly wrote to her sister, telling Betty tales of her life as the wife of a farmer on the outskirts of the Andrews’ faction, happily set on bedrest, making garments for her future babe while her doting husband worked tirelessly to provide for them all. Betty was aware that fairy tales usually involved princes and princesses, but to her Polly’s current affair sounded like the stuff of romance, like those that filled the pages of the books that littered her well-loved library. There had been a few close calls when she was certain that Alice, their mother, had intercepted their letters, but she still prayed that Polly never stopped sending them; they were her only link to the outside world, to a life of normalcy.

“Elizabeth!” The shout had taken on a firmer edge now, echoing off the stone walls that closed in on her. Betty quickened her pace, hurrying towards the Throne Room to avoid further scolding.

“Yes, Mother?” she asked, not until after curtseying before the throne her father, King Henry, sat upon, gazing down at her from the raised platform with careful, guarded eyes. The blue in his eyes always held more warmth than that of Queen Alice’s, she’d thought; where his were the still, shallow waters of a warm harbour, her mother’s eyes were the icy glaciers that shrouded the freezing islands of the South, relentless and unforgiving.

“I’ve been calling you,” Alice replied, ignoring Betty’s question. She did her best not to sigh.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I was in the library with Mistress Geraldine,” she offered by way of explanation, hoping the mention of her tutor would satisfy her mother’s complaints. The queen pursed her lips tightly, the lines of aging that surrounded them becoming more pronounced with the action.

“Elizabeth, we have news for you. Regarding your impending marriage,” Alice continued on in a sterile tone, clearly moving past her accusations of tardiness. Betty straightened at that, curious as to what she could mean.

“But I thought Archie– Prince Archibald,” she stammered, “was engaged to be married to Princess Veronica?” Betty questioned with a furrowed brow, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

She still couldn’t deny the pang of longing that sparked in her chest at the image his name conjured. With his classically handsome face and beautiful copper hair, every inch as charming as he was beautiful, Prince Archibald Andrews was the dream husband for any girl, princess or not. Betty had always believed herself to be lucky, watching with barely concealed glee as many of their acquaintances shot them jealous looks as they walked together, be it at a ball or around the castle gardens.

Their match had been decided at a young age, an alliance between the Coopers and the Andrews deemed to be nothing but beneficial for all involved. Archie and Betty had grown up in close neighbouring factions, the split in their kingdoms barely noticeable as their families ruled so close together. He was the perfect gentleman, she the adoring courtee. Far cry from the days in which the prince used to pull her pigtails and threaten to feed her to the (imaginary) sharks that occupied the castle’s moat, her early teenage years spent with Archie were filled with shy, unfamiliar exploration, and wide eyed glances at each other across the dinner table.

He’d been her first kiss, too. Beneath a shadowed alcove behind one of the marble pillars in the Great Hall, Archie had cupped her flushed cheek with his gentle hand and pressed his cool lips to hers in a simple, yet thrilling, kiss. She could still feel the pressure if she thought hard enough about it.

Betty thought their marriage was imminent, having no reason to assume otherwise. That was until Archie’s courting trips became few and far between as the weeks passed. He became distant and aloof, rarely meeting her eye as she tried desperately to keep his affections for her growing. It was the first time she’d been truly upset with Polly for following her heart instead of her duty, believing that it was the scandal that was potentially ruining her future happiness as Elizabeth Andrews.

She wanted to scream with frustration every time the heavy oak doors were closed on her prying eyes and attentive ears, watching as her parents sat with solemn faces opposite King Frederick and Queen Mary, their grave countenance extinguishing the last little candle of hope that tried to burn, despite the lack of oxygen as she bit her tongue, in Betty’s tight chest.

It was at the May Festival, this year held within the boundaries of the Andrews’ land, when any hope that Betty had left dwindled to nought. She had been frantically searching the crowds for a flash of brilliant red, amidst the vivid creams and pinks and greens of the decorations. Her speech ran through her head on repeat, perfectly rehearsed and ready to assure Archie that Polly’s indiscretion meant nothing in the face of the love they shared; they could make their parents and their people understand this. His buoyant laugh caused her to turn, breath catching in her throat as she hurried towards the sound, only to be stopped in her tracks upon seeing the source of her betrothed’s joy.

Princess Veronica was the epitome of desire. With narrowed, knowing eyes and sleek, ebony hair, Betty could understand why the Lodge’s crest featured a Raven. She was confident and enticing, clothed in rich purples where Betty had the colour of fresh peonies draped over her delicate frame. Betty had heard countless stories of dukes and lords who had fallen under the spell of Her Royal Highness, convinced that they could be the one to tame her – but they all left, dejected and humiliated once she’d had her fun.

And here she was, sinking her talons into her affianced, her Archie. Betty stumbled towards the pair, cheeks flaming, as she prepared to demand an explanation of the girl. Her joints locked as she watched Archie dip lower to whisper in Veronica’s ear, his hand slipping discreetly lower from her waist to her hip, a flush of desire gracing both of their faces. The pair locked eyes, tension palpable between their gazes, before lacing their hands and disappearing into the castle.

Betty had been sure she was heartbroken when her parents informed her of Polly’s betrayal, and that she was forbidden from entering the castle henceforth. But this feeling was something entirely new, never before experienced by her tender, young heart. Betty pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could stop the organ falling out from beneath her breast as a deep-rooted pain sprung from within. She would never find a love like this again, not as long as she lived.

The princess felt the hot sting of tears readying for descent at the corners of her eyes. Before the flood could release she caught sight of her mother across the courtyard. The subtle, yet pointed, shake of the queen’s head made the moisture freeze, fingernails biting into her palms as she willed the emotions down and replaced the trembling in her lips with a bright smile as a lord asked for her hand in the next dance.

The engagement of Prince Archibald and Princess Veronica was announced soon after.

“He is. In fact, the wedding has already taken place.” Betty wished she could cry, but even if she wasn’t before her mother there were no tears left, the last of them still drying on the white lace of her pillow. She clenched her fists instead. “We didn’t think you’d want to attend, we told them you’d taken ill with a fever,” Alice informed her with a casual wave of her hand. Betty nodded, pressing her lips together tightly.

“We are talking of your new impending marriage; to the prince of the Serpent faction,” Alice said quickly, having the appropriate amount of guilt not to be able to meet her daughter’s wide eyes.

“The Serpents?! But, Mother, you can’t–” Betty began to protest, taking a hesitant step towards the plinth. Her father’s stern voice cut through her complaints.

“This is not a discussion, Elizabeth. I have spoken with King Forsythe and mutually decided that a match between you and his son would be most beneficial,” he told her, watching as her shock turned to anger.

