#yes my wife and i took one look at the 'canon' eye colors in season 7 and went 'nah thanks though'

[playlistmusings]

I had him right there where I wanted him

3,252 words

Jude Duarte x Cardan Greenbriar

read on ao3

A very big thanks to @yourlocalautisticoverlord for giving me the prompt: Knife Wife Jude teaches Cardan basic self defense (he is very bad at it).

Jude is bored and wants someone to spar with. The only thing stopping her from having a sparring partner is that, Cardan sucks at fighting. Luckily, Jude doesn't mind teaching her husband how to defend himself and Cardan doesn't mind the way Jude teaches him.

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Ambiguous time period, could be set during a slightly AU TWK if Cardan and Jude had their shit together and Jude wasn’t exiled or post TQoN with pretty much no changes to canon.

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Cardan felt oddly at peace in the training room of the Court of Shadows. He knew he probably shouldn’t, after all he was surrounded by more weapons than he could count and some of the most gifted and terrifying warriors and spies he’d ever met. But one of those warriors was his wife and everyone else had, at one point or another, actively worked to keep alive and on the throne, so perhaps the peace was justified. So, he sat in a chair off to the side, pieces of parchment in his hands that he read through whilst desperately trying to ignore the group of spies that was taking turns sparring each other. He was just flipping a letter over to read the back—because reports on crop growth were so interesting—when a knife flew past his face and thudded in the wall. Ripped from his thoughts, Cardan looked up and towards the person who threw the knife—of course it was Jude, who else would risk even nicking the High King? —and gave her a sardonic glare, daring her to let a second knife already held between her fingers go flying.

“Come on, Cardan! At least try to spar with us!” Her voice rang out as she grinned at him, as if all it took for Cardan to give up was a taunt and a smile (which, to be fair to Jude, usually that was all it took).

“I have important work to do, you know, as High King of Elfhame I actually have to do things.” He held her gaze, shifting from a glare to a equally sarcastic smile, the type of smile that usually made her jut out her chin and glare at him—the smile that usually followed some offhand comment meant to rile her up and preceded Jude muttering something about how insufferable or intolerable or in- something Cardan was before she crashed her lips into his. But here, in the training room, surrounded by people, Cardan was pretty certain she wouldn’t do anything—after all she always seemed off when publicly showing affection. And if they only kissed or hugged when they were alone, it didn’t really bother Cardan, if anything it made moments like these, where he could taunt her like he did back when they were in school—minus the part where she thought he was genuinely trying to kill or main her—all the more fun. So, as Jude glared, obviously trying to come up with some clever retort, Cardan’s smile softened, turning genuine for only a second before he forced himself to focus on the papers sitting in his lap.

“Ah, yes, High King Cardan has to focus on his work, because he’s so important, and does nothing but focus on work…” Jude muttered half formed insults under her breath while walking to rip her knife from the wall. And if someone saw Cardan smiled wider when he heard her, then he would claim that he was just happy that Elfhame was having a good farming season and it had nothing to do with his wife.

-----

Jude was exhausted. The good kind of exhausted, though, where you could feel your muscles work through every movement, growing stronger as you pushed them. Yet, all of her sparring partners were apparently too exhausted to continue training. One by one, over the course of an hour or so everyone had made their way out of the room, first it was the Roach claiming he had somewhere to be, then it was the Bomb claiming she had a meeting with someone— acting like no one knew that someone was the Roach—and then, all too quickly, it was only Cardan and Jude in the room. This would have been a welcome change, if Cardan weren’t more focused on those God damn papers than Jude. She had been trying to get him out of that chair for hours, taunting him and “accidentally” losing grip of her weapons and strategically letting them fly past his head in an attempt to break his focus on his work and look up at her instead.

So now she stood in the middle of the room, exhausted and exasperated, trying to think of some way she could get Cardan’s attention. At this point it was less about the way he seemed to have a stick up his ass and wouldn’t interact with anyone else, or her wanting her husband to pay attention to her, or anything like that, Jude was filled with determination and spite, if he would work so hard to not pay attention to her then she would refuse to let him do anything other than focus on her.

She pulled her arm back before swinging it forward, letting the thin throwing knife slip out of her fingers and spin through the air past Cardan’s ear and into the wall behind him, it was the second time she had done this today, but luckily that didn’t mean it surprised Cardan any less. His eyes snapped up to hers before wandering around the room briefly, as if just noticing that they were alone in the training room. His gaze latched onto hers right as she started stalking towards him, Nightfell swinging in one hand, a random dagger in the other.

“What are you up to?” His voice was uneasy, but just barely, his discomfort hiding in the waver his voice had as he ended his question—he was trying to hide his discomfort in the way that only Jude could see through.

She kept walking toward him, stopping an arms-length away before holding the dagger out to him, “Take it.”

Cardan looked at her face, as if searching for a reason for her actions, before gingerly taking the dagger from her left hand.

-----

Cardan held the dagger in his right hand, feeling its weight, trying not to slice a finger on the blade. Jude was certainly up to something, he couldn’t figure out what quite yet, perhaps she was going to make him spar her or perhaps she had snapped and was going to kill him here in the Court of Shadows, tucked away where only a select few people could find his body. However, while Cardan was left wondering what was going to happen, he was pretty certain it was happening because he had been very purposefully ignoring her all afternoon.

“Stand up.” Her chin was jutting out again, and Cardan could see her jaw clench as he took a few seconds before sighing and setting the parchments on the floor and standing, making a show of every action he made.

“So, now are you going to tell me what’s happening?” Something in Jude seemed to momentarily soften as he looked her in the eye plainly, with no pretense or sarcasm, just searching for an answer in her face.

“I’m bored and you’re here and I’m going to spar you,” Her voice made it clear that even if he wanted to ignore her, she wouldn’t make it easy for him.

“Well, my Queen, that would be a wonderful idea if I were a partner worth sparring.” Cardan thought back to days spent attempting to refine what few combat skills he had, forcing himself out of his memories before they could go down a dark path consumed by Balekin’s taunts and servants whipping his back.

“Then, I don’t know, I’ll…” Jude turned on her heel, exasperation coloring her voice as it faded off, “I’ll just have to teach you. I know you can fight a little, so I’ll teach you, I mean it makes sense for you to at least be able to try to protect yourself.”

Cardan once again forced his thoughts away from other lessons he’d been forced into, knowing that he couldn’t hide the discomfort Jude’s words brought on.

“Oh, I don’t mean to—I won’t make you, if you don’t want to, it’s fine, I forgot about all that. It’s okay, Cardan, I’m fine,” Jude stuttered her apology as her mind drifted to the time she hid under a table in Balekin’s house.

Cardan’s heart softened, the realization that despite all of Jude’s rough edges, she’d do anything before hurting someone she loved sunk in as he said words he didn’t know if he’d regret, “No, it’s fine, let’s do this. Teach me to fight, your Majesty.”

-----

Jude nodded, still feeling guilty for forgetting why Cardan didn’t enjoy endless sparring sessions like she did. She quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind, trying to take Cardan’s reassurance, after all he couldn’t lie to her even if he wanted to, so it had to be fine, right?

“Okay, let’s start with defensive positions, then.” Jude approached Cardan, loosely holding Nightfell in her hand before swinging directly towards Cardan’s side, stopping inches away from his arm that did nothing but flinch. Dear God, he really has no self-preservation, no wonder he always got into messes. Jude groaned a little before looking at Cardan and asking, “So, in that scenario do you really just want to lose an arm?”

He shook his head, “Obviously not, but what am I supposed to do? You have a whole sword and I have, what? A tiny knife?”

“You could at least try to block me. Like, here, like this.” Jude moved towards Cardan and lifted his harm and hand to make a motion so that his dagger would intercept the path of her blade. And so, it went on like that, for what felt like years. Jude slowly showing Cardan a motion, working with him until he could do it cleanly, eventually moving on from defensive maneuvers to offensive jabs and slashes. It was progress, however clumsy and unpracticed his movements were, at least it was progress. Jude kept telling herself it was unreasonable to expect Cardan to perfect anything she showed him but something in her ached for him to understand faster, to understand more.

-----

Cardan had been trying to execute the same movement for about fifteen minutes now. Jude kept claiming he was going wrong when he did something wrong with his wrist, right there after you reach out, but he still had no clue as to fix it. And while Cardan could see the merit in knowing how to defend oneself, he did have an entire legion of knights whose sole job was defending him, so he didn’t have to and on top of that he had a wife who was more than happy to ride off into battles for him, so there was really nearly no scenario he’d need to know any of this stuff. The last time he could even think of getting attacked was when Jude held a knife to his throat in Dain’s study—which to be honest, he didn’t exactly mind repeating that event. But alas, despite all the repetition and scolding and sweat, Cardan loved seeing the way Jude’s face lit up whenever he mastered a movement or successfully blocked an attack. Something about Jude just seemed right when she fought, like this was what she was meant to do. Her eyes had a fire in them, and her body moved with a practiced ease that Cardan was only now noticing, when for once he could focus on her and her movements without a threat looming over every action. It was intoxicating, seeing someone so in their element, seeing Jude so clearly doing exactly what she was trained to do, exactly what she loved. Even now, when she wasn’t doing anything other than glaring at his arm—as if that was the solution to his problem—there was something in her that made it clear that she wasn’t actually mad or upset, she was purely focused and full of intent.

Cardan made the same movement for possibly the hundredth time, which elicited a drawn out and dramatic groan from Jude as she threw her head back in exasperation, “I keep telling you, not that, you need to—” Jude groaned again before stepping behind Cardan and reaching around his body to grab his wrist, “You need to do this.” Cardan felt sparks erupt across his skin as her breath hit the back of his neck, trying desperately to focus on the way her hand twisted his wrist and pushed out his arm and not on the way he could feel a ghost of her lips right above his shirt or the way his tail was flicking back and forth, wanting to reach out and around one of her legs, trapping her against him.

After a few repetitions, Jude stepping back, and Cardan didn’t know whether to thank her or beg her to come back. He tried the movement again and this time he thought Jude was going to kill him with the glare she shot at his hand. He tried to shrug, and she groaned again.

“Perhaps this is a signal that we should stop?” Cardan offered, hoping that Jude would take him up on his offer and he could stop pretending like he even knew what scenario he would need use this movement in.

“Perhaps.” Jude echoed, looking lost in her thoughts, no doubt still trying to think of some way she could help fix his issue.

Cardan walked over to a table and placed the dagger he had been using next to a variety of other knives before he was interrupted.

“You know what? No. That’s not happening. I taught you all of this so that we could spar, so before we’re done, we’re going to spar.”

As Cardan turned to face Jude, readying some response about that being unnecessary and there always being tomorrow, he was faced with a fearsome sight, Jude standing just behind him, Nightfell drawn and a blaze in her eyes. His throat bobbed as he reached to pick up the dagger just in time for Jude to make her first strike.

Cardan didn’t know how he blocked it, his arm instinctively reaching out while his wrist twisted so he could stop her blade from slicing his side.

“Of course, now you get it,” Jude’s voice filled the training room as she stepped back, so that they could spar in the middle of the room.

As soon as Cardan reached Jude, he knew he made a mistake. She was relentless, all offense and power and grace, and it felt like all he could do was struggle to hold onto his dagger and hope he wouldn’t get cut.

She swung her sword around in mesmerizing arcs before reaching out to continue her attack, stepping towards Cardan so she could push him away from the center of the room. Cardan knew he should lash out, at the very least he should find a way to move away from exactly where Jude wanted him to be, but he couldn’t find any openings. She was unstoppable, a force of nature pushing against him and forcing him to use every ounce of training he had just to stay in one piece.

As soon as Cardan felt one of his feet hit the wall behind him, he knew he was done for. He was trapped and definitely the worse swordsman—knifeman? —and he knew he couldn’t get out of the reach of Nighfell or block Jude’s attacks forever. Jude’s eyes lit up when she saw Cardan freeze, using the opportunity to let her sword clatter to the floor, take Cardan’s dagger from his hand, and push him against the wall, holding the knife to his throat, all in one maneuver.

Cardan breathed heavily, looking into Jude’s eyes hoping she understood this was him surrendering.

“Come on Cardan, how do you ever expect to win a real fight if you can’t even stop me from unarming you?” Jude’s voice was a little breathless, despite the lack of sweat on her body and the steady heartbeat Cardan could feel through her chest and she pinned him to the wall.

He grinned.

-----

Jude suddenly felt unsure of her victory. Yes, she had a weapon poised in the perfect position for a killing move. Yes, she had him trapped. Yes, she had the upper hand.

But then his hands were on her waist and he gave her one of his stupid smiles, the one that she didn’t know how to respond to, and he whispered, “Come on, love, we both know I’m already winning in this situation.”

Jude forced herself to keep her grip on the dagger, but she knew he could feel her pulse stutter then speed up, and suddenly she didn’t know whether to curse or thank her past self for deciding the best way to beat Cardan was to use her body to trap him against the wall. It felt oddly reminiscent of their first kiss, where she thought she had him exactly where she wanted him, but then he somehow gained all the control. As his hands pulled her even closer—she didn’t even realize that was possible—she resigned herself to losing just this once and let her hand fall down to her side and the dagger slip from her grip.

His lips were on her jaw first, making her head fall back with a groan as he worked his way down her throat. Jude felt a little stupid for letting herself give into Cardan’s charms so easily—was that really all it took? A cocky comment and a touch? –but quickly pushed thoughts of stupidity and regret out of her mind as he took her face in his hands so he could crash their lips together. It was a breathless mess of teeth and lips and tongue, as their hands pulled on each other, trying to get closer, closer. Jude felt like she was making up for that first kiss, where Cardan was drunk, and she was confused, and everything was hiding behind too many falsities and lies to even begin to unravel the truth about either of their feelings. But now—when she had Cardan in her arms and her feelings sorted and a ring on her finger—she felt like this was what that first kiss could have felt like, in some different life where things weren’t as complicated.

All the thoughts of the past were quickly shut out as Cardan flipped them around, so that Jude’s back was against the wall, and lifted her up so that he could kiss her deeper. Jude felt lost in him, she knew she must be doing something, after all Cardan was gasping into her mouth, but she couldn’t take her focus away from Cardan and his hands and his lips long enough to even think about where her hands were. As Cardan pulled his lips from hers, leaving Jude making a rather undignified noise in the back of her throat—a noise she would most definitely deny making if asked about it at a later date—he panted and held a finger to her lips.

“Jude.” Cardan’s voice was rough and low. “Jude, I think someone is coming in.”

As soon as he said the words, Jude could hear voices and nearing steps through the door. She groaned, letting her face fall onto Cardan’s shoulder before unwrapping her legs from around him and walking back to where she had dropped Nightfell. As the door opened to reveal the Bomb and the Roach, Jude turned back to Cardan who had just barely reached the dagger he had been using all afternoon, she grinned dangerously before asking, “Want to spar again?”

#the folk of the air #tfota #tfota fanfic #the folk of the air fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #jurdan #jude x cardan #high queen jude #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #fluff #jurdan fluff #cardan greenbriar #ask

[kai-n-ali]

In the Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave) | Chapter Three

Eleanor Blum didn’t know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he’d stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he’d stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his.

Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Seasn 04. Tommy x OFC.

Warnings: Depictions of child abuse, antisemitism towards OFC (slurs), canon-typical violence, canonical deaths, sexual themes, etc.

Word Count: 12K

Chapter One ❀ Chapter Two

Ao3  ❀ Wattpad

                            Chapter 3: Celandine (Joys to Come)

     She met her uncle for the first time barefoot and half-feral, wearing old blood on her fingers and streaked across her dress. 

     When they called Eleanor down to Headmaster Grafton’s office, her fingertips were still tender from embroidering dresses at the local dress shop earlier that morning. She rubbed them against the pleats of her skirt as she took the stairs two at a time, willing the sting away. Having left her shoes somewhere under her bed, still caked in mud from the rainy day, her big-toe poked out of a hole in her pantyhose and hit the wool carpet with every step. It scratched.  

     When she was younger, maybe eight or nine, the sight of the big oak door with its perpetual dust settled into the engraving of Mother Mary would’ve made her break out into a cold sweat, a phantom sting of leather hitting raw skin making her spine stiffen and her eyes water.  

     But she was thirteen now.  

     It sent a jolt through her system, seeing the door already open. Usually, the headmaster made all the girls knock before entering, waiting until they started to shift on their toes or rock on their heels. He liked spending long hours complaining to all the teachers, disparaging the young orphan girls’ lack of discipline. Sometimes, if he caught them fidgeting too much, he’d rap their knees with his cane.  

     Once, when she had been sneaking to the kitchen for a quick snack—she was the favorite of the cooks, but don’t tell anyone—she’d seen him frothing at the mouth over when one of the girls got snot on his new coat, due to some awful crying jag earlier that afternoon. His face had been a very fierce shade of red, she recalled, as he’d paced about in one of the empty classrooms, hands flicking about. The color disguised the faint pockmarks on his cheeks and the paleness of his complexion. Eleanor preferred it. He looked more… human, that way. It was nice knowing he bled like any other man.  

     Today, however, the door was open. Inside, sat the headmaster with one of Eleanor’s least favorite teachers, Sister Sarah, whose lips pressed into a smear of rosy pink rogue as soon as she caught Eleanor at the doorway, barefoot and with smudges of rust smeared down the cream of her skirt. She liked to say the lip color was all-natural, but Eleanor knew better. Across from them, in an over-large chair of what she knew was buttery-soft leather—she once got in trouble for curling up and falling asleep in it at nine-years-old, near delirious from a nightmare of her dead mother and having snuck out of bed and hunkered down in the unlocked office—sat a man she’d never seen before, his back to her.  

     The headmaster was a man with light hair and even lighter eyes—this chilled, near clear grey—with a thin, cruel mouth. Slim in that fashionable way wealthy people always were with pearls dripping down the languid lines of their throats or Patek Philippe watches wrapped around the delicate curves of their wrist bones. Eleanor was envious—they never had any awkward bits, no hollowed cheeks that looked scooped out with a melon spoon, no knees that stuck out in knobs of bone under paper-thin dresses. 

     “Anne,” Headmaster Grafton beckoned, hand waving her inside. Eleanor bit her lip to avoid doing anything stupid, like curse him out or attempt to deck him, and felt the familiar sting of her front teeth sinking into the torn skin. Her knobby knuckles weren’t very good for punching, unfortunately, quick to bleed with the semi-fresh welts stretched across them from Sister Martha, the only teacher who still rapped her with the leather strap when she got an answer wrong. The only teacher who ever called on her anymore.           

     It said something about her that Sister Martha was perhaps her favorite person here.  

     Grafton clucked his tongue, waited until she stood across from his desk, hands folded in front of her. She kept her eyes on the carpet, this fluffy, garish thing the color of blackberry wine, and his eyes on her forehead seared into her skin. “Anne,” he said again, and it made her want to tear at her hair, or maybe his eyes, those cold eyes—because, yes, Anne was her middle name, her mother’s name, but it wasn’t fucking hers. And she’d stopped biting at her nails, recently, and they’d grown long enough to do some damage if she tried. She could do it.  

