#perhaps. a little nap. (it is 11 am.) and then i can........ write... answer asks...... do thingys.......

[mamawasatesttube]

god. couple of asks in my inbox i wanna answer but i require my brain to be more than 50% online for this and alas. i am so sleepy...

[skgway]

1823 Aug., Fri. 29

6

10 55/60

Very comfortable bed, and slept well till 5 20/60, at which time it was raining heavily downstairs and in the stable at 7 1/4 everything ready, but it rained so much (began at 3 1/2 they said and was incessant till after 9) I determined to stay breakfast, and set off at 9 or 10 – 

Took upMog’s edition of Patterson’s roads published London 1822. Saw Shibden hall inserted according to the letter I wrote mentioning its situation – Then took up volume 1 Miss Benger’s life of Mary Queen of Scots and read the first 50 pages. 

Sat down to breakfast (boiled milk and hot rolls) at 8 1/2 – It just then occurred to me that the last time I was in this room (the ground floor parlour on the left entering the Bridgewater) was with M– [Mariana] on the night of the 9th of March 1816. 

A host of reflections crowded on me – I felt the tear starting and my heart grow sick. ‘How foolish,’ said I, then sank into the thought that my knowing her had perhaps been the ruin of my health and happiness. She has not the heart to suit me. Perhaps I should not be happy with [her], yet almost foolish, [w/c]ould not be so without. I had almost said, ‘Oh, that I had not a heart,’ but God be merciful to me a sinner, and enable me to fix it. Here alone true joys are to be found. 

How very little π [Mariana] guesses what passes within me. I do not blame her. Heaven has not given her that sweet sensibilit soul of the soul after which my spirit panteth, likes the hart after the water brook and than which nothing less can satisfy a romantic and the enthusiastic mind like mine. To π [Mariana], if I shewed myself more openly I should be an enigma. She could not understand. We have not much fellowship in feeling, yet am I attached to her. Alas, I see more and more plainly, too deeply for my own happiness. 

Were I to tell her the effect of this three step business, she could not comprehend it. She would think it perhaps unforgivingness of temper rather than that wound at heart which festers unseen. It has taught me that tho she loves me, it is without that beautiful romance of sentiment that all my soul desires. But mine are not affections to be returned in this world. Oh that I could turn them with virtuous enthusiasm to that being who gave them. 

O Mary, Mary! You have enticed me with the glimpse of happiness and my heart has pursued the ignis fatuus till retreat is impossible or vain – But no more –

Left Manchester at 9 25/60 (the roads very heavy with the rain) and stopt at the Wellington Inn, Rochdale, at 11 35/60 – Fair the 1st 7 miles but rained the last 4 (of the 11 Manchester to Rochdale) – Went into the stable for a minute or 2, then sat down and mused and wrote all the above of today which took me till 12 3/4 (Shibden). Took a little nap – Had ordered George to let us be off in 2 hours but he was out, and 25 minutes beyond his time, and we were not off till 2 –

From 2 55/60 to 3 1/2 walked, and made George lead Caradoc, from the mound and while rails across the valley (perhaps 1/2 mile on this side of Littlebro’) to the Inn at the top of Blackstone edge – Stopt there 5 minutes and gave Caradoc some oatmeal and water – Then pursued our journey, and got home in 3 3/4 hours at 5 3/4, i.e. just before it struck 6 by the kitchen clock –

It rained pretty smartly all the time we were at Rochdale till about the last 1/2 hour when it cleared up and we had no rain afterwards – A fine evening too – My father and Marian called after tea and staid about an hour –

Told my uncle and aunt Mr. Simmons thought he could cure me, but could answer for it better if I was in Manchester under his own eye for 2 or 3 weeks – My aunt wanted me to give up going to Scarbro’ and York, and go to Manchester immediately – This I, of course, decline, saying I may perhaps be able to do without going to M– [Mariana] at all –

Barometer at changeable or rather above Fahrenheit 57º at 9 p.m. at which hour came up to bed – Put by my things etc. and wrote the last 9 lines of today – 4 letters waited my arrival –

Nothing can be better done than the new road from Littlebro’ to the top of Blackstone edge – From the very foot of the hill to about 100 yards from the Inn at the top are 15 white-painted black-capped stone posts as guides, I suppose, when the road is covered with snow – They were 149 strides apart (supposing them to be as as they look, at equal distances) perhaps these 149 strides might be about 100 yards or not much more –

It was at the 14th stone that I met M– [Mariana] last Tuesday week – This struck me forcibly – I had been thinking of the thing before – Indeed not a day scarcely an hour has passed since it happened, without its occuring to me in 1 shape or other – Oh! that I could forget it altogether – But I know and feel this cannot be – My memory is too obstinate for me –

3 of the letters came yesterday from M– [Mariana] (York); from Miss Vallance (Sittingbourne) and from Radford the Tailor (“ 27 Piccadilly removed from 188 Fleet street London”) the other letter (from Radford acknowledging the receipt of the draft) came this morning –

M– [Mariana]’s letter (2 1/4 pages hurried) written the very day (Wednesday) my letter to her would get to Scarbro’, on which day she seems to have been setting off for that place, having waited to take her father and mother within the carriage Eliza and Lou on the box and the 2 little Whites and her and Watson her servants in a hack chaise – Mrs. B– [Belcombe] seized with Cholera morbus on Sunday “which alarmed us much for a few hours, but it soon subsided”.... “however she is quite well” – Dr. B– [Belcombe] 

“in very low spirits about himself and I really think there is much cause even now to feel alarmed about him – His mind seems to have suffered, and when there is anything to be done he seems quite bewildered” –

M – [Mariana] not quite so well as she was – The moorgame arrived safe on Sunday – Dr. B– [Belcombe] appeared pleased with the attention – M– [Mariana] was to have written on Tuesday “but Bell came over and nothing could be done” –

3 pages crossed and the ends from Miss V– [Vallance] I must write to her very soon – She says my last is dated 14 February –

“Does your remembrance of your confiding friend ever cross your mind? Has her fate ceased to interest? Is her form forgotten? Her faults and sorrows faded from from your heart?” …. 

I must write – She is still in a very bad state of health – Gives a high character of her brother William’s bride – vide the latter 1/2 the crossing of page 2 and the former 1/2 of page 1 vide page 2 

“Memory often carried me to Langton – and recalls our wandering to Birdsall, the wold etc. etc. ...... those steps so well remembered, so fondly recorded in my bosom”.... 

Flll [full] well i remember my style of conversations. Does she too? Is it not evident she will listen again and grant all I ask as before? – At page 3

 “I hope to see Langton at no very distant time and I hope most earnestly to see you there” –

Surely the crossing above referred intelli[gi]bly marks her preference towards me and might warrant my taking gently any liberties I chose. She says, or strongly insinuates, that she and I think and feel more in unison than I suppose. Surely this is no cold water on anything that has passed between us – I have always maintained a lady cannot love sufficiently a second time. It is respecting this she owns my opinion, “founded on a knowledge of human nature in general” but consider herself an exception –

Radford’s 1st letter is to acknowledge the receipt of my 1st…. 

“as our business is conducted solely on the principle of ready money we cannot send goods to strangers in the country without 1st receiving a remittance to amount of ordered goods” … 

Strangers is in the original, strange ladies in the country – Referred to their “order book” and found my measure etc. etc. I could not help laughing –

The 2nd letter a respectful acknowledgment of the draft – The coat to be sent by “the York coach that leaves the Golden and Saturday morning at six” that I am expected to have it early on Sunday morning –

vide line 23 the last page the weather, what kept me up so long etc. – E [two dots, treating venereal complaint] O [one dot, signifying little discharge] A lit[t]le not much –

[sideways in margin] Rochdale

[cilldaracailin]

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Hello my Tumblr lovelys!

Here is the next part of this story. Anyone looking for a heavy dose of emotional writing - You have come to the right place below!

Hope you all enjoy.

Suze xx )

4

“The past can't hurt you anymore, not unless you let it.”

Taron was used to the walk back to Robyn’s but she brought him a short cut, back around by the green they had previously sat on and through a little walk way and housing estate which led right onto the road that was near the cull de sac where her house was. They made it inside just as the shower of rain turned heavy, both taking to a quick jog down the road as it sprinkled on them at first, getting to the door as it turned heavy.

Taron stripped himself of his coat and flag and found himself on the couch while Robyn put her guitar away. She hung up her own coat and as she walked over to the couch, he was tucked neatly into the corner, his head leaning back against the cushions with his eyes closed. Inside her heart was hurting for him because she knew he was knackered and could easily fall asleep as he sat and slept until he needed to leave the next day. He had been so full of energy during the morning but now as the excitement had left his body, she was left with a tired man who was in desperate need of a nap.

She sat beside him, noticing that he didn’t move, and her face turned sad. If he was this tired after some work at the weekend, she hated to think what he would be like during his promotional tour for Kingsman, understanding a little better now why he found it so easy to just fall asleep where he sat, knowing himself, it was the only way he could get any sort of rest and sleep to keep his body going.

Without hesitation, she moved to a keeling position and placed her hands on his shoulders, his eyes opening to look at her. She didn’t speak to him but pulled on his shoulders and she moved from her knees to a sitting position further down the couch and guided his head right to her lap, Taron moving so he was stretched out on her couch. Her right hand rested on his chest while her left went straight into his hair, fingers scratching his head.

“Robyn…”

“Shh...” She soothed.

“Robyn, we have dinner planned.”

“And it is only just after four. The céilí doesn’t start until nine and we can get dinner any time before that. I don’t have a table booked. We can just walk in and sit down and to be honest we are better off waiting a little until the families with young children filter out. The GAA will be packed for a while.”

“What are you doing?” He asked as his eyes closed as she dug just a little harder into his head.

“You need to sleep.”

“Robyn…” Taron opened his eyes and as always was met with such concern in Robyn’s blue ones, he knew in an instant he would do whatever she asked of him.

“You are in my home and are fighting to stay awake. Three hours sleep will do you the world of good and we will still have time for food, Guinness and the céilí.”

“But what about your friends?”

“Meeting us at the céilí.” She answered him. “Taron please just close your eyes.” She very lightly ran her hand over his face, her fingers lingering on the dark circles on the delicate skin under his eyes. “Let me do this for you.”

Even if he wanted to keep his eyes open, his own body betrayed him, and his lids fluttered closed, long eye lashes resting on his cheeks. Robyn’s right hand found his on his stomach and held it while her left which had been in his hair, moved to his face and after trailing so lightly on the skin under his eyes, he felt those strokes on his nose which he had no words to describe except that it brought him to a little place of heaven. Though his body was tired and Robyn’s soothing actions were relaxing him, his mind was still thinking. “Robyn?”

“Hmm?” She answered him, realising that the green hair dye in his hair was making it difficult for her to play with the strands so she had settled for running her finger down his nose instead and not seeing Taron’s facial expression change with the touch to his face, continued her motions.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You know you can ask me anything.”

“What actually happened between you and Keith?”

Robyn’s hand stalled on the bridge of his nose and Taron opened his eyes to see her blue ones looking at him, the colour just a little bit darker than before. “You’ve been talking to my mam.” She simply said.

“She might have mentioned his name.”

“I saw you two whispering to each other.”

“Just some girl talk.” He answered her back, a little smile on his lips, a smile of relief as she resumed rubbing his nose. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“So, you know that cliched term ‘the one’?” She asked him, still running a finger down his nose. When he nodded, she continued. “Well for me Keith was the one. Six years we were together. Four of which were perfect, two of which were shit but of course it wasn’t until I kicked his arse to the curb that I realised they were shit.” Robyn’s fingers stopped. “Without going into too much detail let me just bullet point it for you.” She resumed her strokes on his nose. “Cheated once, promised he wouldn’t do it again, hated my hair long, hated my involvement in the musical society and choir, jealous I was promoted, cheated again, caught him in the act and when I stood up for myself went to hit me but I ducked and he missed, broke his hand on the wall, then I broke his nose and two fingers of my right hand. Then he spread rumours around the town that I was a frigid selfish cow and did I mention it was a work colleague of mine that he was sleeping with for the last year of our relationship, one who had complained to Emma that I was terrible at my job and had it out for me, demanding my supervisory position be taken away from me.”

Taron’s eyes were wide with shock as Robyn spoke, her voice just reeling off with no emotion at all, with a very brief explanation of what had happened between her and Keith, while all the time her fingers kept their rhythm on his nose.

“Easy to say we are no longer friends but obviously I still have my job and position. I walked away from that toxic tosspot but my trust was hurt and betrayed and those walls you have met began to build and pretty much stayed put until I met you and Richard in the 7/11. It was actually Emma who suggested to me to apply for the exchange programme. She told me she was sick of me moping around the office and a change of scenery would be good healing for me. After a bit of research and a year after Keith pissed off with my ex friend, I applied for the programme asking for Clearwater as my exchange location. It’s quite a long process and it took another year before everything was sorted and off I went. It was perfect for me. Just what I needed to have a retreat of sorts while still working, doing what I love and am good at, learning to love myself again after everything that Keith did and said to me, grew my hair out and then I met you and well you know where my life picks up from there.”

Taron gently took Robyn’s hand, stopping her mid-motion and he sat up turning to look at her. “I get now why your mother called him a fucker.”

Robyn grinned. “My mother.” She said. “So eloquent with her words.”

“I think I would have used something worse than fucker to be fair.”

“Thanks Taron.”

“Robyn….”

She could hear the pity in his voice and she didn’t have any want for it. “Hey, there is no need. I am over it and have become a much stronger person because of it. Perhaps withdrew and retreated too much into myself then I should have but definitely moving away helped as did my friends, Claire and Emma and the girls I work with and Maggie in Florida too. I am excited to introduce you to them this evening.”

“I am very much looking forward to meeting your friends Robyn. I am glad you have a good circle of friends around you.”

Taron’s blood was boiling under his skin and he was trying very hard to keep his tone light and his anger at bay. He was thoroughly disgusted by Robyn’s quick explanation of Keith and what he done and felt sick to his stomach that someone could treat his beautiful, caring, and wonderful Robyn like that. Robyn who had saved his life without question, taken him into her home and looked after him almost better than his own mother.

But then his whole body suddenly froze and his memory of her visit to New York to see him made a horrible shiver run down his spine. She had told him someone, a man had hurt her before, had broken her trust and now he was finally learning who it was and how he had done it and closing his eyes, their argument had suddenly taken on a whole new meaning to him. He had done the same thing to her. Hurt her without even thinking about it. He accused her of something and he understood so much better why she had to fly to him to defend herself, to question his words, to show him that he couldn’t treat her the way he had. It was because she had already had an arsehole of a man do it to her before and she refused to let another do it again.

“Taron. Taron!” Robyn shouted his name, waking him from the little trance he went into. “Please don’t start over thinking any of what I told you. It’s not something I talk about a lot. It’s in the past and I have moved on and like I said, it was good for me in an ironic kind of way.”

“I understand so much more now how my accusations hurt you Robyn, why you had to fly to New York to talk to me. Jesus Christ I am so sorry.”

Robyn felt her eyes fill with tears as she saw a look of pain fill his beautiful soft features and immediately pulled him to her for a hug, “I could kill my mother.” She whispered into his neck. “Please don’t apologise to me for something we have already talked through Taron, something that happened that has nothing to do with you.”

“But my words and actions must have opened so many healed wounds for you.”

Robyn gripped him tight against her, feeling tears drip down her cheeks, noticing how he held her just as tight in his arms and as he hid his face in her neck, she was sure she could feel a wetness on her skin from his face and without a doubt, she knew Taron was just as upset and emotional as she was. The conversation of past relationships had obviously been a topic the two had spoken about but they never really went into detail about them. Keith was a man she had long forgotten and although it took her nearly two years to get over that man, she had grown up and learnt so much about herself along the way. Behind her walls, she became more confident in herself, learnt a tough lesson about true friends and how at the end of the day apart from family, the person you need to look after first and foremost is yourself. She was never going to let a man treat her so again and when Taron had blown up at her, she went into fight mode and confronted him. The difference with Taron though was that he immediately had seen the terrible mistake he had made and admitted he was wrong, and he had been a wonderful caring confident and friend since and her mantra of only looking after and caring for herself was very quickly changing as all she could think about now was making sure Taron was ok. She ran her fingers around her favourite spot at the back of his neck and pulled his body even closer to her.

“Taron please. We cannot go back there. I cannot go back there.”

“Fucking hell Robyn, I am really really sorry.”

“And we talked through New York Taron. Really and properly talked through it all and there is nothing to be sorry for. Please Taron.” As Robyn rubbed his back with her other hand, she could feel him heave against her and knew it was from a sob he had tried to hold in but couldn’t quite manage to. “Taron, please. Don’t get upset over it all. You are nothing like him. Nothing like him at all. New York was a completely different situation Taron. Do not even think about comparing our argument to a man who doesn’t deserve any of these emotions you are feeling.” She pulled herself away from with a struggle as he clung to her and when she saw more tears on his eye lashes ready to fall, she immediately put her hands on his cheeks. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you Taron. I didn’t say anything because I know you and how your emotions run, even more so when you are running on little sleep and fumes and I didn’t want to see you like this. Do not say sorry to me again. It was a shitty situation but the Robyn before Keith wouldn’t have been brave enough to do what I did in the 7/11. It is fucking messed up that shit like that makes a person so much stronger but you have to take the positives from it and I am really going to kill my mother. I wish she hadn’t of said anything to you. Please don’t be so sad.” Taron’s lashes glistened with more tears and his eyes were blood shot, his cheeks blotchy and Robyn knew she looked the same as he did. “You are running your tattoo.” She said, her thumb wiping over the wet shamrock on his cheek “Please don’t shed any more tears for that fucktard.”

“They are not for him. They are for you because you have been nothing but a friend to me and to hear how someone could take advantage of your kindness and be such a fucking bastard.” Taron roughly wiped his eyes, her hands falling from his face. “I love you Robyn and I love your fierceness, ability to scare me shitless with your words, the way you stand up for yourself and how you willingly have given me everything I have asked for and so much more.” Without thinking Taron leaned forward, with his eyes still open, lightly kissed her lips, tasting salty tears on hers, not knowing if they were hers tears or his. He moved back and took her hands. “I know you don’t want to hear it but I am sorry you had to go through that and I am sorry for…” He felt Robyn’s hand cover his mouth and he smiled under her palm, resisting the urge to lick her hand. He waited for her to take her hand away before he spoke again. “I have had bad relationship experiences too but nowhere near as rotten at yours.”

“Like I said, it’s in my past and it has made me a better person. My only regret from it, the only one is the wasted years on a man I thought loved me. I ain’t getting any younger.”

Taron’s face immediately filled with a scowl. “Don’t even go there.” He ran his hands through her hair so it wasn’t covering her face. “He was a fucker.”

Robyn titled her head and she watched as his eyes roamed her face, but his worried green ones avoided hers and she could see a multitude of emotions pass over his face as his forehead frowned and his lips curled down in a glower, biting his lower lip in the process. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

“You have shown me nothing but affection and love and it just makes me sad and so angry to think you gave that same attention to him and he didn’t appreciate it at all.”

“He didn’t get head massages.” She watched him try to stop himself from grinning. “And I never baked for him either. He was a proper gym nut and felt my baking ruined his routine.”

“And then all those years with him when you could have been with someone who gave as much to you as you would give to them.”

“And don’t even say that Taron. You have no idea how many sleepless nights I had thinking that too but they say things happen for a reason so I have to believe that.”

“Well you know I firmly believe you were meant to be there in the 7/11 at the same time as me, that you were the only one who could rip my shirt open to get your hands all over me.”

Robyn laughed, shaking her head at him. “Now you just take your shirt off to let me get to your body of your own accord.” Without a second though Robyn started to sing. “Well I guess it would be nice, if I could touch your body…” Her words and song were cut off as Taron launched himself at her, his arms squeezing around her shoulders.

“My song.” He said to her. “You get Freddie, I get everyone else.”

With another chuckle, Robyn let herself rest against him, her hands caught in between his chest and hers. She soaked up his heat and with the way her hands were positioned flat against his chest, could feel his heart racing. She wished they were free so she could hug him back but Taron wasn’t letting his grip go, so she settled for snuggling into his chest and closing her eyes. It was a complete and utter unexpected conversation, the one about her ex who was, as her mother called him, a fucker and the reaction from Taron, watching him get so upset, hurt her to the core. Taron still carried so much guilt from what happened in New York and after hearing about Keith, Robyn knew he was even more rattled and remorseful over it all but after their skype call, she had put New York behind her and had completely forgiven Taron for everything and she thought he knew that but it was obvious that deep down he was still quite ashamed of his actions.

“Taron…”

“Hmm.”

“Can we please forget about New York. It’s done. It’s over and behind us. We learnt a lot from it, we talked about it and we have been together so many times since then and I need you to stop feeling guilty about it. Our picture has been posted online and in the papers since then and look how well we communicate about it now and if we really look at the articles, the world is getting used to seeing you and me together and the fans, some of which we have met are too. We can’t keep going back to it. It’s just a pain that my past has triggered it for you but it’s our past rocketman and believe me there are so many other memories I have with you that I cherish.”

“Like what.” He mumbled into her shoulder.

“The first time I fell asleep on your shoulder.”

“I make a good pillow.”

“Yep.”

“What else.”

“When you sat in my office and we had our first proper hug together.”

“I was a horrible heated, sweaty and exhausted mess.”

“True but you were there in front of me and I don’t think you actually know how much it meant for me to see you there. You carry guilt from New York, well I carry so much more from leaving you in Florida.”

“We are quite a pair.” He whispered.

Robyn wriggled her hands so she could pull them out and finally was able to wrap her arms around his back. “Yes we are. What are yours?”

“My what chicken?”

“Your memories.”

“Everything.”

“Well that’s a cop out. I could have said that.”

“The time you held me close against you on your bed when I was worrying about the media finding out about what had happened to us in Florida. My first head massage.” He felt Robyn start to rub his back. “Every time we sang together and New Year’s Eve. My friends have not stopped talking about you. You made quite an impression on them.” He took a long deep breathe. “Robyn if I ever, ever even try to treat you like Keith did, you have my full permission to slap me just as hard as you slapped Pete ok? Even a word out of place, just slap the stupid out of me.”

Robyn pushed herself away from him and gripped his face probably a little harder than she should have. “Not a chance in the world of that ever happening.”

“Robyn…”

“You haven’t a bad bone in your body. Perhaps a senseless bone when you aren’t thinking straight but just no. Ok?”

