#it just looks nicer as a side fringe with my curly hair than it did going across the forehead

[helennorvilles]

should i cut my hair to be adorable like sarah jane smith’s in this ep or nah

[platypanthewriter]

The Devil Looks After His Own (Ch.1)

Little Steve Harrington is so lonely he tries summoning a demon with a ritual advertised on TV--but luckily, it doesn't work, and a buff, non-human nanny hired by his mom shows up minutes later.  Years later, they're best friends, and Steve still doesn't know the truth.  For @magniloquent-raven​!

When his dad finally locked him out of the office, Steve spent the morning sitting in the hallway playing with his Legos.  When his stomach growled, he knocked quietly, and his dad’s voice on the phone continued, so he went in the kitchen to forage.  He found Cheez-its, and olives, and a tightly wrapped triangle of gooey cheese that tasted good in the middle, but had gross, chalky skin, so he licked the middle out and stuffed the rest down the side of the garbage. 

He walked back into the front room and flipped the TV on, just to make some noise.  “In the future,” came the syrupy voice of the man on the screen, “—we’ll have robots to be our helper-friends!”  He chuckled to himself, leaning back in his leather chair, and folding his arms on his huge wooden desk.  “But that doesn’t work for us now, I hear you say.”  

The camera zoomed out, and he waved to a woman with curly hair and long fangs, sitting on the edge of his desk.  She was wearing way less clothes than the man was, and Steve frowned, wondering whether she was cold.  “Our summoning spells are assembled by real lawyers, and airtight!” the man said, and the woman nodded, smiling, and holding up a picture with a lot of numbers and lines.  Steve squinted at it guiltily—he’d seen the man’s ads before, and he mostly remembered the picture, probably.  

The helper-friend lady looked nice, he thought.  

“Too good to be true?  We even include offerings!  Bat eyes, tears of the innocent—” he said, smiling and holding up jars, as ‘ethically sourced from internment facilities’ scrolled across the screen.

Steve frowned around, and then grabbed his LEGO 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28, the most complex set he owned.

“Honey,” the man told the woman on screen, and she opened a can of soda, and poured it over her own head, still smiling.  “Perfectly compliant,” he said.  “And just wait, there’s more!  Any purchase comes with a matching, complimentary summoning sigil for a protective home guardian!  Just drip a drop of fluid—” he winked at the camera, and it showed something red splashing across the page, as his voice suddenly screamed “Augh-no!  Don’t—”

Steve had already grabbed the remote and hit the fifteen-second replay, and began drawing out the picture.  He hit it again and again, coloring in different colors, and wishing people in commercials didn’t always yell.  He drew the circle carefully with a piece of thread from the long fringe on a throw-blanket he wasn’t allowed to mess up, then folded it carefully again, grimacing.  He colored in the crosses with a different color so it looked nicer, and drew the little castle wall-looking-bit.  He added a horse.  

When it came time to drip fluid on it, he clicked the TV off, and got a juice box from the fridge, figuring apple juice was way less gross than blood, and it wouldn’t ruin his picture.  

Steve stared at the picture, holding the juice box, and thinking.  He imagined not eating alone.  He imagined the nice lady smiling at his Legos—maybe she’d like the castle set, he thought, like in her picture.  He’d just summon her for a little, he thought—just a few minutes, enough to make them both a PB&J.    

His stomach growled—again—and he frowned at his dad’s office door, sighed, plonked the Camaro in the middle of the picture, and squeezed the juice box to spray over it all.  

Nothing happened.  Steve stared at the picture for a long moment, his eyes welling up with tears, and then kicked the couch.  It felt like his foot broke from the impact, and he spun around in a circle, muttering a lot of words he wasn’t allowed to say in the house.  He hopped into the kitchen, sniffling, and got out the peanut butter, jam, and a spoon—but instead of getting the bread, he sat on the floor in front of the sink.  

He felt a sinking sensation of guilt as he stuck the spoon right into first the jam, and then the peanut butter, sticking the whole spoonful straight in his mouth and licking it off.  Once he’d licked the spoon, he stuck it back in the jar, his heart pounding.  The peanut butter was crunchy and salty, and the strawberry jam was stickily sweet.  He wondered whether his mom would check the bread and know, and cried harder as he chewed, hugging his knees.

The floor in the front room creaked, and he startled so hard the spoon jabbed hard between his upper molars.  He scrambled to his feet, fumbling the lids back on the jam and the peanut butter and shoving them under the sink, his heart thudding in his chest, but nobody came in.  

The couch squeaked softly, and Steve edged to the doorway, the big spoon hanging forgotten from his mouth, to see a tall man with horns and no clothes at all lying across the couch, right up against the forbidden throw blanket.  He raised his eyebrows—they had shiny jewelry in them—and breathed out smoke, indoors, as he looked up at Steve.

He then yelped and scrambled to fall with a thud over the back of the couch.  “The fff—what are you doing here, kid,” came his voice, from behind the couch.  “Where the—where on earth are your parents?!”

“Unhm,” said Steve, who hadn’t ever seen a man wear so much jewelry before, and wondered how much it hurt to have jewelry in your dick.  He took the spoon out of his mouth.  “Uh.  Dad—dad is—in there,” he pointed vaguely toward his dad’s office, his eyes still fixed on the horns sticking up past the back of the couch.  “Do...do you want me to...get him?”  

The naked man popped up behind the couch again, looking kind of mad, and Steve stepped further back, watching the golden chains and jewels glint in the light from the window.  “...you look very pretty,” Steve said politely, and the man groaned, grabbing the blanket as he stood, and wrapping it around his waist like a towel.

“Why the—why are you here,” he hissed, and Steve swallowed.

“I’ll go in my room,” he tried to say, but it came out kind of a weird whisper, and he realized he was starting to cry again, so he turned away, and the man scrambled from behind the couch.

“Wait!  Kid,” he said, and Steve stopped to see him step and spin kind of gracefully around the glass coffee table without catching the blanket on it.  All his nails were pointed, and painted black.  “I’m sorry—” he cut off, staring down at Steve’s picture, and the LEGO 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28.  

“...what’s this,” he asked, like maybe he was mad again, and Steve wondered, suddenly, whether his mom had forgotten to lock the door, and the man was a naked burglar, looking for clothes to steal.  

“I wanted to meet the TV lady,” Steve admitted, trying to take it, but the man snatched it up.  “Um, are you—are you a burglar?”

“Am I—” the man glared at him—his eyes looked like fire, weirdly, the blue fire on the stove—but he didn’t look mad at Steve, yet, so Steve just bit his lips together.  “...you drew this?” the horny man asked, more quietly, and Steve nodded.  “Why?” he asked, and Steve knew he was in trouble—even if the man wasn’t supposed to be there, grownups always told each other when Steve did something dumb, like steal the TV man’s picture, which was the point Steve realized he was a stealer, a thief, like on TV.  America’s Most Wanted, he thought, his heart pounding.  

“Why draw this?” the man asked softly, crouching down, and Steve sniffled again, wiping his eyes.  

“He said a friend would come,” he admitted, wondering whether kids had their own jail, or whether he’d be in the one with all the guys from movies, who chased teenagers with chainsaws and knives.  

“You wanted a friend?” the man asked, but even softer, and Steve nodded, clenching his fingers in the sides of his pants.

“I didn’t mean to steal it,” he whispered.  “I won’t do it again.”

“...okay,” the man said.  “Don’t—don’t cry, it’s okay, are—are you okay?” he held his hands up like he was gonna touch Steve’s shoulders, then crossed his arms, frowning.

“I’m okay,” Steve nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve.  “...are, um,” he asked, cautiously, “—are you supposed to be...in here?”

“Uhhh,” said the man.  “Definitely not naked, right?” he laughed, kinda nervously, Steve thought, and he snapped his fingers.  The throw blanket turned into shiny fringed pants.  

“Ohhh,” Steve whispered, impressed.  “How’d you do that?”

“Oh,” the man said, grimacing.  “Um, let’s talk about you summoning demons, okay?”

“...okay,” Steve nodded, sighing, but then a thought occurred to him.  “Uh, do you want a PB&J?”

 As they ate, the man spread Steve’s picture on the table, with the LEGO 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28.

“So this is a circle to summon the demon Belial,” he said, low but kind of intense, like Steve was in trouble, but mostly he looked sort of worried.  

Steve swallowed his bite of sandwich.  “...it’s not exactly the same,” he pointed out, a little sulkily.  “I added a horse.”

“...so you did,” said the man, turning it to look.  “...look, summoning demons is very dangerous—”

“My dad says there aren’t bad demon summoners,” Steve told him.  “He says there are bad plumbers, and bad strippers, but if you’re talking to somebody, and they summoned a demon, they must be good at it, because you’re talking to them, and—and he was on TV—”

“Strippers,” said the man weakly, and Steve realized he was being rude to his guest.  

“I’m Steve,” he said.  “What’s your name?”

“...Bel,” said the man, then, hurriedly, “Bill?”

“My mom likes Billy Idol.  And Billy Joel,” Steve suggested, and the man nodded.

“That’s a normal name that I definitely have,” he nodded, grimacing, “—Billy, I’m Billy.”

Steve considered this.  

“Are you listening, though?  About demon-summoning?  Even a lot of adults have a hard time with it—” Billy started again, holding Steve’s LEGO 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28 to his chest like it was a present for him.

