#please get me some weetabix

[marzistarz2002]

My life's escapade with Weetabix

So, all my life I have always loved Weetabix, and that's been my thing. Like how you have a childhood nickname that only your family members call you on very special occasion... that's me and Weetabix... its special. It's always been in my house, I've always eaten it, and importantly, I can remember all of it. When I ate it, how I ate it, why I ate it, where I ate it. So I decided to try documenting some core memories about my life when Weetabix has been in it.

This blog post will contain 7 main sections describing some of the memories I have with Weetabix, accompanied with a themed ranking with absolutely no explanation to my reasonings.

The First Time

Now, I don't actually remember the first ever time in my life where I ate Weetabix because I was probably a baby... but I do have a very vague early memory so I shall call that the first time. It was night time, supper time even. The diamond multicolour table cloth was covering the kitchen table, the smell of the plastic filing the air around me. A bowl of Weetabix was placed in front of me. Cold milk, raisins, and one Weetabix, waiting to be tiredly eaten. That little snippet of my childhood can't be dated, or refined in any way. All I know was that bowl of cereal was the nicest thing I'd eaten all day and I went to bed with a full stomach, happy.

Minatare? and chocolaty!?

This particular time holds a very special place in my heart... the first time I had mini chocolate Weetabix. I can't remember exactly where but I was in a campsite with my family and their friends. Their tent was green, our tent was blue. Us kids had just gotten into the rec. centre and messed about on the pool tables the night before. As an experience camper I knew the best way to eat cereal in the morning... curled up on one of our blue camping chairs right in front of the door... and if they were taken, on the floor inside the tent with the bowl on top of my knees. The bowl was a rich dark blue colour the cereal was beige with tiny bits of chocolate floating in the milk, it rested perfectly in my lap as I sat on the chair. Excited, I took my first bite when I heard the worst kind of sound that can come from any Weetabix... a crunch. How rude they are for making such a heavenly cereal so crunchy! But I kept going, intrigued by the chocolate and the size, as I went on crunching away, my prayers had been answered as the milk started disappearing and the Weetabix turned into mush... finally the ideal texture but 10 times better as there was chocolate... and I love chocolate. That experience, I'd say, was one of the most adventurous times I've eaten Weetabix.

The best kind

Plain Weetabix (includes branded and Tesco's own brand)

Banana flavoured Weetabix

Oatabix

Fruit and nut Weetabix mini's

Chocolate Weetabix mini's

Weetabix on the Go

The worst time

In recent years I have become someone who drinks oat milk, but in my youth I was strictly a green or at a stretch, a blue milk drinker. And sometimes I would steal my mums soya milk for a change up or if there wasn't any milk left. Now for this memory, milk is obviously the main topic. I have, at the time of this memory, drank only cow's milk and soya milk with my favourite cereal. However, one night before Harp lessons, I going to eat some Weetabix. I opened the fridge to acquire the milk... none. I call my parents to tell them there isn't any milk left... asking for my mum's soya milk was at the tip of my tongue. All of a sudden I am being told to eat this bowl Weetabix drowned in almond milk. never have I ever had almond milk, I hated the idea of drinking that, I hated almonds. But I was hungry, and that was the only solution my parents had. I fought it, I complained, I cried the entire time. From the second the first spoon full touched my lips, up until I couldn't stand it anymore. I was being forced, in the eyes of pubescent me, to eat this vile excuse for milk... this liquid that tainted the pure loveliness of Weetabix. Her bland flavour absorbed this liquid, quickly turning into an offensive mush in my bowl. The anger, the sadness, the frustration! All I wanted was to feel joy, to feel the heavenly, milky sludge that is a bowl of Weetabix. But that didn't happen and I had to live with myself for making the decision to ask for help, for not just taking the soya milk. I had to live with the fact that I had just eaten the worst bowl of Weetabix ever.

Ranking milks

Manx Green cow's milk

Oat milk

Cow's milk

Soya milk

Three at once?

As you might have gathered by now, I like my Weetabix a certain way. Throughout this collection of memories, I haven't mentioned the quantity of Weetabix that is desired. This is simply for the sole reason of this memory. All my life I was orderly, I followed the rules, I kept to the routine, I only ever ate one or two pillows at a time. One if I wasn't particularly hungry, or I was a small child, and two because it was the perfect amount to have after school or just before bed. Anyway, this story starts in on a little island called The Isle of Man, situated in the Irish sea, between my home country of Ireland and the countries of Great Britain. In a little house on the southern end of the island I was coming down the stairs from my cousins room, into her kitchen. We had just had a sleepover after the most diabolical day of my life. (I won't get into it as it adds absolutely nothing to the context of this blog) My aunt was there preparing breakfast, I get handed a very deep plastic bowl and to my surprise there was not one, not two, but three Weetabix pillows inside. I had never seen such a sight. Three...!? Three requires triple the milk, and so I filled that big bowl with the beautiful Manx milk. Sitting at the dining room table, the cold brown leather on my legs matched the cold milk in that transparent bowl. I crush the pillows to make my desired texture, I lift my spoon thats filled with the comfort I will forever seek, and I ate three Weetabix for the first time in my life.

The best bowls

Regular bowl that is suitably deep

A mug

That one fairy princess bowl in my Grandparents

Small blue camping bowl

Shallow soup bowl

… Liquid

Mornings. The bane of my existence throughout my school career. My bus picked me up at the bus stop at 8:15 every morning during secondary school. The first to arrive, and the last to leave I spent a significant amount of time waiting at school because of that bus. But mornings were always far worse that afternoons. I would set my alarm for a reasonable time but did I get up? of course not! I went back to sleep. I almost always jumped out of bed around 7:45 realising that I was going to be late, hurried to get dressed, and ran out the door, up to the bus stop. Not once during the mornings did I have time to eat... breaktime was my breakfast. That all changed one evening as I was helping my mum with the food shop. Turning the into the next isle, a familiar logo caught my eye, a logo I had seen often in my life. The words 'Weetabix' sprawled down a curved blue bottle, 'on the go' just below. All of a sudden it clicked, the best problem solving I have ever done. I don't have to skip breakfast just because I have horrible time management skills (undiagnosed and unknown adhd) . I proposed this idea to my mother, who wholeheartedly agreed. The next morning, I carried on with my unorganised routine, but before I left the door, I grabbed that special blue bottle. After running to my stop, I had some time to spare so I cracked open the bottle and started to drink. It was a strange texture... something I'd definitely have to get used to. But as I sat there, waiting for my bus, looking over the fields, down to the sea. The cows grazing behind me. I had, for the first time in ages, breakfast.

Stale...

Fun fact, Weetabix can go out of date. I learned that the hard way. This was another interesting holiday in the IOM, and bless my grandparents they are so sweet, but they kinda don't know how to chuck out food. I was visiting with my mum and sister during my holidays and stayed in my grandparents spare room. Which meant that breakfast was out of my control. It was the first morning my grandad put out some Weetabix because he knows how much I love it. Overjoyed, I made myself a bowl. Two pillows drowned in milk. But this was no ordinary bowl... this Weetabix had been open for so long that the milk took so long to absorb. It tasted like carboard, with the texture of cardboard... I didn't want to disappoint so I continued chewing away. Weetabix shouldn't be chewy. I couldn't bring myself o look at the date on the box. I had committed to the decision to finish the bowl. Never again did I have that Weetabix during that trip, toast and juice that was slightly the wrong colour got me through. What a learning experience that holiday was... and what I took away from that ordeal was to not eat out of date spaghetti hoops or I will throw up days later in front of an aeroplane.

My ideal Weetabix

This entire ting has led up to this moment. The moment where I reveal the most perfect way to eat Weetabix! I return to this way time and time again, and Weetabix is never as good when it isn't ate this way. So, the perfect bowl of Weetabix consists of: 2 Weetabix pillows in a decently sized bowl, oat milk, and raisins (or lele's as I call them). It's as simple as that.

Ranking different toppings

Raisins/saltanas

Bananas and honey

Grapes and apple bits

Nutella

Sugar

<3

#cereal #milk #weetabix #memorable #lifechanging #slay girlboss #childhood #culture #addictive #bland #boring food #yum #yummy yummy #i love weetabix #food #raisins #i think about weetabix almost everyday its an obsession #i havent eaten weetabix in so long #please get me some weetabix #isle of man #ireland #great britain #family #how come no one questioned this obsession? #like there was obviously something going on with me #queer

[bookaddict05]

Mystery man

This is a female reader x bucky barnes story

This is my first time writing a one shot please enjoy

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The sun is shining through my baby pink cotton curtains as jarvis announces the time "6:30 Miss y/n, you have breakfast scheduled for 7:00 accompanied with Mr Hogan, followed by training at 8:00 with your new instructor mr barnes".

Ah yes the Mystery man that all the shield agents seem to be obsessed by Mr Barnes the fearless soldier. Guess today we can put a name to a face.

I rolled out of bed slowly dragging myself to the joint bathroom i share with tessa they are also an agent but also the closest thing i have to family. We enrolled into the academy together and since then we have been as close as ever. I pick up my tooth brush take off its protective cap and put some toothpaste on. While brushing my teeth tessa makes an appearance brushes their hair.

"whats your schedule?" I ask them while spitting out toothpaste

"Ive got a meeting with Hill at 7:00 and then me and a few other agents have a mission with Rogers at noon, what about you?" They answers

"Breakfast with Hogan and training with Barnes"

"Omg u get to train with Barnes im so jealous, hes the best trainer out there, however ive heard hes ruthless so good luck"

I leave them in the bathroom closing my door behind me. I walk over to my vanity and pick up my hair brush and put my hair into double dutch braids while applying some sun cream and day cream on to my face. Gotta keep my young looking face, i think then i smile at my self in the mirror and say you can do this.

I walk to breakfast and was automatically greeted by Happy who was waiting for me in the kitchen. He talked me through security details while we had some lovely raisin weetabix.

I stand up from the table and place my dish and spoon in the sink and turned to face Happy.

"Ive got to go now i need to meet Barnes" he nodds and i walk down the corridor and take a left.

I walked into the gymnasium there was a sparing place in the middle of the floor which was surrounded by multiple various different gym equipment.  In the middle of the floor stood a man around 6ft tall, dark slick back hair, muscular and one strange noticeable feature... a metal arm.  Oh and one other thing hes incredibly gorgeous no wonder everyone was so obsessed.

"You are y/n i assume" he questioned

"Thats correct sir"

"Dont call me sir i feel old, call me Barnes... now lets see what you got"

He made me run lap around the hall, lift weights and occasionally fight each other. It felt like hours had passed.

"Im fed up, im not doing anymore" i refuse and drop to the floor.

He looks down at me in amusement

"You have only been training for an hour u still have another hour left. Now get up" he says that last part more stern than pervious.

"No i cant move, you cant make me do something if i cant move"

Tension starts to pick up

"Get up off your lazy arse right now and give me another 10 laps" he said fury burning within his eyes

"Make me"

We stared deeply in one anothers eyes both with hatred flowing through us. He walks closer towards me causing him to tower over me more. I stand up so the height difference wasnt so great but he still seemed to tower over me. We stared intently into each others souls both of us not wanting to break away first to give the other the delight of winning.

A slight smirk forms across his face and he reaches out for my arm while im still distracted by his ocean blue eyes. He flips me on the floor and pins me down. Still not breaking eye contact. 

"20 laps now"

I can tell that me and metal man are going to have lots of fun...

#bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky x y/n #marvel #marvel one shot #oneshot #fyppage #bucky x female reader #bucky imagine #james bucky barnes #marvel fanfic writer

[princesspumpkinseed]

My intention of the day was established early this morning and has been defending my smile ever since: today is dedicated to taking whatever pleasure I can from the sunlight, not to punishing myself for the god-forsaken strawberries I ate last night.

I woke feeling charged and ready to get on with the workout I had planned to do yesterday but ‘halt’, I told myself, ‘even if my mind is ready for this task, the creaks of my muscles inform me that my body is most definitely not’. I knew also that I had some academic responsibilities so I managed my time according to what is appropriate for my mind and body, for which I am proud, and it panned out as follows: a particularly well-brewed coffee, if I do say so myself; Yoga with Adriene’s ‘Fill Your Cup’ yoga, a quick session which is perfect for loosening the joints; a hot shower and breakfast (weetabix with blueberries); 2 of the 4 questions of the functional analysis past paper I began last night - I am still working on it but will hopefully finish it tomorrow morning and then take some time to strengthen the intellectual weaknesses which this paper has highlighted; and then, finally, I got onto the workout.

I’m glad that I took this long because by the time I permitted myself to leave my desk I was desperate so sure to do my best, and I also wasn’t particularly on-form today so I think my 10h30 brain was more likely to pay attention to what was beyond my reach today and what I should focus more on. To detail more, I started with a jog (which I wouldn’t have done at 7h) and I increased my weight when squatting. My legs were noticeably buckling so I did 4 of the 6 planned activities and I did some maths problems at the same time to keep me from jumping into a set prematurely after finishing another set. I think this was wise, since I’m trying to avoid muscle soreness like the plague, and because everything I did do was with perfect form (or what I considered to be so) and with an intensity just before the upper bound of what I could manage. I admit that my breakfast left my tummy growling after the jog and I definitely do not want to suffer a glucose drop while I’m having fun with some squats, so I made a strawberry banana protein shake to snack on during this. This was a delicious idea from my part but I think that they are traditionally saved until afterwards...

After I stretched, I heated my leftover aubergine chickpea masala from last night and served it with some sundried tomato couscous.

I had promised to take my mother to get some new pyjamas, so we left as the weather turned miserable. We had a splendid time while out: we listened to Metallica in the car, shared a lemonade, and my mum also bought me some Chanel No.5 as a thank you for helping out over this Easter holiday - I try not to be materialistic but I am honoured!

After that, grandparents time! They’re not doing very well but I was so happy to find BBC2 on their radio to please my grandad - he was so communicative, sympathetic, and helpful to us this afternoon and he deserves nice things.

Then I had an early dinner so I could digest before yoga. This was a crab pasta salad using chickpea penne... but of course I took a chocolate ovaltine afterwards ‘to help with my digestion’. I managed to get through half of the final functional analysis question before yoga and was going to finish it after the session but stretching seemed to activate the fatigue and tension stored in my muscles so alas, no. In fact, it is only by the power of jelly and ice cream that I type this daily review.

Should I set an intention for tomorrow yet? I’m not sure.

#review #journal #healthyeating #healthyhabits #that girl #clean girl #fitness #fitness journey #fitness motivation #eat your veggies #eatclean

[oh-youprettythings]

if my computing teacher insults my appearance one more time i am going to STAB that man

#its not even that bad!!! its just like. just now he saw me and went ‘hahaha you look about as good as i feel having to be here today’ #and every fucken time i go to his class!!! i get some hilarious witty variation of ‘you look exhausted and miserable’ #once i walked in and he just went ‘jeeeesus christ kit look at you’ #or when he told me to my FACE that i looked like shit #like HELLO??? yeah ok all your validation comes from children we get it. please leave me alone. #sigh. ok dont read past here #blease #anyway yeah these past few weeks ive been eating like genuine shit #breakfast this morning was weetabix with nutella plus a stack of crisps #and ive visibly gained weight. and it makes me want to d i e #but i dont have the motivation to work out!! at all!!!! aAaaaAA #tried to go for a run the other day but my mum saw me heading out and got me to take the dog who wont run alongside you #at least. not without savaging her lead and/or your leg #but yeah i just feel really ill all the time and when i look in the mirror.... oh my fucking god #the dysphoria do be hitting Different recently #its just been like. intense discomfort and kind of a disconnect between Me and the way i look for the past whiel #but its getting back to that ‘haha wow i want to rip my skin off and tear the fat out from under it’ kinda vibe :3 #and the worse i feel the more i want to comfort eat!!!!!! fuckk!!!!!!!!!!!!! #ughh UGH #well. got a job now so im gonna get myself a gym membership #20 quid a month but like.... hopefully i can stop buying lunches and wasting that momey #ok ok ok #be quiet kit

[ohsnapcracklepopfriends]

Don't know if my England carraville mutuals are still awake but if you are (or when you wake up) please enjoy part two of the t-swift fic to hopefully cheer you up❤

Here's part one if you haven't read it

Jamie wanted to cry when he heard the blaring alarm he’d set the night before. Gary was tucked in his arms perfectly with his nose pressed against Jamie’s chest. Jamie would rather do anything than move and disrupt his gorgeous manc, but the alarm started to wake up Gary. Jamie reluctantly moved Gary’s arm from his waist and got up to turn off the alarm.

Jamie looked back at Gary on the bed who had started to stir. He looked breathtaking. His hair was perfectly scruffed up just the way Jamie liked it. The sheets were rumpled artfully around his low back, showing off those back muscles he’d worked so hard for back in the day. Gary’s sides were softer than they were back in the day but Jamie loved them more. He ached to rub his fingers there again. He could so easily too. Just reach out and caress them as Gary comes back to life in the morning sun. Jamie doesn’t though. He’s not sure he’s allowed such a vulnerable pleasure anymore. Instead, he sat next to Gary and petted his hair. He smoothed out the hair in the way he knew Gary liked. Then, selfishly, ruffles it up again in the way that makes him look hot and endearing at the same time. Gary’s eyes fluttered open softly. He looked up at Jamie with a bittersweet smile.

“Morning, love,” Jamie said.

“I love you, James,” Gary replied instinctively like it was the simplest thing in the world. Gary’s lips curled up contentedly and he let his eyes slip closed again, basking in the moment. Jamie blinked a few times. It was partly from shock and partly from the wetness he could feel in the corners of his eyes.

“Still?” Jamie asked. He dared to let himself dream for a second of a universe where Gary was still in love with him, where they could live happily ever after and retire and get a dog. But a second after Jamie spoke, Gary’s eyes shot open and he jumped out of the bed. Jamie felt his heart break.

“Do you want some eggs?” Gary said. It wasn’t a question but Jamie didn’t know what it was. Gary was clearly distressed but Jamie, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out why. He stared at Jamie like he had just appeared out of thin air or turned blue--Jamie checked, he hadn’t.

“...What?” Gary’s hands flew up to hold his head as he started pacing around Jamie’s small bedroom (Jamie preferred the term “cosy”).

“Every day,” Gary said, “every single day it’s: ‘morning, love’ ‘I love you, James’ ‘do you want some eggs?’ ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having’.” Jamie felt he was getting more and more confused by the second.

“What?” Jamie said again.

“Every day I have the same dream. I wake up in your bed. You say, ‘morning, love’. I say, ‘I love you, James’... But you didn’t say it,” Gary started walking faster, “you said ‘still’ which means this isn’t a dream and you’re going to sock me any second.” Jamie shook his head slightly trying to digest all of Gary’s information just spat at him with frankly incredible speed. Gary always had been a good talker if nothing else.

“I’m not going to hit you, Gary.” Jamie walked over to him slowly. He felt like he was approaching a wild animal, stepping and moving carefully so he wouldn’t startle him. He cautiously and gently grabbed Gary’s shoulders and pulled him back into his chest where he belonged.

“What are you doing?”

“I love you, too.” He said those words, plain and simple, to Gary for the second time in their relationship. No nicknames, no teasing tone, no mind-melting orgasm to blame it on, nothing to hide Jamie’s feelings. It was what Gary needed, Jamie knew that. Just like the first time, all those years ago at a random hotel in Birmingham.

Unlike that time, though, Gary didn’t say it back. He didn’t look into Jamie’s eyes like he just told him all of the most magical secrets of the universe. Gary just smushed his face into Jamie’s armpit and let out some muffled sniffles. Jamie’s hand moved to cup Gary’s neck with a mind of its own, though it’s not like Jamie would have done it any differently.

After a few minutes, Gary’s breathing returned to normal. Gary was clinging back to Jamie, his hands holding onto the back of Jamie’s shirt like a lifeline. Jamie tipped his face forward slightly and buried his nose in Gary’s hair. He smiled at the smell of the same old apple shampoo Jamie used to love so much on him.

