#like back in the day so few people caught on to the empty pram in a pool and the nurses having the baby faces hidden on them

[cainite-bite]

While ultimately i want to see the silent hill franchise back, I am awfully disappointed it has to be 2. Not just because my bias of it being my least favorite in the franchise, but just the fact I feel there were other games that could have used it better, like you know... the first of the franchise that kicked the whole thing off. Especially since 2 and 3 already got (shitty) remasters and is a lot newer to people than half the franchise.

I know they’re just trying to go with the safe, what they are thinking is going to be the cash cow route, but I still just wished it would have been SH1 still.

That being said I hope they can actually do better for 2 and fix up some of its weak ends and fix up some of the characterizations going on  in the OG. SH2 has a lot of potential easily and I’d like to see that get more expanded

[crumbledcastle28]

Chapter 11: A Squeeze

Warnings: mentions of violence and anxiety, people getting shot, reader gets tense, Mando is extremely touch starved, and softness.

Author’s Note: Chapter 11! This one is one of my personal favs, so I hope you enjoy!

Gif by bestintheparsec

As you traveled with the crew near the outskirts of town, you couldn’t stop thinking about what the child had done the night before.

Your entire life, death has plagued you. Everywhere you went you carried the guilt of death and knowing that there was nothing you could do to stop it. You had heard legends of a Sith named Darth Plagueis who had the power to stop death, but he was deep in the dark side.

You were never going to go down that road.

All you knew was this little kid was powerful. More powerful than you realized, and definitely more powerful than Mando realized. He had been so concerned about keeping this child safe for so long, when in reality, the kid had the ability to keep Mando safe the whole time.

But at the end of the day, the Empire was still around. They would figure out the child’s powers eventually if they kept coming after him, and you were not going to let what happened to you happen to him.

You had been in deep thought for so long, you barely noticed Mando giving a little tap on your elbow. You were a little startled, but relaxed at Mando’s voice.

“You ok?” he asked, and you nodded.

“Yeah… I’m ok,” you respond. “I just… never knew that was possible,” you say, referring back to the child.

You looked down at his sleeping form in the pram next to you, and you smiled at his vulnerable state. What could such a little brain like that dream about?

Mando went quiet after you responded to his concern, and you knew it was because there really isn’t a good way to respond. He obviously didn’t know the kid’s potential either, and he was probably in even more shock than you were.

“Thank you, for checking in on me,” you say, finally turning around to meet his gaze. You had been riding on the same blurrg for a while, but you were trapped in your own head. His closeness to you was starting to make a blush crawl up your neck.

He nodded in an understanding way, and you headed on.

~~*~~

After some time, you noticed that Karga and his two bounty hunters were talking in whispers as they walked in front of you, and that obviously rubbed Cara the wrong way.

“You guys think they’re having second thoughts?” she asked in a teasing tone, and you returned a breathy laugh.

You tried to hide your smile, but that had been the first time she acknowledged you in days, and she was even joking with you? You didn’t want to get her hopes up, but maybe Cara was having second thoughts as well.

“Could be,” Mando replied. “I need you two to help me keep an eye on them.”

You and Cara nodded your heads, and scanned the hunters’ bodies with your eyes for a few minutes. The three of you had switched to being on foot while Kuiil took the only remaining blurrg.

All of a sudden, a bluff overlooking the town appeared, and Karga was gazing down at the city below.

“I guess this is it,” he said, but he was still facing the view.

The other two bounty hunters had stated to make their way behind you, and the alarms in your head were blaring.

You heard every step, every ruffle, and every breath they made. And it was driving you crazy.

They were at your backs, but you had your longspear in hand. You had better skills than these two by a long shot.

Suddenly, Karga spins around, and fires at the two bounty hunters who instantly hit the ground.

You drew your own weapon, while Mando and Cara approached Karga from either side with their weapons drawn as well.

You knew it. This man was not to be trusted. He could have shot the kid!

“There’s something you should know,” Karga says, and you try not to roll your eyes.

“Please. Enlighten us,” you say sarcastically, but you have venom in your voice. Karga can feel it, so he immediately transitions into his explanation.

“The plan was to kill you and take the kid,” Karga says, and your blood boils.

“But after what happened last night… I couldn’t go through with it. Go on, you can gun me down here and now, and it wouldn’t violate the code. But if you do, this child will never be safe.”

Your weapon was still at the ready, and Cara and Mando didn’t seem convinced either.

“We will take our chances,” Cara says.

“Perhaps you should let him speak,” Kuiil says, and you glance over your shoulder to look at him. This poor man had been though a lot, yet his voice exuded such gentleness. It reminded you of Mando’s voice when he talked to you.

“We both need the client eliminated,” Karga said, “let me take the child to him, and then you three…”

“No,” Mando interupts. He lowers his blaster, and glances at you to lower your weapon.

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, and Cara seems to have the same reaction.

“What are you doing,” she asks, and you are wondering the same thing.

“As long as the Imp lives, he will send hunters after the Child,” Mando says, and you are starting to understand what he’s getting at.

“Bring me. Tell him you captured me. Get me close, and I’ll kill him,” Mando says to Karga, and you hate the gleam of excitement that flashed in Karga’s eyes.

“That’s a good idea,” Karga responded. “Give me your blaster.”

“This is insane,” Cara said, turning to look at you. You see Mando giving his blaster to Karga, and you honestly don’t even know what to think.

Karga just openly admitted to betraying you and trying to kill Mando, so there was no way you would trust him in the slightest. But at the same time, what other choice did you have? The child had to be safe, and Mando was right. The hunters won’t ever stop.

You give Cara a look of pity, but you lower your longspear. Your shoulders slightly relax, and you feel your grip loosening.

“What else can we do?” you ask her, and she looked away in disgust.

“Well, I’m coming with you,” Cara said. “I’ll tell them I caught you.”

“Then she can bring the child,” Karga said, and Cara started to relax a little.

“No,” Mando said firmly. “The kid goes with y/n back to the ship.”

You and Mando were normally on the same page, but you had to admit, that didn’t really make any sense.

“But without the child none of this works,” Karga said, and you hated that you agreed with him.

“I have a plan,” he says to the two of them, and then he strides over to you.

“I need you to ride to the ship with Kuiil and the kid and seal yourselves in. Engage ground security protocols. Nothing on this planet will breach those doors,” Mando says to you as he guides the Child in his pram over to your arms.

You look into Mando’s visor, trying to find his eyes, but an evil, anxious part of you starts to awaken.

This could be the last time you stare into that helmet.

If this goes wrong, Mando and Cara would be almost laughably outnumbered by the Imps.

You continue to search for his eyes, and you sigh quietly. You have to keep yourself together for him.

Mando breaks the eye contact to rub the child’s ears, and you long for him to look back at you. The trance you guys enter when you look at each other is so cheesy, but it feels real. You wanted to stare at him forever.

“Be careful,” you murmur, only loud enough for him to hear.

He looks back at you and nods, but you notice he is squeezing his fists at his sides again.

He keeps trying to stop himself from something, and you are too impatient to figure out what it is, so you take his hands in yours and give them a gentle squeeze.

He looked down at your hands in his. You didn’t know it, but Mando was soaking in the fact that you were showing him more kindness in your touch than he had experienced in decades. Mando struggled, he managed to meet your eyes again.

“You too,” he says, rubbing your knuckles, and you smile at him.

He lets go of your hands gently, and you pray to whatever God was out there that he would not leave them permanently empty.

~~*~~

After Mando gave you your assignment, you and Kuiil immediately got a move on back to the Razor Crest with the child in your arms.

You hold the child close to your chest as Kuiil drives the blurrg behind you, and you give the child a little squeeze. Your nerves are starting to get the better of you.

Before, you could have worked with a crew like this and never felt a thing. They were going in outnumbered, so what? You were in the safe position and you had the prize in your arms? What did you care?

But now, your very hope at being happy again was walking into an imperial guarded death trap, pretending to be taken prisoner.

You hated this plan. Mando and Cara were smart, so you decided not to question their decision, but that didn’t mean you didn’t still have your doubts.

The only thing keeping you sane was the cooling air hitting your face as you rode, and the little gurgles from the child in your arms.

This is all you could control at this moment. You could control his safety, and you were not going to fail.

Tag list:

@leahkenobi @farfromjustordinary @pinkninja200 @bookloverfilmoholic @440mxs-wife

[btsmosphere]

Soft Serve ~ myg

~summary: you didn’t expect anything remarkable to happen this birthday, but a basketball, an ice cream cone and an old friend might have something to say about that... ~wc: 1.3k ~childhood friends to... lovers?, fluff ~rating: g ~warnings: a slight bump on the head

~a/n: this is something I quickly whipped up (heh.. no pun intended) as a token of my love for @ddaechwita​ on her birthday!! it was last week but fear not, I sent this to her on the day as well😊chelle, you are the most gorgeous, creative, supportive and funny friend and an absolute dream to know!💜I’m so gald we met and became friends, and I look forward to our movie nights and hilarious chats for ages to come😘

it’s your birthday

just a simple fact, nothing special really

you don’t have any plans

but it feels sad to just sit around inside all day, so you decide to go out

there are a few messages from your friends screaming well wishes at you

they make you smile as you head for the door, sending off quick ‘thank you’s between shuffling into your boots

next to the park, there’s a cute ice cream café

you know the owner well enough, though you decide not to eat in

he notices that you go a little overboard from your usual order, but you brush it off

it’s a lot of effort telling people it’s your birthday, yknow? Then there’s some sort of expectation and they have to tell you happy birthday, meaningless out of obligation

so you take your order of mint chocolate, with a scoop of chocolate as well beside it, and head out

it’s a special occasion, why not treat yourself? Even if it’s from yourself, it still counts as a present, right?

thankfully it’s sunny, and the wind doesn’t bother you too much

perfect weather for an ice cream, really

it’s not melting either, so you stroll quietly while licking at it, savouring the taste

you’re in no rush, after all

the park is pretty empty, but you kind of like that

there are a few families walking around, one of them pushing a pram

and there are some teenagers hanging around a bench

you steer around them

yes, you’re several years older than them, plus one more year as of today, but still.. youths

at the end of this path are the sports courts, which is the busiest place

the sound of scuffling shoes and bouncing balls fill the air

you’re barely started on your veritable tower of ice cream when you walk past, head down even though you know no one behind the fence will look at you, caught up in their games

until a shout goes up, making you turn in time to find a shape flying rapidly towards you-

the impact has come and gone before you have a chance to move, and you come back to your senses as you double over, clutching your head where pain begins to seep in…

and there on the pavement under your nose, lies the slowly expanding puddle which once was your ice cream

though the pain passes soon enough – the kind which was familiar from the school playground, which would bloom intensely though you knew you were fine really, and fade away just as soon – you can’t help the dejected sigh at the loss of your ice cream

that’s when a breathless ‘hey’ meets your ears

straightening up, you catch sight of a guy jogging up to you, loose unbuttoned overshirt flapping a little behind him

protests are on the tip of your tongue, ready to assure him you’re okay and there is nothing to apologise about, before handing back the ball and continuing on your way, albeit short of a birthday ice cream tower

but that all dies on your lips as the sight of the man dawns on you with recognition

Min Yoongi

!!

it can’t be

Min Yoongi, the basketball-crazy friend from school

the kid who used to be at the same sleepovers, who you shared those awful fruit ciders with when you were old enough to start drinking

here he is, stopping in front of you, slightly damp hair hanging from a headband fastened around his crown, looking… older, yet unmistakeably Yoongi

“Y/N!” he pants, flopping forwards to rest his palms against his knees, “you alright?”

“yeah, thank you,” you smile, almost apologetic as you scoop up the basketball that had stilled by your feet, offering it back to him

nodding, he takes it and chucks it across the fence in one move, holding up a hand in some gesture to the group the other side, who get back to playing

“sure you’re alright?”

“thanks”

he frowns down at the tragic sight on the floor

“let me get you another one”

“no, really, there’s no need”

“come on, Y/N, I just hit you on the head with a basketball and spilled your ice cream, all on your birthday. I can’t live with myself!”

his gummy grin is oh so familiar as he jokes, but you just stare

“how do you know it’s my birthday?”

he blinks

“well, it’s today.”

“I know that”

“so do I. not like I was there like, every year when we were kids”

“you still remember?”

he waits for a second longer, eyes locked with yours, before he makes a noncommittal noise, turning away with a slight nod

but he doesn’t go back towards the court

he’s walking back up the park, towards the ice cream parlour

hurrying to his side, you try to protest some more

but he simply cuts you off with a ‘mint and chocolate, right?’

“yeah-“ the words are out of your stunned mouth before you can register

and so, it looks like Min Yoongi is buying you ice cream

he walks out of the shop, both hands full, one with your original order, though somehow with a ton more cream and sprinkles than it had before

chewing your lip, you accept it with a shy ‘thank you’

how he remembered not only your birthday but your ice cream order, after all this time…

the two of you fall into step as you take the opposite direction, the long way around the park which will get you back to the courts right at the end of the route

when you start talking, it’s so easy, quickly slipping into conversation the way you always had until you’re halfway around the park

except...

he isn’t eating his ice cream

any drip that starts to fall, he catches with a finger and licks it up, but the ice cream stays otherwise untouched in his hand

“did they mess up your order?”

“hmm?”

“you’re not eating”

“oh. it’s caramel, in case you wanted any of that too…”

gaping, your feet slow

“that’s my other favourite”

“I know.”

“well, I’ll have some, if you’ll eat some at least. take the rest of this”

Yoongi only protests meekly as you press the half-consumed mint and chocolate monstrosity into his hands, and you’re happy to see him begin to eat

meanwhile, the caramel is a welcome change to the other flavours you had filled up on so far

but that doesn’t tell you why Yoongi still knows so much about you…

“so, care to tell me how you remembered all this?”

he’s silent

“are you stalking me or something?” you joke, and relief washes over you as he does smile at that, though it fades a little quickly

he isn’t meeting your eye

“I always remember”

“Yoongi…”

“every year, I think about you… especially on your birthday”

standing still at last, facing each other, you watch as his eyes lift, strikingly large, filled with a worried anticipation over your reaction

“that’s… that’s so sweet. Yoongi, I don’t know what to say”

“you don’t have to say anything,” he digs his free hand into his pocket, once again studying the pavement, “but really, I was happy to see you. this was the least I could do”

for a moment, you stand in quiet together and you’re pretty sure your heart is melting

this was absolutely not what you had expected for your lonesome trip outside for your birthday, but you were thankful for every part

even the part where you were hit on the head by a basketball

“thank you, Yoongi,” you smile

he seems to sag with relief, meeting your eyes at last

“would you wanna get my number?” you ask, “it’s been too long. and maybe we could meet without me getting a concussion”

his eyebrows shot up

“you said it didn’t hurt-“

“it doesn’t, I was just joking!” you quickly backtrack

swallowing, he chuckles

“okay”

“okay?”

“give me your phone”

taking it out and handing it to him, your eyes meet over the exchange in your hands

his eyes crease, smiling widely in a reflection of your own

:]

yeah, this birthday hasn’t been half bad

Thank you for reading!! and happy birthday to chelle, I love you a lot!!

If you liked this, check out my masterlist and the drabble game I’m running at the moment!💜

Taglist: @aianloveseven​ @preciouschimine​ @un2-verse​ @ddaechwita​ @taegularities​ 

[anotherfacelessauthor]

Scenes from October 31st through November 2nd, 1981

James was watching television—some old movie he wasn’t really following—when it happened. He had just been playing with his son, making multicolored smoke bubbles appear out of his wand and chuckling as Harry delightedly tried to catch them, when his wife had announced that it was well past both of their bedtimes. He supposed she was right as he yawned and stretched, discarding his wand on the sofa beside him.

Lily was upstairs in the laundry room, just beginning to fold a few of Harry’s footies after putting him down in his crib. The house in Godric's Hollow was small enough that she could still hear the dialogue of the movie if she listened intently enough. Lily smiled as she recognised it: Meet Me in St. Louis. It had been her mother’s favorite. She fondly recalled watching the film together, curling up under one big blanket and munching on popcorn, singing along to all the songs.

Something caught her eye outside, moments before it happened. A small group of young children parading down the street in pumpkin costumes, their pillow cases dragging on the street behind them, closely followed by two couples. The parents were chatting, saying something Lily couldn’t hear through the glass and layers of protection spells. The children were dancing about, throwing empty candy wrappers on the pavement with reckless abandon. Lily allowed herself to daydream about what Harry’s first Halloween costume would be, once she and James were finally allowed out of the house again. She imagined her son, laughing and feasting with the other children, adorable face sticking through a silly penguin suit.

One of the mothers, a tall, thin woman in a pointy black witches hat, bent down to pick up the littered wrappers, and then it happened.

The pram, still kept hopefully by the door, was tossed aside as Voldemort entered the Potter’s safehouse with a thunderous clatter.

“Lily!” James cried, voice straining in the effort to make sure she heard him. In an instant she knew something was wrong. “Take Harry and go! It’s him!” Her heart rate accelerated, pounding in her ears as she immediately dropped the laundry, springing to action. “Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”

His words seemed to echo throughout the small house. Every nerve in her body set aflame with adrenaline as Lily rushed into the nursery. Then she heard the terrible curse, the words confirming her worst nightmares, “ Avada Kedavra! ”

The faint thud that followed was barely registered by Lily’s senses as a blood-curdling shriek escaped her throat, pouring her soul out into the cold, still night. It only then occurred to her that she was wandless. Trapped, stuck on the top floor with no way out. No escape.

She shoved a chair under the door handle, a desperate last attempt to barricade herself in, and pressed a final kiss to her son’s forehead. “I love you sweetheart,” she whispered.

Voldemort cast the furniture aside effortlessly and entered the room.

Lily had seen him before, face to face. After all, he had thrice asked her personally to join his legion of Death Eaters. She had always refused. Holding fast to that same determination, Lily swallowed, dropping Harry in his crib and throwing her arms wide to shield him. She was not scared. No harm would come to her son. Of this, she was certain.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” She knew he would not listen. The words were a last instinct, more for herself than the foul murderer who stood in front of her, draped in a dark cloak, wand outstretched.

“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside now.” He commanded her with force in his tone. Lily recognized the familiar sensation of the Imperious curse and fought against it.

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—” She would do anything, anything to protect her son.

“This is my last warning—” His voice was cold, cruel, and calculating.

“Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry!” she repeated the words over and over again as if saying them one more time was the key to changing the course of time. “Please—I’ll do anything—”

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”

In the fleeting moments that followed, Harry Potter became the Boy who Lived.

***

It was in some of the final moments of October 31st, 1981 that Hagrid arrived at the decimated house in Godric's Hollow. He’d gotten his orders from Dumbledore the moment the fated curse had rebounded, thanks to a number of surveillance spells, which rang sharp and loud like sirens throughout the Headmaster’s study that night. Hagrid had heard them, even from far off in his hut on the grounds. His blood had turned cold.

The instinct to collapse on the pavement at the sight very nearly overwhelmed him. James and Lily. But above all the devastation he could hear the baby’s cries and he remembered just why he had come.

He dug through the ruins, trying and failing to bite back tears in the chill of the late October night. Just as he found Harry, the tiny infant with a new lightning scar cut jagged across his small forehead, wriggling around and sobbing, a faint rumbling came from down the street. No—from above.

