#Cloisters on the Platte
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Staghorn Sumac - June 2022
While walking through the Cloisters on the Platte, I came upon a tree I had never seen before. Or at least, I had never seen one in bloom. This is a Staghorn Sumac tree. As can be seen in the second image, its seeds are formed in a long, tight, cone which evidently gives the Stag Horn its name.
MWM
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“Raise a glass to freedom,
Something they can never take away,
No matter what they tell you...
(Someone will come running to take you home...)
Raise a glass to all of us --
Tomorrow there'll be more of us,
Telling the story of tonight!
(Out of the shadows...)
The morning is breaking, (They'll tell the story of tonight!)
And all is new -- (All is new)
All is new!
It's only a matter of time...”
~“Found/Tonight” by Ben Platt and Lin-Manuel Miranda
x~x~x~x
featuring Atticus Grimsley @cursebreakerfarrier and Bartholomew “Bat” Varney @carewyncromwell, and also referencing Danny Gibson @catohphm, Jackson Knightly, Rex Brokenshire, and Teddy, Adelia, Bertie, Violet, and Holly Selwyn-Ellison @thatravenpuffwitch
x~x~x~x
It was a significant event in 1915 when Atticus Grimsley finally retired from the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. His successor ended up being one of Atticus’s former students, a well-respected Auror named Dan Gibson, who was soon embraced by the remaining faculty and students just as Atticus had been when he’d first arrived. Not that Atticus had had any doubts -- Danny had always been a very bright lad, and it was good to see him prosper.
Even in retirement, however, Atticus continued to visit Hogsmeade village regularly. Although yes, it was a good way for him to catch up with his former work colleagues and students, all those who knew Atticus knew the main reason was so that Atticus could spend quality time with his closest companion -- the vampire called Bartholomew Varney.
Varney, affectionately called “Bat” by just about everyone, was an oddity among his kind. Whereas many vampires actively tried to cloister themselves away in colonies far away from humans so as to not provoke their blood lust, Bat spent his days meditating in the attic of Honeydukes’ Sweet Shop and spent his nights wandering through the village. There he’d enjoy the atmosphere, go shopping, and even engage with those precious few students from the neighboring school who earned his esteem enough to merit a lecture in History of Magic or Potions. And, of course, he’d talk and laugh with “Grim,” as he affectionately called Atticus, for hours on end, well into the night and more warmly than with anyone else. Then they’d often leave the village together, still talking avidly, with Bat returning to Honeydukes in the wee hours of the morning, just before sunrise.
They were a funny pair, Bat Varney and Atticus Grimsley -- funnier still, many thought, as Atticus got older and grayer and Bat remained ever youthful in look, even despite his hollowed-out eyes and sickly pale complexion. There were points where Bat almost treated Atticus like his aging uncle, in how he’d help his compatriot up out of his chair, and yet there were other times they acted almost like a couple, in how Bat would help Atticus put his coat back on, before going back outside. And still even throughout all that, regardless of the little gestures here and there, every day they smiled, laughed, teased, debated, entertained, and confided in each other like nothing less than the very best of friends.
One of these many nights Atticus and Bat spent together was in the fall of 1927, in the height of the so-called “roaring 20′s.” Atticus had come down with a rather nasty chest cold, so Bat had swung by his cottage in Cumbria to cheer his friend up and brew him some proper Pepper-up Potions, along with the usual Sleeping Draught. Bat clearly took great pleasure in the opportunity to be useful to his old friend -- he was even humming to himself as he set about chopping up the mandrake root on Atticus’s kitchen counter.
“Joy to the world -- the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King...”
Atticus couldn’t fight back the tired grin winding its way onto his face. “Singing Christmas carols? Come now, Bat, we’ve not even passed October yet...”
“Mayhaps if Halloween developed some proper carols of its own, I could sing those instead,” Bat called over playfully from the next room. “Until then, I shall just have to enjoy the best time of the year a bit early -- goodness knows those two months will fly by soon enough...”
Atticus shook his head amusedly. It was something he regretted, though, when his sinuses began to pound behind his eyes angrily -- the older man flopped back down onto his pillows with a low groan.
Bat strolled through the open door of Atticus’s room, a tray in his hands. Stacked haphazardly on it was a full tea service, a goblet with white steam coming off of it, and two leather-bound books. There was also a newspaper folded under Bat’s arm -- no doubt the most recent edition of the Evening Prophet -- and the familiar white stick of a Blood Pop sticking out of his mouth.
“Hang in there, Grim,” he said with a slightly wry, but still rather gentle expression. “I’m coming.”
He put the tray, books, and newspaper down on Atticus’s side table and immediately moved to Atticus’s bedside, the steaming goblet in hand.
“Can you sit up on your own?” he asked.
Atticus coughed loudly, only to hold his head at the pain that shot through as a result. “Of course I can -- I’m not that infirm...”
The over-sixty-year-old man eased himself up into a seated position in bed. Atticus’s stubbornness only served to make Bat grin that bit more toothily around his Blood Pop.
