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robinsarm · 2 years

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After the Bridge has Burned (part 7)

Warnings: language

Words: ~2.6k

POV: Élodie

Élodie all but bolted up the stairs and into Felix’s office. She’d done it! She’d managed to get a hold of Ace, managed to explain what he’d been left in the dark about, and now had a (loosely) scheduled time to go and see him. She wanted so badly to throw herself up the stairs and through his office door, but two things kept her from doing so. One, she didn’t want him getting mad at her for keeping Ace from him. She needed a moment to fabricate a conversation that she and Claudette never had and deliver that to Felix. And two, Ursula was currently standing at the top of the stairs giving her a questioning look. There was no hope containing her excitement, so Élodie simply didn’t, smiling wholeheartedly up at her.

“Good news?” Ursula questioned as Élodie reached the bottom of the staircase.

“Wonderful news!”

At that moment, Élodie remembered another perk about the Richter family fortune, sending another burst of energy through her.

“Ursula, do you still have access to your jet?”

Ursula’s eyes squinted as though that were a foolish question. “Of course I do. Why? Do you need it?”

“I just got off the phone with a friend who’s with Ace. They’d love to have us visit, but they live in Canada—” Élodie intended to explain more, but Ursula stopped her by placing a hand on her shoulder.

“You go tell Felix. I’ll call and get the plane ready,” Ursula ordered.

“Thank you, Ursula.”

“No, Élodie. Thank you for doing so much.”

Élodie watched the tears form in Ursula’s eyes. But, like the prestigious businesswoman she was, Ursula never let them fall. Instead, Élodie pulled her into a gentle hug.

“Of course.”

“He’s in his bedroom. He said he needed to lie down for a while.”

“Got it, thank you.”

As they pulled away, Élodie turned and quietly hopped towards Felix’s room finding his door closed (no surprise there). Opening it and peeking inside, she barely saw Felix lying on his back. He’d drawn the curtains closed, making it hard to see anywhere in the room. What was obvious was his one arm draped over his eyes with the other resting on his stomach.

Her next sequence of movements Élodie probably should have considered for more than two seconds. In her defense, she was excited! She had great news—news he definitely wanted to hear. In one quick motion reminiscent of vaulting a window, Élodie ran over, hopped up onto his bed and landed square on his hips.

Immediately, Felix yelped and tried to shift his weight out from under her. Seeing who’d just assaulted him, Felix’s eyes narrowed. Even in the dim light, Élodie could make out the redness infecting the whites of his eyes.

“Was zur Hölle, Élodie!” He groaned.

A tinge of regret stung at Élodie’s chest knowing that she’d possibly hurt him. But, knowing that he’d been up here hurting alone only added another layer to her sympathy. Still, she tamped down her feelings the best she could and forced a smile.

“I have great news!” she told him. Grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt, she tore him up while rolling off of him at the same time.

“What? What?” Felix demanded, snatching her wrists so she’d understand to let go. “Was jumping on me really necessary?”

“Absolutely! Now listen, how would you like to take a trip to Canada?” Élodie asked, a smile so wide her cheeks were now starting to hurt.

Felix tilted his head a little. “Why?”

“Because Ace is there!”

Realization finally dawned on Felix, his eyes widening a little as he straightened. “Wait. You talked to Claudette?”

Élodie nodded. “Everyone’s still visiting her in Quebec. I asked them if it’d be alright if we flew over to visit. They all said yes, Felix.”

Felix froze, staring at her like he’d taken up the lifestyle of a statue. “All?” he repeated.

“All,” Élodie confirmed.

“Including Ace?”

“Including Ace.”

“And he knows…I’d be coming too?”

“Yes, Felix! That’s what I’m telling you!” Élodie exclaimed and slid away from him towards the edge of the bed. “Your mother’s getting the jet ready and I’m going. Are you coming?”

That one question finally snapped Felix out of his shock. He threw off his sheets and practically jumped out of bed. Before Élodie could step around his bed, Felix ran to her and picked her up in a bear hug. Élodie squealed as her feet left the ground and as he began to spin her around.

“You’re the best, you know that?” Felix told her, smothering his face right next to her ear.

“I know,” Élodie preened while tightly hugging Felix back. He held her up for an impressively long time, Élodie almost wondered if he’d gotten stuck. But the humorous thought vanished once she heard his quiet sobs.

“Felix,” Élodie whispered sympathetically, running her fingers through his tousled hair.

“Sorry,” Felix managed before slowly letting her down. He quickly wiped the tears from his eyes, taking deep breaths as he did. “Two years is just a long time.”

“I know,” Élodie said and reached out to gently rub his arm. “But that’s behind us now.”

“Élodie!” Ursula’s authoritative voice stabbed into the room moments before she pushed the door open and leaned in. She kept her phone pressed to her ear with the microphone angled away from her mouth. “How soon can you two be at the airport?”

Élodie looked to Felix who was already staring down at her. Élodie raised her eyebrows, silently asking him what he wanted.

“You need to pack,” Felix whispered.

“I can pack a suitcase in ten minutes,” Élodie told him. “You need to pack, and get ready.” She gestured to his wrinkled attire and eyed his hair a moment later.

Felix’s mouth twisted at the present issue. His gaze moved to linger somewhere behind her as he calculated how long changing, packing, driving Élodie back to her place to pack, and then heading to the airport would take him. Reading his mind with her own answer ready on her tongue, Élodie leaned to the side to answer Ursula.

“Give us an hour. I’ll have him ready.” Élodie smiled.

Ursula nodded and stepped out of Felix’s room informing whoever she was on the phone with to be ready in an hour; the prep crew maybe, or the pilot.

“An hour?” Felix doubted, looking at Élodie like she’d lost her mind.

Instead of fighting him, Élodie grabbed his bicep and yanked him in the direction of his bathroom. “Yes, an hour. I’ll pack your bag, you change.”

“I don’t usually change in front of an audience,” Felix reminded her as she drug him to the back of his bathroom that led to his closet. She let go of him as they crossed the threshold into his massive walk-in closet. Every article of clothing hung or sat neatly organized in its respective homes on racks or shelves or drawers. Felix may have let a lot of the other aspects of his life go to hell, but his closet still remained pristine as ever.

Élodie immediately spotted his large suitcase along the back wall and trotted over to it. “I know,” she acknowledged. “And I’ve seen you half naked just about a million times now. Just change.”

Felix’s cheeks blushed red as he shook his head disapprovingly. “You say that like it’s okay,” he said while in the process of unbuttoning his dress shirt.

“How long have we been friends?” Élodie poked fun with a smile before turning to Felix’s line of casual shirts.

Élodie didn’t know for sure how long they’d be visiting Canada. A week maybe? At most a week, Élodie decided. Knowing Felix’s habit of changing multiple times per day (for every occasion that warranted it), Élodie grabbed and folded ten of his casual everyday shirts then moved onto his dresser. She didn’t find it odd rifling through his clothes or underwear drawers, even though, from an outside perspective, it may have appeared strange.

Élodie had half the large suitcase packed when she heard a small gasp from behind her. She turned to see Felix pushing back his hanging clothes, staring at a specific piece in shock.

“What?” she probed, already walking over to see what he was looking at.

Felix plucked the hanger from the line and held it out for her to see. Élodie stopped in her tracks the moment she saw the undeniable sight of a corset vest. Mostly black around the sides and back, white fabric covered the front with gold accents striping down the front, sides, and along the edges. While Felix had looked at the piece in horror, Élodie’s expression only brightened the more she studied it.

“Wear it!”

“Absolutely not,” Felix said, then placed the vest back on the rack.

“No no no,” Élodie countered as she quickly walked over to his side of the closet. “I must insist you wear it.” Pulling the vest back down, Élodie placed it on one of the sitting benches then hustled over to his dress shirt display.

“Élodie, I can’t wear this,” Felix said, sounding hesitant.

Élodie pulled an all black dress shirt down from its hanger and tossed it to him. She then turned her attention to his dresser dedicated to only ties (all in order by color).

“Gold or white? What do you think?” Élodie ignored him, holding up two monochromatic ties.

“Élodie,” Felix spoke with a firm tone. He was insisting that she listen to him, or at least answer him.

“Felix,” Élodie said playfully. She didn’t care. She loved that vest, and she knew Ace would too.

“I cannot wear this,” Felix emphasized each word.

“Sure you can,” Élodie, again, spoke in a light tone. “That will look so good on you.”

“Why would I ever wear this?” Felix demanded.

“For the same reason I always wear my best dresses if I’m going to a social event where my exs will be.” Élodie smiled, even though Felix remained confused. His brow pinched together as he waited on her to further explain. She mentally rolled her eyes and continued. “To show them what they’re missing, Felix.”

Felix looked down to the vest again, then, after a second, back to Élodie. “You want me to make Ace feel bad?”

“I want Ace to not be able to take his eyes off of you,” Élodie corrected, then turned back to the tie dresser. “Actually, I’m thinking a black tie. That won’t take any attention away from the vest.”

“What makes you think this will do that?” Felix asked, still sounding uncertain.

“Honey,” Élodie breathed, setting the black tie down with the vest. “I’m going to say this in the easiest way I can. If I were dating you and you came out in that, I wouldn’t hesitate taking you to bed on the spot.”

Felix choked on nothing and turned away to cover his quickly reddening face. “Élodie,” Felix rebuked quietly.

“I’m serious! You’d be doing yourself and Ace a favor by wearing that.”

Felix side-eyed the vest again. Élodie could see the effects of her words on him. Not only was he considering the outfit now, but the sight of the red tops of his ears made her smile with pride. She liked flustering her friend, even if she saw their relationship as nothing more than platonic.

“I can put a separate outfit in your travel bag if you want to change once we get there,” Élodie offered gingerly as she approached him and lightly traced his back with a hand.

“I’m not allowed to say no, am I?” Felix said, a hint of a joke playing in his voice.

“No,” Élodie smiled.

Another long sigh rolled out of Felix’s chest. He considered for a moment before nodding once and shedding his previous dress shirt for the black one in his hand. Élodie squealed in excitement as she moved to grab the rest of his outfit; a new pair of black dress pants, black socks and shoes. She knew the vest would have to go on last, so she opted to pack the rest of his bag while he changed. Once in his bathroom with half of his toiletries in a separate bag, she gazed back to see Felix holding the vest, staring at it like it was ready to bite him.

“Need help?” Élodie asked and walked over. She’d put on a few corsets by herself in her time with the fashion industry; putting one on someone else was leagues easier.

Felix turned and wordlessly put the vest on. “Please keep it so I can still breathe.”

“Beauty is pain, sweetie,” Élodie joked while buttoning up the front. She slipped around to his back and quickly got the lace detangled and in order.

“Hold onto something,” she warned, allowing Felix to grab a section of shelf before beginning to cinch the vest shut.

“Fuck, Élodie,” Felix cursed on the initial squeeze to his lungs.

“Man up, honey. I’m not done yet,” Élodie said as she tightened the top sections of lace.

“It’s tight!” Felix complained.

“It’ll feel great in a minute. Just endure.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Élodie noticed a new shape enter the bathroom. When she turned to investigate, she found Ursula looking at the scene with her hands on her hips and an amused smirk on her face. It was only then that Élodie realized her and Felix’s bickering from a third party set of ears probably sounded a little questionable.

Élodie couldn’t contain a smile from spreading across her face, a laugh quickly bubbling up into her throat as well. “Hi Ursula.”

Felix wiped his attention to the bathroom, caught like a deer in headlights. Ursula shifted her attention between the both of them and then to the corset.

“I thought I’d wasted my money on that,” Ursula commented.

“I would have made him wear it much sooner if I knew about it,” Élodie explained as she yanked on the lace again, making Felix stiffen suddenly.

“It looks good on him,” Ursula said.

“Thanks mom,” Felix managed through a gasping breath. “What did you need?”

“I’m letting you know the jet will be ready in thirty, but they’re fine to wait until you two get there,” Ursula explained.

“Thank you mom.”

“Yes, thank you Ursula. You’re a lifesaver,” Élodie added.

“Of course.” Ursula turned to leave but stopped a few paces away from the door. “And Élodie, make him wear more of his closet. I’m tired of seeing my son in only suits.”

Élodie winked at Ursula. “Don’t worry. I will.”

Felix groaned then immediately gasped as Élodie cinched the lace one last time.

“Done!” Élodie announced as she tied the lace then slapped him on the back.

“I think it’s a size too small,” Felix wheezed and sat up straight.

“Maybe.” Élodie pulled on his bicep as a way of telling him to turn around. “But you look absolutely stunning in that.”

Truly, Élodie believed she’d outdone herself by making him adorn the fitted piece. It accentuated his pecs while slimming out his waist. The points of his bottom ribs jutted out slightly in the middle. Élodie loved the sight and, for a second, almost wished Felix was her type.

She playfully slapped his chest. “Come on, help me pack your stuff.”

Felix chuckled. “You already have half my closet stuffed in that case.”

“Yeah, because you’re prissy and indecisive at the same time,” Élodie joked. “Might as well grab everything.”

Felix could only huff out another laugh before quickly joining her to finish packing.

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#dbd fanfic #riconti #ace visconti #felix richter #elodie rakoto #dead by daylight fanfic

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nyo-canadas-google-history · 5 years

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Do you like prussia?~

"M-maybe! "

#aph canada #ask badly drawn canada #my art #hetalia #ask-badly-drawn-canada #anon ask!

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ask-badlydrawn-canadia-provinces · 3 years

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...

My inbox is empty :(

Send asks pls?

#hetalia #canada #hetalia provinces #asks open #asks pls #hws canada #canadian provinces #hetalia ask blog #(im sad now)#(i want to draw my babies)#badly drawn hetalia #mun star

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badly-drawn-canukr · 5 years

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how are yall?

Daria: “We’re great!! Mattie refuses to take the ears of his Halloween costume off though...”

Matthew: “You’ll have to bury me in them.”

#hws canada #hws ukraine #hws hetalia #hws canukr #hws #hws halloween #aph canada #aph canukr #aph hetalia #aph ukraine #badly drawn hetalia #canukr #hetalia #aph #aph halloween #i could totally use more asks pls...

