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scifrey · 2 years ago

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Deleted Scene: Take Root

For those who love the "Cling Fast" / Hob Adherent series: this is, regrettably, not a new story. The series still ends where it ended.

However, it used to have a different ending. In that different version, instead of "Hold Tight" and "Keepsakes: A Plane Ticket", I planned to resolve the Daniel Hall and Orpheus storylines by writing a much longer multi-chapter fic about Hob finding out he still has living descendants through another TV show. In this story, Morpheus would have gotten jealous of Hob's living children, and spend more and more time asleep, with Daniel, until Despair & Desire finally came to Hob to tell him the truth about Orpheus.

I wrote this first chapter and then really, really struggled with the story after that. A long conversation with @late-to-the-magnus-archives led me to realize that if I did the Walkers/Daniel/Orpheus thing this way, by making them a negative thing in Hob's life, by choosing to stretch the trope of miscommunication between lovers, and by basically reverse-uno-ing all the work Hob did to grieve his brief mortal family, then I was doing a disservice to events and character growth in "Cling Fast".

Thematically it might have been a good fit, but it was perilously close to manufacturing unrealistic dissent for the sake of drama, and not because this is how the characters would have actually reacted in this situation.

So, I abandoned this tale, found better, kinder ways to resolve the Walkers/Daniel/Orpheus storylines, and reworked the series to be as it currently stands.

However.

I am still a little in love with this tiny fragment of a tale, and wanted to share it with you. Just for funsies.

Happy reading!

-J

Status: Deleted Scene from a story I won't be completing.

Series: the Hob Adherent series.

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse, but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Gen

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death.

Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Matthew the Raven, Destruction of the Endless, Patrick the Bartender, Harriet Butler, Maisie Hampstead

TAKE ROOT

When the camera crew walks into The New Inn, Hob assumes it has something to do with Cardenio. The filming request had come through Harriet, and as Hob trusts her not to chuck him into any situation that would endanger him, or his husband, and their secret, he'd said yes without really looking into the details of the television program.

They'd asked to film inside the pub, and to interview him on camera. As this was just one in a long line of such requests, he'd set the date, and thought nothing more about it.

(When this lifetime was over, Hob was going to have to ask for a very heavy favour from little Daniel Hall, to ensure that no one remembered that his face matches that of Robert Gadlen the Sixth, sometime media darling of the mediaeval history studies world. Dream of the Endless had already pledged to make his uncles' transition as smooth as was in his power, thank goodness, but Hob was still nervous about all the footage floating around out there.)

What Hob didn't expect was for the crew to come in full guns blazing, so to speak.

"Oh, hello," he says, standing up from the banquette as a steady-cam, followed by the operator holding it, enter the pub. "Welcome to The New Inn."

The red light at the camera's lens is on, warning the world that it's recording. He's suddenly very glad he let Matthew talk him into wearing his hot-professor outfit, and the very light makeup required for this sort of thing. His hair is still shorter than he’d like, the scar on the left side of his head from a gunshot wound finally hidden by the longer style, for which he’s grateful. He wouldn’t want anyone to see it and worry.

Hob had kind of assumed that the crew would be dolling him up, but in the years since Elizabethan Manor he's learned that it never hurts to be camera-ready, just in case.

A man in a wireless headset enters behind the camera operator and waves at him, then points at the red light.

Yeah, I got that, Hob thinks but doesn't say. He's not sure why they're filming right away, but he doesn't want to spoil whatever shot they have planned. Maybe they spoke to Surinder and found out what a terrible actor Hob is, and have decided that it's far better to get his First Reactions on camera than to ask him to pretend.

Hob doesn't mind, but it would have been nice to be warned first.

Actually, if he bothered to read Harriet's email with any kind of depth, he probably was.

Patrick, the only other person in the pub at present, drops behind the bar like a WWI private tripping into a trench, and then scuttles into the kitchen, presumably to warn Destruction to stay hidden if he doesn't want to be filmed. Dee is in the middle of making the day's crusty loaf, so nothing will pull the Endless from the kitchen, unless it's serious.

Dee means business when he bakes.

"Thank you!" a young woman behind the PA says. She ducks around the other two folks, who are lingering in the doorway, and moves purposefully across the pub. Once she's firmly within the shot, she sticks out her hand. "I'm Maisie Hampstead."

"Hi Maisie, I'm Bob," Hob offers, shaking and then holding out a chair at his usual two-top for her because he's a gentleman, and old habits tend to kick in when he's wrong-footed. "What brings you to my humble pub?"

Maisie sets a heavy leather folder on the table between them, and for a second, Hob is terrified that this is a set up. That someone had hacked Harri's email, got him cornered, is about to reveal his terrible truth to a live-streamed audience, with a phalanx of nondescript cars and government scientists waiting in his front garden if he tries to run.

He reminds himself that the literal god of warriors is just one wall away, covered up to his elbows in flour, and that even if he was taken out of here against his will, his inlaws are the most powerful and immutable forces in the universe. Nothing and no one can harm him. Also, he can't die, which makes him ruthless and vicious when it comes to protecting himself—he doesn't have to avoid injury the way other people do when engaging in combat. While bullet and stab wounds hurt, they can be ignored in favour of finishing a fight.

But Maisie just smiles at him, flush with genuine excitement, and flips back the cover of the folder to reveal a… a family tree.

Okay, so not a clandestine setup or sting operation.

But something just as fraught.

Hob's eyes go wide as he skims the names on it, he knows they do, and he's pretty sure he must look absolutely pole-axed, because that's how he feels. He knew the BBC Historics department had mocked up a family tree for Elizabethan Manor, but he's never had occasion or desire to sit down and study it. He was already chastined enough by the fact that they found him in the first place. He had no patience to read in black and white where exactly he screwed up in hiding his past identities.

Hindsight, as the saying goes, is 20/20.

But the cameras are on him and he can’t exactly snap the cover shut and shout them all out the door. Not after he’d told Hari that he’d be game. So he reads on.

At the top of the tree, in computer-generated font, it reads:

Hob's breath catches in his throat as he runs the tips of his fingers over first Eleanor's, then Robyn and Wee John's names. It's taken a lot of work, but he's proud that he's able to have this out-of-the-blue reminder of their love and loss, and not immediately react negatively. He is joyfully reminded of that time of his life, seeing their names, instead of triggered.

But… no, wait, something's different…

"There's a… there's another line here," Hob croaks, following the dots downward from Robyn's box. This wasn't part of the graphic when they shared it on the show. "There shouldn't be another line here. He never…" Hob flattens his palm over the next row down on the family tree, not ready to read it yet.

Instead, he looks up at the young woman across from him, drinking in the sight of her like a parched man at a wholly unexpected, but nonetheless welcome, oasis.

She's blonde, hair flaxen-yellow and straight as a pin. But her eyes are dark, soulful brown, crinkling just enough at the corner to put her in her late twenties, he guesses. Detached earlobes. Complexion a few shades darker than his own, but still within the realm of olive-skinned. She's wearing light makeup, eyelashes mascaraed dark and lips painted and funky plum red. They curl on one side when she realises what he's doing, what he's looking for, the smile secret and mischievous in one corner.

And she has a cleft chin.

"Oh my god," Hob breathes. His eyes burn. There's a lump in his throat the size of a fist. He swallows hard. Excitement and fear and confusion swirl up in his middle, nauseating and fluttery.

