#then got very tired and had to go to sleep and did the photographer quest in the morning lol

[adhdvane]

very happy about the dlc i'm glad i had the forethought to take this pic for my trainer id while i could

[springmagpies]

Late night adventure+ May&Daisy

Here you are lovely!!! This sort of went a bit off the prompt, so if it doesn’t work feel free to prompt again!! 💛💛💛

They were on the hunt for a birthday gift for Phil. It wasn’t exactly hard for Melinda to choose a gift for her husband. He was pretty easy to buy for. All one needed to do was find something history related and or something with just a touch of nerdiness and the man would love it. It was actually something Melinda loved about him, how easily he found joy in the little things in life. No, the tricky part of finding a gift for Phil was finding a gift for Phil with their daughter in tow.

Daisy insisted on searching for something perfect for her father and often it turned into a whole road trip just to find what would inevitably be something like a pack of trading cards and a card with a grumpy cat on the front (yes, that is what he had received from his daughter the year previously). 

There was also the timing of when they’d buy his gift. Daisy and Phil had the same work and school schedule, Daisy being a senior at the high school Phil taught at. She did, however, have about an hour's lead on him if she and her best friend Fitz didn’t lollygag and eat M&Ms in his classroom. 

Phil was the most observant person Melinda had ever met--next to herself of course. He could see a kid sitting on his phone in class from the opposite end of the room, could tell who was having a bad day and trying not to show it, could always know if a kid was cheating or not, and could somehow always tell what sort of something was hidden away in a shopping bag. And even though he’d pretend he couldn’t tell what he had gotten for his birthday, Melinda knew he knew. Hence the militaristic planning of the shopping trip. 

A few weeks before Phil’s birthday, Melinda decided she’d pick up Daisy from school and they’d head out on the road for a gift. After dropping Fitz off at home of course.

“Hi mom,” Daisy said, hopping into the passenger seat. “See how we got out here so fast.”

“Very proud,” Melinda said, hiding a smile. 

“Don’t be too proud. She nearly knocked over Sunil Bakshi while running through the halls.”

Daisy rolled her eyes, twisting in her seat as Melinda pulled off from the curb. “Well, he’s a jerkwad,” she said.

“Daisy.”

“Mom, you don’t know Sunil Bakshi. Dude has a snake for a tongue.”

“How would you know,” Fitz grinned, his tone flat but his face revealing his true meaning. 

“Oh, fork off Fitz. You know what I meant. Hey, Mom! Don’t encourage him,” Daisy said, shoving her mom’s arm playfully as Melinda cracked a smile. “I meant he was slimy,” she continued.

“We know what you meant.”

Once Fitz was up the steps to his house--Melinda had to pull down Daisy’s hand as she attempted to lovingly flip him off--the mother and daughter duo started on their quest.

Melinda looked over her shoulder as they turned at the stop sign. “So, what are you thinking for dad?” she asked.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Daisy replied. She leaned forward to turn on the radio, hooking up her phone to the bluetooth. “What are you in the mood for today, mother mine? Blondie?”

She gave her daughter an approving smile, the corners of her mouth ticking up ever so slightly but with all the pride in the world. “Blondie,” she repeated.

As Daisy sang along to the songs at full volume, Melinda focused on driving. However, she took photographs in her head anytime she could catch a glance over to the passenger seat, capturing each and every expression on her daughter’s face as she belted out the notes. 

It took just as long as Melinda expected to find Phil’s gift. They went to about a dozen stores--luckily most were in strip malls so they just walked from one door to the next--and spent far too much time in each. 

As it often did, it also devolved into many minutes spent leisurely touching the sleeves of shirts, sorting through sales sections, and smelling every scented candle in Bath and Bodyworks. On most shopping expeditions, Melinda was good at getting in and out and going home, but if she were being honest, the time spent with her daughter was worth the ambling about. 

They stayed until all the stores were beginning to close, but they eventually found Phil a nice new tie, a model red corvette to twin with Lola, and a coffee table book with famous historical photographs. 

For someone who could stay up until the earliest hours of the morning, Daisy had never been able to stay awake in the car. As a baby, if she ever got fussy Melinda and Phil would pack her into the car and go on a nightly drive, lulling her to sleep with passing street lights and the soft humm of tires rolling over the road. Even now, at nearly eighteen years of age, Daisy had to fight to stay awake in the passenger seat. But it wasn’t long until her head tilted to lie against the window, her legs curled up on her chair and her eyes fluttering closed as she held tightly onto her father’s bag full of gifts. 

Hitting a stop light, Melinda reached over to brush her daughter’s hair back behind her ear, smoothing her thumb across the line of Daisy’s brow. And looking at the look of pure peace on her daughter’s face, Melinda smiled.

Brotp Prompts

[distant-rose]

Notes: Life has been hectic, I’ve been gone for awhile but goddamn people, I’m not dead. At least not yet. I owe @effulgentcolors a story and hopefully that will be up this week, but roughly two weeks ago @justanotherwannabeclassic and @shireness-says challenged me to a “babies with hats” fit battle and I couldn’t resist the call. This is two weeks late, but life is stressful so be kind to me. Anyway, I owe @shireness-says and @optomisticgirl my life for helping me find my muse and getting back. I really have missed the LP verse a lot. Here’s some baby!Harrison cuteness and some surprise Mama!Jones feels. Summary: He’s known he was going to be a dad for roughly seven months, one week, five hours, twenty-one minutes and thirty-six seconds, but it’s one thing to know you’re having a child and another thing entirely for your child to be born. Word Count: 2,400+ Rating: T

--

Killian Jones is a mess.

His body is on the verge of collapse, and in any other situation, he would have gone home to his bed by now, but not today. Instead, he’s staying where he is and basking in the dawning of this very new, very real and very scary era.

Six hours, twenty minutes and twenty-seconds.

That’s how long it’s been, not that he’s counting or anything, but in six hours, twenty minutes and now twenty-eight seconds, Killian’s life has completely and irrevocably changed.

He’s a dad.

He’s known he was going to be a dad for roughly seven months, one week, five hours, twenty-one minutes and roughly thirty-six seconds, but it’s one thing to know you’re having a child and another thing entirely for your child to be born. 

His son has been on this earth for six hours, twenty-one minutes and six seconds and Killian’s internal organs have been a complete mess ever since. His heart has become too big to be contained in his chest, slamming a resentful rhythm against his ribcage while his stomach twists itself in intricate knots over the fact he’s out getting coffee while Emma and their child are on an entirely different floor. 

Killian Jones is an entire two floors and six rooms away from his family and he hates it.

He resents the fact he needs caffeine to stay awake and that he can’t just run on the overwhelming amount of emotion that his body seems to be vibrating with.

He’s overacting. 

He knows this.

Knowing doesn’t stop the anxiousness that crawls underneath his skin and the impatient tap of his fingers against the metal counter as he waits for the barista to finish his order. The older woman behind the counter keeps giving him dirty looks, but Killian couldn’t manage to give a damn, even if he tried. Her terrible work ethic is keeping him from his kid.

He takes his coffee the second it touches the counter, muttering a half-hearted thanks under his breath as he starts a pace somewhere between a walk and run back to the en-suite upstairs. The coffee is absolute shit and tastes more like charcoal than something remotely palatable, but he can’t bring himself to complain.

Six minutes and thirty-four seconds.

That’s how it takes him to make it back to Emma’s hospital room. It’s a six minutes and thirty-four seconds too long.

The anxiousness in his body calms the moment he opens the door.

Emma is blessedly asleep, her hair splayed across her pillow like a golden halo. It’s almost shocking to see her laying on her back when he knows she prefers to be on her side, but considering the day’s events, he supposes exhaustion has outweighed her usual quest for comfort.

Without his conscious thought, his feet move towards the hospital and before he knows it, he’s standing above his slumbering wife. He bends down and gives her a brief kiss to her forehead. Her brow crinkles under the scratch of his whiskered chin and, for a moment, all the blood in his veins freezes at the fear of waking her but Emma merely mutters something in her sleep before turning on her side away from him.

He sighs in relief.

No one deserves sleep more than her right now. She spent more than twenty hours in a difficult labor and somehow managed to push a nearly five-kilogram child out of her body. She’s the Savior, but she was never more superhuman to him than she was giving birth to their son. 

Where Emma doesn’t wake, the other occupant stirs; whimpering sounds from the other side of the room. 

Harrison is awake.

He leaves his wife’s side to tend to his son. 

His son.

Killian Jones has a son.

He can’t seem to get over that fact.

Harrison Liam Jones is six hours, twenty-nine minutes and fifty seconds old and he looks more like a little burrito than a baby, practically engulfed by the pastel duckling patterned blanket he’s wrapped him. When he was born, he was a screaming red creature covered in vernix and blood, paradoxically tiny and gigantic at the time. He’s still a little red, but now Killian can actually make out Emma’s nose on his son’s face and the beginnings of what looks a bit like David’s chin. The thought makes threatens to bring tears to his eyes.

He gently scoops his newborn son up into his arms in a move that he’s practiced more times than he could count with weighted pillows. Despite his constant training, his arms still tremble as he settles his son against his chest; afraid he’ll slip through his grasp and disappear.

The child lets out another round of whimpers that threaten to turn into full blown cries. Killian nearly panics at the noise, afraid that it will wake Emma. He rocks the boy gently, making low shushing sounds in hopes of placating him. His son seems appeased for the moment, drifting back to sleep and burrowing his face in his new blanket.

He cannot help but grin as Harrison settles. He’s six hours, thirty-two minutes and twenty-five seconds into his role as a father and he’s already managed to get his boy to stop crying. It’s very promising start to the most important job Killian has ever had.

He remembers quite vividly his wedding and how when he married his wife, he thought he couldn’t love anyone as much as he loved her. Now, he knows that it’s not entirely true. The love he feels for Emma is True with a capital T, but she’s not his only True Love anymore. She has to share that spot with someone new. This impossibly small creature has stolen his heart and he just might get sick from the amount of love he’s feeling at the moment.

He runs a finger down Harrison’s cheek, marveling at the softness of his skin. Baby skin is delicate, so unlike his own. His hands are rough, thick with callous and covered with scars while his son is untouched and smooth.

He doesn’t know how anything so pure could come from him.

“You wouldn’t know this, my boy, but your good ole father is more than three hundred years old,” he murmurs quietly, continuing to trace his son’s cheek. “And in three hundred years, I’ve done a lot of things, but nothing…nothing compares…you are the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Harrison doesn’t respond nor does Killian expect him to. His mere existence is enough to make his heart swell with more emotion. 

“I know you can’t understand me yet…but you’re new and I’m going to tell you some things you ought to know…in case, you missed it…I’m your father…and that angel sleeping over there…that’s your mother…she’s pretty tired, you gave her a tough time, but we forgive you for it and we both love you very much and that’s never going to change…”

Harrison moved his arm as he shifts himself closer to Killian’s chest. He can’t tell if the boy is actually listening to him or he’s just shifting to sleep on his side; just like his mother. Either way, Killian continues on.

“And it’s not just us…you have a brother…his name is Henry and he’s been waiting a long time to meet you…he’s not here right now, but he will be soon and he’s going to teach you all sorts of things…just like my brother did…and you have grandparents too…you got David and Snow…they’re your mom’s parents…mine are gone…I think my mother would have loved you…”

It’s been a long time since Killian has thought about his mother and now that he is, he finds the memory is unfocused and fuzzy like an undeveloped photograph. He can’t remember her face, not entirely, but he remembers wild red curls, a soft smile and bits of a lullaby she used to sing to him before she got sick. He remembers seashells lining the windowsills and dozens of homespun yard balls that used to litter the floor around her bed.

His fingers brush against the blue hat resting on top of Harrison’s riot of hair. It looked so much like the hats his mother used to pull over his head during the wintertime, ensuring that they covered his ears before sending him to school. Even when she was sick, she make him bend over the bed so she could do it, despite the shakiness in her hands.

An unexpected bubble of emotion rises at the thought.

“She would have made you a bunch of hats…just like this one…” he chuckles wetly. The pain is sharp as he uses his thumb to tug knit down gently over his son’s ears. “Though, where did you get this? I don’t remember you getting anything like this. I’ve washed your clothes twice yesterday in preparation for your arrival and I don’t recall seeing it in the wash.”

