#I WISH I COULDA GOTTEN A FLOWER CHARM BUT

[turtle-steverogers]

I can’t write for shit but I know you are really talented ,so what about an angst about Spot going to war and he doesn’t make it back and Race and their 1 year old son go to visit his grave and talk to him? Idk you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to but I thought it was a really cool idea

hi! so this is a pretty on brand prompt (especially for a certain upcoming Thing, but...,,.,) but anyway yeah here’s a fic. hope i did your idea some justice!

warnings: lots of talk of death, but nothing graphic.  my shitty, caffeine muddled writing (truly, not my best work, sorry)

ship: sprace

word count: 1529

editing: nein

Just Out of Reach

“Aye, Sergeant, need some water up there?”

“Yeah, thanks man.”

A water bottle is passed up to Spot, and he takes it, taking one hand off the M2 machine gun that’s deadbolted down in front of him and using his teeth to unscrew the cap.  He hadn’t realized how goddamn thirsty he’d been, but it’s fairly easy and not at all uncommon to lose touch with yourself during the methodical cycle of a mission.  

Really, it’s just reconnaissance.  Mapping out the desolate land that surrounds base- cataloguing the unknowns and the possible threats.  It’s the simple stuff.  The required bits that make the more strategic missions possible.  But they still take long as hell and Spot’s willing to bet that he’s sweat through his fatigues by now as he bakes in the desert sun.  His helmet is scratchy and the army-issued goggles are digging into his skull, squeezing his brain and making his head throb.  The water helps a bit.

His vehicle is at the front of the convoy, and somehow, he found himself perched in the turret, calculating gaze scanning around for anything amiss.  They near an Iraqi village, vacated looking buildings lining either side of the sandy, dirt road.

Spot thinks he sees a few windows shutter closed and when he looks to his left, there’s a little girl (she can’t be more than five.  Christ)  sitting on her stoop, knees pulled up to her chest.  She’s staring at the convoy, eyes wide and fearful and fingers plugged into her ears.  Spot feels a pang of...of something.  Guilt, maybe.  Sympathy.

Really, none of these people asked for this.  They never wanted big, scary men in big, scary vehicles shouting out foreign remarks and invading their space- their homes.  

Spot forces his gaze back to the front, willing himself to focus back on the task at hand.  But he can’t help his mind wandering back to that little girl.  There was something about her.  The innocence, maybe.  The simplistic look of discernable fear in the face of something scary.

He thinks of Teddy.

His son’s own wide, brown eyes and chubby, five year old cheeks.  Really, they’re not so different- that girl and Teddy.  They’re lives are so drastically diverse from one another, but they share that same, innate naivete.  The all prevailing look of curiosity that only kids can convey.

Spot misses Teddy.

Granted, he always misses him and Race.  The feeling isn’t mutually exclusive to any one moment, but sometimes the ache will grow into more of a pain, gripping his chest with longing to kiss his husband and hug his son.  Maybe dig his fingers into Teddy’s sides as he picks him up and swings him, planting an exaggerated kiss on his cheek.  It’s a foolproof way to make him laugh.  And if Race is there, he’ll laugh too.  There are some things in life he can count on to be constant, and his family is one of them.

He comes back to himself as he nears a stoplight and suddenly, something in the world seems wrong.  He’s just about to secure himself around the gun when there’s a shout from down below and then the humvee is jerkily rolling to a stop and that’s when Spot sees the wire and that can only mean someone’s going to die if they don’t fucking stop right fucking now and--

Nothing.

-

“Papa, can we go see Daddy today?”

Race freezes halfway through screwing the cap off a carton of milk.  He turns to look at his son and finds him staring at him in all his six and a half year old glory.  His hair is a mess of bedhead and sleep and even though Race had gotten him up and dressed in a decent amount of time for a Saturday, he still looks rumpled.  But that’s just how kids are, Race guesses.

It had been a year since Race’s life took a tumble into the realm of his worst nightmare.  A year since Lieutenant Kelly and Sergeant Jacobs had shown up on his doorstep, clad in Army Service Uniforms and wearing twin, somber looks. 

