I've had this Dreaming The Proposal AU sitting in my drafts for a while. Then @voukkake comes out with this art and I figured it was time to brush off the dust and share what I'd written lol. This is seriously all I'm going to write so if anyone is interested I'm begging you to pick this up. I'm dying to read Dream awkwardly interacting with Hob's family (also @valiantstarlights suggestion that Betty White is Destiny?? ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT). Anyway...

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Dream is about to be deported because his visa application has been denied. He is in the middle of a meeting with his lawyers when Hob, his secretary, pops in the room to inform Dream of a very important phone call and Dream comes up with the insane plan to marry Hob to keep his immigration status.

He gestures for Hob to come over and Hob, clueless, wanders into the room and stands next to Dream, who takes him by the arm and tugs him just a little bit further to stand awkwardly close.

Dream announces their engagement and Hob stands there, shell shocked and feels his mouth moving against his will. That yeah, they are getting married. They are in love, sure. It isn’t until they leave the office, following Dream back to his, that Hob’s brain seems to come back online.

“What just happened in there?”

Dream grouses, head down, already back to his work as if nothing happened. Like he didn’t just use Hob as a pawn in his scheme to get around his denied visa application.

“They were going to make Morningstar editor-in-chief.” Is all Dream says, disdain dripping from every word. He still hasn’t looked up.

Hob stands there, still as a statue. His head is swimming with words, with emotions. Anger, disbelief, betrayal… and a small tiny flicker of undeniable interest that he hastily stomps out.

He manages to put the pieces together rather quickly though, while Dream continues sifting through paperwork.

“This is illegal,” Hob manages to croak out, brows furrowing. 

“Oh, please. The government looks for terrorists, not book publishers.” Dream’s head is still down in his paperwork.

Hob blinks, taking a step up to Dream’s desk. “I'm not marrying you.”

“Sure you are.” Dream sets aside a stack of papers and finally gives Hob his attention. “Because if you don't, your dreams of ‘touching millions of lives with the written word’ are dead.” 

Hob’s jaw drops. That was a line, corny as it was, that he’d used in the panel interview for this job. Three years ago.

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“Were you not in that room? I could get fined, I’ll go to jail over this. If you want me on this deal, you will promote me to editor.”

Without even glancing up from his phone, Dream scoffs.

“Absolutely not.”

“Well then I guess you’re screwed. Buh-bye.” Hob turns with a flourish and has to bite back a grin at how Dream splutters behind him and grabs him by the arm.

“Fine– fine! Editor.” His face seems to go through the five stages of grief. He drops his hold on Hob.

“And You’ll publish my manuscript.” Hob throws in. In for a penny.

Dream’s brows narrow and he shakes as if he’s physically controlling the urge to stamp his foot.

“Sure. I’ll publish your hack manuscript.”

“Good.” Hob slips his hands in his pants pockets, staring at Dream, deciding on one last nail in the coffin.

“Now do it properly.”

Dream cocks an eyebrow. “Do what properly?”

“Propose. Like you mean it.”

Dream’s entire body seizes up, but he manages not to let it show, distracting himself by slipping his phone in the pocket of his expensive slacks and clasping his hands in front of him.

“Will you marry me?”

“No.” Hob, the arrogant bastard, is visibly biting back a smirk. “Say it like you mean it.”

Dream takes a long, steadying breath through his nose.

“Hob Gadling. Will you–”

“And get on your knees.”

Dream absolutely refuses to decipher the thrill that shoots through his body at Hob’s command. Instead he keeps his mask of irritation and indifference on as he scans the crowd around them. They are still outside the courthouse, and the concrete sidewalk is going to potentially tear Dream’s Hugo Boss black wool pants.

So he carefully lowers himself, scowling as the smirk on Hob’s face only widens as Dream slowly settles onto the ground.

Once he’s as comfortable as Dream’s going to get, he clears his throat.

“Hob Gadling,” he glares at his subordinate from under his lashes. “Will you fucking marry me?”

Hob curls his lips in mock consideration, looking up past Dream’s head. He rocks back on his heels and nods with a forlorn sigh.

“Okay.” He still hasn’t met Dream’s gaze. “Could've done without the sarcasm but it will do. See you at the airport tomorrow.” 

And turns and walks away, leaving Dream to fend for himself on the ground.

Here we go again with a fun little drabble, this time for a spontaneous Knight!Hob and Prince!Dream au (which will probably get a few more additions lmao). It all started with my lovely @im-not-corrupted handing me the prompt "you know, it's ok if you're not ok" from this wonderful prompt list.

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Dream ran down a corridor, his coat billowing behind him like an angry cloud of black smoke, set to destroy everything that would dare to stand between him and this God-forsaken door deep within the bowels of the castle. 

Dream ran, and it was the first time Dream remembered running since his childhood years, when he had been a naught but a babe, excited to explore every nook and corner of the massive palace that he called his home. Of course the first time he was forced to engage in such physical activity in as many years, it would be Hob Gadling's fault. Because it was always Hob Gadling's fault, from the moment he stepped foot into the throne room and announced he would become Dream's personal guardian, a Knight in his name alone, loyal to none other than the Prince of the Dreaming. 

What is he at fault for? a curious reader might ask, and Dream would whirl around on his heel and give a whole list of things Sir Robert Gadling could be blamed for, if only indirectly. 

For the blush he forced onto Dream's pale cheeks anytime their gazes met over a particularly boring dinner with his family. Perhaps also for the way Dream's heart skipped a beat whenever Hob spoke up to the King and Queen on his behalf, a feat so terrible even the most noble of men had failed before him. Good thing Hob was no nobleman, no son of high houses nor of new money. 

He was an idiot, first and foremost. A talented, quick witted and patient idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. After all, who just waltzes into a room with the King and Queen in it and promises undying loyalty to their adolescent son who no one particularly likes and expects it to simply work? And who decides to simply enter a jousting match without any former training or experience for fun?

Hob Gadling, of course, which was just one more example of things he could be blamed for. 

Nil consideration for his own physical well-being. 

Idiot. 

Dream was about to say as much as he threw open the door to Hob's chambers, but every ill thought spent towards his Knight's stupidity was immediately dropped as Dream found him hunched over the back of his armchair, one hand clutching at his bare chest as it rose and fell in quick succession. 

God's wounds, Dream had seen how Hob got shoved out of his saddle, how the lance had connected with his armor plate and sent him flying from his horse in one spectacular arch. But he never could have guessed just how bad it must have hurt, even through the steel and cloth. The bruise on Hob's chest was an angry black, his sides spotted with a deep red where his ribs were most definitely fractured. 

"Hob," the name left Dream's lips like a plea, like God's name would fall from a sinner's lips who prayed for salvation. And he did pray for salvation, in a way. Not his own, but salvation from endless pain nonetheless.

The man in question looked up between sweaty brows, a pained grimace painting his usual smile an ugly gray. Dream found himself by his side faster than lightning, hands coming up to hover helplessly over Hob's chest. 

Hob sighed at the concern clearly plastered into every corner of Dream's face, the way his lips tugged downwards in an obvious display of his dislike for the position he found Hob in. 

"Don't you worry for me, my Lord. I'm… fine. I'm fine, I promise." 

Tragically, the trustworthiness of this statement was negated by a heavy cough wrecking Hob's body, which left him groaning in pain over his injuries. 

"You are not fine, Robert Gadling," Dream hissed in response, hands finally coming to a rest on Hob's back. "Which is. Alright. It is alright if you are not alright. Just, please, lay down, my friend. You must rest."

Thankfully, Hob did not fight Dream as he was pushed towards his bedroom, and neither did he when Dream gently pressed him down into the mattress with a careful hand to his shoulder. His breath was still heavy and his eyes half-lidded as he looked up at Dream, something vulnerable hidden behind the dark brown of his eyes that Dream could not quite decipher in the near darkness of the bedroom. 

"Will you stay? My Lord?" Hob whispered, apparently balancing carefully between the realm of sleep and the world of the waking. 

"No duty could possibly force me from your side, my half-witted Knight." Dream responded quietly, his heart warming considerably at the soft smile that crept into his friend's eyes at the endearment, before they eventually fell close and Hob got pulled into deep and restful slumber. 

Dream placed a single feather-light kiss to the dark spot on Hob's chest before settling into the other side of the bed, his eyes fixed on the slowing rise and fall of Hob's breast. 

Hob Gadling really was an idiot.

Dream's idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

( i cant belive there are only three of these left after this one...I've had this one in my head for a while now as a coda to the series, and even though its not the last one technically the word prompt was too perfect not to use for this. So here's the chronological ending of Endless Heirs AU, even though there will be three more drabbles after to fill out the month. Thank you so much to everyone who has commented and liked and enjoyed the series!)

Utopia

Dream of the Endless walks in the garden of his palace in the Dreaming, his white hair and white robes reflecting the bright sunshine that warms the air around him, the air rich with the scent of roses, gardenias, lilies and a thousand other blooms; the perfect dream of a perfect summer's day.

Dream runs his hand over the flowers as he walks, enjoying the moment, letting his mind wander and relax, his bare feet brushing through grass as green as his emerald and as soft as the clouds above.

He stops as he rounds a corner, seeing that this area of the garden has a visitor, though it's not a dreamer.

They're sitting on a bench with Their back towards him, bent over reading a book, but he'd know Them anywhere, even without Their dark curls flashing golden in the light, and the golden wings cascading down Their bare back.

He calls to them, hand raised in greeting and a smile igniting the stars in his eyes.

They turn towards him at his call and a smile as bright as the sunshine breaks out upon Their face in return, and Dream feels his heart beat happily in Their chest as Their's beats in his.

"Hello my Sweet Dream" Desire says coming up to him, and there is only kindness and affection in Their tone, not a hint of irony in the endearment.

"Hello yourself" He says, offering his sibling his arm to walk alongside him.

"Dad and Hob invited me over for dinner this weekend, are you free to come? I think Hob's starship is supposed to be passing Saturn at this point on their way back home, so we'll have a spectacular view."

"That sounds lovely, I'd love to come" They say, taking the proffered arm.

"Speaking of family dinners by the way--" Desire begins, and Dream makes a mock groan.

"Oh don't tell me it's my turn to host?"

"No, it's mine." Desire says with a laugh and a reassuring pat to his arm. "But I could use your help getting things set up. You know how Destiny always fusses over everything being 'just so' now that we don't just do them at his place. You remember what happened when The Prodigal hosted back in 2245?"

"Oh that was a good time." Dream says with a wry grin, remembering the raucous party that had ensued, they'd broken the table from the dancing.

"Is Despair bringing all her rats?" Dream asks as they cross over a footbridge, the water bubbling up a song after them.

🎶'--like roses and clover, then tell him that his lonely nights are over…'🎶

"Last time we spoke yes, so if you could start people dreaming of lots of cheese and very small tables I'd be eternally grateful. It'll be so much easier to get them from here."

"Ah the truth comes out! You only like me for the Dreaming's easy access to food and home decor, I'm just a convenient IKEA to you"

Desire snorts and aims a playful kick at his legs and Dream laughs aloud.

"I'll see what I can do. Aunt Delight's still set to do the invitations?"

"Always, though I hope the next ones are a bit easier to read"

"Aw I kind of liked the shower of rose petals spelling the invitations in mid air"

"You would"

They walk off together further into the garden, arm in arm, smiles bright and hearts full, at peace with themselves and each other.

From high above, stopping to rest on a pinnacle of the Castle of Dreams before she continues her rounds, Death looks down at the pair, and smiles.

For your ask thing (if you're still doing it): 30, 38, 50

Hello! Thanks for the ask! I wasn't sure which ask game you wanted me to answer so I'm answering this with my spotify wrapped fic ask game!

30. For Tonight by Giveon: For this song, I would probably write a modern human AU; Hob and Dream are both college students (maybe even roommates) who absolutely hate each other. Hob is far too upbeat and optimistic for Dream and Dream is too surly and prideful for Hob. They're constantly complaining about each other to their friends (in Hob's case) and family (in Dream's case). Finally, the tension snaps and they fall into bed with each other for a fantastic round of hate sex. They both hate themselves for it after and vow never to speak of it again, but neither of them can stop thinking about it, especially because they live in the same room (though Dream tries his best to avoid Hob at all costs, even going so far as to sleep on Death's couch for a week until she kicks him out to face his own problems). Hob eventually corners Dream to try to talk about it, but they end up having sex again without resolving anything and it becomes something of a habit. They hate each other, they'll complain loudly and at length to anyone who asks, but they're also hooking up regularly and it's a very complicated situation. Dream has had his heart broken too many times to be able to commit to anything while Hob pours his whole heart into everything and feels very rejected by Dream's inability to even talk about it. It all comes to a head when Hob, pushed past his limits, brings another guy back to the room to hook up and Dream is finally forced to confront just how deep his feelings for Hob are.

38. Monsters by Hazlett: This song is very difficult, mostly because the lyrics (for me personally) don't really resonate; I just love the vibes, but it gives off the energy of loving life without having any real direction and finding out who you are through experimentation. For this song, I would probably write a fic about Hob living his best life even without Dream. It would be set in the late sixties and early seventies, right at the height of Woodstock, drug culture, and the hippie movement of free love and opposing war. I feel like Hob would've experimented a lot with sex and drugs at the time, especially because he couldn't get STDs or overdose, so he could quite literally go as wild as he wanted. It would probably be a collection of vignettes of Hob trying various things out; getting high, going to an orgy, protesting against war in the US against Vietnam, participating in the Civil Rights Movement, attending music festivals, and just fully immersing himself in the hippie (and yippie) culture. But I'm still on the fence about this answer, so if I come up with a better one, I'll put it in the notes!

50. Wherever I Fall - Pt. 1 by Bryce and Aaron Dessner from the Cyrano Soundtrack: I actually have a fic planned out for this song because I cry every time I listen to it. The general premise is that, the first time Hob went to war, before he met Dream, his regiment was given a suicide mission; they knew that the chances of survival were slim to none. The night before marching out, the only literate man among them went around to each soldier, asking who they would be leaving behind and if they wanted to send a letter home for their loved ones in order to say goodbye. One by one, each soldier tells their story: their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, fiancees, best friends, etc.

Years later, after Hob gets his immortality, he remembers how much that gesture meant to him and the rest of his regiment to have someone write down their words and promise to deliver them. He takes it upon himself to learn how to read and write, if only so he can ensure that his fellow soldiers' last words make it to their loved ones. He can't die, so he might as well use that to make sure that the people who do get to say goodbye

Anyway, that got sad, but thank you so much for the ask!!

but at the cost I payed, I'm pretty sure I got screwed

buck wasn't exactly sure how to process the fact he'd been lied to, his entire life - that his parents had forced maddie to keep such a fundamental part of his past, his life, from him. but - at least he wasn't alone.

or - eight conversations between buck and his true family as he comes to terms with the existence of the brother he never knew he had. set post 4x04

ao3 link

i. albert

Buck had forgotten that Albert would be home, when he managed to stumble through his own front door – breath catching in his chest as he tried to process the bombshell Maddie had just dropped on his life. Maybe – maybe it was rude of him, cruel to forget that he shared his apartment with the younger man, that Albert lived on his couch, but Buck had forgotten, and how he wasn’t sure of a kind way to tell Albert that if he had to have a conversation with another human being, there and then, that he would scream.

And he might not be able to stop screaming.

Albert was looking at him with genuine concern written all over his face, sliding the pan he was using to cook off the hob, so it wouldn’t burn. “Are you okay, Buck?” he asked, and Buck knew he could talk to Albert, and he would try to understand; burdened by his own family issues in ways that would make it easier to admit the insanity of the Buckley family aloud.

But Buck couldn’t.

“That’s kind of a loaded question, Albert,” Buck managed to choke the words out, anxiety clawing at his chest.

Albert inclined his head slightly. “Okay,” he conceded. “Are you well enough to be here, alone – or as alone as you can be with me, here,” he grinned slightly at his own words. “Or do you need me to call someone?”

“I don’t think I know,” Buck admitted, forcing himself to sit at the kitchen table, his blood thundering in his ears as he tried to process everything.

He had a brother. He has a brother – even if that brother wasn’t alive, anymore. Buck had a brother – he wasn’t the only Buckley boy, like he’d believed for so much of his life. For twenty-nine years, he’d thought Maddie was his only sibling, but she wasn’t, and Buck’s entire world felt like it had been spun on its axis and nothing made sense, anymore; but somehow everything made more sense than it ever had before, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with that.

Albert pushed a glass of water toward him, a kind look on his face.

“I don’t think I can talk about it, yet,” Buck admitted, the cool condensation dripping down the side of the glass – a housewarming gift from Hen and Karen, glasses nicer than he’d ever buy himself, if he was being honest – grounding in the way it reminded Buck that he wasn’t dreaming, the glass wet to touch.

“That’s okay,” Albert shrugged. “I can talk, instead, if you want.”

Buck could have cried, with relief. “Yeah, that would be great, Albert.”

Albert grinned. “Okay,” he nodded, moving his pan back onto the hob. “So – I had an online class, today, and one of my classmates, they were clearly not paying attention, but as it turns out, they had taken a series of photos of themselves, and were playing it as a video……..”

Buck forced himself to focus on Albert’s words, his roommate talking about the perfectly mundane happenings of his day, how his online classes went, how their neighbour down the hall still firmly believed he and Buck were a couple, and how its quite sweet, really, because she’s trying her hardest to make sure that they know she accepts them, and she’ll be dropping by a loaf of banana bread, in the morning.

It wasn’t until Albert set a bowl down in front of Buck, a simple pasta dish that made Buck’s stomach growl in acknowledgement of how hungry he was, that Buck spoke, looking at his roommate – his friend – with watery eyes.

“Thank you,” Buck managed to sputter out.

Albert shrugged. “You need to eat,” he said, pushing a fork toward Buck. “My grandmother – she always said that the problems of the world looked a little less daunting, when you looked at them with a full stomach.”

“I don’t just mean for the food,” Buck croaked, though he was grateful for the food – because he wasn’t sure if he had the mental energy to try and make himself dinner, to remember how to cook any of the ingredients that sat in his well-stocked kitchen. “I mean – for taking me out of my head, for a minute.”

Albert smiled, in that endearingly sincere way he always did, Chimney’s brother always one to wear his heart on his sleeve. “What are roommates for?”

ii. bobby

It’s not as though Buck particularly wanted to tell Bobby, about what was going on – but after the incident at the fire, after the way Buck had been acting, he knew he had to, he knew that he had to admit to his boss what was happening. He’d been insufferable to work with, Buck knew, and his boss was owed an explanation.

What Buck hadn’t expected was Bobby’s reaction. It wasn’t – it wasn’t the reaction of a Captain, a professional acknowledgement of a personal trauma that Buck wasn’t able to compartmentalise and leave at home, like he was supposed to, it was the reaction of a friend, Bobby pulling Buck in for a determined, bone-crushing hug.

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” Bobby’s voice was calm, against the sea of static that was buzzing in Buck’s head, something Buck could cling to as he stood, still as a statue, in Bobby’s embrace.

“You didn’t do anything,” Buck found himself saying, confused.

Bobby pulled back, hands on Buck’s shoulders. “I can be sorry, even if I didn’t have a role to play in this,” he said. “Buck, I’m sorry for you as your friend – what your parents hid from you, it was cruel. You didn’t deserve to be lied to like that.”

Buck swallowed his tears, focusing his gaze on one of the photos hanging on the back wall of Bobby’s office. “Their kid died,” he said, voice robotic as he voiced the sentence he’d practiced over, and over. “I can’t blame them.”

“Yes, you can,” Bobby’s voice was fierce. “Buck – I had to bury my own children. That is a pain I will never forget, and one I will live with for the rest of my life. I can’t even begin to describe to you what that grief, the grief of losing a child, feels like, and I hope you never, ever understand it,” he said. “But I have never put the burden of that grief on May, or Harry. Your parents had no right to force you, and Maddie, to bear their grief in the way they did. It was wrong. It is wrong.”

Buck hated how easily he was crying – how easily he’d always been reduced to tears, too soft, too emotional, not enough of a tough guy to please his father. “It was?” his voice was tiny as he spoke, unsure if he could take Bobby’s words at face value. Was Bobby saying that just to placate him? To make it so he could suck it up, and work?

“Yes, Buck,” Bobby’s voice was firm. “It was wrong – and no one in this team is going to begrudge you the time you need to process this. We’re your family, and we’re here for you. Okay? I’m here for you Buck, whatever you need.”

Buck hadn’t been hugged a lot, as a kid – not by his parents, at least. That was a pitifully sad thing to admit, but it was the truth – for all the ways Maddie had been kind, and affectionate, pressing kisses to Buck’s curls and hugging him close, his parents had been cold, and physically distant, never giving Buck more than a pat on the shoulder.

