#behind the fic: trivia cards collection

[writeyouin]

Hello!! Omg I love your writing SOOOO much!!! If holiday requests are open, I was wondering if you might gift us with a V for vendetta Christmas fic? Like, something fluffy where reader is stuck in the shadow gallery and is having a real blue Christmas UNTIL... V surprises them with something unexpectedly festive? *cough* mistletoe *cough* ❤️❤️❤️

V X Reader – Christmas Blues Part 1 of 2

A/N – Okay, so I got two very similar xmas requests for V for Vendetta, so I’m doing this as a 2 parter. Part one is this, part 2 will be smut. You can read part one without part two.

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

V stared at you, certain you must find his expression mocking behind the jeering grin of his mask. He had never intended to hurt your feelings, only to let you down gently as it were. He knew he didn’t do enough for you. There was never enough time, and his work was important… But weren’t you also important?

No, nothing could compromise his mission. If all went according to plan, he would be ready to blow up the Old Bailey in another two years, thus starting his revolution. Yet, doing such things took time, and there was so much that V had to learn and prepare. He didn’t have time to rest – not even on Christmas Eve. However, in telling you so and seeing your disappointment – Well, it was just another way in which he was a monster.

The worst part was that you were taking it in your stride. Granted, V could see how upset you were as your eyes became glassy with tears you refused to shed, but you didn’t complain; it seemed that you knew just how much his work meant to him.

And so, V left you, stating a humble apology as he passed you and made his way to the roof. He had to hurry. There was a train to catch – a train straight to the Chancellor that was jam-packed with priceless intel.

Even when V left you, you still refused to cry. A small part of you had known this would happen. It was quite likely that V didn’t celebrate Christmas anyway. How many times had he told you that the holiday was stolen from its pagan roots? Or that the name was changed to suit its Christian hosts? And now that the UK was stuck in a dictatorship, the Holiday was only used to control people – it was like a gift the Chancellor could give or take away at will.

If the population was good, they would get their later curfews and sparkly light shows, but if they ever needed further subjugation, then a false threat would be created by Suttler’s goons, and harsher lockdowns would be put in place. Then, said imaginary threat would then be taken care of just in time for New Year’s Day so the people would have a chance for revelry, all while feeling a false sense of security under their great and powerful leader.

So, that left you all alone, as usual, but you knew you couldn’t blame V. To act as he had was simply his nature. You could no more ask him to change than you could ask birds to stop flying or fish to cease swimming. You simply had to pull up your bootstraps, pick some traditions, and enjoy the Holiday spirit.

That was easier said than done since there was nobody to lift your spirits and hype you up as you did all the things you were supposed to do. After eating dinner alone, listening to Christmas music, and hosting a lone trivia card game, you were quite thoroughly depressed.

In the end, you put on a film from V’s collection. In your current mood, It’s a Wonderful Life seemed to be the right choice; besides, you liked picking a film from Suttler’s blacklist, and It’s a Wonderful Life had been banned at the start of his reign for its socialist views.

Partway through the film, you spotted V’s sparring partner – the suit of armour he tormented during his favourite movies whenever he thought he was alone. Well, if he could be V’s movie frenemy, then he could also act as your film friend.

Slowly, you started talking to him, giving your opinions on the film, and of its characters. At some point, you began acting out scenes, much as you had seen V do, though where he chose violence, you chose love. The suit was your James Stewart, and you, Donna Reed, though sometimes, you would switch roles if you thought it was a particularly good Stewart scene. You lassoed the moon for your metal friend, then you switched roles and offered it a broken mansion for its honeymoon.

Although there was no mistletoe kiss in the film, you stole some you had decorated the fireplace with anyway, placing it over the armour’s helm. It was almost as if you would have felt silly kissing it without the mistletoe, even though it was ridiculous to peck the metal beak either way. You turned away from the unmoving man so that when you did kiss him, you would be able to swing around dramatically and give him that world-ending, 1940’s bombshell of a kiss.

The film played alongside in the background as George Baily returned home safe – he was loved and cared for, and then, it was the perfect moment to swing around, throw your arms over the broad shoulders and kiss –

V?!

Your momentum carried you forward as your lips pressed against the cool metal of his mask.

You tried to scramble back, hurrying out apologies but V held you steady.

“Don’t.” He told you. “Don’t apologise.”

“V, I- I thought you were-”

“I came back,” He said as if it were the only thing that mattered. In truth, he had rushed through his mission, stolen the required intel on a USB and hurried back without even so much as looking at the data. Leaving you the way he had didn’t sit right with him. You were an amazing person, always forced to put yourself second since you did everything you could to please V. He didn’t want things to be that way. He wanted you to have more.

Granted, the two of you weren’t yet in a relationship, but you had just kissed him, albeit inadvertently, and V was no fool; he knew the feelings you harboured for him.

“(Y/N),” He whispered your name, placing a gloved hand on your cheek. “You have given me more than I could have ever hoped for. You are a virtuoso of my heart, vibrant and vivacious as you pass through the veneer of villainy that masquerades so violently in the vales above. Of all that resides here in the Shadow Gallery, you are the most valuable to me. Although it is entirely selfish of me to ask such a thing of you, I hope that you will stay with me… always.”

You trembled against V, entirely terrified to open your mouth in case no sound came out. He waxed poetry so eloquently, and you often failed to make yourself say all the things you thought without tripping over your words.

Still, you couldn’t stay silent at such an important time in your life. V was – He was everything and to have him by your side would be like capturing the stars themselves, cosmic and inexplicable as they illuminated your heart and mind, burning any darkness or fear away.

You couldn’t look away from V, knowing his gaze must be expectant beneath the mask. Realisation dawned upon you, you didn’t need fancy words, or masses of poetry to complete the moment. All you needed was what V valued most; the truth.

