#or atticus. i think unfortunately hes not mean enough to keep up with the best friend role as dearly as we all love him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

carewyncromwell · 3 years

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“We were dreamers not so long ago, But one by one, we all had to grow up. When it seems the magic’s slipped away, We find it all again on Christmas Day...”

~“Believe,” by Josh Groban

x~x~x~x

The Ravenclaw VS Hufflepuff match was one for the ages. With a final score of 320-10, it was one of the most decisive matches in Hogwarts history, let alone one of Ravenclaw house’s greatest triumphs -- and all of it was because of the combined efforts of Seeker Cho Chang and Ravenclaw’s Chasers, led by their Star Player Robert Bellamy. It put Ravenclaw well on its way to winning the Quidditch Cup for a second time, and it also made Robert once again the talk of Ravenclaw house. People latched onto the idea of him using echolocation to signal to his fellow Chasers where he was on the pitch and began to say he could fly faster than any bat, whether a real one or one from Ballycastle.

And yet, despite all of the praise and fawning he received, just as Cecelia said, Robert shrugged all of it off.

“All of us train more than just our eyes,” he said with a shrug. “And besides, signaling would’ve meant nothing if Roger and Randolph hadn’t been good enough Chasers to toss the Quaffle to me blindly -- and if Roger hadn’t been a good enough Captain to lead our team, to begin with. Not to mention Cho catching the Snitch in the middle of that fog -- that’s infinitely harder than anything we did...”

Atticus @cursebreakerfarrier couldn’t quite understand how Robert could be so determined not to accept praise for his abilities when it was so clearly warranted...but even so, he found himself smiling every time he heard him respond with such modesty. For as flippant, rebellious, and devil-may-care as Robert was, he wasn’t full of himself. It was a rather endearing quality.

When December arrived, the student body got into a predictable tizzy about the upcoming holidays. Atticus, as always, found himself grumpier than usual due to the noise. He’d never really liked Christmas even as a kid, and at Hogwarts the season only served to make him more surly. Atticus recalled, however, that Robert was one of those people who got obnoxious around Christmas -- it had always irritated him before, whenever Robert would sing Christmas carols loudly at the top of his lungs while helping decorate the Ravenclaw common room. And this year was no exception. The Star Chaser helped smuggle a tree up to Ravenclaw Tower, hung garlands and clusters of holly all over the Ravenclaw commonroom, and greeted and said goodbye to absolutely everybody with “Happy Christmas,” and on the morning of December 8th, the very day he no longer had to dress all neatly like Atticus, he pulled out his old red-felt Santa hat and wore it every single day for the rest of term.

Atticus was frankly done, and the holiday break hadn’t even started yet.

“Aw, come on, Lestrange!” said Robert one day after Potions, giving the other boy a light punch to the shoulder. “Lighten up -- it’s Christmas!”

“So you keep reminding me,” Atticus said dully. He tried to bury his nose in his copy of Moste Potente Potions, but Robert wouldn’t drop the line of conversation.

“Well, I wouldn’t keep reminding you if you cheered up a little,” he said with a grin. “Do you always have to be such a Scrooge around this time of year?”

“Do you always have to be so happy about it?” Atticus shot back. “...What’s a ‘Scrooge’ anyway?”

“A character from A Christmas Carol,” Ceci explained with a small, amused smile. “It’s a Muggle book -- it’s a lovely one too: you’d like it, Atticus...”

“Better have Rob read it aloud for you, though,” said Barty with a big grin. “No one reads it like Rob.”

“A Christmas Carol is a masterpiece of literature -- all I do is treat it accordingly,” Robert said offhandedly. He shot Atticus a wry smile over his shoulder. “Though I suppose if it’d help you actually get to sleep at a reasonable hour for once, I could always read it to you as a bedtime story, Lestrange -- ”

“No thank you,” Atticus cut him off crisply.

Her face appearing rather sympathetic, Ceci lightly bumped her arm against Atticus’s as they walked.

“Are you staying here for the holidays again, Atticus?”

Atticus nodded. “The library’s always nice and quiet, over break. It’s a good time to get some extra work done...”

Robert’s light-hearted expression faded -- something almost guilty passed over his face.

“...Mm...”

His black eyes drifted away, off toward the far wall. Barty offered both his best friend and Atticus a smile.

“Well, uh...maybe we can do some work over break together, then, Atticus,” Barty offered.

Atticus stiffened like a startled cat. “Huh?”

“My parents are taking a trip to visit my aunt and cousins in Normandy,” Barty explained sheepishly, “so I was thinking of staying at Hogwarts over break too! Don’t reckon much of anyone else in our year will be, so maybe we can hang out a bit over break, if you’d like...”

Atticus truly couldn’t think of anything he’d want to do less. Knowing it’d be incredibly rude to say so, however, he forced an uncomfortable smile. Ceci, however, jumped on it.

“That’s perfect!” she said. “Maybe you and Atticus can do some extra research, Barty.”

Atticus blinked in confusion. “Research?”

“About our dreams,” said Ceci eagerly.

Barty nodded. “One thing all of our visions have in common is that we all look older, right? You said that the guy in your dreams kind of looks like me, but older -- and Ceci, Rob, and I all see each other looking older too. But when we looked into Divination, all we really got was a lot of vague preaching -- ”

“You mean utter rubbish,” Robert inserted with a smirk.

“So Robert was thinking,” Barty pressed on, “if this is some kind of future sight we’re having, maybe we can find out what’s causing it by studying Time-centric magic.”

“And what better person to help us with researching something in the library than Atticus Lestrange?” Ceci said with satisfaction, taking both of Atticus’s shoulders from behind and giving them a light squeeze.

Atticus, however, didn’t look so sure. “Well, thank you, but...I’ve already read every book in the library about Time Turners -- and I don’t think there’s anything in there that might explain what’s going on...”

“Every book?” prompted Ceci, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” said Atticus. “Well, except for the Restricted Section, but...”

He trailed off, noticing the wicked look that Ceci and Robert exchanged before they both glanced at Barty.

“Except for the Restricted Section,” repeated Robert, his lips spread in a broad white smirk.

Barty grinned -- his expression was perfectly angelic compared to his cohorts, and yet it was determined.

“Atticus,” he said in a very soft, but perfectly fearless voice, “mind if I join you on your evening Prefect rounds, over break?”

And that was how Atticus Lestrange got roped into sneaking into the Restricted Section of the Library after dark on Christmas Eve with Barty Gilbert.

Atticus had been very wary when he lingered in the hall outside Ravenclaw Tower as planned, waiting for Barty. He knew his father most assuredly wouldn’t approve of this, and even despite that, he dreaded the thought of willingly spending time with his school rival. It didn’t matter how pleasantly the Gryffindor acted around him, or even how fond Atticus was becoming of his best friend -- Atticus didn’t like Barty, and that was that. And he absolutely hated the thought of getting into trouble just because he was roped into working with him.

Unfortunately Atticus was so uptight and stiff while waiting around that he nearly had a heart attack when Barty’s disembodied voice whispered in his ear.

“Sorry!” Barty whispered quickly. “I’m sorry -- I was really trying not to sneak up on you, but Filch is around that next corner...ack! Here he comes!”

He threw some sort of translucent cloth over Atticus’s head, prompting the other boy to crouch down so it covered both of them.

The crabby Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch, rounded the corner, raising his lantern and looking around. His beady eyes glided over where Atticus and Barty were standing, narrowing suspiciously, before he trudged away.

“Andskotans djöful,” Atticus swore under his breath.

He was clutching at his chest and breathing very heavily as he turned to gawk at Barty over his shoulder.

“You have an Invisibility Cloak?”

Barty grinned sheepishly. “My parents own several robe shops. I figured one of their stock going missing wouldn’t be the absolute end of the world...”

He adjusted somewhat so that the fabric wouldn’t drag on the floor.

“Come on -- let’s get to the library.”

Fortunately the two managed to get into the Restricted Section without incident. Once they were positive no one was in the Library to catch them, Barty stood watch under his Cloak by the door, his wand over his chest, while Atticus combed through the shelves of books, his own wand lit and held aloft so he could scan the titles. The two didn’t talk much -- the discomfort congealed between them as Atticus tried to keep his eyes on what he was doing.

“Anything promising?” asked Barty.

“Not yet,” said Atticus shortly.

Silence returned. After another moment, Barty spoke again.

“Atticus...may I ask you something?”

“What?”

“In your dreams...do you see bad things happening?”

Atticus paused. Then he slid another book from the shelf and opened it, flipping through the pages.

“Not really. I don’t see much of anything, I think -- at least, not that I can remember. It’s...feelings, mostly.”

“Feelings like you know something’s wrong? Like, even if you can’t see what happened, you feel so much pain and sorrow that you know it’s bad?”

“Sometimes.”

Barty nodded, turning his focus back out into the blackness of the Library.

“As far back as I can remember,” he said very softly, “I’ve had this dream where I was trying to reach someone. I couldn’t ever see their face clearly, but I just knew, somehow, that the person was in trouble, and that I had to help them. But no matter how fast I tried to run to try to get to that person...my vision would black out and I’d feel like I was frozen still, unable to move at all.”

He bowed his head, his eyes cast into shadow.

“...I would wake up screaming and crying at night, when I was little...all because I couldn’t reach that person in time. Because I knew that, because I didn’t move fast enough...that person was dead.”

Atticus’s hand had stilled on the book he was flipping through. His eyes were wide upon the page, but clearly weren’t taking in any of the words printed there. The memory of his own mother trying to comfort him after he woke up crying about a pair of red eyes and warm arms rippled over his mind.

“When I got to Hogwarts,” Barty said lowly, “my dreams became a little clearer. I still didn’t know where I was or what I was doing...but this person who I’d been running to try to save, my whole life, suddenly had a face. A man with black eyes and curly hair...just like my best friend.”

He looked up at Atticus, his face incredibly serious.

“I don’t know why you’ve seen someone like me in your dreams, Atticus,” said Barty, “and I know you don’t like me...but I could really use your help, in getting to the bottom of all this. Robert is my best friend in the whole world. He’s the first person who became my friend solely because of who I am, rather than who my family is. If I lost him...if anything bad happened to him...”

A dark, miserable shadow passed over his face.

