gentlebeard artists, every time y'all make some sort of beautifully creative choice to cover up ed's "trust no one" tattoo so it reads "trust one," i need you to know that i appear on your doorstep with a warm blankie and mug of hot choccy to gift you

okay look hear me out, i've had this thought in my head for days and it won't leave me alone and you're the only one i trust with it

swiss is (outwardly at least) utterly unbothered by being muzzled because rain puts him in one recreationally more often than he'd admit to

THANK U MAL i love this one and i literally wrote it in one sitting just now sdjjsf

It’s a quiet evening in the abbey, most of the pack scattered across the couches and armchairs in one of the common rooms. There’s a movie playing on the TV, though only a few of them are paying attention to it, half of them dozing, the quiet snuffles and snores of sleeping ghouls mixing with the sound of the movie. Swiss is curled up with Cumulus, his arms snug around her and his head on her chest while she idly runs her hand through his hair. It’s comfortable, quiet, and most days he’d be happy to drift off like this.

Today, he’s waiting. It creeps slowly up his spine, churns quietly in his stomach. He tries to pay attention to the movie, to focus on the warmth of Cumulus and the steady stroke of her hand. He doesn’t look at Rain. He’s on another couch, tucked up against Cirrus with a book in his hands.

It’s eons before it comes. Rain’s voice curling around his thoughts, telling him It’s time.

Swiss lets out a long breath of relief, the waiting turning into buzzing anticipation, but he doesn’t move quite yet, instead taking a moment to press his face more tightly against Cumulus’s chest. Her hand drifts down to rub at his back for a moment, before giving him a soft pat.

You’re being called over, baby, she murmurs. Something hot curls in Swiss’s stomach; he’d thought Rain had been communicating privately with him, but now he’s not sure if he’d broadcasted that to the whole room, or just to Cumulus. He slowly picks himself up, allowing her hand on his cheek to pull him down into a soft, short kiss, and then he’s on his feet, swaying for a moment. 

It’s time. Time for Swiss to leave the room, to come back with the muzzle Rain had set out earlier today, to kneel before him and hold it up like some kind of offering. Rain takes his time marking his place in his book and setting it aside, sitting up a little to lean forward. Swiss’s body is alight with a buzzing heat, his muscles trembling slightly as Rain finally takes the muzzle from his hands and presses it gently to his face. His touch is light as he snugs the straps down tight, tucking a stray piece of hair behind Swiss’s ear when he’s done. 

Swiss sits back on his heels and looks up at Rain, who gives him a quiet little smile and a tiny nod. Just that small bit of acknowledgement sets Swiss’s chest aglow, and he wants to stay here and bask in it, but he needs to go before Rain has to tell him to. So he murmurs a thank you and picks himself up off the floor, feeling pleasantly floaty as he drifts across the room. He can feel Rain’s eyes on him as he wanders over towards Aether and tucks himself against his side, but he doesn’t let himself relax completely. He stays sitting up, swaying slightly and struggling to keep his attention on the screen. Aether settles a hand on his thigh, the other busy keeping Dew at bay from his other side. Swiss is vaguely aware of the spiced, sharp scent of him, pent up and wanting. If Dew decides to launch himself across Aether at Swiss, he wouldn't bother defending himself. He’s drifting, sinking into that brainless, contented state.

He’s supposed to be watching the movie. Swiss’s gaze has drifted, and he realizes he’s staring at the carpet. It takes effort to raise it to the screen, to get his eyes to stay there before they go unfocused and hazy again. Sometime later, the sound of a soft growl snags his attention; his gaze goes slowly to the source and finds Dew staring hard at him. How he manages to look so rigid while he’s leaned back against the couch and tucked against Aether’s side is anyone’s guess. Swiss doesn’t care about Dew, though. He has to be good and watch the movie. 

He drags his attention back to it, still swaying as he tries to sit up on his own, to look like he’s focused. Eventually, Aether’s arm wraps around his shoulders, pulls him close and he gives in, melting against him. As long as he keeps his eyes open and on the screen, he’ll be okay. Rain will praise him when he takes him back to his room and everything will be right in the world.

Running to a Standstill - 1

Running to a Standstill: A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count:  2188

Rating:  E

Square filled: @star-spangled-bingo​ - Widow’s Bite

Warnings: none for this chapter, there will be smut and canon typical violence, etc for the series

Synopsis: While on the run from an unknown organization trying to take your son, you meet two super-soldiers.  While they try to help you get to the bottom of who is hunting you and your son, feelings come out and admissions are made that make your personal life even more tricky.

Chapter 1

Bucky sat cross-legged on the floor of Clint’s apartment fiddling with Natasha’s widow bites.  They'd malfunctioned while they were out chasing down some creeps trying to hold up a bank using stolen alien tech and now parts of them were spread out on the stained Ikea coffee table along with his machine gun, Clint’s bow, a handful of arrows, and some throwing knives.  Bucky had already been zapped three times, and at this point, he was determined to fix these things just to spite them.

“Fuck,” he cursed as he was zapped once again.  He shook his hand and sucked on his finger.

“Just leave them, James,” Natasha said, as she passed through the room on her way to the fridge. “Stark can fix them.”

“This is way below Stark’s pay grade.  I can do it,” Bucky argued, and like the miniature tasers were trying to spite him right back he got zapped again.  “Fuck!  You little…”

There was a rapping on Clint’s door followed by a snuffling sound and scratching.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” Clint complained, tripping over Steve’s shield and then his own quiver as he made his way to the door.

He pulled the door open to reveal Clint’s one-eyed Labrador mix, a little boy who looked to be about three or four years old, and you.

“Hey, Clint,” you said, cheerily as the little boy chased the dog inside.  “Returning Lucky.  Thanks for letting me take him out.”

“You kidding?”  Clint replied as Steve quickly got to his feet and started picking up weapons and putting them up out of the reach of little hands.  “Did me a favor.  Thanks for taking him with you.”

“Of course, Geo loves him,” you replied.  “Geo, you say thank you to Mister Barton?”

“Dank,” the little boy who seemed to be named Geo said.  “Nad, Nad, Nad…”

Natasha smiled softly.  It was a rare thing to see and it made Bucky feel a little warm on the inside.  A feeling he was still getting used to experiencing.

“What is it, malysh?”  She asked.

Geo then babbled a series of words that seemed to include ‘balloon’, ‘doggy’, ‘fly’, and ‘cake’ but Bucky couldn’t quite follow what he was actually saying.

“Well that all sounds fantastic,” Natasha said, brushing the little boy's hair off his face.  “What a wonderful day you’ve had.”

He bounced on his toes and kissed her cheek before running off toward Bucky.

“Geo, honey,” you said in that patient voice that some parents couldn’t seem to be able to perfect.  “We need to go,” you said taking a step into the room.  “Sorry, Clint.”

“Mama, but dis,” Geo complained, coming over to Bucky and patting his arm.

“No, honey, they’re doing work,” you said, as Geo caressed the metal plates on Bucky’s prosthetic arm.

“Whad dis?”  Geo said, looking up at Bucky.

“Oh my god,” you said, sounding mortified as Clint stifled a laugh.  “I’m so sorry, Sergeant… Barnes?”  You said his name like a question, confirming his identity.

Bucky shook his head.  “It’s fine,” he said to you and turned his attention back to Geo.  “That’s my arm.”

“Is a robod arm?”  Geo asked.

“Yeah, it’s a robot arm,” Bucky answered.

Clint laughed and closed the door behind you.  “You might as well get comfortable.  This is gonna be a while.”

“You’re sure?”  You asked, “You look busy.”

“Nah, Bucky’s just trying to fix something he can’t fix,” Clint said.  “You want a drink?”

“A beer would be amazing,” you said and took a seat on the couch.

“You fix fing?”  Geo asked.

“Yeah, that’s right.  I’m fixing these?”  Bucky said, showing the little boy the Widow Bites.  Steve gave Bucky a look that was slightly disapproving but he didn’t actually say anything.  Bucky wasn’t sure he was good with kids.  He always felt a little awkward, like he was going to say or do the wrong thing.  He did like kids though.  They didn’t know what he was and they were true to their emotions.  If they didn’t like you, you knew right away.  Maybe showing the Widow Bites to a toddler was a terrible thing to do, but he seemed interested and you didn’t say anything, so Bucky figured he can’t have done anything too bad.

Clint handed you a beer and introduced you to everyone as Geo looked at all the pieces of the Widow Bites carefully like he really understood what was going on with them.  “They rent the place two floors below this one,” Clint explained.

“Geo loves Lucky, so Clint lets us take him to the park when we go and he doubles as my guard dog,” you added.

“So what is it you do?”  Steve asked.

“Oh, this and that,” you said, cryptically.  “I sometimes do shifts at a coffee place down the street.  I babysit.  I do some temp work here and there.”

“That must be difficult,” Steve said.

“I make do,” you said.  “Geo’s dad died and I do what I have to to get by.”

Steve frowned.  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You shrugged.  “Thank you, I’m sure you understand loss.  Given… everything.”

“Dis go dare,” Geo said, pointing at one of the wires and moving his finger to a circuit board.

“Yeah?  I dunno, buddy,” Bucky said, not sure how to tell a toddler that he could just randomly solder pieces of a weapon together.

“Goes dare,” he insisted, climbing into Bucky’s lap.

“You might as well just do it,” Natasha teased as she lounged back on the recliner.  “It’s not like he’ll make it worse.”

“Alright,” Bucky said.  “You keep your hands back okay?”

“Otay,” Geo said, putting one hand on each of Bucky’s arms.  Bucky carefully soldered the wire into place and powered the tasers on.  They started up fine and when he gave the to Natasha and she tested them out they seemed to work fine.  Bucky looked from you to Geo and back at Natasha with the tasers.

“Did … did you just fix them, pal?”  He asked.

“Uhh… he… kinda has a knack for things like that,” you said, putting your drink down.  “Hey, Geo, maybe we should go.”

The way you reacted reminded Bucky of a prey animal who’d realized they’d just gotten themselves cornered. Your eyes flicked to the exits and back to your son.  “Hey,” Steve said, gently.  That commanding but soothing tone coming to him instinctively.  “You’re alright.  You’re safe here with us.”

“Yeah, hon,” Clint agreed.  “If you can’t trust Captain America, who can you trust?”

You seemed to relax back in the chair and Geo climbed off Bucky’s lap and toddled over to where Lucky was lying and lay down against him.  Steve looked at the little boy and then at you.  “If you need to talk to anyone… or you need any help.”

You shook your head.  “It’s… fine.  I’ve been dealing with it.”

“Dealing with what exactly?”  Steve asked.

“You ever read the book ‘Firestarter’?  Or see the movie?  The movie had Drew Barrymore in it?”  When Steve’s blank look never changed.  “No, of course not.  Why would you?  Anyway, it’s like that.  And … well, less attention the better.  So thank you, but I’m fine.”

Steve looked you over and gave a nod.  “If you ever change your mind…”

“I know where you are.  And I appreciate the offer,” you stood up and threw your beer bottle into Clint and Natasha’s recycling bin.  “I better take him back home.  He’s gonna pass out.”

Bucky looked back over at Geo who now had his eyes closed and was curled into Lucky’s side.  You picked up the little boy and he snuggled into your neck and opened and closed his hands on your back.  “Thanks again, Clint.”

“Yeah, no worries,” Clint said getting up and opening the door for you.  “He likes going out with you.”

“I’ll see you,” you said and hurried out of the room.

“Way to go,” Natasha teased.  “You scared away our only normal friend.”

“What did she mean by the Firestarter thing?”  Bucky asked.

“See, that’s new,” Clint said, flopping down on the couch. “I just knew she was a widow.  Firestarter is a story about this couple that goes through a bunch of medical testing at college and then they have a kid who can light fires with her mind.  And the people who did the testing on them start chasing them around the country to get the kid.”

Steve stiffened up and pulled out his phone. “You didn’t know she was on the run?”

Clint shook his head.  “Just a widow with a kid.  I have heaps of single mom tenants.”

“Clint likes to offer them cheap rent and then they’re so grateful they sleep with him,” Natasha explained.

“Hey now!”  Clint spluttered.  “Don’t make me sound like an asshole.  I offer them cheap rent ‘cause they are usually getting back on their feet.  Plus they’re often divorcees and they feel safer in the building two Avengers live in.  Can’t help it if some of them start hanging around and making me food and then one thing leads to another.”

“Maybe I should do some checking up on that,” Steve said.  “If she’s in trouble, we can’t just ignore it.”

“She obviously doesn’t want to be noticed, maybe you should just leave it alone,” Natasha said.

“We’re authority figures.  I can understand why she might not trust that we can help,” Steve said.  “But you and I both know we can.”

“Fine!” Natasha said, holding up her hands in defeat.  “Do what you like.”

“Did you really sleep with her?”  Bucky asked, getting up off the floor and moving to the recliner as Steve tapped around on his phone.

“Her?  No.  Just something that’s happened a few times with other tenants.  Nothing planned,” Clint explained.  “She’s cute though, right.”

Clint wasn’t wrong.  Bucky did think you were attractive.  You seemed nice too, the fact you trusted Geo with him meant a lot to him and the way you didn’t make a huge deal about Steve.  A lot of women always made a huge deal of Steve.  Not that Bucky could blame them for that too.  He’d been harboring a crush on Steve that stretched way back before most women even looked twice at Steve.

“You’re really okay with that, Tasha?”  Bucky asked.  Natasha and Clint didn’t exactly have a conventional relationship.  It wasn’t really one he was used to seeing but they seemed happy.  He kept expecting jealousy to rear up but they just spoke about how they each slept with other people like it was no big deal at all.

“Yeah, of course,” Natasha said.  “Gotta let go of the idea monogamy is the only possible happily ever after, James.  Some people find happiness alone and in themselves, some find it in the beds of strangers, some with one loving partner.  And some with multiple.”

“And some people like to shack up with their best friend and get up to all kinds of shenanigans,” Clint added, moving from the couch to the recliner with Natasha and curling up with her.

“Find what it is that makes you happy,” Natasha concluded.  “Besides sleeping with one person for the rest of my life-” She mimed yawning and Clint laughed and snuggled into her more.

“If only…” Bucky muttered as he looked at Steve.

Steve looked up from his phone puzzled and raised an eyebrow at him.  “What's that, Bucky?”

“Nothing, go back to being a snoop,” Bucky grumbled, once again ignoring the clear opportunity to come clean about his feelings.

“You want us to set you up with her, Buck?”  Clint asked.  “She's really fun. She and Geo come up a bunch.  We eat pizza and play videogames or take the dog out.  She's artistic too and snarky.  And Nat even likes her.”

“It's true, I do,” Natasha said.  “She brings us coffee and croissants from the place she works.”

“Then what would she want with me then?” Bucky asked, almost folding in on himself.  Clint gave him a look that both said he understood and that he pitied him and Natasha scowled at him.

“James,” she said.

Bucky knew he had to deflect quickly or he'd get a lecture about being worthy of love, and he was really not in the mood for that.  He quickly waved a hand in Steve’s direction.  “Set her up with Steve.  He's the one worried about her past and she treated him like a normal person.”

“Oh that's a good point,” Clint said, nudging Natasha.

Natasha picked up a cushion and threw it at Steve.  He caught it on reflex and looked up at him. “How about we organize dinner for you and her?” Natasha suggested.  “Then you can try and get her backstory in person in a less aggressive fashion.”

“That's a good idea,” Steve said, completely oblivious that he was being set up on a date.  “Set it up.”

Natasha smirked at Bucky and winked.  Bucky smiled back and hoped that it hid the little flare of jealousy he just felt raise it’s head.

// NEXT

Dancing Queen

A reflection on past birthdays and a glimpse at the present. 

Happy birthday to my firstborn.

2.3k. Cautionary CW for discussions of food. 

Fic title: Dancing Queen by ABBA.

The first birthday that Zelda remembered actually wasn’t her own, but Tamryn’s. It was his twelfth, though only the third time he’d actually celebrated on February twenty-ninth and not on March first. She was four then, giggling madly as she smashed a piece of the cake into his face - a tradition in Nevivon and something their parents had encouraged - and licking buttercream frosting off her fingers until Galen lifted her up to the kitchen sink to actually wash her hands. 

Tamryn got her back two months later, on her fifth birthday, though he was far more gentle than she had been about it. Maybe it was because she’d been completely zoned out chewing on one of the sugar flowers that had adorned her cake, but she distinctly remembered assessing the mouth feel of one of them before a hand on the back of her head tipped her face straight into the slice of cake Evalina had just set in front of her. 

Birthdays were typically small affairs in the Olenev household. It was time to simply be together, take joy in another year spent living life to the fullest and with each other. The only exception Zelda could think of was her bat mitzvah, all those years ago, and Tamryn’s own bar mitzvah, though she certainly remembered her own better than his. 

They always got to pick a special breakfast a few days before the actual birthday. Zelda chose the same thing every year without fail: chocolate-stuffed syrniki and strawberries. There was never another time of year that particular combination was eaten, only on her birthday, which made it feel all the more special to her no matter how old she got. 

Some birthdays had been...less than happy. Her sixteenth, the first birthday alone, the wound of her father’s death still raw on her heart. Or her twenty-fifth, which she had entirely forgotten until the following week, elbows deep in work at the Lazaret. Not that she’d celebrated at all during the plague, it never felt like a worthwhile occasion. 

She remembered on her twenty-sixth birthday, the first she acknowledged after the end of the plague, wishing quietly that there’d be no more sad birthdays. She wanted those happy times back - those happy times of just being five years old in Nevivon and feeling sugar flowers melt on her tongue and getting her face shoved into a birthday cake just when she thought it was safe.

And then Tamryn had found her later that year. 

Twenty-six had been a new beginning for them both. Twenty-seven had been the first birthday of hers they celebrated together since she was fifteen - a little awkward at first, but they found their way, finding a cute little restaurant on the waterfront and Zelda nearly punching Tamryn over the set of diaries he’d found in an antique shop that had belong to an apothecary long before.

For her twenty-eighth, Tamryn had given her an experience - a theater company from Prakra had made a temporary stop in Vesuvia to host a performance of The Tempest for the Countess on their way to Venterre, borrowing the theater in the Heart District closest to the palace. The short period they were in town fell over her birthday, and Tamryn had not only gotten her tickets, but got them tickets for one of the private boxes rather than the general audience. It had been a delight, and an experience she treasured dearly. 

She’d asked Tam once, a few weeks after that birthday, why he did so much for her (not that she was ungrateful) - and he’d simply smiled, kissing her forehead and telling her that he had ten years of birthdays he wanted to make up for. She’d assured him he didn’t need to do that, but he waved her off, pointing out that he was an adult and that if he wanted to do nice things for his family, he would. 

The twenty-second of April came again, this time her twenty-ninth birthday, and Zelda stirred when the mid morning sunlight beamed across her face and warmed her skin. A heavy weight pressed against her back as she began to roll over, making her snort as she assessed the limited amount of space between her and the other side of the bed. 

“Bed hog.” 

Oberon lifted his head, some of her hair threaded between his antlers, and gave her an incredulous look that made her laugh. 

“Yes, you, a bed hog. Brat. Come here, give me your head.” She shifted enough to sit up, carefully brushing her hair away from where it had tangled with the new growths forming, each only a few inches tall by then. “How are your nubbins doing?”

Do not call them my nubbins. 

“Fine, oh mighty forest prince, how doth your crown fare -” Zelda laughed as Oberon shoved his face into her chest indignantly, the stag sighing dramatically before he laid his head in her lap. She carefully inspected the velvet, idly scratching behind his ears all the while as he patiently waited for her assessment. “They do look good, Obie. You had a beautiful eight point set last year, I’ll bet on the same or more this year.”

She’d kept his last shed, actually. They were currently mounted on the wall in her shop, those pretty eight points acting as hooks for the herbs and plants she was in the process of drying out. 

Zelda smiled as she began to scratch around the base of one of his antlers, his hind leg thumping against the mattress and his head pushing into her hand as he snuffled contentedly. There were a few long beats of quiet before his voice filtered through her mind again and drew her eyes down to his, all big and brown and soulful. 

Zelda?

“Yeah?”

Happy birthday.

She beamed at that, lifting his head in both hands and pressing kisses to his fuzzy cheek, even when he complained about ‘smelling her morning breath’ but made no move to get away.

“Thank you, Obie. What do you say to breakfast?” Zelda glanced out the window, smiling at the cloudless blue sky and the bright golden sun. “Tam spent the night last night. I’m thinking me, you, him, and Magnus out in the back garden after I whip something up.”

Oberon nodded slightly, shifting to drag himself out of her bed - quite literally, as he put his front hooves on the floor and shuffled forward until his hind legs hit the hardwood. Zelda shook her head at him and flipped back the covers, combing her fingers through her hair and shoving her feet in her slippers before she made her way down the hall to the kitchen.

She knew she’d slept in, but she was surprised to see Tamryn already awake, standing at the stove with Magnus perched on his shoulder and preening his bedhead. 

“You, not waiting to mooch off my breakfast? Hell must have frozen over.” Zelda teased, and Tamryn rolled his eyes, tipping his head back and giving her a cheeky grin. 

“I could say the same thing about you sleeping in.”

“It’s the weekend, Tamryn, I’m not a masochist.”

“Well, not just a weekend.” Tamryn shifted, lifting his left arm to gesture for Zelda to come closer. She gladly accepted the embrace, burying her face in the soft wool of his sweater as he gave her a tight squeeze. “Happy birthday, shithead.”

She swatted at him as he laughed, turning away from her to slip the spatula under the pancake when Magnus chirped and set it carefully on the serving plate to his right.

Zelda’s brows drew together as she let her eyes wander over the ingredients, then the pancakes themselves, the realization dawning the longer she looked over it all. “Tam...are you making -”

“Mama’s syrniki recipe, yeah. I can’t promise it’ll be perfect, you and I both know she would follow her heart tweaking things and I only have the recipe cards you helped me braille, but I realized I have now been here for three birthdays and not even attempted making it.” He waved the spatula idly in the air and blew a few strands of hair out of his face before he continued. “Hopefully I wasn’t too presumptuous, but you and I both have the same opinions about chocolate and I felt optimistic.”

Zelda laughed, shaking her head as she found the chocolate in question and broke a piece off for herself. 

“No, not presumptuous at all.” She popped the piece into her mouth before she began to move about the kitchen, pulling together parts of Oberon’s own breakfast with the deer hot on her heels. “I’m looking forward to it. I don’t think I’ve ever made them myself, so this’ll be the first time I’ve had them in years. Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, get the hell out of here with your fancy leaf water.”

“If tea is leaf water, then coffee is just bean water, stupid.”

“Maybe, but if I wanted to drink leaf water I’d just go drink from a puddle.”

Zelda flipped him off, and when Magnus squawked loudly, Tam returned the gesture, snickering to himself under his breath as he worked his way through the last few syrniki. 

*     *     *     *     *

Eventually, when they made their way out to the small back garden and crammed the plates onto the wrought iron patio table, chatting as Magnus settled on the back of one of the empty chairs and Oberon found his favorite spot - easily noted by the way the grass was permanently flattened at the base of the crabapple tree in the corner of the garden. They both were animated in conversation, Zelda only pausing to take the first bite of her syrniki and losing her train of thought.

They weren’t Evalina’s, but they were still delicious, the chocolate warm on her tongue and the strawberries perfectly between sweet and tangy - it was enough to make her throat feel a little tight after she swallowed.

“Good?” Tamryn asked after a moment, and Zelda laughed, nodding as she spoke. 

“They are. They’re not mom’s, but they don’t need to be. They’re perfect.” She reached out and laid a hand on his wrist, squeezing it lightly. “Thank you, Tam. Really.”

“You’re welcome.” Tam shoved strawberry in his mouth before he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants with his other hand, turning Zelda’s palm over and smacking a slim, flat box into her hand. “Your gift, by the way, before I set it down and forget where I put it. I already did once, I made the bed and lost it in the sheets. Damn near shit myself.”

Zelda snickered softly, gently tugging away the crisp white ribbon and carefully cracking open the box, the lid opening on a hinge that revealed the jewelry inside. 

The necklace was simple - only a single pendant, the six-pointed star a little bigger than the pad of her thumb and strung on a delicate golden chain. Her breath caught as she lifted the star on one of her fingers, watching the morning light gleam on its polished surface. If her throat had felt thick before, she felt like she was trying to swallow a rock now, eyes burning with the tears that welled up.

“You said you lost yours years ago.” Tamryn said gently. “I know you loved it, and you never took it off when we were kids…”

“You’re going to make me cry on my birthday.” Zelda sniffed, and Tamryn laughed, reaching out to pat her arm. 

“Don’t, because then you’ll make me cry, and then we’ll both look ugly when we go out later.” He smiled when Zelda snorted at that, swiping a rogue tear away before it could slip down her cheek. “Do you want help putting it on?”

“I’m sure it’ll look ridiculous with my pajamas, but that’s not going to stop me. Yes, please.”

The clasp would come together neatly at the base of Zelda’s neck - simple, but secure - and the pendant fell just below her collarbone, making her smile and touch her fingertips to it once she released her hair from where she’d moved it out of Tamryn’s way. He draped his arms lazily around her shoulders, chin propped on her head, rather than returning to his own seat across from her at the table. 

“If the chain is too short, I can take it back to the jeweler and ask them to add some length to it.”

“No, Tam, it’s lovely. Thank you so much.” She laid her hands over his and gave them a squeeze, smiling as he squeezed them back before he straightened up. 

“I’m glad you like it.” Quickly, he snatched a strawberry off her plate, snickering to himself as he made his way back around to his seat despite her protests at the theft of fruit. “Now shut up and eat your breakfast.”

“Ass.” Zelda reached out and stole one of the blackberries left on his own plate, munching happily on it and smacking his hand away when he tried to steal another strawberry off her plate. “Go away, you have your own fruit.”

“You won’t even share with your beloved older brother?”

“Just because I’ve been stuck with you since birth doesn’t mean I like you, you know.”

“Joke’s on you, bitch, that goes both ways.”

With a laugh, Zelda finally dug back into her syrniki, banter and conversation mixing and flowing between them easily as they talked about anything and everything that came to mind. The sun continued to move overhead, warming their faces long after their plates were cleared and their cups were empty.

She didn’t need to know how the rest of the day was going to go - in her book, it was already a pretty damn great birthday.

Can you do 35. Why did you hide this from me? Maybe sick Tony? Loving all the content 😊

Thank you for this prompt, anon! This got a little more angsty and sappy than I originally planned, but sometimes Tony just needs to be assured that he’s cared for, especially when he’s sick. Luckily, Steve doesn’t mind reminding him :)

Hope you’ll like this small snippet of sick, insecure Tony and Steve who loves his boyfriend very much <3

Tony can hear Steve coming down the stairs, can hear him knocking on the glass door to the workshop, even over the music Tony has playing as background noise while he works. It’s at a much lower volume, Tony has to admit, because although he loves Back in Black, it doesn’t cure he throbbing in his head, and when he asked JARVIS to turn down the amplification, he had silently apologized to AC/DC.

Tony decides to act as if he simply hadn’t heard Steve, ignoring the way he kept knocking and calling his name. He really had to finish the new upgrade to the armour, and even before they started dating, Tony had discovered that he was involuntarily incapable of gravitating towards Steve if he was within arms reach. He is simply distracted whenever Steve is near, and right now he doesn’t have time to be distracted.

Add to it that he feels like shit, head pounding, nose running, eyes threatening to fall shut every few minutes. He and Steve haven’t been together for very long, and Tony definitely doesn’t want Steve fussing over him or looking at him like he’s this small, fragile thing that needs saving.

So Tony pretends to be unbothered and continues fidgeting with a small piece of metal, but it’s difficult, nearly impossible, to work when he’s hands are shaking like leaves and his vision is beginning to blur.

Steve stops knocking on the door, and Tony thinks it’s because he decided to give up and go back to bed. Tony doesn’t know what time it is, but he knows it’s late, and probably even quite a bit later than Steve’s usual bedtime. When he hears the sound of the door to the workshop sliding open though and a hushed thank you, Jarvis, Tony really should’ve figured. Steve never gives up, and he must’ve used the override code he was given in case of emergencies.

Tony frowns to himself. Nothing really seems emergency-esque.

“That’s for emergencies, you know,” Tony says, not looking at Steve, eyes focusing on the armour. “There an Earth-threatening alien invasion or something?”

