#phyllis has all the tea

[phyllisthefirst]

New adventures for George and Phyllis!

As always, this fic is entirely about the fictionalized representations of the men of Easy Company that we see on the show. I mean no disrespect to the real men by writing this.

[Masterlist] [on ao3]

No tired sigh, no rolling eye, no irony - Part 4

Winter passes by quickly now that Phyllis has made some friends, the cold staved off by talks over tea and dances in crowded pubs and dance halls, and the war feels very far away even if it is the reason they’re all here. But while the men are training to kill and her nurse friends are training to save them and she’s busy trying to make sure they all have everything they need for their tasks, as soon as they meet on the evenings and weekends, all thoughts of that are pushed aside, helped along with alcohol and music. 

Phyllis has never felt so young, so alive, or so at home amongst her peers. Back home, she never really fit in with other people her age - her head was too filled with all the things she wanted to do at her father’s company to take much of an interest in her female friends’ endeavors at getting married and having children, while all the other young men at her father’s office expected her to want the same thing and thought she was only biding her time at work. 

Here, none of what they did and wanted before matters. They’re all here for one common purpose, even if they go about it differently. 

George’s prediction that first night at the pub remains true: They do indeed become fast friends, spurred along by George’s efforts at coaxing her to come out with him and the Easy Boys, and soon they find that in between dancing and playing darts and joking around with their friends, they get to talking just as easily, about their families back home and the plans they’d made before all this and sometimes, on very rare occasions, the things they want to do after. 

It’s Phyllis who brings it up one evening, when they’re tucked in a dark corner of the pub, side-by-side on a bench and looking out at their friends’ antics while comfortably sipping their beers. Earlier, she heard some of the men singing that gruesome song about all the ways a Paratrooper can die, and while she knows the men need this kind of detached cynicism for what they’re about to go through, she can never quite shake the unease it stirs in her. She needs something to remind herself that not all of them will end up squashed on the floor or tangled in their suspension lines. Some - many, all of them, she hopes - will get to go home and live long, different lives after this. She has to believe that. 

“What I want to do after?” George repeats her question. “Bit of a dangerous thing to think about, isn’t it? “

“Perhaps, if you’re superstitious. I think it’s important to think about it. I mean, what else are we in this war for it not to make sure there’s a better future afterwards?”

George looks at her the way he does sometimes, like he froze in place and needs a moment to thaw out again. 

“Yeah, I guess.” He takes a sip of his beer, stares into it as if the answer lay at the bottom of the glass. “I don’t know, I haven’t really thought much about it.” He hesitates, his face taking on a vulnerable expression she’s rarely seen. “I guess I didn’t think much about the future before, either. I dropped out of school and worked to support my family - didn’t seem like there was much more of a future to plan.” 

He sounds lost, nothing like the confident, charming loudmouth she first met, and suddenly Phyllis wants nothing more than to put her arm around him, this bighearted young man who doesn’t seem to have done anything just for himself in his life. 

She doesn’t, doesn’t dare cross that line and make him think she pities him, doesn’t want him to find out how different her own childhood was and think her a spoiled little rich girl. She isn’t, at least not rich rich - her father’s business recovered from the Great Depression somehow, but it’s only for the past few years that it’s been doing more than just barely staying afloat. Still, nothing in her life compares to the hardships in George’s. 

“What about you?”, he tears her out of her thoughts. “What’s in the cards for you - taking over your father’s business? Or getting married and having kids?” 

She sighs. 

“Why must there always be an “or”? Can’t I do both?”

She startles when the words slip out. Usually, she keeps them to herself - too often has she been laughed at for wanting such ridiculous things, or scolded for wanting so much all for herself, when other women don’t even get to choose. But tonight, she’s at the stage of drunkenness where one gets a little mopey and overly philosophical and much too honest.

But George doesn’t laugh, doesn’t scold. He nods thoughtfully as he looks at her, his bright eyes even brighter somehow. 

“You should. You should get to do all of that and more.” The fierceness with which he declares it makes something inside of her feel warm and happy, and she sits and lets it wash over her for a moment, that feeling, before she reaches out and lays a hand on George’s arm. 

“You’re a good friend, George. The best.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and before she knows what’s happening, George’s arm is around her shoulder and she’s squashed into his side, her cheek pressed against the insignia on his sleeve. It’s a little uncomfortable and still the best feeling in the world. 

“And you deserve the best, Miss Phyllis.” 

There’s something different about his voice, the usual hint of laughter notably absent, but before she can figure out what it is, something has brushed the top of her head and he’s let go of her again, allowing her to straighten up and scooch away to regain some semblance of decorum. She casts a quick, nervous glance around, but no one seems to be watching them, everyone else too engrossed in their drinking, talking, flirting and betting. 

“So,” George drawls, and at once sounds like himself again, “that future husband of yours - any particular qualities he’s got to have?” 

Phyllis promptly chokes on the sip of beer she’s just taken. 

Once the coughing and sputtering is done with, she hopes he'll have forgotten about the question - but no such luck. 

“Well? What’ll it take to sweep Phyllis Baker off her feet?”

She ponders it for a moment - it's not like she hasn't thought about it before, what with the rate her girlfriends from school have started finding husbands lately, varying wildly in quality in Phyllis’ opinion.

“I think most of all I want someone who sees and respects me as an equal.” 

“That's all?” George asks, astonished, and she doesn't have the heart to tell him that that seems difficult enough. “Come on, you have to want other things - tall, dark and handsome? Rich perhaps? Someone who will take you to fancy restaurants and stuff?”

She shakes her head vigorously.

“No. I just want someone who listens to me and doesn't think it's a personal insult if I want to keep working. I don't care about fancy restaurants.” 

“Why wouldn't you get to keep working?”

“Plenty of men don't want their wives to work. None of my girlfriends do, they're all expected to stay home and keep the house in order, even if they don't have kids yet.” She cocks her head to the side. “I mean, don't you want a wife who's got dinner ready when you come home from work?” 

George shrugs. 

“Sure I'd like that, if she's got the time. If not, I can whip up some scrambled eggs myself.”

Phyllis laughs. 

“How very modern of you.” Then something occurs to her. “Really though, what are you looking for in a woman?”

“I don't know. I guess just someone who’s sweet and kind and likes me for me, not as a last resort because there are no more tall, dark and handsome rich men left over.”

“Well, why wouldn't someone want you for you?”, Phyllis exclaims, appalled that he could even think something like this. 

George's face darkens. 

“You'd be surprised.” 

Phyllis feels uncomfortable suddenly, perhaps because it's the first time George has shown this kind of insecurity and she didn't even know he had it in him. She doesn't like it - someone like him should never doubt his worth like that.

“I think you're plenty handsome, even if you're not tall!”, she exclaims, realizing too late that it's perhaps not as much as a compliment as she intended it to be. 

But George, after a moment of surprise, laughs out loud. 

“Thanks, I guess.” Then he jumps to his feet and holds out his hand. “Come on, that’s enough moping. Let's dance.”

So they dance, even though they're perhaps a little too drunk, and before the night is over, all thoughts of potential wives and husbands are chased off again. 

***

Reality catches up to them in early summer. 

There’s been a feeling of something brewing for a while - more and longer drills and field exercises, hushed discussions between the officers, and Phyllis’ reports on increasingly large supply shipments. All of these point to one thing: They’re about to join the war, and soon. 

Still, when they’re first briefed on “Operation Overlord - Timing: H Hour, D Day”, it still feels like being dunked in cold water. 

This is it, then - their long-awaited entrance into one of the bloodiest wars in history.

Once the news has set in and they’ve all taken a moment to grapple with it - some men through stoic silence, some through overblown bravado and some, like George, by making nervous jokes - a flurry of activity sets in. There are letters home to write, G.I. life insurance forms to fill out, instructions for personal effects to leave with close friends, and of course,  sweethearts to say goodbye to, for those who have found a sweetheart, fling, or other kind of romance this side of the Atlantic. 

Somehow, this last part of their somewhat morbid last chores turns out to be the most difficult. It doesn’t take him all that long to write a letter home - longer than usual, with one individual message to each of his siblings, just in case it turns out to be his last letter ever. Filling out the life insurance form is done quickly as well, mostly because Lip keeps nagging them to do it. He instructs Tab which of his few worldly possessions are supposed to go to his family and which should be divided amongst his friends. In under a day, George has taken care of practically his entire life. There’s only one loose end left - and he has no idea what to do about it. 

The thing is, he doesn’t actually have a sweetheart, neither at home nor in England. 

But… he does have someone he cares about, as a friend if not more. The only problem is that he isn’t sure she knows just how much she means to him, isn’t sure she even wants to know. 

George still remembers clearly Phyllis’ first outing to the pub, her passionate claim that she’s not interested in romance and doesn’t want to be bothered by the attentions of a suitor. And he’s taken those words to heart, has made sure not to overdo it with the flirting, hasn’t made any attempts to make their relationship a romantic one, and has generally just tried to be a good friend. And that, he has found, is not a bad thing to be: Phyllis, despite her occasional awkwardness, is smart and interesting and easy to talk to, and he always enjoys spending time with her even if it isn’t in the same way his friends spend time with women they’ve met in England, kissing in dark corners and sneaking into barns, sheds or the occasional bedroom for a secret tryst. And the thing is, while he certainly wouldn’t be averse to doing those kinds of things with her, he’s also not completely unhappy with the kind of relationship they do have. 

But now, with the reality of war setting in, he can’t help but wonder: Should he at least tell her how he feels? Tradition seems to dictate it, as portrayed in so many of the movies about men going off to fight in glorious wars.. After all, what better time for a man to confess his feelings to a woman than on the actual eve of war? 

But apart from following tradition, what would he be hoping to achieve? A confession of feelings might seem to her like he’s trying to push her towards the very kind of relationship she doesn’t want. At the end of the day, it would serve only himself - to unload the weight of his feelings just in case he’ll never get a chance to do so again. It would be a deeply selfish thing to do, and so he decides not to do it. 

So, on what they have to assume is their last evening out, George meets Phyllis and her friends at the pub as usual. They talk and drink and dance, and neither of them brings up what they both know lies ahead. Instead, George makes it his mission to make her laugh as often as possible because this, he decides, is what he wants to take with him when he jumps into enemy territory: The sound of her laughter, the way her smile lights up her entire face and chases away that carefully constructed mask of strict professionalism, the soft curve of her waist under his hand when they’re dancing. It’s going to have to be enough for the coming days and weeks, because he won’t be so selfish as to ask for more. 

***

Phyllis has never used her job for private means, to gain access or information she wouldn’t otherwise have. She’s perhaps told George and her friends about developments that have been casting their shadows at battalion HQ, but only when they weren’t classified or sensitive. 

Today, for the first time ever, she’s breaking that rule. H Hour, D Day is approaching - overdue actually, with the jump into Normandy already postponed once - and Phyllis is feeling restless. 

She won’t be jumping in with the men, of course, hasn’t had a day of training for it. No, if all goes well, she’ll follow them across the channel on a transport ship with other noncombatants and additional supplies as soon as the landing forces have secured the coastline. Which means, once her friends - because that’s what they’ve become, George and his Easy Company boys - board those planes, there will be days, perhaps weeks of danger before she has a chance of seeing them again. Some, she might not ever see again. 

And it’s this thought that has kept her up half the night. They’ve spent their official last evening together, at the pub as always, drinking and dancing and laughing and trying to pretend like nothing out of the ordinary is about to happen. And on the one hand, maybe that was exactly the right thing to do, because maybe if they don’t act like D-Day will change everything then it won’t. 

But if it does change things, if it does take some of the lives that have become so dear to her, then maybe acting as if everything was fine was exactly the wrong thing to do. 

Because there’s one life in particular that has become more than dear to her, one person she calls not just a friend but perhaps her best friend here, and she suddenly can’t tell if he knows just how important he is - but judging by what she’s seen so far of George’s tendency to undervalue himself, she has a suspicion that he doesn’t. 

And suddenly, with the mental image of all the deaths the men keep laying out in that horrible song, that seems like a grave oversight on her part.

Which brings her here, to Upottery airfield, on a day when really, the only people on that airfield should be pilots, air and ground crews and paratroopers, and she should be at HQ minding the telephones in case any news comes in. Instead, she’s made up some excuse about possibly mislabelled supplies - something that will come back later to damage her reputation and make her life more difficult, she has no doubt - and all but hijacked a jeep to drive to the airfield herself, consequences be damned. 

Luckily, the chaos is so great that no one pays her any attention, and she makes her way onto the airfield without any difficulties, weaving her way through the throngs of men struggling with their heavy equipment, putting on greasepaint or reading and writing last-second letters. 

