#eternally patient Tristan
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Find The Word Game
Thank you so much @agrimedena-drax for the tag!
The chosen words were: Petal, Fire, Lost, Tear, and Blade.
TW for mentions of blood
PETAL | For All Eternity
Gazali held out his palm as another flame appeared. He brushed it gently, like stroking the petals of a flower.
“Would you like to make a star?”
The crowd around them cheered. Will looked around nervously.
“Your majesty, I don’t have that kind of power.”
“You’re a Divine one, Will. Your magic is no different from mine.” He held out the flame. “Go on, don’t be shy.”
Will hesitated before holding his hand out. The flame passed easily from Gazali to him, floating above his palm like a little pocket of warmth. It didn’t burn him, at all. He wondered, for one small moment, if this was what it felt like for Lydia.
FIRE | SOLM
The investigation in Hawthorn was becoming increasingly difficult the longer Tristan spent around Cyrus. He had a job to do, people to find and hopefully save… but he couldn’t help his infatuation. No one had ever been so kind and inviting to him before. Both Cyrus and his equally-lovely spouse, Val, were incredibly welcoming. Tristan still shivered with delight at the memory of the two lords holding him close, cold to the touch and yet full of such fire.
LOST | The Freaks Of Preston
“Vesely said the Shapiro child is here,” the soldier said. “You can’t let him in, sir.”
Jason crossed his arms. “And why is that?”
“Did you see what he did here last time? We lost five good soldiers because of him.”
“Well, they’re not dead, and they can’t beat any more of our patients, so I’d say Will’s done us all a favor.”
“Sir, please, we’re begging you to send him back.”
“An injured child walked in here, begging for help, and you want to send him away?!”
TEAR | The Freaks Of Preston
Mary yelped as the bulbs burst one-by-one, turning the house into a black void, save for the flashing red and blue lights from outside. Isaiah turned, still expecting Will to be on the stairs, but the boy had crept up to him, his neck wet with his own blood. Dark blue eyes, reddened from tears, bore into Isaiah’s soul.
“William?”
Will blinked at him slowly. The flashing lights made the fury in his eyes more intense.
“Go wash up, before the police see you.”
Isaiah went to grab him, but Will raised his own hand, freezing Isaiah’s arm in place. He struggled in Will’s grasp, panic setting in his expression.
“William—” His voice trembled. “—let me go.”
BLADE | The Birth of Paradise
The guards tried to control the restless crowd. Amidst the distraction, Javi took his sword, reached over the side of the boat, and swung it at the twine that tethered them to the dock. The blade sliced through it with ease. Javi felt the boat jolt forward as it floated out from the port. The fisherman tried to grab the cut twine, but it slipped through his hands.
“Thieves!” he shouted.
——————————
I’ll tag @bloodlessheirbyjacques @circa-specturgia @tryingtimi @magefaery @whimsyqueen @kashacreates @jessica-writes22 @sergeantnarwhalwrites and whoever else wants to join 💖
Your words are: Crowd, Green, Sunlight, Bread, and Believe.
#writeblr#writing community#tag game#wip: secrets of lockhart manor#wip: the freaks of preston#wip: for all eternity#wip: the birth of paradise
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Tristan and Galahad. Camping in the rain. Please.
The Rain Shapes You
“Outside. I told you to leave that outside.” Tristan’s voice could barely be heard of the rain pounding down on their tent but Galahad heard him just fine. “It is never going to dry out there and I’ll need my cloak.” He grumbled back continuing to draw it across the tent flaps. “Our bedrolls are going to get wet from it dripping.” Tristan gestured with a scrap of meat leather in his hand. “How could you possibly tell that water from the water that was already on the ground?” Galahad angrily stripping off his braces and throwing them down, striking the leathers and furs with a less than satisfying thud. “Come here.”
“What?” He snapped back at the older knight.
Not a man used to repeating himself, Tristan just reached over and tugged the younger man down beside him. Ignoring Galahad’s struggles and grumping, just holding him tightly until all his steam was gone.
Just as he spoke again the rain had started to slow. “You weren’t counting on camping with a harpy were you?”A small smile on Galahad’s face as he could feel the rumble of laughter coming from Tristan.
“No. But that’s why you’re here.”
#tristan fanfic#galahad fanfic#tristahad#camping in the rain#grumpy Galahad#eternally patient Tristan#hannibal lecter#hannibal#will graham fanfic#will graham#hannibal fic#i will go down with this ship
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Yvaine hasn't been feeling well so she's gone to see Dogtor Tristopher. She gets her Embarrassing Hospital Gown and is shown to the exam room.
Dogtor Tristopher pulls out his Gladstone bag and his medical mirror to take a good look. Hmmm, he'd better get out his stethoscope and have a good listen.
Dogtor Tristopher diagnoses Eternal Optimism and Terminal Resting Spaniel Face, which are in conflict. He recommends eating carrots twelve times a day.
(Yv had a mild pancreatitis flareup, she has prescription meds on hand and instructions from the vet. She's feeling better now.)
#Yvaine#Tristan#cocker spaniel#costume party every day#doctor#patient#eternal optimism#resting spaniel face#carrots are serious business#Yvaine is the best of the best#Tristan is apprenticing to be the best#dogblr#dogtor
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Uncaged - Part 7 (Final)
Summary: You had felt like a prisoner and called out for help, though you weren't expecting it to be Park Jinyoung who came to your rescue. Nothing is as it seems and the more you get to know him, the more you felt free.
Pairing: Park Jinyoung x female reader
Genre: angst
Warnings: mention of death.
Word count: 1,749
Prompt: “You and I, we shouldn’t belong together.”
A/N: This is part of the Challenging Words February Challenge. Where we use a group of prompts and make a story from them.
Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
You had decided to go somewhere more private, so that the two of you could be alone and not interrupted by anyone else within the house. Jinyoung took your hand gently in his as you headed towards a part of the house you had never been before.
“Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something. A piece of me that I don’t share all too often.” Jinyoung smiled weakly.
You could see how nervous he was, his usual arrogant and strong facade falling away and leaving you with the vulnerable man you had seen the smallest glimpse of the night he woke you from your nightmare. It made your stomach flip to see such a side to him, your heart beating that little bit faster too as you squeezed his hand reassuringly.
Jinyoung opened the double doors in front of you, revealing what appeared to be a bedroom suite much like your own, although something to the side caught your eye. You froze to the spot.
“Where did you get that from?” you asked, your voice void of any emotion as you let go of his hand.
Jinyoung walked over to where you were looking, signalling for you to come forward. He picked up the necklace and played with it gently in his fingers.
“It’s not what you think, Y/N.”
“I think you stole something of mine that has been missing for months.” You swallowed roughly as the tears threatened to fall upon seeing the necklace once again.
“Please. Sit down and I’ll explain everything.”
You nodded numbly and did as he asked, sitting down on the opposite edge of the chaise.
“Do you remember when you lost it?” Jinyoung asked you gently, still holding onto the piece of jewellery.
“I was walking in the forest on Tristan’s land. I remember tripping and falling down hard. Then I woke up back in the house hours later and it was gone.”
“Mm. You actually fell a lot harder than you think, Y/N.”
“What do you mean?” You didn't like the sound of his voice or what he was insinuating. “Just say it.”
“You died.”
Your heart dropped as the words left his mouth, all color fading from your face as well as his own. He moved closer towards you, gripping your hands in his.
“But I found you. I saved you. And that was when I realised we were mates.”
“How? You’ve known for that long? How are you so sure this isn't the afterlife? Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?” Your brow furrowed in confusion and frustration at the information being told to you right now. It was beyond your comprehension. You had died? Surely you would remember such a thing.
Jinyoung steadied himself as he took a large breath in, squeezing your hands tightly.
“I shouldn’t have been on his lands, I actually don’t remember how I got there. I just knew I needed to be there.” He lifted his eyes to look into yours, a small sad smile playing on his lips. “And when I saw you, I just knew I was in the right place.”
You sat patiently as he told his story, not wanting to rush him as you could tell it was hard on him to relive it.
“I knew I was the only one who could save you. When I saw the necklace I almost fell over myself. See I have a matching one.” He passed you the necklace he had in his hands as he undid his top button, revealing his very own exact piece.
You gasped, unable to believe it. Your hand reached out to touch it, sending a jolt throughout your body as you did. Jinyoung shuddered under your touch, his eyes closed to ready himself once more as he continued with the story.
“I never want to see you in that condition ever again. It broke me in half seeing you lying there so lifeless Y/N, I couldn’t bear it.” Jinyoung stopped, collecting himself once again. “I put the necklaces together and this bright green light shone over both of us. It was as if the life from the forest surrounding us and a part of my soul went into you. Reviving you. I gently brushed your hair from your eyes, as my hand rested on your cheek and then the colour came back into your skin. I could finally breathe again.”
“I had no idea.” You couldn’t help it then. The tears fell freely down your face at his retelling.
“Shh, it’s okay. Don’t cry.” Jinyoung pulled you closer, wiping the tears with his fingertips as he left a small kiss on top of your head.
“After I knew you were alright, Jaebeom helped me by bringing you closer to Tristan’s house. I couldn’t be seen on his land. Your necklace remained with mine, so I brought it back here and kept it in a safe place. Knowing I would give it back to you one day. Somehow.”
“How did you cope all these months knowing we were supposed to be together? And you didn’t come for me?”
“Oh believe me, I wanted to. But I knew that you hadn’t felt what I had felt.” Jinyoung cupped your cheeks in his hands, his eyes washing over you appreciatively. “At first I convinced myself that you and I shouldn’t belong together, but I knew it was a fruitless attempt. I also didn’t want to force this on you, if it wasn’t what you wanted. I could live with knowing you were safe but then I heard you screaming.”
“Is that how you heard me? From all the way over here, because of our bond?” you asked, suddenly clicking onto things. “So you broke me out of my cage and brought me here?”
“Mm. I couldn’t let you suffer. If I had known he was like that, believe me when I say I would have come for you in an instant.”
You could see the honesty in his words, the anger at what had happened to you boiling to the surface.
“Shh. I am okay,” you reassured him, running your hands through his hair soothingly.
“At first I wasn’t going to go near you. I would let you be and not overcrowd you. The first night you were here and you had that nightmare. I couldn’t control myself. I needed to help you.”
“And I am so very grateful you did. That was the first time I saw you. Really saw you.”
