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croinagreine · 3 years

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Rainy Day Meeting

Nurtured from [ x ] @brooklynislandgirl

There is a huff as she watches her umbrella tumble away. Now empty hand to her brow. The connection had rightly stung to say the least. Though it was dulling into something not quite so. As for a few seconds she just…sits in the mess she’s found herself in. Doing everything she can not to think about the i told ye so look on her husband’s face if he could see her now. Though maybe if her luck holds and she can get up and on she’ll make it home before he even leaves the office. Which would cascade into having enough time for a shower and her things washed long before he hit the front door. Him none the wiser and her well…sans this new environment making her look ever the merry wee fool…again.

But–

Rather suddenly there’s dry warm settling on her shoulders. A soft touch to her chin. And she’s met with a rather…uniquely beautiful face. One she can’t quite work out the authenticity of. And it is that more than the touch to her brow that has them knitting. Because honestly for a single moment she can’t work out if the good samaritan that’s come to her aid is a teenager or a very small woman. Granted when she speaks…well now Caity feels a bit foolish. More so than she already did.

“Oi’….a–y-yes, yes oi’m alroi’ght….thank ye…”

And she’ll blame the sudden face full of glass that made her words all disconnected. Instead of the truth…which of course is–lessen the accent. People outside of Belfast aren’t going to understand the accent, Caitlyn. You’re marrying money at least learn to speak like you are. And there’s a small smile that flickers across her face. Hiding the wince as she tries to gather her feet under her. Help the kind woman help her get up. And its only a little struggle before they some how manage it between them. Her bags a little crumbled but the contents she hopes no worse for wear.

“O’cuppa sounds lovely…oi mean tea…”

“—o’ cup ah tea sounds lovely.”

All the saints help her, she hopes she doesn’t sound nearly as discombobulated to her rescuer as she does to herself.

#brooklynislandgirl #brooklynislandgirl 01 #[ creating a new thread for this because someone how it mixed in with another one you had with someone else?! ]#tbd || Beth and Caity #Shipping Out To Boston || Modern Pocket AU

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croinagreine · 3 years

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Moodboard Beth and caity

Who died and crowned me everybody's everything

I'm even busting my butt through the weekend

By the time I get home there's not an ounce of sanity

Between the dogs, my momma's calls

Is it against the law

For me to get what I need

A good friend and a glass of wine

Someone to say it's gonna be alright

A good friend and a glass of wine

A little pick me up to get me through the night

We talk trash n' we laugh and cry

That kind of therapy money can't buy

Every now and then, every now and then

Every girl needs a good friend and a glass of wine

#Smile Like An Ocean Breeze || Beth Riley #tbd || Beth and Caity #Collect Moments Not Things || Que

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croinagreine · 3 years

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youtube

#[probably posted/reblogged this before but don't care]#[so many caity and her king vibes k byyyeee]#Radio In The Kitchen || Playlist

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croinagreine · 3 years

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#[ HAPPY PRIDE ]#[ crow edits ]#[ post via mobile ]#Journal Kept || Headcanon

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croinagreine · 3 years

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Transitional summer to autumn reading moodboard

#Everything Has A Color Palette Souls Most Of All || Aesthetic #Collect Moments Not Things || Que

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croinagreine · 3 years

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#Thats Me King || Lugh Sweeney #Collect Moments Not Things || Que

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croinagreine · 3 years

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tarnishedhalo:

@croinagreine {{XX}} He’s tried to be as courteous as he can be, even his captain had given him a hard eye about it. First, the interrogation room with the most space. Matte blue grey walls rather than the dingy yellow ones that are little better than closets with a closed circuit camera in them, designed to confine and agitate suspects. Second, escorting her through the bull pen, and never leaving her with fellow officers, strangers to her. Third, the cup of coffee in place of tea because they don’t have it here and an ashtray from nineteen-seventy-five just in case. And lastly, keeping the other cops on the other side of the mirror so they can’t ask her the questions that will pry into every private part of her life. When he asks about Angus, he does so as quietly as he can. In his eyes there is a sea of compassion because he’s already read the guy’s Interpol jacket. He knows there’s more to the story than the list of crimes and offenses only a third of which makes Riley want to tear his head off and shit down his neck. He hates having to ask. He hates that they’re making him because he has a soft spot for Caitlin Buckley. Not the least because she’s beautiful, but it’s about that sliver of vulnerability beneath the veneer of steel she wears like most women would wear fur coats or diamonds. And he asks her about it. Wants to kick himself. The look that crosses her face. He’s seen it before, in some of the women back in the desert. He’s seen it before, on his sister’s face sometimes when someone she doesn’t know reaches out and touches her from behind. He’s seen it too often and too deeply and it makes the bile rise up in the back of his throat. But as much as he wants to protect the Caitys and the Beths and those other nameless women, he still has a job to do and he’s been attached to this detail, to this investigation. A transatlantic journey that coincides with one too many cases, a piece of human filth at it’s core. But he’s trying and he gives her all the time she needs, making mental notes of her posture, the smallest of fiddle of her fingers, how many times she licks her lips, how many times she fails to maintain eye contact.