It’s difficult to identify the men with their faces smeared in black grease, but luckily, George’s voice carries, and she hears him before she’s even spotted him. He’s joking around, as usual, but the jokes come with an underlying note of seriousness that tells her how hard he has to try to keep it light.  

She waves to Easy Company friends she recognises in passing but doesn’t stop to talk, too focused now on her goal. Ignoring the raised eyebrows and elbow-nudges, she plows on until she comes to a stop in front of George, who does a surprised double-take when he sees her, before breaking out in his familiar broad smile. 

“Phyllis! I didn’t think I’d see you again before the jump.”

“I’m not supposed to be here.” 

“Oh?” The cheshire-cat-grin she expected is already sneaking onto his face, but she doesn’t give him time to gloat. 

“I wanted to say goodbye, and to wish you good luck.”

“We said goodbye at the pub the other night.”

“But we were terribly drunk, and I didn’t get a chance to tell you…” She notices how many of the men around are carefully acting like they aren’t listening to every word and pulls him a few steps away. “I wanted to tell you that I’m really glad you’re my friend.” 

It comes out sounding exactly as awkward as she hoped it wouldn’t, and she cringes. 

“I mean to say…” She takes a deep breath. This is difficult, of course it is, but she has to say it, for him. “You’re really important. To me, and to all of your friends. So watch out and take care of yourself, alright?” 

There, that came out right, didn’t it? Surely George understood that, understood how much she means it? 

But George mainly looks dazed and she wonders if her words really got through to him yet or if it will take more. 

She’s not going to kiss him - that’s such a cliché , the expected thing for a man and a woman to do in this situation when they’ve been courting. But they haven’t been courting, they aren’t sweethearts or lovers or any such thing (even if she has sometimes wondered what that would be like). They’re more . 

So instead, she pulls him in for a hug, awkward because of all the gear already strapped to him, and leans close to whisper in his ear: 

“Stay safe. Come back. You have to come back.” 

George’s arms come up to tighten around her lower back, and while she had planned to step back after saying her piece, she allows herself to linger for another heartbeat, and another, and another, before she reminds herself that they have an audience and pulls back. 

There, she thinks, now the message must have come through. She smiles at George, blinking rapidly before the sudden burning in her eyes can turn into tears, then she turns and walks away. 

She hasn’t made it more than a few steps before the men begin to loudly declare their opinions on the encounter. 

“Aww, poor George - not even a kiss from his lady friend!”, someone teases, and Phyllis freezes in place. That is what they made of this? She gathered all her courage to tell him how important he is, and his friends manage to cheapen it to some sort of consolidation prize just because she didn’t follow it up with a clichéd kiss - as if the words weren’t a thousand times more difficult than a kiss would have been. 

Men and their tendency to misunderstand everything. 

But if that tendency will fall back onto George and lead him to think less of himself, again… Well, she can’t have that. 

She turns on her heels, strides back the few steps she just made, grabs him by the collar, and plants a quick, hard kiss on his lips. 

The silence that reigns for a few moments is immensely satisfying. 

By the time the men begin reacting in their usual boisterous manner, cat-calls and whistles, jeers and exaggerated claps on the shoulder for George, she’s almost to her jeep. Somehow, she doesn’t feel as embarrassed as she should - she feels lighter and stronger for having allowed herself this moment of courage, and before she drives off, she even turns back to George and his friends for a cheerful wink and a wave. 

She makes it back to battalion HQ without a hitch and almost thinks she got away with her little outing, until she runs into one of the secretaries, a woman newly transferred here whom she’s just started tentatively befriending. 

The woman looks at her for just one second, grins and pulls a compact mirror out of her desk drawer. 

“You’ve got grease paint on your cheek,” she says and throws her the mirror with a wink. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” 

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #george luz x oc #band of brothers fanfic #my writing #aaand now I'm getting nervous about ridiculous details like the grease paint. was it called grease paint? or camouflage paint? aaagh #george luz

[wiredaughter]

☆•☆•☆

Seamless

@tropetember #5: famous au

outlast trials ♡ mother gooseberry ♡ prerelationship ♡ second person pov ♡ ofc ♡ ao3

Saying you are nervous would be an understatement. That's all right, you're not saying anything and no one is asking anyway. The questions will come later and you cannot wait to detail today's design with its accessories. You are great at your job, which should be no surprise given how much you like it. And how much you like her.

Phyllis Futterman is a lot of things; a successful TV host, a functional addict and the best employer you've had in your life. More importantly, though, she's your own personal nightmare today. Strongwilled, eclectic and with no regard for your education or skill in dressmaking, these wardrobe sessions are something you've come to look forward to as much as you dread them. You don't often get to rant on about fashion like this and she makes for an attentive, if often critical, audience. It's intense enough when you do this at the studio, surrounded by the rest of the team, and this is the first time she's coming to the newly acquired atelier. Your newly acquired atelier, because that's how good the show is going. It's, of course, in the corporation's name; but she's given you free range to set up shop. When she does things like this you think she might have a sliver of professional respect for you. As she gave you the news, though, she'd offered to get at least part time staff, in case you found it overwhelming, eyes glinting patronisingly. Of course you raised to the bait, biting out the type of reply that has her wondering why would anyone ever think Brits are polite outloud.

As she rushes in today clad in one of your works, a side smile breaks through when you see her despite yourself. You do good work. She wears it even better. You serve an early tea while showing her your sketches, and she's vocal about both your hits and what she considers your misses. She objects vehemently to a tulip sleeved new look dress the colour of gooseberries.

'That green is nasty.'

'It pairs well with the red in the headpiece, it's simple colour theory!'

'Gooseberry?' she leans over your notes. 'I didn't take you for the literal type.'

'I figured Americans like slapstick so much, let's not bother with any intricate symbolism.'

'It's too muted for a kid's show.'

Her voice is calm, refusing to acknowledge your words, and she is, ultimately, right. Maybe that's why you're spitting mad about it. Then again, it's always been easy for her to get a raise out of you. She turns the pages while you sulkily pour yourself more tea, and examine her expression from the corner of your eye. She's got such a commanding presence it's hard not to be put off when she dislikes something you've invested so much time into. You've been having fourteen hour days, trying to get the workshop together in record time all by yourself. And you do want her recognition. She's a remarkable artist and her show is on the rise, fresh off the war. Would it kill her to reciprocate an ounce of the regard you hold for her, as an entrepreneur? Unaware of your thoughts, she continues to flip through the lookbook. Or not.

'Don't pout. It's just the business'

'I'm not.'

'Brat.'

That catches you by surprise so much the scowl you give is only halfhearted. But it shouldn't, really. She's prone to flying into character, specially when you're working on this.

'Your pretty mouth in your pretty face would make a pretty smile.' She says, singsongy.

You huff, not as annoyed as you should be, and make a point of showing as many of your teeth as you can, lips tight in an unnatural expression. She shakes her head, amused. 'Are you serious, about the pants in a children's show?'

'Well, if it's all bad you can set it aflame.' you give a disinterested shrug. But you were, and tried to make them as feminine as possible to get around that.

She gets up and for a second you're sure you've finally exasperated her. It's a thrilling thought; part of you has been working for it since the job interview. Part of you is devastated. But she doesn't make to start a fire, or stalk out of the room like anyone should after almost an hour of your attitude. She sits down next to you, and you feel your breath hitch.

'Do you know why I hired you?'

You look down, unable to stop an embarrased flush from rising on your face. Shake your head once. And the truth is you don't. You've got a difficult personality, no American accreditations and a penchant for last decade's fashion. An ugly weight sets on your throat, and she forces you to look at her with a firm hand under your chin. You should get up and walk away, because otherwise you might start crying, and that's gonna make the rest of your antics look incredibly professional by comparison.

'Words.'

'No, I don't.' Your voice is clipped but even.

'You couldn't stop arguing with me during our meeting, and I knew you'd bring me designs I'd hate.' You try to look away, but she brings her other hand up, holding you with more strength than you expected. 'I knew you'd make clothes that had no place in this line of business.'

'I'm-' you hate apologising, but the truth is you're quite argumentative. 'I'm sorry.'

'If I wanted you to be sorry I wouldn't have hired you.'

'What?'

'You have ideas, ideas that anyone would dismiss as improbable, but you're set on them. I wanted to know how far you'd go I still do.' She sighs, resembling a weary mother so much it might make you cry had you had one. 'And of course I don't think it's all bad.'

You close your eyes, and manage to even out your breath. You don't know how to thank her, or for what even, so you deflect. 'So,' your voice is raspy now and you clear your throat before continuing. 'So what you said about the green...?'

'Awful.' Despite that, she looks fond as she shakes her head, releases you. Can't win them all, you figure. 'Terrible. Now, are you going to show me the dummies, or what have you even been doing here all week?'

#mother gooseberry #outlast fanfiction #tropetember #almost on time #famous au

[downtowncannibal]

What I think the Black Christmas cast all smells like/what kinda body wash they use:

This came to me when I was smelling my lotion lmao, bit odd but whatever, I love all the women of Black Christmas (plus Chris and Billy) Excuse smelling mistakes, I pulled this out of my ass last minute

CLARE HARRISON

Tangerine. That's all I have to say. At least when she was alive, Clare always preferred more fruity, pleasant smells that were easy on the nose. She's the type to light "Summer" candles during Halloween. She owns this rather expensive body wash package that came with lotion and a orange loofa, it's probably called something like "Blossom Tangerine Spring" Clare's willing to change it up unlike a lot of other people on this list, any sort of soft fruit smelling perfume or lotion will do. Clare smells fruity.

BARBARA COARD

Probably something that smells more woodish, or simple but alluring. I've mentioned this before, but I think Cinnamon is a particular scent she'd enjoy. She wouldn't get as proper as Clare with the matching lotion and such, but she's got a good $3 dollar store Cinnamon scented body wash she's pretty happy with and uses the hell out of. Since it's so cheap, the scent definitely fades a bit quicker, and in that case she begins to smell more of nicotine than the pleasant cinnamon, but thats okay, she showers pretty frequently. I also feel like she smells lightly of cologne, men's cologne, she chooses to wear it- but only a little spurt. Barb doesn't change up and isn't willing to try other scents, she likes cinnamon and she sticks with it- and if not cinnamon, just natural bar soap.

JESS BRADFORD

Jess isn't really particular with what she uses, it could be simple bar soap or the finest soap in all of Canada, she doesn't really care. If she were to choose, however, she would probably choose more Lavender scents, but like Clare, nothing too strong. All in all, Jess smells like dove soap, and it makes her skin so fucking soft.

PHYLLIS CARLSON

Billy says she smells like hippie, personally, I think she'd smell like tea with a mix of blueberries, a more- mystical, yet nature smelling perfume. Uses really nice smooth lotion, but cheap body wash. Doesn't really care what she smells like, just as long as it isn't bad.

CHRIS HAYDEN

Chris takes decent care of himself but prefers simple bar body wash and then applying a heavy amount of cologne. He's got no sort of body oder to cover, he uses that extra manly deodorant and shit like that, he just overestimates how much cologne he needs. The cologne isn't cheap, but it isn't too expensive either, probably about 30 bucks and isn't a name brand- but he doesn't really care, he's just looking to smell nice. When the cologne begins to fade is when it actually smells decent, it smells like exactly whatever comes to mind when you think of men's cologne. Old spice user. Also smells like a Christmas tree, oak smeller.

PETER SMYTHE

Trying to be serious for Peter and not just say "like shit." Because I fucking hate Peter. Anyways, Peter is like Jess- but the difference is he actually cannot afford to use more expensive soaps. Considering he lives in the conservatory and is a starving artist, I doubt he has money to waste on soap. Doesn't really use any lotions, just uses the cheapest body wash he can buy and he's done. It doesn't really bother him, he's more of a cologne kinda guy than a body wash sorta guy. If he uses cologne it's probably something Jess bought for him as a gift.

BILLY

Old, old cologne, dirt, and dust. Billy of course, being a attic dweller and likely home hopper, can't really afford to buy any sort of hygiene products. My personalization of Billy fucking hates being filthy, and tries to get showers whenever he can (he's not really a germophobe, but rather the concept of being filthy inside and out is something that disturbs him, and seeing dirt on his filthy skin can make him breakdown.) So that's why I say he doesn't smell like piss, but rather..oh? Cinnamon? Yup, he's stealing Barbs body wash, both out of spite and just because he likes the smell, he tells himself it's out of only spite though because "cinnamon is a unmanly scent"

LIEUTENANT FULLER

Another bar soap user, smells like- cop. Little bit of dust, little bit of gunpowder here and there, he doesn't really have any sort of signature scent, but does sometimes use vanilla hand lotion that's pretty strong, but definitely not bad smelling!

NASH

Old man (fr, old man, what your grandpas house smells like, you know the smell.)

