#because i love spitalfields so much and have such happy memories there

[scapegrace74-blog]

Halo

A/N Today the Metric Universe has a guest artist: Depeche Mode!  This story takes place soon after Help! I’m Alive, which is going to require some creative liberties on my part.  Depeche Mode did play London Stadium to a sold-out crowd (one of eight bands to ever do so), but in June 2017, not September.  

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page. 

The song by Depeche Mode that inspired the title is here. Teenage Michelle listed to Violator on repeat, just like Claire and Jamie.  

September 21, 2017, Spitalfields, England

Jamie’s patrol boots felt like concrete weights about his feet as he plodded down the hallway towards his flat.  Most days, he loved his job.  It filled a psychic need to contribute meaningfully to society and provided a loose camaraderie that acted as a substitute family.  Physically and mentally taxing, on a bad day like today, it left him feeling wrung out and far older than his twenty-seven years.  All that kept him moving was force of habit and the promise of a glass of whisky, a long shower and a comfortable bed.

A steady thump of bass throbbed from behind his door.  Frowning, he fit the key in the lock and walked into a wall of sound.  Claire was nowhere to be seen, but her iPhone sat on the coffee table, wirelessly connected to the tele’s surround sound system.  He tapped the screen once and lowered the volume significantly.

The sudden lull drew his roommate from the kitchen, where she’d evidently been cleaning.  She was wearing a tattered pair of jogging pants, a plain white tshirt and rubber gloves.  Corkscrews of sweaty hair stuck to her temples.

“Jamie, hi.  Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Understandable.   Depeche Mode, Sassenach?”

Her lips curled in a shape he knew was supposed to be a grin.  Something was missing, however.  A spark, a hint of magic, the ineffable quality he associated with Claire.

“Are ye alright, Claire?  Ye seem... I dinna ken, but not yerself,” he inquired as he opened the liquor cabinet.  Raising a nearly full bottle of Glenfiddich in silent query, he set about pouring two healthy glasses.  When they met back at the sofa, Claire had removed her cleaning attire and tried to arrange her hair in a slightly neater bun.

“I could ask the same of you,” she countered.  “You look done in.  Rough day?  Cheers,” she added, raising the amber liquid.

“Slainte,” he replied, letting the spicy heat coat his throat and settle like an ember in his belly.

“Do you ever...” Claire began before subsiding into silence.

“Do I ever what?” he urged.

“Some days I just feel as though no matter what I do, the cosmic ledger is not going to balance, you know?  That there isn’t enough good in me to balance out all the bad.”

He forced himself to mutely accept her statement, no matter how much he wanted to dispute it.  She was exposing a chink in her formidable armour.  His job was to listen, not debate.  He couldn’t help wanting to peer past the small opening to the burning core within, though.

“I loved this album as a lad,” he offered instead.  “Dark an’ moody an’ all about sex. My Mam hated Personal Jesus, complained twas blasphemous.”

Claire chuckled softly.  She was looking at a point over his shoulder, visibly straining to reach some buried emotion.

“When things got horrific at Camp Bastion, the surgeons would listen to music, ridiculously loud music.  Artillery fire, evac choppers, the wails of wounded soldiers, it drowned them all out.  Or at least that was the idea.  The camp only had an old portable stereo on its last legs, held together with suture wire.  By the end of my year, Violator was the only tape that fucking thing hadn’t eaten.  This is the soundtrack of the worst moments of my life.”

He could have asked why she would want to relive that personal hell, but he already knew the answer.  It was the same reason he still rushed into a burning building, even as the memory of his accident played havoc with his PTSD.  Survival was an act of redemption.  You fought your demons because if you didn’t, the demons had already won.

They sat beside each other on the sofa listening to the melancholy songs on repeat.  When her glass was empty, Jamie poured another two fingers unprompted.  He didn’t ask what happened during her hospital shift to send her thoughts back to Afghanistan.  He could guess.   She didn’t ask why his uniform smelled of ashes and burnt flesh.  She could guess.   Sometimes the hurt didn’t need to be articulated.  Sometimes silent complicity was the only cure.

