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storiesbymads · 4 years

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EIGHTEEN ( joe liebgott . )

Y/N met Joe a few days after she graduated from high school. loosely based off the one direction song.

warnings: none but it gets kinda sad @ the end ig

wc: 4.3k

Graduation was days away and Y/N could feel the air escaping her lungs just thinking about it. She had been dreaming about this day for the past twelve years and it was actually happening. Although, now that it was here, the moment felt bittersweet. She was about to leave all the childhood friends she’d made for a junior college across the country in San Francisco. It was almost too surreal for her to handle. A week from now, she’d be somewhat situated in an apartment she’d only seen once without her parents or really anyone that she knew. She would be starting her life.

The last few days of senior year could not have gone by any slower. Final exams had been the week prior so the classes she was attending were really just excuses for all of her classmates and teachers to get emotional about the time they’d spent together. Y/N counted down the minutes until she could finally get out of there. While some of the girls she’d come to know as her best friends were allowing themselves to shed a tear or two and give close to a million hugs to people they’d shared maybe a conversation with in their time there, Y/N kept finding herself in her daydreams about what her new life was going to be like.

“I cannot believe it’s our last day of high school,” her friend Annabelle said. There were about twelve girls all scrunched up at one lunchroom table in an already overcrowded lunchroom. Thankfully, the number had dwindled slightly over the years and now Y/N at least had enough room to put her elbows on the table when she was eating.

“I know! I’m gonna miss you girls so much,” another girl named Cecile said. Y/N swore she saw the slightest hint of a tear in her eye as she said it. Y/N took a bite of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich without another word.

The amount of nerves surrounding her as she stood on the small auditorium stage astounded her. She attended a small school with her graduating class maxing out around 200 and yet the room felt like it was about to explode. All of the classmates around her were decked out in the signature royal blue of their highschool with bright smiles and hazy eyes from the brightly flashing cameras. Y/N fidgeted with the tassel on her cap as she waited for the ceremony to begin. A few of her friends were sitting a few feet away from her. The deafening heartbeat in her ears stopped her from being able to hear what they were talking about. It wasn’t until one of them nudged her ribs that she realized the lights had dimmed slightly and everything was starting.

The announcer’s speech, thankfully, hadn’t lasted longer than a few minutes and the graduates had started making their way across the stage. Before Y/N knew it, she was walking across the stage and shaking hands with the principal and various other administrators she’d come to know over the years. Her legs were numb and she was surprised--and very grateful--that she made it across the stage without so much as tripping. She even silently thanked her mother beforehand for discouraging her from wearing the three-inch pair of heels in her closet.

“The Class of 1936! Congratulations!” her principal announced as a wave of blue filled the air. There were graduation caps everywhere across the auditorium. It was going to be extremely difficult to tell whose was whose at the end of the day but that didn’t stop a single student from completing the tradition. One student’s cap even managed to land in the rafters for a few seconds before coming down.

It was difficult to locate her parents in the crowd in the moments after. Everything seemed to be simultaneously happening in slow motion and hyper speed since her first step across the stage. She spotted the top of her mother’s head across the room and rushed over to meet them. Both of her parents had been leaning up against the wall near the exit speaking to another couple until they noticed her semi-running towards them. Her father pulled her into a tight hug and made a comment about an eyelash messing with his eye the entire ceremony. She gave her mother a soft smile when he finally let her go. Her parents gave a small goodbye to the couple next to them and joined hands with their daughter on the way out of the highschool for seemingly the last time in their lives.

The sound of her alarm clock buzzing at 6:30 in the morning caused a loud groan to fall from Y/N’s lips as she begrudgingly pulled herself from the warmth of her duvet and into her adjoining bathroom to start her day. It was moving day. Well, technically. Most of her furniture had been shipped out to her apartment a few days prior but today was the official moving date. She had to be at the train station by 8:00 with the last of her belongings. Judging by the fact that Y/N was brushing her teeth with her eyes still very much closed, it was evident that she was very much regretting choosing the earliest departure time to San Francisco available.

Her two suitcases were packed and stacked next to the front door of her parents’ home and she kept glancing at them during the entire duration of breakfast. In her mind, she was going over every item that she needed to bring and checking the mental checklist she’d gone over about twenty times over the past two days. She knew it was overly redundant but she couldn’t bear the thought of forgetting something and not being able to retrieve it until the next major holiday. It was unlikely, though, that she would forget something as her childhood bedroom was practically barren save for the twin bed and the wire coat hangers in her closet.

“Honey, if you look at those suitcases one more time,” her mother lightly scolded. She was glad her daughter was so excited for something but she was still slightly bitter to the thought of her daughter leaving home so soon after graduation.

“I’m sorry! I can’t help it,” she sighed. The plate of eggs and bacon had barely been eaten--mostly just moved around with a fork--and was growing colder by the minute. Y/N knew she wouldn’t be able to eat with the amount of nerves building up in her stomach. She spared a final glance at the luggage

“Your mother’s right,” her father sighed and blew the steam off of his cup of coffee. Y/N was surprised to see the newspaper usually tightly clutched within her father’s fingers nowhere in sight.

“So, what’re your plans for the day?” Y/N asked after a few moments of silence. She had completely given up on her plate of food and had pushed it further towards the center of the table.

“Oh, you know. Mope around the house wishing our baby were still here with us,” her mother said dramatically, pretending to wipe a tear from her face.

“Very funny.”

“She’s not joking,” her father chuckled into his mug. It was odd to see him this way. Both of his hands were tightly wrapped around the white porcelain and he still had his reading glasses on rather than the contacts she was so accustomed to seeing. Come to think of it, her mother looked quite strange, too. She was still in her evening robe and had made no effort to remove the curlers from her hair.

“Are you not accompanying me to the train station?” Y/N asked. She watched her parents share knowing glances before they each turned towards her.

“Your father thinks it’s best if we say our goodbyes here. He knows I’ll cry like a banshee if we do it in public and he wants to spare you the embarrassment,” her mother said.

“Oh,” Y/N mumbled and glanced down at her fingers fiddling with the hem of the tablecloth. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Oh Honey-”

“We can come with you if you want!”

“No, no. Dad’s right. Plus, if you start crying I’m sure to start crying and then where would we be,” Y/N allowed an airy laugh to brush past her lips at the thought of her and her parents all crying and smushed together in a dysfunctional group hug.

Due to the fact that Y/N had taken probably the longest nap in her life on the train, her legs felt as stiff as the concrete beneath her feet as she tried (and failed) to make her way out of the station in a normal looking way. Every step looked more like a waddle combined with the luggage that felt ten times heavier getting off than getting on settled on either one of her shoulders.

“Need some help with that, doll?” One of the various taxi-cab drivers asked. It took her a second to locate which one was addressing her but it was easy enough to identify him when she noticed him quickly approaching her with a hand out.

“Uh,” she mumbled. “Yeah-Yes. That’d be great, thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” he sent her a wink as he helped her load the luggage into the trunk of the bright yellow vehicle. Y/N allowed herself to take in the appearance of the man as she got into the backseat and told him her destination. He was quite skinny but that didn’t take away from the overall build of him. In fact, it seemed to make her more attracted to him. His lips seemed to be plastered in a permanent smirk and his hair was way too perfect for him to just have thrown some gel in it and called it a day. It was good enough to land him a hair modeling gig, in her opinion.

“How long will you be staying?” the driver asked and made eye contact with her through the rear-view. His eyes had a mischievous glint to them.

“I don’t look like a regular to you?” she asked with mock offense.

“With that accent? Not a chance, dollface,” he said. They retained eye contact for a few more seconds before his sight flickered back to the road in front of him. Y/N was thankful for the added background noise of the radio at that point.

“You’re actually taking me to my new place,” Y/N said after a few moments of awkwards silence. She found herself fiddling with a slightly ripped piece of leather on the seat beneath her. She felt his eyes on her but by the time she looked back up at the mirror his eyes were focused on the road once more.

“How do you know I’m not a creepy stalker? Now I know where you live,” he joked as he reached a red light. She was able to get a good look at his eyes in the mirror now. The sunlight coming in from the windshield allowed her to notice the swirl of chocolate in his irises. Multiple car honks behind them startled the driver into pressing on the gas a little too quickly, startling Y/N and almost causing her to faceplant into the back of the seat.

“Sorry about that, doll,” he muttered and adjusted how he was sitting ever so slightly and allowed one of his hands to rest on the center console rather than the wheel.

“So, are you?” she asked.

“What?” his eyebrows scrunched together and his grip on the wheel tightened.

“Are you a stalker?” Y/N allowed herself to relax into the seats more. She didn’t really care if he was a stalker. She just never wanted him to stop talking.

“You’ll be glad to know that I am not, Miss…” he voice trailed off, obviously asking for her name.

“Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Joe Liebgott. Nice to make your acquaintance, dollface,” he sent her another wink through the mirror. Y/N felt her heart sink slightly when she noticed her apartment building only a few feet away.

By the time Joe had found a parking spot in front of the building, Y/N could feel her heart all the way in the souls of her feet. She had no idea why she was reacting this way. She had only known this man for, what, twenty minutes? And their one striking conversation had been about whether or not he was a stalker. She had no right to get this attached to him.

“You know,” he started. “I could give you a tour of the city if you’d like. You know, since you’re new and all.” He flashed her a million-dollar smile as he handed her the two pieces of luggage from the trunk.

“I think I would really enjoy that, Joe.” Her heart was beating so fast it could have jumped right out of her chest and made it back to her parents’ house before she was able to get inside her new apartment.

“Great,” he said. He opened up the passenger side of the cab so that he could reach into the glove box. He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and began scribbling on the blank side of the receipt he had just pulled out of the compartment before handing the small piece of paper to her. In very messy handwriting, she noticed he had written Joe (not a stalker, he promises) followed by a phone number and a smiley face below all of it.

“I’ll make sure to call you, Not-a-stalker-Joe.” Y/N’s face had heated up an extreme amount and she hoped that Joe wouldn’t think anything of it.

A few days passed before Y/N worked up the courage to actually call Joe. Maybe it was the fact that it was eleven o’clock at night. She always had been braver when she was tired. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t been able to get the cab driver out of her mind since he dropped her off at her place. Especially at night when she was alone with her thoughts. He got her head spinning and her heart racing without even being in the same room as her. She could only imagine what it would be like when she took him up on that tour offer.

“Hi, is this Joe?” she asked as politely as she could. She regretted calling the second he picked up.

“Depends…” his voice was raspier than it had been a few days ago. There was a possibility that Y/N had woken him up. “Who is this?”

“Y/N,” she said. Her nerves were skyrocketing at this point. The past week or so had not been easy on her heart.

“Who’s the stalker now?” he chuckled lightly into the phone. She heard rustling from the other side and assumed he was moving around on his bed. Having the phone by the bed seemed like a smart idea to her and she wondered why she hadn’t thought of moving hers there.

“You gave me your number, you know,” she said, twirling the cord around her finger.

“For a tour of the city. Not a late night rendezvous,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I can call again in the morning.” Her face was burning with embarrassment; the pressure managed to trail all the way down her spine, it seemed.

“No, doll, don’t worry about it. It had been a pretty boring night anyway,” Joe sighed. Y/N could imagine him running his hand through his hair. Then the image of running her hands through his hair popped into her mind.

“So, about that tour?” she asked. She really hoped she wasn’t being too forward. He was the one that offered.

“You up for it? Tomorrow’s my off day so you called just in time,” he said.

Y/N was barely able to sleep an hour that night. She didn’t know if it was the nerves (it was) or if it was the seemingly endless downpour of rain outside. After her fifth wake up, she decided trying to sleep was a lost cause. She slipped out of bed and out of her bedroom into the open concept of the rest of her apartment. The clock on the wall beside her stove let her know that it was edging on 4:15. Somehow, she managed to turn on her coffee pot and actually make herself some in her zombie-like state. She felt the liquid warm her right down to the tips of her toes.

Around 7am Y/N was beginning to regret skipping out on anymore sleep. Her eyes were droopy and she could barely keep them open long enough to read more than a paragraph on the morning paper. She figured this would be as good a time as any to start getting ready. She probably should’ve worked out a better plan with Joe before hanging up last night; she had zero percent of a clue as to when he would be picking her up that morning.

Y/N’s shower lasted longer than usual due to her starting the whole ordeal by just standing under the hot water with her eyes closed for about ten minutes. She’d even let her mind wander to thinking about Joe being in said shower with her but quickly shook the thought away as she began applying her coconut scented body wash. By the time she was finished, the originally scalding water was beginning to grow cold and Y/N was practically shivering trying to push the hot-water knob past its limit.

She decided to fix herself a third cup of coffee after getting dressed to aid her in doing her makeup in a way that wouldn’t make her look like a raccoon. A few years ago she had tried to do a Smokey eye after about three hours of sleep and she was not going for a recreation of that this morning.

9am was beginning to roll around when she heard a knock on her door.

“Morning, doll,” Joe said when she opened the door. He had his hair slicked back and a collared shirt left unbuttoned about three buttons.

“How’d you know which apartment was mine?” She chuckled lightly. She could have sworn he hadn’t followed her up to her door the previous day but she could’ve been wrong.

“I watched from my car to make sure you got in okay. I was really hoping I remembered which door it was and didn’t go knocking on some old lady’s door,” he said and ran one of his hands through the gelled hair. Y/n glanced over the balcony of the complex to see the bright yellow taxi parked in the exact spot it was in yesterday.

“That was very sweet of you, Joe,” both of them had a slight red tint to their faces as they made their way down the stairs and to the taxi. He opened the door for her before jogging around the front of the car to get in himself.

“The best tour of your life begins now,” he said before starting the car up.

“So how old did you say you were?” Joe asked after about twenty minutes of awkward silence.

“18. You?” Y/N said. She really hoped he wasn’t 37 or something or this whole ordeal would have gotten really awkward really fast.

“21,” he said and turned down the radio knob ever so slightly. She couldn’t stop herself from thinking about how nice his fingers looked. “Now our first stop…”

It had been months since Y/N had first met Joe but she swore it felt like the pair had known each other forever. She felt more comfortable around him than anyone else she had ever met. They went on one or two more dates after their tour before Joe asked her to be his girlfriend. Everything between them was moving incredibly fast for Y/N’s usual tastes but she couldn’t be happier at the given moment. Joe made her feel alive. Her fingertips burned with every touch and her insides were practically doing backflips any time he complimented her or so much as held eye contact with her.

“Good morning doll face,” Joe said with his raspy morning voice that Y/N adored more than anything. She groaned with displeasure at being roused from her sleep but she gave him a soft smile when she finally opened her eyes. Joe was running his fingertips lightly across Y/N’s bare back as the thin sheets of his bed covered their lower halves. Her hand moved from being placed at the top of his abdomen to gently stroking his jaw. There was the faintest of stubble growing in and she would never tell him how much she really loved it.

“Morning, handsome,” she mumbled into his chest. She began trailing kisses from his chest up to his collarbone and back down again. Joe used his free hand to stop her antics and pull her face up to kiss his lips this time. In a few short moments, Joe was able to flip the pair of them to where he was resting over Y/N with one of his hands beside Y/N’s shoulder to support his weight and the other securely positioned on her jaw.

“That was a very good way to wake up,” she said and ran her thumb across his slightly swollen lips. He let out a soft laugh before poking her in the side and laying down on the bed beside her.

“I think I’m going to go get a shower. Care to join me?” He asked with a smirk. They had showered together before but it had never ended with them cleaner than when they entered.

“Not today, baby,” she said, which earned a very over exaggerated groan from Joe as he forced himself out of bed and into the connected bathroom.

She, too, pulled herself out of the bed and grabbed Joe’s button up off of the floor and buttoned it up just enough to cover all the necessities. She heard the creak of the hot water knob as she exited the bedroom to make herself some much needed coffee. Neither had gotten the recommended 8 hours of sleep and she was wondering how Joe was able to be so animated about everything already.

