@nosebleedclub’s november prompts. xi: scene that takes place late at night in the kitchen.

he paces back and forth, kinda like an empty ghoul, eyes aching & hands cold, everything mary shelley and edgan allan poe would write about. soap watches him from the table like he’ll disappear any second, fade into mist or gunsmoke, never to be found again behind that skull mask of his.

he knows he doesn’t like to talk, especially not late like this (alone together like this), but all soap knows is how to push, push and push and pull until ghost is soft between his hands, big eyes warm like cinnamon and incense, so he does.

“can i stay in your room tonight, L.t.?”

the ticking of the clock just above the stove sounds like gunfire. soap isn’t tense, but his hands are damp where he fiddles with the tablecloth. waiting. still like a hunter, eyes on the prey. patience is the wych elm in his grandma’s garden he watered every day with hopes it’d become beautiful.

ghost’s eyes aren’t on him, turning to the mug steeping his tea like it’ll quell the hot uneasiness in his stomach.

“you scared of the dark, sergeant?”

not johnny, not soap, just sergeant – like the word itself is cement and brick. an entire castle wall atop johnny’s rank. he chuckles, watches the immense man in front of him carefully remove the tea bag from the mug, and wonders if anyone else in the world would ever have the privilege of watching lieutenant simon riley (in a big tee and sweatpants) steeping chamomile tea at two in the god damn morning.

treading ice, soap says, “what, you got a problem wi’ it?”

and of course simon doesn’t reply. he just turns to him, big shoulders big thighs big biceps and a mug dwarfed by his big hand, and blinks. long and slow, like a cat – eyes so sleepy, so dark, tender like meat falling off the bone. nightmare still sat over the harp strings of his shoulder tendons. and johnny has to bite down a smile, because he pushes and pulls, pulls and pulls, until he has just the soft spot to sink his teeth into.

4.14

Well, so much for my wife going to Chicago last Saturday. We had decided to change her flight from one in mid-afternoon, to early evening so that we could go to watch the Premier Sevens tournament.

But in the end, we didn't much feel like dashing over there and then to the airport, plus the weather was looking a little grey with rain forecast, so we skipped the Sevens and stayed home to watch the USA play Chile.

The game was not great - USA started brightly - they went 19-0 up - but after they had a man yellow carded, it all went pear-shaped and Chile not only came back into the game but they went on to win it so have now secured a place at the World Cup next year.

So that's effectively twice that the USA have had an opportunity to get to France - initially against Uruguay at the end of last year and now against Chile and have failed at both hurdles. This does not bode well for progress for the sport in this country and for when they host the World Cup in 2031, though they do still have one more opportunity in November; but that means playing in a mini tournament against a European, an Asia Pacific and an African team. Although all of these are probably low-tier teams, the USA must also be considered low-tier to be still involved in battling to get to France now.

But back to my wife's trip to Chicago. We got her to the airport in plenty of time and she got onto the plane - even got an upgrade to the front row business class. But then there was a delay due to lightning. And another delay due to a mechanical issue which couldn't be fixed because of the rain. And then they were taken off the plane. And the flight was eventually cancelled, so she came home again! Honestly, between her and The Boy, they haven't had much luck with flights lately. She did finally get away on Sunday morning, but missed part of her conference, of course.

On Friday evening we had tickets to a Jazz concert in the garden of the National Gallery of Art. My wife wasn't feeling up to going so I though I might be going alone. But then the colleague who sits next to me at work came into the office (not a normal work day for him) and announced that the only reason he was in was because he had tickets to the gig, along with his wife and two friends. So it turned out to be a very convivial early evening, albeit a tad warm until the sun went down a bit. Interesting though - the vast majority of attendees were fairly young, not at all what I would have expected for a jazz concert. And almost none of them were there for the music, just to hang out with their friends, to see and be seen. Many of them weren't even sitting where they could hear the music, let alone see the band.

And now we're off to the beach in New Jersey, to celebrate my sister-in-law's birthday…though we have to be back relatively early on Sunday because it's our wedding anniversary and we have a restaurant booked!

THE FRONT GARDEN ON A WARM LATE NOVEMBER MORNING

The old roses are out. ‘du Maitre d’Ecole’ is the bright pink at the back and in the foreground is Rosa Mundi, the striped beauty from the 16th century. Some of these blooms have reverted back to the pink parent plant, Rosa Versicolour. The little rose on the right that has almost finished blooming is the pale pink ‘de Meaux’, a miniature Centifolia rose from the 18th century. There is also hot pink lychnis coronaria, or rose campion, an essential perennial plant, in front of the lavender that blooms mid December.

Stubborn

Everybody taking care of old Hotch because... I don't like it when old Hotch gets left to just die on his own :( don't ask why that's where I draw the line

No pairings

No warnings

In Jack’s second semester of his junior year, Hotch collapses again. He’s home this time, out in his garden under the glaring sun. The day had begun no different than any other. The birds on the powerline chirping and causing their disturbances, as eager for the day to begin as the school-aged children shouting in the street. He’d watched them from the sliding glass door facing the street, his tea warm in his hands. He’d waved at a few, the older ones who recognize him as a mystifying adult with stories to be unlocked. The younger children give him a face akin to a monster’s, his mystery horrifying in their already confusing enough lives.

It’s an hour before lunch. Two hours before Spencer shows up because it’s Thursday and he teaches a class on this side of town every Tuesday and Thursday at 2. One that he occasionally asks Hotch to attend -- as a guest lecturer, as a treat to his students, or just for the company.

He could call just about anyone.

Emily’s downtown, on her way back from a meeting with the Department of Justice. She’d be thrilled for an excuse to not go back to the office and spend an hour or two in his kitchen telling him about those pretentious assholes.

Garcia’s about ten minutes away, working at a nonprofit teaching “at-risk” kids how to code. Being the guiding hand she’d needed as a teenager so that they might not repeat the same mistakes she made. She was lucky, Hotch saved her but he’s not around to catch any more kids like her.

Morgan got hired by a family two streets over to fix up their house before they move in. He’s there now, tearing out rotting beams.

This collapse is not of the life-threatening kind. Not to Hotch at least. There’s no internal bleeding, no emergency surgeries. He doesn’t even need stitches but he’s on so many medications that thin his blood that it’s just on the safer side. From the hospital, he calls who he needs to. Reid first, he’ll worry when he gets to Hotch’s house and sees his truck gone. Then, Jack, it’s better to hear this sort of thing from him and not Emily in half an hour when she needs to yell at someone and who better than the son of the idiot she hates right now? Dave and Emily follow and he trusts them to carry the news the rest of the way. Rather, he simply doesn’t want to talk about it anymore and he’d rather Garcia and JJ and Morgan and everyone else just be mad at him than go on to have another conversation about how he’s feeling.

Fine. He just got light-headed. It was the heat and his perpetually low iron and probably his thin blood (the killer had been his blood pressure but they’re working on that). He just needs to get better about remembering to eat breakfast -- a larger breakfast than just tea and toast. Fainting, he assures Dave, happens. Jack’s seen it happen. The heat makes it worse, the summertime drains him. He’s come in from the garden and gotten weak in the knees plenty of times. He actually moved some chairs around the sliding glass door to the yard, prepared for this exact problem.

This over clarification does not help.

Made only the more complicated when he explains his head is fine. The fainting thing really isn’t a big deal, he just needs a ride home. He’d landed weirdly and pulled his back. He left with a new problem entirely, a torn ligament in his shoulder. That is a problem for a different day.

The surgery is set for the week just before Jack’s finals. Armed with a suitcase full of textbooks, his laptop, notes from this semester (and a few from last), and just enough clothes to recycle a few and still be fine, Jack shows up on his father’s doorstep. “I mean, the hospital isn’t exactly the library… but it’s not the worst place I’ve studied.” It’s far too late to send Jack back but Hotch is reluctant to let him stay. Even if he does prefer Jack be his ride rather than the likes of Penelope and that tiny green eye-sore of a car she drives or leave him to Reid and his defensive, jerky driving.

To the sound of “Aaron Hotchner November 2, 1971”, Jack settles down with his books. He tries to put himself in the right headspace for studying but it’s harder than he anticipated. The constant motion of the room unsettles him and he looks up several times to see his father’s reaction. To gauge the anxiety in his face, in the deep breathes that he pulls in through his nose. In how tight his fists are holding the sheets underneath him. It’s a simple surgery and they’ll be out of here in no time.

“Young” his heart had not handled the heavy sedatives and morphine well. Then again, those incidents are always hard to measure against a thing like this. Rushed into the ER with nine chest wounds and having nearly bled to death, it’s natural to conclude the stress of his depleted blood supply and his very recent trauma had caused his heart to stop on the table. That said trauma was the reason his heart had maintained to be a steady problem up until they released him. Again, when he was brought in with some of the worst internal bleedings the staff had ever seen. His heart had given them trouble too.

Jack is staring blankly at his flashcards when the doctor comes out.

Hotch had gone to Georgetown to be a lawyer like his father and his grandfather. Jack went to Georgetown to get an Art History degree. He was lead by something else. Not chasing some shadow, clutching at a lie he spoonfed himself. Jack didn’t live in anyone’s shadow, never felt the pressure to look and act a certain way. Was never beaten into submission or told to hold his tongue. Jack went to museums every Saturday with his father, preferred them to the aquariums and the zoo. Hotch held him close to the artwork, pushed his dense schedule around to go to new shows, and learned the names of pieces just to recite the knowledge back to Jack.

In his lap, Jack is memorizing pieces of art like his father had years ago for him. He’s stuck on The Anatomy Lesson, eyes glued to the details. The way colorless skin is held in forceps, peeled back to reveal angry red. He can feel the pinching teeth on his own skin, feels the heavy flow of hot blood spilling down over his arm.

“Hotchner?”

Jack flinches, caught completely off guard. He stands, flushing as he tucks his notecards into his textbook, and stands. “Ugh, yeah. That’s me.” He wipes his hands off on his pants, rubbing away the nervous sweat he’s built up.

The doctor recognizes him from earlier. He’d watched Jack and Hotch get out one last goodbye. Jack pulling up a nervous smile, dirty-blonde hair, and light eyes a complete contrast to Hotch’s ever-darkening features. Somehow more solemn, voice taken by the sedatives already working through his body. He hadn’t said a word, eyes vacantly following Jack’s movements but unaware.

Jack expects the same monologue he hears every time. The one that comes out so dry and perfect that they must practice it in front of the mirror, say it softly to themselves as they as they get ready each morning. He’s got it memorized himself -- the bits about recovering in post-op, make a full recovery, and whatever on the fly timeline they give for access back to the room.

“But he’s-- He’s okay? He’s--”

Jack feels impossibly childish. Five years old and Emily’s chilled fingers brushing his tears away, “baby, I know you miss your mommy. But you’re being so terribly mean to your daddy.” He had been, a terrible little monster squirming away from his father and refusing to eat anything. Throwing tantrums about nothing and everything. Screaming and crawling under his bed every chance he got. Pushing himself to the wall knowing he couldn’t be reached.

Now he can remember Hotch just sitting at the edge of the bed. There on the floor for hours. Sometimes he read, would pick up a book, and just start from wherever just to make it so his voice was reaching where he couldn’t. He slept there too, on the hard ground just to make sure Jack knew he was there. Slipped strawberry pop tarts on crazily designed animal plated under there, offered bites of his own food to the darkness under the bed. Sippy cups full of chocolate milk and juice.

He feels like a little boy again, getting news that he has no idea how to handle.

“He’s okay?” Jack stammers. “He’s going to be okay? I can see him?”

Hotch remembers those days under the bed too. Waking up in the middle of the night as Jack groggily curled close to him, still under the bed but crawling under his blanket. The ends of those awful sobs, Jack’s little chest jerking as he hiccuped. The force of his sorrow was too much for his little body. And Jack would fall into his lap, exhausted and needing comfort. His little fingers tracing the scars on Hotch’s face. How he whispered “thank you” and “please” from underneath the bed and how he’d pop his head out to say, “Daddy, I’m going to potty. I’ll be right back.”

Jack’s legally old enough to drink now and Hotch still sees that little boy. The three-year-old wiping his snot on Hotch’s dress shirt. The six-year-old holding his hand and reminding him to look both ways twice before crossing the street. The eight-year-old he left the hallway light on for, old enough now to think he needed to brave the night without a nightlight. So Hotch would offer to keep the hallway light on, not for Jack but for him because he doesn’t like the dark. The ten-year-old sheepishly offering him a father’s day gift he bought with saved allowance, a t-shirt he’s now worn the words off of. The fifteen-year-old curling up beside him on the couch, seeking his comfort but not sure how to ask anymore. The eighteen-year-old as tall as him talking his ear off while he tries to get dinner ready, sticking his fingers in the pan and sitting on the counter.

How did he grow up so fast?

He’s not a little boy anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.

The creaking of a chair moves Hotch’s attention and he looks away from Jack. Away from the sight of his little boy curled up on a cot, drooling onto a pillow and notebook still open, a pen dangling from his fingers. He looks over and Emily’s sitting up, her reading glasses precariously sat on the tip of her nose. “Oh look,” she mumbles. She stretches out, groaning as her joints complain from being held in this miserable hospital chair for hours. “You’ve decided to join the land of the living.”

Hotch watches her fold the thin black frames of her glasses up, gently sits them down by his hand as she stands up. Jack had called her, even though he promised he wouldn’t worry anyone. Hotch didn’t want anyone else coming to the hospital over something so small and though Jack protested that their concern wouldn’t be because he was bothering them but because they love him. The very same reason he’d come home is that people gather after these sorts of things. They need reassurance that he’s alive and he’s just going to have to accept that. They compromised in the end, everyone could come to smother him in worry after he got home from the surgery.

But Jack was scared. He called the only person he could think to, the woman whose role in his life that was never really clear. She’d gotten on him about his grades, smacked the back of his head when he said something stupid, and always let him taste-test her wine at Thanksgiving dinner. Emily knew things that not even Jessica knew and she could be sterner than both Hotch and Jessica and also more relaxed, more understanding. She was always there for both of them, in the same capacity as Jessica and yet her own unique one. A friend Hotch trusted and loved and Jack could understand that. His friends always wanted to know if they were dating and he knew intuitively that the answer was no but he would hesitate to try and explain. But he didn’t understand the gravity that pulled them together, adults and their relationships far too complex to fit it into his simple understanding of love.

He did understand she was the only person to call.

“What’d he do this time?” she asked and knew she was playing the wrong role for the wrong Hotchner because no sooner than she could ask she had an armful of Jack. She sat with Jack for hours, let him get his fear out. Held him while he sobbed, felt pulled to the past. When it was Aaron on her shoulder, terrified he’d lose his son. Life has this very odd way of bringing everything full circle.

“I bet you’re hurting.” Emily moves to the table and pours water into the little paper Dixie cup left by the nurses. “Been right dramatic this afternoon,” she informs him, a dissatisfied matter-of-fact tone in play. “I know you find that to be particularly taxing.” She holds the cup for him, gentle despite her annoyance. She’s close enough to see the iodine on his skin. Dark orange swipes across his pale skin, the smell burns with its strength.

He pulls greedily from the cup, mouth impossibly dry. Stopped only by how little she poured, he sinks back heavily into the pillows behind him. His shoulder hot and angry from forcing himself upright.

“They’re going to let you go in the morning,” she says, sitting back down. He won’t remember this in the morning. Emily holding his hand, whispering thickly how angry she is with him as tears fall down her face. How scared she was getting that phone call from Jack, racing down here to be a composed person to comfort his son thinking her best friend was in the morgue.

He’ll wake up with a pit in his stomach, residual feelings from the night before he can’t tie down to memories. Emily shows no inclination to repeat herself, just coldly informs him that she’ll have Penelope make him a cardiologist appointment (it’s unspoken that no one trusts him to do this himself). Jack walks on glass, close by but terrified of being pushed away. Hotch is too out of it to put up much of a fight, by the time the morning shift has their hands on him he’s silent. Properly dosed up for a ride home and out of his mind.

He’s groggily propped up on pillows, watching Jack and Emily fight over if he has the right to wear shoes or not. Emily wants to hold them captive, he won’t run off or refuse the wheelchair without them and Jack shakes his head, “he’s not our P.O.W, Emily. He’s even going to get that far if he does try to run.” He’s given his shoes but Emily makes a point to collect his cane, holds it while the nurse helps him into the wheelchair. He’s a flight-risk and she’s not going to trust him, he’s run off on her too many times for that.

At the house the other’s have gathered up, having nothing better to do evidently on a Wednesday at ten in the morning. Penelope’s frying eggs and bacon, the carnage it takes to feed their brood spread out on his kitchen counter. Reid sitting on the counter, Hank in his lap, and the two of them watching Penelope. Derek’s on the sofa, feet kicked up on the coffee table, and Savannah learning on his shoulder. Dave’s getting orange juice from the store declared them all lawless, and didn’t trust them to get the right kind.

Hotch is granted his cane to get back inside the house but Emily threatens to kick it out from underneath if he tries anything fast. He smacks her ankle and Jack has to actually step between them to keep them apart. It’s in times like these where Jack finds himself wondering how these two ever had any role in raising him at all.

“Don’t you have jobs?” Hotch asks, hooking his cane over the coat rack and toeing his shoes off. He ignores the hand Emily places on his arm, afraid he’ll knock himself over. He manages just fine, has the whole house set up so that every other step is within arms distance of something to lean on. Fingers trailing the back of the couch he limps past Derek, smiling when Savannah offers a soft “glad you’re okay”. She pats his hand and he nods back.

“Up for some food, sir?” Penelope asks and she’s not taking no for an answer. They might be having heaping servings of eggs and bacon and gravy and orange juice but she’s made two small bowls of oatmeal. She takes the medicine Jack tosses up on the counter, puts it at the end where the rest of his medication sits. “I cut up apples,” she tells Hotch with a wide grin, sliding the bowl in front of him. “Dashed a little cinnamon and sugar in there, it’ll stick to your bones. Keep you healthy.”

He’s at a healthy weight at the moment, not as thin as he leans to when he’s sick but with Hotch, it’s always a good thing to have some collateral weight for the “in case”. Lifting the spoon in his left hand he scoops some of the oatmeal up, doing his best to hide his annoyance at how weak his extremities still are. How his hand shakes under the light strain of the oatmeal. He looks up, watches Spencer carry Hank over to the highchair sitting at the table beside him. He’s distracted so Emily swoops in, takes his spoon from his hand, and tries his oatmeal. He lets her do it. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs. She likes it. He nods, it’s pretty good.

Hank immediately knocks his spoon on the ground and makes a low whining sound in the back of his throat. “Hop help,” he whines, pointing down at his spoon. His speech is still developing so he pronounces help and hop nearly identically but Hotch understands the difference. He just can’t bend over like that. His right arm is still pinned to his chest in an intricate web of gauze and this sling.

“Reid,” Hotch calls. His voice is deep, strained from intubation and anesthesia. It makes him sound sick. “He’s dropped his spoon.”

Reid nods, he already knows.

Hank points to his shoulder and frowns, “Hop fall down?”

Hotch nods, that is pretty much what happened and at the same time, Emily sweeps in and tickles Hank. She presses kisses to his face and making him laugh loudly. “That’s what happens,” she says. “Hops is just old.” Hank is too distracted by the ongoing attack to defend Hotch not that a toddler rising to his defense is very helpful.

Hotch sighs as Jack comes up behind him, stealing his spoon too. He takes a bite of the oatmeal and deems it nearly as good as the kind that Jessica makes. Hotch wants to be annoyed by it and yet all he does is nod and finds himself smirking just a little.

Penelope calls everyone in for breakfast and Hotch ignores the kisses pressed to his cheek as people drag chairs to the table around him. To the hands that slide over his back, assurance of life he remembers Jack calling it.

Derek slides him a mug of tea, made exactly how he likes it. He sits across from Hotch, close to Hank in case either needs assistance. Emily sits to his left, slides her coffee up beside his tea so he can have some if he’s quick about it. Jack sits beside her and the rest is a blur, too much motion at once for him to take in without his contacts or glasses. Penelope slides a tea plate to him, his medicine on it, and kisses his head while he’s still scowling at the plate.

They don’t leave him alone all day.

He ends up taking a nap with Hank, the toddler’s sticky little fingers holding onto his shirt as he finds himself unable to fight off the effects of the medicine and his full stomach.

He’s squished on the couch between Derek and Dave, forced to watch baseball because he can’t worm his way upright again just yet.

They change the dressings on his shoulder, his teeth clenched tightly so that he doesn’t let anything slip.

At midnight he wakes up on the couch. Jack’s bedroom door is shut, he’s sleeping peacefully inside. His heating blanket is pulled up to his chin, the heat turned up all the way. He can’t remember getting into this state himself but he has a fate memory of JJ helping him move his hand to his mouth, encouraging him to take the pain killers before bed. Of Derek making sure he didn’t just fall straight over onto his side. He manages to find Dave stretched out on the Lazyboy -- the chair he got Hotch for his fifty-something birthday. He’ll wake up in the morning to more food being made in his lonely kitchen, JJ this time. She’ll make blueberry waffles.

If he’d wanted attention, Emily will tease the next morning, he could have just asked. And he didn’t even know he wanted this. He never finds the words to ask for it to continue but every Saturday morning it happens anyway -- his kitchen and living room full of pajamas and suits in varying degrees depending on who has what to do that morning. The fainting thing is not cool but he considers this to be a good trade.

Spooky season is lored season. I can't help but imagine them waking up cuddled because it's starting to get cold, him making her favourite tea, both of them with cozy sweathers just chilling together on the couch, lorraine maybe sewing Judy's costume for halloween and ed playing something with his guitar, him eating her out when it's softly raining outside...you know, autumn things

yes, absolutely, all of this. I feel like autumn is when their work really starts to pick up -- Judy is back in school so they're less concerned about childcare and needing to be quite so attentive to her, but also colleges are back in session so they're obviously able to get more speaking engagement requests and able to pick up more academic work than in the summer. the veil is the thinnest from late august through the harvest, so they're getting more and more cases thrown at them, up to three or four a week to go check out. more cases means more publicity, which means media engagements, and any financial stress they've felt from the end of the school year to august is definitely eased by October but they are so, so busy and trying to balance their workload with being parents and occasionally they are. so very exhausted.

not that things slow to a halt after Halloween, but September and October are definitely the busiest months of the year for them media and speaking engagement and book signings wise, because of course they are. the money they can make in the 6-8 weeks surrounding Halloween can usually carry them through the holidays, if they're smart -- and they're always smart about it.

No matter how busy they are in the lead up to Halloween, Lorraine always takes the time to make and fit Judy's costume, and they don't take any speaking engagements that would conflict with like, her elementary school Halloween parade or taking her trick or treating. They definitely go to mass for All Saints Day/All Hallows Day/Feast of All Saints the next day and won't book anything for then, either.

Usually the week after is usually a lull maybe just one small engagement or two, close enough to home that they can make it there and back in time to pick up Judy from school. but usually by the second week in November they can stop and take inventory. that week, especially if its cold and rainy, wrapped up in each other at home in front of the fire, talking and working out the household budget and paying quarterly taxes. You know, the really sexy stuff that comes with working for yourselves. I absolutely think Lorraine is an Early Christmas Shopper so she starts scouring catalogs and sales immediately (probably has been since the summer) to buy things for Ed and Judy to buy and squirrel away. (Ed absolutely does not attempt to buy anything for Lorraine before like, Christmas Eve morning in an attempt to keep her from figuring out what he bought her. His inability to lie + her powers does not make for an aptness for surprises.) But once the budget for the rest of the year is sorted, they figure out how many engagements they need to take in November and December, and if it's been a Good Year they plan to take quite a bit of time off around Judy's school vacations and if not... they start figuring out babysitters and how much Lorraine's parents are willing to take Judy in their old age. how many commissions Ed can reasonably take on, or what paintings can be sold easiest.

If it's been a good year -- which by the 70s is more often than not -- they breathe a sigh of relief, send the check off to the department of revenue, and set in to relax together for a minute. Endless cups of coffee and tea, naps in the middle of the way wrapped up in each other, daytime TV or radio on in the background as they talk about one thing or the other, dancing around the idea of going back to bed until it's time for Judy to come home from school. Figuring out what they're doing for Thanksgiving, raking up the fallen leaves, winterizing the house and garden. Keeping each other warm or warming each other back up, when needed. Or "needed."

At least until Father Gordon comes calling with the next case.

"I knitted you a jumper" with bach lashton (ashton is the one knitting obvs)

meghna you are the loml and this was so fun to spend the afternoon on, esp after trying to write these two again for AGGGGGES and coming up with something. so i hope you enjoy this <33333

can be read here on ao3 bc it’s like 3k bc i kinda ran away with this lol

Luke could pinpoint the exact moment the need for a hobby like knitting must have jumped into Ashton’s mind.

He always tried his hardest to wake up by late morning on his days off so his whole day wasn’t wasted away on sleep and could instead be spent running daytime errands or lounging about with Ashton. They had both nestled into each other’s homes pretty permanently in the last few months, their closets and grocery favorites split pretty evenly between Luke’s apartment and Ashton’s little hideaway. (Though Luke has to admit that his heart still flutters any time Ashton calls his little place home.)

