#I know I complained about American Mary but just to be clear I didn’t even go into that one blind

[juniperhillpatient]

omg I’ve been wanting to watch Wrong Turn 2003 forever but it always seems to be “unavailable” so I just checked YouTube & it’s there🥺 I’m so excited because ALL I know is that this is a horror movie with Eliza Dushku & I do see it referenced frequently in slasher circles. that’s it. so I’m going in blind which is my favorite way to go into movies

[orlissa]

February reading summary

Another month has passed, so it’s time for another book round up :)

In February I managed to read 8 books (and had one DNF). Altogether, altogether, I’m at 16 individual books read this year, which is pretty good considering that my goal is 50 books by the end of December.

But now let’s see what was on the menu for this month:

Rob Sears: The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump -- Just to make it clear, this is not a poetry collection written by Trump XD No, it’s a poetry collection edited together from stuff he has said, which is nothing short of brilliant. Like, the author(s) when through everything he has said, and rearranged them in a way that they mean something (every line is annotated, bwt). It’s just simply funny and even poignant at some places -- a “poem” especially stayed with me, where what he said in the Access Hollywood Tape (”grab them by the pussy”) was juxtaposed with a pre-prepared speech about the horrors of domestic abuse and rape.

Jenna Evans Welch: Love & Gelato -- Overall a nice coming of age story about a girl, who, after the death of her mother, moves to Italy to live with her father she’d never even met before, and then discovers Florence through her mother’s diary written the year before she was born. I love Florence, so it was a treat to me in that aspect, but I did feel like that author didn’t really know the place (the characters were complaining about the lack of AC, lack of American fast food, bad internet...), and I think the present-day romance was a bit stupid (the author clearly wanted to parellel the past/the mother’s romance with the present/daughter’s romance, to make the point that the daughter is not making the same mistake, but that wasn’t exactly what she ended up doing). Plus I read the Hungarian edition, and there were some seriously issues with the translation.

Mary McMyne: The Book of Gothel -- Easily my favorite book this month. I went in expecting a Rapunzel-retelling from the witch’s POV, and I got so much more, a lamentation on wise women’s situation, on magic, the occult, Christianity, and Christian mysticism in the 12th century Germany. Wow. Absolutely recommend.

Liz Braswell: What Once Was Mine -- DNF. Sigh. So after The Book of Gothel, I decided to go with the other Rapunzel story on my list. This book belongs to the Twisted Tale series, which is basically standalone novel of Disney What ifs with a dark twist. I read the Mulan one some time ago, and that was absolutely phenomenal (in that one Shang gets injured in the mountains instead of Mulan, and as he is dying, she goes down to the underworld to bring his soul back), so I had high hopes for this one. Yeah... it didn’t work out. The whole book is framed as a 16 years old guy telling the story to his twin sister while she is getting chemo, the language/narrative stlye is all over the place (sometimes it’s all jokey, sometimes it very serious and old timey, but nothing like how a 16-y-o kid would speak), we keep switching back to the hospital room which breaks the rhythm, and for some reason it takes place in the real world, and apparently Elizabeth Báthory is the bad guy? Yeah, I gave up after about 10%

Cory O’Brian: Zeus Grants Stupid Wishes -- There were only two reasons why I finished this book: 1, I didn’t want to have two DFN’s right after each other, and 2, it was a quick read. It is supposed to be a funny, modern retelling of myths (not just Greek, but from all around the world), making them widely accessible and weeding out the classism aspect surronding them, and it even started out promisingly when the author talked about Joseph Campbell’s work in the preface. But then... Sigh. It’s endless dick jokes, misogyny, and low-key racism (e.g. the African section has three myths, and in the section preface the author talks about how hard it was to choose these three, because there are just so many different myth. Yeah, dumbass, because Africa is a whole continent with a bunch of cultures. He could have just chosen to focus on, let’s say, Yoruba myths, he could have avoided this).

Katharine & Elizabeth Corr: Daughter of Darkness -- Solid YA fantasy based on Greek myths (but not a retelling of them). In a world where the tyrant Orpheus reigns over most of what we know as Greece today, some people are being marked by the gods--they get a fraction of the power of the god who marks them, which mark appears in early childhood, after which they are brought to and raised in Houses; after their training is complete, they are to work there for forty years as indentured servants. Deina, our protagonist is marked by Hades, and there is nothing she wants more than freedom--which seems to be within reach when Orpheus is looking for volunteers for a quest, which turns out to be going down to the underworld to retrieve his queen’s soul. I really enjoyed the early/worldbuilding parts, and the last couple of chapters after the twist(s), but the middle part--where the characters were traipsing through the underworld--did drag a little. The characters were generally very interesting, and although the authors built a bit too much on secrets and the twists coming from these secrets being revealed, and the romance aspect felt a little weak, and it went really dark, and I mean really dark by the end, I actually enjoyed it a great deal. It was the first part of a duology, with the second one coming out in July I think, and I’m pretty sure I’m gonna read it.

Karen Cushman: Katherine, Called Birdy -- I downloaded this book when I saw the trailer for the movie back in like September, then promptly forgot about it. Anyway, so it’s the fictional diary of the daughter of a 13th century English knight, on the cusp of adulthood, chronicling her daily life for a about the span of a year. It’s delightfully medieval and modern at the same time, in a sense that the narrative focuses on the realities of everday medieval life, while Birdy... well, Birdy is being a teenager with an attitude that that reflects the attitudes of modern teenaged girls. Really funny and thought-provoking, an absolute delight.

Natasha Bowen: Sould of the Deep -- Sigh. Nope. No comment on this one. 

Sasha Peyton Smith: The Witch Haven -- YA fantasy set in New York, 1911, with the driving force behind the narrative being the murder of the protagonist’s brother. It started out really strong (like, it’s almost as if the first two-three chapters were written by a different author), but the rest is a little (a lot) all over the place. The book is somehow about too much and too little at the same time, trying to virtue signal and address everything, but in the process making most of the characters unlikable and just underdeveloped, swmming in a mess of a plot. But I did like Oliver, the protagonist/her brother’s childhood friend, who depicted as a model of gentle masculinity. Also a duology, but I don’t think I’ll read the second book.

[alltheprettyboys]

FAMOUS LADY VIOLET QUOTES

On romance

“I do think a woman’s place is eventually in the home, but I see no harm in her having some fun before she gets there.”

“In my day, a lady was incapable of feeling physical attraction until she had been instructed to do so by her mama.”

“Every woman goes down the aisle with half the story hidden.”

“I am not a romantic. But even I will concede that the heart does not exist solely for the purpose of pumping blood.”

“I know several couples who are perfectly happy. Haven’t spoken in years.”

Mary: “I was only going to say that Sybil is entitled to her opinions.” Violet: “No, she isn’t, until she is married. And then her husband will tell her what her opinions are.”

“Every woman goes down the aisle with half the story hidden.”

“Oh, I should steer clear of May. Marry in May, rue the day.”

“Give him a date for when Mary’s out of mourning. No one wants to kiss a girl in black.”

“My dear, love is a far more dangerous motive than dislike.”

On technology and change

“First electricity, now telephones. Sometimes I feel as if I were living in an H.G. Wells novel.”

“What is a weekend?”

[On the new telephone] “Is this an instrument of communication or torture?”

[On jazz musicians] “Do you think that any of them know what the others are playing?”

On life

“Life is a game, where the player must appear ridiculous.”

“No life appears rewarding if you think about it too much.”

“Hope is a tease, designed to prevent us accepting reality.”

Carson: “Hard work and diligence weigh more than beauty in the real world.” Violet: “If only that were true.”

Isobel: “How you hate to be wrong.” Violet: “I wouldn’t know, I’m not familiar with the sensation.”

On growing old

“Just because you’re an old widow, I see no necessity to eat off a tray.”

“At my age, one must ration one’s excitement.”

“All life is a series of problems which we must try and solve, first one and then the next and then the next, until at last we die.”

On social etiquette

Violet: “I’m afraid Tom’s small talk is very small indeed.” Robert: “Not everyone can be Oscar Wilde.” Violet: “What a relief.”

“Vulgarity is no substitute for wit.”

“Principles are like prayers; noble, of course, but awkward at a party.”

“You know me: never complain, never explain.”

On Americans

“Why does every day involve a fight with an American?”

Cora: “I might send her over to visit my aunt. She could get to know New York.” Violet: “Oh, I don’t think things are quite that desperate.”

[To Cora] “I’m so looking forward to seeing your mother again. When I’m with her, I’m reminded of the virtues of the English.”

Cora: “I hope I don’t hear sounds of a disagreement.” Violet: “Is that what they call discussion in New York?”

“Try not to let those Yankees drive you mad.”

On class

“Don’t be defeatist, dear. It is very middle class.”

“The presence of strangers is our only guarantee of good behaviour.”

“Edith, you are a Lady, not Toad of Toad Hall.”

Isobel: “Servants are human beings too.” Violet: “Yes. But preferably only on their days off.”

“Nothing succeeds like excess.”

Martha: “I have no wish to be a Great Lady.” Violet: “No, a decision that must be reinforced whenever you look in the glass.”

On the English

“Last night, he looked so well. Of course it would happen to a foreigner. No Englishman would dream of dying in someone else’s house.”

“If I were to search for logic, I would not look for it among the English upper class.”

“Rosamund has no interest in French. If she wishes to be understood by a foreigner, she shouts.”

On dealing with other people

“An unlucky friend is tiresome enough, an unlucky acquaintance is intolerable.”

Isobel: “You take everything as a compliment.” Violet: “I advise you to do the same, it saves many an awkward moment.”

Robert: “I thought you didn’t like him.” Violet: “So what? I have plenty of friends I don’t like.”

Isobel: “I suspect she’s quite a tough nut.” Violet: “And I’m quite a tough nutcracker.”

“I don’t dislike him. I just don’t like him, which is quite different.”

“I do hope I’m interrupting something…”

“You’re a woman with a brain and reasonable ability. Stop whining and find something to do.”

“There’s nothing simpler than avoiding people you don’t like. Avoiding one’s friends, that’s the real test.”

“No guest should be admitted without the date of their departure settled.”

Cora: “I take that as a compliment.” Violet: “I must have said it wrong.”

[pl-panda]

To marry a Vigilante: Part 1

MASTERLIST || First || Previous || Next

Disclaimer: Masterlist

------

When they finally pulled apart, Marinette needed a moment for her brain to restart. She was sure she would melt right then and there. At the same time, she wanted to jump and scream from sheer ecstasy. It was all she ever wanted and now she had it. 

Damian stared at her empty expression. 

“I think you broke her.” Plagg suddenly zoomed out of her pocket, followed by Tikki who tried (and failed) to catch him. 

This was enough for Mari to finally start thinking coherently. “Um… Yeah… I… Maybe…” Or mostly coherently at least.

“Habibti. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.” Damian guided her. Slowly, Mari returned to her senses. 

“Thank you… I think I might have kinda lost my breath there.” She gave him an apologetic smile. 

“Nothing happened. Now I think I need to leave or my brothers will get some stupid idea and I will have to practice my skill with a sword.” Damian deadpanned. 

“Since I know I can’t stop you, please at least don’t kill them until I get to know them better?”

“I can try, but no promises.” He turned to leave, but she grabbed his hand.

“Oh! Wait!” She fumbled through her pocket for a moment before pulling out a small box. Plagg immediately was pulled inside it (much to Tikki’s amusement). “Damian Wayne. As Guardian of the Miraculous, I give you the miraculous of the Black Cat, which gives you the power of destruction. I trust you to protect it and use it to help others.”

Damian was stunned only for a short moment and definitely didn’t move his mouth like a fish. Definitely. “I accept that honor and thank you for your trust.”

“There is no one I would trust more than you with this. If not for your and your family’s help, I would’ve never caught Hawkmoth or the Cat.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re brilliant and it was only a matter of time.” 

“Time I might’ve not had. Chat was working with Hawkmoth. Who knows when I would’ve fallen into a trap…”

“It’s all over now, Habibti.” He grabbed her hand. “Everything is going to be better now.” When she smiled he let go and opened the box. Plagg appeared in a flash. 

“For the record, I hate these boxes.”

“Stop complaining. If you stayed there it wouldn’t have been so bad.” Tikki scolded him.

Marinette giggled at the interaction of the two little gods. Damian just shook his head and donned the ring. 

“Can I see how you’ll look?” She asked before her smile took a more grin-like look. “I want to see if you’ll have a cute cat-ears.”

“Maybe when you are in Gotham.” He scoffed. “Thank you, angel. It’s the best Christmas gift you could’ve given me. Your trust means more than gold to me.”

“But Christmas is still a long way away…” Mari tried to dismiss him, but seeing his expression she doubled back. He looked almost scared. Almost, since Damian Wayne did not get scared.

“Angel… Christmas Eve is tomorrow. That’s why your class is leaving on Monday. You are all going to be attending the Wayne New Year Gala next Friday.”

“But… But… Wouldn’t there be decorations in stores? And Santa Clauses on the street? Or at least…”

“There were. Mostly Miraculous themed though. I can’t believe you didn’t notice.” He said with a bit too much amusement slipping into his voice.

“Kwami! Kwami! Kwami!” She started to pace. “I completely forgot! How could I have forgotten Christmas!?” She was close to collapsing. Damian was quickly by her, holding her wrists together to not accidentally get slapped by her flailing arms. 

“Habibti. There is nothing to worry about. You already gave everyone the greatest gift possible by ridding them of that terrorist. I admit I regret that we will not be able to spend our first Christmas together as a family, but the last several months were the best of my life already. You don’t need to give me anything more.”

“But… But…” She was at the edge of crying.

“Marinette. Don’t worry. I have an idea.” Tikki reassured her Chosen. “Go tell your parents to pack everything.”

“But… Maman and I must be here at six on Monday” She tried to argue. 

“You will be. Kaalki owes me a favor.” The kwami dismissed her. 

“But… But I can’t just abuse the miraculous.”

“Marinette. All Kwami love you. They would be happy to help you if the need arose.” Tikki nuzzled into her cheek. Mari finally relented.

“Fine… But I’m buying her three boxes of sugar cubes,” she said with conviction. 

The two kwami giggled and Damian cracked a smile. 

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

Adrien cursed loudly. He barely managed to escape those damn heroes. And to think that his Lady marries some American ragtag instead of him? That’s how she repaid him for his loyalty? For all of his sacrifices? That was just a travesty. 

But it didn’t matter in the end. She didn’t deserve to be Ladybug anyway and now finally, the world could be free from her. Of course, heroes could try to save her. They could even succeed. But he made a point. He severed all the ties with that cursed bitch. Now he could focus on his true soulmate: Marinette. She was the real Ladybug. She was loyal, honest, brave, kind, selfless, beautiful. They’re made for each other. In a perfect world, they would be with one another if he was not blinded by the imposter. She had a crush on him in the past, but he ruined it. Now he had to work trice as hard to get her to join him. 

“Don’t worry mother. We will have our family again.” He said, looking at the stasis chamber. 

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

When Marinette and her parents exited the portal in Wayne Manor, they were greeted by Alfred the Butler and Alfred the Cat. 

“Ah. Young Madame Marinette, Madame Cheng, Master Dupain. It is my pleasure to welcome you. I was told you would be arriving through… extraordinary means.” He greeted them. 

“We’re sorry for all the trouble we’re causing you on such short notice.” Marinette immediately started to apologize.

“You are no trouble at all. Definitely not compared to the usual Christmas mess.” He dismissed her apology. She wanted to protest, but the cat jumped onto her and she instinctively grabbed him and hugged.

“I see Alfred the Cat likes you, Angel.” Damian’s voice came from behind. Immediately, Marinette whirled around, only to stare into a pair of green eyes. 

“Damian!” She wanted to hug him, but the cat was a bit in the way. Instead, she just leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. They both smiled. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Sabine spoke. “Is Cassandra home? I would like to meet my niece. We spoke several times over the phone, but meeting in person is…”

“She is in the gym, practicing ballet,” Alfred informed her. 

“Thank you. Tom, be a kind husband, and carry my things to our room. And don’t forget the bag.” She patted Tom’s cheek before leaving. 

“Come, Habibti. I will show you the garden.” Damian grabbed her waiting hand.

“Take my bags too, dad? Thanks!” Mari shouted without looking back before she, Damian, and the cat left the room, leaving Tom with half the house packed into bags. 

“Why do women carry so much with them…?” He sighed. 

“It’s a mystery of the world that we, mere mortals, will never know, Sir,” Alfred answered in his usual tone. 

---------

“Cassandra?” Sabine asked, leaning through the doors leading to the gym. The mats that would usually cover the ground were all rolled in the corner to make space. A large mirror covered the entire right wall. A lone girl in a white ballet outfit danced to Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker ballet music. 

The girl did not answer or break her dance, but Sabine noted that her gaze shifted toward doors in the mirror. It was just a short moment to assess the threat without breaking concentration on whatever one did. It was the same as she often did. It was an instinct learned through years of training. David Cain better stayed in that cell or else.

When the song ended, Cass turned the music off and walked closer to Sabine until they were standing about a foot apart. 

“You’re a great dancer.” The woman started. Cass only nodded in response. 

“Practice.” She said. There was more awkward silence where the two measured each other. 

“I’m sorry sweetie. For what happened to you. If I knew, I would’ve searched for you and gave you a proper home.” A tear appeared in Sabine’s eye. When they spoke through video, it was mostly about meaningless things to get used to one another or neutral subjects. Now, in person, Sabine wanted to get all regret off her heart. 

“No… fault.” The girl answered. “All… good.” 

“Can I… Hug you?” Sabine asked, fully aware that not everyone liked physical contact.

“Hug?” Cass asked. To this day, only Dick or Tim wanted to give her hugs and it was rare. “Okay?” She more asked than agreed, but her aunt responded by slowly pulling the girl to her heart. 

“I’m still sorry. If I see my sister, she is gonna get her ear screamed off.” She assured the girl. “How could she… You’re such a sweet girl.”

Cassandra Cain smiled. She liked being hugged by that woman. And the image of her mother cowering before her older sister was too funny. 

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

“Damian!” Marinette shouted as he dragged her through the garden. It was much colder in Gotham than in Paris. And it was still only late morning here while she left Paris in the afternoon. She was a bit tired. 

“I want to show you something, Angel. Come on! Before my brothers find us and drag me into their ‘Christmas spirit’ stuff.” He groaned at the thought.

“Christmas is important!” She argued.

“Definitely when you are here.” He answered easily. It was lucky he was too focused on the road to look back because she blushed… hard. 

They walked through the forest that was on the manor grounds until they entered a small clearing. In the center, there was a stone garden gazebo with the fire burning in the center. It definitely gave heat, but little smoke dispersed in the air before it could alert anyone to that location. There were several stone benches inside.

“I found it during one of my… escape attempts when I was younger.” He admitted. “Now I use it as a retreat from my brothers. The herb mixture I use as fuel gives no smoke.”

“Why bring me here?” She asked. 

“I just thought that we should enjoy the peace before the hurricane that my brothers become washes over us.”

Mari giggled. “I met your brothers.”

“No. You saw them. I had to live with them for the last five years. They are crazy.”

“It can’t be that bad… right?”

“Last year Todd set the Christmas Tree on fire.” He deadpanned.

“Okay, that might’ve been an accident.” She tried to argue. 

“Four years ago Grayson decided to show his acrobatic skill to put a star on the top of the tree. He ended up crashing it on us and the dinner table.”

“It… happens?” She said, but with less conviction. 

“Two years ago, Drake decided to surprise Brown and bought her a life-sized statue of them made out of chocolate.”

“It doesn’t sound that bad…” 

“Except that insomniac idiot accidentally ordered it made out of chocolate ice cream!” 

“Oh…” Marinette didn’t have an answer for that.

“So as I said, they can be a bit much.”

“Don’t worry. I still think it could be worse. My Nona once gave my parents a motorbike with two sidecars as a Christmas gift.”

“Tt. That sounds normal.” 

“Except one of them was made as a crib for me. I was one at the time.” 

Damian cracked a smile.

“I still think you will thank me for showing you this place.” 

“May I remind you that you will all be stuck with my mom for the better part of the exchange. She will keep them in check.” Mari huffed. 

“I don’t doubt that.” He pulled his phone and showed her a photo of Sabine standing over Talia. The next one was of unconscious Talia with Tom standing over her with the broken chair.

Mari giggled and she would later swear that Damian laughed a bit. Not that anyone saw them. Well, no human. Alfred the Cat could hardly testify.

------

Masterlist // Next

[scabopolis]

the gift of gab, the gift of you

Here it is @thisonesatellite! your 2020 CS Secret Santa gift. It was a complete and total delight to get to be your gift giver this year. That is not hyperbole - you are a gosh dang delight! Each of your message responses left me in stitches and while I will NEVER try and convince you a movie you think is bunk is good, I am delighted at the opportunity to recommend rom coms that don’t make you want to gouge your eyes out. 

