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wangxiangiftexchange · 4 years

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Winter Solstice Gift for moonanstars124

The request was for fluff, found family, annoying the extended family, and AU coffee shop vibes (which I took extremely literally). I had a lot of fun writing this (my first actual coffee shop AU!) and I hope you enjoy it @moonanstars124!

Read on AO3

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The Burial Grounds

“Is there even a point in telling you what I want?” Jin Zixuan asks. “As you’ve never once made what I ordered.”

Wei Wuxian beams at him. “Of course! It gives me direction. A genre, if you will.”

“You do have a specific listing for a surprise drink.” Jin Zixuan resettles a-Ling on his hip. “If I wanted that, don’t you think I’d have ordered it?”

“Well, no,” Wei Wuxian explains reasonably. He reaches across the counter and pats the baby’s cheek. “If you wanted to get what you ordered, you’d have asked Wen Ning to make it.” Wen Ning turns from where he is setting up the soup tureen to shrug in apologetic agreement.

Jin Zixuan sighs deeply. “Someday I’m going to stop tipping you.”

“You can do that on the day that you don’t like what I make you,” Wei Wuxian informs him. “I mean, you won’t, because ajie would never stay married to someone who didn’t tip. But I would understand if you considered it.”

Lan Wangji half-listens to the exchange from his corner table. It is a familiar one, enough so to be pleasant background noise without distracting too much from his book. When the proper disruption comes, it is neither unexpected nor unwelcome, as it happens every morning around this time. He has already closed his book and moved his empty cup to make room for the small chalkboard that appears in front of him.

“Spicy vegetable for the soup,” Wei Wuxian announces, flinging himself down in the other chair. It is not yet nine in the morning, and he already looks happily tired. Lan Wangji nods and wipes the board clean—perhaps not strictly necessary, but if he redoes the borders, Wei Wuxian will sit with him for longer and take a proper break. “White chocolate and cranberry scones, because ajie loves us very much. And...hm. I’ll do a blueberry mint lemonade today, I think. Do we have blueberries?”

This last is for Wen Ning, who sets down Wei Wuxian’s coffee, Lan Wangji’s refill, and a plate with two of the aforementioned scones. “We do,” Wen Ning confirms. “But they’ll go moldy soon, so you should use them up.”

“Perfect.” Wen Ning smiles at both of them and returns to the counter. Wei Wuxian leans back in his chair, stretches his legs full-length, and looks around the coffee shop with satisfaction. One of his ankles comes to rest against Lan Wangji’s. Without looking up from the chalkboard, Lan Wangji puts his free hand on the table. Wei Wuxian laces their fingers together and dips a scone in his drink.

This is how mornings have gone nearly every day for a few years now. Wen Ning arrives early to open; Wei Wuxian staggers down from the apartment upstairs after being prodded awake by Lan Wangji, who claims his table and reads as the coffee shop comes to life around him. Jin Zixuan arrives at some point, bearing the day’s soup and pastries from Lotus Pier Cafe and often as not a dinner invitation for all of them from Jiang Yanli. Lan Wangji earns his coffee by writing out the day’s specials; Wei Wuxian seizes the opportunity to sit down for as long as it takes him to complete the task. Then Lan Wangji gives his table over to the morning rush and goes to work himself. Cloud Recesses Books is close enough to walk to in good weather, and he gets there in time to open. When the coffeeshop closes at three, Wei Wuxian wanders over and spends the rest of the afternoon doing his own reading or debating with Lan Qiren. It is a pleasant routine, and Lan Wangji sometimes has to stop and wonder at how happy he is.

There has been a coffee shop here for decades, under one owner or another, but the Jiangs bought it only three years ago. Lan Wangji remembers perfectly the first time he visited it after that. It was Lan Xichen’s idea to see what the new management had done with the place, and they went for lunch the first month after it reopened. “‘The Burial Grounds?’” Lan Xichen reads, pausing outside the door. “Interesting name choice.”

“After the Burial Mounds, presumably,” Lan Wangji points out. “The nature preserve outside the city.”

“Ah,” his brother says. “Naturally.”

Despite the name, the inside is entirely pleasant: walls repainted to brighten the space, spider plants hanging in the windows, a detailed menu in plain neat lettering on the chalkboard above the counter, specials in the same writing on a smaller one by the pastry case. “They must outsource their food,” Lan Xichen observes, nodding at the familiar lotus image. “The Jiangs own Lotus Pier too, so it makes sense.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji says. He is listening. He is.

Lan Xichen follows his gaze to the mug on the counter, which holds pens for signing receipts and also a small rainbow flag. “Ah,” he agrees. “That is a pleasing development.”

The line is long enough that they can take their time reading the menu. This is good, because it contains none of the conventional titles. The Med Student, Lan Wangji reads. Four espresso shots in a cup. Below that is The Jiejie: soooooup! (See Specials board for today’s variety). And on and on: The Peacock (a white chocolate mocha with nutmeg), The Angry Brother (chamomile and hibiscus tea), The Adorable Nephew (warm milk with honey), The Headshaker (“Decisions are hard, so let us surprise you!”). Some have less of a story, Lan Wangji thinks: The First Timer is just a latte, and The Adventurer promises undisclosed amounts of cayenne. The result is a place that feels well-loved without being unwelcoming.

“It certainly has character,” Lan Xichen observes as they near the counter. The young man who takes their orders has a quiet earnest smile; he carefully lists the non-dairy milk options for Lan Wangji.

Despite the line, they find a window table easily enough—it is towards the end of the lunch hour—and they watch the street while they wait. It is only a few minutes before a different employee appears with their orders, mugs and bowls balanced precariously enough that Lan Wangji watches the soup in some alarm. But the dishes and their contents reach the table safely, which means that he can look up when the server says brightly, “Can I get you anything else?”

Lan Wangji thinks, Oh. He only barely prevents himself from saying it aloud, and the effort keeps him from speaking at all.

“Oh, wow,” the beautiful man says, staring back at him. Then he shakes himself. “Uh. Sorry. Is this your first time here?”

“We thought we’d see what the new ownership had done with it,” Lan Xichen explains. There is laughter in his voice, subtle enough that Lan Wangji hopes nobody else can hear it. “Our family owns Cloud Recesses, the—”

“The bookshop down the street!” The server’s face lights up—lights up more—and Lan Wangji gives up any hope of forming words himself. “I’ve been in there a few times. I thought you looked familiar.” This is to Lan Xichen; to Lan Wangji, he says, “I haven’t seen you before, though.” He does not say, I would remember, but the sentiment comes through clearly enough that Lan Wangji feels his ears go pink.

“My brother just finished university,” Lan Xichen explains. The amusement has become noticeably less subtle. “He will be working with us.”

“Oh wonderful!” the beautiful man says. “We’ll hope to see you again, then. Both of you, of course.” He sticks his hands into his apron pockets. “I’m Wei Wuxian, the manager. Which is, you know, terrifying. I’m probably not supposed to tell customers that part, though.”

Lan Xichen laughs aloud now, kindly, and Lan Wangji loves his brother for the way the beautiful man—Wei Wuxian—relaxes. “We understand,” Lan Xichen says. “Starting a business is a rather stressful experience at the best of times. I am Lan Xichen; this is Lan Wangji.”

“Welcome to the Burial Grounds, Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji,” Wei Wuxian says gravely, eyes dancing. “Please do let me know if you need anything. Or Wen Ning, he’s honestly much more capable than I am.” He jerks his head towards the counter, where the young man who took their orders is wiping down the espresso machine. “Anyway, I have to get back to work, but I hope you’ll come back.”

“I am certain we will,” Lan Xichen assures him. Wei Wuxian’s eyes linger on Lan Wangji’s face for a moment. When he manages to nod agreement, the smile widens. Wei Wuxian ducks his head at both of them and disappears into what is presumably the back room.

“Well,” Lan Xichen says, after a moment. “This is a delightful discovery.”

“Brother,” Lan Wangji says, deeply pained. He suspects that his ears have gone full scarlet by now.

“I mean the coffee shop, of course.” Lan Xichen takes a sip of his latte and hums with pleasure. “And as a small business ourselves, it’s only right to support others in the neighborhood. We shall have to become regulars.”

Lan Wangji sighs.

He returns alone the next day, just for a coffee in the morning. The one after that, Wei Wuxian sets his drink on the table with a hesitation that already seems out of character. When Lan Wangji tilts his head in question, he says, “I, uh, made you something special. If you want the one you actually ordered, I’ll do that instead, I just...sometimes I get the idea for new things, and I thought you’d like this one.”

Lan Wangji looks at the mug in front of him. It looks like the perfectly dull mocha that he had ordered, unsure what else to get, except that there are flower buds of some kind on top of the foam. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods and takes a cautious sip. “Lavender,” he says. He closes his eyes, which helps keep his brain from panicking when Wei Wuxian sits down in the empty chair. “Salt. Something sweet, apart from the chocolate?”

When he opens his eyes, Wei Wuxian’s smile is brilliant. “Birch syrup,” he confirms. “Good, I wasn’t sure how much that would come through; I haven’t used it before. But do you like it? You’re the first person to try that one.”

“Mm.” Lan Wangji looks down at the cup again: something made just for him, not for anyone else. “I like it.” He lifts his head again.

“Oh, wow,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, as he had the first day. “Sorry, I know I’m being weird. I just hadn’t seen you smile before.”

“Not weird,” Lan Wangji says, when he finds his voice. “At least, I don’t mind.” He clears his throat. “Thank you. For the drink. You should put it on the menu.”

“Yeah?” Wei Wuxian grins. “I can do that.”

There is indeed a new listing on the large chalkboard the following day: Dark chocolate mocha with lavender, sea salt, and birch syrup. Lan Wangji looks at the name of it and swallows. The Beautiful Stranger, it says, printed neatly in white chalk below The Headshaker.

When he has been coming to the Burial Grounds several times a week for a month, Lan Wangji arrives one morning to find Wei Wuxian darting frantically back and forth behind the counter. “Wen Ning called out sick,” he explains, when Lan Wangji gets to the front of the line. “This is definitely my reminder to hire more staff. I meant to, since we’ve been doing pretty well, but I just hadn’t gotten around to it. Anyway, sorry, what can I get you?”

Lan Wangji looks at the smear of cocoa powder on his cheek and says, “Is there anything I can do? I do not know how to use the machines, but I could help with other things.”

“You know,” Wei Wuxian says, “that would actually be amazing. Uh, let’s see. I need to get the Specials board up but my handwriting is atrocious. Would you mind? We’ve got chicken dumpling soup and vegan ginger snaps. No drink specials because I have too much else to worry about today.”

When that task is done (“Oh my god,” Wei Wuxian says, staring. “Well, I know I’m never ever showing you my writing”), Lan Wangji clears tables and wipes down the counter and takes orders. All the while, Wei Wuxian darts around the shop like a cheerful whirlwind. “Don’t you have to go to work?” he asks at one point, managing to pour a perfect latte and read the next ticket at once. “I’ll manage. I mean, I don’t know how, but—”

“I have texted my brother,” Lan Wangji says calmly. “He and uncle will cover the bookshop today.”

“...Right,” Wei Wuxian says. “I feel like I should fight you on that, but also I don’t have time. Thank you.”

At three o’clock, Wei Wuxian sets the Closed sign, draws the curtains, and collapses facedown onto the couch where the college students like to study. Lan Wangji regards him for a moment, then puts down the rag he was using to wipe down the last table. He still cannot use the espresso machine, but the kettle is a more familiar creature.

Wei Wuxian lifts his head blearily at the clink of saucer on table. He sits up enough to drink his tea without spilling it, and he devours two of the ginger snaps that Lan Wangji brought over in rapid succession. Lan Wangji sits down in the armchair across from the couch and sips his own tea.

The cookies seem to revive Wei Wuxian a little. “Thank you,” he says. “Again. For the tea and for, you know, everything. How can I repay you? Not a rhetorical question.”

Lan Wangji cradles his tea, glad to have something to do with his hands. “Well,” he says, “when I came in this morning, I meant to ask if you would have dinner with me.”

“Oh!” Wei Wuxian looks at him, wide-eyed. “I—hang on, past tense? Did you change your mind? I guess you did just get the total immersion experience, which I’m told is a lot—”

“I enjoyed the experience,” Lan Wangji says. “But I do not wish you to feel obligated. I will not ask you in a conversation about compensation for my labor.”

“...Right,” Wei Wuxian says. “Because you think about things like that, because you’re a ridiculously good person as well as gorgeous and in possession of unbelievably nice handwriting. Hold on.” He sets down his mug and goes to the counter, does something out of sight involving paper and a pen, and returns. “Here.” Lan Wangji puts down his own tea and inspects the offering: a gift certificate (filled out in a scrawl that is admittedly dreadful) for enough to keep him supplied with coffee for a month, more if he cuts down on his visits. “And I’ll get you all the tips from today, once they’re counted.”

Lan Wangji does not imagine that he will be cutting down on his visits.

“This will do,” he decides, and tucks the paper away in his wallet. “And half the tips. You worked very hard.”

When he looks up again, Wei Wuxian is fidgeting beside his chair. “Sure,” he says. “Great. So is the compensation conversation finished? Can we have the other one now?”

Lan Wangji smiles; he cannot do anything else. Deliberately, he stands up so they are facing each other. Wei Wuxian swallows, but his eyes are bright and he is smiling helplessly as well. Lan Wangji says, “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian replies immediately. Then, “You mean like a real date, right? I mean, I’d still say yes either way, but just so we’re clear.”

“A real date,” Lan Wangji confirms.

“Oh wonderful,” Wei Wuxian says. “I really hoped that was what you meant. Yes. Did I already say that?”

He is still in his apron, which has great smears on it from when a cup of coffee spilled on the counter earlier. His hair is coming loose from its tie for at least the fourth time that day; there is raspberry syrup on his forehead and powdered sugar on his nose. He is very, very beautiful.

Lan Wangji reaches up and tucks one loose strand of hair behind his ear. It does very little to help anything, but it means that he gets to feel the slight intake of breath as Wei Wuxian goes still. Lan Wangji does not drop his hand back to his side. Instead, he cups Wei Wuxian’s cheek very gently. He whispers, “May I—”

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian says, a little hoarsely. “Yeah, yes, please—”

Lan Wangji kisses him. Wei Wuxian makes a soft sweet sound and puts both arms around his neck; Lan Wangji cradles his face a little more firmly and drops his other hand to the small of Wei Wuxian’s back, drawing him in.

And so now it has been three years, or near enough. Lan Wangji dutifully writes out the Specials board every morning; the main menu also bears his script. He has met Wen Qing, who is now a surgeon and no longer the Med Student of the four expresso shots but who remains alarmingly intense. He has also met the Adorable Nephew and the Headshaker as well as the Peacock, Jiejie, and the Angry Brother, all three of whom received him with some combination of suspicion and amusement. “So you’re the Beautiful Stranger,” Jiang Cheng says, having shown up at the Burial Grounds to demand an introduction all of two days after that first date. “Hmph. He’s been yammering about you for a month; you better have been worth it.”

Lan Wangji is trying to be worth it. He plans to ask Wei Wuxian to marry him soon, and he thinks that Wei Wuxian will probably accept. This doesn’t really make the prospect of proposing any less daunting; what does is the way Wei Wuxian pulls him back to bed for sleepy kisses in the mornings, trusting and sure of affection reciprocated. Lan Wangji rather expects that he will slip and ask the question at one of these times, rather than at the dinner date he has scheduled for their anniversary. He doesn’t really mind the idea.

#moonanstars124 #wangxiansolstice20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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tomtenadia · 4 years

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Island Dreams Chapter 2

Hi all,

my muse was active and I did manage to produce chapter 2 pretty quickly.

Hope you will like it.

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“You must be Rowan.” The man took a step toward her and gave her a wide smile and she felt butterflies in her stomach. He was wonderful and she had to restrain herself and not swoon live a lovestruck teenager. “Aye, it’s me. Sorry, I was through the back putting away an order.” He explained. He had the sexiest Scottish accent, which she thought must be a local one as it was similar to the ones she had heard around town. “I…” she muttered indicating at the window with her hand “I… love the window with Roald Dahl, by the way. I read all his book when I was younger and I still love him.” He walked to the counter and leaned against it and folded his arms at his chest. His t-shirt tightened at the movement and she noticed the muscles in his arms and the tattoo slithering from his wrist all the way under the sleeve. Why was it hot all of a sudden? “He was a great writer.” He timidly smiled at her. Aelin nodded “I am new.” She explained vaguely “I got here this morning. I was at the community centre and I asked for a bookstore and the lady there told me to come here. I am obsessed with bookshops, especially if they are small and independent." she explained, realising she was chatty all of a sudden. She saw him wince in annoyance and wondered if she had said something wrong. But the moment was gone and his smile came back pretty quickly. “Well, you are in the right place. I got a bit of everything. And if I don’t, let me know and I can order it for you.” Aelin smiled back at him and she started looking around the shop and enjoyed the view of the walls with bookcases full of books. She walked around exploring the shelves and stopped in front of the fantasy section. “Fantasy reader?” He commented when he noticed where she went. “Are you one of those snob people who thinks that Fantasy books are not real books?” Her tone was almost accusatory. She loved Fantasy books but on plenty occasions she had to defend her literary tastes to idiots. “I own a bookstore. I respect all kind of books.”