He wants to reach out and grab her face between his hands, and hold her there, cataloguing everything. He wants to shove away from the table and race up the stairs and start shouting at the framed sketches of Robyn over his bed. He wants to curl up under a weighted blanket and hide from the truth until his husband coaxes him out.

Instead he just sits at the table, mouth hanging open like a landed fish.

He wishes Morph was here, and at the same time is unaccountably glad that his husband is in the middle of his daily ramble through the nearby Wapping Woods park. This is, he thinks, something he wants to discover on his own, first. Something to cherish and to hold, just for him, before he has to share it with the wider world.

Entirely on camera, of course.

Like all his major emotional revelations lately, it seems.

Ha.

"You… he… did he…?"

"See for yourself," Maisie coaxes him gently.

Slowly, tremblingly, Hob lifts his hand away from the paper.

"Robyn had a son," Hob whispers, voice wavering. His hands are shaking. He presses them between his thighs, under the table, where the camera can't see. "I had a—" he cuts himself off with a choked noise, wet and thick with longing.

"They weren't married," Maisie explains, not oblivious to his surprise and distress, and quick to reassure. Though, from her perspective, he guesses it must be very odd, to see someone falling to pieces over family revelations that are already centuries past. "They never got the chance to."

She slides another piece of paper out from under the family tree, a copy of a handwritten letter, and Hob snatches it from her hands perhaps too eagerly. It's an account of a fight in the alleyway behind a tavern, written from the perspective of a bystander—no, not a bystander. A witness.

A patron at the tavern the night Robyn died.

There's a sentence highlighted but the letters blur and slide across the page.

Hob wipes at his eyes. "I… sorry, can you read it to me…?"

Maisie takes the letter back and reads:

Young master Gadlen protested that he had no quarrel with the brothers of the distraught maid. He shewed that he had drawn neither dagger nor mayde a fiste. He did then call them brothers of his owne and did swear his intent to wed, but his oath came too layte for a knife had been thruste under his rib. Martha did wail and forswear the murderer as her kin, and held fast the lad until his heartsbloode had ceased to flow into the street. Mister Hampsted took his daughter awaye inside to the warmth. The undertaker was called for piteous master Gadlen and the lad was borne awaye to the house of his lamented father.

Hob remembers that night with the clarity that four hundred years of reliving it in his nightmares, and wishing he could have found a way to prevent it, has gifted him with. The smell of the tobacco he'd been smoking in the study mixed with the fatty funk of the tallow candles; the squeak of the undertaker's cart wheels as they bumped up the drive; the crunch of boots on the gravel as Rob's friends accompanied his body in an honour guard of misery; the gasp of horror Fletcher quickly stifled when he caught sight of the solemn procession; the taste of the claret Hob had been enjoying turning to sour bile on the back of his tongue.

Maisie mistakes his grave silence for incomprehension of the archaic English.

"The night Robyn Gadlen found out that Martha was pregnant, it looks like her brother jumped him for taking her virtue," Maisie explains gently. "Martha said in later letters that Robyn had proposed marriage as soon as she'd told him, and they'd conspired to elope. But her brothers stopped them as they were sneaking out the back of the tavern. They never made it."

I never knew, Hob realises. There was a child out there, Robyn's child, and I never even knew it. I failed Robyn. I failed this little Harry. I was so busy wallowing in my own grief and self pity, too busy getting drunk each night with Despair, too busy calling for and rebuffing Death, that I never… did she bring the child to the house? Was I too insensible, too pathetic to even be sober long enough to see the baby when I had the opportunity—

Hob's breath shudders out of him in a soft moan. "Why did… why did she never bring the babe to Robyn's father?"

"Her own father sent her away to a convent that same night," Maisie says. "Here, here's another letter. She wrote often to a cousin during her confinement. She says that she would have fled to Gadlen House if she could, but her brothers had carried her off so quick that she was in a nun's cell before the blood was dry on her hands."

"Oh Christ," Hob groans, both a prayer for that poor girl, and a curse against those who had kept her from him. He is awash in relief that he hadn't actively driven his grandson and his mother away, and both regret and anger in equal measure that the baby was hidden from him. "And after the birth?"

"Martha returned home with little Harry and married a man who agreed to care for them both so long as Harry's parentage was never mentioned. The man took over her father-in-law's tavern eventually, but he died of cholera a few years later."

"Hampstead," Hob repeats dully, his brain clicking over slowly, like his gears were filled with fluffy, grief-coloured cotton. "That was… that was the proprietor. Of the White Horse."

"Yes."

He looks up, feels the blood draining from his face. "Robyn died in the White Horse?"

Maisie cuts a confused glance at the camera, not sure what this has to do with the conversation they're clearly supposed to be having. "Yes."

Hob fists his hand in his shirt, over his heart. Surely, surely, he was going to die now.

This had to be it, after six hundred and sixty-some-odd years. Surely, there was no way to survive a heartbreak like this. "I thought… they said a tavern brawl, but they never said which one, and I—"

Maisie reaches out as if to touch his arm, and then stops halfway across the table, unsure of her welcome. "I'm sorry, do you need a minute?"

"Yes," Hob hiccups, and stands from the banquette. He doesn't look at the camera, doesn't make eye contact with the PA. He just walks straight back to the kitchen, pushes open the door, and zombie-shuffles right into the arms of Destruction, who has clearly been waiting for him.

The door has barely shut behind him before his face crumples and his lungs seize up. "He died in the White Horse," Hob sobs quietly. "Right there, where I—"

"I'm so sorry, Hob," Dee says, and rubs his back.

"All that time, I never marked it or… I feel like I should have known. I should have felt it."

"He went to the Sunless Lands in peace, Hob. There was nothing of your son remaining in that place for you to have felt. Don't feel guilty about that."

"I wish I'd known."

Dee hums gently, soothing, and hugs Hob harder as he weeps. Being hugged by Dee is like being gently crushed by tree-trunks. Hob presses his face against his brother-in-law's chest and lets Dee squeeze his soul back into his body.

After a few long minutes, Hob steps back and gives Dee a grateful pat on the arm. "Where's Patrick?"

"I sent him out for lemons," Dee rumbles.

"I bought a whole bag yesterday."

"I know."

"Thank you."

Dee studies his face. He must not like what he sees there because he says, "Do you want me to kick them out?"

"No," Hob replies. He sighs and scrubs his mouth, tries to pat down his hair. "No, no, it's fine. It was just… unexpected. Serves me right for not reading Harri's email more thoroughly."

Dee peers out of the porthole window in the kitchen door at the film crew. Hob can hear the murmur of their discussion, but not the contents of it. "Still, that's a hell of a thing to spring on a guy."

"I'll say," Hob snorts. "Oh, hey look, it's noon. I can drink now."

"Don't go overboard," Dee says, eyeing him.

"Don't worry," Hob reassures him, patting his massive forearm again. "I'm not going to fall back into my self-destructive ways. I spend enough time with you as it is, new-new kid."

Destruction snorts. "I was more thinking about how Despair would worry about you. She hovers like a brooding chicken."

Hob chuckles at the image, which was likely the point, and appreciates Dee's concern for his well being. Hob finishes putting himself to rights, squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and shoves the rest of his freak-out down, down, down to share with Morpheus when his husband gets back. And the cameras are gone.

