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xxx-cat-xxx · 4 years

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A little broken

Over a year after defeating Thanos and almost losing Tony, Peter is still haunted by the final battle. In an attempt to outrun the memories, he starts college far from New York.

It takes a visit from his mentor and an ill-timed flu bug that brings them both to their knees until Peter realises that he doesn’t have to take on the whole world alone.

Some Irondad hurt/comfort for everyone who’s quarantining at home (and those of you who have to work. Stay safe!) This is my @marveltrumpshate fic for Heyriel. Great thanks to @whumphoarder for doing so much more than beta reading. I hope you enjoy.

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The first time they meet, Peter isn’t sure what to make of Tony Stark.

The man shows up unannounced to Peter’s apartment, chewing on May’s date loaf and walking around Peter’s room as if he owns the place—talking as if he owns the whole world. Peter is both awed and appalled, May’s occasional comments about greedy billionaires ringing in his ears. But then Peter starts talking about his motivation for doing what he does, and for a moment something in the older man’s face seems to break. That’s when Peter knows that there’s more to him than what makes the tabloids.

Germany is both a thrilling adventure and an unparalleled disaster. Peter watches the group of heroes he’s looked up to since childhood break apart before his very eyes. The fight is grueling, taking more out of Peter than he knew was possible. He is lying there on the ground, trying to catch his breath, when Tony bends over him. And for a moment, there it is again: the broken facade on his face—below it, pure panic. The way Tony looks at him with thinly masked worry reminds him of Ben’s expression whenever Peter was little and having an asthma attack, and it does something to his insides that he can’t really explain.

Then, a few months later, Peter inevitably screws up and slices a ferry in half. The two of them are standing high above the city when Tony takes his suit away, and Peter feels tears pricking at his eyes. He cries later in his room, alone, because it’s so much more than just the suit; he feels that by disappointing Tony he’s lost his chance at something so much bigger.

It’s a miracle he manages to fix this one.

After Siberia, Tony is darker and quieter and indisputably older—like he’s finally grown up. Peter is sad for him, but it’s not all bad either. This new Tony starts taking more of an interest in Peter’s training—starts acting like a real mentor to him. There are afternoons spent together in the lab, dinners at the tower with Tony and Mr. Rhodes, and even the occasional low-stakes mission. Slowly, Tony’s world starts to feel like a place where Peter might one day belong.

But then, the universe gets ripped in two and somewhere on a red and war-torn planet, Peter clings to Tony in desperation, feeling first his body, then his thoughts slip away from him.

When he wakes again, there’s another battle to fight, but this time there’s no thrill to it. It’s his personal horror film come true.

He can hear the moment when Tony’s heart stops. Peter cries openly this time.

In the end, Tony makes it through. He loses an arm and much of his physical strength, but he’s stubborn as hell and fights his way through recovery. But somehow the day of the battle never fades from Peter’s brain like memories should.

When he finishes school, May proposes NYU, Tony naturally wants MIT, but Peter chooses Culver University. It might be good for him to get out of New York, is what he says. It might be good for him not to be in a place that has Tony’s legacy lurking around every corner, is what he thinks. And maybe moving away will make things easier when he returns.

Three months into Peter’s first semester at Culver, Tony accepts a guest speaking gig at the university and decides to stay at a nearby hotel to spend the weekend with Peter.

And that’s when it all goes to hell.

“Hello? Earth to Peter.” Tony waves a hand in his face. “Who are you daydreaming about?”

“Huh?” Peter looks up at Tony, then down at his half-finished iced tea. “Nothing,” he evades. “Nobody, I mean. Sorry, I’m just—just tired. And I have a lot of work left this weekend.”

“Mh-hmm.” Tony looks as if he isn’t quite believing it. “You want more spring rolls?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll wait for the main dish.”

Peter hasn’t eaten much today, but he’s not quite hungry either. He’s nursing a headache and the tiredness is not just an excuse. As happy as Peter is to see his mentor, Tony’s timing in showing up the week before midterms really could’ve been better. Peter feels like he might fall asleep right here at the restaurant table, but he already knows that he’s going to have to stay up until late to finish his readings.

“You’re doing it again,” Tony points out. “You’re being awfully quiet, kid. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, seriously.” Peter manages to hold eye contact for a few seconds and then takes another sip of his iced tea. “So, you said we could fix the suit while you’re here?”

Tony takes the bait (or maybe just lets it drop intentionally) and the talk quickly turns technical.

After a few minutes, they’re interrupted by the waitress—a student Peter thinks he recognises from his Python lab—who stares at Tony for a moment, her gaze lingering on the scars decorating his right cheek and ear before dropping down to his bionic arm. Then she catches herself and asks for their order.

When their food arrives, Peter observes Tony take out a box of different coloured pills and swallow a couple of them dry.

“I know, not sexy,” Tony remarks, noticing his look, “but sort of necessary if I want to keep this baby ticking.” He taps his hand over his chest with a wan smile.

Peter grins half-heartedly in return, even while he can feel his insides clench. The comment reminds him of the time Tony’s heart actually did stop, of the battlefield with the dust of Thanos’ army still hanging in the air, of the utter helplessness he felt when Tony snapped, of―

“Uhm, excuse me?” It’s the waitress again, her voice shy, cheeks blushing. She extends a piece of paper toward Tony. “Could I, uhm, could you, maybe give me an autograph for my sister? She’s a big fan. I mean, we all are, of course, but she’s got her room decorated with posters of you and all that…”

Tony looks her up and down with a raised eyebrow and a smirk playing around his lips. “What’s your sister’s name?” he asks finally, making a show of producing an integrated pen from his bionic arm. The waitress is visibly impressed, and Peter resists the temptation to roll his eyes―it’s far from the first time he’s seen this trick. If Tony was famous before, it’s nothing compared to the status he earned since dusting Thanos and saving the universe.

Tony gives the waitress an easy smile along with the paper he passes back, and then turns back to Peter with a smirk. “Fangirls,” he whispers. “Gotta love ‘em. Did I tell you about the kid who offered me all of his allowance for a hoofprint from Gerald?”

Because Tony is Tony, it takes a long time before he has caught Peter up on anecdotes of Morgan, Happy, and Gerald’s newest misadventures, and by the time Peter gets back home, it is already late evening. His studio apartment is small and rather old, with walls that have turned grey over time and windows that don’t fully close anymore, but it’s got its own kitchen and bathroom, which is much better than a dorm room―especially since Peter wouldn’t know how to explain the odd hours he keeps or the regular blood stains in the shower to any of his fellow students.

Peter’s head has been throbbing painfully for the better part of an hour, and the lights from the screen when he pulls out his laptop don’t make it any better. All his body seems to want is sleep, but if he’s going to spend the next two days upgrading his suit with Tony’s help, he really needs to get these chemistry readings finished.

He tries for several hours, but the words don’t seem to want to stick in his mind and it takes longer than expected until he feels that he has understood the chapter. Peter drops into bed around 3:30 in the morning, too tired to even change out of his jeans, and falls asleep immediately.

Peter is woken up by someone knocking on his apartment door to the beat of “We Will Rock You”, and it’s all he can do to stifle a groan. He drags himself out of bed and over to the door.

“Finally,” Tony sighs when Peter lets him in, shoving a reusable thermal to-go cup in the kid’s face and causing him to flinch backwards. “I thought I’d have to actually start singing.” Then he gives Peter a once-over and his face falls. “What happened to you?”

“I think I’m sick,” Peter replies, realising it is true the same moment the words leave his mouth. His head is hurting even more than the night before and his throat feels raw and painful, but the worst is the utter weakness in his body and the chills running down his back that tell him he has a fever.

“What kind of sick?” Tony asks suspiciously. To Peter’s surprise, instead of turning on his heel and leaving the surely germ-infested apartment, Tony steps over the threshold and raises a hand to cup to Peter’s forehead.

“Dunno.” Peter shrugs. “Just feel like garbage. Flu was going around the school last week―it’s probably that.”

“Aw, kid,” Tony sighs, something like compassion in his voice. “Yeah, you feel really warm.”

“Sorry about the suit,” Peter says, moving back to sit down on his bed heavily. “I guess you can just go back to New York early then.”

“What? You think I’m coldhearted enough to leave my former intern alone on his deathbed somewhere in the Virginian wilderness?”

“Culver’s not that bad,” Peter defends. “And I’m not alone either.”

“So that means you have someone here to take care of you?” Tony raises a sceptical eyebrow.

Peter hesitates. “I… May’s a nurse,” he evades. “I can call her.”

Truth is, there actually isn’t anybody. He hasn’t really made friends yet―at least certainly not the kind he would consider asking to take care of him while he’s down with the flu. He calls May twice a week, skypes with Ned—and occasionally still with MJ—on the weekends, and he’s friendly enough with his classmates when they’re working together in classes. But his downtime is mostly spent studying on his own and patrolling the city at night.

“Yeah, no, that’s not happening.” Tony looks him over appraisingly, then seems to make a decision and presses the cup of hot chocolate into Peter’s hand. “Guess I’ll stick around for a bit. Here, drink that.”

“I don’t really feel like it.” Peter is definitely queasy, bordering on nauseous, and the thought of drinking something as rich as hot chocolate almost makes his stomach turn. He shifts on the bed so that he can lean against the headboard, feeling too tired to hold his body up without support.

“Well, you need to have something. Super metabolism and all that.” Tony strides over to the small, definitely not tidy kitchenette and starts opening cupboards, most of which are empty. He comes up with a few packets of shrimp-flavoured instant noodles and a box of Coco Puffs. “Really, kid?”

“I was gonna get groceries today,” Peter says defensively.

“Yeah, I’m gonna do that now,” Tony states. “What do you say to buttered noodles? That’s all Morgan ever wants when she’s sick.”

“Yeah, that’s...that’s fine,” Peter says, dumbfounded at the idea of Tony Stark going to the supermarket and making pasta for him.

“Good. Glad that you agree, since that’s about as far as my cooking skills go.” He zips up his jacket and grabs Peter’s keys from the table. “Don’t do anything stupid till I’m back.” With that, he’s out of the door.

Peter doesn’t feel like he’d be able to do anything stupid even if he wanted to. He can’t remember the last time he felt this bad, and with his Spider-Manning lifestyle, that really says something. He’s thirsty, but his throat hurts in a way that doesn’t make him want to swallow anything. There’s an ugly taste in his mouth and he really wants to brush his teeth, but the bathroom could just as well be a hundred miles away.

If May were here, she would have set him up on the sofa with Star Trek: TOS playing on the TV while changing his sheets and airing out the room, he thinks. And suddenly the homesickness hits him like a train. He misses May. He misses New York and his friends and even the busy schedule that high school provided him with, but mostly he misses coming home to an apartment that’s not empty, having someone to eat breakfast with in the mornings and share his day with in the evenings over burnt teriyaki chicken. Just the thought of May’s disastrous cooking skills almost brings tears to his eyes.

He stays like this for an indefinite amount of time, feeling miserable and blinking back tears, until Tony eventually returns. He sets down the shopping bag on the table and closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge between them with his fingers, the telltale sign that he has a headache.

“You okay?” Peter asks hoarsely.

“Yeah. You live in a village, kid. Took forever to find a parking spot and then everyone and their mother wanted an autograph. Basically fought my way out of there. Might have to give my lawyer a heads up, actually.”

Peter can’t even bring himself to force a laugh. A part of him wants to tell Tony to just go home already; the other part of him really, really doesn’t want to be alone right now. He sniffs hard and swallows to keep his nose from dripping.

“Hey,” Tony’s expression sobers as he sits down next to him on the mattress. “Did I miss something?”

“I just―” Peter rubs a sleeve over his watery eyes, feeling embarrassed. He thinks for an excuse and suddenly remembers the very real problems of college. “Ah, crap.”

“Huh?” Tony asks.

“I have two tests next week,” Peter admits miserably. “I haven’t done anything for them yet―I was going to study this weekend in the evenings―”

“That’s fine, kid, we can deal with that. We saved the universe, remember? Schoolwork is nothing compared to Thanos, trust me.”

“I know,” Peter sniffs. Then, before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “I‘m just missing home.”

“Ah,” Tony says. He lays his bionic hand on Peter’s shoulder and rubs it. “Yeah, that makes more sense.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter goes on, “I didn’t mean, I’m just―”

“You’re just sick and tired and emotional,” Tony assesses, but there’s no judgement in his voice. “Come on.” He gestures for Peter to lie down and pulls the blanket up to his neck. “Go to sleep, kid.” His tone is almost soft. “I’ll be here.”

Peter falls into a feverish, exhausted sleep. He’s dimly aware of an icy cold gripping him and chills wracking his body, and then of Tony putting an extra blanket on him. At some point Tony offers food, but Peter’s too tired to even fully open his eyes. He mumbles something that he hopes Tony understands and turns over to the other side.

The next time he fully surfaces, it’s from Tony gently shaking him awake. “Hey Pete, I know you’re tired, but you really need to eat something.”

“Don’ wanna,” he mutters, pulling the covers up to his chin.

“Peter. Come on, kid.”

He blinks himself awake. The apartment is dark now; it must be evening already. The faint smell of food lingers in the air. “D’ I sleep all day?” he asks, confused.

“Almost. You can still catch Saturday Night Live.”

“Hmm.” Peter sits up slowly. He feels woozy and weak and his head is still hurting, which is ridiculous considering how long he slept for.

“Just let me check your temperature.” Tony takes off his smartwatch and presses it against Peter’s neck, just under his chin. The cold metal sends shivers down his spine.

“102.6,” Tony reports. “Yeah, that’s not great. A pity that fever reducers don’t work on you.” Tony’s voice sounds rough. Peter squints up at him just as the man turns his head into his shoulder to cough. He looks tired—really tired—and, as far as Peter can make out in the dim light of the bedside lamp, his face is kind of flushed.

“Are you okay?” Peter croaks.

“Uhm...” For a moment it looks like Tony wants to lie, but then he falters. “Not really. Guess I caught the same bug you did.”

“Shit,” Peter says. This sucks big time.

“I already texted May—she’ll probably be up here tomorrow. As soon as you’d had something to eat and drink, I’ll go back to the hotel and get out of your hair. You don’t need an old sick man around.”

“What? No!” Peter blurts before he can stop himself. He feels his breath speeding up, horrified at both the idea of Tony leaving him here alone, and of Tony being on his own in some hotel room feeling as miserable as Peter does now. “Please don’t go.”

Tony looks taken aback. “Pete, I don’t think I’m going to be much help soon.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just…” Peter feels himself blushing. “It’s nice not to be alone,” he admits in a small voice.

Tony gives him a long look. “Okay, fine,” he agrees eventually. “But that means you have to listen to me. And the first rule is: eat your dinner, kid.”

They eat quietly. Tony is visibly making an effort not to let on just how bad he’s feeling, but Peter has learned to read the signs during his mentor’s long period of recovery from the snap. Tony is rubbing his shoulder whenever he thinks that Peter isn’t looking, which means that his prosthesis is hurting him. His shoulders are slumped, showing how tired he is, he’s nursing a headache, and then there is the fairly obvious sign of him hardly having eaten anything except for two spoons of pasta and his medication.

After dinner, Tony calls Pepper while Peter calls May. She gives him a run-down of the usual flu advice―“Stay hydrated, try and rest, and for god’s sake, don’t pile every blanket you own on yourself like that time you had strep, Peter—keep the curtains on the windows”—and promises to drive up tomorrow if she can get her shift covered. Then she asks to talk to Tony. Meanwhile, Peter uses the bathroom, brushes his teeth and changes into pyjamas. Observing himself in the mirror, he realises just how run-down he looks. He splashes some water on his face, which does nothing except make him shiver.

“She asked whether you built that Lego ship she got you for your birthday,” Tony announces when Peter returns.

“Oh.” Peter hasn’t, of course. He’s neither had the time nor the motivation to do so without Ned.

Tony makes a show of looking around the room. “This place is less personal than an airbnb. I told her there’s not even a poster on your wall.”

“So what?” Peter sighs. He feels the need to defend himself, but he’s too sick to come up with anything.

Tony doesn’t press it, luckily. He borrows a pair of sweatpants, which end up being a bit short around his ankles and make it look like he’s outgrown them. It almost makes Peter smile. They pull out the sofa-sleeper that May insisted on him getting, but which he’s had no opportunity to use until now. When everything is set up, Peter is almost dizzy from being on his feet for so long. He’s both sweating and shivering and very glad to lie back down under the covers.

Tony turns on the TV, but neither of them is really paying attention. Peter is half asleep a few minutes into the news and Tony seems visibly uncomfortable, shifting around every few minutes on the couch.

“Do you want to switch to the bed?” Peter asks him, secretly hoping for the answer to be no―he really doesn’t want to get up again. Tony shakes his head, lips pressed tightly together. Then he gets to his feet faster than Peter would have thought possible for someone in his condition and bolts to the bathroom.

Peter hears nothing for a while. Then there’s a few weak coughs, followed by a retch and the sound of splashing. Peter cringes, his own stomach twisting in sympathy. The small size of the apartment and his enhanced hearing make it impossible to tune out the sounds as Tony continues to be sick into the toilet for the next ten minutes. When the retching tapers off, Peter shakily gets to his feet and fills a glass of water from the kitchenette.

He knocks on the bathroom door, then leans heavily against the frame. “I got you some water,” he calls, hearing Tony’s ragged breathing inside. “Can I come in?”

“Just go to sleep, kid,” Tony croaks.

“Yeah, sure,” Peter mumbles under his breath. After a few moments, he hears the sound of the flush and then the door opens. Tony is covered in sweat and looking about as bad as Peter feels, plus there’s a greenish tinge to his face. The smell of vomit wafts out and hits Peter’s nostrils, turning his own stomach.

“Thanks, Pete,” Tony croaks says hoarsely and takes the water from his hand. His metal fingers feel cold against Peter’s burning skin when they brush the back of his hand. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

“‘S okay,” Peter mumbles. He suddenly has a hard time focusing on Tony. His head feels so heavy that he has to rest it against the doorframe as well.

“Jeez, kid,” Tony comments. Then his face drains even more of colour and he presses his knuckles against his lips, swallowing thickly. “Go lie down, okay? I’ll be out in a bit.” With that, he turns and disappears back into the bathroom.

For once, Peter listens to him, unsure whether he will be able to keep standing much longer anyway. After a moment of consideration, he curls up on the couch, leaving the softer bed for the older man. He drifts there for a while, trying to tune out the sounds of sickness coming from the bathroom.

Eventually, he is dimly aware of someone entering the room and switching off the lights. There’s cold metal touching his neck as someone takes his temperature and tsks, then softly brushes back his hair and lays a cold washcloth on his forehead. It feels amazing against Peter’s burning skin.

“Thanks, May,” he mumbles.

Waking up feels like resurfacing after diving into a deep pool of water. Peter’s eyelids are sticky with sleep and his brain feels like it’s been through a potato masher. He’s disoriented, so it takes a bit until he realises that it was Tony’s voice that woke him. “Pete,” he hears him calling again weakly. Something about it shakes him out of his half-awake state.

“Tony?” he asks, sitting up. There’s a rustling sound and a thump from the bathroom, confirming his worry. A quick glance at his phone on the bedside table tells him that it’s just after 4am. Definitely not the time to take a shower.

Peter’s head swims when he gets up from the couch. He takes a few unsteady steps towards the bathroom and then stops to lean against the wall until his vision clears and he can open the door.

Tony is on the ground next to the toilet, wrenched in between the bowl and the shower, looking about ten times worse than earlier. His face is almost grey except for the scars on his right cheek, which are flushed in an angry red. His dark eyes are glassy and deeply exhausted. Sweat sticks to his hair and t-shirt, the prosthesis off and one sleeve dangling empty. The smell of vomit hangs thickly in the air, much stronger than before.

Tony slowly lifts his head when Peter steps in. “Hey,” he croaks, attempting a smile and giving up somewhere halfway. “Sorry for waking you. ‘S just that I could use some help.”

“With what exactly?”

“Getting up?” Tony asks sheepishly. “I tried and almost took down your shower curtain.”

Peter blinks. “Well, shit.”

“You said it, kid.”

Peter extends a hand and Tony grabs it gratefully, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Peter closes the toilet lid and Tony sits down on it with a heavy sigh. He shudders convulsively, then closes his eyes and swallows rapidly a few times, as if trying to stop himself from being sick again.

“How long have you been in here?” Peter asks while checking Tony’s temperature on his smart watch. He finds it to be at a worrying 103.6.

“Uhm,” Tony makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Midnight, maybe? Kinda lost track of time.” Peter frowns. “Sorry for waking you up, kid,” Tony says again, taking his expression the wrong way. “That’s kind of why I didn’t want to stay.”

“You should have called me earlier.” Peter fills a glass of water from the tap. “And yeah, really reassuring to think of you spending the night on the bathroom floor of your hotel because you can’t get up on your own.”

Tony mumbles something that sounds a lot like, “Not like I haven’t done that before.” When Peter hands him the glass, the man’s hands are trembling so much that half of the water spills out onto his shirt.

“Shit,” Tony mutters. “All my spares are at the hotel.”

“I can give you one of mine,” Peter offers.

“Yeah, that... that would be great,” Tony says earnestly. Peter wonders whether he’s maybe a bit delirious. “This shit didn’t use to happen before the snap, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter says, surprised at the admission. He fetches a clean sweatshirt from the dresser and hands it to the older man. His mentor’s whole body is shaking violently with chills. While Tony changes, Peter notices that the scar pattern around his shoulder stump is an angry red. It looks painful, but Tony doesn’t seem to care too much.

Something twists within Peter. It reminds him too much of the time just after the snap when he saw Tony in the hospital, weak with fever from the infected limb.

“Ready for bed?” Peter asks, shaking the thoughts from his head.

“Yeah,” Tony says, although he doesn’t look too sure. Peter pulls him upright and almost staggers under the man’s weight and his own weakness. Tony doesn’t comment, and when Peter turns towards him, he sees that he is biting his lips, eyes largely unfocused.

“This really hit you hard, huh?” Peter asks when they have made it to the bed, sitting down next to Tony. His mentor is bending forward, head in his hands, panting and shaking like he just finished a mission in the suit. That’s not the only thing, though. With his advanced hearing, Peter can pick up Tony’s heartbeat, which is slightly arrhythmic.

“Tony?” he asks suspiciously. “What’s wrong with your heart?”

“Yeah, about that…” The other man raises his head, but avoids Peter’s gaze.

“What?” Peter can feel his own heart rate speeding up in worry.

“I, uh...remember my heart medication?” Tony says casually. “I threw up the last dose. It’s not dangerous, don’t worry,” he adds when Peter stares at him, alarmed, “Or, well, at least not yet. Just sort of increases the nausea and dizziness.”

“Can’t you take another dose?” he asks.

“I don’t think I can keep anything down right now,” Tony admits. “But I’ll try in the morning.”

“Hmm.” This doesn’t really do anything to make Peter feel better.

“Don’ worry, kid” Tony adds with a tired slur to his words, which only achieves the opposite. With a lot of effort, he pulls his legs up to the bed and then lies down under the blankets. “Let’s both sleep for a bit and things will look brighter in the morning.”

Peter gets himself a glass of water and then curls back up on the couch. He hears Tony’s breaths turn heavy and even out before long, but although he feels exhausted, he has a hard time going back to sleep. The sofa feels like rocks under his achy body, and he keeps turning around, unable to find a comfortable position. His head doesn’t fare any better. With his brain cloudy from fever, it’s even harder than usual to stave off the memories from the battlefield.

His eyes finally fall shut and back he goes, right into the middle of dust and blood and death looming around every corner. He knows that there should be screams and shouts everywhere, but it’s silent, dead silent, except for the underlying thump-thump-thump of Tony’s heartbeat, becoming ever quieter.

Peter rounds a heap of rubble and almost stumbles over Tony, who is lying on the ground, half his body eaten away by the radiation. The beating gets weaker even as Peter falls onto his knees and tears stream down his cheeks. He’s been here a hundred times, unable to save the man who saved him, and he knows exactly how this is going to end.

A beat, almost indiscernible. A breath leaves Tony’s lips for the last time.

Silence.

He wakes to the feeling that everything in the world that possibly could be wrong, is wrong. His whole body is hot and he feels nauseous, almost as if he will throw up. Sick, he remembers. He’s sick. Tony’s―

Peter forces himself to take a deep breath that comes out more like a choked sob. He sits up dizzily, and is surprised by the light streaming through the windows. His eyes immediately wander to Tony’s still form on the bed, covered by blankets. Peter can make out his slightly ragged breathing, but he’s way past the point where he would feel calmed by this.

Unsteadily, he makes his way over to the bed and sits down on the floor next to it, shivering uncontrollably from the coldness of the tile, but not wanting to wake Tony up. He tries to calm himself, but his heart won’t stop racing. Everything feels kind of surreal and he can’t shake the image of Tony’s body on the ground, so still and lifeless. There are tears burning in his eyes. He shoves his knuckles in his mouth to keep himself from sobbing loudly.

“Kid?” Tony’s groggy voice asks. “What ‘appened?”

“S-Sorry,” Peter manages. “G-Go back to sleep.”

“Hey.” Tony rubs his eyes and tries to push himself up, only partially succeeding. Looking at Peter, his face takes on an alarmed expression. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Peter whispers, feeling infinitely stupid. “J-Just had a nightmare.” He bites his lip, but with the admission, a dam seems to break. He can feel his eyes overflowing.

“Hey, kid, hey,” Tony says softly. “It’s alright.”

Peter just shakes his head, tears dripping down his cheeks onto the floor. Tony extends a trembling hand to wipe them away. “Do these nightmares happen often?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” Peter evades. He wonders why he doesn’t just tell the truth. That there’s rarely a night when he doesn’t go back to the battle against Thanos, or the dust on Titan, or even the Vulture in flames―an enemy that seems ridiculous now compared to the ones they’ve fought since, but sometimes still makes it into Peter’s dreams.

“It’s gotten worse again, hasn’t it?” Tony asks. “Since you moved here.” His hand drops down to Peter’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly.