“What about Tom?” Gary asked. “You can’t seriously choose me over him.”

“Oh can’t I?” Jamie smirked and gave Gary’s ear a playful flick. “I’m pretty sure I did when I broke up with him last night.”

“You can’t, James. You deserve someone like him. Someone who will make you smile after a long day. Someone kind and sweet. Someone who will take you out to dinner at fancy restaurants. You deserve so much more than I can offer you, James.”

“I know I should want him. I mean everything about him is nice and perfect, but that’s what I hate about him. Spending time with him makes me want to rip out my hair and smash my nose against a wall.” Gary looked like Jamie was speaking Spanish. “I should want him, you’re right. That’s what I keep telling myself: sunshine, rainbows, and sweet dreams. But I’ve never been like that. I’ve never been pristine or calm or sweet. I don’t want pristine or calm or sweet, Gary. I want you.” He wants Gary and every single thing he loves to hate about him. He wants Gary to wake him up at five am twice a week and insist they watch the sunrise over the London skyline. He wants Gary to whine when Jamie picks up the wrong kind of milk for Gary’s morning Weetabix. He wants Gary to complain about his late-night football watching habits and then bring down his pillow to rest on Jamie’s lap of their couch. He wants Gary to argue with him about an MLS game, impassioned yet half-asleep in the way only Gary can.

“As for what I deserve,” Jamie started, “I think we miserable bastards deserve each other. Let Tom have a sunshine, carefree, happy-fun-time partner. I’m not that and I never would be. I couldn’t make him happy and he couldn’t make me happy. Only you can do that.” Jamie took Gary’s hand into his own. Gary took the liberty of lacing their fingers together.

“Alright, I get it, you sappy bastard,” Gary’s voice filled with a practised faux annoyance that was entirely betrayed by the dopey grin on his face. His beautiful eyes lit up happily in the morning light. “I’m not as good with words as you are--you’re practically a poet, James. But, you’re it for me too. You make me so, ridiculously happy and... I’m so fucking sorry.” His voice was strained and tight as he choked out his last sentence. Jamie searched his face only to meet the steely gates in his eyes he’d have to break down for a second time.

“Stop,” Jamie said, pulling his manc closer by their joined hand, “I know. God, Gaz, I’m sorry too. I’m so sorry. We both said shit we didn’t mean--being fucking scared out of your mind does that to you--but I started it, and I’m sorry.”

“You were fucking outed, Jamie!” Gary screamed with all of the pent up rage in his body. The frantic energy between the two of them came to a screeching halt. It was clear to Jamie that Gary had been seething about the situation almost as much as he had. “Come here, James.” Gary yanked Jamie into his arms and squeezed him so hard Jamie was sure he’d burst any second.

“I want to come out,” Gary whispered the words softly into Jamie’s ear. Jamie thought he was hearing things until he noticed Gary was holding his breath, waiting for him to answer.

“Are you sure?” It was all he could say. Coming out was scary if it was just your family and friends. Coming out to the whole world was beyond bloody terrifying. It wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. Gary took Jamie’s face into his hands. He placed seven kisses on his face: one on each cheek, one over each brow, one on his forehead, one on his nose, and finally one, perfect, soft kiss on his lips. When Gary pulls back his eyes are sparkling with the beginnings of tears: happy tears.

“I’m sure.”

#enjoy my beautiful friends #t-swift part two #jamie carragher #gary neville #my fic #carraville

[prose-for-hire]

An impassioned debate

Pairing: Giles x Spike (”platonic” but they’re arguing lol)

Request: Spike & Giles bicker fest a la missing moments from when they were housemates, please?

Requested by: @staycalmandbeafan 

Warning: Sex references.

A/N: Sometimes when I write I assume the attitude of one of the characters. Therefore, Spike doesn’t always appear in a good light lol (It was fun to write though and I got a little carried away sorry) 💜🖤

Giles liked to live alone.

He had grown up living with his parents. He had roommates in university. He even flat-shared in the communal house him and the friends he hung around at the time broke into and claimed as their own in his early twenties.

And that, is exactly how Giles knew he liked to live alone. Some days he could barely tolerate the young people that no matter how fond of them he was, would go on about pointless and often arbitrary nonsense in his presence.

His home then, became his sanctuary. A place where he could shut out the world.

That was until one fateful day in the all-too recent past. Thanksgiving day. A day where the Americans gave thanks for the parts of their lives they are grateful for. He thought he ought to partake in tradition and suggested how grateful he was for Buffy and the others.

A silent, more self-indulgent thanks was to the peace and quiet he would get at the end of the day. His house to himself, not shackled by parents. Kept up all hours by housemates or forced into copious amounts of overly emotional performance at the hands of the well-intentioned Americans.

This silent thought was shattered as a thud at the door announced an unwelcome visitor.

That’s how Giles ended up with a new houseguest. The vampire chained to his tub. A tub he had been very fond of until Spike had come in and ruined with his stench. He was probably the only person that smelt this bad after spending this amount of time in the bathtub.

It would be fair to say that Giles hadn’t been a very welcoming host, but to put it in context, despite being ‘harmless’ Spike had tried to bite Giles not once, but twice. Upon the first attempt being a near-miss and the second ending in blinding pain for the corpse-faced lunatic, he had the gall to tell Giles that he would taste like a dried up old prune anyway.

There was also the incident on Thanksgiving day itself where he managed to eat half a plate of cookies before anyone had the chance to stop him. A miraculous feat when you note that his hands and feet were bound tight.

These were, for the most part issues that Giles could look past. Especially now he was sure that Spike was unable to actually harm him. But what he couldn’t get past were, well, every other area that involved living with Spike.

The issues could be divided as such: Eating habits; sleeping habits; general depravity and what one could only describe as ‘The Passions debate’.

We should probably begin with the sleeping habits:

Or lack thereof. Spike was cat-like in the sense that he didn’t usually get a full night’s, or days, sleep. He tended to sleep a couple hours here or there seemingly whenever he pleased. Which meant that when he was tied up after dark, the vampire had a whole lot of thoughts and nowhere else to go so he seemingly spoke them out loud.

Giles tossed and turned in his bed desperately clinging to sleep, able for the most part to ignore the constant babbling of Spike’s innermost thoughts. Which actually amounted to shagged someone, shagged someone oh I drank some blood, shagged someone.

It was utterly mind numbing and Giles was beginning to feel that should he ever get out of this arrangement alive he would look into finding a house in the middle of a deserted island. Never to return to civilisation.

Giles managed to mostly ignore the fanged menace. Until the singing started. Or, what Giles would only call tuneless hollering. He butchered every punk song known to man and some surprisingly sugary pop ballads that Giles wouldn’t dare comment on, less he revealed that he himself knew the songs lyrics too.

He actually started singing to pass the time, it was lyrical to begin with but as the night wore on he started to shout the words, the tune lost. Sacrificed to a greater goal. Irritation.

He grinned when Giles padded downstairs to try to silence the din.

“Alright, Rupert? Here for dinner and a show?”

“I’m going to gag you” Giles warned. Something they had already had numerous arguments over.

“Well, you’re really gonna have to take me out to that dinner then” Spike smirked at Giles’ disdain for his words, moving his head slightly at the man’s reaction.

“Will you shut up! For God’s sake, man, be quiet!” Giles shouted, sleep-deprivation and living with someone that had more fangs than brains made him more and more irate. It made Spike smile even further, his next words making Giles about three seconds from throttling him (which, wouldn’t have killed him but it would have been very satisfying for Giles).

“Well, seein’ as you’re awake and all and got nothing better to do, be a love and get me some blood?” Spike cackled. Giles stopped himself from going near Spike and instead trailed to the kitchen, hoping it would at least shut him up for five minutes.

Which brings us nicely along to eating habits:

“I like a bit of texture in it!” Spike had shouted one morning. His blood was steaming but Giles had returned back into the kitchen with it to add something to try and get a moment’s peace.

He had been playing a very enjoyable game of see how many times he can send the same mug of blood back before Giles realised he was only doing it to annoy him. The highest score had been 3 times and only, in Giles’ defence, because the man hadn’t been properly awake that morning.

Giles had hit Spike twice (which was very tame considering the horror that was a feral vampire that wasn’t used to being in a domestic setting). Once because of the aforementioned incident and the second time after a particularly heated debate that we will discuss later.

Spike had been lounging on the sofa again, getting crumbs all over his chair. Giles swung his feet and made him sit up as he spoke.

“Will you bloody-”

“Oh don’t start conjuring those sweet massacres in my mind, Rupes, makes a fella’s hunger unbearable” He rubbed his stomach that did in fact appear to be gurgling at the mere mention of the word.

Spike, when he was allowed out of his restraints and Giles saw it was too much like hard work to be waiting on Spike all of the time, began to make his own meals. Which, really, just created more of a mess. And a distinct lack of Weetabix around the house.

He created the worst combinations known to man, sometimes to annoy Giles and other times to just see how it went. He sprayed cans of whipped cream in his mouth left over from Thanksgiving, ate crackers with every topping he found in the house and made sure to use the least amount of manners as possible whilst doing so.

Which brings us onto the section Giles would entitle, Spike’s ‘generally depraved character’:

Giles was still in the habit of tying Spike up at night, but he had subsequently allowed him to walk around in the day after a while.

There had been one evening where Spike ran through the entire house, struggling at every turn so that Giles couldn’t tie him up again. He was bored and it was fun making the human chase him. Eventually he was cuffed and tied to his chair and left there through the day so that it didn’t happen again.

Luckily, Spike had gotten bored of that game and just let Giles tie him up at night again now. Not without comment, of course.

“Call that a knot? I’ve had tighter curls, mate” Spike rolled his eyes as Giles looked over the glasses perching on the end of his nose. He then reached and tightened the knot by a lot making Spike yelp and scowl at him.

“Hey! You can’t just leave me like this – I’m getting’ rope burn here!” he shouted as he struggled, thus giving himself worse rope burn.

“Ah, yes and what’re you going to do about it, Spike, hm? Serenade me to death?” Giles rolled his eyes in disdain. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting his position with a scowl stamped on his face. 

He watched Giles get back to reading his paper. He let him get a few lines in before he interrupted him this time.

“Not exactly the five star digs I’m used to” Spike said which made Giles scoff. He had seen many of the places Spike had called home and none of them were fit for burying a corpse in let alone housing a living one.

“I can untie you and you can just leave, Spike, I’m sure burning to a crisp would really show me what for” Giles muttered, focusing on the paper he had been trying to read.

“Oh, I see you. Thinking you’re better than me – smarter. Anyone can read books, they don’t make it their whole sodding personality. You’re a good ol’ British stereotype, Rupes,”

“Ah, yes, well, many people can read Spike but it takes a particularly impervious individual to be so oblivious to their own misgivings that they result in insulting themselves in the same breath as their foe”

Spike rolled his eyes at the use of the word ‘foe’ but kept silent for a while. It was a rare silence and Giles made the most of it. Savoured it. He wasn’t sure if it was the big words that had evaded him or just the fact that his insult had resonated. But he didn’t say these thoughts out loud, less he would have to listen to Spike’s sparkling wit.

However, lo and behold, Spike suddenly spoke up again. 

“You know what I miss?” Spike asked, leaving Giles sighing audibly and putting his unread book back down. He had tried several times to read the same line.

“No, but I assume that you’re about to enlighten me”

“Civil wars”

“What?!” Giles asked incredulously, taking his glasses from his face just so he didn’t have to look at the vampire who appeared to be staring up at the ceiling and reminiscing.

“Yeah” No nodded, “There’s just something about a civil war… could be the fear. Aphrodisiac, it is”

“I’m not sure I agree-”

“Probably ‘cause you’d be the one doing the fearing you great ponce”

“Now-” Giles was ready to launch into a barrage of insults, using all of his wit to ground Spike into the pile of dust and ash he was destined to be. But then, he took a breath. He decided to hit Spike where it hurt, “That’s it! No more television”

“What?!” Spike shouted, his eyes bulging in horror, “You can’t do that, I’m dyin’ here gramps-!”

“You’re already dead”

“Yeah, well, now I’m rotting away here with the living. I mean, you’ve aged – I saw your graduation photo in the hall. It’s like lookin’ in a particularly haunting mirror when I see you” Spike spoke smugly of the way his face hadn’t aged despite being older than Giles.

There was a stony silence for a while. Giles went quiet. When Giles went quiet, he was mad. The kind that could become insidious. His fists curled and his mind raced. Blood pumping hot around his body.

But, after a moment, he resolved himself. Spike wasn’t worth Ripper making an appearance. No, Spike wasn’t worth anything.

“Why don’t you read something, or perhaps figure out how to count past two?” Giles offered, stepping away from where the tv was now staying off. Spike’s face turned sour at the prospect of another afternoon with his thoughts.

“How about four?” Spike asked, flipping the v’s with both arms raised at the man who looked like he was about to thump his guest yet again.

“You’re a piece of work, Spike”

“Thanks” Spike nodded, still looking at Giles expectantly, waiting for the television to be turned back on. But when he turned way and started to look busy Spike’s mood changed.

“Come on, it’s telly time!” Spike shouted but Giles just took his jacket and left the house for the rest of the day. Leaving Spike bored and trying to avoid the patches of sunlight where Giles had ‘accidentally’ opened some of the curtains on different levels of the house.

When Giles eventually began to turn the television back on for Spike, it leads us on to ‘The Passions debate’:

“Are you blind willingly or are you truly this ignorant?!” Giles shouted, his words directed at Spike but his eyes were glued to the screen. No matter how much he had fought it, Giles had been well and truly sucked into the fictional world.

“Don’t be a bloody idiot! It’s clear as sodding day that they’re meant to be together” Spike gestured wildly at the screen.

“Their relationship is forced – there is no real meaning there!” Giles insisted, much like most shows on television in his opinion.

“You got it all wrong - it’s fate, destiny or any of that bollocks”

“Ah, yes, that would be the latter”

“Don’t be daft, Ripper – have you seen them?! Pure chemistry. Nobody can act that good either, they’re shagging behind the scenes – mark my words”

“You really are as perceptive as a wooden spoon, Spike” Giles berated him.

“That’s rot, that is! They’re shagging no two ways about it”

“Two people can have chemistry and maintain a platonic relationship” Spike raised an eyebrow at him and Giles had become heated in the debate, “They are not bloody shagging!”

“Aw, does it bother you that fictional characters are getting more action than you?” Spike mock-pouted. Trying to rile the man up further. This was where it descended into chaos.

“Ah, fortunately I’m satisfied in the knowledge that there will always be someone that is worse-off than myself” Giles paused before asking, “Is Drusilla well?”

“Bugger off! That was low for an ex-watcher who gets all his happy feelings from a group of school children” Spike pounced on him, going for the jugular, “You spend an embarrassing amount of time with dear Buffy. I wonder, what could you be doin’ behind closed-”

Spike was cut off by a blow to his face. It sent him flying backwards and splintered the wooden chair he had been sat on into pieces.

“Out!” Giles demanded, face like thunder, “Out before I do something I wouldn’t regret!”

Both Spike and Giles eyed the weapons chest that was on the floor between them before looking back at the other. Both were trying to calculate how long it would take the other to get there. After a moment, Spike got to his feet and just slinked off to a different corner of the house until he got hungry and Giles went to walk off his anger.

That had been the last straw. Soon after this particular incident, Spike was shipped off the Xander’s basement. Giles finally got his house back. His wooden chair however, unfortunately never recovered.

#Spike btvs #Spike #Giles #Rupert Giles #Spike x Giles #Spike fic #Giles fic #Rupert Giles fic #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #buffy the vampire slayer imagines #btvs imagine #btvs #buffyverse #buffyverse fic #Spike btvs x Rupert Giles

[melonsmessymusings]

You know what I’m thinking about today? Giles’ parents. Obviously, Mr Deprived-of-screen-time Giles isn’t going to discuss his family but surely he has one in England? So here are some hot takes from the vaults about what that might look like:

Let’s choose not to give him any more trauma and say that his parents are happily still married and retired. If Giles is in his mid forties, they’re likely to be in their late 60s-early 70s. Also let’s stop the idea that Giles comes from a wealthy family right now. I’d argue upper working class at best. Potentially middle class if you squint. Certainly not like Wesley’s family.

I get that Giles’ father and grandmother were watchers, but does that mean they had Slayers? Probably not. And we know that being Watcher to the Slayer isn’t actually a good, sought-after role. So they could’ve been pen-pushing bureaucrats that happen to work for the Watcher’s Council.

Why can’t Giles have supportive, loving parents? They don’t agree/like all of his choices but ultimately they just want him to be happy and healthy, it doesn’t matter that they don’t understand. Giles Snr. did push his son to be a Watcher, he did put an ungodly amount of pressure on his boy, but he did it for Giles’ own good and sure, now he regrets parts of it, but he did the best he could with what he had. Yes, they were probably very strict, but how else did Giles learn to do his ‘kicked puppy’ expression, and it would’ve been the 60s so... different time. 

Why wouldn’t his parents show up to like school rugby matches to support their son? Or how they’d go watch the school play where little Rupert is playing a tree because he’s lanky? Or being so damn proud that he got into Oxford? 

Giles was probably very like Willow, as in gifted kid-burnout with the added bonus of classic British repression. He was probably bullied for having glasses as thick as bottle bottoms, or being a bit weedy, or because he would choose to spend his time reading instead of being a ‘lad’. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t come home to his Mum and she’d give him a big squish and tell him it’d be alright if he was upset but being too repressed to show it.

Giles calls his parents every couple of months. They talk about everything and nothing, he complains about it being too bloody hot in California, and his Mum would tell him about her new tomato plant and how that’s doing (idk) but Giles never EVER talks about his work because he’s so unable to get over the fact that the Council essentially banished him to the States to rot and hopefully get killed on the Hellmouth because he’s a disgrace. Instead he talks about the High School and how teenagers are horrendous creatures, or how he keeps having to get Weetabix imported and he saw a packet of Jacob’s Cream Crackers on the shelf in Walmart and thought he was hallucinating. 

His Mum sends him food parcels of his favourite snacks. Proper Cadbury’s chocolate, not the filth in the States (sorry, it’s grim). Actual tea, Monster Munch, whatever. She’d also send him newspaper clippings of things that might interest him or a new book he might like.

Giles can’t really leave the Hellmouth completely unguarded so his Dad is like, “Rupert my boy, I know you can’t leave the Hellmouth but your mother is driving me potty because we’ve not seen you in almost two years. Not your fault, I know you take your duty very seriously, but she was wondering if we could perhaps come and visit?”

And then Giles has an existential crisis because he can’t lie to his parents and it’s dangerous and of course there’d be an apocalypse. Also, he doesn’t want them to be all reprimanding and make comments on things  they have no idea about. But then cue Mumma Giles treating Giles like a child and telling embarrassing stories, fussing and doing his washing and he’s just like “Mum I’m 44 years old! I don’t need you to wash my socks!” “Rupert! You didn’t say you [random thing]! Oh for heaven’s sake boy, don’t get your knickers in a twist! Stop stammering and explain yourself! You’re not too old for the slipper, you know!”

And then Jenny having to go for dinner with his parents and shitting herself because her family are totally different and she doesn’t talk to most of them and Giles has a whole loving family behind him. But his parents love Jenny and think she’s amazing (which she is) and it’s all really sweet. “There’s quite an age gap between you both.” “Maybe I just prefer lovers with more experience.” *Giles slams his head on the table* “Oh, I like her Rupert! No, no more head trauma please, it’s a wonder you’ve got any brain cells left.”

Cut to post-Becoming and Giles Snr. finds out through the grapevine about Kendra and calls Giles like “Rupert wtf happened! The Slayer died!” And Giles just like has a breakdown and explains how bad it was. Obviously his father is fucking horrified because he had absolutely no idea that Giles was so ‘hands-on’ or that Jenny had died, or anything because Giles won’t talk about it. Mumma Giles then basically teleports to America to be with her son because, “It doesn’t matter how old he is Edmund, he’s still my little boy!”