Their one-year anniversary came around faster than anything that Y/N had ever experienced. One day she was living in her parents home desperate to graduate from high school and now she was living in her boyfriend’s apartment (unbeknownst to her parents) and celebrating a whole year of dating. And it had been the most magical year of Y/N’s life.

“More wine?” Joe asked her as he pulled himself off of the couch. Y/N whined slightly as her side was hit with a gust of cold wind.

“Yes, please,” she said and handed up her empty wine glass.

“You got it, doll,” he sent her a wink and went into the kitchen to fill both their glasses. Y/N couldn’t help but watch him the whole time. She never thought that she’d be this head over heels for a man— especially this far along in a relationship. Before Joe, the longest she’d had a boyfriend had been about two months and they barely even talked during that time.

Joe glanced over at her from the kitchen just barely making eye contact with her before Y/N shifted her gaze to the record player in the corner of the room near the small television. It had been playing static for about an hour now but the both of them were too comfortable to care enough about flipping it.

“I love you, Joe,” Y/N said after a few more moments of silence. There was a loud crash in the kitchen that caused her to surge up from her seat and rush over. Before she was able to bend down to clean up any of the broken glass, though, Joe pulled her in by the hips to smash his lips against hers.

“Say it again,” he said when he pulled away with the biggest grin Y/N had ever seen.

“I love you, Joe.”

“I love you, Y/N/N. So much,” he pulled her in for another kiss, sidestepping around the broken wine glass to set her on the kitchen counter and placing himself between her thighs. His hands trailed from her hips to rest on the sides of her knees.

Almost four years had passed since then. Joe was set to leave for boot camp this afternoon and Y/N was barely functioning at this point. He had become such an integral part of her life since she arrived in San Francisco. She had no idea what she would do if he didn’t come back to her. Hell, she barely had a clue what she would do if he did come back to her. She knew nothing would be the same after all of this.

“I’ll write to you whenever I get the chance, baby doll. I promise,” he mumbled into her hair. Y/N had not left his side once in the past week and she didn’t plan on leaving it until he was on that train.

“I’m going to miss you so much, Joey,” she said.

“I know. I’m gonna miss you too.”

“I’ve loved you since I was 18 years old, Joe. I’m 22 now and somehow I love you more and more each day. Promise me you’ll come home to me,” she said. There were tears beginning to leak out of the corners of her eyes. He wiped one away with the pad of his thumb.

“I promise to try as hard as I can to come home to you, baby doll,” he said and pressed another kiss to her hair.

#joe liebgott #joseph liebgott #joe liebgott imagine #joe liebgott x reader #joseph liebgott imagine #joseph liebgott x reader #band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers x reader #bob #hbowar #hbowar imagine #hbowar x reader

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weissily · 11 months

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Forgot to post this one here, but I’m in Art fight this year too!

Looking forward to joining with you all!

https://artfight.net/~Weissily

#artfight #artfight 2023 #team vampire #Naoshi Airi #Marie Mallory #Annabelle Airi #Aster Moon #Cosmos Moon #my art #weissily #TheWeisslily

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see-arcane · 4 years

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Molt

It had been baffling, really. Such loyalty to someone who’d treated him so badly.

At the start, anyway. Time had passed. Events had transpired and threads of fate had drawn tighter. Heartstrings, strong as steel, fine as silk, weaving around the initial office crush until it became something new.

Jonathan Sims loved Martin Blackwood. He was wound snug as a ring on his heavy little finger. Especially here, now, in the Changed world. The Archivist, bound to his hip. Never straying. Good and close and loyal.

Just as Mother wanted.

It happened while Jon was in the middle of a statement, of course. A recording. Monologue. Purging. Whatever.

All the worst things in their lives had happened while he was paralyzed by the Archivist’s compulsion to articulate the nearest, succulent horrors to the Eye.

And, Martin will think far too late, always when he took a walk. To go strolling up to the little shop, to look for good cows, to avoid hearing the vitriol of the Fears’ victims pour from Jon’s mouth. Pick an excuse. There always was one.

A rotary phone was waiting this time. Martin might have found it cute under other circumstances. It jingled and jangled until he finally sighed and picked it up.

“Annabelle.”

“Hello to you too. Do we actually get to talk this time around or are you busy?” An airy giggle came down the line. “As if I have to ask. I have to admit, I’m a little jealous. Trophy wifedom gets a bad reputation. Nothing but free time while the S/O gets the work done—,”

“If that’s the best you have—,”

“It’s not. And I do apologize; that was a cheap dig. The lowest of the low-hanging fruit. I’m a touch rusty when it comes to small talk these days. My crowd isn’t exactly the talkative type and it is so hard to get a proper conversation going when everyone’s just got chelicerae and no vocal cords, you know?”

“I can imagine.” Martin looked back to Jon. That narrow silhouette against the Staring sky, speaking grimly into the recorder. The Panopticon Watched him eagerly. Its tower was closer now. Much closer. They’d be passing through proper civilization soon. At least, the terrain that might have actual neighborhoods and cityscapes to trudge through. He sighed. “What do you want? What, exactly? And before you do the whole obfuscating runaround, just know that I am in no mood for—,”

“Evil monstrous patter? I know, Martin. I’m not Elias. Save the monologues for posh old bastards who make love to their mirrors, right? Right. So.” Martin heard shifting on the other side of the line. The scurrying of tiny legs over the receiver. “Have you thought about it?”

“About what?”

“Assistance. Would you like mine?”

“About as much as the Trojans would like a new wooden horse.”

“…So, yes?”

“No. No, I do not want whatever kind of weird arachnid-based, trap-filled ‘help’ you would pretend to give me that would ultimately screw Jon and I and everyone else who isn’t with the Web over. Thanks.”

“Martin, while I commend your common sense, you’re looking at this like I’m going to, I don’t know, hand you a Leitner or paste some extra eyes to your head. That’s not what I’m offering.”

“Which means I have to ask, ‘Golly, Annabelle, what are you offering, then?’”

“No one said you had to ask, Martin. But since you did, what I’m offering is this: the Mnemosyne treatment.”

“…The what?”

“Right, sorry. Basically, it’d be me just pulling the right mental strings to help you remember something useful. Something vital that even Elias missed while you were at the Institute, no matter how many little scans he did. Something even Jon can’t See.”

“Spider webs in my brain. Couldn’t possibly end badly.”

On the other end of the line, Annabelle sighed. More tiny legs scurried.

“Martin, I’m not talking about brainwashing.”

“Said the puppet master.”

“Martin—,”

“Not interested. Bye—,”

“Where did you grow up, Martin?”

“…What?”

“Where did you grow up as a boy?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You don’t have to tell me. I just want to know if you know.”

“Of course I do. And you already know, obviously, so: Devon. Shock.”

“You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a fine actor, Martin, but you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. You recall Devon as a factoid. A piece of trivia. That’s where you supposedly set up dear old mum in the care home—,”

“The hell do you mean ‘supposedly—,’”

“—far away from work, where no one would think to check in, to check that you were checking in on her, what with the Archive’s nosy workers being so curious—,”

“What? What the hell does that m—,”

“You did not grow up in Devon, Martin.”

That actually surprised a laugh out of him. He looked to Jon again. Still talking. The Eye still Stared at him and him alone.

“Wow. Okay. This is some next level gaslighting. Really have to applaud you.”

“Oh? Then what do you recall about Devon? What school did you drop out of as a teen for your mother’s sake? Where did you get ice cream on your birthday? Give me a detail.”

“I—it was—,”

Martin stopped. In his head, a wretched blankness began to blossom.

No, that was the wrong word. Blossoming implied a new thing—this felt old. Like a canvas sheet coated with dust.

“What did you do?”

“Pardon?”

“What did you do to me?”

“Nothing, Martin. Now, come on, this one should be easy. When did you first know you were in love with Jonathan Sims? First month on the job? First week?”

“I-I—you—,”

He didn’t know. Rather, he wasn’t sure how to answer. Because the truest answer that came to him was that it had been always. Always, always that love had been there. Since day one. Even at the man’s prickliest, Martin had been in love with him. Somehow. But for some reason—

“How far back does your memory go before the Archives, Martin? I don’t just mean a list of biographical facts and bullet points. What actual experiences in your life do you remember in all their sights and sounds and sensations from before you handed over that flimsy CV to the Magnus Institute?”

“Shut up. Shut. Up.”

His hand shook around the handset, ready to slam it down on the rotary base with a theatric clang. Instead he held it tighter. It felt glued to his palm. To his ear.

“Okay, relax, we’ll go a little simpler. Post-hiring, post-simpering crush. Do you remember what Jon was like when he was trying so desperately to investigate the Fears, to put just the right clues together to make sense of the rituals and his own nature and all that existential mess? He wasn’t eating properly then, right? You had to go and tattle on him for taking live meals instead of paper substitutes. Otherwise, he would’ve been healthy enough to just magically Know all the information he needed.”

“That was—were you the one who—,”

“No, Martin. Mother and I have plenty of strings, but we don’t pull them all the time. That one was, ironically, the Eye’s influence. Jon’s told you before, I’m sure. He’s felt specific statements call out to him and Archival impulses tug at his mind. The Eye has steered him as surely as the Web ever managed. It certainly didn’t want him to find out about any of the loopholes that might have freed him from his role as Archivist. Neither blinding nor the death-of-the-Archivist exit strategy. Because, much as the Eye loves Terrible Knowledge, not all of it is beneficial to its cause.

“The Eye would never dare risk losing Jon. Not for anything. So, it directed him. Turned his prying eyes this way instead of that. Not blinding him, exactly, but making sure not to feed him any Beholding information that would hinder the Eye’s desires. Gaps in the intel, you know.

“And you, Martin. You, who have been under the Eye’s Watch for just as long? Do you think it wouldn’t smother your memories if there was something dangerous lurking inside them? Something that may—gasp!—actually be useful to yours and Jon’s desire to save the world from its relentless Gaze?”

“…It might. Sure. But I doubt you’d clear things up for me out of the goodness of your heart. Whatever it is I’m—I’m missing, I don’t have to be omniscient to know it’ll be less about damaging the Eye and more about helping the Web.”

“Provided you even use said information. But I will tell you this much for free. You will want those smothered memories on hand if and when you finally make it to the Panopticon. Because, yeah, Jon’s powerful. Jon is the Archivist, the Eye’s very dearest avatar.

“But Jonah Magnus sees you coming, doesn’t he? He’ll have something planned. Perhaps some weighty power of his own to match Jon’s. In an eldritch Staring contest, there’s no way to Know who will win. You’ll need an edge. Two against one is always better odds.”

“And, what? I’ll just happen to find some magic cheat code lurking in my subconscious? Or you’ll plant something in my head to make me—,”

“Bournemouth.”

“What?”

“You lived in Bournemouth, Martin.”

As soon as she said it, Martin knew it was true. Not the way he would simply know a fact. He saw it. Saw the view of a quiet old street, the weathered red door of his house. Heard children playing somewhere far off in a park somewhere. Smelled sea salt on the air.

That single snippet of experience hovered there behind his eyelids, at once ancient and fresh.

“You planted that.”

“No, I didn’t. It was just a reminder. Again, you can always have Jon fact-check for you. Anyway, the full flashback montage can’t happen at a distance. I’d have to be there in person. And you’d have to consent. Wouldn’t want to go taking liberties with the Archivist’s property.”

“I am not his—,”

“Damsel? Valet? Tagalong? His reason to stay human? You can be all those things and still be dead weight, Martin. Because that’s what you know you are under all the mush and pining and assurances. It’s really no surprise you got your hackles up with Oliver Banks nearby. Never seen a prettier grim reaper. Nor a more potentially powerful partner, so to speak. I’d say you were lucky that he’s been made stationary by his new role, but you two really could have used his kind of power on your side going forward.

“Because when you get to the Panopticon, Jonah Magnus will take one look at you and see a human shield. You won’t be able to hide behind a few burnt pieces of paper or call the cops on him. You’ll need to be able to actually do something besides get yourself abducted by an evil sea captain or swatted aside with a blast of psychic trauma. You don’t need the Eye to tell you that, do you?”

Martin bit his tongue so hard it almost bled. He breathed. Counted to ten. Then:

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this? What is it you think you have to gain besides another round of—of stupid, eldritch mind games, and trying to ruin our lives just that little bit more? Hm? You and your Spider and all your goddamn machinations have already won, right? You’re here! Good for you! So why are you doing this?”

“Martin, I’d think that you of all people would know better. Much as the Spider is a menace to its prey, it’s a helper to everyone else. To the ‘ecosystem,’ such as we have now. We are an Entity of order. We’ve been pest control for as long as there have been pests. Keeping everything from falling into chaos. I’d call us a necessary evil, but we really aren’t that; more a,” there was another shift, the sound of a hand gesturing blithely and tugging on silk, “necessary unpleasantness. You can’t begin to imagine how much messier things might be if it weren’t for the Mother tidying things up around the Fears’ domains. Containing spill overs, halting turf wars before they can happen. The Fears are greedy things, even now.

“And Jonah Magnus playing king of the castle is hardly helping matters. I don’t care how much the man likes paperwork, he’s a shit CEO. He’d be playing the violin with Nero in another life.

“Still,” she sighed, “if you need a more believable motive than us just not liking the mess, how about the fact that we don’t appreciate having the pompous, preening, Victorian era prick taking the credit for our work. The Mother of Puppets has a notorious yen for grudges, and if he and his sky-high voyeur can be dealt a blow from aiding you and Jon, we’re all for it. Are you, Martin?”

Martin bit into the insides of his cheeks. He looked to Jon. His posture had changed. No longer looking like a ghastly scarecrow, but huddled into himself, cradling the recorder close for his final comments. Just about done.

“Martin?”

“I’m not an idiot, you know. I do remember the last time some other mastermind played it safe by keeping well out of reach of Jon’s mindreading.”

“Because Elias couldn’t risk the grand scheme coming to light. I know. But I’m willing to stand right there, in full View of Jon while we do this. I will tell him the truth just as I’m telling it to you. I want you to remember what you’ve forgotten, Martin. Simple as that. Interested?”

“Not unless Jon is—,”

“Not unless I’m what?”

Martin made a very interesting noise as he whirled around. Jon was there with his eyes on the phone. He opened his mouth, then stopped. His face scrunched and darkened as his Gaze traveled away into the canopy of the grove they stood beside.

“Annabelle. I can See you.”

Laughter bubbled up out of Martin’s phone. It doubled as a willowy shape ambled out of the shadows, eight oil-bubble eyes gleaming.

Annabelle Cane held an old flip phone, half a dozen accessories dangling from it. All spiders. Martin rolled his eyes and hung up as she clapped her phone shut.

“Because I’m letting you, Jon. Hi. Sorry our first real meeting’s not quite as dramatic as the situation warrants, but,” she shrugged and a hundred spiders repositioned themselves on her, “I felt something a little more low-key was called for.”

“Right. Martin, get behind me. I don’t want any of the mess to land on you.”

Annabelle held up her over-knuckled hands, the picture of arachnid innocence.

“Hey, hey, I come in peace. And really, after all the times I’ve tweaked things to save your life, I think I’m owed at least a minute to chat.”

“Oh, yes. Saved my life from the monsters that you dangled me in front of like raw steak on a string. Thanks so much. Why are you here, Annabelle?”

“I want to help Martin. You know,” she turned her array of glassy eyes on Martin, beaming, “like we discussed.”

“What.” Jon turned to Martin who was going a very bad shade of pink. “What?”

“Th-that’s not—,” Martin started, stopped, started again, “I mean, I wanted to check with you if—,”

“If what?”

“If she’s telling the truth about something. The, uh,” Martin held his fingers up in quotation marks, “assistance she wants to give me.”

“I am—,” Annabelle held her hands up again as Jon and Martin glared. “Right, sorry. I’ll wait.” So saying, she plodded up the side of a tree and assumed an idle crouching position against the bark. From spinneret fingers she wove out a game of cat’s cradle. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

They looked at her a moment. Then Martin leaned to Jon’s ear.

“So?”

“So, what?”

“Can you look in her head at all?”

“Have been since I Saw her.”

“And?”

