#Joseph Macavoy

[woobienation]

The Intervention (1/2)

Summary: Belle leaves the country to study abroad, and Joseph drowns his heartbreak in whiskey. His family stages an intervention, and Joseph's domineering mother all but breathes fire when Belle attends. [Part 1 of 2]

Belle was asleep when the email arrived.

The phrase "NEED YOUR HELP" in the subject line and the unfamiliar sender address automatically routed it to the spam folder in her École Normale Supérieure de Lyon account.

Now because all of this mess (the almost overlooked email, the rebooked Air France flight home, the botched intervention, the angry tears and shouting, and the wreckage and redemption that followed) happened in the days before ubiquitous laptops in dorm rooms and smartphones tucked beneath pillowcases, Belle French rose, showered, dressed from her neatly packed suitcase, and left to turn in her final paper for LIF-4111: French and General Linguistics: Theories and Practices, completely unaware of the frantic, misspelled electronic message from Joseph’s oldest sister Mary.

Waiting for her in single-spaced, unadorned ASCII text, it read:

Subj: WE NEED YOUR HELP Date: 6/10/1999 9:10:05 Eastern Standard Time From: MaryChristi1978_aol.com To: [email protected] Belle, its mary. I’m so sorry i’ve been out of touch while you’ve been away at school but with the baby and everything i think you’ll understand. It’s joseph. He’s gotten really bad drinking like daddy does lately and they’re going to kick him out of seimnary unless we do something. Mama won’t help she thinks if she just ignores it everything will be okay (just like she does with daddy) but he’s no okay he hasn’t been okay since you left. We’re doing an intervention on him on Sunday june 13 at dinnertime 7pm with Father Matthew and we need you to be there if you canbe hom in time. I really really don’t think it will work without you. He talks about you when he's dunk. you have to come home. please/. Please please come. Mary

Belle doesn't see the email from Mary until after she bids a fond au revoir to her beloved academic advisor in the Department of Modern Languages at the université and enjoys a final midday meal of salmon en papillote at the stately and historic Brasserie Georges. (Here, her favorite waiter, Jean-Claude, offers her his most winning dimpled smile along with a jaunty “Bonne journée, Mademoiselle!” and a dry kiss upon the back of her hand. Belle offers him a gracious, pink-cheeked smile in return and a note upon her check: "Merci pour le plaisir.")

When she makes one final visit to the campus computer lab to clean out her university inbox before her evening flight home to the States, Belle almost overlooks the (1) beside her spam folder. Her attention is instead caught and held by an anticipated and characteristically exuberant message from her step-mother Goldi French (Subj: "We'll Be Seeing You SOON, "Word" Traveler! GET READY FOR SUNSHINE!!!!") and an enrollment confirmation for her final semester of literature courses at Middlebury College in Vermont. Her attention is also captured by (yes, still, even after these many, many months away from home studying abroad in France) the reawakened awful, aching disappointment of seeing absolutely nothing from her best friend and childhood neighbor, Joseph Macavoy. Not one word.

Not one single long-distance phone call.

Not the whole time she's been away.

These reminders of his absence from her life (and his apparent indifference to her absence from his) always make Belle's eyes burn and her throat constrict, as if sorrow were attempting to cauterize it shut. Blinking rapidly and swallowing painfully, she finally mouses over "Spam(1)" (although it is only because she is the type of meticulous young scholar who likes things tidy and sorted, and because everything is already folded, packed, and ready for departure in her empty dorm room, and because, after all, she has an hour of idle time before the taxi ride to the aéroport and her planned trip to the Florida Keys with her father Maurice and her stepmother Goldi. The unsettling contradiction between the mad rush to prepare for final exams and finish her end-of-term papers and this present void of things to do is what propels Belle's white cursor arrow to hover.

To pause.

To click.

To see.

Belle, its mary.

She reads Joseph's sister's email hungrily, straight through twice, her brow furrowed and her breath held. Color rises in her cheeks, and she leans closer to the boxy monitor screen.

He’s gotten really bad drinking like daddy does

Drinking? But that doesn't make a lick of sense!

Joseph hates alcohol. He always has, and Belle would be the best to know it because she has known him ever since before their school days, when all there was to do in the world was catch green katydids, build things out of sticks, dirt, and stones in the cool Vermont woods, and avoid the petty tyrannies of their respective families--his large and turbulent, hers small and smothering. Alcohol reminds Joseph of his father, Michael Macavoy, who always sits beached in that infernal sagging brown recliner chair, half-asleep, stomach swollen tight as a drum, lifting bottle after bottle of amber lager to his wet lips, his dark eyes glassy and bloodshot, his gray hair limp and uncombed, his fleshy cheeks flushed with drink. Alone, feared, and unloved.

Mr. Michael Macavoy would holler horrible, profane things at the family's small black and white television set, and also at his grim, contemptuous wife and his six young stair-step children, and sometimes even at tiny Belle, who looked out of place in the Macavoy's threadbare living room with her shiny shoes and tidy brown braids. And then Joseph would take her quickly by the hand and lead her out of the broken back screen door that never locked, letting it slam, down the dirt path, into the woods, far away from his rust-stained, double-wide manufactured home to whichever twiggy lean-to or teepee or tree fort was their favorite at the moment, saying, "C'mon, Belle. Let's start telling our story again. You start. You tell it best..."

they’re going to kick him out of seimnary unless we do something

Kick him out of seminary? Since when has Joseph--her Joseph--who never could keep a secret from her (or the confessional) to save his life, wanted to attend seminary and join the priesthood?

Yes, Joseph and Belle had both attended the same small, private Catholic school in Middlebury where itchy polyester plaid uniforms slightly obscured the differences between the 'haves' (Belle French) and the 'have-nots' (Joseph Macavoy and the five Macavoy sisters: Mary, Brigid, Therese, Agatha, and Hildegard, all on full scholarship), and, yes, he did believe in the saints and the Blessed Virgin and the Eucharist and the Holy Trinity just like she believes in the great virtues: Hope, Courage, Justice, and Love. But he had never wished to become a priest, never once whispered anything of the sort to her while they lay shoulder-to-shoulder on the decaying leaf floor of a tree fort, fingers entwined, telling their story, sharing secrets, staring up at the slivers of blue sky and sunlight through a sagging roof made of branches. When Belle left Middlebury College for a semester in France, Joseph was studying at the Community College of Vermont to become a school counselor. He wanted to help people, young people like himself with fathers who drank and yelled and mothers with pinched, sullen faces who hid the bottles and ignored the yelling and barked at the children, but he also wanted...

Belle stands up from her wheeled computer desk chair abruptly, knocking it backwards. It rolls to the center of the quiet room.

...but he had also wanted her.

She knows it, like she's always known and held tightly to the thread of 'their story'--inwardly, expertly, before it's even been told. Sometimes her plot twists appear like this, sudden, swift, like lightning in a summer sky, burned into the back of retinas, impossible to un-see. He's miserable. He's drinking. He wants her.

She reads through Mary's email one more time to be sure of the details. Sunday, June 13th. An evening intervention with the parish priest, Father Matthew. Mary wants her there. (It's likely Mama Macavoy would sooner see her in Hell, but Mama Macavoy thinks that's where everyone belongs save herself, so Mama Macavoy can well and truly stuff it. Belle isn't the least bit afraid of Joseph's watchful, dour mother, who glares at top buttons left undone and 'tarts' who wear 'face paint.') He talks about you when he's drunk.

There's still time to change her flight! Make it to Vermont by Sunday evening. Join the Macavoy family and Father Matthew at the crowded dinner table and tell Joseph that...

With a shaking hand, Belle bends over and closes her university email account, then jabs an unsteady finger to shut down the computer. Now she's grabbing her canvas satchel full of books off of the back of the chair in the center of the room and hurrying out of the quiet computer lab onto the sunburnt cobblestone streets of Lyon, back to her empty dorm room.

She's burning up to tell Joseph that she's angry at him.

Can you do that at an intervention?

Demand that somebody sit down and listen to how horribly, volcanically angry you are with them?

Belle begins the furious conversation in her head while charging down the street with her heavy satchel slapping against her hip, her sharp heels striking the uneven stones, faster and faster, around the corner, past the boulangerie, and up the steep concrete dorm stairs to where her suitcase and telephone are waiting.

"How dare you!" she thinks, breathing heavily.

"How dare you tell me right before I'm ready to embark on the biggest and most daring adventure of my life that you don't want me to go? And how dare you choose that moment, when there was literally no time left, right before Papa and Goldi brought the car around to drive me to the airport, that moment out of all of our thousands of moments together, to grab hold of me by the jacket sleeve, yank me towards you, wrap me tightly in your arms, and press your lips to my hair--when I had waited years for that kiss? Years of not knowing if you felt the same as I did. Years of not knowing if you were a saint or eunuch or, or, or--simply uninterested in the girl next door. And how dare you clutch me like that, whisper my name like that, breathe ragged breaths into my hair like that, and then startle away at the sound of Papa's car wheels on the gravel--then never write back, never come to the phone for my long distance calls, simply cease to exist. You ended our story! It feels as though you erased me, Joseph!"

Belle gains her dorm room door and struggles momentarily with the key and the doorknob. Inside, everything is as she left it.

"You erased me, Joseph! And I'll be damned if I let you obliterate yourself with drink before you explain yourself!"

She reaches for the corded telephone on her empty desk and stabs a finger at the buttons. The long distance number takes forever to punch in. Her father picks up on the third ring, clearing his throat: "French residence?"

"Papa!"

Belle explains everything once, in a jumble and impatiently, then asks for her stepmother Goldi to be put on the line when her father is too flustered and slow to take onboard the rapid change of plane tickets and plans that his daughter is requesting.

But Goldi is as good as her name: "Don't worry! I'll take care of everything, Bella-rina. Just get yourself to the airport before those red-eye flights take off and talk to the people at the ticket counter for your new tickets," her stepmother says, shushing Belle's father when he tries to interject. "I've been to an intervention or three in my younger years. Don't let your young man leave until you've had your say, dear, and whatever you do, don't let him lie to you. You know, I've always liked that Joseph. And I know he thinks the sun rises and sets with you. I really do think it should go well."

"I hope so, Goldi. And please tell Papa I'm sorry about our trip. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Don't apologize, Bella-rina! Get yourself to the airport and dry out your young man. Show him the stern stuff I know you're made of. And Belle, my darling..."

Belle has twisted the phone cord anxiously around her fingers, and now she slowly exhales and lets it unwind. "Yes, Goldi?"

"Forgive me, but I saw the two of you in the driveway before your flight to France. An old lady knows a thing or two about the 'look of love,' and I'd say he's in it. Deep, deep down in it. Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't climb into the backseat after you and demand to be allowed to follow you to France."

Belle blinks back tears, realizing that's exactly what she wishes Joseph had done. Instead, he'd begged her to stay.

"In any case, Belle, when a man looks at you that way, you've got a great deal of power over him. Don't be afraid of it! Use it for his happiness; use it for yours. Give him a direction to go in, a battle to fight for you, a heart to win, and he's halfway to healed. It's a life without hope of relief that drives men and women to the bottle. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, you are his hope and relief."

"But then why did he cut me off after I left?" Belle interjects loudly. Her voice is high and wobbly, and it embarrasses her, even though it's only Goldi, who loves her unconditionally. "Why hasn't he once spoken to me? Where has he been all these months?"

"That, my dear, is exactly what you need to fly home and find out."