I just think it’s really interesting. I’m not saying that they wouldn’t be judgmental or nasty about things, but just because Giles thinks he deserves to die in a brutal way and is a constant failure doesn’t mean that his parents think that about him. Mr Repressed Giles having his mother explaining ‘little Ru-bear used to run around the house in his pants with a cardboard box on his head pretending to be a fighter jet’ to the Scoobies is just a highly amusing concept. 

#btvs #rupert giles #meta #i thought way too hard about this

[breakingsomething]

Dawn Station - Part Two

Basic summary: Chase Brody is being kept safe, far away from other people. So he thinks.

Content warnings: gore, body horror, stabbing, emeto, death mentions

Chase Brody is not ok.

Of course he's not. How is he expected to be? Ten people have died, and now he's being told he's next. He's been under police protection for days and judging by the strained snippets of conversation that he's caught from officers, even the others that had been with him are gone. Ten people, they had said. As far as Chase is aware, there were only nine other youtubers who'd been roped into this shit. Who else has this monster that wants them dead killed along with them? Does he even want to know?

He's been in this room for… three days? Four? Fuck, he doesn't remember. All he knows now is white walls, too close around him, with a bed, a tv in the top corner that he doesn't have a remote for, a black bin, a rolling table that's covered in books and other assorted things that he managed to bring with him, and two doors, one of which that leads to a small bathroom and one of which that leads outside. The second door only opens when he's being brought food. No one's telling him anything. He's scared out his mind.

An officer, a pale skinned woman with orange braids and a sympathetic smile, comes in a couple hours after he wakes for the day with breakfast. Toast, cold, with butter slabs and little packets of jam and sugar for his tea. Also cold. "Sorry, we don't have any Weetabix," she tells him with furrowed eyebrows and a sad tilt of the mouth as she clicks the door behind him. "We do have Cheerios and porridge, if you want something more to eat."

It's all he can do not to laugh. "No, thank you," says Chase, in a hoarse voice that hasn't been used in hours. "I want my phone back."

The officer winces. Her eyes are dark, crimson lipstick slightly smudged. Her nametag says "Sarah" on it in violet ink. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, in a voice so soft and falsely sympathetic it makes Chase want to scream. "I don't know if we can do that. We -"

"The others are dead, aren't they?" Chase interrupts. He knows this already. But it's worth saying to see the woman flinch. "All of them. So much for your oh-so-safe "police custody" bullshit."

She attempts to gather herself as professionally as she can, which is seemingly rather difficult. "I'm sorry," she repeats, and something about her tone is more genuine than before. "They are. But I swear to you, Mr Brody, we are doing everything we can to -"

"If I am going to die today," Chase says, interrupting again. "I want to talk to my goddamn family one more fucking time. Please get me my phone."

She stiffens, but gives a jerky little nod. He doesn't smile at her as she leaves. Not much to smile about. But she comes back ten minutes later and wordlessly hands him his slim rose phone, no expression on her face. He manages to upturn the corner of his lips in response.

Once she's left again, he turns his phone on and practically sighs at the sight of his two kids on his lockscreen. Little Connor and Louise, tiny kiddos, dressed up in their pristine school uniforms and grinning cheesily. His heart swells, and he swallows hard as the lump in his throat seems to expand. He can't cry. He's been crying enough lately. To think that two weeks ago, he was ecstatic to be receiving an email from Jack Mcloughlin himself, giving him the opportunity to play his new game's demo early. Look at him now.

Stacy is at the top of his contacts list, but only because he has her favourited still. He's not sure why. It just feels right to have her there. Her picture is a small, grainy image of her face next to a three year old Connor's. He has her looks more than Louise. Louise looks like her dad. She's a daddy's girl. Chase misses her so much it aches, and closes his eyes as he clicks Stacy's number.

She answers almost immediately. "Chase?" she yells, causing him to wince and pull the phone away from his ears. He hears her inhale sharply. "Sorry. Christ, Chase - Where the fuck are you?"

He swallows again, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. His legs are already beginning to bounce. "Police didn't tell you anything, huh," he mutters. "I'm in custody. They're apparently "keeping me safe," but I'm well aware of the fact that the others - Persephone, Rodney, Stanley, and Khia - are. Well." He clears his throat. "Dead."

He says it so matter of factly that you wouldn't know how close he was to tears had you not seen his face.

Stacy shifts, and Chase hears a door slam faintly. Two small voices giggle far off. He bites down on his lip as Stacy talks again. "Yeah. That's… yeah. Chase, I'm sorry. Uh… Jack Mcloughlin's dead too."

Chase sits bolt upright, eyes suddenly wide. "What?"

Stacy sounds alarmed. "I - Yes, did they not tell you? He died maybe two days ago. Same way as all the others. I'm sorry, Chase."

He can't breathe for a moment. Then he's numb and his body settles into cold, unfeeling static.

"Ok," he says flatly. "Great."

"Chase -"

"How are the kids?" he asks before she can finish. He's tired. He's been doing nothing but sleeping and he's tired. "I can hear them in the background, ha. Sounds like a fun time."

He can hear her scratching the space behind her ear. She does that when she's anxious. Nervous habit. She had gotten a little tattoo of a bee there when they were seventeen. It was a dare from their friend Daniel, who had also gotten a tattoo of a crocodile on his left thigh. Chase has a black bear on his right shoulder from the same occasion. When he and Stacy had been together, they would sometimes kiss the other's tattoos and descend into giggles remembering that slightly drunken night back in Ireland. His chest feels tight thinking about it. His eyes glaze over, and he tries to focus on something across the room.

"They're… not great," Stacy murmurs after a moment, making him jump. He had almost forgotten she was there. "Some brat at school told them about - this whole situation. Told them their dad was going to die. Apparently, she made up a song about it."

Chase hisses softly, grateful for another emotion besides grief and missing to focus on. "Fuck's sake. Which kid was this?"

"You know that girl who was making fun of Louise's accent last year and put chips in her hair?"

"That kid again? I thought the school dealt with her."

A sigh. "Apparently not. They came home in tears. I've been keeping them home since then."

Chase shakes his head in disbelief. "Shit, Stace. Can I… can I talk to them?"

She sighs again. "I… I suppose. But - how have you been? I take it its not been great, but are you at least ok?"

What counts as ok? He doesn't know. "I'm not dead yet. So there's something. I guess I can't really say much more than that."

"Papa?" cries a voice on the end of the line, and a grin breaks Chase's face as he recognizes his son, Connor, yelling from somewhere quite close to Stacy. "Is that Papa? Mama, let us talk - Louise, Papa's on the phone!"

Chase can't help but laugh as his daughter also chimes in, two little voices clamoring for his attention. "Calm down, kiddos, there's plenty of me to go round," he grins, pushing his hair back from his face so he can concentrate. "How are you both? One at a time, Louise first."

"Favouritism," he hears Connor sulk, but the boy quiets.

"I'm ok," Louise beams. He can hear her smile, and sees it when he closes his eyes. "I can't go to school cause Megan Penicuik was being mean. We made cookies, though, me and Con-Con! All by ourselves, no help from Mama at all!"

"Now, that's simply not true," he hears Stacy laugh in the background. Chase laughs too, his heart suddenly aching. Something weighs heavy in his chest, but he tries to push it away, feeling sick.

A scuffle on the end of the line, and then it's Connor speaking. "I miss you, Papa!" he cries. "I wanna give you a - a chocolate chip cookie, I have one here." His voice becomes muffled, and Chase hears him chewing. "Yum yum yum. Can we push a cookie down the phone? Like, through the speakers, Mama!"

Chase listens to a small squabble break out, then hears Stacy sigh dramatically. "They're doing just fine," she says, sounding so tired, yet vaguely amused. "I… I hate to say it, but I should probably go. Connor's games club is in half an hour and I haven't gotten ready at all. My makeup's a state." Her voice softens. "Will you be… ok?"

Will he? He doesn't know.

"Stace," he murmurs. His chest feels tight. "I could die. Like, tonight. That's what people are saying. I'm the last one left."

A pause, then Stacy lets out a shaky sigh. "Christ, Chase…"

He gathers his strength. "Listen. Listen, Stace. If I die tonight - I just want you to know how much I love you, ok? Even if we… if we weren't meant to be together anymore. You're one of my best friends, you know? So… take care of the kids. Don't lose yourself. And by god, don't start drinking again."

She gives a choked laugh. "Chase. God, I - Don't fucking die tonight."

He doesn't know how to tell her he won't have a choice.

As soon as the call's ended, he opens up his roommate's contact. He can't stand the echoing silence that seems to go on forever in the minute or so before the ringing starts. He supposes that if tonight is his last night alive, he should say goodbye. Even if it hurts. Even if it makes him feel sick to say it.

He nearly sobs with relief when he hears the line click, and a familiar German accent speak loudly in his ear. "Chase?"

Chase sniffles, laughing softly. "Hey, Henny."

Henrik curses, and something slams. "Mother of God, Chase Brody, do you have any idea - Are you - Fuck, are you alright?"

Good question. "I don't know," he admits, bouncing his leg anxiously, and staring at his chipped black nails. "I mean, I'm… scheduled to die tonight. So probably not. Really, I've been weirdly calm about all this."

Henrik huffs, and Chase can almost picture him getting red in the face, yanking back his hair and staring out the window of their flat with narrowed, pale blue eyes. "They have not done anything about it? Surely it is not possible that a murderer who is killing in patterns cannot be apprehended? You would think that would be easy, especially if you are being held in high security. Motherfucking useless British police. Not that German ones were much better, but Christ -"

Chase cuts him off before he can rant for another five minutes. "How are the others? Are Jackie, Marv and Jem holding up ok?"

Henrik sighs, blowing out his cheeks. "Mhm. Marvin has gone a bit mad. Fucking idiot is spending way too much time online, reading up on your situation. He seems convinced that you are going to die as well. According to Jackie, he spent all of yesterday out of the house and came back saying he had been performing. But Jackie says he had not had any parties scheduled for that day, so he was talking shit."

Chase winces. His friend Marvin is a child's birthday party performer, a magician, and spends a lot of time perfecting fun tricks and illusions to add into his routine. Chase knows how much he enjoys his job. But he also knows that Marvin's habit of spending hours on internet forums and sites, learning things from other performers, can be bad for him. "Christ. I… Goddammit it. How's Jackie coping?"

He hears a microwave go off in the background. Henrik mutters something that Chase can't hear, then keeps talking. "Jackie has been at the gym every day since you were taken in. Overworking himself. He did come round yesterday and, uh, spoke about how scared he was for you. Cried a lot, poor man. I am not good with comforting people, but I tried. He does not know what to do with himself anymore."

This isn't surprising. Chase is well aware of Jackie's habit of overexercising and pushing himself too far when he was angry or upset. "And Jameson?"

Something clatters, like Henrik's rummaging in a cupboard. A fridge opens and slams shut, and then Henrik is back. "He has been round at our flat a lot. Did you know Euan ended things with him? I did not, until he told me the day before yesterday. He was dreadfully upset. The timing was… not great, to say the least. I do not think he is doing too well, but he refuses to accept any of the help I wish to give him. He kept asking about me instead. Really, sometimes I wish he was not such a good actor."

So does Chase. Jameson is never one to be open about his feelings, instead trying to help everyone else first. Chase loves him a lot, but he wishes the filmmaker would be less stubborn and insistent that he was always ok. His heart aches at the thought of Jameson suffering alone, especially now - he and his boyfriend Euan had been so close, as well. The thought that he might never be able to figure out what happened between them hurts. "Me too. God, Hen, me too. Give them all my love though, yeah? Tell Marvin to take some time to do self care, and tell Jackie to take breaks, and tell Jameson to talk to his therapist. And you… don't you overwork yourself either. I know what you're like. Only one cup of coffee a day, dude, remember. Don't make me come over there."

Henrik laughs softly, but there's a sadness to it. "You sound as though you are saying goodbye."

Something stabs into Chase's heart. He tries to catch his breath through the lump in his throat. "Henrik. I'm going to die tonight."

There's a long pause. He can hear Henrik adjusting, rubbing his face and knocking his glasses askew. Maybe he knows his roommate too well. Far too well, maybe well enough that he knows what he'll say next. "There has to be another way."

Chase shakes his head despite Henrik being unable to see him. "No. No, Hen, no. This - this is what's happening, and we can't just… fix it. I wish we could, cause I don't even understand why, and it's so scary, and… God, I wish we could. I have so much left I want to do, and…"

He trails off. Henrik doesn't speak. Chase imagines him pulling the phone away from his face, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his mouth so as not to cry. The image hurts. Chase hurts. He holds the phone tight, aching to be somewhere, anywhere else other than here.

"You know," he says, voice choked as he speaks. "It's ironic how much I wanted to die a few months ago, and now I'm here, and I'm suddenly so scared."

"You are not going to die," Henrik suddenly shouts. There is anger in his voice that Chase knows is not directed at him. "You are not. It will not just all end like that, Chase Brody. I will not let it."

Something hot pricks the backs of Chase's eyes. He swallows hard, his chest tightening, his legs bouncing harder. "Henrik. Henrik, I - I have to go. I have to go. I'm sorry. I love you, dude. You know that? I love you."

"Chase," Henrik practically sobs. "Shit, I love you too. But you are not going to die."

Chase ends the call and throws up in the black bin next to his bed.

-

Night comes quickly, Chase thinks.

He thinks, because an officer comes to take his phone soon after his call with Henrik ends. He's starting to regret hanging up, but it had to have been what was best. Of course it was what was best. No need to make this hurt so much more than it already does. This is something he has to keep telling himself. No need to make this hurt so much more than it already does.

The officers ask what he wants for dinner that night instead of giving him choices. He gets it. It's a last meal. He takes full advantage of it and orders pepperoni cheese stuffed crust pizza and garlic sticks, his favourite, with barbeque sauce and churros. It all tastes like cardboard. He eats it anyway, because he's bored and his mouth still tastes like vomit and if he's going to die, it's only fitting that he goes out with a Domino's in him.

Before he's even finished eating, an armed guard comes and takes him across the building. It's the first time he's left his room in days, and he's surprised to see how dark it is outside, how little people are around. The few people he does see stare at him, some open mouthed with awe, some with sad eyes like a parent trying to tell their child that their pet fish died. Chase stares at the floor. Stares at the gun tucked into the waistband of the officer in front of him. He's scared, and his heart is racing faster than it has in years, and he thinks he's dissociating a little because he doesn't feel real and his fingertips are numb. Adrenaline thrums through his body, warming him and erasing the painful cold. Fuck, but he's scared. He's so, so goddamn scared.

He's taken to an entirely different room, a slightly bigger one that looks nearly the same, but with wooden chairs sat all around the border. There's no TV in this room. "Sit here," one of the officers says, guiding him to the blue covered bed and gesturing for him to sit. He does so, feeling silly and light with panic. He thinks he's going to be sick again. His breaths aren't coming right and fuck, he might faint from the sudden, overwhelming wave of dizziness that's washing over him now.

One of the officers that has just come in walks over and sits next to him. He's in full uniform, a radio on his vest, a bat strapped to his belt. "Are you alright, Mr Brody?" he asks gently, looking at him with kind brown eyes, and Chase sobs with relief for some kind of comfort.

"H-h-having a p-panic attack," he stammers, shifting on the bed to try and feel something, clawing at his skin under his grey hoodie and desperately trying not to cry. "N-need my - my - my asth-ma in-inhaler, p-please, I can't br-breathe -"

He's brought his inhaler, and he clutches it gratefully, clinging to it like a child. The cold button grounds him. Maybe, maybe if he squeezes his eyes shut tight enough, he'll wake up in his bed at home and be able to get up and shower in a bathroom that's not small or lit too brightly and then he can go downstairs to the kitchen to find Henrik half asleep at the table, three cups of coffee in front of him, wearily participating in whatever Chase's dumb early morning joke is, and then he can eat toast that's not burnt or done too lightly and play his music while he writes or goes on a walk outside. Maybe. Maybe.

The armed guards keep watch over him for two full hours.

Chase Brody is terrified.

It's when it hits the two and a half hour mark that he begins to notice anything different. A faint ringing in his ears. He thinks it's his tinnitus and waves it off, simply swatting at the air around his head like that will help at all. One of the guards notices immediately. "Sir, are you alright?"

Chase nods. He's not, but he doesn't need them dithering over him. Unfortunately, the guard doesn't let up. "Seriously, it's important that you tell us what's happening. Anything at all. Anything that could help you."

Well, that's reassuring. "Strange noise," he murmurs, shaking his hair out his face. "I think it's just me, though, I'm alright -"

But the guard is standing, muttering something into the radio strapped to his chest, and is it Chase's imagination, or are more people entering the room? "What's happening?" he asks, but he gets no response, and he's starting to feel strangely dizzy and tired, like something heavy is dragging his eyelids down. "I don't… h-hey, I don't feel too… too well…"

Someone is speaking to him but the world is already blurring, his head light, floaty. "Stacy?" he slurs, trying to get a grip on the bedsheets beneath him. "Someone needs t'... m'kids, they…"

-

Chase Brody is no longer in the same room as he was before.

He doesn't know when that changed. He can't pinpoint the exact moment where the walls darkened and raised with pipes and doors and panels, he doesn't know when his bed disappeared beneath him and the floor became sticky and black, he doesn't know when the bright light of his room became a soft blue glow, lighting up the room from behind him. He doesn't know when the room had stretched both ways into a long hallway, lined with slivers of light through the windows. He doesn't know why, when he stands, his legs nearly crumple beneath him. And when he turns - god, when he turns, and he looks out the enormous windows behind him - he doesn't know why a calming sensation of numbness settles over him, burning his skin like pins and needles.

He is staring out at the vast abyss of space.

It's a blackness he's never seen before. It seems to go on forever, and maybe it does, and there is nothing but tiny pinpricks of silver light of gaseous stars piercing the inky nothingness. Nothing but that, and the ball of green and blue that Chase knows, somewhere in his mind. Earth. Earth, where he is and isn't, where his body should be, where he never left, and what kind of nightmare is this? What kind of sick nightmare, he thinks dizzily, his thoughts chugging slowly as though through a thick soup. Everything is spinning. There is no sound, the world is broken, and the space is fucking endless.

Move, says the tiny part of his brain that still has sense. Get out. Get out.

His footsteps echo on the metal panes of the floor, and he resists the tightening urge in his stomach to vomit.

He doesn't know why this place is familiar.

The hallway seems to go on forever. All the doors along the way to the left have small, glowing panels beside them that seem to demand some type of access keycard, which Chase very much does not have. Eventually he reaches one that he can open, and stumbles into a large room with a table in the centre, the walls covered in photos and clippings that he doesn't bother taking closer looks at. There is only one small window in here, over a sleek black couch that seems to have nearly been shredded right through the middle. The table has a bolted down chair and a large pile of papers next to a cracked laptop that splutters weakly as it asks for a password. The room is too dark. Chase slowly walks through it, wincing at the sound his boots make on the floor, wincing at the silence, heart racing with the promise of another panic attack that he pushes down forcefully, gripping his own wrist for support. This isn't right, screams the universe. This is too familiar. This is too real. This is too familiar to be real.

Chase has noticed that everything in this place, despite its immediate appearance of immaculate properness, seems to be slightly out of place. This becomes more apparent in the room adjacent to the one he'd just been in, a room filled with sealed metal crates and boilers that bubble menacingly from their perches on the walls, a room which has clearly been nearly destroyed. Black claw marks have torn out chunks of the walls, wires ripped from the floor, buzzing weakly and sparking from wherever they were thrown after their violent uprooting. Dark red stains splash across the floor like a tragic painting that makes Chase's stomach upturn sickly. A vent on the ceiling hisses, and the man jumps and bolts, all last dregs of courage leaving him in an instant. He knows this is a dream. This is a dream, nothing is real, nothing is real, it must be just a dream.

"I've gone to hell," he sobs aloud, clamping both hands over his mouth as a cry climbs up his throat. "O-oh my god, I've gone to hell."

This is what you get for being a shitty, alcoholic dad and husband, he thinks, and promptly throws up on the floor next to the fresh bloodstains.