“‘S okay,” he lies. “I’m fine. Jus’... just the fever.”

“Mmh-hmm, sure. Come here.” Tony nods his head towards himself, weakly lifting an arm, and Peter lets himself get pulled into the hug. “Woah, kid. You’re on fire.”

“Hmm,” Peter mumbles. “You too.”

It’s true; Tony’s body feels even hotter than his. The sweatshirt Peter had given him is already damp with sweat. And, most concerningly, his heart is still beating out of rhythm. It reminds Peter way too much of his dream for him to ignore it.

“You need to have some water,” Tony says, ignorant to Peter’s thoughts. “And eat something. It’s been a while.”

Peter’s queasiness increases at the thought. “Stomach’s not feeling great,” he admits. “How are you doing?” he asks then, into the older man’s chest. “And don’t lie.”

He feels Tony grimacing. “Like a clock someone forgot to wind up.” His remaining arm lets go of Peter as he brings it to his chest to massage the area around his heart. “But hey, don’t worry. I’m gonna try my pills and some water and then I’ll be back on my bullshit before you know it.”

But he isn’t. Half an hour later, Peter has to support Tony to the toilet to once again throw up the medication and the few sips of water he’s just managed to get down. He stops trying to reassure Peter after the second bout of painful dry heaves wrack his body and doesn’t even resist when Peter wipes down his grey face with a wet cloth. On their way back, halfway across the bedroom, they almost lose balance when Tony’s legs suddenly give out. Peter just manages to stabilise him before they can faceplant all the way.

“That’s it. You need to go to the ER,” Peter decides after all-but carrying Tony back to the bed and sitting him down. Peter’s own body feels heavy with exhaustion. Tony weakly shakes his head and opens his mouth to object. “Please, Tony.”

There must have been something in his voice that gave away his desperation because Tony shuts up mid-inhale. He gives Peter a deep look and then nods shakily. ”But only if you eat something first.”

“Okay.” He checks Tony’s temperature, which has climbed even higher, to 103.8. Peter’s own is hardly any better at 103.2, but at least he can still stand―kind of, he realises when he has to sit down to be able to concentrate on his phone screen long enough to call a cab.

The walk to the kitchen feels like it’s a mile long. Peter surveys the meagre food choices and decides that cold pasta with salt looks like the best option. After the first few bites, his queasiness abides a bit and he manages to finish his small plate, suddenly realising how hungry he was. He drinks two glasses of water with it and finally feels a little less lightheaded. Then he goes to the bathroom and, on a whim, swallows a small handful of painkillers from the bottle of Advil Tony has sitting beside his pill box. They will hardly do anything for him, but hopefully they’ll keep him upright until they reach the hospital.

When Peter comes back, he expects Tony to be lying where he left him and is already wondering how he’s going to maneuver him down the stairs from the second floor with the man's balance shot and his own legs feeling like noodles. But Tony is sitting up and in the process of putting on his shoes. His determination, however, falters a bit when it comes to actually standing up.

“Just go slow,” Peter directs, supporting Tony to the door and taking on most of the man’s weight. “One step at a time.”

They make it down the first staircase before Tony holds up a hand. “Just need a minute,” he exhales, sitting down with a sigh and leaning against the wall, his eyelids fluttering shut. His breathing is ragged. Peter looks at him worriedly, the unsteady thump of the man’s heartbeat loud in his ears. Tony, as if feeling the gaze, opens one eye to squint at him. “Not dead yet, kid. Come on, let’s get downstairs.”

Maybe it’s the fact that the painkillers are wearing off faster than expected or that Peter’s anxiety is finally getting the better of him, but the cab ride is kind of a blur. He just remembers Tony sitting with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, looking deathly exhausted, and at some point grabbing the older man’s hand and holding on.

Peter only lets go of it when he has to fill in the forms once they reach the hospital. The ER nurse takes one look at Tony’s scarred face and missing arm and then directs them to a private room. Peter’s hand is shaking so hard that Tony’s name on the form looks like a child’s scrawl. Behind him, his mentor is already being connected to a heart monitor, while another nurse is bringing an IV stand.

He hands the form to the elderly nurse and then has to steady himself against the wall when he stumbles a bit.

Her brow furrows. “Are you alright?” she asks.

“Y-Yes,” Peter answers quickly.

“Bullshit. He’s got the flu too,” Tony mutters from the bed behind them.

“I’m fine,” Peter insists, feeling his heart rate spike. They’ve done a great deal to keep his secret identity, well, secret while he’s at Culver, and he’s not about to let his powers be discovered just because of a flu bug. “Really, I’m okay. Not a big deal.”

“Honey, you can’t be here as a visitor if you’re sick,” the nurse says, her tone kind, but firm. “You’ll risk infecting the other patients.”

Peter looks up, taking a moment to understand the implications. “What? No, please don’t make me go!”

The nurse eyes him critically, then sighs and relents. “If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to be inside this room at all times. I can’t have you walking around spreading germs.”

“That’s okay,” Peter agrees immediately. It’s not like he was planning to walk the halls anyway; his legs feel like they might go on strike any moment. When the nurse turns around to start working on Tony, Peter wobbles over to an uncomfortable chair in the corner and collapses into it.

He feels like the next time he takes an actual breath is once Tony is hooked up to painkillers, antiemetics, and something for his heart, the fluids dripping steadily into his arm through an IV and the heart monitor finally—finally—reverts back to a steady rhythm of beeps. Tony isn’t conscious anymore to notice; after spending the better part of the last 24 hours on Peter’s bathroom floor, his exhaustion has finally gotten the upper hand. He drifts off as soon as the meds start kicking in.

Once the nurses leave, Peter drags his chair over next to the bed. Tony looks—there is no other way to describe it—frail. Like he might fall apart any minute if Peter stops watching. His fever is still much too high at 103.3 and he is sleeping fitfully, as if the dreams are haunting him as well. Peter can still see images from the nightmare in his mind. Not clear, but looming, like he might find himself on the battlefield any time he turns around.

He doesn’t want to fall asleep, but he’s dead tired. Now with the adrenaline fading, it feels like his body weighs a thousand pounds. He suddenly doesn’t even feel able to keep his head up, and instead lets himself slump forward, crossing his arms and resting his head on top. His cold hands are a sharp contrast to his burning face.

His mind feels oddly detached from his body, like he’s floating, and he has no idea how much time has passed when suddenly the nurse shakes him awake from where he’s slidden down onto the edge of Tony’s mattress. “Can you just move for a second, hon?” she asks gently. “I need to hook up some more fluids."

"Oh yeah, sure, of course..." Peter nods groggily and goes to stand up a little too quickly. The moment he is on his feet, he can practically feel the blood rushing away from his head, and a wave of darkness rolls over him. Peter grabs for something to hold on to but comes up empty. He feels himself sway into the nurse, who grabs his shoulders and just about manages to keep him from face planting on the hospital floor.

“You’re really warm, dear,” she observes after helping him sit back down on the chair. "You really can't be here if you're not a patient. Let me call someone to get you a bed."

“But I—” Peter feels panic swelling in his chest. He doesn’t want to leave Tony alone, especially when he can’t be sure that the man’s heart won’t stop again, but he can’t let anyone find out about Spider-Man either―

"Peter, it's fine,” he hears a thin voice. Tony, just woken up, is shifting wearily under the blanket, turning his head towards them. “They'll sign NDAs and no one will know. Just do what she says and get in the bed, alright?"

So Peter does. The nurse calls her colleague, who sets up a bed next to Tony’s and takes Peter’s vitals. After Peter groggily explains that fever reducers won’t do anything to bring down his 103.5 degree temperature, the nurse hooks him up to fluids to counteract the dehydration.

The world goes blurry again and he is half asleep when he sees Tony slip something into the elderly nurse’s hand on her way out the door.

When she’s gone, Peter gives Tony a confused look. “You bribed her to let me stay in the room?”

“What are you talking about?” Tony scoffs lightly. “I just asked nicely and told her you took part in saving the world―that was more than enough.” He shrugs a bit. “And I might’ve signed an autograph for her son.”

Peter would have rolled his eyes if his head wasn’t hurting so much. “Still a bribe,” he mumbles.

“Go to sleep, kid,” Tony says warmly.

He closes his eyes but then opens them again to see Tony watching him. “You’ll be okay, right?” Peter asks.

“Of course,” Tony replies. “I’m always okay.”

When Peter wakes up again in the early evening, it’s to May lightly stroking his curls out of his face. A tension he didn’t even know he was holding seems to fall off his shoulders.

“Hey, baby,” she says softly when he hugs her. “Rough weekend, huh?”

It is decided that neither of them has to spend the night at the hospital―Tony has to fight to be discharged, but they eventually let him go after making him promise to rest, take his medicine, and tell May if his heart acts up again. In turn, Tony collects each of the staff members’ contact details to have his lawyers send NDAs later.

The drive back to the flat is quiet. Tony attempts small talk for the first five minutes, but is still too out of it from the combined force of illness and drugs, and quickly gives up again. Peter is just relieved that May is there.

Once they’re home, May makes both of them eat some toast and then ushers them off to bed. Peter feels like he hasn’t slept since he moved to Virginia, and maybe that’s true in a way. But now with Tony and May both there, he finally feels like it’s safe to let himself go.

He wakes up to May opening the windows to let in the chilly morning air.

“C’n I have some water?” he mumbles.

May hands him the glass. “Your fever has come down a bit overnight. Feeling any better?” she asks.

“Hmm.” He’s still weary and headachey, but the chills are gone and the world seems much less frightening now. “How’s Tony?” he asks.

“Still asleep. We talked a little last night—he didn’t get much rest, I’m afraid. But you should wake him up and tell him it’s time for food and medicine.”

Peter sits up and is rewarded with a lack of dizziness. He goes to the toilet and washes his face before trudging over to the bed and sitting down carefully on the mattress next to his mentor’s sleeping form. Tony’s eyes are moving rapidly behind his closed eyelids as if he’s in the middle of a dream. His hair is a greasy mess, the scars as red and angry as before and his cheeks still flushed with fever, but the rest of his face isn’t as pale as it was the previous day, and, when he listens carefully, Peter can make out his regular heartbeat.

“Tony?” Peter whispers, gently touching his flesh shoulder.

Tony grunts and rolls himself over. “Pep?” he asks in a muffled voice.

“Not exactly.” Tony blinks awake and squints up at Peter. “How are you feeling?”

“Ugh…I want my hospital drugs back,” Tony half-jokes. “But not on the verge of cardiac failure anymore, so that’s a plus.”

“Hmm.” Peter reaches for his hand to check the smart watch. “Your temperature’s down.” Tony’s is at 101.5, whereas Peter’s is at 100.7. Tony gives first the numbers and then Peter a critical once-over before closing his eyes again.

“Don’t go back to sleep,” Peter warns. “May said you need to take your medicine and eat something.”

Tony groans audibly. “Nurses never let you have any fun...”

The first time they met, Peter wasn’t sure what to make of Tony Stark.

Times have changed, Peter thinks, as he surveys the scene in his apartment.

After a painfully slow shuffle to the bathroom and back, Tony decides that he doesn’t feel up to walking around just yet, so they all eat breakfast in bed, assembled on various pillows and blankets, while Star Trek plays on the TV in the background. With his appetite returning and worries temporarily lifted, Peter devours two pieces of toast with chocolate spread and a glass of orange juice while Tony sticks to saltines, tea, and the pills he swallows under May’s watchful eye.

When they’re done, May announces that she’s heading out for groceries. “No crime-fighting until I’m back,” she orders with a smile. “And I want each of you to finish the water bottles on the table.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Tony salutes sarcastically. The moment May shuts the door, he sets down his half-finished cup of tea and slumps visibly into his pillows.

“You alright?” Peter asks immediately.

“Jeez, kid, you’re worse than Morgan,” Tony comments, not without affection. “I know last night was scary for you, but honestly, this is not even in my top 20 for life-threatening events I’ve experienced in the last few decades.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Peter retorts. “Because it really doesn’t.”

He must have come across less playful than intended, because Tony’s expression sobers. He regards Peter with the deep look that always gives him the feeling of being x-rayed.

“I know,” Tony says. “But that’s kind of the point. I’ve been through so much shit in my life that I know pretty much exactly how you feel.”

He drags himself a bit more upright and lays a warm hand on Peter’s forearm. “I know how it is when your thoughts circle back to the same moment over and over again and the nightmares won’t let you rest. I know how easy it is to isolate yourself because the memories are eating you up and you feel like nobody can help you.”

He pauses for a moment and rubs a hand over his forehead. Peter remembers the darkness on Tony’s face the first time they met and wonders whether that’s what Tony sees on his now.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Tony continues, “you don’t have to pretend to be fine if you’re not. At least not in front of me or May.”

The irony of it almost makes Peter smile, despite the lump forming in his throat. Tony just spent the last 36 hours trying to downplay the pain he was in. “You are one to talk,” he remarks.

Tony chuckles quietly. “Still learning, kid.” He picks up his tea cup and takes another sip before continuing in a softer voice. “Just trust me, it‘s okay to be a little broken, even when you’re not sick. And you don’t have to hide it. I know what loneliness looks like. I’ve been through all of it and it took me years to understand that the only thing that can help is to let other people in―the right kind of people.”

The thoughts are running a marathon in Peter’s head and he’s dimly aware that he’s trembling. He swallows hard before speaking. “It’s just… sometimes I don’t even want to remember. It’s just so hard to start talking. About”―he takes a deep breath―“the battle. And the dreams. And everything else.”

“Yeah, it is. I never said it would be easy.” Tony seems to hesitate for a moment, but then he pulls Peter toward him one-handedly so that they can lie side by side. He covers both of them with his blanket. Peter turns his head into Tony’s shoulder and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths. “And we don’t have to start today. But I’ll be there whenever you’re ready.”

________________

If you liked this, you might also enjoy my other post-Endgame fic (in which Tony is obviously still alive): What We Lose in the Fire We Gain in the Flood

All my fics

Taglist: @toomuchtoread33 @yepokokfine

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elfenbensord · 4 years

Text

GOODBYE, STRANGER / CHAPTER 1

GOODBYE, STRANGER / CHAPTER ONE / OBLIVIATE

SERIES MASTERLIST

3-10.8.20

A/N: This is a new series I started a bit randomly one night. Enjoy some sad Remus and chaotic Y/N content

Warning: A Sad™ time.

Word count: 3.8 k

It was an early morning yesterday

I was up before the dawn

And I really have enjoyed my stay

But I must be moving on

---

October 31st, 1981

On a train to London

Remus could see tiny stars on a black infinity as he looked up at the sky through the dingy windows of the train. He was all alone in the carriage, something which reflected his current life situation very well. In his mind, a series of panicked questioned were playing on repeat.

What had Dumbledore said? That the hiding place had been compromised? That the Dark Lord had personally gone after Lily and James?

And where was Sirius in all this? Where was Peter?

Were his best friends still alive?

The stars above granted him no answers.

---

October, 1982

A year after

Remus woke up early. He always did. For a few hours, it was just him and the early morning sun. He hated it. Once, he could’ve given anything for just an hour of silence, a minute of calm. Now he felt himself suffocating on this endless expanse of nothing. The silence acted as yet another confirmation of one of his many dreadful suspicions - that he was lonely. Perhaps he always had been. He probably always would be.

Breathing in deeply, he couldn’t help but turn his nose away in distaste. His entire flat smelled of old stains and neglected dishes. Sunlight peeked through the curtains of his bedroom window, illuminating a gentle storm of dust for an instance. After shining in a quite naturally magical way, it settled into his clothes, into his lungs. Looking down, he saw the same shirt and slacks he’d worn the night before. And the night before that.

I’m not even hungover, he thought.

He wasn’t. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in months. The thought of drowning his sorrows in brown liquids and vile smells had never been appealing to him. Not even now. ‘Now’ being the end of everything. Well, maybe not everything. But the end of him, at least. It had already begun, deep in his mind. He just hadn’t come to the right conclusions just yet.

The sun smiled at him from its rightful place in the sky. After giving it a dirty look, Remus closed the curtains.

---

His morning coffee tasted way too bitterly. With every sugar, it only seemed to turn darker. Nothing tasted quite the same anymore. Sweet was often exchanged for bitterness, and vice versa. Whenever he wished for one, he got the other. If anything, it made eating an awful business to him.

That night a year ago constantly lingered in the back of Remus‘ mind. That final night. When his entire fate was turned upside down.

He’d lost so many things that one night. Went to bed one day, to discover it all gone the moment he woke up. He’d had a home. Grimmauld Place 12 had been a wonderful place back then, always full of volunteers and members of the Order, old and new. And there was a constant lingering smell of Molly Weasley’s roast chicken, companionship, and too much firewhiskey now and then.

And he’d had friends. Best friends. “Cross my heart and hope to die” friends.

He’d had a purpose, or something like it. The war had given Remus a meaning. Where it to so many others had taken lives, it had unusually granted him one.

It was a life he did his best to take good care of. A life he’d spent years building, repairing, and desperately ensuring. He was even making plans to enroll in studies at a university nearby that hopefully one day would become a degree in teaching. He’d known where he was, and where he was going.

And over one night, nothing was left of that.

He still remembered arriving to Grimmauld Place, only to see it empty and abandoned. And that recurring question - Where were his best friends?

Gone. He’d discovered in the morning. No one had bothered to tell him - instead, he’d had to read all about it in the Daily Prophet.

James and Lily Potter dead. Their son, Harry, somehow survived.

The Dark Lord defeated.

Peter Pettigrew - dead at the hands of Sirius Black.

Sirius Black - the damned traitor! - a life sentence in Azkaban.

Remus was the only one left. Without friends. Without a home. And without purpose.

---

“Mr. Lupin, are you listening?”, the Healer inquired.

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then what did I say?”

“I- I don’t… I don’t know.”

Remus felt like he was being scolded, like a child who’d nicked candy from the Christmas shelf. A heavy knot of tears started to settle in the base of his throat. Like a child. Pathetic.

The Healer smiled in a, what he thought, sympathetic way. To Remus it simply looked like pity. A lot of things looked like pity to him now. “No worries, I’ll go over it again…”

Please, don’t, he thought.

“As I said, I need you to keep coming back for checkups at least once a month…”

Great, another thing to dread.

“... and I’ll have your asthma medication ready next time…”

Not only are all my friends dead, now my lungs are giving in as well.

“... and I really think it’d be good for you if you started making some new friends.”

New friends?

“Did you hear me this time, Remus?”

“Loud and clear. I’ll be back in a month.”

“Looking forward to see you.”

I’m not.

---

New friends?

Remus wasn’t even sure how to do that anymore. Friends were something for the past him. He hadn’t had anyone since that final night, a year ago. He didn’t even consider himself to be his own friend. Because what other friends than his first and last could he possibly ever have? And he even felt like a traitor to them. Most days, he tried to think as little of them as possible. Hoped to eventually forget them, in an attempt to soften the pain. Tried to stay in the present. But nothing worked. Nothing would grant him a single second of relief.

How could it? His best friends had died.

And now… Now he was someone else. He suspected he’d become unrecognizable to the ones who’d known him. He hadn’t cut his hair in a year. It hung around his ears in sorry curls. He hunched in a new way now, something which might’ve granted him a sense of anonymity and security during the war, but now only hurt his back more as each day passed. Sometimes he felt like he was still in the thick of it. Still in the middle of a wizarding war. Like he’d forgotten it was all over. That’s why he still couldn’t walk without casting cautious glances over his shoulder every other minute. That’s why he awoke soaked in sweat, terrified and confused, in the middle of the night.

They were always there. In the back of his mind. Their screams. Their final words.

And as he failed to forget them, he started to forget himself instead. His existence before this seemed more and more like a dream for each day that passed. He existed in an endless vacuum. Only ‘now’ existed. Nothing before or to be. Nothing ever would.

And he could never forget the night that made him want to forget himself. But Remus wanted to forget. For real, not just for a moment.

And he knew just the spell.

---

“Bloody fuck”, he whispered, eyes locked at the grey cobble street by his feet. The wind tugged at his hair. He added a curse for himself, and for not realizing he should’ve worn a hat. His ears burned in that cool way, when warmth and cold seem indistinguishable. He drew his worn-out tweed coat tighter around him. It’s unusually cold for July. Is it even still July?

Before him was his well-familiar grocery shop. In one of the big glass windows hung a sign, ‘Sorry, we’re closed!’ and a handwritten note, stating that the shop was to close permanently because of family troubles.

For Remus, that meant he’d have to walk two more blocks to get to the next shop. Or disapparate. But he hadn’t tried to teleport in so many months, he was scared he might’ve forgotten how to. And if he messed up, who would he call?

What he’d have to do was to walk. And he’d come to despise walking. He muttered a few swears, before beginning his journey.

It took one block, before his lungs started to burn. Remus had come to despise the wheezing sound they - his lungs - made after the smallest kinds of exercise. His airways only seemed to close in tighter, in their wild ambition to strangle him. He found that even if he did arrive at the shop, he wouldn’t be able to get home. And then the whole thing seemed rather pointless.

All this resulted in him turning around, and accepting the fact that he couldn’t have dinner tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sure, his Healer had said that any more skipped meals would eventually result in some sort of wicked starvation, which could get him a place at St. Mungo’s. And another month at St. Mungo’s wasn’t something he wanted. He thought he’d wasted enough time lying in a bed, being fed and dallied with.

Remus didn’t know what to do. His lungs burned. He could’ve killed for Molly Weasley’s roast chicken. With buttered potatoes and steamed green beans. Only a year ago, he had killed for Molly Weasley.

His lungs wouldn’t stop gasping for air. He pulled his arms around himself, and let out an ill-sounding cough. The sorry sight gained him a few looks from the people passing by.

Pull yourself together!

Then he remembered - a few weeks back, he’d bought far too many instant soup packs after finding a coupon in the Daily Prophet. Maybe he could find one of them, preferably mushroom-flavoured, somewhere at the very back of his kitchen drawers. It was a shot in the dark, he admitted that. But it was a shot at something, at least.

---

Coughing and wheezing, he finally arrived home. Well, perhaps ‘home’ wasn’t the right word. He arrived at the place where he’d been hiding away for the past year. How homely that was, he didn’t want to judge for himself.

As he held on to the wall beside the staircase for his dear life, he noticed how the front door opposite his own was hanging opened.

Someone’s in there! His mind went haywire, hand cramping around the wand from his inner pocket. Breaths became shallow, inaudible. Steps softened. Time seemed to slow down. He could feel the seconds moving past him.

The top step creaked under the weight of his right foot.

Remus moved closer to the open door. Meanwhile, he rehearsed the most useful spells for attack and defense.

But the scene before him was nothing like he’d imagined or rehearsed for.

“Hello there, stranger!” A girl half-shouted from inside. She was surrounded by moving boxes, but already looked quite at home. There was a happy look plastered upon her face.

No Death Eaters. No ‘fight or flight’. Just a girl.

Remus was taken aback. “Good evening”, his voice sounded like an unfamiliar croak. “... stranger.”

At the presence of another human being, Remus also found himself quite self-conscious about his looks. He knew he hadn’t showered in ages, and he couldn’t remember if he’d brushed his teeth this morning. Only Godric knew the last time he’d combed his hair. He made a half-hearted attempt to calm his disorderly brown locks, before tucking his arms into his sides. He felt the sharp end of his wand dig into the flesh of his hips, and hoped he wouldn’t accidentally turn his insides to jelly.

There was a stack of bowls wrapped in old newspapers in her arms, and a cheery smile on her lips. She hurried to put them down on the floor, causing Remus to cringe at the clinking sound they made. Surely something must’ve broken. She got up from the floor, standing in her full length. She still didn’t reach past Remus’ shoulders. “I’m the new neighbor.”

New neighbor?

“I’m Y/N”, she handed him her name. And, judging by the smile on her lips, a piece of her heart as well. She looked so effortlessly happy. It stirred something in Remus, making him wanting to return the smile in the best way he could.

He got lost in her happiness, and forgot himself for a moment. “I’m…”, an idiot. “I’m Remus Lupin.”

“Nice to meet you”, another goddamned smile. Wide and white-teethed. “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I mean, sharing a whole corridor and all.”

Remus had never once given that corridor a single thought. “Yup. An entire corridor...”

Another smile. “It’ll be fun, won’t it?”

Fun? “Sure.”

He realized he still had his wand in his hand, and quickly put it away as to not look like he’d just been planning an attack on a devotee of the Dark Lord.

“I better get back-”, he mumbled.

“I need to keep unpacking-”, she said.

She reached out a final hand. A final smile. “Nice meeting you.”

Remus took it. It was softer than he remembered hands could be. His lips were forced into a strained smile, “Same.”

Nose crinkled, eyes sparked. “See you around, Remus.”

Her door was still hanging open when Remus turned his back on her to return to his own nest. Careless girl.

All of this made Remus unsure of how to feel. This exceeded all his expectations - but to be fair, pretty much anything did now a days. He felt himself thrown off his usual dull rhythm. This was... new. He threw a last look down the corridor, and noticed he could still see her through her open door.

Anyone could walk through an open door. Shaking his head, he closed his own door with a loud ‘thud’.

---

FRIDAY

Remus had made sure the door was locked at least three times now. He got up from the coach to check again. Locked. Like it’d been the first time.

Satisfied, he returned to the coach. Looking around him, he made sure to check that everything was in order. He’d written himself a note, containing his name and birth information. He didn’t intend to forget every thing, but he knew that these sort of spells could be incalculable. ‘These sort of spells’ being spells for desperate fools. Such as himself.

The note was in place on the coffee table in front of him. He figured he better sit down. It wasn’t impossible that a erasing your past could make you a bit fussy.

It’s probably best to just nap it out, he thought to himself. Just… fall asleep old and wake up brand new.

The familiar wood of his wand felt like an old friend. Not that he particularly knew what those felt like anymore. The slender stick was the only thing linking him to his past. It started heating up slightly against his hand. Almost as if it knew what he was about to do. Begging him not to. His wand hand started shaking more. He needed steadier hands for this. The truth was, he needed someone else’s hands for this. Someone else to pull the plug.

He had no one. Nothing.

