#georgia moll

[kittykripton-ted]

Georgia Moll

[rwpohl]

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[deputy-buck]

Writing patterns tag game!

Tagged by @jiang-mingyi ily thank you for the tag 💚

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

Fetch Hawk was consumed in drafting a small speech for a function Senator Smith had organized —something about acknowledging McCarthy's threat to the State Department but encouraging diplomacy— when Tim showed up on his doorstep looking like a kicked puppy.

Unconventional Methods of Recovery Ray, in between his Afghanistan deployment and his first OIF deployment, was a nightmare.

Release Goddamnit Gabe and Walt helping each other with their turrets after a firefight, their hands “accidentally” brushing when taking pins out, heads knocking when they both try to look up the chamber at the same time.

Sunshine Pappy calling Walt “sunshine” then gently tipping his head up for a kiss, letting it linger, pressing multiple soft little kisses to Walt’s lips until Walt laughs

Marines on Watch "Since when did the Marine Corps start letting in faggots?" Trombley mutters into the dim light of the Iraqi dusk, straining not to smile.

Good Coffee and Good Mornings Maybe it’s their shared childhood trauma, or their rigorous training provided by good ‘ol Uncle Sam, but neither Gutterson boy can sleep past 06:30.

Docile Alpha All the downtime in Austria has lulled Speirs' body into a sense of safety, the routine of paperwork and strongly advising soldiers “not to drink too much” allowed his body to push for its neglected needs… in arguably the worst way.

Gracious Curled up in his ranger grave, John groaned as quietly as he could while curling in a little tighter on himself, head cushioned on his arm, only a couple moments away from precious sleep.

Sold For Temporary Use “I’m worth way more than a spring, Bradley! Who do you think I am?” Ray squawks, three different color wires twisted around his fingers attempting to make them more malleable.

MOLLE Pouch of Memories They're sitting out on the back porch like nearly every evening since moving to Georgia in '17, the three of them.

-

tagging: literally anyone who wants to do this, I'm too tired to look up URLs

[goalhofer]

2024 Cincinnati Reds Roster

Pitchers

#15 Emilio Pagán (Greenville, South Carolina)

#21 Christian Greene (Los Angeles, California)

#28 Nick Martinez (Miami, Florida)

#31 Brent Suter (Cincinnati, Ohio)*

#32 Justin Wilson (Clovis, California)

#39 Lucas Sims (Snellville, Georgia)

#40 Nick Lodolo (La Verne, California)

#41 Andrew Abbott (South Boston, Virginia)

#43 Alex Díaz (Ciudad Humacao, Puerto Rico)

#46 George Farmer (Conyers, Georgia)

#47 Frankie Montas (Sainagua, Dominican Republic)*

#48 Alex Young (Fremont Township, Illinois)

#50 Sam Moll (Shelby County, Tennessee)

#51 Douglas Ashcraft (Gurley, Alabama)

#55 Brandon Williamson (Sherburn, Minnesota)

#63 Fernando Cruz (Ciudad Bayamón, Puerto Rico)

#68 William Spiers (Greenville, South Carolina)

#70 Tejay Antone (Mansfield, Texas)

#79 Ian Gibaut (Houston, Texas)

Catchers

#22 Luke Maile (Park Hills, Kentucky)

#37 Tyler Stephenson (Kennesaw, Georgia)

Infielders

#3 Jeimer Candelario (New York, New York)*

#4 Santiago Espinal (Scranton, Pennsylvania)*

#6 Jonathan India (Delray Beach, Florida)

#9 Matt McLain (Irvine, California)

#16 Noelvi Marte (Cotuí, Dominican Republic)

#33 Christian Encarnacion-Strand (Pleasant Hill, California)

#44 Elly De La Cruz (Sabana Grande De Boyá, Dominican Republic)

Outfielders

#7 Spencer Steer (Long Beach, California)

#12 Leslie Thompson (Mobile, Alabama)*

#17 Stuart Fairchild (Seattle, Washington)

#23 Nick Martini (Crystal Lake, Illinois)

#27 Jake Fraley (Middletown, Delaware)

#29 T.L. Friedl (Pleasanton, California)

#30 Will Benson (Atlanta, Georgia)

Coaches

Manager David Bell (Cincinnati, Ohio)

Bench coach Freddie Benavides (Laredo, Texas)

Hitting coach/offensive coordinator Joel McKeithan (Asheville, NC)

Assistant hitting coach Tim LaMonte (Mesquite, Texas)

Assistant hitting coach Terry Bradshaw (Windsor, Virginia)

Pitching coach Alon Leichman (Gezer, Israel)

Bullpen coach Matt Tracy (St. Louis, Missouri)

Bullpen catcher José Duarte (Maracay, Venezuela)

1B coach Collin Cowgill (Lexington, Kentucky)

3B/catching coach J.R. House (Charleston, West Virginia)

Outfield coach Jeff Pickler (Santa Ana, California)

Assistant coach Kyle Arnsberg (Atlanta, Georgia)

Assistant coach Derek Johnson (Normal, Illinois)

[greysdownloads]