“It’s hard. I can See facts in her, but I can’t See everything. It’s all Web in there. Hard to spot unless I turn my Eye at just the right angle. She—she wants to help you remember something. That’s coming in clear.”

“What else?”

“She—oh. Okay, no, not buying that for a second—,”

“What?”

“It’s true, Jon,” Annabelle sing-songed from her tree.

“The hell it is—,”

“Jon, what is it?”

Jon only Looked harder at her. Annabelle’s face pursed as if she had a headache.

“It’s not going to change if you Glare at it, Jon. The truth’s the truth, and that’s all the Eye is interested in. Honestly, I’m a little stung that you don’t believe it.”

“Maybe because all evidence, logic, and basic common sense points to the contrary.”

“Uh, hi! Hey!” Martin said to either or both of them. “Care to let me in on this?”

Jon scowled harder. Annabelle pretended to sulk, then shrugged.

“I can tell him if you’d prefer not to—,”

“The Web wants to help me,” Jon bit out. “According to Annabelle, it wants me to be happy.”

“Don’t see why that’s so hard to believe, Jon. Sure, we’re unorthodox by human standards, but by Spider standards we’ve always doted on you. The Mother loves you. Truly.”

“The way you’d love a toy.”

“A collector’s item, even,” she laughed. “But no. You’re far more to her than that, Jon, puppet or no.”

“Ah. An appliance, then. My mistake.”

“Jon…”

“Why do you want to stick your fingers in Martin’s brain, Annabelle?”

Annabelle bristled and made a face.

“Ugh. Make it sound a little more distasteful, why don’t you? You Saw for yourself that isn’t what I want to do. You Saw why too.”

“Yes. To ‘help’ Martin. Which will, by extension, ‘help’ me. Make me ‘happy.’”

“Exactly.”

“According to you and the Web.”

“Yes. Seems fairly straightforward.”

“Mmhmm.” Jon turned to Martin. “No. Absolutely not.”

“But—but, if she is telling the truth, then—,”

“Her version of the truth. Not even a whole truth, because, just as she expected, I can’t See the whole Design going around those two points. All I Know is that, yes, whatever this memory trick—,”

“Not a trick…” Annabelle hummed.

“Not asking you,” Jon hummed back. “Whatever she means to do to you, yes, it would have some kind of benefit. It will do…something to make you stronger? Somehow? And that will somehow domino into me being glad.”

Martin looked from Jon to Annabelle. She waved. Back to Jon:

“…Isn’t that good?”

“Sure. The same way me finding our way back out of the Lonely was ‘good.’ Martin, look at me.” Jon finally tore his Gaze from Annabelle to look up at him, his Eyes now only his eyes. “This. Is. A. Trick. Even if, in their deranged point-of-view, this is in any way meant as a benevolent act, it is from the Web’s perspective. Cats think it’s a kindness to leave you animal carcasses on your pillow.”

“I get that, but—,”

“But what?”

Martin thought of a home he hadn’t realized he’d had until a minute ago. Of the sudden, creeping murkiness surrounding his invisible father and scathing mother and the fact that he could no longer recall the name of the hospital she’d died in. Could not say anything about his history pre-Archive that was not a scatter of random facts with no actual memories attached to them.

Nothing but a house with a red door and the smell of Bournemouth’s briny air.

“If there’s something in my head that the Eye kept hidden from me because it could help us—,”

“Martin—,”

“Help me to be more than your luggage—,”

“You know that isn’t—,”

“W-Whatever’s in me, it was always there, right? This vital pile of memories that I-I’ve just blanked on, completely, and—and—,”

“Martin, I can help with that. You know I—,”

“You can’t, Jon. Your power is from the Eye. It won’t show you what it won’t even let me remember. I—oh, God.”

No. No, not that too. Why? What would be the point? Why?

“What? Martin, what?”

“I can’t remember her.”

“Who—,”

“Jon, I-I can’t remember her name.” Martin’s breath was coming out thick now. Coarse. “I can’t remember my mother’s name. I don’t—even her face isn’t there—,”

It was the Not-Them all over again, but worse. No matter how he tried, where he looked in his head, there were simply no memories left besides those that existed after and around the Magnus Institute’s drama. Just notes. Tally marks. A script to follow with no visual cues. Why? Why would the Eye redact so much of him?

“Martin, please, we can do this somewhere else, away from her. We can—,”

“I want to do it.”

“What?”

“I want. To do it.”

“Martin, you really don’t. You want nothing to do with the Web. Period.”

“Of course I don’t. But your Eye isn’t going to help.”

“Wh—it’s not my Eye—,”

“You know what I mean. You’re not going to catch anything or reveal any buried secrets. Did you even notice the gaps in my head before now?”

“I—,”

“You didn’t.”

“You asked me not to—,”

“Before that, Jon. You should’ve noticed something. Hell, Elias should have. But this is—it isn’t—,” Martin hitched in a hot breath. Jon’s hands tried to climb into his, gripping.

“Martin, please. We can fix this ourselves. We don’t need her—,”

“Do you Know that?”

“Martin…”

“You’re right here. She’s right here. If—if she tries anything funny, you can, you know…”

“Smite me for my sins?” Jon and Martin turned to glower. Annabelle had repositioned herself to be hanging upside down from a branch. “Don’t mind me.” She flapped a hand at them, raining a few house spiders as she did. “Carry on.”

Martin breathed heavily through his nose, trying not to shake.

“I’m missing something the Eye doesn’t want me to know. Several things, apparently. If that information can help us…”

Jon made a noise.

“What?”

“Fine, I said. Fine.” He leveled a Glare like a glacier at Annabelle. “I assume I don’t have to explain exactly what will happen if you get creative with this?”

“Yes, yes, you’ll swat me with your metaphorical rolled up magazine, I know. It really won’t be anything fancy, I assure you. Like he said, it’s all old news I’d be uncovering. Won’t even take that long. Not much different from whipping off a tablecloth.” Annabelle dropped from the tree as she spoke, righted herself and stretched until she popped a dozen joints she shouldn’t have. “So! I have everyone’s permission to lend my aid to the cause? Yes?”

Jon and Martin looked at her.

“Excellent! Martin, may I see one of your hands, please?”

Martin offered her his left hand. Jon’s hand welded to his right.

Annabelle took Martin’s hand gently, barely touching. She made an expression of faux concentration, nodding to herself.

“Hmm. Hmmmm. Yes, that’s a hand.”

“Yeah, it is. What does this have to do with my memory loss?”

“Nothing yet. It’s just, it’s rather full. All of you is. That’s where all your memories have been stuffed, Martin. They’re not in your head. They’re everywhere else.”

Jon gawked at her.

“…You’re not lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“How the hell are you not—,”

“And the key to putting all those memories back where they’re supposed to be is right,” Annabelle lightly clapped her other palm against Martin’s sandwiching his hand between hers, “here.” Both her hands came away. She had left a tiny scrap of paper in his palm.

On it was what looked like an ink drawing of a small red hat.

For just a moment, Martin wanted to ask if this whole thing had been her idea of a joke. That moment passed.

When it did, Martin remembered everything.

Another moment followed this, during which he was too terrified to scream.

That moment passed too.

To define all of what happened next, in all its sensory factors, would have been too much for anyone other than its current witnesses.

Annabelle Cane could stomach it, for it was the desired outcome she and Mother had planned for.

The Archivist could have stomached it, for they were the Archivist.

Sadly, Jonathan Sims was on the outside of the Archivist at the time, and so had to witness it as well.

It was fast, was the thing. So fast and so slow all at once. There was no room in Jonathan Sims to make good on his promise to Annabelle, no space in his mind for anything other than the vision of Martin Blackwood in his horrendous fit of remembrance.

Because with memory came reality. And there were so many realities that needed facing now.

Reality: The Eye had never hidden anything from him.

Reality: There was good reason to not remember his history, his childhood, anything at all beyond the text of a biography. There was no history to remember. No childhood. No father, no mother. No school to drop out of. No existence before the Magnus Institute. Even with all the feelings and listed interactions and carefully-placed bait of trauma for Elias Bouchard to paw at, there was no meat under that skin.

Reality: Martin Blackwood had performed the fairy tale-impossible. He had fallen in love with Jonathan Sims at first sight. The perfect reason to want to be close, to help, to be drawn to him and to draw him in turn. It had taken some time to do the latter. Just the right threads pulled, the right events orchestrated, the right chemistry concocted. But they’d gotten there. Jon and Martin, Martin and Jon. Soulmates. Tied together by Fateful red strings.

Reality: He could lie as easy as breathing. A fine actor, was Martin Blackwood. So good, even he’d believed he was Martin Blackwood.

Reality: He did remember Bournemouth and a red door. He remembered knowing Jon when he was a child. He remembered that he had not been a child himself—he’d been too big for that. Far too big. But he had seen Jon through the pages of a book, then from his red, red door, watched beyond the staring, silk-wrapped young man who had come to dinner.

Little Jonathan Sims, staring up into the dark of his home, his long, dark limbs snatching the dinner guest inside before he could build up a proper scream.

Little Jonathan Sims, marked by the Web. His Web.

Observed through so many tiny watchful eyes as he grew up. More than once, when his nightmares were at their worst, by his own massive stare.

Open your eyes, Jon. I know you aren’t asleep. Am I on the ceiling? On the wall? In the closet? Waiting under the bed, counting down until your feet touch the floor, and my limbs reach out, and you disappear forever into my cobwebbed dark? Won’t you join me for dinner? Open your eyes, Jon…

Jonathan Sims, no longer little, finally entering the Magnus Institute.

And there, always ready to be in his corner, to love and to tend and to keep him on the Web’s route, an assistant. Martin Blackwood, perfectly Designed.

A tight fit, though. The Stranger’s little doppelganger would have been terribly disappointed by the lack of space inside.

Reality: It didn’t hurt. Not at all. Martin Blackwood, if he weren’t so distracted in these last few seconds of existence, would have compared it to shedding an uncomfortable pair of trousers and a too-snug belt. It felt like relief. Release.

Reality: Jonathan Sims was screaming too. His hands were on the bulging, twitching, weeping, wetly crackling shell that was Martin Blackwood. Martin Blackwood was making his last few noises of life. No longer screaming, but begging, ordering.

“The Eye!” he shrilled, his voice warping, turning glottal. “Jon, you have to use the Eye on me! End me! Do it now!”

Jon couldn’t, of course. He was making noises approximating this message in-between shouts of Martin’s name, shouts at Annabelle Cane to stop this, and general sounds of pure, brain-blinding terror he’d thought exhausted in himself.

Reality: Martin Blackwood did not die when the skin of him was sloughed off. He could not die, because he had never existed.

In the hand that was now a black, taffy-pulled mockery of fingers and palm, the scrap of an illustrated red hat was no longer paper. Instead, it was the real thing; his favorite bowler.

In two more hands—he had so many now, finally free and unfolded—he grasped Jonathan Sims’ hands.

A fresh scream began to build—,

“Quiet.”

—Jonathan Sims was quiet. He seemed stunned at his own silence, but could not produce a sound to express as much. Instead, he tried frantically to free himself—

“None of that, Jon. Calm down.”

Jonathan Sims was calm. Though tears ran and his mouth hung in a horrified rictus, he was still. Hushed. His hands no longer yanked, but tried to squirm loose.

He did not crush those scarred hands, but did not release them. His spindly, coarse-haired thumbs ran familiar circles on the knuckles. As Martin Blackwood had done. He would take care of such things now.

There was so much he had been waiting to do with Jonathan Sims.

“I assume this comes as a surprise, Jon. Are you surprised? You can say.”

“You—,”

“On second thought, don’t say.”

Jonathan Sims said nothing. Only stared and wept. He made a strained un-sound as another spare hand drifted up to wipe the dampness from his cheek.

“You say so much, Jon. Analyzing and monologuing and soliloquizing day in and day out. Such days as we have. A body can barely hear itself think. Ha. You’re lucky I love you.”

Jonathan Sims’ face seemed to crumple and contort on his skull, as if he too wanted to shed himself and be gone. Fingers that were long and gnarled as twigs danced around his jaw, tucking fear-bleached hair aside.

“Because I do, Jon. Truly. If I dare say it, and I do, I love you even more than my Mother does. I know she’ll be thrilled to see me bring you home. She’s been playing matchmaker long enough; it’s about time she sees the fruits of her labors. Aren’t you excited to meet her? Oh, please say you are.”

“I am,” Jonathan Sims said. He hitched in a breath, “Watcher—,”

“Stop.”

Jonathan Sims stopped. His eyes gaped wildly.

“I know what you’re thinking. How can this be happening? Not just the unfortunate charade of Martin Blackwood, but this—this puppeteer act. How can you be susceptible when you are the Archivist? Untouchable by the other Fears? Well, let me tell you, Jon—you are not untouchable. You are unharmable, which is a very different thing. And the Web has never wanted to harm you. Yes, it wanted you marked, but in the same way a loving parent wants their child to take their shots. We made you strong, Jon. We made you our Archivist.

“To make sure the Eye didn’t steal away our creative property in full, we made sure to leave a watermark on you. Or a leash, if you like. You really did spend so much time with Martin Blackwood, Jon. Letting him in. Letting yourself get lost in his embraces, his well-being, his love, his comforting pull for so very long. If Annabelle and Mother had puppet strings on you, Martin Blackwood had my silk wrapped around you like a cocoon. It’s been weaving around you since you read my book. The Change couldn’t have severed it if it tried. Nor can you.

“Nor should you want to. You read no lies in her head; we do want you happy. Happy with us. With me.” The shape of his true mouth chittered and twitched giddily. “Mother’s finest puppet. Between us, the Eye and its mincing despot in the tower will give way to the Web. And we will be happy, Jon. I am already. You should be too. So be happy for me, Jon. Right now.”

Jonathan Sims shuddered. His face contorted, fighting with itself. A smile of undiluted glee carved itself there anyway.

“There we are. Now give us a kiss.”

Jonathan Sims did. It was not as anatomically difficult as one would guess. There was another mouth behind the chelicerae. One with too many teeth and a thing that should not have been a tongue.

“Well,” Annabelle sighed, “aren’t you two just the sweetest thing.” She looked to one of the orb weavers on her shoulder and pretended to vomit. The orb weaver nodded in agreement.

The kiss ended with a sigh on one end and a spasm on the other. Tears were running again. Happy ones, of course.

“The sooner you get over yourself and call the Distortion back, the sooner you can have the same, Annabelle. It’s either that or you stop eating every mate you let into your webbing.”

“But I get so munchy during the afterglow…” she whined, turning on her heel as she did. She began plodding slowly towards the leftovers of civilization. Leading the way towards the house on Hill Top Road and the secret places beneath it.

“Come on, Jon. Mother’s waiting.” Another sigh, full of scurrying things. “I can’t wait to carry you over the threshold.”

With that, Jonathan Sims and Mr. Spider resumed their walk.

Ao3 link

#dear Web!Martin people I am sorry this is the last cursed addition I will make I swear #tw arachnophobia #tw body horror #martin blackwood #annabelle cane #jonathan sims #the web #the spider #the mother of puppets #the magnus archives #storytime

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calliope-love-corner · 3 years

Text

First date

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

The cafe is warm, and airy, and reminds me of the city I was born in, where I am very far from now. I don't mind it, of course. Seeing the world was always my dream, but its nice when some place feels... familiar.

A hot, humid summer afternoon brought me to a little indie Cafe in a tucked away corner of London that seemed rather quiet compared to the rest of the scummy city. Something about the style and decor of the place tipped me off that it was probably run by an american- the patio seating that seemed to take up most of the cafe closed in by rustic wooden railing, raised up on a deck tastefully littered with potted plants and string lights. A few ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, and the low hum of patron conversation was quite a comfortable sort of white noise. It was an afternoon I very much felt I'd experienced before- not quite deja vu, but something similar.

Although I felt quite relaxed during my half day off, I was stuck with busywork, like always. I tapped away at my laptop, digitally transcribing handwritten statements that looked like a pharmacist had written them into the digital world. And I thought my OWN handwriting was illegible- I had nothing on some of these old forms.