“...I don’t know what I’d do,” he whispered.

Atticus looked up at last. His blue eyes were rather uncertain.

“What about Cecelia?” he asked. “Didn’t she become your friend for who you are?”

Barty’s eyes softened as his face flushed lightly.

“...Ceci means everything to me. We’ve known each other forever. But her family only engaged with mine because we had money...and my parents only let us play together because her parents would bring her over. Our parents encouraged her to play with me because my parents reckoned she’d be a ‘good influence’ on me...might help me come out of my shell some...”

“Well, I suppose they were right,” muttered Atticus. “Now you’re the hot-shot Dueling Champion and Dragon Tamer...Hogwarts’s Golden Boy...”

The last words came out before he could stop himself and he immediately looked away, his insides prickling with discomfort.

Barty, amazingly, only smiled weakly.

“It’s easy to be brave when you know you’re doing the right thing,” he said, “when you’re standing up for somebody or trying to calm an animal that doesn’t know any better. When you’re fighting, or protecting, there isn’t any thought -- you just do. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

He looked down again, his shoulders falling slightly.

“...But when you’re around people...trying to figure out just what to say, to tell people what you mean...or even just how much to say, when you know not everyone means you well...well, that’s not so easy. You feel like the whole world is watching you, and judging you, no matter what you say...even if you say nothing at all. But at least when you’re quiet...people can kind of just see what they want to see...”

Atticus frowned. Barty had always been rather soft-spoken compared to witty, sassy Robert and sociable, amiable Ceci, but he’d never really taken the time to conclude that Barty was actually shy.

“I’ve always envied Robert that way,” admitted Barty, offering Atticus a small smile. “He’s never at a loss of what to say. When you and he go at it, bantering like you do...I can tell you like each other, but there’s just such a charge there -- like the eclectic lamps Professor Burbage has in her Muggle Studies class!” He beamed a bit more broadly. “It’s so cool.”

Atticus stared at Barty for a moment, unsure of what to say. Then, after a moment, he looked back down at the book in his hands.

“...Thanks,” he said at last. He could feel his ears burning again.

Barty, however, only smiled, his blue eyes very understanding and patient as he returned his focus to the dark Library again.

Atticus glanced up at Barty without raising his head, considering him for a moment. Then, with a swallow, he spoke again.

“...I...used to wake up crying too. When I was little.”

Barty looked up, taken aback.

“I used to dream about this person with red eyes,” said Atticus. “He’d be squeezing my shoulders -- almost as if he was afraid to touch me at first, but then gently, purposefully. Then, as he held my shoulders, he would start to laugh...but even though he was laughing, I would hear the sobs. I could tell he was crying...crying in grief and joy and something else altogether...but so much pain. A kind of pain I don’t think I could ever know...”

Just remembering the heartbreaking sound made Atticus’s throat clench and his eyes well up with traces of tears. He wiped them quickly from his eyes with one hand.

“My mother used to comfort me, telling me that it was just a dream, that nothing in it could hurt me,” he said lowly. “But she never needed to say that -- I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. He was the one hurting.”

He swallowed. The lump in his throat was painful.

“...I didn’t have the dream as much, as I got older -- just time to time, around some of the other weird ones. Maybe I just don’t sleep long enough stretches to dream as much anymore,” he added as an afterthought. “But when Bellamy and I got paired for Binns’s oral report...well, that feeling came back, out of nowhere...and again, when you, Ceci, and I were watching the match against Hufflepuff.”

Atticus forced himself to meet Barty’s eyes at last.

“I don’t understand this whole thing at all...but I want to know why I’m feeling these things, and I want to know why you, Ceci, and Bellamy see what you’re seeing, too. If that’s what you want too...well, then it’s only practical that we work together.”

He offered a weak smile of his own. Barty was definitely taken aback, but within seconds, his face had lit up with a warmer, more determined smile and he nodded.

“Mm-hmm.”

From that day on, Barty Gilbert and Atticus Lestrange had made peace.

Unfortunately their night in the Library proved fruitless, research-wise. Not even Dark or restricted magic could explain the kinds of bizarre, fragmented visions the four students were experiencing. And so Atticus returned to his dorm that night feeling very disheartened. He was less so, however, when he awoke out of a restless doze in the Ravenclaw armchair Christmas morning to the feeling of someone holding his shoulder and lightly shaking it.

“Atticus. Atticus.”

Atticus blinked sleepily up at who’d woken him, to see a familiar, shyly smiling face framed by auburn hair.

“Happy Christmas,” Barty greeted gently.

Atticus shook his head rapidly, trying to orient himself.

“W-what? Gilbert, what -- what are you doing in -- ?”

Just behind Barty, Atticus could see both Ceci and Robert grinning from ear to ear.

“Surprise!” said Ceci brightly.

“Happy Christmas, Lestrange,” said Robert, his black eyes dancing with mischief.

Atticus looked around at all three of them, perfectly bewildered. “But -- but you -- you two went home for Christmas -- how did -- ?”

“Rob and I took the Floo back!” Ceci explained.

“It was Rob’s idea,” said Barty. “I thought I’d keep the whole thing quiet, until they got here.”

“I couldn’t change my plans and stay for my whole break, since I have to be at home for Christmas Eve church service,” said Robert, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably, “but well, the thought of you being stuck here all alone...”

His eyes drifted up to the ceiling.

“‘The school is not quite deserted,’ said the Ghost,” he recited from memory, “‘A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still.’”

He returned his gaze to Atticus seriously.

“A Christmas Carol,” he added as explanation. “It’s part of why Scrooge ends up hating Christmas so much -- he wasn’t allowed to go home for the holidays to see his family, so instead he stayed at school all alone, with nothing but his books for company. I know this whole season isn’t your thing and all, but...it just seemed rotten, to leave you and Barty alone.”

Barty beamed at Atticus. Atticus, on the other hand, was too overwhelmed to respond. He felt like his throat had gone very dry, all of the moisture instead moving up toward his eyes.

Robert and Ceci had put their holidays with their families on hold for him. Yes, Robert said it was for him and Barty, but he’d been thinking of Atticus and how lonely he’d be. No one had ever done anything quite so kind for him before, and it made Atticus feel like his heart was flooding.

“...You...” he murmured, “...but...why?”

Ceci laughed. “Why do you think? You’re our friend, Atticus! We wanted to spend Christmas with you!”

Atticus’s heart swelled.

Friend. He was their friend?

He looked from Ceci to Barty to Robert -- his black-haired dormmate smiled, his black eyes sparkling as he nodded in agreement.

The tears that had been prickling at the sides of Atticus’s eyes actually leaked through, escaping down his cheeks, as he smiled back. He quickly wiped them away, his smile gleaming as he looked up at the three of them.

“...Thank you,” he said at last breathily. “I...I don’t know what to say...”

Ceci brought her arms around Atticus in a sideways hug. “Then don’t say anything! We have presents to unwrap! Come on, come on -- Barty, Rob and I put ours under the tree before we woke you...”

Atticus felt a bit guilty that he hadn’t thought to buy any presents for Robert, Barty, and Cecelia, but he honestly hadn’t expected that they’d want to get him anything. But sure enough, all three of them gave marvelous presents -- Barty gave Atticus a book on Dark creatures; Ceci gave him his own leather-bound copy of A Christmas Carol; and Robert gave him a beautiful bookmark carved out of wood into the shape of a Phoenix and painted brilliant shades of red and orange. The card enclosed said,

Ceci helped me paint this for you. Hope this little turkey can keep you company in the Library.

Happy Christmas!

Robert

Atticus was amazed when he learned that Robert had actually carved the bookmark himself by hand. Apparently Robert had used some of the leftover wood from the trunk of the tree he’d smuggled into Ravenclaw Tower to make Atticus’s bookmark -- he’d also used some of the branches he’d had to trim off to make Barty a carved picture frame and Ceci a pretty wooden heart pendant she could wear as a necklace. They were all a little rough around the edges, but the effort showed through, and it warmed Atticus’s heart to think of the amount of work Robert must’ve put in to make his presents.

The whole day put Atticus in such a good mood that he even encouraged Robert to read aloud from his new leather-bound copy of A Christmas Carol, so he could hear it. The request made Robert’s dark eyes light up more brightly than Atticus had ever seen them before...and indeed, when Robert finished reading the beautifully written, emotional novel with such warm sincerity and articulated poetry that evening, Atticus had to admit -- it was a very, very good book.

#golden era #hphl #hogwarts legacy #reincarnation!au #my art #my writing #bartholomew varney #atticus grimsley #cecelia crouch varney #hahaha you've heard of christmas in july?? well now it's only may #but christmas is bat's favorite time of year hands-down #grim's canon relationship with christmas is harder because he initially thought it was 'eh'#then he met bat and he started really enjoying it #but then bat died right before christmas so toward the end of grim's life it only brought back bad memories #and admittedly atticus as his modern self didn't have much fun at home during christmas when he was a young'un #I'm so glad to see barty and grim finally finding some common ground!! :')#also yay for sneaking into the restricted section around christmas LOL

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sgmwesters · 3 years

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╰ ❛ 💉 — › dustin milligan. cis man. he/him. . ╯ have you met nathan price yet ? this thirty three year old gemini has been living in the seattle area for eight months. he makes a living as a pediatric attending, which is best suited for their charming, witty, impatient, and impulsive personality. this will be our year by the zombies is one of their favorite songs, and they’re written by em, 25, gmt, she/her, no triggers

B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N

full name: nathan alexander price

nickname(s): nate.

age: thirty two (32).

date of birth: 22 may 1988, gemini.

hometown: new orleans, louisiana.

current location: seattle, washington.

ethnicity: white.

nationality: american.

gender: cis man.

pronouns: he/him.

orientation: tbh i don’t know yet, whenever i decide at the start my muse always tells me i’m wrong so who knows.

religion: agnostic.

political affiliation: democrat.

occupation: pediatric fellow.

living arrangements: lives with link.

language(s) spoken: english, some canadian french (his mother is from montreal).

accent: none.