The rooms start to blur. Objects to objects, light to light, black walls and coloured glow and sparks, hissing, echoing rumbles, all becoming one in Chase's mind. He's long gone past the stage of a panic attack; he's in a state of utter numb calm, now. In one room he finds a long, black lighter and holds it tightly in his hands for comfort, twisting it round and round in buzzing fingers just to feel something solid against his skin to ground him. Please, he prays softly, wiping sweat from his forehead, struggling to breathe as his chest tightens and the world seems to grow hotter and smaller. Please, let me wake up, let me wake up from this, please.

And then something is standing behind him.

He doesn't know how he knows. It's just a sensation of silent shock in him, of I am not alone, a stabbing feeling as the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something is there. He feels eyes on him. He can't - fuck, he can't move, and all the emotion in him seems to be rising to a painful crescendo. I am not alone in here. I am not alone in here.

"Who's there," he says in a small, cracked voice, not daring to turn. It's barely a question. "What do you want from me."

Nothing but a low hissing, and, most frightening of all, a rumbling growl that nearly sends Chase to the floor in a faint.

He has to look.

He has to look.

He looks.

It's an… an astronaut.

Neither of them move, and Chase's grip on the lighter in his hands tightens, trying to find some form of comfort, anything. "Why am I here?" he manages, swallowing back hot bile that burns his throat and makes him gag softly. "Why, why, what nightmare is this? Am I dead? Did the killer get me and this is my hell?"

The astronaut is silent.

Fury bubbles in Chase's chest, overriding the fear for a moment. "Talk!" he shouts, perhaps stupidly, but he doesn't care. "Please! What is happening?"

Then things get perhaps even stranger, somehow. A glowing 2D box of light appears in front of the astronaut, hovering in the air, too quiet until black text begins to appear on it, cartoonishly video game like blooping noises playing with each letter. Chase watches in awe. He's unable to speak.

<TheAnti.chr_v09> You are the Player.

Chase reads the words over and over and over.

"My name is Chase Brody," he says, voice wavering with uncertainty, because something here is wrong, wrong, wrong, so ridiculously wrong, and he hates the way things are clicking in his mind. "I shouldn't - be here. I think I'm dreaming and I want to go home."

The text flashes.

<TheAnti.chr_v09> You are <player_variable_BroAverage>. You are the Player.

Chase feels like he's above his body, like nothing he's seeing is real anymore. "Please let me go home."

<TheAnti.chr_v09> I am <TheAnti.chr_v09>. I am the Anti. You are the player. Player objective: escape. Anti objective: kill the Player. Initialization - Upon game startup, play <soundtrack_opening2>, set spawn and character sprites -

Chase can't take this. "Stop it!" he cries, and he shouldn't step forwards so confidently, but he does, slashing his hand through the air in front of him. "Tell me what you -"

The astronaut explodes.

No. No, it doesn't explode; Chase's mind is taking a moment to make sense of it, to rationalize the way the helmet has shattered and there is nothing but sheer white and glowing green eyes, hundreds of them, underneath, the largest one on the being's neck, splitting open with disgustingly inhuman squelching sounds, and the way the suit has torn and a mouth has opened up on the stomach, a gaping maw with knives for teeth and a slimy crimson tongue, and the way rips open along the material and more eyes open, burning red skin like charred meat, black veins rising under its skin. It hisses and cracks and growls and hums and it isn't like anything Chase has ever seen before, or maybe it is, because he knows this monster. He's seen this monster. And fuck, now he knows why this world is familiar, because he's been here, he's played this game. This can't be real. This can't be real.

"Posttraumatic nightmares," he can hear Henrik saying to him, the man's voice comforting. "Nightmares that occur after a traumatic event and can contain, what is the word… recurring themes that make you experience intense negative emotions. Maybe that is why you are having such strange dreams, my friend. You have been through a lot in these past few weeks."

That had been months ago. I thought I got over those dreams. I thought I got over those dreams.

He's running. His legs are already burning, chest already tight, why did he have to have used all his energy on his panic attack? Is the monster still following him? Chase can't turn to check, and the blood in his veins is racing through his body faster than he's used to, his heart in his ears as he flies round a corner, barely able to catch a breath. This isn't real, he thinks. It's another nightmare. Please, this isn't real, this isn't -

And then something wet is snaking round his chest, pulsing in a way that makes Chase gag, and something sharp presses into the skin on his back and a burst of numbness runs over him like cold water, causing his body to go limp against the alien - because it is an alien, isn't it, he knew this already - behind him. Cold heaviness seeps through his veins, combatting the light weightlessness that the adrenaline was giving him. He tries to cough again, to speak as his lungs empty of air, but the alien only grips his arms tight enough to piece his skin with sharp claw-like fingers. A glance down at his chest, and he sees the tip of the bloodstained rod jutting through his skin. It doesn't really register. A light laugh escapes his lips, because it's funny, really, how he's about to die at the hands of a video game antagonist.

No, he's not about to die. This isn't real. It can't be, it's another bad dream, of course it is. But if it's not real, then what happened to Jack Mcloughlin and the others, all of those… all of…

The world spins.

And the world lights up in flames.

Chase had briefly forgotten about the lighter he'd picked up for support, and now he's putting it to good use; one flick of the switch and the alien is alight as though it had been soaked in gasoline, burning orange spreading across its suit, the crackling drowning out the monster's screeches. Its grip loosens on Chase's arms, and he pulls free, and the universe spins as the rod in his chest slips out like it's nothing, leaving a gaping emptiness in him. Please, he screams, in his mind or out loud, he doesn't know. Please. Please.

Please, wake me up.

-

White light. It floods the whole world, for just a moment, and then Chase's eyes are open and he is gasping for air, hands flying to his chest and feeling nothing but the soft material of his shirt, no pain except for the squeeze of his lungs as he coughs desperately into his sleeve. There are people surrounding him now; the police officers and armed guards from before, helping him sit up, holding a sick bucket in front of him as he throws up the little that's left in his stomach weakly, too much noise but nowhere near as bad as the silence of the Dawn Station. Nowhere near as bad as the hissing creaks of the Anti. Nowhere near as bad as his nightmare, because it was a nightmare, of course that wasn't real - nowhere near as bad as the nightmare that he'd thought was going to kill him.

I lived. I survived the night.

He's had this thought before, but this time, it's met with relief.

-

"You dreamed about the setting of a video game."

"Not just any video game. The, uh… the new Jack Mcloughlin game, Dawn Station. All the people who played the demo… died. I didn't die. The night I was supposed to, after all the others, I - I dreamed about the game. And the antagonist of the game. It's this, uh, this alien thing, in an astronaut suit. Tried to kill me. Apparently it's weak to fire, although I don't remember that from the actual game, maybe it was a secret that wasn't in the demo we were all sent, but I burned it, and it stabbed me, and I got away, not - not in that order. Does that… does that make sense, doctor?"

Dr. Ross scrutinizes Chase for a moment before turning his chair back to face his computer. The sound of his mouse clicking fills the room, off beat from the eternal clicking of the plain white clock on the plain white walls, decorated only with bookshelves and trays of medicines. Chase has never been in a more boring doctor's office. Usually his therapy sessions have more to look at, but this is a different therapist than he normally goes to, and all he can do is fidget with his hands on his lap and stare out the window at the

earth, the stars, the black abyss of emptiness that Chase could get lost in and never be found

setting sun through the trees just outside the building. The doctor's pen clicks, clicks, clicks. It sounds like the Anti's teeth, chattering against each other as it yawns, its maw opening wide enough for a head to be torn right off. Click, click, click. Chase closes his eyes, the repeating sounds like a mantra. He focuses on that instead. It grounds him.

"You have a history of nightmares."

Chase nods without looking. "I was prescribed triazolam by my first therapist. I took them for a year or so without changes except the lowering of doses a couple of times, because I was getting weaned off them. They helped. Nightmares didn't continue after that."

The other man nods slowly. "Hm. I can imagine the trauma of this recent event that you've been through was enough to bring these nightmares back to the forefront of your mind, especially given the contents of this dream in particular. We may have to ease you back onto medication over the course of your next few sessions here, which should be easier, given that it'll be a couple weeks before we send you home. Is that alright, Mr Brody?"

Click, click, click. Chase nods. Sunlight warms his face, and he sighs softly. "Sounds good, Dr. Ross. When will I be able to see my family?"

The man frowns, his forehead creasing. "Hopefully soon, although it will be slightly complicated, given the circumstances." A breath leaves him, and he tilts his head to the side slightly. His white collar digs into the fold of his neck. Chase keeps his eyes trained on that. "And these are strange circumstances, are they not?"

"They are," Chase mutters. He clenches his fists in his lap. "They are, yeah."

He should have died. He doesn't know why he didn't die. He doesn't even know what it was that killed the others. Really, the nightmare he'd had makes sense. It was easily written off as a traumatic event that had brought back old nightmares. Of course there was no way any of it had been real. That's ridiculous. Just ridiculous. He doesn't know why he's thinking that.

His hand trails down his shirt. Underneath, on the skin of his stomach, is a thick scar that hadn't been there before the nightmare he'd had. Right where the rod had pierced his stomach.

Coincidence. Coincidence.

"Do you have any other concerns, Mr Brody?"

"I don't believe so."

"Good."

Click. Click. Click.

#boop writes #jacksepticeye #chase brody #henrik von schneeplestein #antisepticeye #dawn station

[magnoliasinbloom]

Crash Course Love

In between classes (which I’m still doing online with my lovely 7th graders, no sarcasm), here’s another chapter of these two fools. And it’s looooong!

As always, infinite thanks to @anna-swims​ and @lcbeauchampoftarth​ for being awesome betas.

AO3 :: Previously

9: Lallybroch [Jamie]

“We’re here,” I said, glancing through the Jeep’s windshield.

“Oh, wow. I didn’t think the ride would feel so… short,” Claire said, peering up at the house. It was kind of intimidating, I supposed; a giant stone manor in the middle of rolling fields. Like something out of a fairytale.

Except the wolves were waiting inside, ready to pounce on us.

“Are ye nervous?”

“A little. I’ll be fine.” She turned to me and gave me a smile, shouldering her black purse. I smiled back and ducked out of the Jeep to open her door. Claire climbed out, stepping carefully. “Wait! The flowers!” She turned to the backseat door and pulled out yellow lilies wrapped in butcher paper and tied with a silver ribbon. Slamming the door behind us, we walked up the steps to the door.

I wondered if we should hold hands to make it seem more realistic. When I’d picked her up at her flat—my eyes darting around like mad in case Annalise appeared—and I saw her dressed up, I’d wanted to reach out and take her hand immediately.

We had driven over in comfortable silence. Claire had mentioned she didn’t know what to expect from lunch, so she’d had a small breakfast—more Weetabix. I laughed when I thought of the amount of food Mam always cooked. She commented occasionally on the songs from my Spotify playlists, and we kept up an easy conversation.

My hand was halfway to the doorknob when my mother appeared, and immediately engulfed Claire in a hug. I stood there like an idiot while my mam practically suffocated her; all I could see of Claire was her bewildered expression over my mother’s shoulder.

“Um, hello?” Claire managed.

“Oh, Christ, I’m so happy to meet ye, Claire! Ye are Claire, aren’t ye? Oh, do come in, ye must be freezin’! Can I take yer coat? What’s this?” My mother interrupted her gushing welcome as Claire tried to press the flowers into her hand.

“Aye, Mam, good to see ye too,” I grumbled, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Completely ignoring me, she patted my back and turned to Claire once more.

“They’re just flowers, you know, as a thank you for the invitation,” Claire stammered, blushing. She gestured with her hands as she spoke, clearly nervous. “Sorry I didn’t bring a vase.” My mother hugged her again tightly.

“They’re beautiful! Ye shouldn’t have!” Mam sniffed the lush blooms and ushered us further into the house. I trailed behind them, all but forgotten. I took off my own coat and followed them into the living room.

Mam was introducing Claire to my Da, William, and Jenny. My siblings, in turn, presented each of their partners. Jenny lost it completely and practically hurled herself at Claire in a vise-like hug. Claire couldn’t seem to lose the bewildered expression when confronted with the whole Fraser clan at once.

“Jenny, let the poor lass breathe,” I called out. I gave my Da a one-armed hug and clapped William and Ian on the back. I gave Jenny a gentle shove to get her to release Claire, which she returned twice as hard. “Ifrinn, Janet, that could bruise!”

“Jamie, language!” Mam warned. She led Claire over to Mary, who gave her a peck on the cheek and a warm smile. Jenny glanced over at me and gave me a discreet thumbs-up. I rolled my eyes at her approval.

“Where are the children, Jenny?” I missed the sounds of my rambunctious niece and nephew.

“Oh, off with Ian’s parents this weekend. Give us a bit of a break, ye ken.”

“When’s lunch then, Mam?” William asked.

“Will ye leave anything for the rest of us, Willie?” Ian joked, leading Jenny into the dining room. They both traded quips and insults while everyone made their way to the table.

“Here, Claire, sit next to Jamie.” Mam pointed out her seat and raised her eyebrows at me. I immediately stood behind the chair and held it out for Claire. She sat with a soft murmur of thanks. Da took his seat at the head of the table and winked at Claire, who smiled back and seemed more at ease.

“I’ll just bring the dishes in,” Mam called over her shoulder as she walked to the kitchen.

“Can I help with anything?” Claire asked, half-rising from her chair. Jenny and I both reached out to stop her.

“Nah. This is my mam’s thing. She doesna like for people to interfere with her cookin’. Even if it’s just servin’ it,” I said, while William nodded in agreement and stuffed a roll into his mouth.

“Really?” Claire looked around the table. Da leaned over to explain about Mam’s love affair with cooking, engaging her in conversation.

Mam came in with multiple dishes and trays, all laden with meat, chicken, salad, fresh bread, ham, and vegetables. It was all artfully arranged, in true accordance with her Cordon Bleu education.

Everyone dove in, while Claire watched in horrified fascination as food was served. I reached for her plate when she showed no inclination to dig in herself; she regarded me gratefully when I got her a bit of everything, unsure of what she’d like.

There was no silence at the table. Forks and knives clattered on dishes and conversations sprang all around. Mam gave Claire the third degree about her life; she tried to answer as politely as possible around a mouthful of food. Da insisted Claire call him Brian and asked about her flower shop, being somewhat of an amateur gardener himself.

Finally, after everyone had eaten their fill (and then some), my mother moved in for the kill. “So, Claire, how did ye and Jamie meet?”

Claire looked at me, and I nearly choked on the last bite of carrots. “Um, well…”

“It was at a coffee shop. She spilled her drink on me and offered to buy me another.”

“Yes, that’s it. And then we got to talking and exchanged numbers—”

“I asked her out and she said yes, that was a few weeks ago, and now here we are!” I added hastily.

My mother seemed on the verge of spilling joyful tears and Da positively beamed. Claire squeezed my hand under the table while we regrouped.

“Mrs. Fraser, everything was delicious. Could I help you clear up, make some tea or coffee?”

“Dear, please call me Ellen. And no, ye may not make the coffee, ye are our guest! Let's leave the dishes to the men, shall we? Ladies, care to join me in the living room?”

“Should I be worried, do you think?” Claire asked as she looked at my mother and the women.

“I think I’m the one who should worry,” I muttered, as Jenny and Mary pulled Claire away from me. Next thing I knew, Mam would pull out old photo albums of me with braces or as a toddler in the bath.

I was dragged into the kitchen to help wash up. The rule was, since Mam cooked, the rest of us had clean-up duty. Seemed only fair—except my mother used a ridiculous amount of kitchenware and appliances which had to be left spotless again. I kept my hands busy scrubbing away, until William sidled up to me.

“Sawney, a brathair,” Willie said, using my old nickname and clapping me hard on the shoulder. I jerked and he laughed, mussing up my hair.

“Stop it, ye eejit, I’ll break something,” I growled, spraying him with water.

“Well, I can certainly see what ye saw in Claire, she’s lovely,” Da commented, setting empty glasses next to me. I felt a twinge of guilt.

“Aye, Jamie, she’s grand,” Ian agreed, leaning against the kitchen island. “Ye look good together. Ye have a real connection.” I couldn’t tell from his tone if Jenny had appraised him of the truth.

“Have ye slept with her yet?” Willie asked.

I dropped the glass I was rinsing and it bounced in the sink with a clatter. I turned to gape at William, who was grinning.

“Willie, that is none of yer business!” Da chided, glaring at his firstborn.

“Arsehole,” I mumbled under my breath. Ian cleared his throat behind me.

“We understand if ye dinna want to tell us, it’s yer private life and—”

“I’m not telling ye anything about my sex life, aye?” I finally said, chucking the scrubbing sponge at Willie’s head. “And you!” I turned to Ian. “We could hear ye and Jenny in yer room at Christmas last year, and man, for Christ’s sake, it’s my own sister!”

They both had the good grace to look abashed for a moment, before offering apologies and heading back to the dining room for more dirty dishes. Da frowned, but said nothing.

I fetched the sponge from the floor and got back to scrubbing a frying pan before he spoke up.

“So Jamie, lad, are ye being safe?”

- - -

In the living room, Claire was perched on the big couch, with a photo album on her lap.

“Jamie, these pictures are amazing. Your mum has saved all these memories of you,” she commented, obviously delighted with the albums. Fortunately, Mam had updated the technology and newer photographs were stored in ‘the cloud’.

“Aye, she keeps one for each of us, full of birthdays, Christmases, all of it,” I said, casually claiming the space next to her. Claire bit her lip for a moment, misty-eyed. Having lost her parents so young, I didn’t imagine she had much in the way of photographs. A peek at her expression confirmed it. I touched her hand lightly in sympathy and she smiled.

“You’re lucky, you know. To have all of this. Your parents, your brother and sister.”

“I do know. They seem to really like ye, too.”

I realized that my family had left the room, and there was only Claire and me, our hands touching on our laps. I turned to look at her, and I could catch her scent—something like growing green things and jasmine. That strange spark from the coffee shop surfaced again, vibrating in the empty room, and I felt the urge to lean in and kiss her like I had almost done before. I was drowning in her amber eyes and they seemed to get closer and closer…

“Oi, it’s snowing!” William called out suddenly, and Claire and I sprang apart in shock.

The family all crowded around the windows in the living room, watching fat flakes fall in a white flurry.

“Well, the roads will be impassable,” Da said with a frown.

“There’s a snow storm headed this way, according to BBC,” Ian commented, scrolling on his mobile.

“Och, weel, ye’ll just have to spend the night here,” Mam said briskly. “Ye can sleep in yer old rooms.”

Ifrinn! Share a room with Claire? My parents would expect that? A hint of panic welled in my chest.

“Oh, Mrs. Fraser,” Claire began, glancing at me with worry in her eyes, “I can take the couch right here. If you have a few spare blankets—”

“It’s Ellen, dear, and please, dinna be silly! We’re all adults here. Ye can sleep wi’ Jamie in his own room.”

- - -

A/N: Hope everyone is staying safe and healthy out there! Thank you for your likes, reblogs, and comments - they mean the world. <3

#outlander #outlander fanfiction #jamie and claire #CCL9 #and there was only one bed #!!!!!!

[hollenka99]

The One Where Jackie Settles In

Summary: Chapter 3. Jackie gets used to life with Marvin.