He nodded. “Ok.” He took her hands away from his face and linked her fingers with his. “When we spoke about hospital visits, you never mentioned that you broke your fingers.”

“Didn’t really want to go into that story right there and then. It’s not a great one to share with a man you just met and shared a bed with.”

“You broke his nose?” He asked with a little grin.

“Yeah. Imagine what happened on New Year’s Eve but with a little more gusto and force. Hence the two broken fingers.”

Taron shook his head. “You scare me sometimes.”

“I scare myself too.”

“I am beginning to understand you a little better Robyn.”

“How so.” She asked wiping a lone tear that slowly dripped down his cheek.

“Your experiences are what make you who you are, the good and the bad and now I can see why you are so willing to stand up for others, to take risks, to be a little careful with your heart and to be so passionate about what you believe in and be so independent and strong.” It was blush that was more from embarrassment then anything else that caused her cheeks to redden. “Thank you for being honest with me. I know that wasn’t easy for you.”

“I think it might have been harder for you to hear than for me to tell. I am going to ask you again but please please don’t overthink New York any more ok? New York was good for us.”

“In that shitty way.”

“Yeah.” She agreed. “And we have had such wonderful adventures together since then and only more are to come. We are good Taron and always will be and you kissed me.” Robyn brought her fingers to her lips.

“Are you only realising that now?” He asked her.

“Yeah I am.” She admitted. “You kissed me.”

“It just felt right.” He said, lifting his shoulders in a little shrug. “Don’t tell Deian.”

Robyn smiled. “I won’t. Thanks Taron.”

“For what?”

“Just being you and not getting angry.”

“Angry?”

“At what happened.”

“I went to angry for about ten seconds and the moved straight to tears.”

“Hey, you know you never have to worry about showing your emotions around me rocketman. It’s what makes us strong. Just ‘cos you are a man doesn’t mean you need to keep how you are feeling inside. I would rather you told me how you felt than doing that. It’s so important to talk me about these things.”

“I will. I promise. Are we adulting?”

“I think so.”

“And keeping our promise of open communication with each other.”

“Always important.” Robyn said.

“Do you know what else is important?” Asked Taron.

“Nope.”

“Naps.”

“Naps?” She laughed.

“I was getting ready for a good one and then I asked a stupid question.”

“No question is ever stupid Taron”

“Took my nap away from me.”

“You can still have your nap.”

“You too.”

Robyn shook her head. “This one is for your Taron. I don’t need a nap. I have literally spent my days off sleeping but you need a sleep and a head massage too but the hair dye is in the way.”

“I will take a shoulder one instead.”

Robyn laughed and it felt wonderful as the tense air cleared around them. “Did you bring a voucher.” She watched as his body deflated a little. “Tough luck Taron.”

“I am bringing a shoulder and back massage one with me when I come and see you in RENT.” He grinned. “I think I will cash them in before I go on tour.”

“A pre tour relaxation.”

He nodded. “And because head ones are free, I will take one of those too.”

Robyn swotted at his arm. “Don’t take advantage.” She chuckled. “Hey you know I love you too right? I realised I never actually said it during all the tears and kisses and what not.”

“I know chicken.”

Taron stretched over and hugged her hard, pressing his body into hers, his arms wrapping fully around her, his head in his favourite place on her shoulder at her neck his fingers resting on the bare skin of her back as her crop top rose up as they hugged. If there was any doubt about his love for her, it was well and truly gone. He absolutely loved the woman in his arms with his heart and soul and put every ounce of his love into the hug. He had fallen head over heels, ready to jump in front of a bus for her, needed to protect her at all costs kind of love. Closing his eyes, he felt more exhausted then he had when he had gotten off the plane, the sudden emotional exchange between the two taking whatever energy he had left and without thinking he snuggled a little deeper into her.

“Taron you can’t sleep like this.”

“Sure I can.”

“No hun, you can’t,”

“Just gotta close my eyes.”

Moving her body forward, Taron had to end the hug or he was going to fall backwards onto the couch bringing Robyn with him. “Mean.” He said through a yawn.

“No not mean.” She replied as she got up and moved to sit in the corner of the couch. “I am thinking of your back. Now get over here for your nap.” Robyn held her arm out and it took Taron less than three seconds to lay against her chest, snuggling deeply into her, his arm going around her waist, his fingers dipping in what he hoped was discreetly into the gap between her top and skirt, his fingertips resting on warm soft skin. “You nap and I will wake you.”

Taron didn’t answer her, already halfway to sleeping. He hugged himself a little closer to her and he felt her fingers running up and down his arm in the same wonderful motion she had used with him when they were in London last month. He wished he could be brave and tell her how he really felt, how he absolutely without a doubt was madly in love with her, in love with every part of her and even more so needed to be there for her and protect her and just treat her the way she deserved to be treated, the same way she treated him with love and cuddles and just pure affection.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Friday 16 May 1834

7 5/..

12 ½

Fine – ready in an hour F57° at 8 5 - reading till 9 ½ from page 25 to 76, volume 24 British prose writers to the end of Horace Walpole’s Reminiscences. Letter from Mr Scotts’ book-keeper ‘GW. Ellis, 3 Dove street, near the Nunnery York’ to say Joseph had brought away his livery hardly worn at all and to beg me to desire him to send it back again - the poor lad brought it away in ignorance, never dreaming, as nobody said anything to him about it, that he ought to have given it back. Letter 3 pages from M- (Lawton) dated Thursday 8th inst and lastly last Tuesday night 13th instant – hoped to have heard from me – disappointed tho saying she had now no right to be so - and indeed ought not as she had neither asked me to write to her at Lawton, nor had I promised to do so -  they arrived at Lawton on Tuesday 6th inst and were to leave there on Wednesday the 14th - writes to ask me to pay the ‘new servant James for a greatcoat Thomas had bought of him’- Found her scholars more stupid than formerly dined at Rode nothing interested her ‘Mary is not what she was or the same things would produce the same pleasures but it matters not’ ‘Time will do its best and worst, and after all is the short span of life worth a thought? A few short years and all is over and mine neither have given nor promise sufficient of comfort to induce a wish that they might be prolonged no one knows not, even you dearest Fred, what I have gone thro’ and at this moment I feel as little caring for the future of this world as if 24 hours would close my existence perhaps I should be thankful to know its duration was so limited – you, at least, I trust will be happy for you deserve to be so, and earnestly do I pray that it may be so’. And that those you love best may secure to you all the comfort necessary to your wishes for the present adieu then writes the more than half page of conclusion on Tuesday night Poor Mary how she has always marred her own happiness but how was it when I was so low two years ago she shewed no great pity for me. Breakfast in 20 minutes at 9 ½ wrote the above of today till 10 20 - some time out with Pickles and the rest -P- finished re-levelling the ground in front of the house before 12 and was at the railing in the afternoon with his 2 men. Had Joseph up twice for a good while about correcting his letter to Mr Ellis respecting the livery - had ½ hour’s nap. Wrote 3 pages and ends to M- as follows ‘Shibden Hall, Friday 16th May 1834. I have in this moment, my dearest Mary, received your letter dated lastly the 13th (Tuesday last) – three days from Lawton! These shews me, that my letter written on Sunday, and sent on Monday (the 12th) would reach Lawton a few hours after you were off. Surely it would be sent after you immediately and surely you have reached it ere this. Mary! I am very very sorry my pages were not with you at Lawton! - but they will convince you, you were not out of my thoughts, are not and are not likely to be – the more, my dearest Mary, I reflect upon the past, the more I am confounded at the appalling inconsistency of your conduct - that you should grieve so deeply over its consequences, is a heavy misfortune to us both. But this I can truly say, that whatever you may ‘have gone thro’ I can’t earnestly believe it to exceed the misery, the ruthless desolation of heart that fell upon myself – to me it was more sudden than the lightness glare - you had long warning – the storm came not but at your bidding, and from your own breast, sprang up the rock on which the hope of 20 years was wrecked. In pity and in common justice, remember this. Think too, that you can never have had one feeling of wounded pride to add its sting to all the rest. It was your own hand drew the card that sped the deadly shaft hope to the heart that had no shield but its affection Mary! Your aim did seem so coolly, so deliberately taken, the arrow scarce could miss her way. But no more - my regard is still perhaps worth having, and it will not be my fault if it does not serve you faithfully. For my sake, at least, take my advice this once more. Cheer up - rally round you those hopes that are scatted, rather than destroyed – let not your spirit turn coward but gather together your resources, calculate them fairly, manage them well – remember that you have a tried and steady friend who will help you to the uttermost, and, trust me, you have no need to despair of happiness even in this world. Despair is always a false calculation we can’t tell the good that may be in store for us and when our horizon seems lowest who knows that the brightest gleams of our existence are not at hand? Mary! I will do anything in the world I can for you - and surely it is my power to be a greater comfort to you than I can possibly have been, ever since the first moment when your mind became unsettled enough to entertain the 1st embryo thought of the now as it appears, strange resolve you came to, 2 years ago. But perhaps after all you were more right than you now believe. If all your tastes were indeed so changed as you told me, while mine as I honestly avowed, remained so nearly the same, how would it have answered to be still entirely dependent on each other? For you must not forget that, as the circumstance, which seems more particularly to tell you the secret of your own heart, would not then have occurred , you might still have been ignorant of it as ever, and I should not have had the strong advantage of being valued as at present. Mary! Is not this reasonable? You find travelling insupportable - you had other interest dearer than mine - you could not bear to leave Lawton - you even made a point of my promising to settle near there - and you, above all people, knew how I was situated towards my own place, where my family had lived between 2 and 3 centuries, I being the 15th possessor of my family and name. Mary! The spirit of my uncle started up before me and had my life been the sacrifice, idolatry must have yielded to honour. Mary! My dearest Mary, you thought of me too lowly then, as you think of me too highly now. Reflect upon these things - you will be happier by and by - you will trust my friendship regard implicitly and this will not be the least of the comforts that I firmly hope will attend us both – ask me to write, or to do anything. I do not feel as if I should ever disappoint you much - I have no feeling towards you but of affectionate regard and my greatest anxiety is for your welfare. But cheer up, Mary! Be comforted, my dearest Mary, if it be but for my sake. How my pen still lingers on this engrossing subject. I must answer the purport of your letter. James Clayton is no longer my servant - he came to me on the 24th ult. refused to wear Thomas’s livery - on the 26th and left me on the 28th sorry probably for his folly and not calculating that I should not retract the warning given at the moment. Mrs Williamson, Register Office for servants, Colliergate  

SH:7/ML/E/17/0034

(I think it is) York, is the only person I know of likely to know anything about the man. You will see from my last, as far as I can tell at present, what I am going to be about - I shall probably be in York by 12 on Tuesday and off in an hour towards Richmond. In my aunt’s present state of health,  I cannot be absent more than a week, I do not expect her surviving another winter - my father’s life, too, is very precarious, he had a very slight paralytic affection , more particularly in the left arm, 3 or 4 days ago -  Marian’s attention to him is quite exemplary. Her feelings towards me seem altogether changed into what is most comfortable. God bless you my dearest Mary! You can’t possible doubt my regard and how much I am always very especially yours. A. Lister’ Writing out this letter has taken me from 3 25 to 4 10 = 1 ¼ hour. What will π- think of it  I see three tears had fallen on her paper  What a goose she has been surely she never thought of losing she played upon me too much the history of our acquaintance may be summed in accepted refused accepted married offended refused repented. Reading over my letter and dawdling till out at 4 ½ - with Marian in the garden - with Mallinson etc - dinner at 6 ½ then coffee and Marian was with me till after 8 - then sent off my letter to ‘Mrs Lawton, Claremont house, Leamington, Warwickshire’ and Joseph took to the post his letter to Mrs Ellis to say he should have the livery hat and all on Tuesday - from 8 ½ to 9 ½ in the fields looking at the new railing - 18 posts and railing there to belonging set this afternoon - and all would be finished tomorrow if we had the posts but we shall not have enough by 8 - 2 plasterers came this morning from Shaw’s, and cleared away the dirt and plaster ready for pointing west side of the house - talking to Marian till 10 1/4 . Is Northgate, or will it be, sold or not – tonight at 7 the sale was to being – I have not thought much about it even this evening and not all during day. My day was spent over my letter and my eyes stiffish with the tears that fell or stood big in my eyes This weakness is too foolish - 10 minutes with my aunt and came to my study at 10 25 and wrote the last 10 lines - raining fast - seemed to begin a few minutes ago - fine day tho’ dullish - very good for growing - my father does not like the idea of flower-beds, so the ground before the front window is to be all sown down with grass and clover - till 11 ½ read from page 79 to 99 Horace Walpole’s letters British prose writers vol. 24.

[takonei]

Beta AU - Main story, Chapter 3, daily life (Part 3)

Note of the author: I legit finished this chapter a few days ago but I wanna keep a regular update schedule.

Day 11 since the beginning of the game. 8:00 AM.

The morning announcement played, waking up Shuichi.

The motive the monokubs gave them was still on his mind. Even though the disease was very unpractical, why would anyone kill because of it?

He shook his head. Perhaps he could try to visit Rantaro after breakfast.

After getting dressed up, he left his room to go to the dining hall.

Almost everyone was already here, not counting the ‘hospital team’.

“Hey there! Did you sleep well?” Miu asked him.

Shuichi hummed, still a bit tired. “How are the others?”

“I gave the hospital team breakfast and they looked fine according to Rantaro.” she replied.

“And what about him?”

She sighed. “He says he’s fine but he looks really tired. I told him to get some sleep but he says he ‘already took a nap’.”

She clearly didn’t believe him. He probably lied so he wouldn’t be scolded by an overprotective Miu.

Who knows how much longer this is going to last. They could only hope the Monokubs would give them a break.

They finished breakfast in silence.

Shuichi decided to pay a visit to Rantaro.

After going to the fourth floor, he realized he didn’t hear a thing. He approached the corridor with the three rooms and noticed him sleeping on a chair. Or so he thought, because the medic immediately opened his eyes and turned to him.

“Hey there. Did you sleep well?” Rantaro asked.

Shuichi blinked. “Yes, what about you? You did have to take care of the others, did you even sleep?”

He chuckled. “Yes, yes I did. Well sort of. I’m pretty much trained to keep myself in a half-sleeping state. Of course it doesn’t help me rest as much as normal sleeping but at least I can keep an eye on those three in case something goes wrong.”

Shuichi was still a bit worried. “Are you planning on sleeping on a chair until the disease disappears?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll keep up alone for more than week at most. But I don’t think Monokuma will let us do nothing for an entire week. So either he’ll try to put a stop on the illness or...”

He trailed off, then sighed. “Please keep an eye on the others for me, okay?”

Shuichi nodded. “Count on us.”

By the sound of his voice, Rantaro really felt powerless over the situation. Of course he volunteered to take care of the patients, but he sounded almost sure that something was going to happen to the rest of the group.

Shuichi wanted to say everything was going to be okay, but seeing how he was right the last time he said something similar, he could only prepare for the worst.

He left the fourth floor, a part of him still hoping things would go their way.

Just as he entered the dining hall, he noticed Himiko talking to Miu, the former looking visibly worried.

“Listen, I know you’re worried about him and it’s really nice of you to go check on him, but Rantaro told me there’s still a risk if you stay in the corridor 10 hours of the day.” Miu said, arms crossed, a disappointed look on her face.

The petite girl slammed her palms on the table. “But I can’t leave him like this! He isn’t taking any of this well and I’m the only one he listens to!”

Shuichi felt like he came at the wrong moment.

Miu turned to him. Her gaze screamed “Help me. Please.”

He approached the two. “What... Happened?”

“Himiko stays way too much time in front of Kokichi’s door and Rantaro is worried there might be risks she gets the disease.”

“You guys don’t understand anything! You haven’t... You... He...” Himiko trailed off. “... He constantly panics about what the disease does to him... To them and to us... I try to tell him that everything’s okay but he says he can’t help it...”

Shuichi hummed, trying to think of a solution.

“Whenever Kaz felt sad or was made fun of at school, I cooked him a batch of cupcakes. It never failed to cheer him up.” Miu muttered, voice low. However she had a weak, nostalgic smile on her face.

“Cupcakes?” Himiko raised an eyebrow.

“Good idea! You two could make some, right?” Shuichi smiled.

The street artist crossed her arms confidently. “Walls aren’t my only canvas you know?”

“You know how to make cupcakes??” the astronomer asked her with wide eyes.

Miu laughed. “You underestimate me, twinkle! I’m more than capable of baking cakes!”

Himiko suddenly jumped to get to only a few centimetres from her face. “Then teach me!!”

Miu instinctively backed off. “Sheesh, twinkle! You’re determined aren’t you?”

Himiko’s gaze was intense, even though she wasn’t exactly intimidating.

Miu blinked a few times, then raised her hands like she was surrendering. “Alright, alright. You got me.”

She stood up and scratched Himiko’s head. “It’s decided! You’re coming with me and we’ll do the best cupcakes spooky boy has ever tasted!”

“Spooky boy?!?”

“What, you got a better nickname?”

“I just call him Kichi!”

“That’s a ‘you’ problem, I’m sticking to spooky boy!”

The two cheerfully bickered, Miu dragging Himiko to the kitchen. Shucihi smiled. It looked like the problem was solved.

Shuichi wasn’t really in the mood to do much this morning. He more or less knew what the others were doing.

Angie was finally talking to Kiyo in the courtyard.

Kaito and Keebo were once again in the warehouse for an attempted maintenance.

Kirumi was in her lab, probably making sure everything was still in place.

And finally, Miu and Himiko were baking their cupcakes.

He decided to go to his own lab to play some violin.

Stepping in the room was enough to make him feel guilty.

After all, his last audience consisted of both Kaede and Maki, who were now together in the afterlife.

He looked at the spot the two were sleeping at only a few days ago. Maki was resting on Kaede’s shoulder, their hands intertwined. They felt peaceful back then.

And then Maki, out of desperation accidentally killed Kaede when her goal was to make the two of them escape.

As much as he told himself this wasn’t his fault, the guilt wouldn’t go away. They had sent Maki to her death. A brutal death, that is.

He shook his head and grabbed the violin to try and make those thoughts go away.

Several music sheets were scattered across the floor. Was he always that messy?

He took one that was isolated from the rest and read the title.

“Autumn by Vivaldi... Why not?”

He placed the sheet on the desk, made sure the door was closed and started playing.

Playing violin was very relaxing, and Shuichi understood why Kaede was writing so much in her notebook when she was stressed.

When he finished the song he exhaled a deep breath and opened his eyes. He just needed the first few notes to remember the whole song, so not looking at the sheet wasn’t much of a problem.

He suddenly turned to the bench in front of him.

Kirumi was sitting here, silent. She clapped her hands once his eyes landed on hers.

“H-How long have you been watching?” Shuichi asked nervously.

“Not so long, do not worry. I was headed to the fourth floor to ask Rantaro if he had any preferences for lunch and I heard you playing so I thought I could pay a visit.” she replied, standing up. “You have a wonderful talent Shuichi. This really was pleasing to the ears.”

Shuichi blushed a little and scratched the back of his neck. “T-Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I shall head to the fourth floor, but I look forward the next time you play a song.”

The violinist chuckled. “I don’t have much to do, so I’ll probably stay here for a while.”

“Well, Miu and Himiko are using the kitchen if I’m correct, so I might as well stay here when I’m done checking on the hospital team. If it doesn’t bother you of course.” she fiddled with a lock of hair.

“No, not at all! It’s just that I’m a bit surprised you like my music.” he shook his head.

Kirumi briefly smiled. “You are not the ultimate violinist for nothing, Shuichi.”

She left the lab to check on the others, as she said.

A few minutes later she came back, as Shuichi was going through different music sheets.

“You know, I had heard your name several times during my missions.” she explained.

“Huh? Really?”

She nodded. “Of course you never were the target some were paying me to kill. But I heard several times your name from high-ranking clients and targets.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Some of them joked about how I shouldn’t kill a violin legend like you even for an extremely high amount of money. Hypocrites.”

This sent a shiver down his spine. Even if Kirumi claimed no one wanted his death, the fact that the ultimate mercenary had the same clients as him was disturbing, to say the least.

“I see... Wait ‘hypocrites’?” he asked her.

“Those people are literally asking me not to kill someone for money and then pay me hundreds of thousands of yens to see their target dead.” Kirumi continued.

Shuichi had some trouble understanding her intentions.

“Um... If it’s not too personal... Why did you start this job?” he asked.

Kirumi’s expression didn’t change, but it was clear she wasn’t going to answer. “Unfortunately I can’t give you the full details for your safety. All I can tell you is that I wasn’t born in the best place in order to live a normal life.”

Shuichi nodded.

The two continued to switch between violin music and discussions about various topics, but avoiding talking about Kirumi’s life.

He didn’t want to know what would happen if he knew more about her, he just knew the consequences would not be pleasant for him.

-

Around noon, the others reunited to the dining hall to eat.

Miu and Himiko had finished the cupcakes, and from what Himiko said, Kokichi was confused at first because he didn’t know what a cupcake was, but was very grateful for the gesture.

Angie finally talked about her issues to Kiyo. However the therapist decided to keep those informations for himself, but assured Shuichi that things were going okay.

Keebo was still glitching from time to time, but Kaito managed to help him maintaining himself for the time being.

Afternoon came and as usual, the others went their own ways.

Angie decided to spend the afternoon locked in her lab doing sculpture.

Kiyo and Kaito were talking in the courtyard.

Keebo and Kirumi were in the latter’s lab to relax.

Himiko was again in front of Kokichi’s door.

Miu was walking around the casino, so Shuichi joined her.

“What’s up? You here to play?”

Shuichi shrugged. “I don’t really know, I mean some items from the machines are nice but I’m not looking for anything in particular...”

She scratched the top of his head and gave him a tap on the back. “Don’t sweat it! The more the merrier!”

The two joined the casino and played various games for a while.

After collecting a great amount of medals, they headed to the premium exchange counter. There were various weird items here, so they bought a bunch of not-that-necessary items for themselves or to offer.

Shuichi didn’t miss Miu getting a love key, even though she tried to hide it.

Even though the bar was devoid of people, they sat there to compare what they bought.

Miu examined the plant Shuichi had bought. “I wish I had time to take care of these... I already got a son and an artist career to maintain.”

He smiled. “Say, you look happier these days. I’m glad you manage your issues correctly.”

