#he picked it up from being kindly to the pigeons when he lived on the streets

[tricornonthecob]

while I wait for poll results I also did this.

Do you remember his pigeon phase. I remember his pigeon phase.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"There is a good reason why I am not a church member. I had been a member of a church for years before my trouble came up. When I left prison and requested fellowship in my own home church I was told that I would have to stand trial before the “board” for my irregular conduct. I told the officers that I had already been tried, convicted, and punished, and I wanted to get back into the church, but I did not want to be tried again. Admission was refused.

When I went into another church the members drove me out. My experience was not different from that of thousands of others. Such action may be justified from the standpoint of the church, but, from personal experience and broad observation, I can say it does not appeal to the ex-prisoner. I used to think that the object of the church was to make bad men good, good men better, and better men perfect. About the only thing that is worse than being a prisoner is being an ex-prisoner. He is compelled to fight both the forces of evil and the forces of good. He is shunned and ostracized, hounded and brow-beaten, and kicked when he is down. Did not Christ come to save sinners? Is the modern church to turn up its unctuous nose at those who come with scarred bodies, and with seared souls?

Are the three million men and women in this country who have seen the inside of a prison to be forever barred from again seeing the inside of a church, even though they may have done works suitable for repentance? The bird with the broken pinion is glad enough to stay from the snare; the life that sin has touched is often in the best position to raise another from despair; shall they be kept beyond the pale of the sanctuary?

Are the marred lives and the damaged souls of this great multitude worth a serious thought? Or will the smug parishioner proceed in the peace of his self-content, and the snobbish preacher continue his theological malpractice?

“In the mud and scum of things, Always, always, something sings.”

Emerson, the philosopher, could see beauty and harmony even in the scum and the mire. The Lowly Nazarene, who came from a village whence no good thing was supposed to be able to come, could say, in the Beauty of His Holiness, to the vilest of sinners: ‘‘Neither do I condemn thee. Go thy way and sin no more.” Will the church and its members dare to pose as being without sin, to condemn, and to cast the first stone? I know that there are many devout, tolerant, broadminded preachers and church members of many different creeds and denominations.

In our work in the Prisoners Relief Society we made it a point not to preach to the men. We just helped them. What a man wants when he steps from the prison doors is to find a good job, get a fresh start, and feel that at least some of his fellow human beings have confidence in him, and then, nine times out of ten, he will make good. When a man is without a home, without friends, without a job, he is not in a condition to be preached to, or to take kindly to lectures on his soul’s salvation. He is facing problems of life, not of death. It is impossible to draw a line of demarcation between the spiritual, the moral, and the practical. Real religion cannot be set apart in a pigeon-hole by itself. One trouble with so many church members seems to be an inclination to confine their religion to Sunday, and to church attendance. William Jennings Bryan expressed it in these words:

“You can shoot the burglar, knock down the pick-pocket, refuse to buy the ‘get-rich-quick’ stock, but what chance have you against a man who sings Psalms on Sunday, and on Monday adds $2.00 a ton to the price of coal, ten cents to gas, or three cents to sugar?”

- Earl Ellicott Dudding, The Trail of the Dead Years. Edited by William Winfred Smith. Huntington, West Virginia: Prisoners Relief Society, 1932. p. 282-286.

[stiltonbasket]

Can we have a hundred day celebration for Shuilan in renouncement? Would love to see Wangxian happily showing off their baby and the everyone being KO’d by her cuteness.

If anyone had told Wei Wuxian what his future would hold five years ago, he would have laughed at the impossibility, and then dug a hole for himself in his favorite radish patch until Wen Qing came along to fetch him. 

How strange it would have sounded to the Yiling Laozu holding court in the Burial Mounds, scraping by on thin luobo stew and the odd egg from market to feed A-Yuan, that one day a child of his would receive the blessings of all the Lan sect the moment she came into the world, and again thrice over at her hundred-day feast! It scarcely seems real to him now, after more than a year as Lan Zhan’s husband and the Lan Clan’s Xinhua-jun, and the sight of his richly dressed reflection in the looking glass bewilders him so much that he scarcely registers it when Lan Zhan materializes behind him with A-Lan in his arms.

“A-Lan looks so sweet, Lan Zhan,” he laughs, when his husband reaches out to touch his elbow--in a gesture that means come back, xingan, for I am here beside you, and you need never want for anything again. “She’s sparkling almost as much as you are.”

Lan Zhan dressed the baby in a tiny, glittering robe covered with beaded flowers, and whenever the light falls upon her little body, A-Lan glows like a moonlit pearl: so cool and soft and calm that Wei Wuxian can scarcely look away from her, even after the hundred-day feast is well underway in the banquet hall. He and Lan Zhan hold the seats of honor today, rather than Lan Xichen, and Xiao-Yu sits close beside them with his fluffy hair tied up into two pigtails.

“May I hold her, Hanguang-jun?” a kindly matron from the Cheng sect asks. Lan Zhan nods, and Lan-bao is swiftly transferred into Cheng-er-furen’s arms: puzzled by her sudden ascent, certainly, but happy enough to blink her big eyes up at Second Lady Cheng and coo like a roosting pigeon.

“Oh,” Cheng-er-furen gasps, as A-Lan kicks her tiny feet in their pink satin shoes. “Xinhua-jun, she’s beautiful.”

Wei Wuxian feels his heart quiver in his breast. “They say that one beauty recognizes another,” he says gravely, laughing out loud when Lady Cheng’s cheeks flush red. “Lan-bao can already tell, Lan Zhan, don’t you think?”

Lan Zhan presses his lips together and refuses to answer, but Wei Wuxian can see them twitching up at the corners. “That means he agrees with me,” he teases, as Cheng-furen slips a red packet into Xiao-Yu’s hands and kisses the toe of A-Lan’s little sock. “Don’t you, xingan?”

Lady Cheng rolls her eyes at their flirting and passes down the line with a smile, yielding her place to the next guest before going to find a seat at the banquet table.

“Ah, Wei-xiong,” the next well-wisher sighs, snapping open his favorite fan and holding it out to the baby. “A-Lan’s gathered quite a crowd today, hasn’t she?”

“Well, we did limit the full-moon ceremony to only our friends and family,” Wei Wuxian points out. As far as social events go, A-Lan’s full moon was one of the most exclusive gatherings of the year, open to members of the Lan sect and only by invitation to guests outside the Cloud Recesses; Ouyang Zizhen was generally envied as the sole attendee unconnected to Wei Wuxian by sect or familial ties, though he would have been invited anyway as Ouyang-zongzhu’s heir. “Lan Zhan was worried that we might fall ill during the monsoon season, so of course we had to invite everyone now that the weather’s turned warm again.”

Huaisang gives a meditative nod and lets A-Lan chew on the handle of his fan. “Lan-bao doesn’t have any teeth,” he yawns, when Wei Wuxian stares at the fan in disbelief and tries to pull it out of the baby’s mouth. “She can gum on my fan all she wants, I doubt she can put a dent in it.”

But the fan loses its charm before long, and A-Lan starts fussing in her blue satin wrap and refuses to settle until Wei Wuxian picks her up. The next group of guests offers their good-wishes one by one, leaving behind gifts like red packets and jade pendants and enough books to set up a new wing in the Library Pavilion; and a little while later, a shy two-year-old wanders up with his mother and presents a clumsily-carved dizi, just the right size for a toddler about as old as he is.

“I married out of the Cloud Recesses, so I live with my husband in Caiyi now,” the mother explains, as her son looks into Lan-bao’s crib with big eyes and makes soft cooing sounds in a clear attempt to play with her. “He runs a woodworking shop, so when we heard about the invitation to Lan-xiao-guniang’s hundred-day, Fang’er asked him to help carve a dizi for her.”

Wei Wuxian is so thoroughly charmed that he promises to stop by the woodworking shop later in the month, and present little Lan Fang--who seems to have taken his mother’s name, to retain his connection to her sect--with a learning dizi of his own.

“You can never begin too early,” Lan Zhan offers, catching Xiao-Yu by the sleeve to stop him from feeding his spicy peanut snacks to Lan Fang. “Does he prefer the flute above other instruments, furen? If so, he could come to the Cloud Recesses to study alongside Xiao-Yu when Wei Ying starts his music lessons.”

Wei Wuxian flinches, wondering if Lan Zhan has lost his senses--because what good mother would send her son to learn the dizi from the infamous Yiling Patriarch, even if he had been redeemed in the eyes of the gentry by his marriage to Lan Wangji? But Lan Fang’s mother is already nodding, looking fondly at Xiao-Yu as he offers Fang’er a bite of tangyuan, and the look in her eyes when she turns to Wei Wuxian is full of nothing but happiness.

“Xiao-Fang doesn’t get along very well with the children in Caiyi,” she sighs. “But he’ll surely come to study here one day, so if I could send him and know that Xiao-Yu-gongzi would look out for him--”

“Xiao-Yu will!” A-Yu exclaims, grabbing Lan Fang’s hand. “He’ll be A-Yu’s shidi!”

Lan Fang is more interested in doting on A-Lan, but Xiao-Yu is delighted by the prospect of having a junior sect brother, and tells the next ten people in line that he has become a shixiong now.

All in all, A-Lan’s hundred-day feast goes off without a hitch, and Wei Wuxian is nearly in tears at the sweetness of it all by the time Jiang Cheng arrives with a set of silver baby jewelry.

“A-Cheng, you shouldn’t have,” he chuckles, ducking his head so that Lan Zhan can pat his eyes with a cool handkerchief. “Lan-bao has enough jewelry for a new set every day, by now!”

“This isn’t just any set of jewelry,” Jiang Cheng informs him, motioning his head disciple to come forward and open the flat jewel-cases to reveal necklaces, bangles, ankle-bracelets and a longevity lock encrusted with silver beads.

Upon closer inspection, Wei Wuxian discovers that each tiny bead is a miniature clarity bell, etched with the Jiang sect lotus blossom and reinforced with so many protective charms that the collected set must have cost a small fortune.

“Didi,” Wei Wuxian begins, trying in vain to swallow the lump in his throat. “This, this is--”

“She won’t be able to wear these for long, but you could get them disassembled and extended with plain silver when she’s older,” his brother interrupts. “But A-Shuai says you should put them into storage when A-Lan gets older, because heaven knows I can’t afford another set.”

Lan Zhan frowns. “Why would we need another set?”

Jiang Cheng fixes him with a pointed stare, and Wei Wuxian feels his cheeks turn crimson when he finally gets the hint.

(Three years later, A-Lan’s hundred-day clarity jewels are passed down to a newborn baby sister, and no one is more pleased than her adoring jiujiu when Wei Chunyang wears them at her own full moon celebration.)

[finelinevogue]

I know you’re on break but just and idea could be writing more about busker!Harry! I absolutely adore him plus the idea of him being signed is amazing. Even though he gets signed I feel like he would still play on the street to thank them for helping him etc.

yes we love busker!harry here! he’s such a soft little bean who loves no one more than you <3 ok here we go, hope it’s alright;

Smiles.

That’s all you take from each day after Harry’s performed his set on the streets of familiar Manchester. As much as you love the music Harry plays and the money that comes as a benefit of how well he does it, nothing quite makes your heart warm than the smiles of the people.

Whether there’s a passing group of teenage school girls who giggle to each other. Whether it’s a couple of men walking from one business meeting to another. Whether it’s just one man and his suitcase making a hurried dash for his train. Whether it’s an old woman on her way home from getting her weekly butchers meat. Or whether it was a baby in a pram not having a single clue what was going on. No matter who it was, they could never pass Harry with a smile. He smiled back, always. Harry would pause his singing to thank anyone who threw coppers in his beaten guitar case. He was genuine and that’s what people loved about him.

Even after he’d been signed to a huge record label, he stayed the exact same down-to-earth humble man you’d always known him to be. Fame and success didn’t change him. You both still lived in the same house. You both still shopped in Aldi. You both budgeted your weeks out, regardless of the thousands that were now racking up in various bank accounts. And Harry still stood in the street, almost every day, singing his heart out to his people. To the old lady, to the baby, to the passing workmen and teenagers. He was the same chipper guy he had been all those years ago and no fame was going to change that.

Just like now was another example of all this.

He’s just finished his 12th song of the day, “I’m Yours’ by Jason Mraz and a woman was trying to get him to take the £20 note she was offering.

“Ma’am please I can’t accept this, it’s too much.”

“Don’t be daft! You played so well and it’s made my day and so i’d like to gift you thanks.” She argued back and really Harry was in a losing battle. If he accepted it he would feel terrible that he’s allowed a woman to give him £20, but if he didn’t accept it he would look ungrateful and unaccepting.

“I appreciate your kind gesture, but it’s really too much.” He smiled kindly, hoping his good smirk would charm her off.

You were stood close by, watching the interaction. You were internally laughing to yourself, because although most people would never pass up the opportunity for money, let alone twenty quid, your Harry wasn’t most people. He was a respectful man, who loved playing music above anything else. Okay, well, he loved you only slightly more than that - but you were okay with that. You envied that he had a passion as harsh as music. It was enticing to see him get lost within 7 lettered notes.

“Chuffin’ take it Harry!” The woman dangled it in front of Harry and he laughed at her eagerness. You laughed too, until you weren’t.

It happened so quickly that you didn’t realise anything had happened until you’d felt a pain in your lower back and arse. “Shit!” You grunted as you landed on your hands, them scraping ever so slightly on the cold gravel street - that was most likely covered in Pigeon shit and chewing gum.

The woman gasped and Harry had sprinted off before you could even pick yourself back up. You looked over your shoulder, still sat on the floor, to see Harry chasing after some man who had stolen the £20 from the woman’s hand. Oh. The thief didn’t have a chance against your Harry though. He may look cute and cuddly on a good day, but when something bad happens to him or the people he loves he’s a completely different person. He gets all protective and angry. You loved that he had this side to him, but you did prefer his soft side a lot more.

“Oh dear, are you alright pet?” The woman asked, leaning over you worriedly.

“Y-yeah.” You stammered out as your turned to look at her, feeling slightly winded.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so.” You brought your hands up to examine and saw they were cut only slightly, but mostly just covered in gravel. You dusted your hands off on your jeans and stood up, with the help of a random man and this woman.

“Up ya get, there ya go love.” The man spoke and you thanked him briefly, turning to see whether you could see Harry at all within the crowds of the busy Manchester streets. You sighed in relief when you saw him on his way back to you, guitar swung around on his back.

The woman walked closer to him first as she caught sight of him waving the £20 in the air in victory. You had a few tears in your eyes at the sight of him being so proud of himself, but also hearing onlookers cheering for him. He might’ve got cheers from audiences, big audiences, before but nothing compared to a noble community clap. Harry embraced the friendly woman in a hug and she spoke loud enough so you could hear them both.

“Now you really deserve that £20. Keep it, please.” She begged and Harry gave a side smirk and nodded his head in agreement. He had worked for this, he thought, and he knew just what he was going to do with the money - which in turn, brought his focus back to you.

He thanked people as he weaved his way closer to you, excusing himself so politely. He lifted his notorious busking cap so he could see you better and furrowed his eyebrows in frustration when he remembered how forcefully that thief had pushed you over in order to run off. “Swear to me you’re okay.” He said, knowing you hated being made a fuss of - especially in public.

“I swear.” You smiled at him, allowing him to grasp your hands and kiss his lips all over them, not stopping until not one spot had been left untouched.

“C’mon, let’s finish early today.” He didn’t say it as a question, meaning it was a command and he was ready to leave the city streets for the day.

“Wha— why? And go where?” You stumbled over your words, watching as he started to mess around with his equipment to put it all away.

“Well i’ve got £20 to spend, but apart from that it’s your choice.” He offered, securing his guitar in his case and putting the amplifier and microphone in their cases which you’d carry back to the car - which was, unfortunately, a fifteen minute walk up a hill, but you didn’t mind because you got to do it with Harry. Your other heart.

“Hmm,” you pondered as he packed. Normally you helped but today he wouldn’t let you because of your sore hands and back, “how about we stop off at Tescos and grab a bottle of wine to drink between us, whilst we watch that new crime documentary in the comfort of our bed?” Harry stopped what he was doing to look at you indefinitely.

“This is why I love you Y/N.” He walked over to you and kissed your lips as passionately as he could. He cupped your cheeks and stroked his thumbs against your soft skin. As soon as his lips touched yours, time froze and you were all his for however long he wanted you. You felt his raw emotions bounce off him and he could no doubt feel all of yours.

It was plain and simply, love.

[justforbooks]

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did.  But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the  answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her  right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have  you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

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[peachtree-dish]

A Te Che Sei il Mio Grande Amore Ch. 7: Niente ti farà del male piccola

23 Gennaio, 1970

The first indication of Luca’s growth spurt began with his school blazer suddenly feeling too tight as he raised his hands in class. The second indication came from bursting seams on his pants and his pants becoming more like capris as he wore them each day. The third time his inseam split, Signora Mia finally resigned herself to the reality of new clothes. Now, standing in front of his mirror, Luca could see the changes he had been too busy to notice before. His body was lengthening and becoming more svelte, with his legs becoming toned from cycling around the city. His face had slimmed down, losing most of the baby fat and child-like roundness he had grown accustomed to for most of his life.

The only features that hadn’t changed with time were his eyes; richly brown with flecks of gold and red. Luca wondered what Alberto would think of when he saw him. His friend’s voice had begun to deepen when they spoke two months prior, and Luca had all but melted into the warm depths of that voice. Would Alberto have a similar reaction to seeing Luca as he grew into himself? His thoughts were mildly put on hold as a gentle hand knocked on his bedroom door seeking permission to enter. Giulia entered, her hair damps from her bath and her skin glowing from the warmth of the water.

Dante and Luisa had left about an hour ago, having visited for after-school studying. He was not overly excited for their upcoming midterms, and with the added stress of assisting the teachers, he felt nervous about how his grades would fair. She plopped none too gently on his bed while the sounds of Signora Mia’s poor singing and the radio blasting in the kitchen echoed into his room.

“They’re playing the Beatles again?” He inquired, picking up the familiar tunes under Mia’s caterwauling. He pretended to brush imaginary dust from the light blue shirt he was wearing while strains of ‘Let it Be’ floated through the air. Giulia grinned and nodded, wincing when her mother’s voice reached for a particularly high note.

“I think Beatlemania has finally bitten her.” She rolled onto her stomach and faced him. “Were you going to try on the clothes we bought?” She inquired. He flushed under her scrutiny, not wishing to appear vain, and instead opted for sitting nonchalantly in his chair by the window.

“No, I was just thinking about changes.”

“Like what kind of changes?”

“The physical kind; I didn’t realize we were growing up.” Giulia hummed in thought. Just like her mother, both women had a gift to perceive and understand those around them with hardly any words or context.

“You don’t seem overly happy about it?” She cautiously pried.

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly, it’s something new.”

“Well, if it helps, you look good in your new wardrobe. I can hear the swooning girls now.” Giulia grinned wolfishly. The thought of girls noticing him more made Luca nervous and uncomfortable.

“I sure hope not,” he looked out the window to the hues of sunlight bathing the coral and cream houses orange. The lighting reminded him of Porto Rosso, and in turn, reminded him of Alberto.

“Don’t you want to start dating? Dante hardly shuts up about girls and most everyone in your grade is going out. Unless you’re only allowed to date sea monsters.” He continued to avoid her gaze, instead focusing on a flock of pigeons strutting along the rooftop to the left.

“No one interests me here.” He hedged after a moment.

“Not even Luisa?”

Now that got his attention.

“Ew, what? No!” He wagged his arms in horror, nearly losing his balance on the chair.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” Giulia soothed, baffled at his reaction.

“No offense to her or anything, I just… no. Definitely not.”

“Bene, she’s not interested, if that helps.”

“Why did you ask her?”

“I never said I did,” Giulia blustered, pink spreading across her face. Luca just stared at her with an unimpressed expression. She laughed nervously, glancing to the side.

“I was just curious,” she mumbled. She began to wrap strands of hair around her fingers, obviously avoiding his gaze now. A light suddenly clicked in Luca’s brain.

“Do you like her?” Giulia’s head snapped up and she glared at him.

“Do you like Alberto?” She shot back.

Looking back at this moment, Luca would realize he should have felt fear, or nervous, perhaps even anger, but Giulia’s question felt like a shock to his system. A switch flicked on and flooded his body with realization and for the first time in years, Luca understood everything.

A shock of laughter escaped him, “Yeah, actually. I do.” He laughed again, this time harder, unsure as to why tears were starting to leak down his cheeks, staining them green. Luca pressed his face into his hands as his laughter turned into hysterical gasps for air.