This fic is heavily inspired by your love of coffee shops AUs (except...you know, a pub), your travel stories (which I shamelessly incorporated into the fic) and I believe rates about a 4 on the reindeer scale of Christmas cheer.  You’re a total eagle eye, so I just need to say I am well aware that Colin O’Donoghue’s accent in no way resembles an accent from Cork, but I just need that to be ignored, please and thank you.

Also, I’ve decided we’re fandom friends now. Okay? Okay! Finally, thank you to @cssecretsanta2020 for organizing this exchange and being the actual best and most patient fandom soul. 

*** Title: the gift of gab, the gift of you

Summary: Emma needs an Irish man. Wait! No! It’s not what it sounds like. And then the universe just has to go and provide her with the world’s chattiest, flirtiest, blue-eyesiest Irish man in existence. 

Available on AO3. ***

Emma is in no position to complain. From where she sits both literally – (perched upon a comfy barstool in the world’s coziest pub) – as well as existentially – (traveling abroad for the first time in her life) — she is fortunate and blessed. 

It’s just – 

It’s just it would be easier to enjoy it all if she didn’t have to deal with a rather annoying request from her rather annoyingly persistent mother. 

Her headphones are in but Emma still takes great care to speak in hushed tones over video chat. There’s nothing she wants less than to be the loud American who shares her private conversation with an entire establishment. The pub she found is at the end of a quiet lane off of Cork’s high street. The customers within the pub appear to be locals well known by the staff who tend the pub. In truth, she wouldn’t even be having this conversation if it wasn’t for —

“Who have you talked to today?” her mother asks. 

“Uh, I’m pretty sure I thanked the barista who made my coffee. And I ordered a pint in this pub.” 

“That’s not talking.” 

“It is by definition talking.” 

“That’s not what I meant. How else are you going to get to know the city?” Her mom interrupts before Emma can properly formulate a snarky reply. “And don’t you dare say ‘guidebooks.’ Your father and I raised you better than that.”

“Mom, please don’t make me do this.” 

“You said I could have anything I wanted as a souvenir.”  

“What about a mug? I bought Grandma Ruth one with a big fat sheep on it.” 

“Sounds lovely, sweetie, but no.” 

“Mom.” Emma realizes that as a twenty-six year old woman it is probably unbecoming to whine, but her mother is being absolutely ridiculous. Where is her dad when she needs him to rescue her? All he requested was a bottle of whiskey. What a sensible person!

“No. It’s fine. If you don’t want to get your mother the one thing she asked for on this trip that’s okay. I won’t say one word about paying for this celebration trip, or paying for graduate school, or —” 

“Shit, mom. Did you take a Guilt Trip 101 class or just Google how to?”

“Oh, this is natural talent. My present, please.” 

“Fine.” There’s a group of bearded men, the ones she pegged as locals, tucked into one corner of the pub. They’re probably her best bet, but she just arrived last night, and the combination of jet lag and travel nerves make her feel not yet up for that. Which leaves the staff working the bar. 

One of the two men she’s seen pouring pints and serving up food has gone missing. Besides, Emma wouldn’t trust herself in her sleep-deprived state to not say something utterly absurd to the blue-eyed, dark-haired, scruffy bartender. Probably a good thing he’s gone. Much safer is the other man working the bar – the one who refused to serve her Guinness but was very kind about it. While arguably attractive, he is a decidedly less intimidating sort of handsome. Unfortunately, he is in the midst of a heated discussion with one of the patrons, the two of them gesticulating to something happening with a football match on the screen. Which leaves the blonde haired woman currently polishing glasses. 

Emma lightly clears her throat. “Excuse me, ma’am?” When the woman turns to look at her, Emma smiles, and signals her over. She sets aside the pint glasses and tucks the polishing rag into her apron. Her mother, on the other end of the video call, is not satisfied. 

“Did you say ma’am?” 

“Mom,” Emma whispers.

“I said an Irish man, Emma Blanchard Nolan. Man.”

“No. You said person.” 

“The man was implied.” 

“Then you should have been more specific.” 

“Ready for another?” the woman at the bar asks. 

Emma looks down at her half-full pint. “Not quite.” She frowns. “And, uh, you’re not Irish, are you?” 

“No. Canadian.” 

“Ah. Okay.” Emma lowers her voice again and looks at her phone screen. Her mother remains unimpressed. “That’s foreign. Technically she’s a foreigner.” 

The sternness of Mary-Margaret’s expression is evident even over the video call. “Emmaline —” 

“Not my name, mother.” 

“Emmaline Blanchard Nolan, you promised me.” 

“I’ll find an Irish person tomorrow.” It’s about this time Emma realizes she’s rudely ignoring the very kind and apparently Canadian bartender. The one she asked to speak with. What’s more, the very kind and apparently Canadian bartender has been joined by the curly haired bartender. Both of whom peer at her with matching expressions of amused befuddlement. Emma removes her headphones and addresses the man. “You’re Irish, right?” 

“Well, miss,” and the gentle brogue of his accent, even with those two short words, is quite evident, “you are in Ireland.” 

“Excellent! Can you talk to my mom?” She detaches the headphones from her phone and turns the camera around to face the man and woman. “My mom wants to have a conversation with an Irish person.” 

“Irish man,” her mother corrects.

“An Irish man. Out in the wild.” The bartenders stare at her, nonplussed. “It’s her souvenir.” 

The woman presses her lips together – an obvious attempt to stifle a laugh. 

“Well, uh, aye.” The man tugs at his ear. “I guess I could —” He’s interrupted from his stuttering by the return of the blue-eyed, stubbly bartender, hauling a new keg into the back of the bar. 

“Actually,” the woman cuts in. “My husband,” she hip checks the curly-haired man, “needs to replace the keg.” 

“I do?” he asks. 

“He does?” This from tall, dark, and holy hell! also possesses an Irish accent. 

“But Killian is in the middle—”

“Shh,” the blonde woman interrupts her husband. 

“Yeah. Killian is—”

She goes on to shush the man Emma now knows to be Killian. 

“Oh no,” Mary Margaret whispers over the video call, “there’s two of them.” 

“What is happening?” Emma’s not sure which of the two men asked, this whole interaction spinning rather absurdly out of control. 

“I don’t know,” Emma says.

The woman ignores all of them. “I’m Elsa, this is Liam, and that,” she points to Killian, frozen with a hand on the keg like he’s uncertain what to do, “is my very single, very Irish brother-in-law.” And all at once it becomes clear what Elsa’s intentions are. “Killian, can you come over here and help our lovely patron and her lovely mother?” 

“Oh, Emma, Killian even sounds like an Irish name.” 

“Mom!” Originally she found her mother’s request to be silly but harmless. The more people who become involved, however, the quicker it approaches mortifying. Emma watches as Elsa whispers something to her brother-in-law, likely explaining the unconventional request. 

“I’m very friendly,” Mary-Margaret reassures anyone who might be listening. 

“You are a flirt, is what you are,” Emma scolds. “And what would dad say if he found out about this?”

“He asked for whiskey. I asked for this.” 

“Come on, lass. Don’t deprive me of a dashing rescue.” Killian leans across the bar, his hand reaching out for her phone. All that stubble and the blue-eyes and the accent are worse when directed directly at her. “Besides, your mum sounds like a woman after my own heart.” 

“If you’re sure—?”

“Absolutely.”

To her abject horror, the moment she hands Killian the phone, he walks away with it in hand. 

“As requested, milady,” he says to the screen, “one genuine Irish man.”

Her mother’s delighted giggle is embarrassing for all Americans everywhere but it seems to delight Killian. She can just makeout her mother’s question about where he grew up when he rounds the corner, out of her hearing. 

“Where is he going?” Emma asks, craning her neck. “Where is he taking my phone?” 

“If I know Killian, your mum is probably about to get the most thorough oral history of Irish pubs she could have asked for,” Liam says, tossing a towel over his shoulder. 

“Oh. Okay.” She drums her fingertips on her glass. “I’m sorry about all the trouble.” 

“Nonsense,” he waves her off. “This is the most exciting thing to happen in our pub since Seamus and Willy hosted their wedding reception here.” He jerks his chin towards the group of bearded men she noticed earlier, though which one is Seamus and which is Willy she can’t be certain. 

After another fifteen minutes, Emma has finished her pint and Killian still has possession of her phone. He crossed through the room once, merrily chatting with her mother as he regaled  her with the story of how he got the scar on his cheek. 

Elsa is filling a series of pint glasses for a group of women standing at the bar, and Emma feels the need to apologize again. “This isn’t what I expected,” she explains. 

“What’s that?” Elsa asks. 

“I was kind of thinking, best case scenario, there’d be an exchange of hellos and that would be that.” 

Elsa nods, hands the pints off to the women, and then fills one more. “Are you familiar with the legend of the Blarney stone?” 

Emma nods. She has absolutely no intention of kissing the dang thing (her research indicates local teens do all manner of ungodly things to the stone, knowing that tourists intend to kiss it), but it’s on her list to go see. 

“Well, Jones family legend —”

“I take it your husband and his brother are Jones’?” 

“And me by marriage. Jones family legend has it that Killian must have been birthed upon the stone because never has there been a man more endowed with the gift of gab.” Elsa finishes pouring the pint and sets it in front of her. 

“Oh, I didn’t order this.” Right at that moment, Liam returns to the bar and sets a turkey sandwich in front of her. “Or this,” Emma says. 

“Knowing my brother, you might be here a while,” Liam explains. 

“Gift of gab?” 

He nods, pleased that the Jones family lore has reached her. “Gift of gab.”

Liam proves to be correct, which means Emma has ample time to get to know both Elsa and Liam. The two of them are freakishly adept at juggling bartending, interacting with their customers, and keeping up a steady flow of conversation with her. The highlight is hearing the full story of Seamus and Willy (she is able to identify them by their matching navy sweaters – sweaters which Willy apparently handknits for the both of them), two men who worked on the same fishing boat for decades before realizing they were in love. 

“Once they sorted that bit out, they got married three weeks later,” Elsa says. 

“So which one of them is the designated driver?” Emma asks. 

“That whole lot lives down the street.” Liam raises his voice so the group can hear them. “And they do nothing but hassle me every day of my life!” The group all raise their pint glasses and cheer, indicating this kind of teasing is something central to the pub’s dynamic. 

Killian returns from wherever it was he was busy flirting with her mother and sets her phone on the bartop. She looks down at the display only to find it blank.

“Uh, your mum had to run to the market, but she indicated she’ll call you later.” 

“She didn’t even say goodbye? Unbelievable.” As Emma gears herself up for peak mom-annoyance, she gets a text message. “Speak of the devil.” 

4:38 PM - Mom to Emma hubba hubba

“Ah, geez, mom,” she grumbles. 

“What’d she say about me?” Killian asks. 

“What makes you think that text was about you?” 

“Because you have roses in your cheeks.” Emma frowns. She what? “You’re blushing,” Killian says. 

“No I’m not.” 

“It’s getting deeper, I’m afraid.” He takes away her empty pint glass. “Another?” 

“Yes, please.” 

He sets another pint of Murphy’s in front of her (Liam was the one to inform her that one drinks Murphy’s when one is in Cork). “Your mother is lovely.” 

“Yeah, she’s something alright.” She sips the beer and licks the foam off her lip. “What were the two of you talking about for so long?”

“Oh, just having a chat. She wanted to know about the pub and how Elsa and Liam met.” 

“The gift of gab.” 

“Ah,” he says, “Elsa told you of that, then?” 

“Like my mom didn’t tell you anything about me?” 

“It was all good, Emma.” 

She snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“Why a conversation with an Irish man?” Emma frowns at Killian, not quite certain of what he’s asking. “For a souvenir. That’s truly all your mum wanted?” 

“Oh, that. In between flirting, did she tell you anything about her and my dad?” Killian shakes his head. “It’s kind of a long story.” 

As if waiting for his cue, Liam comes up behind Killian and slings an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “My dear little brother has time.” 

“Younger brother,” Killian corrects. 

“Shorter brother.” Liam bumps Killian towards the other side of the bar. “Why don’t you keep Emma company?” 

“I have another three hours on my shift.” 

“I think Elsa and I can handle it until Will arrives.” 

“Liam.” 

“Don’t make me fire you.” 

“You can’t fire me. We’re co-owners.” 

“Fine. Don’t make me quit.” 

Killian rolls his eyes but slides out from under Liam’s arm. He crosses to the other side of the bar and sits beside Emma. “I’ll take a pint, then.” He raps his knuckles on the bartop. “And make it quick.” 

Emma hides her smile in her pint glass. Both Liam and Elsa have been so lovely. There’s no reason to switch allegiances at this point. Regardless of how much she might be tempted by the stubbly-faced, blue-eyed flirty Irish man sitting beside her. 

“Between the two of them and my mother,” Emma says. 

“Yeah, not the most subtle lot.” Liam shoots Killian a glare as he sets the pint down to which Killian responds with the cheekiest grin Emma has ever seen. The interaction has older and baby brother written all over it. “So, your mom and Irishmen. Go.” 

“Oh, that.” Unlike her mother, and even her father, Emma holds the details of her life close to her chest. She’s made the mistake in the past of sharing too much too fast. When people leave her, either by choice or circumstance, it physically pains her to know there are people out in the world with knowledge of her worries, fears and dreams. But maybe it’s the sandwich sitting warm in her stomach, or the jet lag, or simply the buzz of international travel, because she feels inclined to share at least a few details of her life with Killian. 

“My mom and dad both took a gap year after high school and met while backpacking across Europe. They met at the Roman Colosseum, decided to match up their itineraries, and by the time they arrived in Budapest five months later they were in love and my mom was pregnant.” 

“And they’ve been together ever since?” 

“Almost 27 years.”

“That’s quite the story.” 

She nods. “They cut their year of travel short, and went to live with my Grandma Ruth, my dad’s mom. They always talked about returning to Europe, finishing their trip at some point, but by the time I was old enough to leave behind with my grandma, dad was in vet school, mom was teaching, and they were running a wildlife rescue from the family farm. They kept making new plans to travel but they just kept getting pushed back and back and back. Until, one day, they decided to put all that money towards sending me on my first trip instead. So, as much as I fight every silly request she has of me, I would do anything if it made her smile.”

“Your mum and dad never made it to Ireland?” 

“Nope.”

“Thus the strange request.” 

“Thus the strange request.” 

“Well, it gave me a reason to chat with the lovely lass at the bar, so for that I’ll be forever grateful.” 

Her Grandma Ruth, Aunt Ruby, and frankly everyone who knows her parents well, routinely comment on the resemblance between Emma and her dad. Apparently in temperament and affectation they are almost identical. But maybe she’s more like her mom than anyone knows because the conversation between her and Killian flows fast and easy. Easy enough that she barely notices when she and Killian finish their pints and Elsa slides new glasses in front of them. Emma’s head is feeling a little buzzy, and that turkey sandwich was more than a couple hours ago. Maybe she can hint at Killian that she wants to go to the Christmas market. Hint even more specifically that she wouldn’t hate if he went with her. 

No, she can’t do that. To even think such a thing would be ridiculous. 

She can’t possibly ask a practical stranger to walk up and down the stalls of the festive market with her. She can’t expect him to want to sample all the baked goods and food they can handle. Or to hold her hand while they drink spiked apple cider. That kind of thinking is romantic, and hopeful, and not at all her brand. 

“This is really your first trip out of the states?” Killian asks.

“I mean, Canada, but that’s so close to home it doesn’t count.” Emma catches herself, eyes darting to Elsa. “Don’t tell your sister.” 

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Killian angles his body on the stool to face her more directly. Without Emma realizing it, they’ve drifted close enough together over the past hour or so that the move makes it so their knees knock together. Emma could move away, put some distance between them, but everything is foggy and hazy in that delicious way, and she can’t bring herself to move. “What does that make me, then? The ruggedly handsome foreigner you intend to seduce as a notch on your bedpost?” 

“Who said anything about seduction?”

“You’re giving me bedroom eyes.” 

“I do not make eyes of any kind. Especially bedroom eyes.” 

Elsa jumps in, setting glasses of water down for each of them. “Yeah, but Killian does. And he needs to put them away.”

Emma tries to react quickly enough to Elsa’s teasing to evade Killian’s detection, to turn away and hide her smile in her shoulder so he can’t see, but the gentle tug on the end of her braid indicates he caught her. 

“Think that’s funny, do you?” 

“You and my mom ganged up against me. I deserve to join with your family against you.” 

“Your mum is great.” He shrugs. “Well, based on the little I know.”  

“I know she can be a little intense. I hope she didn’t—”

“She was as lovely as her daughter.” Before his words can fully sink in, perhaps bringing that blush back to her cheeks, he’s moved on. “You’ll have to bring her with you when you return.” 

She rests her chin on palm, blinking up at him. Okay, maybe she sometimes makes eyes. “What makes you think I have any plans to come back?”

“Ireland gets in your blood. You’ll be back.” 

This time they’re interrupted by Liam. He swipes away the pint glasses in front of them, remaining beer and all. “That’s about all I can stomach of that.”

“What do you mean?” Killian asks. 

“You’ve been flirting with the kind tourist long enough. Time to go.” 

Oh. Emma looks down at her boots. A surge of deep embarrassment heating her cheeks and causing her stomach to churn. “Sorry,” she says quietly, her eyes turned down. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No!” The twin cries from both Liam and Killian startle her. She’s not sure which one appears more stricken by her announcement she intended to leave.   

“Apologies, Emma, I wasn’t clear,” Liam says. He extends his hand to Killian. “Apron.” It takes Killian a moment to react but when Liam stays in his place, his hand extended, Killian removes his apron and hands it to him. “See you tomorrow, little brother.” 

“Younger.”

“Dumber.” 

“Stubborner.”

“Not a word.” Liam stalks back over to Elsa who is shaking her head at the whole display. “They’re both idiots,” Liam says, and Emma is just going to pretend she didn’t hear that, thank you very much. 

“Have you been to the Christmas market yet, Emma?” Killian’s voice brings her back to the pub, and this particular bar stool, with this particular man. This particular man who has somehow intuited the secret desire of her heart to go to the town’s Christmas market with him. 

“No. No. Not yet.” 

Killian jumps down from his seat and extends a hand to Emma to help her down. “Come on, love. Let’s sail away.” 

There’s 100 ways Emma could respond to that. She could tell Killian she isn’t his love. She could jump down from the stool on her own. She could insist she’s fine going to the market by herself. But she tries to channel a little magic, that particular magic which for her mom and dad turned one day in Rome into a lifetime, and chooses differently. 

(Not that she’s saying she expects—)

She takes Killian’s offered hand and his answering grin is all the confirmation she needs she made the right decision. 

And so they go to the Christmas market, and at Killian’s insistence she tries mulled wine but quickly trades it in for a cup of boozy cider. They ride the ferris wheel, the cold stinging her cheeks from the top, the lights of Cork spread out before her, and that thrum of love for this place beats loudly in her veins. Suddenly every travel story her parents have ever told her makes sense and maybe Killian is right  – maybe Ireland is in her blood. 

They walk together side-by-side and at a point Emma can’t remember – somewhere between sampling whiskey, buying several bottles for her dad, and licking salt and malt vinegar from hot chips off her fingers – they transition to walking hand-in-hand. The heat of Killian’s skin, even through two layers of gloves, is what she blames for the fact that she actually starts humming along to Christmas carols. Where’s that deep cynicism she has been committed to for her life when she needs it? 

“Told you,” Killian says after the two of them step away from a stall with handmade ornaments. She must have been channeling her mom because she couldn’t stop herself from striking up a conversation with the vendor. Somehow by the end of the interaction she’d agreed to join him and his wife for their annual holiday pub crawl the following night. 

“Told me what?” 

“That you would fall for Ireland.” 

“You get the honor and privilege of keeping me company on my first full night on my first real trip out of the country and all you can say is ‘I told you so’?” 

“I believe what I am trying to say, love, is you appear very much at home here.” 

The sentiment makes everything in Emma buzz, but she does what she does best and works to diffuse it. “Well, uh, I don’t know. Does it ever snow here?” 

“Eh, we get about 50 mm every year?” At her look of confusion Killian smiles. “Not much.” 

“Have you ever had a white Christmas?” 

“Can’t say I have. They’re pretty rare in Ireland.” 

“In that case, I think this means you should come to Maine. We do a great white Christmas.” 

“Maybe I will.” 

“Great. Next year sound good?” 

Killian laughs and squeezes her hand. “Sounds great.”

She hears the faint echo of advice her dad once gave her. It was right when she was fresh off her heartbreak with Neal and wasn’t sure she had it in her to apply for grad school. He said something to her about moments. About the need to notice good moments even in the midst of bad ones. 

