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sociologyonthemove · 3 months

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The Close Proximity of Cardiff’s Class and Culture Contrast by Sadie Mullis

It is 11.34am when I approach the four-way junction at the top of Albany Road. My attention is immediately drawn to the flashing blue lights coming from a parked ambulance on my left. The driver is sat on his phone in the front seat, seemingly unfazed by what could be unfolding in the back. It is just another day at the office for him, after all. It is a Sunday in April, and the sun is restrained by the grey clouds, occasionally peeking through to tease us with the hope of summertime in Cardiff. At least it’s not raining. A group of four lads surge past me, breathing heavily but still able to gossip. Clearly in the middle of their ‘Sunday long run’, which will inevitably end with a pint at the pub. The aggressive beeping of the traffic lights brings me back to reality, and I cross the road. Hearing this prompted my human sensory perception and reminded me why so many researchers choose to use ‘listening walks’ (Gallagher and Prior, 2017). I walk down the left-hand side of the street, as I normally would, on a mission or with a particular goal in mind. But this walk is different. I feel mixed emotions; more present, but also more conscious of my surroundings. Eager to explore and note the close proximity of class and culture differences present.

People are all around, some walking at a leisurely pace matching mine, others clearly with an end destination in mind. I notice I am one of the only young girls around, which makes me slightly more vigilant than usual. A middle-aged woman in a khaki tracksuit exits Savers on my left, toilet roll in hand. On my right, an elderly couple board the bus, both wearing smart attire. On reflection this is the first contrast which emphasises the sociological focus of my walk. Classes and cultures can be significantly different yet be in such a close proximity to one another. The clothing these individuals chose to wear on Albany Road in some ways provide a visible process of distinction between these classes (Bourdieu, 1984). What might their typical Sunday look like? And would it differ considerably? I find myself wondering. My stomach rumbles, an automatic response to the smell of Indian cuisine emanating from Pooja Sweets & Savouries. The window of the independent store is filled with spring rolls and samosas, bhajis and pastries, offering a cultural alternative to the mass produced but perhaps unimaginative Tesco meal deal that is available only a few metres down the road. I stop to look through the window at the impressive array of treats. Regular consumers perhaps wouldn’t think twice about this mix of cultural options on the street (Macklin, 2007). I pass by a slightly run down looking dry cleaners and dodge the shards of broken glass on the street. Litter and what I assume (and hope) to be a spilt chocolate milkshake surround the overflowing bins, seagulls lurking around hoping for any leftovers. I dodge three drains on the pavement. An Eastern European looking man, whom I presume to be the owner, unlocks the door of Pookie Delicacy. He mutters on the phone in a language I am unfamiliar with. He embodies the ‘assimilationist hero’ (Rhys-Taylor, 2013). I become aware of a chill in the air when a gust of wind emerges, regretting the thin sweater I chose to wear. My attention is drawn to the large, yellow poster presented inside one of the many Iceland chain stores that can be accessed around Cardiff. ‘HUGE HALF PRICE REDUCTIONS!’, it seemingly screamed. The advertising team had earnt their wages; it certainly caught my attention (Lange et al. 2016). I move beyond the first of many charity shops, before dodging a group of male teens all dressed in black, sporting large chains around some of their necks. I cough, trying not to inhale the sickeningly sweet strawberry second hand vape smoke that clouds behind two of them.

I near the halfway point of the first part of my walk down Albany Road, passing the infamous Andrew Buchanan pub. The smell of cigarette smoke immediately transports me back to summer evenings abroad (Verbeek and van Campen, 2013). I am filled with excitement at the thought of my post exam period getaway. This excitement is quickly surpassed by reality as the two elderly males standing outside, clutching half empty pints of Guinness, stare at me walking by. I move on towards the post office, and flinch at the flock of pigeons at my feet. They are always here; I don’t know why I am surprised. The clunk of a bicycle changing gear can be heard over my right shoulder, and the line of cars waiting for that green light surge past. On my left I notice the break in shops, replaced by lines of terraced houses visible far into the horizon. I open the maps app on my phone, and discover that these slightly run down, sandwiched houses lead onto those surrounding Roath Recreational Ground which boast large gardens and grand front porches. One may wonder where the boundary is that signals the difference between residents, and whether this is individually subjective to them (Barth, 1969). Speaking of boundaries, the prominent metal gate to my right creates a distinct physical one. It separates Albany Road Primary School from the potential dangers of a busy road and popular street.

Despite being aware of my dawdling, I remember I am to try and embrace Walter Benjamin’s concept of ‘flâneur’ throughout the duration of my walk (Bates and Rhys-Taylor, 2017), so I continue at a leisurely pace. Walkers are the practitioners of the city, after all (Solnit, 2001). I take a left turning onto Wellfield Road. The time is now 11.46. Loud music erupts from a trailer parked outside a slightly run down but grand old building labelled ‘Rainbow Bargains’. Its advertising boasts an impressive array of different e-cigarette and disposable vape flavours. The combination of catchy tunes and colourful flashing lights glamourising the unhealthy habit. I stroll on, the sound of the music dulling behind me. The area already seems less crowded and quieter. Perhaps because the road is one way, halving the number of cars, I note. A fresh fruit and vegetable stall is closed beside me. It is positioned next to an in-bloom cherry blossom tree which sways lightly in the breeze. I stop and stand for a moment. Behind me is a noisy street, packed with everything a consumer could want. Its occupants ranging in age and culture, most seemingly in a rush. In front of me is much more picturesque. The selection of shops is perhaps more limited, but much less cramped. Couples sit leisurely outside of cafes and coffee shops. The average age is higher, and predominantly white.

“Oooh, they’ve got loads of iced buns”, a man exclaims to his female acquaintance as we cross paths next to Parsons bakery. They are both dressed in athletic wear, like a few others around, takeaway coffees in hand. I presume they have been for a run around the nearby lake, now seeking their reward. Dainty outside tables and chairs are all occupied by laughing customers, clearly comfortable with their surroundings despite being sat next to a road and on a pavement. They have claimed and chosen this area, manifesting their sense of elective belonging (Savage et al. 2005). I can’t help but wonder if a mere half a mile behind them they would feel so at ease. Whereas most of the food outlets on Albany Road were takeaway, Wellfield Road boasts many restaurants with waiters lurking eagerly to serve. Flats above the shops have intricate balconies and I imagine residents relaxing with a drink in the summertime. I continue at my unhurried speed and acknowledge the luxury of wandering I am able to experience (Shortell, 2015). The wind has dropped slightly, and the sun is straining to get through the clouds. I feel at ease. But this ease is quickly replaced with guilt as I pass a homeless man outside of Tesco Express, unable to offer any loose change. Unknowingly, he is an obstacle in a regular shopper’s guilt-free experience (Rhys-Taylor, 2017). This physical juxtaposition of poverty and wealth emphasizes just how flawed society is. A seemingly wealthy and more exclusive area still homes those with nothing.

An independent boutique store, homing exclusive garments that clearly only appeal to both the middle class and middle-aged woman, neighbours another bakery. The church on the other side of the road looks quiet, despite it being a Sunday. Rubbish bags pile up its fence, which also holds a Slimming World banner. The sound of a child’s scooter trails the tarmac. The four-way crossing I need to use is surrounded by road works and barriers. I don’t change my tracks and chance that I can cross the road further down, following the narrow path obstructed by large red boulders. I cannot! Turning back around humbly, I follow a woman who had made the same mistake. She acknowledges a man waiting so she had room to pass by with a genuine thanks. I retrace my steps back to the crossing and wait for the familiar beeping of the green man. I overhear a friendly looking elderly woman with a young child on a bike, tassels swinging from the handlebars, wonder if they too can cross by the roadworks. An elderly gentleman overhears and politely explains that they in fact cannot. A car horn blasts: maybe they too are frustrated with the building works. I cross the road and we all go our separate ways, and I think about how in the space of a minute I had witnessed two exchanges compared to the none on Albany Road. Could it be that these people had subconsciously recognised one another as members of the area’s collective group identity (Cohen, 1985) and consequently been friendly?

I progress off Wellfield Road and approach the vicinity of Roath Recreational Ground. Building works veer me away from my planned route yet again, so I am forced to take the path adjacent to the grass area. The dump trucks and piles of materials are deserted, workers nowhere to be seen. To my left, tall, grand houses occupy the space, front gardens perfectly groomed and full of greenery. They all boast front room views of the park and pleasure gardens. A man sporting a fluorescent yellow quarter zip exits the front gate of one of these houses and proceeds to cross the road and start jogging around the park, presenting a real-life example of how the middle class choose their place of residence in order to fit their habitus (Jackson and Benson, 2014). The building works tapering, I decide to head onto the grass area, embodying both rural and urban identities (Moles, 2008). My feet sink into the wet and muddy forage underfoot, and I quickly hop back to the path. A harsh reminder of the copious amounts of rainfall Cardiff has experienced lately. The blue sky can be deceiving. Clearly, as some people are wearing shorts, others woolly hats and puffer coats. The time is now 12.04 and the sun is out. I hear a dog barking, followed by laughter. An aeroplane echoes faintly overhead. More runners overtake me, both male and female, some in groups trying to chat, others solo and focused. With running being a highly gendered practise in general, I feel a sense of relief that women feel comfortable enough to run in this area (Cook and Larsen, 2022). The end of my route nearing, I wander into Roath Pleasure Gardens. There is no litter to be seen. The river flows unassumingly, it’s many uses often overlooked by the average eye (Bates and Moles, 2023). Wet pawprints dot along the dry path and an elderly couple soak up the sun on one of the benches. An idyllic scene set in front of me, I reflect how in the space of an hour I have experienced vast cultural and class differences provided by the city of Cardiff.

Methodological Note

I used a literary sociology approach to my walk through Cardiff, in order to demonstrate and capture the creative and imaginative spirit of the walk itself (Back, 2007). Small details the regular walker would perhaps miss were of high importance to me in order to sustain the bigger picture and sociological focus of my walk. These small details can be used to both make connections and recognise differences, which is necessary in order for me to explore the class and culture contrasts presented. I recorded my sensory experiences in the form of taking rough notes and pictures of my surroundings, which helped to prompt my memory when it came to writing this essay. I recorded my thoughts and feelings along with the physical sights presented throughout my walk, which emphasised some of the social structures I had predicted. Walking as a method has become hugely popular with researchers as it enables them to personify the transient, embodied and multi sensual aspects of walking (Bates and Rhys-Taylor, 2017). Further, listening walks have become appealing as they can be used to understand peoples in situ experiences of different sound environments (Gallagher and Prior, 2017), which in turn helps to feed the researchers sociological imagination (Mills, 1959).

The aim of my walk was to explore the class and culture differences present in the short distance between Albany Road and Roath Pleasure Gardens. A key piece of literature relating to the focus of this walking essay was Jackson and Benson’s (2014) article based on the middle classes and how they often perceive people as ‘others’, despite inhabiting the same neighbourhood. Separate group identities are formed which thrive off of the recognition of similarities between members and the distinction of differences between others (Cohen, 1895). Using the combination of my senses enabled me to pick up on some of the distinctions invisible to the regular walkers untrained eye, and I found embracing the sensory walk to be an efficient technique. The use of our senses, particularly smell, play a significant role in the transmission of culture through different areas (Seremetakis, 1996). In addition, the art of really listening can unlock hidden and deeper meanings (Back, 2007). The fusion of being familiar with the area and being alone also contributed to the success of my walk and gathering of ideas to compile this essay. Despite my physicality being opposite to that of the traditional ‘flâneur’ occupier, I was able to embody this concept which was a welcome break from the usual pressures of everyday life (Bates and Rhys-Taylor, 2017). The act and freedom of wandering, with no time constraints or particular goal in mind, can therefore be viewed as a privilege when compared to the pressures and stresses of my third-year student reality.

References

Back, L. 2007. The Art of Listening. Oxford: Berg.

Barth, F. 1969. Ethnic groups and boundaries. Boston, MA: Little Brown and Co.

Bates, C. and Rhys-Taylor, A. 2017. Walking through social research. New York; London: Routledge.

Bates, C. and Moles, K. 2023. Living with Water: Everyday Encounters and Liquid Connections. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

Bourdieu, P. 1984. Distinction: a social critique of the judgement of taste. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

Cohen, A. 1985. The symbolic construction of community. London: Routledge.

Cook, S. and Larsen, J. 2022. Geographies of running cultures and practices. Geography Compass 16(10).

Gallagher, M. and Prior, J. 2017. Listening Walks: A Method of Multiplicity. In: Bates, C. and Rhys-Taylor, A. eds. Walking through social research. New York: Routledge, pp. 163-177.

Jackson, E. and Benson, M. 2014. Neither ‘Deepest, Darkest Peckham’ nor ‘Run-of-the-Mill’ East Dulwich: The Middle Classes and their ‘Others’ in an Inner-London Neighbourhood. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research38(4), p. 1195-1210.

Lange, F., Rosengren, S. and Blom, A. 2016. Store-window creativity’s impact on shopper behaviour. Journal of Business Research 69(3), pp. 1014-1021.

Macklin, G. 2007. Very Deeply Dyed in Black: Sir Oswald Mosley and the Postwar Reconstruction of British Fascism. London; New York: I. B. Tauris.

Mills, C. 1959. The sociological imagination. New York: Oxford University Press.

Moles, K. 2008. ‘A Walk in Thirdspace: Place, Methods and Walking’. Sociological Research Online 13(4), pp. 31-39.

Rhys-Taylor, A. 2013. The essences of multiculture: a sensory exploration of an inner-city street market. Identities 20(4), pp. 393-406.

Rhys-Taylor, A. 2017. Westfield Stratford City: A walk through millennial urbanism. In: Bates, C. and Rhys-Taylor, A. eds. Walking through social research. New York: Routledge, pp. 105-128

Savage, M., Bagnall, G. and Longhurst, B. 2005. Globalisation and belonging. London: SAGE.

Seremetakis, C.N. 1996. The senses still. Chicago: University of Chicago Press

Shortell, T. 2015. Walking in Cities: Quotidian Mobility as Urban Theory, Method, and Practice. Philadelphia: Temple University Press

Solnit, R. 2001. Wanderlust: a history of walking. London: Verso

Verbeek, C. and van Campen, C. 2013. Inhaling Memories: Smell and Taste Memories in Art, Science, and Practice. The Senses and Society 8(2), pp. 133-148.

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giuliadrawsstuff · 2 years

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Ain’t No Mountain High Enough

Drawing and song drabble for @elmundodeflor

I combined our two tweets into one, hope you like them. Thank you for being an inspiration.

I’ve decided my drabble Modern AU Hange has tattooed sleeves inked with Titans, cause I love tattoos too much.

Also Erwin is a musical fan cause I am and I HAD to add some musical songs to the repertoir.

Slight Mobwin in sight too hehe @littlelasagne I’m looking at you hahah

Listen, baby, ain't no mountain high

Ain't no valley low, ain't no river wide enough, baby

If you need me, call me, no matter where you are

No matter how far, don't worry, baby

Just call my name, I'll be there in a hurry

You don't have to worry

'Cause baby, there ain't no mountain high enough

Ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough

To keep me from getting to you, baby

The lyrics rolled on their lips like they were the most natural thing in the world.

Levi hated karaoke, he hated his voice, he hated the attention. Yet, somehow, when he was with Hange he always ended up doing it. No matter which song it was, he always had fun with them. They had a magnetic field around them that attracted him so strongly he was unable to say no to them. And he loved their voice so damn much (and the puppy eyes when they begged him to sing with them) that he always complied.

The first time it was Don't Stop Me Now at Miche and Nana's wedding. Levi had been sitting lonely on a table, legs dangling from its edge. He didn't dance, he couldn't. His legs froze each time he tried or wanted to. But then Queen's song started booming and Hange came had come rushing to him. They had pulled him into the crowd to sing with them and he had just melted into it, voice and body moving in sync with Hange's as if they were a whole.

After the wedding it was Hooked on a Feeling in Levi's car while he was driving them home. And from that moment on every car ride was like a karaoke, they turned on the music and started singing together, voices higher than the singer's, mimicking the lyrics.

That's when everything changed.

From cars they extended their singing to house cleaning, one of Levi's favourite past times. Hange was always the lazy one when it came to house chores, but Levi soon discovered that singing helped them being productive, so any excuse was good enough to make them sing in order to clean their house or his together.

Any tool was useful as a microphone, be it the broom, the cleaning detergent's bottle or the mop. They'd swirl together around the house singing like crazies. When using the vacuum cleaner they'd swing their hips in tune to I Want to Break Free, taking turns with it, the other laughing their guts out at the scene.

They found out one of the pubs near their houses held a karaoke night once a week, so upon Hange's insistence they attended every once in a while, often joined by Erwin, Miche, Nanaba, Moblit and the others.