It’s also pretty typical that his days off always begin with lazy cuddles beneath warm sheets before one of their stomachs starts throwing a tantrum for breakfast or Ashton decides it’s coffee time. But on one particular morning in late September, Luke wakes up alone, his arms reaching out for a warm body beside him only to find the sheets pushed toward him and the space cold, evidence that Ashton had been up for more than just a quick run into the bathroom. Luke sits up and lets the sheets fall to pool around his waist, his chest bare and cold without his human space heater to keep him cozy. His lips drop into a pout as he rubs the sleep from his eyes and he reaches for his phone to check the time. It’s just before noon but he doesn’t remember Ashton mentioning anything about morning plans. 

He drops the phone back onto the bedside table he’s claimed at the home Ashton’s taken up residence at since his “death” earlier in the year. It still never fails to astound Luke how Ashton’s careful way of living has been enough to keep the public believing the whole thing but some days he finds himself thankful for it. He knows their paths likely never would have crossed without it. Well, that and the fact that apparently Luke’s grocery store friend Calum turned out to be a childhood friend of Ashton’s from back home in Australia.

(The two of them had had a good laugh about the whole ordeal about a month or so into this thing that Ashton and Luke have had going since their initial meeting. Sometime in early summer Ashton had mentioned that the friend that owned the place was going to come over for dinner and Luke can only imagine how funny the face he made must have been upon seeing Calum walk through the front door.)

Luke wanders into the closet and pulls on one of Ashton’s jumpers before wandering out in the direction of the kitchen. His favorite mug sits on the island and he smiles after realizing it’s already filled, the color indicating that Ashton added the cream and sugar for him already. He lifts the mug to his lips and takes a sip while glancing around the room since he still hasn’t spotted Ashton. But then some movement just beyond the window tells him where to find his boy. 

He pushes at the sliding door that leads into the backyard, Ashton’s massive garden taking up most of the space. Ashton stands in the middle of all of the plots that once held all kinds of summer fruits and vegetables. Even from the door though, Luke can tell that something is wrong. Ashton looks like he’s having an argument with himself but also just looks a bit sad. Luke leaves the back door open (every day they get closer and closer to the point in the year where the weather will no longer allow the fresh air in the kitchen and they’ve been trying to take advantage of it while they can) and wanders over to where Ashton stands, his arms crossed and forehead wrinkled. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Luke greets him, his voice still scratchy from sleep. Once close enough he presses a kiss against the creases in Ashton’s forehead and he feels them relax just the slightest bit beneath his lips. “What’s bugging you?”

Ashton sighs defeatedly and lets his arms unfold to wrap around Luke’s waist, his head dropping to his shoulder. “I picked a very summer oriented hobby. And now I don’t know what I’m going to do until spring.”

The concern Luke had noticed in Ashton’s face makes sense now. Ashton liked to stay busy, he went a little crazy without a project (the years of working in TV seemed to have left that effect even with the way he had found a way to escape that world). The back garden had been a great answer of where to expend all of that energy and their climate and location really wouldn’t allow it again until the spring. He was right.

Luke lifts his free hand to play with the grown out, faded black curls at the back of Ashton’s head. “How about some house plants? We’ve got great light in the living room here and at the apartment?” 

“I don’t know,” Ashton shrugs against Luke’s chest. “Just isn’t the same as getting to spend all day out here, I guess. But I could give it a shot.” 

Luke lifts his other arm to wrap around Ashton’s shoulders, careful that he doesn’t spill his mug. Ashton lifts his head from his shoulder and Luke finds himself pouting at the sad look in the hazel eyes across from him. “Don’t worry, Ash. You’ve got such a creative mind, you’ll figure out something.”

A small smile pulls at Ashton’s lips. “Mm, yeah, you’re right,” he starts as he lifts his face to press his lips against Luke’s cheek. “I’m going to go get what’s left from the green bean plants and we can do them with dinner? And would you mind unlocking the front door? Calum said he was going to stop by with a package from my mom.”

“Sure thing.” Luke drops his arms from around Ashton and lifts his mug for another sip. “Gonna make more coffee too. You want another mug?”

“Yes, please.”

Luke heads back in the direction of the house, his mind wandering with ideas for house plants he remembers his mom keeping around growing up as suggestions to share later. He stops just before reaching the door and turns back toward the corner of the yard that Ashton has made his way over to. “And don’t forget your hat if you’re going to be out here much longer.”

“Of course, love.”

Luke smiles, the domesticity of all of this hitting his heart for just a moment, and makes his way back inside to refill the kettle.

* 

It’s a few weeks into November when the boxes arrive at Luke’s door. 

Ashton’s family had been visiting for the week and Luke wanted to make sure they had proper family time so he had made the choice to stay at the apartment in between shifts that week. He had come over for dinner to meet everyone earlier in the week but after that had left them to reconnect at the house.

He had just woken up about an hour earlier when he hears a knock at the door. There’s no one there when he goes to open it but there are probably close to ten small packages (why they couldn’t have all just been in one big one is beyond him) all addressed to Fletcher Hemmings.

(When Ashton started using the name to get orders delivered to Luke’s place, the brightest blush had painted it’s way across Luke’s face in an instant. 

“What?” Ashton had questioned, honestly. “Hardly anyone really knew my middle name anyway and it’s so much less suspicious showing up at your door if it’s got your last name on it.”

Luke spent the rest of the week with the thought of sharing a last name with Ashton on a constant loop.)

He knows he needs to finish getting ready and head off to the hospital soon, so Luke texts a picture of all of the boxes sitting on the kitchen counter to Ashton with a few question marks and finishes his normal run through the apartment searching for his scrubs (the turquoise ones, of course, since it’s Friday) and makes a coffee before heading down to his car. 

His phone starts ringing as he’s parking at the hospital. Luke smiles at the selfie of Ashton kissing his cheek before sliding his thumb across the screen and lifting the phone to his ear. “Doing some early holiday online shopping, are we?”

“Ha, not exactly. But the family has just headed off the airport so I’m going to head over and make sure everything got delivered, if that’s alright?”

Luke smiles softly as he hits the lock button on his car and heads toward the entrance of the hospital. “At some point you’re going to have to realize you can give up on this whole asking permission to come over. Ash, you literally get packages delivered there and have a key, of course you can come over.”

He hears a dramatic sigh on the other side of the line. “I know, I know. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early, as always,” Luke says while holding his ID card to the door to get the automatic doors to open up. He heads down the hall in the direction of his department, waving to those he passes with a smile. “You think you’ll be down for a sugary breakfast? I’ve had French toast on the brain all week and I want to hear all about your time with the family.”

“Yes absolutely, but I’m going to pick up some fruit on my way over. Balance is everything.”

“Alright, Mr Healthy. I gotta go,” Luke says while sliding in behind the desk and setting his bag beside his chair. “Love you, drive safe.”

“Have a good night, babe. Love you too.”

Luke smiles as he clicks out of the call and sets his phone down before tapping quickly at the keyboard to log in for the night. Behind him he hears someone clear their throat. “You know at some point you’re going to have to introduce us to this sweet man of yours. You know everyone would just be complete heart eyes like yourself if you brought him in one night.”

Luke rolls his eyes while turning to face Alex, the surgical resident that’s been on rotation in their department for awhile. “Fine, I’ll bring my guy in when you bring Jack by to hang out for the day.”

Alex laughs as he pulls out a couple files he must have been digging for out of the cabinet against the wall. “Oh, please, Jack absolutely does not have the kind of sense of humor that I can bring into a pediatrics department. Or at least not while I’m still working here.” He opens another cabinet and shifts the papers around in his arms to accommodate the growing pile he’s creating. “We can just double date sometime.”

Luke smiles and tries to hide his disappointment at the fact that there’s a zero chance of that ever being a possibility. “That would be fun.”

“Have a good shift, Luke,” Alex calls as he wanders back down the hall. “Tell all my favorites that Doctor Alex is bringing cookies tomorrow!”

“Will do!”

Luke wanders back into the break room then to make the first pot of coffee for the night and feels his phone buzz in his pocket while he rests his hip against the counter while waiting for the pot to fill with water. It’s a selfie of Ashton, his hair pulled back into a small bun, holding various bags of produce with a smiling Calum in the background. 

He remembers Alex’s heart eyes comment then and feels a blush across his cheeks as he replies with a string of fruit emojis and the story of the conversation he’s just had.  

*

Luke is used to arriving home after work to a sleeping Ashton against his pillow. Usually he’s wearing one of his t-shirts and it makes him feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy and just generally lucky and in love. So he’s surprised when he gets home at 8am to find Ashton sitting in the middle of the couch, his legs folded up beneath him with a pair of knitting needles in his hands and what appears to be a long scarf stretching out onto the floor. 

“Hey, love, what are you up to?” Luke greets as he walks into the living room after dropping his bag onto its hook. Luke lets his hands drop onto Ashton’s shoulders as he moves to stand behind him, his thumbs rubbing circles at the tension pretty much always present between his shoulders. 

“Well, a while back when I started having that crisis about what hobby to pick up for the winter months my mom suggested I try knitting,” he starts, his voice slow and a little distant as he obviously lets most of his concentration stick to the task at hand. “And she sent me some beginner’s materials and it turns out I don’t suck at knitting and it’s also quite fun. So I ordered a bunch more and now everyone is getting hats and scarves for the holidays.”

“That’s so lovely, Ash.” Luke smiles. Because genuinely, it really is. The living room at the house was filled with various house plants that Ashton had taken a liking to when Luke walked him around the gardening store on Facetime in October but he had been a little worried about Ashton having something a bit busier to occupy his time with. “So all the boxes were like, yarn and stuff?”

“Exactly. Though that’s all in the car now since I didn’t want you accidentally catching a sneak peek at the materials for your present. I want it to be a surprise.”

Luke jumps over the back of the couch to sit beside him. He wraps his arms around Ashton’s middle, out of the way of where his hands work, and presses a kiss to his temple. “I can’t wait to see it. Or wear it. Both, I guess.”

Ashton takes a second to finish his row and then sets his work aside. He turns to let his legs fall across Luke’s lap and drapes his arms across his shoulders. “I’m glad. I’m excited to make you something.”

As he takes in his boyfriend’s tired eyes and smile (it’s obvious this new activity might have gotten him up a bit earlier than usual), Luke can’t help but lean in to press their lips together for a moment. He feels Ashton relax more into his arms and the lucky and in love feeling starts flooding his mind again. Luke pulls back but lets his forehead stay pressed against Ashton’s as they giggle at each other for a moment.

“French toast time?” Ashton questions once they pause in their laughter. 

“Please.”

The feeling continues to float around in his brain as he watches Ashton cut up fruit while he flips the bread on the griddle. Though really, he thinks, that feeling has probably been taking up most of his mind since the day they basically wandered into each other’s lives.

* 

“Would you hate me if I give you your Christmas present early?”

Luke looks up from his spot in front of the fire to find where Ashton stands in the doorway of the living room, his hands holding something wrapped in bright red tissue paper. He checks his page number and makes a mental note before closing his novel and setting it aside. “Of course not, I love presents. Though the last part of yours is still in the mail so if you wanted this to be an exchange, we’ll need to wait.”

Ashton beams, his eyes bright and happy. “No, no. I’m okay to wait for mine but yours is done and I want you to have it right now.”

Luke smiles and he pauses to take a sip from his first coffee of the morning. “Well, I would love to have it then.”

Ashton wanders across the room and takes a spot on the floor beside him and places the package between the two of them. Luke tugs at the ribbon wrapped around the paper and gently rips at the tape to pull it open. As he realizes what’s inside, his lips fall open just a bit, from shock or joy or both he’s not really sure. “Ashton, I-”

“I knitted you a jumper,” he says, his voice quick while his fingers nervously play with the edge of his sweatshirt. “And it was a little daunting and probably a little bit beyond my skill level with this but you like jumpers and I wanted to make you a jumper.”

The smile on Luke’s lips continues to pull across his face as he lifts up the soft, baby blue jumper that Ashton made with his own two hands and Luke specifically in mind. His heart feels so full, like it’s going to burst out from his chest and across the room. “Love, this might be the kindest thing anyone has ever given me. I’m like, never going to take this off.”

He watches Ashton relax some then, his smile shifting from eager into something more fond. “Well, you may want to wash it every once in a while but I really appreciate the enthusiasm. Also try it on now. I want to make sure it fits.”

Luke hands off his mug to make sure he doesn’t knock it over and Ashton takes a sip while Luke unfolds the soft garment and pulls his arms through the sleeves. It fits like a dream, which especially surprises him since Ashton never asked to take his measurements. Though he supposes he could have just been taking a tape measure to another one of his jumpers at some point in the last month. 

Luke sits up then and scoots closer to Ashton until he can pull himself halfway into his lap and wrap his arms around his neck. “Thank you, Ash. You’re perfect. I love you so much.”

Ashton pulls him closer toward his chest and presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I love you too. Glad I can keep you cozy with my crafting.”

Luke laughs gently before he straightens up, moving to stand. “Alright, now it’s my turn to show you my love and appreciation in the best way I know how.”

Ashton pulls a face that’s a mix of confusion but also something suggestive, and Luke only rolls his eyes dramatically. “I’m gonna make the second pot of coffee.” He winks down at where Ashton still sits on the floor as they both start laughing.

Ashton reaches a hand up for help off the floor. “Man of my dreams, you are.”

And as they wander into the kitchen, Ashton hopping up onto the counter to keep his bare feet off the tile floor, Luke can’t help but agree.

*

Flowerbeds and Fertile Soil: Chapter 14

Fandom: Good Omens

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens, )Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer

Tags:  Kidfic, Mpreg kind of, they can choose to present however so idk, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Vulva (Good Omens), OCs Galor, parenting, using your snake form to avoid confrontation, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pregnancy, if I missed a tag lemme know

Summary: They could do anything, go anywhere, all without the worry of Above or Bellow making a fuss. Even so, they mostly kept to their little patch of Eden, their cottage and garden and the simple life they’d carved out among the locals. Aziraphale opened a book shop in town, where he only occasionally sold any books (and the ones he did sell, were all modern and stocked specifically for that purpose). Crowley focused his attentions on the garden, and if he occasionally helped their elderly neighbour with her disobedient willow tree, then that was a secret no one needed to know. Lately, however, they had both been feeling rather restless, unbeknownst to each other. Aziraphale tried reorganizing his store, changing the way he tied his bowtie and even ate pizza –something he considered to be far too messy for him personally. Crowley had branched out into birdwatching, and then car maintenance (the human way), and even reading. Nothing scratched the itch for either of them.

Ao3 Link

It was Beelzebub’s turn to pick the meeting spot, so of course they were standing in a dark, damp back alley somewhere in the American Mid-West at three in the morning. Seemed a little out of the way to Gabriel, but the Prince of Hell had said something about an on-going project with the American political system that they couldn’t leave for a even a second, so here he was. 

“We couldn’t meet inside somewhere? he sneered, eyeing the way his designer shoes were getting ruined in the disgusting sludge coming from a dumpster a few feet away.

“Don’t want you and your lot closer to this project than necessary. You’d just fuck it all up,” Beelzebub answered, rolling their eyes at him. Gabriel huffed and straightened his collar, though it of course wasn’t at all out of place. 

“Well let’s make it quick then. Did your humans…?”

A dangerous growl that Gabriel was glad wasn’t directed at him. “No. Idiots got scared off by whatever the bastard had set up. They all ran off anyways.”

“Well mine got the job done. They sent a little… encouragement, to that ratty bookshop Aziraphale insists on keeping.” Gabriel was practically preening and he knew it. Being able to show up Beelzebub in any way always put him in a positive mood. Thwarting the enemy and all that.

“It’d be easier if we could be direct,” Beezle growled. The flies swarming around the dumpster began to make their way over and Gabriel had to swat a few away with the back of his hand.

“Get a hold of yourself, Beez. You were there, you know the almighty was clear that neither one of us could interfere directly!” Using humans as a loophole had been Michael’s idea and so far there hadn’t been any repercussions. But this had only been a test, and since things had gone well…

“We can escalate though, yes?” they buzzed, the flies zipping around excitedly and a grin breaking out on their face. “My contacts from before have been... reprimanded appropriately, and we’re ready to move on whenever you are.”

Gabriel’s face morphed into a tight smile of his own. He always had admired his demonic counterpart’s willingness to get a job done, no matter the cost. Beelzebub was shrewd and cutthroat and if they hadn’t been one of Satan’s damned, Gabriel might have hired them for a position Upstairs.

“Yes, we can move on to phase 2. Give it a few weeks, I’ll send you a memo, and a calendar invite for the pre-briefing. It’s Heaven’s turn to cater so…” Which was a good thing, since last time when it’d been Hell’s turn the lettuce on the tea sandwiches had been mouldy. Gabriel didn’t partake in the gross matter but it was the principle of the thing! “Are we still on for that event in Berlin next Saturday?”

“You’re the one who said it’d be in both our best interests if it went well, so yeah, I’ll be there. Don’t get in my way.” Beelzebub threw up a rather rude hand gesture then disappeared through a door in one of the buildings. Gabriel spent a few extra minutes in the ally, pondering whether contacting the demon to make sure their chosen apparel didn’t clash, or if that might get him in more trouble than it was worth.

-

The hunger didn’t really go away. Crowley woke up almost every morning with a strong desire to get to the breakfast table that persisted throughout lunch and supper. Aziraphale enjoyed it as an opportunity to exercise his cooking skills, even if it did require him to spend more of his day in the kitchen than was usual. Crowley repaid him for his kindness of course, he’d bring in fresh flowers (though with the changing seasons, he was going to have to switch to gourds), or later in the day bring him cocoa and biscuits while the angel was working on restoring a book. Sometimes, after a particularly good supper, Crowley might drop to his knees under the table and thank Aziraphale in a different way that the angel liked just as much as any of the others. 

The change of season brought on a change in their routines as well. Since it was getting colder, Crowley spent a lot more of his time indoors curled up in front of the fireplace watching reality TV, or in bed taking long indulgent naps. When they’d first moved in together Crowley had tried to stay awake and active through the colder months, scared Aziraphale would be upset with him for lounging about. But after 10 years they’d come to an understanding. As long as Crowley made an effort to spend at least a little bit of time-conscious with the angel every day (barring very long naps, which were usually discussed beforehand), Aziraphale was happy. And Aziraphale being happy made Crowley happy which in turn made the colder months of the year much more pleasant for the demon. 

On a blustery November afternoon, Crowley was making a significant effort to be awake as Aziraphale showed him pictures of cribs on his own laptop. He never should have shown the angel pinterest, or Amazon. 

“So what do you think? I thought something traditional would be nice, and of course money isn’t really an object, and maybe there’s someone in town who does carpentry? But what about safety?” Crowley browsed the collections of cribs, and rocking chairs, and various baby paraphilia, trying to keep himself from drifting off. He’s set an alarm to wake him up just after midday in case he didn’t wake up naturally. Of course, he’d snoozed it a few times before dragging himself out of their bedroom and into the sitting room for a cuppa.

“Think we’ve seen thousands of babies make it just fine, even without all these fancy cribs and chairs and baskets. You know we can make just about anything safe if we want to, with wards and a good talking-to.” He paused on a simple crib made of light pine with gently scalloped finishings. “I know I’ve seen signs for ‘rustic’ furniture around the village, m’sure you could find someone to make one like this.”

“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? It’s been a very long time since I had to make use of any woodworking skills, but I’m sure I could sketch something up for a professional to take a look at. Would you like to help, darling?” 

“Sure, go get us a pencil and paper then, and maybe a refill?” There’d be no more coffee since Aziraphale insisted he keep to under a cup a day, but maybe the angel would allow him some tea. Aziraphale gave him a beatific smile then rushed off to his stacks of stationery. Crowley secretly thought it was sweet how Aziraphale still wrote letters on his own custom paper, with fountain pens and a personalized wax seal. Over the millennia he’d gotten thousands of letters from the angel, and he kept each one in a lockbox that was now hidden in the back of their closet. Outwardly, Crowley rolled his eyes when Aziraphale returned, playing the part of out-upon husband as usual.

“Alright, you get a start on here then, while I make more tea. You’ve always been better at the arts than me anyway.” Debatable, but Crowley was too sleepy to really argue. He took a pen and some paper and began to doodle out crib-shaped creations. As the kettle whistled and Aziraphale hummed to himself his drawing moved towards the more specific, detailing little flower engravings for decoration along all the legs. When Aziraphale came back with the tea and some biscuits, Crowley had less of a sketch and more of a fully fleshed-out design.

“Oh Crowley! It’s gorgeous love,” Aziraphale exclaimed as he sat down to take a look. Crowley had barely been thinking about what he was drawing, instead letting his hands take over while his mind coasted in a half-dreaming state. “I love the flowers, and the wings on the corners. “You’re so creative.”

“Thanks angel,” Crowley murmured, looking at his own drawing like he was seeing it for the first time. He took a sip of tea from the cup Aziraphale passed him, relaxing back against his angel. “But I’m sure you can do it better, if you try.”

“Nonsense. I think it’s perfect. Maybe we could do a little more research, just to make sure it’s up to safety standards, just in case, but otherwise, I don’t think I’d change a thing.” Crowley would have argued if he wasn’t already half asleep again, his teacup leaning dangerously to the side. “Are you really so tired my dear? You should have said.”

“Wanted t’spend some time w’you,” he mumbled. The teacup was gone from his hands, presumably taken by Aziraphale, and a warm blanket draped around his shoulders. “Don’t want you t’be lonely.”

“My sweet demon,” Aziraphale cooed. “Thank you, you’re always thinking of me. But I think I’m going to read for a little while, if you’re like to take a nap. You can use my lap, if you’re like.” Crowley was already sliding down so he was horizontal, his head cushioned against Aziraphale thighs. The angel used one hand to turn the pages of the book resting on the arm of the sofa, the other slung low on Crowley’s hips. That hand wormed its way under Crowley’s sweater--soft cotton, with little devil horns on the hood--so he could touch the bare skin of his belly. 

“Love you,” Crowley hummed. Aziraphale wiggled a tiny bit, either in happiness or to get more comfortable, and sighed happily.

“I love you too, dear. Get some sleep.” And Crowley drifted off.

At first he was dreaming about the garden. Not the Garden, but his garden in the South Downs, at the cottage. It was summer, peak flowering period for some of his favourites and he was down on his knees at one of the smaller flower beds pulling weeds. The sun was exceedingly warm at the back of his neck but that was alright, he was nearly done. Then he could go inside and drink some of the lemonade Aziraphale had made earlier.

The dream oozed forward at a leisurely pace and he enjoyed every second. The sun slowly sank towards the horizon and the wind got a little chilly; it must have been later in the summer than he thought. Even though the weather was turning, he still felt warm though, an unfamiliar heat spreading from his core and out to his limbs. He looked down, almost expecting to see something silly like a hot water bottle--dream logic of course; even when he knew he was dreaming Crowley’s imagination got away from him--but instead saw his own body. And the baby bump.

“That you, Sprout?” he asked, his voice echoing strangely in the hazy dreamworld. “You’re very warm, taking after your Papa?”

A familiar wriggling, and something Crowley struggled to define. It almost reminded him of when we was still an angel, and he could sense love, a glowing joy from inside, spilling out through his cracks. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation, the dream’s slow pace lulling him into a sense of security. Here in his garden there was just him, the baby, and what felt like pure joy.

Crowley didn’t notice the dream shifting. The garden slowly getting darker and colder, the flowers wilting, shriveling, dying. Their cottage faded away, becoming an empty field, the sky a roiling grey. When Crowley opened his eyes and saw his surroundings, the oncoming storm whipping the dead grass and flowers all around, he knew. The warmth in his stomach pulled away and Crowley felt cold.

Something was coming.

Aziraphale was startled from deep in his reread of Frankenstein’s Monster by Crowley’s shuddering. Normally when the demon had a bad dream the first sign was a noise; a whimper or a shout that would alert Aziraphale to the situation so he could intervene. But even lacking the normal markers, the angel could tell something was wrong. Crowley was a very still sleeper, even if he did cling, and the erratic shaking and shivering he was doing right now certainly wasn’t normal.

“Crowley love, wake up. Shhh, it’s alright,” he said, loud enough to wake the other but softly enough to avoid startling him. He set his book aside and brought both hands into the equation, caressing and petting Crowley’s hair and shoulders. “Come on darling, time to wake up.”

“‘Zira? S’dark.” He didn’t sound upset, or panicked and Aziraphale let out a breath of relief. 

“You were only asleep for an hour, but the suns already set, given how late in the year it is,” Aziraphale explained, still petting Crowley’s hair. “Were you having a bad dream?”

Crowley rubbed his face against the angel’s belly, dispelling the sleep from his eyes. “Strange. I was in the garden, and then it was dark out. Could feel…” He stared down at his stomach. “I think I could feel them there.”

“Really?” Aziraphale meant to ask more about the dream, but was easily sidetracked by the news of the baby communicating. “In what way did you see them?”