Standing here hand-in-hand with a man she met only five hours ago, the glow of Christmas lights dancing in technicolor hues against his cheeks and hair, Emma is absolutely certain this is a good moment. 

“Emma?” 

She answers Killian’s question by rising up on her toes and kissing him. It’s quick and fleeting, barely a brush of her lips against his, but the look on his face as she pulls away, all bright eyed-wonder, deserves to be classified as a good moment all on its own. 

It takes self-control Emma wasn’t aware she possessed to not drop their shopping bags to the ground, grip him by the lapels of his jacket, and kiss the crap out of him. Instead she loops her arm in his. 

“It’s getting late,” she says. “Want to walk me back to my hotel?” 

He swallows, that poleaxed expression still on his face. “Aye.” 

The next morning, Emma is woken up by the sound of her video call alert and boy it was a mistake to not extend her do not disturb until noon. She reaches out and blindly bats at the bedside table until she makes contact with her phone. As soon as she swipes up on her mom’s call, she squeezes her eyes shut again. 

“Hello?”

“Oh, sweetie. Are you still jet lagged?” 

“And a little hungover.”

“Sounds like you had a very eventful night.”

Killian grumbles from somewhere behind her. “What time is it?” he asks.

It’s right about this moment Emma realizes her error. Her mom goes quiet and Emma considers taking the opportunity to end the call. And then maybe ignore every call thereafter for the next five days. 

“Emma Nolan. Is there a man in bed with you?” 

“No,” Emma answers, though it’s perfunctory and not at all convincing. 

Killian presses closer to her, and shifts so his chin rests on her shoulder. “Hello again, Mrs. Nolan. And this must be Mr. Nolan.” 

That gets Emma’s attention and she opens her eyes enough to see her mom and dad sitting beside one another on the couch. While her mom is positively gleeful, her dad looks as though he wishes he could melt into the couch cushions and disappear. 

“There are certain things I don’t care to see,” her dad says. “Certain things I don’t care to know.” 

Emma rotates in bed and onto her back, holding the phone above her head so both she and Killian are still in view of the camera. “Oh hush, Dad, you and mom did it the first night you met.” 

“You told her that?” 

In response, her mom shrugs. “She asked.” 

“And not that it matters, but Killian and I didn’t have sex.” 

Though it didn’t stop them from trading long, slow kisses that left her dizzy and wanting more, more, and more. Killian must have felt the same because it took little to no convincing to get him to stay the night. Perhaps most remarkably, after extending the invitation, Emma had no desire to retract it or pretend it didn’t mean anything. 

“Your daughter was far too drunk to have sex.” Emma turns her head so fast in Killian’s direction she hears something crack. 

“That, for instance, is one of the things I don't want to know about,” her dad says.  

Killian cheerfully waves at the camera, ignoring both her father’s indignation and her glare. “I’m Killian, by the way. Happy to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Nolan.” 

Emma elbows Killian. The man is a total menace. “I’ll call you guys back when I’ve had coffee,” 

“I want details,” her mom says. 

“And I want no details.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Emma hangs up the phone and tosses it in the direction of the foot of the bed. She flips over onto her side and Killian mirrors her, reaching out to trace the freckles on the bridge of her nose. “So that was my dad.” 

“He seems a charming fellow.” 

“Don’t let the responsible tough guy act fool you,” she says, and snuggles closer to Killian. He responds just as she hoped, by wrapping his arms tight around her. “He once spent all his money on a cross country train ride and stole oyster crackers from the dining car for food. And during a California road trip, my mom almost froze to death sleeping in her wet bathing suit on the side of the road.” 

Killian chuckles, the vibrations of his laugh making her feel even warmer. “You’re saying they can deal with a half naked man in their daughter’s hotel room?”  

“Yeah, they can deal.” After a moment’s hesitation, Emma slips her hands up and under Killian’s shirt. It’s the one he wore to work, and she can still smell the faint aromas of beer and fried food that linger. She presses her palms against his back and bunches the shirt up, up, and then over his head. 

“Emma?” 

A girl could get used to the way his voice moves over the syllables of her name. “They might have a problem with a fully naked one, though.” She kisses his bare shoulder.

Killian’s hands move under her shirt to span her waist. Goosebumps breakout across her skin. By the slight twist of his lips, Killian notices. “So you’re saying—?” 

“I’m saying you should quit gabbing and kiss me before they call again.” 

“As you wish.”

And a week later, when she is back in Maine celebrating Christmas with her family and Killian is in Ireland with his, Emma convinces herself she imagined it. She must have. She must have imagined how safe she felt in the presence of another person. Imagined the comfort she felt as he joined her for a quick road trip to Dublin. Imagined that it could feel like your heart was split in two, half residing in the chest of a person you just met. 

But the week of New Year’s Eve, when he arrives in Maine to celebrate with her, she’s startled to find it was all real. 

The morning after Killian arrives, she sits with her mom in her parents’ breakfast nook, the two of them sipping coffee as Killian and her dad make waffles. 

“Not such a dumb souvenir after all, huh?” her mom whispers.

Emma shakes her head, too happy to even react to her mom’s shameless gloating. “No. Not so dumb.” 

[thr-333]

Mismatch- Part 22

Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month

Hating LIla is apparently a family trait

First< Previous > Next

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

“Uh I hate this,” Chloe picks at her uniform like it's a disgusting growth.

“I think you look as nice as you always do,” Marion says cheerfully, turning around on his seat to look back at her and Kagami.

“Marion that is by far the worst you have ever insulted me,”

“It was a complement-” Marion doges her whack.

“Marinette! Hit your brother for me,” Chloe demands, standing up to try and reach him.

“It’s more gratifying if you do it yourself, trust me,” Marinette flicks through her phone, not bothering to look up, “I can pin your uniform to look more flattering if you like,”

“Nette you are the best!” Chloe hugs her from behind, awkward to be sure with the seat and all, yep that's the only reason, not Kagami's death glare that can be felt through the seat.

“Oh Marinette you can also pin mine,” Lila asks, as sweetly as acid, “Or weren't you going to offer the rest of the class?”

“No actually Lila she wasn't,” Marion sneers, ignoring Marinette trying to pull him back into the seat, “As I’ve made it quite clear none of you are our friends, so she isn’t obligated to do anything for you,”

“That’s so mean,” Lila sniffles, everyone is too busy feeling guilty to comfort her.

“Weren't you friends with MDC Lila?” Marion asks as sweetly as acid, “Why not try asking them?"

With that Marion turns back to his seat and starts scrolling through his phone, ignoring Lila's attempts at guilting. He gets a notification from Marinette.

I can speak for myself  

U can nicely tell them no- I  can tell them to fck off

That wasn't very nice

Im done with nice

Whats wrong?

Marion looks up seeing Marinette looking over him concerned, he sighs and texts back.

Nervous

Dont worry Bruce hasn't told them yet

Its going to be awkward

We’ll get through it- Pound it?

Marion looks back up, Marinette is smiling at him holding out her hand.

“Pound it,”

They pull up to the school, the grandiose of Wayne academy is nothing to sneeze at. Brick buildings, iron work, Marion has to force Marinette to put her sketchbook away. They are escorted around the campus by a student. They’ll be split up and put into a range of different classes to make the best out of their week there.

“3 o’clock,” Marinette bumps into him, Marion lets his gaze slide over, spotting Damian.

“Wasn't Lila saying on the way over here that she was great friends with him?”

“Mari don't,” Marinette hisses, tugging at his sleeve, “It’s weird enough without pulling him in to our grudge match,”

“Nothing bonds siblings more than a mutual hatred of Lila, exhibit A,” He points back and forth between them, “I’m going to do it,”

“Don't you dare-”

“Hey Damian!” Marion shouts, waving his hand for the entire hallway to turn and stare.

Damian turns around with a scowl, hardly lessening when he spots them.

“Marion, just what do you think you’re doing,” Kagami scolds, as Damian stalks over.

“Lila,” Marion smirks back, looking over to the girl who pales at an actual Wayne walking over, apparently she had actually decided to look up what they look like.

“Oh this is going to be good,” Chloe steps back, content to watch the show.

“Hey Dami,” Marion goes to sling an arm around his shoulder.

“Don’t call me Dami,” Damian sidesteps his attempt, preferring to stand closer to Marinette.

“How’s Cat-fred?” Marion smiles, getting Damian’s scowl to lessen slightly, so he smiles brighter.

“He’s doing well,”

“Good good…” Marion shuffles, no longer able to look directly at him, “How’s the family?”

Marinette gives him a sideways look that clearly says ‘you did this to yourself’.

“Why are you asking?” Damian narrows his eyes, and Marion knows he fucked up.

Nette help please!

“I wanted to know when I can come over next for a rematch,” Marinette gracefully lets him off the hook.

“Evidently sparring at the manor is at risk of interruption,” Damian notes, deep in thought, “We should plan an alternative meeting space,”

“That sounds great,” Marinette smiles, catching Damian in between their grins.

Damian just nods and walks away, Marion smiles and waves.

“You’re an idiot,” Marinette punches him in the shoulder, getting him to lower his arm.

“We’ve established that, thanks,” Marion rubs his shoulder with a pout, “However look over there,”

Lila having an aneurysm, surrounded by the class berating her with questions.

“Worth it,” Marion grins, going for a subtle fist bump.

“Agreed,” Marinette returns the gesture.

“Lila why didn’t you say hi?”

“Why didn’t he say hi?”

“He must not have seen me,” Lila’s lip quivers in a practiced motion, “Marinette was standing in front of me,”

“Or were you hiding behind Marinette?” Marion calls over, actually voluntarily walking towards the beast.

“What?! Of course I wasn't!” Lila shouts, her glare sending him a clear warning, one he was fully prepared to ignore.

“Then why didn’t you just move?” Marion asks oh so innocently.

“I didn’t want to be rude,” Lila sounds shy but her face screams murder, as people hang around to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Then you were doing it to be polite and complaining about Marinette is quite rude,” Marion has to hold back a smirk as he hears an ‘oh snap’ from his audience.

“I- you!-”

“That’s nice Lila,” Marinette interrupts, walking away like the badass she is, “How about we get to class,”

Marion goes to class, having the fortune to be lumped in with Lila. And yes he does mean fortune because while Lila is trying to brag and get the students under her thumb they are happily ignoring her, focusing instead on Marion’s tips for learning French. When Lila switches tactics saying she can speak Italian Marion switches over to fluent Italian, something he had learned from his Nona. He then breaks out his Mandarin, daring Lila to try and fake knowing a language.

Lila goes quite, just kidding you know that's not true. She starts to pull students aside whispering to them. Marion isn't sure if she is intentionally loud enough that he can hear her or if it’s just his enhanced hearing.

“He’s a bully, I know he’s just trying to act nice to get something out of you,” Lila warns a student who looks disgruntled to have basically been pulled into the corner away from the group.

“He’s a Wayne?” Ah so he’s heard the not-so rumour, “What could I possibly have that he doesn't?”

“He’s not a Wayne!” Lila snaps, before regaining her composure, “I actually know the Waynes,”

“... because they’re in your class?”

“No!” She stops her foot, “They made up that rumour! I know because I’m personal friends with all the Waynes,”

“Alright show a picture,” The guy shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets, Marion reminds himself to give them the award of ‘you’re smarter than everyone in my class, it's not much but it’s something!’.

“ What? ” Lila seethes, looking ready to tear his eyeballs out to have an excuse not to show him.

“All I’m saying is I’ve seen multiple pictures of them with the Waynes plus, I heard that they actually talked to Damian Wayne this morning!” He actually looks in awe at this fact.

“I would hardly call that a conversation,” Lila crosses her arms, looking to the side like a child.

“No you don't understand!” He employers making a wild hand gesture as if trying to show how amazing it is, “He’s the ice prince, if someone else calls his name or even tried to talk to him he would just ignore them, but he actually walked over and talked to them,”

“He saw me-”

“Look I don’t really care, this argument isn't worth having,” The guy puts up placating hands, the gesture having the exact opposite effect on Lila, “Marion seems cool, Wayne or not, so yeah,”

Marion tries not to smile as one by one Lila is shot down. Her anger rising so high Marion is sure she would have been akumatized three times over by now.

“Hey what's with Lila, she seems to have it out for you?” The first guy to talk to her whispers, turns out his name is James and was very confused when Marion gifted him a small paper trophy.

“Oh she does,” Marion shrugs, filling out the worksheet idly.

“Ok… why?” James presses, the small paper trophy sitting on his desk.

“Hmmm…” Marion leans back, tipping his seat, “It’s a paradox,”

“What is?”

“If I tell you the truth, you’ll probably think I’m lying and her accusations will seem more believable,” Marion reasons, looking up at the ceiling, “If I fake ignorance, you’ll probably just take her word for it, seems like a trap,”

“You’re taking this way too seriously,” James shakes his head, and Marion cracks a grin.

“Sorry, just happy to have some new friends,” His smile lessens, becoming melancholy, “It’s been awhile,”

“What? But you’re so,” James makes another one of his wild hand gestures,  “ Nice ,”

Marion just shrugs, but some people notice how he quickly glances over at Lila talking with someone else. Any further questions are cut off by the bell.

“Well, seems that's our cue to leave, now tell me are American school lunches really as bad as I’m led to believe?”

“You poor little french boy,” James shake his head,  “You have no idea the horrors you will face,”

“This is so much worse than I thought it would be,” Marion looks down at his tray in disgust, “This is a private school?”

“I told you so,” James shrugs, walking through the cafeteria to find a seat.

“Hold up a sec,” Marion says, spotting Damian, not talking but rather trying to ignore someone talking to him, “Dami!”

“Don’t call me Dami,” Damian pushes Marion off him this time, the person who was talking to him looks shocked that his arms aren’t broken.

He puts his tray on the table and grabs Damian's shoulders.

“I have an urgent problem,”

“Cheng-Dupain, from what I know of you that is a massive exaggeration,” Damian brushes him off again and Marion’s scared the other kid is having a heart attack, “Now stop bothering me, it can wait for later,”

“I didn’t take any pictures of Cat-fred!” Marion cries, flopping onto Damian, who doesn't bother pushing him off a third time.

“... Understandable,” Damian snatches Marion’s phone, letting Marion input the code over his shoulder, “This is an oversight on your part,”

“So you’ll send some to me?” Marion grins, using Damian’s head as an armrest as he watches him enter his number.

“Yes,” Damian passes Marion’s phone back and Marion grabs his food.

“Great, see you later!” Marion stands up, ruffling Damian's hair before leaving.

“What was that!?” He hears the other person shout as he walks away.

“What was that?!” James yells, and whoops the entire cafeteria is staring between him and Damian.

“Do you ever learn from your mistakes?” Marinette asks, materialising beside him.

“No?” Marion scoffs, putting his and on his hip, “Why would I?”

“Are you actually siblings?” James still looks in shock but at least he isn’t gaping and gasping for air anymore.

“Yes?” Of course they were siblings, they are twins? Is that not clear?

“God-fucken dammit Mari!” Marinette hisses, “That’s not what they meant!”

“Oh,” Marion says softly, totally not jumping as Damian materialises next to him.

“Cheng-Dupain, it was this absentminded nature that caused this rumour to get out of hand in the first place,”

“Yeah… you are going to have to be way more specific,” Marion looks around the whole cafeteria is still staring at them, trading whispers.

“No we are not related, that is a baseless rumour,” Damian glares at James, making him recoil.

“Right… baseless,” Marion mumbles, getting kicked in the shin by Marinette.

“Adopted then?” James foolishly asks.

“ No ,” and yep now James looks afraid for his life.

“Haha, you know you don’t have to seem so offended by that?” Marion slings his arm around Damian’s shoulder, silently rejoicing that he only gets a withered glare this time.

“Like I said,” Lila’s voice carries over the still quite cafeteria, “The Waynes were telling me how they hate that rumour, the meer idea they are connected to the twins is-”

“ Excuse me ,” Damian slams his hand down on the table, right next to Lila making her jump out of her skin,  “But who are you, and why do you think you know anything about my family and what we think,”

“I just-”

“You presume you’re of enough importance to understand my feelings towards the matter?” Damian stands tall and looks down his nose at her, “You aren’t,”

“Lila,” Alya whispers to her as Damian walks away, “I think you should just let them sort it out, it’s a family matter,”

“Who is that?” Damian demands when he gets back to them, “And how do I destroy her?”

“Don’t worry about it Damian, she's just doing it to get attention,” Marinette explains calmly.

“Lila Rossi,” Marion has other plans, “She’s a Liar, provide proof she doesn't know your family or anyone for that matter and she will be destroyed,”

Damian gives a curt nod and walks away, back to his friend who is still gaping like the rest of the room.

“ Mari ,” Marinette smacks him.

“I merely shared my wisdom,” Marion stroke his invisible beard, “What he chooses to do with it is up to him,”

“Ugh, that was a long day,” Plagg groans, curling up in the middle of his pillow.

“Plagg you slept in my bag the whole time,” Marion flops onto his bed, and it wasn't over they had to go on patrol soon.

“Which is far more disruptive than a bed,” Plagg complains, letting Marion curl up next to him, “Not comfortable at all,”

“Speaking of not being comfortable…” Marinette trails off, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Our brother insisting we aren’t related?” Marion curls around to look over at her.

“Very strange feeling,” Marinette nods, absentmindedly pulling her feet onto the bed.

“He yelled at Lila,” Marion smiles up at the ceiling.

“Does that make him an honorary Dupain-slash-Cheng?” Marinette smiles over at him.

“Yeah…” Marion’s grin drops, “... Or Dupain/Cheng/Wayne,”

“... You want to tell them?” Marinette asks in her horrible tone that reminds him of being back in Paris and trying to stifle emotions.

“I mean, yeah,” He sits up, crossing his legs, “They’re family right? I want to know them, do you?”

“He seemed upset when they called us siblings,” Marinette turns to face him, the Kwamis watching their little meeting from the outside.

“He seemed more upset with Lila, said he was insulted by it,” Marion reasons, he feels like they’re back in Paris dressed as Ladybug and Chat Noir having three in the morning conversations on rooftops.

“It’s Lila, anything she says can piss someone off,” Marinette sighs, flopping back on the bed, destroying the illusion, “Tikki what do you think?”

“This is a decision you have to make on your own Marinette,” Tikki advises sagely.

“Tiiikkkiiiiii,” Marinette whines like a three year old

“Alright, I never had a family but I have the other Kwamis,” Tikki concedes, explaining to the twins giving her all their attention, “I am separated from Nooro and Dussu, and if family feels like them I do not want you to be separated,”

“What if they get mad?” Marinette asks, fidgeting.

“Then you’ll find a way to work through it,” Tikki smiles at them, “You’re Ladybug and Chat Noir, there isn’t anything you can’t do,”

“Just do it kid!” Plagg shouts, giving up on pretending to nap, “If it turns out bad at least you know!”

“Plagg!”

“What is it Sugar Cube?” Plagg asks sweetly, getting chased out the room moments later.

“So, we doing this?” Marion asks, after all their Kwamis have left.

“I guess so,” Marinette shugs, bringing out her phone, Marion holds her hand for comfort as they wait for the phone to ring.

“Hello?” Bruce picks up on the third ring.

“Hey Bruce,” Marion says, sounding strained even to himself.

“Marinette, Marion,” Bruce answers, pleasantly surprised, “Is everything alright?”

“How do you feel about telling everyone else?” Marion cuts straight to the chase, he can’t be bothered to run.

“... are you sure?” Marion can feel Marinette tension grow at the question, “I want to but they’ll all be surprised, it might ruin your trip,”

“We got sent to the hospital the first week being here,” Marion reasons, he should technically still be on bed rest.

“... That's true,”

“So?” He prompts after a too long pause.

“When do you want to tell them?”

“Tomorrow,” Marinette speaks up for the first time.

Well I guess that's that

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

Taglist:

@technicallyburninggarden @fusser90  @misslenamooney @superbwhispersconnoisseur @biodad-bruce-month @nalu-ismyjam @the-one-woman-army @rosesandsailboats @blackmagicforever @zeneralla @ivymala07 @tired-butterfly @tired-butterfly @Ranger-gothamite @A-star-with-a-human-name @enchanted-nerd

[winchesterwords]

“You and I” John Winchester x F!Reader

Summary:  Set before the boys raid the vampire nest to get the colt, John visits you to get insight on which vamps have it. Owning a bar, you are a highway of information for the supernatural and an “old friend” of johns. How will he react around you while his sons meet you for the first time?

Word Count: 3753

Warning: Swearing, Alcohol, lil steamy moment

Song I Wrote To: “You and I” by Lady Gaga

Note: This is a bit canon divergence but I liked the concept. I’ve mentioned before that I don’t write smut, but I hope this lil steamy moment was okay. I don’t see enough John fics on here or ao3 so I wanted to do something. I wish we would have gotten more of his character. Tho i think that’s just cause I love JDM so much. 

