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into-the-daniverse · 3 years

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Remember Me | Miriam

Before we jump into Alec’s prologue, I just had this one last part to cover, which is the three year period before the game where Nadia went into her coma. Since Miriam is going to be featured in the prologue (and a few of the routes), I thought it would be important to have this part of the timeline established.

In which, Miriam has to deal with losing Lucio and Nadia, Jamil becoming distant, and Valerius, along with the rest of the courtiers, stepping in for Nadia to take over Vesuvia.

CW: Mention of memory loss, alcohol Title: Remember Me by UMI 4.6k words

Miriam felt like her world had been pulled out from under her in the blink of an eye.

In one night, she had lost two of her closest friends. One to a fire, the other to a deep sleep.

She could still feel the ghost of flames on her hands as she tried to get to Lucio.

She fought to get into his room, past the courtiers who just stood there, past Valerius, who looked almost as shocked as she felt.

It was the doctor, Doctor Devorak, who had pulled her from the flames, shortly before Valerius had him arrested for killing Lucio. And when Miriam had turned to find Nadia, to see if she could make any sense of what had happened, she found her, asleep, and she wouldn’t wake up for anything.

When Miriam’s older sibling, Andrea Drago, had come to Vesuvia with the rest of the doctors sent to try and treat Nadia, they had been able to reverse most of the burns from her hands, but tiny scars still littered her hands, and her nerves still seemed damaged.

“Ah, Gigi,” they had sighed, holding her as she cried, like they would when she was much smaller. “You always get hurt for others. Who is looking out for you?”

Miriam hadn’t been able to answer, though she knew the answer was “no one.” At least, not anymore.

They had tried to get her to leave, to come home to Venterre with them, but Miriam refused. Nadia was still alive, at least, and Miriam wasn’t going to leave her, not yet.

Unfortunately, staying meant having to deal with the court even more intimately than she was used to, and it meant dealing with Valerius, who, having stepped in for Nadia, was more insufferable than he had ever been, and it drove her up a wall.

He used to be someone she could at least talk to, even if it wasn’t for long, they had more in common than they liked to admit. But now, it was like she didn’t know him anymore. So, she felt completely alone.

In the back of her mind, she knew that Jamil was still in the city, and she meant to visit him, but every time she tried to leave the palace, something new came up that required her attention. But, a few months later, Jamil came to the palace for the first time in almost a year.

Miriam dropped everything she was doing when the chamberlain came to her and let her know Jamil was at the palace. He was waiting in a salon when she found him, pacing.

“Alfonso?” She ran to him, looking him up and down. He didn’t look like he had after Alec’s death, but there was still something… off about him. “Are you alright? I haven’t heard anything from you in months now, what happened—"

Jamil didn’t even greet her before he spoke. “We’re leaving the city.”

Miriam stopped, her head tilting to the side. “You—what? Why?”

He looked exhausted in a way that she had never seen before, different from even how he had looked when she visited him at the shop with Nadia. Exhausted, but there was some fire, some anger she didn’t recognize on him in his eyes. Jamil glanced around them, though they were alone in the salon, and leaned in closer.

“It’s Alec.”

Miriam was completely lost. “What… what about her?”

“She’s back. She’s back, and we don’t know how, but she’s not… something’s not right.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

Jamil laughed roughly, a harsh sound that didn’t fit coming from his mouth and pushed his hair back out of his face. “Nothing makes much sense anymore. But Alec’s back, she’s alive again.”

“What?” Miriam sunk down onto the couch, hand covering her face. “She—How—” Looking up at Jamil, she felt desperation creep into her voice. Desperate for any sense of familiarity. “Can I see her?”

“No.” Jamil stayed standing, starting to pace around the salon again. “She doesn’t… She doesn’t remember anyone.”

“Not even you?”

He paused in his pacing. Miriam watched him age in front of her eyes, and suddenly the five-year gap between them felt much larger.

“Not even me,” he said, a tremor in his voice.

“But… you just said you’re leaving the city. Why would you do that—shouldn’t you be staying with her? Even if her memories are gone, you can still help her—"

“I know that!” Jamil sighed, sitting on the couch next to her. “I know that.” He buried his face in his hands. “I don’t want to leave. I feel like—like we’re making a horrible mistake. But she… she’s just getting worse with us here.”

Miriam wrapped her arm around his shoulder, and he leaned into her. “Where will you go?”

“Not far. There’s—we found a hut in the Catclaw Desert that the three of us will fit comfortably in. It’s almost a three days walk from Vesuvia, but still, not too far.”

“What about Nadia?”

He pulled back to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“She’s… she’s been asleep for months. Is there anything you can do for her? You’re just going to leave her, and me, too?”

Jamil sighed again, shaking his head. “I can’t stay here, Giano, believe me, I wish I could. But I doubt there’s anything I could do for Nadia. I know Drea saw her, and if they couldn’t help her, there’s nothing I can do. It’s not like I have any magic to help.”

Miriam knew that. She had figured that out on her own, and knew she was just as helpless. But the idea of being alone in Vesuvia made her want to cry.

“Would you write to me?”

Jamil gave her a soft smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll try.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Jamil stood up to leave. Miriam followed him out of the salon, stopping at the doors behind him.

“Giano, can you promise me something?”

Miriam nodded.

“Please don’t reach out to Alec. I know—” his shoulders sagged. “I know it’s hard. I know you want to see her. But if she sees you, we don’t know what might happen.”

For a second, Miriam wanted to argue. She wanted to say that wasn’t fair, he got to see her, but she didn’t. But she took in the deep, suffocating sorrow in his eyes, a darker green than she remembered, and just nodded again. “I promise.”

“Thank you.” Jamil hugged her tightly, once, and then he was gone.

Miriam’s head felt heavy on her shoulders, and that night she didn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling. She could only think about the last time she had seen Alec, in the palace, dressed in the same doctor’s outfit that so many people had been. She had seemed so tired, so worn, but she always gave Miriam a smile and wave when they passed each other.

And then she had disappeared. Died, and Miriam hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

***

She broke her promise to Jamil exactly once.

Six months after he left, she made her way to the shop in the evening. It had been a long, horribly frustrating day, and she knew that she wasn’t in the right mind to be leaving, but she didn’t stop herself. All day she had fought endlessly with the court, fought endlessly with Valerius, and fought with herself on staying. She needed something, anything familiar. Anything good. And she could only think of one thing that she had left.

Losing herself through the streets a few times, finally she reached the shop as the moon began to rise. She went to knock on the door, but hesitated, hearing the sound of the shop’s old piano ring from inside.

She thought she could hear singing along with the piano, familiar singing, and turned to go around the back of the shop when the door opened.

It wasn’t Alec that answered the door, but the magician, Asra. Miriam had crossed paths with him a few times while he helped Doctor Devorak work on a cure for the plague, but he had also practically disappeared after the Masquerade.

Asra glanced behind him and stepped out of the shop, closing the door softly. “You… You’re Miriam, right?”

She nodded. “Asra.”

He mirrored her nod, white hair shaking around his face, his hands pressed behind him on the door. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. “I wanted to see her.”

“Jamil told you?”

“Just that she was back, somehow. And… that she doesn’t remember anyone.” She watched Asra’s face fall, just slightly.

“And you still came.”

“I just wanted to see her,” she repeated. “I know—Jamil asked me not to try to reach out to her, and I’m not, I just… I just wanted to make sure she was okay. When he told me she was back, I almost didn’t believe him. But…”

Asra sighed, running a hand through his curls, and Miriam wondered for a moment if he had learned that motion from Jamil. As far as she knew, he had been friends with Alec for a very long time, and surely, he had spent just as much time with the rest of the band.

Before she could wonder further, he walked away from the door. “Come on, I’ll let you see her.”

Miriam felt her heart leap in her chest and hurried to follow him around the back of the shop. They paused at the back window, looking into the shop’s back room, and Asra stepped aside, letting Miriam peek in.

In the far corner, Alec was sitting at the upright piano, sheet music scattered around her. It looked just like the room always had, if it wasn’t for how empty it was aside from her. Her long hair trailed down her back, unbraided, but though it much have been somewhat in her eyes, Alec didn’t seem bothered. She seemed almost in a trance as she played, swaying on the rickety piano bench that groaned with every movement. Miriam didn’t recognize the song Alec was playing, but it brought tears to her eyes as Alec sang, her voice soft and tired.

“She still won’t… won’t speak to me, yet, but she’s singing. That’s better than silence.” The pain Miriam heard in Asra’s voice made her chest hurt, and she turned to him.

“Is there anything I can do to help you? Either of you; I can get you anything from the palace, or send for my sibling—they’re a doctor, they could help—"

Asra shook his head. “Went over that with Jamil. There’s nothing a doctor can do to help her… not with this.” He leaned against the wall of the shop. “And there’s really nothing we need. Before the plague, Camia signed the shop to both of our names, and when they left Jamil gave us a lot of money from his family. I just—we just need her to keep recovering, for now.”

Whereas Miriam had watched Jamil age in front of her before, now she saw Asra for just how young he was. He wasn’t meant to be a caretaker to his friend, he wasn’t meant to have these kinds of concerns. It wasn’t fair.

Miriam looked back at Alec, who was still tapping away at the keys, her voice cracking slightly as she sang. She was only a year older than Asra, still too young to have to deal with the same things. She came back, but at the cost of her family and friends, her memories. It wasn’t fair.

Before she could give into her tears in front of Asra, Miriam hugged him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and she felt him hug her back, hesitantly at first, then his grip tightened.

He didn’t reply, he just shook in her arms, and she held him as he cried.

After a while, the music inside the shop stopped, and Asra pulled away. “I need to get back to her.”

Miriam nodded. “Thank you, for letting me see her.”

He gave her a small smile, eyes red. “If we need anything, I’ll let you know. But, for now…”

“I’ll stay away, I promise.”

Asra went back inside, but Miriam stayed at the window for a moment, watching as he walked into the back room. Alec was glancing around the room, a distant look in her eyes. Once he entered, she stood up from the piano almost immediately, running over to him, and threw her arms over his shoulders. She couldn’t see the tired look on Asra’s face, but Miriam could, and just as he glanced back at the window, she left.

She managed to hold herself together all the way to the Palace, only collapsing into her own tears when she reached her room, the moon high in the sky.

***

Almost two years after Lucio’s death, Miriam realized that she needed more help around the palace. She and the chamberlain split most duties, but Miriam was having trouble tending to the needs of the palace and Nadia. As much as it pained her, she couldn’t be by Nadia’s side like she wanted to.

So, when a smart young woman from Nevivon practically landed on the palace steps looking for work, how could Miriam say no?

As a plus, Portia, as she introduced herself, was quite fun.

The two of them got along very quickly, and it became a game for them to pass by each other in the halls and share some tidbit of gossip or go over the magical passageways hidden throughout the palace. Portia was far better at finding them than Miriam was, but she didn’t mind. The rest of the palace took a liking to her as well, and she fit right in with servants who had been there for decades.

Appointing her as Nadia’s handmaiden was the easiest choice Miriam had ever made, and she trusted her completely to look after Nadia. More than once she caught Portia talking to Nadia as she slept, and Miriam would laugh and tease her about it, but nothing made her happier.

One day, Portia was with her when the mail came in, and they both sat in Nadia’s room looking it all over. Miriam was sifting through the letters when one in particular caught her eye.

It was from one of Nadia’s sisters, from Prakra, addressed to Nadia.

“What’s that one say?” Portia asked, noticing Miriam pause.

“It’s from Nasmira… Uh, one of Nadia’s sisters.” Miriam looked the letter over quickly and sighed. “Dia never liked talking about them much. I don’t think they got along very well.” She tucked the letter into a drawer in Nadia’s desk with a handful of similar letters.

Portia tilted her head in confusion. “Aren’t you going to reply to it?”

“I’ve written her family before and explained the situation as best as I could.” She shut the drawer. “Having them come here wouldn’t be helpful to anyone right now, so there’s no need to worry them further.”

Judging by the look on Portia’s face, she didn’t agree, but Miriam just moved on, turning back to the other letters.

***

Finally, almost three years after Lucio’s death, Nadia woke up.

Miriam was in the kitchens, helping unload a shipment of food, when Portia ran into the kitchens from a magical passageway, hair loose and panting hard.

“Miri, she’s awake!”

Miriam ran past Portia, not even giving her a second to say anything else. She flew down the hallways to Nadia’s room, and composed herself just enough to not throw the doors open to see Nadia.

The Countess was sitting up in her bed, very much awake, if not a bit sluggish, but she turned her head to look at Miriam as she entered.

“Dia!” Miriam was by her side immediately, reaching out to take Nadia’s hand. “Oh, thank the gods you’re awake—I was beginning to think—”

When Nadia pulled her hand away, Miriam stopped, worry settling over her shoulders again.

“Are you okay?”

“I am…” Nadia touched her head to her head, pain flashing across her face for the briefest moment. “I am fine, yes. You…”

“Miriam.” Her heart sank to her stomach. “Miriam Diamandis? I—I’m the palace’s sommelier, have been for a, uh, few years now.”

“Yes. Miriam.” Nadia waved her off, and Miriam stood back, feeling as if she had been slapped across the face. “Would you please call Portia back in here for me? I feel a headache coming on.”

As she spoke, and turned to face Miriam, her heart fell even further. There it was. The same distant look Miriam had seen on Alec’s face, but directed at her now, and from the woman she loved most in the entire world.

“I… Of course. My apologies, Countess.”

On shaking legs, she stood up from the bed, and made her way out of Nadia’s room, passing Portia in the hall.

“She asked for you.”

Portia’s mouth fell open in shock and she glanced past Miriam. “For me?”

She nodded, and just kept walking. And kept walking until she had made it to her wine cellar, fumbling with the key in the lock, almost stumbling down the stairs as she started to sob.

Nadia didn’t remember her. And she had no idea why.

Was it her fault? Had she done something to make her forget? Did Nadia not want to remember her?

It must have been hours that Miriam sat in her cellar and cried, though for once no one came searching for her. Except for Mercedes and Melchior, who scratched and howled at the cellar door for a minute until someone chased them away.

Eventually Miriam calmed enough to look around her, and sought out a bottle of wine, something strong that she had been saving for better times, but figured that she needed it now.

She had almost finished the bottle when she heard a voice at the top of the cellar stairs, closing the door behind them.

“Miriam?”

It was Valerius. Miriam swore, trying to wipe at her eyes as quickly as she could. He was the absolute last person she wanted seeing her like this, so close to her breaking point.

As she fixed herself, he continued down the stairs, heels clicking with every step. “Are you down here?”

She cleared her throat. “Yeah, I’m here. What do you want?”

“I heard Nadia woke up.” Valerius walked over to the table, sitting across from her with a huff, throwing his braid over his shoulder. “I went to visit her, and she seemed in good health, if not a little disoriented.” He took the bottle of wine from her and grabbed an empty glass, not looking at her as he spoke. “I must say I was surprised that you weren’t glued to her side, instead, that new servant girl was with her. What was her name again?”

“Portia.” Miriam huffed, irritation spiking her tone. “And she’s been here a year, she’s not new anymore. You would know that if you paid any attention to someone other than yourself and I—”

Valerius was staring at her now, having stopped pouring his wine. They held the stare for a moment before Miriam’s cheeks grew warm, and she covered her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

She laughed through her nose. “No, I guess not.” Sighing, she peeked out at him between her fingers, and shook her head when she saw his full glass. “Having a rough night?”

“Says the woman who finished the rest of the bottle on her own.”

“And you didn’t think to ask me if I was having a rough time?”

“That would require me to pay attention to someone other than myself, I think.”

A dry laugh escaped her. “I suppose it would.”

They fell into silence, Valerius sipping at his wine and studying her. Miriam was used to that by now, the way his cold gaze would trail over her as he prepared some sly comment to make, but it felt different this time. Maybe because she was vulnerable, so close to breaking down, and his gaze felt like it was poking into the cracks around her mask. Maybe because, despite everything they had gone through the last few years, at least they had gone through it together—more or less—and he was the last piece of the time before Lucio died that she had left.

When he finally broke the silence, what he said was so far from what she was expecting, so unlike him, it almost brought her immediately to tears.

“Have you been sleeping?”

She looked up at him, fidgeting with the rim of her own glass. “Um, not… not really.” Sighing, she glanced at the now empty bottle of wine and stood to get another. “There’s just so much to do, and I mean, now that Nadia’s awake, I might be able to relax a little bit, but then—” She doesn’t even remember me.

Once that thought—that fact, reappeared in her mind, Miriam broke. She wished she could disappear, that the floor would swallow her whole, anything, but instead she stood in place, shoulders shaking as she started to cry again.

She barely heard the sound of Valerius’s chair scraping the floor as he got up and walked over to her, but the feeling of his hand on her arm—as much as she craved it—made her tense up.

“No, don’t.” She stepped back, turning away from him. “Don’t.”

Valerius didn’t touch her again, but he didn’t leave either. “Miriam, what is it? Is there something wrong with Nadia?”

There’s something wrong with me, she thought, but just shook her head in reply, wiping at her eyes. “No—I mean, I’m just… happy she’s awake. Finally.”

He exhaled sharply, walking past her to pull another bottle of wine. “You are the world’s worst liar, Miriam Diamandis.”

Miriam bristled, facing him again. “Hey! I’m not—” he shot her a look over his shoulder as he walked back to the table, refilling his glass. She felt her cheeks warm and sat back down across from him. “…not that bad of a liar.”

He refilled her glass and set the bottle on the table. Holding his glass, he gestured to hers, and she lifted it up. They nodded slightly at the other, and after they had both taken a sip, he spoke again.

“I won’t ask you again if anything’s wrong; you clearly don’t want to tell me, and that’s fine. That’s not who we are to each other.” Valerius looked almost remorseful, almost, but it was gone as Miriam blinked. “And to be frank, I have enough problems of my own to handle right now to be worrying about yours as well. Ones I don’t want to get into, here.”

Miriam laughed, once, taking another sip. “Thanks, Val.”

“But—” He held his hand up. “But this,” he gestured between them and at the bottle of wine, “this we could stand to do more often, I think. We used to do this even when Nadia and Lucio were both… around, I suppose, and do you not think that for one evening a week, every two weeks, even, this might be something we would both benefit from?”

“What, a bitch session?”

“You—Fine, yes, a bitch session, you vulgar woman.”

“You never seemed to mind vulgarity from me at night before.” Miriam laughed, really laughed, when she saw the look on Valerius’s face, a mix of anger, exhaustion, and mortification, and she waved her hand. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”

“I take it back.”

“Aw, no, Val, I said I’m sorry.”

Valerius grumbled, sipping at his wine, but didn’t get up to leave.

“I did miss this. I missed a lot of things about how we all were before—” She still couldn’t say before Lucio died, even after all that time. “Before the last Masquerade.”

If Valerius noticed what she skirted around, he was gracious enough to not comment on it, though she assumed he was just as tired of it as she was. “It was… considerably different then.”

She took another sip of wine. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Hm.”

For the first time in a few years, they slipped into a comfortable silence, which eventually turned into a comfortable conversation. One thing they still had in common was their hatred of the rest of the court, and they were quick to bring up a particularly infuriating meeting from a week or so ago.

When they finished that bottle of wine, they left, parting ways at the top of the stairs.

Miriam wished him good night, knowing instinctively that the moment they had shared would not be easily recreated, and most likely would be soured by whatever the next day would bring, but for now, she would enjoy it.

She almost turned to go to Nadia’s room, on instinct, but stopped. It would probably be better, for herself and Nadia, if she let her remember on her own time, and didn’t try to force it. Miriam had been waiting for her to wake up for so long already, what was a little more time to let her recover?

So, she kept her distance.

But Nadia did not seem to be able to remember, or want to remember, and Miriam watched her, and Portia speak together much like Miriam used to, and felt her heart drag behind her on the ground with every step.

There was one morning that Miriam happened to catch them both on the veranda as Nadia took breakfast, her head in her hands.

“If only I could find that magician, Portia, I am sure I would have my answers.” Nadia sighed, shaking her head. “So much still unclear, but they were there, in my dreams. They must know something.”

Portia hummed as she poured Nadia’s tea. “I can ask around, Countess, see if anyone has seen them. What did they look like, again?”

As Nadia described the magician in her dreams, Miriam couldn’t stop herself from joining them outside, her feet moving faster than she could stop them.

Both Nadia and Portia turned to look at her, falling silent.