“Not see, just felt them. They were warm. But then it got dark, and I felt like I was freezing, and the cottage was gone--” his voice got faster and faster, his breathing more shallow. To stop him flying off into a panic attack Aziraphale thread his fingers through Crowley’s hair again, not really tugging but still a firm presence. “And then I woke up. That's it, nothing exciting angel.”

Aziraphale hummed lowly, in the way he knew relaxed Crowley. “I’m a little jealous of you. For getting to feel them, not for having a nightmare.”

Crowley wiggled so that instead of just his head resting in Aziraphale lap, his entire upper body was laying across his legs. Then he grabbed the hand the angel didn’t have woven through his hair and pressed it to his stomach.

“S’the best I can do. Maybe if you concentrate you’ll feel it too?” Aziraphale tried his hardest, willing his entire celestial self to focus in on that one small area. Underneath his hands Crowley shuddered, but Aziraphale kept on searching until--

“Oh!” He could feel something, at least. It wasn’t really warm, like Crowley had said, but there was movement. It was reassuring to know they were there, and alive, and growing. “You’re amazing Crowley.”

“What, me?” Crowley laughed, thoroughly pleased with himself. The anxiety from the dream didn’t stand a chance against praise from Aziraphale. Still, Crowley looked like he was done sleeping, because he sat up and stretched languorously.  “S’a bit late to go out, but we could order in?”

“If you want. You’ll have to take a look at your application and see what’s available.” Somehow, despite being a ways out into the countryside they always had plenty of options for takeout. And they were well known by all the delivery persons as excellent tippers, so their food usually arrived on time or earlier than expected. “I’m not craving anything in particular.”

“Good, ‘cause I am. I want fries, and maybe a ceasar salad. Oh and falafel.” Crowley was already tapping wildly at his phone, presumably making his order. “And maybe something sweet, for after…”

“Cravings dear?” Aziraphale teased, nudging Crowley with one elbow like he used to do years ago, when they would walk through St. James’ Park. That was before the end that didn’t happen, when even the smallest contact between them was taboo. Now they could touch whenever they wanted, and so Aziraphale didn’t stop at just one nudge, instead choosing to lean heavily against Crowley so he could look at the screen, “The poor delivery person is going to have an awful lot of trouble carrying all that.”

Crowley just rolled his eyes and continued scrolling through his options. “So you don’t want bubble tea? I was going to get you taro flavour but if you think it’s too much--” 

“Now now let's not be hasty love. I'm sure a large tip will make up for any trouble on the driver’s end.” Crowley giggled. Aziraphale tucked the sound away in his memory with all the other cute things Crowley did but would never admit to. 

“I thought so. You can never resist, can you?” Refusing to be needled, Aziraphale decided to fire back. Crowley was so cuddly and soft; so completely unworried now that the nightmare had faded that he couldn’t resist. He nuzzled right underneath the other’s demon-sigil where he knew Crowley was extra sensitive and revelled in the full-body shudder it produced. 

“Why should I? There’s no shame in liking nice things.” Aziraphale let the implication hang. Crowley could still be touchy about being called nice or good outside of the bedroom depending on his mood. This time however, Crowley sighed and shimmied away a bit so he could show Aziraphale the screen.

“Whatever you say angel. Does this look good?” The order list was expansive, and probably much more than either of them would be able to  eat tonight. But that was alright, leftovers wouldn’t last long given Crowley’s new and voracious appetite. 

“Splendid love. I’ll go set the table?” It was really an excuse to get up and move. As much as Aziraphale loved cuddling and pampering his husband, he did tend to get restless. Now that Crowley was awake and relaxed he could get up and bustle about, working off all the energy that had built up while the demon napped. With the excitement of the baby coming Aziraphale had been finding it difficult to sit still and not rush about, preparing everything.

“Can’t we just eat here?” Crowley asked, sprawling into the warm space on the sofa left behind by the angel. Aziraphale smiled and passed his slothful demon the telly remote.

“No, I won’t have you drop tahini and falafel bits all over the carpet. You can eat at the table or not at all.” Crowley glared but there wasn’t really any real anger in it. In fact, it was quite cute, not that he’d ever say that out loud. Crowley would not tolerate being called cute, no matter how happy he was. 

“Fine, stuffy angel.” He turned the TV on and quickly navigated to NBC where Aziraphale knew they’d be playing Golden Girls at this hour. After one last fond look Aziraphale couldn’t stand still any longer, so he hurried off to get everything ready for their impromptu feast.

Spark (Male Fire Elemental, pt. 2)

There are two sides to every story. And for many, both are worth hearing. To help her father heal and to better understand Ignis, Simone knows she must learn of the fire elemental’s past. That is, if he chooses to tell her.

Female Human (POV) x Male Monster [Part 1] [Part 3] [Part 4]

TW: self-harm

As a child, I used to scream myself awake at night.

Sweat soaked my pajamas every time and my muscles ached from thrashing around. The only thing that brought me to my senses was the gentle touch of Nana’s hands.

My lungs always struggled to take in air and there were times when I threw up. But Nana would just draw a warm bath then gently wash my body with lavender soap. And she never let me feel ashamed.

But during the worst nights, I couldn’t look at her. Even after she’d dress me, change my bedsheets, and tuck me back in. I wanted nothing more than for her to leave so I could stay angry at myself. She never did.

“Simone?”

“Mm.” 

“Are you too old to be my grandbaby?”

Every time she’d ask that question with a playful tone, I’d meet her eyes and shake my head.

“Then you aren’t too old to hear me tell your favorite story. Are you comfy?”

I’d nod, only after snuggling further into bed. The act would bring a smile to her face every time.

“Ready, Nana.”

And without fail, she’d spin her tale. Once upon a time, there was a brave, Black girl who lived in a quiet town. It was so quiet that the girl decided she wanted to go on an adventure in the woods. So, she did.

As she explored the forest, the girl found something amazing: fire trapped in an unbreakable glass sphere. But neither were ordinary fire or ordinary glass. The flame was a tricksy spirit and the sphere was its prison, etched with strange symbols. At first, the spirit didn’t want anything to do with the girl and told her to leave. But the girl refused and told the spirit that having company was better than being alone. To the girl’s surprise, the spirit agreed.

Years passed, and with time, the girl and the spirit grew close. The girl eventually found a way to shatter the glass sphere and released the spirit. But once he was freed, the spirit didn’t leave. Instead, he declared his love for the girl. But the girl couldn’t accept because her heart belonged to another. This angered the spirit and he vowed to destroy the quiet town where the girl lived. To save the boy and the town she loved, the girl tricked the spirit and trapped him again using her own blood.

“The girl later married the boy and lived a happy life, but she still thought about the spirit from time to time.”

“But he turned bad. So why Nana?”

“Because before he became the girl’s worst enemy, he was her dearest friend.”

 ________________________________________

I can feel Mica’s gaze trail after me as I unload my large, rolling suitcases and from Mason’s pickup. He slams the tailgate home with more force than usual and the bang drowns out her sigh.

“Are you sure about this, Simone?”

Going from “tidying up Nana’s house” in November to “living there for a week as a test-run” the next month didn’t sit well with her. More so when we found evidence of forced entry in Grandpa’s old den. Just about everything was turned over and rummaged through. And the back-door handle laid mangled in the backyard. The discovery spurred Mason to buy two, top-of-the-line locks and install them while we were still there. I offered to repay him for the locks and new keys, but he refused.

When Dad learned about our discovery, all the color drained from his face. Not surprisingly, he lost his composure when I told him my idea. Mason immediately offered to come along for additional safety as did Mica. Mainly to keep Mason in line and to help ease Dad’s growing worry. Thankfully, after I promised to put his number on speed dial and check in with him daily, he agreed.

I haul the heavier of my suitcases up the front steps and lean it against the door. Once I’m sure it won’t topple over from its own weight, I grab the second one and give Mica a reassuring smile.

“Positive. I don’t want my inheritance to go to waste.”

Mason frowns in return, but Mica quickly intercedes before he can speak.

“If you need anything, give us a call, okay? The motel’s only ten minutes away.”

“I will,” I say.

But neither twin moves. Or says anything. A long silence follows, one that’s filled with unvoiced concern.

“I’m serious, you guys. If anything happens, you’ll be the first to know. Promise.”

The tension in Mica’s shoulders subsides, but Mason just shakes his head and heads towards the driver side of his truck without saying goodbye. As he closes the door, Mica pinches the bridge of her nose with a gloved hand and lets out a deep breath.

“Don’t worry about him,” she says. “His bad mood will blow over and he’ll be back to his normal grumpy self soon.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Mica’s hand falls away from her face and she stares at me with narrowed eyes.

“Wait, he hasn’t told you yet?”

“If you mean the reason he’s been acting weird lately, then no. He hasn’t.”

My guess goes unanswered until she stomps her foot against the cold, hard ground.

“That dumbass!”

“Uh, Mica—”

“No, no, it’s fine!” She waves off my question and gives me a horribly forced smile. “I’ll take care of it and text you later!”

Before I can say anything, Mica jogs over to the pickup’s passenger side and climbs inside. She starts tearing into Mason the moment she’s settled in. But Mason’s stony expression doesn’t crack. He just focuses on reversing the truck and driving away.

I shake off the feeling of forced ignorance and head inside. No use in getting frustrated over what I can’t change. Not when there’s something I can. And it’s past the foyer and down the main hallway, disguised as a normal fireplace piled with ash.

I stare at the dark hearth, thinking of how to best announce my presence. I’m tempted to let my noisy air mattress pump do the job for me, but any sort of pettiness will hinder my goal. So, I pick up a nearby fire iron and knock it against the brick mantle.

A tiny burst of sparks emerges from the ash slowly followed by bright flames that curl upward until they fill the iron hearth. Unlike the sharp grin Ignis first wore when he first appeared, his features are stretched wide into a yawn.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” I say.

Ignis takes his time coming around, his mouth closing with a sharp crackle. When his gaze lifts to meet mine, I give him a smile. His eyes narrow.

“You’re back.”                                      

“Considering how I’m the rightful owner of this house, yes. I am.”

The bit of flame acting as his mouth stretches into a joyless sneer.

“Does your newfound ownership extend to me?”

I back away from the fireplace and plop down in the middle of the clean area rug.

“No, it doesn’t. And it never will.”

Ignis falls silent and his mocking smile melts into an unreadable expression. I keep going, not wanting to lose his attention.

“All I want is to know the truth. Nana told her side of the story as best she could to a young child. And Dad won’t say anything about what he knows. That just leaves your perspective, if you’ll let me hear it.”

The outline of his humanoid face wavers then vanishes. Ignis retreats altogether, leaving unlit ash in his wake. That was…unexpected. As much I want to learn what happened between him and Nana, I know it’ll take time. Hopefully before Christmas week rolls around. Interfering with my friends’ holiday break isn’t an option and neither is causing Dad further distress. But for now, there’s plenty to do pass the time.

It doesn’t take long to inflate the air mattress and unpack the bedding. Or plug in Nana’s old portable heater. My clothes stay put inside my suitcase, but I drop off my nighttime essentials in the nearby guest bathroom. Mason’s suspicions about rotten wood weakening the second floor were dead on, so the upstairs is off-limits for now.

With all of that taken care of, I kick off my boots, grab my laptop and the mobile wi-fi hotspot, then settle on the loveseat across from the sofa. The lumpy cushioning keeps me alert while doing some early job searching.

I break for lunch after bookmarking a few promising offers and call up Mica. The twins soon arrive and we head into town for food and groceries. Ignoring the suspicious stares from the other shoppers would be easier if Mason and Mica weren’t giving each other the silent treatment. Even the drive back to Nana’s house is awkward with the air charged with an undercurrent of anger.

It’s sad to say, but I’m happier once I’m left alone again. As the day slowly dwindles into night, I make dinner then tuck myself into bed. The dark fireplace is the last thing I see before drifting away. It soon becomes a common sight.

Ignis remains unseen the next day. And he doesn’t appear during following day, either. Worry starts to gnaw at my mind, but I keep busy as best I can.

Clearing Nana’s garden of weeds and wild plants takes an old pair of gloves, lots of elbow grease, and the better part of the day. But it’s worth the sharp aches and stiff fingers once I’m able to see usable soil. With careful planning and the right fertilizer, it’ll be green again. That is, if I can remember what Nana used to grow.

I drop onto the couch and take a much-needed sip from my bottled water. Glancing at the dark fireplace, my curiosity gets the better of me.

“Any ideas about what plants would grow best in the backyard?” I ask.

Nothing. Not even a hint of cinders. Sighing, I flick some dirt from my cheek and get up.

“Abigail was fond of daylilies.”

I freeze in my tracks. Ignis looks at me with that same unreadable expression.

“At least,” he says, “that’s what I heard during the times I was aware.”

My chill-bitten lips stretch into a grin. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

“Thanks! I’ll give them a try.”

Progress is slow but steady after that. Ignis becomes more open to talking, and even though I’m left leading our conversations, he still provides his own opinions and ideas. He tells me that he likes the sunrise, since the sight reminds him a growing flame. But he prefers the darkest of night as that’s when he used to shine brightest. When I ask him about any powers he may have, he tells me to be patient. The next day, to curb my excitement, I decide to tackle re-painting Nana’s front door.

“You may want to come inside,” he calls out a few hours later through the open front door.

I wipe the back of my hand against my cheek, smearing more burgundy paint onto my skin. My old overalls and sweater are completely wrecked, still stained with streaks of dirt from Nana’s garden. And a break sounds wonderful, to be honest.

The moment I step inside with the paint can and brush, rain starts pouring down in a steady torrent. My mouth drops open as lightning streaks across the sky.

“But how did you know?” The forecast didn’t predict any showers.”

Ignis snorts, the light of his flame brightening temporarily.

“Nature is as unpredictable as she wishes to be, regardless of the instruments humans use to try and quantify her.

“Oh?” I say teasingly. “Is that right?”

“Yes. And the cool air blowing in told me all I needed to know.”

This is all just another small part about him, but it still leaves me wanting more.

“Think I can learn how to do that?” I ask “Or is it a special elemental thing?”

“Perhaps,” he says. “You’ve shown an aptitude for many things. I wouldn’t be surprised if you did the same with this.”

His warm reply sends a pleasant shiver down my spine and it takes all my willpower to keep a straight face. Deciding I’m done with chores for the day, I give Ignis a quick ‘thanks’ and head to the bathroom to clean up.

Friday night rolls around with Ignis and I having grown more comfortable with one another. We converse a lot more and he keeps me company as I continue to job search, asking questions about the process. I answer him as best I can, but some of my explanations fall short. He tells me doesn’t mind at all and his words send a rush of happiness through my body.

“Are all humans required to sit through an ‘interview’?”

I hum and close my laptop.

“Honestly, I think it depends on the job—”

Glass shatters. A heavy weight hits the floor; a rock. It settles against the rug just as a black-sleeved arm shoots through the broken windowpane. It bends up and starts struggling with the window latch. I jump to my feet and back away.

“G-go away! I’ll call the cops!”

More glass shatters and my stomach drops.

We took care of the doors, but overlooked the windows’ old locks. If the intruder gets in, they’ll see me and then I’ll be—

“Stay calm, Simone.”

A calming heat washes over my shaking body and I remember how to nod my head.

“Close your eyes and trust me.”

Biting back a sob, I huddle against the couch and screw my eyes shut. A blinding, white light pierces through the darkness of my eyelids for a few brief moments. Against the brilliance, there’s a scream. Then, nothing. Only silence.

“They’re gone,” Ignis says in a weak voice. “You can look now.”

I do. The only sign of the intruder that remains are the shredded tatters of their black sleeve clinging to the broken glass. Ignis is still present, but not as a brightly burning fire. He’s nothing more than the cinders and sparking in the glowing red fireplace.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice straining.

I jump over my fallen laptop and scramble towards him.

“Me? What about you?”

“It seems…I expended a greater deal of energy than originally planned. Strained too much against my restraints. If the intruder comes again, I won’t be of much help.”

Restraints? My eyes dart around the fireplace and find two identical marks, both glowing a molten red. Two triangles enclosed by two perfect circles. But the marks aren’t etchings. In fact, they look just like…

“Bloodstains. That’s how Nana sealed you.”

Ignis doesn’t reply. And the light from the cinders is growing dim.

“You wanted to hear my side of things, didn’t you? Call for help, and I will tell you.”

“But I—”

“Please, Simone.”

The heavy fear his plea urges me to locate my phone. My thumbs tap against the touch screen and hit the dial button. A low ring fills the living room three times until—

“Hello? Simone?”

Relief floods by body at the sound of Mason’s groggy voice and I let out a hitched sob. I tell him about the attempted break-in and he immediately comes around. In just a few minutes, he and Mica are inside of his truck, the engine roaring to life in the background. Mason’s voice sound stronger when he speaks again.

“Stay on the line. We’ll be there soon, alright?”

I rub at my eyes with the heels of my palms and promise to do so. Then, I turn back to Ignis. The cinders’ light pulses for a moment, then dims.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Please don’t.” More hot tears scald my cheeks. “You’re dying. You’re…”

“As promised, let me tell you my story.”

The usual steadfast bravado in his voice isn’t present. And the cinders are growing dimmer. But I agree all the same.

“My first memory of humanity is of my captor, binding me to an engraved, glass flask. I had no one but my younger, cocky self to blame. My captor soon sold me for a hefty sum of gold and from there I was exchanged by many hands: philosophers, merchants, nobles, kings. Even Paracelsus possessed me for a moment in time. Each and every one of them never attempted to free me.

“Soon enough, I arrived here in the New World by way of ship. It was a miserable journey crossing the ocean, almost torture. Back on land, my last handler hoarded me, wanting to use my knowledge to become wealthy. But he was discovered conversing with me and deemed a heretic. He ran and unknowingly dropped me in a dense, forested area. I could do nothing but wait and observe. Until one day, a ray of light found me: Abigail.”

He’s still slowly fading. I swallow down the painful lump building in my throat and dig my nails into my palms.

“You loved her,” I croak out.

“Yes. But before then, I only saw her as a means to an end. I tried to trick her into releasing me, but she was too clever. Instead, she sincerely offered me her friendship. After everything I went through, all the years of powerlessness, I was stunned. A mere slip of a girl offering me something so simple? Out of curiosity, I agreed. I soon forgot about wanting to be set free, but Abigail didn’t. Somehow, she found a way to release me from the flask. From that moment on, I already knew my heart belonged to her. But the love she felt for me was only friendship.

“When I learned she had fallen in love with your grandfather, my jealousy consumed me. And in my rage, I threatened to burn down the town with him in it. In return, Abigail asked me to meet her inside her home in three days’ time. I’m ashamed to say I thought she would come to her senses by then and renounce her love for your grandfather. But instead, she bound me using her own blood. And here I stayed, partially aware of the passing time. Of her husband and her only son…and later, you.”

He’s only a few glowing cinders at this point. Almost gone. I ignore the sharp pain of my nails cutting through my skin and bite back a sob.

“It’s strange,” he says weakly. “But I just remembered something from that day.”

“What?”

“Abigail was crying as she sealed me away. My anger back then blinded me to that. And now, I’ve made you cry. Please forgive me, Simone.”

It’s funny. Even as an utter wreck kneeling on the ground, I can’t help but wonder. Could Ignis and Nana have reconciled if Ignis had let go of his anger earlier? Would Nana have released him? Would we have met under different circumstances? I’ll never know. But as I unclench my hands, I realize I still have an option left to use.

“Simone?”

This is a huge risk I’m taking. I don’t even know if this will help or make things worse. But his voice is so weak and it’s the only thing I can think of.

“Trust me, okay Ignis?”

“What are you—”

I slam my bleeding palms against the sides of the fireplace. Right on top of Nana’s original seals. A scream pierces my ears and echoes in my blood. A brutal heat engulfs my body, growing in intensity. I shut my eyes to it all, and soon feel myself falling.

_____________________________________________

When my eyes open, I’m not in pain. Even though I should be. Instead, my body is blanketed by a gentle warmth. 

“There you are,” a familiar voice whispers.

The well-built man cradling me in his lap looks down at me with ruby-red eyes. His long, thick black curls stand out against his deep russet skin. He smiles down at me, a kind gesture that highlights the slight bump in the bridge of his wide nose. A soothing heat seeps into my hands and sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. Slowly, the blisters covering my palms flatten into normal, healthy skin. 

“But how…?”

“You did mention wanting to learn more about my powers, didn’t you? Although that was a rather careless way of doing so.”

It can’t be.

“Ignis?”

His smile widens into a mischievous grin.

“In the flesh,” he says.

My mind can’t connect the living flame in the fireplace to the man holding me. Because something is missing. As he examines my hands for more injuries, I slowly lift them and place them against his cheeks. He leans into my touch and I bite my bottom lip to steady myself.

“This isn’t what you really look like, is it?”

He stiffens. I keep holding his gaze and eventually feel the tension in his body seep away. He shakes his head.

“Show me. Please?”

Ignis closes his eyes. And slowly, his human appearance evaporates away. The russet tone of his body gives way to black skin, fissured with what looks like molten lava. But the cracks are organic and follow the natural lines of his large, humanoid body. His real form has no mouth or ears, but two white, hot eyes lacking pupils. And his hands are tipped with sharp claws that lightly ghost across my arms.

“This,” he says, “is the true me.”

He starts to pull away from my hands, but I coax him down and press a kiss to the smooth, surface of his cheek. Ignis looks at me stunned and I grin.

“What? I’m just saying thank you for taking care of me.”

Ignis’ expression softens into something that makes my heart race. He chuckles then nuzzles against the side of my head.

“I think I should be the one thanking you.”

I’m content to stay in Ignis’ arms until I fall asleep. But I know that won’t be possible. The familiar hum of an approaching engine is proof of that.

But as long as we have each, we’ll face and overcome whatever comes next. Together.

Viper Canyon - Chapter Five

‘...She felt frantic and rushed, like there were a great deal of things she wished she had said to him and now there was no time for any of it.’

January 1852

Winnie entered the general store that morning, a gust of brisk air blowing in behind her as she closed the door with a solid click, smiling at the owner.

“Why, if it isn’t Miss Hawkins! How good to see you. I trust you and your family are doing well?” 

Mr. Monroe’s cheeks shone forth like two polished red beets above his snowy white beard as he shuffled forward from the back of the store, meeting Winnie in front of the till. 

“Good morning, Mr. Monroe. We’re doing very well, thank you for asking. And yourself?”

“As well as I can be with this arthritis bothering my old bones,” he replied, still smiling. “But that’s enough of that. Are you here for the job that I spoke about with your mother?” 

“As a matter of fact, I am. I came here to let you know I’d be happy to work at the store and I was very flattered you thought of me for the position.” 

He let out a great laugh from the bottom of his belly, reminding Winnie of Father Winter. She couldn’t help but smile in Mr. Monroe’s presence. He was the very personification of cheerfulness walking around on two stout legs.

“That’s wonderful to hear. Though I did want to ask you about something I heard – Viper Canyon may be small but gossip exists in every community, no matter the size – when I was in church just yesterday I heard something about you, and I wanted to know if it was true.”

Winnie was puzzled. What sort of gossip could exist about her ordinary life? Beatrice was the source of all the excitement in the family. Perhaps the rumor was about her younger sister and Mr. Monroe had gotten confused. 

“Of course. You can ask me anything, Mr. Monroe.” She tried to keep her face as warm as possible, lest her confusion confirm any false suspicions. 

“Is it true that you’re to marry Peter Langford, Joseph’s new wife’s boy?” 

She felt her heart start to beat a mile a minute. How had Mr. Monroe heard so soon? Her family had planned on keeping the engagement a secret until Peter’s eighteenth birthday in August. It was more than a few months before they’d planned on letting the news reach the townsfolk. Who had found out?

“Well…it doesn’t feel right to lie to you. Yes. Peter and I are engaged, but we won’t be married until after he’s turned eighteen and built a homestead.” 

Mr. Monroe nodded with a small sigh. “So, the rumors were true then. I congratulate you on your engagement, but unfortunately I have to rescind my offer for you to work in my store.” 

Winnie covered her mouth in shock as her jaw slacked open. “What? Why? Have I done something wrong?” She immediately began to recall the image of Mamma counting small coins on the table in the dim light of a single candle, caught when she thought her children had already gone to bed. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong, I assure you. But this position is for long-term employment, dear. I simply cannot have a married woman working behind the counter – you should be at home with your family, getting ready for your wedding, and after that you should be taking care of your husband. Not to mention that after the marriage you could be with child at a moment’s notice, and where does that leave me? High and dry with no salesgirl.” Mr. Monroe looked uncharacteristically sad. He gave Winnie a pitying look. “It would have been wonderful to have you working in the store with my son and myself. It breaks my heart to take away my offer, truly.” 

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?” Winnie cried, her voice cracking. “This job means to much to me and my family….” 

“No. I’m sorry, dear, but I won’t budge. It won’t do to have a bride-to-be as my salesgirl. If your sister were a bit older I’d be happy to extend the offer to her, but since not, I’m posting an advert in the newspaper today to fill the position.” 

