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thesimplyluxuriouslife · 2 years

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329: 20 Life Lessons Learned on My Recent Trip to England

To feel intrinsically connected with a culture other than the one you were raised involves the feeling of a coming home. A 'coming home' in a way that seems impossible until you feel it first-hand, deep in the marrow of your bones. As I share in detail in the introduction of the month of May in my new book The Road to Le Papillon: Daily Meditations on True Contentment, my first trip and time spent in the English countryside spoke to my inner most true self in a way I didn't expect, but completely understood.

Spending only, but entirely, four days in north Devon in a country home aloft the hills overlooking the Bristol Channel without another house in sight, I went about my everydays as I would if I were at home in Bend. And it was pure bliss. All in my own company, and not for a moment did I feel lonely. Quite the opposite in fact. I felt enriched, I felt soothed, I felt, finally, in so many ways I had not felt entirely before, at home.

Brené Brown writes in Braving The Wilderness: The Quest for Belonging and the Courage to Stand Alone that a feeling of loneliness stems from spending time in places and with people "that don't feel alive with connection". She continues to share neuroscience researcher John Cacioppo of the University of Chicago's definition of loneliness which is 'perceived social isolation' . . . "when we feel disconnected" the latter Brown's paraphrasing. While reading these words recently, it made all the more sense to me why I feel so wonderfully alive even, and perhaps especially, when I am in my own company while traveling both to France and Britain, and then as well when I return and am spending time, my everydays, at Le Papillon, a sanctuary that was customized to welcome both cultures into my everyday life, a home I share with no other human, but of course my pups, and the birds and animals and plants that hold my attention, fascinate and delight me and visit or bloom when consistent, thoughtful care is given.

Equally so, to further acknowledge the truth in Brown's discoveries, I can feel lonely when I am spending time with people who or am in an environment that lacks a curiosity or appreciation, or at the very least a respect, for a culture I am so fond of and grateful to have found. Unconsciously I have known my own company is quite sweet as I give myself permission to follow my curiosities without judgment, to explore, wander and learn; conversely, my loneliest days have been spent with other people - whether in relationships of all different natures and/or spending time (and in this case I do use the term spending) that indirectly or directly deny or dissuade me from celebrating the life I love living, the life that truly nurtures me to be fully Shannon.

Returning to England this past April was life lifting. Noting not having visited since 2017, which I didn't realize consciously is nearly 5 years, ended a drought of British culture seen with my own eyes that I needed more than I realized. It was a figurative deep breath of fresh air that upon taking in, immediately brought a smile to my face and a calm to my being. While I didn't spend my time as I most enjoy for most of my days when I am in England, which is to rent a vacation rental out in the countryside and go about many days just savoring the everyday routines and visiting an occasional destination of interest, I was in Britain, and that was all that mattered. I saw places and spent time partaking in activities that further introduced a culture to me I had not done before, and for that I am grateful.

In today's episode/post, I'd like to share with you 20 Life Lessons learned during these 3 1/2 days in Britain - both in London and in Kent as we took a train ride out to the southeast countryside of England and spent the night as we were intent to visit Sissinghurst Castle Garden, and oh what a treat that was.

Let's take a look at the list:

~Note, if you tune in to the audio version, I share much more detail about each item on the list. Be sure to check out the podcast wherever you enjoy your favorite shows.

1.Afternoon tea is always a good idea - whether a formal occasion at a special location or at home in your own company

2. Taking a long, hot bath in between day outings and evening plans, accompanied by classical music is restorative and energizing

3. Take the Tube (the Underground) to swiftly and inexpensively move about London

~Purchase your Oyster card to have with you when you arrive in London.

4. Don't wear exposed fine linens on the Tube (under a trench or other coat) to protect from any loose soot that may fall when there

5. Business class is more than worth the price if flying to London from the West Coast of the states or further away.

Please do reach out to me if you are seriously considering a Business Class ticket as I have a travel agent and company who can help find you a quality route and airlines for a fair price.

6. Stepping away from the virtual world regularly strengthens the quality of presence and engagement in the life you have created.

7. The countryside is my jam.

From birdsong, to rolling hills of green fields, peace is found simply standing still or watching it drift by while on the train.

8. Trust what captures your ahh . . .

From tangible items that will a gap in your life, routine, etc., to art, traditions, natural beauty, anything that draws your eye and holds your attention, even if at first you do not know why, hold loosely in your mind and explore what is speaking to you. Do not dismiss it.

9. Have a classic trench that fits your stature and complements your skin tone.

You will wear it in nearly every season - cinched up with a scarf in the winter, left open and layered over the top of your spring or fall outfit, ideal for traveling during the summer for sprucing up your comfy outfit to sit/sleep with ease for a long flight.

10. Whilst in the country, leave windows open at night so as to be gentle awoken by birdsong

Take a Tour of The Pig at Bridge Place: My Recent stay in Canterbury

11. A Chelsea boot is a must for three seasons of outfits

12. Garden, keep gardening, keep learning, keep nourishing your mind and being

13. Make time to visit the theatre when in the city

14. Visit, spend time and enjoy the beauty of the gardens throughout Britain not only for ideas, but for rejuvenation of the mind, eyes and being.

15. An umbrella, find and invest in a quality umbrella (foldable or traditional)

16. Spend time in the countryside

17. Savor the train ride out to the countryside

Grab your favorite daily newspaper, open a book or take a nap, and just appreciate not having to commute as the driver nor having to be alert whilst traveling with fellow train-goers. Saves time, reduces stress and stretches your ability to see more of Britain, because there is so much more than London.

18. Less driving, more walking and connecting

- seeing and being around humanity and nature, consciously choosing a place to live and work that does not require so much time in your vehicle

19. When a moment of calm and comfort is needed, visit a museum and wander, stop and let the art guide you

20. My company, so long as I embrace my true self, is wonderful company whether on my own or with a chosen companion

~Explore all of the posts shared during TSLL's 4th Annual British Week here.

Petit Plaisir

—The Duke, the film based on a true story

~The Simple Sophisticate, episode #329

Tune in to the latest episode of The Simple Sophisticate podcast

#tsllpodcast thesimplesophisticate

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samwxlsxon · 4 years

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worried glances.

summary: You are a tech analyst for the Avengers. After the events of The Winter Soldier, you tracked Bucky down out of curiosity. Your relationship blossomed in secret. Now that Bucky has been arrested by Joint Counter Terrorism, your secret relationship is in jeopardy of being outed.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 4.2k

warnings: language and bad writing if you count that

sidenote: hi! this is my first fic of any kind so if it sucks, i am truly sorry. it is definitely going to have a part 2, but idk how many parts after that?? i hope you guys like it! any feedback is appreciated :))

read part 2 here!

If you could describe Berlin’s Joint Counter Terrorism Centre, hot certainly would not be in your description. The glass walls and empty spaces allowed for easy flow of air. Like any government building, it was surely freezing. It was the middle of summer so the AC was up full blast.

But you were melting. Your face and ears were burning and you were sure you would melt a hole in the metal handles of the doors when you pushed them aside. You were in a sundress and a light jacket, but you felt like a furnace.

You entered the building behind Tony and you couldn’t help the nerves that had overcome your body. A man, who would later introduce himself as Everett Ross, greeted you as soon as you entered.

“Tony Stark,” Ross shook Tony’s hand and acknowledged you as well. “Glad you decided to come to your senses. The Accords are good work.”

Tony rolled his eyes and responded while looking at your distressed form, “Tell that to blondie and his goon of a friend. And to this one over here. Can we get her some water? I don’t need another medical bill.”

As you were led through the glass halls, you tuned out their conversation and focused on the ringing in your ears.

The Accords had everyone on edge. Tony and Steve had obvious tensions and they seemed to have dragged the rest of the team down as well. It started to become obvious whose side you were on when you refused to attend the signing. You had stayed in New York, making adjustments to online data units just to keep your mind off things. You weren’t much for arguing. Besides, you had slightly bigger problems-- problems that involved a criminal with a metal arm.

To say you had curiosity towards the Winter Soldier was an understatement. So much so, that you managed to stick a micro-tracker to his arm during the fight on the highway two years ago. Steve and Sam chastised you for getting involved, but you didn’t care. The nasty black eye the Winter Soldier had given you was deemed worth it now that you had secured his location.

The technology was virtually undetectable-- your creation, of course. You could only notice it if you were looking for it. You knew you needed to keep a tab on him. And when you found out that he was Steve’s long-lost bestie, that only solidified the need to keep him under watch.

But the longer you stared at his location, the more you wanted to find yourself in Bucharest and knock on his door.

You wanted to talk to him, to put the pieces together- to learn about the HYDRA technology he’d seen. It would be a breakthrough. It would finally give the Avengers a boost ahead of the enemy.

You knew Steve would never look your way again if he found out you had this information or if he even knew you were thinking of paying Bucky a visit. But curiosity killed the cat.

So that’s why, a little over a year ago, you showed up on Bucky’s apartment doorstep with a black journal and a nervous smile. You figured you’d give him the journal as a peace offering, hoping that he get some use out of it. You knocked a couple times, but he didn’t even open the door as he told you to go away.

‘So much for hospitality’ you thought. The hot, dry weather made you start to regret wearing jeans. "Um, I don’t know if you remember me,” you crossed your arms and spoke against the door. “But we met in D.C. I’m a friend of Steve’s.”

There was no movement for a couple minutes. Then, you heard clicks coming from the locks and the door creaked open. He stood in front of you with a face that looked far from amused. He looked tired, metal arm mostly covered by a jacket despite the heat. His hair was behind his ears and stubble crept up the sides of his face.

He silently stepped aside, inviting you in. He watched carefully as you entered, shutting and locking the door behind you. The apartment was dark despite the florescent lights hanging from the ceiling. The kitchen area was cluttered with dishes and boxes. The couch was small and the walls were missing chips of paint. The bed on the floor looked like it had seen better days. The apartment looked like someone hadn’t thought of cleaning it for quite some while.

There was a table in the corner next to some shelves and then a singular bathroom. You looked from Bucky to the space. ‘Fitting.’ you thought. At least it matched his style- rugged and confused. You walked further inside and placed the journal on the table, sticking your hands in your pockets.

“What’s that?” he asked gruffly. He eyed the journal and leaned against the front door.

“It’s nothing, really.” You sat down on the chair next to the table and tapped on the cover of the book. “I thought you would like something to write things in. Like the stuff you learn...about yourself, or something.”

The newspaper that covered the windows prevented most light from entering the apartment. The lights on the ceiling were doing minimal to accentuate his features. You really couldn’t tell if he was even showing emotion.

He slowly removed himself from the front door and walked towards you. He was weary to pick up the journal, but when he did, he held it in his hands for a couple seconds and flipped through the blank pages.

“Thank you.” he responded. It was straight to the point. His voice didn’t waver or give any indication of what he was actually thinking. If he completely hated it, you wouldn’t have known.

You nodded and put your hands on your lap, intertwining them. “Yeah no problem.” you breathed, following the statement with an introduction.

“James. But I go by Bucky.” He took a seat in-front of you at the table. He left the journal in the middle of the table and eyed you as he got comfortable. “I know you didn’t come here to give me a journal. So what do you want?”

So then it started. You explained to him your curiosity; your curiosity for him and your desire to help him remember his past. You didn’t dare mention HYDRA. You wouldn’t want him mistaking your interest for something evil.

It quickly turned into a conversation. You asked him how much he remembered and what actually happened to him. You told him about Steve, the Avengers, New York, Ultron, everything. And he was interested. He would occasionally chime into your stories with a comment or a memory that was triggered by something you said. It was the first real conversation Bucky had in over 70 years.

And things sprinted from there. You visited him as often as you could, a couple times a month if things allowed it. You told the team you were out with friends for the weekend or visiting your family at home.

You wired your phone’s GPS to match your made-up location and found yourself at the very door you once wouldn’t even think about knocking on.

Bucky was stoic and downright intimidating, no matter how often you visited. But as you continued to bring him old pictures of Steve or excerpts from military documents at the time of his enlistment, he started to open up.

He started asking you questions about his past-his family. You had done your research on his origins, prepared to tell him everything.

He and Steve grew up in Brooklyn. His parents were Winnipeg and George Barnes. He was an officer in the 107th. You had all this information but you were so hesitant to tell him. You felt like you were robbing Steve of his moment.

You didn’t want to lie to Steve. Ever since D.C. he had longed for his best friend. It broke your heart that you were going behind his back. It felt even worse knowing that it was Steve who was supposed to be sharing these memories with Bucky.

But it was too late to tell him now. The more people that knew about Bucky’s location the riskier it would be. He was a wanted criminal after all.

But when Bucky gave you a look of curiosity and confusion, you knew he had been through enough pain to be withheld an answer. He would drink up the answers you gave him, engraving them into his memory. Every new discovery would be written in his journal.

Slowly, he began to anticipate your arrival and dread your departure. You were his first real friend in decades.

And so it went on for months. The visits and the talks. You were too intrigued to leave him alone, and at this point, you don’t think you could leave him if you tried. Slowly that friendship began to escalate. You would spend nights in his apartment instead of at the Marriott down the street. You would sleep on the couch. It was not the most comfortable sleep of your life, but you didn’t dare take the bed. He didn't deserve more discomfort.