     Eleanor, apparently, was too Jewish of a name, and while none of the staff or teachers could do anything about her last name, as full-on kike as it was, they could switch out Eleanor for Anne. Saint Anne, at least, was the mother of Mary. 

     Eleanor, christened Anne, baptized anew.  

     (There were nights when she was laying in her bed, still damp from when one of the older girls had dumped buckets of ice-cold rainwater into the sheets—or on one particular occasion, from being freshly scrubbed of pig’s blood from the butcher’s a street over; the stains never came out—where she just repeated her name in her head. Over and over again. Mouthing around the syllables, tasting them on her tongue just so she remembered. Just in case. They’d scrubbed out the Yiddish with lye soap, the language of her mother, but her own name she’d keep.)  

     The next bit of what the headmaster said sounded off to Eleanor’s ears: a record scratch, a jerk of a needle. Nothing but a string of words. And now her eyes were on this stranger.  

     Even sitting, he seemed towering to Eleanor, a looming presence—a well-built man going soft in the middle. He looked like he could snap Eleanor’s wrist with the press of his pointer finger and thumb, but when she risked a glance at his face, swiveling her neck very covertly, his face was made up of long lashes and crinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes. On his head was a shock of red hair, left wavy rather than gelled back slick and going strawberry blond at the temples. His cheeks were peppered in white-as-snow stubble. This man could’ve been ancient as time itself or, maybe, thirty-five—Eleanor didn’t know.  

     But what caught her attention most was that word the headmaster said—that word. Uncle. Your uncle. This strange man with too-expensive clothes and a floral lapel pin, this was her family, her kin. Eleanor spun on her heel, away from Grafton and towards this new man, this silent man whose brown leather loafers must have cost more than her entire wardrobe.  

     “You’re Ma’s brother?” she asked, unable to believe it. Even through the blurred memory of her five-year-old self’s eyes, her mother had been a woman made up of dark colors, brunette curls near black and skin that tanned brown in the sun. This man was all light, all pale gold. But it was the only explanation that made any sense. 

     She’d seen a photo of her grandparents once, obviously red-haired despite the black-and-white, and thought maybe that explained it. Though they had possessed much darker complexions.  

     Her uncle—her uncle—blinked. “No,” he said, short and to-the-point but not cruel, and his voice was feather-soft. There was an odd lilt to his voice she’d never heard, a funny way he spoke his vowels. “Your father’s brother, actually. Will Connolly.”  

     An Irish last-name if she’d ever heard one.  

     Eleanor stared at Mr. Connolly. “My mother was a whore,” she said, tone gone flat between grit teeth. Grafton hissed. Sister Sarah snapped out a sharp “Anne!”, but that wasn’t Eleanor’s name, so she didn’t respond. On the fine-boned features of her so-called uncle’s face, she looked for any traces of shock. There were none. Not even a furrow of his faintly-lined forehead. “How d’ya know I’m his?”  

     Mr. Connolly only smiled. “You may not see it, but we look a lot alike, you and I. I haven’t a doubt.” She opened her mouth, shut it again. She couldn’t find the words. “He passed, unfortunately. Last summer. But he wanted to know you. Make things right.” At some point, Grafton opened his big mouth again, and some sort of grown-up talk ensued, but Eleanor couldn’t get herself to focus, couldn’t rip her eyes from this stranger’s face.  

     She tried to be sad—hearing that this man, her father, was dead.  

     But her head was stuffed with cotton; her very system gone numb.  

     In a flash, the headmaster’s hand white-knuckled her shoulder, his form too hot along her back, and Eleanor went very still. Felt her limbs lock into place. Her heart stuttered. “Be good, dear,” the man said, and his tone was saccharine, sticky sweet as a bubblegum cigarette. She didn’t answer, didn’t breathe, and in a moment, she heard the click of Mrs. Lynch’s sensible shoes before the door shut behind them both with a heavy thud. Eleanor’s eyes flinched closed.  

     After a breath, or two, and a silence so heavy it weighed down her shoulders, she sat in a recliner across from Mr. Connolly, crossing her legs at the ankle as she slumped into the velvet material. She could be a lady when she wanted to be. But one foot couldn’t stop tapping against the carpet. The one with the bare toe. Eleanor took in a deep breath. “It’s lavender, isn’t it?” she asked, abrupt, and he arched a brow at her, leaning forward, hands propped up on his thighs and elbows bent. “That pin.” She gestured with the jerk of her chin.  

     He laughed. It was a low sound, rumbling deep within his chest. Warm. “Keen eye. Aye, it is.” The tied sprigs of lavender were delicate for such a large man, the feathery fronds rendered in silver, and the whole pin perhaps smaller than the stretch of his thumb. It really was beautiful—she wanted to sketch it with the charcoal pencils hidden beneath her mattress. “It was me mother’s.” 

     Even more embarrassing, she wanted to hear that laugh again. He hadn’t been laughing at her. It hadn’t seemed unkind at all. 

     But when she looked up from a scab at her knee, she saw his expression didn’t look like he wanted to laugh much anymore. His own gaze was glued at a spot by her right wrist, and for the first time, the man that was probably her uncle looked rattled. His jaw clenched. His eyes perhaps a bit wide, blue and brown and green. There was a flush to the tops of his cheekbones that hadn’t been there before.  

     She took a quick glance down, then darted back up to stare at him again. Her sleeve had ridden up.  

     Eleanor bit at her lip. He saw. It didn’t matter. It didn’t.  

     (“Little pig,” one of the girls said, almost loving, almost fond as she held her down into the dirt and muck of the backyard, and another pressed the glowing eye of her cigarette into the skin of her forearm. This girl’s hair was in pretty blonde braids, frizzed in the summer humidity, and her grip was tight on her wrist. The cigarette steady between her fingers. The flesh sizzled and sizzled while she held it there, and Eleanor thought of the mud caking the back of her hair and of the blue of the sky and of how much she didn’t want to cry. While they laughed and laughed and laughed.   

     But, no, it didn’t matter now. It didn’t.)  

     Eleanor tugged down her sleeve without looking away. The thin, healed skin of those circular burns disappeared behind the stained cuff of her dress shirt. Say something, she thought her eyes might have said when they locked with his, and her skin felt like it was burning all over again, hot and too tight. I dare you. Mr. Connoly’s lips pursed. Then he opened his mouth.  

     “Anne,” he started. And didn’t seem capable of saying anything more.  

     If she squinted, he really did look like her a little—in the straight arch of his brow, the curve of his top lip. The own red of her hair. The freckles across his nose bridge were fainter than her own, but the shape of the nose itself was the same. A fair counterimage, masculine where she was either soft or gaunt. “It’s Eleanor,” she said after a beat, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears, like from somewhere far away. She flexed her toes against the carpet. Knew there was no place to hide. She’d corrected him—this stranger that wanted to take her across the sea, this man who, from the sound of it, wanted to bring her home with him. 

     To her eyes, the hands resting on his pressed trousers seemed the size of boxing gloves.  

     Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, got stuck in her throat. She swallowed around it. But all Mr. Connolly did was cock his head, just so.  

     “Eleanor?” he asked, and his tone was mild as milk.  

     “My name,” she explained.  

     He sounded puzzled. “But they call you Anne?”  

     Eleanor shrugged, picked at a run in her hose. “Because it’s my middle name,” she said. Because they’re bastards, she thought. “But I wanna be called Eleanor if I’m comin’ home with you,” she told him, pushing onward. Maybe she was imagining it, but she thought the corner of his mouth quirked, just a little. “Not Ella or Ellie or anythin' like that.” She paused. “Please.” 

     And the stranger that was her uncle smiled, wider than before. “Call me Samuel, then.” And he reached out to offer his hand to shake. She leaned forward to take it. “Eleanor.” 

                                            ❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

     After a month at Sam’s home—what the few staff there dubbed Narrow House due to its long and low layout—Eleanor made her first grave mistake.  

     Narrow House was the most strange and most fantastical place Eleanor had ever stepped foot upon. While it was in Chelsea, London, a place with a good bit of bustle from the glimpses she’d catch outside the car window, the sycamore trees that sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the front of the house cut off the outside world, blanketing the whole place in shade. It felt like a place for the fae. Not for man. The first two weeks of near silence she experienced, only disrupted by the rustle of leaves and the static hiss of cicadas, had left her jumping at every sound at night, curled up on top of her covers and hiding her face in her knees. Waiting for the monsters to come.  

     There weren’t any, of course. She should’ve known better—she wasn’t a kid, anymore.  

     Or maybe they were very shy monsters. Either way.  

     Truthfully, Eleanor couldn’t recall her reaction towards the place when she first stepped into the house, just the feeling of Sam’s hand settled feather-light between her shoulder blades. The way her eyes were welcomed by warm hues of gold and cream and deep red. A few leafy plants draped over a table just at the entryway; senses itching, she wanted to touch the waxy film of the heart-shaped leaves but flexed her fingers instead. There’d been a similar plant on Sister Agnes’ desk; it had always looked so parched.  

     (By the time she hit ten years old, she’d mastered the art of tip-toeing on her stockinged feet, having learned which floorboard squeaked, which route ensured the most carpet coverage. There was a single board in the main lobby that shrieked a blood-curdling sound if you hit it with your big toe just so—she’d learned that the hard way.   

     At night, when all the other girls were pretending to sleep, too afraid of a lashing to even breathe out-of-turn, Eleanor would go to Sister Agnes’ desk with her cup of water, steps hidden amongst the cacophony of gasps. Walking in wide sweeps over the creaks and sighs and moans of the wood and never spilling a drop.  

     The nun called its sudden revival an act of God. Maybe it was cruel, but she let it die after that.)  

     The entryway was dotted with chairs stacked high with pillows and throws, and through the open doorway to her left, she caught a flash of what could have only been a chandelier, though she’d never seen one outside of a magazine, all delicate cut crystal spiraling down, hung over a long and dark dining table that seemed to stretch into infinity. 

     Before she could absorb any of it, however, an electric jolt of fear overcame her, stole the breath from her lungs. A giant mass of dark fur appeared from another room, launching itself in her direction. Eleanor went rigid.  

     Trapped between her uncle’s hand and this eldritch horror, there was nowhere to turn.  

     “Sweet-Pea,” Sam said in a stern voice she’d yet to have heard from him, one that came from somewhere deep in his chest, and she flinched so hard she thought her bones must’ve ground together.  

     But he needn’t have used it, because the shadowy figure had already sat back on its hind legs right at her feet without any prompting, slobbering globs of drool onto her patent leather shoes and looking up at her with big, patient eyes. Its tail beat against the ground.  

     “Hi, Sweet-Pea,” she said, faint. The big dog near came up to her chin. She had to yank back her own hands when they automatically reached out to pet it—its coat looked so thick she thought that once she buried her fingers into the coarse curls, they’d be done for. They’d sink so far in they’d never come out again.  

      “He’s still a puppy,” Sam said, sounding apologetic. Tall and skinny with paws too big for his stick-thin limbs, and no longer a blurred-out nightmare created by his quick scamper towards her, the only thing frightening about Sweet Pea was his magnificent height. His teeth were exposed in a doggy grin, tongue lolling as he panted. “He gets excited.” His hand moved from her back to her shoulder, giving an awkward two pats that made Eleanor go even more still. He dropped his hand fast. The next words came out soft, a gentle nudge, “You can pet him if you want.”  

     And so, she had, resting a tentative hand on his head. His fur wasn’t very soft, she found out, but the feeling of his head butting against her stomach for more attention made a smile bloom on her face before she could bite it back.  

     Later that day, she’d met the rest of Sam’s pack. Besides Sweet-Pea, his Irish Wolfhound, there was Fennel, a Spinone Italiano; Ginger, a Border Terrier; Lady Susan, a Scottish Terrier; Cricket, a Rough Collie, and Billie, an English Water Spaniel. Though she’d asked after the breeds—more to be polite than anything, because men always seemed to get so worked up over their dog breeds, or at least the headmaster had—all the names spun around in her head, muddled and mixed. Though, Billie’s name was impossible to forget from the start: the stout pup with his chocolate fur was as round and fat as a sausage link, and as soon as she’d offered the little guy a treat, he’d nipped it out of her hand and rolled over for a belly rub.  

     Very quietly, she’d whispered an “I love you”  to her new friend—because how could she not?—and she’d ducked her head at her uncle’s chuckle.  

     It was still a really nice laugh.  

     They’d spent a good twenty minutes where Sam would drop treats into her palm to bribe the dogs with, showing her how to make them roll over and sit, to beg with their paws up and to run circles and other tricks. Eleanor learned a lot in that short time. That Lady Susan had a very imperial look to her whenever she demanded treats, arching her head and narrowing her eyes as if to say: “Well? ”. That Fennel had a love for licking between toes, as she’d left her shoes at the door. That Cricket’s fur felt like a cloud. By the time they were done, her clothes were littered with dog fur, white and brown and black stuck to the grey of her dress.  

     Her uncle had also promised a tour and an introduction to some of the staff, but one look at the overwhelmed expression on her face once they’d hit the sitting room, full of ceiling-high bookcases and couches that could seat a small army, and he offered to show her to her room instead. Her head still spinning over the fireplace as he guided her up the stairs. He left the door cracked open before he left.  

     “Come get me if you need me, yeah? I’m just across the hall,” he’d said, and she’d nodded like she’d meant it. He didn’t look convinced. “Bathroom’s the door next to this one,” he told her, a wrinkle to his brow, and was gone with the pad of footsteps on hardwood. 

     That night, she’d slept on top of the covers of a bed that could’ve housed four or five of her fellow orphans. Afraid to disturb that array of artful pillows at the top of the bed, she curled up at the bottom in a tight ball. Velvet and silk and in colors she’d never thought she’d be able to touch with her own hands. She still wasn’t sure she could. 

     The summer night meant it wasn’t even that cold.  

     That night, Billie hopped up onto her bed while she laid with her eyes wide open, listening to the wind whistling through the trees, feeling ungrateful and homesick and wanting the midnight roar of Brooklyn’s streets. Wanting her mother. He’d pressed his wet nose against her cheek, and she’d cried into the soft, downy fur of his chest until her eyes grew so puffy, she had no choice but to close her eyes and sleep. Eleanor was only glad that Sam couldn’t hear her. She’d mastered a silent cry years ago. It had taken a while, but she’d learned.  

     (You see, the headmaster liked to watch. Until it got boring. He’d bring the nuns in to witness. Maybe he spoke—she wasn’t sure. Her knees dug into the carpet; she could feel the indents form on the scraped-up skin there, red and raw and irritated. Bits of fluff sticking to half-formed scabs, still gooey with tacked-up blood. And the belt buckle clinked with every swing. It made more noise than her. One day, she promised herself, she wouldn’t even cry at all. The headmaster liked to watch, so she bit at the inside of her cheek until she bled, until salt and snot ran down her chin and dripped onto that hideous fucking carpet, the color of blackberry wine. Until it got boring.)  

     But it was different now, weeks later. Eleanor had learned the layout of the place, the few staff that her uncle kept around the house. And she knew his habits—what he liked. What he expected from her. As long as she was good, he’d keep her around, and maybe he’d even end up liking her a little bit.  

     She’d done so well until now.  

     It’d began over breakfast, a butter knife dripping marmalade hovering over her burnt toast as her uncle set down the newspaper in a rustle of pages, peering down at her through the thin frames of his spectacles. There was a sense of finality in her uncle’s expression that made her mouth go dry. A scraping sound reverberated throughout the kitchen, knife on toast.  

     Eleanor didn’t feel so hungry anymore.  

     It was a shame, too—she'd only just started allowing herself these bits of extra luxuries. Climbing under the covers at night. Picking a mint leaf off the plant in their windowsill to taste. Taking the dogs on a walk without asking for permission. Drawing a bath instead of washing up with the sink and a rag. Running her fingers along the spines of Sam’s books, instead of just using her eyes.  

     Marmalade. She liked it when the bits of rind stuck to her teeth, chewy and sweet. 

     “I think it’s time we get you a new wardrobe,” Sam said, and she felt dread wash over her, settle into the chinks of her armor. She knew what that meant; she knew what he was going to say. “I called the family seamstress”—and who the fuck has a family seamstress, anyhow?—“and she agreed to come over today to get your measurements.”  

     Eleanor opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You don’t need to do that. My clothes are fine,” she said, voice low, and hoped the defensive bite in her words was heard only by her. No such luck. By the wrinkle that formed at Sam’s brow, that wasn’t the case; if her tone hadn’t alerted him, the way her hand shook the triangle of toast in her grasp was clue enough. The toe peeking out of her stocking met the hardwood of the floor as her whole foot began to tap against the surface in a full-blown jitter. 

     Sam seemed to piece together his words very carefully. “Eleanor,” he began, and Eleanor’s knees were shaking so bad she feared rattling the table with the force of it. When he got serious, his speech went much more formal. “I am your guardian. I know... you feel as though you don’t need new things. And I’ve held off for all these weeks. But being as I am in a place to provide you all the luxuries in life, I feel as though getting you clothes that do not have holes in them—and aren’t several sizes too small, at that, clothes that  actually fit —is more than reasonable.” This had to be the most she’d ever heard him speak in one sitting. His eyes were roving her face, but her face was already directed towards the poached egg on her plate, not him. “D’ you understand?” 

     Eleanor nodded. Her cheeks blazed. 

     Sam let out a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding in the first place. “Alright then,” he said around a sigh. Like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders after her compliance. Like her opinion had mattered to him. “Good. Mrs. Davies’ll be here at two. Eat your breakfast now, eh?” There was a smile in his voice when he said it, but she scrambled to shovel in the remains of her breakfast anyhow, gulping orange juice and scraping the runny yolk off her plate with the crust of her bread. Smearing marmalade across her face in her gusto. He didn’t say it like an order. But just in case. Her stomach churned.  

     Orange peel was still stuck in her teeth when the sun hit her face, fifteen minutes later. 

     It was always coolest out in the early mornings, so that’s when Sam (and now her, it seemed) did the garden work. This was his normal morning routine, he’d explained to her, until the winter frost made it near impossible to go out until midafternoon when the sun was at its height. The mist felt like a balm to her frayed nerves, brushing against her skin; the morning dew coated her shoes in a gloss. Taller blades of grass left wet trails on the stretch of tights over her ankles.  

     Autumn was just beginning to touch the trees, glimpses of ochre and pinpricks of cherry red among all the green like a child’s finger-painting. The white stone pathway was framed by heather growing taller by the day, sprigs of pinkish-purple, or lilac, that tickled the pads of her fingertips when she brushed through them. Though, she and Sam kept having to replace their mulch whenever the dogs dug it up. Said path led to a man-made pond stocked with fat, happy koi; they nibbled at her fingers for food when she stroked her hands through the water. She wasn’t sure how long she spent knelt by the pond in the first few weeks, just watching it ripple under her hands, disrupting lily pads that were sent bouncing on the waves 

     Sam had cut her some of the heather to hang upside down in her closet, bundled up with dental floss and left in the dark on a clothing hanger to dry out. It didn’t have much of a scent, but its color had made her eyes sparkle at the very first sight of it. She couldn’t wait to hang it in her room; maybe on one of her bedposts, if it didn’t shed too much.  

