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originofjaehyun · 4 years

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Prelude: After Story | Part 3 | Make Your Day

Prelude: After Story Masterlist

Word count: 4,330

Warnings: Suggestive

Part 3 | Make Your Day

“Just by your existence, you already shine radiantly like this.”

Read Interlude: No More Drama

Tag list: @justineasian @elauniesdream

A/N: I started Interlude: No More Drama series back in March, and I never knew that the series would go this far. Prelude: After Story is a mini-sequel that I actually didn’t plan –since I started to write Interlude during the Neozone era and I didn’t know how they would bring the repackage album, but truthfully I’m very proud of where it is. I think it is quite interesting to see things from Yuta’s POV!

I hope you’re not bored at this, but I wish I could convey my gratitude better. I already wrote my thank you during the end of Interlude, but I’d like to say thanks again. Really, receiving warm messages especially during the current world situation does brighten up my day. So I hope that my writings could help to entertain you, to make your day (no puns intended hahaha).

This marks the end of Interlude: No More Drama and Prelude: After Story series! I personally think this is a milestone for me as a writer (especially this is one of my first published work). In the future, I would probably go cringe when I re-read this when I’m able to write a better story, but nevertheless this is the first stepping stone and it doesn’t change the fact that I will always feel proud of this. I really like how the story unfolds and how the character develops, and I think this is the perfect closure to end the series.

Thank you for loving them, and enjoying the ride with the characters!

Much love,

Dee

The same reaction, always, whenever Yuta received a guest.

You took a moment to admire his house. It’s late, but after stepping inside, you are greeted with the large window –displaying the amazing view of the cityscape.

He took off his suit, throwing it to the armchair. “Please be comfortable. Sorry for the sudden invitation, I realized I might be slightly pushy now that I've started to sober up. I can’t believe I let a woman drive me home.”

You giggled softly. “Please, gender shouldn’t prevent you from driving safely. Anyway, you have a very nice place.”

He scoffed. “It’s humble, but I like this place. The view is very charming from here. Well, sit down, I’ll grab our glasses and some ice.”

Of course, his apartment is anything but humble. You quickly scanned the room as you make your way to where he pointed his couch is. There are weird ornaments as a part of the house decorations here and there, like a vase with Japanese ceramic technique with a single dark crimson rose and few decorations of octopuses —you never knew how those could blend in together. Nevertheless, it has its own charm and the place screams his personality.

“Here,” He passes you a glass that is filled with caramel-colored liquid. The sound of the ice touching the glass snaps you from your daydream. “It’s Hibiki 12. I hope you don’t mind whiskey?”

You accepted the glass with both of your hands. “I’m good with anything. Out of curiosity though, do you always have a Japanese liquor on hand?”

A wide grin appears on his face, showcasing the perfectly aligned teeth. “To be precise, I always have Hibiki around because they are easier to drink. I managed to snatch a bottle of champagne and bourbon, though. Do you prefer those instead?”

“Would never refuse an invitation for a bottle of good quality champagne.”

“Seems like you’re a heavy drinker, Miss. I must say I think I’m pretty good at handling my alcohol, but I want to make sure there’s no accident tonight.”

You slightly flinched at his last sentence but managed to control your expression.

“Ah, I think just normal? I could manage if we could keep the pace slow –though I’m pretty sure that’s not what you wanted tonight.”

Yuta smirked, taking a seat on the floor across you. You followed him, taking a seat near him since it would be rude for you to remain seated on the couch while the house owner is being casual and sitting on the floor.

“Actually, not really.” He said while twirling his class, taking another sip. “I was thinking of taking it slow tonight.”

You shifted your stare to see him. “Is that so.”

While you thought it was quite careless for him to invite a stranger –technically you are up until the car ride where you briefly introduce each other– to his house, you’re not the one to talk since you also waltzed into his apartment without any second thoughts.

Both of you don’t mind the silence, as he continues to spin his middle finger around the rim of his glass. Either the alcohol starts to kick in, or he is consumed by his own thoughts. His cheeks start to flushed like cherry blossoms, and his mind is in a daze.

“I–” Yuta finally breaks the silence. “Was thinking a lot about my own feelings. On the contrary to my look, I think I’m actually the type of person who feels a lot. Most of the time I decide things based on my feelings.”

You didn’t respond, so there’s a momentary pause before he bridges his story together. You didn’t respond because you didn’t pay him any attention, but you just feel like right now what he needs is to let out his feelings, bare to the table.

“When I received my invitation, I feel like the ground below my feet shattered. But at the same time, it would be rude of me to reject it when she was so excited about her wedding. I was thinking how could this person be so dense to invite me that are still wallowing in sorrow?”

You took another sip of your whiskey, keeping your mouth shut while listening to his story.

“As I entered the venue today, each and every of my step seems harder. Like, I was regretting saying yes to her invitation.”

He then looked down at his almost empty glass. “Then I saw her face. And it feels like... all the answers that I’ve been looking for was there. That today was the day where I truly feel thankful that I made that decision. I’m glad she looked happy,”

He took another sip, finishing whatever left on his glass. “I’m glad that I could end this and make it into a proper memory.”

There it is.

The man in front of you smiled when he reached the end of his sentence. But you can see how that smile was wrapped in sadness.

You know by the way he talks, he is a man full of passion. His directness that is sometimes always too spontaneous. But it’s not the blazing-type of passion. Maybe because of his past, there’s always a trail of woe that surrounds him. That keeps him from burning his surroundings.

Like a blue flame.

“I’m sorry, it must be weird to suddenly listen to my sad story,” He said as he rises up. “Let me refill your glass. Should we take other liquor? I was thinking of switching it up to wine. I didn’t lie when I said there’s no more regret, but in order for me to truly accept it, I guess I kinda need to feel my feelings? I need something to dull the pain.”

“I thought you only stole bourbon and champagne?”

“You can’t call it a Nakamoto residence without a vast amount of alcohol gallery, you know?”

Finally, a hint of delight starts to replace the somber mood. “Again, I’m a guest so I’ll take anything. For your reference, though, I’m more of a red wine person.”

He curls his lips upwards, chiseling his well-structured cheekbones, “Got it. Also, please be more comfortable. I’m the one who suddenly invites you, after all.”

As he walks toward his wine fridge, you reactively rise up, about to offer your help. You’ve been sitting on your feet for quite a while, and your legs are definitely not ready for the sudden movement. You almost slip to the ground, but as if it was a shoujo manga, Yuta manages to catch you.

“Careful!” He said as he holds your upper arm, preventing you from falling.

It feels like the universe planned this all along, as cliche as it might sound.

You get to see his face, up close. The way his eyes pull you in, glistening from the alcohol that he had consumed.

It would be a lie if you told him that you’re not attracted. How could you not? The man in front of you is obviously good looking, but his demeanor, the way his voice travels through the air.

It was all just too alluring.

You avoided of the what-could-have-happened-next scenario by breaking the eye contact, looking away. It is a different case for Yuta. Because the sight of your neck, now burning in the vibrant pink flush is like an open invitation for him.

And he is not Yuta if he is not a decisive person.

He leans in, giving you a soft kiss on the lips. A kiss you didn’t see coming, but most definitely sending electrifying feels to your spine. A kiss that is mixed with the bitterness from alcohol. Yet Hibiki is sweet, so you long for more, kissing him back in the process.

The kiss that was started gently, suddenly rises up as both of you wanting for more. He dives in, checking if you felt the same way. You reciprocated, biting his lower lips. Asking him to pace up the speed.

You thought he would gladly eat you. To your disappointment, however, he separates his lips from yours.

“Are you fine with this?”

His whispers are gentle, yet able to give you goosebumps. He knows, that even under influence he should earn your consent before moving on to the next step. That surprises you because you thought the alcohol would turn him into a beast. But Yuta remains as a gentleman.

So you shyly give him a nod of approval, much to gain his wonderful smile. He leans forward to kiss you, but this time in a much more aggressive manner.

As he trails his lips to your neck, soft moans escape from your lips.

“Wait,” You stopped him half-way, which he only responded with a confused face. “Can we, uhm, perhaps move somewhere else? I… never done this… so I don’t know if I’m doing this right,”

Seeing how nervous you are, and the way you panicked over this, Yuta couldn’t help to chuckle softly.

“Of course, that is rude of me,” He kissed your temple, followed by gentle strokes on your head.

“Come.”

He stands up, offering his hand in which you immediately accept. He guides you to his room. His room didn’t shy away from being loud, some might even perceive it as odd since he opts to choose eccentric pieces to decorate his sanctuary. But everything seems to mesh well together with his plain beige wallpaper. There are a few unfinished canvases at the corner, most notably a painting of roses.

You were busy admiring his room to realize that he was waiting for you at the corner of his bed. Arms wide open ready to embrace you.

You giggled at the scene, but then you remember that you fall into his arms means it won’t stop at just there.

“Can I... use your bathroom first?”

You can feel the heat collecting on your cheek. You were embarrassed to ask such a question, but Yuta understands where you are coming from in a heartbeat, and you are glad for that.

“Please,” He said, gesturing to you to find his bathroom. “But once you’re done, we’re not stopping, yeah? I think I’ve been good for being patient, don’t you think?”

You smiled at his remarks. “I’ll be quick.”

You practically skipped your way to the bathroom. You checked yourself, at least making sure you smell pleasant. Then before leaving the bathroom door, you took your time in front of the sink. Contemplating with yourself in the mirror.

You are about to fuck Yuta.

The words repeated inside your head but soon vanished at the sight of a foreign object. Not that you are used to his apartment, but everything in his apartment was coated with his character, except this dainty jewelry.

It was a delicate, simple rose gold earrings. You noticed that Yuta rocks multiple piercings on both of his ears. But none are this delicate. It seems these were too plain for his liking.

Who am I to judge?

You said to yourself. You literally just know this man tonight and you’d be damned to judge his taste. Who knows, maybe he has those days where he wants to lay low. Whenever he’s going to meet his clients, perhaps? But you feel like keeping such delicate pieces in the bathroom has a potential of him losing it, so you call him out.

“Yuta?”

He hummed as a form of reply.

“You shouldn’t keep your earrings near the sink, you know. You might wash them away by accident.”

Suddenly you can hear his footsteps, rushing. You didn’t lock the door and you are glad that you didn’t because he would probably break the door open. He rushed to grab the pair of earrings, and the color on his face fades away. The smile that once appeared on his face was no longer there.

This gains your confusion. What does a rose gold earring mean to him that he had to act this way?

A rose gold earring.

A painting of roses.

A single rose that was fresh, as if it was treated with the utmost care.

Then you remember that the sight of a rose is definitely not a stranger for you, especially the last three days.

You decorated the hall with roses.

The couple carefully selected the specific color of the roses, making the last few weeks like a nightmare looking out for the vendors.

Of course, you even arranged her bouquet with roses.

“Ah, I just like roses,” She said to you when you asked why she picked roses as one of the main flowers. “As cliché as it might sound, I think roses are one of the most stunning flowers out there. They’re beautiful but surrounded by their thorns so you got to treat them gently unless you want them to prick you. Also, I think it’s because of the roses that we’re back together.”

“Did we?” Her fiancé finally looked at her after busy playing with the ring on her fingers.

“Don’t you dare to forget you add water to my shower gel.”

You could remember the laughter vividly in your head, but the last thing that you would want right now is to laugh.

“I get it.” You tried to act though, but there’s a crack in your voice. “I get that you just told me you were trying to forget about her a few minutes ago.”

You can feel like your vision is about to start to blur, but you took a deep breath to prevent a single tear to drop.

“I’d like to blame it on the alcohol, but I guess I’m at fault too.”

Was it the way he always smiled so brilliantly? His weird and odd taste that makes you furrow your brows the moment you step into his place? The way he comes to your shop every week to buy fresh flowers and look at them so lovingly?

Perhaps, because he could enter your heart so easily. Who knows, you might have already fallen for him the moment he requested for roses the first time you met him.

You get that you only get along well, and what are the chances that these things happen so smoothly? You’re not a princess out of a Disney movie.

He evidently holds the pair of earrings so dearly, and even though you’re not the type of person who puts your feelings on your sleeve, it is inevitable that you felt the sharp pain on your chest.

“I never do this, Yuta. And I don’t plan on doing these things, if that someone doesn’t think about me at this very moment.”

Your words startled him, and before he could speak up, you gave him your last words. “Please, don’t ever take this so lightly, especially to me.”

You walked past him, grabbing your belongings in the living room before walking outside. You are glad Yuta didn’t chase you, because it would hurt your pride if he knows that you cried a river when you walk your way to your car.

It’s nearly a week since you closed your flower shop. This is your business and to be frank you are still upset about what happened after the wedding party. The newlyweds paid a hefty amount of money so you can survive a bit without operating. Though, this small shop that is also connected to your home upstairs will need to open soon in order for you to be able to pay your bills. Furthermore, your love for flowers is far too great for you to leave them without any attention.

You closed your shop, telling your customers (especially your regulars) and putting a sign in front of the shop that you will be back after a week of break. You also told Mark that he wouldn’t need to come. He accepted it without pressing for further questions, but it’s so like Mark to make sure you’re alright.

“I’m fine, really. You don’t need to pay for my shift this week either.”

“Are you sure? I was thinking I could give you half of it.”

“No, I wouldn’t feel good taking money without putting any effort into it. But most importantly, you sure you’re fine, Noona?”

You sighed in relief, glad that Mark is well-raised and how he always cares about the people around him. “I’m fine, Mark. I think the wedding frenzy got the best of me, so I was thinking of having a short break so I could have a fresh start.”

“Well, it was overwhelming, not gonna lie,” Mark said as he recalled how he helped you prepare for his brother’s and new sis wedding. “I guess if you say so. Please if there’s anything I could do to help, let me know Noona.”

You replied with a simple yes, throwing your phone to the bed after you ended the call.

The past week, all you’ve been doing is to wake up early in the morning, tend the flowers, eat your breakfast, and go straight to nap. It’s a bad habit, yes, but that is how you cope with sadness.

Sad? Am I entitled to feel so?

You only know Yuta briefly, he is a regular. The fact that you know that he’s a Japanese before he told you so is probably trivial to him.

“We’re out of camellias, I’m terribly sorry sir.”

“Do you know when the next batch will come?”

“Unfortunately camellias are not in season, so it will take a while for us to restock it.”

He sighed, then he looked at his wristwatch. It seems like he doesn’t have that much time to browse the catalog.

“Is there a reason why you’re looking for camellias?”

“Ah, not really. It reminds me of home. I just came back from there last week. I thought of getting roses, but I changed my mind.”

“Home?”

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t from here. I’m a Japanese, you see.”

“Oh! I didn’t notice.”

He shyly scratched the back of his head, still not used to people complimenting his bilingual ability. You find his reaction charming, unconsciously giggling at it.

“Then, sir, I assume you’re in a hurry. May I give you a suggestion?”

“How do you know I was in a hurry?”

“Well it was easy since you immediately asked for camellia and looked at your watch the moment I told you we don’t have one.”

He lets out a smile. A smile so warm that sunflowers might face toward his direction immediately. “Indeed, I have to meet someone this evening. So your help will actually good for my favor. I was thinking of buying flowers for my dining table, do you have any suggestions?”

Now it’s your turn to smile. “I think buttercups would be perfect.”

—

Yuta has been thinking a lot about what happened last Saturday.

Especially how he should talk to her.

It’s easy to spot her store, Yuta and Doyoung practically passed by it every single morning on their way to the office. The sun hits the flower store perfectly. Not too harsh, just a bask of the golden ray. Usually, he would see how the beautifully bloomed flowers were displayed on the store windows. But it’s already day six and the store shows no sign of operations.

He reads the announcement board in front of the store; “Paradise will be closed for an inventory check. We will be back to serve you next week!”

He feels dejected. Yuta couldn’t just ask Mark for her number, that would have raised so many questions. Yes, Yuta kissed her, but was their relationship that close for him to ask for her number? The fact that both of them are not sober is also a part of Yuta’s concern.

So instead, Yuta planned to visit the florist (especially since he’s been skipping buying flowers for a week —his vase longed to be filled with any arrangement) as an excuse to meet her. But now he even lost that very reason.

He was about to step away before a tune leaked out from the front door.

Someone is here.

Without hesitation, Yuta knocked on the front door. The one inside, however, did not expect any visitor. Yuta can hear how the person inside scrambles their way to open the door.

“Yes?”

She lets out a professional smile, and it fades almost instantly as soon as she sees Yuta standing in front of her door.

“Hi.”

“Yuta!” She closes her mouth, surprised that she shrieked. “Uhm, I… didn’t expect you to come. But our store is currently close, so if you’re looking for flowers, unfortunately we—“

“I want to talk to you.”

Again, it’s so very Yuta to cut to the chase.

“I want to clarify a few things.”

She finally looked at him. She tried to remain calm, keeping the expressionless upfront. But Yuta could see how her pupils were quivering. She was trying to be brave.

“I’d like to apologize for three things. One, the way I reacted at that time. It was only mere minutes after I said that I’m truly happy for her. As a human being, don’t you think it’s understandable that I reacted that way?”

She nods but remained silent.

“I’m typically an extrovert, but I’m very territorial with my personal space, and I let her go beyond the lines that I created. In a way, she is precious to me.”

This time, she didn’t respond.

“And she would probably always be. But that doesn’t mean I could only have one precious person in my life.”

She furrowed her brows, and Yuta smirked as he continued.

“After that night, I think a lot about my feelings. How I truly felt.” He scratches the back of his head that is not itchy, but because it takes a lot for Yuta to bare his feelings like this while being sober.

“And the answer remains the same. I genuinely feel happy for her. So I thought, it would only be right to properly keep everything away, little by little instead of throwing it away out of anger. Forcing myself to move on from her. Because I, too believe –as narcissistic as this might sound, that I was a part of a chapter in her life that she holds dear too. It might be slow progress, but I will get there, eventually.”

“Secondly, I apologize for not apologizing for kissing you that night. There is no regret, the attraction is mutual anyway.”

She tilted her head, before realizing what Yuta actually meant. “Wait, you knew?”

He chuckles. “Going back to Osaka was the turning point. Probably everything that I need. It forces me to start fresh, exactly like what I did when I first set foot in this country. It let me accept that I’m actually the type of person who feels a lot. Like how I admit that I’m hopelessly romantic.”

The cold atmosphere starts to melt away, with the addition of the sun seeps in between the leaves on the nearby tree.

“So afterward I’ve been looking into subjects that I never knew I would be interested in, for example, flower languages. Might be the very first reason why I came to receive buttercups from this place.”

“So what you said…”

“Well, I guess I can say my third and last apology. I’m sorry that I am a hopeless romantic kind of guy. I’m very direct, people often told me that I intimidate them sometimes just by doing nothing. But it is just my outer shell. I might not be as strong as the way people view me. Now that you know, it might put you off, huh.”

She finally laughs, “Yuta, I am a florist. This is my field.”

As if her laugh is contagious, Yuta too, unconsciously smiling back.

“I guess, it’s been quite a journey. At least for me. Maybe I’m the one who holds onto the feelings, thinking that I should hold into it for as long as I could possibly can. But life doesn’t work that way, you know? And probably the time you gave me daffodils is one of the signs, too. I just brushed them off because of my stubbornness.”

“Maybe, just maybe, I want to start seeing life as it is. To enjoy the present. To enjoy life as moments. To experience the wonderful charm of its magic. One of the magical moments started here, and I love to cherish them while the magic is still here. In fact, it’s been a long time since things are going smoothly for me. So if I can be ever so selfish, would you let me?”

She was stunned by his remarks. Eyes blinking rapidly, completely unprepared for his sudden proposal.

Yuta had expected it. It’s barely a week, and to receive this kind of confession —although not necessarily a boyfriend-girlfriend confession— from a man who just told you his grief can be confusing.

The confused face started to fade, and she left without replying to a single word.

Yuta thought she rejected him, asking him to leave the shop.

Well, you deserve this, Nakamoto.

As he was about to walk away, she came back with anthuriums on her hand. Taking a moment to catch for her breath as she was rushing to grab these flowers.

“This is?”

“You don’t want an answer?”

He shook his head. “It’s not that. I mean, yes I told you I’ve been learning about flower languages but it’s mostly from Google, and I can’t possibly remember the meaning of every single flower?”

“I can.”

“You are a florist, my dear.”

She laughed lightly, a tone that was like jiggles of bells to Yuta’s ears.

“Can you move closer? I want to whisper these words to you.”

Yuta motioned to her immediately, obediently following her request. As her lips almost touch his ear, Yuta can feel his blood rushing to his ears.

She said, gently to his ears. “I hope you’ll be happy today.”

#yuta scenarios #yutaxreader #yuta fic #yuta fluff #neowritingsnet #commoner!yuta #commoner!au #Yuta #prelude after story #nct scenarios #prelude #make your day

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joachimnapoleon · 4 years

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“Perhaps you love me still in the depths of your heart.”

Finally finished translating the Murat letter I mentioned in this post. I was just going to post some snippets of it, but decided I’d rather put it up in all its unabridged, rambling glory, because the totally random campaign details and assorted minutiae Murat starts throwing in through his alternately sarcastic, bitter, and angsty tirade are a nice glimpse into his (admittedly chaotic) thought process; they’re his way of trying to convince Napoleon that Murat’s Sicilian campaign is actually going quite well and is perfectly winnable if only Napoleon would just let him carry on with his business without further interference (which Napoleon won’t).

Some brief context: Murat, in the summer of 1810, is attempting to wrest Sicily from the Bourbons and reunite it with Naples. Or so he thinks; the reality is that Napoleon’s primary motive for sanctioning this campaign--though Murat is apparently oblivious to this--is to keep the British troops in Sicily distracted as long as possible so they don’t go reinforce those fighting the French in Spain. While this is going on, Caroline Murat is in Paris, alternately helping Napoleon’s new Empress to get her household up and running, and trying to keep her husband’s relationship with Napoleon from unraveling any further than it already has been for over a year now (and very likely beginning an affair with Metternich as well). Louis Bonaparte, who has been quarreling with Napoleon, is on the brink of losing his throne in Holland (he will be forced to abdicate by his brother less than a month after Murat writes this letter); Caroline is afraid of Napoleon’s wrath coming down on them in a similar manner. Napoleon begins interfering with Murat’s ongoing preparations for the Sicilian expedition; a letter from the Minister of War is sent to Murat instructing him that “the Emperor regards the enterprise as impossible, unless there are the means of transporting 15,000 men at the same time.” (Murat has the men, but not the means to transport them all simultaneously.) Additionally, Napoleon has the Minister “remind you that the French troops are to be commanded by French generals”--meaning, if it came to it, that they could refuse to obey Murat’s orders if they view those orders as contrary to Napoleon’s. Lastly, an aide-de-camp of the Minister--and a mere colonel, compounding the insults to Murat yet further--has been sent to Naples to inspect Murat’s fortifications and report back to Napoleon personally on any potential inadequacies.

At which point Murat has a bit of a meltdown (neither his first nor his last of the year) and writes Napoleon the following letter. (From Lettres et Documents Pour Servir à l'Histoire de Joachim Murat, Vol. 8.) (Any translation errors are my own.)

***

Joachim Murat to Napoleon Scilla, 11 June 1810

Sire,

I just received a letter from Your Majesty's Minister of War, which announces to me your will relative to the expedition of Sicily. Your orders are going to be executed, and I regret not being in Naples in order to support the mission of the aide-de-camp of the minister whom you sent there to take secret information. Sire, no one will ever provide you truer information than me. The minister, speaking to me of the expedition, explains in these terms: "The Emperor orders that you only attempt the expedition with the certitude of success, and only if you can cross fifteen thousand men at the same time." Sire, when I possessed your confidence; when I could count on your kindness, this double condition would not have stopped me, but today everything announces to me that everything is changed for me and I foresee what must await me, if Fortune were to abandon me in this circumstance.

Sire, the expedition will not be attempted, because there is always some uncertainty to face, and no maritime expedition especially is exempt from this. The plaza of Gaeta and the forts of Naples will be armed and provisioned. I think that there will be very little to do in this regard, Y.M. might have convinced himself of this, if the state of this place had been brought to your attention by your Minister of War. All the French soldiers that Y.M. order returned from my guard are going to receive the order to return to their former corps. The convention passed with Broadwent never had its effect, and this American was not able to introduce muslin into the Kingdom; it would be very cruel to have exposed such falsehoods. Would I have written to Y.M., if I had wanted to leave you unaware of what I might have done with this man? Everything that you ask for my navy will be executed, and, in a word, command in Naples and you will be obeyed, perhaps better than in Paris.

As to the secret mission of M. the colonel Leclerc, I regret not being in Naples in order to facilitate for him the means of fulfilling it, but I dare to assure that my ministers who know my sentiments for everything that comes from Y.M. will procure for this officer all the information he will need. May he consult public opinion, I don't fear judgement!

At Compiègne, I begged Y.M. to tell me if he wanted me to make the Sicilian expedition; I presented it to him as necessary for the repose of Italy and to prevent English contraband, and a plan was given and approved, because the Duke of Feltre wrote me in these terms: "The Emperor approves your plan of operation against Sicily in all its extent." I had thus to prepare the means of its execution, the paranzella barques* from nearly all the Kingdom were required, gathered at different points and loaded with everything that might contribute to the expedition, and the convoys have followed one another since 8 May, so that as I write, everything that should've been part of it has left Naples and is in the moorings of Pizzo, Tropea, Bagnara, and Scilla. The convoys of the siege artillery have not advanced, I think they are in the golfs of Policastro or at Palinuro; all the troops are cantoned or encamped from Monteleone to Reggio; all the batteries are armed to be able to protect them; and I await only my siege artillery in order to attempt the passage, the success of which no one doubts, not even the English. Such is my position, Sire, at the moment when I received the letter from the Duke of Feltre, and I am going to make arrangements accordingly.