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ask-badlydrawn2pjapan · 5 years

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How's your relations like with the other 2p's?

"The rest of the fuckers are irrelevant or forgettable, so we don't talk about them in this house."

#ask #ask hetalia #ask blog #2p hetalia #2ptalia #2p japan #2p china #2p italy #2p france #2p germany #2p america #2p south korea #2p russia #2p canada #2p prussia #2p netherlands #2p england #badly drawn

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askbadlydrawnrussia · 5 years

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What child??

oh sh-

@ask-badlydrawncanada

#aph #hetalia #aph russia #aph canada #vodka #throw the bottle #ask aph #ivan braginsky #matthew williams #kumajiro #ask badly drawn russia #badly drawn aph #bad art #doodles

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nationverse-aus · 5 years

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“We took Feliciano to an aquarium! I don’t think he’s ever had so much fun!”

I love https://ask-badly-drawn-mertalia.tumblr.com/ so much honestly... Sorry I’ve not been uploading much, I’ve been taking summer classes so I only have time to write and draw in the evening, really. Hahah. But I have been inspired by mermaids.

#ask-badly-drawn-mertalia #APH America #APH Canada #APH NA Brothers #APH North Italy #APH North America #I've just been having fun doodling tbh #this mermaid blog is so cute

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badly-drawn-prucan · 7 years

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Mod Apology Scones has joined the blog!

#mod apology scones #aph prussia #aph canada #aph prucan #prucan #hetalia #ask hetalia #aph ask blog #aph ask account #ask prucan #ask badly drawn #badly drawn #badly drawn hetalia #ask badly drawn prucan

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lovelyirony · 4 years

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sweeter than honey (redux)

Pepper Potts did not exactly mean to become a criminal. Really, she still doesn’t think she is.

But here are the facts:

1.) She has broken several laws in pursuit of funds that do not belong to her.

2.) The FBI would like to talk to her about several things and potentially put her under arrest.

3.) She can no longer go to her regular coffee shop because the barista snitched and told them her name, as well as her occupation.

Pepper broke several laws because the company she was working for (Stane International) was technically breaking laws, but laws that do not apply to corporations because corporations do this thing called “funding campaigns” and also sometimes “doing favors.”

She decided to do the same and suddenly she is a criminal. Not her fault she redistributed money back into the community, and now they can’t get any of it back.

It’s just how that worked out.

She’s been staying at a hotel that serves many questionable individuals each month, and it has an indoor pool and a three-star rating on the latest travel website.

It’s nondescript, not her style, and she’s currently in the bathroom having a crisis because she most likely needs to dye her hair.

She’s vain. Pepper knows she is, has known it since high school when she trimmed her hair and cried. Her hair, by all accounts, is gorgeous. It’s a shiny strawberry-blonde that makes her look like an ice queen in winter and a mysterious fairy queen in summer.

She does not want to dye it. But here she is with an eight dollar box of dye and thoughts in her head.

And then her hotel door opens.

Not supposed to do that, but that’s what happens when you’re in a three-star hotel.

She is also in old athletic shorts that have most definitely seen better days and a tank top that was a last-minute buy from the nearest store, and it does not suit her at all.

Facing her is a man with an odd beard, tinted sunglasses, and a graphic t-shirt over a blazer.

“So. You pissed off Stane Industries,” he drawls. “I’m impressed. Usually they just sweep their little problems under the rug.”

“I’ll sweep you under one if you’d like,” Pepper offers, wondering how quickly a blowdryer can knock someone out. She’s not sure how well-made the hotel one is. Probably not very.

“I’m not here to kill you,” the man says. He takes off his sunglasses. His eyes are a nice shade of brown, not that you’re supposed to notice that about a potential enemy. Pepper is just that skilled.

“Then what are you here to do? Make me move to Florida?”

“No, the opposite. We’re staying here. I’m offering you a job position of helping me take down Obadiah Stane and the company itself.”

“Who would I be working with?”

“Anthony Stark.”

Pepper stills.

She read the news when she was in college, same time as Tony Stark. Went missing in the car crash, no one found his body. Temperatures were freezing, he was wearing a tuxedo. The chances were that he froze to death somewhere that they didn’t find yet.

Chances were. What an odd little phrase.

“So, you made it out.”

“Not as hard as people say it seems to be, Virginia.”

“Call me Pepper, my first name disgusts me.”

“Gotcha, Pepper. Call me Tony. You in?”

“Obviously. What do I need to do?”

“Meet the team.”

There is Rhodey, who was Tony’s best friend and sobbed on national television for two weeks until they forgot all about him.

“He’ll cry at anything,” Tony says with a laugh as Rhodey sends him a dirty look. “Just made him think about neon shoes and he bawled like a baby.”

“I did not,” Rhodey hisses. “I was a good crier.”

“You looked like a seal,” Pepper intervenes. “But you played the part quite well. Nice to meet you.”

“Right back at you, Pepper.”

She meets Happy, a man who is all serious and grumpy and “did not want to break the law before forty” but he also gets to watch Downton Abbey whenever he wants, so he’s not doing too bad.

He runs security and also tells Rhodey and Tony when they’re banned from ordering pizza all the time, and Pepper is inducted into the Healthy Eating Committee.

There’s Bruce Banner, who enjoys taking over corporations for fun, and this is his second one. His first was some sort of health insurance scam, and apparently that was just to finish up his thesis for his third doctorate.

“He has seven degrees, he’s weird,” Tony says.

“Oh like you’re any better,” Bruce says with a snort. “You learned twelve languages for fun. Including French, which is useless.”

“French is not useless,” Tony says. “It got us free food in Canada.”

“We would’ve gotten it anyway if we’d done it my way.”

“Stealing?” Rhodey asks.

“Yes!”

Pepper laughs.

Their job is a bit easier than anticipated. They found out from Pepper that getting into the building is stupid easy because no one likes their job and will do anything when bribed.

Tony struts in with a badly-made-employee-ID and talks about a copying machine and coffee and seeing someone next month for dinner. Pepper just keeps her head down and pretends like she’s meeting someone for something. Like usual.

Obadiah Stane is out of the country on a meeting, and his secretary is scared to death of him, so they’re allowed to poke around the office and find some interesting information.

The problem comes when someone recognizes Bruce outside (government watchlists: the most pesky things on earth) and suddenly there’s this huge fuss.

Tony pushes Pepper into an office closet and then promptly asks her if anyone opens the door, if she’s alright with him kissing her.

“Why would you do that?”

“People don’t like watching kissing, too intimate. Also, you have a lovely face and you’re quite funny, and I think it’d be fun and delightful to kiss you.”

“How long have you thought about that?”

“Not going to talk about that, just want an answer. If you say no--and feel free to, there’s no obligation in physical contact right now--it does complicate plans A to D. I suppose we could play the divorced couple route, but I’m not a gigantic fan about that.”

“I mean, I guess? It wouldn’t be bad, and I’m not exactly opposed to it, Would it mean anything later?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Let’s figure that out after we do it.”

“If we need to do it.”

Door swings open.

Oh, there’s a need.

Tony is a particularly nice kisser, Pepper thinks. The thought runs through her head that she’s only kissed two people before Tony, and one was in high school so that doesn’t count, but the other was a secretary at an old company she used to work for.

But Tony is nice. Soft and warm and he grabs her waist and that’s nice.

“Oh my god, sorry,” the employee mutters. “I just, I thought--”

“Occupied!” Tony says, not even stopping as he kicks out his leg and practically stomps the poor other guy in the stomach.

They get out, run, and Pepper laughs as she sees a bit of pink lipstick on the side of Tony’s mouth.

“So, how’d I do?”

“Send me a survey,” Pepper remarks. “Or a ranking.”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“Seven.”

“I was that bad?”

“How do you rank things? Do you put one as the best?”

“Obviously.”

“No, you’re an idiot. One is always the worst. You’re a nine. It would’ve been higher but we were in a corporate office and in a supply closet.”

“So what you’re saying is, I’ll have to try again?”

“Preferably over a couple glasses of wine and pizza. The good kind, though. Not the garbage Rhodey orders.”

They approach the car that Happy has, with Rhodey and Bruce already leading others on a goose chase.

“You two have too much fun,” Happy mutters. “Boss, you got lipstick on your side. Did you get the drives?”

“Transferred and set to release to every major news outlet tomorrow morning at six a.m.,” Tony says. “Interns are going to curse my name as they’re forced to rewrite articles.”

Pepper smiles.

That night, they have a couple of glasses of wine and Tony orders the good pizza, the kind that costs a little bit too much for what it is, but it’s all worth it in the end.

When Tony takes over the company after about six months of legal battles that would probably have drawn on for well over a decade if not for the fact that Tony is one of the most in-your-face-let’s-talk men she’s ever met, Pepper was kind of expecting things to slow down.

Of course not. That’s not her style nor is it Tony’s, although arguably a vacation or a nice spa day would have been nice beforehand.

“We have shit to do,” Tony says. “Rhodey, you need to help me revamp R&D. Pepper, I need to talk to you in the office.”

They’ve already hired a company to completely redesign the entire building and refocus the company’s outlook, starting with getting rid of the disgusting 1970s carpet and chairs. God, it’s ugly. Pepper cried when she saw the office chairs.

But she’s in Tony’s office, and she’s wondering if this is going to be directly related to workplace relationships or not. She’s already prepared an argument as to why she still wants a relationship and just how much professionalism she can exhibit in the face of hardship.

(That hardship being the fact that Tony looks quite good in suits but also has arms that are made for tank tops.)

“I have a problem with you,” Tony says. “And it’s that I want to make you CEO, but I don’t want people to think that you got it just because we’re dating. So we have an issue to cross.”

Pepper was not expecting this. She was expecting maybe head accountant, or head of the PR team. But CEO? That was something that was...wow. Pepper had had a fifteen year plan for working up from wherever it was that she would be at.

She also didn’t know they were dating.

“We’re dating?”

“Did I read the kiss wrong? Oh shit, was the seven secretly the bad seven?”

“No!” Pepper says. “You just never told me that we were dating, we didn’t have a communicative conversation about it.”

“Oh. Well, would you like to go on dates and things?”

“What’s ‘and things’?”

“You know. Sexy times. But I wanted to be a professional about it. But I am not that professional.”

“No, no you’re not. Which is why you offered me the CEO position and why I am accepting it. But I will also date you...and things.”

“Excellent. Have a dinner tonight while we discuss how to do Microsoft Excel?”

“I already know how to use it.”

“Pepper, you are the only woman for me in this lifetime and the next.”

“And the one after that?”

“I’m assuming you’ll get bored of me and marry someone who’s seven feet tall.”

“Seven feet tall? What, am I going to attend every NBA game for the next husband?”

“Maybe, I don’t know what you’ll do. I’ll probably be halfway into a grave over despair.”

Pepper chuckles, dropping a short kiss onto his temple.

“Well, I hope I don’t have to witness that. You want me to make some salad for tonight then?”

“Yes please! We also need to review the decor and see what chairs to order.”

Pepper nods.

“We need to ask Rhodey, he has opinions about design of those.”

“Of course he does, he hates standing too long. We’ll send him some of our options.”

She waves as she leaves the office.

What Tony misses:

Pepper pumps her fist as she leaves the office, nearly stumbles, and is quite glad that no security cameras were installed that day.

What Pepper misses:

Tony spins so hard in his office chair as a celebration that it topples over.

Yeah, they’re made for each other.

#pepperony #tony stark #pepper potts #love this one #i love writing pepper and i don't do enough of it #i really like it when it's clear that they both love each other #bc with a lot of fics it's like pepper being like 'well i guess :/' or she's cool about it #BUT I WANT PEPPER TO BE A NERD!#rhodey #lovelyirony writes

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mhalachai · 3 years

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advance snippet: Updating Wednesdays on Patreon (The Untamed)

So. Do I need to write an Untamed modern!AU with a college twist (Lan Xichen is a music professor in Canada) in which Wei Wuxian attempts to self-therapy himself by creating a graphic novel fantasy AU version of his life (aka the real story of Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation) and Lan Xichen attempts to rebuild his life after a toxic relationship ended? I mean probably not but has that ever stopped me? here’s the intro snippet we’ll see how things go.

(Title is tentatively Updating Wednesdays on Patreon because i don’t know what to call this thing)

The first day of August finds Lan Xichen in a coffee shop, tinkering with the syllabus for his new music theory course, when his phone pings with a message.

> Lan Wangji: Brother.

> Lan Wangji: Wei Ying has asked me to inform you that he will be publishing the first collection of pages in his new graphic novel on Patreon this afternoon.

Lan Xichen smiles at Lan Wangji's tone. For all that his little brother is more verbose in electronic communication than verbal, he's always so exact.

> To Lan Wangji: Can't wait! What's it about?

The little cursor blinks for a while as Lan Wangji continues to type. Lan Xichen just hopes that his brother-in-law's creative enthusiasm isn't running up against Lan Wangji's sensibilities.

Finally, a reply appears.

> Lan Wangji: Wei Ying wants me to tell you that it is completely fictional.

This gives Lan Xichen pause. Why on earth would Wei Wuxian, or Lan Wangji himself for that matter, need to make that declaration?

> Lan Wangji: It is a high fantasy xianxia story.

Before Lan Xichen can ask why that is causing this odd message exchange, another notification pops up on his phone.

> Wei Wuxian: Lan Xichen! Lan Zhan types so slow! It's just a different art style I wanted to try out and it snowballed from there!

> Wei Wuxian: I know you follow me on Patreon so you're going to get the notification this afternoon so I wanted to warn you hahaha

> Wei Wuxian: All names and places are purely fictional. I don't really have a sword.

Another message arrives, with all the information Lan Xichen needs.

> Lan Wangji: This matters a great deal with Wei Ying.

Lan Xichen smiles at his brother's words. Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian have been together since their junior year of high school, through a great deal of personal difficulties on both sides, and are still as fiercely protective of each other as ever. He loves them both for it.

> To Lan Wangji: Thank you for the information. I'm sure it will be great.

> To Wei Wuxian: Can't wait to see it! Anything you do is always great.