They'd all sing in turn, on their own or in couples. Moblit drunkenly sang Total Eclipse of the Heart each time they went, ending up crying like a baby at the lyrics. Erwin would hand him a whole packet of handkerchiefs and he'd blow his nose in them sobbing until the next singer came on stage. Miche and Nana sang A Whole New World dueting every Disney song they knew by heart and finishing it with a passionate kiss to seal the happy ending.

They both would sing with Hange too, Miche songs like Hakuna Matata or Rubber Biscuit, Nanaba sharing the lyrics of I'll Make a Man Out of You or I Need a Hero.

Erwin would often join on stage in choruses when needed, all the while singing from his spot at the table, uselessly trying to involve Levi. He went for songs like Aquarius or Greased Lightning, the latter dueting with Moblit. He had a not so secret thing for musicals and he had spread it around all of them, irreparably infecting them with that passion.

On his part, Levi sulked in a corner, arms crossed over his chest, scowl always in place. Each time Erwin or Miche tried to make him engage he'd grumble an angry no, almost biting their fingers off if they insisted too much.

He fucking hated that loud place, he hated the voices singing out of tune, he hated his voice. That's why he didn't like to sing in public. Yet each time Hange asked him to join them on stage he said yes. He just couldn't say no to them. If he tried, their hazel eyes would widen, lower lip slightly trembling and an annoying "pleeeeeeaaaaase" would come out of their mouth, until he accepted with a theatrical groan. Hange always answered with a happy squeak hugging him tightly and sometimes kissing him on the cheek.

Maybe that was why he couldn't resist them. Their puppy eyes, their laugh, their cries of joy, their arms around him, the way they grabbed him when they sang together at home, their hand in his when they walked in town, their ice cream stained face when they licked it with too much greediness, their enthusiasm when talking about their job or the last movie they watched. The list was endless. And it was only growing longer by the day.

That night the pub was only theirs.

Erwin had rented the room to celebrate his birthday and he had requested karaoke as a fundamental requirement. Purple and blue lights darted on the stage as Hange and Miche sang Dancing with myself, Crocodile Rock and Don't You Forget About Me.

Petra, Oluo, Nifa and the others danced in a corner, singing together.

Then it was Moblit's turn with Heartbreak Hotel (Erwin providing him tissues once more when he slipped off stage drunkenly wobbling his way to the table) and again Hange with Nana, singing I Won't Say I'm in Love, Miche and Erwin behind them doing the Muses' chorus.

This time, Miche and Nana dueted with Don't Go Breaking My Heart.

Off stage, Hange fixed themselves a drink and brought one to Levi too. They sat on his lap cooing at how adorable Miche and Nana were together. They clinked their glasses together, then each took a sip of their gin tonic. As the duet ended Hange jumped off of his legs and darted to Miche's side to sing Crazy Little Thing Called Love.

Damn, they didn't get a moment's rest. And paired with Miche they were unstoppable. One arm slunged over his shoulder, shouting the songs.

He felt a pang of jealousy at all the times Miche got to sing with Hange instead of him. He did sing with them every day while cleaning or in the car but somehow it wasn't the same as sharing a stage. Again, he hated the attention, but he'd do anything to stay a bit more with Hange, to make them laugh that way. Even karaoke.

As if they'd heard his thoughts, Hange ran to him once again. "Leviiiiiiiiiiii" and he knew his moment had arrived. He feigned indifference at their cry, let them approach and sit again on his lap. They circled his neck with their arms, pleading for him to sing with them and Miche let out an amused snicker.

"C'mon Levi it's our turn, you can't stay here scowling all night, it's Erwin's birthday you can't refuse. Erwin and Miche chose our song. Plus you have the most beautiful voice, it's a shame not use it. Pleeeeeeaaaaase."

He turned Hange down a couple of times but then they fished out that damn pout he liked so much and he gave up, letting them take his hand and drag him up on stage.

As soon as the music began he regretted it. This fucking song. He should have known. He never should have let Miche or Erwin choose. Those morons. They knew. He didn't know how, but they knew. And they took pleasure in torturing him. Making fun of him. Fuck them. He'd give them what they wanted, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of refusing.

They started singing together, even though it was a duet they both liked singing everything as one, they'd always done that with every song.

Remember the day I set you free

I told you, you could always count on me, girl

And from that day on I made a vow

I'll be there when you want me some way, some how

'Cause baby, there ain't no mountain high enough

Ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough

To keep me from getting to you, baby

As soon as they picked up the pace everything changed. It was just the two of them, singing. The others disappeared, the stage, the pub, everything. It was just him and Hange and their voices singing together as one.

Oh no darling, no wind, no rain

Or winters cold can stop me baby

No, no baby, 'cause you are my love

If you ever in trouble, I'll be there on the double

Just send for me, oh baby

They both started dancing too, leaning into eachother, intertwining their free hands together, looking into eachother's eyes. Hange smiled the widest smile ever and it seemed to get wider with each word, he could see their eyes beaming. They were happy, they were having fun and he was a part of it. In fact, he was one of the causes. And he couldn't be more pleased about it.

My love is alive, way down in my heart

Although we are miles apart

If you ever need a helping hand

I'll be there on the double just as fast as I can

Suddenly he realised how close they were to eachother. Their faces were inches from one another, noses almost touching. He could smell the gin tonic in their breath. And as it always happened with Hange, the things that usually disgusted him (like the sticky smell of alcohol breath), didn't. He felt his face grow hot, in fact he was probably purple at the moment.

Reality slammed back on him, he could hear Miche and Erwin snickering loudly from one of the tables, and Nanaba slapping Miche on the back telling him to let them be, a soft knowing smile on their lips.

Face burning, he turned his attention back to Hange, they were still looking at him, a nice bright pink spreading on their cheeks too. He wondered if it was the gin tonic's work or the singing. He was pretty sure his wasn't. And the blush didn't seem to want to go away, no matter how much he tried. Instead he kept turning redder, blush soon reaching his ears.

Don't you know that there ain't no mountain high enough

Ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough

To keep me from getting to you, baby

This fucking song was going on forever. And the funny thing was that he didn't want it to end. He wished they could just keep singing, even if it meant staying pepper red forever.

Hange swirled away from him, pirouetting on the stage. Their tie flapped around them, rolled up sleeves showed the Titan tattoos inked on their arms. Their hair was still in the usual half ponytail but was getting looser with each song, sticking in every direction. Their glasses kept slipping down their hooked nose, often fogging up because of their rising body heat.

They were a fucking mess.

And they were fucking handsome.

Don't you know that there ain't no mountain high enough

Ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough

Ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough

With the final verse they took his hand again and pulled him towards them, embracing him.

His arms naturally curled themselves around their neck, his face once again brushing theirs. He could feel his cheeks and ears on fire, burning with a nice tomato red tint.

His heart was threatening to burst out of his chest.

He could hear Hange's heartbeat too, pounding against him, their hot breath tickling him.

He glanced up at Hange and that was it.

His lips crashed onto theirs, he grabbed their ponytail to pull them closer, throwing the microphone away and hugging their neck tightly.

After a split second of pure surprise, Hange answered his hungry kiss, hands fumbling at his hair. Their microphone fell to the floor too and they embraced his neck, scraping at his undercut.

A loud cheer came up from the audience. Miche and Erwin shouted a super loud "Go for it", Nanaba screamed an "About time you two", while Moblit gaped at them. The rest of the guys whistled repeatedly their approval.

When they finally parted, they were both scarlet red, panting.

#my art #levihan #attack on titan #karaoke #drabble #levi ackerman #hange zoe

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dorleing · 3 years

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Bill was up to something; George just knew it. He’d be home for work when he wasn’t out of the country, but sometimes was out of the house for unexplained hours, when George knew he wasn’t at the bank. Fred voiced similar suspicions, though he was more distracted by pranking Percy than Bill’s mysterious ‘work’ hours. With the arrival of their O.W.L. results, their mum was less concerned with how they spent their summer hours. George was determined to find out.

Ginny would have been good to recruit for his snooping, but George wasn’t willing to get her involved in spy work that wasn’t inside the Burrow. (He hoped Bill was just spending time with a paramour, and not up to shady business, like vampires) Ron was busy with dueling Neville and cooking with their mum, and wouldn’t be that interested in tailing Bill. So George set out by waiting outside Gringotts (Bill’s hand on the clock was firmly on ‘work’, but other times it said ‘other’, which this ‘other’ was what George really wanted to know,) until Bill left the building for lunch. He followed Bill down Diagon and into Knockturn Alley, glad that he was disguised by a Notice-Me-Not-charmed hat and cloak; he and Fred’s invention prototype (to see exactly how long the charm would last on articles of clothing, the charm was long lasting on jewelry and other accessories but had issues on woven and knit fabrics).

Bill entered Borgin and Burkes, somewhere George refused to set foot into. Was Bill going dark? Was he selling items? Buying items for the bank? Buying items for himself?

Some ten minutes later, he left the store and headed deeper into the alley. George took a moment to consider if knowing Bill’s secrets was worth being potentially mugged or pick pocketed. Or even just having his entire view on Bill being flipped on its head. But no, he’d already invested in being out for the day; Fred was covering for his absence. He was going to follow Bill until it actually got dangerous or it was nearing supper, whichever came first.

Bill walked for some time with his unknown shadow until he came to the Dancing Phoenix pub. George followed as well, figuring a pub couldn’t be the worst place to visit on a lunch break. He took a seat at a back table, where he could keep an eye on both Bill and the door, because while George might be a Gryffindor, he wasn’t an idiot. Bill had seated himself at a table near the center of the dining hall, where a few folks were already in discussion. Bill ordered a shepherd’s pie, but George packed a lunch, so he only ordered a butterbeer.

A sudden swell in noise had George looking up from his lunch. A tall and tanned youth had walked in from behind the bar, triumphant expression beaming, as he announced, “Swift has failed to dethrone me, yet again!” Cheers went up, and the youth walked around the tables, shaking hands and promoting his celebrity with the room. After a lap around, he seated himself at the table Bill was at, and a dusty (and freshly beaten, George assumed,) man sat with them as well.

George spent his lunch people watching. It was an interesting sort who frequented this place, where the bare wooden beams and whitewashed walls added to the charm, not unlike the Three Broomsticks. There were folks who looked like tradesmen and women, with aprons and soot and burns and muscles. There were obviously shady individuals, who appeared to have recently crawled out of a gutter somewhere. Children too, would run in and out, usually either the bar to grab an order and then rush out, or they would go directly to the youth near Bill, speak with him for a few moments, and then also sprint away.

It was certainly lively in a way that George hadn’t expected from this place. He supposed this was the infamous Lower Alleys that Dad had mentioned occasionally. It was…cleaner, than George had previously believed. And not quite as lawless as Dad had made it seem.

George looked over to Bill’s seat where both Bill and the youth were getting up to leave. Bill clasped forearms with him, nodded to the rest of the table, and brusquely left the pub. George packed away his lunch and reached to chug the rest of his butterbeer when the youth grabbed the mug first.

“That’s a pretty fancy hat and cloak you’ve got there,” the youth leaned back in his chair, stretched out like a kneazle in the sun. “It’s not often we get a patron who brings their own food.” George kept eye contact, though the youth was giving him a firm side-eye. There was too much of a challenge behind that, and he was too Gryffindor to ignore it.

“I wasn’t expecting to stop for lunch,” he said gruffly, a lame attempt to disguise his voice. Why didn’t he think to wear more of a disguise? “But I got thirsty.” At that admission, the youth slid the mug back to George.

“Are you sure it wasn’t because your quarry was the thirsty one?” George narrowed his eyes. The youth laughed, almost a bark of a laugh. “I know you don’t mean harm; your aura is all off for malicious intent.”

George raised an eyebrow, and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. “And what do you know about auras?”

“Well, I know that yours feels like it’s missing the final note to its chord, and the music its playing is of adventure, and not revenge. What do you know about auras?”

George hummed and closed his eyes, concentrating on the aura before him. It was much harder to read anyone who wasn’t Fred, but this one was both louder and softer than the usual ones he’d come across. It was a coiled blue, a gradient between slate and robin’s egg, curled around a powerful core. Likely fire, he thought, and there was kindred feeling, one of protect and defend and curiosity.

“I know that yours is whispering of suspicion, but there is a brighter part that wants to know if this humble stranger means harm to those under your protection. And that you really do like my hat.” He added with a smirk.

The youth’s appraising look felt satisfied. George removed his hat, handing it over for inspection. He felt exposed with his fiery mop exposed, but his cloak was still working, as no one looked their way.

“You, humble stranger, need not keep that moniker with a hat like this. Are you in the business of millinery? I know a fair few folks who would love to sport your brand.”

“Ah,” George wasn’t expecting his hat to gain that much attention, seeing as it was designed to not gain attention. “It’s still in the workshopping phase, unfortunately. The imbued charms wear off far too quickly for practical use.”

The youth handed back the hat. “That certainly is unfortunate, my good man. Allow me to introduce myself,” He stood into a sweeping bow. “Lionel Hurst, at your service, milord.”

George matched his pose, “Allow me, your highness, to congratulate you on securing your throne, yet again.”

Lionel rubbed the back of his neck, “You heard about that, did you?”

“Hard not to, when you announced it for all and sundry to hear.” George placed the hat back on his head. “I am afeard that the chiming of the bells beckons me to leave your exalted presence, and beg my lord to grant this plebian a leave of absence, so that he may labour away in his modiste craft, to perfect that which his most noble of heads does so desire.”

Lionel laughed, “At ease, my good sir, for your work is granting of its praise. Go forth and perform your self-imposed duty, and should you see fit to return, bring he who harmonizes your most sacred of songs.”

They bowed a final time before George left the building, hoping he could figure his way back to the Leaky Cauldron.

#murkybluematter #the pureblood pretense #the futile facade #fanfiction of a fanfiction #george weasley #leo of the rogue #leo hurst #rigel black chronicles

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greenninjagal-blog · 4 years

Note

Sentence starters: 14, with Roman & Deceit??

Haha, long time, no write! We’re having a pretty poor time right now so I figured a little bit of Roceit would be in Order! Warning: I did not edit this in the slightest.

Summary: Roman has always been a little curious, but the pastry chef definitely takes the cake on this one.

Words: 3007

Quick Taglist: @chelsvans @dwbh888 @glitchybina @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @harrypotternerdprincess @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @musical-nerd18 @never-end1ng-suffering @nonasficcollection @silverflame-wc @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @the-sunshine-dims @themagicheartmailman @themultishipperchild @thenaiads @treasureofpriam @vianadraws

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing List || Prompt Page (it should also be stated that you don’t need to pick from this prompt page if you don’t want to. Just send me an idea and I’ll do my best :D)

The Point of This is....

“Here, Bite Down on this.”

Roman has had a lot of weird first meetings. As a kid he liked to wander around the town meeting knew people, which, of course, drove his mother up a wall the first ninety or so times that she had glanced away from him for a second and he had disappeared completely on her. Roman was just a curious type of kid. The first time he had been confused by a couple of workers who were fixing an outlet behind one of the counters at his mothers favorite little shop, and he had just wanted to know what they were doing.

They had told him! Which had been cool. Did you know there were wires all in the walls?! He hadn’t even realized that his mom had been frantically looking for him until she had grabbed his arm in a frantic panic and asked if he was alright, and then don’t you dare wander off again! What if something had happened?! Roman!

It had happened again anyway, the store clerk had been redressing a mannequin and it had been neat! Then window cleaner, then flower arranger from the flower shop, then the busker outside the Irish themed pub he wasn’t allowed to be near, then the sign flipper at the street corner who taught him to spin one of the smaller signs--

The point was that by the time Roman hit middle school he knew most of the “little people” by name, and they of course knew his. Roman knew that a lot of them called him by his full name because his mother used to scream it when he went missing,-- Roman Alexander Prince, if you don’t get back here right this instant-- but he learned a lot of cool things!

He could arrange flowers, knew when and where the most dense foot traffic was, knew how to flip signs and draw attention. He could Macgyver his way through most electrical circuits, had the sewers under his town fully mentally mapped out, and knew that if you hit the vending machine behind the laundromat just right, you could get a free snickers bar.

He liked learning knew things. And for the most part? People liked to teach him.

As he got older, he noticed just how heartbreaking that sort of thing was. When he held the ladder steady for the owner of the Mom-and-Pop grocer while the old man replaced the “N” of the sign, the man had casually mentioned that the last person who asked him how he was doing had been a family man who had stopped coming months ago.

Then the more he looked, the more he had seen it: the when he waved to the woman who worked the bakery her whole face had lit up like he had gifted her the world, when he bought the street performer a water they had almost broken down to tears right there on the street, when he had offered the man sitting alone at the park with his head in his hands a chance to pet his dog, the man had called him a “generous kid” and tossed him five dollars before he left considerably happier than he was when he arrived.