And when she starts talking? Of course it’s being recorded, audio and visual from the camera, and by the men behind the glass, and by the notes that Riley’s taking personally, so that she has a human face to connect with, someone familiar and comfortable. Someone who isn’t going to eat her alive. “I know,” he says quietly, and he means that. She’s become a staple in his life, even at the edges of it, and his sister has more stories to tell about Caity Buckley and the twins than she has of work or people they knew growing up. “And Lorcan and Luka are lucky to have you, but that’s not…” He falls silent when she pauses. He wants to tell her she can call him Andy. He wants to tell her that this is all coincidence and he’s sure has nothing to do with her, but he can’t, can he? It wouldn’t be right to lie to her face. But again, he lets her take her own time, and wonders what exactly is going on inside of her head.

And there…given that space, she tells him without so many words what he suspected, and what he’d read in the files. The man was charged with a crime that would have made her a minor here, and there, barely legal. But the investigation had been poorly handled ~Riley would swear it was on purpose, that the man has someone on the inside~ and then those charges were dropped. He doesn’t blame her for leaving. For trying to put as much distance between them as she could. “I’m pretty sure we can avoid your family finding out, you know the department isn’t going to go all the way overseas to check in on things, so I think you can take that worry off your shoulders. And work visa or not, you’ve got all the same rights as anyone else, which includes not being afraid to leave your house or the kids. And not having some prig harassing or stalking you. We can put in a restraining order and get it signed by a judge, and that’s the first step. He will be informed of this immediately, and if he violates the order, than you can call us and press charges. That’s the first step.” Riley reaches an empty hand across the table for moral support if she wants it, and quietly, under his breath, he murmurs. “And of course, you can call me at any time you feel unsafe and I’ll drop everything to be there for you Caity. You don’t have to leave, and you don’t have to worry about the kids or Mr Sweeney.”

A swallow.

A breath.

All the things they tell you to do when your trying to control a panic attack. All the things they tell you to try and focus on. Amid flowers and sunshine and nice things. Even if none of those things are present in this room. At least not until there’s a hand sliding across the table. Not until An--Detective Riley is reassuring her that there’s no sensible reason her family will ever find out. Explaining what they can do to help. What to do if he doesn’t take it seriously. And while that’s all well and good. Helpful in so much as the police can be--there’s still things that hover over her. Tiny things. Little omissions that sprinkle her entire relationship between her and the Sweeneys. Little lies that could unweave everything.

And that drives her to move. To take that hand offered her. Not squeezed like she wants too but taken all the same. Controlled in how her fingers wrap around the edge of his palm. Not even enough strength behind it to remotely hinder him from taking his limb back. Just there. Like a soft anchor to keep her from being completely swept out to sea. Even if she feels as though she’s already drenched and drowned. Even if she swears she can already taste salt when her tongue peeks out to cover her lower lip for the briefest moment. Green held to the table, the notepad he’s writing in. A blink and then two before--

“T’ank ye, Andrew.”

But that doesn’t seem to really encompass it all. Doesn’t really sound good enough. Because he doesn’t half to help her. Not really. Oaths and all aside. He could have let anyone take her statement. He could have let anyone shoulder the burden. But he’d chosen to. And for that she’s more grateful that he’ll ever really know.

She knows its not a fix. Not really. Because the truth is? She isn’t sure a piece of paper will deviate him. She isn’t sure he fears the kind of repercussions that could come from not. Angus was always had a wickedness to him. A kind of dark that found joy in the grotesque. And if she’s honest? She would not put it passed him showing up like he has just to further ruin her life. Not abide by rules set on paper. Force her to call the police on him. Just to out her.

Because what self respecting person would hire someone like her to watch over their children? Someone that clearly ran away because they didn’t feel safe. Someone that has something like him in their passed with a real worry of him coming round again. And it makes her stomach knot all the more. Churn at the fear that the moment Mister Sweeney found out? He, Himself would toss her back across the pond. And she would lose her new life here anyway. No matter what Detective Andrew Riley did or didn’t do to help. She’d lied herself into a corner.

One that can’t be undone now. One that is giving her only two choice...lie by omission further and dig her one grave or---

Green rises up from the table. Shoulders square in so much as they can without removing her hand. And a little bit of steel threads itself back into her skin.

“H--Mister Sweeney he...he dunna know anymore t’an anyone else....oi’ know i’ be askin’ o’lot bu’ oi’d be e’er so grateful f’i’ could stay t’at way. Least until oi’ can find o’way ta tell ‘em meself.”

#tarnishedhalo #tarnishedhalo 03 #tbd (nanny verse) || Riley and Caity #Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious || A Nanny In Boston AU #Collect Moments Not Things || Que

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croinagreine · 3 years

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brooklynislandgirl:

A nurse for her entire professional life, Beth knows the longer she talks the less likely it is that Caity knew any of this and she’s now dumped an entire back bay of trouble in the woman’s lap. She feels awful about this but it doesn’t stop her from being honest. If the situation were reversed and it was her brother that had needed surgery, she would want to know the details. She would want to know everything she could to make the recovery time as short as possible, and to make him feel comfortable. She would want to do everything in her power to protect him. Not that she is deciding what exactly Caity felt for Lugh Sweeney but there is something about the tightness of her mouth and the shadows in her eyes that suggests a level of care that goes beyond the casual nature of employer and employee. If nothing else Caity loves the two boys under her charge.

