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l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this.

gif credit to @michonnegrimes

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy.

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child.

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother.

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed.

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English.

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland.

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin.

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre.

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king.

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to.

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland.

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk.

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey.

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates.

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you.

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey.

A lick of fire coils up your throat.

God save the king.

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand.

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling.

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose.

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly.

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing.

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other.

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels.

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman.

Masquerading with voice and poise.

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance.

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy.

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear.

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal.

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation.

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own.

You see it all. After all, you are a woman.

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror.

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.”

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact.

King Henry IV.

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly.

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air.

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride.

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you.

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light.

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you.

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law?

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls.

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile.

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue.

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor.

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light.

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.

“I thank you, sire.”

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear.

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced.

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests.

You leave him burning.

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting.

The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria.

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup.

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans.

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor.

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted.

Even if it is all a charade.

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes.

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs.

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers.

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek.

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers.

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic.

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip.

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat.

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink.

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily.

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly.

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time.

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife.

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil.

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.

“King Henry!”

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry.

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood.

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker.

A ball for the boy king.

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture.

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm.

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise.

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk.

You feign surprise and turn.

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize.

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection.

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno.

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear.

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum.

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs.

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming.

“I thank you, my lord.”

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?”

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response.

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar.

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you.

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game.

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands.

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father.

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce.

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely.

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game.

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding.

You are to let him touch you.

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire.

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself.

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure.

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth.

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman.

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows.

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move.

You only burn brighter.

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase.

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest.

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil.

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval?

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago.

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment.

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns.

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself.

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return.

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession.

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England.

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song.

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together.

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room.

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.”

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear.

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.”

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis.

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely.

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually.

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening.

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it.

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm.

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...”

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss.

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder.

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed.

You have the king’s word.

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool.

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.”

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries.

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly.

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer.

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming.

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races.

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.”

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger.

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this.

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood.

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill.

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling.

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have.

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest.

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other.

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl.

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos.

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world.

The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone.

You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world.

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below.

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zankivich · 4 years

Text

Corona Diares pt 3: An Arrangement Sequel

Prompt: Maybe for the Corona diaries we could discuss Shawn and Y/n having the baby talk and how they both have different views on it, like Y/n last concern is having baby with the epidemic happening but Shawn just can’t help be day dream about it so they’re just both conflicted.

WARNINGS: Smut, lots of smut, talks of abortions

*y/n’s point’ of view*

Look, you sympathized with the parents and the zoom meetings and trying to remember fourth grade math. Truly! Familyhood in the middle of a pandemic was rough. At least it seemed rough on instagram. However, y/n and Shawn had their own trials and tribulations okay? Like really important, complex shit. Honestly.

“Babe I can’t get good leverage, the countertop’s too high.” He groaned against your shoulder.

You whined softly licking a--truly perfectly made--chocolate meringue off his shoulder.

“Mmm. Leverage feels just fine to me papi.”

His hips stuttered against yours and your legs tightened wonderfully.

“God I love it when you call me that.”

“Yea and I like eating my desserts off your body. So maybe keep some motion in that ocean and take me across the finish line.” You giggled.

“I love you so fucking much. C’mere.”

Quarintine sex is a lot of hard work y’all. It’s also a world of possibilities. Fun...inventive...delightful possibilities. You loved being a married woman in her thirties. No kids. No major responsibilities besides the health and wellbeing of each other. And beyond the world falling apart and the crippling weight of depression, ya girl had to get serotonin in whatever way possible. Enter Shawn’s dick.

Sex in the bedroom was no longer as enticing as sex...everywhere else. The beauty of being grown ass adults with no children, in a big ole house all by yourselves was there you could be creative. And Shawn and you loved to get creative.

“What if you rode me in the home theater babe? I’ve always secretely wanted to have sex at the movies.”

You had just finished getting handsy in the shower and you were trying to dry his slobber off your neck while this man was already trying to get you in another compromising position. Men.

You rolled your eyes at him. “If you think I’m doing all that thigh work just so you can watch Harry Potter, you’ve got another thing coming, sir.”

“Ew! I would never watch a movie with children in it while we’re having sex. What the hell do I look like?”

“The nerd that you are.” You snorted.

“Funny. Very funny.”

Shawn ran a towel through his curls leaving you to stand in front of the mirror watching him instead. It’d been weeks since his last hair cut and his curls were getting long. He usually kept it short for you, because he knew you preferred in that way. But in hindsight there was something quite enticing about the way those curls looked flopped against his head. He looked so damn soft.

He looked up at you and smiled gently before turning to wrap his arms around your waist. His lips trailed your skin still fresh from the shower. You could smell the mint body wash you used, and the warmth of his shampoo. His lips were warm against your cool skin. You melted against him with ease, didn’t even question it. He’d always been your weakness.

“I just thought it could be fun. Different.” He hummed against your shoulder. “Truth is, making love to you is always going to be amazing. So, we can do it wherever you’re comfortable.”

“You mean that?” You mumbled fingers dancing into his curls.

“Of course.”

“The first part though? Even when I’m old and my ass is saggy and so are my arms and my boobs and everything else?”

He rolled his eyes. “As if you even have to ask me that. I’m in love with your soul baby. Everything else will only get better with time.”

Those cheesy lines of his were so ridiculous. And yet here you were being swept up by them constantly. Ew.

“Yea, okay big guy...So, the home theater huh?”

His eyes widened and he nodded quickly like a dog wagging his tail, curls flopping against you.

“And you can pick next. Anywhere you wanna go, anything you wanna do. I only aim to please. And we both know I do.”

“You are so cocky and so obnoxious, it’s astounding.”

He grinned down at you without care.

“Exactly. It’s basically why you married me, my sweet.”

Well. he had you there.

***

“Fuuuuuuck.” He whined.

You giggled leaning back into your glutes to push further down his length. His hands were all over you. Desperate and needy. Who would have thought shawn would be right? You were liking this theatre more by the minute.

“Feel good?” You hummed leaning back onto his knees.

“You know it does. T--Take this off. Need to see you.”

His fingers reached for the straps of your bra, hips still rutting beneath you. You smiled down at him reaching behind your back to undo the snaps. The second he touches you, the second his palms are on your body? Caressing. Touching. Gripping. It’s phenomenal. Leaves you gasping for breath so hard you think you might pass out. The fucking home theatre.

“‘M gonna cum.” you whimpered clawing at his shoulder.

“Yea? Cum for me then. Be a good girl and fucking cum.”

He bucked his hips again sending you sprawled out over his shoulder. And then it was a tight grip on your waist drilling into you for all that you were worth it. It didn’t matter how much you screamed, how much you sobbed, even if you begged him to stop. Shawn was after complete and total destruction. And he always got what he wanted.

“Fuck you are so beautiful when you cum.” He sighed hunting down your lips with his own. “I love you.”

“Mmm I love you. Hold me.” You demanded, legs still very much quivering.

“I can do that.”

And so you sit for a while, all the fire and brimstone of dominance gone, and replaced with comfort. You loved the way he held you. The way his fingers drew lines on your back, and his neck still gave way to the feel of his heart beat. Being intimate with Shawn was one of your favorite pastimes, and you swore it wasn’t just the sex. It was so much about him and who he was and how he made you feel. You were his because of it.

“I know what I want mine to be.”

“Hmm?”

You licked your dry lips and leaned up still feeling the stretch in your thighs. The way his fingers gripped your ass was a dream.

“I want it on the roof in the sunlight. On the day beds. Just like Rome.”

He chuckled and moved his hands along your back again.

“Rome, aye? Shit. I haven’t thought about Rome in years. You used to scare the shit out of me, you know that?”

You snorted. “I should still scare the shit out of you if you know better.”

“Oh you do, just for different reasons. I was so scared of saying the wrong thing. So scared of losing you before I even got you. I--I wanted it all to be perfect. I was so in love with you already and I didn’t even know it.” He chuckled. “Hey we’ve had a pretty good go at it so far, haven’t we?”

“I’d say so. I’ve never been happier in my life, so I think we’re good right here ya know?” You said, and reached for his curls to tug them back against his head. “I’ve been in love with you so long I can’t remember feeling anything else.”

He smiled so big it made your heart sore. So you kissed him and squeezed your fingers into the firm muscle of his shoulders. And he held you against his chest in the middle of the home theatre with nothing but the sounds of your breathing against one another. Life is perfect in that one little moment where the outside world couldn’t find you, couldn’t take what the two of you had if it fucking tried.

***

“You’d make such a beautiful mother one day.” He hummed and rolled one of your curls around his fingers.

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm. I’m gonna be honest I always thought the pregnant fetish thing was weird, but perhaps I could be persuaded.”

“Ew! Shawn, you’re such a creep!” You grunted shoving at his arms

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” He whined. “I swear. I just...you’d be beautiful, ya know? I can’t think of another joy stronger in this world than to make a baby with you.”

You bit your lip at that, eyes flickering to and away from his face.

“Shawn...we talked about this.”

“Yea, when we first got married. And if I remember correctly that ‘talk’ was you saying you weren’t ready to talk about it.”

“Yea, well I’m still not ready.” You huffed. “The fucking world is ending and you wanna try and bring another person into the middle of a shitstorm?”

“Hey, look at me? I’m not pressuring you. I’m not telling you I wanna have a baby today. I’m simply saying that I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d like us to discuss it. I--I want a family with you, y/n. When we got married, we both said kids weren’t off the table. I just wanna talk about it.”

“Okay just...not right now okay? Can’t we just enjoy the day together?”

“Of course.”

He kissed your head and settled firmly against you on the day beds. It was nice, but you knew the conversation was far from over.

***

Shawn and you liked to take the day to yourselves. It was a good way to manage time and not get sick of each other so much. Shawn would spend the day in his studio, or going for a run while you tried to master the art of breadmaking, or worked on securing more donations for front line workers and impacted community members. Then for dinner you’d meet again, almost like a date. It kind of felt exciting. Sometimes you dressed up and ordered something special. If not he’d cook something or you would. Dinner was still a special time for the two of you, a time to reconnect and come together.

Dinner tonight is this amazing italian place who did bolognese better than you had the time or precision to pull off. Shawn grabs a bottle of wine from the cellar. There’s garlic bread. It’s a wonderful fucking time. Until it isn’t.

“Hey, I was thinking after dinner we could go sit in the backyard? I’ll build us a fire. We can get drunk and maybe break into that stash of ours.”

You placed the salad on the dinner table while Shawn moved the food to plates.

“Hmmm. Sure, that sounds fun to me. I haven’t been high in days. This pandemic keeps going, I’ll end up on some Seth Rogen shit.”

“Good...and uh maybe before we get too fucked up we could . . . return to that conversation from earlier this week?”

You paused at the kitchen table, tension appearing thick and heavy in your shoulders. It was too soon. You weren’t ready yet. And the thought of his fucking doe eyes by campfire light was making you more anxious than ever.

“Conversation meaning?”

You went to grab napkins only for him to stop you at the kitchen counter. His eyebrows were raised in irritation but his hands couldn’t be softer on your hips. That was your guy, always giving everything to you even when you couldn’t be more stubborn.

“You know what I mean, sweetheart. Please? Just talk to me?”

And you were his girl because despite every nerve ending in your being that yearned to be in control, to have all the answers a hundred percent of the time, you could still always fall right into him. Give and take had never looked so good.

“Okay. After dinner. But I want to open the bottle of whiskey from the Obamas. Michelle would want that for me.”

He rolled his eyes playfully and kissed your forehead.

“Of course she would. Let’s eat.”

The backyard is a near endless field. Shawn had promised you apple trees and peach trees and mint and carrots and arugula. And you got it, though it would be a while before you would see the fruits of your labor, pun intended. There was room for growth is perhaps the point. So, when you sat there on a beautiful summer night, right around the campfire with two glasses of whiskey and a blunt, it felt far from suffocating. Shawn had a way of making you feel calm in the craziest of times. It’s what you loved most about him, what had drawn you to him all those years ago. He was always the light, the cool to balance out your heat. Tonight is no different.

“Y/n, I want a baby.”

Welp, so much for that.

“Well shit, no lube on the entrance huh? You’re just going straight for it.” You sighed between gulps of whiskey.

He only smiled the smile of a man who had grown used to your relentless beating around the bush. It was so annoying to be endlessly loved and intimately known by him. Ugh.

“It’s your body. And I respect that so much. That’s why I want us to talk about it. We always said after the label was stable, after the house was put together, after we lived for a little while. And I just keep watching all these milestones pass us by ya know? The awards and the honors and everything else I...I don’t want to spend my whole life accumulating stuff for no one to share it with.” He explained.

You peered down into your glass and reached to pour another shot.

“You’ve got me.”

“I do. And that’s the greatest privilege I’ve ever known, but I think you know that’s not quite what I meant, y/n.”

You rolled your eyes and slid down in your seat until your head peered up into the night and the blanket had fallen around your waist.

“Yea, I know. Look I just...I can’t help but feel like Mother Nature hereself is telling us all to calm the fuck down right now, and I don’t know that bringing a baby into the world doesn’t shit all over that.”

He nodded. “I know that things are kind of crazy right now. I guess that’s why I’ve been thinking about it. I--I want something good to come out of all this. We’re finally forced to slow the hell down, and I guess it just sort of feels like maybe Mother Nature wants us to be doing something with it.”

“And you think she wants you to cum inside of me, is that it?”

He’d been holding the blunt hostage for long enough, and so you reached for his fingers so he could hold the blunt to your lips. His expression was one of amusement.

“I already do that sweetheart. You’ve got a bit of a breeding kink.”

“Excuse me?!” You gasped sending a coughing fit through your system.

Shawn clapped you against your back to make sure you were okay and laughed like any of this was funny.

“Hey, I don’t judge. I told you I aim to please, only. Look this is beside the point. It’s not about the sex. If it was about the sex, we’d just keep having more sex. This is about a serious conversation about our life together. We’ve been married three years now, and I think we’re ready to move to the next step. In fact I don’t think there’s ever been a better time to plan out the next phase of things.”

Your eyes stayed on your drink. Stayed on the blanket or the fire. Anything to not have to look your husband in the eye.

“But I...I get pregnant and I lose everything that I am Shawn.”

He frowned at you, fingers reaching to caress your chin.

“How could you say that to me? You think I’m the kind of guy who wants you barefoot and pregnant? Sweetheart you run one of the largest labels in the industry. I--I would never take that away from you.”

“But the--the touring? The night long studio sessions? The negotiation meetings that last hours. How can I do any of that and be a mom? I--I’ll lose who I am, everything I worked so hard to become.” You sniffled. “I’m not ready to give it all up yet.”

“Honey you don’t have too! I’m not saying it’s gonna be peachy fucking keen for either of us. How am I supposed to tour, write records, fly across the world? It’s gonna be hard to figure it out, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try, right? I--I mean...you want to start a family with me, right?”

His voice got so low and his eyes downcast. You knew him better than anyone, better than you sometimes knew yourself. There was a pain in his face. A betrayal you’d only seen once before when you thought leaving might make life easier for the two of you. Shockingly enough it still guts you all the same. And so the tears come strong and your fingers tremble on the glass because there’s no one, absolutely no one, you'd want to hurt less than him.

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” you whispered.

He reached for your face now and made work with his thumb to rid your face of tears.

“Yea? Tell me then. What is it that I’m thinking?”

You blinked up at him and swallowed. “Shawn I...It’s not that I don’t want kids. It’s just that something happened to me a long time ago and I guess--I guess I’m just not quite over it yet.”

He nodded. “Okay. And what’s that? You can tell me anything sweetheart, I just wanna understand.”

You broke gently from the hold of his hands and reached for the bottle of whiskey. Only this time it was his glass you refilled.

“You’re gonna want that.” You sighed. “Look the industry was much different when I was coming up than it is now. There were absolutely no safeguards to protect women like me. And I--I didn’t have a fancy degree. I wasn’t white. I wasn’t a man. I had to crawl my way up the ladder until my fucking fingers bled, alright?”

“Of course. I know how hard you worked.” He mumbled in agreement.

“Yea well, not quite. I was twenty years old. I left home to tour with Paramore. It was my first gig doing more than the merch table. I was assistant to the production manager. It was my shot. The tour was for over ninety dates. It would have cemented my place you know? The opportunities were endless if I did a good job. Plus during the day the band was bored so everyone would just hang out, play music. People started to notice that I knew what I was talking about.”

“I was a dumbass kid. I was just as driven as I am now but I didn’t really take things seriously. I drank. I partied. Did all sorts of dumb shit. And uh...I made a really fucking stupid mistake.” You sniffled.

You reached for your drink only to finish it and reach for Shawn’s. His hand stayed warm and soothing on your back as the tears worked their way down your face. He was calm and quiet and attentive. It only left more room for you to be honest and to also revel in your pain a little bit.

“It’s okay. I’m right here.” He whispered.

You shook your head and tried to control your emotions, but it just wasn’t in the cards.

“I slept with some guy. H--He worked in audio. It wasn’t serious, but I didn’t want anything serious. I wanted to be free, whatever the fuck that means. After a few months I notice my period’s late. We were between legs so I was at home.”

You had to pause to let the tears run down so that they didn’t choke you as much.

“Oh y/n. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

But you’ve dredged it up now. You’ve reached deep into the part of yourself that was made up of past selves and you shook her free. There was nothing left to do but see it all through.

“I got pregnant and I thought my life was over. You think a black woman in the music industry is a tough cut, a black pregnant woman is like a fucking unicorn. I--I had just made it. My boss was promising my pick of future tours. I was gonna learn from the greats. I was gonna...I was gonna be the business woman I always wanted to be.” You sobbed. “I couldn’t lose it Shawn. It was everything I ever wanted.”

“I understand.” He nodded, eyes wet and voice uneven. “I hear every word you’re saying. And I’m so sorry. I--I didn’t realize. Come here, please?”

He held you for a while. Your face in his neck and his fingers rubbing into the skin of your back. He was trying to root you, to bring you back down from the clouds where you sometimes couldn’t help but go. It was a place you hadn’t been in so long, but here you were facing a part of yourself you’d done everything to forget.

“Ti went with me to a clinic.” You whispered hoarsely in his ear. “She’s the only other person I’ve ever told. Not even the father. I’m sorry.”

His arms tightened around you. “Don’t you dare apologize for that. Never, do you hear me? I’m so sorry you went through that. And I’m sorry you were in a position that made you choose. I’m just sorry. I love you so much, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

His shoulder is as great a place as any to wipe tears and to find solace at the same time. No one had ever held you like Shawn. There’s a warmth there that couldn’t be found in the fire or the weed or the whiskey. He was special. The love of your life for lack of a better word.

“I--I’m sorry. I should have told you when we got married.”

“No. I’m only happy you felt comfortable enough to tell me now. That’s all that matters to me. Look let’s not talk about this anymore tonight. We can come back to it. Let’s get you to be instead huh?”

You nodded softly. “Yea. Please.”

“Course. Let me put the fire out. Just sit here, finish your drink. I’ll take care of everything.”

The last thing you remember was him pulling you into his arms The smell of his leftover aftershave against your nostrils. The feel of his grip on your arms as he held you through the night. Even in tragedy the only thing that registered was him.

***

*Shawn’s point of view*

She’s peaceful when she sleeps. It’s perhaps the only time that there aren’t a million expressions and thoughts on her face. So with the sun streaming in, bright yellow shimmers of gold across melanin cheekbones, he just watches her as long as he can. Because it’s truly a moment of comfort for him, when all he has to focus on is how beautiful she is. They’re the moments he lives for, waking up before her.

When she wakes up and stretches like a cat he chuckles a little bit. That’s his baby without a doubt. And he loved no one the way that he loved her. Not even himself.

“Good morning.” He smiled softly reaching for her cheek. “Missed you.”

She snorted. “While I was sleeping?”

“Yep. It’s been what...like seven whole hours since I saw you? It’s been awful, babe.”

“I can see that . . . Look I just wanted to apologize for last night. I feel like I really fucked things up.”

He shook his head. “Hey, no, no you didn’t alright? Look, there is nothing that means more in the world than us being honest with each other. I am so happy you told me, and I’m just sorry that this brings those kinds of memories up for you. It’s the last thing I want okay? Promise me you believe that.”

“I do, I do.” She whispered. “Look, I would love to have kids. I would love to have someone to leave everything we’ve been working towards for the past five years. But, I’mafraid. I’m afraid of the anxiety and the fear of the world right now, and I’m afraid that maybe I’d be a really shit mom. I don’t know, it’s just a lot.”

“Yea...You’re right. It’s scary. I can’t deny that. Look I don’t want to try and convince you that your fears are silly, because I have the same fears. I just want us to keep talking. I just want us to be honest with each other. And yea, eventually I’d like us to get to the spot where we felt comfortable giving the baby thing a shot.” He explained. “It doesn’t have to be today. Just never stop talking to me okay?”

“You sure? We both know my ass can talk.”

“Sweetheart, I’m counting on it.”

***

Permanent taglist

@simpledomain @liliane106 @thecurlsofgod @kamahriii @sinplisticshawn @lifeoftheparty74 @xeuphorically-moonstruck@euphoric05 @daijanicole @bruhh-whateven@learning-howto-be-myselfx3 @decewill @goldiean@bitchacho25 @bruhh-whateven @justbeingoceana@loveylangdon @iloveshawnieboi@justbeingoceana @september-lace @valedictorian65 @disaster-rose @dimestorebieber22@MixerMani @qcoachcartier @kamahriii @sinplisticshawn@lifeoftheparty74@justbeingoceana

Arrangement Taglist:

@moonlightmendes22 @cottoncandyshawn @iloveshawnieboi@shawnsblue

@claredolphinbear24 @peterbrokenparker@blackharry@shawnwyr @speakingofmari @moniehp @softmendesss@ydolansss @chonmnds @MixerMani @kitykatnumber @lanallaa@palhacomendes@mendesficsxbombay @moniehp @alessiaase

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes series #shawn mendes fluff #shawn #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes oneshot #shawn mendes x reader #shawn mendes x you #shawn mendes x oc #shawn mendes x black reader #shawn mendes x black woman #shawn mendes x y/n #arrangement fic #shawn mendes fandom #shawn mendes fanfic

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theblueskyphoenix · 4 years

Photo

So originally this was just going to be a cute art piece with a small caption but then well... I got a little carried away and wrote a short story to go with it.

If you wanna read it, just go below the cut. Hope you enjoy!

Crash Date

Gah… That was a rough go with that villain but… I did it… Just hope I’m not too late.

Fenton rubbed at his head, wincing at brushing against a bruise.

And that I don’t look like too much of a wreck.

He looked onward, seeing his home right before him. He would’ve hurried up to the door but his body wasn’t having it, leaving him to only go at a slightly normal pace with a bit of a limp.

He soon made it to his destination, opening the door as quickly as possible, stumbling towards the couch, grabbing onto it.

Okay… keep it together.

“M’ma?” He called. “I’m home.”

M’ma poked her head out of the kitchen, her eyes widening at the sight of her son’s condition.

“Pollito!” She rushed over to him, holding his face in her hands. “What happened!?”

Fenton gave a sheepish smile, wincing a bit.

“Ah… Um… Rough day at the lab. Experiment went wrong and well… yeah. Least I only really needed one band aid.”

My beak is going to be feeling this crack for a week though.

M’ma shook her head.

“Ay yi yi, Pollito, you really need to be more careful.” She let out a sigh, kissing his cheek. “And more punctual. It’s not very polite to keep a lady waiting.”

Fenton froze up at this.

“Oh no. Please tell me she’s still-“

“Hey, Suit.”

Fenton looked past M’ma, seeing Gandra leaning against the door way of the kitchen, a small smirk on her face.

“Gandra.” Fenton smiled. “Ehehe… I… meant to be on time, I swear.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it, Suit.” She chuckled. “30 minutes isn’t that bad. Besides, I got… bonding time with M’ma here.”

“Bonding time” huh? Knowing M’ma she was probably interrogating her over cooking. That’s how she gets anyone.

“And now it’s time for your personal time.” M’ma moved Fenton to the couch, quickly grabbing a blanket off an adjacent chair, draping it around Fenton’s shoulders. “I’ll get you two something to drink. Anything in particular?”

“Pep is fine… or water.” Fenton smiled. “Anything cold.”

“Coming right up.” M’ma looked to Gandra. “And for you, nina?”

“Pep’s perfect.” Gandra chuckled. “I’ll take care of “Pollito” here.”

M’ma gave a smirk, nodding.

“I like you already.”

M’ma disappeared into the kitchen as Gandra joined Fenton on the couch.

“Pollito. Cute nickname.”

Fenton blushed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Had it since I was hatched but em… yeah. Sorry again for making you wait.”

“Like I said, not that bad. Though… what actually happened?”

Fenton hung his head.

“Over the top villain. I’d rather not discuss it. I’ll just leave it at, I got tossed around like a rag doll and wound up getting banged up inside the suit and a nice little crack on my beak.”

Gandra cringed.

“Eesh, tough go. You sure you wanna still do our date? You look about ready to pass out.”

“No, please, I’ve been looking forward to this all day.” Fenton gave a small smile. “Been really curious about this Dr. Stone since you told me about it and its scientific accuracy.”

Gandra smiled.

“Alright but if you need to rest just do so. Don’t want you over doing it, Suit.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Good. I’ll get it all set up then.”

Gandra got up, heading over to the TV, hooking up a DVD player before popping a disk in, soon returning to the couch, plopping down next to Fenton. She sighed happily, stretching a bit.

“I’ll be honest with you, Suit. Been looking forward to this too. Never thought I’d get to share this show with another scientist who could appreciate the nuisances and stuff. It’s gonna be fun. Plus, nice break after a long day of work.”

“Care to share what you’ve been up to?”

Gandra winked.

“Now where’s the fun in telling you everything?”

“Ah… another top secret Gandra Dee project. Duly noted. Next time?”

“Next time. For now…” Gandra moved closer to Fenton. “Us time.”

Fenton blushed again.

“R-Right.”

M’ma soon appeared, carrying two cans of Pep on a tray that had a bowl of chips as well.

“Here you two go.” She set the tray down on the coffee table. “If you need anything else I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Gracias, M’ma.” Fenton smiled.

“Yeah, thanks.”

M’ma gave a gentle smile, waving before disappearing again.

“Alright, ready?” Gandra asked, twirling the remote in her hand.

Fenton nodded.

“Ready.”

Gandra hit play, the show flickering to life on screen. She huddled closer to Fenton, the top of her head brushing gently under his bill.

Fenton fought down another blush, heat rushing through his entire being. While they had been on a few other dates prior to this one he had hoped these particular symptoms would’ve stopped by now.

Not that I mind them but… you’d think I’d be comfortable by now.

Just… deep breaths…

Fenton rested his head against Gandra’s, focusing on the show… bringing an arm gently around her. He was invested but… at the same time he just wanted to sleep.

With the lighting of the room being dimmed and the warmth from both the blanket and Gandra, it was the perfect environment to fall asleep in.

Gandra gazed up at him, seeing his eyes slide shut, his head bobbing.

“You wanna opt for a nap, Suit?”

“Maybe… keep the show playing… it’s… relaxing.”

Gandra shook her head, turning off the TV, whipping out her phone.

“A different day. Right now, you need a rest.”

“Gandra…”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t going anywhere.” She pulled up a video on her phone, gentle score music emanating from it. “Besides, someone needs to be sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

She set the phone down on the coffee table, huddling up to Fenton.

“Just relax and don’t worry about anything. Got it?”

Fenton nodded, bringing his other arm around her.

“Loud and clear… Thanks… Gandra.” He yawned, his body finally relaxing. “Next time we’ll watch Dr. Stone. I promise.”

Gandra smiled, closing her own eyes.

“And I’ll hold you to it, Suit.”

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #ducktales fenton #ducktales gandra #fenton crackshell Cabrera #fenton crackshell #fenton cabrera #gandra dee #fenton x gandra #fendra

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howdoyousayghibli · 4 years

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Arrietty: Back to (Incredible) Basics

I didn’t realize this until the opening credits played, but The Secret World of Arrietty (2010) makes four adaptations of written stories in a row from Studio Ghibli — Howl’s Moving Castle, Tales from Earthsea, and Ponyo being the other three. I’ll admit that Ponyo is a bit of a stretch, but Hayao Miyazaki has stated that his inspiration was Hans Christian Anderson’s fairy tale, so I’m sticking with it.