No more messages arrive, so Lan Xichen goes back to considering how to change the quiz structure of his musical theory class to avoid a marking crisis with the evaluation of his ensemble class.

Finally, as Lan Wangji gathers up his papers to leave, one last message comes in on his phone.

> Lan Wangji: Thank you for your support. We all appreciate it.

Attached to the message is a photo taken of Lan Wangji's family, he and Wei Wuxian holding Lan Yuan between them. The toddler grins at the camera, his arms around Wei Wuxian's neck. Wei Wuxian's looks at the camera, dark circles under his eyes like he's working through the night again, while Lan Wangji only has eyes for his husband.

It's so wholesome and loving that a sliver of pain rakes through Lan Xichen's heart. He's happy for his brother. His brother deserves the world. Lan Wangji deserves being loved, and to love.

Not everyone gets that. Sometimes, that falls apart.

Sometimes, for some people, love is just an illusion.

Lan Xichen tucks his phone away and leaves the coffee shop.

He gets home mid-afternoon, and spends a while stowing away the groceries he picked up on his walk. The neighbourhood has several Greek and Persian markets and he's able to buy most of what he needs on foot, saving the Chinese markets in Richmond for his weekly dim sum brunches with Lan Wangji's family when he can borrow the use of Lan Wangji's sensible and economical mini-van.

He doesn't drive any more, not since—

Lan Xichen stops and puts down the bag of avocados. His mind is a funny place, bringing up the oddest things at the most inconvenient of times.

He doesn't drive anymore. He doesn't need to, using the bus and the odd taxi to transport his instruments up to the university for performances. The public transit system is so much better.

Safer.

He goes back to putting away the vegetables, pulls out a cookbook (new, spine uncreased, bought for him by Lan Qiren for his birthday) and opens it at random. He's never had coconut curry salmon before, but he has all the ingredients.

Trying new things. He's supposed to be trying new things.

The recipes says it will only take half an hour to make, so he goes up to his office and turns on his computer to check his work email. The message fly fast and furious, some about the new department head, some about class enrollment, a few from students asking if they can get onto his waitlist. He replies to the most urgent, files the rest, then checks his personal email.

The notification from Wei Wuxian's Patreon is up, so Lan Xichen clicks it.

Then he sits back, frankly impressed. He's seen Wei Wuxian's comic style progress since the boy was drawing silly cartoons to entertain Lan Wangji in history class, but even he wasn't prepared for this.

The art is gorgeous. Stylized figures, intricate period costuming, rich backgrounds – it's truly a work of art.

Then he gets a better look the two characters' faces, and laughs out loud. It's Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, clear as day, with long hair and flowing robes. Wei Wuxian's even managed to capture that exasperated-yet-fond look Lan Wangji has whenever Wei Wuxian is being particularly loud.

The introduction is even better. "Join our hero Lan Wangji and dashing rogue Wei Wuxian as they battle deadly monsters and forge a path with demonic cultivation!"

Wei Wuxian hasn't even changed their names. True, he uses his mother's surname professionally, so Cangse Ying can't be easily tracked back, but still.

Lan Xichen wonders for a moment if Lan Wangji is okay with this, but then he notices that the project text is available in both English and in Chinese, with the Chinese written in Lan Wangji's style.

They worked on this together, then.

Trying not to think about why that makes his chest feel funny, Lan Xichen opens to the first page--

-- Which features a bruised and bloodied Wei Wuxian falling off a cliff while a horrified Lan Wangji screams after him.

Confused, Lan Xichen makes sure he hasn't accidentally read the last page first. No, this is the first. Still a little baffled, he clicks to the next page, sees the stylized banner that reads six years ago and relaxes. This is Wei Wuxian's style of using flashbacks to interrupt the narrative flow. Lan Xichen spent most of Lan Wangji's university years hearing his brother's despair for Wei Wuxian's artistic choices in essay form.

But enough about the past. Lan Xichen settles in to read the first chapter of the story, where Wei Wuxian and his siblings (Jiang Yanli drawn lovingly, Jiang Cheng with a bigger frown and more menacing eyebrows than Lan Xichen remembers) traveled to the Cloud Recesses (the sarcastic nickname Wei Wuxian gave to Lan Qiren's West Vancouver mansion) for cultivator lectures. Lan Xichen is there on the page, too, drawn taller and far more imposing than he is in real life.

The first encounter between Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji is fantastical and improbable and, according to Lan Xichen's recollection, almost completely accurate. Wei Wuxian had mouthed off at Lan Wangji at the weekend orientation camp for their new arts high school, Lan Wangji glared the boy into submission, then later that night when Wei Wuxian tried to sneak back onto school grounds with alcohol, he and Lan Wangji had gotten into a fight. Verbal, instead of with swords, and without the supernatural murder victims, but Lan Xichen remembered everything else from Lan Wangji's indignant recitation on his return home.

He keeps reading, enjoying the art and the lyrical narration, and keeps enjoying it right up to the scene when Nie Huaisang appears on the page to offer Lan Qiren a present, Meng Yao standing right behind him.

Lan Xichen doesn't remember standing up, but here he is, two feet away from his computer, heart pounding. He hadn't—Why—

What was Meng Yao doing in a story about Wei Wuxian's high school years?

Taking a deep breath, Lan Xichen makes himself return to his desk. As far as he knew, he was the one who introduced Meng Yao to Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, when the boys were in university and after he and Meng Yao started dating--

Lan Xichen can feel his heartbeat slow, as he tries to breathe. He needs to stop this foolishness over Meng Yao. They dated before living together for a while, that was all. They broke up. It happens to people all the time.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji were in college for most of that time, anyway, living their lives. They barely knew Meng Yao, even if Wei Wuxian's sister married Meng Yao's half-brother. They couldn't know how badly Lan Xichen had messed up their relationship, how terrible he had been to live with. It was his fault that—

Stop.

It's over. In the past. A story that has Meng Yao as a minor character isn't going to mess with Lan Xichen's head. He's not going to let it.

He exhales and makes himself look back at the screen.

Meng Yao only shows up a few more times. For some reason, he's the only character who isn't tagged with his own name. He's there handing over the present to Lan Qiren, standing in front of Nie Huaisang when the Wens arrive, then in two last panels in which he tells the on-screen Lan Xichen that he has to return to Nie Mingjue's side.

Lan Xichen's stomach sours. He and Nie Mingjue had been close, before Meng Yao came into Lan Xichen's life. After that, Lan Xichen hadn't had much time for anyone else. That was normal, Meng Yao always said. People in love only needed each other.

Lan Xichen picks up his phone, then puts it down. He can't ask Lan Wangji about this. It would be weird. Wei Wuxian must just be making artistic narrative choices.

The chapter ends soon after, with Wen Qing and Wen Ning welcomed grudgingly into Cloud Recesses. The next chapter is due up in two weeks, the page declares, and welcomes any comments or feedback. A few people are already posting, gushing over the art work and discussing the teaser from the opening page.

Wanting to be supportive, Lan Xichen writes a small review, complimenting the artistic style, the intricacies of the outfits, poses a query as to the different colour palettes between the first page (dark, red, menacing) and the flashback scenes in Cloud Recesses (light, airy, hopeful), then translates the comment into English and posts both versions up. If Lan Wangji is going though all the trouble of ensuring a bilingual experience, then he will too.

He should go start dinner, he really should, but some part of him is drawn back to the first panel in which Meng Yao appears. He's shorter than Lan Xichen remembers in life, the long hair and braids suiting his face.

It's been so long since Lan Xichen last saw Meng Yao. He's not sure what he's thinking. Is he wistful? Mournful? Sad?

He doesn't know. He never knows what he feels about Meng Yao, which was the problem. He's not normal about feelings. Even Lan Wangji, whose brain is a unique and complicated thing, looking for order and reason and patterns in an illogical and messy world, loves fiercely, feels passionately. Maybe he got all the love in the family, and Lan Xichen got stuck with the stunted and undergrown heart.

Stirring, he pages back to the first appearance of his on-screen twin. The Lan Xichen on the screen looks patient, kind, a smile hiding behind his eyes.

He hadn't realized this is how Wei Wuxian sees him.

He picks up his phone.

> To Wei Wuxian: What an incredible achievement! The art is amazing!

> To Wei Wuxian: Where is the story from? As it's a work of fiction and has nothing to do with your real life ;)

> Wei Wuxian: Oh hahahha the story is a collaboration of a bunch of ideas! I can't tell u more (sworn to secrecy by my collaborators) but so glad you like it!!!!!!

> To Lan Wangji: Did you do the writing? I love the dialogue.

> Lan Wangji: Wei Wuxian did most of the English. I made it better and did the translation.

> To Lan Wangji: Have you told uncle about this project?

> Lan Wangji: He prefers to speak of my composition achievements.

Lan Xichen puts his phone down and rubs his eyes. The old tension between Lan Qiren and Lan Wangji never goes away. It started in high school with Lan Qiren's disapproval of Wei Wuxian, continued into university with Lan Qiren's disapproval of Wei Wuxian as well as Lan Wangji's decision to attend a local university for musical studies instead of going to Julliard in Lan Xichen's footsteps, and outrage at the news that Lan Wangji asked Wei Wuxian to marry him before they even finished their undergraduate degrees.

The resulting years had been a long-standing cold war, with Lan Xichen trying to mediate in the middle. Even the arrival of Lan Yuan on the scene twenty months previous hadn't softened both sides into anything resembling ease.

If Lan Wangji doesn't want to tell their uncle that he and his husband are collaborating on a semi-biographical graphic novel, Lan Xichen isn't going to muddy the waters.

> To Lan Wangji: It sounds like you're enjoying the project.

> Lan Wangji: Working with Wei Ying on any project is enjoyable. I read that couples with young children should try to engage in a mutual hobby outside of parenting.

> To Lan Wangji: Very wise.

He wonders if he should ask about Meng Yao, types out a message to that effect, then deletes it.

> To Lan Wangji: I should start dinner – see you on the weekend for brunch?

>Lan Wangji: Yes.

Lan Xichen puts his phone down. The days are long in August and the sun still bright, but he's tired and he doesn't know why.

anyway that’s where this whole disaster is going. new fandoms are fun.

#the untamed #my writing #teaser snippet of a new story #i have 14000 words written #trying to get is mostly done before popping up on ao3

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nyo-canadas-google-history · 5 years

Note

Magical boy Canada!

"my mun tried but died... ;u;."

#hetalia #aph canada #ask badly drawn canada #my art #anon ask!#ask-badly-drawn-canada

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thefandomlesbian · 4 years

Text

We’re All Born Naked (The Rest Is Drag)

Summary: A series of crimes at a gay club leaves the BAU scrambling for a way to locate the unsub before they have another victim. After a surprising revelation about Spencer, he's assigned duty on stage--performing as a drag queen so he has the opportunity to spot the killer from above. While undercover with Hotch, feelings develop.

Read it here on AO3!

...

“We're all born naked, and anything anybody wears at any time is drag.” -Tede Matthews

…

The heady air of the club before it opened collected in thick clouds around the team. Hotch spoke with the owner a few yards away from the others. Spencer watched their conversation, unable to hear what they said, but understanding from the exchange of nods that they were making some kind of deal regarding the club and its patrons.

For the past three weeks, every Friday night, a man from this club had gone missing and turned up disemboweled two days later.

Tonight, they intended to catch him in the act.

Hotch left the owner and approached the rest of the team. Spencer fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt. In a few minutes, the club would be opening, and he wanted to be far out of here before people began to arrive. It wasn’t a risk he wanted to take. JJ shot him a sideways glance. “You alright, Spence?” He nodded.

Hotch inclined his eyebrows as he stopped in front of them. “The owner has agreed to let us bug the place. Reid, you’re undercover with me.”

Spencer gulped. “Er—I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Hotch frowned. He kept fidgeting with his sleeves. “I’m… not sure that’s something I can do.” Defying a direct order? He never did that. Hotch had told him, not asked; refusing wasn’t an option.

Morgan pursed his lips. “C’mon, man, what gives? You fit the type. You’re gonna be a lot more helpful on the ground than the rest of us.”

“I know, I just—I have certain concerns that my ability to do this may, uh, may be compromised.”

Emily cocked her head. “Reid, are you… homophobic? ”

“No!” Spencer bristled. “No, I’m not homophobic, I just am worried about certain things—”

“What kind of things?”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but across the dance floor called a familiar voice, “Spencer!” that sent cold chills running down his spine. He closed his jaw with a quiet click and closed his eyes, willing the voice to go away, but it didn’t, and he could hear footsteps trotting up behind them. This kind of thing. Peter propped up an arm on Spencer’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy! I thought you said you had to work tonight! Listen, you are gonna be so excited— Damien B is back in town. Remember the last time he was here, I was too drunk to walk, so you went up to him and tucked that wad of cash into his G-string for me? Best night ever! Plus, the drag race is on. Are you gonna roll again? Runner up last time—you’ve got a real shot.” I wish I were the unsub’s last victim. Peter’s excitable grin did not fade as he looked up at the rest of the team. “And you got us some newcomers! C’mon.” He nudged Spencer pointedly. “Introduce me to your friends!”

Some part of Spencer prayed that if he willed it hard enough, the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He reluctantly opened his eyes, gauging the expressions on each of his teammates’ faces, ranging from shock and horror to Hotch’s completely impassive poker face (Spencer was quite grateful at least one of them had the grace to look like himself). He opened his mouth again, and again, Peter interrupted him. “Oh, who’s this tall drink of water?” He pushed into the circle of the BAU and brushed both of his hands down Hotch’s arms. Peter smirked and winked. “Who’s your daddy, big guy?”

Oh, please don’t hurt him, and please don’t hurt me. If he hadn’t been paralyzed to the spot, Spencer might’ve had the willpower to turn away and run, run out of the club, down the street, to the bus stop, and take the city bus all the way to Canada where he would change his name and never return. He cleared his throat. He could not move. That meant he had to speak. “Peter, these are… my… colleagues. We are working a case here.”

“Oh.” Peter blinked somewhat surprised. Then, he withdrew from Hotch. “Well, this one can arrest me any time. ” Spencer’s entire face and neck flushed maroon. “I’m Peter! Nice to meet you guys.”