“I don’t want to spend a day without you. I love you, V.”

“Then, by all means, let us abandon our fat metal friend,” V spared the suit of armour a backward glance, thinking how you could have kissed it instead of him, “and retire elsewhere. I myself do not celebrate this holiday, but I would love to partake in some of your more beloved traditions.”

[tsukikoayanosuke]

Behind the Fic: Trivia Cards Collection - Ruggie and Trey’s Family’s Names

When Twisted-Wonderland give you chance to make new year holiday cards or memes, but you decided to use it for something useless as character trivia cards.

Remember: most of these are not canon. 

Ruggie’s Family

Grandma: Sienna Bucchi

Name meaning: English name derived from the vocabulary word sienna, meaning "reddish-orange."

A reference to Little Red Riding Hood's grandma and the red hood itself. A sick woman who is the mother of Ruggie's late mother. Later she became Ruggie's sole guardian.

Father: Sawyer Bucchi

Name meaning: Occupational name for someone who earned his living by sawing wood, Middle English saghier, an agent derivative of sagh(en) 'to saw'. Americanized form of some like-sounding Jewish surname or a translation of Seger.

A reference to the hunter/woodcutter and the forest itself. A working man who tried his best to feed his family, switching job in various shift. He unfortunately died from exhaustion just a few months after winning custody from his abusive wife.

Mother: Aldofina Bosco

Name meaning: English origin name with the meaning "noble wolf."

Surname meaning: Means "forest" in Italian.

A reference to the wolf who ate the grandma and later Little Red Riding Hood. On the outside, she's a kind woman, however, she's abusive toward poor Ruggie everytime her husband is out to work. After the divorce, she lost custody of Ruggie who moved with his father and grandma.

Son: Ruggie Bucchi

Name meaning: The closest to his first name is 'Reggie' which means 'mighty counselor-ruler' (English) or 'powerful ruler' (German).

A vague reference to Little Red Riding Hood. After his parents got divorced and his father died not long after, Ruggie had been jumping around accepting odd jobs in the street as long as he could feed his grandma.

Trey’s Family

Father: Lowell Clover

Name meaning: From an English surname that was derived from a Norman French nickname, from lou "wolf" and a diminutive suffix. The surname was borne by American poet and satirist James Russell Lowell (1819-1891).

A reference to the Big Bad Wolf who died from being boiled alive. Trey's father has a low immune system which resulted in him getting fever frequently. He, however, died when Trey was still young. He once worked as a teacher and always felt guilty knowing that his wife gave up her dream to be with him.

Mother: Carmen Clover

Name meaning: Medieval Spanish form of CARMEL influenced by the Latin word carmen "song". This was the name of the main character in George Bizet's opera Carmen (1875).

A reference to the Disney song "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?". A fiery woman who once a theater star before dropped out after marrying Lowell because of his health complications.

First Son: Trey Clover

Name meaning: English name meaning "three". Originally a nickname for a third-generation son, as in Thurman Thackeray III, Trey is now being given to others, and it has also expanded to Treynor and Treyton. The name also is popular among basketball fans: It's another word for a three-point shot

A vague reference to the three little pigs, more specifically, the number 3. After his father's death, Trey must become the man of the household, being his mother's helper. He learned how to bake from his mother and her friends, and soon become the main baker of his shop.

Second Son: Milford Clover

Name meaning: From an English surname that was originally derived from various place names all meaning "ford by a mill" in Old English.

A vague reference to the pig's straw house which got blown down by the wolf. A timid boy who is the twin of Clematis and has a soft spot for romance novels.

First Daughter: Clematis Clover

Name meaning: From the English word for a type of flowering vine, ultimately derived from Greek κλήμα (klema) meaning "twig, branch".

A vague reference to the pig's stick house which got blown down by the wolf. A loud and aggressive girl who is the twin of Milford. She's very easy to be provoked and will not hesitate to headbutt on the stomach.

Second Daughter: Diamond Clover

Name meaning: From the English word diamond for the clear colorless precious stone, the birthstone of April. It is derived from Late Latin diamas, from Latin adamas, which is of Greek origin meaning "invincible, untamed".

A vague reference to the pig's brick house which the wolf failed to blow down. The youngest of the Clover siblings who unfortunately inherit their father's low immune system. She couldn't get out of the house too much and needs to drink a lot of medication. But, she has a passion for singing.

Family Friend: Deborah Karuta

Name meaning: From the Hebrew name דְּבוֹרָה (Devorah) meaning "bee". In the Old Testament Book of Judges, Deborah is a heroine and prophetess who leads the Israelites when they are threatened by the Canaanites.

Surname meaning:  Japanese playing cards that were introduced to Japan by the Portuguese traders during the mid-16th century.

A reference to the honey tree from "The New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh" episode, "Three Little Piglets". A friend of Carmen who taught her and Trey how to bake.

[samwpmarleau]

inside the pocket of your ripped jeans

2,500 words of me throwing hands with TVD’s post-S5 depiction of Caroline and Tyler’s relationship.

Inspired by this fic by @cbsnforeverandalways, this post by @zalrb, and @fredsythe’s salt.

It hits her at the oddest times. She could understand the faint sense of loss if it only happened on their anniversary, or when the moon is full. Stefan understands when she’s a little mopey on those days; after all, he has days like that of his own.

It’s when it happens on days that don’t have any significance that gets her the most, though; those, she can’t tell Stefan. Because he’d look at her all half-judgy, half-sympathetic, which makes her feel the entirety of the hundred-and-fifty-year age gulf between them. Not that she wants to examine it even to herself, granted.

It would be one thing if she knew when the missing him would strike her, but it comes on without warning.