Gas mask bag

They are available as the bag only or complete with the leather strap, this listing is for the bag only. They will look great with any Indiana Jones outfit, and you wont be disappointed in these bags. (6 in total) for your books and a small water bottle or drinks pocket. Inside the gas bags they have a lot of different compartments and pockets Most gas masks have sealing caps over the air intake and are stored in vacuum-sealed bags to prevent the filter from degrading due to exposure to humidity and pollutants in normal air. light weight cotton with a closure strap and closure buttons. Like the one pictured, all are in good used condition. ( Click to see larger image and other views) This offering is for 1 of our Swedish Gas Mask Bags. Will fit most gas masks including Avon and Scott respirators. Our Products: Military Surplus Area > Pouches and Bags. Interior is specifically lined to prevent material flaking onto your gas mask when exposed to wet harsh conditions. This civilian gas mask does not have a voice diaphragm and drinking tubes. The GP-5 Soviet Gas Mask has round lenses, a standard Soviet Russian GOST 40mm filter intake and an exhalation valve. The mask is rather simple, it does not have many features modern gas masks pose. It is created for police special forces units or other units that provide. The standard GP-5 gas mask comes with a simple cloth bag, filter and anti-fog stickers. These bags have also been stamped inside the flap just like the originals for the same authenticity. The MkVII Gas Mask Bag was a common site in the British Isles during the war, and you will see it often in pictures of The Blitz. All in one, horizontal MOLLE mounting, Subload or (optional) Shoulder sling carry. The UTactic Gas Mask Bag is designed for carrying a gas mask and extra gear. So, the New Gas Bag is an exact copy of the original bag with the same hardware and vents etc which have been reproduced for us. This is no longer a problem as this is now new webbing and reinforced. With the original genuine version, a lot of people were having issues with the webbing breaking on the bag where the leather strap attaches due to their age. Gas Mask bag that is attached to your duty or trouser belt by a 50mm piece of webbing that is locked on with velcro. Wested Leather decided that due to high demand we would invest heavily and have them re-produced for our customers. The bags were all Indiana Jones MK VII dating from 1941-1942.Īs you can imagine these bags are no longer available and they cannot be sourced anymore as they have now run out. Many years ago, Wested Leather Co managed to source a limited quantity of never issued Genuine Gas Mask Bags. What Do Correctional Officers Do The Day-to-Day Job What Type of Riot Gear. It is heavy cotton canvas and is designed to be worn over the shoulder and around the waist so that. All the above types of gas masks provide superior protection from inhaling toxic gases or airborne pollutants. Lined interior with two exterior pockets. This bag is what you carry the military m17 gas mask in. Gas masks don't protect the wearer from the toxic fumes from generators placed indoors.South Georgia & South Sandwich Islands (USD $) We carry a variety of gas masks for sale, designed for adults, youth, and infants.Gas masks can be found on firefighter zombies, military zombies and survivor zombies. Gas masks provide a significant amount of insulation and wind resistance, and the maximum amount of water resistance.

[unateoriadegliautori]

incompreso: vita col figlio (1966)

[randomnotesnet]

Frankreich/Italien, 1963

# 198

[letterboxd-loggd]

Contempt (Le Mépris) (1963) Jean-Luc Godard

June 27th 2019 

[luvdrunk]

reading moll flanders is an experience because the language is like definitely 17th century but it’s weirdly capitalised like a tumblr shitpost

[kittykripton-ted]

Georgia Moll

[rwpohl]

[the-scariest-librarian]

Amor Vincit Omnia

Things You Said When We Were Afraid.

This is for @mercurygray‘s 1000 follower celebration, and for the 2 year anniversary of The Darkening Sky! Congratulations, Merc! 

This ultimately ended up nothing like I had originally intended, but I hope it's okay nonetheless. I hope I did it justice.

There isn’t a science to it, when one will Remember. Some go their entire cycle without the memories of selves past, and some –her name is Molly this time around– live countless lifetimes at once. “An old soul,” her nana once called her, mistaking the imprint of millenia for solemnity uncommon in a girl of just eight.

Lewis Nixon remembers; she knows as soon as she sees him in the blazing Georgia sun and he sends her a cheeky wink. The last time they had seen each other was in the court of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, and before that in Londinium. For all that their numbers are comparatively few, the Reincarnated always seemed to find each other.

There are a surprising number in Easy Company. Eileen and Connie both give her a knowing nod when they’re introduced, as do Shifty and Joe Toye. The looks Marjorie shares with her sometimes make her think that the other woman’s trigger was recent, but she can be counted among the number of those who remember at least something. The others just think that their quips are some odd sort of humor.

“Why would I play with you when you still owe me six denarii?” Molly asks blandly as she idly flips through a dog-eared copy of ancient poetry.

Billie wags a finger at her playfully from the poker game occurring several seats down.

“Don’t give me that; you know damn well I paid you back in the ninth century.”

Molly doesn’t even look up from her book.

“You forgot almost eight hundred years of interest.”

For all that she grew up with the memories of numerous lifetimes, none of it prepares her for the punch to the gut that is seeing the man who spent millenia at her side. He was Glaucus and she was Agape. When she was Iðunn, he was Eadric. No matter what tore them apart, be it war, disaster, or old age, they always found each other again.

In Troy, when Greek ships darkened their shores, he spoke to her the words that never failed to soothe her. In Pompeii, when ash and pumice fell from the sky and the ground shook with Vulcan’s terrifying might, he held her to his chest –she was Hadriana then, Molly remembers– and spoke them again.

Again, before every raid. Again, when he left to explore the New World. Again, when he donned the Patriot’s blue, and later the Union’s.

“I will always return to you.”

And so he has, even if she can see in his eyes that he does not know her as she knows him.

She doesn’t push; it wouldn’t change anything even if she did. Still, if he notices that she keeps an eye on him more than most, he doesn’t give any indication.

When he’s stabbed by a jumpy comrade, Molly feels as if the rest of her life has already been stolen from her. Something of it must show on her face as she watches him –his name is Floyd this time around– being carted away, because he calls to her as he passes, voice tight with pain.

“Aww, don’t worry Mahoney; I’ll be back before you even have time to miss my handsome face.”

When artillery around them shatters trees and bodies alike, he pries her anxious hand from his jacket and makes to leave the meager protection of their shallow foxhole to answer a nearby call for help.

“Stay down, Molly, I’ll come right back. Promise.”

When the war is over and this goodbye could very well mean forever, she gets just a moment’s hesitation and a muttered “See ya around, Moll.”

She can't remember a single lifetime where it ever took them this long to return to each other, both in body and soul. They’d always been lucky before, but it seemed their luck had finally run out and this would become their first life apart. It’s happened to others.

She'd rather live with his ghost than stay with this shadow who doesn't understand why earthquakes terrify her, or why she sometimes dreams of being thrown to her death from an ancient city's walls. She could have done it, once, she thinks, but she's used up a lifetime of strength in these last few bloody years.

So, Molly lets him go.

She watches him until his jeep turns the corner and then banishes the thought of him from her mind. It works for a time, at least until she returns to her remaining comrades and Joan meets her gaze with sad, knowing eyes.

When she’s back stateside for the first time in years, Molly immediately enrolls in UC Berkeley’s anthropology program and leaves it as Dr. Mahoney. Four years of graduate school work well enough to keep her busy, but although she keeps regular correspondence with several members of Easy, there is still a kind of hollowness inside of her that finally makes her desperate enough to upend her life once again.

She moves to Italy in 1951 to assist in the restarted excavation of Pompeii. She’s seen the pictures; she knows what’s there. Still, it takes her several weeks to muster the will to seek it. She’s not afraid that it will hurt; she knows it will. It’s the fear that seeing it will make her regret ever letting him leave at all.

