#imagine david just sitting there frozen in place book in his hand and eyes just staring at neil

[iamtheprotagoneil]

ok so im here crying over your tag essay and to crank up the angst even more, imagine neil jokingly saying to david when he was reading to him, "if i had known it takes a bullet for you to come by and sit with me like this, i would've happily gotten shot sooner 😊" and david just goes absolutely white with shock and crumbles down in fresh tears. (1)

and neil would be like, oh god no no, i'm sorry i'm just joking my stupid mouth runs away from me again 😭 david just sits there realizing how much he had hurt neil and broken his heart in the first place, and neil is panicking inside trying to comfort him and tell him it's okay, it's okay, i'm just glad you're here with me now ♥️ (2) - alicia

damn, alicia. y’all really be going off with all this angst huh 😭😭😭 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Looking for a Place to Happen 5

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape, age gap, general stupidity, some violence and threats, coercion, manipulation, trauma, sextoy, recording, anal.

This is dark!biker!Sam Wilson x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: There’s lots happening in Birch and you find it all too amusing.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown, When the Weight Comes Down, Little Bones, and Fully Completely

Note: It was close but y’all wanted more Birch!Sam so here we go. This one is... porn. Let’s be honest lmao.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 5: Come on in, sit right down

💀💀💀

It was a pain you’d never felt before. It was more than physical, it was deep, it was like part of you was missing. Something taken from you. More than just that outdated concept of purity that you never bought into, more so your autonomy. You never felt very in control of your life, trapped in the small town with dreams but now your life was completely out of your grasp.

Sam left late, some time after midnight. It didn’t matter, you still felt him inside of you. You tried to rinse him off of you, out of you, but the shower only left you cold and hollow. You gave up on sleep just after five in the morning and you typed in a trance, barely thinking as your fingers fluttered over the keyboard.

Hours passed like days and you descended as you heard your nan below, the clink of her heavy cast iron pot on the stove. She cooked her oatmeal in it and it was heavy enough to hammer back in the loose floorboard in front of the fridge. She offered you some as you entered the kitchen and you sat at the table with a sigh.

“Is that man coming back?” she asked.

You tilted your head at her as she put a bowl in front of you and the bag of sugar just for you. You sprinkled the brown granules over your oatmeal and added milk, “you looking forward to it?”

“The only reason I didn’t spray Lysol in his eyes was because of you, girly,” she sat heavy with the jar of artificial sugar and the little cinnamon container, “you know I’d do anything to keep you safe even if you’re too dumb for your own good.”

You nodded and scooped up the thick oatmeal. You pushed your tongue through the oats and said nothing.

“I told you to stay away from that bar,” she huffed. The crotchety old lady was back.

“You seemed happy enough about the pie and wine,” you shrugged.

“You think I don’t know his kind. I’m an old lady, that won’t keep him from cracking my skull like poor old Mikey Rae,” she tutted, “that was the first biker I fucked with.”

“Nan,” you gasped at her language.

“Well, you’re an adult now. Gonna have to grow up quick if you messin’ with those boys,” she pointed her spoon at you, “but you say the word and I’ll twist his balls off. Being old only means I gotta be patient.”

You couldn’t help but snicker. You knew she was serious and you realised then that it was all a show. A cautious act that you’d mirrored for her own sake. But this was a problem you had to deal with yourself. The one thing you couldn’t live with was bringing harm to the woman who raised you.

“No ball twisting, nan,” you shook your head, “alright?”

“For now,” she returned, “but you be careful, girly. You’re in deep enough.”

“I know,” you bit the edge of your lip, “nan?”

“Mmm,” she grumbled as she swallowed.

“Mikey Ray, if he was one of them, who bashed him?” you asked.

“The second one, Colin,” she frowned, “cocky bugger, took what he wanted… until he got what he couldn’t handle.”

“And what happened to him?”

It was the most your nan ever told you about those days, more inclined to talk about her hippy festivals and protest arrests.

“I twisted his balls off,” she snickered, “in a manner of speaking.”

You drew your brows together as you watched her take another bite and she opened the pocket book of crosswords she kept on the table.

“In a manner of speaking?” you wondered.

“I plead the fifth,” she took the pencil from between the pages and adjusted her thick glasses, “but he wasn’t around to cause me any trouble.”

You shoved another spoonful into your mouth and sat back. You always thought your nan was a tough old bitch, you couldn’t imagine what she was like when she was your age.

💀

Sam showed up just after noon. You weren’t surprised but you weren’t happy either. You were only thankful he came in the back. You didn’t need Nan following through on her threats and you would rather she didn’t know about the visit. If you were fortunate, she didn’t notice him for her knitting.

He knocked on your door and you unlocked it. He made no move to enter as he twirled your phone between his fingers.

“Charged it last night,” he smiled, “thought we could have some more fun.”

“I’m working,” you said quietly.

“Did I ask?” his lips straightened and he tilted his head, “and it’s about time you came over. Kind feels off with the old lady just on the other side of the wall.” You winced at the memory of the night before. He noticed and chuckled. “Kinda hot too but… still,” he mused.

“You can’t come back later?” you crossed your arms.

“You were so good last night,” he said, “I don’t like this little game you’re playing so don’t make me give the old lady a show. Let’s go.”

You dropped your arms and grabbed your thinner jacket from the back of your chair and shoved your feet into your zip up Martens. He waited with his arm across the open door and you stepped past him as his other hand went to your ass and squeezed. He closed the door and followed you down the wooden steps.

The snow wasn’t as deep as the first fall and you crunched through to the sidewalk. He placed his arm over your shoulders as he ushered you along to the main road. You passed The Asp and cut through the lot as he waved to other members of the club.

“I talked to Bucky, let him know you won’t be an issue any longer,” he said, “right?”

“Right,” you echoed and hugged yourself against the bitter air.

“Aw, honey, don’t worry, we’re about to get you warmed up,” he led you down another side street and up the paved walk of a pale blue house, “this is my place, Chez, uh, Wilson.”

He let you inside and nudged you further in as he followed. You slid out of your boots and he helped you out of your jacket. His impatience showed as he unzipped his coat and tore off his own boots. He took out your phone and grinned.

“Today,” he held it up, “you can get this back… if you earn it.”

You stared at him and picked at the hem of your shirt. His eyes followed the movement of your fingers and he licked his lips.

“Why yes, you can take that off, that’s a great start,” he purred, “all of it.”

You clenched your teeth and gripped the fabric nervously. He shouldered past you and pointed across the front room.

“You can go wait for me in there,” he said, “I’ll be a couple.”

You nodded and made to pass him but he stopped you before you could enter the living room. The place was cozy even if you didn’t want to be there. He bent and turned your face up to kiss you sloppily. He tapped your ass again as he urged you onward.

“Gotta loosen you up,” he taunted, “in more ways than one.”

You continued across the room if only to get away from him, even if it wouldn't be for long. You pushed past the painted door and entered the bedroom. The wall was hung with a large framed diagram of a Harley and another of a bike engine. There was a large poster for the Godfather and a Marvin Gaye album leaned against a retro player. The bed was made and the carpet freshly vacuumed.

You went to the dresser and looked over the dog tags that hung from a miniature statue of David. You looked up at the large mirror over the dresser and you looked as scared as you felt. You gulped down your nerves as he entered and looked away from your reflection.

He had a stool in hand and kicked the door closed. He placed it between the bed and the dresser. He kept his hands on the top and his chest flexed beneath his grey henley. He watched you knowingly and tutted.

“You’re not naked,” he said, “don’t you want this back?”

He let go of the stool and revealed your phone once more. You murmured and lifted your shirt slowly. He went to the dresser and unfolded a small metal tripod and affixed the cell to it. He angled it then slid out the top drawer. You scoffed as he turned around with a large suction dildo and stuck it to the top of the stool, your hands frozen on your open fly.

“Um, what the hell?” you sputtered.

“I think you know what the hell but I’m more than happy to give direction,” he wiggled the dildo and let it wobble as he pulled away.

You gaped at it. You couldn’t fit that whole thing in you. How were you even supposed to get yourself onto that?

“Honey, quit stalling,” he warned as he put his hands on his hips. You blinked at him and scowled, “or we can make a special post for TikTok… but I think it might be against their terms of service.”

You glanced away and pushed down your jeans. You let your socks crumple in the ankles and stood to unhook your bra. He hummed as he moved to lean against the wall beside the dresser and crossed his arms over his chest. You hesitated before you shimmied out of your panties, shying away as you eyed the stool.

“Oh,” he pushed away from the wall and reached into the drawer again. He tossed you a tube and you caught it. Lubricant. “You’re gonna wanna get some of that on there.”

You inhaled deeply and flipped open the cap. You cringed as you hovered the bottle over the tip of the dildo and squirted it onto the silicone. You spread it down the length of the toy and your hand shook. You felt him watching you as embarrassment burned through you.

You finished and capped the lube and set it on the dresser. He nodded to the toy and lifted a brow. You hid your discomfort and approached the stool. You stepped up onto the crossbar and clung to the edge of the seat as you brought your knee up. You felt as if it would all topple as you brought your other leg up.

You shuddered as you felt the tip against your cunt and you reached unsteadily between your legs. You rubbed the head of the toy against your folds to spread the lube and peeked over at Sam.

“Go on,” he ordered, “if you can get that whole thing inside you, I’ll give you your phone back.”

You gripped the toy and pushed it back to your entrance. You lowered yourself a little so it stretched you just slightly. You scrunched your nose at the discomfort and slowly eased further onto it. You got halfway and stopped as you gasped. Your fingers curled around the seat and the toy.

“You’re doing good, honey,” his voice was smoky and you looked at yourself in the mirror. The phone blocked the bottom half of the toy but you could see your cunt around the top.

You bent your knees further and groaned as your walls strained around the dildo. Your eyes watered as it hit your cervix and you arched your back to take it as deep as you could. You cried out as you reached the base.

“Whoa, you really did it,” he mused, “fuck, you look good all stretched out.”

You whimpered and adjusted your legs as you tried not to slip.

“Well, you know what to do,” he motioned up and down with his fingers.

“Please,” you breathed, “I did--”

“Not done yet,” he said pointedly.

You huffed and lifted yourself carefully. You pushed back down and let out a moan as the toy grazed your walls. The fullness was overwhelming, a painful pressure laced with pleasure. You rocked your hips as you moved on your knees and gripped the edge of the stool, mindful not to shake the stool too much.

You closed your eyes as your breath hitched. You needed more. The toy could only do so much as your clit thrummed and the wetness spread down your thighs.

“Mmmm,” Sam came around you and snaked his arm down your front. He pushed his fingers between your swollen folds and circled your bud, “you like that, don’t you, honey?”

You whined as your nerves sparked at his fingertips and you sped up. He planted his foot on the crossbar to keep the stool from tipping and you rode out your orgasm as his touch spurred you on.

“Ah, fuck,” he pressed against your back, “I’m so fucking hard.”

You panted and opened your eyes. You looked at yourself in the mirror but quickly shied away. You were weak, so weak.

He stepped around you and reached for the lube. You watched him as you didn’t move from atop the toy and he rounded you again. He drizzled the lube between your cheeks and flung the lube away. He pushed his fingers along your ass and lingered on your tight ring. You winced and tried to lift yourself off the dildo.

He caught your shoulder and held you down.

“Again,” he ordered.

You glanced at him in the mirror and he gave you a stern look as his fingers tightened around your shoulder. You held your breath and began to fuck the toy again. He nuzzled the back of your head and poked against your ass until his finger slid inside. You cried out and his hand went to your neck as he urged you on.

“Ah, honey,” he whispered against your hair.

He drew his finger in and out of your ass as a burning pressure seared through you and added to that in your cunt. 

“You can touch yourself,” he uttered as his fiery breath encircled you.

You did so without thinking. He pushed another finger into you and a squeak escaped your lips. You couldn’t help but delight in how the sensations mingled and bloomed to a new climax. He sped up in time with your hips and your legs shook as you came in a series of strangled mewls.

He kept on until you slowed to catch your breath. He slipped his fingers out of you and your head lolled as he removed his hand from your neck. You heard his zipper and as you looked back, his hand stretched across the back of your head and turned it straight. He bent so his head was next to yours and grasped your chin as he made you look at him in the mirror.

“One more time, honey,” he pulled his dick out and his tip brushed along your ass.

You tried to lift yourself off the toy but he hooked his arm around your middle and kept you on it.

“Sam, no, please,” you begged, “I can’t--”

“You can handle it all, honey,” he purred, “I know you can.”

His tip pressed to your ring as he forced you down on the toy. You exclaimed and he pushed until you stretched around the head of his cock. You gritted your teeth and threw your head back against his shoulder. 

He pulled back and pushed in again. He got deeper with each slow thrust, an inch at a time, until you were filled by him and the toy. Your eyes welled and the tears trickled down your cheeks as you held onto the stool and grunted through each tilt of his hips.

He trailed his hand down between your legs and spread your folds as he flicked your clit with his middle finger. He moved you against him and on the toy. He pushed into as the dildo reached its limit and your voice grew louder and louder. 

Through the agony, you couldn’t help but feel the unyielding tingle in your core and it crawled down your thighs and up your spine. The stool rocked with his motion but he kept you flush to him as he fucked you from behind. Your legs slipped over the side of the seat and you were impaled on the toy.

He didn’t let up as you gasped and gulped, whining as your cunt twitched around the silicone and you came as you reached back to scratch at his open jeans. He rutted into you without relent as he kneaded your thighs and his breath seared down your flesh.

“Ah, honey,” he muttered through his delighted groans, “goddamn, god-- shit, I’m gonna fill you up.”

He slammed into you as deep as he could and you felt him burst. He gave several long thrusts as rode out his orgasm and groaned. When he stilled he leaned against you and sighed.

“You can have the phone back,” he rasped as he caressed your thigh, “tomorrow.”

[unfolded73]

Near-Death Experience (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Patrick of the past is able to see what his future might hold if he can find the courage to seek it out. (ao3) Rated Teen, 4600 words.

Notes: I don't know, I just have a thing for past versions of characters getting to see what their future holds. Okay yes, I've put Patrick in peril again, but it's just a device to allow him to have an out-of-body experience. He'll be fine. The character of "Debby" is inspired by Michael on The Good Place.

_____________________________

When the sickening cracking sound rings out through the rural Canadian forest, the first thing Patrick Brewer thinks about as he plunges into the icy pond water is what the headline will be in the morning paper.

Local man fall through ice, dies

or maybe

Stupid local didn’t understand basics of ice thaw, dies

or perhaps

Climate change claims life of sad local man

Then he imagines his parents, dressed in black and crying at his funeral. Perhaps bitterly regretting that they didn’t have a second child, a backup child. All they had was this one kid, and despite the fact that they kept him “alive ‘til twenty-five,” like they always used to joke, it still feels like he was a waste of their resources. As it turns out he only made it five more years. They should have had a child who stays indoors and knits scarves and does not follow stray dogs out onto frozen ponds like Patrick apparently does.

It’s only as he slips beneath the icy surface that he finally thinks of Rachel, his fiancée. And if he feels just the tiniest bit of relief at the idea that at least he won’t have to go through with marrying her, well. Maybe that’s the hypothermia talking.

~~~

“Patrick.”

He blinks open his eyes, and then immediately closes them again because everything is very, very bright.

He licks his lips and clears his throat and speaks. “Where am I?”

“Mmm, that’s a bit of a difficult question to answer,” says a woman’s voice. “This place doesn’t really have a ‘where’.”

Patrick makes another attempt at opening his eyes, this time with a little bit more success. Not that it explains anything. He is looking at a tall, angular, middle-aged woman in a gray pantsuit, and beyond her… well, nothing. An infinity of whiteness stretches off into the distance.

An Infinity of Whiteness, good name for that overly earnest rock band you tried to start when you were sixteen, his traitorous brain supplies.

“What do you mean?” Patrick asks.

The woman shrugs and smiles and clasps her hands together. “I think it’s best that for the time being, you not worry overly much about where you are. It will distract from the things I need to talk to you about.”

Patrick is turning in a circle, looking for some other landmark in all of the nothingness. He casts his mind back, and memory strikes him like a punch to the stomach. How he was out for a morning run when he saw a stray dog stranded out on the pond. How he stopped and walked out to try to lead the dog back to shore, memories of the countless hockey games of his youth making him confident of his safety. And then a crack almost like a gunshot and a tumble into frigid water.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” Patrick asks the woman.

She winces and see-saws her hand back and forth. “You’re not dead, but you’re not not dead. It’s a bit dicey at the moment.”

Patrick nods, feeling weirdly calm about the news that he’s dead. Or dying, anyway. “Cool,” he replies flatly.

“Look, I try not to intervene in the lives of people, I do. And most of the time it’s not like I even can, you know?” He doesn’t know, but Patrick nods. “But this is one of those unique situations where I can interact with you. I mean, you’re probably not going to make it, but you might!” She gives him a cheery smile and a thumbs up. “And if you make it, this might help you.”

“Who are you?”

“Wow, you’re just full of complicated questions today!” Her perky voice feels a bit like it’s piercing into his brain, and Patrick brings a hand up to pinch between his eyes as she continues talking. “As for a name, why don’t you call me Deborah. Or Debby? I like Debby. It’s not my name, but you wouldn’t be able to pronounce my actual name.” She laughs. “As for what I am, I mean, some religious traditions would probably call me an angel? But that’s not really accurate. Demon is closer, but that has a negative connotation that I’m not a fan of.” She wrinkles her nose while Patrick gapes at her.

“You don’t look like you believe me,” Debby says.

He lets out a breath. “What I believe is that I’m hallucinating. That this is random electrical impulses from my brain as it’s denied oxygen.” He read a book about it, about alternative explanations for the things people report as near-death experiences. It’s comforting, knowing that’s all this is, even if it doesn’t bode well for his chances of survival.

The woman — Debby — taps a manicured fingernail against her teeth. “I’m not sure if you believing that is particularly helpful for me? I mean, it probably means you’ll do less screaming, which is good. I hate it when they scream. But I kind of need you to believe in the reality of what you’ll be seeing if it’s going to get your life on track.”

“Wow, that’s not ominous at all. What am I going to be seeing?”

With another smile, she snaps her fingers.

Patrick’s vision blurs and there is a rushing sound in his ears and when he is able to focus on his surroundings, things are still very bright. But this time the brightness comes not from an infinitely white room but from sunshine coming through big panes of glass. Through the window, he can see the pant legs of someone up on a ladder, most of their body out of sight above the view from the window. He turns, and absorbs the fact that he is in what looks like some kind of store. A tall man with black hair is across the room, his back turned as he works at one of the shelves. There are cardboard boxes everywhere, as if the store is being set up for the first time. Bottles sit out on a large table that dominates the middle of the room. Half the shelves are empty.

All in all, it is a very specific and yet somehow mundane hallucination.

Then he watches himself — another version of himself, that is — come out from a doorway with another box in his arms.

“Don’t worry, they can’t see or hear us,” Debby says.

“Okay,” Patrick replies. He wasn’t worried about that, on account of the fact that it’s all imaginary.

“So this is your near future,” Debby instructs like she’s a tour guide.

“David, where do you want these bottles of toner after I put the labels on?” imaginary Patrick asks.

The man he calls David turns and comes over, inspecting the bottles. Patrick’s first impression of the man is of eyebrows and cultivated stubble. “So I want the labels closer to the top than the bottom, so that the bottom of the label hits the bottle exactly at the halfway point,” David says, indicating on the bottle full of pale liquid with a hand adorned with several silver rings.

“Uh huh,” the other Patrick says. “And then where do you want me to put them after they are precisely labeled to your exacting specifications?”

David raises an expressive eyebrow at Patrick’s sass, his mouth slightly open as if he’s trying to formulate a comeback. Then he gestures to a shelf, his hand fluttering. “Over there.”

“Okay.” Patrick watches his other self watching David go back to the shelf where he was working.

Patrick turns to Debby, who is watching them too. “In my near future, I’ll leave my lucrative job in financial planning to work retail?”

“Well, yes, but that leaves out some steps. You leave your lucrative job because you want to escape your old life and move away. Put some distance between yourself and that girl you couldn’t seem to stay broken up with. Then you become a partner in this store because something attracted you to it. Or someone,” she says with a wink.

Patrick looks back at David, his broad shoulders contained within a fuzzy white sweater with black stripes. His other self is focusing on affixing labels to the bottles, but his eyes are straying over to David too, at least four or five times in the minute that Patrick spends watching them.

“Oof, the sexual tension is thick in here,” Debby says, clapping her hands together on each of the last three words.

Patrick feels himself blush, which is weird — why would he be blushing in a hallucination? “Oh, I’m not… you know.”

Debby blinks at him, uncomprehending.

“Gay,” Patrick continues. “I’m not gay.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Look, I won’t claim to understand what attracts one human to want to rub their body on another human’s body. All of it seems disgusting to me. But if you’re saying that you aren’t interested in that one,” she says, pointing to David, “because he’s male, well…” She laughs. “Wait until you see what’s next.”

Debby snaps her fingers again, but at first it doesn’t seem like they’ve gone anywhere. Except the store is organized now, Patrick realizes. The boxes are gone and the shelves are full, sunlight still streaming in through the windows, albeit at a different angle. It’s the golden hour before sunset and everything in the store gleams in the orangish light. His future self (or so Debby wants him to believe) is there again, standing behind the cash register and counting out the till.

David comes out of the back of the store and saunters toward the front. He wears a long sweater and black skinny jeans, and he exudes a kind of effortlessly cool vibe that Patrick isn’t sure he’s ever encountered in the real world. When David reaches the front of the store, he flips the sign to closed and locks the bolt. Patrick can’t help but stare at his graceful hands as they go through this practiced motion. Then David sort of shimmies his way over to the fake Patrick at the cash register, a smirk on his face.

Without looking up, the other Patrick says, “Don’t distract me, David; I’m counting.”

“Who said anything about distracting you?” David says as he positions himself behind Patrick, bending over enough to rest his chin on Patrick’s shoulder.

“Hmm,” Patrick says and he sounds annoyed, but the smile on his face is anything but. He continues to count.

Then David angles his head and drags his lips along imaginary Patrick’s neck, making his eyelashes flutter, and the visual makes a flash of heat burn through Patrick like a sudden brush fire.

“See? Are you sure you don’t like men?” Debby asks. “It looks like you like this man, at least.”

“This isn’t real,” Patrick whispers, but he can’t take his eyes off the two people behind the cash register. The way the other Patrick gives up on counting and spins around, pinning David against the white-tiled wall and kissing him, slow and filthy. The way that David’s hands, those graceful hands that Patrick watched on the door, slide down the other Patrick’s back to his ass.

“Yeah, this is where it would help if you weren’t quite so analytical about this experience, because if you don’t believe this is really in your future, then honestly, this is kind of a waste of time for me.” Debby shrugs. “Although it might be a waste of time regardless, because you might die in that cold water. Gosh, human bodies are so fragile! It never ceases to amaze me.”

“Thanks for reminding me that I’m dying,” Patrick says, but his gaze doesn’t leave the two men making out behind the cash register. “Aren’t they worried about people seeing them?” he asks, his eyes darting quickly to the window.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Debby says, and then she gives him an exasperated sigh. “I hoped this might unlock something for you. Why you aren’t happy with Rachel. Why you’ve never considered yourself a sexual person. Why you spent so much time in Brian Richardson’s dorm room when you were at university. Surely some pieces are clicking into place right about now.”

Across the room, the other Patrick breaks the kiss and takes a step backwards. “We have to finish closing, David,” he says, his voice rough.

“Do we, though?” David backs into the doorway of the room behind the cash register and shimmies his shoulders again. “Actually, I think I might need your help with some inventory in the back.”

Fake Patrick only seems to hesitate for a second before he follows David, pulling the curtain closed behind them with a firm flick of his wrist.

“You could go watch,” Debby says. “Like I said, there’s no way for them to perceive your presence.”

Patrick’s face flushes even hotter as he imagines what he might see behind that curtain. “What? No, why would I— I don’t want to— I’m good out here.”

Debby shrugs. “Suit yourself. I know I don’t want to watch. The way you humans put your mouths — which you eat with! — on any and all of each other’s body parts…” She shudders theatrically while a million images flashed through Patrick’s brain. He shakes his head, trying to banish them.

“This can’t be my future,” he says.

“Why not?”

He tries to ignore the sound of a moan and a muffled thump from behind the curtain, and imagines the leap that it would take to quit his job, to break up with Rachel for good, to move to another town, and get into a relationship with a man. None of it seems like something he is capable of, much less all of it.

Still, there is a part of him that also doubts that his brain, even in its dying gasps, could invent anyone like David. He’s unlike anyone Patrick has ever encountered before. He is…

He is, for one thing, unspeakably hot.

Oh.

“Ready to go?” Debby asks.

Another moan comes from the back room.

Patrick nods. “Yes, please.”

She snaps her fingers again.

They are at a baseball field; a small one, the kind you find in community parks, with one measly set of metal bleachers and the grass worn thin in several patches. Patrick spots himself immediately at shortstop, gesturing for the infield to shift position as a left-handed batter comes up to bat. Patrick’s team wears green and white, the words Cafe Tropical in script across the front. There’s a runner on first, edging toward second as the pitcher prepares to throw. Then the pitch — the tink of the metal bat against the ball as it bounces across the infield toward the other Patrick. He fields it easily, flipping the ball to the second baseman who spins and gets the batter out with an accurate throw to first. A cheer goes up, and Patrick quickly realizes it’s the last play of the game.

After some spirited congratulations of each other and from the opposing team, Patrick watches himself walk toward the bleachers, where David is engrossed in conversation with a dark-haired woman in a plaid shirt.

“Hey,” he says, plopping down on the bleachers next to David and putting an arm around him.

David looks up, surprised, one hand curled around a can of soda. Patrick again notices the silver rings on his fingers as the sunlight catches them. “Oh, is the game over?”

The other Patrick laughs, seemingly amused by David’s obliviousness. “Yeah, the game’s over.”

“Did you win?” the woman asks.

“We did, Stevie,” Patrick says, “I turned a game-winning double play.”

David kisses him. “Great job, honey. Or, I’m sorry? I don’t know what the appropriate reaction is.”

The other Patrick smiles fondly at him. “‘Great job’ was correct.”

“Patrick!” one of the other players calls. “We’re headed to the Wobbly Elm for drinks. You in?”

“Yeah, I’ll catch up,” he responds. Patrick looks at David. “I think I’m going to go get drinks with the team. You wanna come?”

“Actually, Stevie and I were going to watch…” He turns and looks at his friend. “What was it?”

“Carnival of Souls,” she says, a wicked smirk on her face.

“Mm, sounds fun.” The other Patrick kisses David on the cheek. “You coming over tonight?”

“Depends; am I in for some more of that repressed homoerotic locker room roleplay?” David says with a leer, leaning toward him with a hand resting high on the thigh of his white uniform pants.

“Oh my god,” Stevie says, sticking out her tongue in disgust. “I don’t need to know about that.”

The other Patrick rolls his eyes. “Probably not, now that you’ve told Stevie about it.” He kisses David on the cheek again. “Let yourself in if you want; I probably won’t stay out too late.” With a little wave, he hops off the bleachers and follows his teammates to the parking lot while David and Stevie set off in a different direction.

“Why did you show me this?” Patrick asks Debby.

“I wanted you to see that you have a well-rounded life here.” He’s still watching the other Patrick in the distance, who at that moment throws his head back and laughs at something one of the other baseball players says. “That you’re comfortable in your identity, because I thought that might be something you’d worry about.” Her voice sounds softer, more serious, more knowing than it has up until now, and Patrick turns to scrutinize her. “Okay look, I’ve paid enough attention to humanity to understand that someone who has been in denial about his sexual identity might assume certain things about what he might have to give up to live as an out gay person. I’m just showing you that you don’t have to give anything up.”

He thinks about that for a second, as he turns to look in the direction that David and Stevie disappeared.

Debby nudges him with her elbow. “You’re starting to believe this is real, huh?”

Patrick shakes himself. “No. No, I’m not.” He isn’t. None of this is real. Angels, demons, a handsome man with perfect hair in a long-term relationship with him… no.

She crosses her arms and looks up at the sky. “Okay. Let’s try this.” She snaps her fingers again.

The kitchen he’s standing in is empty, sunlight filtering through large windows and giving everything a warm, comfortable feeling. Cabinets painted a deep blue contrast against white tile, and Patrick starts to walk around the space. “No one’s here,” he says.

“I might have gotten the timing a tiny bit off,” Debby says.

Patrick goes over and looks at a stack of mail on the edge of the counter. The envelope on top bears his own name, with an address in Schitt’s Creek. He’s never heard of such an unfortunately named town.

Finally, thumping footsteps reach his ears, and a few minutes later he sees himself in sock feet, pajama pants, and a white t-shirt, holding a phone up in front of his face to look into the camera.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” future Patrick is saying into the phone.

“Don’t be smug, Patrick; it’s unattractive,” comes a familiar voice from the phone. Rachel.

Patrick catches a glimpse of her face on the screen as future Patrick walks by, a flash of tousled red hair and freckles. He sets the phone down on the counter and reaches for the electric kettle. A gold band on his left ring finger catches the sunlight. “I can’t help it if I’m always right, Rach.”

Patrick can’t stop staring at the wedding ring. Is he married to—

Rachel groans. “Whatever. That’ll teach me to call to thank you for something.”

The other Patrick fills the kettle and sets it on its base, flipping the switch to turn it on.

“How’s Nathan?”

“He’s good. Actually, that’s, um… that’s the other thing I was going to tell you. He asked me to marry him,” Rachel says.

A wide grin breaks out on future Patrick’s face as he picks the phone up again. “Rachel, that’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you guys. I mean, I assume you said yes?”

Patrick, tiptoeing as if it matters, positions himself so he can see Rachel’s face in the phone in his doppelganger’s hand. She is rolling her eyes. “Of course I said yes. Did you think you’d scared me off engagements forever? Kidding,” she adds quickly.

“Very funny.”

“I might even invite you to the wedding,” she says, “if you’re nice to me.”

The other Patrick looks regretful. “I wish we’d rekindled our friendship sooner. I would have liked you to be there when David and I—”

“Not sure I would have been ready for that last year, to be honest,” she says with a wince.

“Fair enough.”

“But now that I’m marrying someone more handsome than you…”

The other Patrick barks out a laugh, unfazed by the insult. Patrick can’t help but marvel at the way they are still able to tease each other in spite of what must have happened. “He’s also taller. And, I presume, less gay.”

Now Rachel is laughing, and Patrick is so amazed by the sight of their laughter that he doesn’t notice David coming in until he’s crowded up next to future Patrick so that he can peer into the phone. “Hi, Rachel,” he says, a sleepy rasp to his voice. He’s wearing black sweats, the words ‘Radical Feminist’ across his chest in block letters.

“Hi, David.”

The kettle starts to whistle, and Patrick hands the phone — and thus the conversation — over to David so that he can go make tea. David grabs the phone with his left hand, and Patrick can see a matching wedding ring on his finger. It’s all so neat and tidy, and it makes him irrationally angry. Or maybe in light of the fact that he’s currently dying in a frozen lake, the anger is completely rational.

“I get it,” he says, stalking over to Debby. “I get to marry someone I actually want to be with, and Rachel doesn’t end up hating me forever. It’s a perfectly cozy, domestic scene.”

She wrinkles her brow at him. “Isn’t that… good?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking fabulous. And highly improbable.”

Debby taps her fingers against her chin in thought. “Odds that you end up marrying the first man you fall for, are… 1.4% — you’re right, pretty slim, but even improbable things happen sometimes. Odds that Rachel forgives you after three years are high: 71%. You were best friends, so it’s not that surprising that you eventually got past it.”

He turns and looks at them again. David is still talking to Rachel, and Patrick puts a familiar hand on David’s hip as he moves around him to get to one of the cabinets. He pulls two mugs down, kissing David quickly on the cheek as he moves past him again.

Unable to watch anymore, Patrick walks out of the room, wondering what the rules are of his place. Can he wander anywhere in the house he wants to? Can he leave through the front door and walk down the street? If he goes far enough, can he find evidence to prove that this isn’t really the future? Some inconsistency? Some glitch in the matrix?

He pauses at the fireplace, eyes glancing over the wedding pictures arranged in nice frames on the mantel. He and David stand side-by-side in formalwear in the largest photo, smiling for the camera in front of a floral backdrop. In another, they’re flanked by Patrick’s parents on one side and what must be David’s on the other (although David’s mother — if that is his mother — looks like she’s dressed for a costume party). Everyone looks impossibly happy. He stares at his parents’ faces, looking for evidence that they’re disappointed in him, perhaps. He can’t see any.

Continuing on through the house, Patrick finds the bedroom.

He stands over the bed, looking down at the rumpled sheets and pillows, his imagination running away from him and his cheeks flushing hot. He doesn’t want to imagine the kinds of things he does in this bed with a husband (or maybe he really, really does want to imagine it). Sex aside, this is the place where he goes to sleep every night and awakens every morning with David at his side. It’s… a shockingly appealing idea.

He looks up to see Debby watching him.

“So say this is real,” Patrick says to Debby, feeling his heart pounding in his chest at the idea that a man like David loves him — loves him enough to marry him. Loves him enough to befriend his ex-fiancée. Loves him enough to share all the good and bad things about him.

“It is,” Debby says.

“Why show it to me? Will I wake up remembering all this? My supposed future?”

She winces. “No, that would make it all too easy. Or possibly it would drive you mad. But you’ll retain something, I hope. I’ve seen it happen before. You’ll retain enough to know that the life you’re living isn’t the right one, and that you need to make a change. Look, it’s not an exact science, but… oh hey, look at that!”

“What?”

“You’re going,” she says.

“Like… I’m dying?”

“No, silly. You’re going back. You’re going to live.”