She started browsing and he followed her with his gaze. “You are not from around here, are you?” He pulled away from the counter and walked toward her. “I am….” She took a book from the shelf “I am from London.” “The capital.” His tone was flat and non interested. “Not a fan?” She turned to him and saw him shaking his head in dissent. She was about to tell him why she was on the islands but it seemed like a stupid idea. She did not know him, plus she was not in the mood to talk about her life down in London. “This one seems interesting.” Aelin picked the book and stood. Sounded like the female main character was badass and she loved badass females. “Was it Gaelic what you spoke when I came in? And what is the name of your shop?” Rowan did not answer and moved with purpose toward one shelf and picked up a book and got back to Aelin “Here.” He offered her the book “If you are interested. It can be a challenging language but it’s very beautiful.” Aelin grabbed the book and she noticed it was a course book to learn Gaelic and it was for beginners. “Thank you.” “Tapadh leat.” He told her “That’s how you say thank you in Gaelic. Your first lesson.” Aelin tried to pronounce the sentence again but it was not as lovely as how he said it. Rowan laughed and Aelin admired a nice smile blossom on his face and his green eyes seemed to shine even brighter. He was gorgeous and all she wanted to do was to run her hand through his short hair. What was wrong with her? “The name of the shop is paper dreams.” He replied to her question and again she noticed that touch of sadness in his eyes. And he did not elaborate any further. Somehow, given his reaction, she felt there was a history behind the name but she did not want to pry. “I love it.” He put the book on the counter near the till and silence fell between them. “I have a car. What do you recommend me to see in town and around?” “How long are you staying? So I have an idea.” Aelin placed the book on the counter “A while.” She was vague and for now that was all she knew. She was certain of one thing at the moment. She was not in a hurry to go back to London and her life. She searched in her bag for her purse while he was ringing the books through the till. “Did you just came off the boat this morning?” He asked, lifting his eyes to look at her. “I did.” “Breakfast.” He said and groaned at himself for not uttering a full sentence like a fully grown human being “I know a good place for breakfast. I can tell you some places to visit while you eat.” “I would love to.” She tapped her debit card at the machine and once it beeped conforming that the transaction had gone through, she put the purse away and and took the bag from him. “Come.” He came out of the counter and motioned for her to the door. He turned the sign to close and once they were out he locked the shop. “Aren’t customers going to complain that you are closed?” She joked. “Mornings are quiet.” They started walking and for a moment she thought they were going to An Lanntair but he turned again and they were on a side road and she noticed a small cafe. It had a couple of tables outside. They went in and a tall dark haired woman smiled and walked to Rowan as soon as she noticed him entering the coffee shop “Madainn mhath, mo ghràidh.” She caressed his face and he smiled brightly at the woman. “Madainn mhath.” He replied and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. Aelin studied the interaction with interest. “Let’s sit.” He said to her and she noticed that he was a man of a few words and that very rarely smiled. They sat down at a table. The woman came to the table and started speaking in Gaelic but Aelin had no idea what she was saying. And she had a feeling the woman realised that, but Rowan came to her rescue. “Chan eil i Gàidhlig aice.” Rowan explained. “Oh, I am sorry darling.” The woman reverted to English and gave her a menu “If you are in for breakfast, this is the menu. Give me a shout when you are ready to order.” “I’ll take a coffee.” Rowan said and leaned against his chair. Aelin finally ordered her food and while she waited she took out her guide from her bag “So… I have marked down a few things. Let me know if they are worth it or not.” Rowan took the book from her hands and started looking at the pages that had been marked by post-its. “Callanish is an amazing site. Very historical. You definitely have to do it. You can get in touch with your pagan side. Then drive up to Dun Carloway which is an amazing broch. Then continue all the way to Gearrannan, the black house village. Quite a charming place. If you then walk all the way down to the beach you will have the Atlantic Ocean in front of you.” He used the map in the books and pointed at the places for her while he explained. Stay on the main road and this will take you north. Near Barvas there is a house that has a whale bone arch at the front. It’s quite impressive. After a bit of driving you arrive at the end of the road. There is a lighthouse and that is the Butt of Lewis.” Aelin giggled at the name but Rowan almost glared at her. “The views from there are quite amazing and once at the edge of the cliff you are surrounded by sea. Very near there there is a great beach called Eoropaidh and you can walk there if you follow a path.” He finished and pushed the book back to her. The coffee shop owner came back with their order and Aelin’s mouth was watering at the plate in front of her. “That sounds like a good plan for a day.” She commented while attacking her plate of food. “This is so good.” Aelin had a very satisfied look and was loving her generous portion of full Scottish breakfast. She lifted her eyes and noticed that Rowan was staring at her with a curious expression. “What?” She said before eating a piece of bacon “Hey don’t look at me like that. I just arrived. I am still a tourist and I intend to do all the silly tourist things.” A brief smile appeared on his face “Along the road that follows the river there is the tourist office. You might want to buy your fridge magnet and beat the horde of tourists that will be flocking here soon.” “Well…” she dragged and took a sip of her coffee “I might just as well do that. A nice tacky one that says Stornoway.” “It’s your money.” He added almost annoyed and his head turned outside to stare at the street. Finally he grabbed his coffee and emptied the cup. “Have to go back to the shop.” Then he stood “Have a nice day.” And he left before she had the time to blurt out a reply. What a strange man. She thought. He felt as if he was detached from the world. The only moments he noticed some emotion in him was inside the bookshop. “Don’t feel offended.” Said a voice at her side. Aelin stopped eating and noticed the coffee shop owner at her side sporting a big grin “He is like that with everyone. It takes him a while to get close to people. He wasn’t always like that.” The woman added with sadness and sat beside her on the chair that Rowan had vacated. “I am Maeve by the way. And Rowan is my nephew.” Aelin’s hand holding the fork stopped halfway on its way to her mouth. She had so many questions but she restrained herself. “I am Aelin.”she then added as soon as her brain started working again “I got here this morning. I met him at the bookshop. I went there straight away. I am obsessed with small independent bookstores.” “He has done a wonderful job with his shop,” she explained with pride in her voice “So, Aelin, do you have any adventures planned yet?” Aelin nodded eagerly. She was actually dying to get the car and follow the route Rowan had suggested “Rowan gave me some good ideas. I will finish breakfast, go to Tesco to buy some food for lunch and then that’s me off.” “Don’t be silly.” Maeve stood and went to the counter, leaving Aelin alone to finish her breakfast. The woman came back fifteen minutes later with a bag for her “I put a few sandwiches in it. They are all fresh. There is some fruit as well and a cake that we made this morning.” Aelin had no words. She went to take her bag to pay the woman but Maeve put a hand on her arms to stop her “It’s on me.” “I… thank you.” The she stopped for a second “Tapadh leat,” she added, remembering what Rowan had taught her earlier on, but she was embarrassed by her horrendous pronunciation. “Na can guth.” Maeve laughed “We’ll make a Gaelic speaker out of you in no time.” And placed a hand on her shoulder. “An open heart surgery might be much easier than me learning a language.” Maeve looked at her with a puzzled expression. “I am a cardio thoracic surgeon… I am…” she paused “I am just taking a break from life.” Maeve smiled again with a tender expression “You are in the right place for that, darling.” Aelin finally grabbed her backpack, the bag with the books and the bag with food provisions that Maeve gave her and stood. Then she did something quite unexpected. She hugged Maeve. And although the woman was a complete stranger she liked her already. “I’d better go.” “Go and drive safely.” Aelin smiled and left the coffee shop.

It was late afternoon when Aelin finally reached the Butt of Lewis. The northernmost point in the island and the place was wild. And breathtaking. She had Maeve’s amazing lunch at Callanish. She sat with her back against one of the massive standing stones and ate while taking in the beauty of the landscape around her. She did embrace her pagan side, a side she did not know she had, and also hugged the stones. She had followed Rowan’s directions and she loved every moment of it. And now she was out on the cliffs while a savage wind was ravaging the coast. It was so strong that she had struggled to get out of her car and she finished the remains of her lunch inside. But then she put on her windbreaker jacket and her beanie hat and got out, camera at the ready. She took a few photos and sent a nice selection to Lysandra and then sat down and kept staring at the waves crashing almost angrily against the cliffs. The air smelled of sea and she felt a deep peace settling in her bones. The quiet was broken a moment later by her phone. “Hi Lys.” She answered. “I am so jealous right now that you have no idea. I just finished a five hours surgery, I am starving and then you send me those amazing pictures.” “I feel at peace, Lys. For the first time in a very, very long time I feel at peace and content.” “I am glad to hear it, darling.” Aelin was silent for a moment. She heard some noises on the line and she realised Lysandra was in the cafeteria. “So, Aedion finally asked me out.” Lysandra confessed happily and Aelin squealed. “About time.” Aelin took a bite of her apple and closed her eyes and let herself feel the wind on her face. “Yes, he was quite charming. We are going out tonight. My shift should over at four.” “Lys I am so happy for you.” And she was. Her friend deserved that happiness. She did not have an easy life and hadn’t been very lucky in her previous relationships. She definitely needed a break and Aedion was a good guy, albeit a bit slow in realising that Lysandra was head over heels for him. “Found a gorgeous Scottish man yet?” Aelin was about to tell her about Rowan but she stopped and decided not to. Not yet. Lysandra would have started planning their wedding already if she had told him about him. “Not yet.” Another bite of her apple and then she decided to lay down on the grass “But I found a bookstore.” “Of course you did.” Lysandra was silent for a moment “Not to spoil your day but Chaol’s surgery went okay. He will need a couple of months of rest and then physio but he will be fine. Just so you know.” “Good for him.” It was all Aelin could muster. She was relieved his surgery went fine, she had no doubts about Lysandra’s skills, but the mention of his name had the power to sour the perfect day she had so far.” “You are mad at me.” “No Lys. I just… can we please not talk about my ex husband?” Her tone turned acid for a moment. He had the power, to make her mad. “Sorry.” Then Aelin sighed a felt bad about being an arse with Lysandra. She had been the only person who had been at her side. She offered her a place where to stay when she moved out of the house she shared with Chaol. She supported her all the way through and she did not deserve her anger “I am not mad at you, you know that?” “I know. And you know that I am not on his side. He was wrong and I am on your side. Team Aelin forever.” Aelin laughed “You are.” Then Aelin sat up again and stared at the sea. Then her back went rigid as she spotted something in the sea. It was a fin. After a while the top of the animal breached the surface of the water and Aelin screamed in delight. “Lys, there is a whale.” “What?” “A whale, there is a whale in the sea.” She stood and went as safely as possible to the edge of the cliff. “Are you sure?” “Yes.” She screamed, incapable to contain her excitement “It’s far too big to be a dolphin.” She now wished she had binoculars. She made a note to ask Rowan if there was a place in town where she could buy a pair. She put the phone of the ground and she forgot that she was on the phone with her friend. She just stood and stared and the magnificent sight in front of her. When she picked up the phone five minutes later she noticed the call was finished and she had a text from Lys saying she had to go back to work, that she loved her and that she will give her an update about her date with Aedion. Aelin texted her back and went back staring at the sea. Then she grabbed her backpack and began walking the trail leading to Eoropaidh beach. Once at the beach she was stunned. The path had wound through sand dunes and it felt like being in a desert. And now she was staring at the pristine and crystal blue water in front of her. She wanted to jump in the water, she would have done it if it wasn’t that it was ice cold. Hypothermia was not in her current plans. She removed her shoes, dropped her backpack on the sand and made her way to the water. A few steps and waves were gently caressing her ankles. The beach was on a lower level and she was a bit more sheltered from the wind. She closed her eyes and stood. immobile. She never had the time to just stand still and she relished the moment. She had been on the island for less than a day but she already felt as if that place had stolen her heart and soul. She thought that one day she might even enjoy the idea of settling down here and the realisation brought her a pang of joy. She left the water and went back to her belongings and sat down on the sand, retrieved her book and started reading. It was May and she was not aware of the fact that days, in the very north of Scotland were very long. She looked at her watch and gasped. It was 9pm and it was still day. She swore and collected her stuff quickly. She had finished the book she had bought from Rowan and now she had the excuse to go and visit him again and see if he had the following ones in the series. Reluctantly, she got back in the car and began the drive back to her place. A big grin stamped on her face.

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Gaelic “Madainn mhath, mo ghràidh: good morning, my dear Chan eil i Gàidhlig aice ; she does not speak Gaelic Na can guth: don't mention it

Fun fact: the first time i was at the Butt of Lewis the wind was savage just like in the story. I could not open the door of my car and I did stay in the car for lunch. Been there done that. :)

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius #rowan x aelin #aedion x lysandra #lysandra #aedion #fanfic #angst #throne of glass series #fluff

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nerdgirljen · 4 years

Text

This is for @aperrywilliams as part of @imagining-in-the-margins’s Secret-Fic-Swap 2020. I do not own the characters of Criminal Minds, but I do wish for a Spencer Reid of my very own.

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An Autumn Meet Cute by @nerdgirljen

The coffee shop was buzzing and the smell of fresh coffee and pastries filled the air in the small cafe in Virginia. Fall had finally returned to Prince William County, and with it hordes of color chasers to the woods of Northern Virginia. Vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows painted the trees in glorious splendor, a sight that I love so much, but the foot traffic it brought with it was not.

The crowds that milled around the small towns each weekend was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing was that the small towns were given a few last weeks of good tourism and business, but the negative was that I could never make it anywhere on time normally, so it was almost impossible with the additional bodies crowding the sidewalks and streets.

Running early to open my bookshop for the first time in a long time, I decided to stop into the cafe across the street and get my favorite Autumn beverage before what I hoped to be a busy and successful day.

“Large caramel apple chai latte?” a barista called out before sitting the cup down on the counter. I began walking to the bar that held my sweet nectar, but was met with another hand reaching for my drink at the same time.

“Oh! I am so sorry!”

“Sorry -”

We spoke simultaneously and my gaze followed the line from hand and wrist, to arm and bicep, and finally I looked at the face of the owner of the hand I was still inexplicably touching. A small smirk graced his lips, and his hazel eyes shone with humor as he looked back at me and then at our hands.

He was handsome, no doubt about that, with a delicate sloped nose and a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. His hair was a bit longer, and the type of shaggy that either meant he never combed it or he spent a ridiculously long time styling it so - I suspect the former more so the later. He looked to be around my age, give or take a few years. And although I did not know his name, yet, I could tell he was someone I wanted to know better. He was wearing tan corduroy trousers, and a beige sweater that probably felt as soft as it looked. Peeking under the collar was the collar from a blue button up, as well as a brown tie whose knot sat just at the base of his slender neck.

“Did you know the number of pathogens passed by hands touching is staggering. It’s really safer to kiss,” he stated, almost mechanically. I quickly pulled my hand away from his and whispered an apologetic murmur. He blushed and bowed his head in embarrassment before pulling his own hand back and gesturing to me to take the drink.

“I guess we have similar tastes then?” I asked, trying to pull him into conversation and not knowing how to start. I grabbed the drink and stepped back from the counter. He stepped back from the counter and towards me to allow the next in line to access their order.

“It’s entirely possible. Humans have a myriad of different interests, so the chance of having some overlapping tastes in things is quite high,” he intoned factually looking back up at me, and I couldn’t help but giggle at his misunderstanding.

“No. I, uh, I meant about the drink,” I explained, and his eyes grew in recognition of what I was indeed asking about. “It’s one of my favorites this time of year. They’ve offered to make it for me during the rest of the year, but I fear that it will lose all appeal it holds for me.”

“No, this is my first time here,” he said. “I actually moved into an apartment close by and am checking out the area. I thought that since I’m going to need a new coffee shop anyway, I may as well try a new drink as well, and I will admit that I’ve already had too much coffee today as it is so I opted for something else.”

“In that case, welcome to our little haven,” I declared. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N. And I would shake your hand, but apparently it’s more hygienic to kiss than shake hands and I don’t have a habit of kissing men I just met.” I grinned at him, and his cheeks flamed again.

“No, I am sure you aren’t,” he stated, flatly. “I’m Spencer Reid. You wouldn’t know when the bookstore across the way opens, do you? I either lost some books in the move, or my mother took them to her new home, so I need replacements.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. It opens at 10:00. I’m actually heading there now,” I said, slyly, knowing he doesn’t know that I own the shop in question. I took a sip of my drink, just as good as ever, and stated, “Talk to the owner and ask for the ‘New Neighbor' discount. I’m sure she’ll hook you up.” I winked at him, and I could feel my own cheeks heating at my wreckless flirting attempt.