#idk where this came from #just #had to do it i guess #black christmas #black christmas 1974 #jess bradford #clare harrison #claire harrison #billy lenz #slashers #slasher film #barb black christmas #Barbara coard

[just-two-blokes]

Comfortember day 4 - Overthinking A "Thomas Barrow" Oneshot

'I'm not sure that's a good idea', Thomas runs his trembling fingers through his gelled hair for the umpteenth time and his uncertain gaze wanders to Miss Baxter, clinging to her face as if she were his lifebelt.

'What if he doesn't like it? What if he changes his mind? What if…?'

But that's as far as he gets, as Phyllis resolutely grabs his upper arms and gently takes his hands in hers. The abrupt movement causes Thomas to flinch in fright and his eyes find Phyllis's who examines him with a warm gaze.

'Thomas… Thomas, now listen to me. You have nothing to worry about. I'm sure he'll love the idea', her voice is warm and Thomas has to swallow hard at her loving look.

'I'm just so afraid of doing something wrong. I… I can't lose him'

His voice gets quieter and quieter towards the end of the sentence until it finally dies away in a whispering plea and Phyllis resists the urge to take Thomas in her arms again. Hugs don't get him anywhere here either. He now needs a person to build him up, not someone to treat him like a little child. Instead, she reaches into the depths of the handbag she brought with her and pulls out a small, transparent glass bottle. The sunlight filtering through the dusty windows of the office is reflected in the bottle and streams through the room in rainbow colours.

As Thomas examines the bottle, he notices how his heart automatically starts to pound at double speed. His hands suddenly feel sweaty and his stomach rumbles as if he had eaten something rotten for breakfast.

''This is a very, very bad idea. Do you want to give them even more reasons to loathe you?''

'You thought of it', his voice is no more than a faint croak as now, alongside his own voice, that of his former superior creeps into his ears. Poisons his brain. Tightening his chest and taking his breath away.

'You have been twisted by nature to something foul'

'I do not wish to take a tour into your revolting world'

But in Carson's voice, so full of hatred, loathing and disgust, there is suddenly another voice. A voice that Thomas now knows by heart. A voice that envelops him like a warm blanket. A voice that fills him with warmth like a hot tea on a cold winter's day. A voice that sweeps aside the dark clouds in his head and makes room for the sun.

'What have you found, Mister Barrow? A friend?'

And that voice alone makes him nod his head stiffly.

"I want to try it.'

In reply, he only receives a beaming smile from the Lady's maid before she holds the bottle in front of his nose. Thomas sniffs it carefully.

'It smells good. Are those roses?'

'White and red roses, to be exact', Phyllis answers and her smile becomes a little warmer as she opens the collar of Thomas' suit slightly and, after an approving nod from him, opens the first two buttons of his suit.

"May I?'

Thomas cannot put into words how grateful he is for Phyllis' support. When he asked her last night if he could borrow her perfume for an occasion, she didn't hesitate for a second. She didn't give him a confused or even disgusted look. Instead, she merely nodded and gave him an encouraging smile. Mister Carson would have gone ballistic.

'But Carson is no longer on duty. You no longer have to conform to his world view.'

And for once Thomas allows himself to listen to his own inner voice.

'Please', his voice is no more than a whisper, but Phyllis hears him anyway.

With careful gestures she opens the glass bottle, brushes Thomas's suit aside a little and presses the trigger of the bottle twice.

The perfume feels cold and unfamiliar on his skin and Thomas resists the urge to flinch as the tiny drops of liquid hit his skin. But after a few seconds the scent of roses spreads through the small room and the realisation that the smell is not coming from the woman next to him hits Thomas so unexpectedly that he stumbles back a few steps in shock.

Immediately Phyllis withdraws her hand and her brown eyes are shadowed by abrupt concern.

'Thomas, are you all right?' Phyllis' hands no longer clasp the perfume bottle, but are suddenly on his shoulders, where they first draw careful circles in his suit before her warm hands wrap around his upper body and pull him close.

'Thomas… if you don't feel comfortable with it, you don't have to do this. However, I find it remarkable how much thought you put into it for him. And if he doesn't appreciate it, then he's a stupid, stupid boy who doesn't deserve you.'

After a moment's hesitation, she adds 'And besides, in that case, I'll be paying a visit to Buckingham Palace myself, and I'm not sure Mr. Ellis would like that.'

Now Thomas has to smile too and the brick in his stomach suddenly feels much lighter. The fact that Phyllis called Richard by name, without disgust and contempt in her tone, but with genuine conviction and joy in her voice, has made one thing clear to him.

No matter how this day ends today, Phyllis Baxter will continue to stand up for him and not leave his side. It almost feels like he has finally found the sister his own has never been to him.

When Phyllis Baxter wakes up the next day in her small room at Downton Abbey, the first thing she can make out in the light of the bright sun is a piece of paper carefully folded on the floor next to the door. Someone seems to have slipped it through the door slot during the night.

Frowning and with a tired groan, she hoists herself up from her bed and staggers across the room to lift the paper. With her left hand she gropes for the light switch while with the other she opens the letter.

There is only a single sentence on the paper. The ink is slightly smudged and Phyllis has the feeling that the sentence was scribbled very hastily. But as her eyes glide over the black ink, she can almost feel her heart lighten and a stunned yet happy laugh escapes her lips.

'He loved it'.

#Thomas Barrow #Richard Ellis #Phyllis Baxter #comfortember2022

[jonfarreporter]

The Significance of Food in Dickens Novels

Members of the press were invited to attend the annual press reception for the opening weekend of the Dickens Christmas Fair on November 18 & 19. It was an afternoon of performances by actors portraying characters from ‘A Christmas Carol’ and other novels alongside a rousing group singing songs familiar of the 19th Century.

The Green Man Inn was overflowing with people and food, which were all designed/prepared to be reminiscent of author, Charles Dickens’ time as depicted in his many novels. The South Hall area of The Cow Palace Arena & Event Center, Daly City was transformed by Red Barn Productions and (the Christmas fair’s founder) the Patterson family into a replica of Old London circa 1820 to 1870.

Be it costume, decor, style of speech and even the overall lightning, the cast and crew of hundreds painstakingly recreate what Ron and Phyllis Patterson referred to as an “immersion theater“ experience.

Visitors are transported to Dickens’ world and are provided a glimpse into what life was like more than 150 years ago. Along with the merriment there’s the food. Throughout the Fair there’s an array of foods and drinks to choose from. Food prices at the Dickens Fair range from $2 candies to $32 for “High Tea.”

Press members and guests at The Green Man Inn were given generous portions of meat pies, Scotch Eggs and sausage rolls.

Paired with the selection of a Victorian recipe of ginger beer, cider and or a bit of sparkling wine the culinary offerings that Sunday afternoon were as guest John Vigil described it, “hearty.”

Attendees such as Susie Straight and Glenn Tryon were impressed with the festive atmosphere and were both delighted by the food. “And, the opportunity to dress up, said Straight, the period-costume designs, some are exquisite, she added.

As Thanksgiving approaches, with roast turkey, many people are contemplating a feast. And, much of what people today consider a Christmas dinner is from the likes of Dickens and the Victorian era.

Pudding, custard and pie, especially meat pies, were a prized commodity among the people of Dickens time.

As food writer Katie Pix and food historian Pen Vogler explain. While some form of a pie has existed since ancient times, the meat pie was popular because it was convenient and a way to extend it just a bit.

Spices, herbs, vegetables-filling could be added and then as a condensed food item, easily transported and stored. Keep in mind that refrigeration wasn’t invented yet. Dickens mentioned a savory pie in his novel ‘Great Expectations.’ Young Pip was able to take the meat pie his sister had made to the escaped man hiding in the churchyard.

To bake, boil or stew something like meat, milk and eggs was a way to preserve them at least for a short period. And, while Dickens in his ‘A Christmas Carol’ certainly made plum pudding the star of a Christmas dinner table, the lack of food was a concern for Dickens.

A meager amount of food, such as stale bread or bits and scraps were common for less fortunate people in Victorian England.

What’s ironic is that in ‘A Christmas Carol’ Scrooge eats little so to hold more tightly on to his money. Whereas his employee, Bob Cratchet struggles to use what little money he earned to give his family a holiday celebration.

“Dickens’s most abiding influence, says Vogler, is his conviction that everybody has the right to sit down together and enjoy the same food.”

As a food historian, Vogler notes that social class and position are part of the food culture. “Crucially, the Cratchits’ Christmas was not part of any ecclesiastical or charitable space but enjoyed by a poor family in their own home.”

It’s a fact that as the Industrial Revolution was making advancements that could improve food production and distribution, yet, a caste system prevailed.

“Dickens was challenging a culture that regarded food as necessarily exclusive,” said Vogler. “These are conflicts in a war for status and control, in which food is deployed to show that ‘you are what you eat,’ and as Vogler points out it’s also about a people divided “by what they don’t eat,” she said.

The poor in Dickens’ time wouldn’t have been able to afford much of anything fresh, especially fresh meat and vegetables. As food writer Katie Pix emphasizes, ingredients and quantities were crucial. “The first recorded recipe for apple pie was written in 1381 in England, and called for figs, raisins, pear and saffron.”

Highly prized, saffron was precious as gold. And by the time Dickens wrote ‘Oliver Twist’ the once prosperous estate located in a south-east section of London that had harvested saffron was by then a wretched place. It is in what is called ‘Saffron Hill’ where the character Fagin and his thieves live and hide.

Dickens wrote ‘Oliver Twist’ to criticize the poverty in England. He saw how poverty was exacerbated by punitive legislation enacted in 1834 called “The Poor Law.” It served only to increase the use of poor houses and work houses to further enslave the poor and hungry.

Depravation (want) and ignorance are what the Spirit of Christmas Present warns Scrooge to be wary of. The giant spirit of Christmas Present gives Scrooge that “milk of human kindness” a metaphor for compassion. His tall presence and sense of abundance makes clear that the only lack in Scrooge is a fullness of life, love and generosity.

Food is essential and during holidays it is not only a way to celebrate but a way of showing appreciation, gratitude and love. This is illustrated in many of Dickens’ novels; most notably in ‘A Christmas Carol.’

The Dickens Christmas Fair continues for five consecutive weekends, from the weekend of November 19 through December 17. Open from 10: AM to 6:PM the fair has something for everyone.

For tickets and more information visit the Dickens Christmas Fair website

#dickens fair #daly city #meat pies #cowpalace #a christmas carol

[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: The Darks and the Lights by Sarah Stoltzfus Allen

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/the-darks-and-the-lights-by-sarah-stoltzfus-allen/

#Life doesn’t only exist in the bright and glorious places while we are on this earth. It is also lived in the shadows and the storms. It is lived in the smudging of chocolate and the baking of cornbread. Love is found in childhood memories and devastating loss. The Darks and the Lights is a journey of the author’s own life which forces the reader to share with her the joys and despairs, triumphs and disasters, as she brings them to life and makes them live again on the page.

Sarah Stoltzfus Allen, above all else, loves a Terry’s dark chocolate orange on Christmas Morning. She’s a mom, an avid earl grey tea drinker, and she tolerates her cat. When she gets the time, and sometimes she has to make it, she writes poems, hikes the hills of her beloved Eastern Kentucky home, and dreams outlandish dreams.

PRAISE FOR The Darks and the Lights by Sarah Stoltzfus Allen

Sarah Stoltzfus Allen’s The Darks and the Lights imbues the ordinary—the dust rag, the laundry, the drive to work—with expressive turns of phrase, rendering the mundane and familiar in innovative ways. Allen’s narratives counter sadness and loss with myth and music. “I can’t make any of this ethereal. / It’s not pretty,” writes the poet, but the observations and images in these poems offer a lyrical wisdom that can only be achieved through living the ugly-beautiful of life and coming out changed on the other side.

–Marianne Worthington, author of The Girl Singer, editor of Still: The Journal

Reading The Darks and the Lights is a journey inward – exploring the shadowy caves of fear and sorrow while also celebrating the brilliance of love and rock-hard commitment.

–Joyce Moyer Hostetter, author of Blue and other BAKERS MOUNTAIN STORIES

When I read Sarah’s poetry, I’m never awash in sentimentality. Instead, I’m surprised and enchanted. I want to read again. And I want to read more.

–Phyllis Miller Swartz, author of Yoder School.

In The Darks and the Lights Sarah Stoltzfus Allen radiates a blaze of earthy and earthly experience. Her truths move outward from a recollected fire: the lush and humble land explored and reported on as by a child, the body discovered and re-discovered by a mother. Allen brings the joy of thingness into a lyric talisman, love of what’s rural, the reassurances of the beloved and the self talking to the self. In one of the the final poems, masterful simplicity belies the levels of meaning towards the self, the child, and God:

Being with you is

the start of a green, curved path.

