#anthony putters

[nofatclips]

Last Breath by Child of Waste

[wally-b-feed]

Anthony Fineran (B 1981), Putter Capri, 2023

[abovethemists]

So, I really enjoyed the first half of the season. I think Bridgerton would have to really go off the rails for me not to enjoy it. But something about the world feels…smaller this season. I don’t know why. It’s ball rooms and Hyde Park and various sumptuous drawing rooms as always. But I think it might be the lack of Bridgertons. We’ve lost Daphne. Anthony was only in one episode. By the time we get to (god willing) season 8, it’s going to just be Greg with Lady Danbury and Violet puttering about. It seems like the family is dwindling instead of expanding. Maybe I’ll feel better when Kate and Anthony come back, but Bridgerton House feels empty without them.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Of Fire and Feathertingtons: Chapter 3

Well hello friends, and welcome to my second Polin fic! This one builds on The Polin Fic (I Could Have Told You 'Bout the Long Nights on Ao3) so be sure to read that before diving into this one!

Like the other one, this fic is safe for work, but a few warnings do apply! If house fires, house fire injuries, mild gore, and mild blood aren't your thing, then don't be afraid to give this fic a pass. I'll be updating it every week here and on Ao3, so check back for updates.

I hope you enjoy this Polin fic, I had a blast writing it!

Colin was typically most at ease at family dinners, but the omnipresent unease he had felt since Felix had come to stay with him and Penelope had significantly increased in the carriage, and he was finding it difficult to relax. He and Gregory had planned to finish an ongoing chess game before Gregory went away to school, but he was too tightly wound, and found himself pacing slowly across the room, untouched glass of scotch in hand. He would be glad when Pen had finished reading the children stories and rejoined them.

The entire family—with the exception of Francesca, who was in Scotland—had gathered, and since Colin had not been feeling up to playing, Gregory had attached himself to the knot comprised of Anthony, Benedict, Simon, and an extremely animated Eloise. Sophie, Kate, Hyacinth, and Violet were chatting and laughing around a small coffee table, embroidery hoops in hand. Felix was slouched in a chair approximately equidistant between the two groups, a book at the end of one outstretched arm, and his glass dangled loosely from his other hand. He was close enough to technically be part of the gathering but just beyond the comfortable radius of functional inclusion of either of the small groups. Colin was puttering past the window that looked out into Number 5’s back garden in daylight when the reflection of the small fire in the fireplace to ward off an unseasonal evening chill caught his eye. As he watched the flames dance in the glass, his mind drifted to Pen’s afternoon project.

Mapping out the location of the fires in Mayfair was an interesting proposition. There was no discernable pattern he could see to streets or house numbers, but if Pen was right about there being a single arsonist rather than a pair, then he would be limited in how far he would be able to travel to set fires. Particularly if he was preparing beforehand and was bringing his supplies with him to each house. Perhaps there would be a way to see if there was a particular distance between fires. That might give them some sense of how far the rogue could travel to set fires, and then they could begin to pinpoint where his home or workroom was.

The sooner they found the blackguard, the sooner his Pen could stop getting up at all hours of the night and putting herself in danger to ensure that no women or children were left out in the cold or trampled by the very people attempting to help. And the sooner she would stop displeasing the queen. Colin sighed quietly; only Penelope Bridgerton, née Featherington, could manage to infuriate a monarch a second time, particularly not after she had been brought into the royal fold because she was too dangerous to be left to her own devices. He did not think that Penelope knew that after the third fire, when she had been visiting her mother, a concerned Lady Danbury had invaded his study. Lady Danbury had informed him in no uncertain terms that the Queen preferred her ladies to listen and to pull their strings without making a scene, and in her estimation, appearing at fires violated that mandate.

He had attempted to talk her into staying home when he helped fight fires, but the flat look she had given him had told him in no uncertain terms that she would not stand by and let her peers and their children be risked if she could do anything about it. He had given up that line of argument because he knew as well as she did that she was safer if he knew what her plans were and did not accidentally work at cross-purposes. If there was one thing that not even the wrath of the Queen could do, it was force him to act in a way that would make Pen less safe.

They needed to find this cad quickly. He would offer to help Pen with her work the next afternoon; two heads would be better than one.

Colin’s thoughts were interrupted by a brief coughing fit from Violet. He turned to see Kate hand his mother a cup of tea. Anthony’s and Benedict’s heads had also craned about to check on their mother. A few sips later, the cough subsided, and Violet chuckled in that quiet way of hers.

“The rain shower we had yesterday evening must have gotten into the woodpile,” she said. “Colin, dearest, would you open the window for a moment or two? We can let the smoke clear out a little. How you men put up with this at your gentlemen’s clubs, I shall never understand.”

Colin opened the window and stepped away from the chill breeze as Anthony and Simon made polite comments about sending someone ‘round to ensure her wood pile was properly cured and not minding the smoke, respectively. Sophie pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders as Kate rose and moved closer to the warmth of the fire. Anthony looped an arm behind her back, pulling her close to help keep her warm.

The smoke cleared for a moment once the window opened, but then it grew thicker. Within minutes, everyone was coughing on and off from the smoke. Anthony and Simon were attempting to see whether there was a closed flue or blockage in the chimney. Benedict had wrapped Sophie in his jacket for warmth and walked her and Eloise to the window, where the air was fresher. Colin’s unease rose as he set his drink down to join them. Before he stepped toward the fireplace, however, the scent of the smoke changed: burning grease. Just then, Gregory’s voice piped up.

“This wood isn’t wet; it’s perfectly cured.” Colin’s heart turned to ice, and his stomach fell through the floor.

“Mother, we must get out now!” Colin’s voice was raised and terse. Anthony looked at him as though he was speaking gibberish.

“Colin, what on earth—” The housekeeper burst through the door, panting and coughing.

“Lady Bridgerton, we must go. There is a fire!” Colin had Hyacinth under one arm and his mother’s hand in his in less than a second, shepherding them toward the door as smoke billowed in through the open door. Benedict was close on his heels, with arms around Sophie and Eloise. Simon had Daphne’s hand in his, Anthony had Kate and Gregory’s hands in his, and Felix slouched behind. As they passed the hallway that led to the kitchen and nursery, Colin heard Sophie behind him ask Benedict, “What about Charles?” Colin’s head flicked back; the hallway was already in flames.

“The nanny and the maids surely got the children out. We will find them outside,” called Benedict over the crackle of the flame. And Pen was there, Colin thought. She’ll make sure they get out. She has to get out safely. He looked up briefly. The ceiling above him was largely obscured with smoke, but he could see bright glowing spots that he was sure meant the upper floors of the house were already on fire. The roar he associated with house fires was growing, and he began to hear wood creak and groan. He sped up, pulling his mother and youngest sister through the house and out the front door with him into the cold, blessedly smoke-free night air.

Colin did not stop until he had crossed the road to the small huddle of household servants. Violet and her housekeeper immediately began a head count to ensure that everyone in the household had made it out. Colin had turned to face the house. The roof was already in flames. There was no doubt in Colin’s mind that the same arsonist had struck his mother’s home. His fists clenched. When they found the man, Colin was no longer sure that he would live to face the crown’s justice. He might be beaten to death by at least five and possibly as many as eleven Bridgertons.

As he imagined pounding the arsonist to a paste, he scanned the small crowd. He wouldn’t be able to see the children in the press of people, but Pen’s hair, as she reunited the boys with their parents, would reflect the light of the flames; he’d be able to see her. He was on his second scan of the crowd, palms perspiring. Surely, surely, he would see—

A flash of red curls. He eeled through the crowd, headed for the flaming hair. But when his hand landed on the shoulder, he found suiting wool beneath his fingers, not the soft satin of Pen’s dress. Felix whirled to face the person who had grabbed his shoulder. Colin would have expected any number of expressions—fear, anger, and many flavors of disgust—but in the flash of expression beneath the startle on Felix’s face, Colin swore he saw euphoria. Then Felix’s face resolved into something reminiscent of bored distaste.

“Have you seen Penelope?” He would worry about that expression later; right now, Pen and the boys were the priority. Colin needed to know they were safe. He had to calm the pounding of his heart and swallow the bitter taste of fear in his mouth. He would not lose all of his nephews and his wife in one terrible night. He did not think his siblings would survive the loss of their children, or that he would survive losing Pen.

“What do you mean nobody has seen them?” Colin whipped around at the anguished tone in his mother’s voice.  