The point-- and yes, Roman did have a point-- the point of all of this, was that Roman liked people. He liked learning things, and he liked hearing the stories that people had to share.

He liked telling those stories.

Which would probably explain how he got here: Mindscape, the ever prestigious school for the gifted. Although “gifted” tended to be a relative term. Roman had met a lot more people here, all his age, who eyed him warily like his smile was something to be scared of.

(”It is!” Remus, his twin had cackled from across the table in the dining hall, as if they didn’t have the same exact face.)

Roman and Remus had gotten in together, both on accident: Remus had crafted an application for Roman, sent it in without Roman’s knowledge, and then hacked the School’s Admissions database and marked the application for acceptance.

Things should have gone really bad, because Remus hadn’t known that the School President, Thomas Sanders, checks each and every application and when he noticed an application had skipped most of acceptance process he started digging.

Things should have gone really bad then. Like really bad. Like Remus ends up in jail and Roman has to change his name and move countries, really bad.

Instead Thomas Sanders, had sent them both acceptance letters, and Remus was required to work in the IT department without pay and take all the computer application classes. Somewhere in the middle of that Remus had struck up some sort of deal with the cyber defense team where the Mindscape’s tech department spent all school year building their best unhackable code, and in the summer Remus got to take anything and everything he learned that year and try to break it.

Remus had been winning for two years now. Roman had seen the grown men reduced to tears the moment that Remus’s hands had started flying over the keyboard.

Again, the point to this-- Roman had been at this boarding school for two years now, barreling his way through the journalism and creative writing classes like they were tissue paper walls. He’s met a lot of people his age, and he’s witnessed a lot of weird quirks about them.

Like how that kid in the library who likes to sleep on top of the bookcases, and Roman had witnessed getting swatted with a broom so many times. He was a gymnast and an acrobat and really freaking flexible-- and he had told Roman to fuck off when he had tried to learn anything more than that.

Or like that artist who ran the yearbook club took pictures of everything. It had been pretty cute the way the puffball had insisted on taking pictures of the cracks on the side walk, the clouds in the sky, the rainbow made from the refraction of the light through the glass windows. They had called it “catching little pieces of happiness in everyday!” Which was much sweeter than Roman had been anticipating. “Oops! Sorry gotta go, kiddo!” They had said and then they had been gone taking more pictures before Roman could ask anything about them.

Or like that guy from his Civics class who had gotten way too competitive about the trivia game they had played in class. It wasn’t just trivia though: Roman had learned later that he apparently Logan Ackroyd, the Logan Ackroyd, who had won the American chess tournament for three year in a row now. Any game that Logan touched, reportedly, he won. Chess, Checkers, Othello, Jenga, even Tic-Tac-Toe, and he treated them each like a life or death situation.

The point is of this is everyone had a weird quirk about them.

Roman knew that, knows that.

Heck, even Roman had a weird quirk, which apparently was wandering the school halls after classes. And now that includes being dragged into one of those classrooms by the hoodie of his sweatshirt and then immediately having a fork of something shoved in his mouth.

“VIRGIL!” Another voice squawks, followed by a telltale click of a camera taking a photo, but okay, Roman is a little too busy choking on a fork to take in everything.

There is a hand on his back, and one on his chest, holding him surprisingly steady, while he basically dies-- and man, he did not think that he’d be dying at seventeen years old. Who knew that his mother would be right all those times she insisted that his habit of walking around aimlessly was gonna be the death of him?

There are tears in his eyes by the time he manages an inhale, and someone takes the fork back out of his mouth. The hand on his back is rubbing soothing circles and his lungs flutter weakly, like a butterflies wings.

“Dude,” A voice says boredly. Roman squints up at his attacker-- because yes this was an attack and Roman will forever be scarred by it-- and vaguely recognizes the purple patched up hoodie for the library acrobat. “I said “Bite down on this”, not choke and die on the floor.”

Roman coughs to dislodge the last bit of whatever food just got shoved down his throat.

“Please ignore him,” A smooth voice says, a new voice, and one that sounds exactly like silk on Roman’s ears. “Are you okay?”

The new person, the man who is holding Roman, is, in a word, pretty. Actually, no wait, not pretty; he’s gorgeous. He’s beautiful. He’s Michelangelo’s David come to life, an angel straight from heaven, the God Apollo himself taking a quick break from driving his sun chariot to walk among the mortals--

“Virgil, what did you do!” The breathtaking stranger yelps.

“I didn’t do anything!” The acrobat shoots back, although he looks worried, “I just put the fork in his mouth! Oh shit, dude come on, please don’t tell me you’re allergic to something-- Dee what was in that? I can’t go to jail for killing someone! I just got here!”

There’s another click and a giggle and Roman blinks himself to enough awareness to realize that beside the three of them, there’s also that photography artist and the Logan Ackroyd in the room, also what looks like a cake with three slices cut out of it.

“You aren’t going to jail,” Logan says, although he’s playing on a Nintendo Switch and isn’t paying all that much attention to what’s going on.

“It just a cake,” Dee adds, almost desperately and Roman’s knees really do go weak at that. A pretty man? Using that tone to address Roman? Roman’s surprised he’s still conscious at all. “Are you allergic to eggs? What about Wheat? Milk?”

“Deep breath, kiddos!” The person with the camera suggests, and Roman knows immediately that they are 100% aware that his flushed cheeks and lack of breath are not from an allergy. They take another picture and Roman dies a little more on the inside.

“Please...don’t let... my brother see that,” Roman coughs one more time, “I’m begging.”

The artist just laughs and takes another picture.

“No allergies?” The god beside him says and Roman finds him looking absolutely anywhere but at him.

“No allergies,” Roman confirms, “None at all. It’s all good. And you know I should be--”

“What did you think of it?” The acrobat interrupts. And when Roman just blinks he snaps, “The cake, Princey! Tell Dee that the cake was fine and he can stop banging his head on the table now.”

Roman chances a glance at the man holding him up, and yeah, he could see the faint red marks were he had obviously been hitting his head on something. Unfortunately, said man was also looking at Roman, looking for his answer to the question that was just asked of him and Roman has already forgotten what it was again.

His eyes were different colors, and that totally reminded Roman of that week in the summer when he hung around the ophthalmologist just outside of town. Roman had looked at a lot of eyes, learned a lot about eyes in that time, but really there was something different about those ones. One was a brilliant bright brown, like hickory and the other was glistening gold. He looked like something straight from a fantasy.

Roman’s fantasy.

“Hey,” The stranger says softly, “Are you okay, darling?”

And that’s the last thing Roman remembers.

Because he fainted.

Because the gorgeous, beautiful, ethereal stranger called him “darling” and Roman’s weak gay heart promptly shut off.

He comes to again, just a few minutes later-- long enough that his head is throbbing and his lungs hurt a bit and mere idea of moving sounds exhausting. He’s comfortable just fine where he is.

On the floor.

With his head in the perfect strangers lap.

“There you are,” The man gives him a nervous smile that makes Roman’s mouth dry out. “Do you remember where you are?”

“Heaven?”

Roman has many regrets in his life. Like that time he thought that crawling down the manhole would be fun. Or the weekend he spent hanging out in the courthouse, which had turned out to be incredibly boring. Or that time he brought dog treats to the dog park and ended up get ambushed by like seven dogs at once and broke his arm.

But this....answering that, and immediately hearing that all too familiar cackle that can only belong to Remus? Yeah Roman rates that at the top of Roman’s Regrets.

The stranger bites his lip but he’s grinning all the same. “Apologies. When you fainted we, called the emergency contact on your phone.”

“Remus is not my emergency contact,” Roman grumbles and weakly shuffles his limbs to sit up.

Remus wheezes, from where he’s situated with an arm over the artist and the acrobat respectively. “Like-- Hell! I changed that months ago!” Remus grins, “I wasn’t gonna miss a chance to laugh at you while you get carted away in an ambulance! You only die once Ro! I wanna be there for it!”

“I should have consumed you in the womb.”

“Butcha didn’t!”

“The intention was there.” Roman sways, and he really doesn’t like the way the floor shifts like waves of an ocean.

“Pussy,” Remus tosses out, just for the sake of having the last word. He pulls his arms back from around the other two and fusses with the little artist’s hair. “Alright, brats! That’s my cue to drag my dumbass gay twin away before he faints again. But this was fun! Lets do it again! This time Dee can even let Roman actually fall and crack his head on the floor instead of catching him!”

Roman’s ears burn, and he peeks at Dee with a morbid mortification, “You caught me?”

“Well I was already, holding you up so it wasn’t as much as caught you as you...ah,” there’s a twitch of his lips, “as you fell for me.”

The noise Roman makes is not in any way, shape, or form flattering.

Remus cackles again.

There’s a click and a giggle, “Sorry kiddo! That was just too good to pass up!” The artist bounces slightly. “You both should definitely come back though! We’d love to have the company!”

“No, we wouldn’t,” the acrobat interjects, and lets out a heavy breath when he’s elbowed by his friend.

“Yes, we would!” The artist says. “And next time you can even have some of Dee’s pastries!”

“That’s not necessary,” The stranger says quickly, “They aren’t that good--”

“Will you stop lying!” the acrobat says, “You literally got into this prestigious ass school for your pastries, dumbass. They’re good. Accept it already! Geez!”

The stranger rubs his neck and then his cheek, before turning back to Roman. “Perhaps you can be the judge of that then? Darling?”

Yeah, Roman’s knees are weak again, but he’s stubborn enough that he keeps standing. “I think I’d like that. Although, I can’t say I’m any kind of pastry expert.”

“We all have our faults, I presume.”

Roman’s heart beats a little faster. “And admittedly I will be a little bit bias.”

“A little bit?”

“Only a smidge,” Roman reports, “I’ve heard that good company can affect the taste of food.”

“You intend to be in good company?”

“If it’s yours I’m sure it will be.”

“Who knew there was a smooth talker under that blush of yours?”

“If you think this was smooth you should see--

Remus claps his hands loudly enough to make the acrobat flinch and Logan in the corner curse in Korean. “Okay yes we get it: You both are gayyyyyy!” Remus exclaims, drawing it out just enough that Roman feels a bit of the Cain Instinct(tm) in him rise up. “But if neither of you are going to start undressing to give the rest of us a show, then we need to go!”

“Remus!”

“I’m just saying!” Remus shrugs and then hooks an arm around Roman’s neck and pulls him towards the door, “Its not fair to the rest of us, if you keep being a tease!”

“I hope you step on a lego and fall into a pit of sharks.”

Remus messes with his hair, which seems to be his thing right now.

The others in the room call out their goodbyes, and Remus drags Roman away before he can get more than a sloppy wave. Its still embarrassing.

Actually everything that happened was embarrassing, from top to bottom, and there was absolutely no moment were it wasn’t completely mortifying. Not only did he choke on a piece of cake he didn’t even get to taste, but he gay panicked, and then gay fainted, and every second of it was recorded via camera snapshots. And late at night, when Roman is turning it over in his head and screaming into a pillow, he barely notices his phone flashing.

He’s already miserable, because they probably just invited him back to be nice, and he didn’t even know their names. And Remus was still laughing at him for everything, and everything just really sucked. He opens up his phone to check the message, ignoring the way the his screen burns his eyes.

There’s a text message.

An actual text message.

Stole your number hope you dont mind

Roman can’t breath. The phone in his hand vibrates again.

Oh and your heart. I stole that too. this is a ransom demand.

$40,000 in cash. Or a date to the coffee shop in town.

pls?

this is Dee Ekans btw

The baker?

oh fuck pls tell me this is the right number

roman?

And Roman rolls over and presses his face into a pillow and screams.

But really the point of all this is that Roman got the number of the cute guy. And maybe a date.

#roceit #roman sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #remus sanders #Boarding School Au?#I guess it is #Look I just started writing and went with it #gay panic #gay fainting #there is nothing more gay than Roman

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thecrowmaiden · 4 years

Text

“Our Humanity”

There's gossip that Jon and Daisy are "more than" friends, and Jon isn't taking it well. Daisy eventually finds out why, and takes it upon herself to stop the gossip before she and Jon lose their friendship.

// Featuring: the headcanon that Daisy is a lesbian, Jon's self-loathing skewing his opinion of his asexuality, and me projecting onto the Archivist (as usual). Lots of self indulgent Daisy and Jon being friends through their trauma.

Ao3 link will be in the reblog. 4K words.

“Can you believe they’re friends?”

“Yeah, friends with benefits.”

The hushed pair of comments is spoken into battered Magnus Institute mugs, by a man and woman Daisy doesn’t know. Employees from some other department obviously, although based on their lack of self-preservation Daisy would rule out Artefact Storage. If there’s a smile in their whispers, hidden behind that cheap tea, it’s not a nice one. Still, it’s nowhere near the worst thing Daisy has heard, and if she was on her own she might have spared a quick grimace for the thought of being in that kind of relationship with their resident Archivist. On her own, she wouldn’t have felt rage.

But she’s with Jon, and it’s Jon’s reaction to the cruel, offhand remark that makes Daisy want to turn chipped ceramic into chipped teeth.

They had been walking towards the exit when they passed the gossips in the lunchroom, Daisy dragging Jon toward a night of drinks as he pretended to protest in a way that once would have pissed her off; as if he was too busy to go out for normal things—as if he didn’t want to be near normal people. Which...wasn’t actually wrong. But after the Buried, she knew better.

His arm was slung around Daisy’s waist, as much as he could reach with their difference in height and size. It helped keep him balanced mentally and physically, and Daisy didn’t mind. There was something comforting about the light weight of his arm against the small of her back, and his hand near her hip. She had even joked once, the first time he’d worked up the courage to do it, that he was so scrawny it felt like a rope. He had gone to pull away when she spoke, always so damn unsure, and she had wrestled her voice into finishing the sentiment before he could. It had even sounded casual when she did.

“You heard me: a rope. Like the ones they tie around people to pull them to safety.

“Like a…a lifeline?”

“Yeah.”

Daisy had tightened her grip around his shoulders and Jon had relaxed, and that was that.

From then on that was just how they walked together—Daisy’s arm around Jon’s shoulders and Jon’s arm around her waist—keeping them both connected to something besides the hunger that clawed at them. Although they told everyone else it was so it felt less like she was ‘frog-marching him to his death’ when they went to the lunchroom or the pub or wherever else they decided to go. When she had shrugged and pointed out he knew better than anyone how that actually felt, he’d actually laughed. No one else had.

All this was to say that Jon’s physical engagement in Daisy’s dragging him from his office had been hard won, so when the snide exchange makes Jon drop his arm violently…Daisy sucks in a sharp breath that barely stops the growl she wants to voice instead.

The colour is gone from his face, leaving his cheeks ashy under his stubble and his shoulders are hunched. There’s a pinched look to his mouth like he’s sick, or about to be. Daisy can almost hear him refuting what the strangers have said as he twists the hem of his jumper in his hands. That he would never, ever. That it’s not like that. Daisy has enough sense to know it’s not personal to her (not that she would care), even if she didn’t remember Basira telling her about something similar happening between Basira and Jon once already.

In fact, Daisy would bet money his reaction would be similar even if the friend in question was Martin. Not that she’s going to dig any deeper into that mess of pining; that’s up to them to work out. Regardless, she doesn’t think Jon’s reaction has anything to do with if he’s interested. Because it’s not disgust that has him trying to strangle his own clothes; it’s something else. Something that, knowing him, is complicated.

Daisy chooses not to address it this time though, and practically lifts Jon’s feet off the ground as she propels him out the door into the wet London night.

It’s a decent walk to the pub they frequent. Far enough from the Institute that the eye they feel on the back of their necks eases off, but not so far that either of them tires before they get there. The drizzle around them makes the streetlights hazy, softens the sleepless bruises under Jon’s eyes and makes the air seem cleaner. Or that might just be the result of getting away from the Archives. Daisy lets her arm fall from Jon’s stiff shoulders as they make their way down the sidewalk, not bothering to step behind him so they take up less room; no one bumps into them anyway. Jon is too scarred, gaze too sharp, and Daisy knows her very posture still screams cop. It’s the same combination of things that gets them left alone at whatever table or booth they find in the pub.

Five minutes into the walk the wind picks up, chilling their faces and causing their breath to show against the night. The drizzle gets heavier. The dark creeps closer. Neither of them have the energy to run for shelter like the other people out are starting to do—not unless something is chasing them, anyway. So they keep trudging along and ignore the weather apart from wiping the rain from their eyes.

Jon nearly collapses onto a bench with cracked vinyl seating when they finally get indoors, facing the entrance like he always does. He’s actually shivering, and he seems brittle—more so than usual. Daisy doesn’t say anything as she drops her coat over him and goes to pick up what’s typically his first round. Her coat is from before, and while it hangs a little loose on her now it absolutely swamps Jon. A smile almost makes it to her face as she waits at the bar when she looks back to see him half-hidden under the wool.