“Forgive me for overhearing, my lady.” Miriam bowed, but continued quickly before Nadia could say anything. “But I believe I know the magician you dreamt of.”

Nadia exchanged a glance with Portia. “You do?”

“I…” Miriam saw sapphire eyes sparkling under ballroom lights, warm brown skin glistening in the morning sun, heard laughter as it echoed through the halls of the palace, felt calloused hands in hers. She also saw the distant look in those blue eyes, the way her voice had cracked when she sang, and heard the haunted whispers of the city in her wake. “I know of her, at least.”

“Would you tell me about her? At least where I might find her? I can’t explain it, but I feel that I must meet with her.”

When Portia pulled a chair out for her, Miriam sat down, across from Nadia, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap. Gods, she hoped she was doing the right thing. She had promised Jamil, and Asra, to stay away. But Nadia was looking at her, really looking at her, for the first time in what felt like forever. And she needed her again, even if just for a moment. And maybe, after almost three years, it had been long enough. With a deep breath, she pushed her doubts aside and spoke.

“Her name is Alec.”

#the arcana #daniverse fic #daniverse oc #miriam #jamil #the arcana asra #the arcana portia #consul valerius #the arcana nadia #andrea drago #they're here for two seconds but still #anyway enjoy this before the prologue comes #I love Miriam so much and I wish I wrote more for her #but she sure gave me a lot this time around #and I'm sad

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kindlyones · 3 years

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Diary of Baldwin Montclair

Dear Diary,

I haven’t written in you in quite some time! But I found you in my hiding place at Sept Tours and I have a lot on my mind and would like to organise my thoughts. No one has managed to crack the code Pater and I devised when he orchestrated the death of Caesar, so I feel safe enough confiding in you.

What’s bothering me today is the continued pattern of “vampire murders” in the news. I hope to the Gods it isn’t Matthew. He seems happy enough holed up in his laboratory. Miriam swore to look after him and she would speak up if something were really wrong.

Strong armed Knox into giving a statement to the press saying there was nothing supernatural about the murders. He seems more receptive to Gerbert than myself, so I had to convince Gerbert to approach him. Gerbert gave me the go around, but eventually agreed to do it, as if our entire way of life didn’t depend on this.

Dear Diary,

Saw an advert for some Hercules musical production on Broadway. Thinking about Pater. I wonder if he really thought of Matthew as his son?

Dear Diary,

Saw Katerina. Feeling much more relaxed. I’m keeping an eye on China today. Looking into steel futures.

Dear Diary,

I’m in London. It rained a lot and now my house smells odd. I shall need to call someone to check for mould.

Dear Diary,

There is mould in my wine cellar. I repeat, there is MOULD in MY WINE CELLAR. As the youths on Twitter say, this is not a drill. I need to call in a specialist. My London wine collection cannot simply be moved as if they were bottles of Coca Cola.

Dear Diary,

I refitted my Thames penthouse for my most precious and delicate bottles of wine. Going to bid on the ‘45 Romanee-Conti from Drouhin’s cellar. I drank the last one when I thought it was at a risk of mould. Matthew sent me an email about it. He likes me to know he still has spies watching me.

Dear Diary,

Mixed news today. I got the ‘45 Romanee-Conti, but some cunts from China drove up the price and I had to pay $558,000 in USD. Absurd that I have to pay that much after all I did to set up trade routes to introduce wine to France in the first place. Everyone keeps asking me what I’m going to do with it. Obviously, I am going to drink it by myself while I pull my hair out over Matthew’s latest drama. He has abducted a witch. I can’t contact him. Everyone looking to me for answers, as if I understand one ounce of what’s in that libertine’s brain.

Dear Diary,

It is so much worse. He didn’t abduct her. They are in love. Marcus claims they are mating. He is usually reliable, but barely over three hundred. What the fuck does he know. Going to Sept Tours. The witches are very keen to speak to this woman, so I’m going to use her as a bargaining chip to stop them from seeking retribution against Matthew. They get their witch and Matthew gets to live another day to ruin my life yet again. Everyone is hell bent on some mythical quest involving the Book of Life. As if. I remember when we didn’t even have books, we had scrolls and tablets. If it were that important, it would be written in stone, like all important documents. How could a book tell us about something that happened thousands of years before I was born? If he had wanted to know of our origins, he should have spent more time with Pater. I saw more in his blood than any “book” could ever tell me.

Dear Diary,

What the actual fuck. I went to get the Bishop witch from Sept Tours, aka MY HOUSE on MY LANDS that I earned from TWO THOUSAND YEARS OF SERVICE TO MY FATHER AS HIS ONLY SURVIVING SON only to find she had already been taken by a flying witch. Why do I even bother showing up for Congregation meetings if this is what is achieved. Matthew was flailing. I had to talk him through it and remind him that witches don’t fly that far and he built most of the castles in the area himself. Finally we ended up pulling the witch out of an oubliette in the Cantal. No one was guarding her. Extremely suspicious. There is nothing particularly special about her. She can barely do magic. I suspect she might be spellbound, but she doesn’t seem insane enough. The best and easiest course of action would be to simply eliminate her from the board, as it were, but Ysabeau managed to find some semblance of her old terrifying self and put her petite foot down. I gave the witch the best advice I could and left. She is even less of a strategist than Matthew. If she listens to me, perhaps she will have a chance. Perhaps I should have just left and let her get herself killed, but Pater made me promise to protect the family when he made me paterfamilias and that includes Matthew. At least the witches’ trespass on de Clermont land has given the Congregation something else to talk about and now they no longer have the moral high ground as the injured party.

Dear Diary,

I am tired of everyone acting like being the de Clermont family head is something I just love doing. Like I want to be up in everyone’s personal business, managing them like children. Pater gave me a job to do. Pater never gives easy jobs, least of all to me. Wonder how long before the killing starts.

Dear Diary,

Thinking of Eva. I always thought I would see her again before I died. Does she think I didn’t pay dearly for what I did? Does she think I am not still paying for it now? I live under the weight of the consequences of my actions every day. I wrote her an email and deleted it before I sent it. She is in America now, close to New York. I wonder if she ever comes into the city.

Dear Diary,

Well, it’s started, and first on the docket is ME. Had to vote against my own execution today. That’s a first. They wanted to behead me and burn me, presumably still alive. Why did we never update that part of the charter? I’m going to replace the librarian with someone I can trust. That was too close for comfort.

Dear Diary,

Matthew and the witch have vanished. I am trying to locate them. Had the damnedest time getting into the Bishop house. No matter which way I turned, it kept showing me to the door. Regardless, I found no trace of them leaving the property recently. If I can’t follow them, at least no one else can.

Dear Diary,

Matthew must be enjoying playing the Boy Scout for his witch because there has not been a whiff of them anywhere. Where could they possibly be, the caves of Afghanistan? I would very much like to speak with them about whatever developments they’ve made with the Book of Life. If it will restore witches to their former power, I don’t want anyone else having it.

Dear Diary,

I dyed my hair grey. I must be having some sort of crisis. It’s nice to look somewhat as old as I feel. These past few months have aged me more than the last hundred years. I’ve taken to wearing all black. I have a right to be a bit angsty. I can’t even manage to lead the way Pater did on my own for a measly hundred years without our entire way of life falling apart as well as the legacy of our family. I keep asking myself what he would do. People obeyed his orders because they loved him. Nobody loves me. Philippe was everyone’s hero, and when I do exactly as he did, I’m a tyrant and a bully. Ysabeau told me she hated me to my face for the first time. I wish I could get drunk but it’s really not the time. I could be needed at a moment’s notice. They don’t love me, but they still need me. And I made Pater a promise.

Dear Diary,

Bloody Marcus is the head of the Knights of Lazarus. The child takes part in a single revolution and thinks he is some beacon of hope to the world. Meanwhile, the vampire murders have stopped. I really hope it isn’t Matthew. That would be the last thing we need right now. I am a veteran of hundreds of wars, let alone battles. I should lead the Knights. Marcus wasn’t even alive when there were knights. He isn’t a knight. He just plays at one.

Dear Diary,

My house has been overrun with daemons and witches. I try to turn up at unexpected times to see if I can catch them plotting against me. The revolution is being fomented from inside my own house. No word on Matthew.

Dear Diary,

Gallowglass and Fernando have materialized. Verin is headed for Sept Tours for the first time since Pater. My jet is fueling up and I am on my way home. The family isn’t gathering without me for no reason. I will gather them all together and exercise my rights as head of family and make them tell me what is going on. This has gone on long enough.

#baldwin montclair #a discovery of witches #adow #baldwin de clermont #baldwin montclair fic #fan fiction #it was supposed to be funny until it wasn’t #goes through s2 so no BOL spoilers

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rubysunnday · 3 years

Text

Dear Mother,

A/N: Inspired by the post about what Mrs Shelby’s name is. It’s also inspired by my first ever fic on here, The Letters, since it’s almost been a year since I posted it.

Her name had become a taboo. No one dared to mention the same of Mrs Shelby - the woman who’d thrown herself into the Cut because she went out of her mind. It was always “Mrs Shelby” or “the Shelby’s mother”.

Her name had died with her. She didn’t even have her name on the grave. Just mother.

Y/N Shelby didn’t even know her mother’s name. It was nowhere to be seen within the walls of the house and there was no record of it in any photo album or bundle of letters.

She was a ghost - a nameless whisper on the wind.

Y/N never asked about her mother’s name. Her brothers had told her she’d died from an illness - slowly wasted away before their eyes until she was no more. It was the truth, in a way. Her mind had give up and her body had followed not long after.

She’d thrown herself into the Cut and had sunk to the bottom - like Ophelia when her lover had murdered her father. Left behind was an already broken and bruised family who’s eldest members were about to go to war.

Y/N didn’t remember her mother. She didn’t remember the screaming, the crying, Tommy trying to shield her, Finn and Ada from their mother as she went out of her mind.

Committing suicide was no way to go. A mother committing suicide was another thing entirely. How could she be so selfish and abandon her children?

That was were the fear and suspicion of the Shelby’s had begun. All because of their mother. And they used it to their advantage, quickly becoming the most feared and respected family in Birmingham.

But no child should have had to grow up hearing whispered secrets about their mother and how it wouldn’t be long before the children followed her into the cold, icy depths of the Cut.

Y/N Shelby had no mother. Polly tried her best but she was never a maternal person - the loss of her children had damaged her beyond repair - and Y/N missed the nurturing nature mother’s apparently had.

She didn’t remember her mother. There were pictures of her in Tommy’s house - of her with John, Arthur, Tommy and Ada. She looked beautiful - like a Hollywood movie superstar. She was picture perfect, smiling at the camera with a loving hand on John’s shoulder and her arm around Arthur’s waist.

It was a snapshot of a forgotten time - before the demons invaded her mind and ripped her soul from her mind. And it wasn’t a true snapshot, not really. She’d suffered with the demons for years before that image, but it only got worse.

But Y/N took that image of her mother - looking perfect and like a porcelain doll. And she wrote her a letter. She introduced herself, told her what she looked liked and what her favourite things were and put it in her desk draw.

For the next twelve months, Y/N wrote a letter to her mother every day. She poured her heart and soul out to this invisible woman who’s name no longer existed and who’s image was frozen in a dusty photo on her brother’s desk.

8th April, 1923

Dear Mother,

I turned nineteen today, Nothing spectacular happened - I had a nice meal out with Ada and went riding with John and Arthur. Tommy vanished off to London - again - and I didn’t see him all day. Not quite sure what I’ve done to piss him off but, alas.

Polly gave me your necklace today The string of pearls you bought with the first bit of money Arthur made. I’m wearing them, and your engagement ring, as I write this. I look like a proper lady with my new dress on...

It’s been sixteen years since I last saw you. I’m doing alright without you but it’s hard. I see Ada with Karl and Polly with Michael and my heart aches for that. But i know I can never have it and will never have it.

I hope you’re alright, wherever you are, mother.

All my love,

Your ever loving daughter, Y/N x

As the days and the weeks went by, the bundle of letters got bigger and more tattered. She told no one about her little ritual - she knew they wouldn’t approve. Her family never dared mention their mother for fear of bringing about a curse.

Y/N was never that superstitious. No curses existed - it was just poor luck and death threats.

1st August, 1923

Dear Mother,

I feel like I’ve almost caught you up on the past sixteen years. The Great War, Tommy’s wedding, both of John’s weddings and his gaggle of small humans he calls children. There’s almost nothing else to say to you.

Not that you’re actually here, that is. I doubt you were ever really here.

I wrote my brothers letter when they were in France. That was different, though, because they wrote back and sent me little things. I still have the violet John sent me from the Somme.

I have all your things. No one else wanted them - they say they’re cursed or some shit like that. I was never that superstitious, it’s just life attempting to play God. No one has a say on who gets to be a survivor and who gets to be a martyr.

I like to think of you as Ophelia. She sang to herself as she drowned, oblivious to her death. I hope you were like that, finally at peace with yourself as you floated down the Cut with the fallen flowers and leaves around you like a halo.

There’s me trying to romanticise your death. No one even mentions you by name so forgive me for trying to make you seem more alive than apparently you are.

Well, you’re not alive are you. You’re dead.

You have a grave. It’s up on the hill by the old tree that was used for hangings back in the day. Near Tom’s house. It’s an alright spot, I suppose. Nothing special. No one ever visits you, however. Your name isn’t even on the pebble someone put there as a marker.

We couldn’t afford a headstone. We can now but Tommy would murder me if he knew I did that. He hates talking about you.

No one ever tells me about you. All I have are a few photos that are practically falling apart and your clothes and jewellery.

Anyway, I need to go. Family meeting and all that shit.

Your ever loving daughter,

Y/N x

By the time Christmas came, Y/N’s desk drawer was full of letters to her non-existent mother. Each letter was bundled together by month with colour coordinated ribbons for each month. February was purple, September orange and so on.

She’d told her mother everything she’d ever wanted to. Her first kiss, her first love, her first break up, the time she got shot, the numerous times she almost died.

She had no need to tell her anything anymore. Her mother felt so much more real to her now than she ever had before.

She made her decision on Christmas Day evening. Everyone else was inside Arrow House watching the children open their last few presents and drink the remaining of the wine and whiskey.

Y/N slipped outside, grabbed her horse, and rode up to the hill were the old hanging tree had once been. Her mother’s grave sat to the left of the tree - a tiny mound of earth with a pebble as its only marker. Y/N dismounted from her horse and approached the grave, clenching the letters tightly.

Twelve bundles. Almost 365 letters.

Y/N found some twigs and branches and made a small fire at the foot of the grave. A moment later it roared into life and crackled away, casting an orange glow over her face.

She spread Tommy’s coat out on the ground and sat down, cross-legged, in front of the fire, clutching the letters. For once, she wasn’t wearing a dress belonging to her mother. Instead it was a mismatch of her brother’s old trousers, shirts and waistcoats.

She started with the first of January.

Y/N untied the ribbon and pulled out the first letter, the date neatly scrawled on the top left of the envelope. She read it through once, flipped it over to look at the address and then put it on the fire.

The paper curled as it burnt away, the writing fading into nothing but ash and sparks.

The second of January followed suit before the first of January had even finished burning.

Each letter curled and burned in the fire, the words and the sentiments becoming nothing more than ash.

Fifteenth of February quickly followed the fourteenth.

Twenty-eighth of April was followed by the twenty-ninth.

Each and every letter was add to the fire until she was only left with one.

25th December, 1923

Dear Mother,

I’ve told you everything.

There’s nothing left to say, now. I’ve spilled my darkest secrets and untold stories to you.

I’ve moved on, now. I still wish I had you around but I’m coping with it. I wish you were more than just words and pictures and jewellery. But nothing is fair.

I’ve burnt all the letters and I hope the words reach you. I hope their spirit and their meaning reach you and reassure you that your daughter is doing fine.

You used to be mine but now you belong to the world.

I only wish I’d learnt your name.

All my love

Your ever grateful and loving daughter,

Y/N Miriam Shelby

#peaky blinders imagines #Peaky Blinders #sister shelby #shelby sis #tommy shelby x sister!reader #peaky blinder x reader #yes her middle name is what i imagine her mothers name to be #i just like the name miriam #anyway #enjoy

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harryforvogue · 2 years

Note

ok so can i just say one thing…

i’ve been following u for a while maybe about 2 years and when i first came on here i read about faye and mia cause they’re popular gals so i read their stories and extras and tags and fell in love with them and i’m like yeah i won’t love anyone like i love them many hugs and kisses for them 😘😘😘😘😘

…. but then i come across this miriam girl…. with her beautiful shy introverted bf and i EAT THAT SHIT UPPPP! like gobble them down read everything i can about these two babies and i put them in my pocket to keep them safe 💛

and now we have lucía and harry… hoe my god…… girlie i love them i love them i love them! i’m so happy they found their way back together they were made for each other and harry deserves all the jokes and teasing from his dad cause my man really gave lucía a front row seat to her nightmare 👊🏼💢 but all is forgive as long as he gives her lots of kisses and lets her lay on his tummy allllll dayyyyyyy 💛

and then… who’s this fierce french girl trying to save her marriage with her broken war husband???? ummmm maybe i’ll take a peek… 👀 BRO i read that whole story in two days and I LOVE THEMMMM YOU WROTE THEM SO BEAUTIFULLY AND THEIR LOVE WAS JUST SOOOO IDK NO WORDS AND HOW THEY WORK THROUGH HIS TRAUMA & HER HEARTACHE AND CAME OUT STRONG IN THE END yup go into my pocket little babies i will keep u safe ☺️

and i’m like yeah how can all these stories be good???? it doesn’t make sense but i’m just gonna fan girl over these ones i’ve read about cause no one will compare….

but then i read about yasmine…. 🙂 I FUCKING LOVE THEM!! THEY ARE MY FAVORITE! their little bickering and making eyes across the classroom????? ate it up! the way they’re so vulnerable and precious behind closed doors and yasmine doesn’t even acknowledge his existence in public??? perfection lmao yasmine & harry i will keep you safe in my pocket with the rest of them thank you very much

and safiyya and harry???????? i didn’t expect to love them so much too but sarah you do it every time i don’t know why i still doubt you and your ability to make me fall in love with everyone you write!!! their story was so beautiful and unique and i absolutely love their beautiful family 🥺 they go to the bottom of the pocket cause if anyone even THINKS about being mean to them i’ll mess up 🙅🏽‍♀️🙅🏽‍♀️🙅🏽‍♀️🙅🏽‍♀️🙅🏽‍♀️ i will protect this family w my life

and then i read the cottagecore life i’ve been dreaming of…. miss nisha you lucky lucky girl 💕 how i wish i had a hard working uni boy who lived across the street who worked too hard so i so make him pies and bring him fresh fruit and veggies from my farm?????? UM YEAH PLEASE AND THANK YOU!!!!!!

now now now now fleur……….. harry….. does it get any hotter than them???? me personally thinks NOT! the sexy sexual tension is SO hot! like all i can think about is how bad ass they are together and that they’re SO HOT LMAO i love them no one better hurt them in my pocket you go cause i have to keep you crazy spies safe 🤗

and i just finished reading about serena and harry!!! 10/10 love them and how much they joke around even tho they just met!!! like serena telling h she was staying in the hospital cause they have amputate her finger had me ctfu they were so comfort with each other off the back and their love was so easy and effortless 👏🏼 love love love in my pocket you go as well

in conclusion, i fell in love with the way you took harry and gave him 10 different unique personalities and then matched him with the perfect girl your beautiful brain thought of!! and not only did you make a story for these 10 couples but you add more and more life to them daily with every extra blurb or answering questions about them. i really truly appreciate what you’re doing this month cause i pushed me to read your stories which i’ve been hesitant to read(also i have fomo and didn’t want to miss out on all the fun and discussions lol) BUT seriously you deserve all the kisses and hand massages and love for what you’re doing!!! ty x10000000000 and can’t wait to read what you put out for the rest of the month and everything that follows 💕

i read this twice. and i think my brother is looking over my shoulder JSJSJSJWJW

what the fuck because….. what the fuck

they are in your pocket and they are SO fucking happy to be there. it’s important to me that you know what this means to me. every fucking thing.

you are fucking amazing. you are EVERYTHING. THANK YOU FOR GIVING THEM ALL A CHANCE BECAUSE I KNOW SOME OF THEM ARENT PEOPLE’S CUP OF TEA LIKE SERENA AND HARRY! i totally totally get that. and even w harry and lucía: i get that a first person narrative isnt what people normally like to read. i know oc aren’t what people normally read.

