#god i hope he gets published in a proper journal some day. his little voice was so excited

[afterthefeast]

what is going on with the cigarette smoking man what did they put in his character to make him so compelling

[mercurysnitch]

1976 Guitar (200 follower celebration)

Summary: An Australian runaway walks into a London pub... and finds herself having a drink with the one and only Roger Taylor.

A/N: As promised, my little celebration piece. I actually started this after I hit 150 followers, but I put it aside because I wanted to work on other things, and then decided to keep it for my next follower milestone. Which ended up taking a lot longer than I was anticipating, but hey, we got here in the end. 

Just fyi for clarity, the reader here is Australian, but living in London after finishing journalism training. Yes, even in the 70s London was full of runaway Aussies. But it must have seemed a lot further away in the days before instant messaging and video chat and free phone calls over the internet.

Title is from a Skyhooks song, recorded well after the 70s, incidentally. The bits in italics are lyrics from the song. This isn’t a song fic, and I honestly can’t remember why this is set in 1976 (I think it just sort of popped into my head like that) but those particular lyrics seemed quite fitting.

Warnings: Drinking, light swearing

*********************************************************

...one night I met a girl at the Sebel bar

And she taught me how to play that 1976 guitar

London, 1976

You decided you liked English pubs soon after you moved to London. They were cosier than the airy places you were used to back home, and the clientele were a lot less rough. Most of the time.

Your favourite pub was your local, just around the corner from your poky little second-floor flat. Decent food, good drinks, and interesting people. The bands playing on Saturday nights were always worth a listen too. Tonight, though, was a weeknight, which meant you were there for a stiff drink and maybe a nice greasy pub meal.

You hardly looked at the bartender as you flopped onto a stool. He floated over almost instantly anyway. "What can I get yer?" "Whiskey please" you ordered, attempting to be polite but mostly sounding tired. The barman smiled. "Coming up." It was fairly empty in the pub, so he returned with your drink almost immediately. You smiled gratefully and wasted no time taking your first sip. But you'd barely swallowed it, still dealing with the afterburn, when you heard a huff of surprise from a neighbouring stool.

You turned in the direction of the noise to discover the source: a youngish bloke with shaggy, pale blonde hair and big blue eyes. He looked strangely familiar, but you couldn't think where you recognised him from. If you weren't so annoyed you would've been taken aback by how attractive he was. Instead you glared at him. "What's your problem, mate?" He flashed you an annoyingly pretty smile. "Nothing. Just don't see many girls drinking whiskey like that." "Like what?" you shot back. "Like they do it all the time. Suits you, though." He flashed the smile again, and you felt your anger ebbing away.

Seeing the smile again seemed to jolt your memory. "Fucking hell," you gasped, "you're Roger-" "Don't say it" Roger hissed, cutting off your exclamation. "You'll tell the whole pub and then I won't get a moment's peace all night." You immediately looked downcast. "Sorry." Roger smiled reassuringly. "It's alright."

You eyed Roger curiously. "So tell me, what's the drummer from Queen doing in a place like this?" He broke into a cheeky grin. "I could ask you the same question" he said flirtatiously. "I've had a very long day and I live around the corner" you told him. "What about you?" "We used to play here, in the early days" he explained. "I always liked the atmosphere, and the people are always… interesting."

Suddenly you noticed him eyeing you up with curiosity. "I like your accent but I don't recognise it. Where're you from?" he asked casually. "Australia" you told him cheerfully. You noticed his expression fall slightly. "Not from Sunbury, I hope" he joked. You grinned cheekily. "Melbourne, actually. But I don’t blame you for not liking Sunbury." Roger was shocked. "You know about that?" You nodded. "I was there. It was a great day, actually, for me at least." Suddenly you smiled. "Anyway, whoever thought booking Queen to play at Sunbury was a good idea clearly knew nothing about bloody Sunbury. Or Australians, frankly." Roger smiled grimly at the memory. "God that was a shit gig. Might be the worst reception we've ever had." "If it makes you feel any better I enjoyed your set" you told him softly. "Queen's just a bit too sophisticated for most Aussies, I think." "But not you?" he asked, smiling. "But not me" you agreed.

"So what brought you to London anyway?" Roger asked. "I got sick of Australia" you told him. "It's so… behind, culturally. Anyone who's a serious artist or writer or whatever buggers off to London or somewhere first chance they get. So when you're still there you feel so far away from everything, it really feels like you're at the arse-end of the world sometimes." Roger grinned. "Arse-end of the world. I like that" he mused. "But I don't think you've come to the other side of the world just because you thought Australia was boring." You stared at him crossly. "Oh yeah? Why d'you reckon I'm here then?" you asked, challenging him with a look. "I think you ran away from something" Roger declared softly. "As far away as it was possible to get, just about."

You stared at him in shock. Now you thought about it, he wasn't exactly wrong. Suddenly your expression darkened. "Well, I suppose I'm running away from my mother and her bloody expectations of how I should live my own bloody life" you grumbled. He quirked an eyebrow. "Expectations?" "She wants me to be like her" you explained. "Find a nice bloke with a ‘suitable’ job, get married, buy a house, pop out a few kids, be a bloody housewife for the rest of my days." 

"And you don't want that" Roger said quietly. He understood how it felt to choose a life different from the one your parents wanted for you. "No, I bloody well don't" you agreed. "I want to achieve things with my life, have a proper career." Your mother had told you several times that there was no point trying to advance in your job since you were just going to quit when you got married anyway. The recent feminist revolutions seemed to have entirely passed her by, but then Australian society in general did have a tendency to run a bit behind on things like that.

Roger's gravelly voice pulled you out of your thoughts. "And what might that career be?" You smiled. "I'm a music journalist. Well, I'm a researcher right now, but I'm trying to freelance a bit on the side." Roger nearly laughed. "Y'know, most music writers seem not to like us for some reason" he observed wryly. "But I get the impression you might be an exception." You grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” "Maybe I would" Roger quipped.

You both drank quietly for a while, Roger gazing at you curiously. "Y'know, you never did tell me what's driven you to drink on a Wednesday night" he commented, casually as could be. "You really want to know?" you asked incredulously. Roger nodded. "Wouldn't ask if I didn't, love." You sighed. "Well, I was supposed to have a date last night, but he stood me up, which was just a delightful way to spend an evening" you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then this morning my boss was even more of an arsehole than usual, and I found out my article that was supposed to be published next week got pulled from the issue, so god knows if it'll ever see the light of day now. And then when I got home the disappearing date had the nerve to ring with a pathetic excuse that I'm almost certain he made up, and apparently he was blind to the possibility I wouldn’t want to reschedule the date he missed until I spelled it out to him."

Roger winced in sympathy. "Christ, that is a shitty day." “Well, it seems to have improved since I got here” you observed, flashing a sly smile. Suddenly he grinned, not bothering to be subtle about eyeing you up again, almost appraisingly this time. “You know, I could make it even better, if you’re interested” he said smoothly. You cocked an eyebrow in interest. “Oh, really? And how exactly would you do that?” “Have dinner with you” he replied, not missing a beat.

You blinked, shocked. “You want to-to what, take me out to dinner? Why?” “You seem interesting” Roger said, shrugging. “Besides, I like having company when I’m out, being alone’s not as fun.” You had to agree with him there. “So is it a date, then?” you asked, still a little uncertain about the turn your evening was taking. Roger smiled cheekily. “If you want it to be” he said. He seemed nonchalant, but you thought you detected a flicker of uncertainty under the rock-star swagger. You grinned. “You know what, bugger it. Take me on a dinner date, Roger.”

******

There were some decisions in your life you would live to regret, but going on that first impulsive date with Roger wasn’t one of them. One date very quickly became many, and before you knew it Roger was a fixture in your life. Well, as much as a touring rock star could be, anyway. You found it oddly satisfying writing a postcard telling your mother you were going out with a shaggy-haired rock’n’roll drummer, knowing he was almost the complete opposite of the sort of person she wanted you to pair up with. You’d also finally managed to get an article published in the paper, but, predictably, your mother’s response to your postcard entirely neglected that achievement in favour of detailing every reason she thought you should leave Roger and return home immediately. None of them really held much weight, and the suggestion your actions would damage your reputation back home was in your view rather forcefully disproven by the enormous quantity of messages you received from both friends and relatives congratulating you on both the article and your choice of boyfriend.