It hadn’t taken long for Race to piece together why they were there.

That day was still hazy, a jumbled mix of numb shock and things like, “we regret to inform you” and “killed in action” and then there was Teddy pulling at his pant leg and asking him with those wide goddamn eyes why “guys dressed like Daddy” were there and Race didn’t know how to tell him that Daddy’s gone, because how the hell do you explain that to a five year old and he wasn’t equipped to deal with something like this and he still isn’t and-

Yeah.  A nightmare.

Race still isn’t sure if Teddy knows exactly what happened.  He seems to understand that Spot is gone and that fundamentally, he isn’t coming back, but he doesn’t think Teddy understands death yet.  The finality of it- the weight behind the concept.  

It was inexplicably haunting to see Teddy not crying at Spot’s funeral.  Race was crying.  Hell, Race was a mess.  It was so bad that Albert had to take over his eulogy and Jojo had to watch Teddy for a few minutes while he lost his shit in the bathroom.

But Teddy hadn’t cried.  He’d just clung to Race with a tight grip and wide, bewildered eyes, not saying a word.  

“Sure, bud,” Race says, shaking himself and pouring the milk into Teddy’s bowl of Lucky Charms, “we can go see Daddy.”

He takes Teddy along to Spot’s grave fairly often, but he never really knows how much of it he processes.  Like at the funeral, he’s always quiet and subdued when they go, never really saying anything.  Just sitting in Race’s lap, head bent into the crook of his neck as he stares at the headstone.  

“Yay!” Teddy bounces a little in his seat, grinning as Race sets his breakfast in front of him, “I want to tell him about my dance recital!”

Something in Race’s chest cracks open, making him feel simultaneously warm and cold and entirely overwhelmed. 

On their way to the cemetery later, they pass a man selling custom bouquets on the street.  Brilliant mixes of orchids and roses, gardenias and anemones, bleeding color into the cold grey of winter, and when Teddy sees them and turns that pleading look on Race, well, who is he to say no?

-

“Hi, Daddy!”

For once, Race stays a little off to the side, watching his son sit cross legged in front of Spot’s grave.  He’s talking, words spilling out at about a mile a minute, but Race tunes them out.  This is their private moment and he doesn’t want to get in the way of that.  

“I kinda wish you coulda seen it, but…” Teddy shrugs, mouth grimacing in a way that’s so strikingly Spot that Race has to close his eyes for a moment, “That’s okay.  I know you woulda come if you coulda.”

And, well, ouch.

“Anyway, I brought my scarf for you, Daddy,” Race opens his eyes to see Teddy carefully wrapping his little Thomas the Tank Engine scarf around the headstone, just over where he’d placed the flowers they picked up earlier, “‘Cause it’s getting cold and Papa always tells me that scarves help make you super warm.”

Race has to bite his lip to keep from crying or doing something stupid to ruin his son’s moment and, like, breakdown in front of him.

“Anyway, I’ll let you talk to Papa now, ‘cause I know he always likes to talk to you a little,” He smacks a kiss onto his palm and presses it to Spot’s engraved name, “Bye bye, Daddy, I love you.”

When he turns to look at Race, he’s smiling.  It’s big and unyielding and Race fucking melts, because this is all he really wants.  Sure, when Teddy gets older, Spot’s absence will ring loud and daunting, but hell, if he can have any ounce of peace with it then, well, Race...Race is fucking ecstatic.  He can handle this. 

“Your turn, Papa!” Teddy says, beckoning Race to sit down and climbing into his lap when he does.

“Thanks, little man,” Race hugs Teddy close, “Did you have a good time talking to Daddy?”

“Uh huh,” Teddy says, squirming a little in Race’s tight hold, “I know he was listening super good, I could feel it.”

Race swallows, “Oh yeah?” Teddy nods, “I’m super glad, Teds.”

And maybe, really, that’s what this is about.  Spot’s death was a curveball thrown with the wrong hand, jarring a perceived reality and shifting everything Race had known a little too far to the left.  And no, it isn’t okay.  Maybe it’ll never be okay, but it doesn’t have to be.  Spot’s still there, lingering somewhere in their hearts and made real by his memory- their memories of him.  He’s still palpable, still reachable, and if Teddy can feel it, maybe Race can too.

