#hes very. erm. well i think the artists certainly knew what they were doing…
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“i read orv for the plot”
the plot:
#orv#omniscient reader's viewpoint#kim dokja#orv shitpost#shitpost#im sorry#my bad guys#hes very. erm. well i think the artists certainly knew what they were doing…#god capture the flag arc dokja is a work of fine art#truly 😵💫#giggles twirls hair
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The Throne
Hey guys, This is my submission to @worstloki ‘s Secret Santa for @darkalinas Hope you’ll like it
Warnings: mentions of death/fake death, mild language.
Also on my AO3
The halls were emptier than he remembered. Not a day had passed and no mourning signs were at sight. The aftermath of the battle was odd. Few injured, most of them dead or missing in the depths of another realm. However, the floors were immaculate if only missing a few chunks of marble.
What Loki was about to do was foolish and knew it. But he also wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t try, he needed answers. He flickered his hand and his illusion opened the door. Loki had only taking a glimpse of one the guard sent to retrieve his body, so he had to improvise. His thoughts went to the one that had told him of his not-mother’s death. He was part of the royal guard; he would have easily died in battle with the dark elves, although he had never went back to check on him.
The illusion entered graciously the throne room and bowed politely while Loki silently walked behind the man kneeling besides the throne.
“Forgive me, my liege. I’ve returned form the Dark World with news.”
“Thor?” asked Odin, without any sign of sentiment in his tone.
“There was no sign of Thor, or the weapon, but…”
“What?” said the king, turning his head around.
“We found a body”
“Loki…” he lowered his sight. Loki said nothing but couldn’t help to smirk slightly.
“Loki!” said Odin suddenly, turning around as if he had expected him to be there. “You little shit! I…”
Smack! Loki didn’t know what to do, so he pulled a frying pan out of his dimensional pocket and smacked Odin square in the face. The Allfather fell ungracefully to the floor.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” murmured Loki. He stared at the… corpse? Unconscious body? At this point the distinction wasn’t important. Specially after hearing what sounded like his brother’s footsteps coming towards him.
He didn’t have enough time to think of a better plan, so he grabbed Odin’s feet and tossed him behind the throne while he panicked. “That’ll have to do” he said as he threw the pan behind him. His brother slammed the door open covering the noise the pan made hitting the floor (he was lucky, but not lucky enough to have laid another hit on his not-father’s face).
Thor kneeled and waited.
“You once said there would never be a wiser king than me” stated Loki and then paused for dramatic effect. “You were wrong. The alignment has brought all the realms together. Every one of them saw you offer your life to save them. What can Asgard offer its new King in return?
“My life” Loki raised his eyebrows. Was he recognising that he was to be executed for committing treason and various war crimes? For real? “Father, I cannot be King of Asgard. I will protect Asgard and all the realms with my last and every breath, but I cannot do so from that chair. Loki, for all his grave imbalance, understood rule as I know I never will. The brutality, the sacrifice… It changes you. I'd rather be a good man than a great King.”
“Is this my son I hear? Or the woman he loves?”
“When you speak, do I never hear Mother's voice?“ Touché. Loki sighted and waited for him to continue. “This is not for Jane, Father. She does not know what I came here to say. Now forbid me to see her or say she can rule at my side, it changes nothing.”
Loki sighted and thought of something his not-father would have said. “One son who wanted the Throne too much, another who will not take it. Is this my legacy?”
“Loki died with honour. I shall try to live the same. Is that not legacy enough?” Loki nodded. Thor picked up his hammer and offered it to the man on the throne. Loki knew that he had to let go of it if he didn’t want anybody to know about the frying pan issue still going on behind him.
“It belongs to you. If you are worthy of it.”
“I shall try to be.”
“I cannot give you my blessing, nor can I wish you good fortune.” He knew it wasn’t true, but truth had never Odin’s forte. Was it his, then?
“I know.”
Loki felt slightly bad for his brother. He could tell that his girlfriend was about to break up with him and the he was going to decide to go on a depressing sabbatical to get away from grief. He felt he needed to say something. After all, Odin had never stated any affection for Thor either. “If I were proud of the man my son had become, even that I could not say, I would speak only from my heart. Go, my son.”
“Thank you, father” said Thor, bowing slightly and walking out of the room while leaving the door open.
“No, thank you” said Loki mockingly. Now he had to get up and close the door again. Loki scratched his neck. He knew Thor was far from ready to be king, but he was surprised this little adventure had made him somewhat conscious about it. He took a deep breath and stretched.
“Shit, this chair is uncomfortable. I’ll have commission someone to give it back support if I plan to sit here every day…”
Loki went to retrieve his pan and saw the old man laying unceremoniously on the floor. He knew he had to move the body quickly, but he couldn’t resist painting a farting butt on his left cheek. He would certainly need help of the guards to move the man out of Asgard and also think of a way to give himself a proper burial. For the moment he settled on casting an illusion of himself over the king.
“Hmmnnn… Loki…” Smack! He needed to get himself a more permanent way to keep him unconscious but at least he was reassured that the guy was not dead. He really needed Odin to be sent away and never to return. Loki, still disguised as Odin, picked up the body as best as he could and dragged him down the stairs and towards the back door.
“It is better if you ask your wards for help, your highness” said one guard, closing the door that Thor had left open.
“Erm, yes. Thank you. You can help me with this. I thought I was able to carry my son’s body, but I seemed to have forgotten that I am an old man now.” Loki started picking at his hands and tried to appear as regal as one can be. He had been weakened by his near-death experience back in the Dark world and was struggling to keep the illusions in place. His butt-fart was now visible and did his best to try to cover it with his cape.
“No, no, my lord. You should be resting.” Insisted. “After losing your beloved wife and son you’ll need it. These men over here will…”
Loki dropped the body yet again and looked at the guard he had made up. The one that looked exactly like the man that just entered the throne room. His eyes widened and the grip on his pan got tighter.
“Erm… I won’t say a thing, my prince. Not a word.” Said the guard. “If you do this little thing for me.”
“Prince? I am Odin Allfather, your lord and king!” said Loki trying to emulate Odin’s condescending tone.
“No, you’re not, my prince” he continued. “And you’ll need some allies if you plan to sneak out The Allfather’s body out of Asgard.”
Unfortunately, he was right. Loki took a deep breath and dropped the illusions all at once. He kept holding the pan. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Raisin”
“Raisin?”
“Yeah, my parents thought they were language geniuses.”
“Well, Raisin. The Royal Family does not deal with terrorists.”
“Hmmm… yes you do” stated the man. He was getting kind of cocky and Loki didn’t like that at all. “That’s what royal families do, deal with each other. But we’re getting off topic. I know that if this plan backfires I’ll be the one to blame, so don’t worry about me telling.”
“So, you have a plan?” Loki will never admit it, but he was kind of relieved that he didn’t have to do it alone.
“Yeah, we can do what we did to my partner’s mom” said Raisin, nonchalantly. “She didn’t approve of his son and I living together so we sent her to Shady Acres some years ago.
“Is that… a nursing home?”
“Yeah, on Earth. The staff is kind and nice. They have good food and chess tournaments. They also don’t let them go to their daily walk if they say any slur, which is a plus.”
“Sounds promising. Any ideas about my funeral? Do you know how to get a corpse?”
“Yeah…” murmured Raisin. Suddenly his boots were kind of interesting.
“Erm… Sorry for your loss” said Loki. He didn’t know what to say in these kinds of situations.
“I… I really want to give him a proper burial but I don’t have any money on my name.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. I have lived with Thor for centuries, I guess some of his interior design skills had stuck” said the God of Mischief. He realised that Raisin had started to cry and felt very helpless. “Here use this.”
Raisin chuckled when he handled him the king’s cape to wipe his tears and clear his nose. “Is that…a very ugly muffing?”
“What, no. It’s very obviously a fart!” said Loki. “My artistic skills had been insulted. I will have to kill you now.”
Raisin rolled his eyes. “Now, shut up and pick him by the hands, he looks heavy.”
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An Artistic Rendering, part 2
I couldn’t stop myself. (But also, I had a lot of fun writing this so... here. Have it.)
Wednesday night art classes were typically followed by a casual dinner at a nearby restaurant. Usually, Hermione enjoyed this post-class debrief session with her mum, but that had been under normal circumstances, when they’d been working on drawings of flowers or cats or bowls of fruit. Tonight, Hermione was not totally sure how she would tolerate sitting across from her mother for an entire meal, nor if she would ever be able to look her in the eye again.
“So, what do you think you want to order?” asked Mum cheerfully, opening up her menu. “I’m rather hungry, aren’t you? Maybe we ought to order a starter - the bruschetta here is supposed to be excellent.”
“Sure,” Hermione said, staring blankly into her own menu. Words like ‘carbonara’ and ‘pomodoro’ and ‘rigatoni’ floated meaninglessly in front of her. “Whatever you want.”
“Ooh, let’s get some wine, too,” Mum added. Had Hermione possessed the wherewithal to look at her, she would have been goggling in disbelief. How on earth was she so cheerful after what had just transpired? How was she, too, not completely disturbed? “How about Chianti? I never know what’s supposed to ‘pair well’ with something else, I just always get what I like-”
“Great,” interjected Hermione, eyes fixed on a description for chicken marsala. “Sure. Whatever.”
Mum set down her menu; in her periphery, Hermione sensed her leaning curiously toward her. “What’s going on, dear? Are you all right?”
“‘What’s going on?’” Hermione repeated back, incredulous. “‘Am I all right?’”
“Well-” Mum blinked, taken aback. “I know there were a couple other drawings that the instructor liked better, but she still thought yours was rather good - and you’ve always been better at things like science and maths anyway-”
“It’s not that.”
Just as Mum opened her mouth to inquire further, a young woman in a crisp white blouse and black pants arrived at their table. “Good evening, ladies,” she greeted them. “My name is Nicola and I’ll be your server this evening. May I get you started with something to drink?”
Mum ordered the bottle of Chianti (Hermione privately thought they might need more than one by the time the night was over) and the bruschetta, and Nicola flounced away.
“Mum,” Hermione said, once she was sure that their server was out of earshot. “You drew a picture of Dad.”
“Well, of course I did.” Her voice was infuriatingly casual. “He was the obvious subject, wasn’t he?”
“So you don’t think that was awkward for me at all?”
“Yours was of Ron,” Mum pointed out, leaving Hermione to briefly wonder how she was possibly related to someone so level-headed. “I’m certainly not interested in seeing my future son-in-law like that.”
The discomfort of the evening was dulled, at least momentarily, by this implication that she would be marrying Ron. While they were not yet engaged - Hermione was in no rush, and perfectly happy to cohabitate - she was also quite certain that she would be spending her life with Ron, and it was nice to know that her mum was so certain of it too.
Though, perhaps that made the events of the evening even more bizarre.
“That’s different,” replied Hermione finally.
“How, exactly?”
“He’s not in his fifties, for one-”
“One day he will be,” said Mum, “and I’m sure when that day comes, you’ll find him just as attractive as you do now-”
“Oh my God,” groaned Hermione, squeezing her eyes shut against the barrage of unwelcome mental images that her mum had just conjured up for her.
“Well, really.” Hermione forced herself to open her eyes, only to see a knowing, almost smug sort of look on her mum’s face (perhaps they had more in common than she thought). “Am I meant to believe that this was the first and only time you’ve ever seen it?”
“Please stop-”
“And don’t think we don’t know what happened in Australia.”
Before Hermione could inquire further about this - Australia was a topic that almost never arose between her and her parents, for obvious reasons - Nicola returned with a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. The instant the wine was poured, Hermione seized upon her glass and drank deeply from it.
“What were you saying about Australia?” Hermione asked, once she had stopped to catch her breath.
“Just that it was clear what had… transpired between the two of you.”
Hermione paused, considering this, hoping her face was not giving anything away. It was true that she and Ron had had sex for the first time in Australia, just days before locating her parents and restoring their memories. And she did not expect her mum to be under any illusions about the nature of her relationship with Ron; they lived together, and before that, she had been quite unabashed about spending the night at his. But it was one thing to know, and quite another to discuss it.
“You could tell?”
“A mother always knows,” said Mum blithely around her own, more reserved sip of wine. “And really, it was just a matter of time. I always knew that.”
“You did?”
“It was always clear to me, and to your dad, that you had a certain connection with him,” said Mum. She had grown thoughtful now, introspective. “Actually, I imagine it was clear to everyone but the pair of you at times.”
“You’re right about that.”
“It’s why we were always happy to let you spend summers with his family, or spend your Christmas at Hog - at school,” she finished lamely, eyes darting around the restaurant. “You had such trouble fitting in when you were younger, and we were so happy that you found someone who… who understands you, the way he does.”
Hermione nodded, thankful that Nicola had swept over to them with a plate of bruschetta, because she was at a rare loss for words. She always knew her parents had liked Ron, and they’d made no secret of their gratefulness that she had found friends at last in him and Harry. But she hadn’t known that they had seen the depth of their relationship, or understood its uniqueness. Most people questioned what she and Ron saw in each other… but her parents had always known.
“And he really must love you,” Mum went on, helping herself to a piece of toasted bread piled high with chopped tomato, fresh basil, and grated parmesan. “To have done what he did for you.”
Myriad events flashed through Hermione’s mind: Ron, at twelve, vomiting up slugs; at thirteen, telling off Professor Snape; at fourteen, begrudgingly pinning an SPEW badge to his robes; at eighteen, offering himself up for torture in exchange for her. Posing starkers for a figure drawing ranked rather low on his running list of self-sacrifices, and yet it was not lost on Hermione how lucky they were that this was now their biggest concern.
“You’re right,” replied Hermione, taking her own slice of bruschetta. “He really does.”
***
Ron was at the sink, scrubbing a sponge over a dinner plate, when Hermione walked through the door of their flat. “Hi,” Hermione greeted him brightly, approaching him in search of a quick kiss hello. “I’ve brought leftover spag bol if you want it.”
“You know I do.” Ron shut off the faucet and picked up a small towel to dry his hands, then bent to touch his lips to Hermione’s. “A departure from your usual, innit?”
“I didn’t want anything too fancy,” replied Hermione, handing the styrofoam box to Ron, who immediately opened it to peer inside. “I was a bit put off my appetite to be honest with you.”
“Uh oh.” Ron fished a fork out of a drawer. “Dare I ask how it went?”
“You were very well-received,” Hermione assured him, making him grin as he twisted strands of pasta around his fork. “But erm…”
“Yes?”
“My mum… she, er…”
“Oh, no.” Ron paused with his fork in mid-air. “She didn’t have… comments, did she?”
“She did, actually, but that’s not the problem. She…” Hermione waited while Ron chewed his mouthful of pasta. Unlike her, his appetite only increased during times of distress. “She drew my dad.”
To her surprise, Ron burst into raucous laughter. “Yeah, I expected that she would have done.”
“You could have warned me!”
“And you could have warned me that a group of twenty people were going to see my todger before you had me starkers in the sitting room,” Ron grinned, “but you didn’t, did you?”
Though she was outwardly scowling at him, Hermione had to work to keep a smile off her face. “Again, it’s not like I took photos-”
“Merlin’s pants, I bet that’ll be next-”
“And really, it’s quite different when it’s your own father - I didn’t look at it or anything,” Hermione was quick to state, “but even just knowing…”
She broke off with a shudder. Ron set down the container of pasta and folded her into his arms, where she laid her cheek automatically against his chest.
“That sounds traumatic,” said Ron, gently kissing the top of Hermione’s head.
“It really was.”
“Should we sign you up for therapy?”
“Yes, please.”
With another little chuckle, he kissed the top of her head again, and she settled in against him. Her mum had been right: she did have a connection with him that was unlike anything else. She had always known that they would end up exactly as they were now, even when they hadn’t been able to see it themselves.
“So you said your mum had some comments?” asked Ron after a few minutes’ easy silence. “I’m a little scared to ask.”
“Not about the picture,” Hermione said. “Mostly about how… how good you are for me.”
“Yeah?”
“She referred to you as her future son-in-law.”
Ron loosened his grip on Hermione just enough to look down at her with surprise. “Did she really?”
Hermione nodded again. “Does that… freak you out?”
It was not a question of whether he loved her, or was wholeheartedly committed to her; she knew without a shadow of a doubt how he felt. But with marriage came things like babies and home loans and joint vaults at Gringotts, and it was not unreasonable to think that at nineteen, he simply might not be ready for it.
But he just shook his head, and moved in to kiss her again - this one soft, warm, lingering. “Nope. Not at all.”
Happily, Hermione resumed hugging him.
“Maybe next time,” said Ron, his hand rubbing idly up and down her spine, “you lot could do something a little more… you could join a book club, maybe. Something like that.”
“That could be fun,” responded Hermione. “Only, my mum’s got a bit of a penchant for romance novels.”
“Oh. Perhaps not, then…”
#romione#rhr#ron weasley#hermione granger#so just to be clear Hermione's mum did not look at the drawing#she's not a creep lol#also nobody should take the mention of bruschetta as 'excellent' as an endorsement of raw tomatoes
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This is so exciting, can’t wait to see what happens next! (No, I honestly do forget)
Berns Night (Revisited) 🏴
Call the Midwife AU (Crown Jewels, everyone but Paddy and Bernie at Mount Busby)
Chapter Three: OF MICE AND MEN
“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!” To A Mouse by Robert Burns 1785.