“No aliens,” Steve clarifies. He’s closer now, Tony can tell. His voice is nearer, and sometimes, somehow, Tony thinks he’s developed a way to feel when Steve’s close to him. As a large, comforting hand rests on his shoulder, Tony resists every urge to lean into the contact, the warmth and electricity he feels run through his body when they touch. “But my boyfriend hasn’t been answering his phone all day, hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and when I come to check on him, he ignores me,” Steve explains, and though his voice is soft, he sounds a little upset as well. “And that made me worried. So, to me, this is an emergency,” he finishes.

“I’ve been busy,” Tony says dismissively. “Suit upgrades.” He gestures vaguely at the metal scraps and various tools that are sprawled all across the worktable.

“It’s late, Tony. Come to bed,” Steve murmurs and hugs Tony from behind, laying his cheek on Tony’s shoulder. “Upgrades can wait.”

Tony huffs a laugh. “If it’s so late then why aren’t you in bed, huh?” Tony teases and smiles to himself. He’s already diverted from his work, confirming the theory that he can’t be close to Steve without losing every inch of concentration from his body.

“Can’t sleep without you,” Steve whispers and presses a kiss to Tony’s neck. He makes a surprised noise when his lips graze Tony’s skin and draws back, bringing a hand to Tony’s cheek.

“You’re burning up,” Steve announces worriedly. “Hey, look at me.”

And Tony can’t hold off the inevitable any longer. He spins his chair around, facing Steve with as much energy as he can muster. Which… isn’t a lot. His eyes are droopy and watery, and his nose looks as if it had been assaulted with scratchy tissues all day. It probably had.

Steve’s face drops immediately when he surveys Tony. His eyebrows draw together, mouth twisting in a way it only does when he’s worried.

“You’re sick,” he states blankly.

Tony shakes his head, but a cough decides to rattle through his chest at that very moment. “I’m okay,” he rasps, knowing he can’t fool Steve and instead tries to brush if off.

“Tony…” he breathes, and Tony hates how defeated, how concerned he sounds. “Why did you hide this from me?” He asks quietly, and Tony can almost hear how Steve’s brain is overthinking, contemplating every scenario that could have caused Tony to keep this secret from him; didn’t Tony trust him? Had he done anything wrong? Had he not paid enough attention to notice how sick his boyfriend is?

Tony needs to set things straight, to assure Steve that whatever senseless and foolish thoughts running through that mind of his are definitely not true. “I didn’t… I’m not,” Tony sighs, unable to complete an adequate sentence. “I know you have a lot on your plate right now. I didn’t want you to worry,” Tony confesses. “I’m a grown man, I can’t take care of myself.”

“Tony,” he says again. God, Tony wishes Steve would stop saying his name so gently, with so much love in his voice that it makes Tony’s eyes misty. The fever is undoubtedly making him more emotional. That’s what he tells himself, anyways.

“I don’t need you to babysit me, Steve.” It comes out harsher than Tony had intended it to, and he immediately wants to retract it when he sees the wounded look on Steve’s face. He sighs again. “I’m sorry, I just— I don’t want you to look at me like I’m this helpless, broken thing that needs fixing. I’m the one who’s supposed to fix things.”

The words tumble out of Tony’s mouth before he has a chance to filter them. But they’re true, Tony realizes. They’re true, and Tony’s so honest right in that moment. He wonders if it’s because Steve’s there, and Steve has this weird effect on him that makes him incapable of hiding how he feels. It’s the same thing that made Tony confess his feelings for him — he simply couldn’t keep them in any longer, and suddenly they just bursted out of him with no warning.

And now, without thinking about it, Tony admits this to himself as much as he does to Steve: he doesn’t want to be fixed, to be cared for in this way. He doesn’t deserve to be cared for. He’s the mechanic, he fixes things, he mends them, he makes good. Ever since he shut down the weapons manufacture that has been his goal. To help. And now, in this state of exhaustion and vulnerability, he can’ do that.

Tony suddenly feels like he can’t breathe.

“Hey…” Steve cups Tony’s face and strokes a thumb over his cheekbone. “I know you think you’re… unworthy of being cared for in this way, which kills me, because you deserve every ounce of love I possess, and it will forever be my goal to make this known to you… but you are the most generous person I’ve ever met. You help everyone you can and destroy yourself over those you can’t. I just wish you’d let me help you sometimes…”

The tears are now trailing down Tony’s cheek, running over Steve’s hand. It’s definitely because he’s tired and sick and not because Steve has just dejected every insecurity Tony hadn’t said out loud but had unconsciously carried on his shoulders.

At some point between Steve entering the workshop and now, the music had been turned off and for a moment, there’s silence. Tony isn’t looking at Steve, but he can feel Steve’s eyes on him, can picture how earnest and sincere and blue they are.

“Come to bed,” Steve says and Tony just nods and lets himself be enveloped in Steve’s arms.

Steve carries Tony to their bedroom, the genius clinging to the soldier like his life depended on it. Laying him down on the bed with care, Steve draws back and smooths a hand over Tony’s head.

The brunette looks up at him with a bleary expression on his face. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. His voice is even raspier now that he actually lets himself resign to being sick, succumbing to the symptoms.

“Shh. Don’t be,” he murmurs and smiles softly. “Get comfortable, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Tony nods and shreds his clothes, stripping down to his boxers and a white t-shirt, then shuffles under the blankets and closes his eyes. He probably would’ve fallen asleep right then, had a tickle in his nose not started growing stronger and stronger. He pushes his nose up against his wrist, but it doesn’t stop the tickle from wanting out. After a few useless nose rubs, his nose gives a tell-tale twitch, and he presses his face into his shoulder.

“h’ngxxtt! HNgx!” Stifling the sneezes makes his sinuses twinge and sends a throb through his skull, so when the tickle returns, he lets himself give into a stronger, fuller uhhETCH’oo! that gives him more relief. For the moment, at least.

“Bless you!” Steve calls, and a few seconds later he pads into the bedroom with a tray stacked with what Tony can identify as Kleenex, tea, fever-reducers, decongestants, and a glass of water. “Here,” he says as he places the tray on the nightstand, pulling out few tissues from the box and hands them to Tony.

Tony nods and folds them over his nose, leaning into another two forceful sneezes.

“uhhCHUSh’oo! snffSNFF! huh— uh! uh’CHUSH!”

“God bless you, sweetheart,” Steve winces. “How did you get so sick, hm?”

Tony is still snuffling into the tissues and doesn’t give any reply other than ducking his head shyly and looking over the edge of the tissue with fond eyes.

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve decides and smiles sweetly. “I’ll get you feeling better.”

Written In The Stars CXI (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

Words: 4,734

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Chapter Nine: More Bad News.

Mel had to stay in her bedroom because of the dreadful headache she was suffering. 

The back of her hand was burning, and she could see the skin actually starting to get a mark. 

She wanted to see Ron's try out but she didn't want to fall unconscious in front of everyone. The girl rolled over on her bed, holding her hand and trying to ground herself, but her mind was fixed on Harry and his awful temper. It was true that he didn't deserve the punishment, but she didn't deserve to feel it either!

She went back to the common room, her head feeling heavy. Ron immediately walked up to her and handed her a butterbeer, he was beaming.

"I got in!" Ron did something he'd never done before and hugged her. "I'm on the team!"

"Blimey, Ronnie!" She grinned. "A Prefect and Gryffindor's keeper? You'll be getting dates in no time!"

"Lady!" Fred spoke up. "You knew about this?"

"I helped him train!" She said. "He's good isn't he?"

"He's all right," George shrugged.

"Let's hope his massive nose doesn't get it the way..." Fred smirked.

"Oh, shut up," Mel rolled her eyes.

"Come and make me," He taunted.

Luckily for her, Harry walked in right at that moment, and Ron dragged her with him to meet the boy.

"Harry, I did it, I'm in, I'm Keeper!"

"What? Oh — brilliant!"

"Have a butterbeer. I can't believe it — where's Hermione gone?"

"She's there," said Fred.

Hermione was sleeping soundly on one of the chairs.

"Well, she said she was pleased when I told her..." said Ron.

"Let her sleep..." said George, and in no time a bunch of first years surrounded him and his twin.

"Come here, Ron, and see if Oliver's old robes fit you," said Katie Bell. "We can take off his name and put yours on instead..."

Angelina walked up to Harry and her.

"Sorry I was a bit short with you earlier, Potter. It's stressful, this managing lark, you know, I'm starting to think I was a bit hard on Wood sometimes... Look, I know he's your best mate, but he's not fabulous," She made a vague movement towards Ron. "I think with a bit of training he'll be all right, though. He comes from a family of good Quidditch players. I'm banking on him turning out to have a bit more talent than he showed today, to be honest. Vicky Frobisher and Geoffrey Hooper both flew better this evening, but Hooper's a real whiner, he's always moaning about something or other, and Vicky's involved in all sorts of societies, she admitted herself that if training clashed with her Charm Club she'd put Charms first. Anyway, we're having a practice session at two o'clock tomorrow, so just make sure you're there this time. And do me a favour and help Ron as much as you can, okay?"

Harry nodded and then he turned, his gaze fixed on her.

"You're... you're bleeding."

"Huh?" Mel frowned.

Harry reached for her hand and Mel stepped back.

"I'm fine," She grumbled, walking to where Hermione was sleeping.

"It's happening again, isn't it?" Harry insisted.

"It never stopped," Mel scoffed. "Turning your back on me did nothing."

"You... you were supposed to be safe..."

She looked at him, his voice came out so utterly defeated that she had to take a moment to answer.

"You really thought it'd work?" Mel asked, this time softer. "What am I supposed to say? That I'm sorry? 'Hey, at least you tried!'– I told you..." Her shoulders fell, she had no energy to be angry. "Harry, I told you... What d'you want me to say?"

He stared at her, speechless and disappointed.

"Oh, guys, it's you..." Hermione stirred up in her place. "Good about Ron, isn't it?"

"Yeah..." She responded without breaking eye contact with Harry. "Yeah... I'm really happy for him."

"I'm just so — so — so tired. I was up until one o'clock making more hats. They're disappearing like mad!"

"You and those hats," Mel sighed, finally looking down at her friend.

"Listen," The boy sat in front of them. "Dumbledore said we should stick together, right? All right– I'll tell you what happened– I was just up in Umbridge's office and she touched my arm– and it... it stung! It reminded me of... you know..."

Hermione started slowly.

"You're worried that You-Know-Who's controlling her like he controlled Quirrell?"

"Well, it's a possibility, isn't it?"

"I mean... the Order believes it's very likely Voldemort has a few spies there..." Mel admitted.

"I suppose so," said Hermione. "But I don't think he can be possessing her the way he possessed Quirrell, I mean, he's properly alive again now, isn't he, he's got his own body, he wouldn't need to share someone else's. He could have her under the Imperius Curse, I suppose... But last year your scar hurt when nobody was touching you and didn't Dumbledore say it had to do with what You-Know-Who was feeling at the time? I mean, maybe this hasn't got anything to do with Umbridge at all, maybe it's just coincidence it happened while you were with her?"

"She's evil," said Harry glancing at Mel's hand. "Twisted."

"She's horrible, yes, but... Harry, I think you ought to tell Dumbledore your scar hurt."

"I'm not bothering him with this. Like you just said, it's not a big deal. It's been hurting on and off all summer — it was just a bit worse tonight, that's all —"

"Harry, I'm sure Dumbledore would want to be bothered by this —"

"Yeah, that's the only bit of me Dumbledore cares about, isn't it, my scar?"

"Don't say that, it's not true!"

"Mel, do you think he'll care?" He asked her, and in his voice, she could tell he was asking for real advice.

"I reckon he'll say it's normal now that Voldemort's alive," She sighed after a bit of pondering. "Doesn't mean he doesn't care about you, though. As I said, he asked me to help you."

"I think I'll write and tell Sirius about it, see what he thinks —"

"Harry, you can't put something like that in a letter! Don't you remember, Moody told us to be careful what we put in writing! We just can't guarantee owls aren't being intercepted anymore!"

"All right, all right, I won't tell him, then!" said Harry getting up. "I'm going to bed. Tell Ron for me, will you?"

"Oh no! if you're going that means I can go without being rude too, I'm absolutely exhausted and I want to make some more hats tomorrow. Listen, you can help me if you like, it's quite fun, I'm getting better, I can do patterns and bobbles and all sorts of things now."

"Er... no, I don't think I will, thanks. Er — not tomorrow. I've got loads of homework to do... why don't you ask Mel? I still have the hat she gave me, she was getting quite good..."

"Nope, sorry," Mel got up and made her way over to the twins and Ron. "Too busy, got loads to do..."

She felt something warming up on her pocket and pulled it out. She smiled down at the watch on her hand, a message glowing on it.

'Sunday, 5 pm'

"Anything interesting?"

"No, just some guff about the bass player in the Weird Sisters getting married... Wait a moment– Oh no... Sirius!"

Mel dropped her fork.

"What now?"

"What's happened?" Harry took the paper so violently it ripped in half.

"'The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer... blah blah blah... is currently hiding in London!"

"Lucius Malfoy, I'll bet anything," said Harry. "He did recognize Sirius on the platform..."

"What? You didn't say —"

"Oh no– if they saw him in the platform that means they saw him with my mother!" Mel realized in horror.

"...'Ministry warns Wizarding community that Black is very dangerous... killed thirteen people... broke out of Azkaban...' the usual rubbish– Well, he just won't be able to leave the house again, that's all. Dumbledore did warn him not to."

"Poor Snuffles, he'll go crazy..."

"Hey! Look at this!" Harry gave a start.

"I've got all the robes I want," said Ron, glancing to what Harry was showing him.

"No, look... this little piece here..."

TRESPASS AT MINISTRY

Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number two, Laburnum Gardens, Clapham, has appeared in front of the Wizengamot charged with trespass and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic on 31st August. Podmore was arrested by Ministry of Magic watch- wizard Eric Munch, who found him attempting to force his way through a top-security door at one o'clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to speak in his own defence, was convicted on both charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban.

"Sturgis Podmore? but he's that bloke who looks like his head's been thatched, isn't he? He's one of the Ord —"

"Ron, shh!"

"Six months in Azkaban! Just for trying to get through a door!" Harry exclaimed.

"Don't be silly, it wasn't just for trying to get through a door — what on earth was he doing at the Ministry of Magic at one o'clock in the morning?"

"D'you reckon he was doing something for the Order?"

"Wait a moment... Sturgis was supposed to come and see us off, remember? Yeah, he was supposed to be part of our guard going to King's Cross, remember? And Moody was all annoyed because he didn't turn up, so that doesn't seem like he was supposed to be on a job for them, does it?"

"Well, maybe they didn't expect him to get caught."

"It could be a frame-up!" Ron exclaimed. "No — listen! The Ministry suspects he's one of Dumbledore's lot so — I dunno — they lured him to the Ministry, and he wasn't trying to get through a door at all! Maybe they've just made something up to get him!"

"Do you know, I wouldn't be at all surprised if that were true," Hermione shook her head. "Right, well, I think we should tackle that essay for Sprout on Self-Fertilizing Shrubs first, and if we're lucky we'll be able to start McGonagall's Inanimatus Conjurus before lunch..."

"We've got Quidditch Ron and I," Harry hurried to say.

"You can come with me, 'Mione," Mel told her. "I'm going to meet Erick in the library, anyway..."

But as soon as she said it she wanted to take it back. The idea didn't feel as appealing as going alone. She decided to bail on it and find another day to meet him in private.

"Hang on– it just came to me– I... I have to do something," She got up, picking up her bag. "Apologize to Erick for me, won't you? Tell him I'll meet him next week..."

"Oh," Hermione's smiled faltered a bit. "All right, I have a few questions about charms, maybe he knows..."

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked as she joined them.

"Don't ask, keep walking," She said. "I don't feel like studying, that's all."

"If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you're getting tired of your study sessions..."

"I would never," Mel frowned. "I know what you're trying to suggest, but you're wrong. Now shut up and keep going."

Harry nodded silently, not wanting to ruin the moment.

"Wish I had your dedication," Ron told her. "The schoolwork isn't killing you. I mean, we can do it tonight and we've got tomorrow. Hermione's the one that gets too worked up about work, that's her problem... D'you think she meant it when she said we weren't copying from her?"

"Yeah, I do. Still, this is important too, we've got to practice if we want to stay on the Quidditch team..."

"Yeah, that's right– And we have got plenty of time to do it all..."

"And you've got me– not that I'm going to give you the answers just like that, but you know, I'm clever and all..." Mel shrugged.

"Well..." Harry looked at her when they reached the dressing room. "See you in a minute..."

Mel nodded shortly before walking to the stands. What was happening to her? She didn't know how to act around anyone anymore. Didn't feel like herself, always bottling up every emotion...

She spotted Malfoy and his team waiting to see the newest Gryffindor addition. Ron had a very thin ego and they couldn't afford to lose him on the very first day.

"What's that Weasley's riding?" Malfoy called as the Gryffindor lot walked out of the dressing room. "Why would anyone put a Flying Charm on a mouldy old log like that?"

"Don't get involved..." Mel mumbled under her breath.

"Hey, Johnson, what's with that hairstyle anyway?" Pansy Parkinson yelled. "Why would anyone want to look like they've got worms coming out of their head?"

The Slytherins hadn't noticed her since she was a few seats behind them, and she didn't want them to, they were bound to tease her and she needed to stay out of trouble.

On his third attempt, Ron caught the Quaffle; perhaps out of relief he passed it on so enthusiastically that it soared straight through Katie's outstretched hands and hit her hard in the face.

"Sorry!" Ron groaned, zooming forward to see whether he had done any damage.

"Get back in position, she's fine!" barked Angelina. "But as you're passing to a teammate, do try not to knock her off her broom, won't you? We've got Bludgers for that!"

Katie's nose was bleeding. Down below the Slytherins were stamping their feet and jeering. Fred and George converged on Katie.

"Okay, maybe..." Mel started, "maybe I'll get involved just a little..."

The lot was now singing 'Gryffindor are losers, Gryffindor are losers,' and many things happened at once: First, directly from her palm, a bunch of red sparks burst and surrounded the Slytherins with an explosion. They covered their faces and jumped out of their seats, trying to put them down. Mel gasped and covered her mouth in shock, she hadn't intended to do that, but there was nothing she could do now.

Back in the Quidditch field, Katie was bleeding profusely, and Angelina stopped the practice to take her to the infirmary. Pansy turned around and spotted Mel, pointing an accusing finger at her.

"You!"

She smiled as innocently as possible. "What's wrong?"

Pansy pulled out her wand and Mel stood up, her smile fading.

"Do it– See what happens, dear prefect, once the teachers find out you attacked an unarmed student."

"You attacked first," She snarled, the rest of her classmates had scattered away, though the firecrackers followed them around.

"Did I?" Mel leaned closer and jumped over the seats that kept them apart, one row after the other. When she was finally in front of her, she added, "Prove it."

No one knew she could do wandless magic. Not to mention that when Pansy asked her to empty her pockets –'prefect orders,' she'd sneered– there was nothing but a pocket watch.

Far from feeling ashamed, a wave of power hit her. No one had to know, and as long as she kept a low profile and a sweet attitude, she could make Pansy and Malfoy's lives an actual hell.

The twins approached the next day when they found out she was the only one near enough the Slytherins to set them on fire. Nothing bad happened to them, but it sure scared them off, and they weren't planning on going back to the training sessions any time soon.

Mel liked the twins' praising and she spent the rest of the day with them, leaving Ron and Harry to do their homework alone.

As a consequence of this, many students approached her. Now that she wasn't around Harry so much they seemed to think she had more common sense than expected. Not that she was talking rubbish about Harry, but she was definitely more likeable when she wasn't attacking others in order to defend him. That without mentioning she was far less loud and dramatic than years prior.

She went back to the common room that night with a bunch of new friends, even better, friends from different houses. Ron didn't like that, he was upset because she hadn't been there to help him as she'd promised. His anger only got worse when he received a letter from his older brother.

"Well," Harry said jokingly once they finished reading it, "if you want to — er — what is it? Oh yeah — 'sever ties' with me, I swear I won't get violent."

"Give it back," He snatched the letter. "He is —the world's biggest git." Ron ripped the letter into small pieces and threw them in the fire. "Come on, we've got to get this finished sometime before dawn..."

"I wonder what rubbish is the Daily Prophet writing now," Mel said absently.

"Oh, give them here," Hermione said abruptly, taking the boy's homework.

"What?"

"Give them to me, I'll look through them and correct them."

"Are you serious? Ah, Hermione, you're a lifesaver, what can I — ?"

"What you can say is, 'We promise we'll never leave our homework this late again,'– Where are you going, Mel? You promised you'd help them too. Sit down."

Mel groaned, but she took Harry's paper and started to review it.

"Thanks a million, girls," said Harry, rubbing his eyes.

"Yeah, shut up," Mel grumbled. "Don't interrupt me or I'll mess it up."

"Hermione, you are honestly the most wonderful person I've ever met, and if I'm ever rude to you again —"

"— I'll know you're back to normal," said Hermione.

"Harry, you really have to pay attention to the things you... Harry?" Mel looked at the boy, who was now crouching next to the fireplace.

"Er — Harry?" said Ron. "Why are you down there?"

"Because I've just seen Sirius's head in the fire."

"What?" Mel dropped to her knees as well, pushing the essay aside.

"Sirius's head? You mean like when he wanted to talk to you during the Triwizard Tournament? But he wouldn't do that now, it would be too — Sirius!" Hermione squealed.

"I was starting to think you'd go to bed before everyone else had disappeared," The man grinned. "I've been checking every hour."

"You've been popping into the fire every hour?" Harry laughed.

"Just for a few seconds to check if the coast was clear yet."

"But what if you'd been seen?" said Hermione in horror.

"Well, I think a girl — first year by the look of her — might've got a glimpse of me earlier, but don't worry, I was gone the moment she looked back at me and I'll bet she just thought I was an oddly shaped log or something."

"But Sirius, this is taking an awful risk —"

"You sound like Molly– This was the only way I could come up with of answering Harry's letter without resorting to a code — and codes are breakable."

"You impulsive piece of– You... you..." Mel stammered.

"All that you're wishing to call me, Emily has called me twice already this week," He shook his head. "It's fine, I swear, I just wanted to reply to Harry's letter."

"You didn't say you'd written to Sirius!" said Hermione.

"I forgot! Don't look at me like that, Hermione, there was no way anyone would have got secret information out of it, was there, Sirius?"

"No, it was very good," said the man with a proud smile. "Anyway, we'd better be quick, just in case we're disturbed — your scar. Well, I know it can't be fun when it hurts, but we don't think it's anything to really worry about. It kept aching all last year, didn't it?"

"Yeah, and Dumbledore said it happened whenever Voldemort was feeling a powerful emotion, so maybe he was just, I dunno, really angry or something the night I had that detention."

"Well, now he's back it's bound to hurt more often."

"So you don't think it had anything to do with Umbridge touching me when I was in detention with her?"

"I doubt it. I know her by reputation and I'm sure she's no Death Eater —"

"She's foul enough to be one..."

"Yes, but the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. I know she's a nasty piece of work, though — you should hear Remus talk about her."

"Does Lupin know her?"

"No, but she drafted a bit of anti-werewolf legislation two years ago that makes it almost impossible for him to get a job."

"She called him a half-breed during class! I had to bite my tongue to not yell at her!" Mel scolded.

"What's she got against werewolves?" said Hermione.

"Scared of them, I expect. Apparently, she loathes part-humans; she campaigned to have merpeople rounded up and tagged last year too. Imagine wasting your time and energy persecuting merpeople when there are little toerags like Kreacher on the loose —"

"Sirius!" Hermione said reproachfully. "Honestly, if you made a bit of an effort with Kreacher I'm sure he'd respond, after all, you are the only member of his family he's got left, and Professor Dumbledore said —"

"So what are Umbridge's lessons like? Is she training you all to kill half-breeds?"

"No, she's not letting us use magic at all!"

"All we do is read the stupid textbook," said Ron.

"Ah, well, that figures. Our information from inside the Ministry is that Fudge doesn't want you trained in combat."

"Trained in combat? What does he think we're doing here, forming some sort of wizard army?"

"That's exactly what he thinks you're doing," said Sirius, "or rather, that's exactly what he's afraid Dumbledore's doing — forming his own private army, with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of Magic. Mel leading the group, of course."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, including all the stuff that Luna Lovegood comes out with. Certainly, Mel's good enough to lead the class but to lead an army? That's crazy!"

"So we're being prevented from learning Defense Against the Dark Arts because Fudge is scared we'll use spells against the Ministry?" said Hermione in outrage.

"Yep. Fudge thinks Dumbledore will stop at nothing to seize power. He's getting more paranoid about Dumbledore by the day. It's a matter of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some trumped-up charge."

Mel remembered her talk with Dumbledore. In a way, he was training her as if she was going to lead an army, but the mere idea was crazy! He'd said it himself, Mel wasn't supposed to take his place, he just wanted her to be better.

"D'you know if there's going to be anything about Dumbledore in the Daily Prophet tomorrow? Only Ron's brother Percy reckons there will be —"

"I don't know, I haven't seen anyone from the Order all weekend, they're all busy. It's just been Kreacher, Emily and me here..."

"So you haven't had any news about Hagrid, either?"

"Ah... well, he was supposed to be back by now, no one's sure what's happened to him– But Dumbledore's not worried, so don't you four get yourselves in a state; I'm sure Hagrid's fine."

"But if he was supposed to be back by now..." said Hermione.

"Madame Maxime was with him, we've been in touch with her and she says they got separated on the journey home — but there's nothing to suggest he's hurt or — well, nothing to suggest he's not perfectly okay. Listen, don't go asking too many questions about Hagrid, it'll just draw even more attention to the fact that he's not back, and I know Dumbledore doesn't want that. Hagrid's tough, he'll be okay. When's your next Hogsmeade weekend anyway? I was thinking, we got away with the dog disguise at the station, didn't we? I thought I could —"

"NO!" They said altogether.

"Sirius, didn't you see the Daily Prophet?" said Hermione anxiously.

"Oh that," Sirius, grinned, "they're always guessing where I am, they haven't really got a clue —"

"Yeah, but we think this time they have," said Harry. "Something Malfoy said on the train made us think he knew it was you, and his father was on the platform, Sirius — you know, Lucius Malfoy — so don't come up here, whatever you do, if Malfoy recognizes you again —"

"All right, all right, I've got the point! Just an idea, thought you might like to get together —"

"I would, I just don't want you chucked back in Azkaban!" said Harry.

"...You're less like your father than I thought," he said coldly. "The risk would've been what made it fun for James."

"That's not fair, Sirius, now you're in danger—" Mel started, but he ignored her.

"Well, I'd better get going, I can hear Emily -or maybe Kreacher, dunno- coming down the stairs. I'll write to tell you a time I can make it back into the fire, then, shall I? If you can stand to risk it?"

"Oh, get out," Mel huffed.

Sirius vanished with a pop, and Mel carefully turned to Harry.

"Don't listen to him, Glas–" She stopped before they nickname could fully leave her mouth. "Harry. He's just throwing a tantrum."

Harry let out a heavy sigh, stood up and grabbed his essay.

"Thanks for the help. I... I appreciate it."

He went to bed after that.

'MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM

DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER "HIGH INQUISITOR"'

Mel visibly deflated on her seat, wondering if this was just another nightmare.

"So now we know how we ended up with Umbridge! Fudge passed this 'Educational Decree' and forced her on us! And now he's given her the power to inspect other teachers! I can't believe this. It's outrageous..." Hermione started.

"I know it is," growled Harry.

"Oh, I can't wait to see McGonagall inspected," Ron said happily. "Umbridge won't know what's hit her."

"I..." Mel shook her head. "I don't even know what to say..."

"That must be a first," said Hermione, "we'd better get going if she's inspecting Binns's class we don't want to be late..."

Umbridge did not inspect any of their morning classes, and Mel was surprised to see an E on her potions essay, graded as if it were her actual O.W.L. examination, which did nothing but to boost her ego even more than her little trick with the fireworks. Hermione was still talking about it with their friends during lunch.

"So top grade's O for 'Outstanding,'" she was saying, "and then there's A —"

"No, E– E for 'Exceeds Expectations.' And I've always thought Fred and I should've got E in everything because we exceeded expectations just by turning up for the exams."

