#great comet tickle fic

[amazingmsme]

Music So Sweet

AN: Me writing an actual prompt instead of my own ideas no one asked for? It’s more likely than you think. Great Comet is way underappreciated, so I hope you enjoy!

Pierre sat at the bar nursing his glass of vodka. Across the club, he watched as Anatole wooed a couple of women by serenading them with his violin. As much as the young man got on his nerves, he had to hand it to him; the kid could play. And as much as he hated to admit it, they were family. Dolokhov leant against the wall rolling his eyes looking extremely bored. His eyes scanned over the room before casting his gaze downward to stare at his drink. He swirled it in his hand, glancing back up towards his friend. Anatole had promised him a night on the town in celebration of yet another duel he'd won, but instead shrugged him off for some random women.

He always did this to him, and quite frankly it was pissing Dolokhov off. He met eyes with Pierre and pointed at Anatole before making a choking motion. The man simply chuckled and shook his head.

He turned his head to the side watching the girls lean against the counter and look at the musician with dreamy eyes. It made him sick. Of course he would've been fine if he had a pretty girl himself, but Anatole had easily whisked both of them away and dazzled them with his skill. Anything he tried to do to impress them now would surely fall flat in comparison. 

Dolokhov smirked as he formed an evil idea, and he reached forward, tweaking his friend's sides. Anatole jumped with a squeal, the bow striking a particularly sour note on the violin. He whipped around and fixed him with a hard glare.

"Excuse me, do you mind? I'm with company," he said, willing a blush off his face. Dolokhov snorted.

"Indeed you are. Might I remind you with whom you came?" he said, pointing at himself.

"Don't need reminding, I just found better company," he winked at him and slapped his shoulder. Dolokhov's mouth hung open as Anatole turned his back on him and back to the ladies.

"I'm sorry, where were we?" He went back to playing, pulling the bow across the strings in a beautiful song. Dolokhov looked at Pierre in bewilderment. The older man shrugged his shoulders, unable to suppress the chuckles escaping his mouth. Granted, it wouldn't be as funny without the alcohol in his system. He mouthed, "Try again." And so he did. Just as Anatole raised his bow again, he lurched out and shoved his elbow, forcing him to mess up once more. The girls seemed slightly amused, if not a little annoyed that the song had been interrupted.

"Pardon me ladies," the blonde excused himself and grabbed Dolokhov by the arm and ushered him away. "Just what is your problem?" he snapped. He bit his lip to conceal his grin, doing a poor job of it.

"Nothing. I'm just surprised you even acknowledged me at all," he snarked. Realization washed over Anatole's face and he laughed.

"Dolokhov you never cease to amuse me. I assure you that we'll have as much fun and as many drinks as we want as soon as I'm done with these fine ladies. I'm sure you can find one yourself to keep you busy," he brushed his friend off as easy as sand on dry skin.

Dolokhov sneered, "No I think I'm fine right here." With those words he planted himself, knowing he wouldn't move from this spot just to spite Anatole. Said man rolled his eyes at the dramatics and spun around to face the two women. He picked up his playing and smooth talking seamlessly, smiling as they soon became putty in his hands.

Pierre was intrigued in where this would go. To an outsider it was obvious just how thin Dolokhov's patience was growing, and even Anatole could only be so oblivious. He sipped from his glass and watched the scene.

Dolokhov waited for the right moment and reached out with his leg, delivering a decisive kick to the back of his knee. His legs buckled and he nearly dropped his instrument, but managed to catch it in a fumble. This seemed to be the last straw for the blonde as he faced the larger man who sported an amused grin.

"Seriously, what's your deal? You should be celebrating your win not ruining my chances in bed," Anatole scolded. His friend merely smirked, "Messing with you is as good as any celebration I could possibly have." To prove his point, he reached out and poked his side. He twitched away with a slight giggle.

"Alright you had your fun, now let me have mine," he tried to turn away, but a strong hand on his shoulder prevented him from doing so. He was twirled back around, suddenly feeling very much trapped.

"Trust me, this will be fun," Dolokhov promised with a wink before wrapping an arm around his slender frame and used his hand to dig into his waist. Anatole tried to hold back his laughter, but only lasted all of about three seconds before the damn burst. The ladies watched on in amusement, giggling at his reactions.

Anatole's cheeks couldn't possibly be any redder. He was unsure of whether to push his friend away or to use his hands to hide his blush. In the end he did neither and instead flailed his arms around uselessly. He came close to elbowing Dolokhov in the face.

"Stohohop! Please!" he pleaded. Anatole saw himself as too good for most things, but he was certainly not above begging. His friend tilted his head teasingly.

"Why? If I'm going to stop, I'll need a good reason."

"Ihihit's embarrassihihing! And it tihihickles!" he complained amidst his mirth. Dolokhov chuckled and shook his head fondly.

"Well I'd hope so! That was my point after all," he teased, working his fingers up his sides. By now the ladies had moved on, leaving the men at their play. With the loss of their company, they gained that of another as Pierre walked up. The older, often somber man had an unusual pep in his step as he wandered closer. What was really odd was the abnormally playful smirk he sported, a gleam of mischief lit up his eyes that hadn't been there for years. Upon seeing his brother in law, Anatole thought he was saved and cried out for his help.

"Pierre help me!"

The smile on his face only grew as he leant against the wall and Anatole realized he was not there on his behalf.

"Bold of you to assume I think you deserve my help," he said, taking a swig from his glass. Dolokhov barked out a triumphant laugh.

"See? Pierre agrees with me, you only brought this on yourself." He ignored his indignant cries through his squeals.

"Whahat did Ihihi do?" he asked, still oblivious to his flippant and borderline rude behavior. Dolokhov snorted, shocked that his friend could be so dumb. Wait no, he takes that back, this is to be expected.

"This is what you get for ignoring me all night while we were supposed to be celebrating!" He shifted his hand to skitter between Anatole's shoulder blades and a loud scream of laughter filled the air. He gestured for Pierre to help him out. "Mind giving me a hand here?"

The older man glanced around the club, shaking his head. "Nah, too many people staring. I'll let you have your fun."

"Oh come on, you know you want to wreck the little shit for everything he's done, live a little," Dolokhov encouraged. He did have a point, there were many times in which Pierre wished he could put the arrogant ass in his place.

Anatole looked up at him with mirthful teary eyes, struggling to fight off his friend's hands. "Plehehease dohohon't," he pleaded. Pierre had to bite his lip to keep from grinning so wide as he set his drink down. That was all it took for the blonde to know he was utterly screwed. His squirming increased and he weakly shoved at Dolokhov's hands. Pierre stood before the trapped and giggling man, making a show of cracking his knuckles. His laughter and squirming only increased once he saw this.

Pierre added his hands into the mix of the wonderful torment and it wasn't long until Anatole's knees buckled. He leaned back against his supposed best friend for support, mouth hanging open in loud laughter. Dolokhov smirked and bent down, sweeping his legs out from under him so that he was holding him bridal style. Anatole shrieked at the sudden movement and his face flushed at the position he was in. He smacked at his chest, "Put me down!"

"Sorry, no can do. You looked like you were about to faint, and I can't let that happen."

Anatole rolled his eyes, "You wouldn't have to worry about that if you hadn't tortured me."

Pierre spoke up, "Oh it wasn't so bad. And between us, it'll do you some good to get knocked off your high horse every once in a while."

"You're always mean to me, dear brother."

Pierre simply hummed, neither confirming nor denying the statement, but acknowledging it nonetheless. With that, he patted his shoulder, picking his drink back up and tilting it their way in a subtle goodbye. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before ignoring your friend."

"Yeah," Dolokhov interjected as he set him back on his feet. "Now, what do you say we continue my celebration with another round of drinks?"

"I'd say lead the way." And he did. 

[rixxy8173571m3w1p3]

Winter Rain

I'd like to thank @xerxezra for the encouragement. I really needed it, and to the Enya song in which the title and fic is based on. I'm still working on the fic to go with a fanart of mine, but until then feel free to check out my other fics which can be found on my Fanfic Masterpost or Ao3 links which are in my description under my header.

In this fic the reader deals with a change in plans.

_______________

City streets were passing by, underneath stormy skies. No, there were no neon signs but there were cargo trains rolling by on the tracks parallel to the main road. Hmm, wasn't that an Enya song? Perhaps it was.