However, Sire, who was able to bring about a change that makes me so unhappy? What have I done to be able to lose in an instant so many rights to your kindness? How did my enemies, who still number more than yours, manage to break an instrument that has never ceased to loyally serve you, and what are my wrongs? I am unaware of them and you will only ever find in me the one whom you have cherished like a father, like my benefactor. Am I not your creation, your pupil, are you not the author of my elevation? Have they hoped, my enemies, to make me revolt against Y.M. and to succeed in making of Italy a new Spain and in reversing your vast projects? Ah! sooner perish my fortune and my happiness, and your brilliant destinies be accomplished! Sire, there, there are my feelings; they are immutable, they are sincere, and you would have no trouble believing them, if only you would recall all my past conduct. Have you ever seen me change? Have I not heard you say: Murat is the only one of my family who has never given me cause to complain of him? Hasn't general opinion always shown me to be your minion, and do I not still have that reputation? And which of my actions could have bred suspicions about my loyalty? About my gratitude? There is only one: my opinion on your marriage; yet this was dictated by my attachment, I could be mistaken, but my heart alone was culpable, because it thought it was acting in your interests. What was it to me if Y.M. married a Russian or an Austrian? What did I want? Your happiness and some children, and I hope and I am sure that the current Empress shall give you the one and the other; so I was fully reassured when I was able to to appreciate her brilliant qualities. So I had nothing more to desire than the conservation of your kindness and some occasions to be able to prove to you my zeal, and I've lost these, and I have no more hope of being happy, since a letter from an ambassador who wanted to pay court to his master has rendered me suspect and has made me lose your friendship forever. Yet you loved me, I am sure of it, and perhaps you love me still in the depths of your heart. Sire, was it not in spite of myself that I came and returned to Naples? Did I not write you in Vienna that if you wanted to reunite the Kingdom of Naples, I would demand it and work for it accordingly? Didn't I beg you in grace during my second-to-last journey to keep me with you? And why is Naples not reunited today? Recall me to you. You spoke to me at Compiègne of a dignity of general of the cavalry of the Empire; create that for me; Sire, at the first battle, under your eyes, I will justify such a kindness, I will regain your friendship, your affection of which I am still worthy. Sire, why do you want to dishonor me in the eyes of the people you have destined me to command? Why do you send junior officers to my capital where it has begun to be said: "The Emperor doesn't want the expedition." Some particular letters are soon going to tell this to the army and to Sicily, and Stuart, whom I see very embarrassed from here, will resume his original attitude. How to palliate the abandonment of the enterprise? Since I can wait a while longer in my position and no one is master of the secret, I will see later what it will be better to do. Yet a great result has been obtained: Corfu is free and resupplied and I have the certitude that the English troops who occupy the islands of Cephalonia, Zakinthos, and Saint Maure, have returned to Messina. Yesterday still around 400 arrived, among other the cannoneers, all the batteries of the coasts have been rearmed and I could bring from Puglia all the oil, without fearing the crossing of the strait, which I am going to secure and complete its armament. The provinces of Calabria will be purged of the brigandage and I will ensure the progress of their administration. There is work night and day on the opposite shore, there are movements every instant; we are assured that Stuart has lost his head, since three days ago, that is to say since he was convinced by his attempt on Bagnara that he would neither be able to prevent the union of my resources, nor destroy them. This morning I saw the raising of some tents and the arrival of new troops in Faro. Since the taking of the gunboat, the removal of all the Neapolitans from the command by the English is assured, because they don't trust them, and I know they are not wrong. The Duke d'Orleans left on the 23rd of May for Spain where he has been called to command; the Sicilian troops aren't moving, they are still in Palermo. Yesterday I saw a vessel, three frigates, and a corvette enter into the port of Messina, later two empty transports, and today another. In several days I will know positively what is happening. I am assured that the Sicilians desire us very much; a pound of meat sells for fifteen sols in Messina and bread in proportion.

I just wrote at great length to Your Majesty. I wish that he may read me, I wish above all that he will give me his kindness and friendship. I present my homages to Her Majesty the Empress.

I am...

Joachim NAPOLÉON

***

[Murat’s Sicilian expedition will continue into the fall of 1810 and will ultimately fail, considerably widening the rift between Murat and Napoleon. In my view this is the real turning point in their relationship; but that’s another post for another day.]

#Joachim Murat #Napoleon #Napoleon Bonaparte #letters #Naples #Sicily #19th century #translations #history #Napoleonic wars #Napoleonic history

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wkemeup · 5 years

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The Witness (4)

series summary: After witnessing a Hydra hit and the handsome, flirtatious cop who had become a regular at your bar takes it upon himself to ensure your safety off the books, you learn to rely on someone else for a change and find you don’t mind it at all. Not when it’s him.

pairing: detective!bucky x reader

word count: 5.2k

warnings: v protective bucky

series masterlist // previous chapter

When Bucky didn’t come back to the bar for a few days after the events in your office, you started to get nervous. It wasn’t the kind of nervous where you were constantly wondering where he was at or what he was doing or why he wasn’t coming back or if it was your fault for pushing him away.

No – while those were on your mind, you found that his absence in the bar left behind a certain feeling of unease, like you couldn’t relax without knowing he was only a few feet away at any given moment. You’d lost your sense of security.

You were able to handle your own shit before him, weren’t you? What the hell happened?

Before you knew it, you were jumping at every loud noise. Looking over your shoulder the entire walk back to your apartment at night after your shift. Flinching at unexpected touches on your shoulder by your own patrons and spending most of your time alone with your keys nestled between your knuckles.

Nothing seemed to be able to make you feel safe like Bucky did-- and he didn’t do much besides drink his shitty bourbon and make stupid jokes. You knew you were falling reliant on him and it was never more evident than it was when you found yourself holding his business card in your right hand, fiddling anxiously with your necklace in the left.

Sweat lined your palms and your heart was beating frantically. The sudden clanging of a glass falling from the highest shelf when your back was turned had set it off. You were in control of it, enough to catch your breath and stand on your own feet, but you knew he’d be the only one that could make this feeling go away. Maybe he could just talk you down. He wouldn’t have to come all the way out here. He was a good man. He’d help you through this even if he was avoiding you after what happened--

No, don’t be stupid—you groaned as you set your phone back on the bar. Maybe there was a reason he hadn’t been back since your panic attack. Maybe it was too much for him and he wanted out of whatever this was. You were too complicated, not as strong as you pretended you were. He saw through it. He decided he was done.

You stared down at the business card, messy numbers written out in black ink, as the memory of his face came into view; the way he had bit on his lip as he wrote and the touch of his fingers against yours when he handed the card back you. The tightness in your chest was only minimally relieved by a long, drawn out exhale. You were thankful it was still early enough that no one had come in for a drink yet.

Then, a ring of the bell at the door and you froze. In strolled Sam Wilson with a curious look upon his face as he glanced around. His eyes fell on the business card in your hand, then to your phone sitting on the countertop, before he trailed back up to your face with a raised eyebrow. You shoved the card into your back pocket.

“Hiya, Sam,” you called nervously. “Nice to see you again.”

He nodded, making his way over to the bar and taking a seat in Bucky’s usual spot. “It’s been a while, kid. Barnes has been taking up all your time, huh?”

“Think it might be the other way around since he’s the one showing up while I’m on shift. I don’t get a choice who I spend my time with when I’m working,” you commented with a smirk. Sam grinned back.

“You should tell him that. Throw his ego down a few pegs,” Sam proposed, with a mischievous look about him that you were sure Bucky had rolled his eyes at more times than he could count.

Your smile faltered slightly.

“He hasn’t come by since last week, actually. You might have to tell him,” you said, hoping your disappointment wasn’t as obvious as it sounded.

“That reminds me. It’s why I’m here.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Bucky’s been caught up in a case since last Thursday,” Sam started. You narrowed your eyes. Your panic attack at the bar was the night before. He continued, “Cap’s got us chasing down leads and we’re neck high in paperwork. There’s a case of low-level Hydra affiliates using a nail salon as a front for a sex trafficking ring and Barnes is convinced they can give us a lead on your gunman. Two birds; one stone. But Cap’s been really enforcing the overtime rule and I hit my mark.”

You nodded, still confused why he was telling you this.

“The point,” Sam drawled, clearly amused by your reaction, “is that Bucky sent me to check on you.”

Oh.

Sam smiled, catching the flash of surprise and relief across your face. “I was supposed to come a few days ago, but you wouldn’t believe how much shit kept coming our way. Could barely eat and sleep with everything happening. Didn’t even think to send Parker over.”

“My phone here has been down for a while,” you added, and Sam nodded.

“Trust me, I know,” he chuckled. “Buck tried calling a few times and nearly lost it when he couldn’t get through. Took this long to realize the moron didn’t even have your cell number.”

A red flush burned in your cheeks. If Sam noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“Anyway,” he smiled, “after Bucky chewed me out for not swinging by earlier, figured I’d come check on you now. And look at that! You’re alive and well and perfectly fine! Just like I told him you’d be!”

This got you laughing, the kind that made you forget about the nerves in your stomach. Once it died down, you searched for the courage to ask what you really had been wanting to know.

“So that’s why he hasn’t been by? Because of the case you’re working on? Not for… uhm… any other reason?”

Sam smirked, studying your expression, though he let it go rather quickly. You wondered if he knew, if Bucky had told him about your complete melt down, how he’d had to hold you just to get you breathing again, and how you had given him the cold shoulder for his efforts.

“Trust me, Y/n,” Sam started, that infectious kind of energy about him already easing your worrying mind, “If I have to hear Barnes mumble under his breath about how he’s craving that poison of a bourbon you serve or how pissed he is that he’s stuck doing paperwork all night when he should be checking in on you, I’ll lose my damn mind.”

You exhaled, relief flooding through you. Sam smiled encouragingly.

“He wants to be here,” he said sincerely and you felt your heart skip a beat. “I don’t know what you were alluding to or if you’re worried that he wasn’t going to keep coming around for some reason, but from where I’m at, there’s not much that could keep him from this place. Besides, you apparently. I heard you got him on a strict three nights a week rule?”

You laughed, nodding. “Yeah, he was starting to fall asleep at the bar. Had to do something about that.”

“What an idiot,” Sam snickered. He glanced back at the clock you kept hanging above the framed baseball bat on the far left wall. He turned back to you and tapped his hands on the bar before standing up. “I should be heading out. I’ve got to get the sleep while I can. You gonna be alright?”

His eyes glanced down at your phone and you knew instantly he was referring to the business card he had caught you holding as he walked in.

You nodded, feeling rather silly for how paranoid you’d been lately. Perhaps it was all just under the fear that Bucky wouldn’t be coming back that the nerves had crept up in you. It didn’t seem like it was based on anything else, certainly not from an actual threat. Bucky had told you countless times you’d be the first to know if there were any leads. There was no reason to worry.

“I’m good, Sam,” you said truthfully. You tucked your hand into the back pocket of your jeans and felt the paper of the small business card. It warped easier now, not as stiff as it used to be; you handled it often and kept it stored with you at all times. It brought you a sense of comfort.

“Great, I’ll report that back to Detective Worries-for-Nothing.” Sam smirked, sending you a wave goodbye over his shoulder as he made his way to the door. “Have a good night, Y/n!”

“You too, Sam!”

***

The next night at the bar had been a slow one. Only half of your usual crowd showed up, and even then, they were mostly quiet, watching the baseball game streamed in pretty shitty, grainy quality on the one TV in the back. You’d have nights like this every once in a while, and sometimes they came as a welcome break. Tonight, you wished you had more to do. It was easier when you were busy. It was too easy to let your mind wander when you weren’t.

You kept thinking back to what Sam had said, about how Bucky would be here if he was able, about how he wasn’t avoiding you and you hadn’t necessarily fucked up what was going on between the two of you, whatever that was.

A fluttering in your stomach ached every time you thought back to what he had said.

“If you think I’m coming around because you’re ‘just some witness’, you’re not paying attention.”

You let out an exasperated groan as you shoved the broom back into the closet. The bar had emptied out an hour ago and you were getting ready to close up shop. You rubbed at your eyes, flaking mascara now upon the back of your hand. Throwing on your jacket, you headed for the door, keys set between your knuckles as you prepared yourself for your walk home.

Fingertips had barely brushed the knob of the door when suddenly it flung open forcefully and you were thrown back several feet, back hitting hard against the edge of the bar. A voice was muttering ‘get inside, get inside!’ harshly under heavy breaths as a man spun around and slammed the door shut behind him.

Panic coursed through you as you struggled to get your bearings. Gripping tightly to the bar, you looked up to find Bucky sprinting towards you, panting heavily, sweat beaded on his forehead and gripping a newspaper in his hand. He tossed it onto the bar, his hands grasping at your shoulders as he yanked you closer towards him so he could get a better look. His eyes roamed over every inch of your face, then down your arms to your feet. You couldn’t tell what he was searching for, but he seemed to calm down the moment he didn't find it.

“Thank God,” he exhaled, slumping into a bar stool. “You’re okay.”

You watched as he raked his fingers through his hair, and nudging the trail of sweat from his hairline. Did he run here?

“What the hell is going on?” you demanded, anxiety still hot in your veins.

Bucky sighed, running his hand down his face. “You haven’t seen the paper yet, have you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No, I don’t usually re-“

“Parker noticed it before any of us did,” Bucky seethed. He grabbed the newspaper, his grip on it so tight that the paper crinkled harshly beneath his grasp. “Went the entire day with this out there and we had no idea. So fuckin’ oblivious to it. So goddamn stupid to not be checkin’ the papers.”

“Bucky,” you started, moving closer towards him, lowering your voice. “I’m sure whatever it is, it’s fi-“

He gestured for you to take the paper, big blue eyes looking up at you apologetically, almost shamefully and it tugged at your heart. You watched him apprehensively as he shook the paper lightly, the crinkle of it the only sound in the room other than his labored breaths. His stare darted to the floor when you finally took the paper from him, unable to look at you any longer.

‘Police Cover Up Murder of Ex-Con Charles Homes’ printed across the front page in strong, bold lettering. Just underneath it, smaller in front, wrote, ‘Witness Discovered at the Scene-’

You gasped, the paper falling from your hands before you had a chance to read more. Your hands were shaking and you barreled them into fists thought that didn’t seem to stop the trembling.

“Oh my God.” You were feeling lightheaded and you fell back against the bar for support. Suddenly Bucky was standing in front of you again, his hands trailing soothingly up and down your arms.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he cooed softly. “Look at me, doll.”

You brought your eyes up to his and let yourself fall into the shades of blue, like the clear undertow of the current in the Atlantic, easily swept away.

“I read that article twenty times over and called down to the paper to threaten the author myself,” Bucky said, his hands still trailing restfully along your arms. You could hear the strain in his voice as he spoke though he tried to mask it. ��There’s no mention of your name or anything that would even point to you. I don’t know how they got ahold of the story, but they aren’t budging on the source. All I know is they don’t have your name. You’re safe, Y/n. You’re safe.”

You nodded hesitantly, eyes flickering down to Bucky’s shoes. He must have sensed your unease, and a sigh left him, reaching out to gather you in his arms. You went willingly as he held you against his chest. His chin rested on the crown of your head and you could feel his heart thumping wildly despite the calm he exuberated. His hands were along your back now, tracing gentle circles in hopes to ease your anxiety.

You couldn’t help but think about the night in your office, the last time you had seen him nearly a week ago. He had held you like this. Then, it had been filled with tentativeness and trepidation despite the urgency. Now, standing so comfortably in his arms, your arm wrapped tightly around his waist, you held onto a sense of comfort you never thought you’d find in someone else. Relying on others wasn’t easy for you, but with him, in this moment, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, Y/n,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over your hair and causing you to shiver. “You’re safe with me, doll. I promise, you’re safe with me.”

You knew.

Slowly your racing heart started to ease and Bucky’s grip on you loosened just enough that you could pull away when you were ready. His fingers continued to draw steady lines along your back, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. After what felt like hours, you sighed.

“What am I gonna do, Bucky?”

“I don’t know,” he exhaled and you could hear the nerves in his voice he was trying so hard to hide. “Steve said assigning a legitimate protective detail at this point will only draw suspicion and while Hydra may know there’s a witness, there’s nothing pointing to you. So, I talked with the team at the station. I’m gonna be here myself as much as I can, but if I can’t be, I’m sending someone I trust.”

“You’re not going to ask me to close the bar?” you inquired, surprised it wasn’t the first thing out of his mouth.

He shook his head, a frown pursed on his lips. “You’d never do it anyway. You care too much about this place to close shop even if there was a threat on your life. This bar means too much to you for that.”

You smiled softly against his chest, wondering where along the line he had come to know you so well.

“Parker will walk you from your apartment to the bar before you open and stay here for the stretch of time before my shifts ends and I can get here,” Bucky continued, outlining the plan he must have come up with as he ran halfway across the district. “I’ll stay here until close and I’ll walk you home. If I can’t be here, I’ll be sending Sam. Steve volunteered as well, and Nat, though I don’t think you met her yet. You’d like her. She’s small but she probably tougher than the rest of us. Stark is the only other one at the station that knows you’re the witness. He offered as well, but I think we’ll use him as a last resort, yeah?”

You nodded, cheek brushing on the fabric of his shirt, surprised when half of a laugh escaped you.

“You’re going to be okay, Y/n,” Bucky sighed and the slight break in his voice made you wonder if he wasn’t just trying to reassure you but himself as well. “I’ll make sure of it. I won’t stop until Hydra is taken down and you can be free of all this. You have my word. Everything’s gonna be alright. I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.”

A comfortable silence. A pause. Then, “You sure I’m worth all this, Buck?”

Bucky pulled back, enough so that he could meet your eye. There was a seriousness in his expression, an inkling of shock that you would even ask such a thing, as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. He took a heavy breath.

"There is nothing I am more sure of.”

Your breath hitched softly, thrown by the earnestness in his voice. His eyes flickered down to your lips, parted slightly. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Cautious, callused hands reached up slowly to brush a fallen hair behind your ear. They were warm on your skin and you let out a sigh as they grazed along your cheek. Blue eyes, filled with something you couldn’t quite place but were sure you’d like to spend eternity in, watched you carefully. He swallowed.

Slow movement. Leaning closer – so close that the warmth of his breath tingled along your face. Heart pounding heavy in your chest. A hesitant glance up at your eyes and you nod so subtly that you're unsure if he sees it until you feel him pull you closer. His thumb brushing over your cheekbone, so carefully, gently, like he was handling something precious. His lips ghost so briefly against yours you gasp.

DING-DING

You pull apart instantly, breathless only from the anticipation, to find Sam barreling in from the doorway with Peter on his heels. They were both holding their guns at the ready, panting wildly with sweat dripping from their foreheads. By the time Sam got a look around the room to find it absent of threats, he groaned loudly and holstered his weapon.

“Shit, Barnes!” Sam huffed, blowing the sweat on his forehead. “You couldn’t have let us know it was clear?”

“Sorry, man,” Bucky grimaced, “was a little busy.”

“Yeah I can see,” Sam grunted back as he gestured between you and Bucky before he leaned over to rest his hands on his knees. Your cheeks flushed red and you scooted another foot away from Bucky.

“Hi Miss Y/l/n,” Peter waved awkwardly. “Glad to see everything’s alright Detective B.”

“We’re good here, guys,” Bucky said. “Thanks for the backup. I can take it from here and we’ll regroup in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam complained, waving his partner off. He turned to you, a noticeably different affect and a smile on his face. “Nice to see you as always, Y/n.”

With that, he grabbed Peter by the collar and started dragging him towards the door. Peter fumbled around for a bit before he gathered his footing and shook Sam from his grip. The ring of the door under the bell and then they were gone.

Your eyes trailed along the wooden floors, suddenly interested in the dust and pretzel crumbs hidden in the corners under the bar now that you were alone with Bucky. You kicked at the dust bunny floating along the floor by your feet.

“I should get you home,” he said suddenly, clearing his voice. “It’s getting late.”

You nodded, stealing a glance at Bucky as he leaned against the bar, wringing his hands nervously. Tucking your own hands into your pockets, you felt around for your keys. He led you to the door and opened it for you, the cool rush of night air sweeping into the bar and forcing you to shiver. Once you were outside, you turned to lock the door behind you. Out of habit, you slid two of the keys between your knuckles, dropping your fist down by your side. Bucky’s eyes glanced down at your hand and he frowned.

“You been worried about walking home for a while now, haven’t you?” he asked slowly, the guilt evident in his voice. It wasn’t so much a question as an observation.

You cursed under your breath, now realizing how you were holding the keys. You sent him an apologetic look and shoved the keys back in your pocket. You gestured to the left and started to lead him towards your apartment.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly, running his fingers through his hair. “I shoulda been here more, especially after I knew you were having panic attacks.”

“Don’t apologize, Bucky,” you said, glancing up at him to find his eyes fixated on the sidewalk. “The work you do is important. You can’t drop every case for me.”

“I coulda been on Wilson to get here sooner, or sent Parker to check on you or walk you home,” he argued, though his voice was rather defeated. “But you won’t have to worry about that now. It won’t happen again.”

“You can’t be doing this forever, Buck,” you sighed. A lone pedestrian in a hurry came up on your left and you swerved out of his way, bumping into Bucky and he set his hand on your arm to help steady you. Once the man disappeared, Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly and put a few inched of distance between you.

“It’s just until we dismantle Hydra and they’re no longer a threat to you,” he answered nonchalantly.

“You say that like it can happen in a few weeks or like it’s even possible at all.”

“Witness protection is always an option,” he said carefully and your heart nearly dropped, “but I promise, Y/n, I won’t let that happen unless it’s absolutely necessary. It’ll uproot your whole life and they’ll send you away somewhere and I, I can’t let that happen because I-”

He bit down hard on his lip, eyes darting up to the night sky and suddenly the click of your boots felt heavy amongst the otherwise silent walk. You wondered how he would have finished that sentence.

Not another word was shared before you reached the entrance of your building. You paused, clearing your throat as Bucky had continued walking past without realizing you had stopped. You smiled to yourself as he ran his fingers through his hair nervously.

“This is me,” you said, gesturing towards the black door amongst the sea of brick wall just a few steps above the sidewalk. It was rusted at the hinges and had metal bars where a window once was. Bucky clenched his jaw, eyeing it suspiciously.

“I’d like to check the inside, if that’s alright. Make sure it’s secure.”

“Peter did that a little over two months ago now, remember?”

He nodded, still looking at the door. “I know. But things have changed since then and I’ll sleep better tonight if I can take a look myself. Please?”

He turned to you now, the gentle hue of his eyes boring into yours, begging for you to say yes. With an exhale, you pressed out a tight-lipped smile and gestured for him to follow you up the stairs. You could practically feel Bucky looking over his shoulder behind the two of you as you made your way to the door. Shoving the key in the lock, you jiggled it a few times before twisting it back and forth to wedge it open.

“This always an issue?”

“Just gotta get it loose,” you muttered as the faint sound of a click popped and the door creaked open. Inside, the hall was dark, the light above the entrance had blown out a few days ago and the landlord hadn’t been back to fix it yet. Bucky was clearly taking note as he followed you closely on your heels down the short hallway to the second door on the left.

“First floor, huh?”

He was alluding to the window access. You nodded as you worked at the lock on your apartment door. Once you were able to unlatch that, you pushed open the heavy door and held it open for Bucky.

“There’s bars on the windows.” You pointed towards the two windows to the left. Thick black bars lined the open space, obstructing the view of the alley. You usually kept the window closed anyway. It smelled like garbage out that way.

Bucky was busy walking the perimeter of your apartment, checking the latches at the window and the locks on your door. He knelt down as he opened the front door again, pulling out a thin metal contraption and started messing with the lock. He let out a heavy sigh as it clicked open after he shoved the thin bar in the lock and jiggled it a few times.

“We have to replace your locks,” Bucky said as he stood to his feet. He closed the door behind him, inspecting the clear ring of rust where a deadbolt once was before the landlord removed it. The last tenant was apparently too reclusive for the landlord’s taste. Bucky ran his hand down the door. “I’ll get you a new deadbolt and a chain lock tomorrow.”

You swallowed nervously, never having thought much about your lack of appropriate locks but now that Bucky was able to pick it so easily, it was a little harder to convince yourself your home was still safe.

“You don’t think they’d come looking for me here, right?”

Bucky’s head snapped up, a heartbroken kind of look on his face as he crossed the apartment to you. He only stopped when he was standing in front of you. He placed his hands on your shoulders, urging you to meet his eye.

“They don’t know anything about you, Y/n,” he promised. “I’m just taking precautions here. No one's coming to look for you anywhere.”

You nodded, though unconvinced. Suddenly, you pulled away from him, darting over to the kitchen as an idea clicked in your head. His eyes were on you as you started rummaging through the drawer of miscellanies junk; ketchup packets, nails, rubber bands, a flyer for the takeout place down the street. A shimmer of rusted gold and you found what you were looking for. You pulled out a small metal ring with two gold keys attached.

You walked back over to him, and held them out for him to take. He narrowed his eyes, seemingly hesitant, as he let you drop the keys into his hand.

“I just thought, that if anything were to happen here, if I were to, uhm, need you and couldn’t get to the front door, that you’d be able to get in easy,” you started rambling, feelings incredibly silly the longer you talked and a flush of red burned in your cheeks. You swayed in your stance. “But maybe I’m just being paranoid again and – God – I'm being paranoid, aren’t I? This is so inappropriate. I’m sorry, it’s not your responsibility to-”

You reached to take the spare keys back but Bucky’s hand closed around them before you had a chance to snag them.

“It’s a good idea.” He tucked the keys into his back pocket. He gave you that soft reassuring smile that made your stomach weak.

“So, you said Peter would be by tomorrow?” you asked, unable to sit in the tension that followed when he looked at you like that. It was too sweet, too genuine. It was the same way he looked at you in your office that night. This time, he smiled, nodding as he pushed his hair back.

“Yeah, Parker will come by around six, so you can open at seven like usual. I’ll be there around nine and stay to walk you home when you close.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m going to anyway. Please, don’t leave the apartment or go anywhere alone, even for groceries. I’ll make sure someone takes care of it for you or I’ll escort you myself. It’s just too dangerous, doll, and if Hydra somehow finds out who you are and one of our guys aren’t with you, I’ll-”

“Okay,” you conceded without much restraint, putting your hands on the sides of Bucky’s face to draw his attention. He clamped his jaw shut and you could feel the muscles contracting under your fingers. You pulled away instantly, wiping your palms on your jeans nervously.

“You going to be alright until tomorrow?” he asked slowly, gaging for your reaction as he glanced towards the door.

“I’ll be okay,” you said, pulling the card from your back pocket and waving it for him. He smiled at that.

“You carry it with you?” he asked, the surprise in his voice enough to reignite the butterflies in your stomach.

“Just in case,” you replied off-handedly, teasing him a bit to lighten the air. He grinned, biting his lip in a way that made your heart beat a tad harder.

“I should get going, then,” he said, just as a yawn escaped him and his stretched his hands above his head. God, he looked years younger when he did that.

You nodded, “yeah that’s probably a good idea.”

He started walking towards the door. “Call if you need anything, you hear me?”

“You got it.”

“I mean anything,” he pressed, stopping in the doorframe. “I’m serious, Y/n.”

You laughed, shoving him in the chest until he stood in the hallway. “You’ll regret saying that when I’m calling you at four in the morning because the wind knocked over a glass in the kitchen and scared the shit out of me.”

He chuckled, leaning his head against the frame as you slowly started to close it on him. Blue eyes blinking up at you under long lashes.

“I said anything, didn’t I?”

With that, he pushed himself from the door, calling over his shoulder at you to lock it behind him as he strolled his way down the hall. You watched as he bobbed down the steps, too chipper for it being the hour it was. You waited until his tall frame disappeared to the street and he was gone from view before you closed the door.

You realized then, you were still smiling.

part five

tags 🌈 @sweetheartbarnes / @musiclover1263 / @pies-wands-and-more / @buckygrantbarnes / @mywinterwolf / @lumar014 / @alohafromhell1 / @bucksandroses / @teardropcup / @beautiful-aravis / @me-chi / @somewereinthegalaxi / @marvelfansworld / @whyamidoingthistomyselfhelp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @yourwonderbelle / @fairislesheets / @brokeinflight / @verygraphicink / @lollipopdomination / @emotionallysalty / @forsaken-letters / @captain-hammer-of-asgard / @ashlieadelia / @ladymelissastark / @panic-naran / @breatheeagainnnn / @pinkisokay / @jewelofwinter / @jsmith509 / @hennessy0274-blog

(strikethrough means tumblr wont let me tag you)

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #marvel #marvel imagine #mcu imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fic #reader insert #my writing #bucky fic #the witness

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taramikealson · 3 years

Text

New Orleans is Such a Sight (Part 2)

This is a continuation of my original drabble, “New Orleans is Such a Sight (Part 1)”.

“No, absolutely not.”

Marcel stood tall, shaking his head.

“Davina Claire is the best option in controlling the witches.” Klaus states strongly and Marcel scoffs, beginning to pace in front of the Original hybrid who’d taken residence on the brown leather couch, watching his protegee.

He’d push the vampire more boldly on the subject but considering his family’s past of sacrificing the little witch to strip Lucien of his powers. It's been a sensitive subject within family boundaries especially when his brother, Kol, had married Davina. Klaus hadn’t been negative regarding his brother’s relationship nor his decision to marry the little witch, but it’d been amusing that the wildest of the Mikaelson clan was the first to ‘tie the knot’.

