#just some of my pictures from this summer visiting oxford

[tragicotps]

Summer in Oxford ☀️🌸

[spiltscribbles]

Prompt: remus and lily as siblings or half siblings or biological family in any capacity pls 🥺

Oh God!!! Baby!!!🥺🥺😭 This is such a favorite AU of mine!! I’m literally— sorta— writing a To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before AU right now and they are the bestest siblings in that!!!  They share a little sister and they are just so cute!! And Petunia is conveniently off in university oaiwefjoiaswejfiogreghoij And I just love Remus and Lily both so much it hurts!!! And so I wanna spit out a bullet point Ficlet at you! And I’m not even sorry just because I love you so endlessly for tossing this into my inbox foiwaeifmkaeoirfgjieoarujoidkioweajgh 

So like in my head, becs that Voldy bitch doesn’t know how to actually world build, the Muggle born children who get their Hogwarts letters, are also invited to join this like support group for ordinary folks with magical children. It’s like a thing that’s held in the Ministry of magic over in London once a month, and the parents are taught about the Wizarding world while their children kind of go to this separate room to intermingle and read Hogwarts; A History with one another, and just vibe, because pure bloods and those close to that have always sorta known one another and such, so this is a nice way for the Muggle borns not to feel so excluded.

So the thing is, obviously Lyall was a wizard, but also we all know I don’t fuck with him lmfao. So I picture that after he leaves for the final time when Remus is around nine, and finalizes the  divorce with Hope, she— being the bad bitch that she is, just marches to the ministry with her half-blood, werewolf son, and demands to learn everything about the world he’s part of, because she refuses to let him be deprived of anything. 

Eventually she becomes one of the tutors for the adult section because she’s such a quick study— being a professor herself back in Cardiff and just being an all around bombshell tbh. So one day, in February of 1970, there’s this ginger haired, northerner who stumbles in with his daughter who looks so much like him that it’s crazy— dimples and smile and upturned nose. Though she has her mother’s eyes, who had past away when she was only seven from a freak car accident.

And when he first shake’s Hope’s hand, he’s like kind of mind boggled over how beautiful she is, and thinks that maybe all wizards just put on some sort of charm to look unearthly, till he finds out that she’s as Muggle as he is towards the end of his visit. And he is just entirely love struck tbh.

And for the next couple months or so, he kind of just yearns from afar, and then spends the ride home to Cokeworth listening to Lily’s excited chortling about her friend Remus who’s apparently a half blood and who likes the same treats as her and knows how to draw things so amazingly, and it isn’t until like May, when he ambles to the other room and realizes that Remus is actually Hope’s fucking son, and he already knows that she said she began this group after separating from her husband who was a wizard himself. So Lily’s father— Nate— quite literally just shoots his shot and asks if Lily would like to get ice cream with her new friend since Petunia won’t be coming back from there Grams’s house till late, and Hope sorta smirks from over the kids’ heads because she sees exactly what he’s doing and is impressed that he’s finally done something for fuck’s sake.

And like obviously they fall hard for one another, and they probs get married like Lily’s second year at Hogwarts.

Wait, just Lily’s you ask??

Yes my beautiful duckling,  because plot twist!! (We lovee plot twists!!!)

In this AU i picture that McGonagall kind of visits during the summer months leading up to the children’s first year at Hogwarts, just to give them some supplementary readings and answer the questions for their future schooling, and when Dumbledore tells her about Remus’s full situation with his lycanthropy and all, she does some research, and figures out how Beauxbatons is much, MUCH more accommodating to “dark” creatures, and she’s already pretty chummy with Hope and knows that she’s actually a French citizen herself, the daughter of Algerian immigrants. So Remus technically has the possibility to attend Hogwarts or Beauxbatons, and so Hope and Remus talk on it long and hard, and she knows he’s already become fast friends with Lily and their thick as thieves with one another, but it’s also just so much safer for him.

So the week before Lily is set to go off to King’s Cross, they fly over to France and they get Remus settled in his dorm abroad.

I think while they’re away, Lily and Remus actually somehow become closer, because their parents are still dutifully dating and neither of them are all that familiar with their surroundings, so they send one another so many fucking letters through that first term, that the owls of their schools always give them the dirtiest looks lmfao. And they really catch on like a house on fire, like it’s one of those relationships that is just innate? Like you know when you have a best friend you guys kind of just slip into one another lives? Like even when you don’t talk for a while or whatever, it’s just natural<3 <3 

So neither of them ever spend the hols of winter or spring in Hogwarts/Beauxbatons, becs that’s when they really get to vibe.

They tell one another the different cool charms they’ve learned, and hate that they can’t show them with their actual wands yet. And they watch all their favorite films and almost adopt this secret language that’s only the quirk of their brows and twitch of the lips, and Petunia hates how freakily attuned they are with one another and sneers at them for being such freaks in all aspects. Also in this AU Lily fucks off from Snape wayyyy sooner, because instead of having to deal with that nasty, bigoted, slime ball she has the cutest and funniest and most amazing bestie in Remus!

And before Hope and Nate exchange vows in the winter of their second year, the little family of five go to this tiny park that’s all lush grassland and a shiny jungle gym and a pair of swings tucked away by trees, and they sit at this picnic table, and Hope— with her steady, ever buoyant voice, explains to them why she and Remus decided to send him to Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts, and Petunia is like gawking in fright, and Nate looks sort of distressed, but Lily just cocks her head and shrugs her shoulders, because it’s still Remus— her closest companion Rem— and nothing could change that. So she takes his hand from where it’s fiddling with a splintered piece of wood on the tabletop and she squeezes it tightly, watches him glance up at her with the late summer wind billowing in his tawny curls and the fear in his honey eyes, and she simply tells him that it doesn’t matter. And Lily will never forget the way his features spasm at that, going suddenly loose and bright and thankful, and then Nate probably tousles his hair and kisses Hope’s temple and shyly asks how they should accommodate once they move in with one another.

And that park becomes sorta special tbh.

It’s in that alcove with the swings and trees where Lily and Remus go when things are becoming too much, or they would just like to escape the world by one another’s side.

It’s where they tried their first cigarettes that Remus had gotten from an older bloke in Beauxbaton’s when they were thirteen and feeling adventurous. And where they go to listen to the releases of their favorite albums, and when Remus told Lily that he’s gay for the first time before leaving to both their fourth years and it’s like one of those spots they both think of and feel golden.

Oh God! Imagine how cute of a celebration that Nate and Hope hold for them both becoming prefects!!! Hope and Nate definitely insist on some sort of summer todo! And they invite their friends and all that jazz and OMFG what if Lily’s wearing some sorta powder blue sundress that matches Remus’s oxford shirt and they both are grimacing in all the photos and are just not thriving foieajfoierjgiearfoijsdkgxh But like they would be doted on rotten that whole day! This is so cute! OMFG! And this probs means James became Prefect as well and so Remus gets to tease her when he sends her some sort of congratulations letter and she’s totally blushing and trying to hide her grin, and Lily retaliates by kicking his ankle tbh bahaha 

Okay also now I’m thinking of like Lily’s like fifth year, and her Muggle studies class is doing some sort of seminar to see if these idiots can actually survive in a totally Muggle area without a lick of magic, so like it’s spring hols, and guess who she’s partnered up with??? 

Cookies for you because we all know she had to work with James and Sirius lmfao!!! 

And she’s totally still trying to hide her crush on James— who’s nearly always leering and winking her way— and she might actually punch Sirius’s face simply because he’s such a smug bastard, and being from a working class family like herself, she’s like always ready to fight preppy rich boys tbh

So James and Sirius decide to plan out the simulation in her house that’s right outside Cardiff and Remus is cackling the entire morning before they’re set to arrive because she’s so pissy about it lmfao

Okay so like obviously the boys end up taking the port key and land in front of her place and it’s Remus who answers the door, still painted with humor because Lily was just screaming about “if Potter brings that insufferable snitch here I’ll bloody shove it up his arse” and James is immediately on the defense because Lily’s only ever talked about her sister and brother who live with her at home, and this dude is golden where she’s pale and has curls over her straight hair and just, obviously they’re not related by blood at all. And for his part, Sirius is like *Oh! Oh! Oh! Pretty!!! Pretty boy!! Muggle boy? Pretty Muggle boy!* 

But Remus obviously knows who they are straight away, so he like waves them inside before rounding to the stairs and calling for her to stop clogging the toilet or something else mortifyingly embarrassing, and Lily promises to put like pickles in the next set of face masks that they do because she knows how fucking allergic he is to them, and she wants her chuckles damn it!!  

“Potter— Black,” is how she greets them with a derisive sort of glower that Remus can completely see through, so he has to excuse himself while laughing over to the kitchen. “You’ve met my delightful brother I see.”

And James’s entire posture relaxes and he’s back to grinning like a dope, and the only weird part is that Sirius has got on the very same face, *Pretty Muggle boy is Evan’s brother* So like they are both scary levels of elated, rip.

But sucks to be Sirius because Remus leaves after that to meet up with a friend from town who’s also the best dealer tbh, and  so he has to deal with James’s awful levels of flirting with Lily while they scrounge up their itinerary to send their professor for the seminar type thing, and he doesn’t even have a pretty distraction XS

But Lily does force Remus to come along with her on the trip to London because “On God, if I spend a day alone with those bellends by myself I will punch a wall” 

And it is literally the worst, but best double date/first date that’s full of Sirius and James fucking up with everything— including asking some poor Tesco employee where are their fudgeflies and giving a homeless man a hand full of galleons and James’s snitch somehow ending up in the meaty hands of some kid at the tube. But also tbh it’s hella cute when Lily lets James give her his jacket when they’re walking along the Thames and it’s getting chilly, and when Remus lets Sirius share his stick of cotton candy and they both sorta stare at the sugar on each of their lips.

But then they go to some tiny museum, and while they’re looking at a impressionist piece, Sirius is totally trying to show off to Remus and is explaining how he could turn the bench their sitting on into a really nice bouquet of Lupins, and in the middle of his stupid showboating, Remus lightly corrects him on some facet of Gamp’s law, and Sirius freezes— shocked still— and he’ sort of gaping like an idiot, before Lily stops his blustering with a scoff “He’s a damn wizard also you arse.”

And Sirius is floundering for the rest of the evening, and he has so many questions, but they all die on his lips every time he glances over at Remus and he’s just smirking at him with this electric glint in his golden eyes

So obviously when they’re back at Hogwarts he pesters Lily every second of every day about Remus, and why he’s not at Hogwarts. “None of your fucking business.” And asking where Remus goes instead. “Beauxbatons, thankfully far away from you.” and he asks her about a thousand other questions that Lily either scoffs at or simply cuffs him around the head for daring to even try getting his address.

And she pokes fun about the situation to Remus and tells him how much more of an idiot he’s acting like, and how hilarious it all is. And she’s shocked when he responds to her letter merely by saying, “Hah- he’s cute.”

And so obviously she shoots back a reply that’s a letter of all his worst traits, mainly that he’s an arrogant toerag, and that he’s a posh idiot who could probably live off his inheritance for three lifetimes without blinking, and about how he doesn’t date anyone for longer than a couple months, and how he’s practically brothers with James bloody Potter, and yet again, Remus just tells her, Hah- he’s cute, before mildly moving to talking about his latest charms paper and how he’s been asked to be their DADA’s professors TA next year, and how Andrew keeps trying to try again with him but Remus would rather poke his eyes out with a spork.

So Lily is totally fuming when she recognizes that she’s lost and begrudgingly gives Sirius Remus’s info, after telling him lowly and with her most menacing glower, “IF you fuck around with my brother I will murder you without a flinch.” And she’s quite literally five feet nothing to Sirius’s broad, six-foot frame, but he knows that she could do it with a snap of the finger, and he promises that it’s not just a gag on his end. And Lily actually believes him.

So Remus and Sirius begin writing to one another a sickening amount, like so steadfastly that it gives Lily a complex whenever she finds Sirius waiting at the Owlry every Wednesday morning for the bird that arrives with two letters tied to it’s leg, one for each of them.

And God, one time, right before they let out for summer hols, Lily accidentally takes the one marked for Sirius— and holy christ!!!, She did not need to know just what exactly her brother has been getting up to in the sex department of things— like she legit contemplated using a memory charm on herself JFC

And Sirius probably ends up on their doorstep again in late July, with James at toe, and somehow their is a small harmony painted between the four of them, and it’s by Christmas of sixth year when James and Sirius begin talking about how amazing it’ll be when they’re actually in-law brothers, and Lily blames Remus for everything when she’s pretending to be cross over it, but then James puts his arm around her shoulders, and she sees how gentle Sirius is when he twines his fingers into Remus’s own, and it feels good, feels right. 

It feels like something that can be forever.

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[lov3nerdstuff]

Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 7.1}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student, blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 4.6k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

______________________________

Robin slumped down in her seat with a sigh and the oddly bittersweet feeling of melancholy mixed with excitement. Over the rim of her sunglasses, she observed how Jorien rolled her eyes at Cas, but helped her stow away her enormous bag in the overhead compartments nonetheless. It was still before noon, but the sun was already scorching Robin's skin as it flooded the compartment of the Hogwarts Express they had chosen to claim. The school year was over. Time to head back to London.

Minutes later, when the train slowly started moving and the two other girls finally sat down as well, Robin couldn't help feeling more excited than sad at last. Sure, leaving Hogwarts had always dimmed down her mood quite significantly, but this year it was a bit different. For one, she had intentionally chosen to take the train back to London together with her roommates. She also could've apparated back home, now that she had passed the class and gotten her license, but she had decided against it. Perhaps for nostalgic reasons, perhaps because of her constantly babbling but very much appreciated company. But most importantly –and therefore the real reason why she was more excited for the summer to start than dreading to part from her beloved castle– she actually had plans for the holidays for once. Plans which included two of her favorite things in the entire world; potions (in the broadest sense) and Snape. The latter obviously being more reason to her current excitement than the former, but ultimately she was very happy about both.

Really, she had been planning it for a while now. Robin wanted to continue her hunt for rare ingredients, or rather her studies thereof, and after the by now renown success she'd had last October, she had been quick to decide that she would spend the summer with the same kind of expeditions to confirm her theories. Obviously she wouldn't be able to work her way through the entire handbook, which she had kept on expanding and improving throughout the last year, but she would just start somewhere and work her way through as far as she got. Fortunately, from the very moment she had told Snape of her plans, he had been dead set on coming along, saying how it was far too dangerous to deal with some of the things she would necessarily have to encounter on her own, and after a while of teasing and prodding, he had also admitted that he simply wanted to do this together with her either way.

To Robin, the prospect of that, of their plans, was enough reason to keep smiling to herself from time to time, or really any time she thought of it. The only dimmer on her mood was that their adventures would only be able to start from next weekend on; before then, Snape was still stuck at Hogwarts for whatever boring thing Dumbledore had the professors do after the students had left, and Robin for her part had promised to wait until then. For his sake more than her own, and unfortunately, that left her with a week to spend with her parents. Lovely.

"Earth to Robin! What are you all smiley about?" Cas wondered loudly, snapping her fingers in front of Robin's face to get her attention.

"Oh, just excited about my plans for summer." She shrugged in return, yet again unable to stop grinning to herself. Damnit, she really was as subtle as a pink elephant.

"You actually have plans for once? After years of saying you literally don't care? Spill the tea, what's the story?" Jorien quirked an eyebrow at her in doubt and question, and Cas nodded in agreement to the objection.

"No story, I'm just excited, that's all."

"What's your plans then?"

"Proving my theories about different substances and ingredients, testing methods and means to find them, and improving all of it based on the results of practical research." Robin explained in one breath, and received two questioning looks in return. With a sigh and a smile she added, "I will travel around and look for plants and animals I can use for potions."

"Uuh, going on adventures! Why didn't you just say that!" Cas beamed in return, then went off into her own direction with it. "You should write a book about it! Or better, a comic! With moving pictures and all that kinda stuff! 'Robin the lone scientist'... How about that?"

"More like 'Robin the mad scientist'." Robin laughed in return, letting her head fall back against the seat for a moment until she could tone down her grin a little.

"Perhaps you should let us come with you! Then you certainly won't be alone anymore." Jorien mused carefully, more hopeful than intrusive, and Robin's eyes fell onto the two grinning girls again.

"I won't be alone at all, actually… My best friend is coming with me." She finally allowed herself to admit, and the words were already enough to make her skin tingle. Geez, she really shouldn't be this excited about it… but it didn't hurt anyone either.

"Oi, that mysterious guy you never lose more than a word about?" Cas' eyes lit up, and she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Perhaps you will finally get that passionate romance I've been hoping for!"

"Speaking of which, have you made plans to visit Simon?" Robin inquired, brutally changing the topic before they would try to snoop any more.

"Unfortunately, my parents aren't too fond of the idea of me having a boyfriend." The blonde rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, falling back into her seat with a huff. The grandeur of the gesture made Robin want to snort, but she suppressed it for empathy's sake. "So I probably won't see him at all until summer's over. I hope he doesn't find someone better than me in the meantime!"

"You can always write letters to him." Robin suggested with a shrug. "The anticipation and delay in that can be quite exciting as well. Carefully chosen words, the time taken to share a piece of one's mind with the other, the reassuring physicality of someone's handwriting on parchment…"

"You're terribly romantic, you know that?"

"Don't tell anyone." Robin replied, rising her eyebrows at them with a small smirk. "I have a reputation to uphold."

… … …

The one good thing once they arrived back in London, after Cas and Jorien had found their parents who had come to pick them up like always, was that Robin didn't have to deal with her trunk anymore. With a swoop of her wand, it shrunk down to a miniature and disappeared in the depth of her backpack. Thank God she was finally over seventeen… had been for a while now, actually. The summer would be so much more enjoyable now that she could use magic outside of school.

Instead of taking the first train back to Oxford like she usually did, Robin spent some time strolling around London. After all, she could be at home in a blink now whenever she fancied to be, and she didn't have luggage other than her backpack either. When she eventually sat down in a small cafe with a book Cas had practically forced upon her (not without making Robin actually promise to read it over summer), she couldn't help wondering what Snape might be up to right now. It was around this time when they would usually have pre-dinner coffee, or take a walk around the grounds, or set up for that evening's work in advance… oh bloody hell, she missed him already. But in the light of the impending week with her family, she also found herself missing Jorien and Cas. Anyone was better company than the people who were (probably not even) waiting for her in Oxford. For a moment, she wondered if they would care if she didn't come home today. If they would even notice.

Sighing, Robin ordered the largest coffee on the menu and then went to distract herself from the inevitable necessity to go home by reading Cas' book for now. It was the kind of read Robin wouldn't pick up even with her eyes closed; a cheesy romance novel about a girl around the same age as her, who slowly discovered the 'wonders' of love and physical intimacy in a plot that otherwise didn't even fit the romance. Robin couldn't help rolling her eyes every other page, but she had promised Cas that she would read it, and thus she had to suffer through all the drama and badly phrased make-out sessions now. Why on earth was this Cas' favorite book?! Admittedly, the girl deemed fashion magazines the high art of literature, but this… ugh. Sometimes Robin wished she didn't take her promises quite so seriously.

When her coffee was empty and a good third of the dreadful book behind her (which at some point had gotten a little less dreadful… not that she would ever admit that to anyone), she decided that it was late enough to make her way home at last. If she didn't want to sleep in the gutter, there was little else she could do. Well, technically she could camp out somewhere up north… she had everything she needed in her backpack… but some stupid part of her mind wanted to give her parents another chance to care. Some sparks of pathetic hope had crept through the cracks in her walls once again, even if she knew that she would only be disappointed again. It couldn't be helped either way. After paying for her coffee, she sought out the first space away from prying eyes, and finally went home in a swirl of time and space.

… … …

It had been three days, and Robin was already going insane. During her absence, her parents' house had turned into an outpost of the local university, or so it seemed. Not only had her bedroom been unrecognizable and all her things were packed up in boxes in the basement upon her arrival, but there simply were too many people around her on a constant basis, and no possibility to hide; Robin's parents, the three American scientists currently living with them, and usually two to five other people working on the same project even after hours. Begrudgingly Robin had accepted that she no longer had her own room in this house, and even that she had to live out of cardboard boxes for the moment… But the five other people living in this house with her currently were just too much.

The moment she'd come home on Monday evening she had noticed two things right away: One, her parents hadn't expected that she would actually want to sleep on the couch for more than a night. Two, the people from the States were assholes, to stick with their language. Well, two of the three, at least. A married couple who had moved into her old bedroom, and honestly, they could be summarized as mainly three things: religious, respectless and rude. Right on the first evening, they hadn't hesitated to make not so subtle but very much mocking comments about Robin 'attending a boarding school for special children', as her parents seemed to have explained the situation to them. Then they had gone on to comment on her 'disorderly choice of clothing', which they deemed entirely unsuitable for a young lady of any respectable family. Them finding out that Robin, in fact, didn't pray before meals (nor at any other time really), and also had absolutely no intention to, had resulted in a lengthy speech about the importance of God's guidance for a young lady (that term again…), especially when she was constantly tempted by vicious males around her. (They had also found it outrageous that the school she attended wasn't just for girls!) At that point, Robin had regretted ever coming back to this place, ever allowing herself to hope that it might not be completely awful. That had been three hours after her arrival.

Three days later, she was going insane for real. The only good thing was that every one of them was gone throughout most of the day, which allowed her to take a break from the constant orders and remarks given to her by four people by now, none of which actually had the right to do so. Honestly, she didn't know why she didn't just leave. Pack up the boxes in the basement and find some other place to live, where she wouldn't be either entirely ignored to the point of feeling invisible or pestered with disdainful comments. And now, four days into this mess, she made the decision that she would have to adapt her plans if she wanted to survive this summer.

"I'll be leaving tomorrow. I'm going to travel the country with a friend until the end of summer." She declared out of the blue, during dinner on Friday evening, after being silent for over three hours. Originally she had planned to take day trips with Snape, and come back here in the evenings to spend the days in between excursions at her parents' house. But now she just wanted to have a decent enough reason to leave and stay gone for as long as possible. Perhaps forever.

"That's amazing, sweetie! I'm glad to hear you have plans." Her mom was the first to reply, smiling in what looked like sincere relief upon the prospect of having her daughter out of the picture at last.

The conflict growing between the American couple and Robin hadn't passed by her parents unnoticed, indeed they were as well aware of it as everyone else, but they had always made an effort not to get involved, always avoiding to possibly upset their guests, even when they had clearly crossed a line. To Robin, they had thereby picked their side, and it had never been hers.

"Traveling the country… Spending your parents' hard earned money, eh?" The scarecrow on the other side of the table scoffed in a too high pitched voice, and Robin had to make a conscious effort to keep her facade of perfect neutrality plastered onto her face. "If I was your mother, I would see to it that you find yourself a job and get working as soon as possible!"

"We offered to pay for her expenses, should she wish to spend the summer elsewhere, because we had to clear out her room for you." Robin's dad explained almost apologetically. "But it might as well be a belated gift for… two birthdays and two Christmases, I believe."

"Never coming home and then expecting to be paid for nonetheless…" The scarecrow made a face at Robin as she let out a scoff. "Children, they're all the same no matter where you are in the world. I know why I never wanted any."

Robin's jaw clenched for but a second, the only tell of her true emotions, but then she calmly went back to cutting her chicken into neat pieces of exactly the same size as she had previously cut her vegetables and potatoes as well. "I won't need any of your money, thank you for the offer nonetheless. I believe it would be best for everyone if I was… financially independent as soon as possible. I'm an adult, so I might as well pay for myself."

"Oh, you're one of those types." Scarecrow's husband mused in an unsuccessful attempt at subtle distaste. "Traveling around like a gypsy, always deep in someone's pocket for a dollar… The youth these days just doesn't know what work is anymore."

"Actually, I work hard and earn my money like everyone else does." Robin replied coldly, not even honouring the man with a glance. It was a very twisted version of the truth she was presenting here, but it would have to do. "Just because I attend a school quite far away from the larger cities doesn't mean there is no opportunity to make a living on the side."

"Yes, and we all know how pretty young girls can make a living the easiest way, don't we?" Scarecrow scoffed, and the entire table fell silent for a moment. Nobody dared to speak, and all eyes eventually sought out Robin, who in return was desperately glad for her years of practice in looking entirely indifferent. On the inside however, her mind was raging. How dared this woman to make such accusations, or even hint at something like that?! A small part of Robin wondered what would happen if she simply cursed everyone in the room, and took their memories of it afterwards. But instead, she settled for merely being silent and clinging onto the thought that she would be gone tomorrow.

"Do you by any chance work in a kitchen?" The third American, the only decent human being in the room and the only person Robin wasn't currently mad at, asked and thereby broke the uncomfortable silence. "Because I couldn't help noticing how adept you are at cooking. The dinner you made last night was amazing, and I've never seen someone so skilled with a knife."

"Thank you." Robin offered him a small smile, and inwardly thanked him for saving her from the ridiculous situation like that. "I really do sort of work in a kitchen, actually. For the past few years I have been trained quite a bit in addition to the normal school curriculum, to properly select and prepare ingredients for example, but by now, I actually get to make entire recipes by myself." Again, not a lie. Cooking and potion making were quite similar in a lot of ways, and she would shamelessly take advantage of that now.