Funny that you were thinking of new age songs when none were playing on the radio, though you wouldn't have minded if any music was on; it would've made a difference. Enya's songs in themselves reminded you of that one teacher in elementary school who wore that cherry brooch you liked and drowned herself in a bottle of perfume. Your teacher, whatever her name, was halfway pleasant, but always wore a blouse which was a size too big and thus you always saw more of her then you cared to whenever she leaned over a desk to assist another student. Another Enya song, Only Time, reminded you of that one book you tried to read around that time with the questionable cover. Of course, neither of these things had anything to do with the drive home, but it was a passing nostalgia you couldn't pass up.

Wiry, naked trees were scattered along the way; none of them of much consequence except to the fragments of your imagination, where they were dancers in a wintery, mournful ballet. For his part, Rick was unaware of these random thoughts, for you had not mentioned them, but you did wonder about something else when you took a glance at the time and found you two were getting home a little faster than usual. “Rick, do you prefer driving? Or is flying in your spaceship easier?”

“I-I think each one is great in its own way,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the road. “but th-the fastest way to travel is by using my portal gun.”

“So it is. Hmm, makes me wonder what the Flash would have to say about that.” you commented as rain pitter-pattered against the passenger side window. “I bet he'd have a few things to say if you can catch him.”

“Gee, I don't know. I'll ugh - I'll have to ask him the next time I'm in his Earth dimension.”

Sometimes you didn't know if he was being serious or simply joking, though you tended to believe him, especially since it only added to your natural wonder. Your curiosity was a quality which tickled him immensely, but whether he could withstand it while driving was not something you were about to test. Outside, straight ahead, the roads looked all the same, although, to the discerning eye, one would notice the cracks here and there, and the splattered paint on the curb closest to city hall and the fire station. And while the roads were neither empty or full, you would say they were in want of life and perhaps a good shoveling, but with whatever technology hidden in the nooks and crannies of his station wagon, you two drove on the icy roads with ease. It was cold outside, but you weren't cold; Rick made sure of that by giving you the heated seat and a quilt to drape over yourself.

You were, however slightly bored because Zeta-7 hadn't been talking all that much this evening. He had been in a mood and you thought it could've had something to do with the phone call he received while you two were at the craft shop but he didn't say. It hadn't made him any less sweet, but he seemed distant in a familiar way that you were sure you had experienced some time ago. Perhaps he was fearful, he would have reason; contemplative as always; afraid, to an almost unhealthy degree, but risking a chance to placate him, you joked. “Are you trying something new? Is it a seduction tactic, cause I'm certainly intrigued.”

“Wh-what?” he blushed, as he turned the corner to head towards your street.

“Aren't you trying the broodish thing all cool guys do in those cheap romance novels? You know, the kind they sell at the drugstore?” you giggled, turning up the heat in the car to fit your preference.

“Gosh, n-n-no. I ugh - I-I don't think I'm cool enough t-t-to do that.”

“Really? Well, I think if you wanted to you could, though I doubt you'd try it unless convinced it would work. Not sure how effective it would be on me, but this isn't about me. What's going on with you,” you questioned with a serious, but gentle candor. “you haven't said much tonight.”

“I ugh - I have a few things on my mind is all, but it's going t-to be okay. I'm sorry if I alarmed you.”

“Not too much, I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Are you?”

Stopping in front of your home, he admitted with a sudden disheartenment. “I don't know. Sometimes it's - it's hard to know especially if you hear bad news but I th-think I will be. Eventually.”

One of his watches was flashing, and it made you wonder if it meant what you thought it meant. While you couldn't read the line of code which passed over its digital face, you thought you'd seen a similar line of code before. “Are you going to have to go? Is that what's bothering you? I know you promised that we'd paint together tonight, but you won't be able to will you?”

“No, I'm - I'm sorry. I had asked for the whole week off, but this - it's from my supervisor. I can't ignore it. I have to go in. I-I really wish I didn't have to.”

“Oh Rick, if you had to go, why didn't you tell me earlier? I would've understood.”

“You were having such a-a great time picking out supplies that I didn't - I couldn't bring myself to crush your excitement. Now th-that I think about it, I don't know if this was any better, but I-I asked that I'd be able to bring you home first so that I wouldn't have to worry about leaving you there without a-a word.”

Zeta-7 hated to break his promises, and you hated the feeling of a broken promise, but as he switched the car off, and you two walked towards your porch, you admitted. “I would've figured it out and got home somehow. I mean there's enough Uber drivers in this town, and one of them would've driven me home, but I'm glad that at least I had this time with you. Please be careful and visit me whenever. You know you can.”

Instead of comforting him as your easy resignation usually would, he balled his fists and hit them against the railing; hateful of his own inadequacies. You had to admit that when he got upset, it caught you off guard, but it also reminded you that he still was very much a Rick, albeit a softer one. “Th-this wasn't supposed to happen. I-I don't understand why it always comes to this. We were - I had so many things planned out for us and th-”

You hugged him from behind, interrupting what he was going to say. “There will always be next time. Calm down,” you cooed, “it's all going to be okay. It's not the end of the world and I'm not upset by it.”

“But I don't - I don't want t-to keep doing this to you. I promised.”

“I know, but it's not like you do this on purpose. You see, this is what happens when a girl like me dates a guy like you. Expect the unexpected, and maybe a few space worms every once in a while if I eat a sandwich from a gas station on a comet somewhere. These things happen.”

“I wish it - it didn't. Lately,” he confessed, his voice taking on its softer quality. “I've been thinking a-about when I'd like to retire. Maybe I finally should.”

“Whatever you want to do, I'm okay with it. As long as it makes you happy, but only if you do it without regret. You would know best of course.”

“I-I certainly hope so.”

You two stood there in silence for a moment, but you heard a beeping noise emanate from under his sleeve. “I d-don't want to say goodbye, but I'll miss you m-mi corazón.”

When he wasn't around, your home felt emptier,

though you refrained from saying so, and because you didn't want to add to his guilt you simply said. “I'll miss you too.”

“Th-there's a chance I won't see you in a few days. At least it will feel th-that way for me.”

“You can always call me, and if you can't then I'll see you when I see you. You know where I'll be.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “somewhere I-I'm not.”

“Don't say that. You're always on my mind, and I'd like to think you're always with me, in one way or another. There's no way I couldn't think of you.”

He turned around to face you, his eyes appearing twice as expressive through his glasses. Zeta-7 studied you and brushed his thumb across the back of your hand. “Siempre estás c-conmigo, and because of - of that, I'm never truly l-lonely.”

“Oh Rick, I love you.”

As easily as it was to adore him with your entire being, so it was to break his heart. Whether it had been a lack of love or an abundance of heartache in his life thus far which shook him to his bones, a replenishing of spirit was always in order. You weren't tall, you never had been, but stepping on the tips of your toes, you pressed a kiss on his cheek that never failed to floor him, and marvel as though it were from a fairy queen; one comprised of stardust and moonbeams. “This means you belong to me. Got it cutie? No one else has dibs except for me, so don't look so surprised. You're mine.”

Like a tease, the weather picked up and the strong gust which followed made you shiver, which alarmed him and prevented his reply. You were trying to tough it out because he could be gone at any moment. And must've sensed this, for against your control you shivered once more, but he pulled off his own scarf to wrap around your neck. “It's going t-t-to get colder,” he said protectively. “so please don't forget to wrap yourself up tonight. I um - I placed a-a few thick blankets in your closet just in case. Why d-don't you go inside?”

“Because I can bear it for a little bit longer. Thank you,” you smiled sweetly up at him, despite losing feeling in your cheeks. “but I doubt I'll try to leave my house for the next few days. I'll look after this for you. Hopefully, it's going to be warmer where you're going.”

“I-I can't say, it's…”

“Classified information.” you finished.

“Gosh, I-I-I guess you know th-the drill by now. Smart girl.”

“Maybe. I don't know much, but I know you, and that you can't tell me certain things because you don't want whichever information to be held against me. At least I'm learning. Either way,” you softened, buttoning the top button on his jacket. “please be careful.”

“I-I will. Can I um - can I-I give you a kiss?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

Though of course, he would ask as though your disappointment would disqualify his validity to partake of your affection. He bent down to try to kiss you goodbye, his glasses fogging up at the closeness between you two, but a portal opened right behind him and the guard Rick's on the other side pulled him through. And like that, he was gone again; without a choice; without a goodbye. Your arms which had been around his waist a moment ago, you brought down to rest at your sides, and you too clenched your fists in quick frustration but found yourself halfway exhausted by the cold temperatures and suddenness of it all.