“How can you say that?” Betty wept, resisting the urge to stomp her foot. The King sighed, leaning back in his throne as he steepled his fingers against the bridge of his nose, shutting out the sight of his distressed daughter. “The Serpents have the worst reputation amongst all the factions, everyone knows they’re dangerous.”

“Silly rumours. They have ample wealth and have offered to take you as their future queen for less than half of the dowry the Andrews required of us. Consider yourself lucky, Elizabeth,” her father reasoned.

“The only reason they have such wealth is because they pilfer and cheat and lie, and no one really knows how they do it!” she cried, an uncomfortable prickle crawling along the back of her neck as she felt her defence slipping. She was backed into a corner, especially after Polly, and there was no way to argue herself out.

“Enough, Elizabeth!” Alice’s sharp voice cut the air. “The deal has been done, arrangements made. We are to host the ball for the Summer Solstice this June, where you shall be introduced to your future husband. You will be demure, and charming, and the picture of grace when you do. You shall be accommodating and alluring while the prince continues his stay with us, and then you shall be thankful and gracious when you take your turn to stay at Castle Fosse.” Betty’s eyes, that had been downcast during her admonishment, snapped up at this revelation, the shattering crystal pleading. “Do you understand?”

“Mother, please,” she whispered, voice thick and quivering. She knew that sympathy was not one of Queen Alice’s well known traits, but she hoped beyond anything that after the train of events that had hit her and her family these past months that her mother could find it within herself to soften at the cries of her youngest daughter.

“Do you understand?” Alice repeated, using the tone she employed only when commanding her people. Betty shrunk back, ducking her head once more as she pulled in a sharp breath. She nodded, not trusting her voice beyond a high-pitched “yes”, before waiting for dismissal.

“You may go, Betty,” the softer voice of her father came. She didn’t look at either of them as she turned on her heel and fled from the chamber, hand clasped tightly over her mouth to muffle her sobs.

The King sighed as he watched the retreating figure of the daughter he was most fond of crumple beneath their demands.

“Don’t you think you were a little harsh with her, Alice?” he asked, tilting his head towards his wife. Alice shifted her steely gaze to him.

“None of this would be happening if you hadn’t invested all our assets into that pit of sinking land that has given us nothing but barren soil as a return, Hal. It wouldn’t have happened if you’d been able to keep hold of the Andrews match – seventeen years in the making, and gone in a matter of weeks!” Hal dropped his eyes from Alice’s face as it began to flush in distaste. He let out a humourless laugh that made Alice bristle.

“You talk as if part of that wasn’t due to you giving almost all of our savings – most of our dowry for Betty – away to that scoundrel in exchange for him to ‘run away’ with Polly,” Hal spat back at her, making little attempt to conceal the venom in his voice. Alice stared straight ahead at his accusations.

She wouldn’t deny what she had done, it was too late for that. What she wouldn’t divulge, however, were the motives behind her payment to Polly’s beloved.

“It is too late to speak of such matters,” Alice said evenly, rising elegantly from her seat. She caught sight of Betty’s handmaiden, Ethel, hurrying past the entranceway.

“Ethel!” she yelled, spooking the delicate girl with the residual heat in her tone.

“Your Majesty?” the girl curtseyed, hurrying to oblige.

“Tell Princess Elizabeth she has a fitting with Master Kevin for her Solstice gown this afternoon. And I want you in attendance at all times, even if she tries to dismiss you,” she added as an afterthought, sweeping past the maid and out of the hall.

***

Betty flung herself onto her bed, arms wrapping around her pillow as she buried her face and wept.

It was all so unfair. She couldn’t believe her parents would agree to a match as utterly horrific as the one they were proposing. Everybody across all five factions knew of the Serpents’ reputation. They were thieves, criminals, who took anything they wanted, whenever they wanted, no matter the consequences. If their lands weren’t so far south, where the winds began to change for the worst, many of the more northerly armies unaccustomed to such harsh winters, Betty was sure that the more diligent factions would have already sent troops to try and reprehend King Forsythe II and his band of crooks. Luckily, they also tended to keep to their lands and the surrounding areas, never caught in attendance at any of the festivities hosted on the Northside of the lands.

Until now, she thought bitterly.

The ball for the Summer Solstice had always been one of Betty’s favourite occasions. She loved the sweet summer fruit wines, in which she would always dip her slice of dense barmbrack before her mother noticed and chastised her for her table manners, the thick loaf soaking up the juices as the flavour burst along with the sultanas across her tongue. The gardens would be decorated with the most extensive collection of torches and candles, weaved throughout the rose bushes and oak trees. She enjoyed decorating the paper lanterns with the children of the village, and picking out opulent red and gold fabrics for the table runners. The scent of fully bloomed flowers always hung heavily in the air as the night wore on, guests merry and drunk on a mixture of alcohol and heat, dancing until the early morning rays shone over the turrets.

This year her festival was ruined. Of all the things that had been taken away from her, this was just another thing that Betty could add to the list. She wasn’t sure what she had done in a past life to be so utterly miserable now, but it must have been truly wicked.

A soft mewl had her pulling back from the downy bedding beneath her, sniffling inconsolably as she wiped her fingers under her eyes. Her soft, ginger cat – Caramel – had leapt onto her balcony, coming in from the bright afternoon light and peering around the wide open shutters in search of his owner.

“Oh, Caramel,” Betty crooned, patting the covers as a signal for the tabby to come to her. He did, slinking around her outstretched hand as she ran her fingers through his fur and scratched behind his ears, eliciting a contented purr. “You always know when to comfort me,” she murmured, allowing herself a small smile as the animal nestled closer to her.

A timid knock pulled her out of her stupor, Betty quickly standing up from her place atop the bedspread and straightening her skirts, clearing her throat quietly before she called out. “Come in!” The door creaked open to reveal Ethel, the dowdy, unsure girl already looking apologetic for the intrusion. “It’s alright, Ethel, you can come in,” Betty smiled in an attempt to ease the girl; she always made it her mission to make the staff feels as comfortable as possible during their time inside the cold castle walls. She knew how unsettling it could be in there.

“Pardon the intrusion, Your Highness,” Ethel began, clasping her hands tightly in front of her and averting her eyes. “Queen Alice said you were to attend a fitting with Master Kevin for your Solstice gown this afternoon.” Betty brightened at the information, always fond of the time she was allowed to spend with Kevin.

The castle tailor was the closest she had to a best friend, especially since Polly left. He was blunt, and a little bit crass, unafraid to speak his mind and forever getting into trouble for it. He had the ability to make her laugh and, most importantly, he always treated her as just another human, just Betty.

She straightened her shoulders, adjusting her features into a pretty smile despite her puffy eyes and dampened cheeks.