Sirius Black descended upon the scene carefully, landing his magical motorcycle on the street just outside what had been the Potter’s front gate. He was shaking slightly and out of breath, his famously sleek hair now messy and knotted from the wind, his cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink from the chill.

“No!” The shout tore through the too-still air like a shotgun blast. Sirius discarded his bike, letting it fall to the pavement carelessly. He climbed through the wreckage, falling to his knees when he discovered James’ limp body, collapsed over the stairs. His glasses were askew across his face and his mouth was open, gaping lifelessly.

“Where is he…” Sirius muttered to himself. “That son of a bitch where is he—I’ll kill him myself—”

“Hol’ on there Sirius,” Hagrid placed a heavy hand on his shoulder as the tears began to flow. Sirius couldn’t bear it, the tidal waves of emotion, crashing into his body and drawing him under one by one. “It’s a tragedy, but we can’t go doin’ anything reckless, now. It’s not what they would’a wanted.”

Sirius looked up, blinking away the unrelenting stream of sadness pouring down his face. His eyes locked on the baby.

Harry.

His godson.

Harry had fallen back asleep, settled by the soothing rocking and warmth of Hagrid’s arms. He looked so peaceful, so serene, so unaware of the horrors that surrounded him. It broke Sirius’ heart.

“I’ll take him.” His voice broke and he coughed, clearing his throat. “Harry. He’s my godson after all. It’s my responsibility to make sure he’s okay.”

Hagrid looked down on him with an expression of pity. “Oh… I got strict orders from Dumbledore ‘imself. Gonna bring ‘Arry ‘ere to his aunt and uncle in Little Whinging.”

The information washed over Sirius. He swallowed. “Okay,” he agreed hesitantly. Who was he to be a father? He was young, he was reckless, he—“Dumbledore’s usually right in these instances.” His eyes flashed over to the street. He straightened up. “Take my bike.”

Hagrid paused in his rocking of Harry for a moment, shocked. “You sure ‘bout that? Ya love that thing.”

Sirius nodded. He had never been more sure of anything else in his life. “I won’t be needing it, and it’ll get you there quickly. Probably a day, day and a half trip but it’s faster than any Muggle transportation.” He eyed the pink umbrella by Hagrid’s side, “And safer than any experimental magic.”

Hagrid’s cheeks turned a tinge pink. “Right, yer right o’course.”

Sirius helped him get settled, tucking Harry in with a final, tight hug. “I’ll come to visit, all the time,” he promised, pressing a kiss to Harry’s temple, where the lightning scar graced his soft skin. He watched as the pair drove away into the night, keeping his eyes steady on the headlights until they faded in with the blackness and the stars.

He arranged the bodies of his best friends carefully, placing them together, side by side. He closed their eyes and lay their hands on top of one another. If it weren’t for the devastation surrounding them, the fading Dark Mark illuminating the sky, he could’ve convinced himself they had simply fallen asleep.

As muggle sirens wailed in the distance, red and white flashing lights turning just around the corner, Sirius Black disapparated.

***

November 1st, 1981

Sirius Black appeared on the streets of London just as the sun was rising over the tall buildings. He was raving, blistering rage driving him to mutter to himself nonstop “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill him.”

And that was the extent of his plan.

He was going to trace down Peter Pettigrew, the murderer, the spy , and kill him, if it was the last thing Sirius ever did.

Peter found him first.

Sirius was stalking the streets around Peter’s flat, desperately thinking of a way to find him. Workers had only just started their days, but Sirius had been up all night. The bags under his eyes were dark and heavy, and the grief had set on his face. If any of his friends could have seen him, they would have said he’d aged a decade overnight.

Peter very nearly didn’t recognise him, but he saw the wand hanging by his side, gripped with tight, white knuckles. He knew what he had to do.

“Sirius,” Peter cried, putting on a mask of grief and desperation, “how could you?”

Sirius growled as he turned around. He wanted to tear Wormtail limb from limb, chop off his fingers one by one, anything to make him feel the excruciating pain that he’d forced on Sirius. Feel the weight of his actions, feel the death he had caused.

“We were your friends, Sirius!” Peter let his voice raise higher, attracting the attention of the people passing by. Commuters stopped in their walking, exchanging confused and worried glances, a few eyeing the phone booth on the corner.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius grumbled, confused but no less angry.

“James and Lily—”

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK THEIR NAMES!” Sirius couldn’t wait another moment longer. He lunged, pointing his wand forward, but an explosion drew him back. He covered his eyes instinctively as the dust and rubble blew into his face.

He lowered his arm just in time to see a rat scuttering down the drainpipe into the sewers.

And Sirius Black laughed.

He threw his head back as maniacal, uncontrollable laughter overtook his senses. There was nothing more he could do.

The street was in full panic now; a dozen or so muggle bodies lay across the street, heads cracked on the pavement, oozing blood. Sirens sounded, but they were far off. The Aurors apparated in with a crack .

Sirius Black was still laughing hysterically as they took his arms and roughly dragged him off, all the way to Azkaban.

There was no trial.

***

Remus had thought he’d known pain. He’d broken virtually every bone in his body—twice—from his smallest finger to his spine and skull. He’d woken up with gruesome wounds, scarred skin torn and still gushing blood. He’d dislocated and contorted his joints and was plagued by never ending aches now that he was older. His knee, his hip, his shoulder. He’d experienced the agony of his entire body stretching and extending unnaturally once a month for nearly all his life. He’d taken curse after Unforgivable curse from Death Eaters and still stood to tell the tale. He’d felt everything from the dull throbbing of a sprained ankle to the all-over torture of being bitten by a werewolf. He’d even dealt with heartbreak—earth-shattering anger and gut-wrenching confusion and pure pure sadness.

None of it even remotely compared to how he felt when he heard the news.

Dumbledore had sent a patronus.

James and Lily. Dead.

Peter. Dead.

Sirius. The love of his life. His fiance. A murderer. The spy.

And Remus was left all alone.

He threw up.

Just as he was starting to come to, gasping for air, hunched over the toilet lid, arms shaking with the effort to keep himself up, face splayed with hot, salty tears, thoughts frantically drowning in his mind, he remembered the baby.

Harry .

His stomach twisted. He retched again.

***

November 2nd, 1981

Molly Weasley didn’t know what to think when a sudden knock came at her door in the earliest hours of November 2nd, 1981. The knock itself shook the Burrow, jolting her awake from the half-sleep she’d been catching in the old armchair sat in the corner of Ginny and Ron’s nursery. She’d checked that the babies were still sleeping and rushed down the stairs at once.

When she swung open the door, her heart dropped.

“Hagrid,” she gasped, beckoning him in “Oh, come in. What brings you here at this time of night?” Her pulse raced, silently

He was standing beside Sirius Black’s bike, Molly recognized it from all the times her husband had asked to take a poke around. His bushy hair hung over his eyes and his shoulders were shaking. “I’s… jus’ terrible. I got ‘im and ‘e started cryin’ an’ I’m okay wi’ kids but…” Hagrid blubbered on, tears streaming down his face. He interrupted himself to blow his nose as Molly struggled to follow his story.

“Hagrid, how about I make you a spot of tea and we can—” then she spotted him.

Harry. The Potter’s son.

He was bundled in a small cloth that had come loose and unraveled on the flight over. His mouth was open wide and it was only once Hagrid’s voice died down that Molly heard that he was, indeed, crying.

She reached down immediately and wrapped the baby in her arms, soothing him, even as her own stomach dropped. Hagrid wouldn’t have the Potter’s child unless…

Her husband came down the stairs at that point, still in his nightclothes. “Molly, what’s the matter—” his eyes landed on Hagrid, who’d settled himself down on their couch, which creaked and bent worryingly under his weight. He raised his wand. “Have you asked the questions?”

Molly snapped, “Oh, Arthur, is that really necessary—”

“No, no, it’s right,” Hagrid said, still sniffling. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and nodded. “Go on Arthur.”

Mr. Weasley glanced between his wife and the half-giant sitting in his living room. “What did Molly and I serve after dinner last time we hosted the Order?” he asked, voice strong, still unsure of the situation.

“Treacle pudding, an’ a mighty fine one if I do say so m’self,” Hagrid chuckled sadly.

Arthur lowered his wand. “Sorry, Hagrid. You understand, don’t you?”

Hagrid bowed his head. It was only then that Arthur caught sight of the baby in his wife’s hands. It didn’t have the telltale ginger hair of a Weasley. “Molly…”

She looked up and her face was streaked with silent tears. “It’s Harry.” She couldn’t say any more.

Hagrid filled in what he knew, though there wasn’t much. He spared them the details of the broken house, the strewn bodies, the Dark Mark radiating menacingly above them. Even still, the knowledge was haunting.

The Potters. Gone.

None of the three of them slept that night. Molly made a cup of tea—she’d offered a warm meal but none of them had much of an appetite—and they talked themselves silly, sitting in the living room, reliving their best memories of the young couple. When the eldest Weasleys thundered down the stairs early that morning, they found their parents with heavy bags beneath their eyes, cheeks still stained with the dried reminders of their grief.

Harry, who’d fallen asleep shortly after being placed in Mrs. Weasley’s arms, awoke with a bit of a startled gurgle. Seeing him awake made Hagrid remember his responsibilities. He cleared his throat and placed his hands on his thighs, beginning to stand, “Well, I bes’ be off. Got a long journey ahead of us, don’t we ‘Arry?”

“Oh Hagrid, don’t be silly,” Molly retorted. “You’ll fall out of the air in your current state!” She gave him the friendliest smile she could manage, “Take a rest. You can sleep in the guest room—at least a few hours. I insist.”

When Hagrid came down a short while later, feeling slightly refreshed, if not exactly well rested, he shook Mrs. Weasley’s hand. “Can’t thank you enough, Molly.” She wrapped him in a tight embrace and just stood there, breathing in the hug for a moment. It was moments like these, in between all the death and destruction and despair, that she wanted to cherish.

***

read the whole fic on ao3

[the-fiction-witch]

Together P2

REAL LIFE X FALLOUT STYLE WORLD. COUPLE: TBS X READER RATING: SAD AND SWEET

“Poopyhead” she giggled

“Well said Jane” I smile heading down the road towards town, I saw Maggie outside her house on her little sun lounger with her little glass of ice tea

“y/n!” She smiled as she saw me getting up wrapping her robe around her bikini clad body

“Hello Maggie” I sighed

“Awwww look at the chubby little nugget!” she giggled pinching jane’s cheek “You off shopping?”

“Yeah, I have to get somethings for dinner”

“Ummm I don’t envy you darling” she says sitting back on her lounger with her tea “No gardener? No housekeeper? No nanny? No shopper?”

“We manage don’t we Jane” I smiled fixing her little black curls

“You know, I think you should get yourself married again” she says

“I uhh I’m alright. Just me and Jane”

“Really? You must have askings?”

“Not really”

“Ohh you kidder of course you do, I’ve turned down four this week” she smiled “All clambering to be number three”

“I need to get going maggie” I told her starting to push the pram down the street

“Alright, I’ll give them your number darling, Nothing wrong with a little chatting” she giggled as I walked

“Sure Maggie” I sighed hurring along.

When I got into town it was busy, with ladies going back and forth in their beautiful dresses And sweet little heels. ‘Fetchers’ going along there little ways doing shopping for those to lazy or to rich to do it themselves. I shopped for a while, carefully my few notes and coins needing to get me the food I need for a month, making sure that I got the best value for my money. I paid for all my shopping sitting it in the bottom of the stroller I headed out to the street watching people come and go around the place, when suddenly every single phone and device and such went off it was so strange that every single thing went off at the same time everyone checked them and looked confused. The screen in the square came on, it was a man sat at a desk, he was some official I wasn’t sure who exactly

“My dear citizens, I hoped dearly that I would not have to come to you with this news, on this day or any other, but it has seemed it was inevitable, Tensions have been mounting between our distant nations, and it seems that is is the result. There has been an official warning to prevent civilian casualties that now sits at a countdown of thirty minutes, We are at war. And when the countdown ends we launch our attacks and they launch there's, thirty minutes. And the Nuclear war shall begin” He explained everyone was frozen unsure if this was real he seemed to be crying “it was my pleasure to serve and I am sorry” He says putting a gun to his head and with the sound of the gunshot the video cut out.

Everyone was frozen, but a woman screamed and people began running and screaming, breaking windows and looting shops. Everyone panicked. I made sure I had everything and ran home, pulling jane’s little stroller along with me, she was giggling unsure what on earth was happening, everyone was panicking trying to get sorted, I grabbed my suitcases half packed anyway throwing my last few things I couldn’t live without, throwing all of jane’s clothes in a case throwing all her toys and blankets in as fast as I could. Watching my watch nineteen minutes let, I loaded the cases on her stroller and ran as fast as I could the streets starting to empty I ran as fast as I could to the bunker but I saw the man stood there about to shut the door

“NO! Please!” I screamed he stopped a moment

“I’m sorry were overcapacity as it is” He says

“No please, I have a child”

“..... I’m sorry” he says going to shut the door

“No! No please, take her. Take her please” I begged picking her up out her stroller holding her close “Not me, but take her… please.”

He looked at us a moment unsure he sighed and spoke “I’m sorry” He says slamming the door closed

“NOOOO!” I screamed banging on the door, I checked my watch ten minutes left.

I went back to the house as fast as I could in the hope of finding something anything I could give them to let us in, But I saw him the guy across the road. He was locking up his garage with the most heavy duty lock possible I was confused why wasn’t he in the shelter with everyone else, he can’t be seriously thinking his house will- He’s not leaving. He’s got a homedom.

I ran over holding jane in my arms he saw us and ran into his house but I stopped him before he could shut the door “Please, Please they won’t let us into the shelter. You have a homedom don’t you?”

“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t” He says

“Please, Please I’m begging you we don’t have anywhere else to go. We don’t have anything please” I begged

“...I don’t have the space-”

“Please! Just take her then. Please just take my little girl.”

He looked at us both and my stroller of things, and he opened the door “Downstairs to the left I’ve got some stuff to get then I’ll be down” He says

“Thank you! Thank you so much” I smiled hugging him tightly

“Alright alright go on we’ve only got eight minuets” he says pushing me off him lifting my stroller into the house up the one little step, I took jane and our things down the stairs and into the homedom, I had seen them advertised under home shelters, they were expensive few people had them not even maggie could afford one, they usually could keep one to four people in them this one was clearly a two person one but it was better then out there, I was unsure where to go or what to do in this little place.

I was one large room with a dining table and cooking area, a double bed to the side, a long rail for clothes with some already on it, a small bathroom in the corner with no walls to protect it, he had already brought food and such down here as well as much of his stuff. I put janes’ stroller in the corner where there was some space, and sat on the bed corner bouncing her as she giggled with her rattle having enjoyed all the running around we had done. I checked my watch five minuets left. I heard a noise the door opened, he came down and shut the door locking it and setting for it to airlock, that would take two minutes or so. He came down with the last box of something sitting it on the dinning table.

“I don’t know how I can thank you.”

“You can start but shutting up. I’m thinking”

“..oh, sorry” I said “What uhh are we going to do about a crib? For jane?”

“Oddly enough that's just what, I’m trying! To think about.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, uhhh can she sleep in her stroller?”

“Yeah I can change it into a sort of crib I just don’t remember how”

“I’ll figure it out” He says just then she started to cry “Give her here”

“Uhh okay” I said handing her over to him she seemed so happy with him, he bounced her and fixed her hair a little

“She’s hungry, you got milk for her right?”

“Yeah, uhh here” I said digging though her bag and getting her bottle handing it to him and he happily fed her “You’re good with her”

“Yeah I always was good with babies” He laughs once she had enough he handed her back to me “I’ll go figure this out” He says going and unpacking my stroller for me

“You didn’t have to do this for us”

“I didn’t”

“Then why did you?” I asked

“... I might be an asshole. But I’m not a monster” He says “I’m not leaving you two out there to die”

“Thank you”

“It’s fine.” he says as he managed to get it all to click in and make her little crib “There, she can sleep here”

“Thank you, I guess we should all get comfortable” I laughed putting jane down for her nap

“You and I’ll share. If that's alright?”

“That's fine” I nodded “Better then out there”

“Exactly” He smiled “Uhh thomas.”

“y/n” I smiled “and that's jane, but she likes janie too”

“Guess we’ve got to get used to each other.”

“I guess so, I uhh I mean it thomas. I don’t know how I’d ever repay you, if there’s anything. You have only to ask”

“I’ll keep it in mind. I’d feel like shit if I left you”

At that moment the very earth rumbled shaking everything in sight and I lost my balance and went right into thomas luckily he caught me so I didn’t fall onto the floor his hands on my waist until it stopped

“Uhh hi” I blushed

“Hi.” He blushed still holding me “did you uhhh… wanna unpack?”

“Right yes” I smiled moving away fixing my dress “sorry,”

“don’t worry about it” He smiled, I went to sort my things out hanging up my dresses mostly “That was a hit. Likely close to the city but outside of the limits.”

“How… how do you know that?”

“You pick up things you know” He shrugs putting the radio on it was nothing but hissing

“Impact. 12. 83. 45.” The robotic voice said, Thomas sat at the table getting a map of the area about twenty to thirty miles square. And a pen

“That’s hazard street. Right down the middle” He says making a note of it Hazard street was only just two maybe four blocks away,

‘Impact. 82. 42. 76.” the voice said

“That’s greenlands.”

“What are they playing battleship?” I giggled

“Essentially yeah” He laughs “I’m just keeping an eye on it. In case we get one close of us.”

“Can this take a direct?”

“Within a five miles well get rad’s but it should block it out. Any closer we get a shake. Ontop of us. I don’t know, but I think if we got one right on the house then… even if we do last the hit we’re fucked”

“Good point” I said as I finished with my things and began to janes toys and clothes “cup of tea?” I asked spotting the teabags in my shopping

“Yeah, that’d be nice Y/n”

[hansoulo]

The Girl Part 7

Pairings - The Mandalorian/Reader

Warnings - cursing

Word Count - 1,444 words

Tag List - @baar-ur @bruithel @jarrendyn @gothtechie@maryan028@aethersghoulette@hellobinayxo @guineapigzwei @random922929 @iamwarrenspeace @deputy-videogamer @littleevilme03  @ah-callie @sunkissed-winter @ash-fan-things @claynarwale @spottedlekkudancer @sabi615 @waddles03 @greatfandomsgalore @missnightingale97 @delectablyvaliantmentality @backontheolebullshit @a-hopeless-fan @crushingonmando @superfluffy92 @thirstyforvenom @stxriss @ababysupernova

A few days had passed since their conversation and things had, for the most part, returned to normal. But now the Mandalorian had found his eyes lingering longer on the swell of her hips, hands brushing up against her maybe a bit more than before. If (Y/N) noticed, she didn’t say anything. He wished she would, just so he could deny it.

Ever since she told him she lived on Naboo, the Mandalorian had spent hours pouring over his datapad in the dark, reading everything he could find about the planet. Obsessive, maybe, but he liked to think it came out of good intentions.

One night he stumbled on a report about the Festival of Light, an annual celebration of Naboo’s joining the Galactic Republic, and found that it began in a little less than a week. He started to map out the ship’s course in his head, planning their trip before he even asked her if she wanted to go. He hoped she did.

As he piloted the ship through hyper-space the next day, the Mandalorian brought up the festival, trying his best to appear nonchalant.