His scarf felt warm and soft about your neck and smelled like him; of vanilla, and of whatever his house smelled like. You thought of the painting that you two would not do tonight, and how you were once again alone. That seemed to magnify it all, intensify the fact that you might've always been alone and destined to remain as such. It used to make you cry when you realized that he could be taken from you at any moment, but you had gotten used to it, or at least you thought you did. Only a few hours ago, you two were at a café, discussing painting techniques and how with a little practice you too could paint that little tree you liked that was growing in the corner of your yard; his enthusiasm was contagious, and you were pumped because you really wanted to show him you had been practicing.

If once again someone cried, then it was you because he couldn't cry where he was going; he wouldn't dare to and repress it for as long as he could help it; if only you were as strong.

Oh, winter rain, how could it relate? It knew little except its natural way; of falling upon the earth; of life; of beginnings; of letting go; of uncertainty. Yet, it wasn't the rains fault; it does not know and could not know; if only. It was cold, and you were cold, with the only part of you that was really warm being where his scarf was.

Thinking of what lied in store for him made you want him back all the more so that you could hold him, and make him feel safe. You wanted him back now because it seemed so unfair that they'd take him when he didn't want to go, but you couldn't bring him back; not even for his sake; being against your power just like the rain. For now, all you could do was only open the front door to your home and step in as the last train passed by; not knowing when the next will come.

Fin

[only-1-a]

[Fic] Love Alone

After watching Madzie for the day, Magnus and Alec find there’s something they need to discuss.

A VERY HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY TO MY DEAR @s-erendipitiness WHO DEALS WITH SO MUCH OF MY NONSENSE AND HELPS ME PLOTS OUT MY ANGSTIEST IDEAS! HERE YOU GO! TWO WEEKS LATE, BUT IT’S HERE!

Alec barely had time to look up at the sound of the knock at the door before it burst open. Magnus stood a little shell shocked where the door had nearly hit him, while Alec ducked down quickly to catch the intruder.

“Gotcha,” he smiled as he wrapped his arms around the tiny, wriggling mass of pink. “You won't get away that easy.”

“Noooooooooo,” Madzie whined, giggling too hard to escape Alec's hold. He just hugged her tighter and lifted her off the ground for good measure.

Magnus rolled his eyes at the antics of his boyfriend. Who knew that Mr. Tall, dark, and stoic was amazing with kids? He could admit to himself at least it was endearing. Of course his attention was quickly taken back to Catarina when she shoved a heavy bag into his chest, nearly driving the air out of his lungs. She kept piling more into his arms out of a suspiciously small bag, all while listing off instructions.

“Her latest interest is space. Be ready for her to tell you all about it. Her favourite books are all in there. There are some minor spell books if she wants to practice with you. Don't let her try anything too big though. I don't need her getting ideas, and trying to summon a shark into the living room again. She's eaten, but I packed an afternoon snack if she gets hungry before dinner. Don't feed her a ton of junk please. Don't let her nap, or you'll never get her to sleep tonight. Same for sugar and pop. Thank you again for watching her.” Catarina already looked exhausted, and her 18 hour shift hadn't even started yet.

“You know you can bring Madzie here any time,” Magnus assured her, and summoned a coffee from down the street for her. With a snap, he added a tiny boost of magic just to make the day a bit more tolerable for his friend. “Alexander and I both adore her. We'll both make sure she's perfectly-”

“Sweetpea, Alec isn't a jungle gym,” Catarina interrupted. Magnus turned around, and sure enough, Madzie was climbing Alec with great determination.

“Yes he is,” Madzie replied, grabbing onto Alec's shoulder to pull herself up.

Alec just looked over at them both with his most serious expression and added, “Yes I am.” To his credit, he only winced a little bit when Madzie planted her foot in his ribs.

Catarina just shook her head with a laugh. There was no point in arguing, so she might as well save her energy for the long day ahead. “Have a good day you three. I'll see you sometime tomorrow morning,” she said kissing Magnus’ cheek, and blowing one to Madzie who deftly caught it from her perch on Alec's arm.

“So, what do you want to do today Madzie?” Magnus asked with a grin that Alec recognized from two things. It was the look he reserved for young children. The man could never hide just how much he adored kids, and Alec couldn't help but hope that would be something they would talk about one day.

That grin was also for when Magnus was planning mischief.

Madzie seemed to share the same expression, because without warning, she loudly declared, “TICKLE WAR!”

Two tickle wars, one snack, a magic lesson, and one pillow fight later, and Alec was down for the count. Magnus had laughed when Alec had asked for quiet, reading time with his face planted in the carpet. Lucky for him, Madzie decided she wanted to show Alec her new favourite book, so she had pulled him into her room to read while Magnus started on dinner.

He could just barely make out the sound of Alec reading aloud. From what he could gather, it was a book about comets and meteors.

All was calm for the first time in hours, and Magnus let his mind wander while he waited for the water to boil. He thought about this being a normal thing. He thought of a calm life, without imminent danger every other week. He thought of slowing down, and just taking the time to be with Alexander. They could explore the world at a more leisurely pace. They could take their time, just to love each other. After all, they had plenty of it, right? He thought of quiet nights like these, with Alexander reading to-

That train of thought was cut short by a piercing scream. Magnus’ blood ran cold, and he had never moved so fast in his life.

---

Alec had no idea how things had gone wrong so quickly. He had been sitting on the bed with Madzie reading aloud for her, and she had been adding commentary on every page.

“This one's my favourite,” she said, pointing at the page. Truth be told, it looked the same as all the other illustrated space rocks in the book, but Alec nodded his encouragement anyway. “It sounds like Catarina.”

Alec nodded, and read the page out for her. “Catalina was last spotted in 2005 and is visible every 153 years. It's next expected appearance is in 2159.”

“Cat says we can see it together next time. She promised,” Madzie grinned up at him, fingers tracing the pictures on the page. “You and Magnus can come too!” she declared proudly.

Alec’s heart clenched painfully at that. Was she too young to know? Surely, if Madzie was old enough to know she was immortal, then she was old enough to have been told she was the exception, and not the norm. His expression must have reflected his thoughts, because Madzie’s own smile slowly drooped in his silence.

“You and Magnus will be there, right?” she asked quietly.

Alec closed his eyes, not wanting to have to look at her when his words inevitably made her sad. He had never been good at lying, and he couldn’t see himself starting now, especially not to Madzie. Madzie who had saved his life twice. Madzie who trusted him to watch out for her, and looked up to him. So, he squeezed her tight, and exhaled a long breath before answering. “If you invite Magnus, I’m sure he would love to go. He loves you so much, I’m sure he would do anything for you if you asked,” Alec didn’t quite have to force a laugh, remembering earlier how Madzie had asked to go to Turkey for dinner. Magnus would have caved if Alec hadn’t reminded him it was the middle of the night in Turkey.

“You have to come too,” she whined. Alec could swear, she sounded exactly like Izzy had at her age. Izzy would know how to handle this kind of situation better. He had no clue what he was doing. He felt her turn around in his lap, and heard the book thunk to the floor. Madzie tugged on his shirt, persisting. “Alec. Alec? Alec, you have to come see the comet too. It won’t be any fun if you’re not there too.”

Alec laughed quietly at that, and opened his eyes for her. Of course the first time someone called him fun was when he had to disappoint them. That seemed like a good reflection of his life, somehow. Her eyes were wide with concern, and under her scarf, Alec could see her little gills flapping, to draw in more air. “I’m sorry Sweetpea,” Alec whispered, borrowing Magnus’ name for her. “I won’t be able to make it. I won’t be around then.”

“Why not? Where will you be?”

Alec didn’t want to disappoint her, but it seemed inevitable. With a sigh, Alec pulled Madzie closer. “I won’t be around any more in a hundred years, because I’m mortal Madzie. Mortals don’t live that long.” Her head ducked down as he explained why he couldn’t see the comet with her, so he couldn’t see her expression, but he did feel her stiffen in his arms.

The sound started so softly, Alec didn’t quite know what it was at first. Then Madzie began to shake, and he heard tiny hiccups coming from her throat. “Madzie?” he ducked down to try and see her properly, only to see tears streaming down her face. “Madzie. Hey, it’s…” Saying it was okay didn’t sound right. “I promise I’ll be around for a long time. I’ll live for a long time, just for you, and Magnus, and Izzy, and Jace.” Could he even say that for certain, given his job? How many times had he already almost died? He could die at any time against any number of demons or Downworlders. Her hiccups persisted though, and Madzie’s quiet tears were slowly turning into sobs. Alec didn’t have time to think his words over precisely. “Hey, hey, shh. It’s going to be fine. I’m not going to die for a long, long time.”