That has to be difficult for her in so many ways, being a shadow of the mother they lost, and still having to acknowledge that she’s only got so much say in their lives. That they can be taken away at someone else’s whim? Caity is far stronger a woman than Beth could ever be. And what if she wants to some day start a family of her own? Would she be able to bring herself to walk away? Her own mother had. Her mother had been the Admiral’s house-keeper and Andy’s caretaker until Beth had happened, any way and they’d chosen to get married. Eventually her mother had left and gotten herself a new family, leaving a mess of the old one. Not that she would ever imply that Caity Buckley was the kind of person who would or could do that, become intimately involved with Mr Sweeney and then abandon her children. She has to wonder about what the redhead’s life is like. How she’d even met the man she worked for, what it was like coming from Ireland to Boston and to move in with strangers. But whatever the circumstances, she’d glad. The boys are really great kids. Identical twins that are so different with one another. The younger, more sullen brother is probably Beth’s favourite, but she genuinely likes them both. They have bright, voraciously curious minds, different talents. She feels the family is lucky to have Caity to nurture them and her heart breaks at the idea of them having lost a wife and mother but thinks that things could have been worse in so many ways. She also thinks she has too many opinions on the family, Caity included, than is proper. She only really knows what she sees in clinic visits, the idle gossip of Boston Society, and what she and Caity mention to one another in passing. The other terrible thing about their situation is the fact that nothing is ever really private. She’s grateful that her brother doesn’t believe in living up to the family station and they largely stay out of the press, the gossip circles and the match-making ones. The Dowagers have been trying to settle his brother down for years, and she’s sure its the same with Mr Sweeney. Train of thought derailed by Caity’s voice, Beth runs her tongue over her lip and tries to catch up with what she might have missed in the middle of her own musing. The words coax a grin out of her. “If any kine come up and he asks more'n what ya have t’ answer, ya can always send him my way. He can call or text if he needs. An’ I promise t’ spare him any of da really gory details. An’ hard questions…dose are a sign of intelligence.” She wants to ask what Caity plans on telling the boys, and how much of this new knowledge she’ll admit to knowing, seeing as it came as a surprise. She can’t imagine the woman will hold his surgery against him. And that’s hard too. Lugh Sweeney lies somewhere between her brother’s age and her father’s and in Beth’s estimation he’s too young to be dealing with such an advanced case of arthritis but it does happen from time to time. But Caity’s laugh doesn’t sound wholly reassuring.

Beth can’t help but give the other woman’s knee a reassuring and comforting squeeze. Something about the look on her face when she glances away makes Beth want to go to the house with her, pour her some tea, drag out all of the emotions she’s got locked up in that deep green gaze. She knows that it’s presumptuous to think that would make Caity feel better, but it would make her feel a little better, especially since part if not most of the other woman’s distress is her own fault, and Beth knows what it’s like not to have a confidant when you need one most. A feeling that only grows when she confesses that she didn’t know about any of this, and that by the sounds of it, she’d been deliberately mislead for reasons Beth can’t even begin to guess at. And that only makes her feel even worse.

“I’m sure he must'a had one reason, or two…Mr Sweeney dat is. But…if ya no dere t’ take care of da boys, an’ Mr Sweeney were tied up wi’ his hands, den who…”

The question is left unfinished as they pull to a stop to let off a few passengers from a different car. Beth’s tone was soft, it was knowing, because her brother is often the same way. “Sometimes people like Mr Sweeney…dey get wound up in deir own worry. Like dey t'ink dey protectin’ ya if dey keep stuff to demself. An’ mebbe he no wanna inconvenience ya li'dat. Mebbe he no want ya ta worry about him an’ da boys. Mebbe he…”

She shrugged but she didn’t think he was acting in any malice. She would bet almost anything that he wouldn’t want Caity to be stressed or worried, didn’t want her to give her any added stress. She doesn’t know why she’s trying to defend him with all her ability, but she suspects it’s because she recognises a lot of herself in Caity and knows that means the woman is probably blaming herself for things she can’t possibly be responsible for. It’s a hard place to be in and on that regard, Beth feels worse and worse as the minutes go by. Especially since it was her fault in the first place.

“I kinda do, though. Like ya jus’ fine before I open my big mout. An’ of course we’d love t’ have ya. Come stay a’ da hale…da house. Show ya around. Pretty places, educational ones. Take a bit of time free f’ yaself too. Like, ya can do da daytime stuff wi’ me an da boys, in da evenin’ Andy can show ya ‘round all da grown up places. Mebbe see some kine ya like an’ after his recovery, send Mr Sweeney dere, too. It’ll be fun! An’ I’d love a chance t’ babysit da boys! Ya wan go home right away, or ya wanna come wi’ me t’ my stop an’ come see it f’ yaself. Da house, dat is.”

She doesn’t at all miss the squeeze to her knee or the way in which Beth has...rather pointedly begun to defend Mister Sweeney. And maybe for a moment that confuses her though she doesn’t show a hint of it on her face. Rewinding the last few moments. What she’d said. And there’s an internal flinch that her words had, indeed gotten away from her. That there were holes sprinkled all over them--gapping ones--that Beth could just as plainly see as anyone might in broad daylight. And maybe Caity wants to crash her palm against her own face. So much so she has to curl fingers around her bag again to keep from doing just that. Christ when was she going to master the art of not outting herself?