#joseph macavoy #mama macavoy #spoiler: the intervention is sex #wn: woobies #wn: beauties

[notonlymice]

"haha what if I jokingly shipped them" + anyem/anyelle

#anyem #anyelle #anyem meme #ally craig x nicholas rush #hierophant x father joseph macavoy #(i know hiero/ives is a more obvious choice but both the tournament and operation: endgame have the same gory why-have-i-watched-it vibe #+ whatever feelings hiero had about religion = a match made in heaven lol) #belle french x barney thomson #lacey french x lachlan macaldonich #(these two would probably drink themselves to death though🙃) #alice shelly x hamish macbeth #tom monroe x phoebe macnamara #(though alice x tom and hamish x phoebe work too #since both tom and hamish are policemen and their plots allow supernatural assumptions x))

[beeeinyourbonnet]

Covetous | Chapter 1

Rating: E

Pairing: Macelle (Father MacAvoy x Belle) or Nostelle (Nosty x Belle), who is to say which

Summary: Father Joseph MacAvoy wakes up in a library across town with no idea of how he got there. When the kind librarian doesn't kick him out immediately, he considers that maybe there's more to life than alcohol.

Notes: I'm setting this as though The Tournament never took place and MacAvoy just contined on his downward spiral. Also, this fic was originally posted as a one-shot here but there are no notable differences. This will not have spoilers for The Tournament but it will have spoilers for Safe, kind of. Also, I'm sorry for my poor geography. Pretend anything geographic that doesn't make sense makes sense :') Also, this contains Nosty from Safe!

tws: alcoholism, homelessness. If I missed a warning, I'm so sorry--please let me know and I will add it ASAP!

----------------------

It was a new bar this time. Father MacAvoy had finally been kicked out of  his usual pub, so he’d had to find another one, one that didn’t know about his reputation. The only one he could find had been The Rabbit Hole, and he considered removing his collarino before walking in, but he was too unsteady to do anything near his neck. 

That was how he’d ended up kicked out at closing time with hazy memories of being told that every pub in Greenwich was locking its doors to him. He staggered along the streets, vomiting occasionally—sometimes even into bins—until he had to stop and sag against a wall. Was the church even in this direction? 

Didn’t matter. He’d either make it home or die on the way, and at this point, he didn’t care which. 

****

The floor he woke up on was hard, but it didn’t feel like concrete. Had he made it back to the church? No, because the light he could see through his eyelids felt florescent, and there was no florescent lighting there. 

He curled up, bringing his knees to his chest, and tried to press his face closer to the floor. When he heard the click-click of footsteps, though, he lifted his head, prying his eyelids open.

Flooded with light, his head felt raw and tender, and he pressed his hands over his eyes with a mousy whimper he hadn’t intended to make. There was a sigh, and then more click-steps, and then silence until the light was gone. Hesitant, he opened his eyes again, and it was dark enough that he could look around. 

The first thing he saw was a bookshelf, and when the dizziness faded and he could move his eyes again, he saw more bookshelves. The dividers between sections told him this was a library, not a shop. The only library he ever went to was in the church, and he wasn’t even sure where this library could have been. The only places he went were people’s homes, the grocery, and the pub. 

A pair of legs wandered into view, and he almost choked on his tongue. Did it count as lust if the legs surprised him? 

“Are you awake?” a voice said, and he curled up. Why did she have to shout? “I’ll get you some water, then. I don’t know if you saw, but there’s a bin by your head, just in case.” 

He made a noise, and the legs disappeared in a series of clicks that reverberated around his skull. There was no vomit around him, so at least that hadn’t been the reason she’d left the bin—unless it was somewhere behind him. He could have been anywhere in the library. 

He couldn’t lie here forever. It was only a matter of time until the librarian kicked him out like all of the diners did, or called the police to carry him out. Maybe if he spent the afternoon sobering up in a jail cell, he’d stop drinking.

Ha. Fat chance of that. 

With a groan, he wriggled across the floor like a snake that hadn’t yet digested its last meal. When his forehead touched the bookshelf, he stopped to start the long process of heaving himself into a sit. By the time the legs got back, he was hunched over with his back pressed to the books and his arm around the bin. 

“You’re sitting up. Good.” 

He tried to nod, but his head was too heavy to move, so he grunted. Above the legs was a red and white dress that came to a rest at the knee, cinched around a curvy waist. If he tilted his head just a bit, he could see a face, too, but it was too pretty and twisted in disappointment, so he focused on her knees. 

“Here. Drink some water.” She knelt, and his stomach lurched, but he reached a quaking hand toward the cup she held anyway. 

“Thank you,” he managed before pressing the cup to his dry lips. His throat wanted him to chug, but his stomach did not, so he tried to half-gulp, tongue lapping against the water like a dog. When he drained the whole cup, he started to throw it away, but cool hands stopped him. 

“Do you want more?” she asked. 

He wanted to lie, to deny the fact that he was both intruding in her space and taking advantage of her hospitality, but he was too thirsty. “Yes. Please.” 

****

By the time she returned, he was retching into the bin, so she left the water glass and disappeared. It must have been almost time for the library to open, though even if there had been a clock near him, he wouldn’t have been able to focus on it. 

He hung over the bin, clutching it to his chest like a lover, but he was mostly just dry heaving by the time she came back with a plate of toast. 

“Eat,” she said when he tried to wiggle away, sounding like a long-ago memory of nuns during Sunday school.

“Oh, no, I—you’ve been too kind already.” 

“Then don’t think of it as kindness,” she said, setting the plate down next to him. “Eat so that you don’t throw up all over my floor.” 

She produced a paper towel from behind her, and started mopping off his mouth. He wasn’t so scummy as to let a strange librarian wipe off his sick, and he gripped the paper towel to do it for her. 

“Your hands are shaking,” she said, leaning back onto her heels. The thought of even trying to balance like that made his throbbing head ache more. 

“Just need a little pick me up,” he said, folding the towel up when he was finished with it. 

“Unfortunately, this is a library, and we are fresh out of alcohol, so you’ll have to settle for water.”

She looked at him, face set in a hard line, and he swallowed. Water it was, then. 

****

He laid on the floor, legs propped against the wall, and drank water half upside-down. The librarian said this would help his headache, and it was making his stomach feel a little better too. 

“Thank you,” he said, blinking up at her. At this angle, he should have had to work hard not to look up her skirt, but the thick fabric blocked his view every time. Maybe this was God easing up on punishing him for the drink by not making him exert effort to preserve this woman’s modesty. 

“Are you feeling up to standing yet? Maybe making it to a chair?” she asked. “The library was supposed to open half an hour ago.” 

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, and then his stomach lurched. His stupid mouth—he should have died last night. “I’ll get out—if I could just take some water?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll never make it far. I just want to move you to my office.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that. Instead of speaking, he thanked God for guiding him to collapse in the library where there was a sympathetic miracle, and started to shift to his feet.

****

Her office was cluttered and the chairs were uncomfortable, but it was quiet and softly lit, and anything was better than the dirty floor. He nibbled on toast and sipped water while she opened the library up, grateful that he wouldn’t have to sit in some diner with the knowledge that he couldn’t pay for anything they served him. 

There were books all over the tiny room—and not library books, either, but books that he was sure belonged just to the librarian. Why she needed a second room of them just for her was beyond him, but then, so were most intellectual endeavors right now.  

He was starting to feel like he might be able to leave soon as long as he could look at a map first and figure out how to get back to the church from here. A taxi would be nice, but he couldn’t pay for one, so a bus would have to do. 

The librarian popped her head in, and he almost up-ended his water cup in surprise. “How are you feeling, Father?” 

“Better. Good enough to go home, I think.” It wasn’t lying if he didn’t pretend to be positive about it. 

“Do you work at St. Rita’s?” She jerked her thumb toward the side wall, indicating that it must have been near, and in that direction.

Had he really made it all the way to St. Rita’s? How had he gotten this turned around? “No—St. Joseph’s.” 

The woman snorted, and his instinct was to bow his head and make himself look smaller. “I don’t think you can make it yet, Father. I don’t want you dying on the way. You can stay here all afternoon, I don’t mind.” 

He took a bite of toast, too overcome in his hung over state to speak. God had sent him a blessing—or guided him to a blessing, really—and he couldn’t even string two words together. He was a joke. 

****

“My name is Belle,” she said, popping her head in. “Do you need anything other than toast?” 

Belle was a pretty name. He should probably say something in response to her, instead of staring in disbelief at the fact that pretty Belle the librarian was offering him things other than toast. He was lucky if he was offered use of a free water fountain usually. 

“Uh—MacAvoy. Father Joseph MacAvoy.” 

“Father Joseph and St. Joseph’s?” She chuckled to herself, then shook her head. “Sorry, you probably get that all the time.” 

“It was one of the reasons I picked it, actually,” he said, feeling his stomach lurch with the extra talking. “Couldn’t make a decision, so I figured it was a sign.” 

“Seems as good a reason as any.” She walked around the desk and took a seat in the swivel-chair, big and plush enough to dwarf her tiny frame. “Do you live on this side of the city?” 

He shook his head, then squeezed his eyes shut when he grew to regret the action. “I don’t really know how I got here.” 

She made a noise, and he wasn’t sure if it was disapproval or sympathy. Disapproval was more likely, but at least she wasn’t looking at him like the waitresses did at all his usual diners. 

“Do you usually drink like this?” 

He could have lied. The thought fluttered across his mind, but the thought of lying made him anxious—he wasn’t particularly good at it. She would know. “Yes.”

“Why?” 

He finished his toast, and took a tiny sip of water. Maybe a confession would be good for his soul—a confession not bleated to the middle of his bathroom with his head in the toilet. “I don’t know. It’s easier than dealing with my failures, I guess.” 

“What failures?” 

He looked down at his water cup, and gave a mirthless chuckle. “I’ve let my church fall into disrepair. No one comes to mass anymore. I don’t even hold mass anymore. I drink too much. I have no money. I wind up in places across town that I didn’t even know existed.” He shook his head, slowly this time. “I’m worthless.” 

Belle stood up, and he wanted to sink into his chair. She was going to insist that he leave now, that he take his sorry arse out of her library and go muck up some other building. 

Instead, she stopped behind him and ruffled his hair as if he were a young boy who’d done something precious. “You’re not worthless. You’re just a little lost.”

‘A little lost’ was an understatement, but MacAvoy didn’t protest, just closed his eyes and leaned against her hand. It had been so long since someone had handled him without being rough and even longer since someone had touched his hair. 

“I’ll be back in a bit, okay? I have to go set up a reading room for a school visit. There’s more bread in the cupboard, and I think there might be some jam in the fridge.” 

“Okay,” he said, stomach sinking at the thought of her leaving. He never wanted her hand removed from his head. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem.” 

****

It should have been a problem. There was a lavatory connected to Belle’s office, and five minutes after she left saw him curled around her toilet, heaving up the toast he’d just finished. He needed more whiskey, but the bottle he kept in his jacket had disappeared. He suspected that it had had help. 

When he was certain that he had nothing left in him to lose, he flushed the toilet and went to rinse his mouth, wobbling on sweat-slicked legs. Maybe he would die here in this library. It wasn’t ideal, but at least it wasn’t an alleyway. 

“Father?” Belle’s voice was followed by two short raps on the door. “Are you all right?” 

“I am now,” he muttered, glaring at himself in the mirror. He looked gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes and ghostly cheeks. “I think that was the worst of it.” 

“I have some mouthwash in the lower cupboard, and paper cups as well. You’re welcome to use it.” 

“Thanks.” He lowered himself inch by inch until he was eye-level with the door, then opened it. Inside was all manner of things—toilet rolls, tissue boxes, jugs of soap to refill the dispensers, a first aid kit. He retrieved the mouth wash with shaking hands, then a paper cup, and his stomach lurched at the idea of harsh mint. 

He managed to swish it around in his mouth for fifteen of the suggested thirty seconds, spitting it out when he felt a gag coming up. When he finally stumbled back into Belle’s office, she was sitting in her chair with a bottle of cleaner.

“Do you want to shower?” she asked, and he almost fell back into the lavatory. 

“What?”

“There’s a shower in that far stall. You’re welcome to use whatever soap and shampoo is in there.” 

