#please forgive inaccuracies

[theinconsistenciestherein]

When uh when you remember that your very pregnant partner has an adorable giggle and is very ticklish

[mirrorshards]

dunmeshi anime is super fun~

[slippinmickeys]

Totality

Fiona made me write an eclipse fic.

Scully gently shut the door behind her, the crisp blue duffle with leather handles in her grip; the go-bag she always left in her car, just in case. It had been a just-in case, Mulder had to admit. They’d had to fly to Idaho with no time to pack, and had worked a grueling five days straight on a series of local murders with only enough time to catch maybe four hours of sleep a night and pop into a shabby JC Penneys once for more underwear. They were both overworked, overtired, and their suits–of which each of them only had two–were overworn; ripe with the scents of stale sweat and stale coffee and stale eau de morgue. 

Scully looked weary as she handed over the bag to where Mulder stood in front of their rental car’s open trunk. 

“How far away is the airport again?” she asked, squinting up at him as he deposited her bag next to his and slammed the trunk closed. 

“Only about an hour,” he answered, mentally girding himself for what he was about to tell her. “But, I uh,” he went on, “pushed back our flights to this evening.”

Her posture visibly slumped. “You…what?” 

Mulder bit his lip, hoping he hadn’t made a horrible miscalculation. He knew she wanted nothing more than to get home, slide into a hot bath and pull the covers over her head for three straight days. She’d certainly earned it. 

“Hop in the car,” he said, moving to the driver’s side door. “I have a surprise.”

He was exhausted himself, his nerves shot. He was running on caffeine and cortisol, his skeleton rattling with every step. But this…she would like this. He was sure of it. 

“Mulder,” she said wearily, a whine in her voice that he’d rarely had the opportunity to hear. But she said nothing more and reluctantly dropped into the passenger seat, leaning her head against the headrest and rolling it to look at him beseechingly after she’d clicked her seat belt on. 

Mulder turned the ignition and the sedan growled to life under them. 

“It’s a good surprise,” he assured her. 

She only sighed, and they bumped out of the hotel parking lot and onto town’s main drag, the sun shining on the shabby line of depressing suburbia. Ten minutes and five stop lights later, Mulder pulled into the mostly empty parking lot of a dying mall, the tires popping over stray gravel and broken glass. He cranked the wheel and the car swung over the cracked asphalt in front of a defunct Frederick & Nelson, turning in a reflex angle and stopping when the sun shone in full through the windshield. He killed the engine. 

Scully opened her mouth to say something, but he reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a couple scraps of cardboard, handing one over before she could voice a complaint. 

It took her a moment to register what he was handing her. 

“Eclipse glasses?” she said, sitting up a little in her seat. 

Mulder had found the black polymer lenses next to the cash register at a local coffee shop that morning, the bespectacled co-ed working it disinterestedly telling him he could have two pairs for a dollar. 

The upcoming eclipse had been in the news recently, but he’d mostly ignored it–back east it would only be partial at best, the path of totality only hitting the Pacific Northwest and parts of Canada. Four murders and a rough case later, he hadn’t given it another thought. Until that morning in the coffee shop. 

“We’re in the path of totality here,” he explained. “We’ll only get it for about a minute and ten seconds according to the local newspaper, but I thought you might like to see it.”

A look Mulder couldn’t read crossed over her face and he swallowed.

“The next full eclipse over North America won’t be until 2017,” he went on nervously. “I can probably change the tickets back if you-”

Scully reached out and put a warm hand on his arm, cutting him off. 

“I’d love to see it,” she said delicately. “Thank you.”

Despite the dark smudges under her eyes, the soft smile she gave him quieted any lingering apprehension about his decision, and he gave her a smile back. 

“I figured we could get on the hood, lean against the windshield,” he said.

“What time does it start?” she asked, popping her wrist out from her sleeve to look at her watch. 

“In about five minutes,” he grinned. 