Someone brushed past me on the left- a waiter, moving gracefully across the deck with practiced precision. A dishboy clearing tables and hauling stacks of trays and plates and ceramic cups away in his arms like second nature. People hard at work. I took a sip of my drink- iced matcha latte, the same no matter where I went- impressed, and reminiscent of my old food service jobs back home. I never got comfortable in any one place to get that good at getting shit done. There was a certain art to it I guess I never got the hang of.

Someone approached to brush past on the left again, much less practiced than the waiter before them. I immediately try and sink into my seat, trying to look too focused on my work to even notice anyone else. My earbuds helped sell the idea, usually, but whether or not they actually aged music at any given time was a toss up. Today, they played a quiet lo-fi Playlist, low enough to hear the world around me, but loud enough to hear the music. I'd gotten quite good at not talking to people of I didn't want to.

"Boo."

I blink, startled, and look up to find Annabelle sat across from me at my little table in the corner of the deck. How long had she been there, I wondered? Was she the one I just instinctively tried to hide from? Or did she come from somewhere else entirely? Need I remind you of her way of sneaking up on me. There is nothing in this world I know about that she doesn't explicitly want me to.

"Oh. Hi." I push out. It wasn't that I wasn't happy to see her- you'll find that I always am, no matter the situation- it was just... unexpected.

Okay, Annabelle's sudden appearances were always just that. Sudden and unexpected. However, today, I was expecting to be alone on purpose. Now I'm not alone on accident. Whoops.

"Well, don't get too excited. Something on your mind?" She cocks her head to the side, hands folded neatly in her lap. I avoid her eyes, and instinctively push a half-laugh out of my nostrils, not even really smiling.

"Oh, no, I- I'm fine. Just." I trail off, biting my cheek. "I dunno. I sorta wasn't expecting to talk to anyone. Verbally. I guess. Or at all."

I sink my head into my shoulders, looking like I'm trying to retreat into my shell. The last thing I want to do is to offend her, naturally. Annabelle chases after me, leaning forward with interest and placing a delicate hand out of the tablecloth as a gesture of sincerity.

"Worry not, darling. I was just passing through and saw you hard at work, as usual. Thought I'd say hello is all, I don't mean to take up your time!"

That- though- makes a smile play at the edges of my lips. She came to see me. Annabelle is never 'just passing through' anywhere. She, like her master, does everything with full purpose and full intent, and she came to see me. I shift in my seat, letting my eyes trace from her sharp black manicured fingertips, up her arm, finally stopping at her deep earthy eyes. They feel warm looking at me- mysterious as she is. They're quite a sight. Not quite hazel, or golden, or burgundy or maroon or even black. Just deep, and dark, and full. They tell me she knows.

I blink a few times to ground myself. Her warm gaze seems to have warmed my cheeks and the tips of my ears. Her smile is infectious. I look away again.

"I... well, I. Don't mind your company, I guess. I just- just as long as you know that I'm not exactly a star conversationalist at the moment."

Annabelle gives a knowing nod, smile never faltering. "Understood. I'll let you get back to work, then."

And so I did. She got comfortable quickly- moments after I resumed my frenzied typing, she flagged down a server and ordered a chocolate cappuccino. Fitting, I thought. Most people matched their coffee orders well, and Annabelle seemed no different, no matter how alien she was to me at times. I watched her over the top of my laptop as she absentmindedly played with a small jumping spider on the tablecloth as she waited, head perched daintily on her hand, elbow rested on the table. She silently traced shapes on the cloth which the little arachnid followed, leaving behind a stringy trail of web. After her drink arrived, she amused herself with a phone, which I was almost alarmed to find out she had. I suppose it sort of made sense- humanoid avatars have to be functioning members of society too, I guess, at least to some extent.

By the time my own drink was finished and my pastry long since eaten, I gently shut my laptop, tucking it and the folder of statements away in my bag. Annabelle looked up expectantly, and I stretched.

"Feeling better?" She asked, phone now in her lap.

"Mhm. Got a good chunk done, but I need a bit to recoup. If I have to type something about mysterious phone calls or disappearing items one more fucking time I'm going to cry."

Annabelle laughed right on cue. At this point I think I'd feel awkward if she DIDNT laugh at something I said.

"Well, I'm glad. Keeping you caffinated and keeping you sane seem to bleed more and more into each other with each passing day."

"God, you don't even know the HALF of it." I roll my eyes. "Breakfast for me is a monster and MAYBE some chips if I have time- great way to start the day, right? Then I have like two more whenever I can, then a latte or two, THEN I have another energy drink when I get home. I literally have a problem."

Another sweet giggle. "I have no idea what you see in those energy drinks. Frankly, they scare me."

"Oh, they're not so bad. Loud, is how I'd describe it. More efficient than coffee, especially if you do a bang. Those things don't fuck around."

Annabelle cringes. "Sounds awful."

"Hey, to each their own. I'm here for a good time, not a long time."

She laughs. "Sure. Finished working, then?"

I nod. "For now. My brain is too fried to try and decipher any more statements. Did you SEE that handwriting!?"

She rests her chin on primary folded hands. "Can't be any worse than yours." Annabelle teases. My jaw drops in mock-offense.

"Uncalled for!"

"But not wrong." She gives a coy shrug, leaning back in her chair.

I purse my lips. "Touche, but you don't have to call me out on it!" I huff. "You're a real bitch sometimes."

"Yet you keep me around. Not only that, but you enjoy my company. How odd." She smiles. I bite my cheek.

"Can't imagine why." I go on the defense, affectionate mood shifting ever so slightly to something more suspicious. She was messing with me in an unfamiliar way, calling me on my thoughts no matter how insignificant. I can't help but imagine she's trying me from a new angle. Or not- maybe I'm just being paranoid.

"Mm, and unfortunately, I can't be the one to say." Annabelle stands and straightens out her dress. She winks at me. "What i can say is that though I've enjoyed our date, I do have to get going. A spider's work is never done, as they say."

"I don't think anyone says that?" I watch her walk past me. She pauses, and daintily swipes my hat, securing it on her own head. I let her.

"No matter." She turns, and offers a wave over her shoulder, trotting down the deck stairs and sauntering around the corner out of sight. "Until next time~!" I hear her say before disappearing into the foot traffic.

"I better get that back..." I mutter to myself, putting money on the bill tray that had appeared on the table when I wasn't paying attention. I shake my head, and in my annoyance, I can't help but smile just a little.

Suddenly, though, my head shoots up.

"Holy shit, that was a /date/!?" I exclaim, scaring the waitress.

#god she is. literally my every waking thought right now #i have so many drabble ideas♡♡♡♡#all part of the master plan 🕷💐🕸#trapped in my head🗯#selfship #fictional other #f/o #selfshipping #tma selfship

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their-destinys-writer · 4 years

Text

Caged - Chapter 16

Rated: Teen

Chapters: 16/?

Word count: 6,919

Ao3 / FFnet / Wattpad / Patreon

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Caged Chapter 16 - Bad Reputation

“Just when you think you know everything, Annabelle Billard manages to surprise us once again,” Margot said, flipping her hair away from her face.

“Honestly, Margot, I am still shook with what she has for this crowd,” Dorian responded. “Should we have her show the latest on the exploits of Chat Noir and the girl who saved him?”

The crowd cheered loudly. Taking it as an affirmative response, Margot welcomed the red-headed journalist to the stage. Annabelle carefully sat on one of the purple couches, making a point to adjust her glasses.

“I must admit, I did not expect to be talking about this again so soon,” she said, with an almost airy tone. “I thought they would at least last a week before their next screw up.”

“Oh, they really are in a pickle now, aren’t they, Annabelle?” Margot said.

“Indeed.”

“Why don’t you show us what you have?”

“Certainly,” Annabelle said, her lip twitching. “Before I do, I must express my deep gratitude to our photojournalist Adam Garçon, who was able to get these astonishing images. You may put up the pictures now.”

The image of the large screen behind them changed from the logo to side by side pictures of Marinette Dupain-Cheng, one of them kissing Adrien Agreste and the other kissing Chat Noir. There was a collective gasp and several ‘oooh’s.

“Oh my,” Margot feigned shock.

“Always knew that girl was bad news,” Dorian tutted.

“As did I,” Annabelle agreed. “As you remember, last Saturday Dupain-Cheng and Chat Noir were here to deny their relationship. However, I couldn’t help but notice the way Dupain-Cheng looked at Chat Noir when he claimed that he would never be with her. You would have thought someone slapped her across the face.

“So, Adam and I decided to do some digging yesterday. We… studied their behavior and realized they were lying to our faces. You, of course, know I really don’t like it when people lie to me. And after studying further, Adam was able to capture proof that Dupain-Cheng is, in fact, cheating on both Adrien Agreste and Chat Noir.

“Wait,” Margot raised a hand, “are you saying these two pictures were taken on the same day?”

“Yes,” Annabelle nodded. “Merely two hours apart. Adam sacrificed so much to get these images. For the second one, Chat Noir caught on to our coworker and dared to destroy a camera worth over a thousand euros. Clearly, he’s possibly aware of Dupain-Cheng’s infidelities.”

“Poor Adam,” Margot lamented.

“Adam is one damn good camera man,” Dorian praised.

“And so, it begs the question.” Annabelle adjusted her red trimmed glasses, a sadistic smile barely curling her lips. “What else are Chat Noir and Dupain-Cheng hiding from the public? How do we even know if we can trust one of our own superheroes, when he approves of such an unethical practice? How will Ladybug respond for her partner’s actions? And, how will Adrien Agreste and his mogul father respond to Dupain-Cheng’s transgressions?”

“All very important questions, Annabelle,” Dorian said. “One thing is for sure, though: Marinette sure has it in for the famous and the rich.”

“Clearly someone wants a little attention for herself,” Margot huffed.

“Perhaps,” Annabelle said quietly.

“We sure hope to see a continuation of this story,” Dorian said, clasping his hands together. “Thank you for being with us today, Annabelle.”

The video stopped. There was silence in the locker room. Even though Marinette’s mouth was fully open, she couldn’t breathe. The phone slid through her fingers and clattered on the floor. She could feel her eyes water.

This was… humiliating.

Her knees gave out and she landed on them. There were about three pairs of hands immediately on her, and several people calling her name. Some said that it was going to be okay. Others kept asking how it had happened. But the voice of the person whose hand was on her cheek seemed less worried about any of that.

“Don’t let him win,” he said, low enough for no one else to hear him, but loud enough for her to do so. “You’re strong, Marinette. The last thing you need right now is to get akumatized. Don’t let him in.”

Marinette raised her gaze, her eyes meeting Adrien’s determined ones. A look she had mostly seen in his alter ego. The second he noticed she heard him, he smiled at her and said: “I am so sorry.”

“You’re sorry?!” Chloé screeched, silencing most of their classmates. “She kisses another guy the same day as you and you’re apologizing?!”

“Why do I have to repeat myself!” Adrien snapped. “I kissed her without her consent. Nobody gets to judge her when I was the one who messed up! And it’s not her fault her privacy got invaded.”

“You mean it’s not her fault she got caught red-handed!”

“Oh, shut up,” Félix cut in. Everyone turned to him. “In case you haven’t noticed, Marinette didn’t want this so-called fame. If you wanted people to pay more attention to you, maybe you should help resolve this instead of complaining that she has more attention than you.”

Chloé crossed her arms and huffed, pointing her nose away.

“I’m just amazed that Marinette managed to woo the two most desired boys in all of Paris,” Lila commented.

“Not helping!” Alya shouted. “Marinette, I need to know that you’re at least conscious.”

There was a pause. The whole room quieted down, waiting for Marinette to say something. Most with genuine concern for her well-being. Many dying to know her side of the story. Some, wondering how she had been capable of doing something so out of character, as far as they knew.

Marinette swallowed. She could barely look at anyone, especially when she didn’t have answers she could voice to her friends. Because the truth was not meant for them. Or anyone, for that matter. Because it was a secret between her and Adrien.

“When was this?” she resolved to ask instead.

There was a collective sigh of relief.

“About twenty minutes ago,” Alya responded. “Right about the time Adrien got to school.”

“Your father?”

Adrien cringed. “I have about seven missed calls and thirteen messages from Nathalie.”

“Even I got a few calls,” Nino added. “You know it’s bad when they call the ‘bad influence’.” He made air quotes as he said the last two words.

Marinette covered her mouth with both her hands, trying to steady her breaths.

“I’m not exaggerating anymore,” she whispered. “This is a disaster. I made this disaster.”

“No, it’s my fault.”

“Hey, no, don’t say that.”

Adrien and Alya spoke at the same time. They exchanged looks and then turned to the rest of the room, looking for support. Unfortunately, it seemed that that would be harder to get this time around.

“I mean,” Kim started, unsure, “she did kiss two boys…”

“Guys! I told you—”

“It’s Adrien’s fault,” Nathaniel interrupted said boy.

“I second that.” Alix raised her hand. “Let Adrien take the fall.”

“But didn’t we just get proof that Marinette lied about being involved with Chat Noir?” Sabrina pointed out.

“That is conjecture at this moment,” Max stepped in. “We don’t have all the facts to make a fair, unbiased opinion on the matter. We would need to know all sides of this incident.”

“If there’s one thing I know,” Chloé spoke again, staring at her nails, “it’s that we’ve been here for ten minutes already, and not once has Dupain-Cheng even tried to defend herself. That’s pretty damning evidence to me.”

The classmates looked at each other, as if reading each other’s minds. Even Marinette could tell what they were thinking: Chloé had a point. And worse, she was right, and Marinette knew it. But how was she supposed to defend herself from this without outing Adrien’s secret identity?

“Marinette,” Juleka said, “what did happen?”

“I-I…” the girl in question stammered. She could feel tears threatening to escape her eyelids. Marinette had endured many embarrassing moments in her life. Some even traumatizing. But this… she couldn’t even chalk it up to her clumsiness. No matter what she said, there was no saving her from this one.

“You don’t have to protect me,” Adrien said, as if knowing what she was thinking. “I can handle the backlash.”

“We want to hear it from her!” Rose cut in. Marinette swallowed again.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, Rose,” she blurted out. “It’s my fault you had one of your worst days of your life. I gave you the worst advice possible. I was selfish, and—”

“We’re not talking about that,” the blonde said. Marinette’s brows furrowed. “Tell us how Adrien and Chat Noir kissed you without your consent.”

Marinette looked closely at Rose. Her eyes were almost encouraging. Was this her way of saying that she forgave her?

“You don’t have to answer that,” Alya intervened. “In fact, you don’t have to answer anything from anyone. Your privacy got invaded, and that is unacceptable. This isn’t your fault.”

“No…”

“You didn’t ask to be followed everywhere by paparazzi.”

“I didn’t…”

“And it’s not your fault that Chat Noir told your biggest secrets in an interview.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Exactly. It’s not your fault that you became famous.”

“No, it’s yours.” Marinette finalized.

Alya opened her mouth as if to agree, but instantly frowned.

“Wait, what?”

“This is your fault,” Marinette repeated, at last finding the strength to get on her feet. “If you hadn’t posted my rescues of Chat Noir and written that article on the Ladyblog, none of this would have happened.”

There was a murmur in the room.

“Marinette—” Nino tried.

“NO!” she yelled. “I did not ask to have pictures taken in my own home. I did not ask to be recorded after an interview was over. I did not ask to be put on the spot for rescuing a superhero. I did not ask to be recorded saving Chat Noir. I did not want to be interviewed by the Ladyblog. And I certainly did not ask to be a freaking celebrity.

“You did this!” Marinette pointed at Alya.

“You’re blaming me?!” said girl gasped.

“Tsk, typical,” Chloé huffed. “Why don’t you take responsibility, instead of blaming—”

“I didn’t push you to save Chat Noir!” Alya continued, ignoring the mayor’s daughter.

“And I didn’t ask you to record it!” Marinette retorted.

“Well excuse me for running back to look for my friend, who disappeared in the middle of a freaking akuma attack. Like you always do!”

“I don’t see the reason to keep recording to look for a friend.”