His lungs wheezed as he took a deep breath, steadying his hands. Another breath, and he braced himself.

His lips begun to shape the word, but his voice wouldn’t produce a sound. He tried again. Nothing.

Then, there was a sudden pain. The ever present ache in his head became more apparent; it turned into a sharp pain. His hands started to shake, dropping the wand like it was burning his skin. His airways closed in, there suddenly was no sair for him to breath. He could feel his head starting to spin, his vision becoming fuzzy. He felt like he was melting away.

Then there was nothing.

---

SATURDAY

Remus woke up late. Judging by the way the sun was burning into his eyes, it must’ve been past noon. He’d been passed out for more than 12 hours.

His mouth felt like sandpaper. Head was still fuzzy, and hands and limbs not feeling quite like they should. He was alive. And he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not.

A shower, he thought. A shower and I’ll be fine. Well, ‘fine’ was an overstatement.

Looking into the bathroom mirror, he barely recognized himself. Who was this man? With sunken in, dull eyes, gazing back at him. There was an angry red mark on the bridge of his nose, probably caused by his metal-rimmed glasses digging into his face all through the night. And most of the day. His face was nothing more but a pale complexion in a dirty mirror.

I used to be covered in freckles, he remembered. Little delightful brown spots everywhere. Now, his face was laid bare.

The hot water from the shower hurt and pricked his fragile skin. But it was a good hurt. It was an ‘I’m alive’ hurt. Remus rested his head against one of the tiled walls, feeling the water pour down his back. He still couldn’t understand what had exactly happened last night. He’d tried to forget. He’d ended up passing out.

“Shit”, he mumbled. The water ran a little hotter. His fist punched the hard surface of the tile wall. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

Through the small window of his bathroom, the sun kept pouring in. It burned his eyes with its brightness.

He cursed the sun. He cursed the moon and the stars. He cursed himself. Himself and his incapability. Himself and his naivete - had he really thought he could just forget?

A cold, frosty feeling started to settle into his insides. The water from the shower head turned freezing cold. Out of hot water.

“... Shit.”

---

There was a knocking at the door. Three quick beats. At his front door. Remus was still standing in his hallway, towel wrapped around his middle and hair in a wet mess. He muttered a series of curses and swears, as he tried to find a clean shirt in his mess of a bedroom. Finding no such thing, he retorted to one of his coats from the hangers next to the door. It’d have to do. He’d fought off Death Eaters - one time even the Dark Lord himself - with worse dress sense.

The knocking continued, followed by a voice. “Hello?”

The last syllable was dragged out far too long for Remus’ liking. Realizing a Death Eater most certainly would never use the word in such a comical way, he let himself relax just a little.

“Anybody home?”

He opened the door an inch, casting a cautious look outside.

The new neighbor. The girl. Whatever her name was.

“Good afternoon”, followed by a wide smile.

Was it really that late?

She noticed the coat. The damned coat. “Are you going out?”

He crossed his arms around himself, in yet another attempt to hide himself. “No. Not particularly.”

Remus’ confused face clearly amused her, for a bubbling laughter fell out of her lips.

“Were you out for a bit too long last night?”

Was that a joke? “Yeah, something like that… Sorry, did you need anything?”

“No. I was just wondering what you were up to right now.”

A small smile started to involuntarily form on his lips. “I’m not doing… anything. Ever.”

At least that’s true.

“Good. ‘Cause I need a companion.”

“Companion?”

“You know, like a friend.”

Friend? “Oh. Right.” Friend? “Me? Am… Am I your friend?”

Another smile. “Of course. You’re the closest friend I’ve got in London at the moment.”

Friend? Remus wasn’t anyone’s friend. The thought both thrilled and concerned him.

“Okay. Sure. I can be your”, he cleared his throat, “companion.” Then he remember, the damned coat!

With his easiest smile, “Could you give me just a quick minute?”

“Sure. I’ll just wait inside.”

Before Remus could say or do anything she halfway forced, halfway snuck into his sorry excuse of a flat. This was not what he was expecting. But then, what had he really been expecting? From minute one, she’d been completely… unexpected.

Whatever-her-name-was looked around, inspecting his dirty dishes, the clothes that had been on the floor for months. The layers of dust covering almost every area.

A small nod, another dawning smile. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Remus could only try to keep up, “... Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and you should probably put on some clothes before we head out.”

Remus looked down. His stomach dropped as he saw how his coat was hanging half open, revealing the towel around his waist. “Sorry! I’ll see to that right now.”

---

Dressed in his only clean button up shirt and a pair of almost clean jeans, Remus now walked side by side with his new acquaintance. He didn’t dare call her a friend yet, partly because of his own doubt, partly because of her (so far) unpredictable ways. The terms and conditions of this so called “friendship” were still a mystery to him, like so many things about her.

“Excuse me for asking, but exactly where are we going?” He turned around to look at her, only to be met with a smile. Didn’t she ever stop smiling?

“Didn’t I tell you?”

Didn’t her mouth ever get tired?

“No, I don’t think so.”

Yet another smile. She seemed to have smiles for everyone. “How silly of me!” Her lips only widened. “We’re going to a marketplace.”

Marketplace? “Is there such a thing here?”

“I guess we’re about to find out.”

Right. Of course.

“Right… And why did you need me to come with you?”

“So I don’t get lonely, obviously.”

Who was she? “Right. Sure. Obviously.”

He realized a rather embarrassing fact. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

A smile. “You must have a really bad memory.”

“Well, no, I’d actually argue my memory’s quite good, but I was… distracted when I met you.”

Another smile. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I’m your neighbor.”

“Yes. Right. And I’m Remus.” He stuck his hand out, “Very nice to meet you.”

She grabbed his hand in an unexpected way, and sped up her pace. “Come on, this’ll be fun!”

A strangled noise forced its way out of his throat. Chest begun to feel warm and slightly shaky. He was laughing. She soon joined him.

Looking up, Remus saw how the sky was clearing up. The sun still strained to reach through a fading curtain of clouds. He closed his eyes, and felt the sun smile on his face for what felt like the very first time.

---

taglists

permanent: @rocking-like-a-ravenclaw / @kapolisradomthoughts / @siriusement / @classy-sith-lady / @hermione-who / @theseuscmander / @sleepingalaska

remus lupin: @writingwitchly / @serenefreakgeek / @spideyfan456 / @un-nouveau-soleil / @evyiione / @reggieblck / @bookworm0123 / @deathbyramennoodles / @cedricisnotonfire / @allauraleigh

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #young!remus lupin x reader #young!remus lupin #goodbye stranger #gs

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loserslibrary · 4 years

Text

pairing: Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak [Reddie] written by: Amy rating: Teen word count: 2,864 prompt: How about a reddie fic where they’re broken up and get back together

Eddie stepped out of the subway, his eyes trained on the schedule in his hands that he had received that morning. After a lot of change and moving around, Eddie had finally made the move from Maine to New York, intending to finish his college degree in a place far away from his overbearing mother. When he had decided to change schools, there had been a fight of course with his mother claiming that he didn’t love her anymore, and that he was leaving her all alone to die.

For his whole life, his mother had used that excuse with him, guilt tripped him into always staying with her because he felt obligated to. She was his mother, after all, so he shouldn’t want to leave her alone...right? She had taken care of him when he was sick as a child, always reminding him to take his medicine so his allergies didn’t get worse. He believed her for years, always carrying his inhaler with him for his asthma as well as a watch attached to his wrist that beeped when he was due to take a pill. It wasn’t until she started to control who he spent his time with that Eddie started to become wary.

Sometimes, Eddie would deliberately forget to take his pills, just to see if there was any difference, and once when his teacher brought in some fresh flowers, he had walked up to them to take a whiff, just to see if his allergies kicked in. Both times, nothing happened, but Eddie didn’t want to question his mother as she was his mother, and mothers were meant to take care of their children, not lie to them about being sick.

Then, when Eddie was fourteen, he had stopped at the pharmacy to pick up his prescription and the pharmacist’s daughter, Greta, informed him that the pills were nothing but placebos. Sugar and water. After that, Eddie started to question all of the illness’ his mother claimed that he had. Did he even have allergies? Did he even need the inhaler?

It was a long, aggravating process, but eventually Eddie managed to get it out of his mother that he wasn’t actually sick, and that she just wanted to protect him by making him think he was weak and sickly. What followed were four years of high school filled with anger, animosity and a lot of tears. Especially when he came out as gay a few weeks after his sixteenth birthday and annouced that he was dating none other than Richie Tozier.

God, his mother hated Richie. Not just for being Eddie’s boyfriend, no, she had always hated him, ever since they were little kids and he would run around getting dirty and splashing in all the puddles. She had turned her nose up, reaching for five year old Eddie’s hand, but it was too late as he had already rushed off to join him. Since it was cold, wet and windy, Eddie had ended up in bed with a cold for a week, but it had been the best hour of fun he had ever had, and since then, he and Richie were inseparable.

At the thought of Richie, Eddie came to a stop, stepping to the side so he didn’t get into anyone’s way, his heart clenching in his chest as his throat closed up. He had spent the past two years trying not to think about Richie, as all it did was make him cry hysterically and cry into his pillow. The thing was, Eddie’s mother had nothing to do with Eddie’s break-up with Richie, at least...not completely.

When senior year had come around, Richie as well as the rest of the losers began to plan for colleges, applying to all the different places that would get them the hell out of Derry. Bill was even going to London for a year to study as part of a special literature honours programme. Eddie, though, was to remain in Maine, as his mother refused to pay for him to attend any other colleges, and he didn’t qualify for any scholarships. Richie, on the other hand, had been accepted into a college in New York City that would specialise in drama and entertainment.

They had spent the entire summer together, practically attached at the hip and even his mother couldn’t say anything about it. She was getting rid of Richie after all, so she had no right to say anything about how they spent the rest of their time together. When the last week rolled around, Eddie sat in Richie’s now bare empty room and they had cried together, making the adult decision that it would be too messy to do long distance, and they wouldn’t want to risk ruining their friendship.

That had been that, the next week Richie was gone and Eddie was the only one of the Losers Club left in Derry. The days that he had classes, Eddie treasured as it was time out of the house and away from his mother. Yet, even when she knew he was at class, she would call non stop. Once, when he was in the middle of an exam and had told her so, the police had to interrupt them as she had called the police to say he was missing. He had never been so embarrassed over something in his entire life.

It was after that specific ordeal, that Eddie made the decision that it was time to leave, and from under her nose he had applied for a transfer to a college in New York that offered his course in medicine and would accept him the following year in their classes. He was accepted almost immediately, and what followed was a quick search for a dorm room as well as packing up without his mother catching on. He had made it up to the week he was meant to leave when she figured it out, causing the biggest argument to date, but there was nothing she could do. He had been given access to the college fund his father had kept for him as well as some extra. Without looking back, Eddie left his mother alone in his childhood home and was on the next train to New York City.

Now here Eddie was, making his way onto the campus to meet with his professors and have a short induction into the course. He had been in touch with them via email, and completed all the same summer work the other students in his class had been given, but they wanted to meet him in person just before the new year began. He had been so focused on not getting lost, that Eddie wasn’t even paying attention to where he was going, and therefore didn’t see the person in front of them until he collided right into them.

“Shit!” Eddie gasped, dropping the bag he was carrying as the stranger he had bumped into reached out and held onto him. “I am so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He looked up to face the person who he had almost knocked to the ground, when his heart leapt out of his chest and slammed against the concrete. There was no mistaking the man in front of him for anyone else, yet Eddie wondered what twist of fate this was, for out of everyone that Eddie could have bumped into, it ended up being Richie Tozier.

Richie hadn’t met Eddie’s eyes yet, and time seemed to turn into slow motion as he raised his head, words forming on his lips, “No no it’s okay-” their eyes met and Richie’s jaw dropped a little. “Eds?” His eyes widened to the size of saucers, pupils dancing around as he scanned Eddie’s face. “Oh my god, Eddie!”

Before Eddie could even blink, he was being pulled into a hug, his face trapped in Richie’s jacket. He inhaled, senses being filled with the familiar scent of his ex-boyfriend, and the tears filled his eyes within seconds. He wrapped his arms around Richie’s waist, holding onto him so tight that he didn’t want to let go. He was too scared that if he did, Richie would just vanish and Eddie would wake up back in Derry, still under the control of his mother.

Yet, that didn’t happen, and Richie pulled away after a few moments, his own eyes filled with tears. He lifted a hand, which Eddie noticed the nails were painted the colours of the rainbow, and wiped them away, unable to stop smiling. Eddie felt as though his face was just the same, his mouth hurting from the smiling. It had been such a long time since he’d seen Richie in person. Of course, they had kept in touch the first few months, but then their schedules got busy and it turned to a few text conversations every few weeks. It was surreal. “I- oh my god...it’s really you…”

“It’s really me!” Richie nodded his head, his hands lingering on Eddie’s arm where it had held on to steady him. “What- what are you doing here? I thought you went to college in Maine?” he asked, biting his lip. Eddie took that chance to scan over Richie’s features. He was a little taller than the last time they’d seen each other, and his hair had grown out, which was now messily tied back into a bun at the top of his head, waves and curls sprouting out at all angles.

Eddie bit down on his own lip, trying to steady the rapid beating of his heart. “I- I transferred. I finally got fed up with my mom and her bullshit and I just left…” he shrugged a little, looking from side to side. “I got accepted to transfer into a course here, and they were happy to have me so I accepted and moved. Stressful but I hope it’ll be worth it.”

Richie’s eyes were shining at this point and he bounced on the balls of his feet, “So...you’re here? Like permanently?” he asked and Eddie nodded his head. “That- fuck...that’s amazing. Uh, shit.” Richie was right back to grinning now. “Uh, are you...are you seeing anyone?”

Eddie’s mouth went a little dry at that and he slowly shook his head, fluttering his eyelashes. “No- No I’m not seeing anyone. I haven’t since- since-”

“Me neither,” Richie confirmed, moving the hand that was settled on his arm moved down to take Eddie’s hand in his, squeezing tightly. Sparks shot up Eddie’s arm and a flush took over his face. It was almost like they were never apart, falling back into their old, almost perfect relationship. Richie hadn’t been with anyone else and neither had Eddie. It was almost like they were just... waiting for the other. “Do you have plans for tonight?” Richie asked, eyes glinting with hope.

Slowly, with a smile, Eddie shook his head. “No, none at all. Why?” he asked, even though he knew where Richie was going with his question. “You want to change that?”

“Definitely,” Richie nodded. “I have to go to an appointment right now, but I’ll text you right after and we can meet up when you're done? Spend the rest of the night together? How does that sound?” he asked and Eddie couldn’t nod his head fast enough.

“Yes, yes that...that sounds perfect.” Eddie agreed, glancing at the large clock tower that displayed the time. “I- I need to go, I don’t want to be late…” He really didn’t, but he also didn’t want to let go of Richie.

Richie smiled, warm and soft, before lifting Eddie’s hand to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to the skin. “Until later then?” He breathed before letting go, taking a step back.

Eddie nodded, “Yeah...until later.”

* * * * *

That night, Eddie spent way too long getting ready for his date with Richie, at least he hoped it was a date. Seeing Richie again after so long had just reignited all those feelings he had buried deep down in his chest. He was grinning like a teenager as he put the final touches to his hair.

When he was ready, he messaged Richie to let him know he was ready and within seconds, Richie was sending him an address to meet him. Eddie wasted no time rushing from his dorm and onto the bus that would take him to the restaurant where Richie asked him to meet. True to his word, Richie was standing outside, flicking on his phone and looking just as handsome as always.

“Hey…” Eddie breathed, walking up to Richie, stopping just a few metres away from him. Richie looked up, his eyes brightening as they landed on Eddie. His stomach flipped. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

Richie pushed off the wall and closed the distance between them, wrapping his arm around Eddie’s waist and pulling them closer together so their chests were touching. “Eds, I’d wait forever for you,” he whispered. He brought a hand up and pushed some of his hair behind his ear. “God, it is possible for you to be even more beautiful now than you were this morning?”

Eddie’s cheeks flushed and he leaned a little closer, “Are you always this much of a flirt?” He whispered back and Richie broke into a large grin.

“Only when it comes to you, Eddie baby,” Richie shot back before taking a step back. “Shall we? I got us a table last minute, the food here is amazing, a perfect place to try for your first night in New York.” He winked, leading Eddie into the restaurant. His eyes widened as they were led over to the table set up for them, handing them a menu. “Get anything you want okay? It’s on me.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie asked, sitting opposite Richie and immediately, their ankles hooked together under the table. It was like they had never been apart, immediately falling into their old routine and Eddie just hoped that the evening would end with another date. He wanted nothing more than to rekindle his relationship with Richie. He was still very much in love with him.

Richie nodded his head, “I mean it, Eds. Anything you want.” He winked. “Yet, may I recommend you get the carbonara though? It is the shit.”

The waiter came by and took their order, with Eddie following Richie’s advice and ordering the carbonara. Just like Richie had said, it really was the shit and Eddie found himself dragging it out so he could savour the meal more. “Holy shit, this is the best carbonara I have ever had in my life. I don’t want it to end.”

“What did I tell you, sweetheart? You deserve to have your first dinner in New York be one to remember,” he lifted his glass and clinked it against Eddie’s glass. “I don’t want this night to end yet...take a walk with me?”

There was no way that Eddie was going to turn Richie down. He nodded his head and Richie paid the bill, taking Eddie’s hand as they left the restaurant and walked across the street to the park. They walked in silence for a while, fingers brushing until Eddie couldn’t take it anymore and laced their fingers together. “I can’t believe out of all the people I bump into today, it was the one person I really wanted to bump into.”

Just then, Richie stopped and Eddie stumbled a little, falling back into line with Richie. Eddie looked up at him with a little confusion. Once again, just like he did at the beginning of the night, Richie wrapped his arm around Eddie’s waist to pull him closer, “Eds...fuck I missed you so much. I’ve never stopped thinking about you and...and now you’re here I don’t think I can let you go.”

“Then don’t,” Eddie breathed, his whole body feeling as though it was on fire. He barely managed to suck in a breath before Richie was burying his free hand into Eddie’s hair and pulling him into a kiss that made his toes curl up in his shoes. He kissed Richie back as though he was a starved man. When they pulled away, Richie was grinning and Eddie was grinning. “W-wow.”

Richie pressed a kiss to Eddie’s forehead and squeezed Eddie’s hands. “I know that this is...soon and all but my feelings for you never went away and they never will. Feel free to say no but...would you be interested in being my boyfriend again?”

“Richie...my feelings for you never went away either, and they never will. This- this was fate, us meeting again.” Eddie let out a breath. “I definitely want to be your boyfriend, there was never another answer in my mind. Yes, yes yes!”

With a grin, Richie picked Eddie up, spinning him around and sealing the deal with a kiss. “God, I missed you so much,” he breathed as he sat Eddie back onto the ground. “Want to catch a movie?”

Eddie laughed and nodded his head, “I would love to.”

#reddie #reddie fic #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #ours #by amy #alternate universe #getting together

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magneticmage · 3 years

Text

I'm in the mood for it (plus it's Disability Pride month) so here are all my disabled ocs;

Under cut for Length

Additional Notes; Please do not judge me too harshly. While I have a few of these disabilities (most notably PTSD, anxiety-depression, and visual impairments) myself and personally know people who have some others, every person and their experiences are unique. I try my best to give these disabilities the space and gravity they deserve in my writing, but it is difficult for ones that I have no personal experience with. In addition, I am still learning and only human. If I have done something wrong or phrased something badly at any point now or in the future, let me know and I will do my best to fix it/do better. Apologies for the abrupt disclaimer but there we go.

Anyways!!!!

On the the List!

RWBY;

Selene Argent=Has PTSD, one prosthetic eye, and some physical scars on face and torso. I'd safely say she counts.

Baldur's Gate;

Sable Shades=Is an albino and was rendered mute at birth. He sunburns extremely easily and is near-sighted. He also often communicates through sign language.

Roan Roarke=Beyond some minor PTSD symptoms (increased anxiety and stress levels) surrounding fires, he's perfectly fine.

Faenerys Elendir=Has PTSD from her time imprisoned particular involving whips and brands as torture implements.

Rune Mistsea=Post-lycanthropy encounter, he is notably more short-tempered around the full moon along with a distinct craving for meat and violence. Otherwise, nothing else of note.

Lucine Mistsea=Beyond a notable paranoia issue when it comes to demons and cambions (but not fellow tieflings), she's fine.

Lyr(e/a/an) Lovemoor=Autistic. Too much light and noise and surrounding activity is draining and makes them short-tempered with occasional blowouts/meltdowns. Has a Thing about certain textures (very much hates slimes and oozes and squishy things for this reason, likes silks and furs and leathers). Has a fascination for all things shiny and glittery (gems and currencies are a special interest). Also often fidgets with their daggers.

Saga Musehart=Was rendered blind due to torture at the hands of prison guards. She also lost a hand (initially) and a forearm (later due to infection) and wears a prosthesis.

Cei Gloomdraft=Autistic or at least neurodivergent of some kind. Might have some ADHD, it's not quite clear yet in the few pieces I've written so far to help develop her.

Mass Effect;

(Solo Shepard Canon)

Annette Shepard=Has some lingering PTSD symptoms from surviving a raid on Mindoir, then thresher maws in Akuze, and then being spaced at the beginning in Mass Effect 2. She also suffers from some survivor's guilt Post-Virmire due to losing Ashley, and then all of Mass Effect 3 puts such a huge burden on her that she's fighting off some severe depression and despair from all the losses. She's got an old war injury in her shoulder that acts up from time to time, occasionally making her biotics misfire a barrier. She's on immuno-suppressant drugs to prevent her body from rejecting her Cerberus-added cybernetic implants and upgrades, and also some antidepressants for depression and anxiety symptoms for said lingering PTSD symptoms. Girl's a walking disaster-fire mentally but she keeps on surviving and she still looks for the good in life as it comes, so there's that.

(Shepard Siblings)

Joanna=Like Roscoe and Riley, she's also on immuno-suppressants to prevent cybernetic implant rejection. Notably, she's the most well-adjusted of the three mentally, although the losses and struggles of ME 3 start to take their toll due to depression. She spends an awkward month on the Normandy adjusting to the new medication while adjusting the amounts needed. In addition, she also goes through a whole existential crisis come the Citadel DLC about if she is really Joanna Shepard or a clone (which Riley, Roscoe, and the Normandy crew snap her out of). Her survivor's guilt is much less pronounced than Riley's though she does start the early stages of a martyr complex (it's a source of frequent and well-humored debate between Riley and Roscoe if it was already there or not) about the of Thane's death. But she does her best and keeps on going.

Roscoe=Definitely mentally ill. He's got some trauma around abandonment that starts to get fully addressed around ME 2 in part due to Jack and Miranda and is mostly resolved around ME 3 though naturally scars remain. It often manifests as anger, depression, and even callousness. Like Joanna's and Riley, he is on immuno-suppressants to prevent the potential rejection of his cybernetics. He's also got an old wound from Torfan in his abdomen that acts up under stronger pressures like before a rainstorm or different gravity levels as well as drastic temperature changes such as cold (he HATES Noveria for that reason in particular though it isn't the only one, man). Beyond all that, he's very strong-willed and gives no fucks to shit.

Riley=Much like Annette except a bit more well-adjusted due to a larger support network and character drive. Has notable flashbacks/triggers around batarians, thresher maws (this one includes panic attacks once the direct danger has passed), and hardsuit complications (they always makes sure that their helmet and everything is in working and optimal order). Has survivor's guilt from their losses on Mindoir and Akuze but between meeting Talitha and Toombs in ME 1, they confront and deal with it, beginning to heal from it. Even on Virmire with the loss of Honora and all the failures of ME 3, they do better at handling it though it still remains to varying degrees. Like Joanna's and Roscoe (and Annette again), they're on immuno-suppressant drugs to prevent issues with their body rejecting the cybernetics, with the additional ones of antidepressants to help manage some of their anxiety-depression symptoms. They also have some degree of chronic pain (maybe some kind of cystic fibrosis?) due to past overuse of their biotics that damaged part of their nervous system and occasionally causes it to misfire for no reason, often causing intense pain. Rarely and only if the pain isn't treated with extensive biotics-free rest periods and numbing agents in the form of more pills, the biotics will manifest and they'll accidentally move shit around, including themself a few times. This is most notable in ME 3 due to the nature of the larger and longer combat sequences with shorter and shorter rest times between. Though they manage as best they can with the help of their crew and family, it is still a struggle and they notably stop joking about retiring when they're dead and seem to consider it more seriously around ME 3 but save the final decision for the end of the Reaper Wars.

(Shepard Family)

Honora Hartford=She had an eating disorder when she was younger that left some lingering issues with her health but overall she's fine up until her death.

Riley's deceased siblings were overall healthy though Payton had Down's Syndrome and Brooklyn had ADHD. Harley had moderate asthma and used an inhaler.

Clover has anemia quite often and takes iron pills daily

The rest of the Shepard cousins don't have any disabilities to much knowledge though I am still fleshing them out.

(Andromeda)

Sara and Scott Ryder have some lingering damage from their cryopod accident and the Kett leader fucking with them, but otherwise they are okay.

Asher has ADHD while Shiloh struggles with a mild form of chronic fatigue. Evander, Rebecca, and Lucas are all able-bodied.

Dragon Age;

(Fereldan Wardens)

Lynera Mahariel=Dunno if this counts, but am putting it here anyways since it affects her overall health. Occasionally suffers from a type of sleep paralysis that is mixed with night-terrors. It doesn't appear to have a rhyme or reason as to when it occurs beyond perhaps stress and it's only every few months. However, it often leaves her completely drained for at least a week afterwards. She also occasionally has insomnia post-terrors as well which she self-medicates with sleeping draughts. She also has crippling period pains that appear to be consistent with ovarian cysts on her left side (though she later has it removed by Catriona once it ruptures due to injury). She also suffers from bouts of depression during Origins but that could be due to the extenuating circumstances she was under at the time.