It would be nice to be clean, but all of his clothes would still be grimy. Maybe he should just wash them in the shower too. Maybe he should stay in Belle’s shower for the rest of his meager, pitiful life. 

“Sure. Thanks.” 

“I’ll spray your clothes.” She held up the cleaner. “It’s not a wash, but it’s better than nothing. It’ll disinfect, at least.” 

“Thank you.” He wobbled back toward the bathroom, but paused in the doorway. ‘Thank you’ felt so inadequate. 

“It’s amazing, what you’re doing,” he said, trying to draw on the ability to talk that had gotten him into the priesthood. “Not many people would do this.” 

Belle flushed, shaking her head like he’d just told her she had toilet roll stuck to her skirt. “Anyone would. It’s the right thing.” 

He smiled. It was nice knowing there were people who thought that way without having taken any vows. 

****

The shower helped more than anything, and instead of putting on his clothes, he let Belle spray them and hang them outside while he walked around wrapped in a clean towel. It was nice to be clean. 

He made himself another piece of toast and curled back up in the chair. There had been men’s shampoo in the shower, much nicer than the generic that he usually bought for himself. Did that mean there was a man who worked in the library? Someone who shared a shower with Belle? 

Unbidden, the image of Belle sharing a shower with a faceless man—who, from the back, looked a lot like Hugh Grant—sprung to his mind, and he flushed, fumbling to cross himself. He shouldn’t be thinking of anyone like that, much less his savior. Besides, Belle didn’t seem like the type of person to just share showers with her coworkers. 

Maybe she was married. He hadn’t thought to check her hands for a ring, but it would make sense. She was beautiful and kind, with the kind of fluttering eyelashes that could drive a man to buying expensive jewelry and making eternal vows. He would have to look at her hands. 

And maybe ask for coffee. His head was starting to beg for it. 

****

Apparently, there was a coffee carafe in the library, and Belle brought him a cup as soon as he mentioned it. He wanted to be more self-sufficient, but she didn’t want a man in a towel wandering around her library, and truthfully, he didn’t want to wander around. 

Belle didn’t seem to mind taking care of him anyway. It was good for her soul, he reasoned, and it was doing wonders for his as well. 

She wasn’t wearing any rings, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t in a relationship. Maybe she was planning on getting engaged. Maybe he could officiate at the wedding, waive the church-renting fee in repayment of her kindness. 

That’s what he would do. He would get his act together—maybe Belle would allow him to see her once a week or so for a chat—and then the church would understand having to do this. It was perfect. 

****

“Belle,” he said the next time she sat down. His coffee cup was empty and his body ached all over, but he thought he might have been done throwing up.

“Hmm?” She was turned to her computer, probably pulling up a web catalogue or something. 

“I want to thank you, for all of this.” He gestured around, and she looked up from her screen with a frown.

“You did. Several times. And you’re welcome—it’s no trouble at all, really.” 

“I see that—you’re not married,” he began, wishing he had the wood of confession between them so that he would not have seen her startled jump and hurried glance at her ring finger. 

“No, I am very single. Sometimes people think I’m engaged to the library, though.”

A tingly feeling spread along his spine at that confession, but he ignored it. “Well, I can’t officiate at that wedding.” 

“Pardon?” She tilted her head at him. 

This conversation would probably have gone a lot more smoothly had he not been wrapped in a towel. He swallowed, fiddling with the edge of it. 

“That’s really the only thing I can offer you in return. If you wanted to get married in my church, we could do it for free.”

Her smile lit up the whole room, and the knot in his chest eased a little. She didn’t think he was creepy for talking about her future marriage—although a stupid part of him had hoped she might look a little scandalized at the thought of a relationship. 

“That’s very thoughtful of you, but even if I was getting married, I couldn’t accept.” 

He frowned, forehead creasing. “Why not?” Was his kindness less acceptable than hers? 

“I’m not Catholic.” 

There was silence, and then a strange buzzing filled his head. He had not factored this into his thought process. “What?” 

“I’m not Catholic. I’m Protestant.” 

Protestant? He had not foreseen this. 

****

The door slammed open, and MacAvoy jumped, clutching at his towel before it could slip away from his thighs. Was Belle angry now? He turned, but instead of Belle, there was a wild man in a kilt stomping toward the mini-fridge. 

He should say something. Would Belle want a thug who smelled like stale mud rummaging through her things? 

The man whipped around and hunched his shoulders, like a tiger about to pounce, and his bright-eyed gaze froze MacAvoy to his chair. His upper lip lifted in a snarl, and he flipped the mustard jar in his hand as though he meant to stab him with it.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” He threw his shoulders back, swaggering closer like he owned every inch of space around him. MacAvoy could only stare, wishing he was dressed and maybe a little bit drunk to stop his shaking.

“Oi, where are your manners? I asked you a fucking question.” He slapped the mustard onto the desk before grabbing MacAvoy’s chin and yanking his head forward. 

“I—I—” He just wanted to cross himself, but he couldn’t move, and all he could think was please, please, please, please, please. 

“What, are you stupid and naked?” 

“Please,” he wheezed, shaking like a wet dog. “Please don’t hurt me.” 

He tugged harder on his chin, and MacAvoy gulped. “I’ll consider it. Who are you, and what the fuck are you doing in Belle’s office?” 

“F-Father MacAvoy.” He swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob along his taut throat. 

“A priest, eh? Forsaking your vows for some carnal pleasures?” 

MacAvoy blushed from the roots of his hair to the backs of his knees. “N-no! I passed out a-and Belle found me! That’s—that’s all. I swear.” 

The man tilted his face to the left and then the right, making his eyes water with pain, but then dropped him and backed off. MacAvoy all but melted back into his chair, wishing he could disappear. 

“So a disgraced priest, then?” He picked up the mustard and went back to the fridge. 

“Yes.” The admission hurt, but it was overshadowed by his relief at still having a head, and as soon as he could move his hands again, he rubbed at his throat. “But I’d like to try again.” 

“It’ll never work. You’ll have to change cities. Once everyone knows you’re a fuck-up failure, everyone expects it of you.” 

MacAvoy swallowed, watching the man pull out sliced cheese and ham. “That’s not true,” he said, though there were about fifteen pubs that would contradict him. 

“It is, and the faster you learn that, the better you’ll survive. Take it from me.” 

“And who are you?” He tried to ask gently, so that the man would know he was genuinely curious and not trying to slight him.

He whirled around, kilt belling out in a flash of tartan, and then sank into a bow. “Nosty, at your service.” 

MacAvoy was glad that he was no longer looking like he meant to take a fatal bite out of his neck, but he was still wary. The smile he tried came out as more of a grimace. “It’s very nice to meet you, Nosty.” 

“Oi, don’t fucking lie to me, priest. You don’t want God to smite you.” 

MacAvoy swallowed. It wasn’t a lie, not completely—Nosty seemed like the sort of person he could help, and he wanted to be drawn to help people. On the other hand, Nosty also seemed like the sort of man to bite the hand that feeds him. 

“Here.” Nosty bounded over, sandwich in one hand, and bottle of something red and a spoon in the other. “You’re hung over?”  

“Uh—aye. A bit, yeah.” ‘A bit’ was an understatement. 

“Try this.” He held the sandwich between his teeth, and then poured a measure of the red bottle’s contents into the spoon. 

MacAvoy reached a shaking hand out for it, too terrified to disobey, but even more terrified to actually put it in his mouth. “What is it?” 

“Hot sauce. Eat it, it’ll help.” 

It didn’t occur to MacAvoy that he might have been pulling his leg until the spoon was up against his lips and it was too late to not ingest any. With a quick prayer, he slurped down the spoon’s contents. 

For a few seconds, all was quiet. Then, a fire flared in his throat and he wheezed. 

“Oh, fuck.” He gasped for breath, clawing at his throat like that would somehow relieve the burn. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

He coughed, and Nosty thumped him on the back. 

“Just ride it out, Father,” he said, words thick through his lunch. “It’ll be over soon.” 

“Water! Please!” 

“Jesus, for a man whose supposed to be smart, you sure are fucking stupid. Water won’t help.” 

He let out an incoherent whimper that was meant to be another ‘fuck,’ and groped at the air like he could use it to smother the flames in his mouth. Then, the door opened, and Nosty was standing to block him from it before he could even see the swish of Belle’s skirt. 

“Nosty!” 

The delight in Belle’s soft voice froze the fire in MacAvoy’s throat. Belle liked this hellion—she liked him enough that she was happy to see him terrorizing her office. It made his stomach as hot as the rest of him. 

“Hey.” Nosty spread his legs, bony backside in MacAvoy’s face, and crossed his arms. “I see you took in another stray. You turning this into an animal shelter?”

“Neither of you are animals.” She started towards them, stepping around Nosty to see MacAvoy, curled into the chair with red-rimmed eyes and pasty lips. She lurched forward, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Father, are you all right?” 

“Fine,” he wheezed, just proud enough not to tattle on Nosty. 

She stroked his hair back, and then her eyes fell on the bottle of hot sauce. “Nosty, what did you do?” 

“Just trying to cure his hangover, sweetheart.” 

MacAvoy closed his eyes, clutching at his towel, and focused on the feeling of Belle’s hand on his head. He did not want to be in the middle of this anymore. 

****

Belle peeked into the empty office half an hour or so later. MacAvoy had been napping, but it was hard to doze for long when he was naked in a tiny chair, so the sound of the door opening woke him. 

“Sorry,” she said, raising a black bundle in her hand. “Your clothes smell a lot better now, if you want to get dressed.” 

“Thank you.” He accepted the bundle, warm from the sunshine. 

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. If you want to stay until closing, I’ll drive you to the church.” 

He shook his head, swallowing the bile. “You’ve already done too much for me.” 

“Father.” She leaned against the door, arms folded. “You, of all people, should know how to accept kindness. Let me drive you.” 

He swallowed. She was right—it was his job to teach people to be as kind as Belle, and here he was, not even letting her do what she wanted. “Okay. Thank you.” 

“Great.” She pushed herself off the door.

“Wait, Belle!” 

He hadn’t thought this through, and wasn’t prepared for her to return her attention to him, one eyebrow arched in question. 

“Hmm?” 

“Can I see you again?” 

He was unaccustomed to being smiled at, but Belle was looking like he’d just proposed. He could almost imagine her saying his name the way she’d said Nosty’s—he would gladly be one of her strays, if it meant they could spend time together. 

“Of course. Maybe I’ll even come to you next time.” 

****

It was time to venture out into the library. MacAvoy was dressed, collar in place to dissuade any aggression on Nosty’s part, and he was feeling like he either needed a drink or some air. Since there was no liquor, air would have to do, and the quiet library was the perfect place for his still-sensitive head. 

He wandered around with the care of someone who feared breaking his own legs, shuffling between bookshelves with no direction in mind. Maybe he would find Belle and listen to her talk about the library. 

A wisp of red between two shelves caught his eye, and he was certain that it was Belle’s dress. He shuffled around to the aisle, mouth open in anticipation of a greeting.

When he saw her, he froze. Mouth still open, he could only stare at Belle pressed against the shelves, pinned there by Nosty’s knobby knees. MacAvoy’s first thought was that Nosty was a heathen, forcing himself on Belle—he needed to save her, to protect her. But even someone as inexperienced as MacAvoy couldn’t ignore the way Belle’s hands curled around Nosty’s leather-clad elbows or the possessive tenderness with which Nosty cupped her cheek as he pressed soft kisses into her berry-red lips.

[chapter 2]

#anyelle #macelle #nostelle #new update #covetous #anyelle fic

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Déjà Vu

Summary: Macelle. Exploring the churchyard of the small town she has just moved to, Belle finds a statue with an uncanny resemblance, and she starts to wonder if perhaps she has been here before, and if she knew the church’s priest in a former life...

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling December moodboard prompt, available here. 