On his way back to his table, he stops at the bar to scoop up four champagne flutes, and pulls one of the nicer bottles of prosecco out of the back of the fridge.

"Well," he says, feeling if not settled then at least more centred, when he sets his glasses down on the table beside Maisie's folder. "I think I can guess what happens next in the story, and if I'm right, then I figure we'll have something to toast to."

Maisie lights up, and Hob can see it, right there, in the way her eyes sparkle—here is his son's many-times granddaughter, come back to him. His blood, in her veins, seeking him out like a loadstone.

Oh christ, Hob thinks, falling a little bit in love with the kid on the spot. I'm going to have to let her dictate the pace of our family bonding, or else I'm going to be selfish and grabby.

"To be fair," Maisie says, "until we found some new documents, I thought I was a Fletcher."

"The Steward?" Hob asks, startled.

"After Martha's husband died, the tavern went to one of Martha's brothers and she came perilously close to abject poverty. She had other children to feed, and thought it was time for Robert Gadlen to know about his grandson. But by then they say the man had fully gone mad, and the Steward decided it was unsafe for the kid to live with him," Maisie explains, sliding the corresponding photocopy of a much older document out of the pile to show him.

It seems I owe that filthy cheating thief my gratitude for this, at least, Hob thinks as he pursues the paper. I absolutely was not in my right mind and this would have absolutely made it worse.

"When Fletcher just showed up at the civil courts one day with a kid, everyone assumed the little boy was actually his. Up until a month ago, my whole family thought we were the illegitimate descendants of the Steward. But the dates weren't adding up, and… well, then we joined the show and they did some digging. The historian found Martha's letters in the Gadlen Fell Crate papers, along with the documentation from the Court of Chancery, and suddenly it all made sense."

"Chancery?" Hob echoes, startled. "Little Harry was a ward of the Councillor?"

"Oh, you know what that is!" Maisie says, delighted. "I didn't."

Hob chances a look up at the P.A., who shrugs, and gives a go-head wave. He taps the family tree still between them, bringing her attention to the fake younger brother he had invented for himself in the early 1700s, Richard Gadlen.

"Maisie, besides what it says on the family tree, did they tell you who I am?"

"Just that Richard Gadlen was my, uh, eight-times great uncle," Maisie says, blithely unaware of how Hob's heart is threatening to burst apart behind his ribs. "Which means you're my, um, no wait, we figured this out, my ninth cousin, once removed because you're one generation older than me."

Hob huffs a chuckle. More than one generation, he thinks.

He's taken to putting silver at his temples in the last year, just a speckle of bleach with a toothbrush, followed by some of the grey-pastel dye that the kids are into these days. He used to have to do this with chalk, so it's much nicer to not shed faux dandruff every time he turns his head. Morph, peacock that he is, isn't ready to start putting on airs of age. Doesn't matter, though—his hair is so black most people already assume it's coloured.

"And did they tell you what I do for a living?" he asks, reaching for the prosecco and unwrapping the foil.

"No," Maisie says, looking around The New Inn. "I assume you're a publican?"

"Well, yeah, but that's not my full-time gig." He works the cage off the bottle neck, and shoots a look at the camera operator. They give him a thumbs up, prepared for the loud noise. He begins to wiggle the cork. "I'm a professor at the University of York. I teach Medieval and Early Modern History and Language. My name is Doctor Robert Gadlen—"

"The sixth!" Maisie squeals in delight, finally putting all the clues together. "Oh my gosh! You're the Witch Knight!"

Hob groans. "We are not calling me that," he says, just as the cork jumps free with a delicious little pop.

#losyark #cling fast adjecent #cling fast #the hob adherent series #hob x dream #hob adherent #dreamling week #dreamling #centennial husbands #centennial boyfriends #deleted scene #the sand man #sandman #dreamling fanfic #dreamling fic #lord morpheus #feel free to fanfic my fanfic

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justinspoliticalcorner · 11 months ago

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Ruth Ben-Ghiat at Lucid:

What do you think and feel when you look at this photograph of classified documents in a storage room in Donald Trump’s private residence, Mar-a Lago? In the summer of 2022, as part of special counsel Jack Smith’s federal case against Trump for mishandling of records, we had seen boxes of documents in the bathroom and elsewhere in that Florida mansion. Given that Mar-a-Lago served as the so-called “Winter White House” and hosted heads of state and other foreign dignitaries, this was a national security disaster. Trump was charged with 40 counts, including unlawful retention of national defense information, and pleaded not guilty. Now another trove of photographs, which were taken by the FBI during that 2022 search, have been made public as part of a new filing by Smith (all photographs in this post come from the CBS article on these developments in the case). These photos speak volumes about how Trump saw his power and role as president. Authoritarian leaders have an entirely proprietary view of governance. They don't recognize boundaries between public and private. They believe that as head of state it is their right to possess and exploit for personal benefit anything in the nation, from natural resources to economic assets to information.

A sense of chaos and total disregard for national security pervade the storage room, shown below in another view. Note that the jackets are carefully covered with plastic, as is a picture, and the guitar has a sturdy padded case.

[...] I have worked in public archives in half a dozen countries, and they all observe strict protocols about the handling of documents. It is not only due to the possibility of theft, but to protect the documents from damage. As a historian, this negligence is hard to see. As a scholar who has learned to think like an autocrat, though, it makes perfect sense. Trump’s claim on those records, his storage of them in his personal residence, and the mix of sensitive documents and personal effects perfectly sums up this proprietary vision of power. They are all HIS, to do with them what he pleases. [...] It’s public knowledge now that China, Saudi Arabia, and other autocracies funneled more than $7 million to Trump’s businesses while he was in office. Yet there are myriad other ways to earn money, and information is arguably the most valuable currency in the autocrat world. Just ask Trump’s idol Vladimir Putin, a former intelligence official, who has perfected practices of kompromat.

New photos from FBI’s Mar-A-Lago 2022 search reveals that Donald Trump was extremely careless in securing classified documents alongside his personal keepsakes as part of his Espionage Act-violating ways of committing document theft.

#Classified Documents #Donald Trump #Trump FBI Search Warrant #Mar-A-Lago #Trump Indictment II #Jack Smith #Jack Smith Special Counsel Investigation

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quietwingsinthesky · 2 years ago

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To Break a Fever

(Other Links: Dreamwidth - FFNet - Pillowfort - SquidgeWorld)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Gabriel & Lucifer & Michael & Raphael) Additional Tags: She/Her Pronouns for Gabriel (Supernatural), Sick Lucifer (Supernatural), Sick Gabriel (Supernatural), Sickfic, Healer Raphael (Supernatural), Depowered Gabriel (Supernatural), Depowered Lucifer (Supernatural), Depowered Raphael (Supernatural), Alternate Universe, Vomiting, Fever, Gabriel and Raphael are Twins (Supernatural) Wordcount: 4152 Summary:

Lucifer is sick, and Gabriel is so wrapped up in that that she doesn't see the fever creeping up on her until it's too late. It's a good thing Raphael knows what they're doing, even without grace to take care of their siblings.