“Mister Sweeney dunna need explain himself ta anyone. Meself least of all Beth. Oi’ dunna be angry o’er it. Just wish he would o’given me some warnin’. But oi’ suppose he were havin’ his reasons, loi’ke ye say.”

Her voice is even and note a drop of anything put defensive understanding of her employer. Even if that’s quite the opposite of how she feels. The front not for herself but for her friend. Because she can understand what Beth must be feeling. The worry that some how Caity will quite literally tattle. But the truth is Caity has always had a way of tattling on herself but not anyone else. Tight lipped as the actual Queen of England she could be and was when someone else was on the line. Herself? Not so much.

Regardless though she lets the matter lie. Makes no further comment. Because she knows she could promise to the moon and back that she’ll not breathe a word, and Beth would still worry. How does she know? Because she would too if she were in Beth’s shoes. Something that sinks into Caity’s own boots as the trolley stops. Lets a few passengers from another car off. And starts up again smooth as any sort of contraption should. Beth following her lead on the alter in conversation. Something like the smallest flicker of sunlight catching her gaze despite the late hour.

“Dunna ye moi’nd, Bet’. Ye bringin’ i’ up jus’ means ye care. An’ oi’ for one be glad he has people lookin’ ou’ for ‘im t’at do so much. God knows he dunna. Look ou’ for ‘imself oi’ mean. No as much as he should anyway...”

A kind of apologetic smile that comes and goes. A tuck of hair behind her ear again.

“Oi’d loi’ke t’at. Very much. T’ank ye, love. T’ough I canna be guessin’ ye home be lackin’ in any regard. Lorcan seems ta love ‘is stays wi’d ye after his lessons. Which oi’ ne’er did t’ank ye for proper. Been o’ real help t’at has. One t’ink oi’ ne’er quoi’te grasped...bein’ in ta places a’ once. Luka were super happy he were gettin’ ta continue w’it his book club on Wednesday cause o’ ye. Ye been o’ real loi’fe saver.”

The briefest pause. A resettling of her bag in her lap a little bit.

“...which one is ye stop anyway? Wee confession oi’ may o’ been lost in me thoughts so much oi’ve missed me own twoi’ce now.”

A tiny little bitty lie by omission. And just one more reason she really has no room to be upset with Mister Sweeney at all. Two peas in a pod they are when it comes to things like that. Their own personal things sheltered by them. Things they don’t want anyone knowing. And where Caity is concerned...Mister Sweeney most of all.

#brooklynislandgirl #brooklynislandgirl 02 #tbd || Beth and Caity #Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious || A Nanny In Boston AU #Collect Moments Not Things || Que

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croinagreine · 3 years

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brooklynislandgirl:

A Walk In The Woods || Accepting @croinagreine

sword 🗡️ - is there anything you always carry with you?

Riley thumbs the space dead centre below his lip, all the while managing a chuckle. She doesn’t mean his badge, gun, or his hold out piece, ankle strapped. He doesn’t wear those on his day off, especially not when going to Mass. There’s his watch and his dog-tags. Those -or rather at least one- don’t go in the shower. He hasn’t so much as looked at his wedding ring in six years. Not since the divorce. He keeps it in his safe deposit box. There’s the medallion that hangs from the rear-view mirror of his car, it’s the shape of a shield, has a simple cross etched on one side and the back reads Joshua 1, 9: Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.

His sister isn’t something he carries with him, she’s free to come and go within reason, though they are often together. Her gentle faith in him, her love though…but he doesn’t think that’s what Caity is talking about either. She doesn’t mean the emotional scars from growing up, what insecurities he’s developed, the things he’s proud of doing. “A picture of my mother.” The words are quiet, simple. Very unlike him at all. He reaches for his wallet and pulls it out. It’s old and faded, there’s lines scored into the surface of the black and white image of a young woman, roughly about their age now. The woman is beautiful, fine of feature. It’s not hard to imagine laughing green eyes and the brightness of her red hair. It isn’t hard to imagine the lilt of her voice or the way she kisses her infant son’s forehead before putting him to bed for the night. It’s not hard for Riley to imagine, he does it all the time because he really can’t remember his mother at all, and this is the only thing of hers…of her…he has to work with.

Like a sacred relic that ought to be enshrined in some church, he hands it over to the other woman, also green eyed and red haired and just off the boat from Ireland as his mother had been, allowing her to examine it to her heart’s content. “I think that was taken just before she got pregnant with me, or just after. Not really sure when. A long time ago.”

She’d expected him to say something like a lucky key chain. Or perhaps some token he’d picked up in childhood. Something that meant something sure, but not...not meant something like this. And Caity finds herself taking the sacred photograph from Riley’s hand with an almost frail kind of hold. Green studying the picture, like she might a painting of one of the greats. Fingers careful in their placement. The photo held so that the edge were all that they made contact with. It’s weathered look implying it has been through quite enough as it is. Even for all that she can tell it’s been cherished.