“Don’t you know? Babies come with hats.”

Killian swears softly under his breath as he turns to see his wife awake. She’s pulled herself into a sitting position, her fingers playing with the knit of her hospital blankets as she looks at him with amused smile.

“Babies come with hats?” he repeats, though it comes out like a question.

“They do,” she tells him with laughing eyes. “It’s a kind of special magic they have.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I would never.”

“You would,” he says with a soft laugh. “You love teasing me.”

“Only because you make it so easy.”

 “Well, now, I feel abused,” he pouts playfully. He’s exhausted but Zeus will strike him dead before he misses an opportunity to flirt with his wife.

Emma snorts in response. “Push a ten-pound human out of your body and then you can talk to me about abuse.”

“Can’t argue with you there.”

“Good,” she says. “Now bring me that ten-pound human and his magical hat over here. He’s gonna wanna eat soon.”

“As you wish.” He attempts to give her a wink as he crosses the room with their son in his arms. If he’s a little slower than he would normally be, well, he’s just being cautious. He has precious cargo after all.

“You think you’re being cute.”

“I prefer to think I’m dashing.”

He places Harrison in his wife’s arms, feeling slightly bereft at the loss of his weight. It’s only a brief moment, however. It’s replaced with an overwhelming feeling of love at the sight of his wife and his son together. 

“He’s still asleep. How is he still asleep? Isn’t he supposed to be all weepy and crying and poopy?”

“He’s only six hours, thirty-seven minutes and…ten seconds old, Swan. Give him some time and he’ll be the crying weepy pooping mess you’re looking for.”

“Are you seriously counting the seconds he’s been alive?” she asks with a laugh, bracing Harrison against his chest so she can hit him lightly against the chest. “You’re a freak!”

“Give me a break, love, it’s been quite a momentous occasion.”

“I know,” she responds with a roll of her eyes. “I’m the one who pushed him out of my vagina.”

“So, you keep reminding me.”

“He’s huge, Killian. Look at him.”

“So you say…but he looks impossibly small…little…we made a little person, Emma.”

“I know.” Her smile is tired but blinding and she looks like the sun. “And he’s perfect.”

He leans forward and brushes his hand against the duck-print blanket where his son’s toes are bundled up. He just can’t stand the idea of not touching him anymore. Harrison’s leg shifts a bit under his touch and his heart skips a little.

“I heard you talking to him by the way…” she starts, trailing off as she gives him an uncertain look.

“Oh?”

“You were talking about your mom…”

“I was,” he responds lightly, trying not to tense up.

“You never talk about her…”

“It’s hard to talk about someone you barely remember…she died when I was young…”

“How old were you?”

“Roughly six-years old.”

“That is young…” Emma murmurs, shifting her hold on Harrison so her hand brushes against his. He can’t help but close his eyes at feel of her thumb brushing gently against her knuckles. “What exactly do you remember about her?”

“Not much.”

“Try,” she says softly, squeezing his hand. “Tell your son about his grandmother.”

“He’s six hours, forty-five minutes and nineteen seconds old, Swan. He’s not going to remember this.”

“It’s a little creepy that you keep counting like that, but just try.”

“I don’t know where to begin…”

“What was her name?”

“Alice…Her name was Alice.”

“Alice is a pretty name.”

“It is and she was a pretty woman…She…I don’t remember much but her smile…She had a nice smile and red hair…”

“Red hair…like your beard…”

“Not entirely, but yeah…she had red hair…she used to tie it back in a ribbon…she preferred the blue ones…the ones that match her eyes…”

“So she’s the one we have to thank for your baby blues, huh?”

“Yeah…She is…”

“I like her more already,” Emma smiled, looking down at their son. Harrison was starting to wake up, already rooting and whimpering. She shifts her scrub top in preparation of nursing him. “What else?”

“She…she liked to collect sea glass, shells and the like…she made a path once with beach pebbles and she loved the sea…she taught Liam how to swim…and I think she would have taught me too if she wasn’t so sick…”

“I’m sorry that you lost that.”

“It’s fine, it wasn’t her fault and it wasn’t like she wasn’t there…she found other ways to be with us…she used to make us things…hats, blankets, sweaters, pillows…she once made me a dog out of rags.”

“She sounds amazing…”

“She was amazing, and she would have loved him…and she would have made him a better hat. A green one to match his mother’s eyes.”

“Cute, but don’t tell Granny that. She makes them for the hospital.”

“Granny made his hat?”

“Yes, but not specifically for him. She makes them for the hospital so they can give them to all the newborns because babies come with hats.”

“Six hours, fifty-one minutes and twenty-one seconds old and he already has a hat.”

She laughs, leaning over to kiss his cheek before adding, “Like I said babies come with hats.”

[lizzy-c807fanfics]

Jones Family Candy Store 5.

The Jones brothers have decided to renovate and update their business to include a web page. In their quest to do so they happen to meet two blondes with amazing skills that promise to do the impossible and have it complete for Christmas. Neither of them expected to be swept off of their feet in the process. This story is lots of Holiday fluff. 8 chapter story - all chapters will be posted soon!

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Chapter 5

To say that he was floating on air for the rest of the week would have been an understatement. The date was set for the night of the grand re-opening of the shop. He’d been thinking about how to make it special from the moment she agreed to let him plan the date. He wanted to make a good impression and he also wanted to thank her for everything she did to help him.

Each day they worked together in the shop and she helped him bring his vision to life. The little touches she added, the small pieces they’d brought back from storage and his own designs melded together to create the magical place that he remembered when he was a child.

They’d taken the old photographs of his family and had them re-printed, framed and hung behind the candy counter. It was only fitting that his grandfather keep watch over the store. The picture he’d chosen was also very special to both he and Liam.

He remembered the day it was taken perfectly.  A photographer was coming to take his grandfather’s photo for a special merchant’s edition of the local paper. Before their mother left for work he and Liam were told to be on their best behavior so they could make a good impression.  He was feeling miserable and uncomfortable in the dress clothes his mother put him in and he had to sit quietly. These were two things he hated more than anything, especially since he had to watch other kids riding his favorite carousel horse.

When the photographer finally arrived he felt relieved knowing it was almost over. While his grandfather was getting setup a customer came in with her three children. One of them was a mean girl named Molly who liked to stick her tongue out at him in school. Liam quickly met them at the soda counter. He got up quietly and slowly to tag along with his big brother. The children were all excited, calling out the names of the sodas they wanted to taste when they got there to greet them.

He had to stand on his tip toes to look over the counter. He noticed his grandfather watching them out of the corner of his eye. The photographer was instructing him on what to do and where to stand. He didn’t look like he was much having fun either.

Liam had only used the soda machine once before. He appeared to be nervous as he was filling the first cup. The woman was trying to keep her children quiet because she noticed what was happening in the corner. The children were too excited and of course Molly couldn’t keep her mean tongue in her mouth. He had to just stand there and take it or else he knew he’d get into trouble.  Liam pressed the buttons like he was supposed to but when he went to get the soda the machine sputtered and spit the soda all over him and mean old Molly.

He couldn’t help but laugh out loud and neither could his grandfather. The photographer captured the pure joy erupting from his grandfather in one magical photo. After that picture his grandfather came over to help and gave mean old Molly a special swirly pop since she got wet. Everyone was happy and Molly seemed to stop teasing him after that too.

When they saw the photo in the paper his grandfather let out a boisterous laugh. He said that if they had to put a picture of him in the paper he was glad it was that one.  The feeling he expressed in that photo was the feeling he hoped to bring out of everyone who came. It really was the perfect photo.

The final days leading up to the grand re-opening included shelf stocking, touch ups by M7 and candy making. Wil took care of the shelves, Emma supervised the touch ups and he worked hard in the candy kitchen. Elsa’s team tirelessly worked on the website. She and Liam spent hours together to get it just right.

They were taking photos for the website up until the end as each section of the shop was complete and each new candy was finalized. The patrons had also been voting on two mystery candies during the course of the project. Each person was offered a free tasting of two candies and they would anonymously vote on the one they thought tasted best. They planned to announce the winning candy at the grand re-opening.

He had been making batches of that winning candy the last few days. The shop had a glorious smell of melted sugar and chocolate wafting in the air. Even he had to admit that it was hard to pass the shop without coming in when they were making candy. The delightful scent beckoned any passerby which was something he relied on.

He was finally at the last batch of candy. His fingers tired from hand dipping each piece into the delicious milk chocolate. He knew they were going to be a hit thanks to all of the votes. He was just about to slip off his apron when Liam walked into the kitchen with a pensive look on his face. “Everything alright?” he asked.  

“Aye, Elsa just left.  We are both tired. The website looks great and we are all ready for tomorrow. How are things in here? I thought I’d offer you a hand.”

Killian slipped off his gloves. “Just finished. Thanks though. Can you believe we did it?”

“Aye, we worked hard. We are going to need to do something special for the team once this is over.” Said Liam.

“I agree Brother. If it weren’t for the team we would never have been able to pull this off.”

“We got lucky. The shop looks amazing as well. It looks just like you planned and then some. Bravo.”

He smiled. “Well, I have Emma to thank for much of it.”

“Don’t be so modest. You worked harder than anyone. Speaking of Emma, well? What’s going on with you two?” inquired Liam.

“She asked me out.”

Liam laughed loudly. “Did she? What about the boyfriend?”

Killian wiped down the counter in front of him before looking up with a grin. “Turns out he was just a one time thing, not a boyfriend at all.”

“Really, well I’m happy to hear that. So when are you going out?”

“Tomorrow night after the Grand Re-opening.”

“Where will the lass be taking you?” asked Liam.

“She asked but I’m planning the date. I’m still working out the details. I want it to be special.”

Liam rubbed his chin. “I’m happy for you brother. If you want my advice, keep it simple. Don’t try to go overboard.”

Killian nodded. “Aye, Emma isn’t one for that type of thing. I believe I have the perfect plan but we’ll see. What about you and Elsa? Any chance of more between you?”

“She and I have spent so much time together over the last weeks. We have not talked about a date but I’m hopeful. Honestly, I’m going to miss working with her. We never run out of things to talk about.”

Killian clapped him on the shoulder. “I know how you feel. I was just thinking the same thing about Emma. While it’s very nice working with you all these years, it was nice to have some other opinions for once. She also smells better.”

Liam laughed. “Perhaps we can ask them to come in from time to time for suggestions.”

“Perhaps you can just as the girl out and she’ll offer you suggestions all the time.” Laughed Killian.

Liam grumbled. “Aye, I know. I’m just not sure what she’ll say.”

“Liam, you are good together. It’s worth it. Just ask her.”

“I know you are right. I’m just being an arse. I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

“Good, now let’s lock up so we can go home and get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”

“Right. Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day of the Grand Re-Opening had finally arrived. Killian finalized his plans for his date with Emma and then finally went to sleep. He barely slept that night. His mind racing as he thought about opening celebration and his date with Emma. When he arrived at the shop that morning he barely remembered getting dressed and how he got there he was so tired.

His body was on autopilot running through the steps to open the store. It wasn’t until after Liam arrived with the coffee that he got the jolt he needed to wake up. It was shortly after that when Emma arrived. She entered the shop with the sun behind her back looking like the angel she was. “Good Morning Killian.”

He smiled brightly. “Good Morning Emma.”

Her eyes were staring around the shop in wonderment. She’d left before he finalized all the small details and hadn’t seen the finished product. “The shop looks and smells amazing. It’s like I’ve walked into Candyland.”

He gave her a soft smile. “It’s all thanks to you.”

“I’m glad I could help you bring this vision to life but really I can’t take the credit. This is so much more than I could have imagined. You’ve managed to take what we created that much further, if I hadn’t been here through the process I’d say you used some kind of magic to make this place come to life.”  

He laughed. “I used to think my grandfather was some sort of magician. I take that as a compliment. I could only hope to be half the man he was.”

She touched his shoulder lightly. “I’d say you’ve accomplished that and then some. I’m sure he would be proud of what you’ve done here.”

He turned away facing the photo of his grandfather. “I like to think he’s watching over us and that he will be right here with us all day.”

“I’m sure he will be. This is a dream come true. Just wait until the kids see this place. They won’t want to leave.”

“I certainly hope so. That’s the idea.” He grinned.