***

October 20, 2017, London Stadium, England

She’d almost missed the envelope entirely.   Bleary eyed after an overnight shift, her plan was to sleep through the rest of the day and wake up tomorrow in her thirties.  Checking the surface of her desk for mail out of habit on her way to the shower, Jamie’s bold scrawl, black across ivory paper, caught her eye.

Happy Birthday, Claire.

Her finger shook as she unsealed the feather-light rectangle.  A ticket stub was the only content.  Her hand covered her mouth as she drew in a quivering lungful of air.  She had no idea how he even knew it was her birthday, never mind how he happened upon the perfect gift.

After a rejuvenating nap, shower and thirty minutes trying on every outfit in her wardrobe, she now stood in an endless security lineup in the hulking shadow of London Stadium.  A soft brush against her bare shoulder and a hint of his familiar scent were the cues that sent her heart beating against her ribs.  She looked up into the sunrise of his warmest smile.

“G’d evenin’, Sassenach,” he greeted.  “Fancy meetin’ ye here.”

She shook her head in mock exasperation.

“Really, Jamie.  I can’t believe you.  How ever did you even get tickets?  It’s been sold out for months.”

“Och, twas nothin’.  The sister of one of the lads on my engine works fer their record label,” he demurred, running a hand through his curls.   She could see they were still damp.  He must have showered at the station and come straight from work.  The bright floodlights caught the blond tones of the stubble along his jaw.  She looked away, feeling a lurch in her stomach that had nothing to do with missing dinner.

They chatted easily as they slowly advanced through the metal detectors and into the colossal stadium.

“I’ve never been inside,” she remarked, craning her head upwards.  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“Aye, tis.  This way, birthday girl.  We’re on the floor.”  Jamie extended a courtly arm and shepherded her into the steadily growing crowd.

At concerts in her youth, she always started near the stage but was gradually pushed backwards by larger, rowdier fans.  It took several songs for her to realize why that wasn’t happening.  Jamie had planted himself directly behind her and was acting like a breakwater, parting the crowd with his tall, broad form before they could push up against her.   She felt something vigilant loosen along her spine.  Before long, she was dancing and singing along, completely lost in the moment.

Looking up over her shoulder at his proud, chiseled features as they were washed in multi-hued lights, she caught his eye and smiled.  He bent close, his warm breath feathering her hair as he whisper-yelled into her ear.

“Happy birthday, Sassenach.”

Impulsively, she stood on tiptoe and placed a careful kiss near the corner of his mouth.  Lying in bed that night with the echo of the music still ringing in her ears, it was the memory of his shyly delighted grin that lit her mind like a thousand stars.

#my stories #outlander

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

New Fic!!

Honey For The Bees

A gift fic for my dear @giishu ! Based on late night conversations about fancasts, post-Wayward Son Simon and Baz, bee necklaces, and communication issues. I promised you something like this a while ago, my friend—better late than never?

Summary: It's not been quite a year since their trip to America but Simon and Baz are in a much better place as far as things are concerned, particularly their relationship. A morning trip to the market sparks some good memories for Simon but inadvertently sets in motion some angsty thought spirals for Baz. A Saturday morning set in the spring after Wayward Son, with moments of misunderstanding, but far more capability to talk things out than they've ever had before.

Simon

I like to come down to the Spitalfields market on weekends. To grab fresh falafel wraps and Thai fruit tea for myself. Decadent donuts for Baz, what with that insatiable sweet tooth of his.

And I could use the exercise–it’s the first sunny day we’ve had in weeks and I don’t mind getting out of the flat for a bit.

Penny’s holed up in her room, cramming for finals. Said she’d been up all night but the pillowcase creases on her face argued against that, I’d say. She’s a bit wound up about it all. I’m glad she got some sleep.

I promised to bring her a chai if she spelled my wings away.

I’m only taking two classes this spring term, so I’m not as spun up as she is. I’ve stayed on top of my work. It helps having Baz come over to study at our place most nights. It’s distracting as hell but he’s such a swot he won’t actually let me get side-tracked. He raps on the table with a “ focus now, Simon, or we’ll be here all night” and puts his work aside to run through my lecture notes with me. Baz can make anything sound interesting.

Merlin, I love him.