“The guy on TV said it was for a helper friend,” Steve told him, feeling a little guilty, but really not too much, since it hadn’t even worked.

“Steve,” Billy said, pressing his hands together over his mouth.  The chain hooking his earring to the ring in his lip swayed and made a bell sound, and Steve stared at it, then remembered to nod.  “Okay,” Billy said.  “Could you promise me you won’t try to summon any more demons?”

“My dad says—” Steve started, again, but he cut off guiltily as Billy slumped back in his chair, groaning.

“Look,” Billy tried again, rubbing his face.  “Summoning demons isn’t like inviting somebody over, okay?  They have to come.  Now imagine if someone called you up to—” he frowned down at himself, biting his lips with pointed teeth, and cleared his throat.  “Uh,” he said, swallowing, and snapped his fingers with both hands—and all the jewelry vanished.  Even his cool horns were gone, Steve realized, and he had clothes on, a little tiny black shirt that showed his belly button, and shiny plastic-y silver pants.  

It was disappointing, but Steve looked into Billy’s flameless eyes and blunt-toothed smile and politely said “...you still look nice...I guess.”  Billy snorted a laugh.  “...I’ve never seen pants like that,” Steve offered, and Billy frowned down.

“What’s wrong with them?” he asked, then shook his head.  “No, wait.  Okay.  What if you don’t want to go somewhere—”

“People make me go places all the time,” Steve said darkly, remembering the week before, when his mom had drug him in for a haircut that made him look like G.I. Joe.  He rubbed his still-fuzzy head, glowering.

“Uh,” Billy said, trying not to smile, but spinning the tires on the LEGO 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28, and Steve was a little proud that he liked it so much.  “Okay, a stranger.  What if a stranger makes you go somewhere you don’t want to go?”

“That’s kidnapping,” Steve said, breathlessly, his eyes huge, and Billy pointed the LEGO 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28 at him.  

“Yes.  When you summon a demon, you’re kidnapping them, okay?  And they can’t leave unless you let them go.”

“But the man on the TV said—” Steve whispered, then stopped, remembering how he’d made the almost-naked woman pour soda on her own head.  Steve covered his mouth, suddenly realizing she might not have wanted to be almost-naked, maybe the man had taken her clothes off, like Steve with a doll.  “Oh no,” he whispered.  “I’m so glad it didn’t work!”

“Ah, yeeeah,” Billy said, grimacing.  

“Um,” said Steve, reaching a hand over to retrieve his prize LEGO kit, and Billy snatched it back.  Steve narrowed his eyes.  “You were looking for my parents, but my dad didn’t say you were coming over, are you my mom’s friend?”

Billy winced, grimacing.  “Where is she?”

“She’s at work,” Steve told him.  “Daycare is too expensive, so over the summer I have to be good.”

“Wait, are there any grownups here?!” Billy asked, looking horrified, and Steve nodded, pointing down the hall again.

“My dad.  He locks the door.”

“...What if you drown in the bathtub, or try to eat your own fingers, or something,” Billy breathed, and Steve glared at him.

“I’m not little,” he hissed, sliding forward in his chair a little, so his toes reached the floor.  “I’m not a baby.”

“You don’t need a friend, you need a nanny,” said the recently smoking, horned, pierced and tattooed man before him.  “And that’s, uh, that’s why your mom sent me.”

“...did she really send you?” Steve asked, narrowing his eyes, and Billy crossed his arms on the table, hugging Steve’s LEGO 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28 against his chest.  

“Yeah.  Yeah, she did,” he said defiantly, and Steve relaxed a little, because Billy sounded like a teenager, just a bigger kid, really.  “She said to put less peanut butter and jelly in your sandwiches,” he pointed to Steve’s overflowing PB&J-bread-burrito, looking smug, “—and just make another sandwich.”

Steve gasped, staring at him, and feeling absolutely betrayed.  “You tricked me!  Why’d you let me make it!”

“It’s okay, I won’t tell,” Billy said, and Steve’s heart was won.

 Billy won it further when he scooted his plate aside to admire the LEGO 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28, and Steve drug him back to his room to show him the kits he had.  “Come on,” he said, excited and rude, and Billy slowed way down, grimacing, and flickering back to his pretty bejeweled self, with horns.  

“How about you ask if I wanna do things,” he said stiffly, slowing almost to a stop, and smoking more around the eyes.  

“Oh, yeah,” Steve nodded.  “Sorry.  Can I show you my room?”

“Or maybe, ‘Hey, Billy, want to see my room,’” Billy suggested, taking a deep breath.  

“Okay,” Steve nodded.  “Want to see my room?”

“Sure,” Billy nodded, relaxing like it was some big relief.  

It occurred to Steve maybe it was.  “Sorry,” he said quickly.  “I’ll be polite, I won’t get you fired.”

“Um, yeah,” Billy laughed, shaking his head.  “Maybe don’t, uh, order me around.”

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, thinking hard about it, so he’d remember.  “I won’t say ‘Billy, pick me upOOF—” he wheezed, as Billy yanked him into the air with one arm around his waist.  “Sorry,” Steve wheezed, his feet kicking.  “I-I’ll say Billy would you, sorry—”

“Shit!  Damn it, I mean, uh, sorry,” Billy said, grimacing, and sat Steve back on his feet, straightening his clothes.  

“I’ll remember,” Steve told him, wide-eyed, and then, because Billy looked guilty, “It’s okay.”

 He tried hard to remember, and he usually did, because Billy got all tense and weird if Steve forgot, like he was trying to move underwater, and Steve had to yell “If you want!  If you want!” as Billy grimly bit into the crunchy, burned eggs Steve had made.  

“That was disgusting,” Billy told him, that time, and Steve couldn’t stop laughing, waving his hands.

“Okay, okay, can I—can I just tell you you can ignore me?  I won’t tell, you can just—just do things if you want to—”

“...you sure about that?” Billy asked, snorting softly, like Steve might be kidding, and Steve nodded frantically.  

“Yeah!  Yes!  Don’t, um, don’t eat any more eggshells, I’m sorry!”

“...okay,” Billy said, smiling down at him.  “When am I not supposed to listen?”

“Uh,” said Steve, blinking at him.  “I mean.  You should—you should always listen—”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Billy said, rolling his eyes.

“No, you should!” Steve told him, grabbing Billy’s hand and tugging it.  “What if something’s gonna hit you in the head?  You should listen,” he nodded, thinking about it.  “But once you listen, you should decide what you want to do.”

“What if I wanted to...eat you?” Billy asked him, reaching down to tickle Steve’s stomach, and Steve yelped, giggling.

“You won’t eat me,” Steve told him, leaning into Billy, to give him a hug.  “You’re nice.”

Billy sighed, and hugged him back, tightly.

 Billy was better at some things than other people, like clothes, Steve thought, because Billy was always pointing people’s outfits out, and explaining how they weren’t as good at picking them.  He wasn’t as good at other things, though.  Steve sat down one night to heated-up pasta sauce over Cheerios, and he didn’t want to say anything, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t right.  Billy gave Steve’s mom a glass of water that was completely frozen because she said she wanted it iced, and when Steve’s dad told Billy to make burgers, Billy didn’t buy buns, or tomatoes, or anything, and he threw the meat in the pan until it caught fire.  

Steve was pretty sure none of it was a joke, because Billy frowned between the glass and Steve’s mom, and grimaced over the burgers after Steve’s dad stomped away, and Steve caught him whispering into the phone to the neighbor, hiding half in the fridge like nobody was gonna notice it was open.  

“Billy,” he whispered, and Billy jumped, as Steve crouched down next to him.  The breeze from the inside of the fridge was nice, but it hardened all Steve’s suspicions, because no grown-up had ever left the fridge open, he was pretty sure.  

“Yeah,” Billy muttered back, guiltily.

“...how old’re you,” Steve asked, and Billy flinched.  

“Older than you,” he shot back, and that Steve was willing to give him, because Billy wasn’t human, and some things lived different amounts of time, like trees.  

“Are you a kid too?” Steve asked, and Billy glared at him.

“No,” he said defiantly, and Steve nodded slowly, raising his eyebrows, until Billy groaned, deflating, sitting against the edge of the fridge and letting his legs sprawl out across the floor.  “Look, I’m trying—”

“I won’t tell,” Steve said, reaching out and squeezing Billy’s hand.  “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“...teenager...maybe,” Billy admitted, grimacing.  

“Okay,” Steve said, nodding.  “Billy,” he said, trying to sound like a parent, or a teacher, and Billy’s shoulders hunched.  “You need to tell me you need help,” Steve said, putting his hands on his hips.  “I can help with things like human food.”

“You are human food,” Billy said, fondly, yanking Steve into a hug.

 Most of the people that did magic like Billy ate kids occasionally, Steve found out, as he was reading his Dictionary of the Magic Realms that night under the covers, by flashlight.  Maybe they were mean kids, Steve thought, or maybe Billy was just way nicer.  “Are you a fairy?” he asked the next morning, and Billy laughed.  

“Depends on what you mean,” he said, grinning over.  “Is that slang for—”

“Can you fly,” Steve interrupted, because that seemed the most important, and Billy cocked his head.  

“...actually, I probably could,” he said, considering.  “Not like you mean, though.  I don’t have secret butterfly wings, or anything.”