She’s not immune to the irony that someone who looks like a poorly-rested scarecrow pulled her out of the Buried, but she remembers the strength in his hand when he led her out. It makes it easier to look after him—without the resentment that he needs taking care of at all—when she remembers that Jon isn’t quite as weak as he seems in the dim pub lighting. She still doesn’t like how hollow he looks though, and practically shoves his drink into his hands.

They stay for a while, and Jon doesn’t even attempt to keep up with Daisy. Not that he has since the first time, but she’s used to him at least knocking a few back as they talk about whatever has nothing do with what they charitably call their jobs. Instead, he nurses his first drink in silence as they sit there under a crackling yellow bulb, shying away from her touch that he usually leans into with a sort of desperation. Most nights saw him ducking under the protective curve of her arm at a drunkard’s shout the way she ducks into his office, but tonight Jon flinches away from her.

It makes him seem hunted.

Daisy doesn’t like it.

His standoffish behaviour lasts a week—a week of avoidance and stammers and Jon practically oozing into the floor to avoid her. When Monday rolls around and the world inside and outside the Archives remains uneventful though, the pressure seems to lift and Daisy almost jumps when Jon drops down in front of her with a brush in one hand and a statement in the other. She puts his hair up for him as he reads, tying off his bun with one of the several elastics on his wrist, and when the tape recorder clicks off he gives her a smile that looks relieved.

Just like that, they’re back to whatever they call normal. Scarred hands holding scarred hands so they don’t get separated while taking the Tube, his shoulder digging into her ribcage when she leans over him at his desk to ask what he’s reading this time. Occasional and venomless arguments over their jobs, Jon struggling to help Daisy with her physical therapy without ending up in need of it himself. A handful of silent faces made at each other over an episode of The Archers. They’re not soft together, but whatever they’re doing works.

(Basira had once said they looked like siblings taking the piss out of each other. Daisy thinks that’s about as good an explanation as any.)

The next week is a quiet one in a bad way. Recordings are broken by nothing but a stillness that chokes down the dungeon-like hallways and makes any conversation seem loud. Jon has one of his worrying episodes over Martin and gets even more brittle, the exhaustion in his face sliding towards despair. More often than not Daisy walks into his office to find him slumped over his desk, shoulder blades dimpling a rumpled shirt that might have been nice before he wore it four days running. He doesn’t seem to register her entry until she speaks to him, and even then it’s like he doesn’t quite see her past the big picture trying to squash him flat.

When she finds him unable to actually speak on Saturday, his mouth cracked and dry and his eyes bloodshot, Daisy hauls him to his feet with one hand around his bicep and steers him toward the lunchroom. She’s no homebody but she can make a cup of tea, and that’ll have to do until she can drag Jon down to the pub. She needs to get him out of the Institute. There’s a fizzle of something in her chest as she leads him down the hall, knowing that even as weak as she is without the Hunt she’s still stronger than him. At least it means she can bully him into taking a break.

And a tea break seems like a good plan—

—right up until another whisper lances around the corner.

“I can’t believe they’re still going at it.” The voice is followed by the repetitive clink of a spoon against a mug. “You’d think she would have broken him their first time.”

“Maybe that’s why he looks like he hasn’t slept,” another voice titters, “must be tiring trying to keep up.”

“His desk must be tired too.”

Daisy feels like once upon a time, Jon may have stammered his innocence against such comments. But Jon doesn’t speak to people outside the Archives much anymore, generally tries to pretend he doesn’t exist even there. So he just goes still, his feet rooting him in place as his chest starts to rise and fall with the air he does need to breathe, wild eyes staring towards the lunchroom as if it suddenly has too many doors.

Her hand tightens on his arm in her usual display of reassurance, but Jon jerks away with a violence he hadn’t even displayed when she put a knife to his throat. Daisy is so shocked that she lets him break away and turn on his heel, watching him stagger back to his office with the disquiet in her chest stirring again. It takes a moment to stamp down the urge to confront whoever has derailed her plans, and she follows after Jon with the intent of ignoring his reaction until she can get him somewhere far away from prying eyes and flapping mouths. Whatever is going on, Peter Lukas doesn’t need to know.

But that intent goes straight out the window when Daisy finds his office locked.

Fear spikes through her veins when the doorknob doesn’t move under her hand and for one horrible moment the rushing in her ears sounds like rain. Pressure builds in the air and starts to creep over her skin oh so slowly, like a gentle embrace drawing her in. She closes her eyes, ignores it, ignores the smell of dirt, and squeezes. Gun calluses tighten over the worn brass to the point where it ought to hurt, and with a grunt Daisy twists hard. The cheap internal lock snaps in her grip and she opens the door just enough to slide through, her fingers still strangling the knob until she makes the concentrated effort to let go.

Inside, Jon is sitting with his mouth hanging open in a vague sort of shock as he stares. He’s still hunched over his desk, head in his hands, but he’s looking up at her with an expression that has surprise and guilt mixed in equal parts with something else she can’t place. Daisy ignores him to take a couple deep breaths, before she shuts the door behind her and jams a chair under the knob. It’s not the barricade she would like, but it’ll slow down anyone human trying to get in. Not that she thinks any of them would risk it.

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up briefly at her impromptu lock, before they settle back into the lines that seem permanently carved into his forehead. It’s not a really a frown, just the farthest thing from relaxed. It’s like Jon doesn’t remember how to experience an emotion that doesn’t hurt him anymore—and Daisy has to bite down the urge to be mad at him for it. Her anger isn’t for him, even if he did try to shut her out.

“Daisy, I-I’m sorry.”

She blinks at his strained voice, and her anger ebbs lower. Whatever she had meant to say gets misplaced for the moment, so she wordlessly grabs the chair not holding the door closed instead. Jon winces as she drags it across the floor to his desk with a drawn-out scrape, and she drops heavily down into it so she can fold her arms on the back and look Jon in the eye. They stare at each other for a minute, Jon ashamed and Daisy contemplative. He looks away first.

“Why?” She asks finally, voice even.

“For locking you out. I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t have done that. I know how you feel about being alone—”

Daisy holds up one hand to cut him off, and it’s a testament to how far they’ve come when he simply stops and doesn’t snap his jaw shut with fear. He just watches her, waiting. She appreciates the apology, she does, but there’s only so much talking she can usually get out of Jon before he gets overwhelmed or sidetracked. Or they get interrupted by something nasty. So Daisy barrels ahead, because as far as she’s concerned there are more important things to discuss.

“Why are you so upset that people think we’re screwing around?”

A noise better suited to something being submerged in a bathtub escapes Jon and his glasses slide farther down his nose. It honestly sounds like a cross between an empty kettle and a squeaky toy. He makes a couple more random sounds that aren’t even close to words, gesturing at her with a jerky wave that might be a question mark.

“That’s not an answer. So let’s try again: why are you so upset that people think we’re screwing around?”

“B-because I’m, I don’t, I m-mean we’re not.” Jon finally manages to find his voice as he drags his hands through his streaky hair, his stammering ramping up. “I’m n-not interested in you like, l-like that!”

“Neither am I. Still doesn’t explain why you’re having a fit.”

“Because I’m not interested in anyone like that! And I don’t like people thinking I am!”

Jon throws his hands in the air but drops them quickly as his shout echoes. He knots his fingers together, squeezing them until his knuckles start to lose colour—like he’s trying to keep them attached to his body. His own raised voice seems to have actually shocked him. His eyes dance around the office, skittering over Daisy’s face like he’s afraid what he’ll see. A couple grey hairs are snarled around his shaking fingers, pulled loose from his outburst, his messy bun completely undone.

Regardless of all the times she’s brushed it out for him, Daisy is surprised once again by how long Jon’s hair really is. She watches his bangs mask the expression too mixed to be readable and she briefly wonders why he doesn’t leave it down to hide behind more often. It certainly makes him look less transparent.

A floorboard creaks when Daisy shifts. There’s silence unbroken by even the low crinkle of tapes as she really studies Jon. The dull green of his jumper matches half of the book covers stacked on the shelf at his back: like it’s just one more way his work is trying to consume him. All his limbs are tensed. His glasses are smudged so badly she doubts he can see through them, and she reaches out to tug them off his nose to wipe them carefully on her sleeve. His face goes rapidly mottled with a bad combination of what’s probably embarrassment mixed with apprehension, and things finally click.

“So…no one?” She asks.

“Yes.”

“Does anyone…?”

“Georgie knows, of course. I-I-I think Melanie? Maybe Basira.”

“Mm. Why does it bother you so much?”

“Why not?” The animation visibly burns out of Jon, the fear and anxiety draining away to leave a tired man crumpled at a desk for a job that might kill him and has already tried. He props his head on one hand as he meets Daisy’s eyes finally. It’s so damn hard to remember how powerful he still is under it all, when he’s like this. “I don’t want M—I don’t want people to misconstrue how I am. And it feels violating, to have people assume I do those kinds of things when I never have and never want to. But if I tell them that?”

Jon’s mouth twists, and his lips thin into the horrible knife-edge smile he saves for when he really feels like The Archivist. “It’ll just be one more thing that makes me less human to them.”

It takes every ounce of Daisy’s will not to snap right there.

With all they've gone through, with all they are, how dare the world make him feel broken because of that. How dare it. She barely swallows the need to slam her hands down on the desk and loudly express how incredibly not okay any of that is. Her nails, less ragged now that she and Jon are on each other’s cases about their habit of biting them, dig into her palms to keep them still. Because as justified as she thinks her feelings are, lashing out will only harm Jon. No matter how strange it is to say after everything that happened in the beginning, Jon is her friend. She isn’t going to hurt him with fear. Not if she can help it.

Forcing a long, hard exhale through her nose, Daisy manages to resist the urge to take action. Breathe in for five, hold, and breathe out. Repeat. Rage still pounds behind her eyes, but she shoves it down to a place where it can stew into something approaching helpful action before she speaks.

“Out of everything you’ve done or can do, that doesn’t even make the list of what makes you less human. No arguments.” Daisy holds up her hand again when Jon opens his mouth to disagree, fixing him with her best I-am-still-armed-don’t-fuck-with-me look. “I mean it. Don’t even try.”

But Jon, being Jon, tries anyway.

“You can’t honestly believe people will just, just drink their tea and ignore that kind of thing. They can’t even comprehend a man and woman being friends much less...that.”

“So ignore them instead.”

“Hm. That’s easy for you to say.”

Daisy bites her tongue before she says something she doesn’t actually want to say, reminding herself that her anger is not directed at him. Because in a way, he’s right. In a way, the gossips in the lunchroom are just another potential threat to Jonathan Sims, and there’s no way he can fully ignore that. It’s kind of his thing, after all. Even if those employees don’t physically harm him, Elias or Lukas might do something to them for being a nuisance and that would just cripple Jon with additional guilt.

She sighs at the realization, deflating a bit like he had earlier, and Jon musters up a wry smile for her as they face each other from their respective slumped postures.

“Well, screw them,” Daisy says at last, “and not like that.”

The addition is for Jon’s benefit when he makes a face, and she’s rewarded by another of his attempts at a smile. When she stands and offers him her hand, he actually takes it; and the two of them wordlessly grab their coats. They don’t go anywhere particular that night. Just wherever their feet take them around London until Daisy walks him to his station, and gives him a rough squeeze of the shoulder as he heads into the carriage and off to the flat she sometimes wonders why he still has.

A cool breeze ruffles Daisy’s collar as she pointedly avoids going back to the Institute, wandering the streets as she picks at her earlier rage to see if there’s an idea hidden within it. Something to keep her and Jon’s friendship established as just that. Something to make it clear that no matter how many times they walked somewhere almost connected at the hip, their nearby body parts were very much uninvolved with each other. It's no one's business, but...

Someone laughs loudly nearby, and a group of teenagers tumble out of a small shop, giggling and laughing as they jostle each other while attaching their purchases to backpacks and coats and hats. They’re dressed in a variety of fashions and are loud with nothing but happiness, so Daisy internally writes them off as harmless and moves to avoid getting clipped by any over-excited waving arms. But in stepping aside to let them pass, Daisy gets a good look at one of the badges a boy is pinning to his friend’s shirt.

It’s a rainbow flag.

Hm.

With a quick pivot, she walks towards the shop the teens exited and pushes the door open. It’s a small bookstore, the kind that might be described as ‘quirky’ and sells everything from tarot cards to knickknacks to actual books. A small display near the back counter features more rainbows, and Daisy squeezes through the cramped aisles to get to it. Most of the items at eye-level display the typical pattern of colours that runs red-through-purple, most with an extra black and brown bar at the top.

But some are different colours and some are only four stripes, and some are three, and soon Daisy is half-crouched as she reads labels and info cards attached to the various pieces of merchandise that fill the case. After about half an hour of deciding (and one nervous comment from a staff member that they were closing soon), Daisy makes her purchase. The little paper bag that smells of some sort of incense crinkles in her hand as she walks home, her strides not as strong as they were before the coffin but stronger than they’ve been all day.

She has a plan.

So the next morning she sails into the Institute with purpose, bare arms swinging with her usual quiet confidence as she times her entrance to when the majority of the staff haven’t wandered off to their posts yet. They’re all practiced at not actually looking at the misfits that make up the Archive team, and Daisy makes her way through without much notice. When she finds Jon trying to make himself small as he edges past the others toward the stairs, she throws an arm around him with a flash of her teeth—just enough to catch him off guard. And his loud, breathy little noise of shock when it does draws more than a few looks.

Which is exactly what Daisy wants.

Because as she stands there grinning, with Jon tucked against her new tank top emblazoned with the lesbian pride flag, the entire foyer stutters to a complete and grinding halt.

Melanie is the first to break the silence, letting loose an overdramatic wolf-whistle. Basira sighs next, fondly rolling her eyes, and Martin looks…relieved. The other staff look like they’re having regrets. A lot of them.

Daisy is fucking delighted.

Outing Jon without his consent was never an option, but outing herself to shut folks up? Daisy can’t think of anything that’s less of an issue to her. It isn’t like she ever made a big secret of it, anyway.

From where he’s pressed into her side, she can feel Jon start to shake. When she glances over to see him biting his lip hard as a smile threatens to overtake his usually tired features, she pushes him towards the Archives and out of sight. She only manages to get him halfway down the stairs before he actually starts laughing, a spluttering little chuckle that echoes in the hallway and makes Daisy smile in return.

Because she really doubts the Fears are homophobic after all, so it’s not like they’re going to get any worse. And normal people just don’t scare her. In fact, they seem rather scared of her instead. She didn’t even have to pull a weapon on them either, unless you counted her arms. She shares that last thought with Jon, waiting until he almost has his amusement in check, just to watch his control slip and a new round of laughter bubble up.

There are no more whispers in the lunchroom, and Jon’s arm is back around Daisy’s waist where it belongs when they go out. A couple employees find themselves on the receiving end of pointed letters about human rights and workplace tolerance from Peter Lukas’ assistant, and Daisy takes to randomly wearing her new tank top simply because she likes it. She even goes back to the odd little shop to buy a couple spares when she finds out how comfortable they are for doing her PT.

For Jon, she buys the smallest lapel pin she can find. It’s coloured with what the clerk had said was the ‘ace pride’ flag, shaped like a book and declaring ‘I’d rather be reading’ in silver font across the front. Jon’s hand closes over it with a smile more honest than he usually musters up when she gives it to him, and his thanks is in a voice that’s soft.

He never wears it, as Daisy expected, and he never even takes it out of its packaging. Instead he puts it in an empty tea tin from the lunchroom—hiding it along with a post-it note from Martin that Daisy pointedly doesn’t mention—and tucks it into his desk drawer between a jar of suspicious ashes and a single human rib. It sits there with the grisly souvenirs of Jon’s life, and sometimes Daisy sees him open the drawer to smile at it.

A little bit of normal in the middle of everything that isn’t.

Just like him.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #ace character #My writing #self indulgent to large amounts

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silverftn · 4 years

Text

Travel Time <2>

Gallavich

　　Waken up.

　　Opened eyes, rubbed face, sat up.

　　Strange but familiar ceiling. Strange but familiar smell. Strange but familiar…everthing. All blurred in darkness.

　　The figure of time was sparked on the electronic watch. 6:30 in the morning. reached out arms to the side…got NOTHING.

　　WHERE THE FUCK IS IAN?

　　Early morning, empty bed, missing husband.

　　This kind of situation could really remind one of something really REALLY bad. Like Ian didn't take his medicine, like he fell ill again, like he went out in the middle of the night to run laps and then videoed the sunrise...

　　Mickey tried to get some of his clothes. The sleeping vest stretched tight over his chest. Did it shrink in the last wash?

　　Doesn't matter.