I don’t know the end,

but holding your hand, walking

unknown places, is enough.

–Cynthia Arrieu-King, author of Continuity

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry #life

[cpknightly1]

Hello My Surgy Buddies,

How is life?. How are you?. Yes it's me. I'm still here. Was taking a vacation from the internet. No seriously I ripped a tendon and ligament in my wrist. Yesss it's gotten worse. I'm scared out of my gourd. I'm a musician and artist. First the throat now the hand. Try playing "Animal Crossing" one handed.

I need my voice and both hands. It's taken 3 months so far just to get in to the Dr. I'm waiting for a week to get an MRI. This f@#%&$@ thing hurts. But I wasn't going to a hospital for a wrist. (pity party)

I can handle pain very well. If i hurt myself i don't scream, I cuss. Most of the time it's "SON OF A BITCH"! When i hurt my ankles at the front door, you can hear me yelling it on the ring.! Lmao.

I had to warn the Orthopedic Dr. That I have a knee jerk reaction. If they touch the really painful part my right arm lifts in the air and makes a fist like I'm going to sock someone. He asked me if I'd ever hit someone. I hadn't but I think I scared him lmao. What does he do? Uh huh. He goes "Whoa ok!"

It's strange to learn how much you use your other hand, you thought you didn't use. I may be headed for surgery. So maybe we can meet up share our stories over a few ice packs. I've pretty much played hard and worked hard in my life.

Everyone is healing well..You'd better say yes fgs. And staying out of this heat.

Get 2 gowns together and decorate them, crayons, markers whatever you can find. Put them together. Now strut the halls and tell everyone you're wearing the latest fashion from "Johnson and Johnson".

It looks as if Tumbler has changed a lot. I shouldn't have been away so long.

My third story is finished but I'm still trying to decide who I should publish with. I highly doubt that Christian Publishing would be interested in my work. "Gay???, I'm sorry you understand your work is about lesbians"? PFFFFT!

I've read about Katie's new project. I hope she's enjoying it. Any news about when it will be released? Where is she? I miss you!

Oh, I almost forgot. I've seen many things that are new to me. New shows that I haven't seen. I think it's kinda silly to send a "like" to something I know nothing about yet. Please don't take it personally.

I sent a gift recently I truly hope you got it. It was a bit corny but I still hope you received it.

I had a laugh the other day. Apparently someone was doing a background check on me. I giggled at it. But then thought ok this could be a bad person. Then I thought well hmm, who would want to know more about me fgs?

There may be a bad thing in there. All I remember was a ticket I got in 83'. Could be good news to an employer. Yep.

Phyllis keep your trap shut. Lmao

We got kicked out of a theater for laughing too much. Seriously? The movie was "Das Boot" !! It was a very long movie.

The latest titled Book is "A Chilly Vacation". It's more like my first book.. "Feathers" ...better. The second needs a rewrite...big time. Ok.."She's A Maniac" just hit my phones. So I'm dancin' in my bed. No..don't try and picture it..ROTFLMAO.

Ok, serious here.

"Heat Stroke" can be deadly. The temperatures are really bad out there. Stand or sit in the shade. Keep hydrated a lot! If you don't have a breeze..make one. FAN, a trick here. Place a chair behind the fan on the back of the chair hang a cold/frozen towel!. Turn on the fan, let it pull the cold air out to you.

Another trick. Put some wet washcloths in the refrigerator. When you use them put them on the back of your neck. Or the underarm , the fold of skin on the thighs near...well you know or behind the knees. These areas are "heat keepers". I call them. The neck is usually the best and forehead also. But the forehead warms the cloth fast. If you have ice that's good too. Remember to protect your skin from direct ice skin contact.

If you're feeling nauseous this is a warning sign. You could feel faint. Make sure you've eaten. But HYDRATE. Try staying away from carbonated beverages. Ice teas, lemonade just plain water. Watch the sugar levels here too. There are so many hydrating products out there. Find the one you like. Gatorade-lite, etc. Get into the tub with cool water. But never when you feel faint or nauseous.

Last year was a nightmare here. No air conditioning for 2 weeks. Don't overdue or exert yourselves. Keep the kiddies, both human and furry, out of the sun and heat. Their little bodies are more fragile.

My sister had heat exhaustion because her band instructor made them run marching drills in full uniform. Yup she passed out. So please folks take care of yourselves.

Stay coooollll!

Always,

Chris

🌹❤️🙃

[corvidaedream]

had a training day at work, we have decks of cards w participant names on them to assign to guests and already we have begun assigning them tarot meanings

#messages from the ouija board #sadies day job #francis akeley is the fool obvs. warren is The Lovers bc theres a running joke at work that in one of the prerecorded parts of the tour #warren & revere have Chemistry and now its a Thing #john crane is death. i think we decided ebenezer macintosh is the knight of wands? #its very stupid we are simply having a good time #again i love that almost no one at the boston tea party goes on to be anyone. a few guys become minor generals in the war but not notable #everyone is just poor and occasionally gets mentioned on the dollop for doing some crime or another but like isnt making it into a textbook #paul revere is literally the only guy on the wharf that night whose name guests know #i mean they also know john locke and nathaniel greene but neither of those are the guy theyre thinking of theyre just regular guys who have #the same name as a more important guy. amos lincoln has a distant descendant who will be important one day but hes goddamn no one #we have a phyllis wheatley on site (love u cathryn) but shes not /there/ she was there earlier in the week recovering her shipment of books #we are just nobodies and i love it. we are the only people who give a shit about these people as individuals at all. #i mean dr warren is somebody but hes still like. mid-level yknow. and again he didnt participate iirc hes just at old south

[dreamypqulson]

— our little secret

summary: you’re phyllis schlafly’s daughter, in love with alice macray. she was off limits. or maybe she wasn’t. maybe Alice has feelings for you too.

pairing: alice macray x reader

word count: 1400

pt.2

Schlafly wasn't an ideal last name to go by. Most certainly not during a time of change. And how awful it must be for Phyllis Schlafly's own daughter actively fighting for everything Phyllis is against. You never asked to be born in the Schlafly family anyways.

Living in your mothers house only gave you an advantage though. She held all of her meeting's in her office in which you could clearly hear from the living room or the kitchen. You could use all of the bullshit that she came up with to use it against her.

And you weren't nosy, you just happen to hear everything.

Phyllis thought you were awful for going against her and everything she believes in but really, you didn't care. You never got along with her like your siblings did. Maybe because you're different from them and your mother could sense it.

However, holding the meeting's in this house had another advantage. Alice Macray. The pretty blonde who has helped your mother throughout the years. She brings you the warmest cookies and gives her the softest hugs. You love her. You love her, love her.

She's not like the rest of them. That you know. She's not mean to you for standing up for what's right, even though she is supposedly on the other team. You think it might all be a fib, an act. Alice loves hearing about everything you've accomplished within Women’s right, lgbtq rights and so on. Phyllis would never care to listen, nor be proud of you.

"Y/n, would you be a doll and grab us the pitcher of ice tea in the fridge?" Phyllis asked. You happened to walk into the room that she held her meetings when Alice happened to be there. Alice smiled at you and for a moment you forgot to answer your mother.

"Yes mom!" You sighed and shot her a fake smile. Sometimes she forgets that she has two legs of her own whenever she’s around you specifically.

"Oh and four cups as well, darling!" Phyllis chimes. "Of course, mother."

It's a very hot day out so yes, your dress is shorter than most days but you don't process that until you’ve departed from the room. Then your faces heats up and your cheeks turn red. Was that why Alice smiled at you?...No, of course not.

Ice tea. Stay focused on the task at hand and not...Alice. Oh how pretty Alice looked in her light blue sundress. And her hair-

"Do you need help, sweetie?" The soft voice bounced throughout the room but for only you to hear. You almost dropped the glass in your hand but was saved by Alice. You looked down and saw her hand on top of yours. You knew that if you looked back up, your face would be inches apart, so you didn’t.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you" She giggled. Your pulse quickened and everything else is inaudible besides Alice's intakes of air that she exhaled so near to your face.

You finally looked up after taking many moments to answer "Um y-yeah, if you could just carry these cups. If you don't mind" You handed the older woman four porcelain cups and she placed them right back down. Did she not ask to help?

"That can wait" Alice says, nicely, respectful, her usual manner except with a teasing glint in her eyes. Oh.

You're so focused on her eyes that you hardly realize her hand on your waist until she starts caressing your sides. In the open, where the maid could walk in to do the dishes or your mother could storm in because you're taking too long. Alice Macray had to be messing with you.

"I-"

"Shhh" The older woman place a finger over your lips, touching them the ever so slightest. "Go play, i'll carry this back" She winked, kissed your cheek and left with the cups and pitcher. It happened so fast, you didn't realize what happened until you were alone to process it.

Alice couldn't like you. That was against the rules. Her rules. Your mothers rules.

But you could still smell Alice's perfume on you. You knew it really happened. You probably had her lips printed on your cheek from her lipstick as well. You could still feel the exact spot that her lips pressed against and you wondered what it would feel like on your own.

____

Alice Macray found herself wandering up the long staircase in your house. You had stayed home for being 'sick' but only because you wanted to see Alice today. Your mother had unknowingly switched the meetings to during the hours of your classes, now you would see less of Alice.

"Sick huh?" Alice was leaned up against the doorway of your room. You almost snapped your neck, how fast you turned it.

You weakly coughed, clearly fake "very" you say. The older woman's lifts a single eyebrow and walks closer to you. She’s well aware and even more so, turned on.

To put in a simpler way; you were sick with Alice fever.

"Is that so?" She was standing behind you and observing the canvas that you were painting. If you were to play sick and lay in bed, she wouldn't believe it anyways. Alice Macray had a way of seeing through you.

"Alice, you must have a meeting with my mother and the other ladies. Isn't that correct?" You turned to face the older woman and moved so close that you almost skimmed her lips.

"That’s correct. But i'd much rather watch you paint in these beautiful pajamas, honey. How do you always look so nice?" The term of endearment had almost caused your sudden confident facade to falter. You looked down at your feet to hide the red hue on your cheeks. At this rate, you could possibly fake a fever.

“You’re too sweet to me” You say, messing with the hem of your white, floral pajama shorts.

“Then my job is done. Well…Almost…” You questionably looked up at the older woman, your expression quickly shifting into surprise as she leaned in closer. It only took a second with you both not leaving enough room for something as thin as air.

Tugging and pulling at Alice’s dirty blonde locks, anything to pull her impossibly closer to you, merging her body into yours to make a single whole.

Her lips were soft and gentle, fitting perfectly on yours.

“Alice what about my mothe- oh god” she nibbled on your neck, most definitely to shut you up but you didn’t mind one bit as your mind had just been chanting AliceAliceAlice, and nothing else.

“Jesus” you said breathlessly. Alice finally pulling away as her lungs had began to hurt from the lack of air. She chuckled and you shuddered as she was still so close to you that you could feel the vibrations of her voice on your neck.

“I’m guessing you didn’t mind that?” Alice smirked. “That was a pretty bold guess, Miss Macray. But for you information, I didn’t mind.” You winked at the woman and felt her melt just like you did moments ago.

“But seriously. My mother. I’m so confused on what that was and I really really like you but if my mother ever found out-” Alice cut you off with a finger on your exhausted lips, just like the day prior.

“Love is strong than you mother, honey. And she doesn’t have to know if you don’t want her to. It’s none of her business. You’re an adult.” You we’re shocked at the words coming out of Alice Macray, miss goody too shoes, a mother herself’s, mouth.

“I don’t want her to know” you stated, matter-of-factly. Alice was right, it was none of her business. Why tell her something that she would most definitely put an end to. Something so good and loving and real that she had no business interfering with.

“Then it’s our little secret” Alice says “Nobody has to know.” It’s better if they don’t.

The older woman holds up her pinky finger and you stare at it for a moment. You then lock your pinky with hers and smile down at it.

“Hey” she grabs your attention. “You better get your behind in bed before your mother comes up here.” You smirked at the woman while playfully rolling your eyes. The older woman kisses your cheek and walks out like it never had happened.

With a sway of her hips as she walked out, Alice Macray was going to be the death of you.

taglist: @loverofallthingssarah @goodeday2u @lanawinters-ily @futuremilfcheck @talulahmae @sapphicforsarahh @ahsfan05 @stayevildarling @isle-of-earle @cordithatgurl @mistysswampmud @billiedeansbitch @billiedeanspearls @gardenfairie

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#sarah paulson #alice macray #sarah paulson x reader #alice macray x reader #mrs america #wlw #american horror story #ratched #oceans 8 #carol 2015 #cordelia goode #mildred ratched #wilhemina venable #billie dean howard #ally mayfair richards #tammy oceans 8 #sally mckenna #audrey tindall #shelby miller #lana winters #cordelia foxx #abby gerhard

[phyllisthefirst]

So, I finally made a moodboard/picset (what even is the difference?) for my George Luz x OC fic. The last chapter of it didn't even show up in the BoB-tag, I have no idea why.