“Oh wow, that’s great. I surely will. I will definitely be a frequent shopper there; the consequences of reading twenty-thousand words a minute is constantly being in need of reading material.” The barista called his drink at that point, and he took the steps needed to reach the bar for his drink. He turned back at me, and opened his mouth to say something before closing it again. Knowing what he was trying to say, I took the first step to end the meeting and let him get on with his day.

“Well, Spencer, it was nice meeting you. I hope to see you soon!” I quickly turned from him and bolted out the door and onto the sidewalk. I didn’t dare look back to see him, so I carefully looked both ways before crossing the street towards my store. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about Spencer Reid as I began the routine of opening the shop for the day, and cursed at myself for taking off so quickly. Spencer seemed so interesting, and I’d not mind getting a bit more acquainted with him.

For a few hours, though, my mind didn’t have time to think of the handsome stranger I met that morning because the additional foot traffic in town meant that tourists kept a constant stream of business going for the stores and restaurants leading to the town square. Before long, a lull in customers meant I could do some additional tasks I’d been avoiding so far that day like straighten up some children’s books and restock some shelves.

The time was now after two in the afternoon, and I had almost forgotten about the encounter entirely as I was restocking some local history books. Then all of a sudden, a hand with a coffee cup in it passed in front of my face. I let out a small “eek” of alarm as I turned to see who the hand belonged to, and was pleasantly surprised when I saw that it was Spencer.

“You left before I could say good-bye earlier, so I thought I would make up for that by bringing you another drink. Before you rushed off, I was going to see if you would like to go out sometime. I don’t know why because we just met, and I don’t even know if you are seeing anyone or not, and you just seem interesting and I’d like to get to know you better. And you’re not saying anything, so I’m just going to stop talking now.” He bowed his head so as to not look at me, but I could see the tips of his ears turning red from embarrassment, and I smiled at his rambling straightforwardness.

“Spencer Reid,” I said, and he looked at me, his eyes hopefully but wary. “I would love to go out with you.” I grinned at him, and his eyes lit up bright, and I knew that was something I wanted to see happen every day for the rest of my life.

Spencer and I had an amazing first date, which was followed by many more after that. I soon met his mother and he met mine. Our friends became friends through dinners and game nights we hosted. He eventually moved into my house with me where it became our home.

And it was a couple years later - on an Autumn day just like the one I met him on - that we went back to our favorite cafe, ordered our customary drink, and that he asked me to marry him. With no hesitation on my part, I said yes, and within a month we became Dr. and Mrs. Spencer Reid at the county courthouse.

It’s strange how life works. The day I met Spencer, I left my house and had no idea that I would be meeting a person who would become such an integral part of myself. But it happened right there on a brisk fall day in the middle of a small town in Virginia, and I’ve never been happier.

————-

And that’s it. Sorry it’s so short, I have no been in a writing mood as of late, and I’ve just not had the inspiration for much. I’m blaming the doldrums of the pandemic.

#spencer reid x plus size reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #reader insert #criminal minds #spencer reid

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wistfulcynic · 4 years

Text

A Uniquely Portable Magic

Summary: Tucked into the crossroads of the world we know and another one that we very much don’t, there lies a bookshop. Killian Jones knows the moment he enters that there is more to it than meets the eye, but he has no way of knowing just how much it holds in store for him until he meets its owner, Emma Swan.

In which there is tea and cake and books and magic, a witch and a cat, and a lost soul finding his home.

HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS to the wonderful @katie-dub, who some time ago now gave me a prompt about a magical bookstore, possibly my FAVOURITE EVER THING, and perfect for witch!Emma. There’s also a bit of inspiration from Neverwhere and of course the tea is Bird&Blend. I hope you have the most fantastic day, my dear, and that you can feel all the hugs I tried to write into this for you 😘

Thanks of course and always to @thisonesatellite and @ohmightydevviepuu for keeping things tight.

Rating: T Words: 8.5k Tags: magic, magic AU, witch!Emma, bookstore, bookstore AU

On AO3

A Uniquely Portable Magic:

He’s not sure what draws him through the door. The look of it, perhaps, the twisted grain and the knotholes, polished to a patina by centuries of wind and rain and hands upon it. Some hands much like his own and others very different. He finds comfort in that, as he places his hand on the door. His hand.

His only hand.

On the other side of the door is a bookshop. He knew that of course, from the sign in the window, another thing tempting him inside. It’s far too long since he read a good book, too long since he let himself get lost in stories other than his own. He’s not quite ready for what he sees.

The shelves are made of the same wood as the door. Carved from it, it seems. Hewn might be the word. The knobbly, knothole-y wood that even his limited carpentry knowledge tells him could not form straight shelves. It doesn’t, yet they hold the books. Row upon row of them, dizzying rows. His head spins when he tries to look at them, like a kaleidoscope or a funhouse mirror, too many things, too many angles, too little space.

He blinks, and everything is fine again. It’s just a bookstore.

“It’s just a bookstore,” he tells the cat in the window, a huge grey tabby with long, silky fur and pale blue, unblinking eyes.

“Of course it is,” the cat replies. “What were you expecting?”

“I—what?”

“Meow,” says the cat.

“Can I help you?” asks a voice to his left and he turns, grateful for an excuse to look away from the cat.

“Yes, I’m looking for a… book…”

The woman gives him a faint smile. “Well, we do sell those.”

She’s an ordinary woman, quite stunningly beautiful but dressed in a plain ivory sweater and jeans, hair pulled back in a tidy ponytail and not whipped to a frenzy by eldritch winds as she raises her arms to call down the midnight sky. Of course it isn’t. He blinks and shakes his head, and when he looks at her again her smile is still in place.

“Any particular book you’re looking for?” she asks.

“Erm, no,” he replies. “Something meaty. Complex. But no politics or business or murder. Something… something that feeds the soul.” He has no idea why he says that, but the woman’s smile softens.

“That’s a tall order,” she says. “But I think I can fill it. Come with me.”

She leads him through the maze of shelves, muttering under her breath and pulling books from them seemingly at random. He tries to look at the books for himself but she moves so quickly he gets little more than a glimpse of their titles as he takes long strides to keep up. He recognises none of them.

They emerge into the back of the shop where a small cafe nestles into the wall. Its counter is made of the same knotted wood, its display case filled with cakes and pastries laid out beneath a curving pane of glass he’s somehow certain was hand-blown. It’s softly rippled with a pearlescent sheen and inside it the baked goods glow.

He blinks again and they are simple cakes.

Small tables and chairs are scattered throughout, wrought-iron painted eau-de-nil, and onto one of these the woman drops her armload of books. “Have a look through these and see if any of them appeal,” she says. “Take your time. I’ll have Ruby make you a coffee.”

“I—”

“Don’t be silly, Emma,” says another voice, that of a tall and sleek red-streaked brunette who saunters up from behind the counter. “He’d clearly prefer tea.”

“I—” he doesn’t really want either, but then it’s been so long since he’s had a book and a nice cup of tea, and so “I would,” he replies.

“And cake.” Ruby grins, wide and only a bit predatory. “Tea and cake.”

He doesn’t dare argue. “Thank you.”

“Coming right up.”

He sits at the table and opens the book at the top of the pile, glances into it, and is absorbed. It’s the tale of a lonely man, a wanderer without a home who finds his place in the hearts of those he meets along his travels. It grips him so entirely that he fails to notice Ruby as she sets a pot of tea before him, with a mismatched cup and saucer and a plate bearing a thick slice of cake, fragrant with lemon and dotted with plump blueberries. Absently he prepares his tea—a splash of milk, no sugar—and sips it as he reads. It has a bright, floral aroma but a rich flavour that reminds him of the Earl Grey his brother favoured, and he has to pause for a moment to allow the ache to pass. It does, faster than it once did, and so he risks another sip and sighs this time in pleasure. It’s delicious. He settles deeper into the chair and the book, sips the tea and nibbles the cake and doesn’t notice either one disappearing or the afternoon sunshine fading into twilight beyond the windows until Ruby comes to clear the table with a clatter of silver on porcelain.

He startles at the sound and looks up, frowning.

“Sorry to interrupt you,” says Ruby. She sounds the opposite of sorry. “But we’re closing soon. Can I get you anything else?”

“Oh. Sorry. No, I’ll just take this book. And… do you think I could get a list of these others? For reference?”

Ruby grins, and there’s something triumphant in it. “I’m sure Emma would write them down for you,” she says. “She’s at the register.”

“Thanks.”

She nods. “Come back soon.”

The woman—Emma—is waiting at the register, a large apothecary-style chest equipped with all the cash-and-card accoutrements necessary to a modern retail establishment. He wonders why this surprises him.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks, with a professional smile and an undercurrent of something in her voice that he can’t quite put his finger on, a depth to the question that makes him hesitate before he answers.

“Aye,” he says after a moment’s pause, endeavouring a lightness he doesn’t feel. “This one sucked me in and I don’t think I can rest until I finish it. I’ll take it now, and, er, Ruby said you would also make a list of the others for me, so I can find them again?”

“I’ll do you one better,” she says. “I’ll leave them here at the register, and you can choose another when you come back.”

There seems to be no question in her mind that he will come back. He’s not certain he cares for the presumption, but he agrees with a smile. “That would be lovely, if you don’t mind keeping them from your other customers.”

She gives him an odd, sharp look. “It won’t be a problem.” She tears a sheet of paper from a pad next to the register and continues “If I could just get your name?”

Once again he hears a weight in her words that doesn’t seem to belong to them. It’s a simple enough question and the answer hardly a secret, and there is surely no reason at all to feel as though he’s giving anything away by replying.

“Killian Jones,” he says.

“Killian. Is that with a C or a K?”

“K.” He keeps the smile on his face as she writes his name on the paper and places it atop his stack of books, then tells him the price of the one he’s buying. As he reaches into his pocket for his wallet she flicks her fingers at his sleeve, the tiniest twitch of motion, barely noticeable even if he were watching her do it.

He doesn’t notice.

He pays for his book and gives her another smile, one that she returns warmly. He notices again how beautiful she is, how her green eyes sparkle, and feels foolish that he ever imagined that there may be something sinister in the way she spoke to him. She’s just a lovely woman who runs a lovely bookstore, and of course he’ll be coming back again why wouldn’t he?

He turns to go and finds the door is easily visible from where he’s standing. Of course it is, he thinks, why wouldn’t it be? He shakes off the feeling that his way to the back of the store was far more convoluted than his way from it, and takes his leave, ignoring the unblinking gaze and swishing tail of the cat in the window.

Emma watches him go, and once the door clicks shut behind him she takes the hair she plucked from the sleeve of his sweater and places it carefully on the sheet of paper that bears his name. She folds the paper several times upon itself until the hair is safely enclosed within it and puts it in her pocket.

The moon is high in the sky, round and luminous, when Emma lights the fire beneath her cauldron with a flick of her wrist. She tosses in a bit of this and a pinch of that, gives it a stir and lets it simmer as she consults a crumbling, leather-bound book.

The grey cat leaps onto her table, delicately avoiding the bottles of potions and powders that litter it. He sits on the edge and curls his tail around his paws, regarding her with his cool blue eyes.

“He saw you,” the cat says.

“I know.”

The cat flicks the tip of his tail. “He heard me.”

“I know, David!” Emma huffs in annoyance as she stirs the contents of the cauldron.

“Who is he?”

“That I don’t know.”

She tips a handful of bright blue powder from a glass bottle and into her palm, then tosses it into the cauldron. The contents bubble up with a hiss then settle into a smooth, flat surface. Onto which, when she drops the single dark hair upon it, resolves the image of Killian Jones.

“But I intend to find out.”

He’s back again three days later, having finished his book and found himself unable to stop wondering what other gems may be among the pile that Emma has tucked away for him. The one he bought was more satisfying than anything he can recall reading since his youth, when tales of adventure kept him awake late into the night, reading beneath the covers with a flickering torch so Liam wouldn’t see.

Killian knows now that Liam did see, but kept it to himself.

He feels so little these days other than tired, worn threadbare by stress and sadness, and a book that not only holds his interest but actively engages it is an inestimable treasure. These past few nights have seen him sleeping soundly through them, his mind too exhausted—in the good way this time—to keep him awake with remembering. And all because of a beautiful woman who found him a book.

This Emma has a gift, he thinks, and with it she’s given him one. He’s deeply grateful but he wants more. Needs more. Needs to know more about her.

The cat is not in the window when he arrives this time, nor is Emma anywhere to be seen. The shop itself is perfectly normal—he’s not sure why he thought it might be otherwise—with its crooked shelves standing straight…well, not straight precisely but lined up, er, in a line… He sighs. It makes sense in his head.

He heads back towards the cafe, which is empty save for the cat and a young woman with short, dark hair upon whose lap he’s sprawled, his pose relaxed but his gaze sharply observant. The woman is petite and very pretty, reclining in her chair at an odd angle to accommodate the cat’s generous size, holding her book carefully in one hand and stroking his head with the other while a cup of coffee steams invitingly on the table beside her. She casts the cup a longing look from time to time, but it’s too far away for her to reach without disturbing the cat and so she leaves it be.

Killian isn’t sure the cat would move even if she did disturb him. His purr is audible from across the cafe and his expression one of perfect, smug contentment. He regards Killian coolly, fluffy tail flicking, daring him to make something of it.

Killian raises an eyebrow and strides purposefully across the cafe, keeping his eye on the cat as he slides the woman’s coffee cup across her table. She casts him a grateful glance and he nods, smirks at the cat, and when he looks up again Ruby is there behind the counter grinning her wide grin.

“Hey, Killian,” she says. “It is Killian, right?”

“Er—yes.”

“Yeah. Emma said.”

“Oh.” He feels an odd thrill at the thought of Emma mentioning him. Thinking about him after he had gone. “Er, yes. Is she here?”

“She’s in the back. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Um.” He shoots a glance at the woman. Her attention seems wholly on her book, and though the cat continues to stare, Killian figures there’s nothing he can do about that. “Perhaps you can,” he replies. “I left some books here on my last visit, and Emma said she would hold them for me. I’d like to look at them, if I could, and choose another.”

“Killian Jones.” It’s Emma’s voice that speaks, from behind him and just to his left. The sound of it shivers across his skin in a way he’s not entirely sure he likes.

He definitely doesn’t not like it, though.

He turns to see her smiling at him. Her hair is loose today, curling over her shoulders in soft waves, bright against the blue of her blouse. She’s wearing jeans and sandals that reveal red-painted toenails and she looks completely unthreatening.

Of course she does. He gives his head a little shake to clear it.

“Have you come for your books?” she asks him.

“Yes. If that’s all right.”

“Of course it is. Let’s go have a look. Ruby, would you make him some tea?”

Killian doesn’t bother to protest. He accepts that the tea is inevitable, and actually he’s quite looking forward to it.

He follows Emma to the register where she retrieves the stack of books and watches intently while he looks through them and makes his selection. He watches her watching him, noting the subtle changes in her expression and body language each time he picks up a book to read the blurb on its cover. He lets her reactions guide him, and when he holds up his final selection her approving smile lights up the room.

He blinks and the light is as it was before.

Killian holds the book carefully in his prosthetic hand and scratches his ear with the other.

“Lass,” he says. “I hate to ask, but—”

“Can I hold the rest of these here until the next time you come?” she says, deadpan but with a twinkle in her eye. “Of course. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Are you this kind to all your customers?” he asks with a grin.

Her lips curve in response, into the most peculiar smile he’s ever beheld. “No,” she says. “I’m not.”

His heart thumps and for a moment he feels his old self again. “So I’m just lucky then,” he says.

“That remains to be seen.”

She holds his gaze a beat too long for comfort then turns away.

He takes his book back to the cafe where Ruby has tea waiting and a slice of cake. At first he’s disappointed to note that it’s a different cake than he had the last time and a different aroma emanating from the teapot but once he’s had a sip and a bite that disappointment turns to delight. The cake is soft and mildly tangy with a crunchy pecan topping and the tea is rich and malty and perfect with a splash of milk.

Killian sinks into it, into all of it—the cosiness of the room and the tea and the cake and the book, and the sunshine through the windows and the purr of the cat. He melts into the story as he reads, lets the pages enfold him and wrap him up in their embrace, and when the dark-haired woman eases the cat from her lap with soothing words and a kiss on the top of his head, he doesn’t notice. Nor does he hear the chat she has with Ruby or the petulant mewl of the cat, or sense her walking past him when she leaves.

Other customers come and go as well. There’s a slight man in round spectacles accompanied by a Dalmatian whom the cat, much to what would have been Killian’s astonishment had he been watching, seems to adore; they curl up together beneath the corner table as the man enjoys a cup of coffee and a slice of buttered raisin bread. There’s a haughty woman, sharply dressed, who sweeps in and holds a hissed conversation with Emma at the back of the shop then leaves with the same sweep and several parcels wrapped in brown paper beneath her arm. There’s a man in a tattered velvet jacket and a few too many scarves; Emma’s smile strains at the edges as she helps him and the flash in her eye has a dangerous edge. There’s a man who takes his coffee black like the typewriter he pecks at in an armchair beneath the window as Ruby rolls her eyes, and there’s a little boy with a bright, eager face and incessant chatter who drinks hot chocolate dusted with cinnamon and makes her laugh.