Arrietty is an adaptation of Mary Norton’s widely beloved children’s novel, The Borrowers. While it was released as The Borrower Arrietty in Japan, the U.S. and UK releases were titled The Secret World of Arrietty and Arrietty, respectively; I can’t fathom why neither wanted to promote its association with a popular book, but here we are.

These four adaptations make for some interesting comparisons, to the extent that I wonder if there was some sort of strategy meeting held at Ghibli headquarters after Tales from Earthsea squirmed out into the world. That movie, and, to a lesser but still noticeable extent, Howl’s Moving Castle were both stuffed to the brim with mysteries, big ideas, and subplots, and they suffered for it. In contrast, Ponyo and Arrietty are simpler both narratively and thematically, but are astounding in their technical artistic achievements.

Arrietty tells the story of a family of Borrowers, tiny people who live under the floorboards and survive by “borrowing” what they need — such as a cube of sugar, basketball-sized to them — from the full-size humans who live above them. The main focus is on the family’s daughter, Arrietty, who is just old enough to join her father on his borrowing trips. Their comfortable but tenuous existence is disrupted by the arrival of Sean, a sickly young boy who’s been sent to live with his grandmother and her caretaker for some peace and quiet.

These two plot points — the Borrowers’ survival and Sean’s sickness — are really the only plot points of Arrietty. This and the fact that both of these stories are actually addressed and resolved is refreshing after the overcomplicated Howl’s Moving Castle and Tales from Earthsea.

Arrietty is a classic Ghibli protagonist — spirited, independent, and curious. Sean is also compelling; his melancholy brings to mind Princess Mononoke’s Prince Ashitaka and makes an engaging counterpoint to Arrietty’s enthusiasm and determination. The two are voiced by Bridget Mendler and David Henrie, whose resumés both largely consist of various Disney Channel shows. Fellow Disney Channel alumnus Moisés Arias (he was also, bizarrely, Bonzo in Ender’s Game) joins the cast as the fun-but-racistly-designed Spiller.

The adults of the cast pulled in a bit more star power — Arrietty’s parents, Pod and Homily, are voiced by Will Arnet and Amy Poehler. It’s easy to hear the Batman in Pod’s gravelly seriousness, but Arnet manages to infuse equal amounts of gravel and affection into Pod’s sparse dialogue. Poehler, meanwhile, gets some of the movie’s best dialogue as the anxious Homily; the character easily could’ve been obnoxious, but, as 6 seasons of Parks and Recreation can attest, Poehler is relentlessly charming and elevates each line she’s given.

There’s great characters and voice acting in Arrietty, but where the film really shines is in the presentation. Studio Ghibli uses the diminutive size of the protagonists as a chance to show off — throughout the movie, details of animation and sound design reinforce the tiny scale of the world we’re viewing.

Visually, these reminders come in two forms: the creative ways that the Borrowers re-purpose (downscale?) the things they borrow, and the details with which the animators pack each shot.

The Borrowers’ ingenuity is a lot of fun to look out for throughout the movie, from stamps as wall art to soda can pop-tabs used to hang soup ladles. I can’t say how many of these were thought up by the Ghibli team and how many are pulled from the novels, but either way, they point to a well-thought-out world and add a great deal of charm.

The animation details, despite everything, blow me away. I feel Studio Ghibli shouldn’t be able to surprise me anymore, but by scaling down the action, they created new opportunities to impress. The premise allows for details like the grain of the wood inside the walls, rough but worn smooth and shiny, or the way water clings together, pouring out of their tea kettle in bulbous fist-sized drops.

The sound design is similarly effective — a ticking clock can thunder across an entire room, and a giant hand can silence the rest of the world as it closes around a Borrower. It’s clear that the team behind this film saw the Borrower’s size as not just a premise, but a challenge, which they met amply.

There’s a YouTube channel called Every Frame a Painting, probably most famous for their “Marvel Symphonic Universe” video. I happen to think that particular video is pretty off-base, but I love the channel as a whole. I bring them up because of their “Edgar Wright - How to Do Visual Comedy” video. It’s a great video, which you should watch, but the thrust of it is that the humor in Edgar Wright’s comedies doesn’t rely solely on dialogue like in many other comedies. The video posits that, if all your humor comes from funny dialogue, you’re throwing away the visual aspect of the medium — why not tell the story in a novel, or a podcast, or a stage play?

This is a roundabout way of saying that Arrietty feels like a film that is truly firing on all cylinders. The premise, characters, animation, and sound design all reinforce one another; they feel deliberately interwoven in a way that few films do.

Like many Ghibli movies, in a thematic sense Arrietty didn’t exactly leave me satisfied, but that same dissatisfaction has kept me thinking about the movie weeks after seeing it. (Vague spoilers ->) Sean’s attempts to help the Borrowers largely leave them worse off than before; does that mean he should have done nothing? Or did he just need to be more thoughtful? Are the Borrowers at fault for being too suspicious? It’s hard to agree with that when there’s ample evidence supporting their behavior. (<- End spoilers) These kinds of questions mean that, even the movie lacks a certain catharsis, it inspires further thought in a way that a lot of entertainment doesn’t.

Up Next:

From Up on Poppy Hill! Goro takes a second stab at directing — let’s see if he learned his lesson from Tales from Earthsea, shall we?

Alternate Titles:

Arrietty: Ah, That’s Better

Now You’re Just Showing Off, Mr. Miyazaki

“Arrietty, Kids?” “Aye Aye, Captain!”

Stray Notes

The crow and bird fighting are a great The Cat Returns callback

”can I have some warm milk?” You go sneaky Sean, this kid rules

Has Mr. Ghibli ever seen a boy that wasn’t skin and bones?

*sees raccoon* haha sick Pom Poko reference

Wish I had a Lego Batman dad

And a Leslie Knope mom

DON’T RUN SEAN YOU’RE SICK

Why do they randomly emphasize the T sound in Arrietty sometimes (ARE-ee-eh-dy vs. AIR-ee-EH-tee)

Yooooo Spiller is tsundere AF

TOM HOLLAND voices Sean in the UK version??? And it was his first role in anything ever????

#studio ghibli #the secret world of arrietty #arrietty #karigurashi no arrietty #ghibli #the borrowers

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wistfulcynic · 4 years

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Their Way By Moonlight: Endings And Beginnings (chapter 18 plus epilogue)

SUMMARY: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time Emma is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from Henry and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Killian have the ability to share their dreams, and are working together in secret to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from a new and dangerous foe.

Rating: M

AO3

*draws deep breath*

*slowly exhales it*

Okay. Okay. Wow. I can’t quite believe this is it. I’ve been writing this story for more than a year, and now it’s done. That is... well, it’s something.

I have to take a moment to thank some people, people who helped me through when it felt like no one was reading this thing that was carving pieces out of my heart with each chapter, people whose support is the only reason the thing is finished, and that I’m even still writing. I was so, so close to giving it up but they wouldn’t let me and I am deeply grateful.

Krystal, who inspired the thing in the first place and whose enthusiasm is a true joy to behold. Ro, whose wisdom and compassion are so vast and who was the shoulder I needed exactly when I needed it. Katie, who sees everything and understands it all, even the things I don’t say. Lisa with her amazing comments, Masha with her brilliant art, Alma with her generous soul. Devra, so insightful and thoughtful with her incisive analysis and appreciation of so many of the things I love. And Stephanie, my other half, I can’t believe I had to live forty whole years without you but this last one with you has made up for all of them.

Thank you all. So, so much.

a/n: this chapter is actually two chapters because it just got SO LONG, but I’m posting them together - or at least within a few hours of each other.

Endings:

The sea was calm, that peculiarly soft and eerie calm exclusive to the hour just before the day breaks, when the air is cool and the light is grey and mist shimmers over gently undulating waves, and even the birds know it would be a sin to break the silence. Across that calm sea a boat glided, smooth and true and though no wind filled its sails, quite remarkably fast. It was a small boat, made of wood with a mast, two sails, and an oar, just enough to suit one man in decent comfort for a journey far longer than most would wish to undertake in such a vessel, but Oisín—for naturally the man was he—was quite extraordinary in his way and crossing a wide ocean in a tiny boat posed no challenge for him.

He was nearing the end of his journey now; the thick mist and low light obscured his vision but not the pull in his blood that grew stronger as his homeland drew nearer. It is a pull we all feel after long days or weeks or years, decades even, spent away, but for a man who counts centuries as beads on an endless chain the call is stronger still.

He dipped his oar into the water, skilfully steering the boat through the treacherous shoals that shielded his island from unwelcome travellers and into a cove perceptible only to those who already know it’s there. The boat slid onto the shore with the rough whisper of wood over sand and Oisín’s soul sighed in peace. He was home.

He stepped from the boat and tugged it up more firmly onto the shore, looped its rope around a slender column of stone sticking up from the sand and when he turned around again she was there. The mist embraced her and the sun even now rising over the horizon cast a gentle light upon her face. A face as young and ancient as his own, smoothed by magic and profound with the weight of ages. He drank in the sight.

“Niamh,” he said.

“Is it done?” she demanded, in a voice drawn as from the strings of a harp, melodious and resonant.

“It is done.”

“Our debt is repaid?”

Oisín nodded. “He will still have challenges to face, some magical, some of the more mortal variety. But never again will he face them alone. I can see the threads of his life, of their lives, woven together to the end.”

“Not too soon an end?”

“Fewer years remain by far than what he has already lived, but that remainder is still generous for a mortal man. And they will be happy years, on the whole. For her as well. For all of them.” He stepped closer and stroked her silken cheek. “Worry no more, my love. He is free now of the demons that so long tormented him, and he will be happy.”

She sighed, and smiled, and leaned her head against his hand. “Then I am happy too.”

Oisín smiled indulgently, an answering platitude ready upon his lips, then blinked in surprise when he realised that what he planned to say was true. “As am I,” he said softly. “Very happy indeed. Now let us go home.”

When Regina and Robin materialised in the sheriff’s station they found the others still there and awaiting their return. Killian was sitting on the edge of one of the desks with Emma nestled between his legs, his arms around her waist and his cheek on her hair. Henry and Neal were leaning side by side against the wall of Emma’s office, talking animatedly, and Zelena lay unmoving on the cot in her cell, staring blankly at the wall. Despite herself, Regina felt her heart twist at the thought of her sister’s bitter loss.

“Hey, Regina,” Emma greeted her. “How’d it go?”

“Exactly as I hoped. The magic is back in the Enchanted Forest and dispersed enough to be harmless. I put a temporary seal over the portal. It’s done. The curse is broken and its magic is completely gone.”

Henry ran over and threw his arms around her. “Great work, Mom. Both moms,” he said, grinning at Emma. Regina hugged him back, tightly, but a hard knot of apprehension still sat like a stone in her chest. The curse was over but that didn’t mean her troubles were.

“We should get to Granny’s,” said Emma, pulling out of Killian’s arms and going to stand behind Henry. “My parents are there and probably most of the rest of the town. We need to let them know what happened.”

“Yes. Of course. Um. You go. I’d like—actually, I’d like talk to you for a minute, Killian. If I could?”

His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nodded. “Aye, if you wish. Emma, why don’t you take yourself and and the others straight to Granny’s and Regina and I will follow on foot. We’ll meet with you there in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

“Should I not come with you?” asked Robin, giving Killian a dubious look, clearly wondering if he could be trusted to keep Regina safe from whatever he imagined might threaten her. Regina’s tense expression softened.

“You can, though I really need to talk to Killian privately.”

“I’ll keep my distance,” Robin promised, narrowing his eyes at Killian. “But I’ll be there.”

Killian gave him a single brisk nod. Though it was very clearly not reciprocated he felt an odd kinship with Robin. After all, if anyone knew what it was to love a headstrong woman who took no care for her own safety it was he. Robin’s protectiveness may be unnecessary in this case but Killian understood all too well what drove it. “I’ve no objection,” he said.

“Okay.” Emma gave Killian’s hand a squeeze. “We’ll see you in a bit then.”

“Aye, love. See you soon.”

The noise in the diner was deafening and the scene chaotic as people shouted greetings from across the room and elbowed each other aside to get to friends and loved ones, exchanging hugs and handshakes and recounting their lives under this most recent curse at the very tops of their lungs. Snow caught sight of Red behind the counter and ran to greet her while Charming shook hands with the Merry Men and assured them that while no, he couldn’t say where Robin Hood was at that precise moment he was sure to be fine and show up soon.

Gradually the hubbub began to die down and Grumpy once again raised his voice.

“So you gonna tell us what happened with the curse?” he demanded. “Who is Zelena and why did she cast it?”

“Zelena is the Wicked Witch of the West, like we said before,” Charming replied.

“Really though? Like with the flying monkeys and the big crystal ball?” said Grumpy.

“Yes. We don’t know how she cast the curse or why, but Emma does and she’ll be here soon. Until then, can we just… just….” He trailed off as a peculiar noise filled the air, a low-pitched hum like a distant swarm of insects, accompanied by a prickling sensation against his skin. Voices began to rise again, in consternation this time.

“What is that?” growled Grumpy.

“I don’t know.” Charming’s eyes sought Snow’s and she came to stand next to him, slipping her hand into his.

“Feels like magic,” remarked Will Scarlet. “Magic sort of—loose in the air.”

“It does kind of feel like that,” Snow agreed. “I’ve felt it before, when Regina does a spell.”

The worried muttering increased, and Charming realised he was losing command of the situation.

“Look, nobody panic—” he began, just as the door opened and Belle burst through it.

“I don’t want to make anyone panic,” she said. “But there’s some sort of—something going on outside.”

There was a moment of silence, then a rush of noise as everyone ran to the windows.

“What the fuck?” snarled Grumpy. “Your Highnesses, you’d better come see this.”

This was like nothing any of them had seen before, or rather nothing they had even not seen before. A sort of sideways tornado, a swirl of distortion in the air, invisible, perceptible only in the way it bent and refracted the light around it. It twisted and twined its way through the sky over the town, heading towards the forest. They all stood together and watched it go, every breath bated and each heartbeat quickened as they waited anxiously for something they had no idea how to articulate, and then, abruptly, it was gone.

“Well,” said Charming heartily, attempting once again to regain control of the situation. “I guess that’s—well, that.”

“Sure, yeah,” said Will. “Of course. But also what the bloody hell was that?”

“I’m sure Emma can—”

“Yes, yes, Emma can explain, so you keep saying. But where is this Emma?”

“She’ll be here soon,” Charming insisted. “I promise. Until then, everyone please just stay calm.”

The muttering began again as the crowd milled anxiously around and Charming was just reflecting on how much easier it was to lead a war council than a mob of disgruntled citizenry when white smoke swirled in the middle of the diner and Emma appeared, Neal and Henry at her side.

Immediately the crowd erupted with a roar of noise, shouting questions and demanding answers. Emma ignored them, hurrying over to her parents with Henry close behind.

“Grandma!” he cried, “Grandpa! I missed you guys!”

Snow and Charming folded Henry into a double-hug, and Charming caught Emma’s eye over the top of his head.

“You guys okay?” she asked.

“We’re fine. Everyone else though...” He nodded to the crowd behind her. “Well, you remember that reassurance you were going to give everyone? Now’s the time.”

“Right.” Emma turned to face the crowd. “Everyone!” she shouted. “Hey! Can you all please shut up for a minute!”

The noise quieted as inquiring faces turned towards her. “Good,” she said. “Okay. Now I’m sure you all have a lot of questio—”

“Is it true that Zelena is the Wicked Witch of the West?” shouted Grumpy.

“Yeah and why’d she curse us?” Sneezy piped up.

“Oh and why—”

“How do we—”

“When can I—”

“ENOUGH!” Charming’s voice boomed through the diner. “Let her speak!”

Grumpy opened his mouth again then closed it with an audible click of his teeth as Emma and Charming shot him identical glares. “Yes,” said Emma, “it’s true that Zelena is the Wicked Witch of the West. She cast the curse to get revenge on her sister. Regina.”

Shocked silence fell, broken just before it grew uncomfortable by Granny’s mutter. “The Evil Queen and the Wicked Witch are sisters? That’s a Thanksgiving dinner I would not want to be at.” Several people nodded their agreement, and then Grumpy piped up again.

“So if Zelena cast the curse to get back at Regina, then the curse is actually kind of Regina’s fault even though she didn’t technically cast it,” he said. “Right?”

“No,” said Emma.

“But if it weren’t for her Zelena may never have—”

“Okay maybe a little,” Emma interrupted, holding tight to her patience. “But the point is Regina didn’t cast the curse, and also she actually contributed a lot to breaking it.”

“But—”

“No going after Regina, Leroy,” said Emma firmly. “She’s on our side now and I for one would like to keep her there. She’s a lot more useful as an ally than an enemy.”

“Fine,” grumbled Grumpy, and Emma extended her stern glare to the rest of the crowd. “Everyone got that?” she said, raising her voice so they all could hear. “No mobs. This curse was not Regina’s doing and Zelena is being dealt with. Just—let me handle it, okay?”

No one replied.

“Okay?” Emma repeated, louder still, and the crowd grumbled reluctant agreement.

“Okay. Now, I know you must still have a lot of questions and so I’d like to propose that we all take a few days to calm down and think about what we want to do now that this curse is broken. I’m guessing a lot of you are going to want to change jobs, maybe find a new place to live. Think about it, and in a day or two we’ll have a town meeting to talk things out. Is that okay?” She turned inquiringly to Snow.

“Um.” Snow looked startled. “You’re asking me?”

“Well, you are still the acting mayor,” Emma pointed out.

“Huh. I guess I am.” She nodded. “That sounds like a good plan to me. All agreed?”

There was a chorus of “ayes” and “yeses” and “I guess sos” and Emma smiled. “Good. Everyone go back home now, and if you see Regina remember no mobs.” She turned back to her parents with a relieved smile. “Ugh, I’m glad that’s done. I don’t know about you guys but I am dying for some onion rings and mint ice cream. Ooh, and maybe some pickles.”

Regina took her time walking to Granny’s. Killian let her set the pace, clearly content to allow her what time she needed to collect her thoughts. They walked side by side with Robin trailing several feet behind, and Regina took advantage of the chance to look around. The streets were empty, and exactly the same as they had been before. The OG SB, as she imagined Henry would say. Curse 1.0. Her curse.

She shifted her shoulders uncomfortably, trying to ease the tension in them.

“So,” she said.

“So,” Killian echoed.

“So, ah, things might get a little unpleasant. At Granny’s. After the last curse broke, the townspeople were out for blood.”

“Your blood, I presume?”

“Yes.”

She could feel his eyes on her, observing with curiosity but no censure. “And you’re worried they will be again?”

She nodded. “I’m sure Emma will tell them I wasn’t the one who cast it this time, but—well, there are going to be a lot of angry people. And confused ones.”

“And anger and confusion are a bad combination,” Killian concluded. “Aye. That’s a recipe for mutiny.” She glanced at him and saw his mouth twist with an expression she couldn’t read. She wondered what he could be thinking of.

They walked another block before he spoke again.

“There are likely to be people out for my blood as well,” he said. “There generally are. And Emma’s parents… well…”

“Yeah.”

“Dave will be wanting my head, no doubt. And likely other parts of my anatomy as well.” He raised a wry eyebrow and her mouth curved in an answering smile. “Emma will fight for me, but I doubt that will do much to appease their shock.”

Regina nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Emma will fight for me, he said, with a casual assurance that floored her. She couldn’t imagine what that must feel like, to have such complete faith in someone’s love for you.

“Regina.” She looked up to find him watching her with an odd expression, understanding and almost kind. “You know that Emma will stand up for you as well,” he said. “As will I. For whatever that’s worth.”

She smiled. “It’s worth a lot.”

They walked in silence for a few moments more. “I sense that wasn’t all you wished to speak to me about,” Killian remarked.

“No.”

He turned to her with an encouraging look. “Well?”

“Do you—do you think they’ll ever really accept you? Snow and Charming, I mean. Do you think they’ll ever truly see you as part of their family?”

“I don’t know. I hope they will. But perhaps the most important thing I have learned about this whole redemption business is that you can’t change the past or control other people’s reaction to it. Perhaps they never will accept me, and I can’t force them to. All I can do is apologise for the wrongs I’ve done and make what amends I can, and try to live better in the future than I have in the past.”

“And what if you lost Emma? You’d still try to do that? You wouldn’t—er—”

“Fall back into darkness again?” Killian’s jaw was tight, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side. “No. I wouldn’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Emma wouldn’t want me to, and even if she were gone I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. But it’s more than just that. I hated who I became, after my brother died and then Milah… I loathed myself for all the things I was doing but that only drove me to do more, worse things. I didn’t know how to make myself stop. ‘This is who you are now,’ I remember thinking. ‘This is the only way for you to be.’ And that, as I’m quite certain you understand, my Queen, is a terrible way to feel. It’s a terrible way to live.”

Regina swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“I didn’t want to feel that way anymore. I didn’t want to live that life. Emma merely gave me an opportunity to walk a different path, showed me the way back to the man I had been long ago, a man I almost lost to vengeance. But I would still have wanted to be that man, for my own sake, even if Emma never came to love me.”

He turned to her with an earnest expression, one she could imagine a young naval lieutenant may once have worn. “You have to want it for yourself, Regina, not for anyone else. If you’re trying to change for another person you’ll always resent it, and them. Do it for yourself alone. Do it because it’s the right thing to do, and because you deserve to be able to look at yourself in the mirror without shame. I’d like to think we all deserve that. Or at least a chance at achieving it.”

"Thank you,” she said. “I’ll think about that.” He’d given her a lot to think about. But Granny’s sign was looming less than a block away, and she still needed one thing more of him.

“Can I ask you a favour?”

“Of course.”

“This curse of Zelena’s... I still can’t quite figure it out. It was weird in a way I’ve never even heard of before, almost like it was, I don’t know, sentient almost. Like it could act for itself.”

“Hmmm. What makes you think that?”

Regina frowned, trying to recall the exact words that had triggered her bizarre theory. “Zelena told me once she had spies and alarms everywhere, and she certainly always seemed to know what was going on but I never saw anyone actually working for her. Or anything. I don’t think any of her, er, flying monkeys were even here.”

“So you think she meant the curse itself was her spy.”

“Yes. Does that sound crazy?”

“Not at all. This curse certainly had some peculiar qualities. There was that wind, for example, the way it seemed to follow us around.”

“Yes! And the way I always felt I was being watched.”

“I suppose there’s no chance of getting Zelena to tell us, now she’s defeated.”

“Probably not, though I plan to do my best to get it out of her. But who knows how long that might take, so in the meantime do you think you could write down everything you remember about it?”

“Aye, of course I can. I’ll make a log of my observations, and Henry’s as well. His input will be more useful than mine since he knew the old Storybrooke far better than I did.”

“That would be perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They reached the gate of the diner and paused for a moment beneath the arch to allow Robin to catch up with them. When he did, all three exchanged a glance, and Robin took Regina’s hand.

“Well,” said Regina. “Here goes nothing.”

Emma sat herself on a stool at the counter and placed her order with Granny, whose eyebrows rose almost to her hairline as she wrote it down.

“I’ll get that for you right away,” she said with a probing look that Emma entirely failed to notice. She tapped her fingers absently on the formica countertop, smiling as she watched Henry greet all the people still in the diner and tell them eagerly all about how he had helped break the curse.

“So,” beamed Snow, taking Emma’s hand and letting her thumb trail significantly across the ring on it. “Congratulations, you two.” She turned her head so her smile encompassed Neal as well. “I’m so glad you found each other again and can be a family.”

“Ah,” said Emma, glancing at Neal. He gave her a shrug, and a smirk. “Um, actually—”

“But when did it happen?” Snow was frowning now. “My memories of the curse are really foggy, but weren’t you both here the whole time? When did you have a chance to get married?”

“Mom, it’s not actually—”

“Who got married?” asked David, coming over to join them. “Emma?”

“Yeah, actually I married—”

A broad grin broke across David’s face and he took Neal’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Should I give you my protective father speech now, or is it too late for that?”

Considering our kid is nearly fourteen and was born when I was hardly older than he is now, I’d say yeah it’s a bit too late, Emma thought irritably. “Dad—”

“We’ll have to have a celebration, of course,” said David, and Snow nodded eagerly. Emma felt the situation spinning rapidly out of her control and Neal, true to form, was being no help at all.

“GUYS,” she shouted, drawing reproachful looks from Bashful and Doc, who were at the other end of the counter. “Please would you just listen.”

Snow and David's jaws dropped in unison, and Emma seized her advantage. “I’m not married to Neal,” she told them firmly.

“But the ring—” Snow began.

“You’re still not listening, Mom! I’m not married to Neal.”

Comprehension began to dawn on her parents’ faces. “But… who then…” stuttered Snow.

Neal’s smirk deepened, and Emma took a deep breath just as the bell on the door chimed and Killian appeared, trailed by Regina and Robin. His eyes found hers immediately and she sent him a pleading look.

“Killian,” she informed them, reaching out her hand to grasp his hook as he approached. “I’m married to Killian.”

“What?” Snow cried.

“Who?” asked David.

Neal chuckled. “Hook,” he said.

“Hook—” David frowned in confusion.

“Aye, mate.” Killian came to stand behind Emma, his feet braced firmly on the floor and his jaw set.

“Wait, wait…” David shook his head. “You’re married… to Hook?”

“To Killian, yes. For over a year now.” Emma slid off the stool and positioned herself in front of her husband, directly between him and her father, planting her own feet as David’s jaw worked and his eyes flashed.

“But he’s… he’s…”

“Don’t say ‘a pirate,’” sighed Emma. “Please. You always say that like it’s the worst thing anyone could ever be, and it’s really not.”

“I mean, it’s not great,” said Neal.

“And anyway he isn’t one anymore,” Emma continued, ignoring him. “He traded his ship for a magic bean so that he could find me in New York and bring back my memories, and now he owns a bookstore.”

“He traded his ship?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Aye, mate, really.”

“For Emma?”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Emma,” said Killian, trying to infuse his words with all the weight of the emotions behind them. “I love her.”

David’s jaw relaxed a fraction, and his glare grew slightly less murderous.

“So hold on,” Snow said, placing a soothing hand on David’s arm. “Let me try to understand this. Are you saying you two weren’t cursed?”

“He wasn’t. I kind of was? It’s hard to explain,” said Emma. “Or, I guess not hard so much as long.”

“We have time,” said David, crossing his arms over his chest.

Emma sighed. “Okay. So basically, Killian learned that I was in danger in New York and he did what he had to do to get to me as soon as possible. He restored my memories and together we figured out what the danger was, and in the process we learned that Storybrooke must be back. I decided to come here to investigate. He didn’t want me to, but I insisted. As soon as I crossed the town line Zelena appeared in the middle of the road and when I swerved to avoid her I hit a tree and was knocked unconscious. While I was out she dosed me with a powder that had a similar effect to the curse. It took my memories away and gave me new ones. Of course I didn’t know any of this until I managed to break through the effects of the powder and remember everything again.” She shivered as she recalled how awful it had been, believing herself married to Walsh. Unable to remember Killian when she was awake, or even give him much useful information in their dreams.

“It took Killian a year to make the preparations he needed so that he could get into Storybrooke undetected by any magic, and during that time he lived in New York and took care of Henry. He had to learn all about how our world works, how to drive a car and use a computer and run a business. He did that all by himself because I wasn’t there with him, because I didn’t listen when he told me to wait.” Her voice broke as tears began to flow down her cheeks. Snow moved to comfort her but Emma waved her mother away, instead leaning into Killian when he wrapped his arm around her waist.

“He never gave up on me, though,” she continued, “and when the time was right he came to Storybrooke, helped bring my memories back again, and then figured out what we needed to do to break the curse.”

“He took care of Henry?” David’s expression had softened to something very nearly not hostile, just on the edge of accepting.

“Yeah, Grandpa.” The diner had gone silent as Emma told her tale, and now Henry came to stand next to Killian, pressing close against his side. “He’s my dad. Stepfather, technically, but my dad in every way that counts.”

Killian found himself swallowing over a lump in his throat, and blinking back tears, and the next words he heard nearly ended him.

“He saved my life,” Neal said quietly.

Every eye in the room turned to stare, and Neal, for once, did not smirk. “In the sheriff’s station, earlier today,” he explained. “Zelena and Hook and me both pinned down, and I couldn’t breathe. Emma was headed for Hook, to save him, and he told her no, she needed to save me first. If he hadn’t done that, I’d be dead.”

Slowly the eyes shifted their focus, fixing on Killian, who flushed bright red. “I was never in any true danger,” he said gruffly. “Some time ago, Emma placed a number of protection spells around me. They’ve proven remarkably effective against Zelena’s magic. I knew I could withstand whatever she threw at me, but Neal could not. That’s, er, why.”