　　He didn't got anything. Those clothes were not where they should be, and the bed were not the right size. But he felt something like a curtain, so he yanked it open --

　　Morning lights illuminated the room.

　　FUCK.

　　Now, he could see his surroundings clearly. He's at Milkovich's house. In the bed that had once belonged to him. The walls were covered in familiar grabby posters.

　　What the hell? Did Terry kidnap him or something? That's not what a Milkovich would do. Terry would never "kidnap" his son if he got the chance getting near to unconscious Mickey. That's too sweet. Terry'll definitely prefer just took a gun and shoot his son and also his son's legal faggot husband in head.

　　Mickey cautiously stepped out of bed, tried to be as quiet as possible. He opened the bottom drawer of his bedside closet, shoved aside those magazines and, not surprisingly, found his pistol lying there.

　　He tucked the gun into his belt and found a coat. Everything was all weirdly shrunken. Luckily, he was always a fan of buying oversized coats. The coat fitted.

　　He pushed the door open and went out. Terry's snoring was just too annoying. For a while, Mickey just wanted to walk into Terry's bedroom and shoot him died. But he resisted the impulse. He wouldn't go to prison again.

　　Then another voice caught him. A girl in the other bedroom was screaming and crying in a low voice, like she had had a bad dream. Is that Sandy? Did Sandy run back to Milkovich's house, too?

　　Mickey didn't think twice. He shouldn't go into a girl's bedroom. But God, he wanted to know what was going on. Besides, he's gay anyway.

　　He opened the door of the bedroom quietly. Yet the girl was still awakened by him. Crying desperately, she throwed a pillow to him and turn on the light.

　　Mickey caught the pillow, shocked.

　　That's not Sandy. That was Mandy.

　　That was a little Mandy. A Mandy, who was, a little younger than Carl.

　　His brain shut down.

　　Mandy stopped crying. She recognized Mickey's face, then calm down, complained loudly:“Fuck you Mickey Milkovich! You can't come into my room like this! I thought it was Terry…You scared the hell out of me.”

　　Mickey nodded stiffly. What is happening now? Did he just TRAVELED through the TIME or what? What the fuck!

　　Mandy stared ar him uncertainly:“Why you looks so different? I mean, cleaner? You just took a bath or what? Are you getting… taller? What the fuck? You are Mickey, right?”

　　This figure looked just like her brother, but cleaner and kinder and taller and stronger and clamer and nicer. Some updated version Mickey. Also, MAYBE a little tiny bit older? Mandy was not sure about that part.

　　"Right…Um…What year is it now?"Mickey asked, ignored all the other questions.

　　"……2007, I guess?" Mandy answered suspiciously, "Are you doing something now?"

　　"Like what, meth? No."

　　But riddle? YES.

　　It seemed like that he had just traveled back 10s years back.

　　Mandy shook her head with disappointing, and declared:"Then get the fuck out of my bedroom, YOU PERVE."

　　Updated version Mickey was still Mickey. And any creature named Mickey should not exist in her bedroom. Not even that Disney's fucking mouse. Just NO.

　　She throw another pillow to her brother and throw herself back into the bed.

　　Mickey caught that pillow, didn't fight back. He couldn't fight back at someone that could nealy be his child. FUCK. Mandy was in the age that could almost be his child! Holly fucking shit!

　　He left the room quietly. Then the house. Finally he ended up wandering on the street with no purpose. The sun was rising up, light up the trees and houses piece by piece. Darkness was fading away, pure blue sparkling on the edge of the sky. It's astonishingly beautiful but he just wanna check how's Ian.

　　He walked though the street and made his way to the Gallagher house, wondering how should he explain all this shit. When he arrived it's almost 8'o clock. Ian was, at the moment Mickey got there, getting out of that house.

　　He was so…young.

　　Mickey stared at the red-head boy with feelings that can hardly be explained. Ian saw him, and looked at him with some kind of hesitation, but finally decided to say hello.

　　"Hi, Mickey." He said, with a VERY young voice,"You um, took a bath huh?"

　　What the hell. Mandy also said THAT to him first. Was he really that dirty in the back of days?

　　"Maybe." Mickey said subconsciously.

　　"It make you looks…different."

　　"In a good way?"

　　Ian shrug his shouder,"Can't decide. I like what you were and also what you are."

　　Then he realized immediately that Mickey didn't like expressing about emotions. This kind of confessions always bring fights. He wanna both take that back as well say something more.

　　But Mickey didn't even notice it. That level of whispers of love were pretty common in their marriage life. He already got used.

　　Ian squeezed himself into Mickey's right arm, carefully. Preparing to get punched. However Mickey was thinking something else. It's 2007 now, so he just got out of juve, and was working at the store. Didn't married to Lana, Didn't have Yev. Good old days.

　　Also, most important, Ian's bipolar had not attacked him yet.

　　But he couldn't drive that ill out of Ian even if he had just traveled through time. It hadn't happened, but WIll happen one day.

　　Mickey's heart squeezed.

　　"So, what were you doing infront of my house?"Ian asked innocently. Didn't know a thing about the future. Lucky dog.

　　Before Mickey answered that question, Ian already guessed optimistically:"You wanna bang?"

　　Mickey had never went to his house like that before. They usually using their phone for contacts. Sometimes Ian would go visit Mandy and secretly fucking Mickey in Milkovich house, or doing that at the store. But Mickey had never came to the Gallagher house for sex on his own accord.

　　"……I don't know."Mickey didn't have any exact answer,"What do you want? Bang or date? I'm fine with both of them."

　　Isn't that some kind of cheating? Some part in his heart asked uncertainly.

　　No. This is Ian. Not any other's dick. And he's married to Ian, so NO.

　　Maybe yes, but NO.

　　Ian stopped so quickly that he almost fell down. Mick grabbed him and held him till he get his balance back.

　　"De-Da-DATE??!"The poor boy stammered.

　　"Or fuck."

　　"NO!!! How-Why-What…You wanna DATE me?"Ian was still shocked.

　　"Why not?"

　　Why not not? Ian wanna figured that out. How could anyone be like completely rejecting any kind of intimate contacts (except for fuck) at the last night and pop up saying "I can date you" next morning? LITERALLY, HOW COULD THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?

　　But he did not ask A WORD. The boy just smile with hidden nervous and said:"I want a date."

　　He waited for Mickey's answer anxiously.

　　Mickey just nodded without any thinking:"Sure. Whatever. Where do you wanna go?"

　　"I-I don't know? The park? Maybe? If you like that? O-or some restaruants? Or pub?"

　　"Hey, you don't have to be nervous."Mickey laughed in puzzlement,"Not like I'm gonna run away from you or what. Calm down."

　　Ian took a deep breath and let go slowly.

　　"Ok. So, umm, let's go to the park."

　　 They went to the park where Lip and Kev sold Mariguana in it. Mickey brought some cigarettes ("Holly shit why are you so clean who the hell are you you are definitely not Mickey"said Kev, always so annoying), shared one with Ian.

　　They sit on one of those benches, cling to each other, smoking while watching those kids run around. Calm quietness fullfilled the warm air between them. Lights was quivering on their cheeks. Ian basically just stared at Mickey's side face, without any thoughts but that he has a marvellous…not boyfriend, not friend, so just Mickey. He has a marvellous Mickey.

　　"I'm from 2020."Marvellous Mickey said peacefully, with his face submerged in smoke,"And we were…or will, get married then."

　　Ian got choked up by the cigarette's smoke. He murmured:"…WHAT?"

　　WHAT?

　　"Yeah. I'm confusing too."

　　"Is that some kind of JOKES?"

　　"No. Didn't you recognized I got older and stronger?"

　　Actually NO.

　　He did not give it a thought! And after Mickey revealed the truth Ian begin to think himself as some kind of idiot. How could he not even notice any of those differences?

　　He was just blaming all the differences of Mickey on "results of bath"…Slightly older? Bath. Stronger? Bath. A little taller? Bath.

　　"How did that happen?"

　　"The time travel part or the marriage part?"

　　"I-I don't know? Both?"

　　"I don't know anything about the time travel part too."Mickey told the turth without guilty,"And I don't know how to introduce you of our marriage. So why don't you just ask whatever you want?"

　　Ian was quite. He maintained that status for about five minutes while Mickey just keep smoking his cigarette. And finally, the poor boy opened his mouth and let the question run out of his throat…

　　"Are we HAPPILY married?"

　　"Yep."

　　"Are you happy?"

　　"Yes."

　　"Am I happy?"

　　"…I don't know. Maybe?"

　　"I guess I am…HOLLY FUCK I'M MARRIED WITH YOU."Ian murmured,"So you're not afraid of kissing anymore……or we just don't do kisses?"

　　Mickey put out the cigarette. He laughed so hard that even tears a little bit. Ian looked at him with those bright green eyes, and Mickey stopped laugh suddendly.

　　He took the Ian's face in his hands and kissed the boy hard. Ian's eyes were wide opened. He couldn't close them, but just stare at Mickey's shivering eyelashes and realized that he was gonna cry for no reason.

　　It's so good. Till he realized that Mickey was DISAPPEARING. like some poor contacted TV. Ian grabbed his back with fear, so tight that even when the little Mickey suddenly replaced big Mickey, they were still cling to each other and, KISSING.

　　And the little Mickey, HIS Mickey, bitted his lip, however did NOT push him away.

　　They continued the kiss till they couldn't breath any more. Mickey kinda swayed precariously between punching Ian or forgiving him. There were tears in Ian's eyes so he finally decided to not hit his future husband.

　　"You're so emotional." Mickey muttered, slid the tiny orange bottle which was in his fist into his pocket," What's that tear for?"

　　Ian did not answer that. He hugged Mickey.

#gallavich #shameless

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divineluce · 4 years

Text

The Champs || Frank & Luce

Timing: Flashback to August

Location: Soul on the Rocks & Al’s

Tagging: @frankmulloy & @divineluce

Description: New to the job, Frank gets to know one of the regulars. Luce is as charming as ever.

Warnings: Alcoholism

There was nothing particularly distinguishing about being one of many of White Crest’s bartenders, but Frank has learned that being one who knew how to handle Soul’s more rambunctious crowds afforded him a degree of influence, and that was even without the use of his pheromones. He also learned that Soul’s patrons would sooner bend under a firm fist than a kind word--of course a kind word from him was a force within its own right, so it was just as well that he was just as competent in wielding the former. Unfortunately for Frank, he liked the use of neither, and the result was a bartender who mostly communicated through monosyllabic grunts, and lost more fights than won them. But he kept coming back for his shift the following night with no complaints and no apparent scrapes or bruises and while his pacifist method served him ill in a brawl, he always got the troublemakers out, so they kept him on. As long as they kept paying him, Frank was happy to stay on.

It was Frank’s second week into the job, but as far as anyone was concerned he was a regular fixture in the beer-soaked tapestry of Soul on the Rocks. In return Frank was also starting to recognise common faces; who was there for a drink, who was there for a fight, and who wasn’t meant to be there at all, then there was Creepy-Joe, and finally coming to the conclusion that Jake was a massive tool. His first memory of one, Luce, was not what she looked like, but of heat. Literally. And Frank, perpetually cold, was like a moth to flame, conscious of his distance and yet unable to help himself all the same-- heat, and the stink of cheap tequila. He put another shot glass down in front of her, which was an anomaly in itself considering Frank never got near enough to anyone to actually put their order down in front of them, but rather slid it to them across the bar top from a safe distance of at least 6 feet. “Your fifth shot...or is it your seventh? Who’s keeping count.” He wiped his hands down on the towel that was draped over his shoulder. “You sure that’s wise?”

Like so many other nights before her, Luce had been looking to get fucked up the night she’d walked into Soul. After all the shit she’d been through, with the Ring, with Remmy and Erin and Adam and her sister… The horrible, terrifying fucking conversation she’d had with Nadia, or rather, whoever was controlling Nadia’s body. And, as the final garbage cherry on top of it all, they’d been excommunicated. The threat of death at the hands of some of the women she trusted most, at the hands of her mother? It had shaken her up. Their mother had done… so fucking little to keep them safe. She’d abandoned them, banished them, went along with the whims of the goddamn council. And, on top of it all, there was all the normal shit. She was hauling ass all day, every day, trying to stay afloat. Bills had been coming in non stop and it was all she could do to keep her head afloat. After getting out of a particularly long session of tattooing, Luce had headed straight for Soul on the Rocks. She needed alcohol. Lots and lots of fucking alcohol.

Waving a hand at the bartender-- a new guy, she’d seen him around a few times, but never paid much attention to him-- Luce took the shot with a nod. But, his question made her pause and Luce stared at him over the rim of the small glass. Glancing at him blearily, she stared at the shot glass full of tequila. Fifth or seventh was a good question. But fuck him for asking. “Not me.” She said, tipping the liquid down her throat. It hardly burned, but alcohol never really did. Perks of being a fire witch. Swallowing, she set the empty glass back on the bar and stared at him. “Do they pay you to ask if people’s drinking habits are wise?” She replied.

He met her drunken gaze with his own measured one, undaunted and undeterred. Yet there was a softness that blunted the edge; the good intention behind a stern word, though Frank was never great at dishing out the latter either. He answered her blunt edge in the way he did with most harsh words: an untiring patience and sometimes even a smile. This time, it was a slight upward tilt to the corner of his mouth, as he relieved her of the empty shot glass. “No. They pay me to kick people out when they’ve had one too many, but I like to give them the courtesy of asking before I start lugging bodies out.” Well that sounded horrifically ominous. “Alive bodies. Obviously. Just unconscious--most of them are passed out by the time I get them into a cab.” Frank said with some good-humour, a trace of a chuckle on each word in the hopes of easing the slip of the tongue that was more menacing than he meant. “It’s a lot easier for everyone concerned if I just walk them out instead of carrying them, and it helps the driver find the right building when they’re awake enough to give the right address.”

Frank had his head tilted to one side, quietly observing the woman that sat in front of him. He recognised her to be a regular, he also noted that she seemed off today. Albeit an easy conclusion to make for anyone that used Soul as their regular haunt. Tonight she looked like she brought a history with her and it was etched across her brow, and in her eyes, in a silent language he was not versed in reading. The temptation was to ask if she was alright, but at the risk of making himself over-familiar, he said instead, “should I be getting a cab ready?”

Rubbing the back of her neck, Luce let out a long sigh. Her fucking neck hurt from spending so long hunched over at the table. The piece had turned out great, just like all her work, but christ. It’d been five long hours of nothing but tattooing. So, a drink or five was what she’d wanted. Not some random bartender getting up in her business. “Lugging bodies, huh? Did I step into the funeral home on accident? This tequila or formaldehyde you’re pouring?” She joked, her words running together just a bit as she spoke. Shrugging, she sighed. Either way, it didn’t really matter much to her. She just wanted to get the fuck out of her head, at least for a little bit. And, with Nadia definitely not an option and Remmy… even less of one, Luce had gone for the old stand by. Alcohol. “Fair. Probably works out for the uber driver too.”

At his words, Luce shook her head. “I’m good.” She said, stubbornness apparent in her voice. She wasn’t dumb enough to drive-- she wasn’t interested in wrapping her 4x4 around a tree and having to deal with more fucking bills. But, she wasn’t ready to go back to Bea’s house just yet. Bea was never there anymore and Nell… who the fuck knew where Nell was most nights. Which meant that Luce would be alone. No, she wasn’t interested in going back to that place, the house that felt more like mausoleum than a home.

“A funeral home is probably a lot cleaner for one,” Frank said, wiping a spill off the bar top as he does. In fairness, you need only step inside of the pub and he was sure that his point was made on first impression, and she seemed comfortable enough in her seat to suggest that she was a frequent patron of the establishment (that information alone had a whole story to itself). He was asked once why he bothered to clean the place up after the close if it was just going to end up being exactly as it was the following night. His answer was something along the lines of: he was more concerned with what the place might look like if he didn’t clean it up at all. “And if you can’t smell the difference between tequila and formaldehyde, let alone taste it, you are a lot more drunk than I thought.” There was a pause. “I mean...not that I would know what formaldehyde tastes like but I would imagine that it is significantly worse than tequila. Like, cancer-level bad. I would assume.” And this is where you shut up Frank. And fortunately for everyone, he does. Her reply hinted at a stubbornness that was both inherent and unyielding, and Frank’s been in enough fight to recognise those that he wasn’t going to win. Of course, that never stopped him from trying either.

“Look,” he began, the single phrase intermingling with his exhalation until they became one, “I don’t know you. Obviously. So you do whatever you want. But I’m just saying, I’ve served people enough tequila shots to know that the solution to your problem—whatever that is—isn’t going to be found at the bottom of the fifth or seventh or fifteenth shot.” He concluded by collecting any abandoned and empty glasses, loading them onto a plastic tub to be brought out to the kitchen. “But like I said, you do whatever you want.”