You did eventually find the things your mother wanted for you with Roger, in a way. Technically you never actually got legally married, but you were deeply committed to each other. And you did end up with the big house and the family of your own, alongside a flourishing career in rock journalism. It wasn’t always easy, juggling everything and getting people to take you seriously as a journalist, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Sometimes, just sometimes, you were just a tiny bit grateful for that shitty day in 1976.

In '74 we got tight, in '75 we starred

Then we learned to play that 1976 guitar

**************************

A/N: I don’t think there’s too many Australianisms in here, but feel free to ask if you’re confused!

Taglist: (as always let me know if you want to be added/removed/think you should be on here but aren’t - it’s been so long some tags have changed since I added them) @wandering-at-midnight @royal-avengers @trumanjo @ohmygoditsanthonyedwardstark @itsametaphorbriansblog @wineandwanderings @simplyvictoria-93 @kotoamor @j1224 @florenceivy @jennyggggrrr @mercurycrowley

[elizacornwall]

Vengeance is an Idiot's Game - Chapter 22 - Harmonica

Read all the published chapters here. -------------------------------------------------- Two days went by and there was still no word from the rescue mission. Lenny had been sent off with Bill Williamson and John Marston for something and they came back with a big grin on their faces, depositing their share in the camp lockbox proudly. Eliza had only once snuck a peek into the ledger, feeling bad not having been able to contribute more than a couple of animal carcasses for dinner. Everyone else was pulling their weight, she would have to find a way to make money soon. It was past midday, her chores for the day were done. The sun stood high in the sky, heating the air something fierce. This was without a doubt the hottest day of the year so far and she decided to go for a walk, to clear her mind. Since her self-admittance to the fact that she cared enough about Charles and Arthur to worry about them, she could barely think about anything else when she wasn’t occupied with some chore or conversation. Sadie had provided welcome distraction, recounting tales of robberies, rescues and other adventures involving her that Eliza had read about, but from her own perspective. Her accounts matched the base details well enough, but the real event was often less glamorous and much more gory. After hearing her describing how she shot, stabbed and choked her enemies to death, she was glad she didn’t have the woman as her enemy. She seemed to take pride in her work, leaving a mess wherever the bad guys had been holed up, and even though Eliza still admired her for her strength, she didn’t quite feel the same urge to become just like her anymore. This morning though Sadie had mounted her huge, mean looking mare and set off for the day, to scout out a homestead north of Valentine after Tilly had brought a tip back to camp. No gory stories today.

She let Miss Grimshaw know she was heading out for a bit so no one would be worried, and set off down to the river, the gun Sadie had bought her tucked in it’s holster on her hip. She was briefly shown she how to load and use it, Sadie had promised a proper shooting lesson soon. Eliza dreaded it, but it was a necessary evil if she was ever to fit into this life properly. Descending the hill carefully on foot, she aimed towards the river, for a nice long walk. Soon she wished she had taken a hat with her, the sun was burning onto the crown of her head even before she reached the shore, but it was too late to turn back now. Trying to cool down she took off her shoes and stepped into the water, walking along the riverbank. The stream was nice and cold, providing a bit of relief. Her mind was wandering as she followed it upstream. It had been four days now since Dutch had sent the guys out to rescue MacGuire, an operation that should have been completed in a couple nights at most according to Hosea; she had overheard him and Dutch talking. During those last few days she had managed to draw Molly’s anger (Dutch still liked to join her at the drop and seemed to spurn Molly’s company in favour of Eliza’s), Uncle’s attention (the old drunk had never tried to touch her, but had offered plenty of compliments that made she skin crawl) and Strauss’ contempt (he wanted her to help him persuade a poor widow to take a loan and she refused out of sympathy for her), so she didn’t overly enjoy her time in camp at this time. Miss Grimshaw kept her and the girls busy, but Karen was still worried sick over Sean, so the four of them weren’t as carefree and chipper as usual either.

A herd of deer skipped over the river as she watched them, her eyes lingering on the last doe that was struggling to catch up. The buck made sure to wait for her, only following the group when she was safely across. This made her smile.

Her mornings were still following the same routine as before, getting up early, making coffee and enjoying the sunrise at the drop. Only now she realised how much she missed Arthur’s company, especially when the only alternative at hand was Dutch. Morgan barely talked, just stood or sat with her either drinking his coffee, smoking a cigarette or sketching in his journal. He would sometimes comment on birds that were flying past or animals down in the valley, but unless she initiated the conversation he’d stay quiet, leaving them both to enjoy the peaceful morning. She missed his presence, easy and content by now after the initial awkwardness whenever the two were alone had gone. They had learned to appreciate each other’s silence.

Lost in thought, she was walking for a good hour when she saw the waterfall. Cumberland Falls Charles had called it, and told her about the little cavern behind. Realising how sweaty and gross she felt, an idea struck. It wouldn’t be like a proper bath, she didn’t have any soap for starters, but a quick wash would be lovely, and she wasn’t likely to be discovered behind the roaring masses of water. The path wound upwards to her right and she stayed close to the river, following the increasingly rocky shore beneath the cliffs. She had to climb over some tree trunks and boulders, winding her way through a couple bushes before she could see the fallen log that conveniently led up to the ledge behind the falls. Careful not to slip on the wet wood she made her way up and took a deep breath before she hopped through the heavy curtain of water. It wasn’t as violent as she expected, but she could feel the force behind it clearly, making her wonder what would happen if someone got trapped down below. The thought made her shudder. She reached the small outcrop Charles had spoken of and decided this would most definitely do well as her own little personal bathing space. She peeled out of the wet clothes, stripping down until she was completely naked and stepped towards the water, mindful of slippery spots beneath her bare feet. The cascade was cold and fresh and rinsing herself down felt incredible in this heat, just what she needed. When she decided she felt clean enough she soaked her clothes, trying to give them a quick wash too. Without soap they wouldn’t be perfect, but there was no harm in this. She laid out her skirt on the rocky floor and sat down on it, closing her eyes and enjoying the cool, fine spray that landed on her face like thick mist. This was much better than enduring the tense atmosphere back at Horseshoe, everything felt so far away and she could finally relax a little, letting the worries run off her like the droplets of cold water on her back. She would stay here for a while.

The completely soaked clothes were a nightmare to get back into, but she wasn’t about to emerge from the waterfall naked, not knowing who might happen to pass by and witness her in all her natural glory. They felt so heavy, climbing back out onto the shore was much more difficult than getting in and she made a mental note of taking a second set next time, or at least a gown she could cover herself with whilst hopping in and out. Because there would surely be a next time, the hidden cave had felt like a little piece of heaven to her. She found a patch of grass not far from the falls and laid herself out to dry in the sun, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon. She wouldn’t dry off completely but didn’t mind. The soothing murmur of the river and the distant thunder of the cascading water lulled her into a slumber.

_

When her eyes opened, it was dark. The stars were twinkling on the sky above her and the crescent of the moon illuminated the night gently. She felt a slight chill, her back was still wet from the water of course, she hadn’t intended to doze off and stay out so late. The people back at camp were probably wondering where she was, so she climbed up the slope to the path and set off. It took over an hour to get back and as she was approaching the camp she could hear music and laughter. A guitar. Eliza’s steps quickened in unison with her heartbeat, and as the forest drew back and she walked into camp, she could see the fires burning bright, people gathering and chattering joyously and there was Charles, sitting at the round table and to be the first to notice her. In a few big strides she closed the distance between them, he was barely stood up from his seat to greet her as she crashed into him, squeezing him into a tight hug. He staggered backwards for a moment, then caught himself and returned the embrace, chuckling.

“You’re wet”, he noted in his manner-of-fact tone, “did you go for a late night swim? I thought you might have left us, just going off and disappearing like that.”

She let go and looked up to him, a wide smile on her lips. “I was just out for a long walk and a bath. I thought you boys might have gone and died on us!”

She let her eyes sweep over the people in camp. Javier was sat at the camp fire with his guitar, a young man with ginger hair she had never seen before stood near him, giving a speech in a thick Irish accent; Sean MacGuire she presumed. The only person she couldn’t find was… Her heart dropped.

“Where’s Arthur?”, she asked Charles. Did he not make it back, was he -

“Here he comes”, Charles nodded his head towards a spot behind her and she spun around.