“What’s that smirk for?” Atticus asked with a soft grunt as he adjusted himself so he could lean back against his headboard.
Bat’s grin only broadened. “Nothing. Just thinking you haven’t changed a bit.”
Atticus gave a loud, sarcastic laugh. “Rubbish. The very first thing out of your mouth when you arrived was that it looked like I’d grown another gray hair.”
It was a comment that had hurt more than Atticus would’ve ever admitted. He hated knowing he was getting older. Ironically it was something he’d never paid much mind to before -- he’d found himself losing track of his own birthdays even back when he was still a boy -- but since befriending Bat, Atticus had become much more aware of it. The ex-professor knew that Bat had had to disappear from his loved ones’ lives, just to keep his sanity in the face of watching them shrivel up and die before his eyes while he stayed the same. And yet Bat was staying by Atticus, even as he aged. And once he’d retired, Atticus found himself somewhat adrift without the consistent, relentless schedule of teaching. It had certainly been nice to have so much time to himself at the start, but it was also a bit terrifying, to have this thing that had defined so much of his life suddenly be gone...to not be as quick or strong as he once was...to catch himself having to refresh himself on routine spells like Aguamenti, simply because he’d gotten out of the habit of using them...
With a chuckle, Bat sat down on the bed beside Atticus. He slid the smoking goblet into his hands, holding both of them around the piping-hot glass, no doubt to ensure Atticus had a secure grip on it before letting go. Atticus himself, however, couldn’t stop himself from staring down at their joined hands: Bat’s as strong as ever, no matter how sickly pale, over his own rosy, but age-spotted and wrinkled ones.
“You got it?” said Bat.
“Of course I’ve got it,” Atticus shot back, a bit more sourly than he meant, as he pulled his hands and the goblet out of Bat’s grip. “Stop treating me like an old man.”
He took a long sip, only to choke at the feeling of the hot liquid scalding his throat. Once he’d recovered, Atticus quickly finished it off, breathing in the steam as it poured through his stuffed-up nostrils, dissipating the mucus and phlegm clogging up his sinuses.
“I’m the old man out of the two of us, Grim.”
When Atticus looked up at Bat again, the vampire’s expression had lost the smile, becoming a bit more serious. The ex-professor averted his eyes down to the still smoking goblet.
“Yes, obviously,” Atticus said uncomfortably, “but it doesn’t show on you. But I’m not that helpless, you know -- you don’t have to coddle me so much.”
“I’m doing that because you’re sick, Grim, not because you’re old.”
Bat considered Atticus for a moment. Then he gave a great suck to the Blood Pop in his mouth and, very tentatively, brought up a cold hand to Atticus’s forehead, so as to feel his temperature.
Atticus flushed a very dark red. “...B-Bat?”
Bat’s scarlet eyes were locked on his hand on Atticus’s forehead rather than Atticus’s face as he gave another loud slurp to the Blood Pop in his mouth.
“I won’t be able to stay into the morning,” he said lowly. “I’ve got to make sure you’ll be all right, before I leave.”
Atticus stared up at Bat, taken aback by just how serious he looked. He could feel his heart racing, and he tried desperately to will it into submission -- he knew Bat would be able to both hear and feel it, and the last thing he wanted was to needlessly antagonize his blood lust.
“I’m all right, Bat,” he murmured, his voice coming out oddly breathy. “I am.”
Bat gave another loud suck to the Blood Pop in his mouth as he looked at Atticus. Atticus could see red creeping in on the edge of his friend’s eyes and could tell he was having trouble, being so close to him -- and yet he powered through all the same.
“You will be,” he said softly. “I’ll make sure of that.”
Smoothing Atticus’s graying, sweat-soaked bangs from his face, Bat then closed his eyes and forcibly removed himself, retreating to the corner of the room so he could take his pewter flask out of the inside of his waistcoat and take a long swig. Then, taking several deep breaths, he chucked the spent white stick from his mouth, took a fresh Blood Pop out of his pocket, and stuck in his mouth before sweeping back toward the kitchen.
“I forgot,” he said in a noticeably brighter tone, “The eldest Honeydukes gave me some hazelnut chocolate scones for me to bring along for you.”
Atticus blinked. “Really? That was thoughtful of her.”
He shifted his gaze down to the tea service Bat had put out. The vampire had already prepared Atticus a cup of tea just the way he liked it, so the ex-professor gently picked it up and sipped it as he picked up the Evening Prophet next to the tray.
The tea smelled lovely. His nose was already clearing up nicely.
“Indeed,” Bat said amusedly. “She recalled your ‘voracious sweet tooth’ and thought you’d be the best test subject for her new recipe.”
Atticus bit back a laugh. “Considering the talent of the chocolatier in question, I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”
Taking another sip of his tea, he perused the front page. The headline at the top, however, dimmed the light in his expression significantly.
GELLERT GRINDELWALD TERRORIZES PARIS
Rally hosted by infamous Dark wizard ends in an explosion of magical flames only barely contained by French Aurors
‘First New York City and now Paris,’ thought Atticus grimly. ‘He’s getting bolder, if he feels brave enough to act out in such large cities, protected by such powerful magical ministries...’