I always know we’re done for the night when he raises that eyebrow of his and gives me one of those long, cool looks that does nothing but get me all hot and bothered (he knows it too, the insufferable prat), and then starts to put his laptop away. “Time for a break, Simon.”

That’s usually when Penny snorts and says something rude, if she’s at the kitchen table with us, then escapes to her room with an eye roll and a put-upon sigh. I’ve caught her winking at Baz as she goes though, so I know it’s all just for show.

I don’t let it get to me. I know she’s almost as happy to have him around as I am.

I don’t object to her hiding out in her room, mind you. Study breaks with Baz involve a lot of snogging and I’m not about to complain about that.

And lately, more often than not, they involve Baz spending the night.

In the months since we’ve been back from America we’ve been working up to it, little by little. Back to Baz spending the night. To me holding him in my arms as I fall asleep. To late night kisses and morning breath ones too. To the comforting sensation of his back against my chest and my arm wrapped around his waist, face buried in the silky waves of his hair.

My hand splayed over his chest, feeling the slow, steady thrum of his heart.

The slide of our mouths, the firm grip of his hands on my hips, those elegant fingers finding their way down . . . fuck, I can’t be thinking of that now. Not in the middle of a bloody Saturday morning market.

Baz spent the night at his place last night, working on a group project. Probably why I can’t keep my mind off the thought of him this morning.

I missed him.

I shake my head and shove my hands in my pockets. I’ve got to keep my wits about me. Donovan’s will run out of those Nutella donuts he’s so fond of, if I don’t hurry.

It’s when I’m leaving—my belly full of crusty falafel, Penny’s chai in one hand and the box of donuts in the other—that I see the little stall to the side. I’m not sure why I stop. I don’t usually look at much other than food, not unless Penny or Baz are with me.

But something’s caught my eye. The shape of the pendant hanging at eye level.

It’s a miniature bee, exquisitely crafted in a warm, gold-toned metal, wings caught midair. It makes me think of the fat bees on Baz’s shirt—the one he was wearing the first time I saw him wrap his mother’s scarf over his hair, when we were in America. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sight, not even when I’m a cranky old codger in a care home.

I wish I had a photograph of it.

The pendant is small but surprisingly detailed, set on a chain that looks sturdy enough for the likes of me.

I don’t think about it much anymore, the cross I used to wear. It’s in a box, tucked away at the bottom of my dresser. Baz wouldn’t let me get rid of it. Said relics shouldn’t be binned. That’s not the real reason he wanted me to keep it around. I know I won’t ever need it, not with him. But if it makes him feel better knowing it’s there, I can live with that.

I touch a finger to the bee. The vendor eyes me, a questioning look on his face.

“How much?”

“Fifteen quid.”

That’s not bad. I can manage it.

Having only two classes leaves me with a fair bit of time on my hands. Baz signed me up for some sessions at this martial arts studio—it’s run by someone Fiona knows from her herbalist days, so they’re not so fussed about my dragon bits, so to speak. I took a few classes last term and now I help out there. Get paid for it too.

I tap the bee pendant, making it swing. Makes it almost seem as if it’s flying.

“I’ll take it.”

“You want it in a box, have it look nice?”

“No, I’ll just wear it.”

I put Penny’s chai and the donuts down at the edge of his display table and hand over the money. The chain’s long enough that I can slip it over my head and tuck it under my hoodie and shirt. The motion comes so naturally still, the almost-not-there weight of it on my chest deeply familiar.

My cross used to make me think of Baz. I’d think about why I was wearing it, think about him being a vampire, think about all the things that made me so obsessed with him, not understanding any of the impulses simmering beneath the surface.

This makes me think of the noonday sun glinting off those huge sunglasses of his, the tilt of his head as he adjusted that blue scarf, the smoothness of his shirt in my hands as I pressed him against the car.

Yeah, this is a hell of a lot better.

Penny’s taken over the entire coffee table when I get home, laptop in front of her as she leans against the sofa, books and notebooks and papers scattered around in piles.

Baz is curled up on the far end of the sofa, sock-clad feet just behind Penny, his laptop balanced on a cushion resting on his thighs.