And Caity can see the resemblance staring back at her from the black and white image. The lines of the woman’s mouth echoed in her son’s. The influence on his jaw line. The way his eyes sit. And the mother in her can’t help but smile a little. Hoping that maybe someday there’d be little bits of her like that in her own children. Even if they already look so very much like their father. Which sparks curiosity. Andy speaks in passing of his father at times, but next to nothing, to date that is, of his mother. And it doesn’t take a much to assume the woman’s passed on. Though assumptions are nasty things so Mrs. Sweeney will not be saying anything to possibly ‘step in it’ as she’s heard the expression go.

“She’s gorgeous, Andy. Jus’ after, be me guess. Sum’t’in’ o’bout her oi’yes, oi’t’ink. Me gran used ta says ye can always tell wi’t eyes. Loi’ke t’ey know o’secret even t’ey owner dunna know yet.”

Another brief moment letting herself get lost in the ink and the grains of the old paper. Something that teases at the edges of her memory. As though she’s seen Andy’s mother somewhere before. In passing on the street or maybe through the window of a shop. But the feeling fades almost as soon as it starts to form and she’s offering the treasure back to its owner on an open palm.

“Can definitely tell where ye were gettin’ ye looks.”

An amused wink and her hand, once empty, fold around her cup of tea. The other tucking another rogue strand of red behind her ear. Pooh, sitting patiently on the patio beside her, glanced down at before a scruff is given to the top of his head. Both out of praise he’s being such a good boy and for a little reassurance. A little sense of grounding. A reminder that she’s in the heart of Boston proper and not Victoria Square or worse still anchored to the farm and all of her mother’s delusions of grandeur.

“What is her name, luv? Strong lookin’ woman loi’ke t’at has o’good one for sure.”

#tarnishedhalo #tarnishedhalo 02 #This Isnt Wonderland || Andrew and Caity #Shipping Out To Boston || Modern Pocket AU #Collect Moments Not Things || Que

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croinagreine · 3 years

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brooklynislandgirl:

Being both observed and judged by someone else in the silence following a confession of that magnitude is unnerving. Every shaved piece of a second feels like an eternity and is filled with a million regrets. There’s no way of knowing how much the redhead believes of the rumours, the ugly whispers, of the constant feeling of being watched. Of having to think every time you’re about to speak, of having to wonder if you are actively doing something to give even the smallest shred of truth to what everyone already thinks. It’s gross and it is terrible and it makes you want to hide away from it all. Which only gives the original point more validity. And Caity’s nail tapping against the stem of the glass only makes everything worse, acts like a metronome to Beth’s anxiety. Makes her second guess having said anything at all and the tension of that has her all but squirming in her seat, trying through physical motion to find some kind of relief from the wailing klaxons in the back of her mind. Misery sneaks up and shines a back-light through the green and honey of the girl’s lash-shadowed gaze, brilliant shame painting her cheeks in mock sunsets. She hasn’t reached full blown hysteria yet, hasn’t made an excuse to pick up her things and run as far and as fast as she can back to her own place. To do what might be an elbow-and-nudge piece of condemnation by burying her face in her brother’s broad chest and beg him for the millionth time to take her back home, where things are normal, where she fits in, where she isn’t drowning on dry land.

So deep down the rabbit hole of her own insecurity, she never sees or hears Caity moving so that when the woman’s hand touches her own? Beth visibly flinches. Shrinks down on her seat smaller than she should ever possibly become. She doesn’t bounce back from the contact but she doesn’t actually have the stroke she thinks she’s going to have. She also has the grace to blush darker over Caity’s invective, though there’s just enough rebellion in her eyes that she looks like she’s going to defend her elder sibling…but doesn’t. She doesn’t quite laugh though when Caity teases her, but Beth doesn’t look quite ready to expire right there in the kitchen after she does.

“I…I t’ink…dat would only make i’ worse, ya know? An’ den dey gonna start sayin’ bad kine behind ya back too. Dey mean, Caity. Dese people here. Like…like…nest o’ hornets, always buzzin’ around, stirrin’ trouble even where dere no is any. An’ dey particularly like t’ single out da kine dey don’ feel belong in propah Bostonian society. People like me, cause I no was born exactly onna right side of da sheets, an’ da right colour. You cause ya younger dan Mistah Sweeney an’ very lovely an’ mebbe no come from da same ol’ money, ol’ blood. An’ it go on an’ on an’ is disgustin’!”

The flinch was seen, one reason she pulled back her hand. Returned to her own parameters to give her friend space. And that worries her. Worries that maybe she’s inadvertently made things worse while trying to make them better, but---then a little life starts to come back into Beth. For all that she is still a bit sunk in her chair. And words start coming out, rapid and building. And honestly? Caity finds the entire rant rather invigorating. Invigorating while at the same time very much a sermon to the proverbial choir. Even if the things that Beth mentions the others say about Caity--aren’t quite what she’d feared.

“People ne’er loi’ke what t’ey see as different, luv.”

A last drink of what was in her glass before she’s reaching for the bottle, refilling it. Setting it down again in reach in case Beth wanted more too.

“T’ey always foi’nd somet’in’ ta gossip o’bout. No’ jus’ here, but elsewhere ta. Be o’bit amusin’ really, some o’ta t’ings t’ey come up wi’t. An oi’ canna say oi’ surprised boi’y what t’ey say o’bout me, t’ough were t’inkin’ i’ were worse t’an t’at. Ye dunna come from roi’ght soi’de o’ta sheets? Oi’ dunna come from money a’tall. Me fat’er were a shepard, Beth. Only t’ing he had ta ‘is name were his sheep an’ his land. And no’ much o’ ei’ter at t’at, but i’ kept us lot fed an’ clot’ed aye? Roof o’er are head. No matterin’ wha’ station me ma were tryin’ ta play at we were o’humble means; bu’ good.”