“...working on a new caramel recipe, if you’d like to try that as well...”
“Mm,” said Atticus, only vaguely taking in what Bat had said. The article was holding his attention captive.
‘Thirty dead or wounded...a good chunk of them French Aurors who’d been purposefully lured to the event, just to be made an example out of...burned alive with a lethal casting of Protego Diabolica...’
The mental image of a dozen young men with faces like the wizards he used to work with at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement rippled over Atticus’s mind, making his stomach clench with nausea.
A clink to his left made Atticus straighten up sharply. Bat had returned with one of Madam Honeydukes’s scones and had just put the plate down on the tray beside the teapot.
“You’re going to lose your appetite, reading that,” Bat said lowly.
Atticus couldn’t tell if Bat was reproaching him or not -- it made him react a bit defensively.
“I want to know what’s going on in the world, Bat, whether I’m sick or not.”
To Atticus’s surprise, Bat’s expression actually softened.
“...I understand.”
He held out his hand expectantly.
“Hand me your cup -- I’ll pour you a new one.”
Atticus frowned. “I can do it my -- ”
“I know you can,” Bat cut him off smoothly. “But I want to do it.”
Atticus considered Bat for a moment, his eyes flitting down to his open hand. Then he relented, handing the empty cup over to Bat so that he could pour Atticus a new cup of tea and add in the proper amount of sugar and milk.
“It’s disgusting,” Atticus murmured.
Bat handed him the cup. “You mean Grindelwald and not the tea, I hope?”
“Yes, of course,” Atticus said quickly. His face then grew that bit grimmer. “...What he did to those Aurors -- to the city -- to his own supporters, just for not being loyal enough. And all in the name of ‘protecting’ the Wizarding World!” His blue eyes flared with anger. “It’s absolutely vile.”
Bat’s own scarlet eyes hardened significantly. “It is. As are all people like him.”
He picked up the empty potion goblet and strolled back out into the kitchen as if to go clean it out.
“Men like Grindelwald...they don’t see anyone else as truly human, unless they align perfectly with their demented world view. Unless they’re wizards, or white, or Protestant, or Pureblood, or whatever else they’ve decided elevates them over everyone else. And, of course, unless they likewise ascribe to the idea that those people are inherently superior, for that reason...for what does it matter if you’re the perfect Pureblood specimen, if you’re a ‘blood traitor’ that sees other people as just as human as you are?”
Bat’s voice, however level and quiet, betrayed a lot of resentment and righteousness, smoldering just under the surface.
Atticus’s eyes narrowed a bit as he nodded.
“For the life of me, I will never understand such people,” he said. “Though I suppose in a way, that’s probably a good thing.”
“It is,” agreed Bat. “One thing is for sure, though -- blokes like Grindelwald don’t stop until they’re forced to. Yes, the British Ministry was able to prevent Grindelwald from torching Paris, but they didn’t capture him. They didn’t incapacitate him. Therefore it’s only a matter of time before he does something else that’s much worse.”
Atticus took another sip of tea. As he did, however, something made him pause, his lips lingering on the cup. He skimmed the article one more time, before straightening up a bit to look out the doorframe toward the kitchen.
“...British Ministry?” he repeated with a raised eyebrow. “In the article, it says the French Aurors dealt with it.”
There was a very long silence. It was only punctured by the light clink and snap of Bat cleaning out the goblet and putting it back in the kitchen cabinet.
“Bat?” said Atticus.
Bat didn’t answer. Atticus’s frown deepened.
“Bat -- ”
“I heard you.”
Bat’s voice had become quieter and more detached. The sound troubled Atticus that bit more -- Bat only ever detached emotionally when he was upset. It made Atticus inch himself out of bed, supporting himself on the edge of his headboard as he straightened up and shuffled over to the doorframe.
He found Bat cleaning the kitchen, wiping the counter clean with a wet rag. His eyes were focused solely on what he was doing, so it was clearly busy work more than anything: something to distract him. He did stiffen ever-so-slightly when Atticus approached -- no matter how quiet Atticus might try to be, he could never sneak up on a vampire. Not that Atticus cared -- he had no interest in getting the drop on Bat. Instead he merely walked over to stand beside his friend, leaning on the edge of the counter and watching his pale, gaunt face as he stubbornly refused to look at him.
“Robert,” Atticus said a bit more gently.
The name had a visible impact on Bat. It made something flutter through his expression -- something more youthful and almost vulnerable -- to the point that it was almost like a boyish flush, bringing life back into his palid cheeks. He turned to Atticus very abruptly, his scarlet eyes seeming oddly rounder than before. It made the sharp, bright light in them shine more handsomely than ever -- more like a young man, rather than that of an old soul trapped in a young frame.
The handsomeness of Bat’s eyes didn’t falter even as he his expression turned much more evasive and hesitant.
“...The French Aurors at the event were all slaughtered,” Bat admitted softly at last. “The Aurors who saved Paris were from our department, in Britain. ...It’s something Minister Fawley doesn’t want circulated, when the British Ministry has been trying to keep its activity in other countries quiet.”