“Thank you,” Betty replied, laying an affectionate hand on the girl’s shoulder as she made to pass her by.

“Also, your mother insisted I stay in the room with you, even if you ask me to leave,” she told the princess, cheeks flushing. Betty sighed. She knew that if Kevin wasn’t the most coveted tailor in all the factions Alice would have dismissed him long ago. She was less than fond of the potential corruption his unrestrained topics of conversation could have on the young princess, and would do anything aside from physically being in the room to make sure she knew what was being discussed. Betty leant closer to Ethel, casting an exaggerated glance at the doorway to make sure no one was walking by.

“Tell you what, why don’t you take a much deserved break here in my chambers,” Betty began, hurrying to continue as Ethel started to protest. “No one comes in here during this time of day, and if they do you can hide behind that partition until they leave.”

“I can’t afford to get into trouble, Your Highness,” the maid worried, glancing nervously around the room.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Betty whispered with a mischievous grin. She pointed over to Caramel. “If anyone does find you, tell them you are looking after Caramel by specific instruction from the princess herself,” Betty told her in her grandest voice. Ethel giggled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Alright?”

“Alright,” she conceded, walking over to pat the cat’s head gingerly.

***

“Princess Elizabeth, looking as divine as ever,” Kevin said, looking up from whatever garment he was working on as she entered. Betty threw him a wry smile, knowing her face must be blotchy and swollen from her earlier upset.

“And you’re just as charming, Kevin,” she replied, running her hand over the rolls of fabric propped against the far wall, fingers brushing over an array of lace, velvet, chiffon and satin.

“Why so glum, fair maiden?” Kevin asked, settling his hands firmly on top of his desk, appraising her with a tilted head.

Betty sighed, shaking her head as she filled him in on the day’s events. Somewhere during her tale, Kevin had manoeuvred Betty onto the pedestal in the centre of the room, twisting and lifting her limbs this way and that after he pulled the tape measure from around his neck, jotting down the readings in a tiny leather-bound notebook.

“My, what a life you lead. It’s simply riveting!” Kevin lamented, having the grace to pause in his task and offer the young girl an apologetic smile. Betty wrapped her arms around her waist, only to stretch them out again when Kevin tapped her forearm with a cluck of his tongue.

“Only to someone not living it,” Betty murmured, gaze drifting to the large, open window taking up most of one wall in Kevin’s workroom. He’d been lucky enough to receive the Blue Room upon his induction into the castle, the abundance of space and natural lighting being ideal for his work. From her spot on the pedestal Betty could see the rolling hills of the Cooper faction stretching out before her, leading down to the endless ocean that seemed to call her name with each crashing wave. A bird squawked as it soared about the castle, gliding gracefully into the distance clouds. Betty followed it with her eyes until it could be seen no more; the Cooper crest may have been a Swan, but she would never have the freedom of such birds. Standing on this raised plinth, forced to stay still under Kevin’s nimble fingers, while looking longingly towards a horizon she would never reach, Betty thought that this was a laughably accurate depiction of her life.

“…have you met him before?” Kevin’s voice drifted back into her ears.

“Hmm?” she asked, still dazed.

“Your new betrothed? Have you ever met?” he asked again, ushering her behind a partition to change into the half-finished garment he had already begun to make for the festival. She slipped off her skirts and slid into the material, a lightweight lavender satin, careful to avoid the pins that held the cream lace trim in place.

“No,” she replied, emerging and taking her place on the platform once more with the help of Kevin’s hand, lifting her hem. “And I would have been happy never to meet him as long as I should live,” she added sullenly, her lower lip protruding in what she knew was a childish pout. Kevin’s hearty laugh rung out across the room, only serving to deepen her frown.

“My sweet, young princess,” he cooed, one hand on his chin, the other resting on his elbow, as he appraised her dress. “How can you be so sure it is all as bad as it seems?” he asked, tucking some of the fabric in around her slight waist. Betty huffed, moving her arms out of the way.

“Because he’s a Serpent, Kevin,” she said as if it were obvious.

“And you’re a Swan,” he replied, still busying himself with adjustments. The statement took her aback, not sure what to say to that. At her stunned silence he continued. “I’m sure a boy straight from the snake’s pit is just as unhappy about being sent to marry a girl this far north. You’ll find that the two of you already have a lot in common,” he reasoned, coming back round to stand in front of her. Betty opened and closed her mouth, remaining wordless for a moment.

“It… It’s not the same for him,” she whined, looking at her feet, scuffing her perfectly painted toenails against the wood beneath her. She hadn’t yet stopped to take a moment and consider what it must be like for Prince Forsythe. Still, she was not the one coming from an utterly corrupt faction, was she?

“Maybe. You’ll have to ask him when he arrives,” Kevin suggested with a knowing smile. Betty blushed beneath his gaze. She was being presumptuous and judgemental, but everything felt so unfair she still couldn’t quite bring herself to be apologetic yet.

Kevin sighed and shook his head, regarding the dress one more time.

“Something is just not quite right,” he lamented, coming forward to tug at the modest neckline, where it crossed tightly over Betty’s bust. She looked down at the garment, deciding it was very ‘her’. She shrugged lightly.

“I think it’s fine,” she told him, not nearly as excited by the prospect of dressing up for Summer Solstice, not now she was apparently engaged to a stranger and Archie was already married to his new love.

“Rip my heart out why don’t you, Betty,” Kevin said in mock offense, clutching at his chest. “Fine will not do, it will not do at all. Not when you’re meeting your future husband. It should be spectacular, attention grabbing. It should be… lower,” he finished coyly, tucking more of the fabric away. Betty looked up at him with wide eyes, certain that her mother would most definitely disapprove of his decision.

[actuallymollyweasley]

kids of the in-between: ch. 14

aka “Ticking Backwards”

Honestly, you’re all amazing for being so patient all this time, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait! Managed to finish just in time to celebrate the end of the beauty that was Pynch Week haha. Feel free to ask to be tagged in future updates if you want!

Read all parts: on tumblr | on ao3

One second, Adam was highlighting his calculus lecture notes from last week in an effort to try and remember how the hell he was supposed to answer the questions in his problem set. The next second, Blue Sargent had somehow managed to snatch up his notebook and highlighter, toss them onto his bed, and perch herself on his desk, all in a single motion. She then proceeded to smile at him as if this was completely normal.

(Although Adam supposed that because Blue Sargent was involved, it kind of was.)

“Hello, Adam.”

Adam narrowed his eyes. She was using her customer-service voice, the one that managed to convey I'm running on two hours of sleep so you can be polite to me or die just by the way she shaped her vowels. “Blue. What do you want?”

“Can’t I just want to talk to my best friend, whom I love dearly and never see anymore?”