Throughout all the intermittent bustle and quiet of the day Emma watches Killian read. She watches as the tension drains from his shoulders and the frown fades from between his eyes, and as he gets lost in the story his expressive face reveals the sharp intelligence and wry humour that struggle valiantly beneath the weight of his burdens. Killian doesn’t notice her gaze but he feels it all the same and all the same it warms him, soothes him even when he sighs and leans back in his chair to roll his shoulders and rub his neck and it sharpens, just briefly, with something darker.

All too soon the day begins to fade behind the windows and when Ruby comes to clear his table he looks up at her with a smile.

“Closing time already?”

“It sneaks up on you sometimes, doesn’t it?” she replies.

“Aye.”

He stands and stretches, glances over to see that Emma is on duty at the register. As he approaches her expression softens in a way that makes his heart do a little skip in his chest.

“How was it?” she asks.

“Brilliant. I’ll take it.”

She beams. “I’m so glad. Ah, that you liked it, I mean, not that—”

“Aye. I know.”

She rings up his sale with a flush on the tops of her cheeks that captivates him, and when she hands him the bag her fingers brush against his. Killian gasps as the world explodes with colour and sound and light, but when he blinks it’s gone and Emma is smiling at him, the same as before.

He thanks her and starts to go, still all of a whirl, but something stops him. He turns back.

“May I ask you a question, love?”

“Sure.”

“How did you know? What books to choose for me, I mean? These two have been—well, exactly what I didn’t realise I was looking for. I’d never have found them for myself. How did you know?”

“I’m afraid that’s a trade secret.” She grins and taps the side of her nose. “Let’s just say I’m good at reading people.”

He clears his throat. “And what do you read in me?” he asks.

Her tone is light, draped over something deeper. “Would you really like to know?”

“Aye,” he says gruffly. “I think perhaps I would.”

She places her hand on his arm and this time the light is gentle, the sound is soothing harmonies and the colours soft as a rain-washed meadow.

“Another time,” she says.

It’s not long before the bookshop becomes a part of his routine, such as it is. Routine is important in recovery, so he’s told, and he does his best to set and stick to one. He gets up at the same time every day—early, as always, the habits of a lifetime are hard to break—he cooks and eats and exercises, and attends his meetings. And two or three times a week he stops by the bookshop for tea and cake and a new addition to his rapidly growing personal library. He makes a mild joke to Emma about affording all this luxury and she replies with a careful smile.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

And it is. His navy pension barely covers his expenses but although he buys a book each time he finds he’s never short on funds; rather he always seems to be discovering twenty dollar bills in trouser pockets and handfuls of change from things he can’t remember buying.

He adores the books, of course. They fill his lonely nights and give his mind the respite it craves, an alternative to painful memories or sluggish retreat. But they are not what draws him back to the shop, again and again. It’s also not the cake.

It’s the way that Emma smiles at him, the warmth that radiates from her and into him, that seals the fissures in his soul. The conversations he so treasures that begin with books and end in a pause, a we’ll talk more next time, but they never do. There’s always something new to discuss, next time.

He thinks about her often as he goes about his day, when he finds something he thinks she’d enjoy or sees sunlight dappled through the trees the way it is through her hair. He looks forward to the glint in her eye and the twist in her smile when she tells him she’s added a new book to his pile; he forces himself not to rush as he reads. The books will still be there tomorrow, he reminds himself, and the next day and the next, and he is determined to savour them.

Determined, though he knows all too well the fragile nature of this kind of happiness.

The greenhouse is lit by moonlight alone, the only light that doesn’t kill the Nocturnam dentifolia with its glow. Emma wakens the plant with a gentle stroke of her finger down its curled-up frond, and smiles as the frond unfurls and wraps itself around her palm in greeting. She begins harvesting tiny beads of venom from the plant’s sharp teeth, ignoring David when he leaps onto the table and sniffs the dentifolia in feline disapproval.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says.

“I’ve been harvesting dentifolia venom since I was ten years old—”

“You know that’s not what I mean. I hope you know what you’re doing with him.”

Emma considers dissembling but decides it’s not worth the effort. “I do,” she replies.

“Do you, though?”

“He’s lonely, David. And sad. He needs me.”

“And what about what you need?”

She shakes her head, willing away the thoughts of Killian and his crinkly smile and the pain behind his eyes and the way those eyes light up when they see her.

“I have everything I need.”

“Yeah? Then what about what you want?”

Emma focuses her attention on catching the venom in her vial, made of a hardened smoky quartz that won’t dissolve on contact with it. It’s delicate work, and requires concentration.

David hisses and the tip of his tail flicks. “You take too much on yourself, Emma.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Emma sets the venom down on the table with a sharp thunk. “So what do you think I should do, David? Force him to give up everything he knows—”

“I doubt much force would be required.”

“—drag him into an entirely new world—”

“Not entirely new.”

“—when he’s known more than enough suffering already in his own?”

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” David repeats. “Let him help you.”

“He’s the one who needs help.”

“You’re so damned stubborn, Emma. Don’t forget that I saw the same things you did in that cauldron—”

“Pah.”

“—I saw who he is, and who he could be. To you. All you have to do is let him in.”

“I’m fine as I am.”

David’s tail swishes as it whips across the table and his ears turn back against his head. He catches her gaze and holds it as he reaches out with his paw, a single claw extended, and with slow deliberation tips over the vial. They both watch as venom oozes out of it and through the cracks in the table, dripping down to burn a sizzling hole in the concrete floor.

“I’m going to spend the night at Mary Margaret’s,” he says.

As the days become weeks and then ease into months, Killian begins to notice certain things about the shop. They enter his consciousness in a slow drip, never too many at once, never more than he can handle. The shelf by the register lined with candles and powders and tinctures in crystal vials. The arcane symbols carved along the edges of the bookshelves and the ones formed of silver and set with cut glass that dangle in the windows and twist the sunlight into rainbow hues. The odd way that the time stretches, the depth and stillness of the shadows, how the tea is always hot. The glimpses from the corner of his eye, gone the moment he blinks, of Ruby’s smile baring dripping fangs and David’s crystalline eyes in a human face.

Killian is a practical man, well-educated and vastly travelled, and he accepts the existence of things in this world that lie beyond his ken. He’s seen hints of them all his life, faintly on the misty edges of Cornish cliffs in his childhood and more clearly during his years in the navy, around corners he turned down on a whim and on the faces of those people whom most folk barely notice. The bookshop and its patrons are the clearest yet, unlike anything he has encountered before. This doesn’t trouble him in the least though it thoroughly intrigues him, just as everything connected with Emma intrigues him.

The last traces of spring have faded and the air is warm and fragrant, with the gentle weight and drawn-out softness of an early-summer twilight, on the day Killian leaves the bookshop and turns, quite without any intent to do so, around a corner that he’s never noticed before. He finds himself in a narrow alleyway far darker than the street, still and close and vaguely menacing, though he feels certain that it means him no harm whatever it may hold in store for other travellers. He follows it to where it ends in a stone archway and a rusty iron gate which swings open before he can reach out his hand to push it, beckoning him into the hazy gloom beyond.

This is how mortals end up kidnapped, Killian thinks, and yet he barely hesitates before stepping through the arch and through the gloom and into a garden bright with golden sunlight and riotous with colour. Woody vines and trunks of trees twist together to form a wall that marks its boundaries on three sides; those he recognises are apple and hawthorn and cherry and yew. Two greenhouses make up the fourth side, one a fairly typical model in his estimation and the other much the same, except its windows are all stained a smoky black. Together they frame a wild carpet of blooms in hues that range from bright white to deepest indigo, nodding atop stems and stalks in every shade of green.

It appears random, Killian thinks, but there is method in it, a species of order underlying chaos that is so familiar he feels no surprise at all when the greenhouse door opens and Emma emerges.

“Oh!” she cries and stops abruptly, staring at him. “Killian! What—how did you get here?”

“I... don’t know exactly,” he replies. “I’ve never turned down this path before.”

“No,” says Emma, “I don’t suppose you have.”

She’s annoyed, he thinks, though not with him. “Is all this yours?” he asks, indicating the garden with an expansive gesture of his arms. “It’s extraordinary.”

“Yes, it’s mine. It’s where I grow the ingredients for my—” She snaps her mouth shut and looks at him warily.

“For the things you sell in the shop,” he supplies, with an encouraging smile. “The candles and balms and… the like.”

“Er—yes.”

“You make them all yourself, then.” It’s less a question than a gentle acknowledgement, to let her know that he knows too.

She softens. “Yeah. It’s, um, kind of a family tradition.”

“And a lovely one. May I see it?”

She hesitates. “Do you really want to?”

“Aye, of course I do. I’d love to know more of your heritage.”

The look she gives him is both sweet and sharp, tenderness with an edge that makes his gut clench. She nods.

“Follow me.”

It’s those damned eyes, Emma thinks, as she leads him on a tour around the garden, stopping to introduce each plant and explain its properties and uses. They’re so interested, so intent on her and on everything she says, and the sadness ever lurking in their depths breaks her heart.

They’re shining now, though, as he looks around her garden, and when he looks at her she feels lit up from within, warm and glowing in a way she never imagined she could feel without using magic.

This is magic.

Emma ignores the whisper in her ear just as she’s been doing now for months. No cauldron is going to tell her what to do, she thinks obstinately. She’s perfectly capable of managing her own fate. And anyway, cauldrons are designed to observe, not predict. If she wanted to mess around with the Foretelling she’d get herself a damned crystal ball.

“And what’s in the greenhouses?” Killian’s voice snaps her back to herself, and she realises that they’ve made a full circle of the garden.

“Oh. Um. Just more things I use. For, uh, more specific needs.”

“For personalised spells.”

“Well, yes. Things that people request that need to be tailored to them and—wait, what?”

He turns to her with that dimpled smile and so much warmth in his eyes. “Emma,” he says gently. “I’ve been around the world ten times over and seen many things on the way. I know a witch when I meet one.”

“Oh.” She stares at him as he continues to smile. “And that doesn’t, um. Freak you out at all?”

“Of course not.”

He’s so close she can feel the heat of his body and she shivers despite it, and despite the warmth of the evening. He sees of course, just as he sees everything in her, and she hears the catch in his breath, feels the tension straining in his every sinew as he steps closer still. His fingers brush across her cheek and trace the edge of her jaw and she gasps at the sensation, grips tightly to his shirt to keep from falling as he whispers her name across her lips and she rises on her toes to meet his kiss.

Killian feels suffused in light, bursts of it behind his eyes and sparks that dance along his skin. He thinks at first that it must come from Emma but no, he realises, it’s within him, pouring out from him and into her.

He catches her startled gasp with his lips and takes the kiss deep, slowly savouring the taste of honey cake and of mint tea—a sweetness and a burn that’s so very her—until the noise she makes at the back of her throat nearly ends him. With a growl he pulls her closer and just for a moment she goes, melting into him and firing his blood, but then she shoves hard against his chest and breaks the kiss and the light is gone.

She stumbles backwards, staring at him with a tangle of emotions in her eyes, apprehension and longing and the heat of both passion and pique. “I felt—” she whispers, raising a trembling hand to touch her lips. “I thought—but you can’t—I—I—”

“Emma,” he says softly, taking a hesitant step towards her, but she holds up her hands and backs away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s too much. You can’t—we can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

“Emma!” he calls after her as she turns and flees across the garden, heedless of her precious plants, but the name returns to his ears in a hollow echo when she slips through the solid wall of trees and then is gone.

He gives her space, and time. She needs both, he knows, and plenty of them. Emma is not a woman who accepts lightly, or deals easily with things outside her control. When the time is right to return to her he’ll feel the pull.

It doesn’t come for nearly a month and when it does he goes without hesitation. His arrival finds the shop empty of customers and eerily silent, a still, expectant silence so deep that the swish of David’s tail along the knotted wood of the windowsill is deafening.

Emma is standing where she was when he first beheld her, beneath a tall window and swathed in moonlight, though the sun is high in the sky. Her hair is loose and wild around her shoulders and she wears a flowing crimson gown. The same gown he saw her in, that first time. The same gown and the same moonlight.

“You see me,” she says.

“Aye. Of course I do.”

“No, but—” she breaks off as her eyes turn to David, now standing in front of the window in soft leathers and silk, very stern and very human. “You see me, I mean.”

Killian nods. “I see you both.”

Emma sighs and the scene around them melts away, gently as chalk in the rain, and the bookstore is as normal. The swish of David’s tail is drowned out by the bustle and hum of customers, and Emma is dressed in jeans and a sage green sweater that brings out her eyes.

“Emma,” he says, stepping closer and taking her hands, the bright magic that flares up at their touch familiar now. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t entirely know,” she admits. “Magic doesn’t always have an explanation. Sometimes it just is.”

“And what magic is this?”

“True love magic,” says David, and Emma flushes.

“True love?” Killian repeats as he twines his fingers in hers. He imagines this should feel like a revelation, but it does not.

“Maybe,” she says, biting her lip. “I mean, it’s possible, or maybe more like potential.”

“Potential true love?”

She nods. “The seeds are there,” she whispers. “We only have to let them grow.”

“Growing seeds is something you do remarkably well, love,” he says with a soft smile. “What will we need to nurture these ones into full flower?”

She huffs a little breath through her own, reluctant smile. “Don’t torture the metaphor,” she retorts, and then her face grows solemn. “It’s not as simple or straightforward as nurturing something until it grows,” she says. “Magic isn’t for everyone. There are dangers—”

“I’ll face them,” he assures her, tightening his hold on her hands. “Whatever may come, I’ll face it with you.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand, Killian.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Emma pulls her hands from his and twists them together anxiously as she speaks. “We can’t talk about this here,” she says. “Come with me.”

She leads him back to the corner of the shop where the register sits beneath a tall window and opposite an archway of precisely the same material and shape as the one that brought him to her garden, though this one is fitted with a sturdy wooden door. He’s seen her pass through this door a hundred times, into ‘the back,’ as it is known, with no other name nor explanation ever given. The door swings open as Emma approaches and he follows her through it, David at his heels, and if anyone finds it odd that he’s gone with Emma into a place where no customer before has ever been, they do not show it.

“Ruby,” Emma calls. “Bring tea.”

The room they enter is long and narrow, with the same tall windows that grace the bookshop on either side. Along one windowless wall is a cluttered wooden workbench and the other is lined with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, crammed with supplies. There are ceramic bowls of all different sizes, glass vials and stone ones, herb bundles and crystals and lumpy leather bags, and, Killian notes to his amusement, no fewer than three cauldrons, one copper and one iron and one that appears to his untrained eye to be carved from moonstone.

Beneath the nearest window two armchairs sit, deep and inviting ones made of worn brocade. A table like the ones in the cafe nestles between them, and onto this Ruby, appearing quite suddenly through a smaller doorway that opens up from between the shelves, places a teapot and three cups.

She flashes her feral grin at Killian and saunters away. Emma gestures for him to take one of the chairs and he does, watching wordlessly as she settles herself into the other and pours the tea. David leaps onto the arm of her chair and sits like a sentry at her elbow, accepting the cup she balances in front of him with regal grace.

She hands Killian the second cup and takes the third for herself, and the three of them sip in silence for a moment. A dozen questions clamour on the tip of Killian’s tongue, but he holds them in. He waits.

“Magic,” Emma says finally, “is a capricious, tricksy thing. It doesn’t sit comfortably in the world you know.” She sets her cup down on the table and folds her hands together in her lap. “It can exist only at the edges of it, deep within crannies and around corners and on certain people, a part of those things but also outside them.”

“Beyond them,” says David.

“Yes. It extends beyond what most can perceive and into a place that’s much wilder and less ordered. One that’s run on arcane powers and ruled by the people who wield them, and wielding them sometimes requires a darkness and a sacrifice that changes those people, makes them less than human. Dangerous.”

Killian nods. “But such people exist in my world too,” he points out. “The ones who sacrifice their humanity for power. The difference, it seems to me, is only in the nature of the power.”

Emma frowns as she considers this. “I see what you mean,” she says. “But. I’d guess that the people who wield power in your world don’t take any particular interest in you?”

“Decidedly not.” He can’t hold back a bitter laugh. “I’m quite insignificant, really.”

“In your world.”

Killian looks at her sharply. “But not in yours?”

“No.”

“But—how can that be?” He scowls. “How can I be of importance in a place I’ve never been?”

Emma picks up her tea again, and her fingers tremble as she wraps them around the cup. “Killian, why did you come into the shop, the first time?” she asks.

“I wanted a book.”

“Was that all?”

“Aye… although perhaps not.” He frowns, trying to remember. “The shop just—appealed to me, in an odd sort of way.”

“Odd how?”

“Like it was beckoning to me, almost. I’d been down this street dozens of times before, hundreds even, and never noticed it. Then one day I did.”

Her expression doesn’t change, and he realises she was expecting this very answer. “And why did you keep coming back?”

