#gregory spilling da tea

[seoliid]

a much needed slumber party 🥳

#☆ #gregory spilling da tea #freddy fazchair #fnaf superstar café #fnaf superstar café au #fnaf security breach #fnaf sb #fnaf #glamrock freddy #fnaf glamrock freddy #fnaf sundrop #fnaf moondrop #the daycare attendant #sans #fnaf café au #fnaf coffee shop au #fnaf au #fnaf art #art #my art #freddy fazbear

[phoenixflames12]

Gotham’s Writing Workshop: Week 32: I’d rather not love anyone... but you

A/N: This is a small moment from the yet unplanned, unnamed sequel to my WW2 AU Vergangenheit (on AO3 here ) that popped into my head and absolutely refused to go away until it was written. 

Faith and Albert welcome two new arrivals into their lives 

September 1948

Faith is in the garden when the contractions begin, gathering up bundles of St John’s Wort to dry throughout the winter months, the bright yellow flowers a rare burst of colour against the soft browns and greens of the winter landscape.

Since her condition became noticeable she has been on a period of compassionate leave from the hospital and has found herself confined to the gatehouse and the small garden that she and Albert are pulling through the land.

Each bulb is a tiny miracle of existence in the dense, dark soil, making her mind turn inwards to the small sparks of life that are forming inside her, strengthened and nurtured by the shared blood that flows through her veins.

Around her, the silence seems to sing, the wind whispering through the bare, beautiful branches of the silver birch trees that line the front drive, joining her in her solitary actives pottering around the house. After the constant hubbub of the hospital, she glad of the solitude that descends upon the kitchen, with just the hum of the wireless and the chatter of the birds as they squabble at the feeder strung up outside the window for company after Albert has shrugged on his jacket and kissed her forehead gently in farewell as he had done so that morning.

‘Stay safe, meine Kleine,‘ he had murmured, the hazel eyes that she loves so much soft and wide with love and worry as he surveyed her sat with her back to the range, a mug of tea clasped between her hands.

‘I will’, she had replied, holding his gaze and knowing that she would never tire of the way that his eyes crinkled in the morning light. ‘And if anything happens, I’ll try and find Mam or Da. Will that suit ye?’

His smile had not quite reached his eyes as he had lain a hand over the swollen rise of her stomach, work worn fingers splayed over the waulked wool of her dress.

‘Even so, I think I’d better stay, mo ghraidh.’

And she, fool that she was in the heat of the moment had shaken her head and held up her face to be kissed, smiling softly at his concern.

‘Dinna worry about it, Albert. I’ll be fine.’

‘Aye,’ he had murmured after a moment’s pause, eyes soft and troubled in the morning light. ‘But if anything… anything goes wrong, or you feel any change, you’re to phone the hospital or your parents. I... I canna bear the thought of ye in pain, mo chuisle. Will ye do that for me? Please?’

And she had slowly reached out a hand to rest over his, their joined skin forming a protective shield over their unborn miracle and nodded.

‘Of course I will.’

Overhead, the sky is a soft, dull grey dotted with flecks of weak, white light, flooding itself over the slope of the heather clad hills and tumbling into the glen.

The intensity of the pain knocks the breath from her, the wicker basket tumbling unheeded to the mud from suddenly nerveless fingers that reach instinctively for her stomach. Her fingers come away sodden as they clamp against the waulked wool of her skirt, her free hand plunged deep in the soft, deep earth to stop its’ trembling.

The flowerheads spill out in a sea of yellow about her, pin pricks of light scattered about the dense, packed earth about her.

Slowly, she tries to stand, trying to remember the few times that she has seen mothers in labour at the hospital. Trying to recall the way in which Sister Gregory and Sister MacDonald guide the pains of expectant mothers slowly through the hospital corridors, walking them like her Da walked the kine when they were expecting, the slow plod of their hooves mingled with their low, pained voices echoing up and down the byre to ease the staining womb and bring about the birth, their voices a softly flowing stream of comfort and encouragement.

Her legs feel like water beneath her, her palms slick with sweat, every breath feeling like an agony of endurance forced painfully through her nose, the sleet of a sudden, unseen shower pressing thick and cold against her cheeks.

Slowly, she takes a step and then another, her feet aching with the effort of keeping her swollen body upright. Only the thought of her bed with the vase of late summer harebells tumbling through the vase on the windowsill, one of her grandmother’s blue painted bowls full of water on the table by her bed, keeps her going.

The welcoming darkness of the front door seems to tip and right itself in a daze of white hot pain and she hears herself cry out for her Mam, her voice weak and shaking, eyes burning with unshed tears amid the thunderheads rolling off the hills.

And then, out of the muddle of her mind, she hears it.

Hears the soft, clear sound of Albert’s bicycle bell coming up the long, winding road from the village, the squelch of the garden gate that needed oil to its’ hinges but she cannot think about that now and finally, the clatter of the frame against the path.

‘Faith? Faith, meine Hertz,why didn’t ye tell me?’

His arms are strong and safe about her waist, holding her up, bundling her shaking form into his coat. His eyes are sharp and worried, leaping out of a pale, taut face as they search her own.

She can do nothing but shake her head, blood blooming over her teeth as the wave of another contraction cleaves through her breasts, making her knees buckle, hands scrabbling desperately at his coat buttons for something to hold.