Lucifer always takes a while to show up in the mornings. There hasn’t yet been a morning he doesn’t show his face, even if it’s only for a few minutes that end with whatever new fight with Michael he can pick and him stalking off to cool down again. There’s a sort of rhythm here that Gabriel’s tentatively falling into. She wakes up, usually from Fen trying to sit on her head, and goes to eat breakfast. Detours halfway there to the bathroom because she gets bodily signals loud and clear, a rarity in the apartment and really annoying when they clash between hungry-eat something-eat a bagel-eat twenty bagels and hey, it’s me, your bladder, and if you don’t go piss right now, I’m making it everyone’s problem.

And once that’s taken care of, she’ll always find Raphael already awake. Their eyes track her the minute she steps into the room. Sometimes Michael’s also there, which means he didn’t actually sleep that night, and sometimes he’s not, which means Gabriel can glance over and see him passed out on the couch, sleeping like he read how to in a manual. Fen needs feeding before Gabriel does, no matter how much her stomach is growling.

(“Why do you even keep a dog?” Michael asked, in that tone he used when he was trying to hide how judgmental he was being. But not trying that hard.

“I’m a good mom,” Gabriel snapped. Michael just blinked at him and didn’t ask any more questions.)

And then it’s a waiting game as Gabriel makes breakfast, and Raphael doesn’t eat it, and Michael either snoozes on or paces around the kitchen with nothing to do. It doesn’t matter how much he stares at the utensils cabinet, Gabriel is not letting him spend a day reorganizing the kitchen. Everything, or what little there is, is right where Gabriel wants it.

Lucifer’s record for not coming up is about two hours and seventeen minutes. Not that Gabriel is counting.

It’s been three. The sun is well over the horizon. Gabriel might have had too much coffee. Her fingers are all jittery over this week’s bills, and for once, it isn’t because they might not be able to pay them. (Most of Gabriel’s money is... not gone. It’s definitely still floating around out there, locked up tight, but she can’t get at it. She got access to one or two accounts, plus what Lucifer could pull with some vessel identity fraud. Michael couldn’t do much on that front, and Raphael... Whatever they could have contributed was all tangled up in the account their vessel shared with her husband, and it had been unanimously agreed that they not touch that situation.

Someone out there is waiting for Raphael- for the face Raphael wears to come home.

Yeah. Not with a ten-foot pole.)

Gabriel glances over at the key bowl. The minivan key is laying there, easily picked out from the rest because of the metal yellow smiley face attached to it. A little keepsake from the 70s, older than the minivan it now heralded but not the bowl it lived in. If it’s there, Lucifer can’t have gone anywhere. The van is unlocked for him to sleep in, but he doesn’t know how to hotwire a car. He didn’t even know how to load a dishwasher.

Gabriel looks back at Michael and Raphael. Neither of them are making any move to go find out what the hold up is. They don’t even look worried that Lucifer isn’t here.

There’s a very cruel part of Gabriel that goes of course they don’t. They’re used to it.

They wouldn’t notice if you took off either.

It’s a lie and an obvious one. Raphael’s first panic attack happened after Gabriel went to the grocery store without leaving a note. Gabriel presses her fingers into where Raphael had bruised her arm by holding on too tight. The ache is gone. She misses it, not for the pain, but the easy reminder. Maybe it doesn’t occur to Raphael and Michael the way it does Gabriel. That Lucifer can leave. For centuries, they’ve all known exactly where he was, even if he was out of reach. Locked up in his tower, singing to the demons that pass by, until Sam Winchester called out for Lucifer to let down his hair. (Or threw his own up? It was long enough.) Lucifer’s got both feet on the ground now, and boots made for walking, and why the hell does he stick around?

It’s not even his apartment. Which is the only reason Gabriel stays.

She rubs the unbruised spot on her arm. “I’m going to go fetch Lucifer,” she announces.

Gabriel throws on a shirt and pants. She’s 80% sure they’re both hers. She takes the stairs. The elevator might be mandated by law, but apparently its care and keeping isn’t as strongly regulated. On a good day, six floors up and down isn’t a problem (and Gabriel doesn’t think about bad days. If she can’t see them, they can’t see her.) There’s no one around, but she’d slide down the banister the last few flights even if there was. Her butt stings from a bump in the rail. The brief rush is worth it. The parking under the building is dark and damp, all enclosed in rusted bars that the daylight hardly peeks through and stone. Gabriel shivers when she steps out. Her foot goes right into a puddle left from last night’s rainstorm, and she jumps.

“Fuck!” That makes her feel better. Shoes! She forgot about shoes again. She doesn’t want to go all the way back up to get them. She pays more attention to where she’s walking instead, sidestepping puddles and loose rocks and weird stains on the floor, leaving one wet footprint in the wake of her stride. Thankfully, the minivan is parked close to the stairs. She braces herself, grabs the backdoor, and yanks it up, stepping out of the way so that the right corner of the car is between her and Lucifer. “Rise and shine, Luci!” She’s expecting a snarl and at least one arm or leg flailing out at her. Instead, Lucifer grunts and tugs his blanket further around himself.

“Go away,” he says into one of his... four pillows, now. One of those is probably the one Michael said had gone missing.

“It’s a beautiful day, and you’re going to waste it sleeping in?” Above them, the sky grumbles its disagreement and reminds them all that it can always shit out another few gallons on their roofs. Lucifer makes a very similar noise as he tries to curl away from Gabriel. Gabriel yanks on his blanket. It shouldn’t give. It does. Gabriel drops it in surprise, and it flutters to the ground and gets wet. She grimaces. Lucifer lets out a heavy, frustrated breath, but he doesn’t do anything. “Seriously, get up,” Gabriel says. “What’s wrong with you?”

Lucifer rolls over and glares blearily at the ceiling of the minivan. He looks like shit.

“I’m dying,” he says.

Gabriel’s heart stops for a moment. Then, she leans over and puts her palm against his forehead.

“You have a fever,” she tells him. Lucifer nods.

“I’m dying.”

“Shut up.” She needs him to stop saying that. Even if he’s just being dramatic, there’s a uncomfortable twist in her gut. She grabs him to haul him up, and Lucifer makes his first attempt at resistance. He pushes back against Gabriel, weakly, with hands that are far too warm wherever they settle on Gabriel’s skin. He’s exactly as heavy as he looks, but Gabriel can match that with stubbornness. She gets Lucifer on his feet, both of them stepping on the blanket resting in the dirty water, making it worse. “Hang on.” Gabriel makes sure he’s mostly steady and turns to close the backdoor of the minivan, vowing to come back for their stolen pillows later. As the door clicks closed, Lucifer makes an awful sound, and before Gabriel can fully turn around, he doubles over and starts retching.

This blanket isn’t going to be salvageable.

When Lucifer’s finished throwing up, (and Gabriel’s finished running her hand up and down his back, muttering, "Okay, fuck, you’re fine, you’re gonna be fine," without thinking about it) she pulls him back up. He’s leaning even more weight on her. Gabriel helps him across empty parking spaces to where the elevator is and hopes it’s at least functional today. She hits the button — It doesn’t light up, so she has no idea if the elevator is actually coming. — and waits. Lucifer doesn’t throw up again, if he has anything left in him. Did he eat dinner last night? Gabriel can’t remember.

