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jomiddlemarch · 17 days

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and is there honey still

Kissing Mary Vance was nothing like kissing Faith.

This realization, occurring a moment after the kiss ended, Jem’s hand still at Mary’s slender waist, her normally pale cheeks as pink as a rare mayflower, was followed immediately by the understanding that he’d never be able to tell anyone. There was no confidant he could trust with such a secret, even if he could bring himself to so violate the rules of gentlemanly behavior. It just wasn’t done and that was before he considered speaking of kissing Mary Vance, who was accepted as Miss Cornelia’s adopted daughter, but whose personal history was never quite forgotten.

Susan, should she ever hear of it, would be scandalized beyond comprehension.

Jem would never eat another slice of her strawberry pie.

His friends and siblings would be confused, Faith put out, her pique covering any feelings of betrayal, for all that there was nothing binding between them.

Mother would be disappointed and Dad would shake his head.

The expression in Mary’s eyes, those queer eyes he now saw were the color of moonstones, told him she understood it all.

“It’s nothing to make a fuss about,” she said. Faith would have tossed her head making such a remark, her golden-brown curls shown to advantage, but Mary only looked at him steadily and let the hand that had been on his shoulder drop to her lap.

“You hold yourself too cheap, Mary,” Jem said.

“That ain’t—that isn’t possible,” she replied. “Anyway, what’s a kiss amount to?”

It was a good question, one Jem had thought he’d known the answer to, just as he thought he’d known the answer to the question she was laboring over at her desk in the empty classroom, a piece of paper scribbled over and crossed-out, grey smudges on the foolscap, on Mary’s white cuffs. She would’ve laundered them herself, being Miss Cornelia’s daughter not relieving her of her housekeeping duties, chores she’d call them though Jem knew none of his sisters had ever helped even pinning clean clothes to the line.

He supposed a kiss could be an ordinary thing, a peck on the cheek or the lips, a greeting, friendly and inconsequential as a wave, a forgettable gesture of a mild affection.

Kissing Mary Vance was nothing like that.

He could say, in all honesty, that he hadn’t planned it. He’d been pointing out something in her writing, a tricky bit she’d gotten tangled up in, and she’d been peering down at the page, trying to make it out. When she’d perceived her mistake, she’d looked up at him, her expression one he’d never seen before, victory and pride and delight all swirled together, altering her face from one he’d recognized without being aware of it into one he’d been startled to discover. Without a word, without a thought, he’d leaned in and kissed her parted lips before she crowed over her achievement or thanked him, the caress impetuous, a whim, irresistible.

She was irresistible. He’d grazed her lips with his own and in the space before the next heartbeat, he’d cupped her jaw with one hand and let the other drop to her waist to draw her close. He felt the most tremendous desire for her possess him, everything else dropped away. She tasted, quite impossibly, of honey, though that was perhaps because he had always liked honey best, and she was warm in his embrace, coming closer when his hand at her waist reached around her back, sighing a little when he stroked her cheek and angled her head to be able to kiss her more deeply. Every second, his desire for her ratcheted sharply upwards and she met him, her hand clutching his shoulder, her sharp tongue sweet in his mouth. She kissed the way a fast girl kissed but there was a terrible innocence to her response that made him know she’d never kissed anyone else, whatever she might have intimated to his sisters and her friends.

He couldn’t say why he’d broken away.

A sound in the hallway or her sudden stillness when his hand grazed her breast, the need to breathe, the pounding of his heart felt throughout his whole body.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Mary went on when he was stayed silent.

“Are you sorry?” he blurted out, and hearing the words he became suddenly terrified that he’d transgressed, become that monster Reverend Meredith always warned of in his gentle way, a man consumed by his appetites, greed and lust. “Oh, God, Mary, have I made you do something you didn’t want—”

“As if you could!” she said, wry again, Mary Vance again as he’d ever known her. If she’d wanted to, she would have slapped him, he was sure of that. “There’s no person living who could make me do what I didn’t want and certainly not you, Jem Blythe.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” he said, chastened, still too close to her. Still tasting the honey-sweetness of her lips, feeling the sound of the quiet moan of hers he’d swallowed in his throat.

“We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” she offered. “Or ever again. It could be just something that happened once, like as if you’d knocked over my inkwell, and we can forget about it. If that’s what you’d like. To be easy about it.”

“We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” he repeated, agreeing. An inkwell knocked over would leave a stain, one endless scrubbing would never entirely remove. “But I won’t forget. I shan’t.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” she said, her old tone mixed in with a new softness. He’d mussed her hair and some of the loose strands caught the light, a far cry from the usual trig appearance Miss Cornelia insisted upon. He wasn’t sure he’d ever see this Mary again, but it might be enough, to have seen it this one time. It was more Walter’s way to say he’d carry it as a talisman, but Jem felt it without saying it, that to have this moment might serve him well in the future.

“Mind you turn that paper in,” he said.

“Mind yourself, then,” she said and turned away.

He wouldn’t see Mary alone for another ten years.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Mary said, sitting down beside him, facing the water. She tucked her skirt around her and made no effort to conceal her sturdy, scuffed boots. It was a cool evening, cooler by the shore, but she didn’t have a coat or even the old wool shawl she’d refused to give up before he’d left for France. He shrugged off his own coat and offered it to her. He’d be warm enough in his heavy jersey, one the fisherman down at the harbor wore when the wind picked up.

“Not Rainbow Valley?” he said.

“Why would you go there? You’re not a child anymore. Haven’t been for a long time, unless I miss my mark,” she said.

“No, you’re right,” he said. “Not for a long time.”

“You don’t have to talk to me about anything. Not about the War or Walter or being a prisoner,” she said. She said it without any particular tenderness, which was the most consoling part. He recalled, very dimly, that before she had come to Miss Cornelia, she’d lived through her own horrors, yet spoke of them rarely if at all.

“Don’t have to tell me about any French girls either,” she added and he laughed.

It was the first time he’d laughed since he came home. Since he came back to the Glen, anyway, and called it home without being able to fully mean it.

“Not much to tell there. I mostly saw nuns and the Red Cross nurses are awfully brisk, whatever their nationality,” he said.

“I’ve always thought Cornelia would make a good nun, for all that she’s married,” Mary said.

“Perhaps,” Jem replied. The waves kept breaking on the sand and it was dusk, romantic if you wanted it to be. Mary had his coat wrapped around her shoulders. Jem felt scoured, raw and empty.

“Why’d you come, if you don’t expect me to talk?” he asked after several minutes of silence.

“I guess because you need someone who doesn’t expect you to talk but who’s willing to sit nearby, without fussing over anything,” she said. “I’ve plenty of handwork and housework to deal with at home. I’m perfectly content to sit and be idle and there’s nothing you can say or not say that can hurt me. I’m not hurt the way you are, I can bear whatever you need—”

“They can’t at home,” he said. Mother, with grief in her grey eyes and grey in her auburn hair, and Rilla, grown into a mother before she was a wife, Dad with something more broken inside him than any of the rest. Susan and Dog Monday and the letters from Di and Nan, blotted and halting. Una, who might as well be one of the French nuns who tended him, all of them mourning Walter and trying to rejoice at his return. Jem, trying to keep them from hearing any of his nightmares, biting his tongue when they spoke at a meal of the future or the past.

“I know,” she said. “Faith Meredith’s married a Brit. Officer, Lord Something Hoity-Toity of Fancy Abbey-on-High.”

“I’m happy for her,” Jem said tiredly. “We were childhood sweethearts, that’s all.”

“I know. Just wanted it said so you’d know I know,” Mary replied.

“If she’d waited, I wouldn’t have wanted her. I wouldn’t want her to have me now, as I am,” he said. “Befouled, diminished—”

“Walter’s dead, Jem. You don’t have to speak in his voice,” Mary said.

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. If you don’t think I’d remember, after all those afternoons, those walks and rambles, listening to him, well then. You’d be wrong. I remember,” she said.

“I want Faith to stay as she is. Beautiful, golden, untouched, a lovely memory from my splendid childhood,” Jem said.