She and Tyler will be talking, as acquaintances or friends are wont to do, and there’ll be a moment. This spark of magnetism between them that used to always be there (when it was allowed to be there). And she knows he feels it, too, because she can see it in his face, and that makes it worse, because that means it’s not a figment of her imagination. She tells herself it’s just them reconnecting, because they were friends long before they were lovers, but she knows it’s a lie.

Other times, she’ll flip through a photo album and smile rather smugly at her favorite photo of her and Stefan because they are just perfect together — but then she’ll see a picture of him and Elena and the dark beast of doubt and envy will pool in her stomach, and then she’ll see a picture of her and Tyler, and now guilt and wistfulness join the party. Because how can she be jealous of the way Stefan and Elena look together, the way they just fit, when she looks at her and Tyler and they just fit, too?

Still other times, she’ll be toying with her daylight ring and will flash back to the day her father had tortured her, when Tyler and her mom had come to her rescue and he’d slipped the ring back onto her finger. He’d practically been down on one knee then. She remembers reliving that moment later, once the pain of that day had passed, only in a much more scenic locale where Tyler would present her with a ring ring, not just the lapis lazuli. When he proposes, she’d thought then, not if — even back then, when their relationship was barely in its infancy, it had felt...permanent.

Caroline still doesn’t have a ring ring, but she has a wonderful boyfriend and a wonderful life that’s not with Tyler and that’s that.

She’s fine.

Really.

* * *

She dreams of him, sometimes.

She’ll fall asleep to a vision of dark eyes, and she thinks that they’re Stefan’s, which is acceptable. But when she falls truly asleep, it is not Stefan that she sees. She sees Tyler, smiling at her the way he never quite does anymore, a smile absent of betrayal and hurt, like she’s the sun his world revolves around. Even before they’d gotten together, when they were still just friends figuring out their supernatural identities, that smile had set her heart fluttering. She’d passed it off at the time as the usual jitters of being a new vampire.

She dreams of all the times he’d swept her off her feet, or pressed her up against the wall, or stared at her in that intense way he did right before he kissed her breathless. She dreams of falling into bed with him (or onto the couch, or on a desk, or…), every nerve alive, every inch of skin alight. Sex had never been just about passion for them (though there certainly was plenty of that), it was their way of connecting when words weren’t quite enough.

She dreams of them arguing, which they did often. But it’s not a bad dream — she’d liked that she could speak her mind with him, that they could call each other out on their bullshit and that he didn’t treat her like she couldn’t defend herself. She’d liked that instead of letting issues fester or keep secrets, they hashed things out and got to the bottom of them. She’d liked that no matter the problem, he never made her feel bad about herself.

When she wakes, there is always a moment where she fully expects to see Tyler lying beside her. Perhaps she’d kiss his chest, his neck, his jaw, his lips until he stirred awake. But it’s Stefan lying there, not Tyler, because of course it is, and for that brief moment there is an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

* * *

It’s trivia night, when their entire group is supposed to hang out together, but Elena, Matt, Jeremy, and Damon had all bailed, so it’s just Caroline, Tyler, Stefan, and Bonnie, with Bonnie and Stefan currently tied for the lead. Bonnie swears she hasn’t used her powers to get ahead. Caroline’s not entirely sure about that: she still bitterly recalls the incident in fourth grade when Bonnie swore she didn’t move the Ouija board pointer and then the next year revealed that in fact she had. She’s peeved about Stefan, too, because she doesn’t think it’s exactly fair when he has so many more years’ worth of trivia knowledge. Bonnie ends up winning the battle for first place, and thus becomes the mediator for Caroline and Tyler’s battle for third.

“We should probably just give Caroline the crown right now,” she snorts as she reads the card. “ ‘In The Real Housewives of Orange County, which housewife departed the show between seasons two and three?’ ”

With hardly a minute’s hesitation — and just a split-second before Caroline recalls the name — Tyler answers, “Jo De La Rosa.”

Bonnie and Stefan stare at him, dumbfounded. “Uh...correct,” Bonnie says. “How do you know the answer to that?”

“Just from around,” Tyler says with a wince. “It’s not like I watch that reality TV trash or anything.”

Caroline, huffy at having lost, objects, “No, I have it on good authority that you enjoy this ‘reality TV trash,’ Tyler Lockwood. You watched every episode with me.”

“Yeah, because at the end of each season you gave me a bl — ” He abruptly cuts himself off, glancing at Stefan. “—ueberry muffin.”

Caroline desperately hopes her blush isn’t visible. It was blowjobs she gave him in exchange for watching the show with her, not muffins. In fact, Tyler’s allergic to blueberries, and by the dubious expressions on both Bonnie and Stefan’s faces, it’s clear they know of that particular allergy and further don’t believe a word of Tyler’s fumbled explanation.

“Well,” Bonnie announces, “that’s my cue to leave.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Stefan offers.

Caroline waits until the door closes behind them, then remarks, “That was awkward.”

“It’s not like they don’t know we were together,” Tyler says, helping clean up the game. “What, does Stefan think all we did was make out or something?”

“No, but still.”

Tyler looks a bit perturbed at that, though doesn’t reply. She used to be able to read him like a book, but now she can’t decipher at all what he wants. What, is she supposed to talk about their sex life in front of their friends? In front of Stefan? That sounds like something pre-werewolf Tyler would do, not the selfless, sensitive Tyler she dated for over a year.

She doesn’t want them to part on bad terms, though, so she goes to give him a hug goodbye. She intends for it to be brief, but when they embrace, she finds herself unable to break it. As a hybrid, his vampire half cooled his body temperature to more or less that of any other vampire; she’d almost forgotten how warm werewolves get, and it sends a shiver down her spine. More than that, she’d almost forgotten (or perhaps willed herself to forget) just how good it felt to be close to him. He’s shorter than Stefan, but she kind of likes that her head rests next to his instead of against his chest, his pulse a temptation. His arms are tight around her, his hands low on her waist, and it feels…right.