Isemaya Tabris=When overly stressed, being exposed to strong amounts of concentrated Taint in a short period of time, or sometimes simply for no apparent reason, she suffers from intense migraines that are often treated with herbal painkillers and lying still in a dark and quiet room. Also due to a past injury to her left eye by humans, she has a harder time seeing on that side but is not completely blind.

Catriona Surana=She seems to be autistic due to her ability and predilection to hyperfocus on various studies (often Blight and magic-related but other areas do occur) as well as her obliviousness to social cues (she didn't realize she was liked by her suitors until Cale outright told her and by then she had decided she liked them already). Notably, she adapts a bit better Post-Origins due to Alistair and Leliana's influences but it still happens.

Cale Amell=Had some minor amnesia surrounding the exact events leading to his magic manifestation but later learned it was because he had set his eldest brother Azul on fire and believed he killed him as Raven helpfully supplied (Azul had instead faked his death as Cale discovers around the time of Awakening).

Fion Cousland=Briefly suffers from a minor alcohol addiction but has treatment while he is still in the functional phase courtesy of Catriona. Since then, he heavily monitors his intake and even helps Oghren get treatment for his own. He also occasionally has painful muscle twinges due to an injury that stretches from his temple to his eye and ear down to his neck on the right side. This is most notable in bad weather or when he is sick.

Barran Aeducan=Suffered from a superiority-inferiority complex towards his siblings growing up though it has greatly lessened with time and experience. It is mostly gone by the time of Inquisition though prominent traces still remain.

Tatha Brosca=She is hard of hearing and has manged to cope by learning to lip-read (not always successful, however, especially with languages she is not familiar with) in Origins and a pair of hearing "horns" designed for her by an admiring Smith caste man by Awakening. She often jokes that now she has even more in common with her Bronto companion, Salroka, due to their shared horns.

(Origins)

Vireth Mahariel=Suffers from epilepsy and often treats it with various herbal remedies, though it is not completely effective and large amounts of intense stress on his body make it worse. He also begins to develop cataracts around the time of Act 2 of Dragon Age 2, though the cause is unknown (presumed genetics or simply age at the moment).

Elthorn Tabris=Has a stutter speech impediment.

Alaros Surana=Unknown at the moment as I haven't written too much about him.

The Amell Siblings=Probably doesn't count but Azul gets motion sickness, especially on boats. Raven, Carmine, and Reed are all perfectly healthy and fine, however the latter two are the ones I've written least at the moment. Marigold has asthma that she treats with herbs.

Aelynne Cousland=Nothing comes to mind. She does have some old injuries (mentally and physically) she acquired from the attack on Highever by Arl Howe that color her later interactions with the family during the Fereldan Civil War.

Valda Aeducan=Has a notable visual impairment that is corrected with glasses, albeit there is nothing to be done for her slight colorblindness (she has a hard type distinguishing between greys, greens, and blues).

(Orlesian Wardens)

Dion Caron=Suffers from sleep apnea that is eased by a special breathing herbal-incense infused mask he wears as well as whomever in his group is on watch to check on him periodically to ensure he still breathes (most often this is either Victoire-Ainsley or Garam). He also snores and coughs due to this. Loudly.

Victoire-Ainsley Caron=Nothing of note.

Isenna Andras=She's an albino and so burns and rashes in intense light and heat. She also has a lame leg that cannot be fixed with magic and so wears a reinforced brace to aid her walk. This creates a noticeable limp.

Garam Kader=Alcohol makes him sick and he suffered from intense gender dysphoria before paying a huge sum to have an ex-Tevinter magister turned fellow Warden help him transition.

(Hawkes)

Jasper, Skye, and Violet Hawke are perfectly healthy. Albeit with some diet restrictions due to various allergies.

Gray Hawke=He is diabetic and so often has to monitor his energy levels to ensure his health. It's part of the reason he doesn't actively endanger his life like his siblings (not that he won't, just less often in comparison). He acquires a truly impressive diet regime and treatment plan upon becoming a nobleman of the Amell family, allowing him much more freedom than before.

(Marquises)

Aurore and Marcel de Serault both suffer from mild hemophilia. Marcel also has a lyrium drug addiction he is trying to break (and is actually doing quite well via weaning himself off it) due to a brief stint as a Templar while serving the Chantry.

(Inquisitors)

Armashok Adaar=Poor eyesight that cannot be fully corrected by glasses and later loses an arm due to the Anchor. He also lost a few fingers and some right hand mobility due to pre-nquisition injuries as a mercenary. He also wears a brace on his left shoulder. He wears a prosthetic eye and replacement arm.

Ransley Trevelyan=Like Cullen, he is working on breaking his own lyrium addiction from his time as a Templar and, like the other Inquisitors, loses his arm due to the Anchor. He had it replaced with a prosthetic arm for his shield side.

Paeriel Lavellan=She loses an arm alongside all the other Inquisitors, but takes the loss much harsher due to her archery skills suffering. While she will wear a prosthesis in battle or when hunting, she doesn't wear it in her day-to-day life, instead preferring to make due as needed. She also has anxiety.

Naranka Cadash=She loses her Anchor-wielding arm and gains a crossbow-and-dagger prosthetic one courtesy of her Inner Circle, much to her delight. She also suffers from some damage to her reproductive tract due to past injuries and is uncertain if she could have children.

(Inner Circle)

Kara Adaar=Beyond an intense hatred of slavery due to being kidnapped and almost sold when she was younger before being rescued by her father, she's perfectly healthy. She does require bedrest for her periods though.

Emilyse Trevelyan=She suffers from some PTSD from her abuse at Templar hands in the Circle, though she begins to recover towards the end of Inquisition.

Samrel Lavellan=Has dyslexia and uses reading aids and memory devices.

Pyrmar Cadash=He might have some PTSD from his Carta days due to a notable cave-in that lasted for a few days before his rescue.

#disability mention #trauma mention #amputation mention #eating disorder mention #my ocs stuff #mentions of addiction to drugs and alcohol #gender dysphoria mention

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disastrousjest · 3 years

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Confessions of 2020..

(tw: covid mention, mental health mention)

I wanted to post a little something that might put out some insight for my followers, friends, mutuals alike. With the recent battle I had with some personal blogs attacking me over some posts I made because of the images, regardless of the purpose of the post. I just wanted to let everyone aware of why that sent me over the edge and why I handled it the way I did. Please note: I will not be apologizing for what I said, I do feel as though those that tried to reach out to me did not realize the purpose of the post. And while I understand now I should just tag things like that differently, I will not be apologizing for stating the fact that this is a rp blog and I do not appreciate personal blogs attacking me over something like that. That being said, I will not be bullied off tumblr or this account. Because I love JJBA and Joseph Joestar. So for future reference, if you don’t like my content, unfollow it. Don’t bother sending me nasty remarks because I do not have the time for those types of things. But I wanted to open the doorway to some insight for you all who have been paying attention or who just might care to know why I came off so incredibly outraged by that little bit. Because to me it was just the topping of a whole bunch of bullshit as is 2020. This whole shithole of a year began in March. I got promoted at work to salary. That’s 35k a year my friends and that’s a hell of an upgrade for someone who barely makes a living wage right now and came from a working poor family. I really thought my life was gonna turn around. For once my fiance and I wouldn’t have to struggle so hard and we could afford to do everything we talked about doing. Well guess what--2 weeks after the announcement of my promotion my work place shut down because of Covid-19. Nothing new, lots of people and places were shut down. So fine, it pushed back my transfer and such. That wasn’t a big deal. Enter June 2020. We re-open and my manager calls me into his office to talk to him about said mentioned promotion. They are suspending it, means it could be pushed back until we could lift the restrictions. Understandably so, I would just have to keep my old position, an hourly one, until they were called back. Now the months pass, June becomes July and enter August. I find out about a week before the company announces it at the start of August, the position I was promoted to has been eliminated indefinitely. There is a chance they could come back, but right now they have no idea when or if that’ll happen. Which means that whole part of my department no longer exists at my place of work. I mean it’s a good thing I had my hourly position to fall back into or I’d lost my job. But that salary raise? Gone.

Rewind back to July. I get very very VERY sick. And have to test for covid-19 the first time. Only because I am so sick and have a roommate with asthma I have to quarantine myself for 14 days. So 14 days I am locked in my bedroom alone, sleeping alone after 3 years of being with someone in bed. My meals are being left at the door for me and the only room I am allowed to enter is the bathroom, but only after it has been sanitized. Only for my results to come back negative. And now... we enter September 2020. Two major things started in September. The first, our old, senior dog became very ill. Started losing weight, wasn’t eating, losing hair, etc. So we knew his time was coming soon enough. Mid-September, I wake up one morning while our dog is dying mind you, and I cannot move my body from the waist down. Every time I tried, I’m greeted with a shot of pain straight up my spine that feels something like a hot poker being stabbed right through my spinal cord. Very very painful. I end up bed-ridden for a day or two because I cannot move. So once the pain subsides, I go see a chiropractor. Shocking (not really) announcement that my sway back--to which I was diagnosed with 10 years prior from a bad car accident--has gotten worse. What does that mean exactly? Well--my spine bends in like a S for those who don’t know, which means my lower back dips inward deeper inside my body and my tail bone curves out. Now along that dip there are 3 or 4 vertebrae that are especially messed up. The bones have become staggered out of place on top of one another, just from the muscles pulling the bones out of shape since my spine doesn’t flex the way it’s supposed to anymore. (And it hasn’t for years). The pain before this was tolerable, it would ache from time to time but never like this. Now I am crippled more or less. Here’s what that means: my mobility became extremely limited. At first in the am when I woke up I couldn’t move from the waist down for the first hour or two after I woke up. Then when I was finally able to move, I had to use my forearms to literally drag my lower body upright (still painful). Once I was able to manage that, I had to gage how strong my legs were to support my weight. And at first walking wasn’t terrible, but as the treatments began--doctor appointments, spinal adjustments, and physical therapy--to correct my spinal issue, nerve damage became clear. So now on top of this horrible pain, I had to deal with weak legs. Because of nerve damage, my right leg especially became weak. On days my back would hurt especially bad, my right knee would collapse out from under me. Which meant falling to the ground and not being able to stand up or walk for sometime there after. Now imagine dealing with not being able to support your own body, not being able to hardly walk and your dog dying at the same time. So while I”m trying not to focus on the fact that my mobility is limiting me on what I can and can’t do, my fiance is upset about this. Our dog (then weighed about 100 or more pounds) could no longer walk either. His back legs and hips were giving out as his health declined. I did not have the strength in my own legs to help carry him because his weight hurt me too much and would cause me to collapse. I had to watch my fiance struggle with this practically all by herself while I sat on the floor, only able to use my arms to help with what I could because my legs and back were too weak to do the work. This carried on into October. Our dog passes away and that alone is hard for me. I still kind of wonder if I wasn’t so weak when he got sick if I could have helped prolong his life just a little longer. I couldn’t hardly look at him when he passed and I couldn’t look at anyone else. I was very angry that my legs and back had failed me. They had failed everyone. So yes, that weight still lingers over me. It was so bad that when it came time to take turns digging his grave, I struggled with the shovel. Because I couldn’t stand up or be bent over to move the dirt, I got on my hands and knees and I took that shovel in my hands and used my arms and shoulders to dig. I wasn’t going to continue to be useless because of my limited mobility. I felt I already let him down and everyone else by not being able to help take care of him while he was still alive and sick. This was the least I could do. November comes. Things are calm now, for a while. Not bad. I finally get some braces to help with my back issues (which still continue). I keep on with my physical therapy, trying to heal and help my fiance through her mourning over the dog. My mobility slowly begins to improve, though the doctor informs me it will be a very slow process. Small steps he says. But he is still confident he can fix my spine without back surgery so I can walk again, like a regular person. The limit I am able to stand and walk increases with the help of my braces and I begin taking herbal supplements and drinking herbal teas to increase the rate of my recovery. It seems to be working better than over the counter medication. The rest of 2020 seems promising. Here comes December. On the night my fiance and I decide to go out on a date to celebrate our 5 years together. I get a phone call from work. One of my co-workers tested positive for Covid-19 and I was exposed. I am now suspended from work without pay until my test results come back negative. A real mood killer for the night. It gets better, we get home and despite the dinner being pretty somber the rest of the night seems fine. We watch movies and spend time together, finish wrapping gifts for Christmas. Then we realize the cat is missing. He’s been missing all day and all night. Nobody has seen him. Two days prior, I had taken my cat to the vet because he was sick. Again, weight loss, losing hair, etc. I was worried he may be sick. Well it’s cold outside and here it’s been snowing so it’s very cold. I set something of mine outside and a literbox for smell. And then a plate of food. ....that was almost 4 days ago. There’s been not a sign of him. I called the county shelter and they didn’t have him. My fiance suggests he was sick so... maybe he got out of the house and went somewhere to die. My gut tells me he’s not coming back. And my heart is breaking, again. Again. I am wondering if I did something wrong. If I would have kept a better eye on him, I knew he wasn’t feeling right. I somehow feel like I let him down. And then I logged into tumblr and saw those comments. Those asks people were sending about the damn images I posted for the 12 days to Christmas. And they just kept coming. I deleted the other ones, I stopped replying to them and finally just deleted the post. The Christmas spirit had been sucked out of me. I feel as though the world has began to mock me for believing the year could get better back in November. I know one thing, the holiday won’t be as bright this year. Not for me. I hope everyone stays safe and has a good holiday. Maybe 2021 will be more promising, but I”m not banking on it. Not anymore. Thanks for reading. I hope you all understand now why I have been so slow with my replies lately. As my mood goes up and down because I have been struggling with the weight of all this and depression, just trying to hang on from losing hope that for one I will be able to walk again normally and then just the loss of my animals... everything. I can’t write and I refuse to send bad quality responses and starters for you all. I hope this puts some insight on why I was so horribly upset the other day. So thank you to all my friends and everyone who has been so patient with me on all my blogs. Jotaro (dmgdstar) and Johnny (rotatingstar) and this one of course. I will be catching up to everything very soon. I’ve already made a good dent in them. Your patience is always appreciated.

#ooc #L speaks #my 2020 confessional #this is my yearly story #just a fragment of my cursed life

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fasterthanmydemons · 3 years

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Hmm since Pietro heals faster, how would his body react to the Covid-19? Some people need months to recover, some others don't (one of my friends beat the corona in a week and he was so proud lol) so how would it affect Pietro?

{out of breath} I’ll put this below a cut just because some people are trying to avoid things about Covid-19, and I totally understand.

Well the cop-out answer is that I have no idea, haha. Covid-19 seems to affect everybody a little bit differently, and I don’t think they really know what causes that. I don’t think they’re able to predict at all how someone will be affected by it. I have heard that genetics, blood type, viral load (how many units of virus you have in your body or at exposed to at one time), and/or multiple exposure may all play a role in whether you have a symptomatic case and how bad your symptoms are. As far as long-haul syndrome (things like nervous system and gastrointestinal damage as well as lung and other organ damage that is permanent or lingers for weeks or months after you are considered recovered from your original infection), I don’t think they can predict who gets that and in what capacity at all. It’s a new disease and the medical science is just not there yet as far as understanding all these nuances.

My personal training as a scientist is in the environmental science/bioremediation fields, not medical ones, and it is with bacteria, not viruses. Totally different worlds, heh. Having said that... I can do some what-ifs for Pietro. So... we know he has fast-healing abilities, and at least my version of him has overcome some serious infections, one of which he did without any kind of medical attention. I’m referring to the stab through his right had that he got for stealing when he was like 13-14 years old. That was probably a bacteria infection, but nevertheless, it just got better on its own. Regardless of whether he has fast-healing capabilities or not, his immune system was good enough to resolve the infection on its own without antibiotics or other medical treatment... namely because he was foolish and tried to hide the wound instead of asking for help.

This means that he has a pretty solid immune system that can attack and resolve serious infections. So it may be possible that if he got infected with coronavirus, it would be an asymptomatic infection for him or maybe he would only have minor symptoms. If, because of genetics or blood type or some other factor, he does end up with serious illness, I think if he has access to really good health care like with the Avengers for example, he would recover very quickly.

But if... and this is really the most devastating scenario for Pietro because I really don’t see him dying of coronavirus infection... if he ended up with long-haul syndrome, life would get very complicated for Pietro. He already has (at least my version of him does) nerve damage in his right arm and hand, but he may end up with more due to Covid-19. Even worse specifically for someone like him, he might suffer from permanent lung tissue damage and scarring, as well as reduced lung capacity.

For someone whose powers involve moving at high speeds, and for someone who really enjoys running... how do you tell him that he can’t do it anymore? Not that he shouldn’t... that he can’t. He’ll start to run and within seconds be out of breath, collapsing, maybe even passing out. I think even more than physically, that would devastate him mentally. So I think as long as he avoids long-haul syndrome, he has a fairly good chance of recovering easily from a coronavirus infection.

As a side note, Wanda may be in a lot of trouble if she gets Covid-19, or at least my version of her is. She was the “weaker” fraternal twin, born with smaller lungs that were not fully formed. Her lungs grew stronger as she got older and she eventually avoided asthma and outgrew most of her wheezing and chronic infection issues. However, that doesn’t mean her lungs are perfectly healthy or that they aren’t compromised. So unfortunately, I could see Wanda getting very sick and maybe even ending up on a ventilator from Covid-19, just because it is largely a lung disease, at least to start out.

#{ out of breath } ᵒᵒᶜ #tw: covid-19 #tw: coronavirus

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thebibliosphere · 5 years

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What cleaning tips would you prioritize, for someone with dust/pollen/mold allergies? I bought a vogmask today in defiance of the seasonal pollen surge, and google has a lot of "do this, do that" to keep allergens down, but I can only do so much. How to you keep the balance between "destroy alllll the allergens" and "whoops I'm out of spoons and can't feed myself now"?

Vacuuming is my main priority in the house to keep on top of my extremely awful dust allergies. I need to vacuum every day or I’ll be having constant reactions, though unfortunately my illness means I don’t always have the spoons/energy to vacuum every day (and neither does ETD), which is actually why we bought our robot vacuum. We spent a long time saving up for our stronk robot daughter, and we love her. Not least of all because she helps keep my airways open.

Knowing how expensive that is though, I know it’s not an option for everyone, so here’s a way to combat your allergies and also give yourself some literal breathing space: if you live in a house with multiple rooms, pick one and turn it into your safe zone. Most folks choose the bedroom for obvious reasons. Try to keep the tops of any surfaces clutter free (something I fail at miserably but I’m working on) to make it easier for dusting—and always make sure to use a damp cloth to dust with so you’re not just sweeping it up into the air and into your lungs. Furniture polish isn’t necessary, and some folk find the scents irritating. Damp cloth to remove dust, and if it needs it, dry cloth to buff. Try to keep paper books in the bedroom down to a minimum as well as the pages attract dust and if you’re not able to dust your books regularly, mold spores can form. E-readers are ideal for folk with serious dust and mold spore allergies for this reason.

Also try to make a point of vacuuming that room once a day, or once every second day if you can. If you’ve got long drapes in the bedroom (like we do, rip) you will also need to try and vacuum them once every month or so if your allergies are bad. A better option for many folk with asthma and dust allergies is roll down linen blinds that can be wiped down with a damp cloth every now and then.

Pay attention to the corners and skirting board too and try to get them while dusting with the damp cloth. Or use an attachment on your vacuum. I usually do this once a week when I’m also doing the bed linenes, which is also a big thing for dust allergies, so make sure to wash your bed linen at least once a week. Skin and dust gets trapped very easily in bedding and dustmites love that. Washing them on a hot setting should kill any dust mites that tried to make it their home. Tumble drying also kills the little feckers.

Also if you can? Absolutely invest in a hepa air filter for that room and just leave it running 24/7, and make sure it’s one you can change the filter on/have access to clean it. It’s amazing what a difference it can make to the air quality, especially if you leave the door shut. Walking into our bedroom for me at night is akin to walking into an oxygen tank from how much more breathable the air is compared to the rest of the house. A reputable air purifier with a hepa filter will run from anywhere between $40 to $300+ Go by square space purified by size in relation to your room, not necessarily by price. The one I have in my bedroom is a PureZone and I think it was $99. I’ve had it for a year and only just now had to change the filter on it.

Also if you have a rotating blade fan, either ceiling or floor stand, make sure you clean the blades regularly. Those things are the devil for spreading dust around.

If your vacuum cleaner is a trigger, like mines is cause it’s a canister one that blows dust up into the air while in use and when emptying, you may also want to look into a water filter vacuum, which is something I am actually doing. The way it works is instead of using an air filter, the dust is sucked up and captured by a water filtration system that turns the dust into, well, sludge. When it needs changed you empty the dirty water out and fill it up again, kinda like a steam cleaner that doesn’t steam or get hot, but very effective at eliminating any chances of dust becoming airborne during use or maintenance.

Steam mops are also a good thing to have for things like hardwood or vinyl/tile where dust residue can linger even if you can’t see it. I have a LIGHT ‘N’ EASYsteam mop that comes with a detachable nozzle thingy for steam cleaning things like the couch, so you can kill any dust mites that might be inhabiting soft fabric surfaces. You can also buy a carpet/rug attachment for the mop head, so you can also treat the carpet to a dust mite killer steam treatment, without actually getting your rug/carpet wet or damaged. I love mine, and I use it for a lot of cleaning tasks that would otherwise require a lot of elbow grease that wears me out easily, such as say, cleaning the grout on the bathroom tiles where mold can build up and become a problem.

Also just as a more general tip if you have central air for heating or air con, and you are the person in control of the furnace, make sure you’re swapping the air filter out on it once a month. Don’t bother with the fancy $30+ allergy ones there’s no proof they work any better than buying 12 cheap ones at $3 a pop and changing it out every month. In fact the dude who services our furnace told us that the allergy filters are actually too fine for most furnaces and can cause air clogging issues. Swapping out a cheap $2 filter once a month is far better for both your wallet and your furnace. Also consider having your vents professionally cleaned in the spring and fall. We found out we had a lot of dust and mold in our vents when we first moved in and it absolutely caused havoc with my allergies till we just sucked it up (no pun intended) and paid a company to come shove a giant vacuum into the vents and get rid of it. I think we were about $250 for a full vent system clean. It was amazing how drastically it changed the air quality in the house after we got it done. Which reminds me, I need to call and get the air vents cleaned.

So yeah, how to survive with allergies and not use up all your spoons? Keep one space and make that your priority. And for days when keeping on top of things is too hard, air purifiers are your friend and well worth the investment. Also this may seem obvious? But don’t wear outside clothes to bed. I know some folk who when they come home just face plant on top of the covers still in their clothes, but this tracks outside dust and pollen into the space. Always change from outside clothes to indoor clothes before face planting on the bed. Also during peak pollen season? Try to shower before getting into bed so you don’t accidentally track pollen into your bed sheets. I know it’s not always possible, but it does help.

If you’re like me and you have a lot of clutter and shit and are currently staring round your room in dismay, don’t worry about doing it all at once. I’ve been slowly decluttering and allergy proofing our bedroom for a year. Any little bit of progress you can make toward creating yourself a safe zone is progress and you will reap the benefits of it. As for the rest of the house? Same rules apply. Take your time with it and maybe try to assess high areas of clutter that may be a source for dust and mold spores to form. For us we’re about to start looking into getting book cases with glass doors on them to try and cut down on how often we have to dust the dragon hoard of books in the corner. It’ll probably take us another six months, but that’s also six months of time for me to sort through the pile and give some books into charity or the second hand store.

Anyway. I hope some of this was helpful, and I’m sure others will have some great ideas in the notes. Just remember that some progress is better than no progress and you don’t have to do it all at once, and there’s things you can invest in to help. Good luck! And remember, Oppy the Not-A-Roomba is rooting for you, and so am I!

#chronic health tag #disability #life hacks #life with allergies #how to clean with allergies #queued post

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glorious-blackout · 4 years

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Summary of Junior Doctor Life - Part Ten (now with a pandemic on the horizon):

One of my colleagues (who happens to be gay) has the same jobs as me next year, though he’s considerably less thrilled about the Obs and Gyn placement than I am. After enduring the rest of us coming up with reasons why he might actually enjoy it, he eventually summed up his frustrations with a final, “Look, I just really hate vaginas!” Fair enough 😅

The stereotype that doctors aren’t particularly good at looking after ourselves isn’t entirely unfounded (most of us would love to eat and drink and sleep regularly, but our shifts don’t always allow it). One of my friends proved that point by coming back to work early after being ill, only to collapse during the morning ward round. Thankfully she was working with one of our nicer consultants, who not only made sure she got to lie down in our doctors’ room but also insisted she get a lift home and stay there until she was better. In the meantime, I managed to make our eager medical students useful by sending them off to buy biscuits and sugary drinks for her (though their initially bewildered question of “Which drink?” did leave me mildly concerned that they’d come back with a diet coke).

The same thing happened to me once when I was a medical student. Not gonna lie, it’s rather unnerving to hear an experienced consultant say “Oh wow, that is pretty low” after checking your blood pressure.

I was on Surgical Receiving again this week, with my first patient being none other than one of my consultants. If I ever require admission to hospital then I will likely avoid my workplace like the plague, however this man is far more eccentric than I am and had zero qualms about his own colleagues removing his gallbladder earlier in the week. A few days later he called the ward because his wound was leaking and nonchalantly stated, “So I’m holding a bit of bowel in my hand, but it’s okay. I come in, you fix it, I go home.” Which is exactly what happened (thankfully his presentation wasn’t quite as dramatic as he’d made out).

During a week in which we were already understaffed, one of my colleagues called in sick at the last minute due to food poisoning. This left only two FY1s responsible for sixty patients, and one of us (thankfully not me) was holding a page designed to accept more patients. Not the best news to receive at 8am when you’re already on Day 6 of a 7-day week.

If the shift had been kind to us then this might have been manageable, but it ended up being a day in which I found out that the lovely man who once gave me a Kit-Kat because “you doctors are always run off your feet” was dying, while in the neighbouring ward a patient faked a cardiac arrest in a bid to get some morphine. Throw a suspected Coronavirus case into the mix and more discharge letters than you can physically complete without sacrificing your breaks and you end up with the kind of shift that leaves you bone-weary by the end of it.