Emma looked over at the huge colorful clock on the wall. ”Well, in about 30 minutes you’ll find out.”

“Aye, all of the events we’ve planned for the day were published in the paper and circulated.”

He watched as she straightened one of the stuffed bunnies that had fallen out of place. “Looks like this little guy was trying to hide.”

“Well, he seems to have grown attached to the new place.”

“Can you blame him? It’s a colorful paradise in here.”

“You think so?” he asked.

“Killian, like I said. It’s like Candyland come to life. I envy you that you get to work here every day.”

He scratched behind his ear as he thought about not seeing her every day. “You ever think of changing careers you can call me.”

She laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind but if things go well tonight I can’t really be dating my boss.”

“I suppose that’s true. Are you ready for our date tonight?” he asked.  

“I’m looking forward to it. Any hints about what we are doing?”

“It’s a surprise.” He grinned.

Her mouth twisted into a smile and she nodded. “OK, Good luck today. I’ll be here this morning but I have a client meeting this afternoon that I need to prepare for so I won’t see you until tonight.”  

He held in his surprise. He had hoped that she’d be there at least one more day with him.  “OK. Good Luck to you too. I mean I hope you get the job.”

She tore out a page from her notebook. “Here is my address. You’ll need this to pick me up tonight since you won’t tell me what we are doing.”

He smiled. “Thank you and no I won’t be spoiling the surprise. You’ll see soon enough.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had everything ready by the time Liam and Elsa arrived at the shop. Elsa was just as amazed as Emma had been. Wil arrived soon after fighting through the crowd waiting to get into the store. He informed them that the line was starting to bend around the corner.

They were all excited about the turn out and anxiously waited to open the store. They advertised a candy contest in which the winner would get a free bag of candy every day for a month. They had to be fair about opening because of that.

They had a lot of events planned for the day that included, train races, carousel rides, a puppet show, face painting for the kids, lots of free samples and finally announcing the selected winning candy and ultimate prize winner. He was mostly excited to see the look on the faces of each person who entered. He was going to be looking to see if he was successful in capturing that look of wonder he remembered.

So far based on Emma and Elsa’s reactions he was but he also thought they could be bias since they’d helped. He pulled the last tray of candy coated chocolate dipped apples from the back refrigerator and placed them into the cool display case before checking in with Liam. “Ready Brother?”

Liam walked to the door, unlocked it and swung the door open. “Aye, Let the games begin.”

They welcomed each guest as they came through. He relished in the compliments, the smiles and the excitement written on each customer’s face. The children could hardly contain themselves when they got in the door.

Emma and Elsa both helped when the mad rush came in. He truly enjoyed working side by side with them and he saw it in his brother’s eyes too. He was uncertain if Liam had a chance to talk with Elsa yet but hopeful he did. It seems that Elsa was also leaving with Emma as they were both going to pitch the new client together. They’d formed a solid partnership too.

They were so busy with the activities that there was hardly time for goodbyes when the women left. He promised Emma she’d have fun that night and wished her well before going back to work.  

The day’s events went off without any issues.  The children loved the carousel rides, especially the purple pony that appeared to be a little wild, his favorite green race car that seemed to dominate the track and the little silver train that chugged around the track that circled the store.

The chocolate covered salted caramel marshmallow delight was the exalted winner of the candy contest only slightly beating out the chocolate covered strawberry banana swirl. The customers delighted in free samples of each. Ultimately it was little Roland Hood who prevailed as the winner of the free month of candy. The face the little boy made when he heard his name called would be forever engrained in his head. Such pure delight could not be bottled.

When the final patron left the shop and they switched the sign to closed and a wave of relief washed over him. He looked around at his beautifully renovated shop and smiled. It was so much more than he ever thought it would be. He knew his family would be proud of what they created.

He saw Liam wiping down the ice cream counter and whistling a familiar old tune. “Brother, we did it!”

“Aye, we did. We had a great day. Everyone loved the changes.”

“I know. Grandfather would be so happy to see the place.”

Liam nodded. “Go on, I’ve got the clean up. You get ready for your date.”

Killian cocked his head. “You sure? I’ve got time to help.”

“Scarlett is in back, he can help. You’ve done so much. Take the time brother. Don’t keep Emma waiting.”

“What about you? Did you talk with Elsa?”

Liam took a deep breath. “We have some things to finalize tomorrow. She’s going to bring me the stats on the web launch. I’ll talk to her then. It was just too hectic today.”

Killian pulled on his coat. “Alright. Don’t let her slip away.”

Liam nodded “I won’t. Now go on, have fun!”

Liam flicked the towel at him. “I will see you in the morning.”

“See you in the morning brother.”

Killian took one last look at the magical place they’d created before leaving. Now it was time to focus on Emma and their date and he couldn’t wait.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

[inktheblot]

As awful as it was, Fiddleford getting Portal straight to the head was what snapped Stanford out of his Bill-worship and stubborn adherence to the success of the transuniversal metavortex. What if that didn't happen, and Weirdmageddon came to fly 30 years ahead of schedule?

Or, a summary of an AU I will probably never get around to writing but I put too much thought into anyway.

Setting the scene of 1982-Weirdmageddon in full swing. Turning Gravity Falls inside out is fun, but eventually, of course, Bill figures out that he can’t go any further than this stupid hick town. He turns to who else but Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world, for potential solutions. “Hey, pal, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about this barrier thing, would you?”

Ford is basically Bill’s brainwashed little lap pet of the apocalypse by this point. The demon decided to keep him around because messing with him is entertaining and he might happen to have some decent knowledge left in the ol’ noggin that could come in handy later. “You belong here. I am your Muse and you are my Genius,” Bill constantly reminds him, an endlessly repeating mantra in his head. Bit by bit, Bill has twisted Ford’s thoughts and convinced him this is where he was meant to be all along: living among freaks and monsters.

Now Ford is half-asleep and half-drunk from time punch. He starts babbling about the Law of Weirdness Magnetism and how yes, you can drop the barrier. But after layers of intoxication and mind alteration, he’s barely talking coherently at all, so Bill takes things into his own hands. “Hey, don’t wear yourself out, kid! You wouldn’t mind if I just poked around in that brilliant mind of yours for that equation, right? See, it’s no biggie…You rest, Sixer. I’ll handle the hard work here.”

But Ford’s mind is a mess now; it’s not even close to organized anymore. It’s scattered with lots of weirdness, lots of upside-down-ness…and triangles. Lots of triangles. It’s pretty funny, Bill thinks: a couple of years ago, Stanford Pines was the most driven and determined young scientist this side of Dimension 52, and now he’s complete chaos-ified slush.

Bill amuses himself sifting through the disarray of Ford’s Mindscape, until he comes across something very interesting tucked inside a battered textbook. It’s an old photograph of two near-identical boys posing on a beach, all sunburns and smiles. 

Bill gets a Wonderful Awful Idea.

“OH BOY. OH BOY OH BOY. CONGRATULATIONS, MISSUS PINES, IT’S TWINS!” 

How HILARIOUS would it be to hold a little family reunion??? While Bill’s physical form can’t leave Gravity Falls - yet - the Dreamscape is still his to conquer, and it won’t take long for him to pick up this second Stan. He puts Ford’s mind to sleep and returns to the material world, only to project his dream form back outward moments later. He leaves the town - and his pet - in the hands of his Henchmaniacs.

Stanley is, frankly, in deep shit, as we might expect. By the time he dreams of this floating nacho, he’s just about had it with the world. Since he never got that postcard from his brother, he’s pretty convinced that no one gives a damn about him and nothing in his life is gonna turn around anytime soon. He’s pretty dead set on ending it all, but he figured he’d at least sleep on it before being too rash.

Then along comes this triangle guy who seems to know Lots of Things, throwing haughty proclamations and bizarre nicknames left and right. “Hey, Fish Head, you’re a bargaining man, yeah? How’s about striking a deal with me,” he proposes. “Before you go blowing your brains out, I thought maybe you might want to see your brother one more time…”

Stan is not on his conman A-game. He's too exhausted and miserable to try sorting through riddles and deals and God knows what else. He does protest the offer at first: “Nah, why bother? I haven’t seen him in like, what, twelve years? He hates me.” But eventually he figures this is all a dream, and anyway, he has nothing to lose. So he shakes the demon’s hand.

The blue fire thing is a little creepy, but he doesn’t have much time to process it, since the next thing he knows, his body is being yanked out from under him. 

He regains consciousness somewhere that must be very far away from the deadends of New Mexico. This doesn’t look remotely like his trashy motel room. It doesn’t look like Earth at all, really. “What the hell is this? Is this hell?? Is that what that flyin’ corn chip was getting at? I’m dead, I’m in hell, and - and - and Ford’s here too! That’s it, isn’t it? This is it? This is - this is the end?”

Right on cue, Stanley catches sight of his brother, now somewhat awake and alert again, floating in midair, glowing yellow and looking utterly…well…demonic. Something deep within Stan breaks. He balls up in manic panicked laughter on the floor of the Fearamid.

Things don’t go too well between a Stanley barely alive and a Stanford spellbound by otherdimensional evil. An ugly conversation fueled by old grudges and new magic commences.

Eventually Stan finds a means of temporary escape from Bill’s lair, dropping onto the streets of chaos-torn Gravity Falls, muttering curses to himself all the while. The next human being he happens to run into is none other than Fiddleford McGucket, decently crazy but still technically sane. That’s when solutions start happening…if tackling a grumbly guy in the street because "DID YOU SAY STANFORD?! YOU’VE SEEN STANFORD?!” is any way for things to start shaping up.

Fidds is safe, relatively speaking. When things started getting messed up, he immediately figured Ford’s research had something to do with it. He rushed over to Ford’s house, where everything was pretty much wrecked, but he managed to snatch up Journal 1 and the components for the unicorn-hair protection spell. Then he found a shed to put up the shield around, to keep himself alive at the very least. He avoided use of the memory gun as best he could, figuring a situation like this would require all his wits, and anyway, trying to forget about this living nightmare wouldn’t make it disappear.

Stan and Fiddleford explain to each other as much as they know about Stanford and the situation at hand, and begin to formulate a plan. They return to the Fearamid with the memory gun. One of them distracts Bill while the other blasts his influence out of Ford’s head.

The three reconvene. Stan and Fidds attempt to jog Ford’s memory: just enough to get him to understand what’s going on, but not so much that he falls back under Bill’s power.

Seeing the people he loves most so distraught ignites something in Ford. He is reminded of all the things he wished he’d said to them, all that he owes them, and he knows what he has to do to make it up to them. As if again possessed but now by a benign force, he sets the memory gun in his own name and summons Bill into his mind one last time, offering up his genius and the equation needed to escape Gravity Falls.

Bill answers the call immediately, meandering through Ford’s mind in search of his prize, only to realize soon enough that everything is going down in blue flames. He whips around to find the image of Ford staring him down, his eyes clearer than they have been in over a year.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Bill shrieks. "YOU’RE DESTROYING EVERYTHING! WHAT ABOUT ALL WE WORKED FOR?! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME! YOU ARE MY GENIUS! I AM YOUR MUSE!”

“It’s true that there is great Genius involved in this, but you won't find it in here,” Ford murmurs, thinking of his brother and his best friend holding down the trigger on the other side of his consciousness. “No one else will suffer from your trickery…or my foolishness."

Bill screams. Ford exhales. The Mindscape fades to white. The invasive weirdness evaporates from Earth Dimension 46’;.

Ford awakens to Stan and Fiddleford leaning over him, tears in their eyes and worry on their faces. They manage to convince their amnesiac companion to return to his old house, but any hope of restoring his memory seems for naught…

That is, until Fidds happens upon a stray thirty-eight-sided die stuck in the floorboards. “This was our favorite game in college,” he explains to Stan wistfully. “Kinda nerdy, maybe, but we sure had fun with it. How did that chant thingummy go? Something like…‘with pen and paper, shield and sword…’”

A weak and tired, but nevertheless passionate voice sounds from the other side of the room.

“‘Our quest shall be our sweet reward.'"

[sincerelybluevase]

Fanfic Friday: A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes

Time to return to some classic Turnadette this week. I hope you guys enjoy; reviews are always appreciated ;). Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing!

 Doctor Turner enveloped her hand with his own, larger ones. His skin was work-roughened and calloused, but his grip was very soft, gentle.