The elevator comes. For one brief moment, Gabriel considers thanking their Father for that small mercy before Lucifer wobbles and nearly falls over and the urge disappears completely. Mercy would be Lucifer not having an immune system to compromise. Mercy would be Gabriel not having to worry about him, not like this. Fuck thanking Him for an elevator, especially one that doesn’t work on days when Gabriel’s bones all feel misaligned and her skin doesn’t fit right.

They stand side by side as the elevator rattles up the six floors towards their apartment. Lucifer can lean back against the wall rather than against Gabriel, tilting his head to the side to press his temple to cool glass. The walls of the elevator are mirrored on both sides, which Gabriel has heard other residents complain about for making them nauseous. She likes it. It makes the enclosed space seem expansive. Lucifer would appreciate it, too, if he wasn’t about to pass out.

“Just a little further,” Gabriel says, and she’s not sure which of them she’s reassuring. Lucifer manages it, barely.

“Welcome-” Raphael’s voice calls, distracted, but sharp with attention when they see Gabriel dragging Lucifer through the door. “What happened?”

“He’s sick. It’s not serious.” Lucifer does everything he can to prove Gabriel wrong by nearly falling over. “Shit!” Gabriel balances him at the last second. Lucifer’s eyes blink open, unfocused. Raphael stands, but they don’t move, only watching as Gabriel walks Lucifer over to the couch and drops him. Lucifer whimpers. It’s a horrible sound that Gabriel feels wrong hearing. She turns her head. Raphael is digging out the first aid kit. “Raphael, he’s being dramatic. He’ll be back on his feet tomorrow. It’s a cold.” Raphael does not believe her, carefully digging out supplies and laying them across the kitchen counter. Gabriel rolls her eyes. She can hear them filling something with water as she turns back to their brother.

Lucifer’s going to be fine. He rolls over and tries to hide his eyes from the lights, burying his face into the couch cushions. Gabriel’s stomach feels twisted up, and she jumps when Fen comes padding over and presses his cold nose to her leg. Lucifer flinches when Fen barks. Gabriel leans down and scoops him up, earning herself half a dozen doggy kisses.

“Move,” Raphael tells her brusquely. Gabriel does without thinking. Thousands of years, and she still knows when Raphael’s tone means life or death.

They’re overreacting, too. Lucifer’s-

Lucifer is easily rolled over onto his back again. He covers his eyes.

“What are-” Gabriel hears Michael’s voice from behind him, and she glances back over her shoulder.

“Hit the switch,” she says. Michael frowns, but he does. The window near the couch keeps the room lit, but Lucifer seems to relax. Raphael rests their hand over his forehead where Gabriel had earlier.

“Open your mouth,” they order Lucifer. Lucifer blinks at them and doesn’t. Undeterred, Raphael opens it for him, pinching his lips apart and pushing the tip of the thermometer in. They wiggle it under his tongue, made more difficult by Lucifer grimacing at the taste of the metallic tip and trying to push it away. Raphael slides their hand down to his jaw and holds his mouth closed, eyes fixed on the thermometer. Gabriel lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding as the number stops on 100.1 degrees.

“I told you, he’s being dramatic. That’s barely a fever.” Michael steps up behind Raphael, his hand folding over their shoulder as he peers down at Lucifer. Raphael pulls the thermometer from his mouth, thumb gently petting along his jaw before they stop touching him.

“I’m dying,” Lucifer mumbles, again. Michael’s alarmed expression is only soothed by Raphael shaking their head.

“He’s not in any danger.” Raphael lifts another component from the kit, something wrapped in a towel. They lay it across Lucifer’s forehead. He exhales in relief. They try to feed him a pill next, but he refuses it, stubbornly turning his head and clutching the cold compress against himself. Raphael gets even more frustrated when he won’t drink anything they offer him either. Fen has leapt up onto the couch, sensing that Lucifer is too weak to shove him off and cuddling against his legs. His tail wags weakly, clearly able to read the tension in the room as Lucifer turns away from the offered cold water a third time.

“Try it later,” Gabriel suggests. Raphael has this handled, as they always have, but she can’t bring herself to leave Lucifer alone.

“He needs fluids now,” Raphael snaps. There was a time once when no one, not even Lucifer, would have fought them when they were trying to heal. They aren’t used to resistant patients. Angels aren’t made that way. Humans, on the other hand, only seem able to make their situations worse.

“Raphael,” Michael says. Gabriel sees him squeeze Raphael’s shoulders. Their face screws up stubbornly before breaking. “It’s alright. He’ll-”

“Michael?” Lucifer interrupts.

He stares up at their oldest brother. Neither Gabriel or Raphael plan it, but the moment Lucifer looks to Michael, they do as well. Gabriel forces herself to look away first. Michael moves to kneel down beside Raphael instead of hovering over them and Lucifer. Lucifer squirms to the edge of the couch to be closer to him. Michael touches his cheek, fingers pulling back momentarily like he’s surprised by the heat before he lets them rest there. Gabriel’s cheek tingles and rubs her thumb against it roughly so that it’ll stop. “Raphael,” Michael whispers, “let me see the bottle.” Raphael hands it over, fists falling into their lap. “Sit up, Lucifer.” Michael’s voice has softened into one Gabriel hasn’t heard him use for Lucifer once in their whole stay in her apartment. Lucifer whines protest, but Michael insists, “up, little brother,” and Lucifer finally drinks when it’s Michael holding the lip of the bottle to his mouth.

Raphael has to leave the room. Gabriel watches them go, sighs, and goes to make lunch. It’s something she’s able to do, and eventually, the sound of her making dough lures Raphael back out to help. They fall into their clumsy still-learning rhythm, both of them ignoring what’s happening by the couch.

Gabriel takes something for the headache that develops as she sits in front of the oven and waits for the timer to ring, the dough rising for the second time on the stovetop above. Raphael washes their hands thoroughly. Michael comes to fill the water bottle back up. “He’s asleep,” Michael says. His voice is so quiet it makes Gabriel want to bang the oven door as loud as she can to wake Lucifer back up. Only that would probably make her own headache worse. She rubs her ankle as it aches. Damn bones. Damn her for getting lazy enough with making this vessel that she couldn’t spend a few extra minutes making sure all of it fit together right. All she did was take a tibia from one guy and a try to line it up with tarsals from a girl a century earlier. It wasn’t supposed to hurt, wouldn’t if she still had her grace. At least everything holds together. Some parts dislocate easier than they should, but she hasn’t had to pop anything back into place for the past few weeks at least.

The timer rings, and she heaves herself to her feet. At least she can still make flatbread. Small luxuries. Raphael pokes at the one they’re handed, breaking off a small piece before the look Gabriel is giving them makes them take a bite. Bigger luxuries come in seeing Raphael’s eyes light up when they find food they can enjoy. Gabriel packs at least quarter of the flatbread into a container and puts it in a cupboard. Definitely not for Lucifer. She’s storing it for someone who isn’t sick. If he happens to get better and eat it, then that’s just a coincidence.

She glances over at her brother. Fen is watching him closely. Good boy.

Lucifer sleeps for most of the day, intermittently woken by Michael to drink more water or by Raphael when they take his temperature. Gabriel takes another pill before the day’s over, her head aching as she watches Michael bring up the pillows from the van she told him about. He props Lucifer up on one, and Lucifer murmurs something in response tiredly. It has the shape of Enochian, but what Lucifer says is incomprehensible through the haze of his own exhaustion, the limitations of human vocal cords, and his loose grasp on his own language. (They don’t speak in Enochian often, mostly to avoid straining their throats, but when they do, sometimes Lucifer gets completely lost, unable to follow what should be basic conversation, and when he speaks back, it never comes out right.)