Despite the Allied bombs that damaged chunks of the city, ancient feet guide her path as if she had never left, stepping easily over crooked paving stones and wheel ruts in the street. She doesn’t work in this section of the city –doesn’t know if she could bear it if she had to– but she remembers every home and every storefront. The graffiti on the walls she passes has faded with time, but she was there when her countrymen scratched their thoughts into plaster, and she is still here as it is rediscovered.

At last, but also much too soon, Molly stops in front of a small villa, more familiar than the rest. It’s in poor shape; she knows by sight alone that the building is unstable enough to be dangerous, but she cannot find it in her to turn back. She’s already come all this way.

With a deep breath, she steps into the shade.

The inside is just as she remembers, and yet not at all. The roof is gone, although some of the second floor walls remain. The paint that decorates the walls is faded and the plaster is missing in chunks, but it is still their home, Hadriana’s and Marcus’.

Careful steps take her around a crumbling corner, and there, frozen in plaster, they sit. She is curled in his lap, head tucked beneath his chin. The plaster is rough, but she can just make out a fold of fabric here, the curve of his nose there. It’s the closest she’s been to him in both six years and two millenia at once, even if all that remains is just an imprint of his life left in stone and ash.

It steals the breath from her lungs, to see the only thing that proves that her memories are not just elaborate dreams. A gravestone is one thing, and any tintypes that once existed are lost to descendants she doesn’t know in this life, but this is real. They existed once, and here they remain.

Molly steps gently closer and a patch of purple catches her eye, stopping her short.

She stares in surprise at the flower, identical to the one clutched in her own hand but wilted a little from the heat of the day, that lies upon the tragic figures. In the weeks it took her to build up the courage to visit her ancient home, she hadn’t seen a single blossom left in remembrance for any of Pompeii’s dead. The flower there in her own lap –or at least it belonged to her two thousand years before– brings tears to her eyes. Someone has remembered them.

She kisses the petals of the crocus in her hand and places it gently beside the first. She thinks the words, but cannot find it in herself to say them out loud.

The sudden crunch of dirt behind her startles her, tells her that she is no longer alone. She straightens; guilty shoulders hitch up to her ears in anticipation of a scolding from one of the site supervisors for being in such an unstable building. She knows better.

The voice that comes from behind her doesn’t belong to an aging archaeologist at all, but rather someone she hadn’t dared hope to see again.

“Heya, Moll."

I told you I’d always return to you, didn’t I?

[deputy-buck]

Writing Pattern Tag Game

Thanks @luckynumber4 for taggin me!!

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

---

Unconventional Methods of Recovery

Ray, in between his Afghanistan deployment and his first OIF deployment, was a nightmare.

Release Goddamnit

Gabe and Walt helping each other with their turrets after a firefight, their hands “accidentally” brushing when taking pins out, heads knocking when they both try to look up the chamber at the same time. 

Sunshine

Pappy calling Walt “sunshine” then gently tipping his head up for a kiss, letting it linger, pressing multiple soft little kisses to Walt’s lips until Walt laughs

Marines on Watch

"Since when did the Marine Corps start letting in faggots?" Trombley mutters into the dim light of the Iraqi dusk, straining not to smile.

Good Coffee and Good Mornings

Maybe it’s their shared childhood trauma, or their rigorous training provided by good ‘ol Uncle Sam, but neither Gutterson boy can sleep past 06:30.

Docile Alpha

All the downtime in Austria has lulled Speirs' body into a sense of safety, the routine of paperwork and strongly advising soldiers “not to drink too much” allowed his body to push for its neglected needs… in arguably the worst way.

Gracious

Curled up in his ranger grave, John groaned as quietly as he could while curling in a little tighter on himself, head cushioned on his arm, only a couple moments away from precious sleep. kinda cheated on this one

There's Something There

The desert sun bore down mercilessly on your sweltering humvee, casting long shadows across the gritty landscape as you waited for Fick to give the okay to start moving again.

Sold For Temporary Use

“I’m worth way more than a spring, Bradley! Who do you think I am?” Ray squawks, three different color wires twisted around his fingers attempting to make them more malleable. 

MOLLE Pouch of Memories

They're sitting out on the back porch like nearly every evening since moving to Georgia in '17, the three of them.

---

I honestly couldn't tell you if there's a pattern, can y'all tell me if there is one???

---

Taggin: @ableedingpen @military-bluebells @acorrespondence @willowmckinley @itookyoudown + anyone else who wants!!

[goalhofer]

2023 Cincinnati Reds Roster

Pitchers

#21 Christian Greene (Los Angeles, California)

#39 Lucas Sims (Snellville, Georgia)

#40 Nick Lodolo (La Verne, California)

#41 Andrew Abbott (South Boston, Virginia)**

#43 Alex Díaz (Ciudad Humacao, Puerto Rico)

#46 George Farmer (Conyers, Georgia)

#47 Derek Law (Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania)

#48 Alex Young (Fremont Township, Illinois)*

#49 Justin Dunn (Hempstead, New York)

#50 Sam Moll (Shelby County, Tennessee)*

#51 Douglas Ashcraft (Gurley, Alabama)

#52 Reiver Sanmartín (Cartagena De Indias, Colombia)

#53 Vladimir Gutiérrez (Ciudad Pinar Del Río, Cuba)

#55 Brandon Williamson (Sherburn, Minnesota)**

#59 Edward Lively (Gulf Breeze, Florida)*

#63 Fernando Cruz (Ciudad Bayamón, Puerto Rico)

#68 William Spiers (Greenville, South Carolina)**

#70 Tejay Antone (Mansfield, Texas)

#71 Connor Overton (Hanover County, Virginia)

#77 Daniel Duarte (Ciudad Etchojoa, Mexico)

#79 Ian Gibaut (Houston, Texas)

Catchers

#12 Curt Casali (New Canaan, Connecticut)*

#22 Luke Maile (Park Hills, Kentucky)*

#37 Tyler Stephenson (Kennesaw, Georgia)

Infielders

#6 Jonathan India (Delray Beach, Florida)

#7 Spencer Steer (Long Beach, California)

#9 Matt McLain (Irvine, California)**

#15 Nick Senzel (Farragut, Tennessee)