“Hey (Y/N),” he called out towards her. She appeared in the doorway a few moments later, hair mussed from letting the child run its hands through it. The baby toddled in after her, a smile on its face.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, cocking her head.

Not taking his eyes off the front viewport, the Mandalorian made a noise of disagreement and began to speak, trying not to sound too rehearsed.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” he assured her, “I was just wondering,” he trailed off.

“Yes…?” (Y/N) said, smiling slightly as she climbed over onto the co-pilot’s seat,  plopping down with her legs crossed. The child came in behind her, reaching up to be held, and she obliged quickly, setting it in her lap.

“I was just wondering if…” Kriff, he thought, Just spit it out.

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, amused at his hesitance.

“You were wondering if…” (Y/N) repeated, laughing.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go to Naboo,” the Mandalorian finished quietly. He turned to her, expecting a shake of her head, but instead he was met with what was quite possibly the most dazzling smile he’d ever seen.

“You would do that for me?” she asked softly, eyes wide. Silly girl, he thought to himself, I would turn the galaxy over for you if you asked me to.

He nodded and looked back to the front viewport, trying to focus on piloting and not on the way her shirt had fallen down to expose her bare shoulders.

“It’s out of our way, but I remember something about a festival,” the Mandalorian said, as if he hadn’t already charted their course and made travel arrangements.

(Y/N)’s eyes brightened and she started to bounce the child in her lap, making it coo.

“The Festival of Light,” she remembered wistfully, “I haven’t thought about that in years.”

He nodded and cleared his throat awkwardly before assuring her, “It’s alright if you don’t want to go. It might be too dangerous, with the price on my head and -”

She turned to him, her expression serious.

“Din Djarin,“ Kriff, was she mad at me? Did I do something wrong?

“(Y/N) (L/N),” he parroted, waiting for her to finish.

“If you don’t take me I will never stitch you up again. Or do your laundry. Or help with repairs. Or take care of the baby while you go out. Or-”

The Mandalorian laughed at her mock-threat and reached to scratch the child behind its ears, voice still amused when he spoke again.

“So, do you want to go?” he asked, already sure of her response. (Y/N) nodded her head and met his eyes, another smile playing at her lips.

“I would like to go very much,” she answered.

            ———————————————————————–

Later that week, though he wasn’t entirely sure how, the Mandalorian found himself being dragged through a bustling market in mid-afternoon, the child following beside them in its metal pod as they walked through the city of Theed.

He attempted to warn (Y/N) about keeping a low profile, but any arguments he tried to make got caught in his throat when she grabbed onto his upper arm, leading him off the Razor Crest. He’d never seen her so animated, practically running through the stalls as she pointed to various vendors and engaged with the locals. The city was bustling with activity and he struggled to keep up with her as she led him about.

Before he could register what happened (Y/N) had let go of his wrist and run off, disappearing into the crowd. Where the kriff had she gone now? The Mandalorian thought to himself, panicking slightly. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when she appeared at his side a few moments later.

She pulled him and the child into a side alley, empty except for a few wandering festival-goers, and it was then that he realized she was decked in flowers. Their sweet scent was potent, even through his helmet, and the Mandalorian’s breath hitched in his throat as he looked (Y/N) up and down. A garland of millaflowers was around her neck and a crown of purple rominaria sat nestled on her head. A few loose petals had fallen, littering her hair, and the noon-day sun was casting her face in a faint orange glow.

She had never looked more beautiful.

“They give them out them out to people at the festival,” (Y/N) explained, slightly out of breath. She reached down into the canvas bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out another garland. Crossing over to where the child sat in its pram, she gently set the flowers on its ears, making its eyes go wide as it smelled the scent. When she laughed, he thought it sounded like bells.

Before the Mandalorian could protest, (Y/N) had taken the rominaria off her hair and reached her arms up towards his head. He curled his fingers around her arms, stopping her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, attempting to sound stern. It, evidently, wasn’t very convincing and (Y/N) grinned at him, her expression teasing. Dropping the crown atop the Mandalorian’s helmet, she stepped back from him, making him let go of her wrists. Her hands rested on her hips and she smiled again, obviously satisfied with her work.

“It suits you,” she assured him, “Purple is definitely your color.”

The Mandalorian let out an exasperated sigh and reached to take the flowers off his head, trying not to sound amused.

“Very funny,” he said flatly, stepping towards her. He held the crown and placed it onto her head lightly, letting his hands brush against her neck. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but the Mandalorian could have sworn he felt her shiver.

      ——————————————————————————-

Later that same day, they sat around a makeshift campfire. (Y/N) was attempting to feed the child some street meat they had bought earlier, but it was proving difficult. It didn’t seem to want to eat the foods as much as throw them.

The sun was beginning to set and she had assured the Mandalorian the best part of the festivities was yet to come. (Y/N) had laid out out a blanket for them high on a sandy hill, above the main city. For the view, she had said. Her eyes had sparkled when she recounted the light show and fireworks that ended every festival, voice ringing hollower after she told him how her father used to set her on his shoulders to see above the crowd.

“It feels strange to be here,” (Y/N) admitted, “without him.”

The Mandalorian turned to look at her, noticing her head drop.

“Hey now,” he chided quietly, “None of that.”

Pulling her into his side, he rested a tentative arm around her shoulders. Touch was still new to him, but he could try. For her, at least. She placed a gentle hand on his chest, palm meeting cold metal, and not for the first time the Mandalorian wished she could touch his bare skin instead. (Y/N) sniffed quietly and went to rest her head on his shoulder, but before her temple could meet his armour he heard a rough voice calling out from behind them.

“So!” the voice shouted, “Mando’s got himself a girl now! Shame I’ll have to kill her to get to you.”

The Mandalorian could feel (Y/N) stiffen against him and he let go of her, turning to face whatever waste of carbon decided to entreat on them. I just can’t catch a break, can I?

(A/N: I keep saying I’m gonna pace myself and try not to post too quickly but… here we are. Did a lot of research for this chapter so everything you read about Naboo is (hopefully) canon-compliant!)

[writer-rochelle]

The Fridge (The Mandalorian x reader)

(a/n: So my friend Alyssa sent me this -------> https://vm.tiktok.com/nLbsfK/  tiktok which I highly recomned y’all look at as it is the inspo for this first part of what will eventually become a short fic. Please let me know what y’all think and don’t hesitate to leave a request <3) warnings- some cursing, wine (consider yourself 21+ in this, use your imagination), my weak attempts at jokes ;))))

Okay so what if this was the third time in the last hour you got up to stare aimlessly into the refrigerator.  It’s not like there was much else to do! You’d already finished folding and putting away your laundry, turned in a majority of your assignments, hell you’d even willingly joined in on the Zoom lecture your Psychology professor had hosted early that morning and taken notes.

You had been hoping that there would few cases of the virus in the town you were staying in for uni for as long as possible, but with the numbers in the towns around you growing you knew it would only be a matter of time before there would be a shelter in place order.

You had officially spent a week alone in your apartment, having left only twice; once to get money from your Aunt and Uncle 45 mins away, and then again a day later, getting up at the crack of dawn to stock up on non-perishables, wine, several movies from the $5 bin, and some crafting and baking materials. All in all, you had enough food and distractions to last for at least a month and a half before you needed to venture out again. However, the repeated routine of eating, homework, movie, chore, eating, homework, movie, chore was starting to drive you a bit crazy.

Opening your fridge, you signed. Your theory that the items within having a conscious and could talk and move (ala Toy Story, and Sausage Party) was a bust. ‘Unless they know I know’, you thought. You rolled your eyes, grabbing a water bottle and proceeding to stare at the containers of leftovers, produce, a half-empty can of Red Bull, and various other food items.“Hey guys, just checking in,” you said, shutting the door and cringing at how absolutely crazy you sounded. Yeah, you needed human interaction. Now.

You longed for the days of being able to jump into your car, drive to Target, and wander through each department and aisle for hours. Throwing various things you didn’t need into your basket, Fleetwood Mac, Beyonce, and various other artists crooning interchangeably through your earbuds. Granted that wasn’t true human interaction, but you were in public with other people! And occasionally, you worked up the nerve to go to the cashiers instead of staring at yourself in the self-checkout security camera. (okay maybe you just missed target)

You could call your parents on that stupid Portal thing they insisted on buying (“It’s easier than that damned Facetune crap you kids are always trying to get me to use!” your dad had argued) But you would rather not spend the next hour and a half listening to your mum beg you to come home, while your dad talked over her, insisting that not only would you traveling pose as a risk to yourself (more importantly them and your brother), but you also had a lease to keep and classes to finish. And it was almost 8 o’clock, an excuse you would use should your mum happen to ask why you hadn’t called.  Finally, you decided that watching TV and indulging in a few glasses of wine wouldn’t hurt. Once again, not like there was anything better to do. After all, you weren’t being charged by different streaming services each month for nothing.

Turning back to your fridge, you grabbed the bottle of wine you had been sipping on (pointedly ignoring your friends), a random cartoon decorated cup from your cabinet, and sat down in front of your TV. Sinking back into the indentions your bum had made not too long ago, you logged back onto Disney+ and continued watching the Mandalorian. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time you had watched the show but who really cared when there was no one around to bully you about it. Personally, you would much rather be quarantined with a silent wall of beskar, and a green baby but alas you would just have to stick to watching your show.

You giggled, watching as the Mandalorian attempted to seat himself atop the female blurg, Kuiil’s disappointed headshakes reminding you of your late grandfather. Growing slightly drowsy you leaned forward to place your cup onto your coffee table, before laying out across the couch snuggling under your lavender comforter you had dragged from your room earlier that morning. ‘I’ve seen this episode before, it wouldn’t hurt to close my eyes.’

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

You woke with a start. The various sounds of the brass section in the theme song reaching your ears in the half-awake state you were in. You groaned sitting up and lowering the volume on the tv before getting up to trade your wine for a bottle of water. Tossing the cup into the sink, you glanced at the clock on your microwave, the numbers [11:30] flashed back at you. How long had you been asleep? You didn’t even bother to check what episode autoplay had gotten to for you. You sighed, ‘May as well shower and go to sleep’ You opened your fridge, going to place the bottle of wine back in it’s designated place when you stopped.

“What the hell?”, you did a double-take. Where had all of the stuff in your fridge gone? Where there once had been shelves and food was now empty save for the ones attached to the door and was that…

“No fucking way”,  you turned and placed the bottle in your hand on the island behind you before turning and lifting an egg-shaped container out of the fridge and onto the island as well. It looked exactly like the pram on the show that was still droning on in your living, the faint sound of blaster fire mixing with the sound of your pounding heart. How the hell did a prop from your favorite tv show get in your fridge? Slowly you reached forward and spread the two sides of the pram’s lid apart. Nestled within was none other than The Child. Your eyes widened as he cooed, making uppy arms, his big eyes blinking up at you.

“Hey, little guy how on earth did you get here?” you cradled him to your chest, glancing towards the wine bottle on the counter.  ‘Is this some sort of whack ass wine dream? Am I still asleep on the couch?’ you shifted the kid into one arm, reaching down with your right hand to pinch your thigh before grimacing. ‘Nope I’m definitely awake’ You had been so caught up in your thoughts that you hadn’t noticed the figuring looming behind you till you felt the child shift in your arms reaching for…..

The Mandalorian….the fucking Mandalorian was standing in your kitchen. More importantly, the Mandalorian was standing in your kitchen with his blaster pointed directly between your eyes.

“Hand over the kid,” he said, his modulated voice sending shivers down your spine.

Yeah, this was definitely not a dream.

(a/n: ahhhhh so that”s it...for now ;)))) i hope y’all enjoyed it and want to see more! xoxo rochelle)

[you-and-i-for-forever]

Pickpocket (SpotxReader)

Fandom: Newsies

Words: 5.6k

Read it on my ao3 instead if you want!

It started out like any average day for you. You woke up in the newsies lodging and quickly got ready for the day.

Rolling out of bed in the only set of clothes you owned, all you had to do was freshen up in the washroom and you were out the door.

You lived in the newsies house but you were in no way a paper seller.

Your brother Kid Blink was, and he insisted you stay in the lodging house with him to keep an eye on you.

Only problem, the guy only had one eye and he had to keep that on the newspapers he was selling. This gave you plenty of time in New York City to run free and independent.

You loved to stroll around and people watch, grab a bite to eat every now and then, but your favorite part was pickpocketing.

It was something you had picked up when you and Blink were living on the street before you had found the newsies.

Your fingers could always find their way into a man’s pocket or a woman’s purse and pull out something of value. You really had a knack for stealing things right from underneath someone’s nose.

When Blink got his job and moved both of you into the lodging house, he made you swear up and down that you weren’t ever going to pickpocket again. He had a good, respectable job now and he would provide anything you needed so no more pickpocketing.

You promised your brother with a smile and reassurance that it was in the past…

But it really wasn’t. You couldn’t help yourself. It gave you a rush every time you walked past someone only to have a trinket of theirs in your hand a second later. It made your life exciting and there was no way you could give that up.

On this particular day, you decided to make your way towards Columbia Street. You always tried to steer clear of the Manhattan’s newsies selling spots so you none of them would see you and report to your brother.

You admired the way the sun shone on the windows, the reflection making the city feel even brighter. There were hardly any clouds in the sky and the wind was blowing a gentle breeze around.

You admired the people as they walked around, the streets being packed from the nice weather. Families walked down the street pushing a baby in a pram, couples walked with linked elbows and flirtatious or shy glances, employees cleaning storefront windows or bringing in a delivery.

The people that interested you most on your walks were the ones that looked like they had money. Confident men in suits with canes or women with fancy dresses and styled hair or even kids who looked like their pockets were stuffed with coins. Really you would steal from anybody, but these always had the best outcomes.

You walked past a small group of well-dressed teenagers, all looking to be around your age. They were laughing and trying to decide where to eat.

You moved to the side as you pasted each other and, in a flash, your hand was in and out of one of their pockets. Your hand immediately returned to your own pocket to investigate what you had grabbed by touch alone.

It was small and round so obviously a coin. You rubbed your fingers over each side once before deciding it was a dime.

Satisfied, you let go and it dropped to their bottom of your pocket where it would remain until the days end.

It wasn’t about stealing a lot from one person, but stealing a little from many people. It was only occasionally when you stole something of great value but most days you just enjoyed taking some money or the odd object from people.

You walked down another street where you walked by a mother holding onto her two young son’s hands. The one closest to you was fussing and carrying a loose handful of sweets while the one farther away was happily admiring a small toy rabbit they were carrying.

You decided on the candy in an instant. As you passed, the little boy’s arm was wagging up and down and he was too interested in fussing at his mother to notice as your finger quickly plucked a few candies from between his fingers.

You popped them into your pocket as well and you kept on going along your merry way.

-

It was around two o’clock when you were starting to feel satisfied with what you had gathered from the day.

A few dollar bills, a monocle, an apple from a storefront display, the candy from the little boy, a shaving razor you had swiped from a barber who was outside joking with some customers, a police officer’s whistle, a pipe, a pair of dice, a hair ribbon, and dozens upon dozens of coins.

You felt really good and your journey had taken you over the Williamsburg Bridge, just to the outskirts of Brooklynn when you were about to turn around and head back home to empty your pockets and get some real food to eat when suddenly – something caught your eye.

You spun fully around to stop and gawk at what you saw.

A woman was wearing a small silver bracelet. You felt your eyes bug out of your head and your palms get sweaty. It looked like one your mother had given you years ago.

Anything you ever stole, money, watches, toys, was just for fun, but this was different. You had to sell your bracelet in order to get food for you and Blink to eat years ago and you had felt guilty ever since.

Yet, here was one that looked almost identical to it.

You started to follow the woman. She was definitely someone from an upper crust family, what with her clothes and hair and all.

She was walking arm and arm with an older man, probably her father, and they were chatting happily.

You knew this was going to be one that took a while, you had to be careful and quick if you were going to get the bracelet off her wrist and get out of dodge before she noticed.

You trailed behind them a few yards, trying to look as nonchalant as possible while keeping a close eye on every move they were making. You followed them down dozens of streets all the way to Flushing Ave, right by the boating docks.

You had been trailing them for about 40 minutes. You knew you had to turn around at some point to head back home soon or you’d be walking home in the dark.

But you just couldn’t leave the bracelet alone. The lady just seemed to be taunting you at this point and your fingers were itching to grab it.

It just wasn’t time yet.

You pulled the ribbon out of your pocket and began to wrap it around your fingers, bored with how long this was all taking.

You glanced over at the docks, watching boats sail in and out. You admired the water and how it lapped and foamed at the beaches edge.

“Extra, extra!” A group of voices shouted, startling you.

A group of Brooklynn newsies had stepped out in front of you. They got in between you and the woman as she crossed the street. You gasped and tried to move around the boys, but it was no use. You couldn’t cross the street, by the time you had pushed through the boys, you saw the lady and the man entering into a building.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. You wanted to scream. There went your only chance for the bracelet.

You felt your blood boil and you turned back to the newsies. They were the reason the woman had gotten away. You had tracked them for miles, spent almost an hour following them and these boys were the reasons you lost them.

You didn’t even feel in control of your body anymore. You took a few long strides over and stood in front of one of the newsies.

“Evenin’ Miss, care for the latest edition of the pape?” The newsie said with a charming smile.

You felt absolutely livid. You brought your hands to his chest and shoved him as hard as you could while your foot moved behind his to swipe it out from under him. A trick Kid Blink had taught you.

The newsie was tall but very slim and he dropped quickly.

You still didn’t feel avenged. Quick as a flash, you swiped the newsies bag from his arm and took off running.

“Hey! She stole my bag!” You heard the boy cry but you didn’t care. Those boys had cost you that bracelet and any amount of grief you could cause them would have to make up for it.

You ran up one street, weaving in between people and wagons, your shoes smacking against the ground.

You heard the shouts and calls from the newsies, all chasing after you but they never closed in on you.

You turned down another street and were headed back in the direction of the bridge, back to Manhattan.

You kept up your pace even though you felt your lungs screaming at you for more air.

After a few blocks, you turned your head to try and see if you could still see any of the newsies coming after you. You didn’t hear or see anything so you slowed your pace down to a normal walking speed.

A few people gave you strange looks but you didn’t really care.

You ran a hand over your hair and straightened your dress. You started investigating the newsies bag, curious to know what was all inside.

It held about half a dozen newspapers in it and some string that must had held the stack together originally. There was a smaller side pocket inside it that really interested you. It held all that newsies money he had earned that day.

You counted through the coins as you walked, the pay totaling to fifty-seven cents.

You grinned gleefully, happy to be such a nuisance to one of the boys that had made you lose your bracelet.

-

It took you around half an hour to get back to the Williamsburg Bridge. You still had about another hour to go before you were home and you were tired. You had only taken a short break to throw the newspapers out and empty out your pockets into the bag but other than that you haven’t stopped for anything.

When you got to the bridge you were able to jump onto the back of a carriage that was headed back to Manhattan. You saluted Brooklynn as you left, happy to be leaving after the disappointing day you had there.

You pulled out the apple you had swiped and enjoyed the bumpy ride across the bridge.

As soon as you were on the other side of the bridge and several miles down Delancey Street, you finally hopped off the carriage. It really wasn’t much farther to the lodging from here and your ride was taking a turn in the opposite direction.

You threw your apple core away and rearranged the newsies bag on your shoulder. You laughed to yourself about how those dumb newsies must feel right now, having lost you so quickly and never catching sight of your again.