Warnings: death mention, violence mention

@bupine @badlypostedeverything

In the minute it takes for Jackie's mind to wake up along with him, he becomes confused as to why his chest is in agony. More confusing than that, he appeared to be in the bedroom of someone's home. In a pile on a bean bag was a pre-arranged outfit for him to wear. Dressed, he ventures to the hallway. And things finally click. Right, he was living with Marvin now. Marvin, who happened to also be Cat. The past 24 hours had been quite eventful. He'd… rather forget it. He requests anything Marvin had on hand. If he was a superhero, surely he was no stranger to injury. Therefore, there must be something lying around to assist with pain management. To his relief, Marvin can indeed help him. In fact, he goes further and offers him whatever is required for his recovery. With the medical care over, Marvin invites his new roommate to help himself to mini Weetabix or bread. Jackie doesn't think he can manage more than a simple buttered slice of toast this morning. The Russian blue missing her front left leg observes them from her shelf. Marvin notices where Jackie's gaze is directed. "Indie's watching us eat, isn't she?" "Yep." Jackie chuckles. "Come face us, you little spy." Marvin turns around in his seat, wearing a mock scowl. "Caoimhe was like that. I couldn't eat anything at home without her staring at me until I gave her a bit of my dinner." Marvin is facing the table again. "Caoimhe?" "Oh um... she was my dog before- before all this." "Is she with friends or something?" "I guess. Them or my dad. It all happened so quickly." Suddenly, stories relating to pets fill the space between toast and soggy cereal. Jackie learns of the time Indie somehow found herself stuck in the space between the television and the wall. Likewise, he tells his friend all about Caoimhe's misadventures as a puppy, including her habit of attempting to snack on his drumsticks. This in turn leads to Jackie confirming that yes, he was a drummer and guitar wasn't his preferred instrument. The two of them chat at the table until Marvin realises in a shock that it was already time for him to get ready for work. Running late slightly, he blurts out his apologises and suggests Jackie finds a DVD to watch while he's alone. Despite how abruptly it had ended, the morning had been an enjoyable one. Joel checks up on them a couple days after the incident with Anti. He raises the issue of Jackie not having any clothes of his own. The Canadian offers to accompany him around the shops, making the point it would be a proper chance to get to know each other. With the promise expenses shouldn't influence decisions, they leave. They manage to collect a variety of tops and jeans. Apparently ripped jeans were fashionable now. Fashion had certainly changed in the past three decades. He and Joel are still able to find items that were close enough to what he used to know. The shops they visit are lacking in leather jackets but Joel is able to offer a black denim one as a compromise. With socks and underwear also in their possession, it was time to move on from clothes shopping. Almost. Doing so as discreetly as he can, Joel mutters quietly to Jackie. "I can see you eyeing the women's section. Why don't you have a look?" "No, it's weird. Trust me, men were not made to wear feminine clothing." "Listen, I have two dads and a diminished sense of gendered clothing. I am the last person who will give a damn about a guy wearing a dress. You have a similar build to my dad so..." Joel approaches the racks, flicking through them. Periodically, he scrutinises Jackie to likely determine if the dress was right for him. The most Jackie lets his new friend buy for him is a skirt that reached his knees. It seems to please him that Jackie allowed him to get even that. He supposes it was a nice garment. And a kind gesture too. With the clothes stuffed into the back seat of Joel's car, the duo return to explore the Tesco Metro. The older of the two triggers a whole conversation about Easter celebrations. Joel talks about the Beaches Easter parade in Toronto while Jackie grumbles about Easter Sunday masses. They both agree there's no such thing as too many Easter eggs. "Hey, you should get a notebook or something. It might help if you have somewhere to put your thoughts about the 21st century." "What, you want me to write you an essay about modern life when I've known nothing else? I'm 20, I was born in... 1999." "It's April so if you want to turn 21 this year, it's 1998." "Wh- 'if I want to turn 21 this year'? Can I please get through the rest of this month without having my life being threatened?" Joel groans. "No, dumbass, it was advice." He leans close to Jackie's ear. "I know about Village Square and how you were born in 1966. I'm sure you want to talk about this further but I don't have anywhere I can really take you to speak privately." "You're psychic?" "No." Joel places his bags down, resigning himself to tackle this subject while standing outside a WHSmiths. "Sure, I can create portals but I'm no mind reader." "Then how-?" "I already told you, this is not a conversation we should have in public." "What about your apartment? You don't live with Marvin and you told me you weren't living on the streets anymore." "In Canada. And I doubt it would be healthy to send you somewhere over 3500 miles away when you sustained a major injury a few days ago. Listen, how about you text- A phone, we need to get you a phone too." "Right." Mobile phones are unrecognisable. How the hell did technology advance to the point where this small slab of glass and alloy was capable of receiving calls? Not to mention the plethora of things it also offered. And controlled by your fingers on top of it all off. Joel reassures him he can take it slow with this technological leap. The main reason he bought it was for communication and it could remain so if he wanted. Jackie supposes the shiny blue back was pretty. It wasn't hard, growing accustomed to life with Marvin. His roommate would sleep in after a long night of patrolling then spend most afternoons working a shift at the local garden centre. In addition to that, Marvin would also don his Magnificent Cat costume twice a week so he could help those still on the streets. Jackie usually sat those out, feeling awkward about his new situation. Marvin was typically the one to cook. As such, Jackie felt it necessary the head of the kitchen should be aware he couldn't have mustard. If the hero could try getting into the habit of checking ingredients and being wary of anything labelled 'spices', he'd be much obliged. Marvin does his best to follow these instructions. It seemed to be working fine as there was yet to be any allergic reactions. At some point during that second week, Marvin invited Jackie to the kitchen. His plan was to bake his favourite cake, one containing chocolate and strawberries. Their joint efforts go well for a short while. Then Jackie gave himself an edible moustache upon stealing the whipped cream from the fridge. Marvin confiscated the can, only to follow suite. By the time the cake was ready to exit the oven, the duo were laughing, in need of a whipped cream restock and a change of clothes. It is after returning from a shift that Marvin introduces Jackie to an unusual pizza crust arrangement. "Pizza Hut have the best stuffed crust though. This is only the best Morrisons has to offer, as far as I've tried it." Marvin continues on, rambling about how, while studying at university, he made it his goal to find the best frozen pizza supermarkets within walking distance of his accommodation had to offer. As such, he had designated this specific pizza as his favourite. Something about the other varieties being too liquidy or whatever. He has no interest in this subject. Pizza was pizza. But... Marvin seemed very engrossed in imparting his findings to him and who was Jackie to stop him? "Oh, tell you who would go with us to Pizza Hut, my friends Henrik and Jameson. Maybe Chase too but he tends to be a rather busy guy. You should meet them. I think you might get on with those guys." Marvin makes a note as a reminder to invite his friends for a meal out. For the time being, that is the end of that. Before long, the Easter weekend arrives and with it, a chance for Jackie to finally meet Sean. It was clear Marvin looked up to his big brother from the way he spoke about him. As far as Jackie was aware, Sean was 9 years older, a video game developer and a reluctant cook, hence why the two roommates were taking care of the big meal. He can certainly see the resemblance between the brothers. Their features were very similar. The main difference between them was hair. While Marvin was clean shaven with waves descending to his shoulders, Sean had stubble and short straight hair. It was pleasant to see them have such a good relationship, complete with teasing and half-serious threats of burning the other if he kept pushing it. Jackie found Sean likeable. The whole meal, they kept themselves occupied with chatter. He learns Sean enjoyed painting in his spare time. In fact, he was creating the backgrounds for his company's new game. It is at this point that Marvin lets him know there was still a blue smudge, albeit slightly faded, on the side of his left hand. The afternoon is a good one but like all things, it comes to an end. Before too long, they are bidding Sean farewell and exchanging comments about the day's success. Night, the stranger found, was the best cover. Some dark clothes to reduce visibility and a hood to better conceal his identity from CCTV cameras. With some silent fiddling, the door grants him entry. He knows precisely which room he has to visit first. His most recent escapee is completely oblivious to the intruder. He could ensure Jackie never woke up with a single touch. But Marvin would discover the truth were that to happen. That method was too obvious. Besides, this wasn't what he was here for. The envelope slips out of his bag. In the morning, Jackie will find the surprise on his bedside table. That done, he moves on to the other bedroom. The hero is still awake, albeit engrossed by his phone's screen. Only now does Anti allow his presence to be sensed. Marvin reacts accordingly by throwing the covers to the side and defensively leaping to his feet. A palm is raised to prevent any provocative action before it could be carried out. The message is delivered. "Back off, Marvin. You should know by now what I'm like when frustrated. Let the next one slide and you won't hear from me for a good while." He looks like a three year old persevering with their poorly thought out argument. He's certainly a 24 year old man in his pyjamas rather than an on duty superhero fully in costume. "I... I can't." "One life for several. Aren't you supposed to be on the better side of the morality spectrum? Surely this is a easy choice." Anti doesn't wait for any potential response from Marvin. The serial killer leaves the way he came. The sun rises and with it, Jackie. Marvin was already awake, cradling an abandoned coffee. He gives his friend little acknowledgement as he enters the kitchen. The piece of paper Jackie is holding, however, gains his attention. Especially when he asks the dreaded question. "Uh, Marv? Do you know anything about this?" It's only a portion of an A4 sheet. A pair of scissors has been used perhaps a third of the way down. The contents is limited to a single typed line which reads: We both know he's no doctor. Maybe you should ask why he hasn't taken you to be treated by professionals. Jackie starts talking as soon as he's sure Marvin has read the message. "I- Listen, I will admit I had wondered why you never sent me to a hospital. But I guess I brushed it off as a secret identity thing. So why didn't-?" "You're new to this city, right?" "Yes." "So you don't know Anti like I do. He likes making a point of finishing what he started. I don't know how the hell he does it. But if he's the one who put you in hospital, the only place you're going after that is the morgue. So forgive me for wanting you still around. And yeah, it's true, I am not a doctor. However, books on human biology and the internet have served me fine. I've had way more injuries than Sean is aware of. Yet here I am, walking around despite the occupational hazards my hobby is littered with." "Marvin-" "If you want me to apologise for prioritising you staying alive, then I'm afraid you're out of luck." The aggression radiating from him remains for several seconds. It dissipates into something softer. "But I am sorry for putting the decision solely in my hands. If that means anything." Jackie lets the air settle between them before answering. "Alright. Listen, I am still upset-" "Fine, then I'll leave for a while." Marvin begins making his way to the shoe pile by the door. "What I was going to say was I'm still upset but I'd rather move on and let bygones be bygones for now. Just promise you won't do something that risky again." He stops completely to face Jackie. "Yes, of course. I promise." "Thank you. And, as a sidenote, if you're going to run from disagreements, at least fix that mess you call your hair. It's horrendous." The sleep deprived hero scoffs, a tiny smile creeping into existence. "Got it."

#jacksepticeye #jackieboy man #marvin the magnificent #my writing #jumbled au #writersofjack

[tibbinswrites]

Suptober Day 19 - Hotels/Motels

Dean closed the door of the motel room behind him and dropped his bags. He’d gotten a twin room out of habit, although Sam was all the way over in Arkansas on another case and Cas had gone with him. Dean’s case looked like a fairly straightforward one, if a bit witchy for his taste, so Rowena was going to meet with him for interviews the next day. She had point-blank refused to meet at his motel room however so he had to go to her, which would be uncomfortable for everyone involved as her place was a five-star hotel in the wealthy part of town and although Dean would be wearing a suit, it was obvious to anyone who knew what they were looking at that it was a cheap one.

He flopped onto the bed nearest the door and then grunted with pain as an errant spring dug up into his ribs. The mattress was barely worthy of the name and he missed his memory foam. The bunker had spoiled him, having a room for the night had been a luxury growing up; for every night John had left them in a motel there were two spent in the backseat of the impala, which got gradually more cramped, especially when Sam hit his growth spurt in his teens.

They all blurred into each other, motel rooms. They were like Biggerson’s, close all the blinds and you could be anywhere. The décor was generic (unless you went to a specifically themed place but that was a whole other ball game), off-white walls, threadbare carpet, linoleum to mark where the kitchenette began, a single framed picture over each bed of a forest or a ship at sea. The chairs were straight-backed and wooden, the sofa had caved in on either side from the weight of so many asses, the TV reception was shoddy, as was the wi-fi, and it was ten to one that the heater was broken. Everything had stains of some kind, the kinds of stains that you could easily ignore if you were only stopping the night, but that once you noticed, you could never un-notice.

Dean had made a game out of this; he and Sam would search the whole room to find the stain with the weirdest shape (the record was Sam’s find in Winnipeg, which had been a creepily specific brown splat that looked exactly like a huge spider, the two weeks they’d stayed in that motel, Dean had had to step on the thing every morning before Sam would come anywhere near the kitchen).

Dean had never really decided if he liked motels or not. He liked the anonymity. No questions asked if you rocked up covered in grave dirt at four in the morning, and if you trashed the place because a werewolf crashed through the window or you had to paint an angel-banishing sigil on the wall that you couldn’t quite erase later… well the room probably needed a do-over anyway. Cash in hand, an illegible scribble on a piece of paper and a ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door and you had your very own disposable base of operations. The practicality was a big plus. He also liked the noise of it, neighbours rowing, cars pulling in off the interstate, phone alarms blaring, doors opening and closing, pipes gurgling, kids throwing tantrums and beds creaking, even Sam’s breathing from the next bed; they weren’t the most soothing sounds true, but he’d grown up hearing them. Noise to him was safer than quiet, noise was distracting and it meant other people. Dean liked to be reminded that there were other people around sometimes, people who didn’t need saving right that minute, people who had no idea that there were monsters in town. Other people just passing through, on road trips with their families or having one night stands, or travelling for work; people just living. Also, magic fingers, he liked the magic fingers.

But there were many things he didn’t like about motels too; he didn’t like how each one was different enough to never really feel familiar; he didn’t like that sometimes he’d wake up and couldn’t remember if he was in Connecticut or Boston. He didn’t like the tiny bottles of liquor in the mini-fridge and after having had his own fully-equipped kitchen for the past several years, he didn’t like not being able to make anything more complicated than Weetabix. He didn’t like that he never felt clean. Even if he scrubbed down the shower himself before he used it, the fluctuating pressure or hot water or sometimes just the feel of it was wrong on his skin and he emerged feeling dirtier than he had going in.

Maybe he was getting too old for motels. The bunker was home to him now, and even the quiet and the lack of windows and the military-hard style of the place had grown comfortable. He was settled there, he had his own room. Two rooms really since he’d converted the Dean-cave.

He rolled off the spring and into a dip that almost landed him on the floor. Grumbling, he struggled to sit and unlaced his boots and pull them off before switching over to the other bed, testing it out with a couple of bounces. It wasn’t quite as bad as the other one so it would do. He was too tired to bother with brushing his teeth or undressing. It had been a long, drive from the bunker, just him and Baby and his tapes. He’d enjoyed most of it, he could sing as loud as he wanted, stop for chilli fries just ’cause, inch the speedometer over 90 on an empty highway without Sam throwing a bitch fit.

He laid down and blinked at the ceiling, then he squinted. A stain, well… two stains that had merged into an image of wings, spread wide, feathers distinct. Dean smiled. Then pulled out his phone and snapped a picture to send to Sam, that had to be a contender.

He stared at the wings looking down on him a little longer before rolling over, suddenly feeling the weight of his aloneness. It wasn’t that impressive after all. He got that at home too.

@winchester-reload

If you liked this, please consider buying me a coffee.

#suptober #suptoberart2019 #day 19 #motels #spn fanfic #prompt #writing #TibbinsWrites

[bri-borg]

stars of lovingness in her hair

Part Three

A/N: Heyyy chapter three is finally here! I am so sorry this took way too long. I’ve just started a job and school and I had a bad case of writer’s block these past weeks. I hope you all like this one, she’s a bit melodramatic. But then again it’s a slowburn, mutual pining friends to lovers asdfghjkl

Also please leave comments and reblog if you enjoy it! Also the stereo mentioned in this chapter is actually real! It’s Prof. H. Draper’s stereo of what I think is the full moon from the 1840s.

One line (if you squint) directly ripped from BohRap because I am unoriginal. As per usual it was edited by me, a tired person. I am sorry about the potentially many errors. 

read part one here read part two here

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, swearing, some suggestive dialogue, mentions of anxiety, general repression of feelings and self-doubt

Summary: the more time you and Brian spend together as friends, the more you fear that you might want to be something more. As the both of you come to terms with how you feel about one another, a discovery leads you feeling further from him than you felt before

Winter, 1969

You sat down on the floor of Brian’s flat, legs crossed as you tried forcing yourself to read over another set of equations. Brian had invited you over to study, excited to have the new flat to himself while his roommates were out getting moth and flea riddled artefacts. It was smaller and cramped than the last flat—especially considering the fact that Brian was now living with two other men.

You’d gone over to Brian’s place around four in the afternoon, and although you felt as if it had only been a little over than an hour, the bright light of the moon seemed to prove otherwise. He’d finished all of his exams—no doubt getting perfect marks in all of them. He was kind enough to invite you over, stay with you if you’d had any questions, which you felt guilty over considering he could have been enjoying his time off. But he seemed to be enjoying himself, trying to unpack, and getting distracted every now and then by a pair of trousers on the floor, or instead finding his copy of The Hollies’ Would You Believe, which at the moment was now spinning its way happily on the record player. 

Normally the music would distract you, but you weren’t actually getting much studying done. Aside from the fact that your mind was thoroughly spent, you couldn’t help but focus on Brian instead, watching as he tinkered with the contraption he’d rigged to his polaroid camera in an attempt to make stereo photographs. Noticing how animated his hands were when he explained something to you. How his sharp canines poked out from beneath his pink lips when he smiled whenever you got something right. How his warm hazel eyes lit up when he looked at you. How every now and then he’d reach over and intertwine his delicate fingers with yours, holding your hand from across the coffee table whenever you’d try your head in your books from frustration. I wouldn’t mind if he held my hand like that more often, you thought on more than one occasion before berating yourself silently, telling yourself you were here to study.

So here you were with one more exam left, trying not to lose your head over the sight of another number—or Brian.

“Y/N?” You heard Brian ask, his tone one of genuine concern. You flit your eyes off the pages of your text book and look at him, raising your eyebrows in question.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough for today? You should at least get some rest, I mean. It’s a bit late.”

“Oh!” You exclaim, glancing over to your watch. Shit. You’d overstayed. “I’m sorry, Brian. I can get out of your hair if you—“

“Oh no! No! That’s not what I meant,” Brian interrupts, holding his hands out to keep you from standing up. “Please, stay as long as you’d like, Y/N. It’s just, I’m worried you might be over-exerting yourself, you know? Overdoing the studying?”

You shake your head, at him. “That’s very kind, Brian, but I need the extra studying—I’m not like you, you know?”

“Oh, stop it, I’ve seen you read books that make my brain hurt and make me question reality. You’re one of the most clever people I’ve ever known. And you can do it—I’ve seen you. You’ve just got to trust yourself now.” He bites his lip, eyes looking up before he speaks again.”Vous avez besoin de confidence.” Brian reaches over to hold your hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze as he reassures you.

“Thank you,” you say, unable to hold back the smile forming on your face. “And it’s ‘Tu as besoin de confidence’—no need for such formalities, Bri, we’re friends.” You say and he rolls his eyes. “I suppose you’re right. I’d just about die if I read another word—and Kant makes everyone’s brain hurt. You’re not special.” You smirk.

Brian just smiles before he closes your textbook, moving himself so his back is pressed against the couch. He pats the spot beside him, urging you to sit next to him. 

“This coming from the man who’d much rather study than sleep,” you say as you shuffle beside Brian, who’s folded his arms over his long legs as he tucks his chin over his knee.

“Well, it’s from personal experience then.” He tells you, as he leans over close to you. You feel the warmth of his body press against yours for a brief moment as he does.

“You’re right.” You say getting up and sinking back to your seat beside him, your back against the couch, tucking your legs into yourself to copy Brian. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without your help—so thank you,” you say to him, leaning your head against his shoulders, telling yourself that you’ve always been one of those people who was overly affectionate with their friends. For a moment or two everything is silent except for Brian’s soft breaths beside you.

“Are you still thinking about it?” He asks, moving his head off of yours so he’s looking down at you.

“Yeah, sorry,” you mutter quietly.

“Don’t be. I can distract you if you want?” Brian says, and you hope he doesn’t notice how there’s a pause before you nod, and he practically leaps out of his seat to fetch his camera. He tells you to stay still and you do, though you aren’t able to keep yourself from being startled as he snaps two photographs of you in quick succession, a big smile on his face the entire time he does.

“What was that?” You giggle, in mild confusion.

“Hang on a moment—it’ll be worth it, promise,” he says as the two of you wait for the photographs to develop. 