Atticus’s eyebrows furrowed. “...Well, yes, I suppose that’s understandable -- but if that’s true, then how are you aware of it? If you’ve heard of it from an outside source, then clearly it’s already being circulated -- ”
Bat looked Atticus straight-on in the eye, and Atticus’s words died in his throat. His eyes widened slowly.
“...They told you?” he whispered.
Bat inclined his head in something of a short nod, his scarlet eyes drifting away, up onto the kitchen window.
“But -- ” Atticus stammered, “ -- but if the Ministry told you, that means that they trust you with that kind of intelligence! And the only people that the Ministry of Magic would trust with that kind of intelligence would be people who work for them. Aurors, Unspeakables, investigators...”
“...And other such agents,” Bat finished off grimly. “Yes.”
Atticus stared at Bat for a moment. Then his eyes slowly lit up and his mouth spread into an incredulous smile.
“...You’re helping the Ministry fight Grindelwald?” he whispered.
“In a way,” Bat said uncomfortably. “I’m more an academic resource than anything. Adelia put me in contact with Minister Knightly several years back, and he sent me messages inquiring about certain things...asking me to put my ear to the ground in Knockturn Alley and such, among like-minded Dark wizards. Just try to sort out the source of Grindelwald’s new-found power, and what he might aim to do with it. Not that old Fawley’s been very forthcoming with help -- reckon it’s only because of the few contacts I worked with in the Department of Mysteries following up with me that I’ve gotten any updates since Knightly left office...”
Bat’s dismissiveness toward his work didn’t dampen Atticus’s smile one bit. On the contrary, the ex-professor was so delighted by it that he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and grabbing his compatriot’s shoulders. The affectionate gesture visibly startled Bat.
“Bat, that’s wonderful,” said Atticus. “With how much you’ve studied over the years...why, that kind of knowledge must be invaluable, to the fight against Grindelwald.”
His blue eyes sparkled with pride.
“It was brilliant of Ms. Selwyn-Ellison, to suggest you to the Minister. And so good of you, to do it...I know you’ve never much liked the Ministry, so you putting your differences with them aside, to fight Grindelwald -- it’s so good of you, to put the safety of others first.”
Red pricked at the edges of Bat’s eyes in response to Atticus’s proximity. Upon noticing it, Atticus’s smile flickered and died and he immediately backed away.
“Forgive me, I -- I forgot myself -- ”
To Atticus’s surprise, though, Bat didn’t distance himself further. On the contrary, he took the spent Blood Pop stick out of his mouth, replaced it, and then extended an arm so as to wrap it around Atticus and pull him up beside his chest. Bat buried his face right beside Atticus’s neck, while Atticus’s face landed right on Bat’s chest -- right beside the cursed, undead heart that pumped the blood Bat had to consume so regularly, just to keep his body and mind from going insane from blood lust...
“Bat?” said Atticus, startled.
The breaths that hit Atticus’s neck from Bat’s nose were as supernaturally cold as his hand as it anchored itself on the back of Atticus’s head.
“Thanks, Grim,” Bat murmured.
Atticus could hear the smile in his friend’s voice, and he relaxed a bit despite himself. It was a reaction most anyone else would’ve been shocked by, considering he currently had a vampire’s fangs mere inches from his neck.
But Atticus wasn’t afraid. Bat would never harm him. He would never harm anyone, unless it was to protect someone he loved...
Atticus heard Bat take a very shaky breath and could tell that he was struggling to restrain himself. Bringing a hand up to hold onto the back of Bat’s shirt, he gently pried himself out of Bat’s arms.
“Robert,” he said softly, “you should let go now.”
But Bat seemed oddly reluctant to let go, even though his fangs were lengthening. His eyes were shut tight as his hand tangled itself that bit more in the dark strands of Atticus’s hair.
“Not yet,” he rasped.
Atticus’s eyes grew softer still. “Robert...”
“I can do it,” he repeated, a bit shakily. “I can do it.”
He took a sip from his flask without even taking the Blood Pop out of his mouth. Then, ignoring the fangs still at the front of his mouth, he brought his head down to rest on top of Atticus’s.
“I want to remember,” the vampire murmured beside Atticus’s hair.
Atticus blinked. “Remember what?”
“What I’m fighting for, every time I go out and scout out information, for those Ministry sheep.”
Atticus’s lip twitched with a faintly exasperated frown. “I was one of those so-called ‘sheep,’ as you might recall -- as was Mr. Gibson, and as is Mr. Ellison.”
“Every flock needs a few sheepdogs around, to give them some direction,” Bat said dismissively.
“So says someone who turns into a dog on a regular basis, whenever he needs to shepherd the Selwyn-Ellison children back to school.”
Bat chuckled lowly as his long-fingered hand trailed through Atticus’s hair absently. The ex-professor felt his flush darken that bit more every time Bat’s cold fingertips grazed the back of his neck.