Emily was the first to find her words. “So you two are…” She gestured between them with her index finger.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Us? Oh, no, ma’am. We’re just the twinks who have to try to find a ouija board to summon the top we both need. Right, Spencer? Up top!” Peter lifted up his hand. Spencer merely stared at his palm. “Oh, don’t leave me hanging!”

Hotch coughed, interrupting the shame circulating between all of them. “Thank you, Peter, but we really need to resume our investigation.”

“Oh, sure, sure. I’m gonna be hovering around the bar all night—and your drinks are on me.” Peter pointed at Hotch, and then he swung around and trotted back toward the bar.

Spencer released a long, pent-up sigh. “That. That’s my concern.”

Silence followed. Finally, JJ broke it. “You’re gay? ”

“Mhm.”

“Called it,” Rossi said, speaking for the first time in a few minutes. Spencer’s belly did a sick flip. “Morgan, you owe me.”

Emily tilted her head. “Were you ever going to tell us?”

“Honestly? No, I wasn’t.”

Morgan countered, “I don’t owe you anything. I called Emily, remember? We’re even now.”

JJ blinked incredulously. “You guys are taking bets on who’s not straight?”

“Yeah, princess, and my money says you and Emily bang it out before the end of the year,” Morgan countered. JJ’s cheeks flushed as red as Spencer’s.

Emily piped up, “So Rossi does owe you.” Morgan fist-pumped.

“Can we get back to work?” Hotch interrupted pointedly. Everyone fell silent and fell in line, looking back toward him. “Reid, you’re not on the floor anymore.”

Rossi snorted. “That’d be a bad idea. He might end up at the glory holes.”

Hotch shot Rossi a dark warning glance. Spencer flushed with warmth, but then Hotch continued, “I have a better idea.” His gaze swept the room, the flyers on the wall, taking heed of the layout, the speakers, the stage, the bar. “You’re on stage. You’ll have the best vantage point of the whole club from up there. You’ll see more than any of us can from the floor. Drag show starts at nine. Get dressed.”

I wish I were dead.

…

In a skin-tight dress, five inch heels, and a poofy blonde wig, Spencer crossed his arms and stood beside the foot of the stage. The crowd had packed into the room. I deserve a raise for this. He looked up as Hotch parted the crowd, coming up to him. Hotch hadn’t changed, and frankly, he didn’t look like he belonged, with his suit and his tie and his too-nice shoes.

“I didn’t exactly ask if you were okay with this.”

Spencer shrugged. “Less okay things have happened. This is something I’ve done before.” He hadn’t expected his team to ever know about it, nor would he have wanted them to, but now that they did… well, at least he could catch a killer.

Hotch gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, so have I.” What? Spencer wanted to ask. How? Why? “You have a smudge in your lipstick. Hold still.” Hotch licked his thumb and wiped at it, framing Spencer's face between his two large hands, and Spencer's words died in his throat, unable to make a sound. The floodlights illuminated the room, casting Hotch's face in bright light and the rest of him in shadow, giving his hickory eyes an odd gleam, his brows drawn together as he worked at wiping away the smear of lipstick at the corner of Spencer's mouth.

When his hands pulled away, Spencer's belly flipped over. He somehow felt hot and cold at the same time. He parted his lips, wanting to ask something, wanting to say something, but he couldn't conceive of the correct words. “Um, thanks—” He tried to push the stammer out of his voice. He didn't think he succeeded.

The announcer called out, “Now introducing Miss Sparrow Wings!” and Hotch offered him a leg up, thrusting him onto the stage before he could ask another question.

Spencer’s heels clicked beneath him as he strolled down the runway. He had done this before, the costume makeup, the dress, the wig, everything—the performance and the anonymity that came with it was all part of the fun. But knowing that somewhere down there, Hotch watched him, gave him some strange and embarrassing thrill. The MC held out the microphone to him. I didn’t have time to prepare an act. The last time, he’d sung a song—badly, but still, it was better than it would’ve been if he had tried to do stand-up, which was his first choice when Peter talked him out of it.

Of course, he had public speaking skills. He could use them.

“Today, I’m going to talk to all of you about string theory.” The crowd cheered. Either they were too drunk to know what he had just said or they thought he was joking. “In summary, string theory is the framework in which the point-like particles of physics are replaced by one-dimensional objects known as strings. String theory describes how these strings propagate through space and interact with one another.” This time, they did not cheer. They mumbled in confusion. “On distance scales larger than the string scale, a string looks just like an ordinary particle, with its mass, charge, and other properties determined by the vibrational state of the string. In string theory, one of the many vibrational states of the string corresponds to the graviton, a quantum mechanical particle that carries gravitational force. Thus string theory is a theory of quantum gravity.”

He scanned the crowd, ignoring the ones sloshing beer at his feet. They had a profile to work with. The man they were looking for would hang back from the main crowd and charm the lone wolves he spotted, the ones whose friend groups had abandoned them, and eventually lead them away. He would not be among the men popping molly crowded around the front of the stage.

Hotch worked along the back walls, patrolling, failing to look inconspicuous. He chose a corner and hovered there with his arms crossed. A younger man approached him, grabbed him by the arm, and gestured in the direction of the glory holes. Spencer’s abdomen clenched with something—jealousy, perhaps?—at the sight, but he forced himself to tear his gaze away. He could not focus on Hotch right now. He was looking for a serial killer.

“Now, you may be asking yourself, how could something be one-dimensional? After all, everything we analyze in basic life is either three-dimensional—like me and you, like this feather boa—” Spencer took the feather boa off from around his neck and tossed it into the crowd. The guy who caught it stumbled and landed on his ass. “—and then there are things that are two dimensional, like the little heart patterns on my panties. You boys will see that if you’re lucky.” Like hell. It kept their attention, though, which was what he needed. “One dimensional objects exist in physics and mathematics. Like on a number line, every single spot on the number line can be indicated by a single digit.”

At the bar, he spotted Peter far below, chatting up the bartender. He sifted over the crowd with his eyes, eager to find anyone looking or acting suspicious. Anyone without friends, keeping to himself, watching the others too closely, approaching loners… There’s a handful of them down there. He spotted a tall man with dark hair clinging to the corner, sipping his own drink. This man wouldn’t be drinking. He wouldn’t compromise his own judgment. But there was every possibility he had a virgin drink to give the appearance of inebriation. It’s all part of the act. Spencer knew about the act.

“Now, the thing about these theoretical dimensions is that they’re difficult to conceive of without some kind of proof. Not easy to believe. But then again, tons of things are unbelievable…” Spencer flipped his wrists over and produced another feather boa, one that had been concealed under the jangly bands on his wrists. “If you believe in magic, the thing about theoretical physics is that everything is magical in its own right—because just like physics, magic always has a logical explanation.”

Spencer spilled a deck of cards over the floor from where he had hidden them. He watched the figure cross the floor to the bar, and he vanished into the crowd where Spencer could not spot him. Shoot. He couldn’t continue to track him like that. He checked the clock. Two more minutes. He could lecture about string theory for two more hours—but he preferred not to have to do it while he was working and appearing on stage in drag.

Running his mouth? That was his expertise.

When his time was over, he swung off the stage and headed toward the bar. Hotch intercepted him only a few steps through the crowd, pushing the surging men away from one another and away from Spencer. “What did you see?”

“Dark-haired white guy, wearing a blazer. He headed toward the bar and I lost him in the crowd.”

“He wouldn’t head into the crowd unless he’s chosen a victim.”

“Yeah, I know. Should we start canvassing?”

Hotch’s dark eyes darted around the room in the flashing lights. “No. If he spots us, he’ll startle and leave, and we’ll have lost our shot. We need to be discreet until we’re sure, and then get him away from this crowd. If we cause a panic, we’ll lose him.” Spencer’s eyes scanned Hotch’s face. “Let’s sit at the bar and wait for him.”

“Together?” Spencer questioned.

“You’re wearing six inch heels. You’re not exactly in position to give chase if we split up,” Hotch pointed out. Spencer mused on this, and then he nodded in agreement; he wouldn’t have very much luck making chase in these shoes, and he didn’t have a gun under this dress, or cuffs, either. Trying to apprehend a suspect in this getup would be ridiculous at best, downright dangerous at worst. He needed to stay with Hotch.

They sat side-by-side at the bar. Spencer reached up and disentangled the poofy, blonde, Dolly Parton-esque wig from his hair and let it fall to the counter with a dull thump. At the sight of it, Hotch gave a muted smile—or something Spencer could only describe as a smile. The disco lights reflected in his eyes, giving them a certain illustrious gleam which drew Spencer into their depths. “The wig suits you. You clean up well.” Clean up well? Spencer felt a lot of things right now, but clean wasn’t one of them. He sat in a seedy club with smoke clogging up the vents, too loud pop music, flashing lights that hurt his eyes, the stench of vomit and liquor and everything in between, and he wore an ill-fitting drag dress with six inch heels, gaudy costume makeup, and a heavy hot wig that someone else had certainly sweated in before him.

The whole thing struck Spencer as fairly bizarre—that Hotch offered him these compliments, the nature of them as a whole. Spencer wondered what, if anything, motivated him to speak in this way. If anything? Something had to be behind it. Hotch would never ordinarily speak to him this way. “Er, thanks,” Spencer said. “It gets really hot,” he admitted, “especially under the floodlights, and… well, this stuff isn’t mine, so I’m trying not to sweat in it.” He didn’t cart drag materials around to work with him in case he needed to go undercover; he’d borrowed everything from Peter, and lord knew who else Peter had loaned it out to over the years.

“I’m sure you wear it better than any of the other twinks that came before you.” Spencer’s face flushed at that. He fisted his hand in the wig on the table, trying to distract himself, and studied the men mulling behind them in the reflections of the glasses and the bottles as they passed by, trying to spot their subject. He went into the crowd around this area.

Every moment they sat here without seeing him was another moment of the possibility he had already chosen his victim, had already led him away, had already packed him up into his vehicle and driven him away to his final destination.

“See anything?” Spencer shook his head. Further down the bar, the distinct sound of Peter’s laughter crowed through the crowd, but Spencer couldn’t see him through the blur of people—nor did he particularly want to. Peter had already managed to humiliate him in front of Hotch once today (more than once, if he was being generous, since almost every word Peter had uttered had sunk Spencer to new depths of embarrassment), and Spencer didn’t care to repeat the event. “Tell me about your friend.”

Weird. Spencer knew they had to talk—they had to give the appearance that they were participating socially here. It wouldn’t look right if they sat here without speaking, and it could head someone off. “Peter? He’s… a lot.” Hotch could’ve asked him about anyone, and he asked him about Peter. Maybe… he’s interested in him? Spencer found that hard to believe, though; he found it difficult to think Hotch could ever be interested in someone like Peter. And besides, Peter had made it pretty clear that he was available for anything Hotch wanted. There was no need for Spencer to act as a liaison between the two of them. The mere thought made Spencer all hot and itchy and uncomfortable on the inside. “He’s not looking to settle down. He just wants to have as much fun as he can.” That was an accurate assessment of Peter.

“And you are? Looking to settle down.”

Spencer fidgeted with the jangly bracelets on his wrists. “Er… I don’t know. I don’t exactly have a settling down type of job, do I?” Hotch looked steadily back at him. This is a weird conversation. “I guess, if I found the right person… I just don’t see it happening, though.” What did Hotch have to gain from asking him these questions? They could’ve talked about anything and it would’ve kept up appearances. Even particle physics would’ve made Spencer more comfortable than he was right now, sharing intimate aspects of his personal life with Hotch at his request. I didn’t even want them to know I was gay.

In a few short hours, he had gone from completely closeted to his entire team seeing him in drag from head to toe. He didn’t know how he felt about that yet. The ambivalence of the moment plagued him, the satisfaction from knowing he was doing something good to stop a killer, the shame… Oh, the shame. Logic told him he had nothing to be ashamed off, that being gay wasn’t a bad or embarrassing thing, that no one on the team would judge him, that their disparaging remarks were just jokes. But he didn’t want to face those disparaging marks anyway, no matter how teasing. And Morgan would undoubtedly dangle this over his head for the rest of his life, the moment when Sparrow Wings went on stage to spot a killer from above.

Hotch crossed his arms, resting his elbows on the counter in front of them. “You could’ve said something sooner,” he said.

“I know.” Spencer jangled his bracelets. “I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

He drummed his fingers on the counter and shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess… I guess JJ said it best, when she and Emily got together, that sometimes it’s easier not to have everyone up in their business. That we don’t really get to have secrets, so when there is something the rest of us don’t know about, it’s pretty sacred.” The rhythm of swinging the bands around his wrists grounded him in the moment. “And, I mean, Morgan is never going to let this go. He’s going to be making digs at me about this for the rest of our lives.”

Hotch inclined his eyebrows. “You’re right about that,” he confirmed grimly. “So you knew about JJ and Prentiss?”

Spencer nodded. “I was the only one who knew,” he said. “But… I didn’t know Rossi and Morgan were taking bets on, y’know, all of this.”

Hotch wore a somewhat grim look upon his face. “They still have one bet out on the rest of us.”

What? Spencer wanted to ask, and he jiggled his bracelets again, and finally, Hotch put his hand over Spencer’s wrist to still it and quiet the jingling. Spencer glanced down at where Hotch’s large hand covered his wrist. His stomach jumped and quivered at the sensation, the warmth of another skin pressing against his. The texture struck him, the roughness, the callouses on Hotch’s hands, the breadth of his grasp and his fingertips. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He gulped, trying to remember how to breathe and how to speak, because suddenly both of those things seemed incredibly difficult. “Sorry—” His voice sounded strangled, and he wasn’t sure why he apologized—for making the noise that had irritated Hotch, for this weird reaction, for something else, and why was Hotch still touching him?

“Don’t apologize.” Spencer’s lighter eyes darted up to Hotch’s in the shadows of the club. His tongue flitted out across his lips, wetting them. What can I say? Words failed Spencer, and he could only think of something he wanted to do, something which Hotch would almost certainly reject—

There. In the reflection of the wine bottle to Hotch’s right, Spencer saw him. He spun on the barstool, and Hotch whirled around after him. Spencer didn’t point. The man walked right past them. His gaze flicked to Spencer, and he smiled and winked a coy thing, and then he continued through the crowd. “You think that’s our guy?” Spencer asked.