Rated: G

Note: Ealasaid is an old Scottish name from the same root form as Belle.

Déjà Vu

The statue wasn’t frightening as such, no more frightening than any old statue standing alone in a churchyard was, but there was something about it that Belle found distinctly unnerving, nonetheless. 

It was likely something to do with the fact that looking at the statue was like looking into a mirror. A weather-worn and lichen-covered mirror, certainly, but a mirror all the same. She recognised the face in the statue as her own, and she really wasn’t sure what to do with this new discovery.

She was so intent on staring down her stone doppelgänger that she didn’t notice the church door opening and the priest coming out and walking down the path towards the statue until he was right beside her, and she jumped out of her skin when he spoke.

“The mystery angel.”

“Pardon?”

“The mystery angel.” The priest nodded towards the statue. “It’s the town’s only claim to fame. No one knows the origins. It’s as if one day it was just here, with no record of how it arrived. No one commissioned it; no one paid for it. No one even saw it being put up. An unsolved mystery.”

This explanation of the statue’s background, or lack of it, did nothing to quell the growing feeling of unease in the pit of Belle’s stomach.

“There are old stories, of course,” the priest continued. “There always are. Some say that the priest who served here a couple of hundred years ago was visited by an angel and fell in love with her, and she with him. She couldn’t stay with him, not whilst he was mortal and she was a heavenly celestial, and although it broke both their hearts, she had to leave him. She left the statue as a reminder, and an anchor to draw her back to her love once she’d found a mortal form.”

Belle smiled. Although the story was a sad one, it lifted a lot of the creepiness away from the statue.

“Did she return in mortal form?” she asked. 

“Some say she did. Others say she didn’t.”

“What do you think?”

The priest looked at the statue for a long time. “I don’t think she did. Or at least… I don’t think she has done yet. Finding a mortal form might take a while.”

“I’m Belle, by the way. I’ve only just moved here.” She turned to face the priest fully at last, holding out a hand.

“Father Macavoy…” He trailed off, hand still frozen in hers as he got his first proper look at her face, mirrored in the statue beside them.

“Yeah.” Belle hoped she sounded apologetic. “That was pretty much my reaction when I saw it too.”

“I…” Father Macavoy regained his composure and shook her hand firmly. “Welcome to the neighbourhood, Belle. And, you know, it’s all just a load of old stories. There’s probably a perfectly innocent explanation for it all. Like someone losing the church records somewhere along the line.”

Belle smiled, but at the same time, she knew that Macavoy was about as convinced by his own words as she was. 

He turned to go back into the church, and Belle fell to studying the statue again, but as he walked back up the path, she could see him sneaking astonished glances at her back over his shoulder. She tried to look like she wasn’t watching him walk away. 

There was something in his face that seemed familiar. It hadn’t at first, but now, thinking about him and his expression of wonder when he had seen her… 

Belle shook away the feeling and turned away, leaving the churchyard. She was determined not to go back to it for a long time. 

She tried to put it to the back of her mind, but her train of thought kept leading her to things that she also wanted to put to the back of her mind.

Why did Macavoy seem familiar? Why had she come to this town in the first place? What was it that had drawn her here? At first she’d thought that it was just because this was a quaint little place in the middle of nowhere and she’d get along nicely here writing her book. 

Now she wasn’t so sure. Why here over all the other quaint little places she could have chosen? What had drawn her to the churchyard as soon as she had arrived – before she had even finished her unpacking from the move? 

Something had made her go and find her statue.

Belle shook her head crossly. It wasn’t her statue, although there was definitely an uncanny resemblance. It was the church’s statue. It just happened to look like her. Honestly, the thing was covered in moss anyway, it probably hadn’t looked anything like her when it had first been carved. And after all, it was extremely presumptuous and self-important to think that she could have been an angel in a previous life. An angel would probably remember that they had been an angel.

Not if they were mortal now, a helpful voice in the back of her mind pointed out. Normal mortal people don’t believe in past lives and certainly can’t remember them.

Belle sighed. Her mother had been one of the most sensible people she’d ever known, but even Colette French, with her head squarely on her shoulders, had a superstitious and spiritual side to her. Déjà vu, she always said, was a sign of your past lives getting confused. 

And Belle had been suffering odd flashes of déjà vu ever since she’d arrived in the town. 

Could she really have been here before in a previous existence? Could she really have been an angel who fell in love with a priest and promised to return to him? 

And the priest… No, Macavoy could not have been him. The statue had been there for hundreds of years, after all. 

He still seemed very familiar.

X

Logically, Belle knew that she was dreaming. She knew that she could probably wake herself up if she wanted, but this wasn’t a nightmare that she wanted to get out of. It was weird, yes, but she wanted to see where it went. 

She was in the churchyard. 

Joseph… My Joseph… Where are you? I’ve come back for you, like I promised I would… I’m sorry it took so long… I never realised just how fragile mortals are… Did you wait for me, Joseph?

She passed by the statue without giving it a second glance, moving into the church itself. 

Belle knew that she had not been inside the church, and yet, when she stepped inside, she somehow knew that she was looking at the correct interior, not simply something out of her imagination. If she woke up and went into the church in the morning, she knew that it would look exactly like this. 

Maybe if she was awake, that thought would scare her, but as it was, she just let it wash over her. She had more important things to do. 

Joseph? Joseph? Are you here? I’m sorry it took me so long, my love… Joseph?

The church was empty, and Belle felt herself beginning to panic in the dream. Something was wrong. Where was Joseph? Who was Joseph? 

She left the church. She was moving at run now, slipping in among the graves in the darkness. She was looking for something, dreading finding it but needing to see it anyway.

Joseph! Joseph! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to have to wait so long!

Belle stopped in front of the stone. How did she know it was the right one?

Two hundred years… Oh, Joseph!

The emotional turmoil was scary now, and Belle found herself wanting to wake up. She closed her eyes in the dream. It was a technique she’d used before when she’d had nightmares in this lucid dream state where she knew she was dreaming. Close her eyes in the dream, and when she opened them, she’d have opened them in real life and be safe in her own bed.

“Belle?”

She felt a touch on her shoulder, and she recognised Father Macavoy’s voice. She turned, but it was too late. 

She opened her eyes on her on bedroom ceiling, and sat up, feeling cold sweat dripping down her back. 

Something was definitely going on, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it, no matter that it was the middle of the night. 

Belle got out of bed and threw her clothes on, grabbing a flashlight and setting out of her cottage along the long lane that led up to the churchyard. She ignored the angel statue, heading straight for the headstone that she’d seen in her dream that had caused her so much distress. 

Joseph Macavoy, 1772 - 1820, Father of this church…

Belle didn’t know why she was crying. Crying for a lost love that she sort of half-remembered from a dream, a memory of another life…

Joseph

She felt a soft touch on her shoulder, and someone said her name. 

Her name that wasn’t Belle. 

“Ealasaid?”

The voice was barely more than a breath, and Belle recognised it. She recognised her name. It had taken her a long time to find a mortal form with a mortal name, but she remembered her other one. 

And so did someone else.

She turned and saw Father Macavoy behind her. He looked as dishevelled as she no doubt looked, as if he’d had exactly the same thought as she’d done: waking from a far too real dream, needing to come to the churchyard to see the reality of it for himself. She wiped her eyes.

“Relative of yours?” 

Macavoy nodded. “Distant uncle many times removed. I think. Everyone said it was fate when I ended up taking this church, but I think it was more than that… Ealasaid…”

“Joseph…”

They had never kissed before, not the first time she had visited this earth. The sheer force of her celestial will would have killed him. 

But she was celestial no longer. She was mortal like he was, and his lips were soft against hers, and his mouth tasted of toothpaste, and she wanted to stay in his arms forever. 

It had taken her a while, but she had finally returned, reborn into a mortal form. And here was her Joseph, reborn into another mortal form and waiting for her like she had asked him to, like he had promised to do. 

Her statue had guided her home in the end. 

#A Monthly Rumbelling #anyelle #anyelle fic #macelle #Belle French #Joseph Macavoy #Fic: Déjà Vu

[shiftingmuse]

Like for a starter with a random muse?

#starter call #starter call: #starters #open RP #Open roleplay #open #multiverse #multiple muses #robert carlyle #Durza #Eragon #Don Harris #danny devine #father macavoy #joseph macavoy #Francis Begbie #francis ives #Franco Begbie #felix desouza #Lachlan MacAldonich #Rumpelstiltskin #Mr. Gold #Dr. Nicholas Rush #william plunkett

[nothingeverlost]

People who should meet: Joseph MacAvoy (The Tournament) and The Preist (Fleabag)

#andrew scott #robert carlyle #the tournament #fleabag #joseph macavoy #so much drinking #and really interesting theological discussions #especially on the nature of sin and forgiveness #and desire and sex #people who should meet

[januarywren]

I finally have time to start my fanfic recommendation list! This is something that I’ve been dying to do for awhile, especially when most people are still in quarantine/social distancing. 

“Gently at Twilight” by Bad_Faery is a Once Upon a Time crossover with The Tournament. Regardless of whether you know either of the series, it truly stands out as a romance story, all on its own. 😘❤

There’s Belle, the sweet, stay at home worker who moves into a haunted cottage and her beloved cat who can see the recently departed Joseph MacAvoy. Unable to move on, Joseph soon falls in love with Belle...

And it’s so, so very sweet, and as realistic as it can be. With only a smidgeon of angst, and relatively little religious implications about the afterlife (no matter what you believe), it’s truly a wonderful story, and will make your heart melt!

I fell in utter love with the story when I read it, and Bad_Faery has other works too, all of them worth a read. ❤❤

#wren's fic recs #gently at twilight #bad_faery #once upon a time #the tournament #joseph macavoy #belle (once upon a time) #once upon a time fanfics #ghostly romance #fluffy fanfic #romance #must read #archive of our own #ao3

[xiolaperry]

So I finally got around to watching “The Tournament” because of, well, this guy. Not my favorite movie or anything, but I did love Robert Carlyle in it. But the best thing is the amazing Macelle stories that I’ve gotten to read by @bad-faery. I just finished “Gently at Twilight” and it was SO good. Seriously, go to her masterlist & check it out.

#the tournament #robert carlyle #fic rec #bad-faery #macelle #joseph macavoy

[rs-pystick]

Little priest

#father macavoy #joseph macavoy #The Tournament #fanart

[woodelf68]

Macelle/Anyelle Rec List

Rushbelle has its own list here. 

MACELLE:

And Again by @bad-faery -- The fic that launched a ship, gave Father MacAvoy a first name, and spawned Nick the Incorporeal Creeper (NTIC). After losing both Rumpelstiltskin to death and Nicholas Rush to Ascension, Belle Gold is unprepared for the shock of meeting yet another look-a-like, an alcoholic priest struggling with his faith and sense of self-worth who wonders if Belle is an angel sent down from Heaven to save him. It’s not long before he begins struggling with Feelings of a most unpriestlike nature. (plus heaps of other fics in this ‘verse beneath the main fic here)

Gently at Twilight by @bad-faery - Joseph MacAvoy finds himself as a ghost haunting his childhood home after falling victim to the Tournament. The afterlife proves very enjoyable, however, when Belle French and her cat Goldie move in.

Someone to Watch Over Me by bad-faery -- angel!Joseph

Echoes of Mercy, Whispers of Love by bad-faery -- angel!Belle. Also Fallen Feathers and The Valley of the Shadow

A Prayer to the Wild (beast!Joseph) and A Wild Prayer (beast!Belle)  by bad-faery

Healing Touches by bad-faery -- Hit by drug-tipped darts during the tournament, Belle and Joseph find skin-to-skin contact is the only way to ease the pain. 

Hot Night and Cold Water by bad-faery -- Father Joseph runs into Sister Belle one hot night. Desperate wanking ensues. Also It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

You might as well just work your way through bad-faery’s Macelle masterlist, really. I can’t list everything. 