     Besides helping with maintaining the heather, she also pruned the asters planted in clusters out in the sunlight, placed close to the patio furniture. She liked the touches of yellow and purple at their centers best. “You could press one, if you like,” Sam told her one day in early September when they’d just began to bloom. She hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away. “I could buy you a book for it. You could collect any you want.”  

      Eleanor hadn’t responded, wondering if it was a test—ribbing her, attempting to trip her up into asking for too much—but she hadn’t needed to speak a word. Her uncle plucked a flower from its stem, bright white against the tanned calluses of his hands, and held it out towards her until she offered up cupped palms for him to drop the bud into. It landed center face down.  

     “I’ll get you one,” he had said as if that transaction settled it, simple as that, and now, weeks later, a leather-bound journal rested on her bedside table. Parchment paper was tucked away in one of the drawers, though she wasn’t allowed to touch the iron without permission.  

     This rankled at her, sometimes. She’d worked as a seamstress’ assistant, for God’s sake, but Sam insisted, and Eleanor didn’t dare protest. In any case... It felt. Nice. To be worried over. 

     Among Sam’s backyard and dedicated garden, there were countless other flowers Eleanor had gotten acquainted with, though their names she had yet to quite master. White and pink autumn crocuses, she could identify without a pause or hint of self-doubt, but the miniature yellow blooms with their outreaching pistils she could not, for the life of her, recall any details of. Just that they liked hugging warm walls in the winter, shielded from the biting cold.  

     Currently, Sam was ruining the fine wool fabric of his trousers, knees sinking into the damp earth, checking on his radishes with careful touches. He patted the spot at his side. Eleanor rushed to kneel. His smile was a small one; she was graced with no baring of teeth. No threat. Not bite. Just a smile. He offered up the bag of mulch at his other side. “They’re not retaining moisture,” he explained, in that voice he often used when instructing her in any way, patient and steady with little variation in tone. No abrupt rises in volume that made her skin prickle with nerves. “Mulch will help with that. But we’ve gotta keep it a real thin layer, y’ see, like this.”  

     Eleanor heaved in a breath and let it escape in a little puff of air. “Why thin?” she asked, tentative, and watched her uncle’s eyes light up. 

     “Good question,” he praised, and Eleanor felt her ears burn, felt her cheeks pull with a reluctant grin. Sam grinned right back. “If you’ve got too thick a layer, it’ll keep any water from getting in, from reaching the roots. Ruin all your progress then, won’t it?”  

     The rest of the morning passed in this manner, checking all the plants, watering and pruning and patching up holes in the mulch from overzealous paws, before the housekeeper, Ms. Catherine Moore, let out the dogs at 11 AM sharp, a pitcher of what looked to be lemonade in hand. Eleanor inwardly cheered: lemonade was her favorite. The dogs chased each other throughout the garden, nipping at their siblings’ tails and rolling in the dirt. From where Eleanor now rested, sweat beading her brow as she took cover beneath the picnic table’s umbrella, Cricket trotted over, resting her head on her grass-stained knee with a flick of her mane and a small yip escaping her mouth. Eleanor dug her hand into the scruff of Cricket’s neck, offering a scratch—that fur was still cloud-soft.  

     From the corner of her eye, Eleanor watched Ginger, unkempt and often indifferent towards the other dogs, make straight away for Sam. He was lounging in a chair opposite to her, nursing a cigarette; the strands of his hair unshaded by the umbrella lit up a striking red-gold, like fire woven into thread. Her hair never looked so brilliant. “Little monster,” he greeted with a smile, inviting the dog onto his lap for pats. “I know it was you, digging up the mulch. Menace that you are.”  

     Ms. Moore reached them then, pitcher clutched in one plump fist close to her chest and two glasses pinched between the fingers of her other hand. The ice rattled within its glass container, sloshing the juice near over the brim and swirling the ladle in the pitcher ‘round and ‘round. Up close, Eleanor saw bits of fruit suspended within, sliced strawberries and what looked like quartered peaches, dying the drink more orange-pink than yellow where they settled at the bottom.  

     The pitcher, then the two glasses, were set against the patio table, cushioned with a pinky. Ms. Moore was a woman even older than her uncle, perhaps sixty years old, with a crinkle-eyed smile that she shot at Eleanor right now, head ducked under the umbrella to escape the sun. She pulled from a pocket in her apron two straws.  

     Eleanor took one when it was offered to her and watched with eager eyes when Ms. Moore began filling up a glass, holding the ladle still to avoid spillage; the housekeeper then used said ladle to spoon out several more pieces of fruit, slipping them into the glass with barely a splash. “Here you are, Miss Eleanor. You look parched.” She clucked her tongue, and the fine wrinkles around her mouth creased deeper. “Samuel, now y’ know I told you to get that girl a hat, didn’t I? She’s goin’ t’ burn right up at this rate.” 

     She’d never heard anyone else ever call her uncle Samuel, but being as Ms. Moore had worked for the family since Sam was in diapers, Eleanor imagined she was the exception. 

     In any case, Eleanor didn’t think she’d burned in her whole life, spending hours beneath the rays of the summer sun, skin growing darker and darker still. New freckles peppering her skin. But it was sweet—that she cared at all. She hid a smile behind the brim of her glass.  

     The few hours left until the arrival of the seamstress blurred by, her nose buried in a book that Sam recommended for her, a collection of short stories. Her fingers were coated in remnants of juice, having reached into the glass to pull out chunks of peaches, syrupy and dripping. They stuck against the pages if she lingered too long. She was more than halfway through “The Yellow Wallpaper,” wondering at what that smooch must’ve been that the protagonist was seeing, wrapping about her room and marring the paper that was driving her so mad, when Ms. Moore came back again, an odd look in her eyes when she peered over at Eleanor, squinting in the sun. Sam looked tense. His eyes flickered to Eleanor. 

     “Mrs. Davies is here, Samuel, in the parlor.”  

     And oh. She’d forgotten. She’d forgotten all about the seamstress. 

     This was where she mucked it all up.  

     A subtle shiver taking over her fingers, she tucked her book beneath her armpit before wiping imaginary crumbs off her skirt. Eleanor took a very deep breath, one that rattled in her chest. Mustering up a smile for Sam, one that felt like an open wound stretched across her face, she sat up. Her chair pulled up hunks of grass as she pushed it back. “You don’t need to come,” she said, tried to mean it.  

     Sam just shook his head. “It’d be rude of me, not welcoming a guest. And Mrs. Davies is an old friend of me mother’s, besides.” 

     Mrs. Davies was a small and squat woman in her late fifties, shorter even than Eleanor, who stood just a few inches below five feet at thirteen. Her cheeks were round and pink, her hair a dark blond. Barely greying. Her skin looked almost leathery, and those round cheeks pushed her eyes shut with the force of her smile. All smile lines. 

     “Oh,” she gasped, as loud as a gunshot even across the room, and only the pressure of Sam’s hand at her back prevented her from flinching back and away. Her voice was fairy-soft, airy and light. Like it could just float away with the wind. “She looks just like Winnie! Your mother had the same nose. And her hair, Samuel,”—yet again, with the Samuel, was that an old lady thing?—“such a lovely shade of red, it is.” That bright smile was spun her way. Sam slowly inched her forward, bit by bit by bit, until she was a mere handshake away from the older woman. “We’re going to have such fun together, dear. Every girl deserves pretty clothes.”  

     Eleanor didn’t know what she deserved, but it didn’t feel like this, trapped in the too-hot room of her uncle’s parlor, baking from the heat radiating off the fire-place. Those red bricks of the mantle, she knew, would be warm to the touch. Trapped in this room, to be poked and prodded. Left exposed. Don’t be so dramatic, she scolded herself.  

     This is what her uncle wanted.  

     And shirts that fit would sure be nice. No snags. No missing buttons. 

     Her uncle’s hand was heavy on her shoulder, this barely-there pat; she was ready for it. Didn’t flinch. There was a smidge of satisfaction burning away in her chest at that. “I’ll be just outside, then. Put on the kettle,” Sam said as if trying to reassure her, and he held out a hand for her to place her book into. With one last pat, a little stronger this time, he was gone with the click of the door behind him. Instead of looking at Mrs. Davies, she traced with her eyes all the titles on the bookshelf behind her instead.  

     She didn’t seem to mind. Out of the corner of her eye, Eleanor noticed the length of measuring tape curled around one wrist. “Alright, sweetheart, we’ll get into all that you’re lookin’ for—oh, I can just imagine you in dark green, you’d look so sweet, or some rose. So precious! But first, I really do need your measurements.” She beckoned Eleanor closer still, to where she was standing in the middle of the carpet, her little brown heels set against the cream with its deep red patterns, vines and roses twined into diamond-esque shapes. Eleanor tried not to drag her feet.  

     She was right in front of Mrs. Davies, now. “Thank you, ma’am, for agreeing to do this,” Eleanor said, because she could be a polite little girl if people let her be.  

     Mrs. Davies cooed. “Marge is perfectly fine, dear.” 

     “Thank you, Marge.”  

     Marge stroked her hands up and down Eleanor’s arms from shoulder to elbow, like soothing a startled animal, and Eleanor felt her whole body lock up in reply. “Alrighty now,” she said, and her voice really was just like a fairy, “let’s get to it.” Eleanor tried relaxing at the sweet sound of it, uncoiling her tense muscles bit-by-bit, starting with her toes and finishing with her shoulders. Best to start small and build up. Marge kept pushing onward. Hands still on Eleanor’s arms. “Take off your clothes for me, Eleanor dear.” 

     Static.  

     “’M sorry?” Eleanor asked, and her voice was not her own, something stretched thin and alien. The hands were gone, now, and Marge was unrolling that measuring tape from around her wrist. For a moment, Eleanor just counted how many times it unwound: one, two, three, four, five... Quick, practiced jerks that she missed if she blinked too slow. Six, or seven?  

     “Well, I’ve got to measure you, don’t I? And all that extra cloth gets in the way. We want these to fit you nice, with just a bit of growing room.” Marge went on to mumble something about “Samuel needing to fatten her up, just look at those boney arms,” but Eleanor’s ears were roaring, louder and louder and louder. She couldn’t hear a thing.  

     She couldn’t think; she couldn’t think; she couldn’t think— 

     Eleanor must’ve said, “Okay,” must’ve agreed, because her hands were moving on their own accord, reaching up to undo the first button of her blouse without needing any guidance from her mind at all. But they shook so bad, these tremors that jerked at her fingers and strained her knuckles, that she couldn’t get the button free from the loop. Her breath rasped in her throat, coming quicker and quicker: it was like breathing through a straw. She squeezed her eyes shut. It was just a fucking button, just a fucking button.  

     (Whenever Grafton got irritated, truly irritated, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. This awful, wet sound. He did that now. Eleanor kept her eyes on the carpet, traced the pattern there with her eyes over and over again. Counted how many loops there were in a sequence. Sixteen. It was an ugly fucking carpet, she thought. She thought that every time. “Shirt. Off,” he said after he was done clicking, and she undid her buttons one-by-one. She did not raise her eyes to the belt. But still, her chest tightened with the anticipation of it, the slap against bare skin, and she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.) 

     She couldn’t breathe. 

     If she saw the scars—if she told Sam, he wouldn’t want her anymore. Just seeing the burns trailing up her arms made his jaw flex, made his eyes go all dark and wet. She’d saw. It’d upset him. He wouldn’t want her. Eleanor gasped for air, moved her hand up to her throat like she could somehow coax out the breaths trapped within in. She couldn’t breathe. 

      There was a concerned sound, this slight lilt of a question being asked. A shuffle. A brush of air. And then, there were hands on her arms again.  

     Eleanor flinched so hard she swore it must’ve wrenched her shoulder out of socket. 

     The hands left, but it didn’t matter. Eleanor sank to the floor, knees-to-chest, and clapped her hands over her head. Watched the world fall in a blur of colors, even behind closed lids. Like a flicker of flame, red and orange and terracotta. “Samuel,” and this she did hear, high-pitched and hysterical, sounding far off even though it must’ve been shouted right in front of her. Must’ve been screamed to be heard through the water and sludge, the mud that clogged her ears, her throat. “ Sam! ” 

     There was a bang. The rattling of hinges. “Fuck,” a man’s voice said, and Eleanor thought she must’ve recognized it. Curled up as she was, all the soft parts tucked away, it was easier to focus, a little. “Get out, Marge. Go,” and there was an unsteady pause, “go and turn off the stove, please.”  

     In response, there was a click of the door shutting once more. And footsteps, sharp and clear before becoming muffled by the carpet, sounding off closer and closer. It was followed by the creaking of old knees. She smelled Sam’s cologne, woodsy and a little sweet. Like vanilla and cedar. But it was so safe, curled up in the dark of her knees, so she just tightened her hands over her head.  

     A sigh, soft but close enough that it ruffled her hair. “Eleanor,” Sam said. “Eleanor, love, what’s wrong?” She’d never been called love before.  

     “Please don’t be mad,” she whispered into the skin of her knees.  

     “What? ” 

     “Please don’t be mad,” Eleanor gasped, ragged enough that it scraped, and felt the tears welling up in her throat. Salty, like sweat and blood and other unpleasant things. She swallowed them down. “I’m sorry. I tried to be good. I’m sorry—I’m sorry.” 

     “Eleanor, no, no.” 

     “I’m so sorry. I-I, I—” She choked on her own breath, coughing and sputtering.  

     “Hey, hey,” he shushed, and she could hear the fluttering of his clothes, the shifting fabric of the light cardigan he wore. “Just look at me, okay, love? Please just look at me.”  

     Her arms ached, and her head pounded from the stress of holding back tears with nothing but a fraying strength of will. She let her hands fall from where they, without her knowledge, hand become entangled in her hair. Her scalp stung. “There we go now,” Sam said when she peeked out from behind her knees, raising her head to meet wide, concerned hazel eyes. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. “There’s my niece.” Eleanor shook her head, though at what she didn’t know, coughing again when she tried breathing in. 

     “Whoa there. Just breathe with me, okay?” And Sam took in a deep breath, holding it in before letting it out again. Eleanor found her attention hyper-focused on the rise-and-fall of his chest. “In through the nose,” he said, “and now out through the mouth.”  

     She wheezed on the first exhale, but by the third, it didn’t hurt much anymore. Sam looked almost boneless with relief. Eleanor stared down at her knees, felt her bottom lip begin wobbling. A damning tell she couldn’t shake.  

     “Eleanor,” he breathed out, sounding like a deflating balloon, and her eyes shot up to look at him again. She would never get sick of hearing her name; she wondered if that was why he said it so often. “Eleanor, you don’t have to be sorry, okay? Not at all.” 

     Eleanor shook her head, violent enough that her curls went flying. She had to clear her throat to speak, and her voice came out hoarse. “But I think I upset Mrs. Marge.” That damn fucking lip wobble again—it made her feel five-years-old; it made her feel small. “I was bad.”  

     Seemingly speechless, Sam stared at her, knees on the carpet and hands limp at his sides. He was making that expression she’d feared before, where his eyes went all dewy, and he looked, for all the world, like she’d socked him in the jaw. Wounded. One of his hands, massive enough that it could wrap around her wrist two, three times, reached out. Up towards her face. Eleanor flinched her eyes closed. He sucked in an audible breath.  

     This was it. This was it.  

     But Sam just placed a hand on her cheek, cupped her jaw. His palm was softer than she thought it’d be, even with the callouses. It made Eleanor feel strange. Warm. If she pressed in closer, she worried the touch might burn her. 

       (“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady,” Grafton said, and his fingers had a tight grip on her jaw. She looked. She thought his eyes were very grey, and she didn’t want to think about what else she thought.   

     Later, when she was in an empty lavatory, scrubbing at the crescent moons on her palms with soap that stung, she thought back to that moment, when his hands were on her chin, thumb and forefinger pinching the skin there. His nailbeds were well-maintained. Clean, pushed-back cuticles. Her mother had always taken good care of her nails. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady,” he’d said, and she had thought his eyes were very grey. She had thought that if he moved those fingers any higher, she’d bite them clean off, bite through blood and bone.  She wondered if she’d done it, if she’d be picking his veins out from between her teeth right about now.   

     Eleanor ended up throwing up in the sink. God, hopefully, no one heard.)  

     “Eleanor,” her uncle said, like trying to call to her from underwater, and she blinked. Couldn’t remember where she’d gone. “Eleanor, I’m never going to hit you. Not ever, y’ hear me?” 

     And Eleanor said back, instant, “I hear you.” It was what she was supposed to say.  

     Sam’s brows furrowed. “No,” he insisted. Brushed a curl from her eyes with a finger. It had a half-healed cut from what looked like garden shears. “I feel like you aren’t understanding me. Even if you think you’re bad—and you’re not, Eleanor, you’re not. But even if you ever are, I will never hit you. Do you hear me?” 

     “I hear you,” she said, and she almost believed it, too.  

     Later, she told Marge that she’d like a green dress, maybe, if that was alright. And that she enjoyed mother-of-pearl buttons. Marge said she could have whatever she liked. She got measured in her shift, and Sam lounged on one of the couches, reading from a large tome with deckled edges. And it was alright. It was all alright.  

                                             ❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

     She wore that green dress when she met her father’s wife for the first time with her two children—her half-siblings, she couldn’t comprehend it—in tow. Whenever Eleanor felt her nerves start to rise, her palms start to itch, she’d trace the daisies Mrs. Marge had embroidered on the sleeves and breathe a little deeper, a little steadier.  

     When Sam had come to her, hands wringing nervously in the doorway of her bedroom, she hadn’t known what to think. Learning that her father had been married when he was with her mother... Well, that hadn’t been a shock. Married men had laid with her mother all the time; she may have been only six years old when she’d been taken to the orphanage, but she hadn’t been stupid. Or blind. She knew the look of a wedding ring, even if her mother had never worn one herself.  

     Learning that Sam wanted her to meet her late father’s family, his wife and his children... That had given her pause. Eleanor had stared at him, aghast, mouth agape; her attention entirely torn away from the journal in her lap. Her pen, still pressed deep into the paper, left a spreading stain over the dot of one of the i's, a black cloud of ink. She’d been practicing her cursive, the careful loops of it—Sam was in the process of picking out tutors for her, and she’d sworn to whatever higher power there was out there that she would not be an embarrassment—but how ugly her uppercase S was no longer mattered.  

     “Sam, they’ll hate me,” she’d blurted, digging her fingers into the fabric of her comforter. Sam had looked at her then, the agitated fidgeting of his fingers slowing to an abrupt stop, and he’d strolled over to sit beside her before she could barely blink. 

     “It’s impossible to hate you,” he said, which Eleanor knew to be a lie. “And if they tried, they’d be out of our house, wouldn’t they? Just like that.”  

     And so, here they were.  

     Josie Connolly was a woman who loomed over everyone around her without even trying, easily above six feet in her lace-up boots, and made all the taller with her hair piled high on her head, its color so dark it was near black. Like Grafton, she was thin in that fashionable way, slim wrists encased in lavender gloves and the curve of her cheek both sharp and soft, silk over steel. She peered down her nose at Eleanor from where she stood behind Sam, near hidden in his shadow. Sam stepped forward to take her coat, and never, never had Eleanor felt so exposed from one pair of grey eyes, so stripped down and flayed. Which was saying something. “She looks more like you than Will,” was the first thing past her lips, the slim line of her eyebrow raised in some sort of amusement gone sour.  