“Liars and Lovers Combine Tonight, We’re Gonna Make A Scene.” The Captain by Biffy Clyro 2009.
The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature, and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.
The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners. bean bags, generous cushions, and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. “You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad.” That was always the end of it.
The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen, who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, yep that’s it or knew you’d get it when they appeared to reach a level of understanding. Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship, she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. “Oh, he is a dear boy; He makes me laugh.”
He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair, probably by Frank Hudson. Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more managerial role much earlier than she would have planned. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.
“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”
“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.
“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.
Tom turned pink. Trixie leaned over to him, “They are joking,” and sat back onto the giant purple pouffe she was sharing with Valerie. “I know, I live here. I have to put up with it all the time.”
“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.
“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby, trying to offer her husband some support.
“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.
“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.
“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.
“No, I don’t think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.
“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.
“I will! On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, “but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one sex on the beach.”
“It’s a cocktail, and its happy hour in the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone.
“That’s ambitious having a happy hour in the Teacups, isn’t it?” said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.
“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that’s why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.
“As I am representing the Crown. I will continue,” said Val and she did, “we want to put on a Burns Night for Bernie’s birthday like in the old days. Now Tim has told us Paddy is half Scottish.”
“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.
“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred.
“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.
“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.
Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the village's most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.
“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”
As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying, but maybe not its meaning.
Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”
“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”
Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”
“Why?” Reggie asked, perched on his wooden stool.
Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.
“Because it would look ridiculous, his words not mine.” Tim continued, “and I quote, Wilf had the works, I would look like I was trying to pull a stunt to impress Bernie by looking like I was dressing in drag and taking the piss.”
Tim looked at his knees, and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.
Everyone else also looked at their knees. The mood was solemn.
“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.
This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.
“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.
“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.
“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.
“We’ve already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”
“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.
“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”
This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”
“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened, or at least tried to.
“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.
“So anyway, in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”
“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.
“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.
“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.
“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.
“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up too”
“Don’t fret Phyllis,” Patsy interjected, “I find that Antonia is much less forgetful when she has an occupation to challenge her and I am certain she won’t let the cat out of its proverbial bag.”
Jack sat on the floor accidently banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking; oh look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger. That must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”
Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.
“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.
“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.
“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.
“So that’s the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide, thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.
“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.
Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”
“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.
“Chicken and vegetable soup to you, young man. There will be a just vegetable option too.” Violet’s voice began to take on the air it adopted when addressing an audience. “Then we have the Haggis or vegan Haggis, neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce.”
“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.
Evie spoke up before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”
“What’s for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband’s hand.
“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”
Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.
“That’s a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.
Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you, but you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”
Silence broke out in the previously buzzing, over occupied living room.
“Piper!” Several people groaned at once.
Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burn’s Night declared, “Look, we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”
Tim reached for his phone, swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.
“I don’t think that would be very suitable, Mr Buckle going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”
“Your right lass, it just won’t do,” supported Phyllis.
“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.
“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia
“A professional piper that’s free on Burn’s Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.
“I know a piper.”
The voice came from the back of the room. Everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”
“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.
“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”
Everyone started talking at once;
“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”
“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn’t it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”
“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”
“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”
“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”
“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”
Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”
“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”
“Oh well, let’s be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.
Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex-nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.
Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip. She felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by. It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.
Delia’s carer probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby, as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.
But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea, sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.
Val had bitten her lip, her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was with Prada.
It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”
“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.
“He’s rather good, as I remember.”
Jane was beaming as she nodded.
“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob’s your uncle, sorted”
“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie’s tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story. We can ask her.”
Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments, and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas, Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury, and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.
Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”
Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”
Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”
“Kevin.”
Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”
“It would appear so,” replied Lucille, grimacing at Tim.
“Apart from Dad.” groaned Tim.
Followed by an echo of sighs.
“Leave your dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.
#call the midwife#berns night revisited#january 2020 seems like a lifetime ago#hope it has a happy ending#hate those angsty slow burn au fics
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Jon Lord, Deep Purple
Original article by Lee Marlow which was first printed in the Leicester Mercury in July, 2000.
-
You join us in the hallway of Jon Lord's sprawling Henley-on-Thames home.
Him, Leicester born, millionaire keyboard maestro with rock legends Deep Purple and Whitesnake; me, Leicester-born over-eager hack with a headful of daft questions he's answered a thousand times before.
Holding out a hand, Mr Lord, the David Niven of rock 'n' roll, greets me like a long-lost friend.
Grey stubble frames his face and a head full of slate grey hair is tied neatly in a pony tail.
"Good to see you... find it all right?... blah... terrible weather again isn't it... blah... Yes, it is nice round here isn't it... George Harrison lives just down the road... blah... we're touring in August... blah... on the road in South America..."
He hardly stops to draw breath as we settle in the cream lounge.
I can't help but notice the luxurious off-white carpet is so plush that I can trace my footsteps from the oak door to the immense sofa and, in the corner, a small cinema screen masquerades as a TV.
Life has been kind to Jon Lord.
He's sold millions of records and, erm, "rocked" the biggest audiences the world over – from the 200,000 fans at the California Jam in the mid-1970s to last year's hybrid Royal Albert Hall gig featuring Deep Purple and the London Symphony Orchestra.
Purple, his mainstay band of the past four decades, are about to hit the road again.
Lord admits that after all this time it's hard to resist.
"I don't need to do this anymore," he says, "but it is immense fun.
''I do see a time when we'll have to call it a day, of course, but when? I know I can't do it when I'm 90, but..."
It's all a long way from life at 120 Averill Road, where Mr Lord senior packed socks by day and played sax by night and where the young Lord enjoyed "a perfect childhood," roaming through the nearby countryside with his grubby-faced pals.
An after-school diet of piano lessons, homework and bike riding, however, left a teenage Lord facing an extra year at Wyggeston School.
"I just wanted to play with my friends," he says. "But it was always homework and piano lessons. Something had to give – and it was usually homework."
After being sacked from his first two jobs in Leicester, Lord left for London to study acting and played roll-out-the-barrel-style standards in smoky pubs to pay his rent.
Despite his best intentions, Lord's hopes of becoming an actor were overtaken by his desire to play rock 'n' roll and by the mid-60s, he'd been roped in to play keyboards on The Kinks' You Really Got Me.
"All I did was plink, plink, plink," he laughs. "It wasn't hard."
But from there, Lord and his trusty Hammond organ didn't look back.
He had a top 10 hit with Let's Go To San Francisco with The Flowerpot Men and was pocketing the princely sum of £60 a week.
Lord's future was bright. In fact, his future was Purple.
The group formed in 1968 and had a smash hit in the US with Hush at the end of the year. Three decades later, Kula Shaker took the same song to No 1 in the UK charts. ("Good version as well," says Jon, "if a bit too fast.'')
Purple opened for Eric Clapton's Cream in the States, but after five storming gigs they were taken off the tour as the energised Purple boys blew Slowhand's shambolic drug-addled trio off stage.
"We got on well with them. They had no idea we were to be taken off the tour – they were too stoned!" recalls Jon.
Back home, Purple instigated the first of many line-up changes, welcoming new singer Ian Gillan and bass player Roger Glover – a switch which heralded a new era for Purple and, with it, British rock.
"We knew we had something. It was just so exciting. We used to practice every afternoon and then gig every night."
Gillan brought more than great vocals to the band – his jet-black long hair and charisma attracted the ladies as well.
"There were plenty of groupies at that stage," smiles Lord.
And?
"Well, let's just say if you give a young lad a bit of money and untroubled access to nubile young women – it's not a bad life is it?"
Even at the wrong side of 50, Gillan, it appears, still has a certain charm with the opposite sex. Lord and Gillan were recently interviewed by former Watchdog beauty Alice Beer for the BBC1 religious show H&E.
"I might as well not have been there," smiles Lord. "She was completely taken by Gillan. And after the show they left together and went for a drink. No, I don't know what happened!"
The first five years of the 1970s saw Deep Purple trapped in a perpetual album-tour-album loop. The shows were sold out and the albums – In Rock, Fireball, Machine Head, Made In Japan, Who Do We Think We Are? – all went platinum.
They made a wodge of money, concedes Jon, but their managers made more.
Yet despite the excess (they also had their own plane, naturally), Lord steered clear of drugs.
"I can say hand-on-heart we were never really a drug band. My Dad bought me my first pint and I was still very much a lad from Leicester, you know.
"I experimented with drugs, of course I did. I smoked grass, but it left me sitting in a corner, introspective and giggling to myself.
"I had a brief flirtation with cocaine in the late 1970s but, to be honest, I don't really like being out of control."
The drugs came later. American Tommy Bolin, drafted in to replace the increasingly moody and erratic guitarist Ritchie Blackmore, succumbed to a long-term heroin habit in 1976 and Lord still recalls the time a cocaine dealer chased bassist Glenn Hughes on to the band's private plane, demanding $3,000.
By 1976, the writing was on the wall for Purple and its elaborate brand of rock music. Punk was the new king.
Lord retreated to the States for two years. But former Purple leader David Coverdale was looking for someone to become the new ivory tinkler in his new outfit, Whitesnake, and Lord fitted the bill.
"He wouldn't take no for an answer. I harboured no ambition to be Whitesnake's keyboard player, but he was very, very insistent."
Persuasive Coverdale might have been, but financially generous he certainly wasn't.
"I was in Whitesnake from 1978 to 1983 and he paid me abysmally! I complained regularly and he'd say 'Ok, leave it with me', but it never changed.
"It was a good laugh – that was the main reason I stayed in the band. It was ironic that in the middle of this punk revolution we were playing white R&B and selling out tours."
Strangely, considering the times, Whitesnake's brand of sexist crab-paced rock was a hit.
They were the biggest-grossing tour band in Europe by 1981. But Coverdale – secretly nicknamed Elsie by the band because of his louche on-stage antics and some of his cheesy lyrics – wanted success in America. At all costs.
"It was all style over substance towards the end," sighs Lord. "The band lost its heart. It was just about posing."
The music might have lost its soul, but Whitesnake – complete with a new band of poodle-permed hired hands in black spandex and glitter jackets – went on to sell 17 million albums in 1987.
Lord, meanwhile, had answered the call to reform Deep Purple.
"The critics said Purple getting back together was about money. It was never about money," says Lord. "It was exciting for us and the fans when we got back together."
And that's where he's been ever since. In truth, the reformed band never quite graced the same artistic heights they reached in their heyday, but on the concert circuit they're still capable of selling out a Wembley Arena or NEC.
"I don't enjoy touring in the way I used to, but those two hours on stage make up for it.
''The day I can't open that door and look forward to it is the day I say, 'Thank you very much and goodnight'."
And that's about it. Interview over. I've got more daft questions but, crikey, I've been here for more than three hours and he needs to finish a musical extravaganza he's writing for the local church. Phew, rock 'n'roll.
"Take care driving back," he says, "and give my love to Leicester."
#brb im crying#that jon composed and performed songs for his local church has always been my fav#those church grannies must have been jamming like crazy#jon lord#deep purple
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Fic: Indelible
AU-gust Day Twenty-Nine: Tattoo Parlour AU
Fandom: Stargate Universe
Pairing: Nicholas Rush x Gloria Rush
Rated: T
Summary: Tattoo artist Rush’s latest customer isn’t at all the type he’d expect to be getting a tattoo, and the two of them discuss the paths fate has led them down to meeting in these unusual circumstances.
Content warning: Cancer mention.
Indelible
During his time as a tattoo artist, Rush had long since learned that whilst most of his customers could be fitted into one of several boxes, there were always a few that completely defied convention.
Ostensibly, he knew that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or a person wanting to get a tattoo by their outward appearance.
All the same, that didn’t stop him from doing a double take when he saw her walk into the shop.
She was absolutely not the kind of person that he would expect to be getting a tattoo. She seemed too… He didn’t know how to describe her, but she looked completely out of place in her raincoat and sensible boots, with her violin case over her shoulder. For several seconds after she came in, all he could do was stare at her as she looked around at the intricate designs displayed on the walls, built up over years and years of artwork.
Rush had never thought of himself as particularly artistic. In fact, when he’d first been hired, his boss had been confident in the fact that he’d last less than a day before packing it in. He hadn’t been let loose on skin for much longer than all of the other apprentices, but now, here he was, running the shop whilst still wondering what life would have been like if he’d had enough ready money to finish university and become an astrophysicist as planned.
Having stared at his latest customer for a good five minutes, during which time she had stopped looking around and fixed her gaze on him, Rush realised that he should probably say something.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” She came up to the counter and placed a piece of paper down. “I want this tattooed here.” She tapped her left arm, just above the elbow. “Not in that handwriting,” she added quickly. “Something a bit neater and more artistic. Hopefully.”
Learning neater and more artistic handwriting had been one of the hardest challenges of Rush’s career so far, and he had to suppress a laugh at the notion. Still, she was here, and she was a potential customer with a very fixed idea of what she wanted, so despite her appearance seeming out of place in his shop, he would nonetheless help her.
He picked up the piece of paper. It was just a date, three months ago. It should be easy enough. He grabbed the folder of writing samples from under the counter and passed it over to her.
“Take a look through there and see if anything takes your fancy. If not I’m sure we can work up something freehand. In the meantime, I’ll get you booked in.”
Her name, it transpired, as he was getting her details into the computer, was Gloria Miller, and it was once he came to the medical questions that he realised the significance of that date, and why she wanted it imprinted on her skin forever.
“I’ve had cancer and chemotherapy,” she explained. “This is the date I got my all clear.”
Although he had always prided himself on his cynicism, Rush couldn’t help the smallest quirk of a smile as he continued to put her details in.
“Would you be able to do this?” She pointed to a neat script sample in the folder, small and not too elaborate, the individual figures clear and elegant. Rush breathed an inward sigh of relief that she hadn’t chosen one of the fancier scripts. Although numbers were definitely something he had a lot of experience with writing, normally it didn’t matter how neat they were.
“Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.” He grabbed a pencil and spare sheet of paper and began to sketch out the design to scale. It would come out pretty small, but Gloria didn’t look to be the type who would want anything too ostentatious. She smiled when he finished, slipping off her coat so that she could hold it against her arm in the correct place.
“That’s perfect, thank you.”
The appointment was set for the following week, and as Gloria left, Rush found that he was looking forward to seeing her again. There was something about her and the way that she’d suddenly dropped into his life from nowhere, at odds at first but soon fitting into place. He shook his head crossly. This was not the time to be getting into ideas of fate and destiny. He was a scientist at heart, for crying out loud, and that meant that everything had to have a logical explanation – no matter how weird and wonderful that explanation might be in the long run.
Still… Maybe there was a logical explanation for Gloria, and the fact that of all the places she could have chosen to commemorate her triumphant recovery, his was the one she had picked.
X
Gloria arrived as expected on the appointed day at the appointed time, and Rush led her through to the back room, getting her set up in the chair and cleaning her arm ready for the ink.
“No second thoughts?”
“None. I’ve been anticipating this moment for five years and even then, I left it another few months to be absolutely sure.”
With her firm conviction and with waivers fully signed, Rush began to get to work. Gloria gave a little gasp at the first scratch but otherwise stayed quiet and completely still as he continued to etch the date onto her arm. Some people looked away whilst their tattoos were being done, not wanting to see the needles or the beading blood, but Gloria watched in fascination as he drew.
“You’re a scientist as well as an artist then,” she said presently.
Rush glanced down at the ink on his own forearms, equations snaking around his skin.
“I was. Well, I still am at heart.”
“What made you change your career? It’s a bit drastic.”
Rush laughed behind his mask. “Money. I couldn’t afford to keep learning.”
“That’s a shame. Do you think you’d go back to it one day, if you could?”
Rush thought about it for a moment as he changed needles. They did say that it didn’t do to teach an old dog new tricks, but physics had always been his first love, and he’d only got into his current line of work by an accident that had kept on giving long after it had first occurred.
“Yes.”
They fell into silence for a while as Rush continued to work on the date.
“What do they mean?”
“What?”
“Your equations. What do they mean?”
“They’re all astrophysical mostly. The speed of light, calculating the distance between Earth and alpha centurai. That kind of thing.”
“All right, now I know you’re actually a scientist and not an artist at heart.” Gloria was grinning when Rush looked up at her. “If you were an artist at heart you’d have constellations, not maths showing how to get there.”
Rush didn’t reply, but he smiled unseen. She’d certainly managed to get a good read on him in the short time that they’d spent together.
At length, the tattoo was finished and Gloria had given it her seal of approval before Rush had wrapped her arm in plastic. He’d just finished reiterating the usual aftercare notes when he realised that he probably wouldn’t see her again after today, and for some reason, the thought saddened him.
“You know, if you have any problems with it, or if you want any more work done, feel free to come back any time.”
Gloria smiled. “I will.”
X
It was about two weeks after Gloria’s appointment that Rush saw her again. She still looked just as out of place standing in the shop as she had done on her first visit, but now he was used to it.
“Hello again.”
It took him a moment to remember that he had a tongue in his head.
“Erm, hi. How can I help? How’s the tattoo?”
“It’s fine. Still scabby, but not infected. It’s going to look great.”
“Right.” There was a long and somewhat awkward pause. “So… What can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering if you maybe wanted to get a drink some time.”