Sister Bernadette daren’t look at his face, afraid that the lines there and his burning eyes would suddenly become a map that she could read. She curled her free hand into a fist, letting her nails dig into her palm with such force that they left little half-moons of white that took their time turning red.

“May I?” he whispered, voice low and thick. His index finger caressed the little fold of flesh that was neither palm nor finger, which caused shivers to climb along her vertebrae.

“Yes,” she intended to say, but only air escaped between her lips. She snapped her eyes up and met his hazel ones. They were searching her face for permission, and they looked so lost and loyal, almost dog-like, that it made her want to cry.

She couldn’t wait, then, didn’t want to stand shivering till something happened or nothing did. Instead, she stepped into his arms, placing her free hand against his throat, letting her fingers fan out till they met his jawline. He swallowed, and she felt his Adam’s apple bob under her palm.

“God forgive me, but I am in love with you, and I can’t help myself,” Doctor Turner murmured, tilting his face downward so he could look at her.

She looked at him through her lashes, eyes half-lidded from the simple pleasure of standing with his arms bracketed around her, ensconced in his warmth and scent. “I love you,” she whispered. She stood on tiptoes, closing the distance between their faces till the tips of their noses touched. Another thrill shot through her, and warmth nestled itself in her belly.

His mouth met hers, and his kiss was as gentle as his hands. He snaked one arm around her waist to keep her close, his hand on her back, causing more heat to radiate through her body, prodding the fire inside her till it roared and demanded more, so much more.

“Oh please, Doctor Turner,” she moaned as he kissed her neck.

His hand trailed through her hair, fingertips tickling her scalp.

Where did our clothes go? she wondered, and then the hand on her back travelled lower, cupping her backside, pressing her hips to his, and…

 Sister Bernadette awoke gasping, a thin sheen of sweat coating her skin and causing her nightgown to cling to her body in a way it certainly wasn’t supposed to. Her heart was beating so fast that her blood hummed in her ears. Her lungs felt too large for her chest, or maybe her chest was simply too tiny; either way, her breathing was rapid and shallow, painful, even.

She pressed a hand over the cavity where her heart beat, wincing at how clammy her skin was, forcing herself to take deep, steady breaths. She tried to ignore the sensation in her belly, which was fire and emptiness and ache, mercilessly pressing it down, as if she were crushing a weed underneath her shoe, robbing it of light and space till the sickly thing died.

When her breathing had evened out somewhat she got up, almost stumbling to her washbasin, wetting a flannel and pressing it against her brow.

She felt feverish, weak.

Had she really dreamed about embracing Doctor Turner? Of allowing him to kiss her, of his wandering hands invading places that they had no right to touch?

His hands had been gentle, and even though her cheeks now burned with something that was surely guilt, in her dream, she had not wanted him to stop. A small part of her still wished that he hadn’t stopped, not in her dream, and not in the Parish hall several days ago, when his lips had kissed her wounded palm.

She looked at the scrape. It was no longer an angry red line; instead, it had crusted over, and was busy knitting itself together under the dark scab. She repressed the urge to press her fingers against it – or, heaven forbid, her own lips– instead roughly rubbing her face with the wet flannel till her skin was red.

Sister Bernadette looked at the clock. Half an hour to go till Lauds; no sense in climbing back into bed. She looked over her shoulder, at the green spread she had pushed to the end of the bed as she dreamed, and felt a questing flame crackling along her nerves. Resolutely she turned away, dragging her nightgown over her head and giving herself a sponge bath before getting dressed.

She then picked up her Bible from the night stand and slipped out of her room, intent on going to the chapel and praying a little before her fellow religious sisters joined her. Perhaps the coloured windows and smell of incense would scourge her mind; sleep certainly didn’t.

It was still dark outside, but the hallway downstairs was illuminated by light spilling underneath the door of Sister Julienne’s office. Sister Bernadette halted in front of it.

Part of her wanted to pretend her dreams hadn’t happened, that she hadn’t fallen in love with the doctor, wasn’t falling still. Another part wanted her to confront her feelings head-on, and not cower under her blanket or on her knees in the chapel, praying for a miracle. It was the same part that insisted she’d be honest with herself, and with Sister Julienne. She knew her mentor was so very concerned about her…

Resolutely, Sister Bernadette pushed the handle down and stepped inside.

Sister Julienne’s eyes snapped up, surprise and something else writ large in her eyes. “Sister Bernadette!” she said, and dropped the book she was holding. It landed with a soft thud on the carpet, spilling sheets of paper and dried flowers.

“I’m sorry!” Sister Bernadette exclaimed, dropping to her knees to help her fellow religious sister gather the waxed paper and pressed plants.

“I can manage,” Sister Julienne mumbled.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Sister Bernadette whispered, voice low, suddenly afraid that her outcry would have woken the nurses. She picked up a glossy photograph, carefully holding it between her fingertips so it would not smudge.

It showed a young woman with a bob and a fringe, laughing, eyes squinted in delight, and a young man sitting next to her.

That’s Sister Julienne, Sister Bernadette thought, brows knitting, but who is that man?

“Thank you,” Sister Julienne said, taking the photograph from her, snatching at the sheets still on the floor, almost crumpling them in her haste to get them off the floor.

Not off the floor; away from you, Sister Bernadette realised.

She stood up, straightening the folds in her habit.

What to do; what to say? Apologising would show that she knew she had intruded on something private, that she knew that photograph was important to Sister Julienne. If she didn’t apologise, would her fellow religious sister think that she hadn’t realised the photograph’s value, or would she think her rude?

“I’m sorry. I should’ve knocked,” she murmured. Her glasses had slid to the tip of her nose; she pushed them back again with her index finger, balling her marred hand into a fist.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sister Julienne asked, a smile plastered on her face as she put the sheets back in her book and returning it to its shelf.

“I had a dream,” Sister Bernadette started, then snapped her mouth shut as she realised she had no idea how to continue her sentence. She picked her Bible up from the floor, brushing a piece of fluff from the gold-embossed cover.

“Was it a good dream?” Sister Julienne asked, trying to sound cheerful. She sounded strained, and her face was pinched, pale. She looked drawn and tired.

“I don’t… I don’t know. I’m confused,” Sister Bernadette confessed, rubbing her temples. A headache was brewing behind her eyes. She shivered.

“Why don’t you sit down? We still have a bit of time before Lauds begins,” Sister Julienne said.

Sister Bernadette lowered herself into a wooden chair, placing her Bible on the desk in front of her and folding her hands into her lap.

“Did you come here to speak to me about that dream?” Sister Julienne asked, folding her own hands and smiling.

Sister Bernadette fingered the scab on her palm as she tried to find the right words to proceed, but found she could hardly speak. Where guilt and shame had reigned before, shame suddenly made itself known, and proved itself superior, closing her throat and making her eyes burn. The warmth spread to her forehead, flushed her cheeks and neck. “Do you… sometimes dream of things you shouldn’t?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Sister Julienne asked, brows knitted.

“I sometimes dream of things I shouldn’t want,” Sister Bernadette confessed, eyes trained on her hands.

“Temptation is natural, as is doubt. We all encounter it, sooner or later,” Sister Julienne said.

“But what if it doesn’t go away?” Sister Bernadette whispered, eyes flitting up and briefly meeting those of her mentor before she lowered them again.

“The dreams, or the feelings?”

“I don’t know,” Sister Bernadette said. Her vision had grown fuzzy with tears. She dug her nails in her palm to ground herself, only to open the scab. She gasped as blood trickled down the ridge of her hand, pooling in her palm. She stood almost as a reflex, ready to take care of herself.

“You’ve hurt your hand,” Sister Julienne remarked, opening a drawer in her desk and extracting a plaster from it.

“It’s nothing,” Sister Bernadette murmured, fumbling for her handkerchief with her right hand so she could wipe the blood away, sitting down again.

“Does it hurt?” Sister Julienne asked, taking her own handkerchief and dabbing at Sister Bernadette’s palm before putting on some salve and the plaster.

Sister Bernadette then turned her hand over and closed it around Sister Julienne’s, trapping the hiss that bubbled up from her lungs as her skin threatened to split again. It would definitely remain a scar if she kept opening it like this. A tear dripped down her face, landing on the back of her hand, glistening like a dewdrop before sliding away, leaving only the faintest of tracks.

“I feel so terribly confused,” Sister Bernadette said.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Sister Julienne said, taking Sister Bernadette’s hand in hers and kissing it. “Please try and tell me what has you so confused. We have started talking; please don’t stop.”

“But I can’t,” Sister Bernadette said, frowning. How could she possibly explain that Doctor Turner’s face was printed on the inside of her eyelids, so that it was his face she saw when she closed her eyes, and his face alone? How could she confess that he was no longer just a colleague, but was slowly becoming the planet her life revolved around, unbalancing the orbit she had kept these past ten years, drawing her away from her fellow sisters?

“I hate to see you so upset,” Sister Julienne whispered, stroking Sister Bernadette’s hand with her thumb. “I just want you to know that every nun experiences phases of doubt, of regret. Do not feel guilty about doubting. Even Thomas doubted, and he had seen miracles.”

“Do you doubt sometimes?” Sister Bernadette asked as another tear slipped between her lashes.

“Yes, oh yes. When I grew up, I imagined a different life for myself. I dreamed of a husband, and of children.”

The man in the photograph? Sister Bernadette wondered, wiping her cheek with her free hand. “But then?” she asked.

“Then I got called, and my calling proved stronger.”

“Do you regret that?”

Sister Julienne’s eyes slipped sideways as she contemplated this. “When I was younger, I sometimes thought about what might have been.”

“Not anymore?”

“It will not do to dwell on the road travelled, the path not taken. I have made my choice, and I know it is the right one. Everything else that threatened to draw me away did not turn out to be unimportant, but paled in comparison to Him,” Sister Julienne said, voice strong and steadfast.

But how will I know? Sister Bernadette wondered. Doctor Turner no longer paled in comparison, and that was exactly what had her so confused, because how could a man of flesh and blood compete with an eternal, all-powerful deity? But at least the doctor’s hands were soft, and she could read loyalty and love in his eyes, whereas her God had been cold and distant lately. Doctor Turner made her feel loved and wanted, but her God only made her feel shame and guilt now where before there had been only love.

She shook her head to rid herself of these thoughts. “I will need some more time, I think,” she decided. Just a few more weeks to create order in the chaos that reigned supreme in her mind, just a bit of time…

“It is time for Lauds. I will pray for you,” Sister Julienne said, giving Sister Bernadette’s hand a good squeeze.

“Thank you, Sister,” Sister Bernadette murmured. Sister Julienne’s hand was cool and gentle as it helped her up, and for a blessed moment, Doctor Turner’s hands were a mere memory. His touch still lingered, soft and ghostlike, though, and no other hand, no matter how gentle, could make his caresses fully fade.

[frankiefellinlove]

Return of the Native The Aquarian , September 23, 1978 By Mike Greenblatt

We’ve been sitting on a bench facing the ocean near the Casino Arena in Asbury Park. It’s 45 minutes past our appointed meeting time with Bruce Springsteen and we’re trying to light matches in the wind. It’s past 1:30 now and we’re wondering if he’s going to show up. Hell, it’s a beautiful sunny fall day, one of his very few days off from a grueling whirlwind tour of the country. And it’s his birthday to boot. Maybe he just ain’t gonna show.

But we’re determined. We’re prepared to wait for two more hours. Then, if he’s still not here, we’ll split. We’ve already tired of scrutinizing all the faces for something that will tell us it’s him in disguise. We forgot our quest and go back to the matches.

“Hi”, he says as he walks right up at us. “Sorry I’m late, I just got up.” He’s dressed in a blueish work-shirt and jeans. He has ever-present sunglasses on. We decide to break the ice over lunch.

Settling into a booth at the Convention Hall Coffee Shop, I order a BLT, photographer Sorce, a cheeseburger, and Bruce, a hamburger, french fries and coke.

“Yeah, we had a real rep”, Bruce starts to say. “We could draw two, maybe three thousand people on any given night. We played our own concerts here and also down south. It’s weird. Nobody would ever book us because we never did any Top-40. Never. We used to play all old soul stuff. Chuck Berry, just the thing we liked. That’s why we couldn’t get booked. We made enough to eat though.”