What You Wish For by @dreams-love-magic: In which Joseph is transformed into a dog. Aka DogAvoy!

Not Today by @ishtarelishiba -- Joseph MacAvoy and angel of death!Belle    

The Lips, the Teeth, the Tip of the Tongue by @justrumbelledearie -- seminary student Joseph and life drawing model Belle

Fall On Your Knees by @thescholarlystrumpet -- Belle walks in on Joseph giving himself a handjob and takes it to the next level. An entry in the Great Rumbelle BlowOff. 

Adrift by @thestraggletag -- Joseph and finamaid!Belle

The Darkness Within by @worryinglyinnocent -- when paranormal investigator Gold gets drawn into Belle French’s life, he enlists the help of his old friend, former priest Joseph MacAvoy, to banish the entity possessing her -- one which has a link to Gold himself. 

At His Service by @woodelf68 -- Set in the And Again ‘verse. More blowjobs for Joseph.

LACHELLE: (Lachlan MacAldonich/Belle)

I Will Stand By You by @passionsanddevotions 

Beast!Lachlan  by passionsanddevotions 

Cock ring prompt by @dreams-love-magic 

BELLISH: (Hamish Macbeth/Belle)  

The Offering by @thestraggletag -- Hamish MacBeth must appease the Cailleach

Àillte by @lotus0kid -- Hamish meets faun!Belle, who is still mourning the loss of her human lover after centuries, a spinner who stole a book of dark magic from her library in the forest of the fae in an effort to save his young son from war.  

SHAUNACEY: (Shaun from Summer/Lacey)

Summer Job by @beastlycheese -- crossover with Rumbelle/OUAT

#macelle #anyelle #lachelle #bellish #joseph macavoy #Read this! #rec lists #fic recs

[notonlymice]

Macacey moodboard

#macacey #lacey french x father joseph macavoy #sorry not sorry vaguely inspired by a scene from “a lover scorned”🙃 #anyelle #anyem #my anyem/anyelle things #not only mice but also moodboards #my things #not sure it needs a label but just in case

[beeeinyourbonnet]

Covetous | Chapter 4

Rating: E (I changed it for the whole fic, it is not specific to this chapter)

Pairing: Macelle (Father MacAvoy x Belle) or Nostelle (Nosty x Belle), who is to say which

Summary: Father Joseph MacAvoy wakes up in a library across town with no idea of how he got there. When the kind librarian doesn’t kick him out immediately, he considers that maybe there’s more to life than alcohol.

[chapter 1] [chapter 2] [chapter 3]

tws: alcoholism, homelessness. If I missed a warning, I’m so sorry–please let me know and I will add it ASAP!

------------------

Belle parked as close to her building as she could, hardly seeing the curb as she searched for Nosty. She’d given him her address and he promised to meet her here after she dropped off Joseph. A small part of her thought he’d bail again, but too big a part of her had hope. 

He wasn’t outside, but then, she didn’t actually know how fast he could walk. Maybe he hadn’t made it yet. 

She climbed the stairs to her second floor flat, watching out the window even though that wouldn’t help. If Nosty was going to show up, he would make his presence known when he was ready. He wouldn’t just wait for her to find him.

As she unlocked the door, she half expected him to jump out and surprise her from inside, but her flat was as empty as it had been when she’d left that morning. Deciding to have hope, she locked it behind her—it would have been in character for Nosty to sneak in if it was unlocked—and shed all of her work clothes on her way to the bathroom. 

She touched up her hair and lipstick, then added another layer of mascara before looking for an outfit. She wanted to wear something more special than she wore to work, but she was prone to wearing all her nice clothes to the library since she had nowhere else to dress up. All of her coworkers wore jeans most days, leaving Belle as the only one in heels and skirts.

Someone knocked while Belle was still standing in her underwear in front of her closet, and she felt like she could float out the window. Was he here? Was it really him?

Making a quick decision, she grabbed a dress with no zipper and yanked it over her head as she jogged to the door, careful of her makeup and hair. 

“Coming!” Along the way, she picked up her discarded clothes and shoved them into her dad’s room—the spare room, now. 

Standing in front of the door, she smoothed out her dress and swallowed. If it really was Nosty on the other side, this was about to change their relationship forever. It was almost a bigger step than the first time they’d kissed.

If it wasn’t Nosty, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t cry.

She straightened her back and took a deep breath before opening the door. The hall was empty, but she had no time to process this because then Nosty was there, real and true and solid, lips tilted up in his affectionate sneer.

“You are here!” She opened the door wide and he sauntered in, taking in the room. 

“In the fucking flesh.” His gaze lingered on the window, and she wondered if he was calculating his exit options. “I was eavesdropping on your neighbors. Fucking nutters.”

She couldn’t stop her giddy grin. He was here, in her apartment, and he hadn’t been trying to hide from her—he’d just been drawn in to her neighbors’ loud conversations. 

“If you’re here long enough, you’ll probably hear them having sex,” she said. 

He finally turned back to her, raising both eyebrows. “What’ve you got, some fucking perv hole to listen?” 

“Our bedroom walls adjoin.”

He wiggled his eyebrows, and then slung an arm around her shoulders. “All right, give us a tour then. Can’t believe it took you this long.”

“My sincerest apologies.” She ducked out from under his arm so she could take his hand, surprised when he followed her to the kitchen with no protest. She showed him the fridge and where the cups were, hoping he’d feel free to eat and drink as he pleased, and then he let her tote him back out to the living room. 

Before her father died, this flat had been his. She’d lived in a studio to save up money after grad school, but once he got sick, she moved back into her childhood bedroom, and then when he passed, inherited the whole thing. When he’d owned it, the only real decorations were family photos—mostly of Belle in various life stages. Now, she had taken down most photos of herself except the ones her dad had loved the most, and the walls had blank gaps waiting to be filled with art. She’d added rugs to the living room, a bookshelf that covered most of the wall, and replaced the old threadbare furniture with a plush red couch and reading chair.

Nosty let go of her hand and sidled over to the bookshelf. At one point, it had been organized by genre, but she couldn’t just reorganize the whole shelf every time she added something, and with no family or friends, most of her disposable income went toward new books, so it was haphazard. Some places even had books in a stack instead of shelved neatly.

“Who’d have fucking thought.” Nosty chuckled, running his finger over the spine of a fantasy novel. 

“What?” She chewed her lip. She’d been called all manner of things for living in books her whole life, even by her own loving dad, and while nothing bothered her anymore, she wasn’t sure she could take any cutting words from Nosty.

“Me on a fucking date with a nerd.” 

She had to laugh because Nosty was still touching the spines of books like he couldn’t quite believe how many there were, and because now, after months, she recognized the tint of affection to his voice. 

“Don’t you want to see the rest?” she asked.

“I’m self-guiding it now.” He left the bookshelf, wandering over to a cluster of graduation photos. Some were the professional headshots taken by the school, and some were pictures of her and her dad or her and her grandparents. 

He zeroed in on one from her undergrad graduation where she stood between her two roomates, all three of their arms around one another. It was the only photo with anyone in it who wasn’t family.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“My old college roommates,” she said. “I haven’t talked to either of them in years.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. She didn’t really know why she kept the picture up, except that it reminded her that she had once had friends, people to spend time with outside of work.

“We lost touch.” 

He took her hand then but kept his eyes on the photo wall as they meandered toward one of the blank spaces she’d left. 

“What was here?”

“Nothing. My dad had way more photos up, so I took some down thinking I’d hang art or something.”

He touched the blank space, then moved on, brushing his hands over one of her throw pillows as they passed her reading chair. 

When they reached the hall that led to the two bedrooms, he stopped, and she thought he would say something, but he just looked between the rooms, then pulled her toward hers. 

“Another bookshelf?” He dropped her hand, heading for the small shelf she kept by the bed as a nightstand. It contained books she was currently reading, books she planned to read soon, and some of her favorites.

“I thought it looked nice,” she said, and as Nosty rushed past her bed without a glance, she had the sudden realization that not only had Nosty actually come to her home, he was now in her bedroom. 

Maybe he realized it at the same time she did, or maybe this had been his plan all along, because he spun and sauntered toward her. She’d never been barefoot with him before, and he dwarfed her this time when he pulled her to him by the hips. 

“So, how long do we stay here before we hear anything interesting?” He jerked his head toward the wall she shared with her neighbor.

Her arms rested on his chest as they always did, and she was about to answer when she realized it wasn’t as soft as it usually was, and something poked her in the wrist. She moved her hands back and found buttons. Buttons.

“What’s this?” She traced a finger down the crisp white seam, marveling that it had taken so long to notice.

“What’d you think took me so long to get here?”

Something caught in her throat. She traced the buttons, blinking and blinking and blinking because, if she didn’t, she was going to cry, and she didn’t want Nosty to think he’d done anything wrong.

“Belle?”

She slid her hands up his chest to trace the lapels and the bit of Nosty’s chest exposed by the open collar.

“You dressed up for me.”

“What, was I supposed to wear some manky old tshirt on our first date?”

He’d probably stolen it—that was probably what had taken so long—but she found she didn’t much care. The system had failed Nosty so much that he lived on the streets. She didn’t begrudge him a shirt, especially since he’d stolen it because he was taking their date seriously. Their first date. 

“You look good.” 

“Yeah?” His fingers trailed up her side and then her neck until he could lift her chin. “How good?”

His wolfish grin told her exactly what he wanted, so she kissed his collar bone, then stood on her toes to kiss his lips. He cupped her cheek, holding her close, but then she leaned away.

“Oi, that’s it?” he asked. “One little kiss? I’m wearing a fucking collar.” 

“Aren’t we supposed to be going on a date?” She couldn’t stop smiling, and even Nosty’s grin didn’t wane.

“What, this isn’t good enough for you, hey?” 

“I thought we were going to the cinema.”

He groaned dramatically, letting go of her waist so he could take her hand again and lead her out of the bedroom. “Fine, let’s go.” 

“Any requests?” she asked, tugging on his arm so he’d pause for her to get shoes. 

He considered for a moment, eyeing her closet with interest while she pulled a pair of sandals out. “Nothing violent,” he finally said.

There was not a lot about Nosty that could have truly shocked her, but his admitting that he didn’t want to see violence did it. She ducked to hide her smile while she slipped her shoes on.

“That’s perfect,” she said. “I don’t like violence either.” 

Before he could make another move, she stood on her toes again and grabbed his face, kissing him like she’d spent all day waiting to be kissed. Then, just as he was responding by gripping her hips, she pulled away.

“What was that for?” he asked, sounding, for the first time, a little breathless.

“I just really like you,” she said. “That’s all.”

His eyes jerked back and forth across hers, like he was quickly reading a disclaimer, but then he settled. “Lucky me.”

****

Nosty didn’t hold her hand on the eight blocks to the theater, and he walked like he was afraid someone might steal the sidewalk from him. This was probably the closest to seeing him in his natural habitat that Belle would ever get, so she didn’t complain, just kept up while she told him all about a school visit she was planning for next week. She might have worried she was boring him, but they spent much of their time talking about the library and Belle’s life, and he always had insightful questions. Sometimes Nosty told stories, but she could tell he altered them, made them more palatable to a sheltered woman like her. 

When they arrived, he eyed the growing Friday night crowd.

“Need a smoke.” He pulled a cigarette out of the inside pocket of his jacket and a lighter from his kilt. 

“I’ll go get the tickets?” she offered. 

He nodded, still scanning the sidewalk as he lit up. She squeezed his forearm before heading to the box office, trying not to stare at him as she walked away. He was just smoking. He wasn’t going to bring her all the way here only to abandon her while she was buying tickets.

Since they didn’t have a plan, she chose the movie that would be starting soonest, which happened to be a romantic comedy. It was better than the slasher film starting around the same time. 