“Do you really think your brother would even let you, for a second, use Davina again?”

Klaus sighs and leans forward, picking up his glass of brandy and taking a hearty sip. “I’d never said I’d be using the girl. Persuasion and manipulation are vastly different, Marcel.”

“There has to be another way. Negotiation could be an option.” Marcel proposes and Klaus shakes his head in disapproval, pushing himself off the couch.

Once the Original hybrid reaches the bar, he picks up the crystal decanter to refill his glass. “There is no negotiating with the French Quarter witches. You should know that as well as I.” He explains, topping off his drink as Marcel’s footsteps take a pause. “If we were able to re-instill Davina as regent, our problems with their uprising would be ground to dust. And tell me, Marcellus, say we did negotiate with the witches, what possible leverage do we hold over them other than threats of death towards their families?”

Klaus had seen making Davina Claire the regent again as the solution to their witch problem. If Davina Claire became their leader, he’d be virtually untouchable not only because she understands that there is no reward in harming him, but also because, in the end of the day, Kol wouldn’t let her in fear of Klaus’ reaction to the betrayal. Although, Marcel did come up with a good point. Kol wouldn’t allow Davina to become regent with his mistrust of the ancestors and it could very well throw Davina back into harm’s way. But, Klaus also understood that all witches felt a longing to be a part of a coven, just as much as a werewolf felt the need to be a part of a pack, and he’d take any advantage he could get.

“I’m sure they’d start negotiating if you were willing to give up a few spells in your mother’s spell-book.”

Klaus’ first reaction is to laugh. How stupid would that be?

“Of course! Because, I’d be too willing to give my enemies more power.” Klaus turns around to face Marcel, tipping his drink towards him and pointing.

“I will not put my family into even more danger for just a brief period of peace until the witches find more leverage over us. As well, I thought you would understand the concept that my mother was one of the most powerful witches in history and the spells in her grimoire hold the ability to be used against us.”

Marcel looks away from the Original hybrid and towards the windows that sunlight poured in through, a little upset that they were at a crossroads.

Klaus took a few steps forward, gaining Marcel’s attention once more, his eyes stern and unyielding. “My son is at stake at this very moment, and it doesn’t make it any easier when he’d rather be enjoying his teenage youth than staying here when tensions are high.”

“Does he even know why you’ve been so strict on him? About the witches?”

The Original steps back, shaking his head. “No, and I’d rather he not find out until the threat has been neutralized. Treanton has a tendency to be overzealous in flaunting his hybrid abilities. He’d be far too tempted to go against my orders and find himself into a bind with the witches, potentially getting himself hurt.”

Marcel arches an eyebrow. “You’d think that you’d find any excuse to keep Trent home considering his new liking towards high school parties and girls.” He lets out small chuckles seeing Klaus’ eyes narrow in disgust.

“I’d happily keep Trent from going to those foul gatherings, as for girls, I’m not so worried. If anything, those poor girls should be cautious of him, after all he is my son.” Klaus states with a half grin.

He wasn’t wrong. Trent had a couple girlfriends since his sophomore year of high school, Klaus hadn’t taken the time to remember their names given that the relationships ended as fast as they had begun. Although he remembers one in particular that’d had Trenton’s attention for quite a while. He couldn’t recall her name but Trenton had been hooked on this one girl for a few months. From the information that he could gather from Hayley, it seems like his son was infatuated with one of the cheerleaders at his school. Trent had taken the girl to some school-related dance where he’d come to realize that she wasn’t the girl he thought her to be.

Hayley would mostly be the one talking to Trenton about his relationships with the female species seeing that Klaus wasn’t one for having any kind of stable relationship with a woman, or at least one that didn’t end up with death or betrayal. As well, Trenton had come to learn, when he was mature enough to understand, that his father wasn’t a fan of that particular emotion; love. Furthermore, Klaus had been extremely careful in keeping his sexual habits unknown to his son. “He’d think one-night stands would be okay if he knew where you were going,” was what Hayley had told him. Becoming a father made him no more celibate, but that didn’t mean Trenton had to know how or when he spent his nights with a woman across The Quarter. There’d been a few instances where Trenton had caught him leaving the Compound or coming back late in the night. Klaus had become an expert in deviating or summarizing how he’d be going or came back from a council meeting. Although, in the last few years, he has no doubt that Trent had an inkling of what Klaus had been doing and where he had been going. As fortunate as he was that his son was gifted with his intelligence, it made keeping certain things from him incredibly hard.

“Says the one who’s last girlfriend tried to kill him and his family.”

Klaus chuckles, sipping his drink. “As if you have any grounds to speak. Speaking of which, how is my sister? Still livid at you?” Marcel rolled his eyes as Klaus smirked over the brim of his glass, knowing exactly what the answer was- not that he needed it.

Klaus was planning to open his mouth to speak but Marcel’s eyes look on past his shoulder and a quiet knock sounds. The Original turns to see Caroline standing in the archway of the room. His lips turn into a smile.

“Caroline.” He greets as she walks in. He then motions towards Marcel. “I’d like you to meet Marcel.”

The blonde vampire takes a few more steps as Marcel opens his hand out for her to shake. She takes it with a pleasant smile and he smiles back politely. “Caroline Forbes, nice to meet you.” She says.

“I’ve heard a little about you.” Marcel states, shaking her hand.

Caroline furrows her eyebrows, “really?”

Marcel gives her a nod. “Rebekah’s a little bit of a gossip.”

“Oh, well, I guess you’ve heard mostly bad, then.”

Klaus chuckles, knowing his sister all too well, and takes a sip of his brandy.

Marcel cocks his head to the side then back, releasing her hand. “Eh, surprisingly not, although I don’t see a reason why she’d say something negative about you.”

Caroline lets out a breath of a laugh and Marcel gives her a charming smile.

“Well, it was great to meet you,” he states and looks back over to Klaus, “but I’ve gotta run. Give me a call if anything shows up.”

Klaus nods behind his drink and Marcel exits the room with one last smile to Caroline.

The Original hybrid watched as Caroline turned to him with a hesitant smile.

“I guess I was right in pegging you as the type of guy to have crazy ex-girlfriends.”

Klaus scoffs good-heartedly. He’d expected her to have listened in on his conversation with Marcel, not that he minded.

“Don’t start, sweetheart.” His tone is light and teasing as he speaks, setting down his now empty glass on the liquor cart.

Caroline arches an eyebrow. “A little too early don’t you think?”

He smiles at her observation. “Never too early.”

She lets out a small laugh.

“Now, I remember promising you a few sights. Shall we?”

She nods.

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

They’d spent quite a while a bit of time in the French Quarter. He’d first taken her out on Bourbon street, pointing out the little secrets within a few of the small establishments that seemed to be squished together. They had stopped in a corner bar named Rousseau's, one that was clearly visited quite a lot by Klaus seeing as the bartender didn’t even have to ask the Original for what he wanted to drink, instead taking her order and immediately serving them their drinks. After a drink and a half, they’d moved on to Royal street where he’d paused in front of a rather empty looking three-story building. Klaus referred to it as the “LaLaurie Mansion”, stating, “looking at it, you wouldn’t notice the horrifically dark past it has.” He’d gone on to explain the story of it, of how it’d been set on fire and a few firemen had found strung up slaves afterwards, their bodies destroyed and inhumanely morphed. Somehow, he’d made it sound mysterious and intriguing. Perhaps it was the details that only he would know or the passion of which he’d speak of the mysterious quality of the story.

Then, he’d taken her to Jackson Square, St. Louis Cathedral, and the Cabildo. It was pleasant, having him by her side to answer her questions that she had about the city rather than just wonder when she had been on her own. In fact, she’d barely noticed how late in the afternoon it had become.

When the sun had begun to make its downfall, Klaus had taken her to a rather expensive restaurant. Right when she’d first entered, she knew that it was a very romantic establishment, hanging chandeliers, candles, red accents, low light, and all. Thank God she’d decided to wear a nicer shirt. Although, she had an inkling that Klaus knew from the start of the day that they were going to this restaurant considering he had a well-fitting, blood red button-down under a leather jacket. She wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t been for the boy at the door taking both of their jackets, revealing the crimson material. Even though he’d rolled the sleeves up neatly, exposing his forearms- and woah, to still capture that slightly fancy-casual effect, but it still seemed odd to see him dressed this way. She’s either seen him in all casual attire or a full-on suit. And she was not complaining at all, especially when the two unbuttoned buttons showed a peak of chest and a hint of a few necklaces.

God, was she really admiring his chest?

One look at the menu and it told Caroline that this was not just expensive but a true five-star establishment. But, it was typical of Klaus, considering he wasn’t the type of man to not indulge himself in luxuries or be a cheapskate. Nonetheless, the food was amazing and New Orleans authentic.

After, they’d grabbed their coats and ended back on the street, walking. They’d ended up at the end of St. Ann street where a large viewing area of the Mississippi River was. A few park benches sat nearby, still wet from the rain of the early morning and day before. As well, a small gathering of people, no more than ten, stood a couple yards away from them, listening to the strum of the guitar made by a man sat down on a stool, guitar case open for tips. The rhythmic sound of the instrument, the smell of the rain, and the heat of Klaus’ arm transferring to her’s made her feel at peace as a light gust of cool night air blew past them.

She’d pulled her arm out of his as she advanced to the railing, overlooking the Mississippi River. The small ripples in the water acted as miniature waves, moving a buoy that floated in the middle of the large expanse of water.

Klaus had walked up to her side, placing one of his hands on the metal of the railing and looking out at the water with her.

“I find that the most beautiful night sky is here, especially after rainfall.” He murmurs beside her. “This could possibly be my favorite spot in the city. At night, the busy city noise is dampened, leaving the sound of the river and the chorus of silence.” His words come out smooth and soft like velvet.

“It’s so peaceful.” She whispers.

“I’ve come to realize the most exquisite views come after the storm.” He states and her eyes travel along the water as it splashes lowly onto a small platform for docking boats. “It’s poetic, really. How something as vigorous as a New Orleans storm could create something so magnificent.”

“Maybe it was made for creation, rather than destruction? To make a chance to start anew, but just cast in a bad light?” Like how he’d been put into a bad light.

Her statement was metaphoric and he’d caught on. A slow smile graced his lips as he studied her face. Shadows and the reflections of the lights of the lamp posts glimmered along her facial features.

Feeling his gaze, she turned her head. His eyes were even more blue, if that was even possible. They held a fondness within them and there was no hint of negativity. He was content in that moment, at peace. In that moment, Caroline realized how much he loved this city. She could understand why. During the day, it was full of life, but the night life was even better, and for a vampire, that was perfect.

Klaus then flipped his hand over, offering his palm to her.

“Would you care for a dance, love?”

Her smile grew and didn’t waste time on thinking twice, instead taking his hand. He stepped closer to her, resting a hand on her hip as she placed her’s on his solid shoulder. Listening in on the musical rhythm, she’d noticed it’d transitioned into a slow and romantic strum upon the guitar. Sly hybrid. He knew exactly what he was doing, and oddly enough, she didn’t mind. Instead of berating him, she drifted closer to him and easing into the slow swaying he was leading. Once in a while he’d surprise her by stepping to the side, taking her with him. She’d laugh and he’d smirk.

Slowly, Klaus’ hand moved the edge of her coat to the side, placing it along the side of her torso. Her eyes return to his at the suave move and his eyes seem to assess her, seeing if his action was acceptable or not. It was. Caroline pulled into him, resting her head upon his shoulder, prompting him to fully curl his arm around her waist. Their movements continued in a synchronized rhythm, rocking softly side to side.

This was most certainly not like one of their other previous dances. No, this was much more intimate and Caroline didn’t think to stop it, enjoying herself in his protective arms. How was it that they’d gone from trading harsh words from dancing in a moonlit New Orleans street? Time. That is how. Caroline had now accepted him as the man he was, but that could only have been possible with time. No one truly understands a complicated man like Klaus Mikaelson without seeing the world as it really was and seeing how dark and complex it could be. The world isn’t just black and white. It’s not so literal. There are twists and turns, complications. The world is more complex than thought, and Klaus, more-so.

She has come to understand that there are no men like Klaus, there is just Klaus. There is no room for comparisons. He just is. He is one in infinity. He may have some qualities in common with others, but never will he be like any other person. He is not only unique, but also timeless. A man that is forever youthful but filled with knowledge. A man that cares, but for so very little. Klaus was right that one night. “So you’ve never felt the attraction that comes when someone who’s capable of doing terrible things for some reason only cares about you?” She’d masked her real feelings with wicked words that cut him deep. Back then, she feared her feelings for the man that she was supposed to hate, but now she needn’t fear.

Her head lifts from it’s position and seems to bring Klaus out of his own thoughts. Their eyes connect instantly and, in that moment, she feels so drawn into him. She can’t peg if it’s the pure intensity of his gaze or the amount of emotion within those beautiful blue orbs.

His lips parted when she’d leaned further into him, their faces now barely inches apart. He remains unmoving as she closes the distance between them, brushing her lips against hers. Their eyes drift shut and Caroline kisses him. His lips are as soft as she remembered them, their taste making her drunk. Klaus drops his hand from her’s and places it securely on her mid-back as he enclosed her bottom lip between his.

Caroline is pleasantly surprised by how gentle he is, the only time they’d kissed had been rushed and rough. The emotion that is being communicated by his lips make a shiver go down her spine and nearly make her knees weak.

They pull away slowly, blinking their eyes as they open them. A moment of silence passes through them, although it’s far from awkward.

“Here I was under the impression that you weren’t here for that.” He whispers and it comes out huskier than normal.

Her hand instinctively goes to the nape of his neck as she let out a breathy laugh, resting her forehead against his. “Seriously? I just kissed you and that’s the first thing you think of?”

His lips tug into a self-satisfied smirk, feeling triumphant in making that sweet laughter leave her delicious lips.

Klaus is about to speak when a light mist falls upon them.

“Perhaps, it’s best we return to the Abattoir before the real storm brews.”

She nods in agreement, hooking her arm in his once again.

On the walk back, Caroline asks him about his conversation with Marcel that morning. As they take each step, he explains the tensions between the vampire community and the French Quarter witches. Klaus gives her details on how they’ve been unruly and regularly breaking the treaty, due to a new and vengeful witch leader, they'd agreed to a few years prior that had kept the peace between all of the factions in the city. She’d found it reassuring when he told her how he’d been tempted to show her the above-ground cemetery but refused to take her into an area infested with witches. Always the protector.

They had arrived just in time, missing the large pouring droplets of rain by a few minutes. When he’d escorted her to her room for the end of the night, she smiled. She liked that he wasn’t expecting anything from her, in fact she doubted that he expected her to even take his arm while they walked. It made her decisions feel totally her own. Then, again, he’d specifically stated how he wished they would be. And she was grateful for it.

But, she didn’t want it to end yet. Call her whatever you wish for wanting to sleep with a man after one day together, but she felt right.

Klaus had been all too ready to leave her at her door, but that thought quickly disappeared when she reached up and kissed him passionately.

A groan slipped past his lips as she pushed her hand deep into his blonde hair, curling her knuckles around the soft strands. Their lips mesh together perfectly, and bodies pushing impossibly close. Klaus snuck his hand past her and turned the doorknob, pushing the door open with his foot, not willing to take his hands off of her for anything else. He walked her back through the door jam and kicked the door closed a little too roughly, making Caroline giggle against his lips. In response, he smiled into the next kiss and hoisted her up, making her wrap her legs around his torso. A small gasp left her lips when his mouth left hers to travel the length of her throat.

Delicate hands began to unbutton his shirt, once in a while grazing this skin deliciously.

His shirt was the first item of clothing to fall to the dark wood floor. After, her fingers find his belt. He allows her to unbuckle it and scratch her nails along the sides of his torso, the feeling causing a low groan to emit from his chest. Klaus pulls away from her neck as she looks down at him and takes the opportunity to capture her lips again. Smooth glides of his tongue make her moan and distract her as he carefully navigates them closer to the bed.

Once he feels the bed at his legs, he intends to drop her but her legs remain locked around him, pulling him down with her. His hands land on either side of her head, one knee digging into the mattress and the other foot still on the wooden floor. For a split second, their eyes connect and the lust seems to dissipate into a higher emotion.

“This isn’t me saying “yes” yet.”

He smiles, knowingly. “I know.” His head lowers to connect their lips.

“But, I’ll take what I can get.” He murmurs against her lips before capturing them again.

She lets out a small moan as his hands push her top up a few inches, revealing a small patch of milky skin. He pulls his lips away from hers and, instead, dips his head to her stomach. His soft lips leave kisses up her stomach and to the under part of her bra, while rolling her shirt up.

And that is how he undressed her; with a slowness and the expert gentleness of an experienced lover. The couple had let go of everything that was outside of that very room, ignoring the harsh pattering of the rain against the window and basking in their pleasure as they were brought to new and illuminating highs.

#klaroline #klaroline drabbles #drabble #vampire #vampire diaries #the originals #marcel gerard #elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson

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tfcocktails · 4 years

Text

Welcome to a mane event! Some might be wondering if I have any drinks to put hair on your chest. Today we are going to focus instead on ones that put hair around your neck. The color of this cocktail gives away its transformative nature. Tawny gold, coupled with a strong level of alcohol to juice, ensures the imbiber will find themselves feline fine. Without further ado, I present.

The Lion

Ingredients

-The juice of 1-2 oranges as desired

-1 shot rum, Captain Morgan’s Orange Creamsicle is amazing

- ½ shot Midori, the real stuff

- ¼ shot Grand Marnier

-Splash of Grenadine to even out the color

To gather these ingredients is to purrfect an exercise in specificity. Use your fine senses to track down a ripe, succulent orange. The juicier the better. One can never go wrong with Valencia. These things should have a good heft to them. If you can lift an orange in your paws like it is a balloon, pass. Do not worry about the fact you have paws out of the blue. Anyone who follows these recipes should have no problem rolling with the punches. I suggest stocking up on some quality oranges. You will want multiples, or perhaps desire to start your own pride. No judgement!

Secondly, we must discuss rum. You are looking for this specifically. Captain Morgan’s Orange Creamsicle rum. Trust your feline instincts, you need that cream. This stuff creates the most pleasing, nuclear orange cocktail the hue of Mufasa’s chest hair. If you want to make The Lion king, then do yourself a favor and get to hunting. This stuff sold out quickly here. Some lionesses must have been busy. Regardless, if one cannot find this delicious treat, simply pick your favorite white rum. The color will not be as nice, but I understand that times are tough.

Next on the list is Midori. Buy name brand. You can find it, and its worth every penny. The things one can do with this nuclear green liquor would astound. The perfect zip of melon will bring out the orange in anyone’s mane. This is a must have for any bar. It is the difference between being a house cat and a big cat. One’s flavor is mewling, the other bold and majestic! Be a big lion, buy the good stuff.

Now Grand Marnier is a bit expensive. However, you do not use a lot per drink, and often they sell tiny bottles. I suggest going big and buying one to last. This liquor is the key to making good Margaritas into exceptional ones. Often just a splash in any home mix will create something complex. Fun fact. Retractable claws make removing the wax seal extra easy! Who says transformation is always punishing.

Grenadine. Go buy some. It is at Walmart.

Now that everything has been gathered, we can break out our shaker and free the beast! Toss in a few cubes of ice, and measure twice. This drink needs to be shaken like crazy. If you do not feel the frostbite in your poor paw beans, then it is not shaken enough. What comes out of the bottle will astound you with the color. This is a more than sum of its parts drink. Now, take a sip!

Atta lion! Well, if you were not turning into one before, you certainly are now. There is no more delicious a trigger. The sweet orange and cream taste will linger on your tongue, washing away the alcoholic bite. You are going to have a hard time keeping your muzzle from going back for more. Just double the recipe if necessary! Give in to those primal urges, but drink responsibly. Hung over predators are dangerous.

Make sure you drink enough that the itching is not a problem. Fur growth is one thing but sprouting a mane quite another. Just brush it with your claws if things get a bit hairy. You do not want to try combing your mane out drunk, not the first time at least. Once you sober up in the morning, I am sure you will make a barber very happy! Trust me, you will enjoy the new style.

Fair warning. Consumption of The Lion can lead to dangerous desires for meat, hair care products, and the company of other lions. I suggest you do not resist and simply share the drink with friends. I am aware that the pandemic is going rampant. Therefore, it is your responsibility to ensure your pride comes from a safe social bubble. Wear a mask over your face when you go out on the prowl. Remember the circle of life. Respect the dangers and respect your fellows!

By this time, your tail should be growing in. I suggest investing in a nice apron for making these cocktails. You can stay safe for work and tear through less clothing! Fair warning, the splash of grenadine can lead to some wacky secondary shades of color in your tail fur. If it is the color of a strawberry, you may have used too much. However, again remember all felines are beautiful, except fascists.

It is probably about time for a cat nap if you have had as much of these as I have! Again: I am not responsible for how long you remain a lion after consuming this beverage. Nor do I accept any liability if you wind up living in a zoo, shredding your clothes, or accidentally becoming addicted to cat nip.

Oh yes! My garnish. I had considered trying to make something that looked like the sun from the opening of the Lion King. I used a simple peel of orange zest and nestled a bourbon-soaked cherry in the center. It looked great for a hot minute, but then it got a bit silly. I will toss my recipe for bourbon cherries later. (The secret is you use a lot of bourbon.)

As always give me a roar if you make the drink!

#transformation #cocktail #furry #recipes

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

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Poison and Wine || Morgan & Miriam

Just two undead gals being pals.

@meflemming

The hide, not yet treated, floated in the water like forgotten flotsam after a wreck, or perhaps a dead body. Morgan had only floated in the deep after coming back from the dead, where she could rise or sink at will. She couldn’t imagine how she might have looked if her curse had tried to drown her instead, if Remmy would have had to fish her out with a hook, or their bare hands, but maybe it would have been something like this. “And you say this helps you feel more alive?” She asked, curious underneath her snark. “Do you think this is like, a thing for people like us? Searching for life in more death?” she mused.”I’ve spent a lot of time this past month watching animals die and thinking about taxidermy.”

Hair pulled back and sleeves rolled up, Miriam added a few chemicals to the water so that the hide didn’t damage while it soaked. It’d be a while before it was ready to go into the liming process, but she had a few pieces in various states of treatment to show off to Morgan since the other woman had been curious enough about the process. “Well, perhaps it’s a thing for you, but this goes a bit further back for me,” Miriam said, lips quirked up. She washed her hands, explaining, “Leatherworking has been in my family since before we moved to White Crest several odd generations ago. Though, I will admit, the process of dying has become much more interesting. I suppose since I can’t do it again…” She raised an eyebrow. “Taxidermy, though? An interesting pursuit. A fun one, too, I’ve heard.”

“I didn’t take you as someone into tradition, Mim,” Morgan said. “You seemed like such a renegade. Still, I mean you’re heading this operation by yourself. And everything here is…” More than a little impressive. Even to her undead senses, the leather workshop was rich with the smell of creation, death into a different kind of life. The tools were heavy, plain, and simple. The tables, spacious. Everything had its place, its purpose, its balance. It looked like the most beautiful puzzle to Morgan. “Yeah, you can’t really watch your own death, you only remember the part where it hurt, and where it was quiet. Or--I mean, do you? Still remember?” She sped along with the other train of discussion, just in case it was too personal, even for the strange bond of undeath between them. “Yeah, well, my girlfriend dabbles and I spent a lot of time in the shed where she works. Playing with glass eyes and small specimens she’s done. It’s kinda neat, how they get suspended in time, sometimes a little prettier, a little happier looking than they were before. Some of them still look alive, if it weren’t for how still they are. It’s...interesting, I guess. I think skinning the critters is going to be the hardest part, if I ever try. I kinda go apeshit for some nice, raw, dead tissue.”

“I have a head for business and a talent for making things, dearest,” Miriam said breezily. “And I put more work into this business than my father ever did. I actually make things. He simply ran them.” She looked around her home workshop, everything neat and orderly and accounted for. Her father had it built for her after… well, after. No windows for sunlight to escape in, and it was connected to the house through the wine cellar. It was the perfect workspace for all sorts of work, and Miriam took more than a little pride in it. She grew quiet, trying to think of her death. The car wreck, the pain and the heat of it, was still fresh on her mind. “I remember it rather clearly, though I couldn’t even begin to tell you when the troubles of my life ended and the troubles of my unlife began. Someone, though, came along, and here we stand. Making leather.” She walked over to a piece that was closer to being finished, the hide already cured and turned into actual leather. She’d been toying around with it, a messenger bag, perhaps, tooling floral designs into the flaps of it. On the table in front of it was the designs sketched out more clearly onto paper, so she had a rough idea on what she was creating. Next to it was a sketch of a pair of heeled boots she thought about attempting, though it’d been quite some time since she’d attempted shoes. “It’s all a bit macabre how we make beautiful things out of death, isn’t it? Jackets, taxidermied animals, it was all living once and we… I don’t guess I could say that I’m doing much to preserve it, but.” She looked Morgan over. “You’re still very new to all of this. Control comes with experience. Until then… Perhaps you can help her with the less bloodied parts?”

Morgan hadn’t considered that Miriam’s work would be a pragmatic choice. But she’d never had anything passed down to her except her curse, nothing she could use or consider her own. She was used to using whatever she had on hand, though. And this, well, she could admit was a pretty good ‘whatever’ to lean on in a crisis. “Do you identify more as an artist or a craftsman?” She asked, hearing Miriam’s pride in doing the heavy work on her own. “Oh, yeah, I think...that’s the hope right now. I haven’t really got up the nerve to see her while she’s working, but I fiddle with the tools sometimes, the glass eyes. It’s weird, what pains people will take to make something fake look like it has a spark of life. Although, I think it’s all in the lid sculpting, from what I can tell. Even in people, it’s the skin that signals emotion, or the eyebrows,” She gestured to Miriam’s own expression with a smirk.

Morgan wandered over to the work in progress, ghosting her finger along the shapes tooled into the leather. “With leather I guess it’s different,” she said. “What do you think about, when you’re making it into something? What are you trying to capture?”

Considering the question, Miriam cocked her head to the side, considering her work. “I suppose it depends on who you ask. One of my teachers in college would have said an artist. Between my sketches, and I’ve dabbled in other mediums. But some businessmen I’ve worked with would say a craftsman. All the work that goes into the craft, the labor behind it. But you asked me.” She paused. “I’d say there’s an art to the craft. I can do practical. I made a saddle once. Someone recently asked me for a harness.” Though, that one seemed to be more for pleasure than practicality. “But I like detail, and adding artistic flair to my work. I want it to be personal. When I do something, I like it to be one of a kind. I have two employees for the shop in town. We all work everything by hand, though they rarely cure their own leather. I buy supplies for them, and they make it lovely. They make it into art. So, I suppose it’s all about the piece, really.” She smirked, allowing her face to be more expressive. “There’s your convoluted answer for the day. Though I’m sure I’ll have more. And people don’t want it to seem fake. They want it to seem preserved. A dear family pet isn’t really dead, only sleeping by the fire. They want the illusion of well-preserved life.”

Miriam looked over at the piece, moving a bit closer to Morgan. How strange; she was rarely around other members of the undead. It was almost as quiet as if she was alone in the room. Not a single heartbeat between the two of them. “Mostly I’m trying to capture what the buyer wants,” she said wryly. “But sometimes, I’m simply playing around. I think about what looks pretty. If it’s something I could stand to own myself or not. I might see a design in something and think I can do it better, so I make the attempt. The end result is either something that can be sold at an extremely high price or an extremely low one.”