#16 Noelvi Marte (Cotuí, Dominican Republic)**

#19 Joey Votto (Toronto, Ontario)

#28 Kevin Newman (Poway, California)*

#33 Christian Encarnacion-Strand (Pleasant Hill, California)**

#44 Elly De La Cruz (Sabana Grande De Boyá, DR)**

Outfielders

#4 Harrison Bader (Bronx, New York)*

#17 Stuart Fairchild (Seattle, Washington)

#23 Nick Martini (Crystal Lake, Illinois)*

#27 Jake Fraley (New Castle County, Delaware)

#29 T.L. Friedl (Pleasanton, California)

#30 Will Benson (Atlanta, Georgia)*

#32 Dustin Renfroe (Crystal Springs, Mississippi)*

Coaches

Manager David Bell (Cincinnati, Ohio)

Bench coach Freddie Benavides (Laredo, Texas)

Hitting coach/offensive coordinator Joel McKeithan (Asheville, North Carolina)

Assistant hitting coach Terry Bradshaw (Windsor, Virginia)

Pitching coach Derek Johnson (Gibson City, Illinois)

Assistant pitching coach Alon Leichman (Gezer, Israel)

Bullpen coach Matt Tracy (St. Louis, Missouri)

Bullpen catcher José Duarte (Maracay, Venezuela)

1B coach Collin Cowgill (Lexington, Kentucky)

3B/catching coach J.R. House (Nitro, West Virginia)

Outfield coach Jeff Pickler (Santa Ana, California)

Assistant coach Kyle Arnsberg (Atlanta, Georgia)

[canyousonicme]

Ten Things You Never Knew About 'Doctor Who' and 'A Discovery Of Witches' Star, Alex Kingston

By Nick Levine | March 9, 2021

10 'Things' You Never Knew About 'Doctor Who' and 'A Discovery of Witches' Star Alex Kingston

You probably know Alex Kingston as River Song in Doctor Who, or Sarah Bishop in A Discovery of Witches, or Dr. Elizabeth Corday in ER, or Dinah Lance in Arrow, or Moll Flanders in The Fortunes and Misfortunes of Moll Flanders... We could go on. She's had a lot of great roles over the years. But as she celebrates her 58th birthday Thursday (March 11), let's take some time to get to know this fantastic actress a little better.

1. She's proud of her German heritage.

Kingston was born and brought up in the town of Epsom, near London, to Anthony Kingston, an English butcher, and his German wife, Margarethe Renneisen. Her maternal uncle, Walter Renneisen, is a prominent German actor who founded his own touring theater company.

2. She's super-humble about her prolific career.

“I don’t know if it is a good thing or not," Kingston told The Times in 2019, "but I have never been particularly pushy. I know there are actors, male and female, who really are on the front foot when it comes to their careers and networking. I just can’t do that. I find it kind of embarrassing."

She added candidly: "There is a part of me that has had to reconcile to the fact that maybe my career didn’t go where it might have, but, at the same time, I’ve done fine. I’ve managed to pay the bills and support everybody, so that’s not bad. I still have a life. I clean the house, I walk the dog — I think that’s really important. I want to be a regular person, and sometimes that means you don’t get the jobs.”

3. During a night out in Atlanta, Georgia, she happened upon a Doctor Who-themed burlesque show.

“The dancer started as William Hartnell," Kingston told The i. "She had his black tuxedo coat and a cravat. She took that off and underneath that she was Tom Baker in a big scarf. Then she took that off to reveal she had Peter Davison’s cricket whites on underneath. Then she took that off, and she was David Tennant in his little pin-stripey jacket."

Kingston continued: “She must have been boiling. Under that, she was Matt Smith in a bow tie and a fez. ‎Next she took off Matt, and she was the Tardis. She had Tardis blue sequinned pasties over her nipples and a tiny sequinned G string in Tardis blue. It was so unexpected and hilarious. It illustrates an obsessive love with that world."

Frankly, it sounds like quite an incredible performance – if only there was video footage!

4. She once caused her Doctor Who co-star Matt Smith a moment of, um, rather intimate discomfort.

“One of the most memorable parts of filming," she told London's Evening Standard last year, "was when I flew through the universe, got caught in the Tardis and by mistake kneed Matt Smith, who was playing the Doctor at the time, in the nuts. There were a few tears of laughter from me and cries of pain from him.”

5. She auditioned for Felicity Huffman's role in "Desperate Housewives".

According to Today, she told London's Evening Standard in 2006: "I didn't get the part, and I know why: irrespective of acting ability, I'm just way too big."

6. She had 13 rounds of IVF before becoming pregnant with her daughter, Salome, who is now 19 years old.

"It was very tough. You are so desperate, you don’t really understand what the long-term side effects can be," she told the Mail on Sunday in 2014. "That’s what they don’t tell you in the medical profession. I put on weight with all the IVF – it’s insidious because it happens so slowly and then it’s almost impossible to get rid of it. I was also perimenopausal very early; I have no proof, but I feel that it was linked to the IVF and the different hormones I was taking. There are things that I think aren’t fully explained to women when they are going through all that.

7. As a baby, Salome played Ella Greene, the daughter of Kingston's character Elizabeth and Anthony Edwards' Mark Greene on ER.

8. She wants to cause trouble for 007...a lot of it.

“I would love to be a villain in a James Bond movie, the real villain, the main one," she told the Sunday Post earlier this month. "Because they’ve never had a female villain. And I want to be a villain who does not find James Bond sexy at all. And doesn’t succumb to his charms, I want to be his real nemesis.”

9. When her ER contract wasn't renewed in 2004, Kingston – who was 41 at the time – suggested ageism may have been partly to blame.

"I suddenly felt very old surrounded by these young twentysomethings. Does it mean that I'm the geriatric that's being pushed out because she's too old?" Kingston said in an interview with the Radio Times, according to The Guardian.

Saying that the show "definitely seems to be taking a different tone," Kingston added: "I understand it needs to keep reinventing itself in order to keep going, and apparently I, according to the producers, the writers, am part of the old fogeys who are no longer interesting. In that respect it's a shame."