“Good Lord, she’d far better off than I thought, even without taking a castle into account,” Mary exclaimed. “Maybe her Lord Gawain-Excalibur-Avalon actually treats her like a women. A person.”

“I didn’t know you liked the Arthurian legends,” Jem replied, taken aback by Mary’s remark, choosing to deflect.

“I liked the sword. And the Lady of the Lake with her own place,” Mary said.

“I thought it would be like that, the War, knights going out,” he said. “I knew there’d be wounds and death, but I thought there’d be honor—"

“You always were a bit of a fool,” Mary said. “Stands to reason though, the way you were raised.”

“We had a—you’re right,” he said, realizing he did not have to defend his parents or Ingleside. “Mother was so careful for us to be well-loved. To live in a world where we might imagine ourselves heroes or able to speak with the fairies—you would have done better than I at the Front, Mary.”

“No one would do better,” she said. He braced himself for her to talk about his medals, his valiant efforts in the prison camp, how he tended those around him with what little he had. How many men had died in his hands, their blood the scent in his nose as terrifying as gas. “You lived.”

“It doesn’t seem like enough.”

“Come here, then,” she said, shifting to kneel facing him. The moon had risen and it suited her, her eyes gleaming like opals, her hair silver, the shadow soft around her bare throat. She reached a hand to touch his cheek, rough with the whiskers he hadn’t shaved for the past few days. “Come here, James,” she said and the sound of his name startled him enough to move closer. To let her draw his face to hers for a kiss.

For a moment, he was seventeen again and Walter was alive, the fields of France green, the chestnut trees in leaf. Then he heard a wave break and felt Mary’s hand move to the nape of his neck, her fingers callused, and he tasted salt mixed with honey. She beckoned him and he put his arms around her, holding her tightly, trying to lose himself in her embrace. Letting her find him.

They were alone with the moon and the sea. There was no hallway and Mary kissed him well enough there were no memories, not of France or Germany or Holland, not of the ship or the train or the graveyard with the stone too white, the wilting mayflowers at its base. There was nothing Mary would not do, no end to the comfort she would offer. His hands were at her waist and her breast, eased beneath her skirts, and she coaxed him on. When he brought both back to cup her face, she’d smiled under his lips. When he lay back against the sand and brought her to lie next to him, her head resting upon his chest, she’d come with him.

“I should have asked, Miller Douglas?”

“He married Ada Parker six months ago. I didn’t shed a tear, except that they should be happy,” she said. “To be honest, I didn’t fancy being a shopkeeper’s wife, but I would have made the best of it.”

“I’m alive, but I don’t know what I have to offer,” Jem said. Mary thumped him on the chest, hard enough to notice, soft enough to be nothing more than a scolding.

“You’ve yourself and I’m myself. You don’t have to offer me anything,” she said.

“That’s the first lie you’ve told,” he said.

“Then remember me. This. How it was, how it might be,” she said. “Grieve and suffer and if you want, I’ll be there for it. Or you can come round in a while, when you’re sorted out. I’m in no hurry. I’ve an idea of how to run a doctor’s house, no offense to your mother or Susan, and I’d like to try it out some time.”

“Will there be much pie?” Jem asked.

“There will be honey-cake, pots and pots of clover honey ready to drizzle. That’s your favorite.”

“Call me James again,” he said.

She propped herself up on his chest so he could see her face, the curve of her lips, her silvery hair hanging loose around her cheeks.

“I believe you meant to say, please, James. Mind yourself, then.”

Tagging @gogandmagog who posted this:

DIANA, teasingly: “You, anyhow. I saw you kissing Faith Meredith in school last week ... and Mary Vance, too.”

JEM:- “For mercy’s sake, don’t let Susan hear you say that. She might forgive it with Faith but never with Mary Vance.” From The Blythes Are Quoted

And @freyafrida who wrote "also want to write jem/mary fic now although i have zero ideas for anything apart from the ship"

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lethiepie · 1 year

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Huntlow Anne with an E AU! 🍃

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inevitablemoment · 25 days

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Please, give me an adaptation of Anne of Green Gables that faithfully covers House of Dreams and Ingleside (my two favorite books in the series)

Oh, I would've killed for an adaptation of those books with Megan Follows and Jonathan Crombie.

#Anne of Green Gables #Anne's House of Dreams #Anne of Ingleside #Sullivan Films #Megan Follows #Jonathan Crombie #Continuing Story doesn't deserve most of the hate #But it feels more like someone greenlit an expansive WWI AU from AO3 instead of the actual stories #And the less said about New Beginning the better #Meta #Fandom Musings #And I'll never forgive Kevin Sullivan for omitting the arc regarding Joyce #Megan would have done a fantastic job acting out Anne's grief

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goldrushenthusiast · 3 months

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no matter what my strongest argument for couples who love each other so much they find each other in every realities will ALWAYS be Gilbert/Anne and James/Lily because everything about them. all of it. literally down to hair color. they’re perfect.

#james and lily #Jily #Gilbert and Anne #idk their ship name #anne of green gables #anne shirley #anne shirly cuthbert #anne with an e #james potter #lily Evans #lily potter #gilbert blythe #Harry potter #au #universe #multiverse #in another universe #in another life #ignore that I’m also a jegulus shipper for this tiny little second

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gogandmagog · 10 months

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I need your thoughts in a Gilbert who didn't meet Anne until later in life- let's say at redmond

For the sake of historical accuracy, PLEASE PICTURE ME DOING THE RASPUTIN DANCE right now and as I read this. I love this ask, and I highkey stan the asker.

I think we’ve briefly touched on this topic before, in a superficial uh, roundabout sort of way, but I’m obv thrilled for getting a little (read: okay, a lot) more detailed about the matter.

What would Gilbert be like, if he hadn’t met Anne until Redmond?

Anytime anyone takes this approach in fanfiction… I admit; I cower in a corner and try to look away. Of all the Anne multiverses, this is my least favorite. This very notion makes my head and my heart go OW OW OW. For me, a big part of why Anne and Gilbert went in so deep was the heft and weight of the history between them. This story is a slow burn that lasts well over a decade, these two idiots-in-love have known each other since they were 11 and ‘nearly 14’ respectively. We have all the good stuff, right? Their initial meet-cute-to-end-all-other-meet-cutes, the frenemies, the one-sided pining, the grand gestures that give way to an honest friendship (no one makes Anne laugh like Gilbert does, and he’s the SOLE fellow she feels comfortable enough with to share her honest feelings with, pls see: Rollings Reliable)… it just means so much to me. When we take that away, we take away so much of what makes them… welllll, them.

But of course, I can rely on Gilbert himself to articulate these thoughts, too…

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Gilbert, looking steadily down into Anne’s uplifted face, “but wouldn’t it have been more beautiful still, Anne, if there had been NO separation or misunderstanding . . . if they had come hand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them but those which belonged to each other?” — Gilbert ‘the absolute sweetest and most poignant peach’ Blythe, Anne of Avonlea

But hey. Yes. Let’s go there anyway, because it is… exceedingly interesting and natural to wonder and speculate about.

To make it make sense, we must first subtract Anne from Green Gables, and Avonlea.

And oof… there’s a lot of collateral there. Minnie May Berry would’ve suffered the most and pays for the Anne-void discrepancy with her actual life. And Miss Lavendar Lewis? She would’ve never reconnected with Stephen Irving… and Mister Harrison would have stayed estranged from his wife. There’d be no A.V.I.S., although that seems like teeny-tiny small potatoes in the wake of the rest. On the flip side, would Matthew have lived longer had the boy meant for Green Gables actually been sent? A solid maybe. And Gilbert? He would’ve never had any sense knocked (cracked, slated) into him.

Before Anne arrives in Avonlea we have a couple canon descriptions of Gilbert, thanks to Diana. We learn that he ‘torments the life’ out of the girls (and further, that they like it), and that he’s “aw’fly” handsome. We first see him pinning Ruby Gillis’ hair unto the back of her desk chair. A hot minute later, he’s all but desperate for Anne to look at him. Moreover, he thinks Anne should look at him.