-------

In the dark of a lone American road, a 67’ Impala rolled along the rain-slicked street. 

“You have that look on your face again,” Dean Winchester said, looking over at his brother. Sam turned to him, confused. 

“What look?” he asked. 

“The look that says you want to either punch Dad or punch him twice,” Dean said with a knowing glance. 

“I just don’t get why he won’t tell us where we’re going,” Sam said with a deep sigh as he stared at the taillights of their father’s truck ahead of them. “He just has to make everything so damn mysterious.” Dean laughed as his thumbs drummed on the steering wheel. 

“You’re just realizing that now, Sammy? Dad has always been like this, but he knows what he’s doing. Always does.” 

“I’m not so sure about that,” Sam grumbled and Dean rolled his eyes. In their search for the colt, they had gotten word that the break-in was perpetrated by a nest of vampires. The problem was, they weren’t sure where to start when it came to the bloodsuckers. Then, John had mentioned he knew someone who could give them a hand. That was all he said before jumping in his truck and telling his boys to follow him. Sam and Dean had done what they were told and revved the Impala’s engine, but now, Sam was getting restless. 

----

John Winchester drove with an eagerness.

He knew where he was going.  He had the route memorized no matter which direction he was coming from. You were the kind of woman that he couldn’t forget even if he tried. There was something about the way you didn’t take any bullshit when it came to anyone. Then there was the fact that you handled a sawed-off shotgun as well as any hunter he had ever met. John always liked keeping you to himself, his own personal getaway when things were getting a bit too dark for his tastes. 

However, unfortunately, this visit would not be a social one. He needed your help and he was running out of options to find the colt. If anyone knew where to find a vamp nest with a desire for a mystical gun, it would be you.

John hit the gas and sped down the road, keeping Sam and Dean in his rearview mirror. He was actually nervous for once. There was so much of his life that he kept private from his sons. Dean knew a bit more than Sam, but they didn’t know about you. They didn’t know about how you had saved his life twice or that you had asked him to stay with you on multiple occasions, but he couldn’t. You always understood that he had a mission to complete. Not just for Mary, but for his boys as well and you respected that even when all you wanted was a bit more time with the man, just as he did with you. 

Turning off the highway, John rolled into a town that seemed like coming home. Dean followed him through the winding streets as John drove straight for your bar. You had owned “The Iron Outpost” since before you had met the eldest Winchester. The entire building was lined with pure iron to keep unwanted spirits at bay. Not to mention the devil’s traps at both entrances and holy water you added to all the drinks.

You were pretty lenient with most supernaturals such as wolves, witches, even the odd vampire on occasion, but demons was where you drew the line. They never got past the door and if they tried, they would be met by you or your business partner, Dawn, who was also a hunter. The two of you had become an information highway for everything going on in the supernatural world and that was why the Winchesters were now at your doorstep. 

Parking in front of the Outpost, John got out of his truck just as his sons pulled in. Sam still looked annoyed as he got out of the Impala, but Dean just looked confused. “Alright, Dad,” Dean said, “what’s going on? Who is this secret contact of yours.”

“Never said she was a secret, Dean,” John said, “I just said you had never met her.” 

“She?” Sam asked. 

“She’s a hunter,” John said, nodding towards the front door. “Sort of.” 

Sam and Dean exchanged a look before following John into the bar. It was pretty crowded for a Tuesday night. The low hum of conversation rolled throughout the room as drinks were poured and food was served. Dean immediately spotted the odd charms that hung around the main entrance, as well as the warding symbols carved into the door frame.

There were two levels in the place and people milled about on both floors, smiling and drinking their fill. It was a typical place to find hunters and Dean immediately loved it. Sam was still a bit skeptical but remained optimistic that this place would offer answers. 

John searched the floor for you, but could only spot Dawn as she worked behind the bar, smiling at patrons. Moving further into the bar, John kept his eyes peeled for you. “Is she meeting us here?” Sam asked. 

“She owns the bar,” John said, turning to his youngest. “She should be around here somewhere…”

“Closer than you think, Winchester,” a voice came from above and John visibly relaxed as your voice reached him. Looking up at the balcony on the second floor, he finally spotted you. Grinning, you turned and jogged down the stairs. John’s eyes followed you as you approached him and the boys. 

“(Y/N),” he greeted with a smile. 

“Heya, Handsome,” you said as you walked up to him. “I’ve missed you,” you whispered as you leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. John smiled down at you, taking in your face as if he was trying to memorize it. “And I see you’ve brought guests,” you said, peering over his shoulder. Though, it didn’t take long for the pieces to fit together in your mind. “Or should I say, family.”

“(Y/N),” John said, “these are my boys, Sam and Dean,” he introduced, gesturing to each of his sons. You shook both of their hands, smiling. 

“Wow, John, you never mentioned how tall they were,” you said, looking at Sam with amusement in your eyes. The youngest Winchester chewed on the inside of his lip, awkwardly. Turning back to John, you sat into a single hip, crossing your arms. “What are you doin’ back in my neck of the woods?” you asked. 

“Need your help on something, (Y/N),” he said and you recognized his tone of voice immediately. This wasn’t going to be one of your more...entertaining visits. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked, giving him your full attention. 

“We may need a bit more privacy for this conversation,” he said, glancing around and you instantly understood. 

“That kind of ‘something’, huh?” John nodded, “Alright, boys. Why don’t you grab a seat and I’ll start closin’ up early. I’ll send Dawn over with a bottle,” you said. John reached out and squeezed your arm. 

“Thanks,” he said. You sent him a wink and then disappeared to start clearing out customers. John led his sons over to the table he always sat at when he came to visit. Shrugging out of his coat, he leaned back and watched as you spoke to Dawn across the bar, gesturing to the three men in the corner. 

“Dad?” Dean said, gaining John’s attention. “How exactly do you know her?” John sighed, running a hand over his face.

“I met her a few years ago,” John began, “I was on a hunt not too far from here. Some large-scale haunting and I hadn’t realized there was more than one ghost. These were nasty spirits. Salt slowed them down, but every time I turned around, three more would show up. I was being cornered by at least four of them and I was out of rounds when (Y/N) showed up and showered them in salt,” John chuckled slightly at the memory. “Woman was like Rambo with a salt grenade and then she hauled my ass out of there.” 

“So you got your ass handed to you by a chick?” Dean asked, amused. John shrugged. 

“Twice actually,” he continued. “She came with me to salt and burn the bones when a vamp came out of nowhere. Freshly turned one too. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast with a machete.”

“But I thought you said she wasn’t a hunter,” Sam said. 

“I said she was sort of a hunter,” John corrected. “(Y/N) hunts when she can. Mostly local things to keep her town safe, but she has other...talents. (Y/N) is connected in the world of the supernatural. She always knows what is going on within the monster world.”

“What? Like having Wolfman on speed dial?” Dean asked and Sam kicked him under the table. Dean threw a glare at his little brother, annoyed. 

“Kind of,” John said, “it’s complicated.” Dean pursed his lips but didn’t press the issue as Dawn arrived with a bottle of bourbon and four glasses. She dropped them on the table. “Thanks, Dawn,” John said. Dawn grinned at him. 

“Good to see you, John,” she said. “Things have been a bit boring around here since you left.” 

“You know me, D, gotta keep moving,” he said and she rolled her eyes. 

“Right,” she said with a knowing look. “Alright, you guys have a good night, I’m heading out.” Dawn nodded to the boys and then gripped John’s shoulder as she headed for the back, ready to have an early night. Dean poured the drinks and handed them out, pouring an extra one for you as you finished up sending people home. 

John sipped from his glass as he watched as you dragged a very drunk psychic from the bar. “It helps me see better!” the woman complained, trying to stay on her feet. 

“Then go buy a bottle at the liquor store, Shay,” you said, hauling her to the door. “I got shit to do!”

“You are going to have a hard life, (Y/N),” Shay said, pointing her finger at your face. Then, the psychic fell over, trying to reach the door. 

“Bet you didn’t see that coming,” you quipped as she stumbled out the door. With a final dismissal of the staff, the Outpost was finally quiet. After locking up, you joined the Winchesters, gratefully accepting the drink John handed you. “Alright, fill me in.”

“Wait,” Sam said before John could begin, “how do we know we can trust her?” Dean rolled his eyes and John narrowed his at his youngest. You, however, had expected this. 

“Something tells me you have questions, Sam Winchester,” you said, downing the bourbon. “Ask away.”

“How do you get your information about the supernaturals?” Sam asked. You reached for the bottle again and poured yourself another drink as you spoke. 

“I have my sources,” you explained. “Not all ‘monsters’ are bad, boys. There are wolves that eat cow hearts from the butcher and vamps that drink blood-bags instead of people. If you know which ones are the less horrible ones, you can make deals with them. Offer them protection from other hunters in exchange for information. I don’t deal in demons though,” you assured them. “However, I do know how to summon one if the situation is that dire. Which it rarely is in these parts. Psychics and witches are also easy to find and very easy to bribe once you get to know them.”

“So you run a black market for information?” Dean asked. 

“That’s one way to put it, sure,” you said with a shrug. “I find that monsters are more willing to speak to you than other hunters. I offer them a deal and they usually take it.”

“What deal?” asked Sam. 

“If they prove to me that they don’t kill people and offer good information, I keep them protected and keep their secret.” 

“And if they break the deal?” 

“Then I kill them,” you said simply. 

“Just like that?” asked Dean. 

“Just like that, Dean,” you said. “Satisfied?” Dean hesitated before nodding. You looked at Sam and he did the same. 

“She’s good, boys,” John said and you smiled at him, gripping his shoulder. 

“So,” you began, “tell me what you need.” John turned fully towards you and you could see that he was exhausted. You weren’t sure when the last time he slept was. Then again, you hadn’t seen the man for months. A hundred different things could have happened since then. 

“We’re looking for the colt,” John said and your brows shot up. 

“As in Samuel Colt?” you asked.

“You know it?” he asked. 

“I do, but nobody knows where it is.”

“We did,” Dean interjected. “Another hunter, Daniel Elkins, had it, but it was stolen.” 

“By vamps, (Y/N),” John said. 

“What would vampires want with a gun like that?” you asked, confused. Everyone that knew about the supernatural was aware of the gun. It was legendary, but most people thought it was just a fable, a myth to tell monsters so they would be scared. You never imagined that someone you knew would be after it.

“We don’t know,” John said, “but we need it.” You sighed, placing your drink down. 

“I can ask some of my contacts, but I can’t make any promises. And as soon as I do, people, monsters, spirits, you name it, they’re all gonna know the Winchesters are after it.”

“We’re out of options, (Y/N),” he said. 

“I’ll do my best,” you said. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask why we need it?” Dean asked. 

“Not my business,” you said. “When you’re in the business in making deals and keeping secrets, you tend to learn to not ask questions. Excuse me,” you said as you got up and headed for your office upstairs. The three men watched after you. 

As soon as the door to your office shut, John turned to his sons. “Really? Did you have to interview her like a suspect?” He didn’t wait for them to answer as he got up and followed after you. 

“How well do you think they actually know each other?” Sam asked, watching after his father. 

“You don’t think…?” said Dean and then he cringed. “Not an image I needed, Sammy. Not at all.”

-------

Slipping into your office, John shut the door softly behind him. 

“Your boys are a lot like you,” you said from your desk as you texted away on your cell phone. John walked around the room as he looked at all the memorabilia you had from various hunts and adventures. Some he had even joined you on. When his eyes fell on the leather couch in the corner, he couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. 

“Sam is like me,” John eventually said, “but Dean is more like his mother.” John turned and walked back to you as you set your phone down and walked around to lean against the desk. John met you there. You reached out and ran your hands up his chest and then over his shoulders. 

“You look tired,” you said softly, looking into his hazel eyes that stared back at you through thick lashes.

“So do you,” he pointed out. You shrugged. 

“It can be hard in my line of work. Never know when someone is going to need me up at three in the morning.” John nodded as his hands slid around your waist under your shirt, his large hands gripping you tighter. His thumbs rubbed along your skin. “I was hoping you’d visit soon,” you said quietly. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he said, stepping closer between your legs. 

“I heard you mention the haunting we first worked,” you said as your hands crept up his neck and into his hair. 

“It was a tough one,” John said. “I should have done my research and of course, listened to the local bartender who told me the history of the place.”

“Yeah, probably would have helped,” you said with a grin. 

“You know,” John said, leaning forward to trail his lips along your jaw ever so slightly. “I never did thank you for saving me that night.” Your eyes fluttered closed as he nipped at your ear, your hands tightening in his hair.

“I remember you did,” you breathed out. 

“Oh?” John asked, innocently. Pulling back, he looked down at you with lustful eyes. “Would you mind reminding me?” With a hard tug, your lips met his and he grabbed your hips, placing you on the desk. 

John kissed you hard as he tried to make up for all the time lost between the two of you. You gripped him tightly, letting him take control. His hands moved from your waist to your hips and then your thighs as he took charge of your body. 

Sliding your hands from his hair to his waist, you ran them up his stomach beneath his shirt, feeling his hard chest beneath your fingers. John pressed in closer, gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head back for better access. When he parted your lips, a small groan echoed from your throat which only made him more eager.

There was nothing better than kissing John Winchester. He was the only man to ever make you feel like this and the second he walked out of your bar, you craved him until he returned. 

Your nails raked down his back as he let go of your lips and moved to your jaw and then down to your throat. Leaning back on the desk, you let him mark you, feeling electricity flow through your veins. You gasped as he bit down just above your collarbone. Keeping one hand on your neck, he used the other to grip your thigh. Your leg came up and between his legs. John pressed his body against yours harder at the movement. 

You were flush against him, feeling his body fit perfectly against your own. He dragged his teeth along your throat, eliciting another moan from your mouth. “You’re gonna cause trouble if you keep doing that,” he whispered against your skin. “Not that I’m complaining,” he said as he lay you back on the desk, running his hands along your body as he leaned over you. 

“Don’t be a tease,” you warned as he grinned, wrapping your leg around his waist. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a smirk as he trailed a finger across your chest.

 “John,” you breathed out as he moved back to your lips, swallowing your whispers. 

Just as his hand began to move towards the waistband of your jeans, your phone rang. 

“Fuck,” you groaned as he paused. Detangling yourself from his body, you slid off the desk and grabbed your phone. John stood back, trying to control his breathing as he smoothed down his shirt. You fussed with your own clothes as you picked up the call. 

John didn’t listen as you spoke to whatever contact you had reached out to. Instead, he tried to come down from the high he had just experienced in that small moment with you. He had almost forgotten what it had felt like to have you in his arms, to feel you respond to his touch. His heart jumped in anticipation at the thought of having the opportunity again, he knew it was unlikely. They still had a job to do. 

“You’re in luck,” you said, grabbing his attention as you pocketed your phone. John turned to you. You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand and smoothed your hair. “I have the location.”

-----

Once the two of you had made sure you didn’t look like horny teenagers, you rejoined Sam and Dean. 

“I got it,” John said, raising a piece of paper in his hand. Your vampire contact, a nomad who you had crossed paths with occasionally had heard about two humans who had been taken by a nest. A nest that was gloating about getting the jump on some guy named Elkins.

“Just like that?” Dean asked. 

“I told you,” John said, “she’s good.” Sam still looked skeptical, but Dean seemed to be alright with how things turned out. 

“Do you guys need anything else?” you asked, trying not to let the sadness on your face show. You knew he had to leave now and you weren’t sure when you would see him again.

“We’re good,” John said softly and you nodded, crossing your arms. 

“Well, don’t any of you be a stranger, okay?” you said. “And for god’s sake be careful so I don’t have to hunt you down cause you got turned.” 

“We’ll do our best,” John said with a longing look that Dean caught immediately. 

“We’ll meet you outside, Dad,” Dean said as he grabbed his brother’s jacket. “It was nice meeting you, (Y/N),” he said and you nodded back to the both of them. As soon as the door closed behind them, you grabbed John’s arm. 

“You’re going after it, aren’t you?” you asked. “The demon. That’s what the colt’s for.” John grimaced and you sighed. He had told you about the yellow-eyed demon the second time he had come to see you. To most people, a conversation like that would seem like bad pillow talk, but it was normal for the two of you. 

“You know I have to,” he said, reaching for you. His hand came up to hold the side of your face. 

“I know,” you said. “He’s not gonna know what hit him when John Winchester shows up with Samuel Colt’s gun on his hip,” you said as you pulled him closer, your hand resting on the place his gun normally sat. You pulled his lips to yours and you kissed him fiercely. He melted into the kiss and you felt as if this was finally goodbye. You didn’t know why, but something about the way you held each other spoke volumes. 

Pulling back, you looked right in his eyes and tried to memorize those beautiful hazel irises. “(Y/N), you are...it’s been you for so long,” he whispered and you fought back tears. You kissed him once more, letting your lips linger for just a few seconds before letting go again. 

“Go get the bastard,” you said. John smiled at you. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

[demivampirew]

Keep calm and go to London.

Tag list: Here’s the incredible people who showed me support (thank you so much for that) and people who asked me to tag them too ☺️ (I think I will write a few chapters of this story, if you want me to tag you, tell me ☺️ ) @cavillanche​ @mary-ann84 @henry-owns-these-tatas @yespolkadotkitty @dancingwendigo​   constip8merm8  penwieldingdreamer iloveyouyen  littlefreya  wondersofdreaming alyxkbrl solariumss  sweetybuzz25  @agniavateira​

Trigger warning: talking about depression; low self-stem and body image issues.