He looks up when I walk in. Probably heard me scrabbling with my keys, what with those super senses of his.The smile that comes over his face is instant, lips curving up, eyes wide and happy.

Not guarded. Not questioning. Not even a glimmer of that wistfulness he’d try so hard to hide. Fuck, it’s good to see that. Just reminds me again how far we’ve come.

I bend down to press a kiss to Baz’s forehead, right on that aristocratic brow of his, as I walk by him on my way to the kitchen.

Yeah. I can do that now.

Baz’s eyes close and he leans into it every time. I love that even more.

I set Penny’s chai on the kitchen counter. There’s no safe space on the coffee table, not the way she’s got things piled everywhere.

I've just set the donuts on a plate when I feel Baz’s arms slide around my waist and the weight of his chin on my shoulder.

I lean back against his chest.

I can do this now too.

“You caught a whiff of the Nutella, didn’t you, you tosser. I was going to bring you a plate.”

Baz turns his head and brushes his lips over the edge of my hoodie, breathing his words into my skin. “I’d rather stay in here.”

I turn in his arms and then it’s him snogging me against the counter until Penny comes in search of her chai.

“Nicks and Slicks, how many times must I tell you two, not in the kitchen! You have plenty of places, not to mention a room of your own to defile, Simon.”

I attempt to disentangle myself from Baz’s embrace but he keeps his arm firmly wrapped around my waist, so I may as well just lean into him. “Why are you yelling at me, Pen? Baz is the one who followed me in here.”

“Traitor,” Baz says and slides his cool fingertips under my hoodie and shirt to pinch my waist.

I used to be sensitive about that too, but the martial arts sessions have me back into near fighting form again.

Baz has this way of running his hands along my sides. A way of resting his head on my belly and nuzzling his cheek against the roundness there that feels positively worshipful, so I can’t really let myself get fussed about it.

Well, I mean, I do get fussed about it, in a totally turned the fuck on kind of way.

Which I don’t need to be, in the middle of the kitchen, with Penny glaring at me.

I hold out the plate I’d put together before Baz distracted me. “Have a donut?”

She frowns.

“Go ahead and have one, Bunce. Simon doesn’t believe in defiling food--it’s far too wasteful.” Baz plucks a donut from the top of the pile. “They’re Donovan’s Nutella. It’s a crime to even profane them with your thoughts.”

It should be criminal to look so sexy eating a fucking donut. The way Baz licks that trace of filling from the corner of his mouth is positively pornographic.

Penny takes a donut and glares at me again. “Ugh, Simon, keep your eyes in your head.” She takes a bite, chews, swallows, and then apparently decides she’s not done giving me shit. “I never thought we’d find anything to divert your attention when there’s food around, but apparently I was wrong.”

She winks at Baz, which is completely unfair.

Because now he’s blushing a bit and blushing Baz is even harder to resist than Baz with chocolate hazelnut spread dotting his lips.

Except he’s just taken another bite of his donut, so now it’s both, and I can’t be faulted for leaning in to lick it off his lower lip which ends up with me giving him a bit of a chocolate laced snog.

“That’s it, I’m out,” Penny says, taking the rest of her donut and hightailing it out of the kitchen. “Refrain from doing unsanitary things on the counters!”

“Merlin, Penny!” I can feel my face heat up.

“Duly noted, Bunce.”

Baz rests his forehead against mine. I trace my finger down the buttons of his shirt, letting my hand rest against his stomach, gently rubbing circles there. I know he likes that.

“You are an absolute menace, Simon Snow. Seducing me in full view of Bunce, with donuts and chocolate kisses.”

I slip my fingers between the buttons of his shirt, his skin cool against them. He likes that too.

And I like that intake of breath that comes from him when I do.

“No one should be seducing a vampire in our kitchen!” Penny shouts from the other room. “Common decency in common spaces!”

“For Crowley’s sake,” Baz growls. He takes a step back and adjusts his shirt, face still a shade brighter than usual.

I did that. It’s a heady sensation every time. That he wants me and this is real.

That we’ve made it.

“Are you going to have a donut, or are these all for me?” Baz plucks another donut from the plate and proceeds to lick sugar from the top of it, just to drive me mad, the wanker.