“Actually, I-I think I’m in love with him.” Oh shit, shit, shit, shit. “O mio Dio, I’m in love with my best friend, Gules.” He didn’t hear Giulia move until her arms were suddenly wrapping around him and she was awkwardly rubbing circles into his back.

“Is this okay?” She asked. He could no longer form words, so Luca nodded his consent instead.

When he eventually calmed down and the only evidence of his initial panic were the scale tracks on his face and neck, Giulia quietly went to grab him a glass of water and held it out for him to take.

“Sorry, that was dramatic.” He whispered croakily. Giulia laughed kindly and patted his shoulder.

“I think dramatic is a requirement in our family. Besides, you already know how I can be too much.”

They sat in silence for a time with their arms around each other, the light outside fading to the familiar dark and loud nightlife of Genoa.

“Per favore, don’t tell my mama.” Luca cast her a look of confusion. “About Luisa.” She amended. “As kind and accepting as she is, I think this is something that would be too much of a sorpresa.”

The red-headed teen scuffed her big toe against the floor, eyes downcast.

“Hey,” Luca nudged her softly, prompting her to look up at him. “She might be the one to surprise you. I’ve never met two people like your parents, Giulia, who truly only lived to make their child happy.”

“Ad ogni modo, I’m still not ready for that conversation. Besides, it’s not like I have a chance. Luisa’s, like, super pretty and smart, and Santa mozzarella! When she sings, it’s incredibile!”

Luca smiled as his friend rambled on about the Sicilian sea monstress, wondering if this was how he looked every time he gushed about Alberto. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and an endless amount of knowledge about the one person you consider to be your whole world. It was a wonder no one else knew of his feelings.

21 Marzo 1970

“Santa ziti! You’ve been in love with him this whole time?!”

“Zitto, Ciccio! I’d rather not have the whole town know, thank you.” Alberto flung flour at the blonde’s face, nervously checking to make sure no one had heard them. They were currently working in the kitchen behind the Pasticcini’s front area, with Alberto kneading the dough and Ciccio creating scores in the bread or decorating the more delicate sweets.

Ciccio winced apologetically and lowered his voice, leaning in for good measure.

“Does he know, or have you not told him yet?”

“Of course, he doesn’t know, stupido! I’m trying to not ruin our friendship.

“Don’t call me stupido, and how do you know it would?”

Alberto threw the ball of dough down on the wood surface with more force than necessary, the surrounding flour splattering like snowballs after the season’s first snowfall.

“I just know, é tutto.”

They worked in silence for a while, taking turns with switching pans from the clay oven and glazing sweet rolls with fruit jellies and powdered sugar. When the sun was beginning to set everything on fire, its orange gaze turning the sweet rolls into apricot imitations, Ciccio’s mother brought warm cider and a platter of buttered bread. Alberto liked Ciccio’s mother, she was as warm as the bread she baked and her personality as strong and opinionated as the spices she used. Bella shared the same round features as her son, with a strong nose and bowed lips that were quick to smile. Ciccio once explained to Alberto that he and his mother got their strong noses and blonde hair from Bella’s German heritage, but it wasn’t something they spoke openly about.

Today, Signora Bella’s smile was strained, but it had lost none of its warmth. Alberto knew that meant either some customers had been more difficult than others or some pastries hadn’t turned outright. He recoiled at the thought of her being disappointed in anything he’d done.

“Come va tutto, ragazzi?” She lovingly patted Ciccio’s halo of curls and squeezed Alberto’s shoulder with a large hand. “It’s smelling really good in here. Ah, che bello!” She motioned to the cooling racks on Ciccio’s right. The sweet rolls and scored bread glistened perfectly in the afternoon light and the Signora’s words made Alberto glow as well.

“If you keep this up, Alberto, I may have to bribe Massimo to let me keep you all year long,” she teased. Alberto could only shrug nonchalantly, hoping his pride didn’t show.

“How did the sales go, mama?” Ciccio asked cheerfully, taking a large bite from his buttered bread. Alberto watched nervously, eating his own snack at a slower pace, his stomach suddenly feeling as if hermit crabs were marching and pinching at his insides.

Bella waved the questions away, her mouth pulling sourly at the edges. “Bah, Signor Tafani nearly scared away my customers this morning with his complaining. That man is never satisfied.” She sniffed dismissively. Alberto’s fingers began to pick at the bread, the smaller crumbs slipping from his lap.

“Was there something wrong with the baked goods?” He managed to ask, focusing on Bella’s crocifissione that hung around her neck. The older woman’s hand rested over Alberto’s, pausing the destruction of his bread.

“As I said, piccolo, he is never satisfied. No matter how perfect the bake is,” Her smile was small but firm and it made the hermit crabs release their pinching in his stomach. “God help that poor man’s wife.” Bella sighed heavily as she heaved herself to her feet.

“Ora,” she stood and clapped her hands together and both Alberto and Ciccio swallowed their bread quickly, the butter coating Alberto’s mouth with salt and cream. “Alberto, will you be staying for dinner?”

Alberto’s mouth watered at the thought; the signora’s food was always amazing, rich in seasonings and filled with love. Not to mention Ciccio’s father would usually play his guitar and serenade his family with music and singing. If he drank enough wine, Massimo would usually join in and the resulting cacophony would leave the rest of the family in tears and howls of laughter. Outwardly, the curly-haired teen hesitated, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.

“I don’t know Signora, I don’t want to leave Massimo hanging…”

“Bah, but of course he is invited as well, what do you think telefoni are for?”

“To make long distances seem short.” Ciccio supplied cheekily, earning an inconspicuous kick from Alberto. Signora Bella gave her son a bemused look.

“Si, mio figlio, for that too…” deciding that it was safer to not question the odd antics of teenaged boys, Bella left to call Massimo and prepare dinner.

When she was out of sight, Alberto gruffly shoved Ciccio in the side, earning him a loud laugh.

“I think I preferred it when you were trying to hunt me,” he groaned miserably. Ciccio merely grinned.

“It’d be hard to catch a fish that’s already been caught.” Alberto kicked him harder in answer.

28 Aprile 1970

“You want me to start applying already?”

The headmaster grinned expectantly at Luca.

“Ma certo, Luca! You’ve shown so much potential these past two years, which is even more impressive considering your, ahem, background.” The balding man stage whispered behind his hand. Luca could only stare in confusion.

“Why are you whispering, we’re the only ones here?” Signore Bonetti flushed red for a moment, his thin lips disappeared under his obnoxiously large mustache as he frowned.

“It doesn’t matter,” he waved his hand away, his smile returning instantly. “What matters, mio caro ragazzo is that you could have the opportunity for great things.”

“Bene, I don’t know, Signore Bonetti.”

“You don’t know.” The signore’s mustache quivered as he peered at the curly-haired youth before him. Luca shrugged awkwardly under his gaze, feeling a nervous trickle of sweat make its way down the back of his neck.

“I still have two years here and I have to consider prices as well. Moreover, I would like to discuss future possibilities with my family first.” He offered what he hoped to be a placating smile at the headmaster.

“All the more reason to start now,” Signore Bonetti pressed, his hands inching university pamphlets across the oak desk. “Signora Castello has already agreed to help write your application letters along with several recommendations from our staff. And, I should add that we’ve had a growing handful of universities reach out with interest once I sent a copy of your grades.”

Luca sighed internally, he had a feeling that he wouldn’t be escaping this conversation without some sort of agreement.

“How many universities would accept a full-grown sea monster into their halls, Signore Bonetti?” Luca asked bluntly. Thin lips open and closed in an “o” shape. The mustache covering the top half of his mouth reminded Luca of an octopus who couldn’t quite catch its food. He decided to keep that thought to himself.

“Actually, quite a few would be ecstatic, if you were willing to supply their science departments with some information.”

Luca clasped his hands to keep them from shaking. “I will not be some science project that is locked away and never seen again.” He said firmly.

The headmaster quickly backpedaled, “No, no of course not! We would never allow-”

“I’ve seen what humans do to those they consider different. Fear is a powerful, if uneducated, weapon. If I am to go to any university, I do not want them to know about my…background, as you say.” Luca smiled condescendingly.

The bald man paled, his eyes round with shock.

“No, mio ragazzo, I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Bene, if that is everything, I need to head back to class.” Luca stood, he considered the colorful papers on the desk before grabbing the lot and turning towards the door. Signore Bonetti stuttered a farewell to his retreating figure. He didn’t look back.

“What’s got you looking so glum, chum?” Dante’s question sprayed crumbs everywhere, much to the rest of the group’s disgust. Luca glared up at his large friend, dusting the rejected food off of his copy of ‘Fantastic Mr. Fox’.

“Is it really that hard to swallow first then speak, Castello?” Luisa asked, her cupid bow lips curled in distaste.

Dante rubbed a large hand across his face, dispelling a few straggling crumbs from his mouth. Without saying anything, he stared challengingly into Luisa’s eyes and took a larger bite of a dinner roll, the crumbs falling to their doom. Luisa scoffed and turned back to braiding Giulia’s red locks in intricate patterns. Giulia hadn’t said much during their lunch hour, and if Luca had to guess, he would wager having Luisa sit so close with her hands combing through her hair had something to do with it.

They were currently sat outside on the campus grounds, good weather permitting it. Around them, other students sat on benches or laid out on the grass, soaking up the weak rays of spring sunshine. Today, Luisa brought an intricate blanket that they all rested on, with Luca lying on his stomach and Dante munching beside him sitting cross-legged. A very flushed Giulia sat leaning back so that Luisa could access her hair easily.

Dante made to speak again, but Luca interrupted him. “I’ll tell you if you promise to keep your mouth shut and your food inside it.” The larger teen rolled his sky-blue eyes in annoyance but didn’t say anything, much to everyone’s relief.

“The headmaster wants me to start applying to universities.” Luca started, immediately his friends turned to him, their expressions matching.

“Cosa?!” Their table received several odd looks from the surrounding students who were simply trying to enjoy their meals.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Apparently, there are universities already showing interest in me.”

“You don’t think they know about, ya know.” Giulia mimicked swimming, wincing when Luisa yanked her head back into place so she could continue braiding.

“I honestly don’t know, I told Signore Bonetti I don’t want universities to know about it, I didn’t think to ask if he’d already brought it up.” Luca allowed his head to rest heavily against the pages of his book. Up close, the letters were indiscernibly blurry.

“I’ve never heard of a sophomore applying for university before, my mom has never allowed it. Have you been getting tens this whole time?” Dante looked at him incredulously. A red flush crept its way up Luca’s neck.

“That and a few extra-curricular.” He mumbled. Who knew joining the swim team and being the chess club captain would be so impressive?

“Aspettare, why aren’t you happy? Isn’t this a good thing?” Luisa intervened, her honey eyes never leaving her work.

“I dunno, I’m worried about more people finding out, and then there’s Alb- my family, I don’t want to make any decisions without them.”

Giulia shot him a look through her curtain of hair, he responded by nudging her foot with his book. They hadn’t spoken much since that incident happened, something that Luca wasn’t eager to change.

“Ya know, I’ve heard my mom talk about these exchanges that universities will offer to promising students for a few weeks.” Dante tapped his lips thoughtfully. “You’d have to wait until the summer after next to do it, but that would allow you the chance to experience college life without the full commitment.”

“Veramente?” Luca felt a flicker of hope and excitement flicker in his stomach.

“Yeah, take a few classes, sleep in one of the dorms, meet your professors, etc. That kind of stuff.” Dante waved his hand nonchalantly, “You know my mom would be happy to help, it’s her job, but, like, she reaaally likes you. So, instant win.” He popped a cherry tomato into his mouth.

The bell sounded, causing the group of teens to quickly finish what they were doing. With a hum of contentment, Luisa tied Giulia’s hair and helped the other girl to her feet. Dante and Luca helped wrap the blanket up neatly, being sure to shake out any remains of Dante’s lunch. The group split into two and headed to their respective classrooms with the promise to meet after school per usual. Luca’s last two classes of the day were physics and music, and he hurried towards his physics class which rested resentfully on the other side of the school.

As he passed a darkened alcove, his ears picked up the sounds of muffled giggles and whispers. He slowed down against his better judgment and peered around the corner of faded, blue lockers that lined the walls. Two boys, at least a year older than him, were leaning against each other in the darkened hallway. The tall, lanky blonde Luca recognized from the group of teens that Luisa had soaked near the beginning of the school year. The shorter brunette was unrecognizable, especially with him facing away from Luca and most of his body being overshadowed by Lanky.

He knew he was interrupting a private moment, but Luca couldn’t find it within himself to look away. Lanky leaned down and began to gently press kisses to Brunette’s neck who laughed breathlessly in response. Luca felt his stomach flip at the sight, and if he gripped his books harder than necessary, well, that was nobody else’s business. He wondered if Alberto would kiss him like that, or if he would prefer to have his own neck pressed with gentle ministrations. The thought made him sigh forlornly and rest his head non too gently on the lockers before remembering he wasn’t alone. The two boys jerked apart as if burned but Luca was already turning the corner at the end of the hallway before either could see him.

03 Maggio 1970

“Finalmente!” Luisa exclaimed, slumping against her towel in the sand. Luca could only continue to itch at his skin, flakes peeling off and leaving red scores wherever his nails scraped. Next to him, Dante was already removing his clothing, the pale moonlight making his skin glow like marble. The tall Italian hid a yawn behind his hand, his eyelids still struggling to carry their own weight. Due to both Luca and Luisa being sea monsters, it was agreed that they couldn’t attend the beach during the day where people might see them. Thus, it had become a monthly ritual for midnight swims since Luca’s first year in Genoa. With the weather being too cold during the winter, Luca had to settle for long soaks in Signora Mia’s bath.

However, this time around his skin had felt particularly itchy, and transforming during his morning showers had revealed new scales pushing underneath his older ones. He had panicked and ran from the bathroom with nothing but a towel and a shriek. After a rushed phone call with his mother, Luca learned about the extra joys of growth spurts and puberty.

“You’re going to have to swim daily to help your body push out the old scales,” his mother explained in her matter-of-fact way. “Your tail fins especially will need the help and they’re also going to be the sorest.” Daniela’s voice turned sympathetic. “Just a few weeks more and then you’ll be home, we can help manage it from there.”

So, for the past week, Luca with his trio of friends would all pile into Mia’s small, bright yellow Fiat and drive the half-hour to the ocean at three in the morning. Without a second thought, he was in the water, pushing through briny waves allowing the ocean to peel scales away with gentle brushes. His mother had been right, his tail was instantly sore once it unfurled in the waves. The spines along his fins were growing longer and sharper, their bases pink with tender new skin. Luca did his best to stretch his body gently in the dark waters, taking brief breaks to check his location in comparison to everyone else on the beach. The signora could be seen snoring loudly on her quilt and Dante was doing his best impression of a starfish, his face mashed into the corner of the quilt. The only two who weren’t passed out were Giulia and Luisa, who appeared to be in serious conversation near the water’s edge.

Luca dove back into the cool depths, the water burned his eyes in a barely noticeable way, and he wondered if it was because more tourists visited Genoa in comparison to Porto Rosso. There were also fewer fish here, although a stray school of fish could be found here or there. He felt a familiar tug in his chest at the thought of Porto Rosso’s waters. The year was finally coming to an end, with finals taking place for the next few weeks, and then Giulia and he would be heading home. Luca grinned freely as he thought about Alberto again, the tug growing stronger in his chest the more he thought about him. He wanted so badly to talk to his friend about his newfound feelings, but there was also the risk of losing Alberto over said feelings. And then there was the decision of attending university in two years, who knew what could happen during that time? The fifteen-year-old groaned in frustration, sending a burst of bubbles to the surface. A smoothhound shark swam past him, appearing to roll its eyes at his dramatics. Luca stuck his tongue out in defense, not willing to argue with a shark at the moment.

When he rolled onto the beach with a swell, the sun was beginning to crest over the ocean’s face. Giulia and Luisa both nodded to him, neither having moved from their spot on the sand.

“Did you want to swim a bit before we head back?” Luca asked Luisa, already knowing the answer. The Sicilian girl smiled gently at his offer before shaking her head in a negative.

“Is it a self-conscious thing because I totally get that. But just to be very clear, you have nothing to be embarrassed about.” Luca balked at Giulia’s sudden boldness. The redhead in question looked at him as if to ask why he’d let her say that her face turning the same shade as her locks. “Sorry,” she muttered, wrapping her arms around her knees. “that was too much.”

Luisa had the most genuine smile on her face that Luca had seen in their entire time together. She wrapped arms the color of caffè around Giulia, pressing her grin into her shoulder.

“You’re too cute, Giulietta.”

Giulia looked dazed out of her mind, her face the definition of a satellite that had gone to space and made no motion of returning to earth.

Pulling away, Luisa’s expression turned carefully neutral, and she appeared to be at war with something in her thoughts. As the sun began to pour its warm rays along the sandy shores of Genoa, the young sea monster seemed to come to terms with something. Sighing, she gracelessly flopped forward and began to push her fingers deep beneath the sand’s surface.

“When I was really small, I was taken from my parents by fishermen.” Luisa began slowly, “I was sold to a Circo da baraccone in Napoli, and I was their star of the show. The circus was filled with other people who had anomalies, like me. For the most part, they were really nice.”

“For the most part?” Luca asked quietly. He suddenly felt oddly cold, even with the rays drying his skin.

“Our… master,” Luisa bared her teeth at the word, “was not kind. He wanted perfection instantly and he was very greedy, he barely met our basic needs for food and water. Instead, he would spend money on alcohol and parties with powerful people.” Luisa traced vicious lines through the sand, contrasting light and dark with her fingers.

“When he was particularly ubriaco, he would wake us up at all hours of the night and run through shows with us. Every time we would make a mistake, he would use his whip.” Her fingers stopped. “I was just seven years old.” She whispered.

Beside her, Giulia had become rigid, her face pale and her cheeks were glistening with tears.

“One night, he was more violent than usual, and he knocked over a lantern. The whole circus went up in flames. In all the chaos, my tank broke and I was afraid I would die without water, I’d never made the change before. When I realized I could breathe, it didn’t matter because the fire was too big by that point. The smoke and heat were everywhere, and I couldn’t run.

“But then, Marta came back for me.” Luisa gave a small smile and finally met their stricken gazes.

“She carried me to safety, and we escaped together, never once looking back.”

“Is that what brought you here to Genoa?” Giulia’s voice shook, though she tried to hide it. Luisa turned to her and laced their fingers together and they both held on tightly.

“No, I was only nine. Marta tried to help me find my parents, but I couldn’t remember where I had been taken from and I couldn’t find other sea monsters near Napoli. Actually,” she finally looked at Luca, “you’re the first one I’ve encountered in all these years.”

“I’m sorry,” Luca murmured. Luisa raised her eyebrows in question.

“Don’t be,” She answered easily, though her voice caught, “for the first time, in a long time, I have hope.”

“Anyways,” she continued, “we moved to Sicily to avoid recognition and Marta did what she could to teach me how to be a human, including teaching me my letters and numbers. Eventually, she was able to enroll me into a school.” Here, she frowned.

“I didn’t mean to reveal myself, but there was an accident with water, and I changed. I escaped school, which wasn’t hard to do when everyone is afraid of you. Marta and I fled here and changed our names, she’s sacrificed for me so much and I feel terrible about it.” Tears began to leave pink scale marks over her skin.

“No,” Luca corrected gently. He shared a look with Giulia, and wordlessly they embraced the weeping teen. “You did what you had to to survive. And there is no guilt or shame in that.” Luisa sobbed harder, years of heartache bleeding out and dampening the crystals of sand. They stayed that way until there was no guilt left.

[myblueeyedbuggers]

My Boys

Chapter 8

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7  Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14

Pairings: Reader x Steve Rogers (best friend) Reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 2415

Warnings: Language, Fluff

Summary: After being abandoned by her parents in Brooklyn in 1929, y/n makes a living for herself by working for the Црни лабуд gang until she meets two boys in a back alley and her life slowing begins to change.

So there’ll be a slight change in the Uploading plans, originally I wanted to update daily, but with my college and work it might not be possible on some days, but there will be new ones the following day, As always enjoy ! :) 

Reader POV

Well this isn’t how I thought today was gonna go at all, I hadn’t planned on running and hiding from a pair of idiots with a younger girl all because someone might have said one of the boys laughs like a possessed school girl. Disapproving glances were sent our way by the nurses, not like I’d let somethin’ like that stop the fun, the sound of Becca’s laughing and the boys yelling after us only made me run faster.