Rush was knocked a little off balance by her question. They’d certainly make a fine pair, her with her sensible raincoat and boots and violin, and he with his equations inked up his arms.
But she was so different, and so out of place, and she’d seemed so genuinely interested in those same equations and the origins behind them.
He nodded.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
Maybe they could find a place to be out of place together.
#SGU fic#Nicholas Rush#Gloria Rush#Nick/Gloria#first meetings#relationship beginnings#tattoo parlour AU#AU-gust#Worry does AU-gust#Fic: Indelible
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Golden
about 5k on Switzerland, I love yous, foamy French coffee, and a monkey named Craige. The shows are spectacular, Olivia is golden, and everything is lovely... Featuring Harry Styles and an OFC. No warnings except a bit of bad language and lots of cheesiness hehe. Enjoy!
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
Harry Styles woke up with a smile on his face.
Which was rare, really, when he was on tour, because most mornings, he was either slightly hung over, absolutely exhausted, or a tragic combination of the two. This meant that a smile was anything but common except in the rare instance of the wry, miserable one that curved his lips when he glanced over at the side table to see a very empty wooden surface with a very visible lack of water.
But today, this was not the case. Instead, Harry was waking up before ten o’clock to the faint glow of the sun through the curtains with his girlfriend in his arms and the glorious feeling of a clear, pain free head.
He gave Olivia a gentle kiss, to which she groaned and burrowed into the pillows. “It’s four o’clock in the fucking morning, Styles,” she murmured drowsily, and Harry grinned. “Sun’s up, love. It’s at least nine…”
“Nine, four, ungodly hours of the morning, synonyms, sleep.”
“Think I’m gonna go for a jog,” Harry told her, almost just for her reaction. He didn’t get one until he stood up and she mumbled, “I’m dating a fucking psychopath.” Harry laughed and got dressed, already planning out his route and where he could go to get croissants on the way back.
“Bye, Liv,” he called on his way out.
“Bye, psycho,” she grumbled in reply.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
Olivia loved the croissants Harry got and gushed about them until hours later when the show opened and she got lost in the music. It was always amusing to watch Olivia when she was on stage, Harry thought, because she almost seemed to glow.
Maybe it was the stage lights, maybe it was her impeccable outfits, or maybe it was just that angelic glow of hers, but she really did seem to have a different aura when performing. Her yellow guitar certainly didn’t hurt, and neither did her now signature yellow nail polish, and Harry had had to start conscious efforts to keep concentrated on his lyrics and not miss his cues ever since she’d joined the band.
She just seemed to sparkle, and he couldn’t help but grin back when their eyes would meet and she’d stick her tongue out at him or make a face. Harry found himself showing off just for her, glancing back after Kiwi or a particularly successful water spew to gauge her reaction and see her smile.
In some strange way, she was taking some control over him. But not in a bad way - sort of a gentle pressure that just made him and his performances better. She pushed him to be a better artist, to go that extra mile, to put all of his heart into his music because he knew that she was doing the same just behind him.
The shows were spectacular, Olivia was golden, and everything was lovely.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
The first show out of the US was in Canada, in Toronto. Harry watched Olivia with fond admiration, encouraging her attempt at learning French despite the fact that almost everyone there spoke English fluently.
She’d wanted to go everywhere and see everything at the first few places, but the exhilaration of being in a different state had worn off after a few more cities and plenty more nights of being absolutely exhausted after shows.
Toronto had been a little different, and Harry went along with her into town and went into little restaurants and shops, amused at her excitement. He had, of course, been to most every big city in the world several times over through four world wide tours, but it was fun to relive his original thrill at visiting fifty different cities within a year.
And then, of course, there was Paris.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
There were certain places, Harry would have to admit, that still retained some of their initial glamour and charm even after several visits and being associated with some not exactly cheery memories. Paris was one of those cities.
There was something about its little cafes, the glittering Eiffel Tower in the distance, the cuisine, the beauty of French, and really just the city’s entire vibe that was delightfully captivating. Harry had always, at least to some extent, enjoyed his time in Paris, but being there with Olivia just made it seem like heaven on earth.
“So,” Harry said, stirring his little espresso spoon around in his coffee. “Is it everything you expected?” Olivia, sitting across from him at the little metal table outside a cafe, lowered the bowl the size of her head she was sipping coffee from to reveal a mustache of foam over her lip.
Harry grinned, reaching over and dabbing a bit off with his pinky. “More foam than coffee, hm?” She giggled, running her tongue over her lip to lick it off, but shook her head. “Foam’s the best part.”
Smiling despite himself, Harry rolled his eyes as he took a sip of his own (significantly less foamy) coffee. “‘s the only reason you drink it, isn’t it?” he asked, and she shrugged. “Maybe,” she replied.
“Ridiculous,” Harry murmured, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Right, well, what’s the verdict, then - is Paris a horrific disappointment?” Olivia breathed a happy sigh, glancing around them at the towering buildings and softly chattering French customers of the cafe. “No,” she said conclusively. “No, not at all.” She met his gaze again, just a bit of a smile tugging at her lips, and took another sip of coffee.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”
She shrugged, this time preemptively licking the foam off her lip, and let her eyes wander around them again. “I dunno,” she hummed. “It’s just… it’s so much… It’s so much more petite than I expected.”
Harry must have looked confused, because she laughed and shook her head. “No, no, I mean… I kind of expected a… a bustling tourist trap, you know? But it’s… not.” She shrugged again, stirring her coffee. She looked up at him, smiling adorably, and nudged his foot under the table. “My company’s certainly better than I ever could have expected.”
“I am, aren’t I?” Harry replied cheekily, and she kicked him in the shin. “You’re supposed to say thank you after a compliment, Styles,” she told him, and Harry winked at her, and she flipped him off.
Her gaze went behind him, and Harry turned around to see two girls with phones clutched in their hands blushing furiously and staring at him. “Hullo,” he said, and they giggled, whispering something between them in rapid fire French before stepping slightly closer.
“Erm - bonjour?” Harry tried, and they grinned, handing him the phone and saying something in French. He caught nous t'aimons, a few s'il vous plaîts, and something that sounded like photograph, so he took a picture and said a few je t'aime aussis and mercis back before they walked away.
“Adorable,” Olivia sighed, a dramatically wistful expression on her face as she sipped her coffee. “They’ll be asking for your picture soon,” Harry told her, and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.” There was a beat of silence, and then she looked down at the mug as she stirred it. “Think there’ll be pictures online?” she asked.
Harry bit his lip. They hadn’t exactly talked about going officially public. “Probably already are,” he told her honestly, and she looked at her coffee for a split second more before ginning up at him and announcing, “I wanna try a macaroon. Know of any good places, Mr. I’ve Been to Paris More Times Than You Can Count?” as she stood up.
Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head but sliding cash under the plate before letting her lead him back onto the street. “I never said I’ve been to Paris more times than you can count,” he told her, but she only gave him a nod and an expression that dripped with mock sarcasm.
“Sure, Styles,” she said.
“I didn’t!”
“It’s okay,” Olivia laughed. “You’re too cool for your small town Arizonian girlfriend.”
Harry grinned and kissed her on the cheek. “Got that right.”
Olivia scoffed, smacking him on the chest. “Hey!”
“Oh, hush,” Harry told her, sliding his fingers around hers and letting their hands swing between them as they walked. Olivia grinned, wiggling her eyebrows at him. “Guess you’ll have to buy me some macaroons to make up for that, huh?”
“I guess so,” Harry laughed.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
“It’s beautiful,” Olivia said as they stepped onto the platform of the Eiffel Tower.
“I know,” Harry murmured.
They walked up to the railing, looking out over the city. From his trips in the past, Harry had managed to time it perfectly so that they landed at the top of the tower right at sunset, and it really was quite the sight.
The sun was a deep orange color, with wisps of clouds pulling hues of gold and cotton candy pink from its rays. The water sparkled beneath them, lights from the city glittering like something out of a story book. Stars were beginning to twinkle into the sky, dotting the darkening atmosphere with pockets of stars and puffs of clouds.
“H?” Olivia said softly.
Harry glanced at her, not one bit sorry to miss the breathtaking sight in front of him in exchange for Oliva’s glow. She looked beautiful, haloed by the sunset and looking positively radiant in the soft light of the sun and stars. She gave him a little smile as their eyes met, and it warmed Harry’s heart more than the sun ever could.
“Thanks for doing this,” Olivia said.
Harry gave her a smile, nudging her gently. “‘f course.”
“Tour’s been amazing,” she told him. She breathed a laugh, shaking her head and looking out at the sun again. “God, I could do this forever,” she said, almost just to herself. “Me, too,” Harry replied honestly.
There was a beat of silence, and then -
“I love you, Olivia,” Harry whispered.
She went still, and Harry felt a pang of horrifying regret.
He remembered what she’d told him about her ex all in a rush; that they’d been engaged, that he’d broken her heart, that she was still terrified of getting her heartbroken, that she’d been hesitant to even date him, that she was still scared and he’d just told her he loved her.
She didn’t look him in the eye. “Maybe we should go back to the hotel,” she said. “We should probably get some sleep before tomorrow.” She turned around and walked back towards the elevator. “Rehearsals all day tomorrow, right?”
Harry blinked, fear almost freezing him in place before he warily stepped next to her and replied, “Yeah.” But seeing as his heart was stuck in his throat, his voice was almost inaudible. Olivia nodded, still not meeting his gaze. “Yeah,” she said.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
The elevator ride was more than awkward. She wouldn’t look at him, just stared at the numbers as they went down, down, down, mirroring Harry’s heart as the minutes ticked by and she didn’t say anything.
She walked him back to the hotel, and said something about taking a walk, and then disappeared. Harry tossed and turned in bed, his heart picking up speed every time he heard footsteps outside the door.
He didn’t sleep at all.
He chugged coffee the next morning as he waited for her, trying as hard as he could to hold all his panic in, but it was getting harder and harder to hold it as the sun rose and began to set and she still wasn’t back.
She didn’t show up for rehearsals.
Harry sang through as much of the set as he could without his lead guitarist, trying as hard as he could to focus on what he was doing without her. His brain was stuck in a constant loop of where is she, why would I do that, did I go to fast, where is she, why would I -
He missed his cue again.
They started Kiwi over.
Harry was telling himself to keep it together, but it felt absolutely impossible. He was absolutely out of his head with anxiety; not just about whether or not he’d gone too fast, but whether or not she’d come back before the show. He was hoping, praying she would, but he just didn’t know.
He knew that she was scared. He knew she was terrified, because her heart had gotten broken and could break again if Harry messed up. He just couldn’t help being so open - it was just in his nature to tell her how he felt.
Or maybe he just should have kept his bloody mouth shut.
He fucked up the lyrics again, and Sara suggested they move on.
Harry nodded and shook out his shoulders, telling himself not to think about it. And it worked, somewhat, so he managed to get through the rest of rehearsals without messing anything up too badly.
The feeling of hopelessness kicked in about two minutes before show time, when Harry was brushing his teeth for the third time in ten minutes just for something to take his mind off Olivia. The rest of the band was on stage, and the opening music was playing, and Harry had to force a smile to his face before running onto the still darkened stage.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
Harry heard guitar.
Her guitar.
His heart stopped, and he glanced behind him.
She was there, and she was smiling at him, and everything was okay.
The lights flashed, the beat dropped, Harry felt adrenaline rush through him.
He felt the music take a hold of him, felt everything melt away as Olivia’s glow surged through her guitar and into the awaiting air. He sang out the lyrics, pouring his heart into them, and had the sudden realization that he could bask in her glow for the rest of his life.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
They didn’t talk about it.
She didn’t even mention it, and neither did he, but Harry decided that he didn’t mind because nothing had changed. Everything was the way it was, like nothing had ever happened in the first place.
That’s what Harry told himself, at least.
But really, he wasn’t brave enough to talk about it. He wasn’t brave to admit that he still felt the same way, that he still loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He didn’t have the courage to tell her just how much he missed her, how much it broke him to be without her even just for a few hours.
He was scared how she’d react if she knew how much he depended on her. Being without her was pain, but loving her was the antidote. And really, he’d do anything to keep her, to keep her love, to keep the pain away and the antidote coming.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
Harry peppered kisses down Olivia’s neck, waiting until she giggled and tilted her head to kiss him back before stealing the remote from out of her hands and sliding to the other end of the couch with a victorious shout.
“Harry Edward Styles!” Olivia exclaimed, practically jumping on top of him to try and get it back. Harry just grinned, shaking his head at her as he raised the remote above his head and clicked The Notebook.
It was the second month of the three month break between the one city Asia leg and the European leg of tour, and as they waited for takeaway they were, as usual, arguing over which movie to watch over dinner.
“Haarrryyyy,” Olivia groaned. “We just watched this last week!”
“Exactly!” Harry replied with a grin. “Last week! Been ages, love. I need my weekly dose of Ryan Gosling.” Olivia pouted, reaching for the remote, but Harry kept it out of reach. “Well, I need my weekly dose of Hugh Grant!”
“Oh, please,” Harry replied. “Tall, British, curly-haired, gorgeous - you’ve got me right here!” Olivia sighed wistfully, shaking her head. “Sorry, Styles, but you just can’t compete with those blue eyes.”
Harry scoffed, picking up a M&M from the bowl in front of them and throwing it at her. “Right, well, that’s just rude.” Olivia bit back a grin and sat on his lap. She kissed him, and then said, “You know, usually, I’d say I like you ‘cause you’re cute and nice, but if you’re not going to let us watch an actual classic…”
Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head, kissing her on the nose before replying, “Ask anyone, Liv, Notting Hill’s great, but it’s no The Notebook.” Olivia pursed her lips. “You’re mean,” she said.
“Wow, quite the zinger,” Harry laughed.
“Pleeease?” Olivia dragged, giving him puppy dog eyes from under her lashes. “Pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top?” Harry huffed a sigh, glancing at the two bowls on the table, and then began, “How about -”
“Yes!” Olivia exclaimed, snatching the remote from his hands.
“No, no, no,” Harry said with a grin, taking the remote back. “No, you didn’t let me finish.” He took an M&M from one bowl and a Skittle from the other, putting one in each hand, and then put his hands behind his back and switched them around a few times.
Olivia just raised an eyebrow.
“Right, so you’re going to pick a hand,” Harry said, pulling his hands from behind his back with his fists closed, “and if it’s a Skittle, we watch the lad you’re cheating on me with. If not, I get to pick the movie.”
Olivia grinned. “Bold of you to assume you’re not the one I’m cheating on him with.”
Harry scoffed, standing up from the couch. “Right then, have fun with -”
“No!” Olivia yelped, pulling him back down. She laughed, shaking her head and trying to school her expression into a more serious one. “No, no, I’m sorry - what am I doing?” Harry rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself, and held out his hands again.
“Pick one.”
Olivia grimaced, looking at his closed fists warily. “The chocolate’s gonna be all melted…”
“Wouldn’t have been if you’d just chosen as soon as I asked.”
“Alright, alright,” Olivia laughed, tapping on his right fist.
He opened it, hoping for an M&M, but…
Alas.
“A-ha!” Olivia exclaimed, popping the Skittle into her mouth happily. “Get ready to swoon over Mr. Hugh Grant!” Harry muttered something about crooked teeth, but Olivia just shushed him as she clicked out of The Notebook and onto Notting Hill, curling up next to him as the movie began. Smiling, Harry kissed her forehead, and suddenly he wasn’t too upset about missing out on his favorite movie.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
Harry was head over heels for Olivia.
He really was.
He adored her enthusiasm, her love for new places, everything about her. More than anything, he was excited to finally be in Switzerland with her. She’d been looking forward to it since the beginning of tour, and he couldn’t wait to explore every inch of the country with her.
But not at half past midnight after a particularly long flight and brand new jet lag.
They’d just gotten off break, which meant Harry was still in that primary stage of not quite being used to the constantly fluctuating time zones. He was barely conscious, the warm, soft sheets of the bed in his awaiting hotel room seeming like heaven, his brain muddled with stale airplane air…
“It’s an hour, Harry,” Olivia was telling him in the car to the hotel.
“It’s one am, Liv.”
“It’s midnight,” Olivia sighed. “You think it’s midnight.”
“Please just wait a few hours,” Harry groaned, putting his head in his hands.
Olivia huffed, glancing around the car, and finally landed on the packet of Skittles she’d bought at the airport. “Okay, okay,” she said, sliding the remainder of the candies into her palm. There were only a few left, so she kept an orange one and a yellow one and put the rest back into the bag.
“Okay,” she repeated, putting a Skittle in each palm before putting her hands behind her back and switching them around a few times. Then she put her closed fists in front of her and said, “Pick one. Orange, right to the hotel. Yellow, right to the river.”
Harry sighed, tapping her left fist.
“Rigged,” Olivia said immediately at the sight of the orange Skittle, and that got a smile out of Harry, who grinned and shook his head. “We’ll go first thing tomorrow,” he told her, and Olivia groaned, eating both the Skittles and laying back against the door. “I’m gonna be bored to death in the hotel,” she grumbled.
Harry glared at her. “There’s this little thing called sleep, Liv.”
“Old man.”
“We’re the same age!” Harry exclaimed, and Olivia scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, well, you’re acting like a grandpa.” Harry managed to grin and replied, “I happen to know quite a few grandpas, so I will, in fact, take that as a compliment.”