Snorting at the man’s joke, Luce’s expression sobered slightly at the thought of Erin. She didn’t know the funeral home attendant well, but she was very aware of the last conversation they’d had. Fuck. “I’d hope so.” She gestured to the stains on the bartop, the familiar wear on the wood grain, the slightly ripped and faded stools next to her. “Can you imagine a fucking wake in here?” She said with a slight curl of her lip. As the man continued to talk, she quirked an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Sure you haven’t.” She replied before running a hand through her hair. She fucking… didn’t want to deal with the world outside the doors of Soul. For now, she could just sit and pretend like nothing was happening. She could joke and drink and push aside all the stupid fucking feelings and responsibilities that weighed down on her.

But, this shitty fucking bartender just kept talking. Talked about how drinking wasn’t gonna help her-- like Luce didn’t already know that. It wasn’t about helping her, or finding answers. It was about forgetting. Glaring at him, she drummed her tattooed fingers on the wooden bartop, her skin burning hot with simmering anger. “Yeah, you don’t know me,” She paused, the alcohol flowing through her system making her head spin slightly. Squinting at him, she shook her head. “Who the fuck even are you? Shit, I’d rather deal with Creepy Joe instead of some Pop Psychology bro.” She said with a grimace.

Frank took in her anger with a calm appraisal as he continued to dry the newly cleaned glasses with practiced efficiency. While most would reasonably shrink from the fire, he was almost somehow more drawn to it. Like moth to flame—quite literally, it felt as if heat was just pouring out of her in waves. He could not pinpoint exactly when this happened but his 6 foot rule had been abandoned and Frank was now standing close enough that he could touch her. He just needed to take his hand away from the glass, reach out across the bar, and touch her. Boy did he want to, and he almost did, but then she shook her head. Frank found himself almost doing the same as his attention was snapped back into reality and his focus was drawn back to the intensity of her glare. He took a conscious step back and realised with overwhelming awareness how much he did not want to. “Fair enough.” He resigned with a nod. He looked around. A quiet spell had settled over the bar, and the threat of a brawl was distant enough that if he was quick he could probably get away with ducking out the side door for a couple of minutes. He grabbed the towel from the shoulder and tossed it aside, from his jacket pocket he produced a small white cigarette packet.

“Keep drinking then, see if that helps you, I’m sure Joe wouldn’t mind the company. I’m going for some air.” An invitation could be heard in there somewhere; Frank was seldom ever cordial enough to properly extend the invitation…or any invitation. “Do whatever the fuck you want. You’re right. I don’t know you.”

What the fuck was up with this guy? He was leaning across the bar and, maybe the alcohol was messing with her depth perception, but he seemed way too close. Luce pushed back in her seat, just to get a bit of space between her and the bartender. But, he seemed to realize that he was being a fucking creep and backed off himself. Good, she didn’t feel like throwing hands with someone tonight. For one, she wasn’t sure how well she’d be able to do, the alcohol clouding her vision and loosening her hold on the fire magic that dwelled within her. For another, she’d had… enough of fucking fighting lately. She just wanted to drink and sit and not think about all the shit that’d been going on in her life.

“Yeah, you don’t fucking know me.” Luce repeated. The bar wasn’t as busy as it usually was, but her anger had her blood boiling in a literal way. It was too goddamn hot in here. And fuck it, if this guy was going to be bartending at Soul, she might as well try and talk to him. Even if he was weird. The same could be said of most people in the bar, and of her too. Sliding off the barstool, Luce steadied herself on the bar for a moment has her vision swam. “But air sounds like a smart idea.” She said, more to herself than to him. Walking out of the bar, the cool night air washed over her. Thank fuck summer was over and done with. “Need a light?” She asked, leaning against the brick wall of the bar.

It seemed Frank’s entire existence was damned to fight his most basic instincts: to hand his customers their drinks, to close his distance when he was with friends (to have friends), to help steady a stranger who has had one too many drinks and was maybe not as steady on her feet as she first thought. Even as she swayed Frank did not so much as stir, even as every part of him itched to. He let her out first, following behind at a measured distance. “Look at that, a solution to your problem that isn’t alcohol.” He grinned around the stick of cigarette as he brought it to his mouth, “but what the fuck do I know.”

The air was cool, and with the door closed behind him he was acutely aware of how warm she felt, even at his distance. He made home against a wall a little ways down from her, shaking his head at her offer with a polite thanks, “I’m good,” and he had to be. Mostly because if he wasn’t, that was an invitation for her to come closer, to hand him the lighter, and then for him to hand it back, and that was altogether too many hands for comfort. Frank didn’t smoke for the taste. He didn’t care much for the nicotine either. Like the alcohol, it never lingered long enough in his system to become a proper addiction, but with every inhalation of the hot smoke that was a few more precious moments between him and the undeniable hunger to feed, whether it was happiness or heat. Prolonging the inevitable, as he liked to call it. Not that he ever told anyone why he smoked, most of them were more interested in telling him why he should stop. Frank wasn’t interested in doing either. “So what is your problem?” He said finally, turning to face his new smoking companion, “you were downing your seventh tequila shot in a span of less than an hour in one of the biggest shit-holes in town. That could not have been an inspiring journey.”

“My solution to my problems so far,” Luce let out sigh, her breath coming out in visible trails in the mild fall night, “Have been paying the bills for you. So…. you should be thanking me.” She muttered as she pressed her back against the wall a bit more firmly. Her legs felt like jelly under her, courtesy of the tequila that ran through her system, as well as the run she’d taken earlier that morning. Running. She’d always liked running, but it felt like that was all she was doing now. Wake up, run, work, drink, and then collapse into bed, to try and snag a few fitful hours of sleep if she was lucky. And if she wasn’t lucky, she’d run and run and run until she was too tired to do anything else.

At his question, Luce glanced over at the man for a long minute before shaking her head. “Oh you know. The usual.” Being kicked out of her coven for resurrecting her sister from beyond the grave, nearly dying herself. “Family drama.” The fact that one of the women she’d been sleeping with had been possessed by a ghost, hell-bent on keeping her body. The fact that the other was a zombie who just kept getting themselves in fucking trouble? “Some people I care about have a knack for getting into trouble.” How she was so goddamn tired all the time? Well, that one she didn’t have to lie about. “Insomnia. Take your pick. All of them are good reasons to drink in the biggest shithole in this town.” She corrected. The Ritz Soul was not.

“Right,” Frank’s mouth shaped into a smirk. A gesture accompanied by a faint laugh that almost, to perceptive ears at least, sounded like a scoff, “yours and everyone else’s in that damn bar.” The solution to most of Soul’s patrons, it seemed, was found either at the bottom of a glass or at the end of a fist, the former was usually a lot less messy. Neither seemed to make anyone any happier come day light. It was a temporary salve to a much deeper wound, and they come back the next night, and the ritual repeats itself again. Frank was no stranger to this particular practice and so, it seemed, was she.

Frank gave the woman a long, appraising look, as she proceeded to divulge the source of her problems. It was as vague as it was short, its details hidden by their unfamiliarity. He didn’t blame her, and a part of him wondered whether it was in his best interest to find out. Probably not. Distance, advised caution. He took a long drag of his cigarette, comforted by the warmth, and eased of his awareness of hers. She looked so tired—more than that, she felt tired. There was plenty of heat (strangely) but with his own cravings temporarily satisfied by the cigarette, there was not much happiness to be attempted by. He could feel the ache in her bones, the very weight of. He recognised it in himself. “Hmm,” his eyes returned to hers, attentive and empathetic. Oh he tried so hard to be hard, but he was always very bad at it, and worse at following his own advice. “You want a burger or something?” He said very suddenly. “You look like you could use a burger.”

“Well, means business is booming for you.” Luce said glancing back into the bar through the dirty windows, her head listing as her body tilted just a bit more than she expected. Stumbling slightly, she caught herself on the wall. Her elbow smacked into her side, and she let out an involuntary yelp, “Siktir, motherfucker…” She mumbled, rubbing her side. Fuck, her head was spinning, the wall felt like it was shifting behind her back. And unless there was some new kind of fucked up wall monster that was going to… what, absorb her into the wall? No, she’d just drank too much. Again. It seemed like more mornings than not, she’d woken up with a foul taste in her mouth and started the morning with a few aspirin. Christ.

As the man looked over at her, Luce felt her lips tighten into a thin line. There was something she didn’t like about the way he looked at her. It felt like the way that people had talked to her when she’d revealed that Bea had died. Something halfway between pity and judgement, was what she would guess. And she didn’t really fucking want either. But, at the mention of food, her stomach growled loudly. Her stomach didn’t have the same reservations, apparently. “You know what? Sure. Why the fuck not, it’d be a quick walk. Al’s isn’t far from here.” She said, before remembering. Al’s. Celeste, she’d worked there before... Remmy, they’d had that conversation where they told her what they were in a booth tucked in the corner of the diner. Fuck. Maybe not Al’s. That’s what she wanted to say, but now her lips remained stubbornly shut.

“Al’s it is.” Frank smiled. It was pleasant. Amicable. It was a smile that might have come paired with an offer of a hand to shake or an equally pleasant gesture, but since it didn’t (it never does) Frank had become practiced in making it so that a smile was just enough. Not that he got much use out of this particular skill. Most people couldn’t even get the slightest hint of an upward lift let alone a fully realised smile. Maybe it was his off day. Maybe because when he looked at how tired she looked he saw a reflection of himself. Whatever it was, it remained there as he pushed himself off the wall, extinguishing the last of his cigarette under his boot. Kindness was in short supply in a place like Soul, and this served as a good reminder that Frank was not the place he worked at. Which reminded him—“oh and by the way, when you say business is booming for me, you do realise that just because I serve the drinks there, doesn’t mean I actually run the place, right?”

The walk, as she remarked, was blissfully short, and quiet. This served Frank just fine considering he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, even if his previous insistence might suggest otherwise. She also seemed absent, as if occupied by distant memories, he didn’t need to see the downward tilt of her mouth to know that they weren’t pleasant, he could sense it. He could also sense that no talking, at least on his part, was going to make anything better, although some carbs to soak up some of the seven tequila shots she’d knocked back in the few short hours might. Thankfully Al’s didn’t host a great many customers in the early hours of the morning. “Get a booth,” he told her, which shouldn’t be any hardship considering only one or two were currently occupied, “and get whatever you want. You look like you could use it...no offense.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m familiar with the dickhead who owns Soul.” Luce replied as she made her way down the sidewalk, her feet stumbling slightly as she walked. It was fine. This was fine. The way the world was rotating around her, the way the pavement seemed to rise and fall like cresting waves? Totally fucking fine. She was good. So fucking good. Just another fucking day. “You’re a bartender. Tips. More people, more tips. I know half the guys in that bar and they tip just fine when I work on them.” She said, the words coming out in more of an innuendo than she intended. “Tattoos.” She explained, gesturing to the dark ink that covered both of her arms. “I do tattoos.”

As they entered the diner, Luce looked around at the place-- it wasn’t all that busy, which was good in its own way. “Don’t tell me what to do.” She growled before deliberately walking over to the counter and settling down there. Across the way, Luce heard a startled cough and, before she knew what was going on, a young man had tossed a twenty on the counter and was hurrying out of the door. She spun around in the plastic seat, scrutinizing the man as he hurried away. The light of the diner caught on his face as he opened the door of his car and Luce’s stomach lurched. Will. One of the members of the coven-- her mom’s coven, the coven that had… “Fuck.” She muttered, shaking her head doggedly. She wished she was back at the bar. As the waitress cast a skeptical look at her, Luce quirked a crooked smile. “I’d like a number five. Extra fries. And a large water, please.” As the bartender sat next to her, Luce cast him a long look. “I’m paying for this myself.” She didn’t need his charity.

Frank grinned, but his laughter remained stifled, the only hint of its existence was in the silent vibration of his entire frame. Tips. At Soul on the Rocks. Now that was a joke. “Right, see…Soul is known for a lot of things, but never for their generosity, especially when it comes to tipping their bartenders.” This was not entirely fair. Of course Frank could, as she did, work on them. Being what he was, he could have probably completed the task with even greater success, and with the profits to prove it. Alas, that was never Frank’s style. In his short time working there, he had already created an image of himself as the grumpy new bartender that would sooner bite your hand off than shake it. This was not an accurate assessment of his character by half, though it had more truth in it than Frank pretending to be pleasant and charming. He was bad at it, and he didn’t have the taste for it to try and be better. He turned to her arm as she gestured toward it. “It looks nice.”

Her sharp demand elicited an amused grin as she pushed past him toward the counter. He might have said something, a smart ass reply already half way formed on his tongue, were it not for another stealing his attention. A young man, his plate and drink unfinished, tossed some notes on the counter and hurried out. Strange. More interesting still was the woman’s reaction. They knew each other, more than that, there was a history there. Very strange. Alas, Frank said nothing on this, but noted it quietly as he pulled up a seat next to her (respectably distanced, of course). “She’s paying for herself, and I’ll have a black coffee. Thank you.” He said, handing over what he owed. The waitress accepted it with a very pretty smile. Frank acknowledged this with a single nod and did not notice the string of numbers scribbled on the back of the receipt, and what was most likely her name followed by the letter ‘x’. The coffee was the first to arrive, blissfully hot. He took a ginger sip, not because he was bothered by the heat, but normal humans weren’t usually as tolerant to scalding hot coffee as he was. “Odd reaction,” he murmured around the rim of the cup. His head tilted ever so slightly in the direction of the waitress who was just now collecting the bill left behind by the mysterious man. Or perhaps not so mysterious if the woman’s reaction was anything to go by, “a friend of yours?” He paused for a moment, “or maybe not so friendly?”

As the man explained his situation, Luce nodded in thanks as the waitress set a large glass of water in front of her. Forgoing the straw, she took a long drink of ice water, the temperature soberingly cold. Well, not sobering, she thought to herself as she regarded the slightly slanting walls of the diner. “You could always go for the ‘grin and bear it’ tactic.” She said, pressing her finger into her cheek and twisting it, offering a fake smile she reserved for her mother and particularly stupid clients. “You could try asking the boss-man to throw on a “Hey, if I’m gonna be an extra bouncer, pay me like one” bonus. Or don’t, whatever. It’s your wallet on the line.” At his comment about her tattoos, she nodded. “I know. I designed them.” It wasn’t a brag, not really, just statement of fact. She did her own shit and she was good at it. That was her whole MO, right? She stayed in her lane and did what she was good at.

Watching the way the girl cast a bright, beaming smile, Luce rolled her eyes. Did this guy think he was some kind of player? But, if he was, he didn’t comment on the receipt. He didn’t even really talk about it. Instead, he gestured towards the seat the Will had previously been sitting at. Scowling at the ice cubes in her glass, Luce’s knuckles flexed around the glass. “Family friend. Bit of a shit, but that’s how it goes.” She muttered, thinking back to August. He’d been a family friend, before he’d decided to come for her sisters. And now, he wasn’t much of anything at all. She could still remember the way he’d fallen to his knees, how he’d willingly submitted himself to Lydia’s commands. A shudder ran down her spine and she took another drink from her glass. “What’s your deal, huh? You like being some kinda… bartender Superman or something?” She asked, glancing over at him.

The twisted smile that warped around her mouth, strangely enough, inspired a more genuine one to shape around his own. “Yeah, the whole fake-it-till-you-make-it thing isn’t really my m-o.” Sure he could be reserved and withdrawn—cold and severe were a few more of the choice descriptors that people often had assigned to Frank. He could be a lot of bad things but one could never say that Frank was ever disingenuous. As much as he might speak ill of his work, which he does when he was ever in the rare position of wanting to speak at all, he’d rather it be him than another person who might be more liberal in using the end of their own knuckles to finish a fist fight. Even, as she rightfully pointed out, if it was his wallet on the line.

Her knuckles tightened around the glass, and her words bit into an old memory—an old wound. A small gesture, a small shift in tone, but neither went past Frank’s notice. Probably best if he kept that particular observation to himself, and he does. “Right. That’s how it goes.” Translation: sore subjection, duly noted. She sought comfort in her glass of water, and he continued to nurse the heat out of his cup of coffee, looking up only when she spoke again. An amused smile flitted across his lips, half hidden by the mug as he lifted it to his mouth, as he mentally traded his wings for a red cape, and his jacket for a blue costume with a giant S on it. He looked fucking ridiculous. “I don’t like being anything, I just want to do my job, get paid, and get the fuck home. Frankly if your standard for Superman is breaking up drunk bar fights, then it is tragically low. Besides,” he took another drink of his coffee and put it back down. It formed a wet brown ring around the receipt, he noticed for the first time black ink stains peering through the damp ring, but didn't bother investigating further, instead returned to the thought at hand, “you’re the one sitting next to me, what does that say about you?”