As always, this fic is entirely about the fictionalized representations of the men of Easy Company that we see on the show. I mean no disrespect to the real men by writing this.

[Masterlist] [on ao3]

No tired sigh, no rolling eye, no irony - Part 3

Phyllis hasn’t noticed how starved she’s been for female company until a small group of nurses are billeted nearby. She hears about it from Mrs. Wright, who apparently met them at the greengrocers’ and invited them all over for tea the next day. The topic of Phyllis’ private life, or lack thereof, has come up several times, with Mrs. Wright of the firm opinion that it won’t do for her to spend too much time with the enlisted men but that there’s no harm in her going out with some upstanding women. Apparently, the old lady has now decided that if Phyllis isn’t going out and making friends, she’ll have to make them for her. 

And in all fairness, the women really are lovely. There’s Millicent, a no-nonsense Midwesterner who used to run her father’s hardware store with what Phyllis can only imagine was an iron fist. Vera, the youngest of the group who had just started training as a nurse when the war reached their shores. Corinne, a maths student at the University of California who runs track and field in her rare free time and is confident and energetic in a way Phyllis can’t help but admire. And lastly - though but generally the first in the room and the loudest in the conversation - there’s Bernice, a New Yorker who dreams of becoming a socialite while making a living as a singer at a nightclub. It’s certainly a diverse mix, which means they don’t run out of things to talk about for a long time. 

The women bring not only entertainment but a much-needed reassurance that her struggles aren’t imagined or self-caused, that all of them tend to run into similar hurdles all the time. 

“Last week, I was asked to give a talk to the ones training as medics,” Corinne tells animatedly, “and they kept questioning everything I said.” 

“What did you do?” Perhaps Phyllis can take some inspiration from the story. 

“I asked them to raise their hands if they were trained doctors, or at the very least medical students. Not a single one did.” Corinne grins, her teeth bared in an almost predatory manner. “They didn’t have as much to say afterwards.” 

Millicent shakes her head. 

“They keep telling those boys that they’re the most special ones around ‘cause they want them jumping out of planes, and now they think they can do anything and everything.”

Tea at Mrs. Wright’s soon becomes a regular occurrence, and as soon as Phyllis’ new friends hear that she’s never been to the pub even though she’s been invited there, immediate plans for a night at The Crown are made. 

The fact that one of the men invited her there is a little tidbit of information she drops by accident when the subject comes up. She hasn’t seen George in a few weeks but the strangest things have a way of reminding her of him. She only realises that perhaps mentioning him was a mistake when they’re already at The Crown, deep into their first ale, and the girls lean closer conspiratorially. 

“So, who was the soldier who invited you to come? Is he here tonight?” 

Phyllis turns a little in her seat and scans the room, glad for an excuse to try and hide the heat in her cheeks. The only familiar face she spots is that of Joe Liebgott, who seems wholly engrossed in trying to sweet-talk the busty barmaid. 

“No, I don’t see him.” She doesn't know if she's disappointed by that or relieved.

“Maybe he’ll show up later. And if not, there’s plenty of other choices.” Bernice lets her eyes roam over the room, takes a sip of her ale, and then licks her lips slowly with not at all disguised innuendo. “Just look around, ladies - it’s a whole buffet, and all for us.” 

Vera tuts disapprovingly. 

“Really, Bernie, that’s exactly the kind of attitude that almost made my parents forbid me to come here. They all think we’re only here looking for fun, and you play right into their hands when you act like that.” 

Bernice only shrugs. 

“How is that my problem? If they want to think this way about us, nothing I do is going to change their minds. I might as well have fun while I’m still young and everything’s in top shape.” One sideways look at her shy friend’s unhappy expression makes the predatory look drop from her face. “But if it eases your mind, I can act like at most we’re here to look for husbands. Fine, upstanding men who intend to make honourable women out of us.” 

“I’m not,” Phyllis blurts out. 

“Really? I mean not a husband, per se, but maybe a dance partner? Someone looking for a bit of a fling before they're shipped off?”

“I didn't come here to look for a husband, or anything else!”, Phyllis doubles down, a little too sharply perhaps, but none of the women take offense - they've all been confronted with the same claims that they're only here to look for a husband, or even worse, to seduce the men with no intention of marriage at all. She's tired of it, and therefore, perhaps a little too zealous in making sure none of the men can misinterpret her intentions. “I'm here to do my job and do it well, and I won't let anyone distract me, let alone some cocky soldier trying to impress his friends.”

Her exclamation is met with cheers and raised glasses that bring her attention to the fact that her own is almost empty, so she stands up to get another drink - only to turn around and be faced with George Luz, holding two beers and looking a little crestfallen. But only for a moment, then he holds out one of the glasses.

“Beer?”

She nods slowly, wondering if she only imagined that look on his face, the thought that it might have been caused by her ferocious speech. That was probably only wishful thinking on her part - after all, George might be the one man here for whom she'd make an exception from her rule, even if just for one dance. But there's no point to that kind of thinking, not when George is pointedly friendly and casual and steers clear of any and all attempts at flirting, let alone courting her. 

Besides, she's brought other women, and between Bernie’s red-as-sin lips, Vera's ethereal beauty and Corinne’s All-American glow, all long tanned limbs and golden curls, Phyllis has no doubt she'll soon be forgotten entirely. It always plays out like that: Even men who arrive at events as her date rarely leave with her, and Phyllis has started to get used to it. Now it's just a matter of waiting until George forgets about her too.

But he doesn't, at least not right away. Stepping up to their table, he lifts his glass in greeting at each of the women in turn, before he turns back to Phyllis. 

“So, our medic tells me they've moved to new facilities for their training and that they're “good” and “useful”.” He crooks his fingers to indicate air quotes. “He's a man of very few words, so you should take that as the highest compliment.”

Phyllis can't help it, she beams. When was the last time someone praised her for a job well done? But George is not done yet. To her complete shock, he puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her closer while addressing her friends. 

“She's a regular logistics wizard, this one - turned an old barn full of cr… full of junk into a working training facility, can you believe it?”

There's no hiding the blush on her face now.

“I couldn't have done it without your help,” she insists, but George waves his hand dismissively. The move means his arm drops from around her shoulder, which Phyllis registers with a pang of regret. It's stiflingly hot at the pub, but still the warm weight of his arm around her shoulder was pleasant. 

“We only lugged some tables around. You were the brains behind the operation.”

“Still, I've been meaning to thank you and your friends. Are they here tonight? I'd like to order them a round of drinks, on me.” 

“They should be around somewhere. But you don't need to bother with the drinks. You brought something even better,” he looks at the group of women sitting at the table, watching them with the expression of someone enjoying a new movie. “You brought female company.” 

The smile he throws at them shows he means it as a compliment, but her new friends are unimpressed.

“She didn't order us wholesale at the military supply office, you know. We came here very much on our own.” Millicent, whose fiance is in the Navy, seems to have the least patience for the men’s flirting, and not even George’s sunny smile makes it through to her. 

“And don't you forget about that anytime soon - otherwise we won't be gentle at your next inoculation,” Bernie piles on. 

George's face flashes momentary unease, but to his credit, he takes the reproach in stride. 

“I’ll remember it. Can I still get you ladies a round of drinks?” 

Bernice pretends to ponder the request for a moment, the others waiting for her verdict. Then, with the air of a queen deigning to address a peasant, she nods. 

“One round of beer. And if you happen to come across a supply of handsome servicemen who know how to dance, bring them along too.” 

George salutes jokingly, eyes glittering with mirth.

“Will do, Ma'am.” 

The moment he's left the table, all eyes turn to Phyllis. 

“Well, he's a charmer,” Bernice sums up accurately. 

“He seems very nice,” Vera adds, smiling gently. “And he seemed very impressed with you.”

“With my work.”

Millicent snorts. 

“Yes, that's why he bought you a drink, because he's so impressed with your work.”

Phyllis ignores the implication, and the flutter it stirs inside her. 

“He also helped me out the other day.” She fills them in on the whole adventure of the medics’ training facility, how George stepped up and saved her from certain failure. 

“So, he can do more than flirt and buy drinks,” Millicent sums up. “That's certainly a rare quality.”

“Which means, if you're interested, you have our blessing,” Connie declares solemnly. “He seems like a good one.”

Phyllis doesn't get around to answering, the girls already distracted by something else, and to her relief, the conversation moves on to other subjects. 

Before long, George returns with a tray of drinks and a whole gaggle of soldiers in tow. 

“Your ales and dance partners, as ordered,” he announces, setting down the drinks with a half-bow in Bernie’s direction, followed by a cheeky wink at Phyllis. “I got them wholesale, and pretty cheap.” 

She laughs out loud, both at the joke and at the expression of the men behind him, somewhere between confused and offended. 

They get to the task at hand with no further delay, asking the women to dance with varying degrees of politeness only to then notice that there isn’t really a dance floor. But George and his friends are determined not to let that stop them from having fun, instead clearing a space in the middle of the room by none-too-gently moving aside all the men standing there. Briefly, it looks like a fight might be breaking out, but George cleverly points out that the presence of a dance floor might increase their own chances at a dance, and their would-be opponents are appeased. 

Then he turns to Phyllis and whispers conspiratorially: “Those schmucks’ll believe anything. As if we’ll let any one of you dance with someone else tonight!” 

Then he holds out his hand and her laughter dies in shock. 

“Do me the honour of a dance?” 

Phyllis freezes, afraid that the moment she says yes it’ll turn out that she’s somehow misunderstood. But it must be true: George is really standing there, holding out his hand and smiling warmly, and she only has to get her brain to work again and remember what she’s supposed to do now. 

Then suddenly, someone jostles her, causing her to lose her balance and reach out to steady herself on George’s shoulder, and he takes up the opportunity with a beaming smile, taking her hand and pulling her into the fray. And just like that, Phyllis is dancing, for the first time in possibly months. 

The song is fast and animated and George an enthusiastic dancer, and between all the spinning and twirling he makes her do, there’s no opportunity to talk, which suits Phyllis just fine. But after a couple of fast songs, the pacing changes, the music turning slower and more intimate. 

George seems entirely unfazed, continuing to dance and only pulling her the slightest bit closer. 

Phyllis, already flushed and near-overheated from the exertion of their previous dances, feels her face heat up even more. 

“You know, it would be much easier to quickly clear the floor for dancing if they arranged the tables differently,” she blurts out, solely to have something to say. 

“Really?” George doesn’t laugh, doesn’t ask her where the hell that thought came from, and she feels a little less like wanting the floor to swallow her whole. 

“Move them further out, orient them all in the same direction so they can be pushed together. Oh, and put the dartboard in the corner opposite the door.” 

George’s eyes travel around the room to the things she points out. 

“That sounds pretty smart.” He looks from the dartboard back to her. “Do you always just think of stuff like this?”

She shrugs. 

“I guess I can’t help but notice when things aren’t done as practically as they could be.” She huffs, suddenly embarrassed - what kind of woman thinks of process optimization while she’s dancing? “I guess it’s a bad habit.” 

“I think it’s brilliant. All my brain comes up with are dumb jokes, and here you are rearranging the world to make it better.” 

“I don’t think your jokes are dumb.” Well, so much for not feeling mortified for five seconds. 

But George’s smile brightens even more. 

“Phyllis Baker, I think this is going to be a beautiful friendship.” 

And, quite without her own doing, Phyllis feels her own smile brighten too. 

She doesn’t get around to replying, because several of the Easy boys are appearing beside them with fresh drinks and she’s barely taken more than a few gulps before someone announces that the dance partners are about to be shuffled around, and then she’s taking off for another dance with someone she hasn’t even been introduced to yet, followed by another and another, until everything turns into a sort of blur. 

Still, every once in a while, George appears out of the blur, hands her water or beer and shoos off her current dance partner for a spin of his own, and Phyllis thinks that he might be right: This could be a beautiful friendship indeed. 

She doesn’t allow herself to think about what else it could be, if given the chance - neither of them are interested in that, she’s sure. The important thing is that, after feeling lonely and left out for weeks, she’s suddenly made not just one friend but a whole handful of them, and surely, that is the thing to focus on. 