“You’re impossible,” Olivia whined.
“And you need to sleep.”
“It’s not productive,” Olivia mumbled, smiling just a bit.
“‘s necessary, though,” Harry said.
Olivia grinned and kissed him. “Necessary is subjective.”
“Wake me up at six,” Harry told her, kissing her again before situating himself against the window to try and get some sleep. “Fine, old man,” Olivia sighed, pulling out a notebook and pencil. “Better wake up when I tell you to.”
“I will,” Harry said, not meaning it one bit.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
Harry woke up to the scent of coffee and citrusy perfume.
“Rise and shine, superstar!” Olivia sang, and Harry groaned, burrowing into the pillow.
Olivia sighed, bouncing onto the bed next to him and laying horizontally against his chest. “It’s seven,” she told him, “‘cause I’m nice. And I made coffee. I saw this really cute chocolate place on the drive over when you were sleeping, and they sell coffee, too, so we can get even more caffeine in our systems!”
“I can get more caffeine in my system,” Harry mumbled. “You sound like you’re high on crack.” Olivia giggled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She sat up and shook his shoulder. “Please?” she asked. “Pretty, pretty please?”
“Where’s the coffee?” Harry sighed.
“Wunderbar! Danke, liebling!” Olivia exclaimed, kissing him on the cheek.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
Harry sipped his second (third?) cup of coffee as they walked through the streets, still half asleep. Much to Olivia’s disappointment, nothing was really open besides a few cafes where they’d gotten a few pastries and their coffee.
So Olivia led Harry into the old town, or, as Olivia told him, the Altstadt. Harry walked behind her as she flitted from one plaque to the other, occasionally coming back to him to explain something she found particularly interesting.
“Did you know that Erasmus walked these streets?” she asked enthusiastically, and Harry raised an eyebrow. “I have no idea who that is, love.” She giggled, shaking her head, and told him, “Me neither.”
Harry rolled his eyes with a smile, following her around a corner and then nearly bumping into her. She’d stopped dead in her tracks, and Harry followed her gaze to a small fountain.
On top of the fountain, where Olivia was staring with her jaw dropped, was a monkey. It seemed to be made of bronze, looking particularly mischievous with a hat and what looked to be a bunch of grapes.
“I love him,” Olivia whispered.
“Jesus Christ,” Harry muttered, grinning despite himself.
He followed her to the edge of the fountain, where she went dramatically still, and Harry stood behind her and slid his arms around her waist. “Should get one of these for your backyard,” he said after a second of silence, and she burst out giggling.
“Can you imagine?” she laughed. “A giant bronze monkey in the middle of Arizona?”
Harry shrugged, kissing her cheek, and then grabbed her hand and spun her around in a twirl. “This is wonderful,” he told her, “but we should probably get back.” Olivia pouted, but didn’t argue, instead sighing and staring ruefully over her shoulder as they walked away.
“Craige,” she said.
“What?”
She grinned. “His name is Craige, and he’s the love of my life.”
“I’m jealous,” Harry laughed.
“Oh, don’t be,” she replied. “You just can’t compete with a dashing monkey like Craige.”
“Nobody can.”
She giggled and took his hand, swinging it as they walked. “Now you’re getting it!”
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
“You got to pick the movie last night, I should get to pick the music today,” Olivia argued in the car back to the hotel. Harry scoffed, shaking his head. “Erm - no, that’s not how that works. We both like Fleetwood, but your old hippie stuff isn’t -”
“Old hippie stuff!” Olivia shrieked. “Just for that you should let me pick the music!”
“Okay, okay,” Harry laughed, balancing the steering wheel with his knee as they came to a red light. He reached into the cup holders in front of them, where the remainders of their snack were sitting.
“A M&M,” he said as he put a Skittle in one hand and an M&M in the other, “and we’ll listen to Fleetwood. Skittle, and you can pick.” Olivia groaned. “Not this again.” Harry grinned, keeping an eye on the red light as he put his hands under the wheel and switched them around a few times. “C’mon, Liv,” he said, bringing his hands back up, “it’ll melt. Chop chop.”
Olivia sighed, tapping his left fist.
Harry grinned as Olivia whined nonsense, popping the M&M into his mouth and driving on when the light changed. “You don’t even mind Fleetwood Mac,” he told her as she chewed through the Skittle and flicked through to Rumours. “Yeah,” she murmured, “but it’s overplayed…”
“Oh, please,” Harry scoffed.
“Really, though, I hear it so much it’s lost its charm,” Olivia insisted, but she was giving a pretty passionate air drum impression, so her point was lost. Harry grinned, glancing at her before looking back at the road. “Should’ve gone into drumming. Would’ve given Sarah some competition.”
“Bet your ass I would have,” Olivia told him, and they both shouted the chorus as it played. Olivia collapsed in a fit of giggles as she completely messed up the lyrics and told him, “Wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me pick.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “You know the words, Liv. You’re awful at pretending, love.”
“No, I don’t!” Olivia exclaimed. “Swear to God, Styles - your choice in music just sucks. Our karaoke would have been so much better if you’d just let me pick.” Harry grinned, shaking his head. “That logic makes zero sense.”
“Logic is logic,” Olivia said with a shrug.
“‘s not logic,” Harry replied, “it’s nonsense. My bad.”
“You’re right. Your bad. Should let me pick the next song to make up for it.”
Harry shook his head, turning up the music as Second Hand News came on. “Very clever, Liv, but not today.” Olivia sighed, mumbling along with the song reluctantly as Harry screamed his lungs out.
She was grinning by the end of the song, peering out the window as the scenery flashed by and the music blasted. Harry smiled, and held her hand, and she laughed and called him a sap but kept their hands intertwined until they got back to the hotel.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
St. Jakobshalle was a success. Nerves had set in about playing Anna and Medicine for the first time, but both seemed to go over well with the fans. The crowd was spectacular, Olivia was golden, the show was fantastic.
He was on more of a high than ever after the curtain dropped, and drinks with the band and crew were in proper order, so Harry went out and had a ball. He danced and laughed and had the time of his life, thankfully without getting too pissed.
It was a little after one am when the car came around to pick them up, and Harry was about to get into the car with the others when Olivia tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey,” she said, “can we talk?” Harry nodded, telling the others he’d meet them at the hotel before following Olivia out the back and into the labyrinth of streets.
She grinned at him after a second, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Brilliant show, huh?”
“Brilliant,” Harry agreed, stealing a kiss. She giggled, grabbing his hand and swinging it between them as they walked. There was another beat of silence, and Harry cleared his throat. “This is… very pleasant, Liv, but, erm - anything in particular you wanted to talk about?”
“So glad you asked,” she said, just as they turned a corner, and Harry’s breath caught as he took in the scene in front of him. They’d come onto a little cobblestone street bordering the river - the Rhine, Harry was fairly certain - where a little stone bridge crossed the crystal blue water. There were small lanterns dotting strings between trees, and the moon was bright in the sky, surrounded by stars blinking at him cheerfully.
“Wow,” Harry murmured.
They walked up to the bridge, stopping just in the middle to look over the water to the horizon in the distance. Huge, castle-like houses dotted the hillsides, and there was a brightly lit Ferris wheel just visible behind a tower. Lights sparkled from inside houses and from the amusement park under the Ferris wheel, glittering like the stars peppering the inky night sky above them.
“It’s beautiful,” Harry said quietly.
“Yeah,” Olivia whispered.
“We’ll buy that house,” Harry told Olivia, pointing to a house on the water, “and come every summer.” The house was surrounded by a low stone wall and tufts of bright green trees, and painted a blue color that was bright even in the darkness. Dozens of windows were lit bright yellow, and smoke curled from its chimneys.
“We could fit both our families combined in that thing,” Olivia said, laughing a bit.
“We should. Or the band. Fancy a writing retreat here for three months?”
Olivia giggled, nudging his shoulder. “Reckon I do fancy a writing retreat,” she said, mocking his accent, and Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Christ,” he murmured with a grin. There was a beat of silence, and then Olivia cleared her throat.
“Hey, Harry?” she said softly.
“Hm?”
She smiled, stepping up on her tiptoes, and with her lips just centimetres from his, she whispered, “I love you, too.” She leaned forward, just a bit, and kissed him. And even though the sky was dark and the sun was nowhere to be seen, at that moment, everything was golden.
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
la fin 💜
hope you enjoyed!!!! if you wanna be a gem, tell me:
1. where you’d live if you could live anywhere in the whole wide world
2. your favorite animal
3. how you take your coffee
or!!!!
tell me anything!!! feedback is always much appreciated :)
if you want to read more about Olivia and Harry, click here!
and if you like what you see, you can find my masterlist here!
#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fanfic#harry styles fic#harry styles#harry styles x ofc#harry stylesxofc#harry styles one shot#harry styles oneshot#harry styles story#harry styles au#uhhhh#hugh grant#??#notting hill#lol idek anymore#m&ms#fl:a#golden#fics
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Alt-Maraunders snippets since I hadn’t written them in awhile! Warning for violence against Haven in the first one...yes, that should be a warning in it. Also warning for a lack of Pyro and Maddie, which is CRIMINAL
“Get out of here, Ms. Dastoor,” Shaw commanded. Verendi was coming, and they would be a match for him this time, very likely. They had adjusted their weaponry, their defenses. They were very close to almost making this a fair fight.
“I won’t leave you,” she said, and she might have protested further, if he hadn’t decided that he didn’t have the time for an argument. Instead he simply took one of her hands in his...and crushed it. She cried out in pain and shock as her bones were pulverized under her skin and her blood seeped out from between his fingers.
“If you do not,” he said calmly as he released her, “I will break much more of you. You will be dead at my hands before you fall into theirs.”
This time, she ran. He knew she would be safer for it---and, he hoped, smarter, like an animal that has stepped once into a trap and now knows to avoid them.
Then again, Shaw also knew what it was to be an old dog that couldn’t seem to get the hang of new tricks.
***
“Hello, Claudine,” said Haven as the other woman lifted the wreckage easily from overtop her, as though this were a mere social call.
“Thank you so much for the assistance, I do appreciate it.”
Claudine, standing over Haven, put her hands on her vest-accentuated waist and smirked, just a little, though not unkindly at all, and asked,
“Like the view?”
“I’m very pleased for the rescue, Claudine,” said Haven, taking Claudine’s offered hand as the latter knelt down to offer it.
“Come on, I know you can’t be that obtuse,” Claudine said in an indulgent tone, pulling her up, “I know for a fact you’re not. You’re a lot LESS obtuse than the average person. We’ve had this discussion.”
“I suppose it’s not that I do not see it,” Haven replied, getting her footing, “Only that I do not recognize it for what it is, just as I may see a flower but not be able to identify its exact taxonomy.”
“What you mean is, you’re not used to a woman hitting on you, so even when you pick it up you don’t realize what it really is,” Claudine took her arm, though only to help her pick her way over the debris.
“I suppose. But I think it’s because I also know it’s not sincere from you. You’re...gauging me, I think, to see what I do and don’t perceive, and what I do and don’t react to. What would be the scientific term, responding to stimulus?”
“True, I know you’re not going to turn around and reciprocate, and that is probably why I do it.”
“That’s interesting, Claudine. Tell me, what do you do when you do want someone to reciprocate?”
“...you know, I’m still trying to work that out myself.”
***
"I’m sorry, okay?!” Shinobi ejected, throwing his arms out to the sides.
“Are you?” Mindmeld asked coldly, her arms crossed over her chest, neither turning to look at him nor getting up from the luxurious couch,
“Or are you sorry for how I’m getting back at you now?”
She didn’t get an answer, just a whimper.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, and this time she did turn to look at him, “I’m gonna keep doing it AND doing your dad.”
“Aw come on,” he whined, looking like a puppy in the rain. Good.
“I am,” she said, “With Sebastian.”
**
“Now, now, Red...I thought all bygones were bygones now?” Sebastian mocked as the young martial artist came at him,
“Everything behind us now in this beautiful mutant paradise?”
“That means nothing to me!” Red Lotus continued his strikes, trying to get a hit on Shaw’s pressure points, something his kinetic absorption had not defended him from in the past,
“This is about MY FAMILY!”
Sebastian smiled as he caught the leaping assailant by the throat,
“So nice to hear someone sees things my way.”
He lifted poor Red Lotus off the ground, his feet dangling in the air,
“I quite agree with you, young Paul. Species loyalty is something I only espouse under duress, myself. Safety in numbers, I understand, but in an ideal situation, a “mutant identity” should be as asinine as a community based on eye color. But family loyalty...while it also makes little logical sense to me to align oneself based on an accident of blood, it was a weakness I can...understand. But I must ask---you realize, of course, your desire for vengeance is complicated by the issue of resurrection? That’s the only reason I don’t bother killing you now---you’d be back in my hair tomorrow anyway.”
“There are worse things,” Red Lotus choked out, hate filling his eyes, “Than death.
Again, Sebastian smiled,
"That’s the spirit.”
***
The Serpent Society girls and Skein were not the only friends that Mindmeld had made on Krakoa. Another was Regan Wyngarde, Lady Mastermind. She was the best kind of friend---the kind that was terrible, just like Mindmeld herself, and understood where they stood. That is, all fun, no loyalty. Each knew other would fuck each over in a second for shoes and leave the other the second it looked like there was trouble. Mindmeld comfortable with that. It was the same reason she was more comfortable with Sebastian than his son.
And speaking of his son...
“Your stupid slutty boyfriend is wearing my costume!” Regan shouted in outrage.
“Wow, he fits?” Mindmeld replied in her typical can’t-be-shocked-tone, “That skinny bitch.”
***
“So, your sister is safe? There is no one I have to trounce in her honor?” Fabian asked.
He and Monsoon had at last made it back to Krakoa after their missions. Monsoon had been incessantly concerned about the welfare of his older sister throughout, and Fabian did understand that---he was a gentleman himself, and if he’d HAD a sister WORTH defending he’d certainly have looked out for her too--though he thought at times that Monsoon should look out for him, Fabian, more. Not that LORD CORTEZ, THE SUPREME MUTANT, needed any protection, just, it was the principle of the thing!
“Yes, it seems all’s well,” Monsoon replied, “I was right to be concerned, I think---two of the crew are, erm. extremely rowdy fellows, maybe not BAD, but....but...”
“But Haven is a lady,” Fabian finished.
“Yes. But, the third, I think he was in charge---I got that impression, anyway---he was very serious. Older. Very respectable. I’m sure Radha was fine with him there to supervise things.”
“Who were these two miscreants?”
“Shinobi Shaw and Pyro, St. John Allerdyce...do you know them?”
“That I do! Shinobi is absolutely a danger to a woman’s virture, but Pyro ah...is not. Who do I have thank for keeping that fop in line, though?”
“His father, Sebastia---what?”
Fabian was staring at Monsoon in PURE HORROR .
***
“Wait, Shinobi,” said Haven, “I think I had better tell your father.”
“What?” said Shinobi, then considered, “Oh, yeah...yeah. He’d probably um, take it better than you.”
“I’m sorry, Shinobi,” Haven said gravidly and sincerely.
“What?”
“Shinobi, I...I would never deliberately pry or snoop. But I...I was born with a sort of sensitivity. It’s not a mutation, I am just...attuned to others. And I...can feel when something is amiss. When someone has been hurt.”
“What are you saying?” Shinobi’s thin brows furrowed. His voice was defensive, his posture aggressive. He took a step forward.
“I am saying,” said Haven, calm as ever, her large dark eyes gentle, “That if there is ever something you wish to tell, but are hesitant and ashamed...don’t be. I have probably already guessed it. And I would never, could never, look down on your for it.”
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"You Have Lost Everything!"
Monday 2nd November 2020
Hello again everyone! Hope you're all having a good week, regardless of the new lockdown! It's been a bit of manic week for me as I don't know whether I'm coming or going with my own personal issues, but thankfully everything seems to be a bit more clearer now. Anyhow, let's jump right into Monday's episode. The previous episode ended on such a big cliff-hanger, I'm looking forward to seeing what this episode has in store.
From what I can tell, the episode starts the day after the events of the poker game. Martin and Ruby are discussing what happened. Does Martin perhaps feel guilty? He probably shouldn't have left his friend while he was so vulnerable and weak. But I love the fact that something doesn't fit right with Martin, he thinks that Suki must've known about Kush's gambling problem, otherwise she never would've toyed with him the way she did. Ruby plays dumb and and mentions that Suki only got lucky and that Kush should've been more careful. To me, it's like they're on two different sides, Ruby is wanting to ruin the Slaters, while Martin is just wanting peace, but something tells me Martin is going to flip when he finds out his wife is behind it, possibly causing his children to be homeless.
Meanwhile, at the Slaters - everyone appears to be gathering their things together in attempt to come up with some money. They're trying to sell their belongings to be able to afford a deposit for another place to live. Kush tries to console them telling them he's going to try and sort it. But Kat, Stacey and Jean don't have much hope. Kat declares that Kush is a gambling addict, to which he is still in denial. I do fear for the Slaters, I'd hate to see them down on their luck. Kush promises to try and fix his terrible mistake as Kat receives a phone call about another cleaning job, it may be rubbish but it seems they have no choice. They need all the money they can get right now.