     To be fair, Eleanor thought, being faced with your dead husband’s infidelity would make anyone bitter.   

     Her uncle’s smile was a brittle thing. “Josie, good to see you. As always. Hello, Junior. Hello, Lottie. Merry Christmas.”  

     That’d been another thing Sam had fretted over—whether a Christmas dinner would insult her Jewish sensibilities. Like she hadn’t grown up in a Roman Catholic orphanage. Or, perhaps, she noted, an amused curl to her mouth, that was why he asked at all. He always got scowly at the slightest mention of her time there, though he tried his best to hide it.  

     It’d been almost cute, watching him leap up from the edge of her bed to pace the length of her bedroom, flinging his hands about in endless motion, his sleeves rolled up and the freckled skin of his forearms stark against the background of her dark green walls, recently painted. It was one of the first times that Eleanor thought they really looked related, like kin. The way he puffed stray strands of hair out of his eyes, his wrists too busy lolling this way and that. 

     “You’re laughing at me,” he accused, once he’d paused long enough in his rant of telling her, for the fifth or sixth time, that her comfort was paramount, that they could schedule a different date—that'd it’d been Josie’s idea, anyhow, not his own—to actually take a good look in his niece’s direction. He sounded very pleased.  

     “I’m not,” Eleanor protested, but she was still smiling. “Christmas dinner is fine, Sam, honest.” In truth, she’d liked Christmas back at the orphanage, if only because the sisters were nicer that time a year, less likely to strike out with the leather strap. Christmas cheer and all that. Besides, Christmas dinner was almost always more delicious than any other meal of the year, more plentiful: potatoes and chicken, green beans fresh from the market. One year, they’d even got slices of pumpkin pie. Christmas time was very kind to orphans, even Jewish ones.  

     It hadn’t compared to making latkes with her mother for Chanukah—her mother had never allowed her to grate the potatoes, and she remembered, even now, watching with saucer-wide eyes as the pile of shreds grew and grew and grew, a small mountain on their kitchen table. The smell of onions caramelizing in Bubbe’s cast-iron skillet, the promise of them being jammy and sweet, almost buttery on her tongue. The bubbling of the vegetable oil on the stovetop. She’d scoop applesauce onto her mother’s latkes, heaps and heaps of it, until Anne scolded her for the mess. Withholding laughter that glittered behind her eyes. “You can’t fit all that into even your big mouth!” Her fingers had always been so tender, wiping at the applesauce oozing from the sides of her mouth, down her sticky chin, that the memory of it all always made Eleanor want to shut her eyes, to wrap her arms around herself and lean into that great love again, even if only the remnants of it.  

     Not to mention the honey and apples on Rash Hashanah, the perfect treat to her five-year-old eyes and tastebuds. And challah, eggy and so, so sweet: sweet as everything was meant to be in the New Year. The bread perfectly round, braided by her mother’s careful hands. Its top always so crunchy. Her mother hadn’t been a religious woman, not at all, but “Food is the language of love, my sweet, and our family has passed onto us so much of it.” No, Christmas couldn’t compare.  

     But maybe all Christians were kinder on Christmas, even to the bastard children of cheating, bastard husbands too dead to curse their names. The thought perked her up. It felt like a silly hope, but one she was willing to cling to. “Besides,” Eleanor told her uncle, giving him her most nonchalant shrug, like the thought of meeting the family of the man she hadn’t been good enough for didn’t send a chill down her spine, like it was better than fine, “it’s just a dinner.” 

     Just a dinner, indeed.  

     The kids behind Josie were perfect and pretty in the way that made Eleanor’s teeth clench, that made her want to tuck her hands behind her back and scratch at the half-healed scar tissue, scaly and ugly, that stretched across her knuckles. She did not do that.  

     The younger one, Charlotte, shot her (their) uncle a smile—there was a gap where one of her canines should’ve been. She looked like she belonged in a Monet painting, all strawberry blonde hair and soft pastels. Up close, Eleanor noted her eyes were the palest shade of green she'd ever seen. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Sam!” Their chins might’ve been the same, she thought, as she tried not to fidget when those pale, pale eyes fell on her face.  

     William Jr., sixteen, was a carbon copy of his mother, already towering over all of them, even Josie, with skin so light it was translucent. “Merry Christmas.” His voice was nasally from what was probably a cold, if the red tip of his nose was any indicator. He didn’t look at her at all, trained his gaze studiously on Sam, on his mother, on the wall coat rack where he placed his winter jacket. On anything that wasn’t her. It wasn’t subtle.  

     “This is Eleanor,” Sam said—like they couldn’t have known. Abruptly, he was behind her again, his hands curled around her shoulders; his presence warm at her back. It was almost baffling, how quickly Eleanor eased under his touch. Felt some of the tension leach out of her. She’d been grinding her teeth without even noticing it; her gums felt tender. At least I’m doing it with you, she thought. At least it’s you. Josie’s eyes were narrowed in on her. Her own gaze trained on the woodgrain of their floor, Eleanor straightened her spine and choked out some form of a hello, pleased to meet you. And steeled herself for the rest of the day. You’ve got this.  

     There was one thing she could say about the whole affair: dinner, at least, was delicious. Her plate was piled to the point of excess by Sam, slabs of dark turkey meat, stuffing and gravy, roasted potatoes with garlic, cranberry sauce, and some strange pancake-like side called Yorkshire pudding. By the time she was less than a third of the way through her meal, her fork not even scraping the bottom of the plate, her stomach had begun cramping to the point that she felt vaguely ill.  

     Normally, she could get away with feeding scraps to the dogs when this happened, slipping them bits of fat among other treats under the tablecloth while Sam looked the other way, their teeth closing around the food so gentle their canines barely grazed her fingers at all. But Josie didn’t like dogs, apparently, so they were all out playing under the watch of Ms. Catherine. Eleanor longed to join them. She nibbled at a Brussels sprout. 

     The small talk was unbearable.  

     “Have you gotten your invitation yet?” Josie asked her brother-in-law, cutting her potatoes into dainty, bite-sized pieces. Sam arched a brow as if to say: be more specific. She gave a light scoff in reply, popping a morsel into her mouth and chewing carefully, lips pursed, before speaking up again. “Don’t be daft, Sam. You know I mean Leo Amery’s New Year's soirée.”  

     Sam shrugged. He looked elegant in a way that Eleanor could never pull off. “I believe so. To be honest—I didn’t pay much attention.”  

     Charlotte, who had lit up at the mention of the party, made more sprite than girl from the glittering of her eyes, shot an affronted scowl Sam’s way. Her nose crinkled. “You’re so boring, Uncle Sam! It’s going to be perfect this year—Mum promised I could go. The invitation said the theme's A Midsummer Night’s Dream!” It looked, for a moment, like she was about to start waving her hands around, enthusiasm clear in the way she vibrated in her chair, but a cool look from her mother had her settling back down. Her smile shrank. Still, she pushed on, in a much more sedate tone. “Summer in winter. Fairies and magic, isn’t that fun?”  

     “Very fun,” Sam agreed, shooting her a smile, voice kind enough he seemed almost sincere, even to Eleanor’s ears. Charlotte smiled back, but her eyes were on Eleanor now, her head cocked to one side.  

     “Are you going to come, Eleanor?” Maybe she was imagining it, but the younger girl seemed almost pleased at the thought.  

     Josie clapped her hands, a thunderous sound that sent Eleanor into a fit of flinching. “Yes, how about it, Eleanor?” She said her name in this slick, mocking way that made her feel filthy just hearing it.  

     Eleanor exchanged a frantic look with Sam from where he sat at the head of the table. Will Jr., who up to this point had been silent and motionless at her side besides the steady consumption of his plate, turned to look at her with his mother’s grey eyes. Well? he asked. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words to speak. She could imagine nothing more hellish, dressed up just to be stripped to the bone by the sharks of London polite society.  

     “Eleanor’s got time,” Sam responded for her, and there was a firmness, a finality, to his reply that had Josie straightening in her seat. It was quite the feat—her posture had already been impeccable. “And if I never had to go to one of those stuffy things again, it’d be eons too soon.” His smile had an edge, and Eleanor hid her own, blotting her mouth with her napkin. “Though, fairies do sound nice, Lottie. You’ll fit right in.” Lottie beamed at him from her place beside her mother.  

     Whatever reply Josie had on the tip of her tongue, it was disrupted by one of the cooks trotting in, a jolly man named Joseph who clutched a large platter in his hands. Following close behind was June, a part-time maid, who darted about the table with whispered apologies as she gathered up plates and used silverware. Eleanor forked over her still overflowing plate with poorly-hidden relief. June stopped just long enough to tut at her, a smile lingering at the corner of her mouth. “You’re too thin by half, miss,” she scolded, quiet enough not to be heard over Lottie, who in a surge of passion, started regaling to Sam her recent sewing project, something about embroidering a landscape into the hem of a dress. If she weren’t her half-sister, only a year out from her father’s death and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his widow, Eleanor would want to pick her brain for what exactly that entailed.  

     “I’m saving up for dessert,” Eleanor lied with the bat of her lashes. June just shook her head and moved on to hoist Junior’s empty plates on top of the pile. Meanwhile, Joseph had sat several dishes in the center of their table: a fruitcake, a Yule log, and to Eleanor’s equal amount of dread and delight, what looked like an apple tart.  

     This is the end of me, she thought, eyes wide. “Thank you, Mr. Joe,” she murmured as the man walked past, and he shot her a grin before disappearing through the door with a whirl of his apron. By the time she had looked away from him and back towards the table, Sam had set a sizeable slice of apple tart right in front of her, the filling already oozing onto the plate. She shot him a look of betrayal. The corner of his mouth quirked up, even as his eyes blew wide in mock-innocence.  

     For a blissful moment, there was just the sound of forks hitting ceramic and a pleased hum or two. Even Josie picked through her slice of Yule log with something close to relish, patting away imaginary crumbs or smears of chocolate ganache between bites. It was almost peace, that thrum of tension from the start near silent.  

     Then Junior opened his mouth for perhaps the first time since they sat at the table, head twisted Eleanor’s way. “D’ you even celebrate Christmas, Eleanor?” Silence. He said her name the same way his mother did: like it was something rotten in his mouth. Like it was something to be spat out. Josie’s face peeled back into a smile.  

     It would’ve been beautiful if her eyes weren’t so cold.  

     “Um,” Eleanor stuttered and could’ve heard a pin drop. Charlotte’s head perked up in interest over her tart, and Sam opened his mouth to speak, so she pushed onward. “I did celebrate it. At the orphanage with everyone else, like I’m doin’ with you. But no, um, I don’t personally celebrate Christmas.” She thought it sounded rather diplomatic of her. Sam’s shoulders uncurled, just a little.  

     “Right,” Junior pushed onward, and he leaned into her direction far enough she could almost feel his breath on her face. The high points of his cheeks were very pink. “Because Da didn’t just fuck a whore, he had to fuck a Jew, too.”  

     Eleanor didn’t know what to say to that. It was true. Sam looked like he wanted to spit. “William—” 

     Josie cut in, clearing her throat and scolding, “Now, Junior, language,” but it was the most pleased Eleanor had ever seen her. Lottie looked pale, even paler than usual, slinking back into her seat, sweet tooth forgotten; she looked so much smaller than before, this girl who already had Eleanor beat by a few inches at eleven years old. That thrum rose to a near roar.  

     Sam scraped his fork across his empty plate, a deafening, obvious screech. It cut through the tension like a knife through butter. “I’m getting awful tired, Josie,” he said like there were several things he was getting tired of right about now. But his tone softened, directed towards Charlotte. “My old age must be catching up to me.”  

     Eleanor didn’t look up from the tart, uneaten, on her plate. Josie’s voice grated, smooth and polished as it was. “Well, it’s getting late.” Junior didn’t say anything at all; his eyes were still burning a spot into her cheek.  

     They left with the adjusting of coats and kisses and hugs sent Sam’s way, and only Lottie waving her a goodbye, a simple wiggle of her fingertips before her mother grabbed her wrist and tugged.  The closing of the door sounded like a gun going off. Bang.   

     Staring into the empty space where they once were, Eleanor didn’t really know how to feel, her body slumping into a chair set up against the wall of the wide entryway. She sank, boneless, into the countless throw pillows, covering her eyes with the palm of her hand. Her head pounded. “You didn’t have to make them leave, y’ know. It's okay that they're mad at me.”  

     Sam let out a sigh that was equal parts exasperated and fond. “Eleanor, what did I say when we first discussed them coming over?”  

     I know what you said. Still.  “But they’re your family,” she insisted, pulling back her hand to glare up at him. 

     “So are you.”  

     Sam looked at her, backdropped by the several feet long pastoral painting behind him, and must have seen something in her expression—bewilderment, maybe, or discomfort at that bewilderment—because he let out a great sigh. With a rustle of clothing, he crouched in front of her, his forearms resting against his thighs. The set of his jaw said, look at me. And so, she looked. Really looked. He still had a smile for her, small and warm.  

     “And I like you better,” Sam told her, eye-to-eye with her now, and his words spoken with that sort of earnestness in his voice and demeanor that he always had around her, that made her ache when she lingered on the thought of it too long. Like poking at a still-healing bruise. Eleanor tucked her smile into her hand, but it didn’t matter: he grinned back.  

                                          ❀❀❀❀❀❀❀ 

     The Chelsea Physic Garden glasshouses were some of the most beautiful structures Eleanor had ever seen in her twenty-four years. The long glass panels stretched high above her head, matching on either side and meeting in the middle. Plants bracketed her and Sam, the foliage so thick it near shielded their guide from sight, a stout, middle-aged man with his eyes on his watch ever since Sam told him a verbal tour was unnecessary.  

      Huge benches ladened with terracotta pots, blossoming with blues and pinks and purples and reds. Pops of color so bright they were practically eyesores. She thought The Garden of Medicinal Plants’ section on herbal remedies had been her favorite, based on smell alone, or maybe the pond at the center of the garden itself, chock-full of lily pads and mosses, boggy and messy and alive, rife with aquatic life, but this, this took the cake.  

     Eleanor was staring, eyes growing bigger and bigger as she tried to take it all in, when Sam knocked into her arm with something sturdy. It crinkled against the sleeve of her blouse—the present he’d brought with him, tucked safely underneath his arm no matter how much she whined and cajoled. “Finally caving, old man?”  

     Sam rolled his eyes. “Just take it, old woman.” He bugged out his eyes, all drama. “Twenty-four! Already one foot in the grave.” She ripped it out of his fingers with a bark of a laugh.  

     “I doubt you’ve got more than a pinky toe in yours. Gonna outlast us all, remember?”  

     It was his turn to laugh. “Just open it, Eleanor. Before I go greyer, yeah?” 

     Eleanor could live the rest of her life without another gift, but the sound of ripping through wrapping paper was still one of her favorites. All the destruction without any of the guilt. She peeled back the final layer and went still. “Oh,” she whispered, breathy, near soundless. 

     It was a flower dictionary, with deckled edges that fit the tips of her fingers perfectly, the leather of the cover worn and well-loved. The gilded title sent a rush of familiar fondness through her, a rush so strong she was almost dizzy. She laughed. “Where’d you find this? It looks exactly the same.” Exactly the same as the one she’d gotten for her first birthday from Sam, fourteen years old and curious about anything she could get her hands on. Sam hadn’t really seen the appeal in the language of flowers, she knew, but he’d indulged her anyway. It’d been the only thing she’d asked for that year, the only thing she’d really wanted.  

     She’d used it for years, a great reference for whenever she wanted to sketch a particular flower, but it’d been chewed up by Sweet Pea right before she turned eighteen years old, made a total ruin of slobber and teeth indents, the ink all smeared and the spine cracked clean down the middle. An apparently rare edition he’d scrounged up for the first time at an old bookstore in East London, she thought she’d never see the likes of it again.  

     “I have my ways.” Laughing again, Eleanor just shook her head, grinning so wide it hurt.  

     There was an odd bump between the pages, a groove where everything else was smooth, and when Eleanor went to inspect it, expecting a bent page, she found a pressed flower instead. Bookmarking a page of tiny, yellow petals and even tinier rows of font, was a celandine plant, its ruffled leaves still attached. Perfectly preserved.  

     “I did some reading,” he explained, when Eleanor couldn’t get herself to speak. She shook her head until she could breathe right again.  

     “You’re such a sap.” 

     He gave her that smile, the one just for her. And Eleanor tucked the book tight against her chest, holding on. She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Ready to go home?” 

#tommy x oc #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fic #ada thorne #ada shelby #polly gray #michael grey #arthur shelby #john shelby #jessie eden #lgbtq+ #tw antisemitism #tw k slur #tw child abuse #bisexuality #oc #ofc #original characters #fanfic #bbc #slow burn #slowburn

[vateacancameos]

Chapters: 1/1 Words: 1393 Fandom: D.E.B.S. (2004) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Amy Bradshaw/Lucy Diamond Characters: Lucy Diamond, Amy Bradshaw Additional Tags: Autumn, Established Relationship, Post-Canon, Pictures, Belgium (Country), Foliage, Marriage Proposal, except not really, Well maybe a little, Lucy spoils Amy, One Shot Series: Part 1 of snapshots of autumn Summary:

Part of the snapshots of autumn series, which tells stories of ladies in love during autumn, this story can be read independently.

Lucy and Amy get away from sunny Barcelona during the fall, spending some time in the Belgium countryside so Amy can take pictures for her end-of-term project. This is a little one-shot of them being adorable while Lucy spoils Amy.

Story:

The click of the camera pulled Lucy’s gaze away from the mirror smooth lake, and as beautiful as that view was, it was the new view that made her grin like a fool. Amy’s camera dropped away from her face so she could return the smile.

“Gorgeous,” she said, her gaze fond.

Lucy shrugged. “I promised my girl the best autumnal landscapes on the continent. Glad I could deliver.”

Amy let the camera hang loose on the strap around her neck so she could bring her hands up to cup Lucy’s face. “Not what I meant, but those views are beautiful too.”

Read the rest under the cut.

Even after a year and a half, Lucy still got that warm feeling when Amy complimented her. She would never have believed two years ago that she’d be happily in love now. She’d given up on it, only for it to fall in her lap—or more accurately, her soup. And even after she and Amy had found each other, as amazing as it was, she’d not let herself believe it would last, even as she was fighting tooth and nail to win Amy’s affections. But here they were, Belgium in the fall, Amy looking positively adorable in a teal toque and matching fingerless gloves, smile wide as she took in the brightly clothed trees around them.

Lucy couldn’t have made it more perfect if she tried—the scent of bonfires in the air, a light fog cloaking them as they stood at the edge of a lake—and she silently thanked Scud’s random knowledge of secret but photographic European locales.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, but this is only the beginning, babe,” Lucy said. She kissed her girlfriend before turning her so Amy could look out on the lake again, Lucy holding her from behind.

“Lucy! This is already the best vacation ever. You don’t have to take me anywhere else.” Amy’s protest was half-hearted. She knew Lucy loved spoiling her, but Lucy knew she still felt the need to make at least a token protest.