“You see, Grim?” he said softly. His set of four sharp, cat-like fangs glinted brightly as he smiled. “This is it. What I’m fighting for, right here.”
Atticus cocked an eyebrow. “Friendly banter?”
“You,” Bat corrected him. He closed his eyes as he grinned around the Blood Pop in his mouth. “When I’m with you, or Danny, or Rex, or Adelia, or Teddy, or Bertie or Vi or little Holly-berry...the Honeydukes family, and your students and mine...”
He opened his eyes again, smiling fully and handsomely no matter how monstrous his entirely scarlet eyes looked.
“...When I see you all live your lives, and can be part of them, even just in some small way...it’s like...I’m almost me, again. Who I was before. When I can talk about silly things with you -- solve your problems and make you smile...you make me feel alive. More alive than I have in a hundred and forty years.”
Atticus felt his heart swell in his chest, seeing such sincere joy in his friend’s face. When he’d first met Bat in Hogsmeade, he never could’ve imagined such a mysterious, reclusive vampire could smile like that -- such a warm smile, such soft and...well, beautiful. As beautiful as a sunrise...a sunrise this man would never be able to enjoy again, all because of his condition that made it so that everything around him would wither away, while he stayed exactly the same...
Bat felt happy -- he felt alive, because of Atticus. It was such an empowering, yet bittersweet feeling: like a bite of savory chocolate with a terribly harsh aftertaste. It made Atticus swallow back the lump in his throat and, after the shortest hesitation, throw out his hand and clutch the back of Bat’s waistcoat and hold his friend tighter.
“You...” Atticus whispered, “...are more alive than any other man I have ever known in my life, Robert Harker.”
Bat’s hand in Atticus’s hair stilled.
“Blood lust or no -- vampirism or no,” Atticus said more firmly, “you love life, and the people around you, more deeply than any human man. More deeply than I will likely ever know.”
Atticus’s mouth spread into a wide, open grin beside Bat’s undead heart.
“Don’t ever change. No matter what -- stay just the way you are.”
Bat was very quiet for a long moment. Then, clutching Atticus’s dark hair in his fist, he yanked himself away at last.
“I’m sorry,” he choked, “I can’t -- ”
He spat out the Blood Pop, his claw-like hand fumbling inside his waistcoat for his pewter flask. Atticus immediately reached out to help secure Bat’s shaking hand around the flask so it was easier to take a swig, and also reached into Bat’s pocket to unwrap another Blood Pop for him so that when he’d finally chugged down a good gallon’s worth of blood, Bat could immediately stick the Pop in his mouth and take several good deep breaths.
Once he’d recovered himself, the vampire chuckled.
“See?” he said playfully. “Told you I was the old man, out of the two of us.”
Atticus smiled wryly. “You know, you’re right. I think I can see the white hairs from here.”
Bat laughed louder still, as happily and sincerely as a man with no burdens to bear. It was a sound that likewise made Atticus’s smile grow that bit wider and his eyes sparkle that bit more brightly.
#hphl#hogwarts legacy#my writing#atticus grimsley#bartholomew varney#adelia selwyn#danny gibson#jackson knightly#gellert grindelwald#goddamn it I love these two much I can't stand it!!#feels so good to write for them again <33#being set in 1927 this is a mere fourteen years before bat's death#and yup bat was secretly helping the british ministry fight grindelwald even way back then#oh also halloween *does* have some good songs now#but back in bat's lifetime? nope#I'd say most of the good halloween songs popped up in the 80's 90's and 00's#namely the nightmare before christmas soundtrack disturbia thriller and the like#happy birthday grim my dear!!
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JAY HALSTEAD
Cold Coffee
Requested: yes
Prompts: none
Warning(s): none
Author's note: I had a hard time figuring out what exactly you wanted me to write about. I'm pretty sure I changed the ask a lot because I didn't understand it. Sorry!
~
You pursed your lips with hands on your hips and glared at the man in front of you. Or behind you; at least that's where he was before you had turned to him.
"Do you mind?" You asked coldly. "I can practically feel you breathing down on my ear. There's plenty of space, man, you don't need to be cooped up behind me."
The young man behind you looked all but surprised at your words. He glanced at you with doe green eyes that were hidden beneath a fringe of dark hair he had been running his hand through for the last 2 minutes.
You pretended not to recognize him and instead chose this moment to talk to him for the very first time.
Or warn him, so to speak.
You took note of his clothes while at it. They were wrinkled in all the wrong places, almost as if he didn't have time to iron them this morning.
Like he was late for something.
You shook your head and turned back around, instinctively taking a step away from him. The coffee shop was cloistered, so many tables and so little room, but that was part of its charm. You lacked clothing and weren't dressed for the occasion that was winter, so you stood there in the line, hoping to store enough of the shop's warmth before you run out and make a dash for your boyfriend's car.
"Y/N have you gone mad?" A sweet voice interjected, breaking apart your dazed thoughts with its bubbly tone. Your face reddened from the attention and warmth that had merged to torture you. "It's 17 °F outside, and you're walking around all dolled up like it's spring!"
You giggled and proceeded to order two coffees like you had first planned to do.