There he was, rough and tired and with a few days worth of stubble on his cheeks, but there was a happy, relieved look in his eyes as he neared, Sadie walking beside him. Eliza’s body moved before she could gather coherent thought and she threw her arms around him as she had with Charles, pressing her head against his chest. Thank God he was safe.

“Huh- Hey there”, he muttered, slight confusion in his voice. He had tensed up at her touch but relaxed a bit now, patting her shoulders awkwardly. “Good to see you too, Miss.”

Glancing upwards at his face she suddenly feared she had overstepped a line and quickly withdrew her arms from him, stepping back. Already she could feel the blood rising to her cheeks and hoped it wouldn’t be obvious in the dark.

“I was so worried about you all! What happened?”

Arthur scratched his chin and pulled a grimace before he answered, “O’Driscolls. There was a whole lot of them, so we had to lie low. Seems they knew what we were planning, whole way back was covered with them dirty bastards and we had to hide for two days after one of ‘em saw us.”

“I would have just shot the whole lot. They all deserve it”, Sadie piped up. “Our little doe here got all frightened, thinking you was in trouble.” She had a slanted grin on her face and her eyes was fixed on Eliza with a look she wasn’t sure what to make of. Her cheeks burned even hotter, she must have gotten burnt by the sun, sleeping out in the open for so long.

“I’m just glad you’re back safe.” She beamed at the broad shouldered man, turning around to Charles. “All of you. That’s Sean I assume?”

She pointed to the Irish guy who was now stood with the girls, loudly and unashamedly courting Karen who played hard to get. And that after all her grumbling and worrying over him.

“That’s Sean alright”, Arthur confirmed, “Dutch called for a party soon as we got back.”

He shot a look towards the big tent in the middle of the camp, where van der Linde stepped into the night at that exact moment.

“Come on. How about a song?” he shouted. Javier at the guitar started strumming the strings in a new melody and Uncle who sat next to him recognised it.

“The Louisville maid! Come on everybody, everyone knows this one!”

Charles and Arthur laughed and headed towards the fire, while Eliza stayed with Sadie, sitting down at the poker table.

“In Louisville I met a maid, Mark well what I do say, And she was mistress of her trade, It was diddle-diddle-diddle all day!”

Javier and Uncle initiated the song, soon joined by Karen, Sean and Arthur. It wasn’t a particularly complicated tune, and no one seemed to always know the exact words, nevertheless it was the best bit of music Eliza had ever heard. Seeing those people being so happy and carefree was a welcome sight, one that filled her heart with warmth. Sadie and her watched silently, as the group grew bigger and left only a handful of people who didn’t join in the singing.

“I put my hand upon her ass, Mark well what I do say, She says ‘let’s lay down on the grass’, And diddle-diddle-diddle all day!”

“And we diddle-diddle-did too!”, Uncle shouted when the song ended and everybody laughed.

The crowd dispersed and she felt a hand on her shoulder, Tilly stood behind Eliza, handing over a bottle of beer. She accepted with thanks.

“I don’t understand why she ain’t telling him how much she likes him”, she sighed, looking at Karen and Sean. He was showering her in compliments in his Irish charm, and she played the stoic maid.

Eliza shrugged, setting the bottle to her lips. “Maybe she thinks he’ll stop paying attention to her if she gives in”, she suggested, “but I don’t know much about these things.”

From Dutch’s tent the sound of a gramophone reached her ears, playing some harmonica piece. She suddenly realised that her back was still drenched and excused herself, heading towards her cot to get changed. It wouldn’t do her any good to run around damp in the cold night and catching a cold. In a fresh, dry skirt and blouse she returned, looking for her friends within the jumble of merry people. She saw Arthur and Sadie speaking to Dutch and decided they were best left alone, in case it wasn’t a conversation she should be a part of. Downing the last bit of her bottle she steered towards Hosea, who stood by the kitchen wagon, observing Lenny dancing with Tilly to the music, when Dutch called her name.

“Miss Eliza! How about you join me for a dance?”

She stopped dead in her tracks, cursing silently. She couldn’t say no without being disrespectful, her manners commanded her to accept his invitation. With a forced smile she turned her footsteps towards him, as he held one of his hands outstretched waiting for her to take it. Arthur and Sadie stood a few feet away from him watching her approach, she could see a slight frown on the blonde woman’s forehead.

“It would be my pleasure”, she answered, her voice slightly higher pitched than usual, and placed her hand in his big palm.

“Oh, the pleasure is mine Miss Eliza.”

He lifted her hand in his and placed his other against her waist, it was clear he knew how to dance and he took the lead naturally. Swaying left and right with the music, she was focused to keep the smile on her lips, following his movements.

“Come on Morgan, dance with me!”

Sadie’s voice rang from behind her, and Eliza almost burst out laughing. Arthur and Sadie, dancing? But low and behold, as Dutch swung them both around in a slow spin she could see her two friends move to the music in the same fashion, a bit clumsier than her and the black haired man maybe, but especially Sadie seemed to gain ample enjoyment out of it. She grinned at her younger friend widely. The pace of the music picked up, and Dutch sent her away with a spin, only holding one hand, then curled her back in, holding on a bit closer than before. Eliza held her eyes fixed on a shirt button on his chest, intent not to look up into his face. He liked to show off. Moving her feet parallel to his, he turned her in a slow circle again, and she saw Sadie winking at her. She felt a twang of annoyance, why was she drawing amusement out of this? Molly would be furious at her, besides Sadie certainly knew how she felt about their leader. Eliza hadn’t thought the woman would be the type to gain malicious glee from a friend’s discomfort. Another flurry in the music and Dutch prepared another flourish, sending her out and away from him, holding her right hand. Within a second, she barely had the time to register what was happening, Sadie had taken her left and twisted her around, freeing her hand from Dutch’s grip and sending her twirling into Arthur’s arms, all the while keeping her composure and joining up with Dutch’s steps, replacing her as his partner. It was all over so quick, Eliza barely caught her mischievous smile before Arthur steadied her, his face just as stunned and confused as hers as he instinctively took her hand into his own and tried to regain the rhythm with his new partner. They staggered a bit at first, staring at each other in bewilderment, before she caught herself and led him to fall back into the swing of the music. She smiled awkwardly up at him, her heart beating in her chest as if it was joining a different dance that was five times as quick as theirs. He cleared his throat, holding her gaze, a subtle hint of colour on his cheeks. The campfire cast a warm hue onto his face and made his eyes flicker, the blue of his iris now shifting between green and amber in the orange flame. She felt a strange sensation in her stomach and a nervous giggle escaped her throat. Realising that she had been staring at him for just a second too long she turned her head, severing the connection. His right hand was laid on her waist, lightly, almost hovering, as if he was not sure if he was allowed to hold her. Ever the gentleman. The two moved slowly, he soon took over the lead and set his hand a bit firmer on her after she had leaned into the touch herself. This felt so much different than it had with Dutch just seconds ago. She could feel the warmth of his body through her clothes and was embarrassed by the light clamminess of her palm in his. If he noticed, he didn’t seem to mind. They swayed together in the rhythm of the music, in perfect harmony. His feet weren’t as practised as hers and he didn’t move quite as naturally to the tune, but she trusted him and he trusted her. Circling slowly, she caught a glimpse of Sadie’s grin. She looked mighty satisfied with herself, watching her and Arthur and paying Dutch’s sour expression no mind. As the music swelled up and reached another flurry, Arthur held her hand high and guided her into a twirl, sending her skirt to flare out lazily around her legs. She spun her head to face him as she whirled on the spot, until he lowered his arm and caught her safely, guiding them back into a steady sway. She felt just a little dizzy. He held her steady, his gentle touch tripling her heartbeat it seemed like.

Get it together. It’s just a dance.

The first dance with a man that she thoroughly enjoyed though. She pushed the thoughts of what that might mean out of her mind, not willing to investigate the heat in her cheeks or the fluttering of her stomach at present. The music got a little louder, it was obvious that it prepared for the finale and Arthur sent her spinning out, holding her there for a moment before twisting her back in, their arms curling up with each other until he caught her with his other hand, her back firmly pressed against his chest as the crescendo came to an end. They looked at each other as the last note faded, faces flushed and breath going a bit quicker than normal, the camp around them forgotten. Then he released her hands and stepped back, tipping his hat.

“Thank you ma’am.”