At Jack's, Denise has come round to collect the rest of her things only to discover that Jack has already gathered her things in a box for her. They have a little quick discussion and Jack applauds Denise for taking Raymond in and states that he's lucky to have her. Even though they have sadly decided to go their separate ways, you can see they still care deeply for each other. Jack asks whether Phil has kept or word and whether she has heard from Ellie, Denise confirms that Ellie has simply disappeared. Phil has kept to his word for the time being so it would seem, but how long will it be until that changes?! Suddenly, Isaac calls Denise - we can heard crying in the back ground and Isaac is calling for Denise for help as Raymond is crying. It's going to take a long time for young Raymond to settle, but hopefully in time he'll start to enjoy his new family home.
On the Square, Honey is getting herself ready to meet with the police officer who is supporting her after her horrific ordeal. Jay approaches her and she asks whether they'll be to meet in the park later on, Honey doesn't feel quite ready to tell Billy what has happened, she certainly doesn't want the children finding out. As Jay and Honey agree to meet each other later on, Honey leaves to go and see the police officer, only as she leaves Billy approaches Jay and starts asking questions on who Honey is seeing. He states the fact that by the look of what the lady is wearing, it could either be an estate agent or police. He asks Jay what's going on but Jay is reluctant to say anything. But as Billy turns to ask Honey herself, Jay stops him in his tracks and instructs him to get inside, how is he going to find the words to explain what's happened to Honey?!
In the Cafe, Kheerat has joined his Mum, she appears to be gloating after her big win the previous night. As Kush walks in, he sheepishly approaches the Panesar's and asks whether they can have a quick word. Suki, at first, doesn't seem interested. She states that a bet is a bet, but Kush tries to plead to her and explains if it was just him, he would've moved out by the weekend, but there are children involved here, she needs to take them into consideration also. She agrees to hear him out and makes a slight dig if he's ready for another poker game, even though he's got nothing left to gamble. Kush begs her to give him a few more days just to scrape some money together, but Suki points out he can barely afford to pay the current month's rent. She even think's she's doing him a favour - Erm, how?! - Kush sees that his pleas are going on deaf ears, as he walks out slowly, Kheerat compliments his Mother on how clever she is. He makes an interesting statement, she has never won a poker game in her life and somehow she's managed to swindle Kush into losing their house. Can Kheerat smell a rat? I really don't think it's going to be long until Kheerat stands up to his Mum. He appears to be the only decent one out of the family and you can see he doesn't agree to the decisions his Mum has made - Jags, the Slaters, who is going to be her next victim and what is it going to take for him to finally break?!
Haha! Sorry but I have to mention Rainie and Stuart again, out of all of this doom and gloom happening with multiple families at the minute, it's just nice to see Rainie and Stuart enjoying married life. It's just that little bit of comedy that we need. Rainie's emotions are all over the place, considering she's pregnant. I just loved her outburst about the make-up artist using her lippy on a corpse. Of course, Stuart is trying his absolute best to support his wife, but it looks like she's driving him round the bend with her mood swings. I personally think they make a brilliant couple, they bounce off each other really well. What do you guys think? What is you opinion of Stuart and Rainie being together?
At the park, Honey is waiting patiently for Jay, she looks up and notices Jay is approaching with Billy following along behind. She greets him politely, making very little small talk as it's clear she doesn't want him knowing anything. But as Billy begins to speak and apologises to her, she realises that Jay has told him everything. When Billy asks what the police have said, she confirms that Paul had been arrested and she's waiting on hearing the results to confirm whether she has been sexually assaulted or not. She also informed them that the police had found the video on his phone of her lying in the alleyway. Billy is horrified to learn what Paul has done, he can't seem to keep his rage to himself and announces he's going to kill him, but Honey stops him in his tracks and claims that his reaction is the reason why she didn't want him knowing, because she knew he'd respond in that way. She points to Jay and mentions the fact that Jay is half his age and has been brilliant towards her, shown her every bit of support he can. As Billy walks away, Jay confides in Honey that he was trying to the right thing, he felt if he told Billy, it would give Honey that extra bit of support, but Honey explains that Billy does mean well, but he will never change his ways. Is anyone else sensing there could be a bit of romance on the cards for Jay and Honey? They're spending a lot of time together recently, I mean, of course Jay is trying to be there for Honey during her horrific ordeal, but could something grow between the pair and could they potentially end up falling for one another?!
Ooooh the next scene grabbed my attention straight away. It seems really interesting. Jean is on the Square, announcing to her neighbours what has happen to her family in recent events. Informing them that Suki is making them homeless, throwing them out on the street within a week. It looks as if she either pleading for help or she's trying to get the community on her side. She tries to explain to her friends and neighbours that the Panesar's are all out to get them, But before she can make anymore statements, Suki stops her in the path. Informing everyone that it was Kush who betted their house away, to which Jean responds (the truth) the she played him! Ooooo I do hope it'll all come out, everyone will see how dirty Suki is! Kheerat will disown his Mother, Martin will blame Ruby for causing his children to go homeless. Ooooh it's all going to kick off I can see it coming!! It may take a bit of time for it to come to light, and honestly I can't wait to see the reaction of people when it does! Meanwhile, as Jean is out on the Square with her neighbours, Martin decides to visit Kush at home. At first, Kush doesn't want to hear what he's got to say, as he's had an earful from everyone else. But Martin is just being the best friend he can be and has simply just come round to see how he was doing. Something tells me that he kind of blames himself as he was the one who introduced Kush to poker, but Kush reassures him that he is not to blame. Kush explains that before poker he used the gyms to get away and get rid of all the anger and kind of give himself some breathing space, some head space, but since the lockdown and the gyms being closed, he's felt lost and it turns out her turned to poker to relive that feeling of getting away from everything. Kush explains to his friend that he will sort things out, he considers even giving his Mum a call, but Martin says that he will be able to help him, but the first thing Kush needs to do is to admit that he's an addict, as that would be the first step to take control of the situation.
Out on the Square, Jack has delivered Denise's things to her, as she thanks him for dropping it off, Jack informs her that he's done a bit of research on Ellie during recent events and he tells her that 4 of her properties were raided, and it just so happens that Phil managed to get Raymond away on the same day. Jack seems think there is a coincidence, but Denise doesn't want to know anymore. As far as she's concerned, her son is home where his belongs and he's safe. It's understandable why Jack is trying to look out for her, I get that he's concerned about Phil, but Phil does still have a right to see his son, he is Raymond's Dad after all and I don't believe he would ever put Raymond in danger. Phil may have a bit of a reputation as being a hard man, but the one thing he would never let come to harm is his family, and I think that should be something that both Denise and Jack need to remember.
Am I right in thinking that in the next scene, Honey confirms to Jay that there was no sign of any sexual assault?! Maybe Jay chased Paul off before he could go through with his vile attack, which means Jay pretty much saved Honey. Honey discusses how Billy must be in the pub right now, downing his third pint in a way of dealing with the news he's been given. Jay informs her not to worry about Billy, she needs to focus on herself and try and get better. He politely says goodbye to her before leaving for work, BUT just around the corner, we see a very shaky hand holding a brick. Oh no, Billy! He's hiding behind a wall as he watches Paul leave his house - so it looks as if he's been let out on bail - Billy watches as he walks away and slowly begins to follow him with the brick in the hand, but before he can do any damage, Jay rushes to stop him. Jay tells him this is not the way to be helping Honey. I do feel sorry for Billy during this conversation, for him, it's like the past is repeating itself. He explains to Jay that the same thing happened to Little Mo after they got married, fans will remember that during one particular episode, Little Mo was left alone in the Queen Vic cleaning up and someone broke in and sexually assaulted her, all that could be heard were screams coming from the hall. He admits to Jay that he couldn't support Little Mo through her ordeal and he fears he won't be able to do the same for Honey, so instead he decides he needs to act as the man he should be. But Jay reassures him that beating the guy up won't make up for what happened to Little Mo, and it won't make up what's happened to Honey. It seems that Jay's words hit home and Billy eventually drops the brick.
Back with the comedy duo, Stuart and Rainie. After Rainie lashing out on their beautician, Stuart has been left to do the make-up for the deceased. I think it's brilliant how he walks in covered in make-up, and even stating that the body he was working on was smiling at him every time he walked around the room, which clearly made him feel uneasy. As they're discussing advertising for a beautician, Tiffany is informing Keegan (two characters we haven't seen for a long time!) that she's trying to find a job to save up to pay for Keegan owning his own sandwich stall on the market. It looks as if Rainie overhears their conversation and asks Tiffany whether she does make-up, it's then that Tiffany confirms she's almost a qualified beautician. Something tells me that Rainie is going to offer the job to Tiffany, BUT will Tiffany accept? For some reason, I can't see Tiffany working in an undertakers, but who knows? If she's desperate for the money, she might grab the opportunity with both hands! Meanwhile, Martin finds Ruby in Walford East and confides in her that he feels he's to blame for Kush's gambling addiction. He informs her that Kush is convinced that someone set him up, to which Ruby once again, plays dumb. She tries to console her husband and tells him that he's trying to be the good friend, which Kush really deserves right now. Oh and isn't it a coincidence that while they're having this conversation, Suki just happens to be walking around the restaurant. Martin clocks to her presence and as she walks past him, he makes the very snide remark that if she actually did play him, then she is just disgusting! It looks as if those words hit Ruby hard, is she seeing that this is also hurting her husband as much as it is hurting the Slater family?! Could she be feeling some form of guilt? Will it end up eating her up and will she come clean to her husband?!
At the Panesar's office, Stacey is cleaning out her desk and belongings. As she mentions to Kheerat that she'll leaving as she'll probably have no where to live in the next couple of days, she disrespects his Mum right in front of him. But Stacey can see right through Kheerat, she knows he doesn't approve of his Mum's actions and she tells him to tell that he doesn't agree. Suddenly Suki walks through the door and Stacey makes herself scarce. Kheerat tries to persuade his Mum to let the Slater's stay, he noticed that the shop was quiet all afternoon. If her actions to what she's done to the Slater's start to make an affect on the community, no one will want nothing from them and they will struggle with their businesses. Kheerat tells her that if all goes to pot she'll have to start working for him. Suki then possibly realises that her son has a point and changes her mind and announces that the Slaters can stay, under one condition, their rent goes up! So once again, they're playing to her tune again! How many times has she put the rent up for the Slater's alone? Two, three times? She assures her son that she always gets what she wants, one way or another! Ooooo I do hope that one day Suki will get her comeuppance, whether it be from the Square or from her own children.
Back at the club, Jack looks like he's called a meeting with Callum. Callum asks whether he wants information on Phil then he really isn't interested. But something doesn't sit right with Jack, he brings up the topic about Ellie's properties being raided and stating the fact it was the day that Phil got Raymond back. Callum comes up with the excuse that he heard something being mentioned in a night club and tries to explain that he no idea that the property was Ellie's! I kind of feel like Callum is keeping his word to the Mitchell's. Now he's been made one of the family, he can't turn his back on them because it would mean turning his back on Ben also. Jack informs Callum that even though Denise is struggling with Raymond, she is trying her absolute best to support the young boy. He warns him that if he does anything to ruin it for her, then there will be hell to pay!
The last scene of this episode, Kush is seen sat alone in the house, we see him react as he heard the front door opening and closing. It looks as if he's hoping it'll be Kat, but Stacey appears and informs him that she's gone out for a drink with some unknown security guard. Kush looks absolutely devastated and distraught. It's becoming clear to him that he has made things incredibly worse, not just for his family but for his relationship with Kat also. As Stacey yells at him, he puts his hands to his ears, trying to block it all out until the issue becomes louder and louder and he yells at the top of his voice "I'm an addict!" - He finally admits it, even though the truth is most likely ripping him apart inside. Stacey only wishes he could've admitted it earlier, she tells him that Alfie lied to Kat repeatedly and he was supposed to be the good one. But now he's not just lost the house, he has lost everything!
How in the world is Kush going to be able to fix things? How is he going to be able to make it up to Kat and the rest of the family? I just want to thank you guys for reading, I'll be back very soon with another post! Enjoy the rest of your day folks! Please feel free to message me on your thoughts and opinions on what's currently happening in the soap, I'd love to hear from you! Love you all xXx
#eastenders#kushkazemi#staceyslater#jeanslater#katslater#martinfowler#rubyallen#suki panesar#kheerat panesar#honeymitchell#jaybrown#billymitchell#denisefox#jackbranning#stuarthighway#rainiecross#callumhighway#tiffanybutcher#keeganbaker
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Remeber When I Moved In You
AO3 link
Thanks to @waywren For Beta and Squee
The thing about Adam Young, on That day especially, was that he was an eleven year old human boy, who knew everything. But, for the most part, he knew everything the way an eleven year old human knows things. Oh, he was a very bright human, definitely a wise one, but still, an eleven year old human boy. He rather had to be, for it all to work out as it did. So while he may have known, in the part of him that knew everything, that Angels weren’t at all like people, he also knew, in the part of him that was doing the driving, that Angels were basically people with wings. So when his power was building Aziraphale’s new body, his mind had a bit of an influence about what went into a body. Aziraphale likely would have taken better stock of himself, but there were Horsemen, and this surprisingly nice young anti-christ, and he just had other things on his mind. When you are pretty sure you are about to die, you generally don’t take much time to consider if you’ve gotten your tie right.
On the bus ride home Aziraphale’s mind was caught entirely in the last prophecy, and his body, left to its own devices, was enacting a slow motion collapse into the demon next to him. He only became aware of this when Crowley moved his arm out from under him. Their entwined hands had been so nice, but he guessed that was a bit much to ask for the whole way home.
“Oh dear, so sorry…” he began. Crowley continued to brood out the window.
“You should be, my bloody arms gone to sleep.” He sounded gruff but he wrapped the “sleepy” appendage around the angel and pulled him in against his side. Aziraphale sighed and leaned in. The ride to London passed then, in a churning mixture of dread, hope and a glimpse at a new kind of profound comfort.
Crowley opened the door to his flat and immediately sauntered in, leaving Aziraphale to close the door behind himself. It could have felt astonishingly rude, just leaving a guest to themselves without any invitation to come further, but the angel knew it was the opposite. You don’t show a man around a place he already belongs in, and despite hardly ever having been there before, Aziraphale belonged in the flat, because it was Crowley’s and from this point on, they each belonged wherever the other was. That there was nothing of him in it didn’t much signify, there was hardly anything of Crowley in it either, but there was Crowley himself, and that was all that mattered. They were, indeed, their own side. Heaven and Hell and them. The Earth, he supposed. That had been what it had been about, saving the earth, and all the humans, and all the wonderful complexity. And each other, if they were very very lucky.
Crowley came back from the kitchen with two glasses and a rather small bottle.
“I’ve got a Malivoire Shiraz I’ve been saving,” he wiggled the bottle “frozen on the vine and everything.” It was a sweet gesture, though Aziraphale knew better than to say so just at the moment. Crowley had never shared his sweet tooth, so the bottle could only have been acquired with him in mind. He smiled softly. “That sounds lovely.” Crowley pulled out the slightly less ornate chair from the corner for Aziraphale before draping himself bonelessly across his ridiculous throne. Which was just fine as that chair was facing away from the rather interesting statue with implications the angel was not quite ready to contemplate. The bottle continued to pour for an unreasonable amount of time, given its tiny size, but it’s not as if either of them were worried about misused power at this point.
“I just thought...,” Aziraphale started, stopped, blinked, and began again, “I just thought, which one is Mr. Young’s real son, do you think?” Crowley was staring at him, pupils almost round in the dim light. It seemed to take the question a moment to percolate its way through the layer of wine and into his consciousness.
“Oh, erm, our Warlock, I suppose. Had a bit of the look to him.”
“Ah, yes. Then what of the Amearican diplomat’s son?”
Crowley thought about the fire. He thought about the timing. He thought about telling Aziraphale about those things. Then he thought about Sister Mary Loquacious.
“Adopted out, I expect. Records would have been lost in the fire,” he said, glad to have a plausible answer that he was willing to say aloud, and might even be true, for all he knew.
“I expect so, yes,” the angel gave a relieved sigh. “It’s amazing the Youngs never noticed their son had the wrong sort of face,” he mused. Then he sat bolt upright and looked at Crowley, who was staring back at him with wide eyes.
“Do you think?”
“She couldn’t mean!”
“That cunning old witch,” Crowley breathed.
“What good will it do to endure each other’s torments, though?”
“Hastur wasn’t going on about torments when I escaped him,” Crowley replied. “And he really could have done.They are kind of our thing after all, and he’s considered an artist. Nah, he was much more direct, right on to the killing. I imagine your lot are feeling about the same.”
“Yes, well, as you say, we don’t much go in for tormenting Upstairs.” Crowley thought about who it was that had tossed them all in their pit, and wanted to disagree, but didn’t see the point in bringing it up now.
“And what’s the only thing that can kill a demon?” Crowley was beginning to get excited.
“Holy items… Oh Yes, I see!” Aziraphael jumped up. Crowley held up a finger.
“Right. Theory is all well and good, but in practice. I mean how? How do we switch?”
“Possession.” The angel responded instantly. “Our corporeal vessels are basically bodies we are inhabiting, they aren’t really all that different. We could make the same modifications to any body if we were sole inhabitant.”
“There’s a catch, though. We are going to have to be convincing. They’ve known us for as long as we’ve existed, more or less. We have to convince them we’re who we appear to be. Do it so well they don’t try to look past the surface.”