10. She's written her own River Song novel.

Yes, really! It's called The Ruby's Curse, features River Song and her alter ego Melody Malone, and publishes May 21. Kingston said in a press release: "Having absolutely no idea of the journey I would be taking with River Song when I first uttered those words, ‘Hello Sweetie,’ I cannot begin to express how excited I am to be able to continue not only River, but Melody’s adventures on the written page. A sassy private detective and a time traveling archaeologist joining forces to solve a mystery? What’s not to love!?" [x]

[fiction-allows]

Washington Square (Laurel/Hardy, 4800 words, PG-13)

For @theempressar and @stanxollie - a little Valentine from me to you! mostly fluffy L&H fic. thank you for all the fun we’ve had :D

warnings: PG-13 for a paragraph of noncon, period typical language and conceptions of gender, flexes the grittier style of their early works

This was inspired by stanxollie’s great retelling of Why Girls Love Sailors, where the drag queen gets the guy in the end. :p I hope you enjoy. question mark.

It was closing time when he stumbled on the kerb and took a dive off his heels. He laughed it off and quickly flashed the green silk hem of his dress up over his bloomers, to give the drunks a little show - all part of the joke, keep walking. He didn’t want their sweaty hands on his silk. He didn't need help, he needed shoes that fit - he climbed to his feet, righted his ringlet wig that had slouched over his eyes - he needed hat pins, too; a box didn't last long when all the jennies he lived with helped themselves. He straightened himself up and squared his shoulders. Fierce. It was only three in the morning. What was he going to do with himself?

He had a dime in his pocket. Maury hadn't paid his talent up, and wouldn't until next week. 

He wasn’t talent, anyway. He was incidental entertainment, called on when one of the girls was too drunk to perform. The rest of the time he was hanging around the tables, cracking jokes and flouncing. When the molls wanted to use the powder room, he escorted them and kept them laughing. 

It wasn’t exactly a career, was it, Stanny boy?

Maybe he should find something, someone, anything, anywhere else. The city bit shit in the winter. He could go to Union Station and talk his way onto a handsome dame’s ticket, headed for California. He could stow himself in a bunk, bundle up and sleep, and stay there until they crossed the Rockies.

He tripped again, which brought the daydreams to a halt. Stan pulled his fur wrap tighter around his bare shoulders and took serious stock. He had enough for breakfast if he didn't eat tonight. He could get warm if he went to the train station. He couldn't go home, it was Lonnie's night to use the room for sheepshead. She’d be good for dinner tomorrow. His stomach told him that was worth a night in the cold. 

He straggled behind the foot traffic down the sidewalk toward State. He stopped to bum a cigarette from Lady Godiva, who answered to Herbert during the workweek, and they stood under the dark coffee shop’s awning exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather, shoes, who’d been locked up in yesterday night’s raid on the park. 

“Never do it in the bushes,” Lady Godiva said sagely, and Stan nodded with equal sagacity, and his wig slipped down over his eyes again. 

Godiva reached into her velvet purse. “Honey, here.” 

Now he had a dime and a few bobby pins in his pocket. He was about to move on, when Lady Godiva gave him another nod. “Honey - there.” 

Stan turned to look. A big man had come up the street, contra-traffic. The slight weave in his step said he'd been turned out from one of the other night clubs. He had stopped when he heard Stan and the Lady talking, and was examining some graffiti on the side of the brick building with intense interest.

Some background might help: Lady Godiva was the world’s foremost expert on the identification and classification of men and males who wanted something and were willing to pay for it. 

Not that this fellow was easy to miss: Towertown was full of girls in trousers and boys in skirts, big boned frames in dainty dresses and elfin gals with impeccable Windsor knots, and he was planted on the sidewalk in a white sailor's uniform like a bull moose in the headlights. A bull moose trying to make itself look like part of the furniture. He had looked up insouciant in the dictionary, but accidentally read the entry for awkward.

Background, part two: Lady Godiva was good at matching fighters by their weight class. She knew exactly how hopeless Stan was at the game - but this one was a nice soft target. A practice dummy, if you will.

Stan, in a completely inarticulate way, had reached the same conclusion. The guy must weigh eighteen stone if he was an ounce, but he was trying to look smaller than he was in his white uniform. His age was hard to pin down, because he looked travelled, but not even the side profile could hide the baby fullness of his face. 

To Stan, he looked like an absolute lamb.

Someone else would take advantage in a minute. There was Esme, poised outside the walk-up to her john’s apartment, watching the dispersing crowds go by. She was clocking the lamb too. She caught Stan’s eye, gave him a sly smile, and the race was on.

Stan moved to head her off. He stepped into the man’s shadow, and touched the blue-braided sleeve of his jacket.

"You lost, baby?” Stan asked. 

The big boy jumped. He turned away from the public art and glanced Stan up and down. Then again, a double-take that Stan didn’t take personal. An awkward, innocent fluster of hands, fingers, a scrunched nervous grin, followed the mad goggling yo-yo of his eyes. "I seem to have t-taken a wrong turn." 

He stuttered. He had weeping willows and southern charm in his voice. He was a little drunk. Oh, honey.

“Where’re you headed?” Stan laid his hand flat on the man’s arm. Behind them, Esme hissed and faded back into the night.

The man was suddenly mannequin-like with uncertainty. “Not far.”

“Then I’ll walk you,” Stan decided for them both. “What’s your name?”

“Oliver.”

Stan smiled, twined Oliver’s arm with his. “Are you from around here, Oliver?”

“My room’s on Division Street.”

“Originally,” Stan clarified, as he gently pulled Oliver to get him moving up the sidewalk. Stan felt a rush of heat from him as Oliver blushed. 

“Georgia,” Oliver said quietly.

“Georgia. Peaches. Wonderful. Don’t look at them.” A hail of whistles as they turned the corner, some of Esme’s mates. It wasn’t often that Stan hooked such a big one. Stan stuck out his tongue behind Oliver’s back. More jeers. He crushed Oliver’s arm against his ribs and drew him away northeast.

It was only a few blocks, but the crowds thinned out fast as they left Washington Square. The nightlife faded to sniffing junkies and unlucky panhandlers, and the sidewalk was empty by the time they reached the four-story boarding house Oliver was calling home.

“Well… here’s mine,” Oliver said, feebly.

ROOMS FOR RENT - LONG TERM, said the optimistic sign propped on the window ledge of the ground floor. The place looked fleabitten, like it had mange. But Stan looked enviously at the glowing windows. They were nearer the lake and the wind picked up an extra bite off the water, and he was losing feeling in his toes. Then he looked at Oliver, whose arm was still in his.