As quick as that, the spell was broken. She was suddenly very aware of the faces staring at them, it felt like half the camp had followed their dance. Sadie passed Dutch into Molly’s arm, the redhead looking sour and clasping at her sweetheart, desperate to keep him to herself now. Eliza tried to catch a glimpse at Arthur’s face beneath the hat and believed she saw his lips curved into a gentle smile. Not quite sure what the appropriate response was in this situation, she did a little courtesy as she had been taught.

“Thank you, Mister! It was a pleasure”

He looked at her from under the brim of his hat, there was definitely a small smile beneath his stubble. She couldn’t help but let out a giggle again, feeling quite foolish because of it. Averting her eyes, she added quietly: “It has been a while since I last danced with someone I didn’t despise.”

He exhaled in a silent laugh and hooked his thumbs under his gunbelt. Why did she only just now realise how handsome this man was? She quickly pushed the thought aside. Sadie came into her field of view, throwing her arm around her shoulders.

“You kids had fun? I wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this, gotta drown myself in whiskey now.”

Eliza’s mind was full of questions for her, but lacking the ability to formulate even a single one of them she was condemned to stare at her back as the woman walked away, towards the alcohol supply at the kitchen wagon.

“You, uh, wanna go sit by the fire?”

There he was, the awkward Arthur Morgan that she had first met through the bars of the prison wagon, sat on the stool, his journal on his lap. She couldn’t help but smile to herself. Back then she had been terrified of him and now… Now she was disappointed that the dance with him was over.

“Sure, I’m getting a bit cold.”

They made their way to the campfire, keeping a couple feet apart. The distance felt like a precaution, there was a strange air between the two of them. Not in a bad way, just… Different. Like they had just met each other anew, careful not to overstep any boundaries the other might have. They walked in comfortable silence towards the gathered people laughing. In this moment Eliza truly felt as if she was home.

[lovelylogans]

where you lead, i will follow

previous chapter / chapter four / next chapter

start from the beginning!

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, verbal fighting, top surgery mention, classism, off-screen physical altercation (someone gets punched)

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 4,557

notes: i’m back in the country now and hoo boy jet lag does NOT mess around

logan's reviewing study materials on the bus monday morning. it's fine. the weekend has been fine. he's fine. he should focus on getting into an ivy. that's the priority. he doesn't care about roman getting kissed, roman getting asked out on a date, roman spending the night with—

logan forcibly relaxes his hand before he snaps a highlighter in half.

anyway. he's fine. he has to focus on school. he has to focus on the consultation with the faculty supervisor of the franklin that all journalistically-inclined sophomores are having today. he has to focus on his midterms. 

he's focusing on that plan until he walks into the franklin meeting, sits down, and they're in the midst of talking about some journalism Hot Topics when dee starts loudly proclaiming about how lack of attribution isn't a bad thing.

(your friendly neighborhood journalism student here! as according to the lawyer for the publication i worked for: lack of attribution can often be the sticking point for a libel suit or not. plus, it's just generally good rule of thumb to show readers where i got that information—like how i told you just now i heard it from the lawyer for a publication. that's attribution, though of course in a published article i would include that lawyer's name/title/why they have the professionalism to say that. it's often answering the well why should i believe THAT?! question before it can ever get asked, or at least showing where i got the information, like citing a source in a paper.)

logan, as you know, hasn't had the best week. a nice, bloodless debate about journalism is exactly what he needs.

(when he says bloodless—)

cut to logan sitting in the nurse's office, pinching the bridge of his nose, as dee's getting chewed out in charleston's office. technically, louise punched him, but everyone saw dee goading her into it, so. louise has already been sent packing for suspension, which is apparently a rarity at chilton, and brings him right back into the frame of gossip. just when he'd shaken the matthew nickname.

"well," the advisor for the franklin ("god, please, it's mel or doc or kram, don't say dr. kramschissel, you're wasting time you could be using to tell me about a new story idea") comments. "can't say that i've ever seen someone get hit for saying lack of attribution was comparable to plagiarism before."

"i hope this doesn't sour your opinion of me," logan says, but with all the blood it sounds more like bi hob dis doesn' dour your obinion o be.

"honestly," mel admits, "i've had my eye on you since charleston brought up that you wrote your first byline at seven, sanders."

"oh," logan says, then, "good."

"i don't think this will be a blip on the radar when it comes to admitting you," she says. "honestly, it's points in your favor."

"good," logan repeats, and removes the handful of tissues he's been holding to his nose for the past five minutes, sniffing experimentally. 

"shame about grant," she tuts. "journalists are facing a rough enough time without in-fighting going into it."

logan nods, and she continues.

"your opinion didn't endear you to grant, i'll have you know, but keep it quiet. she got in trouble for plagiarism last year and it's a near thing that she wasn't expelled."

"ah," logan says. 

"not going to ask how i know that?"

"you're a teacher, and a journalism one, at that," logan says. "i'd think you'd want to stay informed."

she smiles. "good guesses are the basis of interesting journalism," she says.

"basis, not journalism in full," logan says. 

"of course, research and interviews and so on, but a good guess can set you down the path," she says, and logan nods.

"so," she says, "you want to be an investigative journalist?"

"yes," logan says simply. he hopes she won't come back with the why? question most adults tend to ask. how does he explain the adrenaline high of a hard deadline, the way he floats after a good interview, the inherent justice of it all, the way that when journalism, done well, changes lives? how does he explain the deeply understood ethics, the sharply defended principles, the roles each journalist is preached to hold—of watchdog, to call on things gone wrong, of marketplace, for people to discuss ideas, of mirror, to reflect society back at itself? how does he explain how do no harm is something he follows not only in journalism but in life? how does he explain the way he felt the first time he published a story that mattered? how can he explain the admiration he feels when he reads the work of others? how can he explain the duty of keeping everyone informed, of reporting on the stories that would otherwise go unheard? how can explain that responsibility? how can he explain that?

but mel smiles at him, and oh, logan realizes. she knows. she has a doctorate in journalism and a pulitzer nomination under her belt and three books to boot. of course she knows.

his phone buzzes. logan glances at it, and then at mel, who says, "oh, go on," and logan picks up.

"logan!" his dad gasps, and logan tucks the phone up under his ear. "the headmaster just called—"

"i'm fine, dad," logan says. "it's just a bloody nose."

"just," his father huffs. "there is no just about my son getting punched in the face! i have half a mind to send your grandmother in there, see if i don't."

"maybe you should," logan says.

"what?"

"i mean, she's closer," logan says. "plus, i mean. what's the use of grandma being grandma if we can't use it once in a while?"

"fair," patton says. "but i'm coming right up, i'm on my way now. should you call her or should i?"

"oh, dad," logan says. "obviously headmaster charleston should call her."

"i have no idea where you got this evil gene from," patton says admiringly, as if logan has not seen patton play innocent to get the upper hand a million times at the diner alone. "all right, i'll call back. how huffy should i get?"

"maximum levels of huffy. your son did get assaulted, after all."

"i can't believe you've been confronted by more delinquents there than you have at sideshire, i'm totally bragging about that at brunch slash our next dinner slash for the rest of time," patton says. "all right. i'll be there soon. i love you so much."

"you too," logan says, and then realizes that mel was listening, and god, that was hardly the language of a proper upstanding journalist—

she laughs like she's heard his thoughts, and she says, "we're journalists, not robots. honestly, seeing you act a bit like a normal teenager doesn't discredit your work."

logan offers a tentative smile, and then, "i thought your pulitzer article was riveting."

"aw, shucks."

"can i ask about—?"

"go for it."

"how did you get the correctional officer to talk to you? korinth, i mean," logan asks, fascinated, leaning forward. 

"well," she begins, and begins weaving a tale about how she'd unveiled a story about suspicious prison deaths across the county, and then across the nation, and logan listens and does not bother resisting the urge to take notes in his notepad, juggling another handful of tissues for his still-bleeding nose with a pen (which she nods at approvingly.)

he doesn't notice the aggravated clacking of heels down the marble hallway getting increasingly noisy until the voice comes with it.

"—incredibly displeased that my grandson got punched by some hooligan, hanlin!"

logan scowls—mel was just getting to the part where she'd finally gotten into the office of a prison superintendent. 

"is that someone of yours?"

"my grandmother, yes."

mel nods, and stands, wiping her hands off on her slacks, and the door flies open.

"logan," emily frets, and logan blinks accusingly at charleston. 