She pulls away because that most definitely isn’t right, not anymore, but she makes the mistake of looking up at him. It would be dangerously easy to kiss him right now, if she wanted. And the way his eyes are dilated and his lips slightly parted, somehow she knows he would kiss her back. She blinks a few times to try to clear out the lustful fog, ashamed of the fact that despite the acrimonious way they ended, despite the fact that she’s now dating Stefan, she wants to kiss him.

She steps back more fully and says, “Well, drive safe.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She watches him leave, and feels an odd sense of emptiness. Worse still, the sound of the door shutting triggers that deep-set déjà vu that she’d endured for so long; a closing door, after all, always followed a goodbye. A goodbye and not knowing how long it would be until she would see him again, or even if she would see him again. That’s not the case now, he’s not leaving for good, but it still makes her chest constrict.

A few minutes later, the door reopens, and her heart, not her head, leaps. Perhaps he’d forgotten something, or perhaps he’d returned for something else entirely that they would both surely regret. But that guilty, hopeful sensation falters when she sees that it’s Stefan who enters, evidently done fending off Bonnie’s gloating.

“Are you all right?” Stefan asks with a frown.

Caroline fixes her expression, waving him off. “You know me, I just don’t like losing.”

It’s an accurate enough statement, so Stefan accepts it. He helps her collect their empty beer bottles and puts the popcorn bowl in the kitchen. It was an aberration, she tells herself. It’s natural to still feel an attachment to your ex for a while, right? It means absolutely nothing.

She just wishes it felt like nothing.

* * *

Matt doesn’t have to repeat himself when he calls to tell her Tyler’s dead by Damon’s hand. She can hear just fine, thanks very much, and the information registers. It’s not the first time they’ve lost a friend and probably won’t be the last, and Tyler and Damon had always hated each other anyway, so really it was just a matter of time. She hadn’t even talked to Tyler in months.

“After everything we went through, I guess I just always assumed that he would be there,” she tells Stefan. It’s truer than she can express; even when he was gone, he was constant. He was white noise, always there even when he wasn’t, even if other things drew more attention.

She’s not sure whether Stefan simply doesn’t hear her or ignores her, for he switches focus from Tyler to Damon. She ends up comforting him when it was her ex-boyfriend who was murdered, and she wonders if that’s normal.

The first funeral is interrupted and so later they have an informal gathering at the empty carnival grounds. Everyone says nice things, but it doesn’t quell the pain.

“I loved him,” she says. God, she loved him. But Stefan’s here and she doesn’t want anyone to read anything into it, so to be safe, she qualifies, “You know, we all did.”

Talk then switches once more to Damon. Someone makes a casual remark about how Tyler’s not even the first Lockwood Damon has personally killed. They talk about how to save Damon, how they can bring Damon back from the brink, how lost Damon must feel, as though something like this is remotely out of character for him, and Caroline excuses herself to go throw up in the bushes.

She doesn’t get any time to herself afterwards; Stefan convinces them all to enjoy the carnival’s offerings, and then there’s the chaos with the twins, chaos in general, and life moves on because it has to. She figures she’s buried all of it — we hadn’t talked in months — until one day she’s doing some spring cleaning and empties out her jewelry box, systematically untangling necklace chains and setting aside rings to be polished. From the pile, she slowly pulls out an old charm bracelet, the silver now tarnished but its origin unmistakeable.

She runs her fingers over the charms — a paw print, a football helmet, a heart, a cheerleader, her initials. They were broken up at the time, Klaus’s sirebond in the way, but it was her eighteenth birthday so he’d gifted her the bracelet anyway. She stares at it, and stares, and stares, and the grief slams into her all at once. She clenches the bracelet in her fist, cries until she can’t breathe and then cries some more.

He’s dead. He’s dead.

Klaus had been mistaken when he said Tyler was her first love. It was Matt who fit that bill. Matt was the sweet, innocent love of youth, where everything seems both too much and not enough.

But Tyler…

We’re immortal, he’d said. He was wrong about that. She stayed immortal but he didn’t.

We will find a way, he’d said. He was wrong about that, too. They never found a way.

What if we don’t? she’d said. She was the one who was right. She, the eternal optimist, had become the pessimist, and she was right.

It would be silly, wouldn’t it, to still call him the love of her life? She’d thought he was at the time, because obviously. She was in love and their relationship at that point was a patchwork of goodbyes, sex, and yearning, filled to the brim with thoughts of, If we can only get past this hurdle, we’ll be home free, so of course she’d thought it would last. People always think love will last, don’t they, in the moment?

But here by herself in this great big house, she can admit the truth. What she has with Stefan isn’t just different, as for so long she’d assured herself. She’s content and comfortable with him, but it’s…less. She doesn’t feel complete when he’s near nor empty when he’s gone. The noise and worries of the world don’t fade when she’s in his arms. She doesn’t feel alive.

Because the truth — the truth she will admit now with the silver bracelet in her hand and her chest overflowing with sorrow — is that she gave away her heart a long time ago, her whole heart, and she never got it back.

And it doesn’t even matter because Tyler’s fucking dead, and she’s going to live forever. There will be no closure to be had, no apologies, no amends, no nothing.

I’m not moving on from anything, he’d said. I love you.

She polishes the bracelet until it’s gleaming, fastens it around her wrist, and thinks, I never really moved on either.

[awkwardnessandbaseball]

Galentine’s Day

Happy Valentine’s Day @pearlmackie :)

I’m your CS Secret Valentine! It’s been so lovely to get to know you over the past few weeks, and I hope you like this fic I put together for you ;)

AO3

GALENTINE’S DAY , Emma began to type. She’d been assigned a story on the phenomenon and was less than eager to get started.