Winnie was devastated. How could she return home and let Mamma know she had failed the family? She had longed to find a way to make herself useful in Viper Canyon, and her one opportunity to do so had been snatched from her over a marriage she still had mixed feelings about. 

In fear of shedding a tear in front of Mr. Monroe, Winnie turned to leave, only to crash straight into something solid and warm.

“Oh!” Winnie cried, rubbing her sore nose. “I’m so sorry – Elijah?” 

The formidable wall of flesh that she had crashed into was nothing other than the chest of a one Elijah McLain. He blinked at Winnie several times before clearing his throat. 

“Excuse me. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” 

She didn’t know what to say. The only other person besides herself, her family, and the family of her fiancé to know about the engagement was Elijah himself – the pieces clicked together in her mind as she stared into his green eyes. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave. Good day, Elijah.”

As Winnie stormed down the dusty dirt road home, her mind was hot and boiling with uncharacteristic anger. Rationally, she knew that no matter what, Mr. Monroe would’ve had to let her go from the position. But there was no room for rational thought in her mind – in the heat of her frustration and embarrassment, all the blame was piled on Elijah’s head. 

There was no other explanation for how Mr. Monroe had heard about the engagement. Both families had been sworn to secrecy and Elijah was the only soul outside of either party to hear the news when Peter had slipped up in front of him the other night.

By the time Winnie had returned home, her head had been slightly cooled by the walk and the time spent in the warm sunshine. She knew it was wrong and sinful of her to hate Elijah for gossiping, but no matter how much she tried to suppress her frustration, it came boiling back up like hot water bubbling beneath a pot lid. 

With a great sigh, she entered the warmth of her family’s home, where Mamma was putting away the washing powder. 

“Why, you’re home early. I thought Mr. Monroe would’ve wanted you to start today.”

“Well…the truth is, Mamma…” Winnie wanted to dance around the subject as long as possible, but she knew deep down it wouldn’t do her any good. “Mr. Monroe changed his mind because he heard I’m to marry Peter. He said I should be at home preparing for the wedding.” 

Mamma froze for a moment. “He did? Oh, Watcher…that would be my fault, then.” 

Winnie’s head snapped up from the ground. “Your fault? But how?” 

“I was discussing the details of the wedding with Verity in church yesterday. We weren’t sure how we were dividing up the duties of preparing, and neither of us were very careful about making sure there were no prying ears around…we eventually noticed Mr. Monroe listening in on our conversation, but it was too late. We had hoped his hearing had gone enough in his old age that he wouldn’t have been able to make out our conversation, but alas, apparently it hasn’t.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me. We can find some other way to make do, I’m sure. We always have.”

“It’s all right, Mamma. We can think of other ways to get by…but my, that’s such a relief.” 

Mamma gave her daughter a curious look. “A relief how?” 

Even though Winnie wanted desperately to lie in the moment, she found that it was nearly impossible to fib to her mother. 

“I was thinking that Mr. Monroe had heard from Elijah about the wedding. I was in a terrible mood coming home from the store about it.” 

Without another word, Mamma simply smiled to herself, busying her hands with tidying the kitchen once more.

After a long day of tending to the livestock, the garden, and the rest of the chores, Winnie’s arms and legs were dreadfully sore. She had just finished washing her face in the basin upstairs, relieved to have the sweat and grime off her skin. Before she could collapse into the armchair with a good book, however, Mamma called to her as she came down the stairs.

“Winnie, be a dear and help Papa with the horse, won’t you? He’s in the barn.” 

Knowing that she would smell like horses until her next bath, Winnie sighed, taking her aching and tired limbs out the door with her to the barn.

She entered the open barn doors to find unexpected company – for the second time that day, she was surprised to see Elijah before her. 

“Oh! I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t know Elijah was visiting.” 

The trail guide gave Winnie a stone-faced glance as he finished handing something off to Papa. Winnie’s father looked guilty as he tucked the item into his trouser pocket. 

“He was just stopping by about a little bit of business, that’s all.”

“All right, then…” she muttered, wondering what sort of ‘business’ Elijah would have with her father. “I’ll tend to the horses, Papa.” 

“I guess I should be on my way,” Elijah said. 

Papa gave Elijah a straight-lipped smile. “Thank you. I’ll be over in two days’ time, just like you asked.” 

Winnie looked at the two men with curiosity glimmering in her eyes. What reason did Papa have to visit Elijah’s home? Right away, her mind began to race with ideas about a clandestine agreement between them. But what had Elijah handed off to Papa as she arrived at the barn? They seemed to be anxious to keep the arrangement under wraps.

“I suppose this is farewell, then,” Elijah said to Winnie suddenly. 

She turned to face him. “Farewell? Are you going on a trip?”

“Er…in a manner of speaking. I’ve got to leave to head back east tomorrow if I’m going to make it to Independence on time to escort my next train.” 

“East…you’re going back east?” Instantly, she felt frantic and rushed, like there were a great deal of things she wished she had said to him and now there was no time for any of it.

He took a deep breath. “I’ve been hired as a trail guide again. Eventually, I know folks won’t have much need for men like me, but until then…I’ve got to make my living somehow.”

“So, you won’t be back until the fall?” 

Elijah nodded solemnly. “I’ll be back by October or November, if the conditions on the trail are fair. If not, December at the latest – but hopefully it won’t come to that.” 

“Watcher forbid you get stuck in any ill weather,” Papa said quietly. “I’ve got to run this into the safe inside. Thank you again, Elijah.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Winnie watched as her father left the barn and entered their humble house. 

Now that they were alone together, Winnie was at a loss for words. There was a terrible hurricane of mixed emotions whirling around in her brain, making her feel whiplashed. She wasn’t sure exactly how to feel now that Elijah was leaving – her frustration over losing her job, her lingering worry over the argument with Bea, the anxiety about their finances, her forthcoming wedding woes, and on top of it all now Elijah was leaving and may not return to Viper Canyon safely, if at all? It felt as though there was a great elephant on her chest. She took a strained breath, trying to calm her senses. 

“I’ve asked your father to watch after my livestock and my home while I’m gone,” he explained. “I was handing him payment when you walked in.” 

There was a small raindrop of relief on her conscience. “That’s very kind of you.” 

“I’ve asked Joseph to do it for the past few years, but…I hope it’s not rude for me to say that I knew your family needed the money more.” 

“It’s not,” Winnie replied quietly. “Not rude at all.”

They stood in the barn for a few moments, neither sure of what to say. Elijah was the first to speak.

“You’ll…you’ll be married by the time I come back, won’t you?” 

The question took Winnie off guard. There was a sudden pain in her heart. “Well, it all depends…perhaps I shall be. Though I would like it if you could be at the wedding.” 

She remembered their awkward waltz at Joseph and Verity’s ceremony – Elijah was little more than a stranger to her then, and now she regarded him as a close family friend. There was a heavy guilt in her mind as she recalled her foolish anger earlier that day. She should’ve known better than to assume Elijah would ever put her or her family in such a position. 

“I hope I make it back on time.”

“I do, too.” 

She tried her best to smile, but it was unexpectedly difficult under the circumstances. Her family had been lucky when they crossed the trail. Although they encountered some hardships, they managed to all make it the almost two thousand miles to Viper Canyon safely and in one piece. Most weren’t so lucky. What if Elijah was hurt, or taken ill, or even worse – killed? The same bubble of sorrow in her throat that she had felt when Mr. Monroe took away his job offer agonizingly returned. 

“I’m going to miss you, Elijah.” 

He looked surprised, if not a little embarrassed. 

“I…hope you make it back safely. I’ll pray to The Watcher that you do.”

“Thank you.” 

Again, there was more pained silence. Elijah, too, was feeling that same sense of urgency to tell Winnie something – anything – that he couldn’t put his finger on. 

“I’ll see you, then. In the fall.” 

Winnie met his eyes. “I look forward to it.”

END OF PART ONE

Previous Chapter | Viper Canyon Index | Chapter Six

(I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. If anyone is looking to raise money for a charity, I recommend getting people to pledge one dollar for every time I make Elijah pose with his hand on the back of his neck. 

There will be a time skip after this chapter, so be prepared for things to be very different when Chapter Six comes! As always, let me know what you thought and thanks for taking the time to give this a read :) 

Fox Mulder’s Guide to Building a Pool: part 2

Read Part 1

A/N This is in answer to an anon prompt: Mulder builds a pool in the yard. It ran away from me so I’ll post it in two parts.

This is set post IWTB and assumes Season 10 didn’t happen. Because it shouldn’t have, am I right? Angsty to start with.

Winter

November rushed headlong into house and yard with blizzards and ice storms and squealing winds under the doors. The pool project remained as frozen as the ground but his brain was always planning. Winter was the end of things, yet, even as he scraped freezing condensation from the inside of the windows, he felt a kind of resurgence. Like his bare, unadorned spirit had rested enough to begin anew. It helped that he spoke to Scully often, random phone calls, text messages with links to articles she’d found on cryptid sightings or arcane deaths. Her emoji use was spot on. Aliens and foxes and ghosts and a solitary blue heart.

Christmas Eve and she sent him a message about a sighting of a ‘gargantuan, hirsute humanoid’ in a Florida forest and after reading it with a sense of comforting familiarity and relieved distance, he googled the meaning of the blue heart. Trust, harmony, peace and loyalty. Reading into emojis had to rank right up there on the Fox Mulder Chart of Weirdness but the idea of it, that she had carefully researched this colour and chosen it as the one to close off her messages to him, took root in his own heart and he felt a burst of that same restless energy that had plagued him for months.

He walked to the back door, chancing a look out. A smirry rain fell, leaving the bare branches oily in the low light. Further around, the pool, sunk below the hard, cold earth was a gaping dark mouth, the concrete bearing the marks of months of bad weather. In one corner, debris from the yard had collected, twigs and small stones, plastic wrapping floating in the grimy pool of melted snow that covered the base.

The sound of her voice as she picked up the call pulled a smile to his lips. She sounded pleased to hear from him. Excited almost.

“Hey.” It was an extended version of her usual greeting. A stretching of the word into something more. His heart skipped. “I know you don’t celebrate, but Happy Christmas, Mulder.”

It would have been typical for him to make some flippant remark about stockings or mistletoe but instead, he raked up the trash in the pool as he wished her season’s greetings and listened to her stories of wrapping gifts for the kids at work and the terribly formal staff dinner where the turkey was overcooked and the hasselbacks were rubbery and she left early so she could pull on her pyjamas and robe and watch It’s a Wonderful Life and then, after a breathy pause, added, that it wasn’t the same on her own.

“What’s that noise?” she asked.

He could have said it was the sound of his heart breaking free of his ribcage but he shook his head at himself and took a deep breath. “Would you believe me if I said I was cleaning the pool?” She laughed and he burst right through her green light. “Did you want to come over, Scully?”

She would very much love to, she said, and he held the phone to his chest while he scraped out the detritus against the side wall one-handed. The first flake of snow landed and he looked up to the silver heavens and whispered a thank-you.

Guilt crept in when he saw a parcel in her hand. “I didn’t get you anything, Scully.” He took her coat, the bag of groceries and the gift and she said she’d forgive him and he grinned at her as he rattled the box until she tutted and snatched it back from him.

“I’ll put it under the tree,” she said but the living room was empty of seasonal decor and she looked down at the gift and her feet and he wondered if he could pull out all the boxes in the attic to retrieve the decorations but she shook her head and laughed through her nose. “Don’t worry about it.” She could still read him like a book.

The intensity of the storm took them by surprise, heaping snow against the window sills and the door and Scully’s car until everything was silent-white and glistening. He poured brandy over ice and she sank into the couch next to him wrapped in a blanket and wearing a resigned smile.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m not due at mom’s until New Year. I was going to be working but that changed, so I have no plans.” She squeezed his knee and there was a glint in her eye that had him almost believing that she’d engineered the weather, just like that Holman guy from years before, but Dana Scully MD was no lovelorn meteorologist. She was the sender of blue heart emojis, the bringer of turkey steaks and farmer’s market vegetables, she was the best present ever, the three wise men and more.

She was also a little tipsy, he thought, eyeing her reddened cheeks and the way she shucked off her boots to tuck her ankles under her ass. He hadn’t seen her so loose for years. He’d spent too long ignoring her that by the time she left she was coiled like wire rope and just as cool to touch.

“If this storm keeps up maybe we can skate on your pool,” she said and giggled, pressing her fingers under her nose.

“You want to rush me to ER with multiple fractures on Christmas morning, Scully?” He swallowed the liquor.

Her face straightened and she cleared her throat. “It will be strange, won’t it, being here tomorrow? Waking up on Christmas morning together. It’s not something we’ve done for…”

“Three years,” he said and let that settle between them before adding, “but I’m looking forward to it.”

“Because it feels like we’ve moved past…all that?”

All that. All that rage and disappointment. All that bitterness and rancour. All that unsaid. Too much said. “Because it feels fated,” he said. And she pulled a face. “Preordained, inexorable.”

“Destined,” she said, leaning forward. “Portentous?”

He chuckled. “That has a negative connotation, like foreshadowed. It’s more ominous than auspicious.”

“I’m going to have to take back that Thesaurus and buy you something else, Mulder.” She nodded to the present on the table.

“I used to be poor,” he said and she quirked her eyebrow. “Then my partner bought me a thesaurus and now I’m impecunious.”

Her snort was half-laugh, half-surprise. “We’re not…”

“I know.”

The next morning dawned clear and Mulder was already awake. Had hardly slept. Like a child at Christmas, he thought wryly, impatient for his gift. Scully wasn’t for unwrapping though. At this stage, he was lucky she was here to decorate his living room. The brightest star. An angel.

She was dressed in his old anorak he’d used years before to clear the yard when they first moved in. It surrounded her like a canoe, pointed hood above her head and falling to almost her ankles. She was dragging something behind her, leaving a thick trail through the snow. Mulder opened the door and she huffed through, revealing her treasure – a small pine tree, dripping melting snow in grey piles on the floor.

He found a box of decorations behind a wall of old books, dusted them off and climbed back down the ladder. She’d made cocoa and found marshmallows from that Mary Poppins bag of hers. She added a dash of brandy with a hair of the dog wink and they made the tree pretty.

Flipping pancakes, he watched her as she sat in the chair near the window, wrapped now in one of his sweaters, pink-stockinged feet crossed. “If you squint through these blinds, Mulder, and use your imagination, of which you received a wild and overly large share, it looks like there’s a snow monster in the pool.”

“Are you still drunk, Scully?” He bent beside her, close enough to see the dark skin on the mole above her lip.

“I am not, look! There. See it? It’s got shifty eyes and a long nose.”

He rubbed at his own features and she jabbed his hand away.

“It’s there. I swear. Come on, I’ll show you.” She shot up and dragged him outside where the cold shrunk his skin around his bones. The sky threatened to unload again and she shivered despite her layers. He slunk an arm around her shoulders and she swayed into him. “There. Look. See?” Her finger pointed but he couldn’t have seen a thing beyond the fact that she was there, right next to him in the dead of winter, gesticulating to a lump of frozen water.

“At least when Frosty the Snowmonster dies, the pool will be quarter full,” he said, holding open the door for her. She dipped under his arm and it felt like old times.

Spring

Blossom hugged the ends of branches, pom-poms of pink dipping on the breeze. The sun was watery-warm and birdsong amplified the hope of the season. He’d tiled the pool himself, enjoying he exact nature of the work. The water delivery contractor was late but the from his vantage point on the front deck, Mulder couldn’t care less. Just for an hour or so, he could afford to do nothing. He told himself he deserved it. He let his eyes slip shut.

“Can’t a girl get a fanfare any more?” Scully was standing at the foot of the steps, casual in blue jeans and a fitted mint-green tee, her hair was pulled back in a scruffy ponytail that usually signified she was about to get messy.

He made trumpet noises and she bowed when she reached the deck. From her tote she took out a bag of pastries. He liked this version of Scully. He liked her very much. This soft, coquettish variety gave him hope like the spring and made him feel lighter.

“I’ll make coffee,” he said and ushered her through with a theatrical wave.

The truck arrived two hours late but that was two hours passed with Scully who spent her time asking questions about the pump and the pool fence requirements and whether he was going to plant a garden and how much she loved the mosaic tile design on the bottom and whether he’d considered a shade sail. She wrinkled her nose and her freckles danced. He had a vision of her sunburnt and cranky.

“I’ll order one before the heat hits,” he said, solemnly.

“Don’t do it just for me,” she said, over the din of the hose being unravelled from the truck.

As though he would do anything for anyone else. He’d spent much of the time since the Father Joe case doing things only for himself. He couldn’t see it then, but his focus had narrowed beyond the scope of voiceless victims, beyond the purview of his domestic responsibilities and from his refreshed perspective, he could see now how Scully had been cut out of his orbit.

“Did you imagine this when we first moved in here?”

“You designing and constructing a pool, sundeck and safety fence? Mulder, when we first moved here you couldn’t have built a house of cards. Remember when the screen door fell off the hinges and you tried to fix it but ended up breaking the drill. You were so angry, a wounded animal fighting off any help. I thought…” she covered her eyes with her hand to watch the water running over the bottom of the pool, steadily rising, filling the void. “I should have left sooner. Maybe you would have rediscovered this…this spirit of yours earlier.”

“You think your leaving prompted me to do all this?”

“Didn’t it?”

“It took more than three years of you not…”

She sucked in a breath and it dawned on him that she was still hurting too. Would it ever stop? Or was the pain destined to be a constant companion to remind them of their failings? Was building a pool really just a diversion from the agony of Scully being gone? Was her position at the hospital just her version of a building project? She was building herself a better life and he was building a pool.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for his hand and squeezing gently. “For not trying harder.”

The drone of the truck’s motor stuttered to a halt and he looked down at her. She was gazing at the water as it slapped at the sides, settling. “You have nothing to apologise for, Scully. I closed off, shut down, kept you out and then got mad at you when you made a new life.”

“We were both pretty closed off, Mulder. Talking for hours but never saying enough. Remember how we used to spend days on the road and never have to say a thing. We could go for miles in silence. It didn’t bother us then, so when did that change?”

“I think the truth of it is that we were both just talking at each other, trying to get our voices heard, but we didn’t care to listen for fear of actually hearing.”

She raised those brows of hers and smiled. “That’s very deep and heartfelt.”

The truck reversed and he looked down at the water and the moving outline of the blue love heart he’d tiled at the bottom of the pool. “Just like my pool.”

The first time she came over for a swim, she presented him with a new beach towel. It had a fox face on it and she was so proud of herself. She let him splash her and she bombed him and he didn’t want her to leave but he watched her drive away and sat on the verandah for hours after the sun went down.

She phoned to say she was coming over again and that gave him an idea. After all, he owed her two gifts now. So he went online and shopped.

Taking the parcel, she dipped her head in gratitude. “This better not be a beach towel with Big Blue on it, Mulder, or I swear to God…” She ripped the package open scattering paper everywhere. She held it up. It was a one-piece swimsuit the colour of those Caribbean island beaches, azure, the colour of her eyes. She pulled a face, whispering a wow and telling him he shouldn’t have because people might talk.

“Let them talk,” he called out, as she slipped into the house to change. “What else could they say about us that we haven’t heard already, Mrs Spooky.”

When she returned, she was wearing the bathing suit and a knee-length cream sarong. She pulled a wide-brimmed hat out of her bag and went to put it on but he stopped her.

“Just one more thing,” he said, finding the smaller parcel. “This is a very late birthday or really early Christmas present. Take your pick.”

“Another gift? You already got me this suit and I’m wondering if I should really spend the afternoon with a man who buys lingerie for a single woman…”

“It’s lingerie?” His voice was high-pitched because he was genuinely curious and a little sorry about her use of the word single which seemed unnecessary but she grinned wickedly and he breathed out in relief. “Damn. If I’d have known that I would have bought that red lace number…”

“Don’t push your luck, Mulder.”

The small gift was wrapped in silver frosted paper decorated with a gold bow. She opened this one with much more care and when she lifted the lid and saw the silver chain with the blue topaz heart pendant, her eyes filled with tears. “It’s beautiful, Mulder. You shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”

“Trust, harmony, peace and loyalty. Blue hearts. That’s what they mean.”

“Uh-huh.” She turned and he clipped the necklace under the hair. “You’re reading a lot into an emoji.” Was he? Maybe. Did he care? Not much. She turned to face him, stood on tiptoe and kissed him, softly, gently, with love. “But you’ve always looked beyond the obvious. And that’s why I love you.”

Love. Not loved. He took her hand and walked her to the edge. “Ready?”

She didn’t answer but tugged at his wrist and pulled him forward so they both plunged into the deep blue, going down and down.

I love you early in the morning and it’s difficult to love you. I love the January sky and knowing it will change although unlike us. I love watching people read. I love photo booths. I love midnight. I love writing letters and this is my letter. To the world that never wrote to me. I love snow and briefly. I love the first minutes in a warm room after stepping out of the cold. I love my twenties and want them back every day. I love time. I love people. I love people and my time away from them the most. I love the part of my desk that’s darkened by my elbows. I love feeling nothing but relief during the chorus of a song. I love space. I love every planet. I love the big unknowns but need to know who called or wrote, who’s coming—if they want the same things I do, if they want much less. I love not loving Valentine’s Day. I love how February is the shortest month. I love that Barack Obama was president. I love the quick, charged time between two people smoking a cigarette outside a bar. I love everyone on Friday night. I love New York City. I love New York City a lot. I love that day in childhood when I thought I was someone else. I love wondering how animals perceive our daily failures. I love the lines in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof when Brick’s father says “Life is important. There’s nothing else to hold onto.” I love Brick. I love that we can fail at love and continue to live. I love writing this and not knowing what I’ll love next. I love looking at paintings and being reminded I am alive. I love Turner’s paintings and the sublime. I love the coming of spring even in the most withholding March. I love skipping anything casual—“hi, how are you, it’s been forever”—and getting straight to the center of pain. Or happiness. I love opening a window in a room. I love the feeling of possibility by the end of the first cup of coffee. I love hearing anyone listen to Nina Simone. I love Nina Simone. I love how we can choose our own families. I love when no one knows where I am but feel terrified to be forgotten. I love Saturdays. I love that despite our mistakes this will end. I love how people get on planes to New York and California. I love the hour after rain and the beginning of the cruelest month. I love imagining Weldon Kees on a secret island. I love the beach on a cloudy day. I love never being disappointed by chocolate. I love that morning when I was twenty and had just met someone very important (though I didn’t know it) and I walked down an almost empty State Street because it was still early and not at all late—and of course I could change everything (though I also didn’t know it)—I could find anyone, go anywhere, I wasn’t sorry for who I was. I love the impulse to change. I love seeing what we do with what we can’t change. I love the moon’s independent indifference. I love walking the same streets as Warhol. I love what losing something does but I don’t love losing it. I love how the past shifts when there’s more. I love kissing. I love hailing a cab and going home alone. I love being surprised by May although it happens every year. I love closing down anything—a bar, restaurant, party—and that time between late night and dawn when one lamp goes on wherever you are and you know. You know what you know even if it’s hard to know it. I love being a poet. I love all poets. I love Jim Morrison for saying, “I’d like to do a song or a piece of music that’s just a pure expression of joy, like a celebration of existence, like the coming of spring or the sun rising, just pure unbounded joy. I don’t think we’ve really done that yet.” I love everything I haven’t done. I love looking at someone without need or panic. I love the quiet of the trees in a new city. I love how the sky is connected to a part of us that understands something big and knows nothing about it too. I love the minutes before you’re about to see someone you love. I love any film that delays resolution. I love being in a cemetery because judgment can’t live there. I love being on a highway in June or anytime at all. I love magic. I love the zodiac. I love all of my past lives. I love that hour of the party when everyone’s settled into their discomfort and someone tells you something really important—in passing—because it’s too painful any other way. I love the last moments before sleep. I love the promise of summer. I love going to the theater and seeing who we are. I love glamour—shamelessly—and all glamour. Which is not needed to live but shows people love life. What else is it there for? Why not ask for more? I love red shoes. I love black leather. I love the grotesque ways in which people eat ice cream—on sidewalks, alone—however they need it, whenever they feel free enough. I love being in the middle of a novel. I love how mostly everyone in Jane Austen is looking for love. I love July and its slowness. I love the idea of liberation and think about it all the time. I love imagining a world without money. I love imagining a life with enough money to write when I want. I love standing in front of the ocean. I love that sooner or later we forget even “the important things.” I love how people write in the sand, on buildings, on paper. Their own bodies. Fogged mirrors. Texts they’ll draft but never send. I love silence. I love owning a velvet cape and not knowing how to cook. I love that instant when an arc of light passes through a room and I’m reminded that everything really is moving. I love August and its sadness. I love Sunday for that too. I love jumping in a pool and how somewhere on the way up your body relaxes and accepts the shock of the water. I love Paris for being Paris. I love Godard’s films. I love anyplace that makes room for loneliness. I love how the Universe is 95% dark matter and energy and somewhere in the rest of it there is us. I love bookstores and the autonomy when I’m in one. I love that despite my distrust in politics I am able to vote. I love wherever my friends are. I love voting though know art and not power is what changes human character. I love what seems to me the discerning indifference of cats. I love the often uncomplicated joy of dogs. I love Robert Lax for living alone. I love the extra glass of wine happening somewhere, right now. I love schools and teachers. I love September and how we see it as a way to begin. I love knowledge. Even the fatal kind. Even the one without “use value.” I love getting dressed more than getting undressed. I love mystery. I love lighting candles. I love religious spaces though I’m sometimes lost there. I love the sun for worshipping no one. I love the sun for showing up every day. I love the felt order after a morning of errands. I love walking toward nowhere in particular and the short-lived chance of finding something new. I love people who smile only when moved to. I love that a day on Venus lasts longer than a year. I love Whitman for writing, “the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events; / These come to me days and nights and go from me again, / But they are not the Me myself.” I love October when the veil between worlds is thinnest. I love how at any moment I could forgive someone from the past. I love the wind and how we never see it. I love the performed sincerity in pornography and wonder if its embarrassing transparency is worth adopting in other parts of life. I love how magnified emotions are at airports. I love dreams. Conscious and unconscious. Lived and not yet. I love anyone who risks their life for their ideal one. I love Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera. I love how people make art even in times of impossible pain. I love all animals. I love ghosts. I love that we continue to invent meaning. I love the blue hours between three and five when Plath wrote Ariel. I love that despite having one body there are many ways to live. I love November because I was born there. I love people who teach children that most holidays are a product of capitalism and have little to do with love—which would never celebrate massacre—which would never care about money or greed. I love people who’ve quit their jobs to be artists. I love you for reading this as opposed to anything else. I love the nostalgia of the future. I love that the tallest mountain in our solar system is safe and on Mars. I love dancing. I love being in love with the wrong people.                                                                                                               I love that on November 23, 1920, Virginia Woolf wrote, “We have bitten off a large piece of life—but why not? Did I not make out a philosophy some time ago which comes to this—that one must always be on the move?” I love how athletes believe in the body and know it will fail them. I love dessert for breakfast. I love all of the dead. I love gardens. I love holding my breath under water. I love whoever it is untying our shoes. I love that December is summer in Australia. I love statues in a downpour. I love how no matter where on the island, at any hour, there’s at least one lit square at the top or bottom of a building in Manhattan. I love diners. I love that the stars can’t be touched. I love getting in a car and turning the keys just to hear music. I love ritual. I love chance too. I love people who have quietly survived being misunderstood yet remain kids. And yes, I love that Marilyn Monroe requested Judy Garland’s “Over the Rainbow” to be played at her funeral. And her casket was lined in champagne satin. And Lee Strasberg ended his eulogy by saying, “I cannot say goodbye. Marilyn never liked goodbyes, but in the peculiar way she had of turning things around so that they faced reality, I will say au revoir.” I love the different ways we have of saying the same thing. I love anyone who cannot say goodbye

Alex Dimitrov “Love”

Pink! Ch. 4: The Late Date

*Beetlejuice/Original Female Character. Adult situations. 18+ only.*

Summary: After six breather years away, Beetlejuice returns to find the house on the hill overrun by coeds. Lydia allows him to stay, but has rules. Things get more interesting when Beck, one of the housemates, reveals she can see him. Following a sordid affair, Beetlejuice finds himself lingering around Beck more and more. But will her affection last? And why does it seem to bother Lydia so much?