The moment to clinch or cut loose had arrived. There was an awkward pause, because neither of them knew exactly what happened next, when it was a bloke from Georgia and a bloke in a dress.

“Do you want to come in?” Oliver asked. His tone was smoother, now that the walk had cleared his head.

Stan smiled dumbly. He was feeling shy. He had come this far, hadn’t he? Come on, Stan, say something. But he was frozen, and it wasn’t the temperature. “I...”

“You don’t have to,” Oliver said, with a painfully gallant smile. 

He sounded relieved. And Stan felt hurt, and suddenly piercingly lonely, which broke the impasse just a moment too late. The opportunity had closed in his face while he was tongue-tied.

Oliver extracted his arm, then stuck out his hand for a shake. “Take care, then.”

Stan reached for his hand, feeling all at once like he wanted to cry. The night was dark and… big. He nodded miserably and took Oliver’s hand.

Oliver winced as their bare palms touched. “What are you, cold blooded? Some kind of salamander? Why are you so cold?”

“I don’t -” Stan stammered. 

“Where’s your place?” Oliver demanded.

Another gawping shrug, as Stan tried to make sense of the sudden veer in the conversation. It was like Oliver had dropped him in a bottle and spun it. “Can’t go there,” Stan said helplessly.

“What? Why not? You know what - forget it. Get in here.” Oliver shooed him up the steps and to the door, and pounded on it. 

Stan panicked. “Wait, what do we tell -”

“You tell him you’re my sister from Savannah.” 

Stan had a minute to get into character before the landlord answered. He grunted when Stan fluttered his eyelashes and claimed to be a sister from Savannah, but he let them in, and harrumphed back to bed without comment. 

And that is how they ended up in a room no bigger than a very small room, with a bed, a cupboard, a stand and basin, and Oliver’s work clothes inexpertly washed and hung to dry over the light fixtures and radiator. He was using a pair of his long johns as a sort of makeshift shade over the room’s single drooping window. There was a palpable draft about shin-height due to the sagging window frame, like wading through ankle-biting ghosts.

Oliver sprung into action playing host, scooping his grease-splattered overalls off the radiator to let some warm air into the room, hiding his underpants by kicking them under the bed, and then he offered to take Stan’s wrap, and Stan let him take it and hang it, like the most pathetic garland in the world, on the hook on the back of the door.

“Won’t you sit down?” Oliver asked with exaggerated politeness, indicating the bed. 

Stan sat, crossed his legs, brushed down his silky dress, subtly hiked it up a few inches on the upstroke.

“What about you?” Stan asked, with a put-on high-pitched giggle and wiggle. 

Oliver was undoing his neckerchief. He glanced at Stan in the mirror propped above the wash basin. “I’m fine. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“The floor?” Stan asked, in his babygirl voice.

“You take the bed. Bathroom’s down the hall. Don’t steal my money, will you? If you’re good, I’ll buy you breakfast tomorrow.”

Stan’s legs uncrossed, his heeled foot fell to the floorboards with a shocked little stomp. “You brought me up here to… sleep?” He forgot the pitch of his voice in his surprise.

“It’s miserable out there,” Oliver said. He slid his collar stay out, dropped it on the stand, and started on his top button. “Throw me one of them pillows, will ya?”

Stan hopped off the bed. He grabbed a pillow, and handed it to Oliver. Oliver fluffed it between his big hands, then dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor. 

“I’ll wrinkle my dress if I sleep in it,” Stan said. The femme was back, and she was distressed. He clutched at his neckline in dismay.

Oliver’s eyebrows knit together. He raised one slightly as he appraised Stan. “You do one nice thing,” he groused, though his heart wasn’t in it. “There’s a clean nightshirt in the cupboard. You can borrow it.”

Stan opened the cupboard and grabbed it. He excused himself to the bathroom down the hall. 

When he returned, heels and wig in hand, dress over his arm, clad in an entire circus tent’s worth of nightshirt that billowed around him like topsails, Oliver was prone on the floor, head on the pillow, one of the blankets primly tucked over him. Looked for all the world like he really meant to spend the night right there. His eyes were closed. Could he already be asleep?

Stan crept into the room quiet as a mouse.

“It occurs to me I didn’t catch your name,” Oliver said. He wasn’t asleep at all.

“Stan,” Stan said, flatly. He had shed the girl with the wig and heels. He supposed a man was better suited if this was a set-up to a murder. He placed his shoes on the floor, hung the wig next to his wrap, and stole a hanger to keep his dress looking tidy in the cupboard overnight. 

Oliver was watching him through slitted eyes. Stan knew he must look a sight with his short unkempt hair, the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks, the huge nightshirt with sleeves that slipped down to his fingertips. He smiled apologetically. “Sometimes you take a lady home, and you get something else.”

“Nice to meet you, Stan,” Oliver said. “Go to sleep.” 

Stan crawled into bed. He flailed and paddled in the huge nightgown, and finally found his hands again to pull the covers up. He looked at Oliver again, on the floor in the draft, and he shivered in commiseration. He cleared his throat. “You know, it’s foolish to sleep on the floor. You’ll catch your death.” 

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t be stupid, come up here.”

Was that a chatter of Oliver’s teeth? Oliver grunted, threw an arm over his eyes as if that would shut Stan up. 

“I promise no funny business,” Stan insisted. He was getting worried. He couldn’t possibly go to sleep himself if Oliver slept on the floor. The thought of it made him utterly miserable. Tears pricked his eyes. “Please don’t catch your death.”

The arm came away from Oliver’s eyes, and his expression was that of a man who has ended up in an enclosure at the zoo - not the lion enclosure, or the gorilla enclosure, but perhaps the penguin enclosure, and they’re pecking at his knees. “You’re a weird one, aren’t you.” 

Stan nodded honestly, still fighting tears. 

Oliver sat up. Then he held out his hand, and felt the ice cold draft flowing in from the window. 

He gathered up his pillow and blanket and threw them at Stan on the bed. “Move over.” 

Stan swam through his nightshirt toward the wall, and Oliver heaved himself onto the mattress. They settled, an elbow apart, after a little burrowing and tug of war over the coverlet. Silence ticked by for a few moments, as they both got used to the sensation. The weight pulling at both sides of the mattress, their body heat starting to pool together under the covers.

Stan sniffed away the last of his tears. He folded his hands over the coverlet in satisfaction. “There. Isn’t this better.”

