#so I always considered her a snow goose even if she's a duck really

[thylacines-toybox]

Peeps (she/her)

Maker unknown, bought for me by my mum or nanny from a small shop in my very early childhood (1990′s)

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

queen of peace

Part 4/10 Shifty Powers x Reader

A heavy snow blankets Aldbourne Friday night, but you find Shifty on the front stoop, his tracks trailing behind him, bright-eyed, red-cheeked, but right on time. Always on time.

“You must be absolutely frozen,” you exclaim, ushering him and slamming the door behind him, choking the winter chill before it can sneak in. “Where’s your scarf? And your hat?”

Abashed, Shifty allows you to take his Army-issue tank-jacket, replying, “Well, our supply officer hasn’t gotten them in yet, and it seems wasteful to go buy one when they should be coming in any day now.” You could appreciate that: you’ve felt your coin purse lightening for the past month with the demands of holiday spending.

Still, you frown. “I don’t think the Army wants you getting frostbite, though.” Without needing to be instructed, he follows you through the sitting room, dining room, and hangs a right into the workshop. You pull down his work from last time—an old scrap of muslin littered with his shaky attempts at a whip-stitch—and the spare button tin, adding, “Stitching or buttons today?”

“Buttons, if you don’t mind. Mine keep popping off only a few days after I fix ‘em,” he replies, accepting the offered muslin before digging out his compact sewing kit from his breast-pocket. “And maybe they think frostbite will toughen us up a little? It might be a new training tactic Sobel has discovered to help us beat the Germans.”

You eye him, eye his smile, turned up at the little joke, and want to ask about Sobel, how things are going with him. Shifty never outright gripes about Sobel, not like George or Allen Vest, but you’ve gathered from his fleeting comments that his upheld optimism—his policy of goodwill—stretches to breaking with Captain Sobel. Yet, is it your place to ask? Is that something a friend asks after? Are you even friends? You settle for a safer response: “Your buttons probably need more anchoring, or you’re using the wrong thread.”

Shifty nods, and follows you to the worktable. You demonstrate different techniques of anchoring a button on his scrap of practice muslin, before setting him to his work as you return to George Luz’s trousers. You hemmed one pant-leg after breakfast, over your fourth cup of tea of the day, and you wanted to finish the other before the end of Shifty’s lesson, hoping he’d play delivery boy for you.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Shifty asks, threading his needle. He’s gotten faster at it over the past month.

“Oh,” you begin, patting around your mind for an acceptable lie. Truthfully, beyond Margaret’s Christmas Eve tea and Christmas mass, you’re doing very little. You made Mother and Margaret a few little baubles, waiting for the money from the nurses’ orders to come in before deciding if you could buy Mother the tea kettle she’s been mooning over, but beyond that, gifts would be little, too. You settle on a fraction of the truth: “Well, since moving from London and my father, he, um . . . well, we don’t really celebrate. Mother doesn’t seem to have the energy for much on Christmas.”

Shifty nods, his lips twisting in a frown. “Do you want to celebrate?”

Under his sad eyes, pity softening them, you squirm, scrambling to justify: “O-of course, it’s just that money…um, we can’t.” And God, you hated that word—money—it makes you sound wretched, someone who really does deserve kind-hearted Shifty’s pity; someone who can’t take care of herself. You try your utmost to not let anyone, not Margaret, not Shifty, not even Mother, realize how truly tight things are and you had admitted it to him. Why did you admit it? you internally demand, and grab for the first distraction you can: “You’re sewing your sleeve to the muslin.”

“What?” Shifty squawks, jerking his attention away, easing a physical weight from your shoulders and you breathe a quiet sigh. You offer Shifty the little silver scissors for thread, assuring him it’s a common enough mistake—‘I did it all the time as a little girl’—and once he’s making tentative stitches on his muslin again, an embarrassed, pursed-lip smile glowing on his face, you allow yourself to grin down at George’s pants.

You resume hemming and, hoping to avert returning to the previous topic, you ask, “What does your family do for Christmas?”

“Gee, what don’t we do?” Shifty asks enthusiastically, apparently forgetting he’s supposed to be embarrassed, his expression opening wide. He sets aside his sew in his enthusiasm. “All the Powers relatives, my Pa’s side, gather up at Granny’s house for the whole week of Christmas to New Years, and we go out and chop down a tree, decorate it and the rest of the house endlessly, roast chestnuts and the game us boys shoot during the day. Pheasant, duck, goose; Granny’s a magician at cooking them so they’re the best thing you’ve ever tasted. I usually help Ma with her cookies, and my Auntie Gertrude with her pies—pies of all sorts: apple, pumpkin, rhubarb, pear. Oh, and I can’t forget Uncle Floyd and his famous mashed potatoes.” He winks. “You’ve never tasted nothin’ until you’ve tried what that man can do with a potato.”

Shifty loses his train of thought then, his eyes growing murky as he sinks into memory and your heart twists just to look at him. He stares at some vague point in the workshop, but you’re sure he’s seeing his uncles and aunts and cousins, he’s smelling the magnificent perfumes of cooking wafting from his Granny’s kitchen. Quietly, you ask, “Is this your first Christmas away from home?”

He blinks once, twice. You watch his senses return, watch his eyes refocus on you, and your heart twists—maybe fractures a bit, adding another crack to the patchwork already fissuring it—that the excited light of recollection doesn’t rekindle. “Um, yeah,” he confirms softly.

You consider taking his hand, you consider squeezing his fingers together to assure him that, though you are a poor substitute, you’re here for him.

Yet, before you can weigh the implications of that gesture—if it’d read as anything beyond friendly—Shifty pointedly returns to his button practice, nodding to George’s trousers as he does. “What are you working on there?”

“Oh, George Luz’s trousers. He needed them hemmed, and I actually need to get them back to him.” Head bent over the trousers, sliding out straight-pins from a freshly sewn hem, you don’t see Shifty’s lips pull into a frown, his shoulders hiking, rigid and stiff. You continue: “Actually, would you mind horribly delivering them for me?”

“Of course, I’d be happy to oblige,” he replies, and you frown at the flatness of his words, the automated quality. Before you formulate a question—the right amounts of casual, innocuous, and inquisitive—your Mother trots in from the kitchen, fixing Shifty with a radiant smile.

It’s a smile that used to be a staple of the London atelier, her eyes crinkling into winking crescents—back when she had every reason to smile with unrestrained excess, to smile and not worry about economizing the energy it spent—and it has been coaxed out over the past month and a half through virtue of Shifty’s presence (or so you’ve deduced). “Hello, Darrell, darling,” she chirps, setting down her loaded tea tray.

You eye the tin of biscuits nestled on it—a tin of biscuits you don’t remember Mother having on her shopping list—and you clamp your lips to keep from asking and embarrassing her.

“Hello, ma’am,” Shifty replies, popping to his feet, submitting to Mother kissing both of his cheeks before offering his assistance with the tea. He asks every week, Mother always delightedly insisting ‘I’m quite capable, thank you, darling,’ though you know from Shifty’s smile that he’s aware of how happy it makes Mother that he’d think to ask. Shooed back to his place the worktable, Shifty begins to your Mother, “Oh, I almost forgot! I got something for you; I asked Ma to send it for you.” He fishes a little jar from his breast-pocket. The clear glass allows you to see the pale-yellow paste inside. “I know it looks unpleasant, but it has turmeric in it and my Granny swears by it. If you put this on like lotion, it should help the aches and pains in your hands.”