“Gilbert Blythe wasn’t used to putting himself out to make a girl look at him and meeting with failure.” — Anne of Green Gables

Without Anne? Sheesh. Gilbert Blythe is a bit of cad (need that gif of Josie saying, “Gilbert Blythe is rake” right about here). Just a regular… 19th century [insert the F word here] boy, tbh. BUT WAIT. We have a canon quote to support this, too.

‘Even in quiet Avonlea there were temptations to be met and faced. White Sands youth were a rather “fast” set, and Gilbert was popular wherever he went. But he meant to keep himself worthy of Anne’s friendship and perhaps some distant day her love; and he watched over word and thought and deed as jealously as if her clear eyes were to pass in judgment on it.’ — Anne of Avonlea

I feel in terms of just straight-up facts, we can reduce Anneless Gilbert to this:

1. a smarty pants in an academic sense,

2. a smarty pants in the jokey non-academic sense

3. popular

4. cute af, and aware he’s cute af, to top it all off, that ‘teasing smile’ never quits and he carries on winking ‘with inexpressible drollery’ just whenever he sees fit

Obviously, this list looks a lot like the Gilbert we canonly know, until we arrive at…

5. egotistical on a degree level of… eh, medium-rare?

Without Anne to ego-check him; Gilberts pride remains fully intact, and what’s more, it’s grown and developed into a mature and self-assured vanity by the time he lands in Kingsport. Without Anne, by the time he’s 17, I think he’s walked home and/or kissed every pretty or exceptional girl in a good fifteen-mile radius. I would alsooo guess that Avonlea folks imagined he’d eventually settle down with Ruby. But what they don’t know is that he’s gone kissed every last one of the fine Gillis sisters. Even the oldest ones, Myra and Sara. I would also confidently speculate that this boy’s rather cavalier with his Romeo-ing ways, too, and that he’s inadvertently hurt some very real feelings… without even fully realizing it. He just doesn’t take anything… seriously. Which Gillis sister did he kiss first? Oh, don’t ask him. He doesn’t remember.

And let’s support this guess with another semi-related and semi-justifying canon quote, shall we?

"Did I ever correspond with Ruby Gillis? I'd forgotten. Poor Ruby!” — Gilbert ‘dashing out heart hopes everywhere’ Blythe, Anne of Ingleside

But awoooo, settle down? No, Sir, not Gilbert. Gilbert wanders into Redmond a bachelor, free and clear of any responsibilities or ties, back home. (Of course, he gets all sorts of fan mail via post from every corner of PEI, while he’s at school.) ‘Excellent creatures though they are,’ there’s not been a single girlie-pop that he’s crossed paths with that has yet been able to stir his deeps… or even his shallows.

ADDITIONALLY… he walks into Redmond maybe two or three years earlier than he did in the books. Because without Anne, Gilbert has no reason to give up the Avonlea school -- he saves his would-be room and board expenses by living at the Blythe homestead, and very simply and economically gets to college all the quicker for it. He does still want to be a Doctor, mind you. He has a great-uncle that’s a Doctor over in Four Winds, and Gilbert still believes…

“It’s a splendid profession,” he said enthusiastically. “A fellow has to fight something all through life . . . didn’t somebody once define man as a fighting animal? . . . and I want to fight disease and pain and ignorance . . . which are all members one of another. I want to do my share of honest, real work in the world, Anne . . . add a little to the sum of human knowledge that all the good men have been accumulating since it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for me that I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks who will live after me. It seems to me that is the only way a fellow can get square with his obligations to the race.” — Gilbert ‘getting rather sentimental now’ Blythe, Anne of Avonlea

Now here’s where I fall off and digress again. I believe this is the end of educated guessing and facts about what an Anneless Gilbert probably looks like.

But FOR BONUS POINTS, what happens with this version of Gilbert collides with a version of Anne that never made it to Avonlea? Do they still get together? Likely. But HOW?

If someone put a gun to my head (lollll, as iffff) and made me write (as previously denounced, I realize) a fanfiction about it (warning, it’s definitely gonna be giving… sensationalist and 🤌🏻 fanfictiony, but really if you’re gonna go AU… go AU; all this fully recognizing that this would never be a LMM setting), here’s how I’d pull it off:

Anne, by the time she’s say fourteen, has run away from the Hopetown Assylum. It’s nothing but hunger (see Anne of Ingleside for canon support of this), verbal abuse, (and despite the name) hopelessness there. Anne’s resourceful, we know she has a special knack for making things happen, and she decides to strike out on her own. But not without a plan. There’s not a lot of jobs for kids out there that also come with a safe place to lay their heads at night (though she might make up her mind to sleep under a nice obliging tree, should the need arise; “I had made up my mind that if you didn’t come for me to-night I’d go down the track to that big wild cherry-tree at the bend, and climb up into it to stay all night. I wouldn’t be a bit afraid, and it would be lovely to sleep in a wild cherry-tree all white with bloom in the moonshine, don’t you think?” ), so she, playing to her strengths and daring to dream, thinks of drama and being a stage actress. She gives a spectacularly good reading of Tennyson’s “the Lady of Shalott” to a Hopetown Theatre manager who not only pities her but also finds her wildly talented and very entertaining. Alas… he cannot offer her a job. He tells her, though, that he has contacts with W.W. Cole Circus (they toured Nova Scotia in the 1880’s, clearly I fact checked this too; I have whatever unimaginative disability it is that requires even my fantasies to have bearings in reality), that W.W. Cole is always looking for cheap labor while they tour. Only!! They really just hire/have use for boys. (We can circle back to déjà vu-ish Green Gables problems here.) Anne, however, doesn’t care. She’s got a lead. She knows she can work just as hard as any boy, and means to prove it. She’s given a job (mucking elephant stalls, for starters) on a trial basis (psst, Avonlea calling again), and does such a bang-up job that she’s kept on for a week. She becomes an instant friend with “Nova Scotian Giantess” Anna Swan. (Also a real person, from a real W.W. Cole circus circuit, pls see above regarding fantasies borne from reality. She was 7 feet, 11 inches tall, 400 pounds, and married another ‘giant’ from Kentucky). Anna advocates for Anne to be kept on permanently (I’m trying to @ Aunt Josephine almost, here). Anna, who is emphatically religious (irl when she retired, she went on to teach Sunday School at her church) and ladylike and kind, sees to Anne’s studies and upbringing when they aren’t working. She recognizes Anne’s academic abilities and leverages her own position to see that Anne is promoted, as the years carry on. Anna, duh, encourages Anne to save her wages—enough to get herself through four years at Redmond college… that she might go on to have a career outside the instability of circus acts. By the time Anne is 20, she’s far more widely recognized as Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald, and she’s a terribly accomplished trapeze artist and a very elegant acrobat (let’s thrown in one minor incident where she fell off a tightrope and broke her ankle here, as a nod to, yeah, Avonlea ridgepoles), as well as especial homies with every tiger and elephant and cigar-smoking-chimp that graces the ring. She wears the assigned pink tights and costume despite often still lamenting that “red haired people should never wear pink.” She also has finally saved enough of her wages to get herself a B.A.

Her very last performance sees her signing off at W.W. Cole’s Kingsport show. Who do you bet’s in the audience? Gilbert Blythe. The football captain, Lamba Theta inductee, incumbent class president… who also, as it happens, is there escorting one Philippa Gordon.

“I saw only one really handsome fellow among them. He went away before you came. I heard his chum call him Gilbert.” — Phil Gordon, Anne of the Island

Gilbert’s gone into serious crushing territory on ‘Lady Cordelia’ at first glance. Phil’s also taken with her. The two spend the rest of the show trying to spot Lady Cordelia in her support roles of the other acts. Is that Lady Cordelia lighting the fiery rings? At any rate, for Gilbert, the deeps? Shaken, stirred, invariably earthquaked, when he and Phil get to make actual introductions at the end of the evening production, as they and the rest of the crowd walk out. Anne, on the other hand, is unimpressed at best.That boy was “awfully bold to wink at a strange girl”… all while another was on his arm, no less. Rather a splendid chin, though. 👀 One might say he was equally as handsome as he was bold.