SO THANK YOU for giving them a try AND for loving them!!!

if i didn’t have this support on tumblr, i don’t think i would write. like genuinely, because i don’t have this support from my family and i’m with my family 24/7. so you really have no idea how much this encourages me

#keep #SMOOCHES FOR YOUUUU

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seancamerons · 2 years

Note

semma obvi. <3

Sean and Emma are my favorite relationship, I like them more than any other relationship in the series or ever encountered in life. I'm putting the rest under a cut bc it's long.

I can’t really explain why because I’ve been liking them together for so many years and for so many reasons. Initially, it was just plain cute and pure. So much build-up was nice, and I liked that they had a history with one another and liked each other for who they were and didn’t really try to change the other content in their relationship most of the time. Emma looked out for Sean and kept him out of trouble. Sean was supportive of Emma in her endeavors and crusades. At first, they bonded over Sean’s former pet Charlie, a springer spaniel, had a horrible disaster date, even though he dug through the trash and she had her wallet all along in the end he still wanted a picture from that night. When they split up the first time I understand how that can happen. Sean took it hard you can tell. I really wish they interacted more before Daniel’s departure in mid-season 4, but Back in Black was a great episode to reflect on how Sean apologized for what happened in season 3 before he left town.

When he returned in season 6, it wasn’t the same magic. I was happy to have him and Semma back, but not completely. I dare I say lost some of my interest. It was not the way I imagined and not exactly in a good way. Sean seemed to exist to be with Emma rather than have his own issues too. I try to make the most of it. At least we had them again together for a short time.

As for Sean leaving for the army unfortunately it makes sense, however, the way he enlisted without even letting his girlfriend know until she was starting to make plans for the two of them was kind of a dick move. Their relationship ended when that happened as far as we’re all concerned but I always have hope they reconnected later in life. When apart, Emma wrote letters, some she sent others she kept in a drawer secretively, and maybe if they reunited they’d come out or perhaps not but it’s nice to dream. I guess the couple I love the most does not work out really sucks for us semma shippers because we watched all that history, build-up amount to nothing in the end which is semirealistic I suppose but it’s bittersweet. We’re supposed to believe that it’s easy for them to move on from that kind of bond? It was the most real relationship for Emma, she had other relationships but it didn’t have the same type of feel as semma. Do I like some parts of older!semma sure but it’s painfully obvious they only did that for the fans and then Daniel left again and such. I like to think maybe this reboot they could bring Daniel and Miriam back to reprise their roles and something can happen it would be truly satisfying. I wrote stories of this before it’d be interesting to see what direction to take. I have no expectations, but it’s nice to dream.

#asks #princessroleplays #semma #degrassi #dtng #degrassi the next generation

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imissthembutitwasntadisaster · 2 years

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8, 16, And 14 except I know they exist I’d just love to hear what’s on them 👀 :D

8) favorite genre to write

Fantasy! But honestly my foray into period romcom has been really fun!!! I like a good comedic aspect, won't like, I can't write straight drama at all.

16) are there any characters who haunt you?

characters who I've written who haunt me......... there's this story I wrote and it is on here, it's on the masterpost but not many people read it, it's about a woman in a world in which storytellers have powers, they can manipulate the world with their words, and in order to combat that she has become motivationless, she refuses to be pinned down, also she's murdered a lot of people and has now kidnapped this random dude. And she kind of haunts me? I keep meaning to make her a novella, some sort of Italo Calvino type thing almost. But also that relationship between storyteller and character, it fascinates me and she's probably the most obvious manifestation of that (although you can always see that in most of my stories to be honest).

Also... Miriam haunts me a little I suppose? To have all those ghosts in your head and still to do right, she has the endurance I wish I had, so she has lingered more than a lot of characters. Also the shapeshifting monster! She very much haunts me for reasons I cant explain.

14) do you make playlists for your current wips?

I do! My Inklings one is here and my SHNPIT is here, and I don't have any at the moment unfortunately because I only started making them recently. (I know you don't have spotify but I hope you can see those playlists at least and if you want to listen to them remake them wherever you listen to music, and if you can't see them let me know I'll make them in YouTube and link you)

Thank you <3<3

Writer asks

#ask games #writer asks #magpie-trove #<3 I loved 16!#it was so weird to think about!

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icyharrington · 4 years

Text

Is It Wrong?- THE PREQUEL- Part 1 (Michael Langdon X Reader)

so basically,,,, i took my adhd meds for class this morning, and then suddenly got super inspired to write this, so i figured i couldnt waste the focus and wrote this whole ass thing in a few hours. this is the first part of a 3-part prequel series, which details the events leading up to the first part of iiw! just a whole lot more teen angst, drama, fuckboy michael, and more... there isn’t going to be any SMUT smut for obvious reasons, but in a future part there is going to be some dirty stuff ;) anyway i know this will prob flop but this is the first full length fic i’ve written in months and i had a lot of fun writing it, so ima post regardless ^__^

plot: things are turning upside for you now that the biggest fuckboy in school, michael langdon, is about to become your stepbrother. if you think shit is crazy now, wait til you find out that this is just the prequel 😏

warnings: underage drinking, talk of sexual shit, teen angst, sexual tension, taboo relationships

wc: 4.2k

It wasn’t like you didn’t want your dad to be happy.

You did, of course you did.

You’d seen him, engulfed in his loneliness, floating from day to listless day like some kind of cheesy Victorian spectre. Too many times you’d found him alone at night, one hand cradling a glass of sewer-brown liquor, the other thumbing through worn photo albums extracted from dust-ridden shelves in the living room. You hadn’t known your mother well- she’d died back when you were still in diapers, but what you did know was that she’d been a vibrant light in your father’s world that had been unjustly snuffed out in its prime. He was a good father to you, and you knew you made him happy despite the dull ache ever-present in his heart, but it was evident that deep down he craved a companionship you could never provide.

So of course you were glad when he met Miriam. Of course you were glad when you’d seen his beaming smile, sharing the news, with the giddiness of a teenage girl in love, that he’d found somebody. He was practically glowing, that night he’d gone out for their first date. You’d known it’d been special to him, because he’d shelled out a few hundred to treat them both to a fancy dinner; he’d even gotten her a bouquet of flowers on the drive there.

You hadn’t said anything when he’d gushed to you the next day about how he’d found the one, despite having known her for only a week; sure, he was rushing into things, but at least he was happy! And that was all you wanted- for him to be happy.

That was why you were especially crushed when you finally met Miriam’s teenage son, whom your father had briefly mentioned with a passing “he goes to your high school, maybe you know him”.

There were so many boys at your school that it was impossible to guess who your potential stepbrother might be. The prospect that you might know him didn’t bother you too much, though you did think it might be a little awkward upon first meeting, but really what did it matter? A little bit of teenage shyness was a small price to pay for your father’s newfound happiness.

That is, until you met him.

So really, it wasn’t like you didn’t want your dad to be happy.

That wasn’t the case at all.

You just really, really, wished he’d fallen in love with anyone other than the mother of Michael fucking Langdon.

ii.

“Oh, you’re so pretty,” Miriam gushed over a glass of Chardonnay, which had already been defaced with aubergine lip prints around the golden rim. “Gosh, I just wish I had your hair. Mine was fried from years of coloring, so I just chopped it all off!”

You smiled sweetly, observing your father’s glimmering eyes as he hung onto every word that rolled off her tongue, menus still stacked neatly in the middle of the table as you awaited the fourth and final guest. The three of you had been there for fifteen minutes already, and still her son had not arrived.

I guess his study session is running late, she’d explained, after seeing your furrowed brows at her lack of accompaniment. It was the first time you were meeting your father’s new love interest and her son, and you were rapidly growing more and more anxious in anticipation of the big reveal.

Studying, you’d thought, racking your brain. So maybe he’s one of the nerdy teacher’s pet types? You could certainly live with that; there were a great deal of others you could think of who would be far worse to potentially become step-siblings with.

“Thanks, Ms… Mead, did you say it was?”

You weren’t sure you knew of any boys whose last name was Mead; he definitely had to be someone you hardly knew.

“Oh, honey, call me Miriam,” she said warmly, and you nodded, unsure of what to say next.

Miriam was certainly not what you’d imagined your father’s girlfriend to be like, not that you cared either way; she sported short, dark hair with vampy makeup, clad in all black with a tasteful leather jacket to match. She was also a bit older than you’d anticipated, with fine lines adorning her rounded face, but again, none of that mattered to you at all. She seemed perfectly sweet, and you had no complaints about her thus far.

“Okay, Miriam,” you said, feeling somewhat peculiar addressing an adult by their first name, “so, remind me, how’d you guys meet again?”

“Well, it’s a funny story, really,” Miriam chuckled, plucking a dinner roll from the woven basket across from her and dropping it onto her plate. Her dark eyes shifted from you to your father, poising an impeccably groomed raven brow. “Should you tell it, or should I?”

“Oh, you should, definitely,” your father said, sipping his wine.

“Okay, okay. Well, we were in the meat section at the grocery store when we both reached for the last steak on sale. So I looked at him, and I told him- oh my, this is embarrassing- (your dad’s name), you finish!”

Your father looked like he was about to bust out into laughter, and, suppressing a snort, he blurted, “she said she’d cut off my hands if I took it!”

Immediately after the words left his lips, the two fell into boisterous hysterics that ushered forward a few disapproving glances from the stuffy rich assholes at the next table over, and you couldn’t help but laugh a little yourself. Well… she definitely was a character, but as long as your father was being kept entertained…

“Hey mom,” came a sudden, inappropriately loud male voice from behind you, so out of place that you nearly jumped from your seat. “I was helping Dan with the world war three chapter in our textbook, he sucks at geography shit.”

The voice’s owner revealed himself as a tall, blond boy, who promptly slid into the empty chair beside you, chiseled face slightly obscured by the deep shadows resulting from the dimness of the restaurant’s ambient lighting.

This was, indeed, somebody that you knew, and you blinked twice to be sure that your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you.

It took you a few seconds to register the direness of the situation at hand, but once the thought processed in your mind, you about descended into an out-of-body experience.

This couldn’t be.

No way.

No motherfucking way.

You’d never been all too much of a religious person, but in that moment, you found yourself silently begging whatever higher power was out there that this was all just some sick, cosmic prank.

The boy turned his head to give you a good, uncomfortably long look, stupidly perfect mouth twisting into an amused sideways grin, and then he spoke. “Ohh shit, (y/n)? (Y/n) (y/l/n)?”

He spoke your name like it was a punchline, tongue darting out to lick his teeth like a lizard about to gobble up some poor, helpless cricket as you sat there with your jaw unhinged. You were at a loss for words, or at least almost, managing to croak out a pathetic, puny, “Michael.”

“Oh, good! You guys know each other already!” Miriam exclaimed, seemingly oblivious to the complete and utter horror that had just about finished swallowing you whole.

Michael let out a snort, roughly translating to ‘uhh, yeah, not that well… I’d never be caught dead hanging around with someone like (y/n)’, and you grimaced. “Yeah, a little bit. You were in math class with me last year, right?”

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to regain your composure for fear of feeding into this complete asshole’s already massive ego. Yeah, in fact, you had been in math class with him last year, and, not-so-coincidentally, that very same class had turned out to be the one you dreaded the most.

Michael Langdon was the most insufferable, mind-numbing, self-obsessed asshole that you’d ever had the displeasure of knowing; he was easily the most popular boy in the grade, and it was clear he was fully aware of his own high school bullshit prestige. He was loud, cocky and obnoxious; the type of fuckboy- yes, you knew the word fuckboy was overplayed, but in this case there was no other way to describe him- who’d loudly brag about his sexual escapades in the middle of the hallway to his flock of adoring fuckboy minions. He was an I-don’t-do-relationships type, a U-up-text-at-3am type, a Yo-dude-did-you-see-Zoe-Benson’s-tits-today type, a bro-I’m-so-fucking-baked-right-now type. Just the sound of his voice from across a crowded hallway was enough to make you physically recoil. And the worst part?

Every-fucking-body loved him.

Your complaints about him during lunch would only result in your friends cooing dreamily, as though he were some kind of sympathetic creature that needed babying: But he’s so cute, they’d say, twirling locks of their hair and fiddling with their bracelets. I’m sure he’s not that bad.

But he was that bad, and if they took off their shit-stained, teenage hormone-clouded rose tinted glasses for only a second, they’d see exactly what you saw.

It wasn’t only the students, either. He was able to get away with everything and anything he pleased, whether it be sneaking sips of vodka in a water bottle between classes or ditching class to smoke a joint behind the bleachers. There’d even been rumors that he’d fucked some senior girl in the handicap stall during the autumn pep rally while the rest of the student body was packed like sardines in the sticky-hot gymnasium, subjected to incremental barks from the football coach to scream louder and louder.

How the hell was somebody as pleasant as Miriam the mother of such an incurable douchebag? And how, in all the unholy realms of hell, did your luck get so miserably bad that she ended up with your father?

It was all so fucking unfortunate that you almost wanted to laugh. And you probably would have, if not for the chance that you might puke all over your nice new sweater if you opened your mouth.

“You smell funny, hon,” said Miriam before you could reply. “Was Dan burning incense in his room?”

Oh, god. So she was one of those oblivious parents. You rolled your eyes; it made a lot of sense when you thought about it.

“Huh? Oh. Um, yeah. Incense,” Michael said, before suddenly extending his arm across the table to your father. “Oh shit, how rude of me. I’m Michael. Nice to meet you, man.”

Your father seemed unfazed my Michael’s distinct lack of manners as he accepted the boy’s hand and shook it, and you felt yet another knot twist up in the pit of your stomach as you realized that your father, too, had somehow been cast under Michael’s spell.

“Michael, we talked about this,” Miriam said under her breath, like she was scolding a child who didn’t know any better. “Keep the potty mouth to a minimal when we’re out in public, especially while we’re in such a nice restaurant.”

“Oh, sh…oot, sorry, mom,” Michael said with a faux-sheepish smile, his eyes flickering with amusement despite his supposed remorse. “And sorry to you too, sir. Bad habits.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mike- can I call you Mike?” your father said as they released hands, moving his to rest atop Miriam’s on the cloth-sheathed table. “I remember what it was like being a boy your age.”

You scoffed, loud enough that the table fell silent for a moment, and quickly you disguised it with a cough. Your cheeks went hot as all eyes laid on you, and you frantically scanned your brain for something to fill the silence with.

“So, um,” you said, clearing your throat. “Michael’s, uh, how come Michael’s last name isn’t Mead?”

Fuck. That sounded so fucking stupid. Instinctively, you felt your eyes wander to Michael to see if he was laughing at you, which you hated yourself for; why should his stupid, pea-brained opinion mean anything to you anyway? As much as you wanted to distance yourself from that idiotic, made-up high school hierarchy, you always wound up finding yourself being sucked back in, it seemed.

“Well, my late husband’s last name was Langdon, and since he was kind of a dirtbag, I decided not to keep his name after he passed,” Miriam said slowly, as if taking very careful thought to word herself correctly. You took in a breath; this seemed like a whole new can of worms that you hadn’t meant to open up.

“Hey, c’mon, don’t talk about dad like that,” said Michael, his tone only half-playful, eyebrow cocking as he flashed his mother a knowing look.

“You try being cheated on multiple times, Michael. Then you’ll see that dirtbag is really a nice way of putting it.”

Oh, sure, you thought bitterly. As if Michael fucking Langdon is even remotely capable of understanding someone else’s pain.

You took this as your cue to stand up from your seat, mumbling something about needing to use the restroom before scurrying off in the opposite direction as fast as you could without drawing attention to yourself. If ten minutes with Michael as your psuedo-stepbrother got to you this badly, you could only imagine how awful your life was about to get.

You could only hope that your father would find some reason to nip things in the bud with Miriam, but right now, that appeared to be an unlikely prospect.

iii.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t end my shit right here and now,” you griped to your best friend, who sat crosslegged on your bed as you stood idly before your floor-length mirror, arms dangling limply at your sides in an unintentional stance of defeat. Your face was one that you hardly recognized anymore, forehead creased with worry and eyes shadowed by bruise-colored rings from a seemingly endless barrage of sleepless nights; a week ago, your father had gleefully announced his and Miriam’s engagement; you of course, as his loving daughter, had to behave as though you hadn’t just received the worst news of your life, which somehow you’d pulled off (for a second you wondered why you’d never taken up theater, seeing at how convincing your acting could be sometimes). It was like you’d been plucked from the familiarity of your boring, normal world and dropped into your own personally tailored hell without any warning at all, though you couldn’t think of a single thing you’d done bad enough to warrant you deserving this. “The worst person on the planet is about to be my fucking stepbrother and nobody else seems to think this is a big deal!”

Your best friend shook her head, letting out a snort as if any of this was even remotely funny in the slightest. “So your stepbrother is hot and cool and he pisses you off. They literally make porn about that.”

You resisted the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her until some semblance of sense entered her head, instead shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans with a loud huff. “Yeah, but this isn’t fucking pornhub, (best friend’s name), this is real life! And I’d rather skin myself alive than sleep with that walking STD.”

“You have a lot more self respect than I do. It’s admirable,” she said, still startlingly calm for your liking, and you were beginning to believe that she’d never understand the mental turmoil you were currently suffering with. “Personally I’d ride him into the sunset, whether he had a herpes dick or not.”

You gagged, shaking your head with adamant disgust. Was she really that fucking horny? “You’re sick, you know that?”

“Sick for diiiiick,” she sang back, batting her eyelashes playfully at you. You turned away, scrounging up every weary shred of self restraint within you not to scream.

“Look, (b/f/n). I’m being serious right now. If you fuck him, or suck his dick, or whatever, I will literally never speak to you again.” Your tone was stern, and you faced her again to see whether your seriousness had computed in the hormonal wasteland that was her brain. There was an extended pause as she blinked at you, tilting her head to one side thoughtfully as she chewed her lipgloss-slick bottom lip.

“I mean, he wouldn’t fuck me anyways,” she finally said, still infuriatingly chipper. “I’m nobody. And he’s, like, royalty.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! I don’t care whether you think you have a chance with him!” You realized too late that you were nearly shouting, so you took in a shaky gulp of oxygen and coaxed yourself to soften your tone. The last thing you needed right now was for people to think you were losing your mind, although sometimes that was exactly what you felt like was happening. “Please, just promise me you won’t? I just need one aspect of my life not to involve him. Please?”

“Okay, fine,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest and settling her chin on top. “If it really matters that much to you, I’ll just shift my thirst to Dan Mott instead. That boy is a fucking snack and a half.”

A wave of almost-relief cascaded over your body, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself become one with this momentary victory.

One year. Just one stupid, insignificant year until I can go away to college and forget all about him.

If you could survive that much, you told yourself, you’d be able survive anything.

You just hoped that intoxicating spell of his wasn’t strong enough to bring your best friend into his web of bullshit, alongside all the other girls who’d become entangled along the way.

If she did, you’d be stranded, left to run from Michael and his ever-expanding army all on your own.

iv.

In what seemed like a blink of an eye, the dreaded date of your father’s wedding ceremony arrived; now you stood amidst a small group of distant relatives at the subdued reception party, seeking refuge from the disturbing thought that, legally, Michael Langdon was now your brother, at the open bar.

You and your best friend had decided to make something of a game out of how many drinks you could finagle from the bartender without any adults noticing, which had ultimately proved to be pointless- an hour into the reception, your father had staggered over with two overflowing dirty Shirleys, thrusting them towards the two of you with a big, sloppy grin on his face.

To say he was in a good mood would be a severe understatement- the man was jovial, and you almost felt guilty for hating the circumstances of his marriage so much. By the raised-brow looks your best friend had been shooting at you all night, you knew she was thinking the same thing: that you were being selfish for worrying so much about yourself when this was the best thing that’d happened to your father in years. And maybe it was true; maybe you’d been so wrapped up in your own teen angst bullshit that you’d willingly blinded yourself from the truth. So, with your father’s beaming face dancing in the back of your mind, you pushed any thought about Michael back to the dredges where they belonged.

Fuck Michael Langdon. You couldn’t allow him the satisfaction of knowing that you were distraught, though you’d surely already made that pretty obvious over the past few months (he’d wasted no time in taunting you about it, seeming to relish in your death glares and eye rolls- hey, future sis! he’d crooned at you as you passed his table in the cafeteria one afternoon, nearly causing you to trip and spill your perfectly mediocre iced coffee all over yourself as his friends cackled like demented hyenas).

I’m not gonna let him bother me anymore.

I’m not-

“SIS-TERRRRRR!”