Scully fingered the glasses and then opened her car door. Energized, Mulder did the same. 

“I ask you to avert your eyes,” he said drolly, putting a hand on the warm hood of the car before awkwardly lumbering his way on top of it, the metal plane thumping loudly under him as it dented to accommodate his weight and then popped back into place. 

Scully, opting to watch, looked on primly. 

Once he was settled, he held out a hand. 

“Milady,” he said, and she settled her warm palm onto his, grabbing on while she put a foot on top of the tire and dexterously swung herself up next to him. 

“Nimble,” he complimented her, reluctantly letting go of her hand. 

She shrugged and leaned back gingerly against the windshield, mindful of the smear of desiccated bugs across the face of it. 

“Here, wait,” Mulder said. He sat up quickly and peeled off his suit coat, rolling it into a ball to tuck behind her head, pillow-like. 

“Thanks,” she said quietly. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

Mulder could feel something ineffable pass between them. He coughed once awkwardly, and then pressed his eclipse glasses to his face, the sharp cardboard edge digging into the skin behind his ear. 

“How do I look?” he asked. 

“Like a dork,” Scully said, delicately donning her own, in, Mulder hoped, solidarity. 

She looked nothing like a dork, Mulder thought, eyeing the sharp lines of her face. She looked like a space girl, sleek and silver, an otherworldly beauty. 

He cleared his throat. “So do you.”

Scully’s face was tilted to the sky and he turned to follow her gaze. 

“It’s starting,” she said, her voice a little irreverent. 

Mulder looked at the sun, dark through polymer lenses of the protective eyewear. The moon was just beginning to edge itself in front of its celestial sister; incremental, pendulous. 

Lacking the pillow he’d given Scully, he raised his arms up and bent his elbows, resting his head back against cupped hands. Beside him, Scully breathed serenely.  He caught a whiff of his fusty clothing and hoped his jacket had fared better in the olfactory department than his shirt. 

They were silent for long minutes, watching the gradual procession of moon across sun. The day was bright but began to take on a verging luminosity, and Mulder raised his glasses up to take a look at the dark shadow of the car under them, which took on an off-putting sharpness against the dusty asphalt. 

“What do you think ancient peoples made of solar eclipses?” came Scully’s voice, a little dreamy. “What must they have thought?”

It was an invitation to oratory. A small gift. Mulder smiled. 

“Cultures throughout the world had wildly different theories,” he said, and Scully turned her head towards him, her eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. “Most of them, obviously, wildly incorrect.” Despite the fact that he couldn’t see her eyes, her look was encouraging. 

“The sun being devoured was popular,” he went on. “From the Norse mythology of Sköll,” at this she smiled. “To Asian cultures like in Java and Vietnam that variously had creatures or monsters swallowing the sun. It was commonly held in ancient China that a celestial dragon attacked and devoured it. Here in the Northwest, the Pomo people’s name for a solar eclipse is ‘Sun got bit by a bear.’”

The bear, Mulder mused, was widening its jaw. It was getting gradually darker, and he could feel the temperature start to dip. He put his glasses back on and looked back at the sun. 

“The Inca and Ancient Greek believed eclipses were a sign of a wrathful and unhappy god.”

Scully hummed. “The word ‘eclipse’ comes from the Greek word meaning ‘abandonment.’”

“Right,” Mulder said, “though I think I prefer mythologies of a more solicitous nature.”

Scully raised her glasses to give him a look. “Solicitous?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Mulder couldn’t help his grin. “In Australian oral traditions, the moon falls in love with the sun and chases her across the sky. If caught, the sun plunges the world into darkness. Medicine men recite magical chants to combat the evil omen. In German mythology, the sun and the moon are married. One rules the day while the other the night. When the moon is lonely, he’s drawn to his bride and they come together to create a solar eclipse.”

She looked at him frankly. “You know a weird amount about eclipses.”

“I like to impress you.”

“Is this why you were so late getting back to the hotel this morning? Research? My coffee was cold.”