“You can’t take pictures of just a single place. That would make for the most boring end-of-term project ever. Next up is Versailles, then of course we have to visit a few German castles.”

“How long is this trip supposed to be? I do have classes, you know.”

Lucy hugged Amy a bit tighter. “We’ll be back in Barcelona next week, promise. But we have to take advantage of the fall colors while they last, they’re only around for a short period after all. And you’ve been so busy with school and me getting my business off the ground, we both needed the break.”

“Mmm,” Amy hummed. “I still don’t know how you found out that fall is my favorite season.”

“Scud, of course. Well, Janet, really, who told Scud, who told me.”

Amy laughed. “Of course.” She slipped out of Lucy’s arms, straightening her down vest and rubbing her arms. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could use a hot drink and a fire. I’ve gotten too used to the warm beach climates.”

“You love it here,” Lucy teased, but went to grab their bags so they could head back to the chateau she’d rented for the weekend (just because she’d gone legit didn’t mean she hadn’t kept enough dough in the bank to keep them living comfortably; her girl deserved the best).

“Oh! We need a picture of the two of us.”

Amy latched on to Lucy’s hand with her own, pulling them close. Lucy went willingly but pretended to put up a fight. “Ugh, why?”

“Because we are an adorable couple, the landscape is gorgeous, and I want to remember this fantastic trip.” Amy’s grin turned into a pleading pout. “Please?”

Lucy sighed dramatically, and let her face be smooshed next to Amy’s for a self-portrait. She scowled as fiercely as she could to make Amy laugh later when she looked at the pictures, but switched to a grin when Amy put her arm around her waist for the second picture. For the final picture, she turned to plant a kiss on her girlfriend’s cheek, and was thwarted when Amy did the same, and they locked lips. Which turned their picture-taking session into a make-out session, Lucy barely managing to remember to slide Amy’s camera softly to the ground before it could fall.

She’d have to thank Scud for the vacation idea. Later.

🍁🍂🍁

They were sitting in front of the outdoor firepit by early evening, hot drinks in hand and a shared blanket over their laps. Lucy put her arm around Amy so she could lean in to see the pictures on the tiny camera screen that Amy was scrolling through. She didn’t know much about art—except knowing which pieces were worth stealing, which she didn’t do anymore anyway—but the pictures were gorgeous. They managed to capture the atmosphere perfectly—the mist ghostly, the leaves brilliant, the air crisp.

“You’ve got an amazing eye, babe,” she told Amy, snuggling closer. “Pretty soon, you’ll be selling your art for millions, and I can quit my job to become a trophy wife, lazing around the cabana all day.”

Amy chuckled. “I’m still in school, and I’m not even the best in my cl- oh my God, did you just propose?” Her eyes wide, mouth open with shock, Amy turned to face Lucy.

“Oh, shit,” Lucy said. She’d been thinking about it more lately, but she hadn’t talked about it with Amy at all. “I- I mean, no? Yes? Maybe?” She bit her lip as she looked Amy in the eye. Had she just ruined everything? She knew Amy loved her, but did she love love her?

“No, yes, maybe? Well which is it?” Amy was very still, her face still a mask of surprise.

Lucy grimaced. “Ummm, whichever you want it to be?”

Amy gave her that stern, squinted-eye scowl she’d perfected with the D.E.B.S. that Lucy had always found just a little bit sexy. “Which do you mean it to be?”

With a sigh, Lucy slumped back on the bench, looking at the flannel blanket in their lap. “Well, I guess I’ve thought about it. Vaguely …?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, yeah. You know. Like, I’d like to, at some point, when we’re both ready. No rush!” She chanced a glance up at Amy, who was biting her lip like she did when she was happy or worried or wanted to fool around. It was always adorable, and it gave Lucy hope.

Amy’s eyes were wishful surprise. “Really?”

Lucy cupped her cheeks in her hands, giving her a quick kiss before pulling back to look her in the eyes. “I love you, Amy Bradshaw. There’s no one else for me.”

“So … you’re proposing?”

“No!” Amy’s face fell, and Lucy hurried to reassure her. “I want to propose for real, with a ring, a candle-lit dinner, string quartet, all that romantic stuff.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Amy whispered. “I don’t need that. I just need you.”

“But I want to. You deserve the best.”

“You need to stop spoiling me!”

“Never.” Lucy turned away so she could snuggle back in at Amy’s side. She sipped her hot cider and smiled. Amy wanted to marry her, Lucy Diamond, former supervillain, current boat captain. She was the happiest woman alive.

They sat in silence for a time, the only noise the snap of the logs on the fire and the occasional evening bird call.

“You know …” Amy eventually said, low in Lucy’s ear. “If you wanted the perfect moment to propose, it would’ve been here, today.” She motioned to the bright red, gold, and orange trees around them, the fire in front of them, the chateau next to them.

Lucy playfully dug her fingers into Amy’s side. “You’re terrible, you know that? Why do I want to marry you, again?”

“Because I’m adorable, and you love me.” She shot Lucy her most innocent smile.

Giving up teasing completely, Lucy smiled at her girlfriend. “Very true. I do love you. So much.”

Amy smiled fondly in return, leaning in to peck her on the lips. “I love you too, Lucy Diamond.”

Maybe that day would’ve been the perfect time to propose, with the gorgeous views and the intimate setting, but Lucy was content to wait. Any time was perfect, when she was with Amy.

#d.e.b.s. #debs #fanfic #ficlet #one shot #lucy/amy #autumn #autumn mood #ao3 #meagan writes #wlw #f/f

[ohcaptaintarthister]

The Assassination of Jaime Lannister*

Rant contains spoilers of Season 8 Episode 4 of Game of Thrones. Look away if you haven't seen it.

Right. Here we go.

I did not read the series A Song of Ice and Fire (ASOIAF) until Season 5 of Game of Thrones. Fantasy is not my favorite genre. Besides these books by George RR Martin, the only fantasy novel I've read was The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King.

I was drawn to the books because of the show. They're not easy to read. Besides being thick enough to actually hurt someone with it, I read them with zero ideas about the conventions of fantasy, the worldling and so on. I was curious and wanted to see. Also, Season 5 took too long. After a weekend where I binged on Seasons 1 to 4, I needed to know about the books.

The wait for Season 5 was reason one. Curiosity the second. The third was I have fallen in love with Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. Yes. I was in love with them as a pair. They are my favorite characters.

Back then I had no idea what shipping meant, and what fandoms were. But I knew I had to see if the chemistry of Jaime and Brienne in the show, awesomely played by Nikolaj Coster-Waldau and Gwendoline Christie, resulted from casting and adaptation or if the characters' interactions sizzled in the books. In other words, and this is vocabulary I picked up once I began wading deeper into the fandom, I was curious if it was canon.

And it was!

On their own and together, Jaime and Brienne were written with nuanced complexity. Jaime, especially, seemed sketched to cover the entire spectrum of gray and other unknown shades of it. Readers and show-onlys went from wishing this guy Seven Hells for throwing a ten-year-old child from a window to cheering him on as he found himself, often with great reluctance at first, on a path to redemption. Because Jaime, once separated from his family--the continuing disapproval of his father Tywin because he was nothing more than a glorified bodyguard and the quicksand relationship with twin sister Cersei--was finally free to be a man on his own. It did not matter that he was one of the greatest sword fighters, that he was a Lannister and Kingsguard. Robb Stark's army captured him because he was leading the Lannister armies. He lost his hand for thinking being a Lannister gave him protection and privilege. One-handed and probably still fevered, he jumped into the bear pit to rescue Brienne of Tarth. And before that, he saved her from being raped too.

As all that Jaime had been was gradually stripped away to reveal a man who murdered his king to protect the people yet one who loved his sister without guilt, Brienne was there in the picture of him being rendered anew. Honestly, because of Brienne, I swung to Team Jaime. Possibly with pom-poms too.

But after reading the books and seeing some episodes again, I began to wonder if David Benioff and D.B. Weiss hated the character.

While in the books Jaime said, "The things we do for love" WITH LOATHING, in the show he said the line with a smirk, that throwing a boy out the window was the natural consequence of protecting his affair with Cersei. Maybe Show!Jaime didn't see it as a consequence but something that simply had to be done but without smugness.

Okay, I thought. That was weird but the writers have to know right? They read the books.

When Jaime and Brienne finally have that bath in the show, and how it was adapted as faithfully as possible, I thought the show finally understood him. It was weird that Jaime returned to Cersei before the Purple Wedding but i thought of nothing of it.

Until THAT episode in Season 4.

In the books, the scene above should be when Jaime returned at King's Landing after being captured by Robb Stark and The Brave Companions. The reunion was from Jaime' point of view. Cersei's consent was clear:

"Hurry," she was whispering now, "quickly, quickly, now, do it now, do me now. Jaime Jaime Jaime." Her hands helped guide him. "Yes," Cersei said as he thrust, "my brother, sweet brother, yes, like that, yes, I have you, you’re home now, you're home now, you’re home." She kissed his ear and stroked his short bristly hair." 

In the show, she actually said, "It's not right!" a few times. Also, a few episodes prior to this, we saw Jaime complaining to her that he had been "back for weeks," and wanted to resume their affair. While in the books we saw two people falling in each other's arms after being apart for a long time, and needing each other desperately, in the show we saw rape. Though the claim by Benioff and Weiss was due to "bad editing/lighting" and that it was "unintentional," their refusal to actually address the issue and just re-edit and re-broadcast buried even more Jaime's redemption arc. As a viewer I forgave this mistake. Maybe next season?

Nope. It got worse.

When Jaime and Cersei made love by Joffrey' body in the books, this was the last time the twins would have sex. The books showed Jaime's gradual disillusionment with Cersei--he thought she drank too much, was tired of her scheming. Tyrion also told him about her affairs with other men. So when Jaime went to Riverrun to recover it for the Crown, he was not only the farthest from Cersei again, he was done. Just DONE. Her pleas for him to help her and promises of love end up tossed in the fire.

The show, rather than adapting this, simply diverged. Season 5 was as confused in what to do with Jaime as lots of viewers were. Season 6 saw Jaime and Cersei resume their affair before he left for the Riverlands. Returning to King's Landing in the finale, we saw the chilling look Jaime gave Cersei during her coronation.

Perhaps this was it. This would be when he falls out of love.

HA.

Season 7, until this weekend's episode, was THE WORST ADAPTATION OF JAIME. There. I'm saying it. THE WORST.

Why? It wasn't even the incest that pissed me off. Jaime, who slew the Mad King for wanting to torch King's Landing with wildfyre, did a dizzying 180 by ENABLING his sister, who murdered Queen Margaery, her former fiance, Kevan Lannister and other innocent members of the court by wildfire. Season 7 Jaime simply took Cersei at her word. Forget about Tommen, THEIR LAST SON. Who committed suicide as a result of his wife's murder. Forget about what really caused the Sept explosion. What mattered was creating a dynasty for "the last Lannisters who count."

Jaime stood by her side and in the queen' name, contributed in tearing further apart the Seven Kingdoms. No questions asked. LITERALLY no questions asked. Despite telling Cersei of the danger of her new position, he went on to rant about the lack of allies. That can be read as Jaime being practical but as the season progressed, it was proof that he would be at her side no matter what. No matter who had to be murdered. He DID say he would murder everyone until it was only the two of them left in the world. Alright.

LIoking back on past episodes, Cersei always succeeded in keeping Jaime at her side with promises of going public with their affair. In the books, Jaime pressed her to let people know he was her choice and she refused. In the Season 4 finale, she told him she told Tywin about them, resulting in passionate and this time consensual sex on a table in the White Sword Tower. In Episode 3 of Season 7, after Cersei fucked him to celebrate her victory over the Sand Snakes, we saw a loved up Jaime in the morning after.

This would be the happiest viewers had seen Jaime. Cersei, now really THE Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, would openly fuck him. The scandal reached as far as Eastwatch, with Tormund, wanting to clarify, asking which queen was discussed in a conversation. "The one with the dragons or the one who fucks her brother?"

After Daenerys and her Dothraki army burned the Lannister forces on their way back to King's Landing, a shaken and muddy Jaime returned to Cersei right away. And in the same episode, Cersei revealed she was pregnant again. This was happy news, indeed but Jaime needed to know one thing: who will Cersei acknowledge as the father.

"You."

Now I refuse to think Cersei had once again succeeded in manipulating him. I think she WAS pregnant. There's no way to fake joy like that. And yeah, though I don't ship them, I understood Jaime's happiness. Finally, he would get to be a real father.

Still, still, still. Season 7 Jaime really made no sense. There was none of Book Jaime here. None. What we saw was a guy who supported a tyrant willingly and was now going to be a real daddy. I hate it but that's really Season 7 Jaime. Even when he left Cersei, the reason was a headscratcher.

"I don't believe you," has got to be the worst break-up line because it's lame. Better if Jaime just looked at Cersei with puppy dog eyes and walked away. Really.

The beginning of Season 8 saw the writing of Jaime hitting the right beats. A different man, check. A man who honestly regrets what he did to Bran, check. A man who was no longer the golden lion and ready to fulfill a vow he made, check. Hearteyes at Brienne, check.

He knighted Brienne. BIG, FAT CHECKS.

In episode four, The Last of the Starks, Benioff and Weiss, probably tired from the glare of their computer screens, seemed to have just written the episode in bullet points. It became glaringly obvious they wanted the series over and done with. Fuck decent writing.

Jaime Lannister is not the only one who was badly written in the latest episode. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about Qyburn's ballista and Euron apparently a sharp-shooter. We have no idea how Missandei was captured. That drinking game with Jaime, Brienne, Podrick and Tyrion was awkward and misogynistic--seriously, why shame Brienne for being a virgin?

And Sansa! Sansa basically saying if she had not been raped and abused, she wouldn't be in the position she is now! Who on earth says anything like that? Answer: no one. And I don't mean Arya.

And Missandei. The ONE WOMAN OF COLOR in a blindingly white show is chained and beheaded!

Then Jaime. Oh, Jaime.

There are no happy endings in Game of Thrones. Ned Starks gets beheaded. Jon Snow gets knifed. Sansa is raped. Catelyn, Robb and Talisa get butchered. Just when victory is within reach, characters are punished so cruelly it's inhuman.

But it doesn't mean crappy writing. At fifteen million dollars an episode this season, I expect writing that reflects intelligence. Who cares about CGI wolves and dragons when the writing is shit?

Now it's no longer a question if David Benioff and D.B. Weiss hate Jaime. THEY DO. Everyone else was buffed up or given meat. They couldn't even spare Jaime Lannister a decent-sized bone.

I don't blame Jaime for leaving Brienne. Hear me out.

After Brienne and Sansa tell him the latest developments in King's Landing with regard to Cersei, we see Jaime shocked and even horrified. The next scene, he's in the chambers with Brienne contemplating what to do. And this is where the writing becomes really shitty:

1. He left her without saying goodbye.

2. He LEFT Brienne with her thinking he did it for Cersei.

What was the point of according her the respect and honor of being a knight--done by his own hand? What was the point of telling her he was no longer the fighter he was? Where was the respect when he was going to leave her as a regrettable one night stand? (But Winterfell to King's Landing is a month by land so I assume they've been banging for that long)

Nothing, it's just illogical shit.

Had the writers made just a bit more effort, Jaime Lannister should have been shown experiencing some happiness with Brienne, rather than Tyrion telling the viewers about it. We don't see it. We're just told and have to take their word for it. Jaime could have benefitted too in leaving Brienne in the NEXT episode. Why? It increases the stakes. Just one scene showing Jaime happy, just one, and of him ACTUALLY talking to Brienne about having to leave instead of being found out, and the episode probably won't be as crappy. I don't mind Brienne begging and crying, heartbreaking as that scene is. What I mind is Jaime never being shown what he stands to lose if he leaves Winterfell. Olenna Tyrell, before he he grants her the mercy of taking poison, had warned him it will be too late for him. She's right.

I believe he goes to King's Landing because of the guilt that he began a war to protect Cersei. When he does things for Cersei, the consequences are horrible and far-reaching. Easy to call him dumb and he is. But let's not forget that he charged at Daenerys and Drogon with just a spear thinking to end it all. A spear against a fire-breathing dragon. Like, what are the odds, right?

I'm not going to say anything more about The Bang That Was Promised And Sucked Donkey Balls. Enough has been said, enough hearts have been broken. We KNOW the world of Game of Thrones is dark and bitter and almost without hope. We really do. But as fans of the books and the show, FANS WHO MADE IT POSSIBLE FOR THE SERIES BE RENEWED AND HBO TO INCREASE THE BUDGET EVERY SEASON, all we ask for is good writing. We get that without actual material from George the writing is challenging. WE REALLY DO.

But is it too much to ask for the writers to set aside their hatred for one of the best characters in the series and understand him? Give him the material he deserves in the show? There is none of the Book Jaime trying so hard to be honorable. None. Instead what we've been given, since the first episode, is a train wreck of an adaptation that has now been confirmed as a character assassination.

It's not dragonfyre that has killed Jaime but writing that is careless, hurried and just plain awful. In Benioff and Weiss' determination and delusion in finishing the TV series on a high note, Jaime Lannister has been left with barely a whimper.

*Previously titled, "When Adaptations Assassinate A Character."

#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #brienne x jaime #game of thrones #braime #asoiaf #the last of the starks #gots8e4 #gotspoilers #spoilers #got spoilers #game of thrones spoilers #david benioff #d.b. weiss

[4alarmfirecracker]

I've never watched OUAT - Should I watch it? How spooky is it? How gay?

Hey anon ♥ Ok, the answer I’ll always give is YES, YES and again YES. Because Swan Queen is one of my first OTPs (and because they are still a top ship for me). It’s not spooky as I remember it. It’s a family show.

Now it depends of you. Do you want canon ? Well there is three wlw canon ships. One is Mulan x Aurora (Mulan has feelings for Aurora but Aurora doesn’t, or you know the fact that Mulan waited too long and when she was about to say it, Aurora dropped the baby bomb that she had with I can’t remember his name. Eric?)

That face ? Kill me now. Poor Mulan. (Yep I love her and no one hurts my baby)

The other is developed for one episode (or is it more than one ? No idea !) it’s Ruby x Dorothy (yeah it took me 3 seconds to try to find her name back) (tbh I shipped Mulan x Ruby and it would have made more sense (and I think a lot of other people loves Mulan x Ruby more). Hell, even Merida x Mulan x Ruby would have made more sense. Bonus point, Mulan x Dorothy got a fairytale kiss)

Listen my babies Ruby x Mulan

Mulan x Merida

Ok and now the REAL canon ship that was developed during the entirety of the last season … Alice x Robin (Mad archer or Curious archer) (and bonus, it really felt like Alice was the main character of the last season) It’s a great story with a happy ending for them. Honestly I loved the last season and it’s in big part thanks to them (and Regina but let’s be honest all seasons are great thanks to her).

Ok and nowwwwww under the cut because it’s starting to get long … Swan queen = subtext = my love = eye fu*king all the time.