Another sip of wine.

“Ta point be ye canna live ye loi’fe worryin’ o’bout e’ery step ye take or word ye say. Ye go’ ta live an’ do roi’ght boi’y yeself an’ ye loved ones. No e’eryone is e’er goin’ ta loi’ke ye, luv. S’ta way ta world spins. Oi’ know for fact half ta ladies oi’ have tea wi’t on tuesdays at t’at infernal book club no’ read a single loi’ne o verse. T’ey all be t’ere ta gossip, gossip, gossip--an le’ me tell ye ta whoi’te sheet looks when t’ey get caught boi’y ta one t’ey gossipin’ o’bout. Were ta same when me ma used ta drag me ta town for an afternoon “wi’t ta women folk” as me Da called i’. T’ey just be old hags stuck in t’ey ways, most o’t’em. Bitter t’eir wells have run droi’y.”

A small sigh, and she’s leaning her elbows on the counter. Head ducking down a little as her voice drops a few degrees.

“T’ere dunna be anyt’in’ wrong wi’t eio’der o’us, Beth. Ye sweet an’ smart an’ gold hearted. All t’t’tings t’lot o’ t’em probably ne’er were, even in t’eir proi’mes. Ye o’good egg, luv. Jus’ loi’ke me. An’ oi’ say t’ey can take t’ey book clubs an’ gossipy propriety and shove i’ up t’ey skirts. Only people’s opinions t’at be holdin’ weight on us, be God, ourselves, an’ respective family members. T’at poisonous da o’ye’s an’ me own venomous ma, no included.”

#brooklynislandgirl #brooklynislandgirl 06 #tbd || Beth and Caity #Shipping Out To Boston || Modern Pocket AU #Collect Moments Not Things || Que

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croinagreine · 3 years

Text

Early Morning Rescue...

Nurtured from [ x ]

rattle rattle rattle

3 A.M.

rattle rattle rattle

A head tilts up off the pillow. Sleepy eyes that peers through the dark. Blurry vision at the neon numbers staring back.

3: 04 A.M.

rattle rattle rattle

A hand that fumbles out from under her chin. Swims beneath the blankets and sheets as she inch by inch maneuvers herself out of the human made cocoon. Fingers wrapping around the phone, as she leans her upper body towards the side of the bed. The phone brought to her ear as she slides the answer button over.

“’lo?”

Brows knit as she listens to the greeting. A lagging brain struggling and hitching, even as it recognizes the voice. Green focusing in on the offensively bright clock.

3:05 A.M.

....I guess I’m a’ Suffolk County General.

Eyes go wide. Adrenaline rushing through her veins, as movement speed increases a little. Legs that shift to the edge of the bed as the rest of her sits up. Arm previous encompassing her slipping away to the mattress. Sleep rubbed away half heartedly.

“Are ye o–”

More words. Words that take their time in explaining what’s going on. Why Beth’s calling her at three in the morning. And the list of injuries keeps going. Bruised ribs. A broken ankle. A concussion. And by the time Beth’s begging her not to be mad--

Feet have hit rug. Have crossed wood flooring. Yoga pants have been hopped into, shirt and sweater pulled on without much consideration if they match. Socks on. shoes grabbed. A hand through her hair as she sneaks back out of the closet and out the door. Though a second later she’s coming back for her purse. A note left over the top of her husband’s phone: Beth. Accident. Went to pick up from hospital. Home soon. And she’s down the stairs.

Cramming feet into shoes in the kitchen. Keys grabbed from the dish on the island. The cold coffee from the fridge and poured over ice into her trusted travel mug. And the garage door is going up.

“What? No. Oi’m on me way, luv. Ye jus’ stay p---”

A clearing throat nearly ha her jumping out of her skin. Turning away from the back door to see her husband’s man leaned to in the door way. The only thing saving him from being dressed in what he was born in a pair of loungers. And it takes a second for her heart to sink back down into her chest.

“Chris’ ye gave me a start, Michaeline.”

Dinna mean t' startle ye. Is some thing wrong?

“Hm? Oh uh..M’afraid Beth’s gotten into a bi’ o’a mess. Needs a ride home from hospital.”

Care for me to fix up the car? Himself 'd make a rug o' me hide if I dinna offer.

“Oh no-no. Oi’ can manage. T’ank ye t’ough.”

And she’s out the door before he can continue to remind that Himself would lay an egg for Michaeline letting her go out this time of day alone.

“Beth? No. Jus’ Michaeline wonderin’ where oi’ were off ta. As I was sayin’ ye stay pu’ an’ oi’ll be roi’ght t’ere, alroi’ght?”

A quick good bye as she gets the car going. Hands on the wheel and ready to back out when...A breath. That’s let out with heavy frustration and a portion of defeat. Eyes to the ceiling before the car’s turned back off. Bag and keys dragged out and a kind of walk of shame back inside. Where her husband’s man is now entirely dressed and standing by the kitchen island.