“You’re gonna hate this, but putting my spin on a commission was my favorite part of the alchemy-crystal game,” Morgan said, looking thoughtfully at the sketches on the table, carefully picking up one sheet, then the other. “Every once in a while I got some really boring, overly-detailed request, usually ugly too. But some people would say, I want an amethyst mirror, I want a smoky quartz ring holder that reminds me of my cat’s left paw, and that was it. That middle space, where what they want becomes part of the challenge, or the fun, was the best. I don’t even know how many sketchbooks like these I threw out.” She brushed her hands on her skirt, as if dusting away the memory, the longing for those hours. “Whatever I do next will be the old-fashioned way, don’t worry,” she said wryly. “A set up like this would be nice. It feels lived-in, for lack of a better word. I bet you could pass a whole day here and not notice a thing. Or maybe that’s just me? Time has a way of getting slippery. I’m not good at coming home when I’m supposed to unless I set an alarm. If it wasn’t for everyone else, I don’t think I’d mind so much. Days and nights don’t mean as much when you don’t sleep. But I guess that’s different for you, you sleep a little, right?” She danced her fingers on the edge of the table, pressing down, testing how much of it she could feel. “Do you have anyone, that makes time matter for you?”

“You were certainly good with your craft,” Miriam said, only a bit begrudgingly. She had the decanter Morgan made in the house, filled with quality bourbon. She’d yet to actually drink any of it, but she stared at it sometimes, torn between being disgusted and impressed. “I’ve always liked it when customers give me that bit of creative license, the freedom to give them what they want without it being too specific.” She did raise a single eyebrow a bit at Morgan’s comment. “Morgan, dear, I know it’s not quite the same,” not as wholly wrong, “as it was before, but, for better or worse, you’ll always be using magic with whatever you apply yourself to for the rest of your days. There’s no more old-fashioned way.” She looked around, taking pride in her workshop, the one place that she felt at home. “I do pass the whole day in here occasionally. Sometimes several days. No eating, no sleeping, no noticing the time until it’s pointed out to me.” She shrugged, leaned against the workbench. Miriam didn’t slump; she was raised better than that, but she did grab a pencil and twirl it between her fingers, thoughtful. “I sleep?” She hated how it sounded like a question. “Not for long, and it’s not… I don’t particularly dream or anything. I suppose it’s just rest. The closest I got to sleeping lasted for several years and was closer to death, I think.” She watched Morgan’s fingers and the slight dent in the table they caused. She didn’t say anything about it, though, too focused on the question. Did she? No. She had acquaintances, occasional dalliances, but no one who made time matter. That had been Theo and his family and her family. They were all gone now. Now, all she had was revenge, and that didn’t make time matter; it just made it drag. “I have my work,” she said breezily, while not being specific as to what work she meant. “It’s no person, but it serves its purpose.”

“What do you mean no more old-fashioned way? Like, because--” Because she was dead? Or un-dead rather? Morgan hadn’t thought of it that way before. Obviously what had happened to her wasn’t the norm. Dead people, generally speaking, did not come back. The soft nothing space she had slept in was the end of all things. There were no more sunrises or lovers or rabbits any more than there was no more sleep, no more taste. And with magic dead inside her, she carried that betrayal. She hadn’t thought that it was keeping her alive, somehow. That it had seeped into her corpse and carried her through her existence. But if it wasn’t her heart, what else could she call it? “Because of what I am? W-what--” She looked down at her hands, pasty and dead and--still, somehow hers. “Does that ever bother you? That you’re a little magic too? That the same energy in the universe that I used to control is part of why you’re still here? I just-- I’ve never even thought of it that way before,” and now that she had, now that she could, her mouth quirked upwards in a small guilty smile of wonder. How could she never have asked herself that before? And how did Miriam know, and want to comfort her with that truth? “I just wonder how you could, much less say it so easy like that.” She looked at Miriam thoughtfully, and wondered if her loneliness had been part of why she’d felt drawn to her before. She’d lost so much, even before she died, and she knew pain well enough to become bent and twisted by it. How heavy must it be to do that? “You should let yourself have people, Miriam,” she said. “Sometimes they’re the only thing that makes a day mean anything.” She held her gaze for as long as she could. Morgan wasn’t sure if Miriam would listen, if she knew that she meant it, but she hoped. Morgan rubbed her hands on her skirt and reached under the table to pop the dents she’d made smooth again. “Is there, uh, anything else I can see?”

“On the nose,” Miriam said quietly. “We’re just dead things reformed by something impossible to truly understand until we’re no longer quite dead.” She’d spent hours thinking on it, fretting about it. What she was, what made her, or, rather, unmade her. She had, for the early years, clung desperately to the idea that she might have survived that wretched car crash. It wouldn’t have killed her. She would have been fine. She’d been resentful of others like her, particularly those who weren’t bound to the town or molded by white-hot revenge. Eventually, she’d come to terms with magic, what it was and what it was for. “I have no problem with magic, Morgan. I truly don’t. It’s a beautiful thing, you know. But it doesn’t belong with humans.” How humans perverted magic. They used it and twisted it into beautiful things, sometimes, like Morgan’s crystals, but also awful, wretched things. “Magic corrupts them all, in the end. Kills them. It killed us.” Miriam places a hand over her unbeating chest. “Only difference is that it keeps us alive as well.” She knew she wasn’t going to get Morgan to see her side. Spellcasters, even former ones, rarely did. Though, she supposed that was usually because the conversation was a bit one-sided; she talked, they screamed. It made it so hard for them to hear her. The last one had screamed until he couldn’t; he’d been about useless, unable to tell her about any local covens or even how to fix her White Crest-locked predicament. He left his shoe, too. She saw it out of the corner of her eye but was careful not to draw too much attention to it. Instead, she met Morgan’s eyes and smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. It’d do me good to have,” she paused, ruminated on the word, “friends. We are so useless alone.” She clapped her hands together and looked around. “There’s not too much else going on in here, but there’s a set of stairs and a tunnel that connect to the house’s wine cellar so I can avoid sunlight. My mother’s idea.” It was also so the staff wouldn’t see the family’s bloody secret lurking around in the dark, but still. It was a nice gesture. “I have a fairly decent collection of alcohol. It’s practically useless unless in large quantities, but it’s pretty to look at.”

“A car killed you, unless there’s more to the story. Not that you have to share either, but—” Morgan shrugged, mouth stretched in a sympathetic grimace. “But my family curse killed me. So you’re not wrong there. I just didn’t think about magic as bringing me back. The magic I did before didn’t really look like this.” She slid off her cuff and showed the scar near her wrist in the shape of Remmy’s mouth. “But you’re right. Nothing else to call it.” She tugged the cuff back down and tugged on her sleeve for good measure. “And I am, about having friends. I don’t know how much you believe me, but I mean it. You should get to have people, Miriam. It means a lot, to be known.” She smirked at the idea of the wine cellar. “Hey, at least you can get drunk at all. I’m down to appreciate the aesthetic though.” She wandered over to the walls, looking for the stairs and room in question. She’d thought there’d be more, but it was almost a relief to see that Miriam held on to some of her humanity, even with the side murder.

“A car headed to confront my husband, who was only using me for money so that he could fund his coven’s magic is what killed me,” Miriam said with a shrug. It was fine. She’d come to terms with it. Her jacket was on the back of the chair she was standing near. She stroked the sleeve gently. “See, it’s magic that’s keeping us alive. Not what human’s can practice, of course.” They were doomed if spellcasters learned how to do whatever bullshit it was that made vampires and zombies. Then again… Necromancers. Miriam fucking hated spellcasters. She smirked, though. “Well, I do thank you for that, Morgan. I should invest in some people. Friends.” She batted her eyelashes, knowing it probably wouldn’t work with Morgan having a girlfriend but not being one to turn down an opportunity. “We can be friends, I hope? Put all the silliness of the past behind us?” She led the way to the stairs, wondering if she should move the shoe but deciding against it. “Have you tried mixing alcohol with, I don’t know, organs? That might get you a little buzzed. Blood always helps me.”

“People aren’t investments,” Morgan childed mildly. “It doesn’t necessarily speak badly of you if things don’t ‘pay off’ the way you want. What speaks well of you is that you try anyway.” She answered Miriam’s fluttering lashes with a coy smile, a roll of her eyes. It was a little late to pretend there wasn’t something of a connection between them. Mriam understood what it meant to walk through death in a way like she did, and without a reason to fear her, Morgan found the return of a feeling she’d had before: a wish that Miriam would let someone ease her pain a little, that she would let go and allow herself a different way of being. “We can be friends, yeah,” she said gently. “And, tragically, no boozy combo I’ve tried yet seems to take the edge off. So that’s one point for vampires!” She followed Miriam towards the dark hall, trailing her fingers on the wall. She noticed a stray shoe strewn absently as she went, pointing to it as she asked, “Do you, uh, get a lot of company down here?”

“Nonsense,” Miriam said. “I was always taught that people were investments. Good ones, if you went about it the right way.” But she could see what Morgan was saying. Relationships were meant to be enjoyed. They were good things, usually. Unfortunately, when all was said and done, Miriam had done a bit too much to allow anyone to get too close. She didn’t regret any of the wretches she’d killed; why, she could barely even remember their faces. Sure, the first few times had been rough, and sure, she ached for something to fill the whole inside of her, the one that wasn’t desperate for revenge and blood. But she was quite good at pushing all of that aside, pretending she was whole. She was still a young vampire, after all, more years in the ground than she’d spent as a creature of the night. Perhaps she’d eventually get used to feeling like this. And, if not, well. She’d read that vampires could turn it all off, if they so desired. Whatever would happen to her if she couldn’t feel her anger and rage? Her thirst for revenge? She didn’t know. Maybe she’d find out. “Darling, you can still go out in the sun. I’d trade all the booze in the world for a nice day sunning down at Dark Score. But maybe we can find something out there for you.” Looking at the shoe, she gave Morgan a wink. “Well, I did say I liked to have dalliances, didn’t I?”

Morgan winced, feeling guilty for bemoaning her eternal sobriety when Miriam couldn’t even watch a sunrise. She couldn’t feel a sunburn or a winter chill anymore, but she could stand in the light and the snow and imagine what it was like. She could remember, at least for now. “What, you mean drinking away the undead existential crisis isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” She asked wryly. “That’s a fair point, you know,” she said. “More than. Sorry. Although, apparently there’s a giant squid in the lake that may or may not eat people, so maybe you’re not missing out on too much.” She really didn’t need to know anymore about Miriam’s dalliances, however charming calling them that sounded in her dated cadence. She scampered down the stairs after Miriam, ready to leave all of that behind and see the rest of her place.

“There’s nothing like a drunken bender every few weeks to destroy your liquor cabinet,” Miriam joked. Though, she wasn’t actually joking, seeing as how she could smell last week’s rage in the form of spilled wine all over the cellar. She sucked in her cheeks frowning. “I forgot about the mess down here. Those undead existential crises tend to end in a bit of broken glass.” She gave a short laugh, but she could clearly smell blood, human blood, underneath all the wine. And if she could, she figured Morgan could as well. “It’s nothing to apologize for, darling. And I have heard about the squid. See, I can’t recall anything like that happening back when I was alive.” Miriam really needed to learn to clean up after herself better. And, perhaps a wine cellar wasn’t the best place to torture a little witch bitch into giving her information on a coven she apparently didn’t know anything about. There’d been some spilled wine, spilled blood, and a new rosebush in the garden. But no cleaning of the wine cellar. It was a shame, too. In her rage she’d managed to break a few bottles of very pricey vintage. It was a waste on all fronts. She walked over to the stairwell leading to the house, a sigh on her lips as she stepped over the mess. Miriam gave Morgan a tight smile. “I’m sometimes unaware of my own strength and anger, these days.”

Maybe if she hadn’t died and made a passtime of stuffing her face with viscera, Morgan wouldn’t have been able to notice the difference between wine and bloodstains on sight. She might not have been able to sense some bits of dead skin, dead something, ground into the floor. But she was salivating in a way that made her clench up with undease. Why was she feeling the hunger pull? Why was there blood mixed with broken glass. Morgan stopped short, surveying the mess. She looked up at Miriam’s thin smile, too sharp to reach her eyes. She didn’t need to ask, she shouldn’t. The whole reason she had stayed away from Miriam for so long was because she knew what she was capable of. She didn’t just carry darkness in her, she had hatred. The kind of hatred that lead to a mess like this. Blood spread in so many directions couldn’t be from anything swift or easy. She backed away slowly. “Y-yeah, um...I can see that. That’s…” The smart thing to do would be to come up with some non threatening question to indicate she didn’t care or at least wasn’t going to push. But as she crept back up the way she came, eyes fixated on the stains she couldn’t un-see as blood she asked, “Who was that? How many...how many people do you bring down here?”

Miriam frowned. A part of her recognized that she should apologize, try to start this over and appeal to the tentative friendship that had been forming between the two of them since before Morgan even died. Miriam wouldn’t lie, she’d grown a bit fond of the witch even while she wanted to kill her, just as she’d always been fond of Theo’s sisters and friends. But Miriam had been raised to not apologize, even before she’d been turned, so she didn’t, couldn’t. Whatever. “It’s mostly just wine, you know,” she said as a way of explanation. But that wasn’t good enough, probably. Readjusted. She smiled, an attempt to soothe. Sometimes, Miriam forgot that she was more bite than bark. “Morgan, I would never harm you, you know. Not anymore. I have no reason to even try.” She adjusted her posture, trying to appear non threatening, but she could no more do that than get Morgan to forget their first encounter. So, she sighed and took a seat near the steps that led to her house. They were on opposite sides of the wine cellar, at an impasse. “I don’t ask for names,” she said. “And she didn’t have any information. Just a drifter, lucky bitch.” Really, Miriam couldn’t be to blame for killing the woman. She’d practically rubbed it in Miriam’s face that she could leave and perform magic while Miriam was stuck in this town as a living corpse. She closed her eyes and took a soothing breath that she didn’t need. “I don’t know. Not many. Wine cellars make terrible places to conduct business, you know. Too many breakable things that I don’t want broken.” She ran her finger through a dark, sticky substance near her heel.

“Miriam--” Morgan began, her voice soft and heavy with disappointment. What had she expected? Where was the surprise in any of this? She stopped, tugging on the roots of her hair as she tried to take in the cold, matter-of-fact way Miriam talked about her killings. It reminded her of Deirdre when she was at her worst, when she was the thing her mother wanted her to be. How could Miriam be this way in so short a time, after one heartbreak? Had she loved him that much, that nothing could exist for her besides that hurt? She let out a long sigh. “I know you wouldn’t, Miriam. I know that,” she said. “But I wish you would let this go. Or at least that I could understand how--why this is so important to you. If it’s so fulfilling, why do you have to turn yourself off like that.” She nodded in her direction, taking in all the signs, the hard lines, the heaviness of the apathy. It was somehow more horrible to look at than the blood. “I just...if it was really that worth it, I don’t think you would have to be like this about it. I think if you understood you can have something besides hating people who never hurt you…” What? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t see another version of Miriam hiding under the darkness, exactly. She knew she was lonely, driven, proud. Sometimes, under the weight of her death and her un-life, she could be funny. But Morgan didn’t know what else. She just wanted to believe it existed. Another breath. It was stupid, she didn’t need to breathe at all, but if she could float some air into her, maybe she could understand why she felt this upset over something she should have known all along.

There was a part of Miriam that wanted desperately for someone, anyone, to understand. She couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t from a lack of trying. After she’d killed Theo, when the high from it all had faded away, she’d cried until she couldn’t. Her mother had been the one to find her, a bloody mess, a shadow of a human being, sobbing over what was left of the husband she’d killed. Her mother, prim and proper, who had left the rearing of her daughter to her stern and more business-oriented husband when Miriam had been more interested in leathers than satins, didn’t know how to react to seeing her child the murderer. The monster. She never did. And yet she’d tried to comfort. And Miriam had let her, had thought this was a one and done situation. But there was no such thing. She couldn’t explain the hunger or rage that was only quieted by others’ screams. Morgan would certainly never understand it. Instead, Miriam kept her face impassive as she licked the blood and wine off her fingers, her eyes flashing red at the taste. She smiled, both sharp and sanguine. “Dearest, I’m only being myself.” She leaned back against the steps. “At least, what’s left of me.” Her hate must be fed to be tempered. She’d learned that the hard way. Miriam would stop if she only knew how.

Morgan lingered in the stairwell, wondering again what in all the earth she had been thinking of in coming here. Why she didn’t have her fill of Miriam from the last time. Had she really set aside the hatred in her eyes over a shared dread of eternity? Was the numbness, the pain between them really enough to scrub away the things she’d done? When she’d been alive, Miriam had sent her to the flipping hospital, of all things. She looked at the woman, resigned and stubborn on the ground. She was so lost she couldn’t even argue with Morgan, couldn’t even fight her.

Morgan crossed the room, stepping over the mess out of respect for the dead. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know sorry’s are stupid, but since I actually know how it is to wake up and feel chunks of yourself missing, I feel like I’m allowed. And--I just don’t think those empty spaces have to stay that way. Not for you, or for anyone else. There has to be something different, something better for you.” She bent down, closer than she had ever been to Miriam yet. She ghosted her fingers over Miriam’s hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I wish you would look for it some more,” she said. Then she turned back the way she’d come and left.

Not meaning to, Miriam flinched back from the tenderness of Morgan’s touch. She hadn’t experienced anything like that in so long. Not even the people she’d slept with recently had been tender. But she didn’t cry, for what it was worth. Didn’t allow tears to even begin to well in the corners of her eyes. But she felt worn around the edges and seen. It was fucking with her head a bit. Did Morgan seriously think she could be redeemed? After all that she’d done? There was no redemption for her, only vengeance and the final death that it would bring. This was what she knew, what she felt in the pit of her cold heart. But she couldn’t find the words to say it. Instead, she said, “Shut the door on the way out, sweetness.” It wasn’t loud, and it lacked her usual bravado. She stood up slowly, a phantom feeling in her bones, like her true age’s weariness was catching up to her, and she went in the opposite direction. She was going to have to clean up herself, it seemed. Didn’t matter. She had a bit more time on her hands than she planned for the evening, anyway.

#wickedswriting #poison and wine #wr miriam #wr chatzy #wr miriam chatzy

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henzboraz-blog · 4 years

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Bank Baccarat

sagame66

Baccarat is about the card match of BlackJack, but is even easier. Popular in Europe, this main difference between Baccarat and Blackjack is that not just can you wager on the player, but on the Bank or a Tie'. Players never bet on a Tie, as the odds are against you here, and if you keep that principle, all you need to do is decide who you think will win a hand, the Bank or the player. To begin a game, the decks are shuffled by the dealer and returns them then burns a number of cards equal to the value of the card from the shoe.

The Bank is now got by the player to the right of the Trader, and might hang on to it. Bets are placed before cards are received by each participant. Players receive closest to 9 wins, and 2 cards each. Simple huh? In case unless another player has, the first 2 cards dealt total and wins immediately. Betting on a Tie provides a 1 to 8 payoff, but as ties just occur perhaps one in 10 hands, we at www.supabets.com don't believe the odds justify the wager. To count this cards in Baccarat, this worth of Tens, Jacks, Queens and Kings are ZERO.

An Ace is 1, and cards from 2 into 9 count face worth. Sounds weird? Just keep in mind that you ignore the initial digit in any hand. This is why a Ten is worth 0. An eight plus a 4 makes 12, and if you ignore this initial digit, you've a 2! As you always ignore that initial digit, you cannot overdraw from Baccarat, making it a much more dynamic and fluid match than Blackjack.

It's over 4, 000 slot machines, many quality dining table games, a special high limit gambling hall for big time players that crave thrilling games played in main cities and Simulcast horse races for all those that like gambling on horse racing. This resort is top quality luxury offering restaurants and entertainment along with other amenities. That the Show Boat Casino Hotel has a first rate New Orleans Mardi Gras theme. It's 80 table games, 3, 500 slot machines and House of Blues Poker Room. There are Bourbon street scenes and stage in the gambling environment at this hotel. It's great dining, entertainment, and swimming pool and physical fitness center. Located on the board walk it's a nice location to take a stroll throughout the day. This tends to be an of the more popular Atlantic City Hotels - The Claridge Casino Hotel offers this smallest casino in Atlantic City.

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 4 years

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A View To A Winchester (Part 9)

Series Page

Summary: Julie’s starting a new life after divorce in a home with a very nice view.

A Dean X OFC story. I got this idea staring out the view of my home office window and thinking how nice it would be to have Dean Winchester to ogle.

Section Word Count: 4,982

Section Content: fluff, flirting, arousing, kissing, R-rated language, drinking, Suit!Dean, Dean’s heavy foot, Dean singing

~~~~~

On Wednesday, Julie and Kelly had a late work lunch at one of their favorite little spots off Market Street. The gyros there were fantastic. The restaurant’s tiny back patio, wedged tight and cramped amid the other brick buildings, was quirky enough to be a distraction from the daily doldrums of the downtown banking atmosphere. A thick aroma of spices and grease drifted out from the kitchen’s open window off the patio. An occasional pot clanged or the cook barked out a loud directive to someone.

“If I have to sit through one more of Leslie’s Zoom presentations about balance sheet protocol,” Kelly was still ranting about the meeting that made them have to wait for dolmades and spicy hummus.

Julie’s phone vibrated on her lunch tray atop the iron latticed table, shaking her silverware. She swiped away, still semi listening to Kelly, and dipped her gyro in the tzatziki sauce ordered on the side.

Hey, Jules.

Julie grinned at the screen and tapped. Hey, Dean. She chomped down on the gyro before the sauce made a mess. It was hard to grin and chew, but she found it difficult to not have a smile on her face most of this week. And the reason for her glee could be traced back to him.

“Oh. It’s him again.” Kelly shoveled more hummus into her mouth with a pita chip. A hand curtained her chewing and simultaneous commentary. “He’s like clockwork.” She tipped a wrist to stare at her smartwatch. “Yep. 1:30. He’s probably got an alarm on his phone to message you at this time every day.”

Julie couldn’t argue the fact that the man seemed to have a routine. He’d texted her every day since Saturday night. And it always seemed to start after 1:00.

“Aw, crap.” Kelly rose and grabbed her tray. “I’ve got to get that transaction detail report straightened out before the end of day. Shannon has dance practice tonight, I can’t stay late to finish it. Damn Leslie.”

Julie was about to get up.

“Finish lunch. I’ll see you back in the office.” Kelly nodded to Julie’s phone. “Give you two some privacy. No sexting.”

Julie shook her head and waved, then focused on his text.

I made a reservation at Makenzie’s for Friday. I hope seven is good.

Seven is perfect. Makenzie’s is kind of formal, though.

Yeah, as I was told by the hostess over the phone. No jeans. Suit jacket required.

You good with that?

What, you don’t think I own a jacket? I clean up pretty good.

I have no doubt about that.

His retort only took a couple seconds to display. But I can be pretty dirty, too.

Julie bit her lip and checked over her shoulder to make sure she was still the only person on the patio. The narrow interior of the restaurant was bubbling, not boiling, with activity. An overcast threat hanging in the sky over most of that day kept all the patrons inside. All but Julie.

Not gonna bite? Dean continued.

How dirty?

As filthy as you want.

They had skirted towards the edge of this type of texting all week. Kelly hadn’t been that far off in her deduction. Dangling innuendos had promised to plunge into descriptions of hundreds of sexual acts and favors. It never went over the edge, though. And that had driven Julie insane with thoughts of Dean doing everything she could think of to her.

Daydreaming had sidelined and confused any ability to respond. It was a minute before Dean typed back. Sorry, I didn’t even think to ask if you were busy working before laying it all out there.

Hey, at least you haven’t sent me any NSFW pics.

Hold on.... Dean punctuated the text with a wink emoji.

No! Dean!

She tapped the screen off and dropped the phone like a hot potato. Chewing on a mouthful of lamb gyro with her eyes shut wasn’t enough to distract her from the buzz a minute later. She swallowed, heart racing, and an itchy finger went to see what he’d sent.

It took a second to process what she was looking at. Baby Dean?

He’d taken a picture of a picture… a polaroid to be exact. The muted colors dated the photo by decades. As did the mint green shag carpet under a naked toddler, mooning the picture taker.

You were a cute baby.

Yeah? How about that ass?

Julie giggled. Chubby cheeks. With a hint of diaper rash.

Well, I can tell you that the rash has cleared up. Cheeks are still a nice handful, though.

I guess I’ll have to find out for myself, won’t I?

Sure as hell hope so. The bubbles hopped for a bit before he finally dropped another line. You alone right now?

Julie swallowed. Yeah.

I’ve been thinking about you. A lot. I’m getting a little worried.

The idea that she could be occupying this man’s thoughts as much as he was hers heated up her skin. A pulse in her core made her shift in the patio chair. He was going to turn her into a puddle just in time to return to work. She’d be slick the entire walk back if she didn’t stop in the restaurant’s bathroom and clean herself up.

I doubt you’re thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about you.

You’re making it hard for me to fall asleep.

She smiled and inserted a raised hand emoji.

And, when I do get to sleep, I’m waking up in the afternoon… after dreaming about you.

Dean’s texts had become confessional-like the past week. Perhaps the anonymity of messaging made him more comfortable to express things he wouldn’t in person or verbally? It had always been that way with her preferred method of communication. But, the weak spots in this man’s wall were weathered and flaking away in random spots, with no rhyme or reason.

She inserted a raised hand emoji again. Except I have to get up early for work. Why haven’t you come over to see me then, if I’m taking up all this time?

Told you the other night, I don’t trust myself to stop once things get past a certain point.

That did it. Her flood gates had officially opened down below.

He continued. So, consider this a warning. I won’t likely adhere to that three-date rule before I have my way with you. I never have followed rules that don’t make sense much.

Julie grinned. We’ll get you off on a technicality. We can say we’ve already had three dates. Dinner on the patio. The cake we shared at your place. Bourbon and pie at mine.

You’ll get me off? Surprised emoji.

Julie giggled, then reddened when she turned and noticed a twink busboy cleaning up the only other table on the patio. She straightened up in her seat and tried to act how she thought a forty-year-old woman should in public.

Can’t wait. Dean offered a wink emoji. Listen, I’ll be away for a couple days. But back in time for our date. I won’t miss it.

I’ve been told I can slap you if you do.

Sweetheart, you can even spank me if I do.

~~~~~

“Dammit, Leslie.” That was Julie’s response to the distant doorbell ring drifting up the stairs to her bedroom. She was gliding on lipstick when the sound made her hand jump. The berry red careened over the lip liner she had spent minutes applying with the utmost precision.

Her nose wrinkled at the current state of her mouth. She cursed and grabbed her phone, dialing Dean’s number. Her stomach knotted up tight.

“Hey.” The one word greeting from Dean melted her insides. She hadn’t heard that deep voice, or the gritty undertone, in almost a week.

“H-hey.” She frowned at her mirrored reflection. The foundation did nothing to hide the red heat blooming over her skin. “Is that you at the door?”

“Yeah. Are you alright?” His voice held concern. “Don’t tell me you aren’t coming out and I have to break the door down?”

She laughed. God, why is that such a turn on? “No. I’m just running late. Work took longer than I expected… I had back to back meetings all day.”

“Take your time, I’ll wait in the car.”

“Makenzie’s might not wait, though, if we’re late.”

“Let me worry about the reservations. You go get dolled up, doll.”

It was an antiquated and condescending term by today’s standards. Yet, hearing that endearment from his mouth made her grin like a schoolgirl. “Okay.”