He would greet you with a smile and a hug when you would arrive. Although the hug was brief and hesitant, it was a start. You would go on walks throughout the city and he would point out the Romanian architecture. He would teach you bits of Romanian and Russian. Common words like ‘coffee’ or ‘restroom’.

It would keep you both occupied. He would never admit it out loud, but he was grateful for your company. Loneliness and his trauma didn’t mix well.

It was like someone had taken your relationship, once so distant and weary, and turned it completely upside down.

Something as trivial as an accidental brush of his hand on yours as you reached for a french fry at dinner would stay in your mind for hours. You would lay next to him as he hesitantly wrapped his human arm around you, too scared about the unpredictability of his metal one.

He would tell you stories from his childhood involving Steve and you would laugh at the amount of times that man had found himself in alley fights.

Eight months into the visits, your relationship took a turn. You stood inside of his apartment about to leave for the airport. He had grabbed your hand and turned you to look him.

You were close. So close that you could see your reflection in his beautiful blue eyes. After a moment of staring, you did the only thing fitting at the time. You leaned in and kissed him.

He was so shocked, he didn’t move. It had been years since he had any amicable human interaction. His days had been filled with torture and pain. To see you treat him with such care and understanding made him question everything. You helped him remember.

Realizing that he wasn’t reciprocating, you pulled back, apologizing profusely. You had ruined everything. As you made another attempt for the door, he grabbed you and kissed you again. It felt right. It felt comforting. His lips molded with yours like they were peices of a puzzle; like they belonged together.

It was as if he was communicating to you all the longing and ache that was inside him all this time. Longing for affection.

So here you are, exactly six months from the kiss. The kiss eventually turned into more kisses. Those turned into feelings. He was different around you. A good different. Happy.

It became an unspoken relationship. You two obviously cared for each other. No one ever found out, no one ever could find out, especially not Steve.

If anyone discovered you had formed a secret relationship with a wanted Soviet criminal, you would be in more trouble than you cared to see yourself in.

The Avengers never really saw eye-to-eye with anyone trying to impose on them. They were independent, autonomous. But now, things were different. Tony, Rhodey, Vision, Nat.

They all agreed that the Avengers were overdue for some checks. That allowed an outlet for world governments to ease their way into putting the Avengers in their place.

When you got a call from Natasha saying something along the lines of Steve and Sam arrested, bomb at the signing, and Winter Soldier, you were on a plane to Berlin in a heartbeat.

With half of the Avengers teamed up with the government, Steve and Sam had no choice but to surrender. The Avengers were splitting.

So yeah, you were nervous. With Bucky on max-security lockdown, he would be just one question away from outing your relationship. While you never think he would, a slip-up could make you lose your job; a slip-up could have you arrested.

Ross led you and Tony to a glass office in the middle of a control center. Sharon was already inside and gave you a small wave as you made eye contact.

“You can wait in here until they arrive. Rogers and Wilson have had their gear impounded. I’ll make sure you get a copy receipt of what was taken.” Ross gave you a nod and turned to an agent beside him, ordering her to give Tony the write-up of the suits.

Tony’s ringtone made you turn your head. “It’s the Secretary. Shit. Go inside, I need to take this.” He sighed, pinched his noise, and walked towards a quieter area.

You turned around and opened the door to the office. There was a TV hanging from the ceiling. It was playing news coverage from Vienna.

‘Jesus,’ you thought. You sat down in-front of Sharon and gave her a worried look. The chair squeaked as you leaned back.

“What the hell happened?” You bit your finger nail and waited for her answer.

“A bomb went off at the signing. Large casualties. Killed the king of Wakanda. Security cameras caught Barnes on the scene. He’s the main suspect. The clean up for this is going to be insane.” She shook her head, thinking of the amount of press calls she would have to take after this was over.

You were speechless. How could it have been Bucky if he hadn’t left Bucharest in months? You had removed the tracker from his arm and apologized a long time ago, but he surely would’ve told you if he was planning on leaving, incase you came to visit.

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Steve and Wilson tracked down Barnes. They insisted on bringing him in instead of authorities. And look where that got them.”

Now that peaked your interest. “How did they find him? Steve has been looking for him for months.”

“They got a tip, I guess.” You noticed something in her voice when she spoke. She was too quick to answer and it sounded rushed, like she wanted to gloss over the topic.

“Next thing we know all four of them are beating ass in a public highway. Lots of damage, but what’s new.” She gave you a dry laugh.

“Four? Who else was there?” You asked.

“T’Challa. Wakandan. He’s the kings son.” She paused. “Well, king now. He has a superhero gimmick of his own. They call him Black Panther. Seems like everybody’s got a toy these days.” She rolled her eyes.

You were about to say something when there was a knock on the glass wall. Ross was standing there signaling for Sharon to come out.

“They’re here. Stay and I’ll be back.” She got up and left the office. As she opened the door you could hear the commotion going on outside. Phones ringing and people talking. Ross’s voice barking orders made you chuckle.

You stared at the TV for a moment. A reporter stood in-front of the rubble and spoke. It was muted so you couldn’t hear what he was saying.

You thought back to what Sharon had said. A tip. Someone else knew where Bucky had been. That meant that they most likely saw you coming and going from his apartment. He was being tracked. He was being watched.

“Fuck.” You mumbled. You leaned your head back to stare at the ceiling.

You were an idiot. Of course he was being watched. He’s a ninety-something super soldier that worked as a brainwashed killing machine for Soviet Inc. since god-knows-when. To think anyone even let him get away was crazy.

You began to think of Bucky. He cannot catch a god damn break. After the time you’d spent with him, you couldn’t picture why people saw him as a threat.

“Well maybe the part where he’s killed people.” you mumbled while you put your face in your hands. He was so different around you- caring and gentle, nothing like the man who had once punched you in the face.

You spun around in your chair a couple times. You wondered how he was feeling. A pang in your chest hit you as you thought of him being carried away like a killer.

Mid-spin you spotted Tony and Steve walking towards the office. You stopped yourself and let your body adjust to the slight dizziness. No sign of Bucky. Of course not.

You bit back a worried look as they entered through the door. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you opened your mouth.

“Biggest idiot award goes to you, you idiot. Emphasis on stupid.” You got up and gave Steve a slap on the shoulder. He probably didn’t even feel it.

Feeling slightly bad for the slap, you engulfed him in a tight embrace. He chuckled and hugged you back, having to bend at the waist a little to match your height. “Compromise. I’ll leave all the idiot with you next time.”

You pulled away and glared at him. You weren’t necessarily a mean person, so you hadn’t had much practice in the art of menace. The glare was futile. Hopefully he got the message.

“She’s right.” Tony sighed as he sat down in the chair you had just gotten up from. “You made things worse. So much worse. What the hell were you thinking? I had calmed Ross down about the whole Accords signing for now. He was so close to giving you more time. Well, if you thought the Secretary was on my ass before, you should see him now. He wants you and Wilson prosecuted, Steve. And I don’t think I can get you out of this one.”

You shot Tony another of your infamous looks of concern. “Prosecuted? Now that’s a bit much. Tony he barely did anything wrong.”

He scoffed. “Barely? Captain Righteous chased a wanted national criminal and Soviet assassin through a highway in a country he’s not even from. There was fighting. There was damage. Not to mention the sweet media blowup this is all going to get.

“I told you we needed checks. You cannot decide where you want to exert your power. The Accords, Steve. This isn’t a free for all.”

Steve rolled his eyes and started walking around the space. “I understand that Tony. You-.”

“No!” Tony’s hand slammed on the table, making you jump and rest back against the glass wall. “I don’t think you do understand.” Steve stopped walking and looked at him.

“You are not understanding the true consequences of your actions here. For too long you, we, the Avengers, have caused chaos all around the world without so much as a slap on the wrist. No consequences. No repercussions. We think in our own self-interest.

“And just to show how little you’ve learned, you get yourself involved in an arrest that no one asked you to meddle with! You need to be checked, Rogers.” Tony rested his hand on his mouth.

Steve slowly sat down in-front of him and spoke, “We help people,Tony. As much as we don’t want to, there will always be casualties. We do it our way because our way works. We will be limited under the hand of the government if we let them control us. We take risks for the better of the people. Sometimes our judgement is the best judgement because we train for things like this. Under order of a third party we give up our right to decide.

“Bucky is my best friend.” Your stomach flipped when you heard his name. “He doesn’t deserve to be locked in here like an animal. He was brainwashed- tortured. HYDRA kept him for years as a pawn in one of their sick experiments. I’d be damned if it wasn’t me who brought him in.” He intertwined his hands on the table.

Tony pushed his chair back from the desk to give him room to lean back. “You’re not allow-” he started.

“Is he okay?” You spoke quietly from against the wall.

Both heads snapped towards you. Tony gave you a funny look, probably wondering why you even bothered asking.

Steve turned his chair slightly towards you, silently thankful for an escape from the argument.

“For now. He isn’t hurt or anything, but they have him locked up. They’re giving him a psych eval and then shipping him off.” He looked down and shook his head.

You bounced off the wall. “They’re moving him? Where? Why not just try him here?” You crossed your arms and got closer to the table.

“I don’t know.” Steve shrugged. “He has pending warrants in like 3 other countries. Not to mention he is accused of killing a Wakandan king. He’s going there first. And he never really committed a crime in Berlin so he had no reason to stay.”

“So much for keeping an eye on him. ‘M sorry, Stevie.” You muttered and gave him a sad look. He nodded and gave you a small smile in return.

In reality, you weren’t sad. Not sad, but angry. You had no right to be. He was wanted. He had to go through trial. You were mad at HYDRA. You were mad that those slimy motherfuckers put him through all this. They crafted him to be a perfect weapon but didn’t think of the consequences on his life.

Tony was about to speak up when Sharon and Sam entered the office.

“Bird costume? C’mon.” Sam exclaimed, trailing behind Sharon.

She rolled her eyes and walked to the table and picked up the TV remote. “Shut up, I didn’t write it.”

Grumbling, Sam sat down next to Steve after shoving the paper in his pocket.

Sharon gave Steve a quick look and pressed a button on the remote. She changed the channel on the TV. The news network from before now gone and replaced with live footage. Live footage from inside Bucky’s cell.

Well, if you could call it a cell. It was more like a block. A block with wrist and ankle cuffs and glass that looked like clear cement. He couldn’t escape if he wanted to.

Your jaw dropped and you let out a small gasp.

“His evaluation should start in about twenty minutes. I’ll leave this up here for you. Just don’t go blabbing that you saw this, please.” She gave you all a pleading look. Everyone nodded but Steve. He was too busy staring at Bucky through the screen.

Again, you felt the guilt in your chest from keeping the tracker secret from Steve.

Sam let out a low whistle. “They weren’t kidding about the security, huh.”

A small smile crept on Tony’s face but he didn’t look up from his phone. Steve silently got up and walked up close to the TV. He sat against the table, his eyes never leaving the screen.

You tried to not let your face give away your emotions. Bucky looked lonely. You wanted to touch him. Hold him. Tell him that everything was going to be okay. But those were empty promises because everything was absolutely, most definitely, not okay.

You were about to lose the man you loved to a jail cell for who-knows how long and there wasn’t anything you could do about it. Kinda fucking blows.

You had to casually rub your eye in order to stop the tears that were about to flow freely down your cheeks.

But the footage was short lived. Sharon saw two agents approach the office door and immediately changed the TV back. You wondered why she was so picky about that, seeing as the walls were made of glass.

Wondering why the channel was changed, Steve whipped around fast enough to see the agents walk in through the door. You rested your finger tips on the side of the table and picked at the wooden edge, too entrapped in your thoughts to truly process their entrance.

However, you turned around slowly as they addressed you.

The agent on the right was taller than the other. He looked important. They both did. While the rest of the agents in the building were dressed in casual business wear, these two wore suits. When you were walking through, you had only noticed suits on people like Ross- it signaled importance in your eyes.

When you didn’t respond, the tall one called your name again. Now everyone was paying attention. Tony had set his phone down and eyed them carefully.

“Yeah?” You protectively crossed your arms and stood up straighter.

This time, the shorter one spoke. “Ma’am, if you could please come with us. We would like to ask you some questions regarding Mr. Barnes.”

And your heart stopped.

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

i hope you guys liked it! lmk if you want to be added to the tag list for my future fics. any critiques or comments you guys have are always welcomed :) requests are open xoxo

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not-a-space-alien · 5 years

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Into the Unknown, Part 6: Search Party: Regrouped

Series masterpost

On AO3

Author’s note: this is the chapter where things get a little weird so I hope you still like it!

In the aftermath of this disastrous meeting, Raphael made the rather unpleasant discovery that not only had Maltha never been given medical treatment by anyone else in her entire life, but that she didn’t care for the experience one bit. She vented her frustrated at anyone who had the misfortune of being nearby; the first thing she did upon regaining consciousness was to mercilessly criticise the way Raphael had treated her. When he tried to fix his dressings according to her directions, she did nothing but snap at him.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Maltha huffed, slapping Raphael’s hands away. “I’ll do it.”

She leaned forwards and tried her best to re-wrap the bandages around her burns despite the obvious pain it was causing her. Raphael sighed. “Come on. Just let me do it. Give me some credit.”