Her eyes widened for a second. “I’m... Just glad I managed to get back to my old mom habits.”

“You mean how you always prepare breakfast for the others and make sure the hospital team stays healthy?”

She blushed at the indirect mention of the Rantaro. “I-It’s nothing I- It’s just- It’s-” she stuttered, then groaned, putting her head in her crossed arms on the counter. “I can’t help it, I have to take care of someone or else I’m nervous.”

Shuichi gently tapped on her shoulder in comfort. “It’s alright, it’s not hurting anyone anyway.”

She put her head in her palms, elbows on the counter. “Yeah but doesn’t it feel weird for you guys that I’m starting to treat you like my own kids??”

The boy shrugged. “As long as you’re not the overly protective mom then I don’t mind. You said it helps you relax so I don’t see why you shouldn't do it.”

Miu weakly smiled and scratched his head. “... Thanks, Shuichi.”

“No problem.”

The two left the casino to join the others, since it was already starting to get dark. How long had they stayed here?

They quickly put the items they got in their dorms and returned to the main building.

When they arrived, everyone was either chatting in the dining hall, except Kirumi, who was preparing dinner.

Miu joined her to give her a hand, but was ordered to give the meals to the hospital team. She called Shuichi and the two brought the plates to the fourth floor.

Rantaro walked out of Ryoma’s room.

“Hello there.” he said.

“We got the meals!” Miu cheerfully announced.

He gave them a thumbs up. “Can you put mine in my lab like yesterday please?”

“I’ll do it. Thanks a lot for your service, Rantaro.” Shuichi said.

He left a plate to Miu and brought the other one to the medic’s lab.

When the girl came back to the dining hall, she explained to Shuichi that Rantaro usually waited until the others ate before doing so. Mostly to make sure they were actually eating.

The group had dinner peacefully and everyone parted their ways to the dorms, or stayed outside for a bit.

Shuichi returned to his room. he would usually talk to Rantaro, but since he was busy taking care of the others, he simply went to his room, having nothing to do.

He took a look back at the items he got. He placed the plant on the small table, read a bit of the travel journal and tried to understand how the strange card game he got worked.

He went to sleep, still worrying about the hospital team, but there wasn’t much he could do.

-

Day 12 since the beginning of the game. 7:20 AM.

Since Shuichi went to sleep early, he woke up earlier than expected.

After taking a quick shower and dressing up, he headed to the dining hall. Keebo was the only one there.

“Oh, good morning, Shuichi.” he said.

“Good morning... I suppose Kirumi and Miu are preparing breakfast?” he asked, taking a seat.

The robot nodded.

Just as Kirumi entered the dining hall, a plate of toast and a carafe of orange juice in hand, Monodam entered the room as well.

“...”

The three looked at the silent robotic bear. He was usually with his siblings, chanting their annoying catchphrase.

“Why are you here?” Kirumi coldly asked.

“YOU-GUYS-DID-NOT-GET-ALONG.”

Keebo frowned. “What are you saying?”

“ONE-OF-YOU-MADE-A-MESS-IN-THE-SHRINE-OF-JUDGEMENT. THIS-IS-NOT-GETTING-ALONG.”

The three looked at each other, worry growing inside them.

The bear left them without answering any questions.

Shuichi took a deep breath. “We should... Try to see what happened.”

Kirumi frowned. “I have a very bad feeling about this.”

He was almost certain something bad happened. Something really bad.

It looked like the other two thought the same, so they hurried to the shrine of judgement.

They opened the door.

A horrifying sight appeared before them.

On the ground, was scattered several blood stained sharp objects and hammers.

And in the middle of it, drowning in a pool of blood was the mangled, almost unrecognizable corpse...

... Of Himiko Yumeno, the ultimate astronomer.

[wrotetheaboveoftoday]

1831 Thurs. 20 January

7 10/..

12 20/..

L

F46º at 7 10/.., soft damp morning with a little rain while I was out - out at 8 10/.. to the Muette gate Boulevard de Beauséjour  and back at 10 10/.. - dressed - 1 5/.. hour reading Le Temps - breakfast in 25 minutes - 15 11 35/.. had my hair done - had 1/2 hour's nap - Letter from Mariana (Leamington) about 12 1/2 - at my desk at one - read my letter - dated 1/2 down the 2nd page from Warren's hotel London  3 pages and the ends and under the seal -

Mention of the death of Mr. John Charles of Newton Kyme - neither of the executors can act with her Mr. Charles (John late the banker) residing out of the kingdom and writes Mrs. Charles to Mariana ‘Mr. Raper you know from his conduct is banished [from] the kingdom’  Death of your old and faithful housekeeper Mrs. Tatham - William Milne not well - inquired after the school recommissioned by Miss MacLean (my poor dear Sibella) Miss Clomels, Yorkgate, much pleased with it - expense till the age of 14 or 15 £100 a year and Mariana will make a sacrifice to send her niece there - of course as I ought to know I have not much to expect from her in the money way

Mr. Willoughby Crewe writes her that the people began to threaten in Cheshire - she had thought much of what I told her about returning to England - I shall most likely be at 'home in July which perhaps is the best place for us to be together in' such a chance as Scarbro' 2 years ago is not to be expected -     

“If your aunt's health will admit of a return to England possibly she might sit down comfortably at Shibden - certainly such an arrangement would set you more at liberty than any other, and now that you are in such good luck as to society, and stumbling on eligible companions for seeing all you may desire of other countries, I would certainly have you follow it up - you will not be less inclined to go again, should opportunity offer, and if it should not, it will always be an advantage to both that even one has seen the world"

She thinks 'somehow' the continent will not be long open to us - will 'count the time like a school girl' to July - voila tout on this subject  well it is all very well I must make my plans and then tell her them never expecting her advice to help them much - Lady, I mean Mme. de Polignac was a Parkinson daughter says Mariana of the last sister of the present Lord Rancliffe - niece to the Lady of Mrs. Salmon's  brother Captain Barrow - from 1 3/4 to 4 25/.. wrote 3 pages and the ends, long, and under the seal, all very small and close to Mariana from 4 1/2 to 6 wrote page 4, and the ends and crossed page 1 and finished my letter to Mrs. William Priestly begun Monday the 10th instant (vide lines 1 and 8 of page 16)

Dinner at 6 10/.. - read the paper - came to my room at 7 1/2 - _twenty five minutes preparing napkin for my cousin came gently between one and two this afternoon - have wrote to Mariana, surprised to find her in London -

"It is impossible ever to count upon anything like fixity in their case, quite as  much so as in my own - as to myself, nothing is more settled than when I wrote last - no communication has as yet passed on the subject of returning, between my father and me - but you shall know all as soon as you can - I have no reason, at present, to think my aunt will not be able to bear the journey; tho' it is probably enough, if she does not go next summer, she may never go at all - However, perhaps the chances are, we shall     make the attempt - as for my traveling schemes, I see your uncertainty, but I do talk, and must talk of them, because I cannot calculate upon being able to remain comfortably in England - even you yourself, weighing all things justly on the balance, will not, I think, be for my staying longer than necessary beyond the time where we have been as much together as circumstances will permit - my aunt may do very well at Shibden - rien à dire contre - quant à moi, c'est une autre paire de manches - I do not expect the chance of Scarbro' encore, and only ask for 3 weeks, because I think you would have a right to claim the time certain - But we shall see by and by comment tout cela doit d'arranger - as for my 3 possible, just possible traveling companions, I do not count upon any one of them; and all would be very temporary - Lady S- [Stuart] (Gordon) may perhaps be persuaded to go to Spain - Miss Mackenzie is still, I believe, at, or not far from Naples and Miss Pickford is I know not where - and perhaps, after all, [your wid[?]] is as likely as anybody - je n'en sais rien - sufficient till the day etc. etc. and I shall not pother myself by attempting to fin[al] anything till the time comes - I shall be delighted and satisfied to see you, and this will be enough for me -    

Poor dear Sibbella! I have lost the ostensible and now, I find, the real object I cared to wait for here; and, I confess, I have felt more than usually unsettled since my last return - I can understand the regret for [totality] - It is a serious thing, more serious than we sometimes fancy, to lose anyone to whom we have been long accustomed - I refuse going anywhere in an evening, for I am not in a humor for it and morning visits I make as seldom as I can - Mrs. Hamilton promised to introduce me to Lady Granville; but she has not yet been called upon for the fulfillment of her promise; and I am in no hurry - now that my mind is almost made up to be off from here in the summer, I am indifferent about things that would otherwise have interested me much - nous verrons - I am not much above concert-pitch; and now that I have done enough of at my accounts for the present (expense of last year not much above thirteen-hundred) I am seriously meditating a return to my little apartment, and turning back to something more mental than the commonplace of rue Godot - By the way, 13 hundreds are more than I wish to spend just now; but, in the status quo, I am quite sure I cannot make less do - economy goes for something in my not visiting this winter, tho' I am not sorry to have this excuse to make to myself"

Mention Kinnersy having changed 5/. for transmitting the money - 'the accounts I have from Briggs are much better than I expected - all my rents were paid' - remember hearing 'my poor dear friend speak of Miss Clomel's (Yorkgate, London) school'. She at one time wished to have her nieces there - 'It is a nice situation, from all I remember about it, a very likely one to suit their people' ask the age of 'Mariana Lajeune' - 'I am glad you think her such a nice girl, and shall be anxious to hear what you determine about her - at her age, she certainly has no time to lose' - ask after Steph - fear she can expect no great advice from that quarter - will inquire about Mme Thomas rue des filles St. Thomas no. 23 Mde des modes - mention have several 2 or 3 times met a lady I should have fancied Mrs. John Raper had I not beheld her to be at St. Bues in Cumberland. Beg Mariana not to forget her French and if she sends little Mariana to Miss Clomel to 'beg that this language may be particularly attended to' - all the rest of my letter chit-chat of no consequence

my letter to Mrs. W. Priestly - chit chat - had received her letter on my return home 'for which I should have made a point of thanking you immediately, had my mind been more at ease' - she would see by the papers the death of my poor friend Miss MacLean 'for the nearness of which I was strangely unprepared - Deceived to the last, she herself was not aware of the real state she was in, till the last 3 or 4 days; and the 1st account that met me on my return was that of her death' - Congratulation on the Sutherlands being returned to Crownest -

'I can easily understand and join in their sentiments on this subject - I am accustomed to give you credit in matters of both of feeling and of judgement; and it is not in this instance that I should be inclined to dissent, in spite of the opinions, the wishes, or the interests of others’

say 'I had a very interesting tour last summer - a week on the Spanish side of the mountains and at the 1st Spanish town found the contrast between the French and Spaniards as striking as that between the French and English on first landing at Calais - from Narbonne to near Marseilles disappointed with the shores of the Mediterrtanian but M- Toulon and Hières made us regret that our arrangements did not allow of our going farther' -

I find my aunt surprisingly well - she had behaved admirably during the revolution, having been much calm and composed than many younger and stronger people - she says she never felt alarmed but once, and that only for a little while when Marmont threatened to blow up the whole street if they did not instantly cease making the barricade, which, however, was completed in the night - we had no fear during the trial of the ex ministers - 100,000 men under arms - sense enough' -  

All as quiet here now as the P-s [Priestleys] themselves can be at Lightcliffe - mention Laffitte’s being ruined by the revolution - conclude with

‘I know your time is a thousand (crossing on the 1st page) times better employed than in writing to me, and therefore and therefore only I do not expect to hear from you very soon - If you wait 6 or 7 months, perhaps you may have an opportunity of answering in person - Do not name this to any one but Mr. Priestley because our plans are at this moment not fixed, and therefore not mentioned even to our friends at Shibden - I am too much accustomed to trust to your discretion to doubt it in any case - you may see us both - it depends this time as I told you it did 2 years ago, on my father - I fancy you can read my crossing without much difficulty - I did not wish to write the last sentence where Mrs. Bagnold could read it too easily - my aunt’s kind regards to yourself (had before joined in mine to Mr. Priestley) - and my own, too, and believe me, my dear Mrs. Priestley, affectionately and very truly yours A L- Anne Lister’

dated ‘Friday 21 January 1831’ - from 7 1/2 to 9 1/4 (coffee at 9 20/.. and came to my room at 10 55/..) and from 11 to 11 1/4 wrote all but the first 22 lines of today - did not talk much to my aunt tonight - read her what M- [Mariana] wrote on the subject of our going to Shibden , and said, I took it, that she did not particularly advise but said nothing at all against it - spoke as if hesitating on the subject - but my aunt herself says she thinks it best on all accounts to go - Soft damp disagreeable day - a little rain in the morning while I was out - and gentle rain from about 2 p.m. for a considerable time - F48º now at 11 20/.. p.m. and damp, wet night - raining a little - rainy night -

[wasalwaysagreatpickle]

Tuesday 19 May 1829

4 50/60

11 10/60

Quite ready at 6 – breakfast at 6 10/60 – Mrs Barlow here at 6 40/60 – off at 6 3/4 – at the lecture room in 58 minutes just in time – the lecture lasted 1 hour – chemical lecture lasted from 9 20/60 to 10 3/4 – home in 55 minutes at 11 3/4 by our clocks, leaving (I alone) called on M. Desfontaines at his house immediately after the chemical but he was not at home so left my name in pencil, as the woman servant requested – he had been very civil at the close of his lecture when I asked him a question relative to the date cut and grown over in a piece of the trunk of a tree exhibited at the lecture – he answered me very civilly and good naturedly but I called to ask him if he would go over the garden with myself and a friend, Miss Hobart – Mrs Barlow and I had sat at the administration between the lectures, and seen M. Royce who said M. Desfontaines would be thought to be happy to oblige me – on getting home letter per petite poste, from Miss Maclean enclosing little money from Miss Hobart – 

Had stayed talking to my aunt and Mrs Barlow (who returned with me) some time – then read my letter and from about 12 1/2 to near 2 wrote 3 pages – should have got her letter in time to acknowledge it in my letter yesterday but Vere had no means of sending to me but, by the little post – delighted that my pages to say our plans were fixed were already on the road – ‘it was my aunt herself who hammered into me the travelling scheme (I had not thought of it for ages)’ - she varies as to staying here as her health varies – 

Sunday poorly thought herself fit for nothing but Shibden and to be quiet – yesterday better and all in spirits, and would take a house here for 3 years and then return! Even begin to doubt whether to change this apartment for it changing will harass my aunt – she does not complain of it, and its disagreeables ought to be nothing to me 

‘For entering much into society is even impossible on my aunt’s account, whatever she may think to the contrary all that I have dwelt on with most pleasure has been the thought of having you with me – if this may not be, the will of heaven be done! all I can say is, I desire but your welfare and happiness, and whatever can best insure these I would do all in my power to promote – your present state of health is an affliction to me greater than I can describe; but I am indeed persuaded that, ‘for human weal heaven husbands all wents’; and again, and again, in meek submission to that power that ruleth all things, my heart exclaims, ‘thy will be done in Earth as it is in heaven!’ – you are ‘a little bewildered about what everybody says of Paris in the heat’ – Bewilder yourself nothing more on this subject – the worst month is August, and next July – September, too, you might stay away – October is delightful – November often rainy – December and January our ‘winter’ – can she not go to Hampshire for the present but stay longer than a week that would be only a harass for nothing – then why not go to Guernsey? – think the mild air of Guernsey would do her good.

Would go and see her there – fetch her from there – do anything she wished – Had I known the extent of her bodily weakness when I left her, should have stayed longer – ‘shall go to the soirée at the Embassy on Thursday because it seems best to do so; but I shall think only of you; and the contrast between the scene around me and that at 17 Duke Street, will wrap my thought in melancholy – Sibbella! I should be delighted to have you here, because I hope and think you would be comfortable; but do nothing that is deemed imprudent by those who ought to be best able to judge – what says your cousin, the physician in London? what Lady Stuart, the Macdonalds, Macneils, etc. etc.?’ to write, if but a few lines, as often as she can – to give me her address in Hampshire, and let me never be a moment without knowing where she is ‘Tell me the worst you think and feel; and do not let me be a moment without knowing where you are’ – would rather know all about it - …..’God bless you Sibbella! – you may, under all possible circumstances, count upon all that can be done by your ever faithful and affectionate AL-’

Had written the above of today, and sent my letter to ‘Miss Maclean of Coll 17 Duke Street Portland Place, London, Angleterre’ at 12 40/60 – her letter a 1/2 sheet full in an envelope of which the 1 page full – not a word about or hint at Mr Long in my letter of this morning – she writes that he makes her drive outside thinking it absolutely necessary for her – got Captain Bury to drive her out one day, and sent his (Mr Long’s) groom to drive her another day – ‘You have no idea how weak I was when you left me and this vile cold took the remaining strength away I am obliged to sit all the time I am putting on my clothes – but I am much better than when I last wrote to you, though not much stronger – I think the desperate heat of the weather occasions it particularly as I cannot eat much’ ……. Mr McNeil of Barra’s sister and brother in law have put themselves under Mr Long ‘a scorbutic face’ – meaning that each has a scorbutic face? ‘I have much to tell you but having written to Vere since I came in, I have no time, and my back aches with sitting up, my dearest, do not look forward to long life for me, this sad cold has done me infinite mischief – you ask what my doctor says he looks with intense anxiety, and the slightest change in me, is reflected in him I wish it were not so – I told him this evening my opinion was that I could not long survive but he says still he has no fear but he will get me over this severe attack – and that he thinks I may still live some years’ – 

Captain Bury advises her not to risk the heat of Paris – She is ‘a little bewildered’ i.e. evidently afraid – no date, but says she goes ‘a fortnight hence, if strong enough, to Hampshire for a week – I shall be most anxious till your plans are fixed, I am not surprised your aunt should wish to return to England before your three years tour will be over, in all probability – she, will have looked her last on all she loves on Earth, who now signs herself your own ever affectionate SML’ 

What an account! I fear her forebodings are but too true – she will not perhaps survive long – what good has this silly quack done her? ‘Tis misery to me to think of it – 

Miss Hobart’s first note, merely to say it was an age since she had seen me – could I call on her on Wednesday morning between 1 and 2 ‘that we may have a little gossip? for it will hardly be practicable on Thursday ….. not a very large soirée ‘I fear our Sibbella is but poorly still ever yours V. Hobart’ dated ‘Embassy Monday morning’ – then wrote and at one sent George to ‘Miss Hobart’ Tuesday 19 May 1829’ ‘Dear Miss Hobart I have this moment got your note, and Sibbella’s letter – I fear she is indeed very poorly – we will talk about it tomorrow – your note though written before your receipt of mine, is a sufficient answer to it – I will call for you tomorrow about half past one – I know not anything more you can have to write to me, but will desire George to ask if he is to wait for an answer – I hope you got your watch safe – the letter to Sibbella would, of course, be in time – ever yours AL’

Before 2 George brought an answer – she sent my letter – will be delighted to go to ‘Père la chaise’ if will call for her about 3 – ‘I shall have dined with the children by that time’ but if I think this too late, to go earlier ‘ however I think it pleasanter to let the heat pass away before we drive’ – will pay for her watch tomorrow – 

At 3 1/4 had written the whole of the above of today – Mrs Barlow sat with my aunt till a little after 1 (by our clock as I have written always) – at 3 1/2 went to Mrs Barlow’s – she in bed with a sick head ache – sat by her beside till near 6, and got home at 6 – 

Saw Madame Galvani for 10 minutes – she gave me [?] me the number she had had in answer from M. Dossene – the apartment on 2nde, rue saint Florentin no.11 ‘est de 2400 francs plus le sol par livre du portier et les postes and finêtres’ – the latter tax 2 francs or 1/. per door and per window – Mrs Barlow pays 18 francs a year for this tax – that this apartment 86 steps high, only one window in the drawing room and no coach house would cost 2600 francs a year unfurnished – hired furniture would cost 1000/. a year and coach house 200/. so we should altogether pay 3800 to 4000 a year – 

Dressed - dinner at 6 1/4 – came to my room at 8 – read a little Méreat’s Botany – and had 1/2 hour’s nap on my sofa, and went to my aunt at 9 1/2 – coffee immediately – came to my room at 10 5/60 – very fine day -

[spooky-scary-imagines]

Just poppin in to say that Chop Top story was 👌 and I’d love to hear a continuation. He’s gotten himself and the reader into quite a mess considering how Drayton reacted to Bubba and Stretch, and now you’ve got me all curious about how they’re gonna get out of it.

((You are very correct. Meeting the family on the first date? Lord knows what he was thinking. AND GUESS WHAT! I saved this bad boy so it’s my 69th post. *smacks lips and looks at the camera* Noice. It’s what Chop would have wanted. Also, I am trying my best to stick to the canon story-line like I did in the first part but like…the canon story-line as is does not allow much wiggle room. I’ve cranked the forced 70’s slang up to 11 so I hope the context clues work. ;P Also, it’s pretty much canon that Chop only listens to shitty “experimental” prog-rock.  In any-case, thanks so much to all of y’all who’ve encouraged me to write the sequel as well as write in general. Your support means a lot to me. TW For Drayton being…the way that he is. Most of his dialogue is straight from the script but if that’s upsetting feel free to skip this one. Tagging: @i-cant-get-with-it

From outside, the abandoned theme park was just an empty husk of long-forgotten family trips and worn plastic over a warped metal skeleton. Inside however, the old Texas Battle Land had found a second life as home to some of the most wanted people in Texas. When the youngest members of the Sawyer clan arrived home, it was just as they had left it. Fluorescent lights casting a dull glow over the filthy environment, made even more unpleasant by the ever-present smell of decayed flesh and dried blood.

As they carried the bodies they’d gotten earlier inside, the older of the two stopped his brother before they entered the threshold. “H-Hey Bubba, I, uh, I’m just gonna take this one alright?” he asked, gesturing to the body whose head wasn’t a gross mess of blood and pulp. The younger, Bubba, looked at his brother curiously, and while it was impossible to tell from beneath the mask, his eyes conveyed that he definitely was raising an eyebrow at this behavior. Chop-Top fidgeted under his gaze, “I-I g-got a, er, project I wanna do with it.” Bubba just shook his head and shrugged the limp body off his shoulders, into his brothers arms. He grinned up at Bubba and turned to walk away before quickly whipping back. “W-Wait!” he held onto Bubba’s arm, “Don’t-Don’t tell Drayton about this one, ya dig? He’s joanin’ on us enough already.” Bubba nodded solemnly and he and Chop parted ways down into the labyrinthine tunnels.