“Really saw me half naked you mean.”
You pushed him playfully, the smile in his eyes coming back to him.
“You were vulnerable in front of me. I saw the panic in your eyes as you woke me up, Jinyoung. I didn’t know at the time what that meant, but now I do.”
You squeezed his hand tightly, smiling yourself as you realised what you had to do.
“You are the first man in my life that has let me take charge of myself. Yes you saved me, more times than I knew, but you gave me my space to figure things out on my own. I will be eternally grateful for that.”
“Of course. You are your own woman, Y/N. Not someone’s possession.”
“Even if we are bonded mates?”
“Even more so. Just because you are my mate, does not mean you have to accept it. I want you to, believe me.”
You smiled at his honesty, nodding your head lightly as your eyes moved from his to soak in the rest of his room.
“And if you choose to reject me. I will accept that choice, for it is entirely your own. I will remain sad and lonely for the rest of my days without you, but knowing you’re safe and well is all I need in this life.” Jinyoung sighed heavily, waiting for you to respond.
You returned your gaze to the man before you. Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought to hear the story of how you were connected. Especially with him. But you knew he wasn’t lying to you. Everything he had told you was true, you could feel it in your bones, your very being. Knowing what you knew now about the necklaces, your mother had told you tales of what would happen with the matching pair if it were to ever be found. You had believed them to be a folklore, one that people passed through generations to keep them believing in love.
And yet it was true.
Your soul called out to him in that very moment.
“Luckily you won't have to find out.”
Jinyoung stilled, his eyes growing rounded at your words, “Really?”
“I choose you, Jinyoung. Over and over I choose you.”
Jinyoung fell to his knees, tears of joy enveloping him as you fell to the floor too, your hands cradling his cheeks as you leaned in to kiss him.
Sparks flew, your bodies both igniting with the touch of the other as the kiss deepened. You let out a gasp of air as your tongues met, dancing with one another once more. Jinyoung pulled you into him, your chests meeting as you felt his heart beat in time with yours.
It was if everything had changed again between the two of you as soon as the words left your mouth. Earlier on in the day, the connection was unlike anything you had ever felt, but now? It was on another level entirely. It was as if the two of you were one. Your souls intertwined, not knowing where one began and the other ended. It felt like ecstasy. You felt whole again.
You knew now that you wouldn’t want to change a thing, the way your life had been, all the moments of hardship and suffering led to this.
Right here. Right now.
You broke the kiss, your eyes soaking in your lover, your mate. Jinyoung ran his hand through your hair adoringly, sweeping some of it to the side as his lips made contact with the skin on your collarbone.
“You are free my little bird.” Jinyoung mumbled as he continued to kiss your skin.
You chuckled softly at the new nickname. He was right. You were free now, for he had rescued you and in turn you saved each other. You couldn’t be happier than in this very moment, laughing joyfully as it sent vibrations through his chest.
You were finally uncaged.
#Park Jinyoung#got7#challenging words series challenge#angst#prompt#tstofy;writes#jinyoung fiction#jinyoung scenario#jinyoung imagine#jinyoung au#jinyoung drabble#jinyoung series
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Ian asks:
I’m writing to you on behalf of my Aunt Marnie as she can’t. She’s consumed by grief. She lost her only child, Tristan, to a stroke, aged 49. We’re all consumed by sadness and mourn for the loss of her son, however hers is another thing altogether. She can’t bring herself to see anyone. I can’t reach her. Her laugh that brought smiles to all of us is gone. What can I do? What can I say? We all love her but feel so powerless. How can we start to bring our Aunt Marnie back?
Nick Cave replies:
Dear Ian,
In my experience, there is a special place reserved for mothers who have lost their sons. Theirs is a singular and complex order of torture, unlike any other grief, and the fundamental need to lock oneself away from the world is natural, perhaps necessary. It is a form of self-imposed entombment, adjacent to eternity, where they can better be with the one they have lost. Aunt Marnie is spending time with the retreating image of her departed son and perhaps there is no room for you at this moment. Perhaps now is not the time she needs you, but you can be sure, in time, she will.
I am reminded, yet again, of Mary Magdalene’s vigil at the mouth of Jesus’ tomb. After Jesus had been laid to rest, the stone had been rolled across the entrance of the cave, and the twelve apostles had fled, Mary Magdalene remained ‘standing there in front of the tomb.’ This silent, helpless vigil is, for me, the single most moving moment of the New Testament. This is where you stand now, Ian, having lost not only your cousin, but your beloved Aunt Marnie too.
Eventually, your aunt will come back to you. It may be soon, or it may take some time. This feat will be achieved through astonishing courage and will most likely be tentative and gradual. She will look around to see who is there. Some may have drifted away, the reach of their compassion unable to match the magnitude of your aunt’s despair, but let me just say this—those who persisted, she will never forget, for to remain steadfast on the borders of another’s grief may be the greatest, most holy act of love one can perform. Be patient with Aunt Marnie.
I read your question to Susie this morning. She sits in a stream of sunlight that pours through the window of our kitchen, her psychotic little dog, Nosferatu, on her lap.
“All in good time,” she asked me to tell you.
Love, Nick
Illustration by Benedetto Cristofani
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“It’s you, it’s always been you.” { Marlene for Tristan oops }
A meme forever lost to the hoard
follows this.
Walking in the garden with his best friend’s hand in his, Tristan couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t in love with her. Even when they were still just young kids perfecting their fighting technique after hours together. And even when she started dating Ulrik and he tried to move on so she could be happy, it felt like that. Like his heart had always belonged to her in some way, shape, or form.
As she breaks the comfortable silence that had fallen between them, he looks over to her. “I don’t have much going on Saturday. Just gotta pick up the flower arrangement I ordered for Mother’s Day in the morning and then the show later in the evening.” He opens his mouth to ask her the same, but then she was asking something else. Clamping his jaw shut, he froze a bit in surprise.
“I--” He was rendered a bit speechless. They both knew how the other felt as there had been words and kisses exchanged between them. However, he hadn’t expected anything beyond that to happen so soon. Marlene had been through something very traumatic that very few people could fully understand. He’d been patient and more than happy to give her all the time needed to figure things out and reclaim her power. It never left her, but maybe it got a little lost for a bit. But she seemed to be finding it again.
Clearing his throat, he tries again for words. “You’re asking me out on a date?” He repeats as if wondering whether he’d heard that correctly. Marlene confirms that she was as a subtle smile graces his lips then. “Are you sure? There’s no rush. If you need more ti--"
“It’s you, it’s always been you.” She interrupts.
He had to remind himself to breathe as the smile grew. It felt like he’d been waiting an eternity for this moment and it was finally happening. The feelings weren’t one-sided and they were taking the leap together. “It’s always been you for me too. Even when I tried to move on, it just never felt right with anyone but you,” he answers as he turns to fully face her. Tristan reaches for her other hand, holding both in his now as they came to a stop. “I’d love to have dinner with you on Saturday. I’ll pick you up at 5?”
#ofstrengthisms#( tristan hunter ; )#( people always do crazy things when they're in love ; maristan )#meme#answered#//I had to answerrrrr bc this power coupleeeee#their first dateeeee#it never got this far with anyone else for him and i'm feelsssss
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Twisted Tristan (Buffy Fanfic)
Chapter 9 - #TEAMTWISTED #DEATH2DRUSILLA #VOLUME1
Warnings: I do not own or claim to own the original content to “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, “Angel”, the comics or any of the original characters from the “Buffyverse” all rights belong to Joss Whedon.
15 plus, displays of Violence, Gore, Torture, M/M, F/M, F/F.
#1928
Location: The Soon to Be Abandoned Hospital Asylum, Outskirts of New York
Spike found himself running through the deep woods frantically before happening to find Drusilla stood dancing in the middle of a large field completely burned by fire.
“Dru darling whatever are you doing out here?” He asked her while walking up towards her and she continued to dance.
“So many terrible acts so many dreadful little secrets oh it thrills me Spike.” Drusilla responded as she grabbed a hold of her vampire lover and persuaded him into a slow dance with her. “This is the perfect location to one day raise a family.”
“Raise a family,” Spike laughed while continuing to dance with the love of his life on a burned field. “I knew you’d be out somewhere dancing, but Darla feared you had been caught and killed.”
“No, I won’t suffer a single death, but I will see many before my own eyes,” Drusilla revealed to him. “I can see them all happening right now some good and some not so good.”
“Your mind is a truly beautiful place.” Spike said lovingly with pure adoration as he brushed his hand through Drusilla’s hair. “So, what kind of family will be raised here?”
“Now Spike darling,” Drusilla laughed giddily. “I can’t reveal to you all the secrets that takes away the fun.”
#1977
Location: New York
Spike and Drusilla traveled to New York with beautifully brutal plans in their minds, Spike’s plans were to kill his second slayer Nikki Wood whereas Drusilla felt New York calling her for a very different reason she was preparing herself to become a mummy to her first child: Dante.
Drusilla stood across from a brothel eagerly hearing screams and shout coming from the building which just served to excite her more and more before a blood-soaked Dante appeared from out of the building looking shell shocked by the heinous murders he had just committed.
“I can feel your pain my darling boy,” Drusilla said as she walked over to the murderous man. “You feel so much, and I know how much that hurts Dante.”
“How do you know my name?” A confused Dante asked the vampire.
“You like chopping up women of the night,” Drusilla giggled before licking blood off his cheek. “The art of it all is simply stunning and yet you are stunted by time forced to live and die within an era that will soon forget you.”
“Who the hell are you?” Dante wondered.
“I’m going to be your mummy.” Drusilla revealed as she turned on her vampire facing making Dante instantly horrified. “Don’t worry baby it won’t hurt too much and then you’ll have an eternity to commit all kinds of crimes.”
#2000
Location: Los Angeles
“One by one they all fell down the fanged four is no more.” Drusilla said sadly while sitting on her knees on the floor of an abandoned warehouse. “I really did love that bloody man, but I lost him to her like she took Angelus and now grandmother mummy doesn’t want me.”
“If you ask me you spent far too much time wasted on Angelus and Spike, I say you waste no more mother.” Dante said as he walked into the abandoned warehouse instantly making Drusilla rise to her feet and smile at his presence.
“You’ve been a bad boy leaving mummy time and time again for whatever next takes your fancy.” Drusilla taunted him. “The mummy, the merfolk, the banshee and then that goat worshiping demon.”
