#love the stark traditional matronly look | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

adamantiumdragonfly · 3 years

Text

“...A time when the United States is what we fight for...”

The occupants of the Grisham Hall boarding house were no strangers to the war effort. Brothers, cousins, old flames, and sweethearts have been wrenched from their grasp, the only contact to their stolen loved ones is military grade pencils and scraps of paper. Estelle prides herself on her mind for numbers but a usurper from her past rears his russet head and threatens to steal her thoughts every chance he gets. Bessie has been searching for a home in every patron in that cafe but she’s left seeing his face everywhere she looks. Constance hears her lover’s voice on the wind, finding quiet in the graveyard shift of the machine shop. Margaret refuses to admit defeat but the distance between her letters and her love grows wider each day. Jeannette has read many stories about tragic heroes. Her childhood friend has told tales of his plans for wealth and ending the war on his own. She just hopes she has a chance to do her part first.

taglist: @rinadoesstuff @vintagelavenderskies @julianneday1701 @wexhappyxfew @junojelli @jamie506101-deactivated20210209 @trashgoddess600 @pilindieltheelf @sunnyshifty @rogue-sunday @easy-company-tradition @pxpeyewynn @50svibes

No Ordinary Time

When the doorbell rang at the Grisham Hall for Ladies, it was a house-wide thrill, shivering down the very spine of the building and sending chills into every resident. A doorbell ring, with its chime calling every girl to their feet in a downward flight, could mean one of two things: a visitor or a postman. Visitors, particularly of the sought after male variety, were scarce since the war had been put on to boil some three years previously. Now, with the residents tending home fires and not the flaming passions of suitors, a postman was more likely. A postman, or rather post-boy, were the only kindling to the fires of romance.

But, on a dim March morning with the sky heavy and ready to bleed, the doorbell had been run and so began the usual stampede of pumps on hardwood floors. There should have been only two possibilities and yet, Jeannette Edwards wasn't a postman or anything that the anxiously awaiting faces expected. She had rung the bell and stepped back in surprise and a tiny bit of fright at the fervor and hunger that met her behind the door wrenched from it’s frame by a seemingly harmless girl.

She shouldn’t have been so ferocious of a predator as she seemed, this little thing with short brown hair and a dickie color edged in red ribbon but Jeannette stepped back all the same. This hadn’t been what Jeannette had expected either.

Grisham had come highly recommended, as a good, upstanding place for good, upstanding girls. Jeannette thought she had fit that description rather well and had packed her things in the carpet bag she now clutched tightly in one whitened fist. Could this carpet bag that had first belonged to her mother be used as a weapon to fend off this frightening girl and her hungry eyes?

“You aren’t Davis,” The girl huffed and moved to shut the door. Jeannette hadn’t come all the way from Hughestown to be turned away by someone looking for a Davis but she didn’t move fast enough.

A hand, surely one of God’s angels come down from heaven, stopped the door before the girl could shut Jeannette out from her new home.

“Sorry about that,” The hand’s owner said. She might as well have been an angel as she pushed the door open again, giving full view of her face. Not nearly as intimidating as this little rabid creature before her but there was something in her dark eyes that didn’t set Jeannette completely at ease.

“Oh,” Jeannette said. “That’s quite alright.”

“It isn’t really. Bess turns into a monster when she hasn’t heard from her beau in a few days,” The girl said, tossing her long black curls over her shoulder. She wore them loose, a stark contrast to the tight pins in the other girl, Bess’s, locks of chestnut brown. “Sorry you had to be in her path.”

“Who’s Davis?” Jeannette stammered, gripping her carpet bag tighter and trying not to wobble in her too big pumps. She had bought them before the war, when she had still been hopeful that she’d grow to fit them. But with spending frivolously unpatriotic and her shoe size stubbornly remaining, Jeannette had been left with loose pumps and aching feet.

“THERE HE IS!” Bess leapt past Jeannette, brushing her roughly in her flight off the wooden porch and flying into the dripping rain. She wore no shoes and her bobby socks were soaked on the puddled pavers as she ran towards the approaching youth in a yellow raincoat.

“Davis is the mail carrier.” the dark haired girl explained. “He was running late today. We get antsy when we don’t get our letters. I’m sorry I don’t think I-”

“Jeannette.” She extended her hand. “Jeannette Edwards.”

Those dark eyes studied her, flicking over her navy blue hat into which her frizzy tomato red hair was tucked, all the way down her too big pumps before shaking Jeannette’s outstretched hand. “Estelle Tran.”

Behind those dark eyes lay a studious mind that wrote down every variable and equation the world threw at her, bringing up the final unfair sum and accepting it as fact. Estelle was a woman of facts, something that Jeannette rarely dealt in.

The idea of chasing a mail carrier down flooded steps to retrieve a sought-after letter had never once crossed Jeannette’s mind but it seemed these girls found it a daily occurrence. Jeannette’s gaze was cast to the left of the doorway where the mailbox was hung, the address and the name of the establishment emblazoned on the wood in cut out letters.

“I’m sorry, I believe I came to the wrong place,” She said, gesturing at the box where the “I” had been replaced by a mystifying “E”. “I’m looking for Grisham Hall,”

“Oh you are in the right place,” Bess jogged back up the path, her stockings slapping against the stone pavers like webbed feet. “We knocked the ‘I’ off and had to make do. Grisham, Gresham. It’s all the same, really,”

“Jeannette Edwards,” The redhead pushed her hand forward, offering it to the creature who had been ready to shut her out in this damp cold. Bess seemed in better spirits now, a wad of letters in her hand.

“Elizabeth Ferguson,” Her bobbed brown hair bounced against her cheeks as Elizabeth leaned forward to take Jeannette’s hand. “You can call me Bess, Beth, I really don’t mind. Crops good this week,” Bess turned to Estelle and waved the mail under her companion’s nose.

“Stop waving and let me look,” Estelle plucked the letters from Bess’s hands, holding them out of reach as the brunette leapt for them.

“Hang on,” Bess cried, trying in vain to reach the envelopes. “Two of them are for me.”

When the correspondence had been returned to their rightful recipient, Bess squealed and darted back into the house, sliding across the foyer in her slick stockings.

“Better wake Connie and Margo,” Estelle called over her shoulder as she sorted through the last of the letters. She turned to go inside but paused, as if remembering that Jeannette was there, out in the drizzling rain and the damp air. “You are looking for Grisham Hall, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Jeannette said. “I’m-”

“The new tenant,” Estelle finished for her. “Mrs. G told us. Come on then,”

Allowing herself to be waved inside, Jeannette cast her gaze around the foyer of cherry-stained wood and bright electric lights, a stark contrast to the gloom and doom of the world outside. The scent of lemon cleaner that hung in the air was the same brand that Jeannette’s mother had used in the houses she cleaned. A strange connection between the hills of Pennsylvania and the riverside of Virginia that was a comfort as much as a weight. This house was far too clean to be anything from Jeannette’s home and it fit the bill for good and upstanding. This house was the picture of American dreams and patriotism with it’s large staircase and adjoining room for a grand piano and little else.

Jeannette hung back as Estelle pushed her way further into the house as if she wasn’t stunned by the cherry-wood and lemon cleaner. Those too big shoes looked foolish and the wish for a pair that fit was unpatriotic in this bright house with it’s star banner in the window. Shuffling her feet, Jeannette cast her gaze down.

“Mrs G!” Estelle shouted. Deep from the belly of this house, came a faint response.

“She’s in the kitchen,” Estelle waited for Jeannette to follow her through the side door into a back hall, past the dining room set for an army and a sunroom that was dark under the storm brewing outside, and into the even brighter kitchen.

“Mrs. G, Ms. Edwards is here,” Estelle called and the woman at the counter turned away from the scraps of dough, her hands dusted in flour.

“I was expecting a call from the station,” Mrs. Grisham chided, wiping her hands across a spotless apron, sending a wince through Jeannette’s frame at the destruction of such clean linen. “We were going to send the car with Constance.”

“I took a bus and then a cab. It was no trouble,” Jeannette said. “I didn’t want to impose,”

Mrs. Grisham blustered and waved a hand, sending flour cascading into the air, assuring Jeannette that it was no trouble at all. She was a matronly, if not clumsy, woman who’s nice house and nice clothes set the tone for the good and upstanding boarding house she ran. The girls who had been in her care were loved fiercely and looked after tenderly with a maternal, if not iron, fist. She was no stranger to hard work and saw the running of this hall for ladies as her battlefield. While the muddied stairs and the young women were not German soldiers or Pacific islands, they were a worthy opponent all the same.