Okay, this had to be some kind of divine test of will.

A blazer-glad arm flung itself around your shoulders and you flinched, immediately jerking away from your intoxicated stepbrother (god, it felt weird to refer to him that way) whose brash motions had sent you both stumbling.

“Getting shitfaced at your mom’s wedding… classy,” you spat, crossing your arms in front of your chest and narrowing your eyes at the blond-haired boy.

He was, admittedly, good-looking (only by conventional standards, of course); his lightly gelled blond hair had long since come undone, now soft and unkempt from hours of attention-whorish dancing, but you thought the disheveled look suited him better anyway (since his whole thing was to look like a grimy, rugged fuckboy, not because you personally found it attractive, obviously). He’d undone the top few buttons of his white top (no doubt the only formal article of clothing he owned), which was now stained beyond foreseeable repair with a colorful variety of liquids, and there was a bead of sweat traveling from his slick forehead to his model-sharp jaw. Even in disarray, he looked good, and you couldn’t help but hate him for it.

“God, you are so uptight,” he said, pale eyes flickering towards the multicolored ceiling in exaggerated annoyance as he dragged out his syllables with leisure. “You need to relax, set up a dick appointment or something. Or pussy appointment, I don’t know what you’re into.”

Your mouth fell open at this remark, too stunned by his vulgarity to even get angry with your friend, who had dissolved into a fit of giggles beside you; it wasn’t that you were some pearl-clutching grandmother- you had no issue discussing sexual matters with your friends, and in fact some would even say you had a perverted sense of humor. But this? This was different: something about the way those words had fallen from Michael’s mouth made you feel dirty.

At your lack of response, Michael flashed a pearly grin that could only be categorized as evil, and he crossed his arms to mimic your stance. “Oh, sorry. I forgot that you’re probably still a virgin.”

He glanced over to your friend, whose feeble attempts to suppress her second wave of laughter had proven unsuccessful, before averting his gaze back to you. “Aw, don’t feel bad, (y/n). There’s nothing wrong with being a late bloomer.”

Then, as if to punctuate his words, he smirked.

Your mouth pressed into a thin line, you felt something like a storm swirling inside of you, winds thick and unyielding and relentless, and you were almost positive that you’d tear him apart once the feeling aligned with the rest of your body.

It was then that the song blaring through the speakers switched to something inappropriately upbeat, each thump of the dance-friendly bass feeling like punches to the gut.

The storm inside you hadn’t been giving way to anger at all; it was sadness you were feeling in your belly, hopeless and humiliated sadness, though you couldn’t quite understand why: he’d made some stupid, generic joke to try and get a rise out of you- what else was new these days? Maybe it was the fact that your best friend was, by her passiveness and obvious amusement at your expense, encouraging his taunts when she was supposed to be there for you. Or maybe the reality had finally, finally sunken in, that this kind of interaction with Michael would now consume your life for the next year.

Either way, it didn’t make a difference, and as if on cue, the familiar sting of unshed tears arrived patiently at the back of your eyes.

All at once you were were dizzy; Michael’s perfect face was doubling and distorting before your eyes, and your friend’s pitched laughter rang like incessant, robotic television static in your ears.

With very last straw of self preservation you could grasp, you said nothing at all, walking away with the dazed sluggishness of a zombie on autopilot.

You considered yourself lucky; soon enough, you wouldn’t have the luxury of walking away at all.

“She’s too sensitive,” you heard your friend say, faintly, in the background of your thoughts.

You didn’t have the energy to wonder why she wasn’t coming with you, much less the energy to chastise her for being a bad friend, which was what you knew she deserved. If she cared more about getting Michael’s attention than preserving her friendship with you, you supposed there was no use in trying to stop her anymore.

He’s like a disease, you thought as you ambled your way towards the bathroom, surrounded by people but yet still so alone. He’s like a disease, infecting everyone he touches.

It was only a matter of time, you supposed, before he got to you, too.

Who knew? Maybe he already had.

tagging some people from my old iiw tag list!: (i’m sorry if i tagged anyone twice, i’m literally half asleep right now cuz i got like 2 hours of sleep in the past 24 hrs lol) @wroteclassicaly @ritualmichael @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @trelaney @kissydevil @sloppy-wrist @michael-langdon-appreciation @ccodyfern @sojournmichael @starwlkers @maso-xchrist @space-princesssss @ahslangdon101 @isabellaserpentiawesson @stupidocupido @bademliimagnum @nana15774 @urlocalgothb @hexqueensupreme @gold-dragon-slayer @langdonsboots @langdonstrash @fckinsupreme @hisgirlwonder @venusxxlangdon @obsessivenostalgicbaby @kleinegamerin @lambofcairo @kiiteiru @littledemondani @beriveri @grossgayartist @featherpool-852 @discocalico @cryptid-coalition @nu-tt @diamcndscarred @chocolateandhorror @michaelsfrenchtoast @sarcasticbxtch20 @ringpop-poppy @imjustasadhoe @melodylangdon @codycrazy @perfect-ginger-maniac @baphomet-wears-gucci @bigstudentpatrolbonk @jazzcowgirl @a-n-t-s @langdonsblood @ritualmichael @myluciferiscody @fentycoven @gracebtw @bongwaternation @king-of-mischief-and-bitchez @hoseokchild @witchywcmans @satanicbimbo @lvngdvns @langdonskillerqueen @aradevil @anemia-doll @muralskins @funtomimagines @mrssgtjamesbuckybarnes @our-mrlangdon @lotsofhunny @sevenwonderwitch @horrorstreet @kpopmademedo-it @naughtygranger @codyshands @krazycags01 @skullag

#michael langdon #is it wrong #michael langdon x reader #mine #michael langdon fic #ahs #american horror story #apocalypse #ahs apocalypse #cody fern #x reader #ahs x reader

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usnatarchives · 4 years

Video

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Lin-Manuel Miranda performs "Alexander Hamilton" at The White House, 10/1/2015

HAMILTON IN OUR RECORDS: Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?

Today’s post, by Miriam Kleiman from the Public Affairs office, is the first in a series. Special thanks to Miriam’s neighbor and friend Stefanie for the idea, sparked by her sheer delight at finding the Reynolds Pamphlet in the National Archives Founders Online.

Like so many others, my family had front-row seats to the smash hit musical Hamilton (online) and it blew us all away. As a longtime National Archives researcher and staffer, and inspired by exhibits curator Corinne Porter’s related document display, I decided to explore Hamilton’s life and legacy through the lens of our records, song by song.

Hamilton in our Records, Song 1: Alexander Hamilton

One of the first mentions of Alexander Hamilton is the Probate Court Transaction on Estate of Rachel Lavien, 2/19/1768. The appointed estates administrator for the “Christiansted jurisdiction on the Island of St. Croix,” another administrator, the bailiff, and the court reporter met at 10 pm, a few hours after the death of Hamilton’s mother, to witness “the sealing up of a chamber containing her effects together with a trunk etc..,” items that were moved to storage with the exception of “some pots and other small things which remained unsealed for use in preparing the body for burial, among them being 6 chairs, 2 tables, and 2 wash-bowls.”

The document notes the purpose of the meeting: “to take an inventory of them for subsequent distribution among the decedent’s surviving children.” Much is made of her marital status or lack thereof; noting that three children are legitimate and two are not: James (15) and Alexander (13).

Less than two years later, at age 15, Hamilton writes to his friend Edward Stevens (letter of 11/11/1769) of his longing for more, and his “plannin' for the future,” underscoring the lyrics: “There's a million things I haven't done, but just you wait.”

Ned, my Ambition is prevalent that I contemn the grov’ling and condition of a Clerk or the like, to which my Fortune &c. condemns me and would willingly risk my life tho’ not my Character to exalt my Station. Im confident, Ned that my Youth excludes me from any hopes of immediate Preferment nor do I desire it, but I mean to prepare the way for futurity. Im no Philosopher you see and may be jusly said to Build Castles in the Air. My Folly makes me ashamd and beg youll Conceal it, yet Neddy we have seen such Schemes successfull when the Projector is Constant I shall Conclude saying I wish there was a War.

Founders Online includes an unexpected record, a love poem Hamilton submitted for publication to The Royal Danish American Gazette (4/6/1771). While it’s not certain that Hamilton wrote it, the tone and content do reflect a young man beginning to rewrite his game:

I am a youth about seventeen, and consequently such an attempt as this must be presumptuous; but if, upon perusal, you think the following piece worthy of a place in your paper, by inserting it you’ll much oblige

What starts off as a sappy, romantic love story then grows darker:

In yonder mead my love I found Beside a murm’ring brook reclin’d: Her pretty lambkins dancing round Secure in harmless bliss. I bad the waters gently glide, And vainly hush’d the heedless wind, Then, softly kneeling by her side, I stole a silent kiss—

She wak’d, and rising sweetly blush’d By far more artless than the dove: With eager haste I onward rush’d, And clasp’d her in my arms; Encircled thus in fond embrace Our panting hearts beat mutual love— A rosy-red o’er spread her face And brighten’d all her charms.

Silent she stood, and sigh’d consent To every tender kiss I gave; I closely urg’d—to church we went, And hymen join’d our hands. Ye swains behold my bliss complete; No longer then your own delay; Believe me love is doubly sweet In wedlocks holy bands.—

Content we tend our flocks by day, Each rural pleasures amply taste; And at the suns retiring ray Prepare for new delight: When from the field we haste away, And send our blithsome care to rest, We fondly sport and fondly play, And love away the night.

Cœlia’s an artful little slut; Be fond, she’ll kiss, et cetera—but She must have all her will; For, do but rub her ’gainst the grain Behold a storm, blow winds and rain, Go bid the waves be still.

So, stroking puss’s velvet paws How well the jade conceals her claws And purs; but if at last You hap to squeeze her somewhat hard, She spits—her back up—prenez garde; Good faith she has you fast.

Stay tuned for Hamilton in our Records, Song 2: Aaron Burr, Sir.

More online:

Papers of Alexander Hamilton, Founders Online

Archives Displays Hamilton’s Documents in Exhibit Incorporating Musical’s Lyrics, National Archives News

Conversation with Chernow, Kail, and Miranda at the 2016 Records of Achievement Award Ceremony

#hamilton #lin-manuel miranda #support blm #hamiltonmusical #lin manuel miranda #hamilltonthemusical #linmanuelmiranda #ronchernow

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morganbritton132 · 4 years

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I'm kind of really into this idea of Abigail literally not knowing how to rebel without guidance from a parental figure. I almost wrote a scene of her smashing some of Freddie's dishes.

Well, no broken dishes in this one but there is some broken glass. I honestly don’t think this really goes with your prompt but I think I’m just so fascinated by the idea of Abigail and Frederick interacting with each other. I’ve always felt like Hannibal didn’t like Freddie but he could respect her ambition, whereas he hates everything about Frederick, and I wonder how much of that would seep into Abigail’s perspective of him. And they both have these visible scars of the trauma Hannibal caused. It’s just interesting.

-----------

“It’s the most obvious solution.”

The way that Freddie punctuates the end of her sentence by sitting her mug down was deafeningly loud in the small kitchen. It shattered the pretending of a good morning and Frederick jolted like it was a gun going off, but Abigail didn’t move.

She watched and she tightened her hands around her cup of orange juice so tight that she wished it would shatter, but it didn’t. She curled her fingers in and scraped the thin-scarred cuts on her fingertips against the bumpy cartoon character on the side of the glass until they bled, and she thought about throwing it.

She wondered what they would do if she shattered the whole kitchen, but she didn’t do anything. They’d just forgive her.

Neither her nor Frederick offered Freddie a response.

Frederick had been gone for a whole week after Abigail cut all her hair off and dyed it blonde and she thought that maybe Freddie came to her senses about him, but then he showed back up three days ago. He had stiffly sat his cane by the door and tore off his tie, and then he didn’t leave Freddie’s room until about ten minutes ago.

He was unwashed, unshaven, unkempt, wearing a wrinkled Rolling Stones t-shirt that probably belonged to Freddie. His makeup was perfect, but he wasn’t wearing contacts, didn’t fix his hair. He had his own coffee mug tight in his hands, but it was full of saltwater.

Every time he swished the liquid in his mouth and spat it back into the cup, the water came back redder and redder.

Freddie cleared her throat and picked up her coffee mug again just to sit it back down, “I’m glad that we can all agree on this, so it’s settled. Abigail, you can drive Frederick around on his errands today.”

“Freddie,” Frederick finally said, sounding brittle. Abigail turned her head slightly to see what broken exhaustion looked like on a broken face. His voice still slurred even though his words were picked carefully, “Can we – speak. Alone.”

“No, we cannot, Frederick,” Freddie said primly. “I have things to do today. I need a new article up on my website by tomorrow so unless you want to give me that exclusive, Abigail is going to drive you. You cannot legally drive, and she just got her license. It’ll be good practice.”

Frederick stared at her and Freddie stared back, and there was some unspoken conversation playing out that Abigail wasn’t interested in. It was always the same argument.

Freddie wanted Abigail to have some normal girl experiences and Frederick wanted nothing to do with her because he thought that she wanted to kill him which was. Well, he wasn’t wrong.

“Do not crash my car,” Frederick said when they were inside of it. He put on dark sunglasses once they were on the road, covering up his cataracted eye like it wasn’t there at all.

A sinking feeling invaded her gut and she ended up pulling up the collar of her shirt to hide the scars on her neck. No need to draw attention to the freaks in the clown car.

The car stayed quiet save for Frederick’s directions until he spoke up, saying to the windshield, “People thought that I killed you, that I – that I ate you.”

Miriam may have been Hannibal’s patient and she may have been at the safehouse longer, but she was a ploy in a trap. She did the treatments, listened to the tapes, and she played her part the way that Hannibal liked, but she wasn’t his daughter.

Life was a chessboard and Abigail was aware that she was a pawn in a bigger game, but she was important. She was special. She got to sit on the couch and listen to classical music as Hannibal planned beautiful things, planned awful, wonderful things.

They planned her murder together.

She thought about telling Frederick how Hannibal planned to take him once, to add him to his collection of dolls inside of his playhouse just to see how he broke. Beverly Katz had stayed strong to the end, but Frederick Chilton was a house of cards in the wind and he talked too much.

He became a problem and it was easier to frame him, to prepare Miriam and confuse her.

So, Frederick was gone. So, Miriam was free.

So, it was just her there and they planned out European adventures. So, they were going to be happy, be a family. So, Frederick should be dead like they planned, and she was – she was pissed that he wasn’t.

Hannibal wouldn’t have left her if he had just died like he was supposed to.

“I’d kill you before I let you kill me,” She said, looking out the window. Frederick choked on an exhale and she thought about crashing the car just to see what would happen.

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

The word CANNIBAL was spray painted across the front door of Frederick’s big white house, stark red like blood on a canvas, and Abigail felt – she remembered this feeling, remembered seeing the same thing written across her garage door. It was a small feeling, a sinking into the gut feeling.

Frederick sighed.

He got out of the car and hobbled up the stairs, and Abigail followed him passed the trampled over flowers, the broken eggshells, the flowerpots that were shattered to pieces. His hand shook when he unlocked the door, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, and she followed him.

She’d helped plan this.

The bodies and the blood were gone but the evidence markers were still there. The crime scene tape was still there. The shambles of a life destroyed, and Frederick’s voice cracked when he told her, “Wait here.”

She didn’t.

As soon as he was out of sight, she moved further into the house. She scanned the titles of books that have never been open, and flowers that were dead, and she took step after step down the stairs that had to lead to the wine cellar.

She walked towards the door, imagining that she could hear Abel dying inside, that if she opened the door than Hannibal would be there and he would smile at her, and say, Hello, Abigail. But she stopped.

Leaning against the wall, Leda and the Swan.

Hannibal had the same painting in his dining room. Hannibal had this painting and Chilton had to have seen it before and that – there’s something in that that makes her so angry.

She grabbed the painting in its big glass frame, and she held it, and she was not giving it back. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s not Hannibal. He’s – he’s – Frederick Chilton was a fraud.

He lied. He dressed Abel Gideon up like the Chesapeake Ripper because he wanted to be famous, popular. He – he couldn’t even die right.

Frederick wanted Will Graham and did not get him. He wanted fame and he got infamous. He wanted the respect and the notoriety that Hannibal had, and he didn’t deserve it. He was the same cheap veneer that Freddie used when she pretended that she didn’t live inside of a cracker box, that she wasn’t struggling to pay her bills each month.

Frederick Chilton couldn’t even die right.

Abigail doesn’t know where she’s going until she ends up in the kitchen and she doesn’t know what she’s doing until she shatters the glass on the painting, until she’s digging her fingernails into the glass to destroy the print underneath. She doesn’t know she’s crying until there is a hand on hers, pulling roughly.

“Stop it.” It was said like it had been repeated over and over. The band of the ring on Frederick’s fingers was so cold that it burnt, and his touch was not gentle, yanking her away from the destroyed painting, “Stop it. You’re hurting yourself.”

“I don’t care,” She said, ripping her hand from his. There was glass in her fingertips, blood dripping onto the floor, but it didn’t matter. What was more blood to another place that Hannibal abandoned? “Why did he leave me behind?”

“He – it feels rebellious to hurt yourself,” Frederick said instead. He was taking breaths like he was swallowing blood, shaking. She remembered what Hannibal said about him and medical school. Fraud. Failure. “It feels good to make yourself hurt because he hurt you. Out of spite or adoration, it does not matter. He does not care.”

“He didn’t hurt me.” He does care. He will come back.

“Look at you,” His voice was almost cold. It was a broke thing stitched back together by doctors and oral therapy. Hannibal was an open wound inside of Frederick Chilton and Abigail was going to make him dig into it. “He cut off your ear. He left you for dead. Look at what you’re doing. Just because you’re grateful that it wasn’t worse, does not make it right.”

“I loved this house, and…” He trailed off, taking a breath. “I was evicted once. When I was a kid, my father passed away unexpectantly and we lost the house. I vowed to myself that I would never be in a position where I did not have a home to return to, and – he took that from me.”

“I lost my license, my practice. My reputation is destroyed,” Frederick took a shaky breath and he sounds angry. Abigail watched him. “My mouth isn’t healing correctly. There’s an infection and I may lose my eye. Hannibal Lecter is a gift that keeps giving. That’s why you’re doing this. You’re hurt and the man that kidnapped you and brainwashed you tells you that the only way to stop the hurt is by making it worse. Stop it.”

Abigail stared at him, and she wipes at her face. Her hand comes away wet, still seeping blood, and she almost tells him that her parents never let her color her hair. She almost tells him that she doesn’t know how to stop.

If it’s not her than it will be him, or Freddie, or some plain girl with brown hair because that was what she wanted. She wanted to kill Abigail Hobbs.

She doesn’t want to have this settlement inside of her. She doesn’t want to build up a new person on a foundation that was built on the knowledge that the kindest thing Hannibal could do was never come back.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You don’t have to,” He told her. “But you need to stop this.”

#somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds

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kiss-my-freckle · 4 years

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3x8 Rewatch: The Great Red Dragon

Introduce Francis Dolarhyde. Exercising, then hitting a tattoo parlor. He had his grandmother's dentures replicated for himself, gets a tattoo of The Dragon that covers his entire back. He kneels before a photo he has displayed of William Blake’s The Great Red Dragon. "If I'm ever apprehended, my memory palace will serve as more than a mnemonic system. I will live there." Hannibal wasn't kidding. He's relying on his memory palace with everyone that visits him. Will seems to be the only one he imagines in the Norman Chapel. He listens to a child singing while they cover his arrest and confinement. Jack selling Freddie the story of Hannibal being captured. An excerpt from Chilton's book, Hannibal the Cannibal, something Jack made mention to. He copyrighted the title after he got shot in the face. Purposeful story direction. "There is no name for what this man is. He man not even be a man." Relevant later, when he and Will do The Dragon's profile for Freddie. Chilton basically saying Hannibal is an animal.

A three year time jump. Wine and truffles. Alana informs Hannibal that's how she found him in Florence. I would consider this gloating. They talk about his insanity allowing him to escape the death penalty, but he only escaped the death penalty because she and Chilton lied about him being insane. They wanted him to feed their professional curiosity. She talks to Hannibal as if he should be thanking her for getting him off death row. He flat-out tells her he's not insane. He's drawing her exactly how she makes me feel in this scene. The almighty queen, sitting on her Verger throne. Hannibal's confinement and her newfound wealth turned her character to shit. "Ugliness is found in the faces of the crowd." One could easily compare Hannibal's confinement to Will's in season two. I laugh when he talks about faking an escape. It's a triple play. Gideon's, Will’s, Hannibal’s. A touch of foreshadowing with Hannibal's promise to kill Alana. I'll gif that later.