“It’s like Valentine’s Day, but with your friends. The girls. The gals, if you will,” Regina had said earlier that day.

“Right but… I don’t have any ‘gals’ to celebrate with. I’m the worst person to assign this story to. Give it to, like, Mary Margaret. She’s probably got enough friends to have Galentine’s Day every day of the week.” Emma really didn’t like to turn an assignment down, but this was just so out of her realm of expertise. She normally did stories that required hours of research and difficult-to-obtain interviews. She’d nearly forced her way into politicians’ offices and snuck into at least three press conferences she hadn’t been invited to.

Storybrooke Press was a no-name newspaper in a no-name town, but it was Emma’s paper and it was her town, too, dammit. She loved stories that exposed hard truths and made people question everything they were being told.

“Mary Margaret’s got some sort of special romance story she’s working on,” Regina had rolled her eyes. “She wants it to be a surprise, but I told her I obviously have to give the ‘OK’ before it goes to print. Regardless, she’s busy. Galentine’s Day is yours.”

Knowing there would be no arguing with Regina anyway, Emma left her office in a huff. Now, she sat in front of her computer, the cursor blinking at her, taunting her.

It wasn’t just that Emma didn’t have any ‘gals’. She didn’t have any… anything. She’d grown up alone, bounced around within the foster system until she’d finally aged out of it. She’d tried her hand at romance, but Neal Cassidy had been the wrong person to try it with. He’d done nothing but lie and cheat, but at the very least, her story about him had gotten her onto the paper to begin with.

When he’d left her broken-hearted and just plain broken, Emma had written a detailed account of all of the jobs they’d pulled – every store robbed and every pocket picked – right up until the stolen watches he’d left in some locker on the other side of the state. She’d written it as a form of self-healing, posting it to a blog she’d kept anonymous.

Regina had been intrigued by her writing style and her voice and had emailed the address Emma had created for the blog. She’d asked her to come into the office. Regina promised to keep the blog separate from the conversation, to never bring up Emma’s past that she’d revealed.

It was unconventional, but it was the first time Emma had seen a future for herself. From the moment she’d walked into the Storybrooke Press offices, she’d felt a sense of comfort that she could only assume felt like coming home.

But just because the writing world had welcomed her with open arms, that hadn’t mean her co-workers needed to do the same. Emma knew she came across as a bit prickly and standoffish, but she’d been alone for… ever. She didn’t know how to approach people with anything less than a large amount of distrust and a small dose of fake smiles. The ladies at the paper all knew she was faking, and made no attempt to coerce her into conversation.

Except Mary Margaret.

The lead writer for the Lifestyle section, Mary Margaret Nolan was the kindest, most giving and open person Emma Swan had ever met in her life. There were times – like when she was sick, and Mary Margaret reached into her purse for tissues and cold medicine; or when she’d locked her keys in her car and there was Mary Margaret with a wire coat hanger, shimmying the window down – when Emma really wished that she could have been adopted by the Nolans. They were the same age, of course, but there was something distinctly motherly about Mary Margaret and Emma felt like a kid again whenever she came around with her freshly baked cookies or collecting signatures for someone’s birthday card. Her husband, David, had come to visit once, delivering a full bouquet of flowers to his wife, but also a single flower for everyone else in the office.

It was part charming, part ridiculous. Emma secretly loved it.

Still, even Mary Margaret was no match for the sky-high walls Emma had built around herself. At first, Mary Margaret had tried inviting her to group outings – trivia night, bowling, happy hour, you name it – but Emma declined, and she stopped asking.

Staring at the yet-to-be-written story on her screen, Emma nearly jumped out of her skin when the very subject of her thoughts spoke from behind her.

“Oh, Regina gave you that story? That’s so lovely!” Mary Margaret was nothing if not genuine, despite all the times Emma had tried to see some sarcasm or skepticism in her tone, a darkness behind the light in her eyes. “Have you decided who you’re going to take?”

“Excuse me?” Take where? , Emma thought to herself.

“Well, which girls you’ll be taking out for Galentine’s Day, of course!” Mary Margaret was bouncing on the balls of her feet, and Emma breathed out a deep sigh.

“I hadn’t really planned on throwing a Galentine’s Day… thing. I’m not sure who to invite.”

Mary Margaret’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, Emma, you should come to mine! We’re going to that restaurant across town with the silly pirate statue out front. They do a really great brunch special to celebrate!”

“I’m sorry, The Jewel of the Realm does a special for Galentine’s Day ?” Emma tried to keep the nasty tone out of her voice, she really did. She snorted, despite herself. “They probably just want all the girls to come in so they can hit on them.” To Emma’s surprise, Mary Margaret giggled.

“Probably! But it’s worth it – all-you-can-eat for two people for twenty dollars!” She bit her lip. “Please come, Emma. I’d love to help you with your story, and some of the girls from the office will be there, and some of my other friends, too.”

“How many… how many people, exactly?” Emma really didn’t relish the idea of sitting at a table with a ton of strange women, watching to them get champagne-drunk on mimosas and listening to them talk about… what did large groups of women talk about? Emma assumed that on a day like “Galentine’s”, they didn’t talk about men.

“Hmm,” Mary Margaret silently counted on her fingers. “I think I’ve got five for sure, including myself. Six, if you agree.” And there she went, bouncing again. Emma resisted the urge to put her head in her hands and instead forced a smile.

“Sure, I’ll be there.”

“Oh, Emma, that’s fantastic! We’ll be there at ten in the morning, and stay till about noon.” Before Emma knew it, Mary Margaret was hugging her, bending down and wrapping her arms around both Emma and her chair.