“I saw your banner, Mrs. Grisham,” Jeannette said, gesturing back the way she had come. “Your son?”

Stars marked windows and hearts, declaring that the ultimate show of patriotism had been brandished in that home. Their home fires were stoked a little more vigorously and their women sat in wait a little more earnestly. Jeannette had seen many on her trip down from Pennsylvania and knew still more in her hometown; there it stung to put names to the stars in windows.

“Yes,” Mrs. Grisham said, with a thin smile. “Arthur is in the Pacific. And you?”

“Two brothers in North Africa,” Two stars for Jeannette’s mother. “A cousin in the Navy, and a friend. Last I heard, he was in England.”

Those names were hard to forget. Brothers. Friends. Family. Everyone knew someone who was fighting, everyone had a letter that they could send.

Her friend had taken up space in her mind since he had waved goodbye on that train. She carried those dark eyes and that crooked smile in her carpet bag across state lines and into Norfolk, etched into her memory with the letters and the memories. Jeannette hadn’t heard from him in several weeks and she was growing steadily more concerned. They had grown up together and he had always been in her life in some form or fashion, in letters or in days under the trees.

“Mine too!” Bessie cried. “Postmarked Aldbourne.”

“Now, you know how Estelle feels about all this talk,” Mrs. Grisham said softly. “Did you have your address changed, dear? Letters are a big to-do around here.”

Jeannette didn’t cling to every letter, every word at first. She hadn’t known what a lifeline those pencil-etched papers of military issued paper, in the storm of the current world. She had begun to see how impervious the lead was to the wiles of the storms.

“My mother will forward any letters from home,” Jeannette said.

“Now, enough of all this letter talk,” Mrs. Grisham said. “You got a job on base, didn’t you?”

Jeannette nodded.

“You are in luck. Most of the girls here work on base and there is always plenty of room in the car. Dinners and breakfasts are as a home but lunches are up to you. I trust you’ll join us tonight? I’ve been saving my coupons.”

“Mrs. G is making her apple pie,” Bessie said. “It ranks 4th best.”

“I will win first place, mark my words,” Mrs. G teased. “You’ll find we are very relaxed here, Jeannette. I don’t care much what you get up to, just keep your wits about you. These Navy men-” Mrs. Grisham shuddered as if repelled by the thought of that branch of the US military. “Bess and Estelle will show you your room. You’ll have to share.”

Once Jeannette had assured Mrs. G that she had shared a room her whole life and it didn’t matter to her, the landlady smiled and waved them up the back staircase. Following the damp footprints of Bess up the third floor, she let her eyes wander to the photos on the walls. Scenic views of the river that Jeannette knew was only a few miles away shared space with the portraits of a young boy and a much younger Mrs. Grisham. Beside her was the assumed Mr. Grisham, who’s dark eyes followed Jeannette up the stairs long after his face had ceased to be represented in the family photographs. It was almost poetic, to see the changes in the family as Jeannette followed Bess and Estelle up the stairs.

Between the days by the river and the picnic blankets on the beach, Arthur grew up and Mrs. Grisham grew grayer. Jeannette had been a girl prone to empathy often to her detriment and felt the pang of nostalgia deeper as they ascended till the final frame on the landing showed the now older and grimmer son who Jeannette had seen as a child not seven steps back, dressed up in his uniform. Bess and Estelle had passed these photos daily and knew the stories behind them, having seen Arthur in the flesh before the Navy had stolen him away. They felt the pang as Jeannette did, but sharper. They knew the shy and quiet boy wasn’t in that uniform.

They ignored the second floor, leaving Mrs. Grisham’s shrine to how things had been before Arhtur untouched and continued to the third floor, where the photos were scarce and replaced with paintings of long forgotten relatives and odd landscapes. Bess paused to point out that the oar on the side of the boat depicted wasn’t actually an oar but a “sneaky duck. I didn’t know until Carrie told me. Looks like an oar, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does,” Jeannette admitted. “Did a Grisham paint it?”

Estelle turned from where she stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the lagging Jeannette and Bess. “The previous owner of this house, a great aunt of Mrs. Grisham’s, Beverly Simmons, was an amatuer artist.”

“Emphasis on the amatuer,” Bess muttered as she jogged up the last few steps. “Mrs. G doesn’t want to see ducks that look like boats on the main floor so we are forced to look at their sorry tails everyday.”

“I don’t think they look that bad,” Jeannette said, wanting to defend the ducks. She tilted her head, getting a better look. “Well…”

“They wear on you after a few weeks,” Estelle said, beckoning Jeannette up the stairs. ”You’ll see.”

The frightening vision of these misshapen ducks waddling up the stairs after her was enough to quicken Jeannette’s pace, securing her safety on the landing where Estelle and Bess had already moved on.

“You’ll be on the left,” Bess said, poking her head into a doorway and shouting, “Margo! Calm down, it’s just me. You’ve got a letter.”

The landing had an overstuffed armchair, a bookcase where all the inhabitants leaned to the left, and a single window that sent slanting gray light onto the wooden floor that creaked under Jeannette’s uncertain feet. It looked like a cozy place to sit and read on a rainy day such as this if there hadn’t been a weight in the air. It wound between the branching doorways, under the floorboards, and sank into Jeannette’s bones. It was an anticipation that was as intoxicating as it was melancholy.

The American homefront had known only one thing in the two years since they had found themselves in a simmering war and had taken it upon themselves to bring it to an unrelenting boil. In the heat of the flames of passion, love, and patriotism, the country was left with an immense shadow. The waiting. Like dolls abandoned in their beautifully crafted house, dust collected on their painted, smiling faces.

Jeannette had known the numbing of waiting, the thrill of the letter in her hands, the way she held them so tightly. Her mother hadn’t understood, quite so deeply. Ada didn’t understand, quite so sharply. She had never felt it as strongly as she did in this house. Women in a war but not fighting for it. Women who were aching for those who did fight but putting up their own battles. It was almost poetic, the anticipation.

This anticipation had become the drive behind her movement, the striking match to her move down to Norfolk. This fire needed to be stoked by more than just letters. Ink didn’t catch quite like working for the war effort. Jeannette had been fond of the meter and beat of poetry, finding solace from the cole-tinged air in the yellowed pages of Maffei, and Shakespeare. Her brothers and their friends never understood her obsession, save one. He would sneak books from the library in Pittston and slide them under her window. Jeannette smiled at the memory. She had spent many summer nights poking her head out that window, looking for what literature had been left in the window box of daisies.

“On the left, she said?” Jeannette looked at Estelle and pointed to the first door on the left. She made for the handle, palm grazing the cool metal when Estelle’s voice cut through the weight like a sharp knife.

“Not that room!” She snapped.

Jeannette would have stepped back if her shoes weren’t prone to wobbling so dangerously. She settled for snatching her hand back from the cold doorknob. Estelle’s fire had subsided but there was no apology, no retraction of her word. Jeannette didn’t offer an apology. She didn’t know what she had done.

“Oh, Jeannette,” Bess said, coming to her rescue. “Not that left. That’s Carrie and...Oh never mind, I’ll show you.”

Jeannette was ushered toward the next door and winced as Bess shouted at the inhabitant. “CONNIE! YOU’VE GOT A LETTER!”

There was a long stretch of silence followed by the snuffling sounds of deep sleep. Jeannette’s prospective roommate seemed to be undisturbed by Bess’s screech while Jeanette’s own ears were still ringing.

“Constance works nights with my roommate, Margaret,” Bess explained, her voice not at all strained by the scream from a moment before. “They are machinists on the aircraft for the Navy. We don’t see them very often.”

The carpet bag was suddenly quite heavy in Jeannette’s hand and tugged on her already aching shoulders. Bess noticed her wince and took pity on her new housemate. “Constance, I’m sorry but I have to turn on the light.”

The dark, peaceful oasis was suddenly illuminated by the light overhead and the lamp on the bedside that Bess mercilessly flicked on. Jeannette glanced around the now visible furniture, that no longer looked like looming creatures from nightmares. An empty bed, a dresser opened to reveal barren drawers, and a desk with the stability of a drunken sailor fresh from sea duty.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite alarm clock,” The lump of blankets that Bess insisted was Constance, said, her voice muffled. “Morning, Beth,”

“Very funny, Constance,” Bess said. “Do you want your letter or not?”

