#Mary crazy as HELL for auctioning off this one

[darlingfreddie]

I want to put this picture in a heart shaped locket

[arty-shadow-morningstar]

Graveyard Siblings (4)

I am sorry for not posting in a while. School is a total bitch. Here is part 4 of a fic that is not a fic.

[Masterlist]

(Part 1)(Part 2)(Part 3)

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Tall Marinette.(I admit I might be projecting a little here.)

One day, she took out something from someplace high and the whole family realized that ‘holy shit when did you get so tall?’

Bonus if Jason comes back from a long mission and had a wtf moment because she was wearing 6-inch-heels and met his eyes with them on.

“Pixie?!”

------

You know how Bruce has the identity of Matches Malone to infiltrate the Gotham Underground.

While Jason does the drug deals more street crime stuff, Maria uses an excuse of being the representative for Red Hood excuse to mingle with the rich people who does crime on the side (Penguin), she uses it to go to black market auctions and buy some of the lost miraculouses which got into the hands of black market dealers.

Jason knows about it and acts as her ‘bodyguard’ anytime he can or sends one of his henchmen to be one with a death threat if she gets a single scratch on her.

Bruce is unaware of this. Or is he?

------

Mari helps with running WE since she is a little less busy with the vigilante side of things.

It started with Tim panicking about deadlines and Mari offering to help, to Bruce and Tim bullying the board to have her as co-CEO.

She has to be that and head of Afterlife. So she is very busy. Doesn’t know about what comes next….

------

Somehow the class comes to Gotham for a trip. It has been 3 years since her death.

Mari has changed her appearance since the day she left Paris. She has highlights in her hair after a ‘sibling bonding day’ with Jason. Her hair is kept short for convenience and not in pigtails. Along with her tall height and more confident aura, she is almost unrecognizable.

She rides a motorcycle too.

The class waits in the lobby for the tour and in walks this badass woman with aviator sunglasses, leather jacket and designer clothes which was all MT brand, making a lot of people swoon.

She takes off her glasses and walks past the class. Checking stuff on her phone and sipping coffee in her other hand.

She seems familiar but they couldn’t figure out why. (All except Chloe, Alix and Felix who are snickering in the background.)

Lila sees her and comments on how she must be a criminal with the way she dresses. (Lila internally freaks out because were her eyes messing with her? Because she looked a little like Marinette. Also jealous of the new arrival for stealing all the attention.) Alya takes the bait and calls security to ‘arrest’ her.

They just laugh. The class doesn’t understand, speaking in confused French.

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

“I am Maria Todd-Wayne, also known as designer MT. CEO of Afterlife and co-CEO of the very company you are in. I am allowed in here. Don’t judge a book by its cover.” she said in perfect French.

“But Lila told us you can’t speak French.”

“Who?”

“Lila Rossi, your friend. She told us that you and MT were dating.”

“Me dating myself. Okay I love myself because self-love is a thing but that is a whole other level. MT are my initials. Anyone who has a brain could have figured that out or at the very least do a Google search. I am not sure where your friend got that notion.”

“Hey, Bean, come on. We have a long day ahead of us.” Tim reminded her.

“Goodbye but cease the rumours or you would be escorted off the premises.”

As they rode up the elevator, “Tim, why are they here?”

“They are the lucky winners of the Wayne Enterprise Young Prodigies Contest. Why, Maria?”

“Lucky, huh.” She muttered under her breath. She might as well tell him. They are the Bats and they will find out anyway. “They are from my old class, the one you know…”

“Oh. Want me to send them back? I can do that if they are making you uncomfortable.”

“Nah. Too much to deal with. And it is unfair to send them back over a petty grudge. Besides, I could have some fun.”

“Anything that Bruce and I should be worried about?”

“I swear no killing. Just because Jason came back from the dead, hell-bent on killing. Doesn’t mean I am too.”

“Cool, just don’t do any property damage or traumatize our employees.”

“I might need you to erase some footage later and tell Bruce about this.”

“Some brownies, my favourite coffee cake, the ‘special’ brew and you have yourself a deal.”

-----

So basically she just showed up around where the class was ‘by coincidence’.

Talk to a few people and take them out of earshot of the rest of the class.

End the conversation by saying a few things only they and her would know. Insides jokes and secrets. (I pick her old childhood friends like, Nino, Kim and maybe Sabrina)

Uses Trixx to turn into a walking dead version of her 15-year old self and disappears as they freak out about how she knew that secret/story.

Freaks them out further by appearing again in front of the whole class and pretending not to know their previous conversation.

Mari manages to get Lila alone.

I should also say that Lila thought that her curse was making her see MT as Marinette.

It terrifies Lila when she finds out that MT is actually Marinette, not dead but alive after all this time and apparently living the high life she wanted. This fact made the Italian swell up with jealousy.

“I hope you are not lying about me again, Lila Rossi. Like you always do.”

“What do you want with me? I swear I didn’t say anything else about you.”

“Aw, Lila. Don’t recognize me?”

Maria flickers and Ladybug is in her place and later, the Marinette that appeared in her bedroom and back to normal.

“You! How? Why are you here? Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Why not? I mean you did take away nearly all my friends, my parents and made my life a living hell. If you think about it, I am just repaying you the same favor. How are the others? Treating you well?”

“What did you do to me, you bitch?”

“I just put a curse on you. The ghosts of your past will haunt you until you stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop Lying, Liar. They all feed and grow in power from your lies. I wonder what would happen in a few years if you kept this up.”

“You think you can get away with this. This is war and I have already beaten you once.”

“Oh Rossi. This isn’t a war. It’s a death sentence.” With that she disappears.

Lila tries to tell her class that MT is actually Marinette. She is met with crazy looks. Some of them look like they want to believe her but don't because they don’t want to look crazy too.

Oh. Adrien wasn’t on the trip because his mother didn’t want him to go to the crime capital of America although the crime rate has gone down a little due to Hellbat curing some of the city’s bad energy..

Right after Lila told the class about MT, Scarecrow came to steal some Wayne tech and the class got caught in the crossfire. So later, it was brushed off as Lila seeing things due to the fear toxins.

-----

Joker made the mistake of kidnapping her. Once was enough to never try that again.

(It involved the use of nearly all of the Miraculouses, old and new. He was thoroughly humiliated at the end of it and his picture by the time Hellbat was done with him was on the Batfam’s Christmas Card. Like I said she doesn’t kill but making them beg for death was okay.)

It coincided with Jason’s Birthday and the video of the incident was ‘the best birthday present ever.’ The uncensored version was watched at the next undead siblings bonding day. Damian included.

After hearing a few rumours about what happened, most criminals were glad for Hellbat’s rare appearances. (which happens once a month and during really busy time of the year)

There was a time where Penguin was carrying out one of their plans and when Hellbat showed up, all of their thugs surrendered instantly. (No Batman did not pout at the fact that this French girl was more imitating than him.)

Scarecrow used his newest batch of fear toxin on her during the first year after she died.

He was astounded to see her still standing and she later proceeded to beat the crap out of him while being under the toxin’s influences.

He has tried to stay out of her way since then.

She saw Scarecrow as Hawkmoth and said a lot of things in French which scared everyone because she said it with so much hate, anger and in a very menacing tone that everyone is like ‘I am not touching this.’

It took Red Hood and Nightwing to restrain her from further beating Scarecrow up.

He was one of the people who sympathised with the Joker after the Incident.

The next was Riddler being so arrogant in his plans and managed to get Hellbat and Spoiler into a death trap.

“You know I have a few regrets in life. And my final one is that I got captured and am now going to get killed by a walking fashion disaster.”

“Hey! I made this myself. I will have, you know.”

“You have a brilliant mind but no sense of fashion at all. When I get out of here, I am going to burn that thing with you in it, for your crimes against fashion.”

“What is wrong with it?”

Cue a lot of roasting of Riddler’s costume and Spoiler adding more fuel to the fire.

They manage to escape while Riddler is crying on the floor, having an existential crisis.

The thing was no one knows why Riddler was silent the entire week after encountering Hellbat and crying when anyone mentions it.

They now think Hellbat is the scariest one in the Batfamily, second to Batman and tied with Black Bat/Orphan.

The few who find out what really happened in the warehouse that night. Blackmail material on the Riddler.

Three ( four if you count Penguin) of Gotham’s biggest villains of the Rogues Gallery scared of Bats’ newest addition. Hellbat was not someone they wanted to mess with.

---------

Magic crisis stuff. Like a world ending event thing. Dr. Fate says they need the Miraculous jewels but the last mention of them had been in Paris a few years ago and had vanished since then.

Costantine looked at Batman. “You know who you have to call.”

Batman calls Hellbat. Who hasn’t been introduced yet to the JL.

“Ah. Bats. Not that I question your authority or anything but how can your newest ‘ward’ help us?”

She takes off her helmet and reveals her face and more importantly, her earrings.

Tikki comes out of her hiding place.

“I am the current Guardian of the Miracle Box and wielder of the Ladybug miraculous during Hawkmoth’s reign in Paris a few years ago. Any other Questions?”

“Oh great Guardian. Tikki. It is an honour to meet you.”-Wonder Woman, who else.

“You too, Princess Diana. Pass on my regards to your mother.”-Tikki

A huge face-off and the big evil is defeated.

WW asks abt HM and gives a horrified face at the end of her story. Nearly everyone who eavesdropped on the conversation was.

"Forgive me, Guardian for not aiding you in your hour of need.”

“It’s okay. I understand that there are other crises, world-ending ones that JL have to take care of. I am better now. Mostly.”

“I doubt it with those revenge schemes I found lying around. But she is getting there with her therapist.”-Batman

“I hate you, Dad.”

“Did you just call him Dad?”

“No….”

“Do you see me as a father figure?”

“I see you as a nuisance with how nosy you are with my personal business. So you are more of a bother figure.”

“I see you as part of the family too, Daughter.” (Got that reference anyone?)

“Jason was the one who adopted me.”

“Legally you are adopted by me.”

Maria with Pikachu surprised face because nobody told her that. “My life is a lie.”

-------

(Part 5)

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #335

“on my forehead, a birthmark  /  remove it with the kiss of a knife  /  even if it causes me to die”

Do you recover well from surgery? Judging by the two surgeries I've had, oh yeah. I was hyper as hell when I came home from getting tubes put in my ears as a little kid, even though the doctor said I'd be very sleepy. Then, after my cyst removal, I was put on very strong painkillers but was still warned it was going to be a painful recovery, when it totally wasn't. I literally only took painkillers the first day. What addictions have you had? Caffeine, technology. Would you change your name if you became famous? Nah. If Cupid were real, would you hire him to make someone love you? No. I don't want somebody forced to love me. Ever been to an auction? No. Which word(s) do you generally use to describe someone attractive? (e.g. “fit”, “sexy”) It kinda varies with gender. Women I tend to call "beautiful" or "gorgeous," sometimes "hot" or "cute," while men I usually refer to as "handsome" or "hot"/"sexy." The last person you kissed - are they older or younger than you? She's a bit younger. When was the last time someone wanted you to do something, and you refused? Hm. I dunno. I have a hard time saying "no," so. When was the last time you had Pop Tarts? What flavour were they? Many months ago; I kinda stopped eating them because they're truly not filling and just a load of sugar that veils itself as an actual breakfast choice. But anyway, I liked the chocolate sundae ones. Have you ever felt a temperature below 0? No. Did you ever play Spyro? I LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!! SPYRO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Those games were my CHILDHOOD, and it's half the reason I'm dying for a PS4 to play the remastered trilogy. Speaking of which, it'd be awesome if they remade the The Legend of Spyro trilogy as well. I might just like those games more than the originals, but that's a bold statement I'm unsure about. Have you ever dated someone who was of a foreign origin? I dated a Hispanic guy for less than a day. Have you ever read any of your idols’ books/autobiographies? Ozzy Osbourne's, yes. I'm just fucking waiting for Mark to write one, but he's always said he has so little interest in writing about his life. DO IT, YOU FUCK. Do you own any succulents? No. I think they're pretty, though. Do you have a drone? No. What’s your favorite Netflix series? *shrug* What is something a lot of people like but you don’t? Summertime. The heat, the humidity (at least here), the sunburn from just standing outside for ten minutes... I hate all of it. The ONLY two things I enjoy about summer is swimming and then flowers, though spring is the more floral season here anyway. Do you have revenge fantasies that you never actually play out? They've... happened. Did your first real significant other change you at all? Pretty sure forever. Are you waiting to have sex until you’re married? Once upon a time, that was the plan. Now, nah. I'd just want to be in a healthy, stable, and long-term relationship. What do you think about divorce? It's sad, but necessary for some people in order to be happy, which everyone has the right to be. I used to be very firmly against divorce except in extreme cases like abuse, etc., and I'm still definitely no fan of it and think couples should do their best to work things out, but it's incredibly unfair to believe that someone should be stuck for the rest of their life with a person they just don't love anymore. Getting married can be a mistake; don't damn people forever to be chained to their bad decisions. Do you remember the first time your heart broke? What was the reason? It was probably when Dad just abandoned us. What's the worst prank someone has ever done to you? I don't think anyone's ever pulled a sick joke on me. Have you ever seen someone sleepwalk? Yes; my little sister deadass tried to walk outside late at night. Thank God I was on the computer in the living room and stopped her. What song are you listening to right now? I just turned "Mutter" by Rammstein on. When is the last time you cursed? I'm not re-reading, but I have probably cursed fifty times in this survey already. It's so deeply ingrained into my vocabulary. Are there any words on your shirt? No; it's just a plain gray tank top. Why do you forward forwards? I never do because they annoy the fuck out of me. How many people are you interested in at the moment? Just one in a healthy and logical way. I can't be truly interested in Jason because like come on I haven't spoken to him in four whole years. My PTSD just ensures I never forget the memory of who he was, who probably no longer even exists. I mean, look how much I'VE changed in four years. Do you know any mechanical stuff about cars? Nnnnope. Who was the last person (apart from family) that you spent time with? What did you get up to? Apart from family, I have no idea. If you have pets, when was the last time one of them got on your nerves? Venus never does, but Roman can get on my nerves sometimes when I don't let him lay on me when I'm on the laptop in bed. He's a large cat (not overweight, just a big male cat) and blocks the screen big time unless he lies down properly, which he doesn't always do. He still tends to win when he tries to come over, but sometimes I'll block him with my arm, and this spoiled brat will actually slap it a few times before walking away lmao. Would you rather live in a house with a swimming pool or an indoor cinema? Absolutely a pool. I want one badly. Do you own a credit card? If so, do you currently owe any money on it? Could you afford to pay it off tomorrow if necessary? No. How many hours of sleep do you typically get each night? Is that enough to function or would you rather have more? Especially lately, I don't get nearly enough. Like at the time I'm answering this question, it's 4 AM, and I've been up for almost a couple hours. I struggle with falling asleep, I will ALWAYS wake up at least once in the night, and I jerk awake from nightmares regularly still. It's a big reason why I pretty much require naps. Does your house have a loft/basement? Are they functional or do you just use them for storage? We only have an attic. Do you suffer from road rage? What kind of thing tends to set you off or wind you up while driving? No. I'm way too timid of a driver to get that outwardly pissy about stupid people. I'd just judge them in silence, haha. What kind of animal did you last see in the wild? Is that a common sight where you live? Because of just how common they are, I'm going to assume this excludes birds, in which case it was probably a squirrel? Yeah, the normal brown ones are common. Do you post a lot on social media? If so, what kind of thing do you tend to post on there? Since I was fucking stupid enough to post a suicide note on Facebook (I don't want to hear a goddamn thing about "attention seeking," I genuinely wanted to say goodbye), I almost never, ever, share things about my personal life. Even before, it was rare for me to actually share what's going on with me. All I really do now is share relatable, wholesome, or funny shit I find, as well as political things I'm in firm agreement with. What are some habits you have in common with your parents? I pace like my dad, and it drives people crazy because it apparently makes them anxious? I can't think of an obvious one I have with Mom, but I'm sure one exists. Where's your favourite place to swim - the ocean, a pool, river, lake etc? I feel safest and most clean in a pool, but c'mon, swimming in the ocean is so much fun. When you're saving your place in a book, do you use a bookmark or fold your pages down? Or something else? It depends on the book, it seems. Especially if someone else owns it, like in school or something. Is any part of your body hurting at the moment? Is there a specific incident that caused the pain? My legs always hurt. I've shared enough as to why; it wasn't an actual, singular "incident." What was the last thing to make you laugh out loud? OH MY FUCKING GOD. So in group therapy the other day, one of the girls had her bearded dragon out, and he was being aggressive. I think he tried to bite her aND SHE SAID WITHOUT REALIZING HER MIC WAS ON, "fucking dickhead," and everyone d i e d. She's a really cool chick, I'll miss her when I'm finished with PHP. Who was the last person you heard sing? Myself, surprisingly enough. I barely ever sing. Do you bite your lips a lot? Yes, especially when they're dry. .-. What part of your body would you never get pierced? Anyone who gets a piercing "down there" has a greater pain tolerance than this bitch right here. Have you ever dated someone with tattoos? Juan had quite a few. I don't remember if Tyler did... but I think maybe a The Legend of Zelda-related one? Have you ever failed gym in school? No. Are you scared of dogs? No; I love dogs. What is the saddest movie you’ve ever seen? Man, idk, I'm a little bitch when it comes to emotional movies. The Boy in the Striped Pajamas is high up there, as is of course Johnny Got His Gun. Old Yeller, too. Which one of your friends is most likely to be famous one day? Why? Sara's gonna write a fuckin book series ok you can't convince me otherwise. What is the worst present you have ever gotten? Damn dude, what an ungrateful question. I'm just appreciative someone even thought TO give me something. Do you shave your arms? My armpits, yes, but not my arms themselves. How many people have you dated? I only count three as even remotely serious: Jason, Sara, and Girt. Have you ever performed in a play? I remember back in Sunday school as a tiny kid I played Mother Mary in one we did in class. Do you chew gum? I have been more lately since my doc upped the dosage of one of my mood stabilizers (which I think is actually helping); I mention that because apparently a side effect is dry mouth, and it's the fucking Sahara in there. He advises those who deal with it to always carry around hard candy or something like that for the sake of forcing salivation, so gum works for me. How old were you when you first started dating? I was in the 7th grade when I had my first "boyfriend," but it was total puppydog love. I started dating my first "real" bf when I was just shy of 16. Are/were your parents strict? Dad, no. Mom, only to a degree that I feel was pretty reasonable. She only ever wanted to prepare us to be functional, independent adults. Didn't work so well on me though, ha... Do you wear glasses? Yes. God, I need new ones. I'm blind as hell. What do you miss most about your childhood? Being so outgoing and happy to just be weird lil me. Do you write “To-Do” lists? Not really, no, but I do have notes on my phone about a couple things, like a bulleted list of planned monetary investments by importance, as well as a list of drawing ideas. Do you have a favorite quote? What is it? I don't, really. There's loads I like, but no one favorite. Could you survive as a vegetarian? I pretty desperately want to, but I don't know if it's realistic. I am so, SO picky, and without meat, it's very questionable as to where I'd get an adequate source of protein. I still want to try again though once I'm at my goal weight. Has anyone ever asked you for your autograph? Lol no. Has someone of the opposite sex ever told you that you were sexy? Yeah, but that was a looong time ago when I was actually some semblance of pretty. Do you prefer to take your showers at night or in the morning? I used to be someone who firmly stood by nighttime showers, but now I'm all about them in the morning. It's a nice way to wake up and start the day with productivity. Could you handle living with a male roommate? I mean, I lived with my then-boyfriend once, but I'm going to assume you'd consider him more than a "roommate." We lived with our two other friends, though, also a couple, and I was totally fine with living with them. Has anyone taken their shirt off in front of you? Yes. Do you like Freddy Krueger? His concept is very scary, but all the movies I've seen bits of have always been super cheesy. Which do you prefer, Naruto or One Piece? I haven't seen either and really aren't interested. What do you think of Rob Zombie? I've never really watched his movies, but I'm a fan of his music. What’s you fetish? I don't have one. Have you ever been in the “friend zone?" Well, what I'd call a "fake" one with Jason after the breakup until I was blocked on Facebook. I know now he absolutely did not want to be friends; he was trying to appease me. Is the area you live in more liberal or conservative? Definitely conservative. Do you know anyone who had to have tubes put in their ears as a baby? Yeah, me. Were either of your parents baptized? I'm certain Mom was, but idk about Dad. I think so. The last concert that you were at, was there a mosh pit? No. What was the last computer game that you played? World of Warcraft. Does your bathroom have a theme to it? No. Are any rooms in your house themed? No. What was the last thing that you recorded? I think Mom and I singing "happy birthday" to my late dog Teddy; we knew it would be his last. Do you like the show Futurama? Not really. Have you ever been in a choir class? I was in the elementary school chorus, as well as the choir at my childhood church. Are you ashamed of any of your family members? No, only myself. Were you a chubby child? No. Did you ever have senior photos done? No, even though I wanted them. Who is the person you dislike the most? God, this is so petty... but it's the girl Jason dated after me. I know it's childish as hell to feel like she "took" him from me, and I just feel this horrible hatred towards her that is entirely uncalled for. I just can't get myself to move past it. Do you take part in paying the bills for your household? No, as I'm unemployed and also don't have disability, so I literally can't. How do you usually celebrate New Years? I really don't do much. Sometimes Mom will grab a pack of daiquiris, but that's pretty much the extent of it. Does the place you work have music playing? What sort? N/A What was the last job interview you went to? At a local grocery store to work in the deli. Got the job, lasted there for not even two hours. :^) Do you know anyone with autism, mood disorders or learning disabilities? Autism and mood disorders, yes. I myself may have high-functioning Asperger's (yes, I know that term doesn't technically exist anymore, it's just the umbrella term of "autism," but w/e). Have you ever had an immediate relative pass away of cancer? My grandmother died of pancreatic cancer, and it's pretty much guaranteed that, unless there's some sudden accident, my mom will die of cancer, too. Hers got too bad to entirely eliminate every trace of cancer cells, so it will inevitably re-emerge at some point, just obviously some place else given that she had a total hysterectomy. Would you rather work in an office, warehouse or on a retail shop floor? Office. Are you a fan of sweet, sour, salty, or savory snacks? I enjoy all of those, but sour I think tops the list.

[obsessivelollipoplalala]

*HEAVY SIGH*

I see people accusing Jim of stealing stuff from Garden Lodge all the damn time and it's really getting old, because there is zero evidence that this is true and is based on nothing but hearsay from a bunch of loudmouths on the internet. It's no coincidence that the people who spread this rumour are bitter Mary stans who hate Jim and will do anything to demonize him. If Jim, Joe or Phoebe had stolen anything from GL, they would have been arrested. I've seen Mary's fans claim that she let them get away with it because she "didn't want to cause a scandal" but we know that's bullshit, given that she's publicly slated the GL boys and the band to the press, gave several interviews right after Freddie died where she made all these dishonest claims about his final days, and that huge fiasco with Oscar the cat. If any of them had taken something from Garden Lodge that Mary wanted, she would have raised merry hell over it (or should I say, "mary" hell, lmao.)

So, either A) the jacket was specifically left for Jim as well as other things B) Jim asked if he could keep the jacket and Mary let him, or C) Jim "stole" the jacket and Mary didn't give a fuck. Take your pick.

I'm also tired of people criticising Jim for selling the jacket. Like you said, the most important memories of Freddie for Jim were the ones he had in his head. At the end of the day, it was just a jacket. A piece of clothing that would have undoubtedly ended up at an auction or in a stranger's hands after Jim died anyway. I've heard some accounts that Jim was sick at the time and needed money for his cancer treatment, but whether that's true or not is irrelevant to me. I don't see anyone criticising Mary for selling some of Freddie's furniture, despite not needing to, right after he died. I don't see anyone criticising Freddie's mother for selling his beloved piano, or his sister for selling his car. These were all items that meant a lot to Freddie but that's what they were, items. Freddie was dead and had no use for them any more.