Disclaimer: I mentioned “Jared” in the story, because Jared Leto is my former celebrity boyfriend 😂 🤣 , before I found othe much better (sorry Jer) -if you want to think in other celebrity, you can 😁 -

You were in London for a few days. Your excuse was to visit some old friends that you haven't seen in a while, but the truth was that were trying to scape Los Angeles for a while. It's been a month since your breakup with Jared and you recently found out that the same day that you broke up with him, he slept with that woman that he sweared was just a friend. You knew that he did it in purpose just to hurt you for hurting him, but still it was an awful feeling to know that the person you spend the last five years of your live, who hold you while you cry all day in the last few months due to your depression, and who knew exactly how you feel about that woman, would be capable of doing something like that. Last September, during your tour in Latinamerica, you fell into a deep depression. Brian - your manager and best friend- found you a good therapist that agree to see you via videocall. At first, you didn't want anyone to find out -beside Jared, Brian and Beth, your other best friend- but soon enough you decide to make an statement on your Instagram account, explaining what you were going through. You made that desition after you saw lots of comments from your Latino fans complaining that you didn't have the same love for them as you have for the American and European fans, because you didn't laugh and smile as much in the meet and greets and during the concerts. It hurt immensely to know that they felt thay way, so you decide to let them know it was true that you weren't  able to act happy like you did in the other parts of your world tour, but that it had nothing to do with them or that they love them less than your other fans. After your statement, you receive a lot of support and love and you decide to become an advocate for depression and mental health issues; to fight to erase the stigma around them. Another thing that you did, was promise yourself that you were going to get better, not matter what it takes, your going to get through this. What you didn't realize in that moment, something that a part of you knew for a long time but was avoiding at all cost, is that you needed to end your relationship with Jared if you wanted to get better. He was not a bad man, but he was a terrible boyfriend and you knew it, even if you always tried to make it seem like if he was the perfect partner. He had a few good qualities, like he'd cook for you, and sometimes would text you to tell you that he missed you, and he would hug you every night for sleep. But, unfortunately, that didn't compare to his flaws: he was always working or hagging out with his friends -who included lots of skinny models, one of them was a former lover of his and she even told you to your face that she had feelings for him-; you never went into vacations together because he always cancel last minute due to some work related issue -but yet, he will always find time to travel with friends-, you moved into his house, that you didn't like and when you suggested to buy a new house together he opposed. He had a lots of flaws, but the worst one was the fact that he wanted to keep your relationship in secret. For the first two years of your relationship, you agreed to this because you didn't want paparazzi follow you around everywhere you go, or people commenting on your relationship -especially on the fact the he was nineteen years older than you, you knew that people would love to critize that-, but after a few years, you just wanted to have a normal relationship. You wanted to go to coffeeshops, to travel, to go to a restorant with your boyfriend, to go to the premiere of the movie you were in or an award show together, etc. But he wanted the relationship to remain a secret. It wasn't until one day that you finally convince him to take you out to a restorant that people found out because paparazzi took pictures of you two and the next day the were all over the internet. He say that was ok but gave you the silent treatment for a few days. The fact that he was reluctant to the idea of your relationship being public and being seen with you affected you a lot. You grew up with lots of self-steem and body image issues and before started dated him you finded a way to be ok with your body and even feel sexy and confident, but in the last few years you were back in the self-hate train. You could stop yourself from comparing your curvisious body to the bodies of the skinny Victoria Secret's models friends of your boyfriend.  You were barely being intimate in the last few years, which made everything worst because it made you feel undesirable. But luckily, thanks to therapy, you realize what you needed to do. After breaking up with him, you moved out with your best friend Beth, until you decide your next move. You were feeling tired of LA but didn't want to live in New York either, those places were too big and too loud for you; what you were looking for is some peace. London was such a beautiful city. You'd been there before lots of times, but always for work - you were not only a successful actress, but also a famous musician and one of the biggest songwriters and producers in the world- so you never had much time for sightseeing. After a week, you felt a joy that you haven't felt in a while. That city was so magical. And you also got the chance to see some old friends. It felt like if you finally, after so long, you were alive again. That night you were invited by a friend to one of her friends birthday party. He was the actor Simon Pegg and they worked together in the last two Mission Impossible movies, as she told you. She assure you that she asked Simon if he was ok with you coming to the party and he say yes. You were not a party lover, but thought that probably it'd be a great idea to get out of you confort zone for once. You put up a black lace cocktail dress with long sleeves and let your curls free. Put some makeup -you decide to go for more a natural look- and your favourite perfume and went to the party to meet your friend. Once there, you sigh in relive when you saw that the place wasn't too crowded and the music was not too loud. Your friend was waiting for you by the bar, so you went there and after a long hug you two got reaquented. Last time you saw eachother was when you played a concert in London a year ago. You didn't realize how much you missed her until you saw her again. After an hour or so, your friend was looking to her right and notice something. -Come with me. I want to greet some friends.- she said. You followed her and saw her greet a group of gentlemen. Your friend begin to introduce you to the three men. -Y/N, this is Chris; Chris, this is Y/N. - Yes, I know who she is.- Chris replied - It's a pleasure to meet you. -Thank you, it's a pleasure to meet you too. - And he's Edgar.- she continued. - Nice to meet a legend like you-  Edgar said while shaking your hand. - I think that's a bit exagerated...but just a bit- you said smirking. -And he's Henry. - The mighty Witcher - you say in a playful voice as you shake his hand. -The one and only - he said, grinning - It's a real pleasure to meet you. - Same here. - you replied. You felt a tingly sensation; like electicity running down your spine and you weren't sure if it was because of his touch, because of his captivating smile, his piercing eyes or his deep voice; probably the combination of all of those things. Some time went by and Chris excuse himself and went to talk to other people. My friend was talking to Edgar and I was chatting with Henry. I told him that I was a huge fan of the show and it was a shame that I haven't had time to read the books yet or play the games. He was really surprised when a told him that I actually enjoy playing videogames, although I don't do it very often due to lack of time. We chat about our favourite games and books. At some point in the night, my friend and I went to the ladies room and after we made our way back to the group, Edgar started to ask me some questions. -So, Y/N, I heard about your breakup. I'm really sorry - He said. - Not need to be sorry.- I replied -Oh, ok. I wonder, now that you are single again, are you open to date? -Edgar! Are you trying to hook up with my friend? - my friend questioned in a protective way - No! I'm not asking for me. There's some friends -he cleared his troat- that find her really beautiful and I know would love to have the chance to have a date with her and I just wanted to know if she'd open to the idea. This friends are pretty cool guys, I promise. - Yes, I supose - I answered, not entirely sure. The idea of a blind date doens't sound appeling to me. -Great! We'll see later about that.- he said and then he look at Henry, like if the two of them were having a mental conversation and then he asked my friend to go with him to pick up some drinks. I continue to talk with Henry about games and the show and then he told me that he was going to visit the set the next day and asked me if I was interested in going to see it with him and of course that's not something I'd say no to. So we exchanged phone numbers and I decided to head back to the hotel so I could get some rest to be able to enjoy the next day.

[cutie1365]

Hello Detective Chapter 69

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 2k

A/N: I know how long it’s been since I posted... I have a lot planned for these next few chapters so I hope it doesn’t take me as long!

(italics are flashbacks)

Any and all feedback is appreciated and encouraged!

Masterlist in bio, taglist in reblog.

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The next month went by in a blur. Sometimes it seemed as if the memories weren’t even real. How could you have so much happiness ripped away from you in a matter of hours? You knew how, there was one man responsible for what was to come. You were happy, it felt like just yesterday you were lying in Sherlock’s bed after John and Mary’s wedding.

“You know we can’t stay in bed all day.” You tilted your head up to Sherlock from its resting position on his chest.

“Why not?” He complained, moving his hands from behind his head. One finding its way onto the small of your bare back.

“Some of us have jobs.” You answered, but he only rolled his eyes.

His other hand found yours, as he brushed his hands gently over your fingers, admiring your ring.

“I don’t want to take it off.” You smiled, following his gaze.

“Then don’t.” He answered simply, bringing your hand to his lips and placing a gentle kiss across your knuckles.

“I’d give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack.” You shook your head at his suggestion. He really wasn’t grasping this whole ‘secret engagement’ thing.

“Well you might be right about that.” He conceded.

“For now it can be our little secret.” You smirked, sitting up in bed and wrapping the sheet around your chest for warmth.

“We might as well just get married then.” Sherlock muttered, pushing up until his back was against the headboard.

“You can’t plan a wedding in a week, Sherlock.” You chuckled, shaking your head.

“We could elope. No crowds, no telegrams, no speeches.” He nearly shuttered at the memory.

“No attempted murder.” You reminded him with a smirk, causing him to laugh.

“Just you and me.” He stroked the side of your face.

You considered for a moment what this would mean, and it wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

“Our mothers are going to kill us.” You shook your head with a sigh.

“Is that a yes?” Sherlock asked, surprised you actually were on board with this.

“I don’t want a big wedding, I don’t want to be walked down the aisle. I want you, and that’s enough. It’s a piece of paper.” You shrugged. After all you’ve been through together, you knew you didn’t need a piece of paper to prove your commitment and connection.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around the back of your head, pulling you closer to him until your lips met. Marriage for him was one thing, and he never thought he’d actually be here, with someone he loved and was actually wanting to marry, but a wedding... that was too far. He didn’t need a spectacle, he just needed you.

“I knew I loved you.” He chuckled, shaking his head as you broke apart.

“Well I should hope so. Now move over, I need to shower and go to work.” You playfully shoved him off of you as you tried to climb to the other side of the bed.

“I could join.” He smirked, wrapping his hand around your arm, keeping you in place.

“Come on then... fiance.” You shook your head with a smile.

And elope was exactly what you did. You could still feel the cool spring air whipping around you in your short white business dress as you stepped into the courthouse hand in hand.

“We’re really doing this aren’t we?” You looked up to Sherlock with a nervous smile.

“It would appear so.” He said, squeezing your hand. Was he nervous too?

“There’s still time to back out if you don’t want to do this.” You spoke softly, you wanted him to be happy, and you didn’t want him to do this just because it was something he thought you wanted. You hoped he wanted this too.

“Never.” He smiled, leading you inside the judge’s chambers, calming any fears you may have had.

Knowing your position and both of your occupations would put you both in danger, you both agreed it was best to not tell anyone yet. You made sure that the marriage certificate would remain confidential and redacted for anyone who would try and look it up.

The week before John and Mary were set to return from their honeymoon, the two of you wondered if that was something you had to do. What’s the point of a honeymoon? Or sex holiday as Sherlock so charmingly called it.

“Do we need a honeymoon?” Sherlock asked you abruptly the moment you entered the room, coming home from work. In his hands he was flipping over a postcard that John had sent.

“I have a better idea.” You smirked, holding a file behind your back. What opportune timing he had to ask about a honeymoon.

“What’s that?” Sherlock tilted his head slightly, eyeing what you were hiding.

You took a step towards him, before dropping the file into his lap.

“Triple murder, Inverness.” You spoke, and his eyes lit up. He jumped from his seat, file in hand and kissed you.

“You’re already making a wonderful wife.” He chuckled, kissing you once more before flipping through the details of the case.

His reaction brought a smile to your face. You knew he needed a case, he was going crazy being cooped up in the flat, and you were due for a vacation. Two birds, one stone.

“How exactly did you convince them to give us this case?” He asked, seeing no sort of consultation or jurisdiction transfers in the file.

“I called their police commissioner personally. It took less than five minutes.” You shrugged, and Sherlock was impressed. A slight abuse of power, but to him it was worth it. Besides, with the two of you on the case, the likelihood of finding the killer before someone else gets hurt just went up tenfold.

“And what did you tell Mycroft?” He asked, knowing it would be suspicious if the two of you just went on holiday suddenly to Scotland, after all you were keeping this whole marriage on a need to know basis. He was also technically your boss, and you’d need a good reason to skip out on work and cash in a few vacation days.

“That the Scottish Highlands police commissioner begged you to take the trip, and I’ve never been, so I just had to tag along.” You spoke just as innocently as you had when explaining to Mycroft that you’d be back in a few days.

“You’ve got him wrapped around your finger don’t you.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

“It’s a gift.” You shrug, smiling.

Naturally you two couldn’t just have a quiet, peaceful honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands. No, that would be too ordinary, too mundane. Sure there would be sightseeing, well if that included crime scenes. And of course no Scottish honeymoon is complete without a pub crawl, well maybe a pub brawl. Wrap that all together and sprinkle in a killer just desperate to be caught, and you have the perfect combination for a honeymoon- Sherlock Holmes style. The game was on!

“You said he’d be here.” You looked around the pub carefully, employing the skills you’d learned during your time at MI6.

“Am I ever wrong?” Sherlock said cockily, with the raise of a brow.

You raised your fingers, prepared to count all the times he was in fact very wrong, but he stopped you the moment you opened your mouth.

“Ok don’t answer that.” He said, covering your hand with his.

You smirked in response, knowing you were right.

“All his victims were females that frequented this pub. He meets them here, they take him back to their homes and he dismembers them.” Sherlock explains. Charming subject matter for a honeymoon, but when it came to your lives, were you really surprised?

“Then we’re missing an obvious strategy here.” You said plainly, hoping it would be clear as day to him.  

“And what would that be?” He asks, not understanding your insinuation.

“Bait.” You motion to yourself as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His eyes go dark for a moment, his jaw clenching in a way you’ve seen a few times before.

“No, absolutely not.” He said in a protective tone.

“Oh come on, no one knows who I am here. We can expedite the process.” You explained, assuring him that everything would be alright.

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. He knew there would be no convincing you otherwise.

“Fine,” He huffed, standing from his seat next to you and moving to the other side of the room, leaving you alone at the bar. It didn’t take long for you to be approached, just as you expected.

“Well aren’t you a bonnie lass. Let me buy you a drink.” A curly haired man appeared beside you and spoke in a thick Scottish accent.

“Thank you.” You smile sheepishly with a giggle, playing your role of the dumb American.

“American? You’re a far way from home aren’t ya lassie.” He chuckles deeply, thinking you’d be the perfect target... little did he know.

“A little bit.” You giggled as two drinks were placed in front of you. Whiskey, neat.

“Have you been up to Culloden yet?” He pointed out the window in the general location of the historic battle site in an attempt to get you to follow his gaze, so he could drug your drink while you weren’t looking.

“No I haven’t been.” You shook your head, turning back to him, making sure to let your gaze linger on the window for a moment longer. He offered you the drink and you smiled, taking it from his hand. You make sure to keep your lips closed as you take a sip, not ingesting any of the liquid. Hopefully the police could match the drug to the one found in the victims toxicology reports.

“You here all by yourself, lassie?” He asked, smirking as you ‘drank’.

“Well I’m here with you, aren’t I?” You smiled, and he chuckled deeply.

“Good answer.” He almost growled as he went to whisper in your ear and his hand worked its way up your thigh.

“Why don’t we get out of here-” He began to whisper in your ear before he was abruptly ripped off of you. It didn’t take a genius to guess by who.

There were profanities exchanged and punches thrown, as more and more men joined in, some to help a fellow Scot, and some to help ‘defend your honor’. You were able to pull Sherlock away before he got hurt. Bloody knuckles you could handle, but a busted lip or cheek would not make for a happy honeymoon memory.

“I had it under control.” You hissed at him, your hand still wrapped around his arm.

“He drugged you!” Sherlock argued.

“I know!” You yelled back, pointing to the drink at the bar. The man's drink was almost empty and yours had the same amount of liquid as when it was handed to you, even though you appeared to have been sipping on it for a while. He was so focused on the man’s body language and hand on your leg that he’d missed that.

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered as he realized.

Our heads whipped back to the door as three officers and the local detective you’ve been working with walked in. Sherlock must have called them as you were playing dumb. He nodded to the officer and eyed the man the bouncer now had pinned to the wall.

Everyone cleared out soon after that and the two of you stood outside in your coats, watching the police put the man into the back of a police car.

“Are you sure it’s him? I mean, sure he was a little creepy and handsy, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a serial killer.” You said, not that you were defending him, you just wanted to be certain.

“His prints will match the scene, trust me.” Sherlock nodded confidently.

“But how can you be sure?” You tried once more.

“Because I’m Sherlock Holmes.” He smirked and you rolled your eyes, before shaking your head and smiling.

If only things remained that easy, that carefree. If only all of your cases were that cut and dry. A man does something wrong, and he gets caught. He breaks the rules and laws of society, and he faces the consequences. But not all cases have a happy ending. Good doesn’t always defeat evil. Being on the side of the angels doesn’t mean that angels exist. But the devil does, and he walks the earth in the form of Charles Augustus Magnussen.

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Please let me know what you think! Any and all feedback is greatly encouraged. 

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.  

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

[fericita-s]

Epilogue

The end has arrived for the A Mansion House Murder!

Big thanks to all the writers of this quarantine round-robin: @jomiddlemarch, who had the idea to begin with and wrote so many good chapters, @broadwaybaggins and @sagiow who dragged us all across the finish line, and @mercurygray and @tortoisesshells for their wonderful chapters and effusive comments and @the-spaztic-fantastic for the faithful beta-ing. I think this story probably set a record on AO3 for the comments to kudos ratio.  300 comments and 20 kudos?! We are a chatty bunch.  And I love it.

“Thank you, Belinda.  For so much. Not just today,” Emma said from the doorway.  Belinda hadn’t invited her in and Emma didn’t want to assume.  She’d already assumed too much about Belinda’s desires, or discounted them completely. “I’m going to see Mother and explain about Jimmy.  And Frank.”

Belinda looked to Emma’s arm looped through Henry’s, to the pale circle of white around her ring finger where a wedding ring had been.  “Would you like me to go with you?”

“No, Belinda. I won’t ask that of you. I just wanted to tell you all of that myself before you hear it gossiped about.” 

“Well,” said Belinda, a smile turning one corner of her mouth. “I think I’d like to see her take the news.”

“Even if she asks you for laudanum?” Emma asked, matching her smile. It was a sad thing to tell her mother that her brother was arrested, her husband dead, her sister currently in hysterics that Percival was trying to soothe with one arm while signing away the family hotel to Mrs. Morris with the other.  It was sad. But the lightness and laughter kept rising in her chest and she couldn’t stop smiling over the freedom she felt and the relief that she would be leaving soon.

“I can tell her where to find it if she does,” said Belinda, reaching to the peg by the door for a shawl.

***

“It’s a fair price,” Anne said, though she knew it was a bargain. She also knew how desperate they were to sell and she knew what being desperate felt like, so she didn’t push further. Emma, at least, deserved the money and Anne was eager to send it to her.  Anne had more money than she could spend and Charlotte’s idea for a school was the first thing to excite her about the future since Frederick’s death.  They could scrub the blood out of the walls, purge the secrets from each closet.  The Greens had done it once before.  Anne was determined she and Leah and the Diggs would do it even better. Bridget too, if she could persuade her.  

Percival nodded and might have shaken her hand, but his arms were currently around his wife who was crying.  Anne couldn’t tell if Alice was genuinely grief-stricken and whether it was for the loss of property or the loss of life, and she didn’t much care to find out.  She’d had her fill of mysteries. 

***

    They went to Boston before Williamstown and Mary took her shopping.  In Boston, it was easy to find ready-to-wear, though Mary took her to a favorite tailor and dressmaker and insisted on some pieces made to Emma’s own measurements.  They moved slowly through town, at Mary’s normal pace and Emma’s preferred one for seeing a new city. It wasn’t so different from Alexandria, not really, not until people spoke to her or their eyebrows shot up at her accent. The kid gloves were to guard against the cold more than the sun, and she’d never had nor needed a sealskin toque or fur muff.  But the Yankees weren’t the fearsome lot her mother had promised they would be, practically drowning out the vows she and Henry made to one another in the Green family drawing room with a subdued Dr. Hale doing the honors. 

    After a wool cape and fur-trimmed pelisse that Emma bought with Henry’s money (our money he had said, pressing it into her hands that morning as he kissed her forehead), Mary bought her a silk Paisley shawl with fringe, calling it a wedding present.

“If I was really spoiling you it would be Kashmir.  These are going out of fashion now what with everyone’s desperation to show off their bustles.  But I find them the best way to keep warm at home, at least when Jed’s not there.” Mary pulled the shawl around Emma and fiddled with the fringe. “I hope you’ll be happy here.  I know Henry wishes it too. But I know what it is to lose a husband.”

Emma put her hands in Mary’s and smiled at her friend. “I am happy.  Or, I will be. I’m not sure what I am now, but it’s better than I was.”

***

    He married her in Virginia but, all he had offered since then was a chaste kiss or an arm for hers to loop through as they navigated trains and carriages. Their overnight at the Foster’s home was a late night of reminiscences by the fire, mulled wine, and the steady interruptions of Johnny and Daniel and then even Elias coming to complain about the loud ruckus downstairs.  When Mary finally shooed both the boys and the adults to bed with a meaningful “They’re newlyweds after all, Jed,” Emma and Henry had both hesitated when he shut the door behind them.  

    “You’re weary from the travel; I’ll let you - “

    “Henry,” Emma said, her hands already reaching for the buttons of his waistcoat. “Don’t make me wait any longer.  Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?”

    Henry closed his eyes and reached for her cheek, remembering his first touch there years ago. When he had wiped away a tear and wished he could kiss her. 

    “Is it that you don’t want me this way? That I’m - “

    “No, Emma not that.” He opened his eyes and stepped back so he could see her clearly, reaching for her hands and squeezing. “I want you very much. So much I hardly know how to start.”

    “Then let me show you, Henry,” Emma said, pushing on him gently until they were at the bed and he sat down heavily, off balance and out of breath. She nudged his knees open with her own and stood between them, her hands on his shoulders and his at her waist, leaning in to kiss him behind the ear and to whisper “I am my beloved’s and he is mine.”

***

Henry and Emma continued west to Williamstown, waving from the carriage that took them from the Foster home and promising to return soon for a visit and to write even sooner.  One week later the Foster boys welcomed their much desired puppy, and one year later, a rather less desired sister.  Jed’s apprehension turned to delight when Mary reached for her daughter with eager arms, bringing her to her breast and leaning back into the pillows with a laugh.  “There’s two of us now.  Three if you count the dog.  We’ll be evenly matched soon, Mr. Foster.”

Jed washed his hands in the basin and looked at the brightness in her cheeks and the sweat on her brow, walking to her to check for fever. He kissed her forehead and then the baby’s.  “Oh, I’m very happily outmatched already.”

***

Frank didn’t haunt her.  But sometimes her own inaction did. Her complicity. 

The cold of Williamstown was nothing to the bone-chilling terror of life in Franklin County, the shiver of fear she felt as she heard horses whinny in the dark and hooves pound the dirt as Frank and his most loyal congregants rode off to wreak whatever hateful havoc they could. 

In Williamstown, Henry knew how to stoke the fire just so, and soon afterwards the Rumford fireplace in the house was replaced by a coal furnace, the intricate ironwork and decorative finials as fancy as any etched crystal her mother had been proud to show.

She did not long for her life in Virginia and it took a while before Henry’s encouragement to write letters to her mother and sister and Belinda yielded missives sent south.  She hardly wrote to Mary because they visited so often - heading east for Boston meetings of the American Woman Suffrage Association with Mary and her friend Josephine Bhaer and then later to meet baby Penelope Foster.

Emma taught Sunday School and led sewing circles and an auxiliary chapter of the AWSA. She waved to Henry’s students as they walked by their house and he brought her flowers that Alice might have called weeds but Emma would not.

When Henry’s hands were on her, she never thought of Frank. The way he loosened her corset and spread his hands over her stomach and chest, pulling her to him before it was dark and he could see her best, it was uniquely Henry. He had started hesitant and unsure, but she showed him with her sighs and fingers spread across his shoulders and legs wrapped around his middle that she wanted this too, so much.

