#realized this is my first actual chilton drawing

[sass-and-suspenders]

Merlot & Mistletoe

GIF from big-brass-ego-deactivated201812

Pairing: Dr. Frederick Chilton x Reader

Author’s Note: Just some holiday fluff staring everyone’s favourite peacock

Frederick swirled his wine as he surveyed the room. As much as he loathed BSHCI’s annual Christmas party, he had to admit that the venue looked superb: white Christmas lights were strung about the room casting a warm glow, tasteful red and white floral arrangements adorned every table, and an impeccably decorated Christmas tree, one of the largest he’d ever seen, stood in the center of the room. From his position near the bar, Frederick spied a bunch of mistletoe hanging above the main doorway.

His mood quickly soured when his attention turned from the décor to his coworkers. All around him, his colleagues and their partners were enjoying themselves, which only seemed to amplify his own loneliness. Abandoned at his table while everyone else was mingling, Frederick began to list every insufferable thing about work holiday parties: forced small talk with coworkers whom he despised, barely edible food, overly loud Christmas music (and, god forbid, Christmas karaoke). Taking a sip of his drink, he added ‘wine only a step above grape juice mixed with antifreeze’ to his list.

And then he spotted you in the crowd and acknowledged that work parties did have some advantages.

In your bright red dress, Frederick was surprised he didn’t notice you sooner. You were surrounded by a group of people, talking animatedly with a large smile on your face. While he was too far away to make out what you were saying, he could hear faint sounds of laughter from the group.

You had started at BSHCI two months ago, filling-in for a psychiatrist on maternity leave. On your second day, you literally ran into Frederick, scattering the contents of the patient folders you were carrying across the hallway. It was during your stammered apology, as he helped you pick up papers, that Frederick first felt the butterflies in his stomach that always materialized whenever he saw you.

You turned your head, sensing someone’s eyes on you; realizing it was Frederick, you flashed him a smile. However, Frederick remained rooted in his seat, not daring to go over and say hello. Memories of the last time he mustered up the courage to speak to you flooded his mind. He had been a bundle of nerves, stumbling over his words and even calling you by the wrong name. You had laughed off his faux pas, telling him not to worry and then jokingly called him by the wrong name. That was perhaps what Frederick loved most about you: your kindness. Unlike everyone else in the hospital, you never mocked him. Come to think of it, Frederick couldn’t recall you ever saying a bad word about anyone.

In his seat, Frederick imagined what life would be like if only he were a little bolder. How he would be at your side, his arm wrapped around your waist; how he would proudly introduce you to everyone as his girlfriend; how you would go home with him at the end of the night; how he would find your red dress on his bedroom floor in the morning.

And then the thought hit him that you might already be seeing someone. You’d never mentioned anyone before, but Frederick still found himself anxiously turning his attention to the people around you, checking to see if they worked at the hospital or if there was someone unfamiliar who could be your date. A sense of relief washed over him when he didn’t find anyone, but it quickly dissipated when he observed one of the hospital’s board members lay a hand on your arm. Frederick bitterly noted that it was the youngest (and, according to the nurses, the handsomest) member of the board; the one with the pretentious name, the one who always parked his expensive cars haphazardly across multiple parking spaces, the one who was on the board due to his family’s connections and barely bothered to do any actual work.

His heart sank further as he watched the board member lean down to whisper something in your ear. While Frederick could hardly blame the man for flirting with you, he still found himself silently willing the massive Christmas tree to fall directly on Chauncey or Nigel or whatever his pompous name was.

It was in the midst of this death by Christmas tree fantasy, which now included the tree taking out several additional colleagues who Frederick found particularly unpleasant, that he noticed the nurse.

She wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary, but Frederick had worked with enough criminals to notice the subtleties of human behaviour. Like, for instance, how the nurse’s wine glass was precariously full or how her gaze, which was focused on you, contained a predatory glint.

While Frederick was quick to piece together the nurse’s intention, he had no time to warn you. He could only sit and helplessly watch the scene unfold: the nurse pretended to trip, spilling her glass of red wine all over your dress. Frederick could tell you didn’t believe it was an accident (even from where he was sitting, he knew that the nurse would never win an Oscar), but you didn’t make a scene. Instead, you graciously accepted her fake apology before excusing yourself to go clean up.

With a mix of excitement and panic, Frederick realized that your path to the washroom would take you right past his table. His pulse quickened as you approached, the pounding of his heart drowning out all external noise. You were frowning slightly, head bent down, as you assessed the damage to your dress.

“Club soda!” Frederick exclaimed, the primitive part of his brain taking over, as you reached his table. He hated how his voice sounded an octave higher than usual.

You paused, turning to face him with a look of confusion. Frederick mentally berated himself; only two words into the conversation and he’d already managed to embarrass himself.

Clearing his throat, he started again. “Club soda will prevent the stain from setting. There’s some at the bar. I, uh, could go get it for you. If you want, that is.”

“That would be great -thanks!” You smiled brightly at him, and Frederick was sure he would develop heart palpitations from how quickly his heart was beating. “Meet me near the washroom?”

Frederick eagerly nodded, earning another smile from you. He knew it was irrational, but part of him hoped that, if he saved your dress, you’d start to see him in a different light, that maybe you would start to feel butterflies, too.

The instant you left, Frederick rushed to the bar, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. He feared that someone would swoop in and help you while he was away, causing him to lose his chance with you. When he found you, though, you were alone, blotting the wine on your dress with flimsy paper towels.

“Hey,” you greeted when you spotted Frederick lingering in the doorway. His arms were laden with bottles of club soda, making you wonder if there were any left at the bar. 

“Apologies for taking so long,” Frederick said stepping into the washroom, even though it had only been a few minutes since you last saw him. “I went to get some hand towels as well.”

“You’re amazing!” you beamed, helping him place the items on the bathroom counter. “I’ve had no luck with these paper towels –I think they’re actually making me look worse.” You gestured to a large splotch of wine on your dress.

“You look like a work of art,” he murmured as he studied you in your dress under the pretense of examining the stain. When he looked up at you, there was an unreadable expression on your face.

“I mean,” Frederick started to backtrack, realizing that he had voiced these thoughts aloud. “Your dress -it looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.”

He vaguely gestured to your dress as he prayed for the ground to swallow him up.

“Wine Whirlwind, 2019. Merlot on velvet,” You chuckled, drawing Frederick out of his embarrassment.

“Ah, yes, one of Pollock’s later works. I believe the MoMa is interested in acquiring it,” Frederick added, causing you to laugh harder. A feeling of pride shot through him when you laughed at his joke.

When the laughter died down, you and Frederick were left awkwardly staring at each other. Frederick fiddled with his signet ring, unsure if he was overstaying his welcome.

“So,” you said softly, touching the back of your neck and nodding towards the club soda. “Is there a trick I should know or…?”

“No trick,” Frederick shook his head. “You just pour it on the stain and allow it to sit for a few minutes.”

“Okay,” you paused for a moment before voicing the next thing on your mind. “There’s some wine on the back of my dress that I can’t quite reach -would you mind helping?”

You swept your hair away, revealing the dark red spot near your shoulder, as well as your neck. Frederick audibly swallowed. He envisioned himself placing kisses along the nape of your neck before unzipping your dress and letting it pool on the floor.

“Frederick?” You prompted, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

“Y-yes, that’s fine,” Frederick choked out, closing the distance between you.

As he carefully poured club soda on the stain, Frederick attempted to push the images of you and your alluring red dress out of his mind. He knew that his infatuation with you was one-sided, that he was only getting his hopes up with these daydreams.

“Did you know,” he began, trying to turn his thoughts to a more monotonous topic but nearly losing his train of thought when he caught a whiff of your perfume. “It’s a misconception that sprinkling salt on wine stains will remove them. Red wine contains tannins, and sodium chloride actually sets those types of stains.”

“Hm, I had no idea,” you answered, your eyes downcast and lips pursed as you focused on the giant splotch of wine near the hem of your dress. “It’s a good thing you’re here -a few people told me to use salt.”

“I’m glad my experience is useful. My experience with chemistry, that is. I don’t know all of this because I constantly spill wine on myself. I’m perfectly capable of drinking from a glass,” Frederick babbled. He hated how being around you seemed to turn his brain into mush.

“Well, however you came to know about it, I’m grateful,” you said, catching his gaze in the mirror, a faint smile on your lips.

Frederick felt his cheeks redden as he muttered something incoherent in response.

The two of you worked in silence for the next few minutes, with Frederick stealing glances at you. He couldn’t help but smile at your pursed lips as you concentrated on tackling the stains. He’d noticed a similar expression on your face whenever you dealt with complicated cases.

When the work was done, you turned to him. “Thank you again for helping me, Frederick,” you grinned, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“O-of course,” he faltered, feeling the familiar flutter in his stomach intensify as your hand touched his.

“I should probably go home…My dress needs to dry and, honestly, I just want to change into my pajamas and watch TV.”

“Right,” Frederick said, trying not to sound disappointed. He wasn’t delusional enough to believe that the night would have ended with you declaring your love for him, but he thought you would at least offer to dance with him out of pity. “Allow me walk you out.”

You nodded, taking his hand as you exited the washroom. Frederick tried not to read too much into the gesture, instead focusing on the way your hand seemed to fit perfectly in his. His small moment of happiness was soon interrupted; as you were heading out, the nurse was coming in from a smoke.

“Oh, I hope you’re not going home! Is it because your dress is ruined?” The nurse asked, barely attempting to conceal her glee.

Frederick gained a small sense of satisfaction at the fact that the pompous board member had abandoned her and was chatting up someone else.

“Thank you for your concern, but my dress is fine. Frederick ended up saving the day,” you coolly replied.

“I’m glad I caught you,” Frederick directed to the nurse. While you were fine taking the high road, he certainly was not. “I was glancing through my patient files and noticed that your notes are a mess. I’ll need you to re-write them.”

“But Dr. Chilton-”

“And while you’re at it, you can also upload the files into the new online system. I’ll need it done by Monday morning, 9am sharp.” Frederick stared her down, ready to add more tedious tasks if she complained.

The nurse simply nodded, albeit with a large scowl on her face, before she left to rejoin the party. He was sure she muttered a few choice words about him under her breath as she stomped off.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” you glanced up at him, your hand still intertwined with his.