“Michael is going to sleep on the floor if it’s his choice,” Raphael says. Gabriel hadn’t heard them sidle up next to her. She jolts hard, and it makes her chest and shoulders hurt.

“Then let him?” Gabriel says. She doesn’t see how it’s their problem if Michael wants to suffer. He’s tucking a blanket around Lucifer. Gabriel’s hand curls into a fist, and she waves it out. She can see Raphael watching her from the corner of her eye, and they’re easier to look at than Michael.

“We have a spare bed,” Raphael says.

“You have a spare bed,” Gabriel corrects, though calling the air mattress a bed is a stretch. “I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.” Raphael narrows their eyes, and Gabriel almost says, I’m older, I have to look out for you. She thinks better of it. It’s not really true, anyway. She just likes to imagine it is, sometimes. (And other times, selfishly, she wants Raphael to be older.)

“I’m trying to ask if I can sleep in your bed.” Gabriel’s mouth drops open a little. She shuts it quickly, licks her dry lips, and answers,

“Of course you can,” before she can talk herself out of it. Raphael looks a little surprised themself.

More difficult is convincing Michael to take the air mattress. He protests about taking Raphael’s space, but Lucifer isn’t moving from the couch and Gabriel’s pretty sure none of them would let him go back down to the van even if he could. In the end, they leave him in the other room, snoring off his fever, and the three of them try to make their nightly routines fit around each other when there’s even less space. Gabriel doesn’t do most of hers. Between finally passing out in bed and brushing her teeth, sleep wins by a landslide. She’s out before Raphael even has time to crawl under the covers with her.

Raphael is definitely there when Gabriel wakes up. She knows that because of the metal poking into her mouth. She tries to spit it out to no avail, and instead she whines. Her throat aches around the noise. Raphael’s hand smooths over her forehead, brushing back sweaty hair and then becoming an insistent press as Gabriel tries to sit up. She doubts she would have gotten anywhere even if Raphael didn’t make her stay still. Everything hurts, from head to toe, like someone took a hammer to her muscles and beat them to death. She makes a face around the thermometer again as Raphael draws it out.

Gabriel glimpses the numbers. They look blurry, but she knows they’re higher than Lucifer’s temperature. The worry on Raphael’s face does nothing to reassure her.

And then, worse, Raphael leaves.

Gabriel can’t help the noise she makes, pitiful and high like a wounded animal. She wriggles to get the covers off of her. She’s too hot, everything is too hot, and her clothes and her hair stick to her skin. The sheets under her back are uncomfortably damp. She shakes her head and makes herself nauseously dizzy in the process. The whole world spins over her head, but squeezing her eyes shut again doesn’t help. She wants to go back to sleep. Nothing hurt when she was asleep.

The thought makes her panic and flail, knocking the covers completely off the bed.

“Gabriel,” it’s Michael’s voice, and then Michael’s hand gripping her arm, forcing her back to stillness. She curls into him. He doesn’t react to her pressing her sweaty body against his, keeping his voice calm. “That’s better. Don’t move so much. You’re very sick.” Michael’s hand smooths over her hair.

“I don’t want to go back,” she tells him. He’s Michael. He’s the oldest, the strongest, and if anyone can keep her here and not- “Don’t let me go back. I can’t do it again.” The darkness behind her eyelids is too much like that empty place, and she keeps them forced open, staring up at Michael. The light above his head makes an odd halo. He frowns.

“I don’t-”

“She needs to-” Raphael starts. The moment they’re in Gabriel’s line of sight again, Gabriel squirms towards them. “To drink,” Raphael finishes, once Gabriel has completely invaded her space. Gabriel presses her forehead into the cold plastic of the water bottle Raphael is holding and sighs.

“I can take care of it,” Michael offers. Raphael doesn’t hand over the bottle. Instead, Gabriel allows them to help her.

“You should check on Lucifer,” Raphael says, but there’s something more relaxed about their tone. Gabriel smiles. She can be a good patient.

The next few days are torture. Gabriel can’t sleep, but she’s never really awake either. She’s always drifting in the nauseous in-between, interrupted every once in a while by Raphael prompting her to drink or helping her to the bathroom. They take Gabriel’s temperature religiously, and Gabriel watches as the number creeps further and further up, the furrow in Raphael’s brow growing deeper.

Lucifer and Michael flit in and out of her world, too. Michael takes it upon himself to readjust her pillows and pull the sheets out from under her to wash when they get too gross. Lucifer recovers quicker than she did, and more than a few times, she finds him sitting beside her on the bed, pressing his cool hand against his forehead.

(She hears the three of them discussing whether or not to take her to a hospital, and yells as loud as she can - which isn’t very loud when her throat is so sore - for them to not do that. They can’t afford a hospital bill. Or random doctors seeing whatever horror show is going on inside Gabriel’s vessel. It must work, since she ends that night sweating in her own bed again and not in the ER.)

Finally, her fever breaks. Raphael hauls her out of bed and into a cold bath. Gabriel doesn’t have the energy to stand in the shower for long enough. She tugs on Raphael until they give in and join her. Gabriel rests her head against the wall beside the tub and lets Raphael wash out her hair. Gabriel’s muscles are still aching, and her throat isn’t much better, but her body isn’t actively trying to boil her alive anymore. She’ll take it.

“Why the long face?” she asks Raphael, catching her expression in the bathwater before it shatters into a dozen ripples.

“What?” Raphael massages Gabriel’s scalp. She sighs, sinking back into them, despite the annoyed noise they make at how much harder it is to wash her hair like that.

“I’m not dying anymore-”

“You were never dying,” Raphael says.

“-so why aren’t you happy? You don’t have to take care of me anymore.” Raphael’s quiet for a minute.

“But I knew how to,” Raphael answers

Gabriel stares down at the broken reflection.

“Well,” she says, ��we could always start poisoning Michael, if you need someone sickly to look after.” She thinks it’s a cough at first, but then Raphael gets louder, and it’s laughter, caught off-guard and unable to be restrained, flavored by exhaustion. Gabriel smiles and snuggles back into them, smearing shampoo all of their shoulder until they get annoyed again.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

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quietwings-fics · 2 years ago

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To Break a Fever

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Gabriel & Lucifer & Michael & Raphael) Additional Tags: She/Her Pronouns for Gabriel (Supernatural), Sick Lucifer (Supernatural), Sick Gabriel (Supernatural), Sickfic, Healer Raphael (Supernatural), Depowered Gabriel (Supernatural), Depowered Lucifer (Supernatural), Depowered Raphael (Supernatural), Alternate Universe, Vomiting, Fever, Gabriel and Raphael are Twins (Supernatural) Wordcount: 4148 Summary:

Notes:

For day 2's prompt: thermometer

(“Why do you even keep a dog?” Michael asked, in that tone he used when he was trying to hide how judgmental he was being. But not trying that hard.

“I’m a good mom,” Gabriel snapped. Michael just blinked at him and didn’t ask any more questions.)

Lucifer’s record for not coming up is about two hours and seventeen minutes. Not that Gabriel is counting.