"hi, grandma," he says, possibly overemphasizing the way the bloody nose transfigured his speech. 

"is it broken?" she asks, and snaps at the nurse when she doesn't answer in 0.05 seconds, "well?!"

"it's not broken," the nurse says. "it might hurt for a couple days, but it's not broken."

"small mercies," emily huffs. "what even happened?"

"sanders and a couple other students got into a spirited discussion about attribution in journalism," mel says. "slange was urging grant on—"

"not dee slange?"

"—but grant got rather heated when sanders said that a lack of attribution was close to plagiarism—a view i share, i might add—and her temper rather got the better of her," mel finishes. "and yes, the same." 

"emily, i assure you, the student in question has been suspended," charleston says.

"oh i should hope so!" she hisses. "someone hit my grandson, i will ensure those consequences are enforced!"

logan, internally, is kicking back to watch the show, seeing how charleston shrinks and shrinks in front of his grandmother that reminds him a little of his dad, but in a much less blood-boiling way because charleston actually deserves it. externally, he is sure to look as mournful and as much like a kicked puppy as he possibly can.

"here, here, here!" a much more familiar voice pants, and patton stumbles into the nurse's office, wheezing, clutching a stitch in his side.

"dad," logan starts.

"logan," patton says, "my son," and he sounds upset, immediately crossing over to frame logan's face in his hands.

"how is it still bleeding?! it's not broken, is it?!" he asks the nurse frantically.

"no, it's not broken," the nurse says. 

patton swivels to stare at charleston, and he's genuinely teary-eyed. "you said you'd take care of my son."

"well, now—"

"you did," emily confirms. "you said you'd do your best to take care of my grandson."

"how on earth is this taking care of him?!" patton demands. 

"emily—mr. sanders—"

"how could this possibly be the best school in the state if he gets punched during a scholarly debate?!" patton nearly shrieks. 

"mr. sanders, if you would calm—"

"no, i will not calm down!" he shouts. "how can i possibly trust this school to take care of him if he gets beaten up within its walls?!"

"emily, surely you can—"

"my son's making a valid point," emily says coolly. "i sent one child here, and did you see what happened to him? you said that children would be children. you said you were trying your best to control the bullying. i found my son crying in his bed and hiding any possible sign and refusing to talk to me because it had gotten so bad. my son. when i brought up concerns about my grandson, you said that it had gotten better, and he's been attending for barely two months when i get a call that he's been assaulted?"

oh shit, logan thinks, they're pissed. they're pissed and they're teaming up.

"we should sue," emily says, and patton jabs a finger at her in agreement. "i should have sued when patton was here!"

"well, now, a lawsuit is—" charleston says, sweating very nervously indeed.

"my son's nose is still bleeding," patton says, "and you're telling me that a lawsuit would be overreacting?!"

"dad, grandma," logan says, finally cutting in, because patton might start angry-crying at any second. "maybe not a lawsuit, though i am going to have to protest to dee slange just getting a stern talking-to and nothing else."

"he's not even getting detention?!" patton snarls. "i got detention for politely telling people to respect my name and pronouns, and someone who prodded someone into hitting my son is getting nothing but a talking to?!"

"i agree with sanders," mel says. "the role of instigator is not a small one, and from where i was standing, grant may not have been so incensed without slange's commentary. mr. sanders—patton, isn't it?—i'll personally ensure that slange gets some form of detention, which i'm sure headmaster charleston will agree with, won't you?"

"i do!" charleston says hastily. "or, he will get detention. yes."

"oh, he'd better," emily says. "hanlin, why don't we continue this in your office, and you can outline exactly what your plans for discipline are moving forward. i won't be making the same mistake twice."

"yes," he says hastily. "yes, of course, and an excused absence for mr. sanders, if you'd like to take him home—"

"i will," patton says hotly. 

"emily, if you'd—?"

and they make their retreat.

mel lets out a low whistle. "god, sanders, i hope you can grill a source like that."

"i have good examples," logan admits.

"sorry," mel adds hastily. "dr. melissa kramschissel, but i insist on mel or kram. i'm the faculty advisor for the franklin."

"oh!" patton says, and tries for his best meeting-new-people smile, shaking her hand. "of course, logan's told me all about you. he's very excited to work on the franklin."

"oh, we'll have a place for him, but if you'll excuse me, i think the bell's about to ring," mel says, and nods to him. "sanders."

"mel," he says with a nod, trying not to outwardly celebrate too much at we'll have a place for him. 

"okay, give me your face," patton demands, digging wet wipes out of his pocket. "does it still hurt?"

"a little," logan admits. "i'll probably ice it later."

"i'll be gentle," patton promises, and begins swiping the dried blood off his face. 

"so," logan says, "you and grandma might have terrified charleston into giving me preferential treatment until i graduate."

patton snorts, but his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he attempts to scrub off a stubborn bit of blood without pressing down too hard. "yeah, well. one of us should have it."

"i didn't realize grandma wanted to sue. when you were here."

"that makes two of us," patton says. "dinner this week is gonna be interesting."

"i suppose it will," logan agrees, and patton sets aside the wet wipe. he frowns, tilting logan's face side to side.

"you're going to bruise up something terrible."

"i'll ice it," logan repeats. "louise grant apparently has a hell of a right hook."

"that she does," a voice drawls, and logan instinctively stiffens as both sanders look toward the door.

"she's a black belt, you know," dee continues. 

"i didn't, but you certainly did," logan grits out. 

"hm, innocent until proven guilty," dee says, with a little bow. "good job on getting your grandmother to solve your problems, logan."

"are you upset i marred your otherwise perfect record, or something?" logan sneers. 

"or something," dee says lightly. "now if you'll excuse me, i have an appointment with charleston to attend. and this," he says, face breaking out into a grin, "why, this has only just ended."

he sweeps off.

"jesus, i've never seen a high schooler so clearly destined to become a marvel supervillain," patton says with a shudder. "that's him?"

"that's him," logan confirms dryly. 

patton pats him on the shoulder, and says, "well, on that slightly unnerving note, you wanna come home?"

logan hops to his feet, and follows patton out of chilton, to the car. they're on the highway by the time patton talks again.

"this has been a rough week, huh?"

"i can't say i've ever been punched at school, no," logan says, sidestepping the other part of his week.

patton scowls, briefly, before he says, "not just that."

logan jerks up a shoulder in a shrug, looking out of a window. "i should be focusing on school anyway. getting into an ivy. they start really focusing on how i'm doing now, so—"

"it's okay to feel sad."

"i'm not sad."

"it would be okay if you were, though," patton says.

"right," logan says. "anyway. we really need to get a new soap dish for the upstairs bathroom, it's been broken for months."

"and i'm here to listen if you wanna talk about it, okay?"

"...we're going to need to call the heating company, too, you remember how it got so odd last year. we might need to replace the unit."

"okay, okay," patton says, and they talk about the house and nothing but the house until they get to sideshire. the length of the drive makes it so that—logan checks—both chilton and sideshire high will have just gotten out of classes.

"you wanna jam tart, or something?" patton offers. "my treat."

"i was," logan says, and licks his lips. "i was actually thinking of going to lucy's and dropping by the studio."

"oh!" patton says, startled. "oh, i mean, of course, but i thought you might be—"

"why should i have opinions on the situation?" logan says. "he's just my friend. it's not like it's my place to say anything about it."

"logan," patton begins, but sighs and puts up his hands. "okay, okay, fine. let me at least drive you to lucy's, i want a double-chocolate shake."

logan gets their regulars, withstands some fussing from patton and lucy, and walks down the street to the studio.

ms. prince has taken over that class, but roman's sitting in the furthest corner from the door, head bent, working on homework. he looks up when the bell rings.

logan holds up the milkshakes in answer, and roman beams at him, waving him eagerly down the hall.

as soon as logan gets close, though, the smile slides right off, immediately replaced by a look of concern.

"oh, my god, what happened to your face?!" roman hisses.

"journalism gets heated at chilton," logan says, and hands over the chocolate-covered cherry shake. 

"someone hit you?!" roman demands, setting aside the shake immediately and taking hold of logan's face (logan's growth spurt means that he's a little bit taller than roman, now. no telling if it'll stay that way, but for now, logan has to get used to the new angle.)

"grandma and dad both came to yell at the headmaster," logan tells him. "now grandma knows that dee slange is... well, the way he is."