The things we do for journalism , Emma thought to herself.

~~~~~~~~~~~

At roughly quarter after ten, Emma strolled into the Jewel of the Realm. It was packed, with laughter echoing in every direction. Emma heard champagne glasses clinking and smelled a whole lot of bacon.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Emma! Over here!” Mary Margaret was waving her arms over her head from a round table with one empty seat. Emma made her way over and Mary Margaret jumped right in with introductions. “So you know Ruby and Elsa from the office,” the two brunettes waved and looked at each other, seemingly surprised that Emma had actually shown up for something, “and this is my neighbor Belle and my childhood best friend, Ashley.”

Emma lifted her hand up in a small wave and promptly took her seat, eager to have all of the attention focused on literally anything in the entire world but her .

The conversation picked up quickly, and Emma felt a bit lost. Here were five women who’d clearly known each other forever. They were talking about memories Emma wasn’t a part of, stories she hadn’t been present for. She had nothing to share, nothing to add.

“Emma, what was your favorite birthday party theme when you were a kid?” Mary Margaret asked her suddenly. “Ashley and I had a joint party one year and everyone dressed up as princesses. It sounds so silly, but it was so fun at the time!”

“I um… I never had a themed birthday party.” It would have been easy to lie, to say she’d had a princess theme too, and to simply agree with everything the other girls said, but Emma was never going to get a story out of this ridiculous day if she didn’t participate on some level.

She was a journalist, dammit.

The table went silent for a moment.

“Me neither,” Elsa said. Every head at the table turned her way and Emma instantly felt herself cool off. “My parents passed away when I was very young. My sister and I were raised by our aunt, and she didn’t really believe in large birthday parties. We each got a cupcake or a few brownies, but never a party.” Her eyes met Emma’s from across the table.

“I was raised by my Grandma,” Ruby jumped in. “She’d bake me a cake or something, but I almost always had to work at the diner on my birthday once I was old enough. No bouncy castles for me, either.”

Emma cleared her throat.

“I was raised in the foster system.” Oh God, what have I done? She hoped Elsa and Ruby didn’t think she was trying to out-do their stories, make her own childhood sound worse, as though it were a competition. “I get myself a cupcake on my birthday every year now, though,” she added with a shrug. “We all have our traditions, I guess.”

She looked around, and all the women at the table were smiling at her.

On her second trip to the buffet, she was so focused on the seven different bread options, that she completely missed the man behind the station talking to her.

“Miss?” he said, and he sounded exasperated, as though he’d said it more than once. Emma looked up and instantly felt herself blush.

A man with dark hair and blue eyes, who looked as though he hadn’t shaved in three days, was staring at her. And he was hot .

“Sorry, yes?” Emma blinked a few times. He grinned, clearly pleased with himself for catching her off guard.

“I was asking you if you’d like bacon, ham, or sausage.” He winked. Oh, God . Emma tilted her head.

“This is the bread station,” she replied, instantly feeling absolutely ridiculous. The man laughed good-naturedly.

“Yes, it is. But the meat station is up ahead, and my brother asked me to find out what you’d like, so he can have it ready for you. That okay?” He raised an eyebrow and smirked at her, waiting.

“Oh. Okay.” He was far too good looking to be taking her breakfast order on a day when she wasn’t supposed to be talking about men. Or was she? Was that rule ever actually established? “Bacon, I guess.”

“Excellent.” He walked away and reported her order to the man at the grill. The man handed over the spatula and Emma watched as the dark-haired man started cooking her food himself. It shouldn’t have been hot, but she found herself biting her lip. Focus, girl!

“I thought you said your brother was manning this station,” she said as she reached the grill, plate half covered with a slice of wheat toast alongside an everything bagel.

“I told him this was a special order, so he could take a break.” The man looked up from the grill, his eyes meeting hers. “That okay?”

“You ask that a lot,” Emma mused.

“I try to make sure I’m not offending anyone,” he grinned, passing the sizzling bacon from the grill to her plate.

“You’re not,” she smirked at him. Belatedly, as she sat back down at the table, Emma realized they’d been flirting.

By the time noon came around, Emma was full of mimosa and eggs and toast and bacon… and a little more mimosa.

Spilling her past about the foster system had been tough, but once it was out in the open, Emma found it easier to relax and tell stories – good and bad – about her childhood. She listened to Belle’s stories about her beast of an ex, and shared her own gripes about Neal. Mary Margaret talked about her struggles to get pregnant and Emma found herself tearing up.

“You can adopt me,” she said before she could think better of it. The whole table laughed, and for a moment, Emma was embarrassed.

“Um, me too, please!” Ruby shouted.

“You and David have enough room for three grown adult women to become your adopted children, right?” Elsa was nearly crying with laughter.

And then they all had tears streaming down their faces, and Emma wasn’t sure how much of it was out of sadness for Mary Margaret’s struggles or their own pasts and how much of it was out of pure, unadulterated amusement at the idea of David Nolan being surrounded by four adult women, three of whom were proclaiming to be his children.

She was nearly out the door, check paid and phone numbers exchanged with girls she’d barely even known a few hours ago, when Emma caught the eye of the man who’d made her bacon.

“How was it?” he shouted from his post – he’d moved onto eggs, apparently.

Emma found herself walking back into the restaurant towards him.

“It was decent,” she shrugged. His jaw dropped.

“Just decent?”

She shrugged again.

“Let me cook you something else.”

“I’m pretty full, actually. Mimosas and eggs and toast and all that.” She looked up at him, wondering what his next move would be.

“Tomorrow then.” He was determined, the set of his jaw and the furrow in his brow told her as much.

“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,” she laughed. He raised an eyebrow.

“Have you got plans?” She couldn’t read his face or his tone anymore.

“Well, no, but—”

“Great. We’re having a Solo Special. If you come in and let me, Killian Jones, co-owner of The Jewel of the Realm, cook you the meal of your choosing, it’s on the house.”

“I’m sorry, you’re offering a free meal tomorrow?” A short gentleman serving himself some eggs interrupted. Killian didn’t turn away from Emma’s stare.

“Only for her,” he said simply. “She said my bacon cooking skills were decent. I’m simply out to prove her wrong.”

Jaw hanging open, Emma was speechless.

“What do you say, then? One-time only offer. Unless you like the food. And me. Then you can probably come again some other time and chances are, I’ll cook you something on the house again.” He winked at her.

Flirting, again.

“Okay,” Emma was surprised to hear herself say. It must have been all of the mimosas. She’d see if she actually felt like showing her face in this restaurant again when she woke up clear-headed.

“What shall I place the reservation under?” he asked her as she turned to leave.

“Emma Swan,” she told him, and she left.