P H Y S I C A L A P P E A R A N C E

face claim: dustin milligan.

hair color: brown.

eye color: blue.

height: 6 ft 1.

weight: 176lbs.

build: muscular athletic.

tattoos: none.

piercings: none.

clothing style: leans towards smart casual always, if not scrubs.

usual expression: a smile?

distinguishing characteristics: burn mark on his left arm.

H E A L T H

physical ailments: none.

neurological conditions: none.

allergies: kiwi, strawberries.

sleeping habits: out like a light.

eating habits: too unhealthy to look the way he does.

exercise habits: normally runs a couple of times a week, hits the gym when he can.

emotional stability: 7? plummets to a 3 with whiskey, use with caution.

sociability: usually very sociable.

body temperature: runs hot.

addictions: none.

drug use: none.

alcohol use: socially.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

positive traits: charming, witty.

negative traits: impatient, impulsive.

fears: dying alone.

F A V O U R I T E S

weather: cloudy, but warm.

colour: khaki.

music: anything, he’s not fussy.

movies: nothing too sad, he has a habit of ‘getting something in his eye’.

sport: basketball.

beverage: usually just water, but coffee, beer and whiskey are up there.

food: tacos.

animal: beaver (cue childish laughter).

H E A D C A N O N S

nathan grew up with a couple of sisters, and so has always had a protective nature over the people (especially females) in his life.

he knew he wanted to go into peds very early on, he is very charming (especially with the mothers) and is able to put the child at ease with his sense of humor. for him, it all fell into place very quickly.

nathan studied at tulane to keep close to his family, and was able to help out with the family business whenever he had the chance to ensure it didn’t go under as his family are not overly wealthy.

nathan was engaged while he was a resident. when he passed his boards, he was due to be sticking around tulane to marry his college sweetheart and do his fellowship. unfortunately his fiancee called off the engagement the week before the wedding, and as such nathan peaced out of there and headed to seattle to do his fellowship at sgmw instead and start fresh.

he is a sweetheart, but he’s become very guarded (understandably) since his fiancee left. he can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel as yet and is channeling his inner bad-boy as a cliched attempt to get over her.

he has decided the new hospital and state will be a good chance to start over, so nobody is aware of the relationship that he left behind. he’s painted the image of a bachelor living with link, and he’s happy for people to think what they want (for now).

2 0 2 1 U P D A T E S

nathan has just recently turned thirty three (can you believe it) and is working as a pediatric attending having successfully completed his fellowship. look out world. this also means that he has some sort of responsibility over alex karev so again, look out world.

he’s been in a long term relationship with ryleigh lincoln for a number of months, and things are actually going really well?? ophelia who?? aside from when he’s being a bit of a dick but he does have a heart of gold really so we know he doesn’t mean it.

nathan’s still the best uncle to hope’s kids (sorry about it) and loves spending time with them always.

he’s only in his first year as an attending so isn’t doing anything too drastic, but is probably going to start looking into getting some research hours under his belt. he stepped up enough covering the head of peds after the plane crash, he doesn’t fancy throwing himself into that any time soon.

W A N T E D C O N N E C T I O N S / P L O T S

a friend from med school/residency who knew him back when he was with ophelia would be cool because we’re never having another ophelia ever again it’s been done i’m over it (unless 👀)

atticus lincoln. do i need to go on.

am always open to random hookups from when he was a fellow before he started dating ryleigh, before anyone knew about the fact he was trying to get over an ex.

#━━ ✦ 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐄 ❮ biography ❯#newintros

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spooky-ghostwriter · 5 years

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Dressed to Kill - Chapter Seventeen

<– Previous Chapter

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Galen's days were busy, but he didn't mind. There was no real routine to working as a circus crewman. He'd get up bright and early and talk to Jeffery about the days' jobs. The crew would discuss the priority of the tasks and divide the work accordingly.

That was a normal day. This was not.

“Richard, Gabrielle,” Jeffery said to two of the members of their small crowd. “I want you two on Stage 2. Miss Isle said the tent wasn't as tall as she needed it to be during her last show. Make sure it's at its maximum height today.”

“Roger,” said a voice from the crowd.

“For everyone else...” Jeffery went down a list on his clipboard. “Popcorn Stall 3 got hit hard during the fight between Tsukiko and that ivy dryad. First we need a damage assessment to see how much we can salvage.”

Galen raised his hand. “I'll take a look.”

“No, no,” Jeffery muttered. “Lars, can you handle that?”

Galen crossed his arms as Lars took the job. He knew Jeffery well enough by now to understand that this probably wasn't a personal insult, but would have at least liked an explanation.

“We've got some maintenance to do on the trapeze stands,” Jeffery continued.

Galen put up a hand again. He and Jeffery's eyes met.

“Carol, how about you take that?” Jeffery asked.

Well, okay, Galen said to himself, trying to avoid rolling his eyes. I guess I just won't volunteer for anything.

Galen stood silently and without raising his hand, until all of the day's tasks were handed out. Finally, Jeffery let the men and women go about doing their jobs, and the crowd departed.

This left only Galen and Jeffery.

“So,” Galen began.

Jeffery's arm dropped limply, barely paying attention to the clipboard.

“Look, boy,” Jeffery said darkly. “Vercingetorix has found a farm he thinks might have something to do with dryads. He wants you to go with him.”

“Okay,” Galen said. He now understood Jeffery's actions, but not his attitude. “I guess I'll – ”

“Frankly, I don't like it,” Jeffery muttered. “You never should have tried on a Religalia, kid. All it does is give Vercy a reason to keep risking your life.”

Oh.

Galen felt a wave of guilt for being annoyed with the man earlier. Words failed him.

“You're young, Mark,” said Jeffery. “I wish you could just work with the rest of us. Set stages, help out with shows... all the safe stuff.”

“I'm in Stiletto's shows too, you know,” Galen said, trying to lighten the mood.

Jeffery gave a smirk, but it only lasted a moment.

“Stay safe, Mark. Good luck.”

Galen met Vercingetorix at his trailer. The large meeting area that comprised over half the space of Vercingetorix's larger trailer was now actually being used for that purpose. Henry, Ravindra and Vercingetorix sat around Vercingetorix's large round table.

“Thank you for coming, Galen,” Vercingetorix said, gesturing for Galen to take a seat. “How much did Jeffery tell you?”

“Not much,” Galen replied. “Just that you'd found a dryad farm or something.”

“In that case, he told you everything I told him,” said Vercingetorix.

“Is this a secret mission or something?” Galen asked.

“In a sense,” Ravindra replied. “If this truly is a dryad farm, it could be a turning point in our battle. We may be able to fight the war on the offensive, instead of simply dealing with dryad attacks as they come.”

Henry nodded, an expression of determination on his face.

“We have no issues with the staff and performers knowing about it,” Vercingetorix said. “Ordinarily, I wouldn't say this is a secret mission at all. However, our enemies are plants. I don't think I need to tell you how easy it is for plants to infiltrate unexpected locations.”

Henry stood up suddenly. He walked to one of Vercingetorix's bookshelves. On one of the few empty shelves, there sat a small bonsai tree. Henry picked up the plant, opened a window, and tossed the tree outside.

“Good thinking, Henry,” Vercingetorix said, in a tone of voice that made Galen unsure of how serious he was.

Henry slammed the window shut and sat back down, dusting off his hands in an exaggerated, yet silent, motion. It was only then that Galen noticed Henry had no chair, and had been sitting on an imaginary one.

“So about this suspicious area,” Galen said, before he could begin to question Henry's chair. “What makes you think it's a dryad farm?”

“Simply put, it's a cactus farm,” Vercingetorix explained. He took a beige folder out of his ever-present briefcase and tossed it upon the table. A few photographs and papers fell loose. Galen caught one of the photos before it could fall off the side of the table.

The photo contained dozens, if not hundreds, of rows of cacti. A farmhouse sat off to one side, dwarfed by the sheer number of spined plants.

“Okay,” said Galen. “What's so suspicious about it?”

“Think about it,” said Vercingetorix. “What purpose is there in farming cacti? They are not useful for human consumption. They cannot be used as building material. But a legion of cactus soldiers could be the ultimate footsoldiers of a new dryad army.”

“Potted plants,” said Ravindra.

“Excuse me?” Vercingetorix asked.

“Cacti are common potted plants, for decoration,” The firebreather reiterated, jerking a thumb towards the window from which Henry had jettisoned the bonsai tree. “I accept that cacti farms may not be common, but there are valid reasons for their existence.”

“Also, some people do eat them,” Galen added. “One of my biology teachers was rambling about kale cactus salads being the healthiest thing since sliced bread.”

Henry raised an eyebrow.

“Lots of things are healthier than sliced bread,” Ravindra translated the mime's reaction.

“I may have paraphrased it a little.”

“Regardless, I want this facility investigated,” Vercingetorix said. “If it turns out to be nothing, that will simply be a big relief.”

“Will we need all four of us?” Ravindra asked.

“Stiletto, Miss Isle and Tsukiko should be enough to defend the circus if any dryads make it here before we're back,” said Vercingetorix. “I understand if you have your doubts, but be prepared for the worst. Galen, bring the Boxer Shorts.”

For the second time in far too short of a time frame for his liking, Galen found himself questioning his superiors' judgment.

“We'll leave in ten minutes. Dismissed,” said Vercingetorix.

As Henry, Galen and Ravindra exited the trailer, Galen moved closer to Ravindra. At a volume barely above a whisper, he asked, “Are we really doing this?”

“Of course,” said Ravindra.

“We're going after a cactus farm because Vercy didn't know cactus farms were a thing?” Galen reiterated.

Ravindra closed his eyes for a few paces. Galen could tell that he was thinking hard of what his next words should be.

“Vercingetorix has an... intuition... about dryads,” Ravindra said slowly. “He has been wrong before, certainly, but do not dismiss what he says so easily.”

He stepped away, leaving Galen behind.

“It is a distinct possibility that Vercy is right,” Ravindra said. “Hope for the best, but be prepared for the worst.”

The cactus farm was on the outskirts of the Mojave desert, which made sense to Galen. As he stepped onto the arid soil, he thought about what the weather must have been like back up north. Being mid-December, he expected his parents and siblings were dealing with several feet of snow. Here in the desert, it was pleasant weather for him to wear shorts.

Unfortunately, his shorts were hidden underneath the Cargo Pants. Stacking Religalia in this way was not particularly comfortable, especially in a desert, but Galen had to admit it had its advantages.