As the two of you wait there patiently, Brian pulls out a small device with two lenses attached at the end from his bag. “This,” he says, holding it up, “is used to view stereoscopic photographs—“

“Did you get that out of a Weetabix?” You ask, trying to hold back your laughter. 

“…Yes.” Brian says chewing his lip, and shifting slightly in his seat.

“It’s from a cereal box!” You cackle.

“But I’ve made some alterations to it! I’ve upgraded it! Aha! Now, here, have a look,” he says, laughing along with you. Brian takes the photographs of you, your eyes wide open in confusion in both of them, setting them beside one another on the coffee table. He gives you the device, telling you to focus on the photographs, smiling as you lean in and adjust yourself to view the pictures.

“Now the photographs I took—they’re not quite the same,” he explains “so what you’ll get is the effect of the photograph being three-dimensional. Like you’re there in that moment.”

“I do! I see it! Blimey, that’s cool. Wish you’d taken a better photo of me though—I look like a deer caught in headlights!”

“You can keep it if you’d like.” 

“Oh, what use am I gonna do with a picture of myself? Can you teach me, then? I’d much rather have you instead—your picture I mean!” You say, feeling a heat creep up your neck as you realize what you’d just said. Fortunately Brian is too overjoyed to notice your slip-up, ecstatic that one of his best friends is showing interest in his passions. 

It takes you a couple of tries, and you apologizing to Brian for wasting his film, even though he reassures you that, ‘it will all be worth it!’ Eventually with much redirection, trial and error, you take the photos that produce the effect, which practically makes Brian giddy with enthusiasm. When you view it, you can see Brian looking up at you, a small smile on his face—a moment that you were thankful you’d be able to revisit.

“You did it! You got it faster than I did—took me ages figuring that out. My mum got cross with me for using up the film. It’s really good, Y/N.”

You stand up and do an overly dramatic curtsy as Brian claps, that wide grin still on his face. “You are far too kind,” you say rather grandly, taking Brian’s hand as you sit back down next to him. 

“I can keep these, yeah?” You ask, gesturing to the trial photographs, which is just Brian staring awkwardly into the camera or blinking, and ruining your shot. He nods as you take them in your hands, giggling at how silly he looked in some of them.

“As long as I keep the stereo of you—took the definition of doe-eyed to a whole new level, didn’t you?” Brian smirks widening his eyes to mimick you. “Any relation to Bambi?” He adds quickly.

You look at him, pretending to be thoroughly unamused, your lips a hard line, and one brow raised as Brian attempts to hold back fits of laughter, unable to look at you as he does. But you can’t help it, how you wish this moment would never end, and the dread that comes with the thought that it inevitably has to.

“Oh, what am I gonna do without you next year?” You muse fondly all of a sudden. There’s a hint of bittersweet in your voice at the thought of him leaving, which Brian definitely notices.

Suddenly he’s gone quiet. Brian shifts for a moment so he’s facing you before speaking again. “Oh, erm. Well, actually I’ve been meaning to tell you—I got accepted into the P.h.D. program. So m’afraid you’re stuck with me—for a while.“

You practically lunge forward, flinging your arms around him and muttering all your congratulations while still wrapped tightly around him. “Oh I knew you’d get it! Brian I’m so proud of you!” You mumble, your voice muffled as you bury your face in his shoulder. You were happy for him—truly. He was intelligent and passionate about his studies, and it made you happy seeing him succeed. Yes, you were happy, but somewhere deep in the back of your mind you were happy knowing you’d still have Brian close by for the next few years. 

When you let go of him, neither of you pull away. 

Suddenly you feel just how close the two of you are, that you can practically feel the warmth of his breath on your face, feel his heart beating as his chest pressed up against yours. 

“My dad really wanted me to,” Brian says softly, avoidant of your gaze as the two of you were this close to one another. “I could never say no to him.”

You nod as you listen intently, neither of you refusing to pull away. He finally looks up at you, studying your gaze as they drift to observe the way his eyelashes kiss his cheekbones when his lids sit low. The proximity made you flush, and you prayed that Brian wouldn’t notice your touch lingering, the way your arms were still around him. 

“You’re wearing your hair all curly—I just noticed.” You observe, all of a sudden, your eyes drifting to a defined curl that rested on his forehead. You wonder how it had escaped you, all these hours you’d spent with him and you didn’t even notice such a small little detail until now.

“Oh, erm. Yeah, I thought I’d give it a go—all that straightening can’t be good for it, I s’pose” Brian tries to let out a small laugh, his face flushed with pink as he manages to get his words out. He doesn’t pull away, or let you go, though. For a second or two he’s unconscious of his hands falling to rest upon your hips, before he quickly pulls them off of you his cheeks now kissed with a deep pink.

“I really like it.” You say, your eyes fixed on his as one finger comes up to delicately place a stray curl back into place. You think for a moment that you hear Brian’s breath hitch as you touch him, but you brush it off as your own subconscious. He was so close, you thought. His lips only a few millimetres away from yours. But it wouldn’t be right.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling away quickly. “I got too excited—I’m really glad you got in, Bri. I’m proud of you,” you say, your smile a vague attempt to hide away your anxieties, hoping Brian doesn’t notice how uneven your breath is, how the heat’s crept up your neck. 

Brian blushes a bit, his head shrinking into the neck of his sweater, muttering a small ‘thank-you’ and ‘it’s alright’ when you take your place and sit back down next to him, close enough so that your sides are touching. There’s something different in the way the silence fills the room now, different to how it was mere moments ago. But it doesn’t take long before you lean your head against his shoulder again, prompting him to lean his head against yours once more. Yet you can’t help how your thoughts drift from you, wondering if there was anything more to you and Brian.

————————————————————

Friday, 1970

“We can’t bloody well sell it! It’s my fucking jacket!”

“It’s atrocious, Fred!”

“You don’t know a thing about fashion, darling—“

You felt a bit awkward, overhearing the argument—as a matter of fact the whole reason for your presence there was awkward. Suzie, had decided, she’d drag you along to Kensignton Market to go and ‘keep an eye on’—in her words, “Roger Taylor, the love of her life.” Of course, such a plan might have worked if Roger hadn’t known either of you. The only reason you’d agreed was the hope that you’d finally be able to meet Roger and Brian’s elusive third roommate, who had apparently just recently changed his name, and to maybe get Brian something as a thank-you for enduring you as his student in maths. You’d gotten the results of your statistics exam back and had passed with flying colours. You felt it would be nice to get Brian something especially considering the fact that when he aced his French exams he’d gotten you something too. It was a small plush polar bear—one that you’d mentioned was cute from a few weeks ago when you and Brian had passed by the window of the shop. It was a small gesture, but it made you smile to think he’d remember a small thing you’d said.

“Suzie, I don’t think this is a good idea—what if he sees us?’ You worry, peering over to see Roger arguing with a dark haired man from beneath the gaggle mannequins and hat boxes stacked atop one another.

“That’s exactly the point, Y/N!” Suzie exclaims, grabbing a hold of your shoulders in a manner that’s probably too harsh that your back presses against the hatstand behind you, toppling it over with a loud thud tp the floor and calling attention to the both of you. The noise must have alerted them—there wasn’t any way they didn’t hear.

“Hullo, Y/N, Suzie. How are we doing today ladies?” Called out Roger from their makeshift counter. Suddenly he turns to his friend, yanking a cigarette out of his mouth, muttering a tiny tsk tsk, as he waves a finger almost patronizingly.

“Don’t smoke in here—the coat’s will smell like shit.”

“Everything here smells like shit!”

“Hey Rog,” Suzie says rather wistfully, effectively interrupting the beginnings of another argument as she begins flipping her hair over her shoulder, practically jogging over to where Roger is. You just hold your hand up, waving hello at Roger, making a face that says “I’m really sorry about my roommate.” He seemed to understand, making a face that seemed to say, “no it’s not your fault your roommate can’t take a hint.”

As Roger attempts to entertain Suzie, the other man saunters over to where you are.

“Apologies—me and my associate were just having a bit of a dispute. I’m Freddie, this is Roger—though you already seem to have met.” He holds out an elegant hand, each finger adorned with rings and the tips with black nail varnish. His features are quite sharp and angular with an effortless elegance and a kindness, his hair, dark and messy as it frames his face—so this is the elusive Freddie.

“Freddie—yes! Well, it’s so nice to finally meet you! I’ve heard all about you! I’m Y/N.” You say, taking his hand.

“Y/N?—are you Brian’s Y/N?—Oh, my dear, it’s so nice to finally have a pretty face for that name! All he ever does is talk about you!”

You blush, feeling heat creep up onto your cheeks, no doubt flushing them pink. Brian’s Y/N. 

“That’s sweet of him,” you say biting at your lip a bit, noticing how there’s a knowing smirk lingering on the side of Freddie’s face. 

“Brian can be very sweet, can’t he? You must tell me about this whole other side of Brian—I rarely get to see it. It’s always ‘don’t burn the flat down, Fred’ or ‘could you not play an entire concerto when I’m reviewing for my astronomy final!’ Why, you must know of Brian’s sweetness better than anyone else.” He says, rather slyly, his voice teasing, as you blush and go quiet. Although he hadn’t said anything particular, there isn’t any doubt of what he’s implying. 

“Sorry about the mess and barging in—“ You say, trying to change the subject.

“Oh don’t worry about it. Adds character to this whole ruddy place anyway. And I much appreciated the distraction—“

Crash! A noise came suddenly from towards the counter, followed up by a small “sorry!” From Roger, now sat on the floor, who it seemed had accidentally destroyed the makeshift counter by putting the weight of his legs against it.

“Roger! What did you do?” Snapped Freddie—though he sounded more amused than irritated.

“It’s two fucking planks of wood, Fred! Help me put it back, will you?” Roger shouts, attempting to get up and reassuring Suzie that he’s not dying. 

“Right. Well, I am glad to finally meet you, dear. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a busy man. Do make yourselves comfortable while you’re here darlings! I’ll just go and deal with Roger—right, Taylor don’t get your knickers in a twist!”

You look around the shop, noticing a couple of items you’re sure you’d seen back at their flat, haphazardly flung across the sofa while you and Brian attempted to study. It was a small boutique, no bigger than an alley-way. Its walls adorned with oil paintings and sketches—some of them Freddie’s, you’d noted. Canvases were stacked up against the walls, and coatracks full of beautiful clothes which you assumed were, in Brian’s terms, “bloody flea-bitten.” You glance over to look at the counter, shaking your head at the way Freddie and Roger attempted to hammer together planks of wood to form a counter. Suzie, as always, was orbiting Roger, awkwardly trying to get a word in. 

A small crate of old photographs and postcards catches your eye. Some of them are dated 1890, 1880—1870—most of them featuring women in their drawers, which would have been quite scandalous for the time, the thought of which makes you laugh a bit. You wonder if there are any vintage stereos in the pile. It would be a nice surprise for Brian, he was quite fond of vintage stereos—the way he mused about the ones he saw at the auctioneers. You look through them, sorting out each photograph carefully, looking for a stereo. Gotcha.

You pick out one of what seems to be the full moon. The paper is yellowed, and fragile, with a few tears on its sides. On its borders are written the date in sprawling cursive font—1870, reprint. The moon is round and full, its craters cast in shadow, its normally silver glow a sepia in the picture. There was just something so quintessentially Brian about the whole photograph that made you smile.

You purchase it from Roger, for a threepence, who seemed unaware of the fact that he was selling you a photograph that you were certain was an antique. Freddie, gives you a knowing little smile as he wraps the photograph in parchment paper, no doubt very much certain that you were going to give it to Brian. He’s kind enough to walk you and Suzie out of the shop, his arm gallantly wrapped around yours as he does, urging you to come over for tea time when he’s around. Freddie gives you a wink as you and Suzie say your goodbye’s. You freeze, and blush a deep pink once again when Freddie calls out after you saying, “say hello to Brian for me!”

——————————————————————

Saturday night, 1970

“Hello?” You answer, after finally wringing out the telephone from your roommate’s overly tight grasp. So Roger had called. You think to yourself, as you look over at Suzie, with a smile on her face and giddy excitement that only ever comes when she hears the voice of her one and only Roger Taylor. You smirk at Suzie, sat on the couch as she gives you a guilty smile before she returns to her book.

“Hey, Y/N, it’s Rog. Listen, I was wondering if you could do us a favour. We’ve got a bit of a problem.” He sounded a bit stressed, from the sound of his voice.

“Is everything alright, Roger? Did anything happen?” You inquire, your voice coloured with concern. 

“Nothing’s wrong—everything’s perfect—if it weren’t for one damn thing.” He adds the last part almost as an exasperated mutter.

“I can’t tell if this is a prank or you’re going to make me do something I’ll regret“ 

“It’s not!” Roger almost whines from the other end. “Listen, Bri’s been an absolute numpty and left his bloody guitar at home—we’ve a gig tonight and he’s fucking forgotten all about it. I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to go over to our flat and give it to him before the gig. We kind of need a guitar, y’know. Rock and roll and everything.” Roger says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. You can practically hear him take a long, dramatic drag from his cigarette on the other end.

“He’s stressed out, Rog. Give him a break—“

“Yes well, he’s always stressed, Y/N. When isn’t he? Great guy, love him to bits, but the memory of a goldfish, as you know. Give us a hand will you?” He practically pleads. Well. He had a point, you think. On more than one occasion Brian had forgotten the keys to his apartment, which had caused him to sleep over at your place, not wanting to face the wrath of his roommates whose sleep, or other activities, he would have had to interrupt. Of course, you didn’t mind. In fact you quite liked having him around.

“Yes, well I’ve got things to do too, Rog,” You begin, fingers twisting at the thick black coils of the telephone. “Why can’t you just pick it up—“

“I’m a busy man, Y/N, I’ve got things to see, people to do—“

“Christ, Rog—“

“That was a joke! It’s a bad one I know. Anyway I can’t cause I’m at rehearsal right now and Fred can’t cause he’s at his parents’. Pretty please just help us?” Suddenly Roger changes the infection of his voice, making himself sound more higher pitched and nasally as he dons a ‘baby voice’—a trick he knew from experience would either be irresistible to women (though, in honesty just probably Suzie) or annoying enough for you to cave in. “C’mon, Y/N, do it for pwetty bitty Bwian—“

“Ok! I’ll do it, just please never talk to me like that again.” You say, shaking your head, but unable to hold back a laugh at Roger’s antics. “Spare key still under the mat, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thank’s Y/N—you really saved our necks. Especially Brian’s neck—from my foot that is!” Roger taunts at the end of the line before hanging up. You shake your head, and grab your bag and keys, heading out for the door. 

———

It takes you a few minutes, wading through still unopened boxes, records, and flare trousers of all different sizes littered across the floor of their flat. You almost trip over a jacket, the heel of your shoe catching on the loud-patterned bell sleeves. You aren’t quite sure if it belongs to Brian or Freddie or Roger—as you’ve certainly seen all of them wear it on at least one occasion. 

You finally make your way to Brian’s room, smiling a bit at how quintessentially Brian everything was. His small bookshelf was barely able to hold up as some books were laid on their side, trying to fit into any space available. His guitar rests against his wall almost precariously, threatening to fall flat on its front at the smallest touch. Your face lights up when you see the stereo of the moon you’d given him displayed proudly on his nightstand. When you had given it to him he had been speechless, his only response was to hold you in his arms and practically lift you up the ground as he murmured a thank-you into your shoulder. He’d apologized for surprising you—but you didn’t mind in the slightest. You’re left there blushing when your gaze drifts to find that the stereo photos that he took of you looking like a deer caught in headlights from last winter is displayed proudly along with it, taped together as they rested on the frame of the first photograph. 

You pad around his room, looking under his bed, and behind the door, looking for his guitar case. You find it shoved atop one of his cupboards, at a height that only Brian could ever reach.  You huff, waving your hands, trying to grab a hold of it. Going on your tiptoes you try and grasp at the strap of the case, only to have it fall down rather disgracefully at your feet. Just as you’re about to pick up the case, a notebook falls from the cupboard hitting over your head as it falls open to the ground, it’s pages pressed against the floor.

You pick it up, not wanting to make a mess when you see that it reads “French 100” on the side. Intrigued and hoping to reminisce on your time spent studying together for the class, you open it, hoping that you’ll find conjugation rules and notes about Baudelaire and pronunciation. Instead all you find is a song.

You catch a glimpse of about half the page before you snap it shut. You knew you probably shouldn’t intrude, that you probably shouldn’t pry and overstep Brian’s boundaries, but your mind lingers on what you’d seen. Your eyes widen, and you can feel your heart beating in your throat.

It was about a girl. The handwriting was unmistakably Brian’s, and the way he described her, talked of her, thought of her only meant that he was in love with her. 

Whoever she was. 

You hurriedly pick the notebook up, shoving it back into his closet, not wanting to think about just who this girl might be. You try not to think about the words sprawled in black ink as they tripped over the margins of the book, every word a silent prayer that she’d notice him too, immortalizing her smiling dark eyes in a song that he no doubt sang only for her. For a moment you think if there’s a chance Brian’s written the song about you, but you shake the thought away. She was ethereal, beautiful and enchanting. By the looks of it Brian practically worshipped the very ground she walked on. You two were just friends.

Your thoughts are interrupted when notice the quickened pace of your heart’s beating, a dry lump that seemed to be stuck in your throat, and the unmistakable feeling of jealousy at the pit of your stomach.

You try to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be upset. Why would you be? It’s not like there was anything between you and Brian. Whoever this girl was, you thought, was lucky. Your friend was in love, and you were happy for him. You and Brian were meant to be friends, nothing more.

So you carefully place his guitar in the case and leave, everything just the same as it was before.

——

You barely even make your way to the front of the stage, choosing instead to wave over to Roger to catch his attention so he jogs over to where you are by the door. 

“Here,” you say, handing over Brian’s guitar, careful so that the strap of the case doesn’t catch onto your neck. Roger, as annoyed with Brian as he probably was in that moment, is a careful, if not more as he takes it from you—knowing Brian he’d probably faint at the sight of one dust particle settling on his Red Special.

“Thanks so much, Y/N, you’re the best—do you want to come to the back? Bri’s there probably studying—bloody nerd,” Roger snorts, but you shake your head, telling him that you really had to head out, and that you probably won’t even be able to make it to the show anyway. Roger looks puzzled, you and Brian had never not made time for each other.

“Oh. Well, I could call him over just so he doesn’t go looking for you later—“

“It’s fine, Rog. I’ve just got to head out.” You say rather bluntly.

“Is anything the matter, Y/N?” He asks, his brows furrowed in concern as you shrug it off, telling him you just feel a bit ill. Roger doesn’t seem convinced but he doesn’t press you. Instead he just maintains a polite demeanour as you bid him and the rest of the band a “good luck”.

As you exit the pub, the golden light of the afternoon sun seems almost too bright. A cold breeze blows by past you, strands of your hair blowing into your face as it does. You had tried not thinking about it but the more you tried the more you found she was all you could think about. And you didn’t even know who this girl was. You couldn’t help but let your mind linger on the thought of how much Brian wanted her. You take in a deep breath, looking out to lift your head towards the crowded street.

You loved Brian. You were certain now more than ever. And it was too late.

You felt a bit childish, creating this distance between yourself and Brian, but you couldn’t bring yourself to see him–not right not anyway.

—————————————————

that night, 1970, Brian’s perspective

Take your chances. Brian told himself. Roger’s right. No. No. No—

Maybe i should.

He’d been thinking of telling Y/N since winter. About how he felt—about her, about them. He always seemed to find the right words when he was with her. The trouble was that he could never say them to her—could never bring himself to out of fear that she wouldn’t feel the same, or that he’d ruined their friendship. Maybe it was selfish, but then again, maybe he wasn’t wrong. Instead his confessions were written across lined pages of his notebooks, page after page professing what he feared might have been love for this girl who was his friend. 