“But are you impressed?”

“I wasn’t impressed by the coffee…”

Mulder gave her a long look, the odd light turning her hair a hazy copper wool.

“I like the German one best,” she finally said, plunking her glasses back on and leaning back to gaze at the sky. 

“Me too,” Mulder said. 

More long minutes of silence between them with the occasional car whooshing past on the roadway. Mall security drove by them slowly and Mulder gave the rent-a-cop a small salute. It was impossible to see Scully with the glasses on, so he kept taking them off. 

“You’re going to permanently burn your macula,” Scully said from beside him, not taking her eyes off the welkin of the heavens above them. 

He ran his eyes over the brushstroke of freckles on her nose. She was goddess-like; as luminous as a star. If he was the moon, he’d chase her through the sky, too. 

“You lose enough photoreceptors you won’t pass your next firearms recertification.”

He was tempted to tell her that in all the years he’d known her, her shine hadn’t damaged anything but his poor, lonely heart, but pulled his glasses back down and looked to the sun. It was nearly covered.

He sighed and felt her hand reach for his. His heart beat hard once against his sternum. 

“You can take them off during the totality,” she said, squeezing. “And should. It’s supposed to be incredible.”

“You ever seen it?” He asked her quietly. She was still holding onto his hand. 

“I missed the one in ‘79.”

“Me too,” he said. 

Around them, the air had taken on a distinct chill and the light shining down had grown metallic. Next to the car, in the long shadows of the trees along the edge of the mall driveway appeared little crescents. The colors on the mall’s signage dimmed and brightened. Mulder sat up and pulled his glasses off and blinked, shaking his head. The world felt odd, he couldn’t properly adjust his vision. It felt decidedly like the moment after someone takes your picture with a bright flash.

Scully still held his hand and squeezed it. 

“It’s called the Purkinje effect,” she said calmly, pulling off her own glasses with her other hand, and looking around with a wondrous smile. “As we near totality and the light dims, our eyes transition from photopic vision–which uses the retina’s cone cells to deliver full colors and fine detail–toward scotopic night vision, which relies on rod cells to detect objects in low light. When the light’s intensity dims in an eclipse, colors with longer wavelengths like red will look darker as the cones become less active. But rods are sensitive to shorter blue-green wavelengths, and those colors will appear to shine. It’s not just you. It’s the rod and cone cells in your eyes trying to make sense of the sudden dimness.”

Scully put her glasses back on and looked up at the eclipse. Mulder felt a surge of something so like love that his eyes burned. 

Scully pulled in a sudden inhale of breath. 

“The totality,” she said, pulling off her glasses and gazing up. “It’s starting.”

Mulder raised his eyes to the heavens. The world was dusk-like, the stars in the top of the dome of the heavens were winking on. In the bushes nearby, crickets began to chirp. 

The eclipse itself was like nothing he’d seen before outside of a big budget movie. The moon was utter blackness, but along the upper edge of the eclipsed sun was a hot pink half-ring that erupted into a single bring spot along the edge of the moon’s shadow like the diamond in a giant engagement ring formed by the rest of the sun’s atmosphere.

And then the flaming plasma of corona as the moon reached complete totality. Second contact. It was a living thing. Streams of white light danced around the ring of the black moon. Scully gasped in pleasure and Mulder couldn’t help but exclaim: “Wow!”

He pulled his eyes from the eclipse itself and looked around. Along the entire horizon, all 360 degrees of it, was in full, brilliant sunset. Everything else was the darkness of post golden-hour. He turned toward his partner and locked eyes with her. Her smile was brilliant, and she held his gaze for only a moment before canting her face back to the eclipse itself. 

“This is incredible,” she said breathlessly. 

He had found, as the years of their partnership wound on, that their job turned them into ecstatics, subject to mystical experiences. This was perhaps the most transcendent of them all. He would remember the moment forever. 

 “It is,” he agreed. 