Go under the cut to know more … (How ouat starts = SQ + some problems ouat had + my love for Regina)

So once upon a time starts like this … A little boy called Henry knocks at the door of Emma Swan (blonde one). It’s her son that she gave up when he was born. He wants to bring her back to a town called Storybrook where we meet the mayor … Regina Mills (brunette/black hair). Plot twist … Regina is the adoptive mother of Henry who ran away from home because her mother is “the evil queen” (due to him having a story book with all fairytales in it and believing - truthfully - that all people in this town are part of the book). Now, the entirety of the story revolves around Emma (the main character at the start), Regina (tbh MY main character and the heart of the show + the main character at the end/second part of the serie) and the Swan-Mills family. The producer of the show clearly said ouat was about Emma coming to town and meeting Regina.

Look at that family portrait ! 

Anyway conflict happens between them for the love of Henry Mills (and eventually you know it all works out). Now, Emma is the first one to believe in Regina and her being good. There is magic (their combined magic has the same colors as the Ture Love™ spell. come on !) and everything that I love. Also … Perfect Enemies to lovers trope come on it would have been magistral (we still got the Enemies to Friends trope). At the end you can clearly see that Regina is the one who loves Emma more and Emma distance herself with a guy™. 

Well said Regina ! (that episode was dope !)

The fact with Swan Queen is … the subtext is really heavy and the parallels are numerous. They just … never got canon.

—————————–

NOWWWWW the only downside … 2 guys ! Killian Jones (pirate) and Robin Hood.

I’ll only speak of Captain Hook for all seasons except the last one where, weirdly (or not), I loved him (and also maybe the 3d one where he appears where he makes a good-ish villain that you like to hate?).

But all the other seasons I can’t stand him. He is typically the guy who wants Emma and when she says no to him several times, he pushes again and again until she says yes. He also has other non lovable traits but I won’t expand on it here. I think the only reason some people loved him with Emma was because he was somewhat good looking? And it’s not because he’s with Emma that I don’t like him because I really liked Neal. The fact is, Emma was a strong woman who becomes weak over the seasons because of him (to the point where I didn’t even like what Emma had become … a shadow of her former self).

Now the other one buggers me a little less. Except that the guy had a wife who died I think but who comes back and all that shit. Oh and also the fact that he is “predestined” to be with Regina and is her soulmate or things like that. But you learn about that before they even meet (or at the very beginning) ! Like whattt. It’s forced. And I don’t like being forced.

Now, Killian is just amazing in the last season (for reasons I won’t tell here because it’s really spoilery) I’ll just tell you he is really different and kind and considerate. Everything he wasn’t before.

And one guy I absolutely loved was Daniel ♥ Omg Regina x Daniel give me all the feels. (he is part of Regina’s backstory)

—————————–

Let’s end with some Swan queeeeen

And let’s end with the fact that OUAT, honestly, is the story of Regina and her inner battle. And if you don’t watch ouat for all the reasons above, please watch ouat for Regina you won’t regret it ♥ (+pantsuits+sassyness)

#anon #ask #sq #swan queen #swanqueen #ouat #reasons to watch ouat #well ... it took me more than an hour to write ! #Now i wanna do an entire rewatch ! #I didn't even finish my lost girl and warehouse 13 rewatch !

[violetsmoak]

Tabula Rasa [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183281/chapters/47822500

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Tim and Jason have known they are soulmates for years, though neither has said anything about it. Tim thinks Jason doesn't know, and is just trying to live with it. Jason thinks Tim knows but doesn't care, which is fine with him, he thinks the soulmate thing is a crock anyway. But one night, a minor mishap forces them to confront the issue head-on, leading to a series of events no one could have predicted.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #a lie #bright vivid colours #danger #enemies to lovers #soulmate aversion #soulmark tattoo

Canon-Compliance: Follows the New Earth continuity, with elements of New 52 (ie the ones that don’t completely contradict everything that happened pre-Flashpoint). Ignores Rebirth completely. So, up to about 2016 in terms of publication dates? Robins War happened, but Red Hood hasn’t met Artemis or Bizarro, and nothing bad has happened to Roy ffs! 

Beta Reader: I'll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

“Three cheers for the happy couple!”

The south wing ballroom of Wayne Manor erupts with the raucous shouts and applause of a hundred and twenty reception attendees. Tim’s congratulations get lost in the din, but he does catch Dick’s eye and flash him a thumbs up.

Seated at the high table, his older brother leans in and kisses his bride, which causes more cheering and catcalls from the guests, and makes the normally unflappable and newly named Barbara Gordon-Grayson blush.

Tim turns away and pastes a smile on his face as the Davenports, a senior couple and two of Wayne Enterprises' most influential shareholders, approach him.

Time to be ‘on’ again…

A generous mix of family friends (most of whom are vigilantes or heroes), and GCPD officers, fill the ballroom. These are interspersed with a few Haly’s Circus performers, and the requisite number of elite guests required by the Society pages of the Gotham Gazette.

Bride and bridegroom sit at the head table with their respective entourages, engaged in animated chatter. Babs and her maid of honor Alysia dissolve into laughter as Dick says something to Damian, who scowls and turns redder by the minute. The Gordon family is there, the Commissioner conversing in stiff politeness with his ex-wife Barbara, and Bruce is in full “Brucie” mode. In the background, Alfred directs the hired staff with his usual decorum and efficiency.

Across the room, Cassandra drags Stephanie over to the dance floor. At a smaller round table near the bride and groom, Duke just misses being speared with a fork by his girlfriend when he tries to sneak a piece of Izzy’s cake. Helena flirts with both Luke and Kate and Tim’s sure Selina is somewhere in the house stealing something to lure Bruce over to her place later.

It’s rare to have so many members of the family together in one room, and so Tim does his best to ignore the lingering dismay at the glaring absence in their numbers.

Dick and Babs look at each other now and again, like they’re the only ones in the world, and he makes an effort to find it adorable. He bolsters the jovial front he’s been wearing all night, reminding himself that his happiness for his brother and new sister-in-law isn’t something that needs faking. It took so long for them to sort everything out between them; it goes to show that being soulmates doesn’t equal an automatic perfect relationship.

I know that better than anyone.

It’s just getting more difficult with every passing hour to maintain the graceful Timothy Drake-Wayne façade.

“It will be your turn next,” Mrs. Davenport informs him, while her husband nods along. “Since Richard and dear Cassandra have found their matches, you’re the only one left.”

Tim’s smile becomes a little more forced. “Well, there is Damian.”

The demon brat looks as if he swallowed a mouthful of peppercorns as Brucie leans over and ruffles his hair, laughing his raucous fake laugh.

Now I’m glad Dick didn’t ask me to be his best man, or I’d be the chump stuck up there.

Not that he was that upset when he heard the news.

Tim’s distanced himself enough from the loss of Robin to accept Damian needs as much help as they can offer if he is ever to be a ‘real boy’. Little gestures like this from Dick are part of a larger plan. And it was endearing, in a way, to see the kid stomping around in the weeks leading up to the wedding, trying to check off a list of best man duties he’d printed off the internet.

And dissolving into teenaged fury when innocent things went wrong or when the groom teased him by flouting what Damian considered ‘according to convention’.

And then there was that bachelor party he organized…

It would seem extreme trampoline parks were a thing; also, getting banned from said parks within an hour for trampolining while drunk was a thing.

“Yes, but he’s still so…young,” Mrs. Davenport says, bringing him back to the present. Tim perceives how she hesitates on the best word to describe the youngest member of the Wayne family.

“It’s fine, you can call him a prepubescent terror. I always do.”

“Oh, Timothy!” Garish laughter as if he told the most hilarious joke of the season. “You are such a character. Why haven’t you found your someone yet?”

Tim catches sight of Steph once again, dancing with Cass and looking carefree and blissful and in love. And this time it’s a bit harder to experience only joy for his siblings, more of a struggle to fight the pang of hurt and jealousy that rears its head.

“You’re almost eighteen,” her husband remarks, interrupting his thoughts. “Most people find their matches much younger. Eleanor and I met when we were fourteen.”

“Oh, it was a beautiful summer in the Hamptons.”

“And it seems like youth today are finding each other earlier every year.”

“My sister and Stephanie didn’t,” Tim points out, only somewhat strained because that one still stings.

He and Steph had been together for most of their teenage years. She hadn’t possessed a soulmark, and Tim’s…would lead nowhere. He truly loved her, and if things were different, he knows they would have had a happy future. Lots of people whose marks don’t match are.

But then the day Spoiler and Black Bat met, they’d shaken hands, and everything fell into place. He’ll never forget either of their eyes—Steph bemused as her mark appeared for the first time and then exploded into color across her forearms; Cass puzzled until she realized what was happening. Then her face became an open book of joy rivaled only by how she looked when Bruce told her he intended to adopt her.

Faced with their happiness, it was only natural that Tim took a step back, much as it hurt to do.

“Perhaps your soulmate lives in another country,” Mr. Davenport suggests; it is clear he is not picking up on Tim’s reluctance.

“Oh!” his wife cries. “You should go on that television show they have now! You know, the one where they try to help you track down your match? I can’t remember the name, but it’s something like The Amazing Race or the Bachelorette.”

“Perhaps yours is younger than you. That happens sometimes.”

“Yes! May-December relationships aren’t that uncommon with your generation, I hear.”

“Or maybe they’re dead,” Tim suggests, and though his tone is light and friendly, his words shut them up in an instant.

Because if very well could be true.

Tim’s never shown off his mark in public, and he told Steph that exact story when she asked all those years ago. At the time, he wasn’t even lying.

Soulmarks develop around puberty and last the duration of the lifespan of the shorter-lived partner. Some people are born with several, the way Dick was, and some only share platonic or familial bonds, like Alfred and Bruce. Others have none at all. When a soulmate dies, the mark associated with them vanishes.

That’s because most don’t come back from the dead.

Still smiling at the now cringing couple, Tim takes his leave, letting them stew in their faux pas as he wanders toward the bride and groom’s table. He’s reached his limit.

Not wanting to crouch down in the middle of their group, he gestures until his brother sees him and makes an excuse to Babs. She’s following his gaze, offering Tim a worried look, but he smiles and shakes his head, trying to telegraph ‘It’s nothing. Go back to your celebration.’

Dick is red-faced and his eyes brighter than usual when he gets to Tim; people been plying him with generous amounts of alcohol all day. “Hey, Timmy, what’s up?”

“I think I‘ll make my way out,” he replies. “Do a bit of patrolling and then turn in.”

“Tim…”

Dick’s expression becomes concerned, and Tim shifts in discomfort.

“Someone has to be on the streets while you guys are slacking,” he jokes. “You know it took an Act of Alfred to get Bruce to take the night off, right?”

(It was also pointed out that if any of big players had planned anything tonight, probability and precedent suggested they would try it at the Gordon-Grayson reception.)

“You don’t have to do that! I’ve already got one brother missing.”

“Consider this my wedding present. You get to stay and enjoy your party with the rest of the family.”

“You’re just trying to worm your way of giving us a real gift,” Dick accuses, but the words lack malice. With a surreptitious glance around to ensure they aren’t being overheard, he lowers his voice and asks, “Are things getting bad again? Do you need to talk? Because Babs won’t mind if I duck out for a bit.”

And he’s always doing this, checking in with Tim, even years after it’s been an issue.

There’s a distinct possibility Dick has noticed how uncomfortable the atmosphere is making him, despite him doing his utmost to hide it, to keep from casting a dark cloud over the festivities.

And Tim should be okay.

Bruce is back from having lost his memories, Damian’s stopped his determined attempts to sabotage or kill him, his relationship with Dick is almost normal again, he has his team and place with the Titans, and there hasn’t been a major crisis in Gotham for about a month which is a record.

Yet he still feels raw and exposed, ill at ease in his skin.

Bruce has been questioning him a lot more, criticizing the way he handles not only cases but projects at WE. Tim worries there’s less time for him to recover between being Tim Wayne, CEO, and Red Robin. And the Titans are getting to the age where many of them want to strike out on their own or pursue more civilian interests—jobs and schools and a normal life. He respects that, even if he doesn’t understand it.

He has never had a normal life, and never will.

But he does have more and more days now where he looks at himself in the mirror and wonders how he’s supposed to keep doing this forever. Can’t figure out how Bruce has managed it for so long. Tim suspects he’s becoming little more than his daytime public persona and his nighttime alter ego.

Who exactly is Tim Drake?

Instead of voicing any of this, though, he musters up a comforting smile for his brother and assures him, “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s like every day. Just one step at a time, right?”

Dick’s expression clears then, and he nods, relieved. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“And Dick?”

“Yeah?”

“Congrats.”

“Aw, thanks, Timmy.”

A bone-crushing hug later, and Tim’s car peels out of the estate parking garage, still ignoring the growing pit in his stomach.

He returns to his apartment in the Theater District, shedding his suit and tie in a pile that Alfred would have a coronary over if he were there to see it. Jumping in the shower, he scrubs himself of any traces of his cologne or other identifying scents he might have picked up at the reception and tries to get himself back into a clearer headspace.

He pauses for a moment at the sink, trying to shake off the lingering, bone-deep exhaustion. Several prescription bottles line the mirror—various sleeping aids, most of which don’t help anymore (but the rebound insomnia of stopping them isn’t worth the trouble). These days it’s only the heavy-duty sleep narcotics that work when he needs to turn his brain off for a few hours.

Among the personal pharmacy are several combinations of anti-depressants he tried in the past few months. Most of the time he powers through it, the way he’s done his whole life, but in recent weeks Tim’s noticed things getting hard again. The helpful alerts he sets on his phone don’t always convince him to leave his bed and even video games lack the usual draw. He sometimes gets lost in his head for hours; on bad nights, he hesitates a second longer before shooting a grapple line or dodging a knife. In rare moments, he considers his sleeping pills a little too much consideration, at which point he calls Dick or Connor. Talks to someone so he isn’t so alone.

As he dries off, Tim stares down at his right wrist, examining the complicated knotwork design emblazoned there. Swirls of crimson and gold loop in and out of each other, before cutting off along his forearm.

Everyone has a soulmark, an arrangement of swirling shapes across their skin; each is distinctive to the individuals bonded by them. They first appear when a person is in the general vicinity of their soulmate, manifesting as a colorless pattern of darker and lighter shades of melanin. Those patterns fill with bright, rich colors upon physical touching one’s mate. When pressed together, they interlock in only one way and retreat when contact stops.

Soulmates who have reciprocated bonds sport their marks in full and everlasting display. The sight is both beautiful and frustrating to see, even on his family, as he’ll never experience that himself.

His mark might be a stunning amalgamation of scarlet and gold, twisted into a mandala upon his wrist, but it will never be permanent. While it’s been a while since Jason’s made any energetic attempts to kill him, Tim’s resigned himself to living without a completed bond; tolerance is about the only thing he can hope for from his predecessor.

Finding Steph when they were younger had been a joy and a relief. Her not having a mark meant they both had a chance for a fulfilling connection. Until Cass.

Tim forces himself to stop dwelling on it and shoves the bleak thoughts down behind the wall he puts everything uncomfortable and not cohesive to whatever task he’s given himself. Instead, he busies himself with covering up his mark using the spray-on cover that doesn’t fade with water or perspiration, only coming off when scrubbed with a special soap. One of Bruce’s earliest and more practical inventions, since Brucie Wayne and Batman couldn’t have a soulmark in common.

Bruce covers his pretty much all the time, but Tim’s only been covering his when he suits up. He lives his life in disguise, he doesn’t want to hide such an important part of himself when he’s off the clock.

He heads down to the lower levels of his Nest, gets dressed while having the computer scan for trouble. The program calculates probabilities for where violence will crop up, where he should begin his patrol. He hopes for a busy night, something to distract him from his convoluted thoughts.

As usual, he intends to start his rounds off in Tricorner, and then go through Chinatown—which is when he notices movement on a camera that concerns him.

A familiar gleaming scarlet helmet.

Red Hood.

He debates with himself for several minutes.

On the one hand, it’s his regular patrol territory; on the other, seeing the other vigilante tonight, while his mood is already so low, isn’t something he wishes to contend with.

He clenches his fist.

He knew of Jason Todd for a year before discovering the second Robin was his soulmate. By the time he wanted to do anything about it, the older boy was dead, and Tim consigned to grieving in secret.

Then Jason came back, but it was almost worse than him being gone because he hated him. Without having ever met him.

Even now that he’s mellowed out (sort of), Jason appears to reserve more dislike for his successor than anyone else in the family, not counting Bruce and Dick for obvious reasons. Red Hood and Red Robin have run into each other enough in and out of costume that there have been ample opportunities for Jason’s soulmark to make itself known. That Tim has seen nothing close to resembling it means one of two things: either the other man hasn’t developed his mark yet, which is possible albeit rare, or he has, and like Batman, always keeps it covered.

Which says more than enough about his sentiments on the matter.

Between Jason refusing to acknowledge their connection, or just not being aware of it, Tim prefers to believe the latter, if only to make himself feel better. There’s no point in bringing up the soulmate thing at this juncture. He decided years ago to respect the status quo, for the simple reason it’s less painful than the alternative.

All that being said, he doesn’t enjoy watching Jason get in trouble, even more so when the situation is avoidable and he’s near enough to help. At the moment the big idiot is courting a potential gang war.

Sometimes protecting someone means protecting them from themselves and their bad choices, I guess.

Static crackles through the comm in his ear, and then he hears Batman’s low growl. “What’s going on in Chinatown?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re still listening to the comms at your son’s wedding,” Tim sighs. “Nothing. I’m handling it.”

“Are you sure?”

“B, I’ll help A drug you every day for a week,” he threatens. “And you know we both can and will find new and interesting ways of doing it.”

There’s a huff on the other side of the line. “…Noted. Reach out if you need backup.”

“You’ll be the first.”

“You’re lying.”

“Wow, you must be a detective or something,” he deadpans. “Red Robin out.”

Jason is the last person he wants to run into right now, but Tim’s also been cultivating a few informants there and he can’t have that jeopardized.

Looks like I’m going to Chinatown. Hope Lynx is in a good mood…

He wonders if tonight he’ll end up getting beaten up, or just insulted. He’s not even sure which would hurt more.

⁂

Jason goes flying out of the upper story of the restaurant, followed closely by a very tiny woman wielding a very big sword. She reminds him of Cheshire, with a shade less lethality.

Actually, if it were Jade, he would end up critically injured when she lands on him, using him as a cushion against the pavement. He manages to turn his body to land in a way that won’t break his back—though his right side will be a giant bruise tomorrow—and scrambles to his feet.

This is one of the reasons I avoid Chinatown.

Things never go well for him here, especially not since that thing with the Su family. It’s just better to avoid the place. But before that, he and the Ghost Dragons at least used to get along—professional courtesy and all that, along with an unspoken agreement not to step on each other’s toes. 

That’s over, apparently.

All he’d wanted to do was ask some questions. One of his stool pigeons passed him some information on a human trafficking ring; according to him, it was based on Chinatown. It would seem sex slavers were luring young women over to the United States with the premise of work and accommodations.  Then, upon arrival, the girls were hauled into a life of sexual servitude.

Jason didn’t even go in guns blazing this time or wearing the helmet. Just a domino and a hankering for some barbecue pork bun.

So, either someone tipped them off what I was coming around for, or this kid in the mask has something to prove.