Speaking of Coronavirus, its presence in the UK means that the rumour-mill is officially up and running. Our medical students have already had their exams and summer electives cancelled, while high-dependency nurses are facing the very real possibility of having to care for ICU patients in the coming weeks. Annual leave is likely to be deferred, elective surgeries are facing cancellations (with the exception of urgent cancer cases) while theatre nurses are being trained in Critical Care. Our email inboxes are constantly filled with updates, so regularly that emails we receive at 10am already contradict the information given two hours earlier. In the past three days I’ve been present at several meetings about the approaching pandemic, during which we’re reminded that the next few weeks are likely to be unimaginably busy. For the most part, we just get on with our jobs as usual, but there’s certainly an undercurrent of dread lingering beneath the calm.

Supplies of alcohol gel are running low because the bottles by patients’ bedsides keep mysteriously vanishing (often during visiting hours). This has prompted at least one exasperated nurse to say, “Why can’t they just use soap like normal people, for feck’s sake!”

My sister works in the neonatal unit and has already caught multiple parents smuggling hospital supplies of nappies and formula milk home ‘just in case’. They don’t tend to take it well when she bluntly tells them that not only are they stealing from the NHS, but also the very sick babies who actually need those supplies.

One of the unnerving things about working in a hospital where preparations are underway for a pandemic is that it feels like the virus is already everywhere. Every clear-cut Infective Exacerbation of COPD or Pneumonia is now labelled ‘Coronavirus until proven otherwise’ and our charge nurse had to be upfront with us about the fact that even she hadn’t been told exactly how many confirmed local cases there are. The hullabaloo makes it seem as though we’re already in the thick of it… and then you check BBC News and it turns out Scotland only has 60 cases in total. Still, I suppose we’ll be grateful for such preparations soon enough.

My mum rather naively asked if Occupational Health would do anything to protect people like me on account of our shit lungs (not quite her wording, but it’s what she was getting at). I don’t have the heart to tell her that the higher-ups would probably rather have a couple of asthmatic employees die than face the staffing crisis that would arise if every single healthcare worker with underlying health conditions stayed at home. My asthma’s mild enough that I’m not particularly worried, though I have finally ordered a repeat prescription of my inhalers. Just in case 😉

As a final point about COVID-19: for most people it will manifest as a bad cold/flu-like illness (if that), and everyone can do their bit by staying at home if they develop a cough/fever and employing proper hand hygiene (soap and warm water are enough - trust me, hospitals and vulnerable people need stuff like alcohol gel and antibacterial wipes far more than you do). Keeping surfaces at home clean and staying well-hydrated can also help (the virus loves dry environments, which apparently includes the mucus membranes in your throat if you’re dehydrated enough). The people who are going to be most affected are the elderly, immunocompromised, and those with underlying medical conditions, and it’s those people who will be most protected if you follow precautions as closely as possible. It’s going to be a hectic and potentially very difficult few months, but the best thing to do is keep our heads and try not to give into the scaremongering which has been prominent since Day One. And because I really can’t say it enough - Wash Your Hands!

#junior doctor shenanigans #medicine #can't say I'm thrilled about the prospect of dealing with a pandemic in my first year on the job but there you go #hopefully our NHS is able to cope despite the horrific underfunding we've been dealing with for years #long post #rambling

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rudderless-in-an-ocean-of-stars · 5 years

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if you smoke, i hate you, period.

i have asthma. i have had asthma since i was an infant and it was so severe that all of my many doctors agreed it was a miracle i made it past the earliest stages of my childhood at all.

i have had last rites administered to me twice in my life, and both of those times i was too young to know what was going on or remember it. my aunt had to tell me about those two horrible instances herself. unable to cope with the emotional stress of having twins instead of the triplets we were meant to be along with the fact that our prognosis was so grim, the second time the priest was called in the dead of night when my family was sure i would die, my own mother locked herself in her room and didn't come out because she didn't wanna watch.

now i'm 18 and i am still asthmatic. i will always be asthmatic. it is a lifelong chronic illness and what triggers episodes the MOST is fucking cigarette smoke. even just fucking traces of it lingering in the air is enough to make my throat close up.

i am scared. i am constantly fucking terrified for my life every time i have an asthma attack because my asthma attacks are severe as shit. my asthma means colds turn into coughs turn into pneumonia turn into me lying half-dead in a bed for weeks at a time. my asthma means one person's decision to smoke in a smoke-free zone or smoke on public transit where they shouldn't means i am trapped in a small space with the very thing that could kill me. my asthma means i have an emergency inhaler in reach at all times and it scares me anyway because they aren't 100% effective and i still need to be treated at a hospital when i have an attack. emergency inhalers are stop-gap measures for people like me.

NOBODY NEEDS FUCKING CIGARETTES TO LIVE. Y'ALL ARE KILLING YOURSELVES AND TAKING EVERYONE ELSE ON THIS FUCKING PLANET WITH YOU.

if you smoke, I hate you, period.

#smoking #psa #im so done #i nearly died AGAIN today #fuck all you smokers #and i mean FUCK YOU

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alitheamateur · 5 years

Text

Hey, Jealousy

Warnings: Language. NSFW. Sexual content.

Characters: Liv Elliott/Colton Ritter

On my mother’s life, Livvy. If that son of a bitch looks at you that way again, I will get arrested.”

My closest friend, and the boutique salesclerk assured me the dress suited my body perfectly, and definitely didn’t cross any inappropriate lines when I stepped out of the dressing room earlier. But somehow, my zealous, inexplicably jealous boyfriend wasn’t on the same page. Or even reading the same book. Colton wasn’t even in the same bookstore, in the same zip code. And he made no bones about it.

He loved the dress when he saw me cascading down the steps of our hallway out of the bedroom just a brief hour ago. He loved it until he realized that every other specimen with eyes in the entire city would love it, too. It was silk number, short sleeves, with a robe-like tie around the waste. Stone gray softness settled high on my thigh, and a slit danced up a tease higher. The wrap of the dress was loose fitting, but it’s v-cut neckline, and dose of my toned legs was racier than my usual taste. But, the restaurant I had chosen was just newly opened to the public, and it’s hype was already spreading on my floor at the office among colleagues. My new love for the gym had done my body good, and I was rightfully proud of myself. Night life wasn’t typically how Colton and I spent time together, but it never hurt now and again. We were two young adults, in love, sharing life in the romping metropolis of Pittsburgh. Occasionally, I would convince my big bear to slap on that devilish leather jacket, run a comb through his hair, and hang me on his arm for a night out.

Green envy had settled in his color-changing eyes the moment the valet drank in a choking gulp of my summer-tanned legs as I stepped from the passenger side of the car after Colton handed him the keys to the SUV. The needle heel of my strappy, metallic stilettos femininely accentuated my petite feet, and created a lengthening illusion for my usually short legs. Needless to say, the parking man did not receive a tip from Mr. Ritter. Instead, a very, very firm squeeze of the fingers when he reached for the key fob. The poor kid appeared barely 20-years old, and a generous estimate of a buck thirty soaking wet. He learned a valuable lesson to keep curious stares to himself. Especially when the lady was accompanied by a brutal, quite physically capable cage-fighter.

“Calm down, Colton. I’m sure you’re just imagining things. Let’s just order, and enjoy the night, okay? Order yourself a beer and relax, love.” I fiddled with my menu, scanning for options I thought would arrive quickly from the kitchen so we could retreat back to the house before Colt wound up in hand cuffs.

He stood, his gait swelling with testosterone, to take a deep breath and escape for a bathroom break, kissing my forehead as he scooted past my chair. His return could not have been more ill-timed as the waiter so happen to be lingering at the table to pour my glass of woodsy, red wine. I could nearly feel Colton’s rageful approach before hearing his purposeful, strong stomps echoing over the marble tiled floors. His hand landed like a sack of bricks on the man whose name tag read “Charlie.”

“Charlie, is it?” Colton rattled the man’s shoulder. “Pour the glass, and fuck off to where ever it is you should be that’s not here fuckin’ panting over my girlfriend. I think it’d be in your best interest, ya’ sick little shithead.”

“Colton Ritter! Sit. NOW.” I barked through pearly, grinding teeth.

Not a word had been spoken out of line by the poor sap, nor anything resembling a cross or distasteful look. And I wouldn’t sit helplessly by and let Colton behave as cruelly as such. The little meathead just didn’t have it in him to let me feel as if anyone had disrespected me with even so much as a flattering glance. My heart loved him for it. He truly meant well after all. But, the Pittsburgh blood just ran too deep, and he hadn’t quite mastered expressing his feelings in healthier manners.

Colt did as told, his face dripping with a sullen rash of redness. The gulp of a dark ale I had ordered him seemed to sizzle down his throat when he swallowed it. I knew his insides were rancidly burning up with the incurable fires of jealousy, even though there was no one else in the entire number of humanity that I wanted to be with besides him. Surely, his fear of inferiority hadn’t been rooted so deeply that no amount of love and faithfulness I showed him could squander it? It all circled back to our time apart, and the unforgiving way he had punished me by the break-up. He hadn’t overcome the harsh truth that I could have easily wound up in the arms of another, never to return again.

“All this over a damn dress, Colton? My God, babe. What excuse do you have for acting like that?”

Would these be the little pep-talks I’d have to give when our fictional children knocked someone down on the school bus, or repeated his father’s favorite curse word to a teacher?

“It’s doesn’t have anything to do with you, or the dress. I love the fuckin’ thing, as a matter of fact. I’ve been fuckin’ hard for you over half of the night already because of it. The problem is, so has everybody else around here.”

Colton seemed to be pushing his insatiable craving for my flesh, and the tightly covered roundness of my behind, on the Saturday evening patrons of downtown Pittsburgh. Colton loved to be in control, he loved to feel in control at all times. But with me, things were different. I knew, and he knew. One hating it more than the other. His relationship with me wasn’t like anything he’d ever experienced in life, and far from his exchanges in the cage where he usually also called the every shot. My typically in control fellow was reeling with teenage, lustful rage this evening and he couldn’t stand to feel so consumed and obsessed.

I took a dainty pull of the long-stemmed, crystal glass, licking a dribble of the rim after a pulled my glossed lips away from it. I know it may be infantile and improper to egotistically play off your advantages, but Colton was in for it.

“Is that so, huh?”

He gulped, and his knuckles turned white around his mug.

Behind the table, I loosened the pulled-tight bow of the silky wrap around my waist, causing the fabric to slip lower down my chest. More of my lotion-soft skin escaped between the valley of my breasts, and I pushed my heavy seat backwards to stand.

“I’m heading for the ladies’ room. I suggest you follow in case some of these terribly disrespectful men get a case of the wandering eyes.”

The pair of us were pros in the arena of public indecency by now. Weddings, the gym, my office at the Pilot. Even once, an afternoon delight in the shuttle of the Duquesne Incline two weeks ago. That had been a long overdue fantasy that lived up to every single standard.

I had barely excused myself from the table before I heard Colton’s wooden chair scoot frantically across the hard floors of the dining area. I was being chased, and stalked by your handsome bedmate, and the pool between your panty-less sex. I knew the wind catching my scent and trailing behind me would lead Colton onto the front lines of battle if I so pleased.

The restroom was built with multiple stalls, but we would find good use for the antique couch placed in the corner. The door closed silently behind me as I peeped below the black doors hiding each toilet. Empty. During primetime hours of the city’s’ current hotspot. It seemed to be fate.

Tapping my heels back to the door, I peaked into the dark hallway to give Colton the signal for ‘all-clear.’ He was posted with his arms flexing across his chest, and pretending to scroll over the locked-screen of his smart phone. He grinned like Lucifer himself as I bid him inside. Only the view of my eyes, and an outstretched leg wrapped highly around the wooden door could been seen. But that was all it took to furthermore entice his excited crotch. He checked both ways for any observing eyes, and I welcomed him into the spontaneous den of thrills.

Immediately he scooted the four-legs of the bright cushioned couch to barricade the unlocked door, and tossed me on it like a blonde ragdoll. I pulled open the easy confines of my clothes, and draped my leg over his shoulder to gift an opened view of my obviously naked body. With the ticks of his watch passing with haste, Colton wasted no time with the buckle of his belt, using his time wisely and needlessly prepping my already dripping entrance with his hissing mouth.

My panting bounced off the reverberating walls, dancing throughout the air with his own impatient moans of sexual enchantment. Colton captured my healthy thighs in his hands, yanking with command, teetering my bare form on the edge of the seat. His pants hanging low on his hips so his eager friend could escape, I chewed on the inside of my cheek panicked with anticipation. The risk, intermingled with the pleasureful intrusion I knew was coming next nearly caused my asthma to turn loose.

He squatted his knees to even up with my ready entrance, heaving himself instantly deep with no time, or patience to spare. He held my calves around his waist massaging deep into the tissue of my flexing legs, grunting as our bodies rocked into one another.

“This fuckin’ body of yours is for my eyes only, Livvy baby. I won’t have any other desperate prick staring at those round tits. Or that glorious little ass. Damn it, baby.”

His flashes of jealous exchanges earlier in the evening only fed and nurtured his hearty pushes inside me, and I squirmed with arousal. The way his hair had fallen into strands on his sweat beaded forehead, and the veins pulsing down the line of his neck quaked my body with shivering release. With ankles latched around his back, I closed my eyes and prepared to stifle my orgasmic outcry as he fiddled with the bead of my sex. Colton’s back was lurched forward, as if he was trying to reach depths inside of me he’d never touched before his release gave way.

Suddenly, a rattle on the other side of the door caught my very distracted attention when someone pushed to try and enter the very occupied bathroom. I was tingling with eruption, and I wasn’t about to let anyone come between me my daily hello with sexual satisfaction.

“Fuck off!” I sharply dismissed the intrusion.

Colton smiled with pride, knowing he had caused this uncurable addiction in me, and because he had tarnished my usually polite manner of speaking.

Babbling words barely translating to my English language, I felt myself spill hot release onto Colton, and down the numbness of my thighs with him smiling above me as he did the same.

We dressed, and collected ourselves best we could before setting the restroom back to its proper state. Colton’s shirt was sweat stained, and my make-up running down my flushed face.

“Hey, babe?”

“Yes, baby?” He offered up as he helped tie the closure of my newest dress.

“Can we stop back by the boutique after dinner? They had this same dress in red, and it was to die for.”

I could see him already calculating what crowded room he would parade me around in to stir up his most envious spirit.

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935 @mollybegger-blog @littleluna98

#Tom Hardy #tomhardy #tomhardyfanfic #tomhardyfanfiction #tom hardy fanfiction #elizabeth olsen #thegrind

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tothelasthoursofmylife · 5 years

Text

“A little village with a little mystery.”

London, England, United Kingdom – February 1846

~Cloudia~

“How often will you come here again?” asked Arthur Randall, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

When I had wrapped up my Watchdog mission last week, I had been more than ready to return to my manor – but then, a letter from Thomas had arrived in which he informed me that a large part of the manor’s pipe system had broken down and that, thus, the manor was currently uninhabitable. As the remedial maintenance at the townhouse was still ongoing, Newman, Miss Greene, and I kept staying at the Morrow townhouse. The first week I had been with my family, I had my Watchdog work, the gallery opening, and my cousins to keep me busy. This week, I had no Watchdog work, there were no events to attend, and Ceara was ill and Keegan too grumpy and worried to do anything fun with.

Now, all I could do was sit in the Morrows’ library and read or, occasionally, go into the city and accidentally pass by Scotland Yard and overhear some case details.

“This is the eleventh time this week – and it is only Thursday,” he continued and glared at her.

Perhaps, it wasn’t quite “occasionally,” but gruesome murders and thievery entertained me more than gossip over tea.

“It’s also the eleventh time this week that I am passing by the headquarters and you are around to see me,” Cloudia replied. She loosened the scarf around her neck a bit. Last week, it had been devastatingly cold, but now, the temperature had become more bearable – a development Cloudia hoped would last a little while longer. “Don’t you have any work to do, Randall? How does someone like you even become a detective constable? You are barely older than me and only joined the Met three years ago. Could it be that you paid your way up like Police Commissioner Rowan did until he became captain?”

Randall narrowed his eyes. “Says the girl who is only what she is because of her family.”

“You are only partially right, Constable: I am what I am because of my family, yes, but if I was completely useless, I would have been long replaced – or never even instated,” Cloudia said.

I had met Arthur Randall for the first time nearly two years ago, and every time I saw him, I disliked him a bit more. Despite my dislike for him, I had to admit that he also caught my curiosity: The first time we had met, he had immediately known that I was the Queen’s Watchdog. This was especially interesting because, in the last two years, I had learned that there was absolutely nothing special about him to justify Rowan and Mayne’s decision to let Randall know about the Watchdog secret. So, my question was: Why did he know? The Commissioners couldn’t possibly consider to eventually make him their successor – what other reason could there be?

“And will you ever stop rubbing my family history under my nose? In a twisted way, we are, after all, colleagues,” Cloudia added, and Randall chuckled. “Colleagues? With the likes of you? Even if it’s the last thing I do, I will stay here and protect this place from your kind, Lady Phantomhive.”

She smiled. “Oh, is that what you have been doing all week? Well, I wish you all the luck in the world that your feet will not die away in the cold before you are fired for doing nothing. If you may excuse me now: I have an appointment and am running a little bit late.”

***

“Arthur Randall is nobody to lose any brain cells for, Cloudia. I have been telling you this for years,” said Cecelia and raised her cup to her lips.

Scotland Yard was not the only place where I could get my share of crimes: Cecelia was a wonderful source for that too. I had no interest in pointless gossip discussed over tea – crimes discussed over tea, however, was the best form of socialising I knew.

“I know, I know. But you were asking about my day, and, sadly, I didn’t do much except unwillingly meeting His Moronship,” Cloudia replied, leaning back into her sofa’s soft fabric and cushioning. Cecelia’s Blue Drawing Room was her favourite place in her mansion solely because it had the most comfortable furniture in it. “The manor and the townhouse are still in repair and I am getting more and more bored by the minute – so, thank you, for inviting me.”

“You are thanking me for inviting you? Cloudia, dear, you must be feeling worse than expected. I guess that is the curse of those who cannot sit still. You have too much energy to spare, and if you do not find anything to do, you wither away faster than the plants I had to look after for my father.” Cecelia waved with her hand and leaned back as well. “I, on the other hand, am contemplating about never leaving this sofa again. Or would an even more comfortable one be the better choice? Or a more beautiful one? On which sofa would you rather spend the rest of your life, Cloudia? The beautifully embroidered, immensely expensive one that claimed the lives of three decent men during its transportation? Or the ugly olive-coloured one which you did not intend to buy, but still did because your shoes were killing you, you sat down on the wretched thing, and it swallowed you whole, forcing you to purchase it?”

“You have such a sofa?”

“It’s in the boxroom. I believe it’s possessed, but I do not have the heart to get it exorcised. On the one hand, because I can feed especially annoying guests to it; on the other hand, because I do not believe in such superstitions. It is more likely that the sofa fell victim to an extraordinarily enthusiastic upholsterer.”

Cloudia shook her head in an effort to get rid of her grin. It didn’t work. “Do you really want to spend the rest of your life sitting? After the trip to Bristol?”

Cecelia groaned and took a blueberry tartelette. To uphold the drawing rooms’ aesthetic, she had told her cook to only prepare blue food: the muffins, biscuits, and tartelettes had been made with blueberries, blackberries, plums, and black currants. The sandwiches had been spread with blue jam and the tea service had a forget-me-not pattern. It was a surprise that the tea was not blue.

“What you don’t do for gathering intelligence! I should see Quirino to find a way to rename Duchess Adrianne Royceston to Hysteria Royceston! That woman organises a party spanning several days, including a trip to another town, and what does she do? Decide that we should travel to Bristol by carriage because she thinks trains are the ‘devil’s work’!”

“Still, you are thinking about sitting forever.”

“Cloudia, I have no aversion whatsoever to pass my time sitting. If the world was not like it is and dresses would not crinkle so easily, I would have decided to do this – sit until I die – a long, long time ago. I have always said that, in a better world, you would not have to go out and dirty your hands to get what you want, that you would get everything by simply clicking your fingers together instead. Father deemed this one of my worst traits. To be honest, I had no good traits in his eyes.

“To say it clean and concisely: I could sit for hours and hours with no end in sight, just not with any kind of ‘humpy-bumpy’ nonsense.” Cecelia skilfully cut her tartelette into pieces without even looking at it and said, “So, you have come to hear about some grisly crimes?”

“Yes.”

“Over tea?”

“Yes. And some biscuits,” said Cloudia.

“If Adrianne Royceston was here, she would have already sent for the local priest, his mentor, and the holy spirit itself. Are you sure that you know that things like this – being overly interested in murders and thievery – could get you sent to an exorcist at best and to an asylum at worst?”

Cloudia clutched her hands. “Asylums are worse than exorcisms?”

“Of course. If you end up in an asylum, you may never get out of there. During an exorcism, you are restrained and have to listen to a priest reciting all sorts of prayers for hours. When he is done, you pretend to have been successfully purified and do whatever you did to get exorcised for in the first place more secretly than before. I know what I am talking about: I have experienced it thrice and it is always the same.

“Unfortunately, it is easier to get thrown into an asylum than to be sent to the next certified exorcist. To get an exorcism, you either have to live in a place filled with religious hysterics, have a sudden change in personality and voice, an unusually cold room, have to correctly guess the weather for the next three days, be very moody and aggressive, lie down really weirdly, or hate the Church with a passion. To get to an asylum, all it takes is to drink alcohol or distribute bad whiskey. You could be declared a lunatic for having asthma or getting your son married! Pamela Tracey was sent to an asylum because she asked her mother if she could have a rat as a pet.” Cecelia put down her knife and looked at Cloudia. “I know that you know all this, Cloudia, but sometimes I wonder if you are forgetting or deliberately ignoring it. In any case, I want to remind you to be careful. All it takes is for someone to overhear one of your conversations with Randall or even to see you lingering outside the Yard every single day. I know the last few years were rough for you, but you eventually have to stop being so harsh to yourself and move on, Cloudia.” Cecelia wanted to reach out to her, but Cloudia pulled back.

“I would rather get for what I came here,” she stated.

Cecelia looked at her for a while and sighed. “Here I am, giving you advice for once, and you don’t take it! Then, so be it.” She leaned back. The tartelette was left untouched. “The Met is currently searching for a group of bandits known to hide around the area of manor houses. They wait until the inhabitants are wandering about, and then rob and, or abduct them. The last ones to be robbed were the Kents – poor Mary Louise was so terrified! They say that she still hasn’t left her room. Her fiancé Sean is beyond worried. Anyway, where was I? Oh, I remember.

“Our dear officers at the Yard are, of course, doing a wonderful job trying to find them. To their misfortune, Mary Louise’s mother is not allowing them to interrogate her poor, poor baby! Mary Louise is the sole witness in this case as the bandits have robbed her and her maid while they were taking a stroll. They have even tried to kidnap Mary Louise as well. In this moment, her maid proved to be a true loyal soul, intervened, and got killed while defending her protégée. Afterwards, the bandits ran off. But Mary Louise’s best friend’s sister’s best friend, Felicitas Wernholm, was with me in a carriage to Bristol to continue Duchess Royceston’s damned party. This lady could be Quirino’s long-lost sister, I tell you, because she was talking without any pauses for hours. In-between her chitter-chatter salad, she mentioned that she knew from her best friend that Mary Louise has seen the bandits vanish into the direction where the Beaumont and Croft estates are.” Cecelia raised her cup and took a sip of her tea.

Cloudia frowned. “That’s all?”

“That’s classified information for which the Met would pay me very good money. Not that I am interested in such things.”

“No, I meant it like that: ‘That’s all you have for me? A robbery? Where’s the grisly murder?’”

“I promised you a crime. Robbery and attempted kidnapping are crimes, Cloudia.”

“I know that, Cecelia. But murders are more exciting,” Cloudia said.

“Didn’t you listen to me? There was a murder! Mary Louise Kent’s maid was killed.”

“On accident, not on purpose.”

Cecelia sighed. “You are the reason why I am glad that Michael and I never had any children. Without him, I most definitely would not be able to endure them in this phase. And I endured the carriage ride to Bristol with Felicitas Wernholm.” She rubbed her face. “Cloudia, we both know that if you were truly so intent on hearing about grisly murders, you would go and learn about them yourself. Instead, you linger around the Yard and come to me. And why? Perhaps you want to take some of your agency away from it; perhaps you want to eventually point your finger at me and say ‘She made me do it!’ I don’t know. All I know is that, from now on, you will only get your murder case details from me if you stay away from Scotland Yard and take a break.” Cecelia gazed at Cloudia, a stern look in her eyes. “If Barrington visits me one more time crying and complaining, you are going to pay for my dress and carpet, do you understand, young lady?”

Cloudia sighed. “Yes, I understand. I promise to stay away and take a break. Satisfied?”

“Very,” said Cecelia and leaned back. “And now, let us talk about something more fun.”

***

Cloudia’s favourite places to be had always been the little cosy corners, the alcoves lying in the shadows. If the world around her was fast and loud and messy, those places were always there for her, always giving her the time for herself she needed, the order, the calmness, the minute she required to take a deep breath and collect herself. Before Cloudia had learned about the Phantomhive Manor’s intricate system of secret pathways, those little places had been a blessing.

The oriel window in the library of the Morrow townhouse might not be the most hidden, not the most inconspicuous corner, but its comfortableness and feeling reminded Cloudia of all her secret little corners at home, and, for now, in her ongoing boredom, that was all that mattered to her.

I could feel it in my bones: I would die here. Yesterday, my visits to Scotland Yard and Cecelia had kept me busy; today, I had nothing to do. “Died of utter boredom” would be scratched into my tombstone and everyone passing by my grave would wonder if this was even possible. This was my legacy, I knew it.

With a sigh, Cloudia put a finger between the pages of Pictures of Italy and stared randomly in front of her. The library was rather small and the door usually kept open, and from the oriel window Cloudia could see the door and the corridor beyond it – and Keegan walking up and down the floor grumpier than she had ever witnessed him. It was quite a sight, so she kept watching him. She had been unable to concentrate on her book for the last hour anyway.