“But, of course, the one I like best I can’t get. Gilbert Blythe won’t take any notice of me, except to look at me as if I were a nice little kitten he’d like to pat. Too well I know the reason. I owe you a grudge, Queen Anne.” — Philippa Gordon, Anne of the Island

That small matter aside, who else might be in attendance? I mean… Royal Gardner, of course. (This could easily substitute his, “And you are the Miss Shirley who read the Tennyson paper at the Philomathic the other evening, aren’t you?”)

Days later, and still wanting to know exactly who she was, Phil catches sight of ‘Lady Cordelia’ (wearing Redmond colors, at that!) reading epitaphs at Old St. John’s cemetery, and we slip back into canon here. Almost. Phil and Anne become fast friends, as is natural and fitting, but far less can be said for poor Gilbert, who now has a very awkward time trying to gently cast off Phil while simultaneously wanting to cozy up to her new freshette friend. After all, Anne is Gilbert’s ideal woman.

If Gilbert had been asked to describe his ideal woman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, even to those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued to vex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy has his dreams as have others, and in Gilbert’s future there was always a girl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as a flower. — Gilbert ‘Smitten Kitten’ Blythe, Anne of Avonlea

For Gilbert to finally win over that ‘Queen Anne, my Queen Anne, queen of my heart’ we’ll need to see academic rivalry, a relationship-mending grand gesture (these two starting off on the wrong foot is a canon event, and I cannot interfere), Gilbert Saves a Life or Two (lots of congenital health problems for people of Anna’s size, her hand is shooting right up as a volunteer for this incident, and by now Gilbert is nearly white coat qualified), one rejected proposal after two years of genuine friendship, Anne and Roy fully courting, and Gilbert Blythe’s to ego finally give way to the purity of his dreams and aspirations.

“He had made up his mind, also, that his future must be worthy of its goddess. She held over him the unconscious influence that every girl, whose ideals are high and pure, wields over her friends; an influence which would endure as long as she was faithful to those ideals and which she would as certainly lose if she were ever false to them. In Gilbert’s eyes Anne’s greatest charm was the fact that she never stooped to the petty practices of so many of the Avonlea girls—the small jealousies, the little deceits and rivalries, the palpable bids for favor. Anne held herself apart from all this, not consciously or of design, but simply because anything of the sort was utterly foreign to her transparent, impulsive nature, crystal clear in its motives and aspirations.” -- Anne of Avonlea

And ultimately… right about there is where we’d revert back to a bad case of typhoid for Anne to realize her feelings, too. It would take Gilbert a full four years and nearly dying trying, to put a ring on it. For my last trick (read: in conclusion), here's a cute lil’ attempt at more canon justification for my utter nonsense (if you just squint):

"Mother dearwums," said Jem, "can I have those old ostrich feathers in the garret to sew in the back of my pants for a tail? We're going to have a circus tomorrow and I'm to be the ostrich. And we're going to get an elephant." "Do you know that it costs six hundred dollars a year to feed an elephant?" said Gilbert solemnly. "An imaginary elephant doesn't cost anything," explained Jem patiently. Anne laughed. "We never need to be economical in our imaginations, thank heaven." — Anne of Ingleside

SO FRIENDS. ROMANS. @batrachised.

What would yooooour take on an Anneless Gilbert be? An Avonlealess Anne? I’m terribly curious, as always!

#wow this is long #if there was an Olympic Team for AoGG au speculation I do believe I would have just qualified #i don’t dare tag this lm Montgomery #essayist #anne of green gables #gilbert blythe #anne shirley #19th century circus 🎪#speculation specialist

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multifandomconfusion · 1 year

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All I can think of right now is wesper in an Anne of Green Gables au where Jesper calls Wylan carrots because he's a ginger and Wylan gets so damn mad.

#wesper #six of crows #six of crows au #wesper au #anne of green gables #soc #soc au #wylan van eck #jesper fahey

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boysborntodie · 9 months

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Me @ to anyone, please anyone, I am begging you-

#do i think we need an outsiders remake/reboot/etc? no #do i want one? FUCK YES #come we've gotten like over a dozen anne of green gables remakes #just one outsiders remake to reawaken the fandom #it doesn't even need to be good i just need it to become relevant again #in my most delusional fantasies I'd wish for a sort of AU where johnny and dally survive and live together and get out of tulsa)(and marry)#i know their deaths are very important to the story but you know what else would be so important?#showing two boys who were born to die defy their fates and the roles forced upon then by society #and become more than anyone including themselves ever thought for them #but more realistically i think a pre-outsiders tv show would be so so so good #characters like tim two bit and steve can be expanded upon #their home lifes their struggles etc #we can have more dally back story #the soc ans greaser dynamics can be explored more #cherry marcia randy bob can be explored and we can get more insight on the lives of the socs #we can see how darry was before their parents death and how it changes him #johnny before he got jumped #like there is so so so much that can be explored #(and a jally kiss)#the outsiders #bob sheldon #steve randle #cherry valance #jally #ponyboy curtis #darrel curtis #sodapop curtis #dallas winston #johnny cade #two bit mathews

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philtstone · 1 year

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Anne/Gilbert, 13

#13 - You say my name for the first time and I fall in love in an empty bar

two days ago i accidentally stumbled upon an ancient half-written opening scene to an anne of green gables psych au in the depths of my wip folder, and it struck me that whatever this concept was, the world deserved to see it. so i decided to pummel it into a coherent prompt fill and here we are. the prompt is ... interpretive, but i think it works. if it isn't clear, anne is shawn, diana is gus, and gilbert is juliette. i don't actually know if there's a lassiter in this universe; suggestions are, of course, welcome

for @foolgobi65, because as one might expect, the title of the google doc read, "for maya"

Anne’s day ends with her spitting out a large gulp of no-brand hallucinogenic instant coffee onto the potted azalea in their lobby.

Well. That is not wholly accurate. One could argue that Anne’s day ends with the gasping splutter that follows, and the wide-eyed stare she bestows upon her sheepish colleague slash long-time childhood friend slash former sworn enemy, slash --

Well. That, too, leaves some points unaddressed.

The most accurate account capitulates that Anne’s day -- an all-around uneventful, if emotionally complicated affair -- ends with the soft, butterfly-wing laugh shared by two friends who have acknowledged the known truth of a secret badly kept and ultimately harmless in practice.

But that’s where Anne’s day ends; it begins quite monotonously, with a tip-off about Mrs. Blewitt’s peevish cat having gone missing (it had run away and good riddance, Anne insists, a conclusion she comes to without any collection of evidence nor erstwhile psychic episode), and the spilled bowl of coco puffs that heralds the complicated emotions of the day’s middle.

And so, without further ado, the middle:

Gilbert is starfished on the floor, t-shirt clad back against cheap laminate.

Gilbert has been starfished on the floor (t-shirt clad back against cheap laminate) all afternoon. Anne does not know if this is his natural mourning position or something unique to this particular lamentation. Either option is pitiable on principle, and saddening in the more subjective sense; he is a dear friend, and this a sticky situation.

But the fact of the matter is that his limbs are simply too long to be starfishing in the Lady C’s Psychic Detective Agency lobby. Specifically, they don’t actually have a lobby, as the entire space is just one dinky office and a houseplant.

“Oh, Gilbert,” says Diana, placatingly, as she’s said at least twelve times in varying tones of commiseration in the last hour.

“I’m a fool,” Gilbert tells the ceiling. Anne can acquiesce that the ceiling is a very good listener; she and that ceiling have had many a despondent heart-to-heart in the past year alone. “A prized idiot, Anne.”

Anne scowls.

She does so enjoy being right -- it has to be said -- but that doesn’t mean she would pull an I told you so after someone’s job has been lost. Jobs are livelihoods. Livelihoods mean being able to do things like actually afford groceries, or own a car that does not make horrible rattling noises every time one turns on the left-hand blinker.

She got the “I told you so” off her chest hours ago.