In the end, all of her new fitted dresses and smartly tailored coats that Mary helped her buy were useless by her second winter as it became clear the Reverend and Mrs. Hopkins would welcome a baby with the spring.

***

The first students at The Lou Morris School knew there were ghosts, and they knew Ms. Leah Gordon took care of them.  They knew there had been a war and they knew about loss.  In their beds, under clean cotton sheets, they whispered about the cries they heard in the night, the thuds and thumps and rhythmic banging.  Laughter too, though only when patrons Doctor and Mrs. Hale came on their weekly tours and Mrs. Diggs walked them to an upstairs room.  The children decided the ghosts liked ornate bustles and lacy flounces like Mrs. Hale wore and drew elaborate flourishes on the pictures they drew of the spirits they imagined. 

But after a few years, no one spoke of ghosts, even though Ms. Gordon still sang at night to calm them and Jack and Harriet had been there the whole time and remembered.  The children knew people came in different colors; the grown-ups said black and white, but to them, they were all brown and beige, with a few pink, with freckles all over their faces, like Miss Brannan. They also knew people had different skills; some spoke with words, others with their hands, and some, not at all. Some could run and jump over the fence they weren’t supposed to jump over, earning a scowl from Old Mrs. Green who seemed to always walk by when they were at play in the yard.  Some could walk with some help, and others had special chairs with wheels that needed to be pushed - slowly! the teachers always said, Mrs. Morris most of all, her eyes all seeing, her tone sharp but never mean.

When the cries in the night and the thumps and thuds sounded, it wasn’t with fear that the children strained to listen.  They stilled in their beds to listen for Ms. Gordon’s voice floating down the halls.

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

Nobody knows but Jesus

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

Glory, Hallelujah

[he-flies-me-to-the-moon-and-back]

Pothos & Crux

“No. I mean someplace special. Where d'ya always go?" Dean asks desperately.

"Saint & Second?"

"Is that a place for dates?"

"... sure?" Maria hesitantly agrees.

🌕 𝙷𝚎 𝙵𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙼𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔 🌕 - 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟼

Dean is back to normal, much to Castiel's own happiness. Dean is no longer avoiding him unlike the past weekend, and he seems to be friendlier towards Castiel, more than the usual amount of affection that Dean always gives him for the past decade.

Castiel isn't complaining though.

Castiel is busy helping out Susie in the cafe on that Monday afternoon when suddenly he feels the vibration coming from his apron pocket. He immediately excuses himself to hide at the end of the coffee counter to check his phone.

It's a text message from Dean.

𝙲𝚊𝚜. 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛?

Castiel chuckles at the adorableness Dean is visibly showing to him. Castiel loves the fact that Dean is embracing his feelings for him more freely, without judging himself for loving a man, yet alone his own best friend. A smile is plastered across Castiel's face. He immediately texts Dean back to answer his invitation. Then, he puts away his phone back into the pocket to resume his work.

Dean has received Castiel's reply.

He turns his upper body around while his lower body is planted on the ground, facing the customer who is picking flowers for her bouquet, to check the received text message.

𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙿𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎.

Dean subconsciously smiles after reading the text before his face scrunches up as it finally dawns on him. Where should we eat today? He tries to come up with a few viable options, but none seem to be an out-of-the-ordinary place for them to eat; not somewhere that they don't normally go. Pizzas, burgers, pastas - they had them too much to last a lifetime, not that Dean is grumbling about it. But today, he wants it a little different. Just to show his appreciation towards his best buddy. His loyal friend. His guardian angel.

He clicks his tongue in desperation which causes his customer to turn and glare at him out of annoyance. Dean quickly apologizes with a sincere smile as he puts away his phone. Then, he remembers something…

"Excuse me for a sec," he says politely to the lady and hurries to the counter where Maria is organizing a bouquet of pink roses. "Maria! Where d'ya normally have lunch with Noel?" he asks.

"Lunch?" Maria is bewildered by Dean's question since he never has asked her for any recommendations since day one he worked here. "At the burger joint down the street?"

"No. I mean someplace special. Where d'ya always go?" Dean asks desperately since he still needs to arrange the meetup location with Castiel soon.

"Saint & Second?"

"Is that a place for dates?"

"... sure?" Maria hesitantly agrees.

Upon hearing that, he quickly takes out his phone and starts typing the name of the restaurant while Maria is watching him with a pair of eagle eyes.

"You do know that it's ten minutes from here, right? Why do you wanna go there?" asks Maria curiously as she continues to stare at Dean who seems to forget that she exists in his space.

"What?" Dean averts his eyes from the phone screen to look back at Maria. Maria playfully cocks her eyebrows and scoffs. "Are you goin' on a date right now?" she asks cheekily . Dean only gives her a sheepish smile before proceeding to help his previous customer who is by now done choosing her flowers.

________

Castiel is waiting right outside the coffee shop patiently as requested by Dean himself earlier.

𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚊 𝚞𝚙. 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎.

That's the text message that Castiel got from Dean. Castiel has replied, "We can meet there, Dean. No need to pick me up," but Dean hasn't replied to that yet till now. So, Castiel is left with no choice but to just obey Dean's demand.

And not long afterwards, Castiel sees the black beauty that Dean still calls as Baby to this day comes rolling to the side of the road. Castiel can't help but chuckle silently once the reality of Dean picking him up for a lunch date has finally sunk in in his head. Unbelievable, he says in his heart as he makes his way to the Chevy Impala, shaking his head in amusement.

Dean is smiling broadly from the driver's seat. "Hey, gorgeous."

Castiel snorts, taking his place in the passenger seat and stares back at Dean. "Are you seriously gonna call me that from now on, Dean?" he asks. Dean shrugs nonchalantly and begins to drive off his Baby to their designated location for today's lunch.

________

The ambiance in the restaurant is lively with friends and coworkers chatting with each other while they are enjoying good lunch. Dean is relieved to spot a few couples having lunch earlier while he and Castiel were making their way to their table. Don't get him wrong. Dean feels a lot more confident seeing that not only those who are on a date are eating lunch there; since despite Dean wanted to have a proper lunch date with Castiel, he doesn't think he is ready to actually date Castiel just yet. Because of this, Dean can't stop smiling from ear to ear as he reads the menu.

"May I take your order?" asks the friendly waitress as she smiles at both Dean and Castiel. Dean is more than happy to learn that the restaurant serves American foods instead of weird European dishes. Another thing for him to be grateful of.

"I'll have Western Burger and Common Space Helles Lager," Dean replies with a smile and hands over the menu in his hand to the waitress. She thanks Dean before she turns to look at Castiel who is apparently struggling to make a choice. "What ya havin', Cas?" he asks in order to hasten Castiel a little.

"Maybe… I'll have Fried Chicken Sandwich, and… Alesmith Sublime Mexican Lager," Castiel finally makes his decision, much to Dean's relief. The little waitress thanks him as well, takes the menu from him, and begins to walk away from their table to put in their orders into the system, leaving Castiel and Dean alone at the table.

Castiel glances at Dean to see Dean's reaction of being alone with him in a public place, and Castiel notices that Dean is taking it quite calmly, unlike that other day. At least Dean smiles back at him whenever their eyes meet. He knows that Dean is comfortable in these moments.

Castiel decides to break the ice. "We could've just meet here, Dean. You didn't need to fetch me from the coffee shop."

"What? I thought ya needed a lift."

"You do still remember that I own a car, right?"

Dean glares softly at Castiel. "So?"

Castiel catches a hint of self-defense in Dean's tone. If he knows any better, this is the very tone that tells him to back off and stop arguing with Dean. And this indirectly just helps proven Castiel's own theory: Dean is bringing him over to a nice restaurant for an actual date. Castiel shakes his head and chuckles softly. Castiel finds this too adorable to just give up midway.

"So… it means that you don't have to drive around town just to pick me up when we can just meet here."

And as expected, Dean easily takes the bait. But what Castiel has failed to calculate when he made the move is what he was about to see.

Dean's face changes to bitter in a split second, he's no longer smiling at Castiel, and he avoids making eye contact with Castiel altogether. And Castiel's heart skips a beat.

He has never seen Dean acting all lovable like this ever since he's known Dean. Hell. He's never seen Dean acting this way with Sam or even with Mary. And this new side of Dean is stirring all kinds of reactions in Castiel's brain and heart. He can feel his heart beating so fast that it's almost telling him to cut it out and let it free. Damn… Dean is dangerous…

Castiel immediately clears his throat to cover his elation and smiles warmly at Dean. His eyes silently wander across Dean's face, seeing every feature that elevates Dean's beauty and masculinity simultaneously in the most wondrous ways. Since Castiel is not just a common angel, he sees Dean's elegance in a more meticulous way. In his eyes, Dean glows like a sun, with his freckles mark his face like a constellation in the night sky. Castiel has never told Dean this, but in his eyes, Dean is the most beautiful creature ever created by God; and this is coming from a Seraph who was once an occupant of Heaven. That is the reason why Castiel doesn't mind watching Dean to sleep after all these years. He regards Dean as his own Crux. His personal brilliant night sky.

Dean notices Castiel staring at him with a sheepish smile on his face - and that gets him all riled up. "Whatcha smilin' at, ya son of a bitch?"

Castiel continues to chuckle under his breath without breaking his smile. He casually stares back at Dean and says, "You."

Dean frowns deeply - certainly not amused by Castiel's nonchalant answer when their foods have arrived at their table. Dean gives Castiel another stinky look before he mutters "Bitch" and begins to devour his burger.

[habibialkaysani]

The Old Guard (Laurel/Nyssa; M) - part i

Ships: Laurel/Nyssa

Summary: Laurel Lance and Nyssa Raatko are happily married - and have been for centuries. Along with Helena Bertinelli, this immortal army follows their equally immortal leader, Dina Drake, in the fights that they think are right.

But after one of their comrades makes a fatal lapse in judgement, Laurel and Nyssa find themselves trapped in their very worst nightmare - captured, as nothing more than lab rats. Luckily, the team has also just found its newest member, Sarah Diggle, so maybe all isn't lost.

A/N: Okay! So this one is something I've been working on a while. It was only meant to be 5k, but is now on 11k and still not done. So I will probably post in two or three parts.

You don't need to have watched The Old Guard for this to make sense - it follows the movie in terms of plot, but I'm hoping at least that the characters are still recognisable from Arrow.

Read at AO3

Laurel heard the knock on the door first, jumping to her feet. She had been curled around Nyssa on the couch, who was immersed in a novel she’d bought at the airport, but Nyssa quickly followed Laurel’s suit, putting the book down on the coffee table.

When Laurel opened the door, her face immediately split into a smile at the sight of Dina. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey yourself,” Dina replied, going in for a hug, and then laughing as Laurel lifted her off her feet. Helena came in after Dina, closing the door behind them both.

“You look great, boss,” Laurel told her. “Love the hair.”

“Thanks! You, on the other hand, look okay,” Dina said with a grin.

“Gee, I love you too.”

Dina moved to Nyssa, who was waiting patiently for her hug, which was returned with gusto. Laurel smiled as Dina patted Nyssa’s cheek in greeting.

“You want some tea?”

“Make it Irish and I’m in,” Dina said, and Laurel shook her head fondly as Helena reached into her purse for her flask.

“On it.”

“While you both ruin your livers,” Laurel said, going to the mini-fridge, “I have something for you, boss.” She unearthed a small container from beside the fridge.

“Oh yeah? Please tell me it’s halwa.”

“Five hundred, Helena,” Laurel said, and Helena grinned.

“All in, I see.”

"Excellent," said Dina. "I'm starving."

“No, come on -” Nyssa said but it was half-hearted and she couldn’t suppress her smile even if she wanted to.

“Let’s settle this,” Laurel said firmly, handing Dina the container. Dina shook her head fondly as she sprawled on the armchair and uncovered a large square of Dina’s favourite sweet.

“All right.” Dina took a bite. “Mmmm. So good. Okay. Sesame seeds and tahini. Walnuts, not pistachios...” Helena let out a low whistle. Laurel refused to look defeated yet, though, and continued to pace. “Honey... okay, my guess? That Turkish place we went to in Rabat in - when was it? 2004?”

“Holy Mary, mother of God,” Laurel muttered under her breath, as Helena grabbed the money in front of her and waved them around Laurel’s face with glee.

“On the money, every time,” Helena said, and Laurel was still smiling, somehow, as she glanced at Nyssa, who hastily tried to cover her laugh with a cough.

“Next time, habibti,” Nyssa said, as Dina shook her head with faint exasperation.

“You say that every time,” Laurel complained.

Dina nudged Laurel playfully. “Don’t be such a baby, Laurel.”

“Admit it, boss,” Nyssa said, “you missed us.”

Dina didn’t hesitate. “I did.”

Silence fell as their fun and games came to an end, and as if to punctuate the point, Helena dropped a file on the coffee table. “It’s a job.”

“We don’t do repeats, Helena -”

“But we could do some good, Dina,” Nyssa interrupted, rather uncharacteristically. “Lord knows the world needs saving.”

“Why by us, though? Why should we feel like we owe this shithole of a planet anything?”

“Maybe,” Laurel said gently, “maybe we at least owe it to ourselves to hear Waller out.”

“Amanda Waller?” Dina asked, sitting up a little straighter, and Laurel was encouraged by that.

“Yeah. She’s ex-ARGUS now. Works freelance.”

“I don’t know,” Dina insisted. “I just - have a bad feeling about this. About what this could do to us.”

“I get that,” Laurel said, ever the conciliatory voice, “and that’s why Nyssa and I will have eyes and ears on you when you and Helena meet with her.”

It was clear from Dina’s sigh that she was relenting. “Fine.” Nyssa caught Laurel’s eye and they smiled, though stopping short of punching the air with victory - they weren’t quite there yet. “But only to hear her out. If anything goes sideways -”

“We’ll be there to back you up,” Laurel promised. “We got you, boss.”

“Always,” Nyssa added.

*

They set up the sniper rifle in the hotel room, Laurel watching from afar as Dina and Helena scoped out the market surrounding the cafe they would be meeting Waller at.

Behind her was Nyssa, listening carefully to the chatter of the market below.

"You have to admit," Nyssa said through the comms, "it's good to get back into the game."

"Not so fast, Nyssa," came Dina's voice, and Laurel adjusted her scope to better catch Dina's face. "We're hearing her out. That's what was agreed. Don't count your eggs and all that."

Helena laughed. "Chickens, boss. It's chickens."

"Chickens? I take it that means you would like to order the chicken shawarma?" Amanda Waller came into view, and it was strange for Laurel to see her in anything other than a sharp suit - Waller was dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, rendering her virtually unrecognisable.

"Just a coffee is fine, thanks," Dina said, extending her hand to Waller for a shake. "Dina."

"Amanda," Waller replied.

"I almost didn't recognise you there without your power suit, Amanda," Helena said, shaking her hand too and then taking her seat at the table.

"Got to blend in, I suppose," Waller said, speaking in a British accent.

"I thought you had to be American to join ARGUS," Dina said, and Waller laughed.

"Indeed. I was born in Star City. Then I went to live with my mother in Cornwall. Went back to Star City many years later and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Why'd you leave ARGUS?"

Wallet grimaced. "I needed some time off after my husband died."

Dina shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Waller said with a perfunctory nod, Laurel could see, but also with the air of not wanting to talk about it. Laurel didn't blame her.

"So how can we help you?"

Waller spoke at length about the mission she wished to send the immortals on - a school being held hostage in Azerbaijan, in dire need of rescue. Laurel watched Dina's expression and knew from her face that they would take the job. Once actual people were involved, especially kids, it was hard for their leader to turn it down.

"Given the… delicate political situation in Azerbaijan at present, our priority is getting the students out alive," Waller continued. "Money is no issue - Miss Bertinelli and I briefly discussed your going rates -"

Dina got up, rather abruptly. "We'll invoice you when it's done," she said.

"Good," said Waller, also getting to her feet when Helena followed suit. "Thank you for doing business with me."

Nodding briefly, Dina downed her cup of coffee in one, then gestured for Helena to follow her. Laurel watched through her scope, focusing again on Waller, who unexpectedly raised her hand to wave and smile, as if looking directly at Laurel.

Laurel huffed a laugh, shaking her head, then nudged Nyssa beside her to take a look. They shared a smile of mild exasperation but the warm kind.

"What do you think, habibti?" Laurel asked softly.

"I think we would be blaspheming if we did not use the blessing God gave us to do as much good as possible," Nyssa replied after a moment. Laurel felt the familiar tug of love in her heart at the woman at her side, so much so that she couldn't help but kiss her.

"Your heart," Laurel murmured, placing her palm against her wife's chest, "is so full of kindness. Overflowing, in fact. This world is unworthy of it."

"Get a room, you two," Dina said over the comms, at the same time as Helena saying, "You two make me want to vomit", and Nyssa and Laurel dissolved into laughter.

*

It was terrifying when everything went wrong.

To be surrounded by soldiers armed to the teeth, who not only shot them repeatedly but used the four immortal women before them as target practice - it was fitting, in a way, for Laurel to be on the ground, dead, when shit indeed went sideways.

They'd practiced this. They had had centuries to perfect playing dead, using the deadliest weapon of all in their immortality - pinpointing the precise moment their enemies’ grip on their weapons were relaxed.

Of course, there was no way to practise being reborn, no textbook that could predict the brutality of this death or the next, and so something always threw Laurel, no matter how ready she was for those bullets - especially when it came to Nyssa. As Laurel's eyes opened, the bullet lodged in her forehead being ejected from her skin as it knitted up, Laurel immediately sought out her wife, careful to suppress her sigh of relief when she saw Nyssa's eyes open too.

Slowly, the four of them took the time to get their bearings and get back on their feet, and the soldiers had no warning when swords and arrows were unleashed on them mercilessly. Dina unearthed her axe for good measure, grunting as she finished off the last of them. They all panted, Laurel with her sword still aloft, Nyssa's bow tensed, Helena's arm quivering as she pointed her crossbow at the feebly stirring soldier at her feet.

"Everyone still with me?" Dina said, looking around. Helena made a noise of assent.

"Na'am," Nyssa said after a moment.

"Laurel?"

"Yeah," Laurel said, dislodging a bullet from her jaw with her tongue. "Pissed as hell."

"I don't understand," Nyssa said. "Where are the students?"

"We've been set up, Nyssa," Dina said grimly. “There are no students.”

"Jesus," Laurel muttered under her breath. "You were right, boss."

*

They got a freighter train towards Armenia - there was a safe house they had there, though Dina wondered aloud if they were perhaps chasing their tails. She told her team to get some sleep, and Laurel, grateful they'd all been able to change their clothes but still unable to shake the stench of blood in her nostrils, fell into a fitful, troubled slumber as she wound her arm around her wife's waist.

She saw it in flashes - the girl, in army fatigues, the military weapon, and then the dagger, appearing from nowhere, slicing the girl's throat… her hands going up to try and stem the blood -

"Ya allah," Nyssa breathed, jolted awake at the same time as Laurel - and when Laurel looked around she found Dina and Helena in similar states of shock.

"Another one?" Laurel said.

"It can't be, not that quickly," Dina said, but Nyssa was already reaching for her notebook, sketching rapidly.

"She was a black woman," Helena said. "Military…"

"The dagger was definitely Pashtun and there was a woman near her in a chador," Nyssa added, continuing to sketch.

"Gotta be Afghanistan, right?" Laurel said. "And the dog tags - Dig? Digger? Or something?"

"Could you make out the company?"

"Echo 2-1," Dina said in a hollow voice. "Gods. Why is there another one? Why now?"

"I don't know, boss," Laurel said. "What do you think?"

"I think we should find Waller," Helena said. "We're wide out in the open here. One problem at a time."

Nyssa shook her head. "No," she said, "we need to find this girl. Whoever she is - if she's like us… she needs us." Nyssa appealed to Laurel, gazing at her. "You remember what it was like at the beginning, hayati. How scared we both were. Imagine what she's going through."

Helena shook her head. "We can't split our focus -"

"We don't have to," Dina said, appearing to make up her mind and getting to her feet. "I'll go and retrieve her. You all get to Armenia. Go to the Charlie safe house there. Work on tracking Waller."

"Are you sure, boss?" Helena asked.

"If we're dreaming of her, she's dreaming of us. And once they figure out what she is, she'll lead them to us, so that doesn't leave us a lot of time."

Dina held her hand out to Nyssa, and after adding the finishing touches, Nyssa tore out the page with the sketch and handed it to Dina.

"Christ, look at her. She's just a baby." Dina looked up at Helena. "Find Waller and keep on her ass, okay? I'll be in touch."

With that she stepped out of the train, landed only somewhat unceremoniously and then began to walk away.