People can't hold onto that stuff forever and they inevitably have to be sold, lest they just sit around and gather dust. When my grandmother died, all her clothes were given to charity or recycled, including her wedding dress which meant the world to her. But it was too old to be used and would just have sat abandoned in a closet for the rest of its existence; it was sad to see it go but there was just no point keeping it other than sentimentality. The charity shop were able to use some of the dress' materials to fix/fashion other clothing, so it was put to good use in the end.

On that note, from what I've read, the jacket ended up in very good hands. The people who attend these auctions are usually responsible collectors, not just random people off the street. They're not going to waste thousands of dollars on an item that they're not going to look after. The collector who bought the Wembley jacket often temporarily donates it to museums, along with other celebrity clothes, so all Freddie's fans get to see and appreciate it. Had Jim left the jacket to a friend or family member, there's no doubt in my mind that it would have ended up right in the same place. But people just love to shit all over Jim, so of course they're going to criticise him for it.

TL;DR: There is no evidence that Jim stole anything from GL, only crazy theories by homophobic fans who love riding Mary's dick. Also, when someone famous dies, their items are often sold for various reasons. It would be great if we could keep everything forever, but sadly that's not the reality. People need to get off their high horses and stop policing who can and can't do what.

Not sure if I could add much else lol. Idk if it was the case with the other anon—it seems like no—but it’s no coincidence that most people who accuse Jim of stealing also love Mary. It’s hilarious when people act like she didn’t want a scandal or media attention when that’s the opposite of her actions. She would’ve loved to paint herself as the victim of theft at GL.

Yeah Mary sold GL furniture but no one questions that, and Freddie’s family sold some of his belongings, like you said. Objects mean different things to different people. Contrast this with Brian, who is very sentimental and owns Freddie’s touring piano, and Roger who takes care of some of his stage outfits. It’s a good point that collectors at that level take really good care of their memorabilia and don’t let items just sit and rot. The jacket is probably in better hands now than if it had been left in the Hutton family after Jim passed. I think this is another case of something that’s really common with celebrities after they pass being treated as some big scandal, like when people freak out over Jim writing a book.

[dolls-self-ships]

More stuff about my friendship with the penguins that I had to write down before I forgot about them

* I wake up early to the sound of a military trumpet going off every morning at 4am, and I hear Skipper yelling at his men in order to motivate them, using “ladies” as an insult. I stroll in with a mug of coffee and tiredly say “Ah, love the sound of misogyny first thing in the morning”

* Skipper gradually stops using feminine nouns/synonyms as insults bc he knows it bothers me

* Since I’m low key spiritual/think spiritualism and witchcraft is really cool, Kowalski obviously chastises me for it

* I always brush it off bc he can laugh all he wants but karma will prove him wrong

* He doubts it

* One day though, my super spiritual aunt comes to visit. She can understand the penguins just fine, and had predicted that she could be expecting some unusual friends in my home before she came to visit. She’s incredibly loud, funny, and has a funky sense of style, and the more she seemingly begins to prove how witchcraft works, Kowalski is loosing his fucking mind because this goes against EVERYTHING the scientific theory stands for

* then again we could all be living in a simulation so what the hell he’ll give it a chance

* at the end of the episode, my aunt offers me a ouji board to use to contact my ancestors. But I politely decline bc I don’t believe in ghosts, and that’s when Kowalski just 😐

* “she draws the line.... at ghosts.”

* sometime down the line I mention that I have a sister, and they’re all like “???”

* I’m liek yeah she’s usually off competing in martial art tournaments or going to antique sword auctions in Japan that’s why I don’t see her that often

* and they’re all just like WELL WHY DIDNT YOU TELL US YOU HAD A COOL SISTER WTF

* To quote Skippers exact response “You mean to tell me you have a combat crazy sword fighting sister and instead you bring over your hippie aunt???”

* “Well gee sorry for keeping in touch with my more distant relatives”

* They all wanna meet her so bad!!!

* So I invite her over and immediately all the attention is on my much cooler, older sibling

* at first I’m like “hell yeah that’s my fuckin SISTER and she’s a BADASS”

* but after a while of getting ignored and constantly gushed to by them (mainly Skipper, Rico, and Kowalski) I’m like “ok I get it she’s cool”

* Private still got my back tho 😤

* and ofc, Rico is horny on main because Women With Swords

* a lil photo set of a moment from season 1 where I’m panicking/crying/upset and all the penguins are just like “um,,, oh god what do we do Private get in there” in comparison to a photo set from season 4 or 5 where we’re all comforting each other like its second nature bc CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT IS DELICIOUS

* for Halloween one year I decide to go as Mary Poppins and I literally have to beg the guys to dress up as Mary Poppins’s penguins literally all they have to do is put on lil bow ties please you guys-

* Private suggests that it’d be more fun if they all dressed up as chimney sweeps instead and the other three fucking jump him like “PRIVATE NO. TAKE IT BACK. HE DIDNT MEAN IT. CASSANDRA-“

* but it’s too late bc now the idea is in my head and I w a n t i t

* I still have the pictures in my phone >:)

[revisitingstoneybrook]

#8 Boy-Crazy Stacey: Chapter 9

And now, a very pointless babysitting chapter from Kristy. And it features David Michael, Karen and Andrew. As a kid, I really liked Karen; I read the Little Sister books first and I thought she was so cool and got to do so many fun things. Now, as an adult, I absolutely hate her. She’s an obnoxious, annoying little brat who gets away with murder no matter what she does.

From interacting with other adult BSC fans, it’s kind of funny how so many of us feel this way. We liked Karen as children but as adults, we absolutely cannot stand her. Seriously, Karen sucks.

It's a letter from Kristy to Stacey and Mary Anne! Which only means one thing...it's a completely pointless babysitting chapter that has nothing to do with the rest of the book! And, on top of that, it involves Karen. Nooooo, is Ann trying to torture us?

Kristy tells Stacey and Mary Anne it was a babysitter's nightmare when she was taking care of Karen, Andrew and David Michael that morning. Which is the only time a BSC member ever admits to having a disastrous time babysitting Karen. Because after copious amounts of BSC Kool-Aid, it would have said, "Wow! I had a really adventurous time with Karen, Andrew, and David Michael today! And all because of Karen's wild imagination! She's so funny and cute, I wish I had a wacky imagination like she did! Oh, and David Michael and Andrew suck because they aren't Karen." Kristy tells them they should never, ever, ever, EVER let little kids wash a car by themselves, and they should make it a BSC rule.

Well, yeah. Geez, Kristy. I thought you were the queen of babysitting...

Stacey says everyone's babysitting. In addition to Kristy and the two girls in Sea City, Dawn is babysitting her old clients in California and Claudia sat for a few families at the mountain resort in New Hampshire where her family's staying. Um, girls? You're on VACATION! Vacation = FREE TIME!!! Can't you get away from babysitting for just a little bit?

So Kristy's left in charge while Watson the Millionaire and Elizabeth go to an estate auction and Sam and Charlie go off to visit some friends in their old neighborhood. Hey, they need to keep themselves occupied while Stacey and Janine are gone! And yes, Charlie and Janine are in a secret relationship. It’s a running joke on LJ’s bsc_snark. They hook up during BSC meetings and laugh about what dorks their younger sisters are.

Anyway, David Michael announces he's entering Louie in Linny Papadakis' dog show. So wait...a kid is running their own event without a BSC member? Shocking. Then again, it's an early book, so it isn’t like the kids are using to participating in weekly pet shows/talent shows/plays/marching bands/interpretive dance performances. Karen decides to stay behind with Andrew, because he's afraid of any dog but Louie. Besides, they don't take too kindly when he tries getting a game of Wiggle Puppy going.

Watson the Millionaire gives them the job of washing the 'emergency car,' his old black Ford that he keeps in a shed. This is how you know Watson the Millionaire is loaded - he's got enough cars that he has one just for emergencies. In the garage, he's got a sports car and a "fancy new car" and the Thomases' middle-class station wagon. Who knows what the "fancy new car" is. Anyway, Watson the Millionaire won't get rid of his Ford and he keeps it around just in case, though Kristy's only seen him drive it once.

He drives it into the driveway for them, then he leaves with Elizabeth in the sports car and Sam and Charlie drive off in the station wagon. David Michael leaves with Louie, so Kristy, Karen and Andrew get their bathing suits on and gather the supplies for washing the car.

Right after they start, David Michael comes home crying, with Louie following him. Turns out at the dog show, a big dog chased after Louie, who ran away and cut his paw. Kristy leads them inside and tells Karen and Andrew to come with her. But Karen wants to stay outside and tells Kristy she and Andrew can wash the car themselves. Ok, that right away should have been a warning sign for Kristy. But instead, Kristy decides they can do it themselves and since the car's black, no one will notice if they don't get it completely clean. So Kristy lets Karen and Andrew stay outside and makes them promise to be good and not open the car windows or spray each other with the hose or empty the sponges out in the garden. Karen and Andrew promise and she goes inside with David Michael. You can all see where this is heading.

Kristy calls the vet to see if she makes house calls and of course she doesn't. Since this is 1987 and it’s the days before cellphones, she starts calling around Sam and Charlie's friends' houses to see if she can get a hold of Charlie to drive David Michael and Louie to the vet. While she's playing phone tag, she sees Karen and Andrew come inside and run back out a few times but she doesn't think anything of it. You'd think someone familiar with Karen and her evilness "overactive imagination" would be suspicious.

She finally gets a hold of Charlie and he says he'll be home right away. Kristy then goes outside to check on Karen and Andrew and finds them there with the Ford, which is now silvery and gleaming. Uh oh...

When Kristy asks how they got the car to look like that, Karen says the sponges were no good, so they used what Watson the Millionaire uses to make the pots shiny and she and Andrew hold out pieces of steel wool. Kristy freaks out and says, "Your dad wanted the Ford clean, not naked!" Way to go, Kristy. Though I have to add, we always hear over and over again about how Karen’s gifted and she skips a grade because she’s so intelligent. How did a smart kid like Karen not realize she was scraping paint off the car when she was “cleaning” it with steel wool?

Charlie comes home and brings David Michael and Louie to the vet. Elizabeth and Watson the Millionaire then come home happy, showing off two crystal champagne flutes they got at the estate auction. Watson the Millionaire asks how the car washing went and Kristy shows him what happened. Watson the Millionaire turns pale and Kristy apologizes profusely for not watching Karen and Andrew. Watson the Millionaire in turn scolds Kristy (and since this is Watson the Millionaire, it's pretty weak) for not keeping an eye on the kids.

And again, since this is Watson the Millionaire, Karen gets off with no punishment for stripping his car. He says it's actually a good thing, because he was thinking of painting the Ford purple. Karen in turn begs them to let she and Andrew paint it and thankfully, Watson the Millionaire and Elizabeth say no way in hell. And Kristy hits it home by saying, "When chickens have lips." I always thought that was funny.

Imagine if Karen and Andrew painted it? It would end up looking like Fozzie's car, after Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem were through with it!

[ramblingqueenfangirl]

Ok I’ve started seeing the “Jim Hutton was a gold digger”idoits coming out after a rest of the evil soul. Let me now educate these idiots why this makes absolutely zero sense. Below are multiple reasons why that is absolutely impossible to prove. Proving a lie is impossible but proving the truth is very very easy. See below.

-Jim didn’t know who Freddie really was until Live Aid. To him it was a sexy guy from a bar who sang.

-Jim saw Garden Lodge it wasn’t a secret how much money Freddie had. So a gold digger would move right on in.

-He kept an apartment of his own for months while they were dating and if Freddie got up to his tricks as he had with other lovers, Jim had it to go back to. A gold digger wouldn’t keep an apartment if he wasn’t being treated well, he would ignore the behavior and continue sucking money.

-Jim kept his job as a hairdresser when the man he’d been dating seriously for several months could easily afford to “keep” him. A gold digger would stop working and live off his lover much like a lot Freddie’s past lovers did.

-Freddie asked him to move in and Jim hesitated. A true gold digger would jump at the chance. He would also have started flaking off at work staying with his wealthy boyfriend in Germany instead of being at a job. And have zero guilt or need to think about it. A true gold digger would be in that house in record time.

-Jim turned Freddie down cold the first time he asked and didn’t call him after their “one night stand”. After he saw all the nice things Freddie had and the influence he had over people that first night and a gold digger would be calling like crazy and trying to get the rich person’s attention, doesn’t sound to me like he was chomping at the bit to get his hands on Freddie and his money.

-Freddie to the best of his knowledge and ours was well for almost two years when he was seeing Jim. Freddie was a very good judge of character and knew when people used him though as long as he got something out of it he wouldn’t mind for a while. Does anyone really think that Jim an Irish hairdresser from a tiny town could pull the wool over the eyes of one of the worlds biggest rockstars. He’d have to be an Oscar-worthy actor or an amazing con man. Which let’s face it. That’s just fucking stupid. If you are saying that, you are calling Freddie gullible which he never was; not ever.

-when he did move into Garden Lodge he worked religiously in the garden. It wasn’t called Garden Lodge because there were a few leaves to rake it is one of the biggest pieces of land and garden in London that’s residential. Peter Freestone says repeatedly that Jim worked very hard. As does everyone else in Freddie’s life.

-Peter Freestone knew Jim before he ever knew Freddie and was happy to see Freddie with an honest kind man. Doesn’t sound much like a gold digger to me.

-Every friend or ex of Jim Hutton repeatedly defended him to other people when they would gossip or talk bad about him, so that goes to show his character was of a kind person who didn’t breed much resentment in anyone who knew him.

-All of Freddie’s friends have said that Jim was a good guy. Including Terry Giddings Freddie’s driver, Peter Freestone and the NY daughters. Freddie is dead. Jim is dead. Not one of The people that knew Freddie even up until present day have recanted their good words about Jim. They have no reason to keep up a “lie”

-Jim wasn’t interested in the house he was interested in how he was being treated. From the reaction of all the GL residents they had no clue about the money Freddie would leave them until the Will was read after Freddie died. If they did expect something I know it wasn’t as much as they actually got. Especially Jim who was constantly witnessed begging Freddie to stop buying him expensive things. Yeah, that screams gold digger. Pfft!

-Joe Fanelli did not mess around he didn’t care about hurting people’s feelings especially when it came to Freddie. If Jim had been the leech all these people say, then you can bet your ass he would have said something to him especially when Freddie was too weak or ill to defend himself.

-Jim when he did leave GL took the things Freddie had wanted him to have and he wanted a cat! I mean come on a cat doesn’t come with a trust fund ffs. The stuff he did end up with he gave to be sold to raise funds for the MPT such as the Yellow Wembley jacket. Never in his lifetime did you ever see the original lyrics to BoRhap on the auction block. Their whereabouts are still unknown I think. So they weren’t auctioned off for millions.

-Jim submitted an application for a mortgage for the land in Ireland in his own name and didn’t even use Freddie as a reference in the application. Then when he had to ask for the money, Freddie gave him way more than he had asked for. The land was small plot near his mom. A gold digger would’ve bought a farm that was worth a fortune in England. Not a house next to his mom in nowhere Ireland.

-At the bar Jim frequented while he lived with Freddie he had barely mentioned he was dating Freddie and not many believed him until after he died. Freddie was never paraded around to impress anyone or anything that Freddie bought him flaunted.

-He invited his ex boyfriend, who actually DID know who Freddie was, to a party and the fight they had was because of the cold shoulder Freddie gave Jim’s friend. Not because he didn’t buy him anything or refuse to pay attention to him.

-After a vase went missing Jim didn’t tell Freddie that it didn’t matter because he could afford it. He let the fight continue for several weeks as Jim turned the house upside down looking for it. Then finally frustrated had to wait until FREDDIE let it go.

-Jim didn’t seek any media attention and never once complained when he was replaced with Mary at events. A gold digger would want to show off and flaunt their money and their source of money.

-Phoebe was a huge protector of Freddie’s and had said he was not a fan of Paul Prenter due to the way he betrayed Freddie and how he’d seen it coming. Why then would you think that almost a decade after Jim died would he hesitate to tell people that Jim was after Freddie’s money if this was even remotely true?

-Even the other members of Queen recognized how uninterested Jim was in fame and fortune. They also liked Jim and as history has proven if someone was horrible to Freddie they wouldn’t be friends with them or if forced simply polite. They hated Paul Prenter. They really didn’t know much about Winnie and the absolutely hated Bill Reid, yet they were friends with someone who was using Freddie for his money? That doesn’t seem right. Hmm

-Jim lived with his “husband” in that house for almost seven years. It was a home that they made together and all the contributions Jim made were made by him and not bought on Freddie’s dime.

-Jim did not parade around in the expensive cars Freddie owned and when he did get his license he got a VOLVO. Not a Ferrari or Aston Martin which Freddie easily could have afforded.

-Jim was there when Freddie gave him an easy out. I mean if you know that your boyfriend had given you a deadly disease the gold digger would turn and run and ask for money to leave. Including extorting the rich person for money with the threat of the biggest secret Freddie didn’t want anyone to know getting out. Jim stayed when an gold digger would have run! Trust me that is not greed.

-If you have ever cared for anyone who was dying from a very deadly disease you will know it’s basically one of the hardest things that anyone whether they love the ill person or not, could do and it’s very hard on the caregivers. Jim was a huge help to Peter and Joe sacrificing his own comfort many times to be with him.

-Jim could have run when things got hard and asked Freddie for money which Freddie would have given. Instead, Jim watched the man he loved and lived with slowly suffer and wither from being the flamboyant sexy and unbelievably vibrant man he had fallen for, into a shell of himself. AIDS in particular is one of the worst diseases to witness anyone die of including strangers. There’s no way any amount money can make you do that to the very end.

-When Freddie died he wasn’t even that rich (in rich people terms at least) nowhere near what he would be later, and Jim obviously knew nothing about property value in London or how much things cost other than reasonable or expensive. A man out for money driven by greed would know those things. And would have mentioned being left the house n a daily basis for the entire relationship. There is not one mention of Jim ever doing that.

-Jim had just lost the person he saw everyday for seven years and less than a week after the love of his life died before he knew about any money, that he wouldn’t even have access to for a while. Will’s are extremely tricky and nothing is immediate including any money received from the Will. It has to go through a system of court proceedings. He was also devastated at losing the one person he had loved more than anything and he had lived with for almost 7 years. Every inch of that house dripped with memories and those can be either comforting or completely hard to relive. There’s are stages of grief and they take time. One week is not nearly enough to even let the death sink in. Staying and remembering is often the only comfort in those times.

-Mary let them live in the guest house one to which all except Phoebe had never lived in before and were exactly what they are, “guest”quarters. Jim was not a “guest” in Freddie’s life. Also, Guards were posted in the house with explicit instructions to let no one in to any part of the house without either being scheduled or having been granted permission. Including the garden Jim had worked so hard to maintain. What the hell could he have stolen in the garden? Have you ever gardened it’s a LOT of work in heat and snow and takes a lot of physical toil. Jim didn’t care he did the job when instead he could have just lounged around the house being waited on hand and foot. A place you live with someone you love has a lot of importance in the grieving process and it takes they say about half the amount of time that you lived there with the person for you to start to move forward. Half of seven years is 3 and a half YEARS not 1 week or 3 months. You become a widow or widower and report back if I’m wrong.

-when Freddie just died, after the shock and grief of his fans had waned a bit, about a year later, a lot of Queen was only a memory and wasn’t as beloved as they are now. They kind of went dormant. Unless you were a lifelong, die hard fan people were at least a little bit less grieving than they had when Freddie died. So the timing of this gold digger���s book is really odd.

-Jim wrote the book in 1993. Made in Heaven hadn’t come out yet and the Queen renaissance hadn’t even started gaining momentum yet. In its first printing the book didn’t even sell that well. Jim shared all profits with the publisher and Tim Whapshott as well so it wasn’t exactly a cash cow at least not in England. He went on tv for about 10 minutes promoting it and on shows in countries that had a lot more going on than finding things out about a recently dead rockstar, such as civil war in Czechoslovakia for example, so I highly doubt it was selling out in bookstores.

-Until much later close to the end of Jim’s life Freddie’s Legend status hadn’t been cemented quite yet. The band was popular but nowhere close to what they are today. Jim left all profits of the book to the hospital where he was treated for cancer. That doesn’t sound much like the actions of a gold digger.

-When George Michael died he left his boyfriend at the time very little compared to what he actually was worth but way way more than Freddie left Jim. George’s boyfriend published a tell all novel with explicit details of their love life and not one thing was held back and he did it super soon after George’s death even saying George would pay for not leaving him money. Which happened! and for a while the reputation of George Michael was poison for anyone to touch. Things have changed now but that book was as written out of spite. Jim’s was written to cope with grief.

-Jim talked about a few details of his love life with Freddie, but has everyone forgotten that Freddie himself was way more descriptive of sexual things than anything Jim even talked about. Ffs he told the press he had an insatiable sexual appetite and certainly didn’t hide the fact he had “a lot of sex” from the public.

-Yes, it’s horrible to read about the horrible affect that disease had on Freddie’s body and Jim recounted what was truly important not anything super embarrassing. So he wet the bed and he changed his shorts, big deal. That says nothing bad about Freddie! It just proves how awful and horrible the way AIDS kills and in the most painful way. That way anyone who had any doubt that it was horrible didn’t after Jim’s book. Awareness was still a hard topic to get into people’s heads in 1993. It had just started becoming a widely known disease since Magic Johnson announced his positive status in 1992.

-Jim was still upset with the situation and when that book was published, yes admittedly, he sounds a bit bitter in the end because what happened after he lost the love of his life was still a new wound.

-If Jim wanted to make “real” money he could have gone to another more well-known source to write the book and he could have gone into very explicit detail as to how Freddie Mercury was as a lover. But he treated it as respectfully as he could. Leaving it out would have left out a huge part of their relationship. That book wasn’t a enormous money maker until recently. Some of Freddie’s friends have described things about Freddie’s life in much more detail than Jim did. Also, Jim never had anything bad to say about him in any public appearances, he did for documentaries, or any time he was asked for a quote about Freddie. It would be very easy for a gold digger to divulge details that would disparage the legend of Freddie but Jim loved him and he didn’t become a multimillionaire at any point in his life so how exactly is he a gold digger?

-yes he wrote in his book about the house and how he felt it was partly his etc... but you didn’t see him hiring lawyers to take Mary to court or even consulting with one, about that. He took the knocks and tried to move on. A gold digger would fight tooth and nail to get any money they could. There are countless examples of these things

-My last point is kind of a repeat of the beginning of this long ass essay. Jim Hutton died almost a decade ago, Freddie has been gone for almost 30 years. Any gag orders or promises to keep secrets has long since expired. If Jim was truly a gold digging leech someone who knew the both of them first hand would have SAID SOMETHING! The only people who say these things are fans. Anyone who was a friend of Freddie’s has never said anything like that against Jim and all loyalties would have been lost by now. People would have cashed in on the Jim Hutton the digger story, by now. But no one has. There’s only one explanation for the reason it hasn’t happened.

IT WASN’T TRUE!

If the above arguments don’t sway you from your thoughts I have tons more but my fingers are about to fall off typing this. Not to mention if you aren’t a little bit more convinced that theirs was a beautiful love story and not a gold digger taking advantage of a sick man then you are too stupid for me to waste my time. I have first hand witness accounts of all of the points I made above. It takes less evidence to sentence someone to the death penalty than I have to prove Jim Hutton was just a good guy who wasn’t after Freddie’s money! So to quote another person who addresses this exact issue well. “Fuck off!” and go learn how to read. You obviously haven’t yet or you would have found out these exact things for yourself.