“She was being malicious. She intentionally spilled that glass of wine on you because she was envious of the attention you were getting. I’m not going to let her get away without repercussions. Besides,” he added, lightening the tone lest you find out his feelings for you and reject him. “Who says I did it for you? Maybe, I was avenging the wine she wasted.”

“Please, we both know it wasn’t for the wine -it was basically burgundy-coloured antifreeze,” you warmly smiled before your expression turned more serious. “You know, it’s amazing how you can notice some things and yet be completely oblivious to others.”

“I’m not oblivious,” Frederick scoffed.

“Oh, no, you are. Example number one: you’re standing under the mistletoe,” you smirked, pointing towards the ceiling.

Frederick glanced upwards, finding the bundle of mistletoe he’d noticed at the start of the evening directly above him. He felt his palms become sweaty and he was grateful that his facial hair would partially hide the redness creeping up his neck and cheeks.

“You don’t have to kiss me,” Frederick quickly remarked. “It’s fake anyway, so it wouldn’t be bad luck. I don’t expect-”

“Example number two,” you interrupted before leaning in and placing a chaste kiss on his lips. Frederick barely registered what had happened before you were speaking again. “I’ve had a crush on you since we met.”

For once in his life, Frederick didn’t make a situation worse by rambling. Instead, he pulled you close and kissed you with all of the desire that built up over the last two months. With your lips on his, Frederick could hardly remember why he hated work parties.

In fact, he was looking forward to the next one.

Tag list: @madpanda75 @obsessionprofessional @madkingcrowley​ @im-like-reallythirsty @burningg-red @nikkijmorgan​ @misssirenlove​  @zoeykaytesmom @mommakat32​​

#frederick chilton x reader #chilton x reader #frederick chilton #chilton #hannibal #christmas fluff

[lovelylogans]

where you lead, i will follow

previous chapter / chapter three / next chapter

start from the beginning!

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, verbal fighting, top surgery mention, classism, 

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 5,995

notes: you know the first sentence of the chapter? i’m literally still writing this

if this was a full length fic (we’re ignoring that this is chapter three shut up) i would include:

logan does actually try being nice for once and literally everyone in town asks if he's sick, and when logan finally explains it all to roman, roman rolls his eyes and knocks his foot against logan's and says "why on earth should you ever change? you're wonderful" and they both blush and change the subject and logan acts like "you're wonderful" isn't echoing around in his head for the next week

logan having a weird bonding moment with his grandfather when his grandmother makes his grandfather take him to the country club, and they both find themselves hiding in the same corner with all the historical records instead of socializing

virgil finds a stray kitten, patton finds out about it and cries about the cuteness, and then cries harder when the kitten finds a good home, virgil almost has a stroke from the sheer Cute when patton holds it

logan figures out that dee's first name is wiped out of all the school records (???) and that their grandmothers are apparently friends (???) and they have to sit through some kind of brunch together in their newly budding nemesis-ship glowering at each other, emily somehow entirely oblivious to the daggers her grandson and dee are shooting each other

there is a new kid at sideshire who is out and Cute and roman might be swooning over him a little??? his name is (draws from the hat of gilmore girls love interests) jess. oh yeah, like, bad boy jess. i can make that work. anyway hard cut to logan being sulky or jealous in the background every time this comes up

patton goes to a pta meeting, chaos ensues

logan has hit his growth spurt and has shot through a pant size in a month; patton actually cries a little when he realizes logan is taller than him now and he's getting so old he's such an adult!!!

logan studies to the point where patton finds him slumped over his study materials regularly, and at one point he nearly passes out walking to the bus stop and virgil sees and makes him sit down and eat and tells patton, and patton sits him down and has A Talk about taking care of himself 

but we're gonna have time jump to the point of... oh, let's say it's october? before logan's birthday. then-ish.

⁂

it's autumn in sideshire! the leaves are all orange and red and brown and crunchy, a chill is in the air, sweaters are busted out, virgil gets more and more influxes of orders for hot cocoa/coffee, etc etc, mood setting, you get it. 

logan's settled more and more into the swing of things at chilton: he has an impeccable studying schedule set up, with various allowances for when patton or roman insist he's "working too hard" and break it. he and dee are, that weird brunch aside, mostly circling around each other, waiting for the other to make a move. 

patton's mostly gotten into the swing of things, too; he and his parents still bicker at dinners, but he's used to that, he's been used to that for years. he waits for logan to get home at virgil's, he supervises roman and logan sleepovers, he still works for his business degree and oversees the chaos that is the inn.

he's at the inn one day, directing the landscapers on where to put all the leaves the part-timers have raked up and has fallen into a discussion about flowers that'll do well in their cold climate, when a familiar boy races up the lawn, grinning wide, clutching—patton squints, but roman's upon him before he can tell, giggling as he tries to catch his breath, holding onto his shoulder for balance.

"mr. sanders!" he exclaims, and laughs again, letting go of patton to his hand to his mouth. "um, i'm sorry, i know you're working, i just don't have anyone else to tell yet and—" he falls into giggles again. 

"that's okay," patton says, very confused as to what's happening. "um, just—handle the leaves, we can keep talking flowers when we have our appointment on...?"

"thursday."

"thursday, right! okay, mr. giggly, let's go inside, you can tell me all about it."

patton has an office! he doesn't use it much, prefers to be out in the scrum of things, but it's very adult-looking and he's fond of it. all dark woods and file cabinets that logan helped organize and a variety of coffee mugs littered around, and patton pats the couch, sitting down himself, sighing a little. it's nice to sit down, he's been on his feet all day.

"okay," patton says. "so, what warranted running up to my inn with a..." patton frowns. "is that a box of cornstarch?"

"oh!" roman says, lifting it to eye-level, as if noticing it for the first time. "oh! i might have shoplifted." he looks worried for a second, before he giggles again, covering his mouth with his hands. "oh my god, i can't believe i just did that."

"i—go back," patton says, shaking himself, because sure, he'd shoplifted in his misguided youth, but not roman. "you shoplifted?!"

"accidentally!" roman defends. "i just—okay, so, you know jess?"

he knows jess from a distance—he's seen him around town on his motorcycle, knows him like he knew the boys he'd gravitated toward, the kind his parents would disapprove of so the kind of boy he'd throw himself at. he also knows jess from logan's grumbles of "what kind of name is jess anyway" and "as suspected! he's a fight club fanboy, i would have thought roman knew better" and "what do you mean, jealous?! i'm not—i'm not jealous! that's ridiculous! jealous, dad *poorly executed scoff that tells patton he's right* honestly."

"i've seen him around," patton says, instead of getting into all that.

"he," roman says, drawing himself up, and giggles, "kissed me."

patton blinks. "he did?!"

"he did!" roman says. "i was in the grocery store and i was trying to act, you know, all chill, like, oh, hey, didn't see you there, like i didn't follow him in from the outside, so i didn't really notice i was staring at corn starch, and he came around a corner and was like so you have a really desperate need for some cornstarch? and i tried to play it really cool, and i just ended up blurting out nice jacket like an idiot, but then he laughed like it was funny and not like he was laughing at me and he was showing me all the pins he had on there and talking about how it was good for riding, and he said i'll have to take you out for a ride sometime and inside i was like, you know, oh my god!! that sounds like a date! because it totally sounds like a date, right?!"

patton's about to agree, but roman plows over him, still babbling excitedly.

"—and he was telling me, like, all about the stuff we might potentially do, and i told him i knew a really nice place for, like, a picnic, or something, and he said so a picnic's one of the only things to do around here? and i was like well, i dunno, i think it'd be a pretty nice date, and oh my GOD i still cannot BELIEVE i said it like that, and then he looked at me and did this cute little smirking thing he does, it makes him look like james dean or marlon brando or something, and he said a date, huh? and i said what, is taking people out for a motorcycle ride something you do with all the boys in town? and HE said only the cute ones and i almost screamed patton i swear and i tried to play it like, oh, yeah, a motorcycle ride, totally something someone asks me to do like every day and this is totally not the first time someone's ever called me cute and asked me on a date, and so i said and what's in it for all these cute boys, then? and he said well, i'm looking at just one cute boy in particular and THEN!!!" 

"he kissed you," patton surmises.

"he kissed me," roman said. "and then he said seven? and i said yeah and then he left and then i ran all the way here."

"wow," patton says, because, well. what else can he say?

"yeah," roman sighs happily, and then he chews on his lip, and then he says, "patton, you know things about boys."

that... was not where he was expecting this to go. "i...sure?"

"i mean," roman says, and flaps his hands. "i can't tell my mom about this, she might kill him. what do i—i've never been on a date before, and i've never been on a motorcycle, and you have—"

"how'd you know that?!"

"logan told me his other dad has one, and i mean, you were a rebellious teenager, weren't you?" roman says. "you had to have gone on dates, patton, help me."

"i—"

"i mean, other than your massive crush on virgil—"

"my what?!" patton squeaks, cheeks flaming red.

"oh, patton, please, you know that i've known for years, it's obvious," he says, then, "and you can't tell logan!"

"we're going back to the virgil thing later but, i mean—i figured you'd want to tell him," patton says. 

"i can't tell him this!"

"you tell each other everything," patton says, a little blindsided, because they did tell each other everything. patton cannot think of a secret kept between them. from him, maybe. but not between them.

"yeah, but—" roman bites his lip, harder. "he doesn't like jess, and he's—we're—you know."

"he'd still want to hear about it from you than anyone else, you know how fast gossip spreads in this town," patton says.

"he'll get all weird about it," roman says. "and then we won't talk as much anymore, and then he'll start passive-aggressively writing an article for the courant about the dangers of motorcyclists, and then jess will see it, and they'll argue, and then i'll have to figure out how to calm it down without making either of them think i'm preferring the other, and oh my god, you're logan's dad, i can't be telling you about this! i cannot believe i'm asking you for advice for a date!"

"well, who do you usually go to about this kind of thing?" patton says pragmatically. "other than logan or me, i mean, you can advice from them if it's too weird hearing it from me."

roman looks at his shoes and mumbles, "i go see," and then the name tumbles into something indecipherable.

"sorry, who did you say? i couldn't hear—"

"i go see virgil," roman wails, and patton actually laughs, before he blinks.