“Dream on.” Two can play at this game and even though I had falafel at the market I can never say no to a donut.

Particularly when I can fuck with Baz while I eat it.

I stare right at him as I slowly lick at the sugar topping. His eyes widen. Good . I take a bite, chew it ever so slowly, swallow. His eyes immediately go to my throat before darting back up.

I hollow my cheeks as I suck some of the filling out.

“Fucking hell, Simon!” He’s on me, pulling me to him by my belt loops. He takes a bite of the bit of donut that’s nearest him, sugar crystals catching on his lips as he does and sending more of the filling my way.

And now we’re reenacting that scene from Lady and The Tramp with this fucking donut.

Read the rest here at Ao3!!

#carry on #baz pitch #simon snow #wayward son #my writing #my fic #belated birthday fic #photos from joshjo on insta #avan jogia on insta #old spitalfields market #donovans donuts

[dulwichdiverter]

Sustainable style

We-Resonate is described as a sustainable alternative to commercial fashion. Founder Lizzie Clark tells us more

By Katie Allen; Photo by Alexander McBride Wilson

Finding that one-of-a-kind outfit just got a lot easier thanks to Lizzie Clark. The East Dulwich resident is founder of We-Resonate, a new ethical clothing brand that creates unique dresses and tops from vintage silk scarves.

Beautiful as these garments are – Lizzie describes them as “affordable luxury” – she is keen to emphasise that they are wearable for any occasion, from the office to evening events to weddings. Each dress is based upon the same fluid slip style and is flattering to every figure.

A former print designer for Alexander McQueen’s McQ diffusion line, Lizzie says the shape is “really easy” to wear. “It’s meant to be inserted quite easily into a woman’s wardrobe – you can style it with T-shirts, with shirts, blouses, over trousers,” she explains.

A couture seamstress based in Dulwich makes up each garment from Lizzie’s eye-catching original “composition” of vintage silk pieces.

“She’s an amazing seamstress, she’s been working in couture for 10 to 15 years, and it takes her four hours to make a long dress. That sounds quite time-consuming, but it’s because she’s working with silk. It’s such a difficult fabric to work with, and she does it meticulously.”

The key to these covetable, zero-waste garments is Lizzie’s eye for vintage prints and materials. “I start by sourcing the scarves,” she says. “I’ve learned the silks I can use, which aren’t too see-through, will wear well and are the right colours.

“I kind of go with my instinct – I think that’s what I’ve learned throughout my career. I pick them out, get them home, lay them out and group them into colours or just stories.

“I have to engineer the pattern shape around the fabrics, where they’ve worn – like if there are little holes or where the hem’s frayed a little bit. But [using the scarves] salvages a print that might otherwise be lost.”

Lizzie sources the scarves from all around London, at spots including Little Sister in Peckham’s Holdron’s Arcade, Portobello Market, Spitalfields and Hackney, in addition to the famous vintage shops of Paris.

Taking inspiration from vintage scarves has been a key part of her career. She was brought up in Hertfordshire, then “grew up on a beach” on the south coast where her family moved when she was 11.

“I’ve always been artistic,” she says. “I went into art foundation and then university at Winchester School of Art, doing print design. I did an internship with McQueen in my second year.

“My dream was always to work for Alexander McQueen. You read all these books that say if you have a mission in life and you project it, you’ll make it happen. I turned up at McQueen’s doorstep on my first day and I was like, ‘Oh my God, I’ve made it. I can’t believe it!’ [His] aesthetic always resonated with me.”

After her degree she worked as a freelancer “from her “parents’ dining room”, hand-painting silk designs to sell to the industry. After a year, she had the opportunity to move to New York as a scarf designer. She jokes that at the time, she wondered, “‘Who wears silk scarves?’ I’d be working for hours on this beautiful print for someone to tie it around their neck, so you couldn’t see it.”

Love and family brought her back to UK, where she continued to freelance, and then she got the job as print designer, later senior print designer, at McQ. The label was set up by Alexander McQueen as a punky, avant-garde sister brand to his couture collections.

It was not long after the great designer’s death and she worked under Sarah Burton, who famously designed the Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding dress.