"he hit you?!"

"louise grant did, actually, but everyone knows dee goaded her into it."

roman shakes his head in disbelief, cracks open the top of logan's milkshake to steal his maraschino cherry. "you go to school without me for, what, two months? and you got punched. in the face."

"the nose, more precisely," logan says, starting to spoon through the whipped cream. "apparently, she's a black belt."

"your dad yelled?"

"a little, yeah," logan says. "i mean, he looked pretty close to angry-crying, but my grandma definitely yelled. apparently she nearly sued chilton for the way he got treated when he was there. hearing i got punched in the face has kickstarted that desire right back up again."

roman lets out a low whistle, and takes a long slurp of his shake, smiling at it. "um. thanks, by the way."

"i owed you for last time. and technically my dad bought—"

"no! um, not the shakes, but thanks for those too, i guess," roman says. "i just—i didn't know if things would be weird now. with jess and everything."

logan blinks at him. "why would it be weird?" he says, in a carefully normal tone. "we're friends. why should i care if you went on a date?"

roman freezes, lets out an absolutely false laugh, and looks down at his lap. "right," he says, quietly. "right, why should you care."

"how was it, anyway?" logan says, as if an odd and painful thing wasn't clenching in his chest.

"oh," roman says. "it was—nice."

"nice," logan repeats.

"yes. nice."

"roman. i once heard you describe yourself as talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show-stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before, and when it comes to your first date, you just say that it's nice?"

"okay, first of all, i can't believe you cannot recognize that i was referencing lady gaga," roman says, "second of all, i was just starting to describe it, calm down."

logan rolls his eyes, and keeps his face frozen in polite interest as he hears roman start to gush about jess, and thinks this hurts worse than his bloody nose.

meanwhile, patton walks into virgil's, shake in hand.

"no outside beverages," virgil says.

"you know what would go great with this one, though?" patton says. "a hot cocoa/coffee."

"you had three cups at breakfast."

"no, virgil, you don't understand, i need another one," patton says. "i actually was in agreement with my mom today—"

virgil opens his mouth.

"but patton, it's monday, you're about to say? well, i got called up to school because logan got passionate about journalism, like he always does, and some—some girl punched him in the nose!"

"wh—is he okay?!"

"he's fine," patton says, "he seemed to think that i was making too big a deal out of everything, he went to get shakes for him and roman. i'm hoping that's a good sign, but i'm just—he got hit, virgil!"

"he's okay, though?"

"bloody nose, nothing broken," patton says. "please can i get a hot cocoa/coffee?"

"i'm sending you home with a dozen jam tarts," virgil decides, and fishes out a mug. "oh, wait, you said your mom—?"

"my mom might have actually killed a man today, i don't know, she made him take her back to his office," patton says. "she was yelling for a solid fifteen minutes before i got there, i think."

"well, if your mom has to be who she is..."

"logan said the same thing," patton says. "he actually said that i should make charleston call, which." his lip twitches. "makes up a little for the time i got a month's worth of detention because i kept correcting teachers on my name and pronouns and ignoring them if they called out my deadname."

virgil high-fives him, face hardened. 

"also it turns out my mom wanted to sue when i was there," patton adds, distracted. "like she started yelling at him about me. i didn't know she was so..."

"loud?"

"upset," patton says softly. "i didn't know she was that upset about it."

"oh."

"i just—i dunno. i always felt so alone back then, and i can't help but wonder..." patton shakes himself, murmurs a thanks when virgil sets the mug in front of him. "it is what is now, i guess. can't change the past."

"i mean, if i could change the past," virgil says, an attempt at a joke, "i'd change the way we met."

patton smiles. "you weren't that bad."

virgil gives him a Look.

"okay, you were a little bad," patton amends, "but to be fair, i was on the verge of a breakdown for days and you fed me basically immediately after, that made up for it."

"well, i'd change it," virgil insists. 

"i wouldn't," patton says, smiling. "i wouldn't change a thing in the world about us."

except for one thing, they both think, except for one thing—

but they don't want to risk it, changing this silent, maybe-unrequited love into something said aloud. not yet.

⁂

logan keeps going to the studio after school. he did that a lot, really, did his homework in the pews, or read the courant, or compiled research for an article, but he'd stopped doing it as often after he transferred to chilton.

it makes sense that his date (boyfriend?) would come to visit him one day.

it's the wednesday after he brought roman a shake, and logan's busy perfecting his outline for his english essay that's due in two weeks when the door to the dance studio opens. logan blinks, looking up, and—oh.

the boy—jess, logan thinks snidely—hovers near the door.

"hell of a shiner," jess says, and he sounds impressed. "what happened?"

"journalism."

jess blinks at him in utter confusion, and roman bounces around the corner, beaming. the dancers (mostly around the age of ten) filter toward their bags. one of them is giving logan a pitying look. logan refuses the urge to bury his face back into his book.

"jess, what are you doing here?! my mom might kill you!"

"i brought you something," he says, bringing a bag out from behind his back, and logan barely suppresses his smirk.

roman hates al's pancake world. 

"oh, hey," roman says, rallying from the briefly disappointed look that flashes almost too quick to catch across his face. "thanks, jess, that's really sweet. oh, i didn't even—jess, this is logan. he's my best friend, he goes to chilton now."

"chilton?" jess echoes.

"it's thirty minutes away," logan says, and jess' eyes drop to the uniform.

"private school kid, then."

"fairly recent, but yes," logan says, trying not to get riled up. "i just transferred in this year."

"logan's going to be a journalist," roman says brightly, "and he—"

"yeah, he mentioned," jess says, cutting roman off. logan tries not to inflate too obviously, because sure, he might cut roman off, but roman always gives him that Look, the 'i'll-get-you-for-that-later' Look, not the way he's scuffing his ballet shoes over the carpeted floor of the hallway right now. but roman rallies, because roman always does.

"he's going to get a pulitzer one day," roman says. 

logan smiles at roman. just a little. "well, i'm not just focusing on journalism for that."

"yeah, but you're so good at it you're gonna get one," roman says. "maybe two. who's the record-holder for pulitzers?"

"carol guzy and david barstow are tied at four."

"amateurs!" roman declares, and logan laughs.

"as interesting as all that is," jess drawls. "should i...?"

"roman has class until six, then an hour's break, and classes again," logan says. "schedule varies depending on his mother, of course, but considering..."

"you could skip," jess offers, and roman actually laughs, before he blinks.

"oh. you're serious?"

"yeah, why not?"

because roman loves teaching the kids. you would have been better off asking if he could skip the sunrise yoga for the over-55s.

"because my mom might actually bludgeon you to death with a pointe shoe," roman says. 

that too.

"what else can she do?" jess says, with an eyeroll.

"oh, you're definitely new to town," logan murmurs, unable to help himself.

"what?" he scowls, swiveling to face logan. 

"you're definitely new to town, for two reasons," logan says, neatly shutting his book as roman slips back into the studio and a shadow looms behind an unsuspecting jess. "one, because ms. prince is rightfully the most feared person in town. and two, you haven't yet learned that she can be lurking around any corner."

jess rolls his eyes. "what, like she's the boogeyman? i think i'll take my chances."

"boo," ms. prince says coldly, and logan doesn't even try not to smile when jess jumps about a foot in the air.

"ms. prince," logan says, slipping his book into his bag and nodding at her respectfully. 

"logan," she says, without taking her eyes off her latest prey. "you have some nerve showing up here without so much as an apology."

logan steps out of the doorway, even as he's loathe to miss a ms. prince lecture directed at someone who's not him or roman, and quashes the urge to do something foolish, like skip his way to virgil's.

[imbriums-blog]

hello my angels ! i’m sorry this is so late but i’m sarah & i’m 18 yrs old & live in the hellhole that is ohio so the est timezone ! i’m ur token harry potter nerd & lover of all things musical... anyways u can hear more about 5/10 of my problematic children under the cut ! i’m gonna try to keep it short but i lov to talk so we’ll see ! if you’re willing to plot give this post a big mf like & i’ll come crawlin’ to ur ims !