“We can’t find the nanny, the children, or Mrs. Bridgerton, ma’am!” Violet Bridgerton’s normally stoic housekeeper was crying. “They must still be inside.”

Kate’s cry was wordless and immediately followed by a yell from Anthony. Colin watched, frozen in place, as Kate sprinted back toward the front door, Anthony on her heels, but somehow unable to catch her. Somewhere behind him, Colin heard Daphne screaming at Simon to let her go, and Simon telling her that she would do no good if she got herself killed. Sophie’s sobs were muffled in what Colin assumed was Benedict’s chest. From the house was a deep creaking groan that Colin knew all too well from watching too many houses burn to the ground this summer. A support beam was coming down, and Kate was nearly at the top of the steps.

“Stop, Kate!” bellowed Colin. Kate did not look back, but the miniscule hesitation in her step let Anthony catch up to her, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around to shield his wife with his body as a support beam fell diagonally across the doorway, thoroughly blocking it with debris and flame. The back of Anthony’s jacket was singed, but did not catch fire. Colin saw his brother’s face as Anthony realized that there was no way he could get to his sons. Anthony’s face on the day their father had died had lived in Colin’s nightmares for years. This was inexpressibly worse. Kate’s face was blank as she slithered bonelessly to the ground, legs simply refusing to support her.

Daphne and Sophie had gone silent behind Colin as he started toward the house. Kate and Anthony had to move; they would be burned. He himself was moving on instinct, his mind refusing to think, to process what had just happened. Wordlessly, he lifted Kate in one arm, holding her up by main force, and reached up to take Anthony by the shoulder, pulling him down the stairs away from the flames. At the bottom of the steps, Benedict scooped up Kate, and Simon took Anthony’s other side. Violent had Sophie and Daphne under her arms, with Hyacinth on Daphne’s other side. All four women had tears running down their faces. Gregory was standing between the crowd and his older brothers, looking small and lost.

If it had not been for the absence of the fire brigade—and where the bloody hell are they? Colin thought, furious—and the silence that had fallen over the stunned household and family, then the young, high voices yelling, “Mama! Papa!” would have gone completely unheard.

Colin wasn’t sure whether Benedict dropped Kate or if she launched herself to the ground, but she was the first of the three mothers to reach the children. She was talking a mile a minute in Hindustani as she quickly but carefully took baby Charles from the sling around Augie and handed him to a still-sobbing Sophie before propelling the older boy into Daphne’s arms and clutching her two to her. Within moments, all the men had shucked off their jackets, wrapping the children in them against the chill in the air.

Sophie had collapsed to the ground entirely, Gregory’s jacket and her shawl around Charles, and Benedict’s jacket over her shoulders as he held both his wife and son. Colin’s and Anthony’s jackets were wrapped around Edmund and Miles as Edmund chattered at his mother, rapid-fire, in the same language she was speaking. Despite Augie being arguably too big for Daphne to comfortably hold, he had been wrapped in Simon’s jacket, and Daphne had him in her arms, with Simon holding both of them. Violet was trying to keep a hand on each of her grandchildren at once while trying to comfort Daphne and Sophie.

Edmund was increasingly alarmed, wriggling in his parents’ grip and yelling at his mother. Anthony wasn’t even trying to ask for an explanation in English. Miles and Charles were simply crying, adding to the hubbub and confusion.

Between the fire, the voices, and the crying, Colin couldn’t make out any sensical phrases, and did not truly expect to. He was scanning the crowd again because if the boys made it out, then so had—

“—Penelope!” Augie was typically a serious, soft-spoken child, something that the Bridgertons collectively agreed he had gotten from Simon rather than Daphne. His soft-spoken voice was often overlooked when the Bridgertons got together, particularly since both Edmund and Miles had inherited the general Bridgerton boisterousness, in addition to Kate’s outspokenness. Colin should not have been able to hear him over or under the noise, but when his nephew said his wife’s name, all other sounds fell away, and Colin zeroed in on his sister’s child.

“Auntie Penelope got stuck taking us out the back and told me to tell you and Papa,” Augie finished telling Daphne. Daphne’s eyes met Colin’s for the split second it took him to process the implications of Augie’s words. Then, he bolted for the back door of Number 5.

The door was billowing smoke, and there was a threatening orange glow but no flames around the actual door itself, so Colin had no trouble getting in the building. He could see Pen when he entered. She was on the floor, unconscious, apparently pinned under a burning beam, barely twenty feet from the door itself. She had gotten so close to getting herself and the children out; she had gotten the boys out. The beam she was trapped beneath was burning, but her dress didn’t seem to be. Skidding to his knees beside her, he saw as quickly as she had that there was no way to free the dress, which had actually begun to burn, but not the parts next to her skin, just the train of her skirt. She had managed to get almost all her buttons undone, had gotten so close to freeing herself. He wasn’t too late.

“The deal was,” he growled, as he undid the two absurdly well-stitched buttons that had nearly cost Pen her life, “that you would never, ever go inside a burning building!” Sliding her shoulders and arms from her sleeves, he dragged her free of the overgown. “I’ll stay outside, Colin. I’ll just make sure that the women and children are safe,” he said, in a mockery of Pen’s earnest voice. “Hang the bloody Queen and Lady bloody Danbury for being right. I should never have let you risk your life attending fires.” He lifted Pen into his arms, feeling lightheaded. “You are going to breathe, Penelope. Do you hear me?” He ran for the door.

Had he been a hair slower, neither of them would have survived the fire. Colin could hear the death throes of the structural supports of the house, could hear pops and crashes as more and more pieces of the house fell. Another beam—smaller than the one that had trapped Penelope but burning merrily and falling from a much greater height—slid from its mooring and dropped on Colin’s shoulders, knocking him clean off his feet. Somehow, he managed to slide one hand beneath Penelope’s head and neck to protect them and caught himself on a straight arm. That he managed to hold himself on that arm and not collapse atop Penelope when he felt the bone snap and felt the burning across his shoulders as the beam pinned him was nothing short of a miracle. Colin bellowed as the pain swamped him; he would swear his skin was melting, but he couldn’t let go of Pen, and he couldn’t clear the beam from that position through brute strength.

His head swam. He had to move, had to find a way to get up, or they would both die. His vision was blurry, and he was having trouble thinking straight, so he didn’t dare curl his head down and let the beam roll forward off him; he couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t hit Pen. How it hadn’t already slid down his back and pinned his legs he didn’t know, but if it did that, he would be well and truly trapped. He couldn’t move, couldn’t get them out. His body trembled with exertion.

“I’m so sorry, Pen,” he whispered, letting his head drop.

The beam lifted away.

“Come on, Colin,” grunted Anthony, in his ear. Colin clutched Penelope to him, sure he was hallucinating Anthony and Simon. Instead of wasting time trying to take Penelope from Colin, the two men lifted the pair bodily and ran with them the final ten feet of the hallway, through the curtain of fire that had covered the door, and far enough into the lane to be safe from the building as it collapsed in on itself.

Colin clutched Pen to him with his good arm, watching her face, willing her to breathe. She had breathed in so much smoke; had it been too much? People were yelling at him, trying to take Pen from him, but he ignored all of it, watching as Pen sucked in a breath and began to cough. She’s breathing. She will be all right, he thought. That was when something heavy but soft landed on his back, followed by a flurry of blows. He yelled again at the pain in his back and his arm. As his vision swirled and the strength drained from his body, Benedict was in front of him, catching first Pen and then Colin, as his consciousness fled the pain and noise. Before he was completely gone, Colin caught a glimpse of Felix’s face as Benedict passed Penelope—her eyes were fluttering open!—to her cousin, and the violently reverent expression on his face disturbed Colin to his core and undoubtedly contributed to the horrific nightmares he slid into.

Once the nightmares subsided, Colin simply drifted, not awake by any means but also in too much pain to truly sleep. All he could do was float in the sea of his own pain, enduring as waves crested and broke. Sometimes he thought he heard voices: his mother’s, his siblings’, Pen’s. He could make sense of any of it, but they became his beacons, the lighthouses that promised him he was not lost, and that the tide would bear him back to consciousness and sensibility. He simply had to wait and keep his head above water.

Pain flares made that difficult; he imagined he heard Felix’s voice during one spike, and suddenly Penelope’s cousin’s face, as he had seen it at the fire, filled the sky. Colin nearly went under; only the thought that Pen had breathed, had opened her eyes, and was undoubtedly waiting for him to do the same made him hang on rather than sink into the comfortable oblivion he knew was below.