"So after E, it's A for 'Acceptable,' and that's the last pass grade, isn't it?"

"Yep," said Fred.

"Then you get P for 'Poor' and D for 'Dreadful.' "

"And then T," George reminded Ron.

"T?" asked Hermione. "Even lower than a D? What on earth does that stand for?"

" 'Troll,' " said George.

"You lot had an inspected lesson yet?" Fred asked once everyone stopped laughing.

"No," said Hermione with interest, "have you?"

"Just now, before lunch," said George. "Charms."

"What was it like?"

"Not that bad. Umbridge just lurked in the corner making notes on a clipboard. You know what Flitwick's like, he treated her like a guest, didn't seem to bother him at all. She didn't say much. Asked Alicia a couple of questions about what the classes are normally like, Alicia told her they were really good, that was it."

"I can't see old Flitwick getting marked down," said George, "he usually gets everyone through their exams all right."

"Who've you got this afternoon?" Fred asked.

"Trelawney —"

"A T if ever I saw one —"

"— and Umbridge herself."

"Well, be a good boy and keep your temper with Umbridge today. Angelina'll do her nut if you miss any more Quidditch practices."

"Don't worry about that," Harry gave her a sort of sour look. "Mel will take care of that."

The girl barely looked up from her plate to glare at him, that particular morning she didn't feel like fighting, not after the way Sirius had talked to him.

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere @t-rexs-world​ @sarcasticallywitty15​

The Feeling Is Mutual

Remus considered turning around and taking the stairs as soon as he saw Sirius Black. But he knew from experience that getting down those stairs on crutches was even harder than it looked, and he really didn’t have time to end up in the hospital with another broken limb.

No, he could survive the elevator ride with Black. It was only a few floors, after all.

It wasn’t that he hated Black. He just strongly disliked him and the sight of his face made Remus’ blood boil. Okay, maybe he did kind of hate him, but he knew the feeling was mutual. 

He avoided making eye contact as he entered the elevator, holding both crutches in one hand to press the button with his free one. 

“Good afternoon, Lupin.” Sirius’ voice, however charming, was as annoying as ever.

“It’s 8 am,” Remus replied coldly, not looking anywhere near Black, though he didn’t have to to know that Black was looking directly at him, a smirk on his stupid face as he leaned seductively against one wall of the elevator. What a fucking prick.

The doors of the elevator finally closed and it began its descent towards the ground floor. Only for less than a minute, though, before coming to a halt with a series of concerning mechanical sounds. 

“What the fuck?” Remus tried pressing on the button again and when that didn’t make the elevator move, he just tried pressing every single button, still to no avail. “It’s stuck or something,” he muttered.

“Let me try,” Black said, pushing past him and beginning to press every button, just as Remus had just done. 

He glared at Black. “That doesn’t work. Something must be wrong with the elevator. I’ll call someone who can fix it-”

Oh, nevermind. No cell phone service. Remus swore loudly.

Black just laughed. “Looks like we’re stuck here together, then,” he said.

No. No no no. This could not be happening. “Fuck,” Remus swore, leaning against the elevator’s wall and letting himself slide down onto the floor. Not only had he woken up late so he’d had to skip his morning coffee to leave in time, but now he was stuck in a elevator with his literal mortal enemy. If Black spoke to him, he was going to hit him with one of his crutches.

“So how’s your cat?” Black asked, sitting down at the opposite side of the elevator.

Fucking hell. Remus’ crutches were perched against the wall, just out of his reach. Another time, then. 

“I’m not talking to you,” he replied. 

Black sighed. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I just thought since we’re gonna be stuck here for a while, we may as well try to put our differences aside so we don’t go mad.”

“I’ll go mad if you say another word to me,” Remus said coldly. 

He looked down at his own hands, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. It seemed that Black was actually leaving him alone, which should gladden Remus, but now the elevator was so… quiet. He looked up, only to find Black looking right at him, head tilted slightly to the side like a curious dog. 

“Oi, stop staring at me, you creep!” Remus felt his cheeks heat up. 

“I wasn’t staring at you!” Black said, putting his arms up in defence. “Believe it or not, Lupin, but you actually are slightly more interesting than these grey, empty walls.” He looked up, gaze wandering over said walls. “They should really put a painting or something up in here.”

Remus crossed his arms and looked away from Black. While he really didn’t want to give Black the satisfaction of being right, he knew that was the case: they would go mad if they had to sit in silence for who knew how long. 

“My cat is doing good,” he said, finally answering Black’s question. “How’s Snuffles?” Snuffles was Black’s stupid dog, who had more than once ruined Remus’ pants by peeing on him. 

Black had seemed excited to get an answer out of Remus, but quite suddenly, his expression changed to one Remus had never seen on him before… sadness, concern? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Snuffles is sick,” Black answered, looking down at his hands. “I took him to the vet a few days ago, but there’s nothing they can do... “

“Shit,” Remus said. “I’m sorry, that must be horrible.”

Black let out a shaky laugh, probably to not cry. “I’ve had him since i was 17,” he said. “Got him when I moved out, and the thought of him not being here is… yeah, it’s horrible.”

Remus couldn’t explain why Black’s sadness was so painful to watch. He wanted to hug him, to comfort him… but he’d want to do that to anyone, even if it was someone he hated. This had nothing to do with Black specifically.

“You moved out at 17?” he asked, half out of curiosity, half to kind of change the topic. 

Black nodded. “Got kicked out at 16, lived with my friend and his parents for a year, but…” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to be an inconvenience to them so I got a job and bought a tiny, shitty flat. I remember it was overrun by rats and cockroaches, and the water was always cold… This place is definitely an upgrade, even if my neighbor is a twat.”

Remus got the feeling Black had only insulted him to keep a bit of dignity, surprised at how much he’d shared with him. 

“Why’d you get kicked out?” he asked, before realizing what a personal question that was. He hurried to add, “you don’t have to answer that.”

Black shrugged. “Technically, I ran away,” he said. “But you could say I was forced to…”

It didn’t seem like he was going to go into further detail about it, so Remus hurried to change the topic. “It’s weird we know so little about each other, isn’t it?” he asked. “Considering we’ve been neighbors for, what, 3 years?”

“To be fair-” Black said, looking at him with his piecing grey eyes. “You’ve never seemed very keen on getting to know me.” 

Oh. Remus tried to stop himself, but before he could, the words just flew off his tongue: “I want to get to know you now.” 

Black seemed taken aback by this. “Really?” he said. “I thought you hated me.” 

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Remus mumbled. “I guess I just… I dunno, it’s been a weird day.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Black muttered.

Before either of them could say anything else, Black’s phone buzzed. His eyes lit up as he fished it out of his pocket. “Oh,” he said. “My friend is calling me. Finally I have a fucking signal.” He answered the call: “Hey, James. Yeah, I know I’m late. I’m kind of stuck in an elevator... Yeah, if you could help get a hold of the maintenance guy? I don’t have his number, no, but he’s usually around. How far are you from my place? Oh, excellent. Thanks, mate.”

He hung up and put down the phone. “Looks like we’re getting out of here!” he said. “My friend will be here in 5 minutes or so.”

Remus knew he was supposed to feel relieved. He would finally be free, and even without being too late for work but… For some reason the most prominent feeling was disappointment. It felt like a special bond had been formed between him and Black in the time they’d spent in the elevator and what if, once they got out and continued their normal lives, that would disappear? How could he tell Black that he didn’t want to go back to the way things had been?

“Uhm…”

“Yeah?” Black said. 

Remus hesitated, heart beating just a little faster than usual. “It’s just, uhh… can you help me up?” He let out a nervous laugh, gesturing to his broken leg.

“Oh, of course.” Black got up and walked the few steps over to Remus, offering his hand to help him up. 

Their hands touching sent a warm tingly feeling through Remus’ body, something he couldn’t quite explain. He let Black help him up and… oh. 

Their faces were so close he could feel Black’s minty breath on his face and see every tiny detail of his eyes - from up close they had a beautiful blue tint that made them look softer, deeper…. Remus didn’t know who initiated it, but suddenly they were kissing. 

He could feel the tension being released as he kissed Black, deeply, with passion. He hadn’t realized how much he had wanted this. 

They were both startled as the elevator, with a clanking metallic sound, started moving again. Confused, they broke apart, staring from the elevator doors to each other. Black let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his ruffled hair. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Remus’ eyes widened. “Really?” he asked. 

Black nodded and looked like he was about to say something more but before he had the chance to, the elevator stopped again. For one nerve-racking moment, Remus thought the elevator had stopped working again but then the doors slid open and they were greeted by the maintenance guy and Black’s friend. 

Black stepped out of the elevator to his friend, who grinned at him. “What dirty shenanigans did you two get up to while trapped in there together?” he asked Black, who laughed and shook his head. 

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” he said in a teasing voice.

Remus grabbed his crutches and quickly exited the elevator before the doors closed again. He looked at his phone. One missed call from Lily, his friend and coworker. She was probably pissed off at being left alone on their shift. Remus only hoped she would forgive him when she found out why he was so late…

“Ready to go?” he heard Black’s friend ask.

“In a moment,” Black said. “There’s something I need to do. Just wait in the car?”

His friend nodded and walked to the stairs and Black turned to Remus. “Hey, uh,” he said to grab his attention.

“Yeah?” Remus said.

Black seemed careful to look anywhere but at him. “I know you hate me,” he said. “And I know that, er… it was just a kiss and it probably didn’t, y’know, mean anything, but…” He seemed nervous, unsure of himself, something Remus had never seen from him before.

“Well, I don’t know,” Black muttered. “This is stupid but do you think… would you want to get coffee sometime?”

Remus was taken aback by the question. “With you?” he asked.

Black bit his lip, carefully glancing at him. “I understand if you don’t want to,” he assured him. “We can just forget all of this ever happened and-”

“No,” Remus cut him off. “No, coffee sounds great.”

Black’s face lit up in a smile and Remus felt his heart miss a beat. “Great,” he said. “That’s, uh… That’s great.”

“Yeah,” Remus said, smiling as well. “Anyway, I really have to go. I’m late for work.”

Black quickly regained his composure. “Of course!” he said. “Yeah, I, uh… James is waiting for me, so I better go too.” 

Remus nodded. As he watched Black turn around and leave, he couldn’t help but wish he’d said something more, like “I don’t think i hate you as much as I thought” or “To me, it wasn’t just a kiss”, but before he could gather the courage to do so, Black was already out of sight. There’s plenty of time, he told himself.

Perhaps he could tell him later, over a cup of coffee.

David x Patrick; 3300 words this chapter; 21k so far.  A03.

Summary:  Being stuck in the Milwaukee airport is bad enough. Then David realizes that the man who broke his heart is sitting right next to him. After a rom-com worthy reunion, David decides he won't walk away again.

Chapter 7

David wakes early and slides out of bed without looking at Patrick; if he starts mooning over him now, it will make it that much harder to get up.

He is soon outside in the early morning chill, watching the patchy fog dissipate as he runs along man-made waterways.  He knows it’s all manufactured, designed to entice retirees into spending their golden years sitting on a patio here instead of in whatever snowbound northern location they earned their 401k in, but it’s pretty nonetheless.

David does a few loops of Patrick’s neighborhood and then ventures out past the gates onto a busier commercial street.  The suburbs look the same as in any medium-sized town, albeit with a slightly sunnier vibe.  He passes a pizza place, a sketchy looking nail salon, and a hardware store, and then pauses when a sweet, yeasty scent floods his senses.  Following his nose, he heads down a side street where a nondescript sign advertises freshly baked bread and pastries.

Inside the shop, David stands and breathes deeply, then takes his time selecting a bag full of treats.  He’s not even upset about interrupting his run, everything smells so good.  It’s all he can do not to taste each of them on his way back (although he does allow himself one little chouquette – it’s been forever since he’s had a decent French sugar puff).

Back at the house, David leaves the pastries in the kitchen while he showers and gets dressed.  Only when he’s completely ready for the day, pastries arranged in a basket and coffee made, does he allow himself to return to the bedroom.  To Patrick.

It’s not creepy, he tells himself.  It’s allowed.  Patrick is curled up on his side, one hand under his pillow and the other tucked under his chin.  The bruise on his temple is almost gone, just a faint yellow-green tinge remaining, and his stitches don’t look nearly as ghastly as they did a few days ago.  Patrick’s hair is short – still the same way he used to keep it – so it won’t take long at all for the area around the cut to fill back in, although David thinks he may have a lingering scar.

David’s still not clear on how the head injury happened, and letting his imagination run wild (an impact against something sharp when he was knocked down?) is disturbing.  He thinks back to what Patrick told him yesterday about the attack, downplaying it as a bar fight, as partially Patrick’s fault for being drunk and stupid.  He knows Patrick can have a temper in the right (or wrong) circumstances, but it still doesn’t make a lot of sense to him.  David doesn’t think he’s being overly dramatic to say that Patrick is traumatized.  No matter what Patrick said, he didn’t ask to have his ribs broken and his head sliced open.

David is seized with the overwhelming need to protect Patrick.  There’s a sadness in Patrick’s eyes now that pains him, and he’s not sure that he’s equipped to take it away, not when David himself caused some of that pain.  But moments of happiness have emerged over the past few days, little smiles and tentative laughter.  It’s a start.  

David slides under the covers and scoots close to Patrick, then leans in and presses a soft kiss to his forehead, letting his hand rest gently on Patrick’s t-shirt clad shoulder.  Patrick snuffles adorably and scrunches his face up, so David kisses him again, this time on his nose, resulting in more adorable scrunching.

Patrick blinks a few times and then focuses on David.  “Morning?”  He reaches out and flops his hand on David’s waist.

“Um, yes.  Almost ten.”

Patrick blinks some more.  “Hi.”

David smiles at him.  “Seems like you slept well?”

“Yeah, actually.”  Patrick closes his eyes and leans his head against David’s face.  “Thanks.”

“Not sure it was my doing, but I’m glad.”  David kisses Patrick’s scratchy cheek, then his lips.  

Patrick kisses back, sleepy and soft, then rolls to his back.  “Do I smell coffee?”

“You do.  And…”  David twists around and presents Patrick with the basket of pastries.  “Breakfast.”

Patrick sits up, wincing, and David tucks him up against his body, one arm stretching around Patrick’s waist.  

“These look great,” Patrick says, curious.  “Did you go shopping again?”

“Found them on my run.  Try this one – it’s chocolate <i>and</i> pistachio.”  David can’t help being excited, even though it’s silly, but Patrick is smiling and happy and if baked goods are doing it, he’s not going to complain.

Patrick takes a bite, then another, and finally gets to the filling, his face stretching with a smile.  “Oh god, this is amazing.”

“Right?”  David kisses Patrick on the corner of his mouth, tasting the flakes of croissant.

“Here,” Patrick hands the pastry to David and takes another out of the basket.  “Is this one almond?”

“What gave it away, the almonds on the top?”

“Funny, you’re very funny.”

They make their way through the basket, trading bits and pieces of each pastry.  David finally gives up and starts breaking them open so he can get to the good parts.

“This one’s apple,” he says, showing Patrick.  “Fruit is healthy.”

“Definitely a healthy breakfast,” Patrick replies.  “Right up there with pizza and beer.”

“I’m offended that you would compare pastries made with imported French butter to pizza and beer.  Take that back or I won’t let you taste the apricot one.”

“Sorry, sorry.”  Patrick grins and nibbles at David’s fingers.  There are flakes of pastry everywhere, and David’s skin is sticky with glaze and sugar, and he could not care less, not when Patrick is warm and safe next to him and smiling up a storm.

After a while they have eaten their fill of the croissants, and Patrick sags back against David, groaning.  “That was delicious.”

“You’re delicious.”  David rubs Patrick’s tummy, a little bit of softness just above the waist of his sleep pants.  Patrick hums and twists his head, meeting David’s lips in a sugar-sweet kiss.

“Thank you for breakfast,” Patrick says softly, kissing David again, and then sighing as he tips his head back.  “But this kind of ruined my plans.”

David tucks his chin over Patrick’s shoulder and nuzzles his ear.  “What plans were those?”

“I thought we’d drive over to the next town, it’s significantly more interesting.  There are some nice architectural features, a few gift shops and boutiques, and a little bistro I wanted to take you to for lunch.  I think you’d like it.”

“So how exactly does our spur of the moment pastry feast interfere with these promising plans?”

“I’m stuffed.  Not exactly conducive to going out for lunch.”

“Patrick, even if we hurry, lunch is still hours away.  I’m sure we’ll be fine.”  David rubs at Patrick’s shoulders and pushes at him.  “At least, if you can manage to get out of bed and get dressed.  I’ll throw the sheets into the wash while you get ready.”

Patrick shoots him a strange look, and David points to the scattering of croissant debris spread out around them.  “I can put up with a little bit of a mess for spontaneity’s sake, but I’m not sleeping in a pile of crumbs tonight.”

As David gathers up the sheets, he thinks he knows what Patrick’s odd look was for.  Generally speaking, when they washed their linens in the past, it was due to somewhat less G rated activities than breakfast in bed.  He hopes Patrick isn’t worried about what they’ve been up to (or not up to) physically.  Given that they’ve only been back together for less than three full days, along with Patrick’s injuries, it seems utterly reasonable that they’ve been keeping it PG.

He knows Patrick has always seen sex in a more black and white light than David has.  For David, being with Patrick over the past few days has been more than enough.  The intimacy they have shared isn’t about sex, and doesn’t have to be – it’s being vulnerable together, holding each other through painful confessions and whispered reassurances.  It’s Patrick casually touching David’s waist when he walks by.  It’s how David’s hands flutter towards Patrick’s shoulders, and how Patrick looks at him when they land.

David thinks maybe they should talk about it, though.  God knows he’s given Patrick confusing signals before – he’s probably never going to live down the whole sleepover mishap when the guy died in the motel.

He goes out by the pool to make sure his outfit is suitable for today’s planned outing – it’s gotten warmer and the fog has all burned away, but there’s still a bit of chill in the air.  He thinks his white and black Christopher Kane sweater will be fine, it’s on the thin side and rather fitted, and if he’s honest with himself, shows off his shoulders quite nicely.

David smiles at the thought of Patrick planning an activity for them.  It’s shaping up to be quite a wonderful day.  And there was even a mention of boutiques…

He takes out his phone to scope out whether any of the shops might actually stock something he would want to buy, and realizes that Alexis has sent him increasingly frantic texts.  And as if thinking about her has actually called her into being, his phone rings.

“What?”

“David. You promised.”

“Promised what?”  

“Didn’t you read my texts?”

“Obviously not.”  David sits down on one of the lounge chairs, after giving the floral cushion a quick sweep with his hand to make sure there aren’t any fire ants or other sneaky creatures lingering about.  Clearly Alexis has something on her mind, he might as well get comfortable.

“The Haute Tea presentation got moved up to <i>tomorrow,</i> and you promised you would help me with it.”

“That was supposed to be next month.”

“Well, it’s not, and Koharu already emailed me twice to make sure you had blessed the key design elements.”

“You told Koharu I was helping you?”  Koharu had been an exchange student from Japan when David met her in high school.  Now she is the CEO of one of the fastest growing and most creative restaurant groups in the Seattle area.

“Yes, David, how did you think I got the account?”  Alexis’ voice is rising into the stratosphere, and David holds the phone away from his ear and takes a deep breath.

“Okay, Alexis, okay, calm down.”

“How can I be calm when you’re ignoring me at one of the most important moments in my career?”

“Given how eager Koharu is to work with me, isn’t it actually one of the most important moments in my career?”

“David!”

“Fine, fine.  Give me a few minutes to get set up and I’ll call you back.  Send me what you’ve got in the meantime.”

There is a silence from the other end of the phone, and then Alexis speaks, her voice gone quiet.  “Really?”

“Of course.”  He had promised to help her, and he isn’t going to go back on his word, not with Alexis.  Besides, he actually has several very promising ideas for the Haute Tea branding line.  Between the two of them, they can generate a dazzling powerpoint presentation in a solid afternoon of work.

The moment he hangs up the phone, however, David realizes his mistake.  “Shit.  Shit shit shit shit shit.”

“What’s wrong?”  asks Patrick, coming out onto the lanai.  David tilts his head back and recites “shit” again in his head another dozen times.  

“I got a call from Alexis.”

“Everything okay?”  Patrick sits down on the other lounger, his jean-clad knees knocking into David’s.  

“Yes.  Well, no, but nothing dire.”

“What’s up?”

“I promised Alexis I’d help her with a client pitch, and it got moved up.  So I can’t go to the cute town with you today.”

Patrick looks briefly disappointed, then his face smooths out and he nods.  “No problem, I understand.”

“I’d much rather hang out with you, you know that, right?”  David leans over and takes one of Patrick’s hands in his.  “I’m sorry to mess up your plans.”

Patrick’s eyes flit around, landing somewhere by David’s shoulder, and David feels his stomach sink.  Patrick doesn’t believe him.  He thinks David is blowing him off.

“What, um,” Patrick starts, then shakes his head.  “Forget it.”

“What?”  David shifts to sit next to Patrick.  “I mean it.  I was excited about our afternoon, the shopping and the food…”

“I know, I know you wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to check out a new restaurant for no reason.  It’s just…”. Patrick lets out a breath and takes his hand out of David’s, crossing his arms over his chest.  “I don’t think Alexis likes me very much.”

Oh.  David must be staring at Patrick with his mouth open, because Patrick huffs out a sad laugh.  

“You don’t have to come up with a response to that, David.  I shouldn’t have said anything.  It’s not your problem.”

David can feel his face scrunch up.  “How is it not my problem?”

“I messed things up with her, I’ll have to figure out how to fix it.”

David tugs Patrick’s hands back into his own.  “We messed things up with each other.  Alexis was merely an unfortunate casualty.”

Patrick stands up and pulls David up with him.  “Regardless, do what you need to do to help her out.  The bistro will still be there tomorrow.”

“Will it?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”  Patrick brushes a sweet, toothpaste-y kiss across David’s lips, and David smiles into it.  

“Mmm,” he says, pulling away but keeping his hands draped on Patrick’s shoulders.  “More of that later, perhaps?”

Patrick actually blushes – blushes! – and ducks his head.  “Sure.”

After another moment of awkward adorableness where David steals a few more kisses, Patrick suggests that David use his parents’ office.  David plugs in his laptop, facetimes Alexis on his phone, and they get to work.

It’s not the first time they’ve partnered up on one of Alexis’ many projects, especially where she veers into marketing.  David enjoys the chance to stretch his design skills, and it’s a lot more interesting than the Rose Apothecary sourcing work, which has frankly gotten fairly routine at this point.

Haute Tea is a high-end tea shop that is struggling to build its brand recognition, especially when it comes to competing against the zillions of coffee shops that also happen to sell tea.  They asked Alexis for a plan that would help them bring new energy to their brand and promote their unique strengths.

David thinks their logo needs an update, and he shoots some of his design ideas over to Alexis.  “They need to make sure people don’t get them confused with ‘ye olde tea shoppe’ stores.  Nothing British, nothing floral, no scones with clotted cream.”

“No Liberty prints?”  asks Alexis.

“Exactly.”

They work on some sleek, modern designs, black and white with a bit of color, and think about coordinating ways in which to update the company’s website.  Kokuro doesn’t want to lean into her Japanese heritage, which David thinks is a shame, but then again the name of the company is in French, so there’s that.

They finish up, David agreeing to look over the final slide deck after Alexis makes a few more edits and sends it to him later.  He thinks they did pretty well and is curious to see if Kokuro agrees.  He wouldn’t mind doing more work with her in the future.  If Rose Apothecary was still an independent business, he could see them featuring her teas.

“Thank you, David,” Alexis says.  “I’m sure it was hard to pull yourself away from Patrick, now that you guys have miraculously fixed everything.”

There’s a tone in Alexis’ voice that David doesn’t care for.  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Alexis twirls her hair around her finger.  David thinks it’s remarkable that she has any left, given how often she does this.  “Nothing, David.”

“Okay…”

“Just – you were awfully mad at him, for an awfully long time.  It seems pretty convenient that you run into him a few days ago and now everything is magically okay.  Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

David feels a pang of doubt, but he’s also insulted.  “That’s my business, not yours.”

“It was my business when you cried on my shoulder for all those months, and when you threw out my French press because it reminded you of the one Patrick bought you, and when you made me delete all those pictures from my phone-”

“Fine,” David interrupts, not at all interested in going over all of this again.  “I will remember not to come to you for emotional support in the future.”

“That’s not what I’m saying!”  Alexis whines.

“What exactly are you saying, then?”

Alexis lets out a breath and shakes her head.  “You made me so angry with him,” Alexis says softly.  “He hurt you.  You guys had something really good, and he ruined it.”  

“It wasn’t all his fault,” David says, hoping he doesn’t have to go into more detail.

“I knew that,” Alexis says, and David rolls his eyes because it’s just like Alexis to pretend she knows better than him, even now.

“You didn’t.”

“David, fine.  Whatever.  Anyway, whosever fault it was, I saw what losing him did to you,” Alexis goes on, looking at him so earnestly through the screen that David has to duck his head.  “That night in the Hamptons… I can’t go through that again, David.  You can’t either.”

“That won’t happen again,” David says, a sick punch in his gut at the memory.  

“But how do you know?”

“I know because I’m working on it, Alexis, every day.”  David fights to stay calm.  He understands why his family is still questioning him, even almost three years later, but he wishes they’d have a little more faith.

“David, it’s just that… your break-up with Patrick wasn’t anything like your other break-ups.  It was more than mall pretzel level damage.  Just thinking about it makes my insides hurt.  I still have all of these icky, upset feelings.”  She waves her hands around.  “And I didn’t get a cathartic rom-com reunion at the airport, or any apology kisses.”  She punctuates her words with her finger, pointing at him accusingly.  “What am I supposed to do now, just do a three-sixty for no reason?”

“One-eighty,” David corrects automatically.  “And there is a reason.  The best reason.”  Patrick, he thinks.  A chance to be together again.  

“I know….” she says, dragging the word out into a whine.  “But it’s your reason, not mine.  Ugh, this is so aggravating.”

“He misses you too,” David says, the words coming out of nowhere.  He knows it’s true as soon as he says it.

There’s a pause, and then Alexis says, sadly, “That doesn’t help.”

Later that night, David finally finishes one last review of the Haute Tea presentation and sends it back to Alexis.  He’s in bed with his laptop, Patrick lying next to him, curled up under the blankets and snoring softly.  David was too busy to even worry about whether Patrick was upset about their current level of physical activity until long after Patrick fell asleep; that issue is going to have to wait for another day.

He also didn’t get a chance to talk to Patrick about Alexis.  David has certainly put a lot of energy into hating on Alexis’ exes after painful splits, and he thinks he understands how hard it can be to forgive someone for hurting a person you love, although it makes him uncomfortable to focus too hard on what that means about how much Alexis cares about him.

David hopes he can find a way to mend the relationship between Patrick and Alexis.  They were close, family, and they deserve to have that back.  And if David can figure that out, maybe there’s hope for him and Stevie, too.

He sets his laptop aside and slides under the covers, beaming to himself as Patrick pulls him close, seeking him out even in sleep.  They can really do this, he thinks.  It’s a chance he never thought he’d have, but it’s here, and David is going to make the most of it.

Tell me, should I let you go?

Tags: RadioDust, Trans!Angel Warnings: Drug Use, Addiction Fic was inspired by the song Sober by Bad Wolves. Listen while you read!      Angel Dust woke up in his bathtub, again. His neck hurt from being bent forward overnight, and his back and joints all ached from the cramped spaces and unnatural angles. At least the cool tile felt nice. Dizziness washed over him as he tipped his head back, trying to right his world, and soon after he was scrambling for the toilet, dry heaves wracking his frame. He spit, if just to relieve the nausea, and settled back against the wall, one arm feebly reaching for the vanity. There was a snuffling and scraping sound and all of a sudden Angel’s lap was full of pig, his pet bounding back and forth across him, desperate for attention.