— ✯ | barbara delaney savenkov ! + pinterest board !

tw: death, murder

laura harrier, cisfemale, she/her — have you met barbara delaney savenkov yet ? the twenty-three year old is known for being both poised and enticing, but also very skeptical and deceiving. born in san francisco, barbie now lives in soho, waiting tables at the fork and assassinating people on the side for some extra cash. + wanted connections !

so barbara was born n raised in san francisco, california to a solidly middle class family. her parents were divorced growing up, although they were friendly & got along well enough to be friends & co-parent barbie. she’d always been quite an idealist like Yes The World Is Good but when she was twenty, her dad had died due to a rogue heart attack that seemingly happened for no reason & it completely shattered barbara.

that’s when a local gang found her, at her ultimate low, & roped her into their business. she stayed w them for two years or so & at some point or another barbara started to realize that she didn’t think this business & way to make money was a good one. eventually, they starting cutting pay & barbara started to feel like she was bein manipulated. working w the gang kind of made her give up her optimism & is what truly formed her into the stone cold but somehow still elegant & captivating barbie she is today ! her idealistic attitude & never-ending optimism died with all of the shady shit that gang made her do.

then barbara was offered a job as an assassin for a powerful man doin some shady shit & she was unable to refuse even tho her first instinct was to turn it down – it offered great money & stability, & with the impression that she’d only be hurting people who deserved it, barbara shakily accepted the deal & left the gang !

she’s not pleased w the fact that she’s murdering ppl for a living, obviously, but she tries to make do with what she has & tells herself that the ppl she’s killing deserve it but !! messy !

personality-wise, barbara comes off as super intimidating at first n like she just doesn’t have feelings… super proper n always sitting upright n stiff as fuck… scares ppl away bc she seems like a robot at first

she's that kid who studies for the test like 3 weeks before it actually happens and has color coordinated highlighting and bullet journals.. she wants to be on top of everything, constantly – she doesn’t like feeling unorganized or like she’s falling apart ? i think it’s partially bc she tends to over perfect areas of her life like that, and like color coordinating her closet and making sure everything is tidy to make up for the Mess that is her secret career ??

one of the most annoying things ever is how perfect she seems on the surface ?? like, she likes everybody n is probably the type of person who rescues stray kittens from trees n sings as little birdies fly down & comb her hair or some shit but anyone close to barbie in real life knows she is a hardcore mess

that friend who’s like “oh my god i look so fat in this picture” n literally everybody groans bc shut the fuck up karen ur perfect

could literally say “fuck off” to somebody n the tone of voice she uses would make them think she was complimenting them

— ✯ | cordelia esther king ! + pinterest board !

alycia debnam-carey, cisfemale, she/her — have you met cordelia esther king yet ? the twenty-two year old is known for being both affable and buoyant, but also very whimsical and corybantic. born in salem, delia now lives in lambeth, working as a wedding planner and forming unrealistic expectations of true love.

so ngl cordelia is very inspired by jane from 27 dresses but w/ some twists so i’m not completely unoriginal

she was born to a pastor for a father in salem aka witch town ! cordelia was raised as kind of a perfect goody goody two shoes u know.. classic girl next door who sleeps w a teddy bear even at twenty-two & her entire room is covered in pink, she spends her spare time baking n blushing over boys smiling at her wtvr... she was always strong-willed & opinionated but shut up out of fear of being made fun of u know, kids these days r mean

so then when cordelia is old enough to leave her parents house ( let’s say like a year ago ) she decides that she’s tired of being the nice girl in the shadows & that she wants to live life more on the edge so she vows to start living life dangerously & being badass... whatever that means

it’s actually kind of funny, because she’ll stroll into a bar & bat her eyelashes at the bartender & single ppl in the room to try & get them to order a drink for her solely bc she doesn’t know the names of any drinks... has no common sense & is too naive for her own good ( what is a handjob... what does “on the rocks” mean ) but the girl’s trying to [ troy bolton vc ] break free so who am i to judge ?

she’s a wedding planner who’s actually in love with the idea of love & has watched the notebook 1 too many times... despite her being wildt nowadays she’s still into the whole “when i meet the one for me my foot will pop when we kiss & i’ll feel fireworks” thing.. it’s cute but also sad but ! cute !

personality-wise... she’s outspoken & friendly & incredibly flirty, but at the same time she probably either assumes you’re flirting w her when you’re really not or has no clue that you’re hitting on her when ur literally kissing her

is totally sandy at the end of grease when she’s like “tell me about it, stud” acting all badass but then doesn’t know what to do w her cigarette butt & looks nervously at her friends like WTF DO I DO

please come corrupt her or fuck her up... or be nice 2 her & teach her how to be a human being

— ✯ | dexter leroy bates ! + pinterest board !

torrance coombs, cismale, he/him — have you met dexter leroy bates yet ? the thirty-one year old is known for being both inventive and idealistic, but also very farouche and indecisive. born in hackney, dex now lives in croydon, editing badly filmed videos and gluing himself to a camera 24/7.

basically a nerdy starving artist based on mark from rent with a lil bit of peter parker in him

a broke ass bitch living in croydon trying his best to make it as a photographer / film maker

he has huge dreams of hollywood but his films r probably kinda bad... but he tries his best n i love him for it

kinda nerdy & word vomit-y... super cute... would die for his friends but also would kill u for insulting one of them

is that nerd that is actually hot n buff n shit but u never notice bc he wears hoodies n hides behind a camera bc i lov stereotyping apparently

i don’t really have his backstory worked out yet tbfh so really ? go wild w connections for my son

— ✯ | davina leigh cordero ! + pinterest board !

lauren jauregui, cisfemale, she/her — have you met davina leigh cordero yet ? the twenty-one year old is known for being both intuitive and diligent, but also very seclusive and obstinate. born in whitby, davina now lives in soho, studying journalism and avoiding as much human interaction as possible.

100% based on rory gilmore bc apparently even tho i’m on season 2 i luv the characters Too Much

basically everything i aspire 2 be in a person... hardworking as fuck, loves school so fricking much, antisocial as hell ! 

davina is deadass brilliant & her idea of wild is staying up past 11 on a school night or waiting to do her homework on saturday instead of friday

sweet, a lil bit awkward, but the cutest ever n i would die for her

would much rather be chillin w her books than anything else tbh & doesn’t know how to hold proper interactions but it’s more charming than anything else

grew up with only her dad mostly, since her mom worked full time & lived out of town for reasons but they both love her a ton. her dad would give her the whole world if he could, & owns a quaint little coffee shop in whitby & is constantly calling davina to check up on her... when she got older her mom moved back in w her dad so since then she’s gotten a lot closer to her but there’s still just such a bond between her dad & her u know

what is romance ? davina doesn’t know

come fuck her up

— ✯ | sawyer maisie pitman ! + pinterest board !

josefine frida pettersen, cisfemale, she/her — have you met sawyer maisie pitman yet ? the twenty year old is known for being both undaunted and driven, but also very apathetic and blunt. born in bristol, sawyer now lives in wandsworth, being a tragically pathetic starving artist & student.

so sawyer was adopted as a baby, unnamed, to two moms who love her more than anything in the world. one’s a publisher & one’s an english professor, & they’re both huge fricking nerds, so she was named after tom sawyer !

as soon as she could walk she was talented with art & everything that had to do with it & not long after entering high school she decided that that’s what she wanted to do & nothing was going to get in the way of it

now, as a student & hopeful artist, sawyer is dead set on getting where she wants to be & has no tolerance for bullshit... like if u ain’t helping her further her career, ur unimportant to her

relationships ? cancelled. romance is a DISTRACTION from her work & only complicates her life !

blunt as fuck & doesn’t sugar coat things. she says things like they are & expects others to do the same bc she has no time for drama or whatnot

stubborn as fuck & nearly impossible to talk to sometimes bc she’s so set in her ways but hey love me a strong woman amirite

sharp-tongued & sarcastic as fuck but can be incredibly kind when the time is right !

[penelope1730]

The Molly Diaries, chapter 16

On AO3

                                                                                                    Chapter 16:

                                    Mother and Child Reunion

                      “I can't for the life of me, remember a sadder day                   I know they say let it be, But it just don't work out that way                       And the course of a lifetime runs, Over and over again.”                                                                                                          Paul Simon

10 February 2016

3:43 PM

    Marilyn Wilcox stood in front of the large expanse of windows over looking the south bank of the river Thames, admiring the pale blue sky and a few, big pillows of clouds that could have easily been mistaken for newly sheered wool just waiting to be spun. It had been a long time since she’d come up to London, but standing here, taking in the skyline with the winter’s radiance bouncing off of tall buildings, streaming through the glass, she suppressed a scoff remembering how she worried about the dangers of this city, when it was really her own sleepy village that stole her peace of mind, and Molly.