You turned a corner and stopped dead in your tracks. You were on one of the less busy streets, very close to the lodging house but found a large group of unfamiliar looking newsies. Their arms were all crossed and they looked furious, all staring right at you.

Your heart began to pound wildly. Brooklynn newsies? How had they found you? How had they known where to you? How had they gotten here before you?

Like a shot, you took off, sprinting for your life.

“Get her!” You heard one of the newsies screamed and for the second time today, you heard a stampede of thunderous footsteps chasing after you.

You ran and ran and ran, but it was no use, you weren’t able to lose the boys this time. You knew Manhattan like the back of your hand but there was no way to shake them.

You turned into an alleyway and headed straight for the fire escape ladder that was waiting at the end of it. At the top, you’d be able to see Jack’s penthouse, only a few blocks away. You could jump from rooftop to rooftop until you got there, no way the boys would be dumb enough to try and follow you. You were sure you’d be safe once you were back, your newsies wouldn’t let anything happen to you there.

You grabbed onto the ladder – you’d pull it up once you were at the top so the newsies couldn’t follow you – and began to climb.

You scrambled up when something caught your skirt. You looked down and saw one of the newsies boys had taken hold of you.

You held onto the ladder as hard as you could, not daring to let go when another newsie grabbed hold of one of your ankles.

You swung your other foot back and cracked him hard in the forehead. He let go, reaching up to cover his face.

You reached down to try and rip your skirt away from the first boy, but the second you let one hand go of the ladder, he tugged hard and you came tumbling down to the ground. You landed hard on your side, elbow and hip vibrating in pain.

You cried out but quickly scrambled backward when you saw the rest of the newsies advancing down the alleyway towards you.

Your back hit the brick wall and your breath was coming out rapidly. There was no telling what a group of boys like this would do to a girl like you.

You fumbled with the bag as the boys created a semicircle around you. You closed your fingers around the razor blade in the bag and flicked it open.

You sprang to your feet as a couple boys stepped closer to you. You swiped at them violently, daring them to come forward.

“Don’t touch me!” You warned.

You were glad you had stolen the razor today, but really, you would have used anything in that bag if you were trying to defend yourself.

“If you do anything to me, my brother will have your heads!” You said, slashing your weapon near a boy’s face who had come too close.

“Yeah? And who the hell is ya brother?” One of the boys asked, arms crossed.

“Kid Blink or Blind Diamond, or whatever you know him by.” You said, knowing those names had meanings to other newsies.

A boy who was a little taller than you snapped his fingers and the boys who were trying to get closer backed off. You cautiously lowered your arms a little.

“So yous is a part of the Manhattan newsies. Chomp thought yous looked familiar.” The boy said, glancing over to a boy with a toothy smile.

“Good for you, you can remember faces. Want an award?” You said to him harshly.

“What was you doin’ in Brooklynn? Any newsie with half a brain knows they ain’t allowed on my turf.”

“I’m not a newsie. I was after something in your turf but your dopey newsies did a great job of making me lose it.” You snapped back.

Suddenly, two pairs of arms grabbed you. One pulled the razor out of your hand and the other grabbed the bag from your arm before you had time to react.

Your arms were held by the two boys after that and you watched as the bag was returned to its original owner. You saw the big, dumb oaf open the bag up, no doubt to check and see if you’d dumped his papers.

“Hey boss,” the boy called out to the boy who had been talking to you. Their leader, apparently, though he didn’t look like much.

The boy held his bag out for his leader to look inside. He grabbed the bag and investigated the insides closer, eyeballing all the things you had added to the collection.

“Oh my, what the butterfingers we have here fellas,” He said with a laugh “Does Kid Blink know that his sister is a petty thief?”

You couldn’t bear to look at him and turned your gaze away.

All the boys all whistled or made some noise of glee at the revelation.

“Deliver this one back to her brother and let’s see what he makes of her.” The boy said, addressing his fellow newsies.

They all agreed and just like that you were being dragged out of the alleyway.

-

It was late enough in the day that almost everyone had returned back to the lodging house already.

Your face grew hot, already feeling now embarrassing it was going to be when all this came out in front of all the newsboys.

The Brooklynn boys dragged you up to the front step where their leader pounded on the door.

After a few moments, the door was open to reveal the last person you wanted to see right now, your brother.

“[Y/N]?” He asked, brow furrowed in worry and concern the second he saw you surrounded by Brooklynn newsies.

The Manhattan newsies quickly all gathered around to see what was happening.

The two boys who were holding onto you suddenly thrust you forward. You stumbled but your brother caught you before you hit the floor.

“What’s this all about Spot? What were you doing with my sister?” Kid Blink asked, confused and growing angrier by the second.

“Cool it Blink,” Spot said, “Your sister was in my turf earlier today and stole Slouch’s newsie bag along with all his earning for the day.”

“Your turf? What would [Y/N] be doing on your turf?” Blink asked defensively.

“Not sure. We chased her all the way back her and when we caught her, we found all this in the bag as well.” Spot turned the bag upside down and all your things came tumbling out.

The pipe, coins, candy, the ribbon, bills, dice, and the whistle all tumbled out onto the ground in front of everyone. The monocle fell out last and the glass cracked when it hit the ground.

“She also had this,” Spot said, showing off the razor to the room, “don’t know if it was something else she stole or if she bought it through honest work.”

The Brooklynn newsies sneered at you.

Your brother stared down at the pile before whipping his head around to face you.

“You’re stealing again!?” Kid Blink yelled, letting go of you and backing away. “I don’t believe it. How many times have I told you that enough is enough? You don’t need to do this anymore!”

You felt your eyes well up with tears but you fought hard to keep them back.

“You wanna get caught and get sent off to the Refuge? You wanna endanger all the newsies living here if the bulls follow you home?” Your brother asked.

You couldn’t answer. Of course you didn’t want those things. But pickpocketing was your only thing. The only thing you liked and the only thing you were good at.

“Don’t ever do this again.” Kid Blink stated, looking you hard in the eyes.

You nodded once.

Silence hung in the room.

“Thanks for bringing her home fellas,” Jack said and made his way up to Spot. “You won’t sees her in Brooklynn ever again.”

Jack and Spot spit into their hands before shaking on it.

You couldn’t stand it any longer and you quickly swept out of the room, humiliated.

You entered a small hallway in the very back of the lodgings that led to your bedroom. You closed your door as quietly as possible, not wanting to draw any more attention to yourself.

You removed your shoes and curled up on your bed, exhausted and embarrassed by what had just happened.

You felt your eyes tear up, but you rubbed them away angrily.

A knock came from the door.

“Go away, Blink.” You said, voice cracking.

“So, if I ain’t your brother, can I come in?” A voice asked.

You blew out air from your nose in a laugh and said yes.

You gave Jack a weak half smile as he entered. He came in and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Spot’s really not that bad of a guy,” Jack said after a few moments of you two sitting in silence.

You nodded and shrugged sitting up in bed, “It’s his newsies that are the problem. They need to watch where they’re going and not let some girl push them around.”

Jack laughed a little and patted you on the back.

“Never heard you go violent on another person before. What had you been tracking?” He asked.

“A bracelet,” You said.

“A bracelet?” Jack asked, surprised.

“It looked like one I had…a long time ago”

Jack nodded, knowing what you meant when you said that, “All makes sense now.”

“They got in my way, Jack.” You said, looking up at him, searching for some sort of validation from him. “I didn’t mean to do any of the things I did to them, but I kept thinking how maybe I could just have that small part of my old life back and they ruined it!”

Jack nodded and took your hand, patting it with his other one. “I know kid. You just gotta promise me that you ain’t going to go after another newsies hard-earned dough like that again, alright? No matter what. Promise?”

“Okay,” you said weakly.

“Okay?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Jack said a smile on his face.

“I promise.” You said, not able to hold a smile back. Jack felt like another older brother to you. Most of the newsies did, but Jack just seemed to always understand you, especially when Kid Blink didn’t.

Jack ruffled your hair and got up, wandering back towards the door. He paused and looked back at you.

“Blink’ll calm down soon, he just wants to protect you.” He said

You nodded, knowing he was right.

Jack closed the door and you were left alone with your thoughts.

-

For the next few days, you were good. You kept your hands in your pocket as you strolled around the streets. You ripped your eyes away from anything that you wanted that someone held.

You spent more consecutive hours in the newsies lodging house than you ever have before. You sat and pouted and avoided your brother and the majority of the other newsies in general.

It was finally on the fourth day of not touching another stranger’s possession when you couldn’t take it anymore.

You left the lodging and made your way to the streets, feeling like garbage.

You stopped at Jacobi’s to get a quick bite to eat (which you paid for) and you wandered onto a street you knew the newsies weren’t selling at.

You walked slowly as you scanned the streets.

Suddenly you spotted the Delancey’s skulking around, looking gross.

You wondered towards them, trying not to draw any attention to yourself. They were talking to each other and eyeing the trolley station. They didn’t seem to notice you.

Kid Blink couldn’t possibly be mad if you stole something from one of the Delancey’s, rights?

As you walked by your hand went in and out of Oscar’s pocket. You kept walking and turned a corner quickly and looked at your hand.

Your face split into a wide grin. Oscar’s brass knuckles! You wanted to squeal in delight but you kept walking and stayed quiet.

You slipped the brass into your pocket and kept going, feeling better already.

You nabbed a few more things from different people, mostly pennies.

After you had swiped a lace handkerchief from a young woman, you felt eyes on you. The hair stood on the back of your neck and you knew it had to be the Delancey brothers.

You started walking faster down the street but felt them speeding up as well. After a few streets, you broke into a run, pushing past people. There was no way you were going to get caught by Oscar and Morris.

You felt like it was an echo of the other day when you were running from Brooklyn boys, for basically the same reason.

Suddenly, you felt a hand grasp onto your wrist and pulled sharply. Your front was pushed against an alleyways brick wall and one of your hands was twisted slightly so it was pinned against your back.

“What would Kid Blink make of this?” A very familiar voiced.

It was Spot Conlon, not the Delancey’s, though you weren’t sure that was in any way comforting.

“What are you doing here?” You hissed, completely surprised. You struggled against Spot’s hands but couldn’t escape.

“Wanted to see how the thief was handling time out,” Spot said before quickly flipping you around and pinned your hands above your head with one of his hands. He grinned, “Looks like you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, huh sweetheart?”

You wiggled your arms trying again to get away. Spot smiled even wider and slowly reached his hand down. You tensed up, worried about where his hands were going, but then you felt them slip into one of your pockets.

He pulled out the pennies out of your pocket and looked at them before dropping them back in. He reached to the other one and pulled out the handkerchief and admired it for a second before reaching back in and finding the brass knuckles.

Spot whistled, impressed, “And who’d you swipe these from?” He asked, very interested.

You turned your head away from him, angry that he had what was yours – or what was yours now.

He examined them slowly, turning them over and over in his palm.

You knew there was an ugly pout set on your face but you there wasn’t much you could do. Calling for help would only lead to Spot walking away with the brass knuckles and trying to overpower him was out of the question mostly because you were pretty sure he didn’t have sleeves because his huge arms busted out of them.

You were trying your best to ignore Spot, staring out into the street. All of a sudden you found yourself starring at Morris Delancey, who was staring back at you. He grabbed his brother by the shoulder and pointed you out. Oscar’s face was bright red with anger. They quickly started making a move to cross the street and get to you.

“I have to go!” You said, trying even harder to wiggle free from his grasp.

“Oh yeah? And why’s-” Spot started but was cut off

“You!” Oscar shouted, almost to the alleyway entrance.

“Uh-oh,” Spot said and you were able to slip out of his grip thanks to him being distracted.

You snatched his hand and bolted in the other direction of Morris and Oscar, knowing there was no way for you to get the brass knuckles away from him fast enough for you to escape with them.

You escaped out of the alley and began to quickly weave in and out of people and traffic, hoping to lose the brothers.

You only ran about five blocks before Spot planted his feet and stopped moving. He pulled you into an alleyway, but this time didn’t try to restrain you.

“Why the hell am I runnin’?” He asked

“Those are the Delancey brothers, they help run The World distribution here in Manhattan. I stole the knuckles from one of them and I’ll tell you that they’re no walk in the park.” You panted out.

Spot blew air out of his nose, looking amused.

“So you’ll steal from people, but won’t fight ‘em in a confrontation?” He asked.

“Hey, I got my strong suit, and it’s quick fingers, not hard fists. I know what I can do and it’s grabbing and running, not fighting.”

“Is that why you wanted these?” He asked, waving the brass knuckles around a little, “Sos next time my Brooklynn boys come after ya, you can fight ‘em off?”

You felt your face heat up and you looked away. You did not want to talk about what happened a few days ago.

You suddenly heard shouts from the street and saw the Delancey brothers once again coming for you.

You grabbed Spot’s hand again and started to pull, ready to escape again but he just shook his head. He pocketed the brass knuckles with a smirk.

You watched in awe as Spot turned around to face the Delancey’s alone. The brothers were vicious fighters, always playing dirty.

Spot cracked his knuckles, looking rather intimidating.

“Evening boys, what can I do for ya?” He called out as the brothers approached him.

“Give me my brass knuckles back or we’ll soak ya.” Oscar barked.

“Fellas, this has been all one big misunderstanding -” Spot started before punching Oscar square in the jaw, sending him tumbling to the ground.

Morris swung at Spot but he ducked and elbowed him in the gut. When Morris doubled over, Spot kneed him in the face. Morris groaned and held his face. Oscar sprang up and threw punches left and right, but Spot dodged all of them. He grabbed onto Oscar’s arm and twisted it painfully. Oscar let out a yell and wrenched his arm from Spot’s grasp.

Spot grabbed onto the side of Oscar’s head with one hand and Morris’s with the other and slammed them together. Both boys groaned and were on the ground in a second.

You couldn’t believe it, you had seen half a dozen of Manhattan’s newsies try to take on just one of the Delancey’s and fail but here Spot was, flattening both of them within seconds.

The brothers scrambled to get up and run out of the alley.

Spot turned back around to face you, smirk plastered on his face.

“That’s how it’s done.” He said.

You blinked at him for several moments, still not quite sure what you had seen was real. You looked down at his arms, the muscles bulging.

You reached out and touched one of his biceps, feeling how strong he was.

“Pretty impressive, huh?” He asked, flexing his arm.

It was…impressive. He was impressive.

Spot smirk grew wider, “Next time, don’t get caught, huh?”

“You’re not going to tell my brother, are you?” You asked, pulled back into reality a little bit by that last comment. You removed your hand from his arm.

“Nah, Jack told me all about your time living on the street. Old habits die hard, huh?” Spot said, suddenly looking a little remorseful “I’m sorry ‘bout your folks.”

“Why did you grab me earlier then?” You asked.

“Oh,” Spot said, now looking rather embarrassed, “I, um, actually was coming over here to see ya.”

You paused, “Me? Why?”

“To give ya something,” Spot said and reached into his back pocket. He offered you a small package wrapped up in brown paper.

“For me?” You asked and slowly took it from him.

You opened it to reveal a bracelet. You gasped. It was just like the one you had seen. Silver and delicate and shiny and brand new.

“Yeah, I felt bad about the other day, what with my newsies gettin’ in the way of you and-”

You looked up at Spot, feeling like your heart was being tightly squeezed. You quickly placed your free hand on his shoulder and leaned in, kissing Spot, effectively shutting him up.

He seemed stunned for a moment before kissing you back. You had only meant it to be a short, single kiss, just out of impulse and thanks, but once you felt Spot mimic the action, you didn’t want to stop.

You moved your hand that was on his shoulder up to the back of his neck and rested the one that was clutching the bracelet on his chest. He set his hands down on your hips and pulled you a little bit closer.

Spot knew how to kiss and was very, very good at it. You had no clue Brooklynn boys could kiss like this.

You had a sudden thought and pulled away from him.

“You promise you aren’t going to tell my brother?” You asked.

Spot furrowed his brow but didn’t open his eyes. He shook his head slightly, “Don’t talk about your brother while wes is-”

He cut himself off by connecting your lips back together. You smiled into it and kissed him back.

It was a few more minutes before either of you stopped. You started to scatter small kisses all over his cheeks. He hummed and held you a little tighter, arms fully wrapping around you.

You kissed him one last time on the mouth before leaning back. You opened your eyes to find him giving you a gentle side smile.

“How did you know about the bracelet?” You breathed, studying his face.

“Jack told me.” He said, “Said the only reason you acted the way you did was because of it so I went out and got you one.”

“You bought this?” You asked, completely floored.

“Hey, being king of Brooklynn has its perks.”

You stared at him before giggling a little, “thank you.”

“No problem, doll.”

Spot took the bracelet from you and linked it around your wrist.

“You know, I’ve never known no girl who could drop one of my boys that fast,” Spot said with a grin.

“Impressed?” You asked.

“A little.”

You giggled at the comment.

“Impressed enough to let me come to Brooklynn again sometime?”

Spot’s face lit up, “I’ll talk to Jack, let him know you can come over whenever you want.”

“Can I pickpocket while I’m there?”

“Sweetheart, you can do whatever you want in Brooklynn.”

You smiled and pulled Spot in for another kiss.

[birminghamblinders]

in my life, i love you more; tommy shelby

His father had always been known for his sharp punctuality, so it was only fitting your son came roaring into the world, crying his little lungs out, at noon on the dot.

Even more appropriate was that the first time in his multiple decades of life that Tommy Shelby had been significantly late for something was the birth of his son, bursting through the door when Charlie was already three hours old, panting and frantically ripping his hat off as he rushed to kneel beside your bed and cradle his son’s face. He’d stayed on his knees for the better part of half an hour, only speaking to make certain you were alright, spending the rest of his time staring in awe at his son.

Tommy seemed almost unable to comprehend that he was a father at first, snapping out of his full daze when you asked if he wanted to hold his son, but gazing at the baby with an air of confusion, not quite connecting the dots of your nine months of pregnancy with the child he now had to raise and take care of.

The nurses had permitted you to leave just hours after Charlie was born, but Tommy had insisted you stay another two days, fatherly instincts kicking in belatedly with a furor. You’d brought your son home on a Sunday, church bells tolling in time with your clacking heels as you pushed his pram down Birmingham’s relatively empty streets. Tommy was right by your side, hand cautiously resting on your back and seeming determined to allot an even half of his worried glances towards you, and the other half towards his happily gurgling baby.

-

About ten months later, on a bright August day, the most feared man in England sat directly across from your, settling against a couch and holding his arms out, coaxing his son toward him with a mixture of babbling and softly spoken encouragements.

Charlie hesitantly left your arms after a warm smile and a gentle push from you, bobbling wildly the first half of the way before finding his balance and giggling his way into his father’s arms.

Tommy smiled widely at you as his son burrowed onto his lap, quieting a bit as he glanced quickly down at his son.

“He’s just going to keep growing, isn’t he?”

“It’s what babies do, Tom. He’s still little.”

“I know, I just...I feel like there’s a clock in the back of my head, counting down to the day when this boy eagerly tells me he wants to join the family business.”

“Shut up, you,” you chastised, easily placing the wariness that remark placed in you to the back of your mind, standing up and holding your arms out for your son. Your husband relinquished him willingly, standing with a groan as the knee that had been bothering him for the better part of a month twinged.