“You do you. Like I said, it’s your paycheck.” Luce shrugged. She didn’t give a shit, it was this guy’s loss either way. Didn’t affect her any, as long as he kept pouring her drinks. And, given how many she’d had at Soul, he didn’t seem to have a problem with that. The waitress slid her plate in front of her, a large burger with a mountain of fries on the side. “Thanks. Could I get more water, please? ‘preciate it.” Luce said before taking a large bite from her burger. As fucked up as she was, she wasn’t gonna be a fucking dick to people who were just trying to do their job. Which meant the waitress. But, Superman here? Different story. He at least had the sense to drop the fucking topic of Will. “Mhm.”

Glancing over at him, she raised an eyebrow. Swallowing her mouthful of food, Luce replied thickly, “That’s bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.” She pointed at him with a fry. “You just wanna do your job and go home? Unless you’re working double shifts between here and Soul, this,” She gestured to the two of them, “seems pretty fucking off the clock to me.” Luce said before popping the fry in her mouth. Lifting her now full glass of water to her lips, she shook her head. “It says I’m drunk on a Wednesday night and I need more carbs. Needed.” She deflected, looking at her already half-empty plate. “I guess you were right about the burger.”

Frank took a sip from his coffee, his eyebrow cocked up from behind the mug in a silent answer to her accusation. He didn’t say anything for a moment, mostly because he wasn’t sure how to, which probably meant that to a certain degree, she was right. Of course, just because he knew she was right, didn’t mean that he also knew the answer to why he did the things he did. Why he warned her against that seventh shot, why he invited her out for a smoke, why he would’ve probably paid for her burger too had she let him. Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to find answers tonight. That was what he paid his shrink to figure out and then tell him about it so he could ignore it completely. Because caring for someone else was just too fucking hard sometimes. Caring for himself infinitely so. “Mhm.” Another sip from his coffee.

“I know.” She had positively tore through her burger. Frank exhaled a short, barely formed, chuckle. “I’m really good at my job.” She was also not the first drunk he’s had to deal with. Although, speaking of jobs, he also had his actual job to return to. Someone was bound to have noticed his absence by now…or not. It was Soul they were talking about after all. He finished the last of his coffee, scrunched up the napkin with the receipt and then dropped it into the now empty mug. He took out his phone from his pocket, pushed it across the space between them and drew his hand back. “Do yourself a favour, call a cab. Spare yourself that eighth shot and call it a night. If you’re lucky you might even hate yourself a little less in the morning.”

“Sounds like it.” Luce said as her eating began to slow, picking at her fries. Grudgingly, she had to admit that this guy had a point. He’d called her out on how fucked up she was. And, though the room still shifted around her, was still fuzzy at the edges, it was better than it had been. The water and food was making all the difference. As the waitress left her receipt on the counter, Luce glanced over at the tall bartender. Soul wasn’t a nametag kind of establishment and she hadn’t bothered to ask his name when she’d rolled up to the bar and ordered shot after shot. “What’s your name, anyways? I’m Luce.” She said, sticking out her hand. At his advice, Luce let out a small snort. A cab? What, and go back to Bea’s house? The house her sister hardly even stayed in any more? With all of it’s baggage and it’s memories and quiet, cold stillness? No fucking thanks. She was gonna crash on the couch at Ink Inc and call it a night there. But, Mr. Superman Bartender Bro didn’t need to know that. “You’re not wrong about calling it a night. Jury's still out on the hating myself bit.” She mused, the last sentence coming out of her mouth without her intending to.

“Frank.” He said, but didn’t take her hand. He almost did. The smoke and the coffee had offered some relief but it did little to distract from the fact that she was still very very warm, and never once did the awareness of her heat escape his notice. His hand hung awkwardly for a split second, unable to touch her but unwilling to pull away. He let his hand fall in the end, but by then the split second was a split second too long, though he managed to cover it by pushing the phone further toward her, as if he was meant to do that all along. He drew his hand back very quickly, and wrapped it around his coffee mug, clinging to any heat that may still be lingering. Jesus H, he always fucking hungry.

Frank could sense that her thoughts were not meant to have formed into words, and even as she said them, it didn’t look as if she realised that she did. That the guard that she had maintained through harsh words and sarcasm had cracks in them, and tender thoughts were slipping through, and she didn’t notice. Perhaps she was more drunk than he thought. Alternatively, maybe she was sobering up, and sobriety was a tiring thing to have to deal with. Frank doesn’t say anything, but he noticed. And now, she wasn’t just some drunk woman he would have sent home on a cab and forgotten about until the next night she came stumbling back into Soul (the way she spoke about it, it was obvious that she was a regular), she had a name. Names were powerful things, and terribly intimate. Frank squeezed his eyes shut, ran a hand over his face. “Or…I could drop you off. If you would like.”

“Frank.” Luce repeated. The name suited him. Short, to the point, and… well, frank. For a second, he left her hanging, as though he didn’t want to touch her hand but then seemed to think better of it. He nudged his phone closer to her which was fucking… Weird. He couldn’t just hand it to her like a normal fucking person. Shaking her head, she pulled her hand back from his and pushed it into her jacket pocket, pulling out her own phone. “It’s not the 90’s, I’ve got a phone of my own. I don’t need you to call anyone.” She growled, though the words lacked their usual bite. At this point, she was just tired. Tired of this town, tired of the well-intentioned people who kept trying to help her, and tired of the fact that she couldn’t do anything to change any of that. As he offered to drop her off, Luce scowled at him as she tossed a bill onto the counter. He really was trying to play that “Knight in shining armor” card, wasn’t he? First his phone, now a ride?

Shoving her phone back into her pocket, Luce stood up from the counter. “I think the fuck not. Listen, you seem like a decent enough guy, which is why I’m just gonna say, you’re barking up the wrong tree here.” She said, shaking her head. “Trust me, this is nicer treatment than what Jake got when he made a move on me the first time.”

Luce’s reaction was not an uncommon one. The registering of rejection as they realised he would not answer their offer of a handshake with his own, the confusion that inevitably followed because what person was that much of a dick to refuse a simple handshake? Sometimes even outright offence because who the fuck does he think he is? The corner of Frank’s mouth twitched. Perhaps he should attempt an encouraging smile. Jesus H. He had done this a hundred times before yet it never became any less tedious. For his efforts it seemed, rather predictably if her prior behaviour around him was of any indication, she seemed to follow the ‘outright offense’ route as she growled her reply. He thought it wisest to not add acid to fire and opted to silently pocket his phone instead, wondering all the while why he even tried in the first place. Why he kept trying.

She stood up. Very suddenly. He’d thought he was being kind, but clearly Frank wasn’t very good at it. He was silent at first and then, with a start, the weight of what she’d said came flying back to him. “Oh! Ohhh…no. I mean—” He stifled a laugh and it came out as a choked cough. Frank pressed a hand to his face and shook his head, a smile visible between his fingers as his shoulders quivered through a silent laugh. He should be offended that she had made the comparison with him to Jake of all people, but it seemed fatigue had imbued the whole misunderstanding with a strange sort of amusement where there usually wouldn’t be any. “Yes ma'am,” he said once he had recovered some degree of solemnity, “duly noted.”

#p: tc #p: frank mulloy #chatzy #wickedswriting #alcoholism tw #//just to be safe rather than sorry given luces drinking habits are not... healthy

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wessexmaintenance · 3 years

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doof-doofblog · 4 years

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"Ian Is The Reason Dennis Is Dead!"

Monday 7th September 2020

Good evening everyone and what an exciting night it is!!! EastEnders is back on our screens tonight! It's been a good few months since the soap has been on our screens. Tonight it's finally back, even though the time has been reduced from 30 minutes to 20 minutes, it doesn't matter! Our favourite characters will be back and the story-lines will be able to continue, so many answers will be given and so many secrets revealed!

But before we delve into the excitement of tonight's episode, i'm sure the majority of you have been made aware of the news regarding the beautiful Chantelle Atkins. For those of you who might've missed it somehow, EastEnders have announced that poor Chantelle will pass away due to domestic violence at the hands of her husband, Gray.

Since Chantelle and Gray appeared on the Square, they portrayed the perfect family! Two successful people working brilliant jobs, with two beautiful children and on the outside, it looked as if they lived a very happy life! But little do the Walford residents know that behind closed doors, poor Chantelle has been the target of domestic abuse from her husband. Taking beatings and beatings and suffering in silence. None of her close friends or family are aware of what is happening in their family home when no one else is around. Gray appears to have nasty temper on him, and he takes it out on his wife. EastEnders have announced the passing of Chantelle before the soap reappears on our screens due to the fact that the next few episodes will be quite harrowing, as viewers will see Chantelle attempt to escape and leave her husband. Jessica Plummer's last appearance as Chantelle will be on the 18th September. I believe both Jessica Plummer and Toby-Alexander Smith's performance as Chantelle and Gray have been phenomenal! It's a very sensitive issue to portray, but in all seriousness ... this does happen to people every single day, and unfortunately - due to the lock-down, some people are suffering in silence, being victims of domestic abuse and being attacked at their home day after day. I, for one will be devastated to see Chantelle be killed off, but I do feel it's a very important issue and it's fantastic of EastEnders to be raising awareness of such vicious acts of cruelty. What the big questions I want to ask now are, what will happen in the aftermath? Will Gray be found out? How will the Taylor family react to the passing of Chantelle? Will Gray go to deep lengths to hide the truth from his family and neighbours? I'm sure many fans were always hoping that Chantelle would find a way to speak up and ask for help or eventually escape Gray, but sadly in Chantelle's case, it will never be that way. I applaud the cast and story writers who took part in this story-line, it's a big subject and it's needs to be spoken about openly, more and more, and if anyone who views this story-line, who is currently in Chantelle's situation, hopefully they'll get the courage to speak out and/or seek help to escape. --- Now, shall we focus on tonight's episode? I don't know about you lot but I've been really looking forward to the day EastEnders came back on air! And it certainly came back with a bang!! Ahhh it felt so good to hear that theme tune again!! Brilliant!!

Awww and what a brilliant opening, Ian looking all smug and proud, putting the Queen Vic bust back on the counter. Quick question ... where the hell did he get that from?! I'm assuming it's something that could've been replaced, but me - being naive, honestly thought that the old Queen Vic bust which sank during the anniversary episodes, was one of a kind! Clearly - obviously not! Oh gosh ... look at all those photos of Ian and Sharon being landlords of the Vic! Makes a nice realistic touch, don't you guys think? Clearly, Ian has been making himself at home at the Vic during lock-down! Oooh it does look as if Ian and Dotty still have daggers for each other, Dotty's case has come up after Ian grassed her up to the police about selling some form of drugs at the club and they both appear to be going to court together. Dotty is NOT going to keep quiet for long, she will soon tell Sharon all about the secrets Ian has been hiding form her regarding her son, Dennis. Dotty must've been finding it so hard to watch Ian and Sharon together in the Vic, the secret must be eating her up to the core!

Is it just me, or is Chantelle looking very fragile? She's very shaky, nervous ... it looks as if while she's been in lock-down, she's had nothing but abuse from Gray. It looks as if she's looking to divorce her husband and get away as soon as she can! Watching this, knowing what is going to happen in a couple of episodes time, I'm already feeling worried and scared for her. She's made things perfectly clear that she wants to the divorce to be quick and easy. Gray will still be able to see his children and they'll be living near by. This is something that does worry me, will Gray find out about her wanting a divorce and lash out? She's been told that a divorce could be incredibly expensive. Is she going to be able to afford what she needs to be able to go ahead? I know I am asking all sorts of questions, but with this being the first episode back, there are so many things that could happen with each and every story! Plus it feels like it's been so long since we've seen these characters, it feels so good to have them back again! Will Chantelle be able to open up to Kheerat before it's too late! Suki has already informed him that Gray was the one who put him up to Trading Standards, could there be some kind of conversation to come between Chantelle and Kheerat where he'll confront her about Gray's behaviour, and could she finally be able to tell him how Gray actually treats her?! You can see the fear in Chantelle's eyes as she enters her house and Gray comes to approach her from the stairs, already questioning her where she has been. When he reached into her bag I was worried he was going to pull out some form of paperwork regarding a divorce, but instead he's putting a tracker on her phone, to keep an eye on her. Chantelle clearly isn't happy about this, but sadly, there's nothing she can say. Gray is controlling and is wanting to keep an eye on her every move, he's frustrated as he has been put on furlough from his job, so he has also been stuck in the house while his children have gone back to school and Chantelle working also. How is Chantelle going to be able to escape Gray now he's put a tracker on her phone? Gosh, I just want to hold her and tell her she can escape from this! She later approaches Kheerat, telling him he's the only one she can trust and asks him for the money for her divorce, even though she can't tell him what it's for. But of course she feels guilty for asking after finding out her husband was the one who called up Trading Standards on Kheerat's company. I really do think Chantelle will tell him something, if not everything, but something before she sadly passes away. Kheerat will do everything he can to get justice for Chantelle!

Oh Ballum!!!! Gosh I almost forgot about Ballum!!! Ha! Ben's hair has surely grown ... of course so had millions of other men's hair during lock-down! I love how happy they both appear to be able to see each other. Oh, is Ben going to ask Callum to move in?! IS THAT GOING TO BE A THING?! Haha is anyone feeling really proud of Callum? Is he now an official police officer? When he stopped that thief and stated "I'm a police officer! You're nicked!" I just felt a little sense of pride! God bless his little soul! Oh and look at him in his police gear!!! He looks SO good!!!!! I can't get over how manly he's become, I know that's a bit pathetic to say ... but we've seen him become a real man, come to terms with his sexuality and now he's followed his dreams and become a Police Officer, with the support of his boyfriend. Callum is eager to get his job done so he can go to the hospital with Ben, needless to say his colleagues aren't aware that he's gay, but in all honesty ... it's none of their business really. But I do have a feeling that eventually it will come to their attention, and as soon as they realise who Callum's partner is, his job could be at risk, even before it's started! Ooooh noooo, Callum is going to figure out what Ben did, while he is sat looking through the CCTV footage that he's been given, Ben slowly appears onto the screen. This would've been when he and Phil went after Danny and his money during this job that was meant to happen. How is Callum going to approach this with Ben? Am I right in thinking that Ben lied to him and told him he had nothing to do with it, but of course, the CCTV tells otherwise.

Ahhh okay, so Linda has revealed that Sharon has renamed her son "Albie" ... Honestly, I think I preferred Kayden, but each to their own! Awww both Mick and Linda are adjusting to their life out of the Queen Vic. It looks as if Mick has some kind of interview or something the way he has dressed smartly with his waistcoat. Linda has been working in the cafe as a cleaner from the looks of it, while Mick has been home-schooling Ollie. It's going to be so weird not seeing them behind the Queen Vic bar, but I'm sure we'll get used to them being out in the community in a much different way.

Sharon seems really happy where she is, she is back in her home to be honest! She grew up in the pub, it's only right that she brings up her child where she spent her childhood. It's only when she sees the Queen Vic pub, she stops in her tracks and goes silent. Has Ian made the right decision in ordering a second Queen Vic bust? Or is it something that is going to haunt Sharon, knowing it sank where her son lost his life? It's questionable.

Oh I am so happy to see Kat back!!! Is it going to be revealed why she left? We know Jessie Wallace was suspended, but what was the reason for Kat to depart the Square? Is this going to made known? Oh and soon as she spots Ruby and Martin together, she's doing what Kat does best and sticking up for her family! Are Ruby and Martin now an item? Have they decided to become official while during lockdown together? It's been revealed that Martin has had the time of his life living with Ruby, but also she has kept secret from him that she has been having money problems due to the club being closed. When Stacey returns, she is going to be such a shock when she learns about Ruby and Martin, I already am kind of feeling sorry for her.

When Ian and Dotty are back from the court, Ian is just slightly poking at Dotty more and more, saying that she should thank him for changing his statement, or even buy him a drink. You can see it's slowly eating her upside, how much she's desperate for him to have his comeuppance. She's made it clear now that she's not going to prison, what is to stop her from telling Sharon the truth now? What other threats could he throw at her? It's only when Sharon approaches in dismay asking whether any of Dennis's things had been returned from the police that Ian goes all scares. Ahh so, the Queen Vic bust is actually the original, from what I understand, it was recovered from the accident and sent back to the Vic where it belongs! (And there's me thinking it was a brand new one!) Later when Dotty is sat on Albert's bench, Bobby approaches her saying that she must be thankful for his Dad to help her out of the situation. But she makes a slight dig at Ian, saying that her father, Nick Cotton, was more like Mother Theresa compared to him! Which, Bobby can't seem to understand, he can't understand why Dotty enjoys slagging him off, but she makes a fair point that Nick never coward behind someone else and he always accepted who he was and took everyone else how they were. It's then she claims that she just like her father and is proud for what she stands for and believes in. She makes her way into the Vic just as Ian and Sharon are clearing the air about things being returned to the Vic, this is when the climax comes, what viewers have been waiting for for months! Ian getting his comeuppance and Sharon finding out the truth about how her boy died. Dotty goes on to say that people deserve to know the truth about how their loved ones die, Ian trying to worm his way out of the conversation, maybe trying to change the conversation and say it's not right to upset Sharon ... then she comes out with it, "He's the reason Dennis died! He locked him in the cabin on the boat and that's why he drowned!"