"I didn't know you were training to become a chef." Robin's dad frowned at her, then shrugged and continued eating at last. "But I'm glad to hear that you are looking into a serious and decently paying career path. Not that… odd stuff they teach you at school."

"So, who's the friend you're going to be traveling with?" Her mom asked, changing the topic and the tension that had been hanging in the hair was resolved as the others continued with their meals as well.

"You wouldn't know him; someone I know from school." Was all Robin replied, but perhaps she should've thought better of it.

"A boy?! Excuse me, but I just have to intervene here again, entirely for your own good…" The scarecrow was quick to respond, and Robin cringed at every single part of the vile woman's sentence. "Just imagine how that might look to some people! A girl and a boy, traveling the country together all by themselves… Do you truly want to have such a poor reputation?! Just think about the disgrace it would be for your parents! Or for your future husband! People might assume you were dishonored!"

If that woman knew that Robin was going to travel with Snape, a man who was eleven years older than her and who used to be her professor until a week ago, she surely would combust in outrage, or faint in shock. Robin had to suppress a snort at the thought, and the idea of telling her suddenly became very tempting. But she wouldn't, as that would surely only end to her own disadvantage. After all, it would put reality into even more of a false light… they were still going to part ways in the evenings to meet up again on another day. Either way, Robin had quite enough of the woman sitting across from her at this point.

"Bold of you to assume that I have any honour left for him to take in the first place." She said nonchalantly, in perfect indifference, and while four jaws dropped just like intended, the nice American scientist merely let out a snort. At least one person understood the joke inherent in this bloody situation… Still, this probably hadn't been the smartest thing to say if she ever wanted them to stop bothering her, but as it seemed, her reputation among them had been ruined long before she had arrived here in the first place. And it was the truth after all; at almost eighteen, it wasn't unlikely that she would have a lot more experience than she actually did. It wasn't her fault that a hug was the only form of physical intimacy she'd ever lived to share with anyone… even Cas had more experience than that, and she was only fourteen! Not that this bothered Robin in any way… it was just a fact, and she might as well use it to her advantage at this point.

Dinner continued quietly from then on, and while the silence seemed to be uncomfortable for everyone else, Robin actually found herself feeling more at ease than she had all evening. When willingly allowing yourself to sink quite so low in someone's eyes, even if based on false information and half truths, the result for your own self was quite liberating. No reputation to uphold, no need to impress, nothing to justify. Honestly, she just should've done this from the start. But then again, she had still wanted her parents to pay for her travels at that point. Still had hoped that the boxes in the basement would be unpacked again eventually, once the esteemed guests were gone. Now however, the idea of cutting herself off from her parents entirely had a shocking appeal to it, and she couldn't quite bring herself to step back from it again. Didn't even want to. No, she still had some Christmas money left that she had saved over the years, and from there on she could find some sort of work to make ends meet. Tomorrow morning, she would take the boxes in the basement with her and leave for good.

… … …

If there had been any doubt left in her mind by Friday night if she actually should go through with it, it was blown away Saturday morning when the only thing saying goodbye to her was a note on the kitchen counter that told her to put the rubbish out before she left. Thus she spent the early hours of the day gathering everything that was hers and storing it away in her backpack, while also taking some minor things that surely wouldn't be missed around here. An old record player and a few of her favorite records (both which weren't used anymore), that chipped mug she had been using when she was here for as long as she could remember, but also a photo album that only had the first five pages filled with pictures of her as a baby and toddler. If this was all that would be left of her childhood other than her own memories, she wanted to be the one to have it. She added in a picture of her parents that had been in one of their own albums, then hid the entire thing very deep down in her bag, in a box of things she wanted to keep but still forget about.

When finally she shouldered her bag to leave, she didn't even feel sad. Only bitter and, in a way, deeply hurt that it had come this far. Perhaps it had been her fault, partially at least. Perhaps it had been inevitable. But if the last five days had proven anything, it was that they would be better off going separate ways from here on. Maybe one day, if by that time they still remembered that they'd had a daughter once, she would come back to visit them.

… … …

Half an hour later Robin sat high up on the cliff on the Scottish east coast where their first adventure had started last year, legs dangling over the edge against the stone wall that dropped down way too far, as she waited for Snape to show up. They would have to meet somewhere after all, and this place had seemed like a good idea. Both of them had been here before, it was practically deserted, and thus it was easy to find each other.

The wind whipping around her cleared some of the bitterness the morning had left, dried some silent tears, and it was a reminder of the bigger picture, a reassurance that her problems weren't the end of the world. As dark as things might seem, the planet was still spinning and the only way to move was forward. She took a deep breath, and when the sun broke through the clouds at last, she put on her sunglasses and let it warm her face for once.

"You're early… A bit excited, are we?" Snape remarked the very moment Robin heard him arriving somewhere behind her, and even just the sound of his voice made her smile in an instant.

"So are you, in case you haven't noticed." She replied, leaning back on her hands to look up at him upside down when he came to stand behind her. Surprisingly enough, he was clad in ordinary black bottoms and a simple long sleeved shirt of the same colour. "I think I've never seen you in anything other than those robes you always wear at school…"

"Yes, well, our last… expedition has proven my usual choice of clothing to be rather unsuitable for the occasion." He mused, and finally sat down next to Robin so closely that their shoulders almost touched. "That, and muggles tend to be irritated when one wears robes around them. Since we haven't decided where today will take us, I thought it best to be prepared."

"Clever. As always." Robin smirked, and he rolled his eyes at her using his own expression on him, which she however didn't mind one bit. "How was your week?"

"Dreadful. Yours?"

"Even worse."

"Good."

"Hey!" Robin protested with a laugh, then with a grin she just couldn't fight. "What's good about me being worse than dreadful for a week?"

"It means that no matter if we succeed in our goals today or not, it will still be a better day for you than the last few were."

"Of course it will be better! An infinite number of times better even! Spending time with you is better than anything, you dunderhead."

"Call me that one more time and I will shove you off the cliff."

"Shove me off the cliff and I'll pull you down with me."

"I expect nothing less. That is what I'm here for, after all." He stated with an expression that was too serious looking to actually be serious at all. The not-smirk was an even better tell of that.

"You're here to jump off a cliff?" Robin quirked an eyebrow at him with a teasing smirk.

"I'm here to make sure you aren't alone when you do."

"So if I jump, you will too?"

"I would rather keep either of us from doing something ridiculously stupid as that, but generally, yes." He said, and the fact that he actually seemed to mean every word of that sent a wave of electric sparkles all through Robin's body and mind. She couldn't even put into words how much she adored him for that, and how infinitely glad she was to have him with her. If this was what being his friend was like, she couldn't even imagine how it would be to be more than that. Then again, she shouldn't imagine it in the first place. They were friends. Best friends, but only friends. That had to be enough.

"Good to know." She finally replied, allowing herself to smile at least, so very brightly that he almost had to smile in return. "So… what theory are we looking into today?"

"Get out that handbook of yours and we shall see."

______________________________

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[gatheringfiki]

The following ficlet was written by @i-am-still-bb​ based on this photoset.

Pairing: DarkHawk Rating: G

You can also read this story on AO3.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3. :)

–-

Amsterdam, Netherlands June 23, 1993

“Promise you’ll write,” Ross says, handing over a sticky-note with the address to his university flat neatly written on it.

“Only if you write back.” Jim’s address is scrawled on a corner of notebook paper with ragged edges.

Jim pulls Ross into a quick, brief hug. Then they go their separate ways. Each to a different gate to take a plane home; Ross back to England and reading Mechanical Engineering at Oxford and Jim back to the University of Maine for his final year majoring in Natural Resources Management and Conservation. 

Oxford, England June 27, 1993

Dear Jim,

I hope you had a safe journey home. 

It is strange not having you down the hall from me. I had gotten used to harassing you at odd hours. Now I have to settle for pen and paper. 

I’m working for my father’s mining company over the summer. We’re hoping that we can make it profitable again. Not just for our own sake, but for the sake of the miners. He has me trying to find cost-cutting measures that won’t result in unsafe working conditions. 

I hope that you have a more exciting summer planned.

Cheers, Ross

Belfast, Maine July 10, 1993

Ross,

The plane was loud and the flight was long, but that’s how it always is. I expected nothing less. We didn’t crash into the Atlantic, so it was safe enough.

I had hoped that I could get some hiking in before fall semester, but Silver seems bound and determined to have me on The Hispaniola every waking hour. We spend most of our time in Penobscot Bay trawling for lobster. By the end of the month I’m going to be dreaming about burying my head in a book and never coming out again.

Jim

P.S. I’ve included a photograph of me that you can rant at when it’s 3am and no one else wants to listen to you.

[Enclosed: A photograph of Jim wearing bright orange waterproof overalls and a grey t-shirt. His hands are covered in bait, but he’s smiling at the camera. The sky and sea behind him are overexposed.]

Oxford, England October 7, 1993

Dear Jim, 

Projects are keeping me quite busy this semester. I’d tell you about my classes, but I don’t think that you want to hear much about engineering. It cannot be much fun to read equations when they’re not doing anything for you. 

Are you working on anything exciting this semester like that lobster shell disease project you told me about?

Do you remember that night we went out and Dwight got so drunk that he fell into the canal? He swears that it didn’t happen and that I must have been the drunk one? I’m hoping you’ll back me up on this one, even if you have to lie to do it. Dwight has a list the length of his arm of stupid things that I’ve done, but I can count things I have on him on less than one hand.

Cheers, Ross

Orono, Maine December 14, 1993

Ross,

It’s the end of the semester here and I’m packing up my things to head home for a few weeks, but I’d rather write you, but I don’t know what to say. My brain is full of information from Cave Ecology and autogenic water v. allogenic water is not that exciting.

You should come for a visit next summer. I could show you actually mountains. I know that you think Scotland has mountains, but you’re wrong.

Hope you have a good Christmas. 

Jim

Athens, Greece March 3, 1994

Dear Jim,

Dwight and Caro convinced me to come along on their trip to Greece over our last mid-term break before graduation.

Wish you were here, Ross

[Enclosed: a postcard with a picture of Athens on the front and Ross’ letter on the back and a photograph of Ross looking sunburnt and windswept in front of the Parthenon.]

Belfast, Maine May 17, 1994

Ross,

I graduated! Now I have to figure out what to do with this degree. I’ve applied for a few jobs, but I haven’t heard back. For the time being I’m moving back home and I’ll probably keep working with Silver until something comes through. 

About that visit I mentioned? 

Jim

[Enclosed: a photograph of Jim standing between Rose, his mother, and Silver, his stepfather, and holding his diploma in its leather case. On the back in near handwriting, clearly not Jim’s, it says “May 7, 1995 - Jimmy graduates from Univ. of Maine, Magna Cum Laude.”]

Belfast, Maine June 20, 1994

Ross,

I haven’t received your latest letter if you’ve written one, but I just need to talk to someone. I still haven’t heard back from any of the “real” (Don’t let Silver know I said that. He’d have me on the street before I could even tie my shoes.) jobs I applied to. I shouldn’t say that I haven’t heard back. I have. But those jobs were my last choices. They’d require me to move far away from Maine. I don’t know if I want to do that yet. So I’ve been stuck here in Belfast working on the trawler all day and getting home so tired that I can barely shower before going to bed. 

And I don’t feel like I fit in anymore. That was probably true last summer as well, but it’s more obvious now when I’m not counting down the days to another semester. My friends who went to college never came back and my friends who stayed… Well, we don’t have much in common anymore. More than one of them has a kid. And I hate sitting talking about the latest box scores with someone who is just talking to me to avoid going home to their kid. 

Maybe I’m just too picky and should take the friends that I can get. 

It’s already been a year since we last saw each other. I can’t believe it.

Hope you’re well, Jim

Oxford, England June 22, 1994

Dear Jim,

Can you believe that it’s been a year? It feels like longer.

Sometimes I wish we could go back. With my final year approaching the future seems too close.

Ross

Belfast, Maine November 24, 1994

Ross, 

Remember how I told you that it hasn’t been a great year for lobsters? It means that we’re still out on that damn boat everyday. And now it’s cold so the rain is freezing on the railing and when it snows the deck is covered in slush. I went to college so that I wouldn’t have to do this. I might have to consider taking one of those jobs in the middle of the country if nothing else comes my way soon. 

Hope you’re staying warm and dry, Jim

P.S. We did catch a record breaking lobster last month.

[Enclosed: a photograph of Jim wearing the overalls and grease-stained sweatshirts holding a large lobster up by the claws.]

Oxford, England May 3, 1995

Dear Jim,

Remember how I mentioned a few letters back that I was looking into getting an M.Sc.? Well I got accepted. I did apply to some programs in the States. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to get your hopes up along with mine. I was disappointed enough when none of them gave me funding without having to let you down too.

I start in the fall.

I hope all is well with you.

Yours,  Ross

[Enclosed: a photograph of Ross, wearing his cap and gown, squinting into the sun.]

Ontonagon, Michigan July 13, 1995

Ross,

I took one of those jobs in the middle of the country. I can’t believe that I thought Belfast was small. The nearest Wal-mart here is over an hour away. Longer in the winter because of how much it snows here. 

I’ve been told that it will start snowing in October and it won’t clear up until April or May. And that getting anywhere can be a pain because of how infrequently the plows hit the smaller roads. 

I’m going to stick it out for a while, but the Great Lakes aren’t the same as the ocean. 

Yours, Jim

Oxford, England December 12, 1995

Dear Jim,

I hope you get this letter before Christmas, but with the amount of snow you said you got I am not that hopeful.

I’m not sure that I made the right decision with this program. I haven’t slept properly since the term started. When I try to take a break I can’t stop thinking about what I should be doing. I keep having stress dreams about failing my coursework. 

I know that you’d help me relax if you were here.

Yours, Ross

Ontonagon, Michigan April 29, 1996

Ross,

I finally have a moment to myself. The snows started melting a few weeks back and things started flooding because it was so warm and we had several feet of snow over the winter. Some of the roads were washed out, the visitor’s center was damaged, and there were down trees everywhere. It’s all been cleaned up now. 

I can’t believe that I feel like 60 degrees is warm. I want to lay out on my lawn without any clothes on and just soak it in.

I think you’d like it here.

Yours,  Jim

[Enclosed: a photograph of Lake Superior with mist]

Oxford, England November 7, 1996

Dear Jim,

I’m sorry that I haven’t written in a while. My new program has kept me quite busy since the term started. I’m taking 3 courses and I’m the teaching assistant for another, which means that I get a fancy title for doing all the grunt work. Grading 100 undergrad mathematics exams is painful to say the very least. I don’t know how some of them managed to pass their A-levels to get into this program, but here they are, screwing up basic multiplication.

I have the photograph of Lake Superior pinned above my desk. I find myself staring at it at the most inconvenient of times. Mostly when I should be grading said exams, but other times too. The water looks refreshing. Did you get to go swimming a lot when it was warm?

I’m going to try and convince my father to fund a trip after I finish this program and before I start working for real. It would be really great to see you again.

Yours,  Ross

P.S. Since I’m jealous of the place you get to see everyday I am including a photograph of the street my department is on. I’m there more than I’m home some days.

[Enclosed: a photograph of a cloudy street with grey stone and neoclassical and Gothic revival architecture]

Ontonagon, Michigan March 25, 1997

I’ve taken up a new sport in this land of winter hell, or winter wonderland if you listen to my co-workers. They have dragged me skiing a few times since the new year. The first time I managed to sit in the lodge and get comfortably drunk beside the fire, but the second time they were having none of that. They put me on skis and all but pushed me down the damn mountain. Granted what they pushed me down was a baby hill, not even a real hill according to the maps, but it sure felt like a mountain of death at the time. I promptly fell down and they did it again. By the end of the day I had a bruise the size of a dinner plate on my ass and I couldn’t wait to go back. I’ve been several times since. If you visit when there’s still snow I am going to take you skiing. You have been warned.

Yours,  Jim

[Enclosed: a photograph of Jim wearing skis with jeans that have huge wet spots, and a tasseled hat.]

Oxford, England May 4, 1997

Jim, 

I’m not going to be able to make it this June. I’ll write later and tell you why, but I’m too disappointed right now to put it into words.

Yours, Ross

Nampara, England June 9, 1997

Dear Jim,

I’m sorry that my letters have been so short.

I had my graduation ceremony a few weeks back, but things have been really busy  for the same reasons that I mentioned in my last letter.

My only real news is that I’ve been recruited by the Royal Engineers. I’ve joined up and I won’t be able to write until I’m through basic training.

Yours, Ross

[Enclosed: a photograph of Ross in his M.Sc. regalia with his father.]

Ontonagon, Michigan June 18, 1997

I’m not sure what to say.

I never thought that you’d join the army given what we talked about and our shared feelings about the Cold War and the Gulf War.

Nampara, England September 27, 1997

Dear Jim,

It felt like the best decision at the time and, honestly, it still feels right. I have two weeks off before I start officers’ training.

I hope you’ll continue to write.

Always yours, Ross

P.S. I wasn’t sure if I should include this, but I decided that I would send it and if you didn’t want it then you could throw it away.

[Enclosed: a photograph of Ross on his graduation from basic training. He is wearing his uniform; brown jacket, green belt, and a black hat with red piping. His hair is very short and he is clean shaven.]

Ontonagon, Michigan January 1, 1998

Dear Ross,

I don’t know how to start this. I guess I’ll start with apologizing for not writing since June. There’s been so much that I’ve wanted to share, but I felt like I couldn’t.

I have all of your letters. I’ve read them. They’re stored with the others. 

The photograph you sent is with all of the others on my wall.

I guess the thing I want to say most is that I’m worried. 

Jim

— — —, England March 2, 1998

Jim, 

I’m being sent to Kosovo. I’ll write as soon as I can.

Please don’t worry.

Always yours,  Ross

Ellsworth, Maine October 12, 1998

Ross,

I am relieved each time I have a letter from you in my mailbox. I pay too much attention to the news in the evenings. Despite what they say I still worry about you. I just hope that you’ll come home in one piece.

I’ve moved back to Maine. I didn’t like being so far away from my mother especially after she had that scare last year. I’m only about an hour away now. 

I got a job as a park ranger in Acadia National Park. It was a long shot, which is why I never mentioned it. But I got it and now I’m back by the sea. But there is still skiing nearby, so don’t think that you’ll get out of that adventure. I can’t wait to see you fall on your ass. 

Yours, Jim

Ellsworth, Maine December 25, 1998

Ross,

I just got home from spending the holiday with my parents. I tried to focus on them, but you were never far from my mind. 

I haven’t received any letters from you since the one you sent in September if you’ve been sending them. At the best I think that I’ve said something that’s caused you not to write. And the worst… I don’t even want to think about it. 

I don’t think I’d ever find out if you were killed over there.

Love, Jim

[Enclosed: a photograph of Jim’s driveway with pine trees bowed under the weight of snow. Christmas lights wink though the branches.]

— — —, Kosovo April 29, 1999

Dear Jim,

I’m so sorry about the situation with the mail. Some of your letters were being forwarded to my dad’s house. And I only found out recently when I was allowed to go home for a few days on leave. I’ll tell you about that some other time. 

I’m not sure what’s been happening to my letters. Maybe the censor is just keeping them, because I’ve been spilling state secrets right and left. I will just keep writing and hope that some of them will get through. I’m safe. We haven’t actually lost anyone.

I hope everything is well with you.

Tell me more about your new job and Acadia. I’d rather hear about your job than think about mine. 

Always yours, Ross

Ellsworth, Maine May 9, 1999

Ross,

I received the letter that you sent at the end of April.

What happened back home?

Right now my job mostly consists of me telling hikers that they can’t try to climb mountains in shorts and t-shirts. It might be warm at the base of the mountain, but there is still visible snow on the mountains, and, SHOCKING, that means that it is cold at the peak. And even if there wasn’t visible snow they should still be prepared for the possibility. Growing up I always heard about hikers freezing to death on Mt. Washington in New Hampshire. It would be 90 degrees at the foot and 20 at the peak and then a freak snow storm would roll in and there would be white out conditions.

Words cannot express how relieved I was to receive your letter.

Love, Jim

[Written on Queen Alexandra Hospital letterhead]

Portsmouth, England July 8, 1999

Dear Jim,

I know you have probably seen the news by now. And I just wanted to let you know that I’m okay. I lost two men, and a few others were injured. I only have a scratch. I should be out of here in a few days.

Always yours, Ross

Ellsworth, Maine July 15, 1999

Ross,

I did see the news and I am so glad to hear from you.

Are you sure you’re okay? Am I allowed to visit?

Love, Jim

Portsmouth, England July 22, 1999

I am supposed to be discharged any day now. I would no longer be here by the time you arrived. 

Maybe some other time. 

Ross

Nampara, England November 20, 1999

Dear Jim,

I’m sorry that I haven’t written. I just don’t know what to say. Things have been … off since I came back home. With my dad gone I’ve been figuring out how to run the estate, something that I thought I’d have longer to learn how to do. It feels wrong without him here and now that the holidays are approaching it feels even more strange. 

Francis and Elizabeth have invited me to spend Christmas and the New Year at Trenwith with them and their children. I don’t think I will. I think I’m just going to stay home and pretend that the holidays are happening this year.

I was thinking about when we met the other day. Do you remember? I crashed into you while I was trying to ride that stupid red bike in the snow. You were bleeding, but refused to see a doctor. 

I can’t believe that it’s been nearly seven years.

Much love, Ross

Ellsworth, Maine December 4, 1999

no more excuses

[Enclosed: a plane ticket from Heathrow to Bangor on December 19 and a train ticket from Bangor, Maine to Ellsworth, Maine.]

There is more snow than Ross was expecting. He watches it rush by through the train’s windows. He has felt a little nauseous since he got off the plane in Bangor. He has not seen Jim in nearly seven years. He has received pictures, but that is not the same.

The train lurches to a stop.

Ross grabs his bag from the overhead rack and makes his way to the door. No one else is getting off from his car. When he steps down he glances in either direction and sees that he is less than a handful of people getting off here. 

The brakes hiss behind him.

He takes a deep breath and looks for Jim. 

Jim rises from a bench and raises a hand in greeting. 

When they are standing face to face Jim frowns. “You bastard. You said that it was a scratch.” He starts to raise his hand to touch the scar running down Ross’ cheek, but then lowers it. 

Ross ducks his head. “Sorry. I just didn’t want to worry you.”

Jim sighs heavily through his nose. “I understand.”

“C’mon,” Jim snatches Ross’ bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I hope you brought your walking shoes. My road rarely gets plowed and I just keep my truck parked off the main road that does get plowed and I walk most everywhere that isn’t work or my parents.”

“This is it.” Jim stops in front of his house with its covered porch and tall, narrow windows. 

“Do you have it all to yourself?”

Jim nods. “After living in shared accommodations in Michigan I wanted the quiet.”

“So there’ll be no one to hear you scream if I do this.” Ross’ voice rises in volume as he dashes away having just stuffed a handful of snow down the back of Jim’s coat.

“You dick!” Jim drops Ross’ bag on the ground and takes off after him.

The scuffle ends when Ross ends up with a faceful of snow in the falling dusk.

Ross dusts the snow from his jeans and laughs. “I think I need a drink to warm me up.”

Jim runs his hands through his hair and pulls his hat back on. “I’ve got a fireplace and whiskey.”

“That’ll do it,” Ross grins.

Jim gets the fire started while Ross drops his bag in Jim’s guest room and digs out a pair of sweatpants. In short order they are both sitting on the couch, feet up, with half-full glasses balanced on thighs and some quiet banter.

Two glasses later they are sitting silently side by side. 

Jim rolls his head to look at Ross, the fire casts warm, dark shadows on his face, “I really was worried about you.”

“I made it out okay.” Ross takes a sip from his glass

“Bullshit,” Jim says quietly.

Ross turns his head to look at Jim. “I still have all my limbs,” he gestures vaguely at his body. 

Jim swallows and looks away. “I… Fuck. I need another drink.” Jim rises abruptly. At the sideboard he pauses with the bottle of whiskey in his hand. He wishes that he was alone for a minute so that he could think, so he could gather his thoughts before he says something that will destroy all of this. 

Jim startles when Ross places his hands on Jim’s hips. Shivers when Ross’ breath brushes past his neck. Ross’ nose brushes Jim’s ear.

“Ross,” Jim breathes.

Ross drops his hands. “Sorry, I’m—”

Jim turns and grasps Ross’ wrist to keep him from stepping back. “Please don’t apologize.”

He cannot look at Ross’ face. The thought of doing it, the thought of what he might see there thrills him and scares him at the same time. He fixes his gaze on the dip of Ross’ collar bone. “But if you can’t… if you don’t… I… I’d rather you not say it out loud. I don’t think—”

“Jim.” Ross says softly. He lifts Jim’s chin with a finger.

Jim raises his eyes.

Ross’ slides his hand around from Jim’s jaw to curl in the soft hair on the nape of his neck. Ross’ gaze drops from Jim’s eyes to his lips.

“Ross?” Jim says on an exhale. His eyes are half closed and he is breathing through his mouth because he feels like he cannot breathe otherwise. 