“You’re not an idiot,” says Anne, more snappishly than she intends it. “You’re a good person, Gilbert Blythe. That is not an idiot.”

“I am,” insists Gilbert. “This was a terrible idea. Zero out of ten, would not do again. Why didn’t I go into medicine? Remember Ms. Stacey from the seventh grade? She said I should go into medicine.”

At this, Diana throws Anne an aggrieved look from under the well-groomed fringe of her glossy dark hair.

Diana -- when she isn’t saying “Oh, Gilbert” in commiserating tones -- is making coffee in the corner in what must be a noble attempt at offering a comforting hot drink during a time of trouble. Only, she’s using the last of their instant coffee mix, which Anne employs more in DIY home facial remedies (a desperate bid to reduce her stubbornly-enduring freckles) than she does in coffee. It generally tastes like putrified cardboard and has odd kernels of glittery orange stuff in it that Anne once insisted almost did give her an out of body hallucinogenic psychic experience.

Marilla had said “Fiddlesticks” and attributed that to sleep deprivation and a too-large cup of artificially caffeinated joe, but that is beside the point.

The point is: Anne’s not sure if the coffee is their best course of action, comfort-wise, and of course reminiscing about seventh grade is not going to get them anywhere good. Seventh grade involved terrible hair dye jobs, the distasteful entity that was Josie Pye, and that one time (read: the entirety of seventh grade) where Gilbert tugged Anne’s braid in a misguided attempt to get her attention and Anne vowed to hate him forever.

Obviously, Anne did not keep good on that vow, else Gilbert would not be starfishing on the floor of her slightly-fraudulent psychic detective agency office, in the throes of misery.

Anne sighs. She tries to telepathically communicate to Diana that it is indeed a go on the well-meaning offering of mediocre bean juice and taps her foot.

“Here, Gilbert,” says Diana, kneeling down and offering the chipped mug to the general vicinity of Gilbert’s prone chin. Gilbert looks at her desolately, and then down his nose -- it’s a very fine nose, Anne thinks unhelpfully -- at the steaming cup. He goes a little cross-eyed.

“Oh,” says Gilbert. “Thanks, Diana.”

But he doesn’t make any move to get up. Anne taps her foot more insistently and crosses her plaid-clad arms, frowning.

“Drink the coffee,” says Anne, in a tone she hopes brooks no argument. Diana told her only yesterday that she’d quite excelled in recent weeks at achieving it. The wisdom of its application had been another matter entirely, tangled in an unfortunate case involving a missing Jersey cow and a classical opera singer’s heirloom willow-pattern serving platter -- but that was neither here nor there, and Diana’s faithful encouragement was greatly appreciated.

A Jersey cow in Toronto, Anne thinks now, huffing. Of all the things --

Gilbert has not taken his coffee.

“Gilbert,” says Anne.

Perhaps the stuff’ll be so strong that Gilbert will be knocked right out cold, thus reprieving him of his woes for a short while. Or maybe it’ll give him that hallucinogenic experience Anne had, and, subsequently, he will realize that Anne herself is not the real thing, and merely an expert fake, and their carefully-built, much-cherished friendship will be over forever.

Fiddlesticks, says Marilla’s sensible voice in Anne’s head.

Focus, Anne, thinks Anne.

“Gilbert,” Anne says again, in less theatrical tones, “you did absolutely nothing wrong. You are free of the corrupt institution of manufactured public justice now, and good riddance to that.”

This is the second time today Anne has said “and good riddance to that”. Gilbert says nothing, and continues frowning at the ceiling.

“You pursued justice,” continues Anne -- and is it really her fault the theatrics are creeping back in? -- “and for that were dishonourably suspended. You followed protocol and reported disingenuous practices that were hurting an innocent family. That’s more than enough to ensure your relative moral standing in an ethically complex situation. So, really, who is the dishonourable party here? The --”

“The Toronto police department,” offers Diana helpfully.

“The Toronto police department!” finishes Anne.

“Yes,” says Diana.

“Yes,” repeats Anne, then flounders, realizing her point has already been made. “And – well – good riddance to them!”

There is a beat; Gilbert turns his face, rather muppet-like, across the floor, to look at her with marginally-less miserable eyes; the top of his curly dark head flops against the floor. They stare at each other awkwardly for a long moment.

“Well?” Anne says, finally. “Drink that poisonous coffee and up and at ‘em.”

Finally, Gilbert sighs, and pushes himself up onto his elbows. This is good. One brown-fingered hand grasps the death liquid in a sort of fumbled grapple for balance and prevented spillage. He says,

“Thank you, Diana -- Anne. I -- I know.”

“Well, good,” says Anne.

“I’m just -- I’d be perfectly happy figuring out a new life, on principle, but this case -- I can’t just leave it.”

“Well that’s a given. Obviously, you’ll figure it out. Bring those clowns to justice.”

This is Anne speaking.

“Right,” says Gilbert. There is a furrow remaining between his frustratingly nice brows. “But Anne -- I don’t have any resources anymore. I got fired, remember? I had to turn in my badge and gun and even my car.”

“We have a car,” Diana says helpfully. Anne nods, not quite realizing the end goal her bosom friend and psychic detective partner is building up to here; she is more caught on the fact that Gil’s department issued vehicle was a sleek Volvo, and Diana’s car is her mother’s ancient fire engine red Toyota and outside of ongoing engine troubles also smells eternally of the family kimchi recipe. “We have food in our fridge, too –” (that kimchi) “and we have pens, and pencils, and lots of paper, and a printer – Anne’s got a taser, even –”

“Diana,” Anne hisses, instinct overriding any higher brain function that would catch on to Diana’s burgeoning Point.

“You know that’s illegal, right?” says Gil, unhelpfully,

“What I’m trying to say,” says Diana, “is sure, you have resources, Gilbert Blythe. You’ve got us, haven’t you? Actually, well, I’ve had a really great idea. You could just work here!”

It is here that the heroines of this daytime drama begin their journey towards the spluttering end-of-day outlined at the beginning, because at this cheerful declaration Anne turns, and blinks rapidly at her colleague. Gilbert, in turn, blinks at Anne.

“You’ll be an official part of Lady C’s Psychic Detective Agency!” continues Diana, all dimpled smiles, and even claps her hands together – so enthusiastically that the puffy cold shoulder sleeves of her powder blue top bounce. “I think that solves all of our problems, don’t you, Anne?”

The late afternoon sun shining through the half-covered office window is making Diana’s Wednesday work-day highlight pop quite extraordinarily; perhaps this is what distracts Anne enough that she does not take her by the well-manicured hand and say, with awkward comedic timing, a word? like people do in humorous television shows. Rather, realizing that there really is nothing else she can say:

“Oh, erm, sure.”

Only then, somewhat immediately, does the reality of the statement barrel into her like that damnable Jersey cow.

“Diana,” Anne hisses, a second time.

“Oh, don’t be a sourpuss, Anne,” Diana says breezily. “I think Gil’ll get on just fine here. And anyway, Marilla gave us, like, four days’ worth of leftovers to keep in the fridge. We need a man to help us eat through it.”

Amidst all of this, Gilbert’s expression has been slowly evolving from an understandable bewilderment to a perhaps more expected bemusement. By the time Anne has gathered enough of her wits to a), ignore him, and b), say, “No one says sourpuss anymore, Diana,” (because she is feeling acutely uncharitable in that exact moment), Gilbert has properly pulled himself up into a sitting position, rested his elbows loosely upon his knees, and said,

“That sounds fine to me.”

Anne whirls around to face him. She has lost words. How could Diana do this to her? This great betrayal of her deepest trust? Absolutely, Gilbert cannot work with them. Gilbert, who she has finally made peace with. Gilbert, who is one of her most valued friends. Gilbert, who trusts Anne, but does not at all know her process. Gilbert does not know the minutiae of her talents. Gilbert does not know that she is, in fact, lying through her teeth to the law, for money and also the greater good of the Greater Toronto Area. Well, perhaps it’s more like bending some truths – but Gilbert is an innocent in this equation, is the point! Of course, he is innocent in a manner that makes him utterly guilty and culpable in every respect, as Anne never hesitates to blame him for her many personal ills – but the fact of the matter is that she, Anne, will not be able to keep her fraudulent clairvoyant claims safe if Gilbert is living in her detective office.