Mother blinks once, twice, before her smile blossoms—all white teeth, and twinkling-crescent eyes. Watching her graciously accept the gift and subjecting Shifty to another round of cheek-kisses, you allow yourself to pretend you had taken his hand, you had assured him he isn’t alone on this side of the Atlantic, and that the fond smile he currently wears is for you.

(But, you think, desperately grabbing for a ploy to buoy your dark thoughts, surely this gift is a good thing? Surely it proves Shifty is your friend? After all, what is he, if not a friend, when he brings gifts to your mother?)

. . .

Margaret finds you outside the cookware shop, nose pressed in a highly undignified, indulgent moment of ogling, squinting through the frost-kissed window at your Mother’s tea kettle (well, not really her tea kettle; the money from the nurses’ wages had come in, but it didn’t allow for any superfluous spending like a tea kettle after all). She pounces with a: “Just who I was looking for!”

Squawking and stumbling back from the window—nearly plopping into a snow bank—your arms pinwheel before latching on Margaret’s shoulder. “Margaret!” you exclaim at her satisfied grin. “Are you trying to scare me to death?”

“Of course not,” she assures, not in the least repentant. If anything, her grin has stretched wider, the she-devil. “Because then I couldn’t draft your help.”

“What possibly for?” you ask, straightening the hem of your coat and brushing off a few stray snowflakes. For good measure, you readjust your stocking-cap. “What mischief are you cooking up? I don’t want nor need you dragging me into anything.”

“Mischief? Nothing of the sort,” Margaret assures unconvincingly. “I only talked Father out of the Christmas Eve tea—”

“What?” you squawk, “But, Margaret, I have everyone’s gifts ready and the cakes—”

“But we’re to host the parish’s Christmas Eve party for the American soldiers!” She bounces on the balls of her feet, curls swaying around her face quite fetchingly. You eye them darkly, finding the fetchingness utterly hateful.

“How on earth did you manage that? What happened to the church’s community room? Did you burn it down?” You squint at her.

Rolling her eyes, she clicks her tongue. “Of course not, but there was a bit of a booking conflict. The Christmas Eve Party for the London orphans needed to be somewhere, too, and I just so happened to mention to Father that hosting a party at such a convenient location like our house, right in the middle of the village, might foster more friendliness between the Americans and the locals. It is the season of goodwill and peace to all men, after all.”

You decide against breaking it to her that there’s a war on, and goodwill and peace might be hard to come by, opting instead to point out: “Where are you going to get the things to decorate for a party? Almost all the shops are picked over.”

“Easy,” Margaret replies, stretching the word and even winking. You scowl. “I’ve cabled up to the American headquarters and they thought the party is such a good idea that they offered to donate decorations. In fact, some of the boys are delivering it tomorrow, which is where you come in.” She playfully taps your shoulder even as your stomach lurches at the mention of American boys, finally confronted with the source of your disconcertion: a party with Shifty; a Christmas party with mistletoe and Shifty, no less. Oblivious, Margaret continues: “Would you be a dear and come conduct the decorating? I’d only steal you away for the afternoon.”

Though every instinct in you hollers to refuse, to decline attending the actual party, while you’re at it, Margaret wears her most charming of smiles and you know you only have one option. “Well . . . I guess.”

. . .

You’re barely through the door when Margaret springs, trumpeting: “You’re here! Finally! You must help me face down the hoards; they’re going every which way, and I simply cannot make sure everything is being done correctly!” You raise your eyebrows at Margaret, her usually pristinely fluffed hair disheveled into a great gnarl, before peering around her shoulder. Her family’s sitting room is awash in brown-uniformed boys—American soldiers putting baubles on a real tree, American soldiers cutting out paper chains of angels, American soldiers arranging garland on the fireplace, up the staircase railing, around the archways into the dining room and kitchen. You return your attention to Margaret, blinking. She reads the expression, sighing. “Yes, I know; it’s a monstrosity. Help me, would you?”

Grinning, you ask, “Where do you want me?”

Shoulders sagging in relief—you wonder if any of the boys asked Margaret for instructions before blindly embarking on a decorating rampage—Margaret briefly rests her forehead on your shoulder. “Bless you.” Drawing in a noisy breath through her nose, she straightens, calling. “Skip? Would you help y/n with the ladder and go see about putting up the mistletoe and garland on the front door outside? Then ribbons and wreaths on the lamppost and fence?”

A brown haired young American—his face a study in angles, giving the impression of puckishness—materializes from the activity, answering the name of ‘Skip.’ He nods at the instructions, eyes igniting at the word ‘mistletoe,’ while your eyebrows steadily climb. “Wow,” you breathe, “The Americans really fixed us up, huh?”

Margaret shrugs, smile bemused. A crash, a glass shattering, and a round of colorful curses sends her scurrying away, leaving you to stick out a hand to Skip. “Good to meet you. Looks like we’re project partners for the afternoon.”

Shaking your hand, he returns, “Nice to meet you, too, and even nicer of you to sign up for the pandemonium.” He juts a chin to the source of the crash: a short, Italian-looking soldier standing over a shattered punch bowl with a guilt reminiscent of a puppy piddling on the good China rug, Margaret turning a steadily more concerning shade of red nearby. Adopting a conspiring grin, Skip asks, “Should we evacuate while we still can?”

“Probably for the best,” you agree. Once you and Skip identify the boxes with decorations for outside, haul them to the garden, and fetch the ladder from the shed, you make the executive decision to begin with the lamppost and fence. “Seems like the easier of the two tasks,” you reason, Skip eyeing the eave above the front door with the same trepidation you feel on your own face. You don’t want to begin thinking about the amount of wire, rigging, and finagling it’ll take to fix the mistletoe up and still allow for the door to open.

Skip proves to be a remarkably competent and amusing project partner, beginning with observations about how nippy England is, but that it’s really nothing compared to upstate New York (“sorry to belittle the ferocity of your winters, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate how quickly I lose feeling in my nose and toes, but the snow is up to here at home right now!” He gestures to ear-height and you giggle, unsure if he’s serious but amused by his wide-eyed gravity nonetheless).  Perhaps to punctuate this point—though it only succeeds in cementing your opinion all boys are idiotic, regardless of nationality—he regales you with a tale of swimming the Niagara (“the river, not the falls,” he assures. “I’m not as dumb as I look, you know”).

(You politely don’t respond to that).

It’s getting on to four when you declare the fences and lamppost satisfactorily festive, the weak winter sun begins dipping toward the horizon. The hour, it seems, calls a little gang of Americans soldiers from Margaret’s house. They look delightfully warmed, you observe jealously, from spending the day inside. You stamp your feet and scrub your hands on your forearms, as Skip calls: “Hey guys! Headed back already?”

“Yeah, don’t want to give Sobel a ready-made reason to give us shit,” replies one of the boys, who Skip introduces as Alex Penkala, before touching his hat to you. “If you’ll excuse the, uh, expression, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, Maggie tells me y/n is friends with Luz,” Skip says, slinging a chummy arm over your shoulder. You don���t mind it. “She’s heard worse language and idiotness—err, idiocry?”

“Idiocrity?” offers the red-headed American; you’ll learn later his name is Donald Malakery, and have to hurriedly pinch your nose to keep from snorting in a very unladylike way. “Idiocrasy?”

Sucking his teeth, Skip shakes his head. “Hmm, still doesn’t seem right. Do you think it’s even a word?”