That apparently was the exact wrong thing to say. Madzie gasped, and that was the only warning Alec got. She let out an ear piercing scream. He didn’t know if it was magic, or proximity that made the scream sound abnormally loud.

“Shh, Madzie. Shh. Don’t cry. It’s okay. I’m right here Madzie,” Alec tried to comfort her, but she couldn’t seem to hear him over the sound of her own wailing.

Seconds later, Magnus ran in, expression terrified, and hands raised to attack. His eyes scanned the room for immediate danger before landing on Alec. Alec must have looked as panicked as he felt, because Magnus lowered his guard, and stepped into the room looking more concerned than murderous. “Madzie?” Magnus said softly, approaching the two of them. “Sweetpea? What’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling, and placing a hand on her cheek.

With a sob, she ripped herself out of Alec’s loose grip, and launched herself at Magnus. He was nearly thrown to the floor, but she barely seemed to notice as she sobbed into his shoulder. Magnus rubbed gentle circles into her back. To Alec, he mouthed over her shoulder, ‘What happened?’

Before Alec had the chance to reply, Madzie cried more loudly, “Alec’s going to die!”

Magnus felt his blood freeze. Alec looked just as frozen by her words, but also strangely guilty. Magnus had no idea how to respond. It was something he had known in the back of his mind. He had thought about the difference between his and Alec’s lifespans in situations where it was obvious just how young Alexander actually was. Never before had the issue of Alec’s mortality been thrust in his face so forcefully though. Still, with a crying child in his arms, Magnus had to make himself keep breathing and focus on settling Madzie down.

“I don’t want Alec to die,” she hiccuped, and wiped her nose on Magnus’ shirt. The tears just kept pouring.

“You’re okay Sweetpea,” Magnus soothed gently. “Alexander...Alexander will be with us for a long time,” he whispered into her hair. “He loves you very much. He might not be here forever, like you and me, but he’ll definitely be here to watch you grow up.” He continued to whisper platitudes to her, and rub her back. At some point, Alec scooted closer to them, and added his own comforting arms around both of them.

Eventually, Madzie cried herself to sleep. Magnus tucked her in, while Alec tidied up the room. They were both quiet, even after they left the room.

Alec left to clean up the kitchen, and Magnus didn’t stop him. Both of them had lost their appetites after facing all that. If Madzie woke up hungry later, Magnus would just summon her something to eat. It wouldn’t quite be the homemade, family meal they had planned, but at least she wouldn’t starve.

Almost an hour later, Alec emerged from the kitchen, to join Magnus on the couch. Magnus had no doubt the kitchen was now beyond spotless - the benefits of dating a stress cleaner. Magnus also had no doubt that if the silence hanging between them lasted much longer, it would choke him.

Alec must have been thinking the same thing, because a minute or so later, Alec spoke up, “We need to talk about this, don’t we?”

Magnus turned to look at Alec, but Alec’s gaze was locked on the far wall. “I suppose it was inevitable. We’d have to talk about it eventually,” Magnus conceded.

“You know I love you, right?” Alec turned towards him, but he still wouldn’t meet Magnus’ eyes. He took Magnus by the hands, and focused on those instead. “And I’ll love you for the rest of my life. No matter what happens, I’ll always love you.”

Tears stung at Magnus’ eyes. Of course Alec could declare his unending love, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Of course Alec’s love could bring him near tears when little else did. Maybe that was why he so selfishly wanted to hold onto that love. One lifetime with Alexander would never be enough.

Magnus had to swallow a few times to find his voice, but he was eventually able to nod, and whisper, “I love you too.” He took a few deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. It was the only way for Magnus to stop himself from telling Alec, he would love him for the rest of his life too. There was so much more he needed to say, but he just couldn’t find the words. Those ones sounded like too much pressure.

“I may not have forever,” Alec started again slowly, as if looking for the right words himself. “But I promise to love you, for every day I do have, with all my heart and soul. I know it’s not enough, but it’s all of me.” He finally looked up, only to stare straight at Magnus with the intensity, and seriousness with which he had once told Magnus there was nothing ugly about him. It was the kind of look that made Magnus have to believe exactly what Alec said.

Part of him wanted to laugh, or to do anything to lighten the mood. All the words he couldn’t say were still choking him, but there were words he needed to say, despite this. “You are always enough, Alexander,” Magnus replied, voice scratchy with the tears he couldn’t let go of. “You will always be enough.” With a tired sigh, he closed his eyes, and leaned in to rest his forehead against Alec’s.

‘I don’t want Alec to die.’ Madzie had said.

Magnus wrapped his arms around Alec, and pulled him closer. Alec seemed to get the hint, pulling Magnus into a hug that always felt like home.

‘I don’t want Alexander to die either,’ Magnus thought, letting himself disappear into Alec’s embrace.

[torestoreamends]

Moramortia: Chapter 20

It's January, and Albus is waiting at Platform 9 3/4 for Scorpius to arrive, so they can take the Hogwarts Express back to school together for the very final time…

Read it on AO3 / Pick a chapter

A/N

So this is it... It's been a wild ride! I'm probably prouder of this fic than anything I've ever written before, and there are so many people who it wouldn't have happened without:

-My amazing friends/guinea pigs/victims who I sent the worst snippets to as I was writing. -All the readers and commenters, especially the people who took time to send lengthy liveblogs of each chapter for my entertainment. -And especially to my incredible friend and beta, @abradystrix, who first heard about this idea about a year ago, and has been suffering ever since. How do you feel about a novel-length fic about the adventures of Bathilda the Bat next?

Massive love to you all, thank you for your support (and your delicious tears), and I'll see you again... whenever I finish writing my next masterwork of angst!

*

XX Epilogue – The Hogwarts Express

Albus stands on the platform, holding tight to the handle of his trolley, and looks around anxiously. The steam billowing from the scarlet Hogwarts Express clouds the whole scene, making it difficult to see. People keep bustling into and out of the haze, but not the people Albus is looking for. 

The Pygmy Puff perched on the handle beside Albus's left hand is purring in agitation, and it's only making Albus more stressed. He picks it up and puts it on his shoulder so it can see better. 

"Calm down, Archie," he murmurs. "He'll be here. There's still plenty of time." 

He doesn't sound convincing, even to himself. A glance at the clock shows him that they definitely don't have plenty of time. It's almost five to eleven already. If Scorpius doesn't come soon he's going to miss the train. 

He drums his fingers on the handle of his trolley and takes a deep breath. Even if Scorpius does miss the train this isn't going to be like last time. It's not going to be for some terrible reason. It'll be because he's wildly disorganised and had to go back for his copy of Hogwarts: A History, or because he couldn't find his favourite pair of socks. He'll show up at school later this evening in time for the feast, and everything will be fine. 

But Albus has been looking forward to this moment for so long. He's been counting on this train ride. He wants to share the last one with his best friend, with his boyfriend, who he met all those years ago on this train. He needs Scorpius to be here. It'll be hopelessly lonely without him. And Albus hasn't seen him in so long. He really has been looking forward to this. 

When Scorpius was let out of hospital, they agreed with their dads that they would both be grounded for the Christmas holiday. They both had so much work to do, and Scorpius wasn't really well enough to leave the house anyway. It seemed sensible to keep to themselves, not see much of each other, just concentrate on catching up and revising and recovering. But of course it's been awful. Aside from a few fleeting Fire Calls, Albus hasn't seen Scorpius since the middle of December. And it's now the middle of January. He misses him. Desperately.

"Still no sign of him then?" Rose asks, pushing her trolley up next to Albus's. 

Albus shakes his head and sighs. "Nothing." 

"I can tell," Rose says. "Even your hair looks stressed." She reaches up and flattens it down where it must be sticking up on top of his head. 

"I just really want him to-"

"I know," she says, adjusting the front of his robes for him. "I know you want him here. And he will come. He'd better. He has Head Boy duty to do!”

"But what if-" 

Rose puts an arm round him, forcing Archie to snuggle himself against Albus's neck to avoid being sent flying. "Albus, stop worrying. It doesn't suit you." 

He looks at her, feeling very miserable and very worried. She ruffles his hair. 

"I mean it. Anyway, if you're going to stand here and be a killjoy then I'll go and talk to someone else. Where have your parents gone?" 

Albus gestures off across the platform. "Talking to yours."