“I should have done this in the airport seven years ago, but I was too scared.”

Ross closes the gap.

[demisexualemmaswan]

the story can resume (2/???)

A/N: "I'll definitely update in October," I said to myself two months ago. I tried to write but I admittedly struggled a little bit with writing this chapter. Hoping you'll enjoy this chapter! Also, I thought Henry was going to bet he sole narrator and then the muse decided otherwise. Hoping you’ll enjoy Emma and Killian’s perspective too! 

Summary: “The story can resume. … I will return. Find you, love you, marry you and live without shame.”An unfortunate misunderstanding caused by secrets and naivety forces a young couple to be torn from each other far too soon. It’s up to Henry Nolan to put the clues together and right the wrong he has caused his sister and the man she loves most.Inspired by the book/film Atonement for the Captain Swan Movie Marathon.   Tagging: @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @teamhook @jarienn972 @dreameronarooftop15 @captain-emmajones @klynn-stormz @snowbellewells @csalltheway @captainswanmoviemarathon @captainswan21 @xsajx @lonelyspectator12 @yasbio2015 @mariakov81 @xarandomdreamx 

[Read on Ao3] 

--

“And he burnt the manuscript?” Killian asked angrily, digging another hole in the ground for the new shrubbery.

“He tried to,” Emma sighed from where she was lounging on the grass. “Apparently it was rescued from the fire with only a singed back cover and enough emotional scars to almost keep Henry from writing ever again.” She closed her eyes, tilting her face toward the sun. “Was it a mistake for me to leave, Killian?”

Her voice trembled and it stopped him in his tracks. 

“I...I can handle it when father gets like that. It’s been this way for ages, and he’s never understood Henry. I should’ve stayed here to protect him.” She slung her arm over her face to stop him from seeing her tears. He could tell by the way her chest hitched a little bit. “At the very least, by now they would’ve married me off and I could do something they’d actually be proud of.” 

“Emma,” Killian murmured, putting the shovel down. He furtively glanced around to make sure no one was watching him before he sat beside her. “Emma, love. You would’ve hated being stuck here. As awful as those gits were to you, I know how much you relished using your mind the last four years. You’re brilliant in so many other ways that your father is an arsehole for being unable to appreciate. There’s no point in sacrificing your happiness for everyone else’s. You deserve to be just as happy as any of them.” 

He reached out to touch her and then thought better of himself.

Killian glanced around again to make sure that Emma was the only one who had heard him. If he was to be honest, he had gotten quite used to the freedom that had come with being at Oxford. No one scrutinized their every movement, he could speak his mind to Emma, and she could  speak hers in turn. If anything, their time away from the manor had solidified their ironclad friendship. When they were taking the train home, Emma curled into his side as she slept, the nightfall cloaking everything that they had wanted to hide from each other, everything they’d wanted to ignore. But daylight had thrown everything into a sharp relief. 

Their stations, and Emma’s family, would never accept him as being more than the servant boy that they found on the street. Which would’ve been perfectly fine, if Killian had not been ardently and devotedly in love with Emma. He had no idea if she returned his feelings, but he fancied himself the keeper and protector of her heart. 

(He had other feelings toward Emma that he would only act upon when he was alone, as he pictured the hollow of her throat, her hair tossed back and what she would feel like around him.)

He would just have to simply resume the task in secret. If anything, it made him feel like her knight, championing himself for her, promising himself in all things to keep her heart safe. He was quite sure Emma would break his nose again if he ever verbalized his feelings, either sort of his feelings. She was a tough lass and she certainly didn’t need to be rescued. An incident in a bar at Oxford involving one Neal Cassidy and a broken foot  certainly proved that to all and sundry that Emma Nolan was not to be trifled with. 

But Killian did not mind building his best friend back up when she felt knocked down. She was fierce and brilliant, but it did not change that she needed to be reminded of this when the world knocked just a little too harshly. 

“I’m supposed to be picking flowers,” Emma muttered, finally drawing her arm away from her face. Her eyes were dry, if a little red. “David’s coming home today. For a visit. Did you know?”

“Aye, I’d heard,” Killian murmured. “A very reliable author informed me.” Warmth and amusement flooded his tone and Emma chuckled softly in spite of herself. “He’s bringing the fiancee. Mary something.”

“Mary Margaret. And two friends: Walsh Ozman and Graham Hubert,” Emma sighed, her green eyes flickering up to him. In the sunlight, he could see the golden flecks that were found in both Henry and David’s eyes, but they made her eyes look all the more striking. “Apparently they’re both extremely eligible bachelors.” Her voice hardened and her eyes narrowed. 

“Well, you can always break their noses and send them running,” Killian said serenely, standing up and getting ready to return to the yard work. 

Emma rolled onto her side and looked up at him, a smile playing on the corners of her lips. “It didn’t scare you away,” she reminded him softly.

“And it never will,” he promised, heading over to the wheelbarrow and shovel again. 

Emma’s hand reached for him as if to call him back and then she seemed to think better of herself, her fingers neatly folding in on themselves. “Thank you,” she murmured softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Killian.” She came up beside him for a moment and rested her chin on his shoulder, her arms ensnaring his waist. 

He tilted his head slightly so he could look at her over his shoulder. “You’ll never have to find out,” he promised softly, his lips so close to hers that it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility to just turn around and kiss her. 

For a moment they shared a breath, simply looking at each other. His eyes searched hers, desperate for some sign that he could do what he’d wanted to do for the last four years. Her gaze never broke from his, and he could’ve lost himself in the green of her eyes forever. She leaned in a little closer until a yell from the house distracted them both. 

Emma pulled away abruptly, her breath rattled. Though he had not kissed her, he felt like his lips were buzzing with the anticipation of the act. “I need to go get the flowers,” she rasped, immediately turning on her heel and all but fleeing back into the house.  

“Emma!” Killian called after her, racing to try and grab her hand, to get her to explain, to get her to tell him what the hell that just was. 

But the honking down the lane signified the return of Liam with the car and the arrival of David and their guests. 

And then one car became two, signaling the arrival of Emma’s cousins and Killian sighed. It was going to be a very long day.

--

“But I don’t want to act out your stupid old story!” Jack protested, folding his arms over his chest. “This is horrifically boring! Hardly any violence in it at all!” “I agree, I want there to be some action! I think it’d be rather exciting for Leon to be stabbed at the end and I am an excellent stabber!” Nick added excitedly.

“And I am very excellent at falling over and pretending to be dead!” Jack exclaimed. He leapt to his feet and Nick pretended to stab him. Jack held onto his chest and staggered before falling over, pretending to be dead. “See, Henry?” the boy asked, his voice muffled by the floor. 

“No one is getting stabbed!” Henry protested hotly, crossing his arms. If he had known that casting his cousins in the reading of the story was going to be such an arduous task, he wouldn’t have done it at all. They were every bit as opinionated and bossy as they ever were, and any sympathy Henry had for their plight was long gone in the wake of their atrocious behavior. “If you want a part with stabbing then you can write your own story.”

“Let’s go swimming!” Jack cried, springing up from the ground.  “It’s too hot and I don’t want to write or read any sort of story! It’s summer and I shan’t do any school work while I’m here!”

“It’s not school work,” Henry short back.

“No school! No school!” Nicholas chanted.

“Let’s go for a swim!” Jack cried.

“But then we won’t be prepared for--” Henry started, but the uproar of the twins drowned out his protest as the two bolted out of the rooms, racing to see which one could find their swimsuit the fastest and which one could do the biggest cannonball off the docks. 

“Just a half an hour break, Henry.” His cousin, Ava, had only sat back during the whole exchange with a little smirk on her face. Even when she spoke, there was still a condescending edge to her tone that had Henry crossing his arms. “I’m sure you can manage that for your guests, can’t you? It’s what Uncle Leopold would want.” 

Henry’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, go take your swim,” he muttered, looking at the floor. “I’ll just be up here waiting when you guys get back.”

“Will you rewrite Arabella’s last scene so that she faints?” Ava asked, tapping her cheek. “I’m a wonderful fainter. My drama teacher at school says so.” Henry just nodded mutely. “Good boy,” she said snidely before flouncing out of the room. 

WIth a sigh, Henry sat back down at his desk, pressing his forehead to the wood. There was a moment where he briefly considered tearing up the whole thing and letting his cousins off the hook. But he was sure that it would come back to haunt him someway.

No doubt Ava would complain that Henry wasn’t being courteous to the guests and had destroyed the book because it wasn’t going his way. And then Henry would get a long lecture which certainly would feature the phrase “man up” several times over.

Besides, as much as he wanted to, he was sure ripping up his manuscript would only prove his father right and greatly disappoint Emma. He was more afraid of the latter in that regard that the former and so he set it aside. 

Still, there was nothing that said he couldn’t write a revenge story about his cousins very quickly. That he could shred up so that it would never see the light of day, and it would make him feel more amiable toward his cousins upon their return from their swim.

After quickly adding in a line at the end to indicate that Arabella would faint, Henry began work on his project to let out his frustrations. In this story, he was much braver, all but shouting at his cousins. In this story, his voice roared like a lion when he took back his manuscript from his father and his father kowtowed to his interests. And maybe in this story, he was just a little bit better at math. There was nothing quite like getting lost in a story, as the world around him seemed to fade away. His bedroom no longer seemed to exist, but instead a world of evil queens, werewolves and monsters. He was quite entranced in his plot when a shout drew him away from his writing. Going to the window, he saw Emma and Killian standing by the fountain. Their father’s favorite vase was beside Emma, full of flowers. Henry was too far away to hear exactly what they were saying but he could hear Killian’s voice shouting at Emma. His sister stood stock still before she brusquely began shimmying out of her dress leaving her only in her chemise. Henry ducked away from the window, his heart pounding against his chest. What had he just seen?

Had Killian told her to do that?

--

Emma, after leaving Killian in the garden, had walked back into the house to get the vase. Her cheeks burned with how close she and Killian had been, though she tried to convince herself that it was just because it was hot outside.

She only had a moment’s notice to pull herself together as the twins came barrelling down the hall.

“I can jump farther than you!” “Well I can swim faster than you!” “Goodness, what’s all this about?” Emma laughed, watching Jack and Nicholas chase each other around the table. 

“Can we go for a swim, Emma, please?” they pleaded in unison, still chasing each other in a circle.

“Yes, of course you can go for a swim!” Emma laughed. “Go on! Race to see who can get there faster!” The boys giggled and went tumbling out of the house, shoving each other as they went. She smiled fondly for a moment before she went back to find the vase.

She picked her father’s favorite vase, knowing that he would want to show it off proudly on the table, and at least if she’d picked the right vase it would be a small recompense for whatever damage she was liable to do later on in the evening. 

Closing her eyes and counting to three, she took in a few deep breaths still trying to will the heat in her cheeks away.

“Why are you so flushed, cousin?” Ava asked suspiciously from the door. 

Emma’s eyes flew open. “Because it’s the hottest it’s been all summer,” she replied. “And I’ve just been in the garden.”

“With Killian, I’m sure.” Her cousin responded, then took a considerable pause before adding, “I’m sure your father would be very interested in hearing about that.” 

Emma did not appreciate the tone that her cousin was taking.  She stepped closer to Ava, just to remind the other girl she was a little taller and a little older. 

“A reminder to you that this is my house, and I am to go where I please,” Emma replied firmly. “And if Killian happens to be working while I’m lounging in the garden, then there’s nothing wrong with that. If anything, I’m sure my father would love to hear how committed Killian is to the upkeep of the estate.” 

She brushed past Ava before turning around and adding, “It would do you well, cousin, to be more gracious to your hosts. You may be a guest, but don’t think I don’t know about the money that’s gone into keeping your family’s indiscretions quiet.” 

“Are you threatening me?” Ava demanded.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Emma replied with a thin smile. “I’m just reminding you that you could certainly practice a little more gratitude. After all, your reputation hangs quite precariously and if you fall out of my father’s favor, then you might actually have to work for a living, cousin.” She tilted her head and added, “Perhaps Killian might be able to teach you about gardening. He’s quite good at it.”

She began to walk away, but Ava was determined to have the last word. “At least I’m not a good-for-nothing like you!” Ava shot back, folding her arms over her chest with a pout.

She stopped in her tracks, turning around to face her cousin. The remark didn’t sting coming from her cousin. She heard it so often that the remark barely made a mark coming from anyone. “Was that meant to insult me?” Emma laughed, the sound high and bitter. “You’ll have to do better than that. I already know I’m a good-for-nothing.”

With that, she walked back out into the garden. Killian straightened up when he saw her, but didn’t dare approach. He went back to his work, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Emma picked flowers while she waited for Ava to stalk past them and follow her brothers. True to form, Ava flounced past them with her nose in the air.

“It’s an excellent bouquet you’ve picked, love,” was the first thing Killian said to her, after a few moments of heavy silence. 

“Yes, I think David will like them a lot,” Emma said, trying to keep her voice bright. “I just need to grab some water from the fountain.”

“Well, that works out for me. Your mother wishes me to water the rose bushes by the fountain. I’ll come with you.”

Emma and Killian walked side by side to the fountain, the only sound passing between them the rattling of the wheelbarrow at first. 

“You’re not a good-for-nothing,” he said quietly to her. “You have to know you’re…”

“I am, Killian,” Emma said quietly. “But you’re sweet for saying I’m not.” Her sigh was heavy. “Knowing me, somehow I’ll have picked the wrong flowers or the wrong vase too.”

“Well, let me water them for you,” Killian offered gallantly when they arrived at the fountain. “So that you can say you didn’t mess up the watering.” He wrapped his fingers around the handle of the vase.

“No, I’ve got it.” She tugged the vase closer to her.

“I insist, love.” He tugged it back to him.

“It’s watering a vase. I can do it.” A firmer tug and a firmer tone.

“Emma, it’s fine!” His handle broke off of the vase and fell into the fountain. His eyes met hers and he shrugged. “Oops.”

“Don’t ‘oops’ me, Killian Jones!” Emma demanded, running a hand over her face. “That was my father’s favorite vase. He’s going to kill me.”

“I’m sure he won’t,” Killian replied. Emma took a step forward to yell at him. “Careful!” he shouted. Her feet had barely brushed the jagged edges of the vase and she stopped, frozen for a moment. Realizing that the handle was still in the water, she quickly stripped down to her chemise and dove in to fetch it. She winced when she felt the jagged edge of the broken piece cut into her hand, but she still held on when she came up for air.

“Emma, your hand! It’s cut!” Killian exclaimed. “Let me help.” “It’s fine,” Emma replied, fully aware that she was dripping with water and her chemise was essentially see through at this point.

“Let me help,” Killian insisted again, gingerly taking her hand in his own.

“So now you’re going to a gentleman?” she asked, trying to keep her breath from hitching at just how close they were standing to one another. 

“Goodness only knows what’s been living in that pond and if we have to cut off your hand, I’ll never hear the end of it,” Killian replied. “And I’m always a gentleman.” He took a bottle out of his pocket and gently began pouring it on Emma’s hand. “Ah!” she hissed. “What the hell is that?” “Rum,” Killian replied, closing the bottle and  taking her hand back in his. “And a bloody waste of it too.”

“What? Are you drinking on the job?” Emma asked, raising an eyebrow. “Hardly, but it makes for an exemplary disinfectant,” Killian replied. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and began wrapping it around her hand. Using his mouth to secure it, he very gingerly tied it in a knot to secure it in place. “There.”

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, the hairs on her arms standing up.

“Is that all your hand is worth to you?” he teased, pulling back. “Perhaps some gratitude is in order.” He tapped his lips playfully, and Emma rolled her eyes.

“That’s what the thank you was for,” Emma retorted, her eyes shining with mirth. “Besides, it wouldn’t have happened if you had just let me fill the vase.” Killian quirked an eyebrow at her, and she smirked at him, knowing full well that he had blushed when pretty girls looked at him at Oxford. “Please. You couldn’t handle it.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it,” Killian taunted, popping the ‘t’ sound in ‘it’.

Emma stared at him for a moment before grabbing him by the suspenders and yanking him toward her. Her mouth slid against his and she desperately pressed into it for more. His arm hooked around her waist while his other hand went to her hair, trying to draw her in closer. She couldn’t help but moan as their lips slid together and he pushed back as if he could never get enough. When they broke for air, she was still clinging to his suspenders. They were sharing a breath, and though Emma couldn’t see Killian’s face--when had she closed her eyes?--he sounded as wrecked as he felt. Then, with a horrified spring of guilt, she realized that this was her best friend, and by kissing him, she could’ve compromised his future and his esteem in her father’s eyes.

“That was…” Killian started, the wonder still in his voice. “A one time thing,” Emma said frantically, pulling away from him. She gathered her things together and headed back into the house, leaving Killian there alone. 

It broke her heart to leave him there, but she couldn’t put his future in danger. 

The kiss made her realize that he meant too much to her for that.

[oncerpotter2018]

Plot:

Charles Francis Xavier and Erik Magnes Lehnserr were two different kinds of people who lives two separate lives. One is a tormented soul whose a leader of his own street gang in New York City, who has revenge and murder on his mind. While the other is a upcoming Oxford University student, who is optimistic and keen to spread peace to who he meets. Soon their worlds would collide in the most unexpected way. Charles will discover the reality of human nature and Erik will find what it means to love again.

A Banana Fish AU

Chapter 1

It was the last day of finishing College before summer arrives. Charles hadn't slept for ages, his eyes not tired as he rolled over his bed lying awake for hours. Charles had been accepted to the most prestigious and high ranked Universities in the world. He always dreamed of going to Oxford University, the long dream of studying and setting his goals for his bright future. He tried so hard to sleep that night but couldn't get his mind to take a rest until his phone rang that jolted him back to his senses.

"Hello" he answered.

"Hey, sorry did I bothered you?"

"No, it's fine I couldn't sleep anyway" Charles replied in his sleep as he talked with his sister Raven over the phone.

"Okay then, I just want say congratulations on your acceptances and to celebrate guess who got tickets to a long term place someone so wanted to visit for so long"

"Raven, what are you up to?"

There was a pause. Charles looked at the clock hanging above his door realising it was nearing two o'clock in the morning.

"Let's just say that someone will get a chance to finally get his once in a life time chance to take a look at his world favourite library in the world, go experience Times Square... Are you getting me now Charles?"

There was another long pause as Charles over thought what his sister said.

"Wait... Are you saying...?"

"Yes Charles, we're going to New York" Raven said finishing her brother's thought process.

Charles snapped awake, he couldn't believe the surprise that came from the voice of his sister. It was unreal.

"I'm shocked. I'm so grateful but wait you said 'we', what does that mean?"

"Charles.. Seriously? We're family, besides I'm not letting you roam New York City alone, besides New York is the best place to get the newest line of clothing"

Charles heard his sister laugh from the other side.

"So when do we leave, for New York I mean?"

"Tomorrow"

"Wait what, tomorrow?"

"Yes, now get some sleep, I'll tell you more about it tomorrow. Have a good sleep, by Charles" and before Charles could say anything else the phone went silent.

"New York" Charles thought to himself. His mind wondering where on earth did Raven get  tickets to New York? He laid awake for a few more hours before his eyes got tired this time and soon he fell asleep dreaming about what New York City is like. He had only seen the State in pictures, in magazines and in text books. But seeing the real thing up close and personal would be a dream come true. An opportunity to take photos that would last forever. Make memories with his sister. See the place he only dreamed in his head. He thought all of this as he let his mind wonder of what America was like. What the people are like and who he shall met there.

A few miles away in the city of New York, a younger man by the name of Erik Lehnserr waits in silence taking another swing at his cold drink. He drank and drank until the doors to the dinning area bursted open.

"About time" said Erik, taking his drink back to his lips once more.

"Sorry I'm late, I wanted to be presentable for my dear Lehnserr" said Sebastian Shaw, a man of wealth and promises but with a cruel intention at his heart. He raised Erik like his own son after his mother died. He raised him good but the older Erik got the more unspeakable things Shaw did with his new profound toy to break. He walked in, sat on the seat in front of Erik taking his own drink in his hands. Erik didn't take his eyes off Shaw.

"Well enough chit chat, if you dare to kill one more of my boys to get my attention all you have to do was ask nicely" he said back, taking his drink tightly in his hand, his leg crossed with the other and his body relaxed in his seat. Shaw gave a little laugh.

"That's what I love about you Erik, protective of your own kind" he said walking closer to Erik now, his drak eyes deepening into Erik's own green grey ones.

Erik didn't flinch at his touch, didn't move a muscle when Shaw came closer to grab Erik by his cheeks and chin so he could turn his face upwards facing his direction where his eyes were.

"You have such a pretty face" he said "and such good lips" he said rubbing his thumb across Erik's soft mouth. "Why don't you stay here, leave those boys behind and you can have everything you want"

Erik grinned before whacking Shaw's hand away from his face.

"Not in a million years" Erik retorted before reaching for his brown leather jacket and left Shaw and his home. Erik had been keeping a grudge against Shaw since he was a child, and hated him for his lies that only he knew the truth of. Shaw didn't care for him, loved him as he told people, those guests who partyed in his mansion. The truth was Shaw took interest in Erik in cold hearted ways, seeking pleasure rather then compassion. He took Erik away, killing his mother in the process. With both sides at war, Erik's 'Brotherhood of Mutants' and Shaw's 'Hellfire Club' were sworn enemies. Erik swore to kill Shaw not matter how many times he placed his life on the line. Until the day Shaw dies, Erik will never be satisfied. Outside the mansion gates stands Logan Howlett, the leader of the X-Men as his gang wants to be called. Erik let Logan keep the name, it suited him better then what Summer's suggested. 

"Don't you think it's about time to rethink things through" 

"I don't know what you mean" said Erik, not looking at Logan as he walked down the driveway. 

"I mean don't just go head first, have a plan and then attack" 

"Since when did 'The Wolverine' thought things through and made plans. I thought you were the kill or be killed leader type?" 

Logan used to snarl at that nickname but gotten used to over time. 

"Hey, let me drive you to our hide out, I'm sure a few more drinks won't hurt now would it?" laughed Logan as he gestured towards his car. 

Erik have a shark like grin and simlmy nodded.

"Okay wolfie, I'll join you and the others for a pint or two, but tell Summer's to keep his brother away from the older guys, last time it wasn't a pretty sight for the eyes" said Erik stepping into the car.

"I told you not to call me that and fine, but you are buying us the drinks" Logan laughed still hating the short hand version the young kids call him. They made it through the city knowing that to survive means to know what sacrifice means. 

[theoriginalladya]

Rules: Answer the question, then tag some people and ask them a new one.

I was tagged by @shadoedseptmbr - thank you, my friend!

Have you ever desperately wanted to go to a place specifically because you read about it in fiction or heard about it in a song?  Did you go? Did it live up to the image you had in your heart?

Oh, another story from my time over in Paris!  Lovely!!!  

Okay, so this is actually a different trip.  I studied over there in the fall of 1988.  In the summer of 1997, my best friend from high school and I decided to go over together (she’d never been) and so we did.  We explored places I never got to the previous visit, which is GREAT because I never got to see Montmartre up close before!  I visited Sacre Coeur, of course, but I was short on time and didn’t get to go.  So, we went to see it.

How does this tie into fiction or song?  Well, it does, actually, to fiction in two ways.  Song, I’m not sure, I’ll have to look at that later.

So, somewhere between my previous visit and this one, I read a great book by Helen McInnes called Above Suspicion.  Now, I’m a history major and a WWII buff and my mom who also liked her books, mentioned this to me in passing.  It takes place just before WWII starts in Europe and this married couple get caught up in helping a friend who is a spy to check on someone who hasn’t contacted them when they should have, etc.  So, they agree and go on their usual summer journey to mainland Europe (they’re from Oxford).

One of their first stops (may be their first - it’s been years since I read it! lol), is in Paris and they go to a club called Lapin Agile in Montmartre.  There’s a whole big thing about their visit - something about him drinking cognac (I think?) and her wearing a rose somehow - somthing like that anyway, or maybe this was one of the ‘mundane’ visits to establish them as ‘tourists’ so anyone who might be watching wouldn’t think they were involved.  WHATEVER the case, I was hooked.  The book was a fabulous read, and I really wanted to see the Lapin Agile because I’d been there and never even known it existed (story of my life, tbh! lol  Ask me about my MA Thesis sometime! ;) ). 

Also, during those years, I found out Steve Martin, from SNL and all kinds of movies, wrote a play called Picasso at the Lapin Agile.  Found that purely by accident on one of those Sunday morning semi-news shows on tv and I was fascinated.  So, reason #2 right there.

So when we got to Paris, my bff and I hunted down the Lapin Agile - go figure, it’s a REAL PLACE! lol  We took pictures of each other outside of it (it was closed, unfortunately, and we weren’t likely to be back when it was open), and then we explored the rest of Montmartre.  THAT made my trip, as much as anything else, and there were a LOT of good things on that trip! :)  I wouldn’t say it lived up to the image - never got to go inside, after all - but it was close.  We had fun, that’s the important thing and the one that still sticks in my mind all these years later.

Tagging anyone who wants to participate this time so I’m not double tagging anyone!  lol  Let me see here...