“Where’s Web when we need him, huh?” Penkala asks. “The only time he’d come in handy.” The other two boys snort, voicing their agreement with smiles splitting their faces. It takes a few minutes of shooting the shit about this Web fellow before one of them—Malarkey—seems to remember they meant to collect Skip and be on their way.

Apologizing for leaving you with a half-done job, Skip grips your shoulders solemnly, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Listen, Maggie says we’re playing charades at the party, and you’ve gotta promise me you’re going to be on a team with us.” He gestures to Penkala, Malarkey, and himself.

“We need someone with a brain on our team,” Penkala offers. Malarkey aims an elbow jab at his ribcage. “Ow,” he mutters, though his smile belies any regret for the comment.

Laughing, and offering a gratuitous agreement—Skip asked out of polite inclusivity, and you know he’ll forget by the party—you wave them off with a smile, wishing them a good evening. Watching their shadows recede into the growing twilight, you dance from foot-to-foot, trying to encourage warmth back into your limbs while also dawdling mightily on the inevitable: putting up the mistletoe.

You eye the front door’s eave apprehensively.

In a purely theoretical sense, you are the woman to tackle and triumph over this damnable mistletoe conundrum. You’ve rigged shift dresses to lie flatteringly over chesty woman, you’ve created hourglass figures from the flattest of silhouettes, you’ve broadened a boy’s shoulders into a man’s; you can say, without arrogance, that you’ve worked a fair share of miracles. But, in a purely realistic sense, you feel conquered by the mistletoe before even beginning.

Puffing out a sigh, sending a wisp of your hair fluttering, you march smartly to the ladder Skip slogged out of the shed. Deciding a sensible starting point would be to at least inspect your canvas, you haul yourself up one step, two, three, and—“Don’t you dare go any higher without someone holding your ladder!”

Your heart restarts, you catch your breath, startled from your lungs, and check over your shoulder to see Shifty hurrying along the lane, worry darkening his face. He’s still not wearing a hat or scarf, you notice. The other boys, you remember, sported homemade or store-purchased winter wear (unless the American Army suddenly indulged in pompom stocking caps, like Malarkey’s, or yellow and black scarves reminiscent of a bee, like Penkala’s). Maybe he’d like them for Christmas? You catch yourself thinking. You physically shake your head to dispel the thought.

“Don’t shake your head, all obstinate; no, ma’am,” Shifty laughs, halting at the base of your ladder, gripping it with his steady hands, grounding you. “Ladders can be awfully dangerous.”

“Really, Shifty—” you protest, but it feels weak and more obligatory than pointed. A little candle of warmth has kindled in your chest at the concern lacing his voice. You know you’re foolish, selfish and silly, but you can’t help preening under his attention. “Well, alright, I suppose if you’re holding the ladder, would you mind passing up the mistletoe?”

“Mistletoe?” Shifty repeats, tone edging on awkward.

“Yes, it has pointed leaves and oh—” you begin to explain, interrupted by its presentation at your side. Casting a smile to Shifty, accepting the mistletoe and climbing the last few rungs of the ladder, you briefly glimpse his face, pinker than a moment before. Digging steadying fingers into the top step of the ladder—more to keep you from whipping around and minutely studying Shifty’s expression, deducing what it could possibly mean—you inspect the eave. Multiple nails from decorations’ past litter it as well as a lip in the molding that attaches the eave’s roof to the house; its idle for anchoring mistletoe. “Do you have the same tradition about mistletoe in the States?” you call down.

Momentarily, you wonder in horror at your own daring.

“Um, what—what tradition is that?”

“Oh, well,” you begin, pausing to gather your courage. “If two couples are caught underneath, its tradition to kiss.” You lean against the ladder, patting a wary hand along the eave to check for more nails.

Perhaps it’s the unaddressed kiss, perhaps it’s the lingering longing to clasp his hands—his perfect hands, callouses and all— in yours, perhaps it’s his lack of hat and scarf and the uncertainty if you ought to make them for him, perhaps it’s the persistent speculation of if he’s giving you a gift and what he means by it—going around giving a girl a Christmas gift—but the words are from your mouth before you’re sure of why: “You know, a lot of local girls are going to be at the party—Margaret said she’s inviting almost everyone. Are you thinking of catching anyone under here?”

You’re too much of a coward to look back at him, too much of a coward to break the following choked silence, and, as you walk home well into the evening gloom, Margaret having insisted you fill your belly with hot chocolate and fresh ginger snap cookies, you decide it’s for the best. It’s better to paint yourself as chummy—chummy like Skip, arm-thrown-shoulder and everything—as a friend, who Shifty can confide any secret pining to than delude yourself. Than trick and hurt yourself with thinking his concern or his blushes mean anything beyond Shifty being, well, Shifty.

  Too kind for his own good.

tag list: @maiden-of-gondor, @medievalfangirl, @gottapenny, @wexhappyxfew @mayhem24-7forever

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Everything Money Can Buy (2/12)

Summary: The Greatest Store in the World AU. When misfortune strikes and leaves Emma Swan and her son homeless just before Christmas, the ever-resourceful Emma has a ready solution. They’ll move into Mills Department Store, a place they can only dream of affording to buy from. It’s not easy, having to deal with a perpetually grumpy doorman, a nasty assistant manager, and an extremely suspect Santa, but Emma and Henry soon learn that the kindness of strangers is something money can’t buy.

Swan Believer centric, with eventual Swan Queen and background Rumbelle and Dwarf Star.

Rated: G

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[One] [AO3]

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Two

When Emma woke up the next morning, she almost couldn’t remember where she was. It had been a long time since she’d slept in a bed this luxurious – if she ever had. She reached under her pillow to silence the alarm on her phone. As tempting as it was to go for five more minutes, especially under a genuine goose feather duvet and soft wool blankets, the entire reason that they were in such sumptuous surroundings in the first place meant that they were going to have to make a move sharpish, before it became obvious that they had been in there all night.

She sat up and leaned down to the other end of the bed to wake Henry, who groaned and pulled the covers up over this head.

“What time is it?” he mumbled.

“It’s nearly six. Come on, Henry, we have to move.”

“But it’s a Saturday!”

“I know, but the cleaners will be coming in soon and we need to be ready to sneak out with them before the shop opens. Believe me, I’ve cleaned enough shops before opening hours in my time to know how this works.”

Truth be told, Henry had cleaned enough shops to know how it worked too. Well, usually he’d been sitting in a corner on a step stool out of the way whilst she’d done the cleaning, but he’d certainly been around. It was hard enough holding down a job when she had no qualifications and no fixed abode; trying to hold one down with a small child was almost impossible, and Henry had ended up coming to work with her more often than not.

They got up and set the bed back to as pristine a showroom condition as they could manage, and soon enough, the sound of hoovers and the chatter of cleaning staff could be heard on the floors below them. Emma rushed back to the cleaning cupboard that they’d hidden in the previous evening; it had been during that fraught period at closing time that she’d come up with the plan to disguise their exit this morning. She grabbed a roll of bin bags and a pair of rubber gloves, and with Henry’s help, she tossed all of their baggage into a black sack and started dragging it towards the stairs. It was slow going, but at least they weren’t quite as conspicuous as they could have been.

They were almost in the clear when the cleaning team got up to beds and bed linen, and their progress was hindered even further by the appearance of the assistant manager. Emma cursed and shoved the bin bag full of their belongings in a corner, instructing Henry to guard it and not look anyone in the eye. She was going to have to keep up the cleaning façade for a little longer in order to make it look legit. Thank God she had enough experience to know what she was doing.