“Yeah well I must admit the goat worshiping demon was into some freaky stuff and was one wild ride, but nobody does death and debauchery quite like my mother.” Dante replied, complimenting his mother. “How about we both put the past behind us and start looking forward to the future?”
“That’s my beautiful boy finally willing to accept his future,” Drusilla laughed while walking towards her son. “Although I must admit I did enjoy the merfolk they were a rather ravenous kind.”
#2016
Location: Abandoned Hospital Asylum, Outskirts of New York
Following a recent Riverborn ordeal Drusilla had taken both Tristan and Mandi to what she considered to be her family home, the property that was once a hospital for the insane in which brutal acts were done to their patients with several deaths caused by these acts and many lies and skeletons laying within the foundation of the land.
A perfect home for someone like Drusilla.
“So, you basically want us to be the strength and the spells for your little operation and in return we get your loyalty, knowledge and access to the things we need?” Mandi asked Drusilla as herself, Drusilla and Tristan walked down a decaying hallway within the hospital. “It still all seems a little bit sketchy to me.
“Well of course it would at first I mean this is all madness,” Dante admitted as he appeared into the hallway from a nearby door. “It’s all madness all the time and then you realize you’re just as crazy as the rest of us.”
“Speak for yourself.” Mandi snapped at the male vampire.
“I’m only here for revenge and once I get my revenge, I’ll be gone so don’t bother getting too attached to the idea of us sticking around.” Tristan told Drusilla, completely ignoring Dante’s arrival causing Dante to smirk.
“I know my darling boy,” Drusilla replied before lovingly putting her hand on his face. “You’re not quite ready for anything other than revenge right now but in time you will see a family in front of your very eyes.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Tristan replied causing Dante to smile once again.
#3WeeksBefore #Death2Drusilla
Location: A Cemetery Within San Francisco
Buffy and Spike’s on/off relationship had been going on for too many years they split up the reckoning (season 12) before reuniting only to split again leading to Buffy having a one-night stand with Angel leading to the birth of Tristan.
Since then they had mainly just been hooking up every now and then following Buffy’s ordeal with losing her son she became more and more distant and their relationship soon became to mirror how they used to be after Buffy clawed her way out of her own grave (Season 6) and it was Spike who decided to put an end to things for good for their own sakes.
Which meant the night in question Spike was patrolling solo within a local Cemetery in San Francisco having agreed to alternate between patrols with Buffy, so they didn’t have to see each other over the transitional period of their latest break up.
The night in question was particularly quite for Spike as he walked through the cemetery until he heard footsteps from a distance behind him.
“If your trying to sneak up on someone with vampire hearing then you’re a bloody fool.” Spike shouted as he turned around looking for a face within the shadows. “And if you’re a vampire trying to sneak up on a fire then you deserve the death I’m about to make happen.”
“And what if you’re just a witch looking for a friend in this lonely and miserable world.” Mandi said with sarcasm as she appeared from the shadows as she walked towards Spike.
“Well if it isn’t the witch, I saved from my ex Drusilla.” Spike said with a smile on his face as he rushed over and hugged Mandi. “It’s nice to see you little witch.”
“Good to see you too Spike,” Mandi replied. “I need a favour.”
“Wasn’t the last favour good enough for you?” Spike asked with sarcasm as they broke off their hug. “Who do you need saving from this time?”
“Actually, it’s more about revenge then a rescue mission this time around it’s more a favour for me and your girlfriend’s kid.” Mandi revealed to him.
“Ex-girlfriend.” Spike corrected her with a sense of sadness on his face. “And the last time I checked the only person that psychotic kid wanted revenge on was his parents I mean I’d consider Angel but Buffy’s a no go.”
“Well actually we’re getting our revenge on your other ex you know the one who raised Tristan to be the psycho killer we all know today.” Mandi admitted.
“Tristan’s going up against Dru?” Spike asked rhetorically, surprised by the turn of events. “Dru’s got a thing for always escaping death mind you so do Tristan which he probably gets off Drusilla and Buffy. This could get bloody messy I mean either Dru escapes once again and claims her second slayer or Tristan winds up dead in which Buffy will blame me and I’ll be following him.”
“Does that mean I can count you in?” Mandi wondered hoping she could count on her old friend once again.
“I suppose so,” Spike sighs. “Buffy will kill me if Tristan ends up dead and it’s not like he’s going to accept her or Angel’s help not to mention I’ve grown to tolerate you little witch and don’t want to see you dead anytime soon.”
“I knew I could count on you!” Mandi replied knowing he was about the only one she could rely on for the mission in hand.
#2WeeksBefore #Death2Drusilla
Location: Dante and Tristan’s Demonic Dive Bar, New York
“Of all the bars in all of the world you just keep coming, back don’t you?” Tristan asked Faith as she walked into his half destroy demonic dive bar while he stood behind the bar counter.
“Well clearly you’re in need of the business.” Faith stated while looking around at the damage the place had come under due to her and Tristan’s actions. “So, here’s the thing I’m not too sure on this Mandi chick and I’m sure as hell not sure on you but Spike seems to think it’s worth the risk although to be fair he also fault Drusilla was a good choice for like a century or more.”
“You’d be wise not to trust anyone after all last time I trusted some chick she helped get my lover killed.” Tristan snapped at her.
“Here in my defense you never actually trusted me which turned out to be a wise move on your part considering everything that went down.” Faith replied.
“Everything that went down?” Tristan shouted. “That blue bitch killed my Dante and for that I’ll never forgive you, her or Angel and I promise you when this is all over, I’ll get my revenge.”
“Yeah I get that but what I’m not sold on is why you’d want Drusilla dead it seems to me like a trap and not a very good one at that.” Faith explained to him. “Clearly Spike and Mandi are stupid enough to believe this, but Mandi just wants to believe there’s something redeemable in you and Spike is playing step daddy to try and get back in Buffy’s bed. I on the other hand I’m not particularly interested in either especially the getting down and dirty with B.”
“It wasn’t my idea to send you an invitation anyway.” Tristan scoffed. “Mandi seems to think you’d be a good fit, but I beg to differ so go on your way before I decide to take that revenge right now.”
“Why do you want revenge on her anyway?” Faith asked him curious to what his answer might be.
“That’s none of your business.” He snapped once more.
“Yeah it is because if I’m going to do this suicidal mostly out of my toleration to Spike and my need to make amends with Angel then I at least want to know why Dru has all of a sudden hit the top of your little revenge list.” Faith made herself clear.
“She killed my parents.” Tristan reluctantly revealed.
#Death2Drusilla
Location: The Woods, Outskirts of New York
Spike, Faith, Tristan and Mandi had been walking deep into the woods within an undisclosed location somewhere between the recently shut down Slayer Rehabilitation Center and New York City as they followed Tristan’s steps on wards to an abandoned insane asylum hospital within a long forgotten location deep within the woods the abandoned hospital probably having several bloody secrets of its own long before Drusilla made it her home.
“So, what’s the likelihood we’ve not just followed you into the middle of nowhere just for you to slaughter us all?” Faith asked Tristan as the four of them stopped walking.
“Seriously you’re the one accusing me of double crossing if it wasn’t for you being a backstabbing little bitch I wouldn’t even be here right now.” Tristan snapped at the redeemed slayer.
“Hold up now don’t be blaming Faith because she bet you in a fight trust me it happens so you may as well get the hell over it.” Spike told Tristan sticking up for his friend in the process.
“Listen Pirate Peroxide if you think you can take me then I’d love to see you try.” Tristan replied eagerly walking towards him. “I’m more than down for dusting your ass right here right now.”
“I’d love to see you try!” Spike snapped back at the unhinged male slayer, ready to fight him.
“Two to one Tristan if you want to try something try it.” Faith warned him.
“Enough with the fighting!” Mandi shouted, finally popping up before putting them all in their place. “Tristan you want Drusilla dead they’re here to get you what you want so if you can speak without threatening them just shut the hell up. Faith you were doing the right thing when dusting Dante but’s lets just not bring him up anytime soon just to be safe or Tristan probably will be turn on us and as for you Spike how about you only open your mouth when your lighting up a cigarette or downing booze from your flask.”
“Hold up you’ve been holding out on drink all this time?” Faith asked Spike, clearly unimpressed.
“I’ve been ready to kill for a smoke for the last three hours.” Tristan admitted.
“Why do I suddenly miss the threats of death?” Spike moaned as he went into his pocket and handed out a fag and lighter to Tristan before handing Faith his flask. “I expect all of it back with interest once we get this done and dusted so to speak.”
“So, go on then Mandi tell me what’s this master-plan of yours again?” Tristan asked the brown-haired witch while lighting up a cigarette.
#Death2Drusilla
Location: The Abandoned Hospital Asylum, Outskirts of New York
“You were my savior when I needed saving my crazed daylight in an eternal darkness. You taught me to be strong when I was weak and introduced me into a whole new way of living when I thought I was dead.” Tristan admitted to Drusilla as they walked down a hallway within the abandoned hospital in which Drusilla had made her home. “They actually believed after a few weeks of captivity and some shallow attempts at reaching my already ripened soul that I would turn against the only family I have left.”
“I worried so much about you when you left me last my darling boy but then I had a dream the most wonderful dream.” Drusilla giddily replied to him as they stopped walking. “You were there, and Dante was there too, and we were all sitting around a table and little miss Buffy was the family meal.”
“Dante’s dead he can’t join us for any feast not even if it was to toast to the death of Buffy much to my dismay.” Tristan said with a reluctant sigh before going on to say. “We’re all we have left now.”
“Silly boy you never let me finish.” Drusilla laughed. “Buffy wasn’t dead she just lay there while we drank from her and one by one, we all fell down.”
“Well that’s different from your usual dreams,” Tristan replied with shock. “What do you think it means?”
“I saw her poisonous blood ruin us all first Dante, then you and lastly me.” Drusilla revealed to him. “The dream continued to whisper in my ears until it’s words became too clear to ignore any longer and action had to be taken.”
“Okay what exactly did you get from that dream because I’m getting more confused than a werewolf with gluten allergies.” Tristan wondered before noticing a group of vampires appear on both sides as he begun to worry, she foresaw the plan made against her.
“The blood poisoned your Dante because his body wasn’t strong enough the same for you and me my darling boy, but mummy has a way of fixing that now.” Drusilla told him as her face revealed her vampire self once again. “Making you like your so-called mummy wasn’t enough now I have to make you like your other mother, me!”