…

When you finally woke up, you had no clue where you were. Your first instinct was t scream but you held it back as you tried to analyze your situation. The room was dark and looked like the inside of the Devil’s Shaggin’ Wagon. The walls were lined in colorful, yet dingy carpets and miscellaneous oddities, ranging from bones, to old and blurry Polaroids, to worn and torn band posters, and age-bleached centerfolds of woman and men, naked as they day they were born. After quickly taking in your surroundings, you groggily moved to stand up, but were cut short as you finally took notice of the rope tying you arms and legs to the chair you sat in. You instantly wanted to panic, memories of what happened suddenly flooding back. But you knew that, whoever these people were, you were at their mercy, and it was in your own best interest to just try and play along. Just thinking like that was frying you, but you had to keep it together, or you didn’t have a chance

.After what felt like ages of waiting for a bomb to go off, the door directly across from you opened up to reveal the pale face of the man from the radio station. His glasses and wig were gone revealing an exposed metal plate embedded into his skull, the edges where it met skin were raw and torn, indicating they had not been allowed to heal. He turned to you, and when his eyes met yours his face lit up. “Y-You’re awake! I-uh, well, groovy!” he said, scrambling over to you. He sat beside you, and started messing with your still-trapped hand, picking at the skin and bringing it to his face. If you remembered right, this man mostly responded nicely to you, so he was probably your best option.

  “Um, hey man, not-not that I can’t dig it but-either I’m tripping or you’ve got some ‘splaining to do Lucy.”

  The man laughed at that and moved away, crossing the room to a shoddy looking record player. “You-You like At-t-tomic Rooster?” the man asked, though the record was in place before you could answer. Distorted keyboarding and some bitchin’ guitar riffs blared through the tinny speakers as the man bared his teeth in a manic grin. “Th-this one’s called Ger-Gershazer,” at that word, he started giggling to himself. Disappointed, you tried again.

  “So is this your pad?”

“Damn straight!” the man yelled before more quietly adding, “Well, I-I don’t live alone…But-But I paid for this place!” He pointed at the metal plate, “What I got for this chrome-dome ‘Nam gave me?”“You…you were in Vietnam?”

The man’s eyes got a weird glint to them and his head whipped back in a loud cackle, “NAAAPALM! FIRE IN THE HOLE! The ole’ AGENT O!” He gripped your shoulders tightly, “It’s the dream baby, Nam Land!” You just stared at him in a mix of shock and horror. Before you could respond, from somewhere outside the door, you could make out the sound of a someone yelling. The man’s eyes narrowed and whipped towards the door. “Just-Just w-wait here. Don’t bug out on me now,” he said before bolting out the door. You didn’t bother to mention that you couldn’t even if you wanted to, well, of course you wanted to, it’s just…it doesn’t matter. There’s certainly nothing you can do right now. Worry about your apparent susceptibility to Stockholm Syndrome later.

  When the trippy hippie finally returned, he wasn’t alone. “Hey sunshine, he crooned, seemingly having gotten over whatever caused him to freak-out last time, “I got someone I want you to meet…” He gestured to the other person revealing a gnarled old corpse wearing a camo army jacket, and you bit back a scream. The thing was on the rough side of decomposition and looked like a prop from the guy who did Dead of Night. The man broke into a near falsetto and reached the corpses hand out as if it were a puppet, “H-Hi my name’s Nubbins! You’re-You’re a r-r-real f-fox.” Despite the horror of the whole situation, you couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. The man swatted at the corpse and turned to you, with a noticeable pink to his cheeks that wasn’t there before, “J-Just ignore m-my brother. He’s a j-jelly brain. 

You decided not to address the obvious taxidermied elephant in the room, “So you two are brothers?”

“Yeah. We’re twins! But I got the good looks.” the man argued. Given the state of the other one, you’d have to agree. “Ya see those pictures on the wall?” You nodded. “Nubbins is the one who took them. He always liked artsy stuff…” he drifted off, lost in thought or perhaps memories, of a happier time you couldn’t picture. You were about to offer some comfort when the door slammed open, revealing the giant from before. “DON’T YOU EVER KNOCK!” the smaller man shrieked, leaping up to try and block the other from you. You heard the masked man mumble indignantly. “SO WHAT IF I DON’T USUALLY CARE!” Despite the hippie’s best efforts the large man pushed past him and was struck dumb when he saw you. He turned to the other and yanked him off to a somewhat separate part of the room. While you couldn’t tell what all they were saying, you could tell it was a heated argument.  Before they could return to you, the yelling voice from earlier called for them both and you were left alone again.

…

Drayton was on one again, this time, he was convinced that there was some intruder in the house and had been yelling at the two of them to FIND THEM DAMN IT. Finally Chop-Top and Drayton caught up to where Bubba had some girl cornered at the end of a tunnel. It wasn’t surprising to find a cave-in or a dead-end and end up lost for hours. “What the hell’s going on here?” Drayton looked from Bubba to the young woman, confused and angry, “Bubba, you nap-haired idiot. Get out of here. Who’s this? I get it. Are you the saboteur that’s fucking up our house? Tryin’ to put me out of business? Thousands of dollars lost. You got that kind of money?” “No!” the woman finally responded, and Chop-Top finally recognized that voice.

“It’s the DJ. My faaaaave.”

“That dirty thing?” Drayton sneered, “Told me you boys got her!”

“Well, yeah,” Chop butted in, “Leatherface killed her once already tonight. But look, she’s red-faced. Bubba’s been playing with her. Bubba likes her!” With a exaggerated gasp, he broke into an obnoxious chant, “Bubba’s got a girlfriend. Bubba’s got a girlfriend! Bubba’s got a girlfriend! Bubba’s got a girlfriend!Bubba’s got a girlfriend! Bubba’s got a girl-BLEAH” he jumped and erupted into cackles again.

  “Is that what this is, Bubba?” Drayton asked, “The old cock-and-cunt swindle, huh? S-C-E-X. Sex. And you had to find out about it, didn’t you? You just couldn’t leave it alone. If you wanted to know about it so bad, why didn’t you ask me? You wanna know about it? Ask me. Ask me! It’s a swindle, that’s all. So don’t get mixed up in it…”

Bubba grunted angrily and pointed to Chop-Top, who had lost his playful expression. “What are you going on about?” Bubba communicated in his own way what he had seen in Chop and Nubbin’s room. “Cheese-eating fink…” Chop-Top mumbled under his breath. Drayton threw his arms in the air, “Are both of you falling for it! What would Grandpa say!” Bubba hung his head sadly and Chop just rolled his eyes.  Drayton sighed, “Alright, Chop-Top, take this one away,” he thumbed towards the DJ and glared at the his second-youngest brother, “Then we’re going to see this little cock-monger of yours!”

…

After a more than awkward first meeting with the eldest of the Sawyer clan in which he called you every name under the sun, you were brought to a large dining table and were sat across from Vanita. She briefly stopped screaming when she saw you and sobbed, realizing the fate she had doomed you and L.G. to. You tried to comfort her but there was only so much you could say over Drayton raggin’ and monologuing his totally square life story. “There’s Grandpa now!” he crowed as the two other Sawyers brought in what appeared to be a decrepit corpse in on a throne like dining chair. As Drayton began rambling again about the man “Grandpa” used to be, you noticed that the thing in the chair wasn’t a corpse at all! “Refracto…” you muttered as you watched the ancient man move, albeit slowly. The man who had captured you, “Chop-Top” you had heard the others call him, kept scrambling around, alternating between taunting Stretch and nuzzling against you. “Get the hammer!” the cook squawked and the hippie scampered off. Drayton ordered them around, yelling to “Just get on with it!” and soon they had a small tub set down in front of the old man.

  “Wait, uh,” Chop spoke up, “Maybe we ain’t g-gotta kill ‘em.” He looked nervously back to you, “I mean, at least n-not both of ‘em. Mine ain’t gonna be an-any trouble. A-And I’m the one bankrollin’ this place! I should decide!”Drayton sneered, “I can’t believe both you shit-heads are gonna pussy-out on me at the last minute. You know the country’s in the shitter when a man can’t even rely on his own family! The plight of the American businessman! Quick fucking around and bring them down!”  The two younger brothers looked at each other, neither moving. Slowly, the larger one, Bubba, hung his head and starting walking towards Stretch who started screaming again, pleading for him to let her go. You were too scared to scream and could only watch as Vanita was dragged from her chair and made to bear her head over the bucket at Grandpa’s feet. Chop muttered something into your ear about “Not tripping” and “Just letting him handle it.” But something told you it was gonna take a miracle to get you out of here alive.

  That miracle came in the form of a disembodied voice singing “Bringing in the Sheaves.” From your position at the table you couldn’t really make out what was happening, but you could hear Drayton talking to someone, apparently some competition in the catering biz? You heard Stretch pitifully say “Lefty…” Wait, wasn’t Lefty the name of the guy you two were waiting at the station for? Before you could even call out to him, everything exploded into chaos. All you could hear was chainsaws revving and the screams and yelling from the whole family. You saw Stretch run past you into the tunnels, Chop-Top hot on her heels. Bubba was chainsaw-dueling with a guy who looked like a love-child of  Sheriff Buford T. Justice and Major Kong. Drayton was nowhere to be seen. 

In all the excitement, they seemed to have forgotten about you. You seized your chance to escape, wiggling out of the ropes Chop-Top seemed to have purposely tied a little loose.

  You made your way through the seemingly endless tunnels, finally making your way outside. As you finally reached the surface, you realized night had turned to day. Exhausted on all levels, you collapsed inside the metal tunnels leading to the main body of the park. You heard the sound of explosions, chainsaws and screaming in the distance, but they barely seemed to break through the daze you were in. You had no idea how long you sat there, but you were suddenly broken out of your stupor by a gangling shadow looming over you. 

You looked up, only to see the grinning mug of that crazy Head you just couldn’t seem to lose. He looked more than worse for wear, blood dripping from his neck and a gaping hole in his abdomen. Despite everything he had put you through, you found yourself still feeling pity for him. “Hey, rock b-bunny,” he crowed weakly, “Figured you’d blown this p-pop-stand.” You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, instead leaning in to look over his wound. He brushed you off, “Don’tcha’ know?” He grinned, “Sawyers are like cockroaches, it’ll take more than a lil’ rough stuff and and a wayward Smokey to take us down. Now c’mon.” He held out a hand to help you up, then started off back towards the park, “Let’s go round up the rest of ‘em.” You took one last glance behind you towards the horizon, your freedom, the rest of the life you had always believed you wanted…then turned back and followed your new life into the caverns. Into his, and now your, hell, or perhaps…heaven.

[mi6-cafe]

The third week of writing for LDWS participants has come to a close. Now it’s time for the next bit of the competition: reading and voting!  

prompt: resurrection  Word count: 250 Challenge:  Write a drabble with an acrostic format spelling out ‘resurrection.’ (First word of first paragraph must start with r, first word of second paragraph must start with e, and so on). 

Voters–after you read, check out this form to vote for your top three drabbles! You can also leave anonymous feedback for the writers!

Who can vote? Anyone who’s read the drabbles! Yes, that includes YOU!  

Writers–you may also vote, but we do ask that you vote for three drabbles other than your own.  

The voting period ends at 11:59 PM EST on Sunday night. Results will be posted and anonymous feedback will be emailed on Monday.

Remember, readers–it’s up to YOU to decide who will wind up on top at the end of the competition!

Drabbles are under the read-more:

1) 

Title: Mourning Author: sunaddicted Rating: G Warnings: emotional h/c, mild angst Summary: the fact that it's not real doesn't make it hurt any less

"Roses, really?"

Exhaling a heavy sigh didn't alleviate his oncoming migraine "They were on sale" Q shrugged.

"Seriously?"

"Uh.. yes" had James really expected him to splurge on flowers for a fake grave? It wasn't like they wouldn't wilt anyway.  

"Roses are romantic, Q - for dinners and dates, not for funerals"

"Resurrections are romantic though, aren't they?"

Except for the fact that James hadn't really died: it had all been part of a plan to make some people believe that they wouldn't have to worry anymore about him hunting them down - and Q had been crucial to the plan, there for every step of it.  Still, he seemed... upset? "Are you okay?"

Candles peeked amidst the roses - the expensive and scented kind that Q lit up only to treat himself after long and hard missions; he focused on them, wondering about which of their colleagues had spent so much on a fake death "Sure"

That tone of voice screamed the contrary "Q..."

"I don't want to talk about it" Q sighed "You're fine. You're home"

"Of course I'm home" James drew Q against his chest, gently enveloped him in his arms "I'll always come back" faked or not, resurrection was his specialty afterall.  

Nodding was the only answer Q could give at those reassuring words: one day that grave would be full; one day that nightmare would be too real; one day he wouldn't buy discounted roses to cry on as he mourned the man he loved.  And it hurt.  

2) 

Title: Reinvention Author: IrishWitch58 Warnings: Introspection, Mildly fluffy Summary: Living long enough means changes

Rising through layers of sleep, Bond opened his eyes and blinked at the sunlight reaching warm fingers through the drapes.

Easing himself onto his back and finding his left arm trapped under a lithely muscled and sleep warm body was a familiar experience now.

Sleep was becoming easier, after years of subsisting on brief naps on missions and nightmares when not.

Until six weeks ago, he had never imagined he would be this contented. He hadn't been when an initially minor injury had proven more debillitating than it had seemed. The laceration across his palm had severed tendons and though surgery had repaired it, the tendons were shorter and stiffer and he couldn't use the hand to the degree field work required.

Retirement from 00 status was his only option. He had fought it but he was a realist and knew the department could not risk delicate missions on an agent who couldn't handle the physical tasks required.

Resurrection, he had once said, was his hobby. Reinvention might have been more accurate.

Eventually he had accepted the position as head of testing and training.

Considering his years of experience, it was an excellent fit.

This morning would be the first of his new career.

In two hours he would be Commander Bond, department head. It was time to begin the day. He nudged Q.

One green eye opened and a frown crossed Q's face. “Second thoughts?”

“None. Just starting the day properly.” They were fifteen minutes late with smug smiles.

3) 

Title:  Resurrection Hopes Warnings: No warnings apply Tags: established relationship

Author: Susspencer

Returning to what was home to me, Mi6, my family, friends, the question was would they welcome me?

Everything was different. Everything was the same.

Stiff upper lip and I stood ready for the Inquisition before me.  Where have you been?  Why didn't you contact us, or at least me? Why did you wait to come back?

Unscathed by wounds. Unhurt by blame. Unmoved by their feigned sorrow. Unwilling to forgive, yet.

Ready to regain my title again, reclaim my license to kill. Would they relinquish their grip on it? And reinstate me.

Rumbling in my soul as I saw your face. Reasoning within myself, what do I tell you?  Those eyes as they peered through your lenses.

Eyes full of compassion and love still there, hung with a hurt, so deep, that it peers into corners unseen in forever.

Cheer bubbles in my chest, in that empty place, that was barely holding on to the memory of your face.

Time keeps ticking as I wait to hear.

Is it reinstatement or thank you for your service?  I need to be the hero that you need me to be.

Oh, my Q just come stand near, and chase away my fear. I am nothing without you.  It’s only as we that we can save the world.

Nay or yeah, it doesn't matter, if I can just reach out and touch.  The only thing I need to resurrect is us. To be with you, Q, my dear, you are my life.

4) 

Title: One hope... Author: ato Warnings: none Summary: I wait.

Regret is the worst emotion.  Unprofessional, M would have said.  Inevitable feels more on point.

Eleven o’clock in a sterile waiting room, unsure of basic questions of life and death, I think of words not spoken.  Looks shared, but not acted on.

So clear in my mind... all my opportunities.  Over comms.  In the branch.  Heading out at the end of the day in the same direction, only to turn away.  Avoid temptation.  Turn away from him and toward the cold safety of solitude.

Useless now to imagine "what if?"  How I might have changed his sadness (and mine) by acknowledging what I knew was there, but feared reaching for.

Resurrection is my hobby.

Resurrection is my curse.

Even so, I wait in an antiseptic room, hoping against hope that Q will follow my example.

Come back from the dead.  The presumed dead.  Back from the missing, then found (injured... beaten).  Back from the shadows and pain and who-gives-a-fuck-why-should-I?

To the work.  To the family that isn't family.  To the battles and camaraderie and late hours, exhausted and triumphant.  To the old agent who wants another shot.  A chance to say, "I just need one thing," and have him know it's him.

I sit — cold, bone-tired, frightened for perhaps the first time in years — indulging in a hope.

One hope.

No.  One need. For a snarky, willful boffin to fight his way back from the deep, dark dreamlessness, rise up, open his bright, clever eyes… and say yes.

5) 

Title: Duck Psychotic

Author: Venstar

Warnings: None

Summary: Living is hard. Resurrection is even harder

Resurrection was a little known part of the Quartermaster’s job. It was a demanding procedure, tricky even. He’d had quite a few spectacular and dangerous results. Some agents weren’t meant to come back, some were never the same again and some...had to be destroyed.

Except for Bond. He took to resurrection like a psychotic duck to water. There wasn’t anything that he had been through that Q couldn’t drag him back from. “I’m tired Moneypenny. He’s literally taking years off my life.”

“Someone has to deal with him,” Moneypenny said. “And besides, you love seeing those blue eyes see YOU for the first time, every time you bring him back.”

Unfortunately, Moneypenny was correct. Q coughed. There was something terribly enchanting about an assassin with wonder in his eyes when he spotted Q.

“Remind me why you’re complaining?” Moneypenny asked.

“Remind me why I like you?” Q sighed out through his nose.

“Extraction team incoming,” Moneypenny said pressing her earpiece.

“Can’t wait.”

Terrible things happened every day. It was always a terrible day when 007’s body was brought into his Necro room, where the laborious process of resurrecting an agent took its toll on Q. One more year was taken from his life.

“I know you,” Bond’s voice rough when he finally woke. His face lax and sleepy, his eyes tracking Q’s every move.

“Of course you do, fool.”

Now came the time Q’s strength would leave him and Bond would stay, keeping him company, sharing tea from a Scrabble mug.

6) 

Title: Reboot

Author: kiddohno

Warnings: none

Summary: Everyone needs a hobby.

Rebooting… |  |  |

Entering non-interactive start-up... [OK]

Switching to guest configuration... [OK]

User: 007 Password: ************

Reading biometrics... [OK]

root@LAPTOP-Quartermaster$: cd ~/Programs gcc bond.c

ENTER

Connection failed. Unable to find node. Discarding circuit.

Try again? Y/N: y

Initializing. Resolving... Connection established. Downloading files...

On screen, hundreds of points appeared over a graphical world map. Some were tied together with pixelated lines of colour, highlighting connections between them, and each one linked to relevant documents in a massive repository of data and evidence. This was everything that Q had found chasing down what was left of SPECTRE, alone, after James had gone. He’d foolishly thought that taking out Blofeld would be the end of the whole organization. Instead, the power vacuum had only served to revive the criminal network with added fervor. Q had been methodologically tracking the formation of new splinter groups and taking down cells all around the world, and in doing so he had drawn too much attention to himself.

Now that he was missing and presumed dead, James knew that everything Q had done was to protect him. As long as any part of SPECTRE survived, there was the risk that it would target James Bond. Q had done this so that he could retire in peace. And when Q couldn’t continue his work, for whatever reason, he had made sure that his laptop and a short note found their way to James. ‘007,’ the note read, ‘You know the password-- we all need a hobby.’  

7) 

Title: Azalea's First Bloom Warning: Major Character Death Summary: Resurrection is never guaranteed (but she will probably come back to haunt me).

Author: GwyllionDream

R’s instructions blared over his mobile, but Bond was much too panicked to comprehend them. His hands shook. His mind raced. Despite all of his years as an agent, this was the worst scenario he had ever encountered.

Every manual Bond had studied proved useless in this situation.

“Stop and listen to me,” R’s voice demanded. “Four compressions, followed by one breath.”

Unsure of himself, Bond resumed his efforts. His palms pushed on the small chest beneath him, but she was… gone.

“Repeat it with me,” R said, her voice cracking with despair. “One, two, three, four, breathe….”

“R! This isn’t working,” Bond shouted. “Q will be home any minute.”

Even from halfway across the city, R’s gasp of sympathy reached Bond.

Crimson petals covered the countertop. Bond had clipped the azaleas himself, hoping to bring some spring cheer into Q’s flat. Water dripped to the floor from the upended vase. Each falling drop reminded Bond of the pulsing heartbeat of life that now slipped away.

The old girl had really done it this time.

“I don’t want you to lose her,” R cried. “You need to keep going!”

“One, two, three, four,” Bond counted as he pushed on her fragile chest. He pressed his mouth to hers and breathed, but nothing worked. Bond sobbed so loudly that he didn’t hear Q enter the flat, or his footsteps as he crossed the kitchen floor.

“No!!!” Q let out a bloodcurdling scream when he saw Bond crouched over Pampuria’s lifeless body.

8) 

Title: Home Again Author: solarmorrigan Summary: Bond's priorities have shifted over time, just a little. Warnings: None.

Really, Bond had stopped enjoying the parties a long time ago.

Events like the ones he often infiltrated were filled people who wanted.

Someone was always wanting for his attention, always fawning and smarming and insinuating themselves into his space.

Unctuous in the extreme, they were unpleasant and false.

Repeatedly, though, Bond catered to them, listened to and flattered them. Whatever it took to gain their confidence, their secrets, their assistance – whatever they had to offer.

Realistically, it was the easiest way to get the job done.

Even so, the thrill of successful falsehoods had worn thin.

Could he do it another way? Were there options that didn’t involve the suppression of his every instinct and desire to the point where he felt more like a ghost watching his own animated body interact with others? Likely. And likely, they were higher risk.

The mission came first, though. Every time. And Bond would kill himself, body and soul, to complete the mission. Besides that, a lower risk meant a higher chance he could come home.

It wasn’t until Bond was on his way to that home that he began to feel himself again.

Only when he reached home did it really feel like he began to inhabit his own body again.

Not until he had Q in his arms, held against him, wrapped around him, grounding him and reminding him of who he was and who he was allowed to be, did Bond really feel like he’d come alive again.

9) 

Title: Lost and Found

Author: solitaryjane

Warnings: none

Summary: This time, it's Q who's been declared dead.

“Really, Bond?” Q sighed. “It hadn't even been a day.”