A calloused hand, scarred and rough from the late nights among the heavy machinery and scrabbling over metal carcasses of aircraft, withdrew from the quilts. Bess placed the offering in the waiting palm and, like the jaw of a predator, the hand snapped it up eagerly, drawing back to the safety of the quilts.

“Do you need help unpacking?” Bess asked Jeannette brightly. “I’m an ace at moving. I’ve helped most everyone on the floor. Except Estelle, of course, she’s been here since before the “I” fell.”

Bess was, indeed, an ace at packing and unpacking. This skill had been cultivated long before she had received her first letter, before she had been the smiling waitress at that destined cafe, when she was just Elizabeth Ferguson. Jeannette liked Bess. It was impossible not to. There was something about her short brown hair framing her face and the big brown eyes that made her so endearing and begged to be helpful. Jeannette couldn’t say no.

“If you don’t mind,” She started to say.

“I don’t!” Bess said, snatching up the carpet bag and throwing open the wardrobe on Jeannette’s side of the room.

Jeannette had never known a great abundance of belongings. Most of her life, she had seen this as an embarrassment, to know few and to have few seemed to be a weakness. That was, until she had accepted the translator position in Norfolk and packed up what little she had into a carpet bag. The carpet bag that had housed her pieces from home, her few books, and the clothes that had been worn through all in the name of the war effort, was thrown open. Bessie Ferguson no longer stood in that room, but a whirlwind of limbs, flying clothes, and knick knacks being placed just so.

“Where are you from, again?” Bessie asked, not waiting for a response, before plunging on with the next question. “Your brothers are in North Africa? I have a brother. He’s not fit for service, lucky bastard. Don’t tell Mrs. G that I swore-”

“Beth,” Constance groaned, tossing back the covers. “What time is it?”

“A quarter past four,” Jeannette supplied, glancing at her watch.

“I was hoping to get another hour,” Constance sat up, letter still in hand. She smirked at its contents.

“Another poem?” Bess asked, setting Jeannette’s Shakespeare and Maffei volumes on the teetering desk. “Connie’s beau is something of a poet.”

Constance’s mussed curls bounced as she shook her head at the younger girl’s words. “That’s generous of you, Beth,”

Whether or not the gift of prose was possessed by her pen pal, Constance didn’t seem to mind. Her sea green eyes scanned the page, soaking up every thoughtful word and stumbling line. Her fire was stoked by the glint of steel at night and the scrabble of poems written to the “lady by the sea”. It mattered not that Norfolk was on a river, not the Atlantic, the letters were addressed like that and she would be lying if she said she didn’t like the title.

Constance peeled back the blankets to set free the cat trapped beneath the coverlet, and chuckled at a particularly horrid, if not well meant, line. Her eyes fixed on Jeannette and extended a calloused hand to the newcomer.

“Constance Ramos. You must be Jeannette,”

The redhead nodded, accepting the rough hand in her own and giving it a shake. “I don’t suppose we will be seeing a lot of each other. I’m on the day shift.”

Constance shrugged. “We’ll be like ships in the night. We keep busy around here.”

“Passes the time,” Bess agreed.

“Between letters?” Jeannette guessed.

“We sound crazy about those damn letters, don’t we?” Constance said, chuckling softly. Her bare feet didn’t make a sound on the wooden floor as she stretched out her aching muscles. “They keep us going, more than a war effort ever could. I can keep bolting sheets of metal when I know my soldier is alive and when I don’t hear from him, it gets heavier. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Jeannette murmured.

Those letters had made a ship to steer among the waves of this new world Jeannette found herself in. Uprooted and unfamiliar, she clung to the letters signed with their scribbled J and the indiscernible followers. The thought of buying that ticket from Pennsylvania to Virginia had been encouraged by the letters in her pocket. If he could be thousands of miles from home for her, she could be transplanted to a new state for the aid of the troops.

Connie glanced over the books on the teetering pile of poetry on the desk as Bess hummed along to some tune. “You like to read?”

“Yes,” Jeannette said. “My mother had mostly Italian books but I have some in English now.”

The English volumes had been collected over the years, from the window box of daisies to the exchanges on the hill overlooking the breaker. The last book, The Grapes of Wrath, had been the final exchange on that hill. He had been given his orders and was only on leave for a few days. He had brought her a book. He had asked if he could write to her. Jeannette had said yes. Jeannette had cried. There had been no romantic declarations or bouts of infatuation. The words had been plain, just how he liked them and how Jeannette despised them.

Bess shut the wardrobe with a snap and turned, her skirt swishing around her knees and damp socks. “You a translator on base?”

Jeannette paused, not sure how much was allowed to be discussed. This attic seemed as safe as could be but what did those posters promise? Ships sunk by the careless whispers of loose lips. Glancing at the window, as if a German spy would be listening from the third floor windowsill, Jeannette nodded quickly.

“Oh you’ll likely see Estelle!” Bess cried. “She’s working as a computer on base.”

Dumbfounded at the disregard for secrecy, Jeannette sputtered. “Shouldn’t we-”

“Who’s going to hear us?” Connie shook her head. “We all know how to keep a secret.”

Bess nodded, setting the now empty carpet bag on the neatly made bed. She hadn’t been kidding about her skills in unpacking. Jeannette had barely had time for a single melancholy notion about the blouse she had worn to the movies with her friends or the books with the coal stained fingerprints. Jeannette hadn’t noticed this room becoming her own but in the space of a few moments, it looked like her childhood bedroom. The quilt was the same, the books were present and accounted for. It looked like home.

“Speaking of secrets,” Bess said, snatching up the patchy tabby cat set free from Connie’s bed and cuddled it tight to her black sweater, not minding the fur shed across the yarn. “Are you going to hide that poem from us, Connie?”

Constance blushed. “Maybe Jeannette can give it an educated read. I’m dying to know if my pen pal has a future in the arts,”

Jeannette flushed. Her hobby of studying beat, meter, and stanza had been an asset to her application for the NIS but she was hardly a professional. Perhaps, more of an avid appreciator. Her love of poetry hadn’t been the final mark in her favor for her application. The real seal to her employment had been the native fluency that having an Italian mother and late father provided.

“I’d be delighted to provide an opinion,” Jeannette smiled, sitting on the lumpy mattress where she would rest her weary bones for the foreseeable future.

Constance cleared her throat, making a big show of unfolding the letter and straightening her flannel pajamas.

“Someday I'll get back to you/ When the war is finally won/Then you know just what we'll do In the sheets-”

The rest was cut off by Bess’s shriek of surprise and a cackling laugh from Constance. Jeannette’s cheeks flushed red but couldn’t help a bark of laughter escaping her mouth, never mind the good and upstanding standard that Grisham ladies were known to uphold.

“Do you all get such poems?” Jeannette wheezed.

Bess’s mouth gaped in shock at such a suggestion, only furthering Constance’s giggles.

“I have never gotten such a thing from-” Bessie started to say but was cut off by the appearance of Estelle in the doorway. Drawn by the laughter and shrieks, her brow furrowed at the neatly put together room but the girls in various states of disarray found there.

“What’s all this then?”

“Another poem,” Bess said. “And no, Jeannette, I don’t get that kind of poetry from Dar-”

“Don’t say their names, Bessie,” Estelle chided, in the same sharp tone. As if Bess had put her handle onto a door she didn’t understand what lay beyond. “You’ll get attached.”

“I’d say it’s too late for that,” Constance said, folding up the letter and stowing it under her pillow. It wasn’t a disagreement but the statement of a fact.

“You say their name and they can break your heart,” Estelle said. It sounded as a warning to Jeannette.

“I don’t think names hold much power over love,” Jeannette whispered, almost to herself but Estelle heard.

Estelle’s calculations were rarely wrong. In mathematics and personal life, her calculations were quite often correct. Estelle was known to be the guardian of the third floor, taking the wandering women under her wing. While Jeannette had seen an angel, Estelle was a self described tragedy. She sought a way to shield each girl who crossed the wooden floors of Grisham Hall from such flights toward the sun.

“We don’t tempt fate here,” Estelle said, firmly.