#spike#faith lehane#angel#buffy summers#drusilla#originalcharacters#childrenofcharacter#twistedtristan#buffy the vampire slayer#buffy#btvs#angel the series#buffyverse#buffycomics#volume1#part1#chapter9#vampires#witches#slayers#spuffy#bangel#angelandfaith#buffyfanfiction#buffyfic#angelfanfiction#angelfanfic#fanfiction#fanfic#lgbtq
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Goddess Guidance Oracle card: Isolt
“The love you have shared is eternal, regardless of the situation.”
Message from Isolt: “When it comes to matters of the heart, your help is here. It’s all around you, and also inside of you. Your inner wisdom may seem quieted by any pain that you feel. Yet, be assured that the healing you’re undergoing is swift and efficient, and you truly are healing from the inside out. First, your heart must heal from its grief, loneliness, and any feelings of betrayal.
This can take some time, so be patient with yourself. Treat yourself as you would any ailing person: with caution, gentleness, and tenderness. Next, get yourself out into the world—not in a harsh fashion, but with outings to parks, forests, and such, which are essential to lightening your outlook. Nature is the great healer, you see. That’s why I’m frequently amidst the flowers and the trees. Although they may seem quiet on the outside, they’re quite talkative when you breathe and simply ingest their magical tones in conversation. Spend time among the forest and trees, as well as the plants and the animals, and you’ll regain your foothold upon this planet. You’ll revive your sense of spirit, and your desire to tread among the living once again. I promise you that your heart will mend, and that you’ll also help others in this fashion along the way.”
Various Meanings of This Card: Love from your romantic partner is eternal, regardless of outward appearances * You’re healing from a breakup * You’re healing from some other kind of loss * Let go of an old relationship to make room for a new one * The love that you send into the world is an important part of your Divine purpose * Your deceased loved one is happy and sends you love.
About Isolt (pronounced EYE-zolt): This legendary Celtic goddess was caught in a tragic love triangle between her husband, King Mark of Cornwall; and Sir Tristan, a handsome and noble knight. Throughout the scenario, Isolt was courageous in dealing with her respect for her husband and her profound love for Tristan. Today, Isolt helps us through the corridors of relationship love, including familial, romantic, parental, and friendship. She reminds us that—regardless of the situation—our love is real, powerful, and undying. Call upon Isolt whenever you need help with any relationship, including your connection with departed loved ones.
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the tristan chord: chapter 18
xviii. long day’s journey into freak-out
one sunday morning
It is not daylight that awakens Gillian but awareness of time pressing in on her—a merciless internal alarm clock suffering a severe malfunction today because under normal circumstances she’d be on her feet for hours by now. The last step in surrendering to the conscious world is the most painful one: she opens her eyes to a blindingly bright bedroom. After so many days of pissing, sodding rain Mother Nature got cheeky and lo, here’s a sunny warm day worthy of a tropical beach confirmed with a blue-sky striptease courtesy of the fluttering curtain.
Flat on her back, she squints at the ceiling’s white glare, wriggles a bit, and there it is: the delicious awareness of Caroline pressed against her. The day expands exponentially. She raises her head for confirmation and sees blonde hair and a lightly freckled arm draped over her waist, feels heavy hot breathing—miraculously, not snoring—against her upper arm.
Everything would be perfect save for the mobile on the nightstand that starts ringing. While she patiently waits for it to go to voice mail, the reaction from Caroline is akin to poking a hibernating bear: She rumbles loudly and lunges wildly over Gillian—who, as a result, gets unceremoniously smacked in the face with a tit—seizes the offending phone, squints at it, stabs a button, and attempts plastering it onto Gillian’s face. As the phone slides off her cheek Gillian hears a tinny male voice chattering away who is, in all likelihood, Raff, while Caroline rolls away from her and with a lovely snorty growl falls back asleep.
So much for the afterglow. Gillian bobbles the phone. Even with it closer to her ear she can’t hear Raff very well, and wonders if the old mobile is finally dying on her. The mere thought of its demise is actually quite liberating. Maybe she’ll decide not to get a new one. Maybe she will become the only farmer in Yorkshire not to own a mobile. Even Pete, who owns the farm closest to her and is so old that he calls Alan “lad,” has one. Then she realizes she’s holding the phone the wrong way around, with the hearing bit pointed past her chin.
Righting the phone, she plops right into a ranting, raving run-on sentence: “—and I’ve called Nev already and of course since it’s Sunday no one’s working but him and he can’t get out right away and on top o’ that everybody’s stuck in mud or broken down somewhere and I’m sorry, that’s the best I can do, so go on, have your bloody fit already, it’s all over but the shouting as they say, go on, go on.”
“What?” Gillian is still in blink-at-the-ceiling-oh-God-that-was-wonderful-last-night mode.
“Did you not hear what I just said? I drove the Land Rover into a ditch.”
She winces. Such furious enunciation, such painful shouting. She continues blinking at the ceiling. Several long seconds disperse into the summer air as she tries to muster the appropriate amount of outrage but at the moment all she can think is, how did she make me come three times in a row?
“Oh,” she finally says.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you drunk?”
This time she manages to keep a grip on the mobile while yanking it away from her ear to avoid the worst of the shouting, although she does catch the bit about being drunk. “Knackered, is all,” she says. In a futile effort at waking up, she vigorously rubs her face. “You all right?”
The unexpected maternal concern waylays Raff’s fit. “I—yeah, I’m fine. And the Landy’s all right, really, not wrecked, just stuck in mud.”
“What happened?”
“Oh.” Raff drags the syllable through an elongated groan of frustration.
Gillian knows the sound well—this sad abbreviation of oh, I’ve done something stupid—it’s a family speciality, both the sound and the stupidity. Now she knows exactly what happened and sighs. “Took the shortcut to Harry’s, didn’t you?”
More shouting on his part, more wincing on hers: “Yes, I took the bloody short cut!”
Even in the best of weather, this infamous short cut to Harry’s house is a trial: a narrow, winding dirt road lined on one side with a fence older than Methuselah and on the other side with a wicked slope to a bog of indeterminate depth. Why no one thought to erect fencing on the bog side of the road is anyone’s guess and Gillian knows better than to put such a simple question begging logic to any denizens of the dale because she’d probably get in return some epic horseshit tale involving nubile shepherdesses, infidelity, murder, ghosts, curses, and whiskey.
“That bog is all mud now, and I couldn’t get her out. Needs towing, like I said.” Raff groans. “And don’t say I told you so, I know you did. Happy now?”
She turns toward Caroline, whose back rises and falls in slow, sleeping rhythm, and rediscovers the freckled map of the stars that she saw only in her mind’s eye the night before. The vault of heaven has cracked open and spilled these burnished stars along Caroline’s skin and her hands and mouth are desperate to navigate once more by these beloved stars. Her fingers hover just above skin, swooning over the coordinates of Cassiopeia again and again, the repetitive motion as necessary as a heartbeat.
“Yeah,” she says, smiling because no one can see. “I am happy.”
“Now you’re taking the piss,” Raff says angrily.
“I’m not, honest.”
“Seriously, I feel shitty about it, I don’t need you messing me about on top of everything—”
“Raff. Hey.”
He groans again.
“It’s all right. Okay?”
This time a sigh.
“It’ll get sorted. So you called Nev?” Nevin was the knobhead who ran the nearest garage. He was also the first idiot Gillian slept with after Eddie died, begetting a long line of abysmal, regrettable sexual partners. He has since lost hair and gained a beer belly, so now she conveniently forgets whatever she saw in him other than desperate affirmation that she was still reasonably desirable to anyone.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Then just sit tight till you hear from him. Don’t call him again, you start nagging him he’ll never show up. Call me once he’s got it out. Okay?”
“Yeah, all right.” He sighs again. “I am really sorry.”
“Shit happens.” Another stellar moment of maternal comfort, Gillian thinks.
As if commenting on this universal truth, Caroline unleashes a completely unexpected and utterly savage peal of snoring.
“Sink clogged again?” Raff asks.
No, I’m in bed with my stepsister and we’ve spent the better part of last night shagging each other’s brains out. “Um, yeah. Just a bit. So I should—”
“Right. I’ll let you go.”
“Yeah. Oh, one more thing—”
“What?”
“Once it all sinks in I will probably string you up by the bollocks.”
“Aw, bless.” He chuckles sardonically. “Now there’s the mother I know and love.”
She rings off, tosses the phone in the general direction of the nightstand, and misses. It clatters to the floor. Caroline’s head lifts off the pillow as she mutters “Jesus” in a voice whiskey-sweet with sleep. In response Gillian places her lips against Cassiopeia and the sky shifts under her mouth, the stars dust her tongue. Caroline pushes against her and grabs her arm, pulling it across her waist as if it were a safety belt. As she clears her throat, her chest rumbles and Gillian tastes the raw vibrato of the body at work, a guttural song for an audience of one.
“Everything all right?” Caroline manages to ask. Her cheek, partially obscured with hair, is mottled pink and cream from sleep in Gillian’s rough, cheap bedsheets and she is still here, she has spent the night in this unholy bed in this cursed bedroom and this alone is so utterly unbelievable to Gillian that she is perched on the edge between great happiness and great ruin and it is no wonder that for want of anything she does not want to get up ever.
She kisses Caroline’s flushed cheek and sets out on a tour of the constellations along the shoulder and arm; the Big Dipper and Orion come easily to mind, touch, and tongue but as for others, well, she cannot recall them and so maps new constellations. My name on your skin and no one else will know, not even you.
“Perfect,” she says, over and over as she marks every kiss and freckle, an incantation that leads them both back to sleep.
An hour later she wakes up alone, the room brighter and warmer and the disorientation she feels suggests that last night and earlier this morning was some sort of prolonged, feverish erotic dream. But no—she sits up and sees a pile of Caroline’s clothes on the chair in the corner. She assumes that Caroline is in the shower, but does not hear the water pipes or any other sound of activity from the bathroom. Naturally this leads to a rather paramount concern: There is, potentially, a naked woman roaming her farm. Perhaps the ever-rational, science-loving headmistress has finally lost her mind. No one’s ever gone barmy from having sex with me before, Gillian thinks, but there’s a first time for everything.