(I’ve had this up all day long trying to think of another question, but I think I lost it all with my previous one! lol)

[ladycumhangabhainn]

Dans un autre monde - Chapter 10

Previously

  I was coming to the end of my story, how Jamie had gotten me and Faith to Craigh na Dun when the entrance door came bursting open and the sound of Faith, Brianna and Roger’s crying filled the Rectory.

 “Mama!” shouted my youngest.

 “Bree, darling, what’s the matter?”

 “Roger, lad, why are ye all crying?”

 At the grand old age of 9, Roger wasn’t known to cry for nothing, so something must have happened. Before the sweet lad could answer, the younger Mrs Graham came in, carrying her own daughter Fiona.

 “Reverend, Miss Beauchamp, I think yer lad and lassies might have some ear infection... We were having a picnic, then they started complaining about their ears...”

 “Mama, they scweamed!” sobbed Faith. “They were so loud, mama!”

 I frowned. “What was so loud? Roger, what is she talking about?”

 “The sound, auntie Claire, the sound was awful!”

 Sound? Screams?

 “Where did you say you went on your picnic?”

 “Just outside the city, Miss Beauchamp. Near this hill, Craigh na Dun.”

It took time, some cajoling and a full platter of Mrs Graham’s biscuits, but I finally succeeded in calming Roger, Faith and Brianna. They exhausted themselves and were now all napping in the girls’ room. I made my way back to Reggie’s study, the manse quiet except for the soft music coming from the kitchen.

 “Reggie...”

 The reverend’s desk was scattered with papers, the letters and proclamation I had found, but also what looked like a family tree and a piece of paper filled with Reggie’s familiar scribbling.

 “The bairns...”

 “They exhausted themselves. They’re napping in the girls’ room.”

“Good... I’ve been looking through all the papers ye found and tried to make a timeline... We are now in August 1950 which means that during yer Jamie’s time it is now August 1748... 202 years difference, right?”

I nodded and noted his frowned expression.

“What seems to be the problem, Reggie?”

He sighed.

“It’s all those dates... Nothing is right! The letter from the French King is dated May of 1748... And this letter from the Duke of Cumberland is dated September of 1748... In September 1748, Cumberland was in the Holy Roman Empire for the signing of the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle! It is impossible that ye and the lassies... Unless...”

 He started opening drawers full of paperwork, fished out a photograph before going to the mantle of the fireplace and taking a framed document.

 “McMaster!” he exclaimed, handing me the framed and the picture.

 The framed contained what looked like a very old document in Latin with several seals at the bottom.

 “I don’t understand... What is this document and who or what is McMaster?”

A smile appeared on the Reverend’s face.

 “This, me dear, is a photograph of the Declaration of Arbroath, the letters the Scottish barons sent to Pope John XXII in 1320 in response to the excommunication of Robert the Bruce. It is currently held at the Scottish Record Office in Edinburgh. And this” he pointed to the frame, “is an almost perfect copy of the Declaration that was made by a dear friend of mine, Ray McMaster.”

 “A copy, you say?”

 I couldn’t quite believe that this document was not the real deal. It looks exactly like the one in the picture, albeit without the signs of time.

 “So your friend, McMaster... He’s a counterfeiter?”

 Reggie let out a jolly laugh.

 “In another life he might have been... No, he is an artist. He works with several museums throughout Britain. As ye must know from yer experiences with yer Uncle Lambert, artifacts are priceless and mostly fragile. It is the same for documents and that’s when Ray comes in. He made several copies of documents that are on display at the Culloden Museum, like letters from Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Scottish Lairds Declaration to the Old Pretender.”

 “You want to ask your friend to make copies of King Louis and the Duke of Cumberland’s letters...”

 “Yes! It might take him awhile; Ray is quite the perfectionist... But the proclamation is dated July of 1749, so it will give you and the girl time to get ready to make the trip back through the stones...”

 He smiled, sheepishly.

 “And it will give us time to get use to the idea of ye and yer lasses leaving...”

 I sighed before hugging him. The girls and I would be reunited with Jamie and our family back in the 18th century, but it will mean saying goodbye to our 20th century family. The idea of leaving Reggie, Roger and Mrs Graham suddenly made me feel faint... 

“Promise me something, lass... Promise me ye’ll try to find a way to get word to us, to let us ken ye are all safe...”

 “I promise, Reggie... I think I might even have an idea how. You do business with a publishing house from Edinburgh, Fraser Press. It was founded back in the 18th century as F.A.M.M. Fraser, Printer and Book Seller...”

 He frowned. “F.A.M.M. Fraser? Yer lad, Fergus?”

 I nodded. “According to Mrs Graham, Fraser Press still belongs to my Fergus’ descendants... I’ll forever be thankful for what you did for me and my girls...”

 “I feel as if ye and yer lasses are me own... Like ye are part of me family and... maybe ye are, in a way.”

 He took the family tree from the table, it was a MacKenzie family tree.

 “Tis wee Roger’s family tree, from his father’s side. See if ye can find any name ye recognize...”

 I looked at the very top and let out a gasp.

 “William John and Sarah MacKenzie... They’re... They adopted Dougal and Geillis’ son... Oh my God! That means that Roger is...”

 “Dougal, ye mean the War Chieftain of clan MacKenzie?”

 “Yes, he was Jamie’s uncle, his mother’s brother... He had an affair with Geillis Duncan, the fiscal’s wife, but... She was a traveler, from 1968... And Roger can hear the stones as well... But then he is...”

 I tried to calculate in my head, but Reggie was quicker.

 “It means that wee Roger is yer lasses’ 2nd cousin, 6 times removed. So ye are, indeed, family.”

 “So I truly am Auntie Claire!”

 We laughed and cried at the same time, Reggie holding me in his arms and whispering softly. I felt so safe in his embrace. It reminded me of how safe I felt in Uncle Lamb’s embrace.

 “Now, me dear, we have to make preparations...”

                                                           ****

 And so we did. First we had to contact Mr McMaster who took quite his time responding to the message Reggie left with his assistant. Then with the help of Mrs Graham and her coven of druids, we salvaged pieces of the clothing Faith and I had wore on our arrival to 1948 and made three new dresses with lots of hidden pockets.

Slowly I started to get the girls to the idea that we would be leaving our current lives to be reunited with Jamie and Fergus. Faith had an easier time accepting it than Brianna. The 20th Century was all she had known and, although she had been quite young, my eldest daughter still had vivid memories of our lives in the past. She was able to get her sister excited at the prospect of finally meeting their father and their brother. My sweet little girl made sure to tell Brianna that both Jamie and Fergus would love her and that Fergus would teach her all the French comptines she couldn’t remember.

 We celebrated first Faith’s 4th birthday, then my own 32nd and finally Brianna’s 2nd. After Hogmanay, the girls started counting down the day until we would leave. We had decided that the best moment to pass through the Stones would be on the Summer Solstice. And so we counted the days and waited for Mr McMaster to send the copy of the letters. And we waited, and waited, and waited. By late May I was beginning to think the letters would never get on time and that we would miss our window of opportunity. That is until June 15th, 5 days before our set departure date.

 Reggie had taken Mrs Graham, Roger and the girls on an outing by the Loch and I was doing some last minute check, making sure all the medicine I had “borrowed” from the Infirmary would fit in all the hidden pockets of my traveling clothes, counting all the vintage coins we had found in several antique boutiques, when someone rang the doorbell.

 “Yes?” I said to the well dressed man standing on the doorstep.

 “I have a parcel for Mrs Claire Fraser...”

 Claire Fraser... I hadn’t been called that in what seemed like a lifetime ago...

 “Yes... I mean... I am Claire Fraser.”

 He handed me a large envelop before wishing me a nice day. The envelope was indeed addressed to me, but there was no return address. I slowly made my way to Reggie’s study and opened it. Inside were two sealed documents as well as what looked like antique bank statement from the Royal Bank of Scotland and three delicate necklaces with gemstones. In between those documents was a simple white envelope with one word, Madonna.

 Ma chère Madonna,

 You must have now deduced that Ray McMaster and the Paris apothecary you met a long time ago are one and the same.

You see, I have been watching you for years, Madonna. I first met you when you were a small child, pushed in a pram by your mother in an Oxford park. Your light, even at such a young age, shined a bright blue. Our second meeting happened shortly after your parents’ untimely death, when you were travelling to Egypt with your Uncle Lambert.

You see, Madonna, the Beauchamp are quite dear to me and I was tasked – or more likely I tasked myself – into looking after them through Time.  Just like you, Madonna, I am a traveler. I have traveled for so long that I somehow forgot where and when I am from. But I have never forgotten my line. You are of my line, Madonna. You come from a long line of what now people call time traveler.

Your destiny was always to travel through the Stones of Craigh na Dun and to meet your Highlander. And it is my destiny to reunite you with him.

I was able to visit Versailles recently. Do not worry, Madonna, King Louis didn’t recognized me. Although for him 4 years had passed since our last encounter, for me it had been a couple of decades. After leaving Versailles I made a quick detour by Aix-la-Chapelle and met with the Duke of Cumberland. I was able to convince him of the innocence and the loyalty of both you and your Highlander. Quite the man, that Butcher of Culloden.

I know Reginald believe me to be an artist – a counterfeiter maybe – but as you can see I am simply a traveler. Don’t tell him that the Declaration of Arbroath I gave him a couple of years ago is actually one of the original copy. I don’t think he would survive the shock.

Aurevoir for now, Madonna, for I am sure we will meet again.

 Raymond

 PS. I almost forgot, you will also find bank papers allowing you to access an account at the Royal Bank of Scotland in Edinburgh back in the 18th Century. I opened it in 1727 in your name, hopefully the fund will allow you and your Highlander to live comfortably. – R

PPS. The gemstones necklaces should allow you to pass through the Stones and through time more easily. Opal for yourself and your Faith and topaz for your Brianna. – R

 I didn’t realize I was crying until a tear fell on the letter, staining the paper. I didn’t know what to think about all that, but knowing Master Raymond had spent years furtively watching over me...

 “Thank you...” I said before putting the precious documents away.

                                                         ****

 Before I even realized it, it was June 20th. We all went to bed quite early the previous night and got up a couple of hours before dawn. I took my time getting the girls ready before joining Reggie and Roger down in the kitchen for a light breakfast – I knew from experience that it was better to travel through the Stones on an empty stomach.

 “Do ye really have to go, Auntie Claire?” asked Roger, eyes still red from having cried himself to sleep.

 “I’m afraid we do, sweet boy... But I promise I will find a way to get word to you as soon as we can...”

 The car ride was spent in silence and as we arrived at Craigh na Dun we were meet by Mrs Graham and some of her fellow Druids. Unlike for Beltane and Samhain, the Midsommer Druids Dance was done only by 3 dancers led by Mrs Graham.

 “They are ready for ye, me dear...”

 That’s when it hit me... I turned toward Reggie and Roger, hugging them as if my life depended on it, pressing kisses to the cheeks and tasting their salty tears. The girls too hugged them and kissed them goodbye, Brianna having to be pried from her grip on Roger’s neck.

 We finally made the trek up the hill and the buzzing sent more tears to my daughters’ eyes. Arriving in front of the central stone, I took Brianna in my arms, balancing her on my hip, and held Faith’s little hand.

 “Alright, girls... Now I want you to think about your father and brother... Think about them and about finally seeing them... I want you to count to three with me, and at three we will all touch the stone, alright?”

 They both nodded.

 “One... Two... Three!”

 TBC

[joe-young-stories]

A Week.

Hey, new to tumblr. This is something I wrote in an enclosed, dodgy Christian community in 2018.

The last time I saw Dad in person I was seventeen, and I’d either just finished my A-levels or I was halfway through them. I’d seen him a year before, for Grandad’s funeral. After we’d got home from the wake I’d nicked a crate of Guinness, and thrown up on my suit. I’d thrown up all over the guest bed as well, and I’d left all the empty cans in the waste paper basket. I told my dad that the emotional stress of the funeral must have affected me, and I didn’t really give a shit about the fact that he knew.

This time it was summer, and it was that one week of the British summer that is actually scorching hot. Dad was waiting for me at Oxford train station for my visit. Visa Skank was there too. Visa Skank is my dad’s Russian wife, and perhaps she married him for a visa or perhaps she really loves him. I’ve never actually had anything against her. It was rude, offensive, calling her Visa Skank, but it made me feel really savage and clever back then.  This day at Oxford train station she was in her late forties, and she was wearing this shimmer- shimmer peach linen halter top harem pants combo thing with a dainty cream pashmina and a big floppy straw hat. She was basically just easy mockery.

We went straight from the station to this ultra quaint Riverside pub/restaurant garden. I had Peronis. I had a burger too. We didn’t really have a conversation because Visa had seen a picturesque riverside photo opportunity, and she had my dad take pictures of her next to a drainage sluice for almost an hour, at different angles and filter settings. At the end we walked back through the pub to get to the car and she started draping herself mystically around rustic beams and cosy fireplaces, or sat herself next to like, napkin dispensers that pleased her. And my dad took more pictures. I just wanted to get back to the house. I don’t remember too much more from the meal.

In the daytimes that followed I fell into a routine. Dad would wake up late (his teaching job at the schools wasn’t on) and he might mooch about or he might go into Oxford, or he might just go to Headington High Street. Visa Skank had a busy social schedule attending a young mum’s social club in the Florence Park Cafe. She would spend a lot of time there. I would wake up and take a walk into Central Oxford. And I would stop for a pint in the White Horse, where we used to go for Lunch when I was little. In town I would walk the old streets around the Radcliffe Camera, and this was back when I had academic ambition before I stopped caring about most things, and the scholarly atmosphere excited me. I walked past the cathedral boys’ school – my first school—and into the Eagle and Child, or the Kings Arms, or the Turf Tavern. I would read Franz Kafka stories or Iris Murdoch novels or I’d listen to pretentious students talk shit and praise myself for being more intelligent than them. After a few pints I’d saunter back over Magdelen Bridge and back up towards the house in Headington.

Dad’s house had changed a lot over the years. The retro porn PC used to be in the dining room, and all my 9 year old self used to do at my dad’s was either play SimCity on that computer or watch Dad’s porn. He’d archived literally thousands of pictures, all categorised according to hair/boobs/race etc. Albums of particular stars. I got up early at that age, and if you were proper stealth about it could get up with the dawn and watch a four second clip of a woman getting pleasured by a mechanised shoe buffer. Only if you were stealth though. The computer screen could be seen from the stairs via the dining room mirror. You had to listen for footsteps. God forbid that Visa or even Grandad would walk in. View me wanking it to Dad’s shoe buffer porn.

Now though the house layout was different. Grandad had been a cantankerous twat since Nan died, and all he ever did was sit in the living room watching cartoons and chat shows. GMTV, Pokemon, Digimon, Homes under the Hammer. That was all I ever saw him do on visits to my dad’s.  I left him to it.

But he started losing control of his faculties, and Dad and I would walk in from the pub to a stray smell of nappies, the CBBC channel playing in the background. His osteoporosis got worse. The last time he was alive I was seventeen and he’d been moved to a hospice. He was half asleep next to his colostomy bag but he murmured a greeting and a goodbye. The three of us, Grandad, Dad and me, sat in near silence for approximately fifteen minutes. “Good to see you, Grandad,” I said to him as I was leaving. Grandad had written “to a very impressive grandson” on my birthday card seven months previously.

While Grandad was dying his house was being renovated. The dining room and kitchen had been knocked together into this rustique farmhouse experience, with a big beaten up pine table, a pine dresser and a freshly installed aga. An aga in a nineteen thirties semi. There were a lot of wholesome wicker baskets bought in and gooseberry jam jars were placed in them for effect. Next door the garage was knocked down and a den/conservatory/stargazing lounge/music studio was built. The living room, where Grandad watched all the kids TV, and which I was told was always going to be “His Space” had had all the carpets ripped out and new sofas put in. Floor to ceiling bookshelves covered every wall, and they were all full of this intelligentsia Russian shit no one read. The retro porn PC was upstairs in Dad’s bedroom now, so after I got back from Oxford that last week I’d sit in the conservatory on my laptop. Sometimes if my dad was around I’d bring up an attractive female friend’s Facebook profile and wait for him to ask me about it. He’d talk about organic food and hand picking your own raspberries, and how Russian customs and traditions were the best way to live. But most of those afternoons he was upstairs in his bedroom checking his email, which took about two hours and was a pretty full-on activity for him. If Visa was at home she’d make still life displays from Kitsch crap she found in charity shops. And she’d do photoshoots. Most of the time she was out though. Presumably with the young mums.

When I was downstairs on my own I would drink from the many, many bottles available on the farmhouse shelf. I never drank in front of Dad, but I’d never bother hiding how drunk I was getting either. A little bit of gin, little bit of vodka, whiskey, white rum.

I’d always done this. When I was about twelve, thirteen, fourteen I’d go through Dads bedroom and raid his wardrobe. I’d find his extensive magazine stash and his books on “Tantric Passion”, “The Multi Orgasmic Man”, “Make Her see you Mean Commitment”. I’d find the hamper full of Bombay Sapphire bottles; I never questioned the water bottles full of urine next to his bed. I wasn’t subtle. I’d try and incite his scorn, his discipline, his parental authority. I’d find glow in the dark condoms in his bedside drawers, and I’d take them out of the packets and leave them under his pillow like a treasure hunt. I would neck a bottle of chardonnay, refill it with tap water and leave it in the fridge for him to find. He’d look at the bottle, look at me, deliberate and stammer “I must have rinsed it out for recycling and put it back on autopilot.” I don’t think he knew me well enough to confront me. He once drove me back to mums with me throwing up ass the way down the M40, and we both agreed that I must have eaten some “ropey” quiche.

I didn’t want Dad to parent me anymore; I just didn’t really care. So while Dad was upstairs checking his email I’d access the WiFi and watch naked men beat each other, and I’d masturbate and drink gin. I think on the Tuesday of that week he found me full-on passed out in the stargazing conservatory, sleeping it off. Later on he’d said something about travelling being exhausting, especially across London, and it always took a few days for the mind to properly relax on holiday. I agreed.

In the evenings we’d go out to a pub, the Vicky Arms or The Chestnut or something. I would tell Dad what A levels I was doing. I’d namedrop attractive female friends quite a lot, and talk about parties I went to with them. I’d wait for him to be like, “Are they pretty?”, “Are they into you?”, “Like yeah, get in, my son!”, “Well done, boyo!” and things like that. Visa would come with us. She’d sit there in peach tracksuit bottoms and some kind of burgundy flamenco/matador top, and she would say things like, “Never microwave food because it changes the molecules. Did you know this? We go through a recipe book and you will find meals you would like to try.” We might order popcorn from behind the bar. Visa might demand a photo shoot of her next to an inspiring sunset or whatever.

At home Dad and Visa would go to bed in Grandads old room. Nans room, now the guest bedroom, was being fitted with a “Roman balcony” so I slept on a blow up bed in the living room with all the Russian volumes. I’d drink more whiskey and watch a comedy show about teenage lesbians.

That was it, really. The last week I saw my dad was fairly uneventful. Mundane. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was the last time I saw him I doubt I would have remembered it

Only two events stand out in particular. On the Thursday of that week Dad was playing at a jazz and tango concert at a bar/club in Wantage. He did concerts like that to keep money coming in when the schools weren’t on. Visa took tango lessons down at the community centre, and she’d met a new friend and tango partner called Allan. He had had a stroke and divorce in a five year period and had taken early retirement, so I was told. So I was briefed. Briefed why? I didn’t care.

Allan met us at the house. We all sat about having a back garden beer and then Dad and I set off for Wantage. Allan’s and Visa came later, in Allan’s car, which he could still drive all post stroked up apparently. We had another pint in a pub in Wantage. Dad introduced me to the concept of a “Session Beer”. Advice I have never followed.

Dad gave me money for the evening and then left me to my own devices. I sat on the balcony and drank a lot of Stella, and from my vantage point I could see Dad playing onstage. I could see Visa and Allan as well, and she had her head on his shoulder and he was holding her close around the lower back. This didn’t look particularly tango-ey, but Visa had told me on one pub evening that tango was more about feeling than steps. “Feeling. Yes?” she had said with gusto. This was the passion of the dance I was watching, then. Dad had told me in the car that tango was Allan’s hobby, it’s what got him out the house, like his physio. I looked at Dad, and he was playing some sassy chords on the piano, watching the two of them become one with the dance. He didn’t do anything else. He just sat there, watching them get on with it. I finished one of my Stellas, and later on I thought to myself that he looked like a drooping bunch of flowers in a vase, half dead. A bit sad, maybe. A bit lacking. I was quite proud of myself for thinking of that. It felt very grown up.

Two days later we were having a back garden beer, Dad and I. The garden had changed, and where a swingset once stood there was now a very wholesome vegetable plot. Beyond that was a washing line. It was one of those washing lines with one pole in the ground, and it folded out like an upside down pyramid. You could spin it around for ease of pegging/unpegging. I looked at the washing line and remembered my eight year old self playing by it. I had been playing with a football. I was staying with him for a few weeks or so over the summer. I was out there, by myself, with the football. But I liked to pretend I was playing with all the other children I knew from school. Kids who were actually busy with their own friendship groups or who called me poofty boy by the wildlife pond. But when I was playing with them by myself they were all like, “I did not see this coming! We have not appreciated your serious skills! Hey guys, check out this Baller!” and none of them called me a poofty boy by the wildlife pond.  

I had devised a game where you had to throw the ball into the opened up washing line to score a point. Dad came outside just as I was about to land the sickest shot from ten feet away, the shot which was going to blow George and his gang away, and was going to make Sadia and Carrie-Ann think I was total boyfriend material. He asked me if I wanted anything to eat.

And I really don’t know what came over me, but I said something along the lines of “I’m playing a game. We have to get the ball off each other and get it in the net. Do you want to play?”                          

“Oh, right!” was something like he said “Yes alright then, I will”. I’d never played a game with Dad before, and we were both a bit hesitant. Like, do we just…start, or what? I chucked the ball at the line and missed, and he grabbed it. We ran around the garden, playing the game. He scored a point. I scored a point.  At one point he wrestled me to the ground to get the ball off me, and then helped me up. I remember laughing and smiling, being out of breath. I was tense, too. How did things like this come to a logical end? Did, like, the session finish?  Was there a way for this to end without Dad having to just be really rude? Like: “I’m sorry Joe, but I need to stop doing this at this point and go back to my day. You are welcome to continue though.” How did it work? After approximately fifteen minutes it mercifully started raining, and we went inside. It was the only time we ever played the game.

Sitting and having a beer with my dad that last week was the last time I looked at the garden, or indeed spent any time with him. Halfway through our drink Visa came out of the stargazing conservatory doors, and she was wearing a floor length lacy white gown, a white bonnet and silky white gloves. She was carrying a large wicker hamper, and she put the hamper down and pulled out a silver teapot. “I am English lady at tea,” she said, and she raised the teapot in the air. Then she laid the patio table for a country manor high tea, and started demanding a photoshoot. I went inside.

The next day I was due to go home. I woke up that morning to find that I’d drunk too much and pissed the blow up bed. I put my soggy boxers in a plastic bag, and I covered the damp sheet with my duvet and left it to fester.

I hardly spoke to dad after that week. There was no reason to most of the time. I rang him twice to ask for money, once to say merry Christmas can I have some money and once to tell him I’d just left rehab. In 2018 I had written to him to tell him he was a cunt and I wanted to burn his house down. “Past wounds” with my Father had become a significant part of my “Life Story” by that point, and I thought that sending such a horrible letter might activate a Life Event in some way, some dramatic finale.

Dad has always had his settings such that I can’t find him on Facebook, so I have to log in as my mum to see his profile. Him and Visa quote Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare sonnets on each other’s pages. Visa’s profile has about 64 photo albums. They’re all called things like “Casserole dishes on the patio”, “Beauty In Autumn”, “Sensuous mermaid has adventure”.  Her name isn’t actually Visa Skank. All the photo albums are silly and innocuous. When I’m drunk, or self pitying, or feeling like a victim, or all of the above I sometimes find myself thinking about the game me and Dad played with the washing line and the football.

[icarus-suraki]

unusual asks: 4, 14, 37, 79

4. do you like your name? why? Ah ha ha ha, so I'm not going to tell my real name, but I'll say that my first, middle, and (probably obviously) last name are all family names. My first name isn't so bad, except that my mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and a number of other relatives all have the same first name. It's really a family name on my mother's side. It's not a bad name, but it doesn't feel like my name because I've been called by my middle name all my life. With so many people with the same first name, it makes sense, right?

My middle name is...different. I mean, I'm a woman (though I'm a bit sloshy on that sometimes) but my middle name is a really old, slightly ugly-sounding name that's usually given to boys. It's a family name, formerly a surname--and since my family is undeniably Southern, we follow the good tradition of giving daughters family surnames that were "lost" in marriages. And that's how I, a girl, ended up going by a name that's basically on par with Cuthbert or Aethelrad or Gruffudd. It did not make my school-years easy, no.