“Who lets you out on your own?” Oliver asked in disbelief. But he already sounded sleepy.

Stan was fading fast, too. He yawned. “It’s Lonnie’s night to use the flat for sheepshead.” 

“Sheepshead.” Oliver snorted. 

“Goodnight, Ollie.” 

He heard a breathy chuckle. Oliver - Ollie - liked it. “Goodnight, Stan.”

* * * 

Stan fell to sleep and commenced a light snore, cocooned in Ollie's nightshirt. Oliver crossed his arms under the bedclothes and tried to ignore the predicament. Stan had still been wearing his - her pantyhose, and her hose-clad toes were scratching at his shin. She hadn't scrubbed all the perfume off. There was a flowers-and-musk scent trapped with their heat in the blankets.

Oliver, my boy, you need to get a hold of yourself. You wouldn't take advantage of a lady. 

Whatever Stan was, exactly. 

Adrift, it seemed to Oliver. 

He kicked Stan’s foot back toward his side of the bed, blew the air from his nose and closed his eyes. 

* * * 

The sun was shining cheerfully through the union suit when they woke up. At breakfast, Ollie watched Stan pack away a pound of home fries, four eggs, two rounds of bacon and a stack of pancakes. He ate like he hadn’t been fed in a month. 

He was a pretty normal fella over the breakfast table, even in the dress. Well - not fully normal, the way he put sugar on his eggs, but Ollie let it slide. He was funny, and he thought Ollie was funny, which tickled Ollie right in the cockles of his pride. 

Stan listened with rapt interest when Ollie talked about the merchant marines and where he had been, and the convoys during the War. He got that doe-eyed look that dames did when Ollie got on the subject (though Ollie neglected to tell him he had, in fact, been a cook), which also tickled Ollie in a way he couldn’t explain. It made him want to flex his arms and look big. 

Three stacks of pancakes between them later, Ollie paid the check and they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

 "I have to report," Ollie said. "You might want to head home and ah -" He swiped his cheeks and chin with his palm.

Stan nodded. His whiskers needed sanding. The waitress had stared at him a little.

Ollie was staring at him, too. His eyes were sparkling. 

“Come to Maury’s some time,” Stan said. “You can see me work. I’ll be there every night this week.”

“I’d like that,” Ollie said, but Stan couldn’t tell if it was a punt or a promise. 

Ollie tipped his hat. “See you around, doll," he said. 

Stan flashed him an angelic smile. 

* * * 

No Ollie on Wednesday. No Ollie on Thursday. Not that Stan was anticipating. His tips were suffering, though; he wasn’t quite as funny when he was distracted. The mobsters didn’t trust a freak who wasn’t also a clown, and their girls didn’t like a downer. It was hard to be charming when every bigger guy who walked in the place sent a little jolt from his scalp down to his knees. But they always were too - something. Too rich, too crude, too repressed or too married. Their greatest crime, of course, is that none of them were Ollie.

Monday came again, and Maury didn’t pay him, even when he filled in for Bernadette a few times over the weekend.  

He needed money to eat, though. And for a ticket out of here, since it looked like he was back on his own.

Best way to make a quick buck? Well, Lady Godiva could tell you.

It started civilly enough on Tuesday night in the alley behind the club. The dumpsters made for convivial surroundings, and the romance was palpable as the rats scurried away from their twirling feet and the single bulb above the back door fizzled in its socket. The man was sweaty with beer and wanted to dance, sort of a swaying grabbing twisting motion - suddenly Stan had his chin elbows and knees up against the brick wall of the alley, and a hairy steel beam of a forearm across the back of his neck. Stan protested, with a giggle that was high with alarm. That big body ground against his and he ground into the dirty bricks. He clawed a little to get some purchase to shove back.

“Hey, wait, wait,” he protested, and that got him dragged around to face the guy, who didn’t look very keen on waiting. 

A few things went through Stan’s mind. One, he didn’t want to be here. Two, he wished he wasn’t. Three, his heels gave him a little extra height but the guy still had half a head on him, and four, this large drunk man was going to be shocked in a minute if his hand kept going - and that is a very specific kind of fear, the fear of being found out by an angry grasping hand in the dark. It vitalizes.

Stan struck back at him and gave a shout. 

And like a miracle, he heard an answering "Hey!" 

It might have been an angel. It was a big voice, if not very deep - but it was alarm enough to get the hand out from under his skirt. 

Stan took the opportunity to use a knee, and the man folded up like an ironing board. 

Stan looked up and there was - 

Ollie's shoulders filled the alley almost wall to wall as he came toward them. He swept the scene, the man crouched on the ground retching, Stan’s disarray and his heaving chest. 

His hand stretched out to Stan. "Come along - he can’t hurt you - well done." 

Stan took the offered hand and stepped over the gasping, sputtering heap. He slipped by between Ollie's double-breasted jacket and the brick wall, and heard Ollie give the guy a kick for good measure. 

On the sidewalk, Ollie brushed off his mink and repositioned it on Stan's shoulders. There was a run in his hose from the scrapes on his knees. His mascara was smudged up like two black batwing eyes. Ollie pressed his handkerchief into Stan's hand so he could clean himself up.

"Did he hurt you?"

Stan shook his head.

"Good. I'd go back and kill him." Ollie removed his coat because it was the gallant thing to do, and draped it around Stan’s shoulders. 

"Where have you been?" Stan asked. He didn’t want the coat - he was still hot from adrenaline, and mad at Ollie for abandoning him - but he grabbed it and pulled it tight around him all the same.

"What? Oh - they sent me to Omaha to pick up a load. Just got back into town tonight." 

Ollie looked so perfectly, sweetly innocent. Completely guileless. Just concerned for his friend, and very handsome in his dark suit. 

"Oh," Stan said.

"I’m sorry I didn’t make your show. I left a note at the boardinghouse."

"Oh," Stan said again.

Ollie's voice was very gentle. "Were you waiting for me?"

Stan nodded.

"I'm here now. Come on, let me walk you home."

Stan folded the kerchief shakily. ' 'I can't. Sheep-"

"Sheepshead, I know." 

They ended up back at the boarding house, together, Stan with his face scrubbed clean, snuggled in the crook of his arm sleeping soundly, as Ollie propped a book on his chest and read in the pink and orange glow of the jewel-papered lamp. 