That one night in winter, Brian recalled how close her lips were, how her touches lingered, and how he felt the warmth of her breath against his skin. His touches had lingered against her skin but she didn’t pull away. But maybe that was just wishful thinking. He’d never felt that close to her. All he ever seemed to do was replay that night, think of the sond of her laughter as the two of them snapped photograph after photograph. 

Although he didn’t know for certain he’d hoped from the way she’s looked at him that night that she might have felt the same way. He wanted to take her by the hand, take her some place they could be alone so he could finally tell her. In his mind when he thought of the day he somehow plucked up the courage to tell her, he’d hoped that she’d tell him she felt the same and that when his touches did linger she wouldn’t move away. All he ever did was hope for that moment, but the moment never came. 

And so here he was now, his back against the cool concrete of the wall, head hanging low as he waited with his bandmates to play their set for the night, trying to take his mind off of her for once.

———

The gig had gone by with what seemed like a matter of minutes. One second they were playing together in a dimply lit pub, singing to a crowd that seemed to be as loud as they were. Then the next, they were backstage, packing up their instruments hastily before the owner would eventually come in and usher them out for staying past their time-slot. Brian had stolen glances at the crowd, his gaze shifting through the audience, trying to find Y/N.

Brian weaves his way around Roger who’s preoccupied with taking down his drum kit, excusing himself as he heads back into the pub to look for Y/N. Once inside his eyes adjust to the dimmer lights as he’s faced with a group of students telling him he played well that night. Brian exchanges his thank-yous with them, nodding as he tries to look for Y/N, weaving past through them, his neck held high as he tries looking for her.

Brian worries, thinking if anything might have happened between when Roger last saw her just a few hours ago and now. Brian was just about to make his way to the payphone when he hears Tim call his name.

“Brian? D’you mind coming to the back again? I’m calling band meeting.” Tim says. He’s stood by the doorway, his bass slung across his shoulders as he avoided leaning on the poster plastered walls of the building. He held up his hand, rubbing the back of his neck as he waited for Brian.

Brian nods after a moment’s hesitation, before following Tim, who leads him out back to the lot where the van’s already loaded with all of their equipment. Everything with the exception of Tim’s bass guitar. Roger sits in the open back of the van, his feet tapping against the back of the wheels. 

“Did you see Y/N tonight Rog? She said she’d come.” Brian asks worriedly as he sits down next to him.

Roger shakes his head no, a knowing look on his face as shifts away from his friend’s gaze suddenly. “She seemed a bit out of it, mate,” he adds, trying to ease his friend’s worries. “I don’t think she was feeling well—might be sick.” 

Brian nods his head, although something tells him that even Roger himself wasn’t quite sure if he was telling the entire truth. 

Roger leans back,trying to change the conversation as he props his feet up onto the bumper. “Right then, Timothy, why have you called us out here?”

After a few moment’s hesitation, Tim tells the both of them that he’s thinking of leaving. He tells them that he’s not sure if Smile’s going anywhere. Brian stands up and tries talking him out of it, telling him they’ve just hit a slump in their careers, though he knows he’s right. Just when Roger joins in trying to talk him out of it, Tim tells the both of them that he’d gotten an offer to play with a different band. Brian isn’t able to speak, and neither can Roger.

“Let’s face it, guys. Smile’s going nowhere—I have to take my chances. I have to.” Tim says, his voice strained by some guilt, but still unwavering as he stands his ground. “I’m sorry,” is the last thing he says before he walks away.

 Despite their protests both Brian and Roger know that they can’t control their friend’s decisions. For a few minutes the two of them sit there, stunned in the parking lot, breathing in the cool air. After a few minutes the two of them begin waxing on about hypotheticals—who might work, who wouldn’t work, but the two of them eventually exhaust the conversation. The both of them, too tired to think or talk about it right now, much more willing to put it off as a problem for the morning. 

Brian and Roger spend the car ride in silence, aware that they’re a step further from where the both of them wanted to be in their lives. Not much words are exchanged as the both of them make their way to their flat and into their respective rooms.

Brian sits on the edge of his bed, feeling a weight pulling at his chest.  For a while he listens to the quiet, just sitting there in his room as a sliver of light from outside illuminates the photographs on his nightstand. He notices the stereo that Y/N gave her and the one of her. He smiles but quickly remembers tonight. 

Something about the way Roger had avoided his gaze tells him that something was wrong with Y/N. Of course she didn’t owe him an explanation, but he couldn’t let his anxieties cloud his thoughts—thoughts that told him maybe he’d been too overbearing—too needy, maybe he let his touches lingered for too long, suffocated her by needing to be around her too much and pushed her away. He knew those kind of thoughts had little truth in them, but part of him wanted to believe them.

He felt that familiar distance between the two of them, only now it seemed as thought they were a whole universe apart, lightyears away from each other.

Brian furrows his brows and hunches over to rest his head in his hands. He lets out a small groan of frustration, trying not to think about how he couldn’t seem to do anything in his life right. 

He wasn’t even good at what he thought he was good at—he feared the rest of the world might move on while he stayed still. As frustrated as Brian was with Tim he admired him for taking his chances. I could never be that brave, he thought. He was always too busy with his studies to focus on music, too scared to stand up against his dad, too scared of ruining things with Y/N to tell her how he felt.

He was going nowhere. Not with music, not with his studies, not with Y/N. What was perhaps the worst thing was that he still couldn’t admit to himself that he was in love with her. He was too scared. 

Brian would sing songs about her every day if he could. He could find every other word to describe how he felt about Y/N with the exception of one.

#Brian may x reader #brian may x y/n #brian may x female reader #queen fanfiction #queen x reader #brian may x oc #y/n

[hepalienwrites]

Cereal Killer

Harry/Eggsy, Teen, 736 words

read on Ao3

Eggsy trudges up his front steps bone-tired and still bleeding. What had started as a two-day mission in Paris had gone tits up three hours in and ended up taking closer to two weeks.

As he opens the door, all he wants is something to eat and maybe a shower – if he doesn’t faceplant directly onto the couch the second he makes it inside. Two steps into the hallway, however, and his Kingsman training kicks in. He throws himself against the wall, gun drawn, before he even fully registers the soft noise that had alerted him to another presence in the house.

He creeps down the hall silently, towards the faint light emanating from underneath the parlor door. When he reaches it, he takes a deep breath and throws it open, yelling “ON YOUR KNEES!", hoping the element of surprise gives him an advantage.

“As you wish,” comes the amused reply.

Eggsy stops cold, dropping his gun arm to hang limply at his side. His wide eyes meet Harry’s smiling brown ones for the first time in three years.

If he’s being honest, Eggsy had imagined how this reunion might go in some of his weaker moments over the years, when he clung to the hope that Harry somehow survived Kentucky. He had always pictured himself saying something wildly romantic before falling into Harry’s arms for a passionate kiss.

Instead, what he says is, “What the fuck?”

Whatever greeting Harry had been expecting, that clearly wasn’t it. His smile falls slightly. “My dear boy,” he says, rising from the chair he’d been seated in, “I had hoped you’d be more pleased to see me.”

Eggsy gapes. “Pleased to see you? Pleased to see you? I thought you were dead! You’ve been gone three years, then you break into my house and nearly get shot because you have to be the most dramatic bastard on Earth! Oh yeah, I’m bloody chuffed, mate.”

“If you would allow me to explain,” Harry begins calmly.

“It better have been the bloody apocalypse if it kept you from taking two seconds to let us know you were alive. What, they don’t have phones in America?” Eggsy’s ears ring from the volume of his own shouts.

“I was undercover. Merlin thought—“

It hits him like a punch in the gut. “Merlin thought? Merlin knew?!” Eggsy pauses, clenching his fists to hide the shaking, and tries to control his breathing. “He let me go to your fucking funeral. He let me walk around like a zombie for months because I couldn’t go to sleep without seeing Valentine pull the trigger. He let you break my fucking hea—“ he cuts himself off abruptly as Harry reaches for him, something like devastation on his face.

“No,” he snarls, jerking away from Harry’s outstretched hand. “No, you know what? I can’t fucking do this right now. I haven’t slept in three days or showered in six. I’m starving and I’m bleeding, and I’m going to eat something and go to bed.”

He storms out of the room and down the hall. Harry trails behind him.

When he reaches the kitchen, he opens a cabinet and rummages around for some Weetabix. He doesn’t have the energy for anything more challenging. After a few seconds of fruitless searching, he comes up with an empty box and lets out a cry of frustration.

Harry says quietly, “You’re angry.”

That’s the final straw. “WHO WOULDN’T BE ANGRY? YOU ATE ALL OF MY CEREAL AND FAKED YOUR DEATH FOR THREE YEARS!” he yells, spinning to face Harry in the doorway.

Harry’s face goes blank and they both stand there for a moment with only the sound of their breathing filling the room. Then the corner of Harry’s mouth twitches, and a few seconds later he’s doubled over, laughing loudly.

Eggsy stands still in shock for a moment, and then he’s laughing too, all the tension draining from his body abruptly. When he can breathe again, he marches across the kitchen and roughly pulls Harry in by his lapels, crushing their lips together desperately. Harry responds immediately, gripping tightly at Eggsy’s hips.

When they pull apart, they’re both smiling.

“I missed you, you bastard,” Eggsy whispers into the space between them and Harry’s grin widens. If Eggsy’s eyes are a little damp, neither of them mention it.

Eggsy leans in again and breathes his next words directly against Harry’s lips.

“Welcome home.”

#hartwin #hartwin fic #kingsman fic #hartwin fanfic #hep writes #mine #I would do a read more if I wasn't on mobile

[chuffyfan87]

Hiding. Part 58a

Cowritten with @disastrousintention. Trigger warning for discussion of neglect.

-x-

As soon as visiting was permitted the next morning Charlie was waiting outside intensive care, a single red rose in his hand.

He didn’t expect her to be awake so got the shock of his life when he walked in.

She smiled, her eyes sparkling as she saw him. "Hi." She whispered.

He smiled, “Hello gorgeous.” He stepped closer, “I wasn’t expecting you awake.”

"Was hungry."

“Have you eaten?”

"Not yet." She frowned.

“Do you want me to sneak you in a kitkat?” He smiled, handing her the rose. “What’s with the frown?”

"Tried to eat." She glanced towards the floor. "Went wrong."

“What happened?” He sat on the edge of the bed and touched her cheek.

"Didn't want help." She admitted, her cheeks blushing.

“Would you like me to help you?” He asked.

"Only you."

He nodded, “I’ll go and grab you some breakfast, ok?”

She smiled in reply.

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I love you.”

She wrinkled her nose. "Love you."

“You know the twins did exactly the same the other day.” He laughed gently.

"What?"

“Wrinkling their noses up when I kissed them.”

"Oh." She blushed again.

“I never thought I’d see you blush again.” He kissed her cheek before heading to grab her breakfast. He came back with two weetabix and milk with a bit of sugar.

Seeing the sugar, she gave him a mock glare, the corners of her mouth tilting up in a tiny smile.

“You need the energy.”

She tried to push herself up ready to eat but couldn't.

He helped her, putting the bowl and drink down on the side.

She felt so embarrassed at her inability to even sit up for herself. She tried to take her mind of it by changing the subject of the conversation. "Kids OK?" She asked.

“I guess. They’re struggling a little, missing you a lot.”

"Miss them too." She sighed, her eyes watering.

“I didn’t expect you to be talking. They said you might not be able to.”

"Still can't move." She sighed.

“Not yet, no. But next week might be a different story. You had a significant trauma, you need to give yourself time to recover.” He smiled, “Ready for breakfast?”

"OK."

“Have the doctors explained to you what happened?” He took the bowl and the spoon and gave her a mouthful.

She tried to speak and ended up choking on the cereal instead.

He patted her back. “Been a while since you’ve choked on anything.” He replied, a hint of innuendo in his words.

She may have been fighting to clear her throat but she still rolled her eyes at him.

“I wasn’t been rude then. You’ve clearly got the rude mind.” He smirked and gave her a drink of water.

"You're rude!" She giggled once she'd managed to swallow a couple of mouthfuls of water.

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Have the doctors explained what happened?”

"No."

“Would you like me to explain what I know?”

"Yes."

“You went into labour at home, began to haemorrhage severely. You were losing blood quicker than they could pump it into you. You died. Several times. Eventually they managed to stop the bleed but because of the trauma, they put you in an induced coma. They told me to prepare myself for the worst. That you weren’t going to make it and if you did, you may be left disabled because of the trauma was so severe on your body.”

"Peter was there." She could remember tiny fragments.

“He was. He was terrified.” He sighed. “What else do you remember?”

"Arguing."

“Arguing? Who were you arguing with?”

"Megan." Duffy's brows knitted as she tried to piece things together. "The baby was coming." She chewed her lip. "Too quickly."

“Far too quickly.” He smiled sadly, “You waited for me.”

"Had to."

“Why?”

"You had to be there." She asserted.

“You risked your life so I could see our son being born?”

"To make up for Peter." She explained.

“I held Peter when he was first born though.”

"Not the same."

“I knew Peter was mine."

"Ours." She smiled.

“I always knew, deep down.” He smiled. “And when I found out you were in labour with him, I just had to get there.”

"You were outside? The whole time?" She asked in disbelief.

“The whole time.” He repeated back.

Duffy was utterly stunned, momentarily speachless at the revelation. "You told Megan."

“Told Megan what?”

"Peter could be yours."

He nodded.

"Why not me?"

“Because I... I didn’t want you to think I was stupid...”

"Stupid?"

“Believing I could have something so precious with the woman I loved.”

His hand was resting on the bed next to hers. She managed to move her little finger enough to brush against one of his fingers.

He smiled as he felt her little finger against his hand. “Whatever happens, we have each other. That’s all that matters. You, me and our absolute chaos of a family.”

"When can I see them?"

“The children? Whenever you feel up for it.”

"Soon. I miss them."

“I’ll arrange for the children to come and visit.” He smiled, “Duffy, I need to tell you about your mum...”

"My mum? What about her?"

“She had a minor heart attack yesterday.” He sighed, “It was partly my fault, we had words.”

"What?!" She exclaimed, panic stricken.

“Your mum’s fine, I promise.” He touched her cheek, “Overnight observation. She’s complaining but that just reminds me of another Duffin woman.” He smirked.

"I don't complain!" She pouted.

“Hmm..” he kissed her lips.

"What happened?" She asked.

“She said things about Emily that I didn’t agree with!”

"What things?"

“That she’s dim. Doesn’t have much going for her. Then Emmy wet herself on me.” He sighed. “She isn’t dim. I wish people would stop calling her that.”

"She said what?!" The anger was clear to hear and see.

“Hey hey. It’s ok. Your mum has a different way of saying things. It’s just she’s concerned. Wants what’s best for Emmy. She doesn’t always say the right things in the right way.” He rubbed her arm a little trying to reassure her.

"No, it's not OK!" She fired back, her anger consuming her as she tried to move. She wasn't sure what she planned to do if she managed to get up but she felt the need to do something.

“Duffy, baby. Calm down please.”

"No!" She let out a scream as pain tore through her.

“Baby, please.” As she screamed, he asked; “Where's the pain?”

The scream had alerted the attention of staff outside who came dashing in.

“She’s in pain and I don’t know why.”

Duffy held her stomach and right side, the pain causing her to be unable to speak.

“Baby?” He was scared. Not sure why she was in pain.

"Hurts!" She managed to gasp.

"I'm going to get the doctor." The nurse ran from the room.

“Deep breaths baby.”

She tried to do as he said but the pain was almost overwhelming.

The doctor came in and ushered Charlie out of the room.

Several long minutes passed before the doctor came outside to speak to Charlie.

“What’s wrong? Is she ok? Why’s she in pain?”

"We've given her some more pain medication. That seems to have helped for now."

Charlie nodded. “Thank you.”

"She needs to rest but you can have a few more minutes with her first."

“I’ll only be five minutes, I promise.”

"OK. I'll leave you to it."

“Thank you.” He took himself back to Duffy.

"Hi." She whispered sleepily as he walked back in.

“Hi sleepy head.”

"What happened?"

“You started to experience pain.”

"I know. Why?"

“I don’t know. You got worked up about your mum.” He sat on the edge of the bed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Need to talk to her." Duffy's voice was becoming weaker, the pain medication having a mildly sedative effect in her weakened state.

“And you will. After a sleep.”

"Not tired." She yawned.

“Say that again without yawning.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

He stuck his tongue out in response.

"Cuddle while I sleep?" She asked. "Have missed you."

“I’ve missed you too.” He smiled shyly and nodded. “Budge up then.”

"Need your help." She replied, sighing with frustration.

#chuffy #charlie and duffy #charlie fairhead #lisa duffin

[bbcmyhero]

Car

Got a little free time, so I might as well get started on this one. Into the episode with the giant continuity error, because I distinctly remember them having a car before this episode. At least I’m about...95% sure they did.

Are weetabix anything like the mini-wheats cereal? Cuz, if so, I’d honestly like to get my mitts on some. Frosted mini-wheats have the best crunch, ever. 

Also, I hate eating odd numbers of things. I maybe wouldn’t eat 20 giant wheat cracker things, but maybe...4?

Standing in the corner and howling is very #relatable. I get you, Arnie

Again with the fat jokes. Lovely. 

No need to rub in Arnie’s lack of powers by doing an equipment test right then and there. George is worst cousin. 

Still get a giggle out of that George and Ella interaction. 

“No, don’t kiss me.” 

“Thanks very much, Ella, I really appreciate that.” 

I really think if left to their own devices, George and Stanley would get along. Even if they had to bond over not liking Ella. 

Oh, the weird guy in the corner is friends with George? Not a shock. 

There it is, the part about them not having a car. But, again, I coulda sworn they had one in an earlier episode.

Yeah, just checked. Janet’s getting groceries out of a car in the pilot episode. 

Did they have to sell it? 

OMG, George, stop talking. You look like the saddest gold-digger in the world. Mooching off someone as apparently broke as Janet. 

“You make me ashamed of my sex!” 

“Ella knows you try your best, Stanley.” 

BRB, dying

Nice. Now there’s two howlers. 

Poor Janet. 

See, right there. Tyler does the same thing George does later, when he erases his own memory, while trying to remind himself not to talk about Thermoman. Like Tyler’s erasing his own memory. 

Tyler is a transgender alien. Change my mind. 

That poster of Piers is the definition of Cringe. But, also, yeah. No. The man is gorgeous, but I wouldn’t trust him to operate on anyone. No one should book a surgery with him. 

But dear sweet fluffy LORD, this is precious!

The genuine smile. The jumping into the car like an excited kid. 

The blue shirt. 

Did he need to be a smug ass? No. 

Do I enjoy seeing the precious actually happy? Yes. 

Can’t say I blame Mrs Raven. Don’t want anyone in my face with the flu, either. 

I get sick, I crumble like a jenga tower. 

“There is no Mr Right. There’s only Mr Crap, Mr Tit, and their friend, Mr Total Tosser.” 

Wisdom. 

That is a beautiful tie. 

And lookit Piers! For one brief  moment, having none to give about anyone’s opinion. 

Because he’s got a really flash car, and you haven’t. 

“You needn’t worry, Mrs Raven. Janet says most germs are afraid of catching you.” 

And Janet just...runs…

Again, howling in the corner is a totally normal reaction to having no money. 

“I could clone myself, but we’d keep on fighting over who gets ya on a Saturday night.” 

Retroactively disturbing line, considering Hilary the creeper clone. 

WTF, George? Why did your mind jump straight to the idea that Janet was suggesting eating Arnie? 

What the actual hell goes on up there on Ultron? 

Aw, Janet and Arnie celebrating together. Another case of “could have been adorable friends.” 

Except Arnie is a creep, so…

Yet again, Janet laughing at the weird alien custom. 

Which, granted, does look like camp gay “I’m a little teapot,” but still. Rude. 

Okay, I definitely see the fat Freddie Mercury resemblance. 

Doesn’t mean I have to like the joke. 

Also, frozen Janet is the stuff of nightmares. Is no one going to thaw her out? 

I’m not 100% convinced Tyler isn’t hearing actual alien words in the radio static. 

Poor thing. I know he meant “present life,” as in reincarnation, but I still think “faded memories of being Ultronian.” 