“Yes.” Hotch hopped up from the barstool. “Stay close to him. He’s still rounding the floor, so he hasn’t picked a target yet. We can’t take him until we have evidence of wrongdoing.”

Spencer nodded. The crowd made room for him to pass through; after all, he was five inches taller than normal and wearing a sequin-strewn dress which made it difficult for him to miss. He stuck the blonde wig back on his head so he didn’t have to drag it around in his hand, stuffing it over his hair. The unsub stalked up behind a handful of guys chatting at the bar. Spencer grabbed the empty table directly across from them so they could keep a close eye on him—they wouldn’t risk losing him among the ocean of people again. Spencer’s jaw shifted in discomfort. “If he sees me again, he’s going to know something’s up. I’m too recognizable like this. He’s going to realize we’re following him.”

“We have to risk it.”

From the distance, they could not hear the unsub’s words or see the men he approached, nothing more than their silhouettes, but within a few minutes, it became clear he had targeted one man. He eased this man away from the others, placing himself between him and the rest of the group, secluding him. He waved his hand to the bartender and placed an order, and then his arm reached around the man’s waist, trailing over the small of his back. The unsuspecting victim sidled up close beside the unsub. He turned his head into his embrace. The flashing strobe lights of the club illuminated the victim’s silhouette. Spencer’s eyes widened. The man tossed his head back and laughed a familiar, braying laugh. Spencer upstarted from his seat—

Hotch’s arm coiled around his waist and anchored him to the spot. “Don’t.”

“That’s Peter! ” Spencer’s heart clenched in his chest.

“He’s safe. We’re watching him. They won’t get out of our line of sight.” Spencer tried to wriggle out from under Hotch’s arm, which fit all too well around his waist, like something familiar, like something meant to be there, like hundreds of millions of years of evolution had transpired just to lead to this moment where Hotch’s arm was meant to fit around his middle and hold him there, almost pressing their bodies against one another. “If you go now, you’ll blow our cover, he’ll pick a different club, and we’ll have more victims before we have a chance to catch him again. Do you want that to happen?”

Reluctantly, Spencer settled down in his chair, his face and stomach both churning. Everything inside of him constricted like a snake, tense and hot. Hotch did not withdraw his arm. “We can’t let them get out of this building.”

“And we won’t.” Hotch was making a promise—Spencer understood that. He prayed it wasn’t a promise he was going to break. “Can I trust you not to fling yourself at them like Norman Bates wearing his mother’s clothes, or do I need to keep holding you in place?”

Spencer’s face flamed. He sucked his front teeth. “Maybe,” he said softly, “you can trust me…” Or maybe I like this, the way it is right now.

“Maybe?” Hotch arched an eyebrow, daring Spencer to say something else.

Spencer held his gaze. He did not fold. Sparrow Wings, after all, did not fold. She was a powerful woman, and she wouldn’t buckle, no matter how Hotch stared at her, and she would have no problem telling him exactly what she wanted—but she also didn’t give a flying fuck if Spencer was still employed tomorrow, so Spencer had to make some executive decisions on how much he allowed her influence to take over right now. “Or maybe… I think this is good for our undercover act. Maybe I think we blend right in, like this.”

The scent of Hotch’s cologne wafted off of his body from the proximity between them. In spite of Spencer’s layers of clothes and the heavy makeup and that damn wig (he left it on now, in case he needed to make a run for it and didn’t want to leave it behind), he craved the warmth bleeding through Hotch’s suit, the heat metabolized by Hotch’s blood and tissues through every minute of every day. Spencer found it intoxicating.

He didn’t imbibe any longer, but if he wanted to get drunk on anything, he thought he would start with the scent of Hotch’s cologne.

“Is that so?” Hotch asked, and his words sounded almost like a dare. “This is good for being undercover?” Spencer nodded. “Is that all?”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but the unsub began to turn, as if to glance behind him, and Spencer didn’t have a moment to think; at the first glimpse of movement, Hotch grabbed him, spun him around with his back to the unsub, and dragged him into a bruising, open-mouthed kiss. Spencer blinked hard, once, twice, This is a dream, this whole thing has been a weird dream, I’m going to wake up now and it’s going to make so much sense— Hotch’s hands intertwined in his wig, obscuring as much as his body from view as possible, and Spencer watched in the reflection of the wine glasses on the table as the unsub surveyed the room behind him and did not take note of Spencer, in spite of his colorful garb.

After all, two guys shoving their tongues down each other’s throats were pretty inconspicuous in the middle of a gay club.

The rough stubble from Hotch’s face scratched into Spencer’s, chin to chin, cheek to cheek. The unsub had turned around, but Hotch didn’t stop, molding Spencer’s mouth to his own like a potter over a lump of clay. Their tongues twisted and danced to the beat of the flashing lights and dropping bass, until Hotch pulled away and Spencer gasped for breath. His head spun. His limbs felt heavy. His stomach felt light. His head felt like butterflies had tossed out every piece of information he had ever known and now battered their wings against the inside of his skull, seeking a way out.

Arm around Peter’s back, the unsub pulled back from the bar, and they walked away from the bar, all wound up in one another. Hotch jumped up, hand wrapped around the inside of Spencer’s elbow, and jogged after them. “Do you know where they’re going?”

Spencer shook the delirium from the forefront of his mind. “Exit A, it’s the easiest way out without being spotted—”

“You stay on them, I’ll go around back, and we should be able to trap him.”

Before Spencer could say another word, Hotch vanished from sight, and Spencer trotted after the unsub and Peter, keeping them in his sights. He folded himself back between a pillar and the wall when the unsub glanced behind them, and when they rounded the corner, Spencer caught up to them, watching as they approached the exit.

The red lights from the sign marking the outlet illuminated their faces. “Before we go,” purred the unsub, “I’ve got a surprise for you.” He held his hands behind his back. Spencer spotted the refraction of light off of the blade of the knife he concealed. “Are you ready?” Peter nodded. “Close your eyes…”

“FBI!” Spencer ducked out from his hiding place in the shadows. “Put your hands up! You’re under arrest!” Hotch is right outside, he’s waiting right outside this door—

“Spencer, what the hell? We were just about to—” The knife clattered to the floor, and the door swung open. The unsub sprinted through the door out into the darkness of the night.

Spencer chased after him. “Stay right here!” he called over his shoulder to Peter.

The unsub vaulted himself over the railing of the short staircase and landed clumsily on the asphalt. Spencer hit the railing. He couldn’t climb over it—if he landed wrong in these shoes, he’d snap an ankle. Hotch rounded the corner. Spencer tore the shoes off his feet. “Where’s he going?”

Holding the heels in his left hand, Spencer jumped over the railing. “Around the block—you go that way, there’s an old plywood fence, he’ll come over that and meet you, I’ll stay behind him—”

His bare feet slapped the stony surface of the asphalt, kicking up old loose pebbles, splinters, and shattered glass, as again he and Hotch separated. In hot pursuit of the unsub, Spencer did not let the pain in his feet distract him. The shadow of the unsub up ahead circled the block, headed toward the fence, where Spencer had known he would try to climb to escape.

He flung himself up over the fence. Spencer stood there, watching him. From the other side, Hotch called, “FBI! Put your hands up!”

The unsub teetered there on top of the fence for a moment. He looked down at Hotch, then back at Spencer… and he dropped back onto Spencer’s side of the fence. Hotch discharged his weapon, but he missed. The bullet glanced off of the side of the brick wall beside them and ricocheted. Oh, shit. The unsub barreled toward Spencer.

Spencer didn’t have a weapon. He didn’t have handcuffs, or a taser, or a baton. He had himself, his wig, his bare feet, and the stilettos in his left hand—in his hand as he held up his hands to brace himself for impact as the unsub jumped on top of him.

The man intended to knock Spencer down and keep going. Spencer grabbed onto him, hands fisting into his clothes, dragging him to the asphalt. Spencer’s dress tore where it caught under his feet. “Don’t go anywhere!” Spencer couldn’t overpower him, but he could stall him long enough for Hotch to get over the fence and help.

An elbow shoved across Spencer’s face. Pain shot through his nose. White light blinded him. He tasted blood. A hand clawed its way into his mouth. He snapped his teeth together. He tasted more blood. “Get off me, you stupid fairy!” The man thrashed. Spencer took his left hand, the one with the shoes, and smacked him in the face.

The resulting shriek of agony shook the alleyway. The brick walls trembled with the power of it. Spencer, blinking through the pain, landed on top of the unsub with both knees between his shoulder blades, hands pinning the man’s arms to the ground, but he didn’t try to fight anymore. Now, he only tried to curl up into a ball, hands reaching for his own face, where the heel of one of Spencer’s stilettos had penetrated his eye, the shoe still fixed there and dangling.

Hotch vaulted himself over the fence. “What the hell, Reid?” Spencer wiped a smear of blood away from his nose, sliding off of the unsub when Hotch took him and cuffed him. “What’s the matter with you?”

Spencer stiffened. “I don’t have a gun. I had to improvise.” I didn’t exactly intend to impale his eye with my high heel, but it stopped him.

“So you weaponized stilettos ?” Hotch repeated, aghast. “Why aren’t you concealed carrying?”

“Do you see anywhere for me to conceal a weapon in this outfit?”

Hotch scanned Spencer, his heavy costume makeup sweating off, his blonde wig all askew, his skintight dress torn, many of his jangly bracelets lost in the chase, his bare feet cut and bloodied from racing along the glass-littered pavement, blood trickling down his nose. His gaze lingered on Spencer in an almost affectionate way. “Not the kind of weapon we use.”

Spencer’s whole body flushed.

The unsub turned his head from where Hotch pressed his face into the concrete. “It hurts! ” he wailed desperately. “My eye! You ugly fag, my eye —”

Hotch pressed one broad hand to the column of his throat. “If you call him that again, I’ll finish the job with the other shoe.”

A tingle rushed through Spencer as the unsub squeaked and fell into silence.

…

At Quantico, Spencer looked at himself in the mirror of the men’s bathroom, his face still dirty and stained from wrestling the unsub on the ground. His feet had pressure wrappings around them where they fit in his shoes; the paramedics had painstakingly dug the glass out of the soles of his feet and then treated the wounds. With gauze stuffed up the bleeding nostril of his nose, he looked worse for wear, though he had returned to his preferred clothes—his pants, his sweater vest, his long-sleeved shirt.

He stared at his reflection, hair all dirty and messy, face beginning to break out from the low quality makeup. Huh, he thought as he looked at himself. The whole thing felt so surreal. Had Hotch really kissed him? Had Hotch really put an arm around his body to hold him in place? Had Hotch really planted the heel of his hand against a man’s throat and threatened to blind him if he said another word against Spencer?

Was Hotch really entering the bathroom right now, silently nearing him, reaching for the paper towels, wetting one with warm water, pressing it to Spencer’s face, wiping away the itchy makeup and the dirt?

“You alright?” Hotch’s voice breached the calm. He smoothed the paper towel down Spencer’s face, not enough to hurt him, but firmly enough to take away most of the heavy makeup and dirt. When he’d soiled one paper towel, he wetted another one.

In the mirror, as Hotch stripped the layers of grime from his face, the rash underneath became more apparent. “Yeah,” Spencer replied. “I’m fine.” He looked away from his reflection in the mirror and glimpsed at Hotch’s face, afraid to let his gaze linger for too long—afraid of what he would or wouldn’t see. “Can I ask you something?” Hotch gave a noncommittal hum of agreement. “Why are you still here? Everyone else went home.”

Hotch ceased his ministrations, having gotten the most grime off of Spencer’s face, and he returned his gaze, a surprisingly tender expression on his face. “You made a pretty big sacrifice to catch this guy, and I owe it to you to make sure you’re okay.” Spencer grunted in response. He wondered if Hotch had something else to say. “Have you talked to Peter?”

Oh. Right. Again, Hotch expressed interest in Peter, and again, Spencer wondered if he meant to suggest something else. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s—he’s shaken up, but he’ll be alright. I think he’s thinking about taking a break from the club, though.” Hotch opened a tube of cream—anti-itch cream, Spencer noted. He squirted a small amount onto his fingertips and applied it to the rash covering Spencer’s face. “How did you…”

“You always get sun poisoning when we’re in the field,” Hotch said. The intimacy of this moment took Spencer aback, his face in Hotch’s hands as Hotch massaged a soothing lotion into his skin. “I thought the cosmetics might irritate your skin.” Spencer didn’t know what to say in response. “When will I get the opportunity to see Sparrow Wings again?” he asked as he capped the tube of lotion, having rubbed the cream into Spencer’s skin completely, leaving no residue.

Spencer puffed a short breath from his nose. “I think Sparrow Wings is retired permanently.” He spun his watch around his wrist. It didn’t jangle annoyingly like the bracelets had. “Everybody’s going to know she’s an undercover cop now. Gay people don’t like it when cops invade their spaces. The last time it happened, there was this big riot. You may have heard about it.” He crossed his arms, guarding himself—from what, he wasn’t quite sure. Was Hotch just mocking him in some elaborate joke? Asking about his drag persona, asking about Peter, cleaning his face, applying the medicated lotion, was it all some farce?

Spencer didn’t think so, but he also knew better than to trust anyone’s intentions.

A small, easy smile spread across Hotch’s face. “Then maybe I could arrange a private show.”

Spencer studied Hotch’s face in the strange, fluorescent light of the bathroom, seeking any hint of deception upon him, but he found nothing—nothing but the same steady and forthright look in those hickory eyes. Spencer’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Are you…” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence, the question, any of it.

Yet, Hotch still understood. “I am.” Hotch kissed him again. Now, Spencer understood, too. Hotch severed the kiss. “If you are—”

“I am.”

Hotch breathed a short sigh of relief. “Rossi and Morgan break even again.”

Spencer paused. “What?”

“The last bet. Rossi’s money is on this.”

Spencer blinked in surprise. Then, he shrugged. “Guess it’s better if they don’t owe each other.” He followed Hotch out of the bathroom, feeling lighter than he had felt in years.