"wait. you're serious?"

roman hides his face in his hands. "i go to the diner and i tell him about—about whatever's going on with logan, and then he tries giving me advice except he's terrible at it, and then i get to make fun of him for being worse at romance than a teenager, and then he grumbles at me about it, and it's a system, okay?! but i can't tell virgil about jess, are you crazy?!"

"i just—virgil?" patton repeats, trying to wrap his head around it.

"virgil hates jess," roman bursts out. "he told me so."

"oh, i'm sure he doesn't—"

"he told me that," roman says, "to my face. and then he started being, all—" he makes his voice gruff in his best virgil impression. "that boy who walks around town like he's trying to figure out the best windows to break and businesses to vandalize? he's bad news, roman. stay away from him. that kid is trouble, you mark my words. like he's—like he's a criminal, and i'm some kind of innocent damsel that needs protecting!"

"okay, okay, okay," patton says. "no virgil, then."

"but i can't talk to you, me and logan are—" roman waves a hand vaguely. "you know."

"yeah," patton says. "i mean—yeah, actually, what's with all this, since you and logan are all—"

he copies the hand gesture.

"yeah, but i just," roman says, and scuffs his sneaker over patton's carpeted floor. "i dunno. i kind of figured if he wanted to go out, he would have made a move by now, right? i don't wanna... i don't wanna be all hung up on him when there's this guy right here who does want to date me."

patton considers that, and tries to set aside the fact that logan's his son, because roman looks like he needs advice right now.

"look. do you really like this guy?"

roman worries his lip between his teeth, and admits, "i think i could. i think i'm on the way there."

"okay," patton says. "then i'll help."

he holds up a hand.

"i'm only going to give you a little bit of a lecture, but you're smarter than i was when i was your age. stay safe, okay? and if he tries to talk you into anything—seriously anything—that you're uncomfortable with, you call me, okay? or your mom. actually, your mom would be way better at intimidation than me."

"okay."

"okay," patton says. "then it's a first date, not a marriage proposal. go into it with the goal of getting to know him. have fun. if it doesn't work, it doesn't work, no big loss. if it does? then you can go from there."

roman bites his lip some more. "you really think i should tell logan?"

"i think he'd be madder if he found out from someone else."

roman gusts out a sigh. "okay," he says.

patton ends up realizing he should probably get back to work, and suggests that roman go meet logan at the bus stop and walk him back home or to virgil's or wherever, so he can tell him the news.

 logan steps off the bus, ready to spend a friday afternoon clearing off his weekend homework so he can have something to discuss at family dinner, and then focus on extra credit and planning his week on sunday, and blinks when roman waves at him from the bench.

"you're here."

"yeah," roman says, standing up.

"you never come to walk me back."

"yeah, well, i wanted to talk to you."

"about what?"

"how was your day?" roman says, dodging the question.

logan's eyes narrow, just a little, before he tells him about his exam in history about the french revolution that he thinks went well, and logan asks "how was yours?" 

roman tries to make himself sound as happy as he sounded—as he'd felt—when he was talking to patton. "um, actually, i got asked out."

logan blinks at him. "asked out where?"

"no," roman says. "like, um. like i got asked out on a date. tonight."

logan stares at him, still, face so blank that roman doesn't have a hope of reading it. "a... date."

"yeah," roman says. "like. romantically. a guy thought i was cute and asked me out. a date."

"which guy," he says.

"jess," roman says. "you know. the new guy. the junior with the motorcycle."

"motorcycle," logan repeats.

"we're going to go on a picnic."

"a picnic."

"at seven."

"seven."

"he kissed me," roman says, and there's not a reaction. not at all. "at the grocery store. i might have shoplifted in all my excitement."

"shoplifted."

"logan, are you just going to keep repeating everything i say?!"

logan shakes himself, and says abruptly, "i forgot i told virgil i was going to pick up a book i wanted to borrow from him."

"oh," roman says. "um, okay. do you wanna get a jam tart or—?"

"i'll be in and out," logan says. "i have a lot of homework to do."

"okay," roman repeats, and logan looks at him, because roman's biting his lip the way he does when he's nervous, and he tears his gaze off of his lip. the lip that jess kissed today, apparently.

"you always wanted to go on a date," logan says, robotic. "and now you're going on one. good for you."

roman tries for a smile. "yeah. i'm—i'm really excited."

"good," logan repeats. "that's good."

he almost sounds like he means it. he gestures to the diner. "i'll see you later."

"do you want to do lucy's on saturday?"

"again," logan says. "i have a lot of homework. i'm not sure how free i'll be. midterms."

"oh," roman repeats, and then tries for a smile. "okay."

okay's starting to not sound like a word.

"have fun on your date," logan says, and his tone is just a bit cold, and roman forces out "logan—" right as the door closes behind him.

virgil glances up, and says, "hey, kid, i wasn't sure if you were going to stop in today—"

"i'm not staying for very long," logan says. his tone is still very blank. studiously blank.

"to-go bag, then?" virgil says, already packing up logan's (healthy) after-school snack. "don't study too hard, okay, it's the weekend."

"right."

"and tell your dad to stop by after dinner with your grandparents if they try feeding you, like, caviar or something."

"okay."

virgil narrows his eyes at logan, and says, "you okay?"

"fine."

virgil's eyes narrow further.

"i'm fine," logan repeats.

"right," virgil says, and then, to the nearest worker, "jean, could you handle the register a minute? i've got a book upstairs i want logan to look at."

logan follows along, with none of his signature confidence or arrogance, and virgil unlocks the door to his apartment.

logan's only been up here a few times. most of the time, he just stays in the diner, or virgil comes over to their place. he slept over here a few nights, as a kid. it's a small place, homey like his dad's, but a bit more sparse. logan drops his backpack at the door.

"there's no book, is there."

"nope," virgil says, and logan sits on virgil's couch. "you okay, l?"

logan shrugs, pulls a blanket that virgil has over the back of the couch onto his lap. 

this is kind of freaking him out. whenever logan gets upset, he's usually angry, quick to explode or snap, or he sulks. he's never so...

listless.

"roman's going on a date with jess," logan says tonelessly. 

"oh, shit," virgil says, "the delinquent?!"

"he has a record?" logan asks, plucking at an imaginary loose thread in the blanket. there's none of the investigative curiosity that would usually be in his voice.

"not that i know of, he just—he has that vibe, you know?" virgil says. "are you sure he said jess?"

"he kissed roman in the grocery store. roman said he accidentally shoplifted. they're going on a motorcycle ride to a picnic."

all of his words are devoid of energy. 

"do you need a hug or something?" virgil asks helplessly, because he isn't sure if he's ever seen logan this... defeated before.

"no."

"jam tart? yelling session? anything?"

"no," logan repeats, and sets aside the blanket. "i have a lot of homework to do."

"you can do it here? if you want?"

"i think i'll go home."

"do you need me to walk you there?"

"you're in the after school rush," logan says. "no. i'll be fine."

"are you sure?"

"yes, i'm sure," logan says, and stands, folding the blanket again before setting it on the couch. 

"logan—"

"i'm fine," he repeats, goes to get his backpack, and walks out of the apartment, and then out of the diner, as virgil stares after him.

virgil lets out a breath, and gets out his phone.

"virgil, hey!" patton says happily, picking up after the second ring.

"hey," virgil echoes. "um. logan just stopped by, and—"

"was roman with him?"

virgil blinks. "you knew?"

"roman came to the inn to tell me all about the kiss and the date and stuff, and i told him logan would probably take the news better coming from him than from the gossip mill," patton says. "also, why didn't you tell me that you're apparently roman's romantic guru?"

"i am not his romantic guru."

"he made it sound like you are," patton says. "he said it's a system. that he makes fun of you for not knowing anything about romance."

"okay, but that kid bullies me daily."

"he's fifteen."

"doesn't change the fact that he's a little jerk."

"we'll come back to that later," patton says. "why'd you call?"

"oh," virgil says, because right. the not-great news. "right. um, i'm pretty sure roman just broke your son's heart."

there's a moment of silence before virgil shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"i've never seen him so..."

"mad?" patton says, worried. "did he yell at you? you know he doesn't mean any of it, but he'll apologize as soon as—"

"no," virgil says. "no. he wasn't mad at all, that's why i'm worried. he was just... lifeless."

another moment of silence. "oh," patton says, strangled.

"yeah."

"like...?"

"like, i tried talking to him, and he was just. blank. didn't want a hug, didn't want to yell, didn't want a jam tart, didn't want anything. just told me that roman was going on a date, and he said he had a lot of homework to do and that he was going to go home. kept telling me he didn't need me to walk him back and that he was fine."

"oh, no," patton murmurs. "i—oh, no."

"yeah. so. figured you should have a heads-up."

"thanks," patton says, distracted. "i—i'm going to go check on him."

"keep me updated?"

"yeah," he says, and then, "i've gotta go."

"right. okay."

 patton ends up calling it an early day at the inn, and drives home. no one answers when he opens the door.

"hey, i'm home," he calls, dropping his keys into the little bowl by the door.

nothing. he frowns.

he was just... lifeless, echoes in his head. he stomps loudly up the stairs, and pauses, before he opens up the door to his son's room.

there's a lump on the bed. curled up under the covers. glasses on the table. head turned away from the door.

"hey," patton says, softer.

no response. patton crosses and sits carefully on the edge of the bed. logan's just staring out the window. his aren't red, or watery, so he hasn't cried. he's just... lying there.

patton reaches out and puts a hand on what he's pretty sure is logan's ankle. he squeezes, gently. 

"so, you haven't had the best day," patton prompts gently.

no response.

"i'm sorry," patton offers. "i know that must have been hard to hear."

nothing.

"i have some emergency logan's berry crofter's if you want it, honey."

nada.

"is it okay if i lay down too?"

a long pause. patton's about to ask again, before—

"lie," logan croaks out.

"what?"

"lie down. you're a person, not an object. people lie down, objects lay down."

"oh," patton says. "okay, then, can i lie down too?"

"can you call grandma and grandpa first?" he whispers. "just tell them i'm sick."

"yes," patton says. "yes, of course, i'll call right now, just—"

he fumbles with his phone for a second, before he manages to click on the contact name.

"emily sanders speaking."