“No,” Maltha said. “Go see to one of your other patients, if you haven’t already killed them all with your incompetence. It’s a wonder the entire host hasn’t gone extinct under your care.”

Raphael closed the door of Maltha’s room in the infirmary behind him to protect passersby in the hallway from her jilted gaze and cranky commentary. He slid the little window in the door closed, too, for good measure, because Maltha didn’t seem to care about anything not in her direct line of sight at the moment.

She would be in a bad mood for a long time. Understandably so, considering how close to death she had come, and the extent of her injuries. All the patients under Raphael’s care right now were unique and would require specialised treatment, but the best treatment for Maltha seemed to be to slide the materials she would need under the door and let her sort it out herself.

The next patient was Kabata. It turned out that the reason he hadn’t burned up to the point of immobilisaton, like the other demons in the room, was that he had drunk half a jug of angel dust before coming up, which had provided him with some level of protection. When asked to explain where he had gotten it from, he revealed that it was leftover from the siege of Heaven. He had not been able to force himself to drink the entire jug of the foul concoction and had stashed the rest for later use, which had remained undisturbed in the intervening years.

Raphael told him he probably would have burned had he actually needed the angel dust during the siege of Heaven. Kabata told him he obviously hadn’t needed it, so maybe Raphael should mind his own business. Raphael had then made a show of getting ready to leave, which had prompted Kabata to glower and say Raphael didn’t need to go so far minding his own business that he couldn’t attend to his wounds.

While he worked, Raphael thanked Kabata for killing God, because it had saved their lives and ultimately the entire new order. Kabata fidgeted uncomfortably and snapped at Raphael to mind his own business. Raphael reassured him he was trying to be nice. Kabata still eyed him with suspicion.

When pressed as to how exactly he had managed the feat for which Raphael was grateful, Kabata revealed that the weapon he had brought, which had been swiftly taken off of him, was literally called “The God-Killing Knife.” It was an artifact thought lost to time, not seen in millennia, which had been the subject of a number of secret missions from both Heaven and Hell. It was even more powerful than both the Shiv of Kali and the Golden Dagger of Meggido combined, and both sides had been after it to see the exact extent of what it could do. Despite the absolute uniqueness of the spellwork on its blade and the rumours about it, nobody had thought the title had been literal.

Despite the name, Kabata insisted vehemently at every opportunity that the God-Killing Knife was a short-sword and not a knife.

When pressed, Kabata admitted he had taken it from Yulera, who collected a number of things she had no idea the value of in her infernal hoard tucked away in a forgotten corner of Hell. This tracked with the last reported sighting of the God-Killing Knife, which had been in 3560 BC when the archdemon Asmodeus had brought it down to present to Satan, only to find it inconveniently missing from her bag upon trying to do so.

They were beginning to think “Lost to time” really just meant “Lost to Yulera’s grubby, kleptomaniac hands.” Raphael thought it might be worth talking to Yulera to see what else she had in her hoard, which she had moved to a new location whenever Aziraphale and Crowley had found it to keep it secret. There might be other things of use in there. Not for Raphael, of course. But for someone, surely.

In spite of the Herculean feat Kabata had just completed for the good of the new order, he received few thanks. Those who were inclined to try had their Thank yous rebuffed with a flurry of threats and insults, and most scurried away under his burning glare before even working up the courage to talk to him.

He was not a pleasant conversation partner. He had a guarded, antagonistic attitude towards everyone trying to help him, and the medical staff could tell he was trying to judge how hard it would be to escape the infirmary. Raphael could only stand so many Mind your own businesses before he decided to quit. He didn’t bother to ask how Kabata had known about their meeting despite not receiving an invitation, figuring a ne’er-do-weller such as him simply made it a habit of being up to no good and snooping.

The infirmary wasn’t meant for holding people against their will and Kabata would definitely be able to break out as soon as he made up his mind to, but Raphael locked the door when he left all the same. Kabata was unpleasant, but he might not really be an enemy anymore, and he probably didn’t mean anyone any genuine harm. Between the two of them, Maltha was probably the bigger terror to the staff.

Raphael’s third patient was much more grateful than the first two. Mykas spent about five straight minutes licking Raphael’s face while Raphael stood in unsure silence before Angelo explained that was how Mykas showed affection now. Mykas shared a card Angelo had been helping him make, which said Thank You Raphael in overly messy scrawl, with a picture of Mykas and Raphael holding hands. Raphael thanked him for the card and reassured him he would hang it up somewhere.

Mykas had been exposed to the divine aura for the longest and, consequently, was very severely burned, but he was of a strong constitution and made a quick recovery under Raphael’s hands. And he was far easier to work with, so the nurses flocked to him over any of the other patients. The worst they got from him was the occasional sniff in odd places.

Raphael’s fourth patient was not doing quite as well. Victoria had scraped Metatron off the pavement where they had landed about half a kilometer away from the Judgement Hall, all but splattered into paste by the sledgehammer blow that had been delivered to them. They were alive, but just barely, and Raphael couldn’t tell when they would awake, if ever.

Metatron had been placed in a small pool of holy water, long black hair floating out behind them, and had been assigned three healers to see to them at all times in shifts. It might be enough to save their life.

Raphael’s last patient was an antichrist, which he had never treated before. The fact that Noah had burned in God’s presence was a sign of his infernal blood and good enough evidence of what might happen if Raphael tried to treat him like an angel, so he used the same makeshift techniques he cobbled together to try and treat the other demons. Noah was the first to regain consciousness out of lot and did not seem as severely injured as the others—perhaps his nature of not being entirely of demon blood, the result of his mixed heritage, had provided him some protection.

It did make Raphael wonder who exactly Noah’s other parent was, but it was more idle curiosity than anything. At any rate, Noah was the first to declare himself well enough to leave, offering that he was extremely busy in Hell and he had been away long enough over Raphael’s protests that he should stay in the infirmary longer.

Noah lingered just long enough to have a conversation with Uriel that Raphael couldn’t help overhearing, during which he thanked her for saving his life. Upon seeing Uriel’s surprise at being thanked, Noah said he thought someone ought to acknowledge what was probably the first time she had ever done something so selfless, just in case nobody else was going to do it. Then he left, bidding everyone farewell and heading back down to Hell.

Kabata was the second to leave. Despite the precautions, Kabata broke out and disappeared as soon as he was well enough to walk. No one was particularly bothered by this, in truth, because he seemed at worst a nuisance at this point, not intending any real harm for anybody, his one blood-quest fulfilled at last. He did, unfortunately, manage to swipe the God-Killing Knife back for himself before heading out, which was a pity because they would all have felt a lot better having it around.

Maltha was the third to leave, again before Raphael discharged her, but he knew better than to try and overrule her. He was somewhat surprised to see Maltha thank Uriel as well, and even give her a peck on the cheek. Maybe it was true that even the most wretched among them weren’t beyond hope.

Contrary to everyone else, Mykas stayed for as long as Raphael asked him, wagging his tail furiously and pouncing on Raphael each time he came in, seemingly delighted to be the center of attention and doted on.

Raphael eventually had to convince him to leave once it was clear he was perfectly healthy, leaving the Metatron as the only patient left in the healing ward, to be attended to day and night. Raphael was hopeful, since Metatron was stable at the very least.

There was one patient, however, that Raphael could not help…

“I’ve covered everything between the Judgement Hall and the Hall of the Throne,” Aziraphale reported as Raphael washed blood off his hands. “No sign of him. I flew as high as I could go. I’m going to search up to Heaven’s gates. Ramial is double-checking the areas I’ve already covered.”

“All right,” said Raphael.

Aziraphale wrung his hands. Raphael wanted to reassure him that he was sure Crowley was all right, but he was a bad liar.

“There’s still no update from Noah?” said Aziraphale.

“Noah sent an update that Hell has—”

“Did he mention Crowley?”

“Yes, apparently Mammon is coordinating searches through Hell for him.”

“He’s not going to be in Hell,” snapped Aziraphale. “Why would he be in Hell?”

“I don’t know!” Raphael said, throwing his arms up. “I don’t know where he is, Aziraphale! What do you want me to say?”

A hand appeared on Aziraphale’s arm, and Victoria leaned in to speak to him in a low voice. “Calm down, Aziraphale. We are doing everything we can. Raphael is doing his best.”

Aziraphale made a visible attempt to relax, but it didn’t quite work.

“I’ll start organising search parties on Earth,” said Victoria. “If he’s here somewhere, we’ll find him.”

“Aziraphale, you need to consider the possibility that Crowley died,” said Raphael.

“He can’t be dead!” Aziraphale said tightly.

“Aziraphale,” said Raphael, with a firm hand on the lesser angel’s shoulder. “If Crowley is dead, there’s an easy fix. We can have Noah bring him back to life. He’s done it before.”

Aziraphale wrenched his arm out of Raphael’s grasp, refusing to be comforted. “I know that,” Aziraphale muttered. He wrapped his arms around himself. “Crowley can’t be dead because Azrael said he didn’t reap Crowley. Crowley didn’t die. So he still has to be here somewhere.”

Victoria and Raphael looked at each other hesitantly.

“Maybe we should talk to Azrael to clarify…” Victoria suggested haltingly.

Aziraphale, face stormy, exited the room with wings spread, intending to resume the search.

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

The days wore on and still there was no sign of Crowley. Aziraphale developed dark bags under his eyes, never stopping the search to sleep or eat. He scoured every inch of Heaven and, finding nothing, repeated the procedure in Hell despite Mammon’s reassurances that search parties had already covered the ground under his inspection.

When they left the infirmary, Maltha, Mykas, and Noah set out helping with the search. But even with their resources combined, there was no sign of Crowley in Heaven or Hell.

Contrary to conception among humans, Earth is actually vastly larger than even Heaven and Hell combined in terms of sheer surface area. Aziraphale knew the odds of him finding any clues there were slim, yet there seemed little alternative.

Aziraphale started in London and worked his way out in a spiral fashion. A lot of times he ended up circling aimlessly in the sky, wings keeping him aloft on air currents, trying to absolve himself of all thought, trying desperately not to think of what he would do if he couldn’t find anything, of how long the search would last.

Crowley wasn’t dead. Crowley was still alive. Somewhere.

All he could think about was when Crowley had moved Heaven and Earth to find him when he was in the clutches of Satan. All he could think about was how badly he had wanted to see Crowley, how scared he had been to be separated from their friends, and about how Crowley must be feeling the exact same way right now. And Aziraphale could do nothing about it; he was helpless, useless as the ring on his finger that refused to activate even under the constant rubbing and activation of the Lover’s Charm.

It was in the middle of one particularly intense session of aimless drifting one day that a piece of mail materialised from a cloud above him and smacked him in the face. It had Noah’s seal on it.

He peeled the letter off himself and opened it.

Aziraphale,

I’m back on my feet down in Hell. I’ve diverted the search parties that were set after Satan to search for Crowley instead. I’ve heard word that Mykas and Maltha have also left the infirmary and are joining the search.

I hope you’re doing well. You weren’t answering mail at the shop, so I figured you had lost track of time looking for Crowley out there. Be sure to come home every once in a while OK? If only so we can contact you more easily. I had to have Lyra do a scrying spell just to send this letter.

I’ve tried to use my powers to summon Crowley’s location, but couldn’t find anything. I’ve never had an attempt to seek information through my Antichrist powers fail in such a way. I am having Lyra prepare a scrying spell, but I doubt it will work. It is much less powerful magic.

Our thoughts are with you and Crowley. Please keep us updated.

-Noah King of Hell, Son of Satan, Lord of Darkness etc.

Aziraphale mustered up his willpower to teleport and materialised directly into his office in his bookshop. He grabbed his parchment and pen set with shaking hands and wrote a response to Noah, throwing it down. He received the reply a few minutes later:

I’ve already tried bringing Crowley back to life the way I did when Michael killed him. It didn’t work. I’m sorry, Aziraphale. He’s not dead. He’s just…gone.

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

Azrael’s phrasing of the way he reaps—I guide them to whatever awaits them—seemed to imply to Aziraphale that you did not stop existing when you died. That you continued to exist, in some way, in some form, in some place, in a way nobody else knew about. The same way human souls continued to exist and were physically located in Heaven and Hell after death, where live humans couldn’t access them, except a dead demon or angel—or God, perhaps—didn’t go there. Discorporation—the death of the body—sent you either to Heaven or Hell. But the death of the soul? It sent you…where?

Noah had been able to bring Crowley back to life. He had brought him from wherever he had been. He hadn’t constructed a new Crowley, or turned back the clock, or something. He had moved him back into the realm of the living.

God hadn’t killed Crowley. He had put him, physically, somewhere else, somewhere other than where celestial and infernal beings traditionally went when they died, wherever that was.

Noah didn’t seem to know where it was. He couldn’t vocalise how his antichrist powers worked, and he couldn’t reach Crowley, wherever he was.

And Death didn’t know where this could be either, upon pressing. It took Aziraphale a full day to corner Azrael, who reported Victoria had given him the same interrogation and he was getting quite tired of it. Whatever had happened to Crowley was squarely outside his jurisdiction, and he wasn’t interested in investigating it, so would Aziraphale please leave so he could get back to his job?