“Oh,” Steve said, because he'd been privately imagining Billy as they’d first met, with the jewelry and the horns and wings, and it seemed to fit.

“...do you want me to have wings?” Billy asked, sitting aside the dish he was drying, and bending down sideways to try and meet Steve’s eyes.  “I can change form—”

“No!” Steve told him, waving his hands.  “No, I know you like looking like...that.”

“...that,” Billy said, raising his eyebrows as he looked down at himself.  “You saying I need to do better?”

“You’re just—normal,” Steve said quickly.  “Instead of pretty.”

“Instead of,” Billy growled.

“I mean,” Steve yelped, waving his hands.  “Pretty with all the jewelry!  And the horns.”

“I was gonna say,” Billy said, reddening.  “If you’re saying I’m not pretty—”

“Of course you’re pretty,” Steve said, rolling his eyes and sighing, but grinning, too.  He patted Billy’s shoulder.

“Well,” Billy said, clearing his throat, and turning back to the dishes.  “All right, then.”

 A few days later, Billy was moving the kettle off the flame for hot chocolate, and a big gout of steam belched up over his arm, which shimmered into all over scales.  Steve yelped and grabbed him, yanking him over to the sink, and ran water over it, all the while panicking.

“Billy, are you a mermaid?!” he asked, spraying Billy’s arm, and trying not to cry.  “Are you a mermaid, are you okay, are hot things bad for mermaids—”

“I’m okay,” Billy told him, turning off the water, and hugging him close.  “I’m not a mermaid, Stevie, I’m not hurt.”

“O-okay,” Steve gasped, grabbing Billy’s arm to run his fingers over it.  “You—you’re okay,” he whispered, leaning into Billy’s hugs.  “...are you a...lizard?  Or a snake?”

“Nope, not exactly,” Billy said, snorting a laugh, and Steve groaned.

The rest of my Harringrove works

[adaruthless-blog]

What is this fuss about our hair?

Once  about 30 years ago I went in Singapore to a hairdresser. The fringe irritated my eyes and the bob in total had grown too long, must have been the very humid air to make my hair grow faster. So I needed a trim. I decided on a salon not quite next to the Raffles and not the Shangri-la, a bit more into a side road. I didn’t want to blow my budget. I also thought that my hairstyle must be familiar to Asian ladies with their straight hair themselves. I stepped into the salon and immediately the young ladies were all over me and my hair. Each one keen to cut it. The first shushed the others away. She and no one else wanted the job, the others retreated. With each streak she giggled. I found it amusing and well aware that my hair must feel very different. The giggles were not admiration more sort of a pity and feeling sorry for me: oh baby hair, so soft, but nice colour she kept saying. I have this very ordinary  northern European ash blond, thin hair, straight as spaghettis, not even cooked that would form nicely around my face, no, completely straight like uncooked. But at least with a nice shine and with the help of the sun a natural bleach occurs.

The Asian hairdresser did a fine job after all. The other ladies took a glimpse and I could see they were dying to touch my hair. The offcuts fell onto the floor onto much thicker black hair like a handful of dawns blown away. The ladies wished me well and chattered behind their hands.

It is not uncommon to touch one another’s hair. Especially among girlfriends at school. There was Martina with her olive skin, dark eyes and shiny black hair, wavy but thin like mine, the longer it grew the more curls she had. She sat next to me for a while and I remember the feel of her hair. There was Conny Herrman. Gosh, she had fantastic hair, the same colour as me but thick and long, she seldom had to wash it, she always looked like a filmstar with a huge mane. When we were lying on the lawn during break her hair was like a cushion of hair. I can’t remember the other girls name, she was a ballet dancer. She performed in France at our school exchange program. Her hair was also long and thick, similar colour but a bit more brownish and with long heavy corkscrew curls! That was the biggest attraction on her. But not with a nice feel, it felt rough like a shoe brush.

Hair is definitely something that shapes our appearance. It grows out of the follicles more or less rapidly.  We trim it, we cut it, we change the style. We are happy or unhappy with our hair. There are woman constantly unhappy with their hair. I have come to live with my hair.

There comes a moment in life where one just knows what is best for oneself.

My first encounter with African hair was in 1984 at a Pick’n Pay when I tried to buy shampoo. I was strolling along the shelves until I came across a brand name ‘black like me’. I was fascinated. It was my first time in Africa. I thought: “oh, this is nice that Africans can at least find such a big variety of hair products. Their hair must be very different with different needs.’ Beside the domestic worker at my friends house, who did her work quietly with her head under a cloth matching her apron, I did not have any contacts to black people. All the other African ladies I saw had the hair covered in a similar way. The men had their hair short or a shiny bold head. I had seen Rastafarians and I knew Jimmy Hendrix from a vinyl cover but otherwise I had never spent a single moment thinking about black hair. During my travels in and around South Africa I did stroke a black child’s head occasionally and noticed the difference. As adults we just don’t wander around touching other people’s hair. Some years later, when my daughter was about three years old we had the grandchild of our domestic worker staying with us. It was a hot summer day, the two played together, I filled water with a hosepipe into an old bathtub we had as a feature in our garden and put the girls into it. My daughter started scrubbing the girl because the soles of her feet were white. Nandi, the African girl, laughed her heart out. In return she started to put mud on my daughters bleach blond hair. They had a ball. Mavis came running into the yard and wanted to shout at her grandchild. I stopped her and said: “no, no, this is ok, they play and this is fun to watch how they experience themselves.” Mavis was still cautious but glad that I saw it as child’s play. The two girls played that whole summer and had embraced their differences, which were never an issue for remarks, slurs or any other sort of nastiness. This incident had made a deep impression on me. I thought if children are put together with just curiosity they will find a way to understand one another.

A few years later I had opened a children’s theater for puppetshows, shadow theatre, clownery and comedy. I was constantly short of good scripts. So I wrote some myself. I wanted a play for school starters and work on the worries small children might have in an inter racial school. The ‘hair thing’ was looming around in South Africa, African girls had been punished for their Afros, African ladies mobbed for their wigs.

For previous plays I had created a main character, a little bunny by the name of Nogwaja, the clever hare. Nogwaja was worried that the children might laugh about his huge ears, a girl was worried about her curly hair, a boy concerned he was too small, another girl had freckles and glasses. During class they learned that they all were more or less shy, during break they experienced that they were all fun to play with. They touched their different hairs and ears, were surprised about the different feel and recognized that short legs can be fast and freckles look just normal and even cute.

After having this show on successfully for many times one day a mother stopped me and was very upset. In her opinion this play was racist! She does not want her child being exposed to a play where differences are pointed out, we are all the same. She was inconsolable and I stayed puzzled. I took it off the playlist for the simple reason I did not want to have any discussions about racism.

Hairy stories continued in the news and on social media, black lives matter also had posts about hair issues. Apparently blacks forbid not to have their hair touched by whites. I came across an art exhibition in Johannesburg by an Angolan Artist,  Grada Kilomba, she had a piece about the ‘hair thing’. She was present. Looking at her I was surprised that she had an issue with this hair thing. She certainly has no extraordinary hair besides it is black and wavy. I thought I had approached her nicely. She was reluctant to talk to me when I tried to explain my little theatre play and if she would see it as racist. Maybe she was not in the mood to discuss my experience of my daughter and the puppet play and she did not want to confirm me that I am not racist about the ‘hair thing’… and hopefully not at all.

And then this weekend came along. I had the opportunity to perform for sixty seconds as a puppeteer in a huge potpourri of a ballet performance at the Soweto theatre. I did it out of friendship to the choreographer, he needed some African handpuppets which I happened to have. Rehearsal plus 3 shows. Each time I had to wait long at back stage for my little performance. I absorbed the beautiful atmosphere. The eagerness of all the dancers. All of different ages. A group of preschool children, a group of primary children, a group of high school pupils and students. The little ones were intrigued by my puppets and as I found out by my hair!

They gathered around me and used the puppets only as a vehicle to be able to be close to me. They wanted my hair! At first a bit shy. Then when they noticed I wouldn’t mind them touching my hair they were all over me. I was sitting in a lotus seat on the floor, they were standing left, right, in front of me touching, stroking,  petting my hair, my neck, my arms. I did the same to show interest and to tell them how pretty they are and what beautiful hairdos they have. One girl said: I think your hair is nicer. No, your hair is nicer, I said, and you can do a lot more things with your hair than I can do. Why, they asked. My hair is too thin, it would break, it tangles, I would be bold. They thought that was interesting. I thought their reactions were interesting. I could see that classical ballet has probably established an ideal of beauty. But for my taste and because of this performance where I could watch more than 50 ballet dancers my ideal of beauty has become these beautiful African girls with their beautiful perfectly shaped heads and bodies. It had made me happy to see a curiosity and an appreciation on diversity …on both sides.

So for me the hair thing has now been sorted out – don’t touch unless you get touched firstJ

Ada-Ruth Kellow

[lostinfic]

Nubivagant 2/3

(adj.) wandering through or amongst the clouds; moving through air; from the Latin nubes (“cloud”) and vagant (“wandering”), c. 1656.