“Let me know when you’re coming down.” He ended the call.

It took another fifteen minutes on Julie’s end to get “dolled up.” Her indecision annoyed her since she’d gotten home. Nothing had gone as planned the entire day. Plus, the little black dress she thought she’d wear had a grease stain on it upon closer inspection. She had to go with a flowy black skirt and off the shoulder, three-quarter, scarlet red sleeve top. The combo hit her at the waist in what she considered an unflattering manner. A belt only seemed to make it worse so she kept accessories to a minimum.

She raised her hands in defeat at the top to toe look in the full-length mirror. At least she had some confidence in her choice to slip on a pair of classy black heels. She traipsed down the stairs. Upon a second check, everything she needed for the evening was in her clutch. A meditative inhale and exhale with closed eyes prepared her to see Dean. Finally ready, she walked out the front door and locked up behind her.

The Impala idled in the driveway. Rays from the setting sun hung low in the sky and sparked off the car’s blacktop. Baby was literally glowing. The white halo effect obscured much of Julie’s view around the car. She walked down the path to the driveway, dropping keys into her clutch.

A squeak and slam of the front door rattled in her ears. “Hey. I thought you were going to let me know when you came down.” She heard his voice. “Was going to do the proper date thing and meet you at the front door.” His figure emerged from the light and bounded up the two path steps like he was the lightest thing ever to stand on two feet. She halted at the sight.

She noticed the brown dress boots first as they settled on the concrete. Their beautiful worn quality juxtaposed the slim tan khakis immodestly advertising the pronounced curve of his bowlegs. Her gaze dared to travel upwards. Her breath hitched. The man was wearing a well-tailored navy-blue blazer. The jacket enunciated every damn syllable of his perfect torso, from the ever so slight taper of his waist to the broadness and sharp angles of his shoulders, to the forearms and biceps straining against the fabric. A pale blue button-down shirt, with a micro checkered pattern peeked out from under the fastened blazer. He dared to leave two of the top shirt buttons undone. The sharp, crisp collar rested around his muscled neck. His hair was parted in a more formal style. He’d even taken a razor to his scruff and was clean shaven. But every other aspect was the enticing and irresistible Dean Winchester she had been blessed to experience.

He strolled up with a grin plastered on his face. “Worth the wait.” He added, upon similar ogling of her figure. He had the audacity to produce a jaw clench under those smooth cheeks along with everything else he was throwing at her.

Her mouth opened, its interior the only dry thing about her body at that moment. She squeaked out, “Thanks.”

He nodded to the car. “Come on and meet my girl.”

Julie smiled and followed him down the path. Her gaze held on the curve of his ass, wrapped in khaki, teasing her from under the hem of his blazer. A waft of his cologne breezed past. Jesus, is that scent called ‘Fuck Me Right Here And Now’?

He opened and held the passenger side door. His fingers clenched the door’s frame, a bit tighter, when she skirted past him. “You smell nice.”

She smiled, all intelligence drained from her brain. Only instinct and arousal remained. “You too.” The bench seat dipped when she sat. A coil poked from under the massive cushion into an ass cheek. Once she got situated, he closed the door with a firm click and wandered around the large corners of the vehicle. It seemed like an eternity. Her hand searched for an expected belt up by her shoulder. When Dean finally joined her in the interior, she got a better idea of the expansiveness. They were feet away from each other and he dangled his legs open in a comfortable posture. He smiled. “What are you doing?”

“Seat belt?” she questioned.

“Oh.” He scooted over and dug a hand into the cushion crevice by her ass. His stare held hers. Fingers took their time in their search and his other hand swiped over her waist. He grazed the curve of her hip and whispered, “Lap belts.”

She swallowed and heard the click.

His hands retreated, but his stare didn’t. “There. Not goin’ anywhere.” He moved back to his original position. “Ready?” He didn’t wait for an answer and shifted into reverse, rolling down the driveway.

She was going to ask if he was going to put on his own seatbelt, then realized Dean Winchester probably didn’t. She filed that away for a discussion for another time if… If what? You think you might be able to convince this man to wear a seatbelt? His hands caressed the gears and steering wheel like Baby was a well-known lover. I’m getting jealous of a car.

“I’m gonna have to go a little faster than I was intending, if we want to make it in time for our reservation.” He launched up the neighborhood lane.

Julie reacted to the push and pull of the direction change. “It’s ten of seven.” She offered. “Twenty minutes to get there, when there isn’t traffic.”

The right side of his mouth arched up. “Trust me.”

~~~~~

Dean was none too pleased about the valet service that was a requirement at Makenzie’s. “Don’t get a mark on her.” He narrowed his eyes at the young man with the high-pitched voice that he had to relinquish Baby over to.

They had made it in time for the reservation, with a minute to spare. The entire ride was a blur of landscape and roadway. Julie had struggled to find some part of the car to clutch during those nine heart stopping minutes.

The dinner had gone by in a blur as well. His company was wonderful, easy and unassuming. And his presence hypnotized her across the candlelight and white cotton cloth draping their table. He laughed at the salad placed in front of him prior to the main course, with its curled carrots and frisee lettuce, calling it rabbit food. But there was nothing but reverence and admiration for the large glass of ale, massive t-bone, baked potato, and green beans. He moaned quite a bit during dinner, smirking every time. He knew exactly what he was doing.

The one weird coincidence had been meeting the talkative dog walker from the park from a couple weeks ago. Ina was their water pourer, along with the three other servers it took for the entire meal. She smiled and reintroduced herself to Julie. Her face was taken aback by Dean, as Julie was now getting used to that reaction. They chit chatted a bit here and there throughout the meal. Dean offered her a killer smile, but not much else in terms of information.

She noted the stares and gazes that followed the man strolling behind her as they left. When Baby rolled up beside them Dean opened the door for Julie again and stuffed a bill in the kid’s hand. “I’ll be back if there’s a scratch.” He threatened. Julie frowned at the fear on the boy’s face. But she didn’t pay him much thought after that. The two glasses of wine had mellowed her. The fire in her core continued to get stoked by Dean, however.

Dean appeared comfy and content sliding into the driver’s seat, with his unbuttoned blazer and his collar a tad askew. He’d downed a good two pints over the last hour and a half. “That was nice.” He commented as he drove out of the parking lot. The streetlights glowed above them in the dark.

Julie nodded. “It was. Thank you.”

“Night’s not over. May not want to thank me just yet.” He shifted in his seat taking the turn out into the avenue. He drove at a respectable speed now, adhering to the limit. Restaurants littering the streets lit up Julie’s view from the passenger window. Her eyes returned to stare at him, though. Blue light danced over the contours and slopes of his face and that devastating figure. He looked straight out of a noir film.

At a red light, he leaned over, flipping open the glove box with a tap and rifling through it with his fingers. He pulled out a cassette tape, punched the compartment closed, then eased the tape into the player. He immediately hit the rewind button.

“So, that crash course in classic rock...” His fingers turned the dial up as he took the ramp onto the highway. “Let’s see what we’ve got here to school you on.” He rolled down his window, the night air blowing into the car as his speed picked up for the merge. He cocked his head quick to the left to gauge his opportunity to change lanes and slid over with ease. His finger pressed the play button, then hovered over the volume in wait. Eyes narrowed in anticipation. He gave her a quick glance and grinned before his eyes went back to the highway in front of them.

Julie watched his smile light up in the grey. The volume went up even more. Strums from an acoustic guitar filled the cabin. He bellowed over the rush of wind and the music. “Ah, yes. This, young lady, is Led Zeppelin.” She grinned at his use of the word young. “Robert Plant, Jimmy Page, John Bonham. And, just so you know, on any given day, this,” he pointed to the tape player, “is probably my favorite song.”

His fingers tapped on the curves of the steering wheel to the rhythm. Large in diameter with narrow bars, the Impala’s steering wheel was wrapped in an old school leather cover. Julie remembered watching her dad wrap the steering wheel of his Mustang when she was little with a similar one. People who took that kind of time with their car loved them on a whole other level. Dean loved his car.

His head bobbed and he mouthed the lyrics in silence. And it was beautiful to behold.

*** For now I smell the rain

And with it pain

And it's headed my way

Ah, sometimes I grow so tired

He pointed to the tape deck again and raised his brows for emphasis. “Here’s Page coming in with the electric guitar.” He hopped a bit in his seat, driving down the road without a care.

But I know I've got one thing I got to do

Ramble on

And now's the time, the time is now

To sing my song

I'm goin' 'round the world, I got to find my girl

He flashed a glance over at her after that line and smiled, wrecking her again.

And though our health we drank a thousand times

It's time to ramble on

A guitar solo took him somewhere else. As the lyrics continued and Julie listened with more intent, she heard mention of Mordor and Gollum. She wanted to ask him about the “Lord of the Rings” reference but didn’t want to break the spell and complete bliss he was under.

Ain't nothing I can do, no

I guess I keep on rambling

I'm gonna, yeah, yeah, yeah

Sing my song (I gotta find my baby)

With a sudden and unexpected tug, he grabbed at her hand in the shadows. He leaned over and brushed his lips over her knuckles, then settled with his hold on her, tight and secure, back on the bench between them. With one hand on the wheel, he drove and fearlessly started to sing along. It wasn’t in tune, but it was pure and flowed with an ease of having done it a thousand times. He tapped her hand into the cushion.

I gotta ramble on, sing my song

Gotta work my way around the world baby, baby

Ramble on, yeah

Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, my baby

The track faded out and Dean turned to stare at her reaction. “What’d you think? Awesome right?” He nodded.

“Awesome.” She repeated and ran her thumb along a callous on his hand.

He squeezed back at the gesture, then retreated from the hold. The stereo volume went down. Hands switched on the wheel so he could roll up the window. “Sorry, I get a little carried away when it comes to Zeppelin.”

She shook her head. “Don’t ever apologize for allowing yourself to enjoy something that much.” She smiled. “The performance wasn’t bad.”

“Being sweet. Performance sucked.” Dean cleared his throat and gripped the wheel with both hands. “Only a couple constants in my life. No matter what, I could always just pop in a tape and drive.” He stared hard at the road.

Julie sat with him in comfortable silence for another song. He provided no commentary or details on the tune. They were both along for the melody and the drive. A cowboy riding his sturdy, trusty steed. Julie grinned to herself. He took a familiar exit ramp off the highway. She knew they’d be home soon. Home. Mine? His? Any effect the wine had mellowing her disappeared in a moment. The reality of what might be transpiring the rest of the night sped up her heart. The few bars of a well-known song began.

Julie giggled. “Journey? Is that classic rock? Cause I know Journey.”

Dean smiled and seesawed with his hand. “Debatable. A guilty pleasure, and very catchy. I’ve found this song on every jukebox in every bar I’ve stepped into. It caters to the lowest common denominator.”

“Drunks with no taste in music?”

He grinned. “People wanting to have a good time and forget their troubles. And, you know you’re going to hear this multiple times if you do a pub crawl.”

Julie nodded. “Plenty of experience with bars in my college years so I’m very well versed in Journey.”

He raised a brow and turned the volume back up. “Oh, yeah?”

She tapped fingers on her skirt to the beat. “Yep. Who hasn’t sung this offkey with hundreds of random strangers?”

They hummed along for the first couple verses. By the time the midnight train was going anywhere, Julie got the nerve to sing along with Steve Perry. Dean smiled in appreciation and then accompanied her when things went on and on, and on, and on. He let go of the wheel on a straight stretch of road to air guitar before turning into the neighborhood. A late-night dog walker that Julie recognized got an earful of them both belting out Don’t Stop Believin’ as Dean swerved past. The song, on cue, faded out when Dean pulled into her driveway.

Dean turned off Baby’s engine. “Definitely better when you sing it with someone.” His smile was stuck on full blast as Julie was sure hers was.

She nodded to the front door. “Coming in?”

“Oh, you know I am.” He grinned ear to ear now. Julie grabbed the door handle. “Ah, wait.” He ejected himself out of the car and jogged around the Impala. From the other side of the open door, he watched Julie rise from her seat. “Trying to score as many brownie points as I can.”

“We already had dessert at the restaurant. Still hungry?” Julie took the lead.

He shook his head, closing the car door, then following her up the path. “You’re dangling the carrot right in front of me with these comments.” He added.

She stopped abrupt in the path and stared over her shoulder. His pace broke and she definitely caught him checking out her ass that time. “Really? Coming from you? Dangling the carrot?” She grinned.

His shoulder tipped up.

She sighed. After what felt like forever fumbling, she unlocked the door and gained entry. Julie dropped her bag and keys on the telephone table. Without being asked, Dean peeled off his suit jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. He scooted past her in the hallway and wandered into the living room. Fingers worked at the cuff buttons on his shirt. Julie swallowed. Jesus, he’s not wasting any time. Getting right to work. “D-do you want some bourbon?”

He turned, rolling up a sleeve so it hit just under his elbow. “Sure.”

“Be right back.” This is happening.

She expected him splayed out on the couch when she returned with the two glasses. Instead, he stood peeking out the curtains into the backyard. He turned to her. “You really do have a nice view into my yard.” His outstretched hand grabbed the glass and toasted hers before sipping.

He’d gone full Dean, rolling up both sleeves, untucking and unbuttoning the checkered shirt to reveal a white tank. “You should see the view from my office.” She stated, paying more attention to his tongue licking his bourbon coated lips rather than heeding what spilled out of hers.

“Okay.” He agreed.

“Hm?”

“Well, I turned down a tour the first time it was offered.”

“Okay.” She took a sip and debated where to start.

Dean smiled. “Taste of bourbon growing on you?”

“I like it with you.” God, cheese much?

He began to walk toward her, forcing her to make a decision on her indecision.

She tapped her heels on the wood floor. Hugging the back of the armchair she waved a hand in the air. “I think you’ve seen most of the first floor already.”

He nodded and pointed past her. “Kitchen, dining room, and bathroom are that way.”

“Down the hall past the bathroom is the guest room.”

He smiled. “Brigida uses that when she stays over?”

“Yep.”

His gaze lifted to the ceiling. “So, your office is upstairs? And, your bedroom?” That grin and those eyes were telepathically transmitting nasty notions into Julie’s brain.

“Uh-huh.”

He downed the rest of the bourbon with a dramatic flair in one slow gulp, showcasing his Adam’s apple. It took only one long stride for him to stand in front of her. “Gonna finish your drink?”

A small sip was all she could manage, leaving some bourbon. His warm fingers wrapped around her grip. Prying the glass from her hand, he then finished her pour and placed their glasses on a side table. “After you.” He motioned to the stairs, a softer smile on his lips now.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Her heels echoed up the steps to the first landing. She clung to the rail for dear life and continued upwards. The creaking floorboards under his boots, close behind, amplified in her buzzing ears. One of her table lamps had timed on hours ago at the top of the stairs in the spacious landing.

He inspected the surroundings in the warm light and met her in the middle of the floor atop a circular area rug.

“This is kind of my little loft. Closet over there.” She cleared her throat. “Behind you is my office slash other guest room.”

Dean did a quick 180 and strolled through the darkened doorway. In a second, he’d found the light switch. “Ah. Wow, it really is very... officey.” She smiled at the description and wandered in behind him. He looked with his hands as well as his eyes, touching the spine of random books on the bookshelf and tapping a key or two on the keyboard. When the lock screen appeared, he tisked. “Not gonna make it easy for me to snoop with a password.” He strolled over to the large cork board mounted on the wall, filled with photos.

Julie provided an explanation without being asked. “That has been with me for the past twenty or so years. Not much has changed on it since the turn of the century.”

His eyes squinted and he leaned in closer, ducking and rising to take in all of the randomness of her younger years. Concert ticket stubs and postcards scattered amid celebrity crush pinups, childhood moments and class photos. He smiled and pointed at one picture. “That you?”

Julie walked to his right and confirmed. “Yep.”

“A bowl haircut, huh?” He chuckled.

“I was six. Not like I had much say.”

“You were a cute kid.”

She was about to thank him when he turned to the windows with the shades drawn. “So, the view is pretty great from here?”

“It is.”

He leaned against the front of one couch cushion, then propped a knee upon it. He grabbed at one of the strings and pulled. He frowned at the darkness revealed. “Can’t see much now.”

“You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

Dean released the cord. The shade dropped back in position. Without warning, he eased from the couch lean and shuffled over to halt inches in front of her. Big hands cupped under her chin and tilted her face up and up. So damn tall. She had no choice but to meet his stare. His words came out serious and slow. “I’m going to kiss you now, Julie.”

~~~~~

*** Lyrics are from "Ramble On" by Led Zeppelin - co-written by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant

Part 10

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#dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x ofc #spnfanficpond #dean winchester fluff #spn fanfic series #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction

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dogbearinggifts · 5 years

Text

Little Tyrants, Chapter Two: Worth the Whiskey

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: When Vanya was four, Reginald Hargreeves visited her cell. But not to take her powers away. Just to let her know he could. Just to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her powers were a privilege he could rescind should she ever choose not to fall in line.

Years later, the old man is dead—and the last sibling Vanya wants to see has reappeared in the Academy courtyard.

This work is also available on AO3.

Prologue Chapter One

Author’s note: Sorry this chapter took so long, everyone. I’d hoped to update more frequently, but life intervened and…well, here we are. If you’d like to read the asks that inspired this story, you can find them here and here, as well as under the tags “vanya keeps her powers au” and “five returns as a kid au.”

This chapter title is adapted from Cole Swindell’s song “Ain’t Worth the Whiskey.”

***********

“You okay here?”

“Yeah.”

Luther opened his arms slightly, and Five slid to the floor. Klaus had never considered, in the sixteen years he’d been missing, just how small Five was. Not that the fact itself had eluded him—old pictures resurfaced in tabloids or narrative magazines from time to time, proving they’d all been a hell of a lot shorter back when they were still in Dad’s clutches—but it hadn’t struck him as something worth noticing when he’d stumbled into the courtyard. Now, watching him glance around in bewilderment beside a twin nearly twice his height, Klaus couldn’t think about much else.

“Where’s Mom?” Luther asked. “Thought you were gonna get her.”

“I—” The rest of Diego’s retort collapsed when he saw who was—and wasn’t—in the kitchen. “Shit. Mom!”

They’d lost Allison somewhere between the courtyard and the kitchen, when she’d announced her intent to get some towels. Luther had carried Five in, cradled in his arms lest walking worsen whatever condition led him to collapse in the courtyard. Diego jogged out of the kitchen, retracing their steps through the corridor in search of the one who could provide some guidance. Klaus stood by the sink and racked his brain for something, anything he could say.

Five wasn’t wearing his Academy uniform. Not unexpected—he’d never been fond of those starched collars and plaid sweater vests—but he’d always joked about replacing that uniform with everything from jeans and a T-shirt to a tuxedo paired with evening gloves and a billowing cape. Maybe it was the leftover high or the cognac haze clouding his thoughts, but Klaus couldn’t conjure a single reason why Five might have paired scuffed boots and a heavy jacket with sturdy jeans and a pair of aviator-style goggles around his neck.

“You, uh, you need anything?” Luther asked.

Five shrugged. To say he had always smiled before his disappearance would be a misstatement. He’d frowned. He’d grouched. He’d cried for the minute or two it took to realize he’d been seen, the second or two it took for his face to twist and for him to slink off down the hall. But there had always been a glimmer of mischief behind those eyes, a flicker within his expression. Whether harsh with fury or gentle with laughter, Klaus couldn’t recall a time when that light had gone out.

Until now.

“Klaus, could you get him some water?”

Somewhere toward the back of his mind, a flicker of irritation sparked to life. Luther had come up with the idea. Luther knew what he wanted done. Luther could get the damn water himself. But the annoyance was dim to begin with, and died with another glance at Five dripping rainwater onto the tile. Without a word, Klaus went to the cupboard and retrieved a glass.

Allison brushed past before the glass was completely full; and by the time he turned around, Five was reaching for a towel from the stack Allison carried. She plucked one and shook it out as though to dry him off herself; then, with a small and apologetic smile, she placed it in Five’s hands. Klaus set the glass on the table, fought again for something to say, gave up and snagged a towel instead.

He needed another drink.

He couldn’t carry Five up to his room or calm him with four small words. He couldn’t run a few tests and determine what had happened and what Five needed to recover, and he wasn’t the one headed off to corral the one who could chart a course for the healing process. Getting a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water was about the extent of Klaus’ contributions, and he’d done that already. No one would notice if he headed upstairs and went to town on the liquor cabinet. Allison might say something if he popped a pill or two right then and there, but she wouldn’t cause a scene. It would be expected from him.

The longer he watched Five sip from the glass he’d poured, the more he needed to leave. The longer he watched, the less he wanted to leave.

“Where’s Vanya?”

That was from Luther, naturally. Klaus couldn’t say when or how he’d forgotten Vanya’s feelings toward her family, but maybe the Moon erased memories. “Where do you think she is?”

“I don’t know, Klaus. That’s why I asked.”

Klaus hadn’t seen her separate from their group, wasn’t sure if she’d split off before or after Allison had gone off for towels, but the relative peace in the kitchen should have been enough to let Luther know her absence was not to be questioned. “Well, if we’re lucky, maybe she’ll just stay…wherever the hell she is. Oh! You think we could camp out down here? Roast some marshmallows, sing a couple songs? O Vanya, please stay away from us….”

Impromptu performances like that tended to earn flat looks and rolled eyes from most of his siblings, and threats from Vanya, but he’d hoped it might raise at least a small smile from Five. No dice. Five looked down into his glass, holding it in both hands, without so much as a hint of a smile or a chuckle.

Nice going. Allison didn’t say it. She didn’t need to, with the amount of impatience and contempt she crammed into that one glance. He’d messed up, said exactly the wrong thing at just the wrong time, and there was no recovering, no going back.

Of course, he’d known as much before that look of hers. No need to drive it home with the glare of death.

“Well, fine.” Klaus stepped forward, opening a cupboard. A canister of rolled oats was the first thing he saw, and so a canister of rolled oats was what he grabbed. “If you fine folks don’t appreciate good performance art like an audience with sense, I shall take my leave.”

Giving his coat the most dramatic swish he could manage, Klaus strode out the door.

*********

If liquor preference was a personality trait, then Dad’s taste was one of his few redeeming qualities.

Like most objects in the Academy, Dad’s alcohol supply was less an amassing of ingredients and more of a collection. Port and sherry shared a shelf with more varieties of red wine than Vanya cared to count, more types of white than she wanted to taste. Not that she opposed wine on principle, but the sight of so many bottles and so many shades, each promising a different flavor and composition and all the other things wine junkies raved about, brought a twinge of embarrassment when she remembered the five-gallon box she’d purchased because it was red and she’d bought white last time.

But then, nobody could tell the difference between cheap and expensive wine anyway. She wasn’t unrefined. Just honest.

Vanya turned from the wines and toward those promising a shorter path toward inebriation. A half-empty bottle of tequila and a nearly full bottle of mezcal sat a few inches from peppermint schnapps and two different types of rum. Closer to her sat scotches and bourbons nestled beside the whiskeys.

Every label bore the name of a place she knew. Scotland. Jalisco. Kentucky. Each name conjured up a different image, borrowed from a different mission with a different objective and outcome. Dad had sent her and she’d gone in, done what the situation demanded of her, and left with snatches of scenery she liked and memories she didn’t. Each city had its own personality, but there came a point when they blended into each other, leaving her uncertain whether El Paso or Tucson had the hotel with a mosaic tile entrance, or if it was Paris or Amsterdam with the houses she liked. Glances through the sort of books ordinary people kept on their coffee tables cleared a few things up, but there were better things to do than relive what only Dad would call the glory days.

Behind the Canadian whiskeys, and between those boasting an origin in Tennessee, was a single bottle announcing itself as Wyoming Whiskey in no-nonsense letters. After a moment’s study, Vanya poured herself a glass. If she was going to try and erode unwanted memories old and new, a drink from a place she’d never visited seemed the best way to start.

Footsteps approached sometime after the end of the first drink and the beginning of the second. Vanya downed the rest in a few quick swallows. If it was Diego coming to tell her off for not being there for Five, she’d need to steel herself; if it was Five himself, she’d need to clear her glass for another pour.

Klaus rounded a corner, skirt swishing about his ankles as he came to a halt. It had been some months since she’d seen him, and then out in the open and at a distance. Perhaps that was why he seemed thinner than she remembered, collarbone protruding above his bare chest, feathered cuffs dangling over too-slender wrists. He’d tucked an open canister of rolled oats into the crook of one arm; a few oats slipped from his clenched fist and fluttered to the floor. He let out a laugh when he saw her, as though she’d made a joke. As though he were happy to see her.

Vanya added twice the recommended amount to her glass.

“Well, well, well.” He let his handful of oats fall back into the canister and sauntered forward—she couldn’t tell if he was staggering or not—and set the oats on the counter. “And here I thought I was the only one breaking into Dear Old Dad’s liquor cabinet.”

Vanya sniffed. Klaus’ presence demanded she down the whole glass in one swallow, pain be damned, but she settled for a sip. “I’m not breaking into anything. It’s right out in the open.”

Klaus had a way of moving like a slinky, swaying one direction only to fold himself around a corner and past whatever obstructed his path. In one stride, maybe two, he was behind the bar, hand on a bottle of bourbon. “Amazing there’s anything left.”

“Yeah, with you around.”

Within seconds, Klaus’ glass held more bourbon than it should have. Not quite as much as hers—but if he’d had to cope with someone like him, he’d have ditched the glass and drank straight from the bottle. “Oh, right, ‘cause I’m the one who ran up here to get drunk soon as everybody was in the house.”

“And you were completely sober when I got here.”

There was that laugh again, the infuriating giggle that made her want to send a bottle of vodka crashing onto his head. “You really think I’m gonna do a family reunion without a little help?” He took a swallow of bourbon. “Figured you’d get it.”

Vanya’s fingers tightened on the glass. She wasn’t like him. This world he’d constructed in his head, where she was just a shadow of what he was—it was a fantasy. He spent his days wandering the streets or bouncing from rehab to rehab. She worked, and the money she brought in went toward her apartment, her clothes, her food. She spent her days coaching kids through basic chords, cooking and cleaning, playing in the city’s orchestra. She wouldn’t have earned first chair if she’d devoted what remained of her life to the next fix.

A high, sharp noise commanded her attention. Looking took only a second, but by the time she did, the glass had cracked beneath her fingers, webs of spindly lines spreading out and up. Another side effect of Klaus’ presence.

“I think you should leave now.”

Klaus downed half his liquor in one swallow, planting the glass firmly on the counter. A few drops came close to splashing out, but the counter remained dry. “I think you need another drink, if you’re just gonna get your panties in a twist over everything.”

He was needling her, poking her skin over and over until he found what caused the most pain. For what, she couldn't say. Perhaps he was so enamored with Five’s return that he simply could not comprehend why she hadn’t followed to the kitchen to wait on him hand and foot. Perhaps he was still angry over her last refusal to let him crash at her place. That had been years ago, but Klaus was just the sort to hold a grudge for that long.

She could lash back, with words or force. A few sharp retorts already came to mind, but they might not land the way they should. Klaus’ quest to rid himself of powers Dad had never thought to take from him had apparently robbed him of his faculties, if his incessant giggling was any indication, and there was little point in an insult that slid off like water from a tarp. The Academy had never been a noisy place, but what few sounds there were—air rushing through the vents, the creaking of old boards—already tempted her.

And Klaus remained, with no trace of fear.

“I’ve had kind of a rough day,” she said, setting the cracked glass in the sink slowly and deliberately, so as not to throw it the way she longed to.