A sharp flash, and Scully squeezed his hand. 

“Third contact,” she said. “Put your glasses back on.”

He did as she asked, and they leaned back and watched in silence as the moon continued its journey, as the sky relit and the nighttime animals calmed, as the world came back to itself. 

Eventually, Scully sat up. The light was still odd, seeming to come almost from inside her, and she lowered her glasses and leaned in to him. For a heady, divine moment, Mulder thought she was about to kiss him, but instead she pressed her cool lips to his cheek, her hair falling down to brush along the skin of his jaw. 

“Thank you, Mulder,” she said, and then straightened, the cool air rushing to fill the space she’d just been. 

“You’re welcome, Scully,” he said, his voice a little rough. He lowered his glasses slowly and watched her slide off the hood of the car, watched her stretch and smile to herself; a Mona Lisa grin gently stretching the planes of a face with the same faultless symmetry of the celestial bodies sliding across the sky.

[angelkissedface]

la balance de la justice.

[dinitride-art]

I saw ‘a cruel summer with miwi’ and went… yeah actually. That sounds like a great idea :) This is based on this fic- a cruel summer with you by andiwriteordie, astrobi, and wiseatom ! (also the fic is NOT BABY MIKE AND WILL... I just wanted to draw them like this lol)

[the-n3w3st-g1rl-g1rl]

[picnokinesis]

Went to see The Prince by @realphilosophytube the other day and augh, guys...if you get chance to go and see it, you absolutely have to go because it's truly incredible. Fantastic story, brilliant cast, the set and costumes and sound design are phenomenal! And it's honestly quite emotional for me to see a play like this which is so much about the trans experience (specifically the experience of realising and also being in the closet and scared to come out). I've never seen anything like that before that's resonated so much with me. So - fanart, naturally, ensued.

[sunshades]

give it up for the recognition scene !

[beenovel]

I hate the prevalence of the "people in the past smell terrible because they never took baths" thing. Just because they didn't take baths (bc who wants to heat bucket after bucket of water to fill a large tub every couple days) that doesn't mean they were unhygienic. No one in the history of the world has enjoyed the smell of sweat and built up grime. It's like everyone has forgotten about sponge baths, like seriously, what do you THINK those water basins on all Victorian vanities were for?????? They didn't drink the water, they had carafes for that, and they didn't just feel like slashing their faces a little every morning

In case you've never seen one this is what I'm talking about:

Used to clean bodies and wash hands

And this is a water carafe, typically placed on the nightstand (bc hydration is important):

The lid on top doubles as a glass to drink from

[moxymaxing]

Hello :D do you take requests?

Would you be willing to draw-

Teen-High-Binder Transmasc Normal?

Anon I have only a vague idea who Normal is but I hope I did him justice :D

[hella1975]

hella I wanna look into mesopotamia so do you wanna give an overview of like the timeline or whatever. feel free to rant if you want bc it’s so interesting when you do

OKAY YES!!!! so the reason mesopotamia is such a big deal and is nicknamed the 'cradle of civilisation' is because, despite there being evidence of humanity before it, it was the first example of society. the first cities started in mesopotamia and so many HUGE inventions - the wheel, maths, astronomy, writing, irrigation, offical laws (including the first minimum wage!) etc - came out of mesopotamia.

so mesopotamia was a REGION, same as ancient egypt, and was located in what is now modern day iraq. it's always baffled me that people know SO MUCH about ancient egypt but know so little about its neighbour, especially when their cultures were very similar and considering mesopotamia EXISTED BEFORE ANCIENT EGYPT. mesopotamia started in around 5000 BC and ended with the fall of babylon in ~500 BC when it was conquered by the persian empire. (i cant remember the exact year my bad) ((also now is probs a good time to mention my only knowledge of mesopotamia comes from personal, unprofessional research. any mistakes are my own and this post is meant for idle conversation, not actual information)). oh and alexander the great conquered it at one point. boo 👎