Francis is standing before his broken mirror, trying to deepen his voice. He hears The Dragon calling for him. Cut to him naked, covered in blood in the moonlight. Blood and chocolate. Sanguinaccio dolce for Chilton's visit with Hannibal. "But I promised myself I would never use colons in my titles. Colons lose their novelty when overused." I laugh at this line. It makes me think of the hyphen. Especially during his scene with The Dragon. "We all know it, but nobody ever says that G-dash-D won't do a G-dash-D-damned thing to answer anybody's prayers." Hannibal tells him he'll have to write another book. He’s constantly referring to Francis as a shy boy. Like Will's character at the start of the series. Hannibal already knows enough about The Dragon to know about The Dragon. He thinks he doesn't like being called the Tooth Fairy.

Chilton and Alana in what appears to be her office now. "It is our cabal, yours and mine." The two who spoke of Will as a billiard ball, working together to get Hannibal in their hospital. "Ugliness is found in the faces of the crowd." Alana admits that they both lied, then tells Chilton he wrote a book of lies. "Everything he writes is always about a problem he does not have." This is a nice line that ties into the pilot. "You and I are just alike, problem-free." Chilton is just as cocky as Alana. The stag behind his head is fantastic. "Detected a trace of competitive vanity in our man. I would be cautious. The Young Turk may inspire the Old Lithuanian to keep himself interesting." Chilton is the one comparing the two, I'd say he's the one who wants to keep Hannibal interesting. Hannibal doesn't care.

They scene hop between The Dragon and Hannibal. "Soon enough, I fear Jack Crawford will come knocking." He writes a letter to Will, warning him that Jack will be coming to take him for the case. "It's dark on the other side and madness is waiting." But his family is waiting. Hannibal’s letter reveals who he's really in competition with - Jack. He was right about the Tooth Fairy, he doesn't like being called the Tooth Fairy.

More than halfway through the episode when we actually see Will. Necessary. Setting the stage, to show what he's stepping into before he steps into it. Like I said in my previous rewatch post, Will had plans to disconnect from everything and everyone who would remind him of Hannibal. That includes Jack and Alana. He didn't even know she had a child. More dogs, and I don't see Winston. Jack pulls up. His entire scene with Will shows just how much of an asshole he is. "You don't want to talk inside? Oh, you don't want to let me inside." This ties into his first conversation with Alana. That's why he ends up sitting at their dinner table. "He who sups with the Devil needs a long spoon." Will doesn't want any part in it. "Why should the cold stop what common sense couldn't?" Again, him and Alana are dumb as hell for allowing Will to even take part. Three years won't change anything. As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder. He tells Jack not to take out family pictures. Jack does it anyway. "Hold that."

"With a little bit of luck, we might have a little more than three weeks before he does it again." Luck scattered through this half because of the tree markings. Molly and Walter are seen walking in, so he has Jack put the photo back in his pocket. The look on his face is enough. Jack's gonna get Will to take part in this case whether he wants to or not. "Yeah, I'm lucky here. I know that." Another hit on the luck theme. Jack takes advantage of the moment, pulling out the photo for Molly once Will and Walter take the dogs out. The way he puts his arms on the table, about to manipulate the situation to his liking. He's always been about his agenda. "So, whatever he says he wants to do, you'll take him anyway, won't you?" This line ties into episode 1x5. Will never had a choice. When Jack wants him, he takes him. That's why I never understood MIriam referring to him as The Guru. He can't compare to Will because he only cares about catching them, he doesn't care about understanding them. Going against Will's wishes, shows the family photos to Molly. "I promise I'll try to make it as easy on him as I can." He made the same promise to Alana when he said he wouldn't let Will get too close. "I know what I'm asking and I wished to God I didn't have to." He has to because he sucks at profiling.

"If you stay and there's more killing, maybe it would sour this place for you." Jack said the same thing of his classroom in episode 1x5. While Molly is sleeping, he steps out of bed and reaches for Hannibal's letter. Kept it in his drawer, but didn't read it. HIs way of holding onto Hannibal, but not letting his words pull him in. He looks back at Molly to make sure she's still sleeping. I don't think she truly knows just how intimately he and Hannibal know each other. I believe this is the only letter Hannibal wrote to him, so I think Will knew that he wrote about the Tooth Fairy case. Hannibal would've allowed him this distance because the last time they spoke, Will told him he didn't want to think about him anymore. He hasn't been crossing those boundaries Will set out of respect, something Jack doesn’t have. He's crossing them now because he knows how relentless Jack is.

WIll visits the crime scene for his typical replay. He's been out of it for a while, so when he sees the room, it overwhelms him. His body language is powerful. The end of this replay is a nice foreshadow. The way he stands in front of the strings like his own pair of wings. How they light up as he's reaching out to touch the wife in his replay. The way he says, "This is my design." It all feels different. He’s connecting with The Dragon as it ties into episode 1x4. I love the way he storms up the steps. He’s connecting, but doesn't understand it yet. They print the wife's eye and do a mold of the cheese based on Will's replay. "Jimmy, you're the light of my life." Darkness and light scattered in this storyline. "He polished it after he placed it so he could see his face in there." SIght and sound, like windows to the soul. The Dragon in Francis, The Lion in Will. Capable of righteous violence. His empathy, capable of cruelty. "He may have a history of biting in lesser assaults. May be a fighting pattern as much as sexual behavior." Jack asks Will what he's fighting. Will is already connecting.

Will tries to call Molly, then lays down in bed. Crime scene photos swirl around him. He connects to the family dog, wants to adopt it. "I have to see Hannibal." He needs Hannibal's help to recover his mindset because he snuffed out that dark part of himself. “You have to cut that part out.” Cutting out Hannibal, Jack and Alana, teaching and his work with the FBI. What happens when he cuts out his heart, fills the empty it leaves with a new family, then goes back to visit his heart and everything that reminds him. Will is cut between. His transformation starts now. He will shed the rest of his humanity and become the Lion.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter."

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kyliehorsegirl · 6 years

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Just a Sketch (Michael Langdon x Reader) REQUEST

A/N: This was a quick something i wrote up for a request I got today. I have a few other requests I’ll be working on as well as a prequel to Black Wedding and Ch. 3 of Snakes.

If you would like to read any of my other Lagndon Fics you can find them in the MASTERLIST

REQUESTED BY: @artisticlales ‘reader is an artist before the apocalypse and she does not know why she is at the outpost. She doesn’t get along well with others so read draws and reads alot. When Michael arrives she is captivated by him and he approaches her. She doesn’t remember him because she had to move. He does and he is in love with her’

WARNINGS: FLUFF, FLUFF AND MORE FLUFF.

WORD COUNT: 2552

Please enjoy.

***********************************

In a small house, there was a young boy. He had bouncy gold curls. His eyes were soft. In a house across the way there was a young girl. She was kind and artistic. He always found her outside, sitting against a tree with her sketch book.

“What are you doing?” He would ask her. She would smile up at him and close her book.

“Just a sketch.”

The two got along extremely well. Michael was the boy. Y/n was the girl. Michael didn’t understand how emotions worked, what he did know is he really cared for her. She was his best friend. Y/n knew she loved Michael. They were so young, it wasn’t a romantic love. She appreciated him for him. She thought he was talented and funny. He was so tender and caring to her. He wasn’t like that with anyone else.

Y/n ran to Michael’s house. Her vision blurry from the tears pouring out of her eyes. She slammed her fists onto the door, hitting it over and over again.

“Hey hey, Y/n what’s wrong?” Ms. Meade’s eyes were wide with worry. She grew to adore Y/n as a daughter. She saw the good she was for Michael.

“I need Michael, please Miriam, is he home?” Ms. Meade did her best to understand what she was saying. Before Miriam could say anything, Michael appeared out of nowhere. Y/n threw herself into his arms. He instantly wrapped his own arms around her, holding her close.

“Shh, what happened?”

“My parents are making me move! I don’t want to be without you Michael. You’re my best friend.” She sobs into his chest.

“What? Where are you moving to?” Tears started to swell in his eyes.

“Montana. We are moving all the way to Montana. My dad had an affair and they want to start over. They are getting rid of phones, computers everything! They don’t want to have contact with the internet in this new life! I don’t want to leave you Michael.”

“I’m so sorry Y/n. I just want you to know I love you.” He sobs into her hair.

“I love you too Michael.” She looks up to him and holds him tighter. Ms. Meade get tears in her own eyes.

“I will always love you Y/n.” He kisses her on the lips. She leans into the kiss. He gripped her shirt in his hands holding her so tight, that maybe she won’t disappear, but she would forget. With that kiss, he made her forget him, to free her from pain.

5 years later*

The missile fired. The world was in pieces. Y/n was now in a holding facility. There were two others with her. A boy named Timothy and a girl named Emily. Y/n had a small bag mostly containing her old sketch book.

The three were forced into large military vehicles. They arrive at their destination. They were handed radiation suits before they make it outside. There was fog everywhere. They see two people get shot on their way in.

Once inside they were greeted by Ms. Venable. They are escorted to their rooms. Y/n runs her fingers along her new garments. Victorian dresses in different shades of purple. Y/n sits on the floor holding her knees. She breaks down and cries. She is alone.

Her time at outpost 3 was nothing to be jealous of. Everyone saw her as a weirdo. She was quiet and all she did was draw. No one cared to ask about her drawings. They had their own drama to deal with. Time that wasn’t spent sketching, she was reading in the library. She was thankful for all the books at her disposal, but she was alone.

Days dragged on. There was no change to the routine. She was able to keep track of time by drawing a new sketch every day. She drew every single person in the outpost. Y/n was very observant.

The days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months and months turned into a year and a half. Y/n had several sketch books in her room all full of drawings. Not only did she draw people or aspects of the outpost, she drew things she tried to remember from the time on the outside.

Just a sketch. A sketch of a boy. She didn’t know where she saw him. She drew a boy, with an innocent face. His hair curling down to his ears. She felt comfort drawing him. Y/n found herself sketching this boy every day.

An intruder. No one knew who the intruder was.

Y/n sits on the far side of the room, no one to talk to. Sketch book in hand. A picture of the boy haphazardly drawn on the thick sheet of paper. A man appears in the room. He is adorned in elegant black clothing. His hair cascades down his shoulders in golden curls. The face of someone in power. Hands laced behind his back.

He’s beautiful. He’s terrifying. Y/n is intrigued by him. She notices the little details he put into his look. Red eyeshadow brushed along his inner lid. He’s beautiful.

He gives a look to Ms. Venable, dismissing her from his spot in front of the fire. He takes a moment to look among all the occupants. His eyes stop at hers. She thinks she sees some sort of relief before his eyes are off of hers.

“My name is Langdon and I represent the Cooperative.” She is enamored by his voice. Like silk ribbons dancing through the air. From that moment she tunes out what he says. He speaks to the rest of them. She allows herself a quick glance to the sketch on her page. There are uncanny similarities between the two. It’s just a sketch.

The lot of them try to ask him questions, in which he quickly responds with ‘classified’. What gets her attention, is the mention of sanctuary. She still has no idea as to why she is here. The guards who retrieved her offered no information.

From what she can hear, it seems like he will enact a rigorous interview process.

“What is this the hunger games? This is bullshit, I paid my way to be here.” An uproar from Coco. The look of udder boredom on Langdon’s face makes Y/n want to giggle. She looks down into her lap allowing a small smirk.

“You don’t have to sit for questioning.” Langdon states matter of factly.

“What happens if we don’t sit for questioning?” Andre asks with genuine curiosity. Langdon throws his head in Andre’s direction. Curls bouncing with him.

“Then you stay here, and die.” It’s sound so harsh, but Y/n can’t help but find it mildly amusing.

“I volunteer to go first.” Mr. Gallant raises his hand like a kid in class.

“And so you shall.” Langdon proceeds to explain how they can stay and allow cannibals to come knocking or down a pill that will kill them on spot.

“I look forward to meeting each and every one of you.”

Several hours later*

Y/n made her way to somewhere with less noise. The whole lot began to complain about who would make it, who would not. It was too much to deal with. Y/n found solace in a quiet place.

She made her way to her room, her nose in her sketch book. She looks up when she hits a hard surface. Holding the book tight to her chest she sees she ran into Langdon.

“O, forgive me Mr. Langdon. I wasn’t paying attention.” She looks down with embarrassment.

“That’s quite alright Y/n. I guess I wasn’t paying mind either and for that I’m sorry.” He speaks so genuine to her. The note of apology shocks her.

“Of course, Mr. Langdon.” He holds a hand up to her.

“Please, call me Michael.” She takes a small gasp. It strikes a chord with her, unknowingly. Y/n takes a step back. Looking him in the eyes. There is comfort in his icy blue eyes.

“What do you have there?” He looks down to the small book in her hands.

“O, its um, my sketch book.”

“May I see?” It was a rhetorical question as he takes the book from her hands, brushing his fingers over hers intentionally.

“Um, sure. I guess.” She looks down nervously, hoping he doesn’t notice the drawing that looks an awful lot like him.

“What’s this?” He turns the book to show the image of the boy.

“O that’s, just a sketch.” She looks to him once more.

“It’s wonderful for being, just a sketch.” Rose colors her cheeks.

“Thank you, I like to draw.” He smiles warmly at her. Handing her the book he brushes his fingers over hers once more.

“Maybe you could draw me sometime.” He speaks kindly and knowingly.

“Maybe.”

Y/n truly was an artist. She made an effort to have her hand in everything. She makes her way to a small room. There’s a piano. Running her fingers along the keys, she closes her eyes missing the feeling of a piano. With the arrival of Langdon, it awakened her need to play but she didn’t know why. Moving her dress to the side, she allows her self to be seated at the bench.

Y/n hovered her fingers over the keys. She takes a deep breath as a song instantly pops in her head.

(Play I’ll never love again By Lady Gaga movie version)

Wish I could

I could have said goodbye

I would have said what I wanted to

Maybe even cried for you

Her finger glide across the keys, like riding a bike she hasn’t forgotten.

If I knew it would be the last time

I would have broke my heart in two

Tryin’ to save a part of you

The occupants of the outpost follow the beautiful voice echoing through the halls

Don’t want to feel another touch

Don’t want to start another fire

Don’t want to know another kiss

No other name falling off my lips

Don’t want to give my heart away

To another stranger

Or let another day begin

Won’t even let the sunlight in

No I’ll never love again

I’ll never love again

Oooou ooou oou

They begin to crowd behind her, enough distance where she doesn’t notice them behind her.

When we first met

I never thought I would fall

I never though that I’d find myself lyin’ in

Your arms

Mmmm mmmm

And I wanna pretend that it’s not true oh baby

That you’re gone

Cause my world keeps turnin’ and turnin’ and

Turnin’ and I’m not movin’ on

Even Ms. Venable and Ms. Meade stand with the group, listening to her sing.

Don’t want to feel another touch

Don’t want to start another fire

Don’t want to know another kiss

No other name falling off my lips

Don’t want to give my heart away

To another stranger

Or let another day begin

Won’t even let the sunlight in

No I’ll never love

The group parts like the red sea with the presence of Langdon. He makes his way to her.

I don’t wanna know this feeling unless its you

And me

I don’t wanna waste a moment

Hoooo ouuu

And I don’t wanna give somebody else the

Better part of me

I would rather wait for you

Hooo ouu

Michael leans into her.

Don’t want to feel another touch

Don’t want to start another fire

Don’t want to know another kiss

Baby unless they are your lips

He begins to sing quietly so only she can hear.

Don’t want to give my heart away to another

Stranger

Or let another day begin

She stops playing, he replaces her hands with his.

Wont even let the sunlight in

Oooo I’ll never love again

Love again

I’ll never love again

I’ll never love

Again

Y/n turns to see Michael’s eyes looking down to her. She takes a quick glance around the room to see, literally everyone watching them. Mr. Gallant starts off a round of applause. Y/n blushes with embarrassment.

“You are as beautiful as I remember.” Michael whispers to her before taking he rises. “Meet me in my room Y/n.” With that, he makes his way elsewhere. The group part once more making way for Langdon.

“I didn’t know you could sing Y/n.” Mr. Gallant states excitedly. Y/n looks down.

“Yeah! You’re amazing! Where did that come from.” A small moment of selflessness from Coco. Y/n gets up and makes a bold statement.

“You guys would know a lot more about me, if you would’ve got to know me.” She passes by all of them and makes her way to Michael’s room. Leaving everyone in utter shock.

Y/n knocks on Michael’s door and opens when he grants permission. He stands to meet her. He gently takes her hands in his.

“Y/n, I know this is hard to understand, but I know you. You know me. I had to hide your memories from you. I couldn’t bare to see you in pain. You are the most important person to me.” She furrows her brows and looks up to him.

“I don’t understand Michael. You know me? You hid my memories?” He smiles longingly at her. He brushes her cheek tenderly. Cupping her cheek and snaking a hand around her waist, he presses his plush lips to hers.

Her eyes snap open, memories coming flooding in like a movie reel. She sees a boy and a girl. She could feel the emotions, the amount of love the two felt for each other and the first kiss they shared before it all went away. He eyes overflow with tears.

“Michael?” Her lip quivers and his own eyes become full with tears. She shoves herself into his arms just like the last time she saw him. Just as much raw emotion when she had to leave him. He holds her head, bringing her close to him in a tight grip.

“It’s me my love. I’m so sorry I had to take your memories away. I was always watching you from afar. I always cared for you. I never wanted to hurt you. I knew, I had to bring you here. I am so sorry I didn’t come sooner.” He holds her face in both of his large hands. His rings nip at her cheeks.

“Michael, I didn’t know what was going on. Before you came, I was drawing photos of this boy, I had a feeling I knew him, but I didn’t know where. That was you. The boy I was sketching. I never knew how much I missed you, but I feel it now.” Tears run over his fingers. Michael presses his forehead to hers. His tears falling onto her face.

“I love you Y/n I love you so much. Now that I have you back, I will never let you go again.”

“I love you Michael. I will always be by your side.” She tilts her head up to press her lips to his. A kiss full of longing, emotion, love and heartache. Michael rests a hand on her neck and another on her waist. She lays a hand on his chest and the other gripping one of his lapels.

They would never love again, unless it was with each other.

On his bed was a single drawing, a drawing of her, but it was just a sketch.

********************

I hope you all enjoyed this. it really made me happy to write I literally cried.

Langdon Taglist:

@artisticlales @creepy-jazzy @albeeox @shado-cat @skullchik89 @delicatefishtreedream @wth-trippy @teenagevampirebouquet @glamorous-without-the-guilt @first-son-of-finwe @aerite @no-salvation-no-forgivines--blog @homeschool-prom-queen @majestichoechlin @bryandechartisasmolbean

#Michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon x fem!reader #Michael langdon imagine #Michael langdon imagines #ahs #ahs apocalypse #ahs8 #ahs coven #american horror story #American horror story fanfiction #american horror story imagine #American horror story apocalypse #apocalypse

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wroteclassicaly · 6 years

Text

Home

Michael Langdon / Reader

Summary : A pregnant reader with a soft future Michael.

A/N : Something I came up with that turned out longer than expected, so the grammar probably sucks and maybe it’s all jumbled. First time writing this much Michael fluff. I did some different things and made some of my own head canons about how apocalypse ends, which I’ll reference in here. I also wrote a birth scene, which.... obviously I’ve never had a baby, so I tried based on the births I’ve seen and research I’ve done, stories I’ve heard. Let me know what y’all think, and enjoy! - Kristen

Extra note : Flashbacks are in italics and are written as past tense.

Warnings : Balls of fluff, birth scene, blood, explicit language, mentions of smut.

"May I?" A deep voice interrupts the dizziness clouding your senses, snapping you back into it.

Your vision comes into focus, your fingers reaching to shakily tuck your hair back behind your ear. You meet a pair of concerned blue eyes, his hand by his side, patient, eager to touch you with permission. You nod, needing him more than ever. Of course, you always feel like the longer you know Michael Langdon, the deeper you craving to have goes. His fingers path down your arm and to your belly, resting across the swollen bulge.

You relax instantly, a smile pressing into your lips, despite how much pain your body is in. You both knew it wouldn't be easy. It wasn't for normal couples. But for the Anti-Christ and his human companion attempting to start repopulating? The human state of your body wasn't holding up as well as you wished.