#hotchreid #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer's writing

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warsofasoiaf · 4 years

Text

The Celtic Tiger - A Kaiserreich Ireland AAR Chapter 4: Soldiers Are We

“Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.” -W.B. Yeats

---

4 January 1939 - Economic Session of the Dail, Dublin, Ireland

Michael Collins had been debating initiatives to help smooth things over with the Ulster Unionists in the North. He had already revitalized plenty of the region’s industrial base, Harland and Wolff and the Short Brothers Aerospace PLC were employing plenty of people in Belfast, but the new American refugees had caused a great deal of cultural friction. The Unionist Party was never particularly quiet about their opinions on the state of affairs, but things were actively getting worse in Northern Ireland.

“We should expand the steel initiative.” Collins had addressed the Dail in the annual IEAA meeting. “Producing steel domestically will allow us to better manage supply shortages in the event that our trade is cut off, and domestic steel production will be invaluable to the factories and shipyards. Belfast has made a compelling point, they have a significant amount of steelworking knowledge and experience that would meet the target goals faster than they would in other regions. Belfast will reclaim her old mantle as our very own Steel City. The Open For Business Initiative has put us significantly in the black this past year, we can afford to invest heavily in steel production in Ulster along with zinc mining in our rural provinces. That should keep us in boom times and diversify our economic base, in case any post-Black Monday bubbles pop.”

Privately, Collins was more concerned with placating the Unionists. They had been complaining that Dublin was largely favored over Belfast, and that the Open for Business Initiative was an attempt to lure away the young workers of Northern Ireland to Dublin where they would lose their culture, and their voices, largely swallowed up by the Catholic voters. Violent crime was steadily rising in Belfast, the victims being either Catholics or American refugees, or reprisal attacks by Catholics. If there was a war, he could not reliably count on Ulster, even in the face of aggression from the Union. That was a pity. That had been the British strategy against Ireland, divide and conquer. Something would have to give very soon, no amount of economic bandaging was going to resolve the core tension within Ulster - they did not see themselves as part of an Irish Republic.

An aide burst into the meeting hall, causing a minor clamor and it took some time to restore order. The aide burst out breathlessly. “The Union, sir, they’re steaming out of port. The RMS Rebecca is going full-speed at our destroyers in the Irish Sea.” The poor fellow could barely complete a full sentence, his stammering professed an almost lack of belief in what was happening.

“Have they declared war?” Collins asked. The Union and Ireland did not have normalized relations, but that did not mean no information passed between the two countries. G2, the Directorate of Military Intelligence routinely monitored diplomatic intentions within Mosley’s government. Of all the espionage work performed by the Directorate, the Union accounted for almost fifty percent of its foreign operations, perhaps even more.

“No, sir. No word.”

What was frightening about Mosley’s intentions was how much sense it made to Collins. Mosley and Deat, despite their opposition to each other, had stressed the urgency of the revolution at their electoral campaigns, and had prosecuted an aggressive foreign policy to export syndicalism to the world. Both had turned inwards, Deat had been particularly violent in his purging of Blum and Gamelin, and they believed now that without dissent, they would not have naysayers and fifth columnists betraying their governments. By all accounts, their countries were ready to stand at the forefront of a global transformation. Yet the results were not successful. France and Britain had been completely humiliated in the Second American Civil War, with Reed about to face a war crimes tribunal. The Commune of France had threatened to annex Savoy only to have Switzerland seek German support and membership within the Reichspakt, and Deat had backed down. A defeat, militarily, within Europe, would be a disaster, evidence of endemic weakness of the Internationale’s new leadership.

Ireland would have been Mosley’s choice for a target. The stunning growth of the Irish economy and rise in the Irish standard of living would be an ideological foe, proof perhaps, that another way would be better. It was close to Britain and far from Mosley’s foes in Germany, Canada, and the United States. Its army and navy were tiny, compared to the Union’s. If they hurried, it could be a fait accompli no matter what any of the other great powers would do.

Collins thought for a moment. Ireland had benefited significantly from its neutrality between Entente and Reichspakt, not the least of which because it hadn’t been drawn into Germany’s wars as it had in Ukraine. The Open for Business Initiative never would have succeeded had Ireland been fully within the German sphere, and trade with the Entente had pacified the Anglophiles in the Centre Party. It was a natural pivot point that Ireland, as the middleman, could profit from. But an invasion of Ireland would see Ireland severely outnumbered in manpower and industrial capacity.

“Get ahold of Admiral O’Muiris, have him mine the Irish Sea. Conduct a full investigation of the radar stations and anti-aircraft batteries, I want them in perfect working condition yesterday. No more drills, our men must go immediately to battle positions. See what we can learn about any invasion plans, put G2 on it; if they’re planning to land, I want to know where so we can put enough guns to turn their landing craft to splinters.” Collins spoke as if it were 20 years ago, as if he was that same man, ready to fight the last time the British refused the demand of Irish independence. “Also, let’s see if there are others as willing to fight for Ireland as we are, start with the Kaiser.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“We look farther then. Look to Canada if you have to.”

“Are you going to invite the Windsors back in?”

“Not for a moment, but sometimes you must deal with devils. ”

---

25 January 1939 - Áras an Uachtaráin, Dublin, Ireland

It was the worst possible news.

The Kaiser had been unable to provide support for Ireland. The Vozhd was threatening the Baltic Duchy and White Ruthenia with his goal of one land for all the Russian people, and Wilhelm II would not abandon them for a western war, especially not one who was not in the Reichspakt. Canada too, could not commit to protecting Ireland, as they were engaged in a large-scale war in India with the Princely Federation. The United States was still deep into Reconstruction, President Garner would not deploy the badly-battered US Army into a foreign campaign when there were still cholera outbreaks and people dying of exposure. They were all perfectly reasonable excuses, but it led Collins to an inescapable conclusion: Ireland was on its own.

No doubt Mosley was jumping for joy. His ambitions would not be curtailed by the major anti-syndicalist factions. Protests certainly arose, even within the Union itself, but Mosley had been able to quell them with daily speeches against Ireland, lambasting the nation for its capitalist economic policies, its embargo of British goods, and the ethnic tensions between Ulster and the rest of Ireland, which Mosley alleged to be inspired by Stephen X and a precursor to the establishment of a Catholic theocratic state. He had harshly criticized Dan McKenna, accusing him and the Thunderbolts of war crimes, summary executions of British volunteers, and torture of Union prisoners; a pointed criticism given that McKenna was soon to return to the United States to give his testimony on Welfare Island and the atrocities that had taken place in the Mississippi Delta.

Collins had established the Mosley Gan Mosley program on 2RN in response, with Irish comedians regularly mocking Mosley’s wild proclamations and providing evidence against his more spurious claims. Collins ensured that the broadcasts were transmitted on a wide band toward the British Isles, focusing on Scotland and Wales as the Autonomists had chafed under Mosley’s centralization and embrace of British nationalism. Collins directed the program to emphasize Mosley’s speeches as expressions of old British imperialism in the hopes of creating public unrest at home. He wondered if it was working at all, or if he was simply trying to give everyone a laugh before the end.

The days after the German and Canadian refusal had been a tense form of limbo. The An tAerchór only had a few fighter planes with limited training, nothing compared to the British Republican Air Force. Sending up pilots would be risky, and casualties would be high. The An tSeirbhís Chabhlaigh was only slightly better off. The cruisers and destroyers were unlikely to match the British Navy in naval combat, but the submarines could pose a serious threat, and advances in naval mines would help cause further casualties among the landing craft. There was no getting around it, the Irish did not have the ability to contest the seas and so would be forced to repel the invasion with their ground forces. Civilians had been preparing for the coming disaster with air raid drills. Last-minute preparations for war were almost all that Collins could hope for, war would come, and Ireland would be alone.

“To ensure the liberation of the working class from the chains of oppressive and exploitative political and economic systems in the pursuit of global peace has been the compelling and continuing mission of the Socialist Union of Britain. To cultivate friendly relationships with nations likewise dedicated to the emancipation of those enslaved peoples and continue to progress toward the prosperity of mankind has always been the foundation of our foreign policy.

Wherefore the government of Michael Collins has engaged and continues to engage in an economic and political system within the Republic of Ireland that deprives the Irish Worker of the fruits of his labor and depends upon his continued shackling to the dictates of Capital in violation of the Internationale Declaration of Human Rights. In pursuit of its goals against the working class, the Irish Republican government has illegally prohibited the Irish Worker to establish a political party to advance their interests in violation of the 1925 Irish Constitution’s declaration of freedom of association by banning the Labour Party.

The Socialist Union of Britain, in defense of the Irish Worker, therefore demands the reformation of the Irish government to that of a Regional Provincial Workers Council to be directly administered under the oversight of the Trades Union Congress and in accordance with the laws and principles of the Socialist Union of Britain.”

Yet, instead of an immediate declaration of war, Mosley had elected to send words, much to Collins's surprise. For a moment, the Taioseach wondered why Mosley had even bothered, such was the extent of his demands. Perhaps it was to spare himself a war while the Internationale conserved their fighting strength for other targets, or perhaps it was a compromise asked by France. Maybe Mosley thought that Ireland would surrender and he could one-up Deat who had failed to have his ultimatum obeyed. As he had read the words, Collins had almost torn the paper in anger, and among the ministers he had invited to the closed session, he had seen similar expressions on their faces. They may have disagreed on everything else, but not on this.

“The Republic of Ireland will not submit to the colonial dictates of Oswald Mosley. We consider these demands completely illegitimate and a violation of the sovereignty of the independent Republic of Ireland and the government recognized by the Irish people. The Irish Republic is a free and independent nation, and shall not surrender to the British yoke that has for centuries defined the history of Ireland with cruelty and deprivation. We demand the unequivocal cessation of all hostilities against the Republic of Ireland, the immediate removal of British ships from Irish territorial waters, and the abrogation of all demands and claims against the island of Ireland. We also call on the Third Internationale to condemn such a demand and reconsider their relationship with an aggressive nation dedicated to a mission of subjugation.”

Collins was sure that would get Mosley’s anger up. His support of the Anti-Colonialist movement could not abide a direct challenge by naming him the colonist that his government had spoken so long about overthrowing. The Union fixated upon proving that they were not the old British Empire, that they were a modern, just triumph over backward authoritarianism. Questioning the Union’s place in the Internationale was sure to cause some stir as well. South America had long spoken against European colonialism, and Chile had considered itself a bastion of colonial liberation within the continent. Even though Chile had not joined the Internationale, their success in Latin America and their support of Britain and France’s mission had mattered greatly within left-wing intellectual circles; it was their testament against accusations of colonialism. Robbing Mosley of Chilean support could cause unrest at home and with other syndicalist nations like Burma, and perhaps end his expansionist ambitions on Ireland.

Collins was only half-right. None of the major syndicalist nations saw fit to criticize Mosley, neither Chile, nor Burma, nor France, nor the Socialist Republic of Italy in Torino had seen fit to condemn Mosley’s action, nor was any independent comment from the Third Syndicalist Internationale forthcoming, at least not any that Collins had seen or heard. What was true is that Mosley was furious. He had read the Irish response out loud in the Trade Union Congress, and had immediately moved for a declaration of war. It had not been a request, not that any would oppose him after his centralizing purges in ‘37 and ‘38, but the British people were fired up. The declaration of war had been delivered, and almost immediately, planes began flying overhead, and the air raid sirens gave their low bleak wail. For a moment, Collins was certain that he could hear them as a banshee’s wail, and wondered whose death warrant he had just signed.

---

28 March 1939 - Command Bunker, Dublin, Ireland

It had been months since the declaration of war, and bombing missions had been flown against Ireland daily. The anti-aircraft guns and radar stations did their part, but the Union still commanded the skies. They had prioritized strategic bombing, hitting factories, port facilities, and coastal fortresses, but any target would do in a pinch. Each day, Collins made sure to hear the casualty counts, and each day he would address the nation by radio, encouraging them to continue to fight on. Every man, woman, and child had been doing their part. The Union had done a good job choking the imports of steel in an attempt to starve the Irish industrial machine. Air raid shelters had been a regular part of construction during the massive push for industrialization, and for that Collins had been grateful for what foresight he had. Even one life saved was worth it, but thousands had been spared being killed or maimed in a night raid or building collapse. That was small comfort, because fewer people dying still meant people were dying on his watch, soldiers and civilians alike.

G2 had conducted countless missions against the Union. Infiltrating the Army and Marine Corps were a top priority, any landing or invasion plans were a high priority for their agents. It had been a difficult endeavor, but Nancy Stewart, a Union turncoat who had lost her family members in Mosley’s purges and had been recruited to G2 as a local asset, had outdone herself. She had spoken to an overworked member of base security, stolen his keys and identification card, and had snuck it to her colleagues after drugging the man’s gin and dragging him home posing as his girlfriend. From there, Nancy and Rachael O’Brien, who had been recruited from the Cumann na mBan as part of Collins’s efforts to recruit sabotage experts for the Irish intelligence services, had been able to copy the plans all night before sneaking out the next morning, returning everything that they had left before their victim recovered from his night. The plans had been scheduled for late June, to land in the Clew Bay and Killary Harbor, on the west of Ireland.

Surprise was the Union’s primary goal, the territory in that region was a difficult landing, but if the Union soldiers were able to land and fortify, they could use the terrain to repulse an attack, perhaps even establish a breakout while forces had to cross the River Shannon and potentially seize Irish fortifications. The Republican Army was not concentrated in County Mayo, the likely destination would be on the east coast and it was there that they fortified with machine guns and artillery. The Union elected to launch from Cornwall, with a diversionary operation from Liverpool and the Isle of Man. Admiral O’Muiris elected to keep a defensive posture in a double-bluff; he didn’t want to risk any of his few ships on pursuing the Republican feint but kept his ships close to make it seem that he had not known about the Galway-Mayo landings. He didn’t like it, but if they could push back the attack, it might force Mosley to abort his attempt.