a very simplified timeline is that mesopotamia had the sumerians, then the akkadians, then the babylonians, then the assyrians, but when i say 'simplified' i mean there was a lot of shit going on in between that and there's also like. neo-sumerians and neo-babylonians and it was all happening in different areas of mesopotamia so not everywhere was in the same 'period' and i will put my hand up and say i dont know SHIT about what all that was about. i can tell you for a fact that sumerian was the first language though and if i had to pick a fave dead language i'd go with sumerian. there's something so cool about a language being THOUSANDS of years old but the civilisation being so ahead of their time that we have pretty thorough records of it even now and there are experts that can speak it fluently. cuneiform (the writing style of mesopotamia, done on clay tablets) was invented for sumerian. sumerian was then replaced by akkadian, which the famous code of hammurabi was written in, and it's just done directly onto a big black pillar and it looks SO COOL look at this thing:

[wyverncult]

SWEET DREAMS.

[wanderingchocolateeclair]

Merry (late) Christmas @genderfluidagendergremlin !!

Dear beloved, here is your (not really festive but shh) Ushi in a dress <333333

[pinkbalrog]

Tea Time with the Harkers

The smog was, for once, light on London, and a brisk wind stirred the trees leaning out of small gardens. Narrow brick faces ran away from the yard in all directions, and rain water puddled on the cobblestones. Christopher joined Edwards in the hansom. Edwards gave him a considering look. “Was it that bad?”

“Worse.” Christopher leaned forward, elbows on his knees. They hit a bump, but he barely noticed. “He certainly wasn’t going to send anyone, called Mrs. Harker a harpy. Said ‘she and her like are so capable they can sort it themselves, and not like we would miss someone like that anyway, so we’ll be sure to catch him before anything goes off.”

“Well I knew that was a dead end so I hinted that Mr. Harker was a well-respected man, but he seemed to think Harker gained his position by no virtue of his own.”

“And that Mr. Harker was too young anyway?” Edwards cut in.

Christopher huffed. “You know him. Only promotes someone when they’ve one foot in the grave already.”

Edwards tugged a bundle of cigars from his jacket and offered two to Christopher. “Here, for after. It’s a good deed, you get rewarded.”

“Hah, thanks.” He took the cigars. “Least I can look my wife in the eye tonight. It’s been, what five days since it was reported?”

Edward’s brow was heavy and combined with his shock of dark hair, gave him a brooding look. Christopher himself, well, he was lucky if he was called dignified: too lanky and apparently moon-eyed. Edward thought the question through, “The school marm.” He hesitated and asked “what was her name?”

Christopher waved it off.

“Right, she said she’d seen the bloke hanging around, watching the kid in particular, five days ago, right.”

“Right.”

“At least she told his mum. She said she’d do that.”

“And she seemed determined you said,” Christopher affirmed. “If you say she did, then she did, and that may have done the trick. Sometimes just being more careful spooks that kind off.” Edwards nodded. He turned to watch the world rattle by. The streets were busy: their clamor that of foot traffic and carts fresh from the country. It smelled like smoke and horseshit.

The Harkers lived too far by half from Mr. Harker’s firm. Their street was quiet, far from the noise and filth of London’s center. Their’s was a fine two storeys, in good repair, and fenced all about with iron overgrown with wild roses, their thorny branches winding in and out.

Christopher hopped out first, and paid the driver, while Edwards dismounted more slowly. His square hands worried his watch. Christopher knocked. They waited. The roses made the air sweet, though there was an underlying, pungent scent, garlic?

Minutes passed. Christopher was about to ring again when the door opened. It was a young woman. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen and she was, loudly a suffragist. She wore almost the exact attire the rags liked to draw them in. Her straw-blonde hair was fraying out of it’s updo and her fingers were ink stained. It all made quite a statement. Christopher could feel Edwards mournful brown eyes taking in her youth with reflexive concern.