“You still saved his life,” said Snow. “Whatever the reason.”

“Well, yes. I mean of course I did,” said Killian, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Why wouldn’t I?”

David’s face was stern but his eyes warm as he uncrossed his arms and held out his hand. “Welcome to the family,” he said. “Killian.”

Some time later, after Emma had finished her peculiar meal and was tucked into a booth chatting with Henry and her parents, Killian found himself at the counter again, this time with a tumbler of rum and his thoughts, when Neal appeared at his side.

“So, I guess I owe you thanks,” he said.

“I told you, I was never in any danger.”

“Still. Thanks.”

Killian turned to him, unsure whether to feel hurt or angry or something else entirely. “Do you really think I’d allow you to be killed if it was in my power to prevent it?” he asked. “Really?”

Neal shrugged. “I mean, we’ve certainly had our differences. In Neverland, and then with Emma. You might want me out of the way.”

Killian raised an eyebrow. “Because of Emma? I can assure you there is no need.”

“Yeah, trust me man, I’ve picked up on that.” Neal accepted a beer from Granny and stared at it in silence for a moment. “You really love her, then?”

“Aye. I do.”

Neal nodded. “I can see it. In her too. She loves you, and so does Henry. And I—I’m really trying not to be an asshole here, but I gotta be honest. It feels like you’ve stolen my family. Again.”

Killian took a gulp of his rum. “I do understand how it might appear that way from where you’re standing, though I promise you there was no theft involved. Either time.” He cast Neal a challenging look. “You wouldn’t ever let me tell you about your mother, in Neverland. Are you willing to listen now?”

Neal’s mouth twisted. “Will it help?”

“I suppose that depends on the way you listen.”

“I don’t know if there’s any good way to listen to you talk about her.” Neal retorted. “You realise that you’ve fucked both my mother and the mother of my kid. Do you have any idea how weird that is for me?”

“I absolutely do.”

“It’s just—it’s gonna take me a while. And I’m not making any promises. I don’t owe you anything and you sure as hell don’t seem to feel you owe me. Did you think about me at all when you were moving in on Emma?”

“No, I didn’t. Because I never ‘moved in on Emma’ as you so charmingly put it. And because my relationship with her has nothing to do with you.”

“Then why did you promise to back off?”

“At the time I didn’t know just how connected Emma and I truly are. I knew how I felt, and that there was potential that someday she might feel the same. But I also knew that putting pressure on her to make a choice between us when she’d only just rescued Henry, and when not very long before she’d thought you were dead, well, there was no way that could end well for me. And as I told you then, I intended to play a very long game if necessary.”

“Not that long though, was it,” Neal sneered.

“Some of the longest years of my life, being separated from her,” muttered Killian to the last drops of his rum. “Especially this last one.” He glared at Neal. “I meant that promise when I made it. But truthfully, when I learned about the way things ended between you—how you left her by choice when all I wanted was to stay by her side forever—I regretted it.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t have a choice.”

“I understand that’s what you think. But your abandonment hurt Emma deeply in ways she still sometimes struggles with. And I find that very nearly unforgivable. If it were anyone else, Bae, anyone at all, I wouldn’t even try. But for the memory of your mother and of the boy you were, and for Henry’s sake, I am prepared to wipe the slate clean. If you will as well.”

Neal snorted. “Why should I?”

“Just because you and Emma aren’t romantically involved, that doesn’t mean you can’t be part of her life, and Henry’s. They both care about you, as do I.”

“So you want me to be part of your sweet little family?”

“I have wanted that for literal centuries.”

Neal’s scowl deepened as he fiddled with a loose bit of formica on the tabletop. “Tell me about my mother,” he growled.

“She loved you,” Killian replied. “That’s the main thing you need to know. She thought about you every day, told me stories of you all the time. But she was not the sort of person who was really cut out to be a parent. Can you understand that? How she could love you deeply and still not be able to be a good mother to you?”

“I—” Neal frowned, thinking of himself, and Henry. “I think maybe I can.”

"She was desperately unhappy in the life she had before we met. I’ve done some reading on the subject and I believe she suffered from what the psychiatry of this realm calls ‘clinical depression.’ She felt hopeless to the point of despair, and though she tried to disguise it with carousing in the tavern and seeking any sort of distraction from her feelings she could find, she knew deep down that it could never be enough. She was worried that her pain would drag you down too, and she couldn’t bear to see that happen. She thought that by leaving you with a loving father who would give you the best life he could that she was giving you your best chance, and she hoped very much that when you were older she could seek you out and you might allow her a place in your life again. I’m so terribly sorry that never came to pass.”

“So you can barely forgive me leaving Emma for her own good, but you justify my mother leaving me for mine?” Neal snarled.

“The circumstances aren’t entirely the same, but I take your point. I understand you find it difficult to forgive your mother, and me. But make no mistake, Neal, Milah intended to escape her life, one way or the other. I offered her a preferable alternative to some of the others she was considering, and I like to think she was as happy with me as she could have been. Sometimes there are no good options available and you simply have to take the least bad one.”

“Like I have to choose between hanging around here and watching you be happy with my ex, or leaving and not seeing Henry anymore.”

“Aye. Like that.”

Silence fell between them again, heavy with resentment. Neal drank deeply from his beer, his knuckles white around the handle of the mug. When it was empty he set it forcefully on the counter and turned to face Killian.

“I’ll take that clean slate,” he said. “I’m definitely not saying I’m ready for us to be happy families, okay, and I might never be, but I’m tired of holding on to this anger. And hey, if you can stop being angry anyone can, right?”

Killian nodded, swallowing over the lump in his throat. “Aye. I’d say they can.”

Epilogue coming soon! (like later tonight soon!) LINK TO THE EPILOGUE

@thisonesatellite @ohmightydevviepuu @katie-dub @kmomof4 @teamhook @stahlop @mariakov81 @snowbellewells @thejollyroger-writer @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @lfh1226-linda @winterbaby89 @ultraluckycatnd @resident-of-storybrooke

#cs ff #cs ff au #cs fic #captain swan #their way by moonlight #happy endings #and beginnings too

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bcdrawsandwrites · 5 years

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Leatherwing Rating: K+ Genre: Angst, Friendship Characters: Héctor, Chicharrón, original characters Warnings: Mentions of minor character death, BRIEF suicidal thoughts, minor violence. Description: Not everyone has a spirit guide in the land of the dead; they only appear to those who truly need guidance, and who are willing to listen to that guidance once they understand. And many years ago, there was a time when Héctor met those qualifications. View all chapters here!

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Chapter 6: Fly Summary: In which Héctor makes a mistake.

---

Settling into Shantytown was both easier and harder than Héctor had expected.

He was quick to find a home—an old, one-room shack northwest of the front gate, at the far end of town. At first he was grateful, until he got a better look at the thing—the roof had holes in it that would need to be patched, and it had a lovely “window” that was, in actuality, a hole that had gotten knocked into the wall that was covered by a plastic curtain. Still, it was better than nothing.

Then he made the mistake of mentioning how lucky it was they had a spare house. Everyone went silent, some of them clearing their throats awkwardly, before the subject was changed. Héctor mentioned the odd behavior to Chicharrón later, and the old man clicked his nonexistent tongue.

“That was Alejandra’s house.”

“Oh.” Héctor rubbed his wrist. “Did she… move out?”

Chicharrón fixed him with a hard look, and then he realized—this was the land of the nearly-forgotten.

“Oh… ay, dios!” He covered his face in his hands, and Pizzicato fluttered up over his head, alarmed. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?! I shouldn’t—”

“It’s all right,” the old man said, stomping his way back into his house. “It’s what we have to do.”

If he’d meant those words as a comfort, Héctor didn’t take them that way. He couldn’t shake the thought that he could move in… because someone else had disappeared. When Pizzicato landed on the side of his face, he shook his head. “They’re all on the edge of it, Pizzicato,” he murmured. “All on the verge of…”

Peep! The bat’s tongue flicked against his cheekbone.

He shuddered, and shook himself bodily. “Right. I shouldn’t think about it that way.” Hearing laughter ring from another corner of the town, where a fire roared and music played, he managed a smile. “I mean… they don’t.”

In spite of the reminders of death (first and final) all around them, the town never wavered in its joy. It seemed near-relentless in that aspect, as though if they let themselves down for too long, they would never get up again. People held parties and games, shared what little they had, and constantly helped each other out. And, honestly, it worked.

For a time.

One night, as Héctor sat around with his “new” guitar (a worn-out old thing he’d gotten from Tío Eduardo) and several new friends (Primo Lorenzo, Primo Estefan, Prima Violeta, Tía Gloria, and Tío Carlos—he always made an effort to learn their names), a flicker of gold appeared among them that had nothing to do with the fire they sat around. Prima Violeta nearly tipped sideways off her stool, Lorenzo holding her up and looking at her in alarm. All at once the joy was gone. The others rushed to her side, Estefan calling out for others to come and help.

Héctor, meanwhile, found his guitar slipping out of his hands and clattering to the ground. Pizzicato was nudging and licking his cheekbone and squeaking, but she didn’t register. All he could see was the memory of his father, collapsing to the floor of the old living room, his bones shimmering gold.

A sharp pinch of pain brought him out of his trance, and he yelped, pulling Pizzicato away from his face. The bat looked pointedly from him to the woman on the ground, and whimpered. He followed her gaze.

“P-prima…?” he stammered, taking a hesitant step closer. Even though he’d only known her for a month, seeing her like this was…

Violeta smiled weakly up at him as Lorenzo held her up and ran a hand through her hair—hair that never got a chance to turn gray. “Lo siento, cousin,” she said. “Guess I didn’t get to hear as much of your music as I’d hoped.” Her body shimmered as another attack seized her, and her smile fell, her teeth grit.

Hearing the plucking of guitar strings behind him, Héctor hastily turned around. He grabbed the guitar (Pizzicato had to quickly flutter off when it was picked up) before he lifted it up and began to strum. Though his hands threatened to tremble, he did his best to keep them steady as he played for her. He couldn’t find his voice in that moment, but the others filled in for him, a couple of them singing along while the others hummed.

Moments later, before they even had time to finish, there was nothing atop the stool but a ragged pile of clothing.

Héctor could say nothing, dragging himself away from the scene and leaning against the nearest wall that wouldn’t give way. Pizzicato hovered over him as he stared down at his hands—at the carpals and metacarpals and phalanges that remained a threatening yellow-gray.

Something seemed to lightly poke at his feet, and out of the corner of his eye he could see an orange-and-blue glow beneath him. Immediately after he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said quickly, before Lorenzo could speak. “I-I couldn’t… I had…”

“It’s okay.” His voice had a rough edge to it, but he seemed to hold himself together. “It’s… never easy. Especially the first time.”

“It wasn’t the first time,” Héctor said, and swallowed, clenching his fists. He still found himself staring down at them as he unclenched them, then clenched them again.

Lorenzo followed his gaze. “You’ve still got a while.”

“No…” He drew in a shuddering breath, and looked up, holding his hand out to Pizzicato. “I’ve got no time to waste.”

---

The next Dia de Muertos, his plans for bridge-crossing got a tad weirder. This time they involved slightly more illegal activities, such as sneaking around below the bridge platform. He’d considered doing it before, but the only thing holding him back had been not wanting to soil his reputation for potential employers. Now, however, he had nothing to lose. So long as he didn’t actually hurt anyone, he shouldn’t be in jail for too long. Jail could only be a minor setback, now, rather than something that could destroy his opportunities for a job.

Sneaking below the bridge went about as well as anyone could expect, however. While he initially made it past the guards, they easily spotted him trying to scale the wall, and he slipped and fell in a panic. Pizzicato snagged his shirt and beat her wings in a vain effort to lift him up, and he felt something slam into his back. To his surprise, however, it was not the ground, but a giant, flying snake that had swooped up beneath him. He had to laugh at Pizzicato’s joyful expression when she thought her efforts were actually doing something… right before she spotted the giant alebrije holding him up, at which point her yellow eyes narrowed.

Still, they were grateful to the alebrije for helping them, up until it deposited them back on solid ground, directly in front of a pair of security guards.

Spending the rest of the day in a cell wasn’t too bad, all things considered. More importantly, it did nothing to deter them from further attempts. If anything, it fueled them.

Chicharrón found him a few weeks later drafting up plans for another attempt. “You just got outta jail! What’re you doing, planning another harebrained attempt like that?” he cried, jabbing his cane at Héctor accusingly. It looked like the only thing preventing him from outright striking him in the head was the bat that hovered angrily nearby.

Héctor only gave him a crooked smile. “Pshaw, what’re they gonna do? Throw me in jail again?”

The old man drew in a breath, looking like he was about to respond, only to stamp his cane against the floor and growl. “Well don’t expect me to help you with this… this…!” With a sound of disgust, he hobbled away.

He did, of course, help Héctor with his schemes on a number of occasions (after a lot of begging, pleading, and promising to return borrowed items). He was not alone in this, either—many of Shantytown’s residents would lend him items to help if he asked nicely enough, but sometimes they just did not have the items he needed.

One year, after digging through his Prima Alejandra’s closet (with her permission), he found that all of the clothing articles were simply too old and ragged to pass for what he needed. “Gracias, prima,” he said with a smile, only to let out a heavy sigh when he stepped out of her bungalow. “Guess we’ll have to make a new plan, Pizzicato.”

But Pizzicato was not there. Instead she was fluttering away from him, out through Shantytown’s gates. Confused, he followed along, surprised when she led him up through the lower levels and back to the Arts District, where he used to frequent.

Ceci, it turned out, was one of a handful of people outside of Shantytown who would still begrudgingly help him whenever he asked. She had found great success, now helping to create the wardrobes for many dead celebrities (Ernesto, unfortunately, included), and finally had a studio of her own.

Of course, she wouldn’t merely help him for free—Héctor found himself running errands for her, and occasionally helping out others around the district. Not that he minded. It gave him an excuse to hang around outside of Shantytown occasionally, and more things to do other than manically drafting up plans for Dia de Muertos every year. Pizzicato was good at finding him places to go to, people he could connect with. It was never anyone who could offer him a job, but folks he could talk to, or who he could do favors for in exchange for providing him with items he needed.

Even so, they didn’t spend all their time running errands in the Arts District. Héctor still enjoyed being with his Shantytown family, and still got use out of the old guitar his Tío Eduardo had traded him. Though he never busked in the upper towers anymore, he would gladly play requests for his family.

And no one there requested that song, for obvious reasons.

But as much as he enjoyed being with his Shantytown family, another family weighed constantly on his mind—a family that was still on the other side of the bridge. No matter how much he came to love the Nearly Forgotten that surrounded him… every time the golden shimmers seized a prima or a tío, every time another soul faded to dust, every time he glimpsed his own graying bones…

He would remember that his own time was limited, and he would retreat into his shack, and go back to preparing for his next plan.

But there was another thought that occurred to him many years later, when he caught sight of a calendar in Ceci’s studio:

He wasn’t the only one whose time was limited.

---

Héctor paced around his tiny shack, Pizzicato fluttering over his head in dizzying circles. “What am I going to do, amiga?” he cried for what was probably the fourth time, and bit into one of his knuckles. “Seventy… ay, she’s going to be seventy this year! And… and this is no place for her!”

With a groan, he threw himself back into his hammock, which immediately tipped and dumped him out backwards. He found himself with his feet still atop the hammock, his back and head on the floor, staring up at the bat alebrije hovering over his head. “This is no bed for her, either,” he mumbled.

Peep… Pizzicato landed on his chest, careful to avoid his bad rib (one he’d broken a few years back, that had never healed). Automatically he reached up to stroke her smooth shell, closing his eyes as he mulled over the dilemma.

It was true that he didn’t know when Imelda would die. Even in his loneliest moments, he would never wish an early death upon her. And while it was very much possible that she could live for another few decades yet, seventy was not young. Even if he was sure she hadn’t lost a hint of her beauty.

I wonder how she looks, now, he thought, wincing against the pang in his chest cavity.

“She’ll be remembered, though, when she comes… I hope,” he murmured. “Maybe she has that shoemaker job she wanted, and she could teach me. My own wife can’t deny me a job, right?” He tipped his head to give a hopeful grin to Pizzicato, who licked his nose. He laughed softly, then sighed, letting his head fall back with a clunk.

“I’ve got to do something, Pizzicato,” Héctor said. “I can’t just show up like this.” He gestured vaguely, as though to indicate his entire self. His bones were as gray as ever (though they hadn’t gotten much worse than when he’d first joined Shantytown), and his clothing was ragged and torn as could be.

The bat flicked her ear-wings this way and that, and carefully fluttered off of him, hesitating for a moment before hovering over to the door of his shack. Confused, he struggled to his feet, watching as she looked from the door to him a few times—she wanted him to follow her.

Even if there were a few times Héctor didn’t like to acknowledge it, Pizzicato rarely led him wrong. Without another word, he followed her as she led him out of his shack, out of Shantytown, and back to the upper levels of the tower.

---

Héctor grinned widely, in spite of the look Chicharrón gave him. “Eh? Muy guapo, right?”

“You really want me to answer that?” Chicharrón asked, narrowing his eyes at the old, blush charro suit Héctor was wearing.

“Fine, you don’t have to,” Héctor went on, still grinning as he put his hands on his hips. “I know someone who will think so.”

The old man glanced somewhere over Héctor’s shoulder. “She doesn’t count. She doesn’t even wear clothes.”

“Uh—wait what…?!” Héctor took a step back, blinking and scratching his head. “Wait, no, that’s… she doesn’t… uh…?” Following Chicharrón’s gaze, however, he found the man was looking at Pizzicato, who was hovering around above his shoulder. Dropping his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not what I meant.”

Peep!

“Where did you even get that thing?”

Rubbing his right wrist, Héctor grinned sheepishly. “Oh, you know… I just… let’s just say I owe someone… a few dozen favors.” Of course, a few dozen was rounding it down, but he didn’t care.

Chicharrón cocked a brow-bone. “Wha’d’you need a fancy thing like that for?”

Pizzicato finally perched on the side of his face, careful to not let her claws snag his new suit. He reached a hand up to stroke her shell for a moment before answering. “I’ve… been counting the years,” he admitted, “and… Imelda’s in her seventies, now.”

“Sí. And?

Héctor sighed. “If… if I can make this last a few years…” He paused again, then shook himself, dislodging the alebrije from his face. She fluttered back into the air, watching him carefully. “I-I want something nice to wear. For her. When she gets here.”

“How do you know it won’t wear out before she gets here?”

“Ah, I won’t be wearing it all the time,” he said, brushing a spot of dirt off of the side. “In fact, I won’t wear it at all—not until she gets here. I’ll keep it nice.”

Even then, Chicharrón still looked unimpressed. “Why pink, anyway?”

Shrugging, Héctor shook his head. “Eh, pink, blush, ay… I can’t remember if it was exactly this color, but I think it’s close enough to the one I wore, when—” He stopped short, swallowing. “When I left.”

“So what?”

“Maybe if I wear it, play her song…” Finally he was smiling again, as he thought it over, the chords to Poco Loco already playing in his mind. “It’ll be like I haven’t been gone at all.”

To his surprise, Chicharrón rolled his eyes. “Pshaw. After what, fifty years?” He frowned, giving Héctor a serious look that made him feel small. “You really think that’s what she’ll be thinking when you show up after she arrives?”

Well, when he put it that way… it did feel sort of dumb. Even so, he looked back at Pizzicato, who lighted on his shoulder and nuzzled his jaw. “It’s… worth a shot?”

Chicharrón stared at him for a moment longer, and sighed, leaning against his cane and staring down at it. “You’re really hopin’ this’ll work, huh?”

“Of course!” Héctor managed a smile, even as darker thoughts clawed in the back of his mind. “I mean, if this doesn’t work, what will?”

For another moment the old man was quiet, rubbing his thumbs against the cane, before eying Héctor again with a frown. “Well unless you’re expecting your wife to drop dead of a heart attack in the next few minutes, get that dumb thing off of you.”

And get out of my house, was the additional implication, further clarified when the man furrowed his brow.

“Uh, right! Adios, Cheech!” With that, Héctor scrambled out of the bungalow, and proceeded to creep carefully through the town, mindful of rotten planks and any other hazards that might potentially ruin the suit.

“He’s being too pessimistic,” he grumbled at one point, as Pizzicato flew alongside him. “I think it’ll be fine, don’t you?”

When the bat gave him a cocked head and what looked like a concerned look in return, he sighed, his voice softening. “They’re all I can think about, Pizzicato,” he said. “My Imelda and my Coco… They probably have an even bigger family now, but… they probably still miss me, don’t you think?”

They were nearing his shack now, and Pizzicato responded by swooping into it. Moments later, he could hear the faint sound of guitar strings being plucked, and laughed. “Okay, okay. Let me get out of this suit first, and we’ll play some music, eh?”

And so they did, Héctor playing Poco Loco as Pizzicato weaved around, filling their little shack with bursts and ribbons of color. As he played, he looked up into the colors, imagining Imelda and Coco sitting beside him. Though with a pain in his heart he knew they were much older now, he still saw them the way they looked when he left, as best as he could remember them—Imelda being twenty-two years old, and Coco being four. If he closed his eyes, he could see—feel Imelda leaning against him, enjoying the sound of his music, while Coco stood up and danced around beneath the streams of color, trying to jump up to grab them.

Papá! Papá! Come dance with me!

Standing up, he opened his eyes, and the music faltered as the image melted away. So too, then, did the colorful flourishes that had, moments ago, filled the air.

“…Oh. Right.” Slowly Héctor sank back down onto the edge of his hammock. Pizzicato was immediately at the side of his face, licking his cheek, but he brushed her off. “No, no, it’s all right, amiga,” he said, plucking at the strings of his guitar once more. They came out haltingly at first, but soon he was back into his rhythm, this time playing a slower song he’d written—A Feeling—instead. “They aren’t here yet, but… they will be, someday.”

Someday, indeed, but that someday could be this year, next year, or ten years off. But when that day finally came… he would be ready for it.

---

It was not, however, that year. Dia de Muertos passed, and he spent the night in a jail cell for trying to sneak past the guards again.

Nor was in the next year, when after the holiday he spent an entire week in a cell for “accidentally” breaking one of the new scanners.

Nor was it even the year after that, when he’d actually managed to avoid being jailed (at the cost of running away, badly clipping a fence, and losing a floating rib).

But the year after that…

Héctor had had a particularly rough day the day prior, having been chased out of a shop by an angry shopkeeper (he’d been accused of harassing a woman—which wasn’t the case, he had only been asking for directions), gotten the package stolen that he had been trying to deliver for Ceci, and gotten chewed out by the seamstress herself (for a very good reason), who told him she was not going to let him do any more deliveries for her in the future. Now he was lying in his hammock, though it was already midday. Pizzicato had tried to get him up without much success, and now hung from the ropes on the opposite end, waiting patiently, while Héctor considered staying there for the rest of the day.

And then he felt it.

It was not near as intense as the first time he’d felt it a few decades prior, but it was unmistakable as he felt a sudden spike of anxiety that quickly faded, replaced with a harsh, physical pain where his heart used to be. As quickly as it had come, however, the pain disappeared, only leaving him with the vague sensation that something had changed.

Something had happened.

Héctor sat upright, his hands clutching his chest, as Pizzicato leaped off her perch with an energetic buzz-flap. He looked up at her, his smile wobbling, unsure if this was an appropriate time for joy, given what the feeling he’d just experienced signified.

Ultimately, the joy won out over any uncertainty, and Héctor leaped out of his hammock with the loudest grito he’d belted out in decades. He could hear the faint voices of startled Shantytowners outside, but he didn’t care, bolting out of his shack as fast as his legs would carry him.

Peep! PEEP!

Wait, no. Not yet! Laughing and ignoring the bewildered stares of his primos and tías and others, he skidded to a halt and rushed back into his shack, scrambling to find the charro suit he’d kept preserved over the years, that he’d managed to avoid getting wrecked in the terrible flood two years ago. Frantically he put it on, nearly wearing the pants backwards at first, before running out of the house once again.

PEEP!

Skidding to another stop, he wondered what he’d forgotten this time, only to have his question answered by the plucking of strings. Right! Shaking his head, he bolted back into the house, tripped through the doorway, and crashed to the ground in a cascade of bones. Yet the whole time he found himself laughing, too giddy to care as he pulled himself back together, straightened his suit, slipped his guitar over his shoulders, and ran.

“Cousin Héctor, where are you going?” “What’s the rush, primo?” “Wait, is it—?!”

“It’s my wife!” he shouted, loud enough for anyone in the town to hear him as he ran. “I’m going to see my wife!”

PEEP!

And Pizzicato was right behind him, beating her wings frantically to keep up. It was a long, long distance from the far corner of Shantytown up to the higher parts of the towers and to the Department of Family Reunions, but Héctor felt like he may have had wings just like the bat that flew behind him, feeling lighter even than the tiny alebrije he could hold in one hand, because after years and years, decades and decades, he was finally going to see her again.

Imelda had finally arrived.

---

Héctor’s entire body felt heavier than the whole of the Land of the Dead, with all its towers and skyscrapers sitting upon the endless sea of oblivion.

Señor, please step away.

He could barely will one foot to move in front of the other. Occasional nudges from Pizzicato reminded him how to walk. Otherwise, the bat was eerily silent, the beating of her wings the only thing to remind him that she even still existed.

Señora, por favor, calm down—

His mind had gone near-blank, the faint echoes of moments ago still ringing through the emptiness. It had all happened so quickly, yet at the same time it felt like he’d rushed out of Shantytown a lifetime ago.

Someone get that alebrije out of here!

He had only the vaguest memories of a massive, monstrous creature that had somehow appeared just outside the door, all fangs and feathers and claws, though it had never touched him. It hadn’t needed to.

Por favor, put your shoe back on—

His right arm hung limp at his side, and he made no efforts to try to move it. He could not immediately recall why he was doing this, but he was not going to question it.

Someone—ugh!—someone call security in, please!

But the thing he could still remember most clearly were those eyes—the same eyes he’d seen watching him shyly as he played his guitar in the sunny plaza of Santa Cecilia, the eyes he had stared into as he held out the ring, the same eyes that had gazed down lovingly at the beautiful girl they’d created together—were narrowed in recognition, in fury.

In hate.

I never, ever want to see you again.

It was a long, long walk back to Shantytown.

---

No one approached him when he finally returned. While he kept his gaze on the rotting boardwalk below him, he could see out of the corner of his eye that anyone who was still out and about was giving him a great deal of space. He wasn’t sure if they were doing it on their own, or because Pizzicato was doing something to keep them away, and he wasn’t sure if he appreciated it or not either way.

He wasn’t sure of much of anything right now.

Slowly, slowly he made his way back into the shack that he’d bolted out of so joyfully several hours ago. And then… he stood there, not knowing what else to do.

His hammock hung in one corner, but he had no desire to sleep. He had a single chair and a crate that served as a table, but what point was there in drafting up new songs or new plans? He had a small stash of drinks hidden beneath a pile of junk in the corner, but he wasn’t sure he had the will to fish them out right now.

Peep.

There was no energy to the bat’s voice as she hung from something on his back—her voice was dull and tired, and he briefly wondered if she felt as numb as he did. Well, numb except for the ache in his legs—he’d been on his feet for hours now.

With a shuddering sigh, he moved to sit on his hammock, only to pause when he felt something bulky get in the way, and he remembered he still had his guitar strapped to his back.

Héctor reached back to pull it off, only to cry out when a horrid, sharp pain shot through his right arm.

The sound was so loud, like a beam snapping, and the attendants were immediately behind them, pulling them away from each other.

It was broken—she’d broken it, and dios, it hurt worse than his broken rib. He quickly gripped it with his other hand, hissing in breaths through his gritted teeth as he waited, waited for the pain to fade, but it hurt—it hurt—

His breaths came quicker, heavier, his rib cage heaving, and before he knew it he was sliding down to the floor, succumbing to tears. He couldn’t stop himself, and didn’t even make the attempt.

Moments later a soft, small presence lighted on his good shoulder, gently licking at his face. He didn’t reach up to pet her, as he usually did, nor did he try to speak.

Together they sat, Héctor weeping through a pain he hadn’t known since losing his parents, and Pizzicato trying to comfort him as best as she could.

It felt like hours before Héctor finally managed to calm down enough to think, feeling thoroughly exhausted and not much better. “Wh-why would this happen, Pizzicato…?” he managed to stammer, his voice shaky and hoarse.

The bat whined, nosing his cheekbone and licking it again.