*

Hours later, Laurel woke from another bout of fitful sleep, having been unable to get any rest on the train, to the smell of Nyssa’s cooking.

Sleepily, Laurel got to her feet, rubbing her eyes. Their safe house in Armenia was small, indescript, with just enough space for three single beds squeezed into the bedroom, and a couch and dining table in the living room, which doubled as a kitchen.

Helena was at work on her laptop, typing away furiously. Nyssa was rummaging in the bag of groceries Laurel had bought earlier, finding a jar of sauce to add to the pasta. She tried a couple times to open it, but some things were beyond her, and Laurel knew that as she smiled.

"You need me to open that for you, habibti?" Laurel asked quietly.

"You have impeccable timing, my love," Nyssa replied, holding out the jar for her, and she couldn't hold back her amusement when Laurel opened it within two seconds.

"It's all in the wrist," Laurel said.

"So you say." Nyssa turned back to the pan on the stove, pouring in the sauce. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just hope Dina finds this new one already. I hate the nightmares."

Nyssa started to stir, slowly, and Laurel could tell she was contemplating something.

"I know you feel these things more than any of us."

"I wish I knew why," Laurel said with a sigh. "But she's scared, Nyssa. And I feel it too." After a moment Laurel leaned forward, putting her arms around Nyssa's waist. She felt safer there, in the warm presence of her wife.

"It will be okay, Laurel," Nyssa said, leaning her forehead against Laurel's. "We will find the girl. And we will walk out of this shitstorm together like always."

"Thank you," Laurel whispered, dropping a kiss on Nyssa's cheek. "Do you need me to help with anything?"

"You could start on the washing up, if that's all right."

Laurel was already rolling up her sleeves, while Helena's phone began to ring. "Hello?" said Helena. She met Laurel's eyes and gave her a thumbs up. "Boss, I'm gonna put you on speaker, okay?"

"Hey, I got the new one," Dina said.

"What's she like?" Nyssa asked as she stirred.

There was a pause as if Dina was stifling a laugh. "Well, she stabbed me, so I say she has potential."

Helena chuckled. "Atta girl. I like her already."

"We're about to get on the plane. Should be with you in a few hours. Helena, any progress tracking down Waller?"

"No, sorry, boss. She's good. She has to be, as a security expert - knows how to cover her tracks."

"Everyone's got a weakness, Helena. I need you to find hers."

"Copy that."

"I'll see you all soon."

*

Sarah Diggle, as it happened, proved likable from the jump. She and Dina had arrived looking a little worse for wear, as if they'd had a tussle or two on the plane, and Laurel could tell from how jumpy she herself had been the past couple hours that she was feeling Sarah's adrenaline.

(She was so glad the whole empathy thing at least ended upon meeting.)

"Why are you all in my dreams?" Sarah asked once they sat down at the dinner table. Laurel was on her feet, heaping pasta onto plates and handing them out, starting with Sarah. "Thanks."

"We dream of each other - our deaths, the first ones, and what happens after - until we meet," Nyssa explained. "Then the dreams stop."

"Why?"

Nyssa smiled. "The why, Miss Diggle, is a question that will never be satisfactorily answered. It is one I ask most days - why us? Why immortality? Why did we dream of each other? Why are the rules the way they are?"

Sarah simply looked more perplexed by Nyssa’s words. "I think the best way to look at it," Laurel said as she handed a plate to Dina and then sat down, "is that it’s like - destiny."

"Some people are meant to find each other," Nyssa said, and Laurel smiled when she caught Nyssa's eye.

"So let me get this straight -"

The dinner table erupted with laughter and Sarah Diggle looked even more confused than she already was. "Kid," Dina said, taking a sip of her wine, "let me stop you right there. There's nothing straight going on here with any of us."

Laurel murmured in assent and then couldn't help but wink at Nyssa.

"Ameen to that," Nyssa agreed.

"Yeah, you'll just get a lot of nervous gay laughter if you ask any of us for a straight answer," Helena said.

Laurel watched as Nyssa turned to Sarah. "What she said. But our collective queerness aside, Ms Diggle, please do say what was on your mind."

Sarah smiled - it was tentative, accompanied with the nervous brushing away of her braids from her face, but it was there, Laurel could see that much. Their newest addition had had a frown creasing on her forehead the moment she had arrived, even in her young age, but with the laughter around her, some of that tension was relieved.

"Do we really never die?"

The smiles on the team's faces faded a bit.

"Nothing lives forever," Laurel said. "Even if it feels like we've been alive for eternity.”

Nyssa gestured at herself and then Laurel. “Laurel and I met in 1020."

It took a moment for that to sink in. "So you're saying you're both -"

Laurel grinned. "- over a thousand years old? Yes, but don't tell anyone."

"What about you?" Sarah asked Helena.

"Youngest recruit, from 1912."

"We call her the baby because she's only a century old," Nyssa said affectionately.

"You're the oldest," Sarah said, looking at Dina.

Dina grimaced. "Yep."

"How old are you?"

"Old," Dina replied.

" How old?"

"Too old," Laurel said, intervening after catching Dina's eye. "Let's just say there's a reason Dina's in charge around here."

Sarah nodded, seeming to accept this as an answer.

"So how do you know we do die?"

"Because one of us did," Dina said heavily. "His name was Thomas. I found him first. And one day we were in battle, fighting. And he got injured. Never got up. We don't know how or why, just that one day we stop healing and it's the end of the line. Our time to go."

There was silence for a moment. "It's a lot to take in," Nyssa said eventually.

"And I did tell you that you wouldn't like all the answers you got, kid," Dina said.

"You said we're immortal." The words came out of Sarah's mouth sounding almost accusatory. "You told me that. Just after shooting me in the head -"

"Sorry about that," Dina said, but the tension in the air was palpable. "But I knew I wouldn't hurt you. In the long run I mean."

"How? You just said that we all have an expiry date -"

"You're too new," Helena interrupted.

"Listen, Sarah," Laurel said. "Just because we're immortal doesn't mean we're invincible, or unstoppable. We're definitely not completely unkillable. Tommy is proof of that. And that's why -" Laurel paused for a moment, then reached out for Nyssa's hand to squeeze. "- that's why none of us take our lives for granted. Eventually our time will come, and that's an inevitability every human has to wrestle with."

"We just have to wait for longer is all," Nyssa added.

"So you are the good guys." At Laurel's raised eyebrows, Sarah explained, "I wasn't sure when I met Dina. If I was on the right side of things."

"I did shoot you, so I can't say I blame you there," Dina conceded.

"Goodness is subjective," Laurel said slowly. "It depends, I suppose, on the century, but - we fight for what we think is right."

"Even when the righteous battles land us in deep shit," Dina muttered, swigging from the bottle of wine now. Her words were quiet, but there was no doubting that everyone heard.

Nyssa got to her feet. "Sarah, you must be tired. Want me to show you where we all sleep?"

Sarah nodded, getting up and following Nyssa to the sleeping quarters.

"Listen, boss, I know you're pissed -" Laurel started to say, but Dina waved her away.

"I said what I had to say on this, Laurel. But the person I'm blaming is Waller, and whoever the fuck she's working with who set us up." Dina looked up, met Laurel's eyes. "I can't really blame Nyssa for having more of a heart than me."

Laurel smiled. "Like I said. Overflowing with kindness."

"Laurel, I love you, but enough with the sappy shit, please."

Still grinning, though, Laurel then glanced at Helena, who had been nursing the same drink for half an hour. "You okay, Helena?"

Helena nodded absently and picked at her food again with her fork, before she gave up trying to eat anymore and pushed her plate towards Laurel.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, not hungry. Eat it so Nyssa doesn't take it personally."

Laurel laughed a little more easily at that, digging in and finishing what was on the plate in front of her in a matter of seconds - after all, she loved her wife's cooking.

*

Later, Laurel was curling up around Nyssa, her arm wrapping around her wife's middle on the bed they shared. Laurel had her nose buried in the small of Nyssa's back, breathing in the familiar sweet smell of her beloved, listening to the sounds of her breathing which slowly lulled Laurel to sleep.

She wasn't sure how long that lasted, though, when the sound of a loud gasp woke Laurel up with a start.

"What is it?" Nyssa asked, the knife under her pillow already in her hand.

"You okay, kid?" Helena said sleepily, and from over Nyssa's shoulder Laurel could just make out Dina's silhouette in the doorway.

Sarah, who was now sitting bolt upright in her bed, clutched the comforter around her and seemed even smaller than before. "It's nothing. I'm sorry, guys. It was just a bad dream."

Nyssa put her knife down under her pillow, then propped herself up on her elbow. "It's okay. You can tell us."

At first Sarah was hesitant. "I dreamed of a woman in a coffin," she said slowly, and there was no mistaking Laurel and Dina's simultaneous sharp intakes of breath at her words. "She was screaming, trapped in this coffin underwater… and she would keep screaming until her lungs bled, pounding against the coffin until her knuckles wore away. And she would drown and then come back. Go through that whole thing over and over again… I saw flashes of it before I got here, but this was the clearest I've seen it so far." Sarah turned to Laurel. "She looked like you, a bit. But with shorter hair."

"Her name was Serena," Laurel said quietly. "She was my twin. And one of us."

"Your twin ?"

"We never knew each other as kids. Before me and Nyssa found each other, it was Dina and Serena. Dina had been lost after Tommy died. She'd given up hope until she met Serena."

"They fought thousands of battles alongside each other," Nyssa continued. "Fighting the good fight all over the world."

There was an audible sniff, and Laurel looked up to see Dina had gone to stand in front of the window near their beds, her head in her hands.

"What happened?" Sarah asked Dina.

"They were captured," Nyssa answered, when Dina didn't. "Captured freeing the so-called heretics being accused of witchcraft. They were hanged over and over for their crimes, but -"

"They kept coming back to life," Sarah guessed. Nyssa nodded. "Probably just proved their case that they were witches."

"That's exactly what happened," Laurel said. "And then… to separate them - they locked Serena in a coffin. The Iron Maiden. And they threw her into the ocean."

Sarah looked across the room at Dina. "Shit."

"We spent decades looking for her," Dina said at last. "Never found her."

"I feel her pain," Sarah told her. "Her rage. She feels insane."

"She's been trapped in a box for five hundred years," Helena said unexpectedly. "Just living for that long would drive you mad. Let alone dying over and over like that at the bottom of the ocean."

"That's why we work so hard to evade capture," Laurel explained. "A fate like my sister's… in many ways, it’s worse than death. I would not wish it on my worst and most bitter enemy. Nor would I wish the guilt that I feel to this day over what happened - because I should have been there to rescue her. And I wasn't."

"It's not your fault, Laurel," Dina said softly. "It's mine. You weren't there. I was."

"You blame yourself?" Sarah asked. "Why?"

"It would be bad enough if I just lost a soldier," Dina said quietly. "But she was my - my… partner, in every way imaginable. And I couldn't save her. I failed the love of my life and I think about that all the time. That is a nightmare I have to live through every day of my long life, and there is… nothing I can do to change that. Or end it."

Dina's eyes filled with tears, and the choking sound coming from the bed next to Laurel told her Sarah was crying too.

"So that's it? We're doomed to an eternity of this?"

"Sarah -" Laurel said, but Sarah was already getting to her feet.

"I need some air," she said shakily, grabbing her jacket.

"I'll talk to her," Laurel muttered immediately, but Dina held out her hand.

"No, it's okay, I will. You guys get some rest."

Before Laurel could object, Dina followed Sarah out the front door without another word.

"She'll come round," Nyssa said after a moment.

"Will she?" Helena said doubtfully. "I mean. She's not wrong. Being doomed to an eternity of life and death -"

"Who says you're doomed?" Laurel interrupted.

"If you're alone," Helena said quietly, "you're fucked. You'll outlive anyone you love and then who've you got?"

"You've got us, of course," Nyssa said without skipping a beat, and once again Laurel felt a surge of love for her. "You're never going to be alone if you have your family around you."

Helena looked suitably chastened. "Yeah, I know I do. But the kid is grieving her old life right now. You've both had a millennium to adjust - she's barely had five minutes."

Laurel opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but then at that moment a can fell into the open window of their bedroom. There was a hissing sound, as gas clouded the air and filled their lungs, and then all at once everything went black.

[mizugachi]

Hi!! I'm here as promised! Could you do 9 + 8 + 18 please? Thanks!!

@alphabees-writes

After I-don’t-know-how-long, it’s finally here! Thank you for prompting me this, I really enjoyed writing it.

I never did camping/summer camp in its classical form, so linguistic camp is what you get, something I actually know, I hope you’ll still enjoy it :)

_________________________

Camp!au + exes + “ this can’t be real. I feel like I’m having a fever dream. “

Read it on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/25331935

Kurt was counting the days. In a couple of days, he was flying to France, his dream country, for a three-weeks summer camp, studying this beautiful language and learning about the amazing French culture. He was going to be part of a French family, in Nice, on the French Riviera, and he just couldn’t wait. He had looked up pictures of the region: it was stunningly beautiful.

He had always wanted to go on a language study vacation and he had been saving up for two years for this, working extra shifts with his dad at the shop. Blaine, his boyfriend, had complained a bit about it, arguing that Kurt was putting their relationship aside. It was easy to say for him, his parents were loaded and could offer him whatever he wanted. Kurt’s dad couldn’t just take 2500$ out of his pocket.

His luggage was already packed and he had spent the last month reviewing his French lessons, watching French TV shows and movies and listening to French music. He was so ready for this.

____________________________

The first thing he heard when he landed at the airport was the sound of the cicadas. They were everywhere and it was deafening. But it was so south of France and exotic and he loved it already, his heart busting with excitement. He met the supervisors who told him and the kids who shared the same flight that other participants were to be expected on another flight in a few hours and, in the meantime, they would be taken to their host family. Kurt couldn’t wait to meet them.

His host family lived in a typical south of France house, with ocher roof and light-colored walls, on the hill overlooking the city. They were a middle-aged couple, Marie and Laurent, who had two children, Enzo and Léa, and were very friendly, welcoming Kurt warmly. Their house even had a swimming pool, something Kurt rarely saw in Ohio, with a splendid view on the Mediterranean Sea. Kurt thought he was living a dream.

The mother, Marie, told him he was going to share his bedroom with another boy in his study group and Kurt was both excited and anxious to meet him. What if he was a complete homophobe? Kurt wasn’t planning on divulging anything too personal but his bullying in high school when he wasn’t even out was still a fresh memory in his mind.

He didn’t have to wait for long. Laurent went to pick his roommate up at the airport and he came back forty minutes later, while Marie and the children were getting to know Kurt, asking him several questions, all in French. They spoke a bit of English but Kurt wanted his trip to be as immersive as possible and, he had to admit it, he took pride in his accent when Marie and the children complimented him on it. Laurent joined them on the terrace with the boy and Kurt froze when he saw him.

It was none other than Sebastian Smythe, his former show choir rival and ex-boyfriend.

He must have committed a horrible crime in his past life to have such bad karma. Out of all the participants in the camp and out of all the summer camps offered to young Americans, he had to be travelling with the same agency, at the same dates and to the same destination and have his ex as a roommate? Kurt wanted to cry. He might have been dating Blaine for a few months now, but he was not over Sebastian. Sebastian who was his first everything, his first boyfriend, his first love, his first heartbreak. Things with him had ended quite badly when Sebastian made it clear he wasn’t into long, exclusive and romantic relationship by cheating on him with some name-less guy he hooked up with at Scandals during their junior year. Kurt had since been trying to avoid him at all costs, even transferring back from Dalton to McKinley while Karofsky was still there. The heartbreak was too much and thank god for Rachel and Mercedes who were there to pick up his shattered heart.

He was as handsome as ever, all slender, tanned freckled skin and green eyes, in a striped short-sleeved polo shirt with a popped collar and chino beige shorts, and it made Kurt’s heart ache. Oh, he was so not over him.

Sebastian’s eyes widened and he stood still when he recognized Kurt as well, and awkwardness settled between them. Their host family must had sensed something, because everyone fell silent while Kurt and Sebastian entered a starring contest. It was Marie who broke the silence first after a few tensed seconds.

“Bienvenue, Sebastian!” she said, standing up from her chair to greet him. “Did you have a good trip?”

She went to give him la bise, kissing him in the air once on each cheek and pulling Sebastian out of his trance. Kurt had been taken aback by the familiarity of the gesture but Sebastian kissed Marie like he had made French greetings all his life — and he probably had, he lived in France for a few years, Kurt remembered, and he wondered suddenly why Sebastian would go on a French study vacation if he was already fluent.

After greeting the children, Sebastian went up to Kurt and smirked at him and, god helped him, Kurt wanted nothing more but to rip that smirk off his face.

“Hey, Kurt,” he said. “Long time no see.”

Kurt couldn’t process what he was saying in French and stared dumbfounded at him. No way he was going to spend three weeks of his dream vacation with his ex-boyfriend.

“This can’t be real. I feel like I’m having a fever dream,” he said, his voice shaky.

Sebastian’s smile only widened and Kurt didn’t understand how he could pretend to be so casual about their unexpected reunion. Laurent came up to them and tried to make small talk to break the awkwardness.

“Do you guys know each other?” he asked.

“You could say that,” Sebastian answered, still looking at Kurt with his everlasting smugness.

Kurt finally pulled himself together and shot his best bitch look to Sebastian, not wanting for him to see how much he wrecked him in the past — and still did today — even though he just spent the last minute looking at Sebastian incredulously.

“Yeah, we have a slight history, we went to the same high school at some point,” Kurt said, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Well, that’s great!” Laurent said. “Your supervisors told us you have a group meeting at the beach tonight so that you could get to know the others traveling with you, but you two already know each other! You can share some high school memory!”

Kurt was certain he didn’t want to share some high school memory with Sebastian but didn’t say anything. His dream had suddenly turned into a nightmare. ____________________________

The supervisors had lit a portable barbecue on the beach and provided marshmallows for everyone. Kurt was a bit sad they were not allowed to light a bonfire on the beach but it made sense: causing a wildfire would be a terrible start for the holiday. They were thirty or so kids who decided to ditch the traditional summer camp for a more studious one, and Kurt made small talk with almost everyone, coming from all over the USA.

When he went up to the barbecue to roast his marshmallows, Sebastian chose this moment to talk to him. Kurt had tried to ignore him as best as he could back at the house, given the fact that they were going to share a room for three weeks, but Sebastian was intended on speaking with him.

“You won’t be able to avoid me for the whole trip, Kurt,” he said, roasting his marshmallows next to him.

“What are you even doing here, Sebastian?” he snapped, refusing to look at him. “You are fluent in French.”

“My mom wanted me to do something for the summer before college,” Sebastian answered. “And since sleeping in a tent with no bathroom and doing outdoors stuff is not my cup of tea, I thought, why not go back to France? Nice has awesome gay clubs and they allow you to drink at 18. Wanna come?”

“No, thanks,” Kurt said though gritted teeth.

He didn’t need to see his ex-boyfriend hitting on some handsome French boys. Clearly, unlike him, Sebastian had closure on their relationship.

“Your loss,” Sebastian smirked. “Though I have to admit, I’m quite sad we ended it up last year. You aged like a fine wine. Makes me wonder why I ended it. Heard you’re with Blaine now.”

He had only said five sentences to Kurt since they met again and, yet, he was already on his nerves. Kurt lost it and turned to him, his eyes glazing with anger.

“I ended it because you are a selfish little bitch who thinks with his dick!” he shouted, not caring if someone might hear him. “How could you do that to me?”

“Sorry, babe,” Sebastian said, and he didn’t seem sorry in the least. “But you knew what you were getting into with me. I don’t do romance, remember? I want to know what the world has to offer before I settle.”

“You didn’t have to rub it in my face! I can’t believe I was stupid enough to fall in love with you!” Kurt spat.

His confession stopped Sebastian dead in his tracks and he looked at Kurt like he was seeing him for the first time.

“W-what?” he stuttered. “You were in love with me?”

“Like you didn’t know! You’re such an ass, you know that? You haven’t changed a bit, you’re still as irritating, selfish and obnoxious as ever!”

Kurt shot him his best glare but his expression softened when he saw the look of utter shock on Sebastian’s face. He really looked like he was clueless about Kurt’s feelings for him and too caught out by his confession to snark back at him. Kurt prided himself on being able to make Sebastian Smythe shut up every now and then.

“Seriously, Kurt. I didn’t know,” he said, astonished.

“Well, that wouldn’t have changed anything, right?” Kurt mumbled, anger leaving his voice. “Your cold heart wouldn’t care.”

Sebastian seemed hurt, but he didn’t say anything. Kurt huffed and took his marshmallow stick and went off, leaving Sebastian alone by the fire. He rejoined two girls he sympathized with and sat next to them, staring at the sea to forget about Sebastian.

It was going to be a long vacation.