And my last name is a strange spelling of a Dutch name--if it were English, it might be something like the surname "James" being spelled like "Jaymesse." We aren't quite sure how it came to us since we can only trace it back to one person. We know when and who he married, but we have no information about him before or after that. We know he was out of the picture when his wife was pregnant (whether he died or ran off or was kidnapped or something we don't know). His wife, at a loss as for what to do, went to her sister's house and lived with her sister and her sister's husband for a while. And then she named the baby after her sister's husband??? But with her own (now our) last name???? She was an interesting woman. But we just don't know much about the man who gave us our last name. There's some family conjecture that he might have been an Eastern European Jew and, when that came out, that was totally unacceptable to his wife and her family. So either she left him or he left her. Either way, we've still got the name. And now, whenever one of us with the name goes to Europe, we like to confuse the locals. (I think I got more of the British Isles genes, but my brother definitely got the Dutch genes because he looks like a damn Tour de France cyclist.)

Do I like my name? It's not the easiest to live with, but it's got a colorful past. So I don't always like it, but it's interesting, to say the least.

14. if you can live anywhere in the world where would it be? why? This is so hard to answer because it changes based on my mood and the season. Sometimes I'm like "I want to live somewhere tropical and warm in a house that almost doesn't need windows with long sheer curtains where I can be a hippie doing yoga and eating smoothie bowls up in the trees." And other times I'm like "Wouldn't it be interesting to live in Japan? Maybe Tokyo, but more like Kyoto and out in the suburbs. Or maybe out in the country, like a real Studio Ghibli place." France crosses my mind too, sometimes Paris, sometimes Provence, sometimes Normandy...

But I think, and this is probably pretty predictable, that the most aesthetically-comfortable place, to me, would probably be the Lake District in the UK.

Is the UK all that great in ever sense? No, for many reasons (Brexit is only one of them). But in terms of weather, wildlife, scenery, familiarity from children's picture books, I think it's got to be the Lake District (and environs).

It was one of the last places we visited when I did a summer abroad. We'd done London (exciting but such a city), we'd done Scotland (rather craggy and gray), we'd done Bath (I was sick as a dog so I can't make much of a judgement and would like to go back), we'd done Oxford (and I thought I was a snob, fuck me), we'd done Yorkshire (suddenly the grimness of the Bronte sisters makes sense)... And then we took this long bus ride northwards and up into the Lake District and it was such a...relief in a funny sense of the word. Trees! Fields! Foxgloves! Stiles over fences! Walking paths! Lovely cottages!

If I was appallingly rich, I'd find an old cottage to move into and live there and grow a cottage garden and probably have a Patterdale terrier named Toby or Tommy and take lots of walks.

The Cotswolds were a close second, as I recall, but not quite as much of a spiritual(?) relief.

37. do you read a lot? whats your favorite book? The greatest irony of being a librarian is that everyone thinks you read all the time but you often don't have enough time to read at all.

Some librarians manage to pull it off, but I don't. I've gotten picky about books as I've gotten older. I had to lead some book discussions at my libraries, so I've had to read some very boring books (in some cases the book was boring but I did understand why books like it would appeal to some people). And I just don't have the mental capacity to suffer through boring books if I don't have to. So, no, I don't read all that much--

--in terms of books, at least. I've found that I'll read zillions of articles: longform, shortform, magazine, newspaper, online... I've got a few websites for sources and I'll just kind of look around and then suddenly say, "Wait, what?" and find myself reading, say, a GQ article about two Mormon brothers accused of murdering their parents and the whole backstory of the situation. If you drop a longform article about Weird Shit in front of me, yeah, I'll probably read it.

Which actually makes me wonder if I might want to read more nonfiction at the moment. Hmmm........

But favorite book? Favorite favorite book? Fuck, I'm such a sucker for Ulysses. I know, everyone's like "it's dirty!" or "it's too hard to understand!" And that's cool. But for me, it reads rather like poetry to me, dirty bits and all. And I love it and it has saved my life a few times. James Joyce got me through my 20s, okay?

I had hoped to go to Ireland, and Dublin specifically, in the summer or fall of 2020. Obviously that didn't happen, lmao. But part of my idea was to research tattoo shops before I went and to get a line from the "Ithaca" chapter tattooed on me somewhere. The line is:

"The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit"

It's got to be one of my favorite lines in all of literature. T. S. Eliot has a couple of lines that are close seconds (it's almost time to read Ash Wednesday again and, hnnnngh, it's so good), but between the Eliot lines and the Joyce lines? Yeah, I'm going with the heaventree of stars.

I am a terrible person with a dirty mind. What can you do?

79. do you believe in ghosts? Most of the time I'm like: "Nah, I don't really believe in ghosts. It’d be kind of cool if they were real, right? But, nah, l don’t."

And then I'll watch some really good “real” ghost videos and it'll be about 11:30 at night and I'm immediately "I have changed my stance re: ghosts and I will be sleeping with the light on. Goodnight."

But generally speaking? As someone who has spent the night in a couple of supposedly haunted places? I guess I'm more in the "I want to believe" category. It'd be cool, wouldn't it? But I don't think it'll happen.

Now that said, I do still wonder about the Gray Man With The Hat that my mother and I have both seen on different occasions. It has to be something about how human brains understand certain things in certain situations (esp. related to light/shadow). We both wonder if it might be kind of like a "collective unconscious" situation, where something unfamiliar is interpreted as something familiar and then the brain puts that familiar "icon" (which is Pete Lorre in M, evidently?) over whatever the image the brain can't compute.

It's not directly related to ghosts in the typical sense, but I do have strong feelings about certain Jungian concepts (I have an aunt who's got some major Jungian background)--sometimes in a mystical way, sometimes in a more rational way. So I guess that's why I feel like I, personally, don't believe in ghosts as ghosts are generally viewed today. But I also think that people who say they've encountered ghosts shouldn't be dismissed immediately as wrong--they experienced something, I absolutely believe that, and it’s not fair or kind to dismiss them out of hand.

[lokisgame]

A Generous Donation [15]

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] [part 8] [part 9] [part 10] [part 11] [part 12] [part 13] [part 14]

"You're not fidgeting," Scully said, slipping her arm under his as they walked up the path to her mothers' house. "Your mom isn't that scary." "You're the first one to say that." "First what?" "Boyfriend." She smiled looking up and seeing his grin. "When was the last time you brought a guy to meet the family?" "Don't ask." "Okay, now I really want to know." "Mulder!" They took the three steps to the front door and he drew her closer into his side, grinning wide. "Tell me!" He teased, but she rang the bell and the a second later the doors stood open.

"Charlie!" Scully smiled, stepping inside and hugging her brother. "You're just in time." "I thought we're early," Mulder smiled as they shook hands. "Here, that's on time, if you're on time, you're late." "What if the time isn't set?" "Then whoever's last, is late." "That's mean." "Don't listen to him," Scully laughed and pushed her coat into her brothers' arms. "Emily!" "Hi, Aunt Dana." The girl smiled, kissing Scully's cheek then came and did the same with Mulder. "Grandma sent me to tell you dinner's ready." "Dana, Fox," Maggie came in, wiping hands on her apron, "good, you're here." "Hi mom," Scully hugged her mother then linked her arm through Mulders' again, "this is Mulder, not Fox." "Of course," Maggie laughed and took the flowers he brought. "Thank you for the invitation," Mulder said and taking a step back to Scully's side, he found her hand, waiting for him, fingers lacing together. "Let's agree that from now on, you're not just invited, you're expected." "Mom," Scully sighed, "we just got here." "Who's hungry?" Charlie said, comically cheerful. "I'm hungry," Emily chimed in. "You're always hungry," he laughed. "Will would understand me," she pouted and turned on her heel, clinking buckles and creaking leather. "He'll be back, before you know it." Scully said and followed, pulling Mulder along. "And you'll fight for the best bits." "Once he's back, he can have them all." "He might want that in writing," Charlie chuckled. "Then he will have to go through my lawyer," Emily laughed and walked through to the dining room. Scully followed and paused, clearly surprised by the amount of food on the table. "You didn't say we're redoing Thanksgiving," she said. "It's just a dinner," Maggie replied taking her usual place. "It looks delicious," Mulder said and pulled out a chair for Scully. "Come, sit down and enjoy."

Scully leaned against his side, playing with her wine glass. That was by far the nicest family dinner he attended, though admittedly, his own family gatherings didn't set the bar very high. He felt full and content enough to doze off on the couch, and that was the best feeling he could imagine right now. Charlie took the end of the couch while Emily sat on the floor, trying to lure Stubb from her grandmas' lap. The feather on a stick got nothing but a twitch of whiskers from the ginger cat, who true to his name, missed a piece of his tail, but like his book counterpart, retained his good humour despite the feline misadventure. After rubbing on all shins and collecting all due pats and scratches, he settled in his mistresses hands. "Tell us about your family, Fox." Maggie said from the armchair by the fireplace. "There's not much to tell," Mulder said, "my father worked for the DOD and died in '95, mom stayed on the Vineyard after they divorced and there she died, in the spring of 2000." "I'm so sorry." "It's okay. After my sister disappeared in '73, we sort of started to live on our own anyway." "That's horrible," Maggie said appalled. "It's ancient history. I go out to the island once a year, to visit the graves and make sure the house still stands." "You have a house on Martha's Vineyard?" Scully asked. "Usually I rent it out, saving a week or two for myself in the summer." "I'll remember that," she said, sipping her wine, "it's always nice to get out of town for a while." "Consider yourself invited," he said, drawing her a little into his side, then looking up, "that goes for all of you." "Can I book two weeks right now?" Emily asked opening her arms for the cat, who finally decided he wanted the toy more than a nap. "I'll pay, obviously. "Don't be silly. I'll email you the number for my realtor and let her know she should expect a call. It's always open for family." "Thank you," she said and grinned, picking up the cat to look into his green eyes, "Uncle Mulder." Maggie and Mulder laughed, but Scully levelled a glare at her brother. Charlie shrugged almost imperceptibly and took a sip of scotch, ignoring her frown. "We should all go together, a family vacation," Emily said, looking up at Scully, "Will would love that." "Small steps, Em," Scully said, "we'll see if he's up for it." "Any ideas for Christmas?" Charlie asked. "Haven't thought about it yet, if his results keep improving, they might loosen the quarantine procedures, but is it worth the risk?" "He will have to come out of there, eventually," Mulder said. "Christmas happens every year," she said a little sad, "Will happens once in a lifetime." "We'll think of something," he sighed. "Is everything okay, honey?" Maggie asked. "Sure, I just had a long day, that's all." "You wanna go home?" Mulder said softly, dropping a kiss on her temple, but she shook her head lightly. "Not yet," she said and handed him her glass, "I'll just rest my eyes for a minute." "Okay." The conversation flowed around her, touching Mulder's childhood on the island, the house and his travels. Some stories she heard and some were new, especially ones from his Oxford years. All the while, Mulder stayed as warm and relaxed as ever, as if he always belonged there. And when he and Charlie realised, they both traveled to New York to see Red Sox play against Yankees in September, she realised, he not only belonged, but became one of them.

They came back to her place, somehow feeling that that's the right bed to end the day in. "You want tea?" She asked, when he helped her out of her coat, ever the gentleman. "Will there be rum in it." "No rum, sorry." Mulder followed through the living room, and caught up to her by the sink, where she filled the kettle from the tap. He put his arms around her, pulling her back to his front. "Then we'll have to think of something else to keep us warm," he said against the side of her neck, "beside tea." "I don't recall you having any trouble with that," she teased, leaning against him. "You're my great inspiration," he chuckled, but let go when she moved to set the kettle on the stove. "I need to shower first," she said, turning and pulling his face down for a kiss. "Can you do this?" "So it's me making the tea?" "I really need to pee." That made him laugh. "Go, I'll take care of this," he said, kissing her again. "Thanks."

She left him to roam free around the kitchen, pulling out mugs and her favourite Earl Grey. He found lemon in the fruit basket and sliced it in half, little thing he knew she liked, and while he waited for the water to boil, a picture on the wall caught his eye. It was a simple landscape scene, seaside sunset in orange and purple, but in the foreground, with their backs to the camera, sat Scully, in a sundress and a straw hat, saying something to Will, sitting beside her on the sand. He couldn't be older than five, and God did she look beautiful. The scene radiated love, a sweet and tender moment caught so perfectly, that he almost felt jealous he wasn't there to witness it. There was a date below the picture, July 1996 with initials, CS. The jealous feeling died the minute he saw the inscription, Charlie Scully was a man of many talents. Mulder followed the trail of family portraits captured on various occasions, from birthday parties to Christmases. The kettle whistled when he was looking at a picnic scene, in which Scully fed watermelon to a three year-old Will. His face was pink as was his stained shirt, but their smiles were so vibrant, they made him laugh softly. "What's so funny?" Scully asked from a distance. Mulder turned and saw her come in, wearing a short, silk nightgown under a long, loose kimono. Both very modest, demure even, but the gown had just a touch of lace trim and it was enough to make his knees weak. "Okay, I feel underdressed," he said, as she came closer, barefoot and stunning. "You like it?" She said, puling the midnight blue robe around herself a little. "You might say that." He swallowed hard, watching her take the mugs from the counter on her way, and handing one to him, while glancing at the wall. "Will and watermelon," Mulder said, gathering his wits and gesturing with the mug to the picture. "Oh, that one, we were in California that summer and he really discovered fruit that year, loved it ever since." She took a small sip and looked up. "You want to see more?" "Show me everything." He watched the silk float around her curves and shins, as she pulled albums from shelves and brought them back to the coffee table. She took the first one and folded herself on the couch against his side, filling his space with her warmth. "Before we begin," she said, keeping her hand on the cover, holding the thick volume shut, "please, remember this was early 90's and my hair was…" "Wonderful, I'm sure of it." He finished, taking the album from her hands. First page held a single picture, Scully in a hospital bed, looking up into the camera, holding a little bundle of blankets in her arms. "He was so tiny," she said wistfully, "but there was always something in his eyes, like he knew more than he showed." "That's all you," Mulder said, pulled into this tender scene, "you can make or break someone with one look." "No I don't." "Yeah, you do," he chuckled, turning the page, "but he only got love from you. Look at this." He ran his fingers around a photo, again showing Scully watching Will in her arms, nursing happily, his tiny palm closed around her thumb. "That's love." "He was two months old." "Who took this one?" "Charlie, that's why he's hardly in any picture," she said, leaning on his side, "he's the family photographer." "Here's one." Mulder laughed seeing Scully's brother holding Will in his outstretched arms, little arms flailing and tiny feet squashing his perfect nose. "Why do I find this hilarious?" "Because it is, Will was a fighter, putting him to bed took hours." Scully laughed sipping tea, "only way was to tire him before the bath, warm water calmed him down and he usually fell asleep nursing. Those were the good nights." "And the bad ones?" "Oh, he wouldn't fall asleep for the world, the little night owl. But he wasn't fussy or scared, he just played in his bed, minding his own business." "We would've gotten along nicely." Mulder said, turning the page to more baby and holiday pictures, pausing by a photo of Will holding on to the edge of a coffee table. "Look at him, he's so proud." "End of an era," Scully smiled looking over his shoulder, "after that, I had to have eyes around my head." "He looks like a runner." "He does, but he always loved water best." She pointed to another picture, where they were sitting in a paddling pool laughing, as Will slapped his tiny arms and legs against the surface, sending water splashing everywhere. "A regular sea monster," Mulder chuckled and turned the page to find a photo of Emily, maybe six years old, and Will with his nose and elbows covered in scabs. "What happened here?" "He tried to run," she sighed, smoothing down a corner that got unglued. "He saw Emily walking through the yard and just ran to her." "Poor kid," Mulder crooned. "You'd think so, but he barely cried, he always was a tough cookie." "That's because he grew up watching you," Mulder said not even trying to hide the admiration, "don't underestimate the strength you're projecting, a self-sufficient, capable and independent figure, who also gave him love, care and support he needed. Positively reinforced example." "Sometimes I forget you teach psychology at Harvard," she smiled, kissing his cheek and leaning her head on his shoulder. They browsed through the album, watching Will grow from a wobbling toddler into a small boy. Pictures of first bike rides, country fairs and family trips to Chicago, Washington, D.C., New York. Mulder paused on a picture of Will in a New York Yankees jersey, a classic baseball card shot. "Wow." "What?" Scully said, startled out of her reverie. "I've got the exact same picture," he said laughing under his breath, "I mean, the uniform is a bit different but still, he could be me. I guess all kids look alike at a certain age." "No, that's not it," she said and her tone made him look up from the album and meet her gaze. "Then what is it?" "He's your son," Scully said. For a second he wanted to tease her back, laugh about it, roll his eyes, but though her tone was warm, he saw she was scared. "What?" She shifted a little, staying close while turning to see him. "Remember when I told you how I had Will, after I had a terrible fight with the guy I was with?""He didn't think you can do it," Mulder said. "My friend is a fertility specialist and she agreed to help me with the procedure." "What procedure?" "In Vitro fertilisation," Scully said, holding his gaze, though her cheeks burned and her hands were starting to shake. "I had Will through IVF," then she added quietly, "using donor sperm." Mulder's blood ran cold and he hid his face in his hands. "Oh sh…" "Did you ever?" She asked gently. "I," his voice came muffled, "I did, once. I never told anyone about it." He felt her side pressed against him, arm around his shoulder. "It was supposed to be anonymous." "I contacted the bank and they gave me a few options to chose from." "The blood test before transplant," he said, looking up, "that's how you found out." "Yes," "And you didn't tell me." "I couldn't bring myself to do it," she said quietly, her eyes growing wet, voice breaking, "if anything went wrong, if the transplant didn't work." Tears spilled and she looked away. "I couldn't give you a son, just to take him away." For the first time that night words failed him, but he puled her into his arms, feeling his shirt grow hot as she held on tight. All the conversations with Will were coming back, the pain he felt at the thought this kid might be gone someday, amusement mixed with respect, when he tried to play the matchmaker, wanting to take care of his mother, the relief he felt, when he heard he was getting better, and suddenly, it all made sense. He had a son, a brilliant kid with bright blue eyes and a huge heart. A kid who facing death, cared more about others than himself, honest and kind young man. Could he have done it better? "We have a son." He whispered and felt tears burn down his face. "Why IVF? Couldn’t you just find a guy?" He asked once he found his voice again and once he spoke, she began to relax. "I was crazy back then," she sniffed, snuggling closer, "the thought I'd have to deal with some guy for the rest of my life, someone who might show up one day and ruin what I build for the baby and myself. In my head, it was the worst thing possible." "You could have at least tried," he chuckled, kissing her neck, "maybe we’d meet sooner." "Or we would never end up together. Maybe now, instead of sitting on this couch, I'd be mourning my son, cursing his father, wherever he was." "You wouldn't be together?" "I wasn't ready to share myself with anyone yet, I wanted a child, but that didn't mean I felt that my life lacked." "Unconditional love." "Everyone told me I was crazy, even Charlie." "Really?" "He said, I love you Danes and I'm with you, but this is crazy." "And your mother?" "She thought so too, she thought I should wait, that Daniel wasn't the right man, that someone would show up, who would love me and our child." Scully looked up and cupped his cheek, meeting his eyes with warmth, "she didn't know, I'd have to wait twenty years for him." Mulder leaned closer and caught her lips, feeling them tear-soft and willing. "I still wish you told me sooner." "I couldn't." She sighed, resting her forehead against his, cool fingers scratching at the base of his scull. "If it failed, if Will died because of the transplant, I couldn’t risk watching you go through that." "And if I wasn't a match? Would you leave me one day, without telling me why?" "God no," she pulled him back into a hug, "I love you too much."

[whiskynottea]

An Interruption in the 1st Law of Thermodynamics.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24, Chapter 25, Chapter 26, Chapter 27,  Chapter 28, Chapter 29, Chapter 30, Chapter 31, Chapter 32, Chapter 33, Chapter 34, Chapter 35,  Chapter 36, Chapter 37, Chapter 38, Chapter 39, Chapter 40, Chapter 41, Chapter 42, Chapter 43, Chapter 44,  Chapter 45, Chapter 46, Chapter 47, Chapter 48, Chapter 49, Chapter 50, Chapter 51 Chapter 52, Chapter 53, Chapter 54, Chapter 55

AO3

A/N: We are 56 chapters in, and I would like to thank you for reading this story  even though my updates have become irregular in the latest months and for your beautiful comments. ❤️ Real life is very demanding at the moment and I don’t have time to reply to all your comments but they mean a lot to me and reading your feedback always makes my day! Thank you!

The chapter is beta-ed, as always, by @theministerskat​.

                                    – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Chapter 56. Oxford

I was excited and afraid. 

I was intrigued and intimidated. 

I was enchanted. 

I was at Oxford.

That city had been to me what castles and voluptuous dresses were for other little girls. A fairytale. A dream.

It had all started when I was eight years old. Lamb had taken me with him to visit one of his dearest friends -- one who by chance had just discovered a new archaeological site and was convinced that a whole city lay underneath tons of dust. This kind of information always worked like a fluorescent light for the kind of craved-for-knowledge-moth my uncle happened to be, and it took him only a few days to find airline tickets for us to fly from Lebanon to Oxford. 

While my uncle and Andrew -- or Professor Horcrof, as he was known at the university -- spent endless days talking over manuscripts and pictures, I had been a PhD student’s burden to entertain. Extremely unprofessional on Andrew’s behalf, but I was too young to realize it back then and Emma insisted that taking care of me was no trouble at all. She was as sweet and kind as she was impressive -- almost as tall as Lamb, with golden hair and beautiful blue-rimmed glasses. Not really beautiful, but imposing, and it was obvious that everyone respected her. For me, the genuine niece of uncle Lamb, that meant much more than alluring eyes and an aristocratic nose. 

Emma had been the reason I prayed for nearsightedness for years after we left Oxford. And the reason I found Oxford’s grey the most beautiful colour, and started building my own fairytale in the city of dreaming spires. She was the one who had taken me to the Bodleian Library and made me take the Bodleian oath. Sometimes, in the years that followed, when I closed my eyes, I could still feel my chest puff up with pride and self-importance as I spoke the words, ‘I hereby undertake not to remove from the Library, or to mark, deface, or injure in any way, any volume, or document…’

That day I had also sworn to her that when I grew up, I would study at Oxford as well. Emma had replied that she was sure I would.

And now, here I was. I wondered what Emma would think. 

My college was not at the centre of the city and I felt my heart beat faster and faster inside my chest as I walked towards my destination. It was a struggle to bring my shallow breathing back to normal and not break into a run when I first glimpsed Lady Margaret Hall. A college with more than one hundred and forty years of history, and the first to educate women at Oxford. 

I searched for the word in my head as my feet led me to the entrance. Honoured, I thought, and stepped inside. 

--

Three days in Oxford and I was sure that Jamie’s phone would soon reach its maximum storage capacity after receiving so many pictures -- the buildings, my college, my room, the gardens… I didn’t even take the time to sort out the best pictures, but sent him everything, unable to contain the happiness I was feeling. 

“You have to take me to each and every one of these places when I visit, Sassenach,” he’d written. I promised him I would. 

The accommodations at Lady Margaret Hall were better than most colleges in Oxford, and Mary Hawkins, my roommate, was a sweet, if not a bit shy, girl from Bath. She had a quiet beauty, and luckily for both of us, she was a fellow medical student. I liked her from the first moment we introduced ourselves and she seemed to like me too, though she talked at a frequency that was barely audible, and it was a struggle to carry on a conversation without asking her to repeat herself over and over again. I soon realized that the low voice was a way to hide her stutter, and hoped that it would get better once she felt comfortable. Sometimes I wondered how it would be, if Louise was at Oxford with us and not in France. Or Jenny. Louise would tease Mary to no end. Jenny would, most likely, take Mary under her wing and protect her throughout our years at university. 

I wasn’t surprised Mary kept mostly to herself. She mentioned once or twice that she had grown up with a strict father who made it explicit to her that Oxford University wasn’t a choice, but an obligation. He had gone to Oxford University. His father had studied there. Mary’s mother had graduated from Lady Margaret’s Hall. It was unacceptable for Mary to break the family tradition. I felt sorry, but happy she had made it and was away from them now. Sometimes distance was all it took for a child to become an adult.

Freshers’ week had been full of tours and social events for the new students. A whole week for everyone to become familiar with the university and have fun -- everyone except us, the medics. Our welcome included writing three essays for the first week of the term, and we spent a good amount of the week doing research in the library. There were four of us in Lady Margaret’s Hall and having to work while everyone else had the time of their lives formed a bond between us in a matter of days. The solidarity of the maltreated medics, we called it.

At least we had our parents, to help. The college family system assigned each one of us a student who was a year older, to guide us, give us advice and notes. Maisri, my college mam, had big brown eyes, thick black hair, and a deep voice that made everything she said sound serious. Even if it was something like, “Dr. Raymond won’t need the essay if you present yourself like this on Monday. One look at your hair and he’ll be scared for good. By no means, do continue running your hands through your curls.” 

When we took a break from studying, I made sure to drag Mary with me to one party or another, determined to bring her out of her shell. When she wasn’t in the library, I usually found her in the piano room. It was the only place I saw her relax. She played the piano beautifully, and more than once, I grabbed a book and lounged there, feeling the notes dance in the room around us. I had tried to convince her to join me and Maisri in the yoga classes that were taking place in the gardens during the summer months, but Mary resolutely denied. 