He knew why, now. They looked at him and all they saw was Daniel – all they ever saw was the son who would forever be twelve, frozen in time. They had watched him grow up, and maybe he was tolerable, when he was younger, when he was going through all the same phases that Daniel had – but as soon as Buck had turned thirteen, and lived longer than the brother he didn’t know existed, his parents had kept their distance more, and more, and then Maddie had left, and Buck had been left to crave physical affection, taking that intimacy wherever he could get it, regardless of the impact it had on him, regardless of how it would all leave him feeling even lonelier, when it was over.

But –

Bobby was a dad.

Not his dad –

But someone’s dad.

“Could I…” Buck cut himself off, embarrassed. “Could I have another hug, Bobby?”

Bobby’s eyes were sad, and full of sympathy – but not pity, Buck noted. “Yeah, kid,” Bobby said, pulling him in for a hug, Buck forced to stoop a little, to match Bobby’s height, comfortable in the embrace, this time. “You can have a hug.”

iii. hen

“Hey there, Buckaroo.”

Buck looked up to see Hen approaching him, doughnut in hand.

“You were missing out on the sugar delivery,” Hen explained, hanging him the plate. “So I snagged you your favourite flavour.”

Buck wanted to cry. “You didn’t have to do that, Hen.”

Hen shrugged, sliding down the wall so she was sitting on the concrete next to him, the bright sun of the Los Angeles afternoon beating down on them, the corner they were sitting in slightly secluded, distant from the noise of the firehouse that Buck normally thrived in – just, not today.

“I wanted to,” she said, taking a bite of her own doughnut – cinnamon sugar, Buck noted, her favourite. She’d always been the one to support Buck’s belief that simple was best, when it came to doughnuts, never making fun of Buck’s preference for plain old raspberry jelly flavour; unlike Chimney and the rest of the team, who favoured the hipster doughnut place around the corner from the station, and all the weird flavours they sold.

“Because you feel sorry for me?” Buck found himself asking.

“Because you’re my friend,” Hen corrected, nudging Buck’s knee with her own. “And I can see you’re hurting, Buck, so I wanted to do something nice for you.”

Buck knew he didn’t look the best, rocking up to their shift that morning – his eyes were red raw from crying, because he was in that stage of processing it all, now (Dr. Copeland had assured him that crying was a perfectly healthy trauma response, but Buck was tired of Albert’s quietly concerned looks, because apparently even crying alone in his shower didn’t guarantee privacy in the tiny space they co-existed in.)

He just hadn’t realised he looked that bad.

“I guess you know, then,” Buck murmured, poking at his doughnut. He’d given Bobby permission to tell the team, if he felt it was appropriate – he just hadn’t been able to face the prospect of telling them himself.

“No,” Hen’s voice was firm. “Whatever is going on with you, is your story to tell, Buck. Unless you want to tell me, I have no intention of finding out what is happening.”

Buck shot her a confused look.

“Chimney, he gave me the impression that whatever you’ve found out, is something that was kept from you by the people you love most in the world, and you didn’t have a choice in who found out, because Maddie told him first, and when – and when you got trapped, in that fire, Chimney panicked and told some of the team,” Hen said, explaining what Buck already knew – what Chimney had already desperately apologised for, terrified that Buck’s newfound knowledge of his dead brother had pushed him from resident daredevil to on the verge of suicidal.

Buck didn’t blame him, really.

“I didn’t hear the secret, at the fire,” Hen said. “And I asked Bobby not to tell me. I want you to be able to tell at least one person, on your own terms, if you want to tell me. And if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay too – I just want you to have the option. I’m happy to be the friend who doesn’t know, if that’s what you need.”

Hen’s sincerity was making Buck want to cry again, his friend looking at him earnestly as she spoke. He knew that if he asked her, Hen would do her best to never find out what Buck’s secret was – Hen was good with secrets – and Buck wasn’t sure how to voice his appreciation out loud in a way that felt appropriate for the magnitude of what Hen was offering him.

Peace.

The power to take control of his own situation.

Buck hadn’t felt in control from the moment he had picked up that photograph of Daniel, and Maddie had admitted who it was, but now, for a second, at least, he felt in control.

“I had a brother,” Buck admitted, hot, angry tears rolling down his cheeks. “I had a brother, and they never told me – they kept him from me. For my whole life, they kept him from me, Hen.”

“Oh, Buck,” Hen’s voice was thick with emotion as she spoke. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“I know – I know it wouldn’t have change the fact he died, when I was a baby,” Buck continued, managing to talk about it, even just a little, for the first time since he’d found out. “But I deserved to know, Hen.”

“Yes, you did,” Hen was fierce in her agreement. “They had no right to keep his existence from you, Buck.”

“It explains it, you know,” Buck glanced at Hen, the protectiveness that was written all over her face making his heart twist in his chest. “Why they never loved me, not really – I was never Daniel.”

“I’m not even going to pretend to understand your parents,” Hen said, wrapping her arms around Buck’s shoulders, pulling him close, running a hand through his curls, the same way Maddie used to, when he was younger. “But I’ll tell you something for nothing, Buck; I love you. I love you like a brother, and I know its not the same, but I love you. And loving you has been damn easy, from the moment you stepped into this fire station – because you have a heart of goddamn gold, Buck. And your parents inability to see that is not your fault.”

Buck let out a shuddering sigh, leaning into the comforting embrace Hen was offering him. “I’m not sure if I believe you, Hen.”

“That’s okay,” Hen reassured. “I’ll keep reminding you until you do.”

“You will?”

“I will,” Hen confirmed. “Because that’s what family does, Buck. Now – eat your doughnut before we get called out.”

iv. chimney

Buck hated the tentative way that his friend – and teammate, and future brother-in-law, probably – approached him, looking nervous. He hated it – and he hated how he didn’t have it in him to put a stop to it, just yet.

“Hey, Buck,” Chimney greeted.

Buck paused what he was doing, the chrome of the ladder truck already gleaming from the thorough polish he had given it. “Are you here as my sisters boyfriend, Chimney, or my friend?”

“As your friend,” Chimney answered without a second’s hesitation, which Buck had to admit he appreciated.

“Okay,” Buck put the polish down entirely, nodding. “Because I’m not ready to talk to Maddie about this yet.”

“She knows,” Chimney nodded, quiet for a second. “I wanted to talk to you as my friend, Buck, because – and I would walk through fire for your sister – you were my friend before I ever met Maddie, and I don’t want you to forget that. I care about you as more than just my girlfriends brother, Buck, and I’m – I’m sorry this is happening to you.”

Buck didn’t have a reason not to believe Chimney – really, he didn’t. “I’m still angry,” he admitted. “That you knew before I did. You had no right to know before I did, Chim.”

“I know,” Chimney agreed, rocking forward on his heels as he spoke. “I wish I didn’t know, Buck,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t found out before you. I – I said, from the moment I knew, that you deserved to know, but as much as it wasn’t my place to know before you, it wasn’t my place to tell you. It needed to come from Maddie, and your parents.”

Buck nodded. It was true – that it would have been worse to hear it from Chimney, and not Maddie, or his mom and dad. Of all the people to hear it from, Chimney would have been the worst one. It should have come from his parents, really – from the people who’d forced a child, their daughter, to keep their older brother’s existence a secret their entire lives. Maddie had been nine, when she’d been forced to pretend Daniel had never existed. She couldn’t have possibly understood the consequences of their parents refusal to acknowledge that Daniel had been a part of their lives, once.

“I know,” Buck said finally. “I know, Chim. I just – I can’t pretend like I’m feeling all that logical, about all of this. I’m trying – I’m just not there yet.”

Chimney’s expression was genuinely understanding. “You don’t need to be logical about this, Buck,” he shook his head. “You’re entitled to deal with this and grieve – and be angry as hell – in whatever way works best for you. I just – I wanted to know that I’m here for you, that I’m your friend. And if you need to talk to me, I can be your friend – and just your friend, not Maddie’s boyfriend. What we talk about, it stays between me and you, Buck.”

Buck gave Chimney a grateful smile. “Thank you, Chim,” he said, awkwardly wringing his polish rag between his hands, twisting, and pulling, the material taut in his hands. “I just don’t think I’m ready to talk about it with anyone, yet.”

And that was the truth of it –

Buck wasn’t ready to talk about it with anyone, not his friends, not Maddie, not even with his therapist – not yet.

“Then let’s talk about something else,” Chimney said, grabbing another polish rag, smirking at Buck. “Like your terrible polish job.”

Buck glared good-naturedly at Chimney. “I’m not a probie anymore, Chim, don’t start this.”

Chimney whistled cheerfully as he started to polish, grinning. “You’ll always be a probie to me, Buckaroo.”

v. athena

Buck hadn’t seen Athena in a while – their calls didn’t actually crossover, all that much, so it wasn’t all that unusual to have not seen her in a few weeks. A part of Buck was glad – and not because he didn’t love Athena, but he wasn’t sure if he could cope with seeing the anger she carried on his behalf in person. Buck didn’t like when other people felt burdened by his issues.

“Buck.”

Buck paused, halfway back to the truck. He couldn’t exactly ignore his Captain’s wife – or anyone, for that matter. Maddie (Maddie, always Maddie, not their parents) had raised him better than that, had raised him to be polite. “Hi, Athena.”

“I know you’re not ready to talk about it,” Athena said, hands on hips, stance fierce and protective and everything Buck never had in a mother. He was glad, May and Harry had her, at least. “But I wanted you to know – parents shouldn’t lie to their children the ways yours have lied to you. It’s cruel, and I’m sorry it happened to you, Buck.”

Buck didn’t quite know what to say. “Uh – thank you?”

“I’m not trying to overstep,” Athena raised her hands in surrender. “I’m not your mother. I’m your friend, though, Buck – and I’m someone’s mom, and I can’t stand the thought of you thinking that your parents did all this out of some twisted sense of protection for you, and Maddie. Parents – however hard – should teach you how to grieve. Not teach you to be invisible as a punishment for something you never knew happened.”

Buck nodded, shaking hands gripping tightly to his halogen. “You’re a great mom, Athena,” he said quietly.

“And you’re a great man, Evan Buckley,” Athena gave his elbow a squeeze. “I just thought you should hear that from someone today.”

vi. christopher

Buck had an armful of Christopher the second he walked through the front door of the Diaz household, the little boy flying at him, crutches and all. “Oh, hey, buddy,” Buck laughed, easily scooping a wriggling Christopher up, easing his crutches off of his arms so he could hug him properly.

“I’m glad you’re here, Buck!” Christopher said, grinning widely at Buck, his new braces glinting in the soft light of the evening, reminding Buck of how grown up the kid in his arms was getting – on the cusp of his teenage years, all too soon.

“I’m glad I’m here too, buddy,” Buck replied, holding Christopher close. He wasn’t even the kids dad – and he couldn’t imagine ever lying to him, like his parents had to him, couldn’t imagine doing anything except loving the little boy with everything he had.

“Dad said you’ve had a bad week,” Christopher said matter-of-factly. “So we have a surprise for you.”

“Oh, you do?” Buck gave Christopher a watery smile, flashing Eddie a confused look.

Eddie raised his hands in surrender. “It was all this guy,” he said proudly. “I just did the driving.”

Buck laughed, looking back at Christopher. “Where are we going, then?”

“Kitchen!”

Tossing a giggling Christopher over his shoulder, Buck made his way to the kitchen, Christopher chatting excitedly as he moved. Buck felt like he was going to cry – really, properly cry – when he spotted the feast of all of his favourite things on the Diaz kitchen table.

“We got all your favourites!” Christopher explained. “Popcorn, and chocolate – and pizza! And we’re going to watch Inside Out, because its your favourite film, and me and dad, we’re going to make sure you feel better, Buck.”

Buck wiped roughly at his eyes. This kid. “I already feel better, buddy.”

Christopher’s brow was furrowed. “But you’re crying.”

“People can cry when they’re happy, Chris,” Eddie explained, running a soothing hand down Buck’s back. “It doesn’t always mean someone is sad.”

“Your dad is right,” Buck confirmed. “I’m crying because I’m happy – and I’m very grateful to have such a thoughtful kid taking care of me.”

Christopher grinned again, patting a sticky hand against Buck’s cheek. “You’re gonna be o-kay, kid,” he beamed, and for the first time, Buck almost believed it.

vii. eddie

“He’s out like a light,” Buck said softly, half closing the porch door behind them – enough that they wouldn’t wake Christopher, with their conversation, but still open enough that they’d be able to hear if Christopher woke up in the night.

Christopher had insisted on Buck being the one to put him to bed, that night, despite how hard Eddie tried to get Christopher to give Buck a break – but Buck had enjoyed the routine of it all, if he was being honest, Christopher’s happy snorts as Buck (badly) danced around the bathroom while Christopher brushed his teeth making him forget the car-wreck his life was for a few minutes, at least.

Eddie nodded, nudging a beer toward Buck. “You spoil him, you know,” he said, not a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I know you read him two chapters of his book, not one.”

Buck hummed gratefully. “I know,” he said, voice dropping. “Kids deserve to be spoiled, a bit at least.”

“How are you doing Buck? Really?” Eddie asked, and Buck felt a dam inside him break – he’d kept everything he was feeling so bottled up, for so long, and all of a sudden, on his best friends back porch, it all came pouring out, tears cascading down his cheeks.

“I had a brother,” Buck hiccupped out, bordering on hysterical as he cried, Eddie moving quickly so he was crouching in front of Buck, soothing hands on Buck’s knees. “I had a brother, Eddie.”

Eddie’s face was twisted, a mixture of heartbreak and sympathy. “I know, Buck,” he soothed softly, gentle hands wiping at Buck’s tears, taking Buck’s hands in his own, grounding Buck in the new reality he had found himself in, the past few weeks – a world where he was suddenly the youngest of three siblings, the third Buckley, not the second.

“I always wanted a brother,” Buck admitted out-loud for the first time, unable to stop his tears, gripping tightly to Eddie’s hands. “I love – I love Maddie, but I always wanted a brother, too, and I had one, and I didn’t know, and I can’t stop thinking about how different life might have been if he was still around. He was ten years older than me.”

Eddie was quiet.

“His name was Daniel,” Buck said, shakily voicing his brothers name out-loud for the first time to someone other than maybe. “His name was Daniel, and he was ten years older than me, and I’d have been a really good brother to him, and that’s all I know, and I just – I wish I knew more.”

“You know,” Eddie’s voice was soft, and reassuring, comforting and grounding in ways that Buck wasn’t sure how he ever lived without before, his best friend the kind of anchor Buck needed, in his life. “I bet Maddie knows more.”

“Eddie….”

“I know it hurts,” Eddie squeezed Buck’s hands, his expression encouraging as Buck forced himself to look at the older man. “And it’s going to hurt for a long time, Buck, and I’m sorry for that – but you’re not alone in that hurt. Me, Chris, Hen – the others – we’re here, and we love you, and we’ll do our best to understand, but there’s one person in the world that shares this hurt with you.”

“But she knew, Eddie, she knew all along, and she didn’t tell me – and I know she was a kid and it wasn’t her fault, but it still hurts, because she got to know him and grieve him, and I didn’t.”

“Did she?” Eddie countered, wise as ever now he went to regular therapy. “She had to pretend he didn’t exist. To grieve properly – you need to talk about the person, about who they were, and Maddie didn’t get to do that. As much as she can help you get to know who Daniel was, you can help her grieve the brother she wasn’t allowed to remember. I can’t help you do that.”

Buck tightened his grip on Eddie’s hands. “I can’t, not yet,” he admitted hoarsely. “Not tonight.”

“No,” Eddie hummed his agreement. “Tonight its just you and me, and the rest of these beers, and as much crying as you want. Okay?”

Buck laughed. Back when he first met Eddie, he could never have imagined their friendship getting to this point – to where they could sit, and talk, and drink and cry together. Somehow, somewhere along the way, they’d created this safe space, together, and Buck had never been more grateful for his best friend than he was, there and then.

He had a brother.

And tonight – tonight was the first time he’d said that out loud and hadn’t felt bitter, and angry, about it. Tonight had been the first time he’d said those words out loud and wondered who the person was, who Daniel had been – instead of focusing on the lies, the hurt of it all.

That was progress.

Swallowing thickly, Buck wiped at his sore eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he directed his question at Eddie.

“Anything?” Eddie’s lips quirked up in the beginnings of a smile.

“Anything,” Buck confirmed.

Eddie grinned. “Did you know - nearly three percent of the ice in Antarctic glaciers is penguin urine?”

Buck snorted, the sound outrageously loud in the quiet of the evening. “I don’t want to know how you know that.”

(He knew – of course he knew. Eddie was the only person who knew exactly how to bring Buck out of his own head, with odd facts and quirky news articles, anything to distract Buck from the overwhelming noise of his own thoughts).

Eddie took a swig of his beer, smiling contently. “You’re not the only one who can know weird things.”

viii. maddie

When she opened the door, Maddie greeted Buck with a relief he didn’t feel deserving to be on the receiving end of.

“I’m sorry, Maddie.”

“No,” Maddie interrupted, pulling him close, clinging tightly to his shoulders, refusing to let her pregnant belly be an obstacle to squeezing the life out of Buck – and he couldn’t say he was opposed to a bone-crushing hug from his sister. “You don’t need to apologise, Buck, not to me – not about this. I should be apologising to you.”

Buck pressed his face into the material of Maddie’s cardigan, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. She’d worn the same one since she was a teenager, and in the years when they weren’t in contact, Buck – well, he’d sometimes go to the perfume section of the department store, and sneak a sample, desperate to feel close to his sister, even if Doug had long since cut her off from him.

“I can’t hear you,” Maddie admitted, her voice soft as she ran a gentle hand through Buck’s hair.

“I said,” Buck pulled back slightly, Maddie’s tears reflecting his own. “I know we’ve got a lot to talk about – but uh, Maddie, will you tell me about him?”

Maddie brushed away a few stray tears of Buck’s before they had the chance to drip from his chin, nodding. “I’d really like that,” she confirmed, tugging Buck toward the couch. Her baby box was still on the coffee table, a photograph of Daniel – the same one Buck had found – propped up against the wood, another one next to it.

Of the three of them.

Buck looked as though he couldn’t be more than a few weeks old, in the photograph, Maddie proudly holding him in her arms, a little boy who was familiar, in so many ways, hair blond and bright like Buck’s had been, as a child – and unfamiliar in so many others, a kid who would forever be twelve years old.

“Is that us?” Buck asked, doing his best to fold his long limbs, curling himself up against Maddie, thinking back to when they were kids, and all the evenings they’d do the same – Buck curled up in her lap as they watched TV, or as Maddie soothed his tears after a fight with their parents. Her belly got in the way, a bit, and a part of Buck’s heart ached with the knowledge that someone else, his niece, would curl up in Maddie’s lap the same way he used to, in just a matter of months, but he pushed the thought aside.

“I told everyone you were my baby,” Maddie said, sounding like she was smiling. “Oh, I loved you so much from the moment you were born, Buck, and I wouldn’t let Daniel go near you – because you were mine.”

Buck didn’t try and stop his tears, now.

“He loved you just as much,” Maddie continued. “He would tell dad, how excited he was to be able to teach you to play soccer, one day, and ride a bike.”

All the things Maddie had taught him, in the end, Buck thought to himself.

“He picked your middle name,” Maddie continued. “Because he had a best friend called EJ, and he told mom and dad that you should have the same initials – Evan James - because you were going to be his new best friend.”

Closing his eyes, Buck let Maddie’s words wash over him, painting a picture of someone he would never have the chance to know – but loved, Buck thought, all the same, because Daniel couldn’t have known, how life would turn out without him, because he had only been a kid, when he died – and he wouldn’t have understood.

“He’d be proud of you, I think,” Maddie said quietly, pressing a kiss to Buck’s curls. “Because I am, Buck, I am so proud of you. You are not a disappointment. You are the greatest man I have ever known and I am so proud of you, and I love you, and I’ll tell everyone the same thing I told them when I was eight and I held you for the first time. You’re mine, Buck, not theirs.”

Buck nodded, not trusting himself to open his eyes. “I love you, Maddie.”

“I love you, little brother,” Maddie sounded like she was crying too, now. “We’re going to be okay.”

Buck –

Well, he didn’t have a reason not to believe his sister.

He wanted to believe her.

And maybe –

Just maybe.

He already did.

Yeah.

They would be okay.

Revenant Chapter 3

Summary: You’d always been told that when you died that you’d walk into the light towards Heaven. Only problem is, you died and the light never showed up. Now you’re attached to a handsome but grumpy and sleep deprived medical student and neither one of you knows what to do to get you to finally cross over.

Rating: PG15

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Fluff, angst, Ghost!au, MedicalStudent!Namjoon

Word Count: 5433

Warnings: Mentions of physical abuse and one seizure in future chapters.

.

.

The rest of Namjoon’s shift, you spent in a daze. He worked shadowing his nurse, Sasha, quietly and efficiently, occasionally sending you worried glances.