“It’s not like I need a place to crash or anything,” Gilbert says, as though reading Anne’s very unhelpful and resoundingly mute train of thought. “But what I’d give to beat the bastards who did this at their own game.”

… Oh. The case. Which they have still not solved.

Anne, with herculean effort, unsticks her voice.

“No,” she says. “Absolutely not. This is a terrible idea, Gilbert Blythe. I won’t have it.”

Gilbert eyes her very carefully, like she is a puzzle he cannot quite crack. Diana, on the other hand – who has been collecting her coffeemaking supplies with efficiency – whirls around on her way to the kitchenette and offers Anne a terribly pointed, knowing look.

“I think it’ll be good for all of us, actually.”

“No,” Anne says. Really, she almost clasps her hands together in prayer. “No, no no no no, Di-ana –”

But Diana is gone, and Anne finds herself suddenly mute again: Gilbert has abandoned his laminate lamentations and stood to his full height.

He’s right in front of her and everything, too. She is struck by an awful earth-shattering vision of the same unfairly broad, football player’s chest now directly in her eyeline walking away from her, broken and defeated by the soul-destroying betrayal that will follow his inevitable realization that Anne is a lying liar who lied.

“C’mon, Anne,” Gil says, as he steps forward to follow Diana out. His whole person is too close, his voice too chummy, just by her ear but oh so casual, and then, in the most infuriatingly possible way he could say it – “what’s the worst that could happen?”

And he leaves her standing in the empty Lady C’s lobby, wishing that she really did have psychic abilities after all.

Maybe then, she could have seen this total disaster of a development coming.

#my writing #anne of green gables #psych #taylor swift prompt meme #anne x gilbert #anne x diana #anne shirley #gilbert blythe #diana barry #shirbert #anne x gilbert x diana #anne as a far more unhinged version of shawn is deeply appealing to me #also i made the blueberry red bc i feel it needed to be different for the au #i retain psychological damage every time i remember that gilbert canonically plays football in university

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musicalchaos07 · 1 year

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Jancy Academic Rivals AU thoughts

Based on this post. I have spent all day thinking about it and here's what I have so far

1996 Maine

Robin is Nancy’s roommate

Argyle is Jonathan’s roommate (I personally love the idea that Argyle is secretly rich)

Steve is also Jonathan & Argyle's roommate but he's never home so Jonathan goes like 3 weeks before ever seeing him in their dorm

Nancy’s best subjects are Chemistry, English, and Polisci-Debate

Jonathan’s best subjects are English, Polisci-Debate, Art, and Latin

Jonathan is from Hawkins and was friendish with Nancy but moved to Montauk, NY when he was like 7 so Nancy doesn’t remember him

He remembers her bc of course he does

Nancy is class president because she’s top of the class and is in charge of touring students around campus

Nancy begged her parents to send her here at the age of like 13 and she’s been there since

Jonathan is just now transferring in as a junior and a scholarship student

Jonathan applied because he wants to go to The National School of Photography in France or the Rhode Island School of Design

While touring Jonathan Nancy makes an off comment about how that’s essentially a waste of an education and how she went to Paris over the summer

Jonathan is understandably annoyed because his assumptions that everyone at the school is going to be nothing but spoiled, pompous rich kids are proving true

He’s also annoyed she does not remember him at all (but never brings up that they sort of know each other bc awkward)

So he asks in a snippy way what she plans to do and she tells him she's going to go to Oxford to study Journalism and he asks how that’s any better

They are very much giving pretentious and just another suburban girl in their initial introductions

Jonathan resolves to attempt to ignore her as much as possible which is very difficult because he has a crush (He may think she's ambitious and overly competitive but she's also gorgeous and wasn't mean about him being a scholarship student)

Anyways one night while looking for somewhere to smoke Jonathan & Argyle find Nancy, Robin, and Steve breaking into the school pool for a late-night swim/hang out (Picture s1 pool scene minus the murder and st*ncy scene)

And naturally, our intrepid little art hoe takes photos

Nancy finds out and gets even madder at him because if anyone else found out she’d be in trouble and it could ruin her reputation

THEN as though all of that wasn’t enough Jonathan corrects Nancy’s Math error in class and she gets pissed

Because she’s right she's always right (except this time)

And Jonathan teasingly offers to tutor her if she needs it

Thus academic rivalry is born

Nancy is pissed because Jonathan’s Advanced Latin class counts as more credit. Jonathan is pissed because Nancy is so much better at Chemistry.

Nancy tries to transfer into Latin for the extra credit, and Jonathan tries to transfer out of Chemistry because he's better at Earth Sciences (Jonathan isn't successful and Nancy does transfer in but she's completely lost)

It gets to the point where the whole school knows that these two are just insane and trying to one-up each other

Their polisci-debate class is just the two of them arguing over various issues (not that they necessarily disagree but they both approach issues with different viewpoints i.e. gender v class in s3) while the class watches

And the sexual tension is BAD which Nancy knows and hates because she’s mad enough he can challenge her academically but then he’s also hot??? (Robin is unrelenting until Nancy finally admits to thinking that Jonathan is hot but Nancy insists nothing is going to happen)

Jonathan is lowkey-highkey dying inside from the tension but he’s thriving in teasing Nancy over academics (Argyle thinks he's crazy over this and can't figure out why they won't just do hanky panky)

Argyle and Robin end up bonding and forming the “Jonathan & Nancy just make out already club” which they definitely treat like a skull and crossbones-ish secret society

Steve is also an unwilling member

This leads to Jonathan & Nancy having to hang out more outside of class because of their roommates

This also leads to Nancy buying Jonathan a new lens for his camera ( I don’t think she’d get him a whole new camera) for his birthday (I HC his birthday as October 10th) and he feels guilty because it’s too nice of a gift

So to "pay her back" he makes a mixtape for her (Purely platonic he assures Argyle. Can you believe she doesn't know The Cure?) (He def puts Just Like Heaven & Friday I'm in Love on it though)

And maybe on Halloween Nancy and Jonathan end up at a party in the woods behind the school and maybe he lets her borrow his sweater because she’s cold

And maybe he walks her back to her dorm after this party because she’s been drinking a little (not like blacked out though) and there’s allegedly a bear in the woods (Jonathan might also be high and a little paranoid)

On the walk home, he finally reveals that they went to elementary together.

Plot Twist Nancy did remember him but she was still holding a grudge because he disappeared without saying goodbye

Jonathan then apologizes and makes a big deal about saying goodnight to her

She returns his sweater a couple days later and everyone starts gossiping about why she had it and Nancy retreats after this

But then it all comes to a head when their Polisci-Debate professor (Murray) assigns them to be partners on a research article (because he knows)

One minute they’re whisper-arguing in the library and then Jonathan kisses her

Nancy kisses him back

They are hot and heavy making out in the stacks until the librarian catches them

They have to talk their way out of detention

Then they go up to Nancy's room (because Robin is in Jonathan's with Steve & Argyle) and share a bed

They don’t tell anyone though (again Murray knows) because they don’t want to give them the satisfaction

They continue business as usual then one night over Thanksgiving break Robin, Argyle, and Steve catch them holding hands as they’re walking back from the woods and are like “busted”

Steve owes Robin money

They still continue the academic rivalry part though because Jonathan knows Nancy likes the competition and he’s happy to indulge her

They end up tying for the top of the class at the end of the semester effectively ending Nancy’s streak.