The Michaelmas term started right after Freshers’ week. And with the courses, real life commenced. 

I had read that the University demanded eight hours per day be spent on focussed, concentrated academic work. Theoretically, that was fine. Practically, the workload of medical school was much heavier. We were in lectures and practicals from 9 am to 3 pm, and then we had three tutorials per week which required either an essay, a worksheet, or a presentation prepared beforehand.

It was amazing, studying medicine. But with the courses, meeting new people, and trying to socialize in an effort to be a part of the university community, I always felt exhausted. The pictures I sent to Jamie were limited to selfies showing me and my books while I was studying in the library, or shots of the collections of pints gathered on the table in front of me at local pubs.

Some nights I fell asleep so early that I missed my nightly call with Jamie. And other times I was out for drinks and ended up having a short video call outside a pub or a club, just to see him for a few minutes and hear his voice. 

In any case, we still managed to talk at least once every day. And we texted when we couldn’t. And sent pictures. 

It was the beginning, I reminded myself. It was expected that I would need some time to adjust. Jamie understood. He, too, had an intense schedule. His term was more demanding now that he had been admitted to the Ross School of Business, swimming meets had begun, and he pushed himself to his limits, which meant that he often overslept and missed our morning call.

I almost screamed when I read his text after his first race as a Wolverine. Almost, because at that time I was in a lecture. Mary and a few other students shot me bewildered glances, trying to guess what Dr. Hildstand had said that I found so fascinating, but I just shook my head and swallowed my smile, trying not to attract more attention. I texted Jamie a minute later, with a row of emojis. Then, I told him that I was proud of him and I loved him. He sent me a wet kiss picture in response.

I was just as happy and proud after his second race, but Jamie wasn’t. He had finished second, and apparently for Jamie that was equivalent to finishing last. That evening, I was in the study room with Mary, Malva, and Davie when Maisri rushed in, still laughing from something that she had said to someone in the corridor, and invited us to ‘Dissection Drinks’ with medics from other colleges. Mary groaned at the prospect of going out again, but Malva and Davie quickly accepted the invitation. I had almost agreed on going too, when I remembered that Jamie would be getting home early and we would have time for a rather extensive call. Judging by the sulky texts I got throughout the day, I was sure that he’d need to talk.

“I can’t come, but maybe next time,” I said, ignoring Maisri’s frown. I would give my Friday night to my boyfriend. Looking at the big black clock on the wall, I realized I only had half an hour before our call. 

Mary called it an early night and after a quick visit to our room, I headed to the showers, wanting to be ready when Jamie called. 

An hour later, I was lying on my bed, still waiting. And then, an hour after that. I’d texted Jamie and he just replied that he wasn’t home yet.

When Jamie finally called me, I was more than irritated and Mary was sound asleep in her bed. Grabbing my phone, I resorted to one of the empty study rooms to have a conversation where more than whispering could be used.

“You’re late, Jamie Fraser.” I had planned for very playful greeting while I was in the shower, but after two hours of waiting and seeing him fresh as a daisy, my tone turned dourer than I’d thought it would be. 

“Ah, I ken. Sorry, Sassenach, we were out wi’ the team and I couldna leave earlier.”

I forced myself to relax and smile, and I was almost successful. It wasn’t his fault, I repeated to myself again and again, until I believed it. Keeping my frustration from being front and center, I focused on Jamie. Spending half of our time arguing about the fact that he was late would do neither of us any good.

“Congratulations for today,” I said, to change the mood and make it clear that the second place was to be praised.

He shook his head. “Second,” he said, glumly.

“You can’t always finish first, I hope you know that,” I admonished him. “Everyone has bad days, although I’m not sure that coming second counts as a bad day.”

“At the first race it was different. Today I was so stressed, I dinna think I’ve ever been that stressed before.”

“But why? You’ve participated in far bigger competitions before.”

“Aye, but in Scotland I knew my opponents. I had raced against them time and time again as we grew up and knew their mistakes and strong points. Here I have no idea what to expect. ”

“But in the first race --”

“I don’t think I’d realized the sheer size of competitions here,” he interrupted me. “The Big Ten, the NCAA championships…”

“Jamie, look at me.” I wished he could be next to me, so I could squeeze his cheeks between my hands and make him see how much he had already achieved. “You’ll do great. You’ll give your best self, you will keep working, and you will improve. You’re one of the best swimmers already! First and second place, come on!”

That made him laugh. “Thank ye, mo ghraidh. I wish you were here. It was always different when I was looking at you in the bleachers after seeing my times.”

“Well, if that makes you happy, I almost screamed both times I read your texts. During lectures, I have to mention.”

He laughed and his blue eyes shone for the first time that evening. “It does, Sassenach. It makes me happy. You make me happy. So, how was your day?”

“Good! I had my first tutorial with Dr. Raymond. He is absolutely amazing, Jamie. He’s tiny, really, no taller than Mrs. FitzGerald but he’s a force of nature. Ha. Funny, because the tutorial was on alternative medicine and herbs. It was the best tutorial I’d had so far.”

“So, uni is as ye expected it to be?”

“Heavier workload, if you can imagine that, but yes. I love it.” I smiled, realizing the truth behind my words. Medical school was everything I had wished for, and even more.

“Good. I’m glad ye do, babe. Did you look for tickets yet?” 

I hesitated. “No, not yet.”

Jamie sighed. “Dinna leave it for the last moment, Sassenach. You’re going to pay a fortune at the end.” He opened a bottle of water and drank until it was half empty. “Dhia, I’m always so thirsty after coming back from Hector’s.”

“Alcohol causes dehydration, you know.”

“Aye, aye doctor.” He flashed a toothy grin and took another big gulp.

I waited until his eyes met mine again, seeking the right words to express what I needed to say. “Jamie, I was thinking…” Jamie left the water next to him and slightly tilted his head sideways, waiting. “I was thinking that maybe coming in two weeks isn’t a good idea, after all.”

“Oh?”

I knew he wouldn’t like that. “I know we planned on meeting in early November, but the term ends at the beginning of December, and I thought I might wait until then so I can stay longer when I come to Michigan. And maybe we could fly to Edinburgh together for Christmas.” I swallowed, uneasy, even though I knew that my proposal made perfect sense. There was no reason to spend so much money just to see him for a few days. “If I come before the term ends, I will stay only for a few days and I have lectures I don’t want to miss…” I added when he kept silent.

“I thought you’d be here for my race in New Jersey, that’s all,” he finally said with no trace of feeling in his voice. His face had changed into a neutral mask. 

“But it’s a better plan if I come before Christmas, no?”

“I guess so.”

I fidgeted with the hem of my top, avoiding his eyes. I knew he wanted me to be in New Jersey as we had planned, but that was before I came to Oxford. I didn’t really know what I would find here. When I finally looked at Jamie, I saw a strained smile on his mouth and disappointment dancing in his stare. “I wanted to be there, too, Jamie,” I tried to explain. He nodded. “I wanted to,” I insisted, forcefully. “But we must make compromises. It’s just four weeks, and then we’ll spend a whole month together.” 

“Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”

I smiled and blew him a kiss. He kissed me -- the screen -- back. 

“So, what place did John get today? ” I asked to change the subject.

“Fourth. He was so pissed.” Jamie chuckled and I could see some of the tension leaving his shoulders. 

We talked about swimming and his classes, and then about my practicals and my newfound love for yoga. “Until I find a decent dance club,” I clarified. 

We smiled, laughed, and teased each other, but I could still feel a lingering uneasiness between us. 

“Jamie?” I whispered when he said he was tired and would go to bed. “You know I wanted to be there, don’t you?”

This time his smile was genuine. “Aye, Sassenach. I ken. Ye just took me by surprise, is all. Dinna worry, aye?”

“And you know I love you, right?” I asked again.

His smile turned into a grin. “Aye, ye wee yogi.” He ignored my snort. “I love ye too, Claire.” This time his voice was guttural. I let out a heavy sigh and heard him mirroring it, as if we needed to hear the words even though we could always feel them resonating through our bodies. 

“Now go to bed,” he finally said. “I’ll dream of you.”

“Me too,” I said, and we ended the call.

Me too.

Chapter 57

[et-in-cinerem-reverteris]

Class of 1953 - Chapters 4/4.5 - Louder Than Bombs/Rubber Ring

“Phil, I think you are the strangest person that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Hey, you’re equally weird,” he teases. 

“I know. That’s why I think you’re so wonderful.”

I’m back with my 1950s historical Oxford university AU fic-cum-novella-thing. Sorry I haven’t been posting the chapters to Tumblr! Here are chapters 4 and 4.5 - soon I will be posting chapter 5 (possibly the last chapter!)

Click me to read on Ao3! 

Or keep reading under the cut...

Chapter 4 - Louder Than Bombs

The passing of time, and all of its sickening crimes, is making Phil nervous again.

Sitting sideways at the top of his bed with his feet swinging off the edge like a bored schoolboy, he idly fumbles with the pages of an open book as he stares into space, waiting. 

Last Sunday he had promised Dan that he could use his room as a space to get homework done. Tonight, the gravity of the situation has only just begun to dawn on him. He imagines the scene with a quickened heartbeat; Dan sitting only a foot away, using his chair, working at his desk and writing with his pens, Dan pacing around his room, scrutinising his photographs, flicking through his records and reading the titles of his books. Phil doesn’t know how to prepare himself. Meeting up in public is one thing, but a private visit to his room feels like quite another.

He laughs out loud at himself. Private visit? Dan’s only coming to study for Christ’s sake. 

Speaking of studying, he has his own work to attend to. Lying on his lap is a copy of Beowulf, deliberately planted there to create the impression of a student deeply engaged in a spot of serious reading. Unfortunately for Phil Beowulf has been unable to capture his imagination, and so instead he has spent the last ten minutes or so staring at the contents of his hastily tidied room. His desk is decluttered, his bed has been made, and all the odd pairs of socks have been picked off the floor and put away in preparation for Dan’s visit. 

All is silent bar the low hum of his desk lamp. It’s a quiet Friday evening, and the normally raucous quad now only echoes sporadic bursts of hushed chatter. Tonight’s sky is peppered with clouds that pass the moon at random intervals, periodically obscuring a strange halo that encircles the bright rock in a mysterious reddish glow. The curtains lie wide open, and a streak of moonlight falls on the pinboard opposite his bed. Littered with cinema tickets, clippings from environmental magazines, ripped out pages and uncashed cheques, the most recent addition to the board is a cluster of pictures he took of the photography club on an impromptu walk by the River Cherwell. The top photograph shows Bill squinting at the sun while Mary gives Beth a precarious looking piggyback ride, both of them smiling as John holds his palms up to the toppling ensemble and posing as tourists do next to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Phil remembers how the group of them skimmed stones across the muddy water, competing to see who could get the furthest, until Beth had beat Bill’s expert hand with a fluke stone that skipped so far into the distance that none of them could tell where it had landed. He thinks of that day with a smile. Good times.

*rat-tat-tat*

At last! Springing off his mattress he dashes towards the mirror, spruces up his quiff, takes in a deep breath and opens the door.

“Hallo! Ho-”

Phil is interrupted as Dan comes crashing into the room, stumbling past him and lurching towards the desk as a large pile of books, folders and papers fall from his arms and scatter across the surface in a heap. He releases a long sigh, and then turns around to face his host with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry for bursting in here like that. My arms were starting to get cramped under the weight of all these books, and I had to put them down. Anyway, how are you?” 

“I’m fine but err, quick question,” Phil starts. “Why didn’t you just use a bag?” 

Dan’s smile fades and his eyes glaze over, mouth opening and closing as his brows furrow in confusion. “Now that you mention it, I um, don’t know why on earth I didn’t think of that.” He throws his hands into the air. “God knows what’s up with me.” Embarrassed, he turns around and begins to organise the jumbled papers.

“What’s all this you’ve got here then?” Phil asks, flopping down onto the bed and leaning his back against the wall as he watches Dan.

“It’s mostly some notes about Schubert. We have to study the last few decades of his life, so I bought a few books from home with me that I thought I’d be able to flick through. And um,” he picks up a piece of paper, “I’ve also got to work towards a portfolio of compositions, so really I’ve got a mountain of stuff to do.”

“Sounds daunting.”

“Mmmm.” He sits down in the chair next to Phil’s desk, adjusting the angle of the lamp as he kicks off his shoes. “So,” he continues, turning around, “what are you up to then?”

Phil nonchalantly waves his book in the air. “Just Beowulf.” 

Dan scoffs. “Just Beowulf? Come on, Phil! It’s only one of the most important pieces of English literature of all time!” Shaking his head in disbelief, he turns back around. “‘Just Beowulf’... Jesus.”

After a couple of minutes of silence Phil suddenly realises that Dan has started working. As in actually working. In the past they had both joked about being chronic procrastinators, and so Phil had predicted that the night would end up with them talking about books, politics or musicals instead of doing homework. He’s a bit surprised that Dan was serious about wanting to use his room just to study in, and to be truthful, he’s also a little disappointed. 

To make matters worse, as the other boy works away Phil finds himself unable to concentrate on the book in front of him; no matter how hard he tries to focus, all thoughts invariably trace back to his companion. He examines the back of his neck, the collar of his shirt, the knit of his jumper and how it falls on his lanky build. Dan will occasionally sing or hum a tune to himself, scribble something down and then repeat that same harmony with a few added notes, moving the fingers on his right hand as if he were in front of a piano. It’s a peaceful sight, captivatingly peaceful, and his concentration trickles down the drain. To hell with reading anyway. 

His thoughts meander back to a familiar daydream; Dan’s life in Wokingham. Phil’s imagination frequently returns to a scene of Dan sitting in a lavish study, playing the piano as golden sun leaks through an open window, balmy air wafting inside on a sweet summer evening. In tonight’s incarnation Phil envisions himself there sitting on the wooden floor, pondering over verses of romantic poetry, reading aloud a particularly pleasant stanza to Dan who would glance up from the piano and give him one of those warm, glowing smiles where his dimples make him look utterly angeli-

It’s a silly dream really, very silly indeed, and Phil feels ashamed for ever having dreamt it. With a glum sense of self-restraint, he turns back to his homework and tries extra-hard to concentrate on it. 

An hour or so passes in the little room on staircase nine, and after a while Phil finds himself lulled into the lethargic contentment that only rewards avid readers, and to his amazement he realises that Anglo-Saxon poetry about Danish kings and mythical beasts isn’t as tedious as he had previously dreaded. 

Satisfied with his progress, he bookmarks his page and closes the book with a thump. Dan’s neck twitches at the sound, and, as if abruptly reminded of the existence of the outside world, he drops his pen, massages his hands, and stretches his long, slender arms out into the air behind him. 

“Right, I’m throwing in the towel or else I shall die of a Schu-verload,” he exhales, leaning backwards and cracking his spine on the back of the chair.

“Schu...verload?” 

Dan swivels around to give him a dry scowl. “Schubert-overload, you fool.”

“Oh!” Phil exclaims, and the pair of them erupt into laughter. “Sorry, my brain has just been fried by one-thousand year old poetry. I’m feeling a bit,” he yawns, “a bit sleepy.”

Getting up from his chair and stretching some more, Dan paces over to the window and peers out of it before unhinging the lock and propping it open. Cold air sails through the room, ruffling his curls as he stares out into the dark night.

“Nice view you’ve got from up here.”

“Thanks,” Phil quips, fully aware of the fact that his room faces into a fairly dull courtyard.

“I’m serious. I think it’s grand that you’ve got a view of the chapel. It’s terribly romantic.” He steps away from the window, attention turning to a nearby shelf which houses a small record collection that appears to spark his enthusiasm. “You’ve got some superb albums here. Handel, Tchaikovsky, Chopin…” He looks over to where Phil has propped himself up against his headboard. “I respect those choices.” 

“Thanks, although I mainly put them on for background noise. I’m not a major classical geek or anything.”

The other boy guffaws. “Like me?”

“No, not like you,” Phil tuts, and his pretend frown turns into another yawn.

“Busy day?” Dan grins.

“Busy day, busy week, busy month. Hectic month, in fact.”

Nodding in solidarity Dan sits down at the bottom of Phil’s bed and reclines with his back against the wall, closing his eyes with a faint smile still on his face. As the pair of them sit in silence Phil's own eyelids get heavier, and budding in his chest is a drowsy desire to snuggle up into a cosy cocoon and burrow into the bedcovers, falling deeper and deeper into the comfort of his soft, warm sheets...

When he awakes, Dan is staring straight at him.

“Hmmm, what? Did I fall asleep?”

“Quite possibly. God, I know I’m about to.” Dan’s eyelids flicker downwards as his smile fades. He looks exhausted, really exhausted, and Phil feels like there’s something he should do about it.

“Hey.” 

Dan’s shoots up. Phil shuffles across his narrow bed and moves closer to the wall, patting the small space next to him in invitation. The other boy’s eyes widen for a moment before he melts into a soft, sleepy smile, then gets up slowly and gingerly sits on the bed, lies down next to Phil, then shuffles around so that he’s facing...facing him...and then closes his eyes as if it’s nothing.

Phil blinks in confusion. His more logical side knows that sleeping on the same bed as a friend is something that people do without batting an eyelid, but next to Dan it feels different - symbolic, even. Regardless, or perhaps because of that feeling, he shuffles round to face the other man and observes his sleeping face, his pale skin, his dark freckles, his thick brown eyebrows and long brown eyelashes. 

Suddenly, the eyelashes open.

“Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me use your room to study in, you doofus,” he teases, words coming out slightly sluggish.

“Mmmm, that’s alright. It’s the least I can do considering how you spoiled me last Saturday. I think I should be the one thanking you.”

Dan shifts slightly, and Phil feels their shins are now pressed up against each other. His soul sings. If he were more awake his heart might be racing in an exhilarated panic, but in his tired state all he can do is feel strangely happy. Happy...and cold.

“Why on earth is it so freezing in here?” he asks, confused and a little dazed, and as he props himself up on his elbow he sees that the window has been left open. “Da-an!”

“What?” he whines through the pillow.

“You didn’t close the window!”

“Close it then.”

Phil groans, flopping back down onto the bed. “I can’t be bothered!”

“Well in that case we’ll just have to huddle together like penguins then,” and with his eyes still closed Dan moves across the bed until their faces are centimetres apart. Now Phil’s heart starts to quicken.

“I can’t, it’s too much.”

Dan’s eyes fly open as Phil gets up from the bed and walks over to the window. Worried that he’s made a deadly mistake he buries his head into the pillow and waits for Phil to order him out of his room, out into the cold, out into the darkness for a long, lonely walk back to his own miserable dormitory.

The window clunks shut, and then the bed becomes a lot heavier. Dan removes his face from the pillow to see Phil gazing down at him.

“I thought…I thought you were about to abandon me.”

“What? Abandon you? Where would I go?” He chuckles. “I was cold, that’s all. I wouldn’t leave you here like that.” 

Dan beams up at him with flushed cheeks. “You still cold?”

A smirk lets itself out. “Maybe.”

Dan unfurls his right arm across the width of the bed and lifts his left arm into the air. Phil slowly begins to panic. A hug? Is he pulling him in for a hug? A hug with Dan and his arms wrapped around him holding him lying there together on his bed a-

Okay. 

Enough.

Phil looks back at Dan. His stare is dark and strong, profound and meaningful, and it makes him feel safe. He takes the plunge and lowers himself down. Dan pulls him into a hug, arms wrapping around his back and drawing him close to his chest. Phil can hear the low thump of Dan’s heartbeat and smell the warm, musky scent that lingers on his jumper. He places his arms on Dan’s ribcage, fingers fiddling with the cable knit patterns. The pair adjust themselves slightly, moving shoulders, moving heads, moving their legs and intertwining them together, drifting off to the wide, sleepy sea in a boat built for two.

Chapter 4.5 - Rubber Ring

Phil had been asleep.

Phil had been asleep, until somebody had knocked on his door. 

Phil had been planning on going back to sleep, until through the still of night he had heard a familiar voice whispering his name.

Shaking the sleep from his bones, Phil opens his curtains, stumbles towards the door, turns the key in the lock and prepares himself for whatever lies waiting for him in the hallway.

“Dan?”

“G’d evening”

“W...what are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Fancy a stroll?”

“A stroll? Are you insane?” Phil repeats mockingly, shivering from the cool air in the hallway. “Dan, it’s...” He checks his wrist, and frowns when he sees that it’s naked.

“1 a.m. on a Wednesday night? I know. So, what d’you say?”

Really, he should say no. He really should. It’s one in the morning, it’s a weeknight, he’s got lectures tomorrow and the weather outside is probably cold enough to freeze him to his core within five minutes. He should say no, he really should, but there’s something about roaming the shadowy streets at midnight with Dan that’s far too exciting to turn down.

“Give me thirty seconds and I’ll be right with you.”

Diving back into his room to grab the first items of clothing that he sees, Phil can’t help but feel slightly frenzied. When Dan was in his room last it had ended with the pair of them falling asleep entangled in each other’s arms. Phil hadn’t forgotten that. He had far from forgotten that. Memories of that night had floated through the air ever since, landing on him with the delicate wings of a wistful daydream that left him blushing as it flew away. Now, to both his surprise and his delight, this same boy is knocking on his door and asking for his accompaniment on a ridiculous small-hour escapade.

As he wraps his scarf around his collar, he looks across the room to the moonlit part of his pinboard. One particular piece of paper stands out, and he moves in closer to read it - it’s a quote scribbled onto a scrap of blue paper.

“I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for the first time to the benign indifference of the world." 

How strange. He’s had that Albert Camus line scribbled onto a piece of paper for years now, and yet never in his life has it seemed so appropriate as it does right this moment. With a peculiar feeling of rebirth he thrusts his feet into the nearest pair of shoes he can find, and opens the door into the corridor. 

Dan is leaning against the wall of the hallway. The pose strikes him as familiar, and with a shock of nostalgia Phil is transported back to the night when the two of them first met. He remembers how Dan stood in the doorway to the photography club - arms folded, ankles crossed, sly smirk plastered to his mischievous face. How things have changed between them since then. 

Phil locks the door, pockets the key, and when he turns around Dan is staring absentmindedly at the floor with his eyes boring holes into nothingness. Suddenly he blinks, looks up, and his eyes instantly meet Phil’s with a vivid, bittersweet gaze that makes everything else in the world feel like it’s falling away.

It feels like the passing touch of a stranger’s hand on the small of his back at a lavish party. It feels like the shock of a cherry liqueur that stuns the taste buds and leaves behind a decadent, sumptuous and moreish aftertaste. It feels like the sight of a full moon from the balcony of his Grecian holiday home, wind rustling through the leaves as the waves whisper beneath him. Phil’s heart melts... and then he realises. 

He just might be in love.

“What are you thinking about?” Dan asks, breaking the silence as his eyelids hang low. Phil looks at those dark, pretty eyelashes on those dark, pretty eyes, rolls his shoulders back, and sighs.

“Mmmm, nothing.” 

He turns to walk down the narrow hallway with Dan following close behind. They push through the heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway and descend onto the staircase, making their way down the steps that lead out of the building.

“So tell me then, how did you manage to get up to my room?” Phil inquires. “Did Rapunzel let her hair down over the Fellow’s Garden wall for you to use as a rope to climb up?”

Dan laughs. “No, not quite.”

“Well go on then, how did you do it? Surely the main college door would have been locked?”

“Not tonight apparently, I pushed it, and lo and behold it was open. There wasn’t a porter there either. Poor sod’s probably raiding the college’s wine cellar,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Dan! The porters aren’t drunkards.”

“I know I know, but it must be bloody boring just sitting there all night. I know I’d raid the stash if I were them.”

“What, and allow unruly boys who can’t settle down to come and break in to the college grounds? You’d make a great porter.”

“That is why I am not a porter, but a devilish, wicked boy who breaks into colleges so he can sneak into other boys’ bedrooms,” he smiles.

Phil’s mind almost shuts down at that latter part. Out of sheer bewilderment his brain decides to respond by bellowing out “you are a saucy boy” in his best Lord Capulet impression, which has the effect of making Dan double over into a fit of laughter, tears streaming down his face as he wheezes the word “saucy” through silent giggles.  

As they exit the building they’re struck by the biting December cold. Careful to tread lightly across the echoing stone slabs, they stealth across the smaller quad that Phil’s bedroom faces into, creep past the chapel, and step through to the larger quad wherein lies a perfectly-maintained square lawn.

“Hey!” Dan whispers.

“What?”

“Shall we walk across the grass?”

“What? Dan! We can’t do that!” Phil hisses. “We’ll get caught and fined and-”

“Oh stop it! We’re already breaking the rules by sneaking out past 10 p.m. Tarnishing an overly-pampered lawn isn’t any worse.”

Before Phil has time to protest, Dan has already set foot on the forbidden pasture.

“Dan stop! For fuc-”

“Catch me if you can!” 

The boy runs around in circles as Phil loiters on the edge, deliberating on whether or not he should join in, until he looks around the quad and, upon seeing nobody, finally decides to indulge in Dan’s game. They race around the turf, skidding and slipping and ripping up the grass. Phil tries to reach Dan, but no matter how hard he struggles he never seems to be able to catch up.