Around them, the garden seems to swim as the pain eases momentarily, the wet stone dyke rising higher and higher and all she wants is to be inside, away from the chill and the rain.

Albert’s face swims back into focus for a moment, dark eyes set and frightened, tightening his grip around her as her feet slip and slide under her great, ungainly weight. Her heart’s voice cries out to him, pained and broken under the heat of the pain.

‘I canna… I can’t do this. Please, Albert. Please, a chuisle. Please make it stop!’

In some quiet part of her conscious that has not been overcome by the monster of pain, she can hear Albert saying that he can carry her inside, but she shakes her head.

She must walk.

She must walk to ease the contractions, to placate the beast tearing the body that was not her body anymore apart, ease her throat that is raw from sobs that she didn’t know she had the power to make, stumbling further and further into the unknown.

What happens next is a blur of pain.

There is a hand holding hers, fingers cold and vice like in their grip and another palpitating her womb, but whose they are, she doesn’t know.

All she can think of is the weight of her hair fanned out behind her, the agony rippling down her back as it arches against the mattress, the soft, wet light dancing out of the corner of her vision, the coolness of tears against her cheek, the ripple of linen against her taut, strained skin.

‘That’s it, Faith. You’re doing brawly, mo nighean ruaidh. That’s it. There’s a brave girl.’

It is her Da’s voice that speaks over her, a soft prattle of soft, low, indistinguishable words descending from Scots to Gaelic and back again, fighting with her against the pain, but why he is here, she doesn’t know.

He should be in France and the world is rising and falling about her and another hand is clasped firm in hers, her name whispered over and over again that tips the scales of time and place away and at last her body is ripped from her, torn away in a sea of blood stained scarlet.

And then, without warning, the next cry ebbs out to a sigh and in its’ place comes a new sound; a new, clear call that she knows that she must answer, but her limbs feel impossibly heavy and all she can do is sleep.

When she next comes round, it is to find the world bathed in a soft, strange light that blurs and crinkles about the edges.

The weight of a calloused hand is held firm in hers, the rub of a simple gold band that she dimly remembers slipping onto his ring finger amid the soft May sunlight, hard against her palm.

Her head feels like it has been stuffed full of straw, the body that comes back to her under the new linen night gown feeling strange and clean and loose and not at all her own.

Slowly, she blinks away the crusts of sleep that crowd about her eyelids and sees Albert sitting at the hardbacked chair, the weight of his hand in hers loosening, the dark lines of his face soft in unbidden sleep.

‘Albert?’

Her voice is a scared, high whisper, her next question clutched painfully in the pit of her throat.

‘My baby? Where… Where is my baby?’

‘Here, Faith. Both of them, lovey. You did perfectly.’

And she sees her Mam stepping out of the shadows of the room that she had forgotten had existed, carrying two bundles wrapped in blankets. Her whisky coloured eyes are bright with love as she lays them down beside Faith, the warmth and weight of their new life flooding through her arms as she reaches to grip her hand.

‘A boy and a girl, my love,’ her Mam replies softly to her unasked question, reaching over to press a soft kiss against the tangled mop of her curls.

Beside her, Albert stirs from his sleep, hazel dark eyes blinking into wakefulness, reaching blindly like the bairns to kiss her gently, the weight of his arms strong and steady about the strange newness of her body.

‘Beside you. Don’t crush them.’ Her Mam’s voice is soft as Faith holds Albert’s gaze for a moment, watching him nod and blink hurriedly to banish the too-quick tears.

Dear love, and what must he have felt through it all?

Slowly, she turns away to see two sleeping faces shining up at her, faces so small and so perfect that they could have been carved from an apple.

Each of them has a fluff of tawny hair, still damp from the exertion of the birth and a slight slant to their eyelids that makes her heart leap at the sight of it.

‘She has your mouth,’ she finds herself murmur to Albert, reaching out to nestle each bundle against the crook of her arms, revelling in the warm weight of them, the snuffling mewlings that fall from virgin lips searching for milk.

He grins a small, watery grin, reaching out a trembling finger to trace the curve of the lad’s cheek.

‘And he has your nose. Look, it’s pert at the end.’

‘So he does,’ she murmurs slowly, wondering at the sight of them both, quiet and perfect in her arms.

‘Julia,’ she murmurs after a moment, tracing the line of her daughter’s cheek, the lines soft and barely there under her touch, her heart full of the fact that she can pay homage to her unknown grandmother in such a way. ‘Julia Elodie Peterson.’

‘Aye, meine Schatz’, Albert replies, his voice a little thick as he accepts the weight of his son, tracing the featherlight line of his son’s mouth.

‘And for this one? We can’t have a William, we’ll be confused with the one that’s already here!’

‘Aye’, she replies and then her heart remembers Kirsty and Mhairi weeping quietly in the shadows of the war memorial on that crisp, cold November morning and knows which name she will choose.

‘Joe,’ she murmurs, looking up to Albert who nods. ‘Joe Cameron Peterson.’

He seals the bargain with a kiss, slipping a hand behind her back and holding her close as the one by one, the twins stretch and yawn, their tongues little more than red fishes in their red, new mouths and week like kittens for their milk.

                                                           Fin

#mine #writing #fanfiction #outlander #ww2 au #faith fraser #albert peterson #claire beecham #jamie fraser #blood of my blood #thoughts?