“Y/N! GET BACK HERE AND APOLOGISE! MY LAUGH IS AS MANLY AS A LOIN WEARING A LEATHER JACKET AND YA KNOW IT!” Okay what kind of example is that?! “Never Barnes! There’s nothin’ wrong with sounding like a chipmunk on laughing gas! Some girls find it adorable when boys wheeze like an old man!” I felt Becca’s hand slip outta mine, glancing behind me to see her rolling on the floor laughing, Steve was in the exact same state a couple of feet behind her as Bucky looked at both in disbelief.

I couldn’t help myself, a few giggles escaped my mouth at the sight of Bucky’s face, which in turn signed my death sentence when he turned around a glared at me, his eyes narrowing as he started taking a couple of steps towards me. Okay now is not the time to laugh at the poor lad, MOVE YA ASS Y/N! THE BOY IS PISSED I REPEAT THE BOY IS PISSED! I think my natural instincts kicked in, one minute I was frozen on the spot and the next I was half way up the hallway runnin’ for my bloody life. Our footsteps thundered up the corridor, a small scream left my throat when I turned around and realised how close the bugger was, my heart was pumping from both the exercise and excitement as a small laugh left my body.

Out of habit my eyes started searching for the nearest exit, a mischievous smirk spreading across my face as an idea popped into my head, at the last second o turned and dove behind some chairs, leaving the idiot to full on crash into the wall in front of me. Bucky’s eyes widened as soon as he realised what I’d done, thankfully he managed to cover his face before hitting the wall and crashing to the ground. Groans filled the air as I fell to my ass, not being able to support myself from all the laughing going on.

“Okay…as far as I’m concerned no-one saw that, oh Jesus Christ my head is poundin, y/n give me a hand please?” now I felt a tiny bit guilty as I looked down on the poor lad, a slight bruise was formin’ on his forehead. “Yeah sure Buck, no-one except from the staff and people saw you completely each shit, come here ya big lug” his hand grasped mine in a firm grip as I hauled his ass of the floor, once he was completely up right I brushed the hair outta the way of the bruise.  Completely missing the shiver from him when my fingers made contact with his skin, gently I pressed my fingers on his forehead and tried to find the area that might have been hurting him the most. I must have found it, cause Buck let out a small hiss of pain, I quietly apologised giving the bruise one more check before pulling away, his intense gaze fell on my face and I quickly looked away attempting to hide my blush. Dude seriously? Why am I acting like an actual girl?! OH GOD I MUST BE DYING!

“Aren’t ya gonna kiss it better for me Doll?”. This cocky motherf**ker. I turned towards Satan himself with narrowed eyes, and of course he was stood there with a shit-eating grin plastered on him stupid face. “You’d need a miracle for that to happen Barnes” and que the swapping of expressions in 3,2, 1… I raised my eyebrows at him, a smirk on my face as I slowly walked away from him, my eyes trained on his as he began to follow me. Again. “Well if you ask me, it’s only fair considering ya lead me straight into that wall, plus my pride is still wounded from your earlier comment doll.” I rolled my eyes as I turned away from him, though I’m pretty sure he saw the small smile on my face, his arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me into his side, “Even if I wanted to Barnes, I’d need a bloody stepladder to reach your giant head” I swear down if I carry on smirking this much my mouths gonna get stuck like this and I’ll end up looking like a deranged pigeon.

Biting his lip to stop himself from laughin’, Buck started to shake his head as an amused smile spread across his face as he turned to me, somethin’ in his eyes screamed mischief as I cautiously started backing off from him. Well it was more like attempting to back away from him, but my stupid ass forgot he had his arm around me and Buck kindly reminded me by pulling me back to him, “I might be able to help in the height department doll face”. Quickly he wrapped his other arm around the other side of my waist and the next thing I knew I was flying…I’m kidding the bugger decided to pick me up! “Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put me back on the ground in the next 5 seconds I will kill you! and quit man handling me goddamn it!” naturally the pillock laughs and moves me up higher whilst walking towards the exit.

“Not till ya give me a kiss doll, it takes a lot for a mans pride to recover and you sure did a number on mine, I think half of it’s still spattered on the wall back there” this boy is almost as impossible as me!  “What’s the chances of you not putting me down till I do ?” I think my eyebrows have reached my hairline at this point, “Hmm…Slim to nothin’ , you ain’t getting outta this doll”. For once I didn’t disagree with him, rolling my eyes at him I gently pushed the hair away from his forehead and placed a small but quick kiss on the bruise before pulling back, my gaze was met with a very unimpressed Bucky. “What? I did it didn’t I? why ya sulking Barney boy?” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop a laugh coming out, Buck’s face contorted into one of horror at the nickname and a slight shiver passed through his body, in short, he looked like he was gonna throw up. “First off never call me that again! And secondly that wasn’t a proper kiss doll, that was a peck on the head at best.” I shot him an exasperated look, only to be greeted with a triumphant smile, shaking my head I leant in again and pressed my lips to the centre of his forehead, gently cradling his head with one hand as the other rested on his cheek.

3Rd person POV

The young couple were oblivious to the audience they’d gained, the rest of Bucky’s family looked on at the scene from the hospital doors, Mr and Mrs Barnes huddled together, a warm and gentle smile on their faces as they watched. Steve hurriedly grabbed Becca into his arms and covered her eyes from the sight, the little girl protested against this but gave up after a minute to stand in her silent confusion, the older boys face held a grin so wide people would have thought he’d just won the lottery.

The illusion was slowly coming to a close, slowly the older girl pulled away from the brown-haired boy, choosing to rest her forehead against his, both had small smiles on their faces as they gazed each other in the eyes, neither of them broke eye contact as the boy slowly lowered her to the ground again.

Readers POV

Almost reluctantly, Bucky removed his arms from around my waist, I’d already started to miss the feelin’ of his touch. Approaching footsteps broke our eye contact, Mr and Mrs Barnes were heading over to the two of us with Steve and Becca behind them, Steve must of done somethin’ to annoy her cause Becca was glaring at him from the side.

“Come on then Sweetheart, think it’s about time we got back home. Boys! What have I told you about messin’ around at the side of the road?!” well that was short conversation. The feeling of a small hand grabbin’ mine distracted me from the absolute bollocking Steve and Bucky were getting, Becca’s bright eyes met mine as she smiled at me, it’s honestly impossible not to smile at this girl. “Mama said that when we get home we can make cupcakes! Are you gonna help us as well y/n? I promise it’ll be fun!” I know I’ve mentioned that she’s adorable, but dear god she is so cute! I could feel my eyes crinkle as I smiled back at her “Of course I will Sweetie! Oh, how about we ask your mama if we can make them pink?!” Her already bright eyes lit up even more, I have no idea how that was possible, “Yeah! I’ll go ask her now!” with a sweet smile Becca ran over to Mrs Barnes as she jumped up and down excitedly, telling her our plan.

-Time Skip

Everything I owned was in one small box, despite me telling both the boys and Mr Barnes that I could go and get my stuff myself, the insisted that I stay at the house while they went and fetched it with the excuse of “It’s in a really bad area y/n , it’s way too dangerous for you at this time of night”. Don’t get me wrong I was very grateful, but they seemed to forget that I’d been livin’ there for a good couple of years and knew the best way to get around the neighbourhood, they were gone for a fair few hours and came back just as we started serving up dinner.

Afterwards Mrs Barnes sent us away for half an hour, so I took that time to go and unpack whatever I had left from my old life, I mean I knew for a fact it wasn’t much but most of the things I had left were things for self-defence and I didn’t wanna risk Becca seeing them. The only way to tell where’d I’d gone was the occasional creek of the floorboards underneath my feet as I closed to door to mine and Becca’s shared room, as soon as my body hit the bed the lid off the box was torn off.

Oh right, I forgot I had half of this crap… my hand reached for the small handgun carefully packed away in some tissue, the weight felt worryingly welcome in my palm as I turned it over, examining the fine details. Hang on a sec is someone coming upstairs…nope just my imagination, not the time to get distracted y/n! focus for god sake you’ve got half of the army’s Amory on your lap! My attention turned to the remaining items, each and everyone had been “gifted” to me by the gang for good work. A medium hunting knife engraved with my initials was next outta the box, followed by a swiss army knife and my brass knuckles, at some point I’d had to use all of them back at my old place, a shiver made it’s way down my spine as the memories came rushing back to me.

“Y/n? You in here?” oh flipping hell! “Yeah just give us a minute Steve! I’ll be out soon” I don’t know why I keep expecting these boys to listen to me anymore, clearly Steve didn’t listen to a bloody word I said and walked into the room, freezing when he saw all the weapons. “Y/n where did all these come from? And why do you need them?” his tone was deadly serious, wait what the hell? Didn’t he go with the rest to get my things?! , “Erm, Steve I thought you’d already seen them, didn’t you pack up some of my stuff?”. Both of us stared at each other for a few seconds, the pair of us confused by each other, “yeah I did, but Buck’s dad packed your stuff away while we looked around, that still doesn’t answer the question of what the hell you’re doing with all this stuff” ohh that makes sense.

He raised his eyebrows at my silence, moving from one foot to another as he waited for an answer, “ I’d use em for protection back at my old place, the people around there have no concept or wrong or right so it was the perfect place for me to lie low” you’d think that would be about as obvious as a punch in the face but apparently I was wrong. Immediately Steve’s posture changed, his eyes darkened as a frown appeared on his face, his eyes were clouded like he was lost in thought, “I’m sorry y/n, I hate that you had to go through that on your own for so long, I shouldn’t be making judgments on your actions, it’s just what you had to do to live right?” his eyes met mine, a sad understanding present in them as we held each other’s gaze.

“As much as I hate to admit it, that exactly what it was like Stevie, I should of told you and Bucky what you were fetching instead of leaving you in the dark” my feet dragged me over to the blonde boy, a sad smile was shared between us as we closed in for a hug, admittedly it was a tiny bit awkward considering I was a bit taller then the lad, but it was nice enough.

“Kids come back downstairs were about to make the cakes!” the sudden shout made us spring apart, causing us to bump heads with each other, “Bloody hell Rodgers what’s your head made out of?! Friggin’ rock ?!” leave it to me to ruin a moment… despite this, Steve shot me a playful glare followed by a quick shut up as he followed me out the room, the memories of my old life being forgotten and replaced with new ones.

As always, I’m open for requests and imagines, any feedback is welcome too :) Thanks for reading!

Rose xx

[unorthodoxsavvy]

Trying To Catch And Rescue A WILD Pigeon (fic)

This fic is for the wonderful @ttlmt who I know you all are already following wile they’re away as a coming-back present (and for a thank you for using their bad luck with timing of Phil uploading videos to give us not one but 2 new Phil videos while they have no service and cannot watch them).

Rating: G

Word Count: 1.6k

Characters: Dan Howell, Phil Lester, Steve the Pigeon, Scraggy the Pigeon

Ships: Dan x Phil, Steve x Scraggy

Find me on Wattpad

Phil was sitting on the couch, legs on top of Dan’s, scrolling through his twitter notifications, when one caught his eye.

“please help steve. his foot is injured and he might get really sick !!”

Phil went back to the photos and videos he’d shared of Steve for a closer look. They were right- Phil could see what looked like a piece of rope that had become tangled around the poor pale pigeon’s foot and it looked as if it was cutting off circulation. 

Phil showed the photo to Dan.

“Why don’t you put some more seed out and try and get a better look? You know he’ll show up if you do.”

So that’s what Phil did.

Phil sat right up against the sliding glass door, nose almost pressed to the glass and fogging it up slightly. When Steve swooped down to start eating, Phil could really see his foot. It was swollen and whatever had gotten wrapped around it was frayed, almost as if he’d had to free himself from being stuck on something but hadn’t gotten it all off, just managed to cut himself loose. It was bent inward slightly.

Phil sighed sadly. Of course he was going to help Steve, he loved Steve, but how?

Well, he knew the best thing to do would be to call an expert, so he moved outside to get comfortable and looked up the number for the RSPCA on his laptop.

The automated system picked up, stating that unless it was an emergency, than to please wait.

Was this an emergency? It wasn’t a pet, but it was in danger, Phil thought. He didn’t know how long it’d been tied around his foot, and he didn’t know how much longer Steve could hold out on his own- but this was a wild pigeon… it didn’t matter to him, of course- an animal in trouble was an animal in trouble. But he didn’t know the policies here, so he decided to send an email.

He expected them to confirm that it was not a big deal, and was surprised when the answer he received implored him to take care of Steve as soon as possible, as this was an emergency, and to call them right away.

Phil dialed again and waited for someone to pick up.

“Name?”

“Steve.”

“Steve what?”

“Oh my name! I thought you meant the pigeon’s name,” Phil laughed awkwardly, remembering that some places called pets in by their names instead of their owner’s. It wasn’t so far-fetched, right?

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dan filming him on his phone.

Phil listened to the professional on the other end of the line, using his computer to look up things like addresses for offices to help and phone number for local vets, but they stressed that it would be best if Phil could catch Steve himself. Of course Phil agreed to, and hung up.

“What did they say?” Dan asked from behind the camera.

“They want us to catch Steve and bring him to a vet.”

“How the hell are you supposed to catch a bloody pigeon?”

“I don’t know!”

Phil started looking up methods to catch a pigeon.

“This one says to throw a towel over it, but that seems traumatizing.”

“As if you could ever manage to do that,” Dan scoffed.

“This one says to trap it under a box! How are you supposed to get it out from under the box! It’ll just fly away!”

Dan stopped filming and put his phone down to sit across from Phil at their patio table.

“Why can’t you just convince him to come inside or something? He’s already half way there.”

“How are we going to catch him inside?” Phil asked, but just then his eye caught a phrase on page 2 of his google search. 

“What if we train him to climb into a pet carrier,” Phil asked, focused on the page the link had brought him to.

“I mean that sounds more manageable than anything else you’ve found.”

So they went and bought a pet carrier.

Phil had Dan film him talking about his plan of putting seed in the carrier to lure Steve in gently as well as him explaining how he’d packed a towel in the bottom for maximum comfort.

Dan and Phil, though mostly Phil, over the next few weeks, made sure to try their best to only feed Steve and place heaping amounts of encouraging seed in the pet carrier. A new pigeon had shown up as well that Phil had named “Scraggy” because of her disheveled appearance, but she’d taken a liking to Steve. Phil knew he needed to help Steve get better so he could be reunited with his lovely Scraggy.

While this training was going on, Phil had taken to emailing various vets around the area looking for help. One responded kindly that they’d be willing to make an appointment for Steve. Eventually, though, they had stopped replying and Phil decided to pluck up te courage to make a phone call. It was for Steve, after all.

Phil had Dan film him again as he made an appointment for Wednesday.

Everything was set, and the only thing left to do was to catch Steve on that fateful Wednesday morning.

What could go wrong?

Wednesday morning arrive.

There was no sign of Steve.

Finally, after waiting around for hours, Dan spotted him in the tree.

“Get the carrier out,” Phil instructed.

“If he flies away when you come near it, how are you going to close the door?”

Phil’s eyes drifted in thought.

“Oh! What if we tie a string around it and close it by pulling the strong from inside?”

Dan rolled his eyes.

“Our lives are already a cartoon plot, might as well.”

And so that’s what they did.

Except, they didn’t have any string. Or yarn. Or anything, really. All they had were cords. 

Dan offered up his spare phone charging cord and started filming Phil tying it around the cage door.

“Alright, why don’t you pull it closed while filming and then I’ll run over and lock it shut.”

Dan looked up at him.

“Are you serious?” 

“Yes?” Phil smiled sheepishly.

Dan made a big deal of huffing and puffing about the plan but Phil knew that Dan would do it for him.

Phil sat the pet carrier full of seed laid upon the towel on their porch.

Dan crouched behind their ottomon watching as Steve slowly made his way into the pet carrier.

“Now,” Phil said when Steve was inside.

Dan pulled the phone charger.

Steve’s tail got stuck in the door but Phil was there in a second to push the door closed, and by that time Steve had already taken another step in. Scraggy was right behind the pet carrier, confused.

“Sorry Steve.” Dan zoomed in on the pet carrier. “We’re trying to rescue you.”

Scraggy waited patiently on the porch.

“Alright let’s head out.”

Phil walked down the street holding the pet carrier with Steve inside while Dan walked next to him and filmed.

The foot and car traffic were insane that afternoon, of course.

They made it to the vet without much incident, and the vet assistant met them at the door. They reassured Phil that Steve would “probably be fine” (which Phil didn’t like the sound of), and promised to call him with an update when they were done.

It was then Steve was handed over from the care of two bumbling idiots to animal medical professionals.

The two of them walked back home to wait.

It was only two hours, which, when you thought about it, didn’t seem too long, but for Phil it felt like ages.

Finally Phil noticed he had a voicemail, and had Dan record him while he played it out loud.

“I’m just calling you to let you know that the pigeon that you brought in to us is all done! He’s alright, we got the string off his foot, he did have to loose a toe unfortunately, but they adapt to that very quickly.”

“Do you want to pick him up now?” Dan asked after the recording was finished playing and Phil had finished talking to the camera.

“Yes, please.”

They walked back to the vet and picked up their bird.

They ended up needing to go in their lift to get back to their flat, which they had already ridden down to get to the street on their way out, and Phil wondered what it was like for Steve to ascend vertically without actually flying, and if he could tell they even were from inside the pet carrier.

Finally, it was Phil and Steve on the porch once more while Dan filmed.

Phil made a moment of opening the door to the pet carrier while the cacophony of London sirens clashed in the background. Phil had just put some more bird seed up on their feeder a moment before as an apology for Steve. To Phil’s surprise and delight, Steve flew up onto their railing area and then hopped down onto the feeder.

Dan and Phil laughed.

“I thought he’d be scared of me, but he’s just like ‘food?’” Phil bent down smiling to the camera.

Quickly he was joined by Scraggy, and the two of them sat in the feeder eating away as if nothing had happened.

Phil shuffled back inside.

Over the next few weeks Steve kept returning with Scraggy, and to Phil it looked like they were even building a nest. Phil knew that he couldn’t have Steve dependent on the birdseed alone forever and pledged to started weening him off the food.

Maybe some day in the future they’d have baby Scraggy and Steves.

And hopefully, if they did, none of them needed to be brought to the vet.

However, Dan and Phil had already proven to themselves that if that were the case, they were ready.