Your favorite bartender raised both eyebrows at you, urging you to speak while both of you wait for your coffee. "First of all, I'm not dolled up."
He shook his head and smirked, ready to make your words die right on your tongue. "Girl… That white t-shirt, which by the way, I know it's not yours, screams I had it so good last night that I didn't even bother with my clothes because I know I look better without them. And that's hot by the way."
The wink he gave you was the cherry on top, and you stifled your laughter with the back of your cold palm in embarrassment.
"What the hell is going on?" A gruff voice spoke up. "Can we order or are you too busy gossiping with her?"
The voices that were background music in the cozy shop died within an instant.
Your friend narrowed his eyes. "Sir, in case you failed to notice, there are two of us working at the bar and you, along with Miss Y/N are the only one waiting in line."
You cringed and looked at displayed cupcakes beneath you in hopes of the tension washing over you and disappearing right after. You didn't really want any feelings of someone's anger to linger on your mind at only 7 in the morning.
"Brittany could you take this man's order for me? I'm busy with Y/N's."
A petite blonde stepped out of the shadows she wasn't even in and looked at the grumpy man with a dashing smile.
"I better go," you whispered after a moment and reached for the two coffees, laying out the exact amount of money on the counter. "Before things get crazy."
The bartender gave you an apologetic smile, "I'm sorry about him, I don't even know who he is. He just started stopping by. Anyway, say hi to Jay for me."
For a moment you debated on whether you should tell Jay about this man. Him coincidentally showing up at exact places where you were in the last few weeks left a bitter taste in your mouth. But then again, you might be making this all up to yourself.
You are dating a senior detective after all. The inner voice in your head was starting to get too loud.
"Will do," You said quietly, turning around on your heels and slipping out of the coffee shop and into the cold Chicago air.
Goosebumps immediately took residence on your skin because the sleeves of white t-shirt you had only covered the upper parts of your arms.
The car was hard to spot amongst the early crowd. The body of people that formed around you was making it more difficult to find Jay. Sighing, you clenched your teeth and moved forward until a hand grasped your shoulder, and you turned around.
"You…" You gasped in surprise because you had no thought invade your mind that the young man might have followed you out.
"It's cold out here," He offers, the grin on his face never subsided. "Let's get you somewhere warm."
You shook your head, baffled beyond belief. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
He stood in front of you, his face forming into an angry scowl for the first time. The grin vanished and his whole demeanor changed – almost as if you had just flipped the switch that held his façade together. His rough hand grabbed your free wrist, and you yelped in surprise, holding the bag that contained your coffee securely.
"Let me go!" You fought, doing your best to ignore the ominous look in his eyes.
This is going to leave bruises for sure, you thought while gazing at your captured wrist. Maybe if you screamed, he would get off you, but you didn't want to cause a commotion. Plus, you wanted him there for when Jay came back to fetch you.
Fear settled in your chest, but it disappeared as quick as it came when Jay's voice hung in the air.
His words were blurry to your ears. Amid the moment, you only got a one good look at your boyfriend’s face before he placed himself in front of the young man, shielding you from harm's way.
Your wrist was free, but bruised and sore.
"What the hell man! Get off me!" The green-eyed man exclaimed, pushing at Jay with his hands. You hadn’t even realized what Jay was doing.
"Oh, yeah?" Jay mused; his face grew colder within a second of saying that. "What'd you do to her?"
Jay turned around to you at that moment, his blue eyes skimming you over for any injuries. His eyes widened at your wrist.
"Nothing, man. I-I didn't even touch that bitch!"
The simple word aggravated the detective and Jay lunged at him; although not in a matter that would get his hands beaten up.
Your boyfriend of 2 years moved his jacket and showed your attacker his badge, and before the man could do anything, he had his hands twisted behind his back. "What are you doing?!"
"Arresting you for assault," Jay informed before lowering his voice. "But if I had it my way; I'd beat you to a pulp for what you did to my girlfriend. Now, sit the hell down."
Trembling with apologies, the man sat on the pavement, hands cuffed, and pride crushed.
You watched the scene in front of you with a red face. Not because of the crowd that surrounded you as you stood by the side, but because of the cold Chicago air.
This was supposed to be a quick trip.
Grab and go.
"You okay?" Jay asked after hanging up the phone, presumably having just finished calling a fellow officer to arrest this man for real.
"Y-yeah," You whispered. "Just cold…"
You allowed Jay to wrap his warm jacket around you and inhaled his cologne after the warmth overtook.
"I shouldn't have let you alone."
You rolled your eyes at the protectiveness and leaned into him, head falling on his shoulder as he led you to the car. "I called Sergeant Platt. She sent someone to pick him up. They’re two minutes out."
You nodded, "Good because I'm freaked out."
"Do you know him?" Jay asked with furrowed brows.
"I never thought much of it," You sighed. "He kept showing up at work, and now at the coffee shop, but I always thought he was new at work and all… I mean, all of us get coffee here."
Jay listened carefully. "This is serious."
"I know," You agreed. "Our coffee got cold. It can't get worse than that."