Summary: Based on the movie “A walk in the clouds” but on a sheep farm in the north of England, at Christmas. During the war, Betty ran away from her grandfather’s farm with a man. Now that he’s left her and she might be pregnant, Betty must go back and face the family she abandoned. When Colonel Mercier finds her crying at the train station, he offers to pose as her husband. Tags: Hurt/comfort! fake married! sharing a bed! huddling for warmth! and many more! Pairing: Jean-François Mercier x Betty Vates  Word count: 5400 Rating: Mature Warning: pregnancy scare

A/N: For @timepetalsprompts adoption drive

Part 1  |   Ao3

December 23rd 1945

As soon as Betty woke up, she checked the floor beside her: no makeshift bed, no khaki duffle bag, no Frenchman.

She supposed she ought to be happy he’d stuck to the plan. Of course, he would. A man of his word.

Betty rose slowly, expecting a bout of morning sickness. She waited but nothing happened. Still, she remained sat on the bed, staring in the middle distance with bleary eyes.

Even if she didn’t know him from Adam, Jean-François was on her side, unquestionably, and that had given her strength. Now she was alone again. “Well, not quite.” She rubbed her stomach tenderly. She should visit the village’s midwife, but it scared her to know for sure. Right now, she could entertain either possibility depending on her mood.

As she bit her nails, something glinted on her finger: Jean-François’ signet ring. “Oh bugger, I forgot to give it back to him. I don’t even have his address.” Maybe someone in London, from their office, had it. She would send the ring, and he would reply with a thank you note, ask how she’d been, and maybe— No.

Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she walked to the window. Plumes of frost framed the landscape. A patchwork of lands, in greens and yellows, with dry stone walls and shrubs in lieu of stitches.

The morning was grey, in the distance the Howgill Fells slept, mellow curves, covered in moorland pastures as smooth as velvet, and dusted with snow. At their feet, in the gorge, fog slithered above the river and the trees.

Movement on the right caught her eye. Grandpa Marshall walking out of the shed with Jean-François behind him, carrying tools. Her heart skipped a beat. “What the heck?”

She found some clothes in a trunk, and hastily pulled wool socks up to her knees and slipped a wool jumper over an old floral dress, then rushed down the stairs.

Her mother, Sarah, was in the kitchen, washing the dishes at the big enamel sink. She didn’t look at Betty when she said, “Is it your French gentleman giving your airs and graces, or have you forgotten what time we wake up on this farm?”

Betty stopped dead in her tracks. “I’m sorry, I overslept. In London—”

“There’s a basket by the door, gather the eggs.”

War and the death of her husband had affected Sarah, she looked so much older than when Betty had last seen her, her shoulders hunched, grey streaked her hair and wrinkles etched worry lines on her forehead and mouth. Despite her mother’s coldness, a protective sort of affection rose in Betty’s chest. “Mam… I— I never meant to hurt you by leaving.”

Sarah finally looked at her, her silence was unbearable. At last, almost reluctantly, she opened her arms.

After two years of fear and guilt in London, after her heartache, if felt good to be held by her mother. Sarah rubbed her back in broad, soothing circles. “I missed you too. I was so worried about you. You’re lucky it worked out well. I thought he’d leave you at the first chance.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know…” And that was the thing with her mother— the thing Betty hadn’t missed— she couldn’t tell if this “you know” referred to men’s flighty nature or her daughter’s unlikeable character.

When they stepped away from each other, her mother was misty eyed. She patted Betty’s cheek and returned to her dishes.

Betty put on wellies and a scarf and exited the house. Being up north like this and cloudy, the temperature was cooler than London, the absence of wind kept it comfortable.

Jean-François was hard at work, sawing planks. Wood chips dusted his chic tweed trousers and olive jumper. A curly fringe fell on his forehead as he bent to hold the plank, working the saw harder. He was stronger than he looked, she realized.

“Hello wife.”

“Is that the best pet name you can come up with?” she teased.

“Darling? Sweetheart?”

“How about ‘light of my life’ or ‘my queen’?” she joked.

He pretended to consider it, then looked her up and down. “Ma belle?”

She buried her nose in her scarf to hide a blush. “Oh, em, yeah that— that will do. Why are you still here?”

“I’m sorry, but when I tried to slip out this morning, your grandfather was already in the kitchen. He asked me to help him fix the fence.”

“Oh, no. You’re stuck here another day.”

“It’s okay. I can leave tomorrow.”

“You sure?” she asked.

“Yes. It gives me more time to smooth things over.”

“Is he any nicer to you, at least?”

“Is he ever nice to anyone?”

She smiled sadly. “He was to me. Before. I was his favourite of the grandchildren.”

Grandpa Marshall had high hopes for her. All his daughters had married men who’d sought work in the factories, and they’d moved to the city. He worried no one would take over the farm, but then Betty had showed such a keen interest, a natural understanding of plants and animals. He had it all figured out that she would marry Donald (the son of his best friend who also owned a farm in Tebay) and he’d bequeath them his land. It was always implied that she had to marry— if not Donald, at least another farmer— to inherit the farm as if she couldn’t be more than a farmer’s wife.

Betty had gone on a few dates with Donald before he received his called-up papers. He was a nice enough boy, if a bit boring, and it might have worked out hadn’t she met Craze. She wondered if she still had a chance with him, boring might not be so bad after all.

Her grandfather pushed a wheelbarrow up the path, carrying more wood for Jean-François to saw.

“Did Homer break the fence again?” Betty asked, referring to a ram with a bad character.

“Homer’s dead. We ate him last winter,” he replied curtly. “Stop dawdling, John, we’ve more work to do.”

Betty and Jean-François exchanged a resigned look. “John?” she mouthed. He shrugged.

A flutter of feathers and cackles welcomed her inside the coop. Some eggs had frozen overnight, the shell cracked from the yolk expanding, the others were still warm. She hadn’t eaten such fresh eggs in too long, she hoped her family would let her eat breakfast today. Her mouth watered at the thought of Marnie’s pancakes and sausages. Before leaving, she added fresh straw to keep the hens warm and cozy.

She brought the eggs back inside the house, her sister was in the kitchen now. She wore a scarf to hide her dark hair roots. “Did you check their feed?” she asked.

“Er, no.”

“Well get back there, fill the water buckets whilst you’re a it, give ‘em a good scrub before. And Marnie needs help with the laundry.”

“I’m on it.”

“I hope your husband’s not snoring, he took advantage enough of this farm last time.”

“He’s real sorry, Margie. Really.” She wondered if she could have said as much about Craze. “S’like he explained last night, he didn’t have a choice. He’s working with Gramps now. Working hard. He’s a good man, he is.” Her voice rose with passion. If only she could explain all Jean-François was putting up with just to help some girl he barely knew.

“What kind of good man takes a daughter away from her family?” Grandpa Marshall said, walking in at that moment.

“But he brought me back.”

He grumbled something busied himself filling his pipe, Margaret averted her gaze. Betty went back outside, the least she could do right now was prove she was helpful on the farm.

She hauled bags of food over her shoulder, fed the chickens and the rabbits, scrubbed grass stains off clothes and hung them to dry. The wind chafed her cheeks, and her fingers went numb with cold as she scrubbed the animal’s tin water buckets. Her stomach growled with hunger, but she ignored it, vigorously swiping hay with a pitchfork. Hercules, the dog, followed her around, watching with his head cocked. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine,” she told the dog.

“Sure, ‘cause talking to a dog is a sign of sanity,” Margaret said, walking into the barn. “That’s enough, soon you’ll be digging through the ground.”

Betty rested her arms on the tip of the pitchfork, panting.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Margaret said. “You’re my sister and I love you…”

“But?”

“You don’t know what it was like after you left. Gramps went to the post office twice a day, in case you’d sent a letter or a telegram. Grandma made the sign of the cross every time we heard of bombing victims. You broke their hearts. And Mam, well, she’s not doing any better and you left me alone to take care of her.”

“I know. I keep thinkin how different things would be if my letter had reached you.”

“It wouldn’t’ve changed the fact that you ran away. Why did you do that?”

“It’s complicated.”

“You keep saying that. I’m worried there’s something you’re not telling us. That he made you do something.”

Betty bit her tongue, fighting, again, the urge to defend Jean-François. “I was so in love with him...” She held her sister’s gaze, willing her to understand. Margaret was no stranger to the effects of attraction.

“Well, if you still do love him, he could use a cuppa. He’s not gonna catch a break any time soon with Gramps.” They walked out of the barn together, and Margaret added, “He’s not me type exactly, but I can see why you fell for him. Bit too posh, but nice bum.” The sisters giggled, and, for a moment, it felt like they had never been apart.

Their laughter attracted Jean-François’ attention. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and waved at them. Warmth bloomed on Betty’s cheeks.

Oh goodness, get a hold of yourself.

She followed her sister’s advice, and prepared tea. She liked to put a dash of milk at the bottom of the mugs, and let them warm up on the stove, until the kettle boiled.

She joined Jean-François outside. “You look like you could a thé as you French say.”

“Tout à fait.” He put down the sledgehammer, and they sat on bales of hay.

“You don’t have to work so hard,” Betty said. “You don’t have to do anything really.”

“I’m repaying Craze’s debt.” He took a sip of tea and sighed in contentment, a little cloud on his breath. “I’m enjoying myself actually.”

“You are?”

“I spent the last four years in London thinking, analysing, planning… always in my head.” Before today, she had only ever seen him in uniform or suits, usually walking briskly down a hall or shouting at someone, always tensed, but now he looked relaxed. “It feels good to work with my body, surrounded by nature,” he concluded.