Not that he didn’t already know, anyway—Imelda had laid it out quite plainly to him. He hadn’t come back then, so why would he come back now? It didn’t matter that he’d tried to explain that he’d died—she wouldn’t hear a word. And then when she’d noticed the guitar…

You can leave your familia, but you still can’t leave without that thing?! Why did I ever—

He shuddered, reaching back with his left arm to unhook the guitar strap, letting the instrument drop to the floor behind him. Pizzicato let out a concerned whimper.

“I tried, Imelda,” he whispered, curling in on himself, gingerly tucking his broken arm closer to his chest. “I tried to come home.”

For a long while he sat still, pressing his head into his knees, while Pizzicato still sat atop his shoulder. Eventually she gave a gentle peep, hopping into the air and hovering over his hammock. He lifted his head to watch for a moment before easing himself upright, prepared to follow his alebrije’s guiding as usual.

And then he stopped, staring up at her.

Guiding.

Pizzicato had been the one guiding him for all these years, the one who he’d relied on throughout most of his afterlife, the one he’d spoken to about his family every day. She knew how much he missed them. She knew how much he wanted to see them again. And yet...

“Y-you…” he said, his voice a weak croak as the thought rolled through his head. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?”

Pizzicato’s ears folded, and she moved a few inches back.

The confirmation was like a blow to his chest, which was already hurting from the crying and the heartache. His frame trembled, and he lowered his head, holding a hand to his face. “You knew.”

It suddenly made sense—nearly every time he’d mentioned his family to her, she would go quiet, or look away. Whenever he tried to cross the bridge, there was always a reluctance to how she followed him. And even today, when he’d rushed off to see Imelda…

She knew. She knew from the beginning that his family did not want him. That his Imelda did not miss him. That this attempt would end in disaster.

All this time she’d been leading him, guiding him, all while knowing exactly where he would end up.

Before he realized what he was doing, he lunged to grab at her, and a second later found himself falling into his hammock, his bad arm pinned between his body and the rough material. “UGH!” he cried, struggling back to his feet, the pain in his arm and shoulder now only serving to fuel his anger.

Pizzicato was now hovering on the opposite side of his shack, her movements panicked and erratic. He rushed at her again, snarling when she fluttered out of his reach. “How could you do this to me?!” he cried, and she gave an alarmed squeak. “You’re supposed to guide me!”

He went for another grab, but this time she darted up to the ceiling, hooking herself there and curling up. “You took me to a bridge I can’t cross, and down to these slums, and to—!” His voice cracked, and for a moment the anger left him as he covered his face, trembling as he fought the urge to sob again.

Shuffling noises from the ceiling turned to the sound of a faint buzz-flap, ending in a plaintive peep.

And the plucking of guitar strings.

Uncovering his face, Héctor turned to see Pizzicato sitting atop his guitar, her ears folded, her eyes pleading. He looked from the little alebrije to the discarded instrument, and slowly he approached it, crouching down as he stared at the guitar.

You can leave your familia, but you still can’t leave without that thing?!

Why did I ever marry a musician?

His rib cage heaved as he reached out with his good arm, taking hold of the guitar’s neck as he stood upright. Face twisting into an ugly snarl, Héctor lifted the guitar over his shoulder and swung it at the ground, hard—

—not noticing the alebrije still clinging to it.

The resulting cacophony exploded around him as the guitar crashed against the ground in a shower of splintered wood and screech of clashing strings. But even above that noise was a simultaneous, deafening SHRIEK, followed by a frantic flapping of leathery wings. Héctor staggered back as the tiny form that suddenly seemed too dangerous for its size flew erratically around the shack, alternatively screeching and growling. A moment later, it tore past the curtain covering the doorway, and all at once Héctor realized what he’d done.

“W-wait, wait, no! Pizzicato!” he cried, moving to bolt after her. Immediately he stepped on a piece of broken wood, which slid out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. “AGH! N-no! Pizzicato, come back! I’m sorry!” Frantically he pulled himself back together, ignoring the pain in his arm as he pushed himself upright and rushed to the door. “PIZZICATO!”

But the bat was already far, far from the shack, her dark form barely visible as it danced away through the night sky.

#hector rivera #imelda rivera #chicharron #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #fanfic #my writing #leatherwing

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fightevilandthengetblownup · 5 years

Text

FIC: Watching Over You

—

“Will someone fucking help me?!”

He found himself snarling into his headset, jaw clenched and hands tight around the controller as he struggled to extract his character from the line of fire he was currently pinned under. Playing healer was the absolute worst thing; Grey was one death away from suggesting they switch to deathmatch so he could murder each and every one of his team mates.

“Jesus, Grey, don’t get your panties in a twist.” The quip came through in that almost sleep-roughed Brooklyn voice that he’d come to learn belonged to the tallest of the old Ghostfacers crew. Kenny Spruce, only ever going by Spruce and the one time he’d called him Kenny had resulted in a ten minute rant from the man himself and then a very offpitch version of Dangerzone from the other two Ghostfacer alumni on the channel, gave a laugh as he responded, but Grey knew he was kidding when he saw the Genji appear up the side of the building he’d been trapped on with his cyber-agility before unleashing his typical shuriken attack on the three enemies that had been surrounding the party-healer left alone without support. “What you even doing up here, man? Didn’t we say you’d stay with payload this round?”

“Yeah, but that was a stupid fucking tactic.” Grey hissed back, his anger dipping slightly as all three enemies are taken out and his character’s passive regen can start up again. “Plus they just blasted the shit out of me to start with, had to get out of the way for a bit.”

“Fair enough. I got him sorted, guys.” Spruce sounded amused still, and Grey could almost feel him nodding as if they were all in the same room and not spread across the entire country.

***

Getting a regular team together had been Harry’s idea. Something about getting his friends to all be friends, and then it turned into some kind of propoganda plan to help out Grey’s reputation with some of the more open-minded hunters.

It has started with Grey and Harry just playing in random match up together shortly after the game came out when Harry’d decided to bring the game and his extra screen over with him. Usually Grey wasn’t huge on FPS’ but this was bright and colourful, and he really began getting suckered into the art style and the backstories of the characters the more Harry walked him through it. He’d started out using Tracer due to it being Harry’s second so he could talk Grey through the best ways to play and use the character, but after a few random match up games, he’d learned pretty quickly no one liked playing healer and someone had to suck it up and roll that way, and who better than him?

About a month later, Harry had called him up and asked if he was free to join him and two of his old Ghostfacer friends that they were just starting to get back in touch with for a few games. Jo had shaken her head from where she’d sat with a few case files and books open around her when he’d asked if the noise would bother her or not, and Grey’d signed in and joined up with them pretty quickly. That his introduction to two of Harry’s best friends before the bar was running about Caduceus Staffing the pair as if he’d worked with them for as many years as his friend had put him off to a good footing. Ed, their Reaper or Reinhart depending on the rest of the team combination, was more than happy after a few rounds to question if Grey’d be available to join them more often in future. He had barely kept the smile off his face, and heard a lot of puking noises from the other guys through his headset when Jo’d leaned over and kissed him after the next round rather noisly.

The four of them continued to play, several nights a week every week, for the next three months and Grey had begun to think of the other two men as some of his closest friends as well.

—

Hey Grey, the boys are actually free and coming up to visit next weekend, you good to come round to the bar for a few drinks and a BBQ?

Harry’s text had made him feel almost giddy the moment he’d seen it, that he was being invited along to an event with ‘the boys’ felt unusual but also so normal all at once. There was a flash of concern about the bar and the safety measures that had once again been put in place cutting him off from being able to agree, until his phone buzzed again three times in quick succession.

Sorry man, forgot about the Iron Jo said we can do BBQ at yours We’ll be round Saturday

That giddy feeling was back immediately upon seeing it. Not only was Harry willing to change his plans to fit Grey in along with the rest of his friends, which somehow made him feel both upset for making those plans have to change but also so good that his friend cared enough to change them for him, but Jo had already okayed the idea of four guys hanging out, drinking beers and taking over the backyard and/or kitchen without a moments hesitation from the sound of it. Facilitating his making new friends, and helping him without it feeling stifling.

His nervous energy had lasted all the way through to the weekend, and Jo had given up even rolling her eyes at him as he’d cleaned up and tidied the living room, kitchen and backyard for the fourth time that morning. She was more focussed on simply getting the minute steaks defrosted and potato salad she claimed her mom used to make prepped for the afternoon.

It felt strange in a way to put a face to a voice and name as the three men had arrived. It felt stranger still for him of all people to find that concept strange, he’d practically invented putting a name and face to a disembodied voice after all. However, the odd mix seemed even stranger when he realised he’d been added to the equation.

Spruce was not what he had expected - almost 6″3 and a patchy beard growing alongside the full black ensemble and glasses. It matched the quiet yet rumbly voice Grey was used to, and he definitely seemed friendly enough from the immediate fist bump greeting as he’d headed through the house to the backyard as Grey’s waved instruction.

Ed matched exactly to what Harry had told Grey of before, and even recognised vaguely from some old video he’d been shown by either Harry or Jo once upon a time. However he’d stopped dyeing both his hair and shaving his facial hair if the dark hair and fully developed beard was anything to go by. Ed even pulled him into a one armed, chest bump-back hit move as his own greeting, and Grey had to bite down a smile of his own realising he wasn’t dwarfed at all by this friend of Harry’s like the other one.

The afternoon had been as if all of them had known eachother for years, talking easily and sharing ciders or beer or soft drink depending on who it was throughout the afternoon until Jo’d called out that lunch had been ready. Spruce had made a joke originally about women in the kitchen and how it’s supposed to be the man’s job to cook a BBQ, but it had been the one and only awkward moment of the afternoon - especially as he’d quivered under Jo’s death glare and Harry had whispered something loudly about not wanting to piss her off ever.

Excepting that moment, all four men had had a great afternoon which had bled into evening and ended up with all four crowded in the front lounge with a second PSN from the bar brought along and playing a few drunken deathmatches.

Jo had brought in the ordered pizza around the end of the first hour of rounds, and Grey had even felt comfortable enough around the other’s to drag her into his lap and try to show her the ropes of the game.

“Yeah, lets teach the little lady how to play, should be fun as.” Spruce’s comment sounded a little too on the edge of asking for trouble, but from what Grey could remember he was about eight beers in and given he’d lost the last four rounds despite sticking to his main Genji, there was clearly a disconnect somewhere in his head. “Pretty little thing like you Jojo probably don’t know nothing about games, aye?”

“Bet she only plays those girly simulation games.” Ed added on, a drunken smirk on his face as he looked over at the pair of them cuddled up on one of the arm chairs from his spot beside Harry on the main couch. Harry for his part looked like he was too bemused by his mates comments and the fact he knew Jo could destroy the pair of them in her sleep to correct them as Jo had snarled in response.

“Fuckin’ bring it on, dickwads.” Her words were fighting words, and Grey didn’t even think about it impacting his points as Jo’d taken his controller off of him and switched characters at the loading screen for their next round. Somehow it seemed to fit when she chose Soldier 76; and he didn’t miss the way Jo looked over at Harry for an imperceptable nod from the researcher before she fully selected it. “Get ready to die, bitches.”

“After you, girlie.”

It barely surprised Grey when it turned into a bloodbath immediately, nor that the moment the game started Jo’s Soldier had Spruce’s Genji trapped and dead within thirty seconds. It also didn’t surprise him as he noticed Harry’s Winston avoided her character and as such her wrath like the plague. Ed’s Reinhart was the next dead, and for the next three minutes as their death tallies continued to be counted up and ranked against the other four unknown players in the round that Grey’s username was sitting up at the very, very top with a healthy ten-kill margin above the next highest.

Throwing the controller into his lap a little too harshly as the round finished, Jo’s play clearly trumping anyone else as well as the screen showing through a 10 kill spree of all headshots as Play Of The Game she’d enacted about halfway through the match time, the blonde had given the two newcomers a sneer before gesturing for their pup to get up from where she was seated and heading upstairs with a “I’ll leave you boys to it” over her shoulder. Grey couldn’t help the tiny smirk that started up at the flabergasted look on both other men’s faces before they started up the next round.

It was another two beers and almost ten comments about “Damn, that play though” before Harry decided to let the other’s in on that they’d just gotten schooled by a real shooter and none of them had started another round until the bitching about “unfair advantages” had died down some twenty minutes later. Another three beers and Harry was summoning an Uber, Ed was wrapping Grey up in the tighest hug he’d experienced from an inebriated man with a lot of tears and “where were you when we needed another Facer?”, and Spruce had then dog piled in on it with a call about how “damn cool Harry’s new mate” was and “you sure your girlfriend isn’t single” before Harry chased the pair of visiting friends into the waiting Uber and shared a bemused look with Grey as they all parted ways for the night.

After that, Grey knew he now have two more good friends, even if they were a bit weird in their own way.

—

It was another month before the fifth member of their little group joined them for the first time.

Harry had organised the usual gaming session about an hour later than usual with the simple message that got another friend whos free to play, and the idea of adding a fifth member to their usual roster suited them all pretty well. If they managed to find one more, they could actually play with friends and friends only rather than having a few odd swing ins for matches against other groups.

When Jo had swung past and heard him up later than usual on her way up to bed from one of her late night baking sprees, he’d handed her a spare pair of headphones to listen in on the group and found out that their new guy was a hunter like her. Grey had played attrociously that round, barely managing to heal anyone on the team as his fingers have shook and fumbled too much to fire straight or connect right on the others.

Jo had said it seemed ‘fitting’ that the other hunter was trading between McCree and Ashe every other game, as if trying on which style of player he wanted to be, before kissing him good night and retiring to bed with Nana. He knew he could wake her up when he got upstairs if he was still stressed, but that felt like a bit of a defeat to him of how far he’d come, of how far he’d pushed past being impacted by interacting with hunters who didn’t know who or what he was. Instead, he’d simply curled up around her, arms around the waist and face buried in that vanilla scented hair like he wasn’t still being impacted by a surprise hunter involvement.

It had taken another three weeks before Grey had found out which hunter it was, other than going by the screenname MrFizzles2000.

—

“Hey so is it okay if Garth stops by this afternoon?”

“Who?”

“Garth. He’s a hunter, but he’s chill. Like you already like him.” Jo had raised an eyebrow up at him from where she was currently in the middle of some intricate looking chocolate and dough bread…thing. “He got a bit banged up on a job nearby and asked if he could swing by for a patch up.”

“I don’t know any hunters called Garth.” He frowned at her, resting a hip against the countertop as he watched her working. The frown didn’t last too long, though his brows still creased, when she had swiped a bit of the chocolate mix onto a finger and offered it out to him with that entirely too innocent look on her face that let him know she knew exactly what she was doing.

Jo shook her head at his words, an eyeroll clearly being fought from showing, before she licked the chocolate off her own finger at his look. “Sure you do, MrFizzles? He’s cool, he’s chill, and he already knows all about you, hun, and he’s the absolute last hunter who would ever be predjudice against you for that.”

That had sounded too good to be true, and he had pressed further for more information just as soon as he’d finished tasting the chocolate from her lips.

“He got bit, werewolf hunt gone bad last Spring. I’ve been workin’ with him on ways to stay in the game and also stay on top of the situation.” Jo had smiled up at him so sweetly at that as she watched him carefully, that he had trouble keeping his look blank at the revellation that the hunter he played video games alongside was both a hunter and a monster too. That there had been no real reason for him to be so concerned and nervous, but at the same time, the whole idea of a monster as a hunter seemed far fetched even with progressives like Jo, Sam and Harry running about. Her smile had dropped a little as she saw his impassive look, and added quietly, “You hadn’t noticed I duck off near full moon each month? I’ve been keeping my hunts set so I can get to his home and help keep an eye on ‘im during the transformation times now it’s all gone back to mostly normal. He’s a sweet guy, he doesn’t deserve what’s happened but damn if he’s not workin’ hard not to let it stop him doin’ the job.”

“I hadn’t actually noticed-”

“Didn’t think so. But yeah, Harry, Garth and I have been workin’ on the hunter portal cause they’re both big geeks and I guess Garth and Harry realised you guys all play the same games so there you go.”

Grey rolled the thought over in his mind for a moment as Jo had spun in his arms to resume her complicated plaiting of her chocolate bread dough, the chocolate was rippled through it in veins and he was sure it was going to be amazing from what he’d already tasted; before tucking his chin over her shoulder. “Fine, he can stop by. Given I doubt he’s going to try to… gank me?”

There had been a laugh at that, and Grey had found himself almost pacing in the front lounge for the next hour awaiting the arrival of the man who was somehow an unknown hunter, a fellow monster and his mystery team-member all at once.

The first Grey had seen of him was a tall but bean-stalk like guy wrapping Jo up into a tight hug that managed to lift her feet up from the floor and spun her around when just looking at him such a feat should have snapped him in two. There was such a friendly look to him despite the extremely gross mess that was one half of his face, that somehow the clearly openhearted and friendly demeanour broke through even the worst of injuries. “Joey, hey, thanks so much for letting me stop by. Just got on the wrong end of a chupacabra.”

“Yeah I can bloody see that!” Jo had laughed as the man had let her back to her feet, and she’d raised a hand to look at the other’s mangled face - pieces of skin sliced and torn all over one side of his face, and Grey could see a bit of blood smeared on Jo’s hair from where it had touched the area during their hug. “Well not to worry, I’ll get you all patched up soon enough. You know Grey?”

“Grey! Hey man, so good to finally meet’cha!” The next thing Grey knew, he too had been pulled up into a tight hug without a moment to prepare for it, while the hunter wrapped his scrawny arms around his shoulders and rocked back and forth for a second. Garth was still talking, that exceptionally friendly tone bleeding through even Grey’s panic at the unexpected move, “I’ve heard so much about you from Joey and Harry. Been so lookin’ forward to meetin’ you finally. Sorry it couldn’t be better circumstances, man.”

He’d been released after a full thirty-Mississippi’s, and Grey had forced himself not to smoke away out of fear or jerk back more than a polite step as the hunter let him go and continued through to the kitchen at Jo’s gesturing. She had stopped and reached out for his hand, squeezing tightly as she gave him an understanding look as he let out a shaky breath. It took him another few minutes to work down the panic, splash his face with water and then head into the kitchen to see if there was any additional assistance needed once he had calmed down.

It hadn’t taken long for Grey to warm up to Garth once there was no unexpected if very nice hugs, especially as all three had sat down at the kitchen table together while Jo whined about “even though you’ve got higher regeneration than the rest of us, it doesn’t mean you won’t get an infection”, the hunter had simply looked across at him and shared an exasperated eyeroll. That the next thing out of the hunter’s mouth was to congratulate Grey himself on a beautiful house and kind girlfriend settled the matter for him, this was another hunter he would happily spend time with. Maybe with just a bit more distance, or at least warning next time.

—

The sixth and final member had actually come about through Dean.

The hunting brothers had been visiting as they had been doing on and off ever since the Gordon Situation had been handled. Grey had found it exceptionally uncomfortable to begin with, especially the heated, distrusting looks he would get constantly from the eldest brother whenever they did stop by, but Jo had almost burst into tears when the brothers had called and asked if they could drop by the first time about a month after they'd last been around that he couldn't very well say no. Not when she'd flung herself at him right after the agreement either. And so it had become a thing, where if the brothers were within two hours of the city they would pop by after their hunt to say hi. So long as Jo was home, of course.

It was on one of those nights that they were over and talking with Jo in the kitchen while Grey and his group were just kicking off their usual two or so hours of game play that the eldest Winchester had made the comment.

"Is that that weird anime shooter game? Overlord or something? We've got a friend who plays that and she's been looking for a new crew. I'll give her a call and see if she's free if you guys need another tonight." And that was how the sixth member joined them.

---

Supposedly Harry and Garth both already knew and liked the woman, and she was involved with the online hunting development with them and Jo. According to Dean she was a genius, according to Jo she was 'a lacklustre copy of Ash with a vagina' when Grey'd asked her for more that night, according to Harry she fell somewhere in between and Jo only disliked her due to being hit on the first time the women had met.

Charlie Bradbury had been a welcome edition though that first night, and the group had quickly agreed to add her into their little ragtag team.

She tended to roll D.va as her default which meshed well with everyone else, but sometimes she'd play Zarya instead when the mood stuck her which also worked well. Grey figured she was compensating for something always playing the tank role, but knew better than to question it.

That first night though, Grey had been surprised to hear the chirpy female voice through the headset as they finally all got online and in the one escort mission together. They were in charge of the escorting that time, fighting off the other party with a fair few hiccups.

Sometimes Charlie would charge forward further than she should, a level of cockiness in her taunting over the channel directed at the other team than rarely matched the level she was playing at. Sometimes, Spruce would end up accidentally completely forgetting it was a team game amidst the jeering and begin to seek out personal glory rather than working within the team. Sometimes, Grey would drop too far behind trying to regenerate his own health and by the time his character would catch back up, the party would be close to death. And sometimes Ed and Harry would have ended up pissing off one another over something or other, and refused to work together properly until screamed at by the rest of the party or one of them would conceed and apologise.

Overall though, it had been thoroughly amusing, they had finally worked out some of the kinks by their last round as it hit midnight and Jo had appeard in the doorway making a coughing noise in just her sleepwear and Grey had quickly called it a night on the group to a chorus of teasing from the rest. Overall, the computer whiz had fit in well with them all once they got a hold of their egos, and Grey knew that they’d be adding a final person to their regular line up.

***

The escort mission was going somewhat well so far, they’d made it through the second checkpoint and Grey had only have the one close encounter so far that Spruce had fixed up. They had almost reached and surpassed their opposition’s marker in the competition play they were undertaking, and as he directed his character back into the frey towards pushing, Grey could hear Charlie going off again.

“Fucking cocksucking assholes, we’re going to beat these sonofabitches back for sure.”

“Not very ladylike language there, Charls.” Ed’s voice crackled through the headset, clearly teasing as his Reinhardt pushed at the back of the payload alongside the firey redhead’s D.va and Grey’s own Mercy while Spruce’s Genji, Garth’s McCree and Harry’s Tracer zipped about them dealing out damage as they passed.

Grey could tell from the way the D.va suddenly stopped moving that the woman had taken offence. It was something that happened often enough each of the other player’s had noticed it and knew just how damaging one of her stubborn flares could be to their overall performance.

“Ed...” Spruce’s voice rumbled through the quiet, before being cut off by Garth’s friendly attempt at distraction, “Hey Charlie, we’re almost there - watch out for the Reaper comin’ up.”

The silence from their solo female player continued as did her character’s stubborn freezing on the spot as the payload’s speed slowed down having lost the third player’s additional momentum.

“Ed...” Spruce tried again, only to receive a loud feminine hiss and a whiney groan in response.

Grey found himself sighing quietly as he moved his Mercy about the screen to start healing a team member here and there, to boost the attack as Garth completed a flashbang to distract and disorientate their oppponents while they waited for Charlie to get her panties untwisted. While the girl was a very good gamer, and from what Grey had heard from Jo and Harry over the last month, he knew she was equally good at setting up secret portals for sharing the information hunters needed quickly and efficiently between themselves without needing to get too involved in understanding any of the information shred herself, she definitely had a bit of an ego and tended to snap quickly and unexpectedly if she thought she was being insulted.

The time was ticking down for them and they only had two minutes left to compelete the challenge, or at least get past their opponents marker. It was so damn close.

“Ed!” This time it was Harry’s voice, sharp and harsh as his Tracer skipped about from one side of the payload to the other, drawing fire and avoiding equally easily. “Just do it man, you know you were being a shit.”

There was a pained sounding groan as the group managed to move the payload further along and from where Grey was positioned, turning his camera he could see their D.va still just standing still left behind them in Charlie’s tantrum while the enemy players appeared to be trying to decide if they kill out the lone character or focussed on the payload objective.

The groan came again and they were slowly leaving the other behind when Grey realised what he had to do as two of the enemy players began wailing on the frozen and non-reactive D.va. He had seen Charlie let her character die and then remain at the spawn spot before, she had seen her be prepared to lose the match out of spite from one too many kitchen jokes from Spruce or a snarky comment from Ed or Harry. One time she did it after Garth had made some joke about her identifying a monster wrong and sending a hunter out with the wrong information if it ‘hadn’t been for his quick thinking’ to fix it. Grey had yet to aggrivate the woman enough before, but he was a lot more wary of upsetting someone close to the Winchester’s than the rest of them.

He had one strategy left that would allow her to survive, Ed to apologise and possibly give enough of a boost to the team they could pass their competition’s mark with or without the other’s help.

“Mother, fuck the lot of you.” Grey hissed into the headset as he set off his ultimate ability and jerked into the air above the rest of the play. He could see Charlie’s character start gaining health as he moved slightly back towards her to split the difference to the rest of the team, while their offensive characters began dealing enough damage to the surrounding enemies to push them back while Ed’s remaining pushing character continued with their objective. It took about ten seconds into the duration of his power for the hits to start coming from the opposite team, watching his own health deplete. “Harry, go for the Genji, Spruce target the Soldier, Garth the Pharah is almost dead one more shot should do it. And for fucks sake, Ed, apologise this instant!”

There was a quick movement of characters about the screen from what he could see as the three he’d pointed out began the assaults on the assigned enemies and as his powers ability came to an end of time and he dropped his character back down to help with the payload; he saw all three enemy units get taken out. His own was needing a lot of regeneration shortly, but that could wait. If they could just get Charlie back on board...

“Fine, fine.” Ed’s voice crackled, sounding tight and a little sour, before he added into the silent chat. “Look Charlie, I’m sorry. I know we’ve been ragging you a bit today so I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” The words sounded clipped and a little too formal, but next second the D.va was up against Ed’s Reinhardt and pushing along beside them as they crossed past the enemies original marker.

The end point was in sight as they entered the final phase of the match, but Grey could tell they wouldn’t make it without a bit more sacrifce, and sighed as he stayed in place providing the third party to push the load as much as possible even as he’d reached under 15hp left. His screen showed them getting to within 5m of the end point before he was back at the spawning point at the start and found himself sighing resigned not to see if they’d won outright or not as the time counted down.

Such was the curse of being the healer when there wasn’t enough time left for healing to matter. He never got to see if they won or not.

---

It hadn’t been intentional when he’d introduced his sister to the game. It was one of those weekend visits by her when Jo was out of town and not due back until early the next morning but it just happened to coincide with one of his game nights and Shada had looked so bored just ‘hanging out’ that Grey had told the guys he wasn’t available and grabbed the spare remote to play a few rounds showing her the game.

She hadn’t been like Jo had, taking time to pick up how the game worked, how the controller worked, how to actually target and shoot and achieve the tasks. But she’d been more excited than Jo had - tongue poking toughtlessly out one side of her lips as she focussed hard and got drawn into the game as much as he knew he did too. Jo had just looked bored and a little vindictive but not like she had been having fun; where as he could tell straight away his sister was enjoying herself getting to do something he enjoyed with him.

It had become a bit of a tradition between the two of them that they’d play a few different random games with others whenever Shada stopped by.

Grey had not been surprised when she’d gravitated to playing Sombra straight away, and had barely pressed her to try more than two others given how frequently she’d zip straight back to her main character choice each time. It wasn’t like he could judge - he rarely changed off of Mercy now unless they were doing a deathmatch, and even then he did not do well in that game type given how little time he spent playing attack characters - but it was amusing to see how excited his sister got every time he suggested they play a few rounds. He knew it was less to do with the game itself, but the reason for her excitement didn’t really matter so much as he got to get that happy grin out of her.

One time Jo had switched out for him playing alongside his sister when she’d been home for one of Shada’s spontaneous visits, and he’d almost bled from biting his lip so hard to stop the dopey grin from watching the two girls get along and laughing together.

---

Hey guys, cant make tonights session - anyone know an extra sixth to take my spot?

The message from Harry had started this nightmare. It had been about an hour before their usual time, and Grey had felt the slight deflate at the idea he would have to either play with some random or the group wouldn’t get together for the night when the doorbell had rung. Only one person rang the doorbell rather than knocking - a habit that seemingly Jo hadn’t trained the few friends and family of her’s that visited out of after they had installed the doorbell - and Grey suddenly realised maybe his night wouldn’t have to stall out.

My sisters just stopped in She plays Sombra That work for you guys?

He shot off the texts in quick succession into the Discord chat they used as he got up to answer the door. Shada looked as happy as ever, flinging herself at him for a tight hug before brushing past into the house without waiting for an invitation.

“God, why are boys so shit? I mean seriously, even the cute ones are horrible!” Shada whined, flouncing into the living room and throwing herself onto one of the arm chairs, draping her legs across one arm and her head and arms over the other. Her entrance barely registered with the other woman in the room, Jo was engrossed in her laptop in her lap and the thick leather journal on her own armrest. “I mean, I get this guy to buy me a Berkin and then he like... wants things for it? Ugh!”