Jay outright laughed at your words.
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#jay halstead masterlist#jay halstead x reader#jay halstead fanfiction#jay halstead imagine#jay halstead#Jay#chicago pd x reader#chicago pd imagine#chicago pd fanfiction#chicago pd
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"Families! No one's had real families since . . ."
He was trying to juggle another magnetic card into the console.
Families? thought Ace. She suddenly remembered a sliver of a borrowed dream when she had glimpsed what she thought was his family. Cousins and more cousins in a distant mountainous country. No mothers or fathers — just cousins. But in the TARDIS library, there was a birthday card, old and yellowing, and on it in willowy writing was Happy Birthday Grandfather.
- Cat’s Cradle: Time’s Crucible, Marc Platt
Tell me more: You are a Time Lord? How old are you?
Inside my mind. Probing my memories. Searching for secrets from cradle to grave.
I have no cradle, I have no grave. I was born at Otherstide through the Loom of the House of Lungbarrow in Southern Gallifrey.
Waiting to be born. Strung out, spread really thin. Unable to think, unable to assemble my thoughts. I couldn’t wait to get out. They were there. All forty-five of my cousins. Satthralope smacked me so hard I could barely walk and –
You are Loom-born?
Yes, I think so.
[...]
This accounts contradict each other.
Memories often do.
‘If you would be so kind as to come with me?’
‘Who are you?’ He was so old, but there weren’t any old people any more. He walked through the cloister with the aid of a stick, a knobbled stick with strange writing on it. There was a dark shape drifting behind him in the shadows. Outside the Capitol was burning.
‘I couldn’t possibly tell you that, oh no.’
‘You wear my husband’s ring.’ He held it up to the candlelight, examined it, then clutched it to his chest.
‘Yes. So I do.’
‘Please stop them – they are trying to find my daughter-in-law, they are going to kill her child.’
He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘Your granddaughter was born ten minutes ago, I was there at the birth. She is safe, quite safe.’
‘A girl? Where is she?’
‘She will be taken away from here, away from this madness. I will take her far from this world of vampires and valeyards. First, however, we must get you to safety.’
‘Me?’
He took her hand. ‘Come, my dear.’
This memory is faint.
It was a long time ago. I’m not even sure it’s one of mine.
The truth.
A lot of what happened before my second regeneration is hazy. Great chunks of my life are missing. It was all so very long ago.
- Cold Fusion, Lance Parkin
Who was to say that it was any different anywhere else? The past didn’t exist, only the memory of the past. Perhaps the past was necessitated by the present, and not vice versa. It was only the first night, but a number of centuries had already preceded it. If time was an illusion, then what did that make a Time Lord? No… the past existed, it was real, he’d been there, his own past and other people’s.
He looked down at the woman sleeping far below him. She had been part of him for generations before his birth. She’d taught his father and his father and his father. She’d helped to raise him, she’d been his tutor, his friend, his first love, his wife, the mother of his children, she had been everything to him in the past. She had always been there, she wasn’t just a whim, a fictional construct.
But how would he know if she was? There was a rumble of thunder far away, over the sea. Either she had always been there, or the past was changing, renewing itself. If he woke up tomorrow and she had never been there, would he still remember her? He looked down at her again, suddenly full of the thought that he should be with her for every moment that he possibly could be just in case she vanished, never to be seen or mentioned again.
He scowled, although there was no one to see it. This was nonsense, sophistry, The Doctor knew exactly who he was, who he’d always been. He was a Time Lord, from the Noble House of Lungbarrow on the planet Gallifrey. He had been born of the Loom, son of the greatest explorer of his age and a human woman, Annalise… no… his mother’s name had been Penelope. He knew his father’s name, at least: his father’s name wasn’t Ulysses, and he was a professor at Berkeley.
His own name escaped him for the moment, but he knew that he had one. Lightning flashed overhead, unbidden, marking out the silhouette of the fortress like a signal flare.
- The Infinity Doctors, Lance Parkin
All the way to the graveyard the Doctor refused to answer Sam's questions. He found that he was starting to relish the thought of seeing Iris again. He couldn't even remember what the last encounter had been. Unhappy, at any rate. He seemed to recall their parting under a cloud. He wished his memory wasn't so poor. Sometimes when he tried to reach back into previous lives it was like recalling something told to him, a dream, or a book he once read. It made him feel very young. Dwarfed by the magnitude of his life. Sometimes it wasn't worth the mental effort, trying to drag his waking thoughts to a point before Skaro, London, San Francisco, Lungbarrow... Just let the past come to you when it will, he thought. That's the best way. Because, in the end, it always will.
- The Scarlet Empress, Paul Magrs
‘But it happened,’ said the Doctor. ‘You didn’t just implant a memory. You changed my biodata. You changed my past!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s impossible,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s impossible for my people. Our past is unreachable. What’s written can’t be unwritten.’
‘Who said your history can’t change?’
Another boy answered, ‘Someone from his history.’
And another: ‘Maybe it’s the second-biggest lie in Time Lord history.’