They looked at the horizon, at the land sloping gently towards the mountains. A hare hopped across the field. In London, one can never see that far ahead without a building or black smoke blocking the view. All this space. She felt like she could draw in more oxygen. And here, no coal dust polluted the air. Every breath was cleansing.

With each rise and fall of her ribcage, her bones and muscles ached from exertion. A rewarding sort of ache, not the sore feet and neck pain of office work, but a reminder of a job well done. She would sleep well tonight.

Beside the bleating of sheep, all was silent, and flurries drifted lazily from the sky to melt on the ground. The softest sky she had ever seen. A cashmere sky, all pale gradients of blue and pink. No sun in sight. A feeling of peace swept over her.

She leaned sideways, towards Jean-François, her body unconsciously pulled to him. She caught herself before her head touched his shoulder, and straightened her back.

“Is it a river over there?” he asked.

“Yeah, river Lune in the Lune valley.”

“Lune?”

“It’s a Roman word, supposed to mean clean and pure.”

“Lune means moon in French. Valley of the moon.”

“That’s nice. With the fog sometimes, it looks like the sky is on the ground.”

“Heaven on earth,” he commented.

“Well, except for the smell of manure.”

He laughed and tugged her into a one-arm hug that made her heart stutter. “Your family’s watching, ma belle,” he whispered against her hair. Of course, that’s why he’d hugged her. Marnie, Margaret and Sarah were at the kitchen window, observing them without a hint of subtlety.

She allowed herself five more seconds of hug before asking him to help her feed the sheep.

As they neared the pen, she told him about the history of the farm, her great-grandparent and how much bigger the herd used to be before the war, she went on to talk about shearing in the spring and auctions in the square. “They love oat mixed with molasses, and— sorry, I’m babbling. Dunno why I’m telling you all that.”

“No, I think it’s interesting.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know. Do they have names?”

“Yeah… Me favourite’s Violet. That’s the one over there. She’s a bit shy.” She called its name, and the ewe approached slowly. “I used to feed her apart from the others ’cause her brothers and sisters ate everything. She couldn’t make room for herself.” Through the fence, Betty scratched Violet behind the ears. “Ain’t that right, Vivi? You’re a good girl. Oh yes, you are.” Jean-François squatted down to pet its head too, and their fingers brushed together.

Betty and Jean-François grabbed pouches of feed and slipped inside the pen. She’d forgotten the strength of a herd. The females were all pregnant and in full wool, weighing over 200 pounds. The rams were even bigger. Huge balls of wet wool shoving and pushing as Betty wedged herself between them to reach the manger. Like an undertow, the animals carried Betty and Jean-François. Both were in stitches, holding each other’s hand for stability as the sheep pushed them every which way, hungry and impatient. Betty dropped the bag of grain and grasped Jean-François’ sweater. Excited by the food, a ram knocked Betty in the shins and she toppled over. Jean-François shouted her name, threw away his bag and hauled her up by the underarms. He carried her over his shoulder away from the herd.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. I’ll have bruises, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?” He placed a hand on her belly, and she instantly pushed it away. “I’ll help you to the house,” he insisted.

“I’m fine,” she said coldly. “I’ve fallen before, I can take care of meself.”

“I can’t leave you like this.”

“Yes you can. That’s what you’re here for.” She ran away from him.

*

After the incident with the sheep, Betty was nowhere to be found. Mercier suspected Marnie knew something, but she kept her mouth shut. And although he knew more than one way to make someone talk, he’d rather not use them on this lovely elderly lady.

To be honest, it upset him that Betty had dragged him all the way to Tebay, but rebuffed him when he tried to help. He thought they were getting along well, but it could be she was only being polite and didn’t like that he’d stayed one more day.

Mr. Mashall declared the work completed, and they headed back inside. Before supper, Mercier showered, shaved and dressed up, and was unsettled to find that no one else had bothered to do as much. He felt the judgement in their gazes, then a “fancy-schmancy” was mumbled. Still, he kept his jacket and tie on, it’s how he’d been brought up, proper guest etiquette.

Betty came back just as Mrs. Vates pulled a pot out of the oven, but he couldn’t ask where she’d been in front of the whole family.

He stood up to pull out a chair for her, she glanced at it and pretended to have to wash her hands. He followed her to the bathroom. “Can’t I pee alone?” She slammed the door in his face. When she came back, she sat away from him. He talked to her, but she barely said one word back.

For a reason Mercier had yet to understand, Eric chose politics as a discussion topic. Mr. Marshall quickly joined in, and they expressed unfounded opinions on anyone and everyone from the American president to the Japanese soldiers, not sparing French or Poles along the way.

Betty’s agreement with some of their statements surprised him. She should know better after working closely with the Polish resistance organisation during the war. But he noticed her hands tucked under her legs, her pinched lips and tight nods. Mercier, however, had less patience with ignorance and prejudices, and, after suffering Mr. Marshall’s bad mood all day, he didn’t hold his tongue for long. He launched into a impassioned monologue about the French people’s resilience, and the courage of the Résistance. Betty stared daggers at him, but he didn’t stop arguing with the other men.

“Enough politics or there’ll be no dessert,” Marnie declared. Silence fell on the room, only the sound on cutlery on plates disturbed it.

“Guess who’s pregnant,” Margaret said. Betty gasped, and Mercier groaned inwardly. “Lil’ Suzy MacEwan.”

“Suzy? She’s married?” Marnie said.

Margaret snorted loudly. “No, she ain’t! Won’t say who the father is. Thank goodness that didn’t happen to you, Betty, eh?”

“We thought it might have,” Eric said.

“But I says to him, she’s smarter than that our Betty. Didn’t I, Eric?”

“Yeah, Margie, but you also said—”

“Shu’ up.”

Betty stood up swiftly, knocking her chair over, and stomped away. The door banged behind her, and she disappeared into the darkness. Mercier rolled his eyes at her immature reaction. How did she expect to get back in her family’s good graces? He kept eating. He’d worked all day and he was hungry.

“So,” said Marnie, “are you gonna go after your wife or not?”

Mercier put on his coat and scarf, and lighted a storm lamp. He had no idea where she could be. He roamed the property, but his heart wasn’t into it. If she wanted to sulk and act like a child, so be it. She wouldn’t want to talk to him anyway. He searched for her in every outbuilding on the large estate, calling her name.

The wind picked up, and worry crept up his spine. What if there was something wrong with her pregnancy? Or worse. He’d heard of what some women do in desperate situations. His throat constricted, his mouth went dry, with every minute that passed without finding her, he imagined worse and worse scenarios. He quickened his steps, called her name louder. She wasn’t on the farm.

Then he remembered she’d found Craze in an abandoned shed. He ran to the edge of the forest. Shouted her name. No sign of her on the west side. He crossed to the east, heart hammering in his chest. Branches whipped his face, but he didn’t care. Between two oaks, he spotted a small stone building with holes in the thatch roof and half a door. Inside, Betty paced the small space, biting her fingertips. He let out a woosh of relief. “What are you doing here?”

“Leave me alone,” she said.

“I couldn’t well leave my wife—”

“I’m not your wife.”

“No, you’ve made that abundantly clear.”

She continued pacing. The wind howled and whistled through every crack of the shed. She crossed her arms, rubbing herself for warmth. She’d left without a jacket.

He didn’t ask her to go back inside or offer his coat, for fear she might push him away. As long as he stood there, in silence, she tolerated his presence. Mercier leaned against the door and fought with several matches against gusts of air to lit a cigarette. When the fourth one went out, he cursed under his breath and gave up, knocking his head back with an impatient sigh.

“This is where I found him,” Betty said at last. “The first time I saw him, he was curled in on himself in a corner. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. He looked like a bear hibernating…” That fond little smile annoyed him more than he cared to admit. Thankfully, it didn’t last long. She levelled his gaze, eyes full of defiance. “I don’t regret it, you know. Sure, he was a tosser in the end, and maybe he didn’t love me as much as he said he did, but he wanted me. Me. And he showed me— other things. And I went to London and I got a job, and I did it well, I did it all on me own!” Her voice broke and she looked down at her feet. Her teeth clattered from the cold. “Oh, gimme your bleedin’ coat, I know you want to do it.” He draped the trench coat over her shoulders. She tucked it under her bum and sat on the ground, arms around her knees.

She looked so vulnerable like that, his annoyance melted away. He racked his brain for something to say. “I’m certain you will be able to take care of this child, with or without your family’s support.”

She didn’t say anything, but absentmindedly twisted his ring around her finger. Through holes in the roof, snowflakes fell and twinkled in shafts of moonlight. He pulled up his collar, and his sleeves over his hands. After some hesitation, he sat down beside her, knees up too, and placed the storm lamp at their feet for warmth.

“I’m not pregnant. I went to see the midwife this afternoon. Something to do with weight loss and nerves. Says it’s been happening to a lot of women.”

“That’s a good news. You must be relieved.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She sighed and scooted closer to him. An inch of snow had accumulated in front of the door. Cold seeped through the stitches of his jumper. She didn’t seem ready to leave, so he stayed.

“You don’t look relieved.”

“I never asked, did you have children with your wife?”

“No. We wanted to, but Annemarie’s health was too fragile.”