"mom, hey," patton says, pitching his voice low. "i'm gonna have to cancel dinner today."

"what?" she demands. "why?!"

"logan's sick."

"he was at school today, wasn't he?"

"he started feeling bad on the bus, mom," he says, and racks his brain for an illness severe enough that it would get them out of it. "puked as soon as he got off."

"don't be crass."

"sorry," patton says. "but he's sick and i don't want to make him take the drive and sit down for dinner when he's going to be too nauseous to handle it."

"let me talk to him."

"he just laid down for a nap, i don't wanna wake him," patton lies. "look, i'm sorry to do this so short notice, but i really have to insist. he's a mess."

a long pause. "we could drive down to look after him."

patton's eyes probably go cartoonishly wide in alarm. "mom, that's a nice gesture, really—"

"great, then we'll—"

"i don't want you catching whatever it is he has," patton finishes, louder. "seriously, we're fine here, we can have a, a, a make-up brunch or something. i'll let you know as soon as he feels better."

a huff. "brunch it is, then. at the club."

patton winces, before he says, "whatever you say, mom. i'm gonna, um. clean some stuff up around here."

"tell me when you're—"

patton hangs up.

"how bad is it," logan says, in that same blank, awful voice.

"brunch at the club, whenever you're feeling better," patton admits, setting his phone aside before he takes off his shoes, and lies down on the bed—well, leans back against the headboard so he can keep an eye on his son, really.

logan nods, and resumes looking out the window.

"i'm really sorry," patton says softly.

logan doesn't say anything. 

logan doesn't say anything for the rest of the night.

⁂

"hey."

"hey. how is he?"

"not good. you were right. even when he's sick he's not so quiet. i think he said maybe fifteen words between me getting home and him falling asleep."

"did he...?"

"he was just. lying there. the whole night. he was just lying there, virge. he didn't do anything. he didn't talk, he barely ate—"

"he's going through a growth spurt, not eating is—okay, i'm sure you know all that, should i bring breakfast, tomorrow morning?"

"as long as you aren't too busy."

"i'll make crofter's pancakes, or something. bring you some hot cocoa/coffee."

"thanks."

"um. not to be awkward, or anything, but roman brought by the boy."

"...ah."

"i don't like him."

"roman mentioned that."

"i just—roman deserves better. don't tell him i said that."

"what did they do?"

"they got cake."

"did he treat roman okay? from what you could see, i mean."

"i mean, i was in and out of the kitchen, but roman looked—happy. i guess."

"why 'i guess?'"

"i dunno. i mean, he tried to put a hand on roman a few times, and roman just kind of... laughed uncomfortably and tried to move."

"if he tries to pressure roman into anything, i swear—"

"hey, roman's a headstrong kid. he's a bit too stubborn for his own good. no one's about to make him do anything he wants to do."

"if he presents it like he's sweeping him off his feet—"

"...oh. i see your point."

"i just—sorry. i have a history with those kinds of boys. logan's existence alone as exhibit a. but he's probably a nice boy, right?"

"i still don't like him."

"sweetheart, this is the part where you say, yes, patton, i'm sure he's a nice boy and that roman had a lovely time, but he's going to come to realize that waiting for logan to make a move was the wrong choice and figure out his love life."

"oh. um, all that."

"okay. you know, it's weird for us to be talking on the phone like this."

"yeah. usually, you just barge into the diner, it's weird to be talking to you without fending off requests for hot cocoa/coffee."

"hey, i'm not that bad."

"i'm reminding you of this conversation next time that starts up again, then."

"fine, fine, if you say so. i think i'm gonna go to bed. you still have your spare key, right?"

"right, yeah. i'll text when i'm on the way."

"you know i probably won't wake up with that."

"yeah, but. just the gesture of the thing."

"i know. gosh, what a mess."

"they'll get there eventually."

"we can only hope."

"teenage boys are dumb."

"don't i know it. i'll see you tomorrow?"

"yeah, i'll see you then."

⁂

virgil's used to getting up early, mostly because of opening up the diner but also partially because he has a terrible sleep schedule. patton, who has the sleep schedule of "yes," is less likely to be up at this kind of hour. so virgil unlocks the door with the key patton gave him as soon as he moved in, and goes to the kitchen to start making breakfast, only to come to a stop.

"oh," he says to the blanket-wrapped boy at the kitchen table. "um, hey, logan."

"virgil," logan says, pencil scratching over paper. so that's something.

"i told your dad i might come over to make breakfast. so."

"right," logan says. 

"you want pancakes?"

"sure."

okay. one-word responses. better than none, right?

virgil digs around for the bowls and plates and pans he'll need, and sets aside patton's hot cocoa/coffee (in a thermos) and then turns to survey logan some more.

"what are you doing?"

"making a list," he says. "well. a variety of lists, really. it seemed untidy to have one big one when i could categorize."

okay, that sounded more like him. virgil tried not to sigh in relief.

"categorize. like what?"

"chilton, college applications, things we need to do around the house, dad's business plans. plans for the diner too, actually, just there."

virgil picks it up, and blinks. "remodel?"

"at least paint. you're due for it."

"the diner's classic. vintage, even."

"like i said. at least paint."

the house phone rings. logan blinks, swivels around.

"no one calls the house phone," he mutters, and gets to his feet, picking it up.

"logan sanders speaking." a pause. virgil can hear what sounds like a woman responding. "no, he isn't here." a pause. "he wasn't here last night either." another pause. "what do you mean, he didn't come home?"

a longer pause. virgil's missing some kind of puzzle piece, he can feel it. 

"no," logan says, voice faraway and cold. "he told me was going on a date. he didn't tell you?"

oh. SHIT.

the woman's voice, louder, and oh no.

"i'm sorry, i don't know where he'd be," logan says, and hangs up.

"logan," virgil manages, after he picks his jaw up off the ground.

"excuse me," logan says, "i'm feeling rather ill. i'm going to lie down."

he sweeps up the stairs. virgil has to reassemble his thoughts before he grabs his phone, scrolling through the contacts, and hissing "pick up pick up pick up you little—"

"you've reached roman prince—"

"fuck," virgil hisses, and clambers up the stairs after patton, before he bursts into patton's shoulder, shaking his shoulder.

"mmph," patton mumbles, and if it was any other day, virgil would be marveling at his bedhead, his sleeping face, but right now—

"patton. patton wake up."

"virgil?" patton mumbles, props himself up on an elbow and rubs his eyes. 

"roman didn't come home last night," virgil blurts out, and patton blinks, before sitting upright.

"what?!"

"ms. prince called here because she thought he might have been over here," virgil says, "because roman didn't tell her he had a date and he didn't come home last night."

"oh, god," patton says, wild-eyed, and rolls out of bed, going straight for his closet. "do you think he's—?"

"i don't know," virgil says. "i knew i didn't like that kid, i knew it—"

"i'm sure he's okay," patton says, a little frantic as he searches for a passable shirt. "i mean, this is sideshire we're talking about—"

he stops in his tracks. "who answered the phone?"

"what?"

"you said ms. prince called here, who—?"

"logan did."

"oh, no," patton says, horrified, and shakes himself. "right, okay. you're going to go to ms. prince's and offer to help look for roman, i'm going to stay here and—" he gestures toward logan's bedroom.

"right," virgil says. "right, okay. you have hot cocoa/coffee in a thermos in your kitchen, i'm going to go—" he jerks a thumb toward the door.

"right, yeah," patton says, and they split up.

virgil's on his way to ms. prince's, brain swirling with possibilities, when he sees a familiar pair of red, doodled-over high tops peeking out from a tiny little garden alcove off the main street. virgil's heart practically stops. he feels like the jogger in the intro of a crime show that's about to stumble across a—

but he can't stop himself from barging forward, heart in his throat, and—and he's just lying there. the pair of them are.

the boy is on top of roman. it infuriates him.

"HEY!" virgil shouts, voice deeper and rougher than even he would have anticipated, and he closes his fist around the neck of the leather jacket, yanking him roughly off of roman, tossing him aside. 

"get your hands off him!"

he shoves the kid when he tries to get closer to roman again, and he's so incensed that he can't even think.

"what the hell, dude?!" the boy demands.

"don't you dude me," virgil shouts. "do you have any idea what could have happened out here?!"

"virgil, stop!" roman shouts back, tugging sharply at his arm, and virgil swivels. "we just fell asleep—"

virgil says sharply, "there's no just about this, roman!"

"it was an accident, he didn't—"

"your mother called the sanders', she's worried sick," virgil fumes, and roman's face drains of blood. "do you know how terrifying it must have been for her to wake up without her kid in her bed in the morning?! why the hell wouldn't you have told her?!"

"we didn't DO anything!" the other kid shouts.

"oh, you better hope you didn't do anything," virgil snarls, turning to face the kid again, "staying out all night! outside! in october! are you insane?! you are SO lucky you two didn't catch hypothermia, to start with—"

"my mom," roman says, and tugs at virgil's hoodie sleeve. "virgil, my mom—"

"you better sprint back to that dance studio if you don't want to be grounded for all time," virgil snaps. 

but roman doesn't. roman turns to the boy, and says breathlessly, "it was really nice—i'm really sorry about all this, um—"

"hey, i've got your number," the boy says, and he looks pleased when roman darts forward to kiss him on the cheek, shouting "bye!" and running for the studio.

there's an awkward silence.

"am i free to go, officer?" the boy sneers. "or do you have to give me a shovel speech, too?"

"i don't like you," virgil says, and gives his best intimidating grin. he's pleased to see a flicker in the boy's attempt at cool confidence. "so i'll leave all that to ms. prince."

he strides away. he turns a corner in the street and waits until the diner is in sight before he digs out his phone.

"hello?" patton answers, breathless, and just like that, all the fight leaves him.

"hey, i found him," virgil says. "he's probably going to get grounded until the end of his natural life, but i found him. he's okay."

"oh, thank god," patton gasps. "he's okay?"

"lucky not to have hypothermia," virgil says darkly. "fell asleep in that little garden off main, the one with the willow tree?"

"they fell asleep?"

"i guess," virgil says. "that's what he said, anyway. i really don't like that boy, patton."

"yeah, well, i think you've got a household joining you on that," patton says wearily.

"is he—?"