Klaus’s mouth formed a round O of mock surprise and he clapped his hands to his cheeks. “Me too! Weird, huh? Us both having the worst day ever at the same time?”

Vanya clenched her teeth. He was like the cockroaches at a place she’d lived, one of the few complexes she was grateful to be blacklisted from. Lay out traps and they’d skirt around them. Stomp on them and they’d avoid your boot. Spray them with Raid and they’d roll onto their backs long enough, only long enough, to make you think you’d won. Long enough to make their swift return all the more infuriating. “I don’t want to break anything worse than a glass, is all I’m saying.”

“Why? Afraid the cops might come? Afraid they might send you to—” He put a hand to his mouth, covering a gasp too melodramatic to be genuine, and looked to left and right before continuing in a stage whisper. “Therapy?”

Vanya felt the cracks in her discarded glass spread and splinter before she ever heard it. She wanted to let it shatter—no, she wanted to make it shatter, send a hundred jagged shards exploding out from the sink to embed themselves in the wall, the counter, Klaus’ skin; to strike other bottles like bullets and send their contents cascading.

“You don’t understand.”

“No! I mean, Sitting on a comfy couch for a whole hour while some lady in an ugly-ass pantsuit listens to your problems?” He shook his head in mock amazement, adding more bourbon to his glass. “It’s a miracle we’re at Dad’s funeral. You should’ve just—”

He blew a raspberry, pointing his thumb to the floor.

Another crack spread through the glass, and another. He didn’t see. Didn’t know the humiliation of walking into that office, week after week. Couldn’t comprehend the misery of hearing mistakes inflated and exaggerated, balled up and thrown back in her face whenever she tried to explain herself. He couldn’t know the recurring sting of walking past her favorite coffee shop—a place that had once pulled her into an embrace of scents both earthy and sweet—knowing that the police would be called if she so much as crossed the street to reminisce from the wrong side of the window. If anyone under the Academy roof spared an ounce of sympathy for her, it should have been him. He, at least, knew what it was to have his faults paraded before police and judges and dismissed with no regard for what it was to be in his shoes.

She should have known that was too much to ask of him.

The glass was all but destroyed now; there was little point in leaving it whole. The sink would absorb most of the damage, and while a few shards would fly out, Klaus had learned to dodge. He knew what he faced if he failed to. He couldn’t call the police without risking his own skin.

Yet a part of her, a small part of her, whispered that he just might be insane enough to try.

The canister flew across the room to smack against a formation of bottles, knocking them over with a crash. Liquor spilled over the counter and onto the floor, sweeping up oats in the flow. Vanya turned on her heel, not giving Klaus the satisfaction of one last grin.

********

“That could’ve gone better.”

“Yeah, you think?” Klaus downed the rest of his bourbon and regarded the bottles still standing. The accidental cocktail Vanya had created with her little tantrum wouldn’t be tasty—especially not with oats floating in it and faint remnants of floor cleaner offering a different kind of intoxication—but all of those liquors together would get him drunk faster than anything he could mix on his own.

Well. Drunker.

Klaus didn’t sway as he straightened and headed for the tequila. He wasn’t quite to that point, though he sensed its approach.

“Seriously?”

“Hey, you try dealing with Vanya sober.” He opened the bottle, raising his voice in a mocking imitation of Vanya’s. “Oh, look at me, I wreck some coffee shop and have to not go to prison, everyone needs to be sad for me.”

“Oh, you mean like my entire life? And afterlife, so far?”

“So far?” Klaus grinned, raising both eyebrows. “What are you not telling me, Ben?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” He poured a shot of tequila and tossed it down. “If there’s drunkenness after death, you really need to tell me. This could change everything.”

“You really think I’d tell you something like that?”

“Some brother you are.”

“Said the guy who left Five to come get shitfaced.”

The sting was sharp, as if Ben had slapped him across the cheek. Klaus poured another shot and downed it without breaking eye contact, but when he set the glass down he had to look away. He tried for some remark glib enough to set Ben on a different course, but nothing came to mind in time.

“Bet you can still catch up with him.”

It wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to Klaus, but he hadn’t allowed it to take root in his mind with this level of clarity. Go back to the kitchen, or track Five to wherever the others had brought him. Apologize for whatever it was he’d said wrong—more than one thing, probably, though he could only think of the one. See if Five wanted to go flip off Dad’s urn for a while. Let Five watch him stagger down the stairs, sway in the door, smell the alcohol on his breath. The others, Diego and Luther and Allison—they might not understand, but they expected it. They’d seen it before.

A part of him whispered that Five would see it sooner or later, that maybe he’d already extrapolated from those moments he’d caught Klaus at the bar when they were kids, those times he’d given Klaus the cover he needed to sneak out for his next fix. It didn’t matter, or wouldn’t matter. Sobriety was little more than a punchline around him, and it was only a matter of time before Five saw the joke.

He straightened, swallowed the last of the tequila in his glass, fished for a cigarette in his pocket and lit it. He took a long drag, closing his eyes as he exhaled. It wasn’t’ the first time he’d smoked in the Academy, not by far, but usually Dad or Pogo would come barreling around the corner seconds after his lighter clicked on. This time, there was only silence. Blissful, smoke-filled silence. He leaned against the island, allowing each breath to carry off more of Vanya’s lingering presence.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before the edge of the counter began digging into his back, before the floor began to press against his feet through the thin soles of his shoes, before the weight of the items in his coat reminded him of where he could be and what he could be getting. A pang of guilt accompanied the last thought, regardless of the facts. He wasn’t needed at the Academy. He’d probably sent Five into a tailspin with whatever it was he’d said. The memorial service seemed to have been forgotten for the time being; even if he were missing when it began, his absence wouldn’t be lamented or questioned too heavily. The more he considered it, the more he itched for what those items would buy him.

He’d be leaving Five again. Leaving him not in the kitchen, but there in the Academy while he was off elsewhere in the city; but Five wouldn’t be alone. Might not even notice he was gone.

“Klaus?”

Five’s voice was too soft, too uncertain, but it still gave Klaus a start and he nearly dropped his cigarette.

“Christ on a cracker,” he breathed, glancing down at the floor. Still a safe enough distance from the spilled alcohol that a lit cigarette wouldn’t send a puddle of flame racing up the cabinets, but closer than he would have liked. He sucked in a breath and turned to Five, plastering on a smile. “What’re you doing up here?”

Five didn’t answer. He’d changed into his pajamas—which were drier than what he’d been wearing, and in better shape, but Klaus could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen any of his siblings wearing pajamas in the middle of the day. In each instance, they’d been sick enough to get out of training, sick enough to remain in their rooms instead of joining the rest of the family for silent meals and Dad’s droning records. Five was still walking on his own two feet, his skin lacking the pallor it had held on those days; but Klaus didn’t recall him being so thin when he’d left.

How long had he stood just out of sight?

“Dad’s not here, is he.”

There were two answers: the tactful one, and the direct one. The tactful one was more up Allison’s alley, requiring more gentle words and roundabout phrasings than Klaus had in his arsenal. It was probably more akin to what Five needed, closer to what he’d like to hear, but Klaus had already stalled long enough.

“Died a little over a week ago.”

Five nodded slowly. If there was any surprise in his expression, Klaus couldn’t see it. “He…he probably would’ve walked out when I showed up, huh?”

And done a lot more than that, Klaus thought, but didn’t say as much. Five must have known he’d have been hauled off to one of those rooms everyone hated, held there until he’d divulged every secret he’d brought back with him, had Dad occupied the Academy. “We can go flip off his urn for a while, if you want.”

Five didn’t smile, or even meet Klaus’ gaze. He’d said the wrong thing again. Made a joke when Five needed something else, something Allison or Luther or even Diego would be better suited to offer. Something Klaus couldn’t muster, not even when it was needed. Especially not when it was needed.

“Where’s Ben?”

If Ben’s remark had been a slap, Five’s question was like a punch to the gut. He had to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t form and he couldn’t muster even an I don’t know or a Why do you ask? He could only struggle, through the fog and the emotions that one question dredged up, to say anything at all.

Five dropped his gaze, biting his lip. He didn’t sink to the floor or look for a place to sit down. He didn’t let out a cry or suck in a breath. Klaus watched him crumple all the same.

“Hey, it—” He started forward, barely remembering to put out his cigarette before Five fell into his arms.

Maybe he should have expected it. Over a decade stood between him and Ben’s death. No one would say he’d used them well, and if pressed he wouldn’t disagree; but he’d still had them. Ten years to let the dust settle and the blood dry. Ten years to accept that Ben’s clothes no longer occupied the closet, that no one would set a place for him whenever they were allowed back into the Academy. Ten years of hearing his voice, watching him roll his eyes and try in vain to block access to his stash, of being the only one to know he would never really go away. For all Five knew, Ben’s face should have been among those who greeted him upon his return.

He returned the hug awkwardly, too awkwardly, running a hand along Five’s back. Tears shook his bony frame, and Klaus wanted to kick himself for not hunting down Allison to answer that question. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“How?”

Ben no longer leaned against the bar. He had a way of doing that, of stepping around while your back was turned to show up in the last place you wanted to see him. This time, though, Klaus didn’t mind the sight of him, the look he got—or the clear instructions it carried.

“I mean, it’s not like he’s gone.”

Five pulled away, and the hope in his eyes made Klaus want to shrivel up and disappear.

Ben smiled a bit, raising a hand in greeting. “Hey, Five.”

“He says hi.”

*******

Vanya should have brought the whiskey along.

Her anger hadn’t quite burned away when she reached the top of the stairs, but it had calmed enough for her thoughts to turn to things other than Klaus’ exaggerated smiles and mocking words; and they turned to that bottle on the counter. She should have grabbed it before storming off—or if not that bottle specifically, then another close to it. Something strong, something she could keep all to herself. Something that would get her to the memorial service in one piece.

If her siblings still planned on holding a service.

She found her old bedroom less by intent and more by muscle memory, and it hadn’t changed much from the day she’d left. The furniture was gone, shuttled off to her first apartment and then the next; as were her clothes, which had been added to over the years. It would have been an empty room, devoid of the personality she’d lent it, but there were small signs, little memories here and there. A length of blue ribbon she’d once worn to a press briefing snaked across the floor. The green hair tie she’d thought had been lost in the move lay in one corner, grey with dust. Along the wall adjacent to her window Vanya could just make out little patches where the drywall was ever so slightly uneven, marking the places where, in retaliation for being sent to her room, she’d driven holes into her wall to spell out an obscene message. Dad had barged in before she’d finished the first word.

She ran a hand along the windowsill, catching dust on her fingertips. It wasn’t surprising that Dad’s memorial service had stalled—in the back of her mind, she’d expected Diego or Klaus to delay it somehow, though she hadn’t written off Allison as a potential culprit—but she hadn’t thought it would stall indefinitely. Yet here she was, waiting for her siblings to stop doting on Five long enough to put their dead father to rest.

Vanya looked to the wall again. For a moment she considered finishing the word, leaving it as a parting gift for whenever she was allowed to walk out of the Academy without Dad’s unread will hanging over her head. But then, it would’ve been just like Dad to turn something about willful destruction of childhood bedroom into a condition.

She closed the door behind her and stepped into the hall, seeing no one, but Five’s room stood open. Maybe someone had been there in minutes past; maybe Mom had left it open for whatever reason. Vanya couldn’t say and couldn’t bring herself to care. He’d be moving back into it soon—but then, once the memorial service was over and done with, she’d be back in her own apartment, away from that room and its occupant.

A short walk took her back down to the entryway and then the common room, but that wasn’t where the voices led her. One she recognized as Klaus, the other as Five—but the cheer in Klaus’ voice seemed more genuine now, the simmering resentment she’d caught now missing.

“So I’m just there in my book fort, minding my own business, and the librarian walks over and she’s all ‘Sir, you need to put these on a cart.’ And I’m all ‘Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to just build a new one instead of putting this whole thing on a cart?’”

“Maybe she just wanted you to put the books away?”

“That’s what Ben said, but I dunno. That fort was awesome.”

Ben. Her breath caught. Asking her to name a favorite sibling was like asking her to name a favorite toothache, but some toothaches hurt less than others. Some could be almost pleasant, when they wanted to be.

And some left a different sort of pain when they went away.

“What books did you use?”

“What books did I—Five. I built a fort. Out of books. Had turrets, a moat and everything. That’s all you need to know.”

Rather than pressing Klaus for more details, Five turned his gaze to the armchair. “What’d he use, Ben? You remember?”

Klaus rolled his eyes and began listing off titles, but Vanya barely heard them past the pounding of her own heart. Ben wasn’t there—or at least, he wasn’t where Klaus could see him, and that was by design. The ghosts he alone could see, the ghosts he alone could command, were evidently far more frightening than the poisons he forced into his system and the people and laws he trampled to get them. The substances he favored were still there. His powers were gone—and here he was, playing the medium. Speaking for the dead when the dead no longer spoke to him. Using Ben as a prop to tell an asinine story about himself.

“Don’t.”

Allison’s voice was soft, but Vanya stopped in her tracks. Her sister sat on the stairs, just out of the light cast from the sitting room.

“Are you hearing this?”

Allison bowed her head for a few seconds. When she raised it, there was sorrow in her eyes—but also a glint of steel Vanya had rarely seen outside of particularly nasty missions.

“Don’t take this from him.”

“Take what? A lie?”

Allison stood, mouth tight. She took a few steps forward, but didn’t come close to bridging the gap between them.

“I don’t care what it is.” Her voice had grown softer, scarcely rising above a whisper, but no less stern for it. “You’re going to let him have this.”

A stab of fear went through her. Allison hadn’t referenced those four words, but the threat was there, carried on a tone addressing her as a child. A child who needed to be put in her place. “Or what?”

She didn’t answer, but the glare she leveled on her way into the common room was enough.

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

Chapter One

#the umbrella academy #umbrella academy fanfic #tua fanfic #vanya keeps her powers au #five returns as a kid au #little tyrants #vanya hargreeves #five hargreeves #luther hargreeves #diego hargreeves #allison hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #ben hargreeves #reginald hargreeves #alcoholism #implied/referenced alcohol abuse #implied/referenced drug abuse

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7-wonders · 5 years

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Summary: In the post-apocalyptic world, you find music to be the only thing that makes living in an underground bunker with a bunch of spoiled rich people tolerable. The time finally comes for your interview with the mysterious Cooperative member, Langdon. Will you find your way to salvation? Or will there be more questions than answers?

Word count: 1,723

Author’s note: I’m still very new at posting AHS pieces, so feedback is always appreciated! Let me know if you’d like to see more of this type of writing!

Eighteen months had passed since bombs had been dropped and the world descended into a nuclear winter. Although you’re grateful that some combination of your genetics were deemed worthy enough to secure you a spot to survive the blast, after eighteen months, you wouldn’t mind taking a nice walk outside and being devoured by cannibals.

When the other survivors of Outpost 3 have their mandatory cocktail hour in the library to complain about the current conditions and spread petty gossip, you partake in your favorite activity. Although you’re physically in the outpost, your mind is in far-off worlds, dreaming up wild scenarios and storylines. You know that dissociating as often as you do probably isn’t healthy, but it’s one of the only things you’ve found to manage to stay alive.

During this time, you find yourself thinking about the things you miss. There’s the big ones, of course: Your family, friends, being able to go outside and see the sun. But there’s also the little things. You miss watching the seasons change, memes on social media that would have you laughing for hours, and actual food. You long for the days where you would be able to go and get ice cream on a whim because you felt like it. Sometimes, you can almost remember what is was like to go hiking and feel the wind through the trees. Ice skating, finding new music, reading a really good book for the first time. The list goes on and on.

You’re knocked out of your reverie by Gallant nudging your shoulder. Of all the people trapped with you, Gallant’s the one who you connect with most. He reminds you of an older brother, in a sense. The other two inhabitants who are closest to your age are too infatuated with each other to hang out with you, and you can only have conversations with your favorite Grays when you’re sure that Venable and Mead aren’t lurking around.

“I’m sorry, what?” You ask, flushing as everyone looks at you.

“A few of us were just wondering if you’d like to play some songs for us on the piano?” Dinah, a kind woman whose face you’d seen on the TV at every doctor’s office for a year prior to the blasts, smiles at you. You nod, standing and making your way to the piano. On nights where everybody’s getting along, you’re often asked to play everyone’s favorite songs from the old world. You’re not the best pianist by any means, but you know enough about chords that you can usually find the tune of almost any song requested.

“What are we thinking tonight?” The room erupts then, everyone throwing out their requests. You love these moments, where the group of survivors can come together and reminisce. Lots of times they’ll sing and dance around you, and it almost feels like you’re not in an underground bunker.

“Adele!”

“Coldplay!”

“Oh my God, can you do Imagine Dragons?”

“The Beatles?” You point at Timothy, calling out his suggestion of The Beatles. Groans fill the room, but you know they’re just joking. You run your fingers along the keys, trying out a few different songs before deciding on one you like. The beginning chords of ‘Something’ fill the air, and you smile as the group visibly relaxes, swaying along to the music.

You cycle through a few more requests, watching as people start getting up to dance. You finally give in to Coco’s whines about hearing ‘Hey There, Delilah’ when the sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts the quiet chatter. Your hands inadvertently slam against the keys when you see Langdon standing at the front of the room.

Langdon, who holds everybody’s lives in the palm of his hands, confuses you. He claims to be seriously considering who to accompany him to the Sanctuary, but to you he seems as if he’s playing a game of cat and mouse with all of the survivors. At this point, you’ve started to think that there might not even be a Sanctuary.

“Having fun now, are we?” He addresses the room in his smooth tenor, and you can’t help the shiver that takes over you. “Miss (Y/L/N), I believe it is time for your interview.” You can’t see it, but you’re sure that your face goes white.

“Oh, um, okay.” You stutter, mentally cursing yourself. Langdon looks at you expectantly, watching you with predatory eyes as you stand and move towards him. He turns on a heel and leads the way, his impeccably groomed hair swishing behind him. You glance behind you one last time, feeling comfort in Gallant’s thumbs up before the doors swing closed.

You follow Langdon in silence, not sure if there’s anything you can even say to the most intimidating man you’ve met in a long time. Luckily, you don’t have to worry about being the first to speak.

“So you play the piano?” He asks, his voice cutting through the silence of the many winding halls around you.

“Not very well, but yes, sir.” He glances back at you, a smirk on his face.

“Nonsense, all of your fellow survivors seem to enjoy it very much. Ms. Venable tells me that you give lessons as well?”

“Yes, sir.” You nod. “There’s not much else to do here, and it’s always nice to get to have some variety of music.” You reach the doors to what can only be assumed as his office. With a simple wave of his hands, the doors slide open, causing you to wonder if there is some electricity in this place.

“Have a seat, please.” He gestures to two seats in front of a large fireplace. You slowly sit, keeping your eyes on the fire the whole time. “Are the flames more interesting than our conversation, (Y/N)?” Langdon questions, sitting down in front of you with a glass of what looks to be bourbon. You’re mildly jealous at seeing the alcohol in his hand before shaking your head.

“No, sir, I was just thinking.” His ever-present smirk widens as he leans back.

“Please, call me Michael.”

“Michael.” You repeat, watching his eyes twinkle at hearing his name. “Do the other inhabitants get to call you that?” He raises an eyebrow, daring you to find an answer to your own question. “Or do you just want free piano lessons?” He laughs then, and you’re pretty sure that if angels were real, their laughs would sound just like Michael’s.

“Let’s get started with your interview.” His eyes go steely in a split second, and you find your breath hitching. “If you lie to me, I will know. If you hedge, I will not hesitate to end this interview and leave you here to die. Do you understand?” You nod, eyes wide. “I need you to answer me out loud, (Y/N).”

“Yes, Michael.” You breathe out. He hums, satisfied, before picking up a file.

“You’re one of the few here with superior genetics. Do you know how we got your information?”

“My friends and I had decided to do one of those 23andme genetic tests, where you can find out where your ancestors came from? I’m guessing that your organization somehow had access to that information.” Even though you know you’re telling the truth, you’re still nervous that he’ll think you’re lying. It reminds you of the past, when you would be driving and you’d suddenly get nervous when you saw a cop, even though you weren’t doing anything wrong.

“Why are you scared of me?”

“I’m not!” You argue. He glares at you, sitting up.

“I told you not to lie to me, (Y/N). You don’t want to find out what happens if you try that little stunt again, do you?” You jump and shake your head slowly, and he doesn’t bother to correct you. “Good. Let’s try that again. Why are you scared of me?”

“You intimidate me.” You answer quietly. He’s obviously intrigued, which scares you more than his rage did.

“Why is that?” You pick at your nails, trying to formulate a proper answer.

“You seem very...powerful, but not in a good way.” He quirks an eyebrow, but leaves it at that.

“Very well then. Tell me, who do you believe deserves a chance at salvation? Who, out of all your fellow survivors, should accompany me to Sanctuary?”

“I think everyone has qualities that would make them very useful at your Sanctuary. Gallant’s got a heart of gold, and he’s a very good hairdresser. Evie’s lived a life most only dream of, and Timothy and Emily are so young. They deserve it.” He looks confused at this, which in turn confuses you.

“There’s nobody that you don’t want to make it? Not even those like Coco, who bought their way in here and continue to rub wealth in your face?” You smile slightly.

“Coco’s the type of headstrong that could put the pieces of the world back together.”

“And what about you? What makes you a good candidate for the Sanctuary?” You shrug at this question.

“Honestly?” Michael gestures for you to continue. “I’ve resigned myself to dying here. What use does a new world have for me? I’m just a people-pleaser who knows enough about music to make it through the day without pissing people off.” Your eyes are drawn back to the fire, where you attempt to find shapes in the dancing flames. You used to play this game as a child at your family cabin, all of the cousins laid together in the main room, finding figures and pointing them out until they were all lulled to sleep.

A cool hand grips your chin, and you find your face inches away from Michael.

“There are such great plans for you, dear heart. Plans you could not ever imagine.” You’re wildly confused at this, but Michael’s pulling you up with him before you have the chance to question him. “I believe that’s enough for now, (Y/N). We’ll finish tonight, perhaps in the library? You can play me some of your favorite pieces while we talk.” You smile.

“Tonight, then.” Michael nods, confirming what you just said.

“Until tonight.” He lets you pass through the open doors before sliding them shut, leaving you standing in the hallway wondering what the hell just happened.

#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon imagines #michael langdon x reader #Michael Langdon x you #Michael Langdon fanfiction #American horror story #american horror story imagine #ahs #ahs imagine #ahs apocalypse #American horror story apocalypse

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newcathedrals · 5 years

Text

ao3

title: where angels fear to tread

pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

word count: 12896

summary: One demon and one very old café wait for Aziraphale to make up his mind.

After thousands of years of walking its surface, Aziraphale loved the world; he most especially adored its little nooks that felt like extensions of himself. He was part of his bookstore in SoHo, a piece of scenery in St. James’ Park, and a regular patron of café Procope. (The Library of Alexandria was magnificent too, until, well.)

He’d stumbled upon the café accidentally, after a delightful play at La Comedie Francaise in 1690. Feeling a bit peckish, he crossed the narrow street and entered the café immediately across from it. It wasn’t called café Procope, then; the chef still went by the name Cuto. But inside he found a noisy café of actors, writers, and artists crowded around small tables. It felt alive, exuberant, like they didn’t pay any mind to anything besides the quality of a new play or the tone of a young singer who’d just begun their career. The café smelled of coffee and tobacco, and the walls were paneled with dark wood. It was altogether more pleasant than most he’d ever visited in Paris until then, and he breathed a sigh of appreciation as he sat down.

Coffee was still a more recent introduction to Europe, and Aziraphale ordered a cup of it gratefully. He was surprised when only moments later a young man sat down next to him without any warning.

“I saw you in the audience, didn’t I? Did you like the play?” He asked. Aziraphale squinted to make him out- it was an actor, from the show he’d just seen. The angel brightened.

“Yes, yes, it was fantastic!” he said. His mouth stumbled over the french vowels a little, but he was fluent enough. Aziraphale was constantly frustrated with that he was only completely fluent in English and old Hebrew after six thousand years on Earth. That was one of the fascinating things about humans, though; an angel could turn his back for a couple of decades and turn around again to find twenty new words in a language. By the time he’d learned to speak and read Latin fluently, they’d already moved on to another five or six languages.

“Ah, you’re English?” the actor asked.

“No. Well, yes, in a way.”

“They have good plays, in England.”

“Ah, yes. Shakespeare was a favorite. It hasn’t really been the same, though, since he passed. It’ll be a while until someone that magnificent comes along again.”

They talked for a while as they drank coffee, and Aziraphale appreciate talking to someone who knew so much about the arts- his name was Francois, he learned, which was always a good name to hear. Aziraphale had always been fond of humans and their incessant naming since the garden of Eden. Francois was one of the French’s best names, in his humble opinion, for its similarity to the name they gave their nation.

They ate dinner together, after the coffee, then wine. Aziraphale loved talking to humans, especially ones like Francois. He suspected that his affection for the ways of the species was getting out of hand, but he couldn’t quell the fondness for them that continued to grow over the centuries. The fondness was only comparable to one other -and far more fickle- love of his.

Love. Aziraphale’s mind was wandering; he returned to focusing on Francois’ thoughts on the French playwright Molière. His care for humanity was safer, at least, than the other.

///

“S’ nice,” Crowley said.

The Arrangement brought them to Paris in 1701. There was some meddling to be done in politics, for both of them, and there was no reason why they couldn’t cut costs and travel together.

(There were, in fact, a plethora of reasons as to why an angel and a demon shouldn’t share a voyage. Aziraphale pointedly refused to think about these reasons.)

When they got to the city, they booked a nice hotel room. Nice in Paris in the 1700’s often really meant not absolutely filthy, but the room was actually quite well furnished and clean.

Small, but bearable.

“There’s only one bed, though,” Crowley mentioned. Aziraphale could feel his ears going pink. Having a human form was incredibly useful, but came along with the downside of less control.

“Ah, yes, well,” Aziraphale said, stepping towards the door. “I’ll just ask them if they have another room available.”

“Don’t bother, it’s not a problem.”

“It’s not?”

“‘Course not, Angel,” Crowley said. Aziraphale’s blush bloomed to cover his entire face and neck. Just as it was creeping down his chest, Crowley snapped his fingers. In an instant, Crowley performed a demonic miracle: one large bed became two, with a meter or two in between them.

A demonic miracle, indeed. Aziraphale forced himself to smile.

“Well done. Saves the trouble of trying to get another room, at least.”

“No problem,” Crowley said. And it shouldn’t have been a problem, but Azirapahle’s poor human stomach sinking told him that he felt otherwise. In a human body, one could not hide from their emotions. If a person didn’t want to think about love or hate or any of the in-betweens, the body reacts as if it has an allergy.

“Dunno about you, but I’m not in the mood to corrupt a cabinet official right now.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “And I’m not prepared to wake another cabinet official up to the injustices of his office.”

“Dinner, then?”

Aziraphale brightened up slightly. “I think I know just the place.”

Out on the street, Aziraphale hailed a carriage. When a driver pulled to the side to oblige them, Crowley wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“What an ugly thing, carriages,” Crowley said. “You’d think they’d come up with something better by now.”

“Would you rather walk?” Aziraphale replied, gesturing towards the filthy avenue outside. Horse manure and human waste stained the cobblestones of nearly all of Paris’ narrow streets.

Crowley managed to look even more disgusted by the alternative. “Nah.”

“As I thought,” Aziraphale said.

Café Procope looked almost identical to how it had when he’d first discovered the spot and three years ago when he’d visited again. The main difference, though, was that it finally had a name. When they stepped out of the carriage, Crowley looked up at the new sign.