A silence stretched between them. Estelle’s dark gaze and small stature didn’t lend itself to the imposing figure she truly was. Jeannette didn’t think she was afraid of Estelle. Jeannette didn’t know what she thought. There was a truth behind her words. The war bubbled and boiled around them and one couldn’t make too many plans for the future. Jeannette didn’t like to think more than one letter ahead.

“Estelle is ever so jaded,” Bess said, chuckling softly, trying to break the tension.

“I’m wise beyond my years,” Estelle winked at Bess but her steady gaze sent Jeannette’s skin crawling. “We don’t say their names so we don’t have to say goodbye.”

* * *

To the real horatio,

I don’t suppose you can tell me where you are but know that I am safe in Norfolk. Mother will be forwarding any of your letters down to me. The girls I’m living with are quite the characters.

Bess is a little younger than me but such a dear thing. She’s the embodiment of springtime. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as happy as she is. Estelle seems to be the ringleader around here, like Adrian was to us in our childhood. I’m still forming an opinion on her. Constance is my roommate and we’ve gotten on like a house on fire. She works night shifts at the shipyard but when we do see each other it’s always good fun. We went to the cinema last week and saw Citizen Kane on her day off. She’s making songs on the piano out of her boyfriend’s poems. It’s very entertaining and has caused our landlady to faint out of shock more than once. There’s also a girl named Margo who lives on our floor. I haven’t met her for more than a few minutes but she seems lovely.

I’m glad to know that your CO is gone, the dreadful beast.

I’ve started to read the book you gave me. I’d like to read it to you sometime, like we did in high school on the breaker hill. If I sent you one of my books would you read it and think of me?

Your letters, as always, brighten my day. I know you fear that you have nothing of any interest to say but I find anything you say of interest. You say your words are not poetic but there is poetry in everything you do. You want to fly through the sky and end the war. While that’s admirable, do you know that I don’t expect this from you?

I’ve known you without money. I’ve known you without fame or excellence. I don’t care if you have either.

You are probably bothered by my ‘damn flowery words’. We’ve grown up together. Surely you are fluent in my own language by now.

It’s late. I have an early shift tomorrow. Be safe.

Love, Nettie

#band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers OFC fic #Original female characters #No Ordinary Time #this is no ordinary time folks #jeannette edwards #estelle tran #bessie ferguson #constance ramos #margaret griffin #vera elliot #carrie rose #home fire hestias #hestias of the homefront #grisham hall for ladies #new anthology #one shot series

21 notes · View notes

honestgrins · 5 years

Text

Plus One || Gendrya

It became something of a tradition for them, attending weddings as each other's plus-one. They were certain to have more fun hanging out than getting caught in round after round of awkward small talk. That was what Arya told Sansa, anyway, when her sister noted Gendry's place at their table on the seating arrangement.

“They’re keeping it small, trying to limit the snide comments from Mom and Dad about the baby.” Arya leaned over her controller to get a closer look at the TV, artfully dodging Gendry’s elbow for blocking his view. “If anyone says ‘shotgun wedding,’ I’m pretty sure Theon will start throwing punches so Robb doesn’t have to.”

Gendry shrugged, swerving a bit to match his car on the screen. “Sounds like a normal best man duty to me.”

Snorting, she kicked his leg away from her side of the couch. “I’m just glad they’re not making us all stand in the wedding party,” she said. “Sansa is still a bit miffed to be denied bridesmaid status, but it feels dumb to wear some formal gown here at home.”

“I can’t even picture you in a dress,” Gendry admitted, only to grunt when her fist landed in his stomach. Keeping a tight clench on the controller, he nudged her back. “It’s true!”

“I literally wear a skirt to school every day.”

Rolling his eyes, he kept his focus on the game. “You know what I mean. We’ve been friends for years, and I’ve never seen you dress up.”

With a triumphant grin, Arya cheered when her racer crossed the finish line. Dropping her controller to the coffee table, she stretched out her hands. “Because we play football and video games. I’d look pretty silly in a dress for that. But I wear them!”

“Whatever you say, Arry,” he said, his voice wry.

She harrumphed back into the couch, picking at the holes in her jeans. “Well, you’ll see at the wedding now, won’t you?”

His eyebrows rose. “I’m coming? I thought you said they were keeping it small.”

“Uncle Robert will be invited,” Arya shrugged. “I assume you would be, too. If not, be my guest. I'm allowed to bring a friend. The food will be good, enough booze will be flowing to rival my eighteenth birthday, and I’ll die of boredom since Jon can’t make it.”

Gendry nodded. “You had me at good food, but that’s too bad about Jon. He can’t get leave?”

“Dad had to really press Uncle Benjen for details, but he’s apparently on some Ranger mission. He’ll be out of contact for months, and Robb and Talisa don’t exactly have time to wait.” She refused to call it a pout, but Arya still frowned down at her lap. “It’s his own stupid fault for signing up to serve at the Wall right after graduation. If he’d just taken a gap year, then-”

“Then,” Gendry interrupted with a friendly hand on her knee, “he would just be missing something else important. Our job is to get as many embarrassing photos as possible for him to feel like he was there.”

And suddenly, she was smiling down at her lap instead.

The old lady had a sneer to match Cersei's, which only made Gendry more uncomfortable when he realized Arya had all but disappeared. Leaving him alone in the middle of Renly's reception was a sure-fire way to get stuck explaining his bastard status. "You do have his looks, like something out of a photo album," she decided matronly. "But the whole business is...unseemly."

"Yeah, well, sins of the father and all that," he said as politely as he could. But with his fists clenched tightly to rein in his temper, he didn't bother to hide the way he looked around the ballroom for any sort of distraction. Of course, he found Arya next to the cake, impatiently waiting for the grooms to cut it. Making his way toward her, Gendry barely muttered a quick excuse to the woman still sneering at him. "Hey," he called. "What happened to protecting me from nosy lords and ladies?"

Arya's smile upon seeing him turned apologetic. "I'm tipsy, I have a sweet tooth, and there's cake. You're good at math, I'm sure you know how that adds up."

"Just tipsy?" Loras and Renly sauntered over to them, the former shaking his head. "Our wedding's a smash darling, you should be nothing less than sloshed."

"Cake first, please," Arya grinned up at them. She leaned into Gendry's side, her head lolling back on his shoulder. Sighing, he let his arm slip around her back to hold her steady.

Narrowing his eyes, Renly couldn't help a grin of his own. "Don't you look-"

"Ah, there we go," Loras interrupted, having found the cake knife. "Let's get the imp fed and back to dancing."

Gendry blushed as Arya focused only on the cake, though she didn't move away from him. Their friendship had survived the long distance while she attended university in Braavos, and he was glad to have her back in time for his uncle's wedding. But it was both a relief and a torture to have her back like she'd never left, especially when she so easily tucked her hand into his as they watched Renly smush frosting across his husband's face.

Jamie and Brienne's wedding was a fun one, especially considering the museum they used as the venue hosted a weapons exhibit at the time. They'd both drooled over the swords, and Arya taught him a water dance move or two during the Electric Slide. If only Gendry had known it'd be their last wedding non-date for a while.

Arya breathed out a sigh of relief once she found him at the bar. "There you are!" She snatched the glass from his hand and set it down, only to grab his hand instead. "Sansa and Margaery want the bridal party to join in at the end of the first dance, and I need a partner."

Thoroughly confused, it was all Gendry could do to keep up. "Where's your boyfriend?"

Shaking her head, she walked them over to the edge of the dance floor where the brides were swaying to the music. "Bran convinced him to take a little smoke break, so they're giggling over by the kitchen doors to pounce on unsuspecting appetizers." She glanced over to Ned, waving when he smiled. "You don't mind helping me out, do you?"

"No," Gendry said, his voice a bit hoarse. "Not at all."

Arya gripped his hand when the melody changed. "That's our cue. I'm barefoot under this dress, Waters, so don't go stepping on my toes."

He smirked down at her as they fell into the rhythm, his hand spread wide at her back. "What happened to the girl who hated the idea of a big dress? I didn't think Braavos would change you so much, Stark."

Her eyebrows fell despite the amused smile she gave. "Aww, did you miss me?"

"More like I don't recognize you," he admitted. "Fancy dress, pink hair, new boyfriend."

"Ned's a good guy. Probably too friendly for your surly brooding," she teased, "but we have fun. It's college, right? I'm supposed to be having fun."

Gendry tugged at the ends of her hair, hovering just at the nape of her neck. She had to fight back a sigh, not quite prepared for how good it felt. "Hence the pink. It suits you, even if I'm surprised Sansa let you get away with it for the pictures."