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #george luz x oc #it only starts out with Phyllis and her new friends - George will make an appearance this chapter #No tired sigh no rolling eye no irony #title is of course inspired by Hozier #pics are screengrabs and one AI-generated image #they can do that now apparently

[merryfortune]

Amethysts & Topazes

Written for 100ships Challenge on Dreamwidth

Prompt - #84 Crystal

Ship: Izzy/Sunny

Fandom: My Little Pony: A New Generation

Word Count: 1,375

Rating: G

Warnings: No Warnings Apply

Tags: Post Canon, Not Canon Compliant, Fluff

   “Wow, wow, wowwwww, I’ve never heard of a Pony having a Unicorn horn and Pegasus wings before.” Izzy joyfully pestered Sunny whilst the “glow-up” glowed down.

   Sunny was bittersweet to see the aetherius wings and horns disappear but it did feel good to be herself. For all her hard work trying to unite all Pony kind, she had never actually envied either the Pegasi or the Unicorns for their bombastic displays of magic. Flight, levitation, all that sounds pretty cool but nothing sounded cooler to Sunny than just being herself. Still, her smile was half let down once the transformation faded.

   “My Father told me that a Pony who possesses all types of magic is called an Alicorn and traditionally, they were Princesses.”

   “Princesses?!” Izzy gasped, eyes going wide. “Like Zipp and Pipp?”

   Sunny nodded her head, “Yep, exactly like Zipp and Pipp.”

   “I think I have an idea!” Izzy squealed. She bounced up and down on all her hooves, her mane and tail flouncing about in her excitement.

   Enchanted, Sunny kept nodding along with Izzy’s bubbling excitement, her head bobbing up and down herself and even her tail flicked.

   “I want to see you tomorrow at my cottage in Bridlewood Forest, by noon sharp, promise.” Izzy said, she was speaking really, really fast, Sunny could barely understand her. “I need to get to work.”

   “O-Oh, okay.” Sunny said and she wished her friend goodbye but Izzy had already taken off like a bottle rocket.

   Sunny was left in the pixie dust and was sort of bittersweet about that as well. She had been half hoping that Izzy - as well as Zipp - could stay over for the night. Then again, it's not like she had anywhere for them to stay since Sprout had destroyed her house. Hitch had, fortunately, pitched in and was going to let Sunny stay with him until repairs to the Lighthouse were finished, or at least up to code for living but still. It would have been nice for Earth Pony, Unicorn, and Pegasus to all spend one night together under a roof for the first time in many, many moons.

   Sure enough, Zipp and Pipp had to regrettably leave as well. There were conferences to have and good graces to earn again in Zephyr Heights so Sunny said goodbye to the sisters and soon enough, Maritime Bay was populated only by Earth Ponies again. It wouldn’t be like that forever, Sunny was sure, but with the sun set and it was getting late, so such sureness would have to wait for tomorrow.

   At least tomorrow was exciting. Sunny could hardly sleep in Hitch’s guest room because she was looking forward to going back and meeting Izzy at her cottage in Bridlewood Forest. Although Sunny could also hardly sleep because her precious childhood home had been partially destroyed was quite depressing but Sunny was determined to look on the bright side. So, she snuggled in under the blanket and reminded herself, it was only temporary and Phyllis had been kind enough to loan out her workers to Sunny since it had been her son who had spearheaded the destruction.

   In the morning, Sunny was surprised by how much rest she did get. She had even slept in; Hitch had gone off to work but had been kind enough to leave some breakfast out for her. So, she ate the fruit salad and yogurt that Hitch had been kind enough to prepare for her and started to plot the trek ahead of her. Once her belly was full, she locked the door behind her and what a beautiful, brand new day it was.

   She could feel the wings that she didn’t have twitch with excitement as she soaked in the morning sunlight. It felt good on her back as she raced through the fields on the outskirts of town, bolting towards her friend’s place. She was giddy. Her friend, the Unicorn, lived out this way and was expecting her for something today. She absolutely couldn’t let herself be late for something so important and precious.

   Arriving at Bridlewood Forest, Sunny could already see the changes that the return of magic and friendship and magic of friendship had brought. The signs disparaging the other tribes of Ponies had been brought down and in their place, welcome posts had been made. Sunny was ecstatic as there was no longer a bar to duck under or jump over but merely a path into the vibrant woods of Bridlewood Forest.

   And they were vibrant. They weren’t dark and foreboding like before, littered with wilted flowers and dull crystals. This was now a place of vivacity, befitting the Unicorn population which had perked up some literally overnight. The crystal spires that jutted out of the soft earth glowed gently; the flowers bloomed brightly. There was a hop and a step in the hooves of the foals and even the adults who had been so long used to the moroseness, carried more of a smile than before. Walking past a few, Sunny overheard a few upbeat couplets of slam poetry here and there.

   Her heart pounded the closer and closer she got to Izzy’s cottage and before she could knock on the door, it burst open. Izzy was grinning in the doorway, the door itself banging and clanging as it recoiled with her enthusiasm. She was trotting on the spot, unable to contain her excitement as she shuffled Sunny inside.

   Sunny was all but dragged by her mane inside Izzy’s cottage as she was just so happy that Sunny was here. Once more, Sunny was enraptured by the utter treasure trove which was the interior of Izzy’s cottage. The outside, like many exteriors to many cottages around, was rather unassuming in mossy, forestry colours but the inside was a cacophony that truly made Izzy, well, Izzy. Her macaroni art and her glass bottles that made music. It was all so vivacious and quirky, there was something new and intriguing in every nook.

   “Here you go, sit down, have a spot of tea.” Izzy said to be a good hostess but by the gleam of glee in her eye, it was clear that she hadn’t just invited Sunny over for a drink.

   But to be a good guest, Sunny parked herself in front of the unfurling rose table and had poured herself some tea. Izzy watched eagerly but before Sunny could bring the rim of her teacup to her lips, Izzy spoke.

   “I have a present for you!” she announced.

   Sunny smiled gently, “I would love to open it.”

   “Oh, you don’t have to, I didn’t gift wrap it becauuuuse,” Izzy’s voice trailed off and her horn glowed with a silver aura and Sunny gasped, watching Izzy do magic was just as much a present to Sunny as any material good but even so, she was delighted by the gift, “I wanted to give you a little show.”

   Izzy laced a circlet over Sunny’s head. Her ears flicked as she tried to be helpful as Izzy’s magic graced her all the same as the precious little circlet that she had made for Sunny. She grinned as she looked up, trying to catch hints of the way light bounced off the various crystals that she was now adorned with. The circlet was the same sort of accessory that Izzy wore at the back of her head, dangling crystals on a thin, woven braid.

   “Look, I made it from amethysts and topaz. Amethysts since they’re lavender-coloured, just like your sparkle, and topazes because I think yellow complements purple quite nicely.” Izzy explained with a smile. “The amethysts will enhance your natural intuition and the topazes will attract good fortune.”

   “Thank you, Izzy, I will cherish this very kind gift forever.” Sunny replied with an earnest smile and even more gracious voice.

   “Your welcome, it's only fitting that a princess has something of a tiara.” Izzy replied and she trotted closer to Sunny, initiating a warm and fuzzy nuzzle between them. “You may not have your horn and wings forever but trust me, you have all the qualities of an Alicorn Princess regardless.”

   “You are too kind, Izzy.” Sunny murmured as she enjoyed the weight of the crystal accessory upon her brow.

#femslash #100ships challenge #my little pony: a new generation #mlp #sunny starscout #izzy moonbow #sunny x izzy #izzy x sunny #sunzy #writing tag

[gaeldricge]

So....*sidles into your inbox* Got any Sister Julienne headcanons to share? :D

No idea what brought this on! xD

Okay, so, even as a kid she has been terribly private. She had a few “good” friends but if you had talked with them you’d quickly find out that they knew basically nothing about her, apart her favourite brand of chocolate and maybe her favourite subject. 

Monica Joan is definitely not the only nun who enjoys books. Julienne doesn’t broadcast it but she has a secret passion for historical novels. Her favourite author is Mary Renault but she’s also bit of a fan of Josephine Tey. 

She was 23 when she delivered her first baby. It was a girl who was named Rita. She keeps a list of all the babies she helped into the world - including those who didn’t make it.

If it wasn’t for her habit and the church she thinks she and Nurse Crane would be very good friends. Their weekly meetings about the rotary and other administrative things always end with them sharing a whole kettle of tea and some delicious baked goods that Phyllis bought beforehand, and, most importantly, a good conversation. Talking to each other comes easy, even when they argue about the odd thing. It’s in those moments that Julienne longs for her life before taking her vows. They make her wonder what paths she would’ve chosen... she’s pretty sure thought that she would’ve become a nurse or midwife either way. However, she somehow rarely sees herself marrying Charles (or anyone else, lol).

#okay these are the ones I remember #I definitely need a rewatch! #sister julienne #headcanons by viv

[angel-princess-anna]

Speculation Sunday

I wasn’t expecting to do one this week, but then we got some Content so here we go!

So the DA socials gave us this morsel (it’s still a crumb, but from a official source lol).

That said, I’m not 100% sure what got going on here. Thomas / Rob is the only one not covered by the clapperboard. He’s at the butler position at the head of the table.

I’m pretty confident that’s Mrs H / Phyllis on his right, in her usual spot as housekeeper.

Then things get tricky. My initial reaction was OMG ANNA and while that looks like that could be Anna / Joanne’s hands, Baxter / Raquel’s looks quite similar, and that’s not a lady’s maid dress I’m familiar with (although it is similar in style to a lot of Anna’s). I also feel like based on idea that’s Phyllis, then the other woman would be slightly too tall to be Joanne.

That seems to be Molesley / Kevin on the end, which would support that being Baxter, but not like Anna and Molesley haven’t ever sat next to each other. That spot has also been Anna’s seat at times throughout the show, and Bates has been displaced onto the other side of the table before. They didn’t always follow the traditional servant seating arrangement patterns over the years, and almost never at tea time (nor lounging after dinner etc.).

There’s a hand on the other side that could very well be Anna’s, and her and Bates could be on the other side together.

Now, analyzing all this might seem trivial but 1) I need SOMETHING, I’m living on fumes here and 2) it might give us some hints, or clues we can piece with crumbs we might receive later. Or it gives us nothing lol

The person who I think is Molesley has a plate in front of him, so he’s there for tea time or maybe even dinner. So Molesley still is coming around (maybe better development on Baxley this time?? 😉)

This is scene 42, which based on the TV series’ Christmas specials (and their script books), makes me think this scene is a little under half way through. That’s not for certain of course, plus scenes can be shorter or longer etc. However I really like the idea of having a more “classic” servants’ hall scene more in the middle of the film. 

As for if that’s Anna or Baxter... as much as I want A/B BTS, I also want A/B to get the hotel, so it can be Baxter there in the lady’s maid dress, fine by me ahem, lol 😉

Plus then we get Baxley! win-win lol

There was also a photo that we weren’t apparently supposed to see (you can still find it on Twitter, and I think it’s still floating around on here, whoops, but I’m not linking to it because Hugh himself has asked us not to post it), and I can confirm that Mary’s got a better wig this time! And Rosamund *is* in the second movie! 

In terms of if the filming is close to wrapping, the costume designer still keeps uploading things and with present tense in the captions as if the costumes are still being worked on. That said, that could just be how she captions, describing the action in motion.

🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 It surfaced this Friday that Brendan was on a train to Edinburgh, and Michael shared on Instagram that he also was in Edinburgh. Now this might mean NOTHING and could be a coincidence... but 🤔

I mean, Andy wouldn’t normally be going with the family on trips, but it could be like when they used part of Alnwick in Northumberland for more than just Brancaster Castle in S5CS, where part of the surrounding town was used as York. Fellowes also has a penchant for getting all the characters to one place regardless (see: S4CS). 

I remembered though about Phyllis’ comments about filming somewhere “slightly exotic”.  I had chalked that up to be Essex, as DA had never been there before (and Scotland was in S3CS), but Scotland’s not in England... and I daresay that's more "exotic", and ever so "slightly"... 👀

Shrimpie doesn’t have Duneagle anymore so it would have to someone else’s castle they are visiting. 🤔

I am thinking also about how the hallboy and the one guest star have already wrapped... maybe they aren’t needed in Scotland. And it's been many years now since they filmed S3CS in 2012, and that pre-dates this blog (although, I suppose it cooooould be in my main, as it was right when I first got into DA), but I feel like they had saved the trip up north for the end of filming (I suppose I could also compare to S5 with Alnwick, but can't remember offhand. They definitely did not wrap S6 up there, though).

Now, watch Brendan and Michael both just randomly be in Edinburgh at the same time (plus Alastair Bruce has got something going on up there on the 24th), and it’s nothing to do with the film but heeey!! It's Speculation Sunday for a reason!