“What’s that Lester? Too slow are we?” Dan taunts, placing a hand on his hip.

That’s it, Phil thinks. 

Time to put Dan in his place. 

With a final burst of energy Phil lunges forward, hurtling himself towards the other man in a push that sends them crashing to the floor, foreheads colliding with a knock that’ll have both of them bruised by the time the sun shines.

“Ow, shit! My head!”

“You alright?”

Phil rolls off onto the cold lawn, swiftly disentangling himself from the mess of limbs as Dan pushes himself off the ground with a grunt of effort.

“Jesus Christ Phil! What are you, some sort of juggernaut?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

Dan breathes in deeply, eyes flitting over Phil’s body before travelling back up to meet him.

“Evidently not.”

There’s a moment of silence as they recover, and Phil notices that a few blades of grass are stuck to Dan’s face. Without thinking he reaches out a hand to brush them off, fingers briefly skimming across the surface of the boy’s cheek. Dan’s eyes are wide, and his breath is hot against Phil’s hand, lips parted as his eyes lock with Phil’s. There’s a presence in those eyes that Phil has seen before. Inspecting. Asking. Phil wants to trace his thumb across the surface of Dan’s panting mouth with those big, blinking, innocent eyes staring up at him, maybe slip in a finger and feel that soft, wet tongue...but the flare of uncertainty in his chest tells him to remove his hand, stand up from the ground, and say “shall we get going then?” in the steadiest voice he can muster.

After hoisting Dan up from the ground they creep across the quad towards the lodge where the porter sits. Or rather, where the porter normally sits.

“Hmmm. Still nobody here,” Dan confirms, crooking his head around the front desk.

Phil opens the latch of the small door and steps out. “Quickly then. We don’t want to get caught.” Dan hurries across the cobbled entrance, following him through the exit as it shuts behind them with a soft click.

As soon as they’re out the college gates Dan reaches into his coat and pulls out a small bottle of alcohol. Ah. That would explain a lot. He offers it to Phil, who nods in gratitude and takes a sip.

“Eurgh!” 

Dan laughs. “You don’t like whiskey?” Phil screws his eyes shut, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the taste. “Ah well - more for me!” 

On second thoughts, if Dan’s already drunk Phil doesn’t want to be the only one who’s sober, and so he reaches for the bottle with grabbing hands as Dan takes a healthy swig. Although he raises his eyebrows at Phil’s unexplained change of opinion, he hands it over regardless. As they amble through the streets Dan takes the drink back, downing it at an alarming rate, and by the time they’ve made their way to the highroad the vessel is as good as gone. 

“Ah, here we are,” Dan cries, “the theatre!” Phil winces - he’s a little on the loud side.

“I saw a fan-tastic production here the other week. The Phantom of the Opera it was. Bloody blil..bloody brilliant,” he slurs, waving the empty bottle around in his hand. “Very fine chap playing Erik, very fine...” He sighs. “I wanted to be an opera singer, y’know. Dunno know what ‘appened to that.”

Phil frowns. “What d’you mean ‘dunno what happened to that’? You can still have a shot at it.”

“You know, that’s very true,” he mutters, “very true...” 

As they walk down the deserted road the only sound to be heard is the clacking of their heeled shoes, until they turn down an ill-lit side-street and Dan begins to hum a tune that sounds familiar. 

“Is that-”

“The Phantom of the Opera? You didn’t say you’d seen it!” 

Before Phil can gush about his love of musicals, Dan unexpectedly bursts into song.

“Beneath the opera house,

I know he’s there,

He’s with me on the stage,

He’s everywhere.”

For a moment, Phil forgets how to think. He hadn’t expected Dan’s voice to be so high pitched, so silky and delicate and feminine.

“And when my song begins,

I always find,

The phantom of the opera is there,

Inside my mind.”

Dan nods his head as if expecting a reaction. Ah. The next part of the song is sung by The Phantom. Hesitant to embarrass himself but too tipsy to care, Phil takes in a deep breath and attempts to remember the lyrics.

“Since once again with me,

A strange duet.

I power over you,

Grow stronger yet.

You give your love to me,

For love is blind.

The phantom of the opera is now,

Your mastermind.”

He looks back at Dan, whose gawk transforms into a grin.

“Those who have seen your face,

Draw back in fear.

I am the mask you wear.”

Another expectant look from Dan. Oh!

“It’s me they hear!”

If he’s correct, they sing the next part together.

“My spirit and my voice,

In one command.

The Phantom of The Opera is there,

Inside your mind.”

Phil could have died on the spot - their voices sound amazing together. He turns around to beam at Dan, but Dan’s too busy acting to notice.

“The Phantom of the Opera,

He’s there.

The Phantom of the Opera.” 

He waltzes out into the road, obviously getting into it. Phil follows, and their voices combine more. 

“Sing once again with me,

A strange duet.”

“My power over you

Grows stronger yet.”

“You give your love to me ,

For love is blind.

The Phantom of The Opera is now,

My mastermind.”

“Sing my angel of music!” Phil cries.

“He’s there,

The Phan-tom of the O-per-aaaaa”

“Sing once again with me,

For a strange duet.”

Dan finishes off the song with the highest note Phil has ever heard come from a man. Bursting into laughter, he bows to a one-man audience as Phil claps and shouts “bravo!”, throwing invisible roses onto an invisible stage before turning to walk down the street.

“Thank you, thank you,” Dan giggles, buzzing with adrenaline as he looks at Phil, who responds with equal spirit. He isn’t quite sure what just happened, but something about their voices combining together like that felt spectacular. It felt special. As their smiles fade, Dan looks as though he wants to speak.

“Phil,” he begins, “can I...can I compliment you?”

“Of course.”

“You have the most incredible voice. Seriously.”

Phil is stupefied. Really? His voice, “incredible”? 

Something wells up inside his chest, something wild and fleeting and frantic that makes him want to sprint and shout and bowl Dan over with a tackle or a hug or just give in to his long-restrained yearning and just grab his charming, boyish face and just kiss it-

Instead, he reaches out a hand, and lightly taps Dan on the nose with his finger.

“Phil, I think you are the strangest person that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Hey, you’re equally weird,” he teases. 

“I know. That’s why I think you’re so wonderful.”

It’s his shy smile that tips Phil over the edge. He reaches out and pulls Dan into a hug that’s forceful and rough, throwing his arms around his shoulders and squeezing him tight as Dan instantly wraps his arms around him, gripping with equal vigour until they can’t get any closer.

“Thank you for agreeing to go on this mad walk with me. It’s just that I...I couldn’t sleep. This stupid performance is in two days and I’ve got so much work to do and I-” His voice cracks. Phil says nothing but rubs Dan’s back in consolation. After a while, the other boy pulls away. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, avoiding Phil’s eye.

“Don’t be sorry. You’re stressed, it’s understandable. I don’t mind anyway, it was my pleasure.” They begin walking. “Don’t worry about all this school work, you’ve got enough time to sort it out before the performance. If you don’t finish it, who cares - you can do it over the holidays.”

With a big sniff, Dan nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“As for Friday, I’m sure it’ll go smoothly. If you fluff a line just get your sword out and start duelling the audience with your fencing skills. They won’t know what hit them. Literally.”

“Let's hope I don’t fluff anything then, because I don’t want to have to kill you in a sword fight.”

“Aha! How bold you are to assume that I would lose! In fact, I, Philip Michael Lester, otherwise known as... Lance Lester, am a master of sword fighting, known throughout the land for my trusty steel and quick foot.” He snatches at the bottle in Dan’s hand, holding it by its neck. “This was my father's poniard, do you see? I'd be loth to see 't look rusty, 'cause 'twas his.”

Dan cackles, high pitched and loud. “Oh Phil, you’re such a geek, you know that right?”

“Oi - that’s Lance Lester to you!”

“Oh yeah? More like Feeble Phil,” he teases, jabbing at the other boy’s stomach. It doesn’t take long before they start to pretend-fight, scuffling in the street and tussling with each other all the way back home, gradually getting louder and more competitive until they circle back to Turl Street.

“Hey, hey, shhh!” Phil hisses. “We’re back at my college.”

Dan unclences Phil from a headlock and looks up. “We are indeed. Let’s hope the door’s still unlocked.” 

Phil gives it a gentle push, and it opens with a creak. Wriggling free from Dan’s grasp he slips into the entrance, standing with one foot it and one foot out, propping the door open with his chest.

“Well, good luck for rehearsals then. I’ll be at the chapel for…”

“For eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock. Right.”

Dan’s face falls. 

“My God.”

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I nearly forgot. Oh, what a disaster that would have been.” 

Phil raises an eyebrow. 

“On the night of the performance the chap I share a room with is going out, so I’m inviting a handful of people back to my room for a little party afterwards. I kept meaning to invite you but I never got round to it. Please say you can make it!”

“It’d be my pleasure.” 

Dan beams. “Perfect, I’ll see you there.” 

He turns away and walks up the street, hands thrust into his trouser pockets as he hurries back to his room. Phil stands at the door, watching. When Dan reaches the corner of the road he turns his head to face backwards, and, although he’s too far away to be sure, Phil is certain that he can feel the warmth of a smile shooting through the air and landing on his breast like the golden tip of Cupid’s pointed arrow, spreading through his body with a tender warmth.

[inexpensiveprogress]

Paul Nash at Avebury

Avebury is a Neolithic henge monument containing three stone circles. The Village of Avebury in Wiltshire was built around them and now bisect the circle with a High Street. Avebury contains the largest megalithic stone circle in the world. Constructed over several hundred years in the Third Millennium BC, during the Neolithic, or New Stone Age, the monument comprises a large henge (a bank and a ditch) with a large outer stone circle and two separate smaller stone circles situated inside the centre of the monument.

 Paul Nash - Avebury, 1936

When England was converted to Christianity, Avebury was considered a non-Christian monument. At some point in the early 14th century, villagers began to demolish the monument by pulling down the large standing stones and burying them in ready-dug pits at the side. During the toppling of the stones, one of them (which was 3 metres tall and weighed 13 tons), collapsed on top of one of the men pulling it down, fracturing his pelvis and breaking his neck, crushing him to death. Trapped in the hole that had been dug for the falling stone he was found by archaeologists in 1938. They found that he had been carrying a leather pouch, in which was found three silver coins dated to around 1320–25, as well as a pair of iron scissors and a lancet. 

In the latter part of the 17th and then the 18th centuries, destruction at Avebury reached its peak. The majority of the standing stones that had been a part of the monument for thousands of years were smashed up to be used as building material for the local area. This was achieved in a method that involved lighting a fire to heat the sarsen, then pouring cold water on it to create weaknesses in the rock, and finally smashing at these weak points with a sledgehammer.

In the 1920s Marconi wanted to build a radio station on the hills above Avebury and the Air Ministry wanted to close Wayland Smithy area with standing stones as a bombing range in the 1930s . †

 Paul Nash - Avebury, Personage, 1933

In July 1933 the ailing Nash went on holiday to Marlborough with his friend Ruth Clark. From there they made a day trip to nearby Avebury. ‡

 Paul Nash - Avebury Stone (Double Exposure), 1933

The epiphany that Paul Nash had to use he standing stones artistically, seems to have come with an interest in the Neolithic period in publishing with the British Public. It is an era where Paganism has become popular, as many alternative religions did after the First World War. In trying to make sense of the carnage and brutality of the War the public looked for ancient wisdom and this maybe why we have to tolerate people smothering themselves over Stonehenge every solstice.

In these paintings and photographs Nash was also documenting an interest that other artists such as Henry Moore had in the primitive. Moore looked towards early Peruvian pottery and flints for organic shapes and old works made by early man. These monuments are the few examples of art that survive. Even in the medieval period the only arts to survive in Britain of the common man would be the carvings of bench-ends in churches, pottery or other folk art.

 Paul Nash - Landscape of the Megaliths, 1934

Margaret Nash said this was Paul’s first painting of the Avebury stones, which he saw in August 1933. Nash himself gave the following description of Avebury in ‘Picture History’ The preoccupation of the stones has always been a separate pursuit and interest aside from that of object personages. My interest began with the discovery of Avebury megaliths when I was staying at Marlborough in the Summer of 1933. The great stones were then in their wild state, so to speak. Some were half covered by the grass, others stood up in the cornfields were entangled and overgrown in the copses, some were buried under the turf. But they were always wonderful and disquieting, and, as I saw them then, I shall always remember them . . .   Their colouring and pattern, their patina of golden lichen, all enhanced their strange forms and mystical significance. Thereafter, I hunted stones, by the seashore, on the downs, in the furrows. ♣

 Paul Nash - The Nest of Wild Stones, 1937

I found my first nest of wild stones on looking closely into a drawing I had made of some bleached objects on the Swanage Downs. It lay just below the level of my consciousness, slightly out of focus. But there was no mistaking its lineaments a moment later when I moved the dry thoughts to one side. ♠

Below Paul Nash writes of the effect of Avebury on his work. That he wasn’t only painting the stones themselves but placing ordinary stones he found in a picture as if they were large monuments. 

In most instances, the pictures coming out of this preoccupation were concerned with stones seen solely as objects in relation to the landscape. But later certain stone personages evolved, such as the stone birds in the ‘Nest of Wild Stones’ and the more ‘abstract’ forms in ‘Encounter in the Afternoon’. ♣

Many of these works may be down to another external influence, Eileen Agar. Nash had met and fallen in love with Agar, who was a surrealist artist and using stones and found objects in her works around the same time.

 Paul Nash - Photograph of Stones in his Studio, 1936

 Paul Nash - Encounter in the Afternoon, 1936

 Paul Nash - Landscape of Bleached Objects, 1934

 Paul Nash - Circle Of The Monoliths, 1937-8 

In the painting above (Circle of the Monoliths) is the stepped hill what is likely Silbury Hill. The construction of the hill in the Late Neolithic period was originally stepped, then filled in. Silbury Hill is very close to Avebury.

When the artist Paul Nash first visited Avebury in 1933 he was amazed by the scale of Silbury Hill and by the ancient circle of megaliths, the great glacial boulders that had been dragged from the Downs in prehistoric times. ♥

 Paul Nash - Silbury Hill, 1938

 Paul Nash - Silbury Hill, c1937

All Nash’s other statements about Avebury and stones are much more direct, it is almost as if he contrived to intellectualise his ideas simply to be provocative, but in face the Landscape of the Megaliths Nash does resolve the equation. The picture shows the adventure of stones receding away from the spectator, in the foreground in the convolvulus curls round a snake which rises upwards. ♦

 Paul Nash - Avebury Stone, 1933

The stones at Avebury come up again when Nash was asked to illustrate a cover to the magazine Countrygoing. Though I think it was commissioned in 1938 it was published in 1945.

 A Paul Nash Cover to Countrygoing, 1945

 Paul Nash - Circle Of The Monoliths, 1937-8

Above is the finished painting of Circle Of The Monoliths. Below is the study for the work that was found painted on the back of The Two Serpents c 1937.

 Paul Nash - Circle of the Monoliths, 1937-1938

Nash’s abstraction of stones in the 1930s went on with his distortions of landscapes, found stones and the real Neolithic stones. In we see Mên-an-Tol and the stone ring there placed in the top right corner in front of more found stones. To the right is a grid that can only be echoing Encounter in the Afternoon and Circle Of The Monoliths.

 Paul Nash - Nocturnal Landscape, 1938

Below we see the same Avebury stone used on the cover to Countrygoing with the wedge shaped cut in the side.

 Paul Nash - Druid Landscape, 1938

Initially, using a No.1A pocket Kodak series 2 camera, Nash captured images so that he could refer to them in the creation of his paintings. Increasingly, however, he saw his photographs, not as aids or sketches, but as artworks in their own right.

Here Nash depicts one of the Avebury Sentinels, and his choice of subject matter is characteristic. Nash was always interested in landscapes and aspects of the natural world, not for their historical or aesthetic interest per se, but more because he thought that certain places as he called them (see Biography) had about them a mystical importance, a genius loci; which lent the place, the stone, the tree, an importance which transcended its apparent properties. As he wrote there are places whose relationship of parts creates a mystery, an enchantment. It is this mystery, this enchantment, which Nash tries to capture in his photographs. ◊

  Paul Nash - Avebury, Sentinel, 1933

Some of the quote below may be a repeat of what has been read about Nash, but I featured it for the Convolvulus park that features in Landscape of the Megaliths. In the background of the watercolour and lithograph below are two hills, both likely to be a Neolithic Sidbury Hill and how it looks today. 

Last summer I walked in a field near Avebury where two rough monoliths stand up … miraculously patterned with black and orange lichen, remnants of the avenue of stones which led to the Great Circle. In the hedge, at hand, the white trumpet of a convolvulus turns from its spiral stem, following the sun. In my art I would solve such an equation Paul Nash, “Contribution to Unit One”, in Andrew Causey (ed.), Paul Nash: Writings on Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 107–110.

 Paul Nash - Landscape of the Megaliths - Watercolour, 1937

Some time ago I made a blog post on Paul Nash and the process of colour layers used to make the lithograph below. 

 Paul Nash - Landscape of the Megaliths - Lithograph, 1937

The photographs below are dated 1942 by the Tate. I don’t know is Nash went back to Avebury or if they are catalogued wrongly. But I thought it was worth including them with the car by the roadside. 

 Paul Nash - Avebury, 1942

 Paul Nash - Avebury, Sentinel, 1942

 Paul Nash - Avebury, Sentinel, 1942

 Paul Nash - Avebury, Sentinel, 1944

 Paul Nash - Avebury, Sentinel, 1944

 Paul Nash - Avebury, Sentinel, 1944

 Paul Nash - Avebury, 1944

† Joanne Parker - Written on Stone: The Cultural Reception of British Prehistoric, 2009   ‡ David Boyd Haycock - Paul Nash, p54, 2002 ♠ Andrew Causey - Paul Nash: Writings on Art - Page 142 ♣ Paul Nash - Paintings and Watercolours Exhibition Catalogue, Tate, 1975 ♥ Julius Bryant - The English Grand Tour, p16, 2005 ♦ Paul Nash, Places, South Bank Centre, 1989 ◊ Art Republic

[ofwizardsandmen]

I like me better when I’m with you

Characters: Tara Lee, Mark Yang, Tyler Lee (briefly).

Word count: 3,9k

Genre: angst, fluff

OST: Ed Sheeran - Hearts Don't Break Round Here

A knock on the door interrupts Tara from staring soullessly at the screen of her laptop. It’s only been a couple of hours since she left the Yang Residence and yet she has completely lost track of time. She can’t remember how long she’s been sitting on her bed, wrapped in a duvet, but the memories of her conversation with Mark are all vague and hazy, like scenes from a Frank Capra film.

Yet, it is probably the hopeful melodies or the fact Julie Andrews’ sweet innocence in The Sound of Music always manages to put her in a good mood, but Tara almost feels like she’s been transported to some benevolent alternate universe where she’s just a regular Oxford student chilling at home on a summer night and procrastinating her summer school paper for Medieval Literature.

There are no boys.

No magic.

No famous ex-boyfriend or fake fiancé.

It is just Tara and her muggle musical.

“I’m fine, Ty” Tara whines as Captain von Trapp walks into Maria’s room and finds his children singing along My Favorite Things. “Go to sleep!”  Mentally cursing at her brother for disturbing her hardly-found peace of mind, Tara pulls the fluffy duvet tighter under her chin.

Another knock

Tara lets the duvet fall to her shoulders, feeling as though she doesn’t have the strength to deal with anything right now.

“Ty, seriously…” she utters wearily. “I want to be alone-”

“I’m coming in” A voice that definitely doesn’t belong to her brother announces.

A second later, the door gapes open and Tara’s ex-boyfriend walks in, closing the door behind him.

Mark’s presence catches Tara off guard. From all the people she could’ve expected to see, her ex looking aggravatingly good was definitely not on top of her list, so she nearly chokes in her inhale.

With her heart picking up, Tara pauses the movie and then holds on to the duvet tightly. Almost as if her life depended on it.

And yes. It is a life-threatening situation if you consider that Tara can’t imagine a greater humiliation than letting Mark see the sweatshirt she’s wearing beneath. It is one of the many clothes she had raid from his closet during her last visit to Seoul, claiming that she would use them whenever she missed him.

Why did she have to be so freaking ridiculous? That is beyond Tara understanding, but now, letting him see that goddammed sweatshirt on her would be yet another moral defeat on the same day. Not to mention it would be downright mortifying.  

“Hey” Mark stands at the door, his hands shoved in the pockets of his favorite bomber jacket as Tara holds on the duvet for dear life.

“What are you doing here?” She turns her head in the other direction as if her vanity was the most interesting piece of furniture she’s ever seen.

At her sour expression, Mark’s expression falls. For a split of a second he seems to be unable to form a coherent sentence or push himself to do anything at all, but eventually, he quietly steps towards Tara and without saying a single word he sits on the edge of the bed.

But Tara avoids his eyes. She can’t bring herself to look at him because his presence is suddenly reliving the embarrassment and humiliation she felt during their conversation earlier that day.

“I saw the album,” Mark says, his breath hitching as Tara blinks twice without really understanding what he means.  “Jae said it was a present from you”.

With the trauma of facing Mark, she has almost forgotten about his birthday gift. Of course, she now regrets spending so much time putting together a photo book with pictures of the two from childhood up to the months previous to their breakup. If she had known Mark was going to behave the way he did, Tara would’ve accepted Enzo’s invitation and instead of the comfort of her bed, she would be on a luxurious yacht sailing the Greek Islands. Or she would’ve asked Tyler to lock her in her room so there were no more chances to land on the cover of scandal-hungry tabloids and gossip sites. Yes, she likes the second idea better.

But no, against her better judgment, she went to visit her ex-boyfriend so he could shatter her pride in pieces and humiliate her.

“And I’m truly sorry”  Without another word, Mark reaches to pull Tara to his chest. Initially, he meets resistance from her part. She briefly struggles to free herself, but when her name escapes from Mark’s lips in a soft whisper that makes her feel a wonderful sense of loosening inside, she gives in with a sigh. Too exhausted and emotionally drained to fight him back, she also lets go of the duvet in favor of letting Mark wrap his arms around her.

“I’m so, so sorry, T” He repeats as his hands move to stroke her hair and pat her back gently, slightly desperate to show he how apologetic he truly is. “I am sorry”

There’s a brief moment of silence before Tara speaks,  her voice breathy with a contained chuckle.

“I know”

Mark is so thankful when she wraps her arms around him and buries her face against his chest that his heart races embarrassingly and his throat moves when he swallows. Yet, Tara seems unfazed, wrapped in her own thoughts and the scent of oolang and bergamot from Mark’s signature perfume combined with the faint smell of Febreze that Taeyong uses religiously in their clothes.

Mark smells like spring and his embrace makes Tara feel like home, so she stays that way for a few minutes, eyes closed, easily sinking into his arms and basking in the familiarity of it all.  It is just a simple hug, but it conveys their feelings with much greater clarity than words could have; it is almost a reminder of easier days when everything was less tangled and a simple hug could put everything back in its right place.

Now everything seems as it could be fine.

That is, of course, until she pulls away and notices Mark’s eyes brimming with tears.

It’s probably too soon to draw conclusions, but for some reason it makes Tara’s former optimism deflate.

Not like this is the first time Tara sees Mark cry. Oh no, she has seen him cry plenty of times before, although when she tells those stories to other people, they believe she’s making them up because Mark is a strong man by any standard and he has never shown any sign of weakness in front of anyone else. Particularly not in front of his bandmates or his fans.

People regard Mark as always cool and collected, that one person who always knows what to say and what people expect from him. He didn’t cry when his group reached the Nº1 spot for the first time in the South Korean charts, nor during his first concert or that time he injured himself in a rather foolish fashion and subsequently skipped a whole round of promotions with his group. If you were to ask anyone, Mark is described as a hardworking young man with a somewhat detached and serene outlook on life.

But that is Mark, the rapper of NCT. The Mark Yang sitting next to Tara cried when she went to Hogwarts for the first time and when their first bunny died. Mark cries over a sad movie plot and whenever he misses his family. The Mark Tara knows is anything but detached. He is loving and slightly clingy, although he always justifies himself claiming that he barely spends time with his loved ones.

That’s exactly why doubt wings through Tara when her eyes fix on Mark. Granted, her concern is slightly unreasonable given the circumstances and their unspoken reconciliation, but she knows him by heart and he looks merely appalled.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, eyeing him suspiciously

“Nothing” He musters dismissively. Tara doesn’t know he’s fighting hard to keep the tears at bay, but she can guess, by the way he bits on his lower lip, that there’s something he wants to tell her. And she simply expects the worst.

“Then what’s with that expression?” she says, forcing a soft laugh. “You look as though you’ve murdered someone.”

Mark doesn’t respond. There is silence and then a simple head motion

“I don’t know how bad this actually is or if Jane will be able to fix it before it goes out, but…” A frustrated breath slips from Mark’s lips and he moves to grab Tara’s hand “Earlier today I kinda told a reporter we had broken up.”

“What?” Tara’s eyes narrow in confusion.