Race takes a breath, fortifying and fond, then smiles.  It doesn’t feel so strained and Race feels just that much lighter when he clears his throat.

“Hey, Spottie…”

-

it wasn’t very good don’t clown me please my brain said ‘sorry bud’ today

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

TAG LIST: @getchapapes @we-dont-sell-papes @suddenly-im-respecsable 

@aw-jus-let-em-try @well-the-kids-do-too @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @felix-loves-albert-and-ralbert @technically-whizzy

@andthewoildwillknow @the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog @localfakeitalian @have-we-got-news-for-you @musical-shitposts @thebroadwayaesthetic

@thomasbeingthomas

@irondad-spiderson-duo

@snakesarenonexistent 

@i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing 

@kpop-kk

@mentallytiredgoat

@yxseminx

@be-more-chill-evan-hansen 

@stopthe-presses

@elmers-half-a-cup

@and-i-lostmy-shoe

@spot-me50-papes

@honeynutpoptarts

@newsies-ensemble

@bennie-badeend 

@auspicioustarantula 

@faithmil 

@hopefully-not-the-ghostbusters

@bxnesof92

@backgroundnewsies

@sure-as-a-star

@skybert-daherty 

@eveningpaper

@malex-13

@albert-eats-cookie-cake

@heart-a-n-o-n

@bitching-newsboys

@orollyitsracetrackhiggins

@joshuaburrageenthusiast

@random-superhero-stuff

@awkwardstranger98

@falling-out-trees-101

@modern-race-owns-airpods

@asphodelnerd

@i-dont-do-sadness

@rockyroad236

@sirgrahamcracker

@godhatesjordan

@thats-our-que-boys

@bastille-smedry

@nerdsies

@toss-me-a-pape

@wolfbutterfly42

@revolutioninthesewers

@spot-the-brooklyn-pirate

@aintnosleevesinbrooklyn

[inthegroundontime]

Title: So, You Married a Selkie Rating: PG Ships: Rudyard/Liesel ( @ncvaflows ), mentions of Chapman/Masha ( @enjcyourselves & @caughtintherevolution ) Characters: Rudyard Funn, Georgie Crusoe, Liesel Ivanov Summary: Rudyard may not have noticed that he’s been married for the last four months, but it hasn’t escaped notice altogether.

It’s unorthodox, but Rudyard supposes he quite likes having the shifter woman around. She’s kind to him in ways no one, not even Georgie or Antigone has ever been. She listens to his stories and shares some of her own. At dawn, when she returns from her swim, he makes her a cup of tea and she sits with him, reading her book while he does the Piffling Matters crossword. Together, they delight in typos and the simple pleasure of a sunrise in Piffling Vale before the rain rolls in. It always does – especially when she leaves to swim again and Rudyard departs for work. As he worries about her safety, the storms sometimes abate, but every now and then, the lightning becomes fierce and he thinks hers will be the next body Antigone embalms. Liesel. She’s an unusual woman, with sad, dark eyes. Sometimes she seems quite happy in his company, but when he can’t stay with her or when they part for the evening – him for his bed and her for the sofa (Rudyard really ought to charge her rent but he can’t bear to) -she looks at him with such profound despair, it breaks his heart a little. Nothing has broken Rudyard’s heart in a good, long time.