He didn’t ask Death to confirm God’s state of existence. He was afraid of the answer he would get, either way, and Death didn’t seem particularly keen on asking questions. He was still grouchy about one of the angels under him misbehaving, and he couldn’t get any of them to fess up.

Aziraphale searched Earth without stopping. He received word that Metatron had finally regained consciousness, but Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to care unless they offered up any useful contribution. He received a letter from Angelo that Mykas kept sniffing Crowley’s trail down, only to end up at the bookshop each time. Aziraphale crumpled up that letter and left fall miles below to the ground.

He perched on top of a mountain and watched the sun rise with his knees drawn up to his chest, feeling more alone than he ever had despite the concerned letters piling up in his un-checked mailbox back home. The ring on his hand felt heavier than ever, and he found himself clutching it without realising.

He rubbed it to activate the charm at least once an hour. But the ring stayed unlit, dead to the world. Whatever was separating them, it was greater than distance.

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

It might have continued on this way forever, had not a certain foundation angel been caught doing something very strange in Heaven’s Judgement Hall.

It is true that foundation angels, in general, care for little else than their jobs. Nothing makes them happier than seeing the natural order of physics run like a well-oiled machine.

But, like the rest of the angels in existence, they too could develop kinks, quirks, personalities, likes and dislikes.

Wants. Needs. Embarrassments.

And Noah had just learned about one in particular, which turned out to be very germane indeed.

“There he is,” said Noah, waving for Lyra to back up.

The court magician, sitting among a nest of spell ingredients on the throne room floor, rolled the scrying ball according to his directions.

The image in the ball panned back to Aziraphale, sitting morosely at a restaurant with a stack of sushi in front of him. Noah chucked the parchment he was holding into the portal Lyra had constructed for this exact purpose.

In the scrying ball, the letter materialised directly on top of Aziraphale’s head. He seemed not to notice it for a moment before slowly reaching up to pat his head, then retrieved it and unfurled it.

“We wouldn’t have to do this if you would check your damn mail like I asked you to,” said Noah.

Aziraphale’s face snapped into an expression of intense interest, and Noah guessed which part of the letter he must have been reading.

“He should be down soon,” said Noah. “Thank you, Lyra, you’re dismissed.”

The King of Hell turned away from Lyra as she packed up her things, back towards the two angels sitting at the ornate meeting table. One of them looked very shame-faced indeed.

“Time,” said Noah. “I hope you have a good defense ready, because you’re really going to get it.”

Time slunk lower in his seat.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Victoria.”

Standing behind the table with her arms crossed, looking stormy, Victoria nodded.

“And Space,” said Noah. “You’re not in trouble, but I really do wish you would have told us about this sooner. We’ve been wasting time looking on our own. You and Time both work together to—”

TIME AND I ARE INEXTRICABLY LINKED, said the second foundation angel, a long being with hollow eyes and fingers like the branches of willow trees. WHAT ONE DOES CONCERNS THE OTHER GREATLY. TOGETHER WE HOLD ALL FOUR DIMENSIONS OF THE UNIVERSE UP, UPON WHICH THE OTHER FOUNDATION ANGELS MAY—

Noah cut her off with a wave. Space tended to do this, he had noticed. She sort of…spaced out of the conversation and rambled. It was understandable, considering Space had no real conception of where she was at given moment, or to whom she was talking.

NOT THAT ONE, said Space to someone not present. THE RED ONE. ARE YOU A FOOL?

WHAT WAS THAT? said Time.

“She wasn’t talking to you,” said Noah desperately, “she was with someone else on—”

I WAS JUST SAYING THAT THE RED ONE WAS BETTER, said Space. SURELY IT’S NOT THAT DIFFICULT.

WHAT ARE YOU BABBLING ABOUT NOW? CAN’T YOU KEEP ANYTHING STRAIGHT?

Noah cringed and waved his hands to try and separate them.

OH DO BE QUIET. YOU’RE THE ONE WHO CAUSED ALL THIS TROUBLE.

WE BOTH KNOW THIS MEETING WILL TAKE FAR TOO LONG.

OH DO WE?

“Be quiet!” Victoria yelled.

They both craned their necks to look at her looming over them fearfully.

“My esteemed guests,” said Noah, clapping his hands, waving Victoria to step away from them. “Please, I think we’ve all said there is to say before Aziraphale gets here.”

ISN’T HE ALREADY HERE? said Space.

HE’S NOT ARRIVING UNTIL 14:52.06, said Time. THOUGH, OF COURSE, FROM MY PERSPECTIVE, HE HAS ALREADY ARRIVED AND LEFT.

The doors of the throne room swung open, and Mammon nosed them to the side so Aziraphale could pass through. He made a beeline for Noah, waving the letter. “I got your—”

“Aziraphale, you’ve already met Time,” said Noah, gesturing to the table. “It turns out he’s responsible for the whole debacle of deaths being reversed.”

Aziraphale stopped, infuriated gaze locking onto the foundation angel. “And why would he do that, pray tell?”

Time stared off at the empty table, expression unreadable.

“So, you know that Time was close with Lucifer,” said Noah. “And that when Time found out about Satan’s death, he—”

“I remember,” Aziraphale interrupted.

I MISSED HIM, said Time feebly.

“Time thought he could perform a resurrection by using his power to set back one very specific flow of time—namely, supernatural beings who had died recently.”

PLEASE DON’T TELL DEATH, said Time. HE’LL…WELL, KILL ME.

“So you just brought back everyone between now and Satan without a thought to the consequences?” Aziraphale exploded.

I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T MEAN FOR ALL THIS TO HAPPEN.

“Well, it did happen,” said Aziraphale. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Time slunk down in his seat even further.

Aziraphale walked over and kicked the legs of the table with a string of curses. Space looked up to the roof sharply as though something had caught her attention there.

WHAT IS IT? said Time.

IT’S RAINING, said Space.

“The damage has been done,” said Noah. “And I don’t think it’s a good idea for Time to try and turn it back, because tampering with the flow of time—”

IS SOMETHING THAT SHOULD NOT EVER BE DONE, Space said. I CAN FEEL THE THREADS OF THE FOUR DIMENSIONS FRAYING UNDER THE WEIGHT OF THIS POOR DECISION.

Noah grimaced.

IT SHOULD BE FINE UNLESS WE STRAIN IT FURTHER, said Space. WHICH IS ABSOLUTELY NOT JUSTIFIED UNDER ANY BUT THE MOST EXTREME CIRCUMSTANCES. ESPECIALLY NOT BECAUSE YOU…MISS SOMEONE.

The hands on the clocks that served for Time’s eyes whirred around with the sound of grinding gears.

I WAS JUST IN THE PROCESS OF REPAIRING ALL THE DAMAGE TO THE FABRIC OF SPACE-TIME THIS HAS DONE WHEN I WAS INTERRUPTED AND BROUGHT DOWN HERE. This was said with considerable irritation towards Victoria.

Aziraphale ignored this. “Okay, so then where’s Crowley? You said in the letter you have an idea of where he is.”

“Right,” said Noah, taking a seat at the table and tenting his fingers. “This is going to be a little difficult to explain… Space said she felt a disturbance right around the time God did…whatever that was to Crowley.”

I FELT SOMETHING EXITING OUR DIMENSION, said Space.

“That must have been Crowley!” said Aziraphale. “Where did he end up then? Is he…floating in outer space?”

Space crossed her arms. NO.

“Oh.”

“There’s….Space explained it like this, Aziraphale. Just outside the confines of our world…of the boundaries she controls, there’s a solid wall none of us can get through. She felt Crowley cross that wall."

NONE OF US CAN, said Space. BUT SOMEONE WITH POWER ON THE SCALE THAT GOD HAD COULD MANAGE IT.

Aziraphale’s face began to fall. “Surely there must be some way to get him out.”

“That’s the problem, Aziraphale,” said Noah. “He’s over it, somewhere, but we don’t know where. On the other side of this wall, there’s—”

ANOTHER WORLD, Space said.

Aziraphale stood stock still, struggling to process what he was being told. “What?”

I DO NOT KNOW MUCH OF THE MULTIVERSE, said Space. BUT WE ARE CONFINED IN OUR OWN LITTLE CORNER OF IT WITHOUT INTERVENTION FROM A HIGHER POWER, SUCH AS THE ONE THAT MADE THE WALLS IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Like a parallel dimension? A mirror universe?”

Space shook her head. NO, NOT MIRROR. THERE IS NO WAY TO KNOW HOW SIMILAR OR DIFFERENT THEY ARE. BUT THERE ARE MANY POCKETS OF SPACE LIKE OURS, ARRANGED SIDE-BY-SIDE, SEPARATED BY WALLS.

“Space says that she believes the factions of the multiverse are arranged so that more similar ones are clustered together. So they would get more bizarre and different the further out from ours you went, but the ones next door are probably similar to ours. So, likely that Crowley could survive whichever one he was dropped into.”

THIS IS ALL CONJECTURE, OF COURSE, said Space. NOT EVEN I KNOW FOR CERTAIN.

Aziraphale clenched his fists. “So he’s probably alive.”

“Hopefully,” said Noah.

“I still don’t really understand this,” said Victoria. “It makes no sense that God would build a dimension next door and never go there. …right?”

Space tapped the side of her head. YOU ARE ASSUMING BOTH THAT HE MADE IT, AND THAT HE NEVER WENT THERE. THE RED ONE!

“The red one what?” said Victoria.

BRING YOUR UMBRELLA. ��THINK OF IT LIKE THIS…OUR UNIVERSE WAS A HOUSE BUILT BY GOD, AND WE ARE ANTS LIVING ON THE FLOOR. WE CAN POPULATE THE FLOOR, AND WE CAN CLIMB THE WALLS, BUT BY NO MEANS CAN WE MOVE ABOUT AS FREELY AS HIM, AND WE CAN’T PROPERLY UNDERSTAND NOR TRAVEL TO CERTAIN PARTS OF THE HOUSE. WE ARE SIMPLY ON TOO SMALL OF A SCALE. VANILLA PLEASE.

Aziraphale massaged his temples. “So is Crowley alive or not?”

VANILLA? said Space. THE MACHINE IS BROKEN. CONTINUING THIS ANALOGY, GOD PLUCKED CROWLEY OFF THE FLOOR AND TOSSED HIM OUT THE WINDOW, WHERE HE LANDED IN THE NEIGHBOURS’ HOUSE. WHO KNOWS WHAT IT IS LIKE OVER THERE? THE FURNITURE IS LIKELY ARRANGED DIFFERENTLY.

“We have to go get him,” said Aziraphale. “If there’s even a chance he could still be alive, we have to try.”

Space reared up, steaming. WERE YOU NOT LISTENING? THE FABRIC OF REALITY HAS BEEN TORN BY TIME’S FOOLISH ACTIONS, AND WE CANNOT STRAIN IT FURTHER, ESPECIALLY FOR SOMETHING AS PETTY AS MISSING SOMEONE.

“Surely the situation isn’t so dire that one small exception can’t be made.”

Time’s unsettling clock eyes ticked on Aziraphale. SO WHAT YOU’RE SAYING IS, THE THOUGHT OF NEVER SEEING HIM AGAIN MAKES YOU FEEL SO HORRIBLE YOU WOULD REND THE FABRIC OF SPACE-TIME TO FIX IT, HEEDLESS OF THE CONSEQUENCES? IS THAT NOT WHAT YOU JUST BERATED ME FOR?

Aziraphale turned bright red. “This is different!”

HOW?

Aziraphale spluttered and looked to Noah for help. Noah grimaced.

THE RED ONE, Space erupted. YOU FOOL. YOU IDIOT.

“I don’t see why Crowley and I should be punished for Time’s mistake,” said Aziraphale. “This is unfair.”

BRING YOUR UMBRELLA, said Space. I’M SORRY, AZIRAPHALE, BUT DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF WE ALLOW SPACE-TIME TO UNRAVEL? THE TRAIN IS LATE, IDIOT.

“Erm, well…”

THE PHYSICAL LAWS GOVERNING THE UNIVERSE WILL BEGIN TO BEND. WE WILL SEE WORSE THAN A FEW DEMONS COMING BACK TO LIFE. THE FOUNDATION ANGELS CANNOT WORK IF THE TOOLS THEY NEED ARE RENDERED NONFUNCTIONAL. BRING THE UMBRELLA.

“Aziraphale, come here for a moment,” said Noah, gesturing to the corner of the room.

Aziraphale walked over and Noah bent over him, huddling their heads together so they could talk in private. “Aziraphale, you might not like this situation, but I have a possible solution. It’s…not ideal, but it would avoid having to strain the foundations any further, and it could be a backup if we can’t find Crowley, or...or the worst has happened.”

“What’s that?”

“I can’t resurrect Crowley, but I could make a copy of him.”

Aziraphale stared at Noah.

“He wouldn’t be exactly the same, of course, but it’s not outside the bounds of what my powers can do. He would be however close to the original as I could get him—”

Aziraphale hid his face in his hands.

“—And he needn’t even remember what happened. He would never know.”

Aziraphale considered it for just a moment. He wasn’t proud of that, but he was that desperate. But when he slowly moved his hands away from his face, his eyes caught the ring Crowley had so lovingly placed on his finger. The etched sigil still lay darkened under his fingertips.