Ian's eyes look frantic from Dotty to Sharon, Sharon face in absolute disbelief that he dearest friend could've done something so cruel to her and not said anything, kept the absolute worst secret from her. Dotty's words ringing in her ears. Is Ian going to worm his way out of it and claim Dotty doesn't know what she's talking about? Or is Sharon going to demand answers from Ian! What an absolute brilliant ending to first episode back on air! It's true tomorrow's episode is going to be just as gripping! What was your opinion on tonight's episode? I personally thought it was brilliant! So many things happening and I can't wait to see them all unravel. I am so glad to be back posting as well, I know it's been a long time and I know I've only done one post a week - if that - but I hope you'll all enjoy my blog now EastEnders is back and better than ever! I'll be back either tomorrow or Wednesday following up tomorrow's episode. Goodnight everyone and enjoy the rest of your night xXx

#eastenders #chantelleatkins #grayatkins #sharonwatts #ianbeale #dottycotton #benmitchell #callumhighway #ballum #martinfowler #rubyallen #katslater #kheerat panesar

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captaindibbzy · 4 years

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I have a few issues with this.

People consent to to go to pubs and shops. Children don't get to consent about school. You get told you're going and if you don't go your parents will get in trouble with the police.

Teachers are people who deserve to not die in a pandemic in the same way people who work in shops deserve to not die in a pandemic. But you can't just put up a box around the teacher's desk and tell the kids to stay away.

Most of school is daycare for kids while parents work. I certainly did a fuckload of nothing in school.

Children are disease factories.

My primary school had 36 people in my class. My secondary school had 1000 people in the school. I don't know how many my college had. We had 1 cafeteria. 1 main hall. Primary school had 1 bathroom for boys and 1 for girls. Secondary started with 2 and finished with 3 for girls and boya. College had 1 for boys and 1 for girls as far as I remember. Primary had a cleaner, an old man who was lovely but alone. Secondary had no such thing, they came in after school. College was the same. The chair I sat in would be sat in by maybe 6 other people in secondary and college. The desk had 6 other people at it. We never had a nurse. Infarct in primary school at the age of 10 I was the nurse (medical monitor).

1 kid gets sick in the school but they are encouraged to go anyway because "you can't have it. I'm busy today. If you still feel unwell at lunch time give me a call and I'll come get you." They get on the school bus, and cough. They get to school. It's a wet day so they can't go outside. They cough in registration, and then in class, they cough near their friends and in the bathroom. They cough in the cafeteria at lunch. Maybe they get to go home then or they feel guilty about bugging their parents so they stay. They cough all the way through the afternoon. Catch the bus, and come home. Other students touch the desk cause teachers haven't had time between classes to clean it. Other students touch the hand rail on the stairs. They touch the tables in the cafeteria. They touch the door handles. They touch the seats. They touch each other. 2 weeks later half the school has it. Families have it. Teachers have it, and their families have it.

Quite frankly the biggest problem with distance learning is people had to adjust to it instantly and we don't know how to use it yet but Jesus Christ I'd rather have stupid children than dead children any day of the god damn week.

Thank you for coming to my early morning rant. Good day.

#Captain reads the news

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cheekytorah · 5 years

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~ It’ll Be Alright | Pt 2 ~

Masterlist

Remus had never been a huge fan of pubs, mostly it was the screaming and the crowds making him bump elbows with strangers around him. He was much more of a stay-home-and-read-in-the-quiet kind of man, anyways. The tall athletic looking guys that crowded the pubs always made Remus feel very insecure, though it was 2019, the world was still at times unkind to the gay community. Remus felt he was the gayest of gays that ever gay’d, though Alice eloquently pointed out, he didn’t “look gay” tonight, whatever that meant. As if ‘looking gay’ meant walking about with a fucking rainbow flag drawn on his face. He did love her—for some reason—and he had to keep reminding himself of that.

Henry, the tall shy Sociology Major, stood near Remus playing with his glasses every so often and exchanging amused banter with him throughout the night, inching closer and closer to him. When he laughed Remus noticed his blond hair would fall into his eyes. He was an attractive bloke, but could he handle Remus and his baggage, was the real question.

It wasn’t like Remus completely hated the idea of sharing his life with another person, he thought about it sometimes, how early morning cuddles or support for his many appointments would be...nice. Though the concept of a partner was alluring, the reality was a disappointment. He was sick of the stigma that always scared people off. The last time he went on a date he just laid it out on the table from the start and the guy had pulled his hand away then hardly even looked at him the rest of the night. He had pushed his food around his plate and the second dinner was over he graciously paid the bill and dashed out of the restaurant as quickly as possible.

“Those glasses aren’t getting any cleaner,” Remus smirked and looked at Henry.

“I figured I’d try to work them down to a different prescription before I left.” Henry nervously grinned.

“Sit, relax, I don’t bite.”

Henry grinned and sat down beside Remus, their knees bumped together.

“I’m not sure if that mollifies or disappoints me,” Henry said but his face was bright red and he nervously rubbed the back of his neck. It was endearing really, how anxious the man was with his attempts to flirt.

Hope. Hope was the scariest thing next to love. As the night went on, Remus felt hope blooming in his chest. Henry was funny, handsome and intelligent. They learned quite a bit about each other as the night went on. If he let Henry walk him home, he may try to kiss him and knowing how poorly some reacted to such things—when they are told after the fact that the person they were just locking lips with was HIV positive—he decided he had to get it over with. So they walked back to his flat in silence.

They came to a stop outside of Remus’ upper and the two awkwardly stood there looking at each other and the ground, back and forth, back and forth.

“I had a nice time tonight, I’d like to do this again,” Henry said finally, apparently mustering the confidence that Remus had lost somewhere between the pub and the stairs leading to his flat. Remus nodded and blushed. It was that moment that Henry leaned forward, his mouth dangerously close to Remus’ own. He stepped back slightly.

“I need to tell you one thing, and it’s not an … easy topic...”

“You can tell me anything,” Henry tried to reassure him.

“Right...sure...well…”

Remus never heard from Henry, not that it had surprised him much. He expected as much, he always did. This was why he didn’t date, he’d get to know someone, they’d chat and he’d start to feel too comfortable. A few hours of friendly conversation and banter was never enough to determine a likely outcome, positive or negative. It was probably for the best anyways, two awkward people trying to date each other was likely a recipe for disaster. He could see them on a real date; both fumbling for responses. The act of holding hands becoming a ridiculous endeavor of ‘should I? Oh, I won’t’ and ‘oops, I’m sorry’, and both of them turning red before calling it a night. So it really wouldn’t have been a great match.

A couple of weeks passed and Remus was preparing for his exams when Alice decided it was time to attempt yet another match. While they were studying one night, she had offered to set him up with a cousin of hers, and he had promptly refused.

“Come on! You and Gideon would be really great together! I can set the whole thing up, all you’d have to do is show up, eat food, watch one of those dorky movies you love so much and then call it a night.”

Shifting awkwardly in his seat Remus wracked his brain, and searched for an excuse to get him out of yet another of Alice's sad attempts at matchmaking.

“I’m...I’m already dating someone!”

“Really? I don’t believe it!” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. “Tell me his name then!”

“It's true! It’s just all so new is all.”

“Fine..but what’s his name?”

“Uhhhh, his name is…..” Remus thought to himself. Why couldn’t he think of anything? He looked down at the Astronomy textbook in his hands, the collection of stars he was currently looking at and words just started tumbling out of his mouth. “His name is Sirius. He’s pretty, and super bright.”

“Oh yeah? And what does he do?”

Remus’s head snapped up as he looked at Alice, maybe she was buying his story.

“He works at one of those little hipster coffee shops you hate...the one on First Street,” Remus said, figuring she wouldn’t show her face to such a place just to investigate. She’d likely have to take him at his word.

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. Remus could see the disbelief on her face but figured at least this would keep her at bay for now.

#It'll Be Alright #Marauders #muggle marauders #Remus Lupin #Alice Prewett #Sirius Black #Muggle Au #alternate universe #No Magic

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itslmdee · 4 years

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Fiction: The Imprisonment of Daniel Watkins

In a dystopian future Dan is arrested, not for committing a crime, but for a computer’s prediction that he might somehow cause deaths if left at liberty. mentions of selfharm/suicidal ideation

“Weekly visitation, Watkins.” The masked guard rapped the long stick against the bars.

Dan got to his feet and waited as the guard opened the door. He exited the cell, the guard following, the stick hovering behind his back the whole way there, another two guards armed with Tasers waiting near the end of the corridor.

As Dan approached the guards moved backwards, never letting him get too close. They made their way to the cubicle where a large TV screen was waiting for him. Dan sank into the plastic chair and the image of his wife appeared on the screen.

He longed to touch her, to see her in person even, but even face to face visits were forbidden. Sarah gave him a weak smile but he knew she’d been crying again.

“How are you?” he asked.

She nodded as if to reassure him. “I’m okay.” She was wearing a blouse with long sleeves and he had to take her word for it that she hadn’t reverted to self-harm. “You?”

“Still alive,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant but unable to hide the bitterness in his tone. This was existing, not living. “I haven’t heard from Bryan.” His lawyer was usually better at keeping him updated.

“I called him this morning,” Sarah said. “He’s still waiting to hear from the judge.”

Dan’s heart sank. The judge had demanded more evidence and who knew how long that would take.

“I put some more posts on social media,” Sarah said. “Most of them got taken down but a few were allowed to stay up and even the censored ones got some attention before they were deleted. There are people out there on your side, and Tamara’s video channel has gained another thousand followers. No luck with the TV news.”

The television news delighted in their preferred narrative. Daniel Watkins was a potential murderer, not an innocent victim in their broadcasts and his indefinite incarceration a matter of public good.

“What about that journalist, from the Galaxy Eye?” Sarah asked. “Did he write back to you?”

“Yes. Heavily redacted by the time it got to me. He’s interested but he needs to convince the paper to publish my side of the story. He’s been writing short pieces on his blog but his employers aren’t ready to challenge the mainstream story yet. I’ve asked him to send you hard copies of any further letters.”

Sarah nodded. “I love you,” she said, lip trembling. She placed her hand against the screen. Dan hovered his palm near hers.

They talked a little more but soon Dan was told to end the call. It was automatically cut off mid-goodbyes. He got to his feet and began to walk back to his cell. Rubber gloved cleaners moved to scrub the screen and the desk and the chair behind him.

Dan sat on his bunk, head in his hands. He’d been on his way home from the office when two police officers had dragged him off the street and into a cell. He’d been confused, asked for a lawyer, denied one. This was a matter of public protection and the normal rules did not apply.

He’d been allowed to phone Sarah after he said she’d be reporting him missing. She’d promised to get a lawyer but, as she later told him over a video call, they’d been prevented from contacting Dan during the first phase of his interrogation.

He was held for 48 hours initially, was forced to give blood and hand over his social media passwords. He was told an emergency extension had been applied. After 72 hours he was allowed to speak briefly to his lawyer, who was forced to sit across the room from him.

“It’s the new ICM software,” Bryan Fairfax said. “It’s been running models for a while now and making predictions. Enough of those predictions came true, according to police records, that they moved from using it to confirm perpetrators to catching them. We’ve been following the legal implications closely. But last week they moved further, to attempt to use it to prevent crimes. You got flagged as a potential murderer.”

Dan stared at him, mouth agape. “What?” he said at last. This was like that old movie with the ladies who sat in a bath predicting crime.

“It’s classified data but we’re filing motions to try and get access,” Bryan said. “We have no idea what they’re basing their assumptions on. They’re claiming everything from terrorism to domestic violence to spreading disease. They say you’re at risk of killing anywhere from one to one thousand people.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Bryan nodded. “Because this is considered a matter of public protection most of your legal rights have been suspended. My firm is doing its best and I’m looking at every angle here. We’re pretty sure this is a test case to see how the public reacts before they fully roll it out, and we’re going to represent you pro bono here. Rollins senior was a great believer in personal freedoms and the firm is keen to be seen upholding civil liberties.”

It sounded like a wonderful opportunity for Rollins, Rollins, and Fairfax. It was less exciting for Dan, treated like a criminal though he’d done nothing wrong.

“I’m going to court in half an hour,” Bryan said. “I’m certain we won’t get bail though I’ll ask for it. You won’t be allowed to attend. They’re treating you as a high security risk.”

So Dan sat and waited. Bryan returned later that afternoon, standing across the room again.

“They’re keeping you for another two weeks,” he said. “I’m sorry. They’re asking for more data from the ICM. And they don’t want me seeing you again. Video calls only from here on out. I protested it was a violation of privacy but the government minister for health said it was, according to the model, too much of a risk to allow you too near any other person. The guards will be keeping their distance and you’ll only be allowed a half hour outside your cell when no other prisoners are in the yard, and to take a brief shower each morning after everyone else has used the facilities.”

Dan had been in solitary confinement ever since, meals pushed through a slot in his cell, his cell hosed down while he showered, only ever seeing masked guards delivering his food or escorting him to the showers or the yard. Two weeks had been extended to four, then six, then nine.

Sarah was frantic and Dan was terrified for her. She’d come a long way in the last few years, from anxious and suicidal to a self-confident woman who’d left her self-harming behind. He was proud of her and told her how it was her own strength and her renewed faith that had made the difference, though she gave him significant credit. She said he’d given her something to live for, someone who loved her and would never belittle or hurt her. He feared a return to her previous state of mind.

After the six week extension, with Bryan sadly certain that nine would again be extended without major new evidence, Dan was, for the first time in his life, feeling helpless enough to wonder if living was worth the pain. He truly sympathised now with Sarah’s despair.

If he killed himself however it would prove the model right; the media would spin it as him being a murderer, albeit of himself. He was getting desperate but he didn’t want ICM’s programmers and those funding the software to win.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Dan wrote on the old, tiny tablet he was allowed to use in his cell, the only entertainment he had, frowning at the cracked screen as he typed. “I am innocent yet presumed guilty. I have had my civil rights violated because of a computer programme that no-one outside of the ICM thinktank has been allowed to analyse. I am kept isolated from human contact for 23 hours a day, every day. I am not allowed to see my wife aside from on a computer screen. I am not allowed to talk to my lawyer except on a video call which is monitored by the prison and, I believe, the government and representatives of the ICM. My name is Daniel Watkins and I am not a murderer.”

He sent the message out via email to the newspapers, the TV stations, various bloggers and vloggers and anyone else who might listen. The email might get intercepted by the prison or redacted; he’d copied in Sarah and Bryan and vlogger Tamara Maina (who’d been outspoken in his defence, the first social media influencer to take his side) so they could confirm receipt. Even if it went out intact the message went against the media hysteria: “Mass Murderer Prevented”, “Murderer Jailed BEFORE He Could Kill”, “Innocents Saved by ICM software.”

His professional social media accounts had been frozen after the waves of hatred began, accusing him of murder and wishing him dead.

Dan had voted in every election since coming of age. He knew politicians lied and exaggerated and he knew there were some corrupt cops but he’d always had an overall trust in and respect for his government and the law, and had largely believed people were decent and kind at heart. No longer, not after this.

He lay on his bunk and stared at the stone walls, remembering a time he’d been allowed to lie next to Sarah and hold her hand, to kiss her cheek, and to suggest they shower together before a lazy breakfast and a walk by the river before getting Sunday lunch at their favourite pub. He would probably never get to do any of those things ever again.

ICM was the villain here, not Dan. No, ICM was a machine, and those who had programmed it were at fault. But they’d never face justice even if, somehow, Dan could be freed. ICM’s predecessor, the ICA, had wrongly predicted an outbreak of a disease spread by horses. Millions of beautiful animals had been slaughtered, whole stables razed to the ground by public health officials and a panicked public alike. When other scientists proved with their own models and a battery of tests, that the ICA had been utterly wrong, people had shrugged and said better safe than sorry and the ICA had supposedly been retired, only to reemerge as the ICM, based on the same faulty code.

Dan was collateral, like those poor horses, or a test case, as Bryan suggested, for a sinister move to punish people on mere suspicion of future misdeeds. Both. Neither. It was the same result. Dan was a prisoner and would remain so, possibly for the rest of his existence.

#fiction #my fiction #dystopia #short fiction #writing #short stories #danielwatkins #reblog of writingwednesday

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