This lady’s gold blouse is awesome. 

But ew with Arnie looking through her clothes. 

I know they immediately sniffed a disaster, but that alone should still have gotten him a warning. Considering his hero test question was about sexual harassment. 

Piers has on a stupid hat. I love it. 

It makes the boring shirt more attractive. 

BUT! Dude bragging aside, bby, we all know you didn’t take any ladies for a “test drive.” Except in your own mind. 

Bless. Janet and George are so happy about his four customers, but everyone else is completely unimpressed. 

And the weirdest courting ritual in the world begins in 3

2

1

Mrs Raven gets bitchy, Arnie gets...a boner, apparently. 

Insult. Insult. Hand lick. Both parties clearly need a cigarette. 

I ship it. 

And George basically just insulted Mrs Raven by saying it was fair how she hated everyone. And she just looks pleased as punch. 

Bits of shipwreck all over the living room and helmets not in the helmet cupboard. You know your life is weird, when…

Um, no. Bad George. We don’t imply the little woman is a nag when she doesn’t want you trashing the house for her to clean up. 

At least he cleaned up without complaining. 

Oh, I love this part. 

“She’s queen of here...YOU’VE STOLEN THE CROWN JEWELS!” 

GDI, Arnie

And there went Janet’s morals completely out the window. 

YOU’VE STOLEN THE CROWN JEWELS

But I want a car

Okay, theft is staying on the dl for now

Stanley doesn’t even blink at George wearing a crown. It’s just one more weird thing George does. 

That was weirdly polite. “Oh, it’s you. You’ve come outta your corner.” 

Like, nice to meet you, weird guy. What’s up. 

Love that delayed reaction...oh. Wait. George is wearing a crown. 

Oh, of course this weirdly similar crown isn’t part of the crown jewels. 

Good thing George was so completely convinced of that, or Stanley probably wouldn’t have been. 

Tyler still in the corner counting the oats. Apparently no one finds that a bit strange. 

At least that guy behind him threw some side eye at calling George “master.” 

Also, I would dearly love it if I could find a magical alien healer to fix everything that is fubared in my stupid body. 

No more broken thyroid gland. No more kidney pain. No more stress puking. 

Sounds fake. 

Mrs Raven wanting the phone to ring, then getting annoyed when it does, is me bored outta my mind and wishing someone would text. Then resenting it. 

Janet’s face says she really believes Mrs Raven would kill all the patients and bury them in the car park. 

“Bye, baby, daddy’ll see you very soon.” 

I react to this the same way I react to bearded Hugh swinging his belt on Taskmaster. 

Incoherent whimpering and nail biting, mostly. At the calmer end. 

Jesus!

Okay, I’m cool. 

“I am always...we’ve got no patients.” 

Blue! Shirt!

It’s not nice to say sexy things while wearing a blue shirt. Sir. Not fair. 

I’m fine. 

Piers just watching Arnie and Mrs Raven’s mating ritual like...wtf am I seeing here? And then just nodding, like, yeah, that was definitely the most disturbing flirting I’ve ever seen. I’m leaving before it gets worse….

Wait…

Is George curing my patients? 

How very dare he? The nerve!

Mrs Raven’s little quick change with the stolen scarf. I think it has to be in the lost and found more than one week before you can claim it, ya know. 

Bless him, I think Piers is going to cry. And back to caring what everyone thinks, again. 

Another thing that was nice while it lasted. 

Theft cat is out of the bag. But he’s right. That is one ugly necklace. 

Even if all that stuff was just stolen and hidden in their flat that day, how did no one notice a bedroom full of corgis? They’d surely have started barking at some point. 

Rule of funny. 

George at least has more morals than Janet. 

I mean, I know a car would be useful, but I can’t believe either of them trusted Arnie in the first place. 

Howling sadly in the corner is contagious. Poor Janet. Nice going, George. Just couldn’t be a little more optimistic, could you? 

Lovely problematic cinnamon roll in a blue shirt is at the door. 

“You have all my patients, I want them back….Not that I like them, they just go with the job.” 

I love him. 

If looks could kill, I’d have murdered Janet and George ten times over by now. 

Couldn’t just take the check and get yourselves any old car. 

No. 

I mean, someone hands me 8k, I’m not gonna be a greedy prick about it. 

But, it’s the throat-clearing and the slumped shoulders that Piers has going on, while handing over his car keys. Like a little kid that just got conned out of his favorite toy. 

And the fidgety hands.

God save me from this man’s little sad hand fidgets. 

“Can we give you a lift?” 

You ever see A Fish Called Wanda? The way whenever Otto crashes his car into someone else’s he always screams “asshoooooooooole!” 

That’s me, rn. 

I mean, I laughed the first time. But that was before...the incident. The moment that changed everything. 

Also, flying the car over traffic isn’t very subtle and secret-identity. 

Douchebags. 

#my hero #george sunday #thermoman #ardal o hanlon #emily joyce #bbc's my hero #Piers Crispin #janet dawkins

[drabblesandheadcanons]

Tuppaware boxes and Second Chances

(All credit to @bessie-bass-on-the-bass for the original Foster Au headcanon and for her many wonderful fics and ideas and headcanons that made me want to write this- and for making me want to write Six fanfiction at all!)

She’s five and she’s one of the fosters.

 (She isn’t sure what a foster is, except that it’s a noun- like girl or cat or person.)

She knows it links her to some of the other children in the house- Jessie who likes to tear strips of paper- out of storybooks, from newspapers- and chew them up, and Asef who likes to tell people about all the dinosaurs he can name- and separates her (them) from the others- Amanda and Jody and Max, who are much older, almost grown ups.

(Amanda and Jody go off to school every day on a bus by themselves, with proper bags- not bookbags and they like reading books that are all words and no pictures at all except on the cover. 

Max likes Pokemon cards and turning off her light and holding her door shut.)

She thinks a lot about what it is that links her to the other fosters: is it something good or bad? Is it like saying that she has blonde hair and two freckles on the back of her left hand? Is it like saying she’s stupid because she can’t tie her laces or tell the time?

She tries to ask Aunty Meg what makes her a foster one morning but before she can properly ask, Jessie knocks her arm with accidentally-on-purpose precision as she’s pouring milk on her Weetabix and makes it spill- over the table and over the edge and into her lap, and questions come second place to sighs and cross mopping up in which the sponge in thrown into the sink and an exasperated ‘Why can’t you be more careful Joan, for goodness sake?’ said between pursed lips.

She eats her too-soggy Weetabix in her milk-damp dress, forcing mouthfuls of cardboard-tasting mush past the tightness in her throat, and she doesn’t ask again.

**

She’s seven and they’re playing Hide and Seek- it’s the tail end of Max’s birthday party, and everyone is getting tired and irritable with each other and keeping an eye out for the appearance of the cake and party bags that will signal The End.

(Joan has to share her birthday with Jessie and every year, he steps on her toe when they’re blowing out the candles on their shared cake and every year, she misses her wish. Every year, she peels back the hard, thick icing from around her slice and every year, Aunt Meg shakes her head at her for being picky and tells her to stop playing with her food.)

The hiding places she would have picked- behind the sofa, behind the curtains- are taken by the time she gets to them and impatient hands push at her as she’s hissed at to find her own place Joan, just go away!, so she goes back out into the hall and wonders if she’ll be in trouble for spoiling things if she isn’t hidden by the time Jessie finishes counting to 100.

(She knows already that she Spoils Things, that it Spoils Things when having to swallow scratchy dry burnt toast makes her gag and cry, that it Spoils Things when she tears off a new dress because makes her skin prickle and burn, that it really Spoils Things when a hundred voices clamour in her ears at once and bright lights sear into her brain and she has to close her eyes and put her hands over her ears because it’s tooloudtooloudtooloudtooloud-)

The hall cupboard catches her eye and it’s actually empty: wedging herself between everyone’s old welly boots and winter coats is uncomfortable but it’s worth it, she thinks, to not Spoil Things as usual.

It’s quite dark in the cupboard. 

She hadn’t quite realised when getting in how dark it would be but she’s inside now and if she comes out and tries to find a new place, perhaps Jessie will have finished counting…. And so she stays.

And it’s a funny thing- as she stays, the longer she stays, it’s as if the cupboard is becoming darker.

Darker and smaller- she can lean forward and stretch out her hand and only just about touch the wall in front of her with the lightest brush of her fingertips…. But even though she knows this, can feel this, there's a part of her that keeps telling her that really, the wall is just in front of her face, that the cupboard is barely big enough for her, that she can’t breathe-

She can’t breathe and she’s cold (even though she isn’t, even though the cupboard is actually quite warm because it’s right next to the airing cupboard where the clean towels and fresh pajamas live) and she’s hungry too (except she isn’t hungry, she wasn’t hungry before…. But now it’s as if she can feel an ache in her tummy, except it’s a hungry ache and not a feeling-sick ache) and although she only just climbed into the cupboard, it also feels as if really, secretly, she’s been inside for a long, long time- just her inside in the dark and in the cold for hours and hours and hours and-

When they pull open the cupboard door, her stomach turns over with a fear that she can taste- a familiar fear, somehow, though she isn’t sure exactly what she’s afraid of- and she’s shamefully sick down her for-best-only-and-no-exceptions dress. 

It isn’t Jessie who finds her and opens the door so the game isn’t over- but everyone stops playing anyhow.

Aunt Meg tells everyone it was too much birthday cake- and no one says anything, even though the cake is still uncut in the kitchen and remains uncut for quite a long time.

After that, she dreams about the cupboard a lot. She supposes it’s the hall cupboard because she can’t remember ever hiding in one before, but in her dreams, it doesn’t look anything like it.

 Sometimes, the dreams creep into the day too and she remembers hitting hands and voices loud enough to make her cover her ears.

The first, second and third times she has the dream, Aunt Meg comes into the bedroom to pick her duvet off of the floor and tells her to go back to sleep.

After time number four, she sounds cross, and doesn’t seem to notice when Max pinches her for keeping him awake all night; after a while, Joan stops counting and Aunt Meg stops coming in.

The dreams don’t stop.

**

Jane doesn’t come into her room without her permission.

That’s what she says at least, has said right from the first day- but Joan is thirteen and she’s been told this often, knows that ‘never’ often means ‘never when she’s in the house’, or ‘never that they’ll admit to’, or ‘never until they become concerned’. She’s never had a room that locked from the inside- sometimes the outside but never the inside- and she isn’t stupid, she knows how to hide the things that she doesn’t want found.

When Kitty bursts into her bedroom with an armful of laundry though, she’s taken by surprise and jumps so badly that her old walkman headphones are popped from her ears- lying in her lap, she can still just about hear the tinny strains of the song she’d been listening to reverberating from them. She’d let her guard down, turned the music up too loud to be keeping her usual one-ear-open (stupid stupid stupid) and now Kitty is standing awkwardly on the threshold, hugging the clothes self consciously to her chest.

‘Sorry. I knocked. I thought-’

She trails off uncertainly- without looking, Joan knows what she’s staring at  and fights down the urge to cover the pathetic pile of crumbled stale biscuits with her hands.

There’s no point- Kitty has already seen them, and now it’s just a toss up between what reaction she’ll get first. She knows she’ll get them all eventually- she always does- but the order tends of variate: the It’s Unsanitary hysteria, the It’s Just Greediness contempt, the Acting As If We Don’t Feed You Enough guilt-tripping, the Aren’t You Too Old For This Silliness headshaking, and sometimes- if she’s very, very unlucky- the You Obviously Won’t Be Hungry For Dinner- or breakfast or lunch or supper- Now.

She wonders if Kitty will fetch Jane immediately or tease her by making her wait and beg and plead first: she doesn’t know the girl well enough yet really to be able to tell. She seems nice enough- just as Jane seems nice enough…. But still…..

The limbo of not knowing is unbearable- it makes her throat tight and her eyes hot (pathetic pathetic pathetic)- and so when Kitty takes a couple of steps into the room, it’s almost a relief.

She doesn’t say anything though, just keeps holding onto the clothes and biting her lip so Joan makes an effort to talk. It’s a slim chance, slim to non existent, but she has to try. 

(Clearing her throat hurts.)

‘Please don’t-’

It’s as if this shakes Kitty out of whatever reverie she’s in- she gives a little twitch as if she’s waking up and talks at the same time.

‘It’s alright-’

‘Please don’t tell-’ 

(Of course Kitty will tell eventually but extracting a promise of silence will buy her enough time to throw everything away before she can get into worse trouble.)

‘It’s alright.’

Kitty’s right next to her now and Joan is tensed up with the proximity- she wants to flinch away, knows she can’t without offending, she’s frozen-

‘I won’t tell Mum, I promise.’ 

What is she saying? 

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t- I just- I-’ She wants to explain, she can’t explain, it’s too hard. She’s shaking, it’s making the words come out wrong.

‘Hey. It’s ok.’

Kitty’s voice is very soft and very gentle- she doesn’t move, she doesn’t try to touch Joan, but she digs in her pocket and offers a crumpled tissue.

‘Here. It’s clean, I promise.’

It’s embarrassing that she needs it, it’s embarrassing that Kitty is seeing her like this, the whole thing is horrible and embarrassing and uncomfortable ...but at least Kitty doesn’t look impatient.

‘I’m really sorry, I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to be-’ She falters. ‘Please don’t tell-’

‘I promise I won’t tell Mum, ok? I won’t tell anyone. You don’t need to be sorry. It’s ok.’

The things she’s saying just don’t make sense and perhaps the incomprehension is in Joan’s face because Kitty gives her a sad half-smile.

‘I did the same thing when I first came. Hid food and things so that if I ever got- if I ever needed it, if things ever got bad, I’d have a supply. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?’

Joan nods slowly- there’s no point in lying, and it’s a relief that Kitty doesn’t think she’s being greedy, or that she’s being unhygienic or ungrateful or weird.

Still….

It’s hard to square the Kitty in front of her with what she’s saying: the Kitty-from-before sounds scared and young and not unlike Joan herself. She doesn’t sound a thing like the cool, grown up Kitty that she’s shared a house with for nearly two weeks now.

 Kitty with her private singing lessons and pink tipped hair and her irrepressible giggle and her cool friends that swoop in and out like graceful, colourful birds- Cathy with her arms full of Honours-level textbooks and Anne with her bright red lipstick that she wears even with her school uniform and Anna with her long athletes legs and exotic hint of a German accent. Sje can’t believe this Kitty was ever reduced to hiding food like an animal making a hoard, that she was ever frightened enough to need to.

The two Kitty’s don’t seem at all comparable but she can’t see why Kitty would lie- not about something like this- and she feels, behind her fear and her confusion- the very tiniest frizzle of something else, the tiniest of possibilities, the faintest flicker of hope that survives the cold douse of common sense that comes almost immediately after: Perhaps I could be like that one day.

Kitty is still talking; Joan has to make herself listen again.

‘-Of course, you’re much cleverer than I was- you made a much better choice of things-’

There’s a new tone to her voice now, a lightness, like she’s sharing a secret.

‘-Choosing biscuits is much more sensible-’

She can’t believe Kitty is talking about this- something that has always been a shameful secret- so casually: moreso, she’s actually praising Joan for it. A clever choice? The biscuits were all she could think to hide without drawing attention to what she was doing. But Kitty is making it sound like Joan was doing something good.

‘What did I decide to hide? I was such an idiot- the social worker had stopped on the way to Joan’s, right, at this like bakery place? And she said I could have a cake- and they were these-’ Kitty gestures expansively ‘-these HUGE creamy cakes, and I was like, really pleased, because I thought it would last me for ages, it was so big… God knows how she AND Jane managed to miss me sneaking it in…..Actually-’ She stops, raises her hand. ‘No, I DO know, because we came in and suddenly it started raining and Jane asked the social worker to wait and SPRINTED to bring the washing in, and so they didn’t really notice me….’

As Kitty tells the story, Joan notices two things. She’s stopped shaking. That’s one thing. The other is… that she’s actually listening, despite herself. She’s still anxious but she’s interested too, she wants  to hear how it turns out.

‘- and so I put it under my bed- I know, it’s a rubbish hiding place but I was only nine, remember- and just sort of thought it would be fine there. Big mistake.’  Kitty rolls her eyes theatrically. ‘I went off to school the next day and when I came home…. Just….’ She takes a moment, as if to let the horror unfold. ‘Ants. Like, so many ants. I didn’t actually know they could climb stairs so that was a shock and….oh my goodness, Jane had such a shock! I think she thought I was being murdered when I started screaming!’

Kitty’s laughing as she tells it and Joan actually finds she’s smiling too- it’s not just the story, it’s how Kitty is telling it, like it’s a secret she’s choosing to share, something she and Joan are in on together because both of them understand.

‘I was just crying my eyes out- it took me SO long until I could even be near an ants nest without just completely freaking out. Jane was so lovely about it, though.’

Kitty’s stopped laughing now, she has a soft, far-away look in her eyes.

‘She didn’t say a word- not as far as telling me off or anything. She looked at the mess, and just took me right back downstairs and sat me down in the living room and told me not to worry, that I wasn't in any trouble at all, and she wasn’t the slightest bit cross and that she’d sort it all out… eventually I stopped crying and apologising and she gave me a hug and went and cleaned everything up…. And then later on, she told me straight out that I never had to worry about not having enough to eat with her, that even if I couldn’t always have exactly the food I might want, I could always be sure I’d have enough to be full and that I never had to be afraid to ask for more. And that things like being warm and clean and having enough to eat were things she absolutely promised I wouldn’t have to worry about ever again.’

Kitty sounds so heartfelt as she talks, it makes Joan want to cry again- for the scared baby Kitty in the story…..and for herself, too, although she can’t quite articulate why.

‘Did you- believe her?’ She can’t quite believe she’s asking it but it’s out before she can reconsider.

‘Oh no, of course not!’ Kitty smiles as if it’s obvious. ‘Of course I didn’t- I was relieved she wasn’t cross and I was glad she said it… but you know how it is- people say things and it’s so easy, it’s easily said and easily broken.’

Joan nods- she understands that all too well.

‘But after a while, I did.’

‘How?’

Kitty shrugs. ‘She proved that I could. No matter what I did, she always made sure I still had enough to eat, that I was ok. She never shouted, she never lost her temper… even when I- no, I’ll tell you another time, it might give you ideas! No matter what happened, she made me see I didn't have to be scared of her. And she was never cross that I didn’t trust her right away either. She said that too- that she hoped I’d trust her but that she knew it would be hard and that she didn’t expect me to right away but that she hoped I’d let her prove that I could.’

‘She said the same thing to me.’ Joan doesn’t add that it’s only now she’s contemplating that they were anything other than empty words: she’s had The Talk about trust from too many people who quickly grew irritated at her skittshness.

Kitty nods. ‘Of course. And she did prove it. Like, she said that I’d always be fed but she also gave me this tupperware with energy bars and things that would last and wouldn’t go bad in it so that I wouldn’t have to worry about what would happen if she stopped. She didn’t stop me from preparing for the worst, she just….showed me that the worst would never happen with her. Does that make sense?’

‘Yes….’ Joan is more confused than before, she doesn’t know how to respond to all of this… but the knot of anxiety in her stomach is loser than it was before. And she isn’t shaking or crying or apologising.

(That’s something.)

Later, Kitty brings the tupperware- empty for many years, apparently, but now filled again from the kitchen cupboard- from her own room and puts it on Joan’s bed with a smile and a couple of books.

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s ok. You can keep it. I don’t need it anymore.’ A pause, and then her head pops around the doorway again.

‘The books I DEFINITELY want back eventually though, ok? They’re Cathy’s. Tell me if you like them so I can tell her- she’ll be thrilled if I’ve managed to get another person into them!’

Joan stammers another thank you, and when Kitty is gone, she looks at the box for a long time before hiding it away.

She wonders if one day, she won’t need it anymore either.

For the first time ever, it feels like a possibility.

#six the musical #six fanfiction #joan on the keys #jane seymour #katherine howard #foster au #found family #joan jane and kitty as a family unit #fluff and angst