"Had it clashed with their colors, I'm sure she would have asked me to change it. Let's call it personal growth that she didn't even bring it up. Mom did, though. She only calmed down when I told her I'd be bringing Ned with me."

He scoffed lightly. "Lady Catelyn must be thrilled, you practically engaged to a Dayne."

Glaring, she moved the hand on his shoulder to flick his ear. "Now I'm about to step on your toes. Again, we're just having fun. I don't need the 'you're next' brow waggling from you, of all people."

His posture sagged a bit, though he finally mustered up a smile. "Alright, have your fun." And he twirled her out, a bit clumsy, but they both laughed when she crashed back into his chest.

Ned Dayne also made it to Jon Snow's wedding north of the Wall, one Gendry hated to miss for work, even though a part of him was glad not to pretend he wasn't half in love with Arya Stark while she danced with someone else.

She had graduated university and moved back home, free and single, just in time for Bran to marry Jojen Reed. Once more, Gendry was roped in as her plus-one, despite several attempts on his part to make it a real date. With her hanging around his flat like the old days, he had ample opportunity to make a move, and he hated himself a little more each time he failed to ask her out. The afternoon before, he felt the deadline looming.

"Ugh," Arya groaned as she flopped onto his couch. She snuggled deep into his side while he read his magazine, carefully tugging his arm to rest over her shoulders. "Mom is still insisting on a full slate of wedding activities, even though Bran and Jojen are technically eloping. Why do they need a rehearsal dinner if they've already signed the paperwork? It makes no sense."

"Only Sansa gave her the big society wedding she wanted," Gendry pointed out. "Maybe let her keep a few traditions intact, especially if this is the last wedding she'll get to host." But Arya tensed next to him, and he frowned. "What? You know Rickon will never settle down, at least not traditionally."

She didn't meet his eyes; instead, she toyed with the lace hem of her dress. "I guess I don't count. No one wants to marry Arya Horseface."

His heart might have stopped in his chest. "What?!"

"Well, you clearly don't think I can get someone to a wedding, so-"

"No! Arry, I just meant-" Gendry swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, his hand having tangled unconsciously into her braid. "You've never mentioned marriage before. The closest you got to seriously dating was Dayne, and you all but laughed in my face when I mentioned engagement and all that. I-"

Eyes narrowed, she blinked slowly. "You've thought about this."

He ran a tired hand through his hair. "It's crossed my mind, is all," he answered, defensive. "Besides, you've gotten me to several weddings, I don't know what you're on about ha-"

Whatever rambling compliment he'd been about to give was swiftly cut off by Arya's lips, her hands cupping his face to hold him close as she kissed him. Gendry hesitated only a second before falling into the kiss, gathering her in his arms and hoping she wouldn't mind being late to Bran's rehearsal dinner after all.

Apparently, Rickon Stark was willing to settle down, though Gendry was right the youngest wolf wouldn't give into all the traditions his parents wanted. That was how the whole family ended up in some tacky, Lysene chapel. Arya cheered the loudest when her baby brother dipped little Lyanna Mormont into their first kiss as man and wife, more than aware of her own boyfriend's arms around her waist. She didn't find out about the ring in his pocket until two weeks later.

"Are you sure your parents won't hate me for this?"

Arya rolled her eyes, pinning him with a loving glare as she signed her name with a flourish. "A little late to be worrying about that, Mr. Stark."

What she hadn't expected was the sudden, wet sheen in his eyes, but she loved the broad smile looking at their marriage certificate put on his face. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Waters. Or we could both take Baratheon, really throw the hell out of everyone."

"Renly would love it," she grinned. Lacing their fingers together, she squeezed his hand. "We really did it. We're married. You married me."

Gendry affectionately tapped her nose. "On purpose and everything. No regrets?"

With a deep breath, she couldn't help but smile. "None. You?"

Brushing his hair back, he scratched at his head. "Should have called Ned Dayne to be a witness, but-"

"Here we go."

"I'm just saying, it would have been good to dot the I's and cross the T's that you're mine."

She poked his chest with her free hand, heart catching at the glint of gold on that finger. "And you're mine, caveman, so get over it already."

"Yours," he vowed, pressing his forehead to hers. "Always."

#gendrya #axgweek #arya x gendry #arya x gendry fic #gendrya fic #posting late; sorry!#day two #marry me now #dashing and deadly

114 notes · View notes

imagine-loki · 5 years

Text

Giftless

TITLE: Giftless CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 44/50

AUTHOR: nekoamamori ORIGINAL IMAGINE:

Imagine that you are Stark’s niece and you secretly share a strong relationship with Loki since he entered the crew. One day you get hurt so bad during a mission that you are about to die. Loki knows a spell that will save you and share his immortality with you but you and he will be linked forever sharing thoughts, pain, emotions…

RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: Also on AO3 click here

You reappeared in the common room of the tower and were greeted with cheers and hugs when you stepped out of the portal. “Kat, what are you wearing?” Wanda asked once you had disentangled yourselves from your family of supers. You looked down and realized you were still wearing an Asgardian dress. You grinned when you looked back up at her.

“I am wearing a dress,” you replied with a touch of sarcasm. Even Nat laughed at that.

“And the tiara?” she asked with a smirk. You blushed; you’d forgotten about the tiara. And you hadn’t told anyone but Tony and Fury that Loki’s family now thought you were married. It was all very complicated.

“Tradition on Asgard,” Loki answered quickly. It wasn’t even a lie. “Did anything important happen while we were gone?” He asked the team in general, changing the subject to something safer.

“The Harlequin has been causing problems again. There’s also been some supposed sightings of Balder, but no one’s been able to confirm it,” Nat reported. As one of the original Avengers, it was one of her jobs to give such updates. “But there’s nothing urgent for you two today,”

You nodded at that, relieved that you got a reprieve. “Thanks Aunt Nat. Come on, Loki, there’s something we need to do,” you grabbed Loki’s hand and started dragging him with you. You had put this off too long and that needed to be rectified now.

“Darling, where are you dragging me?” Loki asked, laughing. He didn’t fight you, but did wonder what you were up to.

“You’ll see,” was the only reply he got. He sighed, but dug in his heels at the door to leave the tower. You stopped and turned to look at him. “What?” you asked, confused as to why he was stopping now.

“Maybe we should be wearing Midgardian clothes?” he asked, calmly and reasonably. You sighed, but used your power to change your dress to a blue sundress and sandals. Loki just gave you an expectant look. You rolled your eyes, since he was perfectly capable of changing his own clothes by magic, but he just continued to look at you expectantly. You closed your eyes and focused. It was harder to change his clothes than your own, but after a moment, he was dressed in a suit, just not the all black one he usually chose for himself. “A suit?” he asked, confused by your choice.

“You want to make a good first impression,” you told him. He nodded, but you saw the confused expression on his face. You led him to your car and summoned your purse and keys. The first place you drove to was the liquor store first, parking far enough from the entrance that they wouldn’t be able to see you from inside the store. “Your ID says you’re at least 21, right?” you asked him when you pulled into the spot.

Loki nodded warily “Of course.” He didn’t trust where your mind was going.

“Good,” you pulled out some money from your purse and handed it to him. “Go in there and pick something out. Something a man would like,”

“Darling…”

“Please, Loki. It’s important,”

“And you cannot come?” he asked, confused. He knew there was something about Midgardian customs he was missing and wanted to understand before he did this favor.

You shook your head. “I don’t have a fake ID and you have to be 21 to buy alcohol,” you reminded him. You hadn’t bothered getting a fake when you were so well-known. It would’ve been stupid. “They won’t sell it to you if they think you’re buying it for a minor, for someone under 21,” you clarified that last point.

“Am I buying it for a minor?” he asked with a look of disapproval.

“Of course not!” you spluttered, indignantly, like you’d ever ask for something like that. Besides, you could always steal booze from Tony if you really wanted some. “It’s a gift,”

He nodded and kissed your cheek. That, he could understand. “Very well, darling,” he finally answered and went to go complete his task. It took him awhile, but you didn’t mind. You were just glad he was taking the assignment seriously. He came back with something fancy looking and sounding. You knew nothing about alcohol, but he insisted that the clerk had recommended it for a gift.

“Good! One more stop,” you told him. Your next stop was a florist. They knew you there, of course. It was the florist you always went to.