"oh, shoot, right," patton says, and virgil hears him shout, "virgil found him, he just fell asleep!"

the response isn't something virgil can hear. "what'd he say?"

"nothing, he just kind of loudly exhaled at me," patton says. "i think he's back to not talking to me again."

virgil sighs, rests his head briefly against his diner. "what a mess."

"what a mess," patton agrees wearily. "i can't bribe you into coming back to making those pancakes, can i?"

virgil snorts. "you know what? why not. you and logan probably need them."

"amen," patton says.

#wyliwf #my fic #sanders sides fanfiction #moxiety #logince

[beyondthecosmicvoid]

Afterword of First Book of Dune, "Dune"

“I knew Frank Herbert for more than thirty-eight years. He was a magnificent human being, a man of great honor and distinction, and the most interesting person at any gathering, drawing listeners around him like a magnet. To say he was an intellectual giant would be an understatement, since he seemed to contain all of the knowledge of the universe in his marvelous mind. He was my father, and I loved him deeply. Nonetheless, a son’s journey to understand the legendary author was not always a smooth one, as I described in my biography of him, Dreamer of Dune. Growing up in Frank Herbert’s household, I did not understand his need for absolute silence so that he could concentrate, the intense desire he had to complete his important writing projects, or the confidence he had that one day his writing would be a success, despite the steady stream of rejections that he received. To my young eyes, the characters he created in Dune and his other stories were the children of his mind, and they competed with me for his affections. In the years it took him to write his magnum opus, he spent more time with Paul Atreides than he did with me. Dad’s study was off-limits to me, to my sister Penny, and to my brother Bruce. In those days, only my mother Beverly really understood Dad’s complexities. Ultimately, it was through her love for him, and the love he gave back to her, that I came to see the nurturing, loving side of the man. By that time I was in my mid-twenties, having rebelled against his exacting ways for years. When I finally saw the soul of my father and began to appreciate him for the care he gave my mother when she was terminally ill, he and I became the best of friends. He helped me with my own writing career by showing me what editors wanted to see in books; he taught me how to construct interesting characters, how to build suspense, how to keep readers turning the pages. After perusing an early draft of Sidney’s Comet (which would become my first published novel), he marked up several pages and then wrote me this note: “These pages…show how editing tightens the story. Go now and do likewise.” It was his way of telling me that he could open the door for me and let me peek through, but I would have to complete the immense labors involved with writing myself. Beverly Herbert was the window into Frank Herbert’s soul. He shared that reality with millions of readers when he wrote a loving, three-page tribute to her at the end of Chapterhouse: Dune, describing their life together. His writing companion and intellectual equal, she suggested the title for that book, and she died in 1984 while he was writing it. Earlier in Dune, Frank Herbert had modeled Lady Jessica Atreides after Beverly Herbert, with her dignified, gentle ways of influence, and even her prescient abilities, which my mother actually possessed. He also wrote of “Lady Jessica’s latent (prophetic) abilities,” and in this he was describing my mother, thinking of all the amazing paranormal feats she had accomplished in her lifetime. In an endearing tone, he often referred to her as his “white witch,” or good witch. Similarly, throughout the Dune series, he described the heroic Bene Gesserit women as “witches.” Dune is the most admired science fiction novel ever written and has sold tens of millions of copies all over the world, in more than twenty languages. It is to science fiction what the Lord of the Rings trilogy is to fantasy, the most highly regarded, respected works in their respective genres. Of course, Dune is not just science fiction. It includes strong elements of fantasy and contains so many important layers beneath the story line that it has become a mainstream classic. As one dimension of this, just look at the cover on the book in your hands, the quiet dignity expressed in the artwork. The novel was first published in hardcover in 1965 by Chilton Books, best known for their immense auto-repair novels. No other publisher would touch the book, in part because of the length of the manuscript. They felt it was far too long at 215,000 words, when most novels of the day were only a quarter to a third that length. Dune would require immense printing costs and a high hardcover price for the time, in excess of five dollars. No science fiction novel had ever commanded a retail price that high. Publishers also expressed concern about the complexity of the novel and all of the new, exotic words that the author introduced in the beginning, which tended to slow the story down. One editor said that he could not get through the first hundred pages without becoming confused and irritated. Another said that he might be making a huge mistake in turning the book down, but he did so anyway. Initial sales of the book were slow, but Frank Herbert’s science fiction–writing peers and readers recognized the genius of the work from the beginning, awarding it the coveted Nebula and Hugo awards for best novel of the year. It was featured in The Whole Earth Catalog and began to receive excellent reviews, including one from the New York Times. A groundswell of support was building. In 1969, Frank Herbert published the first sequel, Dune Messiah, in which he warned about the dangers of following a charismatic leader and showed the dark side of Paul Atreides. Many fans didn’t understand this message, because they didn’t want to see their superhero brought down from his pedestal. Still, the book sold well, and so did its predecessor. Looking back at Dune, it is clear that Dad laid the seeds of the troublesome direction he intended to take with his hero, but a lot of readers didn’t want to see it. John W. Campbell, the editor of Analog who made many useful suggestions when Dune was being serialized, did not like Dune Messiah because of this Paul Atreides issue. Having studied politics carefully, my father believed that heroes made mistakes…mistakes that were simplified by the number of people who followed such leaders slavishly. In a foreshadowing epigraph, Frank Herbert wrote in Dune: “Remember, we speak now of the Muad’Dib who ordered battle drums made from his enemies’ skins, the Muad’Dib who denied the conventions of his ducal past with a wave of the hand, saying merely: ‘I am the Kwisatz Haderach. That is reason enough.’” And in a dramatic scene, as Liet-Kynes lay dying in the desert, he remembered the long-ago words of his own father: “No more terrible disaster could befall your people than for them to fall into the hands of a Hero.” By the early 1970s, sales of Dune began to accelerate, largely because the novel was heralded as an environmental handbook, warning about the dangers of destroying the Earth’s finite resources. Frank Herbert spoke to more than 30,000 people at the first Earth Day in Philadelphia, and he toured the country, speaking to enthusiastic college audiences. The environmental movement was sweeping the nation, and Dad rode the crest of the wave, a breathtaking trip. When he published Children of Dune in 1976, it became a runaway bestseller, hitting every important list in the country. Children of Dune was the first science fiction novel to become a New York Times bestseller in both hardcover and paperback, and sales reached into the millions. After that, other science fiction writers began to have their own bestsellers, but Frank Herbert was the first to obtain such a high level of readership; he brought science fiction out of the ghetto of literature. By 1979, Dune itself had sold more than 10 million copies, and sales kept climbing. In early 1985, shortly after David Lynch’s movie Dune was released, the paperback version of the novel reached #1 on the New York Times bestseller list. This was a phenomenal accomplishment, occurring twenty years after its first publication, and sales remain brisk today. * * * In 1957, Dad flew to the Oregon coast to write a magazine article about a U.S. Department of Agriculture project there, in which the government had successfully planted poverty grasses on the crests of sand dunes, to keep them from inundating highways. He intended to call the article “They Stopped the Moving Sands,” but soon realized that he had a much bigger story on his hands. Frank Herbert’s life experiences are layered into the pages of the Dune series, combined with an eclectic assortment of fascinating ideas that sprang from his researches. Among other things, the Dune universe is a spiritual melting pot, a far future in which religious beliefs have combined into interesting forms. Discerning readers will recognize Buddhism, Sufi Mysticism and other Islamic belief systems, Catholicism, Protestantism, Judaism, and Hinduism. In the San Francisco Bay Area, my father even knew Zen Master Alan Watts, who lived on an old ferryboat. Dad drew on a variety of religious influences, without adhering to any one of them. Consistent with this, the stated purpose of the Commission of Ecumenical Translators, as described in an appendix to Dune, was to eliminate arguments between religions, each of which claimed to have “the one and only revelation.” When he was a boy, eight of Dad’s Irish Catholic aunts tried to force Catholicism on him, but he resisted. Instead, this became the genesis of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood. This fictional organization would claim it did not believe in organized religion, but the sisters were spiritual nonetheless. Both my father and mother were like that as well. During the 1950s, Frank Herbert was a political speechwriter and publicity writer for U.S. senatorial and congressional candidates. In that decade, he also journeyed twice to Mexico with his family, where he studied desert conditions and crop cycles, and was subjected unwittingly to the effects of a hallucinogenic drug. All of those experiences, and a great deal from his childhood, found their way onto the pages of Dune. The novel became as complex and multilayered as Frank Herbert himself. As I said in Dreamer of Dune, the characters in Dune fit mythological archetypes. Paul is the hero prince on a quest who weds the daughter of a “king” (he marries Princess Irulan, whose father is the Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV). Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam is a witch mother archetype, while Paul’s sister Alia is a virgin witch, and Pardot Kynes is the wise old man of Dune mythology. Beast Rabban Harkonnen, though evil and aggressive, is essentially a fool. For the names of heroes, Frank Herbert selected from Greek mythology and other mythological bases. The Greek House Atreus, upon which House Atreides in Dune was based, was the ill-fated family of kings Menelaus and Agamemnon. A heroic family, it was beset by tragic flaws and burdened with a curse pronounced against it by Thyestes. This foreshadows the troubles Frank Herbert had in mind for the Atreides family. The evil Harkonnens of Dune are related to the Atreides by blood, so when they assassinate Paul’s father Duke Leto, it is kinsmen against kinsmen, similar to what occurred in the household of Agamemnon when he was murdered by his wife Clytemnestra. Dune is a modern-day conglomeration of familiar myths, a tale in which great sandworms guard a precious treasure of melange, the geriatric spice that represents, among other things, the finite resource of oil. The planet Arrakis features immense, ferocious worms that are like dragons of lore, with “great teeth” and a “bellows breath of cinnamon.” This resembles the myth described by an unknown English poet in Beowulf, the compelling tale of a fearsome fire dragon who guarded a great treasure hoard in a lair under cliffs, at the edge of the sea. The desert of Frank Herbert’s classic novel is a vast ocean of sand, with giant worms diving into the depths, the mysterious and unrevealed domain of Shai-hulud. Dune tops are like the crests of waves, and there are powerful sandstorms out there, creating extreme danger. On Arrakis, life is said to emanate from the Maker (Shai-hulud) in the desert-sea; similarly all life on Earth is believed to have evolved from our oceans. Frank Herbert drew parallels, used spectacular metaphors, and extrapolated present conditions into world systems that seem entirely alien at first blush. But close examination reveals they aren’t so different from systems we know…and the book characters of his imagination are not so different from people familiar to us. Paul Atreides (who is the messianic “Muad’Dib” to the Fremen) resembles Lawrence of Arabia (T. E. Lawrence), a British citizen who led Arab forces in a successful desert revolt against the Turks during World War I. Lawrence employed guerrilla tactics to destroy enemy forces and communication lines, and came close to becoming a messiah figure for the Arabs. This historical event led Frank Herbert to consider the possibility of an outsider leading native forces against the morally corrupt occupiers of a desert world, in the process becoming a godlike figure to them. One time I asked my father if he identified with any of the characters in his stories, and to my surprise he said it was Stilgar, the rugged leader of the Fremen. I had been thinking of Dad more as the dignified, honorable Duke Leto, or the heroic, swashbuckling Paul, or the loyal Duncan Idaho. Mulling this over, I realized Stilgar was the equivalent of a Native American chief in Dune—a person who represented and defended time-honored ways that did not harm the ecology of the planet. Frank Herbert was that, and a great deal more. As a child, he had known a Native American who hinted that he had been banished from his tribe, a man named Indian Henry who taught my father some of the ways of his people, including fishing, the identification of edible and medicinal plants in the forest, and how to find red ants and protein-rich grub worms for food. When he set up the desert planet of Arrakis and the galactic empire encompassing it, Frank Herbert pitted western culture against primitive culture and gave the nod to the latter. In Dune he wrote, “Polish comes from the cities; wisdom from the desert.” (Later, in his mainstream novel Soul Catcher, he would do something similar and would favor old ways over modern ways). Like the nomadic Bedouins of the Arabian plateau, the Fremen live an admirable, isolated existence, separated from civilization by vast stretches of desert. The Fremen take psychedelic drugs during religious rites, like the Navajo Indians of North America. And like the Jews, the Fremen have been persecuted, driven to hide from authorities and survive away from their homeland. Both Jews and Fremen expect to be led to the promised land by a messiah. The words and names in Dune are from many tongues, including Navajo, Latin, Chakobsa (a language found in the Caucasus), the Nahuatl dialect of the Aztecs, Greek, Persian, East Indian, Russian, Turkish, Finnish, Old English, and, of course, Arabic. In Children of Dune, Leto II allowed sandtrout to attach themselves to his body, and this was based in part upon my father’s own experiences as a boy growing up in Washington State, when he rolled up his trousers and waded into a stream or lake, permitting leeches to attach themselves to his legs. The legendary life of the divine superhero Muad’Dib is based on themes found in a variety of religious faiths. Frank Herbert even used lore and bits of information from the people of the Gobi Desert in Asia, the Kalahari Desert in Southwest Africa, and the aborigines of the Australian Outback. For centuries such people have survived on very small amounts of water, in environments where water is a more precious resource than gold. The Butlerian Jihad, occurring ten thousand years before the events described in Dune, was a war against thinking machines who at one time had cruelly enslaved humans. For this reason, computers were eventually made illegal by humans, as decreed in the Orange Catholic Bible: “Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind.” The roots of the jihad went back to individuals my parents knew, to my mother’s grandfather Cooper Landis and to our family friend Ralph Slattery, both of whom abhorred machines. Still, there are computers in the Dune universe, long after the jihad. As the series unfolds, it is revealed that the Bene Gesserits have secret computers to keep track of their breeding records. And the Mentats of Dune, capable of supreme logic, are “human computers.” In large part these human calculators were based upon my father’s paternal grandmother, Mary Stanley, an illiterate Kentucky hill-woman who performed incredible mathematical calculations in her head. Mentats were the precursors of Star Trek’s Spock, First Officer of the starship Enterprise…and Frank Herbert described the dangers of thinking machines back in the 1960s, years before Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator movies ... 