He no longer sleeps well in the bed. It isn’t particularly comfortable – it never has been – but it never seemed so large before, so empty. It’s cold under the blankets and Rudyard eagerly springs from bed in the morning to make tea and toast to go with the kippers Liesel has hunted off the coastline. Once, she brought him back a pearl the size of his thumbnail. He keeps it in his other top pocket – the one above his heart, where Madeline does not sit. He used to keep nothing but lint and a pen there. He doesn’t know why he does this foolish thing, but he does it anyway. It gives him comfort, allowing him to pretend Liesel is nearby when he knows she is swimming and he is trying to keep the funeral home afloat in a much less friendly tide. Across the square, Chapman has only grown more cheerful. No one wonders how he enticed the island’s newest resident – a pretty blonde whose presence dripped magic in a way Rudyard thought was bad form, but that everyone else seemed to take for charm – yet everyone speculates why Liesel hangs around Rudyard. Rumors circulate. He has used a love potion on her. (He hasn’t. He can’t brew a decent one to save his life and Antigone finds them unethical). He has stolen her skin and enslaved her. (He hasn’t. He returned her pelt to her the day they met. Slavery makes his skin crawl). He has hypnotized her, enchanted her, cursed her. (He has done none of these things. Since reconnecting to his witch roots, he has not ever attempted something so advanced).

No one, not even Rudyard, knows why Liesel stays.

No one, except Georgie Crusoe.

Rudyard is half-in the flue of the crematorium, scrubbing the bricks clean of soot and unnamable junk. Georgie, meanwhile, sits on the table, flicking through a manual on cremation that Rudyard shoved her way this morning. As they work, Rudyard can’t help but lament certain goings-on.

“Chapman is allowed to have a mystery woman turn up and follow him around and no one accuses him of enslaving her!” he grunts between scrubs. “Meanwhile, I open my home to a woman who prefers the sea to my company and the whole town thinks I must’ve bewitched her to sleep on my sofa when she gets tired of swimming!”

“Course no one accuses Chapman of anything,” Georgie says without looking up. “The whole ruddy island still thinks he’s human.”

“Of course, he’s human. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be much of a novelty around here, now, would he?”

“Mmm.” Georgie pauses and then asks, “Does Liesel always sleep on the sofa?”

“What, now?” Rudyard pops his head out from inside the chimney, coated in black soot. “Yes, of course, she does. What kind of impropriety-“

“ ‘S not impropriety if you’re married, sir.”

Rudyard smacks his head on the bricks as he climbs out of the chimney. Massaging his scalp, he looks at Georgie with shock and then sternness.

“Now, look here,” he says, “I think I would know if I was married to Liesel. I don’t appreciate your new brand of humor and demand you quit while you’re ahead.”

“I don’t think you would,” she continues. “Know if you’re married, I mean.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I’d know.”

“R-i-i-i-ght,” Georgie says. “Oi, Rudyard?”

“What?”

“Are you married?”

“Good God, no! Like I said – I would know. And I am – and will always be – a bachelor.”

“I don’t know how much longer you’ll have that option.”

“It isn’t optional, Georgie. It’s a fact of life. No one would nor ever shall marry me. I’m short-tempered, bossy, and wholly unsuited to the enterprise.”

“Yeah. You’re unsuited all right.” A pause. “But how d’ya like Liesel?”

“Well, of course, I like Liesel,” Rudyard stutters. “She’s kind and smart and doesn’t ask me stupid questions and she’s been contributing to the household in her own way and-“

“But how d’you like her?”

Rudyard scrambles back into the chimney. Scrubbing the bricks furiously, he waits a long time before answering the question.

“She’s kind to me, Georgie. You have to understand, I have something of a weakness for people who are kind to me. And she listens to me – about anything, like what I have to say is important. No one does that. Not really, anyway. She makes me feel… special? Is that the word? … Valued? And I would return the favor instantly, but she looks so sad all the time and we both know I’m rubbish at cheering people up and besides, she spends so much of her time in her seal-skin, swimming and fishing and bellowing at Chapman when he goes for a dip in the ocean, so I get the feeling that maybe she’s only being nice to me so I won’t charge her rent since she prefers the ocean to me, which shouldn’t hurt, since she wouldn’t be the first, but I wish I knew how to make her stay…”

“Rudyard!”

“Yes? What?”

“Do you like Liesel? As in, do you fancy her?”

“Well, of course, I do, but that’s nobody’s business but my own, thank you very much!”

“Then why the bloody hell do you make her sleep on the couch?”

Rudyard smacks his head on the bricks again as he emerges. He grumbles for a moment.