“It’s called multitasking. How was I supposed to know you would end up rescuing a superhero for the second time?”

The door suddenly burst open, interrupting the unexpected row between the two friends. In came Ms. Bustier and Principal Damocles. The man gave them a stern look, while the teacher gave them one of disappointment.

“Why aren’t any of you in Ms. Bustier’s class?” he confronted.

The students exchanged gazes. It seemed that in their heated debate, they missed the ring of the bell. By then, they were already twelve minutes late to class.

“Unless all of you want to be doing chores in the school for a week, I suggest you all follow your teacher to her classroom.”

Several students looked at the ground as they walked out, while others gave Marinette worried looks. Before they had all left, Principal Damocles spoke again.

“Félix! Take this note to Mrs. Mendeleiev. You will come to my office after lunch time.” Félix bowed his head in understanding, as he took the note. “And you two!” He pointed at Marinette and Adrien, who instantly halted. “Your parents are in my office. Come along with me.”

The teens gulped simultaneously, exchanging worried glances. Resigned to their fate, they quietly made their way towards the principal’s office. Softly, a hand wrapped around Marinette’s, squeezing it in an attempt to comfort her. Her heartbeat quickened, thinking of what might happen now. Of how much trouble they were in. Of how Mr. Agreste was capable of destroying every one of her dreams.

Principal Damocles opened the door to his office and inside Sabine and Mr. Agreste stood from their chairs. Both had hands placed on their shoulders, by Tom and Nathalie, respectively. Marinette gulped again: This was the first time she had ever seen Gabriel Agreste in their school.

“Because there are reporters surrounding the school as we speak,” Principal Damocles started, “I have created what I hope is a safe space for all of you to resolve this situation and decide on what your next steps will be. Marinette, Adrien, please take a seat.”

The two teenagers obliged, taking the chairs in the middle, while Sabine and Gabriel sat back down next to their children. Meanwhile, the principal sat behind his desk, chin resting on the tip of his fingers.

“I encourage all of you to say your piece,” Principal Damocles insisted.

“I told you not to see her again,” Gabriel started, without hesitation. “Look at the mess she has placed you in.”

“Who’s to say your son is not to blame here?!” Tom immediately defended his daughter.

“It wasn’t my son caught making out with two different people in one day.”

“Father—”

“It wasn’t my daughter who kissed someone without their consent,” Sabine intervened.

“Maman—”

“How dare you insinuate my son would do such a thing?”

“Well, actually—”

“Did you not look at that picture?” Sabine interrupted Adrien again. “Marinette clearly looked taken by surprise.”

“I mean, maybe—”

“My son is far more educated than that,” Gabriel spat.

“Parents, please—”

“Do we get a say in this?!” Marinette said loudly, standing from her chair, letting go of Adrien’s hand. The outburst made the adults shut up. “None of you were there, yet you’re assuming you know everything.”

“All right then,” Gabriel said coldly, piercing his eyes through her. “What did happen, Ms. Marinette?”

She opened her mouth to respond but was immediately taken over by fear. Fear that he would think she’s simply badmouthing his son. Fear that he may dislike her even more if she told him what happened. Fear that he wouldn’t let her be with Adrien.

“This is my fault,” said boy intervened, even though he looked nauseous. “I-I made this mess.”

“Adrien, there’s no need to protect a girl who’s clearly a bad influence,” Gabriel spoke.

“How dare you—” Tom had to make sure Sabine didn’t stand from her chair.

“I’m not protecting her!” Adrien said with new determination, despite the color of his face rapidly turning a light shade of green. “I’m trying to tell you what happened.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Marinette found herself insisting. “You could be taken out of school.”

The blond’s eyes focused on hers, as he gave her a reassuring smile.

“You know that I can’t sit by when I see an injustice happening,” he said to her. “Let me be brave. As brave as you.”

Marinette could feel her heart drum faster. She couldn’t help but be reminded of all the times Chat Noir had sacrificed himself for Ladybug. And now, he was doing the same for her civilian identity. Was this his way of showing love?

“Okay,” she whispered, sitting back down.

Adrien took a deep breath. “I…disobeyed you, Father.” His voice came out shakier than expected. “You told me that I couldn’t be seen with her, but I kept looking for her because I…I developed feelings for her. And so, I asked her to meet me yesterday for lunch, because I was planning to confess, but before I did, I…kissed her.

“She didn’t ask me to do it, she didn’t know what I was gonna talk about with her, nor did she express any romantic interest in me. I-I just…” Adrien shrunk down in his seat. “I just went for it.”

“Is that true?” Tom immediately asked his daughter.

“Yes,” Marinette sighed. “I had no idea he had feelings for me, and much less that he was gonna confess yesterday. I was so surprised, I froze. Then the akuma came and trapped us. That’s when he finished confessing.”

“You kissed a girl without her consent?” Gabriel said quietly. Marinette didn’t think Adrien could make himself look any smaller, yet, somehow, he managed to do it.

“I got caught up in the moment,” he muttered.

“Caught up in the moment,” Gabriel parroted. “I thought I taught you better than this. Nevertheless, that is better than being cheated on. I’m assuming Chat Noir is your real boyfriend, Ms. Marinette?”

Marinette squeaked, as her face started burning. Several ‘uh’s and ‘um’s escaped her. She sought Adrien’s face for some form of answer, but instead, the boy had covered his mouth and was looking at her wide eyed. As if wanting to hear the answer, too. She internally groaned.

“I-I don’t have an answer to that.” The adults in the room watched her questioningly. She flailed her arms. “I mean, because I-I don’t know! I mean, we didn’t really confirm anything? We don’t know what we are right now.” She paused. “But we did decide that it was best we don’t hang out anymore, after he confronted the paparazzi.”

“I see.” Gabriel turned away from her, stroking his chin. “He must really care about you, if he’s willing to make such a sacrifice.”

“He does,” Marinette responded absentmindedly. But was quickly reminded of who she was talking to. “But that doesn’t matter, because a relationship with a superhero isn’t viable, and… other stuff. Mr. Agreste, I am so sorry Adrien has been mixed up in all this. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Adrien intervened. “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have kissed you without your permission. I should’ve been more mindful of paparazzies. I should’ve—”

“You should’ve nothing,” Sabine interrupted. The group turned to her. “You’re kids! You shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. Marinette didn’t even want to be a public figure. All of this is—” Her eyes widened as an idea occurred to her. “I want to sue!”

Gabriel blinked, while Tom gave his wife a concerned look.

“Dear—”

“No, I have had it,” she continued. “These people, these grown, adult people have dragged my daughter’s name through the mud for the sake of ratings and their own benefit. They invaded not just her privacy, but that of my home when they took pictures where we’re supposed to be safe. We have rights. This is in complete violation of the law and I want to see them suffer the consequences for messing with my family. And you, Gabriel Agreste, are going to help me.”

Gabriel squared his shoulders when Sabine pointed at him. Yet his eyes immediately relaxed.

“And why should I do that?”

“Because it is also your responsibility.”

“I don’t see how that’s—”

“Father,” Adrien warned. “This last one would’ve never happened if it hadn’t been for me. We—I owe it to Marinette.”

The man stared at his son, as if mulling over his words. He lifted his chin, adjusting his tie.

“Nathalie, set up a meeting with my lawyer today, and give Mr. and Mrs. Dupain-Cheng my office phone number.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathalie nodded, immediately giving Marinette’s parents business cards.

“Give Nathalie a way to contact you, and we will let you know what my lawyer says.”

“What’s your phone number?” Nathalie asked Marinette’s parents. Without hesitation, they both gave their cellphone numbers and bakery landline, in case they didn’t have their phones with them.

“Good, good, I’m glad you’ve come to an agreement,” Principal Damocles said. “Now, would you like to take your children home? I’ve noticed the paparazzi leave when they’re in class, but come back around lunch and after the day is over. If Marinette and Adrien leave now, there’s a higher chance they’ll get by unnoticed.”

“That’s an excellent idea.” Gabriel rose to his feet. “Come, Adrien. We’re leaving.”

“Wait, Father—”

“The longer we wait, the more likely those obnoxious reporters will be out there. Now move along.”

Without even checking that his son was following, Gabriel walked out the door. Nathalie followed, but stopped outside, waiting for Adrien. The boy sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, looking back at Marinette.

“Stop.” She took one of his hands. “We’ll get through this. We can get through anything.”

“How are you so positive about that?”

“I—”

“Adrien,” Nathalie called. Marinette pressed her lips together.

“I’ll tell you later,” she resolved to say. “I’ll send you my new number, so we can talk.”

“Okay,” Adrien grinned.

With a last forlorn look, he let go. Shortly after, Marinette and her parents followed. From what the girl could sense, she was about to have an unpleasant day with her parents.

--------------------

“I can’t believe her!” Alya ranted, as she and Nino sat down in a café during lunch. “I really thought Marinette was the kind of person to take responsibility for her own actions. And yet, here we are, with her blaming me! Ugh, she’s such a… Bah!”

There was a pause.

“Is that how you really feel?” Nino asked with a deadpan stare.

“NO!” Alya exclaimed, right as she slammed her face against the table. When she spoke again, her voice came out muffled. “This is so stupid. And it’s all my stupid fault.”

“Alya—”

“She’s right,” the redhead lamented, raising her face, chin resting on the table. “I was so caught up in having an exclusive, I didn’t think about how Marinette felt about the whole thing. I can’t believe I actually thought I was doing her a favor.”

“You couldn’t have known Marinette was gonna save Chat Noir a second time,” Nino tried to reason.

“No, but I could’ve deleted the video. Especially when reporters started harassing her.”

“They would’ve harassed her anyway,” Nino pointed out. “There was already a copy of your video up on several websites about twenty minutes after you finished recording. And only five minutes after you finished recording, there was already a cut-up version online of the video, from when Marinette rescued him. You know how fast fans can be. And your blog has many.”

“That makes me even angrier!” Alya screeched, rising from her chair, hands tensed in the shape of claws. “The amount of people stealing my videos is insane! I can take gifs or stills, but whole videos?! Grr! People have no respect for my work!”

“Honey,” Nino muttered, giving her a sympathetic look. With a sigh, Alya sat back down.

“I feel awful,” she admitted. “I want to fix it, but I haven’t got the slightest clue on how.”

“Hey.” He placed a hand over hers. “You’ll figure it out. You’re the smartest girl I know, and I know you’ll find something that can help Marinette in this mess.”

“You’re sweet,” Alya complimented, giving him a fond smile. “But, no matter how smart I am, I honestly don’t see how I can—”

There was a clatter in a nearby table.

“Watch where you’re walking, old man!” a woman yelled at a short man on his knees and hands, next to their table.

“I am terribly sorry—”

“You should be sorry!” the woman interrupted the man. “You’ve spilled my tea all over the table!”

Alya stood up on instinct.

“Hey, he said he’s sorry,” she intervened, crouching to help the victim. “I’m sure one of the waiters can replace your tea.”

“Ugh. Why are you people always so gross,” the woman sneered, flipping away her greying blonde hair.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Alya said in a low voice, narrowing her eyes at the woman. Meanwhile, behind Alya there was a sound of a moving chair.

“This isn’t even worth it. Come along, Jean.”

Without another look at Alya and the short man, the woman stood from her chair and left, her date immediately following. Alya took a deep breath to calm her rage, before turning back to the old man.

“I’m so sorry you had to deal with that. Are you okay?” she asked.

“I could ask the same thing, young lady. That woman was quite rude to you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Yes. Thank you for your kindness.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“Hmm.” The old man stroked his goatee. “That is a generous offer, but I must get going. Have a good afternoon, young lady.”

Without another word, he turned and left the café. Alya sighed turning back to her table, to find Nino standing, as if ready to jump on someone.

“It’s over,” she said, when she returned to her chair.

“Are you okay?” Nino asked, finally sitting back down.

“Barely,” Alya muttered. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Me neither.”

They sat silently for a minute.

“I’m going home,” she sighed. “I’m gonna try to figure something out about the mess I made.”

“Okay. I’ll see if I can get a hold of Adrien then. See if he’s okay.”

“Sounds good…”

“I’ll see you later.”

With a quick peck on the lips, Alya bid goodbye to her boyfriend before making her way home. She used the time it took from the café to her apartment to think of possible solutions. Yet nothing sounded likely to work. It was either pointless, or impossible.

As she finally reached her room, Alya threw herself on the desk chair, bookbag in her lap. She groaned. There just had to be a way to fix this mess. Something, anything. She opened her bag to take out her tablet, except…

“Huh?” Alya said, as she took out something that wasn’t hers.

--------------------

“Marinette, please talk to us,” Tom begged for the seventh time since the family had gotten home.

Yet the girl remained quiet on the living room couch. Now that she was away from people’s prying eyes, she was starting to realize how embarrassed she was. Mortified. Not to mention, her reputation was forever ruined. She had always known dating a superhero would mean endangering her family. It never occurred to her the impact it would have on her own personal life.

Sabine sat next to her. Lightly, she placed a hand over her daughter’s.

“It’s okay to not be okay,” she said quietly. “You have every right to not be okay.”

Marinette pressed her lips together. There was so much she wanted to say but couldn’t. Yet, at the same time, she needed to vent.

“I hate this,” she admitted. “I feel like I can’t do anything without being watched or judged. And worse, I feel like I keep endangering my loved ones. Only for doing what I thought was right. I am so tired of having to look over my shoulder whenever I wanna do… anything.”

“Hopefully, soon you won’t have to,” Sabine comforted. “I will do everything in my power to make all this better. Even if I have to make a deal with the devil.”

Marinette snorted. “Mr. Agreste isn’t so bad. He’s just scary.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Tom muttered. “Anyone who calls a kid a bad influence is twisted in my book.”

“Papa…”

“Marinette?” Sabine caught the girl’s attention. “Is there something else you need to talk about?”

There it is, Marinette thought. Her gaze turned down to her knees, wondering if her parents were partly judging her, even if they wouldn’t say it out loud. Maybe not about kissing two boys. But definitely about feeling like they had been lied to.

“I didn’t realize I had feelings for Chat Noir until last Saturday,” she said, hoping to answer some of their questions. “When he said that thing about never being with me on TV, it hurt me. And then… He visited that night and told me he didn’t mean it. One thing led to another, and…”

Marinette looked up to see both her parents exchanging wide-eyed looks.

“What did you do?” Sabine asked, looking almost scared.

“Well,” Marinette frowned, “we kissed.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

“Praise be.”

Both parents responded in unison, Tom going as far as placing a hand on Sabine in relief. When they noticed Marinette’s confused stare they cleared up.

“We thought you were gonna say something else,” Tom admitted.

“Something else?”

“Yes,” Sabine said. “That you did something more.”

“Oh? OH!” Marinette yelped the second she realized what they meant. “Papa, Maman, no! We just kissed, nothing more! Oh my gosh!”

She proceeded to cover her face with a different kind of embarrassment from the one she had been experiencing during the day.

“Sorry, just needed to make sure,” Sabine chuckled. “But you do know that with all this happening, he can’t visit anymore, right?”

“And if he does, he has to use the front door,” Tom added.

“I know, I know,” Marinette assured them. “Trust me, after yesterday, I don’t think he’ll dare come near here anyway. We agreed it’s not safe anymore.”

“Okay, good,” Tom nodded.

“If you guys don’t mind, I need some time for myself.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Sabine said. “Just do me one favor—”

“I won’t go out into the balcony,” Marinette assured them.

With several more reassuring remarks, she climbed up the stairs to her room. She opened the trapdoor that led to her room, hoping to finally get some guidance from her wisest friend. Only to shriek and quickly close the door.

“Marinette, everything okay?” Sabine called from the living room.

“Yeap!” Marinette squeaked. “Everything’s great! Fine! Just, pinched my finger on the door. Yeap, that’s what happened!”

She let out a nervous laugh, until receiving an ‘okay’ in response. When she was sure her parents wouldn’t be coming, she peeked inside her room, to confirm that she did not, in fact, imagine Chat Noir nervously sitting on her chaise. He then proceeded to bashfully wave.

Marinette climbed to her room as fast as she could and locked the door underneath her.