By the time we complete those stories, there will be a wealth of Dune novels, along with the 1984 movie directed by David Lynch and two television miniseries—“Frank Herbert’s Dune” and “Frank Herbert’s Children of Dune”—both produced by Richard Rubinstein. We envision other projects in the future, but all of them must measure up to the lofty standard that my father established with his own novels. When all of the good stories have been told, the series will end. But that will not really be a conclusion, because we can always go back to Dune itself and read it again and again, ” -Brian Herbert

This shows the appreciation that Brian had for his father. Many fans are still on the fence regarding Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson continuation of Frank’s work. Some think some of their sequels and prequels are good while others think their attempt to expand on the Dune lore is a failed attempt and don’t believe they have based their works on Frank Herbert’s alleged unfinished manuscripts. I fall somewhere in the middle. There are things I like from the Dune Expanded Universe and other things that I could care less about. Nevertheless, I love that Brian Herbert has continued with his father’s passion and is currently working with director Denis Villeneuve and others to bring his father’s vision on the big and small screens and stay loyal to it.

#frank herbert #dune #brian herbert

[green-eyeddragonfanfiction]

The Way I Do: Chapter 4

Pairing: Centurion!Bucky x Visigothi!Reader Summary: Your search for a way to gather intelligence leads you to an unlikely place and even more unlikely people. Still, this opportunity is the best you could find and Centurion Stark and his servant Jarvis seem like almost-trustworthy people... too bad they’re Romans. Warnings: None Word Count: ~3,071 A/N: For @killmongerdreams‘ song roulette writing challenge. Sorry for the lack of content recently, folks. The last two weeks have been a doozy.

Masterlist // Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

But the same draw was there. Just as before, he wanted to hold her close and kiss all her problems away, only to remember the last time he opened his heart and home to a gothi, and pushed all those thoughts away. He stood with a curse, wincing as his cold, sore muscles stretched themselves out.

By all rights, his duty as a Centurion to the Roman Empire compelled him to find her and uncover the truth… but he wasn’t sure he could handle it.

In the end, he resolved to keep an eye out for her, though he wouldn’t call in any other agents of the Empire to help. This was his task, and his alone.

Your POV

Your time in the city passed without so much as glimpsing James again, much to your mingled relief and disappointment. There were whispers on the street of your tribe disrupting the Empire in the west, though according to all sources you’d found it seemed as though Emperor Pierce was content to let Governor Sitwell deal with the problem for the time being.

You knew, however, that Sitwell was no match for Fritigern and the other leaders. It was only a matter of time until Sitwell would be killed or forced to send for more soldiers.

Time was not on your side. You had  to find an in to Roman command, and you had to find it fast.

That was how you found yourself, just two weeks after your arrival, you found yourself on the doorstep of a Centurion’s home, scroll with the information of the open servant position clutched in your hand. Serving in the palace would have been more ideal, but the palace had simply thrown you out while laughing in your face when you’d attempted to find work there.

So, serving a Centurion had been plan B. He was high enough up the chain of command that he’d receive any important and relevant information that- god willing- you could pass on to your people.

You glanced nervously up at the house, its sheer size intimidating you more than you thought possible. You knew Centurions were paid well, but this was a bit excessive, wasn’t it? Or was that just your bumpkin gothi speaking?

You shook your head and gathered up your courage before raising your hand to knock at the intricately carved heavy wood door. You could practically hear the sound resonate through the empty house as though it was completely empty on the inside.

A loud clunk from the other side gave you only a half second to prepare yourself before the door swung open silently, revealing a medium height man with well-trimmed facial hair and dark brown eyes that seemed to take all of you in in and instant. “Are you here for the job?” he asked without any preamble or introduction, catching you off guard.

It took you a second to collect your thoughts. Was this man a servant of the house? Surely he wasn’t a Centurion. “Uh, yes, sir. Are you-”

“Please, call me Anthony. No one calls me ‘sir’ except my servant, no matter how many times I tell him not to.”

“Well, it’s only proper, sir.”

You jumped in surprise, not having heard the older man approach. He had slicked-back hair and kind eyes and held himself so primly that you found yourself straightening your back reflexively.

Anthony merely waved the man’s polite protest away. “You know I don’t care about that crap, Edwin.”

“Quite right, sir,” he said with an almost sarcastic smile and nod of his head.

You, however, were very confused. If this man had a servant- and an unfairly adept one at that- why did he put the word out that he was looking for a new one? “Excuse me, but why-”

“Did I invite you here to work as a servant when I already have Jarvis?” Anthony asked, a smirk dancing on the corner of his lips.

Your mouth snapped closed and you nodded. This man was sharper than his affable air initially lead you to believe.

“Well, I’m leaving, which means Edwin is coming with me and leaving the other man who lives here all on his own. The poor fool doesn’t take care of himself. I think he’d have wasted away years ago if it wasn’t for me and Jarvis here taking care of him.”

Your brows furrowed. “So he’s the Centurion, then. That makes sense,” you said, nodding, posture relaxing a bit when you realized you weren’t in the presence of anyone too important. You’d have to turn the job down, though. You couldn’t gain useful information from an ordinary cives-

“We’re both Centurions, actually. Not Jarvis, of course. The other guy. The one you’ll be working for.”

You gaped for a moment before dropping to your hands and knees, forehead nearly touching the ground. “Forgive me, Centurion! I had no idea. My insolence cannot be tolerated and I beg that you sp-”

“Alright, that’s enough of that.” You let out a squeak of surprise as Anthony hauled you bodily to your feet, hands wrapped firmly but not painfully around your shoulders. He didn’t look that strong, but you supposed he was a Centurion, after all. “I normally don’t mind a girl begging, but this is entirely the wrong situation and place,” he said with a flirty wink, patting your shoulder comfortingly as the meaning of his words sunk in. You felt heat rise to your cheeks and fumbled for an appropriate response. 

However, Anthony powered on. “Now, the man you’ll be taking care of is a bit of a loner. He’ll spend most of his day in his room or in the city, leaving you to cook, clean, whatever else it is that servants do,” Anthony said, turning on his heel to walk further into the opulent house. Although you knew his station, he still managed to look out of place in the sparkling marble home in his casual chilton. You wondered why he wasn’t wearing a toga. A man of his station probably had the money and power to own dozens.