To you, that was the end of the issue, but Tommy still fretted, not letting the issue of his son’s future leave his mind until the end of the month, when he opened the door, exhausted after a day of threats and intimidation, and was greeted by his first born toddling towards him, smiling widely.

Walking wasn’t such a disaster.

-

Charlie had (perhaps unsurprisingly) turned out to be fairly precocious, eager to learn, constantly climbing up onto your lap and brandishing books at you, from Tolstoy to cookbooks he’d had to climb onto the cabinets in the kitchen to reach. You had been more than happy to help him learn to read, teaching him short words until he formed a pleasant habit of telling you what the labels on all the foods you saw said.

His father was more at a loss when asked to explain arithmetic to his son, trying to explain the economic ins and outs of horse racing without letting on his involvement in the sport was illegal, finally turning to you in frustration and imploring that you enroll him in school a year early. Tommy’s moving of your family to the countryside shortly after Charlie’s first birthday proved advantageous, as you were only a few roads away from being adjacent to a school which fit your husband’s stringent demands, private and highly competent.

You were given a date of the first of September, and for the first time, you found yourself becoming the nervous one, fretting over Charlie’s tiny blazer and pants until they were perfectly ironed, collapsing onto the couch, where Tommy found you, staring at the wall.

“You were right, Tom.”

“Hmmm?”

“He’s growing up and I don’t like it.”

“It’s just school,” he reassured you, settling beside you and placing a kiss on your hair. “He’s still our little boy.”

Little, you told yourself continually as you watched him walk through the front door of his school and away from you, taking a deep breath and compartmentalizing your feelings.

He’ll be fine, you reinforced. Better to focus on the multiple violent things you’d like to do to Alfie Solomons’ smug face.

-

Tommy was, you were loathe to admit, occasionally right. You hadn’t even considered the inevitable, preferring to cross that bridge when you came to it; your son wanting to become a full member of the Peaky Blinders.

It happened three weeks after his thirteenth birthday, when Arthur snuck him his first shot of whiskey and you and your husband pretended not to see him holding hands with a girl so he wouldn’t be deeply mortified.

Charlie had been wearing his Peaky cap religiously for the three years he’d had it, stalling small pieces of paper inside it in place of razors, which you refused to add. He’d learned how to shoot small pistols fairly accurately, and though you’d never caught him, the smell of cigarettes had begun to permeate his bedroom.

School had become less and less appealing to your son, as he brushed off your attempts to encourage his learning, telling you he knew all he really needed to know already.

He hadn’t proposed the issue to his father, instead turning to Michael for some kind of convoluted ‘permission’ to become involved in England’s criminal underworld while barely a teenager. Michael hadn’t quite laughed in his face like you’d wanted him to, instead sending your only son on small pickups for money or firearms.

This continued for two and one half months before Tommy got wind of it, stomping into the house past noon and slamming his cap on the table.

“Michael’s got him fuckin’ running errands,” he spit at you, staring with fury at you.

“What?” You said faintly, unwilling or incapable to understand.

“For the business, love. Our son has begun transporting fucking deadly firearms to foreign nationals who’d sooner kill him than pay him.”

You sat down heavily in the nearest chair, threading fingers into your hair and regarding your husband forlornly.

“Now he’s started, he’s not going to want to stop. It’s the nature of the business.”

“I know. I was the same damn way.”

Tommy leaned heavily on the table, close enough to place a reassuring hand on your shoulder, and you were reminded of the day you first brought Charlie home from the hospital, and the trepidation you and his father both felt. You thought you’d had more time before your son became eager to join an industry that would sure destroy him in the same way it destroyed the man you loved.

That trepidation took on a new form as Charlie was quick to plead his case to his father, demonstrating his prowess at loading firearms as well as his eagerness to take on any small task allotted to him.

You relented before your husband, surprisingly enough.

It was harmless enough, you told yourself, and being a full-fledged Shelby could help your son, even, inspire people to be more wary around him and enforce the ranks of the men of the Garrison.

-

It was achingly, ironically sunny the day you buried your son. An equal two weeks before from his twenty fourth birthday and two weeks after the date he was married.

His casket had to be made especially long, as he’d grown like a weed and long since surpassed his father.

You had felt fear many times since you’d become a mother in the beginning of February, many moons ago, but now you just felt numb, leaning into your husband, who refused to shed a tear, and drawing your daughter closer to you, swallowing hard and ignoring the fact that she was all you had left.

[martinmcg]

KING ROOK

I grew up in a housing estate that was built on a gently-rising hillside. The top of the hill was ringed with trees, ancient sessile oaks, wych elm and horse chestnut. You wouldn’t call it a forest, it’s not that big, but it’s a bit more than a few random trees. We called it Hangman’s Woods because in the old days they didn’t bother building a scaffold in town, they just dragged people from the courthouse down the road, stuck a rope around their neck and pulled them by the neck over a branch of the biggest oak in the wood.

Justice. So they said.

The rooks were probably there then, watching and waiting for a feed. They still rule the place today.

These were big birds with heavy black beaks and bodies matt as coal dust but their hoods shone like satin and framed beaded eyes that saw everything.

Every evening the rooks welcomed the night with a great performance. The clamour, at first just one or two birds, grew quickly as groups returned from their day’s scavenging. Soon dozens and then hundreds and eventually maybe a thousand rooks swirled in one black cloud around the treetops. In the valley below the housemartins and swifts zipped and flitted between the rows of our houses, but we all lived in the shadow of the rooks.

Finally, at some unknowable signal, the gyring mass would all at once drop from the sky to their roosts in the trees. For a few minutes the branches swayed and rattled as the birds settled down. And when, at last, all went quiet, night had come.

*

Al McCourt was waiting for me when I got home from the last day of my Saturday job in Woolworths. He was leaning on the fence outside our house and annoying the dog, Nipper, who was lying on the concrete slabs of the short path between the gate and the house, ears flat, teeth bared, growling like an angry bear. It’d have been impressive if the mutt had been more than ten inches high.

“Shut up, Nipper!”

The growling stopped, but Nipper didn’t take his eyes off McCourt. He could hold a grudge that wee dog.

Al was a prick. He was thin-faced with a nose like the thick end of a hurley and a way of standing side-on so he was always looking at you out the corner of one eye. His voice was high and wheedling and it made the back of your neck crawl like metal scraping metal. He didn’t care that people hated him, he seemed to take pride in the way they shuddered at his approach. He mistook fear for respect. But Al was also my uncle Seamus’s man, and that meant that no one got to give him the kicking he obviously deserved. Except for the one night, a couple of years before, when the Brits had caught him out on his own.

They beat the shit out of him.

McCourt walked with a limp to this day. He wore it like a badge of honour and claimed a fortune off the DHSS for it. He was never out of the Citizens Advice place.

Economic warfare, Seamus called it. Taking the Brits for every penny.

Scrounging, my Da said.

Anyway, the day the Brits put Al McCourt in hospital was about as close as the two communities in Ardowen ever got to a moment of harmony. If we could have turned his beating into a spectator sport the whole Troubles might have ended there and then. We could have made a few bob too.

McCourt pulled himself up to his full height, flicking a pebble at the dog as he turned to me. I wasn’t tall but he barely came up to my chin. He scratched at his ear through a mass of greasy hair and grinned.

“Your uncle wants to see you,” he said. “Pronto, Tonto!”

I hated being called Tonto, a childhood nickname because my freckles made me a “redskin”.

“No can do, kemosabe,” I said, shaking my head. I wasn’t going to let the little shit know he’d annoyed me. “I’m away out the night.”

That wasn’t a lie. It was the last Saturday before we all left for university and I was going to a disco in Cookstown with Paddy and Aidan and the lads from school. We were going to get lashed and see how many girls we could persuade to let us stick our tongues down their throats. And maybe cop a feel. You never knew what we might get away with before we crossed the water. That was the plan for me and Paddy anyway. Aidan’d be out the back dry-humping his girl from Ballygawley and then trying to persuade us he’d really done it.

“Y’can get your end away later, wee Connolly,” McCourt seemed very pleased with himself, like he knew something I didn’t. “Your uncle says it’s urgent.”

“Can I at least get a wash and a change first?”

McCourt shrugged.

“The back bar–”

“-in O’Neill’s,” I cut him off. I knew where Seamus would be, it was where he always was.

“By seven, Tonto.” McCourt turned away, his bad leg dragging behind him like some doomed bird’s broken wing. “Don’t keep the big man waiting.”

“Yeah, and fuck you too,” I whispered softly as I opened the gate.

*

Nothing on the estate was safe from the rooks. Cats, small dogs, rabbits – any kind of unwary pet or careless wild thing was a potential target. A ruffling of feathers, a chorus of rough croaks and something vulnerable would squeal. Afterwards the rooks would stride casually across the road or on the little patch of scrubby grass that was our Croke Park, our Old Trafford, our playground, and they would dare us to challenge them, their beaks still glossed with blood.

I was the first baby born in our estate. It was newly built, still smelling of concrete dust and paint, the white stones of the pebbledash gleaming in the weak spring sunshine. The whole place had been a frantic response to a civil rights campaign that was rapidly turning into the bloody Troubles. It was a hopeless attempt to jam shut a box from which the nightmares had long since fled. Years later it would turn out that all the houses were slowly sliding down the hill into the bog in the valley below. You can take that for a metaphor of how rotten things were back then if you like but it was also the truth.

Whatever came later, my Ma was proud of her new home. They’d moved from a two-up-two-down built into the side of a railway cutting so steep you practically needed a ladder to climb the street outside. That house, she always said, had been so small you couldn’t peel a spud without opening the back door. The new house had three bedrooms, an inside toilet and a garden. She loved that house.

My parents moved in while the houses around them were still being built. I was born, she said, before the paint was dry. And before people learned what it was like to live with the rooks.

It was a bright spring morning and Ma left my pram in the garden – for all the violence on the television it was still a safe thing to do. She left me there and went back into the house to clean or cook or do whatever one of the thousand other things she did to make our lives that little bit better.

When she came back, just a few minutes later, a huge rook was sitting on the handle of my pram, staring in at me.

She screamed and rushed forward, waving frantic arms, trying to scare the bird away.

The rook just stared at her.

My Ma stopped.

Small, bottomless, eyes took her in and then turned down to me as I lay gurgling in the pram. There was a moment of stillness. Then the bird spread its wings and launched itself into the air and setting my pram rocking.

My Ma described the rook as a monster – vast as an eagle, darker than the night.

“The King Rook,” she’d called it and my dad had laughed his head off at her.

But I know the King Rook is real. It left me a gift, a pebble, smoothed and polished by running water until in shone like a jewel that my Ma kept for me. And he came back, again and again. Sometimes he took my things. He took my Action Man from the garden, my toy car from the playground, a schoolbook with my homework in it and a cassette of songs I’d taped off the Sunday afternoon chart show.

I knew it was the rook because, whenever he took something, he always left a gift behind.

A pyramid of snail shells, each one punched neatly open with a single round hole and emptied. The pale skull of a rat. A delicate blue egg, hollowed and cleaned. One morning, planted in the centre of our tiny front garden like a banner or a sign of ownership, I found a single black feather with a gloss so perfect that it reflected light like a mirror.

And there were other things. Bloody things.

They were magical signs. Signs that no matter how bad things got around me – and there were times when things got very bad – I was protected.

The King Rook was watching over me.

*

O’Neill’s bar was a fortress. The windows were protected by shutters made from thick-gauge wire that were kept permanently closed. The inside of the windows had been blocked up with breezeblocks and a string of bulbs, white Christmas tree lights, hung in the gap between the wall and the glass to make the place look a bit less grim from the outside. It didn’t work. The pub’s walls – rebuilt after a UVF bomb attack – were thick reinforced concrete skimmed over with rough plaster and painted a grimy brown and there were bright lights and cameras covering the car park and every approach.

I didn’t want to miss my bus to Cookstown so I’d rushed getting ready. It wasn’t, officially, opening time yet and, for form’s sake, the outside door was closed when I got to the pub – not that that meant anything. I pressed the bell and looked up into the camera. The buzzer went and I pushed my way in. Michael Molloy was sitting on a stool in the hall, a baseball bat leaning against the wall beside him, and he nodded me through as I turned left into the public bar.

When things get going, the front bar in O’Neill’s is a busy place, full of people enjoying a laugh and a drink. Later on there’d be a bit of singing and a lot of noise but it was early yet and quiet as the hardcore set about their beer and shorts with a steady desperation. The Sacred Heart lamps we called them, laughing behind their backs, because the drink had given them all red noses.

Even this early the smoke was hanging thick between the yellowed walls so that it obscured the big pictures of the local heroes, Thomas J Clarke – one of the Easter Rising crowd – and Martin Hurson – one of the hunger strikers – that took pride of place behind the bar. Between the pictures was an ornamental harp that Sean, the owner, had made in the woodwork lessons he got while he was interned in the Long Kesh. He’d painted tiocfaidh ár lá in white Gaelic lettering on the brown varnished wooden base.

Sean smiled at me as I walked through to the back bar.

“Pint?”

“I’m not staying,” I said.

“Smithwicks?”

I nodded, resigned.

“I’ll bring it through.”

The thick fug of cigarette smoke was about the only thing the back bar of O’Neill’s had in common with the front. The walls were painted a dark green that seemed to swallow the light and there was a damp and rotten stink from the drains of the toilets next door. It was grim.

My uncle Seamus sat in his usual place in a booth with his back to the wall, so he could see who was coming in. The only other way out was a long narrow corridor that lead to the toilets and ended with a door so heavily wrapped in metal armour that it took two people to drag it open. There was a peephole cut into the door and a monitor, showing a picture of the back car park, sat on a shelf above the lintel.

Half-a-dozen hard men sat nursing whiskeys and pints at other tables. They all wore black leather jackets and aggressively stone-washed jeans and a few sported impressive displays of what they, no doubt, imagined to be authentically Gaelic facial hair.

“What’s the score, wee Tonto?” Seamus said.

“Ach, the usual, you know me” I said, trying to keep it light. “How’s about you, Uncle Seamus,”

“Same old same old,” he said. “Come in. Sit down. You don’t want to be making me nervous now, do you?”

“No way,” I said, and laughed.

Seamus was a funny fella. When he was in a good mood, he had a great sense of humour and always had some story or a comeback. In a country where slagging off your neighbour was practically an Olympic sport, there weren’t many could beat my uncle. Of course there weren’t many that tried either. You didn’t want to be the one who went too far or said the wrong thing. It wasn’t a mistake you’d make twice.

Seamus didn’t look like much at all. He was a short, slightly stocky man with a shiny bald head and a neatly-trimmed, snowy beard. He dressed well, favouring slightly old-fashioned tweed suits and he devoted special attention his shoes – always the best Italian leather and always polished to a gleaming finish. You could have imagined him as a dapper off-duty Santa Claus – if Santa had turned out to spend his spare time moonlighting as a psychopath.

You never forgot the first time you saw Uncle Seamus lose his temper.

He was a man who moved in circles where a lack of regard for the well-being of others was an entry-level requirement, but even amongst that crowd Seamus stood out. He was fearsome as an individual, precisely and thoroughly vicious, but it was his talent for dreaming up acts of exquisite brutality and the enthusiasm with which his brigade of volunteers made those dreams real that had made his name.

The Cripple Feeney could tell you about what Seamus and his lads were capable of doing. Or rather, he’d write down what Seamus did to him, and then he’d make that sick sucking sound that he does instead of laughing when you went pale reading his words.

Sean came in and put the pint of Smithwicks in front of me.

“That’ll tighten you, Tonto,” he said, a bit too loud, and slapped me on the shoulder. He was nervous. I could smell the sweat on him even over the cigarette smoke. “Can I get you anything, Seamus?”

My uncle shook his head but said nothing. He stared at Sean, his face blank, his pale eyes fixing the barman. I looked between the two men and then looked down, determined not to get drawn into whatever was going on. I liked Sean, I felt sorry for him, but I didn’t want any bit of it.

“Dead on, so,” Sean said and let slip a peal of laughter that was pitched too high. “Well, if you need anything, you know where I am.”

“Oh I do, alright,” said Seamus and then said nothing else.

Sean turned to go, stopped, turned back as though to speak, and then shook his head and left.

The silence dragged. I picked up my pint and took a heavy gulp from the glass even though the head hadn’t quite settled out. My throat was dry. The beer was cold and sharp and I needed it.

One of the lads on my left – one of The Cripple Feeney’s brothers – mumbled something and another one, I didn’t know him, snorted and laughed.

My uncle turned his head and the silence snapped back into place.

I took another drink. The pint was two thirds gone.

“Right, Tonto,” Seamus said at last. “I’ve got a wee job for you.”

He nodded and the stranger who’d been doing the laughing came over and put something that was wrapped in a greasy cloth on the table between me and Seamus. He went back to his seat, my eyes stayed on the thing on the table. It was small but obviously heavy.

Seamus reached over and with fingertips, as though determined not to let the thing soil his hands, he pushed the lump of metal towards me.

I reached for my pint again and closed my eyes.

Fuck.

*

I spent my thirteenth birthday at the same place as I’d spent all my birthdays since I’d been old enough to go to school – at Colm Hagan’s birthday party.

Colm Hagan’s dad and uncle were lawyers. The richest Catholics in the county, everyone reckoned. When I was young they bought the hill and Hangman’s Wood and they chopped down a dozen big trees to make room to build two big, ugly, square-sided houses that looked down over our estate.

Colm Hagan joined my class and, it turned out, he had the same birthday as me. At first we both though that was cool and for a while we were friends. Then came our birthday and Colm Hagan invited the whole class to his fancy house and I found myself spending my birthday there because that’s where all my other friends had gone.

What could we offer? A slice of Battenberg cake, a fig roll, a glass of orange squash and a game of musical chairs – if they were lucky.

When Colm was nine he got two go-karts and his dad built him a track through the woods so he could have races. I’d have chosen his party over mine too.

We stopped being friends.

He probably never even thought about it.

I hated him.

But not so much that I was happy when I found his dead body, eyes pecked out, lying at the foot of a big oak in his own back garden on the day we both turned thirteen.

The party had been great. Everyone was having a brilliant time. We watched Colm play Elite and Chuckie Egg on his BBC Micro and then we rode around the woods on our bikes so Colm could show off his BMX and there was loads of food. By the time the cake came out I’d had enough of watching everyone else having a good time so I crammed a load of wee sausages and bread in my pockets and went out to feed the birds.

I’d emptied my pockets and was heading back to the house for more when I found Colm, lying face up on the ground next to his bike, with a big purple bruise on his forehead and his skin as pale and thin as paper.

On his chest, lying on the crest of his Man United football jersey, was another gift for me.

Feeling the bile burn in my throat, suddenly glad I hadn’t wanted any cake, I picked up the liquid sack of Connor Hagan’s eye and slipped it into my pocket, shoving the slick cord of the optic nerve in after it.

And then I started shouting for help.

*

“Ah you’re fucking joking!” I said, but no one was laughing. In fact everyone else in the room was suddenly very serious indeed – like birds waiting for the barely moving thing before them to sit still and become carrion.

“It’s just a wee parcel I’m asking you to help me deliver, Tonto,” Seamus said. “Would you not do this for me… and for the struggle?”

I bowed my head.

“Remember what the Brits did to my sister,” he said. “God rest her soul.”

“Don’t bring Ma into this!” My voice rose sharply and I looked up. Seamus met my gaze with a flat stare and dared me to hold it. I looked away, feeling the hot blood rush to my cheeks.