Tom Barry had stationed his men in Sligo and Galway city, waiting for forward observers to spot the landings on the western coast. The 1st Armored Division and the 2nd ‘Spearhead’ infantry would strike from Galway, while a mobilized force of cavalry Gardai would strike from surprise from the northeast. The 1st Thunderbolts were given the most difficult position, to fight a pre-dawn attack against the northern landing. Once they had attacked and cleared the beaches, they would march south and attack the main landing zone where the beaches were longer and flatter, supporting the most landing forces. Collins had hoped that he could bombard the beaches to oblivion, pinning the British invasion force soon after it had landed, and destroying their landing craft so they could not retreat.

The landings were commanded by Thomas Wintringham, who had decided to primarily use regular army forces. He had petitioned Mosley for more men, but as that would have compromised the Welsh and Cornwall defensive region, so he was forced to call upon the West Lowlands Home Guard to fill out the invasion. In the middle of the night, the British had attempted to make the landings, but the currents had taken several of the landing craft off course to Galway, where a general alarm had been sounded and the landing craft subject to a heavy barrage. The anti-aircraft turrets weren’t able to be redirected toward the sea, but the river defenses on the Claddagh had utilized static artillery and machine gun pillboxes to create killzones, and the ports within Galway city had been blockaded.

The mobilized Gardai Síochána and the 1st Thunderbolts moved to their northern position, and Barry began to push with a combined infantry and armor push toward the main landing zones. As it was a night landing, the Republican Air Force was unable to provide air support to its invasion zones. The Thunderbolts had marched all night and shot the Mayo landing forces to pieces as they arrived, keeping in contact with radio and light signals, before turning south to attack the main landing point. The 1st Armored advanced rapidly with light tanks before abruptly turning. Ground forces commanders, thinking that the Irish attack had been aborted because the tanks had outpaced their infantry, had attempted a shock charge to attack the Irish armor when they were out of position. Having advanced quickly, Barry closed the net, attacking with the South Mayo Flying Column and the 2nd Spearhead Division as the light tanks returned to repair the damage they had sustained during the light engagement. The ambush had taken the Union forces completely by surprise, and they were scattered, allowing Tom Maguire to push forward with his native Mayo forces and the Dublin Rifles toward the beach landings.

Continuing his hard push, Barry repeatedly probed the Union lines on the beaches, following up weakpoints with infiltration tactics and strongpoints with a withering suppressive barrage of artillery fire. Admiral Richard Boyle, commanding the U-Boats, attacked as the sun began to give visibility, sinking supply ships and troop transports. As the British Republican Air Force began to fly to support their mission, they had found the beaches to be a disaster area, littered with dead Union soldiers and destroyed Union equipment. The Union soldiers had fought tenaciously, but ultimately could not break out of the beachhead. As the hours stretched on, eventually the divisions surrendered. The first invasion of Ireland had been successfully repulsed.

Collins hadn’t been able to sleep, and paced in his command center the night of the march no matter what he tried. Mulcahy had opted to handle the long wait and let Collins try to get a few hours of sleep on a cot, but neither man believed that such a thing could really happen. When the news had come, Collins had listened to Maguire’s report almost dumbfounded, as if he expected to be woken up at any time. A complete success on all fronts, the British invasion had been foiled, and Irish casualties had been exceptionally low. Killed and wounded, Ireland had suffered just short of 3,000 casualties, roughly evenly split among the divisions in theater. The Union had suffered over 111,000 killed or captured in the failed raid, and what few weren’t captured were isolated and fleeing for their lives in the Irish countryside. It had been an overwhelming victory.

“My God, we certainly gave them a bloody nose.” Mulcahy, just as stunned as Collins himself, nodded approvingly.

“Then let us hope all it takes is a bloody nose.” Collins replied glumly.

---

“To conclude, what I witnessed in my almost-two years of volunteer service within the Second American Civil War was commitment in its best and worst forms. The Federal government, armed forces, and civilians of the United States had acted in devotion to their government and their mission, preserving their country and Constitution. Its reverse was true of its foes, a commitment to the annihilation of those who did not fit within their vision.” -Daniel McKenna, closing remarks, Denver Trials

McKenna didn’t belong here. Mosley had tried to invade his homeland. Every man was needed to fight. It was only a direct order from Michael Collins that had sent him to the United States. “We need foreign support more than we need one more general. The Thunderbolts will be well-led, you have my word. If the truth can come out about what had happened in New York, then we can push for further support. Your actions may help the war effort far more than back here in the homeland.”

McKenna thought the idea was sound, but he wasn’t seeing it pan out. Foreign support wouldn’t be pouring in, what had happened in the United States was already known and rationalized away. It was closure for the Americans, perhaps, but abstract notions of justice being punished hardly mattered when real Irish men and women were dying from British bombs. He had gone because he was a soldier and that meant obeying the orders of his commander-in-chief. McKenna had hoped that he could give a quick testimony and return, but he had been approached by the Irish-American Aid Association to give speeches to raise funds to donate supplies for Ireland. The United States was still recovering, but there were plenty of descendants from the Irish diaspora who were willing to donate food, money, and weapons to the Irish cause. That was something at least, some good had to come from this excursion.

McKenna remained in Denver as the tribunal judges deliberated their verdict. Reporters had hounded him the second he stepped out of his hotel until the second he stepped back in, even preventing him from enjoying any meals, calling them a bunch of cicadas in private. However, he was surprised to meet the reporter that he had met in New York covering the Denver Trials. Ruth Sofer had become a minor celebrity for her coverage of Welfare Island, and had resolved to write about the victims and perpetrators of the Second Civil War. “In my view, anything less would be cowardly, and I’ve been told I have an ironclad heart.“ Over dinner, Sofer interviewed McKenna, not only asking him further about Welfare Island, but telling him what she had learned in interviewing members of the Union State and Combined Syndicates who had been guilty of categorical atrocity, and what could have motivated them to do such a thing. It had sickened McKenna to his stomach, but no battle was too difficult for a soldier, and he obeyed his orders.

McKenna had wanted to return to Ireland quickly, but felt compelled to stay to help Sofer until she had finished her manuscript. Her book, Superfluous People, was a chilling examination of the systems of the two rebel movements within the Second American Civil War, their conceptions of a new transformation of reality in a form of secular millenarianism. Most of the second section of the book detailed the rationalizations regarding those to be left out of the new world, and the philosophies of the movements that originated these rationalizations, and the appeals both real and imagined that gave strength to these movements. The third and final section detailed the jump from theory to practice, exhaustively compiled through interviews of ground-level commanders that oversaw these eliminations in action. Notably, Sofer expounded at length on the Federal government in permitting Jim Crow legislation in the South as the foundation for groups like the Silver Legion.

Once the manuscript had been completed, only then did McKenna, hitching a ride on a supply ship from the Irish-American Aid Association, return home, to take up the command of his Thunderbolts once again.

---

12 June 1939 - Forward Command Post, Carrick-On-Shannon

After the failed invasion of Connacht, Mosley had blamed the militia system of the Trade Union Congress, finding the failure of the invasion to principally be the fault of the militia system’s poor organization. To Mosley, the inability of the Union Army to probably organize into a coherent and effective fighting force prevented them from successfully managing the Irish counter-attack until the greater numbers of the British army could land. Mosley dissolved the militias and established a more formalized military with an established central command structure. Officers could no longer be elected by fellow soldiers, Mosley had instead integrated soldier assent via the promotion board and mandated promotion in part on merit and ability to accomplish objectives.

Mosley also reached out to the Communards across the Channel. Deat had not supported Mosley’s invasion of Ireland initially, but he was eager to demonstrate the prowess of the Communard Army. He had anticipated Mosley seeking help, but had thought it would have been more for occupation duties, and had planned for landing from Brittany to land in County Cork on the southern side of Ireland in the middle of August. The initial attacks were mere probing attempts, to see the Munster defenses and better analyze how best to invade Ireland. The weather conditions were right on the 15th of August. Unlike the earlier British invasion, the Communard elected on a daylight landing so their airpower could support the ground invasion. The increased visibility meant the Fenian Rams were able to find the French landings, sinking several troop transports and escort vessels and sinking before the destroyers and naval bombers could attack. Despite the navy’s efforts, French forces were also able to land at Baltimore and in a pasture in County Wexford after being shelled by Irish Republican forces in Waterford. The Dublin Rifles and 3rd ‘Black Badgers’ Division attacked in the Battle of the Sheepfold, where the lack of cover led to high casualties on both sides. The Baltimore landings fared little better, the rocky and open ground provided little cover, and the Irish forces were hard-pressed until reinforcements were trucked in from Limerick.

The landings had similarly failed, though Deat had committed few forces and his troops were far more successful than Mosley’s initial foray. Deat had demanded that Wintringham coordinate with the Communard army for a joint invasion of Connacht. Collins had been able to repulse the Communard landings because his forces, not pressured on multiple fronts, had been able to relieve each other. Overwhelming numerical force would be able to do what smaller forces could not. As Ireland was considered Union territory and the Commune required most of its divisions along the border with the Kaiserreich, the Union would supply most of the manpower for the invasion, although the supreme commander would be from the Communard Army. Union and Communard planes and ships would combine for the endeavor, to support landings from County Claire to Sligo.

The larger invasion force did succeed in its goals. Mosley’s centralization efforts had restructured the militias into an effective and organized fighting force. By standardizing equipment and radio procedures, the Union had been able to break through at Clew Bay, getting off the exposed beach. The Donnelly Division had been scattered, and the French were able to land in County Mayo and attack Sligo after a ferocious onslaught of terror bombing. The initial objectives only sought to reach the River Shannon, as the fortifications made crossing the river a daunting task. The Union took Galway after three days of fighting, Irish Republicans had retreated to the forests and hills outside of the urban centers. After five days, almost the entire province of Connacht was under Communard control. In Sligo and Galway, the Irish tricolor was lowered from the city halls and replaced with the hammer and torch of the Union of Britain, and the Internationale was sung.

The Internationale also executed Irish Republican prisoners. A captain of the 1st Thunderbolts was singled out as a particularly grave offender, accused of having committed war crimes against Union volunteers in Philadelphia during the Second American Civil War. During his impromptu tribunal hearing, he loudly denied the charges against him, demanded hard evidence be presented instead of “self-serving lies from a nation of cowards,” and accused the Internationale of being mass murderers, imperialists, and “the bootlicking spawn of Oliver Cromwell,” disrupting the impromptu tribunal to the point where it was impossible to convene any proper hearing. During the occupation of Connacht, hundreds of civilians were executed. Some were executed for supporting Irish Republican partisan activity or giving supplies to holdout forces, some were members of the Catholic clergy, some others for not turning over foodstuffs to the Internationale army, and yet others were executed after being identified as business owners or landlords by native Irish socialists. The accused were given drumhead trials, their property seized, and hanged from lamposts.

When the news out of Connacht reached Collins, he ordered an effort to retake the lost province. That night, Richard Mulcahy, Hugo MacNeill, and Tom Barry outlined their combined plan to surround and eliminate the invaders, called Operation Execution Ground. A night march along the Atlantic Way from Derry to Sligo led by Barry and Maguire, a march north along the River Shannon toward Sligo for Dublin forces, and the main force pushing up toward Galway from their previous positions in Munster led by MacNeill. The Thunderbolts and Black Badgers, the elite infantry units of the Irish Republican Army, would bloody the Commune in Sligo, while the 2nd Spearheads would seize and destroy stockpiles and command posts that led from Sligo to the Mayo landing points, preventing resupply. Police volunteers from the Gardai offered to help encircle the Communards while the Union forces faced the main infantry force southeast of Galway. It left Belfast and Dublin critically exposed, only their naval minefields and garrison forces would protect them.

Cathal Brugha, already getting old, volunteered to lead any home guard for Dublin. Unafraid of any invasion, he insisted that regulars and volunteers support the Irish Republican Army. With a pistol in hand, he gave a stirring speech, that he would defend the Four Courts by himself if it meant that the interlopers were driven from Irish soil. Collins and Brugha took a photo of themselves, pistols in hand, standing on the steps of the Dail, saying that all Irish citizens young and old can do their part for the fight.

Liam Lynch commanded the infantry coming from the south. When he had seen the bodies in Galway, he told the troops under his command that they were not obligated to “be kind to those who have shown us their cruelty.” Both in Sligo and Galway, the Irish Republican Army ordered heavy shellings on enemy positions followed by aggressive charges. The cavalry forces and the Spearheads moved along the shore, attacking supply lines and cutting off avenues of retreat. To complete the encirclement, the Thunderbolts moved to the west, hoping to break the Communard forces first so that they would flee east into hostile territory rather than west toward the Union.

A G2 agent, masquerading as a sympathetic Irish turncoat, made contact with the Communard forces in their forward positions by the River Shannon. Carrying mock orders, G2 successfully tricked the Communard forces into believing that the Irish had seized radio equipment and were attempting to trick them into thinking that they were attacking their landing sites in an attempt to move them out of their defensive positions and ambush them. The Communards didn’t leave for several hours until communications were severed entirely, exposing the ruse. The extra time proved invaluable to the Irish Republican Army, who were able to complete their encirclement before ordering an attack from all sides. Without radio communications, and surrounded on all sides, the Communard forces were shot to pieces. Only the units hunting the partisans to the west were able to successfully rendezvous with Union forces, the rest, after a ferocious battle, surrendered en masse.

The Union forces opted to abandon Galway early, and establish a strong position near their landing zones with Communard forces that had been ambushed in the forests to the west of Sligo. Lynch continued to push aggressively with his infantry, issuing Pervetin rations to the infantry under his command to sustain the attack. As Lynch turned to support the French encirclement, the Union returned to attack the city, revealing their earlier retreat as a ruse to attack while the Irish before their armies could get into position. The Donnelly Division, who had tried to hold Galway, were almost completely destroyed as a fighting unit, losing almost half of their fighting force. A relief effort from the Spearheads was the only thing to save Galway from being overrun.

Only after the Communard Army was defeated did the army regroup and push toward Clew Bay. In the same position that the previous invasion failed, the Union and Communard forces fought a desperate defense. Eventually, the Internationale’s forces were ground down as they began to run out of ammunition and wounds began to take their toll. The news of the murdered civilians and POW’s had enraged the Irish Republican Army, and the Internationale’s landing zone was subject to intense bombardment that, in the words of one private: “seemed to be the devil’s own hand reaching out with one fell swoop to wreak his evil upon the world.” With little in the way of functional radio equipment, surrender was only possible at night when a desperate signals operator flashed Morse code using a spotlight to communicate surrender.