Common sense prevails: Or maybe, just maybe, she’s put the kettle on. While naked. Which could be dangerous. Thinking that she may need to supervise this activity, Gillian gets up, throws on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. She looks out the window—sunny and breezy with a chance of naked women in the forecast—and gnaws her lip while staring at a barnyard booby-trapped with sticky mud and dank puddles that cannot dry fast enough. What has happened here is new but not new, and she has no idea what to do or what to say. Well, she knows what not to do: Don’t say I love you, don’t pledge eternal fidelity or devotion because you know she won’t believe it because you’re just bloody old slapper anyway.
In her head Gillian’s more censorious lectures of self-recrimination and restraint are usually cast in her father’s voice so it’s slightly disturbing, to say the least, to sort-of hear him going on about how best to conduct a half-assed lesbian affair with her stepsister—half-assed because Caroline already has a girlfriend and she’s not sure how to handle that. Hell, Caroline doesn’t seem to know how to handle that. Maybe she needs to call what’s-her-face from Hebden Bridge to help her sort through this lesbian horseshit. There’s got to be a Dyke Handbook. There’s got to be a morning after. She rubs her brow. No, no thinking of melodramatic shit 1970s songs right now.
By this time she’s biting her fingernails again and automatically berates herself for it; this time the voice in her head sounds like Robbie, because her nail-biting was one of his pet peeves. As was her drinking, her cooking, the way she dressed—come to think of it, her very existence was his pet peeve.
This time, when she condemns herself for the hundredth time for marrying a man she did not love, it is in her own voice.
Then the creak of the bedroom door and Caroline is there—in a dressing gown nicked from the bathroom and holding a plate of fluffy golden scrambled eggs. Gillian wonders if she is dead. Or dreaming. The dressing gown is a tartan plaid of green and blue that Gillian had initially bought as a birthday gift for her father a few years ago until a series of ill-advised laundering attempts on his part shrank it; in her more paranoid moments she thinks he did this on purpose because maybe he didn’t like it but at any rate, this resulted in Gillian taking default possession of the gown. Even in its shrunken state it is still big on her, but she likes that. She likes it even more so on Caroline—it fits her well and reveals a pleasing bit of calf.
This unbelievable image of domesticity breathes life into a story she has told herself many times late at night when she was too tired to go on and too drunk to care: We live together. Our children are always underfoot. We work too much. When it gets hard we can barely manage to be civil. But at night you are home and tired and after dinner you pour yourself a glass of wine, you push back my hair and lay your hand on the back of my neck like you do and that means everything is all right. We’ll sit around and watch telly and you’ll bitch about your day and on Sunday mornings we’ll make love because Sunday is sacred and quiet and it feels like the end of the world and we can take our time, and I’ll fall asleep after and you’ll let me sleep in while you get up and make me coffee.
Then Caroline says, “It’s weird.”
The storybook closes and Gillian resists the urge to gnaw her fingernails again as she goes into a tailspin: Of course it’s weird, it shouldn’t have happened, you have someone new, someone better, you could not possibly feel anything real for me despite all your fine words and big ideas last night. She attempts leaning against the windowsill with the casual, worldly confidence befitting a woman of her age and experience but instead gets momentarily entangled with the curtain. “W-what’s weird?” she mutters, while furiously batting away the curtain.
“You’d think by now I’d know how you like your eggs,” Caroline says. “We’ve known each other long enough—well.” She shrugs apologetically, half-heartedly raises the plate. “Anyway, thought you might be hungry—”
“Oh,” Gillian says.
United in postcoital awkwardness, they stare at the plate.
Then Gillian grins stupidly and hugs herself, as if Caroline is offering her an engagement ring or an epic love poem she wrote with the blood of angels on the smoothest of antique vellum or, best yet, a purebred ewe. And it’s not as if Caroline hasn’t fed her God knows how many times before, but these incremental kindnesses fray the edges of so many incontrovertible memories that she can imagine an eventual softening, a dissolution of the rough fabric binding her to the past and blinding her to possibility.
Caroline, however, interprets the smile as commentary upon a dish that does not live up to her Le Cordon Bleu standards. “It’s not my best effort—” she says apologetically.
“No, no—I didn’t mean—thanks. It looks grand and I am hungry, really hungry. Thank you.” Gillian seizes the plate.
She is about to spear a yellow cloud of egg with a fork when Caroline asks, “So for the record, how do you like your eggs?”
In response it seems quite natural, more than natural, to reel Caroline closer by pulling at the knotted belt of the dressing gown so that she is close enough for blonde hair to brush Gillian’s cheek and that it is absolutely impossible not to kiss her. Repeatedly. “I like them scrambled,” she says between kisses. “Served to me in my bedroom.” One more. “By a beautiful, snotty bitch.”
“Well.” Caroline’s hands skim her hips and find anchor in the waistband of the pajamas, and she presses her face into Gillian’s neck. “Got it right on the first try, then.” There’s no response to this because no mere moan or gasp can completely convey the sweet shivery pleasure of a neck well nuzzled. “I made coffee,” Caroline murmurs in her ear. “Forgot you had the Chemex that Gary got you.”
“Y-you actually used that thing?”
“Yeah. Gave it a thorough washing first—it smelled suspiciously of Jagermeister.” She gives Gillian a wry look and a kiss on the cheek before darting out of the room.
Still convinced that a dream or an altered state of consciousness or being is responsible for all this, Gillian stands alone in the bedroom, blinking slowly. Then she shrugs and decides to just go with it, to enjoy both the food and this quasi-honeymoon bit of bliss for as long as it will play out. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she digs into the eggs—which are real and, of course, so perfect in taste and appearance that Gordon Ramsey would weep with joy. But when Caroline returns with only two mugs of coffee and no more food, she panics that she has made some sort of romantic faux pas: “Oh, shit.” She raises the plate. “We supposed to be sharing this?”
“Nope. All for you.”
“Did you eat anything?”
“Toast.”
“Toast?” Gillian scoffs.
“Yeah, I—oh, do you want toast?”
“No. God’s sake, sit down. Feel ridiculous, having you wait on me hand and foot in my own home.”
“Don’t be silly,” Caroline says. She settles in beside Gillian, reclining against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankle, and drinks her coffee. Strong sunlight catches the gold glint of fine, sparse stubble along her pale legs. After a moment she rests a hand on Gillian’s knee. There are a million things that need saying but for the moment this concert of silence reminds Gillian that there is no one else in the world with whom she can fully share her solitude.
Several satisfying minutes pass by, enough so that she welcomes casual conversation once again: “What was that phone call this morning?” Caroline asks.
Gillian takes a deep, calming breath. “My idiot son drove my Land Rover into a muddy bog.” She looks at Caroline, whose jaw drops with mute horror. “Now that’s something, when it leaves you speechless.”
“You’re being very calm. Did you sneak out, track him down, and kick his arse already without my knowing it?”
Gillian points at her with the fork. “I’ve always loved the way you think.”
“Where’d this happen?”
“Shit road out near Harry’s. First time I ever drove your mum out that way, she called it ‘the road leading to the end of civilization.’ Anyway, Raff says she’s just stuck in bog so we’re waiting get towed. Thanks to this fucking flood everyone is stuck somewhere, needing fixed, needing towed. And it’s Sunday to boot. So God knows when I’ll get her back.” Done with the eggs, she deposits the empty plate on the floor beside the bed.
“There anything I can do?”
Gillian straddles her and begins to undo the thick knot of the dressing gown, lays bare one shoulder. “Give you one guess.”
“Naked prayer circle?”
Her lips touch Caroline’s collarbone. “Aye, you’ll be hollering for Jesus when I’m done with you.” Then she gets distracted and discovers freckles heretofore uncharted. This constellation is shaped a bit like Andromeda. Lightly she traces them.
Head tilted back on the headboard, Caroline observes her lazily. “It’s like you’ve never slept with anyone who’s had freckles before.”
Christ. She noticed. Like a child about to touch a hot stove, Gillian pulls her hand away. “Oh. Sorry.”
Caroline gently seizes her hand, kisses her knuckles. “It doesn’t bother me, really. ” She smiles, almost shyly. “Just not used to it. No one’s ever made a fuss over them before.”
She wants to say, it’s like gold dust all over you but doesn’t because she thinks it sounds too twatty. Instead she parts the dressing gown further and lays bare the smooth plain leading from Caroline’s throat to her chest, her belly, to a hint of pubic hair. “Almost a shame to take this off, though. Looks damn good on you.”
“It smells like you.” These words, whispered against Gillian’s ear, bring on another shivery bout of pleasure enhanced by the sharp nip of her ear and the gentle violence of this is almost too much, the frightening line between pleasure and pain blurs. Of all the borderlines crisscrossing and dissecting her mind into fearful, feral fiefdoms, this one is the most dangerous and as such access is routinely denied, and has been for a long time.
But now? She pins Caroline’s wrist against the headboard and kisses her rough, a way that they’ve both responded to well in the past—and she remembers the last time they were in this bedroom, which seemed very long ago but wasn’t. It was only the second or third time they’d fucked and right before Caroline had been very solemn and lovely and said, quite serious, something that no lover before or since has said to her: don’t ever let me do anything to you that you don’t like, that you don’t want. Despite that caution, Gillian could not override that innate need to provide pleasure at any length and satisfaction at any cost; fortunately Caroline was and remains an attentive and observant lover, knowing when to push the boundaries and when not to. Gillian attributes this to her scientific background—imagining that, as a chemist, she’s used to dealing with volatile, toxic substances.
Like me, Gillian thinks—a thought quickly banished as Caroline continues nibbling on her ear and murmurs, “Take off your shirt for me.”
She releases Caroline’s wrists and, too eager to make a show of it, quickly discards the shirt. “Anything else you want?”
Caroline admires her, clasps her waist, pulls her closer. Still smiling, but with that imperious glint in her eyes. “Anything I want?”
The familiar border crumbles. Gillian hesitates, then: “Yes.”
“Well, then. I’ll tell you what I want. What I really, really want—” She pauses, kisses Gillian’s neck gently, gently, then bites and sucks with enough intensity that they both know a mark will be left.
Gillian sputters out a laugh. “Spice Girls reunion?”
“Shit, that was not intentional,” Caroline groans. “That bloody song, it’s like one of those intestinal parasites you can never get rid of—”
“Focus, Caz. Parasites are not sexy.”