Galen followed the others, giving a cursory glance over the farm. Overall, it looked exactly as Galen had expected from the pictures, though he hadn't understood the sheer number of cacti in the area.

It's probably just a regular farm, Galen thought to himself. He felt it was true, but the possibility stuck in his mind.

If all of these cacti were dryads, could we handle so many?

“What's the plan? How are we going to investigate?” Galen asked Henry.

Henry pointed to Galen, then put a finger to his own lips. He then repeated the action, pointing to himself and then Ravindra. Finally, he pointed to Vercingetorix and made a mouth-like gesture with his hand.

“Let Vercy do the talking? Got it,” Galen said.

Henry nodded.

They approached the farmhouse. Vercingetorix walked ahead, up the steps and to the door. He knocked loudly.

“Do not worry, Galen,” said Ravindra. “Vercingetorix has a great deal of experience in these matters. If there is any information to be gained, his wise words will open a path to it.”

After a few moments, an old man answered the door. He was fairly short; the top of his head would have barely reached Galen's shoulders. He wore denim overalls and a frayed, straw hat. A single piece of straw hung out of his mouth, and it barely seemed to move even as the man spoke.

“Well, good mornin' to you fine gentlemen,” The farmer drawled. “The name's Atticus Lee Pereskia. How can I be o' service?”

“Are your cacti dryads?” Vercingetorix asked.

Galen needed all the willpower he could muster to not slap his own forehead in exasperation. The expressions of Ravindra and Henry, however, did not change; the two of them simply crossed their arms and waited for an answer.

“Well, pardon me,” Atticus said. “But I ain't exactly sure what y'all mean by a dryad. Is that some kind of newfangled cactus breed?”

“Well, if not, then I'd like to purchase one,” Vercingetorix said. “But I'd like to choose it myself, if that's all right with you.”

“'Course it is. Now normally I offer to help carry whatever cactus the customers want, but all y'all look pretty strong. You young'uns won't be needin' my help, will ya?”

“No, thank you, we'll be all right,” said Vercingetorix.

The four men walked down one of the rows of cacti.

“What now?” Galen asked Ravindra; Henry and Vercingetorix were a few paces ahead.

“Atticus seems tight-lipped, but I'm sure Vercy isn't convinced quite yet,” Ravindra said. “We'll have to trust in his intuition.”

“Well... at least if we've gone this far, Vercy's intuition must be telling him that not all of these things are dryads,” Galen thought aloud.

“I suppose that's true,” Ravindra agreed.

Suddenly, Vercingetorix and Henry stopped. They turned to the right. Galen noticed Vercingetorix's hand was on his chest; a gesture he'd seen before.

“Galen, activate your Boxer Shorts,” said Vercingetorix.

Galen took a moment to consider how strange of a sentence that was before tapping the sides of his hands together. Metal wires coiled down his arms and locked into place around his hands.

He didn't notice anything too interesting about this cactus. Frankly it just looked like an ordinary green ball with spines on it. A golden barrel cactus, according to the sign around it.

Still, Vercingetorix seemed intent on it.

“This is it,” He said.

Galen raised one of his metal fists.

“This is the only non-dryad cactus here,” said Vercingetorix.

Galen hesitated.

“Please no,” He said.

The rows of cacti around them sprung up. It was like being in the eye of a tornado, with clouds of prickly green instead of dust.

One emerged from the vortex, leaping at Galen. It had an eerie face among its bristles; one that reminded him all too well of the pumpkin dryads. Galen punched it right between the eyes; the cactus splattered like a burst balloon.

“Ravindra!” Vercingetorix cried.

Ravindra expelled a cheekful of some liquid. As it passed his hand, it ignited; a jet of flame spread across the horde of dryads. Galen saw dozens of cacti turn to ash, and those that remained spread out their assault. The wall of spikes had thinned, at least a little.

Galen was distracted a moment too long. A new cactus, one longer and thinner than its earlier comrade, leapt at his arm. Even with the Boxer Shorts' augmented speed, Galen couldn't move to block it in time. He braced himself.

The cactus fell to the ground, without even touching his skin. Galen noticed Henry pressing his fingertips against some kind of invisible barrier. Galen tapped the air with his fist and felt resistance.

“We've made a bit of an opening,” said Ravindra. “Go when you can.”

Galen prepared to jump through the cacti, but it was Vercingetorix who moved first. He leapt through the cactus storm, shielding himself with his briefcase. In retrospect, Galen understood how much more sense it made for Vercingetorix to escape the dryads, given that he was the only one of them armed with a briefcase.

“We'll handle things here!” Ravindra promised.

It might have taken a while, but I finally have a job today, Galen thought, bashing another cactus.

Vercingetorix ran through the rows of soil that had previously been full of cacti. The farmhouse was dead ahead; he had to force himself to focus more on that destination than the three men still caught inside the mass of cacti.

Atticus still stood in the doorframe, chewing the same piece of straw.

“I guess a few of my cacti were dryads after all,” said Atticus.

Without breaking stride on his way into the house, Vercingetorix smashed his briefcase against the farmer's head, knocking him out cold.

To have so many dryads in such a small area... Vercingetorix thought. I have a feeling there's something else here.

He clutched his chest and looked around the farmhouse. It was a modest abode; the ground level seemed barely any larger than Vercingetorix's circus trailer. The house was well-furnished, but nearly everything was covered in dust. Vercingetorix made his way to the living area; several armchairs circling a table and fireplace.

Something caught Vercingetorix's attention. Two of the chairs had noticeably brighter cushions than the others. Rubbing his finger along them, Vercingetorix confirmed that these two chairs in particular had had their dust cleared off, each in the shape of a sitting person.

Two chairs.

Vercingetorix looked back to the unconscious farmer.

There's someone else here.

Galen waited. The sea of cacti put him on edge. His fingertips tapped the metallic inside of his gloves.

A cactus leapt forth. Galen smashed it with a right hook. Another sprang from the left. It smashed into Henry's non-existent barrier; Galen used the time to uppercut it. It sailed up through the eye of the storm, disappearing from sheer height.

Out of the corner of his eye, Galen saw Ravindra breathing small bursts of flame, each one incinerating a single cactus.

“Something's wrong,” said Galen.

With a mouthful of flammable liquid, Ravindra could not respond verbally. Henry, as per his norm, decided not to either.

“This is too easy,” Galen explained, bashing another cactus into guts. “What's with all of this?” He gestured towards the swirling mass of cactus around them. “They're just trying to keep us occupied.”

Ravindra blasted another stream of flame, igniting a handful of cacti in one blast. With his mouth now empty, he said, “That's fine by me.”

“Is it?”

“We want to keep them occupied too – away from Vercingetorix.”

Henry nodded in assent.

“If you say so,” said Galen, readying his stance.

Vercingetorix looked out the farmhouse window. He couldn't tell for certain, but it looked like Ravindra, Galen and Henry were managing as well as could be expected. Still, the cacti were relentless – Vercingetorix urged himself to move faster.

He flung a bookshelf aside in annoyance, finding nothing valuable among it. He grit his teeth as he stomped through the house.

There must be something! Vercingetorix told himself. He felt his heart pound to the point of aching as he continued searching. With the main floor proving to be useless, Vercingetorix made his way to the farmhouse's basement.

He found himself in a dark, stone room. Vercingetorix fumbled for a light and found a pull cord. It brought a single light bulb to life. On the far side of the basement, there rested a wooden desk with some papers strewn about it. Vercingetorix ran over to them, pleading for anything that would make this trip worth the effort.

As he reached the desk, he found a picture on top of the pile of papers. The figure depicted looked familiar. Vercingetorix picked it up and brought it to the light for a better look.

There was no mistake – this was a picture of Tsukiko.

“What...?” Vercingetorix managed. “Why her?”

He pulled everything he could off the desk and brought it to the better source of light. There were dozens of pages of writing, and to Vercingetorix's confusion, a large portion of it was about Tsukiko. The first page listed every trick she'd performed in one particular show, then further pages listed explanations and research, cross-referencing them back to explain the tricks.

Vercingetorix kept turning pages and reading, growing more and more confused with each flip. Finally, something stuck out at him.

One page outlined Tsukiko's inescapable box trick. The paper was riddled with possible ways that she could have destroyed the box and appeared in a tank for a moment. Vercingetorix saw possible diagrams for hypothetical designs of collapsible tanks. The writing continued, making mention of a previous stage magician who had also been seen in a tank – Freya.

Vercingetorix kept the files on Tsukiko and looked around the rest of the desk. As he suspected, he found papers on Ravindra, Stiletto, Henry, Pierre and Miss Isle, though none of them had even a full page of writing. A bit of research into firebreathing explained everything Ravindra was capable of. Stiletto's knife-throwing was written off as a risky, yet possible, technique; Miss Isle's conclusion was roughly the same. Whoever had written this research hadn't even noticed anything suspicious about Henry or Pierre.

“I don't understand...” Vercingetorix thought aloud.

“Neither did we,” said a voice from behind him.

Vercingetorix turned, keeping a firm grip on the papers describing Tsukiko. The voice was from a man halfway down the basement stairs. Vercingetorix made sure to ingrain every detail about the man in his mind.

He looked like he was possibly in his forties. The man's face and hands showed oddly pale skin. He wore a blue suit, looking far more distinguished than anything Vercingetorix had expected to find on a farm in the middle of nowhere. The man's hair was pitch black, with no signs of graying. He wore thin glasses that only faintly covered a pair of piercing green eyes.

“Vercingetorix, right?” The man asked. “Manager of Alesia Circus. I was hoping I'd have a chance to talk to you at some point.”

“Are you a dryad?” Vercingetorix asked.

The man shook his head, almost sadly.

“Flesh and blood, I'm afraid,” he said. “My name is Garrick.”

“You wanted to talk?” Vercingetorix repeated. “Well then, Garrick, let's talk.” He held up the papers in his hand. “What is all of this?”

“It's exactly what it looks like,” Garrick said.

“I'm not in the mood for non-answers.”