Lately, he had been slightly grumpier than usual because Ceara was ill, but she had almost fully recovered. What could have caused the sudden increase in his bad mood?

“Keegan,” Cloudia said, leaving Pictures of Italy at her seat and going to her cousin when he walked by for the millionth time today. “What is wrong?”

For a moment, he seemed to struggle whether to answer or not before he sighed and said, “I’ve remembered that Geoffrey Bentley asked Father if I could join his hunting party one day and that Father said yes. I’m supposed to go hunting with him and the rest of his party tomorrow.”

Keegan was an exceptionally good tracker. People would constantly ask if he wanted to join them in a hunt or two, but as he had neither patience, passion, or interest in hunting, Keegan would always turn them down. He only used his skills for more mundane purposes. Growing up, it surely had been no fun playing hide and seek with him.

“Why would Uncle Aiden even do something like that?” Cloudia asked. “After all, he knows how much you hate hunting and Geoffrey Bentley.”

“Because,” Keegan said with clenched teeth, “Bentley cannot be more of an annoying and loud person, and Father did not even listen to what he said: Bentley started talking to him, and Father simply nodded and agreed to whatever he was saying.”

“I have almost forgotten how much of a nuisance Geoffrey Bentley is. My ears still hurt a bit from the last time I heard him – from the other end of a ballroom.”

Keegan rubbed his temples. “It is not only Bentley. Of all the people who could be in Bentley’s hunting party, it’s Falk Flanagan and Cadell Beaumont.”

I could not name a more chaotic trio than Cadell Beaumont, Falk Flanagan, and Geoffrey Bentley. They were a notorious group of troublemakers, and their presence at social events was always met with a wave of annoyed sighs. Separate, they were already an imposition; together, they were unbearable. Different as they were, they would always loudly bicker among one another. Everyone could only wonder why they were even friends.

“No wonder why you are in such a bad mood,” said Cloudia.

“An entire day with those three at Beaumont’s estate… Ramming a fork into my own throat would be more pleasant.”

The Beaumont estate? Hadn’t Cecelia told me that Mary Louise Kent meant to have seen the bandits run to where the Croft and Beaumont estates were?

There was only a fifty per cent chance that the bandits were on Beaumont land – if they had not long moved on.

But I was bored and desperate to find anything I could do: Why should I not go a little bit hunting and, maybe, catch a couple of bandits to taunt the Met on the way? I had only promised Cecelia that I would stay away from Scotland Yard – and none of its members would be at the Beaumonts’ from what she had said. Therefore, I would not even go behind her back. It was foolproof.

Cloudia grinned. “Keegan, cousin dear, I think I have the perfect solution for your problem.”

***

Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Marne, France – June 1848

It was like a dream.

When we had crossed the Channel, had travelled from town to town, it had felt like I hadn’t been me: that my soul had become detached and I had watched someone else on that ship, in that town, in that carriage. When I woke up today, it took me a while to realise that I was not dreaming, that I was just where I was supposed to be.

It didn’t make it less unbelievable though.

Surely, it was quite unfortunate that I was currently stuck in “only” a little village and that we had had to rush a bit through Lille and Creil, but I was still satisfied. I had always longed to see the world beyond the isle. I would not become picky now.

Cloudia kicked away her blanket and walked to the windows. Lisa would be here any second and pull back the curtains with a slightly heartfelt “Good morning,” and Cloudia really wanted to pre-empt her. They had arrived very late yesterday, and the hour and general exhaustion had prevented her from taking in her surroundings. Full of sleepy excitement, Cloudia pulled on the cord. The curtains opened. The high windows appeared behind them, and through them, she saw…

… rain. Nothing but rain. It was pouring buckets, and Cloudia could not see farther than a metre.

I had travelled for so long only to arrive in England again.

She heard the door opening and Lisa coming inside. “Good morning, Lady Cloudia,” she said and closed the door behind her. “You woke up early today. Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I slept surprisingly well. The carriage drive got the best of me. Fourteen hours are far too long,” Cloudia replied, not taking her eyes off the windows. “And you?”

“I slept well too. It is such a pity that still nobody has tried to make carriages faster or to find a good replacement for them. Do you think Baron Salisbury may be interested? After all, his company developed special train engines for the sole purpose of reducing the transportation time for some beetroots,” said Lisa and went to the bathroom. “I’ve prepared a bath,” she announced when she came back a few minutes later.

“Thank you,” Cloudia said, not making a move to step away from the windows.

“Is it really that interesting outside?”

“It’s just a very familiar sight,” Cloudia answered and finally turned away to follow Lisa into the bathroom. “I doubt that Milton would be interested. His company focuses, after all, on food transport and not on developing machinery for the broad public. We might have a chance if we all were to turn into beetroots overnight.”

Cloudia undressed and stepped into the bathtub. A sigh escaped her lips when she sat down and was engulfed by the warm water. There was nothing better than a warm bath to loosen up tense muscles, and hers were certainly tense after yesterday. The carriage ride had been dreadfully exhausting and dinner had been both pleasant and a complete mess: pleasant because most attendees had been too tired to engage in proper conversations; a complete mess because, for example, Cedric had become so sleepy midway through that he had nearly fallen face-first into his soup, and Kamden had tried to eat his soup with a fork.

“Speaking of the Baron,” Lisa began, pouring more hot water into the bathtub. “Now that we are here, how do you feel about him being here as well?”

Cloudia sank a bit deeper into the water.

“Before, it was only an idea, then a fact lying in the distant future you did not have to pay much attention to. Now, we are here because of Her Majesty and there is this unknowing outsider lurking around.”

“You sound like the Duke. Milton is harmless and won’t be a hindrance,” said Cloudia.

Thin-lipped, Lisa put some flowers and herbs into the water to make it smell nice. “Lady Cloudia, I do not believe that the Baron will be a hindrance because he will bother everyone all the time. I believe he will be a hindrance because you got along rather well until he proposed to you and you declined. Then, he left for a few weeks, only to invite you to his crumbling villa and pretend that nothing happened before he vanished for eighteen months. This sounds like one of the ridiculous romance novels Al likes to read.”

Cloudia groaned. “I know you don’t like the Duke, but sometimes I think you could be the best of friends. This is one of those times.”

Lisa rolled her eyes.

“I saw that,” said Cloudia. “Why should Milton’s presence bother me? He misunderstood something, he proposed, I rejected him and never regretted it. And it doesn’t seem as if it hurt him all too much. Now, please let go of this nonsense and go read something for half an hour. You can ask Newman if he can lend you one of his romance novels.”

Lisa leaned against the washbasin. “Very well. One more thing regarding Baron Salisbury: I have never liked him, to be honest –”

“Who would have guessed.”

“– but even to me it seemed very unlike him to stare at Al like that in Dover.”

“I agree. It was odd, but I suppose Milton was simply surprised. If you see someone who looks like Newman, you usually do not expect them to be butlers. Or, in turn, if you imagine a butler, you do not think of someone who looks like him.”

Lisa shrugged. “Until I get some proper reason for his behaviour out of Baron Salisbury, I will dislike him a bit more than before. How’s the water?”

“Fine. How are the rooms in the servants’ tract?”

“They are acceptable. However, while you and the others inhabit the manor’s actual guest rooms, we sleep where the actual servants sleep. As they are going to return by the end of the month, they left quite a bit, and it’s very compelling to look through their stuff. One maid left her diary.”

“Oh, the temptation.”

“I mean: If her diary was so important to her, if what she wrote in it was so secretive, she would not have left it in the open, would she?”

“She may be a very forgetful maid,” Cloudia suggested.

“She left it in the open, Lady Cloudia! The maid meticulously packed all her other belongings and put them away, but the diary was lying on her desk when I came. That does not sound like she’s a very forgetful person.”

“She may have been angry that she had to leave for a month. Perhaps, it’s going to explode when you open it. Or, a less destructive option: Maybe there are ghosts in this house and the diary is her chaos record and warning?”

“Let’s hope nothing is going to explode,” Lisa said and whipped out the diary from her dress pocket.

“Lisa Greene, didn’t you say that you are only intrigued about taking their things?”

“I said that ‘it’s very compelling’ which it is. I have never said that I still haven’t given in to the temptation. To give me the littlest amount of credit, I have not taken a look inside it.”

Cloudia smiled and shook her head. “Because you wanted to share its contents with me? To make me your partner in crime? Your accomplice in this breach of privacy?”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “So you are not interested?” she asked, flipping open the diary. “That’s good: no explosion.”

“I want to say that I am not interested, but I would be lying. I’ve always thought that pouring your feelings, thoughts, and secrets into a little, easy-to-steal book is a very idiotic thing to do. Of course, I would not want anyone to go through my things,” Cloudia sat up a bit in the bathtub, “but the possibility of this diary being a ghost record is certainly alluring.”

“I knew that you would say this,” Lisa remarked and paged up to the beginning. She opened her mouth to begin reading, but quickly closed it and skimmed through the diary with a frown on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“It says ‘diary’ on the cover, but…” Lisa flipped back to the first page and showed it to Cloudia. The first page did not start with Dear diary… or Something terrible is going on in this manor. Instead, the very first page had nothing written on it but The Maid’s Manifesto in beautiful cursive.

“It’s a guidebook?” said Cloudia, and Lisa nodded and closed the “diary.”

“This notebook is filled with recipes and instructions on how to make beds and fold serviettes. There are even notes about the food preferences of every member of the de Charbonneau family. Apparently, Baronne de Charbonneau is allergic to strawberries. It’s a bit insulting that the maid left this for me. ‘I do not think that you know how to make beds; therefore, I have written a manual for you, blockhead!’”

“Very anticlimactic,” Cloudia commented and dived back into the water.

“That’s how it is sometimes,” said Lisa and stuffed the notebook back into her pocket. “And now, let us get your hair washed and this bath wrapped up before you get wrinkly.”

***

Nearly an hour later, I descended the stairs to the dining room. I had dismissed Lisa so that she could join Newman – and perhaps, Wentworth and some other servants – for their own breakfast. Although the memories of last night were hidden behind a veil of sleepiness, I hoped that I was still able to find my way through the corridors on my own.

After I had walked down the wrong set of stairs twice and had to ascend them again, I had to think of the Layton Art Gallery: The château was a godawful mess of a place. At least, unlike the gallery, it would cease to be one when I became familiar with it. No matter how often I had gone to the gallery, I had never been able to figure it out.

After a few more wrong turns, Cloudia finally found the right flight of stairs – on which Cedric was sitting. Frowning, she approached him and saw that he was grumpily nibbling on one of his bone-shaped biscuits.

“What are you doing here?” she asked and sat down next to him.

“I have taken a glimpse into hell: It is a mansion with an abundance of stairs and doors and no signs,” said Cedric, staring ahead of him with glassy eyes. “My soul has left my body. Forevermore, it will slumber in room 1046 while my body resides here…”

“The dining room is downstairs and to the right.”

He threw the biscuit down. “Dammit!”

“What did the poor biscuit do to you?”

“Nothing.” He leaned forward and picked it up. “I’m sorry, my friend,” Cedric said to the biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth. Cloudia grimaced.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked after he had swallowed down.

“It was on the ground!”

Cedric shrugged. “I’ve eaten worse. So… downstairs and to the right?” He got up and held out his hand for Cloudia. She took it and let herself be pulled up, and in this instant, Kamden appeared at the foot of the stairs and waved to them before walking up.

“There you are! Everyone is waiting for you,” Kamden told them.

“Then we should hurry,” said Cloudia and linked arms with him.

Cedric frowned. “How did you manage to be punctual, Kamden?”

“I wanted to go to Cloudie first, and on my way, I met Miss Lisa who seemed quite mad. She said that she found a handbook in her room that was not what she expected it to be. I asked her if I could take a look. We inspected it and found out that it is not as useless as she had believed it to be: It turned out that the handbook contains a thorough map of every passage and every room of the château,” Kamden said. “Apparently, Baron Lambert de Charbonneau who commissioned the manor was paranoid and wanted his home to resemble the inner workings of the Pyramids of Giza. For the same reason, he ordered for the manor to be built here where his only neighbours would be the birds and the people in the village nearby. He was ridiculed by other noblemen, but, according to Miss Lisa’s handbook, he must have turned in his grave in joy when the revolution happened. When King Louis XIV had ordered for all nobles to live with him at Versailles, nobody had bothered to make sure that Lambert de Charbonneau and his family would come too as nobody had been eager to search for them in this labyrinth. Thus, the Baron’s descendants were saved when the revolution came.”

This explained the Duponts’ eagerness to get their hands on the château: In the unlikely case that we were attacked, the manor’s architecture would protect us – or work against us if we had not got used to it by then. I should not forget to ask Lisa if she could lend me the Maid’s Manifesto later.

“Very impressive,” Cedric remarked, and Kamden cleared his throat. “I have found you, but Milton still isn’t there. Has any of you seen him?”

“If Milton is not in his room or in the dining hall, I suppose he is in the library,” Cloudia suggested, and Kamden nodded.

“I’ve passed the library earlier,” said Cedric. “I should have taken a look – especially considering that you might have been there as well, Countess.”

Cloudia’s eyes widened as she suddenly remembered something. “Will you be able to find it again?”

“I guess?”

“I hope so because Milton and rain is not a good combination.”

How could I forget this? I should have thought of it when I had pulled back the curtains and seen the rain.

“What do you mean?” Cedric wanted to know.

She looked down the stairs, then back to Kamden and Cedric. “We have no time for explanations. I would like to go with you, but, at least, I have to hurry to breakfast. I need to greet my relatives. And you should hurry to the library to make sure Milton’s all right.”

Gently, Kamden unlinked his and Cloudia’s arms. “I will go with Kristopher.”

She nodded. “Thank you. Now, quick. We have no time to lose.”

***

~Cedric~

What was with Milton and rain for Cloudia to get concerned? It rained so often in England; thus, it could not be something too serious, right? Especially considering that Wentworth was – at least, according to Cecelia – Milton’s “shadow,” and if he had not gone to get him or to attend to him, it really could not be very dramatic, right?

More curious than worried, I traced my way back to the library with Kamden. All the way I hoped that I was not misremembering anything, that I would be able to return to the dining hall, and that Milton was actually in the library. It would be quite a waste if he was not.

I was relieved when I found the door with “Bibliothèque” written above it again. I pushed open the heavy door and was met with yet another labyrinth. That Lambert de Charbonneau had truly been very meticulous with his plans. Rubbing my head, I walked inside – Kamden right by my side –, and after a few turns, I felt something tugging at my jacket and had to sneeze.

Cedric turned around and saw a little girl standing in front of him: She seemed to be between seven and nine years of age, had unruly, red-brown hair, and big blue eyes. She smiled at him, took hold of her lavender-coloured dress, and briefly curtsied.

“Hello, I am Anaïs Dupont,” she said with a slight accent. “Claudette told me that I would find you here.”

“Claudette? Oh, you mean the Countess.” Cedric sneezed again and rubbed his nose. What was wrong with him?

“Bless you,” said Kamden.

“Thank you.”

Anaïs nodded. “Claudette told me that you went to look for Baron Salisbury, Your Grace, Mr Bonham. I offered to help because the library is very confusing, and she said that all I had to do was ‘find the man with the long, weirdly coloured hair.’”

“I want to protest, but I have to admit that she is right.” Cedric tugged at his ponytail. “Anyway, you do not have to be so formal when you are addressing me. ‘Kristopher’ is fine.”

“And ‘Emyr’ is fine to me,” said Kamden.

“Very well, Duke Kristopher, Mr Emyr,” Anaïs said and walked ahead.

“I would say that Baron Salisbury is in the seating area, don’t you think?” she asked, turning her head back to them every now and then.

“I guess so, yes,” Cedric said, trotting after her and sneezing again. Was it so dusty in the library? But if it was, why weren’t Kamden and Anaïs sneezing too? “I have a question, Anaïs: Are you the little sister of that frowning, knife-throwing boy?”

She giggled. “Aurèle? He is my cousin. I have a little brother, Gérard, who is three. There are also Jacques and Arnaud who are Aurèle’s younger brothers. You will meet them at breakfast,” Anaïs told Cedric and Kamden before she jumped up excitedly. “Look, Duke Kristopher, Mr Emyr! Is that Baron Salisbury?”

Cedric followed her gaze to an armchair. It was standing in front of a window; outside, the rain had become even stronger. Milton was sitting on the armchair; there was a pile of papers and a notebook on his lap, but he was not staring at them: He was staring at his left arm while he pressed his right hand to his chest.

Cedric stepped towards him. “Milton? Are you all right?”

Milton flinched and craned his head to him, staring first at him, then at Anaïs for a few seconds; his eyes were wide, his face ghostly pale. When he saw Kamden, Milton shook his head and rubbed his face. When he had put his hands down again, the expression on his face had already eased back to his normal one. “I am sorry if I made you worried, but I am fine,” he said and smiled at Cedric.

He sneezed again and said, “You were not looking fine to me.”

Milton sorted his papers and stuffed them into the notebook. “It’s just… I do not have a very strong heart. It is nothing serious I swear, and nothing has happened since I was a child, but… but the last time something did happen, it rained. And now, every time it rains, the memory of the feeling I had back then returns. It is simply a ‘ghost feeling’ and nothing worrisome,” he informed them, still smiling, but when Milton got up, his notebook in his hand, the movement still visibly strained him. Out of the corner of his eye, Cedric saw Kamden shifting slightly towards Milton, though he did not take any step to him.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting. The next time I do not arrive on time, you can simply start without me. Also, thank you, Kristopher and Emyr, for still having been so kind to look for me,” Milton continued.

“Well, we did not find you though. The little lady over there did,” said Cedric and looked at Anaïs who stared at Milton with glittering eyes.

Huh? Had I missed something?

Cedric was about to say something when Anaïs blurted out, seemingly incapable of keeping her words within herself any longer, “Baron Salisbury, are you a faerie?”

The confusion within Cedric grew stronger, his understanding of the situation lessened, and in his perplexed state, he did not know what to say; the events had rendered him speechless, and Cedric was certain that if Cloudia was here, she would be thoroughly amused.

Apparently, Milton did not suffer from temporary speech loss as Cedric did. That’s why he was able to kneel in front of Anaïs and say, “I am afraid that we have not been properly introduced to each other. I am Milton, and I suppose you are Miss Anaïs Dupont?”

Anaïs’ eyes widened. “You know my name?”

“Lady Cloudia has given me a list of all your names in advance. Now tell me, Miss Anaïs, why do you believe me to be a faerie?”

“Because you look like one!” she exclaimed. “In my books, faeries are described to look very fair and delicate and sometimes to have green eyes.”

“Uh, well, you see, Miss Anaïs,” Milton began bashfully. “I have to disappoint you: I am not a faerie. I do not even have green eyes – they are hazel. The light here must tint them more green than brown right now. Kristopher has green eyes though. Did you ask him whether he was a faerie?”

“No, I did not because Claudette said that his hair – and I do not mean to be offensive or unkind; I simply recite what she has told me – is not washed very often, and even though faeries are creatures of nature, they are supposed to be impeccable. Also, he does have very striking green eyes, but they look too unnatural to belong to a forester,” Anaïs said, and Cedric groaned. “I do wash my hair. This is its natural colour,” he said and sneezed.

“I am sorry, Miss Anaïs, but neither Kristopher nor I are faeries. We may have disappointed you, but I do wish you all the best in your search – and so does Kristopher and even Emyr, I assume,” said Milton and stood up, still a little bit shaky. “Also, I think we should hurry to the dining hall. We have kept the others waiting long enough, and Kristopher is in dire need of a cup of tea: He seems to have caught a cold.”

“I was fine until a few minutes,” Cedric said, rubbing his nose.

“Colds can be deceitful,” Anaïs stated with a serious face before she turned to Milton. “Well, you may not be a faerie,” she said, boldly taking Milton’s hand, “but you do look like one, Baron Milton. This alone may convince Jacques that faeries may really exist.” She dragged him forward. “Come! I cannot wait to see Jacques’ face! And, of course, to finally have breakfast and get Duke Kristopher his tea!”

With no protest, Milton let himself be dragged through the corridors by Anaïs, and Cedric and Kamden followed them.

Something told me that our stay here would be far from boring.

***

“There you are. We were about to begin to believe that the château swallowed you whole,” said Cloudia when Cedric, Kamden, Milton, and Anaïs entered the dining hall. Silently, Kamden went to occupy the chair to her right.

Last evening, the food displayed on the table had been scarce as their hosts had known that, while they had been undoubtedly hungry, they had also been very, very exhausted. Now, it was richly laid, and seeing all the food made Cedric’s stomach grumble. He sat down on the empty chair to Cloudia’s left and briefly looked around the hall, saw Aurèle scowling at him from the opposite side. He, Anaïs, and the spectacled boy to whom she was dragging Milton and who was sitting to Aurèle’s right, Jacques Cedric assumed, had hair in various shades of brown; however, the little boy to Aurèle’s left, presumably Arnaud, had black hair and piercing blue-green eyes. The instant Cedric and the others had come in, he had turned his head to them and fixed his eyes on Anaïs. He was still watching her, and Cedric followed his gaze to see Anaïs talking rapidly to Jacques in French, he answering her, they taking turns looking at Milton, and Milton looking very out of place and fumbling with his stuffed notebook.

It was quite a sight.

“Why did you even make such a fuss about Milton?” Cedric asked, leaning to Cloudia. “He only gets ‘ghost pain’ from the rain after all. I’ve expected something more dramatic. For example, that he is actually a very confused werewolf, changing to his were-form when it rains and not when there’s a full moon…”

“I think you need to eat something,” she said, handing the butter to him. “You always become more nonsensical when you are hungry.”

Cedric took the butter from her. “Definitely. Where are your ‘aunts and uncles,’ the rest of your distant relatives? The Comte and Comtesse? The Baron and Baronne? Will they come later, or at all? Will the enigmatic Marquis come too? And where is Cecelia?”

“What an awful lot of questions.”

“Apparently, hunger does not only make me more ridiculous but also very noisy.”

Cloudia put a raisin roll on her plate. “Anselme, Sylviane, Amélie, and Firmin have already eaten. They like to get up early, and because they do not want to disturb their children, they eat breakfast separately. If possible, they usually eat lunch and dinner together. About the Marquis… I told you about his condition yesterday, don’t you remember?”

“Frankly, I don’t. I’m not even sure if I was anywhere else but in that damned carriage yesterday.”

She sighed. “The Marquis is eighty-six years old and not in the best condition. Amélie and Anselme were against him coming here, but he did not want to hear any of it. He is the only one who knows where the Clockmaker is, and he does not want anyone to find out as long as it’s not absolutely necessary: He has not even told his own children. The Marquis will entrust the Clockmaker’s location to one of us, presumably me, and that’s it. Considering his state, I doubt he will leave his room during our stay.”

“How unfortunate. I really wanted to meet him even if I think that he is scary. And what about Cecelia?”

“She needs more time to collect herself. Cecelia has a bit of trauma regarding overly long carriage drives,” Cloudia told Cedric who nodded and looked away from her and ahead, seeing Aurèle still staring at him while he layered white cheese on bread.

“Do I have something on my face?” Cedric asked. Aurèle ignored him.

At least at breakfast, I had been free of Miss Greene and her piercing stares; now there was her male French counterpart to irritate me.

Apparently finished with their argument, Jacques returned to his breakfast while Milton hastily sat down next to Kamden, and Anaïs took place next to Arnaud, albeit a little grumpy. Her mood instantly turned around when she sat down. “Gérard!” she exclaimed, jumped up from her chair, and vanished beneath the table.

A few seconds later, she reemerged with a little boy with slightly tousled light brown hair and blue eyes. Anaïs said something to Aurèle that Cedric could not understand before she seated her little brother and a servant came to help her clean his hands and comb his hair. When they were finished, Anaïs clapped her hands together.

“It’s a bit late – you have already started eating after all – but have the others, apart from Aurèle of course, introduced themselves to you, Baron Milton, Duke Kristopher, Mr Kamden? If yes, I have not noticed it.”

“Well, I would have introduced myself to His Grace and Mr Bonham if you had not hindered me with your faerie business, Anaïs,” Jacques pointed out before he briefly bowed. “I am Jacques Beauchene, nice to meet you,” he said. Unlike his brother or cousin, he had no accent at all. “The boy next to Aurèle is my younger brother Arnaud.” Arnaud waved at them.

“And my fiancé,” Anaïs added, beaming. “Finally, that’s” – she pinched Gérard’s cheek – “my little brother Gérard. He is usually with Maman or our governess Josseline, but I begged for him to join us because we were unable to see you yesterday.”

“Hello,” Gérard said in his little voice and waved.

“So, as we are all here,” said Anaïs, her eyes shining with something ill-boding. “How did you all meet Claudette?” She turned to Kamden. “Mr Emyr! Can you start?”

Kamden stopped in his movement and very slowly looked up. In this moment, he reminded Cedric of a fawn that was seeing a train for the first time: scared, shaky, and not knowing what this thing in front of him was and what the hell he was supposed to do with it.

“She came into my bookstore,” Kamden said when he regained his voice.

“That’s everything?”

He nodded.

“Oh. Very well… Baron Milton, what about you? How did you meet Claudette?”

Milton put down his knife and clutched his hands together. “Her aunt is a patron at an art gallery where my father used to be one as well. A few years ago, a new exhibition opened. Lady Cloudia accompanied her aunt, and I attended the opening in my father’s stead,” he told her.

“That’s all?” Anaïs pressed.

He smiled. “That’s all,” Milton said and took up his knife again.

Still hopeful to get a wonderfully long and exciting story, Anaïs turned to Cedric. “And you, Duke Kristopher?”

“She was killing a man in a dark alleyway, and I happened to be there because I had to collect his soul. I told her that I was a Grim Reaper, and she still insisted on starting a partnership with me.”

This was exactly the kind of story Anaïs was seeking – insane and entertaining. Unfortunately, it was not one Cloudia or I could ever tell her.