“Listen T, I am really sorry, I just…” Mark runs his free hand through his hair “I got this question about you and the rumors and I-“ he tightens his grip on her hand “I just lost it. I saw that article on the news and I don’t know what got into me. Please, forgive me, I didn’t mean to-“

Amusement swirling in her chest, Tara doesn’t even attempt to hold in a laugh.

“Mark, people have been speculating about our break up for weeks and if they couldn't tell yet after the pictures of you and Mindy walking by the hand late at night” She said the last bit with the tiniest bit of accusation in her voice “They probably did after the headlines of this morning, so unless you had told them I cheated on you or that you hated me, I think we’ll be ok”  

“No, I would never” Mark says softly, once again wrapping himself around Tara “I only said that we broke up and I wished not to be asked any more questions about the topic”

“An answer straight from the idol book. Well done” Tara laughs, but still, that emotion written on Mark’s face —that she recognizes as guilt— doesn’t seem to go away.  “Oh, come on, Mark, change that expression! What’s wrong now?” Tara rolls her eyes, looking at him over her shoulder.

“I…” He falters “I also made you cry”

“When did you?” Tara asks, moving away from the hug and turning so they’re finally face to face. “I haven’t cried” She frowns, although her slightly puffed eyes aren’t painting the most convincing picture.

“Tyler told me” Mark smiles with a swift rise of his cheekbones. If Tara didn’t know him better she would assume that he is amused.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself” Tara scoffs, but Mark is still smiling at her with a sort of smug twinkle in his eyes.

“I hate I made you cry, I really do.” He says solemnly “But the fact you did…” Mark finds the auspicious moment to caress Tara’s face with his thumbs, making her huff once she notices his cheeks going all squishy and his eyes crinkling in a smile.

She would definitely be offended if she didn’t know there’s no malice to it, just Mark’s attempts to lighten up the mood.

“I swear I will never make you cry again” He says, interlacing their hands “Please, don’t ever cry again” Mark places a gentle kiss on her cheek before adding “Plebeians like me don’t deserve the tears of a princess”

Tara cringes and laughs, smacking Mark’s arm softly

“That’s so cheesy” she complains, faking a retching noise. “Please never repeat that”

“Why?”  Mark catches Tara’s fist before it lands on his chest, pulling her towards him for the umpteenth time. It almost feels like he wants to make up for the lost time and Tara is not in a position to complain or criticize him because the longing is mutual so she only throws her arms around his neck, shaking her head. “Yo, it’s true though…” Mark says, his boyish manners coming out in full force when he speaks.

“That you’re cheesy?” Tara jokes.

“That I am a plebeian and you are a real princess… my princess”

“Ugh… cheesy” Tara’s face contorts into what could be disgust, but a split so second later she bursts out laughing. Mark chuckles too, but he becomes solemn as his hands slide under Tara’s —his— sweatshirt and his fingers glide up her sides until they reach for the curve of her waist.

“No, but seriously, T… I’m sorry” he repeats as Tara plays with his hair distractedly “I was rude to you and that was just off-limits. Nothing justifies the way I behaved.”

“True” Tara concedes with a nod and a small smile spreading on her face.

“You didn’t deserve any of that and I apologize for it”

“True again. You were acting stupid” She replies simply, looking away as she removes her hands from Mark’s neck, a noticeable frown on her face “But I guess I can take that apology”

A hearty laugh fills the room when Mark realizes Tara is just faking the angered expression and seconds later she ends up throwing him a poorly executed wink.

“Thank you, T” The guy’s amusement quickly vanishes, a warm feeling of elation coming over him. It is the kind of feeling that makes you believe an enormous burden has been lifted from your shoulders and you can finally be at peace.

He beams, his smile so bright that it almost makes Tara feel blinded by it. Then, a teasing glint fills his eyes “Though now that I remember, you did call me an idiot…” he dramatically places a hand over his heart “That hurt”

“Should I even be sorry? You were acting like one”  Tara states matter-of-factly. She raises a brow, trying to ignore the way Mark’s hands have returned to hold her at the waist pulling her closer.

“What?” Mark opens his mouth in an exaggerated fashion, pretending to take the offense.

“It’s true, you were acting like a di-” Tara stops midway, giggling as Mark tickles her sides. “Oh, come on!” Laughter escapes from her lips abundantly. “Mark... please…” She twists, fighting desperately to escape from his attack, but Mark continues to dig his fingertips on her sides, chuckling and occasionally letting out a full laugh.

“Please what?” He asks, watching amused how Tara tries to push him off with her knees.

“Stop!” She giggles “Please, Mark, stop!” She smacks his hands away when they reach her ribs and then places both her hands against his chest to stop him from ambushing her again “I’m sorry. Ok?” she says, catching her breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you serious?” Mark’s doe eyes flutter open as though he can’t believe his ears and Tara only nods, still focused on regulating her breathing pace.  “Oh T. Don’t be.” Mark places a hand over one of hers, squeezing it and pulling it to his lips to kiss it briefly “I actually deserved it because what you said back then was true. I was just trying to get back at you.”

“I know” Tara replies, wondering if Mark is aware of who he’s talking to. Of course she knew, even if he wasn’t fully aware back then, Tara knew. She always knows. “But that’s not what I’m sorry about. I also owe you an apology for the Mindy misunderstanding and the whole Darius scandal. Although it shouldn’t be a big deal, considering we had broken up, you still deserve to know nothing ever happened between him and I”

Mark blinks not fully sure of what to say next. He remains quiet, letting go of Tara’s hand but a grin —that he had dumbly tried to suppress— slowly makes its way onto his lips. Tara laughs because Mark, as always, is transparent as glass and the happiness that her statement causes him is not even close to been hidden.

“So you’re telling me nothing happened with the perfect Darius Black?” He questions skeptically, smug grin still plastered across his face.

“First of all wipe that grin off” Tara rolls eyes, her hand smacking Mark’s shoulder playfully “Don’t be such a smug jerk”  

Mark could be offended, but he ignores that last part on behalf of attending a more urgent matter, which is finding out what Tara has been up to since their breakup. It is a question that has been torturing him for weeks, so he jumps in as soon as the opportunity presents.

Of course, Mark is not generally the jealous or possessive type, but watching the pictures of —his— Tara walking by the arm of another man —a man who had always shown more than just a casual friendly interest in her— had awoken something inside him.

“So?” Mark begins to feel the worm of jealousy squirming in his guts as he imagines Darius' hands roaming Tara’s body, his lips pressing against hers, hot and urgent, an image practically etched in his mind since the morning when he saw that goddamned picture of them looking like lovebirds on the news. “Nothing?” He has no other choice but to pretend to be ok, so he lets out a sigh, easing his chest from that emotional hell.

“Nothing” Tara says, shaking her head from side to side. “I’m offended you even ask.”

“You are a beautiful woman, Tara” Mark ignores her weak attempt to hide the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Men hit on you all the time and that Darius is shamelessly obvious about want-“

“I know how to say no, Mark” Tara says seriously.

“Oh, so he did try to hit on you” Mark insists predictably, causing Tara to chuckle. “I knew he did. I mean, of course he would, you got all dressed up and looked so fine. He would’ve been stupid if he didn’t”

“Mark, seriously nothing happened” Tara interrupts, her voice a mixture of amusement and weariness. “He was just trying to be helpful” She speaks as though she is trying to explain a hypersensitive 4 year-old that 1 plus 1 equals 2, but Mark does nothing but to repeat her last word with a questioning eyebrow. It makes Tara aware of all the explaining left to do, but also gives her the urge of kissing away the furrow of his brows. “Listen” Tara swifts on the bed to reposition herself “I drank too much and he was just trying to keep me safe.” Tara admits, looking everywhere but at his face.

“What?” Mark’s voice suddenly goes harsh and Tara turns to find an unexpectedly tense-looking man staring at her. “Are you sure he didn’t try anything weird-?”

“No, he didn’t.” Tara places a hand on Mark’s thigh reassuringly, but can’t deny the odious thrill his protective side makes her feel. “Trust me, Mark. Enzo or Adela would’ve already killed him if he had”

“Ok” Mark’s face relaxes and he goes back to looking at Tara with the same smug grin from before and eyes alight with mischief “So?”

“So what?” Tara rolls eyes “What now?”

“So why did you reject him? Because I’m not gonna believe he didn’t ask you out” Mark speaks naturally, as though he had just formulated a question about something like the time or the weather. “As far as I know all your friends fawn over him and Jane keeps reminding me that he is one of the most eligible bachelors of... your world” He adds that last bit hesitant.

Tara makes a mental note to scold her friend later “He’s just not my type”

Mark huffs “Tall, blonde, green eyes and handsome is not your type?” He asks incredulously.

“Why are you being so annoying, Mark?” Tara moves until she’s leaning her back against the pillows and crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you want to hear? That I got drunk because I missed you and I already made out with most of Enzo’s friends at previous parties so I knew, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t going to get over you going out with someone else and acting like some immature teenager? Is that what you want to hear?”  Tara snaps, but surprisingly, her voice is warped and tiny, twisted beyond recognition.

For a second Tara holds her breath expecting Mark to snap back at her. She watches his body stiffen, his face tense up, his eyes looking away from her. Then silence overcomes the room and she mentally smacks herself for every single decision she’s made that day.

“Hey” Mark pushes Tara out of her self-chastisement moment offering a hand a pulling her closer. “I’m sorry. I was just joking” he says, arms wrapping around her tightly “I didn’t realize what you went through.” Tara opens her mouth to say something, but Mark shakes his head and goes on. “That picture on the news… oh, God, T. It’s been driving me insane. I never knew how scared of losing you I was until this morning and I don’t want to feel like this ever again-“ Tara’s hand on his chin, silences Mark and when he looks at her, he’s surprised to find Tara smirking at him.

“Shut up. You have nothing to worry about” she pretends to pick inexistent pieces of fuzz from his jacket. “You know why?” Mark only shakes his head, making Tara scoff at him “Because you are the only person I’ve ever loved.” She says simply. “And I only have eyes for you”

"Hmm" Mark stares at her thoughtfully, almost as though he has been left at a loss for words, but between the smile on his face and the greedy way his hands clutch around her waist, Tara knows he has plenty of words to say. “You know what I really think?" He asks.

"No, but I bet you're going to tell me"

"I think maybe you’ve figured out no one can top me" It is impossible for Mark not to burst into laughter right after pronouncing such cringe-worthy words, his cheeks going a light hue of pink.

“Shut up” Although the muscles of her leg refuse to kick him to shut him up, Tara pushes him slightly.

“I’m kidding” He smooths down Tara’s hair, “But here’s a fact” He looks at her adoringly, clutching onto her with force “I love you, Tara Lee.”

“I love you too” Tara places a hand around his neck “Only you, Markie”

The two exchange a moment as they look into each other’s eyes, none of them daring to move, afraid to ruin the perfect harmony they’ve fallen into. Until Mark decides to break the silence, looking extra worried.

“Did we just miss the perfect timing to kiss?” He asks, dipping his head down to murmur into Tara’s ear.

“I think so” Tara is moving to press her lips against Mark’s when the door flies open.

“Absolutely not under this roof” Tyler barks, eyes throwing daggers at her sister’s boyfriend. “What does make you think I will let you kiss my sister right after you made her cry?”

Mark pulls away from Tara’s arms with such urgency that he nearly falls off the bed. She could’ve found it funny if she wasn’t so busy glaring at her brother.

“Were you listening to our conversation?” Tara forces a laugh, free of any true amusement.  “Why are you acting like some creep?”

“Creep? I’m just protecting my little sister from-“ Tyler splutters, catching the way Tara is looking at him. “From some hormonal guy trying to take advantage of her”

“Just get out!” Tara reaches under her pillow for her wand and points it directly at her brother. There’s not even an ounce of hesitation in her eyes “I swear Tyler Lee…”

==============

“I’m sorry my brother is such a jerk” Tara says minutes later, apology evident on her face as she snuggles her head on Mark’s chest. They’re currently cuddling on his king-sized bed, surrounded by dozens of ridiculous pillows Mark has accumulated over the years. The Sound of Magic is playing on his state-of-the-art movie system; an unnecessary waste of money, as Jane had described it since he barely spent time in London, but one of the very few things Mark never hesitated to splurge on. After all, Tara liked watching movies and he enjoyed cuddling her on any normal day.

“You don’t have to apologize for that. He was actually kinda sweet earlier when he threatened to turn me into a toad if I didn’t go there and apologized to you” Tara gaps at that, looking at him with through slit eyes, so Mark is quick to add “which I was going to do anyway without angry brother involved. Well, Jae was already angry and involved, but you know what I mean...” He corrects himself, rambling about his older brother and patting Tara’s shoulder.

Both of them laugh at that, but then Mark sits up slightly and looks down at Tara.

“Speaking of what, Jason told me to look at the last picture in the album, but I forgot to. What’s so important about it?” Marks inquires, an eyebrow going up.

Tara’s eyes widen “You didn’t watch it yet?”

Mark shakes his head a “no”.

“You have to” She rolls eyes at him, moving to pause the movie just before Julie Andrews teaches the Von Trapp children how to “Do Re Mi”. “Now” She orders, pushing Mark off the bed.

Mark groans, but he ultimately gets up and crosses the room. Heis wearing plaid pajama bottoms, a white t-shirt, and rounded glasses.  He looks so soft, Tara wonders how she ever believed, even for a second, that he could do anything that hurt her.

“I can’t believe you didn’t see the picture” Tara clicks her tongue when he picks the photo album from the bookshelf. “I thought you went to see me after recalling the good old times”

Mark says nothing, he only shifts the pages as Tara comes behind him and wraps her arms around his chest, tiptoeing to rest her chin on his shoulder. When he reaches the end of the album, he finds himself laughing shakily and blinking rapidly.

“Yo, where did you find this?” He turns to see Tara smiling brightly. “I thought your mother- wow, T. I can’t believe-“ Mark rambles barely making sense. He can’t believe Tara had recovered the first-ever photo they had taken together. Particularly because they had been convinced Tara’s mother had gotten rid of it when she attempted to erase all of Tara’s childhood memories. “I-” Mark’s fingers run over the photo, memories of that day suddenly surfacing in his mind. The picture had been taken on a day trip to the local zoo when they were barely four. Tara is sitting on a bench kicking her legs in the air, dressed in a tomboyish outfit that contrasts with the girly bag hanging from her shoulder. At her left, Mark is holding her hand, standing next to a monkey cage. Under the picture, in neat capital letters in pink ink, Tara had written: “Forever yours”.

“Forever yours” Mark recalls those words. They were part of the confession he’d made on their first trip to the beach together. It was the summer before he moved to Seoul and the first time he saw Tara in 6 months. They had carved a huge heart into the sand and decorated it with shells and pebbles, embossing their initials in the center and promising to love each other for eternity.

Tara says nothing. She waits for Mark to make a move and predictably, seconds later he places his hand on each side of Tara’s arms, rubbing small circles. “I am forever yours” In normal circumstances, Tara would be ready to clown the cheesiness of his words, but she only giggles, wraps her arms around his waist and lets Mark press his lips against her own.

It’s like coming home.

***

[a-very-fond-farewell]

Bagginshield North & South au 1/4

Ok folks, I thought about how to make a North & South au (based on the BBC miniseries, not the actual book) without looking at any fic on the matter, because I didn’t want to be influenced by their (certainly brilliant) adaptations. So bear with me for the time being.

This is just a list of things that I would like to see in a N&S!au fic... but I have no energy to write that myself.

ATTN!1: I have changed many things, and it came out pretty angsty, with lots of pining and secrets that must be kept at all costs. 

ATTN!2: I would have loved to explore the trans!Bilbo trope (either transwoman!Bilbo or transman!Bilbo), but I feel like I’m not the right person to give this idea the justice it deserves. I’m sure someone else could feel empowered in exploring that particular trope on their own, so it would be better for me not to rob them of such an opportunity.

ATTN!3: I’m just a nonbinary bean with terrible grammar and a knack for angst, also English is not my first language. I WILL ADD TO THIS.

Enjoy!

First Part:

In the mining town of Erebor, up north where the weather is crisp and the fog is as blinding as ever, the main source of income comes from the mithril veins hidden deep into the Lonely Mountain. Still fairly unknown to the masses as a viable alternative to steel for industrial products, mithril is considered to be nothing but a lower metal of very little use a part from being modeled as framing works for jewelry coming from the west.

Bilbo Baggins has followed his parents in this particular corner of the world after certain indiscretions had spread in the southern town of Bag End. At his cousin Prim’s wedding in London the previous summer, in fact, Bilbo had found himself rejecting the unwanted advances of a certain gentleman right before being discovered by his mother as the two men were parting ways from a very heated discussion in a secluded room.

In order to not let others know about such circumstances, Belladonna had shared her intention with her sister Mirabella to uproot in the north, at least until the rumors had dissipated. Bungo, as loving and trusting as ever, had simply accepted her decision and disposed for them all to move to Erebor. In doing so, he had consequently left his position as a parish in Bag End, not wavering in his faith, but merely willing to give his family what they needed to be happy.

Bilbo himself is no longer a lad: close to reach his thirties, many have speculated around the truth about his sudden return to his father’s home leaving his studies at Oxford out of the blue. Up until now, Bungo had protected his son by simply stating to the citizens of Bag End how needed Bilbo was, and Belladonna had made sure no mouths could run and shame her son in the meantime. But those days are over now, and their new town might not be as easily outsmarted this time around.

Heavy with sorrow for making his family move, Bilbo has resigned to keeping his life on check from now on, willing to sacrifice his happiness in order to keep his parents safe and healthy. Not being able to walk without a cane after his last days at Oxford, Bilbo finds himself constantly torn between revealing what had happened there and run away from all those eyes watching his every move. Luckily, in Erebor no one expects much of him, and any possible question regarding his lack of employment while he could no more benefit from being the only son of a parish is met with a simple gesture towards his bad leg. People seem complacent enough to overlook his poor excuse of a lie as long as they can speculate over his father’s decision to move up north.

Filled with guilt at the inability to defend his father against the rumors, Bilbo is reassured over and over again by his mother that they had made the right decision. The price for her understanding, however, seems to be an even greater burden for Bilbo: never speak of his true nature ever again, not even to his parents. Not even to himself.

Gandalf Gray, an old friend of Bungo’s, close enough to the family to understand the implications of their sudden uprooting, has decided to take Bilbo under his wing and show him around while his father has a chance to meet the pupils Mr. Gray has gathered for him to talk to. Having traveled all other the world, Mr. Gray is not new to the hardships Bilbo has encountered and his honesty and desire to help comforts Bilbo while he navigates the wastelands of melancholy that moving so far away has ensued.

While visiting one of the many mines belonging to the Durinson household, Bilbo finds himself shocked at the sight of its master beating one of his miners out of the mountain in a fit of rage. Little does he know what perils hide into the tunnels eroding the Lonely Mountain one inch at a time, or what are the dangers that fire and gas can bring to those working in the dark, with only the aid of candles and caged birds to save them from death.

Still, Bilbo tries to reason with said master, not knowing Thorin to be their landlord and one of his father’s pupils on top of that. Only thanks to Mr. Gray Bilbo is spared from Thorin’s anger by introducing him as a dear friend of his, but this doesn’t protect Bilbo from receiving yet another shock as the man simply turns and strides away after the worker he had just beaten up.

Meeting the man in his own home later that very same week, Bilbo is confronted with the absolute necessity from his part to embody a perfect son and the perfect guest, no matter how much he despises sharing a room with their landlord. But given the circumstances, he tries not to think about him too much while Bungo teaches Thorin all about philosophy and literature: he listens to their lessons half expecting to be invited to share his thoughts on his father’s many interpretations of the ancient sources... but eventually feeling much more at ease staying quiet by his armchair while the other two talk.

Judging from Thorin’s curiosity and will to learn, Bilbo convinces himself to have misjudged the man based on what he had seen at the mines, and later on investigates the matter further with his father and with Mr. Gray over a cup of tea. Apparently, after the sudden death of both of his parents when he was just a child, Thorin, his brother Frerin and their older sister Dis had been entrusted to the care of their grandfather, Thror: a man driven mad by his lust for gold to the point he had closed the mines twenty years before just to barricade himself inside the mountain in search of a vein of gold that never existed. Thorin’s little brother Frerin, small enough to wiggle his way in between the wooden bars Thror had used to close the openings, had looked for his grandfather anywhere before the main tunnel had collapsed on both of them one cold night of December.

Horrified by such a discovery, Bilbo has already spent many a day trying to find the courage to apologize to Thorin by the time he meets Bain, Sigrid and Tilda. The boy and his younger sister approaches him one day at the park, reminiscing of the way he had confronted Thorin at the entrance of the mine, where Bain works as well, while their older sister seems a little wary of Bilbo and apologizes to him for disturbing him so suddenly. On the other hand, Bilbo is overjoyed to have been met with such enthusiasm after weeks of isolation from actual social interaction and offers the siblings to walk them home... just as their father Bard comes into the picture, assuring Bilbo his services are not needed.

Intrigued by that little family, Bilbo tries to know more about them by lurking around the wooden houses destined to the miners skirting the suburban area at the bottom of the mountain, determined to pay them a visit with a basket of food to thank the kids for their kindness to him. Here, Bilbo gets to know the families of many of the miners, all relatively close to each other be it for family ties or friendship alone, that -surprisingly enough- seem more than happy to teach him a thing or two on how to survive the likes of Erebor and its masters.

From them comes the realization of how exactly Thror had compromised the economy of the city when he had closed the mines twenty years before. Many of the workers had found themselves jobless that year and, after the main tunnel had been deemed too dangerous to cross, new masters had come to the city and made their way with new holes into the mountain with no regards for safety.  So many holes, indeed, that some workers avoided entering the Lonely Mountain for fear it could fall onto itself at any moment. 

In all this, Thorin had been only sixteen and had to provide for his family now that his only guardian had perished in the depths of the main tunnel along with his little brother. Dis had been twenty then, and married a man coming from one of the richest families in town, who had provided for her and for their two sons up until his death, fifteen years before. Thorin, who had been fired to leave his studies in order to gain back his family’s honor by working for other masters, at twenty-one had made enough of a name for himself to be able to care for his older sister and nephews once more, as the customs required.

Dis, on the other hand, after losing her parents, grandfather, brother and husband, had accepted to go back home to her younger brother feeling like a caged animal, but not ungrateful enough to disregard the importance of the mines that brought them stability and wealth. Thorin, on the other hand, getting sterner by the year and low in spirits because of his newfound role as the head of their household, had become extremely protective of his family... just as much as Dis herself, the both of them manifesting some of the traits their own grandfather had shown by the time his obsession had piqued. 

Even Bard and his kids had been willing to share some information with him by the time Bilbo discovers exactly how far the Durinson’s had prevented the growth of the town by limiting the number of caves under their watch. Bard himself seems set on hating the siblings for life, convinced the mountain could offer work to everybody without restrictions if only the Durinson’s were to let more people inside. He insists that gold lies under that mountain and that not even the Durinson’s should claim that vein for themselves while other masters have promised a job for everyone in town were the Durinson household to perish.

Struck by all those new revelations, one day Bilbo finds himself too overwhelmed to properly welcome Dis Durinson and her sons inside their home while his mother gets dressed upstairs. The woman strikes an imposing figure, just like her brother, dressed in all black with sober, yet quite beautiful blue earrings bringing out the coldness of her light-blue eyes. The oldest of her sons, affectionately called Kili by her, is roughly eighteen or nineteen years old and seems agreeable enough, asking Bilbo what wonders he has seen in London and what the south has to offer: curiosity getting the best of him contrary to his mother’s best judgment. Fili, instead, looks more lost than anything, not young enough to depend on his mother approval, but still not quite old enough to rebel against her composure and regal attitude. 

Then, just as his mother welcomes them in her house, Bilbo notices how Belladonna has lost weight and how skirmish she looks. Being so distracted himself by his quest for knowledge in regards of Erebor and its history, Bilbo has completely overlooked him mother’s conditions and guilt overcomes him once more. Knowing that people were still talking about them because of the insinuations about his father’s decision to leave the Church, Bilbo is faced with shame and anxiety just by thinking how hard it must be for his parents to endure all of that pressure from the telltale coming from the upper society in town.

As he looks at Thorin’s sister and her impenetrable mask, he wonders how she must have felt when she had been married off to a rich man in order to save the family from disgrace. Because that is what the Baggins’ and the Durinson’s have been foreclosed to address, even if I’m different ways: disgrace. Profound and nasty disgrace. 

Bilbo finds himself jealous of their luck in regaining control over their fate by hard work alone, but doesn’t voice his feelings as the woman and her sons leave. Nor does he want to speak of the matter with Thorin... until he does, while listening to his and Bungo’s usual lesson one day: feeling left out of the conversation, fed up with the way his family walks on eggshells around him, and impossibly frustrated with himself for not being able to seize Thorin’s character in his head, Bilbo accuses the man of being too full of himself to even care about the struggling miners, ready to strike in order to be allowed to look for gold in the mountain.

Immediately regretting what he has just said, already missing the opportunity to listen to Thorin’s deep voice asking intelligent questions, knowing how the man has been desperate to educate himself now that he had the opportunity to do so...Bilbo can only watch as Thorin greets him coldly and leave their house. Possibly to never return.