Slowly, so very slowly, the world solidified around him. The nebulous but overwhelming pain became sharper, located in particular places in his body, rather than being the end-all, be-all of existence. The universe shrunk from an endless sea to something that had definable, understandable edges and dimensions. His left arm throbbed dully, like when he had broken his leg as a child. His back and shoulders burned, but were simultaneously cooler than the lower half of his body. That was the worst pain, the burning sensation—he knew intellectually that he was not on fire, but his nerves and skin seemed not to have gotten that message. The arm and shoulders hurt more, but the irritation of the crick in his neck was what finally clicked reality fully back into place. He was lying on his stomach, so his head was turned, explaining the crick in his neck. He was fairly sure that he was only covered in a blanket to about the bottom of his ribcage, which would explain the odd sensation of being cool and burning simultaneously. His left arm felt compressed and oddly heavy—splinted? The desire to check led him quite naturally to open his eyes.

This was his room, his bed, but not the ones he shared with Pen. This was one of the two rooms he had grown up in, and a near-twin for the one at Aubrey Hall. He was at Bridgerton House. Were that the case, however, he should be faced with a wall, not the door. He couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. He was sure his head was faced away from the door; why could he see Penelope’s head bent over something in her lap, and his mother’s head bent over an embroidery hoop? The information from his eyes and the rest of his body were contradictory, and Colin was too thirsty, pained, and tired to reconcile the contradiction. Instead, he just looked at his wife.

A stray curl was tucked behind her ear, with the end bobbing around the level of her chin. She was sitting in a sunbeam, highlighting the softness of her skin and making it glow subtly. He knew her face so well; most people would think she was focused on whatever she held in her lap, but the focus crease between her eyebrows was missing. She was distracted. She was beautiful. And she was gloriously, wonderfully awake and all right. That eased a tension deep within Colin, and his shoulder muscles relaxed infinitesimally, setting off a fresh wave of burning across his back and shoulders.

As though she could feel his eyes on her, Pen’s chin lifted, and she met his eyes—through the mirror, Colin realized. She had put a mirror next to the bed, so he would be able to see her when he woke. His mind was still moving slowly; by the time he completed that thought and processed the swoosh-crackle sound of paper falling to the floor, Pen had bolted around the foot of the bed and was next to him, one gentle hand on his cheek, seemingly oblivious to the tears streaming down her own.

His mother was over Pen’s shoulder, her hand on his hair. “Welcome back, dearest,” she said. In the mirror over his mother’s shoulder, Colin saw Hyacinth’s head poke around the doorframe. His youngest sister’s bellow rivaled Anthony’s when she called out to the house that he was awake.

“Hyacinth,” Violet sighed, shaking her head. Penelope still hadn’t spoken or moved, just watched his face. As the thunder of feet bore down on the room, Colin attempted a grin.

“If you’re going to do anything scandalous, Pen, I’d do it now, before the entire household is here as an audience.” He was sure the grin was not up to his usual caliber, but it nonetheless broke the mask on Pen’s face, and she smiled that half lovestruck, half lovingly chiding smile that his best roguish grin never failed to elicit from her. She leaned down and kissed him gently. He lifted his good arm—admittedly somewhat awkwardly, from the angle, and painfully, as the burns on his shoulders pulled—and cradled the back of her head, reveling in the silky feel of her curls and the softness of her lips. They were both safe, both here, and Colin took a long moment to simply savor the fact.

They broke the kiss just as a chorus of “Uncle Colin, Uncle Colin!” filled the room, and Augie, Edmund, and Miles bounced in the door. Violet scooped up the enthusiastic Miles to prevent him from leaping onto Colin, and Penelope hugged Edmund around the shoulders to the same effect. Augie was practically bouncing, but not a danger of tackling his uncle. Kate and Daphne were hard on their children’s heels; Colin imagined that neither had allowed their children out of eyesight since the fire. All three boys spoke over each other, filling Colin in on what had been happening as Sophie—Charles in one arm, the other looped in Benedict’s arm—and the rest of the family squeezed into a room that was objectively too small to hold them all. Kate and Daphne had taken up positions on either side of Penelope, their arms around her shoulders.

The pain and pull in his neck and shoulders was more than worth it, as Colin ruffled his nephews’ hair and grinned as he listened to their stories about what they had been up to since the fire and declaring him and Auntie Pen heroes. For all he had just woken up, Colin found himself tiring fast. A rapid series of glances between Pen, his mother, Kate, and Daphne resulted in a veritable stampede of grandmother, mothers, and sons heading for the dining room with promises of treats. Penelope stayed at Colin’s side, and Anthony, Benedict, and Simon remained in the room. Benedict quietly brought Penelope’s chair around the bed so she could sit on it rather than the floor or the bed itself and avoid jostling Colin. Once she was settled, Colin took her hand in his good one, hiding a wince as he addressed Anthony.

“Everyone’s here. They couldn’t save Number 5?” Anthony hesitated, then muttered, “The hell with it,” and sat on the floor against the wall, putting himself on Colin’s eye level. He was quickly joined by Benedict and Simon.

“Number 5 burned to the ground, and so did one of the neighbor’s houses,” Anthony said. “There was another fire on the other side of Mayfair, and the fire brigade was called to the other one first. By the time they got to us, there was no saving either house.” Colin’s hand tightened around Penelope’s.

“Did everyone get out?” he asked.

“No. The children’s nanny was trapped trying to get to the nursery. A couple of maids in the neighbor’s attic didn’t make it out, either.”

“Damn,” said Colin, tiredly. “How are the boys? They seemed themselves.”

“Augie’s had nightmares,” Simon said, quietly. “But that’s no price at all for his life.”

“Edmund and Miles coughed a bit that night. They didn’t breathe enough smoke to really harm them, though. We owe Penelope an enormous debt,” added Anthony. “The house went up so quickly. By the time we knew the boys hadn’t been brought out, it would have been too late. The roof came down less than five minutes after we got you two out.”

“You gave us a hell of a scare,” said Benedict, quietly. “Your back was on fire when Anthony and Simon pulled you out of the house and holding yourself up on that broken arm nearly sent the bone through your skin.”

Penelope’s face was calm, but Colin could feel her hand tremble in his.

“And how long am I stuck in bed?” he asked. “How long have I been in bed?”

“Just a couple of days from the laudanum. Dr. Walker said you could get up when you felt strong enough, but wearing anything heavier than a shirt will be unpleasant for a few weeks,” said Anthony. “If you had had your jacket on, you might not have been so badly burned, but as it was, there wasn’t anything left of your waistcoat back, and your shirt wasn’t even fit for rags.”

“The doctor isn’t worried about infection,” Penelope chimed in. “He was fetched quickly enough. He was in this morning and says everything looks well.”

“So will you finally get some rest yourself?” Anthony asked her.

“Pen, you haven’t sat here for two days!” Colin exclaimed.

“We did feed her while she was here,” said Benedict, dryly. Simon snorted softly.

“Speaking of feeding people,” Penelope broke in. “I imagine if we sit here much longer, Colin’s stomach will make itself known.” Simon and Benedict hauled themselves up off the floor.

“I expect that means us, then,” Benedict said, cheerfully. “Come on, Viscount. Let’s give them a few minutes while we find some sandwiches.” Benedict hugged Penelope around the shoulders as Simon and Anthony each clasped Colin’s good hand in turn in that quiet way the Bridgertons had of acknowledging the emotions that had suddenly thickened in the room. Benedict finally released Penelope and clasped Colin’s hand before the three men left the room. 

Penelope slid off the chair as soon as the door closed, nestling her head in next to Colin’s without jarring him. There were tears on her cheeks again, he noticed. 

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” she whispered. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Have you really been sitting here for two days?” 

“You cannot imagine for a moment that I’d leave you.”

“Pen, you breathed in so much smoke. You should have been resting.”

“The coughing stopped after the first day. I couldn’t leave you, and I couldn’t convince myself that it wasn’t my fault that you had to come back in for me. That if I had been just a little smarter, a little quicker, that you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” Penelope saw the change in Colin’s eyes and leaned in for another kiss, stopping his protests before they left his mouth. “I know, intellectually, I know, it’s not my fault. But Colin, I woke up, and you were on the ground in front of me, on fire. I couldn’t have left.” Her entire body trembled at that too-raw image. 