    “Be easy on daddy, now,” Angel moaned, scooping up the pig and cradling him. The nausea was ebbing slightly, but not enough. He turned his head, coughing and hacking into the toilet again. Just holding Fat Nuggets felt like too much, but Angel managed to claw and stumble his way to his feet. His reflection looked worse than he felt, mascara and eyeliner dripping down his cheeks and his eyes red around the edges. His throat felt scratchy and a fresh wave of dizziness had him stumbling forward into the sink.     “Saint’s sake, am I still drunk?” he mumbled, fumbling for his toothbrush. His mouth tasted like sugar and stomach acid, and it took him twice as long to get himself looking presentable, crumbled clothes aside. The dizziness and nausea had more or less left him to fester, but the lights felt too bright and a migraine had settled behind his left eye. He matched his steps to the slow pulse of his head, wobbling around his room as he unceremoniously stripped out of yesterday’s clothes and pulled on a fresh shirt and shorts. He had no plans to go out, so he didn’t bother getting too dolled up. He checked his phone, but there were no messages, not from work, not from his family, not even from Alastor. Probably for the best, even though he was craving a few sweet words this morning. Better to lay low and not let anyone realize how he was. There were empty bottles and plastic cups, and evidence of the fun that was wreaking so much havoc on him this morning scattered around the room. He cleaned it all up, burying it in his trash so no one would find it later. He should feel ashamed, maybe, drinking, smoking, maybe even popping a pill or two, but it wasn’t such a big deal. Just a couple drinks, a smoke, a couple pills. No one had to know, and he’d been so good. They had to give him that.     This was just one of those, whaddaya call’em? Cheat days. It was just a lil treat. One time thing. He placated himself, shoving off the bits of shame and regret crawling under his skin. Angel settled into his bed, Fat Nuggets happily curled up against him, grumbling as he thumbed through the TV channels. It made his head hurt that much more, but frankly he’d take that over the silence, in the room or in his head. He scratched idly at the inside of his arm, only glancing down when he realized he’d picked at a scab. A very new one.     He swore, tearing tissues out of their box, knocking over everything else on the nightstand. Angel dabbed at the tiny wound, peering closer. It was definitely a needle mark, and not the only one. He yanked down on the sleeve of his shirt, casting furtive glances around his room. It was fine, it was okay. It would be gone in a couple hours, a day top. It was tiny. No one had to know he hadn’t just fallen off the wagon, that he’d jumped headfirst. It was fine. He just had to stay home, lay low one day, be extra careful from here on. He crouched by the bed, picking up the things he’d knocked over. A couple framed pictures of his friends, another of him and Alastor dressed up in silly Valentine’s themed costumes. They’d thrown a party back in February for his six months sober celebration. There was a lopsided stuffed deer, a prize Al had won for him at Hell’s carnival, back on one of their early dates. When Fat Nuggets had torn it up one night, Al had hushed him, stitching it up and adding a few personal touches, showing him anything could be repaired. He set everything back up neatly. No biggie. This was something else that could be fixed. No big deal. Definitely not, until there was a knock at his door.     “Angel? You okay?” Charlie’s innocent voice was the last thing he wanted to hear, but he heaved himself onto his feet and stumbled to the door as fast as he could manage, leaning against it to hold it shut.     “Just peachy, dollface. Ya need something?” he called through the door, making sure all the locks were on. He pushed the chain lock all the way across, quieting the metal with his fingertips.     “You’re late for your check-in session, I was making sure you were up.”     “Check-in?”     “Did you forget? Today’s the 5th, you were supposed to meet me downstairs an hour ago.” Charlie’s voice was picking up a suspicious edge he didn’t like. Of course today would be a check in. How had he forgotten that? He was so careful, making sure he’d clear his appointments so he could live pretty freely under the radar.     “Sorry doll, I, uh, just over-slept. Stayed up too late….watching too many movies!” He bit at his lip, not buying his own excuses. Clearly, she wasn’t either.     “Angel, let me in. I want to make sure you’re okay.” She insisted. Angel huffed, putting on his usual demeanor. It wasn’t like he didn’t have practice faking it.     The door swung open abruptly, revealing Angel in his t-shirt and sports shorts, a button down shirt only partially blocking out the pride pun printed on his shirt in pastel colors. The sleeves hung down to half-way down his forearms, carefully folded. Charlie studied him, suspicion and confusion warring across her face.     “Something wrong, doll? I was in the middle a somethin.” He tried to hurry her along, one arm braced against the door frame. The injured arm was tucked against his back, the elbow carefully hidden with the cuff.     “I’ve just never seen you dressed like that.” Charlie finally admitted, staring at his chest. He shifted uncomfortably, wondering if the shirt looked wrong on him. Finally, she smiled, pointing at it. “I like your shirt. It’s good to cope through positive humor.” Angel glanced down. ‘The first gender’s free,’ the pink text read. ‘Too bad I needed a refund’, the white and blue text finished. He laughed with her, but it felt stuck in his throat. He could feel sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.     “So look, can we reschedule the uh, check-in, doll?” He tried to keep his voice steady, his smile wide. Charlie waved one hand, still giggling.     “Sure, sure,” she called, turning away. “I’ll see you after lunch then, my office. Bye Angel!”     Oh sugar honey. Angel bit his lip, keeping his internal screams to himself, willing himself to shut the door calmly and muffle his impending break-down in a pillow.     By two in the afternoon, Angel had scrubbed himself head to toe, made sure his makeup was flawless, perfumed, eaten, drank, anything and everything to beat back last night’s demons and act the part of the perfectly adapted, normal, and completely clean Angel Dust he’d been becoming the last eight or so months. ‘Just one quick meeting, no big deal,’ he kept reminding himself. He sauntered into Charlie’s office, plopping down into the chair opposite her desk, checking his nails to keep up his bored act. The marks on his arm were all but gone now, but there were still a few nagging symptoms of a come down he hadn’t quite chased off yet. Charlie shut the door behind him, part of her pledge to privacy, and sat across from him, separated by a massive wood desk that was definitely made for one of her parents. She just looked tiny, sitting behind it.     “Okay! So, we are… just shy of one year! How are you feeling today?” Charlie consulted her paperwork, searching around for her pen as she spoke. It was the one she’d taken from Katie Killjoy, way back at the hotel’s launch.     “Same ol’, bored as hell, but doin’ my best. Clean, nice, and well-adjusted.” Angel ticked off on his fingers, reciting the three goals Charlie pushed all of her patrons towards. She hummed, clicking the pen a few times before she began to take notes. She probed at him with the usual list of questions, asking about his recent activities, work, friends, mood, and how he was coping and feeling about each of the problems he’d mentioned in previous meetings. He could see she’d drawn his shirt in the margins. ‘Piece. Of. Cake.’ he congratulated himself, standing up and starting to excuse himself. He’d made it through the full hour without a single slip up.     “Sit back down, Angel.” Charlie scolded, setting her page down flat. She dropped the pen, eyeing the chair when he didn’t. He sighed, plunking back down.     “What’s up, boss?” He asked, arms crossed. Charlie reached over the desk, yanking his sleeve up before he could stop her.     “I knew it.” she hissed, sitting back in her chair, hands wrapped around her elbows, arms pressing flat against her ribs. “Angel, you’re not even close to clean.”     “What! That’s playing dirty! I am! Well, I was. Definitely was! I was being a super good boy, but then, I dunno, something happened, and then I guess I made a mistake last night, and then I guess, I dunno. A lot happened last night, an’ I don’t remember none of it, but I swear! I was clean until yesterday! I’ll get it back!” He wasn’t being completely truthful, he’d been sneaking drinks and hits of whatever coworkers had on hand while he was at work, but he definitely couldn’t tell her that, and he really had been cutting back… Why couldn’t he remember last night?     “Angel, you’ve come to check-ins still stoned before, just… stop.” Charlie pinched the bridge of her nose, blowing out a breath. “Last night, Alastor brought you home from Val’s. You were a huge wreck. He took you upstairs, but you started screaming at us and locked yourself in your room.” She paused, looking up at him, willing him to say something, but Angel, for once, had nothing.     “Have you ever told me the truth?” Charlie sighed, pushing herself to her feet. She circled the desk, opening the door with a resigned, defeated look. Angel frowned, knowing he was the cause, but not how to fix it. Getting high at work wasn’t surprising, but to get totally wrecked wasn’t right. Angel shuffled, thinking he was being dismissed, but what happened next was so much worse.     Alastor walked in, face blank and perfectly schooled into place. Charlie retook her seat, gesturing to the open chair beside Angel. Al took it, not looking at him. He just stared straight ahead, completely zoned out.     “Angel, you were already on your last warning before this. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Charlie tried again. Angel opened his mouth, starting over with what he’d already tried, but it fell on deaf ears. Neither Charlie or Alastor so much as twitched as he tried spinning line after line, trying for pity, sympathy, humor, anything. When she couldn’t take anymore, Charlie shook her head, scribbling away on a sheet of paper. Angel couldn’t make out the words, no matter how desperately he wanted to. It felt like his whole head was throbbing and the room was spinning. How hot was it in here anyway? He shoved his sleeves up, already caught out. It was hard to catch his breath, he slumped forward, tempted to put his head between his knees. Were his ears ringing, or was that Al’s static?     “Angel,” Charlie said, clearly not for the first time. Concern was leaking into her voice, and he fished himself back out, sitting up, head lolling to one side. Al stayed silent, not offering a hand, a word, even a tune. He had never felt so alone in a room full of people who were supposed to care about him. So much for that.     “Angel, I have to evict you.” She said finally, sliding the page over to him. “You have to sign this.”     It wasn’t possible to hold back the tears dripping down his face, and just as impossible to figure out why he couldn’t stop. Who cared about the dumb hotel. He had any number of places he could go. Molly had a spare room, if he wanted to go back to the mob. Cherri had a couch, and he’d already thrown his lot in with hers for turf wars. Hell, even Val would take him back and let him live in a studio if he did more videos. Screw the Hotel! Angel growled, throwing his things into duffel bags, ripping his posters off the wall, slamming the drawers closed after emptying them. Fat Nuggets hid under his bed, snuffling sadly, but he didn’t have it in him to apologize yet, even if the pig was innocent. Sometimes he just had to stay angry.     “I would think you wouldn’t want to destroy your own possessions, darling.” Alastor spoke softly from the open doorway, looking around slowly. Angel pouted, looking more pathetic than mad, but he didn’t care. He didn’t notice when Al had gotten there, but it didn’t matter.     “I don’t possess anything. Anything that’s mine gets broke or taken away.” He said pointedly, snatching the pictures off his nightstand. He inspected them, finally dumping them in the wastebasket by the vanity. Alastor blinked, his radio noise some garbled music that was probably supposed to calm his nerves, but they just grated on them more. Angel did his best to ignore him, storming around the room, packing away every possible hint he’d spent a moment in the room. Finally his last nerve snapped, worn thin by his unhelpful, intrusive, cold boyfriend. He snatched the deer plush off his nightstand, the last thing left unpacked, and hurled it at the Radio Demon’s chest. There was sharp feedback as it struck him, like a microphone dropping or a headset being plugged in.     “Would you just get out of here!” He screamed, voice shattering. Alastor looked passively at him, picking up the doll slowly, smoothing its short fur.     “Very well. I will wait for you in the foyer, if you prefer.” Alastor turned, still cradling the deer. “Would you prefer I take Fat Nuggets, or can you manage, love?” His trademark smile drooped, dipping into something smaller, sadder, but sincere, broken-hearted love in an instant. Angel sniffled, dragging his arm across his face. Saints’ sake, his makeup was wrecked all over again.     “Whaddaya talkin’ about?” Angel choked out, grabbing for more tissues. Alastor set the doll down on the bed, coming closer. Angel let him into arm’s reach, but he wasn’t ready to be touched just yet.     “I’m waiting on you, my dear.” Alastor repeated, gesturing to Angel’s bags.     “What for? Ain’t ya done with me for bein’a a dirty wh-” Angel was cut off with a harsh look from Alastor, contempt and scorn he rarely wore. “You’re nothing of the sort. I discussed this very carefully with Charlie last night, I’m very sorry we did not make ourselves clearer.” Alastor fetched the pictures from the wastebasket and looked at them, keeping his hands busy.     “You ain’t breakin’ up wit me?” Angel asked again, eyes wide. But he was sure that Al had been so cold because…     “Never, my love. I would never abandon you over something so trivial.” Alastor set the pictures aside, finally lifted his hands, cupping the spider’s face gently. His gloved thumbs cleared away the last of his love’s tears.     “But you were so….dead?” Angel tried, sniffling again.     “I was so worried about you, darling, I was beside myself. I stayed with you all night, and spoke with Charlie once I was sure you were quite alright by yourself.”     “So Charlie is kicking me out -”     “You’ll be moving in with me, my love.” Alastor spoke softly, eyes downcast. He drew Angel in closer, pulling him to his chest. “Charlie agreed it would be better for you, but to keep it quiet. If that’s not what you want, then-”     “No! No, no no, I, Al, I want that, I just. I don’t get it.” Angel sighed, resting his weary head on Al’s shoulder, four arms wrapped loosely around him. He knew not to hold too tight, or else Al got squirrely. Al drew back, but only slightly. He pressed his forehead to Angel’s, his ears and horns tangling gently with Angel’s hair.     “Addiction is difficult, and it can only be fought with attention and support, not alone, isolated in a hotel room. I’d like to give you that, if you’ll have me.” There was hope, love, faith, and trust in Alastor’s voice, everything Angel had ever wanted, truly wanted, the things he’d tried so long to replace with the high, trying to stuff his feelings with drugs.     “I’m never going to let you go.” Angel answered, new tears prickling at his eyes.     “Let’s go home, my darling.”  

Oh, oh, can I please have Caspar + 🐷?

Being a general in the imperial army had its ups and downs.

There was a lot of responsibility involved, of course, and Caspar found that quite a lot of it felt like red tape to slow down doing actual good. He wanted to get out there and do what was right for the people, but – apparently – there were rules about that, and him charging in recklessly to do what he thought was right wasn’t what he should be doing. Edelgard allowed him some slack with things, but many grumbled about his attitude and style of handling issues.

Caspar didn’t let it stop him much. If he saw people being wronged, he jumped to their defense. If he could protect someone in a battle, he’d do so – rank be damned! He wasn’t the sort to sit back and watch others do the work for him.

It was because of this that he had rode out to a remote village, word having reached his ears that a powerful magic user had stormed in and taken over the place. People were scared, but they couldn’t get away with this sorcerer practically holding them hostage as he did whatever he pleased in their little town. It wasn’t a big enough issue for the empire to devote its attention to, or so he’d been told when he brought it up, but Caspar wasn’t going to let that slide. It was only the one man, so he was confident in his ability to take the sorcerer down easily. He left his unit in his lieutenant’s care until he returned, sure that he would only be gone for a day at best.

As soon as he reached the village, Caspar could tell that things were off.

It was unnaturally quiet, the setting sun making the silent town feel eerie and dark as he moved through it. Ax in hand, ready for anything, the squelch of mud under his boots was the only thing Caspar could hear as he trudged further into the village.

“Show yourself!” he eventually shouted in frustration, knowing he was being watched. “I’m here to free these people, and hiding is only drawing out your punishment longer, you fiend!”

Windows were dark or shuttered in homes, no people in sight – not even any animals.

“You really are a loud thing, aren’t you?”

A shiver ran down Caspar’s spine at the voice – it felt like those words had been spoken directly into his ear – but when he whirled around, there wasn’t anyone there. Growling at how easily he’d been spooked, Caspar resolved his expression into something more fiercely determined.

“Why don’t you say that to my face!” the young man called back, eyes scanning every possible place this mage could be hiding.

“If that’s what you really prefer,” the voice returned, calmly, a face to finally go with it appearing in a flash of warping magic right in front of Caspar.

The light caused Caspar to close his eyes against the abrupt intensity of it, blinking rapidly to clear his vision and get a good look at the sorcerer who had been terrorizing this town for some time. His confidence shot up again when he looked the man over. The mage was tall and spindly; thin limbs, boney hands and a gaunt face. He was older, hair thinning and age marring him. A gnarled cane of dark wood was gripped tightly in his hands, and Caspar was sure that a stiff breeze could have knocked the old buzzard onto his ass. There was no way he could lose this.

Of course, without anyone there to rein in his recklessness, Caspar was ignoring the important fact that this old mage had completely taken over a small town without any trouble.

Charging forward, swinging his ax wide, Caspar blinked when the man disappeared like a wisp of smoke – the blade of his weapon hitting nothing but air. He skidded awkwardly in the slick mud, whipping around to try and relocate the mage. The man reappeared as silently as he teleported out of the attack, cheekily waggling his fingers at Caspar.

Taking the bait, Caspar tried again.

And again…and again.

Every single time he came close to landing a blow strong enough to cut the skinny old bastard in half, the sorcerer would simply warp out of harm’s way with a raspy chuckle. It went on like this for a while, Caspar’s energy and stamina starting to fail him after some time, tired legs slipping and sending him face first into the mud; his ax knocked out of his grasp as he fell, skidding through the mud just out of reach.

Panting and sputtering mud out of his mouth, Caspar shoves himself onto his hands and knees, sweating and limbs shaking from fatigue.

“Rolling about in the mud like a hog, are we?” the old man hummed, his foot steps hardly making a sound as he approached. “Quite fitting for a squealing piglet of the empire. Did they not have anyone else to send out here but an obnoxious, arrogant boy?”

Caspar bristled at that, scrambling to get to his feet. “I am a proud general of the empire!” Sure, he was still young and he hadn’t ever hit much of a growth spurt, but that didn’t give this old coot any right to insult him in such a way when he was clearly the evil doer here.

“A proud pig, I see.”

“You’ll regret insulting me–”

The mage waved an age-shaky hand at the younger man, a smug look on his face as he chanted something out in a language Caspar had never heard before. “And you’ll regret ever coming to this little village, Sir Pig,” the old man mused, a wave of magic blasting Caspar off his feet and back into the mud once more.

Caspar groaned, shaking his head and trying to refocus his dizzied vision. He felt so tired, and it was an alarming struggle to keep himself awake, but he managed to sit himself back up and shake off the worst of the sluggishness. Aside from the fatigue, he was fairly certain that whatever magic had been cast at him hadn’t caused him any damage outside of a bruised rear end. Grinning at his luck – for the old man must have simply messed up – he made to jump back to his feet and get right back into the fight, only to stumble in surprise when he felt like he had tried to get up with heavy weights attached to himself.

“W…What the…?” he muttered under his breath, struggling once more to get to his feet. He managed to get onto his knees, but found himself hit with another wave of exhaustion, his breathing heavy and…what in the world, was he snorting?!

Muddy fingers reached up to his nose, Caspar blurting out in shock when they met with the round, flat of his nose – or, what had been his nose. Now, it was more akin to a snout, just like a pig’s. He snuffled exaggeratedly, swallowing thickly against the panic that was threatening to overtake him.

Okay, so what? The old mage could do a few tricks, make him look like a fool, but this could always be reversed, right? It wouldn’t be so bad, especially once he beat the sorcerer and made it back home. They had plenty of skilled magic users in the empire who could probably fix his nose in a matter of seconds. This was just a tactic to get under his skin!

Grunting in anger, Caspar settled a foul look on the far too amused old man, and tried once again to push himself out of the mud.

Why did he feel so damn heavy?! His armor didn’t restrict his movement this much, and he was used to carrying the weight of it by now – not that it was really all that much armor to begin with, really. But, after another few moments of struggling, it started to dawn on Caspar why he was having so much trouble. It felt like his armor was constricting him all of a sudden, movement restricted and breathing getting more difficult. It was a risk, taking away some of his defenses, but the feeling of claustrophobia got to him quickly, and Caspar scrabbled to get the pieces of armor off.

Distracted as he was, he didn’t notice the way he was changing. The way his ears changed shape from rounded off to something more triangular, becoming wider, perky and pointed at the tips. His face started to round out, too, plump cheeks and a swell of fat beneath his chin. It was only when his fingers started to get thicker and harder to use – luckily, after undoing most of the buckles for his plate armor – that Caspar realized that this was going far further than just an embarrassing pig nose.

“H-Hey, what the hell is happening to me–?!” Caspar demanded, fear tinging his words as his statement ended on the horrifically piggish sound of an oink. With his armor now loose and mostly off, he saw the way that the rest of his body was shifting.

He was getting bigger…

The old sorcerer chuckled as he saw reality smack the young general right in the face, dark eyes twinkling as he watched the once confident fighter squirm and struggle as he grew more and more into what he’d spelled him as.

He’d called the young upstart a hog, and a hog he would be in every sense of the word.

Embarrassment and anger flushed Caspar’s features as he was helpless to do much more than watch as his body was ruined. Trim muscle was quickly overtaken by soft, supple fat. He grunted and cursed as his armor popped off and his clothes became uncomfortably tight against his frame. Stuck on all fours, it was easy to feel the way his body got heavier. His thighs grew thick and meaty, brushing up against each other as he struggled, but then forcing him to widen his stance as they pressed into one another. His ass soon followed, rounding out wider and wider, wobbling as he shifted his growing weight. His arms plumped up as well, plush and fat enough to overlap his elbows a bit; even his hands and fingers had gotten chubby.

The worst, however, was his chest and stomach.

His abs had quickly disappeared under a layer of chub, but it didn’t stop at just a pot belly. It kept growing – out and out, rounder and fatter. It was so bizarre to feel, this heavy part of himself just hanging there, getting heavier and heavier as the seconds passed. His gut bounced and jiggled as it swelled outward with fat, stretching his shirt out as far as it could go before buttons gave up and popped right off, pale flesh now exposed to the cool of the air. To Caspar’s dismay, his chest wasn’t too far behind; pecs rounding out and puffing up, drooping weightily against the continuously expanding swell of his stomach.

It was getting harder to keep holding himself up on his hands and knees, his weight just getting more and more to deal with. Desperation started to sink into Caspar’s hastily narrowing mind, a shiver running through his fattening body as his burgeoning belly grew big enough to connect with the ground beneath him, cold mud smearing across the vast expanse of his gut. He can barely even tell when a curly pig’s tail pops up above the wide spread of his ass, his rear doing its best to keep up with the rest of him.

Caspar jolts when he feels a hand on his head, thin, bony hands messing into his shock of blue hair. The old mage is smiling at him, a knowing look on his wrinkled face.

“Don’t look so frightened about all this, boy. You’ll find I’m not a cruel master, especially to dumb beasts that don’t know any better. Isn’t that right, my loud little piglet?” the old man speaks in a soft and assuring tone, another, softer glow of magic from coming from his palm as he pets the former general’s head like one would to calm down a spooked animal.

Caspar wants to protest, wants to get up and shake off the terrible dream that this has to be…but, as that last spell starts to take, thoughts of getting away or fighting back any further seem to slip through his head like water between his fingers. Eventually, the growing weight of his body is simply too much for him to keep holding up, so Caspar simply lets himself collapse onto the solid mound of fat that is his gut. It was surprisingly comfortable, and the mud was becoming less of a discomfort to him as he practically started to wallow in it like a real pig would.

“Good pig,” the sorcerer praised, ruffling Caspar’s hair before withdrawing his hand, watching with amusement as the young man oinks at him lazily, now finally content to simply do what pigs do best.

Grow fat and fatter still.

Zara’s Red Carpet Debut

This is just a follow up to the Uncle Rami piece I wrote yesterday. I had an idea and I ran with it. Thank you to @diasimar for the ideas and suggestions. This is just tooth rotting fluff, so watch out, if you don’t already have it, you might end up with a case of diabetes after reading this.

Word Count: 2185

Zara was Rami’s absolute favorite child. She wasn’t his child of course but of all of his nieces and nephews, okay he only has one niece, this child was his favorite. So when awards season rolled around and he was once again invited to attend the Oscars he instantly knew exactly who he wanted to take as his date.He’d called in a favor to one of his designer friends at YSL, and once his sister had sent him Zara’s measurements, had placed the order for the custom dress. He even had his jacket made to match some of the tiny details of Zara’s dress. 

When Zara found out that she was going to be Rami’s date she was so excited that she could barely contain herself and then she firmly reminded him that no outfit was complete with a tiara. He softly chuckled to himself and as soon as she disconnected the line, he immediately went about calling in favors from some jewelry designers until  he found one that could create exactly what he was looking for. She was now going to be the proud owner of a real diamond and ruby princess tiara and he was eagerly anticipating her reaction.

The several weeks leading up the event consisted of daily phone calls from Zara reminding him that he better take her to McDonald’s and also that he had to introduce her to Captain America because he is sooooo cute. He rolled his eyes and promised that if he was there that he would ensure a meet up. 

His sister flew with Zara out to LA and only stayed a few hours before she had to catch a return flight back home. Rami would be flying with Zara to take her back home in a couple of days, so that Z could also spend some time with Uncle Sami and grandma. Before his sister left she made Rami promise not to let Zara get too bossy and no McDonald’s. Rami just smiled at his sister, crossed his fingers behind his back and lied his ass off much to Z’s delight. 

On the big day they had spent most of being groomed and pampered. He had someone come in to do his niece's hair exactly how she wanted it, she got her nails done and was even allowed to wear a little makeup though his sister would ream him for that one later. Little Z was loving every second of the attention that was being lavished on her, but she was quite particular. For one so small she sure knows exactly what she wants and how she wants it, much to the chagrin of the unsuspecting hairstylist.

Other than being a little sassy she was fairly calm throughout the preparation process, even took a nap for her uncle to help prevent any meltdowns later. As it were she was currently full of excess energy. She was such a chatterbox throughout the afternoon asking her hairstylist, the nail tech, and the makeup artist every question she could ever think of to ask and Rami had to intervene a few times when she started sharing personal details about her two favorite uncles. Rami was still an incredibly private person so having details of his life spilled because of his niece’s mouth was embarrassing. It was a risk he was willing to take by taking her along with him tonight.

“What’s that?” Zara asks the hairstylist when she started to mess with the box that Rami had left on the table as he walked away to go get dressed.

“It’s a special surprise Z,” Rami called out through the bedroom door that had been left slightly ajar.

“I wanna know what my surprise is!”she demanded with a pout, one that was so adorable and rivaled that of her two uncles. 

“I’ll be out in a second and then you can see. Remember what I told you about tonight?.”

With a dramatic sigh she mumbles out, “Patience.”

“That’s right. Patience. It’s hard I know, but there might be some waiting around tonight and you might get a little bored but remember patience is going to be key.” Rami explains as he emerges from the bedroom wearing just his pants and his dress shirt that was only partially buttoned.

“You can open it now” he tells the stylist, who with a nod opens the heavy box slowly.

Rami visibly flinched when little Z saw what the box contained and let out a piercing, high pitched squeal of delight.

“You remembered! My princess tiara!”

“Of course little one, I wouldn’t forget such an important detail as the princess tiara. According to you no outfit is complete with a tiara. I even have a small one that I’m going to wear tonight pinned to my jacket. It matches yours.”

 The stylist reaches into the box and pulls the tiara out so that little miss attitude could inspect it up close. 

“Are those real sparklies or just fake ones like my tiaras at home?”

“Z, would I let you go on a red carpet with fake sparklies?”

”I LOVE IT!!!!” she screams again, and everyone in the room flinched. 

“This is the glitteriest, sparkliest, prettiest, most awesomest princess tiara in the whole wide world.” She inspects it again, and then hands it to the hairstylist and begs her to hurry up and get it put in place so she can see her reflection in the mirror.

Rami does a little dance inside at Zara’s absolute delight at her surprise. Once the tiara had been put in place and firmly secured Z couldn’t stop staring at her sparkly reflection in the mirror.

“It glitters like a real princess crown and I’m the prettiest princess in the whole wide world,” she rambles.

Rami just laughs and continues trying to fasten the buttons on his shirt, and making sure that everything is properly tucked into place.

After the hairstylist left Uncle Sami stopped by bearing gifts of food and drink for everyone so they could have a little treat together before Rami and Z headed out. Z screamed again at the sight of her other favorite uncle standing there holding a little red box with the golden arched handles.

“Wow, look at you Z you look like a real fairytale princess.”

“I do! Uncle Rami and you are the bestest uncles in the whole wide world!” 

Sami sets the bags of food on the table and kneels down to envelop Zara in a hug but she backs away suddenly.

“What’s the matter Z?” he asks, just as Rami steps out of the bedroom straightening his tie.

“I’m all princessy. I don’t want to get messy before I gotta go with Rami. He says it’s not good to be wrinkled when I have to be with famous people.”

Sami just laughs and cocks a brow.

“Z that's not what I said.” Rami says from the doorway of the bedroom.

“Yes it is!”