“Well, that..that’s an expensive bag isn’t it?” Grey asked softly, following in and shutting the door behind him to keep the warm air of the rest of the house out and the cold airconditioned air in. Sitting on the couch, he held up his hands apologetically at the angry look he got from his sister instead. “But no you are completely right, men are gross and shit and horrible. Absolutely not worth your time.” That comment got a snort from the other chair, but flicking a look over it didn’t look like Jo had moved at all or was even listening even if she clearly was. “Hey, I know what’ll cheer you up-”

“What?” Shada’s voice perked up, the arm that had been thrown dramatically over her eyes moving so she could peer at him curiously from under it.

“I’ve got my Overwatch game with my friends tonight, but Harry wasn’t available and we’re looking for a sixth player...”

He had barely gotten to finish the words before there was the high pitched squeal of excitement and he was tackled due to her inhuman speed in the body she inhabited, arms around his shoulders in a tight hug. “Oh can I? Can I?! I haven’t gotten to play with anyone else before!” Shada was grinning from ear to ear as she squeezed his shoulder even more tightly, bouncing the couch cushions from where she was practically jumping with glee. “Can I play Sombra? Please, please, pretty please!”

Grey flicked a hand out to check his phone, seeing the several notifications agreeing to her joining - excluding Spruce’s begging if he could get his girlfriend to play instead - and nodded at her. He was lucky there was another hour before they were due to play for Shada to calm down somewhat before she was unleashed upon his friends.

They’d all played well, though it had mean Ed had been relegated to his tank character rather than playing his preferred Reaper for the escort and assault/escort missions which he had grumbled at until they’d all agreed to spend the last half of their time doing deathmatches instead. Shada had fit into the space left by Harry’s Tracer with her Sombra pretty easily, and the team had changed some of their usual strategies to accommodate the newer player without complaint.

Grey had cringed at several times throughout the night though, as Shada had hummed occasionally singing some parody song she’d heard and when he’d looked away from the screen he’d spotted Jo giggling from her own seat while Spruce and Ed both growled their dislike of “that goddamn Spears pop shit”; or as Charlie had asked thoughtfully if his sister was single at one point; or when Shada had accidentally said some offhand comment asking if Whispering the opposition would be counted as cheating or not that Grey had found himself breaking into a loud song to cover the actual question from being heard properly.

But regardless, the team had fit well - moving smoothly through objectives and challenges together, and while Charlie had had one of her little tantrums when Shada’d made a joke about her ‘butch’ choices of character and asking if it had matched the computer-geek in person or not, they had mostly worked well and won more than two-thirds of their games.

As the clock hit 1am, they had all finally called it quits, and even though Shada had annoyed some of them, all of his friends had bid her goodnight and also said she was welcome to be a swing player in the team in future should anyone ever not be available. Grey’s thought that Shada couldn’t smile any wider was proven wrong as they’d powered off the machine and he’d seen her out the front door after a drink and bit of a chat with Jo now that they’d finished their games and she had packed away her computer.

“I think I see why you keep human friends.” Shada had said softly as she stepped out into the muggy hot night time, looking up at him with a small, thoughtful smile. “They’re...so different to our brothers and sisters.”

“That they are.”

“I think I like your friends, brother.”

“I think they like you too.” Grey had replied, pulling her into a tight hug before she skipped down the stairs to head towards the empty school to disappear from in the dark of the oval, before he’d turned around to find Jo standing on the stairs smiling at him with an almost equally soft look as his sister had given him before they headed upstairs to fight Nana out of the centre of the bed.

---

Things continued like that for a while - sometimes the six of them would play, sometimes one of the others would be unavailable either due to work, hunting or personal reasons and Grey would call his sister in to join them. Sometimes they even decided to just do deathmatch free for alls so all seven of them would play at once. It had been a pretty well established routine, and Grey couldn’t help but realise as he’d get texts, calls or Discords from each of his other team members about anything and everything and not always to do with the game itself that this was what having a tight group of friends was all about.

Not only did they catch up in-game, but each of the others had stopped by the house regularly enough that Grey no longer jerked hearing the sounds of a knock or doorbell the way he had used to. It felt sort of surreal the times Garth would pop by that there was a second hunter Grey felt comfortable in his own skin around.

It was even more surreal when Charlie had flown over for Harry’s birthday held in the backyard as the summer had come to a close, and watching Jo try to be polite and friendly to the woman that commanded a bit too much attention from Jo’s almost-brother’s. The day had been going well, all of those that played with them over, as were the Winchester’s simply out of having been in the area and having buried the hatchet with Harry at least as he’d shown himself invaluable to the research side of things. Even Bobby and Jody had come up, though Grey had thought that was more out of taking the opportunity to see both brother’s and Jo in the one place, and possibly to talk over some files or books with Harry the day after too.

That day had been going so well, with the groups all blending well and even Shada had been invited along and had behaved herself for the most part of the afternoon while Jo and Garth had worked beside eachother flipping burgers, steaks and sausages for everyone laughing the whole time about something or other. Sam and Grey had both worked together to put together a few different salads, especially appreciated by Jody, Charlie and Shada, as they’d all sat down to eat stretched out along a long bench table brought out of the shed into the back garden.

Nana had ran about amongst the legs as everyone had stood and talked beforehand, and was now curled up at Bobby’s feet at the head of the table whining and barking happily every time the older hunter had dropped some food for her. The hunter himself was in a deep conversation with Spruce about the use of technology in ghost hunting and about how static noise in imaging could be used and focussed upon to find that which distorted the image.

Beside them was Harry and Ed, talking animatedly to one another, even though the bulkier of the pair - supposedly according to Harry the other had gotten really into the gym after the Ghostfacers had broken up and was now some survivalist prepper trainer or something - was splitting his time between talking to his friend and flirting with the darkhaired shadow sat next to him. Shada had made a crack about, “maybe I should be even more annoying” when she’d first been introduced in person to the other, and had given barely a cursory look at the other four members of their little gaming group she hadn’t met in passing before focussing almost all her attention on the ex-Ghostfacer so far that day.

Sam had actually sat down next to the shadow without any kind of reaction, as Jody had taken the other headplace and Garth across from Sam, from what Grey could tell in his space beside Jo across from Shada, he could tell they were talking about some job or other that Garth had finished off the night before. He was somewhat more focussed on giving his sister disapproving shakes of the head whenever he managed to catch her eye, but figured that there was no harm in it. Jo was on his other side, right in the centre of the table where she could get up and down easily to keep running about to fetch drinks or more food for everyone as the serving plates emptied.

Beside her was Dean and then Charlie between him and Bobby’s position, and Grey could tell there was something going on from the way Jo was spending more and more time getting up and down for things for everyone else than eating the food that he could tell was the same that had been put on her plate when they’d all first sat down. Looking down at the plate as Jo got up for the third time in five minutes, he found himself frowning as he realised she’d not even touched any of it, completely against normal for her.

Tilting his head and shifting slightly into her vacated seat, Grey had found himself glaring daggers for the first time ever at the elder of the hunting brother’s when he overheard him dubbing the redhead woman beside him “the sister he never had” a little too loudly from a few too many beers as Jo had rounded the table behind him. Out of his peripheral, he could see the way she bit her lip and leant between Dean and Charlie to set down another beer for the Winchester brother who gave her an uninterested “thanks Jo” before continuing to joke to the smiling, unaware woman beside him.

Clenching his fists as he watched Jo spin on her heel and hurry back up the back steps into the kitchen, he didn’t even notice the way Sam seemed to pause in his own conversation looking between the slammed kitchen door, his brother and then his own stony look before getting up and following the blonde into the house. He didn’t notice his sister suddenly looking at him curiously, head tilted as she tried to work something out before returning a half hearted comment to Ed beside her who was talking about some survivial training camp he was running next month, eyes focussed on him as he moved. Grey did notice however his own movement getting to his feet and shoving his seat back harshly before he stepped over to place a firm, little more pressure than his body should be able to produce, hand onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Hey, what’sup Grey?” Dean looked up at him, his attention finally jerked from the conversation about the Hobbit movie adaptations he’d been having with Charlie since they’d sat down for lunch, a slight frown at the extra pressure before it got deeper at the look Grey was sure was on his face. His next words were a bit sharper, voice dropped an octave into a more threatening tone even as those around didn’t quite understand what was going on. “What do you need?”

“We need to talk. Come on.” Grey gritted the words out, fingers digging into the other’s shirt and jerking him to his feet as the hunter stumbled up after him with a shake of the arm and a snarl. So much for a nice afternoon, but he refused to have this conversation in front of the crowd or to ruin Harry’s day with this issue. Jerking his head towards the side of the house, the shadow moved without looking behind him around the end of the table not looking to see the approving look he was getting from the wisened old hunter at the end, completely focussed upon keeping from snapping that Dean had to leave immediately and causing a scene.

He could hear Dean behind him, and taking five faster steps before he spun to confront the other, he had himself mostly under control until he saw the way Dean’s hand was twitching towards his back. “You aren’t going to need that knife, Dean. We just need to have a chat without causing a scene.” Grey snarled the words out, arms crossing across his chest as he stared down the taller man.

“Oh you mean like the scene you started out there?” Dean’s voice was sarcastic as he made no move to return his hands to his side, but also made no move to remove the knife itself as he seemed to be seizing Grey up in return.

“Trust me, if I wanted to cause a scene out there, I would have.” He snapped back in return, grinding one heel into the gravel from the utility space they were stood in. It was as good a place as any. Grey would have taken the hunter inside for the conversation, but Jo was in there and he trusted that Sam would be able to handle that half of the issue. His eyes flashed as he saw the hunter shift as if about to head back to the group and ignore the shadow; growling out the words he had heard from the other, dripping the words with acidic intent. “The sister you never had...”

Dean paused at that, eyes widening a little at hearing the words he’d just let out without a thought, before looking back at Grey. Grey could tell his mind was whirling over what that meant or what the point that the shadow was trying to make to him; and from the blank, unknowing look that covered the hunter’s face he figured the other had not worked out the significance yet.

“You told Charlie she was the sister you never had.”

“So?”

“You told Charlie that she was the sister you never had in front of Jo, you complete asshole.” Grey almost bit his tongue as he snarled the words out, hands clenched into tight fists where he had them against his ribcage as he stared down the hunter. Daring him to deny what he’d said, or deny that it would have meant anything.

Dean appeared to finally get it, eyes widening such that the bright green was fully visible as he appeared to look between the shadow and then the edge of the house back to the yard trying to make up his mind. “Oh shit, fuck, I didn’t..”

“Oh but you did. You fucking well did, Dean. And I won’t stand for you being rude and insensitive to Jo like that.”

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t saying anything about Jo-”

“You fucking know what you said, and how Jo, of all people, would take that comment.” Grey growled back at the hunter’s stammered and awkward denouncing, ripping his arms apart and sticking his fists into his pockets to refrain from throwing the hunter up against the wall and showing him just how much he wouldn’t approve of Dean hurting his Jo yet again. “I get that you might not have thought before you said it, but you’ve barely said six words to Jo all afternoon. You’ve barely even looked at her, and I know you are still not comfortable with me and her, but I won’t allow you to take that out on her any more.”

“That’s not true!” Dean spluttered in response, his hand withdrawing from going for his back but each hand clenched into corresponding fists as he glared across at Grey in return. “I have not been ignoring her-”

“Don’t try to deny it. I’ve seen it all day. I know she’s been smiling and happy, and her and Garth get along like a house on fire and Jody has been taking up a lot of her time; but you, Dean Winchester, have not even looked at her once. You didn’t even hug her hello.”

The brash bluff in the other appeared to deflate at that as the taller man seemed to realise there was some truth to what Grey was accusing him of, fists relaxing and running a hand across his hair as he looked back towards the corner of the building. “I..”

“Didn’t mean to, I’m aware. I’m sure even Jo is aware, but you have been disrespecting her all day and I will not stand for it.” Grey moved closer as he spoke until he was right up in the other’s space, glaring harshly up at him and trying to keep himself from getting even angrier as he thought it over. It was the first time he’d reacted like this around the other, and there was a small flare of pleasure when the hunter stumbled a step back and appeared to shrink a little under his stare. That was enough for now, enough of a recognition of understanding and conceeding to his point. “Now, you and I are going to go back to the table and continue like nothing happened here. And when your brother and Jo come outside again, you are going to apologise to her. Properly apologise. And I’ll let you know if I think it is acceptable, okay?”

He didn’t wait for the hunter to respond, just pushed past the other unnecessarially to go back to his seat and ask Garth about the hunt he and Sam had been talking about as if nothing had happened. Grey had noticed the curious looks from the three Ghostfacers, as well as the slight frown from Charlie when Dean rounded the corner but moved to stand on the small landing outside the back kitchen door rather than rejoining them at the table. If he hadn’t known better, Grey would have thought he was getting an approving look from the older hunters on either end of the table, but that was sure to just be wishful thinking on his end.

When Sam and Jo had emerged with two bowls of potato and pasta salad from inside, her face looking a little pinker than usual as if she’d been scrubbing at her eyes and cheeks, Dean laywaid them and piled both bowls on his brother before grabbing Jo’s arm and turning her back around to go back inside.

Sam slid into his spot beside Shada as he plopped both bowls down onto the table and wrapped a friendly arm around the shadow-girl’s shoulder as he leaned towards Grey across from her. “Hey, did you get your side sorted?”

“Yeah, all taken care of. Yours?”

“Should be okay when they get back out.” Sam’s tone was soft and gentle, and Grey definitely knew that he had a friend in the giant as they shared a knowing smile before starting their own meals again.

Grey wouldn’t be sure would be all okay until Jo returned and actually ate something, but it felt nice to have yet another friend to support him in the form of the youngest Winchester.

---

Three months later, something strange was happening.

They had all logged on as usual, and the chatter over the headsets was much as usual when they were missing Spruce for a round. That is to say, Shada was trying to flirt with Ed, Ed and Harry were babbling about their trip to Comic Con later in the year, and Charlie was trying to organise to meet up with them if their work schedules all happened to match up. The only unusual thing was that Garth had not spoken one word, nor had he done his typical greeting to the group as a whole even once - Grey was kind of missing the friendly twang when the hunter would sign of with a “Hey guys, ready to get these suckers Garthed”. Instead, he’d signed in and was silent.

“Hey so we’re doing assault/escort right?” Grey asked quietly at a lull in the conversation, fingers twitching on his controller as he considered whether to have a drink and wait it out or press the issue as he heard his sister’s giggle through both the headset and from her spot on the couch beside him. Looking out the side of his eye, he could see her twisting a section of her hair - one of those bright purple strands she’d started getting done - around a finger than made him groan. “Please, please guys can we get on with playing. We all good?”

There was a ding and in the corner of the screen, he saw Garth’s first message to the group pop up from the Discord channel - Ready when you are - which seemed so un-Garth.

What seemed even less Garth was as the group finally agreed and started the screen to select their roles that MrFizzles2000 selected Solider 76 immediately without any discussion before any of the other’s could pick their own characters.

“Garth, what the fuck man?” Ed’s voice sounded tinny in the headphones, but definitely reflected what everyone else must have been thinking at that choice. Not once had the hunter picked anyone but McCree or Ashe, not even once. “Since when you play Solider?”

Just shut up and lets play.

That was somehow even less Garth than the rest of it, and the group as a whole continued to fire questions out as they picked their characters. At least he’d chosen another offense heavy damage character so Harry could take the lead-tank role alongside Charlie rather than Ed for the first round as the coin flip had determined. Ed had shouted happily at that, selecting Reaper which would match up well alongside Harry’s Winston, Charlie’s Zarya, Shada’s Sombra and Garth’s inexplicable Soldier 76. Grey was, as always unless he was trying out Moira, Mercy and was actually secretly pleased for another healing person on the team for once.

The first round had somehow been a cake walk for them. Garth was insanely good at the new choice of character, and Grey had found himself suddenly getting a heal boost without having to run out of combat without even asking when Garth’s character would swing past. Charlie and Harry had worked in unison well to take the damage for the rest as they rushed their way to the payload, and even Shada’s almost constant singling couldn’t stop the jovial feeling that was spreading between the group as they wiped the floor with their opponents.

“Jesus, Garth, you need to play that one more often!” Harry cried out happily as they completed the mission quicker than they had before; and there was a sharp whistle of appreciation through the call as they all watched the five-head shot kills Play of The Game from the hunter that had decimated their opponents at just the right time. “Good going man!”

Thanks guys

It was such a small message and did ring true of the hunter’s modesty, so didn’t seem too out of place. But Grey couldn’t shake the feeling something was going on while he drank a sip of his water and chewed on a mouthful of M&Ms while they waited for the next round to load.

As they’d moved across Junkertown for the next assault, and Grey spotted the waning moon in the animated sky, he suddenly realised what it was. Letting out a laugh through the chat out of no where and getting a strange look from Shada as she had her character zipping about, humming that infuriating Britney Spears song under her breath while taking out three enemies at once with one of her EMP blasts, Grey shook his head at her.

He waited for just the right moment to do it, when he knew he’d get an automatic response from the hunter as his character was getting pinned by three enemies to avoid him getting to resurrect Charlie’s D.va as the fought to push back the opposing team from pushing their payload any further. “Ah shit, I need help up here.”

“On my way, hun.” The voice came over the call immediately before the Soldier appeared and drew the fire from the opponents for Grey to extract himself back to their teammate.

“Who the fuck is that?!” Ed and Harry both shouted in unison as they double teamed taking out the three tanks their opposition had chosen to use for the payload push, while Grey used resurrect on the D.va. “Who was that?”

“I thought you guys always wanted me to play.” The voice came again, honeyed sweet and Grey could imagine the smirk on her face as clear as day from where she was. He had only just remembered it was a full moon that night, and Jo always went to help Garth during those times, keeping him under lock, key and a watchfulish eye. It was the first one, full moon that was, that they’d all been around enough to play for; and clearly Garth hadn’t wanted them to cancel with two players out.

The choice in character made so much sense, and as he saw his health boosting again as Jo directed her character past him, Grey found himself smiling fondly as he realised just how lucky he was to have the life he had now as he moved into place to support his friends again.

---

#CA #greypov #cc

1 note · View note

wordshakerofgallifrey · 6 years

Note

“You’re not my type in the slightest, yet here I am, head over heels and I don’t understand it!”

*Sorting Hat voice* hmm… no pairing, interesting, very interesting… well the user seems to have a one-track mind, so… better be…. SPRACE.

just kidding :D

Jack and Kath featuring punk!Jack (with a cut because, as promised, it’s long)

Katherine didn’t know about the boy in her College Algebra class. The first few weeks of the semester, she warily avoided him, with his leather jacket, clunky black boots, and shock of purple hair styled in a mohawk.

She never tried to judge too harshly based on looks alone, but add all that to the permanent scowl that seemed to be on his face, and he seemed… dangerous.

So he sat in his corner, and she sat in her perfect not-quite-center-two-rows-from-the-front-seat.

That is, until one day, nearly two months into the semester, someone else was sitting in her perfect not-quite-center-two-rows-from-the-front-seat, and Katherine had to move to the back.

“Really,” she muttered, slamming her bag in a chair. “It’s halfway through the semester, you can’t just take my chair like that—”

“Well, good mornin’ ta you too, Red,” a thickly accented said on her right. “Ya in my seat.”

Katherine whirled around, banging her knee on the bottom of the table to see… shit, she never learned his name, did she? “I–what?”

“Ya sittin’ in m’seat.” he shrugged. “S’okay, I’ll sit next ta ya. Kid in front likes ta snore anyways, an’ no one sits next t’me.”

She stared at him as he sat in the empty space next to her. She thought about responding, knew she could at least thank him for letting her bum his seat when she’d just been complaining about the same thing.

But their professor entered the room then, calling for attention—even though he still had to turn on his computer and actually get his stuff ready for class, which would take another five minutes—and pass around the attendance sheet, so she didn’t say anything.

But Katherine did pay attention as the boy next to her scribbled his name with his left hand before passing it on to her, and she looked carefully over the list of names.

Jack Kelly.

***

It’d been another two weeks and Katherine still didn’t know about the boy—Jack Kelly—in her College Algebra class. After that first class she sat next to him, she… just kept sitting there.

Well, in the empty seat next to his, she wasn’t a seat-stealer like some people.

Sitting next to Jack Kelly was interesting. For all his tough looks and scowls and air of uncaring, Jack was…

A complete, total dork.

The second class she sat next to him, he spent the entire class doodling in his notebook. Katherine couldn’t make out what exactly he was drawing, but she thought she caught a glimpse of a cartoonish cat in the corner of his page.

The third class, he didn’t even pretend to listen to their professor, instead he watched Vine compilation after Vine compilation, doing his best not to crack up at “Uh, yeah, I sure hope it does.”

After their fourth class, she saw him walking through the quad, with another boy on his back, laughing at something he’d said.

By the fifth class, she actually talked to him.

“Aren’t you worried about not passing?” she asked him as he sat next to her.

“What? College Algebra?” Jack scoffed. “Pul’tzer, ‘m an art major. ‘Sides, I gotta couple’a buddies who’re act’ally good at this shit, they help me.”

Katherine furrowed her brow. “How—wait, you know my name?” He’d never referred to her as anything but Red since that first day.

He snorted, raking a hand through his fading purple hair. “Ya the dean’s daughter, ‘course I know who ya are.”

She flushed. Her father was the dean, famous for cutting arts funding. Of course Jack would know him.

Ignoring him in favor digging through her backpack for her pencil bag—Journalism major or no, she didn’t want to fail College Algebra—Katherine hid her surely-red face from him as he stuck an earbud in one studded ear and…

Where was her pencil bag?

“Shit,” she whispered, suddenly remembering exactly where it was.

Sitting on her stack of textbooks.

On her desk.

In her dorm.

“Shit.” Katherine dropped her head on her notebook. A moment later, something tapped her shoulder and she twisted her neck to see Jack holding out a pencil to her.

He shrugged as she stared at him. “Ain’t usin’ it anyways.”

“… Thanks, Jack.”

Winking at her, he turned back to his phone pull up Netflix. “Sure thing, Red.”

***

The seventh class, he wasn’t in attendance, and Katherine certainly did not spend the entire class, glancing over at his chair, to see what he was watching that day.

Nope.

Not her.

***

Eighth class, she missed in favor of lying face down on her bed with a heating pad over her stomach, trying to alleviate her cramps, definitely not wondering if he was checking her seat like she had the week before.

***

Ninth class was cancelled because their professor was sick, and Katherine spent the class time in the library, trying to stay on top of her reading for her Comp class, not thinking about—

“‘Ay, Red.”

Speak of the devil…

“Jack!” she said, surprised to see him. “Uh—hi!”

He slung his backpack off his shoulder, rifling through it a moment before pulling out a notebook. “Ya weren’t there last class, so I took notes f’r ya.”

Stunned, Katherine took a moment before replying. “You…?”

“Well, I tried,” Jack shrugged. “Then I showed it ta m’roomate—Crutchie—an’ Race—they’re the one’s good at math—an’ Racer said, ‘Kelly, these’re fuckin’ pitiful’ an’ then he an’ Crutchie fixed ‘em f’r me so ya got the right inf’rmation.”

“Th-Thanks, Jack.” He flipped to the page and slid the notebook towards her, and Katherine couldn’t help but feel touched. In the six classes she’d sat next him, she’d never seen him take a single note in class.

Still she offered. “I can give you my notes from the class you missed—”

Waving a hand, he dropped into the chair across from her. “Nah. Don’t need ‘em.”

“Well… thank you. For the notes,” Katherine clarified. “It won’t take me long, but if you need to go—”

“Nah, I’ll stick ‘round. Don’t got anywhere else to be. ‘Less ya uncomf’table wit’ me here…”

“No!” Katherine hoped she wasn’t blushing as she cut him off way too quickly. “No,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could. “I mean, you’re fine, it’ll take me fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe.”

Smirking at her, Jack pulled his phone from his pocket, earbuds wrapped around the paint-splattered case. “Whatever ya say, Red.”

He scrolled through his phone as she began copying his notes, written in two different handwritings, one surprisingly neat and one just a little nicer than Jack’s.

“I’m sorry, Crutchie and Race?” she couldn’t help but ask after a moment.

Jack laughed a bit, propping a foot up in the chair next to him. “We like nicknames.”

“Oh yeah? Do you have one?” she shot back.

He raised an eyebrow at her, smirking. “Copy ya notes, Red, an’ we’ll see if I tells ya.”

***

She stopped counting after that.

They started talking more than stilted pleasantries before and after class, walking to and from the classroom, exchanged numbers after the library—”In case ya miss again, Red”—and texted late into the night.

Katherine finally met the infamous Race and Crutchie, along with a whole group of rowdy, equally rough–looking boys, most of who she recognized from her various gen-ed classes.

It was something else, seeing him with his friends, especially Crutchie. His tough demeanor melted away and he was almost a completely different person, and she started seeing that side more and more.

Jack did his best to distract her during class, passing her notes or seeing how often he could mark on her arm before she noticed.

She just shrugged it off, only passed corrected notes back—his spelling was about as good as his speech and it showed—with a large smiley face underneath.

It was fun. It was comfortable. It–

It was nearly the end of the semester before she realized that she was falling for the boy in her Algebra class.

“Oh no.” Katherine said, out loud, as the realization hit her in the middle of shampooing her hair. “Oh noooo, this is not happening…”

Jack Kelly was not her type, he was rough and coarse and didn’t care a bit about his classes and… and caring and not nearly as tough as he appeared and a total dork and, and—

“No.”

Katherine didn’t returned his texts for the rest of the night, stayed locked in her dorm room, and slowly spiraled in her existential crises.

She did not like Jack Kelly.

The next Algebra class, she got there early and sat in her original, perfect not-quite-center-two-rows-from-the-front-seat and tried to ignore how she could feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of her head throughout the class.

The second their professor dismissed them, Katherine made a beeline for the door, hoping to beat him out the door.

Unluckily, she was stopped barely ten feet out the classroom by a determined Jack Kelly.

“Jack, I have to get to class—”

“Don’t gimme that, Pul’tzer, I know ya don’t got a class after this one.” His eyes were hard and confused. “What was that, ya not sittin’ by me t’day?”

She almost rolled her eyes, if only to get him to go away so she could make her escape. “Jack, you cannot seriously be upset that I didn’t next to you today.”

“I ain’t. I’m upset that ya ignored me an’ ya clearly tryin’ ta get away from me, so what the hell’s goin’ on, Kath’rine?”

Katherine set her jaw, ready to tell him off, but something in his face made her stop. She’d never seen that look on his face, something so open and… she refused to use the word vulnerable, not when Jack Kelly was concerned, not when he’d re-dyed his hair again, gotten another piercing in his left ear, but…

She couldn’t think of a better word.

Jack apparently took her silence as all the answer he needed, because he nodded curtly and started to pull away. “Yeah, okay that’s fine, whatever—”

“You’re not my type in the slightest, yet here I am, head over heels and I don’t understand it!” she finally burst out, cutting him off.

He stared at her a moment, agape, and Katherine felt her face go hot. This is what you get for opening your mouth without thinking, idiot.

She turned to leave, but Jack grasped her wrist and pulled her back towards him.

“‘Bout damn time, Red,” he muttered, pausing a moment to make sure she wasn’t pulling away, before kissing her.

***

By their last College Algebra class, Katherine still wasn’t completely sure about the boy who sat to her left.

But she couldn’t wait to find out the rest.

#long drabble #thanks claire!!#hope you like!!#jack kelly #katherine pulitzer #newsies #newsies drabble #disney writes stuff #this got way longer than i expected #enjoy! :D

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emmaswanchoosesyou · 6 years

Text

CSBB: Part of the Narrative (11/17)

Emma Swan just wants to write the follow-up to her bestselling debut novel, that’s all. But when she gets off to a rough start with her new editor, Killian Jones, she knows it’s not going according to plan. Then, an unexpected figure from Emma’s past reappears and life begins to mirror the crime thriller she’s penning. Suspicion and secrets abound–but love might too. A writer/editor AU with a thriller twist.

Rated E. Includes sexual content, kidnapping, some gore, mild violence, and minor character death–not to mention salty language! On Ao3 here.

Chapter warnings: Confrontations, one main character striking another, corporate espionage.