A gust of wind chilled his spine, and it was his turn to move closer. His bum was growing numb.

As she picked at her pilling jumper, Betty said, “I guess, since I started thinking I might be in the family way, despite everything, it made me a bit happy. I’d imagine taking care of a little bairn… Gave me some hope.”

It pained him to hear that. “Don’t you have hope anymore?”

“Maybe hope’s not the right word. I just meant it was something to be, in the future. I’d be a mother. Now I don’t know what I’ll be.”

“You could get another job?”

She scoffed. “D’you really think they’ll let women keep working now men are coming back?… I’d love that, though. Now I’ll just be the girl who ran off. The girl her husband left on Christmas Eve.”

“It does seem unnecessarily cruel.”

“Makes me more pitiful. I couldn’t keep you from Christmas with your family, anyway.”

He didn’t argue, instead scanned the forest outside. Strong gusts of wind made the trees creak ominously. His jaw ached from suppressing teeth clattering. “We should go before it gets worse.”

“It’ll pass soon,” she said. In an attempt to share the coat with him, she ended up with her arms around his waist. He slipped an arm under the coat, around her shoulders, and they held each other with some awkwardness.

“Is this okay?” he asked. “Are you warmer?”

“Yeah, warmer. Ta.” She kept glancing up at him. “I’ve told you all my problems. You can tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I told you my estate was destroyed… it wasn’t just the buildings. I don’t think I have any family left in France. Maybe some distant cousins. My sister and her husband are still in the United States. Everyone else in Boutillon is—” His throat closed around the words. He knew, from agent’s reports and newspapers, the state France was in, but seeing it with his own eyes that would be something else entirely. If he was being honest, his offer to come here with her was not entirely selfless, but an attempt to delay the inevitable. “It would not be a happy Christmas,” he summed up.

Betty shivered, so he held her closer, resting his cheek atop her head. Her hair smelled like grass and cold. Her breath warmed his chest. They should really leave this place, head back to the house, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

“You could stay one more day,” Betty said.

“Are you sure?”

“If you want to. You wouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve. It wouldn’t change anything to our plan. ”

“It might even make it better,” he said, although he couldn’t explain how.

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“I will need gifts for your family.”

“I have some, you can add your name.”

“I’m not sure your grandfather deserves one.” She burrowed further into his arms, and he caressed her hair.

“He’ll come around,” she whispered.

Betty slipped her frozen fingers under his sweater. The cold reached the marrow of his bones, but it seemed worse outside. When they both yawned, Betty reacted. “Oh no, we really have to move. Come.”

Through the blizzard, the house’s lights shined dimly. Holding hands, they ran, wrestled against the gale. Margaret and Eric came out of the house with big blankets to help them cross the last feet.

They were ushered in front of the fireplace, buried under more blankets and offered mugs of steaming tea spiked with whiskey. Eric threw another log in the fire. They removed their shoes and socks to soak their feet in hot water, his skin tingled and itched as it heated up.

“Betty, you’ve got to stop running away,” Marnie chided her gently.

“Where’s Gramps?”

Marnie pressed her thin lips in a sad smile. “You have to understand, he lost his precious little girl.”

“But I’m back now. I was only gone two years.”

“But you’re not a little girl anymore.” Marnie glanced at Jean-François, and, for the first time, he sensed blame from her. His honour rebelled against it— it was Craze, not me, I’d never— but he clenched his fists and kept his mouth shut.

“Your place is here,” Marnie added.

“Is it?” Betty asked. “Do you really want me here? The way I am, not the way they want me to be.”

“Yes, sweetheart, but I think we need to get to know the woman you’ve become. Listen, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, we’ll make my special mince pies. Together, okay? I love you.” Marnie kissed Betty’s forehead and left the living room.

“There’s hope,” Mercier said, and she smiled at him.

He wished he could huddle with Betty again, but they were two separate bundles of blankets. She looked at him over her mug, something shy in her eyes, nose and cheeks still pink, and he wondered if she wished the same thing.

With Margaret, Eric and Mrs. Vates, they listened to Paul Temple, a popular private detective show on the radio. But Mercier didn’t pay attention to the plot, he thought of the first time he’d seen Betty, at the Poles’ HQ in Dorset Square, those chestnut curls and plump lips, her eagerness to help the officers. When his Polish counterparts had invited him to the pub at the end of that day, he’d accepted hoping she’d be there.

One by one, the family members went to bed, and Mercier stayed behind, watching the last glowing embers in the hearth.

“You’re still here, John,” said Mr. Marshall, and Mercier worried he was onto their subterfuge. It would explain his hostility.

“Yes. I am.” Mercier stood up, hands on his hips.

Mr. Marshall’s eyes flashed with contempt as he lit his pipe. “Don’t do that, using your height, that’s a cheap trick. Might work on me granddaughter—”

“Why can’t you be nice to her? Hate me all you want, but don’t hate her. She’s kind and strong, and I didn’t take any of that away from her.”

“But you did take something away from her.”

Was this whole quarrel about her virginity?

“Dunno what she did in London,” Mr. Marshall continued, “but she ain’t the same. She’s lying to me, I can tell. And she’s sad. You took away her joy.”

The accusation hit Mercier right in the stomach. Not me, he wanted to claim again. “Well, you’re making her even sadder,” Mercier replied.

Mr. Marshall huffed, but there was a flicker of pain in his eyes. “If it wasn’t for me wife, I’d’ve chased your stinky arse all the way back to France with me rifle, I would.” He turned on his heels and left the room with a puff of pipe smoke.

To be hated by her family was all part of their strategy. He doubted staying one more day would do any good. He had better put an end to this, once he left, they would rally around Betty and bound over their hatred of the husband who left her.

When Mercier entered the bedroom, Betty was standing in front of a tiny mirror, rubbing homemade lotion on her face to soothe the effects of the cold. If she’d heard him arguing with her grandfather, she made no mention of it.

Mercier undressed and piled blankets and pillows on the floor. The sheepskins looked like clouds against the chipped blue paint of the floorboards. Valley of the moon. Heaven on earth.

“What if your grandfather comes up here again?”

“Oh, right, yeah, maybe… maybe you should lie down with me. Just for a wee bit.”

“Yes, just a little while. Just in case.”

They turned down the blankets together and lay down as far apart as the mattress allowed. Mercier’s limbs were stiff, and he was uncomfortably aware of his breathing. Aware, too, of his desire. Her turned on his side, one arm under his head. She emulated him. Although he couldn’t she her face in the dark, only the vague shape of her silhouetted by the starlit window, he liked to think she was smiling at him.

“If I ever meet Craze,” he said, “may I punch him on behalf of your family?”

She giggled but a yawn stifled her laugh. “You’d make your ancestors proud,” she mumbled sleepily.

“What?”

“Knights. You’re my knight.” And that made up for all the undue blame he’d received today.

Betty fell asleep quickly. In her slumber, she shifted around, closing the gap between their bodies. Her cold toes sought the warmth of his legs.

After some inner debating, he put an arm around her. Lightly. Resisting the urge to pull her closer. Under his hand, through the cotton nightgown, he could feel her ribs, and it made him want to feed her all the foie gras, chocolate truffles, wine and croissants she could ever want.

It was unlikely Mr. Marshall would come up the stairs tonight, and Mercier had said he would only stay in her bed for a little while. That little while was well over now. He called upon the strength of the knighthood in his blood and carefully disentangled himself from Betty to return to his place on the floor.

More than ever, he knew he had to leave the next morning. There would be no train on the 25th, and the more time he spent with her, the harder it became to walk away.

Mercier didn’t sleep, he stared at the ceiling, debating the pros and cons of leaving right now. He felt responsible for her, but it wasn’t his place to be. Every time he looked at Betty, at the soft rise and fall of her chest under the sheet, his resolve crumbled, which further proved his point that he should go before the line between pretence and reality became too muddled.

Around 4am, he stood up, as silently as possible, and put on his clothes with a heavy heart.

“You said one more day.” With her mussy hair, and her nightgown sliding off one shoulder, and those big brown eyes staring at him, Mercier knew, then, he would never refuse Elizabeth Vates anything.

Part 3

[flighty37-blog]

Legacy

Summary: After living a long life, Dan and Phil are laid to rest by their children. As I have a whole sandbox of them being ‘together’, this is part of the sandbox. Enjoy. Or don’t. Normally not a shipper. But I have dipped my fingers/toes into that end of the pool.

Warnings: Major character deaths. Mentions of previous Mpreg.

Established Phan. 

G-PG-R...

Beginning of a new era:

"As we lay these two down into their final resting places; any last words?" The clergy looked out into the swelled audience.

The Audience, The Phans, the friends, the extended family, all come to say goodbye. The two men had lived a very long life, and had eventually fallen in love with each other. Each had carried a child, having  two very close in age, two months apart. Give or take a few weeks.

Then had come the surprise child. Their little Blyss. Fiona Blyss Lester-Howell. Normally in 'regular fanfictions' it would've been Howell-Lester, but this is no ordinary fan fiction. They weren't young when they'd passed on. On the contrary, they were well advanced in age. Eighty-eight, and eighty-four respectively.

Their two eldests in their mid forties and little Fiona Blyss only a mere twenty-seven. She was bookended by her elder siblings, and she was softly crying into a tissue.