“Oi’ve had t’rather sudden realization oi’ dunna know how ta ge’ ta Suffolk County General so...f’ye dunna moi’nd oi’ll be takin’ ye up on t’at drive?”

A smirk that she knows she definitely deserves, as a set of keys to a car he’s much more used to driving are dangled in front of her face.

#brooklynislandgirl #brooklynislandgirl 07 #tbd || Beth and Caity #Shipping Out To Boston || Modern Pocket AU #Collect Moments Not Things || Que

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croinagreine · 3 years

Text

tabbyrp:

Providing Tabby the opportunity to talk about her Chucks was somewhat akin to handing Pandora a box wrapped up in the prettiest of bow. Rather than unleashing an in-depth recount of the history behind the name, along with a slideshow of some of the best seasonal colors, she decides to avoid overwhelming her companion and opts for a simpler answer. “Technically Chucks is short for Chuck Taylor All-Stars. They’re a style of shoe made by Converse and are legit the most comfortable thing you can wear on your feet.”

Any excuse to go browse the latest stock offering is welcome, and Tabby is happy to pair it with a shopping trip that shows Caity some of the local highlights. “Sure, we can go do some retail therapy. I work a mix of days and nights at a bar, so I’m flexible with times.” The prospect of a new friend in Boston holds immense allure and meeting at the shops is a safe promise to make, another step in the process of getting to know each other.

The story of how Pooh came into Caity’s life is charming and Tabby listens attentively. Based on the firm bond that clearly exists between the dog and his human, their meeting was one of the happiest kinds of accidents. A few tidbits about Caity’s husband weave their way into the tale, adding some broad brushstrokes to Tabby’s mental image of what the man must be like.

“No, no pets for me.” Tabby’s answer comes with a light pout of her lower lip, giving the playful air of tragedy to her animal-less existence. “Sometimes I think about getting a hamster or a goldfish, y’know, someone small that is friendly to the apartment renting lifestyle.” Every time she browses the listings, whether in New York or Boston, there are far too many no pets allowed conditions for her to harbor fantasies about a four-legged companion. “If I find a hamster lost on the sidewalk, I will totally take it as a sign that he or she is meant to be mine, like you and Pooh.”

Tabby’s attention briefly flickers as a server begins weaving through tables, though the tray of coffees in his hands takes him to a spot elsewhere, and she can only hope he detours back on this trip to take their order. “So, how long have you been with your husband for? Was it a whirlwind romance or one of those slow, steady courtships?” Caity has mentioned him a few times so far, enough that Tabby feels comfortable inquiring further without violating any etiquette boundaries. Besides, the perpetual romantic inside her is always interested in hearing the details of a love story.

Chuck Taylor All-Stars.

There’s a mental note made. If for no other reason that to have a pair for days like this. Where walking and chasing a run away pooch becomes a necessity. And there’s a smile when Tabby agrees to retail therapy. Caity had never thought of it like that but now that it’s been said it makes a lot of sense to her. Probably explains why even if she’s having a bad day she feels a bit better after doing a little shopping. Even if she comes away with having not actually purchased anything.

A tiny tilt of head. Tabby works at a bar? That as to be interesting even if a little trying at times. Dealing with the drunk and rambunctious probably got old, but Caity can imagine the interesting people that come through places like that. She bets Tabby has some fascinating stories to tell. Even if Caity doesn’t’t venture to ask just now.

A small moment of sympathy for the lack in pet. Personally she thinks every one could do with a little unconditional love that a pet could afford. But she also understands the idea that not everyone has the room. Living so close together as many do here, she can imagine the hard work it must be to have a dog. With no where to really run or walk unless you took them to a park. Still there’s a smile that comes and goes. A little bout of amusement at the thought of finding a wee hamster on the sidewalk.

“Oh definitely. I canna say I wouldna pay money to see that rescue story. Wee street hamster, hard as nails until he bumps inta ta’ roi’ght set o’ chucks. An’ gets unconditional love in response...summer blockbuster oi’d make point ta see for sure.”

A glance that follows her new friends. Though her own gaze lingers longer. Eye contact with the server before she’s returning it to Tabby. They’ll belong presently. Of that she’s fairly sure. And the concern is dismissed as an elbow rests on the edge of the table a hand to her jaw line.

“O’bit o’ a whirlwind honestly. Me’ o’bi’ boi’y accident. Spilled ta lot o’me mid mornin’ pick me up all o’er his front. Apologies an’ six blocks la’er an’ oi’ found me self makin’ deals for me toi’me. Six months la’er spen’ Christmas wi’t his family and wee bit after t’at we go’ married and oi’ moved cross ta ocean.”

Somewhere in the pit of her stomach she knows that probably sounds insane. Almost text book fairy tale if you looked it directly in the eye. But the truth is? She doesn’t really care. It’s her story and for all that it had happened quicker than maybe was really proper that was just them wasn’t it? Two lines that criss crossed and mutually decided they weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“No lookin’ back in me book. Be different here bu’ better. Me ma were one of t’ose stoi’flin’ kind. T’ought oi’ were reachin’ above me station an’ all--which ne’er really made sense ta me given how much stock she were puttin’ inta who me sisters married.”