~~~

Patrick’s head is on David’s chest, his hand possessive on David’s hip and their legs tangled together. Even though it was only a week apart, even though they’ve now made up in every way they can, it’s still such a profound relief being with him that Patrick feels dizzy. Of course, that could also be the post-orgasmic fugue state he’s in.

“Can I ask you something?” David whispers into the dark of his bedroom.

“Yeah.”

“You said you’d broken up with Rachel a bunch of times. What made it stick the last time?”

Patrick tilts his head back to look up at David. “I ran away and moved here.”

“Right, but what made you do that?”

“Oh, right. I guess since I’ve been avoiding the Rachel topic, I’ve also never told you about the time I almost died.”

David turns suddenly, tipping Patrick off of his body. “I’m sorry, what?” David asks in a high-pitched voice.

Patrick rolls his eyes at David being upset that past-Patrick was in danger, as if it isn’t self-evident that things turned out okay. “I walked out on what I thought was a solid frozen pond. Turns out, not so solid.”

“Oh my god.” David rubs Patrick’s shoulder sort of manically, the way he often does. It’s a gesture that seems like it’s intended to soothe Patrick, but Patrick is starting to suspect David does it to soothe himself.

“Fortunately, some guys saw it happen and were able to lie down on the edge of the break in the ice and pull me out. They called an ambulance and, long story short, I was okay.”

“Okay. What does that have to do with Rachel, though?”

“The accident, it gave me some clarity, I guess? I came away from it with this restlessness that I couldn’t explain. I ended things with Rachel and quit my job and packed up my car and a few days later, I got the job and the room with Ray.”

David kisses him. “I guess lucky for me that you almost died, then.”

Patrick smiles, snuggling into David’s chest again. “Lucky for both of us.”

[bestwishes86]

Open Container

"I got a good feeling. It doesn't happen. Very Often." Phoebe Bridgers

When David got the call he was just sitting down in his living room with "Game of Thrones" on his 42 inch flat screen.  The fresh bowl of Pop Secret and a Heineken sat on the polished coffee table. Hadley was at the Tailgating party for the Puritans and he was on call with the station.  He had spent the morning cleaning the upscale brownstone once back from Seattle to clear his head. The drive with that gay asshole had fucked with him more than he wanted to think about.  So he had busied himself, not thinking about him walking out of the missing woman's shower naked.  He could still see the words in other languages and black swirls running across that pale skin.  As he had polished every surface he could still see the tattoos had covered even the plump flaccid cock between those thick legs.

His bookshelves were filled with paperback novels from the eighties and nineties and every Disney movie with the large white boxes and the faded art and a selection of dvds.  The books and movies had belonged to his parents and he couldn't bring himself to throw any of it away.  His wife Penelo had done the decorating and so three oil paintings of landscapes in polished wood frames hung on the walls on either side of the flat screen. 

David sat on the soft dark leather couch and was pulling his remote to him when his phone rang.  Internally he thought about ignoring it incase it was another call about cow tipping or another horrible trip to Seattle to pick up another gay asshole who smelled like honeysuckle and blood.  Seeing the name LInds on the caller id he grabbed it and swiped right to answer it.

"Deputy, do you know a Jon Redding?" the deep voice of the Siren by night hard as nails, raven haired woman asked. 

"Yes...why?" David asked slowly, staring at the burning emblem of the show and the paused status bar at the bottom of the screen.

"You should probably cut him off, he's down here talking about loving someone who didn't exist and getting thrown into posters and that's not what the boring patrons want to hear, now is it?" Linds asked as she looked at the usually handsome bearded man who looked ready to pass out or throw up sitting alone at a table.  The other customers were human ones and she had sung two of her magical songs to distract them from him.  David felt a headache building behind his furrowed brows but he still rose from the couch and hung up the call and grabbed his keys. 

Jon stared at his empty glass, his mind muddled by the many drinks that had come before as he thought about that alternate version of himself.  While he was a short, muscular young man covered in witches spells.  That dreamed up version was a chubby, pasty coward.  He missed feeling that weak and vulnerable and the way Pete had looked at him.  Jon shook his head at the memory of the tall, pale muscular teenager with those green eyes and that square jaw.  But it was too late, he remembered the dream Pete had been in and been gutted in.  Tears burned at the corners of his eyes

"It wasn't real, none of it." Jon shouted to himself and all the bar patrons glared at him as they had every outburst he had made in the last hour.  He knew it was stupid, knew it was a waste of emotion but those feeiings he had felt in that mental prison had become a part of him.  He had been quiet the entire drive back with that asshole homophobe because he was etching into his memory those three dreams because of Pete.  The witch he had planned on eating had trapped him inside her mental prisons had made the imagined world so real he had created real feelings. 

"This seat taken," a gruff pissed off voice asked and Jon waved a hand in acceptance and grimaced at the loud scrapping of the wood against the concrete floor. David plopped down and held a hand up for the waitress.  HIs brown eyes looking over Jon, the man had worn a dark blue sweater and jeans with loafers.  David thought about his old Smashing Pumpkins t shirt and pajama bottoms and barefeet. He chuckled at this but when the red in the face spikey haired man looked at him, his smile fell away.

"You...." Jon said growling in distrust

"Hey man, Heard you were drinking here so I came by too," David was cut off by Jon

"You came here dressed like that to drink with me, no offense but unless you're going to knock me out and take me back to your house for a hard fucking, i'm gonna pass." Jon said looking David up and down and reaching for his glass having forgotten it was empty.  He grimaced at the mere hints of alcohol in it and waved for the waitress while David glared at him. 

"Do you have to go straight to sex every time i meet you." David said between gritted teeth.

"We've met twice. Second, what else am I good for? Never mind that last point. You don't even know me is what I'm trying to say." Jon slurred in a voice that was something between indignant and a purr.  David rolled his eyes at him and Jon slumped back in his chair.

"Why would I want to? I'm just here to make sure you don't talk about shit you promised you wouldn't." David paused as the waitress appeared he ordered two Rum Punches and a Budwiser. 

"I didn't say you could buy a drink for me," Jon said as he closed his eyes

"I didn't, those are all for me." David said as he glared at LInds who waved apologetically. 

"Ok. Did the bartender alert you to me talking too much," Jon asked and Davd nodded.

"I just...never mind it's stupid once you're drunk we can leave," Jon said as the two red glasses and the bottle arrived.

"You want anything," David asked, his expression softened as he smelled the sadness coming off Jon and heard the pain in his voice. Jon reached for one of the rum punches and David smacked his hand.

"Mine," David said drawing the glass away from the drunkard, he continued, "I meant something else. I got you for it, I already covered your bill," David said and Jon thought about it for a moment and asked for a Bud Light.  David raised an eyebrow  but placed the order the two sat in heavy silence.  David occasionally glanced at the drunk man stare at the table and the empty glass, it was clear his mind was somewhere else. David finished his first drink and curled his toes on the cold floor.  Jon's beer arrived and David watched Jon drink half of it one go.  He watched the Adam's apple bob with each swallow before he looked away. 

"Have you ever missed someone you shouldn't," Jon asked and David sat up uncomfortable as he looked at Jon.  The image of the beautifully deformed half woman half wolf chained to walls in an institution flashed in David's mind.

"Yeah, hurts all the same." David said solemnly thinking of his wife.  His Alpha had told him to kill her, to end her suffering but he couldn't.  So he had driven her to that asylum and chained her up himself.  Her human mind was gone, buried inside the feral wolf mind that ruled that malformation.

"It really really fucking does.  In that place that woman held me, there was a boy my mind made up.  He was...kind to me.  The first person in my life to be kind to me ended up being my own imagination...how fucked is that." Jon said and as he admitted it two large tears began their descent down his cheeks.  They were soon chased by more and he quietly wept.  He didn't care if David said something else assholey to him.  If the bar patrons kicked him out, none of it mattered as he watched the large stainless steel meat hook burst out of Pete's broad chest.  His mind had drifted back to that nightmarish prison he had been kept in.  He and Pete had run from the blank faced woman up the stairs of his home to his bedroom and locked the door behind them.  It had happened so suddenly as they had caught their breath.  She had burst through the wood, her scream almost deafening as Pete had run at her with his chair as a weapon.  She had smacked him away so effortlessly and then glowered at him.

Jon had stood there frozen in horror as the woman took slow strides toward him, she had reached into that dusty overcoat and pulled the metal hook from it and it caught the light of the room and glistened.  He had wanted to brave, wanted to try something to save them but he had been so afraid.  Pete had run in front of Jon to save him from it in that made up nightmare.  Jon could feel the moment when life left Pete's body.  It was if something was pulled from his body, ripped away with that second in life.  It didn't matter if it was real or not, it had felt real to him. 

Strong hands were on his shoulders, he felt his body rising up as he was swung up into someone's arms but he didn't care.  He kept his eyes closed as he was carried out of the bar.  The cool night air felt heavenly on his face.  He buried his head against the hard flat chest he was pressed against.  Jon focused on the heart beating strong beneath the shirt and skin and muscle there.  It was real, in that drunken moment it was the only thing real to him.

David had felt his wolf howl in pain watching the quiet crying, he had tried to ignore it.  But that open honest act of feeling had struck him in the gut.  He had looked around and saw that the once loud raucous bar was silent as everyone watched Jon.  That had been what caused him to rise from his seat and carry him out.  Carrying the muscular man might have been hard for a normal man but for one with preternatural strength it was like carrying a newborn pup.  He ignores the gravel that dug into the skin of his bare feet as he listens to the steady heart beat.  Keeping Jon close to him kept his wolf from howling in mourning so he did.  Linds was behind him a few steps, she silently watched him, he could feel her eyes on his back as he made his way through the packed parking lot to his truck.   The tall, slender, dark haired woman wore a red velvet corset that pushed up her sizable chest and painted on black jeans and boots.  Her race's language was tattooed across her arms in dark blue swaths of color.  She opened the door for him and he placed Jon inside. 

It wasn't til he buckled the seatbelt that she spoke.  There were only a few reasons Sirens were ever silent and he knew it wouldn't be good but he listened, his focus on making sure Jon was secure.

"I've seen your future, the same as I saw it when your daddy broke your right arm.  The man I saw you kissing in your future, he's that man there. He is exactly as I described it to you 15 years ago. You came here the instant you heard it was him.  That means something Davey," Linds said and David whirled around to face her.  His brown eyes burning gold with the power of his wolf burning right beneath his skin.

"Jesus H. Christ Linds!!! I don't fucking need this shit. This man is the top suspect in a woman's disappearance. My wife is in a fucking padded cell. Everytime I see her she rips my throat out and I watch her eat it. And you're here reminding me that 15 years ago my dad took a hammer and shattered my elbow. Spit on me and called me a faggot, all for this sad sack of shit who was in your bar mooning over a made up teenage crush that I am jealous of." LInds eyebrows shot up the same as his as he realized what he said.  He couldn't take it back.  Linds watched the lean werewolf vibrate with shock and anger.  She knew she should be afraid but all she wanted to do was the same thing she had done when they had been teenagers. She reached out for him but he took a step back, not trusting the low growling wolf inside his soul. 

He had sat in that bar watching those tears and selfishly wished they had been for him, not some made up boy.  He felt immature and selfish and wanted to be alone but instead he fished his keys out of his pocket and stormed around to the driver's side of the truck and got in and without a word drove off as Linds watched him go. 

[something-tofightfor]

Christmas in Wyoming - One

Pairing: Still nothing. Womp womp. 

Word count: 4150

Rating: M (language)

Author’s Note: I’m having a lot of fun with this one, and even though it’s still kind of setup... it puts things in motion. 

Taglist: feel free to ask me to remove you… or to add you!

@banditthewriter @breanime @obscurilicious @madamrogers@suchatinyinfinity @chibiyanai @songtoyou @ethereal-heavcns @editboutique@marauderskeeper @drinix @ilkaeliseb @delicatelilyflower @king4thesirens @blah-blah-fuckit-shit @ymariejp @mr-robot-x @rageshots @shinebrightlikeafanbase @littlemermaidprobz @introvertedlibrary @writing-for-a-chance @yesixoxo @ilikebeachessushiandsmallanimals @likeorions @swiftyhowlz @dylanobrusso @benbarnestongue @its-my-little-dumpster-fire@the-blind-assassin-12 @dreamwritesimagines @waytoobsessedwithmyfandoms @lexxierave @ms-delos @elanor-of-imladris @lynne1993 @dreams-with-thoughts @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @mfackenthal  @traeumerinwitzhelden @bucky-is-my-precious @weallhaveadestiny @ladyblablabla @sweetybuzz25 @luminex3 @christinawxxx @thesumofmychoices @audreychaz @tc-elliot @kind-wolf@gollyderek @honeyydippaa @thesandbeneathmytoes @malik-payne@geeksareunique @bellastellaluna @agentlingerie @elioelioeli0  @wangmangagavroche​

“Log- Mr. Delos.” You cleared your throat, reaching over with one hand to touch your passenger’s arm. “Mr. Delos, we’re only a few minutes away.” Logan sighed but still didn’t stir, and you glanced over at him, noting that his head was turned to the side - facing you, hood back down. His hair was messy against the seat and though you’d been annoyed with him at the start of the trip, seeing him sleep peacefully changed his entire demeanor and made him look even younger than he likely was. Logan had slept the entire way back from the airport, not even waking when you’d had to brake suddenly to let three elk cross the highway, or when you swore as the snow began coming down harder. 

You’d thought about waking him up when you got closer to the mountains, but decided not to when you imagined his annoyance at being disturbed and then having to fill another hour with conversation with him. But as you reached Mt. Glory, you knew that you needed to wake him before you got too close to the resort. “Wow.” He spoke quietly, and even though the road was winding, you looked over at him quickly, noticing that he’d sat up and turned his face to look out the window. “Wasn’t expecting this.” Well at least he appreciates the scenery. 

 “We’re only about fifteen minutes from Fireside, Mr. Delos. I wanted to give you time to wake up before we got there, since you’ll need to check in and sign the car paperwork.” He nodded, and you continued. “My uncle Brandon and aunt Elle run the place, so you’ll need to get in touch with them if you need anything. We stocked your cabin with some basics, in case you didn’t want to go to the store, but with the snow, you won’t want to go until it stops.” 

 “It’s comin’ down hard, isn’t it?” He was speaking, but it was mostly to himself, so you didn’t answer. “Did you turn my seat on?” He looked over at you, waiting. 

 “Yeah. You were shivering in your sleep, and I wanted to make you comfortable.” He didn’t say anything in response, but you watched him shift again in his seat, eyes on the front window. “Look, Mr. Delos. I’m sorry if we got on the wrong foot, and I didn’t mean to be rude to you, but... :

“Nah, no need to apologize. I know I’m an asshole.” He laughed, and you saw him raise his hand, running his fingers through his hair. “Hear that at home more than enough.” Oh. “I shouldn’t have assumed that you were just a driver, that’s on me.” He fell silent again, watching as the snow fell and the scenery flattened out as you entered Wilson, moving through the small town in only a few minutes. “Not much out here, is there?” His tone was conversational though he was still waking up fully. 