Nosty was still waiting for her, cigarette finished, looking no less antsy. 

“Popcorn?” She handed him his ticket and it vanished between his fingers like a magic trick.

“Aye, if you want.”

She couldn’t help feeling guilty that brash, cocksure Nosty felt so out of place somewhere as basic as the cinema, but that made it even nicer that he’d come at all. He’d changed his shirt, calmed himself down, and now he was standing in line with her to get popcorn and sodas.

The moment they sat down in the dark theater, she felt him relax. Even so close to the showing, she’d managed to get an aisle seat near the back, so Nosty had the open air on one side and Belle on the other. 

He popped the foot rest out. “Jesus fuck.” 

“What?” she asked, following suit.

“Last time I went to the cinema, it was all fucking folding chairs compared to this.” He reached across the arms and tapped her on the belly. “I was gonna be romantic and put me fuckin’ arm around you, but I guess this is all you get.” He pinched her this time and she laughed, scooting out of his reach when he wouldn’t let up.

“You can romantically put your arm around me later,” she said. “How’s that?” 

“Might need convincing later,” he said. “Now that I know you took me to the cinema so we could sit a meter apart and take a fucking nap.”

“We can still hold hands.” She offered hers to him, palm up. “And then later, we can sit at a romantic corner table in a candlelit restaurant and talk with our heads close together.”

“Not the same,” he said, but he took her hand anyway.

****

MacAvoy thought he was going to take a few sips of the vodka and pass out immediately, but he hadn’t counted on his body being used to pushing itself until he was more alcohol than human. He laid in bed fully-clothed, wishing he had something more than this to drink.

His monthly stipend wouldn’t be coming until next week, and he didn’t have much money left to live on. A smart man would take the money and buy cheap, shelf-stable foods to eat. MacAvoy considered, as he lay in bed trying not to wonder if Belle would be frightened of Nosty’s monstrous cock, that he could be a smart man. If he knew what a smart man might do, he had the capacity to be one. 

In fact, he was counting on being smart enough to remember that Belle didn’t work tomorrow. 

So he dragged himself out of bed and found one of his stashed-away tenners. He ignored the glares he received at the grocery as he added tinned beans, bread, and eggs to his cart. He could have added a few more things, but if he used money he actually had on alcohol, he’d be less likely to get kicked into a gutter, so he bought the cheapest handle of gin they had.

Impressed with himself, he lurched his way home and put everything away, then flopped back on the bed and gulped more vodka. 

“Belle, I hope you’re okay,” he wheezed into the empty room. He still had her phone number in his pocket, and he caressed it with shaking fingers. 

She’d said not to call tonight, but what if his deviant fantasies weren’t images sent from Satan but visions sent from God? Visions that, were he to ignore them, foretold Belle’s horrible fate? 

He only needed one more sip of vodka to convince himself of this, to imagine Nosty with fangs and claws capable of ripping out Belle’s poor, devoted heart. 

When he called, though, it went straight to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message; he just shrugged out of his shirt and closed his eyes.

****

It wasn’t the best movie Belle had ever seen, but she and Nosty both laughed, holding hands through most of it. They sat in the theater through the credits until it was mostly empty, then Nosty stood and offered his hand.

“So, was it everything you hoped?” he asked while he helped her up.

“It wasn’t bad.” She picked up his trash, stuffing his empty popcorn sleeve into hers and then adding the empty soda cups. 

“I mean our date, hey?” He wiggled his eyebrows, but there wasn’t the same swagger in it as usual. He wasn’t just talking.

“Is it over?” she asked. “I don’t want it to be.” 

With his free thumb, he reached up and wiped something underneath her eye—probably some rogue mascara from when she’d teared up near the end. 

“What’s next then?” he asked. “I’m no fucking romantic, so you’ll have to lead this one.” 

Privately, she felt that he was wrong, he was a fucking romantic, but she didn’t say anything. “I’m hungry. Do you want to go out or eat in?” 

He started down the steps to the exit, still holding her hand but no longer looking at her. “There’s no restaurant dark enough to keep people from seeing us together.”

“So?” Was he embarrassed of her? He probably thought she was embarrassed of him since she always insisted on secrecy in the library—but that was her job. She could be fired if she was caught making out on the clock.

“So, I’ve got bad table manners.” He let go of her to skip down the rest of the way, whirling at the bottom of the steps to watch her descend with his arms folded. When she reached the final step, he grabbed her hips, putting them at eye level. 

“No you don’t,” she said. “We’ve eaten together loads of times.”

“You keep forgetting, sweetheart.” He kissed her on the throat. “I’m an animal. The monster you invited over your threshold?”

“Maybe I like monsters,” she said. “Maybe I don’t believe that monsters are exactly what they seem.”

He kissed up her neck until he could tug on her earlobe with his teeth, and as her knees buckled, she was keenly aware that not everyone had left the theater.

“Fine, love,” he hissed into her ear, and she thought she might faint. “Let’s go.”

Dinner was a quick affair. Without reservations, there was no way to get into a romantic, candlelit restaurant, so they went to a little burger joint, and Nosty relaxed a fraction.

Belle leaned toward him. “Are you afraid of me?” She popped a chip in her mouth, raising her eyebrows.

“Wee fucking bird like you?” He took a gulp of his beer. “Fat chance.”

“Why are you so skittish tonight?”

“Not fucking skittish,” he said. “Just alert, hey? Don’t want you to get fucking snatched or summat.”

“Don’t trust me to defend myself?” She jabbed a chip toward him like a sword, and he swiped it from her and ate it with a teeth-baring grin. 

“I’m sure you’re a fierce bint when its called for,” he said. “But a fucker what sees me’s not gonna try anything with you.”

She watched him with narrowed eyes, then took a bite of her burger. “I don’t think that’s the whole story.”

“Yeah?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Tough shite, that’s the best you’re getting out of me.”

“I think that you’re nervous because you think I won’t like you out here in the real world,” she said. “That’s why you were jealous of Joseph. Because you think if I had any other option, I wouldn’t pick you.”

“S’a fine fucking tale.” He drained his pint. “You spin it all by yourself?”

She plucked a chip off his plate to make up for the one he’d taken of hers, feeling as on top of the world as she’d felt all night. 

“It’s not true, you know,” she said. “I could have hundreds of options, and I’d still pick you.”

He watched her from his leaned-back chair, over his crossed arms, down his nose through narrowed eyes. “You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” she said. “I knew it as soon as you kissed me the first time.”

He turned his head, watching the restaurant, and then glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Hurry up and finish.” He picked up the bit of burger he had left and gestured for her to do the same. 

“What’s the rush?” she asked, even though she obeyed.

He plunked his chair back down, resting his elbows on the table. “I’m tired of not being alone with you.” 

****

The closer they walked to Belle’s flat, the more Nosty touched her. He started with one arm slung across her shoulders, and by the time she was unlocking the front door, he had one hand across her stomach, one in her hair, and he pressed open-mouthed, toothy kisses to her neck while he held her against him. 

Somehow, despite this, she got the first door open, and then climbed the stairs without losing any contact with his hands, and as she fumbled with her own key, he closed his teeth around her pulse and she whimpered.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled, and she didn’t even know if she’d be able to unlock the door, but then his hand was on hers and he was taking the key from her. She blushed at how helpless she became whenever he focused his full attention on her. 

“Nosty,” she said as he finally got the door open and they stumbled in. “I don’t think we should—tonight.” 

“That’s okay, sweetheart.” He shut the door behind him and pressed the key into her hand before sliding his other hand more possessively around her waist. “Some days, I don’t even fucking know where I’ve been.”

She didn’t have much time to be relieved that he understood because her brain and body wanted to focus more on the rough sound of his voice in her ear. “We’ll get tested together,” she managed.

“Whatever you want.” He nudged her forward, toward the couch, and then at the last second, sat himself and pulled her on top of him. 

He shifted to hold her across his lap, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Will you stay tonight?” she asked.

“I’ll do whatever you want, Belle,” he said, and she thought he might have meant it. “You want me to fucking strip naked and sleep at your feet? Fine.” He kissed the apple of her cheek, then her earlobe, lowering his voice to his quiet growl. “You want to lie back and spread your legs so I can eat your cunt ‘til dawn?” He licked her ear and she thought she might die. “Just say the fucking word.” 

“I want you to hold me.” She brushed her thumb down his jaw. “Just hold me.”

He cradled her head in one hand and brought the other to her cheek, brushing his thumb across her lower lip.

“Nothing else?” 

She shook her head. “I feel safe when you hold me.”

He kissed her lips, then down her neck, and she thought he might bite her again, mark her as taken for anyone to see, but he just kissed his way back up to her ear.

“Safe from everyone but me.” He tightened his arms around her and she hoped he never let go.

[chapter 5]

#anyelle #anyelle fic #macelle #nostelle #macelle fic #nostelle fic #new update #covetous #anyelle fanfic #anyelle fanfiction

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: A Devil in the Details

AU-gust Day Four: Angels and Demons AU Fandom: Once Upon A Time / The Tournament Pairing: Macacey

Rated: G

Summary: Joseph has received his first assignment as a guardian angel. He’s absolutely not prepared for Lacey, the devil on the shoulder he has been paired with.

===

A Devil in the Details

To say that Joseph was a bit nervous about meeting his partner for his first earthly assignment would be putting it mildly. As if he didn’t have enough other things to worry about, like navigating the mortal world having only ever seen it from the safety of heaven before, he was now about to meet an Actual Demon in the flesh.

It was the way that it had always worked for centuries. Since the dawn of time in fact. Every human had a guardian angel and every human had a devil on their shoulder. Since these two ethereal forces would be spending an awful lot of time together, it made sense for them to meet their partners before the work began and they started having to work opposite each other to influence their human.

Joseph was still not entirely sure how that was supposed to work. After all, they weren’t supposed to be friends. They were on opposite sides and at best would be cancelling each other out. At worst it was a competition to see who could have the most influence, and he would lose. He was not and never had been a particularly commanding presence and having never met a demon before, he had all sorts of pre-conceived notions about how powerful they were.

He would admit that they did have some small mercies when it came to navigating the human world. First of all, of course, was that they weren’t generally visible to anyone unless they needed to be. They were always visible to their opposite number, unfortunately, and they were visible to their human on the occasions that called for it, but generally, they could pass through the world unnoticed which made things much easier.

Of course, this was also a downside in that Joseph knew that there were several million other angels watching over several million other humans, and he wouldn’t be able to see any of them to ask for their advice if it came down to it. Being invisible also meant, by proxy, being alone. Well, alone with a demon. He wasn’t sure how much of a blessing this advantage actually was.

Also, if the only other person that he could really interact with on a regular basis down here was a demon, then he thought he would run out of conversation topics fairly quickly. What did demons even talk about? What did they look like?

Presumably, they looked just like he did. Well, not just like he did. He’d been assigned this body when he’d been selected for guardian angel duty. Before that, he hadn’t had a physical form, so he hadn’t really looked like anything. Each body was unique, just like each human body was. It would make sense for demons to be assigned human bodies as well, sparing the humans the fright of seeing demons in their true forms if nothing else.

Although, that said, since they were virtually invisible, perhaps he would be meeting with a horror after all. It would certainly make his job an awful lot easier if every time his human had to make a decision, they were faced with the choice of listening to the normal-looking angel or listening to the thing that looked like a nightmare.

Actually, maybe fear would push them towards the nightmare after all.

Very aware that he was overthinking things horrifically and wondering why all the other guardian angels whom he’d met in his time before descending to earth had been so enamoured by their assignments, Joseph entered the diner where it had been arranged that his colleague from downstairs would meet him.

He looked around, wondering if it would look more out of place to find a seat and wait, or if he ought to just hang around by the door instead. A part of him was favouring a quick exit. He wasn’t visible yet. He could duck out and no-one would be any the wiser.