Each of the safehouse’s security measures had been breached, starting from the foyer all the way to the bedroom. Bond stood just inside the walk-in closet, where the entrance to the panic room was, and Q in front of it, looking cross.

Something could be said of the irony of being caught by someone prone to disappearing while trying to disappear. Q sighed again. So much for his foolproof plan. And it was foolproof, mind you, with a perfectly staged attack and a perfectly convincing corpse. He wasn't even going to be gone that long – maybe a few weeks – and then he’d be back. It would be no worse than what a certain double-oh liked to pull on a regular basis. Everything was going swimmingly according to plan.

Until now.

“R found some discrepancies,” Bond shrugged. “Thought I’d follow them.”

“Right, of course,” Q spat. He really should’ve specifically locked R out beforehand. It would've probably spared him the indignity of being found – alive – when barely 24 hours had passed.

Even with minimal lighting he could see the twinkle in Bond’s eyes, exuding mirth and arrogance. Q wanted to kill him.

“Care to explain?” Bond asked.

“To you? Not particularly.”

“I promise I can help.”

“Oh, suddenly an expert in international hacking ploys, are we?”

“No,” Bond smirked. “But luckily I know someone who is, and who, despite his efforts, won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

10) 

Title:  Faith

Author: Iambid/Flantastic

Warnings: None

Summary: Q’s faith in him is everything

Returning from missions has never been easy for James.  There is a soulless feeling that comes with killing. A deadening inside that is as difficult to overcome as it is insidious.  For years it festered.  Damaging James, slowly destroying him from the inside.

Even though Q has never realised it, from the moment they first fell into bed together, there is something he does that can bring James back to the land of the living in an instant.

Something so simple and he doesn’t even have a clue.

Understanding came slowly to James at first.  The first time that Q did it he didn’t know what to think but now he craves it.

Relishes it.

Returning home, it is Q naked in their bed, that resurrects him.

Even just sleeping, Q curls into James’s arms like their bed is the safest place in the world.  He allows James to hold him.  Protect him.

Caress him.

The times that James has killed are eclipsed by the moments that Q trusts him at his most vulnerable.  Nude.  Sleeping.

It is heady. This trusting intimacy.

Only James will never tell him.  It is the spontaneity of Q stripping off after a long day’s work, of him slipping into their bed, resting his head on James’s shoulder and holding onto him so tightly, that makes James’s heart beat again.  If Q realised, if it was a deliberate act, it wouldn’t be the same.

Nothing brings James back to life in quite the same way.

11) 

Title: Turnabout is Fair Play

Author: beaubete 

Warnings: none

Summary:  Patience is a virtue and Bond is a sinner.

Really, he should have expected it.  It was inevitable, though tell that to Q's empty flat at three in the morning with birdsong out the window and a funeral in Bond's heart.

Even the cats join him for long, meandering rambles through the kitchen as though they don't quite know what to do with themselves.  None of them do.

Surely Q will be back soon.  Surely Sunday he'll be at the door with a takeaway.  Surely Monday he'll  be back for his yoga mat.  Surely Tuesday.

Uncomfortable silence rules the flat; since that first confession, they've been quietly together, slipped into a relationship like falling into a warm bath.

Romance,  unanticipated as it was, has become the new normal, and this is of course why Q'll be coming back. It wouldn't be fair to suddenly get everything he's ever wanted only to lose it now.

Righteous anger sweeps his shoulders.   After everything, doesn't he deserve happiness? Doesn't he--

Except if anyone deserved to lose peace, it's him.  Chills trip up the back of his neck.

Could this be his own fault?

The thought has haunted him since their first kisses, faces drowned and ghostly in the corners of his vision.  It was always a possibility.   A likelihood.

It isn't acceptable.  His retirement was meant to make them safe; it never occurred that he'd find himself on the other side of the comms worrying.  He ought to let Mallory handle it.

Ought to trust the system.

No.  He fetches his pistol.

12) 

Title: Something of a Surprise

Author: melynen

Warnings: none

Summary: Q’s in the field and things get a little out of hand.

Resurrection being a hobby of James, Q has long since stopped holding his breath every time his lover pulls off one of his disappearing acts. He still fears for his life, yes, but he also trusts James to return to him.

Especially now that he has practically moved in to Q’s flat.

So it’s something of a surprise that this time, it is not James who disappears but Q.

Usually Q wouldn’t be in the field, but sometimes, concessions must be made, and this is one of those times. A supposedly easy mission quickly turns into anything but, and Q has barely time to feel the gunshot that takes him down.

Recovery is not the easiest or the quickest, and he’s told that on the way back to London his heart really did stop beating; waking up at Medical, surrounded by his nearest and dearest, he can only be happy it didn’t stick.

”Rubbed off on you, have I?” James grins, relieved.

Eve, sitting next him, snorts inelegantly. Q can see that she wants to say something, but mercifully she keeps quiet.

”Could be,” Q allows. ”Though I’d really rather not do this again, if you won’t terribly mind.”

”Too right you won’t,” says Eve.

”I certainly won’t mind,” James says. ”For a while there…” he pauses, but Q can easily hear what was left unsaid.

Out loud, Q says nothing, but he does squeeze the hand holding his.

Neither of them speaks again, but their clasped hands say everything.

13) 

Title: Blood and Fire

Author: azure7539arts

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

Summary: Bond wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

-

“Run!”

Every time he tried to close his eyes, the image of Q’s blazing gaze kept flashing deep in the recesses of his mind.

Smoke had been billowing from the damaged sites, the sound of people trapped and screaming only second to the thick stench of fresh blood that had been permeating through the air. They had been under attack. Again.

Up until that moment, Bond had never allowed himself to even think about exactly just how important Q was in his life. And the second he had heard Q’s sharp, unwavering order for him to go after the assailants instead of staying back in the wreckage to help, Bond had realized that he was going to regret it.

Running had always been his forte, he had told himself.

Running should’ve been easy because he had been doing it his entire life.

Even so… in that singular moment with him staring wide-eyed at the half of Q’s face that had been drenched in free-flowing blood from a gash somewhere above his eyebrow, Bond had never been more reluctant to leave.

“Care for some tea?”

To be fair, Bond hadn’t needed to ask to know that Q would say yes before sitting up straight and murmuring “finally!” under his breath. “How is it?” He sat down, watching Q sip at his drink.

“It’s good,” Q mumbled, seemingly more relaxed. “Just how I take it.”

“Of course.” Bond quirked a small smirk.

No, he wasn’t going to make another mistake this time.

Thank you to our amazing drabble writers for bringing their drabbles to life this week, especially since this was the most difficult challenge yet. 

To our amazing readers, you can help this competition by going here to vote on your top three drabbles. You may also leave anonymous feedback for one or more drabbles.

Let’s vote!

[veliseraptor]

it’s time for our good friend the 150 words meme! namely: send me a number for one of the excerpts below, and I will write 150 words in that fic. 

you don’t actually get anything out of it immediately except me usually making a fair amount of progress on a number of different projects, but that’s something? (I’ve legit finished chapters because of this meme, so there’s that.)

thirteen options this time! aaaand go.

1. It had occurred to Loki, lying on the couch with his eyes closed, despair a crushing weight on his lungs, that he could have done it himself. But there would have been no guarantee of success. They would try to stop him, and the moment he fell unconscious any spell he cast would break.

Or perhaps he was just a coward.

Hydra had taken everything from him, now. His life, his death, his body, and now his mind. The depths of the fractures just now coming clear. The extent of the destruction. (Steve Rogers’ Halfway House for Notorious Supervillains)

2. “My name is Wanda,” she said. “Wanda Maximoff.”

“I gathered,” Loki said evenly. She frowned at him, almost relieved by the faint irritation. It was something to focus on other than her grief. All of this was something to focus on.

“You don’t need to be rude.”

“I don’t need to be anything,” Loki said. “I’m dead.” (Dead Superheroes Walking)

3. Loki’s jaw worked. “I will be rid of you,” he said. “And all your hateful lies.”

“Not lies,” it said. “Never lies. I would never lie to you, Loki.” This time he was certain of it: a smile, and it looked entirely wrong on the shadow’s not-a-face. “I don’t need to. You think I am trying to wound? I am the only one in your life who will be honest with you.” (Mirror, Mirror)

4. Consciousness was slipping. Exhaustion, blood loss, magic backlash, cold...he was dying by inches, and bringing Yfandes down with him. They’d somehow escaped a quick end only to die in the snow.

He was starting to feel warm again. Deep down, he knew that was a bad thing. But it was still a relief.

Yfandes struggled forward. She didn’t speak again. (no more halos on evergreens)

5. Taking a deep breath, thinking dreamily of a hot bath, jets on that would pound some of the knots out of his shoulders, Loki let himself into his room.

His knives were in his hands before he thought of summoning them, and he threw one at the occupant of his bed, who reached up lazily and caught it, then smirked. His own face regarded him, eyebrows raised as he sat up.

“Hey, now,” said a familiar voice out of his duplicate’s mouth. “Is that any way to treat yourself?” (Double Vision)

6. She was hot and shivery at the same time, thoroughly undone, and when Valkyrie finally let up and raised her head, wiping her mouth off with the back of her hand, Loki didn’t think she was ever going to move again.

“Ha,” she said. “You should see the look on your face.”

Loki covered her eyes with one hand, opened her mouth to try to reply, and gave up when the words wouldn’t come. She heard Valkyrie laugh again, though it didn’t sound like she was mocking, exactly. (bad decisions)

7. “What, then, are we to keep wandering until we happen upon some secret grotto?” I could not quite keep the sharpness from my voice, and regretted it a moment after. It was not, after all, Mildmay’s fault that we were here.

“Got any better ideas,” Mildmay said after a beat. I said nothing, and he tightened his grip on the mule’s rein and continued leading us forward. I bowed my head, wishing I had a heavier coat. Wishing I was under a roof, in a warm bed.

Wishing, very briefly, that I was back in the Mirador, in my comfortable quarters.

As well wish to go to the moon. You’re never going back there. (the last glimpse of winter)

8. The next day, Gideon wasn’t dead yet. Neither was Mildmay. Neither was I.

That didn’t mean anything. I’d managed to delay things before, one day, or two. Never longer. Though one day of inaction had done me better than my other choices recently; it seemed as good an argument as any to indulge in another. (In Another End, In Another Life)

9. “All right, Mr. ‘I-Don’t-Get-Sick,” Steve said, trying to keep his voice teasing and not betray too much of his own worry. “Let’s get you into a bed.”

“I’ll make some soup,” Wanda said. “And bring it by later.”

“Stop fretting, witchling,” Loki said, lifting his head and trying to push himself upright. Steve didn’t let him go far. “You worry too much.”

“I wouldn’t have to if my friends didn’t do things worth worrying over,” Wanda shot back. To Steve, she said, “I am bringing soup.”

“Thank you, Wanda,” Steve said, calling up a smile that he hoped looked reassuring. He turned toward Loki and shifted him around to support him against his side. “Soup would be great.” (Tremors)

10. Bucky was giving him a little bit of the hairy eyeball. “Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. He climbed out of his bedroll and started packing up. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just...weird dreams.”

“Me too,” Bucky said. “I dreamed my scrawny best friend turned into a real he-man overnight. Oh wait.” He grinned, and ducked out before Steve could find something to throw at him. When he was gone, though, the disquiet came back, the sense of something very slightly off. Like he’d forgotten something he was supposed to remember. (the wreck of our hearts)

11. Hela’s new little brother, at least at the moment, was less a threat than an irritant. Small and weak and noisy, mostly she noticed him at meals taken with the family when he began wailing for some obscure reason or another, waving his fists and screaming at the top of his lungs. And yet her father adored him.

The warm glow in his face when he held Thor in his arms was foreign to Hela, and she stared at it with narrowed eyes, wondering almost if there was some enchantment being worked on him - by Frigga, perhaps, to bind her husband more tightly to her and her offspring.

If such it was, she could find no trace of it. No, it simply seemed that the All-Father, who had waded through blood knee-deep on the field of Nithafjoll, had gone soft. (swords into plowshares)

12. Rogers huffed in evident frustration. “Nothing about this feels right. You know that that’s - addictive, too, right?”

“Well, yes,” Loki said, before Valkyrie could answer. “But gradual weaning from this is much less likely to kill me. Also you actually have it on hand, which is really more relevant. All things considered, the other thing wouldn’t actually be that important-”

“Okay,” Valkyrie said. “And that’s enough. Loki. Shut your mouth and take a nap.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Loki said. His head lolled to the side and he found himself looking at Rogers. “Neither can you,” he informed him. “Thor could. But he’s not here.”

“Is he okay?” Rogers asked, sounding downright concerned. No, that wasn’t right. Loki must be mishearing it. Hallucinating, possibly. He didn’t know why he would be hallucinating Rogers, of all people, but the world was just full of surprises. (the first steps stumbling forward)

13. Loki had started out his time on Sakaar with a number of rules. He was down to two: don’t think about anything that came before this and be ready for everything. He was managing the first fairly well, barring a few carefully chosen anecdotes he managed to spin into entertaining stories. The second…

It turned out that for all his adventures Loki had still had a somewhat limited understanding of the word everything. (Anticipation)

[diningpageantry]

Sharing

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343617/chapters/41375339

Chapter 7/11 of Of Wealth and Leisure

Word Count: 3502

Summary: A shared moment of intimacy is granted to Mr. Pitch and Sir Snow through Mr. Pitch's recovery period.

Doctor Wellbelove and Agatha take an afternoon railway back home the next day.

I wave them off, promising Agatha I’ll write to her and Penelope before winter falls. The rain from days ago starts up again, leaving puddles for their carriage to splash into as the sound of clomping hooves clashing with water. Under the shelter of the overhang, I watch as they slowly trail off until all that remains of them is the road they’d taken, waving around trees and the deep greens of late summer.

Before making my way back inside and inevitably back to Mr. Pitch’s room, I draw in a deep breath and exhale slowly through my nose, contemplating my emotions briefly. There’s a mild temptation trying to tug me towards Ebb’s house in hopes of unloading my mind, but I don’t feel like getting wet would be beneficial to me overall. Catching my death doesn’t sound appealing.

Therefore, I dismiss the idea and step back into the comfort of the manor. I make my way around, collecting lunch and a few books for Mr. Pitch and I  before walking up and knocking lightly at his bedroom door. A soft, sleepy rumble of “Come in” beckons me inside.

Lying amongst extra blankets with his leg propped up in the air, I find Mr. Pitch comfortably rising from his nap while still fully dressed in the night clothes he’d fallen asleep in evening before. His lips pull when he sees me, leading me to believe that he is still a bit loopy on the drugs Doctor Wellbelove had left for him to ease the pain.

“Ah, you’ve brought me lunch,” he hums, nose wrinkling right at his too-high bridge. “Come come, sit with me.”

There’s an odd appeal about Mr. Pitch being medicated; he’s more carefree. The absolute gentlest state I’ve seen this man in has been this past morning as he got portioned out small bits of opium. It calms his nerves and softens his edges, making him smile up at me like I’m the most important man in the world.

Is it an abuse of situational luck? I wouldn’t say so, given I’m not throwing myself at him like a dog in heat. Instead, I’m taming my growing knowledge of my platonic warmth towards him as I force myself into somewhat of an exposure therapy. The more I’m around him, the more my interest in him calms when we interact.

At moments like these, when he’s not trying to nip at my throat, I can settle in my skin beside him and read aloud or entertain him with a game of checkers. It’s not difficult to get him to interact, and frankly that’s the richest gift of all.

As I go to sit in the chair at the bedside, I feel the peculiar sensation of being touched. With the raising of my eyes, I peer over to see that I am being touched, or rather my sleeve is being tugged, by Mr. Pitch.

I look up at him, noticing that he’s staring at me quizzically as I hover over the seat of the chair. Before I can sneak in a word of confusion, he slips his own demand past me. “I had meant for you to sit on the bed.”

Flabbergasted, I glance between him and the open sheet of empty bed beside him. Surely, I shouldn’t be allowed to join him. “You must be joking. Are you?”

“Snow, am I one to crack such jokes?” he raises his brows, an intoxicated smile still sparkling on his face. Given by his expression, I shouldn’t take his offer and risk an inappropriate closeness, but it’s oh-so irresistible.

There’s a sinking conclusion that I must be absolutely out of my mind, for I’m sliding off my jacket and shoes and settling them atop the chair’s seat before climbing in beside him.

He must be somewhat mental, because there’s an unmistakable hum pouring from his throat whilst he watches me lounge out. In the silence of the moment, his head rolls to the side that faces me as his hands pick apart his bread into bite sized pieces. “What did you bring to read to me today?” he asks, eyeing up the small stack of books I’d carried in my arms.

I scan over the pile, listing off the titles before settling back down and studying his movements. Even in his drugged state, he concentrates just enough to gather pieces of bread, meat, and cheese from his platter and eat them one by one. It’s a childish system, but I decide against ridiculing at this time. That’s something best left for a sober mocking.

He tells me to read the poetry, attention turned towards his hands as I reach for the book. Yet, upon my return to an upright beside him, I feel the brush of a forehead settling on my shoulder. He stays, maintaining shut eyes and a slowly chewing jaw.

I freeze, breath clogged back in my throat as he simply relaxes further into me. I’m only pushed back into reality when he mutters out a quiet string of words. “Why aren’t you reading?”

Why aren’t I reading?

The cover glides in my hands, falling open to the first pages as I clear my throat and begin to read. My voice doesn’t raise beyond our private bubble of space, canopied by his bed and encased between the blanket on top of us. Within an hour, he’s back asleep, somewhat pressed up to me as he snores like an animal.

It’s quite funny, truly. Such an elegant man, but when under a mild sedative, he’s a child again.

Given my brief moment of freedom from Mr. Pitch's every whim, I make the active decision to trade out the poetry for a novel to read until he rises. It isn't until hours later and just past tea time that I feel the shift of his waking body.

His head lifts from the drool pile he’d left settled onto my shoulder, groaning in a mixture of disgust and pain. I’d assume this means his drugs wore thin, leaving him back to his original state. Despite this, he doesn’t rush to kick me out from his close-company. Instead, he draws himself upright and peers over me as he typically would and clears his throat. “Water,” he demands, voice cracking and crumbling from sleep and little use.

I immediately nod, turning to the small pitcher kept beside his bed and pouring it into a glass cup. He nods as a “thank you”, taking the water and tossing it back eagerly. A little dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt as he gulps and exhales, handing it back. He doesn't say word until after the exchange is over, but I hadn’t been anticipating one either. Not that I'd want a genuine moment of thankfulness from him.

“How long have I been out?” he grumbles his typical, bitter comment as his eyes cast down in disdain for his outfit. Still untouched as the same clothes he's worn since last night.

Out of impulse, I shrug as I keep watch over him. “A few hours.” My voice is purely one of gentle kindness, something of which I doubt he fully deserves. Curse me and my hidden intentions of normalcy.

It draws his attention, eyes raking over me judgmentally before his attention drifts away without the anticipated snarky remark. Instead, he settles back into his seat and analyzes me, making me feel like I’m an uncovered crime scene or a fine piece of art. He always seems to make me feel so distant and untouchable.

It’s a long while that we sit like this, him looking at me and me staring back as if I’m a caged animal watching its new owner. It’s unnerving, knowing that he could open me with just a gentle crack to my head. Out will spill my secrets, coating us like an extra blanket on his gothic bed.

“Tell me, Snow,” he says at last, skull resting back against the headboard and settling there comfortably amongst the carved gargoyles and licking, wooden flames. His hair sticks out at all angles, left untouched after his slumber. It's endearing. “Why is it that nobody knows your story?”

“Pardon?” My head draws back, eyes narrowing as I stare.

He shrugs in such a graceful way. It’s absolutely unfair. His shoulders drag up, pulling towards his jaw before slacking elegantly back at his sides. “You heard me quite clearly, Snow. I’m curious about you--everybody who’s anybody is curious about you.”

There’s nothing anybody needs to know about me. “What do you want to know?” I crumble, fingertips dragging along the edge of the book’s spine as he keeps his eyes locked on me. It sends chills up my spine and makes me want to tell him everything there is to my history. The nunnery, Lord David’s calling upon me. The lies and the unsaid truths of my nature. All the morbid stories everyone seeks, yet nobody's graced to hear.

“Where did you come from? Why do you eat so quickly?” his voice grows soft and gentle. A feather over a piano key, trying to tempt a note from me.

I should, theoretically, toss myself out the closest window. It’d be much more beneficial, and will most likely result in a positive outcome  as opposed to what Mr. Pitch wishes to elicit from me. The cruelest part of all is that I tell him. I’m too weak as to not to. Listening to the honey-sweetness of his voice makes me want to give him the world.

“I was orphaned,” I breathe, unable to raise my voice higher. “Left for dead, wrapped in a blanket and set in a basket on the streets with only a slip of paper holding my name. The nunnery took me in and raised me until I was nearly five, then Lord David went to fetch for me. Nobody ever told me why he picked me in particular, but it was me he wanted . Up until that point in my life, I was constantly starved...”

“Is that all?”

I shake my head, eyes downcasted as I squirm. He doesn’t even have to touch me to make me experience the weight of being smothered. Perhaps it’s the room, although it’s more than likely the truth that’s strangling me. “No,” I utter, “Lord David never kept me well when I was younger. There was long nights of lessons with few and far meals between. He raised me telling me I would provide a great fighter, in case the wealth was challenged. I was always told to never tell a soul where I’m from, either. It always made me feel like I was in trouble; like it was my fault.”

“Why was that?” It feels as though Mr. Pitch is the spy, coaxing answers from me. Now, I’m noticing he’s drawn closer, sitting in nearly breathing distance.

“Because I choose to follow what he says. He says someone may have to defend the name once he’s at proper power, and that he’ll be to weak to do it once the time is right. Therefore, he needs me to carry the illusion that I’m meant for this. That I'm not hidden swine. That I'm meant to be here…” I feel a hand on mine, and I flinch before registering that it’s Mr Pitch’s. He goes to pull it back, but I close mine around his, risking a glance into his eyes. “Don’t tell anybody--I beg of you. It could destroy me and make me more ostracized than I already am. Everyone believes I’m much like the other followers of Lord David, coming from wealthy families that left them to train and grow stronger. If… it they know I’m not…”

His hand squeezes mine, making me exhale and stare at him in utter panic as his other hand raises to rest upon my cheek. As if it’d make it better.

It doesn’t.

“I’ll never tell a soul,” he says gently. “You have my word.”