~*~

Michael laid out all the information and facts he knew about what the experience of carrying a child fathered by him - might be like. He wanted you to know, step by step. You were with him and he with you. With the world having been gone, a war fought and ended, you two were more than ready to start creating a new one, a building future. It didn't matter to him he was technically years younger than you, his own biological father an eternal seventeen year old soon to be grandfather.

Michael was at his full maturity, his accelerated age leveling off normally. The time to form your own family was as good as any. And so, you talked it through one night, casually, like it's something you've both been wanting since the world had fallen in the bombs. It was, it is. You had climbed into his lap, your lips taking his in a gentle kiss, pleading against them once you broke apart - to put his baby inside you.

He took you to bed and worshipped you, feasted on your cunt, kissed every inch of your body his mouth could map over. That night making love with Michael, it was more intense than you'd experienced thus far with him. Trying to create this special new life, a whole person, demon, angel, whatever he or she would be. You both would make sure this child had their purpose, chose their own path after you offered your unconditional love and guidance. Michael swore he'd never be like the people he knew the first few years he lived.

He vowed his baby would be an even bigger promise to this future. A light well known. He'd die protecting you and it if it came to that. You both made the outpost 3 a permanent home, able to grow and roam freely there without trouble. After the war with the coven ended, Michael resurrected as much of the land as he could for those who remained.

The witches were long gone, not bothering your family. Those that had perished from the poison apples were revived and sent on their way, Gallant the only one remaining behind. You suspected Michael was okay with this because the man had become tolerable, more himself, and treated Michael like a man. He no longer lusted, but respected. And if he did lust, Gallant kept it under wraps.

Mead was the other remaining inhabitant. Her and Gallant wearing the faces of people Michael had ties to. They helped care for you, all of you developing this unit that none of you ever really had before in your previous lives. Gallant was your bestfriend and Miriam had warmed up to you after the first few months of your pregnancy. How you found out?

You'll never forget the way Michael's eyes glazed over with tears and he just stared at you after you came from the shower, clad in only a towel, brushing through your wet hair. You turned to ask him what he was doing, overwhelmed, shy, hot under his gaze, only to have him mash his mouth to yours in a kiss that lifted you off the floor. When he finally put you down his hand had splayed out across your belly. You lifted your gaze to face him, confusion evident. He smiled ever so softly at you.

"I hear a heartbeat inside of you." Michael nearly whispered those treasured words.

"Because it's mine?" You grinned, unsure where he had been going with it.

"It's new. And it does not belong to you."

You could barely see him through the tears, you stomach dropping, room spinning, life turned upside. Everything changed in that instance. There was another life in you, a heart, a brain, a whole person. Half of you, half of Michael. Your baby.

Michael pushed your towel apart, dropping to his knees to press his cheek against the damp skin of your stomach. "It's strong, it's there, it's really fucking there, Y/N."

You held onto fistfuls of his long hair, running your fingers through it over and over to calm down. A new future beginning.

~*~

"It's stronger than it was yesterday. Is it giving you much trouble?" Michael moves his hand around your stomach in attempts to catch the kicking of your little one.

"You're a pain in my ass sometimes, so what do you think?" You tease him, moving to sit down on your unmade bed.

Michael follows, helping to ease you down, despite your protests. His hand is still purchased over your belly, clad in one of his newly purchased black t-shirts

"I think you secretly love it, but I don't like it that you're in pain. I'm worried about you."

"Michael," You start, grasping his wrist, voice flowing down lightly. "I'm carrying a child. It's essentially pushing on my organs, so, I'm gonna have off days, baby."

"These are more than just off days. They're getting worse. Gallant told me, Ms. Mead told me."

The frown between your brows pinches the skin, a sigh coming from your lips. Of course they had to tell him. You didn't want him feeling guilty or worrying. You agreed to the possible risks when you begged him to give you this gift. You shake your head.

"I'm fine with it, Michael. We knew things might be a little different for me once I got pregnant."

There's that guilty look on his face, his beautiful blue eyes bashful, in a way. You reach over with your free hand to bring his chin up, pressing a defined kiss to his plump lips. At that very same instance your baby kicks hard against Michael's large hand. He breaks from your kiss with an awed gasp, always mesmerized by this part of nature. "I love it so much already, I hope it loves me back."

You're aware of everything he went through and it hurts you, lashing an ache at your heart. You don't want him to feel anything but love from you. You'll give him your life if that's what it takes. Pressing your fingers to lace through his, you hold onto him, the baby moving beneath you both.

"It'll love you, it'll cherish every moment with you. You guys might not always get along, but what parent does with their kids? It won't be like with your parents, Michael. We made this baby out of love, free choice. I don't care what you think is inside you, what those pieces of shit thought about you.

I love you. I love who you are, I love what you stand for. I love how you changed the world, how you fixed things for a better future for all of us. Your child will see that. How can it not when I look at you everyday and fall in love all over again?" Though it's cheesy, spoken long, you don't care.

You're emotional enough as it is nowadays, so you give yourself another pass. You reach to brush his long hair back, reveling in its softness.

"How'd I get so lucky finding you?" He questions, air-like.

"You knew where I was all along," You answer, resting your head on his shoulder, sinking in, his arm going around you, other not leaving the baby's dance recital inside you.

~*~

You keep counting the numbers, adding, subtracting, getting lost in the pain. Your body is soaked in sweat, clothing sticking to you like an internal itch you can't rid yourself of. You're burning, restless, swaying on your unsteady feet. Mead had went to fetch you some fresh water, Gallant getting everything else ready in the main room. Michael trusts them to prepare for your child to enter the world safely, and this makes the pain more bearable.

Another wave distracts you from any good line of thought, sharp, slicing through your abdomen harsh enough to have you bending over the bed, screaming out into the sheets. That's another in sixty seconds. Talk about cutting it close. You manage to turn yourself over, falling onto your back, the ceiling floating above you. You're dizzier by the time Ms. Mead is entering the room, Gallant in tow with towels and a worried expression.

They each grab an arm, helping you up for another contraction to level you to your knees. You keep your eyes violent on that empty doorway, demanding. Michael had left your side for the first time in months to get extra supplies. No one knew this baby was coming this soon, despite having planned for it in advance. Then again, what can you know about supernatural births?

You call for him inside, hoping he heeds it. Mead and Gallant are steering you down a few doors, barely getting you inside when it hits. Your eyes go wide and your heart gallops full speed ahead. Your abdomen twists, twines, body feeling as if it's been lit on fire, housing the flames. A shrill scream pierces the air, ripping itself from you, bouncing off the walls like chatter, leaving your lungs raw, exhausted.

From between your legs a warmth spills out of you, pooling in front of your bare feet. Blood. Your panicked eyes seek out Gallant's, who is hissing a harsh string of curses. It all moves more quickly than you're prepared for. A loud door is slamming in series, footsteps trampling up the staircase, then his scent hits you hard, bulldozing you into his awaiting arms.

Michael scoops you into his arms and brings you over the threshold, beside the large tub near the firelight, instructing Gallant to hold you so he can rid himself of his coat and shoes. You moan, whimpering out Michael's name, Gallant rubbing along your sweat slick neck to help calm you. Ms. Mead makes quick work of getting things rolled out, bringing her sleeves up. The next contraction you don't fight, sinking down beside your makeshift bathtub, holding on tight. Michael's fingers come to wrap around your waist, bare of rings, easily getting you into the bath, warm water soaking into your ankles.

"Do you want your robe left on, love?" His voice is hesitant, unwilling to share your nude form with anyone else.

Through your pain you laugh, tilting your head back. "I doubt Gallant or Ms. Mead are interested in my tits, Michael."

"Yeah, uh, no thanks. No offense." Is Gallant's thickened response. This whole thing is comical in a way. Mead shakes her head, directing Michael to settle down with you before the next line heads through.

He peels the weighted silk robe from your shoulders, helping you loosen your blood soaked panties until they are floating in the water. He flings both garments near the fire, fully clothed, uncaring, moving down with his back against the tub, pulling you between his legs.

"Spread her legs over yours, Michael, I need to see if this child is ready to enter the world." Mead is short, to the point.

He does as asked, gently gripping underneath your knees and stretching your legs on either side of his own. You're spread apart and it worsens that pain, things swollen and moving, body ready to give you new life.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuck," Gallant says, clutching his stomach as if he's gonna pass out.

Michael snarls, lowering his gaze, cheek pressed to yours. "Look between her legs again and I will carve your fucking eyeballs out of your skull and mount them, are we clear?"

Gallant waves his hand, ushering. "Don't gotta ask me twice."

An agonizing pressure pulls at you, making you arch back away from the probe, breath puffing out in pained whimpers.

"This child is ready, she," Ms. Mead motions to you. "is ready. But we have to hurry. Y/N is losing a lot of blood and I need to tend to her as soon as we get the little one out."

You aren't afraid, more light. You know Michael will protect this life. Things will be okay. He's holding your neck gently, kissing you, nosing your cheek. "If something happens, I'll bring her back."

Your Michael. It makes all this pain, all the unknowns of your life worth it. To find this. To get to this moment. You shift, planting your hands on his pant clad, wet thighs.

"I'm ready. Let's do this."

"I'm right here, I've got you. Just keep your focus." Michael encourages, kissing the back of your neck.

"Michael, I want your hand underneath the water. You will pull the child from her, then lift it from the water. Gallant will help you look it over. I will work on Y/N." Mead utters, using your name with respect.

All parties agreed, Michael's strong hand dips beneath the glimmering surface of the bath water, pressing just outside of you. He lets out a broken gasp, winded in your ear. "I feel it. Our baby."

He kisses you right into your next contraction.

~*~

It wasn't quick, not really. The clock ticked to register twenty minutes. Your body crumbling, weak, water reddened. Michael was shivering, afraid, though he tries to keep it at bay. You were giving it all you have left in you, thinking you might not see your baby after all this. But you know that you can't give up, you can't let that thought plunder your subconscious.

It's the last one that locks your muscles into a wild frenzy, bones threatening to fall to ash, that you bear down with all you have, hollering into the wide set room, that does it. Michael, Mead and Gallant are teetering closer, Michael choking on a cry, his other hand vanishing between your legs. It's calm suddenly, you slump back against him, after-storm whirling by you like the last remains of a tornado. Michael's hands return above the water, holding in them, your baby. Covered in blood, after birth, the cord still attached, it lets out a healthy set of cries.

You are brought to the light, heart busting apart, you break down into a fit of sobs, watching Mead hand Michael a pair of scissors to separate the baby from your body. You don't care about anything else, not even Mead wiping at the stray tears and going straight to work on you. Michael brings the baby to your chest, dark blond hair glowing underneath the gunk on its head. Tiny fingers rest across your breast, ones that you take, Michael's coming over your own. Gallant is sniffling in the background, trying to turn his head.

The baby's heartbeat is calming, steady, beating against your chest.

"We have a daughter." Michael answers a question you knew was coming up in your mind, yet not on the forefront.

You crane your neck a little to see him, his blue eyes filled with tears, others smeared on his cheeks. You break down, bringing your daughter to you, kissing her temple. Your daughter. You made a new generation of female. You don't let go of her, not until you have to for her to be looked over.

She's as strong as her daddy, you knew she'd be fine. Michael turns back to you, still soaked, holding the baby like he's never been higher. This was something more, his mission. Bringing light to his darkness, creating a new bloodline that wasn't pain and destruction. He made that with you.

And his daughter would only know love. No matter what or who she turns out to be, Michael will never turn his back on her.

~*~

It had been a couple of days since (whatever baby name you'd pick) 's birth, but she was more loved than ever. Gallant was convinced he'd teach her about design and pop culture, whilst Mead did in fact make gibberish sounds when she thought no one was looking. You were wiped out from the difficult birth, body recovering from the blood loss, but Michael pulled double duty so you could rest. He brought the baby to you when she needed fed, for you to hold her. He even sang to her, his voice the only one able to calm her to sleep at night.

You'd never seen a man that had so much danger, power, that brought the end of days about, born out of evil, that intimidated you when you first met, fall apart with a pair of big blue eyes looking at him. You watch from your bed, Michael in his usual all black attire, holding your daughter, enamored with her, her tiny little finger holding onto his own. He whispers secrets to her, leaning in to kiss her nose, then her cheek, finishing by laying his lips to her forehead. He catches you looking, sharing that with you. Moving to you, he settles beside you, the baby sound asleep.

"I love you." You beat him to it, leaning your head onto his shoulder.

"And I love you, my Queen, mother of my child."

He kisses your forehead as you coo at the nickname, his proximity, and both of you hold onto your baby girl, content, home.

#michael langdon #michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x you #ahs apocalypse fanfiction #ahs apocalypse #ahs: apocalypse

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leonajasmin-writeblr · 5 years

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Ten Questions Tag

I got tagged in the same game thrice so while it’s a 10 Questions tag, I have thirty to do haha. Thanks for the tag @booksandsass , @nemothepenguin and @jmichines!

Do you remember your first writing project? What was it?

I do! The first thing I wrote was a 38K novella when I was six. It was about two girls in their young teens (I think one was 13 and one was 14, I can’t remember) who always ended up going to this ice cream shop. Their teacher was their best friend and I named one character after part of my name backwards. It’s cringy, but I’m still proud to say I completed such a feat at a young age.

What do you think is the hardest part of writing?

Finding where to explain things, such as appearance, location, lore etc. I know all of it, I just find it hard to say all I need to without it being an info dump haha

If you could give your younger self some writing advice, what would it be?

STOP GOING ON DAMN HIATUSES GIRL

What kind of research do you do for your WIP?

I do a little research on physics (such as how lifts work) and injuries but most of it is how things look steampunk style since there’s a slight hint at that in my novel.

How many hours a week do you write?

It depends on how much university work I have to do (I study online), whether I’m travelling and how much energy I have. Probably 10 hours tops a week but sometimes I’ll do nothing.

How long do you wait before you begin editing your first draft?

Six weeks, unless I know I’ve made a major booboo niggling in my head. Then I’ll resolve that and leave the rest.

What are your personal ethics when it comes to writing?

I’m not 100% sure I’ve gotten this question right but my stories are quite dark, although not explicitly so. My characters go through a tonne of crap in all honesty, although for the reader, it isn’t as bad.

Do you recycle old ideas or abandon them?

Recycle. I’ve already decided to use the first line of a Fan Fiction I wrote in 2014 later on in the Mastery series.

Which character is your favourite and why?

I tend to shift my favourite character based on what book I’m writing.

In book 1 of the series, it’s Roman. He’s a bit of a mystery to the others and they’re not sure how to react to him, but he’s just a cute little idealist in a world of pessimists.

In book 2, it’s Rylan. Some of his lines are my favourite I’ve written so far.

In book 3, it’s Jonathon. His personality is one of the most animated in the series and his back and current stories are some of the most complex I’ve made. One chapter I’ve written in his POV is one of my favourites too.

What do you love most about your favourite character from your WIP?

Again, I’ll answer with the same characters.

Roman: He’s an absolute sweetheart despite being surrounded by salty assholes and continues his precious ways even when they insult him for them

Rylan: He’s private and little is revealed about him. But he’s intelligent and could easily become a much worse villain if he wanted to. Dangerous boi.

Jonathon: Kind of like Roman, he’s an optimist despite everything that’s happened to him. And boy, does he have an angsty af backstory.

What would you consider success for your current WIP?

The fact I’m still working on it nearly 10 years later

If you were stuck on a deserted island, which one of your characters would you bring with you?

I guess it’d have to be Sebastian. He’s rude quite a lot of the time but really resourceful.

What would your characters’ day jobs be in real life? And if your WIP is set on Earth, which jobs would be most fitting for them and why?

Ooooh I love this question! I do have a lot of characters to answer with though and since this is the sort of thing I love imagining, I’m doing it with a huge bunch of ‘em haha

Alex is into the arts and only joined the Protectionary Guard as he didn’t see his art career going anywhere. So if he could make do with his art, he’d do that.

Sebastian would be in some sort of detective agency. One where he’d be able to kick ass. Then he’d get sacked for inappropriate behaviour and become a Martial Arts instructor or something along those lines.

Miriam would do something in the medical profession, but something less people-based. She’d be the sort to sit in a lab all day studying concoctions.

Aiden would have a normal office job during the day (knowing his family, it’d be he’s the heir to a company) and then volunteer as a cubs/scouts leader in the evenings.

Noah would work in IT, probably programming.

Cyrus builds motorbikes to fit in with his idealisms of escape, so he’d be into a travel-related career, such as travel writing/blogging, doing affiliate marketing and writing e-books to earn an income. Maybe an e-commerce store. While he isn’t the brightest, he’s a hard-worker.

Roman is training to be a lawyer and I can see him doing that in a Earth AU as well.

Phineas would be a librarian or a teacher for older students, probably a university lecturer or something like that, for a social science or language.

Dimitri would be a business owner, one of those really dickish ones.

Luka would probably be in Dimitri’s business, grumbling about his boss every ten seconds saying how he plans to make a rival business when he has enough money.

Rylan lowkey loves fashion and textiles and so I can see him working in a dinky little sewing shop and then selling stuff on Etsy or something along those lines as a side hustle.

Meline would be a professional athlete, probably in tennis since that’s her usual sport.

Jonathon would be the sort to make documentaries out in the wilderness and would take bets on whether he’ll survive doing stuff. He always does, and yet he still has people paying him. Witty prick.

Romulus would drive lorries. They’re similar to, but less interesting, his airships.

Who of your OC’s would break first under high pressure or under psychological manipulation/torture?

It’d be between Miriam and Aiden, depending on how personal the manipulation is. More distant? Aiden. More personal? Miriam.

Would you sacrifice your favourite character if it meant getting published? (As in would you remove them from the book as a condition set by the publisher?)

(I’m doing main instead of favourite okie dokie) Alex would be a nosiree no way whereas I think it’d be easier for me to part with Phoenix and Eirik. I’d still be reluctant though.

What is your go-to scene? (For example, I tend to open my books with the weather forecast to set the atmosphere before going to the characters and actions happening at that time)

A fight with a fairly unimportant antagonist. I always start my POV chapters with a certain style. Miriam’s is questions, Alex’s is dialogue, Phoenix’s is a long drone and Eirik’s is short sentences.

What is your least favourite genre to write in and why?

Contemporary as I get pretty bored. Where’s the death and fighting?

Which author would you like to trade styles with for a single book?

Me, but a good author. If you find out who that is, tell me please.

What was the weirdest thing that inspired a scene/character/story/name/place/etc.?

Miriam’s surname is after my dog as they both have amber eyes (Arnie -> Arnette)

Which POV is your favourite to write in and how do you choose which one to use for a certain WIP?

I prefer writing in first person! If it’s character arc-based then I will use first but if it’s more plot-based I will use third.

What style of writing do you prefer? Simple language, something more poetic, or something else?

I prefer simple but tend to have a philosophical main character so it ends up being a blend once you get to know the character

What’s your pet peeve when it comes to writing - the thing that would make you insta-toss the book?

The main character is a Mary Sue/Gary Stu

What’s your favourite cliché?

If you’re talking about technique, it’ll be rule of three. If you’re talking about plot cliché’s, it’s enemies to lovers/besties.

Which of your OCs would you want to hang out with in real life? Conversely, who would you not touch with a 10-foot pole?

I’d like to hang out with Roman! I’d say we’re similar enough in personality to get along.

Lawrence can LEAVE.

What’s your favourite type of character? (I have a weird thing for anti-heroes and geniuses)

Gonna have to agree with the brackets ;)

Which story do you wish you could have written (can be a novel, movie, game, etc.)

1984 or any good alternate futures. I’m a sucker for this genre so if you have recommendations please tell me.

Which of your OCs just absolutely eludes your comprehension? Like no matter what you do, you just can’t figure them out?

Kristoph.

What are you most proud of when it comes to your writing? Can be a character, a concept/world, even your style of writing.

Being able to come up with a complex plot and keeping track of it without having to write it all down.

Which of your stories do you think would make an awesome movie?

I think Experimentation would be more popular but I’d love to see Schadenfreude as a film!

Lastly (since we all do this), name an OC and your dream casting for them.

You’re wrong, buddy chum pal. I don’t do this.

I don’t watch films or series so know literally no actors bar the really famous ones.

To be honest, my creativeness isn’t working at all so for those who I tag, I’m going to let you pick out 10 of your favourites from the questions above. And the three people I’m going to tag are: @westywrites, @ahotpeaceofshit and @thel3tterm!