The waitresses are starting to mill about the table so Bruce puts his shades back on and hushes up his tone. “The other night was amazing”, he wispers. “I went to see Animal house, and when I came out of the theater there was a whole bunch of people that started following me to the parking lot. I wound up signing autographs for over an hour.”

“Anyway, after a while the kicks started to wear off and a lot of the time we didn’t make enough to eat. That’s why i signed with Mike (Appel). Anything was better than what was happening at the time.”

Little did the local rocker know that this early signing with Mike Appel would result in the latter claiming rights to the early material Springsteen had written. The rest of the courtroom drama is famous. Perhaps generously, Bruce had nothing bad to say about his former manager.

“He did a lot of good for me at that time”, he says, dipping one particularly long french fry into a mound of ketchup. “He introduced me to John Hammond (CBS bigwig responsible for signing Dylan, Aretha Franklin, Billie Holiday, Bessie Smith and others). He helped me on that first album”. He pauses as if he were ruminating on something. “I haven’t seen him since that day.”

“Actually, I was pretty shielded from the whole thing”, he continues. “Mike put the onus on Jon (Landau), claiming he was the culprit.”

I ask: You mean he charged Landau with stealing you away from him?

“Yeah, sort of. I was never good at the business end of things.”

Asked about the famous line Landau wrote for his Real Paper review (“I saw rock and roll future and its name is Bruce Springsteen”), Bruce says, “That line is misrepresentative of the whole review. It’s funny. The review was nothing like that one line. It got taken out of context” - another myth shattered.

“I remember playing in a club where an earlier review that Jon wrote was splashed all over the outside wall. I was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, when Jon practically bumped right into me. I had never met him. We hit it off right away.”

“When asked if he ever gave up during the long months of inactivity, Bruce still remains bright, completely devoid of bitterness. ” I knew that it was just a matter of time. We were playing almost throughout that whole episode even though we weren’t supposed to. I mean, what kind of law is it that is written specifically to stop a man from doing what he does to make his money?“

“The only real frustrating thing which did cause me grief was the fact that my songs weren’t my own. I didn’t own my own songs. That hurt.”

But that makes it all the more satisfying now. At Nassau Coliseum, thousands of kids screaming their guts out for him before he even played a song. They didn’t let up until he finished, drained and exhausted. At the Capitol Theatre, two nights before, he was surprised onstage by a giant birthday cake out of which a scantily clad girl bounced. He swears he didn’t know a thing about it (“I even told John Scher no cakes”). At Madison square Garden, 18,000 fans leaned on every note as if it were the last they would ever hear. A gala party was held for him in the plush Penn Plaza Club located deep inside the bowels of the Garden. Security was the tightest I’d ever witnessed.

We paid for the food and split for the beach. The conversation continued amid the sea, the wind and the hovering presence of the Casino Arena.

“I’m into a little photography myself”, Bruce says as Sorce adjusts his light meter. “I took some pictures of Lynnie (Lynn goldsmith, photographer) that were published somewhere.”

When asked about his other interests, Bruce talks of softball. “Yeah, we used to play hard. we had to stop, though, when Clarence and myself used to get too battered up. We’d go on stage all wracked up and it would hurt. After a while, it got too important and too many people were into it. There’s no softball on this tour. What else do I like? Hmmm, I’ll tell ya…not too much besides music. Right now, music is it. I don’t care about anything else.”

We get back to talking of copy bands and the difference between making it with your own material and making good money playing copies. I tell Bruce I had to play “Shake Your Booty” to get booked anywhere.

“Shake Your Booty?” laughs Bruce, falling into the sand. “That’s a great song. KC, man, he’s great! He always comes out with those repetitive things. Over and over and over, that kind of stuff is great! It’s like the ‘Louie, Louie’ of today.” Later on, in talking about what is written about him, he says, “I have Glen (Glen Brunman, CBS publicist) mail me everything that’s written about me. Hundreds of things, man. I read them all at once. That way I can get a pretty good perspective on what my press is like, rather than reading one thing at a time.”

“Near the end of Darkness, I wasn’t doing any interviews”, Bruce continues. “Then I did them until I noticed myself saying the same things to different people. There’s only one answer to each question; you don’t want to lie to these people. I really had myself in a spin. And each interview was a multiple interview situation with two or three people at once. I guess the problem was that I did too many of ‘em.”

Walking off the beach, we talk of the Garden shows and his stretcher routine, whereby he sings himself silly until he has to be taken off the stage in a stretcher, only to break free and grab the microphone again until he’s forcibly restrained from the stage.

That’s a great routine. Where’d you get that from? I ask. I know that professional wrestling has a stretcher routine where the good guy gets beat so bad they have to carry him off in a stretcher and the bad guy always kicks him off of it as it passes by. It’s classic.

“No”, answers Bruce, “I didn’t even know about that. We got it from James Brown. He used to get himself so worked up that the bassist led him offstage wrapped in a cape. He’d throw the cape off his shoulders and come running back to the mike stand some two or three times. It drove 'em wild. So that’s where we got the idea for the stretcher routine.”

Sliding into the front seat of a borrowed '78 burnt yellow Camaro, Bruce at the wheel, we’re on our way to the neighborhood where he grew up in Freehold. Shoving a cassette into the receptacle, he says, “A fan gave this to me outside a concert once. it’s real good tape.”

He turns up the volume, guns the motor and shifts into second. We take off. He turns up the volume a little more and starts looking for “Hello Mary Lou” by Rick Nelson. “This song has one of the greatest guitar parts ever on it.”

He can’t find the tune and settles for oldies like “If You Wanna Be Happy For the Rest of Your Life (Never Make a Pretty Woman your Wife)” and “Blue Suede Shoes”. He shifts into third.

Now for the first time, we do not talk. The music is loud and damn appealing. The windows are down so the wind is whipping furiously into the car. He shifts into fourth and takes off.

We’re rolling now. We settle uncomfortably behind a slow driver. He checks his rear-view mirror and roars past the driver. Seeing another slow-mover right ahead, he stays in the opposite lane and passes two in one fell swoop before settling comfortably back on the right. From the back, Sorce lets out a soft “Whew!”

It’s great moment. Chuck Berry is wailing out with “Maybelline”. Bruce is going faster. It’s such a fuckin’ beautiful day. The wind is rushing in and Bruce is feeling good, snapping his fingers, clapping his hands and letting out with a hoarse vocal or two on the last line of each verse. “Hello Mary Lou” finally comes on and suddenly everything is crystallized in one magic moment - the speed, the music, the sun, the wind, the company. Jeezez Christ! We’re rolling down the highway with fuckin’ Bruce Springsteen at the wheel! And he’s driving the way you would think Bruce Springsteen would drive.

Later, when we reach a light, Bruce impatiently waits on it before saying, “This is what we used to call a 'quarterback sneak’”“, and with that he takes off surreptitiously past the red light.

We’re in the old neighborhood now. Bruce drives slowly down Institute Street until he reaches the right number. It’s been painted now. "I lived here all through grammar school. There’s a Nestle’s factory near here. Man, when it rained we smelled that stuff all day long.”

The elder Springsteen would go to work in the morning, come home, go to sleep and wake up and go back to work at the factory. “I guess there was other things he wanted,” Bruce reflects.

We get back into the car and drive over to the factory. “Both my grandfather and my father worked here. It used to be a rug mill in the old days, but for some reason it ran out of business fairly quick. I was pretty young at the time.”

When I ask about high school, Bruce clams up. “It wasn’t exactly the best time of my life because I didn’t graduate with any of the others. It was a rough period.” I could see he really doesn’t pursue this avenue too long so I drop it. But I wonder what mystery is veiled beneath this wall of secrecy.

We get back into the car and tear out of there. Ironically enough, the tape Bruce shoves into the machine this time is an old Animals cassette. The first song could be a forerunner to much of the music Bruce writes. As the opening line comes out of the speakers, the dusty factory is just fading from view…

“In this dirty old part of the city/Where the sun refuses to shine/People say that there ain’t no use in trying/My little girl you’re so young and pretty/And one thing I know is true/You’ll be dead before your time is due, yes you will/See my daddy in bed ad night/See his hair a’ turnin’ grey/He’s been working and slaving his life away, yes he has.”

The song is, of course, “We Gotta Get Out of This Place”, and it was a fitting omen as we drove off.

As we drove, Bruce starts reminiscing. “Yeah, I lived in practically every single town around here, from Atlantic Highlands to Bradley Beach. We used to move quite often.

"That’s where I had my very first gig,” he laughs as we pass a mobile setup. Looking out of the window, the 10 or 20 mobile homes facing us look worn and old. “The gig wasn’t bad…for our first job.”

Hey Bruce, are you gonna show up at the Capitol again like you did last year on New Year’s Eve? I ask him. It was announced earlier in the week that Southside Johnny & the Asbury Jukes would again party away the year in such grand fashion. Bruce turns around and answers, “I don’t know where I’m gonna be on New Year’s Eve.

"C'mon, I’ll show you where my surfin’ buddies used to live,” he says, changing the subject. We swerve sharply off the highway onto an exit. “This used to be a surfboard factory,” he says. We step out of the car near a small white building.

“Yeah, me and a fella named Tinker lived here for a year and a half, in one room. All the rest of this area used to be nothin’ but sand dunes.” He points to a huge expanse of stores, houses and construction. “None of this was here.”

“They used to make the surfboards downstairs. Tinker and I, we had a ball. Just one room! Two beds, a fridge and a TV - the rest of the room was filled with surfboards.”

“Since I was from Freehold, I was considered inland. All these guys used to surf every day. I was friends with 'em all but never went. Finally, they got to me. One afternoon they were merciless. They just kept taunting me and kidding me about not surfing that it just sorta got me riled. I grabbed a board and we all headed out to the beach.

"I must have been some sight surfing for the first time, but I’ll tell you something - I got the hang of it pretty quick. Hell, it ain’t harder than anything else. It’s like riding a bike. I haven’t surfed in awhile. Now that’s something I’d love to do. As a matter of fact, I think I will.”

He seems resolute.

He continues: “This guy Jesse taught me the finer points of surfing. We used to stay in North End Beach in Long Branch all the time. Some guy owned the beach so we had the use of it for almost two whole years. We’d be there every day. We’d stay on the beach, go in the water. It was great.

"This area is really amazing. There’s really poor neighborhoods and then there’s real nice neighborhoods all in a five-mile radius.

"I used to go to New York a lot back then. I played at the Cafe Wha? a lot in '68. I used to play there with Jerry Walker’s old group, Circus Maximus. Let’s see, I played the Night Owl (all these places were in the West Village). They had a lot of good bands there at the time - the Raves, Robin & the Hoods. Let’s see, the Mothers of Invention were playing all the time in that area and so were the Fugs.

"I didn’t go to too many concerts then. I much preferred playing and jamming with these people. There was a whole 'nother scene taking place over in the East Village that I wasn’t part of at all - the Fillmore, the Electric Circus. I think my first experience seeing a rock star was going to Steve Paul’s Scene and seeing Johnny Winter. That was really something. I remember between sets, he came out and sat at the very next table from me and my friends.”

Let’s go back to Asbury, I suggest.

Asking Bruce if he’d take me back to the old Upstage site where he held court almost every night, he gladly obliges and we get out of the car again in what could be termed downtown Asbury.

“I gotta be cool,” Bruce chuckles. “I ran out of here without paying the rent.”

We walk over to the site, which is upstairs from a shoe store.

“I lived here while Greetings From Asbury Park was being made. I slept in my sleeping bag on my friend’s floor for a good portion of that album.”

Bruce poses for pics while people pass by right and left. Surprisingly enough, nobody recognizes him (or if they do, they keep on walking).

“I’m lucky in that respect. What happened in the movies the other night is a rarity. Usually, I don’t get recognized. I don’t have that instantly recognizable feature that a lot of other people have.”

Yeah, like Frampton’s hair, I reply.

“My folks had already moved to California,” Bruce remembers, “and I was out of high school by the time I got to Asbury.

"Upstage was a great place for us to play. We played here an awful lot.”

In answering questions about his immediate future, Bruce says, “I have one more day off before we finish the tour. Then I have a whole month off before we start up again. In February we go back into the studio for work on the next album. I’m hoping it will be out by next summer.”