Chapter 1: The Setup

Chapter 2: The Buzzkill Date

Chapter 3: The Ex Lover

This one is a doozy! 18+ only!!

DMs are always open for thoughts, feedback and suggestions. Ty. On AO3 as CopperContessa_13

They weren’t kidding around when they named the place Winter River.

By late November, it was uncommon for the town to go more than a day without being graced by at least another inch of snow. Constantly clearing her car was annoying, but Beck enjoyed the white stuff otherwise.

She smiled when she saw a bright light peeking through her curtains one morning. When she opened her curtains, she saw the sun was reflecting off a fresh layer of snow that had fallen during the night. About six inches lay untouched on the roof outside her window, the rays making it shine like glitter. Some fluffy flakes still floated lazily down from the sky.

Just beyond the roof, she could see the people moving around in the town. The snow there wasn’t quite as untouched as her immediate view, but the scene was still so picturesque.

The plow trucks had already come, easily moving the puffy snow off the roadway. Most driveways were cleared, too, but tire tracks tattled on who’d woken up too late to shovel before work. Focusing on one street in particular, she noticed a man started to clear his neighbor’s driveway after finishing his own.

Children, no doubt on break from school, were already preparing barricades for snowball fights and running down the streets with sleds in hand. During Winter River's first snow this year, Beck asked Lydia if any kids ever came to sled at the house’s hill. Lydia said she’d let them if they tried, but that they hardly got visitors these days.

Something about a bad experience with a Girl Scout and a census taker? Whatever.

Inspired by the scene, Beck dragged her art desk in front of the window. Warmness tickled her feet as she walked past an air vent. Settling in her chair, she turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook and grabbed a piece of charcoal.

It had taken a couple of days for tensions to ease, but they did. Beck and Lydia maintained their distance, but it was more out of respect than compulsion. Lydia had noticeably stayed over at her girlfriend’s house more since the big fight. When Mariah was over, though, they were considerate and quiet. That didn’t go unnoticed by Beck who, consequently, decided it was in poor taste to pointedly use Lydia’s towels to clean up after she and Beetlejuice finished screwing around.

Having the house to herself really did help Beck cleanse any petty energy that remained in her brain. Nice mornings like this, especially, made her worries feel small.

Being alone on Thanksgiving break wasn’t sad or stressful for her. With school in Connecticut and home in New Mexico, she realized early on that a trip home for such a short break just wasn’t worth it. Plus, it wasn’t like she felt alone.

Her parents kept tabs on her through text messages. She had lengthy streaks with both of her sisters on Snapchat. The ghosts were still around, too. Adam and Barbara, whose presence around the place was a bit more common now, would sometimes make idle conversation. And, of course, there was also Beetlejuice who was… a lot.

As if his snarky observations weren’t grating enough when she pretended to not hear them…

Beck didn’t know someone could be so endearing and insufferable at the same time. She’d learned to finish her work at the campus library because, geezus, Beetlejuice was an unstoppable force at home. It didn’t matter if it was noon or midnight, he was always at the door when she got home. She always found the act endearing until he opened his mouth. From the moment she came in through the door, he'd follow her around like a very talkative shadow. Beetlejuice had a surprising amount to say about his day, considering he never left the house.

Books she read, movies she watched, websites she browsed. You name it. Beetlejuice had a very staunch opinion on all of it. Don't even get him started on what he thought of her housemates. Kendra will never be “punk,” Ash’s poetry is shit, Cici’s weird nipples make her boobs look like googly eyes and Lillian is a shallow bitch. Beck had heard it all.

He never had anything bad to say about Lydia, of course.

After his conscious stream of thought ruined the emotional climax of a series she’d been binging, Beck decided she’d had enough. She was about to tell him off when a thought finally occurred to her: he only talks so much because it's been so long since he’s been heard.

It was a cathartic moment.

It was also cathartic when she learned he got really quiet after blowing a load or two.

They had yet to bang outright. He told her that they couldn't. Something about Netherworld bureaucracy barring him from having sex with a mortal without being summoned. Wary of unleashing a demon for the sake of a 30 second bone sesh (give or take, she imagined), Beck decided she was fine with just hand and tongue stuff.

Speaking of bedroom calisthenics, it was weird he wasn’t curled up next to her that morning.

Beck looked up from her drawing pad to glimpse at the town again, but was distracted by something new on the roof.

She adjusted her posture just enough to make out the beady eyes of a snowman sitting outside her window. The snow used to make it was dirty looking, brown and grey. Its eyes and mouth were made up of tiny pebbles. A black and white striped scarf hung loosely from its neck. A gust of wind blew the knit fabric against the (several?) flimsy twigs being used for arms.

“Hey, sugar tits! Coffee’s on!” Beetlejuice announced while kicking the door to her room open.

Beck flinched, causing the charcoal she was holding to make a thick line on the paper. She frowned at the mistake, but decided not to make a big deal out of it. She could probably pass it off as a tree branch or something. Oh well.

Turning to face him, she was relieved to see him holding two mugs. Caffeine was just what she needed.

“You don’t have anything to do with that cute snowman on the roof, do you, Lawrence?” she asked while grabbing a cup.

“Cute? He’s not cute,” Beetlejuice scoffed. “Look at him peeping into your room! That dirty pervert.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve let that slide.”

He grinned and pulled her to his side with his free arm. She tried her best to ignore the gesture, opting to clutch her hot mug with both hands instead of embracing him back. Messing around was one thing, but she still wasn’t sure what to do when he made affectionate little gestures like these.

Still, there were worse ways to start a morning.

Beck took a sip of the coffee. Her face twisted into disgust.

“Something wrong, babes?”

“W-what did you use to make this?”

“Dirt and water,” He said taking a gulp of the stuff. “Why do you think the snowman is so dirty? I spent the morning digging through the garden to make this.”

Trying to contain her repulsion, Beck calmly walked over to her dresser and set the mug down.

“What? Is this not how you’re supposed to do it?” he asked. “Lydia said it was made with plants.”

“Yeah! A coffee plant. Which is definitely not topsoil.”

“Well I got it from the garden, didn’t I?!”

Beck took a deep breath.

“You are… something,” she said.

“I don’t get your deal. It tastes the same to me,” he shrugged.

“Stop drinking that!”

Beetlejuice stared her down as he chugged the rest. He patted his tummy and made a satisfied “ah” noise. Beck rolled her eyes but cracked a smile.

Jokes on him, she thought. She wouldn’t touch him again until he used some mouthwash.

You can’t have a weak stomach when you’re with someone like him, Beck had learned. If it wasn’t clear from the moss on his face and the dust that wafted off of him when he moved, they guy had an affinity for filth. What was more frustrating than the dirty clothes and greasy hair, though, was that she knew he could do something about it with a wave of his hand. Fucker didn’t even need to shower! He just liked being that way!

Beck liked her men dirty, though.

“I was just trying to do something nice for you,” he grumbled.

“Hon, I know, but it’s gross” Beck laughed.

She slightly regretted using the pet name when she saw him visibly perk up at its use.

“Let me get changed and I’ll make a real breakfast,” she quickly added.

“Are you gonna make pancakes?!” he gasped, lighting up further.

“If you want, I guess.”

“Fuck yeah!”

⁂

Later in the day, they’d decided to turn on a movie. One of Beetlejuice’s favorites— The Exorcist. He was so enamored with the screen he didn’t even see her slip away. He was re-alerted of her presence at the sound of heels clicking on the kitchen’s wood floor. He whipped his head around, desperate to get a view of her from the living room.

Beck was wearing tall brown boots and very tight jeans. The straps of a lacey bralette peeked out tastefully from under a knit sweater. A bit of jewelry and makeup accentuated her features. Her hair fell in big, loose waves just above her shoulders. Her coat and purse were held under one arm.

Beetlejuice wolf whistled, grabbing her attention.

“You look like a million bucks, Beck!” Beetlejuice said, walking over and slapping her ass.

“Thanks,” she said awkwardly. “I actually wanted to wear this cute bandeau and jacket I picked up the other day, but I’ll save that for when it gets warmer. Hoes don’t get cold, but they do get pneumonia.”

“Why are you worried about getting sick? I thought you were staying in today.”

“No. I actually need to head out soon.”

“Why? Grocery store closing?”

“No, Lawrence,” Beck giggled. “I’m going to the pub downtown. This guy from my sculpting class struck up a conversation with me about craft beer. Apparently he knows the woman who owns the place. We’re gonna try some of their new pours together.”

Beetlejuice was quiet for a moment before he finally responded with a breathy laugh.

“If I didn’t know you any better, Bexley, I’d say it sounds like you’re going on a date.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Yeah I am. My first since Lydia.”

“Well, you can’t go then!” he snapped.

She looked up at him in surprise.

“And why the fuck not?” Beck spat back.

“Because you and I are already together.”

Oh boy.

Beck’s mouth gaped open for a second, not exactly sure what to say.

“No, we’re not,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry I never laid it out, but what we have is strictly casual.”

“It’s not casual, babes,” he insisted.

Beetlejuice’s words were calm, but she didn’t miss the bits of red that were starting to fleck his green hair.

“We can talk about this later,” Beck said dismissively. “I need to go.”

Beetlejuice pinned her against the wall, holding her firmly in place by clutching her forearms above her head. Her shoes felt like they were glued to the ground— likely his powers holding her. She struggled against him, but quickly realized it was useless.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No, baby, never,” Beetlejuice cooed into her ear. “I’m just going to prove a point.”

“What point?”

“That your fucking little breather flings can’t hold a candle to how good I make you feel.”

Beck didn’t get a chance to respond before he hoisted her from the wall and laid her on the nearby countertop. He quickly undid her jeans but looked at her for approval before pulling them down. She hesitated for a moment before shrugging.

“Prove your point, big shot. Make it fast.”

Beck knew she was being greedy and inconsiderate for pulling a stunt like this so close to her date, but she couldn't help herself. She'd become addicted to his constant attention.

She tensed at the coldness of his tongue, but it quickly warmed inside her. It always did. One of Beetlejuice’s hands grasped her thigh while the thumb of the other worked her clit. Her hips spasmed at infrequent intervals at the pleasureful sensation.

She loved the way his tongue pulsed inside her at a steady rhythm. At first she was turned off by how inhuman in looked— wormlike and darker than a human one. The way it could stretch and move her, though, was incomparable to anything else she'd experienced. He was already driving her wild, his movements simple but skilled.

He wasn’t allowed to know that, of course.

Beetlejuice looked up at Beck. She was supported on her elbows, giving her enough height to look back down at him blankly. He knew she was trying her best to be unenthused, but her act wasn’t convincing. Aside from her electrified hips, he could read the lust in her eyes and hear the lilt of an occasional whine leave her mouth.

Not good enough.

Craving a more intense reaction, he slid out to tease her ass for a second. When she opened her mouth to gasp, he quickly rammed the tongue back into its familiar sheath. Beck’s hips bucked into his mouth and she let out long, pleasurable cry.

Beetlejuice smirked, raising an eyebrow at her from his spot below.

“Don’t get cocky,” she groaned.

Repositioning, he placed a hand on either of her thighs and spread her legs further apart. He took a second to appreciate how beautiful and vulnerable she was in this position before diving in headfirst again. She panted, weaving a needy hand in his hair. She'd move him gently, desperate to chase her orgasm with his help. She loved it when he maneuvered so that his appendage could both rub her little pleasure button and fill her insides.

She closed her eyes, imagining it was his cock filling her instead.

After manipulating her with his mouth for a while, Beetlejuice withdrew. Beck, who’d mostly shucked off her pants by that point, wrapped a desperate leg around the back of his head. She tried to push him back into place.

“I’m so fucking close,” she pleaded, “Please don’t stop.”

Everything in him wanted to oblige her.

Beetlejuice was obsessed. He craved to feel her fall apart in his hands. After so many rendezvous like this, it started to felt like his purpose in unlife was to worship her body. It felt like sin to not to give in to her wants.

But he had a point to make…

Beetlejuice kissed her left thigh, the wetness from around his mouth transfering partially onto her with it.

“You can cum when you tell me that no breather will ever satisfy you again.”

“That no wha-? Oh!”

She threw her head back and arched towards him as he slowly slid a thick finger in. The speed was disappointing and teasingly slow. Sitting upright now, Beck tried to stimulate herself further but was unable. Her hips felt like they were being held in place, making it impossible to ramp up the speed by rocking back and forth. Her hands, similarly, felt stuck to the counter. It kept her from playing with her clit.

Beck tried to contain her frustration but failed miserably. Finger still moving painstakingly slow, Beetlejuice watched her thin veneer of calm fall apart. A deep, grounding sigh from her lips slowly became a vexed protest. He laughed openly at her struggle and pressed his forehead against hers. The proximity gave them both a rush.

“Say ‘you’ve spoiled my body too much’ and maybe I’ll let you cum,” he said.

“I’ve had better!” Beck spat back.

He bit her neck in response. Pleased at the scream he elicited from her, he kissed the mark it made.

“Don’t do that! I don’t want Nathan to see it.”

"Fuck Nathan!"

Beetlejuice was about to bite harder when he got distracted by a buzzing noise. They both got quiet. Looking around, he realized it was coming from her jacket on the floor. It, along with her purse, were knocked out of her hands when he pushed her against the wall.

She grumbled when his hand and face left her body. Beetlejuice leaned down and fished the buzzing thing— her cellphone— out of her jacket. He looked at the glowing screen, an evil grin spreading on his face when he saw who was calling her.

“Pick it up. Now,” he demanded as he tossed it to her.

He dismissed the restraint from one of her hands, allowing her to catch. She swallowed nervously before answering.

“H-hi Nathan."

Beetlejuice resumed his position on her neck and teased her entrance with his fingers. As he placed his other hand on the small of her back, Beck realized with horror what he was about to do.

She bit her lip to suppress a moan as two of his thick fingers slammed into her repeatedly. It made her crazy, feeling the hilt of his hand ram against her pelvis. Beck tried to close her thighs to buffer the movement, but his powers still kept her position locked. He nibbled and sucked her neck, careful not to bite too hard this time. She liked it when he paid attention to the spot on her collar bone, too, he'd learned.

Her body trembled at the sensations. A tremor was in her voice, too.

“I’m not standing you up, I promise,” she laughed nervously into the phone. “I, uh, I’m stuck at my house. My car won’t start. Sometimes that happens when it gets too cold.”

Beck let out a yelp as Beetlejuice put a third digit into her.

“No! I’m fine. My back just hurts from hunching over my desk all day. W-what was that? Oh! Uh, yeah that’d be awesome. You're the best. I’ll see you in five.”

She hung up the phone, immediately tossing it aside in order to manipulate her clit. Beetlejuice laughed against her skin.

“Not so cool now are you, Bexley.”

“Shut up and finger fuck me like you mean it.”

That was all the prodding he needed.

Her sweater bunched up as the hand on her back clenched into a fist. Beetlejuice started kissing her on the mouth. Beck kissed back, fiery need consuming them both. When he untethered her other hand, he was surprised to feel her tugging his pants down. He moaned into her mouth at the way she stroked him.

Beck's concentration on him wavered. She broke their kiss and stopped manipulating his cock, too focused on getting herself off before she had to leave.

A long and drawn out scream soon crescendoed from Beck’s mouth. It was so unabashed it almost made Beetlejuice blush. He loved it when she didn't care who heard her cumming. I made him feel powerful. The Maitlands were probably somewhere out of sight and clutching their pearls over it. He certainly didn't give a fuck, though.

“Oh, fuck, baby. That’s right. Ride it out,” he whispered.

Combined with the feeling of her hand on his cock, the sensation of her body clenching around his fingers was almost too much. Beetlejuice was close to climax, too.

Regaining control of herself, Beck's hand started working him again. Beetlejuice grunted and came all over the base of the countertop.

They just stared at each other after coming down from their respective highs. The silence spoke volumes.

In a moment of tenderness, Beetlejuice tried to kiss Beck, but she turned her head.

Wordlessly, she readjusted her clothing. He watched bemused as she maneuvered her hair to fall over the purple and red mark he’d left on her skin. Hearing a car horn honk outside, she picked up her things and headed for the door.

Beck dared to glance back at him one last time.

Beetlejuice smirked back, mouthing the word “spoiled."

She slammed the door behind her.

⁂

The date was a bust. Nathan didn’t even go in for a kiss when he dropped her off.

It's not like she had anyone else to blame but herself, though.

Beck was distant the whole time, her mind more interested in replaying what had just happened rather than listen to her date talk. When she did pay Nathan mind, it wasn't for long. She was self-conscious about hiding the hickey on her neck. She was too distracted to give meaningful answers to the questions he asked. She was too overwhelmed with the worry that he could smell Beetlejuice on her. It wasn't long before he gave up on coaxing conversation out of her.

“Whelp. See you in class Tuesday,” he sighed when he dropped her off.

"Thank you. I'm sorry," was all she could manage to say back.

She really did feel sorry. She really did like him.

Beck was surprised that Beetlejuice wasn’t waiting for her in the foyer. She thought for sure he would been itching to gloat about how he was right. About how that dumb breather didn’t have a chance with her and all that.

He wasn’t waiting in her room when she got up there, either.

This was so unlike him, Beck thought. Where the hell could he be?

The ceiling above her room creaked.

“That bastard,” she muttered.

The message was clear: not only did he demand that she grovel, he demanded she actually go up to the attic to do it.

Resolved that she wouldn’t play his game, Beck started to get ready for bed and kicked off her shoes. Tossing her keys onto her dresser, she noticed the coffee cup that had been left there earlier. The art desk was still by the window, too, along with the drawing she’d been working on.

Picking up the sketch pad, she noticed the thick black line from before was gone. The picture, otherwise, was the same aside from the addition of two crudely drawn figures. A man and a woman peered out at the rest of the town from a window in the top part in one of the houses. The detail was hard to make out, but she could tell they were holding teeny tiny coffee cups.

Beck smiled despite herself.

Get Better - Chapter Three

Title: Get Better

Chapter: 3/18

Character: Tom Hiddleston/Cath Richardson (OFC)

Genre: Romance

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Love. Companionship. Family. These are all of the things Tom Hiddleston desperately wanted. But his life and his choices left that a distant and unlikely prospect. So he did his best to move on and live his life as is. When an opportunity to return to the theater arises, he jumps at the chance and along the way finds that maybe, just maybe, those distant and unlikely prospects are closer than he could have imagined. Sequel to Brave Face.

Authors Notes/Warnings: So as I was writing Brave Face I knew that Tom’s story wasn’t over, even if that particular part of it was. And while I knew, more or less, what the overall ending to the story would be, its taken me a while to figure out the time in between. Thanks to @redfoxwritesstuff for letting me continually throw ideas off and at you. I still can’t fathom why you put up with it, but I am eternally grateful you do. This story will update on Thursdays.

Tag list: @tinchentitri @theheartofpenelope @noplacelikehome77 @nonsensicalobsessions @blacksuitofdoom @messy-insomniac-bookgirl @just-the-hiddles @theoneanna @wolfsmom1

Previous Chapter

CHAPTER THREE

 A sharp wind whipped down the florescent lit tunnel, sending a sudden shiver down his spine. Tom pulled the blanket he’d been handed tighter around him, stifling a yawn. It had been an early morning and despite several cups of coffee, with more espresso shots than he’d care to admit to, he still felt the pull of sleep dragging on him. The excitement, however, was winning by leaps and bounds. He had been intrigued when the idea was pitched to him, of making a teaser for Betrayal and posting it as-is before formally announcing the show the following day. It was a creative and fun way of drawing attention to the production and getting buzz going around it.

 The teaser’s premise was simple, Tom would come into focus walking down the aforementioned tunnel, something out of the camera’s range would catch his eye, and the viewer would watch his reaction unfold. Watch the shock, pain, anger, and finally defeat play across his features. No dialogue, no real explanation; just him and music. Beautiful in its simplicity.

 He stood to the side, watching as the days’ crew reset the shot and fiddled with the lighting. It was their third, and hopefully last, take; the lighting have gone a touch fuzzy during the last set up. It was a bustle of controlled chaos and something he’d always found fascinating. The way in which the crew flittered around each other was almost an elaborate dance.

 “Alright, places everyone!”  The director called once things had been set to rights. Tom nodded, took a deep breath and stepped onto his mark.  

 The rest of the shoot passed with little issue. The fourth take had been the one Tom was certain he’d nailed. He’d watched the final footage with the director and found himself pleased with the initial result. The days’ footage, Tom was told, would be edited that evening and should be ready to go up the day after. With a warm smile, Tom bid farewell and headed out into the bustle of the now busy streets.

 He’d taken the tube that morning, enjoying being able to sit and people watch. It helped keep him grounded, just doing the everyday tasks that so many seemed to take for granted. He could usually take the tube with little fuss or fanfare. That was one of the wonderful things about London, very few people seemed to care who or what he was. True, there would be the occasional fan who would approach him or the rare ‘sneaky’ photograph (which he never really understood the point of) but for the most part he was left to his own devices.

 He’d fired off a quick text to Luke before he’d entered the station, letting him know all had gone well and that he was off home. Luke responded quickly, reminding him that his phone meeting with Marvel regarding updates for the Loki limited series had been pushed back until following afternoon. Which meant for the time being, Tom had the rest of the day to himself and he was greatly looking forward to the lack of demand. He made his way through the ticket barrier and followed commuters down the escalators and onto the platform. The train rumbled into the station a few minutes later and he joined the mass of people making their way into various carriages.

 Tom quickly settled into the first available seat, letting his mind wander as he watched the eclectic mix of people filling the carriage. It was something he’d always enjoyed about the city; the mix of cultures and people that had always made it uniquely London. The carriage was busy but not packed, it was still early enough in the day that most commuters were still at work. Tom enjoyed the relative peace as the carriage jostled along, silently counting the stops until his own.