His mouth quirks. “To see you.”

She huffs a short sigh, though her cheeks flush faintly. “And?” she presses.

“And, well, I suppose it kept beckoning.”

“Did you never think to wonder how?” David interjects. “Or why?”

“David!” snaps Emma, but Killian replies calmly.

“No, mate, I confess I didn’t. I’ve learnt not to question any good fortune that happens to come my way. I prefer to simply enjoy it”—he pauses as he thinks of Liam—“for as long as it may last.”

“Are you happy now?” hisses Emma, glaring at David. “Do you have anything more you’d like to contribute?”

David looks away from them and begins to wash his face.

“It’s a reasonable thing to ask, though, love,” says Killian. “Why didn’t I question it? Should I have?”

Emma gives him a searching look, as a sunbeam from the window falls across her face. “Would you have stopped coming here if you had?”

He wishes he could say no, but “I’m not sure,” he answers truthfully. “Perhaps.”

She nods. “That’s why you didn’t question it.”

“But I still don’t understand,” he says, setting down his empty cup. Emma refills it without asking, and without thinking he takes it up again and sips some more. “Why did the shop call to me? Why me?”

“True Love magic is extremely rare,” David says, ignoring the scowl Emma turns on him. “And powerful. It behaves as it must to draw together the people capable of sharing it.”

Something in his voice, a bleak sort of yearning, catches Killian’s attention. “You, and the brunette,” he says. “Mary Margaret, is it?”

David’s tail swishes, and though he doesn’t clench his jaw he gives the impression of it. “Yes,” he replies. “And we have suffered for it. Magic that powerful can do incredible things, so you can imagine there are many people who seek to harness it for themselves.” The light bends and he shifts, from cat to man and back again. “By whatever means necessary.”

“That’s the danger you spoke of,” Killian says, looking at Emma. “You’re worried something similar might befall me.”

She nods. “Or worse.”

“But not necessarily,” says David. “You have to tell him everything, Emma.”

The anxiety is back on Emma’s face, evident in the wrinkling of her brow and the way she bites her lip. She replaces her teacup in its saucer with a clatter and clasps her hands again, digging the nails of one into the flesh of the other.

“Killian,” she says, “I'm so sorry to unearth the painful past with this, but—what do you remember about your mother?”

He blinks in surprise. “Er—not much. She died when I was very young. I remember that she was beautiful. Blue eyes like mine but red hair, a dark auburn red. Her name was Alice. Alice Pendyr, as she was born.”

“Pendyr,” Emma repeats, her expression sharp and sorrowful. “Cornish?”

“Aye. Meaning end of the—”

“—land,” Emma finishes. “Alice of the land’s end.”

“Aye.”

She pauses and the silence builds, settling like snow upon their shoulders. “But,” she says softly, “of what land?”

Killian starts, and stares at her. She meets his eyes calmly, though her hands remain tense and twisted in her lap. He makes a fist of his own.

“How can you know to ask that,” he whispers. “No one outside my family ever learned of it.”

“What land, Killian?” Emma presses, gentle and implacable.

He forces his body to relax, unclenches his fist and lays his hand flat against the arm of his chair. “Nobody knows,” he replies. “She was found in a basket on the edge of a cliff, wrapped in a blanket of a weave and fibre none had seen before, less than one day old. The couple who found her raised her as their child but with her own name, a name for her origins, they said. They were called Chenoweth. I—” he frowns. “I don’t know why no one ever questioned that. The difference in names, I mean, when they always called her their daughter.”

“How did she die?”

“I—” He shakes his head. “I’m not certain. As I said I was very young. One day she was fine and the next—we went for a walk.” He blinks again as the memory, so long forgotten, returns in vivid force and he is there again—there on the wind-whipped precipice, clinging to his mother’s leg as clouds swirled above them and rocks churned the sea into a lather far below their feet. “We walked right to the edge of the cliff and she told me the tale of how my grandparents found her there, on that very spot where we stood. Then she… she stared out at the sea for the longest time, and when she looked at me again her eyes were so sad. She said it was time to go home. I held her hand the whole way back because I didn’t want her to be sad, and she laughed and hugged me, as she always did. But then… the next day she was gone. My father told me she had taken ill in the night and died before sunrise.”

There are tears in Emma’s eyes, and she clears her throat before she asks “Was there a funeral?”

Killian’s frown deepens, and he rubs his temple. “I—I don’t—I don’t remember one.”

Emma smiles, a small smile full of heartrending empathy. “I see.”

“What—what are you saying?” Killian demands. “That my mother didn’t die?”

“She did not,” says Emma gently. “She went home.”

“Home. You think she was from this magical world.”

“Yes I do, and I don’t think that it truly surprises you to hear it,” Emma replies, and he swears the earth tilts as she speaks, telescopes around her until she is all that he can see, her voice the only sound in his ears. “It explains a lot that’s never quite made sense to you, I’d bet, like why you’ve always felt slightly out of place wherever you are and why you spent so long wandering. Why you are able to see more than you should.” Her gaze is intent now, her face and form aglow with the moonlight that empowers her. “Because you do, don’t you Killian?” she says softly. “You’ve always seen things others don’t, seen and accepted them without judgment. You embrace the world in all its strange and wondrous tapestry because deep down you’ve always known that there is more to it than meets the eye. Haven’t you?”

“A-aye.” Killian clears his throat. There’s light behind his eyes and on his skin and in his very bones. “I believe I have.”

“You wandered for years observing that world and seeking your place in it,” Emma continues, “until the time was right and you were called here, to a haven for the lost and the cursed.”

He nods. He can feel her words, and he can feel the truth in them, a truth he’s always felt but never understood. “Why was the time right now though?” he asks, a wealth of pain behind the question. “After so many years, why now?”

“Because now is when you truly needed it.”

“I needed it before—” he chokes, but she shakes her head, tears shimmering again in her eyes.

“Now is when you truly needed it,” she whispers. “And I—I need you.”

She takes his hand, smiling as he catches his breath at the magic that leaps between them. “It won’t always be like this,” she says. “If you come to me, eventually our magic will settle. Right now it’s really new and you just—excite it.”

He smiles at this, and at the flutter in his chest. “I excite your magic?”

“Mmmm,” she replies with a wry smirk. “Among other things.”

David swishes his tail and gives a hacking cough.

“Hairball?” queries Emma sweetly.

“But love.” Killian turns his hand in hers so that their fingers entwine, shivering at the power that crackles between their palms. “What do you mean if I come to you? And why do you say our magic?”

“You don’t think that all this only comes from me?” Emma gestures at him, at the silvery light from his hand that mingles with the golden glow of hers. “You have magic too. It’s what had me so scared that day in the garden. I had been shown your origins and the True Love potential, but not the magic. There’s so much in you, Killian. If you come to my world, you’ll learn just how much.”

“Come to your world?” He stares at her in awe. “I can do that?”

“If you wish.” She smiles at his expression, then her own turns solemn. “But it’s a one-way journey. Once you go, you can never come back. Not fully.”

“I’ll go.”

She shakes her head. “This is a big decision. You need to think about it.”

“I don’t believe I do.” Killian feels as he is sure a ship must, when docking at last in her native harbour after a journey long and fraught and rife with loss. It’s a homecoming he has never known, not truly. Not until now.

“The world I’m in holds nothing for me now,” he says. “Everything I once had is gone—my family, my career, even my bloody hand. I was barely living anymore... until I met you.” He draws their clasped hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of hers, and their magic sings. “If we have True Love, or the potential for it,” he continues, “if there’s a chance I might see my mother again—well, I don’t have to think about either of those. I want them both, and if there is danger to be faced in the pursuit of them, I’ll face it. I’ll go.”

The light of Emma’s smile holds no surprise for him this time nor does the joyous dance of their magic through the air, though David’s approving purr does rather take him aback. Emma stands and he follows, their hands still joined, by touch and by magic and by choice.

“Come, then,” she says.

As she speaks the shimmer between their hands brightens to a glow that spreads out from where they stand, silver light entwined with gold and curling open as a spring bud unfolds, until it reaches the arched doorway that leads to the shop. The light bursts—blinding for a moment—then it fades into a gentle gleam and the door swings open.

Emma’s hand tightens in his, and they step through the doorway together.

@kmomof4 @stahlop @mariakov81 @teamhook @winterbaby89 @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 @darkcolinodonorgasm @shireness-says

#cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #magic au #captain swan #witch!emma #magic bookstore #there's tea #and cake #and magic #and true love #and books #all the books #and love for katie-dub #because it's her birthday #and she's the loveliest #and deserves nice things #a uniquely portable magic #profdanglaisstuff

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infinitevariety · 4 years

Text

May Your Days By Merry

Having never been able to celebrate previously, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to embrace the festive season and make the most of their first December together since the world didn’t end.

Chapter Twelve: Visiting (AO3)

Aziraphale drags Crowley around to visit his neighbours and deliver Christmas cards, but that isn’t all Aziraphale is doing.

“Why do I have to come?” grumbles Crowley as Aziraphale shoos him towards the door of the bookshop.

“Because it’s a nice festive thing for us to do together, for others.”

“I don’t even know these people.”

“You do!”

Aziraphale is actually prodding Crowley in the back now, all but pushing him to leave the shop. Crowley just really doesn’t want to go.

“You know Esme from the bakery, Shirley at the cafe, and Luca in the wine shop.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale sighs. “You’d know their faces.”

Apparently deciding on a new tactic, Aziraphale moves around in front of Crowley and pulls him forwards by the wrist.

“If I know these people, why didn’t you ask me to sign any of the Christmas cards?”

Aziraphale takes a breath to speak, but draws up short. Aha! Crowley’s got him.

“Well… I didn’t know… I wouldn’t like to presume…” Aziraphale lets go of Crowley’s wrist to wring his own hands. “If you want to sign the cards, we can get them out and—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Crowley is quick to reassure Aziraphale and mend the broken look on his face. “I’ll come, but only because you want me to—not because I care about these people.”

Aziraphale hums sceptically, but doesn’t comment. Crowley strides past him to throw open the door. Extending an arm out into the cold, bright street.

“Come on then, angel. Let’s get going.”

“Let’s go to the bakery first,” says Aziraphale as he passes by Crowley on the doorstep. “That way I can get a bite for breakfast as well.”

And so they visit the fancy little French bakery and its head baker (Esme, apparently). Aziraphale gives her his Christmas card and exchanges a few words with her. At one point Aziraphale points over to where Crowley is hovering by the door and Emse looks over at him and waves. Crowley quickly waves awkwardly back before turning away.

By the time Aziraphale is finished and ready to leave, Esme is smiling brighter and the mood in the whole shop is lighter. Crowley and Aziraphale move on.

“I think we should see Shirley at the cafe next,” says Aziraphale as they walk. “I can get one of those gingerbread hot chocolates to wash down my breakfast canelés.”

“I could go for a coffee,” admits Crowley.

It’s busy when they arrive at the cafe, and they queue politely for several minutes. By the time they reach the counter, the woman behind it (Shirley, apparently) looks more harried than normal.

“Shirley, my dear, how are you doing?”

“Mr Fell, always a pleasure. I’m busy, but good. What would you like today?”

Crowley slinks off to the side while Aziraphale orders their drinks, chitchats with Shirley, and gives her a Christmas card. They talk of inconsequential things—how much longer the mail is taking in the run up to Christmas, what time the cafe is closing on Christmas eve, Shirley’s cousin Dave who got a fancy milk frother and now thinks he’s a barista. Crowley doesn’t know how Aziraphale does it. When his coffee is placed in front of him, Crowley takes it gratefully, sipping at it and zoning out of the conversation completely.

When Crowley hears his name, he quickly zones back in. He’s not fast enough to register what was said, but Shirley looks at him with a soft smile on her face before turning back to Aziraphale, so whatever it was can’t be good—or was good, which is bad.

As they step back outside not long later, they leave the cafe a happier place. Shirley looks fresh-faced and every customer is smiling.

“Where next?” asks Crowley with a sidelong glance at Aziraphale.

On they go.

To the sushi restaurant, where Crowley has no clue what is being said between Aziraphale and the head chef in their perfect Japanese. But Crowley gets another smile and wave, and the air in the restaurant is fresher as they depart.

To the chocolate shop, where Aziraphale spends so long chatting to the owner that Crowley has time to select a moderately sized box of luxury Christmas-themed chocolates for Aziraphale to enjoy later. As he pays, Crowley gets a wink from the cashier before her focus shifts to something over his shoulder. Crowley turns to see Aziraphale and the owner looking across at him, twin smiles on their faces. When they leave a few minutes later, the shop is almost glowing with good energy.

To the young couple who live in the flat above the sex shop down the road from the bookshop. Aziraphale stands on their doorstep whispering closely with them both. Crowley stands, fidgeting on the pavement. His movements only become more erratic when he hears his name and the couple look over at him. The man gives him a thumbs up and the woman laughs, small and warm, before they both look back to Aziraphale. The air surrounding the couple hums with warmth as they say goodbye and close the door.

To the wine shop—their last stop, Aziraphale assures Crowley—where Aziraphale talks animately to the salesman (Luca, apparently) while Crowley browses the shelves. A few nice vintages catch his eye, and Crowley purchases them, still waiting for Aziraphale to finish up. Aziraphale appears to be considering a bottle himself. He has the wine in one hand as he talks to Luca and motions towards Crowley with the other. Luca looks over to him, smiles and nods, before turning back to Aziraphale and pointing out a different bottle of wine. Once their wine has be bought they leave the shop, which is decidedly more cosy and welcoming than when they arrived.

“You blessed them.”

Crowley wastes no time in coming out with it as soon as they’re inside and the door to the bookshop is closed and locked.

“Of course I did,” says Aziraphale as he hangs up his coat and scarf.

Peeling off his own outerwear, Crowley wonders why he was surprised. Yes, of course, Aziraphale blessed them.

“Were the Christmas cards just an excuse?”

“Not completely, but it’s nice to feed two birds from one hand.”

Crowley can only smile.

They settle down into their usual seats and Crowley holds up one of the bottles of wine he bought. It might only be two in the afternoon, but Aziraphale nods.

“What were you telling them about me?” asks Crowley as he pours the wine and hands a glass to Aziraphale.

“Who?” asks Aziraphale, not meeting Crowley’s eye.

“Everyone. At some point they all looked at me and got this… friendly look on their face. What did you say to them?”

“Oh, well, mostly people asked how I plan to spend Christmas, and I told them it was just me and…” Aziraphale still refuses to look at Crowley, and his cheeks were turning rosy. “…and you. That it was our first proper Christmas together, and that so far you’d made it such a special one.”

Crowley can feel his insides squirm in a strangely pleasant way. He’s not sure, but he thinks this feeling is called delight. He’s delighted that Aziraphale spoke about him in that way. That Crowley isn’t ruining their first holiday season, and that Aziraphale wants to boast about him to other people.

“Maybe next year,” says Crowley, “we can both sign the Christmas cards.”

Finally, Aziraphale looks over at him. “I’d like that.”

A blush of his own rises to Crowley’s cheeks. He blames the wine.

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fic #ace ineffable husbands #ineffably festive #fic: may your days be merry #2020 advent ficlet challenge #i wrote this

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ofstarsandvibranium · 4 years

Note

Hello Hello! I hope you have a beautiful day, sorry for my English, I am not a native, I would love with all my heart to have something about Bucky Barnes.💙💙💙

♡ Name: Elisa

♡ Pronouns: she/her

♡ Physical traits: Brown eyes and shoulder length brown straight hair. I am a little pale so my blush is very noticeable, I wear glasses thanks to my myopia and I am 1.62 cm tall.

♡ Personality traits: So loud and very extroverted, sometimes people don't even understand me how fast I speak and make many gestures when expressing. I think I'm funny and creative (I'm always talking nonsense, sorry haha) But in contrast I have suffered from anxiety since high school and could hit someone who hurts my loved ones. I'm embarrassingly romantic, but I'll deny it.

♡ Hobbies: I love to read, I am a bookworm. I play guitar sometimes, sing and dance (it doesn't mean I do it right haha). I could recreate Mamma Mia and currently JATP with no problem. But I also love the outdoors.

♡ Any likes/dislikes?: I hate injustices and bullies, I love little Stevie because he is the way I was, I am a rabid chihuahua ready to fight. I love ABBA very much and all that stuff, the physical contact is comforting also on my bad college days.

♡ I love everything you write, I would love to see what you have there, I leave it up to you.🥺

You found yourself here, again, at the same bookstore cafe. It wasn’t uncommon for you to be found where books are present. However, this specific place, it was. Barnes & Rogers Book Shop & Cafe was a little out of your way. And by little means an hour away from where you lived.

You came across the bookshop when you spent the day out with your friends. You were wandering Brooklyn when you came across the shop. You obviously had to drag your friends in with you.

They all mindlessly perused while you scanned every aisle for books on your reading list.

“Hi, need any help?”

You turned to see a very tall and attractive guy with scuff on his face and his hair tied into a bun. You’re usually friendly and outgoing, but this man...he took you by surprise.