“You can,” Adam said. “But you generally do that from your own desk, not mine. Also, it's not my fault that you've only slept in your own bed three times in the last week.”

“Adam!”

Blush was an interesting color on Blue. It clashed rather horribly with the neon green streak Noah had dyed in her hair the other day—but the neon green streak also clashed horribly with her ripped purple overalls, so maybe it all balanced out in the end.

“I'm just saying,” Adam continued, “don't try to pass all the blame off on my double shift and weird boyfriend.”

To his surprise, that statement made Blue eye him carefully. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”

“The double shift?”

“The weird boyfriend, you idiot.”

“Could have gone either way,” Adam argued, although he couldn't quite keep the corners of his mouth from twitching. “What about him?”

Blue snagged one of his pens and started doodling on her overalls, as if owning ripped purple overalls wasn't anti-establishment enough already. “How are things going between you two? Since your… since that phone call?”

“They're good,” Adam said, and was surprised to find that for once in his life, he actually meant it. Good wasn't something he came across very often.

Blue drew a suspicious smiley face on her overalls. It sported a single raised eyebrow and a curled mouth and a judgmental stare that pointed directly at Adam. “So no problems at all?”

“I said good, not perfect.”

After all, Ronan had blown into this very dorm room yesterday morning to show Adam a caricatured painting of Gansey that he'd created using Gansey's sleeping face as a model. Adam had been working at his desk with his deaf ear pointed toward the door and all his focus directed toward his assignments. When Ronan had let the door slam shut behind the tail end of his hurricane, Adam had flinched. It had been instinctive, and unavoidable, and had nothing to do with Ronan himself, and he had still freaked out and left and refused to talk to Adam for the next several hours out of misplaced guilt.

So they were working on it.

But that was good too. It was nice to work for something that Adam actually thought he could get.

“There's already too much perfect in our friend group,” he continued. “Henry and Noah never even frown at each other, and don't think I didn't notice that Gansey’s wearing a lavender polo shirt today.”

“Coincidence,” Blue insisted.

“You guys matched outfits,” Adam replied, unrepentant. “Ronan and I have to have disagreements just to balance out the rest of you.”

“That's a terrible reason to have a fight.”

“You yell at Gansey for wearing boat shoes every day just to keep up your three-week streak.”

“This conversation isn't about me and Gansey.”

“The thing about a conversation,” Adam said, “is that you shouldn't start one if you don't want it to go both ways. Why are you suddenly asking about Ronan?”

At that, Blue finally looked up from the drawings on her overalls, rolling Adam’s pen between her palm and the desk. “I just… Are you sure you want to stay here for Thanksgiving instead of coming home with me? Because I know that you don't want to cause issues with money, but you know my mom always cooks too much food anyway, and you really wouldn't be imposing and my baby cousins would love to see you and I don't want you to have Thanksgiving with Ronan just because you don't think you have any other options.”

“Oh, Blue.” Adam reached out, rolled the pen out from under Blue’s hand, and started drawing. “I'm staying here for a lot of reasons. One reason is that I don't want to go back to Henrietta so soon after telling my father that I don't need to.”

“But Adam,” Blue protested, “you shouldn't—”

“Another,” Adam continued pointedly, “is that Calla always looks at me like I'm either going to destroy the house or fall down dead at any moment, just because she knows I notice when she's doing it. Also, your mom always burns the turkey, and Ronan has never actually burned anything that he's cooked in front of me. Not to mention that I genuinely like Ronan and am looking forward to making out with him over break. I'm pretty sure all of those are valid reasons. Do you disagree?”

Blue looked at him, blinked, looked down at the vines now twisting across the hem of her overalls, and sighed. “No. I just had to make sure I didn't need to beat Ronan up for you. And I was hoping I could convince you to come so I wouldn't have to suffer through my mom’s burnt turkey alone.”

“And the truth comes out,” Adam grinned, capping his pen. “Don’t worry about it, Blue. I'm sure Orla will show up with her husband for Thanksgiving dinner so she doesn't have to cook anything herself, and if Orla enjoys doing anything with you, it’s painting nails and complaining.”

“You got me there,” Blue said, then paused. “You realize that I'm never going to be able to wash these overalls now, right? These drawings are a symbol of our friendship and ability to have serious conversations without deflecting. I have to preserve them forever.”

“All I did was make squiggly lines,” Adam said. “If you really want something worth preserving, hand them to Ronan and give him a Sharpie.”

“He'd just write the lyrics to the Murder Squash Song across my ass.”

“Or he'd draw something really thoughtful on your front pocket and pretend Chainsaw did it.”

Blue considered that statement. “Knowing Ronan, he'd do both.” She clapped both hands on his shoulders—a distinctly Gansey gesture—and looked him in the eye. “He really is perfect for you.”

Then she hopped off his desk.

“Did you just… give me your blessing?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Isn't that Gansey’s job? Are you assigning each other parental duties now?”

“Sorry, gotta go, meeting Henry to tear holes in our clothes and drink tea from his expensive mugs.”

“Henry would never defile his vintage Madonna t-shirts and designer jeans.”

“My and Noah’s clothes,” Blue corrected. “Have fun with your calculus.”

Blue had been his best friend for over three years at this point. Adam didn't know why he kept making the mistake of attempting to understand her.

“Now, I restocked the coffee beans and cereal—and remembered to buy milk this time, before you ask,” Gansey said, glancing around the kitchen like the cabinets would help remind him of what he wanted to say. “Ronan said you two were fine to do the grocery shopping on your own, but I didn’t know if you would get a chance to go out before breakfast tomorrow so I wanted to make sure you didn’t have to worry about that. The lock on our door is still broken, so you might want to push the couch in front of it at night just in case. Declan and Matthew are welcome to stay in my room if they don’t want to book a hotel. I’m planning to return Sunday afternoon around four, but if anything happens before then, just give me a call and I can be back in three hours. In fact, if you think I might need to be here for any reason at all, say the word and I can cancel my plans. Maybe I should just call Helen right now and tell her to let Mom know that I can’t make it home for Thanksgiving after all. I’m sure she’d underst—”

“Gansey.” Adam had been planning to let Gansey tire himself out, but this was getting out of hand. “I have been self-sufficient for the last ten years. I'm pretty sure I can handle a week in the dorms, even if that week does involve Ronan.”

“Dickface,” Ronan called out from inside his room.

“Are you talking to me or Gansey?”

“Yes,” Ronan said.

Gansey’s face contorted like he wasn't sure whether to feel offended or amused. “Regardless. You'll call me if the need arises, won't you?”