 He made his way from the train onto the platform once the train had pulled into his station. A flash of dark hair and a familiar laugh caught his attention as he made his way through the busy station to the ticketing barrier. Tom turned his head in reflex and a jolt of recognition shot through him. Cath. The name materialized in his head without conscious thought. But she was gone before he could make a move, disappeared into the crowd heading towards the platforms.

 Tom shook himself back into the present and carried on through the gate and then out onto the street. It was just as well she’d gone, he reasoned, pulling his coat tighter around himself as a swift breeze raced down the pavements. He didn’t actually know her, had no reason to approach her other than his own, admittedly overabundant, curiosity.  And that had often caused more trouble than it was worth.

 Silently, he carried on down the pavements and back towards home. Bobby, none too pleased with being shut in the back room in his crate, barked repeatedly as Tom unlocked and pushed open the front door. “Alright, alright,” he called. “I’m coming.”

 He shrugged out of his woolen coat, hanging it on the rack near the door, and jogged through the house towards the back room. Bobby, finally free of his confinement, let his displeasure be known with several more loud and growly barks. Tom rolled his eyes and let the spaniel out through the door into the back garden to do his business and terrorize the local wildlife.

 The following day’s teaser release and subsequent play announcement were well received, which had been a major relief. The response on social media had been overwhelmingly positive and Tom was more than pleased. Zawe had begun talks to secure her involvement in the show and from what Tom had been able to gather, Charlie Cox was in talks to join as well. Nothing had been set in stone and probably wouldn’t until closer to the New Year, but Tom couldn’t have been happier. He’d known Charlie for years and was glad to at least have the chance of potentially working with him.

 His phone had been ringing off and on throughout the day following the official announcement; friends and family sharing their well wishes and excitement. His mother had been particularly thrilled as she could talk more openly about the play now that had it been announced publically. His mother and her enthusiasm had become the stuff of legend in and around Suffolk.

 “So someone actually took pity on you and hired your sorry face. I must send them flowers…and my condolences as well,” Benedict laughed. His call had come just after Tom had finished an impromptu afternoon run. He was in desperate need of a shower but hadn’t the heart to tell his friend to buzz off.

 “Well,” Tom quipped back. “If they actually hire you on occasion, I figured I would be a shoe-in this time round. And,” he added as an afterthought, “there is a much better chance they can actually pronounce my name.” Ben snorted laughter at the comment which pulled Tom into a laughing fit of his own. “But in all seriousness,” Tom continued once he’d managed to calm himself, “I am ridiculously excited to be able to be doing this. It’s going to be a challenging role and I am looking forward to it.”

 “So who are you playing? Robert or Jerry?”

 “Robert.”

 Ben laughed in delight. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. And they’ve cast Emma and Jerry?”

 “Not officially no,” Tom answered, laughing as well.

 “Unofficially?” Ben goaded.

 “Zawe Ashton and Charlie Cox, pending availability.”

 “Very nice indeed, Mr. Hiddleston. You’re moving up in the world.” He paused, taking a breath. “Hopefully Sophie and I will be able to make it during the run.”

 “Don’t feel obligated,” Tom admonished. “I know things are going to be a bit mad with the little one coming.” He had been beyond thrilled, and quietly jealous, when Ben had told him that he and Sophie were expecting again. The baby was due in late January and Tom was well aware that their lives would be chaotic for a least the first few months while their family settled into its new routine. The play would be the absolute least of their priorities. “If you make it, that will be amazing but don’t feel like you must. Honestly.”

 Ben laughed. “I have a feeling that by the time your show opens we’ll both be ready for a break and grown up company.”

 Tom laughed as well. “I can only imagine.”

 A loud scream echoed from Ben’s side of the line. “I’m terribly sorry to cut this short but I need to make sure my sons aren’t killing one another. Sophie will be awfully cross if any damage comes to them in my care.”

 “Yes. Yes. Go on, take care of your offspring. Talk to you later.” Tom ended the call and stretched his back, it having started to get a bit stiff. He really needed to make sure he stretched pre and post run now. God, I’m getting old, he thought with a grimace. Tom toed out of his running shoes and took the stairs two at a time, more eager than ever for a hot shower.

 —

 The rest of November passed in a blur of various appointments and meetings cumulating in an appearance at Tokyo Comic Con. Tom always thoroughly enjoyed being able to attend Asian events, especially fan ones. The welcome he received was always warm and the fan base vocal and tremendously supportive. It made the long flight and horrendous jetlag worth it. And this time had been no exception. He’d thoroughly enjoyed talking with fans and participating in numerous panels. But he had to admit, he was grateful to be going home. He’d joked with Luke about the real possibility of him sleeping for at least a week on the way to the airport.

 “Good,” Luke deadpanned back. “Please do. Less chance of you causing me headache.”

 The flight home had been a long one, with just enough layover to make his usual jetlag feel a hundred times worse. He’d practically fallen into the car awaiting him at Heathrow and slept all the way home. It certainly wouldn’t do his re-acclimation to British Standard Time any good, but he’d been far too tired to care. How he’d made his way from the car and into the house, he still didn’t know. Nor how he’d fumbled his way from the entry way, up the stairs and into his bedroom. He’d woken late the following afternoon still in his clothes and momentarily unaware of just where he was.

 Tom blinked around the room several times before the familiar shapes of his dresser and the door to the ensuite came into focus. Home. He pushed himself upright, a jaw cracking yawn escaping him. He was still tired, still a bit fuzzy-headed, but now that he was conscious he could sense the grime of several hours confined in a small space with far too many people all over him. With a fair amount of effort, he pulled himself to his feet and padded into the bathroom, stripping as he went.

 Freshly showered and feeling much more like himself, Tom climbed downstairs nearly twenty minutes later and set about fixing both coffee and food. Plate of egg and toast in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee doctored to his liking in the other, Tom padded into the living room and settled himself on the couch. He let himself revel, selfishly, in the silence of the house.

 Bobby was still at Emma’s; she and her husband had volunteered to watch the little devil while he’d been out of the country. Why they’d agreed, Tom still wasn’t entirely sure. And while he’d missed the little bugger, it was nice to be able to eat a meal without having to face those large, pleading eyes. He’d never been able to completely resist them, and he knew Bobby knew.

 Tom took his time eating, he had nowhere in particular he needed to be and fully intended to laze about for as long as possible. He pondered actually taking on his ever-growing ‘to-be-read’ pile. It had been ages since he’d allowed himself the luxury of just sitting and reading a book. Yes, he still read as often as was possible, but it was usually during filming breaks when he wasn’t going over lines or blocking or a few moments before falling asleep. Actually sitting about and just reading, that was a true rarity. Possibilities.

 Once he’d finished the last of his meal and drained the very last of his coffee, Tom pushed himself to his feet and padded to the kitchen. He contemplated simply leaving his used plate and mug in the sink for later, after all it wasn’t as if he won’t have the time later. But the impulse was quickly abated; his mother would box his ears, metaphorically speaking, for doing such a thing even now. He shook his head and laughed at himself, washing and drying them quickly before heading out of the kitchen and into the main hall.

 As Tom made his way down the hall his suitcase and backpack, left carelessly by the door the night before, caught his eye and he groaned. He should take his clothing out and get a load of washing started, knowing if he put it off it wouldn’t get done. With a muffled curse, he lugged the case towards the laundry room, setting it on the floor and sorting through his clothing. He’d gotten a load in the wash and started the sorting of the next when the sharp ring of his mobile echoed from the front of the house.

 Tom sighed and padded back into the hall, finding this mobile vibrating and ringing away on the table; Emma’s number flashing across the screen. He had to have pulled it from his pocket by reflex the night before as tended to keep in beside him the majority of the time unless he purposefully needed a break from the outside world.

 “Yes, little sister?” he said as way of greeting after he’d grabbed the offending object and slid his finger across the screen to accept the call.

 Emma snorted a laugh. “He lives! I was wondering if you’d be conscious and functional yet or not.”

 “I do live, the conscious and functional part is debatable. Now what can I do for you?”

 A loud, piercing cry echoed through the line and Emma sighed, wearily. “Take my child off my hands for the next…I don’t know…Eighteen or so years?”

 “Somehow I think Jack might have a few objections to that idea.” Tom chuckled, padding back into the living room and dropping onto the couch.

 “He’ll live,” Emma grumbled. “I’ve got to dash. Just give us a call when you’re ready to swing by for Bobby. And if you want to take Allie with you, feel free.”

 “I think I’m good. One adorable yet demanding creature is more than enough for me at this juncture,” he reasoned adding, “And Bobby doesn’t scream” as an afterthought.

 “Oh ha bloody ha. See if I agree to help you with anything in future….Allie no, put that down…Alice Marie…Sorry, Tom, I’ve got to go.” The line clicked and Tom let his phone drop beside him on the couch. He scrubbed his face with his hands before standing and heading back into the laundry room. He’d finish sorting his laundry and then call her back, letting her know he was on the way.

 The drive across town wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared it would be; London traffic being what it was. He pulled his car to a stop in the drive leading to the house forty minutes later, almost reluctant to turn the engine off and lose the heating.  Emma had the door open, his niece on her hip, before he’d climbed out of the car.

 “She’s calmed I see,” he called, reaching out to take the little girl from her mother’s arms. She smiled in delight and clung to her uncle, babbling excitedly. “Hello there, angel.” He kissed the top of her head before returning his attention to his sister. “And how has my boy been?”

 Emma laughed and shook her head, ushering Tom inside. “He’s been his usual self. Luckily he hasn’t dug up the back garden…again. Only because it’s been so bloody cold.”

 Tom threw back his head and laughed. “Well thank goodness for small miracles.”  The aforementioned spaniel, upon hearing his master’s voice, came sprinting out into the hallway, barking. Alice let out a squeal, clapping her hands together and reaching for the excited dog jumping at her uncle’s feet. Tom bent down and gave Bobby an affectionate scratch behind the ears. Alice reached out and grabbed at Bobby’s ears. “No, sweetie. We need to be gentle with the doggy.” He demonstrated by petting Bobby softly on the head. Alice mimicked his motions and Bobby tossed his head up, licking her face. She squealed in delight and wriggled out of Tom’s arms.

 Behind him, Tom could hear Emma laughing. “You are a natural, you know?” He turned around, blinking at her in puzzlement. “With kids,” she continued, “have been for years.”

 He shrugged, turning his attention back towards his niece and his dog to ensure neither was misbehaving. Alice was contentedly patting Bobby on the head and babbling at him. “So are lots of people.”

 “I’m just saying…You are great as Uncle Tommy and I think you’d made quite a good father in your own right.”

 “Em.”

 “I know you want that, Tom. It’s plain as day to anyone who knows you,” she pressed, giving him a knowing look.

 “Of course I want that, Em. I just…Sometimes we can’t get what we want.” He let out a resigned sigh. “Sometimes things just don’t work out the way we want and we’ve no one to blame but ourselves. I’ve come to terms with it.”

 Emma folded her arms over chest, “You and I both know that’s a boldfaced lie.”

 Tom pushed himself to his feet, turning to face his sister, frustration clear in his eyes. “Just let it go, Em. Seriously.” His tone brooked no argument. “Do you have the rest of his things gathered or do I need to go into the back and fetch them?”

 “Tom…” It was clear though that Tom was no longer willing to entertain the conversation at hand. “All his stuff is gathered in the back room.” He gave her a nod and headed down the hallway towards the room in question. Alice who had until that point been contentedly patting Bobby on the head, raised her attention to her mother and inquired, in her own fashion, after her missing uncle. Her mother sighed, “Uncle Tommy’s gone to get Bobby’s things then they are going bye-byes. But we’ll see them again soon.”

 Alice pouted at this, “No bye-byes!”

 “It’s alright Allie,” Tom spoke, dropping the bundle of Bobby’s things carefully by the door and settling on his knees beside her. “Bobby and I will come back soon. But I think right now mummy and daddy want a little time with just you.” Alice sniffled and grabbed at Tom who pulled the toddler into his arms. “I know, I know.” He kissed her head, and standing, handed the girl to her mother. “You be good for your mummy and daddy okay?”

 Emma looked at him over the head of her still sniffling daughter. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

 Tom nodded and mouthed, “It’s alright.” Picking up the bundle once more, Tom leant down and hooked Bobby’s lead to his collar. “Come on, boy.” He pushed open the front door and led them out into the dark and cold December evening. Bobby had hopped into the backseat of the car willingly enough but throughout the drive home insisted on sticking his nose further and further between the two front seats, nudging at his master’s arm.

 “You, my lad, are a menace,” Tom laughed as he pulled back onto the main road and into traffic. The drive home took twice as long as the initial trip. Tom hadn’t been surprised; London traffic was a nightmare, regardless of the time of day. As they sat, Tom’s mind wandered back to Emma’s earlier words. She’d meant well and he’d known it. And he’d hated being so short with her. But they’d had the conversation far too many times over the last few years and he was tired.

 There were things he wanted; someone to come home to, a family of his own, the things he saw in the lives of his sisters and friends. And yet here he was inching ever closer to forty and still, more or less, alone. Most days it hadn’t bothered him. He had more than enough to fill his life. He had friends, nieces and honorary nephews aplenty. He had a rewarding and engaging career that he still loved, despite its pitfalls and stresses. But somedays…Somedays that nagging voice inside his head reminding him that he was alone grew loud and became difficult to ignore.

 He took a deep breath and forced himself to concentrate on the road before him. Behind him, Tom could hear Bobby’s incessant whining. “Fine, come on up.” He patted the seat beside him and Bobby let out an excited bark and quickly leapt into the front seat where he sat, watching the traffic around him.

                                                             —

 Christmas, as always, came far too quickly. Tom had spent the week before scrambling to make sure he found the bits and bobs he’d purchased throughout the year and hidden away ‘for safe keeping’. Why he never bothered to use the same spot twice, he’d never understand. Though, if pushed, he could admit it most likely came from a lifelong habit of trying to hide his things from nosey and inquisitive sisters and later from intrusive school mates.

 But he’d found them all in the end, and the evening before he’d been set to drive to his mother’s, Tom sat in his living room surrounded by wrapping paper and sellotape, wondering just what he’d been thinking. Despite his ability to master almost anything thrown his way, Tom had always been rubbish at wrapping and practice, he’d found, made little difference.

 Cursing and muttering under his breath, he fumbled his way through. The end results were far from perfect, but they were wrapped. Bobby had taken great pleasure in chasing the loose paper, gleefully tearing it to shreds. Watching this, Tom wisely made the decision to pack the gifts away where the spaniel could not reach. He didn’t think Bobby would actually go after them but experience had taught him that trusting the playful spaniel in that regard was not a risk worth taking.

 With a jaw cracking yawn, Tom pushed himself up to his feet. A quick glance at the clock informed him that it had just gone one in the morning. Much later than he’d intended. “Bed,” he murmured to himself. Bobby fast on his heels, Tom climbed the stairs and, after a quick detour to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, fell into bed.

 He set out for his mother’s at a little before noon the following day. Traffic wasn’t nearly as hectic as he’d thought it would be, especially for the day before Christmas. Bobby sat contentedly in the front seat, every so often barking at passing motorists. He had tried, and failed, to keep the spaniel in the backseat and as they left the city limits, he’d relented and allowed Bobby what the spaniel firmly believed was his spot. Christmas music rang out of the speakers, Tom had always had a soft spot for these songs, and found himself humming along quietly as he drove.

 It hadn’t snowed yet, which was a blessing. But darkening skies loomed low and threateningly. Tom only hoped it would hold out until he was safely in Suffolk and inside with the hot beverage of his choosing before they broke. His luck, and the weather, held and he pulled into the drive only half an hour later than he’d planned. Bobby barked excitedly as Tom killed the engine, his tail a blur of motion. “Alright, alright. I know you’re dying for a walk.”

 Once he was certain Bobby’s lead was tightly fastened, Tom climbed out of the car and darted to the passenger side. Bobby hopped out and took three laps around the front garden before Tom led him back to the car. Pulling his backpack and the bag of gifts from the trunk, Tom headed up the walk and to the front door, the spaniel following closely behind.

 The door opened and a chorus of warm welcomes and a loud and enthusiastic “Uncle Tommy!” from his eldest niece, Cora, greeted him.

 He was pulled into a tight hug by his mother as he crossed the threshold. “So glad you made it before the weather turned. The thought of you out in the snow in that car…” Diana had made her dislike of Tom’s Jaguar plain from the moment he’d received it as a perk for his appearance in one of their marketing campaigns years ago.

 “Mum,” he groaned, unable to mask his annoyance, “It’s a perfectly safe car and you know fair well that I’m a good driver.”

 Diana huffed and shut the door behind him. “I’m still not a fan.”

 Settling in hadn’t taken long, he’d been placed in his old bedroom and had wasted no time in jogging up the stairs (Diana’s voice echoing after him with an admonishing “no running in the house!”) and dropping his bag on the recently made bed. The room hadn’t changed overmuch in the years since he’d lived in it; a new bedspread had been laid out but otherwise it was still very much the room of his teenaged years. Tom found an odd comfort in that. He returned downstairs and quickly found himself pulled into rolling around the floor with Alice and Cora while they laughed and screamed in delight. He could hear Emma and Sarah behind him, laughing hysterically at his antics.

 Dinner was a causal affair that evening, eaten mostly in the living room while everyone chatted and the children played with Bobby, occasionally sneaking him bits of food much to the spaniel’s delight. At quarter of nine the children were tucked into bed with the promise of a visit from Santa if they settled to sleep. He’d been roped into reading several bedtime stories because, according to Cora, “you do all the best voices”. The girls’ parents were quick to agree and so Tom settled on the floor between the two beds and read from the collection of bedtime stories that had been in the house for as long as he could remember.

 Once both girls were fast asleep, Tom rejoined the adults downstairs. He took the proffered glass of whiskey from his brother-in-law and settled on the couch. It was wonderful, getting to spend time with his family. He hadn’t seen Sarah nor her family since Emma’s wedding, something he promised himself to rectify in future. They sat up talking until well into the early hours of the morning, though Diana had turned in shorty before ten, and as they finally climbed the stairs to bed he heard Sarah grumble, “Cora will be up at first light and demand everyone join her.” And her husband grunt in response.

 Cora was in fact up at just before six Christmas morning. After waking her parents, she’d darted into Tom’s room and woke him as well by jumping repeatedly on the bed yelling “it’s Christmas, Uncle Tommy! It’s Christmas!”

 Startled into consciousness, Tom swallowed his heart and grumbled a “that’s lovely” while patting Cora on the back. He heard Sarah snort in amusement from the doorway and shot her an evil look, which only made her laugh harder.  He sat up in time to watch Cora dash from the room, grabbing her mother by the hand and dragging her towards the stairs. Tom chuckled to himself, stretched, and slowly climbed out of bed. God, it was far too early. He pulled on a jumper, as his mother tended to keep the house on the cooler side even in winter, and padded downstairs in search of coffee.

 Diana stood in the kitchen when he stumbled in, a steaming mug outstretched towards him which he took gratefully. It was a strong roast, rich and bitter. He drank it slowly, feeling the comforting rush of caffeine through his bloodstream. Gods above, he loved coffee. Excited cries soon echoed in from the living room, beckoning his attention. He made his way into the living room behind his mother and settled into one of the open arm chairs, watching as Alice and Cora were settled before their respective pile of gifts.

 The actual present opening portion of the morning lasted all of twenty minutes in Cora’s case. Alice took longer due to the fact she became easily distracted by the shiny paper. But all in all, they had their presents opened in well less than an hour. They saved the adult gift giving for later, once both girls were sufficiently distracted enough by toys to allow them a moment’s peace.

 Breakfast and lunch, much like dinner the night before, were eaten in the living room surrounded by bin bags full of wrapping paper. Tom had been drafted into throwing out said bags, very much without his consent he’d pointed out. No one, however, took his protests seriously. After he’d finished lunch and could put off the inevitable no longer, Tom threw on his coat with a grumble and grabbed the bags. Bobby was quick on his heels, sensing walkies afoot. The spaniel was hooked into his lead and headed out into the cold alongside Tom. Once the bin bags were tossed in the bins at the side of the house, they took a quick lap around the front garden then up and down the drive before heading back inside.

 He unhooked Bobby from his lead once he’d had the front door firmly shut and the spaniel had shot off back in the direction of the living room where moments later he heard the delighted cries of his nieces. Tom padded towards the kitchen in search of another mug of coffee, or if he was truly lucky, hot chocolate. He found his mother pacing around the kitchen, phone balanced between her ear and shoulder as she puttered around making hot chocolate. Bless her, he thought.

 “Oh, dear heart that is fine…Honestly, I know it’s a long drive and a short stop is perfectly fine. I just want to meet that little man of yours…Yes…Alright…Speak soon.” She turned to hang the phone back into its base and jumped when she caught sight of Tom in the doorway. “Goodness, Thomas! You gave me quite a fright.”

 “Sorry, Mum.”

 “No matter. Now that you’re here you can help me finish these up…And I mean get them ready not sample the lot, young man.” She wagged a reproachful finger at him and he laughed and ducked his head sheepishly. How was it his fault that her hot chocolate was so amazing that he couldn’t help himself? Chocolate was a weakness of his, surely she knew that by now.

 Diana shook her head and began passing him the mugs she had started and the various toppings they required. Tom worked dutifully at his task though temptation to sample was strong. “Mum…”

 “No, Tom, you may not test them out.” She answered automatically.

 Tom laughed. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

 Diana chuckled. “Anytime, my boy. Anytime.” She nudged him gently with her shoulder. “So what was your question then?”

 “Who was on the phone earlier?”

 “Amy,” Diana answered simply, offering Tom a look of understanding. “They can’t stay for lunch tomorrow, but are going to stop by on their drive home.”

 Tom smiled back. “I’m glad they can make it. I know you’ve been dying to meet Henry.” Her eyes narrowed just a fraction, and Tom let out a sigh. “Mum, honestly its fine. What happened between Amy and I is in the past. She’s moved on and so have I. Honestly.”

 Diana’s eyes studied his face, an unreadable expression in her eyes. It felt like an age before she spoke, “Then why, my boy, do you look so sad?” Tom opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off with a quick wave of her hand. “Don’t, Thomas. You forget I’ve known you all of your life. I see you. You might have accepted what happened between you and Amy, that I do believe, but I don’t know if you have truly moved on.” She shot him a knowing look. “You haven’t had a steady nor serious relationship since…And what happened that summer doesn’t count.” Diana came to stand beside him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “You are my boy and I just want you to be happy.”

 Tom blinked up at her, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “I am…I mean, yes, there are times I wish for things that I don’t have. But doesn’t everyone?” He let out a sigh. “I made some spectacularly bad choices and I’ve learned from them. Things aren’t…Perfect. But they are good. I’m good. You don’t have to worry about me.”

 Diana shook her head, “Oh my boy, that’s one thing you still don’t quite understand. I am your mother, I am always going to worry about you.” She leaned down and kissed his head. “No let’s get this drinks out there before the rest of the family starts to riot.”

 Both laughing, they worked together to place the mugs onto a tray and carried them back into the living room.

Next Chapter

Get Better - Chapter Three

Title: Get Better

Chapter: 3/18

Character: Tom Hiddleston/Cath Richardson (OFC)

Genre: Romance

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Love. Companionship. Family. These are all of the things Tom Hiddleston desperately wanted. But his life and his choices left that a distant and unlikely prospect. So he did his best to move on and live his life as is. When an opportunity to return to the theater arises, he jumps at the chance and along the way finds that maybe, just maybe, those distant and unlikely prospects are closer than he could have imagined. Sequel to Brave Face.

Authors Notes/Warnings: So as I was writing Brave Face I knew that Tom’s story wasn’t over, even if that particular part of it was. And while I knew, more or less, what the overall ending to the story would be, its taken me a while to figure out the time in between. Thanks to @redfoxwritesstuff for letting me continually throw ideas off and at you. I still can’t fathom why you put up with it, but I am eternally grateful you do.

Previous

CHAPTER THREE

A sharp wind whipped down the florescent lit tunnel, sending a sudden shiver down his spine. Tom pulled the blanket he’d been handed tighter around him, stifling a yawn. It had been an early morning and despite several cups of coffee, with more espresso shots than he’d care to admit to, he still felt the pull of sleep dragging on him. The excitement, however, was winning by leaps and bounds. He had been intrigued when the idea was pitched to him, of making a teaser for Betrayal and posting it as-is before formally announcing the show the following day. It was a creative and fun way of drawing attention to the production and getting buzz going around it.

The teaser’s premise was simple, Tom would come into focus walking down the aforementioned tunnel, something out of the camera’s range would catch his eye, and the viewer would watch his reaction unfold. Watch the shock, pain, anger, and finally defeat play across his features. No dialogue, no real explanation; just him and music. Beautiful in its simplicity.

He stood to the side, watching as the days’ crew reset the shot and fiddled with the lighting. It was their third, and hopefully last, take; the lighting have gone a touch fuzzy during the last set up. It was a bustle of controlled chaos and something he’d always found fascinating. The way in which the crew flittered around each other was almost an elaborate dance.