“N-No. Thanks.”

He shoots you a heart stopping smile, “No problem. I’m Bucky and if you need anything, I’ll be at the check out counter.”

“Yup. Got it. Thanks, Bucko.”

He chuckles, “Bucky, doll.” he winks and walks away. When he’s out of sight, you rush over to your friends, “Guys. I’m in love.”

Ever since then, you try to come to this bookshop whenever you can, just to get a glance at Bucky. However, you’ve come to find that this shop was amazing. You loved the little reading nooks scattered around the store, you loved the cafe portion too. The drinks and baked goods handcrafted by the co-owner, Steve, were delectable.

Both Steve and Bucky have gotten used to your presence, always sending you big smiles when you enter the establishment.

When you enter the shop today, Bucky’s head immediately raises and he’s giving you another one of those heart stopping smiles, “Hi, Elisa! How are you?”

You shrug, “It’s a bit colder than usual, so I’m feeling like a popsicle right now.”

He chuckles, “I’ll get you a drink. Your usual and perhaps a muffin?”

“Bucky, you don’t have-”

“It’s okay. Really. Take a seat and I’ll serve you in a bit.”

“Okay,” you hive him a grateful smile and pick a table next to the window.

Bucky scurries behind the cafe counter and Steve gives him a questioning look. Bucky shakes his head, “Don’t even start.”

“I didn’t say anything, Buck. You’re just a coming off a little too eager. Maybe tone it down a bit, and get rid of the heart eyes you’re sporting.”

Bucky proceeds to shove his best friend and business partner out of the way and goes to make your drink. A few minutes later he sets it at your table and sits across from you.

“So, are you looking for a specific book today?”

You shook your head, “No. Just wanted to come out here. Needed a change of scenery.”

“And you wanted to see me, right?” he asks with a teasing tone.

You playfully shrug, “Maybe.”

Bucky props his arm onto the table and rests his chin against his metal prosthetic. You get a look at his face and ask, “What?”

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?”

You look down, feeling a blush creep onto your cheeks, “I, um, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. So...I was thinking...do you wanna go out sometime?” his question caught you off guard as you were taking a sip of your drink. You almost spit it out, causing some of it to dribble down your chin. Not a cute look.

“I, uh, well,” you’re wiping at your face and the small mess on the table, “You’re-You’re asking me out? Me?”

Bucky laughs at your disbelief, “Is that so hard to believe?” you shrugged and he reaches over for your hands, “Elisa, every time you step into the shop, my day get a whole lot better. I’ve had a crush on you since we first met so I’m just gonna take this opportunity to let you know that, and to ask you out. So, whaddaya say?”

“I’d love to, Bucky.”

He lets out a breath of relief and kisses your hand, “Perfect.” he takes out a business card and scribbles his number on the back, “Here’s my personal number. Text me and we’ll plan it out. Sound good?”

“Yup.”

“Great,” he beams at you and stands, “Well, I should get back to work. Come find me if you need anything or before you leave, okay?” he practically is skipping out of the cafe area and you look to Steve with a questioning look. He gives you a shrug and a laugh before getting back to drink orders.

You take Bucky’s number and immediately save it into your phone. You sigh wistfully, silently thanking whatever beings that are for bringing you to this shop and meeting Bucky.

#follower ficlets #valentine's day follower ficlets

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secret-engima · 5 years

Text

( @sparklecryptid Someday I want to do an xover with Aeon or something, but I apparently love to torture Ace more, so have a Crabby Bookshop Owner meeting a Baffled Bar Owner. Hope this helps your boredom!)

-Cyra is not a fan of today. Susurrus has been screeching all day about things she can’t understand or help with, things like “walls thinning” and “bloody freaking Astrals” and really, Cyra is fully prepared for her day to go sideways somehow. She’s packed extra medical and food things in her armiger rather than her books and she’s ready for something Dumb to happen.

-It’s been like this all day and so far nothing has happened. It is almost closing time and Cyra is just prepping her shop for closing and tentatively starting to wonder if maybe Susurrus’s screeching is about something too far away to effect her.

-Just to prove her wrong, her ENTIRE FREAKING BOOKSHOP gets moved. That’s the only way she can explain it. She can feel strange magic wrap around the entire block and the world blinks and there’s a rattle like something just casually dropped the entire shop and when she opens her eyes she just … KNOWS that she’s not in the right place anymore.

-While Libertus clatters down the stairs to ask WHAT JUST HAPPENED, Cyra yells back that she has no idea and then follows Susurrus’s prompting to go check the backroom.

-Why is there a door in her backroom.

-There was no door there five freaking minutes ago. That wall of the backroom connects to a large and empty storefront that she’s been thinking about buying to expand her store and by extension her apartment but she hasn’t yet and now there’s a DOOR there that really shouldn’t be.

-Cyra sighs, pulls out the kukri Nyx forged for her as a wedding anniversary present, and dares to push the door open.

-A loud thump and cursing on the other side lets her know that she just smacked someone with the Door-That-Shouldn’t-Exist. Cyra calmly steps through into a …

-A bar.

-There is a bar connected to the backroom of her bookshop.

-If ANYONE comes near her books with even whiff of booze on their soul she is going to start with busting kneecaps and work her way up from there.

-It takes a moment to realize that there is an entire audience watching her brood in the doorway-that-shouldn’t-exist and a moment after that she realizes that she KNOWS most of the people staring at her in equal confusion.

-Cyra looks down at her feet and sees Tredd sitting there, clutching his nose and blinking at her without recognition and suddenly remembers that pretty Lucis Caelum girl with a prosthetic leg who had been all to happy to inform her that she was from another universe. That barriers were wishy-washy at best and it was really easy to slip between if you knew what was going on.

-Somehow Cyra doubted the barriers between worlds were wishy-washy enough to warrant moving her ENTIRE SHOP.

-Someone did this intentionally. Susurrus snarls Bahamut’s name and Cyra makes a mental note to kick the Astral’s tail later.

-For now, to deal with the befuddled and borderline angry glaives in the bar that wasn’t there before, “Hello,” she says mildly, “it would appear someone has moved my shop. Can someone tell me where I am?”

-Amidst the general hubbub that breaks out of WHAT and ARE YOU NUTS LADY, a very pretty man with silver eyes and black hair steps out from behind the counter and hesitantly tells her the address. Funny, it’s the empty storefront she was thinking of buying. At least the Astrals were nice enough to keep the general locale the same. Cyra nods, leans on her cane with one hand and fiddles with the kukri in the other (she can see the Bar Nyx blinking at it with wide confused eyes, probably wondering how his handiwork got in her tiny hands), “Lovely. Excuse me, I apparently need to go yell at someone-.”

-She senses her husband enter the backroom and sighs as he appears behind her. There’s no hiding him. He’s too freaking tall. And he’s hardly being subtle as he asks what just happened, why there’s a bar here now, and why everyone’s hanging out in the bar without telling him.

-The silver-eyed bartender jerks back from the sight of Libertus like he’s been slapped and a moment later a SECOND Libertus shoulders his way through the crowd of glaives to stand there bristling at her Libertus over her head.

-She listens to the snarling of Angry Bullheaded Males for five seconds longer than she needed in her life before she calmly starts smacking kneecaps. Order partly restored and only her husband’s kneecaps spared, Cyra turns to the only other reasonable person in the room and smiles, “I’m Cyra Ostium, I do believe I and my shop are from a parallel dimension. And you are?”

-The man blinks, sighs, mutters something about his uncle being at fault for this somehow and replies, “Call me Ace.”

-Cyra nods calmly and flicks her kukri back into her armiger, “Alright then, Ace. No last name or do you just prefer not to flaunt Lucis Caelum around these parts?” Ace’s expression shifts rapidly between surprise at her use of magic and exasperation and there’s a loud WHAT from multiple parts of the bar and Cyra grins without sympathy, “oops. If it helps I’m one too.”

-Behind her, her husband sighs something about “so much for secrecy” but REALLY between her hair and Ace’s facial features was there ever any doubt as to their unwanted blood?

….

-Ace would like to know why his life keeps going sideways please and thank you. Is this a side-effect of being his Uncle’s heir? This feels like it might be Ardyn’s fault somehow. Or possibly the Astrals, they’re jerks enough to do this.

-The tiny alternate dimension wife of Libertus (how had THAT happened) who is also an illegitimate LC like him (thanks for blowing the secret lady) seems to have no issues with the sudden addition of a bar as her neighbor. She also seems confident she can resolve the issue soon.

-He has to admit, underneath his surprise and annoyance, that it’s pretty fun to watch her take out kneecaps whenever the glaives (read: Tredd, Nyx, and Sonitus) give her problems. It’s even funnier to watch his Lib gape at the definitely overprotective husband Lib.

-He offers her a drink, she calmly drags her Libertus over to a seat and then clambers in his lap and accepts on the condition it’s non-alcoholic.

-Ace tries not to flinch when he spots a child Prompto scooting into the bar in curiosity and claim the stool next to Libertus, his Ostium braids swinging and clicking faintly but noticeably and HOW HAD THAT HAPPENED?

-Nyx settles on Married!Lib’s side as something of a buffer between the two Libs, “So …. Married.”

-Married!Lib narrows his eyes, “That a problem, Nyx?”

-Nyx holds his hands up placatingly, “Nope! Not at all, big guy, just … curious. How’d you meet?”

-It was Cyra who answered as she idly patted Prompto’s hair, “I run a bookshop with a cafe inside. He came to my shop looking for a replacement for a book that SOMEONE,” cue a meaningful look in Nyx’s direction, “set on fire. After that he became one of my regulars.”

-Libertus still looks a little too shell-shocked to speak, so Ace asks for him as he slides the drink over to Cyra, “And why did you decide to marry?”

-Cyra smiles over the rim of her drink, “Libertus’s fault. His idea of a first date pickup line was something to the order of ‘hey let’s spite your horrible, controlling relatives by getting married, that way they can’t boss you around’. Obviously, I said yes.”

-Nyx burst out laughing while Libertus gaped at his counterpart and Luche choked on his drink.

(so as some background to this, the Astrals of Ace’s dimension are jerks, and they realized there was a Seer LC in the neighboring universe, so they were like “imma steal that” and snatched the bookshop. Cyra calls down her Astrals and her Astrals have a stern talking to with Ace’s Astrals and she, her husband, her kid, and her shop all get sent home fairly fast, but it’s still enough time for some shenanigans between Ace and the Generally Crabby Joint Pain Cyra. Also Married Lib and Lib staring awkwardly at each other as one tries to figure out what to say and the other struggles to wrap his head around the fact that his counterpart PULLED A NYX. MORE THAN THAT. HIS COUNTERPART PULLED THE VERSION OF A NYX AND AN ACE ALL AT ONCE. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING.

Also probably at some point Ace’s Cor comes sniffing around because of the magical disturbance of displacing an entire bookshop into another dimension and Cyra puts up with his nosiness for maybe twenty seconds before she notices Ace looking a touch panicky and Cor beginning to notice how Ace looks like young Regis and so she proves that Immortal He May Be, Fast Enough To Save His Kneecaps He Is Not and that is a very good distraction from the silver-eyed barkeep thank you.)

#Secret Engima Rambles #Melodies and Manuscripts #xover #Seer LC verse #royal bastards au #sparklecryptid #other people's ocs

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dreamofkpop · 5 years

Text

bookworm

Stray Kids 10th member AU

Charlie x Seungmin

requests are open!!

(gif not mine! credit owner!)

“Come on Minnie, please~”

Charlie tugged on Seungmin’s hand again, staring up at him with pleading eyes. He sighed and adverted his gaze from her, trying to not give in.

“Seungminnie~” Charlie sang, swinging his arm back and forth “Please come with me! I’ve been wanting to go to this store for ages and everyone else is busy!!”

“What makes you think i’m not busy?” He questioned, raising his eyebrow. Charlie scoffed

“You’re sat on the couch, on your phone, doesn’t look busy to me!”

She looked at him with puppy eyes, pushing her lips out into a small pout. “Please Minnie~ I’ll buy you food on the way home”

Seungmin sighed and stood up, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Pay for my order at that coffee shop down the road and I’ll come with you”

Charlie’s lips pulled up into a smile. “deal! now let’s go!”

Charlie had a skip in her step as they walked down the streets of Seoul, the sunshine was blazing and the streets were semi packed.

“Why do you want to go here if you can get everything online?” Seungmin questioned, his arm lazily hung over Charlie’s shoulder.

“Yeah okay most books today are online and you can buy them online, but I've always loves bookstores and this one I found the first day i moved here and I’m always getting books from there! Plus the owner is a lovely woman” Charlie rambled, her hands fumbling around as she spoke, the smile not leaving her lips.

They reached the bookshop and Charlie was quick to walk in, Seungmin trailing behind her like a lost puppy.

“Hello Mrs Song!” Charlie greeted the woman behind the counter, she seemed to be no older that 30.

“Ah, Charlie dear! long time no see!”

As Charlie engaged in a conversation with the lady, Seungmin started wandering around the bookshop.

It was a vintage shop no doubt, bookshelves stood tall and there were tables piled high with books everywhere, the windows were large and looked like they belonged in a chapel or a church.

Seungmin’s little wander was cut short by Charlie calling his name.

“Min? Where did you go?”

He took one last look at his surroundings before walking back to Charlie through the jungle of books. “I wandered off, sorry” he smiled sheepishly.

Charlie giggled and reached up to pinch his cheek. “No worries, wanna help me search for a book?”

He wearily nodded. “sure, but it looks like it might take a while i mean... looks at all these books!”

“I know” Charlie laughed, grabbing his hand to pull him along side here. “there’s quite a lot of books here”

Seungmin looked down at their hands, a shy smile pushing onto his lips. His moment was short lives as when they reached a certain section Charlie dropped his hand and disappeared between the shelves.

Alone, he wandered over to the small table of books and scanned over the top layer. He picked up one up and scrolled through it, quickly realizing it was an English book.

“so that’s why we’re in this part, it’s where all the English books are kept..” he mumbled to himself, looking up as Charlie stumbled back into his line of sight, carrying a stack of books.

She dropped them onto the table and started filtering through them, she was completely immersed in finding a certain book that she didn’t notice as Seungmin took out his phone and sneakily snapped a few pictures.

“Aha! Found it!” She exclaimed, a thick book held in her palm.

She held the book out to Seungmin who took it and glanced at the front cover, reading it out loud. “The Fallen, by Charlie Higson...seems good”

“This whole series is so good! The books are massive but I’ve read them all” She proudly stated, taking the book back and setting it aside, continuing to look.

“Bookworm” he mumbled, though Charlie caught onto it and reached over to hit his arm.

“For such a vintage shop they sell quite new books” He quickly chnaged the subject, picking up a random book.

Upon seeing what book he picked up, his cheeks flared and he dropped it back onto the table, giggling from embarrassment.

Charlie looked up at him, confusion written all over her face. “what happened?”

“nothing...nothing i just..GAHH “ he stammered, making a weird noise to cover up the embarrassment.

“What did you pick up?” She asked, leaning over and grabbing the book, she flipped it over and burst into a fit of laughter. “pffft, you picked up 50 shades of grey!! You innocent little boy!”

Mumbling something under his breath, Seungmin pulled his hood over his head and leaned against the table, hiding his face his hands.

Charlie laughed again, patting the top of his head with book. “Come on Min, let me go buy these and we’ll go to the cafe”

“free food, yay!” He cheered, clapping like a child.

Speedily, Charlie payed for her books and they left the hop, Seungmin’s cheeks were still tinted red.

“Okayy, cafe time! let’s go!” Charlie smiled, grabbing his hand once more.

“Are you seriously gonna read these?” Seungmin questioned, taking a sip of his coffee.

Charlie nodded vigorously, her glasses slipping down her nose. “of course! i didn’t just buy them so they could sit in my wardrobe and collect dust”

“You are seriously a bookworm” he laughed, putting down his cup and propping his arms up on the table.

“What’s wrong with being a bookworm? huh?” Charlie challenged, pushing her glasses up as she stared at him.

Seugmin shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, Hyunjin is basically a bookworm as well”

Charlie chuckled, taking a sip of her drink and putting the books away. “I’m gonna tell him you said that”

He rolled his eyes, smirking. “Go on then”

After a while they’d both finished their drinks, the cups long forgotten on the end of the table, to engaged in a talk to realize how late it was getting until Charlie’s phone buzzed.

A text

“dark” binnie: you and Seungmin have been gone all day, you might wanna text Chan hyung so he doesn’t go crazy [7: 48 PM]

“We should probably head back” Charlie laughed, showing Seungmin the text before standing up and gathering her stuff.

“Agreed, Let’s go”

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campionsayn1 · 7 years

Note

Ok This can bê undone ser with the twins and Kitty. The list unique au with haunt mansion that turn into a bookshop and the ghost give book recommendation.