[abbottikeler]

The Ikelers: A Family Chronicle, 1753-2018 (Part III)

The Ikelers in the Nineteenth Century     There are many descendants of Wilhelm who, to this day, live within a few miles of Jerseytown and his original Greenwood farm. They are, most of them, eight or nine generations removed either from his eldest son, Andrew, or his only daughter, Elizabeth.  (Barnabus, his second son, did not marry, and William, his third born, though he married in New Jersey and lived out his life in Columbia County, could not convince most of his descendants to stay.   Many migrated west to Ohio and beyond.)     Especially if you can trace your ancestry back to Andrew Ikeler, you will easily find third, fourth and fifth cousins in Bloomsburg and neighboring townships.   Evidence of their long presence and influence is everywhere in Columbia County—in two Ikeler cemeteries, a church, a street, and even a village named Ikelertown.  In the case of Wilhelm’s friend Daniel, and his son-in-law William, Elizabeth’s legacy lives on in the ubiquity of the Welliver name in local phone directories, in the Jerseytown cemetery established by Daniel, and in numerous published histories of Daniel’s involvement with the ill-fated Whitmayers.   There is, in fact, near Bloomsburg a country crossroads and a hamlet surrounding it named “Welliverville.”       Those two families, after all, were among the first pioneer farmers to clear and work the land after the 1780 treaty with the local native-Americans.  Ikelers and Wellivers have been there ever since.     In this segment of the narrative, I’ll be looking at three generations of Ikelers who lived all or most of their lives in nineteenth-century Columbia County, PA.  They are, in order, Andrew Ikeler (1772-1850) and his wife Christiana, nee Johnson (1774-1865); Andrew’s son Isaac (1804-1883) and his wife Mary, nee Taylor (1810-1872); and Isaac’s son Elijah (1838-1898) and his wife Helena, nee Armstrong (1840-1913). For information about the siblings of Isaac or Elijah (there were in fact a dozen), the best local sources are the County Courthouse and the Columbia County Historical and Genealogical Society in Bloomsburg.  Under discussion here are only the children from whom my immediate family and I are descended.       Andrew reached his majority in New Jersey under the sole care of his mother.  In 1792, he married the daughter of an English settler—the first with the new surname Ikeler to do so. Christiana Johnson’s father, Isaac, was most likely sympathetic to the British cause, since he allowed the union of his daughter to the son of a notorious loyalist.  He also later moved to the Pennsylvania neighborhood where Wilhelm had settled.  It appears that Christiana and Andrew may have been the last of their generation of Ikelers to leave New Jersey for Columbia County. The 1888 Beers Book makes reference to Andrew’s journey there in 1804.  Presumably, he was waiting for confirmation from his father that the land they needed for their growing family had been purchased.  That news came in 1804, and Andrew appears on the tax records of 1805 as the owner of a log cabin and a saw mill and 150 acres of land in Greenwood Township.       Unlike most of the farmers around him, Andrew seems to have cut quite a public figure.  Near the end of the War of 1812, he led a company of militia to the defense of the nation’s capital.  While underway, they learned the threat had passed, so he and his men returned to Columbia County without firing a shot. Again, in 1835, he made news when elected Magistrate at the ripe age of 62.  At his death in 1850 he had outlived his brothers and his sister by nearly a decade.     We know precious little about Christiana’s life, either in New Jersey or Pennsylvania, but she and Andrew lived long enough to see many of their grandchildren grown, long enough to celebrate their 57th wedding anniversary, and, in her case, long enough to see the end of the Civil War.  Born before the nation itself, she died at 91 in 1865.  One can only image what a diary of her times she might have written!     She and Andrew are buried in the far right corner of what is known as the “churchless” Ikeler cemetery, at the top of a hill overlooking both their and Wilhelm’s original homesteads, and planted in corn to the very borders of the graveyard.  The site functioned up until 1840 as the informal burial place for Ikelers and their near neighbors.  In that year, Andrew’s eldest son, William, set money aside to preserve it in perpetuity and later erected the limestone tombstone that marks his parents’ last resting place.  In the row immediately behind them are several broken slabs of slant, the inscriptions on them (if any) long since effaced.  It is very likely that they mark the burial place of Wilhelm and his wife, presumably carried there (in 1808 and 1815 respectively) from their nearby log house in a homemade pine box, or perhaps simple in winding sheet.     Ironically, far less is known of Andrew’s son Isaac, my great-great grandfather, and his wife Mary Taylor.  Though he followed his father’s example and married a woman of English stock, he kept close to the land Andrew left him, and rarely participated in the life of the wider community.  Yet, since he lived into the 1880s, I suspect at least one photograph of him must have been taken, and may somewhere still exist.  Certainly there are available photos of other children of Andrew.      Much research remains to be done on his wife as well.   Happily, some has recently come to light through the efforts of my third cousin, Chris Sanders.  Mary Taylor was sold by her father into indentured service at age twelve, along with her brother.  The promise of an apprenticeship was often written into the contract—in Mary’s case, the promise was, in the course of her seven years of servitude, that she would be taught “the mysteries of housewiffery.”  Why her father, a widower, was driven to take such an extreme measure remains a mystery.  Perhaps he simply thought he couldn’t manage their upbringing on his own.  It was, as one wise genealogist reminded me, a different time.      Mary’s servitude did, at least, have a foreseeable end.  She married Isaac Ikeler immediately upon regaining her freedom at 19, in 1829.  Her son Elijah, perhaps as a tribute to the suffering she had endured in her adolescence, christened his second son with the middle name “Taylor” just two years before his mother’s death.  Her memory was apparently cherished by later descendants as well---they passed it down to this very day as the middle name of at least four other Ikeler males.  Mary, fortunately, was something of a genealogist herself, and faithfully kept what she knew of the Ikeler family tree on the flyleaf of her bible.  For most of us, that partial record represented the starting point for our research into the early generations.     Mary Taylor Ikeler predeceased her husband by eleven years.  Isaac passed away in 1883.  All but one of their eight children survived into adulthood.  Both parents are buried under well-preserved limestone monuments in what became the next, newer Ikeler cemetery, atop Ikeler Hill and directly across the road from the Ikeler Church.   Their resting place sits right above the border between Mt. Pleasant and Greenwood Townships, looking down on the very hills and fields they plowed.       Elijah Redmond Ikeler, their fourth child and second son, is perhaps the most widely remembered and controversial of all the Ikelers in this history.  Even his birth year is debatable, variously recorded as any of four years between 1837 and 1840.  Most sources, including his large granite tombstone in Bloomsburg’s Rosemount Cemetery, declare it to be 1838, however.       From his early days he appears to have been disinclined to take up farming.  At 18 he was apprenticed to a mill owner, and shortly thereafter had acquired a share in the business.  At the outset of the Civil War, he seems to have been equally disinclined to take up arms in defense of the Union. Whether he paid the standard $300 to send someone else in his place, or simply wasn’t called up because the local quota of soldiers had already been filled, he clearly had no interest in risking his young life for a cause he didn’t believe in.  In a Bloomsburg newspaper article from 1864, in which a local volunteer at the front complains about the lack of support and enthusiasm from the folks back home, Elijah is quoted (among others) arguing in favor of a compromise with the Confederacy that would allow the Southern States to keep their slaves and end the bloodshed sooner.     By that time he had already been married for a year—to one Helena Armstrong, two years his junior and a resident of Bloomsburg.  Her father owned a prosperous stonemasonry business, producing monuments in limestone and granite for local cemeteries and public places, as well as the marble window frames and sills for the more prepossessing homes along Main and Market Streets.  Helena also brought an impressive pedigree to the union with Elijah: among her father’s ancestors were the socially prominent Rittenhouses of Philadelphia, and the Hiesters, one of whom had been an officer under Washington in the Revolutionary War.  She was thus a member of the D.A.R., with the bona fides to prove it.  On her mother’s side she was descended from the Vanderslices, a Dutch family and one of the wealthiest in Columbia County.      How did Elijah, the 25-year-old son of a Greenwood farmer, manage to marry into an established upper middle class family such as the Armstrongs?  Probably a combination of ambition, political savvy, and good looks.  He looks out from photographs and portraits taken of him then and later with a self-assurance and a symmetry of aspect that commands admiration.     By 1865, he and Helena had taken up residence in Bloomsburg, the county seat, at the time a settlement of some 3,000 souls on the banks of the Susquehanna.  Elijah would remain a townsman the rest of his life.  He struck up a friendship with a much older Bloomsburg lawyer, John Freeze, who had lost his own sons to childhood illnesses several years before.   Freeze took him under his wing, taught him the law, and, from 1867, admitted him into his own practice as a fellow attorney.  Thereafter, Elijah rose quickly to political prominence, becoming Bloomsburg town treasurer in 1870 and district attorney a short time later.     His domestic fortunes, despite an initial setback, were also advancing.  In 1867, Helena had lost a pair of twins, but she gave birth to one healthy son, Frank Armstrong Ikeler, the next year, and another robust boy, Fred Taylor Ikeler, in 1870.    Why they had no more children after that, though both were in their early thirties, I can only speculate.     Certainly Elijah grew increasingly involved with public affairs and the business of making money.  He participated in the early prosecution of the Molly Maguires (though the miners were ultimately tried, convicted and hanged by others), and he bought numbers of residential properties within Bloomsburg proper (whether for rental income or resale I haven’t been able to ascertain).  By the 1880s he thought himself well enough known and respected to run for elected office.  The position he sought was that of Presiding (or President) Judge: a five-year term of office with jurisdiction over both Columbia and two adjoining counties.   He was twice elected: in 1888 and again in 1893.  He ran again in 1898 at the age of 60, but fell ill in the midst of the campaign and died within a week in August, 1898.   At the time of his death he was living on Market Street in a mansion-sized home of his own design, known for years after as “the Judge’s house.”  The building has since been extensively renovated and functions today not as a place of residence, but as a funeral home.     In the last two decades of his life, there was also much going on at home to keep him happy with only two children.  Given his risen position in society, Elijah was clearly ambitious for his sons.  They both attended and graduated from Lafayette College—the first Ikelers to earn baccalaureate degrees—and, by the mid-90s, both boys had begun to practice law, just as their father had done.      Aside from vague rumors that Elijah was a bit too fond of the bottle, and his arguable lack of patriotism during the Civil War (neither one of which sins was considered much of a problem in that part of Pennsylvania), everything about his life and his family seemed above reproach.  Particularly in 1888, when he ran for high office, it was essential to his success: he needed to present an unblemished record to the voters of three counties.       One small problem arose the year before that election.  A chronicle of Columbia County was being prepared, a chronicle that would rely for much of its information on interviews with prominent members of long-established families in the region—people who could recount their own and their ancestors’ history.  The chronicle (known then and since as “The Beers Book”) was due to be published in 1888, shortly before Elijah planned to open his election campaign.  And, given his social prominence, there was certainly no Ikeler more likely to be approached for genealogical information than Elijah.   All to the good, it would seem: a chance to boast, modestly of course, of his and his forefathers’ accomplishments, and perhaps, amongst interested readers, to gain a few votes.     The Ikeler section of the Beers Book that appeared in 1888 does indeed suggest the interviewee was Elijah—more than half of the entry praises the deeds of the would-be Presiding Judge, and has little to say of his siblings or his parents.       But the passage makes some quite curious claims about earlier generations.  Fact gets oddly mixed up with fiction—the first Ikeler [it reads] was “Joseph Eggler...of an honored old family of German extraction,” not a tenant farmer named Hieronymus Eichler; he landed in New Jersey, not Philadelphia, arriving in 1760, not 1753; most curious of all, “at the outbreak of the Revolution he promptly enlisted with the Colonists, and throughout that historic conflict unselfishly rendered service to his country.”  This founding father of the American Ikelers is also said to be Elijah’s great-grandfather, when in fact Hieronymus is his great-great-grandfather.  Elijah skips a generation in order to make Andrew, not Wilhelm, the son of this fictional hero.  It is Andrew, so the account runs, who brought the Ikelers from New Jersey to Greenwood Township in 1804.       What Elijah’s version does, of course, is to wipe out the first seven years of the family’s indentured servitude, credit Hieronymus/Joseph with an honorable, unselfish war record on the side of the Colonists, and eliminate Wilhelm and the “shame” of his fugitive years altogether.  There simply is no Wilhelm in Elijah’s account of his ancestry.     It’s a neat blending of fact and fiction, calculated to sit well with his neighbors and the electorate.  But I suspect Elijah’s dissembling had a second, and perhaps more powerful motivation behind it.  He was, we remember, married to a member of the D.A.R., a descendant of a genuine hero on the side of the Revolution.  When the chronicler came calling, Elijah could enhance respect for his heritage in the eyes of Helena by “recalling” an equivalent hero in the Ikeler family past.  But it was even more important for both husband and wife that he expunge any trace of Wilhelm and the family’s loyalist background.  And God forbid, Helena should find out one of her husband’s ancestors was a redcoat under arms during the conflict!     Elijah’s efforts to bowdlerize or mythologize his family’s past remained unchallenged for another 27 years, until both he and Helena were no longer among the living.  At last, in 1915, and just two years before his own death, I suspect it was I.B. Ikeler who offered a very different story to the county historian who came by collecting information for a second edition of the chronicle:  “In another account it is stated that William Ikeler [so the 1915 printed version reads] was the name of the founder of the Columbia county branch of the Ikelers.  William Ikeler also came from New Jersey and settled on a farm…approximately one hundred twenty-five years ago [i.e., circa 1790].  His wife’s name was Barnhart, and their issue were four children: Andrew, William, Elizabeth and Barnabus.”  Except for getting Elizabeth Bengert’s maiden name wrong, his version squares with the facts as we now know them.  I.B. Ikeler was in the best position to set things straight, after all, since it was he who held that “ancient” deed of sale, the proof that William Ikeler had paid 450 hundred pieces of gold or silver for an additional 350 acres of land in 1804.

[roborights]

RULES:  List five tropes applicable to your character, then tag others to do the same. (Tropes Wiki)  REPOST! DO NOT REBLOG.

Tagged by: shhhhhhh Tagging: anyone who wants to do it!

RIDICULOUSLY HUMAN ROBOT - Robots in television — particularly comedic television — are usually human-like in ways that very few sane programmers would deem useful. It can be something as simple as being philosophical (wanting to understand human emotion, wondering if they have a soul, etc.), but can extend to such things as robot social cliques, robot food, robot entertainment, robot religion, and even robot sex. It doesn't matter if it makes no sense in the context of a mechanical servant, or even if it's truly undesirable, the designers have put it in there for some twisted reason. This will often take the form of having a robot that looks exactly like a human. The degree to which this is actually "ridiculous" varies depending on the setting. In some cases they get a free pass — it may be that an intelligence, artificial or not, needs to be vaguely human-like in its basic outlines, with emotions, interests, motivations, et cetera simply to be functional for certain tasks, such as those requiring a great deal of long-term autonomy. On the other hand, perhaps humans prefer Sexbots not to behave like automated teller machines. It may be, if human intelligence itself is merely an evolved set of functions held together in an evolved psychological architecture, that any society with sufficiently ubiquitous and flexible automation will necessarily have the means to produce something human-like, or it may simply be that emotions, desires, and curiosity are unavoidable side-effects of full sentience. Whatever serves the needs of the well-reasoned plot or setting. In these cases, Ridiculously Human Robots make sense. Also, a few illogical design choices are a small price to pay for keeping robotic characters out of the Uncanny Valley. However, it's rare that a series explicitly spells this out, and often, these human-like AIs are put right up next to similar, yet emotionless equivalents that function perfectly.

PEOPLE PUPPETS - Not Mind Control - body control! Some guys just feel the need to be in control... of everything. Including you. No, not with possession, not through manipulation; we mean literally controlling your body, forcing you to move as he wishes, and turning you into his personal People Puppets. Such a character, usually a villain, can control his victims' limbs as if they were marionettes on a set of strings. Sometimes he'll actually have a puppet-theme, and many a Demonic Dummy has powers like this to play on the irony of a person being puppet-ed by the puppets; but other times a character just happens to have this ability along with related Psychic Powers. In either case, those controlled will often move in Marionette Motion. Either way, he can manipulate others' bodies while they're still in 'em, much to his victims' dismay... as said victims are usually conscious, confused, and complaining (sometimes loudly, to inform allies — and the audience — that "I ...can't... control my... body!") Or maybe they Can Only Move the Eyes. Most times, they haven't been Brainwashed or anything, as they're protesting mightily — it's just that there's not much they can do about it. For some reason, many character's mouths seem to be immune to this, as they will often protest whatever it is that they're being made to do. This may be related to Voices Are Mental.

NEW POWERS AS THE PLOT DEMANDS - Some superhero comics authors seem to get bored of the same old powers. They add new ones to the same characters whenever they feel that a new power would open up a new story, or a new danger needs a new response, or what the hell, whenever they feel like it. Sometimes a retcon, a power upgrade or some bit of Phlebotinum is employed to explain the new power, but often the character just does something they've never done before and when their friends say, "I didn't know you could do that!", they come back with either "I've never needed to, till now," or worse, "Neither did I!" Generally speaking, this trope is far more forgivable earlier in the story — with a character who has only recently been empowered and is fully justified in not knowing what he can do. Likewise, "neither did I until now" in an experienced character can be reasonable, if it's happening in some circumstance or special condition that the character has never encountered before.However, this is sometimes employed as a form of Deus ex Machina — having written themselves into a corner with a villain or situation that's too overwhelming for our heroes to handle with the tools they've been given, the writer decides to have the hero instantaneously learn the one ability he needs to save the day or bring a character Back from the Dead. Frequently, without any form of Foreshadowing to suggest that he or she can do that. It gets worse if they conveniently forget this ability when it would come in handy in a later situation. This is often the case with a Mary Sue/Marty Stu.

HOPE BRINGER - We have two sides of a conflict - The Empire is opposed by La Résistance or just common folks they oppress, The Legions of Hell fight with Church Militants, the Galactic Conqueror is in a war with The Federation, the Multiversal Conqueror fights against the Guardian of the Multiverse, the Scary Dogmatic Aliens are opposed by The Men in Black and Space Marines. And one side has a giant advantage; they win on every front and it's only a matter of time before they utterly annihilate their enemies. This is the Darkest Hour for the weaker side, but fear not, because Hope Springs Eternal. Then in come these nobodies. Hope Bringers are living proof that one person can make a difference and even the odds. By their actions, they restore hope in the hearts of their allies and lead them into the fight and victory. They can be the Big Good, the Magnificent Bastards, The Chessmasters, The Ace, the Rebel Leader or the People Of Mass Destruction - whatever makes them so special, it works. They can make the two sides not only fight on equal ground again, but even reverse the situation and make the side they help repay the other one for everything they did. The Hope Bringers’ motives may vary. They can help the good guys because they believe in justice, love their fatherland, want revenge, tend to their flock, spread the Good News or just Because Destiny Says So. Often the Hope Bringer is the Chosen One. Note that this isn't always a good thing, since Hope Is Scary and sometimes leads to a Hope Spot. And occasionally the hope bringer is a Dark Messiah who’s willing to do anything to bring hope- regulations, brainwashing, manufactured reality, whatever.

HEROIC SACRIFICE - A character saves another/others from harm and is killed, crippled, or maimed as a result. A bad character who was once good can redeem themselves in the last act by Taking the Bullet that was meant for The Hero, thus expunging all their previous evil, avoiding forcing The Hero to arrest or confront him, and avoiding any real life penalties like disgrace and jail. This is like Redemption Equals Death. In this case, the death and redemption come in a single act. There are essentially three kinds of Heroic Sacrifice:

The one at the beginning of the story, which sets the tone for the rest of the tale.

The one in the middle of the story, wherein the Heroic Sacrifice leads to new heights of badassery, or new depths of depression, in the characters who are affected by it (depending on the story.) Sometimes both.

The one at the end of the story which serves as a Grand Finale, an example of "This character is Too Cool to Live", or the kernel of a Downer Ending or Bittersweet Ending. The "Too Cool to Live" Heroic Sacrifice is the most common type in American movies. Often, The Hero Dies in a heroic sacrifice at the end.

A Heroic Sacrifice usually requires that a character be Not Afraid to Die, even declaring It Has Been an Honor. If the Heroic Sacrifice was pre-planned, it's a Self-Sacrifice Scheme. Often preceded with a Sneaky Departure from the team, or a More Hero Than Thou dispute. A Friend in Need often requires it, and doing it proves your love for them. Contrast Villain's Dying Grace, when a dying villain decides to save a life. The Doomed Moral Victor fights a battle where the outcome is clear from the beginning. If the character has time to say some last words before dying, they often do so in an Obi-Wan Moment. Often a Dying Moment of Awesome. There's also the case where Someone Has to Die, which takes this Up to Eleven.