“Darling,” Aziraphale, excited, drunk, and feeling very daring, patted the demon’s cheek. “I hardly think anyone knows either of us half so well as we know each other by now.”
For a task so serious, Crowley laughed more in the next few hours than he had in the previous few centuries. Almost as soon as they had worked out how to possess each other’s bodies, Aziraphale had fallen flat on his arse when he misjudged the length of his new stride. Crowley laughed at him right up until he knocked over a vase turning around too close to a table, and forgetting that his own arse was several inches lower, and rather fuller than he was accustomed to. Aziraphale also kept doing this thing with his, well Crowley’s, face.
“What on earth are you doing? I absolutely do NOT go around looking like that!”
“I’m trying to get your eyes to focus! Everything is either blurry or glowing.”
“Yeah, sorry that’s just what the world looks like with snake eyes. The glowing is either the UV or infrared.” Cowley held out the dark glasses he’d left on the table earlier. “You’ll find these a great help, my dear boy.[^1]Specially enchanted.” Aziraphale almost dropped the glasses trying to grab them, his face suddenly flaming. Crowley cocked his head. “Did I not get the voice right? Lay it on too thick?”
“No, err, nahh,” the angel stammered a bit before falling into the looser cadence of Crowley’s speech. “Nahh, you had it. Took me by s’prise is all. This what I always look like to you? With the glowing?”
Crowley squirmed a bit, and found Aziraphale’s body much harder to squirm in. “Well, yes, it has to do with the spectrums you see. You are very warm, and white is very reflective in ultraviolet. Put on the glasses, do, they’ll make everything right.” Crowley found he was almost more uncomfortable having his cursed eyes seen through than seen. From the outside they looked odd, but several angels had odd eyes, too. From inside it was much clearer just how much of a mark of the animal they were, and much as he didn’t like Aziraphale thinking of them at all, and especially like that, he needed to be sure the angel understood what he’d be walkinging into. “Remember that lots of them down there will be like that. Have weird eyes, or other senses. Never assume they can’t be watching, even if you can’t see them or feel them.”
“They will only see what we mean them to see,” Aziraphale declared, attempting to sashay around the room in Crowley’s distracting loose limbed fashion. He felt the limbs of the corporation were, in fact, looser than he was accustomed to, but that still did not account for how very much Crowley tended to sway his ass.
“Oh come off it, I do not shimmy my butt that much!” the demon protested.
“You most certainly do!”
“I never did!”
“You wiggle more that shape than as a snake!” Azirapale countered, before thinking that he might not want to admit, at quite this juncture, exactly how much of his attention he’d devoted to watching that particular wiggle.
“You might see better, if you recall that my body does need to blink from time to time,” he deflected. Crowley made exaggerated slow cat blinks back at him and folded his hands primly in his lap. Aziraphale tried to duplicate one of Crowley’s many sneers in response, then tested a few others. They all felt strange.
“I have no idea what you are trying to do with my face angel, but I’m sure I don’t ever do that. I think you are trying to do is this,” Crowley’s sneer looked very little like itself on Aziraphale’s face.
“I’ve been watching your face make that expression for 6,000 years, doing it with mine is hardly going to help. It’s hard to tell what I’m doing from this side of the face!”
“Very well, my dear,” Crowley miracled up a pair of mirrors for them to test their faces with. It was a bit hard to keep focus though, when Aziraphale kept making his face do such strange things. He caught a glimpse of himself in the other mirror then, watching the angel’s japes and was struck by the thought that he, perhaps, had seen that particular look on this face when the proper occupant was in it. Which was a thought full of possibilities so rich he found himself even more determined to survive.
“Think I’ve got your number now,” Aziraphale crowed. “Maybe I should splash around a bit, see how many of them I can catch?” The expression he gave should have been ridiculous. A not-quite-a-smile that turned sinister somewhere around the eyes. It should have been impossible to make something so cute and rabbit-like threatening. It was absolutely terrifying.
“Yes well,” Crowley adjusted his cuffs.[^2]
“Let’s not go too far, hmm? We want them scared into rationality, not out of it.” He thought he really was getting the hang of the beatific smile.
If faces had been a round of silly buggers, walking for more than a few steps was a combination of hilarious and horrifying that Crowley, for one, was not eager to repeat. They had both fallen flat more than a few times due to floors that were either too close or too far away. Feet were Entirely the Wrong Sizes. Aziraphale persisted in swinging his hips around in a fashion that the demon felt was well into parody.[^3]
The attempt at stairs would have taken years off Crowley’s life, if he’d had a definite lifespan. Aziraphale came down too hard on the first step, misjudging his leg, and Crowley missed his grab at him, because his arm had about 2 less inches than he expected. A quick miracle was all that saved him from real injury. The Angel shouting “Oh Fuck” on the way down was a further distraction.
“Didn’t know you used profanity like that, Angel” Crowley jibed to cover his reaction at watching Aziraphale take any kind of fall.
“There is nothing profane about the act of love in the right context, my dear,” Aziraphale tried to project cool, but had been shocked into his own speech patterns, which could get them both killed if he didn’t watch it. Crowley’s mind was eating its own tail stuck on the implications he might draw from the casual yet firm conviction in the angel’s tone on that matter.
“Then why use it as a curse, my dear,” he found his mouth said with very little input from the higher brain functions.
“Well, ‘s just what you say, ‘innit,” Aziraphale forced himself back into Crowley’s speech patterns.
They retreated back to flat surfaces for a bit longer after that. A few plants and objects d’art paid the price of Aziraphale trying to teach the gavotte as an exercise in limb usage. They didn’t even make it to the kissing part, which was both a relief and a vexation.
Still, by the time false dawn was pearling the sky, they were as good a pair of duplicates as they could make themselves, and that was very good indeed. Aziraphale looked at the large clear puddle that still marked a corner of the flat Crowley had been avoiding. “Right. One last test then, and we’ll know this rubbish will actually work.” He summoned up a towel and bucket and headed over.
“Do start with the left hand, darling, I’m rather partial to the right,” Crowley instructed, trying to sound flippant, but not quite hitting the mark. Aziraphale repeated to himself that the corporations had no inherent connections to the beings who habitually wore them. What mattered was that he was an angel, and holy water was his to hold and use. It would not harm this body so long as he was its sole occupant. He reached out, left hand first though that was surely unnecessary, and began to use the towel to clean up the mess that looked like pure clear water, and had once been a demon. It felt no different than Holy Water ever did, and he turned to show Crowley his undamaged hand. “Right as rain,” he said. “Let’s go give them heaven.”
Footnotes
[^1]: It had not occurred to Aziraphale that he used that particular endearment with Crowley often enough for Crowley to have picked it up that much, and he was suddenly VERY glad Crowley, having slept through the Victorian era, didn’t know the full connotations of the phrase, or perhaps very not glad. It was honestly rather confusing.
[^2]: No wonder Aziraphale was always fussing with his clothes, with this many layers, even perfectly tailored clothes seemed to always have some bit out of place.
[^3]: In fact, the hip swinging was barely into the believable range. It was difficult, even in Crowley’s skin, to lead with his hips quite like that, though the indecent tightness of the trousers helped. It was hard not to wiggle just to try to take a step.
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Please Remember Me: Chapter 5
I'm so sorry...
"Of?"
What has happened to you since...
"..."
I didn't mean--
"Please. Just stop."
...
"I haven't had a good night's sleep since I was nine years old. And that was ten years ago"
...
"How did you expect me to react? To find out that all along I've been talking to a painting. A painting in a decade-old gallery of work."
Ib...
"And how do you even know my name? I don't remember anything that happened in this Fabricated World."
Something must've happened to your memory, then.
"What?"
It's the only explanation I have. For what has happened.
"You're not making any sense."
It's the most sensible answer I can come up with.
"Wait, you mean--?"
I do not know myself what has happened.
"..."
I only remember what happened here, on this side of the world.
"So then... You don't remember what's happened to me?"
We separated when my rose was destroyed.
"Destroyed?..."
Yes.
"I..."
You do not need to blame yourself.
"..."
What has happened has happened. We cannot change it.
"But... I was so rude..."
...
"How can-- how can you forgive me? When all I did just now was yell and scream?"
It's to be expected when you encounter something as unfamiliar as this.
"Point taken."
Ib lay in the hospital bed, with only the television on a corny soap opera and the heartrate monitor for company. To say that she felt like utter bull was the understatement of the century, if not the millenium. She had collapsed in front of her best friend, who not only had to drive her to the hospital, but was also paying for her hospital stay as well. Out of her own pocket, and with the money that she had earned all by herself. What had she done to deserve a friend like Karen? What had she done other than be an additional load that her friend didn't need?
"..."
She could hear the nurses on the other side of the door talking, with someone familiar with her.
"Yes, she's over here. Allow me, please,"
The sound of the door unlocking joined the company of the television and the heart monitor.
"Ib!" exclaimed the voice of her mother. "What happened?!"
Yep. Go figure that Karen had called her parents after this fainting episode. Even her father, bless his heart, was worried sick.
"Oh my goodness, Ib," her father exclaimed. "What on earth happened?"
How could she explain, she wondered. What had happened. That she fainted after wandering off, entered a state of catatonia, and talked to a living painting. Yep. That would go over so well with her parents, who already had enough to deal with courtesy of her own insomnia.
"Truth be told, I have no idea myself."
Not entirely true, but it gave her some leeway until she could find a proper explanation.
Which could possibly be forever.
"Karen called us as soon as she came here," her mother said.
"Really, Ib. You're lucky you weren't alone when you passed out," her father added.
Harsh words, Ib knew, but words she needed to hear at the time being.
"Where is... Karen?" Ib rasped out.
"She's downstairs in the lobby," her mother answered. "You scared her quite a bit. And us by extension."
She shouldn't be surprised. What sane person wouldn't freak out after seeing someone pass out right in front of them. Landing on hard pavement, no less. She was lucky it was smooth flooring and not the rough asphalt of the road. Or the porous concrete of the sidewalk. She was incredibly lucky (or unlucky, however it's viewed), that she had passed out in front of someone with a phone. Insanely lucky it was someone she knew, who knew how to take care of her in the event of such a spell.
"Hmm...."
Speaking of spells, what on earth was going on in there? In the gallery?
Ib pondered while her parents spoke.
"Once the doctor clears you to go, you are coming straight home. Understood?"
"Yes, mother..."
"Good. I won't have you fainting like that again, do you hear?"
She had to appreciate how much her mother worried about her. While yes, it was annoying at times, everywhere else it had saved her. Like the time she had passed out from exhaustion on the bus to work. Without Karen, only her father was available to call her mother, since by some miracle, her father took the same bus to his own workplace.
Really. What did she do to deserve such amazing people in her life?
"How about this?" her father smiled. "Once we're home, I'll make you a nice big pot of chicken soup. No onions, but lots of lettuce. How does that sound?"
"Sounds great, papa. I'd love some."
"Good," her father said, while reaching over to ruffle her hair.
"Be careful, dear. She's still recovering."
"Yes, dear," her father joked.
That very night, Ib was wide awake, another insomnia spell working its way into her routine.
"Oh please no..."
The voice didn't come tonight, and after her parents left with Karen, Ib felt an immense loneliness swarm over her.
Just like that time in the gallery.
"The gallery..."
What was she expecting to happen once she reached it? That all her problems would magically go away once she figured out their source? No. These idiotic things took time and money to heal. Money, which had become a precious resource since her treatments started. But what could she do to make it go away? Conduct a magical ritual and wish it away? No. Ib knew she had to face the reality. That this insomnia would plague her until her dying breath. Was there really no hope for her at this point?
You're certainly a sight for sore eyes...
"!..."
There! That voice--!
I'm... I'm not interrupting your sleep, am I?
What?
"No.... No you're not...."
The voice breathed a sigh of relief.
Oh, thank goodness.... Dear me, I thought you were a goner.
Ib had to chuckle. Having dealt with insomnia for ten years, it would take more than a fainting spell to take her out for good.
"Haha..."
She knew that, but did the voice know that?
"I can't believe I'm talking to you here... this far away from the gallery..."
She was already in a hospital. Would it cause more trouble to send her to a hospital designed for mental patients? She had to wonder how many artists were sent there for thinking out of the box. Out of the accepted norm that people love so much. Was this what Guertena thought when he published his artwork?
I... meant no harm to you. I'm sorry.
Sorry? For what? From what Ib remembers, after having cooled down, the voice didn't really do anything worth prison time for. In hindsight, Ib had lashed out and swore to never speak again after she was caught. Was it an effect of leaving the Fabricated World?
"I'd accept your apology, but I'm stuck in the hospital with a minor concussion. I'd like to be fully healthy before I accept any apologies."
She got the voice to chuckle this time.
Even after all these years, you still haven't lost that weird sense of humor.
"It must be a natural thing for me."
Such is the world of the creatives.
Creatives... People who operated outside the accepted norm. Who opened eyes and enraged the authorities just for thinking differently from the masses.
"I never got to ask."
Yes?
Ib had to steel herself, despite laying in a hospital bed.
"Why did you call out to me?"
The voice paused, thinking?
"Was I someone special to you? Was I a relative?"
The voice chose to think for a while before speaking again.
I... suppose you are special in a way.
Ib blushed.
For someone your age, you were quite brave.
Brave? Surely, he's joking.
I had lost my rose to a Painting Lady, and you got it back. What's more, you braved many strange things before you met me, even getting my rose back from a Painting Lady.
With all the praise he was showering her with, Ib was certain her head would inflate.
But because of her, all that effort was for nothing...
"... her who?"
The painting named Mary.
Mary...
"I... think I remember her."
The voice paused.
"She seemed like us, at first. But then she went crazy after you found out she was a painting."
Why... Yes, erm--
Ib smiled.
"I think I remember now."
You--you do?!
"Yes..."
Memories of their time from the Fabricated World crashed like a tidal wave, each one more precious than the last. But the last one...
"You... you died in that world..."
Yes...
"I...." Ib felt tears beginning to form. "I thought you were sleeping..."
Oh no, dear. It was far worse than that, I'm afraid.
Ib felt the hot tears beginning to flow.
"And when I found you in the gallery, I didn't... recognize you..."
Shhh....
The voice, Garry, soothed her.
It's alright. You didn't know.
Ib's quiet tears slowly morphed into a sob.
"How?... It's not right... It's not right.."
Garry's voice continued to soothe her, until she calmed down.
It was something neither of us could have seen coming.
Ib was quiet.
But for what it's worth, it was worth it seeing you alive.
"Thank you..."
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5 - you are here
Epilogue
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You Make It Feel Like 12th Perigee (14/14)
((Alright, and of those that were both planned and written, this is the last one! I’m gonna do one more at least on Saturday, but I have to wait for the King/Queen announcements for that one obviously, and while it’s gonna get counted offically as an extra, that’s only because it’s not getting written at the same times as these. Like I said before, if these actually get some traction I might write up some of the other extra scenes I cut to preserve my sanity. Much like the last piece too, this one’s song is very obvious. It’s a cover version of Something, originally by the Beatles. The specific one I mentioned is closer to Frank Sinatra’s cover, but not exactly. I took some liberties.
And for the final time: if you are not okay with unhealthy relationships, this is not the ficlet for you.))
Careen closed her eyes, letting her head rest upon the chest of her matesprit. What could she say about this night that hundreds of other trolls, be they esteemed singers or romantic poets of old, hadn’t already said better? She had her pitfalls, certainly. Her matesprit’s other friends, boorish landdwellers that they are, had a peculiar habit of causing problems anytime the two were together and encouraged him to act out for no good reason. The blueblood from earlier, the lovely and dutiful Skasol, left after the fight, citing a need to return to his own partner for the night. Careen assumed such was an easy way to escape from an uncomfortable situation without losing too much shame. Not that she needed him, anyway. When her matesprit returned from cooling off his degenerate of a moirail, he remained by her side as a good matesprit ought to. The only hiccup to an otherwise perfect night, and one she managed to resolve peacefully with him through being so generous as to spend some extra time with the rustblood.
On second thought, there was one more. She probably shouldn’t invite Siroet to come out with her next sweep. If nothing else, get her set up on a blind date to keep her wrangled in. Her friend was unfortunately incapable of stopping herself from inspiring black infidelity in scores. Which Careen would have less of an issue with if said (usually lowblood) partners weren’t also coming up to Careen and forcing her to explain that’s just how Siroet is and they shouldn’t think anything of it. While not one large issue, it was certainly several small issues that amounted to a consistent thorn in her side. Still better than the downer attitude Pothos put up, but not exactly by much.
And the music, despite the orchestra being less an orchestra and more a backing band for guest singers to appease the landdwellers, was still divine. Granted, Careen missed most of the earlier acts while she rested in the VIP room, but she couldn’t find a single flaw in their current musician: a sharp dressed tealblood in a black trilby crooning a gorgeous song about his matesprit. He kept the song slow, at a perfect tempo she could just curl up around her darling matesprit and just forget the world. Nothing fast. No blaring trumpets or honking saxophones to rip her out of her trance when a chorus of string instruments can sound so much more appropriate for this event. As it should be.
The only way such could be more flawless would be if he serenaded her while they danced. Maybe he was, just too quiet for her to hear over the singer? She hoped so. He might be on the shy side, but Careen knew he had that spark for romanticism. It’s part of why she wanted him so desperately after meeting him: he was so close to being an ideal prince for her, he only needed that push. Let go of all his lesser qualities to mold himself the way she wanted: the same way she managed to with Atenic and failed with awful little snake.