[reddeadmort]

ArthurxF!Reader where they have twins together. Mama and twins go to store but end up getting kidnapped by O'Driscolls or Lemoyne Raiders. Normally, she could handle them but they've taken the kids and are using them as leverage for her participation. Not only does the gang go crazy but Arthur is just on a rampage. Please and thank you!

Kidnapping, violence, and rescuing? You know that’s my jam 😂.

This was getting really long, so I’ve actually ended up splitting this into two parts, don’t worry, the ending should be going up tomorrow! 

This could easily be a continuation from “There’s something about Mary” - I’ve re-organised my masterlist to put the stories that kind of relate together for your reading pleasure. 

Went with O’Driscolls for this one, to me the Lemoyne raiders are too dumb/disorganised. Also, the long-running feud helps the plot. Enjoy!

Arthur x f! Reader | “We’re off on an O'Driscoll hunt” | Part 1

Guidance: Bit of fluff with the kids, violence, kidnapping, torture/threats of (not against reader). Arthur is actually only mentioned in this one, but will feature heavily in Part 2.

Words: 3.3k

You didn’t like having to take the wagon into town. It was slow and cumbersome, not particularly well maintained. But, when you had the twins by yourself, you didn’t have much choice. You couldn’t safely carry both of them on your horse, and there was no point dragging Arthur along for such a mundane little trip; he had more lucrative matters to attend to.

4 or 5 years ago, you would never have considered that you’d be doing such domestic things as taking your kids for new clothes and a haircut. It seemed insane; one day, you’d be robbing a train, husband at your side, while the next day you’d be dealing with two screaming children, both upset that they had the other one’s shirt on, despite them being the exact same shirt. You did often feel a sense of guilt when you left them behind to go on a job; after all, you might not come back. You always tried to push the thought from your mind, reminding yourself that you could quite as easily die from something far less exciting in or near the camp – illness, accident, animal attack.

But still, you felt that little pang, and whenever you were returning from being away, the thing that usually filled your mind was getting back to them. You knew Arthur felt the same way; ever since the twins were born, he spent far fewer nights away from camp, only when he had to. Where you could, you tried to only have one of you away from camp at a time – the kids always slept better when one of you was there to curl up next to. Thankfully, with some persuasion, they would also sleep in Abigail and John’s tent on the boar skin rug Arthur had made. You were so grateful for Abigail and John; without them, you and Arthur would never be able to get some top quality alone time.

The sounds of arguing pulled you out of your daydream.

“What are you two doing? Stop it, right now!” The twins were squabbling on the seat next to you; you knew you should have sat one on either side.

“But it’s my stick! I wanna it!”

Where the hell did they even get that from? Sighing, you leaned over, and took the stick from them, with some resistance.

“Come on now, we’re nearly there. It won’t take long, and if you’re both good, we’ll go see the sheep like I promised, okay?” Your tone was soft but forceful, accompanied by a look that said don’t push it. Even after these years, your ‘mum’ voice still felt strange, alien; like it wasn’t you that said it. Your words were met with some muffled muttering, but the twins settled once again. They confused the hell out of you on a daily basis; they hated being apart, even for 5 minutes, but always wound each other up when they were together.  

You stopped the wagon next to the Valentine stables and unloaded the kids. First stop – haircuts. They were starting to look like John, and as much as you loved him, the man didn’t have a clue how to groom himself. Shorter hair was much better for your life, much easier to keep clean. You weren’t even going to attempt cutting their hair yourselves; you had many skills, but giving a good haircut was not one of them.

The trips to the barbers and the general store were mercifully short, and the children were actually on best behaviour, albeit a little bored when being shoved into various clothes to see what fitted. They must really want to see those sheep you thought. You loaded your bag onto the wagon, then turned to look down at the kids – they were waiting for those magic words.

Smiling, you sighed slightly, and rolled your eyes in an over-exaggerated manner. “Come on then, let’s go see the sheep!”

The kids squealed and, pausing to check there was no one coming, ran off across the street between the buildings towards the auction yard. You grinned and started after them; you were glad to see they had stopped to check for any horses or wagons, but had no idea where this sensible side had come from. It certainly wasn’t from you or Arthur!

When you got to the mouth of the alley, you couldn’t see them at the end, but you didn’t worry; they knew exactly where they were going, and you would be able to see them as soon as you reached the end. Still, you quickened your pace slightly.

As you stepped out, slightly blinded by the sun, you were about to call their names when you were grabbed from behind and a hand clamped over your mouth. You were about to fight back, elbow this brute in the stomach, when you saw your kids in front of you. You breathed in sharply as your adrenaline surged at the sight of your twins, hands clamped over their mouths, knives to their throats.

“Now, Mrs Morgan, dontcha go makin’ a noise now” a low voice whispered in your ear. “Or, well…. let’s say your little happy family will get smaller.” The words were almost snarled, each one dripping with hatred. Your kids were in shock, stood perfectly still, too frightened to even cry.

“We need to have a little chat.” The man growled and dragged you backwards into the backroom of one of the shops. Your heart sank when you saw even more men; 3, you could have taken, as long as you got them separated from the kids, but 6 was far too many. You recognised a couple of them as O’Driscolls; the others you didn’t know, but Colm’s men typically didn’t survive for any length of time.

You were shoved roughly down onto a chair, the hand over your mouth finally releasing, but only so that you could be tied down. You complied, letting them pull your arms behind you, and didn’t make a noise, even when the rope cut into your wrists as it was pulled tight. The men with your kids had followed you in, knives still at their throats; as soon as you were secure, the knives were removed and the kids roughly gagged before having their hands and feet tied. What kind of animals tie up young children! You were practically screaming in your head, but still, no noise came from your mouth. You weren’t going to give these bastards any excuse.

“Right girly.” The man who spoke was inches from your face, and you could feel his warm breath on you, the stench filling your nostrils. “Sorry, I mean….Mrs Morgan.” He spat these last words at you, spittle spraying your face. This was why it was dangerous to have a family as an outlaw. Too many things they could use to get to you, too easy to provoke a dangerous gut instinct response.

“We need ya help. See, we want some of that money that’s in the bank. Except we don’t want the law thinkin’ it was us, see? And when we found that you lot were set up nearby, well, that’s just a gift” the man sneered at you.

So that’s what they want, the bastards. To frame you, the gang; even if you didn’t get caught, as soon as the Pinkertons caught wind of your description they would be all over this area. You’d managed to lay low for so long, deliberately avoiding causing a fuss in Valentine, persuading Dutch to take a closer look at each score. Without any solid leads, the Pinkertons hadn’t had the cash to chase you past Blackwater, especially after a few years had passed; it wasn’t exactly the life you wanted, moving between different camps in New Hanover, but the latest camp at Horseshoe overlook was comfortable and pleasant.    

“So, sweetheart” – those words made you shudder involuntarily – “you’re going to help us rob the bank. And Joe here is going to hang on to yer kids a little way out of town while we do so. You do exactly as we say, and we won’t harm a hair on their heads. We’ll even let you all go runnin’ off back to Dutch, give your pathetic little group a head start. ‘Cause we’re nice like that.” That last part made all the man around the room laugh.

“Agreed, girly?”

You gave a slight nod of your head, still not daring to say anything. The man in front of you chuckled.

“Oh, I forgot, you weren’t given permission to speak. Yer a good little girl ain’t yeh? I can see why Arthur likes you.” He patted the top of your head mockingly, like a dog, as he spoke. “Come on girl, speak, there’s a good girl.” This bastard was going to die slowly.

“Fine. I’ll help. But I don’t want to get shot because of one of you dumb bastards.” You weren’t expecting the slap, and it was powerful, almost knocking you and the chair over. You spat on the floor, clearing your mouth, before turning your head back.

“Now there’s the fightin’ talk I was expectin’. Dutch’s gundog not tamed ya yet then? Maybe you need a real man” he leered at you. You kept your mouth shut; across the room, you could see your kids had finally started to cry, and they reminded you that you had to tread carefully.

“Right, let’s go. Joe, you take the brats to the meetin’ spot. The rest of you, cover up and get your guns ready.” Your kids were picked up roughly by the backs of their shirts and bundled out of the room. You tried to call out to them, to reassure them, but before you could a hand was over your mouth again.

“Naa deary, don’t you be goin’ and callin’ attention to us now.” You swallowed and took a deep breath when the hand was removed. You were cut free and dragged to your feet. Your hand went to your pistol at your side, a movement which was immediately greeted by 5 guns pointing at you and the click of hammers being drawn back. You slowly pulled your hand away, lifting it above your shoulder.

“I was just checking my gun” you said slowly, carefully. “Kinda hard to rob a bank without one.”

There was a pause, until the leader laughed and lowered his revolver, prompting the others to do the same.

“Fair, girly, fair. But know that for every injury we get, one of your precious little kiddies will have the same thing done to it.” Where did Colm even find these bastards? You didn’t exactly run with nice men, but none of them had ever been cruel or stupid enough to threaten a child.

You followed them out the back, desperately hoping to catch any sight of your kids, but they were long gone. As you crept up the side of the bank, you went to pull your bandana up over your face, only to have it ripped off.

“Nice try sweetheart, but we want them to recognise you.” You gritted your teeth; no going back now.

You were pushed to the front, one behind the leader, and stayed behind him as you all burst through the doors.

“Get your goddamn hands up, this is a goddamn robbery! Nobody move!” he shouted. You went into autopilot; this wasn’t exactly your first time robbing a bank. Thankfully there were few customers, and no one was stupid enough to go for any weapons, just got on the ground nice and quick. You recognised the general store owner’s daughter, and you knew she’d seen you too.

“Y/N! Mrs Morgan! Unlock the damn door” the leader shouted as he threw you some keys. He really wanted to make sure you and the gang got the blame for this. You unlocked the door as the terrified teller stumbled backwards in front of you. One of the O’Driscolls pushed past you and grabbed the poor man, striking him and throwing him towards the vault door.

“Open the goddamn vault, open it!” he screamed at him. When the teller didn’t move quick enough, he screamed at him again. “Son of a bitch, too goddamn slow!”. The panicked teller pushed the heavy vault door open and the O’Driscoll kicked him forwards into the vault. You followed - you wanted to prevent him from being killed if you could.

“Open the damn lock boxes!” The O’Driscoll yelled at him, pushing his gun against the teller’s forehead.

“I.. I…. I don’t know the codes! Only the manager does!” You jumped forwards as the O’Driscoll pulled back the hammer of his revolver.

“WAIT! I can crack them, it won’t take long. Don’t kill the poor bastard. It’ll only draw attention to us.”

“Fine, but hurry up!” The O’Driscoll knocked the teller out with a swift hit and instead pointed the gun at you. “Here’s a little motivation for ya” he sneered.

You made swift work of the safes, this was something you’d done many times, and a lot of these small town banks often used only 2 or 3 codes for all their lockboxes anyway. As you emptied each box, you threw the money to the O’Driscoll behind you. As soon as you cleared the last one, you hurried out, following the men out of the bank to some waiting horses. You jumped on behind the leader, clinging to the saddle, concentrating on not falling off as the group thundered out of Valentine. How the hell there was no-one following you, you didn’t know; these dumb bastards weren’t exactly subtle.

You soon slowed down at a small camp, not far away. Your heart leapt as you saw your kids, still tied, but safe; you jumped off the horse and ran to them. You’d only gone a few paces when a rope caught you by the leg, slamming your face painfully into the ground. Before you could turn over, hands were on you, tying your hands behind your back and your feet together, pulling off your gun belt. You struggled, cried out, and saw your kids attempting to do the same, tears once again streaming down their faces.

“Now, girly, you didn’t think we was actually goin’ to let you go did you? Two of our new lads are going to go and hand you in the Sheriff, say they saw you runnin’ away. They’ll probably even get paid” the leader laughed, turning you over.  

“You goddamn bastards” you said as you spat in his face. “What are you going to do with my kids!”

“Don’t you worry, we ain’t gonna kill ‘em. Oh no, these two will fetch a pretty penny. We’ll stick ‘em on a train out west, there’s always people needin’ workers that won’t..can’t…. run away. Or there’ll be some rich family lookin’ for replacements.” Your heart almost broke at the thought of never seeing your kids again. It would kill Arthur; he couldn’t lose the children, not again……

You were gagged, tied to a tree and could do nothing as you watched the O’Driscolls ride off with your crying children. Your only consolation was that you knew there were no more trains coming through for one or two days, as a flood had damaged one of the bridges. Maybe there was still a chance…..

A couple of hours passed as two of the men waited with you, as instructed. They laughed and joked, had a drink, thankfully completely ignoring you. It hadn’t taken you long to realise they had neglected to remove the knife strapped horizontally to the back of your trousers; you’d moved it there as soon as the twins were tall enough to grab at it when it was strapped to your thigh.

As quietly as you could, you edged it out of the sheath a small amount, and started to saw at the rope around your wrists. It was not a quick process, and you definitely cut your hands and wrists more often than the rope, but eventually the rope slackened enough for you to free one arm. Your shoulder screamed at you as you levered your arm, hand clutching the knife, from the ropes tying you to the tree. It only took one cut, and you gently lowered the rope to the ground before quickly freeing your feet.

The two men were far too engrossed in some dirty pictures they were showing each other to notice you creeping up behind them. In one fluid movement, you slipped the knife up between the first man’s ribs, directly into his heart, before immediately pulling it out, spinning it and slamming it into the next man’s shoulder. Screaming, he fell to the ground, hand reaching for his gun; as he fell, you pulled the knife out and slammed it into his hand, pinning him down. You were going to take your time with him; you needed information.

You kicked him in the face as his free hand tried to go to the knife; before he had a chance to try again, you pulled his own knife from his belt and drove it through his other hand, leaving him pinned to the ground, spread-eagled, screaming.

“Right. Now you’re going to tell me exactly where you’ve taken my kids, and how many men are there. Otherwise I’m going to start cutting bits off of you; you’d be amazed at how much flesh a man can lose before he dies.” 

The man stared up at you, terrified. You’d never felt rage like this, never felt such a strong desire to cause pain.

“If you’re quick about it, I’ll even let you go. You’ll need to hobble, mind.” 

Without waiting for a response,  you started to yank one of the whimpering man’s boots off, and walked over to his fallen friend to retrieve yet another blade.

“Stop! Stop, please…..” You turned to see he was actually crying; how some of these boys ended up in this life you’d never know. “I’ll tell you! Please…..”

“Hurry up then” you said as you strolled back over, squatting beside his feet, reaching for the one you’d pulled the boot off.

“It’s an old ranch not far from here!” He could barely get the words out, they were so rushed. “It’s our main camp, there’ll be about 30 men.”

“Now that’s what I needed to hear.” You rested the knife on his big toe as he blurted out the rest of the directions. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?” You pressed the blade into his skin, making a small cut.

“NO! Please….there’s…there’s a maxim gun in the barn, in the loft. There’s always someone on a tower near the front, but they can’t see behind the barn.”

“There’s a good lad.” You stood up, sheathing the knife; it was a bit nicer than your one, shame to leave it behind. You walked over to your gun belt, putting it back on, before pulling out your pistol and pointing it at the prone man’s head.

“You said you’d let me go!” he screamed, tears running down his face. It was a pathetic sight. But he’d helped take your kids. And he wasn’t going to get away with it.

“So did you.”

The shot rang out through the woods. You quickly calmed one of the horses, mounted up, and started galloping back towards your camp, making sure to avoid the main road through Valentine. There was still time, still a chance; but you were going to need all the help you could get.

[dettiot]

Fic: Winner, Winner! (Chuck)

Winner, Winner! By @dettiot Fandom: Chuck Couple: Chuck/Sarah Rating: PG Summary: Chuck and Sarah participate in a charity auction to learn more about where his mom might be. Set between Chuck vs. the Anniversary and Chuck vs. the Suitcase.  Notes: Written for the “Bidding War” prompt on my @fluffbingo card. Hope you enjoy this visit from fandoms past!

XXX

Standing in a line of tuxedo-ed bad guys, Chuck Bartowski felt distinctly out of place. Not just because he was really out of practice at the whole spy gig, but because . . . well, even with all the working out he had been doing, and the shorter haircut that had removed most of his curls, he stuck out like a sore thumb around here. 

The guy in front of him could flex his neck like it was his bicep. How was that even possible? The guy in front of that guy had loudly told everyone his suits were custom made by “Mr. Versace” because “off the rack, never woulda fit, ya know.” Then he twisted into a bodybuilding pose and everyone nodded in silent agreement that no, an off the rack tuxedo would have never fit that guy. 

Resisting the urge to tug at his tie, Chuck reminded himself Sarah was out in the audience, so at least he would receive one bid. But more than just preventing him from being embarrassed at this bachelor auction for charity, the bid would be the signal to their contact. And once they had gotten the intel from the anonymous yet vetted informant, they would be one step closer to finding his mom. 

It wasn’t ideal, being forced back into working for the CIA, lying to Ellie, and being at Beckman’s beck and call, but . . . he was working with Sarah and Casey again, and he was going to make it up to Ellie--all the lying, all the secrets--by bringing their mother home. Hopefully in time to meet her grandchild. 

Chuck was distracted from how crazy-amazing it was, for his sister to be pregnant, by a round of enthusiastic clapping from the overly-thin, overly-Botoxed woman running this show. “All right, all right, bachelors!” she cried out in Russian-accented English. “It is time! Please follow me.” 

Squaring his shoulders and reminding himself that he belonged amongst this lineup of bodybuilder bachelors, Chuck filed out onto a stage with the rest of the men, the music loud and pounding as they entered the hotel ballroom for tonight’s charity bachelor auction.

It took him a moment to place the song that was playing, and then he wanted to laugh. Because Chuck never thought he would hear a Russian version of “It’s Raining Men.” 

Standing on the stage with the rest of Russia’s Next Top Henchman, Chuck clasped his hands behind his back and tried to look like the millionaire software developer he was supposed to be. He gave what he hoped was a charming smile to the women crowding the stage: women who were whooping and cheering and waving their bidding paddles. They were all very pretty, he had to admit. But he only had eyes for one woman. 

Sarah was hanging back a bit, playing the woman of mystery role tonight. In her skin-tight black dress, long cigarette holder, and big dark glasses, she certainly looked the part, Chuck thought. And with the red wig she was wearing, he was getting serious Mary Jane Watson vibes from her. Perhaps at some point, they could do the upside-down Spider-man kiss? That would be so hot. 

He watched as she lowered her glasses and made very deliberate eye contact with him. 

“Time to put on the ol’ Bartowski-pretending-to-be-Carmichael charm,” he reminded himself silently, before giving her a smolder in return. 

Thanks to knowing a lot about Sarah Walker, Chuck caught how her lips twitched for a split-second. And he knew that meant she was doing all she could to shove down a giggle--not because he was laughable, but because they had so much fun being around each other. Instead of letting it out, Sarah stuck to her part. She slid her glasses back up and ambled towards the stage, fanning herself a little with her paddle, just as the auctioneer stepped up to the podium and began the auction. 

The first few bachelors prompted a flurry of bidding, the women eager to get their hands on their chosen partners for the evening. It did make Chuck wonder why these kind of charity auctions even existed. It all felt a little too pre-Civil War for his liking, although maybe it was more his sour grapes at knowing he wasn’t the kind of man anyone here was looking for. 

Chuck looked back at Sarah, seeing how she gave him a tiny little head nod, and he felt warmth go through his body at her silent support. Especially now that it was his turn.

“Gentleman number five: Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov, hereditary Count of Dragov and software millionaire. Come forward, sir, and allow all our lovely ladies to see you!” 

The auctioneer’s voice was overly jovial, like he knew there was no chance in hell Chuck would be bid upon, and Chuck did his best not to take it personally. Stepping towards the edge of the stage, he smiled and waved at the crowd, noticing how lackluster their applause was. 

“Count Ivanov enjoys sailing, fine dining, and the symphony in his free time. He is offering to take the lucky winner of his date on a Neva river cruise in his seventy-foot luxury yacht, with dinner personally cooked by top chef Dmitry Blinov!” 

That got a bit of a response, but honestly, Chuck wasn’t really noticing the other women right now. Not with how Sarah was slowly and sensually licking her lips as she looked at him. He could feel his ears going red and tried not to get distracted. 

“May I start the bidding at three hundred thousand rubles?” the auctioneer cried out, doing his best to whip the crowd into their previous frenzy. “Remember, ladies, it’s for charity!”

With a lazy yet elegant motion, Sarah lifted her paddle, numbered sixty-two. The auctioneer looked around the room, then sighed. “Anyone want to top this bid with three hundred and ten?” he asked, sounding as if he knew the answer to that question. 

Chuck knew Sarah’s paddle number was the signal to the informant, so he tried not to feel bad about only going for just under ten thousand US dollars, when the lowest-winning bid so far had been in the neighborhood of twenty thousand. But he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of self-doubt--something he had thought he had gotten past once Sarah had looked at him and said, “I want to quit the spy life and be with you.” 

The conversational buzz and auction pamphlet rustling grew louder as everyone prepared for this particular bachelor to be sold quickly, but then a soft, high-pitched voice called out, “Three hundred and fifty.” 

Chuck could see Sarah’s eyes widen, even behind her dark glasses. All heads in the room whipped around, towards a thin, dark-haired, big-eyed woman in a dress as pale as her skin. She held aloft her paddle and repeated, “Three hundred and fifty.” 

The words were barely out of her mouth before Sarah said, “Three hundred seventy-five.” She was attempting to sound bored, but Chuck could hear the ripple of anger underneath. 

The young woman stepped closer to the stage. “Four hundred,” she countered, giving Chuck a shy smile. 

He smiled back in dumbfounded amazement, because he just couldn’t believe this was happening. 

“Four hundred and twenty-five,” called out another woman, smirking slightly. 

There was an actual bidding war happening for him!

The third woman dropped out fairly quickly, leaving the bidding to Sarah and the dark-haired waif. As it kept going, and the auctioneer really got into it, Chuck leaned towards the man beside him. “Who is she?” he asked, pointing at the other woman.

The man snorted. “Some kind of smart guy, bro, if you don’t know Anna Krovopuskov.” At Chuck’s lack of reaction, the man shook his head. “Krovopuskovs are bodyguards. Name means ‘to shed blood’. They protect bigwigs, going back to Imperialist days. Made big bucks. And Anna is the last of her line.” 

“She’s a bodyguard?” Chuck asked in disbelief. “She looks more breakable than me.” 

“Appearances are deceiving, bro,” the man replied. “You’re up to seven hundred thousand, and the redhead looks mad enough to be dumber than you.” 

Turning his head, Chuck locked eyes with Sarah and couldn’t help agreeing with the man. Sarah’s jaw was clenched and her knuckles were white around the handle of her paddle. Her voice sounded clipped as she kept bidding against Anna. He tried to tell her with his eyes that she didn’t need to do this--it didn’t matter if she won the auction, because this was all about signaling their contact. 

He couldn’t deny that his self-doubt had vanished, though, thanks to the bidding war and how Sarah was fighting for him, but he could just imagine how Beckman would react if Sarah spent--he quickly calculated--thirty thousand dollars when it wasn’t necessary. 

“A million rubles!” Sarah snapped, prompting a hush to fall over the crowd, before their heads all turned to look towards Anna Krovopuskov.

“Two million,” she said, sounding serene but timid. 

Everyone knew the auction was over, even before Sarah’s shoulders slumped and she lowered her paddle. Because who would have thought the nerd would go for so much? 

As the auctioneer brought down his hammer to a round of applause, Chuck looked at Sarah and, taking a risk, mouthed “It’s okay.” Then, at the prompting of the auctioneer, Chuck stepped down from the stage and went over to Anna, taking her hand and doing his best to act as his cover dictacted. 