  His concern was sweet, but made you feel a little annoyed all the same. You didn’t like feeling so out of control, like a damsel in distress waiting for someone else to solve her problems for her. The good news was that you weren’t dead…the bad news was pretty much everything else. 

Where was your family? Were you truly alone there in that bed? Did no one claim you or did they not know? You’d heard of comas before, of course you had, but your knowledge on them was limited. It seemed like people were either in short comas, a rare extended coma for years at a time…or they eventually died. 

You wondered, not for the first time, what you had left behind when you’d suddenly…well, you couldn’t explain what you were experiencing currently. Perhaps the “between” of life and death. Regardless, you wondered if anyone was missing you; if anyone even noticed you were gone. If you slipped away, perhaps no one would even notice. Or, and maybe worse, perhaps you’d wake up and find that there was no one there waiting for you. 

Maybe Namjoon would stick around. Maybe Jimin would actually be excited to see what you look like. It was all speculation and it really wasn’t getting you anywhere except for a reality you weren’t sure existed for you anymore…but somehow, it made you feel a little better. 

. .

The subway ride home was silent. All seats taken, both you and Namjoon stood by the doors. His hand wrapped around the leather strap above his head and you leaned against metal bars as the train lurched to a start. Being with him was almost like being alive; the familiarity of the screeching wheels across the tracks almost bringing back memories. That tickling familiarity of something you can’t quite remember but is scratching right at the surface. It was nice.

You took time to study the passengers in the same car as you. All tired from a long day of work; the air was stuffy with the heat of their exhaustion. Namjoon himself leaned into his arm; eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he stared blankly through the glass of the windows. His fatigue was palpable and you found yourself wishing you could reach out to him. To rub the weariness from his eyes.

You followed after him quietly at his exit, moving towards the direction of his apartment. The crowds thinned the further you got from the station until it was just the two of you walking along the sidewalk under the hanging leaves of maple.

The evening had cooled into pleasant warmth by the time you’d reached Namjoon’s apartment building. You almost regretted having to go inside when it felt so nice out, but you coveted the company of the one person who could see you so you followed him through the lobby and into the elevator.

Jimin arrived home not long after Namjoon had finished his shower. He watched his friend shuffle around the room looking cozy and warm in flannel bottoms and a long white t-shirt, drying his hair with a towel. You watched as Jimin surveyed the room curiously, eyebrows creasing at the silence.

You sat at the loveseat by the window, staring out into the quickly darkening evening, deep hues of crimson electrifying the sky one more time before the dark finally silenced it. “Is Y/N not here anymore?” Jimin asked his friend.

You watched from the corner of your eye as Namjoon’s eyes shifted to you before he mumbled an explanation to his friend. You didn’t need to be close enough to hear; you knew he was telling him about today.

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” Jimin asked loudly, eyes bouncing around the room as though he might find you. “Where is she?”

Namjoon looked towards you, nodding in your direction and Jimin’s eyes shifted your way. Once again, you found yourself wishing you weren’t invisible. “That’s good isn’t it, Y/N? You’re not dead, just in a coma!”

Namjoon groaned softly, shaking his head. “It’s never “just” a coma, Jimin. Be a little more sensitive; I’m sure it was shocking for her to see.”

Jimin muttered a soft apology and you sighed. Namjoon looked back at you. “It’s not even that, it’s just…no one was there with me. What if I died and no one cared? Or…what if I woke up and no one cared?”

“I would care!” Namjoon said and Jimin startled at his volume. “No matter what happens, you’ve got me. You wouldn’t be alone.”

“Me too!” Jimin said, nodding enthusiastically. “That made sense with what she said, right?” He whispered to his friend who nodded and you smiled.

“Thanks.” You mumbled before standing, making your way over to where they stood. Jimin’s eyes were still trained on the window and you grinned, looking over at Namjoon. “What are you guys having for dinner tonight?”

“She wants to know what we’re gonna eat tonight.” Namjoon said.

“Oh!” Jimin said with a hum, “I was thinking steak and potatoes.”

“You don’t have to shout.” Namjoon chuckled as you flinched away from his volume. “She’s standing right in front of us.”

Jimin smiled bashfully, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

“Do you mind if I sit with you? I know it’s hard having a conversation because Jimin can’t see or hear me…but I’d like to have the company right now.” You said softly, looking between the two.

Namjoon nodded, “of course you can join. Jimin, you want me to take potatoes?” Jimin nodded, patting his friend on the arm before heading to the fridge, pulling out a package of thawed steaks as Namjoon made his way to the pantry, pulling out a bag of potatoes and throwing some into the sink to wash.

“Jin should be home in an hour so if we time this right, we could be getting finished right when he gets back.” Jimin said, clattering around under the hob in search of a decent pan.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate a warm dinner.” Namjoon hummed and you moved to stand beside him.

“Who’s Jin?”

“He’s our other roommate,” Namjoon said, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “He graduated college last year; works in investment. He’s been on a business trip the last 5 days and his flight is actually probably landing right about now.”

“How long have you guys known each other?” You asked, leaning your back against the counter beside him. His eyelashes were surprisingly long; long enough to make any woman jealous. His cheeks dimpled as he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing softly. He flipped the water on, scrubbing the potatoes one by one as he answered.

“Actually, we’ve all been friends since elementary school. Jimin and Jin are cousins and when my family moved to the same neighborhood as Jimin’s, we just kind of met organically.”

“I wish I could tell you about my own life.” You bemoaned, “But unfortunately I don’t remember really anything.”

“Someday.” He said, turning to you with a smile, cheek dimpling in once more and your heart fluttered wild. “Someday you can tell us all about your life.”

You stood chatting with them for the next hour while they cooked, wishing you could help. As it was, everything seemed to be going straight through your hands these days. When you’d first arrived in this in between place, you’d almost been able to move things. Everything had felt a little more solid, a little more concrete, but now it seemed like the world was becoming like the wispy memories of a dream.

Jimin was just pulling the tray of roasted vegetables from the oven, when keys in the front door alerted you to the arrival of the final roommate. You moved towards it, enjoying for once the ability your “in between” gave you to be a creeper unseen. Aside from Namjoon, of course.

The front door swung open revealing an extremely handsome man in a dark blue business suit, ebony hair pushed back and away from his face. “Is there a website where you find all these good-looking roommates?” You quipped lightly, “Hotguy.com? Maybe I can search for a boyfriend on there if I wake up.”

Namjoon gave you a tight-lipped smile before turning his attention to his roommate with a loud greeting. It seemed that you would be going back to invisible now that Jin was home. You didn’t really mind, though; you understood. Having to explain to Jimin had been trying enough, he didn’t need to risk another person thinking he was crazy for your sake.

“My bro’s!” Jin shouted loudly, leaving his suitcase by the door and coming in to give hugs. “Steak? You guys are the best! I’m starving.”

“Yeah, grab a plate and load up. Everything is ready.” Jimin said, sending Namjoon a look.

Jin filled his plate with steak, mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables before sitting heavily at the table and taking the knife and fork Namjoon handed to him with a thank you. “How was your trip?” Namjoon asked, coming to sit down beside him with his own plate. He’d made a well in the middle of his potatoes, filling them so full of gravy that it had gone spilling over the rest of his plate.

It looked delicious and you pouted sadly at the sight. What you wouldn’t give to have a bite. “Trip was good,” Jin said, cutting off a huge chunk of sirloin and shoving it in his mouth. “Different way of life out there, man. Everyone’s just really slowed down, taking things one moment at a time. And the women…I’ve never seen so many gorgeous women in my life. I spent most nights lounging out on the beach, taking in the view.”

“I heard they’ve got a great club scene.” Jimin said excitedly, scooping potatoes up with his spoon and sending his cousin a look.

“Definitely, though I only went out one night. Too many early mornings to make clubbing on weeknights reasonable.”

“Old man.” Jimin scoffed playfully. Jin smacked him hard and Namjoon chuckled.

“Ya, have some respect.��� Jin scolded and you watched enviously as he polished off the last of his steak, moving on to the pile of potatoes. “You won’t be in your early 20’s forever. Besides, I’m only three years older than you!”

“Did you bring me something back, mom?” Jimin teased. Jin scowled then sniffed, shaking some hair out of his eyes.

“I might have brought you something.” He mumbled begrudgingly and Jimin tore from his seat to grab his cousin’s suitcase and drag it into the kitchen. “Hey! The wheels are dirty!” Jin complained, but Jimin paid him no mind.

Tearing the zipper down, he laid the hard-shell suitcase on its side, opening to an explosion of clothes and a couple gift bags rumpled in the center. “Which one’s mine?” He asked greedily. Jin pointed to the small blue bag, reaching over to grab the green one next to it and handing it to Namjoon.

“This is for you,” he said bashfully, “they’re nothing big, just little trinkets from a beach side hut I was passing one night. Reminded me of you guys.”

Jimin tore into the wrapping in his own bag, pulling out a puka shell necklace before shouting out an excited exclamation of appreciation. Namjoon was much more composed as he opened his own. He pulled a small wooden turtle keychain from the packaging, examining it carefully.

It was beautiful and intricate, made from rich koa wood and looking like it had been hand whittled with a pocket knife. As Jin began to explain his conversation with the owner of the small hut, you decided that it probably was hand made.

You moved closer to Namjoon, examining the workmanship over his shoulder. “Thanks, hyung.” Namjoon said, smiling at his friend. “If I ever get to go anywhere, I’ll make sure to bring something back for you.”

Jin waved him off, pulling the empty plates from the table and running the water in the sink as it turned from cold to warm before plugging the drain and squirting globs of soap. He slid the plates into the water to let them soak. “I don’t expect anything from you guys; besides, I’ve already got a great job, decent pay, a nice apartment, and an incredibly handsome face, it’s my duty to treat you guys as a thank you to the universe for truly giving me it all.”

Jimin scoffed loudly, rolling his eyes as he fiddled with the clasp of his new necklace. “Talk louder, hyung, they can’t hear how obnoxious you are in Antartica and the whole world truly deserves to know.”

“I just gave you a really nice gift!” Jin complained loudly to their laughter, but you could see the smile in the corner of his lips and the glint of humor in his eyes. “And zip my suitcase back up, you slob. You dropped my Ralph Lauren shirt on floor!”

Jimin laughed, leaning over and shoving everything back into Jin’s suitcase with little to no care before zipping it back up and sitting it back on its wheels.

“I think I’m gonna get ready for bed.” Namjoon said, standing and stretching his arms over his head. A sliver of skin came into view, in between the flannel of his pajama bottoms and the soft cotton of his t-shirt and you found yourself suddenly thirsty. “Didn’t get much sleep last night and I’ve got another early morning tomorrow.”

He exchanged goodbyes with his roommates before sending you a final soft smile, retreating to his bedroom and closing the door.

. .

Seeing your body again in the morning light was as strange as it was the day before, though you were more prepared this time. You moved back towards the top of your bed, watching as your chest rose and fell. Namjoon stood on the other side, stethoscope attached to his ears and lingering over where your heart was.

You could almost feel the chill of the metal as it glided across your chest, searching for whatever he needed to fill in notes on his clip board. You reached towards yourself, fingers gliding across wisps of your hair. “Namjoon,” you whispered, and he looked up at you. “I can feel my hair. It’s faint…but I can feel it.”

“Really?” He asked excitedly, “maybe being beside your body is a good thing. Maybe it will help you to wake up.”

You were about to say something more when conversation from the hallway distracted you and a group of people suddenly entered the room. An older woman, perhaps in her 50’s, a man not so much older with an athletic build and thinning hair, two younger men, not much older than yourself, and a young girl, clinging to the dress of the woman.

Namjoon looked from you to them, but your vision suddenly tunneled as the little girl ran towards your bed. You followed her with your eyes, as she rushed out to hold your hand, tear stained face pinched as she cried out a soft, “mommy!”

“Mommy?” You murmured as all the noise of the room ceased and like the whistle of a kettle, loud and screeching in your brain, all memory came flooding back. Your parents, your brothers, your abusive ex-boyfriend- your daughter. “Cora.” You exhaled, watching as she clung to your hand, holding it up to her little face.

You remembered it all. The bat he’d brought with him, the anger, the excuses, the pain of a beating you’d thought for sure would kill you. You reached up to touch the side of your face, finding tears in place of blood as you watched the rest of your family greet Namjoon.

He explained to them briefly how you were doing this morning, chancing glances over at you, but your gaze had returned to that of the little girl standing beside your bed. Your daughter. How could you have ever forgotten her? The spitting image of you, you once again thanked the heavens she hadn’t inherited anything from her father but his height.

She was tall for a four-year-old, usually lively, and happy. Tear-stained cheeks were whiplash for you and you longed to reach for her and hold her in your arms. When you’d first found out you were pregnant with her, it was a hugely bitter pill to swallow.

She wasn’t unwanted, but the permanent connection to her emotionally and physically abusive father left you feeling like a sinking ship. You’d felt overwhelmed by the decisions you faced, especially daunting due to your young age. The situation was terrifying, but you were not one to depend on others and you immediately rose to the challenge.

It was difficult at first. No, it was still difficult…but she was worth it. You only regretted that the time it took to make money to keep the two of you afloat was time you were unable to spend with her. You felt cheated as you looked down at her; of all the time you could have spent with her up until this moment that was all now gone.

Things could have been different, if you had waited, if you’d been patient enough to find a man worthy of being her father. Someone responsible and loving. Like Namjoon. You looked over at him as he stood by the door. He nodded at you before stepping from the room and you appreciated him now more than ever. You needed this time to be with your family, even if they couldn’t see you.

“Oh, my darling.” You heard your mother say from the other side of the bed and you turned to face her as she leaned down, dropping a kiss onto your forehead. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be here yesterday, but we’ve got good news! As you know, Tim was arrested and we’re moving forward with the charges. We had to talk to our lawyer yesterday and that’s why we couldn’t be here. They found the weapon, though. He won’t get away with this. He won’t.”

The tremble in her voice broke your heart. You wanted to tell her that it was all ok, that you were there and could hear her…but of course it wasn’t all ok, you weren’t even sure you’d ever wake up, though you felt a lot more hopeful today. You had something to live for; people who loved you and wanted you back with them. You weren’t alone like you’d feared.

“It’s good to see you here, Y/N.” Your brother, Luke, murmured, rubbing his hand up and down one of your legs and you could feel the tingles of pressure. It made you want to cry from joy. That had to be a good sign, it just had to be! “For a while there you really scared us…we weren’t sure…well, we just didn’t know what would happen. You being here is good, though. This is a move in the right direction.”

“When will mommy wake up?” Cora sighed and you turned to look down at her. She was clinging to the limp hand at your side, pressing it up against her cheek and your heart hurt.

“Come here, lovey.” Your mom said, waving her over and Cora let go of your hand with a pout, making her way to her grandmother’s lap and allowing herself to be coddled.

You were so grateful to have such a good family. If you were to die, you knew Cora would be taken care of, that she would be OK. That thought gave you a lot of peace and you sat down on the edge of your hospital bed to hear them all talk.

It was strange to not be able to contribute to their conversation, but you were glad to at least be hearing and seeing them. You could say your piece later, when you woke up. Luke told you all about his girlfriend, how he was thinking about proposing soon, but he wanted you to be awake first. You wished you could tell him to just do it! They’d been dating for five years now and Emma was like a sister to you.

Your other brother, Ethan, told you he’d recently broken up with his girlfriend. You didn’t mind that so much since she’d been a prima-donna and you knew your whole family agreed. He smiled when he said it so you had the feeling he wasn’t really hurting from the change of relationship. Your dad was thinking of retiring. Then again, he’d said this once a year for the last three years, so you weren’t so sure about his follow through on this one either.

You sat with them until they had to go. Cora was complaining of hunger and your mom looked like she needed a nap. You followed them to the door and walked with them as they made their way to the elevator. You knew if you went any further, you may not be able to get back to your body, so you watched as your family stepped into the elevator, pushing the button for the 1st floor. It felt strange to wonder if you’d see them again. The doors closed slowly and you kept your eyes trained on your daughter until the very last second when the polished steel shielded her entirely from view.

You wandered the halls after that, looking casually for Namjoon, but mostly enjoying the solitude. You had a lot to think about at the moment and didn’t mind so much being alone. You were kept company by the whirl of the air conditioning and chatter of nearby doctors and nurses.

There was something appealing about being here. To watch people helping other people, people like you, through difficult times in their life. You could only imagine it was fulfilling. Difficult, but really made you feel like you were doing something good. It was probably too late to go to college now, but maybe you could do something like this if you ever woke up.

Your mom always liked to say, “now’s not the time for never.” As a child, it made absolutely no sense to you, but as an adult you could appreciate the sentiment. There was always another day to try something new. You weren’t sure what that would be yet, but it gave you another thing to look forward to for when you woke up.

When Namjoon’s day was over, you followed him back towards home, welcoming the air conditioning of his apartment. Jimin nor Jin were home yet, so you moved towards the living room to sit down. “How you feeling?” Namjoon asked gently from his place on the other side of the kitchen island.

You looked over at him, his perfectly styled hair still in place. He was wearing glasses now, pushed right up against his face and he looked tired from the long day. “I’m alright.” You murmured. “Actually, I’m better than alright. I’m good; great even. I remember everything, my family, my daughter, my beating, unfortunately. But remembering is good; it gives me something to fight for.”

“So that was your daughter?” Namjoon asked, coming to sit down beside you.

You nodded, pulling your feet up underneath you on the couch. “Yeah, she’s four. She was, of course, a surprise. It’s unfortunate that her father is who he is, but I’ve never regretted her. She’s always been a blessing.”

“What’s her name?”

“Cora.” You smiled and Namjoon’s head tilted in interest, grin peeling his mouth upwards.

“Didn’t you think you had a cat named Cora?” He chuckled.

“Yeah,” you laughed, tugging at the end of your shirt. “Turns out it was my kid.”

“Do you mind if…can I ask about what happened? Why he did…what he did?” Namjoon asked carefully.

You paused a moment to think; to remember the details of the last few years. “Tim…he’s always been present in Cora’s life, mostly at least, but the last few years he was becoming more irresponsible, a little more unhinged. We haven’t been together for years, since I was pregnant, and so she was with me a majority of the time. Recently she started telling me about things he was doing while she was there that made me feel concerned.”

“I started dating him when I was going through a rebellion phase. I felt like my parents were too restrictive and he represented everything they opposed so I was drawn to him. Stupid, yeah, but I was 17. Anyway, when I got pregnant and decided to keep the baby, I just realized that everything he was doing was not the right environment for a child so we broke up. Problem is, even when Cora came along, he kept doing those things and it got worse every year.”

“So, a few months ago I started seeking full custody and we got in a big fight about it. He said I was wrong to try and take his kid away from him and I told him if he cleaned up his act, I wouldn’t have to do it. Of course, I want Cora to have her dad in her life, but he’s a mess. Anyway, he didn’t like that, so early one morning when I’d gotten off work and he knew Cora was with my parents, he came by to “talk.” We both know how that ended up. I guess he thought that if I were dead, there’d be no custody battle.”

Namjoon’s expression was hard to read as he stared down at the carpet, absorbing the information. His body language was anything but. Shoulders bunched stiff and hands squeezed white in his lap, he looked up at you with a scowl. “He deserves to get what he gave.” He muttered angrily and you smiled, reaching out to touch his hands.

“I imagine he’ll get a taste of his own medicine when he goes to prison.” You soothed.

Namjoon stared down at your hand on his as though entranced and you began to wonder if the sensation was too strange to handle. Extracting your hand, you moved away slowly, but he reached forward as though to grab it back. “I could feel your hand more this time. It was still…different, but it felt like it had more presence.” He said in amazement.

“That’s got to be a good sign, right?” You smiled.  

“I would think so. I mean, there’s not documented cases like ours, though perhaps they’ve happened before. I can’t imagine many people will admit it out loud. But having a strong grasp of your senses seems positive!”

You hummed, leaning back into the couch cushions. “So, tell me about yourself, Namjoon. What’s your life been like? All I really know about you is that you’re studying to become a doctor and you think Eunae is the bee’s knees.”

“What are you, 80?” He flushed, running a hand through his hair and dislodging the gel holding it. “I just think she’s pretty, but we don’t really know each other. We talk sometimes in the hallways, but honestly, I think she might be into Hoseok.”

“Oh?” You asked at his shrug, “why do you think that?”

“He’s just so nice, girls really dig him. He’s completely oblivious, but I’ve seen the way she looks at him.”

“Do you think he’d be interested in her?” You asked carefully, watching his expression, but he was guarded in this moment.

He shrugged again. “Maybe. She’s nice and pretty and fairly outgoing. He likes that type of girl, but he’s also a loyal friend and he’d never make a move if he thought I wouldn’t like it…I don’t think I’d mind, though.”

“You wouldn’t mind him making a move?”

“Not really. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s still pretty and nice, but I don’t know, over the last few days my interest in her specifically has just kind of…waned.”