[hakuryuu]

All for circumstance and fortune if that’s not too much, I wanna know Everything

SORRY THIS TOOK ME ALL DAY AAHHH

CIRCUMSTANCE

their voice: it's soft and medium-pitched. he doesn't usually raise his voice above speaking level even if he's agitated

their smile: he usually does a closed-mouth smile, it's hard to get him to grin with his teeth! but even his little smiles are usually genuine, since he's not the type to fake smile

their greatest achievement: he's something of a prodigy in the order and he's really talented and innovative with the lady's gifts

their insecurities: he's always worried about getting in trouble because despite often getting in trouble he's very unwilling to stray from the things he wants to do, so he's always trying to like.....fit his own desires into the framework of what he's supposed to be doing? and he's always a little uneasy about that because he knows he's supposed to be the order's golden child

their shortcomings: imdnfndndnf he's SO like........rigid?? that's not quite right and neither is stubborn, i described him as unbending and i think that's the closest? he's very much not the kind of person to be deviated from a path or way of thinking, not because he refuses to be swayed but just because he's so singleminded. he's also kind of naive and unsuspicious but luckily for him his tunnel vision makes him harder to manipulate. also he's. kinda lazy. fhfngndnf

how they deal with grief: outwardly he shuts down and powers through it, but it makes him prone to just like crying at random times and he also will become more emotionally withdrawn and prone to trying to do stuff by himself. if he's allowed to exercise by himself while he's grieving he'll sometimes go too hard and hurt himself

how they like to dress: he likes loose unrestricting clothing when he's not wearing his vestments because he is, unfortunately, a jock. he probably wears dresses a fair amount, but he also likes loose tank tops and shorts, that kind of thing

what they like to eat: he likes salty foods like grilled fish and he likes soups!

their theme: if the question is thematic arc i'm still hammering that out but his theme song is natsukage by KEY

their fashion sense: he really likes bold patterns and interesting fabrics despite his own tendency to wear plain neutral colors most of the time

their family life: he loves his mom and his little brother!!! him and fortune are close (both emotionally and in age) so they spend a lot of time together. their mom is a [term for luck-bearing person] while they're both [luck-using people] so they don't spend as much time with her, but they try to have meals with her at least once a week and they see her around the order with some regularity. the order isn't small but it also isn't super big so mostly everyone knows each other and it has that kind of familial aspect

their romantic life: he gets hopeless crushes on cute boys but never actually enjoys being around them fhsjdngndnf or like does enjoy being around them but in the same way you like being around people you're friends with. he's never actually dated anyone and he's never met anyone he's wanted to like actively chase after, but he does get a fair amount of confessions from people who like aloof-looking prettyboys

their embarrassing memory from years ago: when circumstance was little the room he shared with fortune was such a mess that once in the middle of the night a pile of his stuff collapsed onto fortune's bed and buried him and they had to get a bunch of adults to excavate him. fortune has never let him live this down

how they react to burning their tongue on food: sticks his tongue out, maybe does a small "ah", immediately goes to get an ice cube on it

how they react to a brainfreeze: that gif of paul rudd in front of a computer going "oh shit!!!" and closing his eyes really tight

their dreams: he dreams of a day when the order's outposts are connected more firmly and he can travel between them more often

their ambitions: he wants to discover new applications of the lady's gift!

how they sleep: face down upside down on the bed so his feet are on the pillow. he usually wakes up one or two times a night unless he's really tired

their reaction to betrayal: he'd search desperately for a reason to forgive or excuse them, and then afterwards he would just be sad

their reaction to a mystery love letter: fgdhjfj probably unfazed.....if whoever sent it approaches him he'll kindly let them down but if there's no sender name then he won't do anything about it

how they react to pain: a hiss through the teeth unless he's around fortune or his mom AND it's not a big deal in which case he's a huge baby and wants to be coddled

what they're like on two hours of sleep: imfngndndnf he functions poorly on no sleep so he always feels really normal and rational internally but from the outside he doing really dumb stuff, like how when you're drunk you think nobody can tell but it's super obvious

how they act when they're sick: whiny and dramatic, if he has a cold he Is dying. if he gets some kind of stomach bug or a bad flu though he just becomes a zombie until it's over because he hates it so much

what motivates them: he's really motivated by the order's job (balance of luck, that kind of thing) because he knows it's important job

why you enjoy them: that;s my son...i really enjoy how like gentle and mothering he is sghsnfnfndf

FORTUNE

their voice: an upbeat kind of husky voice, clear with coarse edges

their smile: big bright grin! he's an expressive boy so you can almost always see what's happening on his face

their greatest achievement: every time he outshines circ it feels like an achievement to him. also once he cooked a big dinner for the order and it went off perfectly

their insecurities: he's got a bit of an inferiority complex abt circ being better at using the lady's gifts....he's also a little insecure about how slowly his hair grows. the people at the order are always telling him how well he follows rules compared to circ but he's always sure they're just saying it to make him feel better

their shortcomings: he's envious and a little mistrustful....he has a lot of trouble not comparing himself to others (Esp Circ) and seeing where he falls short instead of where he excels in comparison. he's also got a lot of drive and not very much place to put it which results in him being unnecessarily competitive about Everything

how they deal with grief: it ferments very quickly into bitterness if he doesn't talk with anyone about it, he also tends to get angrier and pick fights when he's going through stuff

how they like to dress: very similar fashion style to circumstance (they steal each other's clothes sometimes) but he tends towards more long-sleeved shirts. he finds the underlayers of the vestments pretty comfy. both him and circ are pretty into big jackets and straw sandals as well

what they like to eat: he likes light cold foods, like a bagel or some cucumber slices or stuff like that

their theme: rever's edge (b-6) by the pillows

their fashion sense: he likes loud color blocked stuff but doesn't like stuff with patterns on it

their family life: he's super close with his brother & fairly close with his mom + he's so generally cheerful & outgoing that he's kind of the equivalent of that classmate that everyone likes

their romantic life: running joke that he should be [a luck-bearer] bc his luck w relationships is so bad (mostly unrequited crushes, a handful of breakups: he tends to put people on a pedestal and it causes problems)

their embarrassing memory from years ago: he once got an important visiting member of the order's birthday wrong and threw them a surprise party on the wrong day....it went fine but he's mortified every time he thinks of it

how they react to burning their tongue on food: AGHHH HOT HOT HOT, accepts the ice cube circ is already handing to him while also flipping circ off because he Is laughing

how they react to a brainfreeze: goes fetal, shoves the pad of his thumb against the roof of his mouth as fast as possible

their dreams: he daydreams about being a famous chef

their ambitions: he's very ambitious!!! i don't know enough about how the order works to explain what his ambitions are!!! help!!

how they sleep: worlds SLOPPIEST sleeper, he knocks out immediately and stays asleep through hell and high water, mouth open + drooling + starfished at a weird angle across the bed w at least one limb hanging off + at least one pillow is on the floor every morning. if you put a cat on his chest he will wake up immediately

their reaction to betrayal: jovial resignation that masks hurt and anger & you will find him in the gym hitting a punching bag at 1am

their reaction to a mystery love letter: he'll think about it all day and go around asking everyone if they sent it (but is really casual and jokey about it because if this is a prank someone is pulling on him then god dammit they are not gonna get a reaction)

how they react to pain: if he gets a minor/sudden injury he gets Angry and then has to tamp that down, bigger or duller hurts he bears with aplomb and tries not to think about it. he lets circ fuss over him because it makes him feel cared for even though externally he acts like he hates it

what they're like on two hours of sleep: HUGE kid at a sleepover at 1am energy (bro......do you think pigeons have feelings???) + he gets super weepy

how they act when they're sick: he doesn't get sick very often but when he does he knocks out for one to three days depending on severity of illness and then is perfectly fine. circ, who once had a head cold that lasted a month, will never forgive him for this

what motivates them: he wants to be good at a lot of stuff (versatility!!) and get praised

why you enjoy them: he's a good boy!!

[agateshot]

"A baked casserole with cheese and… pasta?" Petya asks, eyebrows going up in concern, "I can't say I've had the…. Pleasure…. Of experiencing such an… abomination."

"It's good, I promise!" Van says, pulling out a few eggs, "You'll like it."

"Eggs?" Petya asks, somewhere between teasing and genuine horror, "Who came up with such an awful idea."

"It's a dish from my home." Van explains, "Not where I grew up, but where Alphonse and I lived as a family. He wants me to make stew, but Alphonse always wants me to make stew. So I decided to make something I haven't had in a long while."

Petya doesn't have anything to say to that other than a quiet hum, coming over to drape himself over Van, arms around his neck. Dragging around Petya like a man cape was a little hindering, but Van didn't mind. Petya's teasing isn't mean, his jokes nothing more than a way to pass the time until dinner was ready. He can tell Petya is interested, and for now that is enough.

When the stoneware is in the oven, he turns, pushing Petya up against the wall to look at him. There's a flustered look in those cool eyes, a shy smile playing nervously on his lips. It was always funny to see how Petya reacted when Van goes to kiss him, and Van savors the expression as he lean in. Clearly anticipating it, Petya's lips part slightly, his warm breath falling on Van's lips and..!

"Oh! Pardon mine intrusion!"

Petya jumps slightly, neatly hitting his head on the wall that's supporting him, and Van takes a moment to check him over before going to give Gwyndolin a hug.

"I had thought to come early," Gwyndolin explains, "To offer mine assistance with the meal preparation for tonight. However, if my presence is not required, I shall adjourn for a time."

"Please stay," Van pleads, "We haven't talked in so long, Gwyndolin, I don't want you to go."

"But Ser Petya and thee--"

"Would be too nervous to continue." Petya murmurs, his usually pale skin flushed with embarassment, still standing against the wall. "Pay no mind to it."

"Ser Petya," Gwyndolin murmurs, hiding his smile behind the lift of a wrist, "Truely, I must apologize to thee. It was not mine intention to pin thee to a wall for examination."

"It was mine though." Van teases, and chuckles slightly as Petya flusters.

Not wanting to make the poor man cry, Gwyndolin takes Van's hand kindly, attempting to reassure Petya with a smile as he leads Van a short distance away so he can collect himself.

"Lorian and Lothric shall be here shortly," Gwyndolin explains, "They've gone to help Yorshka finish her duties and will collect her on their way here. Should you need anything, there is time to have a letter drafted and sent with thy dear pigeon."

The pigeon, perhaps hearing herself being referenced, flies in to land at their feet, looking up at them shrewdly. Van shakes his head, though leans down to pet her face before sending her off again.

"She's helping Alphonse tend the children right now." Van explains, "Alphonse does all right, but he tends to focus on the kids who don't play as much, and often lets the bulk get into trouble because he doesn't keep an eye on them. I made sure that I had a list this time so I didn't leave anything out."

"Ahh, I see." Gwyndolin says, nodding slightly, "Is it-- Common for pigeons to tend to human children?"

"Well, no." Van admits, "But she's bonded with me, you see. Pigeons have a good sense of family and community and so I don't find it entirely strange that she would want to help raise some young, even though they aren't pigeon squab. I don't think animals are all that different from humans on that level."

"It is heartwarming at any rate, to see any creature bond with another." Gwyndolin admits, "Though, and I mean this in the kindest way, I have found mineself curious as to thine reasoning for not attaching a name to her."

"Every name I've thought to utter doesn't fit." Van says simply, "Some things have a name before they find you, and the pigeon is one of them. I hope to find out what it is, but until then, she doesn't mind being the pigeon. She does hate it when I attempt to call her by a word that isn't hers, though."

"That… is rather profound." Gwyndolin murmurs, shaking himself slightly, "I shall have to remember that in the future."

Van smiles slightly, and heads back into the kitchen to tend to dinner.

It isn't long until dinner is served, the adults long since learned that the peace is kept when food is already on the table before the children even see it. Empty plates cause needless anxiety, and while the food may be not as warm for some as others, they had learned which children need cool food to prevent burned mouths.

There had been enough time that Yorshka and Lothric had been able to play with the other children, and when it was time to eat, a stampede of hungry youths pour in from the yard outside.

As matter of routine, Petya calms them down, preparing to offer a prayer, pausing slightly to look at Gwyndolin before doing so. Van, not paying attention to this part, took the silence to mean that Petya was done, starting in on his food-- and chaos erupts again, hungry children being unable to be contained.

Petya sits down, dejectedly starting in on his meal, picking at the food at first, before heartily digging in.

"I was right." Van says, grinning at him, "And it's easy to put together, which is always a delight."

"It's fantastic!" Petya admits, "I'm sorry for calling it an abomination."

Gwyndolin, who had been able to prevent himself from giggling over the rest of the day's events, can't help but laugh at that, the sound of his joy twinkling high above the noise of the children.

Though this meal had not been prayed over, it was truly blessed.

[sensitive-pigeon]

Pigeon. I absolutely love Get Lost. It's one of my most favorite stories ever, and I recommend it to people to read even if they're not in fandom because it's so. fucking. good. I am in awe of the way that you weave humor into the darker story. Would you consider a post GL one-shot for fun where Nicole and Waverly are looking for a new place to live? And they say things like, "You'll hit your head on the ceiling." Or, "How good is the soundproofing?" The realtor is like, "Uhhh..."

*slams hands on desk* i love you. so much. thank u for asking because it rly cheers me up so much when people ask about my AUs. i appreciate u so much thank you for reccing me thats so kind!!! AHH!!!

since they already live in nicole’s cute cabin together here’s a rly rough, rly quick thing about them picking a tent. written by myself and @msfire!!

SOMEWHERE, ITALY

“Okay,” Waverly Earp said, her eyes flicking to Nicole Haught for only a second before they returned to the road. “Repeat after me.”

“Got it.”

“Where is the bathroom?” Waverly asked in Italian.

No response. She glanced over at Nicole and sighed. Nicole stared back lovingly, leaning on her hand against the car seat, caught in a daze.

“I’m so in love with you,” Nicole sighed in adoration.

“Nicole!” Waverly chastised. “Not when I’m driving.”

“I can’t help it. You’re just so amazing.”

Waverly stubbornly kept her eyes on the road, keeping her mind from wandering too far away before they got to the store.

Almost. Nicole had almost made it the whole drive without succumbing to her gayness. This whole trip, she had been struggling to learn because it was just so hot when Waverly said anything at all but in a foreign language? Nicole was a goner. Plus Waverly looked so adorable in the tiny Italian rental they were in. Nicole could bench press it. Waverly usually liked that. Nicole let out another wistful sigh.

They parked.

Waverly pounced.

Nicole grunted, kissing back at once. It felt like home and warmth and everything Nicole had always wanted. Her girlfriend, her partner, her soulmate. She sighed into it, relaxed and lazy, until Waverly’s tongue teased at her lips, causing her to jolt in surprise.

Waverly pulled back, hand tangled in red hair, and whispered soft in her ear.

“Hotel. After.”

Nicole could only nod, breathless.

“But first!” Waverly said brightly, opening the door and stepping out into Italian sunshine. “Shopping!”

Waverly danced and spun into the sporting goods store, laughing with her arms outstretched. Her hair caught the light and Nicole fell in love all over again, her heart settling at the sight.

“Can you believe it!” Waverly stopped her spinning and Nicole went to her, taking her hand, grinning. Waverly took a deep, cleansing breath. “Our first trip together. We’re doing this.”

“We’re doing this,” Nicole confirmed. A few people were looking but Nicole paid no heed to the feeling of eyes crawling all over her, instead focusing on Waverly’s smile.

“Come on!” Waverly bounced on her toes, leading Nicole to the tent section.

“Why do we need a tent?” Nicole asked. “I’m warm enough for the both of us.”

“Nicole,” Waverly said flatly, “I’m not sleeping on a mountainside in February without a tent because you get ‘too hot.’”

A couple passing gave them a baffled glance. Nicole gave a half-hearted smile before turning to her girlfriend with a Look™. Waverly only shrugged.

“We’ll leave it partially zipped, okay? You can hang your tail out.”

Nicole caught the eye of a worker nearby, who gave no guesses about what he was thinking. Nicole tugged her loud girlfriend further down the line of tents, toward the family tents. They were immense, but Waverly had measured. They’d need something…like…

“This one.” Waverly tapped it. Eight people. “This one you’ll fit in.”

“Are you sure?” Nicole asked skeptically, leaning over to squint. “Is the opening large enough?”

“Six feet.” Waverly began struggling to get it off the shelf. “It’s perfect if you duck.”

Nicole took a hand and hefted it over her shoulder like it was nothing. A whole family paused to stare and Nicole coughed awkwardly, immediately trying her best to slump under the weight and carry it with two arms.

“A lot of kids?” asked the kindly looking wife.

“Uhm…” Waverly responded, giving Nicole a glance. The woman did a familiar double-take at Waverly’s scar, her wide eyes turning to trace Nicole’s as well. “We just…get claustrophobic. Very claustrophobic. Terrifying, really. Being all–” Waverly gestured, “Closed up. Trapped. You know?”

“Yeah,” Nicole said. “Need a lot of space.”

The dad had already herded his kids right on by. The woman gave a false smile. “Right, of course!” she said, rapidly making her leave from the conversation, rather terrified of the pair.

Nicole put one hand to her head and sighed, “I didn’t even do that to her.”

Waverly gave her a consoling pat on the arm.

SOMEWHERE, THE ALPS

The wind howled down the mountainside, battering against the side of a large green tent. It was spread wide over the camp and had enough space for eight people. Inside, Waverly turned over in her sleeping bag, snuggling as close as she could into Nicole.

It wasn’t enough.

“Nicole.”

A soft snore.

“Nicole.”

Grumbling. The arm around her waist tightened and Nicole stretched, pulling her closer before sighing in contentment.

“Nicole!”

“What!” Nicole said, jolting up. The cold immediately entered the space between them, freezing Waverly further.

“Cold!” Waverly squeaked, trying to get her body heat back. Nicole dropped and covered her once again, taking away the brunt of it, but still not enough. Waverly shivered violently.

“Still?” Nicole asked, rubbing Waverly’s arms. She got a trembling nod in return and a ‘yes’ between chattering teeth. “You want me to shift.”

Another nod.

“Okay,” Nicole breathed. She gave Waverly one last, lingering kiss, before she slipped out of the sleeping bag and four bonus blankets into the brilliant dark. A soft groan that turned into a terrifying rumble that soothed Waverly almost back to sleep.

Fur. so much fur. Waverly shifted a bit until she could breathe under Nicole’s comforting weight. She gave a light pat to signify she was okay and Nicole let out a soft, sleepy sigh that rattled the tent walls.

Grunt.

“What?” Waverly asked, lifting her head. A sense of frustration came across the bond and Nicole shifted her head slightly.

The entire tent moved.

“You’re stuck, aren’t you.”

Nicole let out a thin little whine, trying her best to get her horns free of the tent ceiling.

Waverly’s laughter carried down the mountainside.

buy me a tea?

[edgy-fluffball]

A Trip Down Memory Lane

I really wanted to post a birthday fic and now it’s almost midnight over here. Better late than never, I guess. The whole ordeal can be found on ao3, as well.

If you work with stubborn people long enough, they are bound to rub off on you. The same applies to people you went through hardships with. Therefore, it was only reasonable that the three men who met up at one particular Central Park bench, spent hours bickering and playfully insulting each other. Passers-by threw them scandalised looks every time they roared out in laughter after having been told a saucy joke. They were landmarks of some sort – High Schoolers greeted them on their way home, some stopped to talk to them for a while; the men were happy to share their stories of days long gone. Mothers who pushed their kids around in prams were allowed to vent to them and at least once a day one of the men ended up calming down a crying child by pulling faces and rocking them. Busy business people almost jogging past them in their hurry to get from one place to another were ridiculed with the most spiteful imitations and comments imaginable, at least as long as they seemed to take themselves too seriously to share a brief smile with them.

Once in a while, someone comes along who recognises them.

They are mostly vets, people like them, albeit a little younger, it seems. The exhibition in D.C. put them back into the spotlight for a few moments. They got to leave their homes and families for the grand opening, the remaining few, praised by those who will never know what they gained, lost and gained again. Their pictures had been on the news, first their enlistment pics, then the new footage of three ninety year olds cutting a red ribbon, one of them leaning on the others, his eyes wet.

After that, there are questions from the school kids passing their bench on sunny days. Most questions are about the war, the Captain and his heroic deeds, the kids still idolise him. Too much, they’d say if asked.

Man, do they enjoy ruining the Captain’s perfect image in their eyes.

No embarrassing story is left untouched, no silly comment, no mishap remains untold. They tell the High Schoolers about how he blushed whenever one of the French waitresses flirted with him, that he never knew how to respond. They tell the Middle Schoolers that Captain America has a mouth not to be reckoned with, a potty mouth worthy of every soap ration they got. They recall all the times the Sarge threatened to wash the curse words off his tongue and their eyes glint. They boast in front of kindergarten and elementary school kids about how Cap needed them as much as his shield. Some of the parents ask questions as well: has Captain Rogers contacted them after he woke up? They get quiet after that question because no, he hasn’t.

‘How should he, he must’ve thought everybody gone,’ Monty says, ‘They are, to be fair. We’re the ones to stubborn to die.’

‘You’ve seen him on the news, straight back into the whole fighting business,’ Dum Dum adds, ‘He’s got worlds to save and other people to impress.’

He goes by Mr Dugan now, most of the time. His moustache is grey and his hands shake, but his voice is still deep and booming. He sings, sometimes, songs of longing and absence, and a few people stop at their bench. They listen to him whenever he does sing. It makes Morita emotional, his eyes well up as he joins in, voice husky with age, his eyes still twinkling long after finishing the song. And then there’s Monty who’s gone blind after his seventieth year. The tactician has Dugan and Morita pick him up from his care home and his smile is still brilliant and beaming when he hears them come in.

Sometimes, Morita’s youngest takes them to the park instead of them having to take the subway. He works in Queens as a High School principal, but he doesn’t leave out any opportunity to witness his father getting roasted by his oldest friends. And they never allow a chance elapse.

Their time in the park makes them happy. Dum Dum and Morita describe people to Monty, pointing out whatever seems important to them. Not everybody takes kindly to being called out by an old man exclaiming they walk with a stick up their backside.

Except, Dum Dum doesn’t say backside.

But then again, they are ninety and Monty’s not just blind, but hard of hearing, too. Should’ve been Dernier, they joke, but they buried their Demolitions Specialist in the Nineties. Sometimes, all protecting them from angry pedestrians and joggers is the fact that they are ninety, and you don’t attack ninety year olds. Then again, Dum Dum may be ninety and walking with a cane, but he still works out every day.

‘Who knows when it might come in handy,’ he says.

When it would come in handy, he is in hospital. He tells Monty and Morita that he got mugged when they first visit, too embarrassed to confess that he slipped in the bathroom. He watches the news on the TV in his hospital room though, he sees the helicarriers over D.C. He hears that Hydra had been there, through all those years. The nurses have to calm him down because he has seen the Captain fall, and he is crying hot, angry tears when Monty and Morita arrive. He keeps repeating that their Steve fell like his Bucky did and he wasn’t there to help, again. He struggles to breathe, lungs filled with hasty gasps that leave him feeling like he’s drowning. Again, he says, like Steve.