Just for the record, the tour ended officially in Atlanta on Oct. 1. It started in Buffalo on May 23. The new tour starts (possibly in New Jersey) on Nov. 1 and finishes by Dec. 20. If the time it took to cut Darkness is any indicator, then number five will be lucky to hit the stands by the summer after next.

The just-finished tour took in 70 cities and 86 shows in four months and eight days. That’s why Bruce has to be listed as a “great guy” to do up an afternoon on one of his rare days off. Another highly impressive thing is that he spent the whole day without the protective cradle of a publicist’s presence. Rarely have I done an interview without the artist’s publicist in tow.

In talking about the current LP, Bruce says, “The guy who took the cover shot for that album is a friend of mine from south Jersey who works full-time in a meat market. The shots were taken at his house. He’s a great photographer.”

Bruce’s only comment about the self-destructive syndrome (dope-money-power) affecting so many rock stars is that “they let all the other things become more important than playing. Playing is the important thing. Once you forget that, you’ve had it.”

Bruce, obviously, hasn’t forgotten that. He’s been having fun with music since the start. Bruce Springsteen is the perfect assimilator of many styles - Chuck Berry/Stones/Elvis/Buddy Holly/ Dylan/Little Richard/Animals. His image on stage is also an amalgamation of many images - Elvis/young Brando/James Dean. Somehow he melds all of these influences into one cohesive framework for his own strikingly original material. The man is all that he has devoured musically from the time he started listening to music, and it all pours out of him every time he steps on stage. “That Elvis, man,” Bruce says, “he is all there is. There ain’t no more. Everything starts and ends with him. He wrote the book. He is everything to do and not to do in the business.”

If Elvis Presley is Bruce’s prototype then Bruce, himself, is the focus for a lot of envy and speculation. We all have fantasies - Bruce included - of making it big and living as stars. Well, Bruce is living the ultimate realization of that fantasy right now. He’s made it through all the bullshit inherent in such a proposition. He’s doing it. And doing it in style.

Yet if you talk to him, he’s quite humble. Ask him what part he played in the writing of “Because the Night” and he’ll tell you that he only wrothe the title line (although he admits he will probably put it on his next album.)

Seeing him so close up and listening to him speak makes one realize that, although not articulate, there is a certain aura about him. A certain intangible. His charisma is the well-worn persona of the working man. His handsome/beautiful face could even make the transition to the silver screen as a prophet of the proletariat. His facial features are tough, yet there’s a certain hardness to him. You’d swear he’s Italian before you’re told of his Dutch descent.

His enthusiasm is real. The moment when Gary U.S. Bonds came over the car speakers with “Quarter to Three” - that’s when Bruce really started to groove. The song is in his encores in most of his performances. He still loves the original and still sings along with it when it comes on.

The essence of rock and roll can be distilled into a performance that a fella by the name of Bobby Lewis did on American Bandstand many years ago. Lewis performed “Tossin’ and Turnin’” on the show, lip-synched it, and drove the small television studio crazy with his slips and slides. Host Dick Clark did a never-before-done-thing - he, in his madness of the moment, screamed for Lewis to perform the same song again. The sound man cued it up and Lewis went back out onto the stage and really tore into it this time, twisting, turning, giving it all he had. By now his lip motions were completely out-of-synch with the record being played, but it didn’t matter. It was a piece of rock and roll heaven. And one, I’m sure, Bruce Springsteen would have enjoyed.

[inkandblade]

02. Glitter

Derek knew that Stiles had spread his proverbial wings in his early twenties; the geeky, weedy, Sheriff’s son hadn’t just emerged from the cocoon that was his home town, no. Stiles had ripped his way out with gusto and taken anyone and everyone in his way and had them give him exactly what he wanted.

Derek hadn’t been witness to much of it. He’d been on his own road to self-recovery. Instead of Stiles’ lube and condoms, alcohol and weed, and the pleasures of the flesh, though, Derek’s path mainly consisted of mediation retreats, spiritual quests, and the pleasures of zen and austerity.

Derek had seen photographs and video of what he’d missed of his younger Pack-members’ lives. He’d seen evidence of Stiles with pretty girls and wild women, drag queens and burly bears. Through it all Stiles hadn’t changed for any of them, though. He’d replaced his plaid shirts and slogan tees with black button downs and skin tight pants not long after high school graduation. His hair had gotten longer, his stubble had become darker, and his jaw had lost its roundness, but Stiles had stayed just Stiles.

It had surprised everyone, and no one, when the two of them had found each other when they’d come back to Beacon Hills. Derek had been ready to try to love, ready to open his heart and bare his soul. Stiles had declared himself done with partying and in need of a steady place to be, a steady person to be with. They promised each other monogamy two and a half dates in, and pledged that if they did ever feel that they needed, or wanted, to be with someone else, they’d say so before it happened.

It hadn’t quite been five months since that conversation, but it had been a good five months. They’d settled into each other’s lives without any major accommodations. Derek did his shifts and Stiles praised his work as a paramedic and the way his butt looked in his uniform. Stiles spent his days coding, and Derek marveled aloud at just what he could do with his hands on a keyboard, and what he could do with them in other places, too.

Stiles had just come back from a week in San Francisco—“I really don’t want to, Sourwolf, but they like proof that their contractors are alive every six months or so, and training courses are the best excuse they’ve got”—and crashed on the couch in his dad’s living room. He’d dumped his clothes out of his bag before deciding he’d take a few minutes to rest before he did anything about them. Half an hour later, with Stiles snoring soundly on the sofa, Derek had had enough of looking at the pile of shirts and jocks and socks and jeans, and scooped them up to get them into the machine.

Stiles basically only wore one color now, so Derek didn’t have to worry about separating them to wash, but on auto-pilot he made sure the jeans were buttoned and the shirt-sleeves were all pulled the right way out.

There was a smear of makeup, holographic and sparkling, right along the collar of one of Stiles’ tightest t-shirts. Stiles, much to the dismay of the women in their Pack, wouldn’t even wear eyeliner. The shit on the shirt was probably foundation and highlighter and some kind of eye stuff. Even a foot from Derek’s face the cloth smelled like alcohol and body spray and a stranger’s sweat.

Stiles had been in the city for a week. There’d probably been dinners out and nights on the town sponsored by the company. Derek sprayed the makeup with a stain-remover John had sitting on the shelf and threw the shirt in the washing machine.

Stiles’ wet-look jeans were the next thing in the pile. They smelled of alcohol and body spray and a stranger’s sweat and Stiles and sex.

“I might not be able to hear your heartbeat, but the fact that you’ve got your claws out says a lot.”

Derek didn’t look at his hands, just willed them back to human. He threw the jeans over the edge of the washing machine and turned around.

Stiles was leaning tight against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest. His hair was flat on one side where he’d been lying with his cheek pressed into the sofa. One of his socks was close to coming off.

“Last night, at the end of training, we all went out. I ran into some people I knew from college. They tried, very persuasively, to get me to go to an old hangout of ours. I’d had a couple of drinks, so my reactions to what was being offered were slow. They were still my reactions, though.”

Derek swallowed hard. He wanted to look up at Stiles, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He settled for staring at where Stiles’ arms curled into each other and hoped he didn’t look as if he was focusing on Stiles’ heartbeat. “You don’t need my permission to do anything.” It was a cop out, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“No, I don’t. But I made you a promise. I’ve always understood that our really specific agreement about being exclusive was mostly about me and the way I lived before I came home, Derek.” Derek turned his head as much as he could without moving the rest of his body. He wasn’t proud that he still had those insecurities, he wasn’t okay with the fact that he still worried about being used.

Stiles pushed off the wall and took a step closer. Derek tried to concentrate on the smells of the detergent and boot-polish in the cupboard. “I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry for needing it. I’m so fucking proud of you for asking as soon as you did, and I never would have agreed if I wasn’t okay with it.” He was less than an arm’s length away, and Derek didn’t know if he wanted to pull him in or push him further away. Stiles’ voice was rough. “Fuck. I’m doing this all wrong. I had full intentions of telling you exactly what happened, as soon as possible, but it was so good to be back home and I didn’t realize I was that tired.”

Derek looked up. Stiles wasn’t lying. “Tell me now, then.”

“My reaction to being invited to a BDSM club, and then instead to a participation-encouraged-strip-joint, and then instead back to someone’s place for privacy? They were all the same, Derek. I said no every time. I told them I was in a monogamous relationship, every time. I told them I wasn’t going to cheat on my partner, every time. Eventually, when one of the guys tried to tell me that it was okay and that he’d always wanted me to fuck him and that no-one else, including my boyfriend, ever needed to know, I almost hit him. I was going to break the nose on his perfectly made-up face for not understanding the meaning of No anyway, but then he put his hands on me and I snapped his fingers instead.” There was no skip in his heartbeat. He smelled angry, and scared. “I ended up hitting them all with a mild-memory zap so they’d forget they saw me. I’m not proud of hurting him, or having to resort to magic to cover it up, but I’m kind of glad it all happened. I went back to my hotel alone and jerked myself to sleep thinking about you.”

Derek felt another wash of shame fall over him. He should have known that Stiles wouldn’t cheat. He should have trusted that Stiles would do what he promised. “I’m sorry I—”

“No. Again. Don’t you dare.” Stiles stepped closer now and let his hands fall to his side. His shoulders dropped and gripped into the sides of pants. “I made you that promise with every intention of keeping it. But you had no way of knowing if I could do that or not. You might trust me with your life when we’re up against the monster of the week, but that’s not the same at all. I.” He lifted one hand, tentatively and held it in the air between them. “Can I touch you? I really want a hug, and I can’t admit what I’m about to if you’re looking at me.”

Derek couldn’t smell anger now. There was still fear, but it was morphing into a different kind. He reached out and took Stiles’ hovering hand then pulled his boyfriend in. “It was only a week, but I missed you.” Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist and pressed his face into Derek’s neck and for a moment all the tension seemed to melt out of him. It didn’t last.

“I missed you, too. When I left for college I had several goals in mind, but only one is important right now. There was someone from Beacon Hills that I wanted to forget. I wanted to fuck him right out of my head and my heart. It didn’t work, at all. I kept doing what I was doing though. I wanted to discover everything that I could about myself and come back and be the best version of me that I could for him.”

Derek’s heart felt as if it was trying to break out of his chest. His own heartbeat was drowning out the sound of Stiles’. “Did it work?”

Stiles’ stubble was a day or two past comfortable, but the rasp and drag was him smiling against Derek’s neck, so it was more than forgivable. “Other than me giving him a heart attack this afternoon ‘cause I’m still not great at saying what I should? Yeah, I think it’s going pretty well, Sourwolf.”

♠ Glitter [v]: to make a brilliant show; [n]: a sparkling reflected light or luster; showy splendor; small glittering ornaments

July CampNaNoWrimo - my prompt table and ‘rules’ are here.

[lomlwintersoldier]

Let Me In {8}

Sequel to The Sun and The Stars

Previous parts:  | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 |

Word count: 3196

Warnings: Be prepared xx

According to Natasha, you weren’t allowed to move anymore, much to your dismay; your fighting and straining caused enough damage to your already injured body and even the slightest movement would most likely tear open your unhealed wounds. Natasha, not wanting to leave you alone was came to you every fifteen minutes, she says to check on your health but you have a feeling she wants to talk to you about something.

“He’s doing the best he can, you know.” She says after what feels like hours of silence. You hadn’t able to focus on anything but your daughter and where she might be. Your worry hadn’t really left room to think of anything else. “What?” You ask, confused as to where she was going with this.

“Steve.” She replies tentatively. “He cares about you, Y/N. That’s why he came back for you.” “He shouldn’t have.” You don’t want to hear about anything to do with Steve. You’re still angry at him for endangering your daughter and you don’t see yourself forgiving him any time soon. Then again, right now your mind is clouded by your anger.

“Y/N, give him an inch. He’s gone to save her.” Natasha chides as she redresses your wounds. “Because of something he did. It was his fault in the first place.” You retort, hissing in pain when she tugs harder on the bandage than needed.

“He wants to make it right, obviously.” “Unless my baby is brought back to me in one piece, he hasn’t made it right.” You start to chew on your finger as you’re immersed in thoughts of how afraid she must be, all alone. “When are you going to admit you’re in love with him?” Natasha asks sharply. You’re so taken by surprise all you can do is gape at her incredulously and scoff.