 “Yeah, this is the smaller town, the bigger one is Jackson Hole, which is about twenty minutes southeast of Fireside, by Snow King - another resort.” You paused. “There’s a ski resort called Teton Lodge north, and then Snow King if you ski or snowboard, but -”

 “I don’t.” Logan’s voice was firm. “I’m from California, and I’m used to the sun and the sand, not this snow and cold.” He laughed. “I don’t ski, but I am not opposed to sitting in the lodge and having a few drinks.” Figures. 

 “Well, Mr. Delos, I’m sure that that can be arranged. Like I said, you’ll have this Jeep, so you can go wherever you want.” Taking a deep breath as you turned onto 390, you continued. “There are a lot of bars and restaurants - much more to do by Snow King than Teton, so…”

 “So you recommend that resort?” He’d angled himself in his seat so that he could look at you, and for some reason, his gaze made you self conscious. Stop. “Lots to see and do? Lots of people to meet?” Of course. Your eyes moved down for a fraction of a second, seeing that there was no ring on his left hand. People to meet… he means women. 

 “Yeah, and as it gets closer to Christmas, Mr. Delos, it will get busier.” Heart beating faster than usual, you turned slowly onto your street, taking a breath. “Welcome to Fireside, Mr. Delos.” Brandon had had someone clear the street, and even though the roads weren’t terrible, you breathed a sigh of relief that Logan heard. 

 “Ready to get rid of me?” You couldn’t tell if he was teasing, so you chose to answer honestly as you parked the car. 

 “No, Mr. Delos. I just… it’s always an adventure to drive through those mountains in the snow, even in one of the Jeeps.” He watched you, and you finally looked at him, meeting his eyes. “I wanted to make sure you got back here safely, like I said.” You watched his jaw work, almost as if he wanted to say something, but you didn’t give him the chance. “Now, why don’t you go inside and meet my aunt and uncle, check in, and then I can show you to your cabin?” 

 Logan disappeared into the lodge without saying goodbye, and you backed the Jeep out of the parking space, turning it around and parking it in front of his cabin. It was the only Caboose that was illuminated, and even though you frowned at the thought, you shook it off, exiting the vehicle and getting Logan’s luggage from the back of the car. I’ll turn the heat up for him, too. Leaving his suitcases and duffle next to the front door, you moved to the thermostat, turning it up a few degrees and opening the mini fridge to make sure that it was filled. Thanks, David. 

 You were getting ready to walk out the front door when it opened, Logan hurrying in. “It’s really snowing hard, Jesus.” He sounded surprised, but you laughed, nodding. “This is… not what I was expecting.” Looking around, Logan actually smiled, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Thank you, for bringing my bags in.” Oh, shit, the keys. You reached into your pocket, grabbing the keys to the Jeep and handing them over, Logan’s fingers closing around them - and for a moment, around your hand. Oh, no. You felt it when he touched you - the same thing you’d felt when you saw him for the first time, and you stepped back quickly, forcing a smile onto your face. 

 “Closest gas station is in Wilson, so don’t let the tank get too low. Getting stuck out here is not fun.” You looked past him, watching the snow swirl in the fading afternoon light. “If you need anything, just let my aunt or uncle know, though Brandon will probably take care of whatever it is since Elle has a broken arm. I’m sure they gave you their phone numbers, but there’s a list on the TV stand, and -”

 “I got it, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Logan’s eyes were still on you, an amused look in them - which you chose to ignore - as he continued. “Have a good night, alright?” You nodded, taking a breath as you stepped past him and toward the door, pausing long enough to look back at him over your shoulder. 

 “You too, Mr. Delos. I hope that you enjoy your time here with us.” Stepping out into the swirling snow, you pulled the door shut behind you, lifting your hood to cover your head. Alright. Back to work. Carefully stepping across the frozen ground, you made your way back to the lodge, knowing that you were going to spend the next few hours going through the resort’s books and paperwork. Need to figure this out. 

 --- 

 The snow didn’t let up, and rather than driving home, you chose to spend the night in your aunt and uncle’s guest room, head swimming from hours of poring over bank statements and accounts, booking records, and future reservations. The truth of the matter - and something that your aunt and uncle hadn’t been willing to admit for years - was that Fireside made the bulk of its profits in the summer months when the campground that was attached was filled with RVs and the cabins were booked with families enjoying the warm weather and hiking opportunities. Winter months - when you should have been thriving due to your proximity to the ski areas - weren’t as busy as they had been in the past, and it was because of the resorts attached to the mountains. It makes sense, but it’s not good. 

 Snow King in particular was growing rapidly, the resort well known and loved by not only locals but visitors, too. There was more to see and do in Jackson Hole than there was in Wilson, and it made more sense for people to find places to stay nearer to the resort than to drive further out, especially when the weather was unpredictable. There has to be something we can do. Fireside wasn’t in any danger of closing in the immediate future, but if nothing changed, that wouldn’t be the story in a few years. 

 Brandon and Elle were already out of the kitchen by the time you made your way into it, dressed in the previous day’s clothing for breakfast, and you took your time drinking coffee and eating your bagel, scrolling through your phone. It was your day off, and that meant that as soon as you made sure the roads were clear, you’d be on your way home. The weather forecast predicted no snow, and so as soon as you were done eating, you made your way out to your car, starting it while you cleared it off. Almost a foot of snow had fallen, but the road out of the resort was clear, and you drove slowly down it, only stopping when you saw Logan clearing his own Jeep off - still in his hoodie. “Mr. Delos?” 

 He turned to look at you, annoyed, and his expression didn’t change. “Yes?” you bit back a laugh, watching as he made his way over to your car, picking his way carefully through the snow. Oh man. “You’re leaving?” 

 “I am, I don’t live here, so I’m on my way back to my place, since I didn’t go last night.” He pressed his lips together. “You sleep alright?” He blinked twice, seemingly surprised that you were asking such a mundane question. “It’s quiet out here, I’m sure that’s different from California.” 

 “Los Angeles.” He cleared his throat. “I’m from Los Angeles, so yeah, this is very different.” He tapped on the side of your car, shaking his head. “Where can I get a real coat around here? I underestimated the temperature, and…” You laughed out loud, not even bothering to conceal it. 

 “Jackson Hole has a bunch of stores, but you’ll probably want to check out the ski shop at the resort, they’ll have the biggest selection.” More money for Snow King. “They’ll have some real boots too, Mr. Delos.” The laughter dying down, you leaned over, looking into his eyes, daring yourself to hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds. “You’ll need them, especially if you plan on going anywhere.” The smirk was back on his face as he thanked you by name, shaking his head. “Drive safe, Mr. Delos. Take some time and explore Jackson Hole, you might like it.” Logan stepped away from the car after nodding, but when he’d gotten a few feet away he stopped, turning back. 

 “Hey.” You stopped rolling the window up, waiting. “Call me Logan.” 

 --- 

 Later that night, you were relaxing on your couch, feet up on your coffee table as you flipped through channels on the TV. Your day off had been nothing exciting; laundry and cleaning and some decorating - your tree and outdoor lights had been up and finished for weeks, but you still needed to add the other decorations in the house. By the time you’d finished, you were tired, and decided to order a pizza, watch a movie and go to sleep early. Just as you were dozing off, your phone rang, jolting you back awake. Dammit. “Hello?” 

 “Hey!” You friend Ana’s voice was loud in your ear, and even in the single syllable, you knew that she had something important to tell you. “Have you heard?” Heard what? “So I was talking to Gina earlier today, and she stopped by Snow King to see Emma, and…” 

 “Ana, get to the point.” You laughed, leaning back into your couch cushions. “What did the queen of Snow King have to say? The four of you had been good friends throughout school, but Emma’s family had developed the area around the mountain quickly, becoming the wealthiest family in the area in only a few years… and effectively cutting you out of her life. Yes, you’d been friends, but you were also competition, even though there was no comparison; Snow King was a fully fledged resort, and Fireside… wasn’t, but that didn’t matter to Emma, or to her family, and though you were cordial when necessary, it was frosty between the two of you, even in the warm months. 

 “So, Gina told me that today, while Emma was in the ski shop, one of the assistants came into her office in a panic.” There was a pause. “You’ll never guess who was in there looking for a coat and some boots.” You felt a growing sense of unease in the pit of your stomach, but Ana continued. “Logan Delos.” What? Why is this a big deal? “Logan Delos is in Jackson Hole!” She continued, but you were only half paying attention, trying to figure out why Logan’s presence was such a shock to Ana, and why it was worth discussing. “He’s not staying at Snow King, Emma did a search of the guest registrations, but he’s here, can you believe it?” 

 “Who’s Logan Delos, Ana?” You blew out a breath, shaking your head. “Why is it such a big deal that he’s here?” 

 “Who is Logan Delos?” She was practically screeching in your ear, and you pulled your phone away, wincing. “He’s only one of the hottest guys on the planet, likely single, and a bazillionaire.” Well I knew one of those things… “His dad owns like half of Westworld, and Delos Inc. is like one of the most impressive tech companies in the world.” Oh, holy shit. You stood, pacing around the room with your phone pressed to your ear. Westworld, really?  “If he’s here, and he is, that means he’s spending Christmas here, and it also means that he might have his girlfriend with him.” Girlfriend? “Not that anyone knows if he actually has a girlfriend, he’s never committed to anyone, but…” Ana continued to talk, and you continued to pace, brow furrowed. 

 Logan was in Jackson Hole, but he was alone. The guest sheet hadn’t said anything about anyone coming to join him, and Logan had seemed completely unattached… but that still didn’t explain why one of the world’s richest men was spending the holiday alone and totally unprepared for the Wyoming winter. “Ana?” You interrupted her as she was reciting information about the last woman that Logan had been seen with, voice sharp. “Whatever the reason is that he’s here, he’s probably just trying to enjoy Christmas. Don’t turn this into a big thing.” She laughed, and her next words made you stop in the middle of your living room, grip on your phone tightening though you didn’t know why. 

 “I’m not turning it into a big thing, don’t worry. But Emma is… she asked him to meet her for dinner tomorrow, and he agreed.” 

 --- 

 You slept restlessly that night, and when you finally got out of bed at six the next morning, you were exhausted. It wasn’t that Emma had asked Logan out, or that he’d accepted. It wasn’t that you were keeping a secret from your closest friend about Logan staying at Fireside. It’s none of that, he’s just a guest. You knew Emma. Everything is business with her. You knew that her intentions weren’t only to get to know Logan on a personal level; she was going to use him for publicity for Snow King if she could. He doesn’t deserve that. 

 After hanging up with Ana, you’d looked Logan and Delos up online, going over the information for nearly an hour. Everything that she’d said had been true - he was related to the James Delos and Delos Inc., had been responsible for investing in Westworld in the first place, and had made a name for himself in the tabloids with a string of short term relationships, a few stints in rehab, and a public fallout with his brother in law. None of that seemed to matter to Emma - or to any of the thousands of other women that left comments on his social media pages. I can’t imagine what his DM’s look like. But though he’d been cold to you when you met, you knew that he could warm up in a matter of seconds - as he had in the car and just before you’d driven away. Is that how you do it? Charm them and hide who you really are?

 The drive to Fireside was only a few minutes long, and you spent the entire time hoping that when you pulled in, Logan’s Jeep would be missing from his cabin’s parking spot, or that if it was there, the building would still be dark. You got your wish - though the Jeep was present, there were no lights on in the Caboose. Good. Parking in your usual spot in front of the lodge, you exited the vehicle and stretched, inhaling deeply before you walked into the building, heading straight for the small office off of the kitchen that you used. 

 By lunchtime, you were ready for a break and the beginnings of a headache were starting to form behind your eyes. Deciding to go home and finish working there for the day, you slid your laptop into your bag and said goodbye to Elle, who was busily moving around the kitchen, casted arm not slowing her down. “Heading home for lunch?” She smiled at you, pushing her blonde hair over her ear with a fingertip. “You’ve been here since before we woke up.” 

 “I have, I’m just…” You shook your head. “I’m trying to figure this out, Elle, and it’s not…” She reached out, tilting her head. 

 “You don’t need to worry about anything right now. We’ll be fine. We’ve got more people coming in later this week, it’ll be busy for Christmas and the New Year.” She paused. “Logan’s stay helped out a lot, kiddo.” I’m sure it did. “He’s a nice guy, not like I imagined.”

 “You know him?” She smiled, shrugging. “Ana called me last night and was so excited that he was here, but I had no idea…” Your aunt laughed, returning to the vegetables she was chopping. “He’s a bigshot, hmm?” Elle just laughed quietly, eyes on the countertop. “Has quite the reputation.” 

 “You only know what people report, kiddo.” She looked back up, raising an eyebrow. “Families like his, you’ll never know what the truth is until you can see it for yourself.” She paused, using the side of her knife to slide carrots into a bowl. “Money doesn’t solve every problem there is, and to me, it seems like Logan’s been trying to find something that makes him happy, he just hasn’t done it yet.” She shook her head and you leaned forward, elbows on the countertop across from her. “Things are different in bigger cities like Los Angeles - more opportunity, more temptation, more… everything.” She fell silent and you did, too, thinking. “Hey.” You looked up, meeting your aunt’s eyes. “Treat him like a guest, alright? No reason to act differently around him now that you know who he is.” 

 “You kidding me?” You laughed, straightening up. “Why would I…” Your aunt raised her eyebrow again, waiting as you shook your head. “Elle, he’s just a guest. He’ll stay through the holidays and then leave and go back to California and his supermodels, unless he decides that Emma’s worth…” 

 “Emma? Where does Emma fit into this?” Elle set her knife down, brow furrowed. 

 “Ana told me that Emma asked him out when she found out that he was in the ski shop yesterday. I sent him there, told him to go and get some boots and a coat, and she…”

 “She moved in.” Elle’s eyes flashed, head shaking back and forth. “I’m not surprised, she’s an opportunist, just like her parents. Did he agree?” You nodded, and Elle closed her eyes for a minute, thinking. “He seems like a smart guy. He won’t fall for it.” Why does it matter? “Have a good afternoon, kiddo. Come back for dinner if you want to.” Saying goodbye, you made your way out of the lodge and back to your car, starting it and taking a few minutes to brush the thin layer of snow from it. 

 “Hey.” You closed your eyes, pausing as you heard him say your name. “Hoped you were still here.” Snowbrush in hand, you turned to face Logan. He was wearing a black winter jacket, zipped to the chin, and had a beanie pulled low on his head. You smiled as you glanced down at his feet - also covered in a new pair of boots. Wait, you hoped I was still here? Why? “Wanted to thank you for sendin’ me to that ski shop yesterday.” Logan stepped closer, arms crossed over his chest. “Found what I needed.” He grinned. “Even got a new pair of gloves.” 

 “Good, Mr. … Logan.” You saw his eyes widen at the use of his name, but you continued. “You look much warmer than the last time I saw you.” Happier, too. He nodded. “But it’s no big deal, I didn’t want you to freeze, and now you’ve been in Jackson Hole, so -”

 “Wasn’t much to see, really.” He shrugged, using his booted foot to kick through the small snow piles on the ground. “Nothin’ like home anyway.” Logan pressed his lips together, glancing around you before he spoke again. “So…” He sighed. “There any place around here to get some coffee? I know there’s a coffee pot in my cabin, but…” 

 “There’s a Starbucks in Jackson Hole.” You shrugged. “Two, actually, and some…” He cut you off, shaking his head. 

 “No, I mean here, like in that place we drove through the other day, Wilson, you said?” He remembered? “I don’t wanna drive for twenty minutes for a coffee, and…”

 “There’s Persephone… it’s a bakery and it’s actually just up the road.” You took a deep breath. “You can follow me up there if you want, it’s on my way home.” He smiled again, eyes never leaving your face and nodded. “Go start the Jeep, I’ll park in front of your cabin and wait for you to be ready. No one’s gonna pull in or out in the next few minutes.” Logan turned and walked back toward his place, and though you wouldn’t admit it, you watched him go, eyes focused on the way his legs looked - still clad in denim - beneath the hem of his coat. 

 Once you were parked, it only took a few minutes for the Jeep to warm up, and Logan waved once as he climbed in, backing it out behind you. You pulled out toward the main road, turning right and driving north, making sure that Logan was following. When you pulled into the parking lot less than a mile up, he followed, pulling the Jeep into a spot and exiting before he quickly walked to where your car was idling. “Thanks.” He leaned in to the window, which you’d rolled down. “That’s easy.” You nodded, opening your mouth to reply, but he continued. “D’you want to come in with me?” What? “You look surprised.” I am. “I was a dick the other day, let me buy you a coffee and we can start over.” 

 “I…” You paused, thinking of your aunt’s words, and looking at Logan, whose expression was serious. “Alright, Logan.” He let out a breath as you spoke, straightening up and stepping back from your car. “See you in a minute.” Closing the window as you drove down a little further to a parking spot, you felt yourself getting excited, though you didn’t know why. He’s apologizing. It’s a coffee. He’s having dinner with Emma tonight, this is no big deal. 

 But as you exited the car, turning toward the front of the bakery and seeing Logan standing beneath the awning with his hands in his pockets, you couldn’t keep the smile off of your face. 

---

[diningpageantry]

Arrival

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343617/chapters/40805621

Chapter 1/11 of Of Wealth and Leisure

Word Count: 3477

Summary: Sir Simon Snow, the apprentice to Lord David, is sent off to stay at the Grimm-Pitch Manor for the next twelve months. While anticipating tension, he's met with a much stranger reality that unravels in his short time there.

As I arrive at the sprawling Grimm-Pitch Manor, I take note that it’s far more bleak in person as compared to what I had imagined.

Long, stretched halls and piped towers that streak the rainy Hampshire sky. The lush greenery overwhelms the land even upon closer observation as my carriage rattles on forward, drawing closer to the iron wrought gate. It takes three workers on each side to pull it open, allowing us to continue onto the private grounds. The leading horse trots us in as my eyes follow the grand walls through the small door window, curious as to the rumored mysteries that lies within them.

The fields rise and fall, dipping into acres of farmland with fieldworkers dotting among the crop. Ivy encompasses the statues and main fountain, delicately trimmed while keeping its natural composition. Of course, I’ve known of the Grimm-Pitch joint wealth, but I hadn’t quite anticipated such a luxurious land. While I’m accustomed to such a life, I’m aware the air of new wealth I carry as compared to their time-old privileges. Word has it, the Pitch money started back with Egyptian high society.

New clothes, fine-tailored and the best of London’s handmade luggage. My style, my way of speaking. It’s clear to me, and others of such a class, that I wasn’t always so well regarded in life. Of course, it causes my anxieties to twirl around in my stomach, unsettled by the fears of those holding an older status.

Alas, I was given a task, and thus I will fulfill it. What other choices do I have but to follow orders? Conformity, respect, and social stature. That’s all there is to have, and that’s all I have to lose.

The carriage jolts to a stop, and I turn my gaze towards the opposite window to peer up at the main building as servants pour out and begin to unload my belongings. They’re followed by none other than Baron Malcolm Grimm himself, trailed far off by his eldest son--the heir to the Pitch name--Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

A servant sweeps to my door and swings it open for me, offering a hand as I take a step down and nod at Baron Grimm. I take his extended hand firmly, briefly shaking it.

“An honor to have you here, Sir Snow,” he says shortly, grasping my hand before letting his fall to his side. His son doesn’t dare step closer, watching me from the landing of the front doors. He’s a tad unsettling from a distance; stone cold gaze and a tipped up chin to stare at me through his lashes. He stands at least a few inches taller than I, and clearly a bitter soul, judging by his expression. Despite the bitterness in my initial impressions, I take note that he is impeccably dressed and outrageously confident; a stark contrast to how I feel wearing my cream colored suit. His is a washed out purple, and the inside waistcoat is a soft yellow accented with the same violet stripes. He stands as the epitome of envy and the cause of any self-hatred when one is put beside him.

“Pleasure is mine, Mr. Grimm,” I reply, bowing politely before nodding my head to his son. He doesn’t nod back.

As the workers rush to bring in my belongings, Mr. Grimm waves me into the estate wordlessly.

It’s as lavish inside as out, and as equally showing of time’s wealth. Wooden floors, lined with foreign rugs and elegant, fresh bouquets on all surfaces. I’m hit with the scents of lilac and centuries-aged wood flooring, mixed with the mouth-watering smell coming from the kitchen as they prepare tonight’s dinner.

Various servants mill around us, rushing from one place to another as they carry fresh vegetables and stacks of linens. Somewhere off in the household, I hear the laughter of children, but it feels distant.

The entire estate feels distant. Drawn in. Untouched.

Perhaps it’s stemming from the brooding Pitch boy, standing a small distance away and staring daggers into me as I shift my weight forward and back.

“Your room will be in the same hallway as my eldest,” Mr. Grimm begins, sweeping me up the stairway. I listen back on the footsteps behind me, suddenly over aware of how exposed I feel upon these grounds. “Of course, it’s one of the best rooms in the house; it overlooks the sprawling gardens.” We stop inside the second floor parlor, just a small distance from the rooms.

I stay standing, gazing over the piano and resting violin as the breeze trickles through the opened windows. Thinned drapes slowly wave in the wind, haloing the loveseat that the elder Grimm takes a seat upon. His son sits nearby in an armchair, trying to busy himself with a book off the table.

“I hope your year’s visit will prove,” Mr. Grimm’s lip turns up in disgust, “interesting for you, Sir Snow. It isn’t too often we get friendly visitors of The Mage’s men.” His voice drips in mockery, something I seethe at but hold back my expressions for. Many joke over his eccentric actions, as well as his spirituality, but Lord David’s teachings are of a new and exciting stature. Thus, his Mage title has become one that’s recognized throughout the lands.

“If you don’t mind me saying, I’m not one of his men, Baron. I’m his apprentice.”

A sneer and turning of his nose sets my spine upright, breath nearly tumbling from my lungs as I catch Mr. Pitch’s eyebrow quirk in the corner of my eye.

“Yes, well…” Mr. Grimm rises to his feet, buttoning back up his suit. “I have business to attend to. See to it that you make it to dinner, six o’clock sharp on the daily. You’ve past tea, but that is at the typical time. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” He makes his way back down the stairs, leaving me with the intense gaze of his nearby son.

I try to gather a thought to express, but he’s much sharper than I.

“Don’t sink to the floorboards quite yet,” he hisses, eyes just lifting from the page. His voice is just as icy as I’d anticipated; slices like a shard of glass and as dangerous as poison. “I know what your precious Mage expects of my family, and I’ll personally see to it that you don’t get the information you’re seeking so pitifully.”

My mouth falls to a gape, hand resting at my hip to where my sword would typically rest if I was training. “I don’t quite understand what you-”

He gets a kick out of my blubbering, teeth showing in his smile as his chin tips up. “Ah, seems as you’re truly stupid as they say.”

“I’m not not a common moron,” I hit, taken aback by his blunt rudeness to a guest. “I simply don’t understand what you’re suggesting.”

His book snaps shut, sending minuscule flecks of dust swirling into the air around him. Slowly, his fingers drum against the cover as he looks me up and down like a show pony. “Let it be recorded, Sir Snow, that we don’t take too kindly to spies in this residence. If you don't wish to see trouble, I'd expect you to limit the length of your nose. Sniffing for clues will lead you nowhere but down.”

I follow his movements as I lock myself in place, hand staying frozen to my hip. I have nothing to do but stare, watching him stand, bow his head, then brush past me back down the staircase.

My hand ghosts up to my pocketwatch, fingertips trembling as I flick it open as unsteadily try to read its face.

With time to spare for dinner, I make my way to my bedroom, which the door is hanging slightly ajar as a servant finishes putting away the clothes. They glance up to me, nod promptly, then finish smoothing the clothes before running off.

The room doesn't lack in the appeal of the rest of the house. It stands as much of a master bedroom as compared to a guest’s (which makes me curious as to what the master room must look like). Baron Grimm was quite right; the view is breathtaking. I unlatch the windows, letting the blooming flowers float into my chambers easily.

I remove my hat, settling it gently atop the table of my vanity as I take an eyeful of my figure.

I’m starting to suspect I look a tad drab in comparison to Mr. Pitch. He clearly has an affinity for fashion, making me feel undeniably inadequate in my monochromatic ensemble. If I were of a lower class, I might even make the remark that he owns this very fashion. It’s a divine unfairness that he wears himself so well.

I locate my sword, unsheathing it and practicing a good whirl to occupy my mind.

If I were to follow The Mage’s wishes, I’d be strolling the grounds about now. But, alas, the rain should be sweeping in within the hour.

Of course, Mr. Pitch was not wrong. Not that I’ll admit it, for I know the consequences of such dirty business, but I cannot deny my quest to myself. To spy upon the Grimm-Pitch family; get them comfortable, make them think I’m not intruding upon their hushed whispers of secretive alliances for Lord David’s advancements. While it doesn’t bring me joy to do so, and I’m still confused as to why I was picked away from all of his men to do this job, I still serve The Mage without a doubt. After all, he saved my life once. My debt belongs to him.