The last Howling Commandos sit together and talk, Morita gets his son to show them the news report again and again on YouTube. They watch Steve fall and swear to visit him, to tell him they are alive.

They never do because it is too hard, the news segment tricks them into remembering things that never happened as it is. They set aside the computer and switch off the TV when Morita has to blink away tears because he thinks he sees the Sarge looking down on Steve falling into the Potomac. No, they don’t turn up at Avengers Tower or the Compound Howard’s son installs somewhere else in the country.

Instead, they visit their girl. Peggy doesn’t remember them most of the time and cries, if she does. But Dum Dum sings to her and Monty makes her a cup of tea, exactly how she likes it. Afterwards, they walk back to Central Park and sit on their bench in silence. No one can capture how to deal with Peggy Carter crying because she can’t remember.

The questions start again, after the Triscelion is shut down completely and pronounced in danger of collapsing. Did you ever work for or with Secret Services? Have you seen the footage of Cap falling from that helicarrier-thing? Do you know if the Avengers are okay? And then, as everything seemingly reverts back to normal, they mourn their girl, kids ask about the war again, take photos of the three men on their bench or ask them to pass back a stray ball. At some point, Dum Dum starts narrating joggers again, making up stories to each person passing them to entertain Monty who starts asking stupid questions otherwise.

‘There’s a boy running around here…he’s passed us for the fifth time, he’ll just drop dead at some point. He’s got stamina, I’ll give him that. Wearing an army sweater.’

‘Leave him alone then, Dum Dum,’ Morita kicks him, ‘he looks decent. A nice boy. He’s probably just avoiding the masses in the streets or the pilgrimages towards the best firework-watching spots.’

The young man passes them for the sixth time, slower now. He is walking more than running, drenched in sweat because it’s warm enough to boil an egg on a car. Morita applauds him as he approaches.

‘Well done, son,’ his eager eyes follow the athlete as he goes to pick up his water bottle which he had left in the sparse shadow of a nearby tree, ‘Do you want to rest for a moment?’

‘Thank you, sir.’

As he comes closer, Dum Dum deciphers the badge on his shirt, ‘Pararescue, huh?’

‘Yessir,’ the man smiles and salutes lazily, ‘Been out a few years now, though.’

‘Us, too,’ Monty jokes and moves to make some space for the newcomer.

‘Please don’t, I’m good.’

‘Son, you just went for a run in this heat – you sit.’

The young man laughs and Dum Dum likes him even more for that. He obviously has a sense of humour, not unlike their own. It’s easy to laugh, now that they have survived so much, they laugh about small details in a bigger picture more than about satires, wise jokes or clever high society humour that Peggy would have enjoyed. It’s the old man insisting on a place to sit for the younger, fuck politeness and conventions, that cracks them up. You learn to enjoy everything, once you have fought for as little as the will to stay alive. Someone, probably Gabe or Dernier, had said they all were simply too stubborn to die. They were proven wrong, of course, when Barnes dies, and then Rogers went down after them. Their Captain, however, proved them right again, because by God, no man is as stubborn as Steven Rogers. Of course he had to survive. They see it as their duty to live, now that no one but them is left.

Dum Dum sighs, deep enough to make Monty turn. He is glad the Brit can’t see him, sometimes. He knows he’s tearing up again. Thank God for Morita who distracts their young companion, discussing something off the news with him. Dum Dum wipes his eyes. He feels Monty’s hand on his arm, squeezing, reassuring him. When he has composed himself again, he can listen to Morita speaking of Europe. The war. Of course, they don’t have many other topics to talk to strangers about.

‘May I take a photo of you?’ The young man has his phone at the ready, ‘I’m sorry, this must be weird. I can explain-‘

‘Happens more often than you’d think,’ Monty grins, ‘People think we are something we having been in a long time.’

‘That’s not – I really…It’s just…I have this competition with a pal of mine. My codename in the force was somewhat bird-related. He sends me pics of pigeons all the time, asking if they are related to me. Which led to me responding with pics of…seniors. He’s a bit older than me, it’d silly. But then again, nothing can top three World War Two vets, right?’

This has Dum Dum belting out a laugh. He remembers Barnes’ pointing at any random red squirrel they came across, asking if he had no shame to ignore his grandmother like this or whether he’d like a moment with his sister. Dum Dum had taken him into a headlock every time until Barnes called for the Captain to come rescue him. He smiles, the memory feeling just out of reach for him to hold onto. It happens more and more often with every day.

‘Man, he’s going to freak out. He’ll kill me, and his boyfriend will assist him,’ the young man seems to catch himself a moment later, eying them warily.

Monty laughs, ‘Is he contemplating whether we are homophobic assholes?’

‘Definitely,’ Morita pats the young man on the shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, son. We’re as liberal as can be. Hell, our own commanding officer was gay…’

Dum Dum rolls his eyes, he has to finish off the implication before Morita can spill the beans, ‘They thought they were sneaky…we knew after a week. Us, we were privates, a brigadier, a corporal – but the Captain and the Sarge thought they were being secretive. They snuck off into the woods whenever we weren’t looking. We told them, eventually. Never saw ears turn as pink…’

Monty elbows him, they keep it tame these days.

‘Your commander and his right-hand man?’ The young man sounds baffled.

Before they can reply anything, the phone in his hand goes off. The ringtone is somewhat familiar to them, it’s the song of the ice queen-movie Dum Dum’s great-granddaughter likes so much. Everything is Frozen now, it used to be something bad, Dum Dum thinks, remembering dark nights without a fire somewhere in Europe.

The young man answers the phone with a grin, but he doesn’t get a single word in. There is shouting from the other end, one or two voices, Dum Dum’s hearing-aids don’t pick up too much. Then, the call is ended abruptly.

Their new friend hasn’t said anything and seems confused, ‘He told me to stay put. Right here. And to not let you leave. Said something about him and his boyfriend coming here.’

Morita huffs out a laugh. They know what happens now. Someone has been more attentive than him in their history lessons, recognised them in the picture and is on their way to get another photo or an autograph.

‘I’m sorry for anything he might say. He doesn’t really have a brain-to-mouth-filter,’ the young man says, ‘he’s probably going to kill me right here, in front of you.’

‘Having friends with no filter is fun,’ Monty laughs, ‘it’s amusing.’

He eyes Dum Dum but again, Dum Dum’s mind drifts off. It does that, sometimes, transports him back in time, shows him painful, happy memories. He remembers Barnes, once the relationship was out in the open. They have heard enough to make them blush, Dernier pretended not to understand English for a week, maybe even more, after Barnes began to talk about Rogers in detail. Luckily for him, Barnes believed him because of a defusing mishap that had happened earlier. Everybody else had gotten first-hand reports about Stevie in the sack.

‘It’s fun until he overshares,’ the young man sighs, ‘Anyway, since we are seemingly waiting for two crazy persons…well, they may be faster than you’d think.’

His eyes focussed on something located behind the bench, ‘Well, here we go.’

There is a whirl, something silvery-metallic rushes past them and launches itself at the young man who has stopped smiling. It takes Dum Dum a moment to process what is happening, he exchanges a look with Morita. Their eyes and minds aren’t as quick as they used to be but it’s enough to notice the newcomer’s metal arm.

‘Holy shit,’ Morita breathes out, his eyes wide, ‘Monty, I’m going to say something you won’t believe – and you are not allowed to hit me for it, okay?’

He clears his throat. For a moment, Dum Dum thinks he’s choked up.

‘Monty – Barnes is alive and seemingly well. He’s currently choking our young jogger with his metal arm.’

Of course Monty hits him, Dum Dum wants to share the sentiment, but something keeps him from it. Instead, he focuses on the two men wrestling a few steps from them.

‘I draw a fucking line at snapping fucking pictures of people looking remotely like the Howlies, Sam Wilson! What the fuck would you do that for? We were about to cut the cake and Steve had to turn away! You made him fucking cry.’

Dum Dum’s head is spinning. He is over ninety years old and he sees things, memories and reality overlap in front of his eyes, leading him to believe in ghosts. Sarge, Bucky Barnes, looking little older than the day he fell from the train trying to catch the monster that had experimented on him, stands right in front of him. His hair is longer, down to his shoulders, his jaw is sharper and he actually has a metal arm.

‘You see him too, Morita?’ he rasps out, clutching Monty’s hand, ‘I’ll be damned, but I think he’s real!’

Monty sucks in a breath, ‘You’re telling me that I’m not hearing voices? I mean, nothing sounds as sweet as the Sarge shellac somebody but it’s too good to be true.’

‘Only one way to find out,’ Dum Dum says and reaches for his cane, ‘Oi, Sarge! Leave the man alone!’

He tries to stand up but his knees don’t want to hold his weight up. Within seconds, the man who looks like Barnes is there and helps him up, fingers closed around his arm. Dum Dum doesn’t waste time once he sees his face clearly. It is him, no doubt. He pulls him into his arms, noticing that he’s shorter than him now, stooping and age-worn by the time he has spent without them. He feels the sob in his throat, leans into Barnes and claws at his shirt, feeling the proof of his existence under his shaking fingers.

‘You asshole are alive? How?’ Morita is there, leading Monty’s hands to feel Barnes’ face.

Barnes looks up in surprise as careful fingers explore his features, takes in the Brit’s unseeing eyes and leans into the touch in response. It is the imprint of a gesture they first experienced during the war, Dum Dum remembers how they huddled together around a camp fire, somewhere in France. Bucky had suffered from nightmares after Zola’s lab and all of them had assured him of their presence and company.

It had been a lot of touching and grounding each other.

‘It’s you,’ Monty whispers, voice breaking, ‘Sarge-‘

‘Bucky,’ his voice is softer than it has ever been, ‘I get to be just Bucky now.’

‘Well, Bucky,’ Dum Dum says, ‘you’re certainly as ugly as ever.’

‘There’s only so much seventy years on ice can improve. It’s not plastic surgery, Dugan,’ another voice intercepts their happy reunion, ‘at least that’s what I’ve been told.’

For a moment, Dum Dum believes he’s died and gone to heaven. Bucky smiles at him with a trace of sadness in his eyes, sadness because they have missed out on so much, but then he retreats a few steps and is welcomed back in a tight embrace. It is more intimate than any hug the old men could caress with. No one can hug the Sarge like this – Dum Dum is determined to call him by his title and rank in his head – because there he stands, brightly shining in the midday sun, as tall and broad as he ever was.

Captain Steve Rogers, too, hasn’t changed, Dum Dum thinks and wipes his eyes. There they both are, standing in front of the three old soldiers, their old pals, bathed in sunlight. Monty and Morita hug him, too, they start asking questions because they need to know everything. It seems too much, the circumstances of Bucky’s survival, the how and why needs to be thoroughly discussed and they act like they are running out of time. Dum Dum sees the jogger stand close by, showing a pleased smile.

‘So, which one are you?’ he asks, nodding in the vague direction of the horrible monument Howard’s son built for his team. Like father, like son.

‘The Falcon, sir,’ he answers, ‘I should have recognised you, the moustache really does give it away, in hind-sight. Thank you, by the way. Indirectly, you are the reason for a breakthrough development. Barnes hasn’t left the Tower ever since he came back to Steve. The picture I took and sent to him got him out of a lethargic condition, Steve was the only one who could get through to him.’

Dum Dum looks over to where Bucky seems to curl into Steve. A man of his size looking almost frail in the arms of the man he loved – Dum Dum frowns.

‘What happened to him must’ve been horrible,’ Morita says quietly, ’I’m just glad he’s found the Captain again. They really are inseparable.’

Which is when Dum Dum remembers something Barnes had yelled earlier, something that comes back to him so prominently that he needs to thrust past his old pals. Because they had agreed to leave the park soon, to get back to Morita’s in time for dinner. Because the city is hell, more than usually on this day. Fireworks, picnics and parades, Dum Dum remembers.

‘It’s your birthday,’ he blurts out and examined the Captain’s face.

The blush gave him away. So Barnes had been right, they really had been celebrating back in the tower when the Falcon had interrupted them. It explains Barnes’ reaction. Morita and Monty realise it, too. Their 4th July park time has been interrupted by the man whose birthday had made them laugh when they first heard about it.

The Captain nods, still silent. He tries to shrink next to Barnes but he doesn’t succeed. Dum Dum remembers it all, it is as if the floodgates have been opened. He remembers singing in French bistros, dark pubs in England and Peggy’s lipstick staining Steve’s skin. A day earlier he would have said she kissed him to congratulate him, now he knows that Barnes nicked her lipstick for a play the Howlies put on for their Captain. He remembers Barnes and Dernier in stockings and ill-fitting skirts and the laugh bubbles up inside his throat. He wheezes, tries to calm his friends who seem to worry about him. The only way to let them know is to point at Barnes, and at his lips, mimicking the motion of putting on red pigment.

Steve is the first one to grasp it and his laughter is forceful enough to bend him in half. He clasps Dum Dum’s shoulder and they sink back onto the bench, crying for joy, howling and pointing at Barnes who seems too baffled to realise what is happening.

It takes them a few moments to calm down. Once they can breathe again they sit with their arms around each other’s shoulders. The Captain grins up at Barnes who still can’t follow but seems relieved to see his boyfriend back to almost normal.

‘Thank you,’ Steve turns to the Falcon, ‘honestly, Sam. That must have been the best birthday present possible. You found mine and Bucky’s oldest friends. This is…just amazing.’

They end up in the Stark monstrosity by the time the fireworks explode across the sky, standing in front of a window front with any Avenger in the country that night. Howard’s son seems starstruck for about a fracture of a second when he actually gets to meet the men who fought with Steve during the war and who helped his godmother and father afterwards, and asks them all enough questions to fill a whole day. Dum Dum and Monty promise to answer them all. Morita is too busy trying to call his son to let him know just where he is spending his evening.

An hour later, the three old men have sat down on one of the comfy couches. Neither of them will be able to get up out of them without help but they accept the risk willingly. Across from them, curled into each other, are the Captain and his Bucky. They whisper into each other’s ears, fingers comb through hair and there is a smile, hiding in the corner of the Sarge’s mouth.

It is a beginning, they all tell each other, now they will see each other regularly. They will talk, savour every minute they still have. Although, Monty informs them, he intends to live to onehundredandfifty.

‘Too stubborn to die,’ Bucky mumbles and cuddles into Steve’s side, he is being fed with birthday cake and he seems content. He has even apologized to Sam, the Falcon, for attacking him over what turned out to be a picture of the real Howling Commandoes.

So much has happened, so much they have to talk about. In fact, so much has happened that no one speaks about it, really. They simply don’t know where to start.

They will have enough time to figure out how to start, Dum Dum thinks as he takes the first step into a future where the remaining Howling Commandos are reunited with their leaders and New York City celebrates. Bucky still clings to Steve, they are holding hands, fingers weaving into each other – and yet, he offers his other arm, the metal one, to Monty who leans onto it readily when they eventually end up on one couch, sharing birthday memories from over seventy years ago. Dum Dum smiles. The Avengers listen to stories of stolen alcohol – ‘Borrowed,’ Monty insists – of self-made gifts and vouchers over an extra blanket during long winter nights.

They make new memories that night, with proper cake, gifts and Steve and Bucky not having to hide. Dum Dum has to wipe his eyes again.

Somehow, it all works out perfectly.

[personalcoachingcenter]

Research Paper: Claiming Your Influential Power

New Post has been published on https://personalcoachingcenter.com/research-paper-claiming-your-influential-power/

Research Paper: Claiming Your Influential Power

Research Paper By Isobel Phillips (Leadership Coach, IRELAND)

Maureen Simon is an acclaimed consultant, teacher, and speaker with 25 years of experience in international business consulting and community development, including serving to mediate political conflict in Northern Ireland and Eastern Europe.

Maureen is the author of Awakening the Essential Feminine: Claiming Your Influential Power and has worked with tens of thousands of women worldwide. She bases her work on the strong belief that our world cultures now need, more than ever before, for women to step into their rightful power and leadership roles, and that that advanced skill development in the areas of communication, confidence building, and leadership and career development are all essential for women in business to fully contribute. Maureen is also a friend and colleague and kindly agreed to spend some time with me discussing coaching and women’s empowerment.

I began by asking Maureen about her history with coaching, and with coaching women in particular. Maureen explained:

My history with coaching began in London in 1997, when coaching came to London.  I was asked by Coach U to be a part of the launch there because Tom Leonard, the head of the school at the time, was there and he was getting massive spreads in the Times, to get the idea that there might be another way to go about personal transformation other than the psychiatrist’s or the psychologist’s chair.  And that was really important back then because, as you know, England can have a conservative nature.  So, opening up and revealing a lot of really deep personal things would work for some, but not for everyone.

There were about five of us, and we were the first trained in Europe as coaches, and we discussed the idea of creating more publicity, more interest, so my whole mission was to get the word out.  Vogue, and Red magazine, and all these places were like, what is this?  Of course, you know, it’s a very different, nice medium that doesn’t really make us have to go back into the deep dark, nor does it make us reveal everything about ourselves, to move forward.  The idea of coaching was a clear pathway to discovery.  And on that clear pathway to discovery, people could give as much as they wished, as you can in therapy, as well, but it’s an easier way to come to self-knowledge and knowing thyself, as Socrates said than the expectation that we need to bare some of our soul.

Sothen as this whole thing launched it just took off like wildfire, because the concept was so innovative, in 1997. I was going all North-South and East and West for interviews, TV, and radio, and it just ended up becoming something that people just wanted to know more about.  It was the perfect fit for the culture.  So, then, of course, Ireland is next door and Europe.  And people looked to London for innovation and it just went through the whole area and, as you know, continues to do so.  So that was the early time of my involvement.  And there were five people, and I know them and have great respect for them.  We bought businesses and practices, and, to this day, I do some coaching and a lot of consulting.  It’s always been a part of my tapestry and my fabric, really.  It’s core to my being.  I learned a lot in the process of setting it up and becoming a coach, and I learned a tremendous amount about myself.

I shared that one of the things I love about coaching is that you don’t need to reveal everything about your past to move forward, and Maureen picked up this point:

We want to encourage the people that we work with to integrate more of who we are because we’re whole.  We need to integrate the past, the present, and where we want to go — that’s the whole being.  We aren’t standing there saying, “Now, I need to know this to move forward”.  The difference between coaching and therapy is that we’re really integrating as much as we can from the past but we’re also building on what we have in front of us.

I next asked Maureen about the benefits that coaching can offer women in particular.

I am such a women’s advocate that I would almost have to say that I think it benefits everyone so much that that’s an area that I haven’t particularly pigeon-holed women.  I’m strongly an advocate of certain attributes and brain differences, and a lot of my work stems from the differences between the male and female brain, and that’s a controversial area, today, in science.  But I do still think that women are relational, and have the ability to connect intuitively, and through the connection with another, we have the ability to create something quite magical, perhaps even immeasurable.  And that’s where the coaching relationship, being so personal and one-on-one, is a high advantage.

I don’t want to separate people too much, but the question does ask me to do so, and if I’m going to go in that direction, I’d say that a lot of decisions have in the past been made by men on the golf course, and while golf clubs are not so much exclusive to that, anymore, the tradition still does live on.  We have to be honest about that.  So, women, instead of having that environment, can take that personal dialogue of questioning and introspection, and they do very well in gathering themselves in particular, in more intimate environments, in my opinion after working with hundreds of women.

I’m watching our current state of affairs and seeing that because we’re working online because we’re so focused on the absolute distant connections instead of the intimate connections, women are going to suffer a little from that.  That’s one of the areas that I really want to focus on now, looking at how can we create these environments, these mentorships, these dialogues, particularly online so that women can have that intimate connection because we thrive there.  Coaching, and the work that we’re both doing, can actually still greatly benefit women. Online isn’t best, but if we have to work online, we will.  Keep women talking.  Keep women connected.  Keep mentoring programs going online.  Keep things happening.  They don’t have a golf course.  They won’t have the golf course, but they still need that intimate environment to make up for a lost time, to move forward, and to be able to be much more of who they are, in their work environment, on or off-line.

In her book, Awakening the Essential Feminine: Claiming Your Influential Power, Maureen talks about the intrinsic powers that women hold. She explained more:

I’ve been reconnecting with the book recently because I basically launched it and it sold around the world, and I’ll give you a sample and speak to them.

Relationships.  Women collaborate at a very high level.  We can hear each other and move forward through support.  It’s a very, very positive way for women to connect.  They have inter-connectedness, the ability to connect deeply, and value communication, care, compassion, and empathy.  A woman who inspired me to think about that is Helen Fisher, who wrote “The First Sex”.  She’s a Rutgers professor and has done tremendous amounts around the world about the relationship and the attraction principle.