The constricting walls start disappearing entirely, my focus closing in on Mr. Pitch and his all-consuming presence. It’s as if he’s enveloping me, taking over the room around us and just existing as my barrier.

In a moment of weakness, I try to urge my curiosities out of him.

“What happened to your mother?” I whisper, staring at him wide-eyed and weak in his arms.

I somewhat fantasize him snapping my neck, as he easily could, yet he surprises me by running his thumb against the skin of my cheek. For a fleeting second, I wonder if I’m drugged and the view of him with such a sheep’s wool-soft smile is a hallucination. “Hadn’t anyone ever told you?”

I take a few deep breaths, shaking my head in a silent response as his thumb continues to drag against my skin. In a moment’s miracle, his hand drops from my face and settles back onto the pillow.

“Someone attacked,” he says quietly. “Came early evening, right after I’d finished my day’s classes and took a break to play around in the flower. She was in her study, overlooking the garden. I… don’t quite remember much beyond slashing pain, the stark blueness of the sky and waking up to mum not being there anymore. All I’ve been told is she threw herself between the attacker and I, and she hadn’t survived.”

I purse my lips, watching his eyes drop and feeling my own mind claw back to reality while his sinks away. I don’t have much to do, besides attempt a similar comfort.

My hand drops to his good knee, sliding up to rest on his mid tight. He tenses at first, and I contemplate pulling back, but he draws his leg out closer towards me after a second. It makes my heart patter faster, throat restricting as I catch his eyes.

“Was the killer ever caught?”

He appears shocked, shaking his head as if I’d said something irrational given the situation. “What? I… no. Never.”

“Then we have to catch them,” I whisper, urging closer. “I’ll help--I have to. You know my secret, and now I have to pay you back.”

“You surely do not have to,” he utters back, face contorting in confusion. “I have no reason to share this pain with you, and you have no reason to seek to solve a decades old crime.”

I scan his face, shifting a bit in my spot as my hand remains set on his thigh. “I wish to,” I add. “It’s unfair. I’m not rather fond of the unfair.” It’s not a lie; far from it. If it’s right, it’s what I should be doing with wishes for friendship aside. Yet, if it draws me closer to him, if it keeps me at such a distance as we’ve been for days, then I’ll solve all the crimes in England for him.

His jaw goes a bit slack, eyes darting back to my hand and up towards me. “Do you really wish to help me?”

“I’ll do anything.” I lean closer, feeling his breath on my cheek as he stares at me. “I’ll tear up half the country to solve this for you.”

“You are far too kind, Sir Snow.”

“And you're not too evil, Mr. Pitch.”

His tongue lets out and I watch it’s pink trail, swiping against his lip as my heart races out of my chest cavity. I’m positive that he’s tempting a quick word, but a knock at the bedroom door sends us flying apart. I scramble out of bed, jolting to a standing position and straightening out my shirt where it’s tucked in. He raises his blanket up further, pushing his hair back as he tries to smoothly call for the unknown person to enter.

In pops a servant, carrying a food tray. “Master Grimm stated that he’d assumed both of you would not be joining for dinner, given Master Pitch’s state, so I come to bring the food,” they say quickly, as if it's rehearsed, as they offer it out to me. I take with a nod, thanking it. The servant avoids eye contact with both of us, rushing out quickly and leaving me to stand somewhat awkwardly, a platter of food in my hands.

We exchange a glance, me standing and staring as he sits on the far opposite side of his bed. I nearly go to sit somewhere else, but he keeps the space beside him empty as an invitation that I can’t quite refuse.

In silence, we sit to eat side-by-side, nearly like we’d been doing such for years. It’s inescapably intimate; a couple’s dinner in a couple’s bed, if an illustration seeked fit to capture the moment. In the depths of my mind, I ponder what it'd be like to have a couple's dinner.

I clean up after us, leaving the tray outside the room and finding the instructions for Mr. Pitch's nighttime dose of the pain reliever. I settle beside him on the bed, filling his cup with the required amount of drops before he sips it down. His nose scrunches before he exhales and relaxes slightly, eyes trailing me as I reach out to grab my shoes and jacket to retire off to bed.

He stops me with a cleared throat and side-casted glance. “Sir Snow…” he begins. “Don’t find me rude, but… I did feel quite a bit calmer with you in the room. Of course, I would defend myself if I weren’t injured, but-”

“Do you wish me to stay in the room once more?”

“Until I’m sure I’m safe,” he adds, head bobbing once in a nod. Of course, I won’t refuse.

I leave my shoes and jacket, going to collect my blanket for the sofa as he stares. It leaves me unnerved and sends me spinning back to face him. He cuts in, once again, before I can. “My bed… is quite large…”

I shock, narrowing my eyes at him as I shift from foot to foot. “Mr. Pitch, are you not afraid of someone seeing us? Two men laying beside each other, is that not something to arouse suspicion?”

His hand dismissively waves, nose turning up. “The servants know to knock before entering. There should be no such worries.”

I stand frozen at first, torn between what’s clearly proper and what I may secretly wish for.

My urges win the battle.

After borrowing one of Mr. Pitch’s nightclothes, I rush to change in his bathroom and emerge to find him waiting with the blankets turned down. I settle beside him, hands folding on my chest nervously as we stare at each other.

He makes the first move of comfort, hand reaching out and grasping mine. “Are you positive that you’d be able to find my mother’s killer?”

I trace my fingertips along his knuckles in the briefest moment of weakness, studying the dips and curves of his face so stunningly close. “I’m convinced,” I murmur, pushing my fingers between his. “After all, you’re too smart and I’m too bold for it to not work.”

He exhales out, lips threatening a genuine smile as he stares off at me. “Thank you.”

I have to force myself to not overreact to his words, nearly positive I’d heard them wrong at first. After seconds of processing, I find it in myself to turn my body towards him and smile at him. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Pitch.” I press our palms together, feeling his gaze soften as we stay locked in.

“Basilton,” he whispers after a few brief seconds. “Or--or Baz. I hear you trade such soft names within your friends, and it feels displacing to be referred to as mister.”

I study his face and nod my head slowly in understanding. “Baz,” I test, feeling it on my lips and watching him smile once again, keeping it in the privacy of just him and I. I wish to try it again. I do try it again. “Baz.”

“That’s enough, Snow.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Simon.”

“Hm… I prefer Snow.” He returns back to his playful smirk, and I feel like pushing him over. I can’t truly push him, of course--he’s got a broken leg, and we are laying down after all. So I settle for a shoulder nudge, which leads to receiving one back. Soon enough, we nudge each other back and forth until we sneak closer to poke and prod at each other’s faces. Eventually, in silent laughter, he collapses forward towards me with a full faced smile and settles his cheeks on top my shoulder.

Despite my best urges, I simply smooth back his roughed hair and smile. “Sleep well, Baz,” I whisper, enjoying the way his name rolls from my mouth.

He returns with a grunt, remaining against me as he dozes asleep.

I ponder for the moments before I sleep whether or not this is the beginning of our friendship. I think it may just be so.

[softbookboi]

Lovesick Schoolgirl (a snowbaz fanfic) Chapter 1

Summary: Baz is sitting in class and starts doodling all kinds of Snowbaz stuff in his notebook. When he’s snapped out of his musings and realises he’s doing it, he starts blushing. And then - curse his luck - the teacher calls on him to answer a question. He just starts blubbering and stammering and since Simon is there, its even worse. After class, he’s visited by Simon before he can sneak off to their room to take a nap and Simon insists of Baz telling what he was writing in his notebook because he thinks that Baz is plotting something. Baz refuses but Simon grabs it and before he’s able to open it, Baz lights it up on fire and then watches it burn to ashes. After Baz leaves, Simon becomes hell-bent on figuring out what was in that notebook.

Baz

I think I'm dying.

This lesson is so boring that I feel like watching Snow try to cast a simple spell without messing it up would be more interesting. (Of course, that definitely would be more interesting. Snow looks adorable when he’s trying hard to concentrate. He bites his lip, then sticks his tongue out, which looks so perky and dainty and cute, like a small child. I would be delighted to watch him try to cast a spell. Any spell.) (Merlin, could I get any more pathetic?)

I'm currently sitting in Miss Possibelf’s class, trying not to dose off. I normally quite like her class, she’s a good teacher and I get to see Simon try to cast spells, but today, the lesson (that I’ve already learned before), her ridiculous way of teaching it (she’s literally doing it so wrong that it’s going to take our class a week to master this spell) and the fact that I didn’t get enough sleep last night because I was down in the Catacombs draining rats for a long time (I hadn’t drunk in so long, I felt as if I were about to pass out) all combined together are making me hate this lesson.

I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open but I can feel the occasional magic drifting off of Snow which means that he keeps giving me surreptitious-but-not-so-much glances which are basically a siren to pry my eyes open for the rest of the class. I have a free period after this, I could go to my room and nap. But right now, I need to concentrate on staying awake and alert because the slightest little slip-up could send Snow on one of his absurd plans on making me reveal what I'm ‘plotting’ to him. Oh, that poor, beautiful boy.

I'm sure he was awake when I came back last night. I could recognize the pattern of his breathing as the one when he’s awake. He didn't say anything but I know the gears in his head were turning and he must've figured that I would be out drinking.

I can't really seem to believe that properly though. Whenever Snow deduces something related to me or my vampirism, I can't really seem to believe it. He infers that but still can't seem to infer the biggest thing that'll make killing me much easier.

I sometimes think about it. Him finding out about my feelings for him. The thoughts terrify me but he also might find them useful to him. He would know how pathetic I was and use that as a way to weaken me when we're at war with each other. (Of course, he's going to win either way. He’s the hero. I love him. I'd die willingly for him.) (But he doesn't need to know that.)

But I still do like to think about him. It's impossible not to. He's always there. In front of me, beside me, behind me, alive and breathing and carrying on. It's impossible not to act like a lovesick little 3rd Year girl and think about his brown locks or his blue eyes or his cute, scrunched nose when he's trying to open up a box or something. How can I not? These are feelings and I can't push them down no matter how much I want. (I want to. I want to so bad.)

I hate imagining him coming near me with a soft look. Pulling me into a hug. Snogging me until I've forgotten how to function. Holding my hand. Loving me back.

I hate imagining this. So much. It just reminds me of the fact that Snow hates me. He will never love me. He’s not even going to be my friend, I ruined any chance of that when I started being a git to him in 1st Year. I was 11 years old! What was I supposed to know about feelings and that mushy gushy stuff? All I knew was that there was a beautiful boy with bronze locks and blue eyes holding out a hand to me, offering peace and unity between us...and a chance to be his friend. But the butterflies in my stomach and the remembrance of that I was supposed to be this boy’s enemy caused me to make irrational decisions.

Perhaps if I had become his friend I would've known all his abysmal qualities (not that he’d have any) and not liked him because of them. Of course, that would mean that I was a horrible person but still. (I am a horrible person, though. A monster. A vampire.)

The amount of time I spend thinking about what my life could've been like if I were his friend is just ridiculous at his point. It's not like there would be a big change. I would still have to fight him. But at least we would be a bit nice to each other, or at least not fight all the time. That would've been big for me, though. Anything with Snow is big for me.

I wish I had taken his hand. Merlin, I wish I had so fucking much.

All this thinking about Snow just darkens my good even more and I feel him staring at me right now, so I look over and give him my best glare. (Only the best for Snow.)

He gives one back and I imagine him smiling at me instead. Smiling at me with admiration in his eyes. Admiration. Love. I'm feeling lightheaded now and just want to go to my comfortable bed in my room and take a long and comfortable nap.

This is another side-effect of thinking about Snow like this. As cheesy as it sounds, it makes me physically ache because I know it won't ever be true. Ugh, I'm becoming a sap because of him. And I can't think properly.

Snow’s done this to me. Why do I love someone who’s made my all my self-preservation and control go to hell? Aleister Crowley, couldn't I have found some other boy - or girl - to love? Life would be so much easier. Everything would be so much easier. But, of course. Life is never fair.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling too horrible and pitying myself, I think about us. Me and Snow. Us. Dating. Getting married. Adopting children. That makes me feel better, of course, but then I'm feeling even worse later when I'm reminded of how unlikely that is. Correction: how impossible that is. But putting aside my threatening tears because of that, thinking about Snow and I dating really makes me feel better. No matter how unlikely it is, I like thinking about Snow waking me up in the mornings with kisses and calling me darling. Him and I dancing slightly to Elvis Presley and him holding me in his arms like I'm something precious. Him waking up early just to make me food. Him caressing my cheeks and telling me he loves me. Our wedding cards. The invitations. Our first child’s name. The engraved words on his tombstone (“thy freckles that sit upon thy golden skin are beautiful and marvellous”) (That's all I have so far.) (I'm quite shitty at old English.)

But if it were old English, then I guess we'd have to-wait.

”All I have so far”?

What does that mean?

I whip out of my musings of Snow and I and - Merlin - discover that I had been writing in my notebook all along. But not notes.

They're little doodles of what I was thinking about earlier and they're everywhere.

My whole notebook page is filled with them. They're near the corners, on the margins, some of them are even covering my previous notes.

I feel heat rushing to my neck and cheeks when I see a particular doodle of me and Snow kissing, surrounded by hearts of all sizes and “Snowbaz” written at the top.

Snowbaz? What is wrong with me?

My widened eyes explore the expanse of the contents of the page and when I see a tombstone of him, and underneath it, the inscription I was preparing for him, I look at myself from someone else’s point of view and realise that I'm acting like a lovesick person and get freaked out by own myself.

As soon as I see a small drawing of Snow with (once again) hearts surrounding him and a little speech-bubble beside him saying, “I love you, Baz. So fucking much, ” I practically slam the notebook shut and it makes a loud sound. A few kids sitting near me peer at me, curious as to what I just did and why I did it, including Snow.

I specifically ignore Snow’s eyes because I know I'm flushed harder than I've ever been. And I know that it's visible and that the students can see it because some of them are eyeing my cheeks now. I resist a look at Snow cause I don't wanna know what look he's sporting and just state straight ahead, hoping that people will get back to their own business.

But of course, my life has never been that easy.

They all seem to look away, thank God. But then Miss Possibelf eyed me up and down and decided to be the worst teacher ever. She asked me a question.

More specifically, she asked me what was the spell best for what we just learned.

I wasn't listening to what they just learned. I was too busy doodling Snow like a little girl. The thought makes me blush even more and now I'm stammering.

Stammering.

Holy sweet cheese, what has become of me?

I start blubbering too, just like Snow and I feel humiliated.

Basilton Pitch, stuttering and blubbering like an idiot.

I spent so much time creating a cool reputation of complete calmness in all situations. Always calm and collected. Always relaxed. But now all of that is gone and I'm left looking like such an idiot.

I look at the other students in the room and they're all looking at me with incredulous on their faces, obviously noticing my weird change in behaviour. I look at Snow and Crowley, his eyes are blown open and one brow is raised. That's my look. Snow is nailing my look. Oh my God.

He’s noticed my blush too because he's staring right at it. And then he moves his gaze to my eyes. We’re making eye contact and I feel my breath knocked out of my lungs because of those unexceptional eyes that are boring holes into mine, unveiling all of my secrets and deepest desires.

I quickly move my head away and look right to Miss Possibelf. “Uhh, sorry Miss, I-I don’t know the answer.”

She shakes her head and I swear I hear someone gasp a little.

“Alright, sit down then, Baz. And try to pay attention next time in class.”

Even Miss Possibelf looks a bit fazed by my sudden change. I sit down and avoid everyone’s eyes while Miss Possibelf once again drones on and on and on.

Snow doesn't look at me when I sit down. He looks forward and doesn't look my way the great of the lesson. I kind of want him to turn around so that I could see what his expression was and try to read it but I also don't want to because there will be no expression on that face which I want to see directed at me from him.

I still feel a few eyes on me when the bell ring and I practically gallop across the room before anyone else. I force my legs to move faster and take me away before Snow finds me and interrogates me, which I know he will, based on my behavior in the class and how he was looking at me.

But no luck on my part.

I was out in the hall, in front of the students now trailing behind me, trying to get to their next class. (They seemed to lose interest in me now. It was good but I was still terribly humiliated.) I was trying to get out of that place but somehow, Snow ended up in front of me. (I would say he came out of nowhere but that would be logically incorrect.)

He stood in front me, his eyes narrowed in a suspicious way, all trace of the look he was giving me before in class gone. His arms are crossed in front of his chest and he's swaying slightly on his feet, not like he's drunk but like he's trying to figure something out, considering by how he looks me up and down with a frown on his face.

I cross my arms too and glare at him. “What, Snow?”

He snaps out his daze. “What?”

“I said ‘What, Snow?’. I haven’t got all day you know. I have a life.”

He glares at me as well and then I sneer at him. It’s not as sharp as it was before because of the embarrassment but I don’t really care right now.

It seems that Snow does because he looks at me and raises a brow. Just like he did in the classroom. Merlin, how did he learn that? He must’ve practiced in the mirror in the room just to piss me off.

Well, if that's the case, then it worked. Not only am I seething at him for stealing something that was mine, but he has the audacity to smirk about it. That bastard definitely practiced it to piss me off.

He drops the look, unfolds his hands and then stuffs them in his pocket, obviously trying to look all cool and nonchalant and calm as I do. I’m ecstatic to say that this he doesn’t pull off that well. Of course, I love him. I would like him however he was but if anyone else were to see him like this -  anyone who wasn’t in love with him - then they wouldn’t think that he looked cool. I decide not to tell him that and let him wander around school looking like this. I smirk at the thought.

He frowns, catching my smirk, but pulls himself together.

He, then, gets straight to the topic.

“What were you writing in that little notebook of yours?” he asks, voice icy with a hint of something undetectable.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I answer, now trying to be the calm and collected one. I try to walk past him but grabs me by the waist. My breath silently hitches and I pray he didn't hear it.

Lightly, he shoves me back in the position I was in. “You know what I’m talking about, you git.”

“I really don’t, Snow. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my next class.”

Once again, I try to walk away but he pushes me back. I can tell a few people are eavesdropping on our conversation. I glare at them and they resume walking. When I turn back, Snow is looking at something between my fingers.

The notebook. Oh, bloody hell.

I was so eager to get out of the goddamn class that I forgot to put it back in my bag and just carried it. Ah, fuck.

He looks at me again and lowers his voice an octave which sends shivers down my spine. “What were you writing in the notebook, Basilton?”

Shit. He’s hardly ever called me by my full name. (It’s really fucking sexy.) He only does that when he’s desperately on edge. Ugh, did he somehow get triggered from me writing in a notebook in class? Although, if he does call me by my real name “Basilton”, then there’s always something horribly wrong. What’s wrong this time? The last time he used the full name was when he started following me everywhere in 5th Year.

“What do you think, Snow? Notes for class, duh. Didn’t think you were this thick, Snow. Maybe you’re just incredibly stupid, or have too many problems.” It’s a stupid insult and it barely counts as one, I know. But right now, I’m trying not to get a different type of problem in front of him that's caused by his low octave and the stare he’s giving me. A very different kind of problem.

“No, you weren’t. I saw you, Baz. Everyone saw you. You were writing something and then you slammed it shut like it was poison ivy. And then when Miss Possibelf called on you, you started stuttering and blubbering and you weren’t paying attention to her before. And you were blushing, positively way too much for a vampire."

I feel my cheeks redden at his last comment and force them to cool down. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a human too, you know. I blush too.” It seems like the wrong thing to say, but right now, I don’t really know what to say. “So, for Merlin’s sake, leave me alone. It was nothing but notes, Snow. And I merely dozed off a bit. I thought you, out of all people, would understand that since you have the most experience with it than any other 8th Year. Now, for fuck’s sake, I’m leaving.”

This time, I straighten my posture and force my chin up and bump into him while walking away. But he seems prepared for that, and snatches the notebook as I try to walk away.

I whip around in an instant, heart suddenly speeding up stupendously, and see him standing there with a glint in his eye and says, “I’ll find out what you’re plotting, Baz.”

His dialogue is so utterly ridiculous that it just makes me more angry.

He thinks I’m plotting something? The nasty git. What would I plot where I would have to make a fool out of myself in front of my classmates and blush horrendously too. And why would I actually carry it out? I have too much dignity and too good a reputation to do something like that. I’m not Snow.  

I grit my teeth. “Snow...give it back.”

“No."

I lunge at him.

It’s half a fist-fight for the bloody notebook and people are watching us but I don’t care. I’ve dealt with worse before. And I can’t let him read what I wrote/drew. It would be too humiliating for a day. I would be outed.

I press hard on his shoulder to push him down and myself up when he holds the notebook over his head and easily grip its spine. He starts to tickle me, the wanker. I grunt, squirm and try not to giggle but it's hard, and he keeps tickling until I start to squirm a bit too much. And the he pushes me off him and my grip on the spine of the book is lost. He turns away from me, holding it tight in his hands.

Suddenly, I’m hit by a humongous wave of panic and nausea. Is he about to run away with it? Is he going to read it if he does? Merlin, yes, he will. I need to get that back.

I’m desperate to. I’m so desperate to get it back that just as he starts to turn away. I mutter a spell and flick my wand a but from my pocket and the notebook burns. Literally. It actually scorches until it’s just ash. A teeny bit of ash in Snow’s palm. Such a small amount that it’s not even overflowing from his palm. Snow and I both just stand and stare it at as it turns. When it finishes, there’s a heavy smell of smoke in the air that's quite similar to Snow’s magic, so I don’t know if it’s the burning of the notebook, his magic, or both.

I’ve had just about enough for today. Without looking at Snow, I turn around and just walk away without another look back.

Snow doesn’t call after me.

Simon

I just stand there and Baz walks away, speechless, looking back and forth from the ash and Baz’s walking figure.

Long after he disappears (to our room, he has a free period and so do I), I come to a final decision.

I gently sit down on the ground and slowly rummage through my bag to find a small bag the size of a hand. It can only fit the teeniest of tiniest things. (Penny gave it to me. Her roommate had given this to her and she said that she doesn’t want anything from Trixie.)

I softly open it, careful not to accidentally drop a bit of the ash in my other hand on the ground. I place all of the ash of the notebook into the bag and then lock it up tight.

I then get up and move to go to the library to study a bit (but I know I’m just gonna end up thinking about that notebook and Baz) and then after this period, it’ll be lunch so I’ll tell her about what happened in class and how I need her help to somehow find out what was written on that notebook.

I know it sounds really pathetic but I swear Baz is up to something. Something bad.