I was screwed. I could see from the look Seamus was giving me that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I was family, and that bought me some leeway, but Seamus couldn’t let anyone get away with anything that looked like defiance. He had a reputation to maintain. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be lying, blood-soaked and maimed, on the other side of that armoured door. Seamus wasn’t going to let a pup like me challenge him in front of the others, sister’s boy or not.

“The Brits’ll go through everything. You know what they’re like,” I whined. “They’re bound to find it.”

“Why would the Brits be interested in some fucking student?” Laughing-boy, the one I didn’t know, asked.

“Because I’m related to him,” I said, nodding at Seamus. “Fuckin’ twat!”

Laughing-boy stood up and took a step forward, his fists balled.

I pushed back my chair, rising to meet him.

“Stop,” Seamus barely whispered. We both froze.

“Sorry,” I said to Seamus. The other fella mumbled something and sat back down.

“Of course they’re going to check you, Tonto,” Seamus said. “Just stick the thing in one of your wee friends’ bags. What they don’t know, won’t hurt them.”

“If they get caught–”

I started to protest but Seamus cut me short.

“They won’t,” he said. “And if they do, sure I’ll look after them. They’ll be grand.”

He pushed the heavy thing across the table to me.

“Now do as you’re told and piss off out of my sight.”

*

I didn’t get to Cookstown or the disco. I met the lads at the bus station and told them they’d have to go without me. Paddy moaned for bit about ending up on his own but I mentioned Seamus and Aidan told him to shut up.

I watched the blue and white Ulsterbus pull out of the station and cross the old railway bridge. Aidan and Paddy sat in the back seats and made wanker gestures at me until they were out of sight. Then I went home.

*

I have collection spread in front of me now. If I concentrate hard, I can still feel the sense of security it once promised. I can still feel like someone is watching over me, that I am protected. But it’s getting harder. My dad calls it rubbish, and sometimes I can see it with his eyes.

This will be my last day in this house. Tomorrow I will leave for university. Tomorrow night I will be sleeping in a different country and I will be surrounded by people I was always told were my enemy. I know I won’t be able to come back, not for long time. Some part of me already knew that this was never going to be my home again and part of me can’t wait to get away.

And part of me does not want to go.

It’s the end of September. The summer has been long and hot and, even though you can already feel the days shortening, today has been warm. The evening sky is bright and sharp with only the spreading contrails of jets looping north on their way to America dividing up the expanse of deepening blue.

I wrap each piece of my collection carefully in sheets from yesterday’s copy of the Daily Mirror and place them in a plastic tub that used to be my Da’s lunchbox. Then I put the tub carefully in the centre of my rucksack so it will be safe on the journey.

I drag Seamus’s package out from beneath my bed. I hold it for a minute between two fingers, staring at it from different angles. How can something so small feel so massive? Just picking it off the table in O’Neill’s back bar has ruined me, changed the track of my life, and yet it hasn’t even been used. What more damage will be done if I follow Seamus’s orders?

I hate it. I hate him.

I put the thing down on the bed. Pick it up again. Put it down. I put on my coat then take the rag-wrapped thing and jam it into my inside pocket.

I have made a decision and I am relieved to find that I have no doubts.

I go down stairs, kiss the picture of my Ma in the hall, like I always do, and wish she was still here, like I always do. My Da’s there too, at the bottom of the stairs with the paper, heading to the toilet. I give him a hug as I go past and tell him I love him. His surprise quickly turns to fear.

“What’s going on?” I hear him say, but I’m outside before he can drag me back.

The rooks are coming home to roost, the first few already circling high above the woods, and tonight I want to watch them for the last time.

Al McCourt is sitting outside our house in an Austin Maestro that’s the colour of stale piss. He leans out the window, his face twisted into a smile.

“Going somewhere, Tonto?”

“Just going for a walk up in the woods,” I say, nodding to the hill. “You coming?”

Al eyes the hill suspiciously. The light is starting to fade. The dead eyes of the Hagan’s houses, long abandoned their gardens slowly being reclaimed by the wood, stare down at us. The gyring mass of birds is thickening.

Al knows those birds, knows how they flock, how they prey upon the people of the estate. And, because he recognises them, he fears them.

“Don’t you be playing any funny games,” he says.

I smile at him and turn away.

Let Al choose his own fate.

I am going to climb the hill into Hangman’s Wood and go to the spot where I found Colm Hagan. I want to see the King Rook. I’m bringing him a final offering, but this time I want to choose what I get in return.

I want him to let me go.

“King Rook” was first published in the Irish science fiction magazine Albedo One #45

KING ROOK was originally published on Welcome To My World

[kasiopeiae]

Mind the Ferns

[ellanainthetardis]

And today we deal with post mj unresolved stuff. Don’t blame me, it happened ;)

[FF] or [AO3]

40. 4 Weeks

Running had never been Effie’s favorite activity.

Running though the woods where the ground was uneven instead of on a treading mill didn’t make it any better. Still, there was fresh air, Snowball to keep her company and the attractive possibility of going out of the house if only for half an hour.

Her parents’ visit and their determination to find out about the war had stirred too many things that were better left alone. Effie hadn’t been sleeping that well, more than once she had gotten out of bed from a bout of insomnia to clean the whole house in the middle of the night. Haymitch wasn’t faring any better. He clung to her in his sleep, called her name sometimes… His nightmares weren’t as violent as his past night terrors but it was obvious to her she had a leading role in them. The fact that they were slowly but surely coming up on the former period of Reaping days wasn’t helping any. As for April, she was picking up on the tension and crying a lot, to the point – and she felt so guilty about that – Effie was desperate for every minute of quiet.

She couldn’t remember the last time they all had a night of proper rest.

It was hard to realize April was a month old.

Sometimes it felt like she had been there forever, other times it was like she was born yesterday.

She smiled when she remembered Haymitch insisting on marking her sole month of life two days earlier. And she was supposed to be the one who loved parties… He had asked Peeta for a cake and everything… It had only been them and the children but it had been fun, it had helped put some joy back in the house.

She circled back through the woods to the Village, waving back at people who greeted her politely and ignoring those who muttered after her. The geese were roaming around and had spilled from the backyard to the front of the house. She shooed them with some apprehension, staying close to Snowball who had a natural gift for dispersing them, until she could reach the door. She left the dog outside to play with his feathery friends.

It was quiet inside so she tried not to make too much noise, not wanting to wake up April in case she was sleeping. A peek in the living-room told her that her daughter was fast asleep – on top of Haymitch’s chest. She snorted at the way he was sprawled on the couch, his head propped on the armrest, certain he would complain about a crick in the neck later on. His hands were holding the baby, making sure she wouldn’t fall even as he slept, and she put any fear of that happening to rest.

They didn’t nap with April a lot.

They were both scared of what could happen.

But either their daughter was magical or their unconscious knew never to hurt the child, because the few times they had, it actually been the best sleep they had snatched in a while.

The living-room was a right mess. There were a lot of colorful toys on the floor, things they usually tried to distract April with when she was crying… Haymitch had a stuffed purple elephant with a nice blue ribbon wedged against his side. A bear and a dog were on the coffee table and she made a mental note to put them away before Snowball caught sight of them – the dog couldn’t resist stuffed toys. She was happy to notice April was holding on to the cat rag doll, though. Well, she was too little to really hold on to it but she liked to close her fist around its paw in her sleep. Her small fingers squeezed it sometimes while she dreamed and it was the most precious thing.

The camera had been abandoned on the bookcase, it was by far too tempting to resist.  

She was going to continue on her way upstairs for a shower when a soft noise coming from the kitchen caught her attention. She doubted a stranger could have sneaked in the house without Haymitch being aware – and the geese making a racket – so she strolled in the kitchen, confident about who she would find.

And, surely enough, Peeta was putting away food from grocery bags.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that, Peeta!” she exclaimed. “I would have gone.”

Their cupboards had been empty for a few days now and they had been living on eggs, coffee and everything the children brought every day. Going grocery shopping had been at the top of her list but there seemed to always be something more pressing to do. Change a diaper, rock April, enjoy five minutes of calm with Haymitch…

The boy dismissed that with a smile and a wave of his hand. “I was on my way back from the bakery anyway. I left early. Delly will close.”

Effie glanced at the clock. It was early. It wasn’t like him to leave the bakery mid-afternoon.

“Are you and Katniss doing something special?” she grinned, the romantic in her already swooning at whatever Peeta had planned. “Do you have a surprise for her? A picnic, perhaps?”

Peeta awkwardly shuffled his weight from one foot to the other and then cleared his throat, focusing on putting the last of the groceries in its proper place. “Actually… I thought I would hang out with my favorite niece if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” she frowned, surprised. “Is everything alright?”

She had noticed Peeta was around often, more often than Katniss in any case. She had dismissed that as inconsequential because as fond as the girl was of April, babies weren’t her scene. Katniss was sweet on her daughter, she always brought back small gifts and she always kissed her head hello and goodbye but she wasn’t at ease when Effie asked her to pick her up or to carry her for a moment.

“Sure.” the boy claimed. Too cheerfully. Far too cheerfully.

Her frown deepened.

“As much as I love having you here, are you certain you do not want to enjoy Katniss’ company?” she insisted, pushing the curtain aside so she could check the blue sky outside. “It is such a nice day… You should take her out on a date.”

“She’s probably in the woods anyway.” he shrugged.

“All the more reason to surprise her.” she prompted. “Why, you two could go to the lake… It is lovely out there, isn’t it?”

And secluded.

Haymitch had taken her there a few times the previous summer.

“Do you want me to leave?” Peeta asked, sounding uncertain. “I’m sorry, you probably want to have a nap or something… Haymitch said April wasn’t sleeping through the night yet.”

The boy looked flustered now and Effie felt bad. She grabbed his arm before he could make a run for it.

“You are always welcome, Peeta.” she stated firmly, pursing her lips a little. It shouldn’t have needed saying. It was obvious he was troubled about something however and she should have noticed earlier that something wasn’t right. Now that she thought about it… Finding a new routine with April had been chaotic but she realized she hadn’t seen the children together outside of meals. “Tell you what…” she hummed. “I will pop upstairs for a quick shower and a change of clothes. You can put the kettle to boil and when I come down you can tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wr…” he started but she lifted a finger and narrowed her eyes at him.

“Don’t lie to me.” she requested.

He closed his mouth and nodded his assent.

It was the quickest shower she could take and she rushed the getting dressed part. She gave up on make-up and on her hair, leaving it in the high bun she had tied it up in for running. She struggled to zip up her dress. Her old clothes didn’t quite fit even though she had managed to get her figure more or less back. She was still curvier than she used to be but it didn’t look that bad. Her stomach, at least, was almost flat. There was nothing to do for the stretch marks, short of plastic surgery.

She needed new clothes, she decided as she walked down the stairs.

She heard April stirring so she made a detour to pick her up before she could wake Haymitch, snatching the baby sling from the armchair. It was her favorite accessory and she thanked Eileen every day for thinking of gifting it to them. Besides, April loved it even more than she loved the pram. If she really was upset, putting her in the sling and walking around was a good way of making her stop crying.

She came back to the kitchen just as Peeta placed two mugs full of steaming tea on the table. His face immediately lit up when he caught sight of the baby and Effie handed her over without hesitation. She still didn’t like it when people picked April up but she had gotten used to the children doing it. She trusted them.

And, truth be told, if Peeta wanted to change diapers, he was more than welcome to do it.

She prepared April’s bottle, listening as the boy talked in a silly voice to her daughter. She smiled at the picture they made but the smile faded when she focused on getting the bottle just right. She was still less at ease with that than Haymitch but she had learned. Breastfeeding… She loved it but she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep it up much longer. It was becoming painful and they were forced to give a bottle to April afterwards because she simply couldn’t produce enough milk. It was an indulgence more than a necessity now.

“Can I do it?” Peeta asked hopefully.

She hesitated. Feeding April was special for her. She already couldn’t do it the natural way… She shared those times with Haymitch because she loved the soft smile he always got when he gave her bottle to their daughter but she was never eager to let anyone else do it.

She nodded with a forced smile though, thinking it might cheer the boy up. It was clear it wasn’t the first time Peeta did it though so Haymitch probably had let him do it more than once. The boy didn’t need instructions or warnings to let her set the pace. He put a cloth on his shoulder to prevent accidents even.

A bit impressed, she sat down and watched, cradling her mug of tea in her hands.

“You are a natural.” she commented after a few minutes.

He flashed a beaming smile at her, eyes shining with… something. “Do you think so?”

“I do.” she promised. And then she realized what the problem was. “You want one.”

It wasn’t a question and Peeta didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t understand. He kept his eyes on her daughter, smiling softly. “She’s so precious…”

“Peeta…” she hesitated.

“I want something new. Something good. Something that will make life… meaningful.” he sighed. “Why is it so wrong to want that?”

“There is nothing wrong with that.” she offered. “But you are only nineteen.”

“And I feel like I lived a hundred years.” he shrugged, careful not to disturb the baby. “People have children at nineteen around here. It’s more common than waiting to be forty.”

She wasn’t sure if that was a gibe at hers and Haymitch’s age or a clumsy comment so she let it drop. She took a sip of her tea and considered her next words with care. “You haven’t completely recovered yet.”

“And I won’t ever completely recover.” he countered. “That’s the thing, Effie… I don’t want to wait for my life to start. There are entire pans of my memories… They’re lost to me. I’m not sure if they’re real or not. I can ask, yes, but they’re never going to be… They’re never going to be mine again. Not really. It’s like something someone tells you. A story.” He snorted. “Half my life is a story now.”

She reached out and squeezed his wrist. “But you are doing so much better… With some more time…”  

“I think I’m as good as I’m ever going to be.” he interrupted softly. He shook his head and put the empty bottle down to gently tap April’s back. She spat on the cloth on his shoulder and started fussing but he had her calm down in a second by gently rubbing her stomach. “I don’t have episodes anymore. Or really rarely anyway. Doctor Aurelius thinks it’s as good as it’s going to get. I don’t even have weekly sessions now. I just call now and then to check in or when I need to talk. I’m as much me as I’m ever going to be…”

His voice trailed off with unmistakable sadness.

“I see.” she said. How had she missed that much? She had been far too focused on herself and her pregnancy and then April… “Dear, you should have told me…”

“You were busy growing a human being.” he joked lightly. “And it’s fine really. I’m…. good. But…”

“You want new memories.” she finished for him.

He adjusted his grip on the baby so he could bring the mug of tea to his mouth.

“I’m ready to move on.” he admitted. “And Katniss… She’s not.”

“It is… difficult to watch the one you love being consumed by grief.” she agreed, thinking back of years of doing just that. Watching Haymitch being devoured by his demons, unable to help or say anything to comfort him while he drown in a bottle… “She made some progress too, though. It could be a lot worse.” She could still be addicted to morphling, for one. “Healing takes time and not the same amount of it for everyone.”

She would know. She was still doing it.

“Yes, I know. I understand.” he promised. “I want to support her like she supported me. It’s just… She’s been working on that book for more than two years now.”

“The tributes book?” She made a face.

“It didn’t start with tributes. It started with people we lost.” he sighed. “Then it was Haymitch and her working on dead tributes. And now she’s asking Johanna and Annie for information on tributes from their Districts and…” He rubbed his face. “Where does it stop, Effie?”

“I have never been a fan of this idea, you know.” she confessed. “It is certainly a very noble idea to give them the recognition they deserve but… It is painful for me. Haymitch never… Haymitch always knew how to distance himself – or how to pretend to at least. I was never talented in that area. I got attached. Always. And they always died and it was always…” She stopped talking and waved a dismissive hand. “No matter. It is a noble idea but it is also very painful.”

“It was supposed to be a way to put them to rest.” Peeta explained. “Now… Now I don’t know what it is anymore. It’s like a gigantic shrine. Jo didn’t want to help.”

“Yes, I cannot imagine she would.” Effie snorted. Johanna wasn’t good at dealing with unwanted emotions. “I cannot imagine Annie being much help either. She never was a mentor.”

“Exactly.” Peeta commented. “So she’s talking about getting in touch with Plutarch. Finding some way to… figure out who they were. She’s writing them a graveyard and I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know where it stops. It’s the work of a lifetime.”

She stirred her tea distractedly. “Perhaps it is what she needs. A purpose.”

Katniss looked balanced enough to her eyes but she wasn’t living with the girl. Still, she was walking, talking, laughing… It was more than they would have bet on after the war. It was a true victory.

“She lives in the past.” he insisted. “And when I talk about the future, our future…”

“Don’t pressure her.” she winced.

“That’s what Haymitch said.” he snorted. “And that’s not what I’m trying to do. I’m not saying let’s get married tomorrow and start a family but…”

“That is exactly what you said to me ten minutes ago.” she pointed out.

He flushed but didn’t deny it.

“I want a family.” he admitted. “But I’m willing to wait if I know it’s in the cards someday. That’s all I’m asking for. A someday. Someday we’ll get married. Someday we’ll have a family of our own. Someday we’ll move on for good.”

A someday was a nice thing to have.

When she had still been an escort, she had dreamed of a someday when Haymitch would love her back all the while dreading the someday when she would be forced to quit, certain it would be the last of him she would see.

“She won’t give me that.” he continued. “She doesn’t want kids. She’s been very clear on that. She doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t want to keep the discussion open for later… She just… She doesn’t want them.”

“She is barely nineteen and she went through so much grief…” Effie countered. “I understand your stance, really, I do. I wanted children for a long time before… Well, you know.” She looked down, willing her fingers to stop shaking. She hadn’t even mentioned the war and there she was, shaking like a leaf. She cleared her throat. “Haymitch had always been adamant children were a deal breaker.”

“How did you live with that?” he asked, brushing his fingers against April’s nose with open adoration.

“It was a non-question, really.” she sighed. “We were not… We were not a couple, Peeta. Not in the traditional sense of the word. And there was no future in the cards for us. We lived on borrowed time and we both knew it.” And there had been the miscarriages weighting on her mind already. The knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to bring life, that she would always end up losing them… “Any child of his would have been in danger anyway. It was a non-question.”

“You could have found someone else.” he mumbled, not meeting her eyes. “Someone who wanted the same things you did. Someone you didn’t have to sacrifice everything for all the time. Someone… Someone with whom you knew it could have been easy.”

She studied the boy, the flush on his cheeks, his embarrassment, and she rubbed her forehead, not quite certain she wanted to get involved in the mess she could guess at. “How far did it go with that woman?”

“What woman?” Peeta asked, far too innocently. He could be an atrocious liar sometimes. She simply tilted her head to the side, lips pursed. “We didn’t do anything. It’s… Nothing.”

“If it was nothing, as you claim, you would not be in my kitchen asking me if I would have left Haymitch for something easy.” she scoffed. She thought it over quickly and winced. “It is the Cartwright girl, isn’t it?”

“We’ve known each other a long time.” he replied defensively. “She’s… She’s nice, Effie. She’s soft and loving and she would… She loves being at the bakery, we have fun experimenting with pastries… Katniss never comes around anymore. She’s always in the woods or working on her book… She snaps at me all the time… She doesn’t even… She doesn’t even… She doesn’t even let me touch her anymore… She’s always tired or has a headache or…”

He sputtered the words with clear embarrassment.

“And how much of that has to do with you making doe eyes at your friend in front of her?” she rebuked, displeased. She snatched her daughter from his arms just because she was annoyed.