Chuck could see Sarah making her way over to the bar, where Casey was stationed in his usual bartender role, and hoped he wouldn’t tease her too much for losing control of the bidding. Together, Sarah and Casey could meet with the informant and get the intel--Chuck trusted them. They knew how important the search for his mother was. 

For now, though . . . he had a fake date to go on. 

XXX

Why did his first dates with spies go so badly? 

Although Anna wasn’t a spy, but the date, such as it was, did happen due to spy-related issues, and it was technically a first date, so . . . 

Gripping Anna’s hand, he tugged her along as they ran away from the smoking remains of the luxury yacht, half-sunk in the Neva River, wishing he had his tranq pistol. 

“I can’t believe you were our contact!” he said again, for perhaps the dozenth time. 

“Stop saying that,” Anna said through gritted teeth, shaking off Chuck’s hand and easily keeping up with him. 

Arms and legs pumping, they ran through the streets of St. Petersburg for a few minutes, before Chuck pulled up with a stitch in his side. “Oh--oh, okay, gotta up the cardio, I see,” he panted.

Anna stood beside him, her arms folded over her chest. “How are you related to Frost? It’s impossible.” 

Chuck straightened up quickly, feeling light-headed from both the side stitch and Anna’s words. “What? You--you know Frost?”

She sniffed. “Of course. Volkoff is my main supplier. I’ve known Frost for years. She . . . she’s wonderful.” Anna paused, then shrugged. “When I wiped out my family so I could take over the family business, Frost understood why I had to do it, why those small-minded misogynists forced my hand. She is like my mother--which means more than her just giving birth to you.” 

Chuck rubbed a hand against his side and tried to think. “How--how do you know Frost that--that she’s my . . . ?”

“Your mother?” Anna looked at him scornfully. “You don’t deserve her. I don’t know why she cares about you, but she sent me here to make contact with you, to pass along a message from her.”

“And . . . what’s the message?” Chuck asked slowly, staring at Anna’s hard face. 

With no warning, Anna’s fist flew at his face, popping him right in the nose. It sent Chuck reeling back, only for his legs to be kicked out from underneath him. 

Wheezing, Chuck coughed and looked up at Anna, who was leaning down towards him. “Frost says, stop looking for her. There’s no way you can win against Volkoff and you’re just gonna get hurt.” She gave him a scathing look. “I have to say, I agree with her.” 

“Low--low blow, Anna,” Chuck said, pushing himself up on his elbows. 

She shrugged again and straightened up, just as a Porsche pulled up to the curb. “My ride is here. You should listen to your mother.” 

And with that, Anna left him lying on the sidewalk, wondering if she was right. If he should listen to his mother. 

XXX

When he walked into the hotel room, limping a little, Sarah rushed at him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. Chuck held back his groan as she crushed his definitely-bruised ribs and hugged her back, relieved and happy to be with her again. 

“Chuck, Chuck, I’m so sorry, our contact never showed--we’ll just have to keep working to find your mom--” Sarah said in a rush, stroking the back of his neck. 

“Anna was our contact,” Chuck said, pulling back a bit from Sarah. At her frown, he explained, “The woman who won me in the auction?” 

Sarah’s jaw clenched. “So she changed the meet protocol without warning and made sure to win you in the auction? I’m gonna kill her.” 

“Hey, hey, hey, no need to kill her,” Chuck said, rubbing her arms. “She gave me the info, it’s okay.” 

Her face relaxed, then her head tilted to the side. “It doesn’t seem like it was good news . . .”

“It wasn’t,” Chuck admitted. He took a breath. “The message was to stop looking for my mom. That I couldn’t match up with Volkoff and I would just get hurt.” 

“Chuck,” Sarah said softly, but he stepped back and out of her arms. 

“What if my mom is right?” Chuck asked, gazing at Sarah forlornly. “What if I did get hurt? I’m Ellie’s only family left and if something happened to me, if I didn’t manage to get my mom away from Volkoff, I would never forgive myself for hurting Ellie like that, more than I already have--”

“Chuck,” Sarah said again, breaking into his ramble and halting his spiral. “It’s quite possible your mom had to send a message like that. She could have not been alone, she could have not trusted Anna, she might think it’s not you looking for her but one of her enemies.” 

Her words were sensible and logical, but Chuck wasn’t sure he was ready for logic right now. He looked down as he gave voice to the only thought he had. “What if she meant every word?” 

Sarah’s hands firmly cupped his face, bringing his eyes up to hers. “I don’t believe it. Because I bet your mom, when she heard that her son was looking for her, would only want him to find her.” 

It was crazy, but it was only the warmth of Sarah’s words, her soft yet calloused fingers holding his cheeks, and the intensity of her eyes made him realize how numb he had been feeling until she spoke. 

“Really?” he whispered. 

“Really,” Sarah said, leaning up and kissing him softly. 

Chuck kissed her back slowly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close. The kiss lasted forever and just a moment before Sarah broke it and smiled at him.

“We’ll take tonight to rest and regroup, and tomorrow, we’ll start again,” Sarah said. “I’ve got a few contacts I can work, and you can bet Casey is owed a few favors that he can call in.” 

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s my mom--” 

“Exactly,” Sarah said, interrupting him again. “It’s your mom, Chuck. And both Casey and I would be dead a dozen times over without you. It’s the least we can do. Okay?” 

In that tone of voice, Chuck knew there was no arguing with Sarah. And really, he didn’t want to argue with her. He felt a welling of gratitude and love and happiness at having her in his life, at having her by his side in everything--not just the spy life, but in life in general. 

“I love you so much, Sarah,” he said, hugging her tightly. 

“I love you, too,” she said, rubbing his back. “It’s too bad Anna the Ghost didn’t know that.” 

“Baby, are you still mad over losing the auction?” Chuck asked, smiling a little. 

“Mm-hmm,” she said, starting to unbutton his shirt. “Very mad. Because it delayed this.” 

Sarah leaned in and kissed his neck, making Chuck whimper. “Oh. That--that’s too bad. Now I”m mad, too. Furious.” 

Pausing long enough to give him a saucy grin, Sarah kept pressing kisses to his skin.

“Enraged, in fact,” Chuck said as Sarah began pulling him over to the bed.

“Stop talking, Chuck,” she said as she gently pushed him down onto the bed. 

It was the second time tonight a woman had given him an order. But this time, Chuck was more than happy to comply with the order. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he pulled her down to kiss her. 

End.

[witchqueenofthemoon]

BODY AND SOUL Part 15 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST

Author’s Note: You guessed it, this part took forever and I had to push the second half of Kenzie meeting Annette into the next part because it just turned out really long etc etc!!! There’s an easter egg implication that the weird weed Claire got in Colorado (from a witch but she didn’t know that) can help you remember bits of your past/parallel lives. I’m going to keep making allusions to Kenzie’s ultimate consciousness as a divine being; in the AHS universe she’s a Supreme, in this universe she’s got a low-key version of that energy, a very strong aura, let’s say, one that can encourage the people around her to be better and inspire devotion in them towards her; if Duncan is her Prince, Claire, Samuel and Harris are her Knights of the Round Table. I really wanted to include a scene at some point where Kenzie gets drunk and Duncan takes care of her because relationships in reality are a lot of forgiving each other for gross stuff and taking care of each other in various states of grossness, so I’m glad I could put it in here and I love how it turned out. Duncan getting her a tee shirt from MARIE LAVEAU’S HOUSE OF VOODOO is an obvious nod to Marie/Angela, but also a hint that Duncan and Kenzie might end up in NoLa one of these days. Here’s his Givenchy face cleanser. This is the dress Kenzie wears during the day in this part. Marissa Montague is, you guessed it, a Madison Montgomery/Emma AU, and she will show up again for sure. Erik, Annette’s stylist, is a Dennis O’Hare AU; he’s sort of based loosely on Liz Taylor from HOTEL, but he’s not trans in my universe, he’s a queer gay man. Kenzie will get to tell you all the story of what happened to her at work more clearly in the next part. This is the dress Annette wears for the press conference, and this is the one she wears at Plume. Here’s THE KISS by Klimt, a painting I’ve thought of again and again for Duckenzie. I listened to Etta James’ Stormy Weather a lot for the latter half of this part; the weather around Duncan and Mackenzie is stormy, but they are the eye of the storm, calm and constant. Plume is real and so is the private wine room and the Jefferson looks FANCY AF and not like a place I could afford to stay at (I used this article to write about it since I’ve never actually eaten there and probably never will...apparently a “cheap” dinner there runs you like $300). So far Annette has repeatedly proven to be the most difficult character to write in this AU; this article is a good example as to why Beau Willimon created a particularly complex character with her, and my hat off to him and Diane for creating a very special kind of villain who I also don’t really think is truly evil, specifically because she is capable of love; she loves her son unconditionally, and that is her most redemptive quality, and I am definitely using that to my advantage in this fic. There’ll be sex in the next part, don’t worry! I found out the other day that The Youth of Bacchus is going up for auction at Sotheby’s in May; wish I had the $35 million to buy it, because I’ve become terribly attached to it since I gave it to Duncan in this story. I guess I’ll have to settle for a print, but I really hope it goes to someone who isn’t terrible. If y’all weren’t aware, Billie really does have a beautiful singing voice. Annette softening to Duncan and Kenzie at the end is definitely due partially to Duncan and Kenzie’s combined magicks; being together will strengthen the echoes of their magickal abilities from that other universe. If you’re reading this fic, your comments, asks and reblogs mean everything to me.

“You know what I think?” Claire voice was low, her words drawn out by the weed and good champagne, and she was collapsed onto the vintage fainting couch in the corner, pulling strands of her blonde shag through lazy fingers. She was looking over at where Duncan and Mackenzie lay on his low leather couch, the remnants of takeout scattered over the coffee table, stray chopsticks and fortune cookies and half-empty cartons; Kenzie was folded against him, sleeping silently, her breathing very small and even, her face pressed into the crook of Duncan’s neck, her forehead against his chin, her pleated skirt riding up, her bare leg visible above the knee, thrown over his thigh; her stomach and the sweetness between her legs pressed, achingly, against his hip. Duncan was staring off into space (listening to her breathing, her tiny heartbeat against my side, her softness and her, her, her) in the quiet, the record long since having stopped, the calm night floating around them in the low light. His head was swimming with the weed and alcohol; it really has been a long day. My poor Kenzie.

“What’s that?” Duncan realized Claire had said something, looking over at her in a daze.

“I think you two are sssoulmates. I really do, buddy.” Claire was drunk and stoned; her voice slurred out the word soulmate like she had a lozenge in her mouth. “I think it’s destiny.”

“I didn’t believe in that sort of thing before I met her, honestly.” Duncan felt drunk enough to say what he was thinking; to hell with it, this woman loves Kenzie utterly, she won’t mind. He spoke quietly, not wanting to wake Kenzie, his hand coming up to trail down the wave of golden hair that fell over her shoulder. “But I do now. And I think you’re right.”

“Something about you two,” Claire pointed over at them, sitting up a little, the better to throw her head into the couch pillow. “It’s real intense. Like a bright light a moth flies into. Everyone else is gonna want a piece of it. Be careful there.”

“I will, Claire.”

“I’m just so happy to see her happy like this.” Claire’s face bunched together suddenly; Duncan felt sure she was going to cry, but she seemed to hold it together, sniffing a little and breathing in harshly, bringing a finger up to dab under her eyes. “Kenzie’s my best friend.”

“I promise I will take good care of her, Claire. I give you my word.”

Claire nodded at him; he could see her lip trembling for awhile, then she sat up, pulling her purse, discarded at her feet earlier, onto her lap, taking out a tissue and wiping her nose with it, tucking her hair behind her ears. She stepped over to where Duncan lay trapped under Kenzie’s sleeping form; she shook her head as he went to move up, “Shhhhh, no, don’t wake her,” she said, and leaned down, softly, to hug Duncan around the neck, letting go of him after a moment to stroke Kenzie’s hair. Kenzie murmured indistinctly into Duncan as Claire did this, her lips brushing into his skin, and he shivered. My angel.

“I’m gonna go home. I’ll see you both soon. Kenzie deserves this so much. She’s the most beautiful person, Duncan. The loveliest, the kindest, the bravest. You truly have everything now. Don’t take it for granted, not for a moment.”

“I won’t. I swear, I won’t.”

Claire stared at Kenzie for a moment, and Duncan could see the affection in her gaze; it stopped his heart, made his head swim. Claire would die for her. He knew it, utterly. He felt a fierce affection for Claire in that moment; felt as though they were sworn siblings or fellow crusaders in some just, divine cause. The comradery he felt defied an accurate description, but he knew that he and Claire were bosom companions now in some way; we protect her. We are her devoted ones. Us, and Madeline, and Harris, and Samuel. His head felt foggy, indistinct, faraway, part of some other time or day; “That really was some weed, Claire,” he murmured as she walked away from him, towards the front door.

“Right? The best shit. Sometimes I feel like I’m in another world when I smoke it, especially when I’m alone. Like I’m someone else for a little while. Crazy, but fucking neat. Goodnight, Duncan. Tell Kenzie I said good night, I love her, and I hope everything goes well tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Claire. Really. Thank you.”

Claire nodded a little, her eyes bright again. Then, she left, the big black door swinging shut with a barely audible snap behind her. Duncan could hear her boots retreating down the hall, then nothing.

He tried to move so Kenzie didn’t wake; tried to pick her up a little, straighten her so he could get a grip to carry her to bed, but she stirred more heavily this time, and her eyes fluttered open, still half-asleep. “Baby, what time issit…” “After 11, Kenzie. We should probably go to bed, we have another long day tomorrow.”

“Babyyy…” Kenzie lifted her face up to his, her flushed skin pressing into him, and her mouth came against his; she tasted like bittersweet champagne and weed and she smelled like roses and low sweat, and he ached at the softness of her, but he could sense how drunk and stoned she was; her hand slid down to his crotch, loosely, and her head seemed to loll on her shoulders, and he gently pulled back from her hand at his groin, placing his firm grip below her shoulder blades, holding her up.

“Baby, not tonight, okay? You’re drunk. Kenzie, come on. Kenzie, let’s go to the bathroom.”

Kenzie made a whining noise in the back of her throat, but her eyes fluttered with the residue of the sleep she’d just left and her body wanted her to return to. “I wanna fuck you, baby,” she murmured, and she pouted, and she tried to reach for his belt but her hand slipped down and he caught her before she fell, his large fingers coming up to the side of her jaw, her eyes fluttering at him again, breath shallow.

“I wanna fuck you too, baby, but not when you’re so drunk and sleepy, okay? I love you.” Duncan slid his arm down around her shoulder and the other under her knees; he lifted her up (oh my sweet Kenzie), carrying her slight weight easily, and she turned into his dark gray high-collared shirt, bending her arms into his torso, like she was a child turning into the heat of its mother, as he carried her through the door of the bedroom, towards the bathroom. Duncan set her carefully upright on the cool marble floor; the coldness of it seemed to make her more alert, her head lifting, and Kenzie’s cheeks looked very pale in this light, and her eyes opened with a snap, disoriented, as he held her under her arms.

“I think I might be sick,” she said in a tiny voice, and then Kenzie pushed his arms away with one sharp movement and ran to the toilet, jerking her little head over the bowl, knees buckling, and vomited a stream of vintage Moet and Chinese food into it. Duncan immediately rushed up behind her and gently pulled her long hair out of her eyes, grasping her in a makeshift ponytail with his fist; Kenzie moaned, then another stream of vomit came from her mouth and nose, filling the bathroom with the sharp smells of stomach acid and fizzy champagne and grease.

“Awww, baby,” Duncan murmured, rubbing her back with his other hand, carefully, steady. “Shhhh, baby…” Kenzie let out another little moan that made his heart clench; ugh, my sweet Kenzie, today was too long and too much, I shouldn’t have let her drink so much, but then he wondered if it would have been possible to stop her anyway; this was Kenzie, after all, wildly determined in whatever she did, including drinking most of the second bottle they’d opened herself. Kenzie reached up and flushed the toilet, and he noticed her little arm shaking as she did, her flesh covered in goosebumps. Duncan crouched down behind her, hand still steadily rubbing her back, hand holding her hair carefully to the side, his lips coming up between her shoulder blades, kissing the cotton fabric of her dress.

“Can you get me a tissue, baby,” Kenzie said, her face in the toilet still, and Duncan’s heart ached to hear its shakiness, the shivering edge of tears in her throat. He gently tucked her hair into the collar of her dress to keep it from falling into her eyes again and reached up to where there was always a box of tissues on a shelf built into the wall beside the mirror; his eyes fell over her Golden Pothos, now on top of the toilet tank, where it would live, and he thought of her holding it so tenderly as they went through the backyard earlier that day. Duncan leaned down tenderly and wiped at the corners of Kenzie’s mouth and around her nose with it as he thought of the plant gathered in her arms; she looked at him with an embarrassed expression, gold flecks floating around her corneas, her eyes over-bright. She looked so tiny, crouched over the toilet this way; he longed to gather her up in his arms again and cradle her against him, longed to soothe the pain and discomfort away from her.

“Duncan, I’m sorry,” and a tear fell down her cheek.

“Sorry for what, baby? It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. You think I’ve never had too much to drink?”

“This is gross, though.” Kenzie made a face, wrinkling her nose, and she leaned over the toilet again, spitting the residue of her vomit into the bowl.

Duncan laughed a little, bringing his hand down to the spot between Kenzie’s ear and jaw, using the tissue, folded over, to wipe her mouth again. I love to hold her here, he thought for the thousandth time, my hand fits here like this part of her was made for me to hold her. “Baby. I love you. That means I love the gross things, too. Are you okay? Are you gonna throw up again?”

Kenzie shook her head a little, a shiver running down her back through the tips of Duncan’s fingers. “I think I’m done. Can you get me a tee shirt to wear?” Her eyes were clearer now; less dazed with most of the alcohol out of her body, and there were lines of tiredness under her eyes. “Mmhmm,” Duncan murmured to her, his hand falling down the back of her hair. He went to the walk-in closet to the bottom drawers and pulled out another one of the old graphic tees there; this one said MARIE LAVEAU’S HOUSE OF VOODOO in melting tie-dye letters, with three skulls and a cross, sticks of incense floating on either side of them, a souvenir he’d gotten in New Orleans when he was traveling alone in his early 20’s, after he’d graduated. The road trip had been before his mother had insisted he become a more public face in the company; after his affair with Misha, before he met Evan. Kenzie and I should go somewhere together, he thought, unbuttoning his own clothing and kicking it off so he was wearing only his underwear, unbuckling his black Movado and setting it on the shelf, and soon. We can’t go on a road trip; that option is closed to us now. But we can get away from everything for a week. It would be so wonderful to sleep in with her all day. No dinners with our mothers to worry about, no paps milling around, no press conferences. We have that cabin around Oakland, next to Deep Creek. I should take her there. Maybe after the Gala. She’d love that. We’d be really alone...and I could worship her for days. Mackenzie. Kenzie. Baby. Angel.

As Duncan reentered the bathroom he saw Kenzie had pulled her dress and bra off, leaving them in a pile on the cold marble floor, and was carefully scrubbing her teeth at the sink in just her underwear (pink and made of some kind of silky fabric, and Duncan couldn’t help but look down at her round little ass for a moment with affection, think of his fingers there between her legs in the red dress), her face visibly damp from having washed it a moment before, a little color returning to her cheeks. She glanced up at him through the mirror, clearly still embarrassed. Good fucking job, Kenz, really making the place your own, puking as soon as you move in, her eyes seemed to think at him. Seemed to, or really did? Duncan pushed it away and came up behind her, his hands falling carefully on her bare shoulders, the shirt gripped in his fingers, pressed against her arm. Kenzie rinsed her toothbrush carefully, swishing water in her mouth, and spit into the sink. Then she turned to him, shivering again, and lifted her head up, expectant, in an achingly sweet gesture of trust that made his heart beat faster. Duncan bunched the shirt and pulled it over her little head, her hair sticking to her damp cheek, and Kenzie pulled her arms through the holes, once again too large for her, the long dip of her collarbone visible through the neck.

“Nice shirt, baby,” she whispered. Duncan grinned. “New Orleans is a great place, ever been there?” He reached for his own toothbrush.

“Nope.”

“We’ll go sometime. I think you’d really like it. And the food is amazing.”

Kenzie stared up at him, eyes dark green and chocolate-caramel and too bright, her cheeks still pink with embarrassment as Duncan brushed his own teeth, then reached for the bottle of Givenchy face cleanser he kept on one of the glass shelves to the side of the silver-framed mirror.

“Sorry I puked, baby.” Kenzie’s hand was at her cheek, as if to shield her face. He looked down at her, his heart full of so much terrible tenderness that it made him feel dizzy.

“Kenzie. Kenzie. I love you so much.”

“I’m scared to meet your mother tomorrow.” Kenzie bit her lip, tears threatening the corners of her eyes now. Duncan wanted to dip his face down to her and kiss them away. The thought of Annette being unkind to her filled him with hot, roiling anger. He had no idea himself of how the dinner at Plume would go tomorrow, and his thoughts flashed back to the texts his mother had sent him that day with the bluntness of a bad memory: I see what’s going on with your social media.You continue to deliberately disobey my wishes by flaunting your relationship publicly and it’s a heinous disappointment to me, Duncan. Your lack of respect for me in this matter is staggering. We’re going to have a long chat tomorrow about what is expected of you in your personal affairs going forward. The press conference is at 3 PM and you’re expected to be there. Do not bring her to it. Do not be late for dinner.

But Duncan knew one thing for absolute certain: I love this girl more than anyone I have ever loved, more than anything. And I’m going to make sure Mom understands that for real this time. I’m going to make sure she understands that Kenzie is a permanent part of my life now for as long as she’ll have me. He reached for the towel that hung on a hook beside the glass shelf, patting his face dry with it, then reached for the hand at her cheek, grasping it, pressing his large, long fingers through the empty spaces of her small slender ones.

“Kenzie. I swear. Everything is going to be fine. Let’s go to bed, okay, baby? Let me hold you.”

Kenzie nodded, sniffling (baby, don’t cry, your eyes are like stars drifting out in the universe, I love them so), and Duncan switched the bathroom light off, gently leading her to the bed, pulling her softly down to him and gathering her into his arms the way he’d longed to, her little face pressed between his ribs, her little hands under her chin.

Kenzie fell asleep almost immediately, her breath slowing to a small whisper in the darkness, but Duncan lay there awake for a long time, his hand falling down through her hair, around the curve of her ear, lost in her, thinking back on the past week, thinking back on everything that had happened, every moment that had led to now: seeing her on the balcony among the roses, his heart dumbstruck with immediate wonder and fierce, nearly painful longing (the resounding weight of the Fates settling down on me, I think; Madeline Stone’s daughter falling down from heaven into my arms, how could I be so blessed, how), kissing the stripes at her ankles, the fall of her hair that first night as they fucked, the quartz glittering at her throat, the look in her eyes in his shower the next morning, her revelation over breakfast, Samuel’s adamant words (let your heart be your guide), gazing at her over their dinner at Le Diplomate, the photos taken of them there that had ended up on the website later, his face pressed ardently into her cheek, the way she hovered over him in the bathtub, steam rising, roses all around her, bathed in golden shadows, Annette’s coldness and dismissal, the aching way Kenzie had folded into him, her face tear-stained, her cunt pressed into his mouth, filling him with her need, her body pressed against him, soft as flower petals, her dresses now hanging in his monotone closet, filling it with her essence and her color and her life, her plants on the sill in the kitchen, in their bathroom, beside the bed. He thought of the women in the line at the coffee shop, snapping pictures of them, Kenzie’s quivering but brave voice rising at them defiantly, her hand slipping a $5 bill into the barista’s tip jar, the dinner she’d cooked for him (the best food I’ve ever had because she made it for me, she made it) and the little wine-colored slip dress falling off her shoulder, the look in her eyes as he’d tied her to the bed (this bed, our bed) with his belt, needy and approving and excited and tinged with vulnerability, kindling his desire with a blunt force, the look in her eyes as she’d held the velvet ribbon sitting naked on his desk, the look in her eyes as she’d handed him the plug and told him to fuck her with it, the overwhelming sound of her voice keening into him and rushing him to orgasm as she rode him on the floor, the fall of her hair always drifting in his mind now, the shape and feel of her much smaller body pressed against him, into him, always in his mind, the lost look she’d had after all the paps were at her little apartment today, and the determined look she’d had when she came back out of the bathroom, and in that moment he knew she was going to be brave, he knew she was brave, and loved her so much in that moment he thought his heart would burst, thought of her in the red dress in his lap and his fingers at her clit, thought of her dancing tonight, her beautiful voice (she does have a beautiful voice, her voice singing out here in our home filling it with her gold and I love it so much, I love her voice so much) falling down 30 stories to drift into the night, the shadows on her skin and finally Duncan started to drift away into sleep, thinking of her voice, like a lullaby, his arms holding her close against him...so it’s hard to find someone with that kind of intensity, you touched my hand, I played it cool...and you reached out your hand for me...