My entire life, past, present, and future, is in his debt. My sword, my wealth. It all belongs to Lord David.

And I fear I may never escape that.

As I return my blade to its sheath, the dinner bell chimes through the corridors and beckons me to the dining room. I’ll wholeheartedly admit that I don’t take my time to get there, excitedly taking my spot at the table as the older family members file into the room. Wordlessly, I nod to Baron Grimm and Mr. Pitch, then briefly introduce myself to Mrs. Grimm. I know it’s unspoken of, the remarriage, but she does seem like a stark difference as compared to the tales of Mrs. Pitch.

Iron fist but a heart of gold is what those who knew her say. She ruled the house, as the rumors were told, but the dynamic clearly shifted. Baron Grimm holds the power now, and it’s only time until Mr. Pitch takes his title.

Speaking of the son, he sits directly across from me. Eyes narrowed and head bowed, he glares at me through his brow and sneers whenever our gazes meet. I’m not quite sure what it means for us, but I’m definite it’s not friendly.

A rivalry won’t prove anything, but it seems to be the only option on our parts. There’s no forced kindness radiating from Mr. Grimm onto his child, as I’m sure they both hold the same sentiment over my staying. It seems as though only Mr. Pitch has the nerve to speak his mind, rather than bite his tongue.

Dinner proves quiet but plentiful. The servants seem rather impressed by how much I pack away, and how often I send off for more, but they’ll grow used to it. I do the same when at home.

As the clock chimes at seven, everyone begins to untuck their napkins and settle them beside plates. I follow in fashion (despite wanting to protest in hopes for more food), nudging my plate forward after laying my fork and knife on the china. Once done, I glance around at the family in hopes for guidance in my next actions. They disperse, seeming uninterested in any further interactions between each other. While I’m not entirely surprised, I’m not afraid to be rather disappointed. While at home, Lord David spends quite a bit of time away from me and visitors, I still make an effort to stay active with others around me.

I rather miss Penelope, and Agatha too. While I have not decided upon whether or not we wish to be engaged, I know that Lord David sees a possible union of our families as beneficial (and so does Doctor Wellbelove). Wealth on both sides are balancing, and it’s good to be allied with medical families. The wedding would not be unexpected from others, either. I’ve been seen with Miss Wellbelove about town a few times, as per Lord David’s request. Sometimes, I fear he uses her to make me seem more “human” to calm the rumors of my temper.

I’d rather not fan those, but I don’t refute them either. I’m aware I can become aggressive, but I’m more grown now. I don’t have such a spark to fight others as much as I have a drive to be seen as normal.

Perhaps, that’s why I wished for a communal time following the meal, but then grew mildly disappointed as they instead went off to their own spaces.

In efforts to occupy my mind, I find myself wandering off to the stables. I peer around curiously, strolling down the half full animal lodging.

As I walk, and on the occasion stop to pet a foal, I see a friendly face pop out of the stable house at the end. The person comes more into view as she walks up, grinning cheerfully at me. At first, I nearly mistake her for a man, due to her clothing, but upon closer inspection I see that she’s a woman who’s possibly ten years my senior.

“You must be Sir Snow,” she pipes, coming up and offering me a carrot for the animal in front of me. “Words’ been floating that you’d arrived.”

My cheeks pull as I grin back, petting the horse and feeding her happily. “Why, yes I am. No need to address me so properly, I really feel quite odd with that title. Address me privately as Simon, please.”

She looks at me a little funnily then nods. “Fair enough, Simon. I’m Ebeneza Petty, but I usually go by Ebb. Ebeneza feels a bit too posh for my liking.”

I laugh, hand slowly stroking down the animal’s face and eyes glued onto her as I speak. “Why such a posh name then?”

I can hear the smile in her laugh as she speaks. “Come from a sort-of posh family. Not as posh as the Grimm or Pitch families, dear me, but I was a close friend of the younger Pitch daughter. I’d served under Mrs. Pitch as her assistant until her death, too. Poor woman died so young.”

Her hand reaches out, running down the other side of the horse’s face as my gaze trails back to her face.

While it seems as though everyone else in the castle is taking extensive measures to ignore my company, or even avoid it, Ebb seems to welcome my presence. I’m thankful that she does.

“I’ve heard about it. Such a shame.”

It’s not a complete fib; I’ve heard rumors of Mrs. Pitch’s death, but never the full tale. There’s a number of ghastly stories, some including vampires, but in the end, it usually boils down to an attack that left her dead and her son injured. While he seems quite well now, I can’t help but remain curious as to what effects it had on him.

Ebb nods her head, sighing in a short breath as her walking staff lifts then gently settles back onto the ground. “Do you want some tea, dear?”

“If it’s no bother,” I say, tucking my hand into my pocket.

She wrinkles her nose, waving her hand. “Not at all. Come along.” She nods towards the stable house and leads me inside, settling me at her kitchen table. She runs the kettle, poking the fire and she grabs some hours old pastries, settling them on the table for us to have.

She settles across from me, taking off her hat and settling it on the tabletop. “Cook Pritchard slips me what’s not had at teatime. She usually serves an assortment, but these are her specialty.”

“What are they?”

“Scones,” she says, nudging them forward. “Go on, try one.”

I reluctantly reach out a hand, raising my eyebrows to her a I gasp one. I’m not one who’s too keen on scones, since they’re typically raisin filled or boringly plain. “What’s in these?”

“Cherries. Tart ones at that; Mr. Grimm gets them shipped from the East.” She grins. “Just eat.”

Despite my hesitation, I sink my teeth into the slightly hardened outside and chew curiously before blinking in confusion. “Well I’ll be…”

She laughs a hearty, comforting laugh as she watches me. “See? Not awful.”

I shake my head. “Not at all, ma’am,” I say, crumbs spilling out of my mouth. I go wide eyed, covering myself as I chew and swallow, shoving half the treat in right after. Ebb keeps laughing, standing as the kettle boils.

She settles a steaming cup in front of me, the dried leaves steeping inside a small strainer. I watch as she blows upon hers once, waiting for hers to steep. “How long are you here for?”

I swallow the rest of the scone, patting my mouth with my sleeve. “A year. I’ll be heading off next spring.”

She nods thoughtfully, settling down her drink. “Haven’t you got someone at home waiting for you? A year’s a properly long bit of time to be staying with a family, especially at your age and as a handsome young chap.”

“Sort of. Not entirely.” I shrug, looking off around the room. She has a few knicknacks; things that seem like they’re from travel. I wonder how truly close she is to the Pitch family. “I’m not exactly betrothed; not yet. I have friends, but only two. I care for them deeply, yet it was understood by both of them that I’m to be spending time apart to stay here.”

Her gaze follows mine, smiling as we both settle on looking at the fireplace. “Well, it’s good to keep that open mind, then.” I feel her head turn to me, and I turn with it. She looks somewhat sad. “Don’t let the family get to you. They seem like a cold people, but they’re just guarded.”

I nod my head slowly, attention turning back to my drink as I carefully pull out my steeped leaves and take a sip before thanking her for the tea. She grins in return, drinking her own and slowly drawing some stories out of me. I tell her a bit about home; about living within newly acquired wealth and confirming that yes, I’m not quite sure who my real parents are, but I was raised by Lord David. I tell her of my knighting, I tell her own our land, then make her promise to not share the information. She says she wears on her favorite mare’s grave.

As she lounges back, I yawn.  Her eyes narrow as she tuts, sending me back off to the main building to sleep after I promise to return sometime within the next week or so.

I wander my way back up to my room, getting lost twice before I find a familiar portrait in the correct corridor. There’s only a single lit lantern in each hall, so I struggle to find my immediate way. When I do, I have to count doors to find my room.

I silently close my window and strip down to change, a bit scared to take out my quill and notebook at first, but coax myself to sit down and write after I light my candle.

My quill drips ink as I purse my lips, staring down at the blank parchment before pressing down and scrawling out my first night’s entry.

“Lonely. Not overly so, of course, but there is a clear distaste from Baron Grimm and his son, T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch, who will be henceforth shorthanded to Mr. Pitch. There is one benefit to this stay, and that is the stable keeper, Ebeneza Petty. Seems to be an ally and friend here. Will keep updates on the daily.”

I mark the date at the top, letting the paper dry before I stash the book amongst my other personal belongings. After blowing out the candle, I crawl under my blankets and try to relax, fearing that I cannot disregard how unsettled I feel inside the house. There’s little to no comfort in this bedroom; the glamour does little to distract from the emotionless cold seeping through the walls.

But, alas, knowing I have no other choice but to suffer for the next twelve months, I fall into a deep sleep anyway.

[thejollyroger-writer]

Keep Hope Close at Hand, Chapter Thirteen

a/n: Here's a bit of a shorter chapter for you, but it comes with a twist -- my favorite twist of the whole story, actually, and something I've been waiting to share with you since I first thought it up. Its been a long week, and I don't want to keep you guys waiting any more, so here you go! 

Start at the Beginning: tumblr // AO3

Previous Chapter: tumblr // AO3

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As always, you can find the entirety of the story under its tag on my tumblr.

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The next morning, Granny’s is silent. Emma can tell that people want to ask her about what happened — hell, even though it was already late when everything started happening, it seems like the whole town already knows about the tension that has taken over Emma’s life before she can even order her coffee.

She suspects it has something to do with Granny, given the glares Emma did not fail to recognize when she would bring Neal with her. She can’t prove it, but she would be willing to bet that she’s right.

But whenever anyone has the nerve to approach her, all she has to do is turn to them, narrow her blazing green eyes that may have a darker red around them than usual, and the question seemed to disappear.

And it’s not just that day. It continues like this for a few days, a week, curious questions on the tips of everyone’s tongues about why Neal Gold is suddenly in Storybrooke jail and their house very quickly up for sale.

Not that there was ever another choice. There was no way that Emma was ever going back there, besides to pack up what was left of her belongings there, piling them in David’s garage until she could afford her own place. Mr. Gold even came one day for some of Neal’s belongings, knowing that Emma was intending to sell. Emma could tell that even he had some questions on the tip of his tongue, but he had the decency to keep them to himself, the only words shared with her a brief greeting and an assurance that he would lock up the house when he’s finished packing up Neal’s office.

But it is through this that Emma realizes just how little she actually owns. Sure, she has clothing, a nice collection of books that she’s gathered herself, and some sentimental things that Henry made her in school. But that really is the end of it. It’s enough to fit in just a few boxes, and that thought is much sadder than anything she needed to pile on top of everything she already feels.

The only light in her life is the dinners that she has started to spend with the Nolans and the Joneses, all of them gathered around Mary Margaret and David’s farmhouse table a few nights a week. Mary Margaret and Killian have started cooking together, dreaming up the fanciest meals Emma has ever eaten. Emma almost suggests that the two of them should open a restaurant, but then she thinks about the impact it would have on Granny — and the impact that would subsequently have on her, being the one to offer up the idea — and she keeps her mouth shut, simply smiling up at Killian as he sets one of the dishes in front of her with the most subtle wink she has ever seen.

One of these nights, Mary Margaret asks Henry if he is excited to go back to school, and Emma watches a wave of realization cross Killian’s face across the table from her.

“Back to school,” he mutters under his breath, so quietly that Emma would not have heard him if she hadn’t been watching him, especially over Henry’s enthusiastic response.

Later that night, when Hope has, once again, fallen asleep on the Nolan’s couch, Killian is sitting outside with Emma and David, a bottle of beer in his hand as he stares up at the stars. For a while, he says nothing, which does not go unnoticed by his companions, and Emma finally snaps.

“Killian, what’s on your mind?”

He does not respond right away, his eyes still focused on the sky, but then he takes a deep breath. “The summer is almost over. Hope needs to go back to school soon, and I should really start looking for a job for a little bit of extra income.”

“Just stay here,” Emma says, the words out of her mouth before she can stop them. As both David and Killian turn to her, the latter’s eyes wide, she’s thankful for the darkness around them as it hopefully hides her blush. But since she can’t take her words back, she can at least continue to argue her point. “You told me that you never had much in Boston, beyond Hope. But you — the two of you have been here for a few weeks now, and I think that you’ve found a good place here in Storybrooke.”

He’s useless against her argument. She wants him to stay here, to continue to be with her (though not in the way he so desperately longs for). There’s nothing else he can say, and he hopes the smile on his face is enough to make that obvious.

“I’ll have to run it by Hope and make sure that it’s okay with her, but I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be.”

(He asks her the next morning, and she hugs him and says that he’s been waiting for him to ask since they first got there. They fill out the paperwork that day to register her for sixth grade at Storybrooke Middle School.)

However, searching for a job that he both wants and is capable of is a whole different story. Jefferson offers him a position as a bartender at the Rabbit Hole, but he only has one working hand, so that does not seem like the right choice. Granny even tries to get him there as a chef, but he’s sure that he and the old lady would butt heads on lots of things — the first being her lasagna “recipe” that he can tell she buys frozen but has been able to keep his mouth shut about it. He's glad he's starting cooking with Mary Margaret regularly, since it was one of the things he missed the most about Boston.

But when he walks by Smee one morning mumbling under his breath about how he could use more help but “nobody in this town knows anything about ships,” he knows he’s found his place.

Smee is more than happy to help him out, sharing some of the open hours with him in a makeshift schedule that can continue to change as Killian’s schedule changes, and he shakes his hand once they have finished all necessary paperwork, Killian hoping to get back to lunch at the Nolan’s in time, when Smee smiles at him for the first time.

“I suppose this is your official welcome to Storybrooke then, captain.”

Killian’s breath hitches in his throat. “Ex-excuse me?”

The already red-faced man blushes deeper. “I just — you captain that vessel over there, it would do her a disservice to refer to you as anything less.”

Though his heart still seems to be pounding at a mile a minute, threatening to burst out of his chest, he manages to smile at the man, nodding. “She and I both appreciate that, Smee. Perhaps one day, I would be able to give you a tour of her.”

Smee returns his smile with a nod of his own. “I would be grateful, Mr. Jones.”

“I’ll see you the day after tomorrow for my first shift, I can show you around her when we’re going over the rest of the job, if that would be alright?”

“That would be perfect. I suppose I’ll see you then.”

Killian turns on his heel, still on his way back to the Jolly to grab a few things before heading back to the Nolan’s, when something catches his eye.

Someone.

His mind tells him who he thinks it is, but it’s not… it’s not possible. No way.

He follows him around the corner, down the docks, and right up to the Jolly Roger, where he stops as Killian approaches. They both stand there for a moment, Killian too afraid to move, and then the man he was following turns around and finally faces him.

Absolutely bloody impossible, he thinks to himself, but too many absolutely insane, impossible things have happened recently for him to pass it off as his imagination, because there, in jeans and a light grey henley, smiling at him, is Liam.

His brother.

His brother, who died in his arms.

His brother, who died in his arms, almost three hundred years ago.

“Liam?” he breathes, but Liam does not answer.

He just smiles, opening his arms to his brother, who can do nothing to stop himself from stepping into them. “Hello, little brother,” he says finally, his thick arms wrapped around Killian's back.

Killian breathes a laugh. “Normally, I would have corrected that to younger, though unless you’re somehow not a figment of my imagination, I believe that’s no longer true, is it?”

Liam does not answer, just holds Killian in the hug, until the “younger” Jones brother backs away, staring into eyes that he never imagined he would ever see again.

“How are you here, brother?”

With every word he says, Killian’s disbelief grows larger. “After I died, Pan sent his shadow for my body. For as long as I was in Neverland, the magic of the island would keep me alive. Pan kept me there for lifetimes, his prisoner, alive only to do his will and unable to do anything but follow his orders. And then the Evil Queen made him a bargain for my body, just a few years before the curse was cast, and brought me over to be used as a pawn, but you must be getting closer to breaking the curse, because I was able to break free.”

“How do I know this is not just a scheme by the Evil Queen to get me to trust you, only to have you stab me in the back?”

Liam smiles softly at him, shaking his head the way he always did when he knew Killian was wrong. “If that were the truth, brother, why would I ever have told you about her in the first place?”

With his mind filled to the brim with questions, Killian certainly doesn't understand the entirety of what Liam is telling him, but he is too overcome by excitement to question it any further.

Killian nods just as his cell phone vibrates in his pocket, which he pulls out to reveal a text from Emma: Waiting on you for lunch.

Killian claps his hand on his brother’s shoulder, relieved to feel his hard muscle under his hand once more. “I have some people I would like you to meet.”

The entire drive to the Nolan’s, Killian listens to Liam explain that he has been hidden in a room in the basement of the hospital to remain a secret, and that is why he has not seem him in the weeks since he came to Storybrooke, but Killian is paying more attention to his own mind, trying to come up with the plan of just what he is going to say to Emma.

He is just two blocks away when he decides what he is going to do, a decision that becomes necessarily almost as soon as they sit down at the table.

“So what brings you to Storybrooke, Mr. Jones?” Mary Margaret asks.

Before Killian can stop him, Liam corrects her: “Captain, actually.”

Killian watches the confusion pass over David’s face, just as it did when Mr. Gold called Killian the same thing, but all Mary Margaret does is smile. “Oh, okay. Captain Jones.”

Thankfully, Liam finds his gaze out of the corner of his eye, remembering that the truth is not the thing to tell these people — at least, not yet.

“Liam’s been in the Navy since I was just a boy, and this is the first time he’s been able to come overseas since Hope was just a baby girl, but since I’m not in Boston, I just told him to come here.”

The table shares a nod, seeing his lie for the believable story it is, and lunch carries on as usual.

[swanqueeneverafter]

39. Smash The Mirror, Pt.2

Storybrooke. Blanchard Loft. Present. (Regina and Henry sit alone reading comic books.) Regina: (Glancing at her son:) “I can keep sitting here pretending to read about Wolverine, or you can talk about what happened with Emma.” Henry: “Nothing to talk about.” (Regina rolls her eyes at her son’s stubbornness.) Regina: “Can I at least look at the wound? You haven’t even let me see it.” Henry: “Okay, fine.” (Henry takes his hand away from his neck. Seeing the cut, Regina moves some hair out of the way and notices Henry wince in pain.) Regina: “Does that hurt?” Henry: “A little.” (Regina waves her hand over the boy’s neck and magically heals Henry.) Regina: “Not anymore. (Smiles:) All better.” Henry: (Touches his neck, sensing that the wound is no longer there:) “It must be nice to have magic and be useful.” Regina: “What's that supposed to mean?” Henry: “I went out there to help her, but I couldn't do anything because I'm just... Ordinary.” Regina: “Henry. (Takes his hand:) We are each given our own gifts. You have the heart of the truest believer. You brought us all together. Never think you're ordinary just because you don't have magic... Or claws or... Ripped purple shorts. Now, don't worry about Emma. She's a hero, and, as we both know...” Henry & Regina: “Heroes always win.”

Elsewhere In The Loft. (Downstairs, Mary Margaret's phone rings.) Mary Margaret: “It's her.” Emma: “Hey, mom. It's me. Have you seen Henry, is he all right?” Mary Margaret: “Oh, yes, yes. No, he's fine. Emma, I am so sorry about what happened yesterday. I don't want you to ever think that we are afraid of you.” Emma: “Don't worry. It doesn't matter.” Mary Margaret: “No, of course it matters.” Emma: “This is all gonna be over soon. I just needed to tell you that I'm okay. I-I have a way to fix everything.” (Emma’s side of the conversation is not heard but we see Mary Margaret’s reaction to her daughter’s words.) Mary Margaret: “Emma, no, wait.” (The call ends abruptly and Mary Margaret turns to the group.) David: “What did she say?” Mary Margaret: “She said she's going to get rid of her magic... Forever.” Elsa: “How is that even possible?” Mary Margaret: “She said it will all be over soon.” Hook: “Did she say anything about the method? If it was a spell or... A magic object of some kind?” David: “Who cares how she's doing it? That's not what matters here.” Hook: “No, you're absolutely right. Well, I can’t sit around here all day. Call me if there are any new developments.” (Hook leaves the apartment, a worried look on his face.)

Arendelle. Past. (Anna, Elsa and Kristoff enter in the old bedroom of the three sisters.) Kristoff: “It's dusty in here.” Elsa: “I'm surprised it bothers you.” Kristoff: “Hey, I may have slept in a barn, but it was a spotless barn.” Elsa: “I've never been in this part of the palace. What makes you think Ingrid hid the urn here?” Anna: “Mother and father told me not to go in the east wing because it was crumbling and dangerous. So, of course, I had to.” Elsa: “Naturally.” Anna: “But it didn't seem dangerous to me. Just... Forgotten.” Elsa: “Mother probably wanted to forget the painful memories of her sister.” Kristoff: “You royals sure go to exhaustive lengths to ignore your issues.” Anna: “You're still here? You're supposed to be outside keeping watch. And, remember, if you see Ingrid, use the secret signal. Wait, do we have a secret signal?” Kristoff: “Uh, I think ‘run’ will work just fine.” (Kristoff leaves the room to stand guard. Anna turns to see her sister staring at a broken mirror.) Anna: “What is it, Elsa? Is everything all right?” Elsa: “Yeah, I was just thinking about what it must have been like when mother and Ingrid were younger. I wonder what happened that made them turn against each other.” Anna: “Knowing Ingrid, I'm not surprised things got ugly. You don't need to worry. It's in the past. (Puts an arm around her sister:) And you and I both know that can never happen to us. Now... We need to get searching. We need to find that urn. (Anna opens the wardrobe to find the frozen figure of Hans before her:) Hans! (Panicked, she grabs a candlestick:) Look, he's... He's... He's frozen?” Elsa: (Taking the candlestick:) “I guess I forgot to tell you everything that happened since you were away.” Anna: “Ingrid did this? I mean Kristoff told me she saved you from Hans’ men but I didn’t realise that she froze him.” Elsa: “To be fair, it's the one good thing she's done since getting out of that urn. And look, there it is.” (Elsa picks up the urn.) Anna: “It's smaller than I imagined. It must not have been very comfortable.” Elsa: “Well, she's going to have to make do because she's going right back inside it.” Storybrooke. Present. The Snow Queen's Cave. (The Snow Queen stands before her mirror as Mr. Gold walks into view.) Snow Queen: “Did you come here for a reason? As I recall, I already told you what you need to do to free yourself from your dagger.” Mr. Gold: “Hmm.” Snow Queen: “I have nothing more to give you... Unless... You simply like watching me.” Mr. Gold: “I never do anything without a good reason. And watching your twisted mind at work does not qualify.” Snow Queen: “Twisted? Says the man who betrayed everyone in Storybrooke.” Mr. Gold: “I haven't betrayed a single person. Not yet, anyway.” Snow Queen: (Motions toward the ribbons:) “Did you forget that you gave me those? Did you forget what they can do?” Mr. Gold: (Circling the Snow Queen:) “I don't forget much, dearie. But if you plan to put that ribbon on Emma Swan, you're about to be disappointed. With her powers out of control, I've now found my own use for her.” Snow Queen: “You think you can take her away from me now? (The Snow Queen attempts to strike the Dark One, but finds she is trapped:) What did you do?” Mr. Gold: “Look down. (A magical circle glows at the Snow Queen’s feet, surrounding her:) Remember the urn your sister placed you in? It had the power to limit your magic.” Snow Queen: “Elsa destroyed that urn.” Mr. Gold: “Well, funny thing about magic... It can never be destroyed completely. It simply lives on in other forms. Magic survives. I visited the barn where the urn was destroyed, (Holds up a now empty bottle:) collected its remnants grain by grain... Painstaking process. And I must say... the effort paid off.” Snow Queen: “When I escape, there will be a terrible price to pay.” Mr. Gold: “Don't worry. The dust won't last long, just long enough to get what I want. And, uh, you see, I don't have to betray everyone in Storybrooke. Just you. And, I'm afraid... Emma Swan.” 

