#amateur time lord fancies herself an amateur writer

[dominustempori]

Alright people, it's happening again!

The fanfic muse has been haunting my dreams, and distracting me at my job more than sporadically, these last few months. And I have FINALLY put pen to paper...or fingers to keyboard I should say.

Not a Ghostbusters story this time, but my own little story to add to the legacy that is the Monkey Island saga.

I (partially) blame some new mutuals I've 'met' since the latest game, "Return to Monkey Island," was released last fall. Mind you, the BAREST hint of an idea for an MI fic started swirling around my fangirl brain years ago when the LAST game, "Tales of Monkey Island," came out back in 2009. "Return" helped to solidify that idea, along with some brilliant artwork that was inspired by this amazing adventure game.

More chapters (parts? I don't know what I should call them exactly, but I've got plenty of head canons I might turn into proper fics or drabbles.) may most likely appear in future posts, and maybe my FFN account. Maybe. At the very least I had to get a start to clear my head a little more. A long-awaited (by me, hee.) story featuring one of my OTPs: Elaine Marley and Guybrush Threepwood.

So...here we go. Hope you all enjoy.

“Their Grandest Adventure Ever”

Part 1:

The warm Caribbean sun shone its morning light through the Captain's cabin’s beveled windows.  Its rays alighted on a head of long, slightly unkempt golden hair, which stirred slightly as its owner approached a semi-state of wakefulness.  Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate, groaned softly as the sunrise broke over the horizon.  He had hoped for a few more minutes of sleep, but today, time waited for no captain. 

“’Morning, Plunderbunny,” he muttered groggily as his hand reached out across the bed.  “Are you awake yet?”

The silence he received spurred Guybrush into opening his eyes and waking up just that bit more.  His wife must’ve gotten up earlier, but where was she, he wondered.

He called out a little louder, “Elaine?  Sweetie?”

Guybrush sat up in a rush, fully conscious now.  If Elaine had been in their washroom, surely she would have called back to him.  Maybe she was already dressed and on deck?  Or down in the galley helping with breakfast?  Although, he thought to himself, she rarely, if ever, was awake and about her shipboard duties by sunup.  Both of them tended to linger in bed a bit after slowly waking up, AFTER the sun had risen, often still in each other’s embrace.

“Better go and find her,” the pirate captain muttered to himself, and then added as an afterthought, “I hope she’s all right.”

Guybrush hurriedly pulled off his night clothes and rummaged in his wardrobe for his usual ‘at-sea’ outfit: white linen shirt, black trousers, stockings and boots, belt and baldric.  He decided to forgo his blue captain’s coat, and opted for one of his waistcoats – midnight blue silk with a swirl pattern embroidered into it, with gold buttons: his latest anniversary gift from Elaine.  He smiled to himself as he put the vest on, swiftly tied his hair into his traditional ponytail, and then turned around to head out the door. 

He stopped for a second: why was the door open?  Not completely, but not closed all the way as he had done last night?  If Elaine had gone out to start working, surely she would have closed it behind her so as to let her husband sleep undisturbed?

Guybrush was worried now.

He rushed out of the cabin and looked around the ship, from portside to starboard…unless she was down below or up on the quarterdeck…wait.

There she was!  She was leaning on the starboard railing, just a few steps away from the cabin and looking at… what exactly?  Her hands seemed to have been grasping the balustrade more…tightly than she normally would, he observed. She was sort of more…hunched over.  And she was looking downward…something in the water maybe-hopefully not another giant manatee.

And had she…had she been crying?  Her face had that distinct blush to it, but, tinged with…an almost greenish hue?  Then he heard the slightest, shuddering sob come from his wife’s lips, followed by a long sigh. 

He couldn’t stand there any longer.  Guybrush hurriedly walked over to his poor Plunderbunny’s side, reaching out and calling her name.  “Elaine!  Are you all right?  What’s wrong?”

Elaine started at the sound of her husband’s worried shout, and then turned around to face him as he got near her, though she was still feeling a little shaky.  He had both his arms extended out, as if he wanted nothing more than to pull her into a hug and hold her close.  But his face told a different story: eyes wide, mouth set in a nervous frown…he knew something had happened to her. 

She stood up a little straighter, reached one hand out towards one of his, and gently laid his palm on her warm cheek, to help ground and steady her a bit more.  She laid her other hand on his own face, to reassure him. 