“Kat, we weren’t expecting you. I don’t have your usual order ready,” the nice lady who owned the shop greeted you.

“Don’t worry, Mary, I didn’t place an order today. Do you have any roses, today? You know they’re her favorite,” Mary gave you a warm, matronly smile.

“Of course, dear. I even have a couple of the purple ones she’s particularly fond of,”

“Will you make something pretty for her?” you asked, trying to smile, though it was hard. It always brought tears to your eyes, even though you knew you shouldn’t cry.

She nodded, understanding in her eyes and voice. “Of course, dear. It’ll be ready soon,” she got to work on the request right in front of you. “You’re taking your young man to meet them?” she asked while she worked. Loki wasn’t often called a young man, but you weren’t going to quibble over it.

You nodded. “It was time he was introduced to them,” you replied.

She gave you a knowing smile. “It must be getting serious, then,” you blushed. You weren’t going to answer that. You pulled your phone out. “Sorry for being rude and being on your phone, Mary, there’s one more thing I need,” you texted Tony asking for his help.

-I’ll meet you there- came the reply in an instant. Uncle Tony would always drop anything to help you.

“Darling, will you be telling me who I am to meet?” Loki asked overly patiently. You gave him a look and he sighed. “Of course you will not,”

It wasn’t long before Mary gave us the rose bouquet.

You drove to the cemetery after that. You had never made this drive by yourself. Tony always drove you, but you didn’t lose your resolve or your way. Loki was subdued as you parked in front of your parents’ graves. He had realized when you pulled into the cemetery who you were going to see. Tony wasn’t there yet, but that was fine. He was giving you time to do this your way. You took a deep breath. “Ready?” you asked Loki. He gave you his usual smile.

“Of course, my dear. Don’t fear, they will love me,” he told you warmly. You got out of the car and you took his hand to lead him up to meet your parents.

“Mom, Dad,” you took a breath, this was hard. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

You pulled Loki up the last couple of steps to their graves.

“This is Prince Loki of Asgard, my boyfriend,” you announced. You always spoke as if they were there and could hear you. It was weird, but thankfully, Loki went along with your eccentricities.

“It is a pleasure to meet both of you,” Loki added with a bow. He produced the bouquet of roses, which were now in an elegant vase. “Kat mentioned that these are your favorites, Mrs. Stark,” he said as he knelt down to place the flowers in front of her grave. He didn’t think, or at least didn’t say, it was weird that you was talking to your parents like they were still alive. He even played along. “It is not playing along, darling,” Loki told you, gleaning your thoughts. “The spirits of the dead can and do watch over us,” he thought for a moment and summoned a spellbook. “I cannot do this spell often, but for today…” he recited the spell and your parents appeared, standing between their graves.

You just stood there shocked and starting.

“An illusion?” you asked. He shook his head and that was all you needed. You ran for them. Ran wasn’t a strong enough word, but it was the only one you had. You wrapped your arms around both of them, holding them too tightly. You’d never gotten to say goodbye and now they were here and they were real. So very real. “Mom? Dad?” you asked, sobbing as you held them tightly so they couldn’t vanish from you again.

“We’re here. We’re always with you, dear,” mom told you. “Though your father does admittedly spend most of his time looking after that uncle of yours. The trouble he gets into playing a superhero…”

“How?” was the only word you could get out, refusing to let them go. You hadn’t seen them in years. They were dead. They shouldn’t be there.

“It is just for the afternoon,” Loki repeated firmly. He wasn’t giving any illusions that the spell was stronger than it was. “Their spirits remained to watch over you and your uncle when you need them. I simply allowed them to visible and tangible for the afternoon,”

“Then we will have to just make the most of the afternoon,” you replied as Tony pulled up in his car. You somehow disentangled myself from mom’s hug and ran down to help him. You came back up with the blanket and picnic Tony had brought. You set up the blanket quickly while Tony just stared at your parents in disbelief. Soon he had wrapped his arms around his dead brother, much as you had.

You sat and chatted all afternoon. Loki, Tony, and dad shared the bottle of alcohol that Loki had brought as a gift for dad. It was a bittersweet afternoon, but Tony and you got to catch them up on everything. Loki and you got to tell them all about Asgard and your visit there. Tony told them all about his work with the Avengers. They seemed so happy that you and Tony were both doing ok.

It was almost dark when Loki spoke up. “Darling, I cannot hold the spell much longer,” you looked over at him and realized that he was hiding how low on magic he was. He was nearly tapped, which was dangerous. “My love, I’m sorry, but it is time to say your goodbyes,”

You all stood then for hugs, tears, and goodbyes. “Thank you, Loki,” mom said, giving him a hug too, which threw him as he wasn’t expecting it. “You are wonderful for our daughter,” she told him. You saw the tears in his eyes at that. He wasn’t expecting to actually be accepted. Midgardians didn’t much accept him, even now.

“I’ll allow it,” dad added gruffly. That was the best Loki was going to get from him. You hugged each of them one more time, tears streaming down your face.

“I’m going to miss you,” you told them.

“We’re always with you. You can come visit and talk to us anytime. We’re always here to listen. I love you, Kat, Tony. Take care of each other.” mom told you before the magic faded and she started to vanish.

“Yes, mom,” you replied with the same obedient tone you had given her all of your life.

“I love you, kitten,” your dad told you. He turned to his brother. “Tony, you know you didn’t tell you enough that I love you, and dad was an ass to both of us, but I’m glad things are turning out so well for you,” dad told him, which was more acknowledgement from Tony’s family than he ever got, besides you of course.

The magic faded completely and they both vanished. You fell to your knees sobbing, staring at the spot where they had been. Tony knelt beside you and wrapped his arms around you . “It’s ok, Kat. They’re proud of us and they’re glad we’re ok, remember?” he asked. “They want us to be happy,” you nodded and rubbed the tears roughly from your face.

“You’re right,” you told Tony and we got back to our feet. you turned to Loki to thank him, but all you saw was that he was too pale. You ran to his side and managed to get your arms around him before he passed out. It was a close thing. “Dummy,” you told him softly, exasperated. He had pushed himself to the breaking point keeping the spell going as long as he physically could.

“What happened?” Tony asked. He came over to us and took Loki from you, hoisting him over his shoulder. It was surprisingly little effort for Tony, but he was surprisingly muscled from his work.

“He used too much magic to make that spell for us,” you told him.

Tony nodded, accepting that answer. “He was like this the night he saved your life too,” he explained. “He’s good for you, even if I’m still against you dating at all.” Tony grinned at you and carried Loki down to his own car. “I won’t kill him on the drive home, imp,” he told you warmly. “He did us both a huge favor today. I’m not going to forget the kindness, even if he is dating you. Besides, if I kill him you die too,”

You finally relented and let Tony carry Loki. It was easier and better than you struggling to do it. You used magic to clean up our picnic, though you left mom’s flowers and set out a glass of the alcohol for dad. “Goodbye, mommy, daddy. It was good to be able to see you again,”

With that, you headed back to your car. Tony wouldn’t leave until you were safely driving away, even though you were more powerful than he was now. Tony carried Loki back up to Loki’s suite and set him on his bed when you returned. Loki was still unconscious. “Thanks, Uncle Tony,” you told him, grateful for his help.

He nodded his acceptance, then changed the subject. “We get back to training tomorrow,” he reminded you.

You nodded with a sigh, not looking forward to that. “I’ll be there.” With that, Tony left you alone. You used magic to change your clothes and Loki’s to pajamas and tucked Loki into his bed.

“Thank you, love,” you whispered and kissed his forehead. You sat on the bed next to him and summoned the tales of Hiccup the Viking. You hadn’t had a chance to finish them while you were visiting his family.

Loki finally stirred a few hours later. “Hello sleepyhead,” you told him with a smile. He looked around confused.

“What happened?”

“You used too much magic with the spell to bring back my parents for the day. You’ve been unconscious for about four hours now,” you told him. He at least had the decency to look sheepish. You pulled up your phone and showed him the picture you had taken of Tony carrying him up to his room. “Uncle Tony carried you to bed. I think he might almost like you. He actually might like you if you weren’t dating me,” you added with a smile.

“Oh dear. How many people have that photograph?” He asked.

You shrugged. “I haven’t sent it to anyone,” that didn’t mean Tony hadn’t.

Loki sighed. “He better not start acting like Thor. My magic works just fine against your uncle,” he grumbled.