“No, what I said was that you didn’t want to get all wrinkled before your photos. You better eat up kiddo. I’m going to go get you a towel so that you don’t get any stains on your pretty dress.”

“Get one for you too!” both Sami and Zara said at the same time. 

Rami just shook his head as he realized that even his seven year old niece knew how clumsy he could be.

Sami helped set up Z’s food while Rami got the towels wrapped around her so that she couldn’t spill anything on her dress.

“Where’s my chocolate milk? I wanted chocolate milk!” Zara complained loudly, making a pouty face as she looked up at her uncles. Her blue-green eyes a similar shade to her uncles were swimming with unshed tears. She really knows how to get what she wants from her uncles, and they’ve never denied her anything.

“Z we decided that it was probably best for you to have Sprite this time just in case you do spill a little bit. It won’t stain your dress.”

The little one just couldn’t seem to understand exactly what both her uncles were trying to explain to her as she began to let a few crocodile tears roll down her face.

Rami kneels in front of her and places a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Hey-hey. Z don’t cry you’ll ruin your pretty makeup. I promise that after the show you can have all the chocolate milk you want but we don’t want any accidents to ruin your pretty dress.”

She snuffles a little bit as she puts her head on her uncle's shoulder.

“Fine. But I don’t like it,’ she huffs indignantly against Rami’s shoulder.

Rami just releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in preparation for a full blown Zara meltdown. Her meltdowns were known to be epic and long-lasting. She’s a stubborn little thing and everyone knows it.

Sami, Rami and Zara finished eating quietly, and with a few minutes to go everyone made their final preparations for the evening. 

A knock at the door signaled that it was time for Rami and Zara to head to the car, which they did hand in hand with Zara delightedly singing some pop song.

*ARRIVING AT THE EVENT*

Rami did the best he could to prepare Z for the insanity that was the red carpet. He’d discussed with her how bright and loud that it can get, and if at any time she gets scared to let him know so that he can make arrangements for her to go with his assistant.

Stepping out of the car he immediately began to hear the fans cheering and the flashes began going off. He was used to this but little Z wasn’t. THis was her red carpet debut after all. He turns around and helps Zara out of the car, and with her small hand in his makes his way towards security. 

Showing his ID and surrendering his tickets  to the man at the entrance, the two of them hand in hand began to make their way down the red carpet. Zara handled the majority of it like a champ.

People yelling his name and wanting his attention, he knew he’d have to stop and do some interviews so he did. But all along the way he would kneel down to Zara’s level when the interviewers were asking him questions. 

“So who is this?” one interviewer asked him.

“I don’t know Z, you wanna tell her who you are?” he says from his crouched position next to his niece.

She smiled brightly for the cameras and responded with,”I’m his favorite niece. I’m Zara and I’m seven.”

“You have got to be the luckiest girl on the whole red carpet” the interviewer says.

“I am. I have the best uncle in the whole entire world. He even bought me my tiara which is made up of real sparklies not like the fake ones I have at home.”

“It’s gorgeous Zara. I’m sure it rivals anything that the Queen of England owns. So Zara, who are you wearing tonight?” the interviewer asks.

“Only the best. My uncle called his friend at YSL and they made me this dress. Isn’t it pretty?” she says as she gives a little twirl to demonstrate the swooshiness of the skirt.

“It’s absolutely stunning! You are for sure the best dressed on the whole carpet tonight.” the interviewer says. Rami chuckles and Zara beams proudly.

“So Zara, one of the questions that we’ve been asking everyone tonight is about hidden talents. Do you or your uncle have any hidden talents?”

Zara stops to think for a second before she rambles, “Yeah. I never stop talking and Uncle Rami is the best at burps and Monster Voice.”

Rami looks mildly horrified for a second before trying to intervene with a nervous chuckle.

“Z, I don’t think that’s what she means by hidden talents.”

“Monster voice?” the interviewer questions.

“Yeah. It’s this thing that he does when we play pretend sometimes. He does lots of other voices too but his Monster voice is my favorite. He’ll chase me around doing the monster voice and it’s so scary but really funny. Then when I let him catch me, he tickles me until I can’t breathe. Then I pretend to escape and I run away and he chases me again.”

“Could we hear the Monster voice?” the interviewer asks.

“No, I don’t really think that’s-”

“Please Rami? You do the best voices and I love Monster voice.”

Rami sighs and of course he’s going to do it. He never says no to little Z. He clears his throat and puts on his “Monster face” that goes with Monster voice and pretends to try and attack Z.

“Monster Rami is gonna get you!” he says, while wiggling his fingers at Z, who responds by squealing in delight and pretending to try and run away. 

They finish the interview and few more that go quite similarly to how that first one went. All in all Zara was a hit on the red carpet. 

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe @free-rami @txmel @r-ahh-mi @itsme690 @ramimedley @safinsscar @ladyr0b0t @youthtea @ramisgirl512 @mrhoemazzello @hissom1933 @spacedustmazzello @sassystrawberryk @ramimalekpan @breadnbutternips @doing-all-write @itslula1991 @warmommy @imnottiredofgettingoveryou @alottanothing @mezzomercury @theultraviolencefan @the-real-ramimalekpeen @hazeleyedbeth @w0lfglrl17 @adoremalek @rawmemalek @lunasasylum @lablanchett @diasimar @zodiyack @sasha--1996 @will-grammer @rami-malek-trash @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @anotheronebitesthedick

Title: A Very Small Wish Fandom: The Cat Returns Characters: Baron, Muta, Toto, Haru, plus some OCs Rating: PGish maybe?? Words: 4724 Summary: A pleading request from a parent whose daughter has been cursed by a resentful witch is nothing truly out of the ordinary for the Cat Bureau— in fact, it might be so common so as to be routine— so why does something feel inherently off about this particular one? Notes: Third chapter of six of a Secret Santa gift for @deedee-sunflowers. It’s about here that the chapters start getting a bit long hhh. Tho I think they end up a little shorter again eventually Anyway, the first task. A lot of different influences went into these parts of the story, and I hope they’re not too blatant or distracting, aha ;;  Also, I forgot! I drew a very small doodle of the little patchwork creatures which feature in this chapter, if anyone’s interested `~`;;

                                    Ch. 3: The Sown Forest

The Sown Forest is near deathly silent, or… perhaps at least it feels that it should be, but the crunching of the snow under their collective feet and an ever-present rumbling ambiance akin to a distant earthquake means there’s little true silence to be had. And even without that unexpected ambient background, something about the place doesn’t feel quite right. In every direction grow thin, white trees, scattered haphazardly and yet also in just the right formation to make the forest seem far too organized, tidy. Patterned. 

No matter where they look, the horizon stretches out over an immeasurable distance, and the white of the sky and that of the level, milky ground meld into one. Only the wispy, bare branches of the trees break up the monotony of the landscape.

“Well,” Baron finally thinks to remark, “The bright red of a holly berry is likely to stick out like a rather sore thumb in this environment, isn’t it?”

“Sure, if you can find the one dumb enough to grow right now,” Muta grumbles, burying his nose into the warmth of the scarf wrapped around his neck and grumpily huddling further into his coat.

“Now, let’s not lose faith so early, Muta. Should we remain positive and keep a cool head about this, we’re sure to succeed.”

“Yeah, that’s what you always say…” More grousing.

“We have only a limited amount of time to triumph over all three of these challenges, and I believe we’ll cover more ground if we split up into groups. Muta, Miss Haru— the two of you start in that direction. Mr. Vanya and I shall take the opposite. Toto, see if you can discern anything from the sky.”

“A berry— even a patch of berries, might be difficult to spot from an aerial view,” Toto responds as a gentle caution. “Even in such a uniform environment.”

“I know, but there’s no harm in trying anyhow.”

Toto nods. Then, more firmly than before, “And how do you propose we find this spot again to inevitably reconvene?”

Ah, bless Toto again, Haru thinks to herself briefly, because Baron looks rather comically bemused by this question, and she and Muta and Toto (if possibly even Vanya, the newcomer that he is) know that this very important piece of information had not occurred to him while putting together his impromptu plan. He gives a pensive noise, one hand going to his chin as the other is planted on his hip.

Eventually, he glances at the trees surrounding them, appearing to have been struck by inspiration, and then removes his hat.

Wordlessly, he hangs it on one of the nearest branches, positioning it just so so it won’t slip off or blow away (though there’s not been even the slightest whisper of wind since they’d arrived). 

“Here we are. We’ll all meet back here in an hour— keep an eye on your own footprints. They’re all four of them different, and they should help to distinguish our separate paths.”

Something in Vanya’s gaze gleams as he looks to Baron’s hanging hat, though he ultimately turns away from it to rejoin the group. Instead, he hops like a particularly excited toddler to Haru and Muta (well, Haru, to be more truthful). In one of his paws is what appears to be a skewered snake or worm, which he wastes no time in handing sloppily to the teen, much to her dismay.

“For good luck! This is a traditional Oostal charm good for finding tricky things. And we need all the good luck we can get!”

Haru looks swiftly to Muta for assistance, but the cat is leaning away from her with an expression that speaks to no less than utter baffled disgust. Well. Strained gratitude it is, then, it seems.

“O-Ohh… You’re right, that’s a good idea— th-thank you.”

Vanya beams in a manner eerily reminiscent of the Cat King before scampering back over to his place beside Baron (and it’s only through their long shared history with the cat figurine that Toto and Muta both glean the subtle apprehension in his own expression, that he is mutely waiting in terror for the fox to hand him one of these traditional charms as well). Vanya neglects to do so, however, and Baron’s subdued trepidation is gone almost as soon as it’d revealed itself.

“Remember— one hour. If all else fails, Toto at least should be able to reunite us.”

With that decided, they start off in their opposite directions, Toto taking wing into the sky.

                                                          &&&

It’s terribly easy to become disoriented in the Sown Forest, Haru and Muta quickly find out. If not for their own footprints, they swiftly agree they’d have long since been wandering in tight circles and not even realized it. The seamless boundary between land and sky and tree has Haru occasionally feeling rather like she’s walking on a spinning top which also wobbles across the table.

She eventually places the skewered… animal Vanya had given her down beneath a tree, shooting Muta an injured look when he comments on it.

“Looking a gift horse in the mouth, chicky? Didn’t think you had it in ya,” he cracks with a sardonic laugh.

“I’ll pick it back up before we head back to the others! He’ll never even know. B-Because there’s no reason for me to actually carry it with me the whole time we’re looking…”

“I’m just picking on ya. You dropping that thing is gonna do wonders for my nose. Smells like a spoiled fish.” Then, with an annoyed huff, he continues, “I woulda thrown it at him— try to give me some stinky dead thing on a stick—”

“Come on, he’s not that bad,” Haru tries, but she knows she doesn’t sound all that convinced herself. And Muta’s not about to let it go without comment, either.

“You don’t sound so sure to me, kid.”

Haru turns in her spot on her heel, feeling lost and restless in a hard-to-define way. The Sown Forest is devoid of rocks and bushes entirely; it’s nothing but thin scraggly trees, and she would never have imagined before now that to scour such a nebulous landscape might prove to be so exasperating. Where does one search for a pop of color when there are no hiding places? 

“...do you get… kind of a weird feeling from Vanya..?”

“Yeah,” Muta doesn’t hesitate to respond sourly. “He’s a tiny, annoying puffball with a bad laugh.”

“N— No, I mean— like an uneasy feeling. Like something is… um, off.”

“Probably ‘cause something is off about him. I don’t trust that puffball.”

The relief Haru gains from such a simple sentence is near indeterminable. She almost leaps in victory.

“I knew it couldn’t be just me! Well, and Toto, maybe, but he was more mum on the whole thing. You know how he is.”

“A gargoyle of few words, yeah, I guess. Real annoying, if you ask me. It’d be a lot easier if everyone just said what they mean instead of hanging on to secrets to keep the peace.”

Distantly, Haru gets the distinct impression this complaint has roots beyond the borders of the current situation, and she’s not sure what to say to it.

Muta, also, seems similarly surprised at himself, and in the end, he chooses to bulldoze past it, circling a few trees in the silence and eventually speaking up, “...Anyway, this Vanya creature pipsqueak is fishy, an’ I don’t like him. I don’t know what he is. Something old. And this place is, too.”

“What about Baron? Do you think he’s being careful enough? He’s wandering around alone with Vanya right now…”

“Eh, Baron’s kind of a soft-hearted ham sometimes, but he’s no peabrain. He’ll be fine.”

“Is that really the best you can do to reassure me..?”

“What? I dunno what to tell you, chicky, it’s the truth.” 

“Yeah, but a little more optimism wouldn’t have hurt,” Haru mumbles plaintively.

“If you want, ya could bust on to the scene and rescue him from the puffball to pay him back. Hey, maybe he’ll start crushing on you, then.”

Oh, that calls for a heated blush. Haru stares down at the snow-covered ground of the Sown Forest, hands balled loosely into fists at her sides, though she’s trying desperately to play it all cool. Unfortunately, she’s never been much of an actor.

“He’s my friend— of course I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Muta’s response of the beginnings of a chaffing laugh is not well-received; Haru spins around to protest, but— 

Something comes shuffling into their space from behind a nearby tree. And something is all Haru can think to describe it as— smaller even than Vanya and Siree, with a long, snuffling snout and a soft, bean bag body. The tiny creature lacks arms or wings of any kind, giving it an awkward, waddling gait. Missing also are eyes and any noticeable ears.

Yet the strangest thing is that it appears to have been sewn together out of scraps of colorfully-patterned fabric, much like a quilt. (It triggers a memory of her mother’s handiwork, in fact, and the very idea of her mother back at home, in the real world, throws Oostal’s alienness into stark relief. She’s so terribly far from home.)

Muta and Haru watch the little thing waddle between them and then down the way from them in silence before looking back to each other.

“What is it, Muta?” Haru asks. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“What, you never had a stuffed animal before?”

“Stuffed animals don’t walk, Muta,” Haru responds with a huff.

“Eh, shows what you know.”

Whatever response Haru might have had to this lazy red herring abruptly trails off, because the funny little creature, having paused for a brief moment, now drops its floppy snout onto the ground and continues on in a faintly opposite direction, snorting softly the whole way.

“It must be one of the rumored inhabitants of the Sown Forest, right?”

“Yeh. Bet it’ll lead us to those rumored holly berries, too, if we’re careful about it.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Baron.”

Muta darts out from beside her with a faint derisive groan. “Remind me to scratch you later for that one.”

                                                          &&&

Following a colorful (albeit very small) waddling quilt animal through an otherwise blinding array of white snow and sky proves to be astonishingly more difficult than either Muta or Haru would have expected. More than once they somehow lose sight of the thing, only to have to stop and strain their ears for its characteristic snuffling breaths. 

“It has two little stick legs and waddles like a sedated duck,” Muta complains at one point when they’ve lost it again. “How do we keep losin’ track of it?!”

“Hold on— Muta, I hear it again. It sounds really close.” Then, after a few seconds spent listening, she adds, “...Actually, it… sounds a little like it’s eating something, doesn’t it?”

This is all Muta seems to need to hear before turning on his heel and starting the opposite way.

“Where are you going?” Haru calls after him.

“I’m out!” He hollers back. “Nothing good comes outta anything that involves weird creatures feasting on stuff, I don’t care what it’s actually— woah!!”

“What is it— Muta, what’s wrong?” Haru dashes in the direction of his voice, fearing the worst. Yet she finds him with little difficulty, and in one piece, poised in the same horrified position a housewife might take were she confronted with a trail of muddy footprints across a formerly pristine linoleum floor.

At his feet, so close he could stretch out a paw and tip the little thing over were he so inclined, is the patchwork animal they’d been struggling to track… and the good luck charm Haru had abandoned earlier, which appears a little worse for the wear.

Muta dashes behind her with an unsteady gait, complaining the entire way. “Ughh, it’s even worse than what I was thinking—!”

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Haru tries, even as she takes a repulsed step back at the faint sound of tearing meat and flinches. “...it’s still pretty bad, though.”

It’s as they’re watching from a couple paces away that the little thing lifts its ostensible head to… well, scrutinize them, Haru supposes, though it lacks the eyes to do so. Perhaps there is another, hidden sense that allows it to see in a less traditional manner.

Your trade is acceptable.

Haru can’t quite place it, how she Knows that this is what the creature before Muta and her is communicating, as it hadn’t spoken aloud, nor does she hear the words echoing in her mind as one might expect of a bizarre display of telepathy. Yet, still, the resounding statement is clear.

“O-Oh—” She starts, and her voice is like an echoing gunshot in the silence of the forest, which leads her to whisper her next words, “We’re, um, glad you like it.”

Then, as they watch, it drops its head again and continues tearing delicate slivers off the charm, seemingly oblivious to their presence again.

“Well, now what?” Muta says at her feet. He’s still eyeing the patchwork creature with no small measure of antipathy, but he’s at least not subtly hiding behind Haru anymore.

“I guess we… wait for it to finish..?”

“Great.” Muta sits down with an annoyed huff. “Doesn’t it know we’re on a tight schedule here?”

Haru laughs, but it’s tinged with a speck of nervousness.

If not for the unmistakable noise of flapping wings over the ever present hum of the forest, the resultant wind would certainly give Toto’s arrival away— there’s been not even the barest hint of a breeze since they’ve been searching. The crow perches atop a nearby tangle of branches, cocking his head in a distinctly avian fashion at the creature they’ve run across.

“Ha, looks like you’ve found one of the inhabitants.”

“What was your first clue?”

“The quilt creature down there, mostly.”

Muta, again feeling indirectly bested, only grumbles lowly to himself and crosses his arms. Instead, Haru speaks up.

“It’s taking this good luck charm as a trade for the berry. At least, that’s what it sounded like to me. I guess it’ll… um, show us the way once it’s finished..? I’m not sure how it works.”

“Sounds plausible to me. Baron and Vanya are some ways off in that direction,” Toto also adds, gesturing with his wing. “I’ll go to let them know they can stop searching, and bring them here. Be right back!”

Haru and Muta watch him take off, and for a little while until he’s too far in the distance for them to make out, before turning back to their… companions. It seems in their distraction, more of the little quilt animals had arrived, attracted no doubt by the scent of the ‘good luck charm’ Haru had laid down before the tree.

“They really like this icky stuff, don’t they?” Haru muses in an almost-laugh.

Muta pokes one of them on the top of its soft head, causing it to lose its balance and fall to the side. Grudgingly, he sets it rightside up again. “...Guess that little pipsqueak knew what he was talking about, after all.”

                                                        &&&

Elsewhere, Toto’s return trip hits an unforeseen, somewhat bizarre snag.

“The Very Pretty Vanya Creature does not fly through the air like an unsolicited blown kiss!” 

Baron and Toto share a puzzled, if slightly frazzled, look between them.

“Mr. Vanya, I sympathize if it’s a matter of a… ah, disdain for heights, but the time limit with which we’ve been burdened is perpetually ticking down, and we ought to do all we can to minimize wasted time,” Baron first tries.

“I’m a very careful flier, too. I promise you’ll have your feet on solid ground in no time at all,” Toto also adds.

But Vanya only shakes his head. “It is no matter of fear!” He begins in a manner that says fear is exactly the matter. “It is the principle! Pretty Vanya has no wings. He was meant to stay on the ground.”

It seemed there would be no convincing him. Baron turns to Toto.

“Toto, do you think then that you could fly a little ways overhead and guide us to the others? If we hurry, perhaps we’ll still make good time.”

Before them, Vanya wrings his paws fretfully before finally throwing one arm across his eyes and crying out, “Pretty Vanya must be left behind! He is the millstone dragging everyone else down!”

“N-Now— Mr. Vanya, please, don’t despair—”

“The Most Helpful Bureau must leave me behind,” Vanya insists again, this time without his face hidden, fixing Baron with a determined look. “I said it before, didn’t I? The Pretty Vanya Creature will meet you there in no time, because he is very fast.”

Faced with Vanya’s clear obstinate refusal and the added stress of a ticking clock, it doesn’t take long for Baron to give in, though the veneer of reluctance lingers over him still.

“V… Very well, Mr. Vanya. If you do insist. We’ll go on without you.”

"You will. But there's no reason to worry. It'll be all okay!"

"...Yes. Of course. Be careful."

As they’re flying away, Toto speaks up. “Do you think he’ll make it?”

Baron seems reluctant to answer, gaze distant and unfocused. Coupled with his stilted posture, it gives him the look of someone who is quite diligently trying to avoid jumping to an unpleasant conclusion.

“...It doesn’t matter,” he eventually responds quietly. “I suppose it’s not something which overtly needs his presence.”

“What about covertly?”

“Then we shall hope for the best.”

                                                          &&&

True to Toto’s ultimately fruitless attempts at reassurance, it seems only a matter of seconds when they have their feet back on solid ground, spotting Muta and Haru from the air easily enough and touching down just shy of them in the hopes of not startling the by now bristling crowd of tiny quilted animals surrounding the other two.

“Eh? Where’s the pipsqueak?”

“He chose to find his own way to our location,” Baron first explains in his impeccable manner.

“Scared of heights,” is Toto’s more honest addition.

Muta turns back to the quilt animals with an unimpressed scowl. “Figures. Just make us do all the dirty work.”

“Now, Muta, a genuine fear of heights is nothing to brush off.”

“Yeah, if it’s genuine…” Mumbled under his breath, but distinct enough for them all to hear, and that Baron (nor the other two) step in to offer a defense is telling… but also serves at least to inform them all that they’re all four on the same page.

“What about these little guys? Have they brought up the trade or the berry again?”

“No. I think they wanted to finish off the, um… trade first,” Haru says, looking from Baron and Toto to the gathering of quilt animals scattered about before them. She sits crouched on her haunches with her elbows on her thighs, gazing out at their odd companions with the same detached but amiable curiosity one might reserve for a child’s play.

“Can they really stretch out that one sticky charm enough for this many to have a bite of it?” She eventually notes with some incredulous amusement.

“They’re sure gonna try,” Muta snorts.

Finally, as they watch, in the distance it looks as if there are languid waves in the sea of brightly-colored patchwork, divots in the throng that speak to the movement of only a few individuals while the others part to let them pass.

It doesn’t take long; they soon find themselves approached for an apparent audience with a… particularly diminutive individual which separates from the group, one which also appears to have been adorned with a tattered shawl thrown over its body, which trails like a leaden weight after it (though upon closer inspection, this threadbare train is simply part of the little thing’s frame).

Some of the seams on its patchwork appear to be coming undone. Distantly, Haru wonders what will happen should they truly do so, and— quite swiftly derails her own thoughts before they can wander down distressing paths.

Strikingly, also, unlike the others, this one has been endowed with an eye— a single coffee-colored iris in startlingly familiar, human-shaped white sclera. Situated somewhat strangely off-centered atop its tapered, drooping head, it stares vacantly ahead, half-lidded.

The four of them feel themselves scrutinized by this seeming elder; even Muta has no complaint to offer in an attempt to hurry the process along.

Only one.

Haru can’t quite place it, how she Knows that this is what the little creature before them all is communicating, as it hadn’t spoken aloud, nor does she hear the words echoing in her mind as one might expect of a bizarre display of telepathy. Yet, still, the resounding caveat is clear.

Baron nods stiffly, appearing to have been caught off-guard in the same way the rest of them had. “Yes. Just the one.”

The quilt-like creature responds with some erratic, floppy movements that vaguely resemble an affirmative nod before placing the tapered end of its cloth snout into Baron’s hands, where it drops a single round, bright red berry. It’s about the size of a particularly plump blueberry, though it seems quite larger in Baron’s gloved hands. Seemingly satisfied, the little animal turns then, and begins to waddle away.

“Thank you,” Haru thinks to call after it.

Not too far into the future, they will all four find themselves remembering this particular phrase and wonder furiously why such an innocuous one seemed to have such a profound effect upon the Sown Forest’s minuscule inhabitants. For now, however, it’s little more than a curiosity, when the creature abruptly stops with an accompanying jerk, and then goes quite still.

The others surrounding them, too, copy this one’s motions.

“Uhh, I don’t like the look of that—” Muta starts, but he’s rather abruptly cut off by a hoarse, low-pitched bark which echoes through their surroundings. The four of them instinctively back up in alarm, a sentiment which only grows upon witnessing the little things begin convulsing, tossing their heads into the air and then back down, all the while emitting those same short roars like a baleful staccato.

“That’s loud—”

“I think it’s time we took our leave,” Baron says (he makes a motion to steady his hat, only to belatedly realize he’d left it behind). He’d liked that hat.

No sooner have they turned on their collective tails and fled that the Sown Forest’s inhabitants scuttle and crawl after them in whatever way they can, and despite their obvious disadvantages, the little things are startlingly adept at keeping up with them. Haru doesn’t have the nerve to give their pursuers the thorough, lingering look she wants, too intent on making sure her pounding steps remain even and sound, but the tight-knit mob’s thunderous pursuit is impossible to mistake. It’s not long before panicked discouragement sets in. To everyone’s surprise, it’s Baron who speaks up first.

“We won’t be outrunning them on foot—”

“Good thing we have a gargoyle chicken, then, isn’t it?!” Muta snaps, then calls to said ‘gargoyle chicken,’ “Hey, birdbrain—!”

“Toto’s many good and admirable things, Muta, but I doubt even he is strong enough to carry a full-grown human—”

Haru, overhearing this, burns with the inclination to wildly apologize, all too aware of the cracks of the trees and the deafening crunch of packed snow behind them. She bows her head in remorse, feeling fervently in this moment that her decision to tag along really had been a mistake. She’s so close to contemplating how far she might get should she separate from the group and divert the creatures away… when she notices something rather strange.

“Wait—” Haru gasps, glancing down to herself in a bewildered fashion, so much so that for a fleeting second she stops in her tracks and has to be tugged along by Baron. “I’m not the same size I was— when did I get this small—?!”

Baron sounds just as bewildered when he answers, though he at least moves past it, “Let’s not kick a gift horse, now— Toto!”

“Got it!”

If Toto at all struggles with the effort to carry all three of them, even if Haru has been unexplainably shrunken, then he’s quite gifted with hiding it. He takes off into the air with them, far above the swarming quilt creatures, with no less agility than he usually does, and Baron and Haru spend the next few moments surveying the horde raptly.

“Ya just had to thank them, didn’t you?” Comes Muta’s complaint from his not altogether eager spot in Toto’s talons.

“I was just trying to be polite!” Haru counters just as plaintively, but even she sounds at least a little remorseful. “What kind of place takes words of gratitude as an offense..?”

“They don’t show any signs of slowing down,” Baron notes.

“Are they really gonna chase us all the way to the border?! They barely have the legs to run! You really steamed them with that gratitude BS, chicky.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Haru laments.

“We know you didn’t, Haru, “ Toto tries to reassure.

“Ah, it’s Vanya,” Baron says with a nod in the fox’s direction; he looks quite small (smaller than usual, that is) from their height, rapidly looking between them in the air and the horde of… well, what look to be furious blankets swarming the forest below them. He’s motioning frantically to them to come closer, to land as quickly as they can.

“Is he crazy?! There’s no way we’re landing that close to the forest— if he doesn’t make a break for it, he’s gonna get smothered, too,” Muta says.

Seemingly as an exasperated response to their stubbornness, Vanya points to the forest behind them with an agitated zealousness, or, perhaps more specifically, the perimeter which is teeming with untold numbers of the tiny quilt creatures. The vast majority of them pace behind the line of trees, fretful and overwrought; the unfortunate few that have accidentally tumbled beyond it lie scattered and twitching on the snow-covered ground like marooned fish.

“What’s wrong with them..?”

“Looks like they can’t go beyond the trees,” Toto guesses.

When they land, still uneasy from the agitated mass of patchwork continuing to obsessively tread back and forth just a scant stone’s throw away, Vanya is swift to bound over to them, practically throwing himself at Baron and wrapping his arms around the Creation. If Baron had appeared disconcerted at the mere possibility of being given one of Vanya’s messy luck charms, he’s downright alarmed when being in no uncertain terms ‘glomped’ by the same creature.

“You made it! Pretty Vanya was worried!”

“What’s wrong with the forest’s inhabitants, Vanya?”

Vanya lets Baron go (much to his evident relief) and cants his head in thought.  “The Sown Forest exists as a powerful transformative milieu. Stay too long and one becomes part of it. The inhabitants can’t leave it.”