She gave an example that some of this was formed back in the day, when we would be together, say, by a lake, and your children and my children were there, and I would be watching all the children. I would be taking in the whole environment as I really mothered because it takes a community to raise a child.  Anthropologists have studied the way the female brain is more developed between the right and left hemispheres, with a 14% thicker tissue connecting both hemispheres.  Helen Fisher discusses that whole area, as an anthropologist, looking at what really created that area connectivity, and it comes from that environment. These are natural attributes from the feminine, within the female, that relate to the female.  There’s plenty of others. I’m just really getting exciting going back into this with you.

And language.  The language that we speak is often connected and cooperative.  So, if I were talking to you, I might ask, “Can I get an idea of what you need right now?’ And you’d be, “Well, yeah, you know, I didn’t sleep.  Or the baby was…”  There’s connectivity that’s natural within the feminine.  Now, we have to go back if we’re going to talk about the book and make sure that we clearly say that both men and women hold the masculine and the feminine, it’s not just one.  So, the idea is that it’s in both, it’s in all of us. But sometimes we’ll have a dominant set of attributes.  Feminine attributes that will guide us sometimes need more masculine.  These are the really pure ones that I think are so powerful.  The way we think is often known to be more mentally flexible because of the cortex tissue formation. Women think more flexibly and use a lot of verbal agility and big descriptions.

There are two reasons, really.  It’s socialization and it’s brain biology.  Probably one of my favorite traits is that we work with power from a place of contribution and connectivity.  In the book, I talk about “power with” as opposed to “power over”, and that’s because we care for the whole and we’re focused on community.  I look at NGOs and say, “Why are there so many women leading NGOs?”  Even if it was massive amounts of money to lead an NGO, which it isn’t, you have to care for the community.  These things are linked in our cultures, and that’s just a handful of them. There are 26 attributes in “Awakening the Essential Feminine – Claiming Your Influential Power”, in nine areas of life.  It’s something I just kept seeing and did a lot of research to make points to hold that and then wrote the book.

Maureen has been revisiting her book, in light of current views on sex and gender. I asked how she has found that process:

You know, I’ve had a journey on that, and it tested me.  Consulting in corporations, you really do need to be very open on the playing field, and very, very empathetic about where everyone is in their lives, and what their experiences are, particularly when working with leaders.  I’ve learned that for some people, considering brain difference isn’t comfortable.  I had to go back into my research and look at it and go back and read the research on the male and female brain, like Brizendine’s work from San Francisco. And I brought myself back to see that I do really, truly, stand by the book and the brain differences.  One thing I’m not here to do is create a difference, but I’m here to create unity.

It’s just part of who I am. The three top values that inform my work are equity, truth, and unity.  If I’m focusing on someone it’s often around the depth of connection to get to know them, to understand them, or to guide them.  But when it comes down to the book, I still believe that the brain is different.  And I’ve come back now, after a summer of really looking at it, and going into other books, texts, and I think there’s a place in the world for us to be united, but to still hold different opinions.  Rather than changing the book, what I am deciding to do is to see these attributes as whatever you want to call them, or whatever you see them as.  They basically will be the universal principles of good living that need to be carried out.  You can file them, however, but how can we get to them?  Some of the courses I’ll be offering will be for women, getting them to own that.

And the reason I still do that work, although I thought I’d be done with it by now, is because I think women still don’t own the natural power that they have been predisposed to and born with.  To answer your question about the book, I would say that there are many theories, and I hold this one. I’m universalizing a little bit more by bringing in men and women, and bringing them to the attributes, and saying, “You have masculine and feminine.  What attributes would you like to build on?”

I observed that Maureen spoke about empowering women and helping them to own their powers, and asked how we go about that:

If you need to make a change, the first thing you need to do is understand a couple of things.  What is that change?  Is the pain for you making that change better, or more comfortable than the gain that you will have when you make the change?  And specifically, what will that affect your life? As we frame change, the most important thing is to get us to understand where we are within the spectrum of change, and then to move towards specific steps.

The first part is to understand, from the core of the being, where the change needs to be.  If they say, “I want to be powerful,” Power comes from a source of knowing ourselves, what we value, and who we are.  The second thing to evaluate is, are you motivated to make this change?  And then the third thing is getting them to even envision, ahead of time, what it would be like to be this clearly defined vision of a woman holding power.  And what would be the benefit to them?  It gets into some cognitive work.  It gets into some very clear workaround choices and values.  It moves into pain versus gain.  It may not always be a pain, but is there a reason?  And then envision that outcome so that we can begin to see it, and then we make it real in the world.  So, it’s a process of knowing myself, first, and committing to change, crystallizing the vision, and moving out in the world with the vision.  Those are the four steps that I would generally bring someone through.

We joke a little about how straightforward it sounds when life is not so straightforward. However, it does summarize the coaching process of self-discovery but to move forward to where you need to be. Maureen observes that it’s also designed by ourselves as we bring people through, as support, and then they infiltrate their part into what becomes a unified process. 

Maureen works a lot with women in corporate roles and works to promote equality and equity in the workplace. I ask what she feels are some of the main issues facing women in the workplace today?

Right now, the biggest issue that I’m seeing on calls, with women, and reading is the inability to be relational in the work environment.  It’s not like we haven’t been online.  We’ve been online.  But there’s something about minimal contact that’s coming up a lot on the calls. In their teams, women can do quite a lot.  Like here, in this environment, maybe there’d be two others with us on a call, and there’s an intimacy of sorts.  But when it comes to now moving from our team to understanding the whole organization, the water cooler talk, the dynamic connection, the intuition that women use when they’re present with someone, their career paths are hindered.  They don’t have that whole dynamic picture.  So, I’m seeing that’s a key issue, which is a concern that I’m working on in as many ways as I can.

The other thing is that people say that the glass ceiling is of the past.  And I work often in finance, where I’m seeing significant holdback on women from actually achieving equal positions at the top of organizations, even higher when we look at the executive pool. Women right at this moment need to hold their vision for their career path and continue to work towards it.  A couple of clients I have are putting in their marketing at high levels and they’re doing more training on digital marketing.  But I’m also working with them to find their own ways, strategically, in their organization, as if we were in person.  The main thing is, don’t give up on the vision that you have for your career.

Secondly, it can be challenging, but it’s really important to decide the place that your work fits into your life at a given time and to not beat yourself up if this is a phase where something different is required.  Time will pass and things will happen.  A lot of women feel like they’re slipping back, so, where I’m working with them is, OK.  If you’re going part-time now because it’s become a different environment.  And let’s face it, a lot of obligations for children, childcare and children’s care and education, is falling on the mother.  So, my thought is, let’s just see this as a temporary sort of pause, but don’t give up on where you’re going and keep making entrees.  Build those networks and know that this too will pass.  Kids will get old enough and they’ll have their own lives.

And then the third thing I work with women on is often to get a tandem track.  And they don’t see themselves clearly enough to know that they can move specifically towards something by design, right now, that will be a part of their future.  We have to be future thinking.  This is the third point.  I think we take on, “Oh my God.  The children are on my lap and I’m on a meeting”. Ah! And so that’s what freezes us.  But it’s not only the women with children.  It’s the women without children. They’re going in the other direction, often, of when they’re working at home that “I’m isolated and the whole world is out here, but I’m over here”.  So, we have all kinds of stories in our lives.  The most important thing to know is that we’re basically here to make a difference, to contribute, to create something bigger than ourselves. In my opinion, with my work, the third track is to work a tandem track and to look to future growth, to procreate.  This is my now and then, here’s where I’m going.  And be clear enough to take daily steps towards that so that you actually are moving specifically towards something.  Otherwise, it will all become a big bundle, you know, yarn that’s tied up in a big knot.

Finally, I invite Maureen to share what gives her hope right now.

I think humans are amazing and I think there are all kinds of humans, and in the heart of each human, there is an amazing spark.  And potentiality is really interesting.  I think we’re in a very disruptive time, on the planet.  There are disruptors in different aspects of our lives, which I think is a good thing, and I think we need it.  I think we can get complacent and fall asleep. I think we need a shake-up to say, what do we value?  What are our lives about? Why am I here?  That’s the crux of the work I do.  Why am I here?  It’s not just to feed the corporations, or whoever.  It’s to really be somebody bigger than myself in those environments.   And I get excited about the potential side because I spend a lot of time working with people to have them understand the bigger picture of their lives.  I believe that we are here for a reason.

One of the many teachers who have been guiding me to that, from many years back, John O’Donohue, a famous Irish poet and writer, put a whole lot of time of his life in teaching us that we’re here for something bigger than ourselves and that it may not be a religious experience but it’s absolutely something that we know we’re here for.  It’s about the meaning.  So, I put a lot of time into that.  I also love nature.  Being here in Ireland is just really and truly phenomenal.  And I love to be connected with art, and music, and dance and movement.  There are so many things that can feed us, no matter how our mood is.  We will always be able to find some upliftment.  And I’m also very big on that.  I have days where I question things and say, “You always loved those four or five things.  But what is it that you’re not seeing about the world?”. because sometimes I do feel as though I have such great hopes that I need to make sure I am empathetically feeling what others are feeling.  We all have those moments, but I feel like I see the greater good and I see that we’re on a good trajectory and a lot is going to get shaken up on this planet as it is.  And I think it’s going to end up landing in a good place, and that gives me hope.

I’m so very grateful to Maureen for sharing her time and thoughts with me. Maureen can be found online at www.maureensimon.com and www.empoweredwomenconsulting.com.

Reference

Simon, M. (2011) Awakening the Essential Feminine: Claiming Your Influential Power. Essential Feminine Publishing

Original source: https://coachcampus.com/coach-portfolios/research-papers/isobel-phillips-interview-with-maureen-simon/

[ma-bien-aimee]

A Farewell Rondeau

“It’s hopeless now There is no turning back The agony of a man who picked a rose A bottle of wine Ceaseless rain The agony only worsens Yet, the Seine flows as usual today”

If I could pick one episode from the anime to show to someone unfamiliar with The Rose of Versailles, it would be episode 20, “Fersen, A Farewell Rondeau.” It has got everything I love about the series. It is tragic, poignant, romantic and oh so heart-rending. It features all four main characters almost equally and it is charged with so much emotion, all of which is conveyed through clever dialogue, beautiful pan-out scenes and soul-stirring music.

On this page, I will walk you through the episode, similar to what I did with the pilot episode, with a few comments here and there about the events that take place. If you are new to the Rose of Versailles, I hope that my comments encourage you to give this remarkable anime a go. If you are familiar with the series and this episode, I would very much like to hear what you thought of it in the comments.

Disclaimer: The anime scripts have been taken from the subtitles in the North American DVD release by Right Stuf, via Nozomi Entertainment. The script and stills are featured here only for the purpose of providing insight into the subject matter I am attempting to analyse in this post.

***

The episode starts off with Marie-Antoinette and Fersen locked in a passionate embrace at dawn. Their midnight tryst has come to an end as the day breaks. Fersen tells a teary-eyed Marie-Antoinette not to cry, as seeing her tears will make him wander in a living hell until they meet again. He says that he only wants to see her smile, resembling a spring breeze. At that, Marie-Antoinette manages a weak smile. The lovers reluctantly let go of each other for the day. The pain of their forbidden love seems to have become too much to bear for both of them.

Fersen, looking tormented, slowly rides his horse among hordes of sheep put out to grass in early morning. He is headed straight for the Jarjayes manor, as the audience will later understand. In the next scene, he is seen completely absorbed in practicing sword fighting with Oscar. Perched at the bottom of the stairs, André watches them practice as he pensively munches on an apple.

After the practice, Oscar, André and Fersen are having tea in the manor’s morning room in front of large French windows. Fersen stretches his arms and says that there was nothing in particular that he wished to talk about and that he just felt in the mood for breaking sweat. He thanks Oscar for the practice and prepares to leave, kindly declining her offer to stay for dinner. Although Fersen seems cheerful enough, he is obviously not his talkative self. Just then, seeing André still munching on his apple, he asks him to take him to a cheap bar in Paris sometime. The audience is given to understand that Fersen is in search of ways to distract himself.

After Fersen has left, André flings an apple at Oscar, which she catches in mid air. He tells her that with all the scandal surrounding Fersen, he wouldn’t last five minutes in a cheap bar in Paris before being thrown out. Then he grabs another apple and bites into it. Not saying a word, Oscar simply lifts up her apple to eat it.

Later back in the morning room, Oscar is seen looking out from the window, as André distractedly throws an apple in the air and catches it repeatedly. He tells Oscar that he has never seen Fersen like that before and adds: “He seemed tormented, no matter what he did. But on the other hand, he had to try... If his love is that tormenting, why did he get so involved? What's so hard about loving and being loved? There are plenty of loves that can't even be confessed in this world.”

This is a quality of André that I really like. He’s not taciturn like Oscar. He explains things. He thinks aloud. Really, the whole plot of The Rose of Versailles makes more sense after André comments on whatever is happening at a particular moment.

Here is my take on what he means to say here: “It is as if whatever he [Fersen] is doing is tormenting him, yet he can’t seem to stop doing it either. If this love is making him suffer so much, why did he get entangled in it in the first place? Why must everything about loving and being loved be so difficult? As for the kind of love that cannot even be confessed, there are so many.” It is more or less the same as what the subtitles say, but more clearly expressed, at least for me.

The bit about how there are plenty of loves that cannot even be confessed strikes a chord for both André and Oscar. But André doesn’t say it in a suggestive way to make Oscar see that he is in love with her. He simply states it as a mere fact like he was thinking aloud, which tells me that he has no intention of making his feelings known to her, or that he was trying to deliberately get a rise out of Oscar. But she doesn’t know that André’s words were directed at himself too. So, she takes it personally and reacts.

Oscar suddenly turns and tells André to get his sword ready and meet her at the back garden. By the time he arrives, Oscar is already warming up for practice, slicing the air with each swing of her sword. She warns him that she won’t go easy on him. André says that it is fine by him. Then, more slowly, he says to himself that he wasn’t planning on holding back either. Awash in the colours of sunset, the two engage in a fierce sword fight to let out their frustration born out of love that they cannot even confess. André tells Oscar in his mind to forget about Fersen. He, then, takes it back, saying instead: “No, I want you to forget him... Please...”

It is so sweet, but also so sad not to mention incredibly romantic, that André can’t bring himself to get angry at Oscar, because he knows that she can’t help her feelings, just as he can’t help loving her. Empathy is the modern word to use here. However, The Rose of Versailles vocabulary would call forth something like “an ever-transcending knowledge bridging the hearts of these two souls who are so close, yet at the same time so far away from one another.” That sounds like something that the narrator would say over some dramatic music, as the camera pans out for commercial break!

A note on apples: As far as I am concerned, this is the first episode that André’s apples make an appearance. Since he spends a lot of time in the stables, he must grab a few for himself and Oscar, after he has fed the horses. I mentioned every single instance they are shown here for fun, not because I think the apple actually symbolises anything important in the series like roses. It is important to note that it is a recurrent element only in the anime. For this reason, I have observed that fans of the manga often pick up on it. I don’t know if the producers of the series intended the apple to be a symbol for anything in particular. It could be, though. For one thing, the apple seems to appear whenever Fersen is involved in a scene featuring Oscar and André.

The audience is taken to the poverty-stricken streets of Paris. A stray dog is feeding her litter in a filthy corner. Huddled figures, trying to get warm by a single candle, are drinking the “one measly drink” they get in exchange for a whole day’s work. A crippled troubadour plays a sad tune on his concertina and talks in poetry about the life of the people at the other extreme: The poor and the hungry couldn’t care less about the love affair between the queen and her lover.

Meanwhile, a luncheon is held by Marie-Antoinette in the gardens of Versailles. The nobles are gossiping about the queen’s love affair and are eager to see the evidence of it in action. Marie-Antoinette arrives and bids welcome to all the guests. She momentarily catches Fersen’s eye, but deliberately turns away to the dismay of the expectant nobles. In her mind, she promises to meet him at Le Temple de l'Amour that night.

Later, Oscar is summoned to the queen’s chambers. As she enters the room, Marie-Antoinette dismisses her maids until there is only the two of them left. Oscar waits for the queen to speak only to see tears well up in her eyes. Marie-Antoinette covers her face with her hands and shamefully asks Oscar, her only true ally amid the gossiping nobles, to convey a message to “him”. She tells her that she cannot make it to their rendezvous that night, because she forgot about the king’s guests that she has to entertain. She pleads with Oscar, saying, “Please say yes! If you don't, I won't be able to raise my face and look at you.” Oscar takes her hands in hers and tells her, “Please raise your face. How could I ever refuse Your Majesty's request?”

Oscar and Marie-Antoinette are two drastically different women, sharing a rare friendship. Sure, they don’t always understand each other or seek each other’s company to spend time, but they trust each other unfailingly. In this scene, Marie-Antoinette is so relieved and so happy when Oscar accepts to deliver her message. And Oscar is, well, obviously not thrilled about the prospect, but she chooses to be there for her friend. She sees how lonely she is, how she has no other 'foul-weather friends.' Plus, in this instance, she understands how the queen feels.

With a doleful look on her face, Oscar leaves the queen’s side. A flock of feeding pigeons take off, as she slowly walks through the courtyard to her horse. Clueless, André asks her what the queen wanted. Oscar gets on her horse without answering and quickly rides away. André tries to catch up with her, curiously asking about what has happened. Oscar tells him to go home without her. Later, she arrives at an isolated place near a river and gets off her horse, her back facing the setting sun. Now that she is on her own, she gives voice to her thoughts:

“Your Majesty. With all due respect, I must offer you my opinion. Have you forgotten your position as Queen, Mother of France? Asking a lowly subject like me for a favour while covering your face, as though you were a sinner... I understand your pain. However, Your Majesty...! You have your position to consider!”

Tears stream down her face, as she sinks on the ground. These are the scolding words that she can’t bring herself to say to the queen, because of what she mournfully tells herself next:

“Stop it, Oscar... What is there to say to those who love each other...?”

Oscar finds herself in a quandary. On the one hand, seeing Marie-Antoinette’s loneliness amidst all the nobles taking delight in spreading rumours about her illicit affair, she feels sorry for her and wants to be there for her to help ease her suffering. Actually, she does more than feel sorry for her. She relates to the queen’s feelings. She says, “I understand your pain,”—the pain of not being able to help loving someone.

On the other hand, Oscar doesn’t want to get involved, because she is not a ‘neutral party’ vis-à-vis the affair between Fersen and Marie-Antoinette. The person she cannot help loving is none other than the queen’s lover, whom she is asked to deliver a private message to.

A note on Oscar’s scolding words to the queen: In the manga, Marie-Antoinette does receive a scolding from Oscar. She, then, inadvertently plays a role in Oscar’s confrontation with her “woman’s heart” when Oscar realises that she has fallen in love with Fersen the way a woman falls in love with a man.

It is after nightfall and the rain is pouring down. Oscar, drenched from head to toe, arrives on horseback at Fersen’s residence. Fersen is surprised to find her at his doorstep at a seemingly unusual hour. Without taking shelter from the rain, Oscar stoically delivers Marie-Antoinette’s message and adds that the queen is looking forward to seeing him at the ball next week. Fersen thanks her, apparently at a loss to say anything else. There is a moment’s silence when Oscar looks at him with a forlorn expression. Then she turns her horse around and leaves with a mere “See you then” to Fersen, who shouts after her to come and rest inside until the rain stops to no avail.

It obviously breaks Oscar’s heart to deliver a message to Fersen from his lover. After all, could there be a more solid evidence of their affair? Not that Oscar had any doubts. Yet, she still does it—she does the favour the queen asked of her. Out of her sense of duty, surely, but rather because she envies them their love. Somewhere amid her sorrow, she is happy for Fersen and Marie-Antoinette for having found love, because that is what she doesn’t have. Oscar, too, is in love, but her love isn’t reciprocated. She must think it wonderfully unique to be loved in return by one’s beloved. So, instead of giving in to jealousy and sabotaging their relationship (that’s what Jeanne would have done), Oscar gives their friendship its due, although it hurts to do so.

Oscar gallops away under the rain. A caped figure on a chestnut horse races towards her from the opposite direction. Oscar lifts up her head to see André, carrying a spare cape. “You shouldn’t be out in the rain like this!” he yells at her, trying to make his voice heard over the din of the downpour. He catches up with Oscar and throws the cape at her, managing to drape it around her shoulders. Pleasantly surprised, Oscar smiles gratefully at him and André smiles back. Together, they ride home.