In all the time that Emma had been perusing the shelves of Mills without any intention of buying anything, the assistant manager, a Miss Zelena West, had been the bane of Emma’s window-shopping happiness. Like Gold the doorman, she was an institution at the department store, but unlike Gold, there was absolutely nothing likeable about her. Gold was scary, but he did at least smile on occasion and his broad Glasgow accent betrayed roots far from the bright lights and luxury of Mills; so, for that reason, Emma trusted him even if she could feel his eyes boring into her sometimes when they were sitting on their bench across the street, watching him.

Zelena, on the other hand, was always annoying and never smiled so much as leered, her eyes never quite matching what her mouth was doing. There were always too many teeth in her smile, and Emma always got the distinct impression that there was more to her than met the eye. If there was one person whom she absolutely did not want to meet whilst attempting to leave the store having been trespassing in it all night, then it was Zelena. She would definitely be the type to haul them both straight off to the owner’s office and get as many charges as possible pressed against them.

What was she doing here so early anyway? Surely no one could be so paranoid about their place of work that they decided to supervise the cleaning staff, but apparently so. She was stalking in and out of all the display racks, hunting for dust in nooks and crannies and finger marks on any and all mirrored surfaces. Emma showed willing with a duster for a bit, and one of the other ladies caught her eye. She could barely have been out of her teens, if that, and she was so pregnant she could barely fit down between the aisles. Emma felt a pang of sympathy; that had been her ten years ago, still working up until her due date because she had no other choice.

The girl grimaced, rubbing her back.

“When’s it due?” Emma asked, coming over to pick up her dropped feather duster and save unnecessary bending down.

“New Year’s Day. Thanks.” The girl took the duster back with a grateful smile. “I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new?”

“Yeah, first day on the job.” She nodded over to Zelena, still on the prowl. “Is she always like that?”

“Yep. Nothing’s ever good enough for the wicked witch.”

Emma had to laugh at the nickname; considering Zelena was almost always dressed in some shade of green, it certainly suited her.

“I’m Ashley, by the way. Just let me know if you need any help finding your way round. It’s a huge place; I got lost in kitchenware on my first day. I thought I was going to be stuck in an endless loop of saucepans and lasagne dishes for the rest of my life.”

“I’m Emma. Thanks for the offer.”

“Hey!” Zelena had noticed them talking, and Emma quickly turned so that the other woman wouldn’t see her face. “Less gossiping and more dusting! These beds won’t clean themselves!”

“It might help if she picked up a duster once in her life,” Ashley muttered. Emma gave a snort and made her excuses to leave Ashley alone, slipping away when Zelena’s back was turned again and making her way back to Henry.

“You were gone ages!” he hissed. “I was getting worried!”

Emma grabbed the bin bag and started banging it down the stairs. “I got trapped by the wicked witch. I’ll explain later,” she added quickly on seeing Henry’s confused expression. “Did anyone see you?”

“No. No one came past except the customer services lady and she didn’t say anything. Maybe bringing your kid to work isn’t so rare after all.”

Emma thought of Ashley, and she wondered what would happen after New Year’s Day.

Down on the ground floor, Emma hit a slight flaw in her plan. She’d spent enough time in Mills over the years to know its layout pretty well, but that was only the parts that the public got to see. They were now in the backstage area, so to speak. Staff only. And she had no idea where to find the exit.

People were coming and going, the cleaners and the regular staff coming in to set up their departments; but no one paid her and Henry any mind. They were cleaners after all, lugging a huge bag of rubbish out to the bins. They came in this way, so they must know their way out again.

Emma pushed Henry down behind the bag and dropped into a crouch beside him as she heard a very familiar and very angry voice.

“If Zelena’s held my coat to ransom in the dry-cleaning cupboard again, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Gold came down the corridor past them, and Emma had to double take at his appearance. She’d only ever seen him resplendent in his uniform, and to see him now, wearing an obviously hand-knitted jumper with a penguin wearing earmuffs on it, was a jarring reminder that he did have a life outside of the store.

“It’s ok, I rescued it for you.”

Gold stopped at the end of the corridor before he could crash into the lady from the customer services desk. She was new this year; Emma had not seen her working on the desk before. She held up Gold’s uniform coat in its plastic dry-cleaning bag, and Emma couldn’t help but notice the slight little red blush that rose in her cheeks when Gold grabbed it with a smile.

“Belle, you are a lifesaver. What would I do without you?”

“Oh, you’d manage, I’m sure.”

“Mum!”

Henry was gesturing frantically down the corridor to where the other cleaners were taking rubbish bags, and Emma knew that it was time to move on and not watch the sweet little scene taking place between Gold and Belle any longer. She hauled up their bin bag and followed Henry down the corridor and out into the yard, whereupon they ducked behind a bin and grabbed all their luggage.

They were out of the woods, and their night of camping out in the store was over.

“Come on, Henry. Let’s go and get our van back.”

X

Someone wise once said that it never rains but it pours. If they had been a bit wiser still, they would have said that it never rains but it pours and thunders and hails and snows all at the same time, and less than a week before Christmas to boot.

Emma was sitting in the cramped office of the DVLA impound trying very hard not to swear, since Henry was sitting only a foot away, pretending to be absorbed in a newspaper and not paying any attention to what the adults were doing, but in reality, he was taking absolutely everything in and he knew that things were going from bad to worse to even worse with every passing moment.

She also knew that she really couldn’t take it out on the poor clerk who was dealing with her case. When the van had been towed in the first place and she’d made it clear that she wouldn’t be able to pay the fine; he’d offered to try and get her a payment plan of sorts. As it was, Emma had pawned some of her mother’s jewellery to make up the cash; the sentimental value was nothing compared to actually having somewhere to call home that wasn’t a department store’s bed section.

She had come to the impound ready to pay, only for the incredibly apologetic and nervous-looking clerk to tell her that he couldn’t release the van to her because it had failed so many safety inspections that it had been deemed dangerous to drive. He was going through the list of all its failings with her now, and every time he faltered, Emma could tell that there was more bad news to come but that he’d already given her so much that he didn’t have the heart to continue.

Eventually, they came to the end of the list, and he looked up at her with an expression that could only be described as a cringe.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “But I just can’t let you drive away in it.”

Emma sat back in her chair and sighed, staring up at the ceiling. There was no way that she would be able to afford all the repairs that the agency had said would be needed before the van would be road legal again. She had barely scraped together enough for the fine in the first place. This was just the icing on the cake of a really terrible year. Every year, she was determined that things were going to get better and that they might finally stop living out of a van.

She’d got her wish all right. They were definitely not living out of a van anymore. They weren’t living out of anywhere.

“To be honest, it might be more economical to write it off,” the clerk said. “I’m not sure how much you’d get for its scrap value, but it would be better than nothing.”

Emma nodded. “Yeah. You’re probably right. How do I go about doing that, then?”

“Well, we won’t be able to do anything until after Christmas, I’m afraid. Everywhere is shut down for the holidays.”

Emma threw her hands up in the air and let them drop down to her sides. “Fantastic. Fan-bloody-tastic.”

There was nothing more that she could do here. All she could hope was that the emergency housing office had somewhere available for them.

“Come on, Henry.” She sighed and hefted up their bags again. “Let’s go.”

“We’re not getting the van back, are we?”

“No.”