Someone out there is waiting for Raphael- for the face Raphael wears to come home.

Yeah. Not with a ten-foot pole.)

Gabriel looks back at Michael and Raphael. Neither of them are making any move to go find out what the hold up is. They don’t even look worried that Lucifer isn’t here.

There’s a very cruel part of Gabriel that goes of course they don’t. They’re used to it.

They wouldn’t notice if you took off either.

It’s not even his apartment. Which is the only reason Gabriel stays.

She rubs the unbruised spot on her arm. “I’m going to go fetch Lucifer,” she announces.

“Go away,” he says into one of his... four pillows, now. One of those is probably the one Michael said had gone missing.

Lucifer rolls over and glares blearily at the ceiling of the minivan. He looks like shit.

“I’m dying,” he says.

Gabriel’s heart stops for a moment. Then, she leans over and puts her palm against his forehead.

“You have a fever,” she tells him. Lucifer nods.

“I’m dying.”

This blanket isn’t going to be salvageable.

“Just a little further,” Gabriel says, and she’s not sure which of them she’s reassuring. Lucifer manages it, barely.

“Welcome-” Raphael’s voice calls, distracted, but sharp with attention when they see Gabriel dragging Lucifer through the door. “What happened?”

“Move,” Raphael tells her brusquely. Gabriel does without thinking. Thousands of years, and she still knows when Raphael’s tone means life or death.

They’re overreacting, too. Lucifer’s-

Lucifer is easily rolled over onto his back again. He covers his eyes.

“What are-” Gabriel hears Michael’s voice from behind him, and she glances back over her shoulder.

“I’m dying,” Lucifer mumbles, again. Michael’s alarmed expression is only soothed by Raphael shaking their head.

“Try it later,” Gabriel suggests. Raphael has this handled, as they always have, but she can’t bring herself to leave Lucifer alone.

“Raphael,” Michael says. Gabriel sees him squeeze Raphael’s shoulders. Their face screws up stubbornly before breaking. “It’s alright. He’ll-”

“Michael?” Lucifer interrupts.

She glances over at her brother. Fen is watching him closely. Good boy.

“Michael is going to sleep on the floor if it’s his choice,” Raphael says. Gabriel hadn’t heard them sidle up next to her. She jolts hard, and it makes her chest and shoulders hurt.

“We have a spare bed,” Raphael says.

“I’m trying to ask if I can sleep in your bed.” Gabriel’s mouth drops open a little. She shuts it quickly, licks her dry lips, and answers,

“Of course you can,” before she can talk herself out of it. Raphael looks a little surprised themself.

Gabriel glimpses the numbers. They look blurry, but she knows they’re higher than Lucifer’s temperature. The worry on Raphael’s face does nothing to reassure her.

And then, worse, Raphael leaves.

The thought makes her panic and flail, knocking the covers completely off the bed.

“I don’t-”

“I can take care of it,” Michael offers. Raphael doesn’t hand over the bottle. Instead, Gabriel allows them to help her.

“You should check on Lucifer,” Raphael says, but there’s something more relaxed about their tone. Gabriel smiles. She can be a good patient.

Finally, her fever breaks. Raphael hauls her out of bed and into a cold shower. Gabriel doesn’t have the energy to stand on her own in the shower for long. Raphael joins her. Gabriel rests her head against the shower's wall and lets Raphael wash out her hair. Gabriel’s muscles are still aching, and her throat isn’t much better, but her body isn’t actively trying to boil her alive anymore. She’ll take it.

“Why the long face?” she asks Raphael, catching her expression out of the corner of her eye before Raphael moves away again.

“What?” Raphael massages Gabriel’s scalp. She sighs, leaning back into them, despite the annoyed noise they make at how much harder it is to wash her hair like that.

“I’m not dying now-”

“You were never dying,” Raphael says.

“-so why aren’t you happy? You don’t have to take care of me anymore.” Raphael’s quiet for a minute.

“But I knew how to,” Raphael answers

Gabriel stares down at the dim reflection of her face in the wet shower tiles.

“Well,” she says, “we could always start poisoning Michael, if you need someone sickly to look after.” She thinks it’s a cough at first, but then Raphael gets louder, and it’s laughter, caught off-guard and unable to be restrained, flavored by exhaustion. Gabriel smiles and snuggles back into them, smearing shampoo all of their shoulder until they get annoyed again.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

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maria021015 · 1 year ago

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Xander didn’t get home until after the sun had dipped below the horizon that night. It had left her alone with her thoughts and her countless opened and unopened cardboard boxes. Though Zaida much preferred the company of the boxes rather than her thoughts, so she busied herself with unpacking. Clothes were hung and organised according to item category and then sub-organised into colour. Keepsakes were tucked in boxes below her bed, her art supplies slid under right next to them. In that box lay countless expensive paintbrushes made from sable hairs. They were a gift from her father. Each birthday and holiday he would buy her another until her collection was complete. She couldn’t bear to paint with them, afraid of the bristles becoming stiff or stained. Afraid of ruining something so precious. Afraid of the memories that came when she held them. So instead they sat in that box with the rest of her art supplies.

When she had gotten through half of the boxes, she decided she had done enough manual labour for the day. Padding over barefoot to the kitchen, she sifted through the pantry and fridge, taking in the ingredients and mentally recording her options before deciding on making some creamy pasta. She was just shoving the last forkfuls of penne into her mouth when her brother walked through the front door.

“I saved you some dinner.” she gestured vaguely to the closed pot atop the stove. “How was your shift?”

“I can’t answer that question, Zay.” he sighed, exhaustion weighing down his features as he pulled a bowl out from the dishware cupboard.

“What? I’m just making polite conversation about how your day was.” she hummed with a casual shrug and dropped her own bowl in the sink, atop his toast plate from the morning. “My day was great by the way, thanks for asking.”

“You and I both know you’re not asking about how my day was, you’re asking me about what happened to the bus driver.” he shot back, filling his bowl up with the remaining pasta.

“Well now that you mention it, what did happen to that bus driver? Has your genius brain figured it out yet?” she prompted him, leaning against the kitchen bench.

“You saw the bus. You’re smart enough to figure out what happened. He’s not the first animal attack victim, and at this rate, he won’t be the last. We’ve been scouring the reserve for days and there’s no trace of this thing.” he rubbed at his temples, clearly frustrated, but something he said made her pause.

“What do you mean not the first victim? I thought it was only animals that have been showing up dead?” Zaida pushed. He’d mentioned mauled deer but nothing about human victims.

“There was a body found in the woods, but it still hasn’t been officially connected to the animal attacks. They want to be sure.” he yielded, knowing she would not relent unless she was given at least some answers.

“If they found the body then what are they waiting for? Surely it would be easy enough to distinguish an animal attack. Bites, claws, animal hair, voilà, you have your perpetrator.” her brows creased, trying to make sense of it.

“Well, they’re waiting to find the other half-” Xander began and her eyes widened.

“The other half ! They found half a body and you didn’t tell me! ” she gawked, stuffing down her rising concern and smothering it with sarcasm. “What if it wasn’t an animal attack? What if there’s a murderer out there swinging a katana like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, just chopping people in half? And to think, you were going to let me walk to school!”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” he groaned and shook his head. “Just forget about it, okay? You’re not supposed to know about this, so keep it zipped.”