“You got the boys out, Pen. Nothing is more important than that.” Colin’s shoulders were beginning to scream at all the movement, but he nonetheless reached out and curled his arm around her shoulders, pressing gentle kisses to her lips, her forehead. He could taste her tears. 

“I sent Anna home in the wee hours of the morning to get my file on the arsonist. I couldn’t leave you and I couldn’t sleep, so I sat here, and I worked. I mapped out the locations of all the fires that followed the pattern.” She stopped suddenly. “Do you want to try sitting up? It will make eating easier.”

“That was quite the shift in conversation,” Colin said, pulling his head back a bit to try to see her whole face more clearly and wincing at the crick in his neck. “What don’t you want to tell me? My God, Pen, I’m not the arsonist, am I?” A genuine smile split Penelope’s face in spite of herself. 

“If you are, you’ve done a terrible job,” she chided. “But Colin, the fires are…well, my map is not perfectly to scale, and there is no way to pinpoint a location exactly. There is room for human error and…” Her eyes went distant and worried. “You cannot tell anyone about this; it’s just a theory, and I have not yet shared it with Lady Danbury or the Queen.” 

Colin frowned. He knew Penelope’s work was secret. He had been there when the Queen had surreptitiously named Penelope a dame and made her a clandestine member of the inner court. That Penelope felt the need to remind him of what had to remain secret spoke volumes about the stress she was under. She had found something significant. 

“You know I will keep your secrets, Pen.” 

“The fires form a circle, and at the center of that circle is our street. I think I was right, Colin. There is only one arsonist, and he isn’t some disgruntled tradesman or worker who resents the ton. I think he’s one of us.” 

[alternativeproject]

Anthony Hopkins was really good in magic 1978 and the fight club-esque psychological tension between his character and the puppet went really hard. Was somewhat baffled by the character of Peggy, the love interest, and just the way people responded to the puppet. Maybe it’s the way cultural perception of ventriloquist puppets as uncanny, but seeing everyone fawn over fats as cute and charming made me feel like the puppet had some supernatural ability to charm people and make them ignore the creepiness of him.

Also Peggy as a character is a little strange and unsatisfying in the plot, she seems naive and not particularly adept at gauging if someone is dangerous and she has several lines just going “well I’m a woman and I can’t make decisions/I always change my mind”. Kind of comically puttering through life. So when we get to the dramatic high point of the film and corky is fighting fats/himself to keep from hurting Peggy, i wasn’t really invested in her as a character.

And there’s a kind of weird timeskip at the beginning of the movie between corky flubbing a magician show at amateur night and a year later when he’s created fats and gained some success.

[anthonysstupiddailyblog]

Anthony's Stupid Daily Blog (874): Fri 9th Aug 2024

I read a story about an Olympian shot-putter who has been insisting on competing while wearing goggles and a facemask. She says that the enjoyed wearing this apparatus during Covid and has decided to keep it up. This person looks like what I think the last ever PoKemon will end up looking like. Some animator will hand in a design that looks like this and the makers of PoKemon will go "Is this what we're reduced to? Okay, let's just stop. Let's think of another way to scam gullible children out of their pocket money that isn't artistically bankrupt"

I was sad to learn the Kevin Sullivan AKA the Taskmaster had passed away. Whenever this guy was in charge of the booking at WCW it was always bollocks…but it was AMAAAZING bollocks. Unashamed bollocks. Bollocks that was written to be bollocks and came off as bollocks. The Dungeon of Doom is his crowning achievement and even though people at the time scoffed at how over the top and fanciful it was nowadays I look back and appreciate how Sullivan went all the way with his lunatic ideas. With Vince Russo he would come up with an over the top idea but he would abandon it whenever he thought of something else he wanted to do. With Sullivan, he conceived this idea and mapped out how it was going to unfold over almost an entire year. The only problem with the gimmick in my opinion was that Cunt Hogan point blank refuses to ever lose to a single one of them. They could have used this gimmick as a way to get a shitload of monster heels over. If the stable had just been The Giant, Vader, Meng and Hugh Morrus (if they'd come up with a better name for him) then they could have booked each of them to get wins over Hogan and then go on to win either the US or World Title off the back of it then by the time Hogan came for his rematch they would be bigger names as a result of the win. However the fact that Hogan never lost plus the sheer amount of ludicrous characters Sullivan thought up for the stable meant that it was mostly played for ironic humour throughout the entire storyline. You look back at all the ridiculous gimmicks that they put into this stable: The Yeti, The Shark, The Zodiac, Braun The Leprechaun and you wonder exactly how much glue did Kevin Sullivan sniff while he was coming up with this stable. Come to think of it that Olympic shot putter would have fit in great in The Dungeon of Doom. These jobber gimmicks who were like unused characters from the sixties Batman show definitely brought the stable down. But like I say, looking back on this gimmick now you appreciate that Sullivan was willing to try something different and give it his all which is more than can be said for 90% of the wrestling you see today. Rest well Kevin Sullivan.

[back-and-totheleft]

Oliver's Twist

DECEMBER SUNLIGHT GLINTS OFF the bald, bronze head of a statue of the ever-serene Buddha, sitting in the lush backyard of a Mediterranean villa in Santa Monica. A few paces away, in a living room filled with Asian antiques, two more personages—also plump and sparsely haired—radiate inner peace. One is Tara Stone, 5 weeks old and deep in slumber. The other is her father—upon whose chest Tara sleeps as he lounges on an overstuffed sofa.

While Tara's mother, Chong Son Chong, 36, a Korean émigré and former actress and model, putters elsewhere in the house, the father smiles with deep satisfaction, dipping a finger into one of Tara's white booties to touch her baby skin. "She can feel my heart," says director Oliver Stone. "She's made me a happy man." He speaks again, examining the word like a flower: "Happiness."

Wait, wait—who is this zen, beatific puppy? The Oliver Stone we know is an angry, self-described provocateur. The familiar Stone is the one who, a couple of years ago, dismissed those who doubted the baroque conspiracy theories behind his film JFK as "chick s-t." He is a director so notorious for on-set tirades that Anthony Hopkins, who plays the title role in Stone's latest dive into history, Nixon, has said he expected "a kind of caveman." But while Stone doesn't deny there are brutish aspects to his character, he insists they are mere brush strokes—not the whole portrait. "There's no appreciation," he says, "that there's another side of me."

Stone now wants the world to see that other side. Chastened by the acrimonious end in 1993 of his 12-year marriage to his second wife, Elizabeth, 46—who lives with the couple's two sons, Sean, 11, and Michael, 4—the director insists he has embarked on a fresh, clear path in life. He has a new child, and a new relationship, with Chong. In their generally positive reviews of Nixon, critics, while not defending him against persuasive claims that he has taken his customary liberties with historical fact, have praised Stone's newfound "restraint." A Buddhist since he embraced the religion while making his 1993 saga of the Vietnamese experience of the war, Heaven & Earth, Stone says he has also found a degree of spiritual tranquility. In short, Oliver Stone wants us to know that at age 49 he believes he is growing up.

There are some signs it may be true—one being his decidedly un-Stone-like response to criticism of Nixon. Before it opened—to very disappointing box office business—the late President's normally private daughters, Tricia Nixon Cox, 49, and Julie Nixon Eisenhower, 47, read a script and issued a statement through the Nixon Library in Yorba Linda, Calif., decrying the movie as "character assassination." Since then, seemingly every Nixon Administration official, and a number of historians and neutral observers, have weighed in in a similar vein. "It is a despicable fairy tale," says former Treasury Secretary William Simon. "This is a vicious attack on a man," says onetime White House Chief-of-Staff Gen. Alexander Haig. Though Stone hasn't shrunk from defending his work, his responses have been far more measured than in the past. He wrote this month to John Taylor, head of Nixon Library, to suggest he convene a symposium on the late President's image, adding, "I understand the feelings you have about [the film]." In his turn, Taylor—who calls the movie sadistic—says he will invite Stone to a planned conference on movies about recent U.S. history.

Ironically, there are numerous parallels between Stone's life and Nixon's. Nixon, no matter how successful, never found personal peace; Stone has seemed equally driven. Growing up in New York City as the only child of Louis Stone (a stockbroker who died in 1985) and his wife, Jacqueline, Stone, like Nixon, rarely received much affection from his father. "Louis would never kiss Oliver," says Jacqueline. "He would shake his hand." Stone says his mother was loving but caught up in New York's arty social whirl. "When she was [home], she was perfect," he says. "But it was continual abandonment."