#downton abbey #da 2022 #da movie spoilers #film: speculation sundays

[thadelightfulone]

All I Want...  25 Days of Christmas Challenge, Day 1

November 15-19th, Part 1

DeeDee Chabert put her pencil down, closed her notebooks, and checked the time. 3pm flashed across the face of her smart watch reminding her that she had one hour until she needed to be at work. Removing her glasses, she pinched the bridge of her nose before rolling the tightness from her shoulders, arms and neck. 

DeeDee sighed at the familiar bookshelves in front and back of her. She was at her favorite table in the back of the John B. Cade Library right next to all the science books. She wanted to make sure she was ready to present the defense of her dissertation and had just finished up some notes. 

DeeDee knocked over a few books when she stood to continue her stretch. She leaned down to pick them up, almost dropping the top book. She caught the hardbound cover and something fell out onto the floor. DeeDee put all the books back onto the table and then squatted down to pick up the slip of paper. 

She took her seat again and looked at the note in her hand. It’s folded in half and rough around the edges like someone ripped it out of a spiral notebook. DeeDee opened the page and after turning it right-side up, she saw multiple chemical formulas written in the neatest penmanship she had ever seen. As she glanced at the formula compounds, she noticed a short note in the center. 

LaSTiNLuV - My parents had it, that real deal, until the end of time type shit. The kind that those r&b niggas used to sing about and I want that. Honestly, I hope to find it for myself one day. I know she is out there. And I hope that I will recognize her, but also that I will be deserving of her love. _E.S.

DeeDee tried to decipher the first word of the note. She quietly laughed when she realized the person used chemical elements to write a completely different word. Referring to the periodic table of the book the note came from, she worked to interpret it.

“Lanthanum, Sulfur, Titanium, Nitrogen, Lutetium, and Vanadium equals La S Ti N Lu V.” She looked at the note again, “Lasting Love?”

DeeDee recognized the other ‘formulas’ on the page as other chemical elements put together to form words or phrases but not actual chemical compounds. There are two other such groupings on the page of the note. In the upper right-hand corner, DeeDee saw ‘MgYHeArTaNdSOULa’ and in a much smaller font scrawled at the bottom left of the page was ‘IAmHeRe.’ She deciphered the other two before setting the note and her pad of paper to the side. 

“I Am Here. My Heart And Soul. Lasting Love.” That is what the person who wrote the note wanted to find, a love like their parents have or had. Taking a deep breath, she spoke aloud and laughed, “Shoot, aren’t we all?” DeeDee apologized when she heard various shushes from the bookstacks around her. 

Looking at her watch, it was time to go. She folded up the note and instead of returning it to the chemistry book, she put it in her folder. Grabbing all her items, she left the library to make the drive to her job. 

---

DeeDee needed to tell someone about what she found because it was the only thing she could think about all night. She called up her two best friends, Beverly and Phyllis, to get together for lunch the next day. They are her oldest and dearest friends, so they would understand her excitement about it.

Beverly and Phyllis are seated at the table when DeeDee arrived. They both stood to hug her before everyone took their seats. The waiter took their drink orders before leaving to give them time to decide on their entrees. 

“Ok, so what was so important that you just had to see us?” Phyllis rushed out from across the table. Always straight to the point.

“Right, we thought you would be locked up with your books for the rest of the year before we saw our best friend again.” Beverly leaned forward with both elbows on the table.

“I mean, Thanksgiving is right around the corner. And you know I can eat.” DeeDee responds, “You would have seen me before the end of the month.” 

They all laughed at DeeDee’s remark, calming down only when they saw their waiter approach the table. He set down their sweet tea and then took their order. 

“Ok, so I was at the library last night and I found something.”

“Look, if it wasn’t dick then I don’t want to hear about it.” Phyllis rolled her eyes before sipping her drink. 

“Phyll, stop that and let the girl speak.” Beverly bumped Phyllis’ shoulder, “Go on DeeDee, don’t mind her.”

“As I was saying, I found something while I was studying last night.” DeeDee pulled out the note. “This fell out of one of the books and it is very interesting.”

Phyllis took the note while Beverly looked at it from over her shoulder. She squinted her eyes at it before handing it over to Beverly, who just set it down on the table. 

“DeeDee, you know we can’t read that. We are not fluent in the chemical language.” Beverly pushed it back towards DeeDee. 

“Look at the center. I’ll explain the rest.” DeeDee slid the note back over to them. 

Beverly and Phyllis took a second look before looking back at DeeDee. 

“Is this for real?” Phyllis asked. 

“I think so.” 

“Ok, so then what do the hieroglyphics say?” Beverly set the note down in the center of the table.

DeeDee rolled her eyes at her friend’s remark, “The one in front of the note says Lasting Love. The word up here in the corner says My Heart and Soul. And this little thing down at the bottom says I Am Here.” 

“And you think this is real?” Beverly repeated Phyllis’ question.

“Well, it does have some initials after it. So, why wouldn’t it be?” DeeDee took a sip of her tea.

“Note in a chemistry book? Probably some virgin who needs to get laid.” Phyllis nodded at Beverly and the two of them started to laugh. 

“But what if… you know what, nevermind.” DeeDee grabbed the note and folded it back up into her small notebook. 

Just then, the waiter arrived with their food. All conversation stopped until he walked away again.

Beverly looked over at Phyllis before addressing DeeDee, “Hey, what is it?”

“I don’t know, I guess I am just curious about the author of the note.” DeeDee shrugged, “Like who would write something like this, hoping for a lasting love like their parents and then leave it in a book?”

“I already answered that.” Phyllis said before taking a bite of her salad.

“I’m serious, Phyll.” DeeDee spoke as she plucked a fry off her plate. 

“Ok, so what if it is a student here. Then what? What are you going to do?” Phyllis spoke as she waved her fork in the air.

“I don’t know. I guess I would have to find them first and decide for myself.” DeeDee shrugged.

“But what if an ugly guy wrote this?” Beverly cringed at the thought. 

“Bev, you already know it. Someone with his head so far in the books he doesn’t know anything else.” Phyllis shoulder checked Beverly and glanced over at DeeDee, “Just like someone else we know.”

DeeDee blankly stared in their direction. While everyone makes fun of her for always studying and not having any kind of personal life, they have no idea of the closet romantic hidden inside of her. She loves love, but never looked or hoped for it like this guy. No, an ugly person would not write about something as sweet and genuine as this. DeeDee did not believe that for a second.

“He sounds like a great guy. I mean he spoke of knowing that she is out there and hoping to be worthy of her. How sweet is that?” Her eyes sparkled as she recalled the words now embedded in her head.

“Really?” Phyllis shook her head as DeeDee nodded hers, “Well, now you know what you gotta do. You gotta find out who wrote that.”

Beverly claps her hands together in excitement as DeeDee’s face fell.

“What? No. I don’t think --,” DeeDee sputtered. She cleared her throat and started again, “I don’t know if I can.”

“Yes, you can. If anyone can figure out who wrote that note and left it there -- last week, last month, last year; it’s you.” Beverly spoke up. 

“You guys really think that I should do this?”

“Yes!” Both answer together. 

“Ok, then, I guess it’s time to find out who this E.S. is?” DeeDee and her friends shared a smile. 

---

DeeDee slowly walked into the library and headed straight to the circulation desk. She couldn’t believe that she allowed her friends to talk her into doing this. Holding her notebook in a death grip, she reached her favorite librarian, working the front desk.

“Hey DeeDee. What brings you in today?” Ms. Jacobsen asks her. 

“Hi Ms. Jacobsen. I actually have a huge favor to ask.” DeeDee says. “I found some notes in one of the books I had out the other day. Do you think you can tell me who last checked out the book?”

Ms. Jacobsen peeked past DeeDee, slowly turning around in her chair while surveying the first floor of the library, before she looked back at her. She stood up and moved to another computer on her left, signaling for DeeDee to follow her. 

“I know that you only want to return those notes to the rightful owner, so I can do this one favor for you.” Ms. Jacobsen finally answered. “So, what is the name of the book that you checked out?” 

“It was ‘Elements of Molecular and Biomolecular Electrochemistry’ by Saveant and Costentin.” DeeDee responded. 

DeeDee set down the notebook and attentively watched as Ms. Jacobsen started tapping away on the keyboard. She decided that watching Ms. Jacobsen was making her more nervous than kind of fibbing to the woman. No need to get her hopes up, if nothing came from the search for her mystery man. 

‘Her mystery man?’ Where did that even come from? She knew nothing about him except that at some point he felt it necessary to put these very words to paper. The man could be married with children or a complete psycho. DeeDee closed her eyes, trying to relax. If Ms. Jacobsen doesn’t give her a name, then she can drop this whole thing and focus on her next career move.

DeeDee looked up when she heard Ms. Jacobsen sigh loudly. 

“I’m sorry, dear. I don’t think you will find them on campus.” Ms. Jacobsen huffed out and then lifted her glasses to her face. “It has been 10 years since that book was checked out.”

DeeDee rapidly blinked at the information. “10 years?” She screeched at the older woman. 

“Yes, honey.” Ms. Jacobsen nodded and turned the computer screen towards DeeDee. “By one, Erik Stevens.”   

DeeDee tried to hide her smile. The mystery man has a name. 

“Erik Stevens.” DeeDee said his name out loud, then took a deep breath. “Ok. Well, thank you, Ms. Jacobsen. I’ll talk to you later.” DeeDee waved to her before walking past the desk towards her study space in the back. 

DeeDee dropped her things on the table before getting out her laptop. She opened a new browser and pulled up the school’s website. When DeeDee searched Erik Stevens, the first result was an article titled ‘Computer Science and Chemistry Majors share the 2010 Graduate Student of the Year title’. On the front page was a picture of the winners. 

“Computer Science, huh? Then what did he need with that book?” DeeDee mumbled while typing in her next search for the Computer Science department. She wrote down what she needed and put her laptop away. 

---

DeeDee entered the classroom during the meeting and took a seat in the back until it was over. When the room cleared out, she walked over to the faculty advisor standing at the front of the room wiping off the board. 

“Excuse me, I wanted to ask about a former student of this department.” DeeDee asked in a shaky voice.

“It depends on what you want to ask me.” The faculty member replied, setting down the eraser. 

“He won Graduate Student of the Year in --” 

“Oh, you mean Erik Stevens?” The professor laughed while DeeDee looked on in confusion, “Now him, I can talk about. Come with me.” She waved for DeeDee to follow.

They walked into the office next door, and the professor pointed out a chair for DeeDee to sit. 

“My name is Sheila Giacomo. I actually had the pleasure of teaching and mentoring Erik while he was here. So, what do you want to know?” 

“How did you know I was talking about Erik? I never even said his name.” DeeDee finally spoke again. 

“You said he won Grad Student of the Year. Only one student has ever won that honor during my whole tenure in this department.” Sheila answered. 

“I was wondering what you can tell me about him.”

Sheila sat back in her desk chair. “Mr. Stevens was not your typical ‘head in the books’ student, like most would expect from any kind of science major. He was a very inquisitive, reserved and athletic young man, but when you put numbers and tech in front of him, it was almost magical how he came alive.”

“What year did he graduate from Southern?” 

“With his master’s, the same year he won the award. I think that was 2010. After that, I heard he moved back home to California.”

“Do you know what brought him to Southern?”

“Something about his family and legacy, but I never found out what.” Sheila straightened up and looked at DeeDee. “Are you writing a story about him?”

“Ummmm no, I came across a paper he wrote and figured he might still be on campus or something.” DeeDee stood up, “I didn’t mean to bother you, but thank you for sharing.”

“It’s no problem. And if you are still looking for information, you may want to reach out to the other winner from that year.” Sheila stood and walked DeeDee to the door, “They were good friends and collaborated on the project that earned them the honor.” 

“Thanks again for everything, Sheila.” DeeDee waved and left the office. 

As she walked away, DeeDee looked down at the other information on her notepad from her earlier search. Marquis Oubre was the name of the other student who won with Erik Stevens. She continued her walk to her car, prepared to head home. There will be plenty of time to talk to Mr. Oubre.

@teakturn​ @ghostfacekill-monger​ @shaekingshitup​ @nahimjustfeelingit-writes​

Let me know if you want to be tagged.

#25 days of christmas challenge #erik killmonger x oc #black panther fanfiction #bp christmas #all i want #thadelightfulone

[whatstheproblembaby]

Fic: What’s in a Name?

The “Why does everyone call Shelagh ‘Mrs. Turner’ when all the other married nurses are ‘Nurse Whoever’ fic that no one asked for but I wanted to write anyways. ~1900 words, G, gen/friendship fic at the beginning but solidly Turnadette by the end.

Also on AO3!