THINGS ARE HAPPENING, FRIENDS. So thank you so much to all of you who have been reading and commenting and waiting for things to get here, and to all of you who helped me get here. Thank you to all the wonderful ladies at @captainswanbigbang for all you’ve done to make this possible, and all the support you’ve given. Sophie @shady-swan-jones made the delightful banner and another photoset that I adore. Kayla @bleebug did some incredible art for the first and sixth chapters, which you can check out here and here. And all the love and thanks to Kris @sambethe for beta-ing this and making it a ton better. Like seriously, she’s the best.

[Ch. 1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]

Chapter 11

Emma goes to Killian, and he has to deal with the fall-out of her discovering his subterfuge. That's not the only thing that goes pear-shaped in his life as things heat up at Mills & Booth.

Killian

Killian hadn't precisely slept well the night before, but it hadn't been the worst night's sleep. He and Emma had argued, but he was willing to chalk it up to strong personalities and the adjustment period that tended to happen early in relationships.

He'd been restless all day as a result, and trying not to sit beside his phone and wait for a text or call from her. He was convinced, though, that she'd call as soon as he walked away from the infernal thing.

But morning had come and gone, as had the afternoon. It was early in the evening by the time he finally accepted he'd have to do something to feed his growling stomach, and that he and Emma likely wouldn't be making up just yet.

Maybe she just needed a little more time to cool off.

Killian had always run hot and his anger turned to grudges, but it didn't seem like Emma was the type to hold onto grievances. Especially, the petty part of him insisted, when he was right and that she was behaving a little irrationally and blowing things out of proportion. He shushed that small voice, looking in his cupboards for something he could throw together for dinner.

He found the necessary items for his favorite recipe of pasta primavera, knowing the act of preparing a meal would provide some solace and a much-needed distraction. He wanted to pour himself a generous snifter of rum, but he was still holding onto hope that Emma might call and they could put their disagreement behind them. Then there could be pasta, kisses, and maybe even shagging.

He had just pulled the pasta off the range and was grating Parmesan when a knock came at the door. His heart leapt when he saw Emma through the peephole. Killian opened the door, trying to temper the wide smile on his face.

"Swan, I'm so glad to see you. Come on i--"

She cut him off abruptly with a stinging slap to his cheek.

Well, that answered the question of whether she was willing to put their tiff behind them.

"Love, stop," he said, grabbing her wrist and halting another strike. "What happened? I'm sorry we disagreed, but it's hardly a reason to turn violent."

He was flummoxed by this sudden turn from her coldness the night before. The ice had clearly melted off, leaving behind a molten rage that was clear in her eyes and the way she was very nearly shaking.

Emma twisted her wrist from his grasp, and he dropped his hold on her and stepped back. She walked inside and he took the opportunity to close the door, not wanting his neighbors to use their fight as the evening's entertainment.

Standing a good five feet away from him, Emma finally broke her stony silence. "You were spying on me? What the hell, Killian? For August? What the actual fuck?"

The color draining from Killian’s face and his stomach dropped to his feet. No, more like below his feet. If it were possible, his stomach felt as though it had dropped through the earth's many layers and into hell.

He certainly wasn't hungry anymore.

"I--wha--how did you find out?" he asked, realizing there was no reason to continue to lie, that it wouldn't help him at all anymore. Not that it ever would have, he knew.

"That's really what you want to know? How I found out?" She was glowing, nay, vibrating with rage. She was still achingly, heartbreakingly beautiful, with her eyes flashing and her expression fierce. He wanted to hold her, to pull her close and bring her comfort, but when he reached out to touch her shoulder, she pushed his hand away. Not with the force with which she'd slapped him earlier, but it certainly wasn't gentle.

He sighed. "I suppose that's not what matters now. I am sorry, though, I want you to know. I quit, I told August before our first date that I wouldn't continue to spy on you."

He watched as she stepped back and crossed her arms. "Just...why? Why would you do that? Betray my trust like that?" Her voice broke, and so did his heart with it.

"I...it was selfish, and wrong. I was trying to get away from a bad situation in London, and August offered me an out in exchange for my work and information on you. I didn't ask why, and he never volunteered a reason."

Her eyes welled with tears, and he fought away some of his own. She didn't speak, so he continued. "I stopped early on. I--I didn't count on you, Emma, when I agreed. You should know that. You swept through my life. You captivated me, mind, soul, and heart. I wouldn't--I can't begin to convey how sorry I am, but I also promise that I'd never hurt you or betray you again."

"Too late," she said, her voice rough, harsh. "I--I can't trust you anymore. You lied to me, and that--that's it for me."

“What are you saying, love?” His voice was more frantic than he was proud of, and he cringed at the sound of it.

“You don't get to call me that anymore. We--we’re done, Killian.”

“Emma, please--” He pleaded with her and moved toward her, stopping just short of reaching for her.

“No. Don't...just stop. We still have to work together, so I'll be professional. But I don't want you to talk to me about anything outside of work,” she said, her shoulders slumped. She sounded resigned, defeated.

And he felt utterly deflated.

Killian didn't reply to her soft “goodbye” as she walked out of his flat, out of his life.

&&&

He sobered himself up enough to attend work that week, but he moved about in a fog for a full five days after Emma broke up with him. Each night, he drowned his sorrows in rum, trying to numb the pain that his cock-ups, and her resulting departure, had caused. He got one brief email from her with a couple notes about an upcoming chapter, but he couldn’t even bring himself to respond.

Finally, on Thursday, Robin called him. He sounded tentative as he asked, “Hey mate, your text sounded a bit off. Want to grab a pint?”

Killian didn’t remember texting Robin, but he quickly scrolled through his recent texts. He winced, seeing the numerous errors and misspellings. “Yeah, I could go for a pint. Rough week, you know.”

“Aye. Cornwall’s?”

“I can swing that.”

“There aren’t usually too many tourists on Thursdays, so we should be fine,” Robin said.

Killian managed a small smile and joked, “You don’t think we count?”

Robin laughed and Killian continued, “I’ll see you there at eight or so, if that gives you time to find a sitter for Roland.”

“It’s not an issue--I’ve a friend who looks after him while I work, and he was already planning on taking him for the night.”

“I’m not messing with plans or anything, am I?” asked Killian.

Robin laughed. “No, I originally had a date, but I cancelled. She made some comment about puppies that seemed rather...off. So, for the record, you’re a rather large project that came up at work.”

Later that evening as they slowly drank their pints of ale, Killian found himself amused in spite of his continued glumness. Robin was animatedly recounting the story of one of his arrests from last week and the hijinks that had ensued as he and his partner had tried to track him down. The evening was almost enough to make him forget the ache in his chest, the hole left by Emma.

Eventually, though, Robin grew serious. “Now, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, but...are you all right?”

Killian stared down into the amber liquid in his glass, swirling it around. “Well enough, I suppose, for having just been chucked by the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

“This is your writer lass? The famous one?” he asked, sitting up and listening intently.

“Aye,” Killian said, nodding. “She’s the first woman since Milah who I really connected with, and I fucked it up.”

“Oh, how so?”

Killian hesitated a moment, realizing his friend was in fact law enforcement. Then he realized how much he needed to get it off his chest, how much he needed to tell someone. Somehow, over the last couple months, Emma had become so much more than a love interest--she’d become his closest friend, the person he chatted with about everything. And now he didn’t have that, couldn’t tell her about the weird ship in a bottle he saw or listen to her laugh about what one of the regulars at Granny’s Diner had done.

So he warned Robin that some of his behavior might not have been strictly legal. When he reassured him that as long as no one was being physically hurt it would stay between them, Killian told him the whole sordid tale, from the first time August contacted him to the alcohol-fueled stupor of the previous few days.

“Shit,” said Robin when Killian had finished. “That’s…”

“A disaster?”

“To put it mildly.”

Killian sighed.

As soon as he ordered them another pint (the final one, Robin insisted), he said, “Well, if you need a listening ear or any such rot, I’m here. D’you think there’s a chance Emma could give you another shot?”

“Doubtful, mate.”

&&&

On Monday morning he strolled into the office miraculously free of a hangover. Since his chat with Robin, he’d worked on cutting back on his drinking. Not eliminating it entirely, but he made a marked improvement over the previous week’s constant queasiness and malaise.

He settled into the chair behind his desk, intent on picking up on the work he'd slacked on last week. God, but he'd been a wreck. Today, he promised himself, he would accomplish things. Maybe even get to Emma's chapter, if he could work up the nerve.

He had opened his email and was looking over some of the other projects that had crossed his desk when he heard a knock at the door. He yelled out, "Come on in!"

Killian was surprised to see Ariel, and a rather frantic-looking Ariel at that. Her eyes were wide as she stumbled into the room, arms flailing. He didn't know the lass terribly well, but she seemed like the calm and cheerful sort. He had yet to see her looking harried, or entering his office. Today appeared to be the exception.

"Uh, Killian? I mean, Mr. Jones?"

"Killian is fine, Ariel," he said, frowning at her obvious discomfort and worry. "What seems to be the problem?"

She bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth. "Well, I just got a letter from the, uh, Immigration Services about your work visa. It says they found that a bunch of things are out of compliance and that, uh, you need to stop working for wages immediately, return what you've earned, and that they'll be launching an investigation. And maybe deporting , you," she finished with a squeak.

Shit fucking damn.

This was...beyond bad. This was catastrophic. He had to admit, he hadn't paid much attention to the particulars of his visa, had let August--

August.

August had to be the one responsible for this. He had initially arranged the visa and Killian's immigration, had sped it along with his contact. And he had been the one disappointed when Killian stopped providing him information about Emma.

Well, it clearly hadn't taken him too long to undo the permissions he'd obtained for Killian. (God, had it even been on the up-and-up to begin with?)

He was reeling, nearly hyperventilating when he sucked in a long breath. Realizing he hadn't actually replied to Ariel, he tried to find the words. Coming up blank, dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

He felt a light pat on his shoulder and glanced up to find Ariel attempting to provide him with the awkward solace she felt capable of. He also caught sight of a glass of water, which he downed in one gulp. "Thank you, Ariel."

"Are...are you going to be okay?"

He shrugged and sighed. "I don't know, do I? But I should leave today, shouldn't I? I don't want to endanger anything or cause problems for anyone."

She twisted her hands together, clearly concerned. "Well, I'd talk to Cleo. She handles a lot of HR stuff and has some contacts of her own, so that might be the best route."

"Erm, I'm not sure she's all that fond of me," he replied.

"I don't think that will matter to her if she feels like you're a worthy cause," Ariel said, nodding and exiting his office.

Well, then.

&&&

Fuck, he was nervous. He wasn't sure what it was about Cleo, but something put him on the defensive and reminded him of the nuns at the Catholic school he'd attended as a wee lad, strict and disapproving of whatever she thought he was up to. (Truthfully, though, he hadn't been all that mischievous as a boy, not unless it involved Liam or one of the other boys insulting someone in his family.)

But here he stood, next to Cleo's open office door, hoping she wouldn't notice him dithering about in the hallway deciding whether or not to go in.

"Mr. Jones? Why are you still standing outside? Come in here and close the door," he heard in Cleo's authoritative, strong voice.

Ah well, no such luck then. He followed her bidding, entering the room quickly and closing the door behind him before sitting in the chair across from her.

How different this was from their first interview--he couldn't summon any of his trademark charm (smarm, an internal voice sounding suspiciously like Emma’s said) to hide behind. He didn't have the promise of so much as a flirtation with Emma to look forward to. Instead, all he had was an official-looking document telling him to stop working and threatening him with deportation. He had to say, the trade-off was not ideal.

"Well?" she said, an eyebrow raised rather imperiously.

Wordlessly, he handed her the letter Ariel had given him. He watched an array of emotions dance across her face as she read it--surprise, shock, dismay, something that looked a little like guilt, and finally, determination.

"Shit, Jones," she said.

He nodded in agreement. "I couldn't sum it up better myself."

"So...why bring this to me?" She tossed the letter onto her desk between them and crossed her arms as she stared at him expectantly.

"Ariel brought me this rather ghastly piece of communication and stopped me before I left. She said you're occasionally good at handling tricky situations like this," he said.

"You're looking for a quick fix, then?"

He shook his head. "As lovely as that would be, I'd be happy with an explanation and maybe a couple of possibilities about what I can do now."

Grudging respect was how he'd later describe the look on her face. She looked at him for nearly a full minute, seeming to weighing and considering him. He didn't look away from her. Finally, her face cleared and she nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever she'd found in their stare-down. "Honestly,” she said, “I'm not entirely sure what has happened to bring this about, but do you mind telling me a little about your perception of the situation?"

Killian gave her his rundown of the previous months, from August contacting him to how quickly he'd gotten leave to come over to Boston. He briefly mentioned that they'd had a falling-out, and that while it was not exactly personal, it wasn't entirely professional either.

Cleo listened impassively. "I know a lawyer who works in immigration, and she could probably help you get a stay on this, if that's what you want. It's not a permanent fix, but that'll probably take a while. We should also talk to Regina, she will want to know what’s happened and there might be something she can do to help. In the meantime, where are you in your projects?"

He offered her a grateful smile, feeling the tension in his shoulders dissipate some. "Well, my largest project is obviously editing Emma's new book. She's made some excellent progress, but we may have also had a row. And a complete end to our...more personal communication, actually."

That furtive, guilty look appeared again on Cleo’s face. "I might have heard something about that. I'll see what we can do, if you all decide you want to continue to work together professionally. We could probably get you a tourist visa and make you a contractor..."

He nodded at her, willing to follow any of her suggestions. She might intimidate the hell out of him, but there was something trustworthy and knowledgeable about her. "Whatever you think will work. And Cleo?"

"Hmm?" She was lost in thought, typing notes out quickly.

He smiled, a tiny shred of hope blooming in his chest. "Thank you."

&&&

He'd gone home at the end of his meeting with Cleo, called Robin, and started looking into his options for an attorney. Robin had been at work, but he'd offered his support, even if he couldn't do much. "Don't worry, mate, I won't arrest you...and fine, I'll see what I can do in terms of helping you out."

It was a couple more days before he received a summons from Regina. She wanted to meet with him along with August and Cleo. Cleo had texted him after he received the calendar request, told him he really had no way of proving August's involvement without making his life much more difficult, so they’d have to find another approach.

And he knew she had a point. So he went in for the meeting, on his guard and having absolutely zero clue about what to expect.

You could have knocked him over with a feather when he entered Regina's office to find her at her desk, with Cleo and August sitting together with Emma. Regina waved him in and Killian joined them on the couch.

"Er, hello," he said with a brief nod.

Regina rolled her eyes. "This isn't Alcoholic's Anonymous, Mr. Jones. Now that we're all here, we can discuss how to proceed with this immigration dilemma you've found yourself in."

A retort was hot on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back, especially when he saw the smug look on August's face and the cautionary one on Cleo's. Emma looked blank, uninterested. Her presence both bolstered him up and was like a vise squeezing his heart. She was so close, but she'd never seemed farther away.

He simply nodded again. "Well, shall we begin, then?"

A business-like façade fell over Regina's face again. "Indeed. So, thanks to Cleo, it looks like we were able to get a stay of proceedings that would lead to your deportation while officials look over your documents and figure out if everything has been done properly," she said, nodding at Cleo.

Killian was extremely gratified to see the smirk fall off August's face. Emma looked up, clearly surprised.

Cleo just gave one single nod. "Yep. There's been a stay of that, and we got you a tourist visa. So, officially you're just here visiting, and we were able to get that to start from the date of issuance, fortunately, instead of it being retroactive. So we have about six months to figure this out."

"...but things do tend to move slowly when in comes to customs and immigration," Regina interjected, "so I'd like to get started today."

"First, I think we should really take a look at why Killian is here, and what he brings to the table," August said. "It might be easier to help you find a job back in the UK and just go with an American editor, or at least someone whose papers are in order."

"No!" Everyone turned, surprised to find Emma was the one to respond so vehemently.

Killian was honestly just surprised Emma had spoken at all, let alone in defense of him.

He tried very hard not to read into it.

Emma clenched her jaw and stared down everyone but him, her gaze lingering on August. "No. Killian isn't replaceable. He's been a great editor, and his help and input have been invaluable. Changing editors at this juncture would have a very negative effect on the quality of my book, which I think we can all agree would be a bad thing."

"Are you sure you're not allowing your personal attachments to cloud your judgment, Miss Swan?" asked Regina.

"I am," she said levelly, "given that we've ended our personal association."

Surprise shone in Regina's eyes, and then respect. "Very well. So we can all agree that Mr. Jones is important for this novel--"

"--but we need to figure out whether his work on other projects is up to par. Otherwise, why bother with anything other than telecommuting?"

Killian could swear he saw every woman in the room roll their eyes.

"Thank you for your interruption, Mr. Booth, and we'll take your input into account. I am rather curious as to why you suddenly seem so keen on shipping Mr. Jones back to London, when you're the one who advocated for bringing him on," said Regina with a sardonic lift of an eyebrow.

August had the decency to looked a little embarrassed, but he recovered quickly. "I'm just trying to do what's best for Mills & Booth, and that includes maintaining a team that can work smoothly together. Is that really happening?"

"Yes," Emma said fiercely, lying through the skin of her teeth.

Killian shot her a grateful look, which she acknowledged with a slight dip of her head. "Now that we've all established that we're professional adults, can we get on with some of the practicalities of the issue?" he asked.

Cleo snorted. "Agreed," she said.

Regina's mouth twisted into a smile. "That does seem to be the most efficient use of our time."

If August was bothered by this turn of events, he didn't show it. In fact, he looked beyond pleased, especially when the door to Regina's office burst open.

Even Regina looked shocked to see Cora Mills striding through the door, Ariel trailing behind her muttering her objections to the intrusion.

Cora Mills. She was a legend within the publishing world, having married the heir of a small publishing house and turning it into the juggernaut that was Royal Hearts publishing. It was primarily known for romance novels, but its forays into literary fiction were well-respected. She couldn't seem to step a foot wrong when it came to books, and most authors would kill for a chance to meet her.

She was also Regina's mother.

Killian wasn't entirely sure when the schism between the Mills women had happened, but it was common knowledge within the publishing world that they didn't get along. Regina had started her own competing publishing house, after all.

There was a long, tense silence before Cora finally spoke. "Hello, Regina. Your office is lovely, even if this is quite the collection of...professionals in it. Between the one in trouble with Immigration, the glorified beat cop, and the felon, I'm actually impressed Mills & Booth hasn't imploded already."

Emma moved quickly, but Killian was able to stop her before she took a swing at Cora Mills.

"I'd expect nothing less from an orphan of unknown parentage with a rap sheet," Cora sneered, brushing at her clothes where Emma had come close to grazing her.

At that point, Cleo had to hold back both him and Emma.

Regina stood and made her way over to the center of the room, her face grim and mouth in a line. "Mother, what do you want? Or did you just come here to insult me and mine?"

"No, I came here with a proposition."

"Ah," Regina said, giving nothing away.

"Regina--and August--you both know very well I have plenty of contacts that could help fix Mr. Jones' little tiff with the authorities. And I'd gladly help promote Miss Swan's novel, if that's something you think is a worthy cause," she said.

Regina's mouth tightened. "But what do get out of it? I've never known you to do a damn thing for free."

Cora's eyes gleamed. "I don't want anything but time with you, Regina. I've loathed being so cut off from my only child."

She snorted. "How sentimental of you, and it might be more believable if I hadn't just seen a plan Mr. Booth drew up granting you shares in Mills & Booth."

There was an audible gasp that came from either Emma or himself, he wasn't sure.

Cora's face twisted briefly before melting into a look of motherly concern. "That's just because I know how much an investment could help, and I'd get to see so much more of you."

Uncertainty crossed her face, but Regina crossed her arms. "Get out," she said. "And if you would kindly refrain from insulting my colleagues or bullying my assistant while you're on your way out, I'd appreciate it."

Cora schooled her features and nodded imperiously. "Very well. But just know your mother is here for you whenever you need me," she said.

She swept out, and silence reigned.

Finally, Regina cleared her throat. "Well, if that's done, can we just agree that we'll work on figuring out Mr. Jones' visa situation, while hiring him as a contractor to work exclusively on Miss Swan's project for now?"

Cleo, Emma, and Killian all nodded, none of them missing the distrustful glare Regina directed at August.

#cs ff #csbb #captain swan #cs au #cs mc ff #part of the narrative #amber writes #things are happening #dun dun dun

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seriouslyhooked · 6 years

Text

Some Call It Magic (A CS AU) art 16/?

When Killian Jones moves to Storybrooke he instantly senses something strange about this little town in Maine but he’s willing to overlook all the bizarre signs for one reason: the single Mum living next door to him. There’s only one problem. Killian is nearly positive she’s a witch, a brewing potions and casting spells witch. But when true love is involved, does a little thing like magical powers really matter? Story rated M.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9,Part 10,Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15. Also On FF Here.

A/N: Hey all! So after an age and a day I am back with an update of ‘Some Call It Magic,’ and I could not be more excited. Just to warn you though, this chapter is going to be noticeably shorter than some past ones have been (think of it more as a half chapter) because I vastly underestimated just how little time I would have to write in this program. Nevertheless I couldn’t pass up the chance to write some solid Christmas fluff post-engagement for CS and the whole gang in this story. Let me know what you all think, and as always thanks for reading!

The funny thing about being in love was that time seemed to fly so much faster. For years Emma felt that way, constantly musing about how Henry was growing at far too fast a pace, but this was all together different. It was like she blinked and suddenly it was Christmas Eve. Two weeks had come and gone since that lovely night when Killian proposed to her, but the days were slipping by so quickly and Emma could do nothing to slow it down. She was just along for the ride now, and despite how fast it was going, she had no regrets at all, not when each day she got to be with her kid and the man that she loved, taking the world on together.

It also didn’t hurt that Emma was engaged to a man who brought thoughtful to the next level. Killian was so tuned in and always anticipating what might come next. The effect was a noticeable difference in Emma’s quality of life. There was so much less stress, so many fewer burdens, and so many more smiles than there had been before. This was what true happiness felt like, and right at this moment it was made even more tantalizing by the fact that she and Killian were tucked away upstairs, lost in each other while the world went on without them downstairs.

Sneaking small spells of time away from the fray of the festivities was hardly a new thing for Emma and Killian. In truth, they always managed to find some time together no matter what the situation. Even on the most hectic of days, in the most chaotic of celebrations, a moment always came, and then usually another and another. Honestly Killian was really good at finding those quiet interludes, and Emma was pretty much helpless to do anything but soak them all in, lingering in the perfect little blips of bliss as long as she could.

And what bliss it was, being here, wrapped up in his arms, tasting him and the spike of that eggnog that he’d sipped only moments ago at the party downstairs. It was heady embrace; a rush fueled all the more by roaming hands, a heated hold, and the breathlessness of needing him and needing more. One second Emma had been stable and content, and the next she was revved up and keenly aware that this man was the key to so much pleasure and joy in her life. Killian was his own kind of magic, and Emma loved him for that more than she could say.

One touch was enough to spark that ever-present need, and in a flash Emma wanted to partake in all that they could share between them now given their location in the corner of their bedroom just inches away from that big, comfortable bed. But Emma was torn. Her baser urges told her to keep going and never stop until they were both sated and satisfied, but her heart told her patience was key. No matter how hard it might be to muster it in the haze of this kiss, she needed to summon the will power to wait so as not to miss any part of this perfect Christmas. Killian was a constant now, a part of her life that wasn’t going anywhere, and she could be patient for the pay off later as long as she remembered that.

“Killian,” Emma sighed before getting distracted as his kisses moved down to her neck, finding that spot that made her almost dizzy just below her ear. Her system was already wired in the direction of full blown lusting, but now her veins pulsed with added heat and she knew that Killian was fully aware of the total command he had over her body.

“Aye, love?” he asked, grinning against her skin as he did and making Emma’s heart thrum a little faster with his self assured charm.

“We have guests, remember?” she croaked out, sounding like she’d been through the ringer thanks to all the sensations Killian was causing right now.

“Oh I remember,” Killian acquiesced as he came back up to look at her, brushing her hair behind her ear as he took her in, tracing her every feature with this brilliant blue eyes of his. “But I’m only so strong, Swan, and you knew that the moment you chose this particular dress.”

Emma smirked at that, knowing that he wasn’t wrong. She had been a little bit wicked in selecting the crimson red getup this evening, and she’d even gone so far as to hold off on changing until right before people made their way here just to have that all too satisfactory moment of watching Killian’s reaction. One moment he’d been with Henry arranging the last of the tinsel on the tree, and the next he was staring at her with a look caught between hunger and complete awe. It took everything in her not to blush at that longing stare, but she was no doubt rosy cheeked now as Killian continued to run his hands along her body in that electrifying way he was so good at.

“I didn’t think twice when you said you’d change at the last minute. I assumed this was another of your brilliant insights: preserving the formalwear from a misplaced meatball or a runaway bit of ham,” Killian said, making Emma laugh at his strange turns of phrase about dirtying an outfit. “But the second you came down those stairs I realized there was a very different intent at play in that beautiful brain of yours, Swan.”

“You know some men would consider this a pretty decent present from their fiancé,” Emma whispered and Killian growled low at that, the sound bringing goose bumps to Emma’s skin as she shivered and bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“Aye, and I promise you I am even more susceptible to your gorgeous figure than all the rest, love. But the point of presents is to unwrap them…”

“This is one of those presents you have to wait to open,” Emma said with a bit of breathiness in her tone that stood out with stark contrast from the guttural sound that slipped past Killian’s lips as he kissed her again, distracting her fully from any type of resistance at all. Only when he pulled back and rested his forehead against hers did Emma stop to catch her breath or remember that they had other things to do.

“Just as long as I’m the one doing that unwrapping,” Killian said and Emma shook her head as she laughed, promising this man who she loved that he was indeed the only one who had that privilege, and also that he was the only man who had her heart.

A few minutes later they made their way back downstairs, and the party was just as it had been, filled with all of their friends, their family, and the laughter and joy that made this time of year special. For years Emma dreamed of Christmases like this, and now she could say she was enjoying her best one yet. There was nothing she could wish for, nothing missing from this charmed kind of life she was living, and in her heart there was only an unyielding sense that she was finally where she’d dreamed of being for so long.

Emma wasn’t alone in experiencing that joy either. It was clear to see on the faces of every person here tonight that this was a happy occasion, and that didn’t just extend to people who called Storybrooke home. For tonight they had a special guest, a long time friend of Killian’s named Will Scarlett who had taken the bus in all the way from New York to enjoy the holiday with Killian. It was a tradition for them, it seemed, with Liam being away so often and Killian having no other family to speak of, and as soon as Emma heard that she had done everything she could to make sure Will would be here and a part of this special night.

“And here I was worrying that my mate might have a rough go of it,” Killian said at one point, whispering the observation in Emma’s ear as they spied on Will across the dining room where he was currently talking to Belle with a look in his eyes that he was thoroughly and completely bewitched.

“Didn’t think he could handle Storybrooke after all those years in the big bad city?” Emma joked and Killian turned his gaze to her and raised a brow as he replied.

“You joke, love, but the man is rather set in his ways. I once heard Will say he would rather be cast into the dark void of space than ‘rough it’ in the country.”

Emma laughed at that, easily believing that Will would be capable of such an over-the-top statement. She had only known him a short time, but the personality he brought with him was loud and readily on display even as it was pleasing. It was also apparent from the very first second that Will had turned up in town that he and Killian were truly good friends. Their teasing and their jokes were dry, but there was a love there and an almost brotherhood that Emma could sense from the start.

“Technically this is the coast and not really the country per se,” Emma offered, as she looked back at Will and Belle, delighting in the fact that the interest on display wasn’t one sided. Will Scarlet might be a little more obvious in his initial affection, but Emma knew her friend well and that shy smile and the bit of air in Belle’s voice was a dead giveaway that she was interested too.

“Perhaps, Swan, though I think we both know it doesn’t matter where you are. When you find the right person, things find a way of working out.”

Emma agreed with that whole heartedly, and she went to kiss Killian as a show of that agreement when their tiny bit of quiet was intruded on once more.

“You know how much I hate to break you two love birds up,” Ruby said by way of introduction to the conversation, pulling an eye roll from Emma even as she smiled. “But I think the current situation calls for some commentary, I mean, Killian where have you been hiding this guy? We had to wait for Christmas to get Belle matched up? That hardly seems fair.”

“My apologies, Ruby. I would have had him here sooner, but how was I to know the key to Storybrooke’s matchmaking woes was me all this time?”

Killian’s joke had Emma laughing hard. She had to hand it to him, Killian could always hold his own even with Ruby, and Emma could see from the spark in Ruby’s eyes that she was amused too even as she huffed out a breath and leaned back into Graham who watched her with nothing but amusement.