Then Lizzie had her baby Elsie and while on maternity leave, she came up with the idea of using the vintage collections that McQ used for inspiration to create a mini collection of unique garments. The idea proved too difficult to produce commercially, but a seed was sown. “We didn’t go ahead, and I thought, ‘Let’s do this myself.’”

Lizzie didn’t return to McQ after her maternity leave, and developed We-Resonate out of that original idea.

The name she says was chosen because “clothing and everything we buy and have in our lives should resonate with us. It should make us feel that sense of memory, joy or just an enjoyable emotion linked with an experience. We-Resonate has such a story behind it: a depth that when you find out more about a particular dress, it will resonate with you.”

Ethics are the cornerstone of the brand. She had watched a number of documentaries about the environmental damage and human exploitation caused by the fashion industry; including 2015 film The True Cost.

“That’s what made this happen,” she says. “As a mother, your emotions are quite highly tuned anyway, and after I watched that film, I was like, ‘I’ve got to do something about this.’

“People always say, ‘Are there enough scarves, is it scalable?’ There are tonnes! Do you know how much stuff has been produced over the past 50 years? It’ll keep us going forever.

“That’s the point of me using no new materials. I need to answer the sustainability problem. I’m a fashion designer [but] I just can’t bear to make anything new. I just can’t do it.”

Her typical customer, she believes, is “the woman who is very time-poor but thought-rich”. She adds: “She doesn’t have time to do her own research. She wants really great style, really easily, but she’s also started to look for fashion that’s more authentic, has more integrity.

“There are a lot of women who appreciate [vintage], but find it hard to buy. They can’t find the right size, they want more of a contemporary feel. I feel like I’m exactly that. We-Resonate is vintage fabrics but in a really contemporary new shape. It’s meant to be really easy to wear, really relaxed, a bit nonchalant – that vibe.”

She laughs, but her mission to combat over-consumption is serious. “We’ve got to change the way that that people shop. Do you remember when you were younger, you would say, ‘Let’s go shopping for my birthday’? Shopping shouldn’t be a hobby, an interest. Going surfing, or painting – that’s a hobby.”

She believes that the only way to really spread the message of sustainable dressing – in the same way the general public is beginning to embrace ideas such as checking the source of their food or avoiding plastic waste – is through “one-to-one talking”.

“It’s having those conversations with people. Angry, hard-hitting [messaging] is not the way. There’s a great website called What’s Your Legacy, which makes [sustainable living] really cool and beautiful. That’s the way: we’ve got to make it the irresistible choice.”

She has founded a collective, We-R, as part of the We-Resonate brand to spread the word further. It currently exists as a series of interviews with different women on her website and “how they’re not necessarily knowingly living more sustainably, [it’s just about] different ways women live and love fashion and have style.

“The whole point of this business was to make sustainability more accessible and to promote it and make it cooler. And the only way to do that is one-on-one – influencing your friends and influencing the people you meet.”

Her five-year plan for the business is to become “more like a lifestyle brand” and to “have more of a community hub”. She is considering the idea of renting the dresses out as part of a swap-shop.

“It’s funny, since I’ve started selling [I’ve discovered that] making new products isn’t just the answer. Replacing a commercial product with an ethical product – that isn’t the end goal here. The idea is that our lives become more considered and conscious.”

Living in East Dulwich, where she has been based for four years, is key to her business and creativity in general. “I originally lived in Greenwich,” she says. “I lived above Starbucks next to the Cutty Sark.

“It was so busy at the weekends, I really wanted a community, somewhere that was less touristy, somewhere more residential. I wanted to live somewhere where I could hear the birds sing, not people yelling.”

The local area and people have contributed more directly to We-Resonate too. She shot the look-book with a group of friends and fellow mums in Watson’s General Telegraph on Forest Hill Road. “The photographer was a mum, the model was a mum, all local, and we had the best day.”

She loves East Dulwich for its relaxed feel. “When we first came to East Dulwich, it had that sense that you’re not actually in London, but at the same time you’re right next to Peckham, which is so vibrant in its culture.

“It seemed like the perfect balance of somewhere to live and a place where I would be very happy to bring up children, but where I could also satisfy my inner creative spirit.”