Her voice was bright and false, “Well hello, what brings the constables round?”

“Following up on a complaint. But I suppose I’d better call it an advisement. A—” he searched for the marm’s name and, miraculously, found it, “Madame Bitters came to us a bit back. She told us there was a suspicious person haunting,” and here Christopher stopped delicately.

“We’ll have to talk to the Lady of the house,” Edwards continued, solemn. The young woman listened with sharp eyes, and her gaze darted from Edwards to Christopher. She seemed to consider, then nodded.

“Well, if it’s serious, you’d best come in. I’ll get M—the Mrs. Oh but could you touch the cross? I wouldn’t ask only it’s an heirloom of the Mrs. and she thinks everyone gives it a little luck when they enter. For tradition’s sake.” Then she gestured up to where there was a silver cross on a rosary, pinned to the door frame.

Sharing a look with Edwards, Christopher reached up and brushed the cross. Edwards followed suit. Only when they had both done so did the girl relax. Christopher hadn’t even realised she was tense. Brusquely now, she showed them where to hang their hats, and led them to a tidy parlor. There were more seats than suited the room, and the table was large. There were marks of many cups visible under lace. Now they could hear a bustle in the house: quiet conversation, and doors opening. Edwards pointed out a worn Bradshaw positioned prominently.

“Dry reading,” Christopher quipped, looking at the bookshelves. “And the rest of these are probably law.”

“Useful though.”

“There is that.”

Then the girl was bustling in again. “M-She’ll just be a bit.” Edwards raised a brow.

“You know her well then?” Apparently Edwards had also noted that twice now the girl had almost used Mrs. Harker’s Christian name.

“I do.” Suddenly she straightened. “Oh where are my manners? Mr. Harker would be appalled. Abigail Dennings at your service. I work with Mrs. Harker, yes.”

“You’re not from around here, surely,” Christopher asked, “Not with that accent.”

She tilted her head. “No, I’m from North Shropshire.” As she spoke she touched her high collar. “A friend of the Harkers helped me out. They paid my way to London and introduced me. The cause you know.” She jutted out her chin.

“Right.” Christopher shuffled his feet. He sat down. Abigail did not sit, but waited impatiently. Chatter continued upstairs. Chairs were shifted. Finally, the Mrs. arrived.

Mrs. Harker was tall, dark haired, and modestly dressed. Her gaze when she met their looks directly, was warm and curious, making an already pretty face captivating. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, gentlemen. How can I help you today?”

Only now did Christopher notice that she carried a full tea tray. Edwards acted first. “Let me take that, Madam.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind, and you are?”

It took some time to get past the pleasantries and the introductions, and then they had to wind up to the truly awful topic, and well, Christopher’s gut turned at suggesting to this woman, to any mother, what certain sick minds thought of children.

It was Edwards who screwed his courage. “Mrs. Harker, we are following up word that an individual was thought to be following your son.” He let that hang, then went on, “We are here to assure that if you have need of us, the yard is ready to assist should you but call. Perhaps we could have a look around the house, and street, just to be safe.”

Mrs. Harker’s look grew stern, and she leveled them with a hard look. “I appreciate you being here. Attendance upon one’s duty should never be scoffed at or dismissed. It has however, been nearly a week since Mrs. Bitters came to me in confidence, and I believe the caution of myself and my husband henceforth has dissuaded any attempts, as we have not so much as glimpsed this individual.” 

She folded her hands on her lap as she spoke. “Indeed, considering the generous aid of friends, and an attentive community I believe I can rest assured, at least in so far as a mother can, in my Quincey’s safety.”

It was a rebuke, but a gentle one and Christopher took it with a nod. Edwards’s face shuttered, which could have been shame or quashed defensiveness. In the silence that followed, the opening of the front door was loud. 

There was the sound of little feet, and a heavier step, and furtive voices, one a grown man’s and the other higher. Just like that, Mrs. Harker’s face cleared. She positively glowed with delight, mouth parted. She half-rose to receive her son, who lunged into her knees, and buried his face in her lap.