“Yes, Gansey, we'll call you.” Adam pushed at Gansey's rolling suitcase with his toe, watching with satisfaction as it bounced off the kitchen cabinets and slowly rolled back. “Now go enjoy your Thanksgiving.”

“You too.” Gansey considered Adam for a moment and then held out one hand for a fistbump. It was absurd and boyish and brilliantly Gansey, and Adam accepted it with a smile tugging at his lips.

Gansey's responding grin was blinding as he reached down and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. “Ronan, I'm leaving!”

“Good fucking riddance!” Ronan replied before sticking his head out of the doorway. “Watch your shifts into second gear. That's when the Pig stalls out most often.”

Adam wouldn't have thought it possible, but Gansey's smile widened. “Thanks, Lynch,” he said, and then he was gone, and Adam and Ronan were alone.

Adam turned and raised his eyebrows at Ronan, who very purposefully turned around and retreated back into his room. Unfazed, Adam followed him. “Second gear, huh?”

“You're the mechanic,” Ronan said. “Didn't you notice?”

“Oh, I noticed,” Adam said, “but I wasn't the one who made sure that Gansey knew too.”

“Shut up,” Ronan said, and kissed him.

They'd been dating for a few weeks now, but kissing Ronan Lynch still felt like starting a wildfire. Adam had to break away before they burned down the whole dorm.

As he did, he eyed the extra sheets draped across half of Ronan's room. “When are you going to let me see what's under those?”

“When I’m fucking done with it.”

He frowned. “‘It?’ Is all of that for one art piece?”

Ronan shrugged. “Dr. Azalea.”

“But I thought you already turned in your last assignment.”

“This,” Ronan gestured vaguely, “is for my first assignment.”

Adam felt his heart collide against his ribs, a bang rather than a thump. “Happiness?”

“Yeah.” Ronan tugged the sheets more securely over his stack of canvases. “It's stupid.”

“It's not.” Adam reached out and took one of Ronan's hands in both of his, rubbing his thumbs over Ronan's knuckles. “Now come on, what are we supposed to be buying for tomorrow?”

“This was a terrible idea.” Ronan looked about five seconds away from throwing the pasta he was cooking out the window. “Adam, why the fuck did you let me cook? We should have met them for lunch somewhere. I shouldn't have let them come here in the first place. We should have driven to D.C. We should have stayed here by ourselves. Fuck, this dish is shit.”

Adam peered over Ronan’s shoulder. “Doesn't look like shit to me.” He snagged a bite of penne with a fork before Ronan could stop him. “Doesn't taste like it either.”

“It’s shit compared to my mom’s,” Ronan said, and that was startling enough to make Adam turn off the stove and take the spatula from Ronan’s slightly shaking hands. He hadn't heard Ronan mention his mother since before his father had died. Actually, he'd never heard Ronan mention his mother at all.

“Ronan.” Adam frowned at his boyfriend’s hands, trying to find the right words. He'd never been particularly skilled at offering comfort. He'd never really needed to be. “It doesn't have to taste like your mom’s to be good. I'm sure they'll love it.”

“Matthew might,” Ronan muttered. “Declan’s going to hate it.”

“He won't,” Adam insisted, but the look on Ronan's face told Adam he knew that Adam had no idea what he was talking about. He was an only child, his parents were both alive and terrible, and he had never met Declan Lynch before in his life.

“I mean it,” Adam said, not sure how he would back up that statement, and then there was a knock at the door.

Ronan tensed, gave the pasta one last stir, opened the door—and was promptly tackled by a medium-sized bundle of brightly colored clothing and hair like sunshine.

“Ronan! I've missed you so much! Your hair is so short! How is college?”

It's mostly like high school,” Ronan said, voice a little rough, “but with better friends. Are you still growing?”

“Like a weed,” came from behind Matthew’s mass of curls. “If you don't watch out, he’ll end up taller than you, Ronan.”

“Doubtful,” Ronan said, shoulders stiff but eyes still soft because Matthew had stuck his tongue out at him in response. “Are you coming inside for lunch or what?”

“Or what,” Matthew replied, although he was already passing Ronan in the doorway.

Adam hid a smile in his shirt collar.

At the same moment, Matthew caught sight of him and bounded forward like a wayward basketball, only skidding to a halt to extremely vigorously shake Adam’s hand. “Hi! I'm Matthew, Ronan’s brother. It's great to meet you! What’s your name?”

Adam’s smile froze onto his face. Had Ronan seriously not told them—

“Hello, I’m Declan Lynch, and you must be Adam Parrish.” Ronan's older brother slipped past Matthew to introduce himself. He had Ronan’s sharp cheekbones, the type of suit that a millionaire would wear for a casual evening out on his own personal yacht, and a handshake with half of Matthew's enthusiasm and twice his firmness. “Matthew, don't you retain anything Ronan says?”

“I retain the things that matter, like that he said lunch was ready,” Matthew retorted. Then he glanced at Adam. “Um, not that you don't matter, obviously. I just forgot that you were going to be here the whole time. But now I'm even more excited to meet you! Ronan’s never had a boyfriend before.”

The Lynch in question was currently glaring at the pot on the stove—probably because he couldn't bring himself to glare directly at Matthew, Adam thought with amusement. “Shut up,” Ronan said, “and grab a plate.”

“I'll shut up if you let me drink beer with lunch,” Matthew said.

“Not a fucking chance,” Ronan replied.

Adam had no way of proving it. But when he turned around to shut the front door, he was pretty sure he glimpsed a small smile on Declan’s face.

The rest of Wednesday went so well that Adam had to refrain three times from asking Ronan what he'd been so worried about. As he’d expected, Matthew had nothing but compliments to bestow on the food Ronan made, and Declan didn't mention it at all, which Ronan claimed was its own kind of silent approval. After that, they spent most of the afternoon shopping for last-minute groceries—or rather, Ronan and Declan argued about what they needed to buy while Matthew stealthily added cans of whipped cream to the shopping cart behind their backs. By the time they reached the checkout line, there were at least fifteen cans tucked between the bags of sweet potatoes and fresh green beans, but the older Lynch brothers placed each new can on the conveyor belt without a word.

Declan made dinner and spent most of the meal talking about his job.

Matthew begged Ronan for beer unsuccessfully half a dozen times.

Ronan painted all through the night, telling Adam that with a little luck, he could be finished by the end of Thanksgiving break.

And then Thursday morning came.

Adam woke up to yelling, which was both familiar and discomfiting. For a moment, he couldn’t distinguish reality from his dream about the double-wide trailer he’d grown up in. The sheets felt scratchier. The room felt smaller. He even thought he heard the sound of breaking glass.

But then Declan shouted, “And it’d be nice if you’d answer your phone every once in a while,” the polar opposite of anything Robert Parrish would have said to his son, and Adam refocused.