“What will happen to the ones that accidentally fell out of bounds?” Haru asks, glancing to the small number of quilt animals still lying pitifully just out of reach of the border of trees.

“They will die,” Vanya answers with a shrug. “Eventually.”

“But that’s awful! Can’t we just push them back into the forest..? Will they go back to normal then?”

“Yes.” Vanya sounds confused.

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Haru says, starting for the border with a marked lack of hesitation. “There aren’t that many— it shouldn’t take long, should it?”

“Even less with assistance,” Baron agrees shortly, following after her.

“I guess we’re doing this now.” Muta, as well, trails after the two with a sullen grumble.

“Cheer up, kitty, exercise is good for you.”

“Don’t make me cook you.”

Behind them, Vanya, still holding Baron’s hat as if it were a priceless artifact, watches them leave with a hard to define look, moving just a foot or two from side to side (but never so much as a half-step forward). His tail twitches and flutters in a manner quite reminiscent of an inquisitive squirrel, with the searching mien to accompany it, but he ultimately says nothing and seems to content himself with killing time.

Dusk Till Dawn, part 2

Pac/Reader; smut and angst leading into fluff (ish), 9350 words.

You can find part 1 here and you probably would need to read that first as this follows directly on from it.

-

The sun is just beginning to rise as you make your way home. Your torn, ruined wedding dress barely covers you, threatening to fall off your shoulders at any moment as you walk. One of the servants at the castle took pity on you and gave you an old blanket to drape around yourself so as to preserve what little of your modesty is left and you clutch the two ends of it tight over your chest.

The ground is cold in the early morning, rough on your bare feet, but at least it is a Sunday and so there is as yet no one about to witness your barely decent state. But everyone in the town will soon be aware of what has happened, you realize with a sinking heart. You cannot remember the last time a new bride was not almost immediately dismissed from the castle after being summoned on her wedding night, the King's right generally only a mere formality, something that is rarely acted upon.

That you did not return so swiftly but were in fact gone for the entire night will tell the petty gossips all they need to know. You will be judged, likely shamed, but there is nothing that can be done about it, you tell yourself resignedly. Perhaps you should feel ashamed, you think, blushing to remember some of the acts you so eagerly partook in, but there is a strange distance to your recollections. Your lips might still throb from ardent kisses and your sex ache with pleasure, but the past night already feels as if it was not quite real, something so removed from your ordinary life that you are not so certain you will ever be able to truly believe it actually happened.

You quietly open the door of your new marital home, entering, and it seems not as large as you recall; one room that is smaller than the King's entire bedchamber, but it is clean and neat and warm, the remains of good fire glowing softly in the grate.

You see that your husband is asleep, his snores and snuffling breaths loud from the bed in the corner, and so you stoke up the fire, adding a few pieces of wood, watching as the flames flare brightly, crackling as they burn. There is a pot of water sitting on the hearth, heating, and you take off what is left of your dress, folding it carefully.

Your mother spent hours sewing it, and you remember how her eyes shone at you when you first tried it on. "You're so beautiful," she'd told you. "Your husband will be so proud to take you as his wife."

And though you became his wife, it was not your husband who took you. It was the King, and the only thing you can be certain of is that he has changed you, opened both your mind and your body to desires you had not known existed within you, appetites that you did not ever suspect you were capable of feeling, let alone indulging.

But you dismiss such thoughts, finding a cloth and quickly washing your body down with the warmed water, dressing yourself in your every day working clothes, and when you are done, you sit at the table, waiting, staring into the fire.

Your husband finally stirs, sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes at he looks at you. He does not speak as he rises, instead walking over to you and simply resting one hand on your shoulder, bending to kiss the top of your head. You reach up to take his hand, and he says, softly, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," you say, though you are not so very sure it is the truth.

"Good," he replies, and it seems that is the last of it, because your life goes on.

It is not the same as before, of course, as you are a married woman now, having left your childhood home to make a household of your own with your new husband. His family have a plot of land just outside the village where they grow vegetables and keep chickens and pigs, selling the produce at the weekly market in the town square, and you are looking forward to working with them, wanting to remain busy, if only to stop your mind from wandering to places you would prefer it did not go.

And so the next day, as the week starts in earnest, you and your husband make your way there to work. He takes your hand in his as you walk, blushing a little and staring straight ahead of him, and you smile to yourself, because though last night he did nothing but sleep beside you, you are confident that the true intimacy of your married life will soon begin.    

His parents are waiting for you, already working, each with a hoe in hand, hilling up the soil around a row of beans.

They stop as the two of you approach, and though they greet your husband warmly, they do not seem so happy to see you, the contrast to their smiling faces on your wedding day stark enough that a swift chill runs through you, settling tense in the pit of your stomach. Your new father-in-law does not address you at all, refusing to even meet your gaze, and your mother-in-law only looks you up and down with a sneer and a sigh, muttering under her breath about 'used goods.'

You blush, humiliated, staring down at the ground. And it is only made worse by the fact that you have known them since you were just a child, and they have never, until now, been anything but kind to you, encouraging their son's courtship and seeming to approve of the match between the two of you. But it would appear that their attitude towards you has now changed, and you cannot pretend you do not know why.

Your husband looks back and forth between his mother and yourself, then gently suggests that you could perhaps begin by cleaning out the chicken coops and collecting the eggs ready for market day tomorrow. You nod, and wander off in the direction he points you, feeling your mother-in-law's eyes at your back, her scorn so palpable it is like something burning on your skin, a mark that is visible to all.

But the day passes, spent mostly in solitude for you, even eating your noon meal on your own, but you do not complain. You would rather be alone than be subjected to such judgment, and while you know what happened to you was not something you freely chose, you cannot help but feel guilty about how you conducted yourself while in the King's presence.

Dusk is falling by the time your work is deemed done, and you walk back through the village with your husband, yet this time, he does not take your hand. He seems deep in thought, and is silent even as you enter your home. You both wash your  hands and faces, scrubbing off the worst of the day's dirt, and you ladle out two bowls of the stew you prepared early this morning and left simmering over the fire while you were gone.

"Market day tomorrow," you say, trying to make conversation, lighten the heaviness that seems to hang weighted in the air between you. But he only nods in reply, seeming to barely hear you, so you do not speak again, finishing your food as the darkness of the night begins to close in. You light one of the candles that sits in its holder on the table, gathering up the bowls and spoons, setting them to soak in water overnight.

There is a tightness in your chest, a tension that you cannot seem to shake off, but you tell yourself that it is nothing.

Your husband takes off his working clothes, stripping down to his undergarments and climbing into the bed with a sigh. He lies on his side, facing away from you as you change into your nightgown. It is made of white linen with a simple lace edge, and is really is too fine for daily use, made as it was for your wedding night, but seeing as it never fulfilled that intended purpose, you have decided to wear it regardless, hoping that it will please your husband to see you in it. But he does not even look at you as you blow out the candle and slip into bed beside him.

You can hear him breathing next to you, inhalations that are strangely rapid and deep, and then, without warning, he is suddenly on top of you. You let out a small, surprised gasp, and he kisses you, his tongue fat and limp in your mouth as he reaches down to push your nightgown out of the way. And you are not nearly ready, but it does not hurt too badly as he enters you, thrusting into you rapidly just a few times before his body stiffens, trembling, and he lets out a brief, anguished-sounding cry.

And then he grunts slightly, as if content with this conclusion, and rolls off you. Within seconds you hear him snoring, and you do not move, lying there, shocked, unable to fathom what you have just experienced. Because while you were not expecting your husband to take as much time over things or be as skilled as the King, you were not expecting... that. Perhaps, you console yourself, he was simply nervous, ill-prepared for your first time together. You have heard talk that men who are not practised in the physicalities of married life can be too hurried about things, overexcited as they are with the newness of it all, and so you can only conclude that you will need to be patient with him, allow him to get used to the act.

You feel strangely restless, uneasy and so very keenly unsatisfied, but eventually you drift off into sleep. And yet it feels like you have barely entered slumber before you are awakened, even earlier than usual, needing to make your preparations for market day.

You work with your husband and his parents to set up their stall, piling it high with vegetables and eggs and newly-cured bacon, and when all is in readiness, your mother-in-law looks at you. "I'm sure you can manage on your own, my dear," she says, smiling, but there is no warmth in her eyes. "We will go back to work."

"I can stay with her," your husband offers, and you are grateful for his kindness, but your mother-in-law's response is both immediate and sharp.

"No," she orders, the word barked out harshly. "She is better left alone."

"I am all right," you tell your husband, and he nods. He will not defend you, you know that, and perhaps it is better this way. The three of them do not bid you good bye as they take their leave, but you try not to let it bother you. And soon you are busy enough, people beginning to file into the market, making their purchases for the week.

You are standing idle, waiting for your next customer when two younger men approach the stall, and though you do not know their names, their faces are vaguely familiar to you as locals. They are nudging each other, trying to contain their laughter as they stare at you, wide-eyed. "It's her," you hear one of them whisper.

But you ignore their childishness, and say, "May I help you?"

"You may," the other one says, affecting an accent that you assume is supposed to be humorously reminiscent of the nobility, though you find no jest in it. "I was wondering," he goes on, "if I might ask you a question?"

"Yes," you reply, warily, because you are certain he is not interested in the price of the eggs or the quality of potatoes you're offering for sale.

You can see how desperately he is trying not to laugh as he asks, "Is the King's prick as big as they say?" And as soon as the words are out, both he and his companion collapse into helpless giggles.

Your face burns bright with humiliation, and you look away, wishing you could sink into the earth and disappear, but then you hear two yelps of pain, and when you look up, it is your cousin, Gwen, who has cuffed both boys none-too-gently about the ears. "Find yourself someone else to bother," she scolds them, sending them on their way, and you sigh in relief to see her.

When they are gone, she smiles at you, but there is concern in her eyes. "I heard about..." she begins, but then stops. "After the wedding," she says.

"I'm sure everyone has heard by now," you say, bitter, and she nods, understanding.

"Don't listen to them," she tells you. "It's just the tradition, people know it's the way of things." And you want to believe her, wishing with all your heart it could be so simple. "Was it..." she asks, lowering her voice. "Was it so very bad?"

You shrug, giving her a wan smile, as you cannot think how to answer such a question. She does not reply, simply laying a consoling hand on your arm, squeezing lightly, and you are well aware what she is thinking, what you are allowing her to assume. You feel as if you are somehow betraying the King by not correcting her, trying to explain what actually occurred, but, if you are honest, you are not so very sure you could explain it.

So you say nothing.

"Best to put it behind you," Gwen says, firm but sympathetic. "Move on."

Other customers approach the stall, and she waves a quick farewell, walking away with a sad smile. You sigh to yourself, but you consciously put on a falsely bright face, refocusing your energies. And perhaps Gwen may have misunderstood what happened to you during your night with the King, but she is right in that you do need to put it behind you, and you are determined to do so.

That evening in bed your husband again rolls on top of you and while this time he lasts slightly longer, it is still over in a startlingly brief amount of time. You lie awake afterwards, staring up into the rafters of the cottage, wondering how you ever thought you could be satisfied with such a life.

Because each day and each night is the same: you work alone, separate from the others, you come home and eat, you go to bed and your husband takes what you can only imagine is his meagre pleasure. Thus, you realize, it is becoming clear that if anything is to improve, it will be up to you to take the initiative. So the next night, as your husband is about to begin, you turn to him.

"Wait," you say, and he looks at you with some confusion. "Can we not..." you ask, shyly. "Can we not take a little more time about it?" He stares at you, as if not understanding, watching you in apparent puzzlement as you pull the bed coverings back enough to expose him, then reach into his underclothes, taking his manhood tentatively in your hand. It feels hot under your palm, and he gasps as you stroke it gently, your fingers loose around the shaft of it. For a moment you think he is going to finish right then and there, but you let him go, and he seems to stop himself. You look at him, hopeful, and lower your head, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his member, lips barely touching it. He stares down at you, his expression one of horror rather than the delight you expected, and pushes you from him with enough violence that you are barely able to keep your balance, crawling backwards on the bed away from him, suddenly afraid.

"That is what whores do," he spits out, abhorrence written plain over his features, as if what you have just done is so repellent it cannot be borne. "Not good women."

And you don't understand, stammering, "I... I'm sorry, I only wanted to please you."

"That is not how a decent wife pleases her husband."

"I am sorry," you repeat, "I did not know, I promise I will not do it again if it is not right."

His face changes, hardening into anger, and your heart sinks with dread at the sight. "Did you perform such acts on the King?" he asks.

You hesitate, then reply, "No," the lie unconvincing even to yourself.

"You did, didn't you?" your husband says, bitterness in his voice. "I..." He shakes his head. "I wanted to believe that you had no choice, that you were forced. But I understand now, that you were corrupted, that you... that you let yourself be corrupted by him."

"It was not like that," you plead, the beginnings of tears prickling sharp in your eyes. "I am sorry," you say again. "Please."

But it seems your husband is set in his opinion, not to be swayed, and he gets out of bed, dressing himself, every movement tense, betraying his fury. "I will not stand for it," he says, pointing his finger at you, and you can only pray he does not see fit to give you a beating for your foolishness. "I will not stand to be disrespected in my own house by my own wife."

He slams the door of the cottage behind him as he leaves, and you want to cry, but you know there is no point, that it would only be self-indulgence and so you bite down on the feeling, swallowing the sob that threatens to well up in your throat, willing your weakness away. This is your life now, and you must accept it, whatever that costs you. You climb back under the covers of the bed, curled up on your side, and for the first time since that fateful night, you allow your thoughts to wander unrestrained, thinking of the King, of how he looked at you, how he touched you.

You had never before experienced what it was to be truly desired by a man, and now, you are quite certain, you will never experience it again. And yet still, the memories stir fresh longings inside you, your body suddenly alive with yearning, an insistent pulse between your thighs as wetness begins to gather there. And though you blush at your own wanton sinfulness, you do not stop yourself as your hand slips under your nightgown, your fingers swiftly finding the place that you know will bring you satisfaction.

You burn with shame to hear yourself, the noises you are making, crude sounds of pleasure as the feeling of it reaches a peak inside you, and it is the King you think of as you tremble through your completion; his face scowling and cruel, softening into a reluctant, guarded tenderness.

You turn over with a sigh, falling into a troubled sleep.

When your  husband returns in the morning, he does not speak to you, and you remain silent, staying out of his way, making yourself as small and unobtrusive as you can, not wishing to provoke him. You are hoping his anger will subside at least somewhat, given time, but it seems what you have done is unforgivable to him, because from then on he begins to spend his evenings at the tavern, not returning home until late, the stench of ale invariably on his breath. But he never touches you, not ever, no matter how drunk he is, lying every night unmoving in the bed beside you, his body turned away.

Sometimes, while you are alone, waiting for him to come home, you give in to temptation and satisfy yourself, but the feeling it brings you is empty, hollow.

Weeks pass, and you settle into a kind of dull and aching numbness, resigned to the fact that this is your fate. There are times you would like to make yourself wish that you had never been chosen by the King, had been merely dismissed like so many other brides, but you cannot ever manage to regret that night, whatever trouble it has brought to you.

But then, one afternoon, you are busy in the fields, as your husband and his parents are digging over one of the the vegetable plots, ready for new plantings, and you are walking back and forth with a hand cart laden heavy with dirty straw from the pigs' sty. You unload the cart next to where they are working, struggling to upend it enough that it will empty, and no one speaks to you, but you are so accustomed to silence by now that you barely notice, trudging back to the muck heap next to the sty, mud slippery under your feet with each step. You pick up your pitchfork, ready to refill the cart, your back aching with the labor of it, but then someone calls out your name.

You look up in puzzlement, wiping the sweat from your brow with a filthy hand. There are two royal guards standing there with your mother-in-law and your chest is suddenly tight, you breath caught somewhere in your throat, though whether that is caused by delight or dread you could not say.

"It seems you are being summoned again, my dear," she informs you in a poisonous tone. "I suppose you must have impressed his Majesty with your talents last time."

"I..." you start, hesitating as you glance over at your husband, who only shrugs, turning back to his work. It breaks you inside to know that you mean so little to him, that he does not even care that another man wants to make use of you. "Are... are you certain?" you ask the guards. "The King asked for me?"

"By name," one replies confidently. "You are to come with us."

"Now," says the other, beckoning to you impatiently.

You look down at your dress, covered with mud, and you have no doubt that you must reek of sweat and the worst of the pig sty. "Please allow me to change my clothes," you tell them. "I cannot appear before the King in this state."

"Sorry," the first guard says. "His majesty commanded you be brought to him immediately, without the smallest delay."

"Please," you repeat, "I am sure the King would not wish for me to be presented to him like this."

The guards roll their eyes, and one strides over to you, grabbing your arm, pulling you with him roughly, almost dragging you along until you fall into step with him, walking quickly. They flank you, either side, and you glance back over your shoulder to see that everyone has seemingly calmly returned to their work, not sparing even a look at your retreating form.

Which is no more than you would expect, and so you try to brush some of the mud off your dress as you walk, using your sleeve to scrub off your face as best you can. You are at least grateful that being on the outskirts of town means that you are not being paraded through the main streets for everyone to see you taken back to the castle, but there are people enough to stare knowingly at you as you are marched along.

Tension builds cold in the pit of your stomach as the guards lead you up the staircase that you recall leads to the King's private chamber, because you are certain he will not be pleased by your appearance.

They knock at the door, opening it as the King's voice calls out, "Enter," and you are pushed into the room, holding your breath. The King is facing away from you, wearing dark-colored breeches and riding boots, still adorned with spurs, his white shirt untucked so that it hangs off his broad shoulders, dark hair tumbling in loose, untidy curls down his back.

He turns, a goblet of what you assume is wine raised to his mouth, but when he sees you, he lowers it, lip curling up in obvious disgust. "Good god," he says, looking you up and down.

"I am so very sorry, Majesty," you say quickly, stumbling over the words in your hurry to apologize. "I was working in the fields and your men would not permit me to change before bringing me here, I know that to appear before you in this manner is disrespect of the highest order."

The King does not reply to you, but he glares silently at the guards, raising his eyebrows at them, as if demanding explanation.

They look back and forth between each other, hesitant, and one says, "Your majesty told us it was urgent, that we should bring her with all haste."

"I suppose I did." The King rubs his forehead, seemingly resigned, and then waves at the guards, dismissing them. "Go," he tells them. "And have someone bring up hot water for washing without delay."

They both nod curtly, standing to attention before leaving the room, closing the door behind them, and the King turns his focus back to you. He stares at you for perhaps a full minute, and you keep your gaze lowered, your eyes on the floor, for if you have to see the utter disdain in his expression you are sure you will begin to cry.

"You smell of shit," he says, with a sniff.

"I am sorry, majesty," you say, again, looking at him, pleading. "I was cleaning out the pig sty and..."

He holds up one hand, saying, "Please, spare me the gruesome details of it." He sighs. "I could have any woman in the kingdom and yet it seems I desire..." He gestures at you, disgust written plain even in the movement of his fingers through the air. "This." He seats himself, gulping down a mouthful of wine and looking at you with an undisguised revulsion that is so very similar to the way your husband regards you that you have to bite your lip in an effort to quell the sobs that are burning in your throat.

"At least take off your clothes," he tells you, and you hurriedly obey, carefully folding your dress so no dried mud spills onto the fine rug that covers the floor. You look around, unsure where to place it, and the King says, "Put it all by the door. I will have them taken and washed."

"You do not need to do so, majesty, I can..."

"I would ask you not to argue with me, child," he interrupts, a warning in his voice.

"Sorry," you reply, nodding in deference.

"And stop apologizing," he snaps. "It is most tiresome."

You do not say anything, swallowing the urge to say 'sorry' yet again and hurriedly removing the rest of your clothes. You set them in a neat pile by the door of the room as instructed, then return to your previous position, standing in front of the King, uncertain if he wishes for you to do anything other than wait. But for now, at least, he seems content to simply gaze upon your naked form, and while his expression is not exactly one of unbridled lust, he no longer seems quite so revolted by your appearance.

"Well," he muses, "that's somewhat better. At least you are now pleasing to the eye, if not the other senses."

He takes a swig of his wine, and then leans down, easing off his boots, casting them aside carelessly and then sitting back with an exhaled breath. "And so how is married life?" he asks you.

You are not sure how to answer that without being untruthful, so you settle on evasive. "It is... quite well," you say.

"Quite well," he replies, with the hint of a smirk, as if he guesses that you are deliberately avoiding his question, but before he can say more, there is a knock at the door. "Enter," he says in a commanding tone, not taking his eyes off you.

Two serving women walk in, one young, one older, carrying a low wooden tub of water between them, steam rising visibly off the surface of it. The younger woman stares openly at you, wide-eyed and curious, but the older one merely looks you up and down with a cynical, knowing gaze, and though you do not cover yourself, you shrink back into your body a little in response, your shoulders instinctively hunching as you feel her judgment.

They place the water in front of the fire, and the older woman lays out some generous lengths of towelling and a piece of soap on a nearby table. "Anything else you require, your majesty?" she asks, and the King points at your clothes by the door.

"Take those," he tells her. "Have them washed."

She nods, and you can see her irritation in the line of her mouth, the set of her jaw, and you want desperately to tell her that you know your station, that you should not be being waited on by her or indeed by anyone in the castle, but you are keenly aware that will not please the King, so you bite your tongue, watching pained as she gathers up your things, holding them slightly away from herself as if in disgust.

She and her companion take their leave in silence, closing the door behind them, and you let out a breath.

"Well then," the King says expectantly, nodding towards the water, and you hurry to obey his implied command, stepping into the tub. It is pleasantly hot, the level of water reaching only to just below your knees, and so you assume you are to remain standing as you bathe. Thus you take up the soap and one of the shorter pieces of towelling, dipping them both in the water, and quickly as you can begin to clean yourself off, fearful of making the King wait any longer than necessary.

But almost as soon as you have begun, you hear him emit a strained sigh of obvious irritation, and you stop, looking up at him, confused as to what you could possibly doing wrong now. "For god's sake, woman," he exclaims, exasperated, "you are not scrubbing down a butchered pig. If I have to watch you bathe can you not at least make a show of it for me?"

"Oh," you murmur, because that did not occur to you, used as you are to washing for only practical reasons, rushing when tired at the end of a working day. You are not entirely sure what he is asking of you, uncertain as to what a show of bathing should be, but you hold one shakingly hesitant arm out in front of you, running the soap up it slowly, rubbing gently back and forth over your skin, glancing over at him to gauge his reaction.

"That is more like it," he says, approvingly, and you exhale in relief, continuing.

And it's strange, you muse as you go on, so very strange to be taking your time over something as simple and every day as washing yourself, but to your surprise, you find yourself enjoying it, finally able to relax just a little. The fire is hot at your back, the water warm as it sluices over your body, dripping down across your breasts, your stomach. You lather the soap on your skin, the feel of it soft and creamy, far more luxurious than the rough lump of bitter-smelling soap you use at home. This is scented with lavender, and you close your eyes, inhaling the sweetness, running your hands over your body, unhurried and sensuously indulgent.

For a minute you forget where you are, but then you open your eyes, looking over at the King, blushing at your own lack of modesty, but he does not seem to mind. He still holds his goblet of wine in one hand, but the other is resting on his thigh, near to his manhood, and there is an intentness to his gaze, a focus that tells you his desire is growing.

You lower your eyes as you wash between your legs, too embarrassed to linger over that particular place, especially when you can feel the beginnings of arousal there, wet and full, and when you glance back up at the King, he is smirking slightly, seemingly amused by your sudden awkwardness.

He does not comment, but instead rises to his feet, setting down his wine, pulling his shirt off, over his head, and you try not to stare at his upper body, which seems to be even more remarkable than you remember, with its carved-out muscles and pale, smooth skin, but you do not have time to reflect upon him, as he walks around to stand behind you. He holds out his hand, palm up, next to you, and for a moment you do not understand, but then you realize, and hand him the soap.

You step back so that you are at the edge of the tub, closer to him, listening to the slick sounds of him lathering up the soap, anticipation quivering inside you like something alive, threatening to spill over as you wait for him.

But then he touches you, and you breathe in, the sound of it somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, his hands gentle but assured as he smooths soap over your back, drawing slow circles, as if exploring, mapping your skin. There is a tensed knot of muscle above one of your shoulder blades, still sore from your afternoon's work of shovelling out the pig sty (though you can barely believe that that was only a short while ago, distant as it now seems) and he finds it quickly, unprompted, unerring. He makes a small noise of displeasure at the feel of it, pressing one thumb into the tightness, and you cannot stop yourself from moaning quietly as the muscle releases.

He hums to himself, briefly, as if satisfied by his work, and then bends, picking up one of the cloths, wetting it and carefully washing the suds off your back. Water drips down your spine, over your buttocks, and you can hear him behind you, breathing.

You swallow, nervous, heart beating faster as he leans in to kiss the nape of your neck, his lips tender yet ardent, the promise of something more hanging thick in the air. "I would have you know that I have thought of you," he murmurs. "Many times, since our night together." He kisses you again, then says, "I do tend to find women quite forgettable, but you..."

He does not finish, but you can feel him closer behind you, his hands reaching around you and sliding up over your stomach, under your breasts, lifting the weight of them. His thumbs rub at your nipples, pressing against them, and you feel your flesh harden and peak under his touch, responding to him, unashamed and needful.

"Have you thought of me?" he asks, voice catching so very slightly that you barely hear it. "Since we parted?"

"Yes, majesty," you reply, your face reddening to recall exactly how much you have thought of him, and under what particular circumstances some of those thoughts have occurred.

"Ah," he says, the sound of it low, as if that pleases him, and he presses one last kiss to your neck before shifting away from you. "Dry yourself," he orders, and you nod, stepping out of the tub, careful to keep your balance.

You take up the largest piece of towelling, dabbing the moisture from your skin, and the sudden impatience in his expression tells you that he would prefer you do not linger over this particular part of the process, and so you try to be graceful with it even as you hurry.

He watches, standing there, waiting for you, and when you are finished, you turn to face him. He is still for a minute, but then he moves forward, his hands coming to rest on your waist. You hold your breath as he kisses you, mouth against yours, soft, his lips closed yet full.

He pulls back, looking at you, his eyes dark with a want so blatant you feel it. And you know it is not right, that you should allow him to take the lead, but you cannot stop yourself, your own need an insistent throb inside you, and so this time it is you who closes the space between you. You breathe against him, lick his mouth, and when he opens to you, your tongue slides against his, tangling, gently at first, as if exploring, relearning one another, but then intensifying as he demands more and you respond in kind.

"Yes," he whispers, pulling back just enough to speak. "You are hungry for it, are you not?"

You cannot bring yourself to reply, and he laughs at you, the sound of it something akin to a growl, deep and so very masculine that you feel yourself tremble, weak in the face of it, of your own desire.

"I did appreciate the blushing little virgin last time, but I think perhaps I like this more," he muses, and heat pulses inside you. Still, you wait, knowing your place, trying to contain your restlessness as he seems to consider his next action, but then he takes your hand, lifting it gallantly, leading you over to the bed. He helps you up onto it, and you lie back without being asked, sinking into the thickly-laid coverings of fur and silk, the sensation of it briefly returning your mind to the first time you laid here, so fearful and tensed.

It is strange to realize how little time has passed since that night and yet how much you have changed, now willingly allowing the King to part your legs, baring yourself to him as he kneels between your thighs. He stares at your body, eyes trailing over every inch of you as he slowly rubs himself through his breeches, his gaze so arrogantly possessive that it is as if it burns on your skin.

He leans down, hands firm and assured as he spreads you even wider, his face so near to your sex that you can feel his breath, warm against your own wet heat, and you should be blushing or protesting or resisting, not letting this happen without the slightest modesty or shame, not waiting eagerly, your heart racing, barely daring to imagine what he is about to do.

You swallow, nervous, as you feel him draw closer, and then, at last, his mouth is on you, the first touch of it strangely tender and unexpectedly, almost shockingly intimate. He kisses you, lips pressed against you as his tongue snakes out to draw gently through your folds, beginning to lap at you; softly at first, but then with an increasing vigor, concentrating on that small nub that you yourself have previously focused on as the source of your pleasure.