------

In the morning it was raining again; June 1st, and summer storms to come with it. Kenzie still had a pale pallor and Duncan had made her a green smoothie with kale with his Vitamix, one she sipped with a measured disgust in the bed, clearly trying to will herself out of her hangover. “I’ll have to figure out how to make the one with chocolate and avocado that you love,” he said, remembering her rambling about Emissary on the sidewalk that day, and Kenzie smiled at him weakly, appreciatively. “Yes, please, baby. But this is okay.” Her face clearly said otherwise, and he leaned down to kiss her softly before pulling a black mock neck shirt over his head, loving the way her expressions always gave away her mood so immediately. I don’t think she could hide any feeling she has about anything from me no matter how hard she tried, he thought, his hand coming down through the tangle of her chestnut hair. And I love her for it. Her earnestness.

Kenzie had moved slow that morning; Duncan gently pushed some vitamins (a B vitamin complex and curcumin) carefully into her hand, which she’d used the last of the smoothie to wash down, and she’d shakily showered (Duncan having finished long before) and dressed (a tulip-sleeved maxi dress with tiny red flowers and a slit up the side, a dress he loved achingly, immediately; today she put on a tiny rose-gold moon necklace, the one he remembered from the summery photo of her he’d left arrow-pierced hearts on on her Instagram), brushing her hair out with a trembling hand in the bathroom mirror as he watched her from the bedroom, glancing up from his phone, trying to be subtle, worrying over her pale face. Duncan looked down at his phone again; Samuel had texted him that he and Harris were waiting in the BMW outside, and that there were a few paps milling around outside as well; that Duncan should tell them when they were heading downstairs so Harris could escort Kenzie to the car. Paps rarely bothered Duncan at the high-rise; the Shepherds simply had too much money, Bill and Annette inclined to leverage cash for privacy, but it seemed Kenzie’s appearance in his life had emboldened some of them beyond past arrangements. Going to have to make some calls about that, he thought, pulling a hand through the side of his hair. There can’t be paps around here, Kenzie needs to feel safe here.

“Are you sure you’re okay, baby?” He asked as she emerged from the bathroom, her expression serious, a little blush on her cheeks today to hide her hangover, reaching down for her black satchel which was leaning against the nightstand on her side of the bed. He came up to her, his hand falling down her hair to her shoulder, along the side of her waist. “Should you stay home from work today? Annette wants to see us at 6, and I have this press conference I have to go to a few hours before that, but maybe you should stay here and sleep.”

“Duncan, I can’t, my article’s going live on the website today and it’s already out with the print edition. Candice is expecting me to come in today.” He watched with tenderness as she pulled his big black Brooks Brothers cardigan on over her dress; all her clothes are here now but she still chose that cardigan, he thought, and wanted to kiss her, but held back. “And I know Ben is gonna bother me about your interview again--I need your email for him, by the way, or I’ll just give you his contact, I guess. I just need to go in for a few hours. I’ll be fine. But, speaking of my article…I meant to say something before…”

Duncan looked at her quietly. Oh no...what’s the article?

Kenzie pushed a shaky hand through her hair, fingers coming down to fiddle with her necklace. “I was at that party to spy.”

Duncan pressed a hand immediately to his chin. I should have realized that. Why would Kenzie be at that party if she works for the Post unless she was covert. If I hadn’t fallen immediately for her, I would have seen that right away. But I did. I did fall for her. I’ve fallen for her completely and now she lives with me and I love her. Fuck.

“I recorded bits of conversations and used them for my article. It’s about underhanded PAC donors for Republican Congressmen. Senator Howell specifically, but a few others.”

“Fuck,” Duncan closed his eyes. “Kenzie. Fuck.” He pressed two fingers into his eyelids, down the bridge of his nose, breathing out heavily. “My mother--my Uncle is trying to get President Underwood to pass a deregulation bill--this is going to interfere--”

Duncan stopped suddenly. This is going to interfere with our objectives, was what he had been about to say. But the layers of Annette Shepherd in that statement had sent a cold chill immediately down his spine. No. I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to scold Kenzie for this. This article was her job, and she’s a journalist, and this is her work, and it must have taken her a fuckload of guts to crash that party, and she didn’t know me yet--and things have changed. The objective for me has changed.

“Baby, when I got the assignment, I didn’t know you yet--” Kenzie had started, her eyes shining, her mouth turned down sadly, but Duncan shook his head harshly and brought his thumb to Kenzie’s lips to stop her words and leaned his head down with fervid immediacy and kissed her, open-mouthed, and he felt her trembling against him soothe and soften as he tasted her, words washing out of him like a tide drifting away from shore. “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” he breathed into her between their mouths, pulling away and then coming back with his hands in her hair, pulling her into him by the wool of his cardigan she wore, breathless, “we’re going to get through this and everything will be okay because you’re here with me now and I’m yours and that’s all that matters and the objective changed, fuck, it changed, to hell with all of them.”

Kenzie nodded into him; she didn’t speak, just nodded into him, her face turned up to him, her feet tip-toed to reach him, and she nodded and fell against him, her hands holding his face, her lips whispering a secret language into him that only the two of them could understand.

--------

Kenzie had quickly walked out of the high-rise’s entrance to the BMW, ahead of Duncan before he could stop her. Harris was closely at her side, holding a black umbrella over her head though the rain was light, scanning the perimeter of the sidewalk in front of the high-rise, his large hand pressed carefully into Kenzie’s back. Several of the paps rushed toward her, snapping their cameras, Harris getting in the way to spoil their shots; they noticed Duncan come out behind her and rushed at him next. “Duncan, Duncan, are you two living together?” The man closest to him asked, shoving a round microphone near his cheek, a cameraman with a steadicam behind him with its lens pointed at Duncan. “Are you engaged? Have you spoken with Madeline Stone? What does Annette think of all of this?”

“She thinks you should mind you own fucking business,” Duncan said, curtly, following Kenzie and Harris quickly as the two men chased behind him, still holding out the microphone and camera. “You know you’re not supposed to show up around here, Gary, and if I fucking see you again we’re yanking all of the BPF press credentials from the Gala next week. You can pass that on to Gretchen and whoever else is in league with you from the outlets.” Gary, who had patchy gray hair and beard and a pudgy face and was wearing a leather jacket on top of a polo shirt, stopped when Duncan said this, his face shocked. “Fuck off and don’t come around here again, I’m warning you, this building is off-limits, as if don’t you fucking know that already.” Duncan turned away from him and slid into the backseat of the BMW, slamming the door. Kenzie had a stony expression on her face, but grasped Duncan’s hand tightly when he reached for her, staring down at her phone as if to distract herself. Samuel pulled the BMW away from the curb, soft strains of Ella drifting to the backseat (such conflicting questions ride around in my brain / should I order cyanide or order champagne), and Duncan closed his eyes, trying to let her voice in to calm him down, gripping Kenzie’s hand perhaps too hard; she shook her wrist a little and he softened his hold on her. His blood was boiling, his mind red-hot suddenly, and he felt as though he wanted to tell Samuel to reverse the car and let him out so he could punch the BPF reporter in the jaw. Gary Spencer was known for crossing boundaries regularly; another BPF reporter named Sissy Conners was also known for her propensity to cross police lines and find back entrances, and Duncan wondered absently if it had been her who had found Kenzie trying to leave One Franklin Square through the loading dock entrance a few days ago. As if she had read his mind, Kenzie lifted her phone up to his eyes; Claire had sent her another link, this one with two videos: the first of Kenzie looking startled in the camera and Samuel barking at the cameraman to step back; Sissy’s telltale brightly colored two-piece in the corner of the shot. The second was from yesterday at Kenzie’s apartment; mostly unintelligible shouting, with Kenzie’s head pointed down and Duncan looking angry and annoyed into a camera off to the side of the video.

“Fuck, I fucking hate them,” he breathed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “They’re fucking relentless. I’m sorry, Kenzie.”

“It’s not your fault. I know I need to get used to this.”

“I just wish it wasn’t like this. I hate seeing them rush at you like that. It pisses me off and I can’t fucking think straight.”

Kenzie was staring down at her phone again, though, her thumb sliding back and forth against his palm, and smiling. “What are you smiling about,” he said, tell me, fingers hooking around the edge of the cardigan, pulling her mouth against him again. The anger was dissolving out of him now, her proximity able to calm him with a supernatural ease; her gold, seeping into me, like soothing medicine, like wildflower honey.

“Just Instagram. The comments on these photos you took of me. People are flipping out, but it’s kind of...funny. Some are nice, too.” Duncan looked down at her phone; she had brought up the picture he took of her yesterday on the way home, her eyes closed, her expression sleepy, with the sunlight falling over her cheek. Sleepy angel. It had over 275,000 likes now. Duncan pulled her phone gently out of her hand; Kenzie let him, the smile still playing around the corners of her mouth (light pink lipstain, like a little candy). He scrolled down.

She really is an angel isn’t she followed by six heart-eye emojis. Yes, she fucking is, he thought.

She doesn’t deserve you dump her  

They’re getting married I’m calling it!!!

Seriously this couple is the ultimate OTP, amennnnnn

LEGENDARY MADELINE STONE HAS A LEGENDARY DAUGHTER TURNING THAT RICH BOY ASS TO JELLY I LOVE QUEENS

I give this two weeks y’all

STILL WANT YOU TO BE WITH @marissamontague I WON’T GIVE UP

A long line of crying-face emojis

She’s a gold digger

SHE’S WEARING THE NECKLACE AGAIN ASKADFLASKGHSGKHSA

She is like a little peach, I am so in love with their love

Omg I bet she’s going to the Gala with him and I will not survive those photos

A long line of yellow heart and celestial sun emojis

Kenzie looked at the comments over his shoulder as he scrolled down. “Marissa Montague, like the actress? The one who does romcoms and Lifetime movies?” Kenzie looked at him with a puzzled expression. “There are people who want you to be with her?”

Duncan blushed involuntarily, glancing at her. “Yeah. Her fans are pretty strange. They come to red carpets and try to make me sign photos of her. She and I were running in similar circles for awhile…”

Kenzie squinted at him, and her lips fell in a closed line. “Oh, really.”

“We went on a few dates. She’s...deeply superficial. She usually talked about her endorsement deals.”

Kenzie narrowed her eyes even further, half-facetiously pulling her hand out of his. “Oh. A few.”

“Baby, don’t,” Duncan reached for her and pressed his lips into her neck. Kenzie sat stiffly for a moment, then leaned into his mouth, giggling. “That tickles, I’m gonna unleash these puppies on you.” She wiggled her fingers into his throat and he jumped back, laughing. He slipped her phone back into her lap, his hand resting on her thigh. “It didn’t fucking mean anything. It was years ago. I had a lot of meaningless relationships for a long time. Now it seems like it was in another life.”

“Oh, you’re so important, so many sordid love affairs--”

“Kenzie…” Duncan pressed into her again, hand falling up her hip, biting gently down on her right ear lobe, breathing into her neck. “I love you.” She pulled his face up into hers and Duncan’s nerves simmered into low fire; “I love you too, baby,” she whispered into him. “And you’re mine, aren’t you, baby--” “Yes, yes, Kenzie, fuck yes, I’m all yours--”

The memory of Duncan’s anger became a distant pinprick of light in his mind as Kenzie’s hands fell through his hair, his lifting up to cup her breasts through the fabric of the dress, pushing the cardigan from her shoulders so he could feel the bare skin of her arms; the rain fell against the windows and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears, the blood rushing through his limbs, into his groin, as her tongue fell against his and the sweet smell of roses and vetiver filled his nose and his senses and it felt like the sun was out and warm on his skin, rain be damned.

------

The paps were out in full force again; Duncan turned to look over his shoulder as Samuel pulled up to One Franklin Square, out of Kenzie’s languid embrace (his lips had been on her neck again and she was threading her fingers through his hair), and saw them milling around towards the entrance. None of them seemed to have noticed the BMW yet, though.

“Samuel and I will be back to pick you up around 4:30 so we can go home and change for dinner, okay?” He turned back to Kenzie, whose eyes were bright, staring at him with pent desire from his kisses. Her hangover seemed to have dissipated in the car ride; maybe it was the green smoothie and the vitamins, maybe it was something else, he thought, pressing his lips against hers again, his hand falling down her golden-chestnut hair one more time. The partition floated down and Duncan willed it to go back up; not yet, he begged internally. Just a little bit longer, her hair and her body under my hands, I just want to look at her in this dress with its tiny red flowers, look at the gold moon around her throat, the curve of her collarbones, her smiling at me this way, her cheeks with that glow, her mouth swollen with my kisses. “I’ll email Ben Wilder today about the interview. And everything is gonna be fine, baby. I promise.”

“Okay.” Harris was already coming around the passenger side of Kenzie’s door, his sharp eyes scanning the doorway, counting the number of paps; he pulled the door open and said “Miss Mackenzie, time to go,” and Kenzie kissed Duncan with a small desperation again, and then she slipped away from him and he felt that ache, the one that always accompanied her leaving now, the feeling that a piece of him was ripped away and there was a hole, gaping, an open wound smarting in the air. He watched, eyes taking on that stormy shade (though he couldn’t see it himself), as Harris carefully pressed a hand into her back to shield her, and several paps noticed her coming toward the entrance now, rushing up to her. He couldn’t make out their words from the half-distance, now, but there were camera flashes and he watched a microphone come under her and she turned away from it, her golden hair bouncing behind her in the gray light (the rain had stopped a few minutes before and the ground was shiny with water, the sky still overcast), clutching the strap of her satchel closer against her, Harris coming between them, covering her with an expert precision, and he could vaguely hear more questions being shouted at her though he couldn’t make them out, and then she was inside and the paps were standing against the windows, cameras still clicking, peering after her, some of them turning around to snap photos of the BMW as Samuel hit the gas pedal and the car drifted away. Duncan continued to look back, his hand coming up to his chin, against his mouth. She’s so brave. My Kenzie. She’s so brave and so strong and she’s doing so well and I love her so much, I love how brave she is, how fearless, the proud look that comes into her eyes, the way she lifts her chin and pushes forward. Mom is going to pitch a fit to me about that article, but that was so brave of her, she could have gotten into so much hot water there if she got caught, my girlfriend is a stone cold badass and I’m not sure I’m good enough for her.

As if on cue, Duncan’s phone chimed out a text. Mom.

That article is in DIRECT opposition to our objectives. Did you know she was writing that?

No, Duncan replied, curtly. I did not know until this morning when she told me it was being published today. She got the assignment before we met.

Mom: We will talk about this when you get here. Nothing else.

“How are you these days, Mr. Shepherd?” Samuel’s voice floated back to him, soothing, soft, the music turned low.

“Wildly in love, thanks, Samuel,” Duncan smiled at him with a burst of genuine feeling. “But Kenzie’s meeting Annette tonight and I’m....concerned. About how she’ll be treated. And my temper. Which I’ve already lost once today.”

“Your love for each other will overcome any obstacle. If you will it, it will become reality. It will soften the heart of even Annette Shepherd when she sees it, who also loves you very much, of that I am certain.”

“Thank you, Samuel. Can we stop at English Rose Garden before we get to Shepherd Hall, please? I want to get something for Kenzie.”

“Certainly, Mr. Shepherd.”

--------

There was a bouquet of a dozen dark red roses wrapped carefully in black tissue paper beside Duncan in the backseat of the BMW when they pulled up to Shepherd Hall; the inner lining of the tissue had a layer of very thin plastic wrap and several wet cloths around the bottom of the stems to keep them from wilting. Duncan grasped them carefully where the stems gathered, stepping out of the car and passing them carefully to Samuel in the front seat, the better to keep an eye on them; Duncan imagined coming into Shepherd Hall with a bouquet of roses that wasn’t for his mother and the cold look of disbelief in her eyes. Shouldn’t press my luck today, things are going to be bad enough already. He nodded to Samuel gratefully and straightened, looking towards the entrance; there was plenty of press milling around it, but most of them were clearly associated press with clearly labeled passes around their necks, going in and out of Shepherd Hall, waiting for the press conference to start. Duncan wondered absently why his mother had demanded he be there at all, it was, after all, just a dedication for the new Dance Center; just to exert her will over me, I think, show her she can still make me do what she wants and to get back at me for posting photos of Kenzie. Get used to it, Mom. There’s lots more to come.

...So much for not pressing my luck, he scolded himself.

He adjusted the collar and cuffs of his mock neck shirt, discarding the light jacket he wore, opening the door to the backseat of the BMW again and tossing it onto the leather upholstery; the day was still overcast, but the rain was forecast to be over for now and the air was muggy, misty with hanging moisture and an early-summer breeze. Duncan appreciated the coolness of the breeze through his hair; his skin had started to prickle with an odd sense of foreboding, no doubt kindled by his apprehension at seeing his mother. I wish Kenzie were here now, he thought. I want everyone at this press conference to know who I’m with now, and I want them to know that nothing my mother or my uncle say or do will take her away from me. Duncan was aware Bill had a round of chemo scheduled for today; he didn’t leave the house much anymore regardless, and Duncan only tended to see him when he went there to report about an episode or the app or some other kind of feedback on the enterprises of Shepherd Unlimited. Good thing, too, because if my mother disapproves of Kenzie, Bill probably wants to hire a hitman to take her out by now. Duncan shivered at the thought; not a unlikely as one might hope. Bill almost never communicated with him directly; his uncle used Annette as a mediator between the two of them, having never particularly warmed to Duncan, it seemed, for one reason or another. It was also the reason, Duncan suspected, that Annette was going to push to have Bill sign his Will over to Duncan only when he was too sick, too far gone, to protest. The truth of that gave Duncan an nauseous feeling whenever he contemplated it, but Bill Shepherd was not a particularly nice man, and Duncan didn’t feel as bad about all of it as he might have with someone who hadn’t treated him like he was a nuisance for most of his life. His mother loved him; Bill Shepherd barely tolerated him.

Duncan stepped towards the glass doors of Shepherd Hall; several members of the press milling around that area turned towards him with recognition. Duncan pretended to stare down at his phone; he saw Gretchen Friedrichs approaching him out of the corner of his eye in a tulip-yellow sheath dress, a black-and-white striped blazer and very pointy black Louboutins, their red undersides stark in the gray daylight, her long platinum hair bouncing against her back, her smile too big and too white, a press pass swinging around her neck. Stay calm, Duncan demanded to himself. You already snapped on Gary Spencer, don’t let Gretchen get to you too.

“Duncannnnn,” she purred, and Duncan winced, his eyes narrowing just slightly, his eyes sliding over to her. “My, my, haven’t we been the busy boy.”

“Gretchen,” he said through clenched teeth, walking fast. “I think I recall telling you I wouldn’t be doing anymore interviews for Patriot Watch. Funny, I ran into Gary Spencer morning, as they say, outside of my residence, an area that’s off-limits to all of you, which I’m quite sure he was already aware of...you, of course, wouldn’t know anything about that, I’m sure.”

“What would Gary being doing at your building?” Gretchen said in an obnoxiously high octave, faux-appalled. “He really should know better, shouldn’t he?”

Duncan went up to the door, waving a little at the press members he recognized but ignoring their requests for comments; he went to move inside but Gretchen slipped in ahead of him, “Oh, thanks, Duncan, what a gentleman!” she murmured, flashing her teeth at him again; like a giant cat about to rip a warm animal apart, he thought. He tried to move past her in the carpeted, quiet interior of the foyer; he knew the press conference was in the 120-capacity room downstairs across from the newly minted Shepherd Memorial Theater, which would feature much of the Dance School’s performances, but Gretchen continued to trot beside him in her Louboutins, somehow able to keep pace with him despite his long stride.

“So that article from little Miss Stone in the Post this morning is really something, Duncan,” she said as she trotted along beside him, and he glared at her. Duncan, keep your fucking temper, don’t do it, don’t let her get to you. “Care to comment? Anything to say? Did you know she was going to write such an incendiary indictment of the financial spheres of political process?”

He was silent; she’d tried to bait him with that last bit, and he’d almost replied, but Duncan bit into the side of his cheek to stop himself. Duncan kept his long stride up and Gretchen was falling behind. She barked at him again.

“Isn’t it going to interfere with the Shepherd-funded Future Act?”

“Gretchen, I’m going to say this as kindly and as clearly as I possibly can: Fuck. Off. Right. Now.”

“Or what, Mr. Shepherd?” Gretchen stared at him, her eyes flashing. She stopped her trotting, and Duncan continued away from her, not turning.

“Or I’m going to get her to write something about you.”

“Is that a threat?”

Duncan said nothing and continued to walk away from her, his mind seething.

“See you at the Gala, Duncan.” Duncan glanced back to see Gretchen standing there with her arms crossed, a smirk plastered to her face. “You and that sweet little piece of ass.” Duncan clenched his teeth at that, balling his hand into a fist, grasping the handle of the side-door to the conference room, yanking it open, not looking back at her again. I’ve thrown Kenzie into a pit of vipers, haven’t I. These people will try to get at her any way they can. I have to do everything in my power to be the buffer between them. God, I need to calm the fuck down. Threatening Gretchen Friedrichs is just going to make it worse.

He looked up; he saw Erik sitting nonchalantly in a styling chair in the corner, languidly scrolling through his phone, but Annette was nowhere to be seen, at least, not yet.

“Hey, Erik,” he said, trying to keep his tone even. He pushed what had just transpired with Friedrichs to the back of his mind; time to put on a face for his mother.

“Well, well, well,” Erik glanced up at him without moving his shiny, bald head. He wore a long chiffon lavender-colored scarf around his neck today and had false eyelashes on. His nails were carefully manicured. “The man whose name is on everyone’s lips. Prince Duncan. You should see how pissed off you’ve managed to make your poor mother. Come, sit over here, let’s have a look at you. Photos, you know. Not that you ever need much work, Your skin is looking absolutely radiant. All that good sex, I’m sure.”

Duncan came over to the styling chair, blushing, Erik standing and pushing Duncan down into it, hands immediately coming up to Duncan’s hair; the older man sighed, smiling down at him. “This hair. Forgive me, dear, but having none of my own, I always get a special thrill when I get to touch it.”

“Touch away, Erik. On a scale of 1 to 10, how angry is Annette right now?”

“I’d say 12 is the low estimate.” Erik pushed the pump on a bottle of product that sat on the styling table nearby, a mirror built into the wall behind it, smoothing it between his very clean fingers and pressing it languidly through Duncan’s hair. “She could be at 15, you know how she is. It’s usually hiding until someone says the wrong thing. Which is usually Bill Shepherd’s department. You’re always her golden boy, but gracious me, baby, lately, you are stirring the pot, aren’t you? Instagram, gossip sites, snapping at paparazzi, endless photos. Young love. I’ll tell you right now, I’m in your corner. She’s undoubtedly a little flower. I can’t wait to come up with some confection for her tomorrow.”