Well, apart from the young woman in the booth halfway down the diner who was waving to him enthusiastically.

He looked behind him in the vain hope that she was human and waving to someone else, but no, her attention was definitely focussed on him.

“Hey, Angel!” she yelled across the diner. No one else who was eating seemed to be in the slightest bit disturbed by her hollering. “Over here!”

There was no getting out of it now. Joseph made his way towards the booth and sat down opposite her.

She grinned at him over her stack of pancakes and bacon, holding out a hand. “You must be the man from upstairs. I’m Lacey, pleased to meet you. Try a pancake, they’re amazing. You know, I couldn’t see the attraction in hanging around up here all the time; I had no idea why everyone else was raving about it until I tried food for the first time. You’ll love it, go on.”

She pushed the plate towards him with her other hand as Joseph tentatively shook the offered one.

“So, what do I call you then? I can’t just go around yelling ‘Angel’ every time I want to get your attention.”

“Erm, Joseph.”

“Well then, Erm-Joseph, welcome to The World. Is this your first time?”

On the one hand, he didn’t really want to admit his inexperience, but on the other hand, Joseph knew that he was a terrible liar. All angels were. That was definitely the other side’s speciality. He nodded.

“Mine too. Seriously, try a pancake.” She pressed the fork into his hand.

He wasn’t going to get away without partaking; he could already tell that Lacey was incredibly persistent. He took the fork, using it to pick up a piece of pancake. He supposed it made sense to sample human food. He was still getting used to this body and the way it worked. They had told him, before his assignment, that he wouldn’t necessarily need to eat, that the body would sustain itself since it was only really half there, existing on a different plane to the rest of the humans so as to maintain invisibility. But, if he chose to participate in human life fully, then there was nothing to stop him experimenting.

Joseph wasn’t sure he was too enamoured by the idea of experimenting with food, but he couldn’t deny that humans definitely seemed to enjoy eating and had built up an entire culture around the sharing of meals. It was one of the most human things that they could do.

He took a bite, surprised to find that he liked the taste. He’d been dubious, sure that something that was delicious to a demon couldn’t possibly be palatable to an angel. Perhaps the two sides had more in common than they thought.

“It’s good,” he agreed.

“I know. I’m really looking forward to going out for pina coladas.”

“Our charge is a ten-year-old boy,” Joseph pointed out. “He’s not likely to be going out for pina coladas any time soon.”

Lacey waved away his concerns. “He can have a milkshake, it’ll be fine. Anyway, I guess we have to find him first before we can take him out on the town.”

Joseph shook his head in despair. “They did tell you what this assignment entails, didn’t they?”

“Of course.” Lacey grinned. “We sit back, we watch, and we influence his decisions. Hey, do you think we can get really small and actually sit on his shoulders like they do in the cartoons? That would be amazing.”

“I don’t think…” He tailed off as Lacey’s grin fell and she became alert, peering around him as the diner door opened.

“There he is,” she said. “One human of ours at twelve o’clock. Your six.”

Joseph twisted and looked over his shoulder at the family that had just come into the diner – mother, father and ten-year-old Henry Swan, their sole concern and objective during their time on earth. He glanced back to Lacey, but she was still absorbed by their charge, and for all his despairing, he had to admire the way that she had gone from teasing to professional within a split second. He should probably start giving her a little more credit if they were going to be working together for any length of time.

Eventually, once the family were seated in another booth and their food had been ordered, Lacey turned her attention back to Joseph.

“Well, they’ll be here for a while yet. I think that you and I have a bit of time to get to know each other.”

There was something distinctly predatory in her smile, and Joseph gulped. Although he was already beginning to regret being paired with Lacey, he couldn’t deny that life with her was going to be extremely interesting.

#anyelle fic #anyelle #anyem #Joseph Macavoy #Lacey French #Macacey #Angels and Demons AU #AU-gust #Worry does AU-gust #Fic: A Devil in the Details

[shiftingmuse]

Belle dropped onto the bed beside Joseph, lightly bouncing. "I hope your lambs don't miss you today." There was a playful gleam in her eyes before she looked away from him and laid back. "I wasn't planning on letting you go. I thought I would keep you for a while." // ( belle & macavoy obviously )

Father MacAvoy was seated in bed with a journal in hand. He’d been writing a few things down that he wanted to remember. Along with a variation of a sermon and indifferent things. “Are you holding me hostage?” Joseph asks glancing over at the woman. A faint smile upon his face. The clergy wasn’t sure how he had became so lucky to find such a love in his life. Even if it felt late and forbidden. He had never been so happy to know someone. 

“I do hope it’s not for malicious reasons.” 

#father macavoy #Belle french #macelle #anyelle #macavoy x belle #joseph macavoy #ofheroismandsacrifice

[mariequitecontrarie]

One Thousand Blessings: A Macelle Fic

Summary: Catching a thief red-handed two days before Christmas is the last thing Joseph MacAvoy expects headed into the holidays with his wife, Belle, especially when the robber in question turns out to be a little boy with blue eyes and tousled blonde curls he can’t seem to forget. Meanwhile, seven-year-old orphan Nicholas Parrish is hanging onto the dregs of hope for a Merry Christmas, and Belle has a bright idea—and a Christmas secret—of her own. Rating: T, for now A/N:  Sequel to Morning Glory, my @maydaymenagerie. Maybe you’re thinking “Really, Marie, a Christmas story in January?” I’ve been planning this for a while, but with the holidays and the stomach flu running rampant at our house…yeah. This is Part 1. I think there will be 4 Parts.

Read on AO3

DECEMBER 23rd: STORYBROOKE SODA AND SUNDRIES The slap of Joseph’s hand against the front door is sharp and cold.

His palm stings with the contact, clammy skin sticking to the icy surface and his breath fogs the glass, obstructing his view of snow-covered Main Street despite the morning sunshine. His other hand shoots out to wrap his knuckles around the door handle, locking his arms around a four-foot boy with a suspicious lump in his coat.

Unless the kid ducks back into the store and heads into the back where Clark, the pharmacist, is standing guard by the employee door, there’s no way out.

Joseph looks down, pinning the back of a curly blonde head with a solemn stare. “What are you doing, son?”

“Uh, nothin.” For a moment, the boy’s shoulders slump. Then he turns his head, smoky blue eyes flashing with defiance, his ragged breath fogging the glass alongside Joseph’s.  

Joseph frowns, his fingers cupping a small elbow in a coat too thin and threadbare for a Storybrooke winter. He slides his hand upward, gripping a surprisingly meaty bicep for one so young, and gently takes hold of his shoulders to steer him back toward the inside of the store. There is resistance—sneakered feet squeak against the tile floor, but after a moment the boy relents and turns around.  

“What?” the kid asks, playing dumb. His eyes flicker briefly over Joseph’s before hitting the floor.

Joseph tilts the boy’s chin up to examines his heart-shaped face—full cheeks, a jaunty chin, and a smattering of freckles. He’s a sturdy little thing, looks to be around six or seven. Not that he would really know.

It’s a rare occurrence to find a thief in a small, affluent town like Storybrooke. Back home in the squalid city of Middlesbrough, north England, where he’d been raised and trained in the priesthood, catching a kid pilfering cigarettes or booze to use or sell off would have been typical.

But here in Storybrooke, most family units were intact, small business thrived, and people had the means to care for their own and share with others. Even the scant handful of children who live at the convent with the sisters have full bellies and enough supervision to keep them from running through the streets and making trouble.

As for Joseph, departing England also meant abandoning his vocation and leaving a life of loneliness behind. Last year, through a series of unbelievable events and thanks to a peculiar angel named Merlin, he’d become the owner of this convenience store where he used to work stocking shelves, and somehow been blessed to marry Belle French, town librarian and love of his life.

Belle. Thoughts of her draw an instant smile to his face and his cheeks heat with pleasure. His wife has such a way with people; she would know exactly what to do with a little boy who was caught stealing. Joseph imagines her now,  crouching down until she was right at his level, eyes sparkling with mirth. She would introduce herself, then lead him away by the hand to read a children’s book featuring the perfect moral at the end of the story. After a scant handful of well-meaning question, the child would fall in love with her natural curiosity and the musical trill of her laugh, and all the details of his life would come tumbling out in a jumble of words and emotions.

At least, that’s how it had been for Joseph.

But Belle isn’t here. The boy is stuck with him—an awkward ex-priest-turned-shopkeeper—and his relative inexperience with children. Since their marriage, he and Belle had talked about the possibility of children in the future, but it was more of a five-year plan, a distant goal relegated to “someday.” For now, his knowledge is limited to the little ones he sees tugging on their parents’ coats in the store, asking for candy at the checkout, or their shy smiles of gratitude and sticky fingers when he serves them a dish of ice cream. There are also the occasional teenagers who sit at the soda fountain counter, sipping milkshakes and chattering with their friends in a language only they understand, iPhones plastered to their faces.

While he’d been a priest, he was usually too drunk to even notice children. Oh, he’d christened a baby now and then, but young ones never darkened the door of his confessional or came to him for advice. And the parish was too small and the congregation too disgusted with their drunken pastor to send altar boys in for training. What words of love or comfort would he have offered, anyway? What life skills could he have taught, other than to demonstrate the quickest way to the bottom of the bottle?

None of that now. The still, small whisper of God fills his mind, delivering the peace he craves. Those days are over, Joseph, and you are a new creation in Me.

Then give me the words now, Lord, he begs silently. I don’t know what to say or do.

He rakes a hand through his hair and refocuses on the boy, who’s now standing with arms crossed over his chest, scrutinizing him like he’s grown a third eyeball.

Joseph knows one thing; the boy picked the worst time of day to make his move. It’s December 23rd — just two days until Christmas — and for the first time in several weeks the store is quiet, a mid-morning lull in the bustle of the season. It’s strange, really; an hour ago he’d been selling boxes of candy and small toys faster than Granny’s Diner sold stacks of flapjacks during the weekend breakfast rush. Now the place is eerily quiet, and the silence gives Joseph space to think.

What drove this poor kid to rob his store on a Thursday morning? Is it a childish prank, or does a deeper need lurk beneath the surface?

Sympathy floods him, along with a sense of calm. He may not be great with advice or problem-solving, but the Lord has blessed him with compassion and discernment, as well as a listening ear.

Joseph drops his eyes from the boy’s face, nodding at the large bulge in his threadbare jacket that’s tucked securely beneath his little arms, his left elbow nearly poking through the sleeve of his coat. On the security monitor, he’d watched him tuck several items against his chest before cornering him at the front door. He should have stopped him sooner, he supposes, but he was puzzled by the odd collection of items he’d chosen. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

The boy’s gaze shifts, a well-worn navy and grey running shoe poking at a bit of melting snow on the floor. “We’re …we’re on a field trip.”

“Oh, a field trip, is it?”

“Yep.” The kid nods vigorously.

Joseph smiles and runs his hand over his whiskers, pretending to consider. He knows a whopper when he hears one. He supposes that’s one positive attribute he took away from the priesthood. “Where’s the rest of your class?”

“My class? They’re uh…oh.”

“Oh.” Joseph nods knowingly, then clears his throat. “Stealing is wrong, son. It’s also against the law.”

“I’m not your son.”

The arms crossed over his little chest tighten protectively around his ribcage, his lower lip jutting out in a sour pout. But there is a wistfulness in the words, and Joseph’s heart gives an answering pang.

“True enough,” Joseph answers.              

His chin jerks up. “Are you gonna call the Sheriff now?” He draws out the words, reluctant.

Joseph smooths his hand over his work apron, thinking.

Sheriff Swan is a close personal friend of his wife’s. She could come in and take over, find out what’s going on with this boy. Within ten minutes, Joseph could make a statement, Miss Swan’s patrol car would pull away with the boy inside, and Joseph would return to running his store. When the clock struck five, he would go home to a hot meal, gaze at the glowing light of the Christmas tree, and tuck himself into bed against Belle’s side.  