You bite down on the sounds that well up in your throat; whimpers that threaten to become moans, base and wanton, but the King stops, raising his head enough that he can address you. "Do not hold yourself back, pretty," he tells you, stroking down your thighs. "I want to hear what I do to you." He makes as if to resume his task, but then all at once pauses, giving you a curious look. "Does your husband not do this?" he asks.

And perhaps it is not something that you should reveal, but you shake your head, and say, quietly, "No, he has never."

The King raises his eyebrows slightly, and you think he is about to offer an opinion on that fact, but he seems to stop himself, and instead only smiles at you, perhaps thoughtful. "A cunt this sweet deserves to be tasted," he says, licking his lips before again lowering his mouth to you. And though you are not certain it is proper, it seems it is what the King desires, so this time you do not silence yourself as be begins anew, letting the gasps and cries that his tongue elicits from you echo off the walls of the room, becoming louder and louder.

He licks inside you, moving in and out, and your hips lift up off the bed as if of their own volition, your response purely instinctive as you feel your approaching climax building uncontrolled inside you with an intensity that far exceeds anything you have managed with your own hand during your nights alone. The King's tongue moves on you, his hands gripping your thighs as he holds you down and open for him and just when you are sure you cannot take anymore, overwhelmed with it as you are, something breaks within you, letting go. Your body tenses, releases, tenses again as you cry out, abandoned and unheeding and the King does not relent in his attentions for one single moment, bringing you to even further heights,    over and over until at last one final shudder rushes through you, and you fall back, utterly spent.

The King presses a gentle kiss to your throbbing sex, then pulls away, but you can still barely catch your breath, every panted exhale a desperate little whine as he crawls up beside you. His eyes are alight with something that you would not dare to name, his face framed by tangled strands of hair that brush over his bared shoulders. His lips are shining wet, and as he kisses you, you taste yourself on him, his tongue in your mouth just as commandingly skilled as it was between your legs, and you moan, barely recovered as you still tremble with echoes of  your completion, gradually fading.

He lies back, next to you, and you turn onto your side, now somewhat calmed, at least enough so that you can look at him. You have never not thought him attractive, but it would seem those distinctive features have arranged themselves into something much more than that; something strangely, wondrously beautiful to your eyes. Without thinking, your hand hovers in the air, but you stop yourself, uncertain. "May I..." you ask, swallowing nervously at your own daring. "May I touch you, majesty?"

"You never need ask permission for that," he says with the hint of a smile, taking hold of your hand and placing it on his chest. He guides you across to his nipple, the small peak of it stiffening as you stroke it.

"Oh..." you murmur, needing no further encouragement as he releases your hand, caressing him of your own accord, your fingers smoothing across the rise and fall of his breast to rub his other nipple. The muscle beneath it flexes, pushing up, and you gasp quietly at the suddenness of it, but you do not stop, moving downwards, feeling out the other muscles that run down either side of his stomach in sectioned-off ridges.

They are tight and firm, so much so that you wonder if he is consciously tensing, holding himself taut for your touch, and the idea that the King might be taking the trouble to present his best self to you sends a small thrill through you.

"Now lower," he tells you, his voice soft, and you swallow, obeying, your hand sliding down to tease at the edge of his breeches, which are still securely laced, though it would be difficult to miss the proudly erect outline of his manhood that is visible through the material.

You trace your fingers lightly over the length of it, brave as you dare, and he inhales, sharp and quick. "Oh, you have grown bold, haven't you?" he says, laughing breathlessly, again smiling at you, but this time it is wide and easy. "Take it out for me, if you want to play."

You breathe, biting your lip, not daring to look at him for fear that you will blush as you kneel up beside him, your fingers shaking and your heart racing as you untie the knot at the waist of his breeches, easing the laces open. He is not wearing any underclothes, and you force yourself to not yet look at his... cock, you say in your head, as you pull his breeches down and off, over the solid bulk of his thighs, past the sinewed curves of his calves.

He does not say anything, but he shifts himself enough to make your task easier, watching you with darkly fascinated eyes, and when you are done, you do not hesitate, taking his cock in hand.

It is thick in your grasp, fitting perfectly within the circle of your palm and fingers, as if that is where it belongs, and you stroke it, careful, slowly moving up and down. The King closes his eyes, letting out a groan, his mouth slightly open, his hips arching up to push into your touch.

And it makes you feel something you do not entirely understand, to see such a reaction from him, to suddenly be aware that he is, in some sense, at your mercy while in this position. This is a man who holds more power than you could possibly ever even begin to imagine, but there are, perhaps, other kinds of power, ones which you yourself might wield, even over a King, and that is a knowledge that does not quite sit comfortably with you.

But then he opens his eyes, one hand slapping at your buttocks. "Get on me, my pretty," he says. "I want to feel that hot, tight little cunt of yours."

You nod, rushed and obedient, breathless with your own need as you straddle his thighs, somewhat uncertain as to the correct way this might work, but it seems obvious enough as you hold his cock, lining it up against your entrance. You inhale a long, steady breath, and begin to take him in, lowering yourself down onto him; slowly, slowly until his full length is inside you. And you feel for a moment as if you might cry with relief, with the feeling of it, because this is what you have needed, what you have been longing for, to be filled like this once again, that ever-present yearning ache within you finally beginning to be sated.

But there is more, you know. "Ride me, then," the King tells you, his voice hoarse. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing tight, and he says, "Show me how you move."

And so you do, and though you may never have been taken like this before, it is not difficult to intuit what needs to be done, lifting yourself enough that you can again sink down onto him, your body seeming to know this as something familiar as you repeat the motion, taking to it easily and instinctively.

"Yes," he whispers, the word extended into a hiss, his grasp on you keeping you to a rhythm that only seems to grow more intense, more urgent.

Your hips roll into it and he moans, the sound of it like something desperate. "God," he grits out. "Oh, my sweet girl, you fuck like a whore."

And you freeze, instantly. Reality crashes down upon you, an overwhelming shame suddenly sliding cold up your spine, because you knew, you knew you were being too forward with him, allowing yourself to behave in a manner not fitting to a woman who is being shown the King's favor, but you were so lost in it, unable to help yourself, lustful creature that it seems you are. "I'm... I am sorry, majesty," you whisper, your voice shaking.

"For what?" he asks, looking up at you, confused, his hands remaining on you, attempting to urge you on, but you do not respond. You cannot, not now, and you kneel up, letting his cock slip out of you, bowing your head submissively as you sit beside him, trying to ignore the emptiness already throbbing at your core.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" he snaps, sitting up. "Tell me," he demands, roughly grabbing hold of your wrist, but you do not dare to look up, unable to receive his gaze, too ashamed of yourself.

"I do not mean to be improper," you answer. "I only wish to please you."

"You do please me," he says. "You are pleasing me..." He shakes his head, clearly irritated. "How did I indicate otherwise?"

"You said..."

"What?"

"That word..."

"What word?"

"Whore," you whisper, barely able to say it, humiliation burning hot on your reddened cheeks, because that is what you must be, you know it now: a whore.

The King does not say anything for a long minute, but then, without warning, he reaches out, grasping your jaw in a firm hand, tilting your face up toward him, forcing you to meet his eyes even as you struggle to look away.

"Has someone called you that?" he demands, his expression hard. "Has someone shamed you for taking enjoyment in the physical?" You do not reply, but he does not release you, glaring at you with an authority that makes you quake with fear. "Answer me, girl."

You nod, as best you can, and he relaxes his grip on you, sitting back, and you hear him take a deep breath.

"Then they are a halfwitted ignorant who is not deserving of a woman like you." He closes his eyes for a moment, as if consciously containing his anger, and it is only then you realize with some surprise that his disapproval is not actually directed at you. "That was perhaps an indelicate way to put it," he says, "but I meant it as praise, I promise you."

"You... you did?" you stammer out, not understanding.

"Yes, I did," he says, and takes your hand in his, holding it, his thumb stroking gently across your palm. "I like that you bring me pleasure, but what gratifies me the most is to see the pleasure that you take for yourself when we are together." He pauses before going on, seeming to choose his words with an extra care. "It is... beautiful," he says, looking at you, and there something soft in his face, so openly tender it makes you shiver. "It is a most precious thing and anyone who would say otherwise is a fool of the very highest order. Are we understood?"

"Yes, majesty," you answer meekly.

"I will not allow you to feel even the slightest shame," he tells you, "not for one single second."

You nod, blushing, trying not to smile, because it would appear you have not displeased him, and a weight seems to lift off your shoulders, lightening.

"Now," he says, "may we go on as before?"

"Yes, majesty," you reply, again, and now you do smile, shyly, but you know your eagerness shows.

"My good girl," he says, smiling back at you, and your heart flutters inside your chest to see it. "Begin slowly, if you wish, but keep on in the previous way," he tells you, giving you a sly glance, as he adds, "if you would be so kind."

He lies himself down, and once more you are over him, but this time with no hesitation, again taking his cock inside you, easy and full. You move, just as he has asked, just as before, and he breathes out, his hands settling on your hips. You rest your own hands over them, holding on to him, watching him, his face, as you go on.

His eyes close, and he soon starts to moan, again, but even louder this time, the sound of it seeming to fill the room. He thrusts up into you, pulling you down onto him as his body stiffens, every last remarkable, powerful muscle visibly tensing, his hands tightening on you, his head arching back.

He is even more handsome like this, you think, and though you do not finish along with him, you do not mind, for you know there will be more to come, that he will not allow you leave him until he has satisfied you again and again.

You wait, then climb off him, lying down beside him, and he pulls you into his arms. His skin is warm against yours, his body somehow managing to be soft and hard all at once, and he kisses you, lazily unhurried, his mouth wet and open until he breaks from you.

"So lovely," he murmurs, gazing at you, eyes shining as he smooths your hair back off your face. "So very, very lovely."

You lean over, daring to initiate another kiss, and he delights at your boldness, laughing wickedly into your mouth.

But this time, when he pulls away, he is more serious. "I have something to ask you," he says, taking your hand, fingers threading through yours, idly moving back and forth. "And I know that as your King I can compel you to do whatever I wish, but I am granting you explicit permission to deny me if that is what you would prefer. Is that quite clear?"

You nod, curious as to what he might require of you, what would need such a disclaimer.

He does not speak for a minute, and you remain silent, watchful, until he finally says, "I want you to stay here with me, to be of use to me whenever I desire you."

And such an offer may be more than you could ever have imagined, but you cannot be certain what he is actually proposing, what the reality of it might mean for you. "For.... for how long?" you say, haltingly.

"I do not know," he replies, careless. "As long as you satisfy me. Until I grow tired of you."

A sharp chill runs through you at the thought that he will indeed one day perhaps no longer desire you, and though all you want to do is say yes and disregard the consequences of it, you still have other loyalties, duties that call you.

"What about my husband?" you ask.

"What about him? Would he even care?" the King counters, and you have no answer to that.

"I have..." you say, aware how naive you sound. "I have to work, on the land. His family need my help."

You know it would not be right to abandon your obligations, however tempting the idea, but the King waves his hand, as if it is nothing. "I will send them one of my own laborers to use as your substitute. A woman as fine as you should not be shovelling pig shit for a living."

"Oh," you say, because you are not accustomed to being so casually provided for. But it seems you are in the King's world now, and things are different here.

You are not so foolish you do not know that if you stay, you will likely have no life to return to, that by the time the King grows weary of you your husband and his family will never accept you back. But then, you muse, what do you have to return to even now? Because what you have been living since your marriage is surely no life at all.

"Tell me, then," he says, holding you tight against him, encircled in the warmth of his embrace. "Will you remain with me?"

"Yes, majesty," you state, firmly decisive. "I will."

He stares at you for a second, almost as if you have surprised him, but then a slow, triumphant smile spreads over his face and he kisses you, again. "Well," he tells you. "It seems we can take our time, then." He runs his thumb softly over your mouth, looking at you. "Oh, my sweet one," he says, "we are going to enjoy ourselves, aren't we?"

And you cannot know what the future holds, but you do not think of that, only nodding in agreement, because for now, you could not ask for any more.

Peace for Himself (Napoleon Bonaparte x Reader)

A/N: I think this one's probably going to be a lot shorter than the others. More a peaceful little snapshot than anything else.

Napoleon Appreciation Week Day 3: War and Peace

Tagging @ikevamp-appreciation<3

I do not own Ikemen Vampire or any of its characters.

My ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/lordsister (please consider donating if you enjoy my work!^^)

A blue sky stretches above him, a few clouds blown across its wide expanse like ships across the sea. Around him, flowers bob in the breeze and suffuse the air with a wildflower perfume. The rustling of the trees is the only significant sound, creating a soft hushing noise, and his horse grazes nearby, tail flicking at flies every now and then as velvety ears prick forward and a soft nose snuffles at the ground.

The scene is nothing short of peaceful, but what makes it perfect and complete is the woman curled up at Napoleon's side, his arm around her and her head resting on his chest as she slumbers away. For all its natural beauty, this scene would be lonely without her there and he loves the way the heat of her body feels against his own, how he can feel every one of the soft, slow breaths she takes. He often finds himself not looking at the sky, but looking at her instead, watching the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks every now and then as she dreams.

Reaching down, the tip of his finger oh so gently brushes the tips of her lashes. The gesture is so soft, so tender, it actually surprises Napoleon himself, though his hand doesn't leave her face.

It was such a strange thought, that these hands that had dripped with the spilled blood of his enemies now brushed her skin so lovingly, treating her as the precious treasure she was.

He had devoted himself to war for the sake of peace in his past life and suffered because of it. Though he himself never experienced that peace brought about by his actions, others did, and he tried to convince himself that that was enough. It never was, but even then he tried to convince himself that that was fine too. He didn't need peace and didn't believe he would ever have it, but then he met (y/n) and everything changed. Certainly, there were quiet moments here and there, but never had he experienced the true peace she brought to his war-hardened soul.

In another life, this field would have looked quite different, the perfect place for some men to prove themselves and for other men to die. Napoleon had fought battles in fields exactly like this one, giving little care to the flowers his army trampled underfoot, to the pieces of nature destroyed by cannon fire and gunshots. Nothing mattered except surviving and continuing to fulfill his goals.

He's seen blood splatter on the perfect petals of a flower, dripping off it in a way that could only be described as beautiful and horrible. He's seen trees uprooted by the violent, merciless blast of a cannonball. He's seen men and horses go flying, landing in the grass and never moving again.

War was terrible and it was rarely fought by the men who started it. As it was, every advance Napoleon made cost blood, both in gaining it and keeping it. After every battle, he would think it was the last, that it wouldn't happen again, but he was wrong. So, so wrong.

He made as many enemies as he did friends, if not more so, and every time one bit him, he hit back twice as hard. Still, it never ended. More and more people considered him a threat, a harbinger of war rather than that of the peace he so dreamed of.

Landscapes were often left ragged and unrecognizable after battle and nothing would grow for a while, the soil too tainted with blood and smoke. Maybe, in the process of suffering so much for the sake of so many, Napoleon had become like one of those landscapes himself, the blood staining his heart and soul never given the chance to dry, but who could say.

Few things in this world were guaranteed. Eventually though, peace and life returned to fill in what war and death destroyed. Given proper time, the soil cleansed itself through its own wondrous little ecosystem, the flowers grew back, petals perfect and unsullied once more, and new trees grew from the old. Things healed.

Napoleon's unexpected arrival at le Comte de Saint-Germain's mansion was his chance to heal, for peace to take the place war had held inside of him for so long. He wouldn't realize it though, until a certain woman crashed into his life in all her wonderful, impossible glory. The events following her arrival brought him a closure he hadn't known he'd needed, and the possibility of a second life worth living.

Looking back on his past now, he finds he'd forgotten what true peace was then and counts himself lucky for being able to have it now.

His jade green gaze settling on the sky above once more, he notices it's has taken on a darker hue, nearing twilight. It might be time to wake you up, but...looking down at you, he can't bear to wake you just yet, and besides, the grass is so soft and comfortable here, it would be a crime not to doze off for a few minutes himself.

Your eyelids flutter as he watches you, your lashes dancing like little butterfly wings. Faintly, he wonders what you're dreaming about and makes a mental note to ask you when you wake up.

"Napoleon..." you murmur softly and he blinks, thinking you're awake already, only to find you still asleep, a little, loving smile on your face as you cuddle with him, your hand flexing on his chest as you snuggle closer. Smiling to himself, he closes his eyes and relaxes back on the grass and lets his thoughts drift into the haze of dreams, finally reassured that after working so hard and sacrificing so much for the peace of others, he now has peace for himself.

Get Better - Chapter Two

Title: Get Better

Chapter: 2/18

Character: Tom Hiddleston/Cath Richardson (OFC)

Genre: Romance

Rating: Teen and up

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

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

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

Previous Chapter

CHAPTER TWO

 The heat of August gradually cooled into early September. It was with a twinge of nostalgia that Tom found himself sitting around with Joanna Hogg, Mary Roscoe, and Kathryn Worth discussing Unrelated. It had been his first film and therefore quite the learning experience. But one that he remembered fondly. Later that same week he’d found himself on a red carpet and then on a stage presenting an award to a man he’d first seen on a big screen in a film he adored, and feared, as a young boy. The same man he later had the pleasure of working with in another film in Australia of all places. Funny thing time, he thought smiling as he stood beside Jeff Goldblum, chatting about life and film and the world. It still brought him up short the chances and opportunities he’d been blessed with in his career. Funny, sometimes painful, but wonderful all the same.

 And now he found himself once again waiting on the side of another stage, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He chatted amicably with his fellow actors and readers, waiting for the signal from the now closed double doors. He could clearly hear the excited murmurings of the crowded auditorium and felt the familiar nervous energy bubbling in his gut. It was the same feeling he got anytime he’d prepared to walk onto a stage or a set. It was an old friend at this juncture and one he both missed and dreaded.

 When he’d been approached with this project two months back, he had all but jumped at the chance. Getting not only to read but debate with fellow actors and writers over literature he’d loved for years, to be able to perform and share that love with others. It would a nice testing of the waters, so to speak. He hadn’t been on stage in a performer sense in over a year, and hadn’t done something of this nature since school. It had seemed like an interesting challenge and one he couldn’t see turning down. Rehearsals had been full of laughter and amusement.

 Tom was sharing the stage with several talented actors; amongst them an actress in talks to join him in the Pinter production he was very much looking forward to in the New Year. Zawe Ashton was her name and while he’d seen bits and pieces of her work in the past, she was not someone he’d had the pleasure of working with beforehand. He found her funny and a delight to play off of. She had a wicked sense of humor that went very much along the lines of his own. And what was best was she hadn’t seemed to give a toss who he was. Yes, she’d known his name and was familiar with his work, but none of that seemed to matter to her. He could very easily see them getting along quite well during a grueling show run. If things went well tonight and the following week at the gala, then schedule permitting she would be a shoe-in for the role of Emma.

 Beyond the doors, a hush fell over the crowd and he could see the lights begin to dim. Not long now. He could feel the tension and excitement running through their small group as the talked and laughed amongst themselves.

 “Alright, places,” the woman manning the door called. Tom took a deep breath and walked through the doors and onto to the stage.  

 The debate itself seemed to fly by and Tom found that he had enjoyed himself immensely. His competitive nature was certainly getting its chance to shine and he was absolutely delighted when his team, the correct team as far as he’d been concerned, won. They’d taken their respective bows and headed off stage in ones and twos. “That was absolutely fantastic,” Zawe breathed, smiling as she turned back to face Tom.

 “Oh completely. I haven’t had that much fun in longer than I care to admit.”

  Zawe laughed in earnest. “Same.”

 They were ushered around the auditorium and handed collection buckets before being let loose to collect as much money for charity as they could. Tom had smiled, laughed, and talked with as many people as he could; never fully able to turn off the ‘public Tom’ persona he’d worn for so many years now. It was him, in a way, but more like a perfectly sculpted mask. Something he could slip in and out of depending on the place and the company he kept. In the past he’d been more open, more playful and less guarded with how he spoke and acted, but time and experience had taught him to pull back. To keep a respectable distance between who he was and who he was expected to be. To still be warm and engaging, but to never cross that line. It had been a difficult lesson to learn.

 It was with a grateful sigh that Tom folded himself into the backseat of the black cab, leaning his head back against the seat rest. He watched with half lidded eyes as the brightly lit streets of London flitted past. He loved the city; loved its hustle and history. It was one of the main reasons he still lived in the converted terrace he’d owned for several years now when he could so easily have moved to California like so many others had before him. London held his heart in a way very few other places had.  

 He blinked in momentary confusion as the cab slowed to a stop. It took far longer than he cared to admit to realize that he was, in fact, home. With a warm smile, Tom paid his fare and lumbered slowly to the black gate surrounding his home. He absently entered the code, pushing the gate open and heading up the dimly lit walk to his door. From behind it, Tom could hear Bobby’s excited barking and smiled to himself. It wasn’t quite the welcome home he’d longed for, but it was nice to have someone waiting for him. He made quick work of the lock and slowly pushed the door open.

 The spaniel’s barking increased in pitch and volume, jumping and wagging his tail as if his life depended on it. Tom sighed and shook his head. “Alright you heathen, let’s get you outside.” More excited barking followed as Tom padded through the hallway and into the kitchen towards the back door into the garden. While Bobby rummaged around outside, Tom filled his food bowl and topped off his water bowl. “Come on now, food’s ready!” he called out the door to little effect.

 Tom let out a grunt of exasperation and headed out into the dimly lit back garden. Bobby was snuffling around the bushes at the far end of the garden, telltale small piles of dirt surrounding him. Tom grumbled under his breath and yelled for the dog again. Reluctantly, Bobby heeded his master’s call and trotted back up the yard and into the kitchen.

 “You, my friend, are very lucky indeed that I am as fond of you as I am.” Bobby raised his head from his supper bowl and gave Tom an astonished look before returning to his meal. Tom merely shook his head and headed back through the house and towards the stair case to the upper level and bed. He stripped mechanically, making a brief stop in the bathroom to wash his face and clean his teeth, before falling into bed.

 The next morning dawned bright and cool. Tom stretched his arms above his head, a jaw cracking yawn echoing through the sunlit room. Bobby, who had been curled up contentedly at the edge of the bed, raised his head. He’d tried, when the spaniel was younger, to keep him downstairs in his own crate overnight. It had lasted all of about the span of a week for the puppy’s pitiful cries to break Tom’s resolve and allow him into the bedroom. ‘Just for the night,’ he’d sworn. And now nearly a year later, it was quite clear Tom had lost that battle.

 With determination, Tom pushed himself up and out of the bed, padding down the stairs and into the kitchen, Bobby quick on his heels. He opened the back garden door and let the spaniel out, turning his attention towards the coffee press and feeding his much needed caffeine addiction. He set to work boiling his kettle and gathering the bag of coffee from the cabinet above the sink. Tom took great pleasure in setting about brewing his morning coffee, loving the way the strong, warm scent filled the kitchen.

 Once it had brewed he poured the steaming liquid into his mug; a green one with a chip in its lip, one that Amy had given him. The thought of her still stung, though the pain had lessened throughout the intervening years. He still missed the life they’d had…Still bitterly regretted the stupid and selfish choices he’d made that had broken them. But he had slowly begun to come to terms with them and, in turn, with himself. Little things still caught him off guard but he’d learned to accept them and to try to move on from them. It was a hard road but one he was beginning to believe he could navigate on his own.

 Coffee doctored to his liking, Tom headed out into the back garden. He lowered himself into one of the wooden patio chairs and watched Bobby run around like mad chasing squirrels. It was a wonder any still dared to enter the garden with how valiantly Bobby guarded his territory. That dog was a menace and Tom loved him dearly for it. Closing his eyes, he savored the warmth the bloomed inside him as he sipped the gently steaming mug in his hands. There were many things he could make do without, coffee was most definitely not among them. He took his time, enjoying the sun on his face and the slowly dwindling coffee in his mug. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that man could not survive on coffee alone.

 “Bobby!” He called, pushing himself to his feet. The spaniel, paused mid-bark and turned to face his master. “Come.” Tom laughed as the spaniel broke off into a mad dash towards the door, nearly knocking him off his feet. Apparently someone was wanting his breakfast as well. Once kibble was added to Bobby’s bowl, Tom turned his attention towards his own meal; a quick toast and egg would do. He’d glanced at the clock above the stove when he’d entered the kitchen and found it to be well after nine. He would need to get moving soon, especially if he wanted to get a decent run in before heading into town to meet Emma.

 Not bothering with a shower, after all what would be the point if he was just going to end up a sweating mess again, Tom changed into his running kit and slipped into his trainers. He thundered down the stairs and towards the front door, grabbing Bobby’s lead from the key hook. Bobby, sensing walkies were afoot, was standing at the front door and began to twirl in tight little circles as Tom approached. He laughed and hooked the lead to the spaniel’s collar before leading them both out the door and into the crisp, late morning air.

 Several circuits around the neighborhood and nearby park helped to clear his head and focus his mind. He loved running, loved being able to lose himself in the rhythm and peace of it. It was the one pastime he could do anywhere and had been a godsend on long and grueling shoots. Tom was, in fact, a sweating mess when he and Bobby pushed their way back inside the house. Unclipping Bobby, and patting him playfully on the back, Tom climbed the stairs two at a time, stripping his clothing as he went.

 He showered quickly, enjoying the feel of the steaming water on his protesting muscles, and padded back into his bedroom to dry and dress. A quick glance at clock on the bedside table told him it was half eleven. With a grunt, he pulled on a pair of jeans and his well-loved blue jumper, which he noted with a fair bit of disdain was starting to get a hole in one of its sleeves. He ran a quick comb through his damp hair and shoved his feet into the grey boots he’d had for nearly as long as he could remember.

 Another quick glance at the watch he’d fastened onto his left wrist as he pounded down the stairs told him he needed to leave, and quickly, if he had any hope of meeting Emma at the restaurant she’d chosen on time.

 “Shit,” he cursed at himself, ushering Bobby into the back room and his kennel.

 Things situated, Tom grabbed his wallet and keys from the hallway table and darted out the front door. He considered trying to cab it in, but all things being equal and knowing London traffic far too well, he dismissed the matter out of hand; the tube was often a great deal faster than the car.

 Forty minutes later, Tom dashed into the warmth of the fairly busy café; woolen coat open and breathing heavy. He’d made a mad dash from the underground station once the train had finally come to a stop. He was late and Emma was sure to give him hell about it. He scanned the room, finally resting on her strawberry blonde head at a table in the corner.

 She smiled up at him as he took the opened seat across from her, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I lost track of time and…”

 Emma simply rolled her eyes and held up her hand. “Tom, the day you show up to a non-work event on time is the day I know the world’s ending.”

 “Oh ha ha,” he retorted, shaking his head. “I’m only what, ten minutes late?”

 She snorted, “Only…But I guess coming from you that is actually pretty decent. I was honestly expecting at least twenty minutes.”

 Tom looked up at her, affronted. True he did tend to run slightly behind if not harassed, but surely not that badly and with such consistency? “I am not that bad.”

 “My darling brother, unless you’ve got someone there to push and pester you, you are indeed that bad. Need I remind you of mum’s birthday last year…?” Emma quirked an eyebrow at her brother as if daring him to challenge her.

 He scoffed. “That was once time…”

 “And I can list at least a dozen others offhand, if you’d like. My wedding, Sarah’s wedding, last Christmas, the Christmas before…I could go on,” Emma countered. “But I don’t have all day. I left Jack minding Alice and while I love that husband of mine, our offspring has been cutting a new tooth and has frankly been crankier than you on a bad day.”

 Tom narrowed his eyes in mock annoyance. “Why are you always such a brat, Brat?”

 “Because someone needs to put you in your place, brother dear. And since I am here, I guess that leaves me.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as they locked on Tom’s. “Lord knows you aren’t going to manage it yourself and Luke’s earned a break don’t you think?”

 The teasing volleyed back and forth throughout their meal. It had been a good while since he had done anything with his baby sister, save for larger family gatherings. She’d been busy between the chaos of new motherhood balanced with local and national theatre work and he’d been in and out of the country with promotional work. He smiled as he watched her talk, the way her face lit up as she told him about the latest thing his tiny niece had done or the mishap she’d had with a prop during a sold out performance. It was difficult to reconcile the grown woman before him with the bratty little sister she’d always been in his eyes, but it was wonderful all the same.

 “Oh,” Emma started, placing her half-drunk mug of coffee onto the table. “Have you talked with mum recently?”