“I love her, Erik.”

“Sure you do, pumpkin. Of course.”

Duncan looked down at his phone; a text from Kenzie.

I forgot to give you Ben’s contact before, so here it is. He won’t leave me alone, please email him, thank you for doing this, I love you. Some of those paps tried to get into the building a little while ago but security escorted them back out. Harris is hanging out upstairs with me and everyone loves him! I think Ben is going to steal him. Hope everything is going okay bb. Wanted to text you before the press conference. Can’t wait for today to be over. She’d added an exasperated-face emoji and a red heart at the end. The second text as was a contact bubble: Ben Wilder.

Haven’t seen Mom yet, Duncan replied, --but have been told she’s pretty upset. I will do anything I can to calm her down before tonight. I love you so much, baby. If she says anything unkind to you, please try to let it roll off you. She won’t mean it, because she doesn’t know you yet. I’ll email Ben right now.

Duncan opened his email and addressed it to: benwilder@washingtonpost.com, from: duncanshepherd@shepherdunlimited.com. Attn: Ben Wilder, Features Editor, Washington Post. Hey Ben. Mackenzie mentioned that you were interested in an interview. I’m happy to sit down with you sometime next week, provided she is there as well; she can decide whether or not she wants to participate, but I want her to sit in. Tuesday works best for me, but I could make some time on Wednesday afternoon as well. Let me know. Regards, Duncan Shepherd. He hit send and lowered his phone; the door swung to, and Annette Shepherd walked into the room, trailed closely by Seth Grayson.

She turned; her eyes fell on him with a measured, gradual acrimony, her slender, beautiful face falling downwards to a regal discomfort, her perfectly waved hair around her shoulders, framing her striking beauty; he had often thought his mother grew even more beautiful as she aged. As ever, Annette was immaculately dressed; for the press conference she was wearing a Diane von Furstenberg dark cobalt silk wrap dress, with a diamond pattern print across it falling to a earthward slant, and low Stuart Weitzman sand-colored suede pumps. As usual, she had no necklace; only the round diamond studs she wore so often, and a thin band of gold around one wrist.

“Duncan,” she breathed, and Seth retreated to a corner, staring at his phone as though whatever he saw there was wildly engrossing.

“Mom.”

“Do you realize how damaging that article could be?” Annette advanced on him, her fingers coming together in front of her in a fist; Duncan stayed in the styling chair, trying not to react. “The bill likely wouldn’t go through at this juncture, regardless, but now? Claire Underwood frankly refuses to sign it, and she’s going to push Gallagher through--Bill could not persuade her to see things as Frank did, confirming our worst fears.”

“Mom.”

“How can this be happening, I keep asking myself. How can my only son, my pride, my joy, be disobeying me and disregarding me so utterly? How can he be saddling himself to the daughter of a woman who would love nothing more than to see my enterprises and my work crumble into dust? How can he?”

“Mom.”

“Let me guess. You love her.”

Duncan said nothing. He stared at his mother; her eyes were cold, shining like twin candle flames in a dark room. He remembered times when she’d been angry with him as a child again; in that gaze he felt minute and impermanent, loveless and discarded. Or he had. Now, he knew that no matter his mother’s anger, she did love him; sometimes she hoarded that love, kept it from him, but he knew it was there. And Kenzie loves me. Even if Mom didn’t love me anymore; even if she cut me off without a penny, even if she pretended she didn’t anymore. Kenzie loves me. She does. And I love her. Loving her is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me; everything we’ve done, Mom, pales dreadfully in comparison.

Erik stood to the side, observing them with his hand pressed to his face, lips pursed. Now, he interjected.

“Annette, surely you must remember what it’s like to be young.”

“Erik, with all due respect, shut the hell up.” Annette glared at him, crossing her arms.

“Whatever I say clearly won’t make you happy,” Duncan said. “But I’m humbly asking that you treat her with respect over dinner tonight, Mom. It would mean a lot to me if you could be kind to her.”

Annette scoffed. “As kind as her article was to our interests, surely. As kind as her mother has been to me on public stages, of course.”

“Since you’ve always been so kind to Madeline, fucking Medusa.”

Annette’s mouth clamped shut at that; she seethed at him, suddenly reminding him of himself a moment ago with Gretchen in the hallway. I am my mother’s son, he thought. We’re both horribly stubborn and we both have bad tempers, and we both refuse to retreat.

“I spoke to her, you know,” she spat, pacing back and forth in front of Duncan, but still staring at him. “As arrogant as ever, as presumptive; as overconfident as I remember her, insisting I can’t “interject in your affairs”--” here, Annette lifted her hands and flexed her index and middle fingers, mimicking a quotation, pausing in her pacing.

“You can’t. Not when it comes to this.”

Annette stared at him; Duncan thought her face would melt, the anger in her eyes as so immediate and intense. She said nothing; her mouth hung open a little, clearly too flabbergasted to reply.

“It’s five after 3,” Seth said, quietly but firmly. “The press conference was supposed to start five minutes ago.”

Annette looked away from Duncan; to Erik for a moment, then into space, her thoughts unreadable. “Get up, Seth.” Grayson lept up. “Duncan. You must contain her. Come.” With this statement, Annette walked across the room and yanked the opposite door open; the door that led to the conference room. Duncan followed her out, his stride pointed, determined to keep his expression neutral and his resolve stony. First, we’ll get through this. Then, we’ll get through tonight.

------

Duncan glanced impatiently at his Movado as the press conference began to wind down; it was almost 4 and he had felt his phone vibrate in his pocket about fifteen minutes ago, in the middle of a long answer from his mother about the scholarships for the Dance School the Foundation was setting up. He began to feel convinced through some unseen sixth sense that the text was from Kenzie, and that it was something important. Annette had managed to hide her annoyance from the press for the duration; it was being taped, and my mother is nothing if not professional, Duncan thought, hand coming up to his jaw to rub there, but when she looked at him over the past hour it was with a dark gaze that made the back of his neck tingle with apprehension. What are you planning, Mom.

“I have a question for Duncan,” Duncan heard someone say; it was Gretchen Friedrichs. Oh no. “Do you plan to have your girlfriend, Mackenzie Stone, on the show soon? It’s ranked second as of now in cable news, and as a journalist for The Washington Post, I think she’d bring a...unique perspective.” Gretchen smiled with all her teeth. “The two of you have been a trending topic on Twitter and Instagram for three days--”

Annette balked visibly and she feigned looking at the clock hanging in the corner of the room, “It looks like we’re out of time for more questions, what a shame,” she said to Gretchen, cutting her off, her smile overwarm. She stood and walked to where Duncan sat, pushing on the long sleeve of his shirt. Get up, Duncan, her hand said. Duncan went to obey her, then for a moment, he couldn’t fathom what to do, his legs seemingly turned to lead; Gretchen was staring at him with that grin, and his mind went hazy with anger.

“Mackenzie is busy with her own projects right now,” he said, and felt the cold pinch of Annette’s fingers digging into the skin of his upper arm. “But eventually I hope for us to work together in a professional capacity, yes.”

The room erupted in voices, other press members shouting their questions out at him across the room (“What does her editorial from this morning indicate for the goals of Shepherd Unlimited?” Will we see a partnership between the Post and Shepherd Unlimited?” “Will she be attending the Gala with you?” “What do you think of her mother’s political statements in the past?”, ‘Annette, does this mean you and Madeline Stone have reconciled?”, “Will you have Madeline Stone on the show?” “Is the implication of leftist politics an indication of the future of Shepherd Unlimited?”); Duncan could feel Annette’s fingers dig in even further, painfully, and he stood, shaking his arm out of the pincer-like grip of his mother’s hand. She stalked after him through the side-door; Seth coming through after them (“no more questions, no more questions,” Duncan heard him say, breathlessly, to the room), half-running, leaning against it with a hard snap as if there were a pack of wolves after him.

“Have you lost your mind?” Annette’s hands came up and grasped at the collar of Duncan’s shirt; Duncan gently pulled her hands away and stepped back from her; she had sputtered out the words as if they were making her sick.

“Mom. I told you. You can’t stop this.”

“Oh, I can’t? What if I pull the plug on the show?”

“You heard Gretchen; it’s got one of the highest viewer ratings on cable news. We both know you won’t do that.”

“What has gotten into you? It’s like you’re possessed,” Annette stared at him, a wild light behind her eyes again; instead of anger, though, he now saw something else there; a kind of panic, a disorientated alarm, and one more thing...a dawning recognition. “What is wrong with you?”

“I have to go pick up Kenzie now. I’ll see you in a few hours for dinner, Mom.”

With that, Duncan turned and walked away from her, not waiting for a reply, through the opposite door, down the carpeted hallway and foyer of Shepherd Hall, skirting around the press members who had begun to file out of the conference room, ignoring their shouts to him; he quickened his pace to a jog, feeling as though he were suddenly suffocating, and pressed through the entrance, running out to the BMW, yanking the back door open, sliding in and slamming it behind him. Samuel glanced back at him in concern as Duncan pulled his phone out of his pocket, breathlessly, staring down at it; a missed call and a text from Kenzie. Her text was odd, like she’d typed it all out without really reading it or pausing.

a man managed to get upstairs past security somehow and harris was in the bathroom and he grabbed me by the arm and tried to drag me into the hallway je was rambling abot Shepherd unlimited taking everything away from him so he was going to take something away from the Shepherds and i’m ok but haris did this thing to him where he hit him in the throat like it was ju jitsu or something i don’t know and the man fell on the ground unconscious the cops are her ad i had to give a statemtn but i’m okay but baby oh my god oh my god

“FUCK.” Duncan felt his anger and panic reach a crashing crescendo that fell over him in a suffocating wave; he suddenly, with a removed anguish that felt almost involuntary, punched the bulletproof, tinted glass of the window, the pain immediate and scattering along his knuckles like it had been smashed in a door, and Duncan winced, biting his lip hard, clutching his palm over the fist his hand was still stuck in. “Fuck! Fuck!”

“Mr. Shepherd, tell me where to go,” Samuel looked back at him with an alarmed expression; it was nearly impossible to break the glass of the BMW’s windows, and Duncan knew his chauffeur wasn’t worried about the car, rather the likelihood that Duncan had broken a bone in his hand. Duncan wasn’t prone to displays of physical anger; what he had just done wasn’t something Samuel had witnessed from the younger man since he was a willful teenager.

“One Franklin Square, Samuel, hurry, someone tried to hurt Kenzie,” Duncan said, and the desperation in his voice was enough to send sharp spears of icy cold fear down into his stomach. Samuel said nothing, only laid his foot flat on the gas, the BMW peeling away from the curb and accelerating rapidly, speeding towards downtown. Duncan felt wildly sick, suddenly, and he willed his stomach to settle, willed his nerves to even, feeling dizzying nausea behind his throat. Oh god, someone tried to hurt Kenzie, his hand clutched to his jaw, his eyes dazed. Oh god, someone--

“Mr. Shepherd, she is brave. I’m sure she is alright. Steel yourself to be brave for her too.”

Duncan sucked his breath in, harshly, heart slamming. “Yes. Okay. Hurry, Samuel, please, just hurry.”

He typed quickly, pressing send. Baby, I’m coming now, I’m so sorry, I was stuck in that stupid fucking press conference, I’m coming, we’ll be there in two minutes...

------

Two minutes and fifty seconds later the BMW screeched up to the curb and Duncan threw the door open, noticing there were still several paps milling around the entrance; he saw red again, felt the seething-hot urge to hit one of them. No, stop thinking about what you want, whatever you think you need. Kenzie needs you, stop being so fucking self-absorbed, he thought. Find her. That’s all that matters.

He ran past them; their shouts to him sounded like they were underwater, his ears blocked by the sound of his heart pounding, and he rushed through the doors, throwing himself at the receptionist’s desk; “Which floor is Mackenzie Stone on,” he asked breathlessly; the receptionist was a young girl with a dark, short bob haircut and navy eyeshadow; her eyes widened in recognition at him, her mouth popping open. “Duncan Shepherd,” she whispered. “Mackenzie. Stone. Which. Floor.” Duncan breathed out each word pointedly, his hand coming around the flat screen of her desktop computer and pressing his index finger at the directory searchbar. She blinked at him again, then said “10, all the resident journalists are on that floor--” and he launched himself away from the desk to where the elevators stretched a yard or so down the foyer. One of the doors slid open as he ran up; oh merciful Fates, thank you; he skirted past the surprised woman who exited, fingers slamming against the 10 button, and she peered around the corner of the elevator doors at him as they slid shut, clearly recognizing him. “Come on, come on, come on,” Duncan muttered as the elevator seemed to climb with excruciating slowness; no one else got in the elevator, though, thank you merciful and benevolent Fates thank you, and finally the doors slid open to the 10th floor.

Duncan’s eyes swung wildly back and forth and laid almost instantly against the back corner where Harris’ distinctly large form sat in an office chair, pulled up against a small desk, behind which the shivering figure of his Kenzie sat, her chestnut hair shaking in the gray day’s light; her hands were clutched around her arms and her face was tear-stained, her eyes closed, eliciting a terrible ache from the center of his body that threatened to burst his heart. He ran out of the elevator and past two women (one white, tall and thin with very long, straight hair, one black and very curvy, with a curly weave) who stared at him with shocked expressions in their eyes, down the short walkway of desks to Kenzie’s; her eyes lifted up to him and her lip trembled, tears falling immediately down her cheeks, sending daggers into his heart again; Kenzie (oh my Kenzie) stood, pushing her desk chair back and launching herself into his arms, an aching sob escaping from her lips as she pressed her face into his black shirt, and he could feel the wetness of her tears soak through to his bare skin. He pushed his face into her head, into her hair, and heard his voice whisper “Shhh, shhh baby, I’m here, I’m so sorry, I’m here now, are you okay, are you alright--” and his hand fell down, feeling her body, trying to find anything wrong, any sign of physical harm; no, she wasn’t hurt, her little body pressing into him, but she was sobbing with a terrible relief that threatened him with tears too, and Duncan bit his lip to stave his own away.

“Mr. Shepherd, I can’t say how sorry I am, I’ve failed you in my duties--” Harris looked up at them, his sepia eyes clouded.

“Harris, no, failed? No. You’re the reason Kenzie is safe. Please. Don’t. Thank you. I can’t thank you enough. Whatever we’re paying you, I’m doubling it. I’m tripling it.”

“Thank you, Harris,” Kenzie whispered, her voice still tinged with a sob and muffled against Duncan’s shirt, her arms twined around him tightly, her body shaking. “Thank you.” Harris stared at her for a moment, his expression one of anguish, of distress; then it softened, and affection seeped into his gaze, and he nodded, blinking, quiet.

“Baby, I’m so sorry, I was in that stupid conference and I couldn’t look at my phone, but I felt my phone vibrate and I had this terrible feeling, this feeling like it was you and something terrible happened, and I’m so sorry I wasn’t here--” Duncan’s mouth was pressed into the side of her hair, and he clutched her with desperate relief, speaking quietly down to her ear. Kenzie shook her head against him, the golden waves making him ache; Duncan buried his fingers in her hair, lifting her little face up to him, thumbs pressing the tears gently away, kissing her softly. “It’s not your fault, baby, I’m just so glad you’re here now, I’m so glad you’re here.” Kenzie pressed her face against him again. “They took the man away--I--I don’t know where they took him…” Duncan cradled her against him, the warm feeling of her little body filling him with terrible, overwhelming emotion; none of them said anything, and eventually Kenzie began to quiet, her sobs fading into hiccups, hiccups fading into deep breaths, and then even ones. The two women Duncan had passed looked back at them, whispering quietly to each other; Duncan tried to ignore them. Kenzie leaned back from him, wiping at her eyes with a little hand, sniffling again. “We need to go to dinner now,” she said, and Duncan tried to protest--”baby, are you okay, are you gonna be okay to do that--” and she cut him off. “I need to meet Annette. I’m not waiting anymore.”

Duncan looked at Harris for a moment; the larger man nodded slightly, his expression difficult to read, and yet Duncan felt he understood what the man was trying to say, anyway. Do what Kenzie says. She’s in charge. “Okay, Kenzie.” She pushed out of his arms and pressed the sleeves of the black cardigan against her eyes for a moment, dabbing away the residue of her tears, and shut her Macbook, which had been pushed at an odd angle to the side of her desk, sliding it into her satchel carefully. She straightened, reached for a tissue from a box beside a little rustic sun and moon statue on the desk; then, she turned to him, slung her bag over her shoulder, and said “Let’s go.” Harris stood, coming around her to her back, protectively; she threaded her fingers through Duncan’s, and pulled him toward the elevator; Duncan followed obediently, in awe of her. She is the most amazing person I have ever known.

--------

Kenzie had folded herself into Duncan in the backseat on the way back to the penthouse; her little body sighing against him in the crook under his arm, her spot, that place she was torn away from me once, back at the beginning of time, her face, red from crying, her cheeks hot against him, his hand trailing at the soft tulip sleeves over her shoulders, the warm skin of her arm and down to her elbow and back, through the strands of her hair, gentle, rhythmic. Neither of them spoke; Duncan couldn’t bring himself to ask her for more details of what had happened, loathe to bring her to tears again; somehow he knew she would tell him later, tell him everything, when they were alone and holding each other in the darkness of their bedroom, their bed, their secret place that belonged only to them. Duncan considered trying to persuade Kenzie that they should cancel dinner with his mother; but no, he knew, that can’t happen and it won’t, because we have to do this, we have to make my mother understand, Annette needs to understand that no one and nothing can tear us away from each other. Nothing and no one but death itself. It’s long past time she knows; really knows.

Duncan helped Kenzie out of the car and she was quiet now; her breathing slow and even, her eyes gazing at him with a clearer expression, some of her shock having faded; the day was still overcast and it seemed as though it might rain again, darker clouds coming in from the west. He followed her inside to the elevator; Jerry nodded to them, seeming to notice their solemn mood, and Anchaly looked up from his desk, his eyes crinkling at Kenzie’s tear-reddened cheeks. Duncan noticed he still had his copy of Tropic of Cancer, his finger pressed between the pages, near the end; “Human beings make a strange fauna and flora,” he murmured to the older man as they passed. Anchaly raised his eyebrows, and looked back to the book, clearly content in the mystery of the moment. Kenzie slipped inside the elevator and Duncan followed her carefully; she pressed into him as the doors shut, raising her lips up into his, and he held her, tenderly, his mind and heart aching at the thought that she could have been hurt today, something could have happened to her; “I’m so glad you’re okay, baby, Kenzie, I don’t know what I would have done if something happened to you,” he whispered as the elevator climbed, and he glanced to the long mirror inside, where she was now staring at the shape of them pressed together, his lips against the side of her face, and he thought of The Kiss by Klimt again, thought of its gold paint and her gold, her endless gold, bright even in her sadness and her shock, bright in spite of anything that would try to dim her. Kenzie didn’t say anything, but again he felt he could somehow feel the drift of her thoughts: I love you, Duncan, and I will be brave because I love you so much, I love you and I will be brave in the face of my fear because love is stronger and it is more and it is the only thing, I know that now, I will make Annette understand, we’ll make her understand--

Once back in the penthouse, they went quietly to the bedroom, discarding their clothing from the day carelessly; for a moment, Kenzie pressed against him again as they stood in the walk-in closet, in only her bra and underwear, Duncan in only his briefs; she sighed, and he closed his eyes, overwhelmed with the feeling of their bare skin against each other; he longed to draw her mouth into his again, longed to press his fingers down into the sweetness of her clit and soothe her with ecstasy, but he knew that when they fucked again it would need to come from her, it would have to be at her bidding, and he resolved himself to be patient; “I hate that this has been so much to bear for you--” he spoke quietly down into her ear, and she shook it against his mouth, shook her head so her lips brushed against his ribs, making him shiver; “I’d do it a thousand times more to be with you,” she murmured, and he held back the tears he felt warming his senses; his mind ached, and he felt that any words were not enough for how he felt towards her in that moment; “I love you,” he said, quiet, into her ear, and he felt her lips smile into his skin. She pulled away from him, bringing the dress they’d picked out yesterday down from the hanger where they stood in the walk-in closet; he turned, pulling on one of his dozens of pairs of tailored slacks, one of line of a two-dozen black dress shirts that hung on his side (and her side over there, her side with its softness and color and her there); “Baby, zip me up,” he heard her little voice say, and he turned to her hair pulled over her shoulder, the bare nape of her neck facing him, and he pressed his mouth into her there and felt her shiver, his hands coming down around her waist to press at her hips, and he ached for the darkness of their bed, ached for the sweet embrace of night to come. He zipped her up carefully and she turned to him, smiling despite the residue of her tears still lingering, then she went into the bathroom and Duncan buttoned his shirt, watching her back, the little sequined black dress hugging her small frame, her little face in the mirror as she pressed a small compact against her cheeks to hide the redness as he pulled on one of his velvet cocktail blazers, the smell of her drifting around him like a song. Kenzie emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, dark eyeshadow on her eyelids, dark burgundy lipstick at her mouth, the Tiffany moon around her neck again; she lifted her hands to it as she stared at him, and she said “your love, to give me strength.” She had the little black clutch in her hand, the one she had the night they met on that rosy balcony a week ago (only a week, no, it’s been a year, it’s been years, ages, and it’s been no time at all) and pointed black pumps on her small feet; they lifted her about level to his shoulder, and he was struck again by how small she was, even in heels.

Duncan nodded, too overwhelmed again to speak, reaching out for her, gathering her up in his arms. She fingered his Movado, staring down at it. “Time to go, baby,” she said, lifting her face up to him, kissing him softly. Duncan leaned into her; he thought of how he’d run away from his mother this afternoon, defiant and angry, and toward Kenzie, who could have so easily been hurt today, and he turned his face the better to kiss her, relief flooding through him again. He felt her smile into him again; heard her laugh into him, her tears now faded and her skin cool and soft, and the relief rebounded and echoed into the lining of him. Fortune is still smiling. It has protected us all this way, maybe it can even convince my mother. Maybe even that.

-----

Back in the car Duncan handed her the roses he’d bought for her earlier that day; it seemed like it had been years ago when he’d cheerfully picked them out at the florist, dark, deep red and as fresh as if he’d picked them himself. They still looked as lovely as they had when he chose them, thanks to the cool, wet cloths the florists had wrapped around the stems and the top-of-the-line air conditioning in the BMW; thank the Fates, because I forgot about them entirely after Kenzie’s text message, he thought. A radiant smile fell over her face as she took them from him; “Oh, baby, they’re so beautiful,” she murmured, leaning her face up to kiss him again, and he felt relief flood through his body again like dopamine; to see her smile after the sound and feeling of her sobbing into him was like a drug kicking in after excruciating pain. Kenzie held them close in her lap during the ride to the Jefferson, her head leaning softly on his shoulder, her fingers trailing against the silky-soft petals of the flowers, her eyes falling over them again and again; Kenzie seemed to drift away from him for awhile during that car ride (Etta James floating through the speakers tonight; stormy weather, stormy weather...and I just can’t get my poor self together...oh, I’m weary all of the time), and he worried again over the impact her day had had on her; wished they could be alone, fast-forward to later, so she could tell him everything, so he would really know what had happened. As they pulled up to the latticed doorway of the Jefferson, though, Kenzie lifted her head and a studied cautiousness flooded into her eyes. Duncan gazed down at her, struck by it.

“Samuel, please look after my roses, won’t you?” (Harris had gone home for the day; he was officially off the clock until tomorrow morning).

“Miss Mackenzie, of course I will.”

“Thank you. You are so good to me.”