“Now look here, Georgie-“ He sounds more tired than he does angry; resigned and almost sad. “-That’s not how things are done. When I fancy somebody, I don’t ask them to bed. I shove it down and wait for the feeling to die. It inevitably does. And then, since it’s already buried deep in my psyche, I don’t have to worry about giving it a proper send-off.”

“Oh my God.”

“It isn’t as if telling her I like her will amount to anything,” Rudyard continues. “Talking about your feelings has never gotten anyone anything.”

“Rudyard, you stupid-“ Georgie doesn’t finish that thought. “Tell me the story of how you met Liesel.”

“That’s hardly relevant,” Rudyard says. “But it was on the beach. I was trying to enjoy a cheese sandwich as far away from Antigone as I could get, so I’d gone down to the beach. It was an idyllic day – perfectly toasted sandwich, peaceful scenery, really, all except the angry wind, which I managed to stop, thank you very much! And a curious thing happened: a fur coat washed up on the beach at my feet. I picked it up – I can’t abide littering – and then this woman, lovely eyes, totally naked, begged me to give her her coat back. Well. Of course, I did, but not without lecturing her about beach rules! This isn’t the Riviera, after all! The last thing Piffling needs is a nude beach! And then, somehow, we got to talking and I offered her a place to stay until she was back on her feet – or flippers, I suppose. A little shifter humor. And the rest is history.”

“So, Liesel is a selkie.”

“Well, when you put it like that… yes. I suppose she is.”

“And you had her pelt?”

“I didn’t know it was her pelt! I thought some irresponsibly and obscenely wealthy woman had left a valuable fur coat lying about!”

“And you returned it?”

“She was naked! What else was I meant to do?”

“Rudyard. D’you know anything about selkies?”

“Sure. They’re seal-shapeshifters and they enjoy Russian literature, fresh flowers, and get weepy over televised ballets.”

“No, that’s just Liesel,” Georgie said. “Do you know what if means when a man takes a selkie’s pelt?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose!” Rudyard snaps. “It washed up on the beach, I picked it up, I handed it to her.”

“Men don’t normally do that.”

“Are you saying I should have kept it? Proved all those damned rumors true? That I can only earn someone’s affection by enslaving them?” He sits down on the hearth. Drawing his knees to his chest, he looks bleakly over at Georgie, who has abandoned her reading. “I didn’t realize then that she was a selkie, but even if I had, I still would have returned her pelt to her. She deserves to choose for herself how she wants to spend her life.”

“Have you noticed how she’s chosen to spend her life?”

“Miserable in the funeral home at night and in the morning; in the ocean the rest of the time?”

“With you.” Georgie joins him on the hearth. “When a human offers a selkie her pelt back, he’s proposing. She accepted. Congrats, sir. You’ve been married for four months.”

“I’ve been what?”

“It’s a shame we couldn’t have thrown you a real stag party.” Georgie elbows him. “I bet we coulda gotten Chapman to jump outta a cake.”

“Good heavens, why would I want that?”

“Dunno.  It would be hilarious, though.”

Rudyard chuckles weakly. Imagining Chapman looking like an idiot, covered in buttercream frosting almost distracts him. But suddenly, the color drains from Rudyard’s cheeks – not that it’s easy to see under the grime.

“Wait. I’ve been married to Liesel for four months?” he asks. “When was anyone planning to tell me?”

“She thought you knew,” Georgie says. “Still does. And you are a rubbish husband.”

“Well, we’ve established that I would be!”

“Yeah, but you’ve been ignorin’ her. Makin’ her sleep on the couch. You’ve never even tried to kiss her… I mean, have you?”

“No, of course not! I just learned that we were married thirty seconds ago! How was I supposed to know I was meant to act as a husband?”

“Dunno. A little cultural sensitivity?”

“I don’t have that,” Rudyard laments. “I don’t even have a paradigm of what a good husband does!”

“What about your mum and dad?”

“We don’t talk about them,” says Rudyard. “Their marriage wasn’t exactly ideal. I’d want to do better by Liesel. She deserves better than to only be acknowledged on birthdays and holidays.”