“I’m back!” He cried, muffled by her skirts. He shared his mother’s complexion, but when he shyly turned his head to see them, Christopher saw that his eyes were shaped differently, making him look inordinately wide-eyed. Paired with his small smile, his too official looking jacket, and the ribbon candy bright and melting in his hand, it was devastating.

“Ah! I see your father has made good on his promise!” Mrs. Harker crowed. The boy giggled and shoved the candy back in his mouth.

“Mmmhmm.”

“Ah, but here you’ve been messy. It’s on mommy’s skirts.” She cocked her head, regarding the blemish. “Well, my skirts must have offended you. Apologize!” and she shook the fabric, “apologize to Qunicey!” The boy dissolved into giggles and she hefted him up to sit beside her, where he watched them warily. “But really do be careful of your hands and messes Quincey.”

He muttered around his candy in what might have been a “Yes”. Here Mr. Harker spoke from the doorway,

“A clear answer please, Quincey.”

That got a more definite response and Mr. Harker took a seat to the left of the chaise his wife and son has claimed. With his back to a wall he faced Christopher, Edwards and the door.

“Mr. Harker,” Christopher began, “I didn’t think we’d have the pleasure.”

It was indeed, early in the work day. But more startling than that was his appearance. Christopher shared an apprehensive look with Edwards, whose hands twitched for his watch or another cup of tea. It was exceedingly difficult to tell Mr. Harker’s age.

His hair was white and though he was not exceedingly pale, he looked very stark next to his wife and son. His face was lined, but it softened with adoration when he looked at his family, so he  seemed five years younger. His hands, when they dressed a scone, were precise.

He spoke softly, “I’ve been taking half-days for a time. To spend more time with family.” He explained and met his wife’s gaze. What followed was an incisive interrogation.

Mr. Harker was intent on ferreting out the reason for delay in following up on the issue, and was while, pointedly polite, relentless. Somehow he got out of Edwards an omission that led to the idea that Mrs. Harker being a prominent Suffragist may have had something to do with it. The look in his eyes when he realised was...for a moment, he looked almost cruel.

But his cup clinked and the moment passed. Mrs. Harker was now watching them intently. She’d stood. She had a hand on the back of her husband’s chair. 

Quincey’s presence should have eased the tension, but the boy was a solemn mirror of his father. His small hands cupped the jam jar. He was under strict orders that he could hold it but not eat anymore.

At last, when Edwards, judging by the wild look in his eyes, was about ready to run, and Christopher about to follow, Mrs. Harker put them out of their misery.

“Gentlemen,” she said. Her voice held a crystalline edge, “Your initiative does you credit, though the whole of the affair does not give any to the yard. I will not praise you further, sirs, for doing the duty to which you have sworn. There comes a time when that is to be expected, and should not be treated as extraordinary.” 

She drew herself up even taller, and her eyes were fervent. “I hope though, for the sake of the women of this fair country, that there should be more like you, who acknowledge the cause of the voiceless.”

Christopher found himself all but cowering. There was such grim intent behind the words. He felt sure they had to leave. He and Edwards made their goodbyes hurriedly. Thankfully, Abigail, seeing their faces in the hall, left off whatever her duties were. She steered them away to the garden entrance.

She explained, “There are others arriving. I don’t think you want to greet them. See the gate over here? And the garden is very nice. They’ve just overturned a new plot, and both the Harkers seem very satisfied with it. It is a pretty corner to be sure! They let Quincey plant the first flower.”

She was right, though Edwards strode ahead too fast and that was indeed garlic, a whole bed of it. Christopher was past wondering about it. They found a hansom as quickly as they could.

Fin

[writeforfandoms]

1 (Historical AU) and 56 (Awful first meeting), AleRudy

Ohhhhh anon your brain seriously 👀👀

Okay okay okay. Historical AU and awful first meeting with AleRudy. I fkn love these two.