"I have something to say," Louise had let go of Liam's hand, and was walking towards the stage. Louise was like a sister.

 She was a bit younger than them, in her mid seventies, still sporting pink in her hair, though it gravitated to the rest of her hair, rather than at the ends. Darcy and her younger sibling looked on, both in their mid to late twenties.

"These two caskets represent the two best men that have ever, and will ever live. They gave their private lives up to entertain us, and in the midst of that, raised a lovely family," Louise gestured over at the three in the front row.

"Fiona Blyss their surprise child," Louise gave a special smile to. Both siblings bumped shoulders onto Fiona's shoulders, and she gave them both a watery smile in turn. "They gave their all and then some," Louise finished with a slight bow, and she exited the stage.

"I have a few words," Michael Daniel Lester-Howell, stood.

He'd never married but he'd gone on to become a pretty famous vlogger. He loved to make content just like his fathers had done before him. Dorothy Cate was a good vlogger in her own right, but she was more into dance. She was quite an accomplished dancer. Not ballet, but ballroom. Dan and Phil couldn't have been more proud of her.

Fiona or Blyss, or even, Little Lyss hadn't quite found her niche in the world, but she was getting there. Doing makeup tutorials and the like. She had a pretty good following too.

Michael cleared his throat, and he spoke, "My dads, or rather Papa and Dad....." He cleared his throat again and turned away from the audience for a bit.

"My Papa and Dad were the kindest human beings that ever walked the face of the earth. When Dory and I got home this past week, we weren't expecting anything out of the ordinary. Just that Lyss was missing us and so were they. It was their anniversary anyway, and we had just  eaten cake. Then everyone went to bed....Or so we thought. At about midnight, we heard...." Michael stopped again.

He couldn't go on. What had happened that night would haunt him forever. Fiona and Dory found their ways onto the stage.

"We hadn't known they weren't feeling well," Dory started. "They'd never given any indication," Fiona replied after her sister.

"They had always been their upbeat selves and were happy and joking, and everything that Dad and Mumma could be," Fiona was the only one who called Dan 'mumma'. It had been said when she was five, and she'd thought it was a nicer, different title then Papa.

A few people smiled or chuckled at the word 'Mumma'. Fiona plowed on, "We heard a gurgling sound and then Dad called out to Mumma, and then Dad started crying...." Fiona turned to the open arms of her sister, who gently patted her back as in days of old.

"When we got there...." Michael had taken up the story again, and he gulped. Then he restarted, "When we got there, Papa and Dad had already passed. We were stood there in our pyjamas, stunned. Can you imagine? I felt as if I were ten again," Michael felt his eyes grow watery.

 So it was up to Dory, their own Dorothy Catherine to finish up.

"We called the coroner and then it became too real. We're keeping the house. It's been bought and paid for. We're thinking of turning it into a museum. Of course the Ikea sofa, still in the attic, might have to be brought down. We'll manage somehow," Dorothy Cate ended. And the three, holding tightly to each other, exited the stage.

"My god children are modest, and have endured a lot of grief. Ever since Martyn and Cornelia passed, leaving Ian and Celeste alone, though thank goodness they're in their late teens...." Louise looked out into the crowd again.

Ian and Celeste Lester were Martyn and Cornelia's children. Ian had been adopted, and Celeste had come naturally, and unexpectedly. Celeste Cornelia, and Ian Martyn Lester had grown up with Dan and Phil as well as their cousins. Dorothy had taken them in, and they were just finishing secondary school, almost off to university. Ian was finishing secondary school. Celeste was in the middle of her secondary schooling....

At the Reception/burial:

 They buried the two side by side, but not in the church graveyard. It was near the house. Dan had insisted that they not be 'traditional', so he had planned out a little plot of their garden to be used as a burial ground of sorts. Phil thought it was morbid, but as usual, went along with the idea.

 So they were 'buried at home'. Which seemed fitting as they were always at home and almost never going outside, save for special events. To the end they had been themselves. Laughing, joking,  playfully arguing. The usual.

"We'll make it," Dorothy said, as she and her siblings and cousins huddled a bit out of the way of the guests.

"I know we will, but I'll miss them terribly," Fiona said.

 "Poor Darling, you didn't have them for nearly as long as Mike and I did," Dorothy pushed Fiona's hair from her face.

"Stop it, I'm trying to make a fringe like Mumma's, and since I have the curliest hair...." Fiona's lower lip sprang out, and she looked quite like Phil.

 "That's scary! You look like Dad!" Michael had his hand over his heart. Fiona was the oddest out of the siblings. She had the oddest mix of curly red and brown hair, a brown eye and a blue eye, and she was most definitely the perfect mix of their fathers.

Dory looked mostly like Phil, but with Dan's eyes, and Michael looked mostly like Dan, but with Phil's eyes. Fiona was the most blended. She was beautiful and talented, and clumsy.

"I do have Daddy's palest skin though. You two got lucky," Fiona sighed.

"Cheer up," Celeste offered. "At least you aren't gangly and have red hair," Celeste continued.

"I'm adopted, I don't have any horrible traits," Ian joked.

"Shut it Ian," Celeste playfully pushed him.

"Munchkins," Darcy found the five. She and her younger sister Iona were helping Louise out with her channel. Louise had slowed down a bit, but she was still active.

"Hi Darce! Hi Iona," All five chimed in. They usually were in sync. The curse of being so close to each other. Yet it was a blessing as well.

"I hate when you all do that," Darcy laughed. She was definitely her mother's daughter.

 "We just wanted to say our condolences," Iona offered shyly.

"Thanks," Michael said, taking the lead.

"We're just so sorry for your loss. I loved them like they were my own uncles," Darcy said.

"And going to conventions and things," Dorothy nodded.

 "Oh all of them," Darcy affirmed. As they all talked, they weren't aware they were being observed by two pearly spectrals.

 "Look at them Phil," 'Dan' spoke first.

 "They're all grown up," 'Phil' wiped a 'pearly tear' from his eye.

"How the hell can you even cry? We're 'ghosts'," 'Dan' air quoted.

"But I'm magic. I've always been magic. So I can still produce moisture," 'Phil' answered.

"Don't say moisture. That's still a gross word on this side of the mortal plane," 'Dan' 'pushed' 'Phil's' shoulder.

"Uhh I meant tears. I didn't mean anything else," 'Phil' clarified.

"You know, I'm liking being dead. Even as I bemoaned being alive, yes it became a schtick, I'm kinda glad we're carrying on our own channels. I mean it's sort of like Tatinof, and I'm sooo glad I look like I'm eighteen again, and you're back to being twenty-two," 'Dan' observed.

"Well spotted, but I agree, we're still doing what we loved in the mortal realm. Except we don't have computers," 'Phil' replied.

"Which is what disappoints me the most about the after life. We're performing on stages, instead of behind screens. I'm gonna have a talk with 'That Spirit Up Above," 'Dan' put his hands on his hips.

"God?" Phil questioned.

"I still don't believe in this 'God' you speak of," 'Dan' retorted.

"Come off it Dan," 'Phil' rolled his eyes.

"Don't roll your eyes they'll get lost again," 'Dan' said. As the two 'ghosts' 'spectres', what have you, bantered in the corner watching the proceedings, Their (now adult) children, went over to the spread.

"Do you think Mumma and Dad are happy wherever they're at?" Fiona ventured, as she put some food on her plate.

"Definitely, and probably arguing in the afterlife just like here," Dory answered, and patted her sister's shoulder.

"Probably being themselves," Michael spoke up.

"You mean banting?" Fiona was hopeful, as more tears sprang to her eyes unbidden.

"Oh no Ona's crying," Dan said, as he floated closer to the three, Phil following closely behind.

"She's sad Dan," Phil observed.

"Well I know that. I just want her to  feel better," Dan answered.

"Mumma?" Fiona perked up and she looked to where Dan was floating.

"Mumma is that you? You look like you're....Eighteen," Fiona nearly dropped the plate, but thankfully Dory caught it.

"Well it happens when you die. You regress back to a younger version of yourself," Phil spoke up.

 "Daddy!" Fiona grinned.

"In the flotsam," Phil grinned widely, and spread his transparent arms wide open. Dory and Michael both teared up as they watched the 'reunion'.

 "You look handsome," Dory spoke up.

"Of course I was always the handsomest," Dan's chest puffed out a bit.

"I think she meant both of you Papa Bear," Michael set the record straight.

"Right," Dan conceded.

"What are you...I mean to say...." Dory fumbled with her words, as she set hers and Fiona's plates down.

 "We came to see that you buried us where we planned, and you did. And that you're going to use this place well," Dan said.

"Uh-huh and I'm glad to see that the old sofa's coming out of retirement," Phil spoke up.

"We love, loved you two," Dory said.

"Of course we did, and we don't want you to fade away into obscurity," Fiona said.

"Besides you can haunt this place all you want. Just try not to knock down the cameras," Michael's voice floated above his excited sisters' voices.

"I have never done anything on purpose, it's all been accidental," Dan said.

"It's not our fault that this old house has cracks in the walls," Phil spoke up.

"Well no, it's just that you are, were, the clumsiest people alive," Darcy put in.

"And you sprained and stretched so many ligaments that A&E knew you by name," Iona smirked. Dan feigned anger.

"You try and be awkward and uncoordinated," Phil spoke up.