“You have a wide array of exceptional people in your employment,” Garrick continued. “Impossible people with impossible abilities, one might even say. I myself have a great interest in the impossible. I've devoted my life to trying to prove that there are things in this world that modern science cannot explain. I've researched everything from ancient legends to things that exist currently that are considered impossible.” He gestured towards the papers.

“Unfortunately, most of your circus left something to be desired,” Garrick said. Vercingetorix felt a wave of anger, but tried to let it subside. “Most of the acts in Alesia can be performed by anyone with enough training and discipline. There's nothing impossible.

“However, then I watched your... Tsukiko, I believe was her name? I saw her transform into a tank. I came up with many possible explanations of how the trick could be performed, but I came to the conclusion that there may just be something special about this girl that allows her to perform something impossible. That interests me.”

“All right,” said Vercingetorix. “Now what is your relationship with the dryads?”

“They are the fruits – pardon the pun – of my pursuit into the impossible; the same search that led me to your circus. I first came across the concept of a dryad in Greek mythology,” said Garrick. “Of course, myths and legends have many impossible ideas, but when I dug further, I found that there may be more to it than simply a myth. It took years and a considerable sum of money, but I managed to find something extraordinary – a seed. One single, solitary seed that had been preserved for thousands of years, since the ages of Greek myths and legends.

“That seed...” Garrick said, in a tone of voice as if he were reminiscing over a past love. “It had been sealed away, locked in a stone chest and buried underground. It was as if humans feared it too much to ever lay eyes upon it. They were fools. I touched the seed with my bare hands, and I believe that was what sparked it – my reawakening.

“The night I found the seed, I had a dream. A dream that would change my life forever. I found myself in a forest, one that was not like any you would find on the planet now. It was like it glowed with life and mystery. I walked through that forest, down a dirt path, and then I found myself at a crossroads.”

Vercingetorix began to grind his teeth.

I wanted answers, not the babbling of a madman.

“On one side of the crossroads,” said Garrick, “Was a wall of thorns. Dangerous, yet enticing. On the other, a peaceful city. Safe, but commonplace. Of course, I went to the side of mystery and wonder. But without any way to break through the wall, I had to find another option.

“I spoke to the forest.

“I told who I was to the trees and plants and whatever else the forest held. And the forest responded in kind. It told me how best I could serve it, and in return it offered the amazing and impossible things I'd spent my life searching for.

“The forest implanted things into my mind. I gained knowledge of science and mysticality far beyond what human civilization could dream of. I learned the history of the dryads and their past relations with humans thousands of years ago. And most precious of all, I was given the memories of every human emissary that had come before me.”

“You mean there were dryads before?” Vercingetorix asked. “We're not the first ones to fight them?”

Garrick laughed. “It's always about fighting with humans, isn't it? But yes – of course you're right. The humans who encountered dryads a thousand years ago and five hundred years before that, they also fought as you do. They hoped to exterminate all traces of the dryads. It's sad, really. To imagine humans fighting so hard to destroy any hope of having magic and wonder in their lives. Well, luckily the dryad seed blessed me with the knowledge to rebuild the species that had been eliminated. I'd never studied genetic biology, but after that dream, DNA felt like a simple tool that I could control however I liked. I began to experiment with the dryad seed.”

This man... he generically engineered the dryads that have been attacking us?! He created the abominations that killed Freya?

Vercingetorix's arm began to tremble. The battle between Alesia and the dryads had lasted for over a decade. All the while, Vercingetorix – everyone at Alesia – had wondered why the plant monsters existed, and why they'd forced to fight them. Why they'd been forced to watch people who had become like family get injured and die. And now, so simply, Vercingetorix had found the answer. It was him.

Vercingetorix tried to tell himself his arm shook in anger, but in truth, his rage was only a little part of it.

“You understand, don't you, John?” Garrick asked.

“What did you call me?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Vercingetorix.”

Garrick chuckled to himself.

It was not anger that caused Vercingetorix's arm to shake. He found it hard to admit, even to himself, but he was terrified. The Alesia Circus had killed many dryads over the years. Vercingetorix had always felt that Alesia was a threat to the dryads, just as grave of a threat as the dryads were to them. So then why, he asked himself, did the supposed leader of the dryads walk so confidently through a battlefield and introduce himself to Alesia's manager?

Garrick stepped closer. Vercingetorix clenched his fist. His fingernails dug into the palm of his hand as he tried to quell his shaking. He readied himself to use all the anger his mind could produce, but before he could, thoughts of Freya entered his mind. His fingers loosened and his arm stopped its shaking.

You're right, Freya, Vercingetorix replied to his memory. Patience is the right answer here. I'll get all the information I can get out of him first.

“Why...” Despite trying to calm himself, Vercingetorix felt there was no way to ask the question without rage escaping his voice. “Why do you have the dryads attack us?”

“The dryads' will is not up to me,” said Garrick. He moved his head thoughtfully, as if trying to inspect Vercingetorix at all angles. “I simply let them free to do what they wish.”

Garrick stuck out a finger and prodded Vercingetorix in the forehead. Vercingetorix grabbed his wrist in a tight grip. Not even Freya's memory could calm Vercingetorix now.

“Ordinary humans don't even know the dryads exist!” Vercingetorix roared. “These monsters target us specifically. Our circus specifically!”

“Not quite,” Garrick said. He moved his arm out of Vercingetorix's grasp with much less effort than Vercingetorix felt it should have taken, and pointed at Vercingetorix's chest. “You, specifically.”

“What do you mean, me?”

“You're a remarkable man. I've been very impressed with what you've been able to accomplish in your life, John. For a circus that employs so many people with supposedly-impossible acts, I find it much harder to believe in you, the man who keeps it all organized and profitable. That's a – quirk, I suppose is the right word – of dryads.

“Dryads love the impossible.”

A wave of realization washed over Vercingetorix.

“Are you saying that... the dryads come to the Alesia Circus because I've kept it so full of things that should be impossible?” He asked.

“Oh, not at all,” Garrick said. “Dryads do love the impossible, but they themselves are so impossible that they generally only seek out each other. What I'm telling you is the reason why you brought so many impossibilities together in the first place.”

He poked Vercingetorix in the chest. Vercingetorix felt a sharp pain. He staggered back and clutched the point of contact, tightly grasping his shirt around the pain.

“What the hell did you do?!”

“I see it's still sensitive to touch. I'll make note of that. Thank you, John Doe – or rather, Specimen Alpha.”

“What is sensitive to touch?!” Vercingetorix snarled.

“A clone of the original dryad seed,” Garrick said simply. “One that I implanted in you forty years ago.”

Vercingetorix, still caught off-guard by the pain in his chest and the revelations of the dryads' origins, could do nothing but listen as Garrick continued to speak of events nearly a half century in the past.

#dressed to kill #original fiction #tsukiko

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mariequitecontrarie · 6 years

Text

People Will Talk: Part 1

Summary: Atticus Gold and relative newcomer Belle French have developed a relationship no one in Storybrooke approves of, and people make their opinion known in small-minded, small-town fashion: he’s too old for her, and the pretty young librarian needs to find friends her own age. When Gold ends the relationship to protect Belle’s reputation, the town turns on him again. To make matters worse, his friends and family are mad at him, too. But as we all know, love wins in the end. Rating / Word Count: T / 2700 A/N: This is the Marie’s Three-Year Writing Anniversary Rumor/Assumed Fake Dating/Family AU that no one asked for. There’s a Snowing rescue, Alice Jones, Wish!Hook Killian Jones, Curious Archer, even a little Nealfire because this is my AU and I can if I want to. It’s my thank you gift for your support and friendship for these three years. Hope you enjoy! A/N 2: Written for the May @a-monthly-rumbelling prompt: Fake dating/arranged marriage AU Thanks to @maplesyrupao3 for your beta awesomeness!

ON AO3

“Is that egg?”

“Miss French!” Gold jumped, dropping the sponge he was using to scrub his front door. Soapy, slimy water dribbled down the front of his charcoal pinstripe suit.

Belle bit her lip and frowned. She’d been Belle just last night when they were cuddling on the sofa in his den. She had even kissed him before she went home, a brief brush of his deliciously rough cheek with her lips, hovering as close to his mouth as she dared to come.

“I’m sorry!” She touched his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“No matter.” He shrugged and dabbed at the wet spots on his chest with his pocket square, as though having his house egged and washing the door in his finest apparel was an everyday occurrence.

Belle recognized the cut and sheen of his three-piece ensemble. Brioni, and tailored to fit him like a glove. When he’d been alive, her father had an entire walk-in closet filled with dozens like it and Italian hand-stitched shoes so shiny she could see her reflection in the gleaming leather.

“Here, let me.” She plucked the pocket square from Gold’s fingers and began patting it down the front of his suit, frowning at the orange-yellow streaks of egg yolk, half-cooked in the sizzling 90-degree heat. It was on the tip of her tongue to offer to buy him a new one, but a proud, self-made man like Gold would never accept or understand the gesture.

She drifted closer, swallowing a noise of delight as she ran the silk over the lean muscles of his chest. In the stifling summer heat, his alluring scent of tobacco, vanilla, and warm male skin wafted toward her. He stiffened when she reached his ribs, his posture rigid, his eyes looking straight ahead. When she snaked a trail downward toward his stomach, he closed his fingers around her wrist, stopping her from continuing. Sweat beaded on the stubble above his lips, and she had the crazy urge to rise on her tiptoes to lick it away. His thumb pressed into her wrist, and she wondered if he could feel the hammering of her pulse.

Breathless, Belle lifted her chin to meet his gaze; his honey brown irises wide and troubled. Like a spring, he released her and jerked away as though he’d been burned.

She stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest, confused by his sudden withdrawal. “This is crazy,” she said, looking at the stained house. “We’re nowhere near Halloween. It’s not even October.” Outraged at the idea of someone egging Gold’s house, she gestured into the late July sunshine with a frown.

“Pranks know no season in Storybrooke,” he muttered with another shrug.

She sighed. She’d moved halfway across the world from Melbourne to Storybrooke about eight months ago and was still learning all the quirks of life in small-town America. Lord knew her parents tried to shield her from the worst of it, but her family’s high-profile shipping empire had made them the target of ridicule and speculation all her life. When Papa had been alive, the Australian tabloid paparazzi followed him everywhere. With her father’s death came the end of their interest in the life of Belle French. But here in a small town, everyone was famous, and news traveled around faster than lightning bugs in the wood.