“You’ve been here before?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, twice now. It’s been around for quite a while, for human standards.”

They stepped inside and took a seat. It was a little less dark than the last time he’d been in, and evening sunlight illuminated the front. They found a small table towards the back, and sat down.

The dining room was just as lively as it was the times he’d been in before, except perhaps more affluent- artists and actors now mingling with the lower level aristocracy instead of solely putting on shows for them. Maybe it was a tiny form of progress taking place in France’s rigid social class structure. When he mentioned this to Crowley, the demon only shrugged.

“Or they’re just bored, is all. Kings and queens like to keep jesters around, you know.”

Aziraphale huffed. “You always assume the worst.”

When they sat like this, facing each other, knees knocking into one another’s under the table, Aziraphale had to quite literally face the ugly truth in front of him: he’d fallen for a demon. (Crowley, of course, was far from ugly. Aziraphale found him visually pleasing from head to toe, which was part of the whole problem.)

Angels weren’t meant to have any feelings towards humans, aside from a mild benevolence. There were no rules for feelings about demons, but Aziraphale suspected that this was less of a minor oversight and more of a situation so unthinkable that no celestial authority thought to make a rule about it in the first place.

They ordered rosé and bourbon, respectively. Crowley held up his glass for a toast.

“ Santé , angel.”

Despite being immortal, Aziraphale felt as though he could die in his chair that very second.

“ Santé ,” he replied meekly. Crowley was talking about something else, now, but Aziraphale could only half-focus. His mind had gone elsewhere, somewhere far too human.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked. Like the humans, he couldn’t keep his emotions hidden for long at all.

He nodded. “Might we get un gratin dauphinois ?”

“Dunno what that means, but alright.”

They took a carriage to return to their hotel, stomachs full of wine and bread. The sun had set, leaving the sky bespectacled with stars. Paris was still a dark city at night, then. The lack of frequent enough oil lamps hung up kept criminals safe, but also provided a better view of the night sky.

“You don’t see em’ like this in London,” Crowley said, tipping his chin up towards the carriage window. Aziraphale was still surprised, sometimes, at how similar their lines of thought could be.

“No, you don’t,” Aziraphale sighed. They were close, now, sitting thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. There wasn’t a reason for it, the rest of the carriage was empty. But being drunk, Aziraphale had learned, was an excuse humans often used to be close to one another, and Crowley and himself had fallen into their habits quite easily. Thousands of years alongside them could do that to an angel and a demon. Aziraphale felt a loose red curl touch his temple, and the bizarre urge to reach and run his hands through Crowley’s hair gripped him. Thousands of years alongside Crowley, and he’d think that restraint would become easier and not more agonizing.

///

They got their jobs done. It took longer than he’d thought it would, to convince the politician that actually working to benefit the people he represented was an idea that he should engage with. Crowley, in turn, found the official to be far more kind-hearted than most who work in the government ever are. They complained about this to one another in the cramped hotel room, though Aziraphale pretended to mind a little more than he really did. A week spent with Crowley didn’t feel like an inconvenience at all, though he pouted and played along. (That wasn’t really lying , was it? Just acting, and Aziraphale adored the theatre. If his acting was lying then Aziraphale might’ve been the most disobedient angel in Her universe for the last six thousand years.)

When they returned to London a little less than two weeks later, jobs finished, Aziraphale felt that same uneasy longing that always came with splitting apart from Crowley. He knew, that in terms of eternity, a few months or even years away from one another was not a long time. And yet, his half-human heart ached as if it was a final farewell.

The beginning of the eighteenth century was a pleasant few decades. He did his angelic works, as it was his duty, but became even more immersed in the affairs of mankind. He learned the gavotte and tended to hang around those with similar taste as himself. It was in its way morbid, though, to become close to humans. They were so delicate; their morals and beliefs changed quick and they seemed to die even quicker. Still, Aziraphale enjoyed their company, even if it was short-lived. He and Crowley met in London, for the most part, and occasionally other parts of their isles. Every time he wasn’t around for a while, Aziraphale found that engaging with the troubles and joys of mankind was a good enough distraction.

After a year or so of pondering he decided that it’d been about four thousand years, give or take a few centuries. Maybe it’d been since the beginning, when he’d outstretched his wing to protect Crowley from the first thunderstorm. It never got any easier. If anything, little by little, it had grown farther and farther out of his control.

It had been six months since they’d met when Aziraphale decided to ask Crowley if he cared for a non-work related excursion. Most of their communication since their business trip to Paris had been strictly work-related, with a few relaxed dinners here and there.

Aziraphale talked him into it, in 1753. It didn’t take much convincing to make Crowley agree that they “deserved” a little time off. They’d taken a few vacations over the millennia, most lasting only a few days for fear their respective sides would realize how useless they both were to the ethereal and occult causes. They’d never noticed though, and Aziraphale didn’t see the harm in playing human for a while. They discussed the details over tea in London.

“Greece, maybe? It’s been a while.”

“Perhaps…” Aziraphale replied, but he didn’t really mean it. The country had wonderful views and great food, but it was far too hot for his taste.

“Well, Germany’s an option.”

“Don’t they have a war on?”

“Everyone’s got a war on,” Crowley replied. They sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

“Ah,” Crowley said. Though he was wearing his sunglasses, Aziraphale thought he could see his reptile eyes flash behind them. “I know where you want to go.”

“Where?”

“France. It’s always France.”

“Not always,” Aziraphale shot back. “But it’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s alright. Too many rats, for my taste..”

“Rats are everywhere.”

“France it is, then.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be France.”

Crowley smiled as he shook his head. “This many years, and you think that I can’t tell when you’ve made up your mind?”

He could have melted, then, into a pool of angelic goop. Instead, he held himself together as best as he could and attempted a normal smile.

“France, then.”

///

They arrived in the evening as the city was fervently trying to finish its tasks before the night shut its workers in. Though they’d discussed taking a boat and a carriage the human way, they decided that demonic and angelic transport would be far more convenient, though awkward. Before the age of communication by telephone whenever angels or demons had to move from one place to another on earth, they’d go through their respective realms. They were like shortcuts, really. The only issue was when beings on either of their sides asked questions. Something demons and angels have in common is that they tend to be nosy.

They met in the Jardin des Tuileries, with Aziraphale falling unceremoniously to the ground from heaven above, much like an apple falling from a tree. The sun was dipping below the trees at the edges of the garden, dappling the grass with shifting shadows of leaves. He stood up to find that he’d landed upon a beautiful array of poppies.

“Louis won’t be too happy about that,” he muttered. Aziraphale walked the paths as he waited for Crowley to sprout from the earth. There were guards posted along the edges of the garden, but Aziraphale used a little angelic miracle to make himself unnoticeable. He turned towards a patch of grass where it sounded like a tree was being pulled up from its roots. He grew from the soil like one of his beloved plants.

Crowley dusted the dirt from his coat. “Remind me to never do that again.”

“I agree. Though boats are unpleasant as well, the way they just threw me down here is despicable.” He helpfully brushed off a clot of debris from Crowley’s shoulder. “Might we try-”

“Café Procope?” they said simultaneously.

“I’m truly that predictable?” Aziraphale said.

“Eh, a bit.”

They passed the royal guards without issue and stepped onto the street. It was a warm May evening, just a little bit on the side of too hot; renaissance painting clouds hung in the sky, streaked with pink from the setting sun. They walked along the Seine and across the Pont Neuf side by side; Azirapahle watched the sunset along the entire route. If Crowley’s eyes had settled on him and stayed there, the angel pretended not to realize. He didn’t want to break the majesty of it, the soft and shivery feeling it left on his neck and face. Crowley was always a good listener, keeping his attention on Aziraphale when they were together. He appreciated it, often craved it; there are few things that feel better than being heard and understood by someone who wanted to hear and understand him. It was unsaid, of course, he feared to acknowledge it would ruin its power somehow. Some things were better left unsaid, he had learned in his long life, even if it was difficult knowledge to keep alone.

The decor had changed since he’d last been in. It’d somehow become even more opulent, huge mirrors lined the walls, and the trimmings inside were painted in gold. Plants now grew on the balcony, fragrant blossoms which helped the street below smell just a bit better. It was as popular as ever, if not more- the tables were still crowded and smoky. Despite this, there was suddenly a free table for two when they walked in. After ordering red wine, Crowley smiled.

“Do you remember that pomegranate wine we had in Egypt?” he asked. Aziraphale smiled wistfully.

“Never found another like it, really. It’s been so long but I can still remember the taste.”

“You almost got bitten by a crocodile, on the bank of the Nile.”

Aziraphale frowned. The memory still unnerved him; being eaten would undoubtedly be an awful way to be discorporated. “I don’t see how it’s my fault that they blend into the sand so well.”

“I had to pull you away, and you thought I was going to try and discorporate you.”

“I didn’t know better, then. We hadn’t known one another for very long.”

“Guess you’re right. Still, I knew you’d never try to hurt me.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Oh, I did. The day I met you I did, when you told me that you gave the humans your flamin' sword.”

Aziraphale winced. Every time he was reminded of the object, he felt an unpleasant shiver down his spine. “If you’d give them a sword, I knew you’d never try to kill me.”

“Because I didn’t have a proper weapon?”

Crowley laughed. “Because you’re kinder than the rest of them, really.”

His hand was shaking slightly as he picked up his wine glass. He was translucent, Crowley could see every thought and feeling muddled together within him. He knew, he realized. He knew, maybe before Aziraphale himself even did. Saying it, just then, wouldn’t have been to much effect. It had been said before, in a thousand indirect ways that all added up to I would not know what I am without my knowledge of you.

They drank quietly. It had all been said already, hadn’t it? Aziraphale was thinking, and Crowley was watching him think. He wished suddenly that he could pull the glasses off of his face and look at him in the eyes directly, just to make sure he saw what he felt in his eyes.

“Do you want to take a walk, angel? The table will be right where we left it when we return,” Crowley said. As always, he said it and it was true. They stepped out from the crowded space into open air, twilight left the sky a soft lavender hue.

“This way?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale nodded. The street was mostly empty, aside from a few water carriers with large pails on their backs. The silence nearly became too long, but as Aziraphale was about to make a frivolous comment Crowley took his hand in his, lacing their fingers together.

“Oh.” was all he could manage. They continued walking down the street, and Aziraphale’s attention honed in completely to their point of contact. Crowley’s hand was surprisingly soft, he didn’t expect it for some reason, and he was pleasantly cool to the touch. The air felt ethereal, pure and- heavy footsteps, a power unlike the kind Crowley radiates, or his own. With a start, he dragged Crowley into a narrow alley.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and then put both of his hands to Crowley’s throat.

“Foul demon!” Aziraphale cried out. His voice was shaky, unconvincing. Still, he continued. “You thought you could try to spread evil here without my knowledge?”

“What-”

“Let this be a lesson to you about meddling in earthly affairs!” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s eyes widened with the realization. He bolted down the alley and twisted around the corner, as Aziraphale instantly created a flash of ethereal light and a pile of ash on the cracked cobblestones below him. The sound of footsteps bounced around the narrow street and off of its walls from the mouth of the alley.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. His faux, even tone put a pit in his stomach. “Did you just smite the demon Crowley?”

“I did,” Aziraphale answered. He attempted a smile that wilted before it could even come to be.

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder with a prideful gaze. He was to be called a liar, to be cast out from heaven’s good graces. The angel froze under Gabriel’s touch.

“You know, Aziraphale, I’m glad you’re our guy down here. You really get into the weeds, going after the demons.”

He didn’t realize he had stopped breathing until he started again. “Thank you, Gabriel. Why- why did you come here? Now?”

If the question was defensive, Gabriel didn’t notice. “I saw that you used the transport system, and wanted to check-in. It’s been a few centuries! You went from Great Britain to… what’s this place called again?”

“France.”

“Ah yes. France. ” Gabriel said it like one would say a word when they weren’t quite sure of the definition. “Anyways, I see that you’re getting a lot done here.”

Aziraphale nodded in response. He was numb in both his head and heart.

“Well, keep discorporating, keep up the good fight, alright? I’ll see you soon.” With another pat on the back and a flash of blinding light, he evaporated into thin air. Aziraphale leaned against the stone wall behind him, tipping his chin up towards the sky above.

Thousands of years had passed and that was the time Gabriel chose to grace him with his presence. He straightened up and smoothed out the front of his coat.

It was for the best, he decided. He thought of holy water and hellfire, the crowded halls of the damned and the vast empty atriums of the saved.

///

He climbed two staircases to reach their little room. There was really no reason to share, but they’d decided to come to France on a whim, and Aziraphale didn’t have much time to make arrangements. (Of course, another room could’ve helpfully become unbooked on the same floor. It didn’t.)

When he tried the door, it was already unlocked. Crowley was relaxing on the bed, a book in his hand. From his posture, he had not a care in the world, but Aziraphale knew well that the demon never read books.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s eyes peeked up over the flimsy book he was purportedly reading. He doubted it was anything more than blank pages, if Crowley had created it by way of a demonic miracle. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. It was-“

“Awful timing, on that angel’s part.”

“Precisely.” he replied.

“Well-“ Crowley said. “-we could just go out for a little stroll again if you’d like.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“It is pretty dark. But what do an angel and a demon have to fear from some petty criminals?” Crowley tossed the book aside and sat up.

“We have a lot to fear, Crowley!” Aziraphale said. His voice was shaking, another downside of the human form. Crowley was watching him behind his glasses. Any hint of happiness was smoothed from his features.

He paused, steeling himself. “I know,” Crowley said. “But isn’t it worth the risk?”

“You don’t know what they’d do to you.”

Crowley scowled. “Of course I do.”

“You don’t.”

He’d seen what holy water did to demons, before. Thousands of years before, but the memory still chilled him. He imagined Crowley doused with the same substance, suffering the writhing agony that comes before obliteration. It didn’t matter what he wanted, or even what he felt.

“Answer me,” he said. Crowley sat frozen in place, expressionless. Somewhere in the back of his mind Aziraphale wondered how he had so much control.

Aziraphale took in a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

The room seemed to freeze, as Crowley’s uncaring gaze morphed into something like pain for an instant. As soon as he’d blinked, the demon was just as he was before.

“Right. Well. I think I’ve got some demonic deeds to do, really. Best get on with it.”

“We could still-“

“Nah, it’s alright. We’ll have dinner another time.”

Nothing more to say. Aziraphale forced his expression into a tight-lipped smile. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, already striding towards the door. He paused with a hand on the doorknob. “And, angel.”

“Yes?”

“If you ever make up your mind, will you tell me?”

The door creaked as Crowley shut it. He heard footsteps down the hallway, then the sickening sound of nothing at all. Aziraphale was alone. More alone, perhaps, than he’d ever been.

///

“See you soon” is a very relative statement, especially for a frustrated demon. It was a very lonely set of decades for Aziraphale at the end of the eighteenth century. The angel tried to keep himself busy. He strayed from London far more than previously, popping in to Berlin, Stockholm, and Amsterdam when the emptiness felt particularly wide. Paris was still one of his favorite places, though there seemed to be a discomfort brewing in the city that he couldn’t quite muster up the effort to look into. He went to Le Procope mainly to drink and brood, which he’d become particularly good at. He’d like to tell Crowley about it; the demon would find it quite funny.

“Might as well paint your wings black yourself,” Crowley would say. “You’re practically a demon already. ‘Brooding’ is a third of the job description.” Then Aziraphale would huff and frown like it was not even a little funny. But Crowley wasn’t there, and he was the whole reason the ruminating kept going on and on anyways.

On a particularly dower day in London, Aziraphale decided that a crêpe from Le Procope might just be the perfect distraction. The café was still there, despite everything, and wasn’t that somehow hopeful? Little in Aziraphale’s life was consistent, humans shifted and changed far too fast for his liking. Crowley had been a constant since the dawn of the Arrangement, but now Aziraphale wasn’t sure it’d ever be the way it was again. He wished that Crowley could understand why they couldn’t. Friendship, perhaps, was still dangerous, but they’d made it so far without being thrown into the void. Le Procope, though, was sticking around quite longer than he’d expected.

Crêpes, he thought. That’ll sort me out.

Though he wanted crêpes, Paris had other plans. Bloody, gruesome, and awful plans. Plans that would put him in a pile of paperwork, and in quite a lot of pain, seeing how the guillotine’s blade had been dulled by the necks of hundreds, if not thousands. He stared despairingly down at the iron cuffs that bound him. There was something so awful about knowing that he could escape the cell in seconds, but still being unable to do anything to stop himself from being decapitated.

Humans. Horrible, awful, ugly humans, nearly every one of them.

“Animals,” he muttered.

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Angel. Only humans do that.”

And there Crowley was, heaven- well, hell -sent. Aziraphale just barely had the good sense to stop himself from collapsing into his arms.

“Oh, good lord,” he said.

In the midst of a revolution, they had crêpes. And despite all of the chaos, they were quite delightful.

///

They returned, blissfully, to their normal pattern. Aziraphale was almost surprised at how easy it was. There were no awkward conversations, or even any references to what almost been possibly discussed a few decades before. The angel was glad for it, of course, and yet the same pervasive longing still rested in his chest like walking pneumonia. There was much more pleasure in it than illness for the most part. He liked the way they bickered back and forth, and did something that might look a bit like flirting when they’d been drinking; but it weighed heavy on him all the same.

The humans he met in the nineteenth century were perhaps the most interesting of the species that he’d befriended so far, which was a positive. He was especially fond of a British writer named Oscar, who visited Le Procope often.

They had lunch often. Far less dinners, then, that was the only difference. Lunch was quite alright as well, though. Lunch had more boundaries than dinner, the lines were sharper while dinner’s often blurred.

Good enough, though. And safer, Aziraphale thought. When Crowley asked him for a morning stroll in 1862, he thought it would turn out to be a fine day, they might even have breakfast and lunch together. He even remembered to buy bread this time, for the ducks, but it didn’t turn out to be a breakfast and lunch day at all.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Crowley said, and no good sentence ever started that way. “What if it all goes wrong?”

Then he handed him a scrap of paper. His blood ran cold, his heart fell into his stomach. His worst fear, worse than being burned in hellfire. Crowley, melting, drowning.

Crowley, destroying himself. It was unthinkable, but now he was thinking of it.

“Out of the question,” he said.

To which Crowley had the audacity of replying “Why not?”

A universe without Crowley. Even when they hadn’t seen each other in decades, Aziraphale couldn’t envision it. That would not be a universe worth living in. He’d known this, too, as long as they’d had the Arrangement. But in perhaps the same way that he knew he loved Crowley, he never faced it directly, the same way that humans averted their eyes from the sun for their whole lives. Now he was staring the truth right in it’s blinding center.

Now Crowley was requesting it, like it was some sort of solution.

“I don’t need you, angel, ” Crowley said. It wasn’t the way he often said it, it was an accusation- too high and mighty, holier than thou - he wished he could explain it, tell him he was wrong, tell him there was no point to an existence without their lunches and dinners and arrangements. No point at all, not for him.

When he stormed away, he almost felt a little bit better. He’ll be safer, he thought. Without their friendship, their Arrangement. So there wouldn’t be any more lunches with Crowley, bickering matches with Crowley. But there would be a Crowley, at least.

The decades following were longer and heavier than any he had yet to endure. But there was a Crowley, somewhere. He even saw him sometimes, walking past his bookshop. A flash of red hair and dark attire, that was all, it could’ve even been his mind playing tricks on him, but it made him feel better to imagine those serpent eyes keeping watch of him.

///

He hadn’t known of the demon he’d seen die. The creature was nameless, defenseless. God had already let the angels have their autonomy, and they took it with pride. Without a sense of self, Aziraphale did what he could and what he knew was right; served God. As he walked the halls and atriums of their plane, all washed in white and iridescence, he thought of nothing else. as there was not a single other thought to occupy him.

The white room he’d was open to the discomforting saturated blue of their realm’s sky. He approached a semicircle of angels, with tumbling robes the same hue as their floors and walls and all else. In front of them lay an angel curled into themselves, silent as their eyes stared blankly into what was not to come.

Demons, then, were any angels who had even suggested a different idea or approach to existence itself. No dark attire or ashen faces, no cunning smiles. No red hair. Just an angel, still an angel, with gashes on their back where wings were torn from their body.

An angel miracled a refilling silver chalice into his dainty hand and held it above the angel. Aziraphale watched with the same stare as the others as holy water was poured onto skin which burned, melted, dissolved to become part of what does not exist. He’d never heard screams before.

After, the angels dispersed to return to their assigned duties, and Aziraphale did the same. It was not until he had touched his feet to earth that he saw the angel’s -demon’s- agonizing end with anything other than righteous justice.

He didn’t know the angel’s name or their offense. All he knew, and couldn’t forget, were the screeches of life being dragged into irresolvable nothing.

All he knew was that he could imagine Crowley curled up much in the same way, the bones of his shoulder blades exposed by butchery.

He would not let Crowley have the chance of doing the same to himself.

///

He saved him, again, like some sort of guardian demon . Aziraphale was starting to suspect that Crowley’s heroics weren’t just coincidences, but what could he say? As they stood in the middle of the ash and rubble, Aziraphale wished to pull his sunglasses off and hold his face in his hands and look into those serpent eyes hard and see what lay there.

The books. His stomach dropped to his feet. Hundreds of years of collecting and preserving, obliterated in seconds.

And then- Crowley pulled the leather bag from the dead nazi’s grasp.

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he said. “Lift home?”

As they walked away from the destruction he felt as though his human body might explode like the church, remain as gushing blood and unwound entrails and his bursting human heart right in the middle of it. Exposed to the dust, ash, and smoke, right in front of Crowley. It would be a strange thing to explain to the folks upstairs -just a bit of a mistake, fell in love with one of the damned is all- he made it to Crowley’s car with skin and bones intact. Aziraphale forced himself back to the present as he sat down in the passenger’s seat. Cars were far too fast for his taste, but they were better than horses. He was about to mention this to Crowley when his gaze stopped him from speaking.

“I’m going to let it go,” Crowley said, voice even.

“Let what go?”

“The holy water. I’ll let it go.”

“You will?”

Crowley turned the key and the car grumbled to life. He didn’t like how loud they were, either. “Think I understand, now. Why you won’t do it.”

Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief. It felt like he had been holding his breath for decades, without even realizing. “Good. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m still gonna get it, ‘course, but I’ll get it myself.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“Scare you? I just saved your life!”

“Well, it won’t work. You can’t frighten me into bringing it to you.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m really not trying to. I might die, though. Forever- dissolved-into-oblivion-die.”

“Stop it!”

Silence. The streets were void of life as the city cowered in fear, huddled around a radio and holding a candle. At least Crowley’s horrendous driving wasn’t likely to kill anyone that night. His unconcerned taunting brought him into a cold sweat.

“You could slow down a bit.”

“Nobody’s around, angel.”

Decades had past, and they were back to where they always were. Their same pattern, the same bickering, the same banter. It was like reading a book he’d already read again and again, an old good book that’s been loved to pieces.

“We should catch up. Have a little rendez-vous . It’s been years and I have no idea what you’re up to.”

“I’ve been sleeping, mostly, love a good nap,” he said. A pause “Are you suggesting France?”

He wasn’t, he just liked kitchy little phrases. But now he was thinking about Paris, and that little alleyway that must still be there. The war was on, but he knew Le Procope was still open. Always open.

He swallowed. “Best not.”

“Right,” Crowley replied. “Well. Whenever you make up your mind.”

He remembered the same phrase, from that little inn room.

“Yes, well. You can drop me off at the bookshop, please.”

Crowley nodded. “We’ll have lunch soon, yeah?”

He smiled a little. “Yes.” Crowley had missed him. It was more satisfying to know than he’d expected it to be. “I hear the Ritz is quite good.”

“Oh? There, then.”

When Crowley slowed to a stop in front of the bookshop, Aziraphale picked up the bag of books from the floor. He opened the door and stepped out.

Light reflected off of Crowley’s glasses. His expression was unreadable; Aziraphale was woefully out of practice in terms of Crowley’s miniscule tells.

He said it, before he could force it back down. “I’m still thinking. About it.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You are?”

“I am.”

London was more silent than it had ever been. No bombs, nothing at all. Even Crowley’s car seemed to fall silent for a second, holding its breath along with the angel and the demon.

“You are,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale suddenly felt the urge to flee. “Well. Thanks, again.” He heard the “shaddap!” through the window.

The angel watched from the sidewalk as Crowley drove away, tires screeching against the potholed street. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. The loneliness was already slowly seeping out of him, togetherness filling up the spaces that it once made home again.

///

“Isn’t this scrumptious?” Aziraphale asked. He used the edge of his fork to cut off another morsel of strawberry cake.

“Yeah, wonderful. Very sweet,” Crowley said, also taking another bite.

“Not too sweet, though. Just right.”

“No, ‘course not. Couldn’t have that, could we?”

The Ritz had been absolutely delightful, to the point that Aziraphale was ready to welcome it into his heart as another one of his favorite places. The massive dining hall was rich and full, bathed in every shade of gold and yellow. Crowley even seemed particularly pleased, and Aziraphale tended to enjoy restaurants far more than he did.

It took longer to have lunch together than he’d expected. But a war does complicate things, for humans and immortals alike. When Crowley stepped into his bookstore with a hopeful smile, though, he knew that it was finally the right moment.

“I missed this, a bit,” Aziraphale admitted. It seemed like a safe enough phrase.

“Hm?”

“I missed having lunch.”

Crowley still looked confused. “Surely you’ve had lunch since we’ve last eaten together.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He’d just discovered that recently, when speaking to an annoyed young woman attempting to buy one of his books. He promptly began to roll his eyes at least once a day from that moment forward. “I meant having lunch with you.”

Crowley grinned. “Oh, I know. Just wanted to hear it.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and shifted his gaze, but his heart was blooming in his chest. It felt like home at last.

///

They were having lunch, again. Aziraphale tried not to analyze how he had begun to divide up his six thousand years of life into categories: the before lunch era, the lunch era, the dinner era. Then there were the gap years. Now it was the lunch renaissance, and he couldn’t be happier. (Surely he could be happier. He was reminded of this every time they sat side by side in his bookshop, sharing a bottle of wine.) They didn’t speak of holy water, or Paris, or any centuries-old cafés. He’d almost forgotten the bloody blessed water until he found out about Crowley’s foolish plan to steal it from a church. Crowley had even hired goons to help him retrieve it. Didn’t he see it in that church before, just sitting out like a bird bath?

Without even meaning to, Crowley had forced his hand. Aziraphale took one of his favorite thermoses to the church only a few blocks away. After using a tiny miracle to make himself unnoticeable, he filled the thermos and hoped to God that it was the right decision. Well, God would probably not approve at all, so he tried to ignore that too.

He sat in Crowley’s car, nervously tapping his shoes against the floor. He’d thought every moment of getting out and running away ‘till he saw him. Walking the way he always did, hips and legs first, his torso following. A bit like gravity didn’t matter to him at all, which was likely the case.

He still felt uneasy when he handed the holy water over. The look on Crowley’s face was almost worth it, all of the angles softened by undeniable gratefulness. It was poison, and Crowley was thankful for it.

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asked. He to look away, through the windshield. It was unbearable, the tenderness in the way he said it. The pressure he felt in his chest was only continuing to build, more and more with each passing decade, far past the point where Aziraphale thought he might just combust. It was a kind of guilt or regret; he became painfully aware of how every moment would be different if he’d give in, or simply walk away a final time.

“Better not.”

“Well, can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.”

He still couldn’t meet his eyes fully. It was infuriating, sometimes, how his own gaze could not be covered while Crowley could keep his constantly guarded.