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hisgirlwonder · 5 years

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One Shot - Seeing Red (cont.)

Length: 4k words Warning: N/A Synopsis: Michael has risen to power, with followers and power galore, only for you to get in the way and knock him back down to earth with your own revelation. Notes: Continuing from part one which is here, this is prior to the creation of the Outposts/ when the sanctuary was starting to be built and the wheels were being put in motion for the future.

A baby was not part of the plan, however, it seemed as if the whole plan had been set fire to. Michael swore that he’d never put anything before you - funny how things change when someone gets desperate, isn’t it?

Slam.

Your bedroom door hits its frame so hard from the force that you hear the windows rattle.

You fall onto your bed and are comforted by blankets – legs bent at the hips, arms wrapping themselves around pillows. The tears hit, and they hit hard, almost like a dam had burst its bank. Everything you’d built seemed to be crumbling right before your eyes.

Michael is knocking at the door, pleading with you, “Please, honey, let me in. Just let me talk to you.”

“I’ll let you in when you change your tune and put me first, Michael.”

He answers back with a voice full of distress and discomfort, “It’s not that easy, Y/N.”

You slap him with the truth, “It really is. You can either continue down this road full of hurt and destruction and throw me out of your life for good, which will kill us all, me and your unborn child included, or you can snap out of it and be a real man; a father to the life I’m growing inside of my stomach.”

Words evaded Michael, speechless at the bitter reality of the situation. You grew more annoyed with his silence and threw the pillow in your hand at the door, “I never thought I’d be imagining my life without you but it seems you’re giving me no choice.”

Michael finally gets the ability to speak again, imploring, “I just need some time, please don’t shut me out for good.”

“I’m not the one shutting someone out.”

You wake up the next morning wishing this was some nightmare. Rolling over to look at the other side of the bed assured you it wasn’t. It was real life. Michael had disappeared but presently you couldn’t care less.

You throw some clothes on and walk to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, rubbing circles on your belly, cooing, “It’s okay baby, mama’s going to fix everything.” You weren’t sure you believed your words but you tried, for the sake of the baby.

You notice a letter on the table. Opening the envelope up, it reads:

I need time away to process things. I will be back soon. Don’t shut me out, y/n, I’m not giving up. Love, Michael.

You screw the piece of paper up into a ball, angered at the fact that this is what caused his switch to the dark side in the first place; that disappearance to “find” himself. He left you and came back a completely different person. You throw the paper ball on the floor and abandon the idea of tea; heading to pack a bag to stay with your sister for the night instead.

“Rough night?”

You dip underneath the arm she was holding the door open with, with hair a mess and your eyes bloodshot, headed bee-line for the lounge. You never even bothered to look at yourself in the mirror prior to leaving.

Sitting down on the couch, your hand travels over the arm to feel its fabric, bring you back so many years. “I love that you still have this couch. All of those memories.” Your eyes skim the room as you inhale the feeling of nostalgia deeply; admitting to your sister that you missed it there.

It was funny because the two of you didn’t get along so much as children but once you grew out of the teenage phase that was another story. She became your rock, especially since Michael’s first disappearance; almost as if she did more for you than your own parents. This house, although it was your childhood home, didn’t feel like home until you were almost an adult. Your parents moved away and left the house to the two of you – both of you agreed she would move in because you had already moved in with Michael.

Your sister, S/N, sits down on the chair to your left, and queries you, “Both me and the house miss you. Now, for the real question, what has called for the unannounced rush over here? Do I need to brace myself?”

“It’s kind of a funny story, do you think you could make me a cup of tea? That is if you can remember how to make it,” you tease, deep down thankful for having S/N as a best friend as well as your sister.

“Of course! Unlike you, little sister, my memory isn’t bad. White with one, I don’t forget these things.”

S/N returns with cups in hands, placing them down on the glass table and sitting back in her spot. She already knew all about the situation at hand but was like you and didn’t want a part of it. It too made her sad because she loved Michael like her own flesh and blood.

“Basically, to put it simply, I had enough of him ignoring me and the last straw was finding out I was pregnant with his child,” you confide in her as you’re reaching for your cup of tea. Luckily S/N had already put down the cups because she was shocked; her mouth drops open, she gasps, “You’re pregnant?” and covers it up with her hand.

Slowly nodding your head, still trying to come to terms with what was going on yourself. It hadn’t even been 24 hours yet since everything changed. It was no longer just about you, it was also about the life you were growing.

S/N already has an inkling that your answer is no but she figures she may as well ask, “Have you told our mother?”

You were in two minds about telling your mother at all since the two of you barely spoke after you moved out, but you knew she would want to know. She’d be a grandmother, after all, and you know what that meant. She would fawn over the child like nobody else’s business – different to how she treated you. She’d probably want to snatch the child away from you the second you gave birth and raise it herself in the hopes that you didn’t ruin it. You admit to S/N, “I was going to wait a while before I did that. I don’t-“

She interjects your sentence knowing exactly what you’re about to say, “You don’t talk to mother unless absolutely necessary. Got it. Probably for the best at the moment.”

You shrug it off, “I just don’t know what to do. I told him to pick between The Co-Operative and me; the woman carrying the fruit of his loins.”

S/N tries to cheer you up and reminds you of one thing, “I think, at the end of the day, Michael has been with you for nearly half of his life. You’re his one constant. Do you think he’s going to throw this away?”

“Yeah, but S/N, you haven’t seen him how I have. I’m almost invisible most days now. His ‘followers’ seem to be able to provide everything - love and a false sense of security. I’m just the stain on his jacket shoulder that he can’t get out.”

S/N tilts her head sympathetically and her mouth forms a slight pout, “Just give him some time, okay?”

Leaving S/N to finish her tea, you decide to take a trip down memory lane in your old bedroom. When you arrive you’re hit with a yearning; for the past, for how things used to be, anything other than what you were feeling.

Stepping through the entrance, your eyes scan the walls and you notice nothing has changed since you were nineteen.

Your feet lead you to your old drawers, the top of which was lined with framed family photos. One in particular stood out to you – it was taken just weeks before you and Michael met, when you had no idea what life held in the days to come. You pick it up and run your finger over the glass with a longing to be her again, except this time you’d do things differently.

S/N knocks at the door, “I haven’t really touched anything in here except I change the bedding and do the cleaning.”

“You’ve done well, S/N. It means a lot to me after all this time. It still brings me back,” you sigh, “To happier times.”

She asks if you need anything but you just reply back telling her you need space; there wasn’t much anyone else could do. Every emotion was because of Michael.

All you can do is stand in your old room, clutching at the reminder of the way it was - you were a young witch with a brain full of smarts; knowing better than to waste your time on boys. Pulling open your top draw, you discover that your box of “special memories” as you called it was still there - full of letters, pictures, all sorts of things. You take it over to your bed and sit down to dissect the contents.

Inside it held a poem from your best friend, a lock of your baby hair, and random bits and pieces until you get to the very bottom of the box. You pull out a piece of paper, unfold it, and you’d recognise the handwriting anywhere - it was a letter Michael wrote to you when the two of you first got together. You knew you shouldn’t have read it but you were a masochist it seemed.

This letter was a confession of the ways that he loved you. Your heart basically broke itself all over again reading where he called you his “Yoko”. You broke down - how long had it been since you’d heard him sing? He used to serenade you all the time, and now nothing. You throw the box to the floor, not caring that it breaks and the objects scatter all over the carpet and weep into your hands.

Your sister hears the crash and you sobbing down the hall, rushing to see if you were okay. “What’s wrong?”

“I really think it’s over, S/N. As much as he says he needs time, surely it wouldn’t be that difficult if he really loved me?”

She wraps you in her arms, rocking you gently, “Nothing is ever as it seems. Maybe in his mind he really was doing this for you and he got caught up in things. Losing Miriam was devastating for him and sometimes grief makes people act crazy.”

You look up and exclaim, “But I’m carrying his child, S/N!”

“I know, little sister, I know. But that boy is clinging to a place in the world where maybe he feels like he fits in? I’m not trying to make excuses for him but these people are connected with his so-called “father” and so was Miriam. He has more of a place now than he did growing up.”

Lifting your arms up to wipe at your eyes, which now were burning even more, you tell her, “This doesn’t make it right, you know.”

S/N kisses the side of your head, trying to reassure you, “I know, but when does life ever make sense? Come down to the kitchen, I’ll make you some blueberry waffles.”

You smile weakly, “My favourite.”

S/N thinks it’s a good idea to spend the rest of the day indulging in snacks you love and watching your favourite childhood movies to bring you a distraction. It may be temporary albeit it’s a distraction none the less.

You managed to get a handful of movies in then you crash from exhaustion and sleep through the night.

The next morning comes and you feel like you’ve been hit by a train. The two of you eat breakfast then say your goodbyes and you travel back home; this is nearly the last place you want to be right now. When you arrive, you notice you have a text message from Michael asking you to call him. You do so, begrudgingly.

You hear his voice on the other end of the phone and huff, “What do you want, Michael?”

“You sound tired, are you okay?”

At this point you’re rolling your eyes at his attempts to avoid the question. You tell him, “Stop deflecting. What did you want?”

Michael proposes, “I just wanted to see if you were home, is it okay if I come over? I’m down the road and had a thought which I feel like is better discussed in person.”

“Sure. Come over but I just hope for both our sakes you aren’t wasting our time,” You tell him; your words sound rather flat, as if almost all emotion has left your body. Anxiety grew in the pit of your stomach and you were overcome with nausea.

The ten minutes that followed prior to him he arriving felt like ten hours. You open the door and there he was; the man you loved despite all of what was happening. You remember the first time he came back after disappearing and you couldn’t wait to see him, but now? You felt like your eyes deceived you – the man you saw had a beautiful face, of a person you once recognised, but not anymore; The insides no longer matched.

You’re cold, and almost callous with your words, “Let’s go sit in your precious office if you really want a discussion.”

Michael has a pained expression on his face; things were already not headed in the direction he was hoping for.

“Sit,” you instruct, making him take a seat first to which he complies. You sit across the table, your eyes locked on him as you follow suit.

“Thanks for allowing me to see you, y/n,” he says, understanding that his presence must be causing you some level of pain. He wasn’t wrong.

Your eyes narrow and you spit venomous words in his direction, “I don’t really have much of a choice, Michael.”

“I won’t take up too much of your time except I wanted to propose something.”

“Try me,” You retort with an eyebrow raised.

Michael exhales, his line of sight transferring between his fidgeting hands on the table and yours, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said yesterday and I wanted to say I’m sorry I haven’t been myself. I’m also sorry you’ve felt ignored. I never meant to do that.”

You roll your hands, signalling for him to continue.

“I figured out how to fix that. I want you to be included in everything. I want you to be my Right Hand.”

You pull your head back while screwing up your face at the thought of what he’d just suggested, “Um, excuse me?”

“The Co-Operative can look after both of us. Once this plan is in place, we can go to the sanctuary and live out our lives there. You’ll be treated like a queen, my love. We’ll have everything we ever need.”

You jump up from your chair. “Wait a second, you don’t actually believe I want to do this, do you?” You scoff, continuing, “Michael fucking Langdon, what part of ‘I don’t want everyone I love dying’ or ‘I want to raise our baby up to have a normal life,’ do you not understand?”

“Nothing about me is normal, y/n,” he admits. You can’t help but laugh at what he just said. It seemed like the biggest cop-out to you, as if that was his reasoning for going along with the end of the world stuff. You didn’t want a white picket fence with two dogs – you just wanted Michael to grow old with, and now, to raise your son or daughter.

“News flash, Michael, there’s a difference between ‘not normal’ and trying to blow the whole damn world up.” You point to the door, “I think you should go.”

He starts to plead with you again, reminiscent of his behaviour yesterday, “Y/n, please? Please reconsider my offer.”

You walk out of the office and down to the front door, saying, “I’m not a fucking contract you’re signing over, Michael. This is bigger than your own little fan club of Madelyn and Co. Maybe she can go find you your own evil queen that will happily be your Right Hand.”

Your opening the door and holding it ajar, gesturing in the direction leading outside of the house. “Get out of my house.”

Michael won’t listen, standing off to the side. “Y/n, I can’t do this without you, please.”

“I won’t let you have the privilege of subjecting my child to a life in this so-called ‘sanctuary’ where I have to hide that her father killed the rest of her family for his own, selfish gain. Get out.”

You can hear Michael starts to sniff as he walks out, “Are you serious?”

You scowl at him, “Do you not even hear what I’m saying past the sound of my voice, Michael?”

You slam the door in his face, sliding down with your back against its surface to the floor and crying again. It was becoming a regular occurrence and you hated it. These last few months, especially the last few days, you’d cried more than you had in the last few years.

You rub at your stomach, tears spilling over, “Don’t worry little one, we have Aunty s/n, and that’s all we need.” It was almost as if you believed the words but on the other hand, you wanted nothing more than for Michael to come to his senses and let this whole thing go.

Once you manage to get over the shock of what Michael suggested and stop shaking, you lift yourself up from the ground then dust the backs of your legs off, and move to sit on one of the sofas in the lounge. You flick on the television but it’s all mind-numbing. Nothing can really distract you from what’s just happened. You haven’t a clue where it leaves the two of you but you were trying not to mull over it too much. You found a good documentary to lose yourself in temporarily.

S/N calls, asking if you’re okay. You tell her no and fill in why exactly. She’s shocked but not surprised. “Don’t count your chickens yet. It’s not over until the fat lady sings.”

You laugh, “Thank you for your overused lines of positivity. I’m going to go back to numbing myself in front of the television now.”

About an hour passes by and you’ve finished the documentary you were watching, only to cycle through the channels to find something else, coming across what appears to be a movie with one of your favourite actresses. She’s confessing her love for the other main and all you can do is yell at the screen, “Don’t be stupid.”

Pulling out your phone to check the time, you see that it’s almost 6pm. No wonder your stomach is making noises. “What am I going to eat for dinner? I’ll just order something. I better enjoy this luxury before the world turns to shit,” you joke, trying to hide the hurt. You pick your favourite kind of pizza figuring the unhealthier the better.

While waiting for your food to arrive, you’re messing around on your phone, looking through old photos, tempted to delete the ones of you and Michael but you can’t bear to part with them. They hold memories, after all. Maybe not memories you cared for right at this moment when you were this pissed off but once you cooled down then they probably would be.

The pizza arrives after what feels like an eternity; To a pregnant woman, I guess it would. You place it down on the table, go to the kitchen and pour yourself a drink. Just as you’re about to start eating, there’s another knock at the door.

“Oh for fucks sake, who is this?” You mutter to yourself. You open up the door again to see that it’s Michael. Who else would it be?

He’s standing on the step, seemingly a broken man with his hands in a praying position, “I really need to talk to you.”

You point at his hands and shake your head. You mock his earlier statement, “Is this to try and convince me some more about how I should be your Princess of Darkness, Michael?”

“No, y/n, I can assure you that it’s not,” He promises but you’re sceptical.

Regardless of whether or not you believe him, you let him in, “Alright, come in so I can listen to you while I eat my food.”

You two walk back to the lounge, Michael is talking behind you, “I know I’m the last person you want to see but I couldn’t ignore what happened. After you kicked me out earlier, I went back to where I’m staying for a rest and to trifle through my thoughts but I was plagued with visions.”

He continues, “They as clear as you are right in front of me and I had three of them. The first was my life without you and it was so cold. Like an eternal winter. All of the light from my life had gone and you lost our baby. I don’t know how but it cut through me. The second was you by my side with our child at the sanctuary. It was not anything I’d have hoped for. You were miserable and my expectations were not met. These people were not good people. It’s almost like when you have a beautiful piece of fruit but the inside is rotten and tastes disgusting – this is how it was.”

“What was the third?”

He’s unable to contain his smile, “The third was my favourite. The world was as it is except the sun was shining brighter than it had in a long time. There was peace within the world, within us. We were living here; you had given birth to our child.” His hand reaches to touch your face, stroking it gently. “Our child is so beautiful, y/n. They have your eyes.”

You close your eyes briefly, melting into his touch. The old Michael was coming back; you could feel it. You reopened your eyes and he was staring at you with adoration. A question fell from your lips, “What does this mean Michael?”

“It means I was stupid to ever let this get over my head. I know now more than ever what I need to do and it isn’t to drive this world into flames. It’s to be here for you, for this family. To give our child what I never had. I’m so sorry, y/n. Can you ever forgive me? I know I’ll find it hard forgiving myself.”

Your head drops, you’re unable to hold the tears back. Michael pushes your chin up with his fingers. “Please don’t cry.”

“These are happy ones, I promise. S/N and I talked about everything and I guess I understand why this happened. I’m sure anyone else would react in the same way; not causing the destruction of the earth but straying to the dark side.”

Michael gets on his knees, finding his way between your legs to kiss your stomach, looking up at you. His hands were on your belly, guarding it.

“Ever since I saw her face, with her mother’s eyes, I knew what I had to do.”

“We’re having a girl?”

“Yeah, we are.”

Taglist: @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @sensitivethot @sammythankyou @sevenwondr

#writing #fanfic #american horror story #ahs #ahs apocalypse #michael langdon #michael x reader #american horror story fanfic #ahs fanfic #ahs apocalypse fanfic #american horror story one shot #ahs one shot #ahs apocalypse one shot #michael langdon fanfic #michael langdon one shot #soz if it's shitttttttttttt

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nekojitachan · 5 years

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Ghost in You ch2 preview

Ok, unless work blows up on me, I’m hoping to have a new chapter of The Ghost in You up... eee, soonish? I’m out of town next weekend (NYC! Hanging w/ my bestie!) so we’ll see how much time I have for writing and posting. Until then, here’s two scenes - I may post more during the week.

Uhm... think the only triggers are for Mary and vague references to Neil and Andrew’s pasts, past reference to drug use and tending to mild injuries.

*******

“It wasn’t like that,” Neil argued with his mother as he held gauze against the cut on his forehead to staunch the blood. “He was just grateful, it didn’t mean anything more than that.”

The blinds on the small window in the bathroom rattled against the glass as Mary whirled about, her mostly transparent body partially fractured into pieces due to her agitation until she resembled a figure in a badly-jointed, washed-out stained glass window. /That’s not any better, Abram. Gratitude can lead to affection and more./ For a moment her body splintered into thousands of tiny pieces before she reassembled next to him; he fought not to shiver from her nearness, to not flinch when he felt her fingers card through his tangled hair. /Don’t repeat my mistakes, don’t ever repeat my mistakes./ There was a slight tug on the strands for a moment, then she resumed combing through them again.

“I know, Mum, and I won’t,” he promised her with a sad smile. “You’ll never let me.”

/No, I won’t,/ she swore in return before something icy pressed against his forehead, near the gauze, and a mix of love/worry/determination/fear/possessiveness poured into him for a moment. /Tend to that so you can start packing, we need to leave./

He sighed and removed the gauze so he could clean the wound, and focused on tending to it (not bad enough to require stitches, thankfully) and the other scratches, to clean and bandage them so they didn’t get infected. It was something he was used to doing by then, the small injuries inflicted upon him by his mother nothing like the cuts and bullet wounds and fractures he’d suffered from his father or the man’s people before he’d gone to live with Uncle Stuart, and it gave him time to gather his thoughts and come up with an argument against his mother’s latest demand to leave Columbia.

The worst of the scratches tended to, he was debating on if the ones along his left ribs needed band-aids or not when someone rang the doorbell. Mindful of gun in the bedroom, Neil grabbed the sheathed knife he kept stashed on the shelf near the shower holding towels and went to investigate who was at the door – he wasn’t expecting a visitor.

He had to stand on his toes to look out the peephole, and shoved the knife down the back waistband of his pants upon seeing that it was a FedEx deliveryman wearing what appeared to be an authentic uniform. Mary hovered near the side of the door, ready to intervene if needed, as he opened it.

“Neil Josten?” the middle-aged man asked with a friendly smile once he opened the door a slight bit. “I’ve a package for you.” It was on the large size but didn’t look too heavy. “Please sign for it.”

Mary watched as Neil accepted the box, which made the man shiver and complain about the cold, but Neil was reassured when he noticed that the package was from the UK; as soon as he touched it, he could filter through the various layers of people who’d handled it to ‘feel’ Aunt Miriam’s affection and concern. Once it was set inside of the apartment, he entered his name on the electronic device (the sleeves of his sweater extended over his fingers so he didn’t have to endure anymore strange emotions), and nodded as the delivery man wished him a good night before walking away.