“Well that should have been obvious. I mean you managed to woo the most cynical among us. If you could do that, you can do anything,” Ruby said jokingly.

“She does have a point,” Emma whispered and Killian grinned and pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

“Oh who cares how it happened?” Mary Margaret exclaimed with a dreamy sigh and happy tears in her eyes as she held tight to David’s hand. “I’m just glad it finally did. The last one of us found their love.”

“Okay, I’m sorry to cut in like this, but it’s been all of an hour. You really think he’s the one after so little time? How can you possibly know that?” Kristoff asked as Anna wacked at her husband’s arm, like he was the crazy one to question instantly falling in love. Emma couldn’t blame her either, especially after the way Kristoff had been so obvious about his crush on Anna from the very first moment they met.

“That’s how it happens in this group, mate,” Killian responded with a chuckle. “Or so I’ve been told. Then again perhaps Dave was just trying to make me feel better about my own swift fall.”

“Nope, he was right,” Elsa pronounced with a giggle as Liam pulled her back into her, murmuring his own words of love to her like it was the most natural thing in the world. “That’s just how we are.”

“All things considered I think it’s a good way to be,” Emma said resolutely, and they all agreed, nodding together before looking back at the couple before them who were completely oblivious that they were the subject of study for the entire party. Yet that quiet, thoughtful moment broke at the sound of Henry’s voice.

“Uh oh, we’ve got trouble.”

The words from her son, who had popped up just beside them all, pulled Emma out of her thoughts about how great things were progressing for Will and Belle, but when Emma’s eyes followed Henry’s line of sight, the problem before them clicked. It seemed that with this newfound spark there were some magical implications, and above Will and Belle right now there was a whole bushel of mistletoe appearing where none had been at all. It was also growing and growing at a rate that couldn’t be explained away by anything, meaning that Will would notice and have questions as the sole person in the house right now who didn’t know of magic.

“Not for long,” Mary Margaret said, rolling up the sleeves of her blue sweater dress with purpose. “Ruby?”

“Right behind you boss,” Emma’s friend said before walking across the way with Mary Margaret to handle the situation. The two of them were fantastic too, thoroughly distracting Will and Belle from the outburst while getting in and out of there so quickly that there wasn’t even a real interruption to the connection being formed. Instead Belle and Will managed to stay like that, chatting away and learning the tiny details of each other until the dinner was ready and everyone congregated around the big table set with the traditional fare.

Dinner was amazing, as Emma had come to expect all their holiday gatherings would be this year, and more than once she felt herself thanking whatever forces in the Universe had made this possible. Be it magic, or fate, or anything else, Emma was grateful that this was her life, that these were her friends, and that her family was together making new memories and reminiscing on the old. She was so pleased, in fact, that she didn’t even mind when the dinner ended and Elsa and Anna pulled their usual routine of begging and pleading with the others to sing Christmas carols together. In the past, Emma had hesitated, but this year she didn’t fight it. She sang the songs and kept on smiling all the while, until someone pointed out that a whole Christmas Eve had largely come and gone and there was no cocoa to be found. In the Swan household this was basically sacrilege, and as soon as Emma was reminded she popped up from her spot on the couch with Killian and Henry and went in search of their last missing piece of the evening. There was only one problem: it appeared that all of the cocoa in the house was completely gone, and even her back ups, and the back ups of her back ups had all run dry over the course of the past few weeks.

“I don’t understand how this could have happened,” Emma said, her brow furrowing as she ran through her mind how she could have been so foolish. Cocoa was practically her life source at this point, and here she was on the day when she could finally get everyone to partake with her and she was running low. It was a massive oversight and the first risk this night had in not turning out as wonderfully as she wanted it to for her kid. By this time all the stores would be closed, and Emma began to wonder if maybe her luck had run out for the day.

“Not to worry, Swan. I’ve reinforcements next door. Easily enough to handle the crew we have gathered here. Dave and I will go procure it and no one will go wanting.”

Emma smiled at Killian, feeling that wave of relief he was so talented at bestowing as his words washed over her. She pulled him close and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, conscious of the fact that there were people all around, including her son, but knowing she couldn’t resist just the smallest show of thanks.

“I love you,” Emma whispered and Killian’s eyes went molten, warming through and spreading all that warmth through her as well.

“And I you, Emma,” he promised before turning towards David and nodding towards his house, departing to go save the day and bring back chocolatey goodness no one should go without during this time of year.

“I did pretty good, didn’t I?” Henry asked from across the kitchen, drawing Emma’s attention back to the room where now only she, Liam, and Henry remained. Liam laughed in surprise at Henry’s decree, his brow rising in a way that reminded Emma immediately of Killian.

“Ah this was your doing, was it Henry? You’re the orchestrator of this love story?”

“Well sure. They never would have gotten together if not for me,” Henry said sounding so convinced Emma couldn’t understand it. Maybe he really thought that rescuing Luna had set this all in motion, and it did, but there felt like there was more to the story, and more driving her son to feel so confident and self-impressed.

“I don’t know about that, kid,” Emma said as she put her hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I like to think that I would have opened up. You know… eventually.”

“Sure you would have, but I got him here, and if Killian never came to Storybrooke then none of this would have happened.” Henry said causing only more confusion. Got him here? How had Henry possibly gotten Killian here?

“Henry, what are you saying?” Emma asked and Henry smiled, offering the intricate and wholly unexpected story to Emma without any thought of consequence.

The tale that came forth over the next few minutes stunned and astounded Emma. From what she understood Henry was in fact right. He was the reason Killian was here. A dream Henry had one night had started it all, setting a whole relationship into motion, and the mention of dreams reminded Emma of the ones she’d been having for months before Killian got here. It seemed for Henry though, the dreams were less romantic and more domestic. They were blurry at first like Emma’s had been, but Henry said he’d wake up and know that the dream was good because they had found a missing piece in the puzzle of their family. That tid bit made Emma’s heart clutch, and her smile turn upwards because she felt the same way, but the worry still lingered. This was so unexpected, and it was so unusual, Emma simply didn’t know what to think.

“So what, you woke up one morning and you realized he’d be coming?” Emma asked and Henry shook his head.

“No. I woke up with a name and an address. So I wrote him and I told him to come. I figured that would be better than hopping on a bus and bringing him here. You probably wouldn’t have liked that much, and I didn’t really know what to say to someone who was technically a stranger but would one day be my stepdad.”

Emma was flabbergasted and she didn’t know what to say. Why hadn’t Killian ever told her about how any of this? He’d gotten a letter from Henry and that was why he was here? Was there more to it? Was he under some kind of forgetting curse or something? Crap, did their magic even allow for things like forgetting curses? A thousand ridiculous questions swam through her mind and then she was reminded of the fact that she and her son weren’t actually alone when Liam spoke up.

“You sent the postcard,” Liam filled in with a smile and a shake of his head, like that was supposed to mean something to any of them. “Makes sense. My brother did wonder at the handwriting. No offense, lad.”

“None taken,” Henry said with a grin before looking back at Emma and taking on a look of concern. “Mom? Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“You sent a postcard?” she asked, her voice a little stilted and sounding like someone else had said it and not her.

“Yeah. One of the ones that Belle sells in her shop with a view of the ocean and the town all in one,” Henry filled in, still clearly concerned for her.

“And this postcard… what exactly did it say?” Emma asked.

“Just the truth. I told Killian he’d find what he was looking for here in Storybrooke. Because he was, Mom. Killian was looking for us, even if he didn’t know it.”

“Indeed I was,” Killian said, appearing in the doorway at that moment and Emma flicked her gaze to him, expecting that maybe he would be upset at having heard all of this, but he was the opposite. Instead he was looking at Henry with all the warmth he always had for her son, and then he turned to her and the look was charged, filled with the love and the intensity they always had packed into one beautiful, freeing feeling. “And words can’t say how glad I am to have found you both. Or perhaps to have been found as it were.”

Words escaped Emma in this moment, and she felt like a vice was closing on her throat. Seconds ago there was so much worry and a rush of the old fears she’d carried around before, but they couldn’t last, not when they were up against a look of love from Killian that eradicated all shadow of a doubt. She had no choice but to smile back at him and let the warmth he embodied seep into her, and then her heart melted all the more as Killian’s attention turned back to Henry and he moved down to look her son in the eyes on his level.

“I knew from the start that you were something special, lad, but I’ll never have the means to thank you enough for what you’ve done. Bringing me here… it’s the best gift anyone could have given me. Everything I have I owe to finding you and your Mum.”

Henry’s response was to launch himself at Killian for a big hug and that was it. Emma would bet there wasn’t a dry eye in that room, but she herself was blinking back tears so as not to lose sight of the two most important people in her world. Then the two of them looked over at her and both grinned, assuring Emma that this was real and that everything was still as good as she’d grown accustomed to since finding love.

“Hey look at that! You fixed Mom. She’s not so pale anymore,” Henry said as he moved over to Emma and she ruffled her son’s hair affectionately as she coughed out a laugh at his teasing.

“There was nothing needing fixing,” Killian said as he came to take Emma’s hand in his, using his other hand to pat Henry’s shoulder. “She’s always been perfect just as she is.”

“I love you,” Emma said as she kept Killian’s gaze and then turned to her son. “I love both of you, so much.”

“And we love you too, Mom. We’re a family, remember?”

“Yeah, kid,” Emma said softly as she squeezed Killian’s hand. “I remember.”

“Okay, I know I say this every time, but they’re just so cute,” Mary Margaret said with a weepy tone from across the room that made Emma, Killian, and Henry all laugh. The commentary proved a good reminder that there was still a party going on and Henry broke off then to get in the assembly line with Elsa and Liam for making everyone their cocoa. Meanwhile Emma stayed back with Killian, tarrying a little while longer in these happy feelings, and looking back up at him to find his eyes had been on her all the while.

“How is it that nothing ever shakes you?” Emma whispered then, asking a question she already knew the answer to, but longing to hear it all the same.

“It’s just as I said, love,” Killian replied as he brought her hand up to kiss with the slightest of brushes. “When you find the right person, things have a way of working out.”

And with that final promise, another stolen kiss, and a round of ‘awws’ and ‘get a rooms’ from their friends and family around them, the night continued on. The cocoa was consumed, the merriment continued, and a perfect Christmas was had by all with no more secrets left between them and no worries anywhere in sight on the horizon ahead.

Post-Note: So a lot of you lovely readers guessed even in the first few chapters that Henry had been the mastermind behind this. I mean it was kind of obvious, right? But I always knew that reveal had to come, and that when it did there would be worry on Emma’s part but not real panic. After all, the story is past that point, what with all the happiness and true love and Christmas cheer I’ve packed into it. Anyway, I really hope that you guys enjoyed, and to those of you who have reached out or commented in the months that I’ve had this on the back burner I thank you! I am so happy at the continued excitement for this story and all the fun it’s brought me. We’re largely at the end of the story at this point too, but no worries I have some epilogues thought up (including a wedding of course) that I am hoping I can get written during my winter break. But in the mean time I hope you are all doing well, I hope you’re enjoying the holiday season, and thank you all again for being so fantastic!

#captain swan #cs fic #cs ff #cs fluff #cs smut #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #cs au #captain swan au #emma swan #killian jones #henry #the whole storybrooke gang #real world magic #some call it magic #some call it 16

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oliverwvvd · 7 years

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something brewing: part i

The moral of this story is that I need to not do the stupid thing and accidentally press save draft instead of queue, since this was supposed to be posted at least a week ago. Oops. Anyway, this is part I of the previously discussed barista au, because I toyed with the idea for a while and it stuck around. Yes, I recognise the title is a horrible pun, but I couldn’t resist. I hope that everyone who liked the idea of this isn’t disappointed.

Premise: Oliver is a sports science student who has to maintain his grades in order to retain his scholarship and has a good chance of playing football professionally. Despite that, he’s serious about wanting to do well. His flatmates spend more time drunk than they do sober, so he’s given up trying to work at home and finds a little coffee shop to study in. What he doesn’t expect is to develop a painful, near-instantaneous, utterly inconvenient crush on one of the baristas.

i: marcus.

It was just past 5pm, and Marcus was comfortably settled into work for the evening. There was a lazy hum of guitar as his background noise of preference, the coffee shop wasn’t too crowded and that gave him time to open his textbook underneath the counter in between making drinks while Susan handled the customers and sorted out any food orders. The page was marked with the casual ease of someone who was used to reading in what spare moments he had, and ain’t that the truth? Honestly, he had trouble absorbing it all at once, so taking information in bit by bit while he did other tasks always worked far better for him, letting him actually retain it instead of forgetting it immediately after reading.

While he turned the pages, humming softly under his breath, dark hair clustered at his temples in slight, tousled waves made worse by the steam from the coffee machine. The scent of freshly ground coffee filled his nose, underscored by the lesser hints of different types of tea, and you’d think he’d be sick of it by now, but the fact was he found it comforting. It smoothed out all the rough edges of his day and helped him to concentrate.

Leaning across, Susan stuck a receipt in front of him. “Large latte with an extra shot for the tall drink of water down at the end there.” There was a mischievous note to her voice that he’d heard before, usually when a customer was particularly easy on the eyes, and he shot her a look back as he got down to making the drink, a grudging half-smile playing about his lips. She mouthed, “Eleven out of ten,” at him, her petite frame safely hiding her behind the coffee machine, and he lifted an eyebrow, because only once in a blue moon did Susan make that sort of assessment. Working in a coffee shop this close to the university, they both got to see a lot of different people walk in and out when they were on shift. One thing he had learned, however, was that he and his fellow barista had different ideas of what was visually appealing. Maybe it’s because she’s an art student, they find the weirdest things interesting. In Susan’s case, that often extended to people, too.

The latte was done in a matter of moments, his hands moving in a familiar rhythm that was as old as time itself to him now. Flicking a quick glance to the receipt to get the name, he walked down to the end and asked, “Large latte with an extra shot for Oliver?” before sliding the drink across the counter, a slight curve of his mouth because customer service meant you were supposed to smile and be courteous. Since he’d never really mastered smiling on command because other people thought he should, this was the nearest thing that he could manage.

When he glanced up to identify the customer, though, he didn’t expect to find someone looking directly back at him, and he certainly didn’t expect to recognise the face, even dimly. Oh. It took effort not to do a double-take, because he knew he’d seen this one around somewhere and couldn’t quite place where. But everything else apart, Susan had, for once, been exactly right. High cheekbones, gloriously messy brown hair, and as he took the drink, a warm, seemingly shy smile that didn’t match with the slight cheekiness of the friendly wink he paired with it. “Thanks,” he said, and as he walked away, Marcus got a wonderfully prolonged look at exactly how long his legs were. It took actual concentration not to let his eyes wander further. Not at work. He ignored Susan, who was trying not to laugh and failing, and instead opened his textbook again.

“Well. If he meets even your impossibly high standards…” Thankfully, her voice is naturally low-pitched anyway and the boy, Oliver, had long since vacated the immediate area for a table over in the far corner, or he might actually have stepped on her foot to silence her.

“Don’t start, Susan,” Marcus warned, attention momentarily drawn from the pages in front of him, a loose scattering of diagrams and pencils notations visible. “I’ve got to get this stuff into my head before the next class if it kills me. I don’t need distractions.”

He felt rather than saw her pout. “Well, if you don’t feel like being distracted, mind if I do? Honestly, he’d make a wonderful model, I might see if I can convince him to sit for me.”

With an impatient gesture that said be my guest quite clearly, Marcus went back to his book while Susan wandered out onto the main floor of the coffee shop. Ostensibly, she’d gone to clean up, but the odds were good that she’d find an excuse to be distracted, as she put it, while she was there.

ii: oliver.

Oliver was absolutely knackered. So knackered, in fact, that the only thing stopping him from going back to his flat and murdering his flatmate in cold blood, or falling asleep in the chair he’d just sat down in was the steaming cup of coffee in his hands. When he took the first sip, his eyes actually closed for a moment because thank Christ, caffeine. On the second sip, the warmth seeped through him and took away the fact that it was freezing outside. On the third, he was recovered enough to sneak another glance up at the counter and the dark head of hair tilted downwards over what looked like a book. They’d barely exchanged words, really, but Oliver knew himself, enough to know that he definitely liked what he’d seen when the barista had handed him his coffee. Sharp jawline, faint hint of dark stubble that managed to be attractive without being scruffy, broad shoulders clad in a long-sleeved navy-blue shirt rolled back at the elbows, and that maddening hint of a smile. Another sip of the coffee, and it was enough for him to tell that it was good, definitely good enough to keep him coming back. The odds were that he was going to be spending a lot of time here, and the reason why could be summed up very succinctly. “Drunken bastards,” he muttered under his breath, opening his backpack and pulling out his notes, wincing at the state of his handwriting. Right. Best neaten these up.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Startled, Oliver looked up, not realising that his commentary had been quite so audible. However, when he realised it was the redheaded girl from behind the counter, he relaxed. “She’d wash my mouth out if she heard me,” he said, amused. “Because like every mother, she’s convinced that I’m still five and won’t believe it until I prove otherwise. That was relatively mild.”

“Aye, I figured, you being very obviously from Glasgow and all.” The impish grin that accompanied the girl’s words left him confused, until she introduced herself. “I’m Susan. Barista by whatever hours I’m designated to work, art student by trade who couldn’t help but notice you’ve been gifted with the kind of bone structure that begs to be drawn.”

The words flustered him, left him wondering how the hell to answer, so he settled on an easy smile and deflection. “Honestly, I think your counterpart might be the better candidate for that,” he said, nodding in the direction of the other barista. When he caught the playful gleam in Susan’s eyes, he kicked himself. Why do I talk? “But I’m never opposed to a new friend. I’m Oliver,” he said, offering his hand outwards. “Which you know, because I gave you my name about five minutes ago when I ordered,” he added, cringing slightly at himself. And this is why I shouldn’t try to be social when I’m tired. “Sorry, bit braindead, the coffee was necessary.”

When Susan laughed and shook his hand, he couldn’t help but be a bit relieved. Usually, he had no problem navigating new interactions, but right now he was operating on far less sleep than he actually required. When her expression took a turn for the mischievous, Oliver became sharply aware that he’d probably said something he shouldn’t have. “He’s so used to me drawing him in between taking orders at this point that he’d probably be thankful for me practicing on someone else,” she said with a theatrical sigh. “And honestly, can you blame me?”

Watching the dark-haired barista move with the kind of controlled grace that made him look almost alien when placed behind somewhere as commonplace as a coffee shop counter, Oliver couldn’t argue with her and therefore, he didn’t. Instead, he spent a few seconds mulling over the boy, wondering what his name might be and why he felt like he’d seen him before. Probably around the university or something. Fortunately, he didn’t have to answer because she switched subjects a moment later. “So what brings you to our little hole around the corner from the campus? Besides the coffee, of course. I’m guessing you weren’t cursing just now for effect.”

Oliver sighed. “I ended up with an absolute dobber for a flatmate this year. Spends more time drunk than sober, and doesn’t know when to shut it. I like a drink now and then, but not when it means I can’t get any sleep because the eejit and his mates won’t shut it at four in the morning.” He rolled his eyes, pointed at the cup. “Hence the extra shot. Eight o’clock football practice this morning, class in the afternoon and I’m done for, and still got to do some work.”

The wince of sympathy was gratifying, as were Susan’s next words. “Well, that definitely explains the swear words. Should I get our resident coffee genius to make it stronger next time?”

Oliver didn’t even pause in response. “God, yes. If he can possibly add any more caffeine without giving me the shakes or making me ill, yes.”

“He can make anything that involves coffee and tea taste palatable, it’s a gift. Do you trust me?”

“I’ve just met you.”

“I’m a barista. Trust me. Give him free rein on what he makes you next.”

Oliver was too tired to make sense of the conversation, even after the first (excellent) cup of coffee, and his notes were swimming in front of his eyes anyway. “All right. Tell him that if he can make me something that’ll keep me on my feet for the rest of the evening and tastes as good as the first one did, he’s got a guaranteed customer for life.”

iii: marcus.

Marcus was somewhat expecting the cat that’s got the cream smile on Susan’s face when she practically sashayed back behind the counter. He’d looked up only once, seen that she was talking to the attractive boy from earlier (Oliver, his brain helpfully supplied) and snorted to himself, deciding to leave her to it. If there had been a slight pang of disappointment, well, he only had himself to blame, didn’t he? And this, this was why he didn’t do distractions.

“Hey, hotshot. Pretty boy over there says he’ll drink anything you make so long as it tastes palatable and doesn’t give him the shakes. Up to the challenge?”

So much for no distractions. Of all the things he’d anticipated her saying, that hadn’t been one of them. Against his own will, Marcus found his eyes unwittingly drawn towards the boy, suddenly becoming very aware that he had dark circles beneath his eyes and actually looked outright worn out, the more so as he sifted through what looked like pages of notes spread out on the table in front of him. “Hard partier with a hangover?” he asked, rather hoping that wasn’t the case.

“Footballer with early practices, late afternoon classes and a selfish gobby prick for a housemate who thinks four in the morning is an acceptable time to be pissed as a newt,” Susan amended, only managing to further pique Marcus’ interest, while simultaneously making him wonder how exactly she managed to inveigle information out of people the way she did. “He’s had a long day. Make him something good.”

“Your wish is my command,” Marcus drawled, abandoning his textbook and turning his attention to the coffee machine. “Did you get his number already? I figured it’d take you at least ten minutes to work up to it, and that was barely five.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Susan unsuccessfully attempt to hide a smile, resolved to get her back for it later. “No, I don’t think I’m his type, though he didn’t seem to have trouble acknowledging that he finds you good-looking.”

Marcus didn’t bother restraining himself; he rolled his eyes at her quite plainly, and chose not to acknowledge the remark. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her raise her hands in surrender. “Just passing it on, even if you don’t believe me.”

“Stop bothering me, woman, if you want me to make the damned drink,” he snapped, not meaning to sound quite as snippy as he did. Thankfully, Susan had known him long enough to know the difference between him wanting to focus and him actually being annoyed, and simply stuck her tongue out at him before heading out to the storeroom to go and obtain more takeaway cups. Left in peace, Marcus spent five minutes concocting something that would tick the boxes specified with the ingredients that he had to hand. The result ended up being a monstrous latte that only just fitted in the largest takeaway cup. It looked relatively ordinary, but he was confident that it would fit the bill. “Order for Oliver?” he called.

And if he wanted to watch the other boy walk towards him, well, he didn’t have to admit it to anyone but himself. Even if his rule was no distractions, he didn’t see any harm in appreciating the view, and there was a lot about the view to appreciate. When Marcus set the takeaway cup down in front of him, there was a shy smile playing about his mouth again and God, he wished he didn’t find it as attractive as he did. When the other went to reach into his pocket, obviously intending to extract his wallet, Marcus shook his head. “Try it first,” he said, leaning elbows against the counter and not quite able to help his curiosity. He didn’t often get to see the first reaction to a new drink, so this was a rare opportunity.

When the other boy inclined his head, raised the cup in his direction and took a long drink from it, Marcus watched his reaction move from neutral to enjoyment with a slight half-smile. He didn’t get the chance to ask the question, because Oliver (don’t pretend like you don’t know his name, Flint) had a much wider smile on his face now before he spoke. “I can taste the caramel, and…apple pie? And at least a double shot in there.” It was less of a guess when he had another long drink, and damn if that response didn’t make Marcus’ day in less than ten seconds. “God, that’s exactly what I needed, and I never would have ordered it on my own. How much do I owe you?”

Marcus shook his head again. “Nothing. You just helped test out a new special for the menu,” he said, wanting to outright grin, not quite comfortable enough to let himself do it. Finding the other attractive was one thing, but actually doing something about it was another. Probably has someone, anyhow. The fact that he was even considering the matter was more than he wanted to think about, shoved it away with a nod of his head as Susan emerged from the storeroom. “Get that down your neck, you’ll feel better,” he said, before disappearing into the storeroom himself, under the pretext of checking whether or not they’d received the new blend that was supposed to be arriving. They hadn’t, but he found a mess, like he always did. With a faintly exasperated sigh, he started to tidy up, ignoring the fact that he’d just bolted in the opposite direction to the first person he’d genuinely been attracted to in almost a year. Well, I always did have a knack for self-sabotage. Or maybe I just don’t want to waste my attention on a lost cause.

iv: oliver.

Oliver had been coming to the coffee shop for a few weeks at this point, for a multitude of reasons; the first being that waking up with a hot drink in his hand before his first tutorial or before practice was infinitely preferable to staying at his flat. The second being that his flatmate hadn’t proven to be any less of an idiot as time had progressed, and while the atmosphere between them wasn’t hostile as such, it might easily go in that direction if Oliver was around the flat more often. The final reason, and the one that he was all too aware of, was the fact that the coffee shop came with the added bonus of the dark-haired barista, whose name he’d discovered only four days prior. Susan had called back to what was presumably the storeroom while Oliver had been waiting for his usual morning order (a flat white). “Marcus, are you done in there yet?” For reasons he couldn’t understand, everything seemed to click into place at that point. The name was fitting, but that was also the point where he couldn’t entirely ignore the fact that not only had he liked what he saw when he first laid eyes on the other; he’d liked it enough for the interest to continue past the initial meeting.

So the combination of irritating flatmate, burgeoning caffeine addiction, and a need to work undisturbed also happened to coincide with the fact that he was developing a small, inconvenient crush on the barista, on Marcus. They hadn’t exchanged words much, nothing more than polite conversation really, but in that time, a comfortable routine had developed. In the mornings, Oliver had his flat white. In the afternoons and evenings, Marcus often had free rein on what to make for him, and he’d never yet gotten it wrong. With a glance, dark eyes seemed able to assess what kind of day he’d had and make the drink that fitted the bill. Susan hadn’t been wrong: the other had a gift for it.

It was late one evening when Oliver approached the counter with a textbook in hand, around 8pm, and was met with the half-smile that never quite made it to something more. It held mystery, that look, and he’d rapidly learned that he didn’t mind a little mystery. “Same again?” The question, ready when he reached the counter, made him smile ruefully. “Yeah, please. This thing’s making life difficult for me.” He raised his textbook, an analysis of sport psychology that was interesting enough, but not easy to translate to the project that his professor had given him. If he hadn’t been watching, he wouldn’t have seen the flicker of surprise, however slight, that crossed Marcus’ expression when he saw the textbook. That was nothing, however, to Oliver’s reaction when the barista responded, “Yeah, that one’s not fun. Been having a bit of a wrangle with it too.”

It took a few seconds for Oliver to click. Really? So maybe that’s where I recognised you from, even if dimly. “I didn’t realise you were in there too,” he said with a smile. “How come I’ve never seen you?”

“It’s a big lecture theatre. I sit up at the back and the lecturer’s usually turned the lights down for the projectors by the time I get there. I didn’t know you were in there either, to be fair.” That was when the usual half-smile that he’d become strangely used to widened, and oh, Oliver wasn’t prepared for that, because if the effect of the half-smile was bad, the full smile was absolutely devastating by comparison. He was sure that he was staring like a fool, and he didn’t have the will to sort it out. Pull yourself together.

“I’m aiming for physiotherapist eventually,” Marcus continued, seemingly not registering Oliver’s reaction. “But I’ve not seen you in any of my other classes, which are somewhat smaller, so I’m guessing you’re taking a slightly different direction.”

It took Oliver a few seconds to form a coherent sentence, and under other circumstances, he would have been really bloody well embarrassed about that, but Christ, he’s only human and that smile was like attacking the unarmed. “Yeah, I…I’ve been scouted for football, so most of what I’m doing is geared towards being able to coach and help other athletes if that doesn’t pan out,” he said. Though he knew that he was good at what he did, he wasn’t naturally a braggart. He felt the weight of Marcus’ scrutiny when the other looked at him more closely, and Jesus, he did the exact opposite of handling it well when the appraisal seemed to run past his face to the spread of his shoulders. Don’t blush, for the love of God.

“What position?”

The question caught Oliver off-guard, because his mind immediately went to places that it quite definitely wasn’t supposed to go while he was in public (I can think of lots of those), and the dark-haired barista (and incipient physiotherapist, apparently) could have easily chosen a better way of wording that. Was that deliberate? He couldn’t tell. Marcus’ expression was unreadable besides the smile and the tilted head. It was impossible to work out whether the other had spotted his preoccupation and decided to mess with him. If he did, game on. “Any number of positions, really, but I’m currently playing keeper,” he said, opting to accompany the words with a grin of his own, daring to put just a little flirtation behind the remark. When he heard a slight spluttering sound from further down the counter, he didn’t need to look to know that Susan had caught the gist of what he was implying, and he cringed because he’d honestly forgotten she was there at all. However, it was Marcus that sent her on the retreat with a truly impressive glare that made her disappear back into the stockroom, while Oliver wished for the ground to swallow him up as promptly as possible.