“I don’t…” he protested. “I told you. Nothing happened. It’s just… It could. If I wanted to, it could. And I’m not sure I don’t want it to.”

“You aren’t sure you do not want to sleep with another woman but you want Katniss to commit her life to you and carry your children.” she snorted. “Do you see the problem, here?”

“You make it sound like I cheated on her.” he snapped. “I didn’t.”

“You are halfway there trying to rationalize it.” she retorted. “Do you love that girl more than you love Katniss? That is the question here.”

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, running his hand in his hair. April cried out in protest to the raised voice and Effie rocked her distractedly, her whole attention on the boy falling apart in her kitchen. “It’s hard to figure out what’s real and what’s not. I… I’ve been in love with her forever but I was a child, Effie. And now…”

“Now you suppose you are a man because you let your head be turned by a pretty girl.” she scowled.

“It’s not like that.” he insisted. “I wouldn’t…”

“It seems to me like you would, actually.” she commented. “Be very sure, Peeta. Because if you hurt Katniss like this…”

“It’s always about not hurting Katniss.” he cut her off. “When is it about not hurting me?” What about what I want? What about…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you understand? I don’t know. Do I still love her or is it just… How do I know?”

Effie selfishly regretted not having taken a longer run. She wiped the drool off April’s chin to give herself something to do.

“In my experience, questioning one’s love is an answer in itself.” she said quietly.

“Maybe it went too fast.” the boy said, cradling his head between his hands, his elbows propped on the table. “Maybe we weren’t ready to live together. She needed me and I moved in but… I was never the one she loved most until she needed me.” He snorted bitterly. “Gale warned me… In the Capitol, he warned me she would always choose the one she needs most. But that’s not love, is it? That’s convenience. I don’t want to be just convenient. I want to…”

His voice broke and, with it, it seemed everything was breaking apart. Effie could see it clearly. He wasn’t talking to her anymore, not really. He was talking to himself. She had been down that road often enough over the years.

“Oh, darling…” she sighed. She placed April down in the baby seat and moved to the chair next to Peeta to wrap her arm around his shoulders. “She loves you. She isn’t good at showing it, perhaps. But she loves you.”

“But I’m not her great love.” he scowled. “I���m not what she is to me. If Gale hadn’t helped design that bomb, if Prim hadn’t died…”

“From what Haymitch told me, she didn’t exactly approve of Gale’s behavior during the war even before that.” she countered. “She never doubted you.”

“She gave up on me. Again and again.” he said tiredly. “I always put her first. Always. But… She still doesn’t.” He shook his head and she squeezed his shoulders harder. “It’s not really about her not wanting kids, you know?”

The words were quiet, almost shy.

“I know.” she hummed. Her not wanting kids had been the last drop that made a very full vase spill over. Had the kids ever talked about everything that had happened before and during the war? She didn’t think so. They were so young… “It will be alright, dear. You will see.”

Peeta was crying. Silently, yes, with his jaw clenched, but he was crying.

And it broke her heart.

“I need some space.” he whispered. “It has become… We’re avoiding each other. All the time. It’s awkward. I need some space to figure out what I want.”

“What or who?” she asked. She clucked her tongue once and then, against her better judgment, gave a piece of advice she would rather not. “There is a difference between love and lust, Peeta. You are young and you haven’t known anyone but her. Temptation…”

“I know.” he cut her off, clearly embarrassed. “But it’s not just… I really do like Delly. We’ve been friends forever.”

“Friends and lovers aren’t the same thing.” she warned. “And settling is not for everyone. Besides… If you love that girl so much, you should consider her feelings too. You cannot just take her for a spin and then…”

“Don’t make it sound so dirty!” he scowled, pushing her arm off his shoulders to stand up. “It’s not like… It’s not like I would sleep with her and then toss her aside…”

“Isn’t it?” she sighed. “In my experience…”

“Well, I’m not like that.” he denied, pacing the length of the kitchen. “I’m not… I’m not a bad guy. I would never cheat on Katniss. I would never use Delly that way. I just… I need to figure out what I want.”

She reached for the baby seat where April was fussing.

“I think you already did.” she remarked in a soft voice.

Peeta stared at her, almost shocked, and then nodded slowly.

She kept her eyes on her daughter when he left, a lump in her throat. She didn’t look up when she felt the familiar presence on the threshold.

“Well, shit.” Haymitch said eventually.

She didn’t ask how much he had heard. She figured he must have woken up sometimes when April had started crying and had stayed hidden not to get involved in that very volatile conversation.

“Don’t swear in front of the baby.” she rebuked flatly. She rubbed her face. “Should I have tried to convince him to think about it more?”

“Seems to me his mind was made before he even came here.” he muttered. “It’s been brewing for months. I just hoped…” He shrugged. “They might patch it up eventually. You and I fight all the time…”

“But we are not the children.” she whispered.

He came closer, placed his hands on her shoulders and rubbed the tension away. “Wasn’t your fault, sweetheart. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

“Well… If he hadn’t let that Cartwright girl turn his head…” she hissed. “What is it with you men and not being able to keep it in your pants?”

“You heard the kid, he didn’t cheat.” he sighed. “And… Won’t lie, I kinda want to punch him on the girl’s behalf but… We have to think about him too. It’s been coming. And it’s got nothing to do with the Cartwright girl or wanting to go see elsewhere. He’s been all in for a while. Katniss…” He shook his head. “She loves him, she’s happy with him, but you know that girl… She’s got walls.”

“She needs to take things slow and he should understand that.” she lamented. “I know it is not fair and that he has been the one making the most sacrifices but… If he truly loves her…”

“You’ve never doubted you love me?” he mocked gently. “It’s never become too much for you to handle? You’ve never thought you’d be better off with someone else? Someone easier.”

She dropped her head back, resting it against his stomach, her eyes on a still-fussing April. “It is different. We were doomed. We had no future. We weren’t… We weren’t healthy together at that time, Haymitch.”

Their affair had been self-destructive. A poison to add to their collection. A way to punish themselves and each other.

A slow deliciously toxic deadly torture.

Not quite during the last years of the Games, of course, and never after the war but…

That was water under the bridge.

She had always returned to him in the end anyway. Just like he had returned to her.

Moths to a flame, the two of them, desperate to crash and burn.

“Relationships are not always easy.” she added. “They need work. Compromises. It took us a while to learn how to properly live together, don’t you remember?”

They had been used to sharing a penthouse not a proper house with all it entailed.

“Maybe they need to figure that out for themselves.” he pointed out. “We can’t get involved or we’re gonna lose one of them, sweetheart.”

“I know.” she sighed, standing up. “Well, won’t it be just fun.”

He smirked at her sarcasm but it wasn’t exactly genuine. He was just as upset as she was, certainly.

They bathed April and fed her without any disaster hitting them. They even relaxed after a while. They enjoyed the bath time as they always did, playing with their daughter’s plastic toys, adamant the thing she did with her mouth was a smile and trying to coax it out of her again and again by making stupid boat noises or making plastic dolphins poke her in the stomach.

“We’re whipped.” Haymitch snorted very wisely, later, once they had placed her down in her bassinet.

They had eaten dinner on the couch like hooligans and Effie was now distractedly sketching baby clothes on a notepad. Snowball’s head was pillowed on her lap, his body stretched on one side of the L-shaped couch, and Haymitch was sprawled on what was left of it, leaving her with only a small corner to curl up in. She grumbled about it but it seemed to amuse him.

The sound of the front door opening and closing slowly had them look at each other with apprehension.

She had expected slamming doors and shouts but the quietness was even worse.

She barely had time to place the sketchpad down. Snowball had lifted his head and was looking in the corridor’s direction but he didn’t bark or anything, which confirmed it was one of the children.

Katniss soon appeared on the living-room’s threshold, looking pale and lost. She opened her mouth to tell them something but all that came out was a sob. It seemed to surprise her for a second. And then she was crying. Ugly sobs that made her bend in half.

“Oh, darling…” Effie whispered, pushing the dog off the couch so there would be room. “Come here.”

She wasn’t sure the girl would, truth be told, but Katniss made a beeline for them and curled up between them, letting them trap her in a hug without protest. Her head was nestled on Haymitch’s shoulder, her face buried in the fabric of his shirt. Effie combed her long loose hair with her fingers, murmuring sweet comforting words that did nothing to help her.

She shifted awkwardly when her body registered the crying and responded to it but she didn’t have enough milk for it to be a real problem.

Katniss didn’t even try to explain what was going on. She just sobbed until she hiccupped and heaved a little… She was trembling so badly… But even then the tears wouldn’t stop.

Effie tried to force her to drink some water, afraid she would dehydrate, but she wouldn’t move from Haymitch’s arms.

She cried herself to sleep.

“Remind me why I didn’t want to kill the boy.” he asked her once he was sure the girl was dead to the world, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch to wrap it around her. “’Cause…”

Haymitch’s jaw was clenched and his arms locked around the girl.

Effie shook her head, brushing the dark hair away from their victor’s face. “I just hope he knows what he is doing.”

Haymitch scoffed at that.

Effie didn’t comment. She curled up behind Katniss, trying to keep her warm because the girl was still shivering in her sleep.

She knew Peeta was in some pain too but…

She hated seeing any of her children suffer like that.

[luxinexitium]

– fill out the questions about your muse, repost, and tag as many people you want.

tagged by: @pullstrings & @ashnbone (thank you so much!) tagging: (if you’ve already done this, feel free to pass!) @haebxtna @635mph @themidnightsiren @vepid @florichor @eldorvdo (seyoon) @pijichu @antipsychx @spected @rippuku @intrcvenous​ @chaoticer @hydrangria @rutilmenite

1. what does your muse smell like? 

at eight in the morning, kyungsoo smells like diced melons and freshly-tilled soil. in the quail feathers stuck in his hair, he carries the humid rainforests of ecuador, but the feathers of the crested fireback clinging to the hem of his shirt boast of the humming river banks in borneo. come noon, he’s caught in a medley of odeng and a complementary melonpan from the food vendor at the corner of toegye-ro and dasan-ro. every tuesday and friday, he gets to tote the aroma of takeaway kimchi jjigae with him to his next shift; otherwise, he is lost among the anonymity of the city in rush hour. from six in the evening to two in the morning, kyungsoo smells like well-worn leather and cheap nacho cheese. alkaline and synthetic citrus burrow into his nailbeds and trudge their way to his wrists, while a hint of polished polyester stains his fingertips. at three a.m. kyungsoo carries the scent of soap from the bottom shelf at the corner store. (the travel-size bottles, because he can’t afford the fancy kind.) crisp cucumber dances through the half-dry locks of his hair, down the column of his neck, and across the narrow slope of his shoulders. within three hours, the plumes of smoke from the ahjussi one storey below will take over. they will steal dance partners for a waltz, then abandon them in the grooves of the rusting fire escape. at seven in the morning, kyungsoo is swallowed whole by the reticulum of seoul’s streets, swathed in car exhaust and the familiarity of strangers.

2. how often does your muse bathe? any bathing habits? 

kyungsoo bathes when he can afford to do so--which, these days, turns out to be nearly every day. after his shift at the bowling alley, he drags his skeleton to the nearest public bathhouse and has his wash in silence. every other wednesday is when the panic settles in. those days, he shuts himself in the bathroom of his flat and scrubs at every inch of his body ‘til his skin sings red. hot water will scorch his shoulders and nip at the soles of his feet, all while steam swaddles his trembling body. those days, kyungsoo doesn’t leave the bathroom for hours. 

3. does your muse have any tattoos or piercings? 

he has neither. some nights, though, he takes a pen and scrawls in the best handwriting he can muster across the inside of his wrist: it’s okay. then he will recite those three syllables again and again, re-tracing with his pen each character over and over and over and over, until he believes them.

4. any body movement quirks (e.g. leg shaking)? 

when kyungsoo’s cheeks are tinged with pink, his index finger scratches at the back of an ear. when they flush red, his whole hand finds the back of his neck. in the middle of a conversation, you can find his fingers picking at the label on a water bottle, blunt nails itching at cheap adhesive and cheaper slogans. only after the label tears free from the plastic will he relax--then his fingers will reach for his shoelaces, the zipper of his bag, the hole in his shirt...

5. what do they sleep in?

a t-shirt, jeans, and a jacket two sizes too big. if he doesn’t have work in four hours, he might take off his shoes.

6. what is their favorite piece of clothing?

the jacket.

7. what do they do when they wake up? 

kyungsoo always wakes with a start. adrenaline straining against threadbare vessels, his muscles haul a skeleton to its feet. his eyes dart every which way, ricocheting from point a to point b, to point c, d, e... by point m, he remembers how to breathe, lungs trembling with apprehension and fingers tangled in the holes which mottle the hem of his shirt. once his heart stops clawing at his rib cage, he inspects the lines etched across his palms and the gossamer grooves in his fingertips. when he swipes a hand across his cheek and comes away with nothing but quickly cooling sweat, kyungsoo sighs with relief and takes a step back to quell the reeling sensation. the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet is a good sign; the cacophony of the city even better. (that’s how he knows he’s awake.)

8. how do they sleep? 

he rests beneath a veil of moonlight, tightly swaddled in the evening breeze. his head lies against the cradle of his history, every bit crammed up to the seams in a secondhand backpack when the pram of his skull is already overflowing. as a parade of rabbits marches across the moon, he weaves in and out of consciousness and wonders if the silverfish gathered around the balcony are trying to send a message. dash dot dash dot, dash dash dot dash, stop. as moonbeams ricochet off opalescent scales, kyungsoo nestles into himself and embraces knobby knees. curled up like this, his body occupies as little space as possible, only half-hidden in the shadow of twilight despite his efforts to dodge the moon’s over-affectionate gaze. then there are nights when kyungsoo doesn’t sleep, nights when he passes the hours mapping constellations out of the city’s twinkling lights. on those nights, he’s ready to run. fingers flex around the coquettish wind, and blunt nails etch reflections of the moon into the flesh of his palm. on those nights, kyungsoo counts the seconds to dawn.

9. what do their hands feel like? 

his palms are soft, guarded against frigid winters and merciless summers by a citadel of fingers and too-long sleeves. to the south, the valleys of his palm lines empty into the narrow basin of his wrist, punctuated by meandering creeks for veins. northbound travelers will come across a collection of slender mountains, capped with rings of red where they’ve been weathered by toothy thunderclouds. (this planet is dying.) the travel to each peak is no simple feat, marked by gradual calcification and exponential distress, and only few will reach the summits. but those victories are short-lived, clipped by intermittent tremors before the devastating sweep of deep-seated unease. kyungsoo’s hands may cradle the cosmos, but what good is an ark without the ocean?

10. if you kissed them, what would they usually taste like? 

the first kiss is barely that--more mere contact than anything else. at the tip of his tongue sits a trace of mint, vestiges of last night’s hasty preparation for a two-hour semi-coma of a nap. the second kiss comes with a clumsy eagerness, endearing and earnest and entirely too inelegant, but he’s trying his best. catch him off-guard and you will taste islets of artificial sweetener and the summer solstice, apple orchards in full bloom and tangy citrus just over the amber horizon. but unlike the seasons or the sun’s outstretched rays, this flavour will never fade.

[pendragonfics]

Retail Christmas Hell

Paring: Heimdall/Reader

Tags: female reader, but with gender neutral pronouns, supermarket AU, Christmas shopping, Christmas Eve, swearing, fluff. 

Summary: Reader works at the local grocery store. Her manager, Thor Odinson, hires a handful of security guards to make sure his workers are safe in the silly season chaos.

Word Count: 1,803

Posting Date:  2016-12-16

Current Date: 2017-05-31

Christmastime was a month of furious soccer mothers, kids stealing candies, vengeful elderly people who were known usually to be sweet and comely, and generally, lines that went out the door as far as the eye could see. To be honest, it never phased you, seeing as the more people who came through your register, kept you busy and on your feet, the faster time went and the closer it was until knock off.

Odinson's Food Market was known for its fresh produce and friendly smiles, but when you had to put up with screaming babies and the bossing around of customers who wanted bags packed a certain way, the last thing you were thinking of, to be frank, was smiling at the assholes who left their food shopping to the last minute and were in a rush like there was no tomorrow.

You weren't sure how the store was handling it; Tony who stacked the shelves said they were too busy to breathe as the people would practically wipe the canned food and things into their carts as soon as he stacked it. Your manager, Thor was always on his feet trying to sort out altercations and mixups with prices and hormonal adults arguing over the last watermelon on sale. Even Clint, who ran the little deli in the side of the store said he was in over his head with orders for hams and turkeys and such.

In short, Christmastime was retail hell. 

But, it was money, and you needed just that to get out of the hell at home to rent an apartment as far away as you could from your terrible family as you could, and maybe, just maybe go to higher education so those who came after you in your bloodline weren't doomed to repeat history. This dream was that which kept your fake smile on, hands without cramps, and tolerance to the shoddy customers higher than that of a saint. 

So far, the end of November and the better half of December had been a madhouse, with everyone coming in and grabbing their long life items, stocking up on decorations and fairy lights for their trees, on their holiday foods. Now, nearing the day itself, it seemed to be busier twofold than you'd ever seen it in your time here at Odinson's Food Market. Lines were larger. Ambience louder. The faraway echo of a howling child nearing in the pram, pushed by the nuclear family about to go nuclear if they did't buy the right sort of Parmesan. 

It was a Tuesday when Thor Odinson decided, that he would use his father's funds to do something more than advertise for the little store with. It was a Tuesday when he hired five security guards from the privately owned company called ASGARSHIELD. As someone who only went to school because your parents were sick of having kids around their feet at home, you weren't really from a background where you'd seen many security guards. Maybe the ones in the bank who scowled over their shades indoors to make sure you didn't make a heist while they were on guard, or even the policemen, sure, but never these people.

Nat, Phil, Heimdall, Sam and Maria started that day, standing at the entrance to the store to ward off evil with their professional glares, to break up quarrels before they began. Nat and Maria never talked, always staying in their spot, watching out with near superhuman vision. Phil was all business until he made friends with one of the other cashiers, Steve, yammering on about their mutual love for an old time-y comic character when (if) it got slow enough to talk. Sam stuck around inside, stalking the known shoplifters like a falcon, picking them up on stuffing lollies down their pants in the act. And Heimdall, the quiet, intrusive Heimdall, would watch the entrance at the end of your register. 

It took another Tuesday and a half for Heimdall to break his calm, collected shell; you noticed this well with your cashier eyes. When your friends had asked what 'cashier eyes' were, they'd laughed; that you had super-vision or something while on duty, noticing things about people or situations as to avoid major fallout and such. But with this very real, very handy super power of yours, you saw Heimdall watching you, as he always did for the last month, except, he was smiling. Just a little; not enough to show his teeth, but enough to know he had the muscles in his body to do so. 

"You alright, sir?" you ask him, leaning over the register booth to see him better. With five minutes without a customer, you were free to relieve yourself of the stresses of standing up for nine hours a day and those customers that backchat. "Look a little off in your head there."

Heimdall nodded. "Just been watching you, that's all." He frowns, gesturing to the family who had gone on their way. "How can you stand it, talking to people all day?"

You crack a smile at that, "Well, how can you stand it, standing there, watching people all day?" you ask back, staring into his dark eyes. "I've been doing this job for years now, it just sort of grows on you, and, well, after the first dozen angry customers, you try to make sure that the next person whose mood is down can be perked up a little bit." You glance to your side, and noticing a customer pushing their trolley into your bay, you give him a nod, and start the never-ending job once again. 