Blanchard Loft. (Mary Margaret stands at the kitchen counter staring at a picture of Emma as David joins her.) David: “Hmm. I've always liked that picture. Emma has your eyes.” Mary Margaret: “She has your smile. Do you remember when you took it?” David: “How could I forget? That was the party we had at Granny's after Emma helped us go up against... Pan or Anton the giant?” Mary Margaret: “Try Cora.” David: “Oh.” Mary Margaret: “I guess it's easy to lose track. She has saved Storybrooke a lot.” David: “Mm-hmm. I'm worried about her, too, but Emma is tough. She'll be fine.” Mary Margaret: “What if she's making a mistake? Because of us... Shouldn't we be out there trying to convince her not to give up her magic?” David: “Well, it's her choice, not ours. She knows we support her, no matter what, and if losing her magic is what she wants, well... Maybe it's not such a bad thing.” Mary Margaret: “But it's part of who she is... A savior. I mean, she was born this way... A hero. So isn't embracing that the right thing?” David: “Well, if the Snow Queen is doing all this because of Emma's power, maybe... Getting rid of it is the heroic thing. Do you remember the night Emma was born? Before we put her in the wardrobe, you said we had to give her her best chance. Maybe now her best chance is for her to be... Normal.” (Regina descends the stairs and joins them in the kitchen.) Regina: “Your daughter will never be normal, thank God.” David: “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mary Margaret: (Trying to keep the peace:) “How's Henry?” Regina: “Reading comic books. Refusing to sleep. So, I think okay. Or at least his version of a brave face. Any word from Emma?” David: “Didn't Mary Margaret tell you? She called. She figured out a way to get rid of her magic.” Regina: “Get rid of it? And you're okay with that?” David: “We support our daughter.” Regina: “We're not talking about an old pair of Jimmy Choos here. Emma was born with magic, it’s part of who she is. (To Mary Margaret:) Tell me you're joking.” Mary Margaret: “It may seem drastic, but it's the only way Emma can be sure never to hurt anyone again.” Regina: “This could be the worst idea you've ever had, and you hired the wicked witch as your nanny.” David: “Well, we actually think it'll be good for her. We... She could be normal.” Regina: “Yes, dull and useless like her parents. Do you really want to have to rely on me to save the town, or Gold for that matter? (As David is about to say something:) Let me ask you something. Do you know what I regret most?” David: “Oh, I don’t know, the countless innocent lives you destroyed?” Regina: (Glares at him, to Mary Margaret:) “That I didn't support Henry when he realized he was special. You of all people should remember. 'Cause you started it all when you gave him that storybook. It opened up a whole world for him. But I was so scared of losing him... That I tried convincing him he was crazy... And that being normal would make things better. Thankfully, he had the good sense not to listen to me.” Mary Margaret: “Regina's right. David, we've been rationalizing, and you know it. We cannot let her take away what's special about her.” David: (Sighs:) “I know.” Mary Margaret: “Well, then let's go get her. (Mary Margaret moves to the table:) Regina, your locator potion...”

Regina: (Turns to look:) “It's gone.” David: (Realising:) “Where's Elsa?” Somewhere In Storybrooke. (Having used the locator spell, Elsa follows Emma's scarf through Storybrooke.) Arendelle. Past. (Elsa and Anna enter in a hallway.) Anna: “We can't let anyone see us. Ingrid could have eyes and ears everywhere. Of course, not literally. That would be gross. And unhygienic. Though she does have skeletons in her closet. Because we did just find Hans in her closet. And his body does contain a skeleton. (Two guards enter from the opposite side of the hallway, Anna and Elsa hide behind two pillars as the guards pass by:) Okay, that was a close one. Let's go. (Noticing Elsa hasn’t moved:) You're not going. Elsa?” Elsa: (Staring at the portrait of their parents:) “Is what Ingrid said true? That our parents went to Misthaven to find something to take away my magic?” Anna: “It is. Sorry, Elsa, I should have told you the second I got back home. I just... I didn't know how.” Elsa: “I don't blame them.” Anna: “When people look at this painting, they see a king and a queen. But the only thing I see is mama and papa. They were only human. They made mistakes. If they could see you today, I bet they would never ask you to give up a part of yourself.” Elsa: “But they're not here. And we'll never know.” Anna: “What matters is that your powers make you special. And I wouldn't want you any other way.” Storybrooke. Mr. Gold’s Shop. Present. (Hook storms into Mr. Gold's shop.) Hook: “Crocodile?! Where are you?! (Frustrated, Hook pulls out his phone and calls Emma. Receiving her voicemail:) Swan, it's Hook. You have to listen to me. I know that you've been to see Gold and if he's promised to get rid of your powers, don't listen to him. He doesn't want to help you. He wants... He wants to collect your powers in a bloody magic hat. And when he does, you'll be sucked in, too. I... I don't know what he's planning, but I know that he's been lying to Belle. The dagger he gave her is a fake. I only know all this because... Because Gold blackmailed me into helping him. He knew I'd do whatever it takes to find my child and he used it against me. I just wanted what you have, Swan, a family. But that’s no excuse. Gold showed me that I haven’t changed, not truly, and now because of it, you may pay the price. I'm sorry.” (Hook hangs up then sees the map and leaves the shop.) 

The Snow Queen’s Cave. (The Snow Queen tries to escape from the circle. Looking to her mirror, she uses her powers to spy on Emma. Via the mirror, she can see Emma is driving. She turns on the radio with her powers. Distracted, Emma tries to turn it off when suddenly the Snow Queen appears in the middle of the road. Emma swerves off the road trying to avoid her. She tries to restart her car but is unable. Angry, Emma gets out of her car.) Snow Queen: “Emma.” Emma: “Stay back.” Snow Queen: “Wherever you're headed, turn around and go home. You are in great danger.” Emma: “I’m not gonna listen to you about danger, Get out of my way!” Snow Queen: “My sweet girl, I am not the one that you should fear. Rumplestiltskin is. Whatever he's promised you, it's a lie.” Emma: “How do you know he promised me anything?” Snow Queen: “So I was right. You mustn't trust him, Emma. He doesn't do anything unless it benefits him. He doesn't care about you. He would kill you to get what he desires.” Emma: “You know what I think? The fact that you don't want me to go means something. It means I'm going.” Snow Queen: “I won't let you.” Emma: “You're not gonna hurt me. You need me.” (Emma turns away from her but the Snow Queen blocks her path.) Snow Queen: “Don't do this.” Emma: “What the...? (Tries to touch her but the Queen turns to snowflakes:) You're not here.” Snow Queen: (Reappearing:) “If I could be, I would. I'm trying to protect you, and that is the truth.” Emma: “I don't care what you say. That's the truth.” (Emma quickly takes off on foot. Back in the snow cave, the Snow Queen angrily wipes the image from her mirror.) Arendelle. Past. Dungeons. (Elsa and Anna are walking in the dungeon. Anna carries the urn as they come upon a sleeping guard.) Anna: “He looks peaceful. Though you should probably look into hiring some new guards when this is all over.” Elsa: “Smart. Now, are you sure you're gonna be okay down here?” Anna: “Yes, it's not as bad as it looks, except for the dankness and the darkness and the mice... Who are cute, when they're not scurrying over your toes. But I have shoes. I promise, I'll be fine.” Elsa: “And I promise I won't be long. As soon as I return to the palace, I'll tell Ingrid you're to be banished and that she's to see to your punishment personally.” Anna: “Then when she comes down here, I'll surprise her with the urn. Not like a party... ‘surprise!’ Something more dour to match the occasion, like, ‘surprise.’” Elsa: “What if something goes wrong? I should come down here, too, just in case.” Anna: “No, you need to be as far away as possible. We don't want you getting trapped in the urn by mistake. Please don't worry. I promise... Everything is going to be fine.”

(Anna enters her cell. Elsa locks her in and leaves. Suddenly, Ingrid uses her magic to shackle Anna, causing her to drop the urn.) Ingrid: (Stepping out from the shadows:) “Surprise! How was that?” Anna: “I'd have done it different.” Ingrid: “Well, I'm afraid you won't get the chance. You see, I was hoping that Elsa would believe the lies I told her, but I knew I had to be ready in case she didn't.” Anna: “It doesn't matter. You'll never turn us against each other.” Ingrid: “Never? That's a strong word. (Anna struggles against her chains:) I'm sorry. Elsa won't save you.” Anna: “You don't know her. You don't know me.” Ingrid: “But I do. We're a lot alike. We had families, but we both grew up in this palace, isolated and alone. I liked to go to the library and bury myself in a good book. My favourite was an ancient Norse legend... The Trolden Glass. Perhaps you read it.” Anna: “Of course I did. I read everything in there.” Ingrid: “Tell me what you remember.” Anna: “Giving a book report would be a lot easier if you'd let me go.” Ingrid: (Raising her hand:) “The other option is I kill you.” Anna: (Quickly:) “It's about a Norse king who had a beautiful daughter he loved dearly.” Ingrid: “Go on.” Anna: “He wanted his daughter to be able to see the beauty he saw in her, so he had a mirror made for her birthday. But the day before it, she died, so instead of reflecting her beauty, it reflected the ugliness of his pain and sorrow.” Ingrid: “Very good. What happened then?” Anna: “It's been awhile, okay? I don't remember every detail.” Ingrid: “Well, I do. He was so devastated, he decided his kingdom should share his pain. So he spent years harnessing dark magic, used it on the mirror, and cast a spell over his entire kingdom. It made his subjects see only the worst in the ones they loved. And they turned on each other, destroying themselves.” Anna: “What does that story have to do with anything?” Ingrid: “You were in my room. I'm sure you saw the mirror. (Holds out a piece of glass:) This is just a small piece of it. I spent years gazing into that mirror, but all I saw reflected back at me was pain, just like the Nordic king.” Anna: “You're going to cast that spell.” Ingrid: “The spell of shattered sight. It would take an entire lifetime to cultivate enough power to cast a spell over an entire kingdom. Luckily I only need to cast it over you.” (Ingrid shatters the glass in her hand and blows the shards into Anna’s eyes.) Storybrooke. Present. Outside The Mansion. (Emma finally arrives at the mansion. She sees lights inside and enters.) 

[fandammit]

Loss like the sharp edges of a knife (8/9)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7

[A/N: Sometimes your OCs take you on a journey, and you just gotta follow along and see where it leads.]

His early morning run does bring him past Karen’s apartment.

It’s a dark, cloudy day with a weird, final cold snap of weather that has him wearing a sweater and his beanie for the first time in weeks.

Amidst the backdrop of the gray sky and gray pavement and sullen gray-toned brick is the pot of yellow daffodils, so bright it might as well act as a beacon to him from the down the street.

Sitting on the ledge of her window is his worn, battered copy of Moby Dick. He picks it up carefully and opens it, flips through the pages hesitatingly. He’s not quite sure what he’s expecting to find, not quite sure what might hurt him the most -- that there’s something within its pages that speaks to her lack of understanding of him, or that there’s nothing within it at all.

He breathes out a long sigh of relief when he sees that she’s written on nearly every page, forces himself to close the book with a sharp thwap because he can’t trust himself to stop once he gets started.

He runs back to the car with the book gripped closely to his chest, keeps it tucked up next to him as he drives back to him apartment. Some practical, logical part of him knows that it’s no more or less from Karen than any of her other gifts to him, but it’s overshadowed by that deeper, more sentimental part of him that believes Karen has in some way looked into his soul and at least not found it wanting.  

He opens the book up in the silence of his living room, his breath loud in his ears, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. A quick flip through reveals that she’s left nothing tangible in it; has instead chosen to leave pieces of herself as words on the pages -- answers to his questions, questions to his underlined passages, replies to his notes in the margins.

By now, he knows the story by heart, could simply read through Karen's margin notes and be done in a single afternoon.

But this gift is not a photo or a thing -- it is not a single moment, frozen in time, or a single object, static and unchanging. Instead, what he holds in his hands feels like something closer to a conversation, more intimate and real than the drawn out months of exchanges they've had by way of gifts.

He reads the first few pages of the novel, then reads his notes aloud, muttered softly under his breath. He flicks his eyes over Karen's written reply, his gaze moving slowly over her firm, slanted script, the words so completely her that he can almost hear her voice echoing in the emptiness of his living room.

So he decides to re-read the entire book again, decides that he can’t fully understand the conversation between him and Karen without falling back into the story at the same time.

That first day he has the book back, he has to put it down halfway through the third chapter when he looks up at the clock and realizes that he’s supposed to be on his way to the boxing gym. He grabs his gym bag and, at the last moment, throws the book in there, too. He knows he won’t have any time to read it -- especially not since Paul will likely make him run at least two extra laps for being late -- but it gives him a small sense of comfort just to have it nearby.

Paul makes him run through extra drills for being late, but he doesn’t mind -- it makes the time go by faster, helps him to forget the lingering presence of Karen in his bag by the door.

He barely has time to shower and change before he’s rushing off to Jeremy and Marisol’s house, making good on a promise to Mrs. Abaya that he’ll fix their dryer.

He’s five minutes later than he said he would be, but it works out fine because there’s no car in the driveway when he pulls up. He doesn’t mind. He knows Jeremy is perpetually late -- a point of fact that makes Mrs. Abaya call him an honorary Filipino in a fond tone of voice -- and it gives him time to sit on their front stoop and read through a few chapters of Moby Dick.

Even just as words on the page, she’s spelled out her compassion, her empathy, her reserve of steeliness. Even this far from him, even as just a haunting presence in the book, she pushes against him. Pushes him to think beyond himself, asks him questions that he desperately wants to try to answer, even if he doesn’t know how.

If you’re Ahab, does that make me Ishmael?

He pauses at those words, reads the question over and over again. Tries to imagine how she’d say them if they were two people sitting across from one another in a coffee shop -- if there’d be a teasing spark in her eyes or if she’d lean forward, a serious expression on her face, her blue eyes swallowing him up completely.

He’s shakes himself out of his daydream when he hears Jeremy pull up into the driveway.

“Tito Peter!” Emeline shouts, opening the door and leaping out of the minivan before Jeremy even has a chance to turn off the car. She launches herself into his arms and hugs him like it’s been weeks since she’s last seen him rather than just three days. She’s wearing a soccer uniform, the knees all stained with grass, her bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat.

“Hey honey,” he says, rubbing her on the back before leaning away so he can talk to her. “How’d you do? Did you guys win?”

A wide grin splits her face.

“Yea - yes, Tito! And I scored the winning goal!”

“Course you did, Emeline!” He wraps his fingers around her arms, raises them up above her head in a gesture of victory. “Nice job, sweetie. Wish I could’ve been there to see it.”

She sighs heavily.

“Maybe you can tell Paul to move your training sessions, Tito. Then you can come and watch me.”

He smiles.

“I’ll give it a shot, Emeline. Paul -- he’s pretty strict, but I think I’ll be able to convince him.”

Emeline lights up, bounces up on her toes.

“You can bring him along, Tito. He can cheer for us.”

“Alright, Emeline, you need to go take a shower while Tito Peter helps daddy with dryer,” Jeremy says, coming up behind her. “Hey Pete, good to see you,” he says, nodding to him and reaching out a hand. “Thanks for coming over, I appreciate it.”

“But daddy, how are you going to help Tito?” Emeline asks, a thoroughly confused look on her face. “You don’t know how fix a dryer -- that’s why lola asked Tito peter.”

Jeremy grins, glances over at Frank.

“Out of the mouth of babes, huh, Pete?” He turns to Emeline. “Well, I’m gonna hold his beer, for one. And then I’ll hand him a wrench when he asks for it. And then I’m gonna send him off with some of your lola’s lumpia that she told me to give him once he’s done.” He leans over and unlocks the door, gestures towards the inside of the house. “Now, off to the shower with you.”

She giggles, then rushes through the door.

“I can help better than you can, Daddy!” She shouts as she speeds down the hall. “Just wait for me, Tito Peter!”

Jeremy laughs, then gestures inside and follows Frank.

“So, hey, I really do appreciate this.” He’s glancing down at the stack of mail in his hands as he says it, a nervous of energy to him as he speaks. “It’s a new dryer -- well, new-ish -- so hopefully it’s nothing major and -- oh shit!” Jeremy’s face is a mixture of shock and excitement as he looks down at the opened letter in his hands, which then very quickly shifts into disappointment as he rifles through the packet of papers it’s attached to. “Oh shit. Oh. Shit.”

Frank shuffles from one foot to another, slaps his hands in front of him as he does.

“Everything ok, Jeremy?”

Jeremy looks up, blinks a few times and tries to smile.

“Yeah, God, sorry Pete.” He flips the paper around to show Frank the letter -- just long enough so that he can see the words “congratulations!” written in fancy lettering at the top before he turns it back around. “Emeline -- she got accepted into this really great private prep school. Great STEM program, you know? Our little engineer -- though God knows where she got that from.”  

“So, that’s, uh, good, right? I mean, that’s where Emeline belongs.” He squints at the crestfallen look on Jeremy’s face. “What’s the problem then?”

Jeremy sighs heavily.

“There’s just no way, Pete -- no way that we can afford the tuition. School will cover up to a half of it -- needs based, you know. But the rest -- I mean, even paying half is too much for us -- we’d have to get private or outside scholarships and I’m not sure...”

He shakes his head.

“Doesn’t hurt to try though, right?” Frank asks. “See what’s out there?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. There’s a general scholarship application that the school sends out to donors, so there’s a chance, right? Just -- damn -- I was hoping they’d cover a little bit more.” He folds the letter back up and sticks it in his back pocket. He smiles at Frank, though it's strained at the edges. “Anyway, we’ll figure it out. Let’s tackle this dryer first.”

They spend the next hour or so fixing the dryer, Jeremy and Emeline taking turns helping him. Jeremy mostly hangs back and lets Emeline run around Frank, asking questions and taking turns with tools. He tries to cover it up, but Frank can tell how defeated the other man looks as he watches his daughter unscrew the various parts of the dryer and put it back together.

He thinks about that look as he drives home, can feel the outline of a plan form in his mind. Once he gets home and takes Gracie for a walk, he’s mostly managed to fit it all together. It mostly depends on David, which basically means it’s as good as done.

He spends the rest of the night laying in bed, Gracie at his feet, Moby Dick resting against his chest as he reads.

He likes that Karen’s notes become more intimate, more direct as the book goes on, her voice so loud and present he can almost hear it in the quiet of this apartment. She challenges him easily, like she has since they first met. She also disagrees with enough to make him nervous, wary that they’ll break on something fundamental. But it never even skirts close to a line of rejection, to a place on incompatibility. Instead, she pushes him to re-think passages, pushes him to want to ask her about a word or phrasing or observation in person.

The whale isn’t Evil incarnate, Frank -- it’s nature, or the universe, or God himself. They don’t care about any of us the way Ahab thinks they do. They don’t care about us at all, really. There’s something sad and comforting about that at the same time, don’t you think?

He closes the book as he thinks about those words, thinks about a life in which a negligent God might be a source of comfort, thinks about what kind of life Karen has led for her to think that and just how little he knows about it.

Promises himself that he’ll ask once he sees her again.

“So, any news on the Karen front?” David asks the next day.

They’re sitting the shade of his house, the half-finished patio deck behind them. It’s a slow going project, made slower by the fact that David tends to forget what exactly it is he’s supposed to be doing at any given time. He’s not incapable, Frank’s found, only unmotivated. And he basically has no motivation to finish up this patio deck project seeing as it’s mostly to give Frank an excuse to come over in the afternoons. He thinks that there must be some part of David that is afraid that he’ll just stop coming over if he has no obvious reason to do so.

He wouldn’t, of course, but he doesn’t mind having something to do with his hands when he wants to drown out David’s rambling.

He shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t want to lie, but he also isn’t prepared to discuss the truth

“It’s a long book, David.”

David chuckles.

“Yeah, Frank.” He shakes his head, gives Frank a rueful look. “Yeah, it is.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, so Frank clears his throat to head him off.

“So, uh, listen. Wondered if you could do a favor for me?”

He tries to keep his tone light, his expression easy. It’s been nearly seven months now since it was just the two of them living together in that basement, where favors and plans meant murder and mayhem, but he thinks that those memories must not easily fade. They haven’t for him at least.

David must notice, because he looks more curious than anxious.

“Yeah, sure, Frank. Whatever you need.” He tilts his head. “What’s up?”

“The lady that runs the shelter -- Mrs. Abaya. She’s got this granddaughter, right? Smart kid, name’s Emeline.” David nods. “So, she got into this prep school but the tuition -- her parents are gonna have trouble paying it. I figure since I got all this money and no real reason to spend it, might as well do something good with it.”

David blinks rapidly and the edges of his mouth turn up in a smile, though there’s a twinge of confusion in his gaze.

“Ok, that’s, I mean, that’s great Frank. But I’m not sure where I come in.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, licks his lips.

“Well her parents -- they’re not just gonna let me hand over thousands of dollars. So, I’m wondering if you, you know, set up something that makes it look like she got a scholarship, right? You make it look good, make it look legit, so they don’t know it’s me.” He takes out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “So, that’s the school and the amount over the next four years and, uh, as much as I know about the process and Emeline’s application. Figure you can find out the rest -- whatever else you need.”

David reads it over quickly then smiles broadly at him and nods.

“Yeah. I can do that.” He pushes off from the side of the house, reaches over and pats Frank on the shoulder. “It’s a good thing you’re doing, Frank. You’re a good man.”

He looks away and shrugs, holds his hands out in front of him in a dismissive gesture.

“I’m not -- it’s just the thing to do. Emeline deserves it, so do her parents.” He’s almost embarrassed by how David’s looking at him, so he ducks down and picks up his toolbox. “Gonna get going but you’ll, uh, let me know when it’s done?”

David nods, gives Frank a distracted wave and a faraway smile that makes him grin. He wouldn't be surprised if everything was set up by the time he goes to bed tonight.  

He stops off at a coffee shop that he likes on the way home. Or rather, a coffee shop that Gracie likes since the coffee’s subpar but the baristas all love her enough to keep the specific brand of treats that she likes for when he stops in.

He settles in the corner of the patio, hat pulled low against the midday sun, and opens up Moby Dick. He loses himself in the story, in the push and pull of Karen’s words, in how desperately he wants to believe in them.

Yes, Ahab wants revenge too, but he’s dragged this whole mess of people along with him and doesn’t care about how it affects them. He’s selfish and egomaniacal. You aren’t. You’re a good man, Frank, in a way that Ahab never could be.

He has to resist the urge to trace his finger over those words, has to stop himself from pressing them into the broken cracks of his psyche. He closes the book like it’ll provide some sort of barrier between him and those words -- a good man -- which he doesn’t know can ever really apply to him, doesn’t know if they ever really could.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

He clicks open the text message from David and purses his lips, impressed.

Everything’s all set up. Jeremy Morgan should get an official letter in his e-mail detailing Emeline’s scholarship award in the next day or so.

His next text is a link, which Frank clicks on and then snorts when he sees the website it pulls up.

The Castle Foundation the header reads, bold white text on a black background. Underneath it, in smaller letters -- 

Proudly serving the needs of military families from underrepresented and minority communities

He spends the next fifteen minutes scrolling the site, clicking on all the different links, reading the about and history and FAQ. The entire thing is so polished and so thorough that even he almost has trouble believing it isn’t actually a real foundation.

He x’es out of the website and taps into his messages.

Thanks. A little excessive though, don’t you think?

Can never be too careful. Hope it goes well!

Goes well turns out to be a bit of an understatement.

On Wednesday, he shows back up at Jeremy and Marisol’s house, ostensibly to fix a broken dishwasher and is ushered into the kitchen by Jeremy, who cannot stop beaming at him. He walks in the room to find a cake, Emeline in a party hat, about a dozen different Abaya family members that he only vaguely recognizes and both Marisol and Mrs. Abaya crying.

He shoots a questioning look over to Jeremy, who manages to beam even more brightly at him, a feat which had previously seemed impossible.

“Sorry, Peter, I announced it a little early because I was so excited but -- we are celebrating our one and only darling Emeline going to the Horace Mann School starting next fall...on a fully paid scholarship until she graduates!”

He’s never been an exceptionally good liar, so he’s glad when everyone in the room turns towards Emeline and cheers out loud despite apparently already hearing this news. He wades through the crowd and gives Emeline a hug, is enveloped by one from both a teary Marisol and Mrs. Abaya.

He’s standing back from the crowd as half a dozen aunts start setting up catering trays and plates when he feels a tap on his shoulder, looks over to see Jeremy gesturing for him to follow him out into the hallway.

“Hey, I just wanna say, man,” Jeremy claps his on the shoulder. “Thank you so much for what you did.”

“What I -- what exactly did I do?”

Jeremy smiles.

“Hey, no worries, Pete, I didn’t tell anyone since I know you want it kept a secret. So, I get this email yesterday, right? This foundation I never heard of and it just sounded almost too good to be true, plus their name wasn’t listed on the official foundation list that I got in the mail from the school. So I call the number on the website just to verify -- talk to the public relations guy there. Michael...something…” He snaps his fingers a few times. “Michael...Mike Roe!”

Frank barks out a laugh that he very hastily covers up with a cough and hopes that Jeremy doesn’t notice.