Compelled, perhaps, by a child's sense of powerlessness, Stone sought control. "He was not like other children—he was conscientious, tidy," says his mother. At age 6 on family visits to France, she says, he called upon his cousins to perform in sketches he wrote—and charged adults two francs to attend the show. "Oliver was the leader, and his cousins did the work. Oliver likes to have it his own way."

Behind it all, Stone says, "I was very insecure." The feeling intensified in 1960 when Stone was sent off to the Hill School in Pottstown, Pa., where he never felt he fit in. "I was nobody special," he says. "I felt invisible." Then, in his sophomore year, his parents divorced amid accusations of mutual infidelities, and Stone learned his father was deeply in debt. Stone's biographer, James Riordan, sees this as a formative moment. "After that, the whole world is like his parents," says Riordan, whose authorized bio, Stone, appeared last month. "There's always something deeper than the surface truth."

Hoping to find that something deeper, Stone says, "I took off into the world alone." He left Yale after his freshman year in 1965 to teach English in Vietnam. But he became bored and, craving to know "the bottom of life," enlisted in 1967 as an Army infantryman and was sent back to Vietnam. After a few weeks, he says, "I was becoming a jungle animal. I started out cerebral and civilized, and within two months I was operating on instinct."

Like many other soldiers, he was also operating on a range of drugs, from marijuana to LSD. After his discharge in 1968 he returned to the U.S. a heavy and indiscriminate user—a problem that plagued Stone, he says, until 1981, when he kicked a cocaine habit cold turkey.

Soon after he came home, drawing on a talent for writing stories and looking, he has said, for a way to "channel my rage" at the injustice he perceived in Vietnam, he enrolled in New York University's film program, graduating in 1971. After years of writing while getting by on odd jobs, he hit it big, winning the Best Screenplay Oscar in 1978 with Midnight Express.

The rage didn't disappear. James Woods, who starred in Stone's breakout film as a director, 1986's Salvador (and who plays White House Chief of Staff H.R. Haldeman in Nixon), recalls how he and Stone would pound one another's heads on the floor of their Mexican inn over artistic disagreements. "He bends you out of shape," says Woods. "He keeps you on edge—but he gets performances you didn't know you had to give."

Anger has made an imprint, in one way or another, on every Stone project, from Platoon, Wall Street and Born on the Fourth of July to JFK, Natural Born Killers and, now, Nixon. Stone himself sees its source as fear. "It has taken many forms in my life," he says. "I can get a stab of fear anytime. Sometimes you can handle it, sometimes you can't. I can get moody and defensive." Or, friends say, turn it on others. When he filmed her autobiography in Heaven & Earth, says writer Le Ly Hayslip, Stone could be a bully. "His energy is too strong," she says. "He knows he can make people respect and fear him."

Which may be why he received such a comeuppance in his wrenching divorce from Elizabeth Cox, whom he met when she served as an assistant on his 1981 thriller, The Hand. (Stone's six-year first marriage to Najwa Sarkis, 56, an attaché at the Moroccan mission to the U.N., ended in 1977. They had no children.) During the last few years of their marriage, Stone had numerous affairs, and, in an act of colossal hubris—one Richard Nixon would sympathize with—Stone kept graphic accounts of his extramarital relations in his diaries. Elizabeth found them.

Today Stone's sense of chastisement is clear. "You lose your kids—it is so sad," he says. "I only get a little portion of them now." Then a bit of his old sense of grievance creeps in. "American divorce laws are very tough," he says. "For whatever reason, the system is geared to destroy people." Still, he hopes to rebuild some trust with his ex. "We're trying to work out a friendship," he says.

It is one project among many. He is busy revising an autobiographical novel he wrote at 19. There is Memphis, a film he is developing about the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.—lest we think the new Oliver Stone will be moving on to romantic comedy. And there is Tara, named for the Buddhist deity of compassion. As Stone plays with the child, his face splits in a gap-toothed grin. "I've got a bond with her," he says. "There's a special relationship between a daughter and her father."

Tara's mother, whom Stone met at a New York City nightclub in 1994, says little about herself, except that "the baby makes me happy." Their pairing is, for Stone, uniquely honest. According to Jacqueline, her son has been frank with Chong. "He's said he will not marry her." His need for love, she says, "has been filled by Tara."

Stone would agree. "Love kills the demons," he says, standing, as Chong enters the room and reaches to take the child. But Stone pauses, bends over and kisses their baby girl—once, twice, three times—on the forehead. "I love these moments," he says. "I just don't have enough of them."

-Gregory Cerio, "Oliver's Twist," People magazine, Jan 22 1996

[racingtoaredlight]

2021 Ryder Cup: A Tale of Triumph

Redemption was the theme of the 2021 Ryder Cup.

The mainstays of the previous Cups were all getting longer in the tooth, change was in the air, and the next generation was ready to reclaim international glory for the stars and stripes.

This is the story of the plucky underdog captain's picks that brought home the 2021 Ryder Cup.

The golf cognescenti were abuzz on the practice range the days before the tournament kicked off. The press who cover golf year round were used to watching professionals methodically and precisely work their way through the bag, with the occasional ballstriking show up on by a range rat.

But as one writer noted, "the American side sounded like an artillery barrage, while the Europeans sounded like a Senior PGA range." Padraig Harrington told Ian Baker-Finch the Europeans were a club and a half shorter than the US, and weren't as accurate either.

"We're going to have to show top form, or this might not last past Friday."

***

The tone was set from the first tee.

Jon Rahm is not a golfer used to being outdriven. Especially not by the likes of the Tour's 67th ranked driver, Ryan Gooseling. The first two holes, Rahm hit ideal drives only to find himself 15 yards behind Goose. After an attempt to prove a point went disasterously wrong, Rahm found himself three holes down.

He just couldn't match Ryan Gooseling's intensity.

But Don Quicong was the real star of the opening day. He'd already holed out from around the green twice, but his eagle on 13 from an incredibly sloped lie to close out a dominating match will go down as one of the greatest shots in Ryder Cup history.

David Feherty said that he hadn't seen a determination to get to the hole like that "since Tiger Woods was taking Drivers Ed."

***

Oliver Anthony's putting woes manifested themselves all weekend, giving the Europeans a foothold. The psychological game of golf can be brutal, and it wore Anthony down in the opening group on Saturday.

Wasting an incredible performance from Quicong, Anthony's missed putts on 12, 13, 15 and 16 kept Westwood/Fitzpatrick in the match. Anthony's missed putt was positively Van de Velde-ian, and the man crumbled. Quicong left greenside immediately without waiting for his partner, a tremendously controversial gesture.

The Rahm/Garcia pairing was Europe's most powerful combination, and US captains decided to send out one of their weakest groups as to focus their hot players elsewhere.

Big Bill Taft didn't get that message.

A career journeyman his whole career, 2021 was a revelatory year for Taft. Riding a savvy short game, a white-hot putter and solid ballstriking, the only way you could say that you didn't see his PGA win coming was if you weren't watching.

Rahm's driving woes continued, evidenced by him trying out three new drivers on the range after the round. Taft didn't let Anthony's earlier putting woes get in the way, averaging 12 feet per made putt. After a wicked curling 22-footer to clinch, an obviously frustrated Garcia could be seen talking to European captain Harrington about the pairing.

It was a relatively moot point regardless. The Europeans were in too big of a hole to realistically have a shot at winning the Ryder Cup. And the frustration was all over their faces.

If the European team had any shot of winning the 2021 Ryder Cup, they could afford to lose two matches.

***

They won the first match. Jon Rahm closed out their match by the 12th hole. It was a particularly frustrating tournament for Anthony, who was truly excited about representing his country.

Things suddenly started to turn the Euros way. Winning the next match, tying the one immediately after, the Americans needed to make a crucial putt on 18 to stem the bleeding with a tie.

After two more tied matches, the next pairing could essentially make or break the Ryder Cup. Sergio Garcia facing off against Don Quicong, the undisputed star so far, in a matchup that had golf fans salivating.

After one of the most dominating Ryder Cup performances in golf history, Don Quicong started the celebration for the American side early. The rest of the tournament was a formality, a victory lap for the United States.