 Tom shook his head, “Not in the last week or so? Has something happened?” He leaned forward, anxiety clearly painted across his features.

 “No. No, she’s fine. She’s just trying to get things sorted regarding Christmas.”

 “Christmas? It’s barely October,” he countered.

 “Which I tried telling her, but alas, she wants to get everyone together this year and with you and Sarah and your insane schedules, she figured starting sooner rather than later would make sense.”

 Tom laughed and shook his head. He loved his mother, loved her dearly, but she was a planner. Had been his entire life. And the holidays were her weakness. They had always attempted to gather for Christmas, with varying success; between Tom’s own insane schedule over the last several years and Sarah and her family living and working in India, it was rare to have all three Hiddleston siblings under one roof. And as inane as it sounded, Tom could see the sense in her trying to plan so far in advance.

 “…usual nonsense. And she is thinking of trying to have Amy and her family around on Boxing Day.”

 Tom blinked in confusion as Emma’s words sank in. “What now?”

 “Mum is talking about inviting Amy, Teddy, and their little one over for either lunch or dinner on Boxing Day.”

 His heart clenched at the mention of Amy and her husband but slowly relaxed as he let out a breath.

 “Is she now?”

 While he’d run into both Amy and her husband on several occasions since the wedding, the idea of spending time with them in his mother’s home felt…strange. Not as unbearable as it would have been even a year ago, but still strange. ‘And their little one.’ He’d known they’d been expecting, Emma had mentioned it months back, but hadn’t really let himself think on the matter. He was…happy for her, for them both, even if they idea set uneasily in his gut. And it wasn’t the idea that it should have been him, he’d long since come to terms with that, more so a longing. Something he’d felt when he looked at Sophie as she held either of her and Ben’s sons. Stupid and selfish, but very much real.

 Emma nodded. “Henry will be four months by then and mum is desperate to meet him.” She sighed, “You’d think she didn’t have any grandchildren of her own with the way she’s acting.”

 Tom shrugged. “You know mum, she always had a soft spot for Amy…”

 “That she did,” Emma echoed. “But still…The nerve of the woman.” They both chuckled at that. “So just be aware that she’s most likely going to call and pester you.”

 “I don’t doubt that for a single moment,” Tom laughed. “Has Sarah said if they were coming yet?”

 Emma took another sip of her coffee and nodded. “Yeah, they should be able to come. You are the wild card at the moment.”

 Tom stroked his beard with his free hand. “I should be able to come…As of now I don’t think I have anything that would make that impossible. The con in Phoenix isn’t until the new year…I’ll double check with Michael and Luke to make sure.”

 “I still cannot believe people pay actual money on purpose to meet my dork of a brother. Cannot wrap my head around it.”

 He chuckled, “It’s still strange for me, Em.”

 “I bet.” She paused and pulled her mobile from her purse, glancing at the screen. “And on that note, I have to run. It’s nearly three and I promised Jack I’d be home before four.” She reached for the bill their server had left on the edge of the table but Tom beat her to it, flashing her a warm smile.

 “My treat,” he said in way of explanation.

 Emma shot him a pointed glare, “You are a menace, you know that right?” She pushes her chair back and pulled on her coat.

 Tom chuckled, climbing to his feet himself and pulling his sister into a warm hug. “Give Alice a kiss for me and give Jack my best.” Nodding, she slipped her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. Tom followed behind, pausing to pay the bill before venturing into the chill of the late afternoon and home.

 He spent much of the following week juggling the things he’d been putting off. He’d called and visited his mother; and she, as Emma had predicted, pestered him about his schedule around Christmas. He’d assured her, with back up from Luke, that he was indeed free and would most definitely be coming home this year. He’d also started sorting through his clothing and washing and packing for his trip to the states. He found himself both excited and wary for the trip. Conventions could be a thoroughly enjoyable experience; he’d had several wonderful ones and had enjoyed interacting with fans at the events. But just the same they could be draining and demanding. Sometimes it seemed, no matter what he did, it wasn’t enough. Tom hoped for the former this time around.

                                                             —

 The evening of the gala celebrating the life and work of Harold Pinter arrived far sooner than Tom had anticipated. He was excited and anxious and terrified all at once. He’d been so wrapped up in trying to organize his life and make sure he had his lines memorized, that when the driver rang the bell on his gate he’d stood staring in complete confusion for several seconds before realization dawned. God, feared he’d lose his head if it weren’t attached. Tom had been approached for the event shortly after talks began regarding his involvement in reviving Betrayal in the West End. He’d agreed almost immediately, looking forward to sharing the stage with several talented actors and testing out the material on stage before fully committing to the play. The nervous energy had run off him in waves as he’d darted upstairs and dressed quickly. Thankfully, Luke had seen to having his suit pressed and waiting in his closet. Tom dressed in a mad dash before heading back down stairs and out to the waiting car.

 It was half past five when Tom slid into the leather backseat, apologizing profusely for his tardiness. Luke would murder him if he were late. As the car started off, Tom pulled out his mobile, shooting his publicist a quick message that he was on his way. It most likely wasn’t necessary, but Tom knew Luke liked to be kept in the loop as much as possible. Shoving his mobile back into his pocket, he turned his attention back to the present. He made small talk with the driver as they moved along, chatting about the weather and later about the dismal amount of traffic they’d run into. They’d pulled aside the theatre half an hour later and once he’d climbed from the car, Tom was ushered inside and backstage. He chatted with Zawe and several other familiar faces as they waited for the theatre to fill and for the start of the evening.

 Things had been going rather well, in Tom’s humble opinion until he’d gone to grab his folder and managed to slice his thumb open. He’d stared, dumbfounded, at the welling blood before he was rushed towards the side of the room and quickly patched up. “Score one for my dumb luck,” he joked as he once again picked up his folder, this time taking much greater care. His scene with Zawe had gone off splendidly. They played well off each other and he looked forward to working more with her, providing she was willing and able to commit to the run.

 Bows taken, they were all rushed backstage and then quickly to their waiting cars to be driven to the Brasserie Zedel for the after party. Once arrived, Tom walked the short carpet and took his time talking with the various reporters encamped along it. He enjoyed talking about not only Harold Pinter and the fun he’d had that night but of theater and acting in general. He knew, without a doubt, that he was allowing his inner theatre and literature nerd run amuck, but couldn’t find it in him to care.  

 Tom mingled with the arriving guests. He caught sight of several familiar faces and did his best to talk with them all. As he allowed himself to scan the room once again, he found his eyes drawn to the short dark haired figure talking animatedly with Zawe. She was all of five foot nothing in her heels but commanded the attention of those around her as though she were much, much taller. Her dress was navy in color and came to mid-calf, clinging to her curves in ways that made Tom desperate to trace with his own hands. Her dark hair hung in a low, loose pony over one shoulder. She tossed her head back, laughing at something Zawe had said and the sound that echoed from her lips was captivating even from such a distance.

 Stealing himself, Tom made to start for the both of them, wanting nothing more than to know just who this tiny, vivacious woman was. He just managed to work his way through the densely packed room when the announcement was made for all to begin to filter their way into the restaurant proper. He cursed under his breath and allowed himself to be moved with the crowd inside. He’d found his table easily enough and was quickly pulled into conversation. He caught glimpses of the mystery woman throughout the night but never quite managed to catch up with her.

 He’d managed, however, to catch Zawe on her own and, despite feeling very much like a desperate twelve year-old, ask her about her earlier companion. Confusion flitted across Zawe’s features for a moment before understanding seemed to dawn. “Oh! That was Cath. She is a doll. Worked with her on a few projects a handful of years back.”

 “Is she an actress then?”

 Zawe shook her head, “Nah. She works behind the scenes; hair and make-up. Talented as hell, that woman is.” He tried then to arrange an introduction, ignoring the odd regency undertones such a thing invoked, but the woman, Cath, had been nowhere to be found.

 Tom sighed, just as well then. He did his best to let the disappointment flow off his back and made a few more circuits around the room, smiling and talking with various guests before calling it a night. He had a flight to catch in the morning (an international one at that which tended to be a headache at the best of times), and while he could sleep just about anywhere, he wanted to have at least one last good night’s rest in his own bed. Hotel beds, and airplane seats for the matter, were never quite as comfortable as his own bed. A few moments later, Tom stepped out into the brisk October evening air and climbed once more into the backseat. He closed his eyes, resting his head back against the seat and allowed the hum of the car’s engine to lull him into a state of almost sleep.

Next Chapter

Get Better - Chapter Two

Title: Get Better

Chapter: 2/18

Character: Tom Hiddleston/Cath Richardson (OFC)

Genre: Romance

Rating: Teen and up

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

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

Previous

CHAPTER TWO

The heat of August gradually cooled into early September. It was with a twinge of nostalgia that Tom found himself sitting around with Joanna Hogg, Mary Roscoe, and Kathryn Worth discussing Unrelated. It had been his first film and therefore quite the learning experience. But one that he remembered fondly. Later that same week he’d found himself on a red carpet and then on a stage presenting an award to a man he’d first seen on a big screen in a film he adored, and feared, as a young boy. The same man he later had the pleasure of working with in another film in Australia of all places. Funny thing time, he thought smiling as he stood beside Jeff Goldblum, chatting about life and film and the world. It still brought him up short the chances and opportunities he’d been blessed with in his career. Funny, sometimes painful, but wonderful all the same.

And now he found himself once again waiting on the side of another stage, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He chatted amicably with his fellow actors and readers, waiting for the signal from the now closed double doors. He could clearly hear the excited murmurings of the crowded auditorium and felt the familiar nervous energy bubbling in his gut. It was the same feeling he got anytime he’d prepared to walk onto a stage or a set. It was an old friend at this juncture and one he both missed and dreaded.

When he’d been approached with this project two months back, he had all but jumped at the chance. Getting not only to read but debate with fellow actors and writers over literature he’d loved for years, to be able to perform and share that love with others. It would a nice testing of the waters, so to speak. He hadn’t been on stage in a performer sense in over a year, and hadn’t done something of this nature since school. It had seemed like an interesting challenge and one he couldn’t see turning down. Rehearsals had been full of laughter and amusement.

Tom was sharing the stage with several talented actors; amongst them an actress in talks to join him in the Pinter production he was very much looking forward to in the New Year. Zawe Ashton was her name and while he’d seen bits and pieces of her work in the past, she was not someone he’d had the pleasure of working with beforehand. He found her funny and a delight to play off of. She had a wicked sense of humor that went very much along the lines of his own. And what was best was she hadn’t seemed to give a toss who he was. Yes, she’d known his name and was familiar with his work, but none of that seemed to matter to her. He could very easily see them getting along quite well during a grueling show run. If things went well tonight and the following week at the gala, then schedule permitting she would be a shoe-in for the role of Emma.

Beyond the doors, a hush fell over the crowd and he could see the lights begin to dim. Not long now. He could feel the tension and excitement running through their small group as the talked and laughed amongst themselves.

“Alright, places,” the woman manning the door called. Tom took a deep breath and walked through the doors and onto to the stage.  

The debate itself seemed to fly by and Tom found that he had enjoyed himself immensely. His competitive nature was certainly getting its chance to shine and he was absolutely delighted when his team, the correct team as far as he’d been concerned, won. They’d taken their respective bows and headed off stage in ones and twos. “That was absolutely fantastic,” Zawe breathed, smiling as she turned back to face Tom.

“Oh completely. I haven’t had that much fun in longer than I care to admit.”

Zawe laughed in earnest. “Same.”

They were ushered around the auditorium and handed collection buckets before being let loose to collect as much money for charity as they could. Tom had smiled, laughed, and talked with as many people as he could; never fully able to turn off the ‘public Tom’ persona he’d worn for so many years now. It was him, in a way, but more like a perfectly sculpted mask. Something he could slip in and out of depending on the place and the company he kept. In the past he’d been more open, more playful and less guarded with how he spoke and acted, but time and experience had taught him to pull back. To keep a respectable distance between who he was and who he was expected to be. To still be warm and engaging, but to never cross that line. It had been a difficult lesson to learn.

It was with a grateful sigh that Tom folded himself into the backseat of the black cab, leaning his head back against the seat rest. He watched with half lidded eyes as the brightly lit streets of London flitted past. He loved the city; loved its hustle and history. It was one of the main reasons he still lived in the converted terrace he’d owned for several years now when he could so easily have moved to California like so many others had before him. London held his heart in a way very few other places had.  

He blinked in momentary confusion as the cab slowed to a stop. It took far longer than he cared to admit to realize that he was, in fact, home. With a warm smile, Tom paid his fare and lumbered slowly to the black gate surrounding his home. He absently entered the code, pushing the gate open and heading up the dimly lit walk to his door. From behind it, Tom could hear Bobby’s excited barking and smiled to himself. It wasn’t quite the welcome home he’d longed for, but it was nice to have someone waiting for him. He made quick work of the lock and slowly pushed the door open.

The spaniel’s barking increased in pitch and volume, jumping and wagging his tail as if his life depended on it. Tom sighed and shook his head. “Alright you heathen, let’s get you outside.” More excited barking followed as Tom padded through the hallway and into the kitchen towards the back door into the garden. While Bobby rummaged around outside, Tom filled his food bowl and topped off his water bowl. “Come on now, food’s ready!” he called out the door to little effect.

Tom let out a grunt of exasperation and headed out into the dimly lit back garden. Bobby was snuffling around the bushes at the far end of the garden, telltale small piles of dirt surrounding him. Tom grumbled under his breath and yelled for the dog again. Reluctantly, Bobby heeded his master’s call and trotted back up the yard and into the kitchen.

“You, my friend, are very lucky indeed that I am as fond of you as I am.” Bobby raised his head from his supper bowl and gave Tom an astonished look before returning to his meal. Tom merely shook his head and headed back through the house and towards the stair case to the upper level and bed. He stripped mechanically, making a brief stop in the bathroom to wash his face and clean his teeth, before falling into bed.

The next morning dawned bright and cool. Tom stretched his arms above his head, a jaw cracking yawn echoing through the sunlit room. Bobby, who had been curled up contentedly at the edge of the bed, raised his head. He’d tried, when the spaniel was younger, to keep him downstairs in his own crate overnight. It had lasted all of about the span of a week for the puppy’s pitiful cries to break Tom’s resolve and allow him into the bedroom. ‘Just for the night,’ he’d sworn. And now nearly a year later, it was quite clear Tom had lost that battle.

With determination, Tom pushed himself up and out of the bed, padding down the stairs and into the kitchen, Bobby quick on his heels. He opened the back garden door and let the spaniel out, turning his attention towards the coffee press and feeding his much needed caffeine addiction. He set to work boiling his kettle and gathering the bag of coffee from the cabinet above the sink. Tom took great pleasure in setting about brewing his morning coffee, loving the way the strong, warm scent filled the kitchen.

Once it had brewed he poured the steaming liquid into his mug; a green one with a chip in its lip, one that Amy had given him. The thought of her still stung, though the pain had lessened throughout the intervening years. He still missed the life they’d had…Still bitterly regretted the stupid and selfish choices he’d made that had broken them. But he had slowly begun to come to terms with them and, in turn, with himself. Little things still caught him off guard but he’d learned to accept them and to try to move on from them. It was a hard road but one he was beginning to believe he could navigate on his own.

Coffee doctored to his liking, Tom headed out into the back garden. He lowered himself into one of the wooden patio chairs and watched Bobby run around like mad chasing squirrels. It was a wonder any still dared to enter the garden with how valiantly Bobby guarded his territory. That dog was a menace and Tom loved him dearly for it. Closing his eyes, he savored the warmth the bloomed inside him as he sipped the gently steaming mug in his hands. There were many things he could make do without, coffee was most definitely not among them. He took his time, enjoying the sun on his face and the slowly dwindling coffee in his mug. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that man could not survive on coffee alone.

“Bobby!” He called, pushing himself to his feet. The spaniel, paused mid-bark and turned to face his master. “Come.” Tom laughed as the spaniel broke off into a mad dash towards the door, nearly knocking him off his feet. Apparently someone was wanting his breakfast as well. Once kibble was added to Bobby’s bowl, Tom turned his attention towards his own meal; a quick toast and egg would do. He’d glanced at the clock above the stove when he’d entered the kitchen and found it to be well after nine. He would need to get moving soon, especially if he wanted to get a decent run in before heading into town to meet Emma.

Not bothering with a shower, after all what would be the point if he was just going to end up a sweating mess again, Tom changed into his running kit and slipped into his trainers. He thundered down the stairs and towards the front door, grabbing Bobby’s lead from the key hook. Bobby, sensing walkies were afoot, was standing at the front door and began to twirl in tight little circles as Tom approached. He laughed and hooked the lead to the spaniel’s collar before leading them both out the door and into the crisp, late morning air.

Several circuits around the neighborhood and nearby park helped to clear his head and focus his mind. He loved running, loved being able to lose himself in the rhythm and peace of it. It was the one pastime he could do anywhere and had been a godsend on long and grueling shoots. Tom was, in fact, a sweating mess when he and Bobby pushed their way back inside the house. Unclipping Bobby, and patting him playfully on the back, Tom climbed the stairs two at a time, stripping his clothing as he went.

He showered quickly, enjoying the feel of the steaming water on his protesting muscles, and padded back into his bedroom to dry and dress. A quick glance at clock on the bedside table told him it was half eleven. With a grunt, he pulled on a pair of jeans and his well-loved blue jumper, which he noted with a fair bit of disdain was starting to get a hole in one of its sleeves. He ran a quick comb through his damp hair and shoved his feet into the grey boots he’d had for nearly as long as he could remember.

Another quick glance at the watch he’d fastened onto his left wrist as he pounded down the stairs told him he needed to leave, and quickly, if he had any hope of meeting Emma at the restaurant she’d chosen on time.

“Shit,” he cursed at himself, ushering Bobby into the back room and his kennel.

Things situated, Tom grabbed his wallet and keys from the hallway table and darted out the front door. He considered trying to cab it in, but all things being equal and knowing London traffic far too well, he dismissed the matter out of hand; the tube was often a great deal faster than the car.

Forty minutes later, Tom dashed into the warmth of the fairly busy café; woolen coat open and breathing heavy. He’d made a mad dash from the underground station once the train had finally come to a stop. He was late and Emma was sure to give him hell about it. He scanned the room, finally resting on her strawberry blonde head at a table in the corner.

She smiled up at him as he took the opened seat across from her, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I lost track of time and…”

Emma simply rolled her eyes and held up her hand. “Tom, the day you show up to a non-work event on time is the day I know the world’s ending.”

“Oh ha ha,” he retorted, shaking his head. “I’m only what, ten minutes late?”

She snorted, “Only…But I guess coming from you that is actually pretty decent. I was honestly expecting at least twenty minutes.”

Tom looked up at her, affronted. True he did tend to run slightly behind if not harassed, but surely not that badly and with such consistency? “I am not that bad.”

“My darling brother, unless you’ve got someone there to push and pester you, you are indeed that bad. Need I remind you of mum’s birthday last year…?” Emma quirked an eyebrow at her brother as if daring him to challenge her.

He scoffed. “That was once time…”

“And I can list at least a dozen others offhand, if you’d like. My wedding, Sarah’s wedding, last Christmas, the Christmas before…I could go on,” Emma countered. “But I don’t have all day. I left Jack minding Alice and while I love that husband of mine, our offspring has been cutting a new tooth and has frankly been crankier than you on a bad day.”

Tom narrowed his eyes in mock annoyance. “Why are you always such a brat, Brat?”

“Because someone needs to put you in your place, brother dear. And since I am here, I guess that leaves me.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as they locked on Tom’s. “Lord knows you aren’t going to manage it yourself and Luke’s earned a break don’t you think?”

The teasing volleyed back and forth throughout their meal. It had been a good while since he had done anything with his baby sister, save for larger family gatherings. She’d been busy between the chaos of new motherhood balanced with local and national theatre work and he’d been in and out of the country with promotional work. He smiled as he watched her talk, the way her face lit up as she told him about the latest thing his tiny niece had done or the mishap she’d had with a prop during a sold out performance. It was difficult to reconcile the grown woman before him with the bratty little sister she’d always been in his eyes, but it was wonderful all the same.

“Oh,” Emma started, placing her half-drunk mug of coffee onto the table. “Have you talked with mum recently?”

Tom shook his head, “Not in the last week or so? Has something happened?” He leaned forward, anxiety clearly painted across his features.

“No. No, she’s fine. She’s just trying to get things sorted regarding Christmas.”

“Christmas? It’s barely October,” he countered.

“Which I tried telling her, but alas, she wants to get everyone together this year and with you and Sarah and your insane schedules, she figured starting sooner rather than later would make sense.”

Tom laughed and shook his head. He loved his mother, loved her dearly, but she was a planner. Had been his entire life. And the holidays were her weakness. They had always attempted to gather for Christmas, with varying success; between Tom’s own insane schedule over the last several years and Sarah and her family living and working in India, it was rare to have all three Hiddleston siblings under one roof. And as inane as it sounded, Tom could see the sense in her trying to plan so far in advance.

“…usual nonsense. And she is thinking of trying to have Amy and her family around on Boxing Day.”

Tom blinked in confusion as Emma’s words sank in. “What now?”

“Mum is talking about inviting Amy, Teddy, and their little one over for either lunch or dinner on Boxing Day.”

His heart clenched at the mention of Amy and her husband but slowly relaxed as he let out a breath.

“Is she now?”

While he’d run into both Amy and her husband on several occasions since the wedding, the idea of spending time with them in his mother’s home felt…strange. Not as unbearable as it would have been even a year ago, but still strange. ‘And their little one.’ He’d known they’d been expecting, Emma had mentioned it months back, but hadn’t really let himself think on the matter. He was…happy for her, for them both, even if they idea set uneasily in his gut. And it wasn’t the idea that it should have been him, he’d long since come to terms with that, more so a longing. Something he’d felt when he looked at Sophie as she held either of her and Ben’s sons. Stupid and selfish, but very much real.

Emma nodded. “Henry will be four months by then and mum is desperate to meet him.” She sighed, “You’d think she didn’t have any grandchildren of her own with the way she’s acting.”

Tom shrugged. “You know mum, she always had a soft spot for Amy…”

“That she did,” Emma echoed. “But still…The nerve of the woman.” They both chuckled at that. “So just be aware that she’s most likely going to call and pester you.”

“I don’t doubt that for a single moment,” Tom laughed. “Has Sarah said if they were coming yet?”

Emma took another sip of her coffee and nodded. “Yeah, they should be able to come. You are the wild card at the moment.”

Tom stroked his beard with his free hand. “I should be able to come…As of now I don’t think I have anything that would make that impossible. The con in Phoenix isn’t until the new year…I’ll double check with Michael and Luke to make sure.”

“I still cannot believe people pay actual money on purpose to meet my dork of a brother. Cannot wrap my head around it.”

He chuckled, “It’s still strange for me, Em.”

“I bet.” She paused and pulled her mobile from her purse, glancing at the screen. “And on that note, I have to run. It’s nearly three and I promised Jack I’d be home before four.” She reached for the bill their server had left on the edge of the table but Tom beat her to it, flashing her a warm smile.

“My treat,” he said in way of explanation.

Emma shot him a pointed glare, “You are a menace, you know that right?” She pushes her chair back and pulled on her coat.

Tom chuckled, climbing to his feet himself and pulling his sister into a warm hug. “Give Alice a kiss for me and give Jack my best.” Nodding, she slipped her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. Tom followed behind, pausing to pay the bill before venturing into the chill of the late afternoon and home.

He spent much of the following week juggling the things he’d been putting off. He’d called and visited his mother; and she, as Emma had predicted, pestered him about his schedule around Christmas. He’d assured her, with back up from Luke, that he was indeed free and would most definitely be coming home this year. He’d also started sorting through his clothing and washing and packing for his trip to the states. He found himself both excited and wary for the trip. Conventions could be a thoroughly enjoyable experience; he’d had several wonderful ones and had enjoyed interacting with fans at the events. But just the same they could be draining and demanding. Sometimes it seemed, no matter what he did, it wasn’t enough. Tom hoped for the former this time around.

                                                           —

The evening of the gala celebrating the life and work of Harold Pinter arrived far sooner than Tom had anticipated. He was excited and anxious and terrified all at once. He’d been so wrapped up in trying to organize his life and make sure he had his lines memorized, that when the driver rang the bell on his gate he’d stood staring in complete confusion for several seconds before realization dawned. God, feared he’d lose his head if it weren’t attached. Tom had been approached for the event shortly after talks began regarding his involvement in reviving Betrayal in the West End. He’d agreed almost immediately, looking forward to sharing the stage with several talented actors and testing out the material on stage before fully committing to the play. The nervous energy had run off him in waves as he’d darted upstairs and dressed quickly. Thankfully, Luke had seen to having his suit pressed and waiting in his closet. Tom dressed in a mad dash before heading back down stairs and out to the waiting car.

It was half past five when Tom slid into the leather backseat, apologizing profusely for his tardiness. Luke would murder him if he were late. As the car started off, Tom pulled out his mobile, shooting his publicist a quick message that he was on his way. It most likely wasn’t necessary, but Tom knew Luke liked to be kept in the loop as much as possible. Shoving his mobile back into his pocket, he turned his attention back to the present. He made small talk with the driver as they moved along, chatting about the weather and later about the dismal amount of traffic they’d run into. They’d pulled aside the theatre half an hour later and once he’d climbed from the car, Tom was ushered inside and backstage. He chatted with Zawe and several other familiar faces as they waited for the theatre to fill and for the start of the evening.

Things had been going rather well, in Tom’s humble opinion until he’d gone to grab his folder and managed to slice his thumb open. He’d stared, dumbfounded, at the welling blood before he was rushed towards the side of the room and quickly patched up. “Score one for my dumb luck,” he joked as he once again picked up his folder, this time taking much greater care. His scene with Zawe had gone off splendidly. They played well off each other and he looked forward to working more with her, providing she was willing and able to commit to the run.

Bows taken, they were all rushed backstage and then quickly to their waiting cars to be driven to the Brasserie Zedel for the after party. Once arrived, Tom walked the short carpet and took his time talking with the various reporters encamped along it. He enjoyed talking about not only Harold Pinter and the fun he’d had that night but of theater and acting in general. He knew, without a doubt, that he was allowing his inner theatre and literature nerd run amuck, but couldn’t find it in him to care.  

Tom mingled with the arriving guests. He caught sight of several familiar faces and did his best to talk with them all. As he allowed himself to scan the room once again, he found his eyes drawn to the short dark haired figure talking animatedly with Zawe. She was all of five foot nothing in her heels but commanded the attention of those around her as though she were much, much taller. Her dress was navy in color and came to mid-calf, clinging to her curves in ways that made Tom desperate to trace with his own hands. Her dark hair hung in a low, loose pony over one shoulder. She tossed her head back, laughing at something Zawe had said and the sound that echoed from her lips was captivating even from such a distance.

Stealing himself, Tom made to start for the both of them, wanting nothing more than to know just who this tiny, vivacious woman was. He just managed to work his way through the densely packed room when the announcement was made for all to begin to filter their way into the restaurant proper. He cursed under his breath and allowed himself to be moved with the crowd inside. He’d found his table easily enough and was quickly pulled into conversation. He caught glimpses of the mystery woman throughout the night but never quite managed to catch up with her.

He’d managed, however, to catch Zawe on her own and, despite feeling very much like a desperate twelve year-old, ask her about her earlier companion. Confusion flitted across Zawe’s features for a moment before understanding seemed to dawn. “Oh! That was Cath. She is a doll. Worked with her on a few projects a handful of years back.”

“Is she an actress then?”

Zawe shook her head, “Nah. She works behind the scenes; hair and make-up. Talented as hell, that woman is.” He tried then to arrange an introduction, ignoring the odd regency undertones such a thing invoked, but the woman, Cath, had been nowhere to be found.

Tom sighed, just as well then. He did his best to let the disappointment flow off his back and made a few more circuits around the room, smiling and talking with various guests before calling it a night. He had a flight to catch in the morning (an international one at that which tended to be a headache at the best of times), and while he could sleep just about anywhere, he wanted to have at least one last good night’s rest in his own bed. Hotel beds, and airplane seats for the matter, were never quite as comfortable as his own bed. A few moments later, Tom stepped out into the brisk October evening air and climbed once more into the backseat. He closed his eyes, resting his head back against the seat and allowed the hum of the car’s engine to lull him into a state of almost sleep.

Next