“Don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could, I don’t know, go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.” Return to Le Procope, he wanted to add. To that little alleyway.

With that same soft expression, Crowley tried again. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

He was so close, close enough to cradle his jaw in his hand. That was what he wanted to do, wasn’t it? It felt like a cruel trick, to love a demon. Crowley had asked him why God put the tree of knowledge into the garden of Eden, when it was such a temptation. Then he became what he questioned, so close Aziraphale could hold him in his hands, so close he could almost taste without ever taking a bite.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He stepped out before he could steal another look, could try to gauge his reaction. He walked down the dark street, bumping into drunken and jolly people. Alone, once again.

///

A few months later, Aziraphale asked Crowley if he’d like to go on a walk. The demon agreed, and they met on the corner by Aziraphale’s bookshop. He still had bangs, but his hair had grown a bit longer, had a little more curl to it. He wondered if it was intentional or accidental, though Crowley was always particular about his hair. Aziraphale quite liked when it was longer and curlier; he still remembered the gleaming red coils that fell down his back as they stood on the garden wall, that first time. Once or twice he thought of mentioning it, before remembering himself. Besides, it was amusing to see it change nearly every time he saw him.

They walked the streets of London side by side, talking and observing the humans around them. Humans were always in such a rush, Aziraphale wondered what such an existence would be like.

“It must feel like you’re always running out of time,” Aziraphale said.

“Hm?”

“To be human. They haven’t got very long, that must be why they’re always in a hurry.”

Crowley nodded thoughtfully. “Must be at least a little thrilling, though. To only have one life.”

“Or terrifying. There’s not really a way to rectify anything, once you’re gone.”

“They do what they want too, though, most of them. They see what they want and they take it. They dream, they do. Right or wrong be damned, they go right on ahead.”

Silence. Aziraphale knew what he meant, what he was implying. For a second, he imagined what it’d be like to be human. Him and Crowley, human together. He supposes he could own a bookshop. Crowley could… be an investment banker, or some other sort of legal criminal. Something nefarious. They could even live together, above the bookshop. He supposed that he’d actually have to attempt to sell books, then, as he would need an income. But he wouldn’t have a large collection at all, in that case, because he couldn’t have been around for hundreds of years collecting them.

No miracles, demonic or otherwise. No ethereal or demonic transport. No good or bad deeds to perform. Just Crowley and Aziraphale.

“It’d be nice, then, to be human,” Aziraphale agreed. “No need to worry about so many rules. Well, until they’re dead.”

“Yeah, but who cares about that? It’s just dying.”

“Dying is not something to joke about, Crowley.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I shouldn’t have ever given you holy water.”

“Well, I’d much rather be obliterated than burn in hellfire for eternity, wouldn’t you?”

He shivered at the thought. “I suppose so.”

“You suppose so,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale scowled. Every time their conversations drifted towards such subjects, he was reminded of how much separated the two of them. There was a deep chasm between their realities that was rarely breeched and could never be mended.

“Oh!” Crowley said, still smiling despite Aziraphale’s obvious annoyance. “There’s something I forgot to tell you. You’ll be proud of me.”

Rarely any good ever came from the sentence “you’ll be proud of me” if Crowley said it.

“What?”

“I saved Le Procope.” He said, wearing that clever little smile he usually reserved for admiring his own devious tricks and plans.

“What?”

“I went to Paris on my own about twenty years ago. I’d overheard that Le Procope was going to be closed, and possibly turned into a hotel.”

“No,” the angel gasped.

“Oh, yes,” Crowley confirmed. “But I stopped it.”

“How?”

“I bribed the owner, of course. Now she has enough money to retire on a Greek island.”

“Did you really?”

“Yep.” He grinned.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. Then, right in the middle of London, taking up the sidewalk, he pulled him into his arms. Crowley’s arms snaked around his torso and held him there. He smelled strangely of freshly ground peppercorn, spiced and warm. He held on a few seconds longer than he knew was appropriate. (Though, for an angel, avoiding smiting a demon in a kilometer radius is likely seen as monstrous.) A couple humans took notice, but he paid them no mind.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “Thank you.”

“You’re proud of me, then?” Crowley asked. He looked incredibly pleased with himself, standing up a little straighter as they continued walking.

The angel nodded. “I’m not sure bribery is quite the right way to go about things, of course, but all the same. That café is very special to me.”

“I quite like it too. Good crêpes.”

“Ah, I’d love a crêpe.”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s not too late for breakfast. Or we could call it brunch.”

“The crêpes just aren’t the same here,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Paris, then?” Crowley asked. There was that same hopefulness, that undeniable want in his tone. Every time it revealed itself, Aziraphale’s heart only grew more sore.

“Perhaps a more English breakfast would do. Eggs benedict, maybe?”

Crowley’s shoulders sunk just a little. “Right, English breakfast. Wouldn’t mind some eggs myself.”

Was this what they would be, forever? Forever wishing and hoping, side by side? Stealing breakfasts and lunches and hugs like they were criminal acts? He’d never desired to be human before, though he’d always been fascinated by them. Now, though- eighty or ninety years would be a long enough lifetime after all, if he could live how he’d like to.

///

On the phone, Crowley had said it was important, serious. As he strolled towards St. James’ Park, he’d hoped that Crowley had begun to consider lunch as vital as he always had.

But Crowley didn’t, in fact, want to discuss lunch. He told the angel of the antichrist as if it were an unfortunate situation, not truly the end of days. Even Aziraphale couldn’t truly picture it. He couldn’t envision an end; the world and Crowley were constants. Once again his thoughts turned to 1753, to that alleyway in Paris, to Gabriel, to what was inevitable. The urge to say something, to decide, remained right behind his tongue. “If you make up your mind, will you tell me?” Crowley had said. But it wasn’t his choice at all.

“We will win, of course.”

Crowley smiled incredulously. “You really believe that?”

“Obviously.”

Even as he said it, his heart sank. With no Hell, there would be no Crowley. One came with the other. Crowley rattled off his favorite composers, which he knew Aziraphale coveted.

“And that’s just the start of what you’ll lose if you win. No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you, no gravlax in dill sauce…”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening anymore. He could feel the slight breeze through his short curls, could see the expectant ducks waiting for bread along the wire fencing. He could almost see the Procope. The yellow light of its chandeliers spilled out onto the cobblestones, flowers and vines hung from the balcony. His favorite fascinating little restaurant, where they used to know his name, before Crowley had asked him to make up his mind.

This would be their end, then. The decision was made for him. It was almost a relief to have it over and done with.

“We’ve only got eleven years, and then it’s all over. We have to work together.”

Crowley still had hope, then. Aziraphale didn’t expect it, though it made sense. Those who have already fallen cannot be made to stoop any further.

“No.” He refused and denied. It was lunch that got him. He’d never said no to lunch, and if Crowley asked it was as inevitable as the ineffable plan.

///

Taking care of the antichrist seemed like it would be a decades-long nightmare. Instead, it was oddly comforting to keep watch of the boy. Despite his evil parentage, he truly did just seem to be a little boy. A moody little boy, sure, but a boy all the same. He also liked gardening, despite the unruliness of the vines and spiny weeds that seemed to pop up overnight. (“All they need is a good thrashing,” Crowley once said. Aziraphale refused to take his advice, though he had to admit that the demon’s potted plants were always flourishing.) The task also made it necessary to meet with Crowley weekly to discuss the boy’s development and compare notes.

“He’s been mischievous lately. I saw him burying figurines in the vegetable plot,” Aziraphale said disdainfully. He’d just planted chives, which were fragile before they properly took root.

“Mischievous doesn’t mean evil, angel. They’re two very different things.”

“Surely it’s just a very early precursor to true malice.”

“Dunno about that,” Crowley said. “You’re mischievous yourself.”

“I’m not!”

Crowley shrugged. “You’re currently having coffee with a demon.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale muttered. “I fear his disposition is inevitable. What if this is all futile?”

“Now, I never knew you to be a cynic.”

“Every day now, I feel as though we’re running out of time.”

Crowley took another sip of coffee. “Maybe we are.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You can say it, and I can’t?”

“Precisely.”

Crowley’s mood was dampened. “Finish your drink, angel. We should be getting back.”

With a sinking heart, Aziraphale finished the latte and stood. Every day, they creeped closer and closer to the end of the world, unless their experiment on Warlock succeeds. If either side won, he would lose. It was either eternal damnation or eternity without book shops and cafés, parisian or otherwise, and Crowley. Both results were terrifying to even contemplate.

Aziraphale blinked, and Crowley had transformed back into his nanny attire. He quite liked the hair, curly and red like his hair should be. With an exaggerated sigh he did the same. They returned to the mansion as an unrefined gardener and a goth middle-aged woman. An odd couple indeed.

///

Crowley was dressed in white for the birthday party. Aziraphale quite liked him in white, it’d been a few decades since he’d worn another color than black and dark grey. His hair was short, but that was the fashion for men at the time. He never really understood fashion, anyways. He liked clothes of course, with all their clever buttons and ruffles. But the constant change in human’s whims seemed unnecessary, and he gave up keeping track of it all long ago. He’d found clothes he’d liked and stuck with them, sometimes for centuries.

Crowley stared at him as he set up his performance. Aziraphale attempted a smile and utterly failed, while Crowley’s scowl deepened in response.

Eleven years of efforts led to the boy who he watched making fun of one of his party guests for the boy’s scuffed shoes. Crowley’s influence seemed more apparent in the boy than his own. Maybe the demon was just too good at his job, and Warlock would name the hell hound “throat ripper” or something just as stomach-turning.

If there was any time to put his heart in order and tell Crowley how he felt, it was far gone. At the very least, they’d spent their last years on Earth working together, being together in the ways that they could. The war would start and end, and they’d know that they’d tried their best to avoid it.

Later, covered in cake and custard, Aziraphale looked at Crowley in the passenger seat of his car.

“No dog.” Crowley said.

“No dog.”

“Wrong boy.”

It was funny, then, at the end of days, that he felt a twinge of hope. It wasn’t over yet, they were still together.

///

They were doing something about it, at least. Perhaps if they found the right boy they could- well, they hadn’t quite figured that part out yet- but they’d do something, surely. They started at the place where it all started, the hospital. The last thing Aziraphale expected to happen was to be shot, and particularly not with a blue paintball.

“Look at the state of this coat,” he said. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew it was silly to be upset over an article of clothing when Earth was coming to an end as they knew it.

Still. “I’ve kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years now. I’ll never get this stain out!”

Crowley frowned and circled him to survey the damage.

“Well, you can miracle it away.”

“Yes, but…” he sighed. “I would always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean.”

Crowley looked at the stain for a second more, before leaning towards him. With an exhale the stain evaporated into dust and floated away.

Aziraphale beamed. Despite the fact that it was the end of it, the world had never seemed better to him. “Thank you.”

At the dawn of armageddon, it seemed idiotic that he’d ever kept it secret at all; it was love. Maybe it’d taken him thousands of years to accept it, but when the end came near he knew it well enough. There was not a single other force more important, for humans or demons or angels or God. There was love, and there was everything else.

They’d have to survive. If Aziraphale wanted his existence to mean anything, he had no other choice. He picked up the weapon to observe it. If they were going to make it far enough for any of it to matter, they’d have to work at it.

///

It seemed simple, for just that moment. Then Crowley ran into that poor woman, and Aziraphale found the book. The book. He took it into his arms and didn’t tell Crowley. Part of him feared what he’d find inside: scared that the prophecies of Agnes Nutter might be false, and absolutely terrified that her visions could be true.

When the angel that readeth these words of mine, in his shop of other men’s books, then the final days are certes upon us.

He refused to get up from the chair until he’d scanned nearly every prophecy. Page after page after page. Some seemed like complete gibberish. Others were as clear as day, absolutely indisputable historical events, some that he’d even witnessed himself.

For better or for worse, Agnes did not describe the actual end of days, who would win. There was hope, still. A tiny particle of hope the size of a grain of dust that swirled around his bookshop, yes, but all the same.

///

“Have a nice doomsday,” Crowley had said. Aziraphale felt cold and empty as he continued to pour over Agnes Nutter’s nice and accurate prophecies. It’ll be fixed soon enough, he thought. With a shaking hand he brought his mug to his lips, taking a sip of chamomile. There wouldn’t have to run; they could go back to the way it had been. There had to be a chance.

Nearly every cell in his human form wanted to accept Crowley’s offer. It could just be the two of them, together. Eternity with one another, not as demons or angels- just as themselves.

Aziraphale craved it, could already imagine it, but the gravity and love held him steadfast to the planet. He wanted their lives on Earth even more and couldn’t flee as it burned. He couldn’t give up on his fascinating little restaurants, or the rest.

It’d all go back to normal, he was sure of it. They hadn’t lost yet. He’d turn towards the light, however cold and unforgiving it was.

The war could be avoided if only he could convince the angels. Weren’t they meant to be the beacons of light and hope, the saviors of humanity? He’d always bickered about the nature of angels with Crowley, about how they might adhere to some arbitrary rules but when it really came down to it they always stood for peace.

He had to try. From his bookshop, he called upon Gabriel to meet him. Though he could’ve used more angelic methods, the telephone did the job just fine.

Out of breath, he explained to him the situation. The prophecies, the real, true, promising prophecies that didn’t say that there had to be a war, or that anyone had to win.

“I just thought there was something we could do,” Aziraphale said.

“There is,” Gabriel replied, and Aziraphale’s spirits lifted for a millisecond. “We can fight and we can win.”

“But there doesn’t have to be a war.”

“Of course there does! Otherwise, how would we win it?”

The spark of hope died in him just then. There was no way around it. The angels he was a part of, the angels that he’d defended to Crowley for years didn’t care about humanity at all. There was just the plan, that was all. And how could it be otherwise? Besides himself none of them had ever interacted with actual humans on a personal level, aside from a few missions as messengers.

Was that all he was? Another adherent to an ideology and system that oftentimes made no sense at all? If their goal wasn’t good, then what were they even there for? He stood in the middle of the walking path. Bile rose in his throat, beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck. Both burning hot and ice cold, he began to walk home. His home would be gone, soon. It was, of course, ineffable.

No. He shook his head, and began to mutter to himself. No, it wasn’t possible. It could all still be sorted. What was Gabriel? Just another angel. A powerful one, but an angel all the same. Aziraphale began to mentally recall a ritual he’d learned long ago, far before he’d made earth his home. Yes, it was a solution. God would understand, would see why this was all unnecessary.

Aziraphale turned when he heard tires screech to a halt on the sidewalk beside him.

“Angel! I’m sorry, I apologize, whatever I said I didn’t mean it. Work with me, I’m apologizing here. Yes? Good, get in the car.”

He forced himself to stay rooted in place. Crowley continued to speak, a rush of words that sounded so blessedly hopeful-

Could he give all of it up, for Crowley? All of his books, his favorite foods, the authors and poets and painters he loved to converse with throughout the eras. When that was done away with, could he live just as himself, just with the being standing in front of him.

Perhaps. But he couldn’t give up, not yet.

“I’m quite sure if I can just reach the right people then I can get all this sorted out.”

Crowley stepped forward. He still smelled like freshly ground pepper, fresh and bright and so close that he would only have to move his hand a few centimeters to be able to grab his wrist and let himself be whisked away. Alpha Centauri. A star system that sounded more like a fairytale land than an actual place they could reach.

“There aren’t any right people, there’s just God, moving in mysterious ways and not talking to any of us!”

He would talk to him, make him understand.

“That won’t happen. You’re so clever- how can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Aziraphale felt that awful pain again, like the network of systems that kept his organs functioning were pulling apart from each other, collapsing under their own weight. This would be forgotten, after he’d stopped the war from happening. Crowley would apologize, and he would too, he decided. It would all be set right.

“I forgive you,” he said. The man -demon- in front of him would say the same soon enough. He had to believe it.

“Oh,” Crowley muttered, like the air had been forced out of him. In an instant, he set his jaw and flounced back towards the car.

“When I’m up in the stars, I won’t even think about you!” he yelled. Aziraphale tipped his chin up as his eyes filled with tears.

“I’ve been there,” a man said, voice filled with sympathy. “You’re better off without him.”

“I’m not,” Aziraphale admitted in response. It was a realization that he’d come upon the instant he said it. Far after the man had continued walking, he brushed a tear from his eye with a sleeve.

“I’m not,” he repeated. His body worked on muscle memory as he made his way towards the bookshop. He could picture the correct sigil perfectly, and could only hope that he could repeat the same pattern in reality as it was in his imagination. The sky continued to darken as he rushed past humans, who seemed to be in just as much of a hurry as he was. His stomach churned as he thought that their hurrying could end horrifyingly soon. He kept his head down and eyes focused on his shoes, to make it more bearable. It would be impossible to see their faces, to watch their expressions. The world was about to end, and they had absolutely no idea. The angel only looked up when three of his own kind crowded against him at the mouth of an alleyway. Desperately, he tried to explain, to make them understand.

“Don’t think your boyfriend will get you special treatment in hell. He’s in trouble too.” Uriel said. Crowley had said it, but to hear it from angels was somehow more horrifying. He and Crowley were being cast out by their own kind. They were the same at last, yet in the most disfiguring way.

Uriel held him against the wall by his coat. Their eyes looked so flat, like cold stones. Not angry, or spiteful; an absolute apathy.

“We’re the good guys,” he said, but he didn’t believe it. The three shot up into the heavens, leaving him on the grey street. Humans bustled past, oblivious to what was to come. Despite their rushing about, he was absolutely alone.

///

There was nothing left to do. Metatron said what Gabriel said. If God thought differently, They refused to show otherwise.

Crowley. Their side, the only side he had left. The only side Crowley had left, too, after what Uriel had said. His stomach dropped to think of what demons do to those that betray them. He bolted for the telephone, dialing Crowley’s number with shaking hands.

“Hello? I know where the anti-” he stopped, Crowley was talking over him. “I know who you are you idiot, I telephoned you. I know where the antichrist-”

“Yeah, it’s not a good time, I’ve got an old friend here.”

An old friend? He was Crowley’s old friend.

He turned to find Sargent Shadwell approaching him, tools of exorcism in hand. The last thing he could handle at that very moment.

///

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked. He kept coming in and out of focus, his voice sounded far away, but it was him.

“Afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things,” he said. “Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

“Nah, I-I changed my mind. Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.”

Perhaps it was the “old friend” he’d mentioned on the phone before. Aziraphale didn’t let himself dwell on it. “I’m so sorry to hear it.” They didn’t have time to talk about any of it, if they wanted to have a chance.

“Listen, back in my bookshop there’s a book I need you to get.”

Crowley frowned, rested his head in his hand. “Your bookshop isn’t there anymore.”

“Oh?”

“I’m really sorry, it burned down.”

Aziraphale paused. Without a body, he thought he couldn’t feel emotions the same way he had, but it was still there, that awful inexplicable sorrow. Without organs or bones or nerves, he could still feel it.

“All of it?”

“Yeah. What was the book?”

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of-”

“Agnes Nutter! Yes, I took it!” He held the book up, voice filled with hope.

They would go together and stand side by side. They would go down as their own side, if they had to. He thought of saying it. But no, best not. They still had a chance, they still had to believe. Not in Lucifer, or even in God, but in themselves. In whatever they had made together in six thousand years.

///

In the end, it was Adam who saved them. Adam, who fought for their side. Adam’s father stood where Satan once was.

Just a boy, and he fixed everything. He was just as Crowley and Aziraphale were. Not ethereal or demonic, evil or pure. He was just a person, and everything that came with that. Sure, he and Crowley were immortal beings who were created near the beginning of time, but they were, when it came down to it, people.

Two people that had more time. Aziraphale stood in the glow of the sun peeking out from dispersing storm clouds, relief filling his soul.

He looked at Crowley. More time. However much it was, it would be enough.

///

As they sat on the old wooden bench waiting for the bus, the fear slowly trickled out of him. He could still feel that warmth that he knew was the boy’s doing. It was all around him, like a warm fog, in his head and his heart.

He could’ve said it, just then. Crowley’s facial expression was agonizingly unreadable as he passed him the bottle.

“Angel,” he said, and Aziraphale could hear it a trillion more times. “What if the Almighty planned it like this, all along. From the very beginning?”

Planned them ? It sounded ridiculous but was entirely and beautifully possible.

“Could have. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

It was waiting to spill out of his mouth, all of it. He almost wanted Crowley to say it instead, but he didn’t forget.

If you ever make up your mind, will you tell me?

The postman came to collect all of the objects. Once again, he gave his sword to a human. He’d spent milenia questioning the choice, but now he knew that it was the right one to make if it led him all the way here.

When the bus came into view, his heart lifted. Home. Everything could return to the way it was.

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.”

“It burned down, remember?”

His home, ash.

“You can stay at my place, if you’d like.”

“I don’t think my side would like that.”

“You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”

To hear it from Crowley had everything click into place. Our side.

“Have you still got your mobile phone?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley patted at his jeans pocket. “Yeah, right here. Why?”

Aziraphale snatched it from his grip. “We’ve got to go somewhere.” Though the device was largely unfamiliar to him, he managed to open up the keypad and type in a very familiar number.

“Where?” Crowley asked, but it was too late for the angel to give a response.

“Bonsoir?” a woman’s voice asked.

Aziraphale’s heart was pounding too hard for him to even attempt French. “Yes, hello. I’d like to make a reservation.

“For what day, monsieur?”

“Tonight.”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’re going to close soon and aren’t serving any new customers tonight. If you’d like I-”

“Well, it’s-” he paused. “It’s quite important. Let me just-” he took Crowley by the hand, interlocking their fingers together. He detested this method, but it would have to do. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced them through the call. His stomach lurched as though his stomach might be left on the bench while his body fell through the telephone connection. He only opened his eyes when he heard a woman yelp and jump out of her chair. They were crammed into a tiny office with a terrified restaurant manager. Just as she was about to let out a horrified scream, he reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

“No, no. It’s alright. You think this is just an everyday thing, don’t you?”

She looked confused for a second, then relaxed. “Oui, bien sûr.”

“Crowley, make them reserve a table for us,” he whispered loudly.

“I- yeah. Can you, uh, hold a table for two?” Crowley asked.

“Not a problem,” she answered with a smile.

“Thank you, really. This means more than you can imagine.” He realized he was still holding Crowley’s hand, and used it to pull him through the office door. It was quite awkward to force their way through a bustling kitchen and out into the first floor of the dining room.

“Café Procope,” Crowley said. “Why are we here?”

“Will you just wait a minute?” Aziraphale asked. He pulled him towards the front entrance and out onto the street. It was a warm Paris night, tourists and locals passed the restaurant cheerfully, hand in hand. They didn’t look so strange together, on such a street. Just like two human beings in love, in a city that was known for the feeling.

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to the mouth of the alleyway right next to the restaurant. He stood with his back against the wall.

There was so much to say. Six thousand years of explaining and apologizing. Six thousand overwhelming and indescribable years stood between him and kissing Crowley. Now that he let himself think about it, it took over every thought, leaving no room for any speech or proclamation at all.

He reached up with nervous hands and took Crowley’s glasses off. His eyes were shockingly yellow, nearly golden in the fading light.

He swallowed. “Crowley,” he began, not even sure of how he was going to end the sentence as he started it. “I realize now that I’d made an awful mistake nearly three hundred years ago. I should’ve-”

Before he could finish his sentence Crowley had pushed his lips against his and broken away just as quickly. Then again, once more, and then he stayed there. Aziraphale rushed to hold onto his narrow hips, to bring him closer. Every sense both human and angelic focused on Crowley as one of his hands moved from his jaw to his blonde hair. They only broke away when Crowley was gasping for air.

“I forgot-” he breathed, “that I need to do that-”

“Do what?” Aziraphale asked.

“Breathe.”

Both laughed, already breathless, still holding each other. Crowley pushed his face into Aziraphale’s neck, his hands gripping his forearms like he never intended to let go.

“Let me get this right,” he said, voice muffled by the angel’s collar. “So all it took, for you to make up your mind, was the world to nearly end.”

“Oh bugger off,” Aziraphale responded. It tickled when Crowley laughed against his skin. He picked his head up to look Aziraphale in the eyes.

“Angel, I would’ve waited six thousand more years if you’d needed me to.”

Aziraphale kissed him again, just for a moment. “Dinner, then?”

“Do you think they serve beef bourguignon here, these days? I remember that they had a great beef bourguignon.”

“Let's find out, shall we?”

They moved from the shadows near the alleyway into the warm glow of light. They walked towards the waiter, who most certainly had seen them kiss in the always only a few meters away.

“I believe we have a reservation?”

“A table for two? This way, messieurs.”

Crowley took his hand again as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

///

Aziraphale woke to the quiet sound of breathing, and movement underneath him. He suddenly realized that he’d been sleeping with his head on Crowley’s bare chest. After a millisecond of surprise and borderline panic, he relaxed again. He could hear the drumbeat of Crowley’s heart through his skin and took comfort in the rhythm.

“You’re awake?” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale tipped his head up to look into his serpentine eyes.

“Yes, I’m afraid. I quite like sleeping. It’d been a while, as well.”

“Isn’t it great?” Crowley said through a yawn. Aziraphale lifted his head when he noticed something different about the demon.

“Your hair,” he said. “You’ve changed it.”

Crowley smiled, all teeth. He proudly shook his head to make his curls bounce. “Do you like it?”

It was the same rich red hue, but shoulder length and magnificently curly. Aziraphale couldn’t resist reaching his hand up to card through it. The curls smoothed out as he ran his fingers through them before bouncing cheerily back into place when he pulled his hand away.

“Why, it’s gorgeous.” he continued to watch the curls straighten and curl back up again and again. He couldn’t take his hands out of it even if he wanted to. “Did you know that I adored your long hair?”

“Y’ told me yourself, last night. You had quite a bit to drink, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale blushed, which was an odd thing to do when you’re already naked and laying on top of another being. Physical bodies were mysterious in their ways.

“Perhaps I did, but if there’s ever been a time to celebrate…”

“This is it,” Crowley finished.

Despite hating that he had to, he detangled his fingers from Crowley’s hair and sat up.

“You remember where we are, don’t you?”

“Of course I do… it’s…” Aziraphale’s eyes quickly scanned the opulent room. “The Ritz Paris, isn’t it?”

“That inn we’d stayed at the last time had closed, thought this was the next best choice.”

Silky curtains let in soft light, illuminating beautiful ornate artworks hung on the cream-colored walls.

“This is…” he didn’t quite have the words.

“Nice?” Crowley tried. Aziraphale shot him a look of distaste.

“What, you can’t say I’m wrong!”

“No, but it’s more than nice.”

“Doesn’t mean it's not-not-nice.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened as he looked at Crowley’s lean shoulders, his jutting collarbone.

“To think, all of this happened because you asked me why God didn’t keep the tree of knowledge on the moon.”

“It’s a fair point, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose so.”

Even as he nestled his head into the crook of Crowley’s arm, he let out a sigh.

“They’ll come looking for us, soon, and it won’t take them long.”

“I know, 'been thinking about it. I might’ve figured out Agnes Nutter’s last prophecy.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, I’ll explain.”

A pause.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah, just give me a minute.” He moved his hand up to rest in the angel’s blonde hair. Was he an angel anymore? He thought. Was Crowley still a demon? What were they if they’d been cast out from their own kind?

“We’re together,” he said aloud and closed his eyes.

Crowley entangled his other hand with Aziraphale’s. “Yeah. Together.”

“At last.”

#ineffable husbands #good omens #good omens fic #crowley #Aziraphale #ineffable husbands fic #fanfic #ao3

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