There’s a slow curl of heat moving up the back of his left wrist and up his arm, and his first thought is he’s been cut. Except while the sensation is familiar, it isn’t the liquid warmth of blood.

The woman moves fast, and a beat later her sword is swinging downward. Jason’s hands fly to his holsters, thinking he’s going to have to break out the guns after all when there’s a clang.

Suddenly there’s a bō staff in front of his face, catching the sword inches before it slams into Jason’s nose.

Ah. And there’s the other reason I avoid Chinatown.

Because in the past year or so, it’s been part of the patrol route for a certain Timothy Drake.

A.k.a. his replacement.

A.k.a. Red Robin.

A.k.a. his soulmate.

No wonder that warmth in his hand was familiar; the soulmark must have reacted to the younger man’s approach.

After a brief tussle, there’s the sound of a grapple line firing, and then Tim flies upward, ridiculous cape fluttering, still holding the struggling woman.

Her sword stays on the ground.

“Oh, hell no,” Jason growls, because this is his business, damn it!

When he reaches the roof where Tim’s carried off Jason’s would-be-murderer, he notes they are standing close together, conversing in rapid Cantonese. Jason’s rustier at that than he’d like, but he gets the gist when the woman stalks right up to him and begins yelling and gesturing.

Then she shoves him and pushes away; a smoke bomb goes off, and then she’s gone.

Tim makes no move to go after her.

Which, seriously?

Jason stalks over, looming over the shorter man and touching his hand to the still holstered gun in his belt in an implicit (and mostly baseless) threat. He’s always amused at just how much of a height difference there is between him and his replacement, and tonight he makes a point of lording it over him.

“You guys looked awfully cozy there, Timbers.” Which shouldn’t bother him, but he can’t fight a twinge of irritation. “Care to share with the class what your little tête-à-tête was about?”

The cowl covers Tim’s face, but Jason can imagine the judgemental stare.

“She said your poking around her territory will jeopardize her investigation into the sex traffickers.”

“Her investigation? She’s the damn head of the Ghost Dragons!”

“Yeah, and she’s also an undercover operative sent by Hong Kong PD, which I’m only telling you, so you don’t decide to go and kill her for apparent crimes.”

And that was not what he was expecting.

“How do you know this?”

“She told me. She’s one of my CIs.”

“And you believed her?”

“Cass looked into her for me. She’s legit, even if she’s a little…unorthodox.” Tim’s head tilts to one side, considering; with the cowl it makes him look like his avian namesake. “You’d think you’d appreciate that.”

“On the list of things I don’t appreciate, you showin’ up while I’m chasin’ a lead is one of them,” Jason growls. “Don’t you have a party to be at?”

“I ducked out early.”

“Well, that’s lame.”

“Not as lame as someone who ignores the fifteen invitations he was sent.”

Ah, and now they’re back on familiar ground.

“Pfft, I’ve seen enough Brucie to last me several lifetimes.”

“Yeah, but it was for Dick. All you had to do was show up—” his mouth twitches here; Jason can’t tell if it’s amusement or irritation, “—in jeans, even.”

“I’ve been dead once; I don’t need Alfie murderin’ me for that big a faux pas. And somehow I doubt Barbie would appreciate if her wedding photos included Dickiebird sporting a swollen eye.”

Tim sighs. “What are you fighting about this time?”

“Other than the usual stuff? We’re not. But I’m sure he’d put his foot in it at some point and need a nice bit of cognitive recalibration.”

“And you, the perfectly innocent party in all this, would happily provide that?”

“Call it a civic duty.”

Tim shakes his head, but Jason thinks it’s done in amusement this time, instead of exasperation.

“I don’t know how she can settle for that birdbrain,” he continues. “How does she stand bein’ around him so often without wantin’ to punch him in the face every time he opens his mouth?”

“Maybe not every time.”

“Point still stands.”

“Well, they’re soulmates,” Tim says vaguely, distant like he’s not paying attention to what he’s saying. He fiddles with his wrist computer, giving no indication that he is aware of anything else.

Jason’s pretty sure that’s not the case.

After all, he’s practiced in the art of pretending not to feel how his soulmark warms the closer he stands to Tim. There’s no question Tim’s learned to do the same.

It might be hypocritical of him, but that makes him angry somehow.

“As if that explains it all,” Jason sneers. “Come on, Replacement, I thought out of all of them, your whole logical-scientific-question-everything-Klingon-mind wouldn’t go for that hokey soulmate crap.”

“Vulcan.”

That brings him up short. “What?”

“It’s Vulcan culture that’s more focussed on logicality and empirical data-gathering. Klingons are more combat-oriented and tend toward more aggressive means of…” He trails off when he realizes Jason staring at him. “What?”

“You complete nerd,” Jason tells him. “No wonder you left the wedding early. I bet socializin’ with normal people probably stressed you right the fuck out, didn’t it?”

Tim gives a noncommittal shrug.

“Havin’ a soulmate doesn’t mean people should be together,” Jason goes on, filled with the sudden need to hammer home this point. “Look at all the examples from history—Cleopatra and Antony, Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Bonnie and Clyde—” He ticks the couples off his finger. “They were all soulmates and they all either made each other miserable or got each other killed.”

“You can’t apply a few historical anomalies to every soulmate pair,” Tim counters. “Life circumstances skew the data.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that fate shouldn’t decide if people will magically work out!”

“That’s not…” Tim appears frustrated, at last, putting down his wrist computer and clenching his jaw. “It’s not supposed to work out magically. It’s about finding the person who completes you. You still need to work at it. It’s not all magically going to fall in place, and you’ll be happy forever right away. Even soulmates don’t get to live perfect lives.”

Ain’t that the truth, Jason muses, considering Tim.

“Sounds like you want a soulmate,” he points out, a little stiffly, and what the hell possessed him to say that?

He wonders what the kid is going to say now, or if this is the day their careful pretense, the lie of not knowing gets shattered.

Luckily, though, Tim avoids opening that can of worms.

He takes a step back from Jason, looks away and mutters, “It’s not relevant to the Mission.” Which is a total cop-out, but Jason will take it. “Anyway, if you’re done causing trouble here and riling up the gangs, I’ll take my leave.”

“Wish you would.”

Tim shoots him an unimpressed glare—or at least, that’s what it seems like to Jason. “Don’t make me come back here. And for god’s sake, at least call and congratulate the happy couple.”

He grapples away rather than allow a witty retort; Jason watches him go with a scowl. Once he’s sure the other vigilante is gone, he tugs the glove off his left hand, frowning at the whorls of crimson and yellow retreating down his forearm and back to his wrist.

His soulmark appeared one night a few evenings before the Garzonas incident. Jason vaguely remembers swinging through an alley to escape yet another argument with Bruce and knocking out a bunch of thugs threatening a kid. He’d been so buzzed on adrenaline and fury he hadn’t noticed the warmth in his wrist. He only caught sight of the mark itself when he returned to the Cave.

And then he spent the night wondering if one of the assholes he knocked around was his soulmate. It wasn’t a comforting idea, and he’d decided then and there to cover up the mark and forget about it. The disappointment about his potential soulmate had been a contributing factor in a long line of shit the universe decided to dump on him that sent him to Ethiopia. If he was linked to scum like that, he wanted to be as far as possible from Gotham.

It never even occurred to him to imagine the kid in the alley was his match. Hell, it didn’t even register when he discovered that Tim Drake had been following Batman and Robin around for years.

Only that day at the Tower, when Jason made his first move against Batman and attacked his replacement, did he finally make the connection.

His mark reacted the minute they were in the same room, spreading across his skin and swirling about seeking its partner. Jason had been so far gone with rage that the sight of it had made him angrier, made him hit harder—because if he didn’t meet Tim before, it meant their bond hadn’t been strong enough to keep him from making the biggest mistake of his life.

It meant he was supposed to meet him after being ripped apart and rebuilt as a weapon.

Luckily, or not, Tim was unconscious before the manifested completed, sneaking out from beneath the long green gauntlets of Jason’s fake Robin suit.

And if he did happen to notice before passing out, the kid hasn’t said anything about it.

Probably hates me and doesn’t want to acknowledge the universe’s idea of a shit joke.

Jason doesn’t blame him. Soulmates are a crock of shit anyway, and Tim’s better off without being tethered to him, and vice versa. They should keep pretending.

Because Jason doesn’t get to be happy.

And Tim deserves better than him because Tim—as much as he’s a pain in the ass—is good.

“And on that note,” Jason murmurs to himself, putting his gauntlet back on, “time to play the villain.”

The tip he received put him in the Ghost Dragons’ crosshairs—which means someone on his payroll is making a move, either against him or against someone else.

Time to find out for sure.

And no more moping over this soulmate crap.

Johnny Lino is the head of an investment company that’s just a front for his money laundering. He’s been passing the Red Hood information about his clients for the better part of a year now, ever since Jason put the fear of Hood in him. Quite a feat, considering the man’s a few inches taller and broader.

Jason finds him in a condo off the Diamond District, watching the Knights game and stuffing his face with pretzels.

Ponzi schemes don’t buy manners, I guess.

“Johnny,” he greets in a clear, would-be friendly manner that has the older man choking up his most recent handful. “Long time no see. Got a bone to pick with you.”

He expects there to be some mumbling and groveling, a few bald-faced lies that require the generous application of foot to face and the reassurance that everything in Jason’s sandbox is back to the way it should be.

So, it surprises him when Johnny scrambles for something that Jason notes too late is a panic button. All of a sudden, half a dozen masked men in combat gear and carrying assault rifles are busting through the door.

“That’s a bit of an overreaction to some conversation, don’t ya think?” Jason asks, throwing himself into action to deal with the interlopers. Bullets fly and knives slice toward him, but in five minutes he’s standing in the ruins of the room with six unconscious men.

And one dead one.

Johnny’s got a neat hole in the side of his head, from one of his hired muscle’s guns, Jason presumes.

“And doesn’t that say a lot about the quality of hired muscle in Gotham these days?” he grumbles, kicking at the body. “Can’t even trust your own people not to shoot you by accident.”

He can hear sirens, knows a neighbor or someone has called in the noise and heads for the fire exit before anyone can link him to the scene. That’s all he needs is the big Bat thinking he pulled the trigger in there.

And damn it, the giant bastard was one of my best sources. Now I’ve got to find someone else.

The encounter bothers him.

He’s had people on his payroll get shifty before, but it’s been his experience that there’s more of a prelude before the attempt to stab him in the back. They try to run or talk their way out of it; it seems Johnny went all out, trying to take out the Red Hood, all because of a bit of questionable information.

If he was so desperate to hire a kill squad rather than answer some well-deserved questions…

Maybe it’s not me that spooked him.

He thinks back to the shot that killed Johnny, remembers the angle it hit the head, and where the exit wound was. The opposite direction from where the thugs entered—from the window.

“There was another shooter,” he realizes.

A quick visit to the building opposite confirms his suspicion: the scrape where someone set up a tripod, bullet casing rolled to one side.

It wasn’t Johnny afraid to talk to the Red Hood—someone else feared he would.

Question is, were they worried he’d talk or worried he’d talk to me?

⁂⁂⁂ 

Next Chapter

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<3 Violet

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #jaytimbingo2019 #fanfic #jaytim fic #batfic #tim drake #jason todd #prompt: soulmate #a lie #bright vivid colors #danger #enemies to lovers #soulmate aversion #soulmark tattoo #angst #drama #romance #introspection

[darley1101]

Family (September 11 prompt)

A/N This is for the September prompt challenge hosted by . It is for the September 11 prompt Family. I am combining it with another request I received asking for Maxwell to purchase the MC a pregnancy test on the morning of her wedding to Liam. I thought they would make a fun combination. I hope you enjoy. Tag lists are after the story. If you would like to be added or removed just let me know in a comment or personal message. This is future canon for Broken Fairytales. I hope you enjoy!

Family

“This is ridiculous,” Karin whispered furiously as Olivia, Hana, and Madeleine herded her into the en suite off Madeleine's rooms. She tried to dig her heels into the plush carpeting, but a firm push in the middle of her back continued to propel her forward. “We're wasting time that could be spent getting ready.” Her heart skipped a beat and her stomach lurched. In a few short hours she would be re-marrying the man she loved and, her heart skipped another beat, finally be crowned Queen of Cordonia. Just one of those events would be enough to cause the nausea she had woken up to, but her friends thought otherwise. 'You missed your period,' Hana had chided, 'I know because we're on the same cycle and I had to suffer alone.' Stress had been  her response. Between planning a wedding that the whole world would be watching via attendance or television and preparing for the coronation that would come after, it was no wonder Karin was exhausted, nauseated, and missing her monthly visit for good ole Aunt Flo. Part of her wanted to say screw the whole thing. Did they really need the public wedding? According to Regina, yes. The people didn’t care that while in exile, Liam and Karin had married in private ceremony. They wanted the glitz, glam, and stability of seeing the king they had fought for marry his beloved. 

“You're being ridiculous,” Olivia countered shoving a purple and white box into her hands, and then gesturing towards the toilet. “Your throne awaits.”

“Hilarious,” Karin muttered, yanking open the package while she stomped towards the toilet. “I already told you, I'm stressed. When I get stressed I get sick to my stomach and, on occasion, I miss my period.”

“It may very well be stress,” Madeleine agreed, “but wouldn't you rather know? There's going to be alcohol served at the reception. Do you really want to worry about whether or not its safe to drink? This way we'll know if we need to substitute your champagne for apple cider.”

Annoyance shot through Karin as she set the actual test down on the counter and wiggled out of her panties. Madeleine was right, and God, Karin hated when Madeleine was right. They had moved past the pettiness that occurred during the social season and Madeleine's short lived engagement to Liam, but that didn't mean Karin liked when Madeleine was right. “I can't believe one of you actually bought a pregnancy test,” she mused, picking up the test. She poised the plastic stick between her legs, trying to concentrate on peeing. “Could someone turn on the faucet?”

“Of course,” Hana answered sweetly before turning the water on in the sink. “And we didn't buy it, Maxwell did.”

“What?” Karin sputtered, grimacing when a splash of urine hit her fingers. So gross, she thought, pulling the test out from between her legs. She set it back on the counter, wiped, and then flushed. “You had Maxwell go buy a pregnancy test? Whose genius idea was that?”

“It was mine actually,” Olivia smirked from the doorway. “He's always so eager to please and nobody will think twice about him buying one. He's such a spazz the sales clerk probably thought he bought it for himself.”

“Be nice,” Hana chided.

“It could be argued that calling him a spazz is being nice as there are far worse yet equally fitting names we could call him,” Madeleine muttered under her breathe, but Karin still heard her and shot her a dirty look. Maxwell might be a spazz, but damn it he was Karin's spazz! And he’d changed a lot since the assassinations that took place during the homecoming ball. 

“I just hope he doesn't say anything to Liam,” Hana sighed, propping her hip against the bathroom vanity. She blinked when she realized everyone, including Karin, was staring at her. “What? Everyone is thinking it. I adore him but he does have a history of speaking without thinking. Remember the UN dinner in New York?”

Wrinkling her nose, Karin washed her hands. She remembered that dinner all to well. Maxwell had started a shit storm with several dignitaries by confusing their countries. “Don't remind me,” she pleaded, turning off the faucet and drying her hands on the hand towel Madeleine handed to her. “God, you don't really think he will say anything to Liam?” No, she silently told herself. Maybe in the past he might have accidentally let it slip, but Maxwell had grown a lot. 

“With Maxwell anything is possible,” Olivia reminded. “Now, how long do we have to wait to see if Karin's carrying the next heir to the throne? The sooner she gets the heir and the spare out of the way, the happier the people will be.”

The blood drained from Karin's face, leaving her a pasty color. Having a family was something she and Liam had spoken about a great deal; how many children they wanted, what sort of parents they were going to be. Perhaps because Liam had only ever referred to their future children as, well, their children that was how Karin had come to think of them. Olivia's flippant remark, no doubt meant to be funny, had been a rude awakening to how the people of Cordonia would view their children. “That was incredibly rude,” Hana tsked, shaking her head and then looking at Karin with sympathy in her eyes. “Don't listen to her Karin. The people of Cordonia love you regardless.”

“They'll love her more if she's pregnant,” Olivia insisted. “I'm not trying to say they don't love her already, I think their adoration of the American Duchess is obvious. Things have been difficult for the monarchy, you know that. Producing the next Crown Prince will just prove the people made the right choice in demanding that Liam be re-instated at King.”

“I think you've made your point,” Hana snapped. “So lets drop it.”

Tuning out the rest of the conversation Karin focused on the test sitting face down on the counter. The instructions had said to wait 5 minutes and at least that amount of time had passed. She took a deep breath and flipped it over, her heart lodging in her throat as two distinct lines glared back at her. “Fuck me,” she whispered.

“Apparently Liam did,” Madeleine giggled and then clapped a hand over her mouth. “That was incredibly crude, my apologies. And,” she smiled cheekily, “my congratulations.”

“Oh Karin,” Hana cried, her lips tipping in a brilliant smile. “How exciting!”

“Right, exciting,” Karin whispered. She couldn't stop staring at the test, at those two little lines that added yet another title to already growing list of titles. Duchess. Wife. Queen. Mother. She was going to be a mother. Tears welled in her eyes, a smile stretched across her lips. She was going to be a mother! For the first time in her life she was going to have a family. A real family. One that couldn't be taken away from her.

Perma tag: @debramcg1106 @josieschoices @boneandfur @speedyoperarascalparty @christopher-powell @tmarie82 @blackcatkita  @hamulau @endlessly-searching-for-you @umccall71  @drakelover78 @penguininapinktuxedo @eileendannie  @stopforamoment @writtenbycandy @lizeboredom @alicars @leelee10898 @choicesfannatalie @liamxs-world @katurrade @jadedpixiescribbles @indiacater @mfackenthal @damienazariostan @choiceslife @hopefulmoonobject

Tag for Liam x MC: @lodberg @tanyaschoices @lynn1214 @jlouise88  @scarlettedragon @innerpostmentality  @flowerpowell @jamielea81 @cordoniaqueensworld @heatherfilliez @trr-fangirl @purplegreyshrimp

#choices september challenge #choices the royal romance #liam x mc #mc x liam

[whiskynottea]

Amnesia

This is the third chapter of my Canon divergent AU, set in Outlander/Season 1, written for the OL Prompt Exchange organized by @thelallybrochlibrary, for Prompt #3: “I don’t remember…. I don’t remember anything.“ (submitted by anonymous)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

AO3

(Previously)

Jamie reached for Claire’s hand again, gently, timidly. Enfolding it in his, he talked to her in a quiet voice. “Forgive me, lass. I didna want to startle ye.”

Claire looked deep in his eyes, with a look of curiosity he knew all too well.

“Who are you?”

Chapter 3. Who are you?

Jamie had found himself in difficult circumstances many a time, and he always found a way out of them. There was a golden thread to follow, leading him to the solution. Best gain, minimal loss. This was what he did back at Leoch, when he managed to be accepted as an ally without pledging his oath to Colum. It wouldn’t do to die during the Gathering, with Claire watching.

But now, in front of the inquiring amber of her eyes, he had no words.

Who was he? Who was he supposed to be in the messed world of her mind?