“Ah, right, right. Hang on.” She resumes with the neck-kissing while slowly, cautiously touching Gillian’s ribs, then the underside of her breast. “Better?”
“Y-yeah.” That Gillian manages to say anything seems miraculous. She takes a deep breath. “Tell me—what you want.”
“I don’t know. It’s not sexy enough.”
“Come on now.”
“Was just a random thought.”
“Tell me.”
“You should move your books into the house. It’s damp in the barn and not good for them.”
In a fit of laughter Gillian collapses, rolling off her and thus losing her topping advantage.
Giggling, Caroline crows “ah-ha!” and drapes a log leg over her torso, pinning her down.
“All right, you win. That was not sexy.”
“Au contraire, winning is always an aphrodisiac for me.”
“Bloody figures.”
“But books are sexy too.” She continues feasting on Gillian’s neck with the sybaritic intensity of a vampire toying with her food. “Almost as sexy as you.” She pulls back and studies Gillian’s body with eyes and touch, plucking at the waistband of her pajamas. “It would be nice to have them close by, wouldn’t it? In case you ever want to read in bed. Or, er, read in bed to me.”
Confounded—and suspicious—Gillian blinks at her. “Why’d you want a stammering old pillock like me reading to you?”
“Because I like the sound of your voice,” Caroline replies, as if it’s glaringly obvious.
“I’ll repeat the question, then.”
“Oh come on, you only stammer when you’re angry or worked up about something—well okay, that is like ninety percent of the time but still, you could stammer your way through the entirety of Shakespeare and I’d love every second of it.”
Gillian stares up at her and despite all evidence to the contrary remains fundamentally unconvinced that anyone with half a mind would find anything remotely attractive about her, let alone a cursed, much-loathed defect of speech. “All right. I’ll—I’ll build bookshelves, then. In the fall. Good project for when things slow down.”
As usual Caroline is mystified by thrift. “You could just buy a bookcase.”
She rolls her eyes. “No.” Scrambling, she frees herself from Caroline’s leg and regains her status on top. She regards Caroline carefully, plotting her next move—where to begin, where to begin?—while Caroline plots of how to lure her further into the trap of capitalism.
“I could buy you one,” Caroline offers.
Gillian traces her torso, fingers strumming the soft, ridged plateau of her ribs. “No.”
“For your birthday.”
God, Gillian thinks, the one time I want her to shut up. “No.” Determined, she lurches upward and kisses Caroline soundly.
It doesn’t work. “Christmas,” Caroline exhales after the kiss.
“No.” Time for serious diversionary tactics: the breasts.
Ardently she kisses, sucks, teases, and then with her face pressed in the smooth plateau between caresses both breasts—and is both irritated and impressed when Caroline squeaks out, “Arbor Day.”
Gillian continues on her merry way downward, confirming between kisses: “No.”
Caroline pulls at her hair and writhes wildly underneath her. “Morrissey’s birthday,” she gasps.
“Was in June,” Gillian points out. “Already past.”
Her hands remain tangled with Gillian’s hair. “Stubborn bitch.”
“Isn’t he, though?”
Caroline’s laugh is truncated by a sharp moan as Gillian’s mouth arrives at a particular erogenous zone: the crease between torso and thigh, the femoral artery running wild beneath her kiss. “Oh fuck—that feels good.”
Her fingertips graze pubic hair, the back of her hand drags along the interior of Caroline’s thigh. “Give up?”
“If I say yes, will you keep going?”
“Say yes, say no, say uncle.” She grins.
“You win, my lovely girl,” Caroline says.
She basks in the beauty of the moment, the woman before her. The curtain twists in the breeze as if a flag marking the moment of surrender, the distant sound of a lapwing calling peewit lazily winds through the warm thicket of summer air, and the rich boundless contours of Caroline’s body are reminiscent of odalisques seen in museums when she was a teen—the kind of paintings that brought about a revelatory unease in her—and she thinks she has never seen Caroline look so relaxed when naked, and beautiful, so beautiful.
She dives in. The patience she cannot be bothered to extend to people or situations because they’re all too bloody complicated she finds instead in reading, working, fixing things, and making love. She remembers well how Caroline likes it—slow and easy, the teases, the feints, penetration at the right moment—it is a gift to be inside her, to taste her, to be penitent and powerful all at once.
Caroline’s fingers are flexing rhythmically as they push through her hair and press into her scalp. Her urgent touch falls away and her palms press against Gillian’s shoulders before her nails bite into Gillian’s skin. “Jesus,” she moans, then “oh God,” and Gillian half-expects to hear invocation of the Holy Ghost next but when she hears her own name in a reverential susurrus, she decides she’s beyond pleased to be included in this sacredly profane trifecta.
apres-midi du farmer
After so much pleasure in so short a span of time, Caroline’s sense of duty has percolated with such fury that it spills into her subconscious and the list of things she has to prepare for in the coming week drops into her wakening mind with the fierce magnificence of an unexpected Beyonce song released on the internet.
She would sit up dramatically save for the fact that she is tangled up with Gillian, who is draped over her, dead asleep, and drooling on her breast. Her frantic efforts to grab Gillian’s mobile from the nightstand in order to check the time wake up her slumbering companion, however briefly: She makes a mewling noise and rolls off Caroline and onto a pillow. Finally Caroline snags the mobile, hits a button, and is informed by the greasy cracked screen that it is nearly 2:30 in the afternoon, 2:24 to be precise; this discovery leads her to utter an oath reserved for only the direst of emotional circumstances and crises:
“Jesus Fucking Christ on a Cadbury Egg Hunt!”
Again Gillian makes a kittenish noise.
Caroline nudges her. “It’s 2:30!”
This time Gillian makes an oh really? kind of hum.
Sadly, Caroline realizes it is time for deployment of the always-effective headmistress roar: “Gillian!”
Wide-eyed, Gillian bolts up with the ferocity of a reanimated zombie. “Shit,” she groans, then blinks at the mobile in Caroline’s hand. “Did Raff call about—”
“—no, he didn’t call about your fucking Landy!” Caroline says, even though (1) she has no idea if this is true, and (2) she understands on a profound, Bee Gees how-deep-is-your-love level the pure, unconditional devotion of a woman for her automobile. Nonetheless she leaps out of bed and pulls on the plaid dressing gown, which somehow ended up on the floor during the morning’s sexual shenanigans—oh yes, hastily shoved aside when she had pressed Gillian against the headboard and started fucking her and she can’t imagine how many scratches are on her back now as a result—no, she begs herself, don’t start thinking about that. “It’s two-thirty in the bloody sodding afternoon and I have things to do, I have a proposal to write, a budget to look at, teachers to interview for the fall, playdates and meetings, it’s a whole long list in my head, and, and—don’t you have things to do?” she marvels.
“Well,” Gillian says. “It’s all relative, really.” She rakes hair out of her face and smiles.
Philosophical naked women are a particular weakness for Caroline and she wants nothing more than to crawl back into that bed with that woman. Then she wants to slap herself straight into sense but instead reverts to what she does best, which is ranting: “Oh God, my mother has probably left a hundred messages on my mobile, Lawrence is stranded in Sheffield with Angus but who knows, maybe they’ve finally consummated their relationship, and it’s probably a miracle your father isn’t here or Raff or the goddamned Land Trust—I need to shower—”
“Oh. Yeah.” Gillian makes a move to get out of bed.
“No, Halifax succubus!” She thrusts an accusing finger at Gillian. “We are not showering together, I cannot risk shower sex with you.”
“‘Halifax succubus?’” Gillian muses aloud. Then, as Caroline stomps down the hallway and into the bathroom, shouts after her: “Should be able to shower when I want in my own house, y’know!”
“Wash up in the sink!” Caroline yells just before she leaps into the shower and confronts the unpredictable water pressure, grimacing as bitterly cold water spikes her skin.
Which, about five minutes later, Gillian does. “My own bloody house,” she grumbles good-naturedly whilst at the sink.
“You’re using up the hot water.”
Gillian cackles maniacally. “Damn right I am.”
“I’m sorry, but you are a perpetual temptation and I am but a weak, mortal woman.”
“Don’t talk fancy at me. I get it, you’ve a list of things you want to do. Me, I’ve just a got a list of things I want to do to you in a shower.”
Caroline’s resolve dwindles rapidly, going down the drain like the suds from the Jack Black True Volume Shampoo that she’s using and assumes is some sort of leftover from either Raff or Robbie’s testosterone toilette, but it appears to be the only shampoo in the stall.
“Or a bath,” Gillian continues. “That’d be fun too.”
“Next time, then.” A silence, as Caroline realizes she has committed to this happening again. While on some level that seemed obvious, this casual promise gives the last twenty-four hours or so substance, makes it all real. Despite the stinging shampoo in her eyes, she arches on the balls of her feet in happy anticipation of Gillian’s response.
“Yeah,” Gillian replies softly. “All right.” Something clatters. “Oh, I um, have a toothbrush for you here. Gonna get dressed and put the kettle on.”
Out of the shower Caroline attempts multitasking: While wrapped in a towel she waves Gillian’s ancient hairdryer at her wet hair while trying to brush her teeth with the never-used toothbrush. Then she gets seriously distracted by the thought of Gillian just randomly having a new toothbrush available for her use. Does she have a stockpile of toothbrushes available for sexual conquests? With the toothbrush lodged in her foaming mouth and the hairdryer spewing hot air at her head, she noses around the bathroom looking for a secret toothbrush supply, but the medicine cabinet only holds an alarming amount of plasters, gauze bandages and surgical tape, antiseptic creams, and antibacterial sprays all necessary to the life of a woman constantly surrounded by sharp and dangerous objects. Guiltily Caroline stares at herself in the mirror. She has toothpaste in her hair.
About twenty minutes later she is mostly dressed and plowing through a second attempt at multitasking: trying to pull on socks while hopping down the hallway. Obviously Gillian has heard this irregular thumping from downstairs because when Caroline is on the steps—socks on, not hopping—she finds Gillian waiting at the bottom of the stairs, rocking back and forth as she does sometimes when nervous, holding a cup of tea and gazing up at Caroline as if she is some sort of adoring concierge.
“Your mobile rang,” Gillian says.
Gratefully Caroline takes the tea. “Why didn’t you answer it?” She wants to kick herself. She’s not your bloody personal assistant. She’s not Beverly. “No. Um. Sorry. I meant, you could have answered it—if you wanted too.”