This was nice, Ollie thought, looking away from the book to the window. Snow was hissing against the glass like an angry cat, but it was warm, Stan was snoring softly. It was nice. 

Stan exhaled, blowing the pages of Ollie’s book, sending him back some pages. Ollie thumbed forward to his place. Stan exhaled again. They fluttered back. And so on. Eventually, Ollie turned out the light and went to sleep. 

* * * 

They had fun. Stan left Maury’s club and found a job at a boutique, giving all of the broad-shouldered ladies and theydies advice and helping them find the right fit. Ollie put in for a couple months of shore leave, and for a while it was easy street. Sometimes they played darts, drank beer, argued, rode the L until they were sober enough to remember their stop. They went to the lake front and laid on the grass and teased the stone lions in front of the art institute. 

Sometimes Stan slipped on his little black dress and his heels and made Ollie prove he deserved him. Those were the days Ollie turned into a gentleman. Doors opened as if by magic, never an inconvenience to be seen. Kisses on his knuckles as if they were perfect, delicate strings of pearls, a hand possessively on his swishless hips as if to say, I got you. 

I get you.

Stan took Ollie to his first drag ball. Ollie was a hit in his best suit. He was easy to like and even easier to love. On the floor he lead with such a light-footed agility that Stan sometimes had trouble keeping up, and every one of the drag queens tried to budge in for their turn. It was a matter of feminine pride, wasn’t it, to try to ride the bull. Stan let them play, because at the end of the night, it was always him and Ollie. Stan belonged here, and Ollie belonged to him. 

And the clock ticked on. The stuttering from the Stock Exchange, so far away, became a rumble, became an avalanche. Towertown - like Greenwich, Times Square, like Camden, like babylon Berlin - was a dream, a fleeting Camelot that couldn't last. The crackdowns on public disease - of the flesh and of the spirit - closed the fairyland clubs and scattered the communes. The dreamer was stirring. The pendulum swung to the right, picking up momentum as the glory of glitz-and-jazz became hunger and want. Markets crashed and the soil turned to dust.

They skipped out of Chicago when Ollie’s shore leave was up. They tramped through the upper midwest on the bus routes, St Paul, Fargo, Duluth, as far as Bismark and back again to Cleveland, and then all the way out west to California. The horizons were dark, the faces in the street were drawn. Shangri-La faded into sopping wet socks, holes in their jackets, and odd jobs. 

History lurched from the sickly sleepwalk of hunger into a waking nightmare of war machines and atomic death, into bodies piled in camps and on the streets of Stalingrad and the tide lines of Normandy, and souls suddenly unmade by a flash in the sky. All this played out in the papers as he and Ollie scraped and saved and wandered the home front. Stan’s youth faded, too, he wilted and widened and wrinkled, and the only grace was his ill-fitting jacket hid some of it even from himself. 

* * * 

1955. They lived. They saw the war end, the men come home, and the prefab suburbs start stamping across the landscape. Eisenhower and his administration drew big bold lines across the nation and decided to pay for them with a gasoline tax. The commies took up residence under American beds, and the homosexuals fell back to the closets for self-preservation. They were good days for the nuclear family and a straightjacket for everyone else. 

Speaking of straightjackets - in the new atmosphere, Stan felt more and more like he needed one. 

The suit had never fit exactly right, but sometimes, it didn't fit at all. Then - in secret - he opened his battered case and pulled out the things he kept under the false bottom, fake gems and wrinkled velvet, and tried to breathe free, if only for a moment, in a strictured world.

He tried to keep it private, so as not to embarrass Ollie, not to shame him in front of his friends. America was bestride the world, the least Stan could do was keep up appearances in their little sphere of the second-hand antique shop (VERY OLD THINGS - Laurel and Hardy --- Proprietors). 

They had dinner tonight with some of Ollie’s new friends from the local Charitable Brothers lodge. He had been strangled for air all day… he didn’t want to go there looking like this, with his suit coat and shirt and the trousers that Ollie had pressed so nicely. It wasn’t… him. The thought of playing that masquerade all night… he was tired, he couldn’t do it. 

He held up the dress.

It was hopelessly out of fashion now. It smelled like he had packed everything from shoe polish to ham sandwiches on top of it. But he smoothed it out, put the stiff wrap around his shoulders, shook the last drops of perfume from the vial and dabbed them behind his ears. He strung the pearls around his neck and smiled at himself in the mirror. 

The pearls had lost their lustre, and his teeth showed another twenty-some years of coffee and cigarettes when he smiled. The smile quickly faded.

"Are you ready yet?" Ollie demanded, barging heavily into the bedroom, hat on his head and impatient.

He stopped short when he saw how Stan was gazing at the mirror, the haunted look in his eyes.

Ollie took off his hat. 

"I'm sorry -" Stan looked at the old bag in the mirror. "I'll change."

Ollie crossed the room and stood behind him, gazing over his shoulder into the glass. "Why? You look wonderful."

Stan snorted.

Ollie reached for his hand, pulled on it to turn Stan toward him. "As beautiful as the day I met you." He kissed Stan's knuckles with a bow and flourish. Returned Stan's hand to his side. Then spun one finger in the air. "Turn around, I'll do you up."

Stan put a hand over his mouth as Ollie's fingers crept down his back, then pulled the edges of the dress together and slipped the buttons into their holes. One by one, up his spine until the clasp at his collar, and Ollie put his hands on Stan's shoulders.

"Don't cry," Ollie said, gently.

Stan dropped his hand. He was grinning. He spun and hugged Ollie to him tight. He reached up to grasp his chin, turned his face, and give him a firm kiss on the cheek. 

Ollie kissed his forehead. "There you are. Come on, we'll be late.

* * * 

Shuffle the cards. Masculine, feminine, man, woman, Mars, Venus, two houses and a trench and barbed wire and the guard towers of convention in between. He lived in no-one's land in between, bombarded from both sides - and then Ollie had stumbled across him, stuck his head over the lip of the trench and called him doll, eyes sparkling. He recognized a fellow outcast, a fellow question without an answer.

They got out of the cab. 

Stan felt warm lips catch the cool metal of his dangling earring against his neck, and he shuddered. Ollie's hand squeezed his. It didn't matter if people stared. Let them.

“Who’s this?”

Ollie’s hand on the small of his back. "This is my wife." No shame and no joke. Daring the world to doubt it.