“Yikes.”

“Indeed.” Rudyard runs a filthy hand down his filthy face. “I need to start planning. I need to woo her. Show her I’m serious about making this marriage of inconvenience work.”

“I think the phrase is ‘marriage of convenience’.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to. The point is, I do fancy her and if I want her to spend less time at sea and more time with me, I’ll have to let her know, won’t I?”

“So you’re not gonna just push this down?”

“Things have changed, Georgie. I’m a married man now.”

“Just like that, eh?”

“What do women like from romantic partners? You’re a woman. What would you want from your ideal husband?”

“A flamethrower. A helicopter. A trip to the Maldives.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

“Nah. Just bein’ me. What would Liesel want?”

“I suppose I could get up earlier… Go with her to the beach. Learn to make a better breakfast.”

“And ask her to sleep in the bed instead of the sofa?”

“We walk before we run in this relationship. We’ll see.”

“Rudyard…”

“… I’ll ask, but if she leaves me over it, I’m blaming you.”

Rising to his feet, Rudyard walks towards the door. Georgie watches him curiously. He stops at the threshold and turns. For a moment, he looks as if he’s about to thank her. Instead, he nervously fidgets with the wilted collar of his shirt.

“How do I look?” he asks.

“Like hell.”

“Oh. Good. Women love a bad boy.”

As he walks out the door, Rudyard hears Georgie’s last bit of yelled advice: “Oi! Rudyard! Take a shower, you daft bastard!”

What he doesn’t hear as he veers upstairs and towards the bathroom – a shower might not be a bad idea – is Georgie’s whispered hopes.

“Good luck.”

[anthony-rosethourne]

What to do?

Well, I ended up leavin’. Aye, I know. I told you I figured I’d stick with ‘em for a long while, but things came up and I ended up not likin’ the direction. Anyway, s’not about that. I wanted your opinion on somethin’. See, there’s this girl I fancy, goes by the name of Annest. She’s weird. Real weird. But, I like her. Hell, I think I love her honestly. But, I can’t stand bein’ in the city right now. I need a way out, you know? I was never any good ‘bout stayin in one place for long ‘n all. Always on the move, port to port, city to city. The charm of Stormwind and all it’s fucked inhabitants is wearin’ on me. I can feel myself slowly beginnin’ to hate this fuckin’ city, and all the fake people that inhabit it.

What happened to people you could trust, mom? What happened to the folks that’d take a blade for you because they knew you’d do the same. Fuck. I just want out, and I don’t care what it is that takes me. I want a ship. I want a crew again. I miss the ocean, the stars at night, and bottle ‘tween my lap as I sit on the ledge. Maybe I’ll find it elsewhere, maybe I’ll die lookin’ for it. Who knows anymore. I met this other lass, told me ‘bout how she was headin’ to Pandaria. I shoulda gone with ‘er. Fuck, the voyage alone woulda been worth the trip. She said that who ever she was meetin’ wouldn’t mind me comin’. Fuck, maybe I missed a job that coulda gotten me out. Figures, too busy slummin’ on the porch next to the Pig to actually leave, right? 

I wish I coulda met you mom. I feel like you coulda taught me some shit, and I feel like I wouldn’t be stuck in this fuckin’ rut I keep findin’ myself in. Maybe you were a sailor too, and I coulda been crew for you. Who knows. Anyway, I came out here to talk to you ‘cause I needed to at least come back one time ‘fore I try and leave the city. I’unno. I love you mom. And I love dad too, I guess. Even if no one told me shit ‘bout ‘im. 

Well, I ended up rantin’ to you again. I know, you’d probably hit me and say s’all I do these days, but I feel like you of all folk actually listen to me, I guess. I’unno. I brought the flowers at least. I’ll leave ‘em here for you. See you ‘round mom. I’ll be thinkin’ of you.

The man would tug down his bandana, placing a gentle kiss upon the worn gravestone, a small bundle of roses being placed beside it. With a sigh, he’d step out from the cemetary, looking over at the bustling port. Calm footsteps would carry him back in the direction of the city, hopefully for the last time.