Here is a house that was once quite the foreboding piece of architecture that brought to mind the early 1900′s with hundreds of hands tending it, inside and outside. Servants, footmen, the proprietors, the line lines of blood that followed children upon more and more children.In this case, the last of those children dwindled, and most assuredly could not afford to keep the estate; selling it off for a fair enough price and then taking leave as the new owner received key and title to the long empty halls and the furniture, decorations and books left behind.Here is the point where the estate had been brought to a glowing flourish of cleanliness; unneeded furniture put away into the attic, shelves of leftover books brought up to the front near the foyer that lead further into what was once the dining room and ballroom that had been turned about to accommodate more and more shelves with more and more books; the sun from the skylight windows not horrible and damaging to the newer books with price tags placed to the backs of their covers. The kitchen had been partly converted into a coffee bar, managed by two men hired out for the new costumers that would come for reading, stay for the drink, enjoy this new that had arisen from the old.Basically only a third of the estate remained just that; a housing area for the new owner that had opened a bookshop throughout the other two-thirds.Still, Kitty Pryde, Miss, had a bit of a re-occurring problem that her patrons kept complaining about. She didn’t mind, being of sound body and ability with a cleverness to match in stride; but others will complain as they will.The patrons mentioned ghosts–two very tall with oddly angled legs and even more questionable clothing, and a half-dozen much smaller (even compared to children) with what seemed to be tails–but Kitty was in mind to disagree.Ghosts don’t smell. And it’s a lot less likely still when food and drink kept going missing.“I wouldn’t have expected demons, but the books were actually rather specific,” she stated absently; finally catching up to one of the taller ones.Said taller one was in the process of moving all of her Eroll Flynn books from the shelves for what had to have been the fifth time that month, looking over at her with scandal and apology lining his face in turn. It didn’t seem that he could dare to grasp the idea of a human chastising him instead of fleeing with loud shrieks while calling for help.And here Kitty stood, her coffee in hand, and the other hand to her cocked hip. For all the world looking like an exasperated school teacher an hour before school was out.Made sense, considering the demon by the name of Wagner, Kurt, had allowed his twin Darkholme, Kurt (demons were not known for being individual thinkers, despite their own parents being of the higher tiers of Hell), to chase off the cafe keepers, Evan and Quentin, for the night. Knowing the much darker twin, he’d probably knocked over the vase of lavender at the desk in the rush and made Kitty a bit more cranky, rather than terrified.Despite himself, after this introduction by far outside the norm of what they were used to–the twins as well as the demi-demon Bamfs that caused far more minor chaos for the estate–warming up to the idea of a previous residence of a cult being turned into a shop of learning and enjoyment became much easier to live with.Under normal circumstance, the demons would have left. But Kitty actually FED them, so she must have known that they couldn’t technically leave until after she’d given permission.Which, for reasons Darkholme reasoned was for the sake of unpaid labor, was not forthcoming in the least. “You kind of all owe me for running off my customers, don’t you think? Might as well make yourselves useful.”“How’s that, little kitten?” Darkholme questioned the first week being unable to leave, a sneer across his mouth and the Bamfs hanging from the chandelier Kitty had fitted with electric lights; Wagner sitting in one of the more comfortable chairs the estate’s previous owner had left behind and peeking out from behind a book revolving around Victorian romance triangles.Kitty smiled with cheek and primness, picking up a lofty set of books and handing them over to Darkholme–where they belonged, all things considered, since he’d pilfered and hidden all of them in places where they certainly did not belong, “You can start by putting these back where they’re supposed to be. Fiction section, under Horror, as you already know. And you,” Kitty turned to Wagner, rifling through the front desk for a moment and then placing a pen and notebook paper in his lap, “Can write up some recommendations for the patrons regarding the much older collection so I can, with luck, actually get rid of them by the turn of the next century.”As an afterthought, Kitty looked up at the Bamfs and pointed directly at them, smiling when a couple squeaked and tried to hid behind the light fixtures, “And you lot can come and get me when these two are done! Dinner for everyone when all’s finished and I’ll take you to a set of rooms you can stay in until I decide you’ve paid me back enough.”Here is the turning point. They were fed. They were given money to order clothing off of Kitty’s laptop when it became obvious their scraps of cloth taken from the corpses of those that went to Hell simply weren’t cutting it. They were under the impression that they could sleep in the better part of the estate when they actually could or wanted to.Here is when Wagner started flirting, his romantic attempts adjacent to his brother’s. The books he’d read being left open where Kitty could find them, edge of the pages bent and pointing to a sentence or a paragraph that spoke their fellow feeling as clearly as possible for Kitty to make an attempt at understanding.Here is where Darkholme finally found times where he felt inclined to fall asleep wherever he might find a seat and then wake up up the bed he’d been given; at times with Kitty laying down right beside him to be sure he stayed asleep and didn’t wake upon again from her aura calming his demonic nature and his flashbacks from worse times in Hell; at times his twin would be on Kitty’s other side, the Bamfs seated like balls of breathing yarn along their long forms, pinning the covers to keep them all at rest. Here is where it became plain, when Kitty said that they were free to stay if they wanted; her morning wear a simple white shirt far too big for her, her hair frizzled from sleep, her eyes bright with the reality of the situation: inviting them to stay was the same thing as allowing them free-will to leave.Here is where the twins settled into a joint romance with a book keeper and their little followers settled into having a life that wasn’t boring all the time from one dimensional shift to another.

#Kurt Wagner/Kitty Pryde/Kurt Darkholme #AOA Nightcrawler #nightcrawler #shadowcat #uncanny x-force #WATXM #x-men #earth-616 #ask fill #prompt fill

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driftwork · 4 years

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life in the west...(3) - see it as aberrant and broken, you see it as the normal course of events....

There are two Pauls, one european and one american, one died the other will. Let's begin with the american one... We were sitting a bookshop cafe, holding a few hours over lunch to speak, to renew our acquaintance. We talked about everything, meetings, friends, politics, science. [He said for me, the things that interest are socialism, nationalism and integralism all of which allow for a collective subject and a morality that goes beyond utilitarianism.] We were always skirting around the edges of the discussion that was the ontological difference, the crisis of being that would always separate us, and yet not... He said I know - you and I disagree. I think anything can become political; you think everything already is. I see it as aberrant and broken, you see it as the normal course of events.... Dialectics, he said, it’s all dialectics and fuzzy logic to you. In that phrase “I see it as aberrant and broken, you see it as the normal course of events.... “ The ontological chasm is revealed. For he believes that it is possible to imagine a society that isn’t broken, whereas for me deep in the fuzzy sets I think rather that no matter what the society is like, being will always remain unbearable[...broken... ] In a sense the difference is delineated/exemplified by the fact that these two almost old men, one in his sixth decade, the other in his seventh decade became rather surprisingly friends. Shortly after we met, we immediately and continuously began to study everything, all the rather strange and fantastical details amongst which we found ourselves, a peculiar ontological gesture to understand why why why. From every knot in the wooden floor of the cafe, every blemish in the polished concrete floor, the hiss of the Essence of the espresso machine, to the rhizomic grass growing in the crevices of the walled courtyard to the rear of the cafe, the tree growing in the corner, to the last slither on the stairs, scuff marks, mud, the Saharan sand in the air and steadily coating the vehicles. This was all a neo(now almost)secret preparation for the continuation of the friendship. The bizarre decadence of the hospital club sipping vodka late at night over burgers. (Who could imagine me there?) The insanity of friendship. Beyond this the detailed examination of the others desired objects means little, the surprising curves and angles of the body, the folds and warm limits emerging from the laughter. It must be so unless the opposite is true and we'd rather be sitting drinking margaritas and whiskey sours than returning to rooms on opposing sides of the city and suburbs. When he arrived in the city he had put a small, crackling record player between the desk and the door, he turns the room into what passes for a home for a denizen of the liquid modern, A place he can curl up in his private space and breathe more easily; on evenings when he took men home, on evenings spent in front of the machine, (which changed into expensive digital equipment later) and in front of the machine with a growing circle of friends, whose conversation gave his depressed soul hope, sometimes when laughter filled the now bigger space he wondered what it was like to be a father. A grey parrot living in a large cage, did he ever let it out to fly around the room or local sky ? paul, paul, paul it cried. The parrot outlived him and remained long after he left.

And then the European one... The woman across the room whose elegance speaks of casual wealth, is standing by the bar talking to the owner - he looks like an interested man. A course or two of small dishes arrive as we watch them go outside to stand beneath the arbor and dream of smoking cigarettes together in the half-light, she laughs smoke and he smiles as if happy. We were amongst the last people to leave, we often were in those days. They were still together sitting on stools eating the additional food he'd ordered. It was raining outside. Everything begins with the anomaly of our latest meeting in Brussels.Soho, [ah Brussels] which leads to an investigation of practice and place, theory being possible across the divergence that had appeared, we ate bowls of pasta and light beer or wine. It was a fine spring day and we had come across a serious break in the network of our worlds, which happens even though it is becoming extraordinarily overcrowded with humans and their things (and what isn't their things?). Although nobody ever actually says anything, we wonder if we are the only ones who have noticed, but wonder in our joint madness if we dare say anything of this. How did that multiplicity of lines become political ? (does he speak of this in france and belguim?) We look across the square between the greyness of the bark of the London Plane trees, with drinks in our hands. (PL is drinking grappa whilst I sip shots of vodka, we are old friends, originally meeting in small political groups, three or four decades ago. Both gradually coming to exist in the dialectic of fuzziness.) And yet we recognize that it is meaningless for no one ever goes in amongst the trees, it is a conspiracy that cannot be broken. There is no way out. Between us there is an insufficient breakage of place and practice. We agree to stop the writing project, the ontology is cancelled, closed, papers end up in drawers, electronic files and diagrams vanish, the project ends. We are still trying to speak though its increasingly difficult. People move in, establish themselves and remain in stasis, not only unable to leave the place but actively prevented from doing so whether it is the desire to appear in the limelight, the economy of enslavement or a gay parade which runs a thread of conspiracy through the streets, still there and concealed behind their self-importance like a broken desire. [...] Occasionally as we walk through a square with a dozen multi-centenarian trees we notice something else, a sudden stillness of place, a recess where we notice that the trees are waiting for us to vanish. (The buildings crumble into ruins, the now empty courtyard transformed by the growth of trees...) We walk down a side street to another Portugese bar to have a few final drinks. Through the window of the bar I can see a block of luxury flats entered through a metal gateway set in a tall archway, which masks the perfect crime of their existence. All we need do is accept the invitation and we will live entirely on the surface and avoid the mystery of the break which would allow us to know what is happening. Either that or we will become part of the scenery, like the denizens of the luxury flats entering and leaving through the gates, we will become the story, perhaps even the final solution. And yet in the conspiracy of secrets that is us, we arrive back at the break which leads to an interrogation of place and practices.

These discoveries are a becoming part of the physical world and perhaps as we walk uphill later passing through the fallen leaves and thistles, the sound of owls and foxes around us, we'll become different. Whatever, we are unable to separate the two, even our friends find it difficult, even impossible to separate their images of the difference between the american Paul and I. For them dialectics and fuzzy logic are the same as aberration and broken, and we have no idea how to explain the difference as they continue to work so hard at destroying the planet. This is hidden from them in the bracelets and the clothes they wear, which are always fashionable and thus spectacular. We love their earrings, their muscles and pens hanging from the edges of their finary, their silk shirts iridescent in the... Becoming does not begin from an act as banal as removing one's clothes, its a constant, an endless movement from detail to detail, from an Italian restaurant to a Spanish bar in Soho, from a transitional jacket to a warm leather coat, from the swish of a stocking to the warmth of a thigh, to the sound of a heavy page being turned, despite this the connection remains, connecting across the plane of being, constructing a networked world together for a few moments... (Tomorrow he will be flying to Australia via Tokyo or Hong Kong, to vanish into finitude. [...] Did he speak of this to others before he died on the edges of the pacific? Did his mother and family fly in from the americas ?). In those full moments when the mind isn't taken up by fear and worry, but instead just covered with pleasures, when only the drinks in the Spanish bar of interest, when only the challenge of the ontological differences is of interest, when there are no obligations but the semiotic exchanges between friends, then we will return to the unanswerable questions, there is a room behind you that is roped off, the lights dimmed. Later you arrive home, switch on the light and the question remains there waiting. She is a a a asleep upstairs.

[ I am reasonably certain I will never go to Lisbon, the only aspect of Portugal that will come into my life now are humans who have migrated here for economic reasons, which is the only reason anyone moves anywhere]

In Brussels with PL leaning against a richly lacquered bar in the empty University Club. All the students and lecturers absent, vanished during this long holiday weekend. The bartender is there so that someone is in front of you as you drink. Not a therapist, or someone who can be said to care even at an abstract level nor even as an idiot might appear to. They looks at us with smiling indifference, intercepting our gaze across the bar so that we cannot scan the bottles for something strange and interesting to drink. But whilst she or he pours wine and other drinks into our glasses, PL and I talk with her/him about things, the locality, what's interesting and so on, for they speak perfect english, and we speak imperfect english. She/he has no name, no identity at all, when she says her name all we here is the 'saaaaan'. Only the fact that she is other, that we cannot grasp what the difference is and neither can we understand what the idea of it should be, which means we cannot separate her from the role she is playing, and this enables us to live with who we are.... which is why, from something related to vanity, we spent an evening in the University Club drinking with bartender rather than the people who had been expecting us, at a meeting which was raided. When we were alone we reminisced about driving people across borders, deep into western europe when we were young. Writing almost meaningless notes into the small tablet, we allow ourselves to appear out of the emptiness of the bar - out of something, making nothing - like the bartender dreaming of becoming something else. In the early evening ending up in his house. The house is full of things. Heaped surfaces, busy walls, window sills with things balanced on them, a plant on his office window, overloaded bookshelves that are dust traps, in the secondary library plastic crates filled with books. Only these are inventoried. Most things are related to the work we have carried out over the decades, the four or five decades of our adult lives. There are books that I/he often pauses to reflect on as he exists in the various rooms of the house, these books link the very different activities of our lives. The piles of unread books, unlistened to music have grown in the pandemic. The lack of others in the house over the past three months has been the strangest thing of all, he says. Instead the communication technologies so beloved of the spectacle have turned into essential items of everyday life.

It was all the american Pauls fault […] In the evening we sit in one of the booths its the cocktail hour and is one of the quiet times in the bar. Yet as we sit in the alcove beneath the hanging tapestry, at one of the movable tables designed to let the more common overweight drinkers to slide out of the alcove - or even to enable tapas or drinks to be passed around and shared, we realize suddenly that their are others are close by on adjacent tables, couples who find themselves suddenly embedded in our life stories, as we are in theirs, all part of the same chaotic uncertain universe, as are all our singular destinies. Whilst the young couple to the right are at the beginning of things, a certain carefulness in the way they speak... [-Jasa, han var det. Men i somras holl forbibindelsen pa att ga isar. - Ja. Falk fick veta att Hedlund brukade besome Ulla och da blev han tw .... Men det ordnade sig sa smaningnom. - Vad anser a a. Nn. ni om er vaninnas forsvinnande ? - Jag kan inte forklara t.qwnnqnwwjj. new yyy The - Hedlund kanner ni ju W. A. W. W. ....- Har ni nagr fotograpier av Yytt Lundgren och Hedlund ?] In the Hospital club we talk of the work that is to be done. Let us draw up a list, an inventory of exceptional places that will not reveal their qualities so much as interrogate them, forcing them to speak. We hope that as words slowly emerge the places lives will be recognized and acknowledged, the end of networks being drawn out by our post geo-philosophical moment, no longer binary connections between geo-local nodes on the network but instead entanglement. As we walk down the narrow street that parallels the main road we find our ideal refuge, where we can stop panicking like a lost city dweller with a broken semiosis system and relax. Then we set off again, sitting like a nomad sipping coffee with slices of sausage keeping our eyes open as we look for details, it is only as we sit that we realize that we are getting somewhere, eventually standing and walking, our footsteps echoing on the pavementssss... A last coffee and we part, he heading off to a hotel and a flight, W in a cab towards Tottenham and I walking to the north wondering at how difficult it was to speak, one foot going in front of the other. I couldn't get drunk that night I often wondered why. I drink a margarita whilst he drinks a whiskey sour, an espresso perhaps. He explains that "I'm going to Moscow for a conference on digital governance in September, flying in from a stopover in Singapore." A strange goodbye. Did anything explain why he became increasingly right wing over the last few years of his life ? It was never clear why things being aberrant and broken caused that rightward shift. We couldn't go to the funeral, the funeral rites passed us by as most do. The London memorial service was avoided, music, drinks and memories best avoided. It would have been as Michaux described it like being a body stretched out on "a sea of clouds". The cacophony of noises that were our shared space rumble on, buses changing gear, diesel engines (courtesy of Max) revving up, horns shrieking, police and ambulance sirens, planes growling, the overpowering sound of church bells ringing... the furnace heating up. All that is left is the dust of memories. Where did the ashes go? What happened to the cat ?