“I’m…I’m all right, love.  I’m feeling better now.”  Guybrush couldn’t help but wince a bit at the sound of her voice; it was a bit hoarse and low-pitched…far too much for just having woken up.

“Sweetie,” he said as he moved his hand from her face to gently grasp her shoulder,”…you’ve been seasick.  You NEVER get seasick!  Not in all the years we’ve been together.  Something’s wrong…are you SURE you’re all right?”  He was making a mighty effort to not let the wave of panic he started to feel creep into his voice, but from looking at Elaine’s wide, emerald eyes, he wasn’t sure if he was succeeding.

Elaine started to respond, but then, taking her husband by utter surprise, fell into his arms and started to weep.  She laid her head on his chest, with both hands grabbing his shoulders tightly; her warm tears slowly rolled down her tired face and onto Guybrush’s shirt.  Taken aback for a moment, Guybrush came to his senses and embraced his sobbing spouse.  One trembling hand moved to the back of her head to stroke her long, dark red hair, the other hand curving around to gently rub her back.

They stood that way for a few minutes, Guybrush giving his wife time to calm down a little, and then he placed a reassuring kiss to her temple.  “Let’s get you back to the cabin, back to bed so you can rest up.  Get a drink of water or something…come on, Laineykins.  I’ve got you.”

Elaine began to shake her head no, but she felt so tired after her cry, she couldn’t help but lean into her concerned husband’s side as he led her back to their bedroom.  As they stepped inside, Guybrush closed the door behind them, indicating to the crew that the Captain wished to not be disrupted.  He then guided Elaine toward the bed and waited until she sat down on the edge of the mattress.  “I don’t feel like lying down just yet, Guybrush, I…could you join me?” she asked her husband softly.

“Of course, honey.  Can I get you anything first?  Do you think you could keep down some water? “

“A small glass would be lovely, dear.  Thank you.”

Guybrush went around to his nightstand where a pitcher of fresh water stood, along with two pewter mugs.  He poured Elaine and himself some water, and handed a mug to Elaine.  She smiled slightly up at him as he sat down carefully beside her.  “Slowly now, a little sip at a time,” he reminded her.  He wouldn’t admit this to anyone BUT Elaine, but he’d had a bout or two of seasickness when he was a younger, more inexperienced pirate.

He decided to let Elaine start the conversation; she obviously wanted, no, NEEDED to tell him something, but there was no point in making her more anxious or upset.  After a couple small sips, she wet her lips and took a deep breath.

“Guybrush, dearest, I’ve…this isn’t the first time I’ve gotten sick the last few days.” That brought a gasp from her husband, who proceeded to take her free hand and hold it in his own.  He started to say something but Elaine beat him to it.  “Please, love, let me finish.”  Guybrush gulped down his words, but his widened blue eyes spoke volumes.  Elaine took another calming breath and went on.  “I was hoping I wouldn’t wake you when I got up to, well…I wanted to let you sleep in.  I didn’t want you to worry unnecessarily, at least, not until now. I, um…”

Guybrush couldn’t resist taking advantage of her pause.  “Elaine, please tell me.  Is there something wrong?  I mean, you’ve been feeling sick for the last few days?  That must mean something?”  Oh when Guybrush used his pleading voice…how could she resist it?

“Sweetie, I, it’s not THROUGHOUT the day that I’ve been feeling unwell, just…when I…when I wake up.”

“Alright, so you’ve been getting sick in the mornings, and…”

Guybrush could DEFINITELY not help but gasp as he took in what he just said.  Sick…in the MORNINGS.  He didn’t think his eyes could get any wider, or that he would ever find himself at a complete loss for words.  Elaine stared back, with a hopeful smile and a tiny glistening of tears in the corners of her eyes.

Her stunned husband shook his head for second, before carefully taking Elaine’s mug of water and placing it on the floor along with his own.  With a slight smile of his own, he then placed one hand gently along his wife’s reddened cheek, and the other…ever so carefully… over her belly.

“Sweetie…do you think you might be…?”

“I…I think I might be, love.”

Guybrush let out a small but joyful laugh.  He looked down at where his hand lay on Elaine’s stomach, and saw her own hand move to cover it.  Then he laid his gaze back on his beautiful wife’s…glowing…face.  Was it a trick of the morning light, he thought?  “No, she IS glowing.  How didn’t I notice before? Well for THAT matter…oh never mind that!  Say something to her!” he reprimanded himself. 