    She’d forgotten how she came to stand here, mesmerized by the sky scape while weaving her graying hair into a long, lackadaisical plait. That’s right, she remembered, she had wanted to pull the shades so not to disturb Molly’s sleep, but thought better of it. The child had been in the dark for far too long that a little sunshine would probably be a welcome sight. Only she wasn’t a child, not anymore, and no one could predict how this event would change her. Molly had been through too much loss for her years, but she was head-strong, always came out better, happy, even wiser for it. And, along the way she became Marilyn’s, the child she was never able to have, and she’d be damned if anyone would take this from her.

     A sad smile flushed over Marilyn’s face remembering it wasn’t that many years ago when she stood in Molly’s bedroom, watching her sleep, wondering what her future would hold and, more importantly, if she could be kept from harm. The poor child had been inconsolable after Sarah’s funeral, and it was only sensible to make her a tea for sleeping, then sit by her side until she drifted off into the much needed respite from grief. Afterward, she walked around the bedroom, taking in all the years that had passed in the blink of an eye; the evidence mocking her from the pale lavender walls scattered with posters of the latest celebrity boy crush or band, cd’s littered the shelves next to stuffed animals and Beatrix Potter, although science books and Tolkien were taking over. There were tubes of pale pink lipstick on the vanity and magazines open to pages illustrating the most fashionable colors and ways to apply make-up, or how to know what ‘he’ was thinking…all the signs pointing to changes…and growing up too fast. So many memories to think about, including the one’s she would never see. It was the most difficult of decisions to make, but she knew there was no other way. Robert had to listen and ‘no’ would be unacceptable. She placed a soft kiss on Molly’s forehead and whispered, ‘It’s for your own good.’

    “Robert.” Marilyn stormed into the library and took in the sight of her husband, Peter, with Robert, looking over papers strewn across the desk. The richly paneled room, surrounded by ceiling to floor bookshelves and a large river stone fireplace, smelled of cherry and fresh pipe tobacco, and something else that would forever remain a memory. She waved the wisps of smoke away from her face in mocking disapproval, then opened the window for the needed fresh air.

     “What’s wrong? Is it Molly?” Robert and Peter asked in unison.

    Marilyn helped herself to whatever they were drinking, probably something in the single malt family, then swiftly drank it down. She was never one for strong spirits, but right now a bit of liquid courage might go a long way. “Of course it’s Molly,” she turned on them, shivering from the bitter after taste of whiskey. “Her best friend has been murdered and you lot are in here like nothing’s happened--”

    “That’s not true, love,” Peter interrupted, pulling her into an embrace and placed a soft kiss on her head. “You know that.”

    Impatient with the comfort Peter offered, Marilyn shrugged away and stared out the window…the room felt suffocating, even with a gentle, summer breeze. Turning toward Robert, she pushed down her tears in the hope to strengthen her resolve.

     “Ever since Lydia passed, I’ve been raising Molly right along side you, Robert. All of us have – she’s as much mine as she is yours and don’t think to tell me differently.” Marilyn paused and took in a deep breath, waiting to see if the truth she offered would be challenged. “This person…monster, that did this to Sarah, he’s still out there. You have to take Molly to Switzerland, put her in school…get her out of here.”

     “Excuse me?”

    “Someone murdered that little girl…we don’t know who…or if they’ll do it again!”

    Peter sighed as he placed his pipe in the ashtray, and pinched his brow as though this might help the weariness threatening to overtake his calm. He had listened to her worries over the past week, all the ‘What If’s’ and uncertainties that added to the heavy, gray pallor shadowing their once happy home.

     “Love, listen to me, no one is going to hurt Molly---”

    “You don’t know that, Peter! You…or you, Robert, pay little mind to the going’s on around here. You’re gone most of the time,” she pointed accusingly at Robert, then turned on her husband. “Peter, your head’s stuck in those damn beehives, publishing papers, or off with your mates. She’s growing up right before your eyes and you don’t see it, because you’re both too damn busy. I'm the one raising her and like it or not…I…I’ve made up my mind. Molly goes to boarding school and you’re taking her, Robert.”

     Robert paced the floor listening, poured himself another glass from the decanter and cleared his throat as he sat in the dark green leather chair by the glass doors. He was exhausted, not feeling well, and if his prematurely graying hair wasn’t enough, listening to Marilyn remind him he’d been remiss in raising his daughter, not properly seeing to her future, or well-being, left his mind spinning.

     “Marilyn…what you’re wanting...demanding…it…it’s damn near impossible. She’s not on any list for boarding school…I haven’t…there’s been no preparation. There’s procedure, protocol…I can’t just take her to Switzerland.”

Marilyn listened quietly, dabbed away a few fallen tears, then wrapped her arms around herself as she nodded to each word being said.

    “I understand,” she answered softly, walking to the door, then turned to stare at both men. “It must be hard to arrange something like this on such short notice. But…I'm giving you a choice, Robert, either you make this happen, or I'm taking Molly to Scotland at the end of the week.”

 ~*~*~*~*~

    Two days had passed since Sherlock and John left in the early morning hours, off to God knows where, to do God knows what. But, whatever they were doing and whoever they were doing it to, would not fare well by the time Sherlock was done. Marilyn had always considered herself a forgiving woman, that everything happens for a reason – and whether it could be seen or not – there was a balance in the Universe. Not this time…if there was a balance to be achieved, it was to remove the evil that did this. Nothing less would be acceptable.

    She sat back down in the large lounge chair that had been her home for going on three days and told herself that when Molly was fully awake, able to sit up and carry on a conversation longer than ten minutes, she’d leave and get some proper sleep. In the meantime, Laura and Mrs. Hudson had taken it in turns to help with Rosie, the other coming to the hospital to sit with her and keep company. Meena arrived daily, usually after work, and made lists of what Molly would need once she was able to start taking care of herself. At the top of the list were new clothes and a stylist – to ‘repair the God awful butchery the nurses did on her hair’. Marilyn would listen patiently as Meena rambled on about things that didn’t seem important, but stopped herself of any criticism knowing everyone was coping in their own way. For Meena, it was taking control of what she knew best, putting things back in order as much as possible…even if she couldn’t hide from the worry etched across her face.

    Grabbing thin strands of fleece from her bag, Marilyn went back to the ease of drafting the wool, gently pulling section after section, until she made it ready for twisting on the drop spindle. It’d be a good blend to weave into a lovely blue and green tartan, reminiscent of the Highland clans… especially to be used on cold evenings, reading along side the fire. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed Molly had woken, or watched quietly…her eyes bright and alert for the first time in days.

    “Nan,” Molly muttered, offering a sleepy smile.

    "Oh, my darling girl.” Marilyn returned the smile, and tossed the wool back into its bag. “Would you like some water,” she asked, sitting along the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of fallen hair from Molly’s face.

     “No…thank you.”

     “How about we sit you up,” Marilyn said, taking hold of the bed control. “The doctors say it’s okay now.”

    “Please,” Molly answered softly, pulling herself up with the bed. “Where am I? How long have I been here?”

    Setting down the remote, Marilyn held back tears of relief and smiled. “London Bridge Hospital. We’ve had you back almost three days.”

    Molly closed her eyes as though in search for any memory of finally leaving that horrible place. “I don’t remember. How long…was I gone?”

    “Five and a half weeks. Sherlock found you, he never gave up. Doctor Watson…John, kept a journal for you, so you’d know everything that happened---”

    “Did he say…how…” Molly questioned, a hint of panic rising in her voice as she thought about the unthinkable.

    Marilyn poured a glass of water and offered it to Molly, holding it while she took a sip. “It was something in your diaries,” she paused, “whatever you wrote…he figured it out.”

    “He read…oh god,” Molly sighed breathlessly, too tired to hide her embarrassment. “Does he know…who did this?”

    “I suspect so.”

    Molly squinted against the bright sunlight lowering in the western sky. “Where…where is he?”

    “Tying up some up some loose ends,” Marilyn patted her hand and placed the glass of water on the side table. “You came to him, in a dream…told him to read what you wrote. Yes, you did,” she insisted at Molly’s scoff, then crossed the room to lower the window shade. “He didn’t know you kept a diary, but it helped him find what he was looking for. He found you.”