"Well. I'm going to go and talk to them. Don't fret too much, okay? And don't miss the train." She gives his hair one last smooth, then turns and disappears in the direction of their parents. 

Albus follows her very slowly, still scanning the crowd, nerves building with every passing second. Although the platform is long and busy, Albus is certain that he'd know if Scorpius were here already. He's been waiting by the entrance, and even if he didn't have an intimate knowledge of how Scorpius looks, the Malfoy hair stands out a mile off. 

"Are you ready?" His mum asks, breaking away from the conversation and walking across to him. 

He shakes his head. "Not really."

She smiles. "Strange going for the last time?" 

He parks the trolley and looks at her. "A little bit... I can still remember the first time, and now... I don't feel old enough to be leaving school. It's weird. And... and Scorpius isn't here." He glances up at the clock again. It's now three minutes to eleven.

His mum steps forward and gives him a tight squeeze. "It's going to be okay," she whispers in his ear. "I promise. Whatever happens, whether he gets here or not. You're going to have a great term." She pulls back and looks in the eye. "And you can do this. You can do anything. Okay?" 

Albus nods, and she gives him a second tight hug before releasing him. 

"Do you want help getting your things on the train?" 

Albus glances at the clock again. "I suppose so." He picks Archie up off his shoulder and puts him on top of his trunk. He's reluctant to get everything loaded on, but with two minutes until the train leaves there isn't much choice. Luckily there isn't that much to load up, since it was only the Christmas break he was home for. If this were the start of the year there would be next to no hope of getting everything on in time. 

His dad comes over to him, giving him a warm smile. "Have a good term," he says. "Do yourself proud, okay?" 

Albus nods and buries himself in his dad's arms, hugging him as tight as he can. 

"Stay calm," his dad advises. "Work hard. Have fun, but not too much fun. And don't let the pressure get to you. You'll be brilliant." 

Albus pulls away from him. "Thank you." He runs a hand through his hair and glances at the clock again. "I just wish-" 

"That Scorpius was here?" His dad grins and points over his shoulder, towards the platform entrance. 

Albus spins round wildly, staring. There is Draco Malfoy, tall and imposing, striding through the steam pushing a trolley. His ponytail is askew and he looks the most flustered he ever looks: slightly pink-cheeked, walking at something a touch above a sedate pace. 

Albus feels the tightness in his chest loosen with relief, but he still hasn't seen Scorpius, and he can't believe that Scorpius is here until he's seen him, so-

A white blond comet comes flying out of nowhere, moving too fast for Albus to register it's even there before it hits. The hug is the most solid one Albus has ever had in his life. He can feel the momentum knocking them both backwards, and he worries that Scorpius is about to accidentally decapitate him, so he drops to the ground, and Scorpius falls in a heap on top of him. 

"You sat down!" Scorpius says indignantly, trying to wriggle free. "I was just trying to hug you." 

Albus breaks into a huge grin and gives him a little shove. "You nearly took my head off. It was self-defence." 

Scorpius rolls his eyes and uses Albus's head as leverage to get up. "Whatever it was, it was uncalled for. I'm still weak, Albus. Getting up off the floor is difficult for me." 

Albus picks himself up and tickles Scorpius's sides so Scorpius gives a little shriek and squirms away. "You didn't seem weak when you hit me like an oncoming train." 

"It comes and goes," Scorpius says loftily, dusting his robes off. "It's a selective weakness." 

The mischievous sparkle in his eyes tells Albus that it's rubbish, that Scorpius is complete fine, just being over dramatic because he has the perfect excuse to be. He's going to milk the illness for all it's worth now he's better. 

"Is that what it's called?" Albus smirks. "Technical term? Selective weakness?" 

Scorpius grins at him. "Something like that." 

They look at each other for a moment, then Albus steps in and kisses him, hard and fast, pulling away before Scorpius has chance to get used to the fact that he's being kissed. It leaves Scorpius looking slightly stunned, which is what Albus was hoping to achieve. 

"You're better, then," he says. 

Scorpius smiles and nods. "Lots. And your shoulder's better too." 

"It's doing okay."

They beam at each other, lost in their own little world. 

Then there's a loud whistle that shatters the moment. There's shouting and doors slamming. Draco comes up to them and starts chivvying them towards the train. 

"You have plenty of time to talk, Scorpius. This isn't the moment." 

Scorpius grins at him. "Sorry, Dad." 

"You'll be the one who's sorry when the train goes without you. Come on."

They rush to the door where Rose is waiting for them, holding it open until the last second. She grabs Scorpius in a tight hug when he hops up, and Albus scrambles on board after him, slamming the door shut. 

Albus sticks his head out of the open window, and his parents are there. 

"Have a good term," his mum says, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. 

Scorpius jostles for position at the window, nudging Albus to the side, and Ginny kisses him too. 

"Don't do anything your fathers wouldn't," she says, flashing them both a smile, and Harry gives her a look of pure indignance before grinning. 

"We'd never dream of it," Albus says, leaning down to hug his dad. 

"Of course not," Scorpius says. "Although I will try to be a good influence on your son. We would quite like to pass our exams. Wouldn't we, Albus?"

Albus nods. "Definitely." 

"A good influence would be very much appreciated," Harry says, managing to get in a brief pat on Scorpius's shoulder before Draco nudges him out of the way to squeeze Scorpius in the tightest hug he can manage. 

"We'll be on our best behaviour," Albus promises, looking between his parents and Draco. 

Draco releases Scorpius and gives him a nod, and a squeeze of the shoulder. "I should hope so too." 

"No more trouble," Scorpius says, wrapping an arm round Albus. "Just hard work and exams." 

Albus nods seriously. Then they look at each other and grin, and their parents exchange knowing looks as they step away from the train, which has begun to move. 

They wave, and Harry, Ginny, and Draco all wave back at them as the train gathers speed, pulling away from the station, pulling them away from London and back towards Hogwarts for the last time. 

When the station is finally out of sight, Scorpius turns to Albus. 

"Did you think I wasn't coming?" 

Albus picks Archie up and puts him on his shoulder, then he draws his wand, ready to levitate his trunk to an empty compartment. "It had crossed my mind that you might miss the train." 

Scorpius looks around at the bustling corridors and smiles. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Not our last one. This train is very important to me." He draws his wand too and casts the spell to make his trunk hover a few inches off the ground. "Do you remember when we jumped off the roof?" 

"How could I forget?" Albus asks, levitating his own trunk. 

"And we met here too... No. Don't worry. This time I was just running late." 

"This time," Albus repeats. 

Scorpius nods, smile fading into seriousness. "Yes... I am better, Albus. Completely. I mean... sometimes my legs give out on me, and sometimes I get dizzy when I get overexcited. But on the whole." He spreads his hands. "Cured. And excited to be going back." 

Albus takes hold of one of his hands and squeezes it tight. "I'm glad. That you're here. It wouldn't have been the same without you. And I was really worried, after last time, that you wouldn't-" 

Scorpius sets his trunk down, pockets his wand, and faces Albus, looking right into his eyes. "I'm here. Here to stay. And this is going to be the best term ever." 

Albus pulls a face. "It's not. You know, going to be the best term ever. It's going to be a nightmare." 

"But it'll be a nightmare we face together," Scorpius says, wrapping an arm round Albus. "We saved the world. We saved my life. I think we can handle some exams." 

Albus looks at Scorpius, and he feels comforted and convinced. They can do anything together. They've already done so much. And if he wants to help keep the darkness out of the world, then this is what he has to do. 

He puts an arm round Scorpius's waist and nods. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we can do this. Maybe this is going to be a good term."

"Whatever happens," Scorpius says with a grin. "It'll be better than the last one." 

They look at each other, and for a moment they're silent, then they both burst out laughing. Relieved, and happy, bright, momentarily unencumbered. They grip one another for support as they laugh, and the train rattles out of cold, grey London, and on towards snowy fields, under crisp blue skies, bathed in winter sunshine. Back towards the castle they've called home for so long. Together, happy; healthy at last, and ready for whatever the future brings.

[oelfinessend]

For all that you have thought

Time to dump my fic drafts here! 

Or, where Loki is an actual god and I explore the incomprehensiveness of the concept and differences in biology. Unbeta-ed and really, is very raw. 

Loki moves in his prison like a creature unknown, born in all the worlds and none, created among the stars with the sole purpose of being confusing. The guards try to not look at their former commander and thus miss the way he sometimes flinches and cocks his head and turns slightly to look somewhere past glittering walls.