“What are you doing here?!” she whispered-yelled. “I told you I’d call you later. Won’t your father notice you’re gone?”

“He’s too busy talking to lawyers,” he reasoned. “Also, I may have been freaking out home alone.”

Marinette’s eyes softened. Chat Noir scooted on the chaise and patted the space next to him. The girl did as suggested and sat next to him.

“I don’t understand,” he said quietly. “I destroyed the camera. That picture should not exist.”

“He probably removed the memory card when you were chasing him,” Marinette reasoned. “We couldn’t have known we were being taken pictures of. Twice.”

“This is all my fault,” Chat Noir covered his face.

“Hey, no, don’t. If Alya had never recorded me, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Marinette, she didn’t know.”

“She knew I was uncomfortable being interviewed,” she growled. “And yet, she still wrote about me after Entangler.”

“May I remind you that you made the conscious choice to go to Nadja’s interview?”

Marinette bit her lip, right before covering her face. “Ugh, what have I done?”

“I’m sure you and Alya will make up,” he reassured her. “I know reporting is important to her, but she would never purposefully try to ruin your life.”

“I know. And I know I can’t blame her for everything, I’ve also made bad decisions—”

“And me,” he added.

“I’m just so tired of all this.”

“Me too.”

They sat in sad silence for several seconds.

“In case you were wondering, no one saw me,” Chat Noir suddenly said. “I was very careful about how I got here. But I did notice that there’s a bunch of reporters and paparazzies standing outside our school. I don’t think they know we’re not there.”

“So, no chance any of them are looking through my window right now?”

“Not that I could see.”

Marinette sighed.

“This is so unfair. I shouldn’t be feeling like this in my own room.”

“Hmm.”

Chat Noir stood up and offered a hand towards Marinette. She looked at it questioningly.

“They have no idea we’re not in school. No one is looking this way. And I know a great rooftop Ladybug and I use where no one can see us.”

“What if someone sees you carrying me?”

The boy placed the hand on his chin, looking around the room. He ran towards her dresser to pull out a pink beanie and a scarf. From her desk, he took a prototype of Jagged Stone’s Eiffel Tower glasses. All items were offered to her.

“So no one knows it’s you,” he said with a grin.

Marinette couldn’t help but chuckle at how quickly he found a solution.

“I guess it would be nice to get away from it all. But I can’t be gone for long.”

“Deal,” Chat Noir chirped.

--------------------

Soon enough, they were sitting on Ladybug and Chat Noir’s usual spot for meetings. A tall rooftop that oversaw most of Paris. And high enough for no other buildings to see what was on top.

“I like to come here a lot, even when Ladybug’s not around,” Chat Noir said, overlooking the city. “It’s a nice spot to relax and not be bothered.”

“It really is.” Marinette smiled, freeing herself from the disguise the boy had given her.

“So,” he turned to look at her, “since we’re alone, now you can tell me the thing you needed to tell me?”

Marinette almost choked on her own saliva.

“Oh!” she squeaked. “The thing! Right.”

“Sooo,” Chat Noir said in a sing-song tone, leaning towards her. “What is this secret of yours that’s keeping us apart?”

“A very important secret, that only you can know,” she said slightly more relaxed. She then turned to him. “Before I do, I want you to know that it’s okay if you freak out or have a mental breakdown. I mean, I did.”

“Are you a secret murderer or something?”

“Ha! I promise it’s not bad. In fact, you might laugh, instead. I mean, I think it’s hilarious.”

“I know there’s a chance you genuinely think that, but I’m starting to get nervous—”

CRASH

Marinette and Chat Noir stood up on instinct at the sound of exploding windows, followed by screams.

“You’re kidding me,” Marinette breathed.

“Another one?” Chat Noir said, standing on his feet and taking his baton. “Talk about a busy week.”

“Wait!” she called, rising to her feet. “Let me finish first.”

“You know you can just say it, right?”

“I know I can say it, I’m worried about how you’re gonna react.”

“You said it’s not something bad!”

“It’s not, but—”

“THERE YOU ARE!” A voice bellowed behind Chat Noir. The two teens turned to see a large man, looking like an inflated birthday party clown, floating from a balloon. As he got high enough, the balloons popped, and he landed with a loud thud on the rooftop. “Hawkmoth was right. You two lovebirds are so predictable.”

“Wait, I thought this place was secret!” Marinette said out loud. Chat Noir looked back at her, with fear.

“MARINETTE, RUN!” he yelled.

Marinette didn’t need to be told twice. Her feet had started to take steps back before she turned to run in the other direction of the akuma, towards the fire escape. She even did her best to not look back when she heard the sound of Chat Noir grunting. Like he had just gotten hit.

He can take it, she thought, forcing herself to continue. He can take anything. He’s Chat Noir, he can take it.

It wasn’t enough. She stopped to look back. Her head had barely turned when she had to duck from an incoming giant pie. Marinette glanced at the where the dessert landed, melting the rooftop concrete, before she had to dodge again from another.

“Hold still!” the akuma yelled, with two more pies on his hands. The second one of those was flying, an arm crashed into her. Next thing she knew, she was being swept away from that rooftop, carried by her partner.

“I need to get you somewhere safe!”

“I just need somewhere to hide!” Marinette insisted. “We don’t have to go too far.”

“I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

“Chat Noir, I’m serious! Just go to any nearby alley. You’ll see why!”

“I’m not letting you stay in an—”

Both teens yelped as one of the pies hit a chimney Chat Noir was about to land on. They were sent rolling down a slopped rooftop, and would’ve fallen on the street below, if the superhero hadn’t encrusted his baton into a wall.

“That was close,” Chat Noir panted. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Marinette assured him from his other arm. “How are we gonna get out of this one?”

“Uuuh…” The boy was staring away into the distance. Marinette was about to look, when she heard a ‘boo,’ and something hit the side of her head.

“Ow! Was that a Styrofoam cup?” she said, looking at the crowd that was forming beneath them, the one Chat Noir had been staring at.

“I don’t think this public is very fond of you.”

“And neither am I!” the akuma shouted.

Another pie hit the building right above where Chat Noir’s baton was holding for dear life. The crowd on the sidewalk screamed and ran away, as the wall melted enough to loosen the superhero’s weapon. The couple landed hard on the concrete, with Chat Noir taking most of the hit, while he protected Marinette’s head.

“Right where I want you!” the villain yelled. “Now tell me where Ladybug is, or your girlfriend here will be at front row seat of my next trick.”

“Nobody hurts Marinette on my watch!” Chat Noir yelled, stepping in front of her, making a battle pose.

“Could you please stop saying things like that in public!” Marinette scolded, still seeing some civilians hiding behind cars.

“Come on, I know you secretly like it when I act as your knight in catsuit armor.”

Chat Noir grinned at her, wiggling his eyebrows. Marinette could feel her whole face burning when she smacked a hand to her face.

“Oh gosh, you’re such a dork,” she said under her breath.

“Enough flirting!” the villain shouted, right as a yellow light shot towards Marinette from a wand he pointed at her.

Chat Noir was too late. The light hit her. Though, she seemed… fine.

“Marinette, are you okay?!”

“I…I feel fine…”

As if on cue, a small red balloon they hadn’t noticed hanging off her started rapidly filling up. When it was floating above her, it started pulling her up from her abdomen, where a thick string was newly wrapped around.

“Chat Noir!” she called as her feet left the ground. The boy immediately jumped just in time to grab her hand.

“Gotcha!” Chat Noir said triumphantly. However, his victory was short-lived, for he was immediately lifted off his feet. As if he weighed less than a feather.

“Let go!”

“I can’t!” He started to look around him.

“We can’t both be in trouble!”

The balloon sped up, rising by three stories in three seconds.

“No!” Chat Noir’s baton extended towards a drain pipe from a nearby rooftop, but it was too late. “Crap! I can’t drop now!”

Marinette watched her surroundings, hoping to find something Chat Noir could use. Instead, all she could see were perfect places to wrap her yoyo around. Something she didn’t have in the moment.

But she desperately needed.

“Chat Noir, I need to tell you the thing right now!” she yelled over the wind far above the city.

“We can talk about whatever it is when we’re back on the ground. Right now, I need to think!”

“But it’s really important!” she desperately said, seeing how people were starting to look like ants. “I promise we’ll get out of this as soon as I say it!”

“Marinette, I really need to think. Could you please let me think!”

The girl took a deep breath.

“Chat, I really, really, really need to tell you the thing,” she insisted.

“What could possibly be so important that it can’t wait ‘til after we’re out of this?” he retorted, irritated.

“Too important!” she yelled. Chat’s brows furrowed, debating whether to keep arguing or not. But before he could decide, Marinette was speaking again. “Chat, I’m—”

POP

The two teens were suddenly screaming, falling. Chat Noir pressed Marinette to his chest, making sure his back was facing down.

“What are you doing?!” Marinette yelled, a sliver of panic bubbling up inside her.

“I can take the hit,” Chat Noir said.

“Not from this height you can’t!”

He smiled. “You’re worth every sacrifice.”

Marinette could have sworn the world had gotten silent. She could tell he knew full well what would happen to him if they weren’t suddenly rescued. He hoped for one of two things: that Ladybug would save them, or that he would take the full force of the fall and she would at least survive.

You stupid self-sacrificing cat.

“No,” she affirmed. With the agility of Ladybug, Marinette pushed herself away from him enough to position them face down to slow their fall. She then pulled him as close to her as possible.

“Marinette, what are you doing?!”

“I’ve been trying to do this right, but there’s no right way to do this,” she yelled against the wind. “So screw doing it right. It didn’t work for you anyway.”

“What are you—”

“Tikki, transform me!” Marinette said at last.

#Caged ML #ML Fanfic #Marichat #Miraculous Ladybug #their-destinys-writer #Ladybug #Chat Noir #Marinette #Adrien #ao3 #ffnet #wattpad #patreon #Chapter 16

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lovelylogans · 4 years

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part of the wyliwf verse.

the sideshire files | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, teenage emancipation, emotional abuse, mentions of being disowned, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, classism, mentions of past underage drinking, crying, religious content (church, going to confession), remus cameo, mentions of choking/killing someone, something similar to the canon “have you thought about killing your brother?” monologue, please let me know if i’ve missed anything!

pairings: gen

words: 57,686

“can not.”

“can too.”

“can not.”

“can too,” and the argument really would have continued if she didn’t step in now.

“you know he’s not going to stop until you prove it, fred,” essie points out, amused, even as silas pulls a face at her.

“but she can’t prove it, because doing that is physically impossible,” her twin brother points out.

freddie puffs out her chest proudly. “watch me,” she brags, and essie politely averts her eyes because she loves her little sister, she really does, but the way she bends her body sometimes makes her stomach twist.

from silas’ “ugh, gross!” and wyatt’s tame “hm, interesting,” it was probably good that she did, and meets eyes with annabelle, who smiles at her, amusement making her eyes twinkle.

“i knew you had a sensitive stomach, but i didn’t know it was that bad,” annabelle teases, soft enough that the others won’t hear.

essie sticks her tongue out at her fiancée (and she wonders when she’ll stop feeling butterflies when she thinks about marrying annabelle) and annabelle giggles, just a little, before reaching and twining her fingers with essie. essie suppresses her happy sigh and uses it as an excuse to wiggle closer.

the entire danes family was staying at the independence inn for the holiday (well, with the exception of virgil, but that’s expected) and that’s where the four elder danes siblings, plus a danes fiancée, were staying. they’d managed to get an adjoining suite that consisted of a room with two queen beds, a couch, and a bathroom for each, with a door connecting the two. essie and annabelle in one bed, silas and wyatt in the other in their room; since freddie had come first, she had a bed to herself in the other, with their parents in the last remaining bed.

it wasn’t like essie had stayed in the inn very much, but it hadn’t changed a lot. the inn still had the same antique, historical furniture, the same navy blue duvets, the same dark gray couches and floral wallpaper and little chocolates on the pillow (annabelle had let essie eat hers, which really, that’s true love.) same staff, mostly, other than the natural turnover that came with a lot of high school and college kids who picked up shifts as one of the few places to get a part-time job in sideshire.

yeah, the inn hadn’t changed a lot. a lot of things in sideshire hadn’t changed very much, which essie found comforting. sometimes, she thought about how even years and years down the line, whenever she came back to visit virgil or childhood friends, taylor doose would still pick fights with her mother; the gazebo would still stay dreamily lit at night; there would still be a million fairs and festivals and ceremonies to attend; there would still be petty town meetings and Town Meetings, the first for town gossip that had bit too much into the time of the official Town Meetings, which dealt with tiny ordinances and regulations (and, to taylor’s eternal dismay, the unofficial town meetings would almost always garner the most interest and attendance.) same mayor porter, and same rudy, editor of the town’s decrepit newspaper, same maria who managed the inn. same danes’ family running the town’s diner.

even though essie felt like she’d changed so much, and yet not at all. strange. comforting.

home.

there’s the sound of keys clattering, then the door in the other room opening, and all of them seem to stir from their various lines of thought.

“mom and dad?” freddie says. “finally, wonder what took them so long?”

“they were probably prepping food for tomorrow, fred,” essie guesses.

no one else can make very many other guesses, before their mother’s voice cheerfully says, “like that, do you think?”

“you know, we could wait until the morning,” and they all blink at each other. virgil’s here. not home.

“what’s the point of that?” their mother asks, then, raising her voice, “kids, you there?”

“hi, mom,” freddie calls, and their mother leans through the doorway, grinning wide.

“good! get your coats!”

she vanishes back into their room while everyone blinks at each other, confused.

“our coats?” silas calls back, uncertainly.

“and one of you, bring your pocket knives in here!”

“pocket—?” essie begins, but wyatt shrugs, digging his out, and moving into the next room.

“here, mom.”

“thank you, sugar,” she says, sounding pleased, and essie gets up with annabelle to see what’s going on.

annabelle comes in next, and says, “what’s happening?”

“here, right?” meredith says, gesturing at the side of the mattress with the knife.

“probably the least invasive way to damage a mattress, yeah,” cara says; they’d been together at school, she and cara, it had been a bit surprising to hear how high she’d climbed on the inn’s employment ladder.

“again, mom, you could do this in the morning,” virgil says.

“but it won’t be a surprise then,” meredith points out.

“pretty sure it would.”

“um,” essie says, “why are we doing damage to a mattress as a surprise?”

“mom’s lost it,” virgil says wearily.

“shut it,” meredith says cheerfully, and then, with the same smile on her face, plunges the knife into the side of the mattress, using both hands to tug it enough to create a sizable slash, a disconcerting contrast. she removes the knife and tilts her head at it critically. “that good, do you think?”

“yeah, definitely fits the parameters,” cara says. “i’ll get one of the mattresses from an empty room in here for you, to replace this one. thanks, mrs. danes, i know maria was trying to figure that out.”

“oh, no problem,” she says breezily, waving a hand. “thank you for putting up with my late-hours shenanigans.”

cara nods and goes into the hall.

“well?” meredith says, and claps her hands. “coats! coats, everyone!”

silas gives her a Look, but she just shrugs at him and moves back into the other room to pick up her and annabelle’s coats.

once her mother surveys all of them and decides they’re all properly kitted out, she opens the door.

“let’s go!”

“go where,” silas grumbles.

“where else?” their mother says, and she beams beatifically—their dad, on the other hand, looks exasperated. granted, fond, but definitely still exasperated. “none of us have had the opportunity to fully bother taylor doose on this trip home.”

freddie and silas both scramble for the door.

“silas!” she scolds, a laugh in her voice, and grabs annabelle’s hand to more fully chase after her younger-by-seventeen-minutes brother.

it’s not a very long walk to doose’s market, nowhere in sideshire is a very long walk—and their mother stops them, and surveys the road, hands on her hips, every inch a general.

“right,” she says, with a decisive nod. “there’s enough snow on the ground. get packing into snowballs, kids.”

freddie outright cackles as she plunges her hands into the nearest snowbank, virgil not far behind.

“so, this taylor guy—” annabelle says in an undertone, as the pair of them bend to scoop snow into their hands.