“Miss Mackenzie, please. Of course. You are beloved.”

Kenzie gazed through the partition at Samuel for a moment, and Duncan’s heart felt swollen with the weight of his adoration for her; swollen with the words Samuel had spoken to her. You are beloved. Yes. You are most beloved by me, and those who would keep you and protect you and devote ourselves to you, sweet Kenzie. And I long to be your most devoted.

Duncan helped her out of the car and she passed the roses back to Samuel through the window; a bolt of lightning flashed over them, closely followed by a peal of thunder; rain soon to come. They ran inside as the first drops began to fall, hands tightly clasped, and Duncan was struck by a wild desire to keep running with her; my Kenzie, my dearest one, until the rain drenched them and they could disappear into the night and become new, they could be anonymous again and retreat into a secret hidden place where no one could find them, no one could try to hurt her, no one could be cruel to her, where only beautiful and wonderful things surrounded her, only things devoted to her. The warmth of his thoughts rushed into him and just as quickly rushed away as they entered the foyer of the Jefferson Hotel and moved into the hushed cocoon of Plume, his mother’s favorite; in the past few years Duncan had been here with her over two-dozen times. Once Annette found something she liked, she rarely deviated from it. We are very alike in that way, he thought, squeezing Kenzie’s hand a little. She looked up at him, a nervous smile on her mouth, golden hair falling over her shoulder. The makeup she wore washed away the signs of strain and tiredness he’d seen there earlier, but he knew she still felt those emotions underneath. The dress fit her perfectly, but it almost made her look like someone else; like the version of her Annette would ideally prefer, and that made his heart twinge with discomfort. I know you, Kenzie, I see your gold, and your warmth is so much more than whatever my mother wants. He thought of her flowing black dress with the red flowers today, and wanted to kiss her neck; imagined flowers in her hair again, for the hundredth time, it seemed.

Annette always insisted on dining in the private wine room. It was partitioned from the rest of the dining area by a frosted glass door that hid anything within from prying eyes; usually Duncan felt it was excessive, but tonight, he wanted to keep Kenzie from any further molestation by strangers first and foremost, and was relieved to know they’d be shielded from anyone who might be dining that night. A server (middle-aged with thinning hair and a severe stare) led them carefully to the door, pulling it open for them; his eyes skirted over them with clear recognition, but he said nothing. Duncan turned towards the large wooden table in the center of the room as the server shut the door behind them; and met the cold eyes of Annette Shepherd, cradling her wine glass carefully (Pinot Noir, her preferred beast); they slid off him and zeroed in on Kenzie, like the barrel of a gun at a bullseye. She had changed out of the wrap dress she’d worn for the press conference, and was now in a black sheath dress, tattoo lace cutting away from the black bodice along the neck and arms, extending down to trumpet sleeves at her wrists.

“Mackenzie.”

Duncan’s eyes fell down on her, standing beside him; Kenzie held her clutch in both hands in front of her, against her abdomen; her eyes, gold and tawny green in the low light, staring back at Annette with simmering caution. One of her hands came up to press her fingers along the crescent moon at her throat; Annette’s eyes followed her hand there, and Duncan knew; knew that his mother knew that the necklace was from him. It seemed to kindle some sort of low fire in Annette; she smirked; the smirk he knew so well, far closer to the true incarnation of her mirth than any of her dazzlingly fake smiles on public stages and television. Annette’s real mirth came from a knowledge of her power; how tight her grip on control was. The tighter her grip, the more genuine her mirth.

“Come sit by me, dear.”

Kenzie stepped forward, and Duncan noticed the jut of her chin, the flutter of her eyelids; my brave Kenzie. Kenzie went to the seat on Annette’s left side, pulling the chair out and sitting neatly, keeping her back straight, setting her clutch beside the plate in front of her; she stared down nervously for a moment at the array of forks and spoons around it, then back at Annette, smiling a little; Duncan could see the way she was trying to be sweet, trying to maintain her composure, and it made his chest feel tight. Annette beckoned to Duncan with one perfectly manicured hand; “Duncan, sit over here.” She patted the table on her right side; the seat across from Kenzie, so they’d be facing each other. Duncan bit his lip and considered disobeying for a moment; considered sitting in the seat next to Kenzie. But then he decided against it; it would be better to look at Kenzie’s face, so I know how she’s feeling, he thought. So I know if a moment comes where we need to escape. He came around and sat, looking into Kenzie’s eyes as he did. It’s okay, baby. Everything is going to be okay. I will make sure it is.

“I’ve been so anxious to meet you,” Kenzie said, softly, her eyes leaving Duncan’s and moving into his mother’s; her expression falling a little, one of her little hands coming up to the ends of her hair, seeing the coldness in Annette’s gaze, despite her smile. “I...I’ve wanted to tell you...what a wonderful son you’ve raised. He’s been…”

Kenzie trailed off then, and looked down at her hands. Duncan knew that in that moment she was fighting off tears. Oh my sweet Kenzie, he thought, imagining that he could push his warmth and his energy to her across the table; imagining it was gold and drifting, dust full of calmness and strength and all his love, falling into her, against her, under her skin. Be brave. I love you so.

“I love him.” Duncan could hear the tremor in her voice, but as she said it, it was as if the emotion he wanted to give her; the comfort, the wave of gold; had not only settled into her, but around the table; that it had enveloped the three of them in some sort of invisible cocoon, one that she had pushed out of her being, strengthened by his love and his energy, and made into something greater; something that did not diminish as it was shared, but expounded, resounding like an echo that grew rather than receded. It snatched the breath from his lungs; for a moment, it was as if the air was sucked out of the room. He looked at Kenzie for a moment with wonder--then his gaze fell on his mother, whose expression became unreadable, obtuse, conflicted; Annette said nothing for another long moment, then drank long at her wine glass; she set it down on the table, and brought the napkin on her lap up to her mouth, dabbing carefully. She set the napkin back on her lap and continued to stare at Kenzie; Duncan could see something in her gaze that seemed almost envious, a twinge of jealousy; a kind of longing for something long past and never to be reclaimed. Then it retreated; Annette broke the spell of her judgement, and looked down at her lap, a sigh escaping her lips.

“Mackenzie. My god. You look so much like your mother. When I knew her at school.”

The comment sent a current of shock floating through Duncan’s veins; he knew his mother too well to assume she meant it facetiously or with faux-sweetness. Both Annette and Madeline had been known for their powerful personalities and yes, their beauty, when they had been young. It was one thing to say Kenzie looked like Madeline; it was another to say she looked like the Madeline Annette had once known more intimately. It was true they had never been friends in the strictest sense of the word, but there was a time Annette and Madeline had shared study groups and classes; when they had appraised each other across parties, maybe even shared drunken conversations on late nights. There was a time Madeline and Annette could have been friends, as Madeline had implied herself; Annette had chosen not to accept that friendship, but it wasn’t as if there had never been an inkling of it. No, the truth was, the comment had been a genuine one from Annette; suddenly, the air in the room, coming off Annette like pheromones, had shifted from hostility to a kind of heavy resignation.

Annette turned to Duncan, and he noticed the change in her expression now, too. Her eyes, which had a moment ago been full of coiled inference, were soft with surrender. What had prompted it was unclear to him; but the coldness she had shown him today seemed to dissolve in this moment, and Duncan felt that there would likely never be another chance as fortuitous as this one, somehow, to convince her of the sincerity of his desires.

“Mom. This is my Kenzie. I love her...so very much. Please, give us your blessing. If you would, it would mean the world to me.”

Annette was silent again, for what felt like an eon, her hand coming up to fiddle with one of her diamond earrings, looking away from both of them, as though she had forgotten something important. The waiter opened the frosted glass door; Annette shook her head at him and he retreated, the door shutting with a snap. Kenzie’s eyes (so bright, so beautiful, so full of her essence, her loveliness, her kindness, her goodness) reached across to him as Annette remained this way, and her smile to him was like the flowers bursting into bloom at the true dawn of spring; he felt utterly overcome by her again (and again and again), and wished he could reach her to touch her, anxious to be closer to her.

“If this is really what you...want...Duncan.” Annette’s voice seemed puzzled; her stony composure, usually so resolute, had fractured somehow, abruptly; she seemed lost in the sincerity that drifted between them, seemed to shrink from it, then, with disbelief, Duncan noticed the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“It is, Mom. It really is.”

She sniffed, drained her wine glass, and looked at Kenzie for another long moment. She did not smile, but she said, quietly, “Very well. I...understand. I see. And because you are my greatest joy, Duncan, I will permit you yours. You...have my blessing. Now. Pour me another glass of wine.”

[unchartedterritoria]

Dangerous (Sam Drake x OC) - Chapter 9

In case you don’t want to read it here, it can also be found on A03:

Dangerous Chapter 9 A03 Link

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 * Chapter 2 * Chapter 3 * Chapter 4 * Chapter 5 * Chapter 6 * Chapter 7 * Chapter 8

Thanks to everyone that has read it so far! Also, comments and feedback are always appreciated. If you wish to be tagged for new chapters, let me know!

“Turn left here, here!”

Remy had led Faith and Sam back to the SUV and, with his directions, steered them to the other side of downtown Springfield, Illinois, close to the capital building. Remy directed Sam down a quiet one-way side street off the busy main road that held the bulk of the afternoon traffic. After passing a crumbling pay per hour parking lot, they approached a large, pale pink colonial house with green shutters and looking entirely out of place. It had a huge front porch complete with columns and a large community garden in place of what used to be the property's backyard.

“Here we go, pull around the back,” Remy said, pointing between the seats.

“Ok, yeah, ok,” Sam grumbled. He was never good at taking directions from people. Young, old, government authority, civilian, didn't matter, didn't like it one bit.

He pulled the car around the back of the large house, parking in what looked like a small gravel lot that was shared by the house and by the owners of the plots in the community garden.

“Remy whose house is this?” Faith asked, her nose to the window as she looked around. Sam put the car in park next to a pair of dumpsters shared by the two properties as well. Remy jumped out of the car excitedly, slamming the door behind him and rushing up the wheelchair ramp attached to the back door. Faith and Sam sauntered behind him, much like they had done since arriving in Springfield and meeting Remy.

"My god, he's like a puppy!" Faith exclaimed to Sam, leaning in close to him in the hopes that Remy wouldn't hear and be offended at her observation. Sam raised the corner of his mouth in a goofy, half grin.

"He's just a kid. You think this is bad; you shoulda seen him at 13 when he was just a pipsqueak."

Faith knitted her brows together in confusion. “Since when is 13 a pipsqueak?” She inquired.

“Since I hit puberty and became taller than the rest of the 13-year-olds in the world,” He said coolly.

“You're an ass,” She said half laughing.

“You're not just figuring that out, are ya sweetheart?”

They walked toward the back of the house where Remy waited impatiently. He stuck a hand into the pouch of his hoodie and pulled out a red gummy worm. He popped the end into his mouth, peering through side windows and staking out the immediate area around them.

"Remy, seriously, where the hell are we?" A tired note was creeping into Faith's voice as she asked again.

“This is the Edwards Place. Elizabeth went and married into this big powerful family. All her in-laws were like, Illinois big shots. Her father-in-law was one of the first Governors and Congressmen. He was Governor when it was still a freakin' territory. Her husband was attorney general for the state, and her brother-in-law’s were all lawyers or something impressive like that. I still think it's funny that Elizabeth went and married into this crazy powerful family probably thinking, 'Oh I'm so great, look at me, I married the Attorney General.' and then her sister comes along and is like, 'Watch this bitch,' and goes and marries the president,” Remy cackled wildly, the rest of his gummy worm now clamped between his teeth.

“Jesus kid,” Sam said with a snarky laugh.

“Ok, cause all these famous Sand suckers lived here, they went and turned the house into like, a museum. Before they did that though, we had a diary from Mary Todd Edwards in our inventory. Then, once they opened up, the Edwards family proved provenance so they took possession of it and it got moved over here,” Remy explained.

“So, let us in then,” Faith said.

“I can't. If it’s a historical state building, I got keys. This place is privately owned by some non-profit. That’s where Sam comes in,” Remy said, turning towards him as another gummy worm magically appeared out of his hoodie and into his mouth.

“Get us in? C'mon Remy, I thought you had a challenge for me!” Sam boasted. He backed away from the house and examined the outer structure, mentally trying to create a path from the ground to a window on the top floor that looked to be open a crack. He took out his coin and flipped it around in his palm, the Sam Drake equivalent of clicking a clicky pen over and over to help him think. Faith and Remy watched Sam curiously.

“They don't have a security system or nothin.”

"Yeah ok," Sam replied, still staring at the outside. His coin was going end over end over his knuckles. He stalked to the dumpster and grabbed it by the edge, hoping to move it closer to the building.

“Sam.”

“What?”

“You just have to pick the lock, you don't have to go all parkour dude,” Remy said, glancing up the side of the building.

“It's ok, all I have to do is climb on top of the dumpster, jump over to the garage roof, make my way across those two window ledges, -” He explained until Faith's growing laughter caused him to stop.

“What?” Sam asked.

“Oh my god. You can't pick a lock, can you?” Faith asked, barely getting the question out before bursting out laughing again. Sam slipped his coin back in his pocket and crossed his arms in front of himself defensively, his dark green jacket pulled hard against his shoulders.

"Look, -" Sam started to explain, only to be interrupted again by Faith, who found this little tidbit downright hysterical.

“No way man, really?” Remy questioned, unable to comprehend this thought. Faith put a hand on Remy's shoulder, leaning her head against him for support during her fit of giggles.

"Alright, so I can't pick a lock. It's never stopped me. I still get in, and I always get what I came for. Always.” He said with a smug look on his face. Faith regained her composure, wiping away the wet trails the tears from her laughter with the sleeve of her jacket. She turned and headed back towards the rear door of the house, her hand rooting in the inner pocket of her coat. She pulled a small, soft leather case from her jacket. Adjusting the back of her jeans, she squatted down in front of the door, her eye line level with that of the brass doorknob. Sam and Remy walked towards the door, curious about what exactly Faith was doing. Faith slipped two slim tools out of the lock pick kit and slid each one into the keyhole on the doorknob slowly. Remy watched her in a giddy amazement; he had never seen a lock actually picked before, there wasn't much use for breaking and entering in the field of academia. Sam crouched down next to Faith who was still intently working on the lock, gently sliding and turning the tools by the resistance she felt.

“You can pick locks?” He asked in a quiet voice, trying to keep his surprise tone to a minimum.

“A handy byproduct of a misspent youth,” Faith said, wiggling the bottom metal arm.

“You've been holding out on me. Makes me wonder what else you know how to do,” he questioned suggestively. Faith felt the bottom tool slip into place and turned them both at the same time. The door clicked as the lock disengaged.

"Wait 'til you see me with cherry stems," She whispered to him with a wink before standing up. Sam bit his bottom lip as a thousand pictures flashed in his brain, most of them downright dirty as sin. He ran a hand through his hair as he stood up as if it would help dissipate some of the thoughts in his head. Faith quietly turned the doorknob and opened it a crack.

"No one should be here, right?" She said softly. He shook his head no. Faith stood up and opened the door the rest of the way slowly, stowing her tools back inside her jacket. Stepping inside, she was still cautious of making too much noise. Sam followed close behind her with Remy on his heels. They entered what looked like at one point was a small mud room that looked to now be used as an employee entrance. Sam looked around the corner and up the back stairs towards the second floor.

“You know where the book is Remy?” Sam asked.

“Probably like a bedroom on the second floor in one of the displays.”

“Ok, you stay here. Keep a look out for anything.”

"What? Oh, come on dude!" Remy whined angrily, his face utterly crestfallen.

“Just stay here, alright?” Sam said, not really in the mood to embrace the teenager whiny attitude, even if it was coming from Remy.

“Fine...douche,” He resigned sullenly, leaning against the hardwood frame of the doorway to the rest of the house.

Faith and Sam made their way upstairs, still taking care not to make too much noise. The stairway was lined with detailed painted portraits in dark wood frames of what Faith was sure was different generations of Edwards men. The top floor was all hardwood, crown molding, and flowered wallpaper. Things like ornate chairs and side tables were cordoned off by velvet ropes, as well as some of the bedrooms along the hallway that ran the whole length of the house. Sam ran a hand over a cherry table with grapevines carved into its sturdy legs.

"Hm, bet this would be worth a penny or two," His rough hand over the vines and shook a leg for good measure to check for stability.

“Hey! Focus, not what we came for!” Faith hissed at him.

“I know, I know, but it'd make a great parting gift,” He said, already picturing its lot number at an auction.

Faith let out a sigh of disgust. Bastard, money hungry bastard! And I flirted with him downstairs! What the hell is wrong with me, I should get my ass examined. Cause that's where my head is, square up my own ass! Faith thought as frustration with herself built within her head. Nope, no more flirting. No matter how good he smells. Eyes on the prize, find the book. She continued left down the hallway towards a large wardrobe at the end of the hall, open and displaying different pieces of period clothing. She stopped in front of the doorway to her right. Inside was a bedroom that looked straight out of the 1800's. Desk, sitting chair, bed, all look like they belonged there, despite the 'NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY PERMITTED' signs.

"Sam," Faith called for him. He walked down the hallway towards her, his heavy boots thumping against the runners atop the hardwood floor. Coming up behind her, he followed her into the room. She made a beeline for the roll top desk positioned in the corner of the bedroom, some part of her knowing what they were seeking would be there. The diary sat next to its own little placard, telling the interested masses what it was and who it belonged to. This was it.

Faith stood motionless, staring at the diary, frozen in place while a sudden internal conflict began to rage inside her head. If I take this, I'm a thief; I'm a criminal. I know I already broke in, but this seems so much worse! This is outright theft!

“Hey,” Sam said, putting his large, strong hand on her shoulder, snapping Faith back to the moment at hand.

“Yeah?”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, just, I'm not a person that does illegal things.”

“Says the woman with the lock picks,” He said, his head tilted and hazel eyes staring at her accusingly.

“That was a long time ago, that was breaking into places for shits and giggles, this is theft!” Her voice whispered as if she was cursing in church.

“Well, it's a good thing I'm a thief then,” Sam said back in the same hushed mocking tone while he reached past her and grabbed the diary from atop the desk. Faith watched as he closed the book and stowed it in the back waistband of his jeans and straightened his jacket over it, hiding it from view. With that quick move, it was as if the world turned from black and white to bright neon and everything was suddenly real. No more talking about it, no more just researching for kicks, no more 'just a simple road trip,' this was happening, and despite her momentary question of morality, it made her feel fucking fantastic and more alive than she had felt since her mother had died.

Sam headed back down the hallway, Faith on his heels. She felt exhilarated, but she was still anxious to get the hell out of there and not get caught. Remy looked up the stairway from the main floor where he had stayed put, despite his protests.

“Did ya get it?” He asked excitedly.

"Got it, let's go," Sam answered as he strode toward the door, ushering Remy and Faith out first. He closed the door, locked it behind him and stalked towards the car, trying not to draw any attention to the three of them if there was anyone around. As Sam unlocked the car, he pulled the diary from the back of his pants. He might not have the same anal need to preserve artifacts like Nathan did, but he figured sitting on it while he drove would not only be a bad idea but would be very uncomfortable. Sam handed the diary off to Remy's outstretched hands, sure that was the best place for it. Sam turned the key, and the engine roared to life. Almost euphoric at this point, Faith looked out her window, darting her eyes in every direction, anxious to make sure nothing looked hinky. The sun bright and reflecting off the puddles from the morning's rain, Sam sped out of the parking lot and down the one-way street, running over the cubed gum wrappers as he went by.

Sam skidded to a stop in front of the lobby of the motel chain they decided on to be their base camp for the night while they were in Springfield. Sam shifted the car into park and slid out of the driver's seat.

“Stay here, I'll grab a room,” He said, slamming the car door behind him, causing Faith to give a tiny jump.

"For someone dealing in antiques, he's sure not very gentle," She muttered to herself. She pivoted in her seat towards Remy, who held the diary open in one hand and his phone in the other. A gummy worm as green as his hair hung crooked out the side of his mouth. The flashlight feature from the cell phone lit the diary, giving Remy some extra light as the daylight faded quickly underneath the growing clouds.

“How you doing Remy?” Faith asked.

“Pretty fucking awesome,” He stated very matter of fact. He sucked the rest of the gummy worm into his mouth and smiled at Faith.

"Alright, the entries start in 1875. Mary died in 1882, and the diary looks like it goes til around like, June of the next year. That's when she lived with her sister so we should, hopefully, be able to find something."

After a few minutes, Sam walked out of the lobby with three room keys, handing one each to Remy and Faith as he got in the car. Parking in the far corner of the poorly lit lot, they grabbed their gear and headed towards the last room on the ground floor. Sam was pleased to see the room next to theirs empty as they walked over the cracked sidewalk; That meant more privacy, which was never a bad thing to have too much of. Faith opened the door with her keycard and flicked on the light. It had looked exactly as Sam's had the night she stayed with him, only this one had a couch and an uncomfortable looking high-backed armchair. Remy set the journal on the table and plopped down in one of its chairs, face still glued to the front of his phone. Faith dropped her backpack next to the bed and flung herself back on it with a sigh. She felt as if she hadn't had a decent sleep in days since she had found that damn Bible and the lack of a bed for the last 48 hours was starting to weigh on her eyelids and her back. She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumbs.

“Alright, food should be here in like half an hour,” Remy announced, plopping his phone down on the table. Faith sat up and looked at him, puzzled.

“Didn’t I just see you eat three corn dogs?”

“Yeah.”

Sam’s cell phone vibrated audibly in his jacket pocket. He fished it out quickly, double checking the incoming number. Nathan.

“And didn’t you just eat a bunch of gummy worms?” Faith said, continuing her questioning. She glanced at Sam questioningly. He held up a finger and opened the metal door of the motel and stepped outside.

“I need real food, candy is like, just a food substitute. I’m a growing boy you know,” Remy answered, the last thing Sam heard as he shut the door behind him and pressed green button on his phone.

“Hey little brother,” He said holding the phone up to his ear while he rooted into his jacket pocket for his smokes.

"Hey, Sam. How you making out in Illinois? Any luck?" Nathan asked.

“Remy got us a starting point. We’ll see where we end up.”

“Keep him out of trouble alright? He’s a good kid.”

“C’mon, trouble? Me? Never,” Sam said, exhaling a plume of smoke.

“I’m serious Sam. I heard Jasper still has Arthur Bixby sniffing around for you and Faith so watch yourselves. You remember what he’s like, “Nathan warned him.

“Motherfucker,” Sam muttered to himself.

"Gimme the phone," Sam heard a gruff voice say in the background on Nathan's end of the line. Sam leaned on beige metal railing that ran along the edge of the building, the cold metal biting into his forearms as he held the phone in place with his shoulder. He heard the phone being shuffled between parties. He waited patiently, smoking his cigarette while Nathan and Sully bickered, Sully finally winning with the phrase, ‘Just hand me the goddamn phone!' Sam took one final drag of his cigarette, burning it down to the filter.

“Sam,”

“Victor,” Sam said, grinding the butt of his smoke into the pavement with the heel of his dark gray boot. “Recouping at Nate and Elena’s?”

"Believe me; it's not by choice. How's it going?"

“Alright so far, Remy got us somewhere to start.”

“You heard what Nate said about Bixby?” Sully questioned, a hint of warning in his voice.

“Yeah I heard, I’ll watch my back,” Sam agreed half-heartedly. He still wasn’t convinced that Jasper Nox would have anyone watching them.

“Don’t bullshit a professional bullshitter Sam. You need to watch your back, watch Faith’s back,” Sully urged him.

“Why you got me lookin’ out for this girl, Victor?”

"Cause I asked you to," Sully replied, hoping to shut him down quickly.

“Is she important, I mean, is she your kid or something? Why you got me doing this?”