He shoots a longing look toward the telephone on his desk. But no, calling the police isn’t the right thing to do. It’ll scare the boy away, harden him toward both Joseph and the law—and that’s the last thing he wants. Somehow, he knows God has intended him to help this child, just as surely as he knows his own name. Still, he has to tread carefully, or he will lose the boy’s trust before it’s even been earned.

“That depends, doesn’t it?”

The boy frowns. “On what?”

“Whether you tell me the truth. If you’re honest, you can save us both the trouble of involving Sheriff Swan or your parents.”

The boy opens his mouth as if to say something, then snaps it shut. Joseph shifts toward the soda fountain, trusting his young charge to follow. “Come with me.”

“Fine.” He drags his feet and huffs an impatient sigh, as though Joseph is the one who has done something wrong.

Joseph bites back a smile at his perturbed little face, and waves a hand toward a stool. He ducks behind the counter, then chooses a sundae glass and lifts the cover on the ice cream case. “You, ah, you like ice cream?” he asks, pausing with the scoop in his hand. Oh, please let the answer be Yes.

“Yeah,” he answers, but the boy eyes the red vinyl seat a with distrusting glare before giving it a spin. He glances around the store, as if looking for someone. “The old lady who owned this place before was real mean. Heard she used to poison the kids who came in here.”

Stunned by the bitter claim, Joseph looks up from mounding vanilla bean ice cream into a dish. He almost cracks a stupid joke about serving poison-free desserts, but behind the kid’s suspicious tone lives real fear. And he’s not far from the truth. The store’s previous owner and his old boss, Bedelia Bluementhal, ran the store with an iron fist. Later, she’d been found guilty of accepting bribes from drug companies and selling drugs to children throughout New England. Thanks to the Lord (and the angel Merlin), she was spending the rest of her life behind bars for her crimes.

“She’s gone now,” Joseph confirms. He keeps his voice steady yet gentle, drawing the boy’s attention away from worriedly scanning the aisles, and meeting his eyes. “You don’t have to be scared of her anymore. Sit down.”  

“I ain’t scared, Mister,” the boy scoffs.

The tension in his small, hunched shoulders melts like ice cream around the edges of a carton, then he hops onto the stool with an energetic exuberance that only children seem to possess. His eyes remind Joseph of Belle’s favorite blue dinner plates when he sees the sundae, but he doesn’t rush to pick up the spoon. Instead he gives Joseph a long, searching look.

Joseph doesn’t take offense at the way he runs his eyes over his sharp nose and greying, shoulder-length hair, but continues to hold his gaze, letting the boy look his fill. If he were a gambling man, he’d bet his store and all its inventory that in this kid’s experience, nothing is free.

“It’s okay,” Joseph says softly.

The boy nods, almost imperceptibly, and Joseph smothers another smile when he digs into the sundae  with gusto, gulping huge mouthfuls of ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, and rainbow sprinkles. Melted chocolate dribbles down the side of the glass and puddles on the countertop, and he swipes the goodness up with his fingers and shovels it into his mouth, not missing a drop.

“Good?” Joseph asks as the boy gobbles the ice cream concoction, not really expecting a response. He steps away to shine the chrome fixtures on the fountain, giving him space to enjoy the treat. Instinct tells him the last thing this kid needs is someone watching him eat, like he’s some sort of animal in a cage.

Joseph knows the boy is finished when he hears a soft, contented sigh. He turns back toward the counter. “I’m Joseph. What’s your name?”

The boy scrunches up his face, as if deciding whether to tell. The remnants of the hot fudge sundae are smeared on his chin, his blonde curls adorably tousled. “It’s Nick.”

Joseph can’t contain a delighted laugh. “Nick! Ah, what a grand name. Especially at Christmastime.”

Curiosity leaps into his eyes when Joseph leans closer, and he drops his voice to a just above a whisper as if sharing a secret. Belle says kids love secrets, and he figures it’s worth a shot. “You know, Saint Nicholas is the protector of children. He always gives in secret, alert to the needs of others, and expects nothing in return. That’s a very special name you have.”

“Really?” Nick worries his lower lip. “What’s a-lert?”

“It means he knows what we need even before we think to ask, sometimes before we know ourselves.”

Blue eyes fill with tears, and grubby little balled up fists dash them away in angry swipes.

Joseph drops his eyes to the counter to give the boy privacy, a chance to collect himself. Blindly, he hands him a warm, hot towel scented with lemon, the type fancy restaurants pass out after a meal. Belle’s idea, of course.

Nick mops his face and hands, then slaps the towel back on the counter, now tinged grey and streaked with dirt and chocolate. He sniffles, then picks the towel up again and blows his nose.

When he’s finished, Joseph whisks the soiled towel away and clears his throat. “So,” he begins, keeping his voice low and quiet so as not to attract attention from his staff or other customers, “why don’t you show me what you took?”

Eyes on the floor, Nick unzips his jacket and begins to line items up on the counter with trembling fingers. A red and green fur stocking trimmed in white. Elmer’s glue. A bottle of red glitter. An orange. Peanut butter M&Ms.

They’re trinkets, each item small and inexpensive, except maybe the stocking. Compassion overwhelms Joseph again, along with something else—a strange, tingly sensation he’s never experienced. He braces his hands on either side of the counter, heart tripping over the bizarre emotion.

He absorbs the stillness, waiting for Nick to speak. Other customers have entered the store now and between the thumps of his own heartbeat, Joseph hears the low murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet on the floor, the whirr and ding of the old-fashioned cash register.

Those serious blue eyes find his again, wide with appeal.

“It’s Christmas.” The boy gestures at the pile of loot, and Joseph nods, encouraging him to continue.

“I wanted to make a stocking. The sisters hangs some up by the fireplace.” He presses his lips together, as if fearing he’s already said too much. “But I thought…forget it. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid at all.” Relief floods Joseph, and thanksgiving. A boy who wants a stocking is a boy who hasn’t lost hope. A boy who wants a stocking still believes in the miracle of Christmas.

The sisters.

Nick lives at the convent. Pieces begin to fall into place.

“So see, you can’t call my parents. I have none.” The words come out in a practiced rush, like he’s stood in front of the mirror saying them, reminding himself he belongs to no one.

Joseph picks up the stolen orange and digs into the peel with his thumb, sending a citrus-scented spray across the countertop between them. He separates the fruit and offers a section to Nick.

Nick licks his lips and looks at the segment, hesitating.

The convent takes good care of the children, but special snacks between meals—like a juicy orange in the middle of the morning—are few and far between.

“Go on.” Joseph swallows the lump in his throat and gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “There’s no catch. Take it. Growing boys need lots of fruits and vegetables.”

“Orange is my favorite,” Nick mumbles in response, then pops the half-moon into his mouth.

“Mine too.” Joseph eats a piece, then offers the boy another. “Many, many years before you or I were born, Saint Nicholas once knew of a poor man who couldn’t find men to marry his daughters because he didn’t have money. Well Saint Nick, he couldn’t let that stand. He gave all the girls gold, just tossed it through the window. The gold coins landed in their stockings, which were hanging by the fire to dry. That’s one of the reasons we get oranges today. Santa gives them at Christmas as a symbol of the gold that was left in those stockings.”

“Wow. So oranges are like gold.” Nick’s face splits in a gap-toothed grin, dropping his guard for the first time since they met at the front door.

“Something like that.” Joseph grins back, pleased to have wandered onto common ground. Again he finds himself thanking the seminary for grilling him in Church history. “Tell me more about this stocking.”

Nick looks down at the red and green striped sock, the stubborn tightness of his jaw returning. He’s still afraid. Either of being turned in or laughed at, Joseph can’t be sure.

Joseph sighs. “Look, I’m not going to rat you out to the Sheriff, and I’m not calling the convent. You have my word. But trust earns trust. You’ve gotta be straight with me.”

Nick continues to chews his orange with maddening slowness, still saying nothing.

Finally, he swallows the bite and leans forward. “Thought if I had one with my name on it, Santa might come. Last Christmas with Mr. Bailey, he couldn’t find the house.” He looks away. “I’m sorry, Mister. Sorry for stealing. But if Sister Astrid finds out…”

Joseph pinches the bridge of his nose, processing this information. He’s guessing this Bailey guy was the kid’s last foster home, but he doesn’t press him again. Astrid is a kind, compassionate woman and a dear friend of Belle’s, not to mention a fellow former member of the order. “The name’s Joseph, remember? And you’re forgiven. I won’t tell Miss Astrid about what happened today.”

“Thanks, Mister Joe.” His little body sags in relief.

Joe?  He barks a laugh. “Joe, huh? Guess I can live with that.” No one calls him by a nickname, not even Belle. No one except…Merlin. But the angel is long gone; he hasn’t seen him in well over a year, and doesn’t expect to again.

An idea hits him, and he looks at his watch. “I hear Santa is going to visit the Storybrooke Public Library today, right around lunchtime. Why don’t you go over there and see if you can share your Christmas list? I’ll bet he’s making something for you in his workshop, even now. Ask for Miss Belle, she’s the head librarian.”

Nick sits up straighter and his eyes ignite with hope. “That’s where my class was going today! The library! But I didn’t know Santa was gonna be there.” Joseph grins, and his chest inflates with pride in his wife and her clever decision to have Santa treat the children to a story before Christmas.

He shuffles to the wall behind the soda fountain, fishes his own grey wool hat out of his coat pocket, then tugs it down over the boy’s shell-pink ears, careful not to cover his eyes. A fringe of blonde bangs peeks out from under the brim. It’s still a little big, but warm enough to keep the winter wind at bay. “If you go now, I bet you can catch Santa and give him your Christmas wishes, but before you leave, I need you to promise me something.”

Nick’s forehead puckers; once again he’s looking for the catch.

Joseph keeps his gaze locked on his, kind yet penetrating. “The hat is yours to keep, and so are these.” He holds up a sturdy, reusable bag containing the once-stolen goods, now freely given, with three extra oranges for good measure. “Promise me the next time you need something from the store, you’ll come to me and ask. No more stealing.” He holds out his free hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yeah.” Nick nods and puts his small hand inside Joseph’s and shakes. “Okay, promise.”

The gentle glide of those small, damp fingers across his callused palm makes his knees wobble. Catching his breath, Joseph watches as Nick zips up his coat, hefts the bag of goodies, then heads for the front door.

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Joseph calls, feeling oddly desperate.

Nick peers over his shoulder with a shrug. “Why my store?” It’s a stupid question, really, and Joseph isn’t sure what makes him ask. There aren’t many stores in Storybrooke, and the majority of them sit right here on Main Street.

Another shrug. “I like your sign.”

Joseph feels himself smile. The cheery red and white sign was another one of Belle’s improvements when they’d taken ownership of the place.

Nick breaks into a run and charges for the door, the smack of his hands against the glass making the bell jangle merrily. “Bye, Mister Joe! Thanks for the ice cream and stuff!”

Joseph’s smile widens and he waves, while Nick’s steps along the snowy sidewalk in the direction of the library throw fresh white powder against the front window. He thinks about phoning Belle, imagines her sweet laughter on the line as he tells her about his unusual morning and asks her to look out for a curly-haired boy with a crooked smile. But he can’t do that. He made a promise to Nick, and a promise, once broken, can never be made whole. Closing his eyes, he folds his hands on the counter, still littered with orange peels from the snack they shared. He closes his eyes and prays that whatever Nick’s Christmas wishes are, somehow Saint Nicholas will come through.

###

#macelle #macelle fic #anyelle #anyelle fic #belle x joseph #joseph macavoy #belle french #morning glory series #one thousand blessings #mqc writes

[rs-pystick]

He call himeself the savior of the human race.

#father macavoy #joseph macavoy #The Tournament #fanart