They walked on through the town in silence. The van was pretty much the only home that Henry had ever known, and now it had been taken from him in a finger snap, and just before Christmas as well. Henry was used to not receiving Christmas presents, but at least he’d never yet had something taken away from him at Christmas. This was the opposite of the Christmas spirit, and his desolation was palpable.

“We’ll find somewhere else,” Emma said, trying to keep his spirits up, but it was clear that Henry didn’t believe her, and she didn’t quite believe herself. “I’m sure that there are other vans out there.” That said, maybe it would be better to put some roots down somewhere and start living between four walls instead of on four wheels. Maybe this would be the year that they stopped living in the van in a good way after all.

The housing office was open this time, but as they walked in, took the slip of paper from the machine with their number on it, and sat down to wait, Emma didn’t hold out much hope. There were at least six other families in front of them, and all of them were more than just a single mum and her son. On the one hand, being just the two of them, they needed less room and would hopefully be easier to place somewhere, but on the other, bigger families with much younger children had much more urgent need of shelter. Emma remembered with a shiver her first couple of homeless years after Henry had been born, a constant fear of losing him to the bitter cold, burying him under so many blankets as she curled up around him in the back of her car that he could barely be seen. As desperate as she and Henry were, she would never wish that on anyone. Besides, she and Henry had a back-up plan if necessary. Living out of Mills wasn’t exactly ideal, but they’d made it work last night. Surely they could make it work again. All they had to do was stay out of Zelena’s way.

The morning wore on, and Emma’s hopes were getting stretched extremely thin by the time her number was called. She had seen the apologetic shakes of the head that all of the other applicants had been getting, and she knew that things weren’t exactly looking great. It came as absolutely no surprise when she was told that there would be no accommodation available until the new year. If she could just find somewhere to stay over the holidays, then everything would be all right, but all resources were stretched at this time of year, et cetera, et cetera. The woman was telling her in all but the most blatant terms that her best bet would be to go to the nuns at the homeless shelter over the Christmas period and to come back in January.

Emma shook her head. No, she would never go back to the shelter, not after she’d nearly come to blows with the Mother Superior after finding the head nun going through all her and Henry’s belongings, looking for items of monetary value as a ‘voluntary donation’ towards their stay at the shelter. No one had believed her when she’d tried to report it to the authorities. Considering that they were nuns who did regular work in the community and Emma had several shoplifting cautions and convictions under her belt, she wasn’t surprised, but the injustice of it all still stung.

“What are we going to do, Mum?” Henry asked. He had been so good about the whole thing, never once complaining or whining about a very boring day spent in various offices, or the fact that for once in her life, Emma didn’t have a cunning plan to get them out of their latest scrape. Her son was old beyond his years, and Emma felt a huge wave of guilt wash over her that his early life had been so hard. She had done the best for him that she could with what little she had, and she loved him more than life itself, but sometimes she wondered what would have happened if she had taken the advice of everyone around her and given him up for adoption when he was born. Maybe he would have had a better life; he might have been adopted and been living in a comfortable house with central heating and proper beds.

Or he might have had a childhood like hers after her parents were killed and she’d been shoved unceremoniously into the foster system; never to be loved and only to be kicked out to fend for herself as soon as she aged out.

She continued in silence, trying to think of an answer to Henry’s question that wouldn’t leave them both in despair, trudging along the street with aching arms from carrying all the bags all day, until the familiar bright lights of Mills came into view. It was tempting fate to spend another night there, but this time Emma had a much better plan.

“We’ll go camping.”

[lou-bonfightme]

Catnapped 2: This Time It’s Purrsonal || Part  Three: The Enemy of My Enemy is My Friend || Merlou

In which a desperate Toulouse seeks help in the unlikeliest of places...[February 1, 2020]

@heart-of-dunbroch

[tw -- self-loathing, thoughts of suicide and self harm, these two are really a pair]

TOULOUSE: Toulouse stood, staring up at the Best Castle’s imposing silhouette. 

If he was here for other reasons, he’d find the sight tragically beautiful. 

As it stood, he could not find beauty in the ivy or the crumbling grey stone, the same colour as the sky, so that it all melted together if you looked up high enough, the snow falling in perfect flurries, obscuring the view. This was a tragedy, in and of itself, because Lou had always been curious about the castle in the woods, as many were. He had simply never made it out so far, as it was well hidden. Lou may explore the forest at his leisure but the only time he tread off the beaten path was at the beckoning of fairies. He knew better than that, otherwise. Not even as a wolf did he venture deep. Most of his full moons were spent curled up on the Acheron’s rug. He had no desire to run through the woods like an animal. Hades had once joked that he had somehow been turned into some kind of weredog--not a wolf at all. 

Still, he had found it relatively easily. With Belle’s directions and his wolf’s instincts, which told him to just go to the part of the forest he was least comfortable. Standing at the gate, he wished he had not denied Belle’s offer to accompany him, although he knew it was for the best. If this went the same way his last meeting with Merida DunBroch had gone, well, he didn’t want Belle getting in the middle of it. Because she would get in the middle of it. And get herself bitten in the process. 

No, this was better. 

Toulouse was in no danger here. What was the worst Merida could do to him? Kill him? His wolf was smarter than that, it’d run before it came to that. In the meantime, it stayed close to the surface, waiting and watching and already very much wanting to leave. Lou ignored it, though not in a harsh way, the way one ignores a pup looking for attention. Though, he listened to it too. If Lou had learned anything in the past year, it was to listen to the wolf. It knew danger than Lou ever would. And here, danger lurked around every bush and tree.

Even with his strength, Lou had to shoulder the gate open somewhat so that he could slip through. He climbed the steps slowly, sure that if Merida was home, she would’ve already heard him. Or smelt him. Still, he knocked. Merida may be a beast, but Toulouse still had manners. 

He stepped back and waited, clasping his hands together behind his back so that he didn’t fiddle with them. His shoulders squared and he kept an ear out for any sounds coming from behind him. It was a cowardly thing to do, sneak up on someone like that, but Lou put nothing past Merida. She was a coward, as far as he was concerned.

MERIDA:  Several days ago, Merida had gotten a text on her phone-- a cryptic message from Lachlan, her cousin. At first, Merida thought she’d officially lost it. Her lonely, pathetic, depressed brain had conjured up exactly what she wanted to see and she was hallucinatin’ Come home messages. But when she’d clicked it, it turned out to be very real after all, no cliche message of love or support, but a vague warning delivered from a cousin whose loyalties, he felt, were probably still an obligation: a warning that the Order was returning to Swynlake.

Merida asked him why. Asked him for how long. Asked him if they were finally comin’ for Merida, to hunt her down. She’d not gotten any reply. 

And so Merida had locked herself in the castle. Perhaps Lachlan had hoped she’d run. Perhaps the Order hoped to lure her wolf out and play duck-duck-goose in the woods. But if the Order was here for her, she’d force ‘em to come to her territory. So she waited, feeling the wolf grow restless under her skin as she paced in front of the windows and sharpened the knives in the kitchen. 

They never came. As far as Merida knew, at least. The days passed and Merida was untouched. No other messages came her way through Lachlan. It was as though she were as good as dead to them all yet again, and now her pathetic, lonely life could continue with no interruptions. Meetings with Rogers, workin’ at the gym, hacking down shite meals of beans and mash till her wolf’s stomach demanded she go out for a fresh kill… 

Until Merida got a visitor after all.