“Sam, please, just do this one goddamn favor for me without asking any questions, alright?” Sully said as anger and frustration boiled over in him quickly.

“Alright, alright. I got it.”

“How is she?”

“Faith? She’s fine,” Sam answered.

“She’s fine?” Sully repeated accusingly.

“Yeah, she’s fine. She’s good.” Sam assured him.

“Sam.”

“What?”

“Don’t do it.”

“What are you talkin about?” Sam questioned.

"I'm talking about keeping it in your pants Samuel. That's what I'm talking about."

“Awe Jesus Sullivan, gimme a little more credit than that,” Sam said,

“I’m serious.”

“Okay,” Sam said, making sure the sarcasm dripped from every letter.

“Leave this one alone Samuel, it won’t lead anywhere good,” Sully warned him; The words that he had already heard Sully say to him in his head, now hearing them aloud, sent a chill down his spine. What the fuck is up with this girl? He thought to himself.

"Alright, alright, Victor, I got it," Sam acquiesced. Sam looked across the lot, a small red sedan covered in rust puttered into the large parking lot, its sides plastered with magnetic signs of what Sam assumed could only be the local pizza joint.

“Gotta go. I’ll be in touch.”

“Watch yourselves out there.”

"Will do," Sam said, snapping the phone closed. First, it was take care of her; then it was protect her, now it's keep it in my pants? Fuck that; I promised one and two. I didn't make any damn promises about being celibate. You want me to take care of her? I’ll take care of her, my way. The whole Samuel Drake package, full fucking service if the moment presents itself, Sam thought to himself smiling as he dug a small wad of cash out of the front pocket of his jeans.

[mittensmorgul]

Wow, I have such a kink for 8.2! I'm cutting work to watch this again LOL!

Oh dear! Confession time, I was up until like 4 am (no that’s a lie, it was almost 5 am), and woke up to find Mr. Mittens watching it. It was the bit I’m currently watching right now, at the riverbank in Purgatory.

“Let me bottom line it for you. I’m not leaving here without you. Understand?”

In my groggy state, I blurted out, “Oh gosh, we’ve come so far since then.” And then I ran to the living room and turned on the other tv, rewound it to the beginning and watched the whole thing again.

I still get skeeved by this entire auction. Like they deliberately invited Crowley and a representative of Heaven to drive up the price of the tablet. I mean, who else would have any interest at all in the Demon tablet? It’s like Plutus just... stole stuff and held it for ransom under the guise of this freaky auction. I mean, god of greed, so it seems logical, but >.>

Another bit that’s always bugged me is not the line itself, but the fandom misinterpretation of it as a Canon Fact:

Linda Tran offers her own soul in trade for the tablet and Kevin, which Plutus accepts with this reasoning:

CROWLEY: If it's souls that you're after, I can give you a million souls.DEAN: Hey, flyboy, are you gonna get in on this?SAMANDIRIEL: We guard the souls in Heaven. We don't horse-trade them.CROWLEY: So we have a deal.PLUTUS: It's not about the quantity, chief. It's about the sacrifice. This little lady's soul is the most valuable thing she has. It's everything. Are you willing to offer everything, Mr. Crowley?DEAN: Tick-tock.CROWLEY: Fine. You win. I bid... my own soul!PLUTUS: [laughs] Mr. Crowley, you don't have a soul. [to MRS TRAN] Congrats, sweetheart.

The key here is that Linda’s soul was valuable because it was the largest SACRIFICE she was capable of making. Like Plutus said, “It’s everything.” So Crowley’s offer of a million souls, which after s6 we know would’ve been a major power trade (he loaned Cas 50k souls to smack down Raphael, but it still wasn’t enough to defeat Raphael-- hence the grab for Purgatory souls. So a MILLION souls was a significant and substantial quantity of power to give up). But in Hell, new souls are showing up every day. They’re a renewable resource. Short-term it would’ve been a high price to pay, but long-term? In the bigger picture? Meh.

But in that same vein, when Plutus points this out, he asks if Crowley is willing to offer EVERYTHING he owns, and Crowley takes that to mean his own soul... but that’s hardly everything Crowley owns that is of value, you know?

First off, he really doesn’t HAVE a soul. Demons ARE souls. The smoky thing we see is what Hell does to that bright and shiny human soul we’ve seen before numerous times. I don’t think Plutus was saying that Crowley really had no soul, but that he didn’t have one to TRADE, because it was his entire BEING, you know? And it’s certainly not the extent of the things Crowley COULD sacrifice-- like the entire realm of Hell.

Plus, that matter of the fact that the “Mr Crowley, you don’t have a soul” line was a direct quote of something someone once said to the real-life Aleister Crowley. (a fact that is now impossible to google because of the millions of results it returns about this scene...).

SAM: Dean, were you really going to, uh...DEAN: What? Slit soccer mom's throat? Yeah, I was. I wish I had.SAM: Dean –DEAN: It was Crowley, Sam. No matter what meat suit he's in, I should have knifed him. I mean, yeah, it would have sucked, and I would have hated myself, but what's one more nightmare, right?

And Dean’s takeaway after Kevin runs for it? That people he doesn’t “need” anymore tend to die.

Which gives a HELL of a lot of weight to the statement in Purgatory to Cas:

DEAN: We'll figure it out. Cas, buddy, I need you.

But Cas still ended up stuck in Purgatory anyway. As if Dean’s “need” for him wasn’t even enough to save Cas from that fate. And then months later in 8.17:

Dean: This isn’t you. Cas, I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Cas, it’s me. We’re family. We need you; I need you.

And... it WAS enough to “save” Cas that time, but still not enough to get him to stick around. Heck, so much of s8 was about need...

I mean, while I was typing this up, I let 8.03 run in the background.

We already know from the jump in s8 that Dean’s pissed off that Sam walked away for an entire year, leaving Kevin running and fighting for his life alone. It came up again in 8.02, with Kevin still not really trusting Sam and Dean, and running off on his own again (with Linda this time).

And in 8.03, Dean finds yet another thing to harp on Sam about his own year off:

DEAN: All right, man, look, I get it. You took a year off to do yoga and play the lute, whatever, but I'm back. Okay, we're back, which means that we walk and kill monsters at the same time. We'll find Kevin. But in the meantime, do we ignore stuff like this? Or are innocent people supposed to die so that you can shop for produce?

Because while researching, Dean discovers the pattern of deaths repeats every six months, and Sam had’t even noticed it, let alone investigated to try and save these people, meaning the three people who’d died that week were on Sam for not having ganked the thing that killed them the first time it went on a killing spree... Yeah, Dean was angry, but meanwhile Sam had been in that “I don’t fight anymore, I watch the bees” sort of state of mind during that whole year.

Nothing says family like the whole family being dead (or as near as... )

But then Dean discovers Sam was considering going back to college. He tells Sam that this is where they’re best-- hunting down monsters together:

DEAN: I know where I'm at my best, and that is right here, driving down crazy street next to you.SAM: Makes sense.DEAN: Yes, it does.SAM: Or... maybe you don't need me. I mean, maybe you're at your best hacking and slicing your way through all the world's crap alone, not having to explain yourself to anybody.DEAN: Yeah, that makes sense, seeing as I have so many other brothers I can talk to about this stuff.SAM: Look, I'm not saying I'm bailing on you. I'm just saying make room for the possibility that we want different things. I mean, I want my time to count for something.DEAN: So, what we do doesn't count?

And this is so important, the first suggestion that Sam and Dean want different things in life, and that eventually that might even be okay. But hooboy does it ever cause a lot of conflict between now and that impossibly distant potential future:

DEAN: Wow. Back in business. Got the win. Admit it – feels good, huh? You know, I was thinking about what Randa said about, uh, you know, what it feels like to be a warrior. I get it, man, I do.SAM: I know. I know you do. I don't. Not anymore. Hell, maybe I never did.DEAN: Come on, Sam, don't ruin my buzz, would you?SAM: Dean, listen, when this is over – when we close up shop on Kevin and the tablet – I'm done. I mean that.DEAN: No, you don't.SAM: Dean, the year that I took off, I had something I've never had. A normal life. I mean, I got to see what that felt like. I want that. I had that.DEAN: I think that's just how you feel right now.

And that’s setting up everything that’s come after in the brothers’ relationship with each other, the first chip knocked out of the giant mountain of codependency. It comes roaring back with a vengeance by the end of the season (granted, via the end of their close brush with hubris in their attempt to close the gates of hell), but at least all of this brings those issues glaringly to the surface where they can’t really just keep on keeping on the way they always have anymore.

Need vs want

I think this is also foundational to Dean NEEDING people rather than being able to admit that he WANTS them in his life. That he wants people to stay in his life because he loves them, not because he needs them for a specific purpose.

Because when Dean doesn’t need people anymore, they tend to end up dead... And just loving people, needing them just because he loves them, he sees it as selfish. And his personal needs aren’t enough to keep people he loves from dying.

Boy howdy did he ever internalize that to a toxic extent.

Dean has clearly not shed the “I’m Poison” thing from s7, and in some ways it only gets worse over the next few seasons, like he’s got to get to the very root of that feeling, plumb the depths of his own self-loathing and become the absolute worst possible version of himself (hello, Demon Dean), and come through the other side with a healthier sense of self, a healthier sense of his relationship with Sam, and an acceptance of his personal need for Cas.

Now he just has to find the right words to express all that. Saying his piece to Mary in 12.22 was a good start.

And oh gosh, 8.04-- Michael gave up his personal time with Kate to go along with Brian, because apparently Brian had no one else to hang out with. At the time, it sounds like Sam agreeing to go along with Dean on these hunts, leaving Amelia behind because Dean had no one else to hang out with... And the whole situation turned into a toxic mess. But the parallel isn’t perfect. Dean wasn’t motivated for the same reasons Brian was. Brian wanted what Michael had. Dean didn’t want what Sam had.

Dean just wanted everything to stay the same. But again, his needs are poison.

Heck, this got away from me again didn’t it?

[lixation]

MIA - Part 2: Proposal

The Hacker and the Student - it might not seem like much to most, but to those involved, it can be the most important thing in existence. When the person you want to protect most in the world won’t let you, what other choice do you have?

Series: Mystic Messenger

Characters: 707 x Yoosung

Word Count: 1,467

Warnings: N/A

Part 1

**Zen has entered the chatroom**

Jaehee: Hello Zen

707: Zenny Zen~~

Zen: Ew….What’s with you…

Zen: Hey Jaehee

707: T_T so cruel

Jaehee: How were rehearsals?

Zen: They went great! This new director really knows what he’s on about

Zen: They’re working us pretty hard, but what’s coming out of it is beautiful

Jaehee: I’m sure having your skills is helping to make it work as well

Zen: Ah~ You think so too?

707: And there it is!!

Zen: What’s that supposed to mean??

707: Did you see the new merch that went on sale?

Jaehee: I’ve already made sure to purchase one of each item, however the body pillows sold out before I got the chance

Zen: New merch? Body pillows??

Jaehee: You haven’t seen the new items on your fansite?

707: Don’t worry, Jaehee!!! The body pillows will be restocked shortly!!

Zen: You again?!

707: ya

707: It’s really showing how popular you’ve become

Zen: well…I guess if it’s for my fans

Jaehee: When will they be restocked?

707: Limited supply will go on sale Monday, but there’s a surprise as well!!

Zen: Why don’t I like the sound of this…

Jaehee: …

707: T_T

707: Why don’t you trust me??

Zen: Just hurry up and tell us what it is…

707: No. I’m not going to tell you now.

Zen: Seven….it better not be something gross!

Jaehee: oh…I wonder what it could be…

Jaehee: something the collectors would go crazy for?

707: ya

707: It’s getting prepped tonight and will go on auction tomorrow

Jaehee: Auction?

Zen: What the hell is it??

707: Keke

707: A body pillow

707: used by

707: Zenny himself!!

Jaehee: …

Zen: … seconded

707: What?? The fans will go crazy for it!!

707: Not just buying a pillow with Zen on it, but it’ll smell like him too!

Zen: Why would I agree to that?!

Jaehee: I think it would sell very well

Jaehee: You could get a lot of money for it, Zen

Jaehee: and it would definitely increase your popularity with your fans

707: See! Spoken by a true fan!

Zen: I wouldn’t do it for the money!

Zen: I wouldn’t do it at all!

707: Good thing about the money, ‘cause I already made plans for it

Zen: ….

Zen: You what…

Zen: What the hell do you need more money for?!

707: I have 4 gifts that I’m planning all for one night!!

Zen: How much are you spending??!

Jaehee: Gifts?

707: ya

707: oh, but I’ve gotta go now!

707: Mary is at the door

707: Chao!

**707 has left the chatroom**

“What the hell have you been doing?” Not even a hello from Mary as they walked into the room, pushing past Seven as they looked at the mess, “How do you manage to think in a place like this?”

Seven flopped down onto his couch, “Exactly. I can’t! That’s why it’s not done yet.” His face lit up as he scrambled over to his bench and picked up a USB and held it out proudly to show Mary, “But look! I finally finished the algorithm for the show!!”

Mary slapped their hand against their face and let out an annoyed groan, “You have got to be kidding me. You haven’t gotten the information for our client, but you’ve put together that stupid show for your boyfriend?” They glared at Seven, “You’re lucky I haven’t told the boss about RFA or your boyfriend, but if you keep slacking I’m going to have no choice. Get it?”

His face dropped and Seven lowered the USB, “Alright…I’ll finish up now.” He slumped into his seat and started typing without another word while Mary started to attempt to clean the room.

Two days had passed and Seven couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. The pillow had sold for even more than he’d expected, totaling $10,346.00. He pulled his car up to a stop at the side of the road before hurrying over to his phone and logging into the chatroom.

**707 has entered the chatroom**

Zen: SEVEN

707: hello~

Zen: HOW CAN YOU LIE ABOUT THE PILLOW YOU SOLD?

707: Lie?? How’d I lie?

Zen: I never slept with that thing!

Jaehee: The poor fan that spent so much….for a lie

707: It wasn’t a lie

Zen: But I didn’t sleep with it

707: You did. I took it to your house the other night

707: You even got some drool on it lololol

Jaehee: ….

Zen: HOW COULD YOU DO THAT??

**Yoosung☆ has entered the chatroom**

Yoosung☆: Oh! Seven!

Yoosung☆: I’ve been calling you all day! Where are you!!

707: sorry, sorry

707: I’ve been slaving away T_T

Yoosung☆: You could have at least text me…

Zen: Dammit, Seven. You’re lucky I have rehearsals!

Jaehee: Don’t push yourself too hard, Zen

Zen: Thanks, Jaehee. Bye.

**Zen has left the chatroom**

707: Have you been on LOLOL today?

Yoosung☆: Not yet, I was about to log in though

Jaehee: You might be studying harder…but you still game too much

Yoosung☆: But….but it calls to me!

707: Check out your subscription status!!

Yoosung☆: You didn’t!!!

Yoosung☆: You did! The platinum experience package!!

Yoosung☆: But it’s so expensive!

707: I’m glad you like it lol

Jaehee: That’s what all the sales have been for…

707: part

707: You’ve got 4 gifts all up tonight.

Yoosung☆: wait…what?

Jaehee: oh….

707: come out the front when you’re ready

**707 has left the chatroom**

Seven slid his phone into his pocket and rocked back on his heels until he was leaning on the rail, chewing the inside of his cheek nervously as he stared at Yoosung’s door. When the door opened Yoosung almost tripped over himself as he tried to hurriedly tug his shoes on, “When did you get here?”

“Not long ago, but we don’t have long so follow me to gift number two.” Seven winked at Yoosung before wandering ahead of him down the pathway.

When Seven suddenly started climbing onto the roof Yoosung called out after him, concern painting his face, “What are you doing? Be careful!”

Once he’d reached the stop Seven leaned over the edge of the roof and extended his hand to Yoosung, “C’mon. I’ll give you a hand.” When the blonde just stared at him nervously Seven gave him a comforting smile, “Don’t worry. I’d never let you get hurt.”

They’d somehow survived the climb despite Yoosung’s wobbling legs and Seven cheerily led his boyfriend along the rooftop until they reached a small picnic made up of Honey Buddah Chips and Dr Pepper. Yoosung’s eyes shined like a child in a candy store, his heart quickly beating away in his chest as Seven gently lead him to sit down on the rug before placing a kiss on his forehead, “Two down.” Seven whispered against Yoosung’s hair before sitting down next to him.

Together they enjoyed their far from healthy dinner for two but Yoosung couldn’t help but to wonder what else was in store. “So….You’ve already given me my two favourite things…what else are you planning?” He questioned, poking Sevens cheek playfully as he laid next to him.

“Well,” he started, checking the time on his phone before sitting up and looking away from the city and out into the distant night sky, “Just look out there.”

Yoosung frowned as he stared out into the darkness. “I don’t get it.” He muttered, but before Seven would even have had a chance to respond Yoosung’s eyes lit up, the loud bang of fireworks filling the air as he watched the colours spark and fill the sky. “Oh my God…is this…Seven is this you-“ Yoosung cut himself off as he turned to see his boyfriend kneeling beside him, “S-Seven…what are you-“

“Just keep watching.” He rolled his eyes and nodded back to the sky, “Or else you ruin number three.”

When Yoosung turned back to the fireworks he saw them explode into more intricate designs, more and more firing until finally they stopped. There was a moment of silence before the finale spiraled into the sky, the sparks falling to paint the sky with one question.

Join me at the space station?

The next time Yoosung looked at Seven tears started to build in his violet eyes. He couldn’t get out a single syllable as he stared at the ring in his boyfriend’s hand. “You know, you don’t get number four until I get an answer.” Seven tried to joke, attempting to hide how nervous the wait made him.

Shaking his head, Yoosung tried to find his voice. “Yes.” Slowly his smile grew as he repeated his answer with more enthusiasm, “Yes, yes! Of course!”

Seven slid the ring onto Yoosung’s finger before pulling him into a deep kiss, leading into the fourth gift.

Part 1

[lewishamledger]

The land of make believe

Marcus Halls Props has worked on all the major West End musicals from Hamilton and Tina to Bat Out of Hell and Kinky Boots. Chris Marcus and Jonathan Hall, who set up the company in 2006, show us behind the scenes at their new premises in Ladywell

Words Nikki Spencer; Photo by Paul Stafford

At the back of Supreme Animal Foods pet supplies in Ladywell lies a secret magical world of make believe, where cakes look delicious yet can’t be eaten, flowers bloom but have no smell and there’s an array of musical instruments that won’t play a single note.

Huge shelves are stacked to the rafters with chairs and coffee tables of every design and size, piles of empty suitcases, tea sets from all eras and a plentiful supply of trays.

“Nearly every show seems to need a butler’s tray so those get used again and again”, says Chris Marcus as he and Jonathan Hall embark on a guided tour of their veritable Aladdin’s Cave.

In the workshop area a team of props makers are busy making weird and wonderful creations for stages not just in the West End but for touring shows around the globe.

“We have an incredibly talented team who have previously worked at places such as Madame Tussaud’s and the Royal Opera House”, explains Chris as he picks up a cup of tea and turns it upside down with a smile.

“We create a lot of fake food and drink and tea is one of our specialities. A while ago we did all the cakes for the Calendar Girls Musical so we had trestle tables full of cakes. You knew they weren’t real but it did still make you hungry.”

By the large warehouse doors there are two huge piles of props all packaged up and ready to be shipped to Germany and the US for tours of Bat Out of Hell. “It’s an action-packed show and it’s been quite a challenge,” says Jonathan.

“There’s one scene where a large white table cloth is pulled away to reveal a car underneath. That was a headache to say the least. We had to find a way to disguise a four-metre car convincingly as a banquet table and then work out  how to remove the cloth in an instant. In the end we suspended the cloth with electro magnets which could be released at the press of a button.”

And that wasn’t the only conundrum.

“There’s lots of furniture and quite a bit of it is in perspective. We had to have bedspreads specially made at some very funny angles, it almost sent the bedding company over the edge.”

At one workbench a retro mixing desk is being built for Motown the Musical, while most of the team are busy working on rather macabre assortment of props for A Very, Very, Very Dark Matter a new play at The Bridge Theatre about Hans Christian Anderson which is set in the attic of a Copenhagen townhouse.

The attic is stuffed full of puppets and Chris and Jonathan and the team have been making 120 of them from hummingbirds to skeletons to horses, alongside other rather unusual items including a large bible filled with dolls heads.

“Luckily we found someone in Spitalfields who was selling off a load of old dolls heads so we now have a plentiful supply is we ever need them for anything else”, says Chris.

So how did they get into this business?

Jonathan grew up in Derbyshire, left school at 16 and worked as a touring puppeteer and puppet maker before training in Stage Management at London’s Guildhall School of Music and Drama, while Chris, who was involved in amateur dramatics when he was growing up in Devon, studied Technical Theatre at Rose Bruford College in Sidcup.

“We met when we were both working as stage managers on the Lion King and became friends” explains Chris. “We went on holiday to New York and late one evening we got chatting about what we wanted to do in the future and we came up with the idea of setting up our own props company.”

Their services were immediately in demand and last year it became clear that they had outgrown their premises in Camberwell.

Both Jonathan and Chris live in Ladywell, and they came across their new building online, although it looked nothing like it does now.

“It used to be used by Acre Lifts and was the perfect size but when we saw it, it was just a large empty space and it was only after we moved in that we discovered there was only one plug socket in the corner, and a tap with a small dribble of water coming out,” recalls Chris.

“In January some friends came over from Spain for a week to help us sort it all out and they ended up staying until April!”

They got a mezzanine company to install an upper floor where they have their office. On the wall there’s a huge whiteboard with all their current projects mapped out. They never know what they will be asked to do next.

“We get requests for all sorts of random things. We had to make a body of Eva Peron for Evita and a whole lot of bodies wrapped in plastic for a show at the Donmar Warehouse”, recalls Chris.

“You just learn to just go along with it and do your best. They will want a table that is light enough that one person can lift on their finger but that 10 people can tap dance on,” Jonathan says wryly.

“Some set designers simply present us with a rough drawing while others give us beautiful intricately made 1:25 models of everything. We still have all the ones from Tina stored in a Quality Street tin.”

As well as making things in the workshop, they regularly trawl big antiques markets such as Ardingly, Newark, Lincoln and Kempton and closer to home, Greenwich Auctions, hunting for things that can be used as they are or adapted.

“We needed thousands of old books a while back and Greenwich was good for that”, says Chris adding that eBay is also a “ very valuable resource”.

Every show works differently but once everything has been made and sourced they then attend technical rehearsals at the theatre.

“Something that someone sat and wrote at a computer may not actually work on stage so things change all the time”, explains Jonathan.

“Strictly Ballroom Act 2 bears no resemblance to the original and Tina is the same. Bat Out of Hell on stage is poles apart from what it was at the beginning,” he says.

And with shows going all around the world that means they are often travelling.

“It’s been a crazy busy year, as on top of moving I have been and all over the place from Tokyo for Mary Poppins and Toronto and  Germany for Bat out of Hell to Newcastle for Benidorm Live!

“Jonathan has been mainly on our shows in London but has been in some glamorous locations like Northampton for Kinky Boots and Leeds for Calendar Girls,” says Chris.

Every day there’s a constant steam of vans arriving with deliveries and collections. “We know our postman very well and all the delivery company drivers too,” says Jonathan.

With so much coming and going the large warehouse doors are often open so people can see in as they walk to and from the pet shop car park at the rear of the building.

“Ricky, who has run the pet shop for over 25 years, is lovely to have as a neighbour but there have been a few odd moments for his customers since we moved in”, says Jonathan.

“We recently had to make a load of cut-up animal carcasses, and butchered pig’s heads out of polystyrene for a play in the West End. You could see people doing a double take as they walked past!”