~~~~~~~~~~~

GALENTINES DAY , Emma typed in a brand-new Word document. She hadn’t gotten any further than the title in her original attempt, but starting fresh with a brand new perspective felt like it would be good for the story.

For someone who grew up on the outside looking in, Galentines Day seemed like little more than an excuse for a bunch of women to get drunk on mimosas and complain about their lives. There didn’t seem to be a point to it – don’t ladies get together all the time to talk about menial things? Why a whole day dedicated to it?

But then I realized Galentines Day is about more than just champagne served before noon.

Valentine’s Day is about showing the person you care for romantically that you cherish them. You show them love every day, but on one day every year, you’re allowed to get as cheesy and romantic and heart-eyed as you deem fit. You can get sappy and wax poetic about the first time you met, and how their eyes struck your soul or some other over-used line that would seem out of place on any other day.

Galentines Day is about showing your friends that you cherish them. It’s about sharing your past and your present and your hopes for the future, and about making new friends when you didn’t think you could. It’s about appreciating each other in a way that maybe you don’t go out of your way to do the rest of the year.

And maybe it’s also about drinking champagne before noon.

It turned into a late night and an early morning, Emma writing and editing and writing and editing. She made it strictly factual, then added opinions back in. She shared one of her own experiences from brunch, then erased it for fear of exposing some part of herself she wasn’t ready to share.

She handed in exactly 700 words to Regina exactly nine minutes late, but there were no complaints, and both women seemed to think they’d won, somehow.

“So, are you going back to see that hot guy today?” Ruby asked Emma at lunch. Apparently, making friends also meant that Emma didn’t have to eat her lunch alone at her desk anymore. She was invited to the diner next door, owned by Ruby’s grandmother, with the rest of the girls.

“What hot guy?” Emma, of course, knew exactly what hot guy, but she hadn’t realized that anyone else had even noticed their interactions from the day before.

“Don’t play dumb,” Ruby grinned. “I came out of the bathroom and saw you talking to the guy at the egg station. I thought I heard him offer you a free meal.”

“Wait, the owner of The Jewel of the Realm offered to cook for you?” Elsa’s voice reached a record-high pitch.

Ruby, Mary Margaret, and Emma all turned to her, surprised by her reaction.

“I’ve had a crush on Liam for forever ,” Elsa admitted. “I go there, like, once a week, hoping I can get his attention somehow.”

“Liam? Oh… that must be Killian’s brother,” Emma realized.

“There, now you have to go back!” Ruby grabbed Emma’s hands. “If only to set poor Elsa over here up with Liam.” She gave her best attempt at a puppy dog pout, but only ended up looking like a model posing for a photograph.

By the end of lunch, Emma was pretty sure she was going back to The Jewel of the Realm.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello, do you have a reservation?” The hostess smiled at her.

“Um, maybe? If I do, it’s under Emma.” She couldn’t believe she was here. It was Valentine’s Day, and some stranger was cooking her dinner. Was this a date? It seemed like a date. But did dates generally cook you food… in the restaurant you were eating in?

The hostess grinned even wider, somehow.

“Emma Swan?” Emma nodded. “Yes, there’s a reservation here. You can follow me.”

The girl led her to a table off to the side, somehow just a bit quieter than the rest of the restaurant. There were two place settings and a candle in the center of the table.

“Killian will be with you shortly,” the hostess told her, as though Killian were just another server and not the owner of the damn restaurant .

What the hell was Emma doing here?

She sat for a moment and considered getting right back up and walking about, but a man approached her with a wine list and she decided that if nothing else, alcohol would certainly help her feel a bit more at ease. She’d done all of the flirting in the world yesterday with just a bit of champagne in her system after all.

She chose a cheap white from the bottom of the list, but she knew as soon as she tasted her glass that it was top-shelf. Cheap wine didn’t go down that smoothly.

“I hope you didn’t order a low-grade wine because you thought you’d have to pay for it,” Killian said as he sat down, seeming to appear out of nowhere.

Emma blushed.

“I told you this was on the house,” he raised an eyebrow at her.

“You said the food was on the house,” she pointed out, unfolding her napkin across her lap, simply for something to do.

He sighed.

“The whole thing is on the house, Swan. You’re lovely and I would have asked you on a proper date for Valentine’s Day, but I own a restaurant, so this is pretty much the best I can do.” He bit his lip, and for the first time, Emma realized that he might be as nervous as she was. “Is this okay?”

“This is nice,” she assured him. “It’s great, actually. I’ve never had anyone cook me a meal before, so you’ve got a low bar set for you.”

“No one’s ever cooked for you?” He looked far more surprised than she’d expected. She shrugged and shook her head. “What’s your favorite food? We’re talking, last meal before the electric chair, guilty pleasure, absolutely cannot live without it meal.” He stood as he spoke.