The visitor was Toulouse Bonfamille, and as soon as he was on her territory, the wolf sensed him. Merida’s stomach revolted as the wolf tried to shove its way to the surface. Shut up, she thought back to it, breathing deeply even as she gripped at a doorframe like she might punch holes into it. But the wolf did not shut up. Toulouse Bonfamille knocked on the door, and the wolf wanted to howl. 

At first, Merida figured-- well, maybe he’d leave. She stayed quiet and tense. But the pressure in her stomach grew, the wolf trying to break through.

“Fine, fine--” Merida snarled out loud, like she was actually talking to someone. She listened to the wolf, stalking toward the door so she could defend her land. 

She dragged the heavy door halfway open and looked out at Toulouse. His wolf smell, this close, was overwhelming. She tried to ignore it anyway.

“Think your the last wallaper I’d expect comin’ t’see me,” Merida grunted. “Whit ye here for?” 

TOULOUSE: Toulouse wanted to sneeze. That was the overwhelming…sensation he had standing on Merida’s doorstep. He was ignoring the wolf. The wolf was not happy about this, but it was content enough to wait and watch. Its only thought was on Claude. It could make friends with its enemy, if it meant getting him back. On that Lou and the wolf were in an agreement. (The wolf and Lou were, more or less, in agreement on most things these days.)

Which meant the wolf was still and silent inside him. Lou felt it watching, but he encouraged the wolf’s vigilance. He had no idea what to expect of Merida DunBroch.

They had only met a handful of times--outside of their infamous meeting--as two of the only consistent visitors at the Acheron cottage. Lou had thought little of her, and not in the degrading way, but quite literally. He knew her as Belle’s friend, he was glad for Belle to have a proper friend during that awful winter, the way he was a friend to Hades. (Until he wasn’t, thanks to the woman on the other side of the door.) He had simply had no opinion of her outside of this, except perhaps that she was loud and took up space in a way that Lou had always found rather abrasive.

And now: he knew so much about her, but nothing at all, all at once. It was as if he had seen a reflection of her in a pool, but when he looked up to catch a glimpse of the real thing, she was already gone.

She’s a coward, answered the wolf to Lou’s idle musing as he waited on the doorstep. Lou thought he might, perhaps, agree; considering that Merida had yet to show her face. He was about to give up, turn around, when he heard the scuff of shoes coming from the other side of the door. It was muffled, but his senses were all tuned high—on alert.

The girl on the other side of the door was not at all what Lou remembered of the bright-eyed, sharp woman he’d known, albeit vaguely, before. Her hair was dull, her eyes sunken and suspicious. He didn’t have time, really, to react to her general disheveled appearance.

Instead, he had to try and understand the garbled English that came out of her mouth. At first, he thought she had suffered from some sort of stroke.

Wallpaper? Lou had never heard anyone referred to as wallpaper. He supposed, it was perhaps an insult. Though, Lou quite liked a good wallpaper.

His own brain lagged as it tried to dissect the inflection of Merida’s words, his eyebrows knit together. If this any other situation, he’d probably answer back with a “pardon moi?” just to be both cheeky and condescending.

As it was, they did not have time to argue proper grammar or punctuation.

“Trust me, if I had another option, I would not be here.” The distaste and malice in his voice was not concealed, he hadn’t even tried. “Your Order kidnapped my nephew,” Lou said bluntly. “And I need information from you to get him back or I will make sure you are run out of this town quicker than you can blink.”

MERIDA:  The Order hadn’t been here for her at all.

The information smacked into Merida and she wrenched the door open wider without even thinking about it. For once, her wolf fell silent-- or rather, it was Merida, the girl, who roared to life. The Order was her blood, not the wolf’s. It didn’t matter that she’d been cast out, nor that she’d never fit in the first place. When she dreamed, it was still her home that she saw. It was her castle, her brothers, Da and Mum and Angus-- the dungeons, the huge, drafty ballroom where the Order gathered twice a year… 

Funny what sticks in the memory after the bridge to the past has burned down. Funny what you miss. Merida had always hated the gatherings and the old creaking castle she knew one day she’d be forced to inherit and upkeep. Now though, these were the things that came back to her, twisting in her brain so they shined brighter. Every time they did, her gut lurched, like the wolf was trying to expel her leftover love like spoiled meat. Because it was all a lie. All a lie, never for her, a sham from the start.

Still, knowin’ the Order had been in town-- in a way, that danger had made her feel like more herself. She wanted them to come hunting for her if only so she’d see some of her family again. Let them point their swords and arrows. She’d take it like a welcome. That is, she would have, if they would have come for her.

But they didn’t. Perhaps they hadn’t even remembered-- perhaps they no longer cared.

It hurt nearly as much as her own da telling her to run. Peeled back the wound. 

In front of the Bonfamille boy, Merida just swallowed down the hurt, even if she was too late to hide her shock. She tried to gather herself and piece together what he’d said. Now, different parts of her past trickled back...not memories cast in rose glass, but bits and pieces from months ago, about Phoebus, and that’s right, he’d had a woman-- she’d been pregnant. 

Now, the child was gone. Merida hadn’t even realized the child was born. She had a...what would the child be? A third cousin? A second, twice removed? 

“You don’t have to threaten me,” said Merida after a beat. She opened the door wider and stepped aside. “You can come in. Ask whatever ye want-- I told Belle I’m on her side and I meant it. That’s who sent ye, isn’t it? Belle?” 

Despite herself, Merida’s heart clenched hopefully. Even if the Order, her own family, had forgotten her-- Belle hadn’t. 

TOULOUSE: Merida’s eyes bugged wide in a kind of shock that Toulouse thought would be hard to fake. Though, he was a connoisseur of the opposite: of concealing emotions. So, he could not really say, what real shock looked like, as his own graced his features so seldom that he would hardly recognize real from fake. As it was, Toulouse was on guard towards considering anything that Merida did truthful. He kept, at the front of his mind, what she had done to Belle. Not solely the kidnapping, but everything before it: how she had lied about being her friend for so long, how thoroughly Belle had fallen for it. How thoroughly Hades had fallen for it.

There was not a single part of Merida that he could trust.

He looked into the dark, cold castle that would hardly protect from the chill, as the winter wind whistled through it. It was tempting to deny the offer and stand on the stoop. He was not planning to stay long. Just get the information he needed and leave. There was not a moment he could waste; he had already wasted so many. Arguing with his siblings, trying to plan with Hades and Belle. Every moment was precious. Besides, he didn’t want her to see him hesitate. The wolf could not sense any danger and for the moment, that was good enough for him.

Toulouse stepped over the threshold with a frown situated clearly on his features. He took off his gloves, as was polite when entering a building, putting them in his pocket before removing his hat, running his fingers over his hair out of habit more than anything else. He was not looking to impress Merida.

“She sent me because you have information that I need. We will speak no more of her.” His voice was flat and final. Belle’s name on Merida’s tongue made the wolf in his chest want to rip that tongue right out. How dare she even mention Belle. To give his hands something to do, so that they wouldn’t quiver, he fiddled with the rim of his hat.

“Some woman named Sorcha and a man named Silas came to the house claiming to be his grandparents,” he started in a clipped tone. He did not, necessarily believe, at face value, that those two had been Claude’s true grandparents, and he assumed it would be pertinent for her to know the information. He didn’t even know if those were their real names, but it was the only information he had to give. “We sent them away and the next day—” his voice caught slightly on the emotion, even though he tried to smooth it out “—they broke into my house, assaulted my nounou and my sister, and took Claude.”

His gaze felt sharply on the woman. “I need to know where they would have taken him and I need to know how to get him back.”