It was the Tuesday before Christmas, which, coincidentally, was the day before. It was the day from hell, and apart from your hair looking like literal crap, so was your mood, even though it was the same fake smile for every person who wanted things bagged a certain way. Maybe it was because the air conditioner slash heat was working overtime too and broke, or the fact that even Steve, the angel from above was having trouble with these literal demons buying four hundred dollars of empty carbs in their carts, but before you knew it, the icing on the cake was being laid out. 

He had bars in his brows and lips, and looked like he came from good breeding for every part of his DNA except for the manners that were as black as his soul and clothing. There was nothing nice about this guy; perhaps the only nice thing would be that he couldn't stay there bossing you around, calling you names. 

"I need those bottles double bagged, I've got a way to walk, you bitch," he hissed, barely glancing up from his Blackberry. Who even had a Blackberry, this was the modern ages, not 2006. "Fuck - not like that -," he tossed his phone into a pocket in his heavy greatcoat, and leaned over like the register bay was nothing between the pair of you. For a moment, your heart stopped, thinking he was going to throttle you, because well, he looked like he was high on something, and not just his ego. At once, he began to rip the bags from the rack, throwing them haphazardly into others. 

You glanced to Heimdall, but it seemed like he got the message before you sent it. At once, the man was upon the guy, pushing him back into his side of the register, where all the other customers were supposed to stand, and stay.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Heimdall intoned, voice monotonous like he was a secret service agent. 

At once, the punk guy stretched to full height, and cocked his head like he was ready to fight anyone and anything that stood in his way. "I'm just leaving. I need my stuff for Christmas, and I'll be off." He gritted. 

You stood there, stock still, heart racing like a little mouse caught in the crossfire of a cat and dog. Heimdall noticed you, or maybe he just knew everything that happened inside the places he was protecting, and crossed his arms. "I will not hesitate to remind you, sir, this establishment does not serve those who treat those working are slaves." His voice was not small, but booming, loud enough to be heard over the hubbub of the store. "You can take your business elsewhere."

The guy make a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a hiss, and marched off, mumbling something about 'the wrath of the Von Doom family' and something very rude, and unable to be mentioned again in polite conversation. 

The rest of the line of people who had witnessed the outburst had been humbled by the rudeness the guy displayed, and the dominance that the tall security guard had shown. Not another person was ill-spoken to you that night, but you guessed it had something to do with the fact that Heimdall had stationed himself beside the register like he was a secret service man protecting a president's child or something.

By the time the shift ended - your coworkers loved to let you go first, they knew you had a lot on your plate - you couldn't help but not leave until you had some answers. Heimdall was just collecting his backpack, shades atop his forehead even though it was ten o'clock at night. "I - I want to say thanks for what you did, early," you managed to get out, biting your lip. "He's always been a bit of a prick - I mean, not a nice guy to me every other time he comes through."

"You're very welcome, _______." Heimdall nodded, pulling the other strap of his backpack on. "I could tell. He's not a nice guy."

You bob your head, but it's then you realise. With Christmas being tomorrow, and your few days off until New Years Eve, you won't be seeing him again, perhaps ever. He's been so nice to you, always looking out, keeping an eye on you. A spark of courage is mustered, and you burst out, "Um, I'm not sure if you like pizza, and seeing most pizza stores are closed over the holidays, but I'd like to go out there, er, with you, to say thanks. Properly." You blurt. 

It couldn't have been any more botched, the poor guy could see through that in an instant -

"I love pizza," he smiles, and grabbing a notepad from his pocket, pens down digits in ink. "Here's my number. I look forward to seeing you again, _______."

You were sure that Tony and Thor were cheering over by the front desk. Even more sure that Clint from the deli had overheard, as there was a huge whistle, and sure enough, there he was, with two thumbs up high above his head.

[xottzot]

2018-04(APR)-24th--Tuesday AM--morning--NEXT TO NO SLEEP--HERE IS HELL for me-HELL for dear Sam-HELL for dear Max--AND A WA NEWS STORY.

2018-04(APR)-24th--Tuesday AM--morning--NEXT TO NO SLEEP--HERE IS HELL for me-HELL for dear Sam-HELL for dear Max--AND A WA NEWS STORY.

The usual ones about this hellhole area were quite VERY quiet yesterday. Subdued. Very unusually so. - Was THIS the following the reasons why? - The NEWS link contains photos and a Police released video. (Please be aware it contains disturbing but not graphic images etc.)

In the WA NEWS is the NEWS about how a youth riding as a passenger in a stolen car crashed into a small bus (airport passenger transfer bus?) at high speed and the youth of the stolen V8 vehicle was killed. And as for the small bus driver whom they collided with at an illegal very high speed ...."while the driver of the bus suffered a range of injuries including three broken ribs and a fractured spine"

There is also a LOT more relevant information in the NEWS story. Profoundly so.

Inlcuding:------ "The court heard Mourish's upbringing was deprived, dysfunctional, chaotic and traumatic, and before he had turned 18, he had gone through 76 different foster care placements."

https://www.pressreader.com/australia/the-west-australian/20170404/282071981748437

NEWS story excerpt:-----

-----------------------------

Mourish was arrested at the scene and later pleaded guilty to charges of unlawfully killing the teenager and dangerous driving causing grievous bodily harm to the bus driver.

He also pleaded guilty to two home burglaries, including one in which he stole the car he was driving at the time of the crash.

The court previously heard how Mourish, when asked by paramedics at the scene of the crash if he was hurt, replied: "My heart hurts. I'm sorry I killed my brother."

-----------------------------

AND....... "The court heard Mourish's upbringing was deprived, dysfunctional, chaotic and traumatic, and before he had turned 18, he had gone through 76 different foster care placements"

AND....... "Justice Fiannaca said the effect on the driver of the bus was also "profound", because he described himself as going from someone who was physically fit to someone who could not even walk his dog or do any physical exercise."

(I know that kind of thing personally myself too having myself also been the victim of a car crash that occured in the past before I ever met dear Fliss, a crash done in the violent accident purely as a result of somebody else and which wiped out my vehicle and wrecked it completely and which I could have been killed and I still suffer the pain and inuries even to this day.)

(Read the full NEWS story at the NEWS link above. It also contains a video showing the speeding stolen vehicle just before the crash.)

The house (Fatguts place) was originally a foster home for many years and never ever was there anything like this occuring with any of them as far as I know. I went to the same local school as many of them did here when I was a kid and also high school but it all got VERY bad with those ones from there. The house was eventually totally evicted. But many of them, just moved temporarily across the road to another related household which is in itself a very bad place and scene of countless Police visits when the Police eventually go there but is also the place of many other departmental vehicle visits. -- All of which have toddlers like the one in the NEWS photo of the group and the others of that group which looks so much like many of the ones that roam about this area, even down to their clothing and the pushbike. (I think some of the clothing in that photo of the group is worn as a 'tribute' to the deceased youth.)

Today, once again outside the place on the public footpath is an black? abandoned childs pram AGAIN. Those prams are constantly being supplied, used, abandoned, picked up and 'played' with and used by other youths of that place and related place before eventually smashed up and thrown away stuffed into the houses council rubbish bin, however to be replaced by yet aother pram which alwass meets the same fate. Countless prams over the years. Countless other 'toys' and things thrown about and laying about all over the place (sometimes including smashed without a care) and just abandoned in the streets (including bicyles), on the street verges and everywhere, inlcuding the local shops areas.

Abandoned bicyles and tricycle of all sizes are always laying abandoned all over around and in that place that has no front fence at all, abandoned on the footpaths, street verges, and on the roads.

NONE of that ever went on with the foster home that was there before and run by one or two women. That place was utterly quiet and never ever was there any trouble or noise from the house itself or it's inhabitants.

But all that changed for the very worst when that place was demolished and a brick house was built in its place and the one or two elderly women who 'ran' the foster home never returned as far as I know. Instead the place was 'handed over' to what it is and remains today. And has been the place of countless Police visits days and nights for many years.

Some time ago I clearly recall a terrifying womans shriek (utterly shrieking) in that area and women rushed out and away on the footpaths. Following was a period of 'calm' and I thought there was finally some rest from all the terrible crap that had been going on there with them and spreading all out and everywhere in all ages and for years. - But it all slowly returned.

I am well aware of the terrible grief of those in this NEWS story. Please do not ever think me uncaring in any way.

AND....JUST NOW as I was typing this at 8:40am.....from that VERY unfenced aboriginal house started up one of those unlicensed offroad motorbikes AGAIN.....and in the presence of adults of that household, one male of whom walked out and calmly grabbed the emptied council recycle bin and wheeled it back into the aboriginal household there as just in front of them the motorbike LOUDLY took off ON THE ROAD, WENT THRU THE INTERSECTION, PASSED THE KOONGAMIA SHOPS AREA AND SPED FURTHER AWAY INTO KOONGAMIA ON THE ROADS AND AWAY AGAIN...... - The rider wore a dark jacket and had no helmet on and the jacket hood was tied up around his head so he could not be visually identified or caught on any cameras. -- 12 minutes later it rode along at high speed ON THE ROADS back again and rode straight into the driveway and yard of the aboriginal criminal household across the road from there in Kalara Way. -- 1, 2 then 3 youths including the usual aboriginal ones ran across the road into there followed by a tiny aboriginal running toddler running straight without looking across the road and unaccompanied AGAIN as has been the case countless other times in the past. A few scant minutes later the motorbike was louldy heard at the end of Kalara Road and going into Bellevue and about in there. AGAIN this is so very common as the motorbike is being ridden from one aboriginal household to another. It usually seems to be the case where it is hidden from any prying/searching Police too. - And a young man or older youth aboriginal youth strides out of the aboriginal criminal household and walks straight into Fatguts aboriginal household and looks about for any Police cars as he does so. The sound of the motorbike now in Bellevue abuptly stops. But it will NOT be the last of it today and for all the days that follows. Western Australian Police have done nothing it seems to stop all this despite all the countless Police visits, authorities visits and even (aboriginal council/department?) visits and other visits by well respected looking aboriginals who never are given any heeding to by all the ones around here. They don't bother doing what Police tell them, and so they also don't listen to ANYONE else. -- Will all this ONLY stop or pause when the persons responsible are jailed (ludicrously always temporarily it seems), or severly injured, or killed, and which can involve innocent other people getting serioulsy injured or killed? - JUST as I have always forecasted was very probable to happen......though I never ever ever ever wished it to happen to people or any creature being hurt or killed or maimed.

This is a hellhole like no other.

I entirely expect unmarked cars will prowl about the streets later. They usually always seem to. But NOTHING EVER CHANGES. NOTHING HAS CHANGED IN YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS.

And it has gotten worse.

Those 'recent' newest rental residents lasted mere months/weeks before they too had enough of this area and took off out of this hellhole in a hurry. Then did they return late at night to salvage what they could from there with several flashlights and they still left a huge pile of rubbish which is STILL there piled up in the yard?......

A light plane has now flown low loudly over this hellhole 50 minutes later going into to land at Perth Airport, then within 8 minutes another one.....

Other loud big jet planes have been this morning over here too....I have not stated them for fear of appearing simply 'pedantic'.....

ALL AGAIN......AGAIN....the SAME stuff going on about this hellhole...by the SAME ONES and with others...

All as 'fun'!? - Well that is what it must have also been treated by the ones responsible in that NEWS story with the stolen vehicle. - TRY TELLING THAT TO THOSE SEVERLY INJURED AND THE RELATIVES OF THOSE KILLED IN SUCH THINGS BECAUSE OF THEM.....

Poor Rusty has been barking all forlorn again...and upset by all the shit in the streets......

AND NOT ONE POLICE SIREN IS HEARD OR ANY POLICE VEHICLES ARE SEEN BEING ABOUT ANY OF THIS TODAY.

DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES THIS HAPPENS EVEN ON SCHOOL DAYS!? IT DOESN'T MATTER TO THEM AT ALL WHEN OR WHATEVER HAPPENS...THEY DON'T CARE AT ALL ABOUT THIS HELLHOLE.....

OR THEY USE SUCH EVENTS AS PRETEXTS TO BE VIOLENT OR DESTRUCTIVE OR RAMPAGING........

This used to be such a very nice quiet place to live and be peaceful in........

I USED TO THINK IT HAD PERHAPS FINALLY CHANGED FOR THE BETTER....BUT IT SEEMS I WAS UTTERLY WRONG...SO TOO HAVE BEEN WRONG THE POLICE AND AUTHORITIES AND MEDICAL PEOPLE.....

The NEWS story is NOT an odd rare event....IT IS ONCE AGAIN BECOMING COMMON AND EXPECTED....AND IS PLANNED TO HAPPEN EVERY TIME BY THE USUAL ONES RESPONSIBLE NO MATTER WHAT POLICE AND AUTHORITIES TRY TO DO.......

TO THEM IT'S ALL JUST 'FUN'.........AND HAS BEEN GOING ON FOR SO MANY MANY MANY YEARS........

THIS IS HELL

AND THIS IS ANZAC DAY

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I love you dear Fliss and want to be with you just as you promised us both.

[readbookywooks]

24 Fenoglio You don’t know about me, without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Dustfinger and Farid were waiting for them in the car park when they left the hotel. Over the nearby hills, a warm wind was slowly driving rain-clouds towards the sea. Everything seemed grey today, even the houses with their bright colour-washed walls and the flowering shrubs in the streets. Mo took the coastal road, which Elinor had said was built by the Romans, and followed it further west. All through the drive the sea lay to their left, its water stretching to the horizon, sometimes hidden by houses, sometimes by trees, but this morning it didn’t look half as inviting as it had on the day when Meggie had come down from the mountains with Elinor and Dustfinger. The grey of the sky cast a dull reflection on the blue waves, and the sea-spray foamed like dirty dishwater. Several times, Meggie found her gaze wandering to the hills on her right. Capricorn’s village was hidden somewhere among them. Once she even thought she saw its pale church tower in a dark fold of the hills, and her heart beat faster, although she knew that it couldn’t possibly be Capricorn’s church. Her feet remembered all too well how long that endless journey down the mountainside had been. Mo was driving faster than usual, much faster. He could obviously hardly wait to reach their destination. After a good hour they turned off the coast road and followed a narrow, winding lane through a valley grey with buildings. Glasshouses covered the hills here, their panes painted white for protection against the sun that was now hidden behind clouds. Only when the road went uphill did the country on both sides turn green again. The buildings gave way to natural meadowland, and stunted olive trees lined the road, which forked unexpectedly a couple of times. Mo had to keep consulting the map he had bought, but finally the right name appeared on a sign. They drove into a small village, little more than a square, a few dozen houses, and a church that looked very much like Capricorn’s. When Meggie got out of the car she saw the sea far below. The waves were so rough on this overcast day that, even from this distance, she could see the breakers. Mo had parked in the village square beside the memorial for the dead of two world wars. The list of names was long for such a small place. Meggie thought there were almost as many names as the village had houses. ‘You can leave the car unlocked. I’ll keep an eye on it,’ said Dustfinger, as Mo was about to lock up. He threw his rucksack over his shoulder, put the sleepy Gwin on his chain, and sat on the steps in front of the war memorial. Farid sat down beside him without a word. Meggie looked uneasily at them both as she followed Mo. ‘Remember, you promised not to mention me!’ Dustfinger called after them. ‘Yes, all right!’ replied Mo. Farid was playing with matches again. Meggie caught him at it when she looked round once more. By now he could extinguish the burning matches with his mouth quite well, but all the same Dustfinger took the box of matches away from him, and Farid looked sadly at his empty hands. Meggie had met many people who loved books, sold them, collected them, printed them or, like her father, prevented them from falling apart, but she had never before met anyone who wrote the words that filled all a book’s pages. She didn’t even know the names of the authors of some of her favourite stories, let alone what they looked like. She had seen only the characters who emerged from the words to meet her, never the writer who had made them up. It was just as Mo had said: in general one thought of writers as dead or very, very old. But the man who opened the door to them, after Mo had rung the bell twice, was neither. That is, he was certainly quite old, at least in Meggie’s eyes: in his mid-sixties or even older. His face was wrinkled like a turtle’s, but his hair was black, without a trace of grey (she was to find out later that he dyed it), and he didn’t look at all fragile. On the contrary: he planted himself so impressively in the doorway that Meggie was instantly tongue-tied. Luckily Mo was not. ‘Signor Fenoglio?’ he asked. ‘Yes?’ The face looked less forthcoming than ever. There was disapproval in every line of it. But Mo seemed undaunted. ‘I’m Mortimer Folchart,’ he introduced himself, ‘and this is my daughter Meggie. I’m here about one of your books.’ A boy appeared at the door beside Fenoglio, a little boy of about five, and a small girl joined them on the other side of the doorway. She stared curiously, first at Mo, then at Meggie. ‘Pippo’s picked the chocolate chips out of the cake,’ Meggie heard her whisper as she looked anxiously up at Mo. When his eyes twinkled at her she disappeared behind Fenoglio’s back, giggling. But Fenoglio himself still looked anything but friendly. ‘All the chocolate chips?’ he growled. ‘Very well, I’m coming. You go and tell Pippo he’s in serious trouble.’ The little girl nodded and ran away, obviously happy to be the bearer of bad news. The small boy clung to Fenoglio’s leg. ‘A very particular book,’ Mo went on. ‘Inkheart. You wrote it quite a long time ago, and unfortunately I can’t buy a copy anywhere now.’ With the man’s icy stare still resting on her father, Meggie could only marvel that the words didn’t freeze on Mo’s lips. ‘Oh yes. So?’ Fenoglio crossed his arms. The girl appeared on his left again. ‘Pippo’s hiding,’ she said. ‘That won’t do him any good,’ said Fenoglio. ‘I can always find him.’ The little girl scurried off again. Meggie heard her in the house, calling to the chocolate thief. Fenoglio, however, turned back to Mo. ‘So what do you want? If you’re planning to ask me clever questions of some kind about the book, forget it. I don’t have time for that sort of thing. Anyway, as you said yourself, I wrote it ages ago.’ ‘No, there’s only one question I was going to ask. I’d like to know if you still have any copies, and if so may I buy one from you?’ The old man’s expression was no longer quite so forbidding as he inspected Mo. ‘How extraordinary. You must be really keen on the book,’ he murmured. ‘I’m flattered. Although,’ he added, and his face darkened again, ‘I hope you’re not one of those idiots who collect rare books just because they’re rare, are you?’ Mo couldn’t help smiling. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want to read it, that’s all. I just want to read it.’ Fenoglio braced an arm against the door frame and looked at the house opposite as if he feared it might collapse at any moment. The street where he lived was so narrow that Mo could have touched both sides at once if he stretched his arms out. Many of the houses were built of coarse blocks of sandy grey stone, like the houses in Capricorn’s village, but here there were flowers in window boxes and pots of plants on the steps, and many of the shutters looked as if they had been freshly painted. There was a pram outside one house, a moped leaning against the wall of another, and voices floated into the street from open windows. Capricorn’s village probably looked like this once, thought Meggie. An old woman passing by looked suspiciously at the strangers. Fenoglio nodded to her, murmured a brief greeting, and waited until she had vanished behind a green-painted front door. ‘Inkheart,’ he said. ‘That really is a long time ago. And it’s odd that you should be asking about that one, of all my books.’