This prompts a derisive snort. “You kidding? It was probably your mum.”
“Probably.” She sips the tea and realizes she is as nervous as Gillian is. She is about to awkwardly go in for a kiss when Gillian darts away and mumbles that her mobile is in the kitchen.
In the kitchen, she peruses her messages. Of course there are about eight voice mails from her mother, all variations upon the classic theme of where the eff are you? and what the hell is going on? She girds her loins and calls.
“What the eff are you doing out there?” is the first thing Celia says. “What the hell is going on?”
“Why Mum, I’d have never guessed it was you.”
“We thought you’d be back by now. Is Gillian actually making you work?” Celia pauses before tendering the delicate inquiry in a shrill tone: “Are you handling sheep?”
“No, everything’s fine, we’re all intact, and I have not laid a hand on a single sheep.”
“Did she tell you what Raff did to the Land Rover?”
“Yes.”
“Has she murdered him yet?”
Caroline winces at the regrettable hyperbole. “No. How’s Flora?”
“Oh, lovely as usual. She and Greg are in the garden right now looking at worms.”
“Worms,” Caroline says flatly.
“Yes, apparently after the rains she found a few while playing and she is quite fascinated with them. Earlier today they discovered ladybugs and slugs. She’s putting them all in your Oxford travel mug. She’s been asking after you. We told her you were off saving the sheep from the flood.” Celia laughs.
When Lawrence and William were younger, she had thought nothing of the occasional weekend trip that would take her away from them—the conferences, the supposedly romantic long weekends and adult-only vacations with her husband that, with time, usually ended up with them both drunk and arguing more often than not—so she does not expect the acute, palpable stab of guilt that radiates through her chest and leaves her standing senseless and numb and, once the call is over, staring at a black screen and thinking I should be there, I should be the one showing her bugs. Duty and expectation always came easy to her and she embraced it with fervor; it was a privilege to be entrusted to care for children, to run a household, a school. She could not love Flora any more than she already does, but the responsibility of this child is fraught with a meaning that has, over the past two years, nearly crippled Caroline with endless self-recrimination and doubt.
She’s still staring at the phone when Gillian comes into the kitchen. When Gillian sees the expression on Caroline’s face she dials back her big, sweet grin and jams her hands into her pockets. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah,” Caroline says perfunctorily. “It’s—” She shakes it off, smiles, and reports the only thing that matters: “Flora is collecting bugs in the garden.”
“Got a curiosity about ’em, doesn’t she?” Gillian grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and starts washing it. “Calam has this picture book—all drawings of animals and such. It has a few pictures of insects in it like a spider, a ladybug, and a caterpillar, and a butterfly—well, when Flora was here last, I showed her the book and after we’d looked through the whole thing she kept turning back to the insects—she really liked the caterpillar and the butterfly. I was trying to tell her that the caterpillar turns into the butterfly but I don’t think she was having any of that, kept looking at me like I was off my nut.”
Helpless, Caroline glares at her. “You know my own child better than I do.”
Gillian rolls her eyes, and to Caroline’s mild horror wipes the apple on the front of her jeans. “All recent developments, Caz. You know how kids are. One week they’re keen on one thing, next week it’s something completely different. You can’t notice everything.” She heads back to the living room and calls over her shoulder, “Come sit and finish your tea, yeah?”
Instead of heeding the suggestion, she makes the mistake of checking email on the mobile and encounters several tedious messages about setting up and conducting interviews for the new teacher. Her stomach churns. Wandering into the living room, all thoughts of worms and caterpillars and teachers and interviews fly out of her head, for Gillian’s particular brand of rough but indisputably feminine sensuality is on full display: she sits in a sprawl on the couch, legs extended and feet bare, lazily chewing on a bite of the apple. It’s so undeniably erotic that she stops dead in her tracks. Then Gillian looks at her knowingly, lustily—o the mighty Caroline McKenzie-Dawson wishes she were an apple, doesn’t she?—and the conflagration of desire and emotion burns hotter and brighter.
“C’mere,” Gillian says around a mouthful of apple.
Caroline shifts nervously. “No,” she blurts.
A sardonic laugh. Gillian keeps eyeing her. “No?”
Self-conscious, she looks away from Gillian’s beautiful eyes and feels as awkwardly on display as when she was nineteen years old and attending a lesbian and gay social at Oxford for the first time.
“I’ll let you have a bite of my apple,” Gillian singsongs.
Caroline laughs. “I seem to recall hearing a story like this a long time ago.”
“If it’s the story I think you mean—don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”
Caroline crosses her arms. Usually she feels quite self-important and in charge when she does this, but in this moment the gesture feels more as if she is somehow barely holding herself together. “Be flattered. Very flattered.”
“So you’re just going to stand there like a numpty ’til you fall over.”
“Very likely, yes.”
Humming, Gillian finishes the apple, rolls the well-gnawed core in a napkin, and places it on a side table. She leans back into the couch again and in this manner of voluptuous repose resembles a wild queen of the forest bored with both debauchery and duty and awaiting the one subject that will liven her mundane existence, and so softly issues a summons: “Caroline.’
Well. Unable to resist the devil’s draw, Caroline fights off the almost imperceptible buckling of her knees and strides across the room.
Gillian seems surprised by this as well; she is clearly not expecting to be boldly mounted, have her face cradled in Caroline’s hands, and to be kissed so senselessly that her eyes glaze over similar to when she has consumed three or more glasses of wine and prompting Caroline to silently congratulate herself on being a similar form of intoxicant.
“Jesus,” Gillian exhales.
The insistent pounding of blood in her veins drives her on. “When can I see you again?”
Gillian’s eyelids flutter. “W-whenever you like.” Then, as if remembering something: “Wednesday.”
Clearly Caroline has forgotten it too. “Wednesday?”
“Yeah. Gonna be at your place anyway. Remember? Taking Dad for his checkup.”
“Oh. Right. You’re still—going to stay for dinner?”
“Of course. Unless you don’t want—”
“No. I want you to.”
“We won’t have time to—”
“I know.” Caroline pauses. Her mouth moves, the words struggle to come out, but finally do: “It—it’s enough just to see you.”
“Yeah?” Gillian’s pupils blossom, dots of ink from a divine fountain pen that drop a dark expanse into those amazing irises, and that stupidly prompts Caroline to think of some old song from the 80s—oh you’ve got green eyes oh you’ve got blue eyes oh you’ve got gray eyes—and God help her, she’s pushing Gillian down on the sofa and they’re at it again: Clothes discarded in a whirlwind of haste except for Gillian’s jeans, which are always a bit of an ordeal to pull off and seriously, she deserves another orgasm for accomplishing that task alone but instead she slips a hand between Gillian’s legs and cradles her cunt, possessed of great patience despite the nervy curl of her fingers and waiting for the single tremulous please whispered into her neck before entering her. She particularly likes to watch Gillian’s face at this moment: the tense lines around her mouth slackening into pleasure and eventually release. In the Mobius strip contortions of sex satiety becomes need and after she comes Caroline moves against her roughly, grinding against her thigh until the surprising intensity of the climax falls over her like a wave.
Afterward she does not fall asleep so much as enter a drowsy fugue state while lying there on the couch and more or less on top of Gillian, who at some point managed to pull a quilt over them against a vigorous, chilly cross breeze; even in the summer, the farmhouse living room stays surprisingly cool. Silence here is different than at home, in Harrogate; silence here intensifies the smallest sound and the swish of the wind ruffling a newspaper reigns equally with tires on gravel, bleating sheep, a leaking faucet, and her own obvious comments: “It’s so peaceful here.”
In response Gillian merely hums and strokes her hair, her glugging heartbeat providing a backbeat to the torch song of her blood, the muscles of her forearm twitch restlessly in the clasp of Caroline’s hand.
“I have to go,” she finally says.
“I know.” Gillian says it clearly, strongly, as if she has been bracing herself for it in every action and breath since the moment they kissed the night before.
Despite her reputation as someone operating on pure reckless impulse, Caroline knows that she mulls things over to the point of obsessiveness; perhaps that is why the execution and results of her decisions are less than ideal—classic overthinking, pummeling things in her mind to such an extent that no action seems ideal or even makes sense anymore. It would not surprise Caroline that in the aftermath of all this Gillian has been cogitating mightily all along—perhaps more than she does herself. Perhaps Gillian thinks that this is not the beginning of anything but merely a sex-saturated coda to what they had been before, because there is simply no way of going forward. So she could back out, save a scrap of dignity while rescuing Caroline from violating whatever vague code of ethics she lives by, a code at times impenetrable and incomprehensible to Gillian and seemingly bent by the arbitrary whim of a woman in constant conflict between desire and expectation.
“Can—can I say something?” Gillian begins, and Caroline finds it heartbreaking that she seeks permission to speak up in her own home.
She presses her face against Gillian’s sternum, the boombox that contains a very complicated heart, and tastes the sweet salt of sweat. She thinks of how, as a child, she would press her face against the stereo speakers in her father’s study, desperate to catch the warp and hiss and delicate strains of music, as if she wanted to taste the sound—and laughing in delight when an orchestra would rise up and knock her back on her arse. “Of course.”
As usual the mix of thoughts and desires that go through Gillian’s mind tumble out in poorly congealed fashion; Caroline likens it to following an elaborate recipe in a cookbook where the result turns out to be an edible yet spectacular mess that in no way resembles the glistening food porn photo in the book itself. It’s particularly true in this case, where she is obviously trying her damnedest to ensure not only Caroline’s happiness, but her own: “I just wanted to say it’s, it’s okay. If you want to keep seeing her. Sacha, I mean. Yeah? I want you to be happy. And I’m happy being with you like this, spending time with you when we can. I want to be with you, and, and I don’t know what—what that could be like, you know? Well, yeah, maybe you don’t know yet either. But, I’ll, I’ll take what you’re willing to give.”
It is at this crucial, awkward, and somewhat inconvenient moment that Caroline finally remembers she already has a girlfriend.
to an evening star
On the drive home the evening sky is so spectacular that Caroline eschews sunglasses, boldly squinting westward into white and gold and pink and orange—she stops counting at seven different colors and thinks, if only the skeins of the sunset could be gathered and woven into one fantastic word that would adequately describe them. It is the time of day when one should be sitting somewhere with a drink or walking across the moors, in either instance the ideal being alone or with the right person.