“It’s college,” Ronan snapped. “I’m fucking busy.”

“Oh, please, you’re an art student.” Declan’s voice was scathing. “Don’t bother pretending that you’re drowning under some heavy workload.”

Adam decided to grab a pair of sweatpants and open the door before somebody got punched.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly, doing his best to pretend that the walls weren’t paper-thin. “You’re up earlier than usual, Ronan.”

“Didn’t sleep,” Ronan growled, which Adam already knew. “I was working on an assignment for class.”

“And I’m sure it’s very pretty,” the eldest Lynch brother said. Ronan was still silently fuming behind the kitchen counter, but Declan’s expression had shifted from derisive to politely neutral the moment he caught sight of Adam. “Good morning, Adam. Would you like some coffee?”

“I’d love some,” Adam said.

“Sugar? Cream?”

“Just a little cream is fine, thanks.”

“Gross,” Ronan muttered.

“You’re gross,” Matthew said over a yawn, wandering into the hallway. “What are we talking about?”

“Coffee,” Ronan said.

“Oh, yeah. That is gross.”

Adam furrowed his eyebrows. “I thought you two were staying in a hotel room?”

(It was the type of decision he had a feeling he would never understand—in his opinion, spending money on a hotel when there was a perfectly usable bed and couch in the suite was a frivolity and a waste. But Declan had thought a hotel room would be more comfortable, and so the money was spent.)

Matthew rubbed a hand across his eyes, yawning again. “We did.”

“But Matthew said he was going to use the restroom and ‘accidentally’ went back to sleep on your friend Gansey’s bed,” Declan explained.

“Lame,” Ronan said. But this time he reached out and ruffled Matthew’s hair, so Adam figured things would be all right.

Less than an hour later, the Lynch brothers were arguing again.

“What do you think you're doing?” Declan demanded.

“Making the spice rub for the fucking turkey, like I said I was going to,” Ronan growled.

“With those spices? You're doing it completely wrong.”

“No, I'm fucking not.”

“It doesn't need sage.”

“Yes, it does.”

“How would you even know?”

“Because I actually cared about helping Mom out with Thanksgiving dinner, unlike you, and I listened when she was teaching me! It's parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, like in that fucking song, but without the parsley because who the fuck needs parsley anyway. And then if you’re not a fucking idiot, you’ll remember that it also uses salt, pepper, and garlic powder. That's what she told me.”

“Yeah? Then I'm sure she would have loved to hear you repeat it back like that.”

“Guys,” Matthew whined.

Ronan turned to him. “Matthew, you always hung around the kitchen at Thanksgiving too. Tell Declan that he's wrong.”

Matthew bit his lip, eyes darting between the two of them, and said, “I'm sorry. I don't remember how Mom made it.”

Declan and Ronan both froze for such a long moment that Adam inexplicably remembered the drawing he’d seen on Ronan’s wall the first time he ever entered his room—Declan and Matthew wrestling in the grass, Ronan perched on Niall’s back, and Aurora Lynch smiling softly in the background.

Which was worse? To have never felt the kind of love that the Lynches offered each other, or to grow up surrounded by that love, only to have it all ripped away in a single bloody morning?

Declan sighed. “Maybe it has been too long since I helped Mom in the kitchen,” he said. “Go ahead and do what you want, Ronan.”

Ronan’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edges of the mixing bowl. “Who even fucking cares about the turkey anymore?”

“I do!” The turkey was lying on the other end of the counter, so Matthew nudged it within Ronan’s reach. “Come on, Ro, I’ll help you with the turkey.”

“I can start peeling potatoes,” Adam offered.

Declan stiffened like he had forgotten Adam was there. But when he turned to face him, his smile looked unshakable. It would have been enough to make Adam question whether Ronan and Declan were actually related, except that they shared too many facial features. “That’d be great, Adam,” he said, as if tension wasn’t stretched between everyone in the room like bungee cords just waiting to snap. “But I don’t want you to feel like we have a monopoly on tonight’s menu. Do you have any family recipes you want to make?”

Adam flinched—but a quick look at the rigid lines of Ronan’s back told him that one family’s worth of drama was enough for this Thanksgiving, so he covered it by pulling the bag of potatoes closer to him. “No,” he said simply. “My parents never cared much for Thanksgiving.”

Ronan snorted, and not kindly. “You can say that again.”

Matthew looked between his siblings and Adam, frowning. “So. What are we doing for lunch?”

Lunch was an argument, as Ronan thought they would be too full to eat dinner and Declan thought he was just trying to be difficult. Cooking was an argument, as they were constantly bumping shoulders and using each other's mixing spoons and changing the oven temperature. Chainsaw flew into the kitchen at one point, looking for scraps, and that sparked yet another argument, as Declan couldn't decide which was more horrifying: that Ronan had broken the dorm’s rules to get a pet, that said pet was a raven, or that Ronan was planning on feeding her some of the leftover turkey later.

When the Lynch brothers got along, it made this too-large-for-a-couple-of-college-freshmen dorm feel like a home.

When they were fighting, it made this too-small-for-a-couple-of-angry-boys dorm feel like a certain double-wide trailer that Adam was still trying to put behind him.

And on top of that, he was developing a migraine—because everything sounded louder when you could only hear out of one ear.

So when Matthew went digging through their grocery bags, surfacing only to exclaim that they had forgotten to buy pumpkin pie filling, Adam jumped at the chance to get out of Walton.

“I think there are a few grocery stores just off-campus that are still open on Thanksgiving,” he said. “I can bike around and see if any of them carry pumpkin pie filling.”

“Oh, we couldn't ask that of you,” Declan said.

“It's really not a problem,” Adam replied. “Besides, I want pumpkin pie just as much as Matthew does.”

“Don't be stupid,” Ronan said. Then, when Adam turned to frown at him, “It’s fucking freezing outside.” And he tossed the keys to the BMW at Adam.

Adam caught them out of reflex and sheer luck, furrowing his eyebrows. If he'd been having a shitty day, how much shittier had Ronan been feeling? He’d spent the entire day arguing with the only family he had left. “Ronan,” he started, and then hesitated, not wanting to offend Declan. In the end, he settled on, “Do you want to come with me?”

Ronan just shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nah,” he said. “Gotta keep an eye on the turkey.”

Adam frowned at him again, but when Ronan didn't budge, he had no choice but to leave.

Buying pumpkin pie filling on Thanksgiving afternoon took Adam almost an hour. It turned out to be more difficult to find an open store than he'd anticipated, and if he'd lingered in the one store he had found, walking through every aisle and relishing that it was quiet enough for him to hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights… well, no one could prove it.