“So, uh, what’d Mike say?”

Jeremy grins widely at him.

“Says they’re a new foundation, just starting out -- which is why they hadn’t been on the mailer -- but a lot of money behind them. Anyway, we get to talking and -- well -- he finally says that you’d been the one to put in a nomination for Emeline.”

This time, he doesn’t have to pretend to be surprised.

“And hey, I get it -- why you didn’t tell me. In case it didn’t work out, right?”

Frank purses his lips and nods.  

“But, damn man, did it work out. That must’ve been some nomination you submitted because Mike said they don’t normally hand out awards this big.” He shakes his head, breathes out sharply. “And I just -- I really appreciate it, Pete. It was gonna break my heart to tell Emeline we couldn’t afford it.”

He nods, looks away from Jeremy and shrugs.

“No big deal, Jeremy. Didn’t really do much, you know -- just told the truth, clicked a few buttons.”

Jeremy laughs and shakes his head.

“Well, either way, I appreciate it.” He reaches over and gives Frank a quick hug. “Now c’mon, let’s go in there and eat before we get in trouble by one of the aunties.”

Forty-five minutes later, Jeremy is walking him to the door, a plastic bag holding various tupperware filled with leftover food in his hands.

“So, the dishwasher is actually broken,” Jeremy says sheepishly. “That wasn’t, like, a ruse or anything to get you to come over here. I just figured you wouldn’t wanna sit and fix it while everyone was having fun around you.”

Frank shrugs.

“Wouldn’t’ve minded.”

Jeremy laughs.

“I believe it.” He gestures towards the living room. “Sure you don’t wanna stay a little longer? Pretty sure someone’s gonna break out the karaoke machine soon, so that’s always a good time.”

Frank smiles and shakes his head.

“Maybe next time. I -- uh -- have a book I’ve been trying to finish, so --.” He shrugs. “You know.”

Jeremy nods, waves him out the door with an enthusiastic smile.

He sits in his car for a moment and scrolls through the pictures on his phone until he finds the one he wants to send.

It’s Emeline, standing in the kitchen, a crooked party hat on her head, flanked by her parents and Mrs. Abaya, with Frank crouched down next to her. He hadn’t wanted to be included, had only agreed when Mrs. Abaya had shot him a stern look and given a pointed gesture to the space next to Emeline -- which makes him almost 100% certain that the secret of his ‘nomination’ is no longer actually a secret.

Emeline is holding up her acceptance letter to Horace Mann, her parents and Mrs. Abaya beaming. His smile in the picture, too, is wide and genuine -- Emeline’s excitement rubbing off on him, maybe. Or perhaps from the warmth of Mrs. Abaya’s hand resting on his shoulder, Emeline’s arm threaded through his -- that feeling of belonging, of family.

He looks at the photo for a long moment and finds that his throat feels tight as he does. He takes a deep breath in and clears his throat before sending the picture to David.

Went well. Guess you’ve gotten pretty bad at keeping secrets though, Mike Roe.

David sends back a thumbs up emoji, followed by a text a moment later --

Thought you could use a few more people out there knowing that you’re a good man. 

[dfroza]

“gold perfected by fire, so that you can be truly rich.”

A line from Today’s reading of the Scriptures from John’s book of Revelation

[Christ’s Letter to Sardis]

Write the following to the messenger of the congregation in Sardis, for these are the words of the one who holds the seven Spirits of God and the seven stars:

I know all that you do and I know that you have a reputation for being really “alive,” but you’re actually dead! Wake up and strengthen all that remains before it dies, for I haven’t found your works to be perfect in the sight of my God. So remember all the things you’ve received and heard, then turn back to God and obey them. For if you continue to slumber, I will come to you like a thief, and you’ll have no idea at what hour I will come. Yet there are still a few in Sardis who have remained pure, and they will walk in fellowship with me in brilliant light, for they are worthy. And the one who experiences victory will be dressed in white robes and I will never, no never erase your name from the Book of Life. I will acknowledge your name before my Father and his angels. So the one whose heart is open let him listen carefully to what the Spirit is now saying to all the churches.

[Christ’s Letter to Philadelphia]

Write the following to the messenger of the congregation in Philadelphia, for these are the solemn words of the Holy One, the true one, who has David’s key, who opens doors that none can shut and who closes doors that none can open:

I know all that you’ve done. Now I have set before you a wide-open door that none can shut. For I know that you possess only a little power, yet you’ve kept my word and haven’t denied my name. Watch how I deal with those of the synagogue of Satan who say that they are Jews but are not, for they’re lying. I will make them come and bow down at your feet and acknowledge how much I’ve loved you. Because you’ve passionately kept my message of perseverance, I will also keep you from the hour of proving that is coming to test every person on earth. But I come swiftly, so cling tightly to what you have, so that no one may seize your crown of victory. For the one who is victorious, I will make you to be a pillar in the sanctuary of my God, permanently secure. I will write on you the name of my God and the name of the city of my God—the New Jerusalem, descending from my God out of heaven. And I’ll write my own name on you. So the one whose heart is open let him listen carefully to what the Spirit is now saying to all the churches.

[Christ’s Letter to Laodicea]

Write the following to the messenger of the congregation in Laodicea, for these are the words of the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the ruler of God’s creation:

I know all that you do, and I know that you are neither frozen in apathy nor fervent with passion. How I wish you were either one or the other! But because you are neither cold nor hot, but lukewarm, I am about to spit you from my mouth. For you claim, “I’m rich and getting richer—I don’t need a thing.” Yet you are clueless that you’re miserable, poor, blind, barren, and naked! So I counsel you to purchase gold perfected by fire, so that you can be truly rich. Purchase a white garment to cover and clothe your shameful Adam-nakedness. Purchase eye salve to be placed over your eyes so that you can truly see. All those I dearly love I unmask and train. So repent and be eager to pursue what is right. Behold, I’m standing at the door, knocking. If your heart is open to hear my voice and you open the door within, I will come in to you and feast with you, and you will feast with me. And to the one who conquers I will give the privilege of sitting with me on my throne, just as I conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne. The one whose heart is open let him listen carefully to what the Spirit is saying now to the churches.

The Book of Revelation, Chapter 3 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 14th chapter of 2nd Chronicles that documents the life & times of King Asa who succeeded King Abijah:

[King Asa]

Abijah died and was buried with his ancestors in the City of David. His son Asa became the next king.

For ten years into Asa’s reign the country was at peace.

Asa was a good king. He did things right in God’s eyes. He cleaned house: got rid of the pagan altars and shrines, smashed the sacred stone pillars, and chopped down the sex-and-religion groves (Asherim). He told Judah to center their lives in God, the God of their fathers, to do what the law said, and to follow the commandments. Because he got rid of all the pagan shrines and altars in the cities of Judah, his kingdom was at peace. Because the land was quiet and there was no war, he was able to build up a good defense system in Judah. God kept the peace.

Asa said to his people, “While we have the chance and the land is quiet, let’s build a solid defense system, fortifying our cities with walls, towers, gates, and bars. We have this peaceful land because we sought God; he has given us rest from all troubles.” So they built and enjoyed prosperity.

Asa had an army of 300,000 Judeans, equipped with shields and spears, and another 280,000 Benjaminites who were shield bearers and archers. They were all courageous warriors.

Zerah the Ethiopian went to war against Asa with an army of a million plus three hundred chariots and got as far as Mareshah. Asa met him there and prepared to fight from the Valley of Zephathah near Mareshah. Then Asa prayed to God, “O God, you aren’t impressed by numbers or intimidated by a show of force once you decide to help: Help us, O God; we have come out to meet this huge army because we trust in you and who you are. Don’t let mere mortals stand against you!”

God defeated the Ethiopians before Asa and Judah; the Ethiopians ran for their lives. Asa and his men chased them as far as Gerar; so many of the Ethiopians were killed that there was no fight left in them—a massacre before God and his troops; Judah carted off loads of plunder. They devastated all the towns around Gerar whose people were helpless, paralyzed by the fear of God, and looted the country. They also attacked herdsmen and brought back a lot of sheep and camels to Jerusalem.

The Book of 2nd Chronicles, Chapter 14 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Thursday, february 11 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons that takes a look at the 9th Commandment:

Shalom friends, I am continuing to discuss each of the Ten Commandments since they are related to our Torah reading for this week.... The Ninth Commandment prohibits swearing falsely against your neighbor in matters of law and civil proceedings, but, on a deeper level, it implicitly indicates the responsibility to be a witness of the truth at all times. Note that the Hebrew word for "truth" (emet) is composed from the first, the middle, and the last letters of the Hebrew Alphabet, thus indicating that it encompasses the first things, the last things, and everything in between. Thus, in relation to our neighbor (who is really everyone), we are to be truthful and bear witness to the truth in all our moments of life.

https://hebrew4christians.com/

2.10.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

February 11, 2021

The Living and the Written Word

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” (John 1:1)

The holy Scriptures and the person of our Lord Jesus Christ are so inseparably bound together that whatever calls into question the integrity and authority of one correspondingly casts aspersions on the other. Let us not be guilty of saying that the written Word and the incarnate Word are in all aspects the same, but the Bible does clearly reveal Christ as “the Word... made flesh, [who] dwelt among us” (John 1:14). “And his name is called The Word of God” (Revelation 19:13).

In carefully worded arguments, Christ time and again called attention to the fact that the teachings of the Old Testament Scriptures were actually teaching about Him. “Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me....For had ye believed Moses, ye would have believed me; for he wrote of me. But if ye believe not his writings, how shall ye believe my words?” (John 5:39, 46-47). “If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead” (Luke 16:31).

Therefore, those who diligently search the Scriptures find in them sufficient testimony to Christ, and where there is faith in the witness of Scripture, there will be faith in Christ and His words. But if men reject the testimony of Scripture, they will not even be convinced by His miraculous resurrection from the dead.

Christ claimed that all of Scripture pointed to Him. On the road to Emmaus, He taught that all three popular divisions of the Old Testament traced one progressive Messianic revelation. To understand the New Testament, we must know the Old, for both tell the same story, each amplifying the other. They are forever inseparable. JDM

An email from Glenn Jackson:

February 11th

* In Heaven no tears will be shed, for God will wipe all tears from our eyes. "There shall be no death, neither sorrow nor crying nor pain." How difficult to imagine such a changed world! Tears are the sad heritage of this life. Sorrow and pain flow from a thousand sources and deepen, widen, and darken earth's sorrow. Our sweetest relationships give birth to our greatest sorrows. Our distresses often flow from our joys. Death reigns. All this will be changed, and everything that gives pain and sorrow will be barred from Heaven forever. How bright the eyes undimmed by a sorrowful tear! How strong and free our souls and bodies will be, utter and eternal strangers to pain! How bright and joyous our hearts with never a cloud or a sorrow. How full of the richest life, untouched by decay and unshadowed by death, Heaven will be! All things are to be made new. There will be no marks of age, no common things, and no freshened or repainted old things.

All things will be absolutely new. A new world, a new life, a new career, a new history, a new environment, a new employment, and a new destiny - all things will be new. World dreams, pictures, poetry, fiction, and music have all failed to give the idea of that new world and its marvellous life. To live there is rapture. Its climax is, "He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be My son" (Revelation 21:7). It is the wonder and spectacle of angels. Type and shadow, precept and promise, both in the Old and New Testaments, are tokens and seals of the saints' inheritance after death.

No truth is more necessary to man and more in accordance with God's character, none more necessary to his glory, than the doctrine of Heaven. An eternal Heaven of purity and bliss through endless years is a doctrine that enables man and honours God. The existence of Heaven and its matchless perfection is a truth based upon the advent, person and work of Jesus Christ. Christ is the way to Heaven.

...."In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also"....John 14:2-3 KJV

[stark-park]

Once Upon a Child (6/9)

Chapter: 6 - Hear, Far, Wherever You Are

Other Chapters: 1  2  3  4  5  7  8  9

Summary: With their daughter enjoying her happy beginning and their infant son still young, Snowing decide they need a hobby, or at least, a way to help Storybrooke in the ways they used to with their kingdom in the Enchanted Forest. Therefore they decide to help those most unfortunate: the orphaned and lost children at Misthaven Home for Children. But when one child is unlike the others, their hearts and their home go out to him in the hopes they can help.

Rating: PG, there's nothing too horrifying, mostly fluff

Disclaimer: Based on ABC's Once Upon A Time and I do not own any of their characters, plots or locations. I am but a loyal fan, loving of the show and simply borrowing the beautiful characters.

Ellion woke in a different place to where he remembered falling asleep. After rubbing the sleep away, he left the bedroom in search of the sweet, yet unfamiliar, smell wafting from downstairs. Tentatively, he stepped into the kitchen. David was hovering over the stove; mixing, cooking, mixing, and cooking again. The dozen stacks of pancakes behind him evident of his morning productivity. Not only were there multitudes of the breakfast food, there was also a ton of variations; blueberry, chocolate chip, lemon, sugared, plain, the list continued.

"Good morning!" Snow greeted, entering the kitchen from the living room with a drooling toddler at her hip. She placed Neal in his highchair then gestured for Ellion to take a seat at the table. A quizzical expression took hold of her face as she noticed the hoard of pancakes.

"Um, Honey," She said, "We've discussed this before, we're not Romanian powerlifters."

Unblinking, David replied, "I didn't know if there'd be enough."

"David, there's enough to feed the whole of Storybrooke. Sit down and eat some."

Breakfast went down well with Ellion trying each pancake and the two adults fussing over what sauce was best to accompany each. Neal was happier to use his as a canvas for finger painting than actually eating anything. Mellow tunes played from the radio and at no point did Ellion stop glowing.

After breakfast and a quick clean up, it was back to the hospital. Though Doctor Whale had expressed uncertainty as to the success of the hearing aids, Snow and Charming were quietly hopeful.

The aids were fitted. The little boy, his glow vanished over the unknown, looked up at the adults, neither understanding what it was he should do, or what was about to happen.

He turned curiously to the man with oddly coloured hair; white blonde but, it didn't quite seem natural. Ellion was unsure as to whether this man could truly be trusted. He was also weary of the fact that the last few minutes had revolved around his ears being prodded by said man. There came a bizarre tickling as something made itself at home.

Utterly confused, Ellion looked to Snow and David for comfort; for a sign of approval. His frown made Snow's optimistic smile descend into apprehension. David on the other hand, encouraged his wife, telepathically of course, in the way only this couple could attain. Dr Whale also gave Snow a prompting hand gesture.

Wondering what on Earth she might say to a boy who was to hear, presumably, his first words; Snow mentally prepared herself for, in her eyes, this monumental occasion. Her mind went back to the discussion that morning.

*****

"This is a major thing David!" Snow protested, letting the volume of her voice rise as much as she dare, keeping in mind the boys sleeping in the nearby bedrooms. The couple lay in bed, their backs against the headboard, contemplating the day.

"I know Honey, but I think you're putting too much pressure on yourself-"

"Pressure? David, this is the first word he's going to hear! What if I say it wrong? What if I croak? What if I don't say it loud enough? What if-"

"There are a lot of 'what ifs' Snow." He cut in, rubbing his thumb along her hand, making sure not to press too hard and risk spilling her tea. "Worrying is only making you suffer more than needed, calm down and let's talk it through."

Snow hated her husband sometimes, in a loving way of course. How could he be so calm? How could he think so rationally when there was a little boy in the other room who was going to have a totally new experience that day?

"David-"

"Snow." David said, stopping her before she could start fretting once more, "I know you want his first words to be profound, or poetic, but we have to think about what he needs: he has to be able to understand us. That means we need something-"

"-simple." Snow finished, nodding in agreement. She was beginning to come to terms with his rationale yet, there was still something niggling on her subconscious, something pulling at her nerves. Hoping it would null a few of her qualms, Snow took a sip of her steadily chilling tea.

"All I'm trying to say," David offered, "Is that Joe will remember the experience, the feeling, of hearing for the first time; he probably won't worry about what word it is."

*****

Snow sat frozen, the events of the morning's discussion scrolling through her mind, until a warm hand clutched her own, squeezing calmness into her thumping heart. David gave her a reassuring nod and all the worries of the moment washed away.

In the softest tone she could utter, Snow let out the simplest of words, "Hello."

*****

It had been a few days since the appointment; Snow and David were growing more and more anxious over the success of the hearing aids. However, the tables had turned with David being the one frantically worrying over what it was they should do, and Snow being the one with the reasonable explanations.

Once again, they found themselves in a discussion over their morning tea, sitting in bed before the the boys woke up. As permitted by the Blue fairy, Ellion was staying with the Charmings for as long as he needed to adjust. The children's home, Dr Whale had said, was much too noisy for someone with newly acquired hearing (if the aids were successful that is).

"What if they didn't work?" David questioned, before knocking back some of his tea, only for his head to recoil in mild pain at the heat.

"I'm sure he's still adjusting to them." Snow reasoned.

"He hasn't spoken a word in four days! The damage was clearly too much. We're gonna just have to learn sign language. Do you think we can teach him sign language? Do you think he'll even understand? Maybe-"

"David." Snow urged, "Joe is Ancient Greek - or at least - he writes in it. It's understandable if he's taking a little while to grasp English."

"Okay, okay, but I think we should still get him tested, just to check if he can actually talk." David admitted, conjuring up a fallback plan. He couldn't imagine what Ellion had been through, but he couldn't justify the idea of hearing and not at least trying to communicate.

"Alright," Snow concurred, hoping it would put her husband's mind at ease, "We'll book another appointment with Whale, but, we give him a few more days."

David considered the proposal: "How many days are a few? Two?"

"We can go with two." She confirmed. David's shoulders rested slightly as he breathed out.

A small wail sounded through the baby monitor as an impatient infant waited to escape his crib. A knocking began as Neal banged his bottle against the wooden bars. Snow and David heaved themselves from underneath the toasty blankets, with him getting ready for another morning tending the farm, and her heading to the nursery to tend to their son.

*****

When breakfast came, David's thoughts and nerves regarding Ellion's hearing were set aside, his focus on speaking loud and clear, just in case the boy was still learning. On this morning, Snow had set out a range of breakfast foods; eggs, bacon, baked beans, toast and crumpets, each with their own multiplying entourage.

"Could you pass the butter, please?" David announced, emphasising the key words.

"Yes." Snow replied, handing him the plate of butter, "Please could you pass me the sugar?" Along with emphasising the key words in their sentences, Snow had apparently also made different sentence structures an importance too.

"BEANS!" Neal howled cheerfully, his orange fingers and face displaying his love for the messy food.

"Please." Snow said, holding the bowl in front of him.

"Peas." Neal repeated the best he could. Manners and politeness went a long way, Snow always said.

Cat Stevens' Don't Be Shy played in the background as the beans were spooned into Neal's panda-shaped bowl. He giggled at the sight of his favourite food as Ellion decided on his choice of breakfast. An empty plate stared up at him whilst his stomach grumbled aggressively.

"Please can you pass the scrambled eggs and bacon?" Ellion asked. Emphasising the important words just as he had heard the adults say. David looked up from his plate, the blob of butter falling off his knife as he gawked at the child.

"Snow." He said finally.

"I heard." She replied, accepting the fact much quicker than her husband. She grinned and passed him the eggs, holding back tears of joy.

"He-here you go." David added, placing way too many rashers of bacon onto Ellion's plate as a result of sheer ecstasy.

"Ta." Ellion thanked, clearly having picked up on the couple's insistence of the word to Neal.

Snow pressed her hand to her chest in delight, managing to subtly wipe a stray tear away in the process.

His first words. Ellion had spoken his first words in front of them. All the worrying they'd done had been for nothing: Ellion's aids were working and his voice was undamaged. Snow and David couldn't have been happier if they tried.

*****

Though they didn't want to, Snow and David let Ellion return to Misthaven. That didn't stop Snow signing on to teach Ellion one to one however, amongst her usual classes, she scheduled time in which to practise English with him.

Ellion's learning progressed rapidly and Snow discovered the reason why he had waited so long to speak. It wasn't that he couldn't hear, it's that he wanted to perfect his pronunciation and understanding of the words.

It came to the session where Snow was helping Ellion with his understanding of nouns and pronouns. It was unusual for him to ask questions so when the time came, Snow was a little baffled.

"A noun, is the name of something. My name is Snow. This," Snow tapped her biro, "Is called a pen. These words are what we call things so we know what they are."

"Is Joe a noun?" Ellion asked, his face creased in confusion.

"Yes!" Snow beamed, thrilled by his understanding. "Yes, Joe is a noun."

"It is my name?" He continued. It made Snow pause; she suddenly remembered that it was short for 'John Doe' and in fact nobody knew his real name. How it had taken this long to realise Snow would kick herself, yet here she was, in the unique position to ascertain his real name.

"Well," She began, hesitating as she pieced a plan together on the spot, "It isn't your real name. We call you Joe because we don't know what your name is."

The boy considered the information he was given, the phrase 'real name' took him a moment.

"Real name?"

"Yes. Um, how do I explain this?" Snow asked herself, hoping an idea would come quickly.

Before she spoke, there came: "El-lee-on."

"Ellion?" Snow repeated, "Is that your name?" She smiled encouragingly. He nodded, sure he was correct in his understanding. Ellion was, after all, what he was referred to by his mother: Vega.

"Ellion. That's a lovely name."

*****

The weeks flew. By this point, Ellion was engaging in regularly scheduled visits to the Charming farmhouse for extra lessons with Snow, and a handful of fun sword-fighting lessons from David (after homework was completed of course). Though sword-fighting would no longer be needed in Storybrooke, it was a skill David found enjoyable to pass on.

One day, Snow visited her husband at the station. He was covering one of Emma's shifts, filing documents and paperwork as she walked through the door.

"HE DID IT!" Snow bragged, overjoyed and holding celebratory donuts.

"He did? That's great!" David whooped.

"Did what?" Killian asked, spinning in his desk chair, "Who did what?"

"Ellion! He's passed the last few tests I gave him, and guess what!" Snow couldn't contain her excitement.

"I couldn't possibly imagine." Killian quipped, his shoulders shrugging.

"He has moved up three whole boundaries in his English language and is now reading at the same level, if not better, than the rest of his class!" She squealed.

"Yes!" David yelled, the pride in his voice clear, as he pulled his wife into an embrace.

"If this doesn't make him Star of the Week, I don't know what will." Killian added, the pride over his pun transcending his usual smirk.

"David," Snow whispered, peeling herself from his joyful grasp, "I think we're too attached."

She noticed her husbands eyebrows raise and quickly added, "To Ellion." Like Killian, David was a sucker for a 'dad-joke'.

He dragged Snow back into his arms, whispering to her: "I think you're right."

Other Chapters: 1  2  3  4  5  7  8  9

[asflowersfade]

Scribble-Doodle: Six Months of Death

A mashup of TV and book spoilers. Jace gets dead. Clary asks Raziel to bring him back - too bad she doesn’t specify when exactly should this miracle take place. Or, Raziel is a petty bastard. A parabatai fic with hints of Malec/Clace

Jace doesn’t know what he expected when he knocked on the door of the Herondale mansion, but this definitely wasn’t it.

When Raziel finally fulfills his promise and brings him back, Jace snaps back into existence in the middle of Central Park. Not the most holy of places, certainly, but considering that just moments ago, he was dead, he’s not about to complain about where his resurrection took place. The timing, though, that could’ve been better.

Six months. That’s how long it took Raziel to move his angelic ass and fulfill Clary’s wish. To say that Raziel was not happy about being disturbed by mere mortals would be putting it mildly, and since Clary didn’t actually specify when she wanted Jace to be brought back, Raziel took his celestial time in a petty revenge. Angels and Seelies, not much difference between them, as Jace’s learned.

The first place he goes to is the New York Institute, of course, his home. And if he’s ever had doubts about people loving and missing him there? Not anymore. Their welcome’s almost overwhelming in its warmth and relief. Clary did tell them about Raziel and her wish and the angel’s promise but with each passing day and week and month the chances of Jace actually coming back became slimmer and slimmer, so his resurrection… yeah, a real miracle for his family and friends.

But it soon becomes apparent to Jace that he’s returned to a world much changed, to a world that has moved on without him while still waiting for him to come back. And he understands it, he really does, his loved ones couldn’t have just frozen their lives in place like flies trapped in amber. It still feels… odd, uncomfortable, that there are so many things now that he doesn’t know about.

Like the fact that Maryse got her position as the Head of the Insitute back. And that she divorced Robert. And that she’s now dating - do people of her age still date? - well, seeing Luke Garroway . Luke. Garroway. Not that they aren’t a good fit, mind you… it’s just, well, weird.