“Alright, places everyone!”  The director called once things had been set to rights. Tom nodded, took a deep breath and stepped onto his mark.  

The rest of the shoot passed with little issue. The fourth take had been the one Tom was certain he’d nailed. He’d watched the final footage with the director and found himself pleased with the initial result. The days’ footage, Tom was told, would be edited that evening and should be ready to go up the day after. With a warm smile, Tom bid farewell and headed out into the bustle of the now busy streets.

He’d taken the tube that morning, enjoying being able to sit and people watch. It helped keep him grounded, just doing the everyday tasks that so many seemed to take for granted. He could usually take the tube with little fuss or fanfare. That was one of the wonderful things about London, very few people seemed to care who or what he was. True, there would be the occasional fan who would approach him or the rare ‘sneaky’ photograph (which he never really understood the point of) but for the most part he was left to his own devices.

He’d fired off a quick text to Luke before he’d entered the station, letting him know all had gone well and that he was off home. Luke responded quickly, reminding him that his phone meeting with Marvel regarding updates for the Loki limited series had been pushed back until following afternoon. Which meant for the time being, Tom had the rest of the day to himself and he was greatly looking forward to the lack of demand. He made his way through the ticket barrier and followed commuters down the escalators and onto the platform. The train rumbled into the station a few minutes later and he joined the mass of people making their way into various carriages.

Tom quickly settled into the first available seat, letting his mind wander as he watched the eclectic mix of people filling the carriage. It was something he’d always enjoyed about the city; the mix of cultures and people that had always made it uniquely London. The carriage was busy but not packed, it was still early enough in the day that most commuters were still at work. Tom enjoyed the relative peace as the carriage jostled along, silently counting the stops until his own.

He made his way from the train onto the platform once the train had pulled into his station. A flash of dark hair and a familiar laugh caught his attention as he made his way through the busy station to the ticketing barrier. Tom turned his head in reflex and a jolt of recognition shot through him. Cath. The name materialized in his head without conscious thought. But she was gone before he could make a move, disappeared into the crowd heading towards the platforms.

Tom shook himself back into the present and carried on through the gate and then out onto the street. It was just as well she’d gone, he reasoned, pulling his coat tighter around himself as a swift breeze raced down the pavements. He didn’t actually know her, had no reason to approach her other than his own, admittedly overabundant, curiosity.  And that had often caused more trouble than it was worth.

Silently, he carried on down the pavements and back towards home. Bobby, none too pleased with being shut in the back room in his crate, barked repeatedly as Tom unlocked and pushed open the front door. “Alright, alright,” he called. “I’m coming.”

He shrugged out of his woolen coat, hanging it on the rack near the door, and jogged through the house towards the back room. Bobby, finally free of his confinement, let his displeasure be known with several more loud and growly barks. Tom rolled his eyes and let the spaniel out through the door into the back garden to do his business and terrorize the local wildlife.

The following day’s teaser release and subsequent play announcement were well received, which had been a major relief. The response on social media had been overwhelmingly positive and Tom was more than pleased. Zawe had begun talks to secure her involvement in the show and from what Tom had been able to gather, Charlie Cox was in talks to join as well. Nothing had been set in stone and probably wouldn’t until closer to the New Year, but Tom couldn’t have been happier. He’d known Charlie for years and was glad to at least have the chance of potentially working with him.

His phone had been ringing off and on throughout the day following the official announcement; friends and family sharing their well wishes and excitement. His mother had been particularly thrilled as she could talk more openly about the play now that had it been announced publically. His mother and her enthusiasm had become the stuff of legend in and around Suffolk.

“So someone actually took pity on you and hired your sorry face. I must send them flowers…and my condolences as well,” Benedict laughed. His call had come just after Tom had finished an impromptu afternoon run. He was in desperate need of a shower but hadn’t the heart to tell his friend to buzz off.

“Well,” Tom quipped back. “If they actually hire you on occasion, I figured I would be a shoe-in this time round. And,” he added as an afterthought, “there is a much better chance they can actually pronounce my name.” Ben snorted laughter at the comment which pulled Tom into a laughing fit of his own. “But in all seriousness,” Tom continued once he’d managed to calm himself, “I am ridiculously excited to be able to be doing this. It’s going to be a challenging role and I am looking forward to it.”

“So who are you playing? Robert or Jerry?”

“Robert.”

Ben laughed in delight. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. And they’ve cast Emma and Jerry?”

“Not officially no,” Tom answered, laughing as well.

“Unofficially?” Ben goaded.

“Zawe Ashton and Charlie Cox, pending availability.”

“Very nice indeed, Mr. Hiddleston. You’re moving up in the world.” He paused, taking a breath. “Hopefully Sophie and I will be able to make it during the run.”

“Don’t feel obligated,” Tom admonished. “I know things are going to be a bit mad with the little one coming.” He had been beyond thrilled, and quietly jealous, when Ben had told him that he and Sophie were expecting again. The baby was due in late January and Tom was well aware that their lives would be chaotic for a least the first few months while their family settled into its new routine. The play would be the absolute least of their priorities. “If you make it, that will be amazing but don’t feel like you must. Honestly.”

Ben laughed. “I have a feeling that by the time your show opens we’ll both be ready for a break and grown up company.”

Tom laughed as well. “I can only imagine.”

A loud scream echoed from Ben’s side of the line. “I’m terribly sorry to cut this short but I need to make sure my sons aren’t killing one another. Sophie will be awfully cross if any damage comes to them in my care.”

“Yes. Yes. Go on, take care of your offspring. Talk to you later.” Tom ended the call and stretched his back, it having started to get a bit stiff. He really needed to make sure he stretched pre and post run now. God, I’m getting old, he thought with a grimace. Tom toed out of his running shoes and took the stairs two at a time, more eager than ever for a hot shower.

—

The rest of November passed in a blur of various appointments and meetings cumulating in an appearance at Tokyo Comic Con. Tom always thoroughly enjoyed being able to attend Asian events, especially fan ones. The welcome he received was always warm and the fan base vocal and tremendously supportive. It made the long flight and horrendous jetlag worth it. And this time had been no exception. He’d thoroughly enjoyed talking with fans and participating in numerous panels. But he had to admit, he was grateful to be going home. He’d joked with Luke about the real possibility of him sleeping for at least a week on the way to the airport.

“Good,” Luke deadpanned back. “Please do. Less chance of you causing me headache.”

The flight home had been a long one, with just enough layover to make his usual jetlag feel a hundred times worse. He’d practically fallen into the car awaiting him at Heathrow and slept all the way home. It certainly wouldn’t do his re-acclimation to British Standard Time any good, but he’d been far too tired to care. How he’d made his way from the car and into the house, he still didn’t know. Nor how he’d fumbled his way from the entry way, up the stairs and into his bedroom. He’d woken late the following afternoon still in his clothes and momentarily unaware of just where he was.

Tom blinked around the room several times before the familiar shapes of his dresser and the door to the ensuite came into focus. Home. He pushed himself upright, a jaw cracking yawn escaping him. He was still tired, still a bit fuzzy-headed, but now that he was conscious he could sense the grime of several hours confined in a small space with far too many people all over him. With a fair amount of effort, he pulled himself to his feet and padded into the bathroom, stripping as he went.

Freshly showered and feeling much more like himself, Tom climbed downstairs nearly twenty minutes later and set about fixing both coffee and food. Plate of egg and toast in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee doctored to his liking in the other, Tom padded into the living room and settled himself on the couch. He let himself revel, selfishly, in the silence of the house.

Bobby was still at Emma’s; she and her husband had volunteered to watch the little devil while he’d been out of the country. Why they’d agreed, Tom still wasn’t entirely sure. And while he’d missed the little bugger, it was nice to be able to eat a meal without having to face those large, pleading eyes. He’d never been able to completely resist them, and he knew Bobby knew.

Tom took his time eating, he had nowhere in particular he needed to be and fully intended to laze about for as long as possible. He pondered actually taking on his ever-growing ‘to-be-read’ pile. It had been ages since he’d allowed himself the luxury of just sitting and reading a book. Yes, he still read as often as was possible, but it was usually during filming breaks when he wasn’t going over lines or blocking or a few moments before falling asleep. Actually sitting about and just reading, that was a true rarity. Possibilities.

Once he’d finished the last of his meal and drained the very last of his coffee, Tom pushed himself to his feet and padded to the kitchen. He contemplated simply leaving his used plate and mug in the sink for later, after all it wasn’t as if he won’t have the time later. But the impulse was quickly abated; his mother would box his ears, metaphorically speaking, for doing such a thing even now. He shook his head and laughed at himself, washing and drying them quickly before heading out of the kitchen and into the main hall.

As Tom made his way down the hall his suitcase and backpack, left carelessly by the door the night before, caught his eye and he groaned. He should take his clothing out and get a load of washing started, knowing if he put it off it wouldn’t get done. With a muffled curse, he lugged the case towards the laundry room, setting it on the floor and sorting through his clothing. He’d gotten a load in the wash and started the sorting of the next when the sharp ring of his mobile echoed from the front of the house.

Tom sighed and padded back into the hall, finding this mobile vibrating and ringing away on the table; Emma’s number flashing across the screen. He had to have pulled it from his pocket by reflex the night before as tended to keep in beside him the majority of the time unless he purposefully needed a break from the outside world.

“Yes, little sister?” he said as way of greeting after he’d grabbed the offending object and slid his finger across the screen to accept the call.

Emma snorted a laugh. “He lives! I was wondering if you’d be conscious and functional yet or not.”

“I do live, the conscious and functional part is debatable. Now what can I do for you?”

A loud, piercing cry echoed through the line and Emma sighed, wearily. “Take my child off my hands for the next…I don’t know…Eighteen or so years?”

“Somehow I think Jack might have a few objections to that idea.” Tom chuckled, padding back into the living room and dropping onto the couch.

“He’ll live,” Emma grumbled. “I’ve got to dash. Just give us a call when you’re ready to swing by for Bobby. And if you want to take Allie with you, feel free.”

“I think I’m good. One adorable yet demanding creature is more than enough for me at this juncture,” he reasoned adding, “And Bobby doesn’t scream” as an afterthought.

“Oh ha bloody ha. See if I agree to help you with anything in future….Allie no, put that down…Alice Marie…Sorry, Tom, I’ve got to go.” The line clicked and Tom let his phone drop beside him on the couch. He scrubbed his face with his hands before standing and heading back into the laundry room. He’d finish sorting his laundry and then call her back, letting her know he was on the way.

The drive across town wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared it would be; London traffic being what it was. He pulled his car to a stop in the drive leading to the house forty minutes later, almost reluctant to turn the engine off and lose the heating.  Emma had the door open, his niece on her hip, before he’d climbed out of the car.

“She’s calmed I see,” he called, reaching out to take the little girl from her mother’s arms. She smiled in delight and clung to her uncle, babbling excitedly. “Hello there, angel.” He kissed the top of her head before returning his attention to his sister. “And how has my boy been?”

Emma laughed and shook her head, ushering Tom inside. “He’s been his usual self. Luckily he hasn’t dug up the back garden…again. Only because it’s been so bloody cold.”

Tom threw back his head and laughed. “Well thank goodness for small miracles.”  The aforementioned spaniel, upon hearing his master’s voice, came sprinting out into the hallway, barking. Alice let out a squeal, clapping her hands together and reaching for the excited dog jumping at her uncle’s feet. Tom bent down and gave Bobby an affectionate scratch behind the ears. Alice reached out and grabbed at Bobby’s ears. “No, sweetie. We need to be gentle with the doggy.” He demonstrated by petting Bobby softly on the head. Alice mimicked his motions and Bobby tossed his head up, licking her face. She squealed in delight and wriggled out of Tom’s arms.

Behind him, Tom could hear Emma laughing. “You are a natural, you know?” He turned around, blinking at her in puzzlement. “With kids,” she continued, “have been for years.”

He shrugged, turning his attention back towards his niece and his dog to ensure neither was misbehaving. Alice was contentedly patting Bobby on the head and babbling at him. “So are lots of people.”

“I’m just saying…You are great as Uncle Tommy and I think you’d made quite a good father in your own right.”

“Em.”

“I know you want that, Tom. It’s plain as day to anyone who knows you,” she pressed, giving him a knowing look.

“Of course I want that, Em. I just…Sometimes we can’t get what we want.” He let out a resigned sigh. “Sometimes things just don’t work out the way we want and we’ve no one to blame but ourselves. I’ve come to terms with it.”

Emma folded her arms over chest, “You and I both know that’s a boldfaced lie.”

Tom pushed himself to his feet, turning to face his sister, frustration clear in his eyes. “Just let it go, Em. Seriously.” His tone brooked no argument. “Do you have the rest of his things gathered or do I need to go into the back and fetch them?”

“Tom…” It was clear though that Tom was no longer willing to entertain the conversation at hand. “All his stuff is gathered in the back room.” He gave her a nod and headed down the hallway towards the room in question. Alice who had until that point been contentedly patting Bobby on the head, raised her attention to her mother and inquired, in her own fashion, after her missing uncle. Her mother sighed, “Uncle Tommy’s gone to get Bobby’s things then they are going bye-byes. But we’ll see them again soon.”

Alice pouted at this, “No bye-byes!”

“It’s alright Allie,” Tom spoke, dropping the bundle of Bobby’s things carefully by the door and settling on his knees beside her. “Bobby and I will come back soon. But I think right now mummy and daddy want a little time with just you.” Alice sniffled and grabbed at Tom who pulled the toddler into his arms. “I know, I know.” He kissed her head, and standing, handed the girl to her mother. “You be good for your mummy and daddy okay?”

Emma looked at him over the head of her still sniffling daughter. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

Tom nodded and mouthed, “It’s alright.” Picking up the bundle once more, Tom leant down and hooked Bobby’s lead to his collar. “Come on, boy.” He pushed open the front door and led them out into the dark and cold December evening. Bobby had hopped into the backseat of the car willingly enough but throughout the drive home insisted on sticking his nose further and further between the two front seats, nudging at his master’s arm.

“You, my lad, are a menace,” Tom laughed as he pulled back onto the main road and into traffic. The drive home took twice as long as the initial trip. Tom hadn’t been surprised; London traffic was a nightmare, regardless of the time of day. As they sat, Tom’s mind wandered back to Emma’s earlier words. She’d meant well and he’d known it. And he’d hated being so short with her. But they’d had the conversation far too many times over the last few years and he was tired.

There were things he wanted; someone to come home to, a family of his own, the things he saw in the lives of his sisters and friends. And yet here he was inching ever closer to forty and still, more or less, alone. Most days it hadn’t bothered him. He had more than enough to fill his life. He had friends, nieces and honorary nephews aplenty. He had a rewarding and engaging career that he still loved, despite its pitfalls and stresses. But somedays…Somedays that nagging voice inside his head reminding him that he was alone grew loud and became difficult to ignore.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to concentrate on the road before him. Behind him, Tom could hear Bobby’s incessant whining. “Fine, come on up.” He patted the seat beside him and Bobby let out an excited bark and quickly leapt into the front seat where he sat, watching the traffic around him.

                                                           —

Christmas, as always, came far too quickly. Tom had spent the week before scrambling to make sure he found the bits and bobs he’d purchased throughout the year and hidden away ‘for safe keeping’. Why he never bothered to use the same spot twice, he’d never understand. Though, if pushed, he could admit it most likely came from a lifelong habit of trying to hide his things from nosey and inquisitive sisters and later from intrusive school mates.

But he’d found them all in the end, and the evening before he’d been set to drive to his mother’s, Tom sat in his living room surrounded by wrapping paper and sellotape, wondering just what he’d been thinking. Despite his ability to master almost anything thrown his way, Tom had always been rubbish at wrapping and practice, he’d found, made little difference.

Cursing and muttering under his breath, he fumbled his way through. The end results were far from perfect, but they were wrapped. Bobby had taken great pleasure in chasing the loose paper, gleefully tearing it to shreds. Watching this, Tom wisely made the decision to pack the gifts away where the spaniel could not reach. He didn’t think Bobby would actually go after them but experience had taught him that trusting the playful spaniel in that regard was not a risk worth taking.

With a jaw cracking yawn, Tom pushed himself up to his feet. A quick glance at the clock informed him that it had just gone one in the morning. Much later than he’d intended. “Bed,” he murmured to himself. Bobby fast on his heels, Tom climbed the stairs and, after a quick detour to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, fell into bed.

He set out for his mother’s at a little before noon the following day. Traffic wasn’t nearly as hectic as he’d thought it would be, especially for the day before Christmas. Bobby sat contentedly in the front seat, every so often barking at passing motorists. He had tried, and failed, to keep the spaniel in the backseat and as they left the city limits, he’d relented and allowed Bobby what the spaniel firmly believed was his spot. Christmas music rang out of the speakers, Tom had always had a soft spot for these songs, and found himself humming along quietly as he drove.

It hadn’t snowed yet, which was a blessing. But darkening skies loomed low and threateningly. Tom only hoped it would hold out until he was safely in Suffolk and inside with the hot beverage of his choosing before they broke. His luck, and the weather, held and he pulled into the drive only half an hour later than he’d planned. Bobby barked excitedly as Tom killed the engine, his tail a blur of motion. “Alright, alright. I know you’re dying for a walk.”

Once he was certain Bobby’s lead was tightly fastened, Tom climbed out of the car and darted to the passenger side. Bobby hopped out and took three laps around the front garden before Tom led him back to the car. Pulling his backpack and the bag of gifts from the trunk, Tom headed up the walk and to the front door, the spaniel following closely behind.

The door opened and a chorus of warm welcomes and a loud and enthusiastic “Uncle Tommy!” from his eldest niece, Cora, greeted him.

He was pulled into a tight hug by his mother as he crossed the threshold. “So glad you made it before the weather turned. The thought of you out in the snow in that car…” Diana had made her dislike of Tom’s Jaguar plain from the moment he’d received it as a perk for his appearance in one of their marketing campaigns years ago.

“Mum,” he groaned, unable to mask his annoyance, “It’s a perfectly safe car and you know fair well that I’m a good driver.”

Diana huffed and shut the door behind him. “I’m still not a fan.”

Settling in hadn’t taken long, he’d been placed in his old bedroom and had wasted no time in jogging up the stairs (Diana’s voice echoing after him with an admonishing “no running in the house!”) and dropping his bag on the recently made bed. The room hadn’t changed overmuch in the years since he’d lived in it; a new bedspread had been laid out but otherwise it was still very much the room of his teenaged years. Tom found an odd comfort in that. He returned downstairs and quickly found himself pulled into rolling around the floor with Alice and Cora while they laughed and screamed in delight. He could hear Emma and Sarah behind him, laughing hysterically at his antics.

Dinner was a causal affair that evening, eaten mostly in the living room while everyone chatted and the children played with Bobby, occasionally sneaking him bits of food much to the spaniel’s delight. At quarter of nine the children were tucked into bed with the promise of a visit from Santa if they settled to sleep. He’d been roped into reading several bedtime stories because, according to Cora, “you do all the best voices”. The girls’ parents were quick to agree and so Tom settled on the floor between the two beds and read from the collection of bedtime stories that had been in the house for as long as he could remember.

Once both girls were fast asleep, Tom rejoined the adults downstairs. He took the proffered glass of whiskey from his brother-in-law and settled on the couch. It was wonderful, getting to spend time with his family. He hadn’t seen Sarah nor her family since Emma’s wedding, something he promised himself to rectify in future. They sat up talking until well into the early hours of the morning, though Diana had turned in shorty before ten, and as they finally climbed the stairs to bed he heard Sarah grumble, “Cora will be up at first light and demand everyone join her.” And her husband grunt in response.

Cora was in fact up at just before six Christmas morning. After waking her parents, she’d darted into Tom’s room and woke him as well by jumping repeatedly on the bed yelling “it’s Christmas, Uncle Tommy! It’s Christmas!”

Startled into consciousness, Tom swallowed his heart and grumbled a “that’s lovely” while patting Cora on the back. He heard Sarah snort in amusement from the doorway and shot her an evil look, which only made her laugh harder.  He sat up in time to watch Cora dash from the room, grabbing her mother by the hand and dragging her towards the stairs. Tom chuckled to himself, stretched, and slowly climbed out of bed. God, it was far too early. He pulled on a jumper, as his mother tended to keep the house on the cooler side even in winter, and padded downstairs in search of coffee.

Diana stood in the kitchen when he stumbled in, a steaming mug outstretched towards him which he took gratefully. It was a strong roast, rich and bitter. He drank it slowly, feeling the comforting rush of caffeine through his bloodstream. Gods above, he loved coffee. Excited cries soon echoed in from the living room, beckoning his attention. He made his way into the living room behind his mother and settled into one of the open arm chairs, watching as Alice and Cora were settled before their respective pile of gifts.

The actual present opening portion of the morning lasted all of twenty minutes in Cora’s case. Alice took longer due to the fact she became easily distracted by the shiny paper. But all in all, they had their presents opened in well less than an hour. They saved the adult gift giving for later, once both girls were sufficiently distracted enough by toys to allow them a moment’s peace.

Breakfast and lunch, much like dinner the night before, were eaten in the living room surrounded by bin bags full of wrapping paper. Tom had been drafted into throwing out said bags, very much without his consent he’d pointed out. No one, however, took his protests seriously. After he’d finished lunch and could put off the inevitable no longer, Tom threw on his coat with a grumble and grabbed the bags. Bobby was quick on his heels, sensing walkies afoot. The spaniel was hooked into his lead and headed out into the cold alongside Tom. Once the bin bags were tossed in the bins at the side of the house, they took a quick lap around the front garden then up and down the drive before heading back inside.

He unhooked Bobby from his lead once he’d had the front door firmly shut and the spaniel had shot off back in the direction of the living room where moments later he heard the delighted cries of his nieces. Tom padded towards the kitchen in search of another mug of coffee, or if he was truly lucky, hot chocolate. He found his mother pacing around the kitchen, phone balanced between her ear and shoulder as she puttered around making hot chocolate. Bless her, he thought.

“Oh, dear heart that is fine…Honestly, I know it’s a long drive and a short stop is perfectly fine. I just want to meet that little man of yours…Yes…Alright…Speak soon.” She turned to hang the phone back into its base and jumped when she caught sight of Tom in the doorway. “Goodness, Thomas! You gave me quite a fright.”

“Sorry, Mum.”

“No matter. Now that you’re here you can help me finish these up…And I mean get them ready not sample the lot, young man.” She wagged a reproachful finger at him and he laughed and ducked his head sheepishly. How was it his fault that her hot chocolate was so amazing that he couldn’t help himself? Chocolate was a weakness of his, surely she knew that by now.

Diana shook her head and began passing him the mugs she had started and the various toppings they required. Tom worked dutifully at his task though temptation to sample was strong. “Mum…”

“No, Tom, you may not test them out.” She answered automatically.

Tom laughed. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Diana chuckled. “Anytime, my boy. Anytime.” She nudged him gently with her shoulder. “So what was your question then?”

“Who was on the phone earlier?”

“Amy,” Diana answered simply, offering Tom a look of understanding. “They can’t stay for lunch tomorrow, but are going to stop by on their drive home.”

Tom smiled back. “I’m glad they can make it. I know you’ve been dying to meet Henry.” Her eyes narrowed just a fraction, and Tom let out a sigh. “Mum, honestly its fine. What happened between Amy and I is in the past. She’s moved on and so have I. Honestly.”

Diana’s eyes studied his face, an unreadable expression in her eyes. It felt like an age before she spoke, “Then why, my boy, do you look so sad?” Tom opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off with a quick wave of her hand. “Don’t, Thomas. You forget I’ve known you all of your life. I see you. You might have accepted what happened between you and Amy, that I do believe, but I don’t know if you have truly moved on.” She shot him a knowing look. “You haven’t had a steady nor serious relationship since…And what happened that summer doesn’t count.” Diana came to stand beside him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “You are my boy and I just want you to be happy.”

Tom blinked up at her, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “I am…I mean, yes, there are times I wish for things that I don’t have. But doesn’t everyone?” He let out a sigh. “I made some spectacularly bad choices and I’ve learned from them. Things aren’t…Perfect. But they are good. I’m good. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Diana shook her head, “Oh my boy, that’s one thing you still don’t quite understand. I am your mother, I am always going to worry about you.” She leaned down and kissed his head. “No let’s get this drinks out there before the rest of the family starts to riot.”

Both laughing, they worked together to place the mugs onto a tray and carried them back into the living room.

Next

chapter three (”showtime!”)

“I'd cry enough rain to wash your garden away. But I'm dry as stone, so your trees wash away like veins. But I've been know to take a blow, and I know how fair your garden grows with, fresh deadly roses.” -”Fresh Deadly Roses”, Soundgarden (one of my favorite SG songs no less)

November 19, 1988. Oswego, New York.

I'm waking up to the feeling of a warm body next to me. I open my eyes to recognize Lupe's black hair and her soft skin right next to my face. I have my arms wrapped around her tight, and she has her arms around my waist. I feel her naked thigh rubbing up against my own, and I feel the curvature of her hip right underneath my elbow. She's so shapely and soft that it's only helping me embrace my own softness.