In any case, by the time he returned, Ronan was no longer in the kitchen. Instead, his awful electronic music was blaring inside his room.

“The turkey finished cooking, so Ronan decided to let us make the rest of dinner while he went back to painting.” Declan didn't roll his eyes, but with that tone of voice, he didn't need to.

“Well,” Adam replied, “he’s extremely dedicated to his art. He wants everything he works on to be perfect. That's what makes him such a good artist.”

Declan looked like he couldn't imagine Ronan Lynch being dedicated to anything. “Good for him,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “Were you able to find the pumpkin filling, then?”

Adam nodded.

“Awesome!” Matthew sprang up from where he'd been lounging on the couch. “Do you want to help me make the pie, Adam?”

What Adam really thought he should do was check on Ronan. But Matthew’s eyes were shining with excitement, and Adam found himself unable to refuse.

Between making pie, throwing together a few side dishes, and reheating the turkey once everything else had finished baking, hours passed without Adam noticing. Suddenly it was seven o’clock, and dinner was ready.

“We usually try to eat by five,” Declan said, sliding into his chair at the kitchen table, “but with putting everything together ourselves, I suppose delays were inevitable. I hope you don't mind, Adam.”

Adam thought Declan must not have actually gone to college to believe that a seven o’clock dinner was some horrible catastrophe. “It's fine,” he assured him. “Should I go get Ro—?”

“RONAN!” Matthew shouted out of nowhere, making Adam jump. “DINNER!”

“He's fifteen feet away, not five hundred,” Declan chided, although even he seemed unable to properly discipline Matthew. “I’m pretty sure you didn't have to scream that loudly in order for him to hear you.”

“Yeah, but it was fun,” Matthew grinned. “And apparently necessary, because he's STILL NOT OUT HERE!”

A pause.

“RONAN?!”

“I'm coming, I'm coming, Jesus,” Ronan said, shrugging on his leather jacket as he came out of his room. “I had to finish the thing I was working on, calm the fuck down.”

“We were all waiting for you,” Matthew said, in a supercilious tone he could only keep up for half the sentence before breaking into giggles, but Adam’s eyes narrowed as he took a second look at Ronan’s hands.

Declan followed his line of sight and frowned. “Ronan… Ronan, are those bandages? Are you all right?”

“Calm the fuck down,” Ronan repeated. “My hands slipped, it's not a big fucking deal.”

Declan’s frown only deepened. “You cut yourself… on art supplies?”

“Ever heard of a palette knife?” Ronan said, scathing.

“Nope!” Matthew broke in cheerfully. “Now come on, Ronan, sit down, we have to pray.”

Ronan's shoulders stiffened. “Right.” He sat down next to Adam. “I guess that's your job now, Declan?”

For the first time since Adam had met him, Declan looked visibly uncomfortable. “Actually, I was thinking we could all say it together?”

Ronan clasped his hands together so tightly, Adam thought it must be hurting the cuts on his palms. “Fine.”

He bowed his head, and after a moment, Matthew and Declan followed suit. “Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” Adam said along with them, although he wasn't sure he believed in gifts or bounty, let alone a benevolent God who supposedly offered them. It just seemed like the polite thing to do.

When they were done, Matthew's head popped back up like a puppy's. “Okay! Let's eat!”

Declan smiled, passed Matthew the mashed potatoes, and stood up to begin cutting into the turkey. Adam got so caught up in filling his plate with green beans and sweet potato casserole and stuffing and peas and turkey and gravy and cranberry sauce—he may have been getting three meals a day from the dining hall, but putting as much food on his plate as he could, whenever he could, was second-nature by now—that he didn't look over at Ronan until he'd sampled everything in reach.

“Ronan,” Adam said, “this turkey is amazing. Whenever I go to Thanksgiving at Blue’s house, her mom always burns it and makes us eat it anyway, but I… Ronan, why is your plate empty?”

Ronan was staring off at nothing.

“Yeah, Ronan, if you don't get some food soon, I'm finishing off the sweet potato casserole without you.”

No, not nothing—the empty chair at the head of the table.

Adam started to get a hard feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Ronan?”

Ronan stood abruptly and nearly knocked his chair over. “I need a drink,” he said before heading toward the refrigerator.

“A drink,” Declan said drily.

Ronan threw open the refrigerator door.

“Are you serious? Beer on Thanksgiving?”

He grabbed one, seemingly at random, and slammed it on the counter. “Yeah, Declan, beer on fucking Thanksgiving. Who's gonna stop me?”

“I—”

“No, I mean it,” Ronan said. “Who's gonna stop me? Because Mom hasn't spoken in months, Dad’s dead, and I don't have to listen to a word you say. You're not our fucking parents.”

Declan went completely still, as if this was another one of Ronan's paintings. Adam thought he knew which emotion Dr. Azalea would accept this one for. Heartbreak.

“Shit,” Ronan said, “I’m sorry.”

The door slammed shut behind him when he left.

For a moment, silence.

Then, “Ronan, wait!”

Matthew scooted out of his chair and hurried after him.

Adam got up and ran to Ronan's room, intending to use his window to see if Ronan headed into the parking lot, but when he finally tugged Ronan's door open, he couldn't do anything but stare.

At last, the sheets Ronan had been using to hide his happiness assignment had been tossed aside, leaving the project in full view.

It was a wreck.

Adam thought Ronan had actually been proud of how his artwork was turning out, but that was clearly no longer the case. Several of the canvases had been slashed through, while others looked like they had been kicked in. A paint tube had been squeezed out over a few more, leaving behind red paint hardened and flaking to the touch like dried blood. Preliminary sketches had been torn up and scattered over the mess, perverted confetti celebrating creative disaster. And when Adam finally remembered to lean out and look for Ronan, all he noticed was another pile of Ronan's ruined paintings that he’d apparently thrown out of the window. Everything was just—

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s his art,” Adam said. “He's been working on these canvases for weeks, insisting that he was getting close to finishing, insisting that his next idea was going to be the right one, and now it's all destroyed.”

But when he turned around, Declan wasn't staring at the ruined paintings. He was staring at the objects that Adam had gotten used to after spending so much time in Ronan's room.

“What?” Adam asked. “You can't tell me you don't know about Ronan's dreams.”

“Of course I know about his dreams,” Declan snapped, his eyes too wide and horrified to make his harsh tone effective. “But these are…”

Adam looked around and tried to remember how it had felt to see Ronan's room for the first time. The unnaturally bent sword, the twisted clock that ticked backwards, the dark stain on his floor that was now mostly hidden by ripped canvases and red paint…. That pit in his stomach came back. He'd known the objects weren't exactly fun dream souvenirs, known they could even look menacing, but they were just dispersed among the other objects, right? Tucked between self-bouncing balls and clocks that worked properly, hidden behind dream lights and whimsical inventions? Everyone had nightmares sometimes, and anyway, Adam hadn't seen Ronan dream up anything bad since that night at the campground. Of course, he hadn't been around Ronan every night—but he'd been around sometimes—and Ronan had never objected when Adam asked to spend the night, he'd never said that there was anything to be worried about—but then he was always the one who woke up first, and last night he had never fallen asleep at all.