It would have been nice to fit in a walk with Gillian this time. In times past, whenever she visited the farm they made a habit of going for a walk together. The last time, however, seems a lifetime ago and she has since molted several skins of grief; it was about seven months after Kate died and not long after Gillian had married Robbie. For no reason in particular it had been a bad week and she had only gotten through it on diazepam-driven automatic pilot and wanted nothing less than enduring a family dinner at the farm. But Alan had twisted his ankle while gardening and so it was Caroline’s chauffeuring abilities and not her company that was desired. While straining at the effort of bare civilities, she avoided a nervous breakdown and got through the meal. Afterward, Gillian—rocking on heels, peering at Caroline from under bangs desperate for trimming—shyly mumbled a suggestion that they go for a walk, as if for all the world Caroline would refuse this mad idea when in fact she was seconds from collapsing under the chaos of the household and if she heard Robbie tell more banal police adventure about drunkards at the pub she would scream.
She dreaded the possibility that Gillian might use the walk as an opportunity to bitch about Robbie and/or enumerate a list of recent shags. Instead Gillian prattled softly about the land, in that sweet low burr she used only with those closest to her. It was late autumn and late afternoon, with the sun hugging the horizon and shooting through the sparse clouds in a last blaze of glory, throwing shadows and gold on the dales and copses, the moss and hedgerows, the evergreen heather. They had taken a different path than times before, one Caroline was not familiar with, so Gillian would stop and point out things. Down a ways, she said, was the stream where she and her father used to fish when she was young. And there, that old broken fence along that bridleway—used to jump over it with ease. Probably break my neck now.
On the way back they encountered Gillian’s closest neighbor, a wizened, gnarled old farmer named Pete and his sullen middle-aged son. While Gillian and Pete made impromptu arrangements to help each other at harvest, the son mercilessly appraised Caroline as if she were a ewe at a country fair—not quite top notch in his silent estimation, but she would do.
Under normal circumstances she would have no problem summoning a few choice words cutting him down to size. But she was tired, tired of being mercilessly judged by any male idiot with an opinion, and she grew increasingly enraged. She glared at him, trembled, and her jaw tightened in a massive effort to not scream what the fuck do you think you’re looking at? Then, without breaking conversational stride, Gillian casually took her hand. She could breathe again; in fact, she released such a hoarse, shuddering breath that Pete gave her a concerned look. His son glanced down, caught sight of the clannish, protective gesture of her hand in Gillian’s, scowled, and turned away.
Meanwhile Gillian laughed at Pete’s joking efforts to sell her an aging ewe. Then the men went one way and they went another. Gillian kept hold of her hand for a while, even gently swinging their arms back and forth as they walked in silence. Then she told Caroline that after Eddie died Pete, ever the dealmaker, had been mad keen to match her up with his unmarriageable son—complete eejit, she said. Makes Robbie look like Stephen Hawking.
That made Caroline laugh. Few things made her laugh back then. Even now, it’s not as easy as it used to be. Now. She realizes that she has not had a proper panic attack about all this—resurrecting this affair, what it means, how it will play out—and so she pulls over abruptly on the side of the road, breathing heavily at the shock of the new and the old commingled together in this thing called life. Way to go, she thinks derisively, think about Prince—one of Kate’s favorite musicians—now of all times. She recalls how Kate had initially proposed painting the nursery a very lurid shade of lavender in honor of the Purple One; Caroline had to rely on a steady supply of ice cream and sexual favors to convince her otherwise. She chuckles aloud at that—and abruptly stops. She has arrived at the point she has dreaded for so long now, where memories of Kate were growing relatively painless because now she is strong enough to forsake the bad ones and hold dear to the good ones. For so long pain had been the only thing convincing her that she had loved, that it was real, and the void it would leave too terrible to contemplate.
She stares at the sunset. The white edge of the multi-skeined sunset cedes to blue and the glint of the evening star. This morning she witnessed not the sunrise but the nascent blaze of bright heat from the open door in Gillian’s kitchen, standing there barefoot and in a dressing gown not her own, eating buttered toast with cunty fingers—all the perfections of English life distilled into one moment, as an always-obscure writer once posited. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she had been content. She sighs and climbs back into the Jeep Cherokee. Hedonistic pursuit of another moment like that will have to wait.
An hour later she pulls into the driveway of the house and is unsurprised when accosted by her mother and Alan the second she steps out of the vehicle.
“Well,” Celia declares, folding her arms. “We thought you’d gone native out there.” She nods at Caroline’s Wellies, which Caroline has retrieved from the back seat and are baptized with grime.
“You do realize Gillian lives in a house and is not some wandering gypsy around a campfire?”
“You’d never know by the way she acts sometimes,” Celia replies.
Rather than contradict this, Alan grumbles in agreement.
Caroline sighs. “What’d she do now?”
Poking at his mobile, Alan brings a series of Gillian’s terse texts on screen and, once read, resemble a form of cranky beatnik poetry:
Im ok
just leave it
hes an idiot
fuck I want brandy snaps
don’t lecture me old man
christ
Alan rumbles, “Not one bit of relevant information!”
“Except the bit about the Brandy Snaps,” Celia observes helpfully.
“Like getting blood from stone!”
“At least she didn’t call you a mad old dyke,” Caroline replies, recalling Gillian’s most infamous text to her, for which Caroline had to endure a drunken, stammering, nearly incoherent apology several months after the fact. By that time she had completely forgotten it and on recalling it once again, thought Gillian had deserved to call her far worse in light of the events that had transpired between them. Blame yourself as usual, Caroline thinks. When Alan pulls a face of pure despair—sometimes she thinks her mother’s melodramatic antics are a poor influence on him—she squeezes his arm affectionately. “Don’t worry so—she’s fine, really. And given everything that’s happened, the farm could be in far worse shape. She was in, um, good spirits when I left.” Now she longs for the camouflage of sunglasses because she’s fearful that the luscious glaze of her eyes and the rosy glow of her cheeks will somehow announce to Alan that she has spent the better portion of the past twenty-four hours fucking his daughter.
Fortunately Alan moves on to the Land Rover Drama. “Land Rover’s out of the mud, at last. All she needs is cleaning up.” He chuckles, shakes his head. “Aye, poor Raff, that’ll keep him busy!” He kisses Caroline’s cheek and murmurs, “Well, anyhoo. Welcome back, love. See you at dinner.”
“Although God knows when that will be,” Celia mutters, as Alan heads back to the guesthouse. “A lot has happened in a day,” she says to Caroline, and matches her daughter’s gait as they meander to the front door.
“Yes,” Caroline sighs happily—then, before the old woman could get suspicious, reforms it as a question: “Yes?”
“Lawrence keeps going on about clown school.”
“Well, it may be the only chance he has, you know?”
“William broke up with his girlfriend.”
“Told him he should shave that bloody beard.”
“John called. He’s out of rehab but he’s still writing a memoir about you.”
“You think Meryl Streep would play me in the film? She’d love the challenge of a new accent.”
“I’ve saved the worst for last,” Celia says, and then intones grimly with her flair for the dramatic: “Greg is making tofu.”
“Oh shit,” Caroline wails. While Greg is a decent cook, his ambitions sometimes exceed his natural talents; she is still discovering bits of chocolate here and there stuck to countertops, appliances, and various crevices courtesy of this spring’s Great Souffle Debacle.
“He’s having woman trouble,” Celia says, as if this justified destruction of her kitchen.
She groans. Recently Greg had become enamored of a woman named Brigitte; on first glance she seemed as compelling and attractive as a Malibu Barbie still trapped inside the box. What nudged Caroline’s apathy into active dislike was this woman’s barely concealed consternation regarding Flora’s mere existence.
Speaking of whom, when Caroline opens the door Flora, like a tiny determined rugby player, rushes at her, crashing against her shins. She scoops the girl up into her arms.
Flora’s default greeting these days is an enthusiastic “Hey!” with arms raised.
“Hey yourself, sweetheart! I’ve missed you.” She notices that Flora is desperately trying to wipe tofu goop from her hands onto her orange hippo t-shirt. “God, why are your hands so white?”
Celia opens her mouth.
Caroline is one step ahead: “If you make any sort of racist comment right now I will smother you to death with tofu.”
“Everyone is so sensitive these days,” Celia complains. She shrugs dismissively. “Fine, I’m leaving. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” She nods toward the kitchen. “He is like a woman and you like women, as we all know.” On that barbed note, she departs.
“Tofu,” Flora says, quite clearly.
On one hand, Caroline is disappointed not to hear her say mum—which she hasn’t done yet but Greg has assured her that Flora said it the other day while pointing at a picture of her; on another, she’s relieved that Flora has stopped saying shit. At least for now.
The kitchen is indeed a wreck and Greg sits morosely at the table, surrounded by old cookbooks, soybeans soaking in a pot, and batches of tofu in various blob-like states and stages, as if he is Dr. Frankenstein brooding in his lab and flanked by brains in jars and convict corpses ready for reanimation. Her first thought is to snap a pic and text it to Gillian with a caption: The Tofu That Ate Harrogate. Over the past year, she has made a concerted effort not to treat him like complete shit; it seemed an easy enough goal to achieve once she became truly cognizant of the fact that while she may have lost a wife, he suffered a loss too: one of his oldest and closest friends, the woman who kept his confidences, offered him advice, and vetted his girlfriends. Clearly there is no replacing Kate. But she could do better in providing some sort of emotional support for him—although she fears her lack of diplomacy may rear its ugly head if he ever seeks an honest opinion of Brigitte.
Caroline attempts to joke him out of it: “There’s really no need to out-lesbian me, you know.”
His pathetic attempt at a smile resembles the sad rallying look of a Labradoodle on a rainy day.
“Right, then. What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m in love,” he says.
Gently she juggles Flora, who squirms restlessly while smooshing tiny sticky tofu fists against her face.
“Mum!” Flora barks, as if to say pay attention to me and not the nitwit who made tofu in your kitchen.
“Well.” Caroline grins ridiculously. The day could not possibly get any better. “It’s wonderful to be in love.”
SOUNDTRACK:
“One Sunday Morning (Song for Jane Smiley’s Boyfriend),” Wilco—oh, but it’s long, like this chapter.
“Temptation,” New Order
“Everything Hits at Once,” Spoon
“Evening Star,” from Richard Wagner’s Tannhauser (Franz Liszt transcription)
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