You just laughed, imagining Tony acting like Thor. It would never happen.

“Thank you for everything today.” Those words weren’t enough for what he had done for you, no matter how much sincerity you put in the words. You leaned down and kissed him.

“I am glad you thought enough of me to introduce me to your parents,” he answered. He got out of the bed and pulled you up with him. “We should find some dinner,”

“We should. I’m sure Helene has made something delicious,” you replied and you headed downstairs with laughter. You spent your evening as usual, watching movies on the couch with your books. A nice quiet evening was what you both needed after the emotional day.

“Kat, what’s with the matching tattoos?” one of the super teens asked. Some of your friends had come to watch at your TV, since you were finally getting back to watching the DVD of the new Avengers movie that Tom had sent you. You had been interrupted the last time you tried to watch it.

You blushed. “It was a side effect of the magic Loki used to save my life,” you explained. You didn’t want to tell them about the soulbond if you didn’t have to. They wouldn’t understand. They accepted your answer though. It was so different here, hiding the soulbond after you spent the last week being praised and congratulated for it.

“It’s ok, darling. You’re right that they wouldn’t understand,” Loki whispered in your ear. “We know what it is and that is all that matters.” You nodded and cuddled back up against him. You blushed and hid your face in his chest when you got to the kiss scene while Loki just laughed. The teens looked at him confused, so he paused the movie and pulled you to your feet, changing your clothes in that instant to the ones you had been wearing the day you were filmed. He kissed you, in the exact same pose as you were in in the scene.

“That’s you two?!” exclaimed the crowd. You turned even more shades of red and nodded. You pointed out the scar on your leg that could be seen in the film.

“Go Sigyn!” they called, cheering. You blushed and apparently acquired your superhero alias, since they wouldn’t stop calling you that for the rest of the night.

#Loki #Lover #Submitted fic #submission #giftless #chapter 44 #nekoamamori

50 notes · View notes

ars-simia-animus · 4 years

Text

What I Can Afford is Yours

Chapter Two: “Prices to Pay”

Summary:

Mr. Jameson failed to conceal the fact that he resented Tony -- resented him despite the fact that Tony had nearly singly funded his ceramics business the past two years. Of course, that had nothing to do with Jameson and everything to do with Peter's brilliance and artistry; perhaps that was where some of the trouble originated.

Often his resentment poured over in Jameson's gruff and ungenerous treatment of his apprentice, Peter. Nevertheless, Peter's ingenuity and hope pushed him to overcome the obstacles placed on him by his master. If he couldn't use the company kiln to make a gift for Tony, he would build a kiln of his own.

Read the chapter below the break..........

Jameson’s barking was audible from the time Tony stepped into the short hallway. The man sure is loud , Tony thought. Loud when he spoke to customers, loud when he relaxed at the gentleman’s club, loud when he gossiped in the street— loud when he was merry, angry, or skeptical. Tony doubted he ever adopted another volume. Then again, he had heard Jameson louder— when he’d heard him scream at the kid a few times when Tony approached the workshop door. Tony always waited a few minutes outside when he heard such berating, knowing how sensitive Peter was to humiliation.

“What you have there is the best china in all New York and you can take that to the bank! The Brits like to think they own the china industry. The French boldface claim it their invention. But, every New Yorker knows that American ingenuity and skill is the Atlas shoulder upon which the finer world rests.” He prattled, asininely as Tony put it to himself, as Tony opened the shop door.

Jameson’s eyes darkened when he saw Tony enter from the back.

“Anthony Stark, well, well! Weren’t you here only yesterday? Just can’t quite get enough of our fine ceramics and pottery work, eh? In all of Great New York, there’s not another ceramics emporium that can contend with the tastes and demands of the…” His lips curled around his cigar in what Jameson must have imagined was a deferential smile. “Stark dynasty.”

“Good day, J. J.” Tony pointedly underlaid his tone with dismissiveness. “If I may interrupt your advertising, I’d be interested in making a purchase.”

“What a marvelous vase!” A woman said, hoping to sponge off the celebrity that enhaloed Tony Stark.

He flashed a flirtatious grin and corrected her, “I’m told it’s a hummingbird feeder. Likely one of the only of its kind.”

Jameson leered at the piece with an unsavory expression. He didn’t recognize it, of course; undoubtedly he was curious how his apprentice had managed to create such a work, and from where the copper had come. With a snap, he bellowed for the woman’s attention: “Innovation is in our name!”

Tony inclined toward him. “I’m sorry, whose name?”

Jameson shrugged off any insinuation. “It’s an expression.” He coughed out the words then bit down hard on his cigar.

“Hardly the season to feed the birds, Mr. Stark.” Another customer, a matronly lady, attempted conversation. She approached at Tony’s other elbow.

He nodded courteously to her. “True enough, but I like to be the first to own such rarities. Also, my Pepper will love it and that’s enough for me. Now, I think I’ll settle up here. What’s the price for this one, J. J.?”

Jameson glowered briefly at the informal name. It was replaced with a smirk and he said, “You’re right to proclaim it a rarity. As a man of humility it’s difficult to admit it’s worth lest I seem…”

“I‘ll pay what it’s worth, so tell me the price.” Tony clipped, setting the hummingbird feeder gently on the shop counter.

“$75 for you, Mr. Stark.” Jameson attempted to sound as though he was cutting Tony a deal, but Tony noticed how Jameson ground his teeth a little. The ladies standing beside them balked at the price, but Tony removed a bank book from his coat pocket. “Your patronage is always appreciated.” Jameson said.

“Happy to support true genius.” Tony said.

As Tony filled out the check, the two ladies hovered, hungrily clinging to this brush with notability. The matronly one lamented: “How is your wife, Mr. Stark? It is a shame she doesn’t venture into town often.”

“Yes, I should love to make her acquaintance.” The younger woman said, then she blushed falsely. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, of course.”

“You can’t be blamed for curiosity, dear lady.” Jameson interposed with some twisted glee. “Mrs. Stark is another of our city’s rarities. One would almost think Mr. Stark keeps her locked up in a bird cage.”

Tony tore the check from his bank book. “Rare and wonderful, you’re not wrong. Well, I will be on my way.” He lifted Peter’s hummingbird feeder mindfully and returned the way he had entered.

Jameson watched Tony’s authorial figure, entering his own property with such ownership, and his nostrils flared.

Peter stood immediately when Tony walked into the workshop, holding his hummingbird feeder and a small receipt slip. His coated hands fretfully clutched each other. “Mr. Stark! I didn’t mean to suggest that you should buy it, I— I only wanted you to know that I was applying what you have read me from your book.”

Peter gulped after his verbal onslaught, trying to regain control. Tony walked toward him with a quirked eyebrow and a smile as he rambled. “I’m just thankful, you see, for the time you take to talk with me about chemistry and engineering and material sciences…”

Tony laid a heavy hand on the boy’s head. Peter stopped chatting under the weight — (wasn’t Mr. Stark pushing down a bit, the way a dog might to a pup?) — and looked up, around the wrist. “Finished?” Tony asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Tony moved away. “Pete, I am one of those individuals who are notoriously difficult to persuade one way or the other if it’s not my own idea. Even by you.” He added with smirking lilt. He sat once again in the chair that was designated for him. “Speaking of gifts,” he said as he rummaged in his shopping bag, “educate me. Does your family celebrate Christmas?”

Peter sat on the stool and busied himself with the Jack-in-the-Pulpit vase. Maybe if he ducked his head into his work he could divert this conversation from any offering on Mr. Stark’s part to buy him a gift. “Not traditionally. There is a small Jewish festival this time of year, but it’s difficult to celebrate it properly in New York, so May and I haven’t for years.”

“Why is it difficult?” Tony asked and Peter was touched by his politeness. There was no reason for him to show interest. Jews were not among the favored immigrants in America. Tony and his wife had already shown more than their share of sensitivity toward the Parkers’ heritage.

Peter splashed water on his hands from the basin of the wheel and took a sponge around the long flute of the vase. “More Jewish families are coming to New York, but it’s still hard to find things such as menorah candles or … just other traditional Jewish goods.” Peter smoothed the kaolin clay, thinking about the “restricted” signs displayed in many of his borough’s shops. “Mr. Jameson did grant me the 25th off to visit my Aunt May, though.”