“Zipped. I am zipping.” she mimed the action of zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key. In half ? What kind of animal could sever a body in half? The same kind of animal that could rip a bus door off its hinges , she told herself. The same kind of animal that left five-fingered claw marks .

“I’m sure the animal will show up soon and when it does,” he mimicked shooting off a gun. “We’ll deal with it. For now, you go straight to school and you come straight back home, okay? I don’t want you out and about.”

“Yes, Lord Vader, sir.” she brought her fingers to her temple in a salute before turning on her heel to retreat to her bedroom. Well, her tally of weird shit was growing. Fast.

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thewolfisawake · 2 years ago

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🎈 😢 🌼 (Ceilidh)

🎈Do you remember the start of your life? How long ago was it?

"Unfortunately, the very beginning I do not but I do remember much of that time. It was a lot of being toddling along beside my father. Practicing writing what I could hear at meetings even if I did not yet understand what was meant. Unfortunately, it is still in archives since I did manage to write notes a few times. A lot of 'very mature for my age' sort of speak. Mainly because I did not cause much fuss for a child attending adult meetings. Although that may have also increased because of young lord Allanach also being born and being the only other point of comparison for at least a century. As for how long ago...it is well over six hundred years."

😢Do you still think about people you knew years, even centuries, ago?

"Of course, as a recorder, I observe many people all throughout my life. How interesting they were. The unique way they shine...Many of them I have my own book of keepsakes. The flower of the human girl that found me pretty. A pearl from a secretary friend that passed recently. That sort of thing. One I think about despite quite some time since her passing...is the late Queen Consort."

🌼Have you traveled? If so, name one place that you love the most.

"Seelie should be traveling about outside the realm until recently so there is only so much I could actually see," Ceilidh said this but her eye glinted as if she were just reading off a card, "but of course I have. I have familiarity with the back passages to the realm. I think my favorite one was when I ended up in the Middle Kingdom. I believe back home this is called China. Such beautiful scenery even amongst the strife and yet such lovely music, art and word came from the land. With surpassing quality in the beings that protect it."

#{Ceilidh Headcanons #she's being very teasing about the first #and really does have a little keepsake book

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captioingstar · 1 month ago

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acr3ss-the-cosmos · 13 days ago

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what is ONE THING you like about the way i play my character?

I still love your Chenhua who is always a bundle of sunlight in people lives. ;;w;; Even when things are shit she is still positive. Hence it's always important to hear what troubles her because even she needs some positivity and love too <3

one thing you like. @shining-gem34

JADE THANK YOU I'M SQUISHING YOU IN MY HANDS LOVINGLY

chenhua really does try the person that people can turn to when people need positivity or reassurance, but she also needs that herself when things get too much for her, and rook has been a big help in that department when it's needed ;v;

#message from the stars; (ASK)#shining-gem34 #archived records; (KEEPSAKES)

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fsdhzdg · 2 months ago

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Capturing Memories in Montreal’s Vibrant Scene

In a city as lively and eclectic as Montreal, where every event pulses with energy and character, the quest to preserve memories takes on a special significance. From weddings bathed in romance to corporate galas buzzing with ambition, the demand for unique ways to immortalize these moments is ever-growing. Enter the world of a Montreal Photo Booth Company, blending cutting-edge technology with playful creativity, and the innovative charm of Audio Guest Book Services, which add a heartfelt twist to traditional keepsakes. This article explores how these two offerings are redefining event experiences in Montreal, turning fleeting instants into lasting treasures.

The Evolution of Event Entertainment

Montreal’s reputation as a cultural hotspot makes it the perfect stage for innovative event enhancements. A Montreal Photo Booth Company taps into this vibrancy, offering more than just a snapshot station—it’s an interactive centerpiece that draws guests in. Picture a sleek setup at a chic downtown venue, where laughter spills out as friends pile in front of the camera, striking poses against custom backdrops that echo the event’s theme. These booths have evolved far beyond their vintage roots, now boasting high-quality prints, digital sharing options, and even 360-degree video capabilities that capture every angle of the fun.

The appeal lies in their versatility. Whether it’s a bohemian wedding in the Plateau or a sleek product launch in Old Montreal, the photo booth adapts, offering props and filters that match the mood. It’s not just about the pictures—it’s about creating a shared experience that lingers long after the last guest departs. This fusion of technology and nostalgia transforms any gathering into a celebration of connection, making it a must-have for Montreal’s event planners.

A Voice to Remember

While photos freeze moments in time, voices carry the soul of those moments. Audio Guest Book Services bring a fresh layer of intimacy to events, inviting guests to leave messages that resonate with emotion. Imagine a vintage phone perched elegantly on a table, its neon sign glowing with an invitation to “Leave a Message.” Guests pick up the receiver, and after a cheerful beep, they pour out congratulations, share a funny story, or sing a snippet of a favorite tune. These recordings become a time capsule of love and laughter, preserved for the hosts to revisit whenever they wish.

This service shines at personal milestones like anniversaries or birthdays, where hearing a grandparent’s warm advice or a friend’s goofy impersonation adds depth to the memory. In Montreal, where multiculturalism weaves a rich tapestry of accents and languages, these audio keepsakes capture the city’s diversity in a way photos alone cannot. Paired with a photo booth, it’s a dual assault on forgetfulness—visuals and voices together painting a fuller picture of the day.

Blending Visuals and Sound

The magic truly happens when a Montreal Photo Booth Company teams up with Audio Guest Book Services to create a multi-sensory experience. Picture a wedding reception at a rustic venue just outside the city. As guests snap playful photos with feather boas and oversized sunglasses, they’re drawn to a nearby station where they can record a quick message. The bride and groom later receive a gallery of images alongside an audio file filled with heartfelt wishes, blending the visual chaos of the dance floor with the quiet sincerity of spoken words.

This combination elevates corporate events too. At a Montreal tech conference, a photo booth might capture teams posing with branded props, while an audio guest book collects testimonials about the day’s innovations. The result is a package of memories that’s both marketable and meaningful—perfect for sharing on social media or archiving for future reflection. It’s a seamless integration that turns passive attendees into active participants, leaving them with tangible mementos of their involvement.

Why Montreal Loves These Innovations

Montreal’s blend of old-world charm and modern flair makes it an ideal playground for these services. A Montreal Photo Booth Company thrives here because it mirrors the city’s love for celebration—think of the spontaneous joy of a summer festival or the polished elegance of a winter gala. The photo booth’s adaptability suits a place where every neighborhood has its own personality, from the artsy Mile End to the historic cobblestones of Vieux-Port.

Similarly, Audio Guest Book Services resonate with Montreal’s storytelling tradition. In a city where conversations flow in French, English, and a dozen other tongues, the chance to record a personal message feels like an extension of its oral heritage. Together, these offerings cater to a population that values both innovation and intimacy, ensuring that no moment slips away unnoticed.

The Future of Memory-Making

As Montreal’s event scene continues to evolve, the demand for personalized, interactive experiences will only grow. A Montreal Photo Booth Company might soon incorporate augmented reality, letting guests step into virtual worlds for their photos, while Audio Guest Book Services could expand to include video messages, blending sight and sound even further. These advancements promise to keep pace with a city that’s always pushing boundaries, ensuring that every celebration—big or small—leaves a lasting echo.

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