You started when Edwin Jarvis touched your arm gently, gaze flying to his face. He motioned you to follow Centurion Anthony with a kind smile and wave of his hand and you gulped and trotted after him, taking in the house as you went. It was opulent and kept so nicely it was as though actual people didn’t live there. You suspected it was Jarvis’ diligence that kept the house in such sparkling order and you hoped, fleetingly, that you’d be able to do the same. Statues, vases, and plants lined the halls and hid in alcoves and you half expected to see a grand fountain when you turned each corner. The sound of the Centurion’s quick-talking tour caught your attention and you chided yourself mentally. For all you knew he could have let slip important information while you’d been admiring masonry.

“You’ll have your own room. It’s Jarvis’ old room. Not as big as the master suites, but probably bigger than anything you’ve lived in before today.”

“Today?” you asked, surprised.

Anthony glanced at you over his shoulder. “What, is that too soon?” he turned to Edwin. “Is that too soon?” he asked skeptically, crossing his arms over his chest, eyebrow raised.

Jarvis shook his head. “We specifically asked for someone who could begin immediately.”

You gulped. You’d missed that part on the scroll, apparently. You supposed you shouldn’t complain.; it meant you could start gathering intelligence at once.

“Well, you heard the man. Today!” Anthony said, pacified, resuming his tour down a plush-carpeted hallway. “This is his room. I would take you inside but he has a strict ‘No Tony In My Room’ policy. I tried sneaking in once or twice but he always seemed to know when I did. He had no problem with Jarvis, though.”

“That is because I am supposed to be in there, sir,” Jarvis said quietly. “And also because you snoop through his things,” he added matter-of-factly. You tried to not let those implications unnerve you.

Anthony shrugged. “I’ve served with that man for years and he’s still a mystery. I can’t help that I’m naturally curious. It’s one of my many, many charms.”

“Quite right, sir,” Edwin said with a sort of dry placating smile that somehow morphed the genial statement into a sarcastic rebuke. You had to bite back a grin and Anthony huffed discontentedly at Jarvis before turning his attention to the next room on his impromptu tour. A somewhat subdued dark wood door gave you a guess at its purpose before Tony even opened his mouth.

“This is your room. Dining room is at the end of the hall. Kitchen is in a sub-level attached at the other end of the room. There’s a back door to the alley so you can bring in food and supplies without dragging them through the magnificent entrance hall.”

That will be good for sneaking in and out when needed, you thought to yourself. “The house is stunning, sir. What will my responsibilities be, exactly?” you asked, turning a sun-bright smile on Anthony.

“Cleaning, cooking, errands... Jarvis knows better what that sad sack’s needs are. I mostly knock down his door once a week and force him to drink until one of us passes out.”

“You are always the one to pass out first, sir,” Jarvis chimed in helpfully, kind smile on his face.

“She doesn’t need to know that, Jarvis,” Anthony said, scandalized, clapping his hands over your ears. You willed yourself not to flinch or react too strangely, which was more difficult than you might have imagined.

“I can still hear you, sir,” you said, peering up at him from between his hands.

Anthony rolled his eyes, but finally let your head go, hands once again flying through the air as he talked. “Point is, Jarvis is the one to talk to for details. I’m just happy if you manage to keep the house standing and that idiot fed.”

“I’ve compiled a list of his various... needs and... irregularities,” Jarvis said carefully. You had a sneaking suspicion that this mystery man was odder and more reclusive than you’d originally been lead to believe. If it got you an in with the Roman military, however, he could do or be whatever he liked... though you drew the line at cannibalism. “He’s truly a quiet man and I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t see him often. I find it easiest to clean his room whenever he’s out. He never takes his meals in the dining room- always in his own bedroom. Although that may have been because Anthony eats in the dining room and he simply wished to avoid him.”

Anthony clutched a hand to his chest with a dramatic flourish. “You wound me, Jarvis. I’m delightful company.”

Jarvis sent him one of those smiles that was so heavily laced with dry sarcasm that you knew immediately anything he was about to say would be a playful jest at Anthony. “I don’t believe I ever said you weren’t, sir.”

Anthony sighed and turned his full attention to you. “You can start immediately, right?”

You nodded quickly, just trying to keep up with his unusually fast-paced talking.

“Do you want the position?” he asked, as though he was asking if you liked the weather and not asking for a position under a Centurion.

“I’d be honored, sir,” you said as earnestly as you could manage. It must have come off unquestionably sincere because Anthony smiled broadly. “Good, good. Jarvis can have all of your possessions moved into the manor by sundown and-”

“I only have one bag. I can manage, but thank you, sir.” Like hell you’d let them touch your things. You’d been careful so far and didn’t leave any clues to your true identity, but you sure weren’t going to take any risks.

“One bag? ... How?” Anthony asked, as though the very thought couldn’t compute. You supposed if you lived like this living out of a single rucksack would seem impossible to you, too.

“I grew up on the outskirts of town. I’ve never had much to my name, but my mother insisted I learn my letters and some math, too. Said it would help me one day,” you said with a shy smile. That much wasn’t a lie.

Anthony nodded knowingly. “Smart mother. It’ll definitely come in handy. You’ll be communicating primarily through notes, more than likely. He isn’t much for talking face to face.”

Yet again the man’s habits seemed odd, but he was a Centurion. He had information your people needed to survive the war. You would happily bear any oddities short of explicit threats on your life (you weren’t good to your people dead).

Still, it was a tense nervousness that you couldn’t quite quell that led you to ask, “Is he kind?”

Anthony’s smile was softer than you’d seen it thus far and that alone eased some of your fears. “Yes, but he’d swear to Rome and back that he’s not. Worry not, he’ll treat you well.”

You let out a relieved sigh, heat rising to your cheeks when it was more audible than you’d expected it to be and both Jarvis and Anthony sent you smiles (Edwin’s was understanding, Anthony’s teasing).

Anthony fished around in his robe blindly for a moment before he pulled out a very nice, ornate key, and tossed it to you. You nearly fumbled it, but manage to keep hold of it by the tips of your fingers.

“Alright, you’re hired. I’m paying you, but you’ll do what he asks... although cleaning the house and feeding him is mandatory. Everything else will be in Jarvis’ instructions. Have a good one, little lady. Don’t piss off the big guy or I’ll have to kill you.” When you turned wide, horrified eyes on him he burst out laughing. Behind you, Jarvis let out a long resigned sigh. “Kidding, kidding. But if you’re horribly incompetent, I will relieve you of your post.”

You gulped, body still humming with adrenaline from the [fake] threat a moment ago. “Understood, sir.”

With that, Anthony and Jarvis headed for the door, the latter giving you a shallow bow before he glided off after his master.

You heard the front door slam shut with a resounding thud and you nearly sunk to the floor.

This was it. This was everything your people needed. At long last, you could help them. You stared down at the key in your hand before your fingers closed around it in a fist, eyes blazing with determination.

Step one: Move in to this stupidly-nice house.

Step two: Dismantle the Roman Empire.

Bucky’s POV

With an annoyed huff, Bucky finally gave up his search for the day. He hadn’t seen heads or tails of the girl in at least a week. Whether it was by chance or something more sinister, he couldn’t determine. The Visigothi were making more and more noise in the west. Stark was already being called to the palace. Apparently Pierce was eager to use Anthony’s brilliant mind to develop new and deadly weapons.

He kicked loose stones all the way back to his- well, Anthony’s- manor, eyes glued to the ground. Something about the entire thing just didn’t sit right with him.

He found himself in front of the front door before he knew it, only realizing he’d stopped walking a few beats after his feet had ceased moving. With a whispered curse he yanked on the door handle, only to find it was locked.

That was odd. Jarvis never locked the door until he returned-

Oh, right. He and Tony were leaving and had been determined to find someone to take care of him and the house in their stead as though he was an invalid.

But then he remembered the state his room was in before he moved in with Tony and Jarvis and realized they probably weren’t too far off in the assessment of his self-care abilities.

The door was locked, which meant they’d found someone. He had half a mind to bang on the door until they woke up, but thought better of it. It was late and he didn’t fancy waking up the entire neighborhood.

He dug around in his tunic for a moment or two before pulling out the house key (he was suddenly thankful he didn’t go anywhere without it) and shoved it in the lock.

The door opened silently, as always, revealing the surprisingly well-lit interior. They may have locked the door, but they at least had the sense to leave a light or two on for him. He grabbed the nearest lamp and headed to his room, pausing at the writing desk in the hallway.

He could just go to bed, but he knew he’d just ignore whoever they’d hired tomorrow; he didn’t have the patience or temperament for people anymore. The least he could do was leave a note welcoming them to his home.

He sauntered over to the table and set the lamp down, uncorking the ink well and grabbing the nearest quill and piece of thick parchment.

Greetings,

The silence in the house leads me to believe I’ve returned after you’ve already retired to your room, but it would be ill-mannered of me to not greet you in some way. I’m afraid I spend most of my time in my room or in the city, so it may be some time before I see you in person.

Regardless, thank you for assuming the monumental task of taking care of this house... and of me. I would tell you what I expect of you, but I’m sure Edwin Jarvis has already fully briefed you on any and all expectations. Still, if you have any questions, you need only ask... preferably through notes, as I’m afraid I’m of little use around people unless I’m giving commands on the battlefield.

Still, I would like to know a bit about you, if you would not be opposed. I’m afraid I don’t even know your name yet, as Centurion Stark tells me little.

With kind regards,

B

Satisfied, Bucky left the note in front of the servant room’s door before shuffling like the dead to his room, collapsing onto his bed without so much as removing his sandals.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. I’ll find her tomorrow.

Next Chapter

If you’d like to be tagged in this series, like this post! Sorry, but responses to this post asking to be tagged will be ignored, so send me an ask or like one of the taglist posts!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #Bucky Barnes #Winter Soldier #winter soldier x reader #tony stark #tony #iron man #jarvis #edwin jarvis #the way I do #centurion!bucky #visigothi!reader #rome!au

[avegetariancannibal]

Boy With a Haunted Past (part 1)

(Formerly known as "Haunted Mansion" when I posted it last year for Hannictober. Takes place in the early 1990s in some *vague hand waving* Southern high school. Brief homophobic interaction. Will is 16, Hannibal is 17.)