A pause taken when the server finally arrives back at the table. Caity taking the initiative.

“Ta’ pastrami panini an’ chi--sorry--fries, please. An’ wha’e’er she loi’kes.”

#[ my icon game is not strong with this blog i am so sry ]#tabbyrp #tabbyrp 01 #Shipping Out To Boston || Modern Pocket AU #Collect Moments Not Things || Que

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croinagreine · 3 years

Text

brooklynislandgirl:

A Walk In The Woods || Accepting @croinagreine

lavender 💜 - what’s your favorite smell?

The question is so hard to choose from, and the answer that immediately comes to mind? If she’d have taken a sip of her tea any later than she had, it would have either gotten spat right back out across the counter, or would have choked Beth to a premature death so that Caity wouldn’t have to break a nail over. Because her favourite smell is the crook of Lorcan’s neck first thing in the morning, where his breath is warm over her hair, and her face is pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, nose right up against his collarbones. Its the smell of her sheets and the heat of his skin. A lingering sweetness from whatever he’d been drinking the night before, the ghost of his cologne. Something so naturally all his own, the alchemy of himself. Its the weight of his arm around the curve of her waist and the slight growl in his throat when she moves just the tiniest bit.

But it’s also, horrifically, her best friend’s youngest son. It’s a secret that she is ashamed of, could be eaten alive from the mortification alone. She’s very careful to keep her face as neutral as possible even if she can’t make herself meet Caity’s gaze. “Oh, ya know. Ocean jus’ after it rains, where everyt’ing is clean an’ uncomplicated and peaceful. A lil salt, a little ozone. How da sun bakes da waddah right from da sand an’ it smells warm an’ comforting almost like bakin’ bread? Mebbe wi’ a hint of coffee. Sometimes its plumeria an’ green growin’ grass long aftah tourist season is over, an’ the pulelehua are flitterin’ about ya hedges.” Butterfly, that’s what he calls her. And the colour starts rising in her cheeks and along the necks, prouder and more defiant than any of Kamehameha the Great’s warriors. She falters a minute and then gets to her feet, taking the tea kettle to the stove so she has an excuse to turn her back on Caity Sweeney. “Uh…why…why ya aks? An…what would you say is yours?”

She’s not one to read people with scrutiny. Not the way her mother was. But Caity can tell something about the question set her best friend off kilter. As though it had triggered some forgotten thing, that honestly Caity can’t tell if it’s good or bad. And for the brief moments of quiet between them, green falls to her tea cup. Her finger running up and down the curve of the handle, to keep from picking at other fingers that move to tuck hair behind her ear for the same reason.

And internally she’s berating herself. She should have asked something else. Anything else. Something not so invasive. Though in hindsight maybe asking a person’s favorite smell wasn’t really that. And it wasn’t like they were strangers. It was good to know your best friends likes and dislikes. Good to know so that you could keep an eye out for things that might bring them joy. But maybe...maybe that wasn’t how things were done here. Maybe you weren’t supposed to ask such things. Americans or not they still had their checks and balances. Their rules of propriety.

Yet instead of apologizing, Caity simply takes another drink of her tea. Pushes down the swirling mess of her subconscious because the reality is--Beth’s probably just working out how to answer. The woman does sometimes take time to speak after all. Maybe Caity’s just over reacting. So one hand is settled in her lap as the other places the cup back down upon the saucer. A very small drip more of honey added and stirred in.

When the answer comes though, she is very much all ears and eyes. Trying to picture what Beth describes. Though perhaps trying is a bit of an undersell. Because Caity knows exactly what Beth’s talking about. Though there’s tiny differences here and there. The waters off the coast of her homeland are darker. Cooler. Heavier in different ways. But the general idea is still there. The smell of salt water, and the way the ocean breeze wraps it round you. And maybe there’s a breath of home sickness that washes over the transplant. Not one that lasts, but it is there and she stumbles a little bit to try and answer.

“Oh jus’ o’wee bit more o’ta puzzle pieces, aye? Good ta know what ye bes’ mate likes ta smell of an’ dunna. Ye know for scented candles an’ ta like.”

A pause because now her mind has spirited off to more private things. The intoxicating blend of things that make up her husband. The sweet idea of that last rum and coke he’d had before bed. The ideas of balm and oil still buried in his beard. The way warm cologne still haunts his skin after dark, and the sheets at sun rise. The wavering plume of that one soap he uses that sometimes she uses too when he’s away. All of it blended together that is soley just her Lugh. That is her favorite smell. And while propriety that had been screaming at her before, continues---Caity for all that she is shameless--utterly ignores it.

“Me man after o’long day an’ evenin’ o’course.”

Another pause, this one for effect and nothing else what so ever, before she’s continuing.

“Bu’ f’we be talkin’ mixed company answers...summer afternoons in ta back garden. All ta flowers in full bloom, bees buzzin’. T’at heat off ta steppin’ stones, an’ ta fresh water from ta wee stream from ta neighbor’s plot. Fresh cuppa waifin’ besoi’de me an’ ta stew t’ats gonna be brewin’ all day leakin’ ou’ ta kitchen window...suppose me favorite smell be home.”

#brooklynislandgirl #brooklynislandgirl 08 #tbd || Beth and Caity #Shipping Out To Boston || Modern Pocket AU

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