And Robert’s now the Inquisitor! The news of Imogen’s passing hit Jace really hard - she was his only living relative left, but it’s true that he didn’t know her all that well, though he hoped to change that - but he’s glad that it was Robert who was named in her place. His cheating aside, Robert’s a good man. And he’s living with his lover now, David Whatshisface. A guy! The Inquisitor’s bedding a man. Huh, the times really a-changing. And Jace was only gone for six months!

Izzy and Simon are now an item, too. And they’re just the oddest couple that Jace could imagine. But what the heck does he know, right? And because Simon’s apparently become the new leader of the New York vampire clan, everyone’s suddenly seeing Izzy’s dating a Downworlder as a “wise political choice.” Right. Angel’s foot!

Clary… Seeing Clary again is a like a punch in the gut. Still the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, her smile sets his heart all aflutter. She’s waited for him. And she tells him she would’ve waited for his return till her dying breath. He might’ve cried a little, not that he would ever admit that to anyone. But yeah, he did. Not even six months of death could make him stop loving her. He’s glad she feels the same.

She returned back to school, studying art. She apparently convinced the Clave it would help her with her rune making. Bull, really, but it got the Clave to back off and let her do her thing. She’s become entirely too proud of her ability to lie with a straight face to get what she wants. That’s his Clary!

And then there’s Alec… who’s not where he should be: not with Magnus, not at the Institute… not in Jace’s soul. Their bond’s gone, broken, torn. But Jace’ll get it back, if he has to pluck Raziel’s feathery appendages bald to force the bastard to make them whole again!

Jace knocks on the door of the Herondale mansion and waits, shifting from foot to foot impatiently. It takes almost a full minute for the door to open, and when it does, Jace’s breath catches in his throat. Alec…

Yes, Alec. After Imogen’s death, there were no more Herondales - Jace’s waiting-to-be-resurrected status didn’t count - so it was Alec who inherited the Herondale estate as Jace’s parabatai. And that’s where he retreated to when everything went to hell.

“Alec…” Jace whispers, seeing his parabatai for the first time in six months.

Alec stands there and just stares at Jace in utter incomprehension. And Jace’s heart aches for him. Six months has passed but Alec looks haggard, drained… damaged. He’s pale and unshaven - there’s silver in his hair; Angel, he’s twenty-three! - his shoulders are stooped and he’s dressed in sensible shoes and pants and a worn sweater that’s seen better days; no more combat boots and gear for him. He looks, well, nothing like Jace’s Alec. And yet, it’s him.

Blinking dazedly, Alec licks his lips several times before finally finding his voice. “Jace?” he croaks out with disbelief and despair and hope.

And Jace hugs him. He pulls Alec into his arms and he hangs onto him and he rocks him gently from side to side, till Alec’s frozen stance relaxes and his tense body becomes pliant and he melts into Jace’s embrace, gripping the back of his leather jacket tight in his fists. Yes, yes, Jace’s here, he’s truly here and they’re back together again.

But their bond’s still dead, the connection’s gone. And Jace wants to rage because he thought… he hoped that… he put everything on this one card, that once they get back together, once they touch… but no. There’s still only silence.

Jace wants to rage and scream - instead, he lets Alec make him coffee.

“So, what went wrong?” Jace asks quietly, stirring his coffee, entirely too black and too strong for anyone’s liking but his. Alec remembered.

Alec looks up from his own cup, cradled in his hands. They’re sitting in the kitchen of the Herondale mansion, a rustic affair. There’s no one but them in the house. Apparently, there hasn’t been anyone but Alec residing here ever since he moved in. Jace’s liking the state of things less and less by the minute.

“Is that a trick question?” Alec asks with narrowed eyes. “You died, Jace.”

Waving a hand, Jace responds. “Well, apart from that. You were the Head of the Institute, it was your dream. And you and Magnus were on your way to become the stuff of romantic legends. Now I find you here, hermitting away like a monk in the Middle Ages.” Jace rests his elbows on the table and leans closer. “Come on, Alec. Talk to me.”

Alec, who’s sitting on the other side of the table, turns his head to look out of the window; the sun’s setting outside. “Even before you... died, everything wasn’t perfect. Not remotely so and you know it.” He turns back. “Everything I’ve done since I became the Head of the Institute went wrong. Jonathan, Valentine, the Cabinet…” He shakes his head and smiles ruefully. “By the Angel, I had so many plans. It just shows how naive I was.”

Jace frowns. “Alec--”

But Alec interrupts him. “And then Max died. And the war began in earnest. And then y-you died. You were just gone, Jace,” he says, his face is full of desolation. “I’ve never known such a pain. And it went on and on and on. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think. Magnus tried, Raziel knows he did. But it wasn’t just that - he’s the leader of his people, just like I was of mine, and that was putting even more stress on our relationship…”

He sighs and turns the cup in his hands. And then again. And again. “It became too much. I wasn’t handling your death - and Max’s death and all my failures - well and everyone was suffering because of it: Magnus, our family, our people. So I just” --he shrugs-- “left.”

“You gave up,” Jace points out and he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it at all. Impossible just means try again, that’s been always Alec’s motto.

Alec shrugs again. “Call it as you like. I was of no use to anyone in that state. I was making your death - and the fact that Raziel seemingly broke his word to bring you back - harder on everyone. I needed to put myself back together first, before I could even begin to be there for others. And since someone had to take care of Imogen’s estate” --he waves a hand around-- “I thought it was as good a reason as any to take a break.”

Jace lifts his eyebrows. “Take a break? So, this,” --now it’s his turn to wave a hand around-- “is not a permanent thing?”

Alec lifts one corner of his mouth. “Well, luckily, the new Head of the New York Institute is our mother, so I have a standing invitation to come back - even the Clave couldn’t say a thing against someone mourning the loss of his parabatai, especially since that person, that means me, inherited the Herondale estate!

“And Magnus…” This time, his smile’s more genuine but also much sadder. “He agreed that a break might do us some good. He’d seen in the past, what the loss of a parabatai could do to a Shadowhunter. He was very… understanding. Probably much more than I deserved.”

“Nonsense,”Jace dismisses his words. “You deserve the world.”

Alec’s smile widens and a little color returns to his pale face. He clears his throat. “And what about you?” he changes the subject. “We keep talking about me, but you were the one who died! Raziel. You were dead, Jace!”

Jace grimaces. “Tell me about it.” He blows out a breath and stares deeply into his cup for a while; the coffee’s gone cold. “I don’t remember much. I remember being stabbed and then waking up - in Central Park, of all places, would you believe that? Those are the two things I remember clearly. But the time in-between…”

“Yeah?” Alec prompts Jace when he falls silent again.

Thinking it over, Jace tries to explain, “I remember impressions. Warmth, love, safety… I think-I think I was with my mom and dad, Alec,” he says in a hushed tone, looking up at his parabatai. “My real mom and dad. And I was happy. I think... I wanted to stay. Over there. With them,” he admits reluctantly.

“Oh,” Alec whispers, dropping his eyes. His shoulders slump again.

“No!” Jace rushes to say and reaches out across the table to grip Alec’s wrist. “It’s not like that, Alec. I would never leave you, you’re my parabatai, I would never - you have to believe me!” he implores.

Alec warily looks up. His eyes are hooded. “Then why? Why wouldn’t you want to come back to us? To me?”

“Because I couldn’t - no. I didn’t think I could,” Jace corrects himself. “I thought that was it. I was dead. All there was left for me, was what comes after. Where I would wait for you. Where I met them. I was as happy as I could be - while you and Clary and all the others were over here and I was over there. Do you get that?”

Please, tell me you do, he thinks.

Grudgingly, Alec nods. “I guess. Besides... we aren’t parabatai anymore,” he reminds Jace quietly. “Our bond broke when you died.”

Jace grips Alec’s wrist even tighter. “Bull! You are my parabatai, bond or not! And I will figure out what went wrong. Raziel healed me, he healed everything, he brought me back as good as new. I will find out what went wrong with our bond and I will fix it, I swear, Alec!” He shakes Alec’s wrists to emphasize his words.

Alec stares at him searchingly for a long time, then he lets go of his cup with the hand that Jace’s gripping, and turns it palm up. They clasp hands and hold on tight.

“Alright,” Alec says softly. “Alright. I’m just glad you’re back. Even if we never get our bond back, I’m happy you’re here, with me. I just hope that--” He falls silent, then he swallows painfully. “I just hope you don’t regret coming back.”

Jace thinks about it, really thinks about it, hard. He wants to be perfectly sure of his answer, he doesn’t want his words to sound like empty platitudes. Does he regret coming back? Well, he misses his parents, true, the feeling of safety they gave him, but… No, he doesn’t regret coming back, returning to life, to Clary and his family - and his parabatai. Without Alec, he would forever be incomplete.

He smiles. “No, I don’t regret it. I’m exactly where I should be.”

And in that moment, just like that, their bond snaps back in place, flooding them both with the other’s emotions. The sensation’s so overwhelming that they gasp out loud, their eyes flying wide open, and they cling to each other so tightly their knuckles turn white.

Oh, Jace thinks in wonder, feeling the familiar throbbing in his chest, the most beautiful sensation in the world. So that’s all it took? This realization?

“Jace,” Alec whispers, amazed.

Jace grins wide. “Yeah,” he breathes out, lacing their fingers together. “Yeah…”

Now, now everything’s perfect, Jace thinks, before getting up to walk around the table and hug his parabatai, not letting go of him even for a second.

Thank you, Raziel. 

You’re still a petty bastard, though!

[tinabritton-photography]

Who Am I? Not Finished with the Blog yet

I have been asking myself this question for as long as I can remember. When I was 6, I began drawing with pen and ink. I took photos when I was young when I was allowed to, but was never allowed a camera of my own. I was always so excited when my mom got the film developed and printed, to see which ones I had taken. When I was 11, I began writing. In my 20s I started a family to which all my time was dedicated. In my 30s, I understood something was missing in my life and I went back to college. I found photography again. When I went into the darkroom for the first time, I found peace. Real peace. The pitch dark filled with the deep red lights sparked something in me I had not felt since the first time I picked up a pen to draw with.  I started my own darkroom at home and Boudior Studio for intimate gifts for their spouses. I then bought a digital camera and taught myself how to use Photoshop. 

But there is still something . . . missing. 

Soon to come are some practice images. Those I thought would work. I love working up to a project. Taking practice shots. It helps the mind gear up. Research should always be a huge part of a project. How else will you spark the ideas? 

What is a Triptych? 

Most artists and photographers will know the answer to this, however, do they actually know the importance of a triptych? What does, using a triptych format, add to an artwork? Why would one choose to do this? Triptychs have been around since 

(Lori McNee & Fine Art Tips, 2019)

Annie Leibovitz

The first photographer I am researching is Annie Leibovitz. I have been a long time fan of Leibovitz. Her lighting styles and creative poses as well as her sets amaze me. 

I find this photo just perfect. Here we have Annie Leibovitz in casual dark grey clothing and walking boots. Everything about her screams natural, from her hair to her smile and her pose. She is comfortably resting her hands on her camera. I can only imagine it to be her favourite object. She blends with the backdrop she has chosen for this self-portrait. All the colours, save the beauty light in the background go well together. It’s an even playing field. The beauty light being backlighting her from behind and to the side causes a soft glow on Leibovitz’s hair, face and shoulder closest to it. There is enough contrast in the image to be pleasing to the eye. I do find that my eye is being constantly drawn to the light, but I still like it there. It works somehow. There is an s-curve here. I doubt Annie has much time in her day to day to take a load of self-portraits, this strikes me as a ‘I just sat down for a break and took this’ sort of image. I love the vertical lines in the wood behind her. If they were horizontal, I don't think the image would work so well for me. The light seems soft, but I am now noticing a bit more harsh light pattern on the floor but I am not convinced that is light. It looks more like a stain on the floor. This photo ‘feels’ like a working shot. It ‘feels’ like it was taken in the back of a barn studio. I love it. 

Annie with her favourite object. (Phaidon, 2019)

This is such a calm image of Annie. This, to me, looks like a living areas perhaps in a studio? I’m not quite sure, but I don't think it matters. What matters is that this space is comfortable and Annie is at ease here. The contrast is fantastic, and the light feels harsh here. Perhaps a speed light? It is certainly not natural light. The composition seems to flow to the left, which feels strange to me. I like that Annie is not positioned in the centre. 

Annie Leibovitz in her space. (Frank, Frank and Nicholas, 2019)

Self-Portrait . . .

Here we have Leibovitz, a fashion photographer, as herself, on a roof-top darting (almost leaping) across in front of her camera, another camera in hand (perhaps in her left hand she holds a trigger. She is dressed all in black wearing comfortable shoes. This self-portrait depicts Leibovitz how she must feel as she moves through her life: always on the move, always working. The landscape image is on a tilt and depicts the city behind her. She is frozen in mid run. Fantastic black and white image.

(Artnet.com, 2019)

David Bailey

Another photographer I admire is David Bailey.

This self-portrait includes David Bailey and a dramatic scarf on a clean white background. The man himself looks straight into the camera. His expression is serious. There is an age of wisdom in his eyes, and a sterness perhaps. He knows what his likes and demands respect in this image.

(Maddocks, 2019)(Dazed, 2019)

David Bailey in studio. How can this not be his favourite place?

(FANTASTIC MAN, 2019)

(WOLFGANG WEBSTER GALLERY, 2019)

Richard Avedon

Richard Avedon, a fahsion photographer, in his studio . . . Richard is leaping in front of the camera. This is an excellent image. We have various studio equipment and a white backdrop. I can only imagine that his is describing what he wants his model to do. They image is stark white in areas, with almost a clean white feel in the background on the white. You can se Avedon’s shadow beneath him on the dirty floor. I love contrast, and this image is not short on that, having the blackest of blacks and several shades of ‘white’. Even the floor and white walls are delineated in the background on the left. The room feels like it is tilting slightly to the right in the direction he is leaping.

(Joeinct.tumblr.com, 2019)

Here we Have Richard Avedon with his favourite object. The film is grainy, his glasses are pushed up onto his forehead and he’s holding his beloved Rollieflex camera. The studio light is close to his face, the light is blown out and it is bouncing on whatever is in front of him as its image is reflected in his glasses. The light here is harsh, but it works. Because the light is blown out on his nose and hand, it seems to balance the light between him and the studio lamp. Where the light is shining, the image is grainy. The image is presented in hight contrast, and is overexposed bottom and bottom left and where the light is.  

(billdobbins, 2019)

Again, we have Richard Avedon. This is a self portrait. I adore this, not only for the Clean White look, but also for the high contrast. Avedon is treble exposed here, or so it seems. The photographer is holding up his negative image over half of his fact. Very cool. Then we have a closer 3/4 view of Avedon’s face on the left. I am not sure what the terrycloth looking object is over his forehead. I find it distracting, bit it does add texture. 

(Flickr, 2019) I could only find this image here. Will look for it in books. 

Irving Penn

Irving Penn is a fashion photographer. The image below is a self-portrait of Penn himself. The mirror is cracked in a couple of places creating jagged horizontal spaces. The image has a dark quality to it, and I don’t just mean the dark contrast, or the slight purple tint. There is a mayhem in his gaze as he looks directly into the lens and this has a cubist style about it.

(Irving Penn: In A Cracked Mirror (Self-Portrait) (A), 2019)

Other Photographer’s work . . .

While the triptych below is not exactly “Who Am I”, it is close to it. In trying to analyse this image, I wondered what it was actually about. 

Monica BiancardiIl Palazzo di Atlante (triptych), 2019 Shazar Gallery. (Artsy.net, 2019) “According to the Neapolitan artist, Punti di Vista is a project on light, natural or created by art, which reflects on perspectives that are always different”.

Who Am I?

Well, I’m a tree hugger, I can tell you that. I love walking in the woods and soaking up all the ‘zen’. I can be heard or even seen talking to a tree. I get this feeling off of them and I feel like this one is a male, this one a female. Strange I know. But hey, that’s who I am. I have toyed with 3 different ‘Who’ projects. I am torn actually. There is a place I love to go in Port Glasgow called Finlaystone Country Estate - A large country estate in Renfrewshire near Glasgow, seat of the current Chief of the Clan MacMillan. I always take my camera there. I shy away from too much noise. For me, it’s sensory overload, so I stay away from the more populated areas. For my first ‘Who’ Project, I am thinking of me, in the woods, talking to my favourite tree. Yes, he has a name. I am masculine by nature, even though I realise I come off all ‘woman’ I have always felt masculine. I don’t know why. I digress, there is a place there in the woods, that makes me happy. It’s an old shack full of wonderful old things. I could sit there and look at the window for hours. and for my favourite object, well, the tree of course, but, I’m not sure? Is that tree overload? I will have to toy with perspective. Also, I have a branch that sits in my studio I could use for my favourite objects. Images taken 14th September. 

The 2nd ‘Who’ that I am would be showing my other artistic endeavours. I began drawing with a pen when I was 6. My darkroom doubles for my art studio. When I am really struggling, I always return to the roots of my creativity. I feel almost childlike as I sit and draw with nothing but a pencil and pen. Below is me drawing my next masterpiece, (insert laughing emoji here). So this would be my self portrait, my hut, or the woods, as these are linked would be my favourite place, and for my favourite object, in this case, would be my quill and pens and a bottle of ink. 

The 3rd ‘Who’ that I am is a photographer. This is my heaven. I haven’t been able to get it entirely up and running yet. I still need the blackout cloth recommended to me. I have ordered chemicals. Waiting is the hard part. I am impatient, although, you would never know it if you saw me drawing above. So, my favourite place in this 3rd ‘Who’ would of course be my darkroom. My favourite object, my Olympus film camera, and my self portrait, perhaps me, being that only camera. I have also considered a self portrait of myself laying in my ‘rinsing tray’.

Below are my initial contact sheets

I took way more images than I am showing here. Some would call me an over-achiever. I call myself thorough; I leave nothing to chance. I would rather have more images than I need, than not enough. NOT ENOUGH=DO IT AGAIN. While I don’t mind, once the briefs begin shooting at us in rapid fire succession, “do it again” is time I might not have. My black and white film professor in America told me that it takes a 100+ photos (this was with actual film!) to get 1 good image. I live by that! The images below were taken 1st September at 8pm-ish.

In the image below, I only have a few items in Actual focus. My thought process is this - that in our lives, there are really important things, primary things, and then there are things of secondary importance, and further still, a tertiary importance. This image says loads about me. First, it is in my private place. No one but me enters here. on the back wall, there is an old calendar of Johnny Depp images, that is because I love Johnny Depp movies. He is of tertiary meaning in my life, so, he is only half there, and in the blurred portion of the image. So, if you put a level of importance on the varying degrees of focus, you, as the viewer begin to realise what is truly important to me on a creative level. I am a lover of high contrast and gloom, even in my images. Thus one would say this image is underexposed. I like extreme contrast in an image. The blacker the better. I would say I don’t know why, but I actually do. I’m just wired that way, and I take after my father. My mother is ‘of the light’, and he is ‘of the dark’. 

The image of my two very good friends in the camera frame sitting behind my rinsing tray is actually of more importance than I have portrayed it. When I retake the image, I will move it possibly onto the platform of the enlarger. The troll dolls also. They are of importance to me because of my mom. So they too need to be a bit more forward. 

I have many objects in my life that are important to me. I cling to the inanimate. I don’t know why. There is cold comfort perhaps. They never let me down.

There is 4th “Who” that I am. In America, when I was very dark in my thoughts, I would take my camera to a special place that was behind another of my favourite places. The Urbana cemetery. It was a beautiful cemetery with mature trees and ancient stones. I loved walking through an reading names and it gave me a boost because those people’s journeys were over, but mine was still ongoing. I used to say to myself, this too shall pass. Then I would go into the woods and take images of my tree friends. During an art exhibition, I won best of show and at a personal show, a Professor of the University of Illinois purchased my fav image from that time. My show was called, “The Coincidence of Light and Design”. 

Below are only some of the images from my personal show. 

Below is the image purchased by the University professor. I had printed it on rag paper large banners size. The frame was raw wood in keeping with the theme.

So, in line with these images, I went to the cemetery in Port Glasgow high up on a hill, close to wear my mother-in-law resides, and I took images there. Here are the contact sheets. 

For my Who triptych, I’ve decided on a portrait format. It seems somehow right to have them side by side. I’ve never really enjoyed the horizontal/landscape. Even in my pen and ink drawings, the paper is always in portrait.

Below are the images I am thinking, out of all the hundreds I took, that I think would work best.

Now I only need to decide, and put together my triptych. Below I am showing showing my process of choosing images. I open photoshop, create a storyboard of sorts and then start inserting images I am choosing from.

After careful consideration, and after choosing images based on how they flow together, and what each image means to me, I have chosen the 3 below to be in my triptych. I wanted them to have a dreaminess about them, because when I am where I need to be to heal, it indeed feels like a dream.

Lori McNee & Fine Art Tips. (2019). 3 Reasons Why Triptych Art Is Successful. [online] Available at: https://www.finearttips.com/2014/01/3-reasons-why-triptych-art-is-successful/ [Accessed 11 Sep. 2019].

Frank, N., Frank, N. and Nicholas, M. (2019). Photographer Annie Leibovitz: Capturing Both Family and the Famous. [online] Rivard Report. Available at: https://therivardreport.com/photographer-annie-leibovitz-capturing-both-family-and-the-famous/ [Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].

Dazed. (2019). David Bailey on how the internet made everything mediocre. [online] Available at: https://www.dazeddigital.com/photography/article/34108/1/catching-up-with-the-ultimate-enfant-terrible-david-bailey [Accessed 20 Sep. 2019].

Phaidon. (2019). Annie Leibovitz on Hockney, Lennon and Instagram  | Photography | Agenda | Phaidon. [online] Available at: https://uk.phaidon.com/agenda/photography/articles/2018/december/13/annie-leibovitz-on-hockney-lennon-and-instagram/ [Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].

Maddocks, F. (2019). David Bailey: Reg Kray said: ‘Ere, Da’. I wish I could have done it legit like you’. [online] the Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2015/jul/05/david-bailey-stardust-exhibition-edinburgh-photographer-interview [Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].

FANTASTIC MAN. (2019). Men: David Bailey. [online] Available at: https://www.fantasticman.com/men/david-bailey [Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].

WOLFGANG WEBSTER GALLERY. (2019). David Bailey 365 — WOLFGANG WEBSTER GALLERY. [online] Available at: https://www.wolfgangwebstergallery.com/david-bailey-365/ [Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].

Joeinct.tumblr.com. (2019). Tumblr. [online] Available at: https://joeinct.tumblr.com/post/179417865777/richard-avedon-in-the-studio-new-york-photo-by [Accessed 9 Sep. 2019].

billdobbins, V. (2019). RICHARD AVEDON: Picturing Models In Motion. [online] Bill Dobbins On Photography. Available at: https://onphotography.me/2017/02/01/samys-camera-looks-at-richard-avedon/ [Accessed 9 Sep. 2019].

Flickr. (2019). Avedon, Richard - self portrait. [online] Available at: https://www.flickr.com/photos/32357038@N08/3206593346 [Accessed 9 Sep. 2019].

Artnet.com. (2019). Self-portrait by AnnieLeibovitz. [online] Available at: http://www.artnet.com/artists/annie-leibovitz/self-portrait-KUndaue0FLDJgWIWr-r1Hw2 [Accessed 9 Sep. 2019].

Artsy.net. (2019). Punti di Vista - Monica Biancardi | Shazar Gallery | Artsy. [online] Available at: https://www.artsy.net/show/shazar-gallery-punti-di-vista-monica-biancardi [Accessed 11 Sep. 2019].

[bestwishes86]

Open Container - A Wolf Creek Short Story

“I got a good feeling. It doesn’t happen. Very Often.” Phoebe Bridgers

When David got the call he was just sitting down in his living room with “Game of Thrones” on his 42 inch flat screen. The fresh bowl of Pop Secret and a Heineken sat on the polished coffee table. Hadley was at the Tailgating party for the Puritans and he was on call with the station. He had spent the morning cleaning the upscale brownstone once back from Seattle to clear his head. The drive with that gay asshole had fucked with him more than he wanted to think about. So he had busied himself, not thinking about him walking out of the missing woman’s shower naked. He could still see the words in other languages and black swirls running across that pale skin. As he had polished every surface he could still see the tattoos had covered even the plump flaccid cock between those thick legs.

His bookshelves were filled with paperback novels from the eighties and nineties and every Disney movie with the large white boxes and the faded art and a selection of dvds. The books and movies had belonged to his parents and he couldn’t bring himself to throw any of it away. His wife Penelo had done the decorating and so three oil paintings of landscapes in polished wood frames hung on the walls on either side of the flat screen.