Gotta love André... Here’s probably what happened off-screen after Oscar told him to go back home without her: André went back home, worried about where Oscar ran off to and why she was upset. As he waited for her to come back, it started to rain. So, he decided to go out looking for her and grabbed a spare cape, knowing that she only had her uniform on. Given Oscar’s curt answers and sorrowful expression before she left, André’s uncanny perceptiveness must have led him to conclude that whatever Oscar went to do had something to do with Fersen. Hence, he rode towards the direction of Fersen’s residence in the hopes of finding her there. Bingo!

A week later, the weather seems to have improved little. In a rainy afternoon, the troubadour recites a poem over a sorrowful tune that reflects the wretched state of Fersen’s thoughts. Sitting on an armchair near the window at his residence, Fersen seems mentally exhausted over constantly thinking and trying to find a way out of this love affair that is inevitably headed for doom. A maid intrudes in his thoughts, asking him what he would like to wear for the ball in the evening. He dismisses her by saying that he will decide later.

Alone with his thoughts again, Fersen sees Marie-Antoinette in his mind’s eye, looking beautiful and fresh as ever. The image blurs to be replaced by Oscar’s, drenched under the rain, looking serious as usual but also a little sad. Fersen asks her in his mind, “What do you think I should do, Oscar François?” Then his mind wanders to the opportunistic printers of Paris, hawking their obscene illustrations and stories featuring the queen and himself to curious onlookers. Some are mortified by the illustrations, while some howl with lewd laughter. Besides bringing shame to the royal family of France, this illicit love affair has become the laughing stock of the common folk.

There is a knock on the door. This time his butler interrupts Fersen’s thoughts to tell him that a message has just arrived from Sweden, announcing that a classmate of Fersen from university passed away while fighting for the independence war in America. The narrator explains to the audience that meanwhile a war was being waged across the Atlantic Ocean to win independence from England and that France was recruiting soldiers for the Expeditionary Forces to fight against the English in America.

Meanwhile at the Jarjayes manor, André is preparing the carriage in the stables. Oscar appears at the door. Here’s the dialogue that ensues:

OSCAR

André, there's no need to ready the carriage. I'm not going to the ball tonight. If anyone asks, I'm bedridden with a fever. Understand?

[Oscar turns to leave. André calls after her rather loudly, and…]

ANDRE

Oscar!

[…manages to stop Oscar mid-stride.]

OSCAR

Don't shout. You'll scare the horses.

ANDRE

Tonight is the grand ball, where almost all the prominent nobles will be in attendance. If the heir to the Jarjayes family and the Regiment Commander of the Royal Guards, Oscar François de Jarjayes, isn't in attendance, something out of order is bound to happen, I think.

[Oscar abruptly turns around.]

OSCAR

I can't bear it, especially because it's the grand ball! Lady Antoinette will be the target of countless snide remarks and the people's vulgar stares. I can't bear to see her like that.

ANDRE

That's exactly why you should go, don't you think? You're the only one Lady Antoinette can depend on. Most likely, Fersen, as well.

[Oops… André said the f-word.]

OSCAR

I want no part of it! Their business is theirs. Not mine.

[Oscar turns to André, her raised hands clenched in fists.]

OSCAR

What do you expect me to do?! Slay the insolent gossipers?! Blind the eyes of those who stare?!

[André, not in the least cowed by Oscar’s indignation, preserves his good humour.]

ANDRE

There's an idea for you. Let's give it a shot.

[Oscar’s fists shake not with anger, but with laughter this time, as she chuckles to herself.]

This scene features one of the best dialogues between Oscar and André. In fact, they are having a fairly straightforward and not-so-memorable conversation. But still, from Oscar’s casual remark about the horses, to André’s spontaneous jest at the end, everything about it is so sweet, so endearing...

From her outburst, the audience is given to understand that Oscar naturally resents at having to be involved in the love affair between Fersen and Marie-Antoinette. At the same time, she knows that André is right. With the gossip surrounding the love affair running rampant, an event of this size is prone to an “out of order” accident ending with irrevocable damage to Marie-Antoinette and Fersen’s reputations. It is highly probable that her interference will be necessary.

It is unfair on Oscar that she must intervene to salvage someone else’s reputation—in fact, everything about this whole situation is unfair. But just imagine that she ends up not going to the ball: The inevitable happens in her absence and the scandal surrounding the queen’s love affair only gets worse. If that were the case, Oscar would be devastated. Not only would she have slacked her duties, but she would also have failed to be there for her two friends when they needed her.

As for André, he can see that Oscar is trying to spare herself further heartbreak by avoiding her duties—a semi-conscious decision that she will most likely regret later. So, he reminds her of her station and responsibilities. Then, more softly, he appeals to her on a more personal level, pointing out that the unfortunate lovers are relying on her as a friend. Oscar will perhaps feel better if she doesn’t go to the ball, but she won’t stop loving Fersen and Fersen will not love her back. There is nothing anyone can do to change that. André will at least spare her regret, if he can’t spare her heartbreak. With that joke at the end that actually makes Oscar smile, he gently gives her the push she needs to get back on track in his adorable good-humoured way.

Notice how André gets nothing out of this. Being the saint that he is, he has (yet again) led Oscar to do the right thing for her own sake only. As a matter of fact, he has just ensured that she goes to a ball where she will be seeing more of Fersen. It has always struck me as odd how he doesn’t refrain from mentioning Fersen—though, he is not so ‘cool’ about it in the manga. He does it at least three times in this episode only. One would expect a love-stricken man to avoid bringing up the love interest of his beloved.

The much anticipated and dreaded ball has begun. The nobles are constantly in the lookout for catching stolen glances, lingering touches and whispered endearments exchanged between the secret lovers to fuel their gossip further. But after speaking with André, Oscar has something in mind to make sure that they leave the ball disappointed. She arrives at the palace, wearing her dress uniform for the first time. As she descends the stairs of her carriage, André takes in her appearance and tells her that she looks splendid. Oscar walks past him, ignoring his compliment completely. After all, she has got a tough job at hand.

Perhaps Oscar has never cared overmuch about how she looked, but she can be very cold sometimes, especially towards André. Though here, one should probably cut her some slack because, beneath all the splendour of her dress uniform, she must be really stressed about this potential ‘save the day’ mission. André, for one, doesn’t mind her coldness. No, that’s the wrong way of putting it. He doesn’t take it personally—he never has. From the way he keeps staring at her in awe after she passes by him, it is apparent that he is not expecting a “thank you” from Oscar. André simply gives without expecting anything in return.

Oscar enters the ballroom, looking dashing in her blue and white dress uniform. Everyone in attendance is mesmerised by her appearance. As the audience gathers from the conversation between two ladies, the fact that Oscar has donned a dress uniform means that she will be dancing. Marie-Antoinette, looking as delighted as everyone else by Oscar’s unexpected finery, walks toward her. Oscar bows on one knee before the queen.

MARIE-ANTOINETTE

Oscar, to what new wind do we owe this pleasant surprise tonight? You've never cared to dance before.

OSCAR

With all due respect, the wind blows from the west and also from the east.

[The queen is amused by her protector’s witty answer, however formally given. She laughs coyly and asks the question everybody is dying to ask.]

MARIE-ANTOINETTE

Will your dance partner be a man? Or will it be a woman?

[Oscar replies in the same formal tone of voice:]

OSCAR

Whatever you wish, Your Majesty.

[Marie-Antoinette nods. Head still bowed, Oscar rivets her gaze on the queen with a knowing expression. Marie-Antoinette extends her hand and Oscar stands up, taking her hand in hers. Then, in a voice that only the queen can hear, she tells her this:]

OSCAR

However, please allow me to be your only partner tonight.

[As understanding dawns on her at last, Marie-Antoinette breaks into a grateful smile.]

MARIE-ANTOINETTE

Very well.

The two begin waltzing before the entire crowd of guests. The nobles are enchanted by their grace and beauty—it is a magnificent sight to behold. All eyes are on them, including Fersen’s, who silently raises his glass in toast to the dancing couple, drains its contents and leaves the ballroom. Disaster averted.

Basically, Oscar makes a spectacle. She makes sure that the nobles have something else to talk about other than the queen’s love affair when they leave the ball. It is a sacrifice in more than aspect. The fact that she dislikes being the centre of attention due to her appearance being the least of it. Locking her feelings away, Oscar has yet again become involved in Fersen and Marie-Antoinette’s relationship in some way. But at the end, she has achieved her goal neatly and cleverly: She has ensured that the two are not seen together throughout the night.

Mission accomplished, Oscar is riding in her carriage on her way home as dawn breaks. Some distance away on the river bank (the same river bank that Oscar previously came seeking solitude), a man appears out of the early morning mist and signals the carriage to stop. André pulls on the reins—it’s Fersen. Oscar solemnly listens, as Fersen thanks her for showing up to the ball in a dress uniform, because otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to refrain from asking the queen for a dance. He tells her that he would end up dragging Marie-Antoinette into another scandal instead of being more considerate of their delicate situation.

A fish jumps out of the water, as a sad music begins playing in the background. Oscar continues to listen to Fersen without comment. He tells her that he should never have let his love become romantic, because it caused his beloved to suffer so much. Facing the rising sun on the horizon, he says that there is only one thing he can do: “I choose to be a coward in her eyes! Oscar, I'm going to run away. I'm sorry, but I must! To a far off place, thousands of miles away!”

It is apparent that Fersen trusts Oscar completely from the way he bares his soul to her in all sincerity. However, it must be very difficult for Oscar to hear the man she loves talk about the depth of his love for another woman. She suffers it silently, stoically.

Thousands of miles way? Oscar’s eyes grow larger, as she tries to understand what Fersen could mean by that. But before she can say anything, Fersen tells her, “Please take care of Lady Antoinette!” and runs off. Oscar makes to follow him, asking where he is going, but he disappears into his carriage and rides away.

It turns out that Fersen is going to America to fight in the independence war. Oscar and André are back in the Jarjayes manor, having tea in the morning room. Similar to when they were discussing Fersen previously, Oscar is standing by the window, looking out in the distance, while André is sitting at the table. “The Expeditionary Force is departing today. Aren't you going to see him off?” he asks her. Oscar doesn’t answer. She takes a sip from her cup of tea.

Meanwhile in Versailles, a messenger is briefing Marie-Antoinette on the details of Fersen’s departure. With tears streaming down her face, the queen tells the messenger to convey to Fersen that she wishes him glory in the battlefield and a safe return.

The Expeditionary Force is marching on the streets of Paris to the cheering of the crowds. Fersen, dressed in the uniform of the Swedish Light Dragoons, rides his horse along the troops. He momentarily looks back, as if expecting to see a familiar face come to see him off. But there is no one there.

Why doesn’t Oscar go to see Fersen off? Because she can’t bring herself to say goodbye to him obviously. Knowing that Fersen might not come back alive from the war, it would be too difficult to mask her true feelings like she normally does when she is with him.

When faced with a strong emotion, Oscar’s first instinct is to suppress it. Except for anger. She seems to have no problem expressing her anger, because, well, it is permissible for a man to express anger, right? But here, the emotion in question is love. The kind of romantic love a woman feels for a man. Oscar hasn’t yet made her peace with the idea that she is entitled to feel such kind of emotion for a man.

Back in the morning room, André is watching Oscar with a grim expression. She has still not answered his earlier question. As if frozen in time, she is standing by the window, gazing out into nothing. The half-drunk tea in her hand is growing cold. André gives up at last. Apparently having decided to leave her alone, he says in a weary tone of voice, “Oh, shoot... I just remembered, I have to change the horses' shoes today.” He slowly stands up to leave, not even bothering to feign panic. He casts one last look at Oscar, standing still as a statue, and walks out of the room. The camera zooms into Oscar’s face. Alone at last, a single tear rolls down her cheek, as she says, “Don’t die, Fersen.”

The End

This is the second episode directed by Osamu Dezaki in the series and marks a turning point in the story. The characters become more mature and the plot gets more sombre, more serious. For instance, take the troubadour, who authors the poem featured at the beginning of this post. I am guessing that he is one of Dezaki’s additions to the series, because this is the first episode he appears in the anime and he isn’t featured in the manga at all. Personally, I find the second half of the series more enjoyable, and I think the fans generally agree on this assessment. As for this episode, I always liked it, but I didn’t use to feel like watching it over and over again like episodes 25, 28 and 37. I admit that I recently discovered how great it truly is. What do you think?

A note on the title of the episode: Is it Rondo, Rondeau or Rinbu? The episode’s title is translated in the North American DVD release as “Fersen, A Farewell Rondeau.” The dictionary tells me that rondeau is “a poem of ten or thirteen lines with only two rhymes throughout and with the opening words used twice as a refrain” and that rondo is “a musical form with a recurring leading theme”—obviously derived from the former. The episode’s title in Japanese is “Fersen, nagori no rinbu” (フェルゼン名残りの輪舞). “Rinbu” means “round dance; dancing in a circle .” However, the furikana (a sort of guide for how the word is intended to be read) for “rinbu” is given as “rondo” (ロンド).

So, we’ve got a poem1, a musical form2 and a dance3 with a repeating1, recurring2 and revolving3 rhyme1, theme2 and movement3. What they all have in common is the idea of something having a circular, repeating pattern or motion. Perhaps the troubadour is reciting a rondeau? Or maybe Fersen’s relationship with Marie-Antoinette is intended to be shown as a sort of never-ending “dance” that moves in circles? In a way, it’s ironic because they don’t get to dance in the episode thanks to Oscar’s intervention. But this is the second time that Fersen abruptly leaves France to end his relationship with the queen for both their sakes. So, there is a pattern here: He arrives in Versailles, has a torrid love affair with the queen, causes scandal in the court and flees. Only to start it all over again.

[celebratorypenguin]

Fic: Don’t Cry, Young Lovers (1/4)

Rating: R (sexual situations, non-graphic descriptions of past violence, language) McLennon (DUH...)

Greetings yet again from Overused Trope Land! This time we're with our boys in Paris, spending someone's hard-earned pay John's 21st birthday money. (Sorry, Paul, I love you but “Two Of Us” is NOT ABOUT LINDA.)

This is a work of fiction. The character of Sylvie/Sarah is based on and dedicated to the mother of one of my childhood friends. May she be remembered for blessing.

Anyway, this is the first of four parts. The story is mostly complete but needs editing, which is my least-favorite part. I’m hoping that exposing Part 1 in public will light a fire under my slothful self. ::lights match::

Don't Cry, Young Lovers

 Paris October, 1961

  The City of Lights was so much more beautiful, more bohemian, more enticing, more MORE, than either John or Paul could have imagined.

 Once they set foot in Paris and made their way through the winding cobblestone streets in search of cheap lodgings and cheaper food, they fell deeply in love with the city and began looking for excuses not to venture further to Spain.

 John's birthday money wasn't enough to allow them to travel in style, but it did get them a small, clean room with a window that let them look out on the glories of autumn. Paul's worries about sharing the tiny bed dissipated when John threw the window open and let in the crisp, rain-washed breezes.

 "The city smells alive," John remarked as he clambered up on the windowsill to get a better view.

 Paul, busily emptying his little suitcase and storing his few possessions neatly in the cupboard, simply smiled in agreement. He was a bit road-weary, particularly from having to do all the polite chit-chat with the drivers who'd been kind enough to give them lifts, but his heart had not been so light in years.

 John had chosen him. Not Cynthia, not Stuart, but Paul. And, amazingly, Paul's father had acquiesced to the trip with fewer dire predictions than anyone could have anticipated. He'd even pressed ten quid into his son's hands, "just in case."

 It was, Paul thought as he turned his suitcase on end to use as a night table, probably a sign that something was about to go terribly wrong.

 "Hey there." John's voice broke through Paul's musings. "Quit being a housewife for a few minutes and look at this." John beckoned toward the window. It wasn't large enough to seat them both, so Paul settled for peering over John's shoulders at the narrow streets below. It wasn't a grand part of town, of course, but it had a certain shabby charm that absolutely failed to remind him of Hamburg in any way, shape, or form.

 Score one for Paris, then.

 Squirming a bit on the hard ledge, John stuffed his glasses back in his jacket and turned to Paul. "What should we seek out first - food or booze?"

 "Food. Absolutely, food." Paul's words were punctuated by a loud rumble in his stomach.

 John's laughter was intoxicating. He hopped down and mussed Paul's hair. "Can't deprive a growing boy, now, can we? Let's take a walk."

 Following John was as natural as breathing. Paul patted his pockets, reassuring himself that he had both his camera and his wallet, as he strode quickly to keep up with John's long-legged gait. The scenery was so interesting that John was actually wearing his glasses. Looking around him swallowed up all Paul's attention, resulting in his foot slipping on one of the damp cobblestones. John reacted quickly, wrapping an arm around Paul's waist and steadying him. "Watch your step - can't have you breaking an ankle, now, can we?"

 "I'm not a fucking racehorse," Paul grumbled, but the warmth of John's body next to his was a solid, comforting familiarity in a strange place.

 They wandered aimlessly through the twisting streets until the scent of freshly-baked bread seduced them into a cozy boulangerie. Proud to show off his French, Paul ordered bread and tea for them both and reached for his wallet to pay. John stopped him with a firm hand on Paul's wrist.

 "Nope, I'm buying," he declared as he handed francs to the old woman behind the counter.

 "But I have money," protested Paul.

 "And now you have food and you still have money. It's a miracle!" John reached to take his change from the woman, and Paul saw him pull a face.

 "What?" Paul whispered, but John shushed him. The boys took their food and cups of tea and went to a vacant table by the window.

 "She has Mickey Mouse hands," John stage-whispered when they were settled.

 Paul gaped blankly at him.

 John held up his hands and tucked his index fingers behind his thumbs. "Only four fingers on each hand. No, don't turn around, you numpty!"

 Paul stopped himself. "That's weird," he said before taking a huge bite out of his bread. It was hot with a perfectly crisp crust, the inside so soft and flaky that adding butter would be a desecration.

 Evidently John felt the same, because he managed to smile blissfully whilst chewing.

 Their repast wasn't going to last long at this rate, so Paul concentrated on his tea and broke off only one tiny piece of bread at a time. He gazed out the window at the pedestrians and pigeons, none of whom seemed to be in a hurry.

 He liked that very much.

 After a few minutes, Paul examined the interior of the shop. Glass cases displayed every kind of sweet and savory baked good he'd ever seen and quite a few that were mysteries to him. Half a dozen tables, draped with mismatched, spotless cotton cloths, dotted the floor. But what drew Paul's attention was the mahogany spinet in the corner.

 His fingers twitched. He'd gone two days already without touching an instrument - he had grudgingly consented to John's demand that they leave their guitars at home - and he longed to make the lovely, lonely instrument sing for him.

 John followed Paul's line of sight. He shook his head in mock exasperation. "Honestly, are you conisdering cheating on your guitar with that tart of a piano?"

 Paul, whose body was almost aching with the need for music, chose to shoot the bird at John rather than give a verbal response.

 Leaning forward in his chair, John snatched the last of the bread from Paul's plate with a triumphant grin. "Hey!" protested Paul, "I wasn't finished yet!"

 "You know what they say: if you eat slowly, you eat less." John tore the morsel in half and brought one piece to Paul's lips.

 Paul considered nipping the finger along with the bread, but literally biting the hand that fed him seemed ridiculous. He sighed as he allowed John to pop the bread in his mouth, his gaze still focused on the piano.

 "We couldn't very well bring both guitars along, and we can't share, now, can we, since you need yours upside-down?"

 It shouldn't have stunned Paul that John was reading his mind. It happened far too frequently to have any element of surprise left, yet every time they finished one another's thoughts, Paul felt a tiny jolt like an electrical charge.

 The same charge went through him whenever John touched him, as he did now when he leaned forward to flick a crumb from the corner of Paul's downturned mouth. "Are you still hungry?" John asked.

 "No," Paul lied, but the hesitation in his voice didn't fool John at all.

 "Let's get you something else," he offered.

 "I'm not hungry."

 "Rubbish. And if I take you back to England looking like a starving waif, your dad will have my guts for garters!"

 "John, I'm fine, really, just let me finish the tea and--"

 Out of the corner of his eye Paul saw a plate with four piping-hot croissants being set on their table. He realized that he was looking directly at the old woman's deformed hand, then averted his gaze with a guilty start and began to sputter. "Ce ne sont, uh, pas, uh, le nôtre...n'avons, uh, pas d'argent..."

 "I speak English," the woman said kindly, circumventing the need for Paul's schoolboy French. Her voice was accented in a language Paul didn't recognize. "Please, they are old and must not go to waste."

 Paul opened his mouth to protest - the food was clearly fresh from the oven - but John interrupted. "That's very nice, thank you." His voice was soft, free from jest or sarcasm, which left Paul as curious as he was ravenous.