“taylor doose,” essie elaborates.

“right,” annabelle says. “um, what’s the deal between him and your mom, anyway? it feels like every year i see your mom picking a fight with him.”

“oh, you know how it is,” essie says, trying to keep an airy tone. “small town feuds. it’s been going on for years, no one really knows what—”

“ess,” annabelle says, amused. “why are you getting involved in it?”

essie looks around, as if taylor’s listening. “because…”

“because?” annabelle prompts, when essie bites her lip and ducks her head.

“because it’s really fun,” she admits with a guilty grin on her face.

annabelle laughs and leans in to kiss her on the cheek. “troublemaker.”

“am not,” essie says. “virgil’s the delinquent and freddie’s the one who’s going to backflip her way through the window, if we let her.”

“yeah, and you’re the one with the innocent face to let them get away with it,” annabelle says.

“maybe so,” she sniffs, and ascends to her feet, a couple snowballs in her arms.

“right, then,” meredith calls out. “everyone ready?”

noises of affirmation from every danes in the street.

meredith arches her arm back, aims, and fires, her snowball hitting the window of the apartment above the grocery with a WHAP!

and then the rest of them take their cue from there.

there’s constant WHAP! s against the window as they all aim and throw—silas and freddie have the best aim, unsurprisingly, they’ve always been the most athletic of the five of them—but that almost doesn’t matter.

because essie was telling the truth, in why she gets involved with messing with taylor when she normally wouldn’t dream of deliberately being a nuisance to another person: it’s fun. taylor, in all his grudge-keeping, self-important, self-aggrandizing stuffiness was just fun to pick at and poke at and badger incessantly, partially because of his reaction, but mostly in the way that it brought them all together.

because wyatt is so rarely silly and pejorative, much more inclined to his theories and his books; because silas is so rarely teasing without being a little caustic about it, and seeing his sharp tongue applied to someone who actually deserves it a little is an absolute treat to behold; because freddie, well, freddie’s freddie, she’s pretty constantly a bombastic, fun-loving force of nature, but when they were all picking on taylor it seemed to be taken up to an extra level; because virgil so rarely smiles at something so obviously, and ever since his fierce bender as a teenager (essie had mostly been at college, when it had gotten really, really bad) it’s just nice to see him channel that energy into something, well, not productive, exactly, but something that wasn’t sneaking out of windows or breaking them.

maybe, she thinks, because she—normal, sweet, shy, kind essie, the good kid, the one they didn’t have to worry about all that much—was so rarely a hellion, and maybe fighting with taylor was one way to let her hair down that didn’t involve annabelle gently saying that if she got tipsy at a bar, cut loose, had a little fun dancing, didn’t mean it was the end of the world, didn’t mean that she wasn’t still normal, sweet, shy, kind essie, the one nobody has to worry about all that much, if she made out with her fiancée in the middle of the dance floor and did something a little naughty.

but now, as they all unite in hurling snowballs at taylor doose’s apartment window, cheering each other on and whooping whenever they get a good hit in, congratulating each other, it’s a bit like they’re all kids again and the world’s biggest trouble is getting back at taylor doose for trying to be mean to their mom.

and essie sees a distant light turn on, and the window starts to open, and

“oh for goodness’ sake, WHA— ”

meredith fires one last snowball and it lands its arc true, right as taylor opens the window, and the eight of them burst into laughter as taylor splutters around a mouthful of snow. even her dad, though at least he’s covering his mouth to seem polite.

“meredith,” taylor says sourly, and essie takes a look at him. wow, he’s actually wearing a stocking cap to bed. essie didn’t know people did that outside of, like, old novels and cartoons. “is there a particular reason that you’re causing this ruckus at midnight, right before a holiday?”

“oh, shove it, taylor,” meredith says heartily, hands on her hips. “open the store.”

his brow furrows deep enough that it’s visible on the street. “and just why should i do that?”

“good will toward your fellow woman?” freddie tries.

taylor scoffs, and moves to pull the window shut again.

“open the store!” meredith calls, and then, essie isn’t sure who starts it—freddie, probably, or maybe even annabelle—but soon all eight of them are chanting “OPEN IT, OPEN IT, OPEN IT, OPEN IT,” even as taylor bellows, “i could file a noise complaint!”

“or you could just open the damn store, taylor!” meredith hollers back. “it’s eight paying customers or eight people with throwing arms and capable lungs!”

taylor draws himself up, clearly warring with himself, before he deflates and sighs, to a chorus of danes (and annabelle’s) cheers.

“fine!” he shouts. “but if you stay in that store for longer than it is absolutely necessary , you will be hearing from the sideshire business association, the sideshire tourist board, the sideshire neighborhood watch organization—”

“those are all just you!” silas yells. “the sooner we get done, the sooner you don’t have to see any of us for another year! other than virgil.”

“yeah, thanks, silas,” virgil says, with an eyeroll.

taylor scowls, but slams his window shut and, presumably, with a huff. usually, whenever taylor did anything that didn’t comply with his exact agenda, it was with a huff.

“all right, lists!” the mother announces. “i have lists, come and get a list—silas, here you are—”

“lists?” annabelle mumbles quizzically into essie’s ear, and she shrugs, just as lost as annabelle is, but she accepts the hastily-scrawled list that’s on one of the diner’s notepads—essie knows, she’d worked in that diner for the vast majority of her life—and squints at their options.

“i’ve got a ton of food,” silas says. “what about you?”

“um,” essie says, and scans it. “same here, ‘cept it’s nonperishable stuff. donations, maybe?”

“i guess,” silas says, and essie bumps shoulders with him.

“you good?” she checks.

silas clears his throat, and scuffs his boot through the snow. “yeah, m’fine.”

“okay,” essie says, and silas scowls, as if he detects the underlying it’s just that i was hugging you on the balcony a few hours ago while you spilled your guts on everything going wrong in your life, so forgive me if i don’t think you’re exactly telling the truth that she isn’t saying. he probably can.

that’s the way with the two of them: if one ever couldn’t do something, the other one probably could. essie couldn’t confront people for anything, so silas was the one who’d shoved bullies to the ground and yelled at them. but silas wasn’t very good at being gentle, so essie was the one who put band-aids on their friends’ knees and tried her best to kiss them better.

if one of them was having trouble, the other one could usually try and pull them out of it. essie was usually the puller, back in school—silas was a brawler, and a sasser, and didn’t have much patience for things he thought he wouldn’t use in real life.

she wishes helping him now was as easy as telling mrs. replegol that she’d accidentally put his math homework in her backpack, and handing over a paper that she’d hastily filled out during lunch, trying her very best to disguise her neat writing into silas’ untidy scrawl.

“you can always come stay with me, if you want,” she tries, and silas scoffs.

“i’ve seen your apartment,” he mutters.

“it’s not that bad,” she says.

“it’s tiny,” silas says. “where’d i stay? your couch?”

“yes,” she says, and, when silas sighs, “we could make a fort, like when we were kids. or we’d figure it out. you know you can come over anytime.”

“does annabelle—”

“annabelle can hear you, and annabelle says go for it,” annabelle says, not looking up from where she’s re-tying her boot. “annabelle also doesn’t appreciate being talked about in third person when she can hear you.”

silas grimaces in apology, and when annabelle gets to her feet again, taylor’s opening the front door of the store, effectively ending their conversation there. but essie loops an arm through annabelle’s, and her other arm through silas’, and tugs them both along into doose’s grocery.

she can practically feel that silas and annabelle are exchanging a look behind her back, but she doesn’t really care.

unsurprisingly, doose’s market hasn’t changed much at all, either; everything’s where it was when essie was a teenager, and it doesn’t take her very long to gather up the cans of food and baby food that her mother had hastily scrawled down.

the other four siblings are split amongst the store, gathering things up—wyatt’s got things like paper towels and diapers, whereas freddie has, like, yarn or something?—so really, it’s probably good that they’ve all got separate lists. even if essie has zero idea what’s happening.

she sidles up to virgil’s side, and says, “ you wouldn’t happen to know what spurred on this massive shopping spree, would you?”

virgil pauses, glancing around, and says, “you know how mom and dad kept dragging in all those stray cats and dogs when we were kids?”

the puzzle pieces assemble in her head almost immediately.

“so, welcome to the family, patton, here’s everything you could possibly need, merry christmas?” she guesses, and virgil nods.

“something happened to him after we left,” she guesses, quieter. and virgil, stony-faced, nods.

“poor guy,” essie murmurs. “is he… i mean. is he okay?”

“how would you rate first christmas without his family, ess?” virgil says, and essie winces.

“right. sorry. stupid question.”

virgil winces, too, and says, “sorry. sorry, i shouldn’t snap at you.”

“no, i get it,” essie says. “long day.”

“still,” virgil says, mouth set and stubborn, and essie smiles at her baby brother, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

“you’re sweet,” she says and means it. he is sweet. for all his bluster and gruff, sometimes, and yes, even as a rebellious teenager, virgil had never not been sweet, no matter how he tried to hide it. he’s thoughtful, and kind, and essie’s glad that he’s helping out patton and the baby. she really is.

virgil, however, flushes and ducks his head, mumbling a denial, before he escapes to finish up his shopping, and essie grins after him before she goes to do the same.

gosh, she knows neither of them like to hear it, but virgil and silas really do have a lot in common.

taylor scowls at them all, muttering under his breath about danes’ even as he scans them all out, and bellows “good riddance!” as soon as they all leave the store.

“merry christmas, taylor!” their mother yells back, and taylor grimaces even as he pointedly closes the blinds.

“where should we go with these?” wyatt asks, laden with shopping bags. they all are, really.

“fresh food at the diner, the rest of it’ll come back to the inn,” meredith says decisively.

“here, i’ll trade,” virgil says. “i can meet you back there.”

so virgil and silas swap shopping bags, and their dad suddenly says, “i’ll help too, bunny,” and essie moves forward to take his bags too, and as soon as they’re all sorted out all of them tramp back to the inn.

on the way, essie sees cara directing a couple people that essie doesn’t know, the pair of them carting the mattress their mother ruined down to the inn’s poolhouse. essie’s about to ask, but decides that her mom will probably know, and instead moves to catch up with annabelle.

“what’s up with that?” annabelle says, jerking her chin toward them.

“oh, i have no idea,” essie says. “storage, maybe?”

“yeah, i guess,” annabelle says, and shakes her head after it; she’s always been a little confused by the more unique aspects of sideshire, which makes sense, really. if essie hadn’t been born into it, she’d be plenty confused too.

“that was fun,” annabelle continues. “the—snowball thing.”

essie laughs. “yeah, it is,” she says, and looks over at annabelle. “what?”

annabelle shakes her head, smiling. “nothing. it’s just—you’re so cute when you laugh.”

essie blushes; silas boos.

“gross,” he says.

“shut up, silas,” essie grumbles.

“yeah,” annabelle says, grinning, “shut up, silas.”

“nope, i’m with silas on this one,” freddie says, catching up with them. “couples are gross, especially when half of that couple is my sister.”

“kids, stop picking on your sister,” their mother calls, and gestures for them to get inside, and into the room.

and so begins the process.

their dad and virgil come in not too long after, with even more shopping bags, and join the sorting process: last-minute presents there, food there, baby supplies there. essie and annabelle take the sky-blue wrapping paper that their mom had bought at taylor doose’s, one of the last ones left, and wrap up the yarn and sweaters and books and baby toys.

it’s blatantly a last-minute gift haul, but essie doesn’t think they did too bad. admittedly, she doesn’t really know patton that well, but he’d seemed nice when they all had dinner together, both tonight and when essie and silas first came to town, and she’d thought he looked cute with his baby all day today, and felt a bit bad for him when he’d dozed off so readily and virgil had muttered something about overworking himself. she has the feeling patton’s probably the kind of person who’d appreciate any gift someone got him, anyway.

it doesn’t stop virgil and their dad from clucking, though. will he like this and oh, we should get and are you sure he stays warm enough where but that’s where they cut off, looking at the rest of them, busy as they are at wrapping last-minute presents or just chatting amongst themselves.

essie stifles her grin as she watches virgil closely examine a toy, as if a teddy bear was an inherent threat, their father making a near-identical face as he makes sure that he’s wrapped a present properly.

mother hens, the pair of them.

of course, essie thought, as she caught her gaze moving to annabelle for the ten dozenth time that night, to make sure that she’s there, and satisfied, and happy, it’s not like they’re the only ones in the family.

⁂

patton’s stopped jolting in surprise whenever he gets woken up by an unexpected sound, because lately, the unexpected sound’s a baby.

his baby, to be very specific. but just because he doesn’t jolt anymore doesn’t mean he’s really stoped feeling sleep-slow and stupid whenever he wakes up in the middle of the night.

well. it’s not like he ever really stops being stupid, but.

he shakes himself—he has a crying baby to tend to, so he stumbles over to the corner and lifts logan out of the carrier, trying futilely to hush him, conscious of virgil just beyond the door, conscious of logan’s colic. conscious, generally.

“hey, fella,” patton mumbles to logan, and bounces him, just a little, and starts walking, because moving around usually calms him down. “hey, hey, what’s wrong, hon?”

it turns out it’s a diaper change, and really thank goodness patton always packs extra, because he doesn’t know what he’d do, otherwise. he’s pretty sure that virgil doesn’t also have diapers stashed away with this baby carrier that logan’s sleeping in.

but logan doesn’t want to seem to go back to sleep after patton’s changed him, and so patton acquiesces, pacing circles around virgil’s darkened bedroom and noticing all kinds of little things he’d missed when he was fresh out of a sobbing session, and embarrassed, and upset.

he’s still a little bit of all those things, of course, especially the upset and embarrassed parts, but that had been kind of near-constant ever since he ran away.

he had noticed the framed photos on top virgil’s dresser, but not of what they pictured: a family shot of all of them flanking virgil in sideshire high’s red-and-gold, virgil with a cap and gown on, grinning sheepishly at the camera; freddie, in the midst of a dance performance, looking very refined and graceful, arms stretched and leg extended in a way that would make patton’s legs ache, if he could even half-manage it; wyatt, as a kid, with who must be a toddler virgil staring wide-eyed as wyatt patches up a stuffed raccoon; essie with her ringed hand thrust toward the camera, in the midst of a kiss with annabelle, an engagement photo if he’s ever seen one; silas and virgil’s parents, sitting at one of the tables in the center of a desolate diner, deep in conversation and completely unaware of the camera; virgil, at the age patton is now, wearing a spiky leather jacket and a torn-up t-shirt, scowling, as the mustached man’s arms are thrown around his neck in a near choke-hold, pressed up against his back, baring his teeth at the camera— remus, patton remembers, the man’s name is remus.

it is, patton thinks as he bounces logan, a handy little collection of all the people virgil loves, sitting upon this dresser.

patton wonders if he’ll warrant a spot one day.

immediately, he feels his face heat and turns away; this isn’t your room, he scolds himself. stop snooping.

a voice that sounds remarkably like his mother seems to murmur in his ear, it would hardly be considered snooping if he invited you in and left you alone. there’s something you can use here.

patton shakes his head, like he’s trying to get water out of his ears. but it’s a bit too late; here are all the people virgil loves, sitting on his dresser, all of whom he’s at least seen relatively recently. and of all the people patton loves—other than logan—he doesn’t have much else beyond bittersweet memories, and voices in his ear, and basically nothing else.

the rush of homesickness hits him so hard it feels like he can’t breathe for a few seconds.

god, he misses christopher.

it’s been a week or so since he’s seen him last, which feels a bit ridiculous to be sad over that, but the thing was they used to see each other basically every day— they’d always gone to the same school, so they’d see each other at recess, when they were little, or at each other’s lockers, as they got older.

patton chews at his lip and fixes his eyes on the ceiling. darn it. he can’t cry again. he cannot cry again. he needs to redirect his brain.

but it’s too late.

christopher’s whiskey-brown eyes, all warm when the sun hits them just right. eating biscuits with butter and honey. giggling to each other before making their daring getaways to the balcony. sitting side-by-side, pressed up against each other. when they were little, searching the skies for ufos. when they were older, spying on the neighbors. scotch-flavored kisses and pilfered alcohol. when patton would get giggly, and tipsy, and they’d be handsy, and patton had felt a glimmer of happiness when it felt like everything in the whole world was pressing him down and trying to bury him.

christopher’s easy smile, his warm hands, his tousled hair—

patton swallows his tears the best he can, closing his eyes tightly. no christopher. no christopher on christmas, no christopher on new year’s. no christopher in school, or in summer. no christopher and him, side-by-side, every day. no more of that. that was over now.

because patton had chosen to go off into the unknown. when he left his life, trying to look for something better, he left the best parts of his life, too.

christopher was that best part.

logan fusses, and patton sniffles, turning his attention back to logan. he’s still babyish enough that he can’t really see any resemblances to christopher, or to himself. he isn’t sure if that hurts or helps—logan’s his own person, after all. but he’d really like to hear christopher make some kind of lame joke right now.