He had gotten it right after Crowley had just braved Hell and high waters and Satan himself to retrieve Aziraphale when Aziraphale needed help the most. And all Aziraphale could remember is how scared he had been when he had been taken, and how much he had wished to see Crowley.

And when he had been lying there in Satan’s hands, unsure of what would happen to him, all he could think about was how much he wanted to see Crowley, and how relieved he would be when Crowley found him…

“No,” said Aziraphale. “Absolutely not. If Crowley is still out there, we have to help him. To do anything else would be the height of selfishness.”

Noah took a deep breath. “Okay.”

He patted Aziraphale on the back and turned back, spreading his arms towards Space and Time. “We need you to help us. There must be some way to get into this other world without doing any more harm.”

YOU COULD GO THROUGH THE HOLE GOD MADE, said Time.

Space spun around slapped Time. THEY WOULD NOT HAVE KNOWN ABOUT THAT IF YOU HADN’T TOLD THEM.

Time rubbed his face.

“What’s this?” said Aziraphale.

GOD TORE A SMALL HOLE IN THE FABRIC OF REALITY TO THROW CROWLEY OUT OF, said Time.

THAT’S WHAT I WAS FIXING IN THE JUDGEMENT HALL, said Space. BEFORE VICTORIA DRAGGED ME AWAY FROM IT.

“I really wish you would have told us about this sooner, Space,” said Noah. “Come on. I think you’re the only one who can see it. We wouldn’t have found it if Victoria hadn’t seen you repairing it.”

I’VE BEEN FIXING TIME’S MISTAKES, said Space, sounding outraged. AND YOU BERATE ME FOR NOT BRINGING A SPATIAL REND TO YOUR ATTENTION? HOW MUCH DO YOU PLAN TO ASK OF ME? I DO NOT DO FAVOURS FOR ANYONE!

“Is the spatial rend still big enough for someone to get through?” said Noah.

Space crossed her arms sourly. YES, BUT UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL I ALLOW ANYONE TO TRAVEL THROUGH IT. IT MUST BE CLOSED IMMEDIATELY TO AVERT FURTHER DISASTER.

“How fast can it be repaired?”

AS FAST AS POSSIBLE.

“Space, how long is it going to take?”

Space didn’t answer.

“Space…how long?”

THREE DAYS MORE AT THE EARLIEST, said Space. BUT SENDING SOMEONE THROUGH IT WILL STRAIN IT.

“How much?”

ANY FURTHER AMOUNT IS INTOLERABLE.

“Come on, Space…you have to meet us halfway. Surely there must be some wiggle room here?”

Space sat silently for a moment.

“How many people can we get through it, and for how long, before it has to be closed?”

THE RED ONE! Space shrieked. FOR FUCK’S SAKE. TEN.

“Ten?” said Aziraphale.

THE STRAIN ON THE FABRIC OF REALITY WOULD BE NEGLIGIBLE IF TEN PEOPLE PASSED THROUGH IT. OR, IF YOU PREFER, FIVE PEOPLE EXITING AND THEN RE-ENTERING.

Noah slapped the table. “Great. So it looks like we’ve got an expedition to plan.”

“Five,” said Aziraphale. “Is that really all?”

Space glowered. MAYBE SIX AT A STRETCH. THIRTEEN, IF YOU LEAVE AS A GROUP OF SIX AND RETURN WITH SEVEN. THAT IS PERMISSIBLE. GRAB THE UMBRELLA.

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “Thank you, thank you.”

“We’ll get him back,” said Victoria. “The multiverse, or whatever it is, be damned.”

BUT I MUST EMPHASIZE NO MORE THAN THAT, said Space. ANY MORE WILL CAUSE MORE THAN MINIMAL DAMAGE. AND WAITING ANY LONGER WILL CAUSE MORE THAN MINIMAL DAMAGE. AND IF YOU’RE NOT BACK IN TIME, I’M CLOSING THE RIFT ANYWAY.

Victoria and Aziraphale looked at each other. Aziraphale fidgeted with his ring. “Guess we’d better hurry, then.”

#good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic

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mostfacinorous · 5 years

Note

Umbrella academy, the first time Klaus conjures Ben or realizes he can still talk to him?

Cut for Umbrella Academy Spoilers; ficlet under the cut!

Ben was barely in the ground before dear old dad had a statue of him erected-- and heh, even thinking the word was worth a little grin, situation notwithstanding. Situation being, that statue was still fresh, not even a speck of bird shit on it yet, when Ben showed back up.

And of course, that wasn’t a problem anyone else had to deal with.

And Klaus, well, it wasn’t like there was anything he could do about it; Ben didn’t have much to say, but he looked fucking awful. Not bloody or anything, and he had the usual number of limbs that regular humans did, but he just-- he just followed Klaus around, staring at him. Like he blamed him. Like he was accusing him. Like all of this was somehow his fault. They all blamed Luther though; it was his job as number one to make sure this sort of thing didn’t happen.

If Klaus wasn’t so busy trying to ignore Ben, he’d tell him to go haunt Luther instead. For all the good it would do. But he didn’t want to talk to him, or acknowledge him at all. Maybe if he thought he couldn’t see him, he’d just-- go away. But Klaus knew he wasn’t that good an actor, and besides-- it wasn’t like Ben was the only dead person wandering around him. Just the latest, newest, greatest, most traumatizing.

Klaus needed a fucking drink.

And that was how he wound up in dad’s study while he was out staring at the damn statue. Meanwhile, Klaus was staring at the real thing through the bottom of a whiskey bottle, and marveling between slugs at the fact that at least Ben, unlike most ghosts, had the good sense to clean himself up, instead of just showing up the way he looked when he died.

“I’m not going to just go away if you get drunk.” Ben said, suddenly, and Klaus flinched so hard that the whiskey sloshed hard against his face, and he came up spluttering for air.

“When, not if-- and that will be shortly, thanks. And, yes, you will. They all do. You all do.” Klaus argued back, albeit weakly.

Ben crossed his arms. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Rather be looking at a toilet bowl than my dead brother.” Klaus answered, and felt bad at the way Ben’s face fell-- and even worse because he meant it. “Look, can’t you just-- go do your ghost thing somewhere else? Give me some time to grieve before you come here, shoving my face in death? Is that so much to ask, really?”

“Look, Klaus, about what happened--”

Klaus stood quickly, clapping one hand and one whiskey decanter to his ears. “I don’t want to talk about it!” He answered shrilly.

“Number four!”

Any further conversation between the brothers was forestalled by the return of Sir Reginald Hargreeves, his discovery of his son’s newfound drinking habit, and Klaus’s subsequent vomiting on the rug of his study.

Fortunately, Ben bugged off so that Klaus could suffer though his punishment in peace and relative quiet, but once he’d finished the required cleaning, essay on the effects of alcohol on young, developing bodies, and been sent to bed without dinner, there was nothing keeping him away.

And especially not the alcohol, that had mostly fled his system by now.

Klaus was lying on his bed, feeling miserable, moreso than usual, when Ben reappeared. He settled down on the mattress next to Klaus’s head, and tried to pet his hair, even though what really happened was more his hand dipping into Klaus’s skull.

Klaus sat up, alarmed, even more of him going through even more of Ben in the process.

“Hey it’s okay!” Ben insisted. “I promise, I’ll let you rest. Just… no more drinking, alright? Not because of me.”

“Not just because of you.” Klaus answered, slumping back against the wall. “Can you see them?” he asked, unable to curb his curiosity. “The others. The other ghosts, the dead people who just… walk around?”

“I think so.” Ben answered. “I’m kinda new at this whole thing.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Klaus mumbled, none too delighted.

“We’ll figure it out. I may be gone, but I’m, you know, not going anywhere.”

“Oh, well yippee for me.” Klaus threw himself face down into the pillow, and was grateful that Ben didn’t try to say anything else… and that no one had thought to ask him if Ben had anything to say to them.

Frankly, he didn’t want to know what Ben thought of them. Or what they thought of him. It would, in fact, be preferable, not to know anything at all, any more.That in mind, Klaus began plotting to get his hands on something stronger than alcohol, something faster acting. There was a whole, wide, living world out there, and he was going to find a way to be part of it, instead of being locked in the mausoleum that was his waking life.

He’d find a way to do that before he ever even tried to find a way to make peace with his dead brother sitting on his bed, watching him sleep.

#that writing thing I do #peaches writes #umbrella academy fic #umbrella academy spoilers #cigaretteburnslikefairylights

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adorkablephil · 6 years

Text

Fic: The Roles We Play (7/10)

Title: The Roles We Play Summary: Dan Howell and Phil Lester work together as voice actors for BBC radio dramas in the late 1930s, but slowly begin to develop “inappropriate” feelings for each other Rating: G Word Count: 4.967 (this chapter) Tags: Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Historical AU, 1930s, BBC, Radio, Actors AU, Slow Burn, Love Letters, Past Character Death, Grief, Angst Author’s Note: This fic was inspired by the @phanfichallenge 20k History Challenge. A bazillion thanks, as always, to my amazing beta, India!

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[ All Chapters Masterlist ]

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19 March 2001

Before Kathleen returned to the little terrace house the next morning, she sent her children to school and bid her husband goodbye with a kiss when he left for the office. “Make sure to stop reading long enough to eat something at lunchtime,” her husband, George, insisted sternly. “I packed you a sandwich.” He knew her well. She could easily get absorbed in a project and work for hours at a time without taking any breaks, and this particular project was far more absorbing than any other she’d ever embarked upon. She promised him, thanked him for the sandwich, and kissed him again. Then, she shooed him out of their house with a smile.

She reentered Daniel Howell and Philip Lester’s silent home as if entering a church, for it seemed to her now filled with sacred memories she could never understand. She could only know the scraps of information left behind in the shoebox on the kitchen table … and perhaps another shoebox somewhere in the house that held Philip Lester’s own mementos, including the corresponding letters from her Great-Uncle Dan. She hoped that such a box existed so that she could understand more of the story. For a moment, she hesitated at the doorway leading into the kitchen, suddenly feeling as if she were invading these two men’s privacy by reading their letters.

But then she decided that, through their letters, their love lived on, and by reading them she kept that love alive. It would be tragic to leave such a romance unacknowledged, shut up in a shoebox for none to see. She hoped she was not merely justifying her own curiosity as she entered the room and sat once again on the chair at the little table.

She remembered well where she had left off the previous night. Dan had been conscripted into the Army in World War II. She felt extremely glad that she knew for certain that he had survived, because otherwise she would have feared for him terribly at this point. But he would not have bought this house and lived here until his recent death if he had not survived the war.

She glanced one more time at the conscription notice, then set it aside with distaste. She picked up the next envelope, which was addressed simply to “Dan” and had no postage or indication of mailing on the outside.

19 January 1940

My dearest love,

I am struck to the heart by this terrible news. I am more grateful to you than I can possibly express that you took me aside privately to give me the information in advance, for if I had heard it for the first time when you announced it to the repertory company at large, I am sure I would not have been able to maintain my composure.

I cannot believe that we are to be parted so soon after finally finding each other. Yes, we met for the first time more than a year ago, and yet it feels as if we only truly found each other three weeks ago when you pressed your lips to mine for the first time. An entire world opened to me that I had never previously imagined. Or, perhaps, imagined, but never believed to be possible in my own life.

For you are now my life, my dearest and most beautiful love. It may seem ridiculous that I write you this letter when I shall see you this evening at your home, but I find that I must express my emotions as I sit here, alone, with my first thought upon waking being that I shall be parted from you all too soon. I wish that I had woken this morning to the sight of your lovely face on the pillow beside me, your golden skin bathed in the earliest rays of the sun, but I do understand your need to make household arrangements and come to terms with this situation with some privacy.

I do hope, however, that we may make the most of these meager days before you depart. I know that the BBC has released you from duty so that you may make all necessary arrangements and bid goodbye to your family. I intend to feign illness or a family emergency so that we might spend as much time as possible together, and perhaps make a trip to the north so that my family might see you before you leave, as well, if you wish it. I know that they love you dearly and will be deeply grieved by this news.

I must admit that I am glad that the BBC has released you from your duties, for it would strike me to the heart to playact beside you, surrounded by others completely unaware of our pain and sorrow. I do not know how I shall perform today, myself, with this news in the forefront of my mind. I believe I shall have little difficulty feigning a need to take time away from my work.

Rather than mailing this letter, I will give it to you in person when I come this evening to your home, where we might embrace each other and express all the love in our united hearts.

Yours most devotedly,

Phil

Kathleen found herself particularly touched by Phil’s reference to Dan’s face on the pillow beside him, bathed in morning sunlight. She interpreted that to mean that the two men had, in fact, shared a bed at some point before the writing of that letter, and regardless of whether their interactions had been sexual in nature, she was glad that they’d had that intimacy. Especially since their time together had been so short before Dan was scheduled to leave for the war.

She thought of all the tender moments she had shared with her husband over the years, all those early mornings of sleepy smiles and gentle kisses. And then she remembered that although Dan and Phil may have had only a short period together before World War II, they had apparently had decades together afterward, and she felt tears smarting in her eyes. She was so glad that they’d gotten that second chance.