The tickle is annoying at best, but mostly aggravating; Loki can’t pinpoint its source or origins, his mind constantly distracted by that same non-corporeal itch. Some days it’s almost gone and some he is ready to break something, not at all unlike a mindless brute, which is the only reason Loki keeps himself in control.

After one particularly intense bout of distraction he arrives to the conclusion that it is Odin who allows this - not the great punishment, but a mediocre, annoying distraction, that will, unfortunately yet unerringly, lead Loki’s vast mind into ruin. So he grits his teeth and focuses in it, trying as the process might be, catches the illusive thread and smiles as he finally, finally pinpoints it; it has been centuries since they were banned from Midgard, and even then, during his last stay there had never been a plethora of those who would call Loki their own.

But those who would, followed him always.

Loki smiles, inhales and pulls back.

For a lesser being, an ignorant As, or flighty Ljosalfr it would be impossible to right themselves and become the master of the summons, but Loki has been delving deep into knowledge lost and vaults forgotten, he has taught himself what Bor decided to bury forever under the bones and ashes of svartalfar, who had skirted on the edge since their suns were young.

Loki twists himself among the calling threads of rude, invading seidr, tugs at them gently and finally as soon as the oppressive presence of Hlidskjalf is no more on his back, Loki spreads his own will and might and is finally free.

He manifests a splaying shadow among the ruined, blood-soaked stones. Here, the ancient rituals are still carried in the very ground underneath his bare feet. At first Loki thinks that it’s a peculiar coincidence that the new blood awoke the old and he was called, but he cannot recall that place of worship, and he has never liked when all finesse and knowledge of proper calling was cast aside in favour of massive sacrifices.

There are three runes of his, even if arranged improperly, carved with unsure but strong hand in the altar; they are the ones that ensure that Loki hears the pleas, and old victims of this place only helped the prayers to reach him through the thick magicks of Asgard. They, and Odin’s own dismissal; Loki was released from Asgard’s numbers, cast from it’s seidr’s protective shroud and thus became immune to All-Father’s ban of influencing mortals.

Loki’s laugh is everything dark and triumphant as he makes himself visible above the stone. He is not a deity in this moment - so much more, fed by stolen worship-power and his own joy, and the disbelief and elation his summoners feel, the despair and anguish their victims fall into, it all is directed at him, in him, and Loki drinks it all, formless and bright in his blackness, like a sky of stars or nocturnal waters.

The summoner who crawls towards him, Loki knows, is babbling something, but even so drunk on power he is not mindless and so he turns his head - a nebula of singing movement - to the girl spread out on the hard stones.

  why her he wants to know and so his question is heard. The child is nude, and thin and hungry. Loki wished her mind was calm and so she sleeps, and sees the pink skies of Alfheimr shine with predawn.

  she is frail, small and lacking in knowledge Loki’s musings is more of a presence in mind than a voice, a sound wave.

  what is a higher being to do with such a gift and how to crown such a thought

Loki whispers on his many terrible legs across the blood-remembering stones and symbols calling for gods he knows not, recalls not and cares for not.

Eight mortals was given to him so far - five more are awaiting him still; but Loki has no need for blood, no desire for power, no lust for idle madmen’s worship.

He sighs - the water flows to sky from springs nearby and the altar turns to dust, the girl, still sleeping, covered with a blanket made of his will.

  children are but promises of future Loki finally deigns to hum, turning the ground he reclines on to glass, and the one who waited to put a knife to frail mortal skin just turns into nothing.

Among the frenzied, crazed thoughts bombarding him there is one of clarity; vicious and pointed, there is satisfaction, dark victory and even darker gratefulness Loki feels turned onto him, onto his shapeless, many-faceted being, That’s better.

Many burning, blackless eyes turn onto the man called Jake and Loki becomes Jake for as much as a frail and little mortal mind can allow; and so Jake becomes Loki, for as much as he can bear to witness the form not fit to shape itself on mortal, corporeal planes of Earth.

Jake is a simple man, an accountant who likes his job enough, loves his husband very much and their girls even more. Him and Mike have been planning this trip for almost two years and the twins were ecstatic, and he doesn’t want to die, having heard now every scream those motherfuckers wrought out of other people in their group; but Jake also is grateful it was him who got to ride in the second bus, and not Mike, because poor Isa is only a year and a half older than his girls, and he would have probably gone insane already if either of them was here.

He wishes every last one of those motherfuckers dead, surely but slowly, excruciatingly dead, for every scream they wrought out of poor Ann and Sarah - they were eighty, for fuck’s sake - and sweet little Rose (she was five, five, at five Emma was playing pranks at Sophie and driving both Mike and Jake up the walls) and her poor lab, slightly crazy Derek, Carl, that strange chick who had five names, so Jake didn’t address her and called That Chick in his head, Paul and Tom, unfortunate heirs to a frankly mediocre fortune.

But Isa is sleeping and smiling in her sleep and something has just swallowed the raving lunatic up or maybe disintegrated him, Jake doesn’t care; he wants them gone and to be finally at peace.

what peace is there while you still live The Voice again is in his head, knocking out thoughts and making room for Itself. Jake’s brain can keep up with what that mind part of him is perceiving - a shape among the roads paved with comets, a mind cradling his own and shaping the very air to make a room for Itself. The Voice is filling his body now, a herald of the Mind, which Jake is helpless to push against, but he is not going to - he is bared, so he can take in return.

He knows -

There was a man, a woman, someone, long time ago for them of everchanging Earth, who caught the glimpse of the Mind, like that, and accepted, fully, the knowledge of Its existence and presence, agreed to be the latch and burden.

A balance between living the life for themselves and being devoted to something you have to let go to fully grasp is the only sort of prayer Loki takes, covets, a greedy being, the benefactor of the scholars of Asgard.

Among the dirtied and craven shouts of blood-spillers, Jake’s thought is clear and aimed right at him, at Loki, so Loki will bow so, turn to him who has freed himself to see as much as was allowed; as such will Jake belong to Loki, now; his sight was claimed, his freedom, settled.

And that is fine, Jake knows, if fall, then why not onto the stars?

The flow of mangled seidr ends as soon as the last of madmen is crushed under Loki’s will; as such, he is no longer torn apart by their expectations of him, fear of him and greed for him, his own unwillingness to take a useless corporeal form, or which one to choose. The girl is sleeping still, the blanket turned into leaves, three mortals have become senseless somewhen after his arrival and only his Jake still stands and watches, somewhat detachedly, as Loki allows his form to settle into one he is most used to, then shapes the matter around him into clothing, nondescript but suited for him nonetheless. He may be disowned, he is not lacking in pride.

Thin trickle of awareness is still present - will be until the end of the mortal’s short life, Loki already knows - and it gives him warmth as nothing else.

“What, are you, like, my- my god, or something?” Jake stutters, watches him, pale and drawn, unsure.

“I am Loki, first, last and always.” Loki simply answers and that seems to settle the mortal.

They have a long way to go - there is already a restlessness rising in Jake’s chest, a desire to know what comes next, and as much as Loki can relate, he is displeased, because he laid claim and all questions not to him but about him have become redundant.

No matter, he shifts, yawning, into a canine-like shape and trods away from humans, sniffing at the air and spreading his seidr wide to catch a glimpse of a creature he can mirror.

In a few minutes, there is a howl, ringing through Venezuelan forests; in a few hours, a member of searching party glimpses some animal running from what appers a mutilated human arm, another four hours later, Jake is ushered into a shock blanket as he stares, unblinking, at the black and gold snake resting on the glass of the helicopter, seemingly not bothering the pilot. It opens its mouth, showing two rows of serrated but human-looking teeth, sniggers and twists, turning birdlike as it dissolves into goldish mist.

[the-revisionist]

Hi! Just to say, I LOVE your fics! Could you possibly write Things you said on New Year's Eve for Caroline and Gillian? If that's not a good one, then literally any of them will do I'm sure you'll write it perfectly! Thank you

Anon, hope you’re still reading…thank you for kind words and the prompt! Sorry this took longer than anticipated! 

This is a companion piece to “Completely Undressed and Mostly Sober in the South of France.”  @farminglesbian had suggested a continuation of that in some way and since she controls the Lesbian Empire on the European Continent in an Unspecified Rural Location Where They Are Inclined to Wear Lederhosen I must obey or I may never be allowed in Europe ever again.  