Something like that has never happened before in class. Or ever. And by something, I mean Baz losing literally all of his cool and blubbering and blushing in front of everyone. And that’s not even the whole thing.

Last night, Baz was out late and I’m 100% sure that wanker was down in the catacombs, draining rats. Ugh. He came back really late. After midnight. I waited up for him to see when he’s come back and when he finally returned to the room, I acted like I was sleeping. I think he knew that I wasn’t since my pattern of breathing had gone rapid and off-beat because Baz just kind of suddenly came in when I was starting to think that he was going to spend the night somewhere else. But where would he spend it, of course?

He had surprised me, and since my breathing was the only sound in the room, he must’ve heard it and figured I was awake. I’ve memorised his pattern of breathing when he’s asleep. So I can tell when he’s awake. Roommate thing. Not creepy. I’m pretty sure he’s memorised mine too so that it’ll be easier for him to drain me in my sleep.

When he came in, he just climbed onto his bed and fell asleep. Didn’t change, didn’t take off his shoes, didn’t brush his teeth. Just came in and dropped on his bed. I think he was probably tired from plotting all night while draining rats, the vampire.

This morning, in all the classes we had together and outside of classes too, I noticed he was quite tired. Well, why wouldn’t he be? He stayed out almost all night and barely got 4 hours of sleep. He’s probably insanely tired. He really should take a nap, which is why he went into our room, I suppose.

Anyway, I was paying a lot of attention to him, trying to catch a slip-up on his part. Like dozing off in class, so I could confront him about it and ask him where he was last night. Or not paying attention in class. These are things that Baz would almost never do. If he does do them, then it’s entirely un-Baz-like and that means he was doing something tiring like plotting. And these things are exactly what he did.

I caught him in the first lesson almost dozing off. His eyes were so droopy that you could barely see the wet pavement colour in them. (Baz’s eyes always fascinated me. They’re a mix a different tinges of grey. A little dark grey on the outside of the iris, morphing into a deep blue into the sclera. They’re a light hue of a storm perhaps in the middle of the iris and then descend into this dark black-grayish colour in the pupil. All formed together, it looks like a beautiful painting, something a very famous Normal artist might make. Like Picasso. I really envy his eyes, mine are just blue and that's it. Such a pity that those astonishing eyes got wasted on a berk like Baz. Though he is a handsome git. He has slight abs from playing football and he’s one of those guys who could pull off a manbun. Ugh, blighter.)

And then in the previous class, he started scribbling away in his notebook instead of paying attention to Miss Possibelf. I was already sure he was planning something because he was so engrossed in whatever he was writing that he didn’t even notice me stealing glances at him. And that's odd.

A few minutes after I looked away, I - actually, everyone in the class - heard a big slam. Like a notebook getting smacked shut. And we turned to see who had it and of course, it had been Baz. But that wasn't what surprised me. Baz was flushed. You could actually see the red in his cheeks, even if you were sitting far away from him.

This obviously shocked me because vampires can’t blush, can they? I guess they can a little bit, something that's barely noticeable. But Baz’s was noticeable. Easily noticeable. But then I remembered that he went to the Catacombs last night and since he stayed so late plotting, he must’ve also drunk a lot.

His luck was poor today. Oh, poor Baz. Just as the peers were starting to move on with the lecture, Miss Possibelf called on him to tell her (and the class) about a spell best for what we just learned. And since Baz wasn’t paying attention before, he didn’t know anything at all about what we were just studying. So he started stammering and shit. Like, getting flustered and not being able to form a proper sentence! He started acting like the way I acted, exactly like the kind of behaviour he gave me shit for!

This was good. Now, everyone was looking at Baz with weird looks and I kinda started feeling bad for him. If I were in his situation, it wouldn’t be that bad for me. But Baz had a cool reputation. He was the kid who knew the answers in class and was hot and athletic. Someone who oozing confidence. But then, all that went to hell a bit when he started stuttering. And he was also blushing very hard now. Like, his whole fucking face was red.

You could see his embarrassment from a mile away and I was too entranced in his flustered and blushing state to look away or put on a masked expression. He actually looked quite cute in this state and I could tell that a bunch pf the girls seemed to think the same thing. They were ogling Baz with lovesick looks, no doubt making him uncomfortable.

I was actually a bit more focused on his crimson cheeks, and when I looked up, I figured that I better take advantage of this situation. I practiced Baz’s signature expression in the bathroom last night. The raised brow. I did that to him when he looked at me and his eyes widened. Meanwhile, my eyes travelled over his cheeks once again, and I was left to wondering how...adorable they were. (Holy Mother of God, did I just call Baz adorable?!)

But when I once again looked up at him, I was stunned. And apparently, so was he.

We were staring deep into each other’s eyes and I was pretty sure that I had an awed expression on my face. And it just amazed me that even though this is the first time we’ve locked eyes in this type of way, it strangely felt...comfy. Homey. Familiar. And when I noticed Baz’s face, he looked the same. At least, I think.

And that's not even the worst part.

A few micro-seconds after that, I felt this thing in my stomach. It felt like my stomach was doing somersaults or had creatures in it that were flying around haphazardly, and were causing my breath to speed up like a race car.

Like butterflies.

I’m not stupid. I’ve felt that kind of thing before...with Agatha. I know what it means.

But I can’t admit it. It can’t be true. I can see why I would feel homey looking into Baz’s eyes (actually, I don’t) but this? Nuh uh. Not true.

Although...no! Not true!

But...it does make sense a bit, though. Just a bit.

I quickly looked away when I felt that. And Baz told Miss Possibelf that he didn’t know the answer. After that, I spent the whole lesson pondering over the...possibility. I didn’t dare sneak a glance at Baz, though. Not after the hunch I just had.

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. How obsessed I’d been with Baz in 5th Year. How I find his smell of cedar and bergamot like home. And his eyes too. How I love the shade of his eyes and am almost always thinking about what shade the middle changed to this time. How I always felt a bit bad after our rows. How I stayed up last night to wait for him to come back!

Oh Merlin, was that just an excuse to wait up for Baz?

This all makes so much sense that it’s scary. I can’t possibly have feelings for Baz. Thats absurd. And he’s my enemy. And arch-nemesis. And we’re going to have to kill each other. (Hmph, I can’t fight him now. After discovering this.)

No. No, I’m wrong. I can’t be right. I’m probably too hung up on Agatha (even though I seemed quite fine the last few weeks) so now I’m just making up crushes. And even if I actually like Baz that way, it’s only a crush. It’ll go away.

(Although, I highly doubt a 7 year long crush is just a crush.)

The bell indicating that lunch has begun startles me out of my Baz-filled musings and I practically run out of the door to our usual table and sit down, waiting for Penny to arrive so I ask her help on what spell would help me read what was inside the notebook. At least what he wrote today.

I look over at Baz’s table.

He’s not there. He’s still asleep upstairs.

I fiddle with my jumper. This could be a Baz plot! To make me have feelings for him and then break my heart! It could be!

I need Penny’s help with this, desperately. I have to find out what was in that book. And I’m pretty sure that I’ve heard Penny say something about these types of spells once. That help you put together broken things. I’m not sure if it’ll work on something burned, but I have to try. I can’t just accept these feelings for Baz and try to hide them.

What if this actually is Baz’s plot? Oh my God. Please let it not be. I’m still not sold on the fact that I have feelings for Baz. That’s not really something you easily believe, especially when its your arch-nemesis who you lov-like!

Who you like. Not love.

As I was saying, I’m still not sure, but every moment that passes, I keep getting more and more convinced of this. And I’m going to have to tell Penny about this and ask her for advice.

Oh Crowley, that’s going be an awkward conversation. I am not at all looking forward to that conversation at all.

Maybe I’ll tell her later. When I’ve discovered what the contents of the notebook are. Yeah, that’ll be the perfect time to tell Penny.

And while I think about Penny, I see her walking over from her class to the our table and wave frantically. She gives me a puzzled look but then starts jogging to the table.

As she sits down, she asks, “What’s up?”

chap 2, chap 3 (last one)

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Silent Song (15)

Hi, Loves. It’s that day again. You’ve all done amazing, you’ve survived another week. It’s Friday again! Those of you that work a Monday - Friday schedule, you’re almost there Darlings. I’ve got your Friday treat, more fluff. As always, let me know what you think. I thrive on the attention.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

Chapter 15

    Hotaru puzzled over her laptop, sitting comfortably on the couch in the living space on her floor. She was really just passing the time, waiting for when Loki would join her. The strap on her tank top hung limply off her shoulder. Long ago did she get tired of pushing it back up and let it hang. It wasn't as if it was doing much with the clingy nature of the shirt.

    It hadn't always been clingy. It used to hang off her frame loosely but as she had gained weight and begun to fill out, clothes that Natasha had insisted on her buying larger than needed began to fit properly.

    “What ya doing, Itty Bitty?” Clint sat down next to her, beer in hand with a large plop and leaned over as he spoke, nudging her with his shoulder. He wasn't a man who cared to be ignored and in some ways resembled the puppies she would sometimes see on TV.

    'Think Tony would let me have a puppy?' Hotaru opened a blank document to type the message. Her typing was getting better with time and she no longer detested the act and sometimes even enjoyed it.

    “Not likely. Would be nice though.” Clint laughed. “Actually, if you ask probably. You could probably ask him for the damn moon and he'd get it for you. You should, he told me 'No'.”

    'I'll just settle for you.' Hotaru smiled widely at Clint's mock gasp of offense to her words.

    “I am no dog!”

    'Needy like one.' Silent laughter rolled through her body, drawing a laugh from Clint as well.

    “That's new.” Clint pointed out, tossing the bottle cap to the beer he had just opened at her neck. It clanked against the pendant and fell into her lap. “Getting some pretty fancy taste for neckwear, Tony get it for ya?”

    Hotaru shook her head as her fingers danced over the smooth ribbon.

    “Not Tony, eh? The rest of us don't have that kind of money, looks expensive.”

    'Loki'

    “Loki?” Clint parroted the word back to her, struck dumb in surprise. “What about the one you wore yesterday? Was that from him too?”

    Hotaru nodded as she closed her laptop and set it on the coffee table. Pointing to the TV, she cocked her head to the side and looked expectantly at Clint. Taking her hint, he snagged up the controller and turned it on, bringing up the guide to see what he could find for them.

    “He's nice to you, then?” Clint asked as he clicked through the menu. He watched for her response from the side of his vision and smiled when she nodded,  It was this sort of thing that made Hotaru feel so comfortable around him, the subtle ways he accommodated her without treating her different. It made her feel normal.

    “You know, he saved all our asses out there.”

    'You're surprised?' Hotaru wrote on his lower thigh.

    “I guess.” Clint hesitated. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

    'Why?'

    “Do you know what he did?” Answering a question with a question wasn't playing fair but Hotaru didn't know if it was worth it to call him on that.

    'Some' She wrote instead. 'Do you know what I've done?'

    “Whatever you've done doesn't count. You didn't have a choice in anything. Nothing that happened to you, nothing you've done was your fault.” Clint focused his whole attention on her.

    'True.' Hotaru nodded, wishing for her notebook so she could write better messages without fearing that the meaning would be lost. Clint was one of the only others she often wrote on with her fingers and he was fairly good at keeping up but still. It was Loki she was most comfortable writing on in this way, he was the one that kept up the best.

    “You know, he used mind control on me. Because of him, I attacked my own teammates, I attacked Nat. I could have killed her.”

    Hotaru nodded in understanding and waited for him to go on. It was all she could do, without a voice or proper way to speak her mind and the things on it. Clearly, Clint needed to talk to someone about what was going on in his head and while she couldn't really talk him through things, she couldn't offer advise or tell him how to see the world she herself was only just learning about, what she could do was listen. If that was all he needed, great. If not, perhaps he would at least feel a touch better after speaking to her.

    “Thor keeps saying 'Oh, Loki has changed.' but still, it's hard. I see him and I remember. My mind wasn't right for a while after that, not really. Maybe even now it's still a bit scrambled. I guess, if it came to one of us dying or him taking a blow for us...I expected to die.”

    Hotaru reached out and threaded her fingers through Clint's, feeling the rough calluses on his hands. With a squeeze of her hand, she was able to draw his eyes back to her.

    “Do you think...Do you trust him? Can we trust him?”

    Hotaru smiled at him and shrugged. After a short moment she nodded. It was clear each person had a history with Loki, that each one had their reason to mistrust him but they didn't know the whole story. They didn't know Loki, not the way she did, or at least she hoped she did. Her fingers danced over the pendant again as her mind brought forth the simple image of Loki’s soft smile, bringing one to her own face.

    “You like him.” Clint teased, nudging her with his shoulder, carefree air back about him.

    'I like everyone here.' Hotaru wrote.

    “No, I think you like him.”

    “Who does she like?” Natasha vaulted over the back of the couch, bag of chips in hand, settling on the other side of Hotaru as if it was nothing and somehow managing to not spill a crumb.

    “Loki.” Clint leaned in front of her, speaking directly to the red head as if somehow to keep his words from reaching Hotaru's ears all while snagging a chip from the bag. “He even got her two necklaces!”

    “How'd he pull that off if he can't leave the tower?” Natasha asked, leaning forward as well, earning a roll of the eyes from Hotaru who tapped both their shoulders yet was promptly ignored.

    In the dark of a corner, unobserved by any camera lens or eye, Loki smiled to himself. He felt a weight come off of him, one he hadn't known he'd been carrying. The meaning of the feeling was clear, even as he tried to deny it for so very long. There wasn't any point. Not any longer. With a smile, one of such slight softness that hadn't graced his sharp features in a good many years he watched on, listening to their words. The Firefly, his Little Light, Hotaru cared for him or so said the two spies.

    With a shimmer of green that one could just barely see for a short second, he was gone. Maybe if the cameras slowed the recording, maybe if it was enhanced it would be perceivable. It didn't matter. With a light heart and a heavy mind, Loki now needed clear the game board and begin planning his next move. Perhaps one without pawns, without pieces. What once was a game now was no more. Should he set up a new game, the cost of failure could be much higher. Yet, perhaps it was a risk worth taking, a game worth playing.

    “Bet you $20 he can leave.” Clint broke the silence that had settled between the three.

    “Why would he stay, if he could go? He very clearly doesn't like our company.” Clint shrugged at Nat's question.

    “Who knows about before but I think he likes her.” With a thumb in Hotaru's face, it was clear who Clint was talking about. “Look, she's blushing even!”

    'Let's just watch TV?' Hotaru protested, having to write the message once on Clint's arm and twice on Nat's hand. She regretted not bringing her notebook when the first time Nat didn't understand what she had written but she didn't want to carry it and the laptop.  

    It wasn't long into the mindless show that Hotaru fell asleep, head in Clint's lap and legs stretched over Nat's. She fully hadn't intended to fall asleep but the warmth of the two of them, the blanket over her and the simple comfort of being around other people and a wide open room lulled her into a relaxed sleep. It didn't help that Nat would rub her leg and Clint would absentmindedly thread his fingers through her hair.

    “Svetlana has grown so much already.” Natasha spoke softly, using her private pet name for the girl, spoken aloud so rarely, as she continued rubbing the thin legs stretched across her lap.

    “She's going to need new clothes soon.” Clint gave Nat his full attention as he pushed the stray hair from the sleeping girl's face. “What's that name mean, anyway?”

    “Light.” Nat smiled softly down at the woman. “Could she be his light?”

    “Tony's?”

    “She already is his. He just needs to find his way. I mean Loki.” She took a moment to look around the room, making sure they were still alone as well as she could. Sure, Tony could pull the audio video recordings but he wasn't known for being in the habit of snooping.

    “Do you really think that's such a good idea?” Clint's hand stilled in her hair. “Would you trust him with her? I need her to be-”

    “Safe?” Natasha cut him off. “I saw them, last night. He carried her to bed and Clint. I've never seen him like that. He looked softer, gentler. She could be good for him.”

    “What if you're wrong?”

    “I don't think I am. She's been good for us, all of us. I think she's been good for him too.”

    “Tony won't allow it, he hates Loki.” Clint glanced down at the sleeping girl and up at the clock. It was only just after lunch yet Hotaru was out like a light. It was a deep sleep that only the most restful naps could give and he was slightly jealous. He would much rather take a nap than leave for a mission in the next hour.

    “He takes care of her, when we're gone...When Tony can't.” Natasha shrugged. Like Clint, she was dreading letting go of Hotaru and disappearing for the night or so.

    “What if he hurts her?”

    “If we are lucky, she grows, she heals and she goes on to maybe get her heart hurt again...and we kill him.” Natasha had that wicked smile she sometimes got.

    “Why him?”

    “I imagine Tony will ask himself that as well.”

    When Hotaru woke, Natasha and Clint were long gone. On top of her laptop on the coffee table sat a package of fruit snacks and a note. After stretching, she picked up the note and read it.

    'We had to go out for a bit and didn't want to wake you. You looked so darn cute! Try these snacks, they are stupid good. You'll like them, promise.

    ~ Clint'

    With a soft smile she picked up the package of snacks and examined it for a moment before ripping the package open and pouring the contents onto the table. Little gelled dollops of all colors fell out with a slight bounce. The smell of sugar and artificial fruit filled the air, almost reminding her of the cereal that Clint would eat.

    “What have you got there, Little Light?” Loki seemed to walk up out of nowhere, yet she had grown used to him materializing out of thin air. She simply held up the package.

    “Looks like something Thor would eat.” Loki tossed the wrapper onto the table and plucked a drop up and scrunched up his nose at it. “Smells like it too.”

    Hotaru just smiled at him and tossed one into her mouth after squishing it between her fingers a few times. They were soft and almost sticky. When she bit down on it, flavor exploded into her mouth and she smiled. They were sweet, almost too sweet for her liking but as a treat they were good. Clint was right.

     “Good Evening!” Thor called out, entering the room. It was odd to her how Loki tensed upon hearing his brother's voice and even more so as he drew near. “What are those, Little One?”

    “Fruit snacks, according to the package. It would appear however that they have no actual fruit in them, oddly enough.” Loki hated how she smiled at Thor in that instant as he sat on her other side.

    “May I try one?” Thor smiled wide at Hotaru and when she nodded, he simply opened his mouth and leaned forward.

    Hotaru cocked her head to the side before she realized what he was doing. Thor wanted her to feed him one. She glanced at Loki as she picked a purple one up and slowly leaned forward.  She was surrounded by men who dwarfed her, making her feel the urge to hide. Yet she pushed that feeling away, she was safe, even if Loki's face looked harder than she had seen in a long time.

    “Have you lost function in your hands, Brother?” The bite in the quip was clear but Thor only smiled.

    “These are indeed very good.” Thor plucked another off the table as he stood. “I bid you good evening, Lady Firefly.”

    With that, he turned and left, leaving Hotaru confused and Loki bristling.

    “What the hell was that about?” Tony snapped, head pounding as Thor joined him in the lab.

    “Only the testing of my theory. Is that not what you men of science presume to do here in this very room day in and day out?”

    “Fair enough. Care to share with the rest of the class?”

    “I gave her but a slight of my attentions and my Brother reacted instantly. His ire came hardly hidden and on swift wings.” Thor leaned against the metal table where currently Tony worked, holographic screens in front of him.

    “So, what? He got jealous.”

    “That is not in his character.”

    “Really? I pegged him to be a possessive one.” Tony sat glaring at the still image on the screen showing his sister's fingers pressed to Thor's mouth and the man's eyes closed in pleasure. On the screen next to it a still showed her curled against Loki's arm, a book open in his hands as her head rested against his shoulder. She looked at peace and Tony wanted to hate it. He wanted to hate it so badly, yet she looked so at peace it felt a sin to hate it.

    “Ah, but in that you are correct.” Tony looked to the overgrown god in confusion. “Loki is... He- It has been a long time since he's held a woman in favor.”

    “She's not a woman. She's my sister!” Tony snapped.

    “Is she not both? Step aside, let him court her openly, mayhap encourage it even. IN this even, she must learn and grow.”

    “Why him?” Tony sounded defeated, small and weak as he held his head in his hands.

    “Why not him?” Thor pressed. “I know well he holds no favor with you however she holds favor with him in a way I've not seen since we were young and perhaps not even then. They both be under your roof, surrounded by all, what safer place for her to be should they fall out of each other's graces?”

    “How can I trust him?” Tony dearly wanted a drink.

    “By giving him a chance. An honest chance. Leave the chains behind. Open your eyes, your heart to the very idea that he has changed. You and the others will see, what I say holds truth. Loki is a changed man. I swear on Mjölnir, I speak truth. I know it in my heart.”

    Together they sat in silence for a long moment. Thor gave Tony time to think. While he waited for the troubled scientist to speak again he looked at the pictures on the screen.

    “What is this one?” Thor asked, poking at the holographic screen, bringing the picture forward. A small girl clutched brown musical instrument in her hands. It resembled some of what the musicians played on Asgard. Thor himself was never well versed in the musical talents, though his mother had tried. That was one of the many areas Loki had academically excelled over him in.

    “Old picture. It's nothing.” Tony flicked his wrist and the entire screen vanished.    

    “She made music before?” Thor questioned.

    “Yeah. She was okay I guess.” Tony pulled his hands down his face. He wanted a drink but that wasn't the answer. No matter how badly he wanted it, it wasn't the answer. He kept the thought going as if a chant in his mind would keep him strong.

    “No. She was great. Amazing even. Mom took her to competitions and she won a lot of them. I just... I didn't go to her last few. I didn't want to. God, I should have gone. I should have been there. Maybe then...”

    “Tony. What is done is done. Perhaps she could find comfort in music again? Did I not suggest this very thing last night? It could become her voice, just as it was before. Give this to her then let her have her heart's desires.”

    Thor was getting tired of these round about conversations he seemed to be having with Tony so often. All he wanted was to see his brother continue on the path he set out on. While yes, his brother had made changes for the better, those changes really only brought him to a shadow of what Thor remembered his best self being. Yet finally, in the company of a damaged mute girl, he could finally see his brother's heart and perhaps very soul truly healing.

    Tony left in a caffeine fueled whirlwind, leaving Thor behind to hope that the man he had grown to like would pull himself together. The God could only hope and say a prayer that the man would make the right choice and that the results would be healing for all.

    Tony spent the rest of his evening researching, making calls and pulling strings. With the weight of his name and the power of his money, even stores that were closed would be convinced to open their doors or take calls for him. Still, to accomplish what he wanted, it would take time. That was okay, however. This was a task that he wanted to get right, needed to get right.