At first glance, the next letter appeared to be written by a different hand, with a slightly more feminine style. Kathleen frowned in confusion and continued reading.

4 February 1940

My dearest,

I know that this letter must pass through the hands of your superiors and perhaps others in the military before it reaches you, and someone may intercept this either before or after you have received it, but I can no longer communicate with you in any other way, and I simply will not be separated from you entirely. I will speak to you by whatever means necessary, even if that means that I chance the discovery of this letter by some officer who chooses to invade our privacy.

If you wish for me not to write to you in such a potentially scandalous way, please do tell me, but know that it would break my heart to be unable to reach out to you until we see each other again. Please forgive me for not quite being myself in this letter, but I hope it may persuade you to allow me this small consolation in writing to you.

I think of you every moment and wonder where you are, what you are doing. I hope that this letter will reach you in Dorset before you are deployed, but I do not know how extensive a period of time you may receive training before you depart. Nor do I know how long it will take future letters to reach you, for I know not where your regiment will be sent. I, who pray little, do pray that the Lord keeps you safe and brings you home to me as soon as may be.

Please write when you are able. My heart aches for you with its every beat.

Your most loving,

Philippa

Kathleen giggled. “Philippa”! Philip Lester had signed his letter as “Philippa”! But then her humor dissipated as she realized the very real danger the two men had faced in that less accepting time. Phil subtly acknowledged in his own letter that he took chances with both their reputations by writing at all when he had no idea how many hands would touch that letter before it reached Dan, or whether anyone might open it to examine it for some reason.

Any desire to giggle completely vanished, and she grieved for their need to hide their love from the world. What would have happened to Dan if the identity of his lover had been discovered? She honestly did not know. She hurt for Phil, for his desperation to stay in touch with his lover while they were apart, despite the possible dangers.

Even today, such a relationship would receive disgusted condemnation from many. Many in her own family, apparently. She bowed her head in shame that she’d unknowingly been a party to their rejection of him, that she had not reached out to her great-uncle to let him know that not everyone would see and treat him with such judgment. If only she had known. If only she had known him. But now the chance was lost to her, and she had only these letters and mementos to allow her to know who this wonderful man had been.

The next letter, too, was written in the more feminine hand, but it was extremely short.

14 February 1940

My dearest love,

Today we celebrate Saint Valentine, and so I wished merely to send you a short missive so that you know I shall think of you every moment of this day. Imagine me ostentatiously presenting you with flowers and chocolate, if such an image might amuse you. I would certainly treat you like a king if you were here, for you are of course the king of my heart and always shall be.

I have not yet received a reply to my last letter, so I shall not write extensively before receiving your permission to do so. But please just know that I love you with every fibre of my being, and every inch of my body misses every inch of yours beside me.

With devotion,

Philippa

The next letter was written in Philip Lester’s familiar hand, however, without any disguise.

20 March 1940

My beautiful love,

Your letter made me laugh aloud, and I am glad that my choice of pseudonym amused you so. To be entirely honest, I am glad that you do not feel a need for me to sign my letters in that manner, for I wish my messages to you to be as authentic and true as possible. It pained me to sign my letters with something other than my actual name, but I did not wish to risk your reputation without permission.

Since I now have that permission, I shall state with no hesitation whatsoever that I, Philip Lester, am most devotedly and passionately in love with Private Daniel Howell!

There. Now, if thunder should sound and lightning should strike us, at least I will have spoken the truth proudly, for indeed I am most proud to love and be loved by you.

I have ceased my work at the BBC, for I find I cannot tolerate the place, haunted as it is by memories of you. I could never enter the rehearsal room without remembering our first meeting there. You, so nervous and yet so handsome. Your deep brown eyes when you looked at me seemed to say much, but I refused to build any hopes. No, that is not true, for I appreciated your spirit and did develop hope of earning your friendship. Remember when we both said that we would prefer the role of Puck? I knew then that you were a kindred spirit, but I could never have guessed to what extent that could be true.

So I now spend my days haunting the house, with Gemma fussing over me and Mrs. Jameson baking a ridiculous number of cakes in hopes of tempting my palate, for I have little interest in food. I believe I shall go north for a time to seek solace in the bosom of my family. And then I know not what I shall do. I miss you so abominably! I cannot bear it.

Yours most devotedly,

Phil

Kathleen read several such moving letters, with Phil expressing increasingly desperate longing for Dan and grief at his absence. Then she reached the letter she had been expecting, for she remembered that her family had always described Great-Uncle Dan as living with “a fellow Army pensioner” to save money.

23 May 1940

My dearest, most beautiful love,

Please do not be angry with me. I simply cannot sit here in safety while you are abroad fighting for all that is right and just. You may not have chosen your fate, you may have been conscripted to fight this war, but I now choose to fight it with you. Though we may not be together, in a way we shall, for we shall be fighting for the same righteous cause.

Again, I plead with you not to chide me for this decision. This is the best way for me to feel close to you, to feel as if we are in some way together even if it is not in a physical sense. At least we may be together in purpose, part of the same endeavor for freedom not only for ourselves but also for all folk in the oppressed and ravaged corners of the world.

I once told you that I was a coward, that I would run from any fight and trip over my own feet while doing so. Today I choose to be Errol Flynn, instead, though I must admit that I have not chosen the cavalry, for obvious equine-related reasons.

Please forgive me and wish me well. My thoughts and prayers are always with you—for, yes, my constant fears for your safety have induced me to take up frequent prayer.

Yours always and forever,

Phil

The next few items in the box were birthday cards addressed to various international addresses. It was apparent that no one knew exactly where his regiment was located, but they had all apparently reached him through the various channels of the military.

One card appeared to be from his mother. On the cover, it only said, “Happy Birthday to My Son,” and on the inside it was signed merely, “Be safe, Mum.” Thinking on it, Kathleen realized that this bland—perhaps even cold—message had come from her own great-grandmother. Kathleen had never known her well, as she died when Kathleen was still young, but Kathleen found herself now wondering if the woman had held everyone at such a distance or whether it had only been the son she disapproved of, the one who lived with “a fellow Army pensioner.”

There was a card from Phil, of course, with the usual sentimental avowals but no mention of his Army situation. Another card, however, appeared to be from Phil’s family, signed by all of them (including a squiggle presumably from the very young Steven), which contained a letter from Phil’s mother.

1 June 1940

Our dear Daniel,

I do not know if this card will reach you by your birthday, but I can only hope that it shall. Please know that we will all be thinking of you on that day, and that our hopes for your safety endure not only then but on every day of the year.

I hope you will be able to forgive our beloved Philip for his decision to join the Army. He did so only to feel closer to you, but I know it also pleases him to feel that he may be helping others, as he has always been such a kind and gentle boy. He may not have told you, but he is to be given the rank of Captain, and will be working in translation, as he is fluent in both French and German, so you needn’t fear him falling prey to violence on the front lines. We know that you, however, face true peril every day, and we fear for you so much that we cannot help but understand Philip’s decision, knowing that the extremity of his own feelings for you must be so much greater than our own.

Instead of dwelling on the dangers of today, I would invite you to remember when you spent your birthday with us last year. You boys had so much fun messing about in the river and playing badminton in the garden. I remember you strolling through the trees and along the hillsides with Philip, the two of you so engaged in conversation that you needed no other company. And you were so sweet with young Steven.

I remember with great pleasure how surprised and delighted you were by the extravagance of a Pimm’s Cup when we brought them out on the evening of your birthday. On your birthday this year, wherever you are, I hope you will remember those broad snifters filled with colorful fruits and delicious liqueur that we all drank together in the back garden in the sunshine. Remember how we all raised our glasses to toast the anniversary of your birth, and know that we will be toasting you this year, as well. We all look forward to doing so with you again upon your safe return.

With all good wishes and affection,

Kathryn Lester

The next letter was another from Phil, and a photograph fell out of the envelope when Kathleen opened it. The black-and-white photo showed a handsome young man, tall and slim, dressed in military uniform, standing beside a motorcycle. He had a winsome smile upon his face and one hand resting on the motorcycle’s handlebar.

8 July 1940

My most beloved Daniel,

I hope you do not blame me excessively for writing less often than I would like. My duties keep me quite busy, but I think of you every day and hope for your safety. Every letter I receive from you is a balm to my heart.

I enclose a photograph of myself with my new motorcycle. I greatly enjoy riding it about the country lanes on grand adventures with the wind in my face and the motor roaring.

But surely you know that I jest, for I would never ride such an infernally dangerous creation, perhaps even worse than a horse! It belongs to a fellow soldier in my regiment, and I merely asked him to photograph me with it so that I might look dashing. Do I look dashing? Do I look like a man who might have wild adventures?

I should not jest about wild adventures, for I know you face true dangers and not merely fancifully imagined ones. I must admit that I loathe thinking about the fear you must experience. In your most recent letter, you sounded so downcast that I worry extremely. Please write again soon, or I shall be forced to find additional opportunities to take photographs of myself in ludicrous situations in an attempt to cheer you.

I love you more than words could possibly express, but I know you already understand this, for I know you love me with the same enduring intensity. We shall be together again, and when that time comes, I shall never let us be parted ever after, for I will never again let go of your hand in mine.

Except perhaps to allow you to make the tea. It always tastes better when you make it.

I hope my letter has given you a chuckle or two, for I worry about your dark mood. You must keep up your spirits, my dearest, so that you can come back to me and we can spend the rest of our lives making each other deliriously happy. I insist upon it. Promise me in your next letter. Promise me that we shall have that future together when we both return home when this infernal war is finished.

With the most enduring and ardent love,

Phil

Kathleen felt grateful, once again, for the fact that she knew that Dan—her Great-Uncle Dan, she reminded herself, since she had begun to think of him as the young man seen through Philip Lester’s eyes in these letters—survived the war, for everyone’s concern for his safety was contagious.

Unexpectedly, the doorbell rang. Kathleen glanced at it, then at her watch. She had continued reading past lunchtime, so she should take a break in any case. She wondered if Bernice had come to visit again. She wouldn’t mind chatting with the older woman while eating her sandwich.

But when she opened the door, Kathleen found a man standing outside. He looked to be around her age, and he wore crisp jeans with a white jumper. He held out his hand. “I’m Marcus Greene,” he said with a smile. “I assume you’re one of Uncle Dan’s relatives?”

Kathleen shook his hand automatically, asking dazedly, “Uncle Dan?”

Marcus Greene laughed. “Oh, I’m not actually related to him. That’s just what we always called him. Phil Lester was my uncle. Well, great-uncle, but we always just called him Uncle Phil.”

Kathleen nodded, uncertain what exactly was going on, but she knew that she would love to talk more with someone who had known Philip Lester and, apparently, her own great-uncle. “I was just about to have lunch,” she told him. “Would you care for half a sandwich and a chat?”

******

They ended up sitting in the two chairs in the garden, splitting the roast beef sandwich Kathleen’s husband had prepared for her that morning.

“Uncle Phil always loved this garden,” Marcus told Kathleen as they sat among the greenery and flowering shrubbery.

“I’d noticed how beautiful it was,” Kathleen admitted. “Was one of them an avid gardener?”

Marcus laughed. “Oh, Uncle Phil loved plants, but he couldn’t keep them alive for long. He always joked that he had a ‘brown thumb.’” Kathleen chuckled. “It was Uncle Dan who took care of this garden. He didn’t care about plants very much, but he loved how happy they made Uncle Phil, so he has multiple gardening books and spent time out here tending the garden, even during the week that he died.”

“You saw my great-uncle the week he died?” Kathleen asked, surprised.

“Oh, of course,” Marcus replied. “I came to check on him every day after Uncle Phil was gone. He was inconsolable. Simply lost without his Phil. They hadn’t spent a day apart for decades, you know.”

Kathleen shook her head. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know very much about my great-uncle at all until I came here yesterday to begin sorting through his estate. I found a box of letters and have been reading them. I really wish I’d gotten to know my great-uncle while he was still alive. And I wish I’d gotten to know Philip Lester, too. He seems like a wonderful man. Very loving.”

“They both were, in their own ways,” Marcus told her. “I wish you could have known Uncle Dan. He was a character.” He smiled in memory.

“I wonder … did your uncle have a box of mementos like Dan did? I would dearly love to read the letters my great-uncle wrote!”

Marcus looked thoughtful. “Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t have thrown anything like that away, so it should be around here somewhere, but I haven’t gone through the house yet.”

“You didn’t go through your uncle’s estate after his death?”

“Of course not!” Marcus exclaimed, sounding almost horrified. “With Uncle Dan still living here? Surrounded by Uncle Phil’s things? It would have been cruel to come in and take things away from him when that was all he had left!”

“Oh,” Kathleen said softly. “Of course.” She felt terrible for having even suggested the idea. “So … we will both need to go through the house. If you haven’t already dealt with your uncle’s belongings, I’m afraid it might be a bit of a muddle.”

Marcus gestured dismissively. “That won’t be too difficult. I can help you sort through everything, since I know which things belonged to each of them … though after all these years most of their belongings really were theirs together, instead of belonging to one or the other.” Marcus glanced at her, then out at the garden. He took a bite of sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before adding, “To be honest, I didn’t think Uncle Dan’s family would care about his estate.” He hesitated. “Or was your family hoping for something that could be sold? I’m afraid there isn’t anything worth much money.”