“Well, I guess that can be good.” You said with a smile, “I never liked being hung up on someone if it wasn’t going to move forward. Not to say you guys couldn’t move forward!”

He chuckled, waving off the comment. “I know what you mean. Besides, I tend to like the girl I could never have.”

You frowned, watching as he stood and moved back to the kitchen. “I think you could totally go on a date with her, if you asked. You’re handsome, smart, and nice. What’s not to like?”

“Thanks.” He flushed, pulling some juice from the fridge and going to grab a cup. “I’m not talking about Eunae, though. I just mean in general…I tend to like the girl that’s…untouchable.”

“On purpose?” You asked, bewildered and Namjoon laughed at your expression.

“No, of course not on purpose!” He huffed, sliding the bottle of juice back in the fridge and grabbing his cup. He made his way back to the couch, sitting back with a sigh. “It just ends up happening that way.”

“Well, what about your family?” You asked, turning to face him.

“Would I date them?” He smirked and you scoffed, smacking your hand against his shoulder.

“Ew, no! Just tell me about them, you weirdo.”

He laughed, eyeing your hand again as it settled in your lap before he resumed talking. “My parents live a few hours north, enjoying being empty nesters, I think. My little sister is in her second year of college and loving life. Studying criminology. I’ve got one amazing dog that is the true love of my life, and on weekends I like to do crossword puzzles on my phone.”

“Really?” You asked as he sipped at his juice.

“Yeah, really.” He chuckled. “It keeps my mind active.”

You sighed, comically loud, before turning to smile at him. “Well, I guess you are just as big a nerd as I thought.”

“Hey!” Namjoon scolded loudly and you laughed. The room returned to silence once more as you stared out the windows as the sky darkened. Namjoon finished his juice and placed it on the coffee table before he spoke again. “What do you think you’ll do when you wake up?

“When, huh?”

“Seems like a good chance of it, all things considered.”

You nodded with a smile. “I hope so. I suppose the first thing I’ll want to do is cuddle my baby. After that, I don’t know. Depends when I can get out of the hospital bed.” You thought for a moment about what you’d really like to do before something occurred to you. “Actually, what I’d really like to do is get a new job. I have two jobs right now that take the majority of my time and I don’t get to see Cora as much as I would like.”

“That’s my priority. After that…well…maybe I’d want to start dating again.”

Namjoon looked at you in surprise. “Oh? Do you have someone in mind?”

You shrugged, looking away from him. “I have someone in mind that I’d like to go on a date with, sure, but no point in getting hopes up about it now. I’ll wait until I wake up and go from there.”

“It’s Jimin, isn’t it?” He said it teasingly, but something in his expression was pinched and it didn’t look so much like he liked the thought of that.

You scoffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You didn’t really want to play a guessing game about it; weren’t ready to admit it was him you were talking about. “How about I tell you when I wake up?”

“Fair enough.” Namjoon replied, rolling his eyes good naturedly. “I’m gonna hold you to it, though.”

“Sure.” You smiled.

Just then Jin and Jimin came banging through the front door, arms full as they made their way into the kitchen. “We brought the goods!” Jin hollered loudly as Jimin went back to close the front door.

“Chicken and beer. Come get some, Joon.”

You spent the rest of the evening huddled in the living room with them as they snacked on fried chicken and drank themselves to giggles. You wondered, not for the first time, why you couldn’t have met them before. Why you couldn’t have gotten to know them as someone real and tangible? Not some strange in between being. Why you couldn’t have been around Namjoon sooner. After all, when it really came down to it, he was now half the reason you wanted to wake up.

.

.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and thank you for being patient. I’ve been home sick for the last two days so I was able to finish this chapter finally. Please let me know what you think, it means the world to me!

Previous

Next (finale)

Copyright © 2019 by Taeken-My-Heart. All rights reserved

Toasting

(Hayffie 💕. Loving when we’re afraid is deeply authentic courage. In dystopian reality, loving with arms holding one another close is a fundamental act of civil disobedience and essential for trauma integration.)

His fingers were clumsy as he wrapped a pale blue ribbon around Effie’s hair. She’d pulled it back loosely into a bun with tendrils coiling down the back of her neck. Working with the satin ribbon felt alien compared to the knots Haymitch had tied throughout his life.

In childhood, as soon as he was tall enough to reach the clotheslines, his mother had given him the job of pulling the lines tight and tying them with no slack. Those needed to be ready each week for the task of holding the family’s clean laundry up to the sun. He and his brother were scolded sometimes for playing underneath the damp sheets, which held the fragrance of springtime no matter the season. It must have been the dried flowers his mother put into the soap. Later on and still, each time he passed those flowers in the Meadow, their smell cut straight into his heart. It’s one of the reasons he’d steered clear of that place even before it became a mass grave.

Unlike the pungent flowers, his mother’s voice calling as they played was a faint memory. “If you boys tug those lines down, YOU will be the ones washing that laundry all over again!”

“Those are MY knots. They ain’t gonna be comin’ loose.”

“Your knots WILL NOT be cominG loose, you mean. Don’t allow your speech to conceal your intelligence.”

“Okay, Ma.” He said as he and his brother lay on the grass, sticking their tongues out to catch drips from the sheets like drops of rain at the end of a sunshower.

The clotheslines were made of twine. Haymitch learned to work with thicker rope during training before the Quell. It never took him long to learn something, and once he did, it was committed to memory. In time, having a mind too sharp to forget things had become more of a curse than a gift.

Suddenly here he was with delicate ribbon between his calloused fingertips, and the fine muscles there were forgetting everything they’d ever learned about tying.

“I’m kind of fucking this up, sweetheart. I’m usually UNtying your ribbons, not the other way around.”

“I trust you.” She kept her body still as she knelt on a rug in front of the fireplace. 

When the ribbon was tied, he adjusted the bow until the loops were even. Then he ran his fingers through her wispy curls.

“Your ‘something blue,’” he murmured, sliding his hand down her arm and lacing their fingers together.

She stared at the polished band on her left hand. “Something old...” Haymitch’s father had made the ring 50 years prior from a small metal disk and some tinkering tools.

Effie brought their entwined hands to rest on her stomach. “...And something new.”

A chill ran through him. “Maybe you should have a backup just in case—“

“Do NOT say that! Don’t even THINK it. I’m further along this time. No arguments... our baby is my something new.”

He held her tighter and kissed her neck in apology. “All right. The baby it is.”

She changed the subject before the unspoken word had a chance to start spinning in her mind. “The tongs from the bakery are ‘something borrowed.’”

“Did Peeta ask what you planned to do with them?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said we’ll be using them to toast the loaf of bread that I was there to buy.”

“Shit, Effie. What’d he say?”

“He hugged me, and told me how very happy he was to give us the bread and lend us the tongs.”

“Let me guess... His eyes were all teary.”

“That dear boy.”

“And your eyes were all teary too.”

“Whenever the children cry, I can’t stop myself.”

“He knows now, of course. I thought we we’re keeping this a surprise!”

“I confirmed nothing.”

“The boy knows anyway. You two are thick as thieves.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure he will ACT surprised when we tell them.”

“So the kids already know. It’s fine. ...Are you ready to do this?”

“Absolutely.” She nodded.

“...With ME,” he teased.

“Come here.” He’d been curled against her back, and she tugged him to kneel beside her. “We’ve done this before, you know.”

“Have we?” He chuckled, “I doubt any amount of liquor would make me forget doing this with you.”

“I was 8, with an big imagination and—“

“That kid on those screens is long gone, honey. You know that better than anybody.”

She pressed her palm to his chest. “This heart is the same. They broke it a thousand times, but they didn’t destroy it. ...I draped a shawl over my head as a veil, and I swore on every doll I owned that nobody would take this heart from me. I’ve kept swearing it... no matter how many pairs of my shoes you vomited on.”

He brushed his thumb along her cheek. “I married you sometimes in my dreams.”

“Does that explain any of the occasions you woke up screaming?” She smirked then caressed his forearm because nightmares were never a light topic regardless of the context.

“No. But it explains the times I woke up with my dick so hard that all I did was move and I was coming.”

She flushed from her chest to her cheeks, wanting him like that right then. “When was the first time?”

“The night after the picnic. Remember? In my dream you were wearing those silky lace gloves, buttering warm chunks of bread with one hand and getting me off with the other.”

“We only spent a few hours together that day, and you dreamed you were marrying me? You hardly knew me.”

“I knew enough to feel you slipping inside me. I tried to fight it a long time, but I couldn’t stop it.”

“So... now it’s full surrender.”

“Being married won’t make this any easier,” he said, “The last thing you and I could ever be is easy.”

“When is anything worth doing easy to do?”

He traced the neckline of her dress with the tip of his finger. The pretty thing dipped so low that he could have slipped his hands inside and filled his palms with her breasts. But he waited. The dress was pale blue like the ribbon, and overlaid with a weaving of tiny pearls.

“Sex,” he answered belatedly, “It’s one thing worth doing that’s always been easy for us.”

She toyed with a button on the shirt she’d picked out for him. “That’s true. Let’s make a fire and toast that bread so we can do that other thing worth doing.”

Haymitch had said no Justice Building, no party, and no singing. So Effie softly hummed the tune she remembered from Katniss and Peeta’s marriage ceremony. She hummed it straight through as Haymitch laid tinder on the andiron and she stacked kindling around it in the shape of a teepee. Then he built a small cabin over that with dry wood. She struck a match and used it to light the one he held. They both lit the tinder and watched as each piece of wood caught fire.

Over the years, she’d started many fires in that fireplace. The first time she tried, Haymitch had passed out in a snowbank on his way home from the Hob. A neighbor saw him lying there and helped him home.

After a warm bath, he was still shaking, so Effie covered him with blankets in front of the fireplace, and she managed to get some flames going as he slept. Her fire died out quickly, so she called the kids to show her the way. Katniss came. “I’m glad you’re here,” the girl told her, “He needs you. He fights it, but it’s a fierce thing to fight against.”

“What is?” Effie asked.

“That kind of hunger. That hollowness that only one thing can fill...” Katniss tapped Haymitch’s foot with the toe of her boot. He was out cold. “Alcohol just covers it up for a moment as it’s passing through.”

“What fills it?”

“When he realizes he’s worth loving, and when he loves himself the way that you love him.”

Effie shuddered at the thought of everything her girl had been through that instilled that kind of knowing in someone so young. “Katniss, I haven’t said anything about love.”

“Good. Hearing you say it would only scare him more.”

Effie said it now as chunks of wood burned down to coals, and flames danced orange and blue. He saw the dance in her eyes. “I love you,” was still difficult for him to reckon with.

“Loving you is the only thing I’ve been sure about in a long time,” he responded as the truth rose up over fear.

“Show me.”

He picked up the loaf of bread with the bakery tongs. “Let’s do this together.”

She put her hands atop his as they toasted the bread over the fire. When the crust was golden brown, they turned the loaf out onto a cutting board.

Effie slipped an oven mitt onto her hand and held the bread with it as she cut a thick slice from the middle. Then she spread it generously with butter, like in Haymitch’s dream. He picked up the slice and broke it in half, holding onto both pieces.

She eyed him warily. “Are you going to smear that on my face?”

“This isn’t the Capitol, sweetheart. No marriage tradition here wastes even a speck of food. ...But I’ll smear butter anywhere you want as long as I get to suck it off you after.”

“Let’s save that for later when I’m not wearing my Nana’s dress.”

He handed her half of the slice and they fed each other, licking the butter from one another’s fingers.

“My heart is yours,” she said, “It always has been, and I swear that’s never changing.”

“Keep swearing, honey, because nobody and nothing’s going to take mine from you either.”

Their kiss was slow, starting at the corners of their mouths, tasting the salty seams of each other’s lips, and opening to the sweetness that only comes with deep familiarity.

“Oh—“ She startled without breaking away. “Butterfly wings! The baby woke up. It must like the bread.”

Haymitch wiped his hands on a towel near the cutting board, then he cradled the bump on Effie’s belly. She cleaned her hands too so she could guide him to the rapid flutter.

He soaked up the movement. With the one they buried, he didn’t get to feel this. They never got to feel her alive. “This one’s strong already.”

Effie simply nodded because she knew if she said anything, then joy would spill from her eyes, and she wanted to keep it all.

“...Strong like my wife,” he said.

Joy spilled regardless, even in silence. Her tears were saltier than the butter, and he kissed every drop. The sunshower was beginning.

Road To The Aisles

The Ties That Bind second arc

So, legal battle won, the hard work begins. In a year full of changes, Jamie and Claire must learn how to be parents, juggle work, friends and family, and deal with an ex and her mother. Not forgetting to fit in their own special ‘grown-up’ time…

… oh, and plan a wedding, of course.

This story starts just after the legal agreement reached in Ned Gowan’s office and before the final scene of The Ties That Bind. It will be clear where the two stories merge. It is a continuation and so will make more sense if you’ve read The Ties That Bind first.

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge, @happytoobserve and @wickedgoodbooks.

I aim to post every weekend, if possible. Hope you enjoy...

Chapter 1: An Awaited Introduction

“See how he clings to my finger. I’m sure he knows me already. He cries when the nurse takes him away. Oh Marilla, do you think - you don’t think, do you - that his hair is going to be red?”

L.M. Montgomery, Anne’s House of Dreams

Geillis looked around the small tea room with satisfaction.

“Thank god there are still places like this. I went tae a place last week… it had all the atmosphere of an aircraft hanger, but wi’ these stupid wee chairs, like a school. And the waiters, sae fuckin’ pretentious.”

She sipped her mug of tea with relish. “All I asked fer was a mug of tea and a jam doughnut. The wee fella looked at me like I was pond scum and told me in his fake Morningside accent, that they only served ‘high end teas’... or some such shite. Nae milk or sugar, and the matcha green tea doughnut looked like it was growing penicillin.”

She bit into her scone. “Anyway,” she spoke through a mouthful of crumbs. “I’m sorry. That’s enough of ma blather, tell me exactly what happened wi’ the lawyer yesterday.”

Claire smiled at her friend. “It was as good as we hoped. The lawyer John recommended was brilliant. Jamie got everything he asked for. Geneva didn’t have a leg to stand on. Shared custody of William. So Jamie will have William every Sunday evening until Tuesday, well, until morning drop off at childcare, I suppose. And then alternate weekends, from Friday evening. It’s a bit hazy at the moment, until William’s a bit older and in nursery.”

“But how do ye feel, Claire? This has all been about Jamie and the baby. What about ye? I mean this is pretty huge, is it no’? Ye’re gonna be a step-mother. That’s a forever thing. And ye’re always goin’ tae have tae deal wi’ Geneva… and her mother.” The look on Geillis’s face clearly showed her opinion of Geneva and Louisa Dunsany.

“To be honest, G, it’s only just hitting me.” Claire picked up her teaspoon and started methodically stirring her tea, clockwise then anti-clockwise, as she spoke. “Last night, after all the excitement, I lay in bed  while Jamie was asleep, just thinking about it all. I mean I’ve never actually met William yet. I know that’s hardly surprising… Geneva didn’t even let Jamie see him for weeks. And now I’m going to be a big part of his life.”

She put the spoon down. “It’s like… like… being on an express train. I had a choice, when Jamie first told me. I chose to stay, to get on the train and to deal with all this. And I don’t regret it, any of it. And then with all the problems with Geneva and her mother and the lawyers, well, I didn’t have time to think about it. All our energy was on sorting that mess out. And now the train has slowed, we’ve reached the destination and I’m thinking ‘oh shit, what do I do now that I’m here?’”

“Ye ken fine what tae do. Ye’re a doctor, ye can cope.”

Claire smiled at her friend’s words of encouragement. “Practically, I know I can cope. It’s not that. What if… what if… William doesn’t like me? What will I do? And what will Jamie do?”

Geillis got up from her chair and rushed to Claire’s side of the table. She wrapped her arms tightly around her friend and kissed her loudly on the cheek. “Hush, there is nae way that William will no’ love ye. Ye are amazing… I ken that, Jamie kens that and that wee bairn will too.”

Returning to her seat, Geillis continued. “So, was there no big scene in the lawyer’s office? Did Geneva no’ go after yer blood? I can’t imagine she’d be too pleased seeing that ring on yer finger.”

Claire held her hand out to admire the diamond solitaire once more before replying. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no scene. I did, however, have to put Louisa right on a couple of things.”

“Ooh, such as?”

“That she had no right to question me about my behaviour, I owed her no explanations. And what I thought about their little game-playing.”

“Ok, but more importantly, does she ken ye’re engaged? Did she see the ring?”

“I didn’t actually mention it, but I may have wafted it in her general direction a couple of times.”

Geillis laughed. “Fuckin’ brilliant. I think that’s game, set and match tae ye, Claire. Ye’ve won.”

*****************

Claire stood at the hob, stirring the Ragù sauce, a pan of water bubbling next to it, ready for the pasta to be cooked as soon as Jamie came home. She wiped her hands on her apron before taking a sip of her wine.

In the previous weeks, starting from the day of William’s birth, she had tried to increase her cooking repertoire and had found it both therapeutic and incredibly enjoyable. To her surprise, she was now the proud owner of not only an apron, but also a Mezzaluna and a mortar and pestle. Following recipes appealed to her logical mind and the very act of cooking gave her time to think and contemplate.

She thought about her chat with Geillis. It really didn’t feel like she’d ‘won.’ It wasn’t a competition in her eyes (although Geneva had obviously thought otherwise), but the gateway to a new part of her life. ‘Stepmother’ - Claire inwardly shuddered at the very word, with its evil fairytale connotations. She just wanted to love William, for all their sakes, and hope that he would come to love her as well.

Claire moved to the fridge as she heard the front door and poured Jamie a glass of chilled white wine. The image of a Stepford wife briefly came into her mind but she laughed it away. No Stepford wife would ever have hair as messy as hers, nor willingly immerse their hands in the amount of blood and gore that she did. She just had to remember that, in addition to their new roles as Da and Stepmum, they were still Jamie and Claire, they were still the same people.

Jamie came into the kitchen. Having finally got to spend time with his son, he was still clearly bursting with excitement. He came up behind Claire, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzled the back of her neck.

“Mmm, Sassenach, ye smell of garlic and basil.”

She turned in his arms and brought hers around his neck. Bringing her head to rest on his chest, she sniffed then pulled away. “And you, James Fraser, smell of… baby spit up.”

Jamie grinned. “Aye, weel, there may have been a wee bit of that after I fed him.”

“You fed him? With a bottle?” Claire spoke without thinking.

Jamie chuckled.

“Nah, with one of ma fully functioning man breasts… Aye, with a bottle. Geneva knows he’s goin’ tae have tae have the bottle when we… I…” Jamie rapidly corrected himself. “When I look after him here. And I changed his nappy. First nappy ever.”

"I can't believe you've never changed a nappy. Not even your nephew's?"

"Nah, I've always been more on the fun uncle side of things, ye ken. And before, with William, it took all ma effort tae get Geneva tae let me hold the bairn, never mind actually tend tae him."

“So, how did you find the nappy change?”

“Fer a wee bairn that’s only fed on milk, it was surprisingly… gross. It gets everywhere.”

Claire instinctively took a step back.

“Nah,” he paused and sniffed before confirming. “No’ on me. But the wee laddie drew his feet right up in tae it.”

Claire laughed. “You're supposed to hold his feet out of the way. Did Geneva not tell you?”

“Aye, I ken that now. But Geneva didna tell me or show me anything. She jes’ sat in the corner, watching every move. Like she was scoring me on ma performance. I tell ye, I canna wait until I can be with him and no’ have her peering over ma shoulder.”  

Claire passed Jamie his wineglass and turned back to the cooking.

“Sassenach, let dinner wait a while. I need tae ask ye something. Will ye come intae the lounge?”

Claire turned the hob off as Jamie took her hand and led her into the living room. They sat together on the sofa. Claire sipped her wine and waited.

“Sassenach, I canna tell ye how it felt tae spend time with William today. He’s such a braw lad.” Jamie paused for a moment, reliving the day’s emotions.

“Anyway, if ye’d like tae… would ye come with me tomorrow tae meet him?”

Claire’s stomach flipped. She took a larger sip of wine before answering.

“Jamie, you know I want to meet William, but tomorrow? Are you sure? I mean so soon. Geneva’s hardly even got used to the idea of sharing William. Have you asked her?”

“Aye, I asked her. She wasna happy about it, but what can she do? Ye’re a big part of ma life and will be a big part of William’s life too. If ye're willing ye can finally meet him."

“Of course I’d like to but...” Claire hesitated, unwilling to dampen Jamie's excitement at the meeting.

"Tell me, please. What's troubling ye? Are ye worried about Geneva? I willna leave ye, ye dinna even have tae speak tae her if that's a problem."

"It's not that. It’s just, well, this is pretty huge… life changing… and I am worried. Babies can be fussy creatures. What if he doesn’t like me? What if he won’t stop crying when he sees me? How will we cope?”