‘Maybe it changes all the time.’
Someone giggled. ‘Let’s play pin the tale on the donkey.’
‘Maybe you didn’t use to have a father.’
‘Maybe you’re living in the middle of a time war. Maybe there’s an Enemy out there –’
The Doctor shouted, ‘I’m not listening!’
‘– who’s rewriting you when you’re not looking!’
‘Maybe you weren’t always half human.’
‘But now you’ve become always half human.’
‘Maybe you weren’t always a Time Lord.’
‘But now you’ve always been a Time Lord.’
‘Maybe you originally came from some planet in the forty-ninth century. Fleeing from the Enemy who’d overrun your home –’
‘I said I’m not listening! Laa laa laa laa laa –’
‘– and you’ve just been written and rewritten and overwritten, ever since.’
‘Pin the tale!’
‘How d’you know it’s not true?’
‘How could you know it’s not true?’
The voices crowded in.
‘How would you know, huh?’
‘How would you know?’
‘How would ‘How would you ‘How ‘How would you know? you know? you know? know?’
‘Why would I care?’ shouted the Doctor.
- Unnatural History, Kate Orman and Jon Blum
While Faction Paradox existed, there was no reason for him to do anything. Everything was negotiable. The child from their ranks had told him as much. His birthright, his culture, the things he’d defined himself against, were all variables now. He remembered his father, but he also remembered the loom, being twice born. He didn’t know which he remembered from life, and which from dreams.
He was sure they’d done something to him, his past, an alteration to who he was, to the very weave of his biodata. But he didn’t know what, or how he could even start to put things right again.
- Shadows of Avalon, Paul Cornell
#Doctor Who#Lungbarrow#LOOOOOOMS#Looms#Eighth Doctor Adventures#Lance Parkin#Kate Orman#Jon Blum#Marc Platt#Paul Cornell
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27th January >> Daily Reflection on Today’s Mass Readings for Roman Catholics on the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle C (Nehemiah 8:2-4a, 5-6, 8-10, Psalms 19:8, 9, 10, 15, 1 Corinthians 12:12-30 or 1 Corinthians 12:12-14, 27 & Luke 1:1-4; 4:14-21).
Lectionary: 69
Praying Ordinary Time
Weekly Guide for Daily Prayer
Parenting Our Adult Children
I took a different approach in reflecting on the readings for today. I had the opportunity to attend a silent retreat at The Cloisters on the Platte a few days before my reflection was due. I decided to risk my deadline and wait to write my reflection on today’s readings until after the retreat. It was a decision that was well worth making. Scripture and the Word of God are certainly featured in the Old Testament reading and today’s Gospel. Discernment and understanding one’s gift(s) in God’s plan certainly is the highlight of the passage from Corinthian’s. Some of today’s Epistle was even a part of our Morning Prayer on the third day of the retreat.
Over my life I’ve been exposed to and embraced Ignatian Spirituality. An undergraduate and graduate degree from Jesuit Universities; working at Creighton and taking advantage of as much spiritual development that I could; and sitting and listening to my Jesuit cousin priest in my youth into early adulthood, all have spiritually formed me through life. I thought I was prepared for the movements of the Spirit that would happen at the retreat. That was a bad assumption. I don’t know if it was maturing into the winter of my life, the contentment of retirement freeing me to listen openly, or just things happening in God’s time, not mine. Whatever the reason, there were multiple moments of clarity that jolted my inner soul during the retreat. The extended time in Lectio Divina; walking the Stations of the Cross and slowly meditating on every visual image of Christ and people in the scenes; being particularly struck by the Fourth Station when Jesus meets his mother, Mary, emotionally portrayed with their arms outstretched trying to touch each other; the idea that came from nowhere to pick up Butler’s Lives of the Saints as my primary reading material over the long weekend; the moments spent in Eucharist Adoration that so filled me with the presence of Christ that I could not hold back tears of joy. All of these encounters with God rocked my inner core.
So what does this have to do with today’s readings? The simple answer is from the Gospel – Scripture is fulfilled in Christ. He taught and continues to teach not only “whole regions” but the entire world today. So my hope for me and all is to continue to listen and be open to the spirit. We can easily get caught up in the noise of life: Work, family, political rancor or the latest Netflix original series. I must remember to put aside the worldly more and more each day and follow Christ. Perhaps not as well as those saintly men and women that I read about in the Lives of the Saints but in my own way. The goal is not to be read about in a book but to give glory to God and do His will with the help of the gift of grace. One of the reflections from the retreat poignantly reminded me of the path to strive for: “No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.” So, with the help of the Triune God, I will continue to look forward to the great spiritual journey.
by Joe Zaborowski
Creighton University's Director of Purchasing
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Cloisters on the Platte - June 2022
Cloisters on the Platte is a Jesuit monastery located near Gretna, Nebraska. The huge church and main building were not open to our particular tour, but they were not what most people come to see. What brings most people to the Cloisters is the magnificent portrayal of the Stations of the Cross as shown in bronze sculptures. I selected a few representative images from the hundreds I took that day.
MWM
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