         Hotaru couldn't have been more relaxed as she sat, blanket pulled over her while she cuddled close to Loki's side. She could feel that same comforting chill radiate off him, countering the warmth of her blanket. Each time he shifted to turn a page, she could feel the way his muscles in the arm she rested against move, twitch and bunch.

    The smooth sound of his voice drone on in her ears, each sentence coming out as if it were perfectly practiced and rehearsed for her. Never once did he stumble or fault for words, showing his command for both the tongue the book was written in and of the English language.

    'loki' She traced his name on his forearm, grabbing his attention from the book.

    “Yes, Little Light?”

    'you can read something else, if you want. These stories must be boring for you.' He had been reading to her from a old book of Asgardian children's stories, written in his mother tongue. 'something less childish.'

    “I had thought you were enjoying these stories. Do they not please you?” With a snap, the book was closed. With wide eyes she watched as he gave it a little toss into the air and it disappeared with a shower of green sparks. Never before had he done such a thing in front of her and the look on her face was amusing and it pleased him to know he could amaze her.

    “Dear Heart?” His voice drew her attention back to the matter at hand.

    'I thought' she started but stopped, unsure of what she wanted to say.

    “You thought what, Little Light?”

    'you're not bored, reading it? They are children’s stories.' Loki shifted, pulling his arm out from under her and draping it around her back. When he pulled her into his side, she came willingly as her cheeks warmed.

    “It has been a great many decades since I have read these stories. Mother would tell them to us when we were but boys.” It was obvious. It didn't need saying. Yet, he said it anyway, filling the air with sound to counter her silence. It was something he often found himself doing, with her. He was never one for useless words. “Truth be told, centuries ago I’d read them to children in the palace center during festivities.”

    “What troubles you, Love?” Silence had lingered for a moment before he spoke. At the new pet name, her head snapped up.

    He looked into her storm gray eyes. The blush blooming across her skin made it petal pink, giving her a softer look. Or perhaps it was that she had gained weight, her face filling out and cheeks no longer hollow, eye sockets no longer sunken in. Maybe it was all of it, together. His chest felt tight as he looked at her, as she looked up at him. Yet, just as quickly, she looked away.

    'How old are you?' She asked instead and Loki leaned back with a hum.

    “Many times older than you. Many times older than your father or even grandfather would be, if they still lived.” Loki answered, not looking at her at first. “I am a God, I have been for centuries and will remain for many more.”

    This was a conversation he didn't want to have with her. It was a subject he didn't want to even cast his mind to. Her life was in reality but a blink of an eye to him. If he closed his eyes for a moment too long, she'd be old and gray. Should he oversleep, her life could be over before he were to awake. Her life was but seconds to him. It was something that it was better left not pondered. It wasn't worth wasting time. If he did this, he couldn't afford a second wasted.

    It was a simple fact of his existence. This very problem was what Thor had been counseled against. It was insurmountable. Her humanity was not a fault, a disease that could be cured. It was not a curse that was to be lifted.

    'I'll always be a child to you' she absentmindedly wrote the words on his chest as she rested against him.

    “Nonsense.” Loki pulled her face up to look at him with a firm finger under her chin. “Your life is shorter, your time is shorter. Humans put much into little time. Things that would take I or Thor decades, centuries to realize, humans decide in a matter of years. Perhaps I could stand to learn from your kind.”

    When she looked at him, confusion clear on her face he simply shook his head before nuzzling the top of her head. It had somehow gotten late, the sun had gone down long ago. It didn't matter. The dark of the night had become their time.

    It was clear to her Loki wasn't going to say more. Hotaru didn't know what words she needed to say, wanted to say to express what she wanted. What she did know was that she didn't want him to leave. Whatever this was that she had with him, this nameless undefined thing, she wasn't ready for it to end.

    And so, she stayed cuddled up to him. She planned to remain for so long as he would allow, feeling the chill from him, the way his chest would rise and fall with each breath. She basked in the feeling of his breath fanning out over her head, the way her hair would shift and move just a bit with each puff of breath.

    Most of all, she soaked up the smell of him. It was fresh and woodsy. Hotaru wanted nothing more than to visit a forest, one like the stories spoke of after a midnight rain. Somehow, somewhere deep in her bones, she know that he smelled like that.

Tag list: @kristinaraven99, @bambamwolf87, @theoneanna, @dangertoozmanykids101, @purplekitten30, @blackcat995, @excuse-you-dickwad, @sometimesiamhere, @missaphrodite23, @yougotakillyourmind, @insert-cool-and-edgy-title-here, @alexakeyloveloki

As always, if you want in on the Tag list for Song (or more) just let me know. 

[michaelhalberstamapartments-blog]

LARRY KING LIVES LIFE IN OVERDRIVE

Larry King, the rumbling voice of midnight questions, stares at Pat Buchanan, the White House director of communications. King's eyes are intense and prying, his chin is jutted toward the target, his lips are parted to give the impression that he is hanging on every word, about to interrupt but holding back to wait for a gem.

Except for six hours of sleep every 24 hours, Larry King keeps this expression all day and all night.

King's schedule puts demands on his phenomenal energy at an all-time high: He does a daily, hourlong interview show, Larry King Live, for Cable News Network, which reaches more than 300,000 households. He then does The Larry King Show for Mutual Radio, which has been cut back to a live four hours, with the first hour recycled for a five-hour package that reaches 3 million to 5 million people a week. In between these obligations, he writes two newspaper columns. On his slow days, he travels to sports arenas and does color commentary for Home Team Sports -- its audience by mid-June standing at 100,000. Once a month he does a worldwide talk show for the Voice of America and his next guest is scheduled to be Ronald Reagan.

"Certainly I have a weird life. But I like everything I do," says King. At the end of his workday (and night), his companions and staff feel like they just took the red-eye from California in non-reclining seats. Millions of people work two or even three jobs to make ends meet. But, for perhaps the first time in his life, King isn't worried about money. Mutual alone is paying him a reported $2 million on a five-year contract.

Strangely enough, King, 51, never seems to be in a hurry. Lean with a bit of a belly, he moves at the deliberate pace of a batter stepping up to the plate. The voice and metabolism are fed by coffee and cigarettes. He rarely drinks. A long time ago, he mastered naps -- he takes them during the five- minute news breaks on the radio show.

The time is now 11:30 a.m. King already has dressed, taken mucho vitamins and one aspirin -- "because the late Dr. Michael Halberstam told me to" -- worked for an hour on his personality column for USA Today, haggled a bit with an editor on his next book, talked with an insurance company about his daughter's graduation present of a Firebird, and complained that he was missing that night's Orioles game. Before 4 the next morning, he will stop another three times and ask, "Am I crazy?" and then "What is my real complaint? I can't have dinner when I want to, I can't see the KING, F-3

baseball game. But what if I had to be a librarian? No, instead, today I'm going to talk to Pat Buchanan and Harry Blackstone."

This is how he survives.

He eats lunch at Duke Zeibert's, dinner at the Palm. He gets one of his daily calls from his daughter, Chaia King, 17, and his oldest friend, author and consultant Herbert Cohen.

He doesn't prepare beyond his daily consumption of several newspapers, backed up by information from his contacts and his nearly 30 years behind the mike.

"I work with an acquired dumbness, a street dumbness," says King. That means he tries to think about what Joe Citizen would want to know.

From 5 to 9 a.m., he sleeps. He wakes up without an alarm. He tries to nap from 3 to 5 p.m., but the telephone jangles. Sometimes he calls someone personally to ask them to be on the show, such as New York Gov. Mario Cuomo, his first guest on CNN.

It's now 12:15 p.m. King is at his daily table in Duke's in full view of the glass doors. He has ordered coffee and is nibbling on the onion rolls. When his platter of fruit and cottage cheese arrives, he largely ignores it. He talks about his forthcoming book. "Sterling Lord is the agent. He's the kind of guy, you have dinner with him and they remove the plate, you have the crumbs, he doesn't have any. Impeccable," says King.

Bill Aber, the general manager of cable TV's Home Team Sports, tells a King endurance story: "On Wednesday, April 4, 1984, King had done his regular show, then he flew to Cleveland to do a luncheon banquet, then he had to meet us in Baltimore for our kickoff. The game was rained out and at 6 p.m. Larry interviewed celebrities for our party. Then he left at 7 to go to the Capital Centre to do some color on the Caps. Then he did the Wednesday all-night show."

In the last month King spurned offers from every major network and syndicator, says his agent, and renewed his contract with Mutual. The perks include 12 Fridays off and four weeks of vacation each year and a new luxury car every two years. Now he is driving a gray Riviera, on which Mutual put an "L King" vanity license plate, which King hates. Since the phones started lighting up on Jan. 30, 1978, when he was heard on 28 stations, he has built his affiliate stable up to 262 stations. His is the only talk show ever to win the prestigious Peabody Award. In the last few weeks, he signed with CNN for a reported $200,000 over three years. Once that show gets rolling, King says, he will tape a couple of shows a week.

He has had cameos in two movies -- Ghostbusters and Lost in America -- and television will increase his recognition by sight, not just sound. July 12 is King Day in Baltimore. Where once the Mutual show was taken on the road to build up audiences, now it's taken out to satisfy demand. In the next few months it will travel to the All-Star Game in Minneapolis, and to media gatherings in Nashville and Dallas.

It is now 8:15 p.m., the start of his evening's work.

Walking into the television studio, he says, "you got to be pretty weird to be doing radio, television and newspapers. Godfrey used to do it. I'm tired right now but . . . something about that light going on . . . I can't explain it."

Makeup is applied to his face and hands. Then King and Buchanan are facing each other.

At 10:20 p.m. he is at Mutual's studios on the 12th floor of a suburban Virginia highrise. This is home, behind the microphone, checking out the baseball game, doing promotions for a new station. During a commercial break he will do a 2 1/2-minute interview with Harry Blackstone Jr., the magician, for something called Larry King in Focus. On Saturdays the network runs The Best of King.

King has been in one studio or another since 1957, when he moved to Miami after finishing high school in Brooklyn. In Florida he quickly established himself as a radio interviewer, added a newspaper column and did commentary on Miami Dolphins games. But he ran into some well-publicized financial troubles, which forced him to leave broadcasting for four years. In 1979, shortly after taking the Mutual job, he filed bankruptcy for $350,000 in debts. Because of his past financial difficulties, his money is now handled by Bob Woolf, the agent he shares with Doug Flutie, Larry Bird and Gene Shalit. King says he gets a $150 weekly allowance.

Now it's 11:50 p.m. He glances over a press release and talks about his approach.

"You need the ability to listen. A lot of broadcasters don't know how to ask a question. One of my idols, Jimmy Cannon, could pick up every detail but he couldn't ask a question in the locker room. You have to keep it spontaneous, always be curious. I have a good memory, I never expect the answer. I don't think I am a better interviewer than I was at 25. I can relax people."

"Jimmy Hoffa embodies everything you want in an interview, except one thing. You want someone with a chip on their shoulder, passion, a little bit of anger, the ability to relate to the question and to talk about their business. But he didn't have a sense of humor."

At 12:06 a.m., his jacket is off and cigarette dangling. Blackstone is sitting where Gerald Ford, Bob Hope, Dizzy Gillespie, Mel Brooks, Milton Berle, Sophia Loren and scores of others have sat.

At 3:55 a.m. he gets up from the chair, stretches and says he feels really tired. He doesn't hang around the studio. "We have entertained and informed the callers, and we only reach 1 percent of the audience," says King.

He ads: "I don't think much about it. I don't take it home with me."

And he goes home. But he'll be up again in four hours. Making that face.

B7

[awhilesince]

Friday, 2 July 1830

5 3/4

11 1/2

Left for the post – my letter to M– (Mariana) Lawton (vide yesterday off five minutes within the hour in fiacre à l’heure – called at the Tailors rue St. Benoit no. (number) 4, and ordered George a suit of black – in good time for Lecture 14 Monsieur de Mirbel – breakfast – went to museum, – forgetting that Brongniart’s lecture is not till tomorrow – then 3/4 hours nap – then finished my breakfast and off at 10 1/2 to the museum again – De Blainville Lecture from 10 50/.. to 12 20/.. – then went upstairs to speak to Monsieur Isidore Geoffroy St. Hilaire to ask after his father and say how much I regretted having an engagement that would prevent my staying over his lecture and came away – 

at home 1/2 hour – doing 1 thing or other – then off in fiacre from rue du Jardin du roi and home at 1 40/.. – dressed –

note from Miss Pickford St Gervais viâ Geneva to say the head of no use not numbered – she thinks of next ‘winter in Italy summer in the Tyrol, England for a little, and perhaps Greece the year after’ – very civil note from then Greek professor at the collège de France in answer to mine sent yesterday and which George forgot to give me – 

at my desk about 2 3/4 – then wrote 1/2 sheet full to Miss Hobart – almost all the first 3 pages about Miss Maclean 

‘I do not wonder that Lady Stuart tries to make you gradually less sanguine than you have hitherto been – Recovery cannot be expected; and Mr Long’s confidence in promising it, has always seemed to me an ‘arrogance of hope’, which nothing but ignorance could at all excuse – Do not dwell too much upon the great cheerfulness of today than yesterday – there are many symptoms that are not good – God grant she may be able to come in the autumn! but I hope rather than expect it –' ……. ‘Do pray tell her not to be at all annoyed at having kept me in suspense, and say that I am determined not to despair – in short, say everything you can think of that is most kind and affectionate’ – 

mentioned her presentiment of dying at 46 as her mother did – and that her being able to go home as her friends there wished seeming as much out of the question as being able to come – ‘In fact, I dread the effect of any great exertion’ – rejoiced of the prospect of Charles Stuart joining us here for the Pyrennees – 

then wrote full 1/2 sheet to Miss Maclean had just finished 3 pages when Letter came from her (43 Mornington Place Hampstead road) 3 pages and the ends enclosing letter (religious) from Miss Flora Long, and 2nd bill from Sowerby – gives up all thought of coming here now, and writes as if she did not much think of being about to come at all – bad account of herself – 

‘I am better but exceedingly weak – I have not walked for 3 months more than a little up and down my room, and not even that this last week, but I am gaining a little flesh, and sleep very well – my throat is well inside, and Mr Long says I may let it heal outside – I drive out every day, he has given me the entire use of his Stanhope, horse and groom, you know otherwise I could never breathe the air’ –

she is going to Richmond for a fortnight for change of air, and then she hopes to her friends the Lawrences Cowesfield house Hampshire – Colonel Craddock (had Howdons son, Smith) rejected addresses, and Sir Thomas Brisbane are patients of Mr Longs ‘and the more sensible and clever the more sure friends to Mr Long’ my letter to ‘Miss Maclean 43 Mornington Place Hampstead road’ remarkably kind and affectionate enclosed in envelope with my letter to ‘Miss Hobart Honorable Lady Stuart’s Whitehall’, and sent to the Embassy at 5 1/2 – said I would send Miss Maclean a check on Hammersley on Monday – she begged me to deduct for what I had not received (penknives pencils etc) ‘I named them to Vere but she did not offer any conveyance so I said no more’ – said I would ask Lady S– (Stuart) de R– (Rothesay) to allow them to be sent – Vere has no more heart than a post and I believe will not be very sorry to get rid of Miss Maclean? Miss Long’s letter which I am carefully to return is a dose of religion – Surely one may ‘walk humbly with God’ without all this ‘sounding brass and tinkling cymbals’ – 

wrote the last 18 1/2 lines and had just done at 6 40/.. – then wrote 2 3/4 pages (1/2 sheet note) to Miss Pickford – nothing particular – say I will give her message tomorrow about the phrenological head not being numbered – had I been asked should have declared possibly I had seen the numbers on it – say ‘I expect to be off to the Pyrennees in about a fortnight – my aunt, of course, is not of the party – she still too gouty and rheumatic to stir much beyond the bois de Boulogne’ – no mention of whom I am going with  say she had better keep the 10 francs my aunt not accustomed to see strangers and little able to shew them any attention, and I shall be from home and not have it in my power to do anything for her friends the Stewarts – In answer to all her Travelling schemes, say we must talk over our adventures at Shibden when we all get home again – conclude and hope Miss Maitland is to be her companion to Greece etc ‘cela posé, I must count upon the pleasure of making her acquaintance one of these days’ – 

dinner at 7 20/.. – read the paper – came to my room at 9 1/2 – wrote the last 10 lines – Coffee at 9 50/.. – thoroughly rainy day thunder and lightning this afternoon – Came to my room at 10 35/.. at which hour Fahrenheit 61° and fine moonlight night –

reference number: SH:7/ML/E/13/0059, SH:7/ML/E/13/0060

[wasalwaysagreatpickle]

Friday 14 May 1830

7 10/..

12 1/4

Fahrenheit 49˚ at 7 1/2 – fine morning – no sun – streets dry – at my desk at 8 – settling accounts till 8 50/.. then wrote out all but the 1st ten lines of yesterday till 9 1/2 – breakfast at 10 3/4 – note at 11 from Miss Hobart not par la petite poste, to say Miss Maclean means to be off from London on the 20th but Mr Long means to keep her a week longer ‘and aunt Stuart says ‘aye and another month and year too’ – but I hope not so my sister is arrived; she is very much rejoiced that you are to remain at Paris all the summer I know you will be the greatest comfort possible to her’ – 

Wrote full 1/2 sheet in answer – ‘I quite long to have my album – you are right as to some of the écritures I mean to have – but whoever may write, and what ever may be written in the book, I think I know quite as well as you would allow I ought to know which writing I shall always value most – nothing would delight me more than to be anything like a comfort to your sister Madame de Hagemann I am not quite certain of being at home all the summer – I find one course of lectures that I counted on, will not begin till November, and Cuvier’s will be over about the end of next month – I have not been able to go into the country even for a day or two, and am, somehow or other, getting so lethargic, I have often 1/2 dozen nods and sleeps over one letter – But nous verrons’ - Begin with ‘It was observed that queen Elizabeth, in trying her pen, almost always wrote Edward – ‘I am and willing to see how I have covered a bit of paper with Dearest Vere – this note of Monday was a real comfort to me; far though I know you are never in the dismals about sick people, yet still the medium through which you see thin [cooks] cannot be quite so deceptive as to make me utterly set at nought your account of Sibbella – utterly, i.e. outerly – outer or utter darkness that which is on the outside of, and beyond the bounds of light – Beyond, or by yonder, or in the distance, farther off than the bounds? Farther very different from further – farther more distant – further, forwarder. plus en avant – I shall not go one step farther – I shall not say one word further – you like a letter about nothing; but you did not say good for nothing, so you may abuse the flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication of mine – I remember being much amused with this word, in days of yore, in one of Shenstones letters – He coined it to express his contempt of money – you may use it when you want to use the longest word one ever saw pretending to be English, and when you want to say of one of my letters, it is not worth a lock of wool, a nutshell, and nothing, a hair – Flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication – How does that look? I shall certainly adopt your word disimproved, as it will often be very convenient’ – then thanks etc. for her note just received –

About an hour’s nap – Monsieur de Hagemann called about 2 and stayed above an hour till 3 1/4 – really made himself very agreeable – is he very gentlemanly – then wrote nearly full 1/2 sheet to Miss Maclean shall be delighted to see her etc. etc. ‘you know I long to see you; but after all, I am really not impatient – you have promised not to mind whether I am at home or not, and I am satisfied – I hope this will be the last letter I shall have to write before we meet’ – then mention having written a note to Sowerby to ask him to send Fosboke’s foreign antiques (I believe 1 volume 4[ts]) and a Nugent’s pocket French dictionary  – and tell I added that if her coming was much longer delayed she would give orders about the books being forwarded – to do as she likes about them – have them forwarded or not – has said she will pay this 2nd bill to Sowerby – 

Wrote all but the first 2 lines of today and then sealed and sent off at 5 1/4 my letter to ‘Miss Maclean and enclosed in the same envelope my note to ‘Mr Sowerby 156 Regent Street’, and enclosed this in the envelope with my letter to ‘Miss Hobart, Honourable Lady Stuart’s, Whitehall’ and my note of invitation for Saturday to ‘Madame Madame Mackenzie’ and to ‘Dr Tupper’ – Letter from Lady Gordon, 34 Hertford Street, London at 5 – just added to my letter to Miss Hobart ‘a letter from Lady Gordon which I have not even time to open before sending off this’ – very kind letter 3pp. and the ends – good accounts from Cosmo – he spent the Easter at Seville ‘much delighted with the beauty of the town and the ceremonies which are finer there than in any place in Europe – shall we go and see them next Easter there? what are your plans – what are you going to do? If it was not for my children I would join you in any expedition mais que faire? for the expense is so great…. moving with 2 children, governess, 1 or 2 maids and a man – afraid she must stay at home this summer 

For I’m very poor – Miss Hobart does not manage Lady Stuart very well that the confinement is irksome to them both Lady Gordon cannot go to them in an evening for duties or pleasures and Lady Stuart is not a person to understand this. Charles Stuart does not like her and in fact Lady Stuart and perhaps Miss Hobart too will think her worldly as ever and they will not cordially suit. She is not naturally much to my taste I agree with Charles but I shall make use of her if I can as I am convinced she will of me she apologises for not having written sooner says she has behaved vilely – then wrote about two pages of half sheet note to Lady Gordon to be ready – 

Dressed – dinner at 6 3/4 – note in answer from Mrs MacKenzie they will come tomorrow if Miss MacKenzie is well enough – read the paper – came to my room at 8 3/4 - went into the drawing room almost immediately expecting Monsieur Saint Romain who has not come this evening – 

All the evening looking over livre des postes and planning journey with Lady Stuart de Rothesay have made it all through Auvergne by Lyons, Chamberry, Turin, Nice, Marseilles, Avignon, Nismes, Narbonne, Toulouse, the Pyrenees, Bayonne, Bordeaux, all along the coast to Nantes and then by Blois and Orleans home – in and out 422 postes – this must be pared down – 

Coffee at 9 1/4 – sat talking about it to my aunt allowing 90 days at 15/. a day for myself and 10/. for the 2 servants and the posting at 6/50 a poste say altogether £210 or £220 – Lady Stuart de Rothesay’s expenses would probably just three times mine – came to my room at 11 at which hour Fahrenheit 52˚ fine day – a little sun – wrote the last 8 lines – sat up reading no. 2 second series Cuvier’s lectures till 12 -