Jamie put his wineglass down. Claire reluctantly let him put hers on the table too. He tucked her curls behind her ear before stroking her cheek.

“Claire, I dinna think that will happen at all. But if it does, we will manage. William will grow tae like ye… tae love ye. Dinna worry about what might never happen. So, no pressure, do ye want tae meet him tomorrow?”

Claire nodded.

Jamie continued. “The only thing is, Sassenach, Geneva doesna want ye in her home, so we’ve agreed, if ye’re willing, tae meet at Isobel’s house.”

“That’s fine. I have no wish to spoil the, no doubt, perfect ambience of her house.”

Jamie grinned. “Aye, somehow I dinna think her interior design is going tae survive much longer, not once William’s mobile. I’m so happy you’re going tae meet him, Sassenach. I canna wait fer tomorrow.”

***************

Claire stood nervously waiting on the front door step. Jamie took her hand, entwined his fingers with hers and gently stroked her palm with his thumb. He looked at her, checking that she was ready. She nodded as Jamie knocked on Isobel’s door.

Isobel had obviously been waiting as the door opened almost immediately. She shepherded them into the hall. The sound of a baby crying came from another room.

Isobel shrugged. “I’m afraid William’s being a little bit unsettled today. Geneva was up several times in the night. But I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

They followed Isobel down the hall. Before she opened the door to the living room, she turned and spoke to Claire.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to see him. Don’t worry, Mummy’s not here. I told her to go shopping. I’m not sure what you said to her, but she didn’t seem too keen to stick around and see you anyway. And I have reminded Geneva to be polite. Seriously, they’re more difficult to handle than my students! I’ll settle you and then go and put the kettle on for us.”

Isobel’s living room was bright, airy, and tastefully decorated. It was also filled with various baby paraphernalia. A changing mat lay on the floor next to a bag overflowing with toys, nappies and clothing. A baby gym was balanced precariously on a chair. William’s car seat was discarded on the sofa, a couple of muslin cloths draped over it.

Geneva sat in the midst of this, cradling a somewhat fretful baby. Isobel hurriedly moved the baby gym off the chair and indicated that Claire should sit.

Jamie stopped himself from rushing over to take William from Geneva as he stayed at Claire’s side.

“Hello, Geneva,” Jamie greeted Geneva formally. “I believe Williams’s being a wee bit tetchy today.”

Geneva looked over to Jamie and Claire. Despite the immaculate makeup, the lack of sleep was clearly evident on her face.

“That is an understatement.” There was no trace of friendliness or humour in her voice.

“Weel, have ye tried tae…”

“Spare me any misguided advice. He is fed and clean and dry… just not too happy. Here, take him. My arm’s gone to sleep.”

With a quick look to Claire, Jamie moved across to Geneva and took the baby from her arms.

Claire felt her chest tighten and tears fill her eyes as she watched Jamie, standing in the centre of the room holding William. She had grown accustomed to seeing him cuddling his nephew and baby niece, but to know this was Jamie’s son affected her more than she had realised.

Jamie looked directly at her and mouthed “You ok?”.

Claire nodded and blinked several times to clear her eyes.

“So, would ye like tae meet William?” Jamie asked, bending over and placing the baby in her arms.

Claire looked down into the red, creased face of Jamie’s son, a little whimpering sound now coming from him. She stroked his cheek gently.

“Hello there, William,” she whispered.

“You need to be careful you don’t scratch him with your ring... And remember to make sure his head is supported.”

Jamie turned to Geneva, trying to remain calm at her intervention. “Claire kens all that. She is a doctor after all. She’s used tae dealing with bairns. She doesna need ye tae point that out, do ye, Claire?”

There was no response from Claire, as she focused solely on William, studying his features intently. He grew calm in her arms, quietening before giving a massive yawn and rubbing one small dimpled fist over his face.

The door opened and Isobel popped her head in. “Geneva, dear, can you come and give me a hand? I’m not sure if this baby monitor thing is working.”

She winked at Jamie as Geneva reluctantly made her way out of the room.

Jamie sat down on the floor at Claire’s feet, watching Claire’s face as she lowered her head to kiss William, now drifting happily off to sleep. Jamie leant his head against her knee.

“How do ye feel, Sassenach?”

Claire thought for a moment, lost for words. “Jamie, he’s lovely… just perfect. And I can see you in him... that chin… and that red hair. I still can’t believe he’s here and going to be part of our lives. How about you?”

“Every time I’ve been with William, even though that’s been grand there’s always been Geneva, with her games and her comments and her resentment… and her mother. This is the first time I can see how it will be, when William comes tae our house and it’s the three of us.”

William stirred for a moment before returning to his contented slumber.

“Yes, Jamie, the three of us… our family.”

Business Comes First- Chapter 2

A Peaky Blinders fanfiction set around the end of season three.  

Chapter 1- A Woman who Drinks // Chapter 2- Tea for my Lady //  Chapter 3- Ricocheting Bullets // Chapter 4- Demons // Chapter 5 - A Country House // Chapter 6 - Numbing the Pain

Summary: Alice is a smart and savvy business woman in a male dominated world.  She uses her wit and power to get what she wants but she has burdens from her past that could hinder a business transaction in Small Heath.  

Word count: 2400 words

Author’s note: As always, feedback is always much appreciated!  As this is a longer fiction with several parts, do let me know if you wish to be tagged in the next instalment.  All replies come from @bookish-fox as this is a side account (come on Tumblr sort it out pls). With regards to this chapter, no hate intended on Lizzie!

Tagged accounts: @mariamermaid @little-miss-mischief1

Warnings: Mentions of a past trauma, language. 

Chapter 2 - Tea for my Lady

You had slept poorly; dreams had woken you, sweaty, panting and crying.  Instinctively, you had reached under your pillow and pulled out the small shotgun you kept there.  You held it to your chest, breathing quickly.  It had taken you several minutes to calm your breathing to a regular rhythm.  You looked to the clock, half five in the morning. You groan.

You had enjoyed a relaxing morning despite waking up so early; you had made a pot of tea and had a leisurely breakfast whilst reading the newspaper.  The relaxation almost made you forget about your pounding hangover and night terrors that left you feeling dislocated from reality.

After breakfast, you had sifted through your pile of paperwork and had found the telephone number for Shelby Company Ltd.  You sat by the phone and dialled the number. 

“Hello, Shelby Company Ltd., can I help you?” a woman’s voice answered the phone.  Simply through the tone of her voice, you could tell that she was exceedingly bored or irritated, but you couldn’t work out which. 

“Hello, I would like to arrange a meeting with Mr Shelby, please,” you state, putting on your ‘business’ voice. 

“Which one? There are three of them,” the woman said sarcastically. 

“Thomas.” you reply.

“Regarding?” the woman’s tone of voice was rude.  Pulling a face at the phone as if she could see you, you quickly worked out the angle you would take.  The question was, should you play the strictly business card, or mention last night’s rendezvous in order to get some time with Thomas?  Business, Alice. 

“Business.” you reply, with a tone identical to the woman on the phone.  

The woman scoffs.  “Right, he’s free at three thirty. Can I take a name?” 

“Goodfellows.”  You reply, hastily making a note of the time of your meeting on the corner of your newspaper.  “Thank you.”  You hang up the phone and you go back into your kitchen.  You placed your kettle on the hob to make another pot of tea.  You had a lot of planning to do before your meeting. 

Tommy strode into the office, pushing the door violently open causing it to slam shut behind him.  His head was pounding.  As he walked he turned his head to look into a vacant secretary office.  That woman he saw last night should be working there, he could sense that she had the skills to do it, and he, stupidly, didn’t even ask her name.  Turning a corner, he strode into his personal office. 

“Morning, Lizzie,”  he grunted walking past her sat at his desk with the morning’s itinerary.  He sat down on the other side of the desk in his chair and immediately pulled a cigarette from his pocket. 

“Morning, Tommy.” Lizzie replied, curtly.  Noticing her tone he looked up from his cig and made eye contact with her, lighting the butt without even looking.  Raising his eyebrows he inhaled deeply, inviting Lizzie to explain her curtness. 

“I didn’t see you last night.” Lizzie stated, cooly, reclining back in her chair and maintaining the eye contact. 

“I was busy,” he replied, meeting her harsh stare. 

“Doing who?” Lizzie broke the eye contact, looking down to watch her fingers intertwine together.  Inhaling, she composed herself before continuing. “I waited up for you.”

Tommy looked at the door, the wall, the desk- anywhere but here.  He didn’t need Lizzie’s scorn on him today, his schedule was full of meetings and his head was still pounding.  

“Today’s schedule, please?” He quickly changed the subject.

“Meetings with various shareholders all morning, then at three thirty, you have a meeting with…” Lizzie’s brow furrowed as she struggled to remember the name.  She reached a hand into the pocket of her dress, pulling out a scrap of paper.  “Goodfellows?” 

“Goodfellows?” Tommy’s face went pale. “Lizzie you can go now.”  Lizzie abruptly stood and left the room.  Tommy’s head sunk into his hands. Shit.  Goodfellows.  He had heard that name several times, especially on his trips to London to see Alfie Solomons. Goodfellows were kicking up quite the storm in the racing world: their horses always won.  There were several rumours circulating that they fixed the races in order to get results.  What business did they want in Birmingham? They were a force to be reckoned with, but the Peaky Blinders were too.  A deal with them could be extremely beneficial, but Tommy had learnt the hard way about making deals with the wrong people. 

You made your way to Shelby Company Ltd’s headquarters, conveniently around the corner from the Garrison.  The building didn’t look like much from the outside, but once you had made your way indoors you realised how important this building was to the family business.  The corridors were full of people ferrying paperwork back and forth, and it was never quiet.  There was a seemingly constant buzz of chatter and shouting in the background. 

You found the door with the name ‘Thomas Shelby’ engraved onto a plaque and you knock loudly with your knuckle.  It wasn’t Tommy that answered the door, however.  A tall woman with short dark hair answered. 

“Yes?” She questioned. Her tone was the same as the woman you had spoken to on the phone earlier that day.  She was significantly taller than you, and you could sense her looking down at you, scrutinising every hair on your head and every mascara coated eyelash.  

“I’m here for the Goodfellows meeting, I think we spoke over the phone.” You state, calmly, offering your hand for her to shake, “Alice,” 

“Lizzie,” she replied, denying your hand but opening the door wider so you could make your way inside.  She led you to a chair next to another door.  “Sit here, I’ll see if Mr Shelby is ready for you.”  You sit, feeling the ice cold metal of your gun in its holster against your thigh, making you grit your teeth. 

Lizzie went through the door into his office.  “Goodfellows are here, Tommy,” she said cooly.

“Fuck,” Tommy muttered, he stood up, straightening his jacket and placed his razor studded hat on his head. 

“Don’t worry, they must have sent a secretary, its a woman.” Lizzie stated.  Tommy sat back down, his nerves instantly relaxed.  If it was only a secretary, what’s the worst that could happen?

“Bring her through, Lizzie.”

“Mr Shelby will see you now, Alice.”  Lizzie popped her head around the door.  Smiling you stand and followed her through into Tommy’s large office.  His desk was facing to the door, towards you and was framed by bookcases filled with files. Tommy sat at his desk, sifting through paperwork with a cigarette hung lazily out of the corner of his mouth.  You walk towards the chair opposite him, well aware of the sounds of your shoes clacking against the hard wooden floor in the silent room, but Tommy never looked up.  Lizzie made her way behind him and started aimlessly looking through the files on the bookcases behind him. 

“Morning, Mr Shelby.” You said as you sat.  His eyes darted upward, instantly recognising your voice from the night before. His eyes met yours and you could practically see the cogs turning as he tried to remember every detail about you. 

“Alice Goodfellow,” you presented your hand to him, which he took with a confused expression.  “I trust you slept well.”  You saw Lizzie’s head dart up.

“Yes, thank you,” Tommy replied.  His composure had readjusted from the initial shock of seeing you in his office- he was now calm and collected. He leant back in his chair. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Tea.” You reply quickly.  Tommy signalled to Lizzie, whose expression towards you had hardened into one of almost contempt.  As she walked out of the room, she made it stroked Tommy’s shoulder whilst looking you dead in the eyes.  You could tell that she didn’t like you. 

“Goodfellow, eh? Must admit, I didn’t see that one coming.”  Tommy took a long drag from his cigarette, allowing the smoke to slowly seep out between his lips in ribbons of ashy grey.  Shame, that position within the Shelby Company would have to remain vacant. 

“Why? Because I’m a woman?”  You contest, shifting your weight onto your other leg to relieve the pressure of the holster on your thigh. 

“Not this again.” He smiled, “Why are you here?”

“We understand that your company has the licences to Cheltenham racetrack,” You pull out a pile of paperwork from your bag. “We, Goodfellows Ltd, have a proposition for you, Mr Shelby.”

He quizzically raised an eyebrow and stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray.  You were about to continue when Lizzie loudly pushed open the door to his office, dragging a trolley with a tea set behind her.  As she walked, the china clattered loudly and she made no attempt to silence it.  Giving you a look, she put all the china on the table loudly, earning herself an irritated look from Tommy.

“Tea for my lady.” she said mockingly, before turning around.  

“Hold on Lizzie, we haven’t been properly introduced,” you start standing up to face her.  You offer your hand to her, “Alice Goodfellow, from the country’s most well-regarded race horse breeders and trainers, you might have heard of us.  Your boss and I met last night when he kindly escorted me home after I had far too much to drink.”

Lizzie’s face reddened as you addressed her.  She smiled slightly and walked away quickly, obviously wanting to leave the room as soon as possible.  You sat back down in your chair and watched Tommy run a hand through his raven coloured hair.  Smiling, you poured yourself a cup of tea.  Nice tea set, you took a mental note. 

“Anyway, where was I?” you took a quick sip of your tea, burning your tongue on the heat.  Fuck’s sake, Alice. “Ah, yes.  Being a mainly Southern company, we are yet to explore the northern racetracks.  We want to become a sponsor of the Cheltenham races.”

“And what would I receive from this?”  Tommy asked.  His eyes gave the impression that he was intrigued. 

“We are willing to give Shelby Company Ltd. a horse.  It will win races and therefore be a worthy investment for your bookies.”  You answer.  It was an offer he surely couldn’t refuse. Your horses won the races they competed in, it was a fact.  By simply giving your company prominence at the race, he would be earning himself millions.  

Tommy leant back in his chair, staring you straight in the eyes.  The vivid blue of his irises trapped you in their gaze, and you found yourself struggling to look away.  He seemed to sense the tension in the air, and broke the eye contact himself to pour a cup of tea.  The tea cup looked almost miniature in his large hands, but he held it with such care and grace.  His grip was steady and strong, yet gentle.  You watched him intently as he poured, it seemed that making tea was almost an art form to him, he poured meticulously, and stirred a precise amount until it was exactly the right colour.  Slowly, he added the milk, allowing the two liquids to merge into one in his cup.  

“I wouldn’t have thought you were a tea drinking man, Mr Shelby,” you say quietly, smiling in an attempt to relieve some of the tension in the room.  His eyes immediately went back to yours, locking them in their powerful grip.  Carefully, but without looking, he placed his tea cup onto his saucer.  Leaning back in his chair, he wrapped his hands around the back of his head and licked his full lips. 

“A man can’t survive on whisky and cigarettes alone, Mrs Goodfellow.” He smiled.

“Miss Goodfellow,” you corrected him quickly.  Nothing annoyed you more when people assumed that you were married.  Marriage was a touchy subject for you, having come close to it before the idea of it made you feel trapped.  You hadn’t had a positive experience with it in your past, and felt no need to try it again.  

“Sorry, Miss Goodfellow,”  Tommy smirked.  You were so clever, he could see that in your eyes and the way that you held yourself in your chair. He could see that you had come into his office, and Birmingham with a purpose, and that you wouldn’t leave until you had achieved it.  Tommy felt conflicted regarding the deal: certainly, should it all work out he would benefit significantly, but Goodfellows had built up a rather shifty reputation, and rumours could be damaging to his own enterprises.  He ran a hand across his chin, deep in thought. 

“Well, Miss Goodfellow, this kind of business deal doesn’t happen over night.” you nodded in understanding.  “I will need to consult my brothers and the rest of the family and do some research before I finalise anything, but, I do see there being potential here for a business partnership.”  

You smiled, you had this one in the bag. You couldn’t wait to call your brother Henry when you got home; he hadn’t stopped bragging about his negotiation success with Alfie Solomons for about a year now.  It was finally your turn to pull in a big deal. 

“That being said,” Tommy started, wiping the smile off your face as you felt a ‘but’ coming.  “We are a family enterprise, and therefore I cannot go into any serious negotiations with you until you are acquainted with the whole family, they are much better at judging a person’s motives and character than I am.”

“Of course, Mr Shelby, that’s understandable.  Our company would take similar precautions.” 

“Come to the Garrison tomorrow evening at nine and meet everyone.  In the meantime I’ll do some research.”  Tommy stands, indicating the end of your meeting.  You stand too, and stretch out your hand for him to shake.  To your surprise he grasps it tightly, pulling you towards him so that he could whisper in your ear.

“I can see your gun through your dress, Miss Goodfellow,” He whispers, “you don’t seem to be as innocent as you try to make out.”  He released your hand and waved you towards the door. “I look forward to doing business with you.”  Your heart raced, nerves and adrenaline pumped through your veins.  You smile sweetly at him, and exit the office.

100 Days and 100 Nights

By @titaniasfics

Written for @norbertsmom, my Secret Santa, hosted by @loveinpanem

In-Panem Canon AU, no Games, no Reaping, just a whole lot of pining.

A/N at the end

“The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?”

― Percy Bysshe Shelley

Peeta glanced down at the floor of the kitchen as he slid the empty bread trays under the counter. The dollops of dried dough indicated the floor needed a good sweeping. This was Rye’s chore this week, but he had gone to deliver a last minute order, leaving Peeta alone in the shop. Peeta wasn’t interested in hearing his mother complain about the matter when she returned from her errands, so he took advantage of the lull in customers and swept the debris into the dustbin.

While he worked, he heard a rapping at the back door. He set the broom in the corner, his chest growing tight because he knew who would most likely be there. As he passed the chrome refrigerator, he checked his face in the reflection, relieved that he didn’t have flour in his hair or dough on his cheek.

With a steadying breath, he opened the door.

“Hello Katniss,” he said, smiling his usual, how-can-I-help-you smile, the one he used to greet all his customers, even though his excitement was through the roof. It was automatic. Safe. Even though he’d been in love with Katniss Everdeen ever since they were kindergartners in District 12’s only elementary school, he made sure to never let a hint of his affections for the aloof huntress from the Seam escape him.

“Got some squirrel to trade,” she said. Unlike him, there was a slight smudge of dirt on her cheek and her hair was matted at the hairline with sweat. The humidity was thick in the air outside, the smell of rain filling the alley where Katniss stood.

“Come in,” he stepped aside to give her space to enter. He noticed with relief that her giant lug of a hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne, wasn’t glued to her side today.

She nodded once, her eyes flickering over him as she moved past, wary as the wild animals she hunted.

“How many do you have?” Peeta asked, absorbing, as he was in the habit of doing, every aspect of her appearance in one glance - her braid which hung over the left shoulder, her boyish shirt and pants which were patched in the strangest places, probably from being snagged in the trees and branches as she hunted. He made other observations, quicker ones that struck him in a flash, the ones he spent hours going over after she left each time - the luster of her black hair, the smooth, uninterrupted texture of her olive skin, the slant of her large, almond-shaped gray eyes, the pillowy-softness of her bottom lip, now sucked into a thin line of impatience.

“Four,” she answered, taking them out of her hunting sack and laying them on the table. “I had three times that but Greasy Sae bought most of them. I told her to leave these for your father.”

It was the most Katniss Everdeen had ever spoken all at once, and the husky sound of her voice struck him low and deep in his belly. “That’s kind of you. You know how much my father loves wild squirrel,” he answered. “How about a loaf of nut bread?”

Katniss’s eyes went wide. “That’s too much! Your father usually gives me a roll for each one. I won’t be cheating my customers.” 

Peeta quaked, not because he was scared but because he didn’t want her to disapprove of him. “I know, but it’s a day old,” he lied. “And my mother was already going to discount it. It’s worth the same as fresh rolls and…”, he nearly lost his courage but continued, “I know how much you like the nut bread.”

She chewed her bottom lip, thinking. She didn’t know the bread had been baked that very morning, and his mother would certainly have a fit if she discovered he’d given away such a prized loaf. But she wanted the bread - he knew she did. It was her favorite. And he desperately wanted to give it to her. Give her anything her heart desired. But she was stubborn and would not take a gift from anyone.

He considered mentioning her mother and sister, for whom she cared and would do anything, but she finally acquiesced. “I’ll take the trade.”