This story is a bit of an exercise in style. For dialogue I did not use traditional quote marks. So, you know, it might work, it might not, it’s OK and you can say so, I’m a big girl and I have a lot of wine at the ready, but please don’t be a twat about it. 

This one is post-series 4. 

faithful misrepresentations

i. it’s time to get the brioches

At 5 a.m. on New Year’s Eve, she apologizes for not shaving her legs.

The morning, blue and black with jagged frost etched across a darkened windowpane, rests at the edge of Caroline’s mind. It’s so terrifyingly early that she doesn’t really want to know the time but cracks open a reluctant eye anyway; the bedroom’s digital clock coolly burns a 5:05 on the inside of her eyelids, the blunt serifs morph into an SOS and she thinks, good God, I am awake at 5 in the morning, this is what I get for sleeping with a farmer. Because Gillian stirs warm and restless against her, driven by the undeniable rhythm of blood that always has her racing against the sunrise and who, because she is apparently the master of not only the unwanted spontaneous confession but also the truly baffling nonsequitur, opts not to say good morning but rather randomly and needlessly apologizes for not shaving her legs before this, their trip to France.

Blind as a kitten, Caroline reaches for her and, half-asleep through a tangle of warm limbs, hones in on her calf; the soft hair tickles, the solid muscle undulates, the raspy glory of skin warms Caroline’s palm. There is a scar on this calf, invisible in the dark but vivid in her mind as a distinct but delicate comet tracing a pale horizon. It was, Gillian told her, caused by a jutting, broken spoke on a wheelbarrow.

That’s when I learned not to do farm work while wearing shorts, she had said.  

Caroline replies to the apology by mumbling don’t mind into a pillow; sleepiness translates it into dun mime. She’s cresting the wave back into sleep when she realizes that Gillian is not moving, not rising out of bed with a stretch and a groan and a curse word. Which is odd, because Gillian likes routine. Every morning they’ve been here she’s up before the sun, making herself tea, reading for a bit, and then walking a mile to the village to fetch brioches from a baker amusedly tolerant of an Englishwoman who flirts with her grown son and insists on conversing in rusty French. By the time she returns the brioches are stone cold but she revives them in the oven, makes coffee, and wakes up Caroline by cannonballing onto the bed like a kid on holiday. Winter clings to her skin and clothes but her morning kiss is persistent and sweet and like waking into a warm, summery daydream and not a chilly old French farmhouse lacking proper heat.

She forces herself into a higher level of coherence, clears her throat, firms up a question: You’re not getting up?

Not yet, comes the reply.  

In the dark she aims badly for Gillian’s forehead and gently smashes her palm against a nose.

Are you sick?

No. It’s just—we don’t have much time left. Here, I mean. Want to enjoy it.

They return home the day after tomorrow.

By staying in bed as long as possible, Gillian adds as needless clarification.

Under two blankets and a comforter movement is heavy and surreal, a sluggishly sensual underwater ballet. The blankets move as Gillian slides on top of her, exposing Caroline’s shoulder to a rousing chill, which is briefly warmed by Gillian’s mouth before moving along the inlet of the collarbone toward her breast. She spreads her legs, Gillian settles in between them and presses into her, and even though it’s all so new between them—so wonderfully new, she thinks, as Gillian traces the inside of her thigh—she identifies the variance in tempos and moods better now and knows this time will be slow and sweet and hopefully she won’t bang her skull against the quasi-antique headboard again.

You’re giving up brioches for me?

Nah. I’ll get ’em later. Just delaying gratification, as it were.

So—how delayed is gratification when all you’re doing is merely sublimating it with another pleasure?

Even though they can barely see one another in the porous dark, a bluish outline of morning light traces the contours of Gillian’s face and hair and Caroline can see a hitch of expression, a shift of lines as she smiles.

Shut up, you, she says.

ii. continental beauty

For one horrible aching moment—while wiping down a quartz countertop aged to such an extent that it looks as if it’s survived a hundred years of everyday bacchanals, and this is why housework is dangerous and housewives go mad, she thinks, it sets the mind loose to dwell on so much of life’s chaotic cruelty—Caroline realizes that she never had this opportunity with Kate, that is, a long romantic getaway and not just a mucky weekend at a nearby hotel. Even on that modest level she fucked it up nearly beyond repair. Even on vacation with her husband of eighteen years always she felt—she knew—she was a fraud, nothing but a character in one of his novels. Maybe it’s a sign; maybe it means something. Here in this farmhouse in the Rhone Valley hundreds of miles away from home, she waits for the shoe to fall into a dreaded Grand Canyon of unspecified anxiety.

They spent months not talking about what they needed to talk about. It was easy enough to blame a host of things for this: demanding work schedules involving obstreperous students and sheep, parenting thickheaded boys, coparenting a toddler with a knobhead whose taste in women was obviously on the decline, a bountiful supply of excellent wine from a beautiful young woman who simply would not go away, and complete, sheer cowardice. Acceptance of the status quo has always come easily to Caroline, particularly in this instance because she was getting good wine and properly laid on a regular basis—thus her mother’s interrogations and condemnations, her secretary’s prurient questions (“You have it off with Brokeback Shepherd yet?”), and generally everyone’s bewilderment and clumsy emotional tap-dancing around the subject were all easily ignored.

Then last month, during one of those boisterous family dinners where, as was not uncommon, Gillian looked at her in an indescribably aching way—followed by a self-chastising frown, slight shake of the head, and a protective hunch of her shoulders that seemingly closed off any possibility of rapprochement—Gary announced to all present that renovations to his vacation home in France were finally complete. During this interminable period he had gone from referring to the house as a chateau to deeming it a money pit. It was actually an eighteenth-century stone farmhouse, its interior now as rustically authentic as one envisioned by a nouveau riche entrepreneur from Yorkshire, and Caroline twitchingly recalled Gillian’s proposal earlier in the spring—that they would go there for a few days during the summer and work shit out. But summer ripened and withered away and the promise, representing everything that was seemingly lost between them, lingered bitterly.

After dinner Caroline stood in the doorway of Gillian’s kitchen observing their motley, contented family—Raff playing Legos with Calamity and Flora, Lawrence attempting to show his grandfather and Gary how to play Halo Wars 2 on an Xbox, and Celia, post-two glasses of wine, going on about the life of the theater to the clearly bored yet admirably patient Ellie. She felt Gillian’s presence at her side—churning and restless as a spoon stirring a pot, staring at her feet, then a lamp, then her son, and finally fixing that burning gaze of hers on the woman next to her while the back of her hand glided over Caroline’s knuckles, thus causing the latter to force out a surprising hybrid of a squeak and a gasp.

Let’s—let’s do it, she said. Come with me to France.

Five minutes later they were purchasing plane tickets on the mobile.

Five days into this trip she has learned many things about Gillian: she slavishly embraces routine whenever possible, she likes brioches, she’s reading Middlemarch for the third time now but Caroline cannot imagine why because she herself has never made it past page 50, she’s capable of lingering over a cup of tea and not gulping it down because she’s not running late or has a hundred things to do in a day, she thinks MI6 was involved in Princess Diana’s death, she’s takes no firm side in the great over vs. under toilet roll debate—don’t people have anything better to do than argue about toilet paper? she had said—

—and she is an admirer of great beauty because now she barrels through the door after tromping around the countryside for an hour and breathlessly announces, I’m in love.

Caroline imagines herself unseeded by either the baker’s handsome son or the buxom young woman who works the vineyard nearby, the latter spotted the other day during a wine-tasting tour and whose sumptuous cleavage was the focus of surreptitious glances from Gillian. After half a lifetime of stealthily admiring the physical beauty of women, Caroline knows these covert maneuvers when she sees them. Alas, all she has to counter these continental beauties are certain oral skills and her talent for making a certain orange-ginger biscuit that Gillian loves and who knows, perhaps that will save the day, perhaps even as sun perpetually sets on the English empire all that truly matters is cunnilingus, tea, and biscuits.

I’m confident of your ability to attract, she wants to tell Gillian. But not my ability to hold you.

But while hanging up her coat Gillian starts rambling about a ram, a sheep with a fancy French name. She saw him posing on a hillside, broodingly apart from the herd, a Heathcliff among sheep. His markings and coloring exquisite, his horns symmetrical, his poise exceptional—

Before Gillian can declare herself high priestess of this mythic creature’s cult, Caroline—dimly aware of the unseemliness of jealousy over a sheep—interrupts rudely: What’s it called again? A rum-ball merino?

Gillian rolls her eyes. Rambouillet, she says. She grabs a cup for tea. A Rambouillet merino.