“This isn't normal,” Adam said. It wasn't a question because he already knew the answer.

He knew it wasn't normal.

But Ronan had been so happy for the last few weeks—he’d thought Ronan had been so happy—that he'd stopped worrying.

Adam felt, abruptly, like a terrible boyfriend.

“No, it’s not normal,” Declan said derisively. “None of this is fucking normal. I haven’t seen him dream like this since…”

“Since Kavinsky?” Adam guessed.

“How do you know about Kavinsky?”

For some reason, the question snapped Adam into action. “This may surprise you,” he said, “but being in a relationship occasionally requires communication.” Except, apparently, when you destroy weeks’ worth of hard work. No, that’s not worth mentioning at all. Adam pushed the thought out of his mind. “Listen, Declan, I still have Ronan’s keys. That means he can’t have gotten that far. You should take your car and look around off-campus. He likes to go to St. Agnes or Nino’s, but check liquor stores too. I’ll search his usual on-campus hideouts because you can’t exactly find those on Google Maps.”

Just then, someone started banging on the front door. For one hopeful moment, Adam thought Ronan might have changed his mind about storming out. But when he flung the door open, only Matthew was waiting on the other side, red-faced and breathless.

“I tried to run after him, but by the time I went into the hallway, he was already gone. I went down the stairs and looked around, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t figure out which direction he’d taken.”

“That’s okay, Matthew,” Adam said. “We’re going to find him. You stay here in case he comes back, all right? Do you have my phone number?”

Matthew shook his head, so Adam took Matthew’s phone out of his hand and punched his number into his contacts, sending himself a text so he would have Matthew’s number as well. Then he did the same to Declan’s phone, grabbed his coat off the couch, and felt in his pockets to make sure Ronan hadn’t taken his keys without Adam noticing after all. They were there, a cool and hard and reassuring weight.

In the same time span, Declan had barely managed to put on one shoe. “You seem to have this search-team business down to a science. Have you… has something like this happened before?”

Adam felt something shatter inside of him. “Not in a while,” he managed to say.

Then he was gone.

Adam checked everywhere. Every classroom Ronan had bribed or broken his way into, every tree he’d sketched, every bench he’d fallen asleep on. By the time he got back to Walton, it was almost nine, Thanksgiving dinner was a forgotten feast weighing down the kitchen table, and nobody had been able to find Ronan Lynch.

Finally, feeling guilty and desperate, Adam called Gansey.

“Adam! I’m so happy to hear from you! I hope you’re having a lovely Thanksgiving. I’m just,” he hiccupped, “watching Food Network with Helen. Because obviously we haven’t seen enough—hic—food for one day.”

Gansey sounded sleepy, wine-drunk, and content. Adam could picture him leaning against Helen on an extravagantly luxurious couch in their living room, even though he had yet to actually see a photograph of Gansey’s sister. It made him feel even worse about saying, “Ronan is missing again.”

Gansey caught himself mid-laugh. “What? But I thought—”

“I don’t think it’s anything serious,” Adam was quick to add. “I mean… you know. Now that we know the truth about that one time. But he left during dinner and Declan and I have checked all the usual places and I….” He sighed. “I would just feel better if I knew where he was.”

Gansey was quiet for a while. “Did he take his car?”

“No.”

More silence. “Did you check the roof?”

Adam felt his heart stop, restart, and stutter again, all in the space of a moment. “The roof?! Gansey, I thought we just established that Ronan wasn’t—”

“Not like that!” Gansey interrupted hastily. “Ronan and I used to go up to the roof to talk. We haven’t been up since… but anyway, it’s worth a shot.”

Adam’s heart did its best to reestablish a natural rhythm. He didn’t think it was particularly successful. “Oh. Okay. Thanks, Gansey.”

“Do you need me to come up? I wasn’t being flippant, you know, when I said I would the other day. If you’re concerned that Ronan might—”

“No!” Adam’s voice was too loud for the near-empty campus. “No, Gansey, you really don’t need to come. You’ve already been helpful enough.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Adam hesitated, squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again. “I’m sorry for calling you like this. Don’t worry, all right? Ronan is fine. This isn’t like before.”

“Just text me when you find him, okay?”

Gansey’s voice was smooth, measured, and nowhere near immature enough to belong to an eighteen-year-old boy.

Adam tried not to let the guilt crush him like a cartoon anvil when he said, “Of course I will, Gansey. Have a nice night.”

After a moment’s indecision, Adam ducked into Ronan and Gansey’s suite on his way up to the roof. It had gotten cold, and Ronan’s leather jacket offered almost no insulation, so he just wanted to grab a couple hats and maybe a blanket before heading up to the roof.

Of course, Matthew Lynch stopped him in his tracks.

“Did you find Ronan yet?!”

Adam shook his head. “Still looking. Gansey told me about another place I haven’t checked yet.”

“Okay,” Matthew said before handing Adam a brown paper bag.

Adam frowned. “What is this?”

“Well, you both pretty much missed dinner, so I filled up some plastic containers for you,” he said. “They should still be warm. There are forks and knives in there too.”

“I—thank you, Matthew.”

“I had to do something while I waited,” Matthew shrugged. “Now I’m working on this.”

He turned around in his seat and gestured at the kitchen table, on which rested a medium-size square canvas. From the underlying design, Adam recognized it as one of the ones that Ronan had elected to squirt paint over rather than completely mutilate, but it was getting harder and harder to make that distinction. Matthew was methodically covering every inch of the canvas in a gentle, chrysanthemums-at-sunrise yellow.

“You’re repainting one of Ronan’s canvases?” Adam asked in surprise.

Matthew shrugged. “He said he was having trouble with his happiness assignment. I thought this might help.”

Adam looked at the bag of food in his hands, at the serene smile on Matthew’s face, and at the yellow canvas. For the first time, he understood why Ronan had such a soft spot for Noah Czerny.

“Paint fast,” he said. “Ronan will be back soon.”

He draped one of Gansey’s spare blankets over his shoulders and took the stairs as high as he was allowed to go, and then higher. The door to the roof read, Locked: Authorized Access Only, but when he pushed on it, it swung open.

Adam poked his head out. The wind whistled in his one good ear, making it difficult to hear anything.

He squinted into the darkness.

“Ronan?”

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