***

And that concludes the story of the plucky underdog captains' picks that singlehandled won the United States the 2021 Ryder Cup.

fín

[puutterings]

among the bottles, the flowers, the tiny laboratory; this confusion of identities

        Voyan’s answer was noncommittal. “Some people need no stimulants,” he said.       Mihailo began to explore the liqueur cabinet. But for his cheerful puttering among the bottles a tense silence hung over the room. After some sampling he returned at last, shaking a square flask of Danziger Goldwasser. The clear liquid was speckled with flakes of pure yellow... 1

Her speculations on the possibilities inherent in this resemblance had been heightened by the fact that strangers passing the villa gardens could be heard whispering to one another: “Look, the Emperor of Austria puttering among the flowers!” How could this confusion of identities be exploited? 2

... of their speech they were now watched with doubled intensity because of their silence. Anthony, in particular, gave ample provocation to patriotic busybodies round about. His constant hammering and puttering inside the tiny laboratory he had fashioned for himself... 3

respectively, woven from snippets and “found inside” previews of three books by Bertita Harding —

1 Royal Purple : The Story of Alexander and Draga of Serbia (1935) : 145 : link 2 Imperial Twilight : The Story of Karl and Zita of Hungary (1939) : 144 : link, and 3 Hungarian Rhapsody : The Portrait of an Actress (1940) : 244 : link

—

the search was for “puttering” + author:harding : link

Bertita Harding (1902-1971), pianist, romantic historical biographer, dramatic lecturer (channeling her heroines), painter wikipedia : link

several of her books available (some borrowable) at archive.org : link

Bertita Harding Writings (drafts, proofs) at Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library YCAL MSS 485 : link

also, this wonderful dissertation — Kathy Kirry Wockley, The Life and Works of Bertita Carla Camille Leonarz Harding (Florida Atlantic University, 1977) : link (pdf)  

[fearsmagazine]

THE PARK - Review

DISTRIBUTOR: XYZ Films

SYNOPSIS:  “When a mysterious virus starts killing all adults, society is left to be governed by children living on borrowed time. After the adult population is wiped out, rival kids battle for control of an abandoned theme park. Danger lurks around every corner, and they must do whatever it takes to survive their hellish Neverland.”

REVIEW: Acclaimed filmmaker Shal Ngo makes his feature film debut about a dystopian future where adults who have succumbed to a disease and left the children to fend for themselves. Shot at the long-abandoned Six Flags New Orleans, closed and left abandoned after 2005’s Hurricane Katrina, one young girl sees it as a place to unite kids and begging to create a better future, however short lived it might be.

Armed with an excellent location, Ngo’s narrative allows us to get to know the distinct three characters and their different points of view. The characters go from survival mode to possibly trusting each other, but that all falls apart when strangers in blue raincoats enter the park. Ngo does an excellent job of creating characters that must grow up quickly, but are able to maintain a modicum of their innocence. He creates three distinct characters and their own unique dialogue. He presents the viewer with just enough information as to what has transpired, allowing the viewer’s imagination to fill in some blanks, and focuses on the trio. He presents an optimistic but bittersweet ending.

The film looks great. Regardless of the cinematography and editing, they have a great location that adds so much to the film. It doesn't feel like an expensive set built for something like “The Walking Dead,” but they do a wonderful job of adding the elements they need to this abandoned amusement park. I have to say that there were a few times where I wondered how many tetanus shots these actors need given all the rust around the park. The visual and special effects added nice touches to the story. They were seamless and in no way gratuitous. Given the tribal, end of the world theme it could have been bloodier. There is blood and violence, but just enough to get the story points across.

I enjoyed Robert Allaire’s score. It enhanced the atmosphere, supported emotional moments, and was an integral part of the narrative.

THE PARK has an excellent ensemble cast. The three principal actors, Chloe Guidry plays Ines, Carmina Garay portrays Kuan, and actor Nhedrick Jabier is Bui. Guidry and Jabier appeared in the first season of the Disney Channel show “Secrets of Sulphur Springs.” They all tackle a full emotional palate. There are some tough scenes where they exhibit strength but never manage to lose their innocence. Clearly they are survivors, but they are still kids. Carmina Garay is delightful as she putters around the park. You can’t help but believe she will resurrect the joint.

Shal Ngo’s THE PARK is the closest to a Spielberg film like “Poltergeist,” “Goonies,” “Empire of the Sun.” He is not armed with a Spielberg budget, but he has an excellent cast and he knows how to direct them and they in turn give him some fabulous performances. He luck out with a location that feels like a million-bucks as well as a few other ones as well. The film left me wanting a bit more from this universe and I think it might be a narrative that could be revisited in a series or limited series. I haven’t viewed Ngo’s short films, but am eager to seek them out after viewing THE PARK. He is clearly a talented filmmaker whose future films I’ll be on the lookout for.

CAST: Chloe Guidry, Nhedrick Jabier, Carmina Garay, Ryan Anthony Williams, Carli Marie Mcintyre; Murtaza Ali, and Charlie Evans. CREW: Director/Screenplay/Editor - Shal Ngo; Producer - Natalie Metzger; Cinematographer - Jared Levy; Score - Robert Allaire; Production Designer - Erin Staub; Costume Designer - Lo Jackson; VFX Artist - Justin Sarceno OFFICIAL: N.A. FACEBOOK: N.A. TWITTER: N.A. TRAILER: https://youtu.be/E0tvWkBujYU RELEASE DATE: On VOD March 2nd, 2023

**Until we can all head back into the theaters our “COVID Reel Value” will be similar to how you rate a film on digital platforms - 👍 (Like), 👌 (It’s just okay),  or 👎 (Dislike)

Reviewed by Joseph B Mauceri

[potions-and-halos]

The year was 1933. Newly 18 year old Anthony Ragni had just arrived in Louisiana after being on a train for several days. He had escaped his home in New York City and was starting a new life for himself. He was currently dressed as a woman, seeing as being gay and trans was frowned upon at this time. He strolled down the street, flipping his blonde wig over his shoulders as he started walking to find somewhere to eat

Azrael was puttering about in her more androgynous form for this time period, broad and well built but not so much so one would tell what exactly she was. She was simply Azrael. She brushed aside her thoughts and continued on her way towards the little inexpensive diners, accidently bumping into someone along the way.

[triviareads]

could we get some more kathony high school headcanons? the image of anthony being interrogated by indian aunties is now imprinted into my mind

Not a headcanon but here's how I imagine Anthony's dinner/interrogation by Mary going down:

Mary was hovering again. They were ostensibly meant to be eating dinner together, but she'd yet to sit down, instead puttering around the kitchen when she wasn't serving Kate and Anthony.

"Are you done applying to colleges, Anthony?" she asked, dropping two more idlis in Anthony's plate.

"Yeah," Anthony said, to his credit, unfazed as she spooned some ghee on top. He was learning, Kate thought, amused. Spice-management strategies were a must in the Sharma household; generally for Anthony, that meant some combination of ghee, homemade yogurt, and cold glasses of water. "Most of them were due the first, but I did apply to a few early."

"And where do you want to go?" Mary glanced at Anthony's plate, adding tangentially, "Have some more sambar."

Anthony obliged just as Kate reached for the ladle too, and their hands brushed against each other. Anthony promptly blushed and Kate dropped the ladle against the pot with a clang. She prayed her mother did not witness this bit of teenage infatuation.

Anthony cleared his throat loudly before responding. "Somewhere close by so I can be there for my family. Maybe Princeton, or NYU, but my dad went to Columbia and it meant a lot to him that I go I might just go there."

"That's nice," Mary commented. "And what will you major in?"

"Amma," Kate interrupted in a bid to spare her boyfriend, "you sound like an admissions counselor. I'm sure Anthony gets asked this all the time." She muttered under her breath, "God knows I do."

"No, it's okay," Anthony said hastily at the mildly indignant look Mary threw her daughter. "Actually, no one's ever asked me what I want to major in. I guess they all just... assume, because of the company."

Mary was extremely gratified at this assurance. "See?" she told Kate. "He likes it when I ask him."

Kate's mouthed 'suck up' at Anthony when her mom wasn't looking. Anthony merely made a kissy face in response. Kate narrowed her eyes at him. Oh it was on.

"Actually," Kate proceeded to say loudly, "Amma, Anthony was just telling me about his plans for grad school."

"Oh?" Mary said, turning back to Anthony. "What plans?"

Anthony, in lieu of an actual response, shoveled some more idli into his mouth.

[sparkkeyper]

For @racketghost 's 13 Days of Halloween day 11: Haunt

***

Crowley isn't even aware of moving when it happens.