Belle wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt and painted on a brave smile. The least she could do was help Gold clean up the mess. “Do you have another sponge?”

He gave her a passing glance, then went back to scrubbing the door. The sticky viscous substance had dried on the leaded glass pane in the oppressive heat, making the consistency as tacky as dried glue.

When her stomach rumbled, she pulled out her mobile phone. “If you’re not going to accept my help, I’m calling for takeout. Does Thai sound good, or would you prefer pizza? I wouldn’t say no to a garlic butter crust.”

There was a long moment of silence and he continued to rub at a stubborn spot beside the door knocker. “You needn’t have troubled yourself by stopping by,” he said at last.

Her empty stomach did an uncomfortable flip at his brusqueness. “But it’s Thursday,” she said with a teasing smile, trying to push past his formal tone. “And even if it wasn’t, it would be weird for me not to stop, especially when I see you outside. You’re on my way home. Now come on, I’m hungry.”

Belle owned a rambling Victorian only two blocks away from Gold’s, and the walk between her home and the library meant she passed his house twice a day, five to six days a week. The day they met he was standing on the porch cursing at knotted strands of Christmas lights. The decorations were a surprise for his son Neal. He lived in New York City and had made the last-minute decision to spend his the holidays at home instead of in Boston with friends. She’d stopped and offered to help Gold untangle the strings, and they’d struck up a conversation about Charles Dickens.

“You’re better with books than with people, Belle,” her father would say, patting her on the head with a laugh. Like the dutiful daughter she was, she took the advice to heart and learned to talk to people about books.

Unfortunately, no matter what she said today, Gold was doing an excellent job of impersonating a mime.

An uncomfortable cord of silence stretched taut between them. Belle’s hands started to tremble and sweat dripped down her back. Disappointed, she eased her phone back into her handbag. They always met up for carryout dinner on Thursday evenings, sometimes at her house, but mostly at his. Once in a while, they ventured out, but the best times were when they curled up on the couch barefoot for food and conversation. It was so simple and normal; a stark contrast to the silent, chef-prepared meals at the long dining room table she’d grown up with where you had to hike a mile down the table to pass the green beans.

The company was the best part. Gold was witty, charming, and handsome and always had a funny anecdote to share about a tenant or a pawnshop customer. Given the choice, she would have spent every evening for the rest of her life talking and laughing with him.

But he hadn’t invited her.

“Gold.” She touched his shoulder again. “Talk to me. Do you have any idea who did this, or why?”

He tossed the sponge onto the porch next to the bucket, his shoulders slumped. “I’ve told you before, Miss French, I’m not well liked.”

Determined to banish the dark clouds gathering over them, she forced a smile. “The name’s Belle, remember? And I like you just fine.”

“All right. I’m not well liked, Belle. People don’t want to see us together. It’s a shock to the senses, or so I’ve been told.”

Her mouth opened in surprise. “Atticus, what—”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. If we’re walking down the street side-by-side or having a bite to eat? Nasty stares? Concerned whispers? It’s always the same story: Gold the cradle robber, taking advantage of sweet, innocent Miss French.”

Belle balked. “I’m twenty-eight, not in nappies.”

“You know what I mean.” His small, ironic smile made her heart hurt.

Belle chewed her lip, thinking back over the past few months of their friendship. The truth was, no, she didn’t. She didn’t have the first clue what he meant. Being with Gold was like reading one of her favorite books: when they were together, she was too captivated by the man at her side to notice anything or anyone else. The way his hair glinted in the sunshine, the way his dimples bracketed his hard-won smiles, and how sweat beaded on his upper lip when he was warm and agitated.

“Jefferson’s aunt came into the shop to compliment me on my beautiful daughter.” He sighed. “Last week when we were at Granny’s and I took the liberty of ordering your cocktail while you were in the restroom, Ashley Boyd asked me if you were old enough for a drink.”

“Who cares what they think?” she retorted, hands on hips.

An ugly laugh spilled from his mouth. “You’ll care a lot when you’re denied library funding by the town council, or people cross the street to walk on the opposite side so they don’t have to walk past you. Maybe they’ll throw eggs at your bedroom window on account of your reckless decision to spend time with the town pariah.”

“Bullshit.”

His jaw dropped in surprise. Good; she'd gotten his attention.

She wanted to boast that she could buy and sell twenty libraries one hundred times over without making a dent in her bank account. But she couldn’t say that, any more than she could admit she wrote anonymous donation checks to the library once a month, or confess she acquired new children’s and art history selections last week because she was bored. People believed she was eeking by on a meager associate librarian’s salary when in reality she accepted the paycheck to keep up appearances and be polite. Her position at the library was about sharing her passion for reading, not making money.

Money she had plenty of, but what of friendship and love? Those came at a premium she couldn’t pay for.

“I mean it. I call bullshit.” Her fingers dug into her hips. “Why are you pushing me away?”

“More like hurrying nature to take its course.” He waved her concerns away with a hand. “Look at me. I’m nineteen years older than you. My hair is graying, my wrinkles are multiplying, and my leg aches worse today than it did yesterday.”

“I am looking at you. And I like both what I see, and the man I know. Very much.”

He shook his head as though he hadn’t heard her. “You don’t have to trouble yourself, sw...Belle.” He gestured at the door. “Over this or me.”

The compassionate words were at odds with his cold, hard tone, as though he was chipping ice off a block. His face, usually so open to her, had hardened into an impenetrable mask. Many times she’d seen him look at others with the same cool appraisal, but she never figured on being on the receiving end of his bitter stare.

At a loss, she shivered in spite of the sweltering evening heat and wrapped her arms around herself. Gold was her friend, her best friend in town, really. She didn’t want to lose their relationship over the say-so of some silly busybodies.

“What about your other friends?” he asked, still scrubbing away at the stupid door.

Belle chewed her lower lip, considering. There was Ruby, and Mulan, and Ariel. Mary Margaret and David Nolan were kind. She liked them all, but her connection with Gold was special. At least she thought so.

Still, he continued to scrub, all his attention on the now spotless mahogany door. The sponge scraped against the door in a maddening rhythm that matched the sick pound of her heart. She grabbed his wrist, wrestling the sponge away from him. “You’re my best friend.”

“You should stop coming here.” He swallowed. Forcing himself to send Belle away was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Even more difficult than facing his ex-wife’s midnight departure from his and their son’s life almost twenty-five years ago. “Before people get any more wrong ideas.”

Belle squeezed the sponge, wringing it out between her small white fingers. “You don’t want to be around me?”

“No! Yes. I mean no!” Frustrated, he ground his back teeth. She wasn’t understanding. The problem was him, not her. It was always him, couldn’t she see? “That’s the furthest thing from the truth. You shouldn’t want this. Not with me.”

Quips from Jefferson’s sweet maiden aunt and snide remarks from the likes of Ashley Boyd weren’t the worst of it. More than one well-meaning town denizen had taken him aside at great risk to their rental agreements to explain how disgusting and improper a relationship between two people so far apart in age was. How it would be better for everyone if he left the young librarian to herself and allowed her to make some real friends. Phrases like “old enough to be her father” and “sugar daddy” peppered the one-sided conversations. In each case, he’d told them to mind their own bloody business, pretending to be unaffected, but the interactions left him feeling shaken and sick.

Yesterday when he came to collect rent, the Widow Lucas had stared him square in the eye and handed him a stack of bills. “You’re closer to my age than you are to hers, Gold. And making a fool of yourself. As long as she’s associated with you, she’ll never have a chance with anyone else.”

Never have a chance.

Gold was furious, but even his legendary temper couldn’t rival the pain of knowing Granny was right. They all were. They were playing upon his trust issues, exploiting his greatest fear: Belle was humoring him until someone younger and more attractive captured her time and attention. And he was falling for it.

“Surely you’re tired of playing games with an old man,” he said, bitterness leaking into the words.

He watched the blood drain from her face, nausea rolling through his gut. He grappled for the cane he’d leaned against the porch railing to steady himself.

“People talk.” She jerked her chin, whispering the words through barely parted lips. “Let them say what they want. I don’t care.”

“I see. You think this is only about you.” Ruthlessly, he hammered another nail in the coffin of their relationship. Dizzy, he looked down at the porch, watching an army of ants carry a crumb towards a crack. Anything was preferable to acknowledging the tremble of her jaw, those striking blue eyes brimming with tears and wreathed with dark circles of pain.

“Why...” she seemed to curl up on herself as she spoke, her voice becoming small as well as her body, and his heart shriveled even further. “What about...what about what we want? You can’t help who you like spending time with, can you?”

God above, he was a bastard. A sick, sadistic part of him was actually enjoying her reaction. She really did care about him, and he didn’t deserve to spend another moment in her company. Not as her friend or as anything else he might desire.

“I’m too old for you, Belle.” He winced the moment the trite excuse left his lips. He thought of their trip to the beach last week, and how she’d coaxed him to take his shirt off for the first time in ten years. How he hadn't even minded the way her warm gaze roamed over his skinny white chest. “The last several months have been...pleasant...but it’s time to move on.”

“I thought we were friends.” Her voice was raw, and she twisted the sponge.

He shook his head, aghast that she still believed the problem to be on her end. “No, sweetheart. It’s me, not you. I’m sure there are some younger people who would be better suited...” he made a helpless gesture.

“I can’t believe this.” She was pulverizing the sponge now, choking it, probably imagining it was his neck.

He pushed on, driving her further away. “Talking about me is one thing; I’m used to it. Talking about you because of me...well, that’s another matter entirely. It’s no longer only one person’s reputation at stake. I can’t bear it, Belle. Us not seeing each other anymore...it’s the only way I can protect your reputation.”

He turned around and faced the door again. There was a long, tense silence, and he could feel the sad weight of her stare.

“Protect yourself, you mean, don’t you?” she retorted, her voice choked with tears.

He heard the splash of the sponge in the bucket and he hung his head in shame. He’d gotten what he wanted, though. She was leaving.

The only sound he could remember for the rest of the evening was the clatter of her heels down the steps and out of his life.