Ripe for plucking, the word hangs in the air and Caroline ravenously seeks its source in a kiss. She holds Gillian’s lower lip gently between her teeth, tongue running the plush length of it, tasting salt and mystery because, frankly, women have always been unfathomable to her.  Sweetly, wonderfully unfathomable. She starts to unbutton Gillian’s thick, lined plaid shirt—only to discover, underneath, a second plaid shirt thin and soft with age. At which she breaks off the kiss and bursts into laughter.

Jesus Christ, you’re like a flannel onion. Layers and layers.

It’s cold, in case you haven’t noticed, Gillian says—also laughing—as she sits the empty cup on the counter.

I’m trying to warm you up, Caroline replies as she sets in on the second flannel layer. In case you haven’t noticed.

Tossing her arms around Caroline’s neck and pulling her into another kiss, another embrace, Gillian says, I’ve noticed.

She doesn’t feel too distressed about fucking Gary’s sister on Gary’s distressed leather couch—burnished leather, she thinks he called it and the color was Churchill cigar—because there is an old blanket on it and as they fall onto it she doesn’t care about much at the moment except the wonderments and sensations of skin and taste, wondering if Gillian has ever called anyone else baby, Caroline can’t quite imagine that she has and would like to reserve that titular honor as her very own, wondering when the last time someone went down on her properly because her reaction and sheer enjoyment of it make Caroline feel like Aphrodite incarnate coming down from on high and she has to cling to Gillian as if she’s riding a rollercoaster by the skin of her teeth.

Afterward she’s sprawled on the couch wrapped in the comforter Gillian dragged out the bedroom, staring at the crisscross of the ceiling’s dark wood roof beams and with her head pillowed on Gillian’s bare thigh. With one flannel shirt back on, Gillian sits cross-legged while drinking one of Gary’s very pricey local Syrahs and pretending to read Middlemarch, pretending because she’s humming, which she usually does while absorbed in the comforting repetition of a task like washing dishes or mending a shirt or soothing a baby and in this instance the task at hand seems to be slowly, rhythmically running her fingers through Caroline’s hair. I like your—your hair, she had said the other day, shy and stammering and nervous after they made love, as if the gentle offering of a compliment would somehow be virulently rejected, and while Caroline loved the sweet awkwardness of it she hated the man who made Gillian terrified of revealing the slightest vulnerability.

She stares at the shadowed, foreboding ceiling beams, thinks that Gary should have picked a wood of a lighter color because the dark beams make her think of crucifixions.

Say it again, she says to Gillian.

What?

The name of the sheep.

Rambouillet.

Oh, she sighs, that’s lovely.

Unexpectedly Gillian drags her finger, damp and dribbling Syrah, across Caroline’s lips, as if soothing an infant with a taste of milk. You’re really weird, she says.

I’m not the one in love with a sheep, Caroline replies.

iii. the search for intelligent ovine life in the Rhone Valley

The afternoon winter sun, useless and pale, emanates as much heat as the moon. They are out in search of the great Rambouillet merino. Gillian insists she needs to get a better photo of the sheep so she can submit it to something called “Google sheep view” and Caroline, who is perfectly fine with not knowing what the hell that is, is nonetheless curious to know what the fuss is about and accompanies her. Leading the mission, Gillian stalks the dirt backroad that runs behind Gary’s farmhouse with her usual dogged, determined pace. She’s been in a bit of a mood since lunchtime and Caroline knows enough to let her be until she’s ready to talk; it’s likely, though, that she dreads the thought of returning home to the questions, the judgments, the expectations that will be laid at their feet.

She trails behind. Outside of the Yorkshire countryside she has navigated most of her life, her sense of direction is rubbish and she hasn’t a clue where they really are. She sighs and burrows deeper into her scarf. It’s the coldest day of the trip thus far. The stiff, expensive boots she purchased for the trip are pinching her toes and the too-high arches dig into her soles. In the distance she sees the vineyard that they visited days ago, the spherical red caps of the buildings distinct against the pale sky, and has a wince-inducing guilty thought about Olga.

Shortly after committing to this journey, she officially ended it with Olga. It was not so much a breakup as an act of disengagement; some days she actually convinces herself of this. Regardless it required some semblance of fortitude to finally override the guilt-ridden, passive-aggressive lust that propelled the relationship on her part. Olga took it well. She also took a case of an amazing Chenin Blanc from the Loire Valley that she had initially gifted to Caroline and now presumably would bestow upon another boozy, middle-aged lesbian—or, more likely, her ex—both nonetheless worthy of her considerable charm and refined palate, while leaving Caroline to the tender mercies of a sheep farmer overfond of cheap Lambrusco.

She stops for a moment to look at red roofs jutting into milk-white clouds and dwell in the newness of everything—place and memory, time and love—while accepting the sense of loss that perpetually nips at her heels. Snow flurries waltz to the ground.

Then she notices that up ahead on the road Gillian has stopped and turned around. Head tilted, she critically eyes Caroline as she would a lagging, miscreant ewe—as if to say, come along now.

Grimacing, Caroline takes long strides to catch up. She apologizes on arrival, insincerity muffled through the cashmere scarf.

Gillian carries a long, sturdy branch found earlier on the road. Alternately she’s been using it as a walking stick and brandishing it as a weapon, whacking at husked, brittle weeds lining the road, sadistically poking at stones. Idly she whips it around her body while frowning at Caroline.

What were ya doing back there? she asks.

Contemplating life’s mysteries. Appreciating the sublimity of nature. Oh, and staring at your ass. Not necessarily in that order.

Bashful at the compliment, Gillian lowers her head and grins. Then, wryly: So you weren’t stopping ’cause those boots are hurting you?

Not a bit, Caroline lies.

You’re limping, she says, and then nods in the direction of the winery. D’ya think they send out Saint Bernards with little wine flasks to rescue snotty English bitches who don’t wear proper footwear whilst they wander about the countryside?

That would be marvelous.

Gillian points up ahead at a copse of trees. The gesture is so startling and beautiful and confident that Caroline wants to seize her hand—ungloved, snowflake caught and melting on her thumbnail—and kiss it.

Right up there, she says, past those trees, is a shortcut through the wood to the vineyard. If you can make it, we could walk there. Couple glasses might revive you for the walk home.

And if it doesn’t?

Reckon I’ll have to drag you back somehow.

Cavewoman.

Nah. I’m not that strong, Gillian says with a roll of her shoulders, but I’ll give it a go.

Au contraire.

That’s the first bit of French out of your mouth since we got here.

You’ve been doing well enough for both of us, Caroline says, so why bother? She leans into Gillian, quietly pleased at the arm that automatically wraps around her waist. Then she presses her face into the crown of Gillian’s hair, kisses it, and says, I’ve always believed—she begins shakily, pauses clumsily—always known—you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.

Gillian pulls back and stares at her, unsure if what she’s saying is an obvious revelation or a faithful misrepresentation of the brutal facts that comprise her life. She thinks that Gillian usually skews toward the latter as a default viewpoint, and realizes it may take a lifetime for her to sort it, to undo it. If ever. What surprises Caroline is not this but the belief, settling into her bones and countering her own misguided self-assessments, that she is finally brave enough to be fully present in Gillian’s life.  

On the walk home, both of them tipsy and tired, they see the Rambouillet merino ambling across an open field into the setting sun. And he is beautiful.

[obiwan824]

Masterlist

X = Male Reader

* = Gender Neutral 


A/B/O = Alpha/Beta/Omega AU


Italics = coming soon ;)

Last Updated November 21st, 2018

Harry Potter

Draco Malfoy x Reader

One Last Time

Hair Gel

You’ll Be Back   Part Two

Drarry x Reader

Pretty Brave

Doctor Who

Tenth Doctor x Reader


Protect Her

Last of the Time Lords

Eleventh Doctor x Reader

Daughter SENSITIVE CONTENT!

Star Wars

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

My King  Part One Part Two

Trust* (Sith Obi-Wan)

Friends  Part One Part Two

Forgiveness

Protect You

The List

Okay SENSITIVE CONTENT!

Prisoners

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I’m In

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Anakin x Reader x Obi-Wan

Soulmate Part One Part Two

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Help (Cassian x Reader x Luke Skywalker)

Drunk

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Love and Work

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Danatole x Reader

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Sleep

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Poly! Danatole x Reader 1 2 3

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Poly! Danatole x Reader Valentines Day

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Musicals I Don’t Write For Anymore

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