Crinkling sounds drew Peter’s curiosity. He looked over and saw Tony carefully wrapping his hummingbird feeder in the beautiful gift paper that fascinated him earlier. “Let me get to the point.” Tony said. “I would like to give you a gift. Would you accept it?”

“Mr. Stark—“ Peter weakly shook his head.

With it safely enveloped in the bright crepe paper, Tony set the feeder in his shopping bag, along with the paper roll. “That should protect it… Allow me to rephrase: what would you like as a gift? Christmas or otherwise?”

“I see you take my wishes very seriously,” Peter said under his breath, but with no real malice. He knew this argument was futile. As Tony had asserted earlier, if it were his idea, there was no dissuading him. Fortunately for most, Tony was conscientious about others and very generous.

May once told him that for some, giving was the most natural expression of love, sometimes so much so that they couldn’t comprehend another way to show it. To refuse their gifts was like a rejection of a piece of their heart. It was harsh to deny them. Of course, May was also the one who taught him that they did not accept what they didn’t earn; and if they were given a gift, they should give one in return. Parkers were poor in America, but that didn’t mean the were of low integrity.

Honestly, Peter knew how difficult it was to want to give and be denied; that was a favorite way to show affection for him, too.

“Well, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, fixing the lip of the vase with a fine loop tool. His speech slowed as he concentrated. His mouth also slackened in a way that Tony smiled at, secretly. “All I can think that I would ask for,” he said with a shy glance, “is a bit of that gift wrapping paper you have.”

After a moment of silence, Peter looked and was met with Tony’s unsatisfied glare. “What a boring request!”

Peter chuckled and hunched his shoulders. “I like pretty things.” He said in a small voice.

“And how would I wrap that?” Tony continued to ridicule. He retrieved the book on thermodynamics from beside his seat. “Hmm? With a second bit of paper? Like a wrapping paper matryoshka doll? Alright, Mr. Parker.” He lifted his pocket watch and checked the time. “I have thirty minutes more to read and then I’m due to meet Happy at the bridge.”

When their time was up, Tony replaced the ribbon bookmark and stood. “Sorry to skip out in the middle of the chapter, but I’m afraid the daring plot of transitions between energy levels will have to wait until the next day I’m in town.” He unfolded his coat from the back of the chair.

Peter turned toward him, away from the kiln where he’s just deposited pieces ready to be fired, his face flushed. The pink only added to his guilty, drawn expression. “Perhaps we could restart the chapter when you return?”

Tony laughed, coiling his scarf around his collar. “Didn’t sink in?” Peter frowned. “That’s alright, kid. These are complex concepts. Not many have studied them, let alone fourteen-year-old ceramics apprentices.”

Tony stepped closer, meaning to say goodbye. He always closed the distance between them when it was time to say goodbye, creating a sort of intimate space before leaving. Peter was grateful; he never knew when he’d see Tony again and these moments of familiarity encouraged him in his lonely time in between visits.

Jameson didn’t talk to him much and neither did his master’s family, who probably preferred to pretend he didn’t exist. He wasn’t allowed in the front of the shop, so he never talked to customers. His days off (Sundays— church days, Mr. Jameson said) were divided between domestic errands and going home to May for the afternoon, so there was little time to see his friends. If Tony didn’t visit him, some days he may not see another person for close to ten hours.

Tony said softly, “If you have questions, be sure to stop me next time. I’m happy to talk elements and equations until I’m blue in the face.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be around.” Tony said, vaguely. “Good evening, Pete.” He moved back and picked up his shopping bag. “Will Pepper know what to do with this feeder?”

Peter clapped his chalky hands onto his apron. “Well, sir, as I understand it, the homemade nectar is poured in at the top and the hummers eat from the little holes all around here.” He demonstrated with an invisible version of the feeder in the air.

Tony grunted a bit. “Pepper will figure it out.” He said, moving toward the door. He paused and turned back. “Oh, I nearly forgot. The man’s name is pronounced ‘Shirayamadani Kitaro.’ Bye!”

The door latched as Peter repeated out loud, as best he was able, and brimful of wonder: “Shee-ra-ya-ma-da-nee Kee-ta-roh.”

He was absently repeating the name again that night as he worked in the alleyway behind the shop. All his tasks for Mr. Jameson were completed and the workshop was cleaned as well as his own dinner dishes scrubbed. It was just past 9:30. Peter didn’t mind the late hour; he rarely slept a full night, prone to bad dreams, but also partly because the fewer lighted window in the neighborhood, the more successful tonight’s project was likely to be.

Over five months Peter had kept back a penny or two from his pay each week to buy a small brick of dove-colored earthenware clay and a (very nearly empty) jar of (mostly dried) glaze that Mr. Jameson sold him when he’d caught Peter removing it from the waste. The only gift he could think to give Tony and his wife was a ceramic piece; in many senses, it was the best Peter had to offer. Besides, the Starks seemed to favor his work and that encouraged the idea. Though, when he laid out his materials in front of him, the righteousness of the artist in him turned to disgrace.

The clay’s impurities were conspicuous and its color was dull — nothing like the pretty and pure kaolin clay that he adored. So, he sieved it himself with a fine mesh and removed as many large particles as he could. Peter had chosen this clay not only because it was common and affordable, but because the earthenware should reach a mature hardness in low fire. Seeing as he didn’t have a kiln at his disposal, the lower the required temperature the better, Peter thought sardonically.

Mr. Jameson required that every piece fired in his company’s kiln should make money for the company. Whether it was Peter’s work or not, even if it was made of the inferior clay he’d purchased on his own, even if it was crammed in with several pieces being fired for the company, Mr. Jameson expected it to make a profit. “Fuel is as expensive as blood,” he proclaimed every so often, along with “there is always a price to pay.” And debates turned dangerous too often for Peter to safely ask again.

Honestly, it seemed less about money and more about some fault of Peter’s that vexed Mr. Jameson, one he didn’t realize he owned and over which he very well could have no control.

Ignoring his ash-filled stomach, Peter had molded a small figurine of a lovebird. Mrs. Stark, Pepper, owned four rosy-faced lovebirds as pets, so the shape was for her. Since all the glaze he had was a translucent, low-fire gloss, and he couldn’t adorn it with the delicate paintings he usually did on his china works, he took great care to carve intricate details with a pick.

He hoped that telling Tony of the ingenuity he’d employed to construct a working kiln in the alley from assorted junk would be gift enough for his friend, along with a successfully fired ceramic figurine, of course. Thanks to Tony’s discussions with him on sintering and chemical processing, coupled with the instruction Mr. Jameson had given him when he first began his apprenticeship four years ago, and what Peter’s brain was able to invent, he had a scheme for a makeshift kiln that might succeed.

To be safe, he’d baked the figurine, on a tray in the little stove he used for his meals. It was nerve-wracking work and Peter was very fearful that it was a foolish risk. Though, it did seem to dry the earthenware and the figurine remained so far undamaged.

Close to ten o’clock, Peter hauled a rusting tin drum away from the overcropping laundry lines, scratching deeply into the ice on the stones underneath with its coarse bottom rim. He set it near the back courtyard wall where there was a patch of soil. He lugged an assortment of fallen bricks he’d picked up from around the borough, victims of weather or age. In a large bucket he had ugly clay dug from the riverbed a few nights ago. That had been cold work! Now it was washed, sieved, and workable.

Peter struck a trowel into the ground, trying not to think of Mr. Jameson’s face in the morning. Better to beg forgiveness , he thought. He dug a deep, bowl-like hole and another, more shallow hole, with a trench connecting them. Over the pit’s diameter he laid a thick, perforated lid he’d made with the river clay. The assorted bricks were stacked in a chimney fashion. Then, he used more riverbed clay to coat the chimney walls.

At midnight, his eyes were heavy-rimmed, but he persevered, knowing this was his only chance. Lifting the tin drum, he noticed a faint turpentine smell. He’d meant to utilize it to add height to the chimney, but decided not to risk it. Next, he recalculated the space needed within the chimney to achieve the temperature and reworked the firing schedule. He realized there would be no sleep for him tonight if he were to undertake this honestly.

Leaving the construction for a moment, he returned with an iron cooking pot and a grill. Hurrying, he finished the chimney, creating a damper with the grill. He laid his figurine inside first. Peter set the pot over top. The rest of the riverbed clay was molded over the trench, creating a tunnel. Then, he set the fire.

#What I Can Afford is Yours #Amphora

0 notes