“I am not in love with him.” You mutter, turning away from her.

“Yes you are.” She replies. “And he’s in love with you.” “No, I’m not, and no, he isn’t.” You reply dangerously, your tone daring her to keep on the subject and see where it goes for her. Natasha seems to sense the danger in your tone but you aren’t exactly in a position to be making threats, considering how weak you are. She seems to know that because she continues.

“What is this about?” She asks, furrowing her brow and crossing her arms as you shift away from her. “Nothing.” You retort. “I just don’t have feelings for Steve.” Her green eyes look you up and down for a moment before her gaze softens and pity crosses her face. “Is it Bucky?” She asks softly. Your jaw sets in a hard line and your eyes flutter as tears fill your eyes. You look down at your hands, reminded of how you’d hold Bucky’s, how they were calloused and strong and warm. You clench your hands before you look back up into Natasha’s pitying eyes. “Isn’t it always?” You murmur bitterly. Natasha sits on your bed, taking your hand to do her best to comfort you.

“You’re allowed to be happy, Y/N.” She whispers. “Bucky would want you to be happy.” “No, Natasha, I can’t actually.” You reply as your lips quivers, your emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t deserve to be happy.” “Why do you think that?” She asks. “Because it’s my fault he’s dead, alright?” You snap suddenly. Your voice cracks with emotion but you keep going, because you need to say the words you’ve never said before. “He came to that HYDRA base to save me. He died to save me. I was so caught up in my quest for revenge and he’s the person that paid the price. I don’t deserve anything because of that.”

Your lips quivers as you struggle to hold back your emotions but you can’t let yourself cry. “Oh, Y/N.” Nat says sadly as she rubs your arm. “You can’t blame yourself-” “But I do.” You cut her off. Tears drip down your cheek; you’ve never spoken openly about how you truly felt, how much you truly hated yourself because deep down, you know that if you’d never been in Bucky’s life, he would be alive right now. If you hadn’t been so caught up in your own hatred, the best damn thing that ever happened to you would still be wrapping his arms around you, pressing kisses to your lips. He would be bouncing Layla on his knee and she would have a father that loved her and was there for her. “Bucky died because of my need for vengeance, because I couldn’t let my hatred go and be happy with what I had in front of me.” You say, your heart cracking because saying it aloud is so much more different and solidifying than thinking all of this to yourself. “But you don’t need to condemn yourself to a life of loneliness because of him, Y/N. It’s time to let him go. This…this isn’t healthy.” “Don’t you get it? I fucking can’t, Nat. Steve….yes I care about him but I could never admit it to him. He was Bucky’s best friend.” “But Steve has been here for you.” She says earnestly. “He’s cared for you and Layla and he’s been in love with you for a long time.” You sigh and run your fingers through your hair tiredly. “I can’t, Nat. I just can’t open up my heart anymore. I did that with Bucky and he got hurt.” “But you love Steve.” “I don’t.” You mutter but you’re lying. You are undyingly, irrevocably in love with Steve. But you’ll never admit it. How could you? How could you love the moon in the same way you loved the sun? How could you love anyone the same way you loved Bucky? What you’d had with Bucky could never be replicated with anyone else because he’d been the man who’d made you feel human again. He gave you safety, security, a home. Love. How could you love anyone else without betraying the man who gave you everything?

Three days passed with no word from Steve and Tony and your anger at Steve had faded to nothing but worry for both him and Layla. You wandered through the halls of the compound, remembering how you’d wandered them the same way two years ago, although times were very different then. It was strange to be back here without Bucky.

You’d passed Bucky’s room multiple times but you hadn’t dared to open the door yet. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at his things since being back here had already opened up wounds and memories you never intended to open up.

You’d already dared to go to the roof but that hadn’t ended well. You’d had a panic attack up there, surrounded by the city but entirely alone, unlike the times you’d spent here two years before.

You’d had to yell for Nat where she found you curled up on the floor, shaking and breathing hard. She’d had to drag you back downstairs and into bed. You ended up sleeping for the rest of the day, the stress and fear becoming too much for you to handle, as well as the powerlessness you felt because you couldn’t help them bring your baby back.

Finally, on the fourth day, as you wandered the through the compound familiarizing yourself with the area again, you found yourself passing Bucky’s room and you paused, glancing at the closed, wooden door. You take a shaky breath as you press a hand against the knob, holding it there for a few seconds. Shit, you think. But before you can change your mind, you turn the knob and slowly press open the door. Instantly, you know it’s a bad idea. His scent, stronger than you’ve smelled him since he died, immediately hits you like a wall, so warm and familiar, and you feel instantly overwhelmed. You keep going though, unable to stop now and your heart stops when you see his bed, still unmade from the day you last slept in it.

“Oh god.” You choke out as you approach the bed. When Natasha said no one came in here since he died, she really meant no one. You sit down on the edge of the bed, your heart pounding as you stare around the room. You see the photographs of the people he loved resting on the dresser.

You get up and walk slowly to the dresser, picking up the first picture. It’s one of him and Steve, pre-war; they’re both smiling widely at the camera with Bucky’s arm slung over Steve’s skinny frame. 

You always loved him in his military uniform but your eyes are drawn to Steve now as well. You’ve never seen Steve in his pre-serum self and you find yourself strangely attracted to it because you know that that good man has been in there since the beginning. You see it in his wide grin, his happy smile. It’s just that now his personality matches his outer figure.

You set that picture down and pick up another, this one being of you and Bucky. 

That smile, you think as you stare at the picture.

The two of you hadn’t taken many photographs in your relationship but this was your favorite of the few ones you had. His arms were wrapped around your front with his chest pressed against your back. His face was pressed against your cheek, laughing into your hair. He’d been trying to be cute by pressing a kiss to your cheek for the picture but you kept teasing him, saying dumb jokes that made him laugh against your skin and you’d snapped this picture as a result. You’re holding the camera at a typical selfie angle and even frozen in time, you know you’re laughing hard. You can’t help but notice how different you look in this picture too.

Your eyes are glinting with happiness and you remember how easily you used to smile around Bucky. You feel like you don’t even recognize this girl in the picture because when you look in the mirror, you see a tired, beaten down woman who’s raising her daughter alone. You also can’t help but wonder if Bucky would still love the you now. If he would still love your tired eyes and your messy hair.

Something tells you he would. But you’ll never really know.

You leave the pictures and go to his closet, opening up the doors. You smile. It’s still uniform and neatly put away, exactly the way he liked it. You pull out one of his shirts and smile, laughing slightly. It was a grey shirt, with a Captain America shield printed on the front. “Dork.” You mutter under your breath as you run your finger over the material. You put it on over your thin tank top and lay down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling you’d stared at for months when you’d lived here two years ago.

You close your eyes and fall asleep, strangely at peace among Bucky’s things.

You open your eyes and you’re still in Bucky’s room but you aren’t alone. You sit up in shock, letting out a cry of surprise because before you, at the foot of the bed, stands a person you thought you’d never see again. Bucky. “Hey, beautiful.” He murmurs as he smiles down at you again. “Bucky!” You exclaim, scrambling out of bed, desperate to get to him as you lunge toward him. At the last moment, you slip but he catches you and you almost sob at how warm and solid and just real he feels. “Oh, Bucky…” You sob into his chest and he holds, gently stroking your hair. “I’ve missed you so much.” “I’m right here, sweetheart.” He murmurs as his arms tighten around you.

“I love you.” You whisper as you stare up at his familiar blue eyes.

“I love you too, Y/N.” He smiles as he runs a hand through your hair as if he’s marveling at your beauty. “You’ve been so strong for our little girl and she’s so…beautiful.” “I’m so sorry, Bucky.” You cry as you hold on to him tightly, afraid that if you slacken your grip, you’ll lose him again.

“I don’t blame you, Y/N. I never have.” He murmurs as his hands drop to your waist, holding you there. “I would go and save you a hundred times over if it means you’re safe and well.” “But I’m not well, Bucky.” Your eyes begin to tear up again as you run your hands over his chest. “Nothing is right without you. I feel so broken and empty without you here.”

“But you’ve been strong. You’ve kept our baby safe and you still do everything you can to be a good mother to her.” He smiles. “You are still the women I fell in love with years ago.”

Your heart feels like it might burst as he speaks as you marvel at his face, the face you’ve loved for so long.

“I miss you so much.” You murmur again. “I’ve missed you too, doll. But you need to let Steve love you now.” “What?” You pull back in surprise and confusion. “You love him, Y/N.” And just like that, the guilt reemerges and you sigh, looking down at your feet.

“I’m sorry, Bucky.” “No, Y/N. I want you to be happy now. You deserve that.” He whispers as he pushes the hair out of your face and then cupping your cheek. “I want you to be happy, and Steve…well, he’s a punk. He doesn’t know what to do around women he’s in love with.” “Steve isn’t in love with me.” You reply quietly. “He is. And I’m saying it’s okay. Be happy with him. Give Layla the father she deserves and give yourself the love you deserve.” You lean into him again, holding onto him tightly. “I love you, Bucky.”

“I love you too, Y/N.” Then, he pulls away and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a little box. “I never got the chance to give you this, and I want you to have it now.” You look down in confusion as he opens it, revealing a beautiful, delicate locket. It’s a heart shaped, etched with thin vines. “What is this?” “I’ve been holding on to this, waiting for you.” He smiles. “I’ve always loved you, Y/N.”

He gently turns you around by your shoulders and brushes your hair over one shoulder before delicately clasping it around your neck. He presses a light kiss to your skin when he’s done. You sigh and entwine your fingers in his hair before turning around and finally, your lips connect with his again. You kiss him fiercely, hungrily, as you tug on his hair. He wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you up, holding you tightly. You don’t want this kiss to end because you know when you let go, you’ll be hit by reality again so you keep yourself connected to him.

When you do pull away, you lift your gaze to his and touch his cheek, staring into his kind blue eyes. You caress his cheek as his hands run up and down your side gently. “Thank you.” You whisper.

Your eyes snap open. The sunlight is still streaming through the window but you feel strangely at peace which confuses you because every time you wake up from a dream like that, you feel worse. But it doesn’t hurt anymore. You sit up but there’s an unfamiliar weight around your neck and you glance down and almost sob.

Resting there on your chest is the heart shaped locket. “Oh my god.” You whisper. “It was real. It was real!” You yell.

You’d gotten your last kiss from Bucky, your goodbye. And somehow, you feel at peace now. You’ll never know how you were able to see him but something tells you he’s never left you alone. He’s always been by your side, watching over you from some other world and you realize you’ve never been alone in this world. He’s given you his last goodbye, and he’s given you what you needed to move on. Then realization hits you like a ton of bricks.

“I’m in love with Steve.” You murmur. “I have to tell him.”

You scramble from the bed and go to find Nat, who’s sitting in the living room, curled on the couch. “Hey.” She says when she glances up at you. “Why do you look like that?” “Like what?” “Happy.” She mutters. You roll your eyes but ignore her comment. “Have you heard anything from Steve and Tony?” “Nothing.”

“Let me know when you do.” It turns out you don’t need to wait long for that moment to arrive. An hour later, she comes into your hospital room and tells you Tony called her. He was on his way back and would be here in a few minutes.

You and Natasha sprint to the flight deck, waiting anxiously for the quinjet to make it’s appearance when finally, you see it in the distance. You feel like it’s taking ages to get here but finally, it lands and the door opens. You take a shaky breath and step forward, trying not to look too eager but then, you see Tony, and he’s holding Layla. “LAYLA!” You scream. You lose any sense of decorum you have left and sprint the short way over to Tony, scooping your baby out of his arms. “Oh, sweetheart..” “Mama!” She yells gleefully. Her hands find your hair, tugging and pulling as she holds on you more tightly than she ever has before. “I’m right here, baby.” You whisper tearfully. “Mama’s right here.”

After you’ve calmed her down you look behind Tony, waiting for Steve to walk down the steps off the jet but he’s not coming. “Where’s Steve?” You ask with a wide smile on your face.

And then you notice the stricken expression on his face. “Tony?”

“He was right behind me.” He mutters in a daze. “He was right behind me.” “Tony, where is Steve?” Natasha asks worriedly, stepping forward.