It's a month after the failed apocalypse and he's lounging in the front of the bookshop, scrolling through his phone. Aziraphale putters around nearby, reorganizing books and humming along to the radio. It's tuned to a classical station today, and Crowley moves his head just a little in time to the music. It's a slow day, lazy. Maybe if the weather holds they can go for a walk later in the afternoon. He reaches over and bumps up the volume slightly as the piece comes to a close, still scrolling one-handed through Twitter.

"If you're just tuning in, that was The Rite of Spring by the incomparable Igor Stravinsky. We'll have more classics from Russia in just a bit but first we'll make a brief stop in Germany with some Wagner, as requested by...

Anthony."

Every vein turns to ice and the next thing Crowley knows, his fist is through the radio.

The crash of splintering wood hits him almost belatedly, and then everything is still. The only sound in the silence is his own breathing, and as he realizes what he has done, it seems deafening.

Anthony. The word rings in his head, spoken too sharply, too accusingly. A bark. A command. A torrent of information and threats injected straight into his brain, leaving him blind and deaf and senseless until they see fit to release him -

He stares at his fist, embedded in the set-top. He doesn't even remember turning around.

Aziraphale is staring at him and what's left of his stomach drops through the floor. He wants to say something but he can't move.

His breath is too loud.

"Crowley? Are you...?"

"Fine," he manages, and it might be convincing except for the fact that his hand is still in the radio. "Everything's fine, why wouldn't it be? Just...just marvelous."

It can happen at any moment, of course it can, voices from Hell out of stolen throats barging into his life with no regard for privacy. It's just the same, he thinks hysterically. How had he ever been stupid enough to think that things would change at all? But even worse is the impulse to respond, an instinct so ingrained in him that there's a 'yes my lord' sitting low in his throat even now and it hurts behind his ribcage, and if he doesn't end the communication asap it might just break loose and he can't go back to that, he can't -

Aziraphale steps over and carefully works his fist free from the wooden splinters.

Crowley lets him.

He comes back to the bookshop like stepping out of a dream, and it's all the worse because he doesn't remember leaving.

It can't have been them, he realizes, humiliation flooding through him. Just a human DJ talking about a human listener. Some other Anthony.

"Shit," he breathes as the scrapes on his knuckles heal up. "I'm sorry, angel. I'll fix it. I...shit."

"I don't care about the radio, my dear." Aziraphale is rubbing his hands gently, as though to work heat back into them. Crowley realizes they've gone cold.

"It sounded like-"

"I know what it sounded like."

They stand there for a few minutes as Crowley tries to pull his brain back together. The voice he thought he'd heard keeps echoing in his head.

"It's too quiet in here," he says, almost to himself.

"We can talk, if you like." Aziraphale looks in no hurry to get back to his books. "Or I can put the gramophone on if music is still all right?"

"Music. Sure." Crowley swallows. Swallows again. "Gramophone is all right, yeah. Self-contained. Nothing with airwaves or a network." Nothing they can reach through.

"Of course." Aziraphale doesn't even let go of his hands as the gramophone begins to play. It's Handel's Water Music. A subtle reminder that it's over, that they've left the threats behind.

Crowley tries to shake off the chill but it does not go easily.

[apennywasted]

TO BITCH OR NOT TO BITCH, THAT IS THE QUESTION || Tony & Seamus

@foreverydinger

The morning was calm and clear and summer was rolling in out on the outskirts of Besydus. The roads had been quiet, the property settling into its swing of things. Maeve was curled up beneath the table at his feet, snoring softly now that they'd relocated from the workshop to the main house once more. Nick was still asleep, and Seamus hadn't wanted to disturb him by puttering around the house before the sun was up, so he'd gone out.

Now, however, he was on his third or fourth mug of coffee and pouting over some documents for a client. An artifact needed retrieval, and Seamus needed to brush up on his old French. It had been some time. He thought, maybe, that he'd have Nick get an eye on it once he was awake and unprepared to murder someone.

Seamus tool a sip from his mug just as someone knocked at his door. Frowning slightly, Seamus stood, waving Maeve off as he slipped a pistol into the waistband of his jeans. He wasn't expecting company but, then again, that had never stopped people before.

They seemed to be drawn to the bloody place, like moths to flame.

When he opened the door, however, it was to a rather unexpected face, and Seamus hoped his own said that he was surprised at Anthony Rydinger's presence on his front porch. He opened the door wider to allow Maeve to step out with him, then closed the door softly behind him.

"Yer elf ain't here," he said, blunt as always. "But what can I do fer yah, Mr. Rydinger?"

[iam93percentstardust]

AU-gust Day 27: Flower Shop

Requested by @warmachinesocks for a Winteriron AU! Well, this took a left turn into Fantasyland but it is still a flower shop so I’m gonna count it

Also on ao3 here

~

“Tony, doll, can you grab three bundles of orchids from the greenhouse?” Bucky calls.

Tony gives him a cheeky salute and disappears through the back door. He comes back a moment later with three bundles of bright purple orchids and passes them off to Bucky, who starts working on the arrangement. The order isn’t terribly complicated, which he’s grateful for—after last week’s wedding fiasco (fucking mother of the bride), he’ll be happy if he never has to see another complicated order again.

“How’s it looking back there?” he asks, pretty certain that they’re running low on some of the annuals. They’ll need to purchase new seeds soon.

Tony shrugs. “We’ll need new zinnia and petunia seeds soon,” he says, leaning up on his toes to kiss Bucky’s cheek. “But everything else is looking good.”

“What about everything downstairs? If I’m running by the nursery this afternoon, we might as well make a double trip and swing by the apothecary.”

“I’m going to need more death cap mushrooms soon but that’s a trip to the forest, not the apothecary. I think I want to start a new plot of sage though so I’d like to get some of that. Oh! And I’m running low on incubus tongue and with Valentine’s Day coming—”

“Love potions are more in-demand than ever,” Bucky finishes. He’s been dating Tony long enough to know what potions are popular at what time of year.

“Attaboy,” Tony says with a wink. “When’s the next time we’re going over to Steve’s for dinner? I’ve got a client who needs a dragon scale for a protection spell and I think he said he was shedding a few weeks ago.”

“Tomorrow. He and Sharon are—”

The bell above the door chimes and they both chorus, “Welcome to Bluebells and Belladonnas!”

Angie, the little old witch who comes in every week to pick up roses for her wife, coos at them, “You two are so cute!”

“Not as cute as you, Mrs. Martinelli,” Bucky says, laying on the old Brooklyn charm. He uses it on most customers because it makes them buy more but for Angie, it only makes her chuckle and blush. “What can we get for you today?”

“A dozen roses,” she orders like always and passes them a tube of lipstick. Tony disappears into the greenhouse behind the shop again. “Here’s the color she’s wearing today.”

He makes small talk with the old woman, chatting about her granddaughter who’s seeing Steve and speculating about when they’re finally going to announce that they’re engaged. Tony comes back out a few moments later with a collection of white roses. He swipes the lipstick over them and, before their eyes, the color spreads across the flowers until all twelve are as deep a red as the lipstick itself.

Tony passes the flowers and the lipsticks back over to Angie as Bucky rings her up. “And how will you be paying today, Mrs. Martinelli?” he asks.

“With news,” she says, lowering her voice to a hush. Bucky and Tony glance at each other. Ravenspoint is a small town; news is worth its weight in gold. “They contacted Peggy first, that’s how we know before everyone else.”

“Know what?” Tony asks, leaning across the counter.

“The Starks have returned to the manor.”

Bucky doesn’t think that Angie notices Tony going stiff but he certainly does. Beneath the counter, he slips his hand under Tony’s shirt to rest on Tony’s hip, running his thumb back and forth soothingly.

“Rosewood’s been empty for decades,” he points out. “Since Stane’s death. Why are they back now?”

Angie shakes her head. “Maria didn’t say. But apparently, the wards wouldn’t let her and Howard back in when they tried to enter. That’s why they needed to see Peggy.”

“Peggy wouldn’t be able to lower the wards,” Tony says quietly, leaning further into Bucky’s hand.

“That’s what she told them. I guess they thought that as the head witch of the coven, she’d be able to override little Anthony’s spell.”