“Oh Elaine, I…you’re…we’re…”

Elaine gave a small laugh of her own as she realized her husband was feeling a little overwhelmed, much like the first time they met.  That thought made her smile all the wider.

“Yes, my love.  I’m pregnant.  You’re going to be a father.  We’re having a baby.”

[jomiddlemarch]

Make it so

Sam was fascinated with M. Picard and though she took great pains to conceal it, Christopher Foyle had no trouble at all observing her interest. At first, he had simply thought She’s so young and had expected to take the measure of the foreigner quickly, sure he would be less intrigued by the man than his driver the sheltered vicar’s daughter had been, Sam whose peaks of excitement prior to the War must have been gymkhana medals and the latest frustrating Christie with no redeeming moral virtue. He’d been wrong though, for Jean-Luc Picard was an unusual man, even for the unusual time they found themselves in, and Foyle had not imagined he would have discovered someone who was so much a challenge and a peer when there had been a rap at his office door and a muffled Pardon.

 The Frenchman, for he was undeniably so, despite the Oxbridge accent he used effortlessly and, Foyle thought, consciously, had walked in not as if owned the place, as if anyone would wish to own the Hastings police department, but as though no matter where he found himself, he was at home. The degree of security and self-awareness this indicated was rare in Foyle’s experience and it was enough to make him only note the slightly odd affectation of straightening the sober silk waistcoat before the man sat across from him, preparing to explain his situation. His story was perhaps not so remarkable for the times, an exile who had once moved among more rarefied Continental circles as the owner of a highly regarded vineyard, until it was added that he was also an archaeologist and writer who had a certain following for a series of fantastic novels he wrote about exploring the vast recesses of the heavens.

 It was Picard’s connections to the French and German oenophilic elite, his excavatory experiences in the Levant and the patronage of a peculiar American magnate named Roddenberry that had led him to Foyle’s office with a request for assistance in “a delicate matter that I cannot manage alone, but which might alter the course of the War.” It made a change from chasing the tawdry black market that Hastings supported, solving murders that showed man’s tendency to sin was not mitigated by the virtues the War called for—courage and justice and self-sacrifice. Foyle found himself as nearly giddy as Sam could be at the prospect of helping Picard arrange his trap, though he fancied he did not reveal himself as she did. The man’s initial plans were cleverly thought out but suggested the amateur detective and Foyle was able to offer several modifications which would increase the chances of success exponentially. Foyle could not recall a hour spent so pleasantly, though it was invigorating and not contemplative as fly fishing would have been. He had so enjoyed himself that he did not even mind the disruption of Sam at the door, poking her head found the edge of the frame to inquire about refreshments.

 “Mr. Foyle, I could bring round some tea and biscuits for you, if you’d like, and perhaps M. Picard would prefer coffee?” she said brightly. She generally found it dull sitting at the station waiting to drive him but today was an exception; the foreign visitor, the sense of mysterious conspiracy behind the closed door to Foyle’s office, her gratification in knowing more of M. Picard than Brookie and her rare ability to lord it over the sergeant had all led to the broad smile they’d been graced with and Foyle could only attribute her feminine instinct for a Frenchman’s appreciation of womanly charms on the utter neatness of her uniform, her Victory Roll pristine and her cheeks pinched to a becoming flush.

 “That will do very well, Miss Stewart,” Foyle said when Picard made a sudden gesture with his hand.

 “I beg your pardon, but no coffee for me,” he said. Foyle was taken aback.

 “Would you prefer something else then, sir, I mean, monsieur?” Sam said, correcting herself with a little of the school-girl French she could recall and looked pleased as punch with herself for it.

 “Tea, Earl Grey, hot—if you have it,” Picard replied. Sam nodded smartly, already in pursuit of the elusive beverage. She might have to go to the hotel in High Street to get it or wheedle the greengrocer, but Foyle was sure before the hour was out, his office would be fragrant with bergamot.

 “You surprise me. A Frenchman who doesn’t drink coffee?” Foyle said.

 “Mr. Foyle, may I ask permission to speak frankly?” Picard began and Foyle could only tilt his chin to indicate the man should go on. “I’ve had English coffee and I cannot risk my palate on it. A nice cup of tea, however, that will do nicely.”