 "I am!" Fiona announced.

"She nearly broke her foot on the way out the door," Dory said, wanting to hug her fathers one last time, but knowing she'd just go through them, and feel, as if she'd been in a misty cold shower.

"We've practised at becoming solid," Phil seemed to read his eldest daughter's thoughts.

 "Really?" Dory wasn't at all surprised at Phil's sudden announcement.

"Uh-huh," Phil responded. "And I think I've almost got it," Phil squeezed his eyes shut, and all of a sudden he became less transparent, but he still looked to be twenty-two. He spread open his arms again, and the two young women rushed headlong into them.

Michael was slowly trailing behind, but was just as eager to hug his father. They nearly made Phil fall backwards into the punch, but he recovered. He hugged his daughters, and held out a hand for Michael to shake. But Michael shook his head, and wrapped his arms around his sisters, and his father.

"Oh god...." He whispered.

"Heyyyy what about me?" Dan had also managed to make himself more visible, less transparent.

"Papa! Mumma!" Dory and Fiona let go of Phil and barrelled into Dan, nearly crushing him as well.

 Michael and Phil were still hugging. Michael was silently crying, and Phil was wiping his tears away.

"I'm forty years old, and you're wiping my tears away like I'm four," Michael tried to be angry, but failed.

"Because, when I look at you from this side you're still four," Phil said.

"Your perspective sees me as four?" Michael asked.

"Oh yeah, I mean if we observe from far away, you're an adult, but this way? You're still little, and Fiona's still toddling about," Phil said.  

"That sort of makes sense," Michael said, as Dan joined them, Fiona and Dory bookending him.

"We should go Phil," Dan said, as he took a hold of his partner's hand.

"Alright," Phil nodded and as they grasped hands, they became transparent spectrals.

"We'll see you," Dan said.

"But not soon! You have a full rich life ahead of you," Phil said, and wagged a parental finger at them. Then they disappeared.

"See Fi-Fi?" Iona tried to reassure her friend.

"I'm glad they're happy," Fiona wiped some tears from her cheeks. They were happy tears, and she was glad she had gotten to hug them both one last time.

"Let's wrap this shit up," Michael said.

"Repress it?" Dory asked.

 "Yep before I start crying...." Fiona chimed in.

 "I'm gonna go and cry into a slice of pizza," Celeste censored the next part.

"Shout out to the other YouTubers," Ian chimed in.

"Especially Ryan Higa...." Celeste spoke again, and the five laughed. This was how a funeral was meant to be. At least their fathers' funeral was meant to be this way. Just as in life, like it should be when one departed the mortal coil.

"Let's go home," Dory said.

"I can't wait," Michael said, and looked longingly at the wall that his fathers had dissolved into.

"They're still here. Waiting until it's right to become visible and wreak havoc," Fiona affirmed.

They thanked all the guests and soon it was over. They brought the leftovers to Michael's flat, and then the siblings hugged one last time and went their separate ways.

Epilogue 'Old Brick House', Midnight:

"Ready?" Dan pushed the tripod into place. Phil was at the ready.

"Let's do this," Phil nodded, and somehow they zapped the camera, the lighting and the laptop to life.

"One last broadcast?" Dan asked, as he slid beside Phil.

"Yeah!" Phil said in an excited voice.

"Hey guys! So as you know...."" Phil waved a transparent hand at the camera.

"Hello," Dan chimed in saluting.

"Welcome one and all to the last Dan and Phil show...." Phil started.

Soon there was bantering, and joking, fake arguing and lots of looks being passed between the two of them. Just as in life. So it would be in death. Nothing had changed, except their skeletons were in the ground. Nothing would change. So it would be forever.

The End.

[natecchi]

“You’re always stealing my parking garage and I’m finally here to comfort you about it (btw your car is ugly but you certainly are not)” AU Gramander :3

(I love you, Nami, for always giving me the opportunity to write silly little drabbles, because whenever I reblog a prompt list, you’re always here to send me a prompt. I’m really thankful for that!

Since it’s the only prompt I got, I guess I will write it right away, even if it’s past 4 AM, omg.

Prepare yourselves for fluff and crack, because that’s all I’m capable of. Being dumb is one of my strong features after all. I’m sure the prompt meant ‘confront’ and not ‘comfort’, well… whatever xD)

Percival was in process of pulling his car - a black chic Chevrolet Impala - into his parking garage, only to find it occupied. Again. He didn’t need to even look at the car to know who did it. Plus, he’d suffered enough eye-cancer looking at that excuse of a car for five minutes the first time it happened.

Don’t get him wrong, he didn’t have anything against the owner or the car itself - he would burn it if he could though - and he could completely understand if they mistook things once or twice, but this happened already for five times and Percival was ready to pull out his hair and scream in frustration.

He left the car at the garage entrance, hopping out of the driver’s seat with a deep scowl on his face. He had fucking enough. The owner, whoever him or her was, will have to take some scolding and cuffs on their nape, because this surely had to be someone young and frivolous.

Determined, Percival went to their porter and promptly asked the old man who is the owner of that orange Honda, parked in his garage, and the old man just shrugged at him- What the heck.

“Oh,“ the man said, tapping thoughtfully his chin “that’s probably Scamander’s brother.“

Scamander? Theseus Scamander? Percival certainly knew Theseus, they were playing billiards on weekends, but goddammit, the dude never mentioned he had a brother.

Without any further ado, he went directly to the elevator, getting in and pushing the button to his floor- their floor to be precise, since they were living practically next door. Maybe that made Theseus’ brother think he can just invade their neighbor’s garage? That was no fucking excuse, and Percival would get the dude on his knees apologizing- okay, that was a bit too extreme. He coughed into his fist and knocked to Theseus’ door.

“Comin’!“ was heard from the other side of the door, and it was certainly not Theseus, because this voice was nicer, softer, melodious even. Wait. Did he just describe a guy’s voice as melodious? Percival shook his head. He should definitely stop spending so much time with Goldstein sisters and Seraphina. He was becoming poetic, for god’s sake.

The door swung open and Percival was greeted by a familiar - but also not familiar - freckled face, ginger hair, curls to be precise, blue eyes - blue like the clear summer sky - god, definitely less time spending in women’s company - which made just brief contact with his before looking at his tie instead - was his tie that entertaining?

“Umm, Theseus isn’t at home right now, if you needed him.“ The guy said and ducked his head. And this was Theseus’ brother? Fucking unbelievable.

Percival cleared his throat, trying to get those beautiful eyes to look into his again, unsuccessfully though. “I actually needed to talk to you,“ Percival made a hand gesture to the guy.

At that, the guy raised his head a bit, only to look back down again “Newt.“ He said, looking somewhere over Percival’s shoulder.

“Yeah, Newt.“ Percival repeated and loved the sound of this name on his tongue. “I’m Percival, by the way, and I live next door.“

Newt’s head snapped up immediately and he smiled broadly at Percival, making him wonder what he did to deserve such a beauty of smile directed only at him-

“So, you’re that friend Theseus keeps telling me silly stories about?“

Wait a fucking second. What exactly Theseus told this beauty about him? Percival paled, thinking about their adventures on weekends with Theseus. Only not the drunken striptease on a bar table, please, only not that-

“Anyway, Percival.“ Newt said, ushering him to enter their apartment. “Take a seat first.“ He practically pushed a still-praying-in-his-mind Percival onto the couch. “Tea? Coffee?“ Newt offered politely.

“Coffee, please.“ Percival mumbled dumbly, looking after Newt, in his silly large sweater, which did nothing to cover one of his freckled shoulders and equally silly sweatpants, low on his hips. Why, just why.

Newt strolled into the room with two mugs after five or so minutes, handling Percival his and sipping happily from his own.

“So, you wanted to talk about something I guess?“ Newt watched him from under his messy curly fringe and fluttering his long lashes, and Percival almost lost it.

“I, um, yes.“ Percival stuttered, taking a sip from his coffee. Ah, it was definitely good. But why did he came here in the first place? His eyes widened, because holy shit, he forgot why he came.

Newt looked expectantly at him and he watched him back, at his blue eyes and ginger hair- Stop. Orange fucking Honda!

“Your car, Newt.“ Percival said, putting the mug on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s in my parking garage for the fifth time and I don’t know if I should just burn it down because you do it constantly or because it deserves to be burned.“

Suddenly Percival was angry and frustrated, both at Newt and himself, because he easily got distracted. Newt didn’t say a thing, but his lips turned down in a scowl.

“I’m sorry.“ Percival said, his anger dissipating the same way it appeared. He didn’t like that scowl on Newt’s face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-“

Newt smiled at him weakly, not the way he would liked to, but still it was better than that scowl, and raised a hand up, silencing him “It’s okay. I got it. I won’t do that again, and I’m sorry, Mr. Graves.“

Mr. Graves? Nope, Newt, you can call him Percival, even Percy-

He probably had that kicked puppy face he made whenever he’s sad, because Newt’s face softened and his smile became wider.

“Alright, Percival, I’m forgiving you, but you’re not insulting my car ever again.“

“Okay.“ He said, but was internally cringing because, shitty wheels, the fucking orange Honda will chase him in his nightmares from now on. With an angry Theseus on the driver’s seat, because Percival was sure that his friend won’t like the prospect of him hitting on his brother.