Tony flinches and Bucky looks down at him. Tony has never told him the full story of what happened the night Howard and Maria Stark fled Rosewood, leaving their only son and heir behind in the guardianship of the family butler but he’s heard enough pieces that he could probably guess. The storm of the century centered directly over the manor, a family friend much too interested in the immense amounts of power the young heir holds killed, and a father who couldn’t resist keeping his resentment over his child’s power to himself and a mother who never bothered to protect her son banished? Yeah, Bucky can most definitely figure it out. These days, no one knows that Tony of Bluebells and Belladonnas is Anthony Stark—besides the Jarvises, Peggy, and Bucky himself.

“Where did they go?” he asks, wondering if he needs to put up his own wards around the shop and their upstairs home tonight—or if they need to be leaving town for a few days.

“To the Jarvises,” Angie says. “Where else would they go? They’re the only ones who know where Anthony might be.”

Bucky and Tony share another look, both thinking the same thing: they need to call Edwin after Angie leaves to make sure word doesn’t get out about Tony’s whereabouts. They let Angie take her roses and leave and Tony immediately disappears into the downstairs greenhouse to call Jarvis and spend some time puttering with his potions. Bucky locks up the shop early, deciding that Tony’s distress is more important than the day’s sales. They don’t have any deliveries or orders today so he refuses to worry about any potential loss of profit. They make more than enough from both businesses anyway.

He goes back into the regular greenhouse for a few minutes to collect a small bouquet of flowers: gladioluses for strength, violets for peace, magenta zinnias for constancy and affection. Tony is working on what looks like a luck potion when he gets down there so Bucky waits until he’s done adding the crushed gardenia and has set the pot on a low simmer before he says, “What did Jarvis say?”

“To set up the wards,” Tony says. He’s not looking at him but he hasn’t sent him away either so Bucky feels confident coming up behind him to put the flowers in a vase and hug him close. He rests his chin on Tony’s shoulder.

“Anything else?”

“Maybe close the shop for a few days. I don’t want to do that though. We’ll lose out on too many customers.”

“So we’ll ask Steve and Sharon to come in.”

Tony snorts. “Over my dead body will we trust Steve with the greenhouse.”

“Sharon can handle those. Steve can handle the cash register. You know how many bouquets will sell with his ‘aw shucks’ routine?”

“…A lot,” Tony admits reluctantly.

“Exactly.” Bucky turns his head, pressing a kiss to the underside of Tony’s jaw. Tony sighs. “Come on, doll. Our friends have been saying for ages that we need a vacation so let’s take one. We’ll get away from here, wait until it all blows over and your parents leave again, and then we’ll come back.”

Tony closes his eyes, swaying a little on the spot. Bucky knows he’s been stressed lately. The store had a couple rough months earlier this year and they’re still not making as much of a profit as either of them would like. Bucky’s been stressed over it too but Tony seems to take it personally.

“Come on,” he croons, mouthing behind Tony’s ear. “We’ll go up into the mountains, rent one of those cabins with the bear rugs you read about in those romance novels you think I don’t know about.”

“Bucky!” Tony hisses.

“Whaddya say?”

“…Yeah, okay.”

[infinitevariety]

Ice Cream

Crowley lifts his wrist from where it’s resting on the floor to look at his watch. It’s already five past two. He should really get going. He needs to stop off and buy feed, but if he doesn’t get to St James’s by half past, then the ducks will wonder where he is and be hungry enough to set the geese after him.

But he’s comfy. Face down, spread long on Aziraphale’s sofa, limbs every which way. He doesn’t want to move and resolves to stay put for another few minutes. The ducks’ll get over it.

He does turn he head to rest sideways on the sofa cushion though. The better to watch Aziraphale as he putters about the shop. Crowley smiles as Aziraphale pulls a book down from the shelf, muttering to himself and shaking his head, before re-shelving it five books over.

It’s because Crowley is watching so fondly that he sees it. The flicker of delight that crosses Aziraphale’s face as he looks up at the window. It’s only there for a fraction of a second though, before it’s replaced by a disgruntled scowl.

“Angel?” Crowley pushes himself up to sitting. “Everything all right?”

“Fine, fine,” blusters Aziraphale. He gives one last glare to the window before turning back to the bookshelves.

Baffled, Crowley twists to look at the window. He sees nothing of obvious import, just people and traffic passing by on the street outside. But now he’s paying attention he can hear something. The cheery, obnoxious music of an ice cream van. And it’s getting closer.

“You want an ice cream?” ask Crowley, turning back to Aziraphale. As he speaks he realises he must be wrong—the prospect of a strawberry split would never make Aziraphale scowl.

“I would.” Aziraphale snaps the book he’s holding closed with a huff.

“But?” Crowley pushes, aware that Aziraphale’s mood could turn on him at any moment.

Aziraphale heaves a put-upon sigh. “But they never stop near here. They blast their luring music, whet a person’s appetite, and blow right by. At least once a week! Always not long after lunch, too.”

Crowley watches as Aziraphale looks back to the window. This time, instead of scowling, he looks soft and longing, eyes large and glossy. And Crowley is weak for that look, even when Aziraphale isn’t actively weaponising it.

The annoying, jovial music is now extremely loud. Almost right outside.

“That’s a real pity, Angel.” Crowley stands up. “Look, I’ve got to head off. Late for very important demonic business, but I’ll see you for dinner, yeah?”

Aziraphale’s, “Of course, my dear, mind how you go,” follows him out the door.

Outside he jumps in the Bentley, tyres decidedly not squealing—because they know what’s good for them—as he pulls off at speed and takes chase. He sees the ice cream van several cars ahead, and easily catches up and keeps pace. He follows it down various streets and around multiple corners before it enters Hyde Park.

As soon as the van pulls to a stop, music still blaring, Crowley’s out of the Bentley and charging forwards. His only competition is the short-legged variety, and he easily reaches the window of the van ahead of the several children racing towards it.

“You!” Crowley all but shouts at the woman inside the van.

“Me?” she replies.

“You. Why do drive through Soho with your shitty music playing but don’t stop?”

“Oh, I get so used to it I always forget to switch it off!” She turns away and a few seconds later the music abruptly ceases. She faces Crowley again. “Sorry!”

Crowley waves a dismissive hand at her. “The problem isn’t the music, it’s the not stopping.”

Her brow creases. “I never stop in Soho.”

“I know. And that’s the problem.”

“Soho is mostly shops and bars.” She shakes her head. “Not exactly the place for ice cream.”

“Who’s inside those shops and bars, though?” Crowley points out. “People. Hungry people. Warm people. People with a bit of sweet tooth, a craving for a strawberry split, and the softest smile when he gets what he wants.”

“Er...”

“I got too specific.” It’s Crowley’s turn to shake his head. “My point still stands.”

“Right, okay. Could you… move? There are kids behind you who want ice creams.”

“There are people in Soho who want ice creams. And I would suggest—” Crowley gives just enough of a demonic push. “—that you start stopping there. On Berwick Street, opposite that old bookshop with the funny opening hours.”

Crowley doesn’t wait for a response before he walks away, because he knows his words have taken. It’s definitely not because the brat queuing behind him has started poking him in the back of the knees.

-

A week later sees Crowley lounging on Aziraphale’s sofa once again. His eyes are closed, but he’s not sleeping. Yet. When his ears pick up the vexingly jolly music in the distance, he knows he’s not going to get his afternoon nap.

The sound of a book being slammed down on to a flat surfaces tells him Aziraphale has also heard the music. This time, instead of being concerned, Crowley feels a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He cracks open an eye to watch Aziraphale.

Soon the music grows to a crescendo and… holds. It doesn’t go by and fade into the distance, but remains disgustingly loud and located right opposite the shop.

Aziraphale looks up from his desk, clearly puzzled. He glances at Crowley, who quickly clamps his eye shut. Then Crowley hears Aziraphale stand and bustle quickly to the door.

There is stillness in the shop for a few minutes, before the bell above the door tinkles and announces Aziraphale’s return.

“Crowley, wake up, I’ve got you a 99.”

Crowley opens his eyes, sitting up and letting his grin run free across his face.

“Thanks, angel,” he says, taking the ice cream cone.

Aziraphale sits back down at his desk, licking his strawberry split and staring at Crowley.

“Did you have something to do with that?” Aziraphale uses his lolly to point in the direction of the ice cream van outside.

“Why on earth would you think that?” says Crowley innocently.

“Because you’ve been humming that sodding awful tune all week.”

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

Written for the Summer Omens challenge that @thetunewillcome is hosting. IDK. Anthony JActs of Service Crowley is my favourite, okay?

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

(Sand)