“I play striker, sometimes.” The conversation had turned back to football, and Oliver was thankful for it. Plays and strategies, he could discuss until light turned to dark, even if he was meant to be wrangling his way through the textbook still in his hands. Apparently Marcus’ attention span was much better than his, because in the time that they’d been talking, he’d still managed to make Oliver’s drink and mark the current page in his own textbook, tucked covertly beneath the counter as it generally was. To Oliver’s surprise, he smiled again, but this time there was an obvious edge of embarrassment to it. “Just realised I’m being a bit of an idiot, by the way. I’m Marcus; don’t recall ever telling you that.” When he came out from behind the counter, Oliver then got his first good look, up close, at exactly how the other dressed. A faded band t-shirt and a pair of dark, rumpled jeans that clung to all the right places. When the other offered his hand out awkwardly and Oliver closed fingers around his for the handshake, he grinned again. “Good to meet you properly. I’ll see you in our lecture, I guess. I’d better get back to work.” When he met the other’s eyes as they released grip, however, the brush of their fingers lingered and he wasn’t immune to the spark of that touch, far from it. Whoa. The other didn’t need to know that he’d already been fully aware of his name before now. “Yeah, you too. See you later.” And with that, they parted ways, Marcus back behind the counter, Oliver returning to his usual seat with coffee in one hand, textbook in the other, and quite probably a really stupid smile on his face like he’d just been hit between the eyes.

What Marcus also didn’t need to know was that his small, ridiculous crush had gone from mildly out of hand to completely insane in the span of about ten minutes, if that.

This is really not a good thing. What am I going to do about this?

#flintwood #flintwoodnet #something brewing #coffee shop au #ol writes things

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fntstory-blog · 7 years

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These Hallowed Halls (part I)

In which our heroes are welcomed back on solid earth. chapter i | chapter ii

The next few weeks were spent navigating more familiar seas; the Numanari Approach took the Maiden and her crew around the tip of Vodacce and the Signore Islands and into the Widow’s Sea and past Castille and Montaigne. From there, she swung North from her Westerly bearings and passed through the Montaigne/Avalon Strait which would take her to Wandesborrow’s docks. The Ivory Maiden sailed at a fraction of her speed, the trip stretching into weeks upon weeks, for all the damage she had endured over the course of her far-flung travels. The crew undertook what repairs they could while at sea, working suspended from ropes and using small saws on rope and wood.

Haru, for his own duties, was put on light work to give him a chance to recover, and this last leg of their journey proved to be an idyllic time for conversing and spending time with Owen. He had begun to learn the names of the men, get to know how they lived and how they enjoyed time away from their backbreaking labor. Lord Berek sent letters with every ship that happened by and part of Haru’s work was to ferry the letters back and forth with Mr. Beckett. The small jollyboat was also put out to sea to allow him to learn more of sails, navigation, and seamanship; it was amazing how much Mr. Beckett knew, at such a tender age. The journey even left its marks upon the young lieutenant; his face and frame grew leaner and less youthful as he entered his teenage years. His face, too, had no shortage of acne and he sought Haru’s assistance in covering and ridding himself of the damn marks.

If Haru evoked fraternal feelings within Lannigan, he in turn treated young Beckett much the same outside of their lessons. The lieutenant’s unfortunate spots were treated with natural ingredients taken from the ship’s stores, Haru cursing the lack of green tea which he swore by. He passed along other pieces of knowledge, too, most dealing with personal grooming and care; he was determined to see Beckett pass from adolescence to manhood as gracefully as possible. (Though the art of shaving would have to be learned from someone else; Haru’s face remained youthfully smooth and he felt uncomfortable imparting what he knew of the practice as what he knew he gleaned from watching Hayes at his morning ablutions).

When not placed in near-constant mortal peril, Haru found that life on the Ivory Maiden was quite … comfortable wasn’t quite the word, as the cramped quarters were just that, and enjoyable didn’t fully fit, either, but there was something to be said for the rhythm he finally settled into. Mr. Beckett proved an invaluable teacher and Haru an eager student; the pair might have presented an unlikely, even comical, picture, but that he came into his nautical own in these weeks spoke volumes to the young lieutenant’s ability.

While his days were spent in the company of Beckett and the crew, and with each passing day Haru found himself liking these rough yet honest men more and more, his evenings were devoted to languid hours with Owen and posing ever more questions to Berek during their dinners. Being so close to Avalon, Haru’s curiosity about the place only grew and nearly everyone on the ship was subject to a seeming unending barrage of questions on customs and beliefs, people and places, history and myth. Hayes’ collective of books were voraciously devoured leading the captain to believe his lover never actually slept.

What struck him the most in these weeks, however, was the truth in the adage of things staying the same despite changing. While he gained nautical knowledge and became more comfortable amongst his Thean shipmates, he retained much of his old ways. His hair stayed long, though by now white was giving way to natural jet black, and on the rare occasion he wore shoes he stuck with the familiar wooden sandals he had come on board with. He still practiced his religion, praying in his room and leaving small offerings to kami and Goodly Folk alike. And though his duties were light, the daily exercise saw lean muscle developing on his slender frame; when he did finally catch his own reflection, Haru was struck by how closely he resembled his brother.

When word came that they would be putting into port and allowed off ship Haru went into a near-frenzy, picking through what few garments he had in his possession. Not since his days attending his daimyo’s court had he put so much thought into what to wear; his fretting might have been a point of mockery, but this would be his first time stepping foot on his new homeland and he wanted desperately to present as perfect a picture as he could. That inborn Crane pride and vanity demanded nothing less.

Forgoing his well-worn wear, he retrieved his remaining secondary kimono from its chest (the formal silk was given a longing look before being discounted; it wasn’t made for traipsing through town) and donned along all the accompanying accoutrements. A lacquered comb, rarely used of late, was run through ombre locks, detangling and smoothing the unruly mess which was left, for now, loose. Over this distinctly Rokugani garb went a Thean jacket, a cast-off that had been tailored to better fit, while his wakizashi was tucked into the obi at his waist. It surprised Haru how odd it felt to be wearing the blade once more after going so long without it.

It was an unusual look, to be sure, but it best represented the transplanted Rokugani.

Orderly lines marched off the ship as the lieutenants unleashed the sailors upon the town. Haru set foot on a stone port for the first time in what seemed liked ages, joined by Mr. Beckett. Stepping from gangplank to solid earth, he was surprised by how unnatural the ground felt to legs and feet now long accustomed to the constant rocking of a ship. Though he had Beckett as company, he hung slightly back, waiting for Owen but also to give himself a few moment’s time to take in the alien sights and sounds and smells of an Avalonian port town.

It was, perhaps, fated that a small voice would cry, “Oi, lads! Lookit that foreign lady!” A small crowd of gawkers appeared, with a smallish dock lad pointing at Haru with an outstretched finger, snaggle-toothed mouth open in a gape.

The urchin and his assembled cronies were met with an indignant look from Haru, though he refrained from comment. He just arrived, after all, and he didn’t want to devote any more time or attention to this unexpected bit of rudeness than was absolutely necessary. Instead, he cast a glance about his immediate surroundings, taking in as much as he could.

Of the most interest were the people, but only because there were so many of them. Sailors, merchants, laborers and lords, Haru watched them all, taking in the differences in their clothing and carriage. Beckett, being close by, was questioned mercilessly about the choices passing strangers made and what it all meant. A Swordsman made a particularly strong impression as he had become quite taken with the notion of Thean dueling thanks to the more romantically-tinged adventure novels in Owen’s collection. He knew little of fighting with a cutlass from seeing Owen in action and his lessons with Beckett, but he longed to see another style especially as demonstrated by a master.

As interesting as the mixing of classes was (and how it boggled his mind that the men he took for lords were not given a wide berth as they passed through crowds) the sight of his first Avalonian woman proved downright shocking. In Rokugan, women’s dress covered them from throat to ankle, with geisha only revealing the back of the neck in a show of subtle eroticism. Here, the entire female form was on display for all to see. Small waists flared into wide hips which gave him enough pause as he tried to work out how this was possible, while throats and the tops of swelling breasts could plainly be seen despite heavy cloaks and capes and, indeed, were the focus of fashion and attention. Curls framed painted faces, the Avalonian fashion favored reddened cheeks and lips he saw, though many ladies carried parasols to protect delicate complexions from the winter’s weak sun.

“Do all Thean women look like this?” He quietly asked Beckett, as if the boy was an expert on the subject.

Beckett flushed and shrugged a shoulder. “Well, that, err, is to say, Mr. Haru, that … I suppose it’s the case?” He offered, looking up to Owen as the captain joined them. He had been the last off the ship, as was custom.

“Not all Thean women,” Owen replied, saving his lieutenant from himself. “There are subtle differences, of course, from place to place and woman to woman.” He gave Haru and Edward a crooked, conspiratorial grin “Well, shipmates, shall we find something to eat?”

Beckett offered a quick nod. “Aye, captain, and right away, I should think!”

“Let’s take the long way, shall we, Haru?” Owen suggested, fully intending to tour through the market. Haru fell into step beside the captain and almost immediately fell behind, his attention diverted by a particularly interesting passing pair. Besides the people, now that they were in the market proper, there were stalls and criers to contend with; Haru seemed intent on stopping at nearly every single one, eyes greedily taking in all to be seen.

His neck craned to see a selection of brightly colored fabrics as they wound their way through the market then, again, to catch a display of kettles and teacups and saucers. So distracted was he by, well, everything, that he found himself rather rudely jostled back as he accidentally ran into the broad-backed fellow before him. Looking ahead, now, all he could make out was a frustratingly large and immobile crowd. Another observation he had been quick to make: By Avalonian standards he was rather short.

Still, despite the mass of people, Haru’s eyes found the Swordsman once more and, now, he took in the brightly colored tabbard he wore over his clothes and the small buckler on one arm. So distracted, he was surprised to find himself surrounded by a ring of people who had taken to staring at him. His appearance had begun to create a buzz through the crowd, beginning with the stalls he had stopped at and moving along, following him unseen like one of the kami. Now, it swirled about him, a sea of wide eyes and gaping mouths and hushed voices pierced by the occasional loudly spoken comment or question. The situation was an uncomfortable one and he quickly cast about for an exit.

Beckett straightened in indignation as more snippets of conversation marking Haru as a very striking woman reached his ears. “Mr. Haru, these bloody idiots think you’re - you’re …!” He seemed ready to take a step forward, though Owen’s hand clapped on his shoulder stopping him.

“I’m sure Mr. Haru can handle his own affairs, lieutenant,” Owen cautioned; he had taken in the size (and easily swayed mood) of the crowd, too.

Beckett seemed to want to protest, but he finally nodded, defeated. “Aye, sir.”

Owen gave his younger shipmate an approving smile, then pointed over the crowds to a sign hanging on a wooden post: The Old Bull. “Seems we’ve arrived. Make way, please!” He called in his captain’s voice, causing the crowd to instinctively part for the trio. Beckett kicked the shin of one of the men who’d been speaking a bit too loudly, sending the man howling and hopping back to disappear behind the crowd.

Ignoring those closest to him, though it was a difficult and trying thing, Haru summoned every once of Rokugani bushido bravado he could and pushed his way through the crowd, one hand resting on the hilt of the wakizashi at his side. More than one person gasped and grunted in surprised disapproval and he heard a few variations of ‘foreign bitch’ thrown his way. And though it was sorely tempting, he said nothing to set anyone aright regarding his gender; doing so would keep them rooted to one spot for an eternity and Haru would rather spend that time taking in more of the sights with his lover and friend.

Thankfully, the crowd didn’t follow them inside. Of course, Haru was made uncomfortable yet again as, upon entering the tavern, the music went through a lilt as people gaped at him for a moment, before slowly turning back to their drinks, food, or fiddle playing.

“I see we’ve been beaten here,” Hayes remarked dryly, nodding to Doctor MacMorgan, already drowsing in a corner set, several mugs stacked and tilted down in front of him.

Looking to where Hayes gestured, Haru suppressed a laugh. “Perhaps we should leave him,” he said, his voice low, “I had thought I escaped his awful playing when we left the ship …”

“If you were dismayed at his playing, I’m not certain what you’d think of his singing voice.”

Haru pulled a grimace, showing what he thought of the prospect. Thankfully, Doctor MacMorgan seemed more suited to drowse in the corner of the establishment. He painted the picture of a large slumbering bear, projecting a feeling of ease in his closed eyes and crossed arms.

Hayes found a quiet table to sit at and called for a bill of fare, which a serving girl brought over. She was roughly the same age as Beckett, though a touch taller and smooth-skinned, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed and no doubt a sight for Edward’s sore eyes. He busied himself with trying to look impressive and well-mannered.

Owen looked over the tavern’s fare, finger tapping his chin thoughtfully as he rattled off the local dishes. “Roast potatoes and lamb … beef and leeks … even Whistwick puddings!” He peered over at Haru with a half grin. “Shall we order them all, so you can try them?”

Haru recognized some of the dishes being rattled off, most of the fare was a mystery, albeit a tantalizing one; he was incredibly curious about Avalon’s cuisine when divorced of the confines of one of Her Majesty’s ships. Surely, no weevils would be found in the bread in what he assumed to be a respectable establishment. He nodded to Hayes’ suggestion, though a sly smile accompanied the gesture. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were trying to fatten me up with all this food …”

Owen laughed, returning the sly smile. “You’re still rail thin, Haru, and after what we’ve been through, some rich food will benefit us all. Or perhaps I’m letting Avalon’s cuisine entice you even further.”

“I’ll place the order, sir!” Beckett eagerly supplied, nearly jumping from his seat.

Hayes laughed and waved the boy along, “Right, off you go to your fair maiden.”

Beckett flushed. “I … I just wanted to make certain everything befits the captain of the Ivory Maiden.”

“Quite, good Mr. Beckett, quite,” came the captain’s wry retort. He removed his hat, balancing it on one knee, and ran a hand through his hair to brush it back. Beckett nodded and strode to the bar. Once Edward was there, and fully engaged with the serving girl, Owen sighed wistfully and placed a hand over Haru’s. “I’m not ready for him to get any older, Haru.”

Haru’s eyes followed Beckett as he made his way to the bar and commenced in an innocent fliration with the girl. Though not very many years separated them in age, he found himself looking on the scene with a bit of wistful nostalgia; to be so young and just discovering oneself and love … Hayes’ hand on his own brought his mind and attention back to the present. Placing his free hand atop the captain’s, he gave him a reassuring smile.

“You sound like a wistful parent … Our Mr. Beckett won’t remain a child forever, but he’s had an excellent mentor and role model in you, Owen. He’ll be a fine young man to make anyone proud.”

“I hope so. The navy is a brutal profession, despite all our pomp and circumstance. Sometimes I wish Beckett’s parents had steered him into politics or …” He stopped, smiling and shaking his head. “But wishes are nothing but phantoms, aren’t they? The Beckett we have now is still a dear friend of mine … and I’m entitled to mourn the passing of his youth.”

Beckett returned, assisting the giggling serving girl with a large platter of bread, hard cheese, and beer. Apparently this would be a dining style much like Jeremiah Berek preferred, one in multiple courses. Haru was relieved, however, that the use of a fork and knife seemed to only be a suggestion.

In mixed company once more, Haru carefully extracted his hand from Owen’s and assisted in the passing around and placement of dishes and mugs. Owen did the same declaring, “Now here’s a proper feast!” He gave Beckett and the young miss a grateful smile; she missed it, all her attention on the young lieutenant. She remained thusly enthralled even after she returned to the bar.

Everything smelled wonderful, Haru was pleased to note, and as the three tucked in, he looked to Beckett.

“Will you be visiting your family while we’re in port?” Owen’s earlier comment had sparked a thought and that was that Haru knew next to nothing about the lieutenant’s life outside of the ship they shared. “Or has your young lady taken all your attention?” This was said with an affectionate, mild teasing. “She is very pretty, after all …”

“Hm?” Beckett was distracted, but quickly recovered. “Oh, well, no. My family’s estate is outside of Carleon. I’ll visit them after we’re done with the admiralty.” He flushed bright red and Owen chuckled, hiding a grin behind a soft roll. “She — she probably sees ten better than me every moment, Mr. Haru. Besides, my father would never approve …”

Owen’s grin faded slowly and he tilted his head. “Lord Beckett isn’t *here*, Edward. Talk to her.”

“I know something of dispproving fathers, Beckett-san,” Haru said, gently, “And I can give you this advice: Your father need not know every detail of your life. Talk to the girl, take what happiness that comes to you when it comes without question. And do not doubt yourself so; she’s casting eyes only at you.”

Beckett took in the advice, poking and prodding thoughtfully at the food before him, before he asked them both in a whisper, “Should I — should I ask her to dance?”

Owen smiled. “That would be a good start, Mr. Beckett. Here.” He dug into his pocket and came out with a shilling, handing it over to the young lieutenant. “For the fiddler,” he explained.

Beckett beamed at him. “Thank you, sir, Mr. Haru.” He nodded to them both, almost tripping his gawky legs over the bench in his hurry.

Of everything that had been prepared and was laid before him, Haru’s favorite remained the simple, soft rolls. The other fare, while delicious, was still too rich and heavy for his taste (and stomach) and, Owen’s comment on his thinness notwithstanding, he had no desire to put on an abundance of excess weight. With an air of grace, he buttered one of the rolls, his skill in handling knives and forks much improved, and directed a question to Hayes.

“Do you ever wish your father had … dissuaded you from joining the navy?” The topic was carefully broached; for all his traveling ‘round the world to be with the man he loved, he knew precious little of Owen’s background and family.

“My father and mother …” Hayes began, taking a moment to dab a napkin at his mouth, “They let me explore. I didn’t join the navy on their insistence. I was only a boy when they were lost at sea. My uncle moved in after that and stands currently at the manor. He wanted me to join the army, I think. But I wanted to understand the thing that took my parents. He never truly agreed with my appointment in the navy.” There was a pain in his eyes, but it was a scar, not a fresh wound. “I’d have made a terrible soldier, all that marching …” A lopsided smirk crossed his face.

Looking up, he met and held Hayes’ eyes, one hand coming to rest briefly against a rough cheek. “I’m sorry for your loss, truly. And just as truly, I’m glad you went to sea …”

“Such things happen, Haru, beyond anyone’s control … but thank you. I’m glad that I was swept along to Rokugan.”

Both had more to say, but the sound of a fiddle interrupted, turning their attention from conversation to what passed for a dance floor in the tavern. Haru had heard some fiddling aboard the Ivory Maiden, from what he could gather the Innish were particularly fond of the instrument, and he much preferred its sounds to the doctor’s contraption. The dancing, however, was completely new to his eyes. Again, on the ship, he had seen singular jigs performed, but never had he seen a couple moving in time to music. In Rokugan, there was no concept of social dance; it was a performing art, reserved for theater or a geisha’s skilled entertainment, and never done with as much earnestness as Beckett and his lady displayed.

The unfolding scene soon brought a smile back to Haru’s lips and, with a touch more enthusiasm than previously shown, he sampled all the foodstuffs that mysteriously made its way onto his plate.

Hayes smiled warmly, thumping his foot on the floor in time to the tune and, suddenly, the entire inn was doing the same. There was something liberating about the closeness of it all, none of the silent pretense of a Rokugani theater, each person a different, solitary mind. This was a riot of good will, people hopping up to join in the dance, laughing.

On a whim, Hayes took Haru by the arm, tugging him up and out of his seat. “Let’s join them, come on!” He said encouragingly, all smiles and good cheer.

Haru squawked slightly in surprise. He would have been content to sit and act as a silent observer; for as inviting as it all seemed, a part of him clung to Rokugani ideals of reservation and decorum. And though he remembered the captain’s boast of being an excellent dancer, he hadn’t thought the man would have them both join the crowd. “Owen, I don’t know if this is a good idea …”

“It’s a terrible idea!” Owen conceded, still grinning widely and leading Haru to where the fiddler continued his playing. “It’s no different than those kah-tahs that Ishoya used to perform,” he said, trying to assure his lover’s worries.

Haru doubted that the dance was anything like Ishoya’s katas, but he kept this to himself. His wooden sandals clopped on the slotted floor, marking a different time than the heavy leather soles on everyone else’s feet. Coming to the edge of the crowd, he cast a somewhat nervous glance at the spinning, stepping pairs. Up close, the movements that had seemed so simple now looked incomprehensible, feet flashing too fast for him to make sense of anything. Looking up at Owen, he said, “I hope you have as much faith in your teaching skills as you do in your dancing, Captain Hayes …”

“I need none of that, Haru, I’ve faith in *you.*” Hayes took his hand, pressing their palms together, his other hand resting at Haru’s waist. The movements that followed were obviously meant for flat-heeled shoes and not sandals, but the pattern behind them began to emerge. This wasn’t courtly dance, it was something done by the peasantry and, thus, it was easier than a nobleman’s affair. Still, Hayes knew the steps well and imparted them with impressive ease. Owen had patience and seemed to know where Haru would snarl the steps and he helped him untangle his feet time after time before the movements became natural.

At first, Haru kept his eyes glued to the floor, trying to mimic the steps Hayes so effortlessly made. It was a slow and, at times, frustrating, process, punctuated with repeated sheepish utterings of “Sorry” and “Gomen” as he accidentally stepped on toes or bumped into another body. However, with enough repetition and warm encouragement from Hayes, he did eventually pick up on the thing. Not for the first time, he marveled at how freeing it was, to be in a place, and amongst a group of people, that had no concept of Face or the rigid social structures of Rokugan. He was free to make mistakes, learn from them, even laugh at his own bumbling.

Owen’s hand at the small of his back, the closeness of their bodies, at times pressed closer if an over-eager pair spun too wide, this, too, was an exhilarating, freeing thing.

“Here’s the fun bit …” Hayes grinned wickedly, taking both of Haru’s hands and stepping back, forming a peak as Beckett and his lady danced through the bridge of arms with a few shouts of joy from the assembled dancers. Out of the corner of his eye, Haru saw Doctor MacMorgan come to life, sitting up and fetching his awful concertina to stand at the fiddler’s shoulder. Both instruments seemed to be made to function in league with each other and the box didn’t sound quite so terrible. Eventually, it was Hayes and Haru’s turn to rush under the expanse of arms, though they had to duck lower to it through Beckett and his companion’s bridge. Once they ended their travel, the song began to die down and people applauded each other and the fiddler.

Haru was approached several times for a shake of hands as they mingled freely with the patrons of the tavern and, after a while, he began to feel more comfortable and he was fairly sure that at least in this place people had caught on that he was indeed a man. They were curious, of course, asking question after question, which Haru answered graciously. He felt less pressed by this group than he had by the crowd in the market. His accounts of Rokugan, and his journey to Avalon, were heavily edited, but he did not leave out the high regard he held for the crew, to a man, of the Ivory Maiden.

After some time, Hayes appeared and Haru apologized for leaving so much unanswered, though he doubted he could answer every question put to him (and in this moment he felt a pang of sympathy for what he must have put Lord Berek through). He followed Hayes and Beckett back to their table and reclaimed his abandoned seat. Picking up his mug of beer, he smiled over the brim of it at Beckett, saying, “You’re positively beaming, Beckett-san. Having a sweetheart suits you …”

Beckett smiled, his face a-glow, and sighed dreamily, “Her name is Annie …”

Owen shared a clandestine smile with Haru at their love-struck’s friend expense. “Well done, Beckett,” he remarked, settling back against the wooden wall of the tavern. Haru had a feeling they would be hearing much of Annie and her various charms in the coming days and weeks.

The music eventually died down, with the fiddler making his rounds and accepting a pittance of coins from each table. Doctor MacMorgan chastised those who didn’t loosen their pursestrings sufficiently and, once the fiddler made his exit, he joined Hayes and Haru and Beckett at their table.

“Ah, gentlemen, what a wondrous afternoon it was. Hopefully the night will be just as lovely.” He eyed Haru with a chuckle. “And you, Mr. Haru! Did you enjoy the little tune we played? The Handmaiden’s Basket it was called; one of the very first songs I did learn on my poor concertina.”

“I did, indeed, doctor!” Haru said, speaking honestly for once on the man’s playing. “Your concertina plays much better on land … The fiddle complimented it beautifully.”

“Yes, yes, but I was told of a good fellow who will look at it … If, that is, we’ll be staying in port until the next noon?” MacMorgan eyed Hayes seriously, pulling down his glasses a hair.

Hayes laughed, nodding. “We’ll take on supplies and we’ve a mizzenmast that needs to be fixed. It should keep us busy a few days before we depart for Carleon.”

MacMorgan thumped a fist on the table. “Brilliant! I’ll obtain a surgeon for my concertina and perhaps inquire about some fresh medical supplies of my own …”

“What are the day’s remaining plans?” Haru asked, glancing about at his companions. “Will we see more of the city?” He tried not to sound overly eager, but it was plain he desired to see as much as possible of this new place.

“We’re free of duty for the time, Mr. Haru,” Hayes answered. “I should get a letter to my uncle while I’m in port.” His tone gave away the fact that this task wasn’t one he much relished the thought of.

Beckett cleared his throat. “Annie will be showing me the sights, so I’m afraid I’ll be indisposed …”

Doctor MacMorgan shook with laughter. “Oh, go on, ye young rogue!” Beckett turned scarlet from his collar to his ears.

Haru weighed his options, teeth catching and worrying at the inside of one cheek; he wasn’t ready to retire just yet, but the prospect of exploring on his own raised some internal concerns. Still, if he didn’t stray too terribly far he should be safe enough …

“I think I’ll strike out on my own,” he said with a decisive nod. “There’s still so much more to see and I would rather not waste the opportunity by going to bed early and alone …” That this course of action would change if Owen were retiring as well would not be missed by the captain.

“I’ll be careful,” he continued, warding off any words of friendly warning. “Though … Should I return here or to the ship? I have no money to pay for a room and it’s been explained I can hardly demand free boarding …” He felt more than a little silly asking the question; surely, the answer was an obvious thing to his more seasoned companions.

“If that’s what you decide, Mr. Haru.” Owen smiled and nodded and he got the feeling that the captain would probably come along once his duties were seen to. “I’ll book the officers’ rooms here in the Old Bull. If you’d like, Haru, you can return here.”

Doctor MacMorgan scoffed. “A crime! Captain, to send a sailor into the city with not even a shilling to his name? For *shame*!” He dug into his coat, producing a few large silver coins. “I’ll donate to this poor man’s warchest!” He slid the coins over to Haru. Mr. Beckett smiled and produced coins as well, followed by Owen.

“My tyrant’s hand, shown to be false, I suppose,” Owen drawled dryly, casting a sidelong glance to Haru.

The small pile of silver in front of Haru wasn’t much, but it was enough to enjoy himself, certainly. He balked, initially, at his companions’ generosity, but finally accepted the coins with a deep, albeit seated, bow. It felt strange, rude, to accept the gift upon its presentation, but he had learned that this was the Thean way of doing things. Early in his and Owen’s romance, the Avalonian had given him a small token and his initial refusal of it had lead to a gross misunderstanding and hurt feelings that had taken days to soothe.

“Domo arigatou gozaimashita,” he said, slipping into the formal words of his native tongue. “Thank you very much, I am greatly humbled by your generosity …” The Avalonian words didn’t seem, to his ears, to convey just how grateful he was. With great care the coins were collected, Hayes explaining each one’s worth, and placed in some secret pocket in the interior of his kimono; Haru knew enough to not carry money in the easily picked pockets of his jacket.

“Think nothing of it,” Doctor MacMorgan assured him, as the trio made their goodbyes.

Owen smiled and nodded. “Perhaps I’ll see if I can find you once the doctor and I have our discussion.”

MacMorgan held up a finger, “… about that advance … the concertina, you see …”

Beckett quickly weasled his way away from the table, disappearing among the tavern’s crowds to be with Annie.

Leaving the others to their own devices, Haru bid them farewell, thanking them again for the gifted money, and made his way out of the Bull to the streets beyond its front door. Looking down the way they had come, through the main vein of the marketplace, he could recall the route that took them from ship to cobbled shore. It was an enticing thought, to revisit the market, but more appealing was the prospect of streets yet unseen. Heading in the opposite direction, then, he set out to see what else the port town had to offer.

#fascinating new thing #fntstory #original story #oc #ocs #legend of the five rings #seventh sea #l5r #7th sea #fanfiction #fanfic #Haru #Owen Hayes

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