My stomach feels soft and my chest is warm. I don't want to let her go. I want to protect her from the filthy scoundrels around here. Yeah, yeah, she's got her sister but I'll have to protect her, too, if I must.

I bring the crown of her head closer to my nose to drink up the gentle spicy aroma embedded within the roots of her hair. I have my fingers entwined in the tendrils of hair upon her back. She's got her chest pressed firm against mine: her skin is smooth and delicate like velvet.

“Mmm—papi—” she whispers to me with barely parted lips.

“Good morning, my little desert rose,” I whisper back to her.

She lifts her head for a look at me: her dark eyes are gaping back at me from her pallid skin and from the heart of the waning darkness around us. She parts her lips at me.

I feel her moving her hand from my body so as to bring it out from underneath the covers and touch my face. For a second, I think she's going to kiss me but she doesn't. Instead she gazes right into my eyes and runs her tongue along the edge of her teeth. It's like she wants a kiss from me instead.

So I give it to her. A soft one right on the lips. I move my head back from her face for a look into her eyes.

“Do that again,” she whispers. I give her another one, this one with a bit of my tongue along the inside of her front teeth. I look into her face again.

“How's that?” I ask her as she rubs her knees up against mine.

“Softly—” is what I think she says.

“Hm? Come again?”

“Softly—touch my nipples—”

I move my hand from her side to do just that. They're not tight and hard like they were last night at first, but as I'm letting my fingertips touch her in the lightest I possibly can, I can feel them erecting.

“How's that?” I ask her again, and I get a kiss from her right on the side of my neck. The feel of her lips relaxes my muscles and I'm feeling even softer than before. I close my eyes to surrender to the touch of her lips moving down towards my shoulder and my collar bones.

“Joey?” Mrs. Hamilton's voice floats up from downstairs. I open my eyes as Lupe's touching my collar bones with the tip of her tongue.

“Joey? Are you up here?”

“Mrs. Hamilton—” I call out, my voice breaking. I clear my throat and yet Lupe's still licking my bones like they're an ice cream cone. I hear her footsteps emerging up the stairwell before us. I recognize her hairdo in the dim light at the end of the bed. She bursts out laughing as she sees us laying in bed together.

“Oh, boy, we had some fun last night, didn't we?” she declares, pressing her leather clad hands to her hips.

“We sure did!” Lupe calls out from under the covers. She never lifts her hand from me as I sit upright for a better look at Mrs. Hamilton. It's so cold in that loft that chills run over my skin and down my back. I rub my eye with my free hand.

“What's going on?” I clear my throat again.

“There's a couple of guys here to see you,” she says.

“A couple of guys?” The first guys who come to mind are Barney and Billy.

“That Danish boy and some blond fellow.”

Lars and Matt.

“Okay—” I grunt out, clearing my throat once again. “Okay, I'll get dressed.”

I rub my other eye before pushing back the covers. I turn to Lupe once again as I'm putting my bare feet on the freezing cold carpet.

“Party's over, I s'pose,” I tell her, and she fetches up a heavy sigh. Mrs. Hamilton doubles back down the stairs to give me some privacy. I pick up my underwear and my jeans from the floor.

“You have such a cute butt,” she remarks from the bed.

“I try my best,” I admit to her as I'm pulling up my jeans.

“Nice, a little thick, and juicy.”

“Like a couple of hamburger patties,” I flash a playful grin back at her as I'm putting my shirt back on: I left Lars' arrowhead pendant at home. Oh well. Don't really need it right now anyway.

As I'm putting my socks and my boots back on, I hear Lars' voice from down below, followed by one of the girls' voices. Louie? No. That's not Morgan, either.

Once I have my boots laced up, I turn back around to look at Lupe one last time, and her propping her head up with one hand, and brushing some of her dark hair back from her neck.

“I'll catch you later, my fresh deadly desert rose,” I promise her, and she blows me a kiss. I catch it with one hand before I wheel around to head on to the second level to fetch my jacket from the chair. I gaze on back at the stage and Lupe's whole get up from last night. It was like a fusion of the high tech stuff in Seattle and the rustiness pervading New Orleans at the moment. This place does have more class in its stairwells and in Mrs. Hamilton's pussy than Oswego does in its entirety after all.

I give my black curls a toss back from my head as I grab my coat and begin down the next stairwell to the bottom floor. I recognize the tattoos of Jessica Rabbit and Betty Boop inked upon her skin. I also recognize the short slightly chubby guy with the long smooth hair and the light scruff underlining his face standing next to the tall guy with a wave of golden blond hair upon his head.

“There he is,” Lars remarks, and Matt turns around to see me with his thick eyebrows raised.

“Dude!” he greets me.

“Hey!” I declare to the both of them as I'm tugging on my jacket.

“'Mornin', Joe,” Lizzy greets me.

“'Mornin', Liz Master General,” is all I can come up with, and she bursts out laughing. I return to them. “What're you guys doing here? And furthermore, how'd you know I was here?”

“I just had a hunch,” Lars confesses, “and Mr. Cameron here went along with it, like I told Nancy and Dominique to swing by here to pick you up.”

“Pick me up? Where are we going?”

“New York City,” Matt replies.

“What's in New York City? Besides, the obvious—it being the city and everything.”

“We're playing two nights worth of shows there. Us and Mother Love Bone.”

“Oh, cool! The infamous Mother Love Bone.”

“They're touring with Skid Row, too, no less,” Lars adds, adjusting the lapels of his big olive colored overcoat: he's got on a silky looking red scarf with golden paisley embroidered all over and a pair of little thin leather black gloves. Matt, meanwhile, has on a heavy black peacoat with a fiery red scarf and big black boots like what I've got on at the moment. “Anyways, let's get a move on—” Matt advises us. “I guess it's kind of a long drive from here down to New York and Kim's terrified of traffic.”

“It's not that long, only four hours,” I point out. “Kim's afraid of traffic? You guys live in Seattle.”

“Tripped me out, too,” Lars confesses, “but yeah, his—darling chauffeur is awaiting, though.”

“Okay—I'll catch you girls later,” I wave to Lizzy and Mrs. Hamilton before we head out of Black Orchid into the bitter cold of the mid morning. There are two black cars awaiting us at the curb, humming quietly with whatever the hydrogen is bestowing power to. I recognize Chris and Kim in the passenger side in the one up front; and then I spot Dominique and her lush black curls seated behind the wheel of the car behind them. Her face lights up when she recognizes me.

“There he is!” she greets me as I open the back door on the passenger side. “Our morning cup of Joey.”

“Cup of Joey,” I chuckle at that as I climb into the seat. Lars gets into the seat right behind her while Matt takes the front; he leans over to give her a kiss before clicking on his seat belt. I can still taste Lupe on my lips and smell her in my clothes and inside of my nose.

We head off, following the other car, towards the other side of town to board onto the highway to head on down to the City.

“Quite the town you live in, Joey,” Dominique remarks as we pass by Brick's neighborhood. God, I hope he's alright. I hope that whatever is afflicting him goes away because the image of those cybernetic feathers sprouting from his head makes my skin itch. I can only imagine how painful it must be for him.

“It's nowhere special,” I admit, “not much happens and it's kinda boring and lonely if you don't have someone to talk to or hang out with, y'know?”

“Of course.”

“Seattle can be like that, too,” says Matt.

“Really? Seattle?” I'm stunned by that. “It's such a… big, advanced place, though.”

“It's just that. All the high tech stuff can get a little monotone, like Dominique and Nancy both have seen how walking downtown has gotten a little quiet.”

“Yeah, it wasn't long ago,” Dominique adds, “she and I could take the bus from the University District over to West Seattle and then walk down to Pike Place Market, and we could talk to people on the way there. We'd talk to all the vendors and the shop keepers and whomever we wanted. But lately she and I go there and we're lucky to speak to one person. Everyone's in a sour mood and robotics have taken the place of the vendors in the market place.”

That reminds me…

“Have you guys seen Maya?” I ask them.

“The girl you found?” Matt recalls.

“Yeah. How's she doing? Is she alright?”

“I totally forgot she's still up there,” Lars mutters to me.

“I haven't seen her,” Matt confesses, “but Nancy has, though.”

“After what happened at the school,” Dominique adds as she changes lanes, “she morphed back into her human form and then ran out of there before the fire alarms went off. Not even a couple of days later, Nan spotted her while she was headed over to the little art school she goes to. She was all huddled up against a dumpster in the heart of downtown. She didn't want to bother her, though, because she was looking around like an animal on the hunt for something.”

“That was a few weeks ago, too,” I point out as I remember everything Molly told me about her. Dumpster diving in New Orleans with Delphine and that strange man; I guess she's back to her roots, but this time in a different setting.

“I guess she's used to places like that, too,” Dominique continues, “moving around as much as she has, it's going to make her scrounge around like that on the streets and in the gutters. My hope is she's okay, too, because even we are still adjusting to all the advancements up there. Who knows how outsiders like her react to it.”

We fall back into silence for a moment, and then Matt sticks in a copy of Ultramega OK into the disc player to fill in the void of silence. I've got Maya on the mind as the landscape turns from lush forest to barren flatlands to the foothills of the Appalachians. Soon, I recognize the tiny towns marking the outskirts of the City, in particular Monticello. I'm getting flashbacks to when I sang for Anthrax and I had to make the drive down here by myself in my old shabby car, and I had to make my way through the arteries of the city to find the recording studio. I'm still amazed I never got lost along the way.

Soon we're in the heart of Manhattan and mere blocks the place where I used to hang out with Anthrax. And then Dominique speaks again.

“I guess Anthrax is playing about a block away from where Soundgarden and Mother Love Bone are performing later today.”

My stomach does a back flip. Oh, my God.

“Playing with their new singer—John is his name? John Bush. From Armored Saint.”

Lars turns his head to look at me and I look over at him. It's like living inside of a dream. My hope is nothing dramatic happens tonight. All I want is to relax and watch Soundgarden perform again with this other band Mother Love Bone. It's only two in the afternoon and thus, as the car before us takes a parking spot at the curb right outside of the venue. Dominique pulls up right behind them and tugs on the parking lever.

The hydrogen power underneath us drifts and dies down and the four of us climb out to the street. I glance up at the towering buildings around us and the graying sky overhead. I think it's going to rain as I turn around to see Chris and Kim climbing out of the car in front of us, their black hair streaking from behind them against the burgeoning winds. Hiro and Nancy rise up from the other side of the car: she's got on a wide pink and black striped scarf wrapped around her neck which makes her face look a little rounder and more feminine.

“Here, want me to help you guys out?” I offer the four of them.

“Oh, thanks, man!” Chris tells me as he opens the truck so as to take out their guitars and their accompanying amps. We're bone broke musicians in a big world: we need to look out for each other. I help the four of them lug their equipment into the side door on the side of this two story pale brick building; for a split second, I think I spot Charlie down the block before I disappear behind the corner, but I can't say for sure. We head into the cozy corridor with a wooden floor and single iron wrought lights suspended from thick black wires. It reminds me of the French Quarter in here except it smells of burning leaves and jagermeister. Chris and Kim lead the way down to their lush dressing room with a back wall lined with glittery black tapestry and the big black velvet couch; on the other side of the room is the entrance to what I eventually find out to be the stage: a stretch of black shiny wood before another thick black tapestry. This part smells of fresh with lemons, as if they just cleaned this place up for the bands to perform.

I'm still thinking of Maya as Lars and I help them set up their instruments. I'm thinking of her and also Delphine.

That's another question I have is what happened to Delphine after Lars and I blacked out. Did she drink us under the table? Or did she put something in our drinks to knock us out? Who knows and I'm sitting on the stool behind Matt's big drum kit with his drumsticks in one hand.

I peer out to all the empty seats making up the audience area, all of them stretching back into the darkness covering the front entrances. Soon this place will be riddled with moshers and rockers for these three bands playing here. God, I miss it. I miss standing out at the front of a band and singing my heart out for the world to hear. Maybe I can convince Soundgarden to sing a song with them because the whole vibe here has me feeling mournfully nostalgic.

I peer down at the drums and with a lick and a promise, I'm a little boy thinking he's Phil Collins again.

The sound of guitar distortion catches my ear and I turn my head to the sight of Kim tuning his guitar and playing a swirling riff. I tilt my head to the side.

“Never heard that song before,” I remark.

“Huh?” He clamps his fingers to the fret board to silence it.

“Never heard that one. Is that new?”

“Sorta. This is a riff Chris has been kicking around for a while.”

He plays it again and it tinkles and swirls, almost like the lead riff on a Beatles song.

“What's it called?” I ask him.

“Kim!” Matt calls him from behind the curtain.

“'Fresh Deadly Roses'—” He turns his head to face him. “—what's up?”

“Andy and the boys just pulled up. Stone told me Skid Row should be here soon, too, and you know what that means.”

“Showtime!” I call out.

“Showtime!” he echoes, and then he hesitates at the sight of me. “Drums are a good look for you, man.”

“I am a drummer, too, after all.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right! Anyways, c'mon and help us, Joe—” He disappears behind the curtain; Kim sets down his guitar and follows him.

I set down the sticks on top of the snare before I stand to my feet. I examine the drum kit for another few seconds.

Soon. Soon, I'll be behind the old kit of my own once again.

Camellia

Late entry for Cloti Fall Festival 2019 Day 5 hosted by @clotiweek

Prompts: Gratitude / “Some of us think holding on makes us strong, but sometimes it is letting go”

Summary: It has been a week since they went to Nibelheim and it’s time to return to Midgar. That morning, Cloud visits his mother’s grave one last time before he has to go back, and he finds a plethora of camellia flowers blooming all around. (A continuation of my previous entry: The Things that Matter - previously titled What Matters)

Also available on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

The sun had barely risen above the horizon when Cloud was making his way down the path toward the cemetery. They had stayed in Nibelheim for over a week now. Last night, they had decided to return to Midgar that morning. They still had life and work over in the other city, but someday, Cloud wanted to try asking Tifa what she thought of building life in their hometown. Yes, Nibelheim was a source to a lot of their scars, but it was also home to a lot of their joys and memories. And…he would be closer to his mother then.

Besides, lately Cloud felt like he was getting tired of city life.

The cemetery was built a little ways away from the town center. Faraway from the hustle and bustle while being surrounded by a wooden fence and copses of trees, there was a sense of tranquility whenever Cloud stepped foot there. Wildflowers had grown all around the cemetery, along with some bushes and shrubs. Sometimes, Cloud would even spot squirrels skittering over the undergrowth and up a tree branch.

Among the flowers growing in the cemetery was a patch of small white ones. He recognized them when he first saw it—Camellia. It had been his mother’s favorite flower. He had been gathering a few of them each day and scattering them over his mother’s gravestone. He hoped his mother, wherever she was, would be happy.

Was it just his imagination that the bushes and shrubs had more flowers than they did yesterday? More of the white ones, as well as the pink and red ones.

Cloud went over to his usual patch of white camellias and began gathering an armful of them. It would be his last day in Nibelheim. If he could, he wanted to give his mother all the flowers the cemetery had to over.

***

When Tifa woke up, the bed to her right was already empty and made. Sunlight had filtered in through the gap in the curtains. Did she sleep in? They were supposed to catch a ride with one of the townspeople going to deliver something to the port that morning. She hoped she hadn’t made them miss their ride.

Tifa reached for her phone on the bedside table and frowned at the time displayed there. It was still around the time she usually woke up. She slumped face-down onto her bed again, cursing Cloud internally.

What the hell, Cloud? I thought I woke up late.

Tifa opened an eye and stared at the empty bed across from her. It was their last day there. Cloud was probably at the cemetery again. In the past week or so that they had been there, Cloud never once failed to visit his mother in the mornings. He’d gather the flowers he found around, then scatter them around his mother’s gravestone. The look he had had yesterday—calm and serene—was vastly different from how he had been the first time she proposed the idea to visit the town. He had tried to conceal it, but Tifa could see through the cracks in his façade.  

Cloud had dreaded going to Nibelheim. She had thought that had something to do with the Shinra Manor. Cloud had been imprisoned under it for years, underwent some experiment that had left him in a delirious state. Tifa wouldn’t blame him if the place contained some inexplicable trauma for him. However, it wasn’t until she witnessed him crying in front of his mother’s grave that she understood the real reason behind his dread.

Now she knew why Cloud never talked much about his mother. She had also been like that when Zangan first brought her out to Midgar. It was probably not until she met Avalanche that she started feeling something akin to normalcy returning to her life.

Tifa sat up on her bed and scanned the room. Most of their belongings had been packed away. What was left was to take a quick bath, then a last visit to see her father before they had to leave.

A distant hum of conversation drew her to the windows, where she drew the curtains aside. The sunlight blinded her for a moment, but once her eyes adjusted to it, she could see that down at the town square, people were already up and about.

Tifa had come to love the town again in the past week that she had lived alongside them. In fact, she hadn’t realized how much she had missed it—so much that she was beginning to contemplate about moving back here. Seven years was a long time. What would Cloud say if she told him that? Would he come with her? The town might not be the same as it had been, but neither were they nor the townspeople. They could make it work somehow.

***

“Hi, Mom,” Cloud said, crouching before his mother’s gravestone. Sometimes, he would still feel his throat constrict, but it was better than the first time he had stood there—he had been a crying wreck; he couldn’t even form a proper, coherent sentence except I’m sorry. Now, the suffocating crushing feeling had subsided somewhat, and the muscles along his jaws and fingers would only twitch occasionally, but it was nothing that he couldn’t handle.

Cloud cleared his throat. “I brought something for you,” he went on. He had gathered all the flowers in the cemetery that his arms could carry—mostly the white ones, because those were his mother’s favorite—then slowly scattered them around the gravestone. A few petals were picked up by the wind, and he watched as it danced away. It was all right; his mother hadn’t been the nitpicking type. She probably would have wanted him to scatter flowers over every gravestone there, but that time would come later. This time, he would give his undivided attention to his mother.

“Flowers, again,” Cloud said, with a small laugh. “Sorry, they’re the only thing I can get my hands on around here, and…I don’t really know what else to give you.

“You liked these, didn’t you? Camellias. I remember you having planted some of them at the front of the house, and you’d tend to them so carefully that that one November, they bloomed so magnificently the neighbors started talking what a good gardener you were. I wanted to pick one, but you snapped my hand away. It really hurt, you know.”

Cloud chuckled under his breath, then looked around, spotting more of the red and pink flowers on some of the bushes. “Is it because it’s November that there are so many in bloom right now?” he mused to no one in particular. “Well, whatever the reason is, this place will be covered with the flowers, give or take a few weeks. I hope it’ll make you happy.”

Cloud noticed that the sun had risen higher then, just a little above the canopy of red and gold leaves. It was around the time Tifa would wake up. She would probably visit her father before they had to leave. Maybe Cloud should just wait for her here.

Cloud shifted his gaze back to his mother’s name hidden beneath the white flower petals he had scattered all around. When he brushed his fingers against the engravings, his mind took him back to the image of a warm kitchen. His mother, wearing an apron with her blonde hair much like his tied to the back, stirring something in a huge pot that smelled like stew. He had just entered the house, all dirty from playing outside. When she noticed him, there was that bright, vibrant smile on her face as she said, “Welcome home.”

The tears started falling without his consent. He tried to wipe them away, but that only spurred them on. “I’m sorry,” he whispered—a breath of a sound in the quiet stillness. He fell to his knees and fisted his hands as a sob shook his body. “I’m sorry.”

It was probably his most-used phrase throughout his stay in Nibelheim. Not a day went by when he didn’t crouch down and apologize to his mother about anything and everything. Tifa had said that the fact that he had come to his mother’s rescue was all that mattered. That his mother wouldn’t have it against him for failing to save her. And maybe she was right. He had done his best. None of it was his fault. But it still didn’t erase his sense of guilt for doing something a child shouldn’t have done to his parent.  

He had run away. He had forgotten about her.

There was a reason why Cloud never fully recounted how his mother died—never really told anyone about his mother. It was a subconscious thing, one he only realized the day he stood before his mother’s grave, when all the memories he had kept locked up in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind came rushing out. His mother had died, burning in that fire, and he was too helpless, too powerless to do anything about it.

So, Cloud ran away from it, because the memory of his mother smiling and laughing and saying, “Welcome home, Cloud,” was too much for him to bear.

He looked up through tearful eyes. “I’m not the greatest son, am I?” he murmured with a self-deprecating smile.

***

Tifa checked her watch. She still had time. Cloud wasn’t back yet, so she hadn’t checked their room out—he still had his things there.

There were already more people in the streets. The man who were supposed to give them a ride was already loading his trucks with things he would be delivering to the port. When he spotted her, he lifted his arm in a wave.

“I’ll look for Cloud for a bit!” Tifa said out loud, returning his wave with her own.

The cemetery wasn’t far. Just straight ahead around the corner near the inn and you’d find some wooden fence with white cloth curled around the gate. One of the townspeople had said it was a symbol of purity, with which they prayed for those who had gone to the afterlife to have their sins cleansed and return to the Maker. The path was just inside the forest at the foot of the mountain, and the canopy of red and brown leaves in the early morning made everything seem more tranquil and serene.

When Tifa reached the cemetery, she found Cloud on his knees among a myriad of small white flowers before his mother’s gravestone. His head hung between his shoulders, hands clasped together, his mouth moving in a silent prayer. She approached him quietly and waited until he opened his eyes and noticed her standing beside him.

He looked up, and she could see the red rims around his eyes and tear streaks on his face. But there was a smile on his face so different from the strained one he wore on their first day there. No more of the depression and anguish she had seen before—a halfway between resignation and acceptance.

To be honest, Tifa had wondered if it had been a bad idea asking Cloud to come to Nibelheim with her. He had been such a solid, unflappable presence in their group that Tifa had forgotten his scars regarding their town and his mother might not have healed. Tifa had seven years to contemplate about her father; but Cloud didn’t have that much time, did he, with Sephiroth and the Geostigma crisis happening back-to-back, not to mention being kept underground for four years?

So, to see Cloud smiling so peacefully like that brought a smile to Tifa’s face. It would probably still be a while before the scars completely heal, but there was nothing more anyone could ask of him.

***

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Cloud looked back at his mother’s gravestone, then glanced at his watch. They still had time, though he probably had finish up soon. He still needed to pay his respects to Tifa’s father.

“Give me a moment,” he said, and Tifa nodded before stepping back.

A gentle wind brushed past him, lifting some of the flowers before letting them drop on his lap. He never knew what these flowers meant. He had asked his mother once, and his mother had only answered, “They’re for your father.” It hadn’t been much of an answer.

Cloud touched the flower petals on his lap gently. “I’ll be leaving soon,” he said to his mother. When he looked down at her name, he smiled. A small genuine smile. He placed the flowers on the stone slab. “I’ll be back, Mom. I promise.”

He stood up, brushed the dirt and debris from his clothes, then bowed. Beside him, Tifa followed suit, giving his mother a quick, silent prayer.

They gathered some of the scattered flowers and walked over to Tifa’s father’s grave. Scattering the flowers around the stone, they hung their heads and clasped their hands in prayer. Then they bowed their heads and, hand-in-hand, headed back to the town.

“By the way,” Tifa said. “Is it just me or were there a lot more flowers blooming in the bushes?”

“Well, it’s November and all.,” Cloud replied with a shrug. “It’s probably the time when the flowers would bloom.”

“I guess, but wouldn’t you like it if your mother had sent them?”

“What?” Cloud stared at her, nonplussed.

“I mean, if you want to be superstitious and all.”

Cloud was still not following.

Tifa sighed. “Sometimes, camellias are used in funerals because they symbolize mourning,” she went on. “But the white ones are also known for symbolizing the love between a mother and her child. They’re your mother’s favorite, so…they’re a gift from your mother.”

Cloud was still staring at her, a mixture of astonishment and bewilderment. He stared at her so hard that Tifa was starting to feel self-conscious and wondered if she shouldn’t have said what she had.

“What?” she said warily.

“Just wondering when you started becoming a flower expert,” he said. “Wait, no, scratch that. When did you start becoming a romantic?”

“Oh, shut up,” Tifa said, playfully shoving his arm. Cloud laughed under his breath.

“But…a gift from my mother, huh?” he mused. No matter how unlikely it was, if Cloud was being honest, he did think the idea seemed nice. Cloud gave her hand a squeeze. “Thanks,” he murmured.

He met her eyes and smiled. They didn’t need any elaborate words to convey their feelings to each other. Tifa could already tell what he wanted to say just by looking him in the eyes.

Thank you for always being there for me.

There was a moment’s pause before Tifa returned his smile with her own.

~ END ~

***

End note: I got the flower meaning behind camellia mostly from this site https://flowermeanings.org/camellia-flower-meaning/ Other than the meanings mentioned in the story, camellia can also carry the meaning as follows: 

This flower is often taken to graves to send the message out to the world, that those who have died might not be on earth with us but they will continue to be alive in our hearts.

It also says that the flower has a secret meaning to it:

The Camellia flower is telling you to cherish love and to always think positively no matter what. This bright and optimistic flower is going to bring love back into your life and make you appreciate everything good in it.