“He was right behind me.” Tony repeats with the same dazed expression. His words are cold, haunted and his eyes are empty. “Tell us what happened, Tony.” Natasha takes his arm. “I had the baby and…and Steve yelled for me to go. To take her back to you.” Tony’s haunted eyes find you. “He was right behind me.” “What are you saying?” You ask, your voice cracking as you say the words. “He…he’s gone. He’s dead.” Tony mutters as he looks down, looking like the most broken man you’ve ever seen. You feel like you’ve been punched in the chest because suddenly, there’s an aching pain in where your heart is, and you can’t breathe. You let out a shaky breath before you swallow and turn on your heel as your heart shatters. For the second time.

Because all you can think of are Tony’s words, cold and haunting.

He was right behind me.

Next part: Part 9

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[badforyourheartgoodforyourart]

Adooration

“I can’t say I’ve ever really noticed,” David said. “I guess we’re just colorful people.” I had at least six inches on him, allowing me to see the bare top of his head. He had curly reddish brown hair on the sides, and it came down to connect with his full beard. He was round, and wore jeans and a button down, with chest hair spilling out the top, and a dress jacket. “Maybe it’s like women with make up. You put it on your face because that’s what people see. You don’t put it on your liver.”

“Yeah, yeah!” his friend interjected. “You only paint your liver with alcohol.” He held his pint up and knocked it against David’s as they laughed.

We’d just seen the opening show of the Galway Film Fleadh, “Grabbers,” and were mingling at the reception. The food was gone, the wine was gone, and it was approaching half-twelve. The number of people had thinned considerably, and we were leaving.

David was an actor. He played the bartender in the film we just saw, and a few people from our group had talked to him on the steps outside the theatre immediately afterward. He’d gone to the reception and was stepping out to smoke a cigarette as I was leaving. I’d gotten the courage to ask him a question that I’d been infatuated with for the three weeks I’d been studying in Ireland: Why were the doors in Ireland brightly colored?

The two of them tossed ideas back and forth. Obviously it was something they’d never even considered.

“Yeah, not everyone sees the inside of your house, but everyone sees the outside.”

“Maybe they ran out of paint before they could finish the house.”

I offered the myths I’d read online when I’d began my search.

The first was that when Ireland was still under English rule and Queen Victoria died, the people were asked to paint their doors black in mourning.

“…And they rebelled and painted them bright colors,” David finished my story. He hadn’t heard it before, but he smiled and nodded at the cleverness.

There was apparently still some disdain toward her. I’d read that Queen Victoria was the monarch of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland for almost 64 years, longer than any other monarch in Great Britain’s history. She reigned during Ireland’s infamous potato famine, which dubbed her the name “The Famine Queen” in Ireland. When her husband, Albert died, she blamed her son, who had slept with an Irish actress, saying stress and heartbreak had killed him.

The second myth, I told David and company, was that the Irish women were tired of their husbands coming home drunk, going into the wrong house, up the wrong stairs, into the wrong bedroom and sleeping with the wrong woman. So they painted their doors different colors so the mistake wouldn’t be made.

They roared into laughter.

“That still happens! That was just the excuse we was using that day!”

I’d noticed the doors as soon as I’d gotten to Ireland. Red. Blue. Yellow. Green. All in a row. The post office had colored doors. The Garda did. The church. I’d seen a postcard boasting a variety of them at the tourist office. I wanted to know why. How long had they been like this? Was it just some sort of gimmick? ­So I googled it — just to get my foot in the door before I started asking locals.

In addition to the two myths I told earlier, I found a story that some tour guides like to tell:

The famous Irish writers George Moore and Oliver St. John Gogarty lived next door to each other. It is said that Gogarty was a drunk, and Moore got tired of him coming into the wrong house in a drunken stupor, so he painted his door green. Then Gogarty painted his door red in spite.

Probably the most factual story, however, is one that goes back to Dublin in the 18th century. In 1715, Catholic penal laws were becoming less harsh. The descendents of the Norman, Elizabethan and Cromwellian times, known as the Protestant Ascendancy, still ruled in Dublin, but they wanted better treatment and more rights for the Irish Catholics.

With the newfound leniency, Catholics became more established. The influx of wealth and prosperity temporarily made Dublin the best city economically in the British Empire besides London. They splurged on Georgian style townhouses south of the Liffey River. The exteriors were all uniform, strictly adhering to the trendy style. They eventually began painting their doors and adding decorative fanlights and knockers to distinguish their homes.

In my preliminary research, I also found the history of the “Doors of Dublin” piece that I’d seen on postcards.

Bob Fearon was the head of an advertisement agency in New York City in the ’60s. He spent time in Dublin, and while perusing the streets of Merrion Square and Fitzwilliam Square he noticed the Georgian architecture of the buildings, and he noticed the doors. He thought the symmetry was beautiful, and photographed over 40 of them. He created a collage, and showed it to Joe Malone, then the North American Manager of Bord Failte (the Irish Tourism Board). The collage made its debut on a poster in the window of the Irish Tourism building on St. Patrick’s Day in 1970.

In the mid-20th century, I read, the Irish Government tore down a lot of the old houses, replacing the buildings with utilitarian office blocks and government departments. The demolishing eventually stopped because architects and historians wanted to preserve the doors, and because the “Doors of Dublin” made them popular with the public.

What riveting background! But everyone knows the good stuff comes from the people. So I decided to throw myself out there and ask strangers about their doors. Although David was entertaining, he didn’t give me much of what I wanted. So I continued my quest when I wandered into the Claddagh shop in Galway.

It was one of many Claddagh shops in the area. But this one was the maker of the original Claddagh, which the little woman behind the counter promptly let us know. She had a head and chest over the counter, but not much more. Her short, blonde-gray hair curled up under her ears, and reading glasses hung around her neck on a simple, silver chain.

She asked where we were from, and what we were doing over here, how we liked it and what our favorite things were, who we were getting gifts for and why and what each of us wanted to do “forever and ever.” Then I asked my question.

She wasn’t sure why the doors were painted.

“I suppose we’re just colorful people.” That was becoming a familiar answer.

I complimented their Claddagh doorknocker, and asked if the door of their store had always been yellow.

“Ever since I’ve been here it has. Jonathan,” she turned to her coworker, who was sitting at the desk behind the counter, welding together the ends of a newly-sized ring, “What color was the door before I got here?”

He shrugged. Then he turned around and took off his magnifying glasses and told a different story.

“The doors out in the country, they don’t have numbers like.” That was an idiom I was still getting used to. Americans throw “like” into the middle of the sentence, not at the end. “The towns are so small, the postman just knows whose house is whose.

“One day somebody had to make a delivery out there. The people who lived in the house told him to come to house number 7. The deliveryman didn’t know what that meant, but when he got out there he saw a door that had a painted ‘7’ on it. And sure enough, it was the right house. Turns out, the family that lived there had gotten the door secondhand and never minded to take the ‘7’ off.” He laughed like he’d told the funniest story he’d ever heard. She laughed with him briefly, and then shifted her attention to me.

“I bet you don’t know why the doors are so short though,” she coaxed me, leaning in. I took her bait.

“Why?” I asked.

“I bet you think it’s because the people here are littler, that they just don’t need taller doors.” She leaned in even closer. She smiled her yellowing teeth and her eyes curled up and disappeared in her face.

“That’s not the reason?” I was still playing along, but I really did think that was why.

“Oh! I thought that too at first!” she laughed. “But I know better now. Someone finally told me. The doors are so short because the roads have been paved over so many times.” She laughed and laughed and laughed.

It seemed that I wasn’t going to get a substantive answer about the doors’ color. But when one door closes, another door opens. So I broadened my scope to Irish doors in general. And shortly after, I learned about another very Irish door: the half door.

I had decided to do something on my own. I bought a ticket for a bus tour to travel through County Galway to Connemara. The trip left at 10 a.m. I power-walked to the city centre and desperately asked for directions to my bus while holding up and pointing to the brochure I’d gotten from the tourist office. I made it onto the bus in a fluster, found a seat and exhaled. I was sitting next to a guy about my age. We had what we could of a conversation; he was from Spain and spoke broken English. Then our bus driver/tour guide came over the microphone introduced himself as Gary.

Gary drove us through the countryside. He rambled on about various things, one of which was the half door: a front door that is sawed in half so that the top and bottom can open independently.

It was invented around 1690. King William III was short of money, so imposed a Window Tax — a tax on the amount of light let into a home. The wealthy would boast their ability to pay the tax with grandiose windows. But the common people bricked up many of their windows, and cut their doors in half. The bottom half was to keep the children in and the animals out. The top half was to let in light. And so came the saying “daylight robbery.”

Gary made a joke about how that tax might return to Ireland by the year’s end. He’d just pointed out one of the country’s many “ghost towns” and explained that in 2007, when the economy was booming, they couldn’t build houses fast enough. Many builders would sell unfinished homes — no driveways or walks, some not even painted — with the promise that they would finish them. As if overnight, he said, the economy crashed. The builders went into liquidation and the homes of these people remain incomplete. In many of the developments, there are half-built houses, “just the shell” of the house.

He went on to tell a story about how the government finally intervened and finished some of the developments after a four-year-old girl fell in an uncovered manhole and drowned.

“The Irish are a tight-knit community though,” he said. “I think we’ll come out the other end of this recession for the better in a few years.” And we continued on.

It was about this time in my journey that I began to wonder, why on Earth have I this infatuation with doors? What is a door, anyways, but a block of wood — sometimes painted colorfully, sometimes cut in half — that allows you to come and go?

Go. That is indeed something the Irish have done plenty of. They’ve an extended history of leaving their country and emigrating to America, Canada and Australia, because their country struggles to have a stable economy.

And in addition to going, they have very much been of a country with people coming in. Today, tourists come, and Ireland invites them in for tea and scones. In the past, unwelcome visitors came, breaking down Ireland’s doors. They were raided and taken over by the Vikings, then the Normans, then the British combining over a span of 1,100 years.

Gary spoke of the country’s devastating history later on the tour, as we winded through the massive green mountains in Joyce Country.

“When a very bad man named Cromwell invaded our country,” the word our stuck out in my head — not the or their. Our he said with pride, “he made his way from the east, slaughtering man, woman and child. Cromwell said that, ‘There is not a tree to hang a man from, water to drown one in, not dirt to bury one in.’ ” Gary was bitter. “On a mission to do away with Catholicism, he burnt the churches.

“So, towns began holding Mass in the kitchens of homes. Someone would open the door to his or her home every week. The kitchen table was turned into an alter. Each family would bring food, and after Mass they’d eat and dance. It really brought the towns closer together and made them stronger.” Take that, Cromwell, he practically said.

Gary’s pride made me grin. But part of me saw it as silly. Ireland seemed a bit naïve. Even after years and years of being taken advantage of for its receptiveness, it continues to open its doors.

It is sad, really. The Irish people habitually leave their country and the economy relies heavily on letting in and entertaining people from other countries. There are more tourists per year in Ireland than residents! It is giving itself away.

But what is it, then, that continues to bring people here? What brought me here? Why is it that I’ll want to come back?

Everybody knows its history of struggle. Everybody deems the country weak, powerless. Everybody knows the people’s reputation of drinking too much. And the Irish know. And they know that everybody else knows! Their tour guides speak of their tragic history. The myths of their colored doors poke fun at the alcohol use. David and his buddies joke about it. There is little hidden behind closed doors in Ireland. But still, there is something we don’t know about the Irish, something we can’t quite name, can’t quite grasp; but it’s something we always aspire for.  

It is their charm, their magic. You don’t come to Galway to buy a Claddagh ring. You come to partake in an everyday occurrence — something as simple as making a purchase, in roles as impersonal as a buyer and a seller — and be genuinely engaged in conversation. It is refreshing, and it is enticing.

This is their essence. It is why they are so close. It is what keeps them going, after being molested for centuries. Furthermore, it is why they’ve been molested for centuries. The rest of the world is in pitiable attempt to seize the Irish’s intangible, then by force and now through tourism.

It won’t be learned from a history book, because they’ve frequently been defeated in battle and burdened by economic difficulty. But sitting at a dimly lit pub, or riding a tour bus, or buying a ring, you will learn that the Irish, with their open doors, have always really had the power.