“Well, it was incredibly unspectacular,” Cedric began instead. “We were at the party of a noblewoman whose name I have already forgotten – that’s how unspectacular it was.”

Anaïs let her shoulders sink. “I see.”

“That story may be wholly uninteresting,” he continued with a grin which earned him a frown and a glare from Cloudia, “but I have better stories about the Lady to tell.”

Anaïs’ eyes glowed. “Oh, please tell them, Duke Kristopher!”

“If I may have a word,” Cloudia said, her voice carrying loudly through the hall. She looked at Cedric. “No.”

“All that build-up for a simple ‘no’?”

“Brevity is the soul of wit. If you want me to elaborate, I will.” She cleared her throat. “No.”

“You did not elaborate on it at all.”

“Of course, I did. I elaborated on the intensity. The stress. The pronunciation.”

Anaïs giggled. “You two get along so well! Claudette, please, one harmless little story?”

“If she does not want to, you should respect her wish and stop pestering her,” Jacques said and stood up. “It’s not very polite. And if you may excuse me for a few minutes, my glasses are slightly dirty and I have forgotten my special handkerchief in my room.”

“I know… but are you not curious?”

“Curiosity should never lead to a breach of privacy, Anaïs,” said Jacques and left the dining hall.

“But…”

Aurèle groaned. “We should let Cloudia decide. If she is fine with one… uh… short harmless story, that will be all we will hear. If she is not… then we will talk about something else. Cloudia?”

Cloudia was silent for a while before she ultimately sighed and said, “Only if he tells me beforehand which one. And only one.”

“That will be enough!” exclaimed Anaïs happily. “Duke Kristopher, which story do you pick?”

Cedric looked at Cloudia who raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. There were many stories he could tell, but most he wanted to share were intersected with Watchdog work – their charade in St Margaret’s Chapel, how they were standing on that ledge outside the Salisbury Villa, how she took him to meet the Queen, how she killed Maven von Brandt… – and, thus, were not ones Cedric could tell in the presence of Milton. Then, there were the ones that were too ridiculous to tell: tracking down Dahlia Duke, how they sneaked into a Christmas party, how they hid zucchinis on the Lincolns’ porch…

Fortunately, Cedric had never intended to share any of those events.

“The picnic in Wales,” he answered, smiling at the memory.

“I hate you very much for this, but please go on.”

His smile widened. “Last year, the Lady and I were in Wales and, one day, I decided that it was the perfect day to go out into the wild and have a picnic. And while we were eating, I managed to make her laugh genuinely – by, you will never believe it, telling her one of the worst jokes possible.”

“What joke was it? Please, please, Duke Kristopher, what joke did you tell Claudette?” begged Anaïs.

“As I have said, we were having a picnic in Wales,” Cedric continued. “I asked the cook of the place where we were staying to prepare a few things for us. One of them was Glamorgan sausage. It is some kind of sausage which is not made out of meat but of cheese. The cook was very talented; therefore, the sausage tasted really delicious – and I jokingly said ‘Ah, I would like to marry him but I can’t.’ The Lady wanted to know why I couldn’t marry him after I told her that it wasn’t for the reason she believed it was – and I answered: ‘Because I found out that he’s a really cheesy guy.’”

Arnaud and Anaïs chuckled. “You made her laugh with that?” she said.

“Only because I had a terrible headache at that time,” Cloudia defended herself.

“No headache in the world can make someone laugh so hysterically at a pun as you did back then,” Cedric countered.

“Of course, it can’t. You may recall that, at that time, I did not only have a headache but was also on the verge of having a sunstroke because of a certain someone who insisted to take me out for a picnic when the sun was at its zenith in the middle of summer – and I hope you haven’t forgotten what happened afterwards.”

“What happened afterwards?” Anaïs wanted to know.

“He nearly got me killed, and I had to spend most of our time in Wales in bed recovering.”

Milton choked on his food, and Kamden clapped him on the back while staring at Cedric. Aurèle scowled at him with an intensity so fierce that it might surpass Lisa’s scowls. Even little Gérard could not believe what he had heard and looked at Cedric with wide eyes.

“What is going on?” Jacques asked when he re-entered the dining room. His glasses were now polished and nicely reflected the light from the chandeliers.

“Duke Kristopher once murdered Claudette!” Anaïs answered.

“You forgot to say ‘almost,’ Anaïs,” Arnaud told his fiancée.

“Oh, yes, right – he almost killed our Claudette!”

Jacques looked at Cedric. “How could you even try to harm our cousin?” Then, he let his gaze wander to Cloudia. “And why are you still talking to someone who almost got you killed?”

“I did not actively try to get her killed,” Cedric protested. “We went picnicking, and she carelessly put down her hat and didn’t put it on for hours – and she neglected her health again by not drinking enough.”

“Are you trying to blame me for what happened?”

“I am trying to defend my honour here. Unlike you, I have to do this all on my own, Lady Phantomhive. After all, I don’t have an army of cousins. To be honest – do you have more cousins hidden somewhere? The next time, you make Milton, Emyr, and me accompany you to Latin America because your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother’s favourite aunt was Paraguayan, and you have a million more cousins there.”

“He’s ridiculous,” Aurèle said.

“We should get rid of him,” Jacques added.

“I once read a book about how to make murder look like an accident,” Arnaud proudly told them.

“I read it to him!” Anaïs happily exclaimed.

“Murder!” Gérard yelled, raising his fork into the air.

“I am so glad that you don’t have any Phantomhive relatives,” Cedric said to Cloudia who ignored him and chuckled at her cousins. “You are too sweet, but I cannot let you kill the Duke,” she said, taking a sip from her tea. “Because that is my privilege.”

Aurèle grinned. “Of course, Claudette. But if you… if you need help, you can count on us.”

“Always,” Anaïs added.

“Aren’t you forgetting the Earl, Kristopher?” Milton remarked after he could breathe again and had thanked Kamden.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course, the Earl. His presence is so thin that I keep forgetting that he exists,” Cedric replied and he hoped that his words had not come out of him too hastily.

“Also…” Milton started, paused, opened his mouth, and closed it again.

“What do you want to say, Milton?” asked Kamden.

Milton cleared his throat. “I want to say that it was a really nice story, Kristopher.”

Aurèle raised his eyebrow but did not say anything. “It was?” said Cedric.

“Yes, of course,” Milton replied, fiddling with a serviette. “Sure, it was unfortunate how things turned out in the end, but at the beginning, you looked so happy to tell us about the picnic. You must truly cherish this memory despite its ending, don’t you? I think it’s good that you can still enjoy thinking about that time. Bad things often overshadow the good ones – and you two seemed to have had such a good time in Wales; it would be so sad if you only ever focused on the one bad thing that occurred. Especially as it was not the fault of neither of you.” He made a pause. “No… simply forget that I have ever spoken if it does not bother you too much. I am sorry.”

“Uh… well…” stammered Cedric before he gave up on saying anything. He had no idea what to respond to Milton anyway.

For the rest of the breakfast, Milton did not say a single word although everyone else was talking boisterously and over one another; and every time, Cedric glanced into his direction, he also saw Aurèle scrutinising him.

***

~Cloudia~

“Well, that was probably the most chaotic breakfast of my life,” said Cedric. Right after they had finished eating, Anaïs and Arnaud had gone to bring Gérard to Sylviane, his and Anaïs’ mother, and to see Babette. Jacques had announced that he would head to the library now, and Aurèle had vanished to go outside – presumably to practice throwing in a much safer place than in the corridor. Kamden and Milton had left with Cloudia and Cedric to go to their respective rooms but were walking a few paces behind them because Milton had been the one to close the door.

“That means a lot considering that I am not the youngest anymore,” Cedric continued.

“Really? You have never experienced even more chaotic breakfasts?” Cloudia said. “The bread did not go up in flames? A servant did not triple and spill a whole can of milk over your grandmother? Nobody ever bit into a roll so hard that they lost a tooth? The cook was never so tired that he misunderstood ‘croissants’ as ‘cross’ and ‘saints’ and prepared a very holy breakfast surprise?”

“You cannot tell me that you have actually experienced these things.”

She shrugged. "I don’t have to. Poor John can tell you how he was fired after angering Grandmother Hortense. Clarissa can tell you how she lost a tooth – thankfully it was only a milk tooth – to a centuries-old roll that somehow sneaked its way into the bread basket. If he was still alive, Maynard could tell you how he was fired after he was out with his friends for so long that he was too sleepy to work properly the next morning.”

“You are making this up.”

“I could never. All I said was born out of breakfasts had during the annual three-day family gathering at Grandmother Hortense’s. Do not get me started on stories concerning lunch or dinner!”

“Hah!” Cedric exclaimed and jumped up and down. “You are lying! I have never heard of an annual family reunion of yours! Last year you did not attend such a thing!”

“Grandmother Hortense is not particularly fond of me and only ever invites me every other time. Sometimes I cannot go because I have Watchdog duties to attend to.”

“That does not prove any–”

“Lady Cloudia, there you are,” said Lisa when she approached them. “I guess Mr Emyr has already told you about the Maid’s Manifesto?” She took it out and opened it. “Hah! What I thought to be completely useless and outright insulting ultimately turned out to be very, very helpful. This place is an architectural mess and without a map or having become fully familiar with the building due to haunting its floors for years, you would be lost. I doubt anyone would ever be able to find your corpse in here.” Lisa sighed. “Unfortunately, the Maid’s Manifesto was more of an exception than the starting point of a new surprising rule,” she added with a sideways glance at Cedric.

“Very funny, Miss Greene.”

“How was breakfast with the other servants?” asked Cloudia.

I had already a bit of a headache; I did not need it to become worse.

“It was fine. The servants of the Duponts and Beauchenes do not speak English, though. The only exception is, according to Mr Wentworth, the governess Josseline Manaudou, but she does not eat with us. This creates a bit of a barrier – at least, for me. Still, Al, Mr Wentworth, and I ate together while the others where bundled among themselves.

“Al and Mr Wentworth talked for quite some time and they get along very well. It surprised me a bit as Al usually shies away from conversations, and people shy away from him. Mr Wentworth does not seem to mind though – unlike his charge.”

“This again? Simply ask Milton about it. He is right behind us.”

“Oh, yes. I doubt that he would refuse to answer or that he would give a dishonest response,” Cedric said. “Milton strikes me as the kind of person who would gladly answer all your questions as truthfully as possible. Of course, only if he knows the answer and as long as it’s not too intrusive.”

“Nobody who is in their right mind would answer such questions. This says absolutely nothing about his character.”

“May I interrupt?” Milton suddenly said, having approached them as silently as a cat. “I am afraid, but I involuntarily overheard bits and pieces of your conversation. I am very sorry, but…” He turned to Lisa. “Miss Greene, are you referring to the incident in Dover? I did not mean to stare at Mr Newman; my surprise got the best of me. I am very sorry. I truly did not mean to make him uncomfortable in any way. Being stared at for such things is awful. I know that.” Milton sighed. “I will apologise to Mr Newman as soon as possible. I will definitely do so sometime today. I should have done it sooner. I am very sorry.”

“I… I think Al will appreciate it,” Lisa replied, clearly taken aback by his words.

“I do hope so,” he said. “Now, with the whole day ahead of us…” – Milton put a hand on his chest and smiled – “and the rain ceased, have you already made any plans for today?”

No matter what I had said to Cedric and Lisa, Milton was a bit of a hindrance. Nanteuil-la-Forêt was a small village and every new face would instantly become subject to gossip. We were a large group of people, and if we went there together, it would be even more eyebrow-raising than when only one or two of us go. The same would apply when we took turns going to the village.

And even more, if we went there looking like nobles.

The latter part should not be a problem with Milton – he would certainly be fine with disguising himself. The first part, however, might be tricky. Keeping an eager traveller and explorer away from Nanteuil-la-Forêt could not come without problems.

Under different circumstances, I could not care less if he went to the village or not – but if we caused too much a stir, it might alert Townsend and endanger the mission.

“Have you already made any plans for today?” Cloudia countered.

“Bram and I were contemplating exploring the nature around here a bit. Apart from that, I have a lot of work to do before my meeting in a few days. I thought about doing my paperwork in the salon or library.”

Evidently, I was absolutely wrong. Milton was as easy to handle as I had claimed.

“Are you not afraid of getting lost?” asked Cedric.

“Not quite. Are you interested in coming along?”

“Oh, no. I get lost all the time, and I am not a fan of forest strolls.”

“You could ask Firmin – Baron Beauchene – if he wants to accompany you,” Cloudia suggested. “Amélie said that he is very interested in the wildlife here and that he has been here once before. And I believe Emyr would like to join as well.”

She looked at Kamden, and the gaze he returned to her told her that he had understood: Milton had said that he and Wentworth would only walk around the forest, but if they were to change their minds, it was his job to stop them.

“I would come myself,” Cloudia continued, “but I promised His Grace to pay a visit to Nanteuil-la-Forêt with him. It is a little, unremarkable village, but even such places can have some hidden charms tucked somewhere in their two streets, I suppose.”

Milton smiled. “Villages always do, not only hidden between two streets. Maybe we will head to the village as well later. Until then… Emyr, do you want to ask Baron Beauchene with me whether he is interested in joining us or not?”

“Sure,” Kamden replied. “Let us talk later, Cloudia, Kristopher. Miss Lisa.”

Kamden and Milton said their goodbyes and walked back to a staircase they had passed earlier; Lisa had consulted the Manifesto, and, apparently, that was the best route to get to the Beauchenes’ rooms.

“What a splendidly useful guide you have there, Miss Greene!” Milton had said before he had wished them a good time in Nanteuil-la-Forêt and gone away with Kamden.

“So, my dear Duke,” Cloudia said when they arrived at her room and she pushed open the doors.

“It is time for us to get changed. We will meet here in thirty minutes. Not a second later, you understood?”

***

“Thanks for taking us with you, Mr Cuvier,” Cloudia said in French against the wind when, thirty-five minutes later, they were driving from the château to the village.

“You are welcome, Lady Cloudia!” Denis Cuvier replied. Cloudia had partially anticipated that she and Cedric would have to walk all the way to Nanteuil-la-Forêt. To their luck, Denis had been ordered to go down for shopping by Anselme Dupont – the Marquis’ son, Amélie’s older brother, and the father of Anaïs and Gérard. When Cloudia and Cedric had gone downstairs to head out for their little adventure, they had stumbled over Denis, and he had been so friendly to drive them. At first, he had been unsure whether he should or not as his wagon was not exactly made for the transportation of humans. Cloudia had convinced him that it was fine, and now they were being transported like goods in the back, and Cedric screamed his lungs out, holding on for dear life to the wagon’s side.

“Is His Grace fine?” Denis asked, glancing at Cedric.

“Oh, yes,” said Cloudia. “Undertaker,” she continued in English. “If you do not stop screaming, some passing-by villager may believe that there is a howling monster in the woods and break out a panic. If they catch you, they may try to dissect you.”

Cedric was silent for a moment. Then, he started to whimper.

With a sigh, Cloudia slid down next to him. “What is wrong?”

“This bastard there is driving too damn fast. Why are you fine with it?”

“I had worse carriage drivers. One time, some maniac managed to get me from Quaker Gardens to Soho in twenty minutes. Never tell a hansom driver to go as fast as he can and that he may cross others on the way,” Cloudia told him. “The better question is: Why are you not fine with it? What are you afraid of? You are already dead.”

“First of all, I am very capable of dying again. Second, I would not describe myself as ‘dead.’ I may be a Grim Reaper, but I still have to eat and sleep and do all other essential things humans have to do; I can even get ill – and you know that! If I were dead, I could jump off this damned wagon and come out unscathed. But I am not. I would die again and land before the Great Grim Reaper who would only sigh and say, ‘You again?’”

Cloudia held out her hand. Cedric stared at it.

“Come, take it, and tell me a story. We have already established that you like telling stories after all.”

He glanced one more time at her hand and then at her before he finally took it.

“Wonderful! And now to the story. Tell me whatever you like and what will distract you from Denis’ questionable driving skills.”

Cedric whimpered one more time before he cleared his throat, squeezed her hand, and focused his eyes on Cloudia.

“It started with a desperate man. Once upon a time, that man lived with his wife in a wonderful little cottage. They had wished for a child for a very long time, and when they were finally expecting, they had to face a great problem. As you see, there was a little window at the back of their house which overlooked their neighbour’s garden, and that garden was filled with the most wonderful vegetables and flowers…”

***

“Thank you, Denis,” said Cloudia. They had not quite reached the village now as she thought that it would be better if Cedric and she walked the last few hundred metres on their own. Nobody had to know that they belonged together after all. “Let us meet here in five hours. Is that fine for you?”

“Of course! Goodbye, Lady Cloudia! Your Grace!” And like lightning, Denis was gone.

“What is he feeding his horses?” asked Cedric, leaning against a tree. Her method to distract him had worked – he had gone through the entire fairy-tale without whimpering once –, but now that they were on solid, unmoving ground again, his queasiness had returned.

“I should inquire about it. Thomas may be very interested in it. ‘Power food! Makes your horse run so fast that even Death would rather die than chase it!’”

“I for my part am very interested in keeping my breakfast inside of me. I do like nature, but nobody benefits from it when I share the dozens of croissants I ate with it.” Cedric took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes for a moment before he shoved himself off the tree so that they could resume their journey to the village.

“Do you think Denis will slow down when we have to return?” asked Cedric, circling a puddle. “He has to think of the cargo after all.”

“Earlier, we were the cargo, and you know how it was.”

“But the other cargo, the actual cargo, cannot hold on to something. It would topple out and be ruined.”

“Let’s see what will happen later, okay? Let us focus on our work now.”

“Very well. What do you even mean to do in the village? Question every resident if they are Nicodemus Townsend?”

“Do not be ridiculous, Undertaker,” said Cloudia. “I plan to see the mayor. We say that we were sent from Paris to catch a criminal and that we need his help in this task which will require his absolute discretion. If we are in a particularly bold mood, we may tell him that he will receive a medal if he helps us. People are like magpies – hopelessly attracted to everything that shines.”

“Are you sure that this will work? I don’t think I can pass for a Frenchman if I cannot even speak French.”

“I will say that you are embarrassed about your voice and have to whisper all you want to say into my ear.”

“Cannot we say that I am a foreigner and need a mediator?”

Cloudia looked at him. “The world is slowly shifting together, Undertaker, but villages like Nanteuil-la-Forêt are not very affected by that shift. The people living in such places are not used to foreigners and often do not trust them. If they don’t trust us, how will they aide us in our investigation? Also, Townsend may be a foreigner here too, but it would still seem suspicious if the Parisian police send foreigners to do their job for them. The mayor and nobody else would believe us.”

“But can’t we say that I am… I don’t know… mute? I know a bit of sign language; it might work.”

“I don’t know sign language, though. You need to teach me one day. Until then, we have to push back this charade idea.”

Cedric sighed. “Very well. Then, I will be the detective with the embarrassing voice. Are you happy now?”

“Definitely. How do you want to be called?”

“Hm?”

“Undertaker, we need false names. I don’t want to have to think of ones on the spot. I am, I have to admit, not very good at naming anything, and it will be better if you already know to which name you have to respond when I call you.”

He sighed again and pondered over it for a while. “Jeanne Gauthier for you. Alexandre Vidocq for me.”

“Interesting choices. Wholly unexpected. Why did you choose them?”

Cedric smiled. “I had no particular reason.”

***

After ten minutes, they finally arrived at the village. At first, they kept to alleys, tracing the village more than entering it, but a place like Nanteuil-la-Forêt did not have many dark corners to begin with and soon, Cloudia and Cedric wandered rather openly through the streets.

It was a perfectly ordinary village and every now and then, people stared at them and put their heads together. The gossiping had already begun.

“Do you smell this?” Cedric asked into Cloudia’s ear, sniffing the air. “Cake.”

Cloudia rolled her eyes. Very well. But only because we need to ask someone for the way, she thought, touching her skull pendant necklace.

I followed Cedric’s keen nose. If one of us should be called a dog, he should be it. It fit more.

They entered a little bakery, and Cloudia ordered a piece of cherry crumb cake for Cedric.

“Hello, my companion and I are looking for the townhall,” Cloudia told the baker in French after she had handed the cake to Cedric. “May you be so kind as to tell us the way?”

The baker wiped the counter and narrowed his eyes. “I have meant to ask: Who are you? I have never seen you here before, and I am one of the only three bakers here. I have practically seen everyone.”

She smiled at him. “We are simply two strangers passing by.”

For a moment, the baker scrutinised her, and then, he said, “Follow down the main road; then go left. You cannot miss it.”

“Thank you.” Cloudia gestured for Cedric to come, and they quickly walked down the path to the townhall. There, they had to wait quite a while. Not because the mayor was so busy, but because the staff was wondering who those two persons they had never seen before in their entire lives could be.

Gossip. Cecelia loved it because she could get a lot of information out of it, and I could see its value in this regard, but it was far too tiring for me. Cecelia could handle it. I did not want to have to do anything with it.

“The mayor will see you now,” the secretary Alain Descombes, a tall man in a well-worn suit, told them. “If you may follow me now.”

Cloudia and Cedric followed their guide to the first floor, and in front of the room at the very end of the corridor, he halted and opened the door for them. He bowed when they entered and closed the door behind them.

“Welcome, Monsieur Vidocq. Monsieur Gauthier,” the mayor said. He walked up to them and shook their hands. “I am the mayor of Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Mathieu Guilloux. What can I do for you?”

After we had parted to get changed, I had put on trousers, well aware that with them and my hair up and hidden beneath a cap, I could pass as a man. It was easier to walk through the streets like that: People were already talking about us, and I did not want them to fantasise over the “unmarried pair walking around the streets solely on their own” too. But when I had told the secretary that I was Jeanne Gauthier, I had not put any effort into lowering my voice. The trousers were a disguise for the street; I had not meant to continue the charade here. However, if they saw pants and apparent short hair and instinctively believed me to be a man…

Part of me wanted to continue this masquerade, wanted me to be “Jean” instead of “Jeanne.” I had done this before and it had gone well. Why not do it again? The rest of me, though, had no interest in pretending to be a man. And, for once, this larger part was louder than the smaller one.

“It is Mademoiselle Gauthier,” Cloudia corrected him with a smile.

Mathieu Guilloux frowned. “I knew that you were an odd pair – marching into my village and heading straight to me – but now you have become even stranger. A girl in pants!” He shook his head. “Anyway, please take a seat and tell me what you want.”

Cloudia and Cedric exchanged a glance before they followed Guilloux to his desk and sat down on the chairs in front of it. Guilloux himself sat down behind the desk.

“Monsieur Vidocq, why have you come here?”

“Monsieur Vidocq and I have come to Nanteuil-la-Forêt on order of the Parisian police,” Cloudia answered him, still smiling. “Vidocq is a renowned detective there. Unfortunately, he is very embarrassed by his voice, and because of this, he needs me: I am the only one who is allowed to hear his voice and recite what he is saying.”

“So you are his secretary?”

“We were sent here for a highly important case,” Cloudia continued. “A criminal from England has caused quite a riot in Paris and before we could catch him, he fled. We assume that he is hiding somewhere around here.”

Guilloux frowned. “He is hiding here? In Nanteuil-la-Forêt? Unbelievable!”

Her smile widened. “That’s exactly the reason why he is here. Nobody expects a wanted thief to be here.

“Mayor Guilloux, we have come to inform you of our investigation and to ask for your aide in finding the thief. We are certain that with your help, we will be able to find him in no time. The sooner we find and catch him, the sooner Vidocq and I will be gone.”

Guilloux said nothing for a while before the neutral line of his mouth transformed into a grin Cloudia did not like at all. “Mademoiselle Gauthier, so you are saying that Monsieur Vidocq is a renowned detective in Paris?”

She nodded. “Very famous, very talented. Day after day, his brilliance adorns the title pages.”

Guilloux leaned back. “I see, I see. Mademoiselle Gauthier, you may not have noticed it while coming here, but we have our very own criminal lurking around here. In the last two days, two persons have been killed. It is the first time something like this has happened here and my people are in a panic.

“I will help Monsieur Vidocq in finding his thief if he agrees to help me with my murderer. Is this a deal?”

***

I hated this bastard so much. I had tried to argue with him for a while – I had even told him about the prospect of receiving a medal, but it had not helped –, but soon figured out that it was in vain. Guilloux was one of those people whose mind you could not change no matter what you did. After briefly “consulting” Cedric – he had only whispered into my ear how much he disliked the mayor – I had agreed. However, I had made a condition as well: Under no circumstances should he tell anyone that I was, in fact, a woman. It would ruin my disguise on the streets after all.

Still furious, Cloudia left the mayor’s office with Cedric. Outside, a young woman with light brown hair in a long braid and a gentle face waited for them.

“I am Yvette Guilloux, the mayor’s daughter,” she introduced herself with a curtsy. “I am to guide you through Nanteuil-la-Forêt. Very pleased to meet you, Monsieur Vidocq, Monsieur Gauthier.”

“We are very pleased to meet you as well,” said Cloudia, and Cedric nodded.

“Please follow me down,” Yvette said and led them to the stairs. “I hope Père was not too unfriendly. He can be rather rough sometimes. I hope he did not offend you?”

“Not at all,” Cloudia dryly replied.

Yvette nodded. “Did he tell you something else I have to do? Apart from showing you around?”

“Your father said that you would inform us about the murder case – Vidocq is a detective and agreed to help. What happened?”

She paled. “It is absolutely horrible! Traumatic! Two days ago, Madame Nadia Allemand, an elderly seamstress, was found in her tailor’s shop – with thousands of pins stabbed through her skin! It was an awful sight and nobody knows who it was. It was a shock to all of us. And then, yesterday…” Yvette shuddered. “Dominique Duhamel was found hanging from the church’s roof. He was hanging there with a rope around his head, but his heart had been pierced by a knife…”

She showed them to the backdoor and out. “And, well… We do know who it might have been, but we have no idea who he is exactly.”

Cloudia frowned. “Oh, very interesting. Could you please tell us more?”

“Two days ago, a stranger came here and checked into Maxime Guilbert’s pension. He checked in and vanished on the same day: On the day Madame Allemand’s corpse was found.”