###

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #a monthly rumbelling #mr. gold x belle french #rumor fic #mr. gold #belle french #rumbelle angst #people will talk #mqc writes #maries 3-year fic-a-versary

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ninja-muse · 6 years

Text

Urban Fantasy Recommendation Masterpost

This is a list of the urban fantasies I’ve enjoyed most over the years, split down a few lines and to be updated as I discover new series. I’m also including contemporary fantasies because the lines often blur. Hope you find something you like on it!

$ for LGBT characters £ for characters of colour € for characters with disabilities * for potentially problematic depictions of the above ! for #ownvoices (all based on my slightly spotty memory, so feel free to correct if I’ve missed something)

World-Focused

or stories that spend most of their time steeping you in the magical world

American Gods - Neil Gaiman £

Shadow Moon gets out of jail and is hired by the cagey Mr. Wednesday to … he’s not really clear, honestly, but it puts him in the path of people who may or may not be gods. Multiple mythologies.

Among Others - Jo Walton €!

A 1980s teen flees her troubled home in Wales to get to know her birth father and attend an English boarding school. Is her mother’s family able to work magic or is it just wishful thinking? Reading science fiction might give her the answers. British folklore and faeries, and a very interesting take on magic.

The Boggart - Susan Cooper

A Canadian family inherits a Scottish castle inhabited by a mischievous boggart—who then stows away and finds himself in Toronto. Scottish folklore.

The Bone Clocks - David Mitchell £

The life of a woman from teen-hood to old age as she lives her life and occasionally intersects with an ancient war between good and evil, fought with telepathy and other things that look a lot like magic.

The Changeling - Victor Lavalle £ !

After his infant son is violently attacked, Apollo Kagwa, used bookseller, descends into the hidden world of New York in search of his vanished wife.

The City We Became - N.K. Jemisin - $ £ ! for race

New York City, newly alive, is being attacked, and six humans, no longer quite human, must do everything in their power to save their city.

the Dark is Rising series - Susan Cooper €*

A group of English kids—four siblings, a seventh son, and a boy who might be a reincarnated Arthur—versus the forces of darkness. Five books, only the last of which includes all the kids. Cornish and English folklores, Arthuriana.

Gods Behaving Badly - Marie Phillips

The Greek pantheon now lives in North London and is as dysfunctional as ever. Artemis walks dogs. Aphrodite does phone sex. Apollo is a washed-out TV psychic who’s just fallen, via Eros, for the cleaning lady—who’s trying to date someone else, thank you very much. Greek mythology.

The Golem and the Jinni - Helene Wecker £

A golem and a jinni both find themselves in turn-of-the-century New York, both literally and figuratively. A beautiful exploration of the immigrant experience, friendship, and identity. Jewish and Arabic folklore.

Good Omens - Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

A mostly-good angel and mostly-wicked demon discover they’ve been training the wrong Antichrist days before the scheduled apocalypse. The real Antichrist wants a dog and to save the whales. Also features a legacy witch, a rookie witch-finder, the Four Horsemen, the Four Other Horsemen, Satanic nuns, and a Queen soundtrack. Christian mythology.

The Hunter’s Moon - O.R. Melling

A Canadian teen visiting her Irish cousin ends up mounting a cross-country road trip to retrieve her cousin who’s run off with the faeries. Irish mythology.

The Left-Handed Booksellers of London - Garth Nix $£

In the summer of 1983, Susan Arkshaw travels to London to find her birth father. What she discovers is a family of magical booksellers, and an Old World that’s very much alive.

Middlegame - Seanan McGuire

Roger and Dodger are exceptionally gifted, telepathically linked, and a little more than natural. James Reed will stop at nothing to use them, or people like them, to get ultimate power. Alchemy, time travel, and portal fantasies are involved.

Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman £

Richard Mayhew has it all: a good job, a hot fiancée, a nice flat. Then he helps an apparently homeless girl with the power to create doors and is pulled into the magical community below London. Nothing will ever be the same.

Of Blood and Honey and And Blue Skies From Pain - Stina Leicht

It’s tough, living in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, and Liam finds it harder than most. No one trusts him, he can’t find work, everyone wants him to choose a side, and to cap it off, he feels like a monster is inside him and knows something inhuman is stalking him and his. The war between the Fey and the Fallen is heating up, and the only people keeping peace are an order of priests—who also, surprise, want Liam’s help. Irish and Christian mythology.

The Sixth World series - Rebecca Roanhorse $£€ !

Maggie Hoskie is a Monsterslayer of Dinétah, but she’d rather not be. Even rescuing a kidnapped girl is supposed to be a one-shot deal. But the monster’s a new one, an apprentice medicine man’s attached himself to her, and Coyote’s around, so of course it’s not that simple. Navajo mythology.

Son of a Trickster - Eden Robinson £€ !

Jared’s life sucks. He’s sixteen, living in a crap house in a crap town with crap prospects. He’s paying his dad’s rent with weed money. His mom’s more interested in parties than holding down a job. His only friend’s a pit bull. And just when he thinks that’s as low as it gets, a raven shows up and say he’s Jared’s real dad. Heiltsuk (and other First Nations) mythology and folklore.

Sparrow Hill Road - Seanan McGuire

Rose Marshall, the Phantom Prom Date, the Ghost of Sparrow Hill Road, hitches her way from coast to coast while dealing with paranormal problems and route witches—and avoiding Bobby Cross, the immortal who killed her.

Sunshine - Robin McKinley

Rae is a baker. Tough and practical and smart, but a baker. Who’s just rescued herself and a vampire from captivity using magic she’d half-forgotten she had. Unfortunately, the master vampire’s still after them, the magical police know something’s up, and she just wants to keep being normal. Includes mild, realistic PTSD and a whole lot of delicious desserts.

An Unkindness of Magicians - Kat Howard

The Turning has started in New York and every magician in the city has their own reason for entering the tournament—power, status, acknowledgement, revenge, revolution. The high stakes would be enough for anyone, but it’s starting to look like there’s something suddenly wrong with magic, too.

Witches of Ash and Ruin - E. Latimer - $ £ € *

Dayna wants to be a witch, live her life, and block her OCD thoughts so she doesn’t have to deal with them. Then scary but gorgeous Meiner and her coven roll into town prophesying Bad Things, and a serial killer reappears who seems to target witches and shit. Meet. Fan. Themes of family and abuse.

Ysabel - Guy Gavriel Kay

Ned Marriner’s tagging along with his photographer dad to Provence when he begins to notice magic awakening around him. There’s an ancient love triangle that‘s repeated throughout history, using contemporary locals as proxies—and it’s very interested in Ned, his new friend Kate, and his father’s entourage.

Mystery-Focused

or stories that spend most of their time solving a magical crime

The Arcadia Project series - Mishell Baker $£€ !

Millie’s nearly broke, scarred, a double amputee, mentally ill, and Done with all the BS around that. She’s also despairing of ever resuming her directing career, so when a mysterious woman offers her a job with her temp agency, she’s intrigued. What wasn’t mentioned? She’ll actually be an immigration agent working with the Fae of Hollywood, and one of them’s just gone missing.

the Blood series - Tanya Huff $£€

Vicky Nelson is the pinnacle of the tough, no-nonsense PI—which poses a bit of a problem when she’s hired to catch a “vampire” on the streets of Toronto and then actually meets one. (He writes romance novels.)

the Felix Castor series - Mike Carey $*

Felix Castor is an exorcist. A hard-drinking, down-at-the-heels exorcist in a London brimming with ghosts and demons. Unfortunately, he never seems to get the easy cases where he can just waltz in and play a tune—and his past mistakes might be coming back to haunt him.

Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency and The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul - Douglas Adams

Dirk Gently solves mysteries by wandering around, getting into strange situations, and then connecting dots no one believes even exist. Like time traveling robots and Romantic poets, or rampaging eagles and mold-ridden refrigerators.

The Grendel Affair - Lisa Shearin £

Makenna Fraser is a seer working for Supernatural Protection and Investigations in New York. “Seer” meaning she can spot the ghoulies and ghosties few people can, including her coworkers. When an off-the-books gnome removal turns into a blood-soaked crime scene, she and her partner are handed the case—but will her eagerness to prove herself just land her in hotter water?

the Greta Helsing series - Vivian Shaw $£

Dr. Greta Helsing serves the undead of London. Her best friends are vampires and demons. The boundaries between worlds are thinning, causing all manner of metaphysical trouble. Plays with 1800s horror classics; equal parts sensible, disturbing, and funny.

the Greywalker series - Kat Richardson $£

Harper Blaine prides herself on rationality and unflappability, but after briefly dying on a case, she’s suddenly wrong-footed and seeing ghosts everywhere. In the middle of all that, she’s hired by a mysterious voice to track down an organ that’s more than it seems, and suddenly haunted street corners are the least of her problems.

the Incryptid series - Seanan McGuire $£

Meet the Price family, a close-knit group of cryptozoologists whose mission is to protect and preserve endangered cryptids like dragons, gorgons, and the religious Aeslin mice from humans. They’re also hiding from the Covenant of St. George, a.k.a. why the cryptids are endangered in the first place. Technically paranormal romance.

the Iron Druid series - Kevin Hearne £

Atticus O’Sullivan is a herbalist and seller of New Age paraphernalia by day, two-thousand-year-old druid by night. He thought moving to Arizona would keep him safe from gods bent on revenge. He thought wrong. Multiple mythologies.

Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge - Paul Krueger $£€ !

Bailey Chen is fresh out of business school, broke, and living with her parents. When a childhood friend offers her a job as a barback, she takes it as a stopgap—but then she discovers the secret cabal of bartenders who fight demons using magical cocktails and after that, there’s no looking back.

Moonshine - Alaya Johnson £

Zephyr Hollis, a charity worker and ESL teacher in 1920s New York, and therefore flat broke, takes a side job from a student, Amir, without asking questions. But will the vampire mob, the drug-crazed vamps, Amir’s literal smoking hotness, or her family history do her in first?