 When the woman smiled, Paul was surprised to realize that she wasn't as old as she seemed. She was probably in her early forties; her prematurely gray hair and the scars on her hands had been deceptive. Paul could see that John was not looking at her face but her arm, and when he glanced over he could see some crudely tattooed numbers just below the crook of her elbow.

 When John kicked his ankle under the table and made a "you're embarrassing me" face, Paul realized that he was staring. He forced his gaze upward again and said, "Merci - thank you very much" as the woman walked away.

 Unusually sober-faced, John sat utterly still for several moments, not touching the food but regarding it with a strangely abstracted expression. "What?" asked Paul around a mouthful of croissant.

 "You saw it," was John's terse answer, and Paul knew he meant the tattoo rather than the scarring. "I've heard about them, but I've never seen one. Shit." John ran his hands through his hair until it nearly stood on end. "Jesus, that's just wrong."

 Paul turned the words over in his mind for a few moments before the realization dawned. They'd been numbered with tattoos in concentration camps, the Jews and  everyone else HItler had wanted to kill. "So she's..."

 "Yeah."

 Paul's chest felt tight. He struggled to swallow, washing the food down with a gulp of the cooling tea. He'd heard his relatives talk in horrified whispers, their voices kept low "to spare the children," but it had never seemed real to him. To boys his age, the war was a dim memory, kept alive by the shadows of rationing and poverty that were only now beginning to lift.

 "And I thought it was a drag that we couldn't get sugar," John said, completing Paul's thoughts yet again. He picked up a croissant and began to eat it. "We've led pretty charmed lives by comparison, haven't we?"

 "I'd never thought of it that way." Paul knew he sounded as dazed as he felt. His life hadn't felt charmed, not since his mother's illness and death followed by his family's slide toward impoverished gentility, and he certainly wouldn't describe John's life that way. But compared to this woman and the story they'd only seen on the surface, Paul and John were princes of the realm.

 They finished their food, rising to thank the woman - the lady, Paul corrected himself in his head - before setting out to find enough cheap red wine to keep them merrily tipsy for the rest of the evening. John procured two bottles from a nearby shop and handed one to Paul.

 "What should we do tomorrow?" John asked.

 Paul, who wanted to "see the sights" without knowing exactly what they were, shrugged. "Up to you. It's your birthday party, you know."

 "Best birthday ever, and I haven't even had it yet," John said with a wide smile. "There are bohemian delights galore here, and wine to drink our health with. What else could two young, adventuresome lads ask for?"

 "A girl who won't give me the clap," Paul said archly. The rest of the group had never, ever let him hear the end of the Hamburg debacle so he tended to bring it up himself to lessen the painful inevitability.

 The sparkle in John's eyes dimmed somewhat. Surprised, Paul raised an eyebrow at him but John turned away and was silent for the rest of the walk back to their hotel.

 They climbed the narrow, dark staircase and opened the door to their room. John had left the window slightly open to freshen the air, and now the room was far cooler than Paul could have wished. He shivered a bit and drew his jacket more tightly around himself. "Mind if I shut the window? Getting a bit brisk in here."

 "Be my guest," John said in a listless tone as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

 Paul had no idea how in the world he could have offended his mercurial friend, but he knew better than to ask. He closed the window gently instead, then he took a seat next to John and slung one arm around his shoulders. "I know I'm your guest, and don't think for a moment that I'm not grateful, 'cause I really, really am."

 John blinked at him a few times, then shook himself from head to toe like a dog emerging from a puddle. "Sorry, I'm just knackered. Don't mind me." He set his bottle of wine on the floor next to the bed. "I'll save it for tomorrow, I think. Gonna turn in, maybe get an early start in the morning."

 Despite residual anxiety about John's changing moods, Paul got to his feet and went to the cupboard to get his pyjamas. He changed quickly, shivering with the cold. In his peripheral vision he could see John doing the same and then rushing to the sink to clean his teeth. Paul followed suit, taking care to wash his face carefully as well. It wouldn't do to get a pimple during such a grown-up adventure.

 By the time he finished, John had rearranged the covers and pillows on the bed to make one little nest for each of them. Top-and-tail. John surveyed his handiwork with a frown. "I've seen bigger postage stamps. I'm liable to get your foot in my face all night long, smelling of God knows what."

 "My feet are daisies compared to yours." Paul knew that his new-found devotion to hygeine was the laughingstock of his bandmates, so he used it to toss a bone to John, to get him to laugh.

 It worked. John's sour face crumbled and he favored Paul with a genuine smile as he snuggled down under the covers. "Night, then."

 "Good night, Johnny." Paul crawled into his little space and twisted around, trying to find a comfortable position that didn't encroach on John's area. Given that they were two long-legged boys trying to share one narrow bed, his efforts met with no success. Every time he drifted off, a bony ankle would connect sharply with his ear, or he'd feel John swat at his shins.

 It was also cold, far colder than Paul had expected, and he began to shiver.

 He felt a shift in the bed and bedclothes. When he opened his eyes, there was John, leaning over him. "Best come up here with me," John said, a little quickly, adding, "There's only one proper blanket anyway, and it's too cold in here to fuss about your modesty."

 Relieved that he might actually get some sleep, Paul moved his pillow next to John's and curled up on his side with John behind him. John was always a few degrees warmer than most people, so he was like a living, breathing hot water bottle, albeit one with pointy elbows. As Paul relaxed into slumber, he was dimly aware of John tucking the bedspread around him and whispering something into his ear that was too soft to understand.

 ***

[hannahindie]

Not What She Seems-Chapter 15: The One Where Cas Has Bad News

Characters: Dean x Ava (OC), Sam, Cas, Sebastian (OC-brief mention) Word Count: 3,161 Warnings: Little bit of angst, some violence, a not so happy dream sequence A/N: This is the fifteenth installment of my first ever fan fiction. It has been an interesting road to get to this point, and I am both excited and a little sad to say that the end is swiftly approaching. To all of you that have been following since the beginning, thank you so much! For those of you just now realizing that this is a thing, you can catch up on the first fourteen parts here. This fic is extremely dark up until about chapter 8, warnings are included on the Masterlist notes.

As always, this was beta‘d by my loves @trexrambling and @pinknerdpanda, who are basically my fairy godmothers and somehow help me turn my words into what you see here. Thank you so much!

If you like what you see here, please head on over to my Masterlist for more! It is updated frequently. If you’d like to be tagged, please send me a message, an ask, a messenger pigeon, smoke signals, or whatever other form of communication you prefer. (Please note: My blog is about 98% safe for work, however, this particular series, for the most part, is not. If I know you’re under 18, I will not be tagging you in this series, and ask kindly that you don’t read it. As soon as you’re of age, have at it. But until then, my sweet, precious angel babies, I don’t want to contribute to your rebellious delinquency. I still love you, though. Mama bird, out.)

Dean woke slowly, his body stiff from laying in the same position for so long. As he attempted to shift, he noticed the warm weight pinning his arm against the extra pillow and he gradually began to remember the events from last night. Ava was lying on her side, and her long hair had cascaded over her shoulder and just barely concealed the swell of her breast. Dean couldn’t help but smile as he ran his thumb gently down her spine, then he leaned forward and kissed her shoulder.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he whispered. He had expected her to stir, but she remained silent. “You’re either a heavy sleeper, or you’re just messing with me,” he chuckled as he planted kisses along her neck and nipped at her earlobe, something he had learned last night that she quite enjoyed. Nothing; no movement, no sound. His brows furrowed in concern, “Ava?”

He gently pulled his arm out from under her and rolled her onto her back. She looked normal, as if she was just sleeping. He gently cupped her cheek, her skin smooth but incredibly hot  against his rough palm. Her eyes were closed, but he could tell that they were moving under the lids, and a thin sheen of sweat shone on her forehead.

“Ava, wake up!” Dean could feel the panic rising in his chest at how still she was, aside from the little bit her eyes seemed to be moving, and sat up so that he could pull her into his lap.

“Come on, Ava, you need to wake up. You were fine, everything was fine, right? Ava!” Footsteps echoed in the hall and his door flew open.

Sam stood in the doorway, his hair still disheveled and tired eyes wide as he took in the sight in front of him, “What in the hell...why are you naked? Why is she...what is happening?”

Dean looked at Sam in panic, not even realizing that he was still naked from the night before, “She won’t wake up, Sammy. She was fine, everything was fine, and then we went to sleep and now...she won’t wake up. Sammy, why won’t she wake up?”

Sam quickly crossed the room and put a hand to Ava’s forehead, “She’s burning up, dude. You said she was fine last night?”

Dean nodded, “Yea...we came back here to talk, and then...well...you could probably guess what happened next. We fell asleep soon after, but she was fine. She was fine.” He fell silent, then as if realizing for the first time that both of them were naked hurriedly covered her with a blanket. “Can you get her some clothes? Maybe...maybe Cas can help.”

“Dean, Cas hasn't answered any of our prayers. Why would he show up now?”

“Just because I did not respond does not mean I did not hear you.”

Sam jumped at the sudden voice behind him and turned around to see Castiel standing almost against him. “Jesus, Cas!”

Dean laid Ava back on the bed and jumped up, eyes narrowed, “You heard me and just decided to ignore it? What the hell, man? She could have died! Where the hell were you?”

“I could tell that the situation was handled and that I was not needed immediately. Where I was is not relevant to the problem at hand.” He walked over to the bed and sat down gently as he put a hand to Ava’s forehead, “How long has she been like this?”

Dean ran a hand over his face and sighed, “I don't know...we've been asleep for a few hours...she was fine before that.” Cas closed his eyes and tilted his head as his brows came together in concentration. Dean frowned, “What? What's wrong?”

Cas turned to look at him, “I need some time.” He glanced down, then brought his eyes back up to meet Dean’s, “You may want to put some clothes on and get something to eat while you wait. I do not know how long this will take.”

One of the dresser drawers slid open on its own, and Dean walked over to grab what he needed from it and quickly dressed. He walked towards the door, then stopped to look at Ava one last time, “How bad is it, Cas?”

Cas frowned and gave his head a slight shake, “I do not know yet, but Dean...you may want to prepare yourself for the worst.”

Sam softly grabbed Dean’s arm, “Come on, man. Let's get some coffee.” Dean let Sam lead him out of the room and down the hall, his chest tight with possibilities that he did not want to think about.

She hears voices echoing down the long hallway of the house they are in, whispers of distrust and whether or not they will keep her with them. She can tell they are too far away, she shouldn’t be able to hear them, but the voices are distinct; Sam and Dean are discussing what they should do with her. She stops, and her grip tightens around the knife she doesn’t remember picking up.

“Sam, I don’t know, man. Look, you were soulless for awhile, and I didn’t just abandon you. You were dangerous, you had no sense of right and wrong, that there was a grey area. Do you remember how you acted?”

“Yea, I know, Dean, but...you heard what Cas said. This is different, this isn’t just not having a soul or drinking demon blood. It’s actually inside of her, Dean. Even after the blood transfusion, Cas said it’s the strongest connection he’s seen. I get it, man, I do. I lived it, and I wish for nothing more than to have her be free of that...that darkness. I just....I don’t think this is going to work. I know how much of a struggle it was, and I don’t know that she’s going to be able to live through it anyway. Maybe if she got away from this life, away from us, she’d stand a fighting chance.”

“So just throw her out there alone with no one to keep an eye on her, no one to remind her she’s still human?” Dean scoffs, “That’ll work. That’s a brilliant plan, Sam. Nothing could possibly go wrong with that scenario. What happened to you being the one that wanted to save her, huh?”

Dean sighs, and Ava can feel herself being pulled to him, a moment of softness and a desire to wrap her arms around him so that she can press herself against his chest and let his heartbeat ground her. As quickly as the moment comes, it is gone. In its place is anger, deep and ugly hatred bubbling and threatening to erupt. These were not her friends, not her family. These men want to abandon her. They are no better than the foster parents she had before she had managed to get away.

It’s like Ava is watching someone else walk down the hallway, like the knife is held in someone else’s hand. She quietly approaches the room she knows she'll find Sam and Dean in, and for a moment she almost talks herself out of it. There is no need to kill the Winchesters. They had rescued her, saved her from that monster-

Monster? I made you who you are, I made you strong, Ava. If not for me, you’d still be living that pretend life, going to work, coming home, making love to some man that was just kind enough to make you feel good about settling.  The Winchesters stole what we could have had. You would have come around, and I would have shown you a whole new world. You were strong, Ava. The Winchesters are making you weak...especially Dean.

Ava shakes her head as she tries to get rid of the voice. Dean saved her. Sam and Dean both have saved her. For the first time in her life, she has realized what it was like to actually care for someone. Ben was a wonderful man, but he had been convenient. Though she owes her life to the Winchesters, she knows her feelings for Dean are based upon something else, something deeper than anything she’s ever known. Dean Winchester is a good man.

Dean Winchester is a murderer. He killed me right in front of you, and you say he’s a good man? Do you know how many lives he has taken, how many of my kind and others he has destroyed for the sake of being a hunter? The man does not see in shades of grey, Ava. It is black and white. He claims he does it for the greater good, but you know what? It’s all lies. He does it for himself. He does it because his soul is broken and the only thing that makes him feel better is to destroy what everyone else has.

I don’t believe you.

Believe it. Listen.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe when we get done with this job we just go home and tell her how it is. We should have never brought her back to the bunker, Sam.”

“Dean, I’m sorry. I know I started this, and now you’re in it deeper than you should be. Are you going to be able to tell her to leave after everything that’s happened?”

Dean pauses as he thinks about the answer, “Yea...it’ll be okay. Hell, I left Lisa and Ben behind, and I actually loved them. Getting rid of Ava should be cake.”

See? He doesn’t care about you. You’re just another notch on his bedpost that he made the unfortunate mistake of bringing home instead of one of the dingy hotels they always stay at. You know what you should do, Ava?

What?

He took advantage of your trust and your feelings. He took the opportunity to be with me away. That makes you angry, doesn't it Ava?

Silence.

Your silence is answer enough. He took all those things away from you. You should take Sam away from him.

No! I can't hurt Sam. I can't do that to Dean.

I believe thou doth protest too much. You heard them. They don't care about you. They regret bringing you home with them. They're going to make you leave, Ava, and where are you supposed to go? The least you could do is make Dean regret it. They don't even know you're here, it would be so easy.

Ava feels her feet begin to move despite her attempt at staying in place. She makes it to the doorway and sees that both brothers have their backs turned towards her.

Perfect. It's like it was meant to be. Go ahead, Ava. Do it. It'll be easy.

Before she realizes what is happening, Ava crosses the space between her and Sam and with all of her strength, plunges the knife deep into Sam’s back. Before either Winchester can react, she has already pulled it back out and slammed it home again. Sam drops to the ground, and Dean looks at her in shock. Before he can say a word, Ava has lashed out at him, the knife catching him easily across the throat. Blood splashes across Ava’s face as Dean falls forward and tries to grab her. She steps back and watches as Dean hits the floor next to Sam. She calmly wipes the blood from her face with the back of her hand and feels a smile creep across her face.

See? How did that feel?

Ava pauses for a moment as she closes her eyes and allows the adrenaline to course through her. She takes a deep breath as she slowly opens her eyes and lets them rest on the widening pools of blood under the brothers.

It felt good.

“Dean, what were you thinking?” Sam looked at Dean as he leaned against the table, his head in his hands.

Dean looked up at Sam sharply, ‘What was I thinking? You were well on your way to trying it, Sam, and don’t deny it. Am I wrong?”

Sam shook his head, “I wasn’t going to-”

“Bullshit,” Dean spat, returning his head to his hands. Sam didn’t understand, Dean didn’t expect him to, but he was also pretty sure that if Sam didn’t shut up, he was going to punch him.

“Seriously though, Dean...it’s only been a couple of weeks. Neither one of us should have...she needed more time to herself.”

Dean shoved himself away from the table and went to the fridge. He opened it angrily and pulled out a beer, then threw the cap on the counter, “I didn’t do anything, Sam. She came to me, okay? It’s not like I planned it. Hell, I don’t think she did either. We were talking, and one thing led to another…” He sat back down at the table, “You know what, I don’t have to explain myself to you, and neither does she. What’s done is done, and of course neither of us can have nice things, so here we are. Do you have anything else to say about it? Or are you going to leave us two consenting adults alone?”

Sam sat down across from Dean, “You’re right. It’s not my business. Sorry.”

Dean began picking at the label on his beer, “Do you think she’s going to be okay?”

Sam shrugged, “Honestly? I don’t know. I thought things were getting better, that maybe the blood was running its course since the episodes seemed to have spread out but...maybe I was wrong. I thought I could understand it, but this is totally different than what happened with me. It’s unpredictable. I’ve been going off the assumption that Azazel would have been more powerful, but I’m beginning to wonder.”

“Sam, I don’t know what-”

“She is still asleep,” Cas’s deep voice interrupted.

Dean jerked around to see Cas standing uncomfortably close to him, “Fucking hell, Cas. You have got to stop doing that.”

“Sorry.” Cas took a step back, “I should probably reword what I just said. She is unconscious. She seems to be...dreaming.”

“What’s wrong with her? What is she dreaming about?”

Cas frowned, “It is hard to explain what is wrong with her. It appears that the blood she had been injected with has been, for a lack of a better term, multiplying. It is attaching itself to what is left of her blood vessels and taking them over.”

Dean looked between Cas and Sam, “What does that mean? Sammy, what does that mean?”

Sam sighed and looked down at his hands, “It means...it means that eventually her blood won’t be her blood. It will be Sebastian’s...it’ll be demon blood.”

Dean looked back at Cas, “Well, just fix it. Use your angel mojo and fix it. You heal us all the time.”

“Dean, it is not that simple. I am millions of years old and I have never seen this type of possession. I do not believe there is a way to reverse it. There is a darkness inside of her that, if left alone, will change her. She will not be Ava and she will not be Sebastian. I do not know how to describe it, but it will be powerful.”

‘How powerful?” Sam asked quietly, his eyes on Dean.

“I cannot say for certain, but I have cause to believe she will be almost as powerful as a nephilim. Sebastian may not have gotten the child that he wanted, but he succeeded in creating a being that will be more powerful than most of the heavenly host.”

“How long do we have before she turns?” Dean asked gruffly.

“I am unsure. She may wake up and still be the Ava you know, and then it is just a matter of time. Or you may never see that side of her again. It is too hard to predict.”

Sam stood suddenly, and Dean looked at him sadly. “Then we research! There’s gotta be something we can do to help her. You said it, if we leave her alone, it will change her. Maybe there’s a spell or something that we can use to reverse it.  I’ll get started-”

“Sam, there is nothing. Regardless of what happens when she wakes up, she will turn. The only certainty we have is that she must be dealt with before that happens. It will be too late once the change is completed.”

Dean glared at Cas, “What are you proposing? That we kill her? We just saved her. I’m not doing it. There’s gotta be a way.”

Cas tilted his head as he stared at Dean, “Is this because you two fornicated? If you are unable to take on the task, then I will do it myself. We allowed Jesse to go free because of your feelings, I cannot let Ava do the same. She will be even more dangerous than the child.”

Dean stood and moved closer to Cas, “You keep your damn mouth shut-”

“Both of you, stop. Cas, we will take care of it. Dean, Cas is right...we can’t just let her go free,” Sam paused and held his hands up as Dean took a dangerous step towards him, “but I also don’t think we need to kill her. We need to see what happens when she wakes up. We aren’t going to know anything until then. ….Dean, you aren’t going to like this, but I think we need to put her in the dungeon.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open, “Are you freaking kidding me? We just rescued her from being chained up in what was basically a dungeon, and now you’re wanting to do it again? Absofuckinglutely not. No. We will take turns watching her. Sam, take first watch, I’m going to run out and get some supplies so we don’t have to leave for awhile. Cas, maybe go do something useful…” Before Dean could finish his sentence, Cas had vanished. Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation, “Whatever, man. Sam, just...go. I’ll be back in like an hour, if that. Call if you need anything.”

Dean walked off without letting Sam answer and grabbed his jacket as he crossed through the war room and towards the garage. He slipped it on and paused as his fingers brushed something in the pocket. It was a folded piece of receipt paper.

Hey Deano,

Sometimes you need to remember instead of forget. If you ever need anything, there’s a certain foul mouthed Southern girl that’s willing to listen. Don’t be a stranger.

P.S. There’s an apple pie waiting for you if you’re ever back this direction.

Audrey

Her number was neatly printed at the bottom, and he stared at it for a moment before folding the paper up and slipping it back into his pocket.

It occurred to Dean that his life had been much simpler when all he dealt with were monsters.

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