Cloudia leaned towards Cedric so that he could whisper something into her ear.

“What is she saying?” he wanted to know.

“Vidocq would like to see the pension,” said Cloudia, and thought: I will tell you everything later, Undertaker.

***

Maxime Guilbert’s pension was right next to the bakery they had visited earlier. According to Yvette, the baker Basile Duhamel was the father of the second victim.

It was certainly odd for him to continue working after his son’s gruesome death. Was it because he was dependent on the money or because of something else?

Guilbert heartily greeted Yvette and after a row of small talk and introductions, he gave her the key to the apparent murderer’s room and told her, Cloudia, and Cedric its number: 245.

“I am a friend of his daughter Marie-Claire,” Yvette told them while they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “She and I used to run around these halls all the time. Now, all we do is drink tea and converse in the kitchen.”

She put the key into its hole when they arrived in front of Room 245. “Maxime said that he did not touch it: Everything is exactly like the stranger has left it. Maxime was afraid to touch the room after what happened, and he stopped Dominique’s mother from destroying it. Poor Solange. Now that you are here, Maxime is especially happy that he has protected the room. He got a few scratches from the fight. At least, now he knows that they were not for nothing.”

The door swung open, and Cloudia and Cedric stepped inside. They walked around, searching for something useful.

The room was ordinarily decorated: There was a rug, a bed, a small desk, a slender wardrobe. From the window, Cloudia could see the façade from a house, and there was a chamber pot beneath the bed. No manipulated tapestry, no loose floorboards.

The wardrobe was empty. The bed was untouched. There was nothing on the desk, not even faint lines that indicated that the stranger had sat down and written something there. The rug was glued to the floor so masterfully that it was impossible to move.

The window was intact and closed. There were no holes in the ceiling and walls, no cracks as well.

The room was absolutely blank.

***

~Cedric~

On our way back, Cloudia explained everything to me, but it sounded more like she was talking to herself than to me. After we had gone to the pension, Yvette had led us to the church and to the tailor’s shop. At each place, Cloudia’s frown had deepened, and when Yvette had invited us to tea, I had been able to hear the gears turning inside Cloudia’s head over my chewing.

The case was clearly bothering her. Still, in my eyes, this was no excuse for ditching me as soon as we had arrived at the château. Denis had actually driven slower this time, relieving my soul and stomach, but when Cloudia told me that she would retreat to her chambers now, I still had not the strength to protest.

The hours passed and after doing nothing in that time, I decided to go out and find out whether she would like to see me now…

Cedric walked down the corridors, crossing his fingers that he was actually taking the right path when he was promptly grabbed and dragged into an astonishingly beautifully furnished and decorated room.

Wrong way.

Very unceremoniously, Cedric was thrown onto an ottoman.

“I would appreciate it if you were to stop doing this,” he said to Cecelia and shifted into a better seating position.

Cecelia shrugged and sat down on a large sofa opposite him. Today, she was wrapped in black silk. From the exhaustion that had apparently been plaguing her earlier was nothing to be seen.

“Rather, you should consider becoming less lost-in-thought and more observant and cautious. Under widely different circumstances, I might have been an intruder sent to cut off all the heads of the residents here. Imagine it! Someone whose sole talent and purpose in life is cutting off and collecting people’s heads! And he was sent after us! How tragic for the world it would be to lose my lovely countenance!”

“I thought you were talking about my head.”

“I will talk about your head when I want to play ball like the shepherd’s children.”

“Cecelia, why am I here?”

“Do you remember the promise you have given to me? Back in April? Please do not say you don’t: I will be tremendously disappointed.”

“It was not a promise when I said that you could ask me another time whether I would like to drink with you.”

“You remembered!” Cecelia exclaimed. “Wonderful. Splendid. Marvellous. Today will be the day you will redeem your promise.” She stood up, walked to her dresser, and inspected her face and hair which sat perfectly.

“I have asked Newman if he was so kind as to organise some beverages and prepare the salon for us. Of course, he was. A very dutiful man. If he was not so devoted to our dear Cloudia, I would take him for myself.”

Cecelia turned towards Cedric and held out her arm to him. He sighed. “Did I ever have a choice?” he said, taking her arm and guiding her out of the room.

“Did anyone ever have one?”

***

“Is there not something you would like to ask me?” said Cecelia, leaning towards him and speaking in a low voice, while she led him to the salon.

“How are you able to navigate through the château so confidently even though you have spent the entire day in your room? This place is a mess!” Cedric replied, shuddering at the hundreds of different staircases they passed. Who was the architect Lambert Charbonneau had employed? Had he gone wild when the Baron had said to create “the most dazzling building” or had he been insane?

Cecelia laughed. “I may have spent my day in my chambers, but I talked to Newman, don’t you remember? I ask him about the way to the salon, and he went to ask Lisa about it. Apparently, the one whose room she currently occupies left her a very remarkable little book. I keep saying this to Cloudia, and now I will say it to you too: I could very well spend the rest of my life in a single room or stitched to a bed or sofa and still be able to acquire all the information I want.

“Now, when I asked whether you have a question or not, I did not prompt you to give me this question. While entertaining, I doubt it is all you have in mind.”

Cedric was silent for a while. “While we were travelling, why were you being so weird towards Milton? For example, why did you make the Countess withhold from him that you would accompany us as well?”

Cecelia tugged on his arm to make him bend down and poked his nose. “I am slowly training you to ask the right questions, and it is working fantastically!

“Well, you have to know, dearest Not-Kristopher, that I do not travel with anyone I have not researched before. When I had to cross the Irish Sea to get to England and marry Michael, I requested him to find out every man’s name who would be on the ship. I had never been on one before, and I did not want to take any risks. Michael gave me all the names and I spent an afternoon finding out everything I could about them. One of them was a wanted axe-murderer who planned to kill everyone on board and steal the ship to escape to mainland Europe. Michael and I reported him, he was arrested, and we could calmly take our journey. Never trust anyone – that incident cemented this for me.

“When Cloudia first began to meet with Milton, I was very eager to dig out everything concerning him. She was not very happy about my plans though and made me promise that I would, as long as they would keep meeting at least, not research Milton. Now, their relationship has not exactly soured, but it took quite a turn after his failed proposal – a very fortunate circumstance because it allowed me to research him now when it became important. I would have never set foot on his damned ship if I had not dipped into the waters of his past and secrets before.”

“So… and why exactly were you being weird towards Milton?”

“How impatient! Is it because I am not Cloudia that you cannot listen to me for more than two sentences?” Cecelia shook her head. “Anyway, while I conducted my research I came across a tiny, but highly interesting rumour.

“As you know, Milton owns a trading company which is primarily focused on food and whose profits significantly increased upon him inheriting it. The other heads of trading companies despise him for that; this hatred infamously peaked in Flavian Hunt conspiring to kill Milton. A few people believe Milton’s success is founded in some dark business.”

Cecelia inspected her fingernails. “He is a weapons smuggler.”

Cedric stared at her. “What?”

“Milton’s innocent, overly friendly aura could not be real; not a second, I believed his little act. Surely, it is only a rumour, a very tiny ember which seems to be going around for a little while now, but still has not sparked a fire.”

“What if it is only a rumour? A rumour planted by some envious rival?” Cedric suggested.

“Of course, this is a possibility. But what sounds more plausible? Nobody has a white soul, and I doubt that Milton has one. If only I could get anything out of Baroness Salisbury…”

“Baroness?! What Baroness…” Cedric interjected, but Cecelia kept on going.

“… and then there are all the other highly suspicious things about Milton and… Oh, look! We have arrived!”

A servant opened the door for them, and they stepped into the salon. Apart from them, only Milton – of all people – was there, hunched over piles and piles of papers in a corner. Cedric had almost missed him.

“Speaking of the devil,” Cecelia whispered to Cedric before she let go of him and headed straight to the table and seating area Newman had prepared for them.

There was no reason for me to believe Cecelia. Still, I hesitated before I approached Milton.

Cedric had made only one step towards him when Milton lifted his head. From the door, he had looked far more submerged in his work.

“Hello, Kristopher,” Milton greeted him with a smile when Cedric sat down on a chair opposite him. “I am sorry for the mess.”

“It’s no problem,” Cedric said, glancing at the “mess” he was referring to: There were many large piles of documents, but each pile had been neatly put together. The only thing that was “messy” about them was the fact that they were covering the entire table.

“What brings you here?” Milton wanted to know.

“Cecelia is forcing me to have some drinks with her.”

“I see. I hope you will enjoy yourselves.”

“She certainly will; I, on the other hand, am not sure I…” Cedric glanced at the paper on the very top of the pile closest to him, and for a moment he was confused because of it and did not know why before it dawned upon him that he could not read anything written on it. Not only wasn’t it in English – it did not seem to be any other language.

“Uh… Milton? What is this gibberish?”

“Oh, that…” Milton fumbled with the pen in his hand. “These documents contain classified information. Only those who concerns them should be able to read them, and to make sure that really only the right people can do something with these papers, they are written in code."

Dammit, Milton. I did not want to believe in Cecelia’s words – I wanted to trust you, but you were not making it easy for me.

“It is only a silly little security measurement. I guess everyone could break the code if they were dedicated enough…” Milton trailed off.

“Well, I certainly am not. In the end, all I would get would be boring numbers, right?”

“Oh, yes. They are not exactly interesting to everyone…”

Cedric nodded. "So if anyone ever tells you I was stealing your corporate information, you know that they are lying and only want me to look bad.”

Milton chuckled, and to Cedric, it sounded genuine. If he was really a weapons smuggler, shouldn’t his laughs be more pressed? “I will keep that in mind.”

“Very well.” Cedric stood up. “I think I will leave you alone now. You seem to have a lot of paperwork ahead of you…”

Milton looked down on his lap and twisted his pen in his hands. “Uh, not exactly…”

Cedric frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well… I am almost finished for today.” Milton picked up the single piece of paper that he had been balancing on his lap.

Cedric stared at him. “When did you come back from your stroll?”

“Two hours ago.”

“These are like a million papers! And you have worked through them in two hours? How did you even get them in here?”

Milton shyly smiled at him. “A butler, Alphonse Batteux, was so kind as to help me. I think the next time I will work in my room…”

“This is insane. Don’t you have a secretary to help you?”

“No. Even if I had, they would not be here anyway, right? Also…” Milton looked down at his last file. “I like doing paperwork. It’s very calming.”

“Baron, as you are free in a minute, do you want to join us?” Cecelia asked, coming over to them with a grin on her face.

Her words reminded me of something Milton had said after breakfast: that he would either work in the library or the salon. Who had Cecelia made spy on us for her? Or how had she found the random passing-by servant who had overheard exactly this crucial piece of information on which she could base her entire crazy plan of making me redeem my “promise” to elevate her chances of getting Milton to agree to have some drinks with her so that it would be easier for her to get the pieces of information she wants out of him?

A spy it had been. Definitely a spy.

We were here for barely a day, and Cecelia Williams had already wrapped the staff around her finger.

“Friendly afternoon drinking does always sound marvellous, and, as we will be having dinner soon, the drinking will not become too heavy. It’s unfortunate, but we have to be presentable after all. The Comte and Comtesse, and the Baron and Baronne will join us, I have heard. We would not want to leave a bad impression, would we? And, Baron, as far as I remember, we have never really talked, and like this, you can continue your conversation with His Grace as well!” Cecelia said without making any pauses to breathe that could allow Milton or Cedric to protest.

Milton put his pen down and clutched his hands together. “Very well. I am not much of a drinker, but if it is only a little bit…”

Rest in peace, Milton. It was good to have known you.

Cecelia’s grin widened. “Oh, how wonderful.”

***

“It has come to my ears that you, Mr Bonham, Baron Beauchene, and Wentworth went out into the forest today,” Cecelia said when they were all seated and the butler Batteux had poured each of them a glass of wine.

“Yes, we did,” Milton replied, taking up his glass. “Aurèle joined us as well. Baron B… Firmin was quite happy about this development because, seemingly until now, Aurèle never wanted to accompany his father to one of his nature studying trips. Firmin studies wildlife and plants, you see; he is especially interested in birds.”

How did someone like Firmin even manage to marry a Dupont? From all Cloudia had told me, it would have made more sense to me if Firmin had been rejected. Or, perhaps, bird-watching was just his hobby?

“How very interesting.” Cecelia raised her glass to her lips and took a sip. “Your Grace, what are you saying about it?”

“It must have been very nice to have an expert in your group,” Cedric said and glanced at his damned glass.

“It definitely was. Firmin was able to continue filling out his notebook on the nature of Nanteuil-la-Forêt, and we were able to get a university-level lecture on it.”

“Have you ever been to university, Baron?” Cecelia asked.

“I would have loved to, but I could not. I had to help with the company and this took up all my time.”

“How unfortunate. Don’t you think it’s unfortunate, Your Grace?”

Cedric numbly nodded.

“However, with your title and company, a degree would be superfluous. Why should you do something you do not need to do?”

Milton nodded briefly and after twirling the glass in his hand for a while, most likely he was debating whether to drink the wine or not, he raised it to his lips – and drank everything at once.

Cedric stared at him. Even Cecelia was baffled.

Bashfully, Milton put the glass down and clutched his hands. “I am not very fond of the taste of wine – or any kind of alcohol – and prefer to finish it all at once so that I do not have to endure the taste for too long…”

“Are you not hurting yourself in the process?” Cecelia said. “Drinking an entire glass of wine at once is no easy task for many because of this.”

“It does hurt. Like with the taste, I prefer to have to withstand the pain for only a short while though…” Milton paused. “I can drink it normally if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no, do not bother. It is tremendously fascinating. Can you do this with something stronger as well?” Cecelia inquired while pouring whiskey into his glass.

“Uhm… I suppose I could, but I thought we were only drinking lightly?” Milton remarked.

“Oh, one or two glasses of something stronger will be fine! Trust me.” She held his glass to him.

Milton stared at his glass before he hesitantly took it and drank everything at once again.

“Milton… are you fine?” Cedric asked when Milton had put down his glass again. He itched to throw it out. Part of him did want to get closure on the question whether or not Milton was involved in some illegal dealings, but he did not approve of Cecelia’s method of getting this piece of information out of him. Cedric was still sure that Milton would answer that question normally, but how could you embed “Are you an arms smuggler?” into a casual conversation without it becoming awkward?

“I’m very well,” Milton replied, and judging from the look on his face, he was telling the truth. “Thank you for asking. I have just remembered something: How did your visit to Nanteuil-la-Forêt go, Kristopher?”

“It was fine. The Lady and I have not found its inherent magical component, though we did have some cake.”

Milton smiled at him. “You still have time. I hope you will find it eventually.”

Cecelia handed Milton his refilled glass. This time, Cedric had not seen what she had poured into it – and to be honest, he did not want to know.

“It seems as if you are greatly amused by my drinking habits, Marchioness,” Milton said, taking his glass.

“It is a truly fascinating talent and gift. A gift I would love to have to amaze the Ladies of the Gossip Table,” said Cecelia. “Have you shown this talent of yours to others as well, Baron?”

“Please call me ‘Milton,’ Marchioness. And while there are others who know about it, I have never put it on public display.”

“You should! It would stir quite the talk at parties.”

“I do not doubt that it would, though I am afraid that this is not something I would ever do,” he stated and gulped down his glass of unidentified liquid.

Again, when he put it down, he still seemed completely unaffected.

I had no idea what Cecelia had put into that drink, but she seemed to have had great hopes for it because her face fell momentarily. Something told me that her mixture would have even knocked me out – and I was a Grim Reaper! What was Milton then?

Cedric stood up. “I think this was enough. Cecelia…” However, before he could get any further, a footman entered the room and bowed. He said something in French that Cedric could not understand, but part of it had sounded like his name…

Whatever the footman had said, it managed to surprise Cecelia for the second time today.

“What did he say?” Cedric wanted to know.

“He said,” Milton told him, “‘Duke Underwood, The Most Honourable Marquis Dupont would like to see you.’”

***

I asked the footman if I could speak to Cloudia first. He said no.

I asked him if he had made a mistake. Again, a no.

I asked if it could wait – the Marquis was an old man, and it was so late. Surely, he would rather rest? No.

I asked if he knew why he wanted me and not Cloudia, his grand-niece? He said no.

I asked if he knew what the Marquis wanted to tell me. No, again.

And then, he stopped answering any of my questions.

It was highly unnerving. Over and over again, I recalled all the bits and pieces Cloudia had told me about him because I wanted to know who I was about to meet. It did nothing to ease my nerves; instead, it only made everything worse. When the footman opened the door to the Marquis’ rooms and shoved me through it, my nerves were frazzled.

I whispered to the footman that I would refuse the meeting – why had I not done this before? – but he only closed the door behind me.

The Marquis’ room was decorated like all the others. All was ordinary; only he was not.

He might have been lying on his bed, multiple cushions lifting up his upper body and head, but he might as well have sat on a throne.

“What is your name?” the Marquis asked. Despite his age and ill countenance, his eyes and his voice were still full of strength and subtle malice.

Thank God, Cloudia did not inherit this.

I hoped.

“Not the one you use to introduce yourself to others,” he continued. “I do not want the lie; I want the truth. The one you gave to my sister’s granddaughter.”

Cedric could not help himself and flinched.

“My servants are my ears and eyes in a world I cannot explore on my own anymore. However, they can only see and hear, not observe and listen. They also do not speak a single word of English; I always make sure they do not. Certain words are not meant for the ears of many.

“So, tell me, what is your name?”

“How do you know that ‘Kristopher Underwood’ is not my real name? Why don’t you assume Cecelia Williams is lying about her name?”

“I do not have to assume anything: I know that both your names are not your real ones. In her case, she changed it upon marriage. You have never officially changed your name; you illegally bear a name that is not yours. ‘Cecelia Williams’ is her name now; ‘Kristopher Underwood’ has never been yours.

“I know the names of all who have arrived yesterday except yours. I know that Wallace Underwood never had an heir, but I do not know who you are. However, seeing you in front of me now, I have a suspicion. My servants described your appearance to me. Say, when was the last time you have washed your hair?”

Cedric groaned.

Yes, he was definitely related to Cloudia.

“It is such a pity,” the Marquis said, “that you are neglecting it so much – your impressive silver hair.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want your name. I already know enough – why are you still hesitating, son?”

Cedric took a deep breath and looked him into the eyes, but the Marquis did not look into his. “And what is yours?”

“I,” he spoke, “am the Marquis.”

He was giving me an aneurysm.

“I am not quite sure why I am even here – don’t you want to speak to Cloudia? She is your sister’s granddaughter, as you have said, and you have never met her before. Don’t you want to talk to her?”

“I have told you what I want.”

Cedric sighed. “Marquis, why are you so fixated on names?”

“Names hold power, son. They hold power and contain stories: of marriages, of favouritisms, of adoptions, of great tragedies, of love and joy and sadness and many more. I have always had an interest in stories. ‘Duke Kristopher Underwood’ tells me the story of how you met my grand-niece and came to work with her. What does your real one tell?”

Something told me that, if I were to try to escape, I would find the door locked or the corridor full of ready servants – or both. The windows would be unbreakable; the walls impenetrable.

This château had been built to protect its inhabitants from the outside world, and what was to be a safe haven could easily become a prison.

“My name is…” His heartbeat grew faster. “Cedric Kristopher Rossdale.”

The Marquis smiled. “As I have expected: another tragedy. And such a sad one. Rossdale is such an old name.”

Cedric sucked in his breath. “Now that you got what you wanted, tell me where the Clockmaker is. That’s the main reason why you have called me, isn’t it?”

“I have never said such a thing.”

“But that’s the reason why we are even here!”

“But not the one why you are here. You have come to tell me your name.”

Cedric clenched his fists. “Can’t you give me the location anyway? We do not have much time, and I am already here.”

“I will give out this piece of information when the time is right and I will only give it to the right person. This is not now. This will not be you.”

“If this is all, can I go now?”

“Nobody shall hinder you, son.”

Cedric turned around and when his hand touched the doorknob, the Marquis spoke again.

“People grow into the names they are given or take. I have not always been ‘the Marquis.’ For a brief time, I had been someone else. ‘The Clockmaker’ has not always been his name either: He grew into it when it was given to him.

“Amélie told me that my grand-niece is calling you ‘Undertaker.’ When do you think you will grow into that name?”

***

I could not stop thinking about my conversation with the Marquis.

Dinner had passed and, afterwards, we had all retreated to our rooms. Most were already asleep. Only I turned back and forth, unable to fall asleep myself.

Cloudia had still been pondering over the murder case at dinner; if she had not, she surely would have noticed that something was wrong with me. Of course, I would talk to her about it – just not now. Now, it was time for me to process the conversation myself. Now, it was time for it to haunt me.

Something greatly unnerved me when I thought back to the meeting, but I could not put my finger on it. It was on the tip of my tongue but I could not taste it.

It was horrible.

With a sigh, Cedric rolled out of his bed. This night, sleep would not find him, and he would not find sleep. At least, he hoped to find some peace while wandering through the silent corridors.

Cedric lit a candle and grabbed the clothes he had worn during the day, and when he shrugged on his jacket, a bundle of papers fell out of it. Frowning, Cedric picked them up and unfolded them. My dearest Not-Kristopher… it began and he cursed under his breath. When had Cecelia put the papers in his pocket?

Cedric was about to scrunch them up and throw them away when the word Milton caught his eye. His heart beat faster.

This was the summary of what Cecelia had learned about Milton.

I should not read it. It was a breach of privacy. I liked Milton, did not believe that he could hurt a fly, let alone be a smuggler. And still, there was his file in my hands…

No, it was not right. Who knew what was written in there? Nonsense, I guessed. It came from Cecelia after all. And still…

And still…

Cedric shook his head and put the papers on his desk. He adjusted his jacket and went to the door, but right in front of it, he stopped.

For a minute, Cedric lingered there, staring into nothingness, and then, he turned around. With sure steps, he walked to the desk, sat down, and smoothed out the papers.

My dearest, Not-Kristopher, I hope that you are aware that after you have read these papers, you have to tear them apart and burn them in different fireplaces…

***

Somewhere, United Kingdom – May 1843

~Cloudia~

A chuckle came from behind the door. “How amusing for Simon’s daughter to come to visit me,” said Oscar Livingstone, former Met detective, now incarcerated Yard Ripper.

My heart beat louder in my chest. So I had been right; it had been true.

Cloudia took a deep breath to slow her heart again; in the empty corridor, it sounded so loud in her ears, and she did not want her excitement to be so obvious.

“How exactly do you know my father?”

“Is that all you came for?”

“No, but it is a beginning.”

“I have no reason to answer any of your questions.”

“You would not even do it for the sake of friendly conversation? Your voice sounds rough – nobody talks to you, right? I must be the first one in about six years to start a conversation with you.”

For a while, it was completely silent behind the door, and then, Oscar said, “Simon and I worked on multiple cases together. His partner was gone for two years, and during that time, I was Simon’s primary aide. We worked together later as well, but not as frequently.”

“That was a surprisingly long answer,” Cloudia remarked.

“Is that everything?”

Now or never, Cloudia.

“As you know, my father died nine years ago,” she recited the words she had rehearsed all the way to the asylum. “He died under very mysterious and perplexing circumstances. Until today, nobody knows what happened, and Scotland Yard has long ceased its investigation.

“I was there when my father died, but I lost all my memories of it under similarly perplexing circumstances. This is haunting me every single day – this uncertainty. Barrington does not want to tell me anything, and Father’s other Aristocrat of Evil is in America where I cannot reach her. There are not many people who were close to my father, and when I found your portrait in Father’s sketchbook” – Cloudia held it out even though Oscar could not see it – “I worked to find out who you were.”

“And it did not stop you from coming here when you did.”

She nodded. “It did not. It only added yet another riddle for me to solve. And now, I have found you. You were friends with my father…”

“I would rather describe our relationship as ‘close acquaintances’ or ‘colleagues,’” Oscar interjected. Apparently, it had not taken much to revive his joy for talking.

“… You knew him better than many others, and I thought that because of this you could help me find out what happened.”

“I am not exactly capable of helping you right now,” Oscar said.

“This is not a problem: If you agree to help me, I will get you out of here. I have a letter personally written by the Queen which says that, if I want to take you with me, you are free to go. Even your servants will be released.”

Again, silence fell inside the cell.

“If I am to help you, you will help me as well.”

Cloudia frowned. “I will already help you get out of the asylum.”

“But does it not benefit you as well? Finding out the truth about Simon’s death is a part of the bargain that is solely for you. I want one as well.”

“Wasn’t Father your… your close acquaintance? Are you not eager to learn the truth too?”

“Curious I am, but I am neither as haunted by it nor as invested in this matter as you are. Not finding out the truth will not steal my sleep.

“Don’t you believe in balanced deals? Why should anyone agree to a deal from which only one party benefits?”

He was not in a position to discuss this with me. By any means, I should be leading this conversation, but I did not. He was right. Who was I to demand something and not be willing to return the favour? Who was I to assume that anyone would agree to this?

But was it really wise to have to owe a favour to the Yard Ripper?

Cloudia took a deep breath and pressed the sketchbook close to her, holding on to it as if it was her anchor.

I hoped this would be worth it.

“Very well. If you agree to help me, I will help you too.”

“You will not ask any questions or back out?”

“I will not ask any questions or back out. I promise.”

When Oscar spoke again, Cloudia could hear the smile in his voice and she wondered how it looked like.

“Then the deal is done, Lady Phantomhive.”

“Then the deal is done, Captain Livingstone,” she replied, uncertainty and utter relief and joy warring inside of her.

“I will go and tell the warden to release you,” Cloudia said, but right after she had taken the first step back to where her guide had left her, she halted. There was a question she should ask; one she should have asked before and had to do it now even though it did not matter anymore. She had already given her word.

“What is it that I have to help you with?”

“Do not worry about it. I will tell you when the right time has come.”

#Watchdog of the Queen #main chapters #please tell me all is working well #i feel like puking #edited all day #where is the damn line you could add tumblr???#fanfiction #kuroshitsuji #undertaker #cloudia phantomhive

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