“Um, I don’t have a very refined palate,” she admitted. She admitted that she’d grown up on lukewarm French fries and day old peanut butter sandwiches, mostly.

He smiled.

“Chicken tenders and onion rings it is.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Wine with a kids meal , Emma thought to herself. The epitome of romance .

Killian came back with a huge pile of onion rings and a basket of chicken tenders. It smelled incredible, and Emma’s mouth began to water.

“I know it’s not exactly a romantic meal, but I find that eating whatever food makes you happy also helps you enjoy the company you’re with.”

“Is that some long-winded cliché you just made up on the spot?”

He grinned.

“Maybe.”

“So, did you make all of this fresh, just for me?” She hadn’t kept track of how long he’d been gone, not wanting his staff to catch her glancing at her phone constantly. They were no doubt all watching her, and she didn’t want them telling her she was an impatient jerk who couldn’t wait for her food to come out.

“I did,” he said. He at her, and she met his eyes. She believed him.

The food was unsurprisingly delicious.

“How are you able to sit and enjoy an entire meal in the restaurant you own on such a busy night?” She asked him as she finished her third glass of wine.

“My brother’s running the floor right now, he’ll come and get me if he needs me.” Killian sipped his water, still working despite the fact that this was very clearly a date.

“Speaking of your brother, I have a friend—”

“That blonde girl from your party yesterday? Oh God, please tell me she’s interested in him.” Killian rolled his eyes. “She’s in here constantly and all Liam does is whine about how pretty she is, but he won’t just go and talk to her.”

Emma laughed, and Killian tilted his head.

“She is,” she said when she caught her breath. “When she heard the owner of this place was cooking me dinner, she almost lost her mind. I had to tell her it was you, not your brother.”

This time, Killian laughed with her, and they must have looked quite the pair, cracking up with a half-empty bottle of wine on the table.

“Bring her with you next time, then.”

“Next time?”

“Yes, if… if you want to come back, that is.” There was that nervous smile again.

Emma nodded.

“I do. This was… nice.”

“Killian!” came a voice from the opposite end of the restaurant. Killian’s eyes closed as his head fell forward.

“I’ll be right back ,” he assured her, reaching over and squeezing her hand before he went.

He was only gone a few moments, but he looked much more disheveled upon his return.

“I’m afraid we’re down a cook, so I’ve got to head into the kitchen and take over. I’m so sorry. I hope—”

“Do you have time to walk me out?” Emma bit her lip, feeling the buzz from the wine bring a flush to her cheeks. She pulled out her phone to order an Uber. “I’ve got… six minutes until my driver arrives.” She looked back up at him.

“Yeah, I can spare that,” he grinned. He helped her into her jacket and offered her his arm. They walked out of the restaurant together, and the hostess erupted into giggles as soon as they passed her.

“This was a really nice night, Killian. Thank you.” Emma told him as soon as they were outside.

“I’m glad. I was a bit nervous you wouldn’t come.”

“I almost didn’t,” she admitted. “But the girls at work convinced me that it was a good idea.”

“I’ll have to thank them sometime.” He took a step closer to her.

“When should I come back with Elsa?” she asked, feet glued to the spot they were in. Would he come closer still?

“Whenever you like. I’m usually not here Tuesdays and Liam’s not here Thursdays. Other than that, I’m all yours.” He was nearly flush against her now.

She tilted her chin up, wondering if people still kissed on the first date. She thought for a moment about how horrible her onion breath probably was, but before she could consider it too deeply, he was kissing her.

He stopped quickly.

“Was that ok—”

She grabbed his jacket and kissed him again. Her phone buzzed with the arrival of her Uber. She pulled away and sure enough, there was the blue Ford Focus she was supposed to be waiting for.

“I’ll be in on Friday,” she told him before she could think better of it, and climbed into the car. She could see him through the passenger side mirror, touching his lips and staring after her, and she smiled.

[verucapsalter]

Because I am obsessed with behind-the-scenes trivia I thought I would do some annotations for this fic. The main concept is overwhelmingly inspired by the movie The Prestige (which I highly recommend if you haven’t already seen it) and that era of magicianship. Also, coincidentally, I remembered this old article about Ricky Jay, and that is really what kicked off the rest of the idea. 

On to Chapter 1.

— “ Sandalphon [gestured] towards their modern wardrobe”

Uriel and Michael here I picture in traveling suits. A lot more straightforward than other dresses of the era. Also, found this one great photo (left) that inspired the hats.

(Source: GL, Girls Own Paper, cabinet card)

Gabriel and Sandalphon are wearing suits more along these lines.

(Source: Shorpy, Met Digital Collection)

I suspect, in this look, that Sandalphon comes off looking a little bit like Oddjob.

They do all four favor the very tall collars, however. 

— “ This is a book printed in 1656. A Mr. Thomas Ady's A Candle in the Dark...”     

Real book, real quote. Read it here.

— “ Posters plastered the exterior wall, exclaiming... PYTHO”     

This one I picture as a cross between the illustrative celebrity posters and the less intensive text posters. 

(Source: HMNS, HRC)

— “her act looks to be based on the Davenport brothers' spirit cabinet”

Said Davenports.

— “It isn't about the verities at all. The only thing that matters is the trick they use it for.”

A reference to The Prestige line, “The secret is worthless, the trick you use it for is everything.”

— “Professor Elzevier” 

I played myself with this one. Have not spelled it right on the first try one single time.

Elzevir is a historical Dutch publishing house. Notably, one of their printers marks is of a hermit standing next to a fruiting tree/vine with the motto Non solus (”not alone”). WHOOPS I MADE MYSELF SAD

— “Michael pointed to the berry-red imp hidden at the heel of the man in the lithograph”

A pretty common trope in magician advertising.

(Source: Guity Novin)