The aftermath of the invasion of Connacht was tragic. Prisoners were marched in chains to prisons in the center of the country, and many officers and enlisted both were sent to firing squads if they were found to have had a hand in executing Irish civilians or in stealing food from non-combatants. Confessions were broadcast around the world about what had happened in Connacht, with the Internationale virulently denying the charges, accusing the Irish of fabricating war crimes to inflame public support and justify their unjust executions of prisoners of war. Collins had barely heard the figures - eight thousand Irish soldiers had been killed or wounded, while the enemy had suffered 179,000. Most of them had been Union soldiers, about 115,000, while France had taken around 75,000. The numbers were one thing, but his people were executed by a foreign power on Irish soil. It was the subjugation of Ireland all over again. Even if they had taken back their territory, how much more would it cost? The Internationale had six times the industrial capacity and fielded far more men. Even now, there had been no indication that Deat would abandon the fight or Mosley call for a truce. Perhaps they would drown Ireland in blood, if they couldn’t have it for themselves.

---

30 June 1939 - Special Joint Session of Congress, Washington D.C., United States of America

“If you will not fight for the Irish, help the Irish fight.” -Eamon “Dev” de Valera

If there was one good thing to come out of the failed invasion of Ireland, it’s that the world finally seemed to wake up to Ireland’s plight. Eamon de Valera had gone to the United States to lobby for more support, and he had been received warmly by President Garner. Warm regards, however, hadn’t translated to what Dev had actually sought, a threat from the United States to back down or face war. The Gallup polls had been encouraging: 47 percent of Americans favored unqualified economic and materiel support to include shipments of food and oil to Ireland, which went up to 57 percent when the responses included “provided it does not enter us into the war.” Most opposition had come from the thought that America still required all of its strength to rebuild, but estimates had been heartening, support for Ireland wouldn’t threaten American recovery, or so the economic analysts had said. There had been much pain suffered by the United States, but it was on the road to recovery. Major Longist guerrilla networks that were uncovered in the Lousiana bayous had been broken up, and the last remnants of the socialist resistance had been killed or arrested among the factory wreckage of Chicago’s industrial district. It was heartening to see America recovering so quickly.

Food and medical supplies, unarmed and flagged as humanitarian aid vessels, had already sailed to Ireland mostly without problems. The Union Navy demanded the right to search the ships, but Collins had threatened that if humanitarian food aid to Ireland was cut, the first people to starve would be the prisoners taken during the failed invasion. Dev had hoped to acquire more significant war support than mere food aid. Even basic equipment was starting to run bare in the depots, and bombing raids had started to take their toll on the factories. America had the industrial capacity needed to supply the Irish war effort, if it could only turn on the taps, an endless river of artillery, planes, and ships could flood the Irish Republican Army with everything it needed to fight the war.

Harry Hopkins had drawn up a bill with considerable bipartisan support, one that he hoped could both provide vital jobs for a recovering America as well as helping Ireland. Ireland could receive oil and war materiel on credit, to be returned when the war was concluded unless “the return of the equipment is made impossible due to use or damage.” Dev had asked Hopkins just how anyone was expected to return spent ammunition or artillery shells after they had been fired, answered with a simple chuckle.

Dev gave a rousing speech in the halls of the US Congress, and had specifically asked for the German and Canadian ambassadors to be invited to the session as well so that he might be able to address the Entente and the Reichspakt together. The pictures of what had happened in Connacht had risen the ire of many Americans, and shouts of “Remember Welfare Island” had frequently been shouted at pro-Ireland rallies.

“We are a small nation, and in our young history as an independent republic we have never once acted with aggression toward another nation, whether stronger or weaker. In our history we have been the victims of aggression, not its perpetrator. We have now come to yet another chapter in the long history of struggle, a new foe empowered by an industrial war that far surpasses the Weltkrieg. We have stood strong, taken with calm courage and confidence in our people, that our nation will endure. We know full well that we cannot demand any other to stand beside us, or ask that their fathers, husbands, or sons do so in their stead. We ask only that you remember Ireland, a land who with tearful hearts had her sons and daughters leave her fleeing the horrors of famine and destitution, and who welcomed many of America’s sons and daughters fleeing the horrors of war and deprivation. We ask that you remember a land with blue rivers choked with blood and oil and green fields burnt and stained red. We ask you, America, such a vast and mighty nation, to remember a nation that could be swallowed by most of your own constituent states. We ask that you remember the injustice being wrought upon her, and we ask that you remember the words of your Benjamin Franklin, about how a great nation may be reduced to a lesser one. We know firsthand how difficult the path of justice is, but acting justly has its reward.”

Transcripts of the speech, personally written by de Valera, were delivered to the Canadian and German ambassadors, with slight modifications. Instead of referencing Benjamin Franklin, Dev had referenced British and German liberal thinkers. The Canadian speech had omitted about how Ireland had a long history of oppression, instead focusing upon Union aggression wishing to expel people from their homeland. These speeches were eventually collected together, with the German Foreign Minister secretly praising de Valera for the craft of tailoring his message to his audience. The response had been beyond what de Valera had hoped. In Germany, Kaiser Wilhelm had declared the German Empire recognized the plight of Ireland, and had promised shipments of materiel protected by the Kaiserliche Merchant Marine. In Canada, the Tories were emboldened, accusing the sitting Prime Minister MacKenzie King of not doing enough to support the effort to reclaim the Home Isles, and that Ireland was fighting the Union just as the Entente had been fighting against the Totalists in the Bharatiya Commune in India. With overwhelming support, the Canadian Parliament authorized shipments of weapons to Ireland, emboldening the hawks in the Entente to push for Reclamation Day. Argentina, preparing for its own war with Chile, had independently recognized Ireland’s plight, and offered several large field guns every month to help keep the Irish in the war effort.

The shipments were invaluable, and protected by convoy systems, most of the promised aid had landed in Cork and Galway. A reporter was on hand and took a picture of marching Irish soldiers wearing the German stahlhelm and carrying the Lee-Enfield rifle. The quartermasters had difficulty initially in supplying troops in the field, as German and Canadian rifles used different calibers and parts were often not interchangeable. Eventually, units were marked as “Grey” or “Blue” by the nationality of the loaned equipment. Speaking for the cameras, Collins was in high spirits, stating: “This is the turning point in this war. The Internationale knows that it has not cowed us. While we seek a just peace and an end to hostilities, we are capable of fighting this war forever, and this commitment proves it. Neither the Reichspakt nor the Entente would provide supplies to a nation that was doomed; they would not extend credit to a nation whose defeat was inevitable. We are committed as ever before, because we know that we have already won this war.”

Privately, Collins was less enthusiastic, but he had to keep the faith. Every soldier was doing so, and Collins could do nothing less, because he was still a soldier through and through.

---

17 August 1939 - G2 Headquarters, Dublin, Ireland

The new supplies were put to use almost immediately, as the Union had attempted a quick invasion at Leinster before the Irish Republican Army could field an effective response. Army engineers had not been idle, the An Balla program had established an extensive array of coastal fortresses facing the Irish Sea. Fielding only 10 divisions, the Union attack only achieved anysuccess at the earlier French landing sites in Wexford, but an aggressive counter-attack by Richard Mulcahy had achieved great results. As much as Collins didn’t like it, ceding the landing grounds to the invaders and then attacking them after they had landed was far more productive than attempting to engage them at sea. Poorly supplied and out of place, they could be driven back to the sea, and the landing crafts weren’t able to pick many back up, if at all. The casualty counts had to be discouraging for the Internationale. 2RN had made sure to broadcast the figures of killed and captured every day toward the Union, to help spread fear and discouragement among the Union’s public. They didn’t have the strength to attack the Union directly, if they were going to win they had to make the cost unbearable, and prayed that the enemy called it quits first.

G2 had launched their most audacious campaign yet in an attempt to deter the Internationale’s invasion of Ireland given the new shipments. The new Argentinian cannons had included several decoy pieces meant to be installed on mock forts to draw fire away from real artillery pieces; a technique that was invaluable in their conflict with Chile to cause the enemy to expose their position for no gain. G2 had opted to go further, and opted to make an entire phantom army. The radio office had highlighted that the expanded conscription laws, increased volunteerism in support for the war effort, and new shipments of equipment from the Great Powers had finally allowed Ireland to double the size of their armies. Dan McKenna, freshly returned from the United States, would lead this new army with the 1st Thunderbolts at its head. Taking advantage of young, patriotic artists, G2 designed inflatable tanks and prop equipment to be used for staged photo ops. To properly seed the information, G2 designed the ‘public’ news to be disseminated through the public radio waves in Ireland itself and friendly countries, including a few foreign divisions signing on for adventure and the chance to fight syndicalism. Ireland couldn’t directly claim to receive foreign volunteers, that would undoubtedly run afoul of their foreign partners, but “expatriates” would be invaluable, drawing on the formation of the United States Refugee Brigades during the Second Civil War. G2 had expertly designed one division of British emigres in Ireland electing to “fight the syndicalist menace that the crown itself would not” called the Blue Lions, and a division of German emigres called the Iron Wolves whose goal was to secure “a peaceful future for the Irish Republic and the German Empire both.” McKenna had drawn upon his experience with the Volunteer Brigades to help design the false brigades, combined with the intelligence division’s Army Department to establish a formalized command structure complete with unit patches, fake pay records, and even a speech given to the new army by McKenna himself.

To make sure that the Union got it, Ireland elected to release a few wounded POW’s back to the Union after ensuring that they had overheard the information while they were in convalescence. Not sure of how much each man could remember, G2 had made sure to release multiple POW’s. Collins himself had made the offer, suggesting that as a humanitarian gesture, certain prisoners who were well enough to be moved could be released in order to free up hospital beds for other wounded individuals. Collins had instructed his negotiators to push for a payment in gold, but to back down if pressed. Mosley had thought he had secured a win, but Collins was the man with the last laugh. The news of the new Irish army, primarily stationed in Leinster, gave Mosley reason to pause, and instead he focused his attention upon County Kerry, hoping to secure Munster and establish a secure foundation to offload more Internationale troops with a short naval trip after a successful invasion.

The trap had worked perfectly. Collins had ordered general evacuations to ensure civilians would be able to flee, and had ordered the armies to wait until the enemy had landed in order to attack. On the day of the attack, Collins had ordered the An tAerchór to fly and contest the skies from the Internationale with the new delivery of fighters and close air support aircraft from the United States. The Irish pilots were not well-trained, but had been drilled extensively on formation flying for air superiority missions. The surprising attack blindsided the Republican Air Force, who had grown lax in their patrols due to their dominance over the skies since the beginning of the early war. Now with the aircraft to match the Communard and Republican Air Forces, the Irish were able to wrest control of the airspace over the Irish island and attack enemy bombers. Casualties were highest among the Air Force, many of whom were outmatched by the more experienced enemy pilots, but the surprising victory and establishment of further control had further enraged the Commune of France, who elected not to pursue “any Irish ventures” further. They had returned to focus on their Alpine Warfare program, and reinforce their borders with Germany and Spain, recalling their forces from the British Isles and reminding Mosley of the greater mission against the Reichspakt. Half a million casualties in a short campaign, multiple failed invasions only useful for teaching lessons on how to repulse the Entente when the French had elected to cross the Mediterranean; a true waste in every sense of the word. While the war was not ended, the Internationale had decided on other priorities. With Ireland in control of her skies and her territorial waters, they had held on, and they had won.

---

23 September 1939 - Áras an Uachtaráin, Dublin, ireland

According to the poets, autumn was the time of loss, from the possibilities of summer into the chill of winter. The poets had not seen fit to think of Ireland in that summer of 1939, where the possibilities of summer were to be bombed by a Syndie plane or executed for failing to turn over their food and valuables to an invader. Yet Ireland’s salvation was no balm, an end to war. On the 9th of September, Deat’s Communard government demanded the return of Elsaß-Lothringen, calling it Alsace-Lorraine, and flew over German airspace to drop leaflets in both French and German detailing their grievances. The Kaiser had refused the audacious demand, claiming that the territory had been German territory for over fifty years. The next day, the Commune of France had declared war on the Kaiserreich, with the Union of Britain joining. The Socialist Republic of Italy, already in a border war with the Kingdom of Two Sicilies, joined the Internationale, and King Ferdinando II responded by joining the Reichspakt. On the 10th of September, Savinkov, declaring the necessity to liberate the Russian people from German subjugation and second-class citizen status, declared war on White Ruthenia, the Baltic Duchy, the Polish-Lithuianian Commonwealth, and Germany itself. On the 15th of September, the Entente declared war on the Union of Britain, the Commune of France, and the Socialist Republic of Italy, citing the illegitimate nature of the governments there, and prepared their invasions. Finally, on the 20th of September, the Empire of Japan, citing pan-Asian ideals and the need to liberate the Far East from Western Dominance, declared war on German Indochina in addition to their ongoing wars in China.

Ireland was no longer the focal point on the world stage, but the rest of the world would feel the fires of war that the Irish had borne, and the fires would burn hotter and brighter than any the world had ever seen. Collins wondered who had been listening to his wish

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Diplomatic Moves in Ireland

Show of Force

Ireland Abandoned

Britain Demands Annexation

Mosley Declares War

Infiltrating the Army

Come Weal or Woe!

Ambush in Connacht

Casualties - First Invasion

French Landings in Southern Ireland

Casualties - Second Invasion

French Forces Encircled in Connacht

Casualties - Third Invasion

Irish Soldiers with Canadian Rifles and German Helmets

G2 Invents a Fake Army

Casualties - Final Count of the Irish War

Alsace Ultamatum

Alright then, 1939 is down. It’s the longest chapter so far, with the Second Weltkrieg having begun, all the Great Powers (except the US) at war. It’s a more successful tale of Czechoslovakia in 1938 combined with some Battle of Britain and some Operation Fortitude. Let me know what you think

#kaiserreich #creative #celtic tiger

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