Plus Careen had to admit, she was a sucker for a fixer-upper.
Careen’s eyes fluttered open for a minute to gaze lovingly back up at her matesprit. His own eyes were closed, and his lips tightly shut. So he wasn’t singing. That's fine too, she supposed. Disappointing certainly, but….fine.
“Darling, can you sing?”
His eyes shot open to look at her quizzically. “Careen we have talked about this,” he said quietly.
She curled up further into his chest. “And what was the answer?”
“I ah...well, I cannot. Not well, at any rate.” He smiled sheepishly. “Unless one includes an ability to talk-sing? If so, I am adequate.”
“No, I don't,” she sighed. This is what she got for taking him as a quadrant long before he was ready. Almost five sweeps and he still couldn't sing? Every seadweller could sing in some capacity. The arts were always massively important, and no self-respecting noble ignored it.
But Careen was also patient, and considering how considerate he was tonight, she'd bring it up another day. For tonight, she simply rested her head back on his bony chest and made a mental note to talk to him later about it.
“You’re asking me, if my love grows. I say, I don’t know. I don’t know.”
She could hear the waver in the singer’s voice. Cover or not (Careen hadn’t bothered to commit whatever drabble he introduced his set with, but she thought he said his only performances would be covers), he had a matesprit whom he adored the same way she did her own. There was no other answer. One they must have anticipated as well, if the slowing instruments and break in vocals was any indication. She understood enough about the ins and outs of performance to know how likely that was.
He gave Careen the window for a slow release and twirl for the tempo change, one which she graciously accepted. There was no better way for them to properly slow down, no better way to truly showcase the sheer, sparkling overlay to her red velvet dress than letting her spin underneath the twinkling 12th Perigee lights around them. Or if there were, the host of the ball hadn’t thought of it. A pity, but to be expected. She can’t anticipate a landdwelling troll of any kind to have the same level of foresight she does, delusions of seadwelling grandeur or not.
Speaking of the host, shouldn’t the submissions for king and queen be in yet? She thought last sweep there had been some sort of announcement for submissions and votes. Yet tonight, she hadn’t heard anything. Not that Careen particularly cared for submitting herself, of course. She was kind enough to let some other troll feel like royalty for a single dance and prance around in an oversized, wiggler-worthy crown for the rest of the night. And her matesprit? Ignoring how such titles were largely won through popularity than anything else, and her matesprit’s refusal to socialize with those to gain the recognition necessary, he wasn’t exactly ball king material. Careen had done her research. The winners were celebrities. Charming. Artistic. Popular. All things he wasn’t, no matter how much she tried to change that. Thankfully for her, his asocial tendencies discouraged him from ultimately disappointing himself. No worrying he’d take losing personally and mope about for the rest of the night.
Then again, maybe he did care. Careen’s almost certain she had caught his eyes glance over toward one of the far tables, all the way in the back of the room away from the rest of the event, for notes. Her matesprit surprised her like that sometimes, cared about ideas and concepts that she’d never expect someone like him to care much about. He already expressed interest in dancing with another troll once, tonight. That only set up the beginning of what may be a worrying trend. Plus, she failed to see the point in not asking. It would be good to discourage him from making such an awful decision that could ruin tomorrow night.
“Dearie, I have a question.” She paused, and with a shake of her head added, “actually...two.”
Her matesprit slowed their dancing down again, letting the two of them talk easier. “Hm?”
“Do you know when they’ll announce the vote?” She dropped her face to the floor to better look up at him with her winning doe-eyes. “I’m afraid I forgot.”
“Ah...erm…” he blinked harshly in confusion as he trailed off uncertainty. “No? Afraid I hardly know what you are talking about, quite frankly.”
Here it was. The moment of truth. No going back from this question. “So...you don’t want to be the Ball King?”
The fingers that loosely kept hold of Careen tapped against her own skin. “The...the what?”
“Oh you know,” she said, freeing up a hand just long enough to push her hair back behind her fin, “the 12th Perigee Ball King and Queen. They had it last sweep. I’ve just noticed you eyeing the box at points in the night.”
“I was...I was eyeing it?” He sounded confused. Careen knew better. She knew he was trying to hide his interest.
“Well...yes.” She sighed. “If you really, truly want to nominate yourself, I suppose you can, but really I must advise against--”
She was interrupted by a sigh. “Careen, I assure you, if my lack of memory does not give it away, I am not one for schmoozing and politicking to win a dance with a total stranger.”
She had to resist letting out a huff. So he wasn’t interested in the nominations. That’s fine, too, she supposed. He couldn’t have sounded more rude toward her attempt at being helpful, but it was fine.
And anyway, she wasn’t interested in the Ball nominations to nominate him. Not even to nominate her friends. She only wanted to cast her vote she truly felt deserved it. Unlike last sweep, with the bottom of the bottom winning. Had they worked for it? Really worked? Impossible. Lowbloods didn’t work the way any other blood color did. They lacked the strength.
“Something in the way she knows, and all I have to do is think of her.”
Her matesprit sped back up to match with the song. She let her arms slide down, around the bottom of his waist. She felt him tense in surprise underneath the coarse tweed of his suit.
Careen frowned deeply, fins drooping. “It’s just me. No reason to freak out.”
He looked down at her with a confused expression. “I ah…my apologies.” He shook his head. “I erm...was un-unaware…”
“It’s fine, darling. It doesn’t upset me in the slightest. That being said,” her hands wandered down to his rear to rest. No grabbing. Not yet. But the night was young. “A healthy dose of fear is completely normal in our society, don’t you think?”
Her matesprit hummed. Not an answer, not really, but Careen loved the feelings of the sweet, soft vibrations the noise sent up her fins and down her spine. Moreso, anyway, than whenever he spoke with that posh voice of his. Not that she disliked it when he spoke of course. In fact, she very much loved hearing it when she wanted to. So long as the two weren’t physically close, she even preferred just hearing his voice. Undoubtedly, it was Careen’s favorite thing about him.
And even more than that, she loved the intimate silence that followed. The singer’s crooning quieted down to little more than a whisper into the microphone. The band played a few more bars, but they too needed to end the song eventually. Her matesprit gave her a final twirl and parted, bowing.
“Perfect gentleman as always, Dontoc,” she cooed.
He answered not with words, but with a smile. It looked somewhat forced, but that was okay. It was her night, after all, not his. He was here with her now, treating her just like the princess she actually was. A dutiful matesprit. Exactly what Careen, the rightful Heiress, always deserved.
#12th perigee ball 2018#fantroll#homestuck#fanfiction#a tale of 12th perigee#my writing#long post#dontoc#careen#i actively felt gross writing this#careen is just...eaugh
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The Winter’s Ball ... [Duchebus]
In which Duchess and Phoebus attend the Order’s Winter Ball in London. [takes place: December 29th]
@the-duchess-lablanc
[tw -- phoebus being phoebus which means like objectification and plotting murder,,]
PHOEBUS:
Ah, the Winter’s Ball.
The tradition. The glam. The frivolity.
It was everything that the Order of the Prince wanted to emulate.
Phoebus normally found it dreadfully boring. Sure, he liked a good party, but he knew these were the types of events where even he had to be on his best behavior. When he’d been younger, he’d tripped over himself like an overgrown pup, excited to meet all the pretty girls and feel them up in corridors...erm, dance with them…
Anyway, as he had gotten older, everyone had paired off and it had led to a rather boring procession. Of course, he danced with his mother and his sister and his little niece. Occasionally, he managed a dance with Olivia. (That was always the highlight of the night.)
But now, he was here with Duchess on his arm. Who looked more beautiful than any of the Order women. Was smarter too. Independent. And looked absolutely gorgeous in her dress, which he was sure would be the talk of the ball, if they weren’t the talk of the ball themselves.
See, you weren’t supposed to bring someone who wasn’t your betrothed with you to one of these, if they were outside the Order. Phoebus didn’t really care. He trusted Duchess and that was all that mattered to him. Also...he hadn’t exactly told his family. Which was going to be hilarious, for they were going to have to just grin and bare it. It would be unseemly to yell at their only adult son, the only remaining male heir of age, in front of the whole Order.
They stood outside of the Guild Hall doors now, people sweeping in and out around them. Though located in the theatre district of London, no one paid them a passing glance in their formal wear. Hiding in plain sight, as the Order was wont to do.
Phoebus turned to Duchess before entering and smiled lightly at her. “Are you ready? I’ve got to find my mother first and say hello. Tradition,” he explained with a little roll of his eyes.
DUCHESS:
She had been surprised when Phoebus had invited her to the Winter’s Ball. There was still so little she knew about the Order of the Prince. Just what Phoebus had told her. She’d tried to do her own research but there hadn’t been much. Just stories that changed and twisted and contradicted with every other source. It was infuriating.
Added to that the new status of her and Phoebus’ relationship and it was very safe to say that the normally very well put together designer was in a state of panic. Not that that could be seen if you looked at her. As usual she was a picture of confidence. Inside, her mind was a tornado of thought. So many questions that she felt she couldn’t ask, situations that could happen, and what if’s twirled around mind. Sooner or later it would quiet down; more than likely once they were in the midst of mingling and more in her element.
She watched as people milled about, amazed how not one single passerby stopped to question the people standing around in such attire. Her own dress, while simple and understated, was not one that would be seen just out on the streets of London; even if they were in the theatre district.
Phoebus easily and quickly brought her out of her thoughts, his voice causing her gaze to return to him. His mother. Duchess had not yet gotten that far in her spiralling thought process but now that it was there she couldn’t help the way her stomach clenched. Very rarely had she ever had to meet parents as a significant other. Most of her relationships either fizzled before that point or she already knew the parents.
“Who am I to argue tradition,” she returned his smile easily. “Shall we?”
PHOEBUS:
This was a very big deal.
Which meant that Phoebus was acting like it was not a big deal at all. In fact, he didn’t think it was, not really. The Order was who made it into a big deal. They were the ones with the rules that said so. Phoebus just happened to...follow those rules. Which was why he thought the same way. He had never done this before. Taken someone to meet his parents. Well, when he had been younger and a rapscallion, he had brought girls to these events just to be scandalous.
He had never done it seriously.
But, here they were.
It was a good thing if Duchess was nervous that she was doing a good job masking it. Her nerves would certainly make his own worse. She was calm, however, and it calmed him.
“We shall,” he said, offering his elbow to her before stepping forwards into the building that had been owned by the Order for generations.
It opened into a hallway, people mingling, but Phoebus ignored them--heading right for the ballroom at the end of the hall. He knew that his mother would be more likely to be mingling inside, as she always arrived to these events promptly. Unlike him.
“That is the King of the Order. Not a real king. Title only. This year is the melee to change the family. I will be fighting for my family and I have a very good feeling about it,” he murmured to her as they walked, his eyes still scanning the crowd.
“Ah! My little far-darter,” came a cooing voice and Phoebus turned just before his mother reached up to tug him down by the shirt and kiss both of his cheeks. “And who is this, you rascal?” His mother said, pushing him away and zeroing in on Duchess. “Could it be that LaBlanc woman I’ve heard so much about?” Her expression was assessing, but not negative nor positive.
“Duchess, meet my mother--Lady Sorcha de Chateaupers. Mother, this is Duchess. My date.”
DUCHESS:
This was a daunting feat that left Duchess feeling so out of her depth. While she was known to be charming and alluring, it was all a facade for the public. A way to keep her life as private as possible. But this was her private life. She was very much smitten with Phoebus and after the rather frank discussion about his dalliances with other women, she was sure he felt completely the same. Being allowed to see this part of his life, to actively participate in it, was surreal and terrifying. Too far out of the unknown.
She took his arm without pause, gliding along beside him. Inside the building she could see the heads turn towards them, hear the whispers. This must be as new to them as it was to her. At least she was making an entrance. Her head was held a bit higher, her gaze staying ahead of them. It only faltered when Phoebus pointed out the ‘King’ of the Order and even then she assessed the man quickly before turning back to look at Phoebus. “Winning would make you king, non?” She asked with a raised brow. The term sounded almost silly on her tongue. Though she couldn’t deny that Phoebus already held a somewhat regal air that would allow that title to fit him quite nicely. (And if there was a part of her that wondered if that would make her Queen, she didn’t speak of it. Simply squashed it down with the other questions she had.)
In what felt like no time at all, they were approached and as Duchess had turned to admire the great ballroom she couldn’t help but feel a small chill. There was absolutely no turning back now.
A small smile tucked itself into the corner of her lips as his mother greeted him. For the briefest of moments she wished her family was the same, but just like her previous thoughts it was whisked away to the farthest reaches of her mind. All too quickly, however, the attention was turned to her.
Duchess knew the look the woman wore well. She was being appraised much like she had done to various runway shows before. To be the object of that appraisal was nerve wracking. Her heart beat out a staccato sort of sound in her chest, rattling her rib cage as she held her breath. Said breath wasn’t released until her name fell from Phoebus’ lips.
“A pleasure, Lady Sorcha,” Duchess bowed her head towards the woman, her nerves skillfully hidden away. Mothers were like predators. They could smell fear and Duchess refused to give that to the woman. “I do hope all you have heard has been good things.”
PHOEBUS:
Well, she’d used his mother’s title. That was sure to earn her some points. Though, Phoebus had a feeling his mother was simply putting on a show. She had been wanting him to settle down for a very long time now. And with someone as beautiful and accomplished as Duchess? With so many connections and influence?
She really was the complete package, and his mother should know that.
Still, Phoebus reached over to give Duchess’ hand in the crook of his elbow a little squeeze, though to the outside it would look as if Phoebus was simply resting it there.
“Oh, of course, my dear. I don’t know what there would be bad to say!” His mother smiled then, looking much more warm. “We will have lots to talk about, I’m a bit of an artist myself.”
“Duchess is also a businesswoman, mother,” interjected Phoebus.
“Ach, I know. Beauty and brains? I wouldn’t have any less for my Phoebus. I don’t think he’d have any less for himself, though the last girl he’d brought was a bimbo if she was anything.”
“Mother, that was eight years ago,” Phoebus protested, his cheeks coloring a bit.
“Well, you shouldn’t have brought her at all.” She sniffed and her expression turned a little harder towards Duchess. “I am sure this one has a proper head on her shoulders, though, don’t you, my dear?”
DUCHESS:
Phoebus’ mother turned to her fully and Duchess would have wilted under that assessing gaze if she were a lesser woman. As it was, she didn’t feel the need to. Instead met it with a smile of her own as she gave a soft laugh. It was a quiet relief that the woman had not heard bad things about her. After all, the rumor mill was always churning against her. Tabloids trying to do anything they could to dig up dirt on the elusive Duchess LaBlanc.
Still, she was grateful for Phoebus’ gentle touch.
“Oui,” she spoke quickly, interest painting it’s way onto her words. She hadn’t known that his mother had an interest in art. In fact there was not much that she knew about his mother. Nothing at all could have prepared her for this meeting. Something she would have to chide Phoebus about later in private. “Do you paint?” She found herself asking, wanting to know more about her. The Order was still a confusing thing to her. It’s purpose was clear but the role of each member was still something unknown to her. Were the women of the Order simply there for decoration? Or was there more to it? She had a feeling that if she was able to please Lady Sorcha she would have a better in on everything to do with The Order.
As Lady Sorcha continued, Duchess couldn’t help but chuckle oh so softly.
“I can assure you, I am no bimbo.” Duchess sobered quickly as that harsh gaze was once again turned towards her. The fact that she needed to assert that was almost an insult. Duchess kept her remark to herself only because she knew that his mother was feeling her out. “And I do not mean to brag but if my business is anything to go by, I can also assure you that I have quite the head on my shoulders. Good enough to keep Phoebus in line, should he need it. Though, I can safely say that he has been nothing but a perfect gentleman since I’ve known him.”
PHOEBUS:
“Of course he has been.” Sorcha reached out to pat her son’s chest fondly. “But, I’m sure you could handle him otherwise,” she added, giving Duchess an appraising glance.
“I’m standing right here,” Phoebus said with a little huff--if only to make his mother chuckle at him.
His father appeared through the crowd just then, weaving his way towards his wife and son--whom he had not seen in several months.
“Phoebus!” his father greeted in a gruff voice, reaching out to shake his son’s hand. “And who might this lovely woman be? Surely not our Phoebus’ date!” It was said jovially but Phoebus heard the words beneath: that better not be Phoebus’ date.
“Silas, stop it. This is Duchess LaBlanc,” Sorcha introduced, “Duchess--this is my husband, Silas.”
“A pleasure.” Silas’ blue eyes twinkled but Phoebus knew better. There was a calculation to his gaze. Not that Phoebus cared, he would be with Duchess either way, because that was the kind of person Phoebus was. He didn’t care to listen to an old man’s opinions about who he should or should not be with. The Order had always been stifling that way. Phoebus agreed with their mission, but he did not agree with their traditions.
“And how are you finding our little gathering, then?” Phoebus’ father asked, but Phoebus knew what he was really asking: how do you feel about the Order?