Peeta, satisfied with himself, took the loaf from the shelf and wrapped it in paper, handing it to her with care. The smell of nuts, raisins and spices wafted from it, making his mouth water. He imagined Katniss eating it, making all manner of small moans of pleasure as she bit into the hard crust to savor the tender, aromatic center. He bit his lip to keep from panting.

“Thanks,” she said as she took the package and made for the door, opening it. Peeta desperately wanted to keep her for a little while longer but couldn’t find anything to say to her. 

“Weather’s nice today,” he blurted out. 

Katniss turned, raising an eyebrow. “Have you been outside today?” 

Peeta glanced past her. The air now entering through the open door had become drenched in humidity and storm clouds swirled overhead. People were moving quickly through the center to get to shelter before the sky dropped its heavy rains on their heads.

“Oh,” he said, feeling like an idiot.

She shrugged. “I’ve got to get home. Thanks again.” She skipped down the steps and raced away even as fat droplets began to land on the ground.

He watched her leave, just as he always did, and stayed in that spot long after she’d disappeared from his sight.

 XXXXX

 After Peeta’s shift ended, he slipped upstairs to the apartment he shared with his parents and two older brothers. They were more well off than most so he could afford the large sketchbook he kept beneath the floorboard of his bedroom. He rolled the corner of the throw rug and pulled up the plank of wood. Inside was the black, faux-leather bound volume filled with fine sheets of drawing paper. He could also afford the pencils in the metal box he stored with the book. He lifted both up and set them at the small writing table. Opening the book, he scanned the pictures he’d already drawn - sketches of the birds that flew in from the surrounding woods, the snowy tops of distant mountains visible from his second story home in the Merchant quarter, where his family’s bakery was located. Drawings of his brothers, one each of his parents.

And Katniss. Ten, fifteen, thirty sketches of her over the years, engaged in different activities. He passed her face turned in adoration towards her little sister Prim, or one in which she’s scowling at something in displeasure. He’d drawn her with her bow and arrow, though he’d never actually seen her hunt. He’d sketched her standing at his backdoor, with the sun behind her as if she were a magical creature. And sometimes, when he was blind with a need so powerful, he thought it might surely burn him from the inside, he drew her in ways he’d never seen but could only dream of - smiling, soft, open, naked, inviting him close. Those pictures were folded away, saved for only the most desperate moments when he could find no other relief from his wanting.

Today, he was not aflame in that way, so he drew the moment he gave her the loaf, the joy of getting something she so badly wanted but was too proud to ask for. He was completely enraptured, each line he drew as if it were another moment he spent with her. After half an hour, he stared at the final product. It would require some editing, he knew, but it was good enough. It had to be good enough, because these furtive drawings were as close as he would ever get to her.

 XXXXX

 Later that week, Peeta approached the Hob, a makeshift market at the edge of District 12. It was part oversized shack, part canvas tent, its shape given by piecemeal metal construction, where Seam residents came to trade or find oddities that could not be found in more respectable quarters. Most of the Merchant class stayed away from the Hob, but Peeta had come out of a quiet desperation, hoping to catch a glimpse of Katniss. Each time she came to make a trade, the pressure for another encounter built up more quickly, until lately, it seemed he could not get from one day to the next without at least a glimpse of her. He didn’t care about the strange looks he received - he searched the entire interior, despondent to realize she was not there. Something quivered, brittle and aching in his heart, an ache which bore the name of Katniss Everdeen.

Outside the entrance of the market was Haymitch Abernathy, the old drunk from the Seam, perched on a table as worn as he was, a bottle of white liquor at his side. Haymitch had come into a great deal of money when he was younger, when he was a soldier and fighting wars in far off lands for Panem. It was rumored that he’d made a deal with the government that resulted in him being given a generous stipend for the rest of his life, though no one had a clue what the nature of that arrangement was. A mysterious figure, he piqued the interest of the young people of District 12, who often followed him around, hoping to hear an anecdote about his time beyond the borders of their small country.

Haymitch was surrounded by a small group of people, all awaiting his tale. The old man looked up, clear grey eyes so like Katniss’s and others of the Seam, and captured Peeta’s gaze where he stood at the back, leaning on a gnarled apple tree that had long since ceased yielding fruit. It was as if Haymitch spoke directly to him.

“Once upon a time a king gave a feast and there were all the most beautiful princesses of the realm. One of the guards saw the king's daughter: she was the most beautiful one of all. And he immediately fell in love with her.

“But who is a poor soldier when compared to a king's daughter? One day he managed to meet her and tell her he couldn't live without her. The princess was so struck by the depth of his feeling that she said to the soldier, 'If you will wait a hundred days and a hundred nights beneath my balcony, then in the end I'll be yours.'

“The soldier immediately took up a place beneath her balcony and waited. One day, two days, ten, twenty...Every night she looked out of her window, but he never budged. Come rain, wind, or snow, he never moved from his spot. After ninety nights he was gaunt and pale and tears streamed from his eyes but he couldn't hold them back. He didn't even have the strength to sleep any more. The princess still watched.

And on the ninety-ninth night, the soldier got up, picked up his chair and left.”

Several moments passed before the group came to realize that Haymitch had finished his story. “That’s it?” one man, a young Peacekeeper named Darius, called out. “What kind of ending is that?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Haymitch groused. “That’s just how the story goes.”

The group wandered away, exasperated, muttering under their breath, though they would be back again the next time Haymitch set himself up on the bench to tell his stories. Peeta made his way towards him as he took a swig of the white liquor bottle.

“Why would the soldier give up just as he is about to get what he wants? After all of that effort?” Peeta mused.

Haymitch set down his bottle, eyeing him carefully. “I don’t know. I’ve never wanted anyone that much.”

Peeta frowned. “That’s actually sad.”

The old man shrugged, getting off the table and clutching the bottle to him. He stared at it instead of Peeta. “It is. But I bet you’ll tell me what it means soon enough.”

At that, Haymitch walked away, remarkably composed for a man who had just swallowed half a bottle of powerful drink. As Peeta watched him leave, he caught sight of Katniss approaching the Hob with a silent tread. She had learned from many years of hunting how to move like a shadow and just as silently, slipped inside.

Her unexpected appearance brought a surge of happiness to Peeta’s heart, prompting him to follow her without conscious volition. Her arrival, like the flickering of a star through a cloud-covered night sky, lit up his mood and inspired a powerful sense of possibility, and risk.

She weaved her way through the tables to the back, approaching Rooba, the butcher. Katniss spoke with the older woman, emptying the contents of her bulging hunting bag onto the counter.

Peeta moved as quietly as he could, dodging the tarps and canvases that hung from the roof of the haphazard structure before stepping behind one that hung just adjacent to where Rooba’s was set up, peeking in through a tear in the worn fabric. From his vantage point, he listened to Katniss become more insistent as she negotiated for her meat. He hung back, listening to snatches of her conversation with Rooba until she packed up what remained of her unsold meat and stepped away from Rooba’s table.

Peeta was prepared to move and follow her again but she surprised him by setting her things down on a bench directly in front of where he stood. He was so close, he could see the part of her thick, dark hair. Her braid was neater than it had been when she’d last come to the bakery, perhaps because the day was not as rainy and humid.

A powerful desire to touch her welled up inside of him, and that fragile thing that quivered at the thought of her wailed, threatening to shatter if he did not, at that very instant, do something to satisfy it. His heart beat wildly and his palms were damp with sweat but he gave in, calling Katniss’s name from where he stood.

“Who’s there?” Katniss said, looking around her.

“Sssh,” he said, poking his head through the partition in the canvas. “Just pretend everything's normal. It’s me, Peeta.”

Katniss’s eyes popped open in amazement. “I know who you are.” She glanced around her, and he wondered if she was waiting for Gale. “Peeta, the Hob’s no place for you. What are you doing here?”

“Forgive me, Katniss. I know it’s stupid of me. But I had to talk to you.”

She looked up at him and her eyes were even more beautiful in the dim light of the Hob’s interior.

This time Peeta found the courage to speak to her. Unlike his stammering heart and ragged breath, he was filled with determination. That curtain helped him, allowing him to only partially be seen.

“You're so beautiful...That's what I wanted to tell you.”

Katniss stared, dumbfounded but he pushed on. “When I speak to you, I can't put two words together because...you make me tremble. I don't know what people do in these situations, or what I’m supposed to say. But I think I'm in love with you.”  

Katniss leaned into the partition, staring at his face, as if that flood of passion bewildered her. At that moment, an older woman stopped to ask about a trade. Without looking, Katniss snapped at her and told she had nothing left. The woman insisted, pointing at her full hunting bag but Katniss fairly growled that all her haul was accounted for and returned her concentration to Peeta.

Peeta chuckled, provoking a tiny answering smile from Katniss. It overwhelmed him to see her face so transformed. “When you smile, you're even more beautiful.”

Katniss swayed on her legs, as if under a spell but pulled back and fixed a stern, but not cruel look on her face.

“Peeta, that’s really...kind...of you---”

“I promise you, it’s not kindness that I feel,” he interjected.

“Okay,” she said, disconcerted but pushing on. “I like you. But...I'm not...in love with you.”

It was as if a knife had been plunged directly into his heart. He held her luminous gaze, unyielding. He had come this far.

“Is it because of Gale Hawthorne?”

Katniss scowled. “He has...intentions.”

“But you’re undecided,” Peeta insisted, hope springing inside of him, becoming stronger when she refused to answer his question.

“I don’t care about Gale Hawthorne’s intentions,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

“For what?” Katniss asked.

“For you to fall in love with me too.”

She shook her head, beginning to protest but he rushed to explain before he lost his chance. “Listen. Every night, when I get off work, I'll come and wait beneath your window. Every night. When you change your mind, open your window. That's all you have to do. I'll understand…”

He smiled at her, trying to disarm her with his sincerity. Her eyes narrowed briefly in response, as if undecided or unbelieving. “You’re out of your mind. You’re Merchant. I’m Seam. You can’t just walk into my neighborhood and park yourself outside my window.”

Peeta smiled again, this time full of the courage of his certainty. “I am out of my mind with love for you.” He leaned his head from the rift in the canvas. “Don’t forget - your mother was Merchant and your father, Seam. And as for sitting under your window, it’s the smallest price I would pay to have you.” He pulled back again, so that he knew she could not see him, only hear the susurring of his voice. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He slipped out between the tarps that hung low, himself a shadow between the canvas. As he escaped, he saw Gale arrive, his eyes sweeping the interior of the market, no doubt also seeking Katniss.

Even with the presence of his greatest rival, Peeta was filled with hope. He felt powerful and optimistic and did not mind Gale Hawthorne very much at all.

XXXXX

Peeta did exactly as he promised, waiting patiently outside Katniss’s window. He was careful to select a spot where her mother could not see him. Katniss’s house was the very last one in the Seam, next to the fence that was used to keep the animals of the forest from roaming the streets of District 12 at night. He slipped in each night just after sun down and stayed until the lights of the small house went dark. During the hours of his vigil, which were not so many, he watched for Katniss’s silhouette, sometimes hearing her voice. But in those first autumn weeks, she ghosted near her windows, the only evidence of her curiosity was the corner that was gently pulled back to spy on him, but dropped in haste, in fear of being discovered.

He marked the passing days on a wall calendar in his room, each X building like the relics he’d read about in some book or other, each a testament of his devotion, each one pushing him toward the next one. Katniss still came to trade, at times with Gale but many more times, without. She said nothing of Peeta’s escapades - his visits to her house, regardless of the rain that pelted down or the cold that gnawed him to the bone. The courage with which he confronted this challenge waxed and waned, sometimes strengthened by an odd look she gave him when she accepted his trades, or the passing of his body close to hers when he held opened the door to let her in the bakery. Her breath caught, her eyes fluttered, and he knew as sure as his name that she’d felt something in response to him.

But there were other days, days when she walked the dirt roads of her neighborhoods as they wound towards the pavements of the center, in the company of Gale, pretending not to know Peeta - those were the days that sapped his optimism, making him question why he had ever thought someone like Katniss could care for someone as plain as Peeta.

Each night, her window remained closed. There were only a handful of moments when Peeta was sure her resolution wavered, moments when a curtain was pushed aside, a tremulous hand reaching for the handle, only to pull back. Those nights crushed him and sent him with a heavy heart back to his home, where his family eyed his strange, late night expeditions with curiosity and concern.

The nights became longer as autumn brought cold winds and leaves the color of singed metals. It also brought the Harvest Festival with its jocular lights crisscrossing the square, tables of food and drink set up around the center. The entrance to Town Hall was converted into a stage, before which an area which had been cleared for both the young and old to dance the frigid night away. Peeta, like all young men, both Merchant and Seam, prepared himself, with autumn wreath in hand and romantic dreams in the heart in the hopes of persuading the girl he most desired.

He smoothed out the new, green, button-up shirt he’d chosen for the evening and dress pants so typical of District 12. He pulled on a thick sweater which set off his shirt with colors of browns, greens and his favorite autumn orange, which appeared to have been borrowed from a candle flame. His artist’s eye was satisfied with the way it augmented his blue eyes and ashy-blonde hair. When his brothers called for him, he left his room, pulling on his formal coat, and slipped out of the houses towards the center.

They found the square already filled with young people. Groups of parents and older citizens clustered together, Seam at one corner of the plaza and Merchants on the other. There was some mingling between groups, most notably Haymitch and Prim, Katniss’s affable and universally loved younger sister.

Peeta pretended to carry on a conversation with Dillon Cartwright, the son of the shoemaker, while his eyes searched the crowds for Katniss. He greeted the children of other Merchant families, their parents all friends or business associates of his parents. It was second nature for Peeta to be so effortlessly charming.

An hour into the Harvest Festival Concert, where men and women played the local music of the season in makeshift groups, Peeta found Katniss. She wore an intricate weave of beautiful braids, typical of District 12. In fact, many of the girls had their hair swept up in braids like hers, but to Peeta’s eyes, no one wore them better. Under a pale, cream-colored wool shawl, she wore a pastel-orange dress which showed off her figure to lovely effect, to the extent that other boys noticed her as she walked by. But no matter what clothes she wore, no one had the courage to approach her.

Peeta glanced around the square with its decorated tables, twinkling lamplights and festive music and set one foot before the other, moving towards her. She pretended not to notice him but slowed her pace, allowing him to reach her. He fell into step next to her, ignoring the way a group of girls from his former school days watched them and whispered furiously.

“Hello, Katniss,” he said in a low, steady voice.

“Peeta,” she answered, her face impassive but without her usual scowl.

The music started, making it difficult to speak, but he did anyway. “Did you just arrive?”

She shrugged. “I was late in getting here.” Her eyes flickered quickly over him before she looked away.

“I…” he swallowed hard, wishing he’d rehearsed something before he approached her. “I was wondering if you’d like to dance.”

She tilted her head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. “You dance? I’ve never seen you do it.”

Peeta smiled nervously, trying to hold her gaze and failing miserably. “I don’t usually dance in public.”

“Hmm,” she said, stopping in front of him. “Alright.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “You will? I mean, you’ll dance with me?”

“That’s what I said.” She put out her hand, inviting him to take it. “Do you know the steps?”

He nodded, not believing his luck. He tried not to make too much of the humorous twinkle in her eyes, tried not to read too much in her acquiescence. He took her hand and led her to the dance line, where people were arranging themselves. With her hand firmly held in his, he listened to the beat of the music, and when the dancers moved he led her through the steps of the jaunty song.

Peeta moved awkwardly at first, fearing to tread on Katniss’s toes or commit some other misstep. But when he spun her around and pulled her towards him for several beats, she whispered, “Relax, you’re doing fine.” This had an instantaneous effect on him and he fell into step with more ease. The clapping and stomping of the other dancers made him euphoric. But what lifted his heart, more than anything else, was the way Katniss’s eyes brightened with excitement, laughter bubbling from her like the ale fizzling in a cold glass. Her happiness captivated him and he found within himself an endless desire to always see her that way.

They danced until they were breathless. When the music stopped, Katniss collapsed against his chest, her smile wide and bright. He hugged her to him, pleased that she let him before leading her away from the center.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, indicating the table of ale.

Katniss nodded, catching her breath. “Yes, please.”

Peeta squeezed her hand before leaving her at an empty bench and made his way to the table where Mr. Undersee, the Mayor of District 12, was serving drinks. Peeta’s heart was full to the brim with happiness - he had been able to hold Katniss close to him and she had not only let him, but appeared to welcome his company.

“Two cups of ale, please,” he asked when he reached the front of the line.

“Peeta!” Mr. Undersee smiled, shaking his hand in greeting. “You were dancing up quite a storm out there.” He ladled the drinks into paper cups and handed them to Peeta.

“I’m only really just learning,” Peeta said, almost bashful.

“Well, you have quite the teacher. Enjoy the rest of your night, son.”

Peeta smiled, all benevolence and joy as he weaved through the crowd, which had lined up behind him. He glimpsed Katniss near the table where he’d left her and approached, eager to spend the evening with her, calculating which stands he could take her to, what gifts he could buy her.

But when he emerged from the crowd, he instantly deflated. Katniss was not alone. Towering next to her in clothes that were better than what he usually wore for hunting, was Gale Hawthorne. He stood close to Katniss, speaking to her in low tones. Peeta approached, holding the two cups in his hand, handing one to Katniss, who avoided his gaze by staring resolutely at the drink, a scowl fixed on her face. He offered his free hand to Gale, gritting his teeth as the tall man shook his hand in response.

“Are you enjoying the festival?” Peeta asked, calling forth every ounce of politeness.

Gale shrugged, eyeing the crowd with his usual dour expression. “It’s been fun so far. I was just coming to get Katniss. Her mother’s looking for her.”

“She can wait,” Katniss grumbled, taking a quick sip of her drink.

“It sounds important,” Gale said. It was then Peeta sensed the tension in the air between them, which made him uneasy.

“I can walk you over, if you like,” Peeta offered gently.

Katniss glanced up at him with a grateful look. “It’s okay. I might as well get it over with.” She paused, sipping from her cup again, ignoring the impatience in Gale’s stance. “Thank you for the dance. I’m going squirrel hunting tomorrow.”

Peeta nodded. “My father will be happy to hear it.”

With that, she turned, allowing Gale to lead her away. She cast a last glance over her shoulder before melting into the crowd. Peeta knew he would not see her again that evening. He left soon after, his mind filled with images of her that he would replay and draw for days to come.

XXXXX

After the Harvest Festival, the cold, busy days of preparation for Yuletide raced by. It was a busy period for Peeta and his family, and he worked without pause, filling endless cake and cookie orders in preparation for the upcoming festivities. The weather was icy cold, the ground covered in frost each night Peeta took his excursion to Katniss’s house. Now she made no effort to hide her face when she peeked through the curtains, but still the window remained closed.

The hard work, the frozen nights, the hope that was dashed each time Katniss shut her lights off at the end of Peeta’s vigil at once drove him forward and wore him down. At last, without knowing how, ninety nine days and ninety nine nights had passed beneath her sealed window, that resolute glass and shaded curtain chipping away at the certainty that had brought him to commit to this path to begin with.

Peeta stood at his post, beneath the giant evergreen tree. Few people came this far to the edge of the Seam, unless they required some medical assistance from Katniss’s mother and sister. So it was with some surprise that he saw Gale arrive with a giant package. He watched as Katniss opened the door and welcomed him inside with the easy familiarity of a friend - or lover.

Peeta did not wait for the night to end before turning on his heel and returning home.

XXXXX

The hundredth day coincided with Yuletide’s Eve and the festival of the longest night of the year. All the houses of District 12 were filled with evergreen boughs and holly branches. Fires crackled, warm and fragrant, while cakes and cookies for those who could afford the fine flour and sugar abounded on tables that often remained empty of desserts the other nights of the year.

Peeta woke that morning emptier than he’d ever been in the previous three months. He barrelled through the day, working hard so he wouldn’t have to think of his withering heart. In the evening, he perused the treasure beneath his floorboard, the one sketchbook that had grown into two, and turned first one page, then another, each one a different version of Katniss. He had derived so much joy from the expectation of catching a glimpse of her, the hope he carried each night that one day he would arrive and find her window open. But now that he’d come to this point, he found the energy that had driven him forward all these months was now depleted.

Katniss would never open her window, never feel the way he felt for her. She had Gale and there was nothing more Peeta could do.

He slammed his sketchbooks shut and shoved them deep under the floorboard, as deep as they would go, and fitted the wood slab in place again, lowering the edge of the rug resolutely over it. When he glanced out the window, he saw Haymitch idling in the town square. Peeta grabbed his coat, putting it on as he took to the stairs and quickly found himself before the old, drunk storyteller.

“Now I understand why the soldier went away just before the end,” he blurted out, full of misery. “Just one more night and the princess would have been his. But she might not have kept her promise. And...that would have been terrible, he would have died from it. So instead, for ninety-nine nights, at least he had lived with the illusion that she was there waiting for him…”

Haymitch hung his head, scraping at the snow on the ground. “So the soldier’s dreams were more real to him than reality.”