Hannibal Lecter was beautiful. He had skin like poets would write about, and a mouth that looked like it would be good at sharing secrets. He was the exchange student from Lithuania, and a grade ahead of Will even though they had two classes together. He was practically a man, really. Will had started to notice just the slightest hint of stubble on Hannibal’s chin by the end of fifth period. It was just plain mesmerizing.

Sometimes, Will was pretty sure Hannibal liked him. As in, liked him. His dark amber gaze always seemed to find its way across the chemistry lab to where Will was running his experiments. But then other times…other times, he thought he might be projecting just because he wanted it so badly.

“Most boys aren’t like you,” his dad had told him. “Most boys like girls. So just… just be careful about who you go confessin’ your love to, around here.”

So Will was determined to keep it to himself unless Hannibal made the first move. He got his chance late in October at the start of lab one day.

“I would like your opinion,” Hannibal said, sliding onto the stool beside him. “What do you think about that big haunted mansion thing they’ve been advertising on the radio?”

“Oh it sounds totally ridiculous,” Will said. “Imagine people paying ten bucks to go get scared by something that’s probably not even a little bit scary. Pssht.”

Hannibal smiled at him. “Does that mean you wouldn’t want to go with me?”

Will almost dropped a beaker of hydrogen peroxide. “Yes! I mean no. I mean no, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to go with you. I’ll go with you. I…yes. Yes, I want to go. With you.”

Hannibal’s smile widened, showing the perfectly imperfect points of his teeth. “I’ll meet you there at 8, then.”

Will debated with himself over whether he should show up right on time, or just a little bit late so he didn’t look too eager. In the end, he was almost ten minutes early.

Much to his relief (and joy), Hannibal was already there, too, holding a place for him in line.

“Hey,” he said, brilliantly.

Hannibal scooted over to make room for him. “I told myself I was going to be too early, but I couldn’t wait to get here.”

“Me, too,” Will said. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I didn’t even finish my dinner!”

Hannibal looked surprised. And gorgeous. He hadn’t shaved, so the stubble on his chin was even darker than it had been at fifth period, and his hair was loose and soft instead of slicked back like it usually was. He’d traded in his usual blazer and button-up for an intricately cabled sweater in deep red, and dark gray corduroy pants that would have looked ridiculous on anybody else. Will was pretty sure Hannibal could make a clown costume look smooth, though. He was also pretty sure he was staring at Hannibal’s pants.

“Maybe we can get a pizza after this,” Hannibal said.

Will stuck his hands in his jeans pockets, fingering the ten dollar bill his dad have given him for the ticket. “Um…”

“My treat,” Hannibal said. “I’m of the opinion that the one who does the asking out should be the one who pays.”

Will’s head swam. Asking out. He’s asking me out. HE ASKED ME OUT. “Sounds fair,” he said, just managing to keep a squeak out of his voice.

“Hey, it’s that foreigner,” a voice said behind them. “And look, he’s here with Geeky Graham. Like two weirdo peas in a pod.”

Will struggled to keep from curling his hands into fists. “Hello, Matthew,” he said. “And look, you’re here with Frederick. What a surprise.”

The two seniors approached–Matthew Brown like a shark and Frederick Chilton stuck to him like a remora waiting for scraps. They tried to edge into line ahead of them.

“No cuts,” Will said, sticking his foot out to block them.

“Aw come on,” Matthew said in an exaggerated whine. “I promise not to tell anyone I saw you here together.”

Frederick tittered into his hand.

“Why ever should we care?” Hannibal asked, seeming genuinely confused. “It’s only the truth. We are here together, just as you two are here together.”

Matthew’s cheeks flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah, but we’re not queer like you!”

Frederick laughed and nudged Matthew. “My father says everyone in Europe is gay.”

“Yes, I recall seeing him at the last meeting,” Hannibal said coolly.

Will’s jaw dropped.

A scowl replaced Frederick’s laughter as he dragged away Matthew, who could be heard asking, “What the fuck does that mean? I don’t get it?”

Hannibal leaned closer to him. “Want to give them something to really talk about?” he asked, his breath warm against the side of Will’s face.

“Um, sure,” Will said.

An instant later, he felt Hannibal’s hand slide down his back and come to a rest at his waist. There it stayed, where Will could feel it burning through his denim jacket and sweatshirt, and he promptly forgot everything his father had ever said about “being careful.”

Customers were allowed into the “haunted mansion” in groups of two to five people with a couple minutes between each group. Will was so relieved he and Hannibal were allowed in as a pair that he almost pumped his fist. Only the overriding desire to maintain some pretense of cool kept him from doing it.

Entering the foyer, they were plunged into total darkness, and silence except for the distant sound of other visitors in the rooms ahead of them. Then, to Will’s complete and utter horror, his stomach grumbled audibly.

So much for seeming cool.

“Clever of you to bring your own sound effects,” Hannibal said.

“Yeah, well, I like to come prepared,” Will said, forcing a laugh.

A dim light flickered on overhead, giving off cold and intermittent illumination. Cobwebs draped the rusty fixture and the chain leading up to the ceiling. Black, gooey-looking paint streaked the walls, spelling out warnings like, “TURN BACK” and “YOU’LL DIE ALONE.”

“Quite atmospheric,” Hannibal whispered beside him.

The door ahead of them swung open with a squeal of its creaky hinges, drawing them into the next room.

This was a formal dining room, lit by a sputtering chandelier and draped in more of the spider webbing. Beneath that, a long table had been piled high with bloody human skulls and glossy pink entrails. A mannequin slumped over the table, dressed as if for a party.

“It looks kinda real,” Will admitted.

Hannibal sniffed. “Even smells rather realistic.”

Will took a step toward the table for a closer look, but the mannequin suddenly jolted upright. “Stay away!” it shrieked through hidden speakers. “Stay away or die!”

Will jumped back. “Gah!”

Hannibal held out a steadying arm just as he tripped over his own feet.

“Just so you know,” Will said, “I decided to show up tonight in my ‘total loser’ costume.”

“I’m sorry to tell you I find it very unconvincing,” Hannibal said. “Nothing about you reminds me of a loser.”

Will risked a glance upward to find Hannibal winking at him. He was especially charmed that Hannibal was kind of terrible at winking, partially blinking the other eye in unison.

As they followed a roped-off walkway away from the scene, Will heard an infant crying in the next room.

“Who the hell brings a baby in a place like this?” he wondered out loud.

“A terribly rude person at best,” Hannibal said.

They got their answer in the next room, which had been made to look like a cross between a bedroom and a surgery. A tray of tools and dirty rags had been strewn across the floor. A female figure had been arranged on the bed in a tattered white nightgown, her belly sliced open and empty. The way the flesh had peeled away from the wound made it look like something or someone had crawled out of it. A trail of blood led to the closet door, disappearing under it.

The baby cried again…from inside the closet.

Will swallowed hard. “Are–are we supposed to open it?”

“Only one way to find out,” Hannibal said.

He stepped back, letting Hannibal do the honors. He chastised himself for feeling so nervous. It wasn’t like an actual monster baby was going to explode out at them…right?

Hannibal slowly twisted the knob and let the door swing open.

Will burst out laughing and laughed until tears came to his eyes. The thing inside was a total letdown after the relative realism of the scene leading up to it. It was so blatantly a cheap plastic doll from, like, the K-Mart down the street or something, covered in red paint. It clung to the back closet wall, taped in place, with a length of its mother’s “intestines” dangling from its open mouth like a deflated balloon animal. A small radio continued to play recorded crying noises, but it sounded so fake and tinny with the door open.

“That is so lame,” he said when he’d recovered the ability to talk. “Right, Hannibal?”

“I want to leave,” Hannibal said, his voice quiet. “If you don’t mind.”

Will glanced over at him, saw him pale and stricken, his chin trembling just a little.

“Hey, are you okay?” Will asked.

Hannibal grabbed his hand and looked at him with pleading eyes. “Can we just leave?”

“Of course,” Will said, giving Hannibal’s hand a reassuring squeeze. He flashed him a bright smile. “I was getting hungry anyway, remember?”

On their way out, Will saw Frederick and Matthew just about to take their turn in the house. When Matthew glared at him, Will realized he was still holding hands with Hannibal.

He also realized he didn’t care.

Whatever had made Hannibal want to leave the “haunted mansion” so suddenly, he didn’t say and Will didn’t feel right asking. And anyway, he seemed like he was back to his regular smooth self as soon as they got back outside.

Will was both thrilled and horrified when Hannibal led him four blocks east to an actual sit-down Italian restaurant with cloth napkins and Chianti-bottle candles on the table. It was totally a date place, and the nicest restaurant he’d ever seen from the inside. He immediately felt out of place.

It must have shown, because Hannibal leaned across the table and gave him a smile. “Remember, it’s my treat, so order anything you want.”

Will thought of half a dozen appropriate things to say, but instead his mouth completely betrayed his brain: “My dad says this is the place people take their dates when they want them to put out!”

Hannibal’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He had been reaching for a complimentary bread stick, but now his hand paused in midair.

“Not that I’m saying you’re like that,” Will hurried to say. “Or that this..um…outing…is like that. I mean, I just… It’s just… Oh God I’m so sorry! I just can’t shut up!”

Hannibal’s look of shock gave way to laughter. “You know, I was worried I would be the only nervous one tonight.”

Will gawped at him. “What? You haven’t seemed nervous at all!”

“I hid it behind my very well-tailored veil of European coolness,” Hannibal said.

“You hid it a little too well,” Will snorted. “I mean, come on.”

“I changed outfits four times,” Hannibal said. “Even my socks. I was worried you wouldn’t like my socks. Convinced now?”

Will’s face was suddenly feverishly hot. He was sure he was blushing redder than a stop sign. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like an even bigger idiot than he already was.

“I’m sure your socks are fine,” he said.

“Well, play your cards right and you might get to see them,” Hannibal said, and gave him another terrible wink.

Will let out a laugh so loud and unrefined that half the restaurant turned to scowl at him.

“Now, hurry up and pick something to eat,” Hannibal said. “I’m starving.”

As Will turned his attention towards the menu, he caught a glimpse at the window. Matthew Brown was standing on the sidewalk just outside, glaring back at him through the glass. Will had never seen him angrier, and that was saying something.

(to be continued)

#teen hannigram AU #halloween #Hannigram #my fic