Kathleen’s face felt hot, and she knew she was blushing. “No,” she stammered, “I mean … they just sent me to deal with the estate, to decide what to do with everything, you know? Decide which things to take to the charity shop, which things might have sentimental value, that sort of thing.”

Marcus’s eyebrows went up. “Sentimental value?” he asked in obvious disbelief. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I just … I wasn’t aware that Uncle Dan’s family felt much sentiment where he was concerned. He never talked about them, and he spent all holidays with us, so I wasn’t even aware that he had much living family.” Marcus stopped himself, then added, “Biological family, that is. He was very much a part of the Lester family.”

“I’m glad,” Kathleen said softly. “I don’t know what happened between him and our family, because no one ever talked about him. I’m afraid…” she hesitated, then continued, “I’m afraid perhaps my grandfather and their parents might have disapproved. Of … them.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “I always assumed that was the case, but I didn’t want to ask. I was afraid it might open old wounds. And he seemed perfectly happy as a part of our own family, so I didn’t want to stir up any possible bad memories.”

“I wish I’d had the chance to know him,” Kathleen said sadly, her sandwich quite forgotten. “And Philip Lester.” She found a smile for Marcus Greene. “And perhaps the two corgis in the photograph in the lounge.”

Marcus laughed. “Oh! Pancake and Nuki! Those dogs were the delight of their lives! They used to take them out for walks twice a day, showing them off to the neighborhood. Uncle Phil always told us that corgis are basically royalty. Something about a dog named Dookie.” Marcus’s face sobered. “They didn’t make it outside so often once the dogs were gone.” He looked at Kathleen. “Pancake and Nuki died just a few months apart. It was hard on Uncle Phil and Uncle Dan, losing them so close together like that. I think it probably contributed to them hiding out in the house more. It’s hard to overcome grief like that, when you love like that, even if it’s just a pet.”

Kathleen nodded. She nibbled at her sandwich. George would chastise her if she didn’t eat at least half of it, and she knew he was right. She took a proper bite and chewed and swallowed. It was difficult to swallow around the lump in her throat, though.

“I can tell they were very loving people,” she said hesitantly. “I only met Great-Uncle Dan a few times and never had a real conversation with him, and I never got to meet Philip Lester at all, but I feel like I’ve been getting to know them a bit through their letters.” She paused, then corrected herself, “Well, Phil’s letters. Because it’s my Great-Uncle Dan’s box of mementos, so it doesn’t have any letters from him, only letters to him.”

Marcus smiled at her, and it reminded her of that winsome smile on the face of a soldier standing beside a motorbike. “If you like, we can look for Uncle Phil’s box of mementos and go through it together. I knew them both well my whole life, so I can fill in some of the context for you.”

“That’s…” Kathleen felt herself tear up, and felt a tear actually slide down her face. She sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes with the piece of kitchen roll she’d brought out with her sandwich. “I would love that. It’s incredibly kind of you, given how my family has behaved.”

“Uncle Phil wouldn’t want me to hold it against you, and I don’t think Uncle Dan would, either. Let’s go order some more substantial food…” Kathleen laughed, knowing that the half-sandwich hadn’t been much of a meal for either of them, “…and we’ll go through their things, and I’ll tell you all about both of them. How about that?”

Kathleen nodded gratefully. “That would be wonderful.”

They gathered up their things and went into the house, but Kathleen glanced back as she closed the sliding glass doors, and thought about all the love her great-uncle must have felt, inspiring him to nurture a garden like that for a man with a brown thumb who loved plants.

******

[ Continue to Chapter 8 ]

#phanfiction #phanfic #historical phanfiction #historical phanfic #phanfiction historical #phanfic historical #phanfiction au #au phanfiction #phanfic au #au phanfic #historical au #1930s phan #the roles we play #myphanfic

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rex101111 · 6 years

Text

Punching in the Right Direction-chapter 1:

Another fic! :D And this time one with more then one chapter hopefully! Got this idea a while back during a conversation with @hatefilledpoptarts and I thought it was cool, but my computer dying almost cost me the whole thing, but thankfully I was able to retrieve it! (along with a bunch of other stuff) So! Here’s a thing I hope you like it!

In a police station in Shibuya, a very tired man is hunching over the front desk, his forehead pressed to the polished wood and his cap to the side of him, one of his hands rubbing the back of his neck while the other hung behind the face of the desk.

The day was long, tedious to the point of tears, and more than anything else, uneventful. No stray pickpocket being dragged kicking and screaming to be written up and thrown in a cell for a month, no big busts or emergencies to speak of involving any more huge villain outbreaks, and because of this continuous streak of nothing his superiors thought it would be a good idea for him to spend the copious amount of time he had to sort through a veritable mountain of overdue paperwork from around the station that have built up over the last few months.

On the one hand he privately considered it tantamount to torture, but on the other he couldn’t help but be a bit grateful that something like what happened in the Kamino ward wasn’t plowing through the station, give and take.

He had just finished about half an hour ago, with the help of a few friendly civilian workers and more than a few near screams of frustration, and his shift would end an hour after that, so right now all he wanted was for the day to continue being a bore for just that long so he wouldn’t have to add on overtime on top of that.

But, as these things tend to turn, a fairly muscle bound man decided that this was the perfect time to enter to enter the station, by way of kicking the door open, and make the day just a bit more eventful.

He was large in every sense of the word; he was at least seven feet tall, broad shouldered with arms like raw iron pipes and legs like tree trunks, muscles seeming to bulge on every surface visible to the eye, and there was plenty to see considering he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and as soon as he entered the station his presence seemed to fill the whole room.

The fact that his entrance had every single officer in the building pointing guns at him didn’t diminish how suffocating his simply being present had felt.

His myriad of flame red bruises and mildly bleeding cuts that covered his whole torso weren’t much help either.

He looked back and forth between all the wary officers, pointedly ignoring their command to put his hands up as he scratched his almost comically square chin, grunting, “….So,” He started making every person in the room jump and making one policeman fire off a shoot, which sailed over the large man’s head without him even acknowledging it, “This is a police station yeah?”

Nobody answered him properly, only more demands for him to put his hands over his head.

He sighed, “Oh for fuck’s sake…” He turned around to look behind him, “Kid, you try talking to these bozos.”

Among the screaming of the officers, a tiny figure emerged from behind the man’s legs, her small stature being compounded by the immediate comparison to the muscle bound individual, and she peeked nervously at the people around her shouting, and found that she couldn’t gather the courage to speak.

Not that she needed to, as soon enough people started noticing her, and how close she was standing to the intruder, some started quietly lowering their guns, a few others tried to beckon her closer to what they considered safety, only the tired policeman at the front desk, whose tired day slowed down his reaction considerably, was able to fully comprehend the situation.

Well, as much as can be gleaned about it anyway.

He cleared his throat, earning him the attention of both the police officers and the two visitors, “Can…can I…help you…sir?”

The man in question sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his head, “Fucking finally, someone who doesn’t want to kill me today,” He looked straight at the front desk, “Yeah! The name’s Kendo Rappa, I’m here to turn myself in!”

His announcement caused a great deal of confusion in the room, whoever didn’t lower their firearms already did so, and the front desk clerk was fairly stumped himself, but decided to roll with it, taking out the proper forms while nodding numbly, before something occurred to him, “Wait…what about the girl?”

“Oh?” He looked down at the girl, who was now clutching the fabric of his torn pants, the horn on the side of her head digging a bit into his sore leg as she clung to it, but he ignored that and just pointed down to her, “She’s Eri, she’s why I came here,” He gestured vaguely around the room, “Y’know, to turn myself in.”

The clerk nodded his head slowly, keeping his eyes on the girl as she seemed to keep to her position next to Rappa with no intention to budge, before returning his gaze to the man, “Alright, but what do you want us to do with her?”

Kendo opened his mouth, only to stop short to scratch at his chin again. He did this a few more times, unintentionally defusing what little tension there still was in the room before his just rubbed the back of his head, his face tired and a bit annoyed, “Shit…” He muttered between his teeth, just barely loud enough to be carried across the room, “I don’t fuckin’ know, didn’t think I’d make it this far.”

The clerk stares at him for a few long moments, before he takes out the rest of the forms needed for the processing of new inmates, already seeing the overtime he would need to punch in because of this, hoping the chief would see fit to send him home before it got too dark.

----

Of course, that there is only how our story begins to wrap up, so the question remains, what led up to it?

The short answer being that it started a few months before, miles away from the station, and miles more below the concrete of the bustling streets.

It started with Rappa, still wearing the heavy black mask that donated his position as one of the mighty Eight Expendables in service to the Eight Precepts, walking around the hallways of the base out of hair pulling boredom.

It started with Eri running into his legs at full tilt, the impact causing her to fall on her backside, her eyes shooting up to gaze up at this massive tower of muscle and blood lust that was Kendo Rappa, utter terror making her shake where she lays.

It started with Chisaki calmly catching up to her looking down on her with a gaze only fit for a lamb meant for slaughter, before raising his gaze to meet Rappa’s wilted mask, “Thank you Rappa, you just saved me a few hours chasing her down,” He leered back down at Eri, “Come Eri, enough messing around, we’ve things to do.”

It started with Rappa noticing how utterly desperate and afraid this girl is, how she gets up as slow as she can, shivering all the way up, to face Overhaul, slowly following him back with a lowered head.

It started with Eri throwing Rappa a look that was as loud as a shrill scream at the top of the lungs, seeming to beg for help.

It started with Rappa walking away, averting his eyes from the girl, the clenching in chest that he gets from her eyes pissing him off. He takes long, heavy strides, and just keeps going and going until he runs out of breath, an hour passing like nothing.

It starts a few moments afterward, when that clenching refused to go away, and the memory of the silently screaming look she gave him burning on the back of his eyelids.

----

Weeks pass, and in that time Rappa comes to a fairly belated discovery.

He doesn’t know a damned thing about Overhaul’s plan. Well, that wasn’t completely true, he knew a few snippets of it, some random details that together provided a fairly nebulous picture of the end goal of the Eight Precepts, but he doesn’t know enough, not enough to really be invested one way or another, not enough to inspire in him this burning loyalty that every other Expendable had for the bird faced prick.

There was one very simple reason for that, Rappa didn’t give a shit. Not about the Precepts, not about Overhaul, not about whatever lofty dream they were all supposedly chasing. Not one, single, solitary shit.

At least…he wasn’t supposed to. He wasn’t there to serve at the pleasure of some germaphobe who was looking to bring back the “glory days of the Yakuza”, he was there to punch a dude’s teeth in, kill him, and then kill anyone who tried to stop him while he was on his way out, that was the plan, his plan, and it was a damned good one as far as he saw it.

Or at least it was a few months ago when he “joined” the Precepts, now he was beginning to realize he should have thought about it more.

Headache inducing hindsight aside, the fact was Rappa was stuck; the one person who he wanted to kill in this entire place only gave him a chance at him rarely, and always on his terms, and he was surrounded by a bunch of morons who thought this asshole with a beak stuck to his face was the bloody second coming, and took every opportunity to remind him of that whenever he dared to do something as audacious as speaking his mind.

All this put together piqued his curiosity a bit, but never enough to make him actually care to ask exactly what it was Overhaul planned to do.

And then he ran into a scared little girl, and now Rappa couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop wondering what the hell this girl had to do with anything, why Overhaul himself seemed to grant his undivided attention to her.

Couldn’t stop wondering why she was so damned scared.

To his infinite frustration, Kendo started giving a shit, and as most things tend to do, it pissed him off.

So he did what he always did when he was pissed off, he looked for something, or more preferably someone, to punch. Today, that person was Tengai.

“Think fast asshole!”

A series of bellowing crashes bounced around the room, random grunts still fresh to the Precepts fleeing from the sound as quickly as they could, a few veterans only speeding up their stride a bit to gain some distance, Rappa was known for his temper, so this was not an uncommon sight by any means, but that didn’t diminish the spectacle of Rappa throwing a hail of lightning fast strikes towards one of their own, the impacts shaking the concrete walls of the complex like a dozen canons going off at once for each hit.

The barrier monk noted that Rappa was especially pissed today, seeing that he was putting considerably more force into his strikes than usual, even throwing a few curse words between the punches, he raised his brow as he saw the maniac start to breathe heavily and just keep punching, like he was trying to work something else out besides his temper.

He calmly put down the book he was reading, looking straight at Rappa, silently putting his palms together as he spoke up, “Feeling stressed today Rappa?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kendo screamed, throwing a particularly harsh punch smashing into the monk’s barrier, “Ain’t in the mood for your pseudo-Buddha bullshit!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Tengai observed, “Though that would invite the question of why you’re so stressed?”

“I said shut up!”

The barrage continued for another few minutes, the raging man slowly winding down until his fists hung limply at his sides, a few droplets of blood seeping through his gloves, and Tengai spoke up again, “Whatever it is, it must be fairly serious, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this riled up before.”

Rappa breathed heavily for a few more moments, before slumping down a nearby wall, making a point of not looking at Tengai, “Nothin’, just been a shitty couple of weeks.”

Tengai only raised his eyebrows at that, “You just spent the last ten minutes pounding away at my barrier while screaming your head off,” He said, tone even and unimpressed, “I think ‘shitty’ would be putting it lightly.