Peeta followed the design Haymitch etched into the ice. Around him, the light of the afternoon was fading quickly, becoming darker and darker. It would be Yuletide soon, his family would sit around their dinner table, carving the winter fowl, slicing the warm, freshly baked bread, wondering where he was. He himself would not know where he would be until he found himself there, for his heart had exhausted his store of hope, and like the weather-beaten soldier, with chair firmly in hand, Peeta was ready to take his illusions with him.

Haymitch’s gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts. “Boy, go home. Eat well. Tomorrow will bring more fables and tales. Maybe you will find another dream to dream.”

The old man clapped his hand on Peeta’s shoulder, not waiting for him to return the greeting before turning to walk toward Greasy Sae’s, where he traditionally had his Yuletide dinner. Peeta looked to the path he’d taken so many times in the last months, the one that had led him each time to his place beneath Katniss’s window. The pull was weak but it was still there, beckoning him forward to try one more time, to live in his dream for one last night.

He let his gaze linger, his heart filled with a love he would bury for the rest if his life, turned around and walked back to the bakery.

XXXXX

Dinner was agony. His mother had invited their aunts and uncles and myriad of cousins to dine with them. Peeta made a half-hearted effort to appear happy, forcing himself to eat and socialize, all the while making every effort to push each tortuous thought of Katniss from his mind. He was in a bad way by the time dessert was served and only just made it through the end of toasting the meal when he slipped out of his apartment and snuck downstairs to take fresh air outside the bakery.

He didn’t bother to turn on the light in the shop as he unlocked the back door, making sure to leave it unlocked as he stepped out into the alley. There were a handful of people milling around, walking off the meals they’d just shared with their friends and family. Peeta’s stared out at the lamps that were hung with wreaths and holly, fixated on the flickering stars beyond. So he did not hear the shuffling of boots on snow until a voice startled him from his thoughts.

“I opened my window and you were gone.”

Peeta turned and saw Katniss as if in a dream. His heart gave one, resolute thud inside his chest and faltered before picking up speed, beating wildly.

“I thought…” he began, but the look on her face was nothing like he’d ever seen before - wonderful, sweet, the look of somebody who understands she is loved and now realizes at last that she is in love too. Her single braid was gone, replaced with an elaborate array of smaller braids arranged high on her head, revealing the endless, smooth column of her neck. She wore a powder-blue dress, fur-lined snow boots and her father’s hunting jacket, damp with fallen snow. She had never looked more beautiful.

“What about Gale?” he asked, praying that she was not a figment of his overheated imagination.

“Gale?” she answered, taking a step forward. “I got into the habit of having him around. But he’s not what I want.”

Her words overwhelmed him, making the moment almost unbearable. To be met, not with a scowl, but with an invitation. He opened his arms with a timid restraint, as if this was a reality he could not believe. But she stepped inside, without hesitation, and pressed her strong body against him.

“Am I what you want?”

She clutched the material of his sweater, balling it into her fist. “Yes.”

They held onto each other awhile longer, her small body swallowed in his arms. Peeta was filled with both happiness and the fear of letting go. Then, without warning, he lifted her up and brought her into the warmth of the bakery. His action elicited a squeal of surprise from her, which became laughter when he spun her around and around in wide circles. She buried her face in the crook of his neck until they landed, dizzy, against a wall.

They exchanged an intense look. Peeta didn’t know who started but with eyes locked on each other, they kissed, at first timid, almost clumsy, and then with more determination. Katniss’s lips gave way to him, and he kissed her hungrily, heady with the taste of her. They only broke apart when the bell of the town hall chimed midnight, but instead of ending their rapture, it was magnified a thousand times, reflected in Katniss’s glassy eyes and swollen lips.

Peeta was speechless but felt Katniss’s fingers twine through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer. “Kiss me again, once for each night you waited for me.”

“A hundred kisses,” he whispered, pressing his lips against hers, wanting to get lost in the wet warmth of her mouth.

She pulled back before they became entangled again.“Were they really one hundred nights?”

“One hundred days and one hundred nights,” he answered, dizzy with want.

She shook her head, smiling up at him, a smile so full of love, he thought he might be blinded by it. “Then kiss me again until you lose count.”

 XXXXX

 Based on a series of scenes from the movie, Cinema Paradiso. Some lines of this story were taken directly from the script. If you get a chance to watch this movie, it’s lovely.

@norbertsmom - I was so happy to get you as my Secret Santa! I’ve enjoyed doing this with you. I wanted to write you more stories but it was not in the cards this time, so I decided to write a longer story for the great reveal instead. Searching for things to put on our blog was a lot of fun for me. Hope you have a wonderful holiday! I got so much out of it. Thanks for being a friend and a supporter over the years.

Betaed by the incomparable @eala-musings and @akai-echo. Happy holidays to my friends :).

I asked for trc and tfc prompts and @midtempohands said: maybe something about ronan and adam planning out their future post-college and ronan having a healthy perspective about the barns being his home but not a place he needs to be tied to emotionally forever?

This was super fun to write thank you, and I hope you like it! <3 I’m gonna put it under a read more ‘cause it got a little long. I want to cross-post it to ao3 because my theme is probably not the easiest to read fic on but I don’t know what to call it. someone name it for me and I’ll put it on ao3 too haha.

(also if anyone else wants to, feel free to direct a prompt to my ask box! doesn’t have to be shippy!)

The summer before Adam’s final year at college somehow manages to feel both shorter and longer than all the summers that have come before it. Shorter because Adam picks up a lot more hours at Boyd’s than he usually does making it almost feel like he hasn’t come back at all. Longer for pretty much the exact same reason; Ronan still feels like he’s waiting for Adam to come home, the time they snatch in between the working hours blissful and yet never enough.

Adam’s plan is to save as much money away as possible so that he can drop one of the part-time jobs he has at college when he goes back and devote the extra time to his studies and internship applications, in preparation for his post-graduation future.

Ronan broods about the loss of time. But he does it quietly, when Adam’s at work and not there to witness it. He’s driving Opal up the wall.

He’s half-tempted to just transfer all of the money Adam would need for the year into his account, but he knows it would just cause a row of colossal proportions. Ronan and Adam fight nowhere near as much as they used to, but whenever they do, it is almost always about money.

The problem being, of course, that Ronan’s always had it. He’s flippant about it in a way that Adam’s never been able to be. He doesn’t feel guilty about it because it’s a waste of time; he can’t help it any more than Adam can, and Adam doesn’t want his guilt anyway. He just wants Ronan to try and understand, and that? That Ronan can do.

He knows how Adam works. He has always known.

Adam’s extended absences during the summer, especially given the reasons for them, mean Ronan has plenty of time to think about the future. Adam being at college, whilst at times been so heart-wrenchingly difficult, has also allowed a certain amount of routine. Not that Ronan’s ever particularly cared for routines, but it’s not to say he can’t get used to them, and he had got used to Adam’s. He knew all of Adam’s college dates, knew when he had time off, knew when he’d be home, or when Ronan could go and visit. And these dates fell at almost the exact same time every year.

Once Adam has graduated, however, all of that goes out the window. It’ll be an unknown for both of them; something new to navigate, especially if Ronan remains at the Barns. It’ll mean even less time to see each other, and Ronan is tired. So fucking tired of long distance. Missing people is exhausting, not to mention it seems pointless if there’s something he can actually do about it.

This is what he’s been thinking about on Adam’s last day of summer vacation. A day that Adam spends the majority of at Boyd’s, annoyingly enough. He wasn’t originally going to work it but Boyd called last minute having been let down by not one but two other members of staff, desperate enough that he said he’d pay Adam double overtime rates. An offer too good to refuse.

“Don’t pout, I’ll be back in time for dinner,” Adam had said on his way out of the door.

“Fuck off, Parrish,” Ronan had replied pleasantly.

It’s an overcast day, the humidity making it feel muggy and uncomfortable as Ronan goes about his day. He gets a lot done; he mows the lawn outside the farmhouse that leads down to the first of the fields, sees to the vegetable and fruit patches he has growing, cleans out half of one of the barns, and tidies up the entire house (with the exception of his own bedroom, which is currently a mess as Adam’s been in the process of packing and the sight is a stark reminder that he’ll be gone again soon). Opal disappeared sometime in the morning and hasn’t reappeared yet. Ronan’s not concerned; she often takes herself off to wander about the place, treasure hunting or tormenting Chainsaw. She always comes back again, usually completely filthy and having exhausted herself with her day’s activities.

Ronan’s making spaghetti bolognese when Adam gets back from work. The side door that enters into the kitchen swings closed and Adam lets out an exhausted sigh.

“That smells amazing,” he says, hooking his chin over Ronan’s shoulder and pressing a kiss into his cheek.

“It’s just spaghetti,” Ronan replies, rolling his eyes, but he’s pleased and Adam can tell. He nuzzles into Ronan’s neck for a moment and then retreats to the kitchen table, sitting down with a groan like it’s the hardest thing he’s done all day.

Ronan looks around at him and Adam smiles at the attention. “Long day,” he explains. “It’s nice to sit down.” He turns his good ear towards the door that leads off towards the rest of the house and listens for a few seconds, then turns back to Ronan. “Where’s Opal?”

“Your guess is a good as mine,” Ronan says wryly. “Terrorising the local wildlife no doubt.”

Adam snorts; the corner of his eyes crinkles in amusement and Ronan is undone. He checks to make sure his pasta isn’t bubbling over, and when he’s satisfied that nothing on the hob needs his immediate attention, he sits down opposite Adam. “Listen, Adam, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Adam raises both eyebrows. “Is this going to be as ominous as it sounds?”

Ronan scowls. “Fuck off, no, it’s not ominous.”

Adam’s expression turns serious. “What is it?”

Ronan’s not good with words. Not even after all this time; he’d still rather let his actions do all the talking for him. But he’s also an adult now, and he’s learned that there’s some things that really do need to be said out loud.

“It’s just that — it’s your last year now. And when it’s over you’ll be graduating and you’ll get an internship in a city somewhere, and your structure won’t be like it is now. And I guess I was wondering where you want me to. . . to fit in with all of that?”

Adam frowns now, proper confusion spreading across his face. “Ronan, what do you mean?”

Ronan huffs in exasperation and wishes, for one fleeting second, that he was as eloquent as Gansey. “I mean do you want to keep doing what we’re doing now? Seeing each other every so often except maybe even less than before? Or do you want me to come with you?”

Adam goes stock still, eyes widening a fraction. Slowly, he rests his forearms on the table in front of him, clasping his hands together. When he speaks, it’s even-toned, the words picked carefully. “I wasn’t aware that second point was an option.”

Ronan narrows his eyes. “Of course it’s a fucking option.”

Adam smiles, quick-silver. “You’d come with me? Really?” It’s like he can hardly dare to hope, and it settles Ronan’s resolve.

“You know I would,” he says. “If you really think about it, you fuckin’ know I would.”

“But Ronan, this place, the Barns. . . it’s your home.”

Ronan shrugs. “Yeah, it is. It’ll always be my home. But honestly, it feels less like home when you’re not here,” he admits. It’s a pretty sappy thing to say, and Ronan has been known to let a few sappy things slip when it comes to Adam, but still. He has a reputation.

Adam grins wider, then looks around the room. “You wouldn’t sell it, would you?”

Ronan thinks about it for a minute, but the idea of someone else calling the Barns home unsettles him. Just thinking about another family making memories here makes his skin crawl. The Barns is a place of dreamers and dreams, and as such it should remain the property of dreamers and dreams. “No,” he says. “It’s — fuck, it’s part of my heart, you know? I could never sell it.”

“Good,” Adam says quickly. “That’s good. You shouldn’t. That way we’ve always got it to come back to, if and when we want. And you could split your time if there were things you needed to do here that you couldn’t do wherever I am. . .” he trails off and bites his lip, clearly lost in thought as he considers the logistics, but that’s okay. This is good; it finally feels like they’re planning for their future instead of planning separately and just hoping for the best. Communication is still such a tricky thing, but look at them now?

Adam meets Ronan’s eyes again. “Are we really doing this then, Ronan? Are you going to come and live with me properly, wherever I end up after graduation?”

“Adam,” Ronan says, and he reaches across the table and twines his fingers with Adam’s. “I want a life with you, and that doesn’t really work if I never get to see you. So, yeah. I’m gonna come and live with you, as long as that’s what you want.”

Adam smiles again, laughs breathlessly like he can’t quite believe it, then lifts Ronan’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles — a move he learned from Ronan. “Yes, Ronan. That’s what I want,” he says.

A stillness settles inside Ronan, calm finally flooding through his veins after a day of feeling unsteady and unsure. Adam is still leaving tomorrow, then there’s still almost a year to go to sort out everything that would need to be sorted out. They don’t know where they’ll be yet, there’s Opal to consider, and all sorts of other niggling grown-up responsibilities that no doubt will need to be taken care of.

But the important thing is, they’ll be together.

“Lynch,” Adam says, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes.

“Yes, Parrish?”

“Your spaghetti water is bubbling over.”

FP Jones/Andrews family/Riverdale imagines - Oh Dear Part 9

AN: This chapter is a little different... It’s also a little short so I may release the next chapter a little earlier than Friday. 

(Part One) (Part Two)(Part Three)(Part Four)(Part Five)(Part Six)(Part Seven)(Part Eight)

Overall Summary: You’re Archie’s old sister and you have a thing for a certain serpent

Pairing: Reader x FP Jones, Sister!Reader x Archie Andrews, Daughter!Reader x Fred Andrews

Word count: 1,335

Warnings: Well, FP is clearly older than the reader in this fic, none really

Before homecoming...

FP watched you leave the trailer with a unconscious smirk on his lips. 

You really were something else. 

He turned to the kitchen and poured himself a coffee, he had to be at Alice Coopers in an hour and if he was honest, he was kind of nervous. 

He knew Alice. He knew that this wasn’t just some social gathering to bring the Cooper/Jones family together but he said he’d go since Jughead seemed so damn excited about it. And in the end, he didn’t care that much about Alice’s intentions as long as his son was happy.

And your surprise visit was enough to encourage him to get through the rest of the evening. Knowing that you would be at the Whyte Wyrm in a pair of combat boots and black washed jeans that clung to you so tightly was enough to help FP through the night. 

FP had no idea why he let himself get talked into what he just experienced at the Cooper’s house. It was an interrogation he never particularly wanted but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t expect it to go ass up one way or another. 

He ran his hands over his face, sighing, partially out of defeat and partially out of exhaustion. 

““Betty! Jug! Hey!” You crossed over to Betty’s front patio, next door to your own. FP’s head shot up when he heard your voice. 

He felt as if he’d ran straight into a brick wall when you came into view. His lips parting lightly and his eyes widening in awe. 

You looked incredible.

FP hadn't realised that you were only really watching his reaction and had noticed that he hadn't held back when you revealed yourself. 

(Y/n), my gosh, you look beautiful!” Betty awed over your dress, and you thanked her. FP snapped back to his usual neutral facial expression, hoping that no one had seen his reaction to you as Betty cooed over you. 

“I’ll be right back, I have to get something from the house.” Jughead excused himself for a second, and then Betty started heading towards FP’s truck, leaving you and FP both alone for a split moment. 

‘Wow’ FP thought. 

“You look... beautiful.” FP murmured as you both walked down the steps, slow enough to have a private conversation. He wanted to say more, do more, but he knew he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t even find the words to say more. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself. Shame I didn’t get to see you in a suit tonight though.” You teased, a smile toying on the corner of your lips. FP eyes caught the smile you were repressing. 

“Believe me, you’re not missing much.” FP told you, chuckling softly. He looked sideways at you, waiting for you to say something else, anything else, but Jughead rejoined you, cutting you off.

“Come on, Betty doesn’t like to be late.” He said, rushing past you. FP shook his head at how whipped his son was on the young girl but also couldn’t help but feel hypocritical. 

FP watched his son open the car door for you and Betty as he clambered into the truck himself. 

He was glad that you entered first, pushing yourself up against his arm, your familiar scent filling his nose. 

The car was a tight squeeze but FP didn’t mind. He didn’t mind being so close to you and the other two didn’t think too much of it and so on you went. 

FP pulled up outside the school and almost told you to skip homecoming but managed to control himself. You were young, you should enjoy yourself and you were meeting later on anyway. 

“Have fun tonight.” FP quietly told you as the younger couple exited the car.  

“Remember, Whyte Wyrm, save me a dance.” You whispered, winking at the man. FP’s eyes lingered on your lips, he had to fight every urge in his body to kiss you in that moment but fortunately you exited the truck before he could act on it. 

“You be a gentlemen tonight, okay?” FP leaned towards the window, calling out to Jughead. He watched you take the umbrella from Jughead and head up the stairs to the front doors. FP’s gaze never left you. He watched your shoulders move as you adjusted the umbrella. He watched the way you stumbled slightly in the heels you wore. He watched your face light up as you greeted others and he felt himself suddenly long to be at that dance. 

“He always is, Mr. Jones.” Betty assured FP, bringing him back to his senses. 

“Betty, you mind giving us a minute?” Jughead asked, Betty, of course, didn’t mind and left the Jones family to talk.

After the talk with his son, FP headed back to the trailer park. His thoughts raced around his head, if Jughead said yes to Toledo that means he would have to go, he would have to leave you. He didn’t know if he could do that. He guessed you could always go to college there and he’d still get to see you but how long would he be able to get away with that?

He sighed, shaking the thoughts from his head and decided he’d make himself something to eat considering he didn’t do much eating at the Coopers. 

He figured he’d have to wait at least an hour before you ditched the dance but kept his phone by him in case you called. His phone rarely exploded with calls but when it did, it was usually you. 

FP’s mind wondered back to the first time you admitted you were crushing on him. He could admit that he couldn’t believe what he was doing at first when he allowed you into his life but, boy, was he glad he did. 

You made him forget about all the bad shit going on in his life. You made him forget the pain he had when he wife left him and took his baby girl which replaced the drinking. You made him forget what it was like feel like a loser, what it was to be the typical bad guy.

You made him feel human. 

He ducked down into the fridge and pulled out a box of eggs and a frying pan. 

He turned on the hob and the eggs started to sizzle when he suddenly got lost in thought. He was reflecting on the day he met you behind the bleachers. Your hair tied up, your shorts high on your hips, one sock a little lower than the other. Your (y/e/c) met his and that was the moment he knew he was screwed.

He was drawn from his thoughts when a chorus of sirens and flashing lights pulled up outside his trailer. He huffed. What could they possibly want on this night of all nights?

FP opened the door to reveal Sheriff Keller and a gathering of cops. 

“We have a warrant to search the premises.” Keller told him. 

“Be my guest. Got nothing to hide.” FP stood back and opened his arm, allowing the officers to enter. 

FP sat back and watched the cops raid his home, trashing the place that he and you had only just completely cleaned. His mind wondered to the polaroid of you and him and where he had put it, not that it mattered much because the cops weren’t searching for a photograph.

He thought to himself that he would have to let you know that he may be a bit late to the Whyte Wyrm if the cops didn’t finish up soon, especially since they weren’t leaving a single thing unturned. 

FP wasn’t worried at all about the raid, anything that could link him to any crime was ridded of a long time ago. He didn’t like to leave loose ends and therefore there would be no strings to pull. But when the sheriff pulled out a lockbox that FP had never seen before, he knew he was in trouble.

Chapter 10

Tag list

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GeeMaa took the onions I chopped... (Folio 1: Part 5)

GeeMaa took the onions I chopped and put them in a pan of warm palm oil. She turned the heat up on the hob and turned to look at me. Most people have eyes the colour of their skin or slightly darker; GeeMaa’s were a light shade of brown. Lighter than her skin. They had a hypnotic quality about them. 

“When was the first dream?” She didn’t seem as surprised as my father was to hear about the dreams. In her right hand she held a wooden spoon steady over the pan of whispering onions, but her attention was rooted on me. 

“After Auntie Dee Dee died. I saw her cooking on a kind of stage.” 

“Hmm.” She turned to stir the onions. She was making kontomire stew with agushi. “Sit down,” she said. 

I pulled a kitchen stool and sat down. She took an earthenware grinding bowl full of melon seeds, placed it on the floor, pulled another stool and sat facing me. She sprinkled some water on the seeds and began to crush them with a wooden pestle. She exuded the silent calm of Jaggers’ Molly – Estella’s mother. “My child, a crab does not give birth to a bird.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Do you know who an okomfo is?” 

“Like Okomfo Anokye?” I knew the name from my history lessons. He was the sorcerer who helped build the Ashanti Kingdom. Like Merlin of Camelot he had rooted a sword that could only be removed by a chosen person. 

“Yes. Like Okomfo Anokye.” She paused. “The dreams are signs.” 

I shook my head. “Daddy said it was shock.” 