DUCHESS:
For a moment, as Phoebus’ father approached, Duchess was speechless. The man was, in a word, handsome. Of course it went much deeper than that. There was something about his presence. It demanded to be noticed, commanded Duchess’ attention even as she hung off of his son’s arm. Maybe that was what Phoebus would look like when he was older. The hair that he’d clearly gotten from his mother would turn a lovely shade of white and he’d grow some black in there for that lovely salt and pepper look. He’d be so dashing; even more dashing than he was at the moment.
Not long after he announced his presence, Sorcha introduced her to him and Duchess had the good sense to at least incline her head at him as she offered a kind smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Silas.” Even his name felt handsome rolling of her tongue. Rich and decadent. And she only hoped that she could make as good an impression on him as she did with Lady Sorcha.
His question caught her off guard just a bit. If anyone were to ask that question, Duchess thought it would be his mother. After all, it was a question Duchess would have asked because that sort of thing was important to her. What people thought of her events often reflected what they thought of her and— oh. There it was. The secret question hidden within the other question.
“Well,” she started slowly as she looked around at the people that were beginning to mill about more. “From what I have seen this is all very lovely. While the events in Swynlake are nice. It’s more satisfying to be in a more familiar space.” She gave him a smile as she leaned into Phoebus just slightly. “This is the type of soirée I would prefer to associate myself with.”
PHOEBUS:
Silas chuckled heartily at Duchess’ answer, his eyes twinkling.
“Yes, well, you fit in wonderfully, my darling,” Silas complimented, his eyes trailing up and down Duchess’ frame.
“Silas,” Sorcha said with a smile of her own, leaning in to take his elbow. “Let’s leave the children alone to have their fun.”
“Yes, dear.” Silas smiled at his wife, touching her cheek for a moment before turning back to Phoebus and Duchess. “Have a good time. Duchess, I hope we will be seeing more of you in the future. Phoebus needs a woman like you to keep him in order.”
Phoebus rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Good-bye, Da.”
With another chuckle, Phoebus’ parents moved off. They were still getting curious glances from other members of the Order, though Phoebus knew that a few of them were jealous women--Phoebus now taken and Duchess looking ever so beautiful He put a hand on the small of her back. “Well, that went much better than last time. Not that I am surprised.”
And he wasn’t. Before, Phoebus had been trying to get under his father’s skin. Show him that if he did not think him better than Clemens, then Phoebus really would be the worst son imaginable. Now that Clemens was gone, Phoebus was trying to temper his ways. Also, he did find this life suited Duchess. He wanted to shower her in gifts of jewels and smithery. She would look beautiful against the wild sea of Denmark, where he hoped they could make a home.
“Would you like to dance, my love? Show off that beautiful dress of yours?”
DUCHESS:
Duchess caught the look that Silas gave her but she ignored it purely in favor of basking in his approval. It had seemed that she had gained the approval of both of his parents and it was a good feeling. One that made her feel light and airy; giddy even. “Thank you, Silas,” she smiled at him, nodding her head at him. “I hope to come to more of these. They are certainly enjoyable.”
And it was all true. So far from what she had seen Duchess was very much enjoying herself. The Order was not some stuffy institution to be trapped in. From what she had seen it was a place where like minded people could come together and celebrate beautiful things, all while making the world they lived in a safer place. It was a place she would be able to find her place in easily.
She was stuck in her thoughts, watching as people danced and mingled and interacted. So much so that when Phoebus addressed her again she nearly startled. Instead, though, she turned towards him with somewhat of a smirk on her lips. Oh did she love the chance to show off. And from the looks she had garnered from some of the women (and their counterparts) there was already some jealousy in the room.
“Mmm, maybe show off the woman on your arm. Have I snagged the most eligible bachelor?” She smirked as they moved towards the dance floor.
PHOEBUS:
Phoebus hoped that Duchess could attend more of these as well. His mind spun with all the possibilities. It spooled out a thread--
One day, soon, Phoebus as King, Duchess by his side.
A year from now, perhaps, a wedding (the Order had very specific courtship rituals and whilst Phoebus had never been interested in marrying within the Order (besides one), he would want to honor those rituals.)
A year after that, a baby. A boy first, and then a girl--and after that, as many as Duchess would want. He had always wanted a big family. Duchess would be a wonderful mother and they would raise strong sons who would keep their seat as King for longer than any family that had come before him.
Years from now, he and Duchess would retire by the seaside--their children grown, the castle theirs. Duchess would still do her fashion. Phoebus would write his demon encyclopedia for young hunters.
It would be a good life.
But first, a dance.
Phoebus pulled Duchess onto the dance floor and spun her once. “Perhaps, but it doesn’t matter, because I found a woman smarter and more beautiful than any of them could ever hope to be.”
#bdrpduchess#duchebus#the winter's ball#otp: monsters need love too#my OTP#not really#kind of#i mean i love them#but HSOULD they be together
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BERNS NIGHT: CHAPTER THREE.
So much love to the most patient person in the world @lovetheturners and all you folks who are willing to take on another chapter.
A Call the Midwife AU in the Crown Jewels Series.
Chapter Three: OF MICE AND MEN
“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!” Robert Burns, To A Mouse 1785.
The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.
The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners. bean bags, generous cushions and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad. That was always the end of it.
The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, yep that’s it or knew you’d get it when they appeared to reach a level of understanding. Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. Oh, he is a dear boy; He makes me laugh.
He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair probably by Frank Hudson. Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more management role much earlier than she would truly have preferred. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.
“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”
“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.
“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.
Tom turned pink. Trixie leaned over to him, “They are joking,” and sat back onto the giant purple pouffe she was sharing with Valerie. “I know, I live here. I have to put up with it all the time.”
“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.
“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby trying to offer her husband some support.
“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.
“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.
“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.
“No, I don't think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.
“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.
“I will! On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, “ but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one sex on the beach.”
“It’s a cocktail, and its happy hour in the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone.
“That’s ambitious having a happy hour in the Teacups, isn't it?” said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.
“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that's why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.
“As I am representing the Crown. I will continue,” said Val and she did, “we want to put on a Burns Night for Bernie’s birthday like in the old days. Now Tim has told us Paddy is half Scottish.”
“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.
“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred.
“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.
“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.
Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the villages most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.
“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”
As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying but maybe not it’s meaning.
Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”
“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”
Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”
“Why?” Reggie asked perched on his wooden stool.
Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.
“Because it would look ridiculous, his words not mine.” Tim continued, “and I quote, Wilf had the works, I would look like I was trying to pull a stunt to impress Bernie by looking like I was dressing in drag and taking the piss.”
Tim looked at his knees and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.
Everyone else also looked at their knees, the mood was solemn.
“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.
This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.
“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.
“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.
“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.
“We've already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”
“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.
“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”
This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”
“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened or at least tried to.
“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.
“So anyway in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”
“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.
“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.
“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.
“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.
“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up too”
“Don’t fret Phyllis,” Patsy interjected, “I find that Antonia is much less forgetful when she has an occupation to challenge her and I am certain she won’t let the cat out of its proverbial bag.”
Jack sat on the floor banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking, oh look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger, that must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”
Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.
“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.
“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.
“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.
“So that's the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.
“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.
Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”
“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.
“Chicken and vegetable soup to you, young man. There will be a just vegetable option too.” Violet’s voice began to take on the air it adopted when addressing an audience. “Then we have the Haggis or vegan Haggis, neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce.”
“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.
Evie spoke up, before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”
“What's for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband's hand.
“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”
Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.
“That's a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.
Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you, but you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”
Silence broke out in the previously buzzing over occupied living room.
“Piper!” Several people groaned at once.
Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burn’s Night declared, “Look we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”
Tim reached for his phone swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.
“I don’t think that would be very suitable Mr Buckle, going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”
“Your right lass, it just won't do,” supported Phyllis.
“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.
“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia
“A professional piper that’s free on Burn’s Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.
“I know a piper.”
The voice came from the back of the room everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”
“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.
“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”
Everyone started talking at once;
“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”
“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor's appointment.”
“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn't it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”
“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”
“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”
“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”
“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”
Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”
“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”
“Oh well, let's be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.
Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.
Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip, she felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by. It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.
Delia’s carer probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.
But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.
Val had bitten her lip because even though her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was Prada.
It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”
“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.
“He’s rather good, as I remember.”
Jane was beaming as she nodded.
“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob's your uncle, sorted”
“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie's tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story, we can ask her.”
Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.
Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”
Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”
Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”
“Kevin.”
Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”
“It would appear so,” replied Lucille grimacing at Tim.
“Apart from Dad.” groaned Tim.
Followed by an echo of sighs.
“Leave your Dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.
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Fic: Sweet as Sugar
Rated: E
Sweet as Sugar
When the Golds had first divorced, the custody arrangement had granted both parents equal access to Bae. One week with his mother, one week with his father. Over time, though, this had changed to alternate weekends with his mother and most of his time with his father.
As Gold heard his son arguing with Milah all the way up the street towards the pawn shop, he wondered for the umpteenth time why Milah didn’t just sign over her parental rights entirely. It was supposed to be Bae’s weekend with his mother. It was also, however, the weekend of the school charity bake sale and since Milah had an extreme aversion to extra-curricular activities, Gold had already surmised that Milah would find some excuse to bring Bae back to his father for this weekend.
Not that Gold minded, far from it. He would give anything to have sole custody of Bae. No, he was angry on Bae’s behalf, because it meant yet another broken promise.
Almost on cue, the pawn shop door opened and Bae’s indignant protest of ‘but you promised!’ could be heard from the pavement outside.
“Yes, yes, I know. I’ll make it up to you next weekend.”
“But the bake sale is this weekend and you promised we’d bake cookies!” Bae had been looking forward to the bake sale for a while now, and his tone was extremely indignant.
“Oh, just buy some cookies at the store and stick them in a Tupperware, no one will know.”
“It’s not the same!”
Milah sighed and looked up at Gold. “Look, something’s just come up and I need to leave town for a couple of days, can you take him?”
Gold privately wondered if the thing that had come up was her lover’s cock down in Boston harbour, but he refrained from saying such.
“Of course. Come on through to the back room, Bae, and put your things there. We’ll go to the bake sale together tomorrow.”
Mollified by this, Bae rushed into the back room with his backpack.
“Thanks. I’ll take him next weekend instead. Bye Bae!”
Milah was out of the door before Bae had chance to reply, and Gold wondered what to do next. Bae wanted to take something to the bake sale and Gold didn’t want to disappoint his son with shop-bought cakes and cookies, but the fact remained that Gold himself could not bake. Cooking was one thing. Baking was quite another.
Gold’s usual response when he encountered something he couldn’t do was to call in a professional. Sadly, he did not know any professional bakers.
Well, that was a lie. He knew one. Lacey French had come onto his tenant books two years ago with her online bakery business. The only trouble was that Lacey did not make the sort of baked goods that he could take to an elementary school bake sale.
He grabbed his phone and quickly found her website. The Naked Baker – erotic cakes, cookies and confectionary for all your adult occasions. The first image on the page was of a large pink cake exquisitely decorated with crystallised sugar that could have been a geode but was far more likely to be a vulva. Below it were sugar cookies iced to look like breasts and penises. At least those made no pretensions as to what they were.
Gold sighed. Presumably, if Lacey knew how to bake naughty things, she also knew how to bake conventional things. Now all he had to do was to offer her something that she wanted in return. After all, a deal required two interested parties. Hopefully, they would be able to come to some sort of arrangement.
He closed the website and dialled Lacey’s number.
“Morning, Mr Gold.” She picked up on the first ring. “I must say, this is an unexpected call. The rent isn’t even due yet so I don’t see how I can be late with it.”
“I’m not calling about the rent. Well, not entirely. I have a business proposition for you.”
“For me? Well, well, well. I trust that you know what kind of business I’m in, Mr Gold.”
“Yes. I trust you remember from the posters plastered to every flat surface in the town that it’s the school bake sale tomorrow.”
“Mr Gold, I think we might both be put on a register somewhere if you were to take my wares to a school bake sale.”
“I wasn’t suggesting your usual talents. Just your basic skills in cake-making. In return, I’ll waive this month’s rent.”
There was a chuckle on the other end of the line. “You really must be desperately bad at baking if that’s the offer that you’re making, Mr Gold. When would you like me to come over and get started?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m assuming that the baked goods are on Bae’s behalf, and I’m assuming that he’ll want to help make them. And I can assure you that my kitchen is absolutely not suitable for children. Shall I see you in an hour?”
Gold was dumbfounded for a moment before recovering his composure and his voice enough to reply.
“Yes, that would be perfect. Thank you, Miss French.”
“Oh, please. If we’re going to be getting up close and personal in your kitchen, then you should at least call me Lacey.”
Gold was already beginning to regret his decision.
Thankfully the kitchen and the rest of the house were as immaculate as they always were after Mrs Potts had been round, although Gold had no doubts that they wouldn’t remain that way for long.
Bae was already incredibly excited at the prospect of baking, and when the doorbell rang, he leapt to answer it, ushering Lacey into the kitchen with her huge box of ingredients and equipment before Gold was even out of his chair.
To give Lacey her due, despite the fact she was wearing a see-through shirt and hot pants under her apron, she certainly knew what she was doing when it came to cookies, and Bae had a whale of a time making sugar cookie animals with her, to the point of completely forgetting that his father was in the room at all. Then Lacey asked if he’d like to ice an elephant and they all got stuck in to decorating. The difference in quality was painfully obvious, but Lacey was nothing if not genuinely encouraging of Bae’s efforts.
“He’s good,” Lacey said, once Bae had sampled a cookie and run off to play with the kids next door. “He’s got a lot of artistic talent. Maybe I ought to take him on as an apprentice when he’s old enough.”
“Thank you. I’m very proud of him.”
“You should be. He’s a great kid.”
They’d just finished washing up all Lacey’s equipment when Gold spotted the half-empty bowl of cookie dough on the side.
“Were you saving that for a special occasion?” he asked.
Lacey smirked. “Maybe. I did bring some of my more unorthodox cutters as well as the animal shapes. I wondered if you’d like to sample some of my usual work, Mr Gold.”
“I, erm…” Was she flirting with him? Gold had not been flirted with for a long time, and he had no idea how to do it back, despite the fact that he definitely, definitely wanted to.
“Yes,” he said eventually. “Yes, I’d like that.”
Lacey licked her lips. “I’d like it too.”
Within seconds she was back at the kitchen table, rolling out the dough and cutting out the familiar shapes from her website. Gold felt his cock beginning to stir, and he wondered if Lacey’s thoughts were wending in a similar direction. Their eyes kept meeting as they finished the second batch of clean-up, and Gold thought that he was about to expire with lust when Lacey took one of the still warm cookies and blew on it softly to cool it. It was almost as if he could feel her breath ghosting over his own cock, and he had to sit down quickly to cover his reaction.
“I think they’re ready to ice now,” Lacey said, handing him a tube of pale pink icing. “Although, maybe a visual aid is in order. You want them to be as true to life as possible, after all.”
She gave him a sultry look as she unbuttoned her shirt, opening the front clasp of her bra and spreading the halves to show off her breasts, perfect creamy pink with dark nipples already pebbled into hard points.
“Or maybe you see something you want to taste more than the cookies,” she purred. “I know I do.” She was staring at his crotch, his erection undeniable now, and she licked her lips.
Gold let out a sound embarrassingly like a squeak and icing spurted out of the piping bag in his clenched fist. Lacey just laughed before pulling him in by the tie and kissing him. Gold accepted her wholeheartedly, their kisses hungry and full of a desire to taste and be sated. He worked his way down from her lips over her neck and chest to suck on her nipples; God, she tasted sweeter than her cookies and he had to know if the rest of her was as delectable. He was sure it would be, but perhaps he would have to wait until another time. Right now, Lacey was unfastening his belt and fly, her breath tickling over the tip of his aching cock for real and driving him insane as she grabbed a condom from her purse and rolled it on. Then, her shorts were on the floor, thong pushed to the side as she scrambled into his lap. Gold slipped a hand down between them to pet at her entrance; she was already hot and wet.
“Fuck, Gold,” she panted between their continued messy, heated kisses. “Fuck. I can’t stop thinking about this. Christ, since I first moved into town and started baking, I’ve been thinking about this. I think about it whenever I’m working.”
Well, that was new and unexpected information, and Gold did not have time to fully process it before Lacey had grabbed his cock, lining them up and sinking down onto him. He could only groan, rolling his hips up to meet her as she rubbed frantically at her clit. He squeezed her breast, pinching her nipple and making her squeal.
It did not take long for them to come, Lacey’s inner walls clenching around his cock bringing him over the edge with her, and as they sat together in the cooling, Gold finally had time to process what had just happened.
Lacey giggled. “You look so spaced. Don’t tell me that I actually fucked your brains out.”
“No, I think you did. That was…”
“Better than cookies?”
“Infinitely better than cookies. Is there…” He wanted to ask if there was any chance of this becoming more, of if it was strictly a one-time thing to relieve the tension that Lacey had – that both of them in truth, had – been feeling for so long. “Would you like to come and bake here again?”
“Oh, I’d love to, but most of my specialist equipment is at home. I’m happy to make some very special cookies for you there, though.” She winked.
“You know, Bae’s at his mother’s next weekend.” Gold hoped that he didn’t sound too desperate.
“Then it’s a date, Gold. Bring an apron. Things might get messy.”
Gold gulped. As much as he was wondering what he’d let himself in for, he was very much looking forward to it.
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