The first time he introduced himself to Claire, he was obliged to lie. He was Jamie MacTavish, a man with no history; a ghost not to be found. He didn’t mind being MacTavish to everybody else, but he couldn’t stand deceiving Claire. He ached to give her his truth, even if it would be hidden behind a fake name. He longed to be Jamie Fraser with her. And he was, because every time he watched her he felt more like himself than he ever did. He needed her to know him; the scars on his back, the warrant with his name, his family, his history.

The first time Jamie told Claire his full name was before their wedding. She was standing outside the church in that beautiful dress, with the ivory of her skin shining under the rare Scottish sun that came out only to admire her. His bride. Jamie gave her himself with his name, then. Everything he had, little as that was, was hers.

But now… What would he say to his wife, to the person who shared his name, and was looking at him without a single memory of who he was?

Jamie breathed deeply, looking at the inquiring eyes in front of him.

This was a new beginning, he told himself. His new chance with her. When he woke up that same morning he could only picture a future lost. That was the day he would leave Claire free and she would fly away. She wasna his and he’d no be her cage. Claire was born to spread her wings higher than everyone else, and he loved her for that. 

But Claire didn’t leave. She was here in front of him, giving him a chance to make her love him again. And he promised himself he’d do everything right.

“I’m James Alexander Malcom MacKenzie Fraser.” Jamie said, pausing between each name as he had done the first time.

“Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.” Claire extended her hand, exactly in the same way she did outside the church.

Ye’re tearing my guts out, Claire.

Jamie took her white hand between his own. He wouldn’t kiss it, not now. He couldn’t risk scaring her. He run his thumb lightly across her knuckles, feeling the magic of her capable hand.

Claire’s hands, that healed him more than once during the last few months. That led the dagger to the deserter’s kidney. Healed and killed. But for Jamie, what mattered the most was that these hands could love. And they had loved him.

“Aye, I ken that.” Jamie forced a smile on his lips and let her hand go, his heart throbbing in pain in the absence of her touch.

“Right,” Claire said. Jamie could see her thinking behind that glass face of hers. “James?”

Oh no, Sassenach.

He couldn’t have that. “Ye call me Jamie, Sassenach.”

“Oh, I do? Thank you.” Rosy cheeked, Claire gave him a little smile for the memory he offered, the shared knowledge. “So, Jamie.” She tried his name on her tongue and he thought he’d faint listening to her calling him again. “Why are you dressed like that?” She then looked at herself; the dress, the Fraser plaid. “And more importantly, what am I wearing?”

Jamie saw the whole scene unfolding in front of his eyes.

Him telling her that these were the clothes people wore back at 1743. Explaining everything, from the fairy hill to their marriage.

But how could he explain what he couldn’t understand?

Jamie believed Claire when she told him her story after the witch trial at Cranesmuir. He saw the truth in her eyes, he heard the despair in her voice. But what he saw was his wife, the person whom he loved more than himself.

He was now just a stranger to Claire. He hadn’t happened to her yet; he existed in a life lived and forgotten.

What is a life that’s not remembered? Has it happened at all? Are the traces left in other lives enough to bring it back, to give existence in memories veiled by the mind’s tricks?

Memories make us who we are. It’s what we lived through that defines ourselves. And Claire shared no memories with Jamie. Not anymore.

She wasn’t even the person he first met when Murtagh found her. That person had been married, had lived a war. She was a youngest version of herself now.

How could he tell her that she traveled through the stones? How was she supposed to believe him when she didn’t know him?

It was so vivid, what Jamie saw in his mind. Claire running for the stones to go back. Him trying to stop her, screaming his lungs out that her uncle is dead, that she couldn’t find him.

But Claire wouldn’t believe him. Of course she wouldn’t. Not the Claire he knew. She’d go back to see for herself and he would lose her forever. Claire would end up at the other side of the stones, alone, in a place where there was no one to protect her. Who knew what Frank would do with Claire in this state!

No, he couldn’t tell her that truth. Not yet.

“Ye wear my plaid, lass.” He said instead, sticking to his promise. Secrets but not lies. “These are the Fraser colors.”

Because ye’re a Fraser. My Fraser.

“Yes, but…” Claire said looking at her attire, with a frown. She obviously wondered why she didn’t wear anything like the shift they found her in, that first night months ago. “We look like we were in a Scottish festival. Anyway, clothes don’t matter.”

They never mattered to ye, a nighean.

“Jamie?” Her voice was hesitant after a minute of silence, with both of them lost in their thoughts.

“Aye?” His voice was encouraging, even if the prospect of another question scared him to his bones.

“I have to find my uncle. Can you help me?” Pleading whisky eyes were looking deep in his and he felt that the air around him wasn’t enough.

“Aye, I’ll help ye in every way I can.”

“Thank you, truly.” Tears were brimming in her eyes and she bit her lips to stop the feelings from overwhelming her. Claire was never one to cry in front of strangers. And Jamie was almost a stranger now.

His heart throbbed in pain; for him, for her, for the fate that brought them together only to take her away again. But he didn’t stop feeling grateful, for he still had her in front of him, in his time.

If he hadn’t stopped her, Claire might remember him when she’d be back to the future, but that memory would never be enough. Her thoughts could never replace her touch, the way she looked at him, the sound of her voice.

“Dinna fret, lass. Nobody will hurt ye, as long as I’m wi’ ye.” He’d told her that back at Leoch, the first day she took care of his wound. He meant it just the same, if not more now.

“And when you’re not with me?”

I’ll always be wi’ ye, Sassenach. If ye want me to.  

“I’m here, am I not?” He smiled and took an errand curl between his fingers. Claire didn’t flinch.

“Jamie,” She searched for his eyes and swallowed hard. “What is this sound? It’s terrifying.”

Ah Dhia! She was still hearing the stones!

He had to take her away, to keep her in safe distance from their power.

Jamie stood up, extending a hand to her. “Come wi’ me?” He said, setting his jaw and gnashing his teeth so hard that they hurt while he tried to keep his hand stable. He had to be strong for both of them.

Please, mo nighean donn. Come wi’ me.

Claire nodded and gave him her hand together with her trust as she rose from the ground.

Feeling her weight trusted in him filled Jamie’s chest with hope.

A hope with the herbal scent of her curls and the golden light of her eyes.

#amnesia #canon divergent AU #OLPromptEchange #jamie x claire #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #sloooow burn

[gathering-storm]

For the OC meme: 1, 5, 7, 10, 15, 16, 19, 21, 22, 29, 33, 34, 35, 36, 42, 50, 59, 62, 69, 71, 74, 75, 83, 85, 87, 90, 94, 96, 97, 98 and 99 for Casias and Heridan (was that his name? I forgot Dx But the one I drew you for Christmas)

Heridan

1. What do they smell like?

a mixture of burning embers, cave moisture and berry bushes

5. How do they deal with/react to pain?

he tends to conceal it until it becomes too much, after that it angers him

7. Which relationship has impacted them most positively?

that would be his bond with Luminari, the first full-blooded dragon he ever took under his care. Their connection, as is the case with all the creatures under his care, transcends owner/pet and is in fact extremely familial. unlike the rest however, Luminari has guided and advised him on matters ranging from the caretaking of other beings to importantaàa decisions in his own life. She is as much his mother as she is his friend.

10. What is their favorite food?

he enjoys venison seasoned with wild garlic

15. What is their greatest achievement?

after saving a pregnant and heavily wounded Aquis (water dragon) from a group of human hunters, he not only managed to mend wounds that would have normally been fatal or in the least crippling, but also succeeded in delivering their eggs the following day despite several getting stuck in the birth canal.

16. what’re they like when they’ve had too much sleep?

grouchy and ill-tempered but controlled

19. right or left handed?

left

21. what’s their favorite kind of weather?

he prefers sunny days

22. What’s his favorite color?

orange

29. Do they collect anything?

yes, he collects rare gemstones

33. Do they own any significant objects of personal importance?

he has two, a lock of black hair he assumes belonged to his birth mother and a crimson scale he doesn’t know why he treasures as much as he does

34. Least favourite food

he hates the taste of spinach almost to the point of vomiting

35. Least favourite color

magenta

36. Least favourite smell

blood or Sangui root

42. do they have any bad habits?well, in terms of drugs/self destructive behavior, no, but he does have a habit of judging humans based on what they are without really getting to know them at first.50. when is their birthday?June 30th59. what are their views on death?thought he sees it as inevitable, its not something he particularly relishes the idea of, 62. do they enjoy being outside?very much so69. is there anything they find really gross?not really71.   do they enjoy helping people?honestly, yes, whenever he helps someone in need, it makes him feel useful and accomplished74. are they quick to anger/what are they like when they loose their temper?

unless one of he or his family is directly attacked he’s almost impossible to anger. but once it happens, may whatever god you believe in help your doomed soul as he becomes an inconsolable engine of wrath.75. how patient are they?when it comes to the creatures he cares for, immovably so. when dealing with most humans....almost not at all.83. are they comfortable with how they look?none whatsoever, he sees himself as a freak.85. what kind of personality do they find attractive?kindhearted, motherly, caring, compassionate and affectionate87. what is their age? physically, he’s 27, chronologically he’s nearly 30090. do they consider themselves attractive?not even remotely94.   what is their outlook on life?it can best be summed up by the phrase “we are each here to care for our kind, mine is simply more powerful than most.”96. what is their greatest weakness?that title goes to how dense he can be97. what is their greatest strength?I would say its his fierce  and nearly unbreakable determination98. what is something they regret?never getting the chance to meet either of his parents99. what is his biggest accomplishmenthe has successfully built and terraformed a multi-environmental sanctuary within a sprawling cave system inside of a mountain lined with gold.   Casias1. What do they smell like?old books, bergamot or lavender tea and wine, with a hint of high-dollar cologne 5. how do they deal with/react to pain?depending on severity, he will either ignore it or, if it is intense enough, he flinches, faints or asks for help7. which relationship has impacted them the most positively? in-canon, that’s indisputably  the romance he had with his first wife, that woman changed what was a psychopathic remote controlled killer into one of the sweetest gentlemen ever to call Britain home.10. what’s their favorite food?German chocolate lava cake with red wine reduction infused strawberry icing, sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar and decorated with angel’s food cake roses.15. what is their greatest achievement? depending on timeline, that’s either the rescuing of his children and the related death of Makaida, finding the love of his life, and/or opening his own restaurant/winery.16. what are they like when they’ve had too little sleep?mentally foggy, confused and, if he tries to be romantic while in that condition, almost drunken.19. are they right or left handed?naturally a lefty, but he’s trained himself to be ambidextrous 21. whats his favorite kind of weather?either gentle spring rains or powder coatings of snow22. whats his favorite color?blue29. does he collect anything?he has a rather extensive collection of vintage wines and rare books33. does he own any objects of personal significance?three, a picture of his first wife still kept in its cracked frame, his first house key, and his honorary teaching degree34. what is his least favorite food?burgoo, he outright hates it35. what is his least favorite color?steel grey36. what is his least favorite smell?either factory smoke or foxtail pollen42. do they have any bad habits?he occasionally smokes a cigarette or two, but only when under great stress or trying to forget something50. When is their birthday?July 1st 59. what are their views on death?“death is merely the gateway to what lays beyond, no matter what that may be.”62. do they enjoy being outside?"more than the finest of dances, the soft breeze of summer or cool refrain of fall embraces my soul as an angels arms.”69. is there anything they find really gross?he abhors the sight of harsh physical deformations (i.e. large tumors)71.  does he enjoy helping people?there’s honestly very little he likes more74. is he quick to anger/what is he like when he looses his temper?under normal circumstances he’s nearly impossible to seriously enrage, but when it does happen he either becomes an exceptionally snarky smartass or, if the anger is caused by a threat to himself/those he cares for, a master combat humiliator75. how patient is he?extremely so, to everyone but Makaida83. is he comfortable with how he looks?

very much so, in fact, he’s proud of his unique appearance85. what kind of personality does he find attractive?caring, romantic, hardworking, fun loving, creative87.  how old is he?depending on timeline, between 42 and 57, though due to how well he cares for himself he looks to be around 2390. does he consider himself attractive?he doesn’t really see himself as sexually attractive, at least, not moreso than the average person94. what is his outlook on life? “Life is meant to be lived to the fullest, each moment a chance to live, learn and love as much as our hearts are capable of.”96. what is his greatest weakness?physically its the fact he’s actually majority blind while his eye-patch is on, personality wise his willingness to sacrifice himself for his loved ones without hesitation could be considered a weakness97. what is his greatest strength?his unshakable courage98. what is something he regrets?he has a multitude of regrets, but most prevalent is not being home when his wife was killed and his kids abducted99. what is his biggest accomplishment?transforming not only his life but also himself from what he was to who he is now.@tatzebea @onyx-rose88 @echoing-night @healingmemories @lil-brown-furred-boi

#thanks for the massive ask! #it nearly killed me in a fun way lol

[vateacancameos]

Chapters: 1/1 Words: 1134 Fandom: Imagine Me & You (2005) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Luce/Rachel (Imagine Me & You) Characters: Luce (Imagine Me & You), Rachel (Imagine Me & You) Additional Tags: Autumn, Established Relationship, Pictures, Foliage, Post-Canon, Knitting, blatant misuse of knitted things, because Luce is always cold, One Shot Series: Part 5 of snapshots of autumn, Part 2 of Knitting Keeps Both of Our Hands Warm Summary:

Part of the snapshots of autumn series, which tells stories of ladies in love during autumn, this story can be read independently.

Rachel and Luce go leaf peeping. Luce overdresses.

Story:

“Hey, you.”

Rachel smiled but kept her eyes closed. She was taking in the perfect autumn air—crisp but sunny, the breeze bringing scents of fires, chestnuts, and cinnamon. She held that moment in her mind, captured it so she could remember it when it was freezing winter or boiling summer. Then she opened her eyes to add her wife to that picture, but moment was ruined by the ridiculous amount of yarn that Luce had piled on her person. Rachel’s rule for leaf peeping was no coats, which Luce had followed in letter if not in spirit.

She hid a giggle behind her hand. “Really, Luce? It’s not that cold.”

Luce glowered from beneath a floppy winter hat, her mouth half-tucked behind a chunky cowl. “It’s nice enough now, but how about in two hours when the sun goes behind the clouds, the wind kicks up, and we’re out of tea? I’d rather be overprepared than under, thank you very much.”

read the rest under the cut

She had at least forgone her winter mittens, settling for the more appropriate autumnal fingerless gloves she wore no matter the time of year, but she ruined the effect with a bulky jumper covered by a down waistcoat. The knitted ensemble was completed by the wool socks peeping out from the tops of her sturdy hiking boots.

“Darling,” Rachel said with a shake of her head, “you know that I adore that you request and wear everything I knit for you, but you really don’t have to wear everything at once.”

Thought Rachel’s knitting had improved vastly in years since they’d met, it looked a little odd when worn all at once, given that the hat was a bright fuchsia, the gloves rust orange, and the cowl a Kelly green (Luce could have at least worn the one that matched the gloves). Thankfully the jumper was an inoffensive grey and the waistcoat white.

“I’ll wear whatever it takes to keep me warm, while thanking God your favorite season is not winter.” Luce rubbed her hands together, and Rachel took pity on her, handing her a cardboard cup. “I already have tea,” she said, indicating her knapsack.

“Do you not cherish our traditions, woman? This is cider,” Rachel said in mock outrage. They always drank cider on their way out of the city to go leaf peeping.

“Of course, how silly of me.” Luce’s scowl melted, and she winked at Rachel. “Let us proceed with the next tradition: sitting in traffic while following the path of leaf peepers gone before us. Where to this year, my lady?”

Rachel loved planning their yearly trips almost as much as she loved taking them. It was a challenge to find the hidden gems, the roads less traveled. Between her own journalism research skills and Hec’s travel knowledge, she usually managed to find the places without overcrowded car parks and walking trails. And Luce always appreciated the secluded spots, for her picture taking if nothing else.

Linking their arms, Rachel pulled them forward to Luce’s car down the street. “It’s a surprise, of course. You drive, I navigate.” They parted at the car, and Rachel gasped as she glanced in the back seat while opening the car door. “You have a coat!” she accused, eyes narrowing.

“It’s a rain poncho, for emergencies. I always have it in my car, you know that.” Luce rolled her eyes and turned the ignition. “Which way?”

“Fine, I’ll allow it, this time. But you better not touch it even once today.”

“That rule is ridiculous. Which way?”

“It is not!” Rachel argued. “M40. There’s something about cheeks flushed from the chill, cold fingers warming in front of car heater vents, hot tea steam on your face.” She was back in her happy place just thinking about it. Autumn was the best.

Luce scoffed, but she was smiling fondly. She put the car in drive and pulled onto the street.

“My lips warming yours?” Rachel tried.

Luce raised an eyebrow. “I could be persuaded.”

“Coming home and warming up in front of the fire … clothing optional?”

“Well, when you put it that way …”

Rachel leaned over and gave her wife a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, for going along with my mad schemes.”

“They’re not mad. Just … colder than I like. Plus, they give me a reason to request more knitted things. Which I can then wear and show much I’m loved.”

“From your get-up, you’re the most loved person alive.”

Luce beamed. “I am.”

🍁🍂🍁

“Bloody hell, Rache. We’ve passed three perfectly good spots already.”

Rachel frowned, eyes darting at the brightly clothed trees that surrounded them. “I don’t want perfectly good. I want perfect, full stop.” She took measure of the tree in front of her, shook her head, and kept walking. Next year she was definitely investing in a pair of Luce’s hiking boots. Hers were giving her a blister on her heel. But she wasn’t letting it ruin her mood. She could be cranky about it tomorrow.

Just as she was about to give up and agree to the last spot, she gasped. “There it is. Gorgeous.” She put a hand out to stop Luce, who grunted.

“It’s the same– Ohhhh,” she breathed. “Perfect.”

It was perfect. A sunbeam hit at just the right spot through the trees. It would light them up wonderfully. “Hurry, before the sun goes behind the clouds again!”

Luce pulled off her pack, rummaging inside for her travel tripod, getting it set up in record time. She grabbed her remote, and Rachel practically ran them to the spot under the riotously red and gold tree. She considered making Luce take off that ridiculous hat (one of her earlier attempts, bulky and knitted in an ugly shade of bright purple-pink, but Luce loved it) and cowl combo, but she wanted to be true to the memories of the day, which included Luce’s eye-searing get-up. She pulled her wife closer with their linked hands, free hand tucking into Luce’s elbow.

“Ready?” Luce asked with a laugh but let herself be pulled closer. “I’m going to take a few, so hold still.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rachel got her smile ready. Not hard when she was standing next to the person she loved most, in the season that was her favorite, surrounded by lovely colors and chilled air.

The camera whirred and clicked a couple of times before Rachel turned her head to nuzzle Luce’s cheek. She just knew that Luce would be smiling softly in the last picture. It would be perfect.

And it was.

The last picture joined several years’ worth of autumnal pictures on their mantle, and a copy graced Rachel’s desk at work so she could look at it any time she needed a pick-me-up. It was her favorite, ridiculous hat and all.

#imagine me and you #rachel/luce #luce/rachel #fanfic #ficlet #autumn #autumn mood #meagan writes #ao3 #wlw #f/f