I am attempting to write this as a full fic but I cannot write fanfic to save my life so if someone wants to take this plot bunny be my guest (just tag me when you're done)

#I am attempting to write it but I feel like so far it's not great #we'll see #Somewhere in a cross between Anne of Green Gables Dead Poets Society The Secret History and an indie movie called Strike! is this #Did I change the time setting to the 90s purely based on Vibes and that Jonathan needs Nirvana? Yes Yes I did #Also because I think Nancy deserves to listen to The Cranberries #also because Dark Academia is the mid-90s in my brain I don't make the rules here #Do not ask me where Steve & Robin are from it's not hawkins maybe it's Chicago #In this fic they've had to go to the same boring rich people parties for years and that's why they're besties #Also I feel like they def stumble into a rabbit in the woods which gets Jonathan talking in the first place #And then he opens up about how much he misses his brother and Nancy says she has a brother the same age and Jonathan says I know and reveal #stranger things #jancy #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #academic rivals AU

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emneeli · 2 years

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Drawing inspired by the first chapter of the fanfic #Awae : Between You And Me. 💞

"Anne and her friends are getting ready to spend a summer in Europe after a difficult first year in Redmond College. Everything is looking up for Anne - her grades are good, she has a wonderful boyfriend, and a summer full of travelling to look forward to.

But things don't exactly go to plan when she bumps into a person from her past. A person she thought she'd left behind forever. Before Anne knows it, her summer has become more complicated than she expected and the only way to fix it is to fake her relationship."

#shirbert fanart #shirbertedit #shirbert #fanfic #fanfiction #AU #drawing #illustration #awae fanart #awaeedit #awae #anne with an e #anne shirly cuthbert #gilbert blythe #anne x gilbert #anne of green gables #alternate universe #europe #fake dating

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beckybubbles · 1 year

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Bewitched, bewitched, you've got me in your spell. ✨

Bewitched but make it Shirbert!

Happy Halloween! 🎃

#anne with an e #anne of green gables #shirbert #fanart #bewitched #magical anne shirley #a shirbert au i'll never write #Spotify

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jomiddlemarch · 2 months

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Dawn was theirs

It was a glorious English autumn day when the Courcelette survivors arrived at Downton. Sybil wasn’t certain any of the men could appreciate the brilliance of the light falling across the green fields, gilding the towers, the ruddy leaves of the oaks along the winding drive. Four of the men were insensible, two had grubby bandages wrapped around their eyes, long overdue for changing, and the last, young, slender, dark-haired, gazed at something beyond any comprehension, murmuring all this is ended as if it were a nun’s litany.

Walter Blythe remained unconscious for four days.

Matthew had turned his face to the wall when Mary approached, wept when he thought no one would notice. He was very polite, very cold, bitter, a fallen angel. Mary stood in the hall and wrung her hands before she came into the room where he lay, her heartbreak in the shadow of her dark eyes, the trembling palm she pressed against her breast. Sybil hadn’t thought any other soldier would pose as great a challenge, for they had all known Matthew before he went off to war and he was precious to them, even to Granny, who’d never admit it but still visited and sat with him for the fifteen minutes expected of a social call.

Walter Blythe, burned, broken, his face spared, seemed unreachable. One of the other men had been in his company and spoke highly of him, describing a man uncomplaining, steady, a doctor’s son who wasn’t at all squeamish about lice or dysentery. Then he shocked them by telling them Walter was a poet, the renowned author of “The Piper,” one of Canada’s most honored sons.

Walter had been mute for a fortnight after he’d opened his eyes.

Sybil tried, but she’d couldn’t conceal the fact that Walter was a favorite of hers. She lingered by his bed, eager to fetch him a book from the library, the paper, a fresh cup of tea. He was easy to be fond of him and if doting by the nursing staff were enough to heal a man, he’d have been up and sent back to the Front in a week.

“It’s because I have sisters,” he said, he told her, when she admitted to him that she was idling and he didn’t truly need his pillows plumped yet again. “You’d like them, Di especially. She’s determined to become a VAD though what she really wants is to become a doctor like Dad.”

He was like that, Walter Blythe, charming and well-spoken, sharing bits of his life before the War, always wholesome and cheerful, making it seem to the nurses that he was unchanged from the man who’d set off from the Glen. The other patients enjoyed listening. It was a respite from the pain and boredom of recoveries that would only ever be incomplete.

He fooled everyone but Thomas Barrow.

Thomas watched Walter when no one else was looking.

At rest, if there was such a thing, Walter’s face had an expression of blank horror, as if he looked into an abyss seething with the most monstrous visions, agony and annihilation. He pressed his lips together to keep from calling out, screaming, though not for help, for Thomas could see Walter believed he was beyond any assistance, befouled in a way that could never be made clean.

He shied away from the touch of any of the nurses, Sybil most especially, though he forced himself to be tended.

He ate little, crumbling rolls with his barely functional left hand, the right still bandaged. It wasn’t clear if another surgery would restore even the least function there, old Clarkson preferring to wait and see how Walter did overall, putting on weight, expressing any interest in getting out of the ward they’d made of a drawing room.

He liked music, better if it came from another room. He’d finish his cup of tea if Thomas stirred in another lump of sugar but left it black. He frowned whenever anyone mentioned his famous poem and never asked for the journal and pencil Sybil brought when she discovered he was a writer. He didn’t hate the Germans, never called them Huns.

He never wanted to re-read the letters he was sent from home.

Thomas didn’t exactly hang about, but he knew how to be present when he was needed. It was a skill that had helped him advance in service, though Carson frequently gave him his version of a dirty look if he noticed him lurking in a manner unbecoming an under-butler.

Thomas wore his uniform, was caring for sick men, doing the heavy work that only the oldest and toughest of the nurses undertook.

He ignored Carson.

He paid attention to Walter.

The man had turned Sybil away when she offered to write another letter home for him, to his younger sister or his mother. Walter had smiled and thanked her and declined, with such grace Sybil walked away glowing, as if he’d granted her dearest wish.

Thomas knew this was his time to come round. That Walter would want to talk but only to someone who could understand.

"She writes a fair hand," Walter said, his voice rough, the words picked out slowly, his grey eyes trained on the man in front of him. The letter in his hand was a distant afterthought. "But they won't be satisfied until it's me writing them, Barrow. They won't ever be satisfied."

He began to turn his face away when Thomas spoke.

“No, I don’t suppose they ever will be. But you might be, Blythe. You might.”

“Not much like home,” Thomas said. He’d wheeled Walter out to the gardens, the prospect of fresh air alleged to tempt the men back to health. He’d not seen it make much difference and Nichols had wept and screamed to be brought back inside, but Mrs. Crawley kept fussing about it and he’d welcomed the chance for some conversation that couldn’t be overheard by a nurse or Carson. Walter had acquiesced because he did that and because Thomas had volunteered to manage his chair.

Now they sat together in the sunshine, a blanket over Walter’s lap, the sky a perfect blue. An idyll of a sort. Their sort.

“Not very. Beautiful but not like the Glen. Nor Rainbow Valley,” he said.

“What’s Rainbow Valley?” Thomas asked. Once he would have sounded snide or mocking but today, Walter looking across the manicured grounds, something almost like a smile on his lips, Thomas only wanted to hear more.

“The woods behind Ingleside. Where I grew up. We had the run of it. I knew every tree there,” Walter said.

“On your own, were you?”

“Sometimes. Jem and I, he’s my older brother, we’d staked out our favorite spots, but we let the others come along. Jerry and Carl, Shirley, and the girls—Nan and Di, Faith. Una. But I went alone too. That’s where I wrote, most often,” Walter said. He had a big family and a number of friends, all of them happy and hale, a cheerful father who never laid a hand on them. A mother they all worshipped, who came to them in the night when they were ill or scared. A far cry from Thomas’s childhood but he didn’t find any envy within himself when Walter spoke of them.

Walter didn’t want to go home.

“Poetry, right?” Thomas said. “What you wrote.”

“You could call it that,” Walter said, making the gesture that was now his version of a shrug.

“You don’t?”

“What did I know of the world, Barrow? I don’t think I could ever read what I wrote then,” Walter said. “It’s all bloody fucking pretty nonsense—”

“Maybe you were just young,” Thomas said. Walter’s eyes had a frantic look of a man about to break down. Thomas reached over, touched Walter’s arm where it rested on the chair.

“I was young,” Walter said. “I dreamed such dreams. And now I can’t remember them without wanting to be sick.”

“That passes,” Thomas said.