“Hmm. What about the dream with the empty plates?” She continued to crush the melon seeds into a fine paste. I scratched my head and looked at the pan on the stove.

“I didn’t tell him about that.” 

“And after that the drought came.” She smiled, catching my eyes. 

It was like a secret code. It unlocked me. Scattered points of confusion began to stand in line. All I had to do was join the dots. Straighten the question marks. Make them point somewhere. Like Pip finally making the connection between Jaggers, Molly, Magwitch, Miss Havisham and Estella over dinner. I considered myself smart for a ten-year-old but it had never occurred to me. Foresight. I felt GeeMaa stand up and tip the crushed seeds into the muttering oil. Heard the hiss of the union of oil and water. Saw her reach for the chopped kontomire and tuna. Smelled the fusion of sweet aromas as she stirred the stew and lowered the heat on the gas cooker. New questions simmered in my mind. 

“It’s from my mother’s side of the family. The mountain dwellers.” GeeMaa spoke as though she could hear me. “The gift is stronger in some than others.” 

She looked at me as though she was telling me something with her eyes. All I saw was the pale brown ring around her pupil changing colours with the intensity of her thoughts. Her pupils widened as she broke a smile. 

“We all have it… but to get the best fruit from a tree you must shake it.” 

I nodded. Speechless. Still puzzled. Stumped by the way answers to old questions brought new uncertainties with them. Like a price to pay for answers; was it worth knowing the truth? 

GeeMaa continued. “It’s up to you how much it will affect your life. There are those who make a living from it.” 

“I want to be a journalist, not a fortune teller.” Petulance crept into my voice. 

She laughed. Loud. Bubbling like stew as she reached out to hug me. Her white hair was tied back in a bun; her skin yielding beneath the faded orange and green tie and dye cloth wrapped around her waist. 

“Mi bi. The gift is strong in you. You may not pursue it but you will always have premonitions about the people you love.” 

My grandmother was a big woman and I was a small ten-year-old; I heard her through the vibrations of her rib cage. She held me close to her chest. The dark brown skin of her arms had begun to sag. 

“So I will always have these dreams?” 

“People may think you're odd, but remember that everyone is odd – otherwise we would all be the same. You're not odd, you're sensitive.” 

I sighed. “Will I always have the dreams?” 

“Oh no! Not always dreams; anything that happens in your life could be a sign. Anything.” She hugged me tighter, then held me away, her upper arms rippling with the sudden motion. “Go and play with your friends. I have worried you enough.” 

I walked towards our burnt orange metal gate to look for Tom Brown and Table. Kofi Fagan, the last of our four-corner fraternity, was a year older than us and was away at boarding school in Cape Coast. We had begun to splinter. Partly because of the drought, which had rationed our energy for boyish exploits and made us still. Partly because Tom Brown’s father didn’t like him to play with us because we spoke a mixture of Ga and Twi with Pidgin English. His father only wanted him to speak English. 

He had come to drag Tom Brown home on several occasions. He always stopped to serve me a special reprimand. “And I don’t understand how you, a son of such educated people, can be allowed to speak as you wish!” 

 My father laughed when I told him about it. He said it was sad that some people thought that education meant renouncing your own culture. You couldn’t build real knowledge if you destroyed your foundation.

When I reached the gate I looked back towards the kitchen. GeeMaa was silhouetted in the window. Stirring food and humming away. The image reminded me of Auntie Dee Dee. Our street was deserted. No children running about. No boys beside our wall eyeing the stunted oranges on our tree. No shoemaker. No Yaw Table. No Ato Tom Brown. Only Auntie Aba sat in her usual spot; presiding over her large basin of waache with faraway eyes. It was a strange moment in a normal day. I decided not to go looking for Tom Brown or Table. I wasn’t in the mood for play. I yelled ayekoo to Auntie Aba and sat on the edge of the gutter in front of our house. The sun was still high in the sky, accentuating the deep greens and rooted browns of the trees. Bearing down on homes. Slanting off aluminium roofing sheets in random shafts. Blinding all who dared to stare. Shadows played a game of catch with the objects that cast them. It was hard to believe that it would be dark in two hours. Four o’clock flowers had begun to withdraw their red petals for the night. There was an uncommon precision to our sunsets; the equator kept a mathematical balance. It was impossible to grow up with sunsets like ours and know nothing of change. Before your eyes, what was green turns black, invisible light become miniature beacons, what was shadow is swallowed into the whole. I swung my growing legs inside the gutter and considered my life. I was conscientious about the thinking process. I didn’t want to be light-hearted. I wanted to write down everything, explore myself. Like James Baldwin in Nobody Knows My Name. I had read the book two months earlier. I didn’t understand all that he wrote but I liked the serious passion of his writing. The desire to delve deeper than ever before. I pasted an intense look on my face and tried to become like him. With each new thought I inclined my head at a different angle. I thought about MotherGrandpa – Grandpa – who like my mother was an accountant – very shrewd, very observant. Could he tell there was something different about me? Would he treat me with the same indulgence if I were an okomfo? Would he encourage me to develop the gift? Had he already noticed something different about me? Did he already treat me accordingly? What about Grandma? Or FatherGrandpa? Maybe FatherGrandpa wouldn’t care; I had only met him twice. My legs oscillated with increased ferocity; the questions multiplying as the sun set. But what about my father? And my mother? And Naana? Naana who had no time for anything that did not have a life in books. She would probably laugh and make a joke out of the idea of my having premonitions; ask me the name of her husband or first child. The moon shifted into view, pale yellow in the wake of the retreating sun. I wondered if I could talk to the dead. If I could ask what the inside of a coffin looked like when it was covered with at least ninety-six cubic feet of soil. I delved until I could delve no longer, stood up with a handful of loose stones and threw them across the undulating brown expanse that was our street. Then I asked myself the obvious question. Did I want to be able to tell the future? Did I want to be an okomfo? If I knew the future whom should I tell? What could I change? What would happen if I told someone? Changed something? It was all too much. I didn’t want to know. I looked up to a horizon with pale saffron eyes – one moon, one sun – and remembered GeeMaa saying, you will always have premonitions about the people you love. My interpretation of GeeMaa’s message was to be my burden for many years. Like the signature in my passport, it would define the tone of my adult life. Maybe it is our nature to interpret what we hear in a way that appears to give us some control. Nobody likes feeling helpless. Pip assumed Miss Havisham was his benefactor because it made it easier for him to accept his fortune. It reinforced his belief that he would end up with Estella, and influenced his decisions until he knew the truth. To free myself from my gift, I resolved not to love anymore. Be immune. Be free from premonitions. Night embraced the sun like a fat relation; the moon hung alone.

—–

continued >> here << | start from beginning? | current projects: The City Will Love You and a collection of poems, The Geez

What a stupid thing to do! As the bus came around, it stopped and opened only the front door, the one close to the driver. This was because there were only two people there, and perhaps he was disturbed by the shadowy and pale presence of both of us. What a strange world we live in, to go from ecstasy to the pinnacle of the ordinary and the             This duality has to be the core principle upon which all realities operate. I however did not wanted to go, but perhaps out of my timid and proper nature I boarded the bus with out giving any special impression to the driver. I hated my decision as soon as my mind had settled on it, and ans soon as I saw myself with my entire body inside it. As soon as I heard the distinct sound of the bus driving off, I began to imagine. I imagined that in stead of us boarding the buss, a concrete slab that belonged to the old building behind us, would have loosen up and fall on the plastic roof that made up the bus stop. And in the pile of rubble, our pale skins would blend in with the complex shades light gray tones, with only one major difference: thin strands of blood gently flowing from the pile. I smiled as I added the final finishing touches to my imagery. I always a had talent, and inclination for the visual, for the aesthetic, and imagination was for me my only escape as the bus drove away to nothingness, to the nothingness which became my life. Imagination was always an escape for me. In fact one of my oldest memory was when my mother confronted me about the ware about of her bed sheets, which I stole one spring morning in order to attach sales to my newly constructed wooden boat. Imagination and lying, my only real friends. I started to forget that the years had seasons. That’s how much my life had become a repetitive in nature. But during the summer just before my 29th birthday, there was a reshuffling that happened in my parents house.    Just before september 2019, my sister had moved from our house into her new apartment with her husband and child, sow the room in in which she sat for several years together was suddenly empty. Since most of her furniture was hers, she took it all and left the room almost empty. It was bitter sweat in a way, after all this was the room where I’ve spend most of my childhood in. This was the room I where my grandmothers large mirror sat, the one in which I saw my ‘double’ for the first time, no dought an event which changed my life completely. This was also the room where the family books where, where during the long cold winter days, or the dry summer ones where spend by me sitting on the carved up space inside the large, imposing teracota heater that seamed to keep vigil over the whole room, and read, read, and dreamed.  One day, right after they had moved out, I gently walked inside the room once more. The room was of an emptiness of which I never thought I would see it in. Here and there, there were scattered furniture pieces and rols of packaging material, no dought a from a hob left to be finished the next day. The silence which I was enveloped, now repulsed me. It was as if I was witnessing a pale, rotting  carcass. It’s features which gave it it’s character, its very life were still intact: but for how long ? No longer will I hear my little nephews laughter in it, no longer will is see his shadow through the glass of the door. I felt as if this room did not deserve such a deserting end. I moved around the place as memories came gently one after the other. Only the noise of my footsteps on the old wooden floor accompanied me. I stepped into the light of the day, and looked once more into the distance. Suddenly, I was distracted by noises from the streets. The layout of the room was, and still is like this: On my left side there was another large window, at a 45 degree angle to the one I was looking through. One showed the front garden, while the other the street. As I turned my view to window  next to it, I saw a group of neighbourhood children playing the middle of the street.   I gazed at them from the safety of my room, from the anonymity of my silent act, from the cold touch of my desperation. I felt a tenderness grow inside me as I continued to watch them. As it was all to nature for my weak character, I quickly became absorbed by the beauty of their abandonment. Summer magic in it’s full force. I feel to the conclusion once more, that there was a force outside of me which manipulated me at times to remember, to relive certain memories which tie in almost perfectly, as a form of special meaning to the very physical moment in which I happened to find my self at that particular time. That moment of trance like abandonment was no different. Another memory rushed my mind. It was the middle of my 12th summer. The year was 2002. In the small community where I lived, I could hardly call it developed. I remember my world consisted of only 3 windy street, which where unpaved for the longest time. Our empty , childlike lives consisted of lounging at any given sidewalk corner, for whatever reason one could not remember. The only thing that comes o mind, puncturing my conscious is the sound of a distant car that came and rushed in front of our very eyes, lifting a could of dust with it, disturbing the lazy tranquility of the day. Dust rising ,dust falling down. The neighborhood (which at that age I thought consisted off only these 3 streets) where surrounded by open, animal grassing fields, and a long 5 mile hillside we called the Observatory. It was in these places where our wild nature and our never ending appetite for freedom showed itself, for all day long, wether it was on the weekend free days, or after we came home from school, one could always find us playing in the short grass until sun set. I remember there was a field, in particular, one surrounded from all sides by a low hanging fence. As you entered you were greeted by a path way, which was barely visible from the tall grass which grew to cover it. We simply werent supposed to be there, but on one particularly memorable august day, me and a band of children, regular suspects I might add, jumped the small steel wire fence, and began our walking towards the small hut. I remember my senses becoming more refined and alive to everything around me. Unnoticed things, like the curvature of the fence we just jumped. As we were getting further and further away from it, as sense on sadness erupted from it, as if it was warning me of something. Quickly, the sound of the ruffled tall grass surrounded me it infernal, shredding sound. My friends diden’t seem to be disturbed: it was natural for them to be rebellious, for me it wasent. This state of things, I would learn to utterly regret in life as I grew up. We couden’t stop talking, pushing each other, testing ourselves .It was as if we were wild hares, living in a world of concealment, in which we could act out our most craved fantasies, as our destination drew closer. The hut was surrounded from 3 sides by wall nut trees. As we got with in ten feet of the place, we started to circle it as we continued our talking, unconciously as it were, as if it was our strange way of greeting the final point of our destiny. The bent aluminum sheets that constituted it’s roof tilling reflected sharp rays of sunlight to my eyes. I suddenly and for a mere split second felt a bitten feeling of deception enter my hearth, like the horrible taste one gets in his mouth when biting into a decomposing sun flower seed. Soon however, we entered the ‘hut’. Inside we found a desolate place. The where only two wooden, windowless framed standing in a corner opposite of the door and nothing else. But the mutual feeling that we all had upon finding whats inside filled us with the sweetest wonderment and joy. It’s sad that this particular quality of a child’s soul, that of finding a ‘something; to wonder about even in the midst of total emptiness does not survive the cynicism of adulthood. Perhaps knowledge ruins it, but I personally think there is something entirely else at work. Soon however something unexpected happened. My friends have all but left, almost with out sound, with out a single added gesture. Some of them began playing with the empty frames in the tall grass just outside the hut, while others where climbing the trees and talking to each other from a distance. I remember, because I cannot forget, just how much I felt in soul the distance between them and me became horrifically amplified, almost to infinity itself. Was I afraid or distressed? No. I was dying to see just what will happen next! However soon I noticed that in the room there was another person. I young girl, which was about the same age as me, that i would give her the name of Maria, in order to keep her anonymity. She had short, black hair and a round face. There was a calmness which was unnatural for a child, I thought, and felt as if she was one of those girls which are somewhat “forced” to mature as quickly as possible, on account of her strict religious upbringing. I was even then, a helpless presence. To shy, to frail, to afraid of being afraid even. I stood still as she looked out a small, dirty window. Wich stood opposite of me, thus I had a prime view of her back. I became enthralled by what she was doing. She was peeling the dead and curled up white paint on the bottom of the bent and raged frame with her perfect finger nail, with her perfect finger, with her perfect purpose and resolve. As she was doing this, she was staring at something outside, at what exactly even my wildest fantasies could not produce an answer. Perhaps there is no vision in rare moments like that. Only the mind seeing with the back of it’s eyes worlds impossible to calculate. I know for sure, she did not noticed me being there, behind her. For her, everyone had left the room and she was left alone as she probably deserved, as she probably wanted. My perverted eyes immediately became fixated at her ankles. It’s true that in that particular summer my fixation with the human body had ‘progressed’ or rather should I say ‘regressed’ towards the human ankle, particularly the female ones. She kept raising them up and down, gently, as to not reveal to much muscle tension or a tendon popping through the skin. Lets now begin an exercise of imagination. Lets conjure up the image of a mad genius doctor, who has lost his entire humanity, and now in a secret laboratory, has concocted a being which at every step of the way, at every moment in which it’s natural life force is expended outwards, converts the superfluous and the decorative into it’s exact opposite: into substance, into pure meaning. Thus only from the hands of such a imagined ‘creature’ can beauty achieve the highest ordering known to exist in the universe. One can become pure evil at the sight of such something like this. Under the effect of this powerful sight to behold, my body felt like a training dummy, profoundly helpless in an open field, repetitive hit by different adversaries one after another. The wind current slammed the door over and over again, as I could barely see a patch of gray clouds gathering somewhere in the distant sky. I continued to contemplate her ankles as if her entire soul was somehow located inside that area. Like the petrifying eyes of the Gorgon, she froze me in place. She turned to me and I quickly saw her eyes. I couldent distinguish what color where they, green, light blue. At this age I was made to believe, by the words of the older children on my block, that the people from whom you cannot decide decisively what eye they have must be evil in nature and supernatural. Now it all made sense. Now I was certain she was not of this world. In short, her eyes , with their strange color and ‘stifling’ capacities had somehow sucked all the oxygen in the tiny, ragged ‘hut’. I felt far to compelled, far to humiliated by the moment. I felt like a poor, ill equipped animal caught in the crossfires of a skillful hunter. He pules the trigger and with out disturbing the grass under me, I fell with out a sound. The incapacity and futility in front of a form of absolute beauty.   She looked at me and said: “Should we leave? Her voice sounded uncaring, as if the response was all ready set in stone beyond my possible will otherwise. My mood and my spirit suddenly changed. I responded to her with my own gazing, which could never rise up to the shear power and intensity of hers. I was full of revelry, as if i was a schoolboy that had just heard the long awaited bell that announced the end of the classes for the day. In my hearth however, pored a satisfaction akin to stupidity. And perhaps cowardice as well? Was I really glad to get away from her unforgettable presence? Or was this just my pride trying to quickly and unconvincingly cover the power that her presence had over me. Better yet, my incapacity to somehow alter, act against this beauty had become unbearable. I never knew self hatred before like I knew then. An yet,it was in those unfaithful moments did the unexpected. I took two timid steps forward and quicker than I imagine my lips where touching hers. I was to be my first and perhaps last theft. With this act, all of a sudden my world was violently cut in half. In  between them, inside the ‘cut’ that split reality into two sides as it were, I was standing alone,with a perfect view of both of them, of both of these ‘worlds’. On one side there was the world I knew all to well, the world that my perpetually undecided mind  my weak constitution allowed to it to be drenched and overfilled with an imagination that was out of control, which was only a a justification for the complete lack of courage to act when ever my conscious dictated it. To many times in my life I allowed a thick and heavy layer of imagination to take over when I in reality I should have acted in stead. The other half was the unexplained sensation of her lips touching mine, particularly the tips, the top rim. In a split second I opened my eyes as the kiss continued. Bad call. I closed them faster that I felt could be measured. On my mind an image became imprinted. There she stood, the improbable beauty of her face, her alien like sophistication, perfectly detached from the world around us which only that year stated to understand, and learn to detest. I gently pulled back and never looked at her face again, never hoping even in my deepest fantasies of  ‘earning’ more from the moment. However, with ever anticipating it, I quickly glanced at her as she stood there, frozen and with out response. She looked like a pale candle inside a abandoned room.As much as I wanted to stay there, in that solitude perhaps until the end of our lives, I got out the room and started walking through the tall grass towards the hunched piece of the fence that we hoped earlier. From the distance I heard the voices of my friends,some felt as if where aimed at me, others at themselves, it was a mess of words and sounds ultimately aimed at nothing. I felt that everything around me, everything I encountered was incriminating me. I was sure at first that the bend fence reacted more like a spring than ever before when I attempted to clime it. ‘’Something is wrong’’ I said, trying to comfort my self somehow. I stumbled on the way back home. Houses with their broken shindlers, peoples the cherry trees with their white flowers blasted by the winds, all of these accompanied my journey to the safety of my home, whispering accusation of what I have just done. I had no one to tell, none I wanted at least to tell, to confess, only to myself. Trapped in daily routine, the members of my household did not notice my odd behavior. I climbed the ladder which lead to our attic, and there I sit on an old mattress which had an aluminum frame that barely hanged on to support even my light weight. I’ve placed my hand behind my head and looked through a broken piece of a shingle, that was a bout the size of a large coin. I squinted my eyes, as the light reach them like sharp needles. It was there that i became inexplicably tired for some reason, and soon I fell a sleep in the most unexpected way. I don’t remember having a habit to sleep in the afternoon, but for some reason that day I just couden’t help my self to stay awake. I slept and I dreamed that whole time. In the first dream I imaged myself running back home after I had kiss that beautiful girl in the small abandoned house. I dreamed that her parents came to my house and started to argue with my father as if something terrible and unpardonable had happened between her daughter and me. I saw a fight ensue, shouting and throwing fists, it all looked like a dramatic theatrical play was unfolding before me. The next one was even stranger and in a disturbing way resonated with me more than the first. I saw my self back inside the empty house with her. She was on the floor, sow quiet was she, than she seamed as if she was sleeping for days on end. But there was something profoundly wrong. I saw a pool of red blood(it could have only been blood) shallowly emerging her ankles which were sitting one next to the other. In my hand I felt the vague sensation of a object. I looked down to my right and I saw a small hammer in it. Even thou this would have constituted a perfect moment to be horrified, on the contrary, I felt a distinct and compelling sense of freedom, of a peace which lye's beyond a every border, beyond anything my mind can understand. The whole scene was kept in a state of petrified beauty, and all of it’s elements were working at unison. The next and last dream was more ’casual’ in nature. In it, after we kissed,me and her would have decided to live there inside the small room as husband and wife. All of a sudden, she grabbed my hand and gave me a hard shake. ‘Come!’, she said looking at me with a rock like determination. I had no excuse to say no. When we got out the door and in an instant she called for the kids that were playing outside to join us. She said something to them, looking at them with uncanny determination. In my dream I looked at her lips to my right but I could not determine what she was saying, nor could I hear anything in that moment. I always wondered why my senses failed me in that particular segment of the dream? After she finished talking, her lips became once more silent and staunch. I felt as powerless as a slave. The pressure of her hand had become such a common sensation, that I had forgotten completely how it was before, how my hand felt when it was empty. Sow this is how truelove must be,I said to my self as i was dreaming. The total destruction of one way of existence in order to bring in another,                                                  Vrabies Mihai, Towards  a Poetic Life