Shelagh had thought she was above eavesdropping in corners in Nonnatus House after Trixie and Cynthia had roped her into their spying on Jenny and Alec all those years ago, but apparently, some things stayed with you. She was approaching the dining room from the hall, intending to enjoy a quick cup of tea and a catch-up with Trixie as she waited for Patrick to finish with an ulcer case, but the voices coming from the kitchen made her pause and shrink back into the wall. She was likely still visible if someone took the effort to look from the dining room - and anyone coming from the end of the hall would think she was ridiculous - but she thought the conversation that was going on might not benefit from her presence just yet.

“Trixie, you’ve been here the longest,” Lucille began.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me, Lucille,” Trixie replied with a faux-irritated huff.

“You know that’s not what I meant. You’re still a young woman, and you have valuable knowledge that the rest of us appreciate,” Lucille said. Shelagh could just barely see them entering the dining room out of the corner of her eye, noticing what she thought was a quick, loving hand squeeze between the two women as they and the others took their seats. “Especially about the history of Nonnatus.”

“That’s true,” Sister Hilda cut in. Sister Frances nodded emphatically beside her. “They give us some background at the Mother House, of course, but it’s no substitute for actually having your boots on the ground here.”

“I see…,” Trixie said. She took a sip of her Horlicks before continuing, “And what exactly about the history of Nonnatus do you want to know?”

“It’s not about the history of Nonnatus precisely, but it’s related. I think,” Lucille said, sipping her own drink. “It’s about Mrs. Turner.”

“She should be here in a moment,” Trixie said. Shelagh flattened herself even more against the wall when Trixie leaned out to scan the hallway for her, but to no avail - she saw Trixie’s eyes widen as they locked with her own. Shelagh shook her head, just once. Thankfully Trixie got the message, smoothly saying, “You could just ask her then.”

“I don’t know if what I’m about to ask is...painful, somehow.” Shelagh quirked an eyebrow at Lucille’s choice of adjective. “If you don’t know the answer, though, then I will ask once she arrives.”

“Fire away, sweetie,” Trixie said. She looked back up to where Shelagh was hiding, her face a perfectly unruffled mask. Shelagh could see in her eyes that she too had no idea where Lucille was taking this question, though.

“Why do we call Mrs. Turner ‘Mrs. Turner’ when we all called Barbara ‘Nurse Hereward’ after she got married? She’s also a nurse - are we being disrespectful?”

“I’ve wondered that, too!” Sister Frances chimed in. “She puts in as much work as the rest of us. Doesn’t she deserve the title?”

Shelagh pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh. She had been so worried about gossip and stigma when she first left the Order - she had never imagined that she would be so absorbed into her new life that people might not know anything about her past at all. Of course, she had never imagined that the staff at Nonnatus would shift quite so frequently, either. Once, it would have been Cynthia, Jenny, and Chummy sitting at that table with Trixie, and they would have had no need to ask.

“I suppose the simplest answer is that for quite a while, we never expected Shelagh to become Mrs. Turner,” Trixie said. “It was a joy for us to be able to say it, and she did retire briefly from nursing when she married. We just got used to it.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Shelagh said, finally stepping into the dining room and revealing herself. A chorus of startled noises punctuated her statement, along with Sister Frances splashing her Horlicks onto the table.

“Oh, lass,” Phyllis sighed, pushing herself up to grab a dishcloth from the kitchen. “Hasn’t the East End trained the jumpiness out of you yet?”

“I’m sorry!” Sister Frances said, taking the cloth and mopping up her spill. “But why didn’t anyone expect you to marry Dr. Turner, Mrs. - I mean, Nurse-”

“Right now, I think you should all just call me Shelagh,” she cut in, taking Sister Monica Joan’s usual seat at the foot of the table. Trixie got up at that, walking over to the kitchen to pour Shelagh a mug of Horlicks, too. “Or were you going to be circumspect about my first name as well, Trixie?”

“Had they asked, quite possibly!” Trixie said, passing Shelagh her mug and taking her seat again. “I didn’t realize your past was such ancient history. Or is it classified under the Official Secrets Act?”

“What are you two talking about?” Val interjected, looking from Shelagh to Trixie and back like it was a match at Wimbledon. “You’re making it sound like she has a secret identity or something.”

“Maybe she’s a Russian spy,” Phyllis teased. “Come to get classified intel on birthing babies for the Kremlin!”

“Close,” Shelagh said with a laugh. “But to answer your question, Sister Frances, I need to ask you and Sister Hilda one of my own first. Did anyone at the Mother House ever mention a sister who left the order back in 1958?”

“Not to me,” Sister Frances said. “But I only just took my life vows.”

Sister Hilda bit her lip for a moment before saying, “Now that you mention it, it rings a bell. I think Mother Jesu Emmanuel said something at dinner one day, but she didn’t say which sister it was. Did you know her, Shelagh?”

Trixie snorted into her mug.

“I was her,” Shelagh answered.

There was pin-drop silence around the table. Five sets of eyes bored into Shelagh, clearly begging to know more, while Trixie just quietly allowed everyone to process the moment.

“I was Sister Bernadette for about ten years,” Shelagh explained. “And Dr. Turner was married to his first wife, Marianne, for most of that time. But she passed away, unfortunately, after an illness, and after that...we grew closer.”

“So no one expected you to get married because you were a nun,” Val said. “That makes sense.”

“Well, that, and I was in a sanitarium for six months or so because I had tuberculosis. Your future generally gets a bit hazy when you’re diagnosed with a serious illness.” Shelagh took a sip of her drink as another round of stunned silence settled around the table.

“Is that all?” Phyllis asked after a moment. “You aren’t secretly a member of the Royal Family, or brewing bathtub gin out of one of the spare rooms-”

“No, I’m out of surprises for the day,” Shelagh said through a laugh. “But thank you for thinking I could be that interesting.”

“So when you two first met-” Lucille began, turning to Trixie.

“She was Sister Bernadette, terrifyingly efficient and completely off-limits for friendship. Or so I thought,” Trixie said, smiling. “And now Shelagh’s still terrifyingly efficient, but an excellent friend.”

“Gosh, Trixie, at least buy me dinner first,” Shelagh teased. There was a moment of shared laughter before Lucille spoke up again.

“No one’s answered my original question, though. Do you want us to call you Nurse Turner professionally, Shelagh?”

Shelagh took a moment to gather her thoughts before answering. “I do appreciate the offer, Lucille, but no. Patrick and I actually discussed this a little when I returned to nursing, and we were concerned that ‘Dr. Turner’ and ‘Nurse Turner’ would lead to confusion among our patients if they were trying to discuss diagnoses or treatments amongst themselves. And admittedly...I do quite like being Mrs. Turner.”

“Well that’s encouraging to hear,” came another voice from behind her, making them all jump. Patrick rested his hand on Shelagh’s shoulder from behind her chair, squeezing once in greeting before asking, “Are you ready to go home, Shelagh?”

“Unless anyone has any further questions?” Shelagh asked, smiling at her colleagues around the table before standing up and taking her mug to the kitchen. There was a flurry of “good nights” from all parties as Shelagh looped her hand through Patrick’s elbow and they made their departure.

“‘Further questions’?” Patrick asked once they were in their car. “Were you having a class I didn’t know about?”

“Not exactly,” Shelagh said. “I overheard Lucille asking Trixie why everyone calls me ‘Mrs. Turner’ and not ‘Nurse Turner,’ and that led to some, erm, revelations.”

“But why - no one knew about Sister Bernadette?” Patrick said, connecting the dots. “Not even Sister Hilda? I would think she was in the Order around the same time you were.”

“She had heard about a sister leaving, but she didn’t know it was me,” Shelagh explained. “Apparently there’s been so much upheaval at Nonnatus House over the last few years that our story has gone quite unremarked.”

“You’re not upset that Sister Bernadette isn’t more prominent, are you?” Patrick said, reaching over to take one of Shelagh’s hands in his. Their gazes met briefly before he had to turn his focus back to the road. “She - you - did important work during your time there.”

“I’d like to think I’m doing important work now, too,” Shelagh said, smiling over at her husband. “And I don’t care about being recognized for it, whichever name I’m using. Frankly, I think I’d find it harder to do my work if Sister Bernadette’s name was still being talked about. I’d always be concerned that I’m not...living up to her standards, or that people preferred one version of me to the other. Not that there are versions of me in the first place!”

“You have always been the same loving, determined woman I used to share an illicit cigarette with years ago,” Patrick said, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I’d like to think you’re allowed to be more open about it as my wife, but even if you had stayed in the Order, I know you would be going above and beyond for your patients and colleagues, because that’s just who you are, regardless of the name you use.”

“If I had any doubts about the path I chose in life, that would have erased them,” Shelagh said. “You have always seen me so clearly, Patrick, and it’s helped me to see myself.”

“It’s mutual, my love. I don’t know how I would have handled certain events over the past few years without you helping me find my strength and courage when it was needed.”

“Oh, Patrick,” Shelagh said, waiting for Patrick to put the car in park and turn off the engine before reaching over to take his hands in hers. “Just listen to us. Timothy would be aghast if he heard all this ‘mushy stuff,’ as he used to call it.”

“Timothy’s not here, though, is he? Which means I can do this without fear of unwanted commentary.” Patrick pulled Shelagh in for a lingering kiss. By the time it was finished, Shelagh had just about forgotten any name she had had in her life.

A yell of “Mum!” came from the front door, startling them back into reality.

“Another name for the list,” Shelagh joked wryly. “But maybe we could resume what we were doing a little closer to bedtime?”

“With pleasure,” Patrick said, and they got out of the car.

#call the midwife #call the midwife fic #turnadette #turnadette fic #jen does words #g: fluff #no one asked for this but me but by god will i deliver anyways!!!

[isfjmel-phleg]

“Restore your tissues, Comrade Jackson"

Shortly after Mike and Psmith meet, they’ve stolen a study, and the first thing they do there is, as Psmith puts it, “having a little tea [...] to restore our tissues after our journey”--made possible, of course, by Psmith’s Etna (gas ring).

(EDIT: the expression “restoring tissues” appears in medical writing of the day; a 1907 article, for instance, cites one of the purposes of food as “to build up and restore the tissues of the body.”)

“Tissue restoring” becomes a major feature of Mike and Psmith’s friendship. Initially, tea in the study is all Psmith can provide (or intend to provide--he promises Mike tea after Mike meets with Downing, but he makes no effort to prepare anything and both seem to forget this promise). But once the boys are on their own in the city, Psmith is constantly taking Mike somewhere for refreshments. They share porridge during some stolen time off on their first day at the bank. A fancy dinner at the Carlton later that day assures Mike that his new arrangement rooming with Psmith is going to be enjoyable. Psmith presides over breakfast in the flat in multiple scenes and pays for everything at upscale eateries like the Savoy. Tea or coffee is a curative for distress; Psmith takes Mike to a café to calm down after a miserable dinner at the Wallers’, and Mike gravitates toward a similar environment when he needs to talk over being sacked from the bank. After an exhausting cricket match, Psmith immediately takes Mike to Simpson’s (basically a classier version of an all-you-can-eat establishment) for a meal and a discussion of their futures. The boys are introduced in Journalist dining in a restaurant, and the first thing Psmith does when Mike returns briefly to New York from his cricket tour is invite him to lunch. The last glimpse we get of Mike and Psmith together in Leave It, they are off to “restore our tissues with a cup of tea”--and that’s also the last time Psmith uses that expression.

Although Psmith occasionally invokes tissue restoring in efforts to ingratiate people, and sometimes with Mike-substitute Billy Windsor, it is almost entirely associated with his friendship with Mike. Psmith is attentive to his own comforts and physical wellbeing, and extending this kind of care and concern to Mike expresses his close connection to his friend. Food here is synonymous with companionship, with camaraderie, with restoring one’s spirits. And it works! Neither of the boys is adept at expressing emotions, but here is a language they both speak.

Even though we don’t see it directly, this connection with shared food continues after Mike’s marriage and extends to include Phyllis. Psmith tells Eve, “Many a whack at the cold beef have I had on Sunday evenings under [the Jacksons’] roof”--not just any meal, but an informal one to which you would only invite a very close friend who wouldn’t care about your going to any special fuss. 

Tissue restoring never happens with Psmith and Eve, probably because, as Psmith begrudgingly realizes after first meeting her, “the etiquette governing those who are created male and female forbids a man to cement a chance acquaintanceship by ascertaining the lady’s name and address, asking her to lunch, and swearing eternal friendship.” There is a different connotation in asking his asking a woman to dine with him than there is with a male friend.

But when Psmith goes to meet Eve at the station when she arrives at Blandings, he has a gift for her: “Butter-scotch. Delicious, and, so I understand, wholesome. I bought it specially for you.” And of course it was at a butterscotch vending machine at Paddington Station where Psmith had the inspiration to change his name. A name which he is now eager to give to her.

#Psmith #Psmith Pseptember #Mike Jackson #Eve Halliday #Phyllis Keeble