“You sound so certain,” Walter replied.

“I’ve got to be,” Thomas said. A confession.

“It’s that way, then?” Walter asked.

“Just so,” Thomas answered.

“She’s got a face like a flower,” Walter said as Sybil walked across the room. Thomas had come over to tell her the Earl was asking for her, but it had been an excuse. A poor one, far weaker than anything he would have allowed himself before the War. Walter kept watching Sybil. Thomas felt his gorge rise.

“Thought you said you weren’t a poet anymore,” Thomas remarked.

“That’s not poetry,” Walter said. “It’s an observation any man here would make.”

“Not the way you made it,” Thomas said flatly.

“Is it an argument you want, Barrow?” Walter said. There was something in the way he said want, the way he said Barrow, something direct and stunning. It was irresistible.

“It’s what I can get,” he said.

There was a curious expression in Walter’s grey eyes that could never have been there before the trenches. Thomas suspected it had been there when Walter led the charge at Courcelette. When he hadn’t expected to return to the world.

“So sure,” he said softly. “So wrong.”

“Seems to me you’re arguing with me right now, Blythe,” Thomas said.

“I’m not arguing. I’m observing,” Walter said.

“Safer that way, isn’t it?” Thomas replied, giving them both an out. He looked down at his feet, the uneven shine on his boots. His hands resting on his thighs, the bandage around the maimed one. His ticket home, he’d thought it, before he got back to Downton and realized there wasn’t any leaving, only trying to find someone who was caught in the same way. Who cared, who could see a flower and turn away from its loveliness.

“Nothing’s safe. Not anymore,” Walter said. “Maybe it never was and I was just pretending—”

“Maybe you think too much,” Thomas said.

“What else do I have to do?” Walter said.

“Ask for me,” Thomas heard himself say. He was shocked by the words, uttered aloud, a secret. A wish.

“I shall keep that in mind,” Walter said.

Walter wasn’t getting any better.

That was Clarkson’s diagnosis, not Thomas’s, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t disagree with the man. Sybil, external optimist, pointed out that Corporal Blythe was able to stay awake for longer periods and had not turned away a meal in a week, and they all nodded, because those things were true.

They didn’t signify, not when it came to Walter’s progress. They were exhausting what could be done for him at Downton. Had done, except that no one liked to disappoint Sybil and there hadn’t been an urgent need for an empty bed. It couldn’t last.

“I’m an old crock, aren’t I, Barrow?” Walter said, not bitterly.

“If you exerted yourself more—”

“I have done. It’s no use,” Walter said. He smiled, his unmarked face terribly handsome, his hair in need of a cut. He’d begun to go grey, not only at the temples but scattered throughout. “I shan’t write again and I think I must become accustomed to this chair.”

“You’d put yourself in a grave if you could,” Thomas snapped.

“Yes. I think you’re right about that,” Walter said. “But I won’t do anything…foolish. I’m not capable of it. Just of being a fool, sickening on my folly—”

“Are you quoting someone again? Remember, that’s wasted on me,” Thomas said.

“No. A flight of fancy, a glimpse of Walter-Before. I told you, you wouldn’t care for him.”

Thomas turned and faced Walter directly. It was a rare gesture; most often Thomas was off to the side, pushing the chair, engaged in some work. Watching Walter across a room, obliquely. Concealed.

“You’ve got to try,” he said. “Else—”

The pause was long, long enough for another conversation to fill it, one of exhortation and coaxing, reassurance and even, possibly, declaration.

“Time has been friend to neither of us,” Walter finally said. He knew about Thomas’s father the clockmaker and Thomas’s War. He knew that men at Downton didn’t go back to the Front, but they didn’t stay longer than a few months. They went to Glenside or Allison Court. Or they were sent home.

“If you’d only try, Blythe,” Thomas said.

“Get me a pencil then,” Walter replied. “I need to be able to write my own letters.”

“Dear Thomas,

I find I cannot address you here as Barrow, though it was all that I called you at Downton Abbey. I will admit it was not the only way I thought of you by the end of my time there and I hope you don’t find that presumptuous, nor this letter. You did tell me to try and look where that’s landed me.

Oxford, as you must know from the envelope, if not through some other channel. I imagine Mrs. Crawley might have mentioned what became of poor Corporal Blythe. She is a kind lady, but she very much reminds me of a family friend, a Mrs. Rachel Lynde, who is famous for her forceful opinions and her determination to keep tabs on anyone who has ever crossed her path. Mrs. Crawley is perhaps a generation younger, but made in the same mold. If she is not quite as well-informed as Mrs. Rachel, I’ll explain what happened.

I couldn’t go home.

It was not only the risk of the ship being sunk in the crossing, nor the difficulty my limited mobility posed, nor the expense my family might incur trying to make the trip comfortable and me even more a ruined crock dependent on their management and pocket-book. (I must inform you that writing a celebrated war-poem doesn’t yield any significant financial success and you have a good idea of what’s found in a corporal’s pay-packet.) I couldn’t make the journey and then arrive at the train station in the Glen, my family and all their closest friends and half the town lined up, scrubbed and dressed as if for a wedding, flowers and Susan’s best cake waiting for me at Ingleside. I couldn’t make my way off that train and face them, knowing what I know, being who I am now. And even less could I have faced every day thereafter, the praise and reassurance and consolation, their pride and their poorly concealed pity, the guilt in my father’s eyes, the gratitude in my mother’s. Of everyone, I could only imagine Una Meredith greeting me and not making me feel like a monster and as much as I love them all, I have to live with myself.

I left university to enlist and I need the chair more than you think I ought and I can’t expect my father to put me up in a London flat to molder, but I am a well-regarded poet of no little renown, at least at this moment, when all the better poets are trying to escape being gassed or shot, so I wrote to Oxford and they agreed to let me come and finish my degree and very likely become one of those Oxford dons who is never without their gown. A gown hides a multitude of injuries, I’ve discovered, from those around you and sometimes from you yourself, and when I cannot think of how to turn the page, I can pleat the Russell cord with my good hand and pay attention only to the texture of the material. It helps a little.

Other things do as well. The town is so very beautiful and so different from the Glen and the Front. It is a place that does well with ghosts, so the relative absence of young men isn’t felt quite so much, and the smell of the stone and the old books is a tonic. It can be hard to get around, but that’s true for many of the elderly professors. The tea is not as as well-brewed as Mrs. Patmore’s but that was to be expected. My coursework occupies me, the distance of the past a balm. I believe if I could study the people here before the Druids, I’d find that even more comforting, but allegory and mysticism suit me well. I’ve begun to learn Old English and if I can’t find it within myself to write poetry, I can at least appreciate those old works and take respite there.

You must be frowning at my nonsense or wishing I’d written something more practical. I couldn’t blame you—I don’t, Thomas. I miss you, that expression in your blue eyes and the curl of your lip, your calm, your sense of shadows. I should have asked any number of questions before I left Downton Abbey, but I didn’t, so I must ask them now and hope for the best. I have no idea what leave you are entitled to and how you choose to use yours; I know you don’t have the same rapport with your sister as I had with mine, but I don’t know if you have friends you’d visit or prefer to travel to London and escape the country. I don’t know if you would want to come and see me but I would like it, very much. I could promise not to ramble on too much about old manuscripts or interrogate you about Dr. Clarkson and la belle dame Lady Mary. We might go punting on the Cherwell, though you’d have to do the work while I regaled you from a position of repose, or I could stand you a pint or three at the King’s Arms. The porter for my hall is rather a friend of mine and would find a camp-bed if I asked, so you needn’t fret about finding lodgings. It would be just as you like, for as long as you like.

You told me once to ask for you. And now, Thomas, I have. Will you come?

Walter.”

@tortoisesshells gave me "my Heart -- my Eye outweighs" as a fic I wouldn't write but then I did write it, though I renamed it.

#anne of green gables #downton abbey #aogg #aogg x downton abbey crossover au #wwi #walter blythe #thomas barrow #sybil crawley #tw: trauma #hurt/comfort #love letter #mary/matthew #angst #walter survives courcelette

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