“sorry, kiddo,” he says, voice wobbly. “sorry. i know. i’ve gotcha.”

he resumes walking loops around the room. he’d barely even realized he’d stopped. he takes deep breaths, and keeps bouncing logan, which serves to quiet him.

he’s about to lie logan back down in the carrier, maybe curl up in virgil’s bed and try not to cry a little longer, when he hears the creak-and-click of a door opening and closing.

patton freezes, before he timidly opens up the bedroom door to take a peek, and—

virgil’s unwinding the scarf patton made him from around his neck, at the same time attempting to toe off his boots. he pauses and turns, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

“sorry,” virgil manages to say, barely above a whisper. “did i wake you?”

“no,” patton says, and clears his throat when it comes out watery. “no, no, logan was, um. logan was fussing.”

“he okay?”

“yeah, just needed to walk around a bit. he’s good now,” and tilts logan a little closer to the light, so virgil could see that he’s holding him.

virgil surveys him, and then he squints at patton. “ you okay?”

patton tries for a smile, a little startled that virgil’s bothered to ask at all. “oh, me? yep! fit as a fiddle!”

except virgil frowns, staring at him a little closer, and says, almost a little hurt, “you could just say that you don’t wanna talk about it and i’d respect it, you know? you don’t have to lie to me.”

patton swallows. his voice comes out timid and quiet. “sorry.”

“oh, hey, it—” virgil hesitates, before he says, “well, it’s not, like, great, but, y’know. it’s okay.”

there’s a long, awkward pause.

“do you?”

“what?” patton asks, adjusting his grip on logan.

“do you want to,” virgil elaborates. “talk about it, i mean. or not.”

“oh,” patton says. “um. i mean, it just—i dunno.”

virgil dips his head in a nod, and resumes taking off his winter gear.

“were you outside?” patton asks, and he winces. of course he was outside, why else would he be wearing his cold-weather clothes? stupid question.

“oh, yeah,” virgil says. “mom wanted help with something, so.”

“oh,” patton says. “okay.”

virgil looks at him, that same surveying look that makes patton feel a little shy, like virgil’s trying to look at him hard enough to read his mind. but instead of saying anything earth-shattering, he just says, “you want some more hot cocoa or something?”

“uh,” patton says. “okay, sure. that sounds nice. i’m gonna lay down logan.”

“all right, cool,” virgil says, and shuffles off toward his kitchen. patton scoots back into virgil’s room, and moves to lay logan down, holding his breath.

no crying.

nice.

so then he wraps himself up in one of virgil’s blankets, and creeps quietly back out of the room, sitting down on the couch. he listens to virgil clank and rattle around in the kitchen, the rush of milk hitting a metal pot, some shuffling of supplies, the clanking of a spoon stirring, the click of a stove turning on.

it seems like it doesn’t take that long, but it’s long enough that patton feels like he’s pulled himself together, a little, despite the ache in his chest.

virgil comes out of the kitchen and hands patton a navy blue mug, before he settles on the opposite side of the couch, wrapping his hands around his own black mug.

“has logan been up much?” virgil says. “because you can bring him out here if you, y’know. if you need more sleep. i could—”

“no, no,” patton says. “no, it—i mean, the nap earlier’s really helped, but i’ve been, um. i’ve been sleeping.”

“okay,” virgil says. “good. it kind of just occurred to me that i might be keeping you up, and—”

“no,” patton says. “i’m good. my sleep schedule’s ruined anyway.”

virgil’s eyes narrow, and he says, “well. still.”

“it’s nice of you to offer, but it’s okay, really,” patton says, and blows a breath across the top of the cocoa, before he inhales the scent—rich, chocolatey—and adjusts his grip on the still-too-warm mug.

virgil clears his throat, and says, awkwardly, “is it… um. the same stuff you were upset about before?”

“oh,” patton says. “um.”

“‘cause again, if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s okay, but—”

“it,” patton says. “it’s okay. um. kind of.”

he fiddles with the mug, looking down at the cocoa. it’s easier to look at it and not directly into virgil’s eyes.

“is it stupid to be homesick?” he asks in a tiny voice.

“no,” virgil says immediately.

“okay,” patton says, and there must be a note of skepticism in his voice, because virgil says, “it’s not. okay? it’s not stupid. it’s how you feel. that’s real, and not stupid. you aren’t stupid.”

patton runs a thumb over the rim of his mug and, instead of saying anything in response to that, he admits, voice clogging right back up again, “i miss christopher.”

“oh,” virgil says, then, “patton, that—that isn’t stupid at all. he’s your—” virgil hesitates, just awkward enough that it’s clear doesn’t really know what relationship to categorize him and christopher as, before he plows on, “he’s important to you.”

patton sniffles, and runs a hand under his eyes, mostly out of caution to not cry again, virgil has seen him cry enough, and says, “yeah, he is. he’s my—”

patton clears his throat, before he continues, “he’s my best friend. he was almost—” and he clams up.

“almost?” virgil prompts gently, and patton lets out a laugh that’s closer to a sob.

“i mean, it—it wasn’t a secret that it was mostly because our parents wanted him to, but he—he tried to propose to me. ‘cause of logan.”

“oh,” virgil says, clearly a little surprised.

“i said no,” patton says quietly. “i… i mean, he was my—i love him. y’know? if it was any other reason, any other way, i think… i think i would have said yes. but.”

“but,” virgil prompts, and patton takes a gulp of hot cocoa to give himself a moment’s pause. it nearly scalds his mouth. he’s almost a little happy about it—it gives him a physical ache for him to focus on, instead of an emotional one.

“it just… it was so clearly because he thought we had to,” patton says. “i mean. we were in the hospital, and he was meeting logan for the first time—”

“while you were in labor?” virgil says, a little appalled. which, fair. patton was focused on a lot when he was in labor, he’d have been pretty peeved if christopher had come knocking asking about marriage during all that.

“oh,” patton says. “um, no. christopher couldn’t make it, when i was in labor. he came by the next afternoon.”

virgil frowns, but nods a little, like he’s signaling that he’s still listening.

“it was the… the little window room? where you can see all the babies in those little plastic cribs,” patton says. “and we were looking in, staring at logan, and he said, he’s a cute baby, and i said, he’s perfect, and he just said, i guess we should get married. just like that. i guess we should get married,” he mimicks christopher’s uncertain tone.

virgil frowns harder, but this time, patton nods.

“ right,” patton says. “and, i mean, i just—i mean, i love him. i really do. but proposals… that’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, right? proposals are supposed to be more than a desperate end to our parents’ bickering and all their expectations. it should be planned. it should be magical.”

virgil nods.

“it should be—it should be more,” patton says. “there should be music playing and romantic lighting and a subtle buildup to the popping of the questions. there should be a—a thousand yellow daisies, and candles, and—and more than just an oh, i guess. ”

“yeah,” virgil says.

“but i,” patton says, and sighs, taking another gulp of cocoa. “i mean, i know that if i’d said yes, i’d still be stuck there, and unhappy, and worried about all the same things that i was worried about that led to me running away, but—”

“but you still miss him.”

“yeah,” patton says, and sighs. “ yeah.”

“for the record,” virgil says. “i think you’re—i think you’re right.”

patton blinks at him.

“like,” virgil says, “you shouldn’t marry someone just ‘cause your parents want you to. if you really love him—”

“i do.”

“—yeah,” virgil says. “so. if you really love him. if he’s really right for you. it’ll make sense eventually. and you guys’ll get married for you. not for anyone else. not for your parents, or because the world thinks you have to, or because people think that you have to be married to have a kid. you guys’ll come back together for you guys. that’s the way it should be. okay?”

“okay.”

“plus, like, you’re sixteen,” virgil says. “you’re literally, like, a child groom. child spouse? whatever. the point is, you’re a kid. you have a lot of time to figure out if you wanna be with christopher or not, or if you wanna get married to him or not, or if you want to be with anyone at all. you have time.”

“i guess,” patton says.

“i know,” virgil says. “like, i’m twenty-three. i’ve got six more years of life experience than you, roughly. the things i thought i’d do at sixteen are way different. you’re going to look back on yourself in those six years and be like i’m glad i waited, okay? your brain’s still growing and all that.”

“isn’t yours, too?”

“yeah, exactly,” virgil says. “my point. both still growing up. you’ve got way more than enough on your plate right now. you’ve got a baby, and a job, you shouldn’t have to worry about a—a wedding, or whatever.”

“that is very true,” patton says wearily, and so they both sit and sip their cocoa for a while.

“virge?”

“yeah?” he says.

“thanks for all this,” patton says. “i mean—really.”

“anytime,” virgil says. “you done?”

patton hands over the mug, and virgil takes it, standing. patton, belatedly, stands too.

“you should get some more sleep,” he says. “but if you can’t, you can, y’know. we can hang out and do whatever you want, yeah?”

“okay,” patton says.

he shuffles into virgil’s bedroom.

“pat?”

“yeah?” patton says, turning back to face him.

virgil smiles at him uncertainly, and makes a gesture with the mugs he’s holding.

“seriously,” virgil says. “if it’s, y’know. true love or whatever. it’ll happen eventually. you’ll get your thousand yellow daisies. yeah?”

the corner of patton’s mouth quirks up.

“thanks, v.”

“yeah, well,” virgil says. “get some sleep, okay?”

patton gets into virgil’s room. he closes the door behind him, he falls into a bed that smells like unfamiliar laundry detergent, and falls into the deepest sleep he’s had in a long time.

⁂

her children are safely asleep and, for the twenty-ninth year running, it leaves her and her husband awake last.

“we don’t have any major christmas surprises to lay out this year, do we?” mark murmurs.

they’re sitting on the bed, the pair of them holding styrofoam cups in their hands, having one last cup of tea before they turn in for the night. meredith’s tucked her legs up underneath her; mark has his legs crossed, already dressed in his pajamas. they’re particularly paying attention to their volume, though freddie’s the heaviest sleeper of their children; meredith could probably start hollering and freddie would only barely stir. but there she is, still sleeping, and so their voices are quiet.

“no,” meredith murmurs. “no surprises. well, no surprises beyond what we’ve already done.”

mark acknowledges this with a quiet chuckle, and finishes up the last of his tea. meredith pats him on the knee.

“i might run down to the pool house to pick up patton’s clothes,” meredith says. “knowing us, we’ll probably be running late in the morning.”

“all right,” mark says, and leans to give her a peck. “would you like company?”

“you’re already in your flannel, you’d freeze,” she teases. “i’ll be alright. get some sleep.”

mark nods, collects their trash, and moves to throw it away and brush his teeth as meredith shrugs on her coat, pushes her feet into her boots, and leaves their room, leaves the inn.

the inn’s grounds are beautiful, even in the dead of night, even in the dead of winter. the near-dead grass crunched under her feet and she examined the bushes, devoid of any blooms, the trees, stripped bare, the artful landscaping. all of it tinged silver in the moonlight.

beautiful, even in its quiet. like the rest of sideshire.

she’s missed it terribly.

she descends to the poolhouse, attempting to shake off her malaise. it’s small and unassuming—barely more than a shed, meant mostly to store things, to double as a potting shed. it’s meant to be overlooked, but now that she’s staring at it, it seems a rather sorry little room, not even qualified to be called a house . she opens the door.

it’s just as pitiable on the inside as it is on the outside.

the couch that must have been patton’s bed has been pushed aside, to make room for the mattress that meredith had damaged; there are laundry baskets piled full of clothes, boxes of baby toys and books and blankets, a storage cart repurposed to be a changing station, a crib moved close to the bed.

the whole room is dark and dingy—there are still abandoned potting sheds scattered about the room, pool supplies shoved into corners. it looks like patton’s carried everything he owned into the room only to drop it, and he’d been so exhausted that he hadn’t been able to tidy it up.

she doesn’t blame the poor boy at all. she feels the sympathy rise in her heart, and is abundantly grateful that she and mark had decided to get as many gifts for patton as they could think of, plus a few more.

maybe, she thinks, there could be some anonymous deliveries of gift cards to get some supplies. make this place a bit homier.

but she spies the box with a woolly sleeve peeking out of it, and so she crosses the room to open up the box.

which one would he like? she wonders. gray, yellow, blue, green, white, black?

she hesitates, before she reaches for the blue one. may as well go all-in on the color-matching scheme, here.

she’s folding up the sweaters she’d examined when the door swings open, and meredith freezes where she is, staring at the person in the doorway, who’s frozen up, too.

meredith clears her throat, and lifts the blue sweater. “he asked me to bring a change of clothes tomorrow.”

raf nods, and then meredith sees the wagon he’s toting, piled high with wrapped boxes and gift bags. “gifts from everyone.”

she smiles. “good. we won’t be the only ones spoiling him.”

raf smiles wider, and she rises to her feet, gesturing. “can i help—?”

“ah, i’ve got help on the way,” raf says, and meredith’s about to ask who until in comes another person, toting another wagon.

“hi, cara,” meredith says, amused.

“oh!” cara says. “hi, mrs. danes. um—”

“gifts for patton?”

“this load is for the baby, actually,” cara says sheepishly, and meredith laughs.

“well, far be it from me to stop you,” meredith says, folding the sweater over her arm. “you’re sure the both of you don’t need a hand?”

“well,” cara says, and glances over at raf.

“we’ve all got a load of furniture that people aren’t using or just needed to donate,” raf says. “because. well. look at this place.”

it is pretty pitiful. the only furniture that seems like it could really be used for people is a broken rocking chair, the bed, the crib, and a potting bench that looks like it’s been repurposed into a changing table. no dresser, no table, no… anything, really.

“and some paint,” cara adds, “but we figured we could leave some paint chips and the note from hector saying that he’ll be out to paint it whatever color he wants, not just choose it for him.”

“how about i help organize the presents, then?” meredith suggests.

“oh, you don’t have to—”

“i insist,” meredith says firmly. “we’re all trying to make sure they have a good christmas.”

“well,” raf says. “if you insist.”

and so it begins, a crew of the three of them; cara’s taping paint chips to the walls, along with hector’s note; raf totes in a dresser, a nightstand, a few baskets that are filled up with yarn; meredith arranges the presents, and notices that none of them have notes.

when she asks, cara and raf exchange a glance.

“he’s a bit… stubborn, when it comes to presents and gifts and that kind of thing,” cara says.

“pauline slipped him some extra money and he spent a week trying to get her to take it back,” raf says.

“ah,” meredith says.

“ but,” cara says, “if you convince him it’s for logan, or it would really be more of a convenience for him to take whatever you’ve got—”

“then he’ll take it,” meredith surmises, starting to understand. “so, if we act apologetic in the morning and keep saying that we would have felt terrible not getting anything, and all of this is so last minute—”

“he’ll probably take it,” raf says. “it’s a manners thing, i think.”

“he is very polite,” meredith murmurs.

“that he is,” cara says.

they continue to work in companionable silence, meredith stacking patton and logan’s presents in a circle, like patton had done with the presents in the diner.

she hopes that he’ll take them. she hopes that he’ll love them.

he really does deserve to be spoiled at christmas after the week/month/year he’s had.

#my post #text #the sideshire files #my fic #my fanfic #sanders sides #love light gleams

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