/Abram? What is it? Why did you accept it?/

“It’s from Aunt Miriam,” he explained as he picked up the package, wincing a little from the various emotions tied to the box (the people unhappy with their jobs) as well as the tug on various scratches and his sore knees. “Let’s see what she sent, all right?”

/You should be packing,/ Mary reminded him, but without as much force as before, a clear sign that she was curious as well about the box’s contents.

He used the knife to cut the tape on the box, mindful of its contents, and drew in a slow breath when he unfolded the lids and packing paper to reveal a beautiful, pale blue and cream blanket knitted from soft wool in a thick cable stitch pattern bearing the scent of lavender.

/That’s one of your gram’s,/ Mary told him, her face soft with reminiscing. /She made dozens of them, they were all over the house in East London./

“It’s beautiful,” Neil said as he carefully set it on the nearby chair, and revealed carefully wrapped items which turned out to be various knickknacks such as an intricately carved walnut box perfect for holding small items and candlestick holders, a couple of tins of tea, and another blanket of his grandmother’s, that time a grey one with a basket-weave pattern. There was also a note from Aunt Miriam about her wanting to send him a few items to help make his apartment ‘more of a home’.

It would be late in London, so he sent her a text to let her know that everything had arrived safely and to say ‘thank you’, and was surprised when she called back a couple of minutes later as he was carrying the grey blanket to his bed. “You’re still up?”

“We just returned home. How are you doing, Abram?” Miriam sounded a little tired but the affection was clear in her voice; Neil remembered his aunt’s warm hands and bright amber eyes, the way she made him feel comfortable from the start with her gentle smiles and the way she showed concern without being overbearing.

“I’m well, thank you. The new job is challenging but I enjoy helping out the children.”

“I thought that would be a good fit for you.”

“Thank you for the blankets and everything. It’s not quite as cold here in Columbia as London,” at least, not outside, “but they’ll definitely help to brighten up the place and make it more comfortable.”

“That’s good, I was hoping to help you become more settled,” Miriam told him. “You deserve a home at last, there’s no reason to keep running. It’s not right for a young man like you to be so restless, it’s time for you to set down some roots. We’re worried about you and want you to be happy.”

Neil noticed how Mary had gone ‘still’ during the conversation, how she hung in the air like a projection of some kind, so close to him to raise goosebumps on his skin and his breath to condense when he breathed out. “Again, thank you. I don’t want to keep you up so maybe we can talk more tomorrow?”

“You’re always such a thoughtful child, I wish Ally took after you a bit more,” Miriam said with obvious affection and a bit of chagrin. “Do you need a roommate, perchance?”

“Hmm, perhaps I should be moving on….”

His aunt laughed and insisted that she was just teasing, and wished him a good night after promising to call in a day or two. As soon as she hung up, he held the phone against his chest and gazed at his mother. “They’ll wonder if I move on so soon,” he warned; he wasn’t 100% certain that Mary’s brothers could sense ghosts, too, that it was indeed a Hatford trait… but he felt his suspicions firm up when she slowly drifted away instead of insist that he pack the duffel bag so they could leave.

/Brew us some tea, Abram,/ she said instead, /and I’ll tell you a story about your gram./

He smiled as he hurried to obey, content that he’d won a reprieve for the time being.

*******

Abby confirmed what Andrew had suspected, that he had a couple of bruised ribs, which was such a banner way to end the work week, wasn’t it? Then she wrote him a script for some lovely pain pills and muscle relaxers, which made him hate the puzzle that was Neil Josten a little less (a little), cleaned up his scraped palms (he shouldn’t be bothered with such trivial things after everything he’d endured in the past, which meant he was growing soft and so was unacceptable), and walked him to his car. “I don’t see any rough spots where you tripped,” she said as she searched the parking lot. “You must be working too hard, I’m going to tell David to give you the day off on Monday.”

Part of Andrew rebelled at the idea, of him not being there for the kids, but each time he drew in a breath there was a stab of pain along the left side of his chest, which he knew would be there for at least a couple of weeks at best. As much as he hated the feeling of letting the kids down, it made sense to rest up over the weekend and Monday rather than having things drag things out too long. “Those meds better be good,” he gritted out past the pain.

There was a flash of offense in Abby’s brown eyes before she shook her head. “I don’t tell you how to do your job, do I?” She helped him to the GS and even into the driver’s seat before she spoke again. “You need to heal before you can work again, all right? I know you worry about the kids, but listen to me and take it easy for a few days. David will make sure that everything is covered here.” She looked as if she wanted to lean in and give him a kiss on the forehead or a hug before she reconsidered. “Call me if you need anything. Anything.”

He managed a curt salute, and only because he knew she was sincere about that ‘anything’ before he closed the door and started the car; he wanted to go to the nearest pharmacy, get the prescriptions filled, then go home and collapse into his bed for the entire weekend as soon as possible.

Well, he did need to fire off an email to Renee at some point, but first, pain meds.

At least it didn’t take long to get the damn prescriptions filled, during which he hobbled around the store and grabbed a few things to tide him over for the weekend (heating pad, lots of ice cream and chocolate, hot patches for his ribs, so on and so forth) while the pharmacy worked its magic. He had Uber Eats prepare an order for him on the way home, so a few minutes after he reached his apartment, the food was delivered (enough take-out to last him the next three days), and after eating some cheese and jalapeño pizza, he grabbed a pint of ice cream while he typed out an email to Renee asking her what the fuck was going on at work – with the new guy, especially.

Then he took some meds and went to bed.

For once Abby had done some good, because despite the pain and discomfort, he slept through the night and into the morning, spared any disquieting dreams for once, and got up to relieve his bladder then stand beneath the hot water long enough for some of the stiffness to fade away before he had enough coffee, muscle relaxers and breakfast burritos that he felt semi-human to look at his phone to see what he’d missed during the last ten hours or so spent unconscious.

Nicky had called him, which wasn’t much of a surprise, as had Kevin and Roland… and Renee. Only the last caused a flicker of annoyance, since he’d hoped to talk to her about what the hell her cryptic emails meant and if she had any idea what was going on with a certain Neil Josten, how he could have made Andrew’s ribs become bruised without even touching him.

Even worse? She merely left a voicemail about how she was sorry to miss him and would arrange something for him until she could speak to him again, and hoped that he was well. He had a few dark thoughts about her untimely sabbatical as he deleted the message while he slurped his sugary caffeine concoction while he debated on if he wanted to stretch out on his bed or the couch.

The couch won out (closer to the coffee maker and one bathroom), where he spent several hours drifting in and out of a comfortable haze from the pain pills and muscle relaxers while the television played on in the background until a loud knocking noise interrupted his semi-doze.

He pulled the microfleece blanket which Nicky had given him for Christmas last year up to his nose and was determined to ignore the knocking at first, lulled into a comfortable drug haze and unwilling to move… except the sound kept going on and on and on. His annoyance growing as the pounding continued, he wondered if he could explain him repeatedly stabbing whoever was on the other side of the door as an effect of the drugs while he forced himself onto his feet and stumbled forward to stop the awful noise.

It turned out to be Allison Reynolds banging on his door. Oh, wonderful, the justifiable homicide case just became that much stronger.

As if reading his thoughts, Allison held up her hands in a defensive position while giving him a sour look. “Put away the knives and let me in, Renee sent me here,” she declared. “She’s the only reason I’m dealing with your homicidal ass on a weekend.”

His right hand hovering over his left armband while he wavered on his feet, Andrew considered those words for a couple of seconds before he clicked his tongue. “She better have a good reason for this or else I’ll slit your throat after all.”

“Such a fucking asshole,” Allison muttered as she entered the apartment, dressed as if she expected there to be cameras for some type of photo shoot inside; she wore six inch high heels with red linings on the soles, a black suede mini skirt and an ivory silk blouse with a oxblood suede cropped jacket over it with her blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, her makeup ‘subtle’ enough to mean it probably had taken half an hour to perfect.

Andrew went into the kitchen and made himself another mug of coffee, which he didn’t offer to his ‘guest’; she narrowed her blue eyes and pressed her glossed lips into a thin line but sat down at the table with her small purse set in front of her. “Again, Renee sent me here or else I’d be having a nice champagne brunch with Matt and Dan, which is preferable than dealing with you.”

“I can always end your suffering,” Andrew offered as he slumped over his coffee mug after he sat down, the ache in his ribs a dull throb.

“So generous,” Allison sneered as she fished through her purse for something. “Anyway, this is what Renee wanted you to have,” she said as she set a cloth-wrapped item down on the table. “And no, all I know is that she called me last night and told me to give it to you, that you had to have it. She was rather insistent about that and that you accept it, and was upset that she couldn’t talk to you. So you take it, you monster, just so I can tell her that you did and it’s one less thing for her to worry about, and answer your damn phone next time.”

She didn’t wait for any explanation from Andrew (not that he’d give her one), or questions from him, either (he didn’t have any, not when it was clear that she had no clue what the hell was going on, not when Renee was being just as cryptic with her girlfriend as she was with him). Andrew sat there and sipped his coffee while Allison left with her signature flounce, and didn’t even flinch when the door slammed shut a few seconds later (except to remind himself to go lock it in a minute or two).

He had about half of his drink before he pulled the wrapped bundle to him to examine its contents (to see what Renee had sent him), undoing the red string around it and flipping open the unbleached linen to expose what turned out to be an ornately carved cross (no figure on it at least) of some unknown wood with a note wrapped around it.

How disappointing.

Renee’s writing was as neat and tiny as always: Andrew, if you’ve received this, it means that something has happened which requires you to wear it. I know that you don’t possess proper faith, but sometimes a leap is required, or at least belief in the person asking you to trust them. That is the time now, and I am asking – put on the cross and trust me, will you? I believe that you will be safer for it, and I want you to be safe. There are things in the world which can’t be easily seen and defended against with simple steel, and I wish we’d had enough time to talk about what lies in the shadows and beyond before I left. Until we can, all I can ask is that you have faith in me, at least, and what I ask of you. I promise, I will explain when I return – Renee.

He stared at the words for several minutes, until the remaining coffee went cold and the letters wavered before his eyes, until he clicked his tongue and decided to put the awful thing around his neck after all. He swore that it felt warm as it settled against his breastbone, which he put down to his imagination and the meds, before he forced himself to stand up (moving was going to be unpleasant for the next few weeks) so he could lock the front door then resettle on the couch.

He used his phone to send a new email to Renee, one where he asked her once again what the hell was going on and why she thought him wearing a bit of religious flash was a good idea. Also? He didn’t appreciate the cryptic comments and expected a straight answer very soon – there was voice mail for a reason, dammit.

Did she know about Neil Josten? She did hang out a lot with Moreau, so did Frenchie say something about the new guy to her?

Why did Andrew feel annoyed about the thought of Josten and Moreau being all buddy-buddy? About there perhaps being something more between the two young men?

He took more meds and curled up with the heating pad and slept as much as possible, the usual nightmares held at bay for once, and ignored his phone since Renee didn’t seem to be answering his questions.

On Tuesday, he slapped the medicated wraps around his bruised ribs and took some over the counter pain pills before he shuffled off to work, and dealt with a frantic Nicky as well as an assessing Aaron in the break room. “Bruised ribs, eh? It’s gonna suck to be you for a while,” his oh-so understanding brother said in-between sips of coffee.

“Oh my god, why didn’t you say something? I could have brought over food! Eric made this amazing stew on Saturday, we had plenty of leftovers!” Nicky exclaimed. “You could have told us!” Then his eyes narrowed. “You’re wearing a necklace? I thought you didn’t go for stuff like that.”

Andrew flipped him off before he accepted the cream-filled donut which Robin offered. “I have work to do, unlike some people. Leave me the hell alone.” He gave Nicky a warning stare before he turned around to head to his office, and ignored the shouted offers of help his cousin gave as he left.

Once settled at his desk (with his door locked), he made sure to better hide the metal chain of the cross necklace beneath his shirt before he went through the emails from Monday.

Bee and Dan had helped to cover for much of his cases while he’d been off, so he didn’t feel as if he’d lost a lot of ground, especially with Peter Minkin. Still, there was something he wanted to do, so he forced himself onto his feet (seriously, bruised ribs did suck) and went off to the one hallway leading to the south courtyard which was closed off that time of year because of the cooler weather. When he heard the sound of hushed voices in the usually deserted corridor, he slowed his steps and ducked into a doorway to wait until one of Nicky’s cases, Ariel Toya, walked past while shoving something down the front of her clingy, bright blue top, then stepped out when Seth Gordon came by a few seconds later.

“Fuck!” Seth took a hasty step back with his clenched hands raised as if to fend off Andrew, probably a hold-over from the days when he’d been a strung-out kid doing whatever it took to survive long enough for his next hit. “What the hell are you doing here, Minyard?”

“I thought that was my question.” Andrew leaned against the door frame, his arms folded lightly over his chest in a familiar gesture which normally put his hands near his knives – if Wymack allowed him to show up to work armed. “So what is it? Pot? It better not be anything stronger than that.” The man was on thin enough ice as it was, if he was selling dope to kids; Wymack might have helped Seth to get clean and to earn an IT degree, but he wouldn’t forgive him for selling drugs at the Foxhole.

As it was, the only thing keeping Andrew still, bruised ribs or not, lack of knives or not, was the fact that the old man had a good grasp of what went down in the Foxhole, and so probably had an idea of what Seth was doing.

“What? Hell no,” Seth snapped as he shook his head. “There’s no way I’d do that! Not to these kids.” When Andrew scoffed, Seth’s dark brown eyes blazed with an anger that appeared more righteous than guilty. “It’s just cigarettes, okay? I don’t even charge the kids anything, I just let them know that they can come to me and I’ll sneak ‘em a few, help ‘em out with their cravings and keep ‘em from doing something stupid like try to steal any or go after something worse.” His anger faded as he let out a steady breath and rubbed at his inner left forearm, which bore similar scars to Matt’s. “Turn me in to Wymack if you don’t believe me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Andrew drawled. “And why should any of us believe you?” So far the story and Seth’s reaction seemed believable, which was the only reason why Wymack wasn’t becoming involved.

“Because I’m not going to fuck this up, okay?” Seth took to glaring again as he jabbed a finger in Andrew’s direction, the flush back on his light brown cheeks yet he knew better than to touch him. “I know what you think about me, you and your family, but I do more than just play on a computer all day and I’m taking classes at night so I can help out these kids, too. Little more than a year and I can be an addiction counselor.”

How impressive. “That’s if you don’t get in trouble for handing out tobacco to minors,” Andrew reminded him.

“Fucking asshole,” Seth muttered as his hands clenched into fists once more. “What do you want? If you were going to get me in trouble, you’d be halfway to Wymack’s office already.”

Seth Gordon wasn’t a complete moron. “Neil Josten’s personnel files by the end of the day,” Andrew told him with a curt nod. “And if I find out you’re giving cigarettes to kids who aren’t already addicted or ‘charging’ them? It’s not Wymack you need to be worried about.” It was one thing to help wean the kids who already were addicted slowly off their habit, but another thing entirely to prey on any of them.

“I’m not going to harm these kids, you asshole,” Seth called out as Andrew walked away.

No, he wouldn’t, Andrew would make certain of it; he wouldn’t tell Wymack about what Seth was doing, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pass it on to Renee in an upcoming email as ‘interesting’ work gossip. At the least, she’d let Allison know, who might want to give her ex-boyfriend an earful for his dubious life choices.

Andrew had time for another cup of coffee before his appointment with Peter and Josten; he told himself that he wasn’t eager to see the young man, to gage his reaction after what had happened in the parking lot on Friday.

To find out why Renee had insisted that Andrew wear some stupid cross when he didn’t believe in such things.

Despite leaving for the one play room a little early, Andrew wasn’t the first to arrive, what a surprise. No, Josten was already there, dressed in his usual wardrobe of worn jeans and overlarge sweater, with the thick strands of his dark brown hair mostly hiding the bandaged cut on his forehead.

The younger man gave him a cautious stare as he once more stood off to the side by one of the bookshelves, mindful to remain out of reach, and Andrew thought he caught a flash of guilt over the way that he moved slowly to his usual chair at the table in the middle of the room, a flash that was quickly smothered.

Now what did Josten have to be guilty about, hmm? Andrew gazed at his colleague while he tapped his fingers against the table, possessed by a sudden urge for a cigarette, and shivered as there was a blast of cold for a couple of seconds. He thought that Josten frowned a moment later for some reason, but was distracted by Abby arriving with Peter.

“Mr. Minyard!” Peter broke into a wide smile and waved to him while he greeted him in Russian, then followed it by managing a mostly understandable ‘I hope you’re all right,’ in English which made Abby beam and even drew a slight smile from Josten.

“He worked on that yesterday,” Josten murmured before he shifted forward a little so he could begin translating.

They spent a few minutes with Peter asking Andrew about his weekend and if he really was okay, which Andrew assured him that he was fine (oh, was there a slight twitch from Josten at that?); it was worth the deviation from Peter’s routine to build a better sense of trust with the boy, to allow him a sense of curiosity and put any fears he had to rest. Andrew wouldn’t be in the child’s life forever, not when the goal was to help him get better and find him a safe home with people who’d care for him… but Andrew never cut himself off from any of his ‘kids’ and checked up on them as much as he could.

Once Peter had settled down, Andrew asked him some more questions about his mother and father, about the fights they had and how the woman would do her best to protect Peter; he was slowly building the case against Peter’s abusive father, to show that the woman wouldn’t have abandoned her son, as the asshole claimed. Josten assisted in keeping Peter calm, and by the end of the hour there was a little more information to hand over to the police, a few more blocks added to the wall that would lock away Peter’s father a long, long time come.

Josten made to leave as soon as Abby took Peter away, but Andrew threw out his right arm to stop the man, the motion alone enough to divert his flight. “What about Peter’s English assessment?”

Andrew was given a sour look for the question. “I sent it to you via email last week, and as you can see, he’s started English classes this week,” Josten informed him as he settled back against the bookshelf, the sleeves of his dark grey sweater tugged over his hands and gaze wary beneath the strands of his bangs.

“With you? Are you handling his English lessons?”

“No, that’ll be someone who’s certified to teach, I only handle translations and can help him with phrases here and there.” Josten cast a longing glance to the door before he focused on Andrew once more. “So unless it’s about what happens in our sessions or an evaluation, we’ve nothing to talk about.”

Oh, someone was a hopeful fool, weren’t they? “There’s something off about you. You don’t add up,” Andrew informed the liar as he slowly, carefully, stood to his feet.

Josten was quiet for a couple of seconds while Andrew swore he felt a quick blast of chill again, off to the far left. “I’m not a math equation.”

“No, but I’m going to solve you none the less,” Andrew promised as he tapped his right fingers against the top of the table in quick succession. “I won’t allow anything to endanger these kids.”

“Neither will I.” Josten’s sharp jaw (so much of the man was sharp, was defined angles and slopes and jutting bones poking through thick layers of cloth, were invitations for hands to stroke along and cup and- and Andrew hated himself for that treasonous thought) clenched in obvious anger while his eyes flashed with the emotion before he managed to get a hold on himself. “I’d never bring harm down on a child.”

Hmm, he sounded so sincere… but how often had Andrew heard adults say that they had a child’s best interest at heart, had watch them smile and promise to look after him, only to turn around and lay hands on him (and worse) once they were alone?

“I’m watching you,” Andrew said as he rocked back on his heels. “And I’ll figure you out, too, whatever it is you’re hiding.”

“Fuck you.” Josten glared for a couple of seconds before he stalked out of the room. As he left, several items from the bookshelf tumbled to the floor, including a few heavy ones such as books and wooden toys that fell perilously close to Andrew.

He frowned as he went over to see if the shelf had fallen free from its fastenings somehow – and almost ended on his face as he tripped at a ripple in the carpet, saved only by catching on to the back of the chair. Muttered curses slipped past his clenched teeth for about half a minute as pain washed through him from his jostled ribs, and when he finally could stand upright again, he left the room (and the mess it contained) for the next occupants to deal with so he could have another cup of coffee and a pain pill.

Seth better come through with Josten’s files sooner rather than later, because Andrew was going to be in a full body cast if he had to deal with the enigma much longer.

Renee should have sent him a damn four-leaf clover.

*******

Obviously I don’t recommend what Seth’s doing here (giving teenagers cigarettes, even if with the best of intentions), but he means well.

#nekojitachanfics #ghost in you fic #neil josten #andrew minyard #mary hatford #the foxes #all for the game #aftg #ghosts

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