MERIDA:  The Order was not a big organization, but it was strong-- even in its disparate pieces across the rest of Europe. And so Merida knew these names. She’d know them even if they were not distantly related to her, even if all she knew was where they were from, and what sort of achievements they had to their family name, evoked with just the mention or with a flash of the crest. That missing entered her again and in the same breath, a bitterness. She did not want to miss that world or feel pride in her own family’s sigil. Not when they turned her out, or endangered children, and-- it seemed-- kidnapped them. 

And at least in this way, Lou’s news reinforced that Merida had done the right thing. She didn’t need that reinforcement, really. No matter how lonely she got, she’d never go back. She couldn’t go back if she wanted ‘course, so that made the decision easier. 

But--in Swynlake, where she was still criminal and that was all that people were seein’-- that and the wolf-- 

It felt good to know herself to be somethin’ else. And right now, her face reflected her revulsion at the news that Silas and Sorcha would act so dishonestly. Attack both an elder woman and a younger girl? Snatch a child from a crib? These things held no honor. They were not the Order that Merida had believed in, at least, not its best parts-- the pledge to protect the innocent and uphold the codes of the best of Great Britain, in the time of the chivalrous. 

She was not surprised, though. Perhaps a DunBroch, leadin’ a mission, would go about such things differently. But Phoebus’s family had always been much like him: slippery like a sea serpent. 

“The babe is not yet a year old?” she said it like a question and raised her eyebrows, though she did not need to wait for Lou to confirm to know it was true. She could do simple math. “It’s important for an Order child-- especially a boy-- to be baptized in the Order’s stronghold by the sittin’ King before he’s a year. It’s usually done much sooner than this so I imagine they are takin’ him to the headquarters. Probably. And then--” she frowned.

“They’ll be takin’ him back to Denmark. To be raised there. Well, unless they want to hide ‘im, then he could go to any number of families, least till he’s older. If they believe ye a threat, that could be the case.” 

Her frown deepened, her next words catching on her tongue. It was not good news. She knew that Lou did not trust her either (her wolf could smell it, like it could smell his wolf, and remained wary) and she didn’t want to deliver it. But she couldn’t lie. 

“You’ll have to break into the headquarters before they move him. It’s… no one’s ever done that before,” she hedged. “And many of the families will be gathered there. For the ceremony. It’s-- you’ll probably die,” she put it bluntly. “Sorry. I think it’s important you know that. ‘M not tryin’ to discourage ye, I just-- I almost died escapin’ out me own home. They’ll kill you much faster.” 

TOULOUSE: Toulouse raised a slight eyebrow at the question, but nodded slightly—even though, apparently, it had been rhetorical. He was wondering what on earth it had to do with anything. Was a toddler less of a concern to her than a baby? Did the Order gobble up children like trolls from folktales told to little ones to get them to behave? Lou would not be surprised. Everything he knew about the Order he loathed. He loathed that they had hurt Belle and Opal (for he was of the opinion, much like Hades, that that ordeal had had a great deal to do with Opal’s early delivery.) He hated them for turning his aunt into someone he did not recognize. For killing her too, for killing his little niece. (It was easier to blame them than leave it a blameless death.)

The Order was nothing but death and destruction.

He pushed away his questions and simply listened. The story Merida wove was like something out of a fairytale. With kings and ceremonies and strongholds. It sounded so farfetched that he hardly dared to believe it. However, he reminded himself, he was standing in a castle right now. His best, most dear friend, was the king of Underworld. He had attended a magical wedding. There was a wolf, whose heartbeat was Lou’s own.

His world—no matter how he disliked it, no matter how ill-fit—was this world now, full of shadows not of his own making. Of the sort of villains that were truly dangerous. Lou had long ago learned how to handle the villains of the world he had been from, ones with silver tongues and distracting, glittering jewels. He did not know how to handle a true villain.

Though, he couldn’t help but snort at Merida’s warning.

I am plenty prepared to die, he thought to himself and he knew it was true. The idea didn’t make him afraid. In fact, there was a reckless part of him who almost wanted it. It wouldn’t be dishonorable if he was killed trying to get his baby cousin back from the clutches of some medieval organization. He’d die a hero. Honestly, it all sounded rather pleasing to him.

There was only one problem: if he died, would Claude be rescued? Lou did not care about whether or not he died in vain, he always imagined that was how it would be in the end. Unless he was dying to escape the pain of this life, the weight of this life. Then it wouldn’t be in vain at all. The darkness and stillness would be peaceful and welcome. But, if he was dying trying to save his baby cousin, he would want to know his baby cousin would get out. He had to remind himself this was not about him dying, it was about saving Claude.

“Thank you for the warning,” he told her drily, looking towards her. “Isn’t exactly useful, though, is it? Tell me where this headquarters is and tell me how to get Claude out alive. If you do not, I will simply find another way.” And Lou was confident in that. Perhaps, not in himself, but in Hades? In Belle? Oh, they were clever when it came to magic and mayhem. They would find a way to fix this.

No matter where the Order hid Claude away. 

MERIDA:  Merida nearly rolled her eyes at him. She thought about it. Normally, she would. But she saw somethin’ here that she hadn’t had before, and even Merida was wise enough to know that she couldn’t fuck it up--

That thing was a door. 

No, it was not a door that would take her back. There was no going back. But she hoped it would be a door forward, into becomin’ something more than the woman who kidnapped Belle, the liar, the criminal, the girl from the Order-- and the wolf. Merida desperately wanted to be Merida again. To find a way to build somethin’ out of the debris of last year. Since that day, she’d been stuck in the same place, unable to do anything but tread water. Run in circles. Survive, but barely.

If she helped now…

Well, maybe nothing would change, who was she kidding? But at least it was the right thing to do. At least it would give Merida another chapter. Instead of stealing a baby, she was saving one. 

“I’ll tell you all I know, I told you I would-- I’ll do me best,” she reiterated. “ I can tell you what kind of things to prepare for-- the weapons they’ll have, the defenses, who will probably be there, who won’t. I can tell you the entire place is underground, and there’s tourmaline everywhere. Magic will be useless.  Stay down too long, and you’ll start to go topsy-turvy yourself.” She was thinking of Hades-- because naturally Hades, she assumed, would go. He’d have no fire though, no way to move things. Neutered like that, he’d die in a heartbeat, because his weakness was the same as all Magicks’ weakness-- his ego. Without his powers, he had no skill or strength. 

One look at the posh biscuit of a boy in front of her, she reckoned the same thing. 

“I can even try to draw ye a map if ye like. But I’m no artist.” She swallowed. Her fingers flexed. She looked Lou in the eye. “I’m a warrior. So if you want to know how to get your cousin out safely, without taking a silver bullet between the eyes… you take me. I can lead you in. I can get you out. I know how to fight ‘em-- and I’ll beat ‘em too.” 

TOULOUSE: Toulouse knew that Merida had a point. For in the same way she was not an artist, he was not a warrior. In fact, Lou hated the idea of violence, if he was honest. He didn’t have the stomach for it. Would he kill someone that threatened his family? Yes, but only as a last resort. He much rather liked playing these things in a courtroom, where there were rules and things were civilized. Where he could feel much more smug and righteous about putting some asshole behind bars. To him, that was more satisfying than killing someone, than hurting them in any sort of physical way.

However, Lou had seen firsthand how the Order circumvented these laws. They were a force greater than the law, which meant that they deserved worse than the law.