Night Owls - Lauren M. Roy $

Valerie is a vampire with a successful campus bookstore. Elly grew up fighting monsters and fearing for her life. When their paths collide via a book in Elly’s keeping, they must unite to prevent said monsters from unleashing hell and then some.

the October Daye series - Seanan McGuire $£€

Toby Daye wants sleep, coffee, and for everyone to leave her alone already—not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately, as a changeling Knight and PI with a knack of finding people and solving problems with maximum chaos, none of those things will ever be easy to come by. Multiple folklores.

the Olympus Bound series - Jordanna Max Brodsky $£

Selene di Silva’s been keeping her head down for a long time, shutting herself off not just from New York, but from the world. (Being a former goddess will do that.) But then she stumbles on the body of a woman who’s been ritually sacrificed and her past as Artemis comes rising up again. Greek and Roman mythology

the Rivers of London series - Ben Aaronovitch $£€

When Constable Peter Grant meets a ghost at a crime scene, it’s only logical for him to take a witness statement. When DCI Thomas Nightingale learns of this, he offers him a job as an auror the sorcerer’s apprentice a valued member of a magically-focused police unit. London, its river goddesses, various magic workers, assorted Fae, and the Metropolitan Police will never be the same.

the Shadow Police series - Paul Cornell $£

Following the mysterious death of a suspect, four Metropolitan Police officers are drawn into London’s sinister magical underworld in their hunt for a killer.

the Smoke series - Tanya Huff $*£

Tony Foster’s found his footing as a PA on a Vancouver-shot vampire show. Unfortunately, the paranormal weirdness that is his life continues and it’s somehow up to him to save the day.

Unholy Ghosts (and following) - Stacia Kane £*

Chess Putnam works as a Church exorcist, partly out of obligation and partly for the pay, which goes to fuel her drug addiction. Unfortunately, no ghosts are nice ghosts and her private life keeps intruding on her cases.

the Watch novels - Terry Pratchett

Ankh-Morpork is the citiest of fantasy cities. Its City Watch is a bunch of misfits. Sam Vimes isn’t putting up with any nonsense. Somehow, they fight crime.

Zoo City - Lauren Beukes £

Zinzi December is a con artist and occasional finder of lost things who lives in the Johannesburg slums with her sloth familiar. Her latest case? Find a pair of missing teen pop stars—before the apparent assassins do.

#book recommendations #masterposts #urban fantasy

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vintagemichelle91 · 7 years

Text

A Little Lesson in Victory

Author’s Note: Rafael took a hard loss, but what happens when he has a victory? Once again, thank you for the feedback! We love hearing from you guys! @rauliskafan and I hope you enjoy this little lesson!

“You promised, Papi!”

Violetta stomped her foot on the hardwood floor of the home office. Her adorable little pout brought Rafael to his knees and his heart broke in two. She was never one to forget a promise, especially when it came to taking her to ballet class on a Saturday afternoon. That and a banana split with lots of chocolate syrup after he watched her perform her pliés and pirouettes.

“Muñequita, perdoname… but I can’t today. I have so much work to catch up on.” Rafael gestured towards the pile of briefs scattered across his desk. Violetta’s pout intensified and her emerald eyes glistened with tears.

“But you always working!” Violetta cried. He tried to hug her when she shrugged him off. He hated being the cause of her tears.

Just then, Natalia stood by the door with purse, keys, and Violetta’s pink tutu in hand. And a knowing expression crossed her face.

“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I promise that when---”

“Atticus, don’t promise anything right now,” Natalia started with a sad smile. “My verdict aside, I know you won’t focus on anything else until you get another win.”

Rafael was ready to protest when she gave him a quick kiss.

“And I understand,” she whispered. “I’ll do my best to explain as much to our baby ballerina”

Best to listen to his wife’s wise words. As much as he wanted to spend a lovely summer afternoon with his girls, he was well aware that he needed to win this case.

Even if it was proving to be an incredibly frustrating, nearly impossible task.

“How about tonight I read you two stories?” he asked. A little break in between wouldn’t hurt and anything to put a smile back on his little girl’s face before she drifted off into a world of sweet dreams. Violetta stared at her Papi and mulled over the prospect of two tales for the price of one. Her stance shifted slightly, and she finally sighed.

“Okay. I going to hold you to that. And a song.”

Natalia’s smile brightened at her negotiation skills.

“She’s learning from the best.”

Rafael looked away for a moment, still not sure if that was true as he held out his hand. “You have yourself a deal, muñequita.”

“I serious, Papi. No talking shop at bedtime. Only sing,” Violetta warned him as she shook his hand and trudged back to Natalia.

“Ready to go, sweet pea?” Natalia asked.

“I guess… I just go say bye to Harold.” Rafael and Natalia waited and watched her walk out of the room.

“She understands a lot more than I realized,” Rafael commented as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Soon enough, their daughter would understand even more complex things, and in the blink of an eye it would be her first real day of school... then college applications. The idea twisted his heart. If he could keep her small forever, he would.

“Violetta is growing up, Rafael.” Natalia replied.

“Please don’t remind me.”

“I’m not a total fan, either,” Natalia admitted as he gathered her in his arms.

“I hate wasting even a moment,” he said. “But I need my next argument to be untouchable.”

“Even though I took such care of you in the wake of you so-called defeat?” she teased as his mind drifted back to the bath.

“Wait till you see me if I get a guilty verdict, hermosa.”

She giggled excitedly and found his lips. “How is the case going?”

Just like that the spell was broken.

“Don’t ask.”

“But you said you had so much evidence and---”

“Only to realize that it’s not going to do me any good,” he replied. “Not with this jury.”

Natalia sighed and cupped his chin. “Please don’t doubt yourself, Atticus.”

“Tell that to our friend the DA.” The earful from Ward was the least of his problems; it was the complete lack of confidence in his instincts.

“We won’t listen to him,” Natalia said as she eyed the many files on his desk. “You got this… one bad call doesn’t kick you out of the game.”

His lips curled into a smile. “Always the optimist.”

“One of us has to be.” She giggled again as he nuzzled her neck and Violetta’s pitter patter was heard down the hall, coming back into the office and pulling Harold behind her.

She wiped her brow and tugged on Rafael’s legs.

“Harold say she keep you company while you work.” Violetta set her pink hippo friend on the chair in front of his desk.

“Maybe Harold can help me go over my notes?” he asked.

“No, Papi. Harold can’t read yet.” Violetta covered the hippo’s ears with her hands. “Mami have to teach her still.”

“I promise that I will soon, sweet pea. But right now, you have a dancing date.” Natalia lifted Violetta into her arms. “We will bring you back some ice cream, Papi.”

“With lots of chocolate syrup!” Violetta agreed.

“I have the sweetest girls in the world,” Rafael said as he kissed each of them good-bye.

“We on your team, Papi!” Violetta replied as she blew him a kiss, and once they were off he glanced at the hippo.

“Okay, Harold. Let’s try my closing argument. And be sure to let me know if doesn’t ring true.”

When the plush toy stayed silent, he patted her head.

“Now I just have to find a way to get you in the jury box.”

Monday morning came much too soon for Rafael, and the thought of having to face the hippo-less jury with less than a sure thing had him on edge. Dragging himself out of bed and from Natalia’s side, he hit the shower.

The entire weekend he tried to think of anything that would make for a solid finish, and so far he had three solutions. But they were murky at best. He made a mental note to pull Liv aside before the trial resumed. Maybe running it by her would trigger something to put him on solid ground.

If only there wasn’t so much pressure…

Rinsing the last bit of soap away, Rafael turned off the shower and quietly continued with his morning routine. Natalia deserved to sleep in; after all, she had entertained Violetta the entire weekend so he could focus on the case. Save for the two stories and the song. Which Violetta asked for three times in a row. Guilt pricked away at him as he realized he put them second when they showed him nothing but love.

And brought him ice cream as he was at his wit’s end.

“I switched out the white shirt for the striped one. I thought it would play better with the jury,” Natalia said as she smiled and greeted him with a kiss, running her fingers through his hair.

Rafael pressed his forehead to hers. “You really think I have it in the bag?”

“I know you do… and if the jury looks the other way then they have no sense of what justice means,” she replied sincerely. The case of the unfortunate intern and her supervisor was a classic case of he said, she said, but in his mind the evidence was clearer than the summer morning just beginning to rise.

“You should be the judge,” he said.

“And you would always come out victorious in my courtroom, Atticus,” Natalia sighed as she pulled off the towel and let it pool around their feet. Her hands glided up and down his bare body gently as her lips pressed small kisses along his jawline, his neck, his chest.

“You are biased, hermosa.” Rafael chuckled.

“How can I not be?” She whispered into his lips as his arms instantly wrapped around her waist, and he hoped that their moment would last. The idea of leaving her was dreadful.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked with mild curiosity. The gleam in her eyes said it all, and he couldn’t help but kiss her again.

“Win the case and rush home so I can show you my closing argument.” Natalia’s voice was sultry and full of lustful promises.

“Well in that case, I’ll be in and out of that courtroom so fast…”

“Ah,” Natalia pulled back slightly and her smile seemed brighter, as if she just found something that she was searching for. “There he is; my confident, determined Atticus.”

“This was your plan all along?” Rafael asked as his eyebrow arched.

“And it worked,” Natalia said as she slipped on his shirt, skillfully easing button after button into place.

“What would I do without you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Natalia watched as he eased into his slacks with his tie in her hands.

“How about we don’t find out?” she challenged.

“I like the sound of that.” He smirked as he let her slip on his tie and form a perfect Windsor Knot.

“And I love the way you look,” she said as she helped him into his jacket, seemingly happy with the suit she hand-picked.

“Go, Atticus. I wish you all the luck in the world.”

“Then what more do I need?”

Walking out of the courtroom with a triumphant smile on his face, Rafael pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to his wife.

You were right. The jury came back with a guilty verdict.

Within seconds, a response lit up his phone.

Because you presented a solid case, Atticus. I’m so proud of you.

I don’t deserve all the credit. Harold made for good practice.

Violetta will be so pleased to hear that.

Setting his briefcase down on a bench, he exchanged a few quick words with Liv before focusing on his wife.

Now I’m ready for your closing argument, hermosa.

His heart fluttered at the thought of what she had in mind, and he was already typing a text to Carmen to let her know that he was calling it a day. But Natalia’s message came through first. A picture of her clad in the sheer black number from Valentine’s Day, her body gracefully sprawled amongst the ivory covers of their bed.

Ready to present it when you are, Atticus.

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