David sat on the soft dark leather couch and was pulling his remote to him when his phone rang. Internally he thought about ignoring it incase it was another call about cow tipping or another horrible trip to Seattle to pick up another gay asshole who smelled like honeysuckle and blood. Seeing the name LInds on the caller id he grabbed it and swiped right to answer it.

“Deputy, do you know a Jon Redding?” the deep voice of the Siren by night hard as nails, raven haired woman asked.

“Yes...why?” David asked slowly, staring at the burning emblem of the show and the paused status bar at the bottom of the screen.

“You should probably cut him off, he’s down here talking about loving someone who didn’t exist and getting thrown into posters and that's not what the boring patrons want to hear, now is it?” Linds asked as she looked at the usually handsome bearded man who looked ready to pass out or throw up sitting alone at a table. The other customers were human ones and she had sung two of her magical songs to distract them from him. David felt a headache building behind his furrowed brows but he still rose from the couch and hung up the call and grabbed his keys.

Jon stared at his empty glass, his mind muddled by the many drinks that had come before as he thought about that alternate version of himself. While he was a short, muscular young man covered in witches spells. That dreamed up version was a chubby, pasty coward. He missed feeling that weak and vulnerable and the way Pete had looked at him. Jon shook his head at the memory of the tall, pale muscular teenager with those green eyes and that square jaw. But it was too late, he remembered the dream Pete had been in and been gutted in. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes

“It wasn’t real, none of it.” Jon shouted to himself and all the bar patrons glared at him as they had every outburst he had made in the last hour. He knew it was stupid, knew it was a waste of emotion but those feeiings he had felt in that mental prison had become a part of him. He had been quiet the entire drive back with that asshole homophobe because he was etching into his memory those three dreams because of Pete. The witch he had planned on eating had trapped him inside her mental prisons had made the imagined world so real he had created real feelings.

“This seat taken,” a gruff pissed off voice asked and Jon waved a hand in acceptance and grimaced at the loud scrapping of the wood against the concrete floor. David plopped down and held a hand up for the waitress. HIs brown eyes looking over Jon, the man had worn a dark blue sweater and jeans with loafers. David thought about his old Smashing Pumpkins t shirt and pajama bottoms and barefeet. He chuckled at this but when the red in the face spikey haired man looked at him, his smile fell away.

“You….” Jon said growling in distrust

“Hey man, Heard you were drinking here so I came by too,” David was cut off by Jon

“You came here dressed like that to drink with me, no offense but unless you’re going to knock me out and take me back to your house for a hard fucking, i’m gonna pass.” Jon said looking David up and down and reaching for his glass having forgotten it was empty. He grimaced at the mere hints of alcohol in it and waved for the waitress while David glared at him.

“Do you have to go straight to sex every time i meet you.” David said between gritted teeth.

“We’ve met twice. Second, what else am I good for? Never mind that last point. You don’t even know me is what I'm trying to say.” Jon slurred in a voice that was something between indignant and a purr. David rolled his eyes at him and Jon slumped back in his chair.

“Why would I want to? I’m just here to make sure you don’t talk about shit you promised you wouldn’t.” David paused as the waitress appeared he ordered two Rum Punches and a Budwiser.

“I didn’t say you could buy a drink for me,” Jon said as he closed his eyes

“I didn't, those are all for me.” David said as he glared at LInds who waved apologetically.

“Ok. Did the bartender alert you to me talking too much,” Jon asked and Davd nodded.

“I just...never mind it’s stupid once you’re drunk we can leave,” Jon said as the two red glasses and the bottle arrived.

“You want anything,” David asked, his expression softened as he smelled the sadness coming off Jon and heard the pain in his voice. Jon reached for one of the rum punches and David smacked his hand.

“Mine,” David said drawing the glass away from the drunkard, he continued, ”I meant something else. I got you for it, I already covered your bill,” David said and Jon thought about it for a moment and asked for a Bud Light. David raised an eyebrow but placed the order the two sat in heavy silence. David occasionally glanced at the drunk man stare at the table and the empty glass, it was clear his mind was somewhere else. David finished his first drink and curled his toes on the cold floor. Jon’s beer arrived and David watched Jon drink half of it one go. He watched the Adam’s apple bob with each swallow before he looked away.

“Have you ever missed someone you shouldn’t,” Jon asked and David sat up uncomfortable as he looked at Jon. The image of the beautifully deformed half woman half wolf chained to walls in an institution flashed in David’s mind.

“Yeah, hurts all the same.” David said solemnly thinking of his wife. His Alpha had told him to kill her, to end her suffering but he couldn’t. So he had driven her to that asylum and chained her up himself. Her human mind was gone, buried inside the feral wolf mind that ruled that malformation.

“It really really fucking does. In that place that woman held me, there was a boy my mind made up. He was...kind to me. The first person in my life to be kind to me ended up being my own imagination...how fucked is that.” Jon said and as he admitted it two large tears began their descent down his cheeks. They were soon chased by more and he quietly wept. He didn’t care if David said something else assholey to him. If the bar patrons kicked him out, none of it mattered as he watched the large stainless steel meat hook burst out of Pete’s broad chest. His mind had drifted back to that nightmarish prison he had been kept in. He and Pete had run from the blank faced woman up the stairs of his home to his bedroom and locked the door behind them. It had happened so suddenly as they had caught their breath. She had burst through the wood, her scream almost deafening as Pete had run at her with his chair as a weapon. She had smacked him away so effortlessly and then glowered at him.

Jon had stood there frozen in horror as the woman took slow strides toward him, she had reached into that dusty overcoat and pulled the metal hook from it and it caught the light of the room and glistened. He had wanted to brave, wanted to try something to save them but he had been so afraid. Pete had run in front of Jon to save him from it in that made up nightmare. Jon could feel the moment when life left Pete’s body. It was if something was pulled from his body, ripped away with that second in life. It didn’t matter if it was real or not, it had felt real to him.

Strong hands were on his shoulders, he felt his body rising up as he was swung up into someone’s arms but he didn’t care. He kept his eyes closed as he was carried out of the bar. The cool night air felt heavenly on his face. He buried his head against the hard flat chest he was pressed against. Jon focused on the heart beating strong beneath the shirt and skin and muscle there. It was real, in that drunken moment it was the only thing real to him.

David had felt his wolf howl in pain watching the quiet crying, he had tried to ignore it. But that open honest act of feeling had struck him in the gut. He had looked around and saw that the once loud raucous bar was silent as everyone watched Jon. That had been what caused him to rise from his seat and carry him out. Carrying the muscular man might have been hard for a normal man but for one with preternatural strength it was like carrying a newborn pup. He ignores the gravel that dug into the skin of his bare feet as he listens to the steady heart beat. Keeping Jon close to him kept his wolf from howling in mourning so he did. Linds was behind him a few steps, she silently watched him, he could feel her eyes on his back as he made his way through the packed parking lot to his truck. The tall, slender, dark haired woman wore a red velvet corset that pushed up her sizable chest and painted on black jeans and boots. Her race’s language was tattooed across her arms in dark blue swaths of color. She opened the door for him and he placed Jon inside.

It wasn’t til he buckled the seatbelt that she spoke. There were only a few reasons Sirens were ever silent and he knew it wouldn’t be good but he listened, his focus on making sure Jon was secure.

“I’ve seen your future, the same as I saw it when your daddy broke your right arm. The man I saw you kissing in your future, he’s that man there. He is exactly as I described it to you 15 years ago. You came here the instant you heard it was him. That means something Davey,” Linds said and David whirled around to face her. His brown eyes burning gold with the power of his wolf burning right beneath his skin.

“Jesus H. Christ Linds!!! I don’t fucking need this shit. This man is the top suspect in a woman’s disappearance. My wife is in a fucking padded cell. Everytime I see her she rips my throat out and I watch her eat it. And you’re here reminding me that 15 years ago my dad took a hammer and shattered my elbow. Spit on me and called me a faggot, all for this sad sack of shit who was in your bar mooning over a made up teenage crush that I am jealous of.” LInds eyebrows shot up the same as his as he realized what he said. He couldn’t take it back. Linds watched the lean werewolf vibrate with shock and anger. She knew she should be afraid but all she wanted to do was the same thing she had done when they had been teenagers. She reached out for him but he took a step back, not trusting the low growling wolf inside his soul.

He had sat in that bar watching those tears and selfishly wished they had been for him, not some made up boy. He felt immature and selfish and wanted to be alone but instead he fished his keys out of his pocket and stormed around to the driver’s side of the truck and got in and without a word drove off as Linds watched him go.

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

I Can’t Love if You Lie, Chapter 2: Is Love A Feature Of Your Kind

iZombie, Peyton x Blaine. Still no intentional similarities to S3 as I haven’t seen it yet. This one features more Peyton POV, next chapter will have more Blaine.

Summary: Reluctant revelations in small spaces; beauty in the dark of night. “He refused to let his mind wander where it wanted to go. Clearly he had sense memories of her, whether he’d ever remember them or not, because it was too easy to drift there in his head, like a reflex, a path he’d walked before.”

Cross-posted on AO3; more notes can be found there.

“So, what do you like to do for fun?”

Blaine hadn't spoken to her much in the last few days--no easy feat when the house was small and they were tucked protectively inside it. His sudden appearance startled her.

“Um, a lot of things. Read. Travel. Not be on the run from murderous crime bosses.”

Closing her eyes, Peyton sighed. “Sorry.”

“No, I probably deserved that one.” He took a seat in the dining room chair across the table from her, scanned the papers she had strewn across it. “Working on the case?”

“What case? They killed it, and the guy I was trying to bring down nearly killed me.” She set down a folder. “I’m not sure what the point of any of this is anymore.”

“That’s crazy,” he argued. “We spent what, weeks? Months? With you piecing this together. You get kidnapped once and you’re just going to let that scare you off?”

His crooked, deliberate grin made her laugh. “Fine. I take your point, and yes, here I am still trying to work on the case. Not sure what else to do, honestly. I’ve never been good at just...sitting around.”

“What about you?” She turned her face to his, and Blaine was struck by the way her eyes were a slightly different color when they weren’t hostile. More misty forest, less stormy seas.

“Hmm?”

Peyton rolled her eyes, pulling him back to the moment. “What do you do for fun? I know how I’ve been keeping busy lately, but I’ve hardly seen you.”

“Oh.” He flushed a little. “I’ve just been around. Reading, checking out the house. Writing.”

He admitted the last part with visible guilt, like a kid expecting a lecture. She was surprised, but not unpleasantly. “You write?”

“Yeah. I mean, I do right now. And I did...when I was much younger.” He looked at her for a few long moments--just stared, as if measuring something. Then he continued.

“Like I said, I’ve been exploring the house. I knew this place had come to my family in some convoluted way that wasn’t traceable among my holdings. I assumed it was owned by someone else before that, people not connected to us.”

Blaine shrugged. “Either way, I found a box of stuff in the basement”--the basement, Peyton thought, that explained his successful disappearance--“while I was poking around, looking for more books. It was all from my childhood, my teen years...from me.”

“You kept journals?”

“Up to a point, yeah. I have to assume that after a while I was too busy with the drugs and...everything. But before then, I wrote a lot.”

He tugged on his hair, uneasy at having revealed that much. “So I’ve been writing. I’m hoping maybe it can help.”

A sharp pang hit Peyton in the stomach. “Have you been remembering things, then?”

On the one hand, it would make everything easier. Put things to rights. Once he was Blaine again, he could leave them alone, not be their responsibility. But on the other hand...she hadn’t figured him out yet. She was irritated by unfinished puzzles, and Blaine, who had violated her trust and then saved her life, was definitely a jigsaw without all his pieces.

“No,” Blaine told her sincerely, and she felt relief--and then guilt, for feeling relieved.

“I’m still not getting anything about before, but I’ve been writing about now. About what I’m learning I like, about my experiences since I started over.”

About you.

He didn’t say it; he didn’t have to. She heard it anyway.

“I’d rather you didn’t include me,” Peyton told him, but she said it with a shrug, as if she were brushing her own words away before they landed.

He nodded, taking her seriously anyway. “Why not?”

“It’s just...weird. I mean, are you writing about David Copperfield?”

****

It had been two weeks now of living together, one big strange family in the tidy safe house, and that first night of Blaine reading to her had turned into a regular occurrence. Dickens was slow-going, especially since he started the story over from where Peyton last remembered hearing it, every time. How his instincts were so impeccable for when sleep hit her, she would never know.

It shamed her how much safer she felt with Blaine around. She knew that she shouldn’t; she knew what a betrayal of Liv it was--but she tried to fall asleep in her temporary room and woke up in a cold sweat from the nightmares...too many nightmares. So as the days passed by, she found herself back in the office every night, and no matter how late it was by the time the rest of the group fell asleep, he always came to her.

It was Blaine who finally broached the subject a few nights in. “Hey, Peyton? You should really stop sleeping on the couch.”

She frowned.

“I’m serious. You’ve got a perfectly good bed waiting for you, right down the hall from your friends in case you wake and need company.”

Raising her eyes to the ceiling, Peyton considered his words. The problem wasn’t the couch at all. The problem was that she’d grown to depend on this ritual to keep the memories at bay.

Blaine delivered his next words so softly she could almost believe she'd imagined them. “I’ll still read to you, if you want.”

Her eyes pinned him in place, needy, scared, but still angry--and somehow so much more compelling for all that.

“I’d like that,” she whispered back, and he accepted the trust she was giving him.

There was an overstuffed chair in the corner of her room when Blaine entered behind her. He settled into it, flipping open the old cover and returning to where they’d left off, his voice caressing the words as though he loved this story...as though it comforted him as much as it did her.

The bedroom was too big, compared to the office, which Peyton hadn’t considered when she invited him in. “I can’t hear you,” she admitted reluctantly.

Blaine’s head lifted, and he looked around the room, his eyes returning to hers helplessly. Clearly he’d come to the same conclusion she had. Peyton knew then that things had begun to change for her, because she didn’t have to think about it for very long.

“Come here,” she said, with a resigned sigh.

He was frozen, certain he’d misheard her, until she gestured impatiently. “You want to help, right? That’s what you told me.”

Nodding, he stepped toward her bed with caution.

“So, keep reading to me. From here, otherwise I won’t be able to hear you, and then what’s the point?” Her no-nonsense tone made Blaine smile; he wasn’t sure why it was such an attractive quality on Peyton, but he found it delightful. Even in the brief time he’d known her, it was clear that she knew what she wanted and went for it...and then there was a fragility she tried not to show anyone. That tugged at him, too.

Okay, he might be spending his nights sleep-deprived just to watch over her and give her some peace of mind, but he could hardly be blamed for that. He was pretty sure he was half in love with her already.

Blaine sat himself carefully at the foot of her bed, on the empty side, as close to propriety as he could manage. He refused to let his mind wander where it wanted to go. Clearly he had sense memories of her, whether he’d ever remember them or not, because it was too easy to drift there in his head, like a reflex, a path he’d travelled down before.

A beautiful, tempting path, with sleepy eyes watching him warily as though he was the wolf she’d just encountered in the forest and chosen to walk with for a while. Shaking his head, Blaine turned his attention back to Dickens, and felt the bed shudder beneath him as Peyton settled into it.

“It was beautifully clean inside, and as tidy as possible,” he began. “There was a table, and a Dutch clock, and a chest of drawers, and on the chest of drawers there was a tea-tray with a painting on it of a lady with a parasol, taking a walk with a military-looking child who was trundling a hoop.”

As his voice sketched out the room inside the story, Peyton closed her eyes, seeming undisturbed by his closeness. She relaxed while the story continued, sliding more quickly into sleep than she had on the couch. Bookmarking the pages, Blaine kept reading long after her breathing slowed and deepened, unwilling to leave right away. Not wanting to leave at all. Exiting silently, reluctantly, once he was sure she would sleep soundly without him--and once he was sure the others weren’t likely to wake and see him leaving her room.

He didn’t care about their opinions, since they all hated him anyway, but Peyton didn’t need them thinking the worst of her.

So he crept back to his own room, careful to disturb no one, especially not the woman he’d done his best to lull into dreamless rest.

****

Blaine looked away, and she didn’t wait for him to admit the truth out loud. “See, that’s why I’d rather you didn’t. I’d really rather there wasn’t a record of...what we’re doing.”

He couldn’t help it. “And what exactly are we doing?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” The grin he flashed her was so warm, and bright, it barely reminded her of who he used to be at all. “But I want to hear you explain it. Admit it, out loud. That’s your problem, right, Peyton? You don’t want me writing about you because then you might have to admit something to yourself.”

Her face was stony, self-protective. Blaine left without saying more, and she assumed that he was angry with her in return, but realized she was wrong when she went to her room that night and found a spiral-bound notebook next to her bed instead of David Copperfield.

“Read it,” the note taped to the cover said simply.

As soon as Peyton opened the notebook, she understood that Blaine had never planned for anyone to see this--and what it meant, him giving it to her. The journal was him talking candidly to himself, spanning the length of time that he’d gone without his memories so far.

It was also often rambling or downright chaotic, illustrating the progression of a mind trying to understand itself without identity. But as time passed, it had become more coherent. Sometimes it was almost poetic, as he’d made observations based on his childhood diaries and noted feelings. And, nearly from the beginning, there she was.

Peyton, confounding him in the mortuary. Peyton, giving him a purpose with their reading sessions. He talked about the others, too, Liv with her wounded eyes and Don E.’s patronizing annoyance with Blaine once he became less cooperative. But Blaine kept coming back to her in his writing, the same way he did to her room every night.

Reading his attempts to understand himself, she wished that he could be granted access to his memories again, despite what it would mean for her. Some of his passages even made her tear up, which she would never admit to anyone. By the time she closed the notebook, Peyton knew why he had given it to her.

She understood him now. Probably better than he did, since she had his recent past to add to the picture. And she couldn’t know him like she did, see him for who he was, and not admit that there were feelings there. Feelings she resented, complicated feelings, but actual genuine emotion. For Blaine.

It was his fault, she thought to herself as she set the notebook aside and turned off the light, snuggling into the covers. As this new man, who didn’t remember their history, he had to go and fall for her.

She had a weakness for that.

Alone with her thoughts, Peyton wasn’t able to sleep. Tonight, though, it wasn’t the noises or the nightmares. It was simpler--it was him. She felt the lack of him too dearly to push it out of her head and drift off.

Sighing, Peyton sat up, opening her eyes to the darkness and waiting for them to adjust. She had to hope this wouldn’t be a terrible violation of privacy.

Tiptoeing out of her room, she crossed the hall to his, keeping her ears perked for signs of the others. She could hear Ravi’s light snoring; nothing that warned her a door was about to open. Still, she didn’t want to risk getting anyone’s attention by knocking, so she slid into Blaine’s room and shut the door behind her silently, enveloping herself in the shadows.

With her eyes slightly more adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the furniture in the room, and there was just a touch of moonlight streaming through the window to help her along. Funny, she wouldn’t have pegged Blaine as the type to sleep with his window open, but she could feel a slight breeze wafting beyond the curtains.

She hadn’t thought this through, Peyton realized as she caught the outline of his bed. Was she going to wake him? How? Maybe she could just find somewhere to sit and doze, to avoid the loneliness of her own room.

Blaine saved her from having to figure it out. “Hey,” she heard him say softly. From her position next to the door, she finally realized he wasn’t in his bed. He was sitting across the room, in the corner behind the window.

When he leaned forward, the moonbeams cut across his face, making him look more intimidating than usual. She swallowed hard, feeling the slight trickle of fear--and something else she chose to ignore--dampen her palms. She shouldn’t have done this.

“You okay?” Eyes shining, Blaine didn’t move toward her, and she wondered whether it was to keep from spooking her or because he didn’t know what to expect.

“Yeah.” Shaking her hair back, Peyton straightened up, reminding herself that she could handle Blaine. She crossed the room to hand him his notebook. “I just wanted to give you this back.”

He turned to look out the window, no longer making eye contact at all. In this light, she thought, his eyes were so blue they almost lost their color entirely.

“Did you read it?”

His voice was rough, a tangle of raw hope and premature dejection. She couldn’t stop the sympathy, though she squashed it hard.

“Yeah.” When Blaine took the notebook and his fingers brushed hers, she looked away as well. Such a simple connection shouldn’t make her shiver, or give her flashbacks, but it did.

She sat on the edge of his unmade bed to face him. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Nah.” He offered the stars a sad attempt at a smile.

“Why not?”

“Oh, you name it. Zombie apocalypse, psycho-killer history to atone for, living with people who hate me...it doesn’t make for restful nights.”

Peyton nodded. “Well, I guess that explains why you didn’t mind staying up to keep me company.”

“Yeah, that must be why.” He shifted in his chair, still looking out the window. “You don’t have to say anything about the notebook, okay? I just wanted you to know I didn’t write anything about you that was horrible. And I won’t mention you again.”

Peyton sat thoughtfully for a moment before making her decision. Once made, they were firm. “No,” she said quietly. “It’s okay if you do. I’m fine with it.”

“Okay...” He finally looked back at her. “Why?”

Peyton wasn’t able to think of an explanation that would be satisfactory without also giving too much away. She moved a shoulder uncomfortably. “I just am.”

“But-”

She reached out and gripped his forearm, startling him into the silence she preferred. “Take the win, would you? Just don’t show anybody what you write about me. Ever.”

“Deal.”

“If you do,” she warned him, “I’ll kill you.”

“Understood.” Blaine grinned at her and she held back the quirk of her own lips.

“I promise you, I could do it, and no one would ever wonder where you were.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Blaine removed her hand from his arm by lacing her fingers with his. She’d forgotten she was even touching him. Now he was smiling and they were holding hands and the moonlight was glowing over his ridiculous bleached hair and she was in trouble.

“Okay.” She detangled herself from him, backing away from the bed, willing to look foolish in full retreat. Better that than the slow slide back into old habits.

He wasn’t who he’d been...except he was. And someday, he could start getting his memories back. She couldn't bear giving Blaine the ability to sneer at her and point out that she had been his willing conquest a second time.

He watched her leave with a knowing expression on his face, but didn’t try to stop her.

“Sleep well,” he murmured instead.

Neither of them did.

****

When Blaine didn’t come to her the next night, she wasn’t surprised, but she was disappointed. Peyton considered and rejected the idea of going to his room again. Too forward; definitely asking for trouble. There was no way he wouldn’t see it as meaning more than she intended.

She just...she wanted this new lifeline. She wanted to keep it, at least while they were on hold in this little house, plans flowing around them and the zombie hordes at bay for the time being.

So instead of intruding on Blaine, and unable to stay in a room that felt even emptier now that she was used to his carefully restrained presence on her bed, Peyton snuck back to the empty office at 2 a.m.

Only it wasn’t empty. This time it was Blaine who appeared to be using it with the expectation of solitude, and he lacked her instinctive terror.

After what happened with Liv, when she was nearly killed by a zombie, it took her a long time to heal from the trauma of that--to not jump at every floor creak or car door slamming. It didn’t matter that Liv, also a zombie, had saved her...the experience had knocked her down hard. But she had recovered. She knew she could do so again--she was Peyton Charles, after all. It would just take time.

Blaine was clearly less jumpy, despite actually dying along the way. And apparently he was pretty tired, because when she entered and found him stretched out on the couch, it was her automatic apology that woke him. She might have gotten away with backing out the door, Peyton thought ruefully, if she had said nothing. Instead, Blaine blinked slowly as he focused on her.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said with a yawn, covering his mouth and waiting for her to do or say something.

“Yeah.” Peyton took the chair this time, mildly amused at the turning of tables. “Why aren’t you in your room?”

Blaine sat up, halfheartedly trying to pat his hair back into shape--bedhead didn’t suit his image, old or newly-formed. He stared at her, silent for an unsettlingly long time before asking, “Truth?”

She blinked. “Sure. Truth.”

There was still a touch of sleep slurring his words, though his eyes were clear. “Missed you.”

Peyton flinched. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Pretty much the reaction I was expecting.”

She nodded. “Truth?”

His eyes cut through her with the hope in them. If she hadn’t already made the impulsive decision to be honest when she found him there, she would have been helpless to resist.

“Me too.”

“Yeah?” Aiming for cool, even nonchalant, he attempted to cover his joy. Blaine Debeers was terrible at nonchalant, Peyton noted with fondness.

Then she noted her fondness with terror, and knew that she had crossed a line somewhere along the way. No turning back. Too late. All the sirens and warning signs couldn’t help her now.

Damn it.