Alejandro likes being a cowboy. He does. He doesn't know what else he would want to do with his life even if he had options. He doesn't mind the lifestyle, he loves taking care of the animals, and the pay is not bad.

Overall, he'd say his life is pretty good. Especially once he gets established with one ranch taking care of their cattle. He gets along well with the other men too.

And then the owner's brother moves in. It both is and isn't an odd move: it's hard moving west on your own, so sticking with family is good, but he's older than is typical of those moving west.

Alejandro hears all the rumors around him, of course. Gossip flies on ranches, as it does anywhere else.

But he doesn't have a chance to meet this man for a few weeks.

And when they do meet, it does not go smoothly.

Rodolfo, as Alejandro learned his name from other sources, is in the barn when Alejandro finds him. Talking to the horses quietly, old pain in his voice. Alejandro isn't trying to listen in, he's really not. But he does walk quietly, and hears the tail end of what sounds like a confession of murder.

Naturally, Alejandro jumps to conclusions and confronts him. Rodolfo is immediately on the defensive, shouting back at him, until the two are yelling and gesitculsting, about one wrong word away from a physical brawl.

The owner's wife interrupts them, and Rodolfo stomps away back up to the house, angry and humiliated. The wife sits Alejandro down and explains things to him more or less gently.

Rodolfo had been trapped in a loveless, awful marriage. He had not killed his wife, she had fallen during a trip and never recovered. Rodolfo was a gentle man who would never hurt any of his family.

Alejandro knows he fucked up. So he stews for half a day, and then goes up to the house to apologize. He even manages to do it more or less gracefully.

Rodolfo accepted, only a little begrudgingly.

Alejandro thought that would be that.

He was wrong.

Any time he was at the ranch, Rodolfo made time to see him. At first it was all work related - Rodolfo was learning the trade and Alejandro had been volunteered to teach him.

But then it became meals together, became endless hours of talking, became... something more. Something private. Something hidden.

And when Rodolfo decided he wanted to leave his brother's nagging and start up his own ranch, the very first person he asked was Alejandro.

[puddleslimewrites]

Diagnosis

CW: discussion of a terminal illness diagnosis (it's nonspecific and not in detail, but I thought it best to make a warning)

"...Tell me about the first time you diagnosed someone with a terminal illness."

Doctor looked at them with sad eyes.

"Tell me about the first time you had to look at someone and tell them they were going to die. Tell me how you did it. What you said, what you did. Before, and after." Patient kept their eyes down, shoulders slumped, elbows resting on their thighs. They appeared to stare at the floor, but their mind was elsewhere.

Doctor took a breath. They'd never been asked to recount it. And though they'd tried to forget, the memory came back to them with ease.

"It was a woman in her 30s," they began softly.

Patient listened without looking up.

~

Silence filled the office. Patient was the first to break it.

"Did you cry for her?"

"Afterward, yes. I couldn't with her in the room. I had to be..."

"Strong?"

"Impartial," Doctor corrected.

"Showing sympathy for your patients doesn't make you weak," Patient whispered.

"I know. But it does make my job harder to do."

Patient hummed in acknowledgment. Without their voices, the space was quiet save for the ticking of a clock on the wall. Doctor began to look through some of the files on their desk.

"Do you still cry?" Patient finally asked.

"Sometimes."

A beat passed, then two. Doctor paused on the page that held the history of their current visitor. They glanced over it and decided to make a note in the margin.

"Would you cry for me?"

Doctor stopped writing, eyes trained on the page. For a moment, it didn't seem like they were going to answer.

"...Yes."

Patient hummed again, satisfied. They stood from their chair. "I'll see you next week, doc."

Doctor looked up, alarmed at the abrupt announcement. "Next week? You're not planning to break something again, are you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Patient scoffed. They shot Doctor an innocent grin as they slipped through the door. "I've told you, it's always an accident."