He reached the point on the hill where he can turn right or continue up the gentle slope, he takes the longer route towards home. He continues and takes out 'The Hegel Variations' from his jacket pocket which he had been reading in the cafe, and starts to read a few pages as his feet touch the road, listening to bird song between words. The occasional crunch of loose gravel that spills out of the driveways [...] walking along the pavement on the lane he passes the Nigerian Woman who is walking two Dachhunds, "nice weather no coats on the dogs again", he says interrupting the sentences on language. (He will see her again as he turns right into the house). He walks on musing about how the understanding of a Left and Right Hegel proposed here is philosophically applicable to most decent philosophers. The first of the gardeners looks at him as he passes. He reties his left lace on the bench. More gardeners, the machines they use grumble in the sunshine. One gardener is blowing beech leaves and mast husks out of the garden onto the road. A Red Kite circles over the Close, looking for food, perhaps, he cannot tell. A section of pavement is being re-tarmacked in front of number 8. He walks around the close anti-clockwise circumnavigating the woods, reading again, thinking of Darwin and Hegel... The european Paul is sitting in the garden, his left foot encased in a dark blue plastic cast. Tea? he asks in a long convoluted sentence. Sipping tea and eating fruit cake they/we talk of crises. The ontological difference is small - for us its "Dialectics, it’s all dialectics and fuzzy logic. In that phrase “We see it as aberrant and broken and also we see it as the normal course of events..." Their histories are close... differences can sometimes be circumvented / all narrative is annihilated. Living in a pandemic makes him feel nostalgic for these moments.”

[In memory of PS who died in January 2020]

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davidastbury · 4 years

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There had once been a time when he believed he would have a hit record. He sounded good in that interval just before the Beatles. He strummed the basic chords and tried to sing with an American accent. Sadly nothing happened for him and although he never gave up the guitar he always sounded a bit dated and uncool.

Family photograph. He’s with all his family - twenty two including babies. Next to him stands his wife, holding (don’t know why) his big cello style guitar. Four generations together- none of whom would be there if a gum chewing, sooty eyed girl, all legs and elbows, hadn’t pushed her way to the stage and begged autographs.

Beginnings

She has her head down, concentrating on her drawing. Everyone else has gone - rushed out into freedom - the heavy classroom doors slammed, shoes squeaking on parquet flooring, distant shouts down the corridor, all over for another day.

She has cupped her free hand around the drawing - which must be tiny - her sleeve tugged down and covering her fingers. Her elbow rests on the desktop and she leans forward on the stool - face hidden by her hair.

The room is Victorian municipal - built to last, a triumph of functionalism. The heavy furniture and fittings bruised by decades of knocks and misuse; the windows have ancient pull-cords for opening but have been jammed shut throughout living memory. The plasterwork at the architraves once ornate and hinting of baroque imaginings, is now disfigured by less inspired remedial attentions.

But she will be okay - she will get to art school - perhaps remember with fondness this art-room where she nurtured her tiny drawings and how sometimes, if certain that no one was around, she’d sing at the top of her voice.

University 1964

Loving parents at a safe distance of two hundred miles - a growing satisfaction that she could handle the next exams - nicely settled into very suitable accommodation - she had every reason to be pleased with the way it was all working out for her - everything was settled - everything was as it should be.

She might have been bored but for the unsettling personality of her new boyfriend. He had exploded into her life like a demon - mad as a hatter - sharp as a pencil - a marvellous rogue who floated like a cork in the foam. The only certainty was the effect she had on him - he adored her - no one could fake that focus - that tornado of kisses!

Calouste Gulbenkian, billionaire oil merchant, philanthropist, art-collector, loved showing guests his dozens of degree certificates. He had them on display, covering two walls of his study - awarded to him by nearly every leading university in the world.

‘These are my degrees and doctorates - all of them, except one, is honorary - anyone can study for a degree, but mine are honorary; they were awarded to me “honoris causa” - for my achievements!”

When Pat was teaching four-year-olds she found that children often arrived at school without their PE/dance pumps. Ideally the pumps should have been kept in the classroom but that would have resulted in them being lost, mismatched etc. So she introduced a system in which all the children were given a cloth bag in which to keep their pumps - each with an embroidered number (Mrs Williams did the needlework) and the bags were kept on numbered wall pegs.

Mrs Astbury had one herself.

Names ... 1964

Her name - her full name - the name of her street - the name of her village school (now a restaurant) - the name of the lake where she nearly drowned - the name of the factory where her dad was a boss - the names she gave him - the name of her college - the name of her best friend - the names of her cats - the names of her favourite writers - the name of the woman who became her friend - the name on the door where he waited.

To him all these names became poems.

In 1913 the Lancashire cotton mills produced 7,075,000,000 (7 billion) square yards of cloth.

A few years later we began the process of giving this industry to the East, mostly India, we exported the looms and provided the training.

An Early Conversation

They were at the ‘getting to know all about you stage’ - that mostly enjoyable period of quizzing each other, of sharing likes and dislikes, of exposing inner secrets - or perhaps I should say, some of them. Anyway, that’s what they were doing - he had been droning on about his difficult relationship with his father when she cut in and said - ‘I hate the countryside’.

He looked at her and said - ‘Do you?’

‘Yes, absolutely hate it. Always have; always will. I want you to know this, just in case you ever decide to surprise me with - “Hi, for your birthday this year I’ve rented a cottage in Grasmere for the weekend!” - and you jangle the keys and expect me to be pleased.’

‘Grasmere is beautiful’ - he said.

‘Grasmere is everything I hate. Depressing hills, horrid silent water, farm smells, dark woodland ... it makes me shudder. The country lanes, particularly at night are a horror movie to me - it’s where people go to bury bodies.

‘I’d look after you.’ - he said.

‘I am a city girl. I’m never frightened in town - there are always people around who would help. No one would help you in the countryside - I’d be just another creature screaming.

Ian Fleming said that being proposed as the new captain of his beloved Royal St George’s Golf Club gave him more satisfaction than anything he had known. Unfortunately he suffered a second, and lethal, heart attack before taking up the post.

He became ill following a meal with friends at a hotel in Canterbury and an ambulance was ordered. Ever the gentleman, his last recorded words were an apology to the ambulance men for having inconvenienced them, saying - "I am sorry to trouble you chaps. I don't know how you get along so fast with the traffic on the roads these days."

... Fleming’s book sales total over 100 million. His wife Ann (ex-wife of Viscount Rothermere) and her literary friends mocked them.

Blackfriars Bridge

There used to be a Cypriot fry-up cafe here, with steamed up windows and filled with tough looking men in leather jackets - and next door was a snooty art-gallery where you could pick up an L S Lowry for a few pounds. On the corner was the entrance, now bricked up, of a weird little bookshop where the owner was stabbed to death - they never found out who did it. And then the cathedral, stern and pious, facing the river.

He used to wait for her, leaning against the balustrades of Blackfriars Bridge, smoking Sweet Afton cigarettes, knowing that very soon the traffic would stop, the infernal Cathedral bells would be silenced, the gulls would freeze mid-flight and all the clouds would dance and spin and nothing in the world would exist but the kiss of Lucy Parkinson.

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mrmichaelchadler · 6 years

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Dick Miller: 1930-2019

Dick Miller is dead.

If I were to announce this news to a group of people whose lives did not necessarily revolve around the world of film, there is an excellent chance that such news would be regarded with little more than a well-meaning shrug. If I were to accompany that news with a picture of him taken from one of the 182 roles that IMDb credits him with in a screen career that began in 1955, my guess is that most of those people would recognize his face from any number of movies that they had seen and enjoyed over the years and remark “Oh, that guy!” Simply put, Dick Miller was among the greatest “That Guy!” actors in cinema history (When the long-overdue documentary celebrating the man and his work was finally made and released in 2014, it was appropriately entitled “That Guy Dick Miller.”). He rarely got the lead role, he got the leading lady even less, and the vast majority of the titles that he appeared in throughout his career were not of the sort that one might expect to see programmed on TCM or turning up in the Criterion Collection. And yet, he ended up developing a large and loyal cult following over the years from generations of fans (a number of whom would go on to put him in films of their own) who responded to his distinctive look, his quirky manner and his innate ability to steal a scene from practically everyone/thing that he appeared opposite, be they comely starlet, bloodthirsty alien or the Ramones.

Richard Miller was born December 25, 1930 in the Bronx. His early years (chronicled in Caelum Vatnsdal’s exhaustively detailed and fascinating biography You Don’t Know Me, But You Love Me: The Lives of Dick Miller) saw him doing everything from appearing on stage to working at Bellevue to a stint in the Navy. Eventually, he made his way out to Los Angeles in the mid-1950s and eventually made the acquaintance of an up-and-coming producer of low-budget exploitation movies named Roger Corman. At the time, Miller was trying to make it as a writer but Corman was in greater need of actors, and so he came to be cast as an Indian in his very first movie, a ten-day wonder Western named “Apache Woman.” Because actors were apparently really scarce, Miller was recruited to play a second part of one of the locals in the town where it was set and yes, it does lead up to a moment where his local character shoots his Indian character.

That was his first Corman production, but it would be far from his last. The producer-director began to use him regularly, perhaps because he was usually available and perhaps because he brought a real sense of personality to even the most generically written roles. Take “Not of This Earth” (1957), for example. The film itself is pretty silly—something about a human-looking alien charged with harvesting blood from the unsuspecting denizens of Southern California to send back home in an attempt to save the population of his dying planet. In one draft of the screenplay, a brush salesman turns up at the door of the home where the alien has made its base of operations (don’t ask) and meets the inevitable grisly end. Corman gave the part of the salesman to Miller, who proceeded to change the item he was pushing to a vacuum cleaner and ended up ad-libbing all his dialogue to make the character seem more like a hipster on the make. The result was a hilarious scene-stealing turn and was the first real demonstration of the quirky personality that would come to be his signature. Later that year, Corman gave Miller his first lead role in “Rock All Night,” a “The Petrified Forest”-style drama (albeit with music breaks by The Platters), in which he played a short cynical guy who is one of a few people taken hostage at a bar by a couple of criminals, and who manages to save the day and win the girl.

Over the next couple of years, Miller would make a number of films for Corman—“Sorority Girl” (1957), “Carnival Rock” (1957), “Naked Paradise” (1957) and the heroic lead in “War of the Satellites” (1958)—and appeared in brief roles on TV shows like “M Squad,” “Dragnet” and “The Untouchables” before appearing in what would become perhaps his most beloved film amongst his hardcore fan base. “A Bucket of Blood” (1959) is an outrageously funny black comedy in which he played Walter Paisley, an oddball busboy at a beatnik cafe who yearns to one day become a true hepcat artist. Blending together cheerfully gruesome black humor and droll satire of the beatnik culture of the times, this is a film that probably would have stood out among the schlock movies of the era under any circumstances, but Miller’s performance moves it from being merely a great B-movie to a great movie, period. His take on Walter is hilarious and bizarre, of course, but he also gives the character and his failed artistic dreams a genuine sense of pathos that probably would have been ignored in the hands of most actors in order to concentrate on the ghoulishness.

Unfortunately, that would be the last time that Miller would ever really have the lead role in a film, although the next time that Corman came to him with a project, he did offer Miller the lead in that one as well. Alas, Miller read the script, felt that it was largely a rehash of “A Bucket of Blood” and decided to pass on playing the lead in the talking man-eating plant opus “Little Shop of Horrors” (1960). In later years, he would lament passing on that part but as much as I love that movie, I think that he may have made the right decision in the sense that the lead role in that one was maybe a tad too much of a Jerry Lewis-style schnook for him to believably portray. Besides, the part that he did wind up playing, that of a plant-eating man, supplied it with some of its biggest laughs. For the next decade or so, however, his career was a bit of a struggle. There were always appearances to be had in Corman productions—the most notable of which found him kibitzing with Don Rickles as a carnival heckler in “X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes” (1963), desperately attempting to explain the plot of “The Terror” to co-star Jack Nicholson in a fit of wild exposition and squaring off against dirty bikers in “The Wild Angels”—and small roles on the small screen in shows like “Dragnet 1967,” “Combat” and “Mannix.” However, roles in major studio films were few and far between and when he did turn up in something bigger like “The Dirty Dozen” (1967), “The St. Valentines Day Massacre” (1967) or “The Legend of Lylah Clare” (1968), they were in bit parts that received no formal credit.

In the 1970s, Miller still found himself doing the occasional small part for Corman, who had just formed his new production company New World Pictures and who perhaps looked upon Miller as some kind of good luck talisman. As it turned out, a number of the young filmmakers who Corman began hiring to work for him—people like Jonathan Kaplan and Jonathan Demme—were people who recalled seeing and liking Miller’s past work and leaped at the chance to included him in their own films. The most notable of these was Joe Dante, a movie-mad trailer editor who, along with colleague Allan Arkush, made a bet with Corman that they could make the cheapest movie in New World’s history. The film they came up with was “Hollywood Boulevard” (1976), an amiably silly satire of the world of B-movie production in which the comely cast of a low-budget schlock-fest is bumped off one by one by a masked killer. The film, not surprisingly, was filled with in-jokes and perhaps the funniest one of them all came when Miller was cast as the amiably sleazy agent of the lead, a character who was then given the name Walter Paisley. Not only was it a funny joke but it was one that stuck and throughout the rest of his career, he would play additional characters named Walter Paisley a number of times.

“Hollywood Boulevard” marked the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration with Dante, who would go on to include him in practically every single thing he made. In “Piranha” (1978), he was a sleazy water park owner not especially concerned with reports of a pack of deadly piranha heading his way. He turned up as the owner of an occult-themed bookshop dispensing werewolf lore in “The Howling” (1981), a diner counterman in “Twilight Zone: The Movie” (1983), Mr. Futterman, a snowplow driver who meets a seemingly ugly end at the hands of the “Gremlins” (1984), a starry-eyed cop in “Explorers” (1985), a cabbie in “Innerspace” (1987), a ventriloquist stuck with an unfamiliar dummy in a deleted sequence from “Amazon Women on the Moon” (1987), a garbageman in “The Burbs” (1989), the not-so-dead Mr. Futterman in “Gremlins 2: The New Batch” (1990), a for-hire agitator working for a B-movie magnate in “Matinee” (1993), a detective looking for “Runaway Daughters” (1994), a deliveryman in “Small Soldiers” (1998) and a studio security guard in “Looney Tunes: Back in Action” (2003) among them. Some of these parts were bigger than others (his appearances in later Dante films like “The Hole” (2011) and “Burying the Ex” (2014) were barely cameos) but no matter how big or small, they were eagerly anticipated and would often inspire cheers from viewers in the know.

Although Dante would become his most frequent non-Corman collaborator, he was far from the only notable filmmaker to include Miller their work. He worked with Martin Scorsese on “New York, New York” (1977) (opposite Robert De Niro and Liza Minelli, no less) and “After Hours” (1985), where he gets to essentially deliver that film’s mantra (“Different rules apply when it gets this late. You know what I mean? It’s like after hours”), Robert Zemeckis on “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” (1978) and “Used Cars” (1980) and Steven Spielberg on “1941” (1979). He had brief but standout scenes in such genre classics as “Rock n Roll High School” (1979) as a police chief trying to come to terms with the Ramones (“They’re ugly. Ugly, ugly people.”) and “The Terminator” (1984), where he played the talkative gun shop owner opposite Arnold Schwarzenegger. In addition, there was a steady stream of appearances on television (including episodes of “Police Squad!” and “V”) and cheap B movies, though these were now more likely to turn up on cable and on video than in the local drive-in. He even had a recurring role on the TV series version of “Fame” that lasted for several years in the Eighties. No matter how big or small the project or the part, you never saw him just coasting through things and if he did a project where his presence was not one of the key high points of the endeavor, I do not immediately recall it.

As some of you may have guessed, Dick Miller was a true favorite of mine—in my bio at this site, I even cite him as my all-time favorite actor—and even had the occasion to meet him once. When the “That Guy Dick Miller” documentary was making its way through the festival circuit a few years ago, the Chicago Critics Film Festival, on which I serve as a programmer, not only screened the film but turned it into an event that also featured a showing of “A Bucket of Blood” and an appearance by Miller and his wife, Lainie, at a Q&A that I co-conducted with colleague Steve Prokopy. Now I have met any number of famous people over the years as a result of my choice in career, but this was one of the very few times where I found myself a bit nervous, no doubt recalling that age-old warning about the dangers of meeting one’s heroes. Well, in this particular case, that saying proved to be a load of shit because I met one of my heroes and it was awesome. While I am certain that I probably came across as some kind of overly enthusiastic goofball, he certainly never let it show. After my inevitably rambling intro, he proceeded to charm everyone in the audience, told a ton of great stories and then proceeded to sign autographs for everyone who asked for one even though no one would have begrudged him for begging off after a while. From a journalistic standpoint, my contributions to that day were probably negligible at best but that was hardly the point. That day, I got to tell one of my heroes how much he and his body of work meant to me over the years while he was sitting right there and that made me about as giddy as I am able to get. Now, albeit under much sadder circumstances, I hope I have been able to do the same for you.

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