Rappa didn’t respond, only continued to look at the wall ahead of him, only caring to put his breathing back in order.

Tengai sighed, picking up his book again, “Fine,” He muttered easily, “Keep sulking like a child if that’s what you want to do,” He flipped pages until he came back to where he was before, “No skin off my back.”

They’re quiet for a long moment, motes of dust floating in the air and tiny chunks from the ceiling falling around them, either bouncing off Tengai’s shield or swatted away by Rappa’s hands. For that long moment, Rappa only stared ahead at the wall, before finally breaking the silence with a shake of the head, “Met a girl a few weeks back.”

Tengai didn’t even lift his eyes from the page he was on, “How sweet.”

“A little girl.”

“How disgusting.”

Rappa whipped his head towards the monk and rapped the back of his knuckles on his shield, “Not like that you jackass!” He huffed while he flexed his sore fingers, “In the base I mean, a little girl with white hair and a horn sticking out the side of her head running around, you know her?”

This time Tengai did lift his eyes to meet Rappa, looking slightly alarmed, “Of course I know her, that’s Eri!” He put the book down again without bothering to mark his page, “What was she doing running around?”

Kendo shrugged, “Fuck if I know, looked pretty scared though,” He scratched his chin, “Was even more scared when Overhole caught up to her and took her some place, ”He looked more intently at Tengai, who breathed in relief when he mention the girl being taken, “What’s his deal with her anyway? She his daughter or something?”

Tengai blinked, and gave Rappa a look of utter amazement, “Do you ever pay attention to anything?”

Another strike crashed against the invisible shield, “Do you want a broken jaw?”

A long suffering sigh escaped Tengai, “Eri isn’t his child…though she is important to him,” He looked straight into the eyes of Rappa’s mask, “In fact; she is the very cornerstone on which he is building his plans.”

Rappa paused, choking down his reflex to call out Tengai on bullshitting him, “The hell are you talking about?”

Tengai began to speak more passionately, as the rest of the Expendables tended to do when discussing anything having to do with Overhaul, “Overhaul has made a wondrous discovery in Eri, within her lays a quirk that will serve as the lynchpin of the ascension of the Precepts to the top of the criminal world.”

Rappa couldn’t hold it in, laughter shaking him as Tengai’s speech went on, only to burst when he mentioned her quirk, “Okay, now I know you’re full of crap.” He shook his head, thinking back to when he met Eri, “The kid I met was a spindly little twig,” With eyes so desperate he still can’t forget them, he fails to mention, “What? Can she make nukes out of her tears or some shit?”

Tengai visibly deflates at the sound of Rappa’s mocking and laughter, huffing as he narrows his eyes at him, “Nothing quite so crude…although,” He picks up his book again, tiring of Rappa, “I think it’s fair to say that she has the most powerful quirk in the world.”

Rappa clicked his tongue, “Full of shit, no way, no way that a kid that-“ (scared, tired, small) “-weak can have a quirk that damn strong.”

Tengai just keeps on reading, his generosity regarding his attention and time having apparently run out, even making a point of making a shooing motion with one of his hands as he turned a page.

Rappa stares at him for a moment, huffs, and throws one more punch his way before stomping his way out.

The nagging feeling in his chest morphs and shifts, becoming an itch on the back of his head.

No helping it now, if he’s already giving a shit, might as well scratch it.

-----

Chisaki Kai sits at his desk inside his personal office, looking over various files, his eyes roaming across the pages slowly and carefully.

Recent purchases of “Trigger”, info on new recruits, and most importantly of all, developments in regards to his most important project. He scans the information on those pages far more carefully than even the others, making sure he commits to memory what has been discovered so far and the progress yet to be made.

As he formed his actions for the rest of the day regarding that progress in his head, he hears a commotion outside his door.

“Get out of my way, need to talk to Overho. “

“Rappa you can’t just-“

“Out of my way.”

“Overhaul is too busy right-“

“I said-“

Overhaul knocked on the metal surface of his table twice, stopping the noise, “Come in Rappa.”

A moment passes, his guard shuffling out of the way as Rappa nearly knocked the door of its hinges as he opened it, peering down the beak of his mask at his so called "boss." He could see Chronostasis lean forward to look inside, one of his hands twitching near his gun.

Chisaki shifted his eyes slightly in his direction, which made him stiffen in place before leaning back away from view. He then shifted his eyes back up to look at Rappa, who had still not said a word since he entered, which was strange in every sense, considering his temperament.

"Can I help you Rappa?"

"The fuck are you planning?"

….well, this could be interesting.

#my hero academia #Rappa #Eri (bnha)#stuff rex wrote #punching in the right direction

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andveryginger · 6 years

Text

A Road Not Taken, Pt. 2

Summary: A discovery in the aftermath of Copero complicates matters even further. (IA x NPC//Adela x Saganu)

Notes: Before TATC was announced, I’d already started toying with a Chiss political arc, weaving around Adela and Saganu as their more personal story unfolded. Now, after TATC, Adela finds herself in much the same situation as Annya, waiting to see which way the story breaks….

Follows on from my “In the Moment” prompt response and “On the Table,” both of which still fit my headcanon for now. Part One can be found here.

Still not even headcanon, even if the muses are leaning that way. It remains an exploration of a “what if,” that my Adela!muse was just as curious to examine. Apologies in advance for the dwama. ;)

Posted sans beta, with only personal edits.

Aristocra Tabarin, House Nuruodo, cast a sidelong glance to his cousin Saganu, Aristocra of House Miurani, as they stood before the hatch of the shuttle. The latter had changed, dressed as his undercover persona of “Lieutenant Dul’skala’nuruodo.” The dark uniform was starkly different for him; swapping white for black and with it, the prominence of command for the anonymity of a junior officer. Still trimmed in gold, it fit more snugly than his typical choice, and did not accommodate his usual floor-length cape.

Other changes were present, as well. They were less easily defined, but Tabarin could see that in this persona, his cousin strained against the strictures of the very Ascendancy he represented: tugging absently at his collar, holding himself too stiffly, even when addressing his own cousin. Even now, though he projected the calm demeanor of an Aristocra, Saganu’s hands betrayed him – they were constantly moving, his fingers flexing, readjusting the fit of the tailored leatheris gloves and smoothing non-existent wrinkles in his tunic.

He was anxious, of course. This would be his first return to Odessen since the disaster of Copero, some three months previous. He had borne the strain of constant observation and suspicion exceedingly well; he parried the political attacks with aplomb and amusement. The absence of his chosen consort, however, had been considerably more taxing. He masked it well, forcing the occasional smile and hiding behind his command demeanor. But in the evenings, as they talked over intelligence reports and sometimes dinner, Tabarin had noted the distant gaze over the frozen horizon, the constant aroma of caf wafting over the study as they worked. A few careful questions allowed him to realize how much his cousin sought advice, insight, and simple companionship from the human agent, even beyond the physical intimacy he knew they shared. Stilted, open holocalls would never suffice.

Suddenly aware of his attention, Saganu straightened and cleared his throat. “Aristocra?”

Tabarin offered him the faintest flicker of a smile, then gestured to the hatch. “By all means, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’m sure there are some here anxiously awaiting our arrival.”

“Of course, Aristocra.” Smoothing a hand down the front of his uniform, Saganu then keyed the release. The hydraulics hissed, the sound largely absorbed by the comfort of the passenger compartment. Daylight traced the edges of the ramp, the world outside slowly revealed as it descended.

Members of the Nuruodo phalanx disembarked first, taking position as he approached. Lieutenant Raina Temple stood beyond, flanked herself by a small security detail of two former Republic and Imperial troopers. A warm smile brightened her features, dark brown eyes alight. “Aristocra, Lieutenant,” she said. “A pleasure to see you both.”

Saganu returned the smile. “And you, Lieutenant,” he replied. His fingers flexed again. “I trust you’re doing well?”

“Perfectly well, sir,” the petite officer replied. She paused, looking to Tabarin. A sidelong glance to her Aristocra, however, showed she was technically addressing him, instead. “Agent Emrys sends her apologies. She regrets that she couldn’t be here when you arrived, but will be joining us as soon as she can.”

In his periphery, Tabarin noted a flickering crease in his cousin’s brow. “I hope all is well?” he asked. He, also, had expected the consort to be present when they arrived.

“Of course, sir,” she said. “Just a routine appointment that’s run a bit long.” The falter in her smile was almost imperceptible, blending into the movement as she turned. “Ah, there she is now.”

The ranking Aristocra followed her gaze, watching as the agent in question emerged from the passageway, silver hair and billowing grey duster standing out against the dark metalwork of the hangar. She acknowledged him first. “Aristocra,” she said, “it’s my honor to welcome you to Odessen.”

Tabarin bowed his head in greeting. He studied her features carefully, surprised to note she maintained an iron grip on her reaction, warm, polite, but not too familiar. There was something, too, in her expression as her gaze brushed over his cousin, though he could not define it. “Thank you, Agent,” he responded. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Lieutenant Kal speaks very highly of you and your organization.”

“I’m quite flattered,” she replied. She swallowed and, for the first time, Tabarin detected a crack in her outward veneer as her blue eyes grew glassy. “I know that Lieutenant Kal does not offer compliments freely.”

“Only where they are deserved, Agent.” His cousin’s voice had a rough edge to it, flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. He clenched his hands to fists at his sides. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Adela turned to his cousin and the catch in her breath was unmistakable. Her own hand shifted forward slightly, almost of its own volition. She diverted it to the edge of her duster, instead adjusting the drape of the fabric across her torso. “And you, Lieutenant… a very great pleasure.”

Behind them, Lieutenant Temple cleared her throat. If there was a similarly glassy sheen to her eyes, it was blinked away before it could register. “I’m certain that Lieutenant Kal and Agent Emrys have a good deal to catch up on,” she began, “so perhaps I can begin your briefing, Aristocra? I think you’ll be pleased with the information I have to share.”

Serving as she did with the Defense Force, the petite officer would know that such a suggestion was something of a breach of protocol: As the ranking officer, his briefing should be delivered by Agent Emrys, herself. But she knew about the relationship between his cousin and the agent – had been present since its inception, and seemed sympathetic to the cause. He, too, was not without compassion. The sooner the two were out of view of the phalanx detail, the better. “Yes, Lieutenant, that will be more than acceptable,” he said at length. He looked to his cousin. “Once you complete your debrief, I’m certain you and Agent Emrys will join us?”

Saganu nodded. “Of course, Aristocra,” he replied.

Tabarin turned his attention back to Temple. He gestured toward the passageway from which the agent had come. “If you’ll lead the way?”

Temple cast a sideways glance to Emrys, Saganu, and then shifted her focus to the ranking Aristocra. “Certainly, sir,” she said. “We’ll commandeer the holotable in the War Room.”

Falling into step behind the female lieutenant, Tabarin clasped his hands behind his back. His cousin and Agent Emrys followed several paces behind. A glance over his shoulder revealed exceedingly neutral expressions, their arms brushing ever so slightly. The action seemed so natural, so casual anyone watching would assume it to be an accident. He knew it to be anything but – his cousin, ever the daredevil, was pushing boundaries and taking risks. As if taking a human consort wasn’t enough, he thought.

They came to a halt before a large holographic projection table, several personnel hovering at stations here and there; no one noted the Chiss officer and Alliance operative as they stepped onto the lift. It began its ascent as Temple powered up the table. By the time they disappeared toward the exit, Tabarin noted, his cousin had intertwined his fingers with those of the agent.

Tabarin looked to Temple, only to find her watching him. “I thought they handled themselves well, sir,” she said quietly. “For not having seen each other in so long.”

“Yes,” Tabarin drawled, “for those who were not aware, it was an admirable charade.” He gave her a taut smile. “My initial plan was to complete our briefing prior to dismissing him. I quickly realized his control was… tenuous at best.” He paused. “He missed her. Greatly.”

“And she missed him.” Raina tapped a few commands into the console, and a terrain map of a far distant planet appeared. “It’s been hard on them both… though that’s probably an understatement.”

The liaison officer input a few more commands and the display angle changed and zoomed in on a particular area. Recognition tugged at his memory, but would not surface, displaced by his concern for the current situation. He placed his hand on her forearm. “We’re doing what we can, Lieutenant,” he said. “More than anyone here, you recognize how slowly Chiss opinion changes.”

She paused a moment before looking up at him, expression an unusual mix of surprise, appreciation, and curiosity. “I do, sir,” she replied, “and I’ve seen glaciers on Csilla that move faster.” They both smiled at that and he withdrew his hand. “Still, I know they’re grateful for the help… however long it takes.”

She flashed another smile, then directed his attention to the display, effectively changing the subject. “The Alliance has offered access to their hyper-accurate planetary surveys – including a few within Wild Space that will be of interest to the Ascendancy…”

Tabarin turned his attention to the matter at hand. His cousin’s dilemma would remain, even after their current business was concluded.

#ginger writes swtor fic #the emrys legacy #swtor oc: adela emrys #raina temple #aristocra saganu #swtor oc: aristocra tabarin #post-copero fic #headcanon au #and poor tabarin has no idea how right he is...#imperial agent x npc #adela x saganu #copero spoilers #... if you squint

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