Besides, Lou was well aware of the fact that if he did take them to court properly, his status as a wolf would jeopardize his family’s ability to keep Claude in their custody. No judge in their right mind would give a baby to a werewolf. Not even a Swynlake judge.

So, they would have to do this the underhanded way. Lou was not a fan of this, but Hades had been right when he said the police would be no help. And Lou was not going to waste time cutting through bureaucratic tape when his cousin’s future was at stake. Which meant, yes, Lou was outnumbered and woefully unprepared.

He still did not trust this woman.

It didn’t matter that there was an echo of her that he felt in himself. She had been chased from her home, he had been barred from his. The town was against both of them. The only difference was: Merida had been the one to turn his life into this, she had dragged him down to her level. Merida was a criminal, Toulouse had never hurt anyone in his life (not in the way Merida had.) The only reason they were on the same level was because society no longer cared that Lou was good-looking, well-dressed, wealthy, eloquent. All the tools he had spent his life building no longer mattered,  because when they looked at him—

They saw Merida.

“Why should I trust you?” he scoffed at her.  “What’s to say you’re not the one who puts an arrow in my back? Who holds a knife to my throat and uses me in exchange for your own clemency? If what you say is true, in these catacombs I would be entirely at your mercy and considering your history, those don’t feel like very good odds.”

MERIDA:  Merida didn’t have a good answer for him. 

She wished she did. Merida hated this question. This new version of her life was defined entirely by it, and there was no way to overcome it. It didn’t matter that the RAS believed in her (not that anyone knew). It didn’t matter that she’d helped keep Hades out of jail, that she’d freed Shuck (they focused, instead, on how Merida had been the cause of the trial in the first place). It didn’t matter that she held a steady job now and followed all of Swynlake’s rules. Merida could try and she could try, but she was still just a criminal in the eyes of the town, and most importantly, in the eyes of Belle. Nothing would ever change that.

Truly. Merida had stopped believin’ otherwise. It was freeing in a way, even if it didn’t stop her from missin’ Belle quite awful. Sometimes she caught herself reaching for her phone, a thought in her mind that could only be shared with Belle alone. But she stopped herself these days. She reached less and less. And when she thought of Belle, she tried only to wish her happiness and her daughter good health. 

Belle didn’t have to forgive Merida. But-- 

She’d like someone to. 

 Merida wished she could answer his question with a question-- how will I ever prove myself trustworthy if no one gives me a chance? The retort bit at her tongue. She pressed her lips together, then licked them. Still, no answer. Maybe she’d just let the Bonfamille boy walk away, take his distrust elsewhere. 

If she did that, the wee one would surely be lost.

Merida took a breath. “You don’t. There’s no clemency there for me, though. There’s nothing for me to bargain, I’ve already told most of the Order’s secrets to the police to put Phoebus away so as far as they’re concerned, I’m good as dead. I’d offer you something to hold over me to ease your mind, but I’ve nothing left here either. So--I can do nothing but give you my word--not as one of the Order, because I’m not anymore. But as one of you. A wolf.” Her chin tilted up as she met his gaze again. “It’s that, and the truth that I know-- I was raised in the Order and I would not want a child raised there, either.”

TOULOUSE: There was a part of Toulouse who was more convinced by Merida’s explanation of how the Order had sworn her off, how she had betrayed them. If someone had done similarly to him, he would probably scorn them too. However, the shrewd politician in him saw only the betrayal, only the disloyalty of someone who would throw the institution they had grown up in away just to save their own neck.

He was not moved to pity by her declaration that she had nothing to give him. If anything, it made him more cautious. A person without anyone or anything was a dangerous one. Lou could only imagine what his life would be if his family had turned his back on him, after he had been bitten. If he did not have them; did not have the Acherons and Periwinkle. He could scarcely imagine it, because if that was the case for Toulouse, he would cease to exist. He would become vicious, he would not care about someone coming to his door, looking for help. He would turn them away or he would kill them, if only for a way to feel something, anything at all.

Though, perhaps, he understood the scorn.

They had turned her away first, so now she had turned away from them. Lou thought he would do much the same and he thought, briefly, of his tantine. How wretched she had made him. How vicious he had felt whenever in her presence, like his intestines were an ouroboros, devouring itself. He had not once begged for her love back. He had looked at her the way she had looked at him: like a stranger, like a monster. But, he also knew that if she had ever given him a hint or a hope of redemption; if she had smiled at him or spoke to him sweetly, he would act as a man dying of thirst. He would have fallen to his knees and begged.

He wondered if the same would happen to Merida. If the Order smiled at her and said: we will love you again, just kill the wolf. Would she do it?

Did Lou have a choice, even if that was the truth of it?

His gaze found its way back to her properly when she spoke of that wolf—those wolves—their wolves. He wanted to snort at her, to snarl and snap.

What good is the word of a wolf?

We are not the same.

The wolf felt differently. Lou felt it stir in his chest. It was watching, it was listening, and it was silent. He heard no protest from it, and he realized that since they had stepped into this castle and Merida had started explaining, the wolf had settled.

Despite himself, if he trusted anything’s instincts, it was his wolf’s. His wolf, which had disliked Edgar from the start. Who had been restless in his chest ever since the de Chateaupers had shown up at his door. The wolf who was kind and gentle towards those he loved, but who had wanted to rip Bradley’s throat out with a lust that startled and disturbed Toulouse.

The wolf wanted Merida to help. The wolf reasoned Merida was their best chance. The wolf reasoned that if Merida came along, Hades would not have to; which meant one less person Lou loved in danger. The wolf pointed out that if Merida died, it would not matter. Not at all.

“Fine,” Toulouse settled, feeling somewhere inside of him that he was agreeing to much more than a quest to save his nephew. His weight shifted, one foot to the other. “You can come along, but we will do this on my terms. It is my family in danger, and I do not trust you. This does not mean anything, and if I catch wind of you using it to gain pity or an audience from Belle, or anyone else I love, I will find a way to put you behind bars where you belong. Are we agreed?” 

MERIDA:  Merida could argue. Normally, she would-- call Lou stubborn and stupid to think he had any sort of experience to demand terms of his own. She could see this mission laying itself out in front of her now: Lou making bad call after bad call, Merida correcting him only when he begrudgingly asked for her help. Time wasted, shortcuts and advantages lost. Honestly, she should do the whole mission on her own. She didn’t need some upper-class nosh bumbling around and making a fool of himself. Making a fool of himself on a journey like this would put them both in danger. 

But she could no more say she should do this alone than she could that he needed to listen to the likes of her. It was as Lou said: he did not trust her. Merida was reasonable enough to know she’d feel the same way if in his shoes. And so Merida had no real argument. She had no real choice. 

But Merida was used to that. What choice had she ever had, especially over the past year? She’d always done exactly what she had to do to survive. To stay true to herself. And that’s what she would continue to do. She had nothing but herself anyway. No friends, no family, no reason to even exist. 

But she had her heart, and she would not betray it. 

Her lips pressed in a stiff line as her arguments stayed inside. She buried her desire to scoff at his threats, to sneer and let him know that she was not afraid of him and his petty methods of waging wars with his parents’ coin purse. She ignored the wolf too, whose presence in this room loomed larger than it ever had. It wanted to make Lou’s wolf listen, if not to reason-- then instinct. The wolf knew where to go, what to do. The wolf wanted to lead. 

Instead, Merida nodded once, quickly.

“Agreed.” Her lip twitched. Almost a smile. Not quite. “Then I suppose you’ll tell us when to leave, Chief.”