#Look I miss my old muses & wanna write em but I refuse to go back to em so this is my excuse to dabble in them again pls lol

[arrowflier]

if you still taking prompts, I wish you could write something about... since Ian's always over-worrying about Mickey's safety, what if he gets a call saying something happened to his husband? maybe Ian's freaking out thinking Mickey could be locked again or hurt so he runs to get him? Thank you!!

Spoiler alert--nothing bad actually happens to anyone in this ficlet.

--

Ian is at Whole Foods when the call comes.

They usually go together, Mickey whining about rich privileged fucks and overpriced organic shit but coming anyway to, and he quotes, “make sure you don’t drop our whole paycheck on fuckin’ tomatoes this time.” But Mickey had begged off today, claiming he didn’t feel up to “dealing with those judgmental dicks at the checkout actin’ like cash is fuckin’ dirty”, and Ian hadn’t pushed.

Now he’s wishing he had.

“You need to come now,” Sandy is saying into his ear, voice tinny and thin through the cheap speakers of his second-hand phone.

“Where are you?” Ian asks her numbly. He kneels down on autopilot, picking up the now-bruised oranges he had been holding when she greeted him with the words, “hey, it’s Mickey.” The tile floor is as unforgiving on his knees as it was on the fruit. He turns one of the oranges over in his hand. He had been planning to make Mickey fresh orange juice with that later.

“That little corner store by your apartment, you know it?” Sandy is asking him.

Of course he knows it. That’s were they run to in the middle of the night when they run out of lube, or beer. Where Mickey bought him flowers once and tried to pass it off as an error by the cashier, until Ian found the receipt in the bottom of the bag. Where they take Franny to pick out candy every other Friday when they pick her up from school.

“Yeah,” is all he says. “I know it.”

Then he’s hanging up, and running out of the store, leaving an overturned basket and the handful of oranges on the floor in his wake.

His heart is pounding as he runs toward home. Not toward the apartment—toward Mickey.

His heart is pounding and his legs are churning and his feet are slapping the pavement with every step, chest aching to force air into his lungs. But his brain is moving faster.

He doesn’t know what happened. He should have kept Sandy on the line longer, gotten more of the story, but it only would have slowed him down. But he doesn’t know if Mickey is hurt, or in trouble, or in danger of being carted off to prison again for daring to live his life on parole.

And Ian’s mind has never exactly been his greatest ally to begin with, so it’s no surprise that the scenarios it comes up with as he runs aren’t exactly comforting.

As he rounds a corner, narrowly missing an old woman and her shopping bags, he pictures Mickey injured, collapsed on the floor of the shop, like back at the Kash and Grab when they were just kids. He won’t let anyone near him like that, no one but Ian, and he’s bleeding out onto white tile waiting for his husband to save him.

Crossing the street between cars and ignoring the honks, he pictures Mickey backed into a corner by his father’s cronies, refusing to look for an escape as Sandy frantically tries to call for help. He still doesn’t know how to back down, would never back down from men like that, would never let them take what they have and try to turn it ugly. He’d held a gun to his own father’s face, more than once, but thanks to Ian he didn’t even have one now.

Approaching the shop, finally, only to see the familiar red and blue flash of police cars, he pictures Mickey cuffed to the counter inside, glaring at the officers and spouting curses to the questions they ask. Knowing that despite living clean for over a year, they could take him in any time they wanted, with no more evidence than his last name and his rap sheet.

Ian dashes across the last street, desperate now, only to come to an abrupt halt as soon as he’s close enough to take in the scene.

Because there’s Mickey, all right. Not hurt, not cornered, not arrested.

But stuck.

Ian’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and he bends over, hands on knees, to catch his breath and his heart. Mickey is whole, and healthy, and right in front of him. Well, in front of him and up a little, pacing along the edge of the single-story shop roof.

“Hey!” Sandy calls out from the entrance of the store. Ian keeps his eyes on Mickey, who starts at the sound and looks down, gaze quickly finding Ian. He grimaces when he sees him, and starts pacing faster.

“Uh, hey Sandy,” Ian manages, finally looking to her just long enough to take in her shit-eating grin before he’s back to watching his husband. “What exactly is happening here?” The question might come out a little unhinged sounding, but sue him, he’s allowed.

Sandy comes up next to him, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand as she joins him in observing the roof. “Apparently,” she tells him, voice raised enough that Mickey can probably hear, “Mickey here got robbed.”

Mickey can definitely hear, if the finger he throws up toward them is any indication.

“Robbed,” Ian repeats faintly. “On the roof?”

Sandy snorts. “No, you moron, in the store. Some kid swiped his bag on his way out, then went up the maintenance ladder. Mickey followed, but,” she shrugs. “Little fucker started jumping rooftops, and Mickey couldn’t keep up.”

“Uh huh,” Ian says, nodding once. “Okay. So why hasn’t he come back down?”

“Ladder broke,” Sandy offers, and Ian closes his eyes.

“The ladder,” he parrots. “Broke.”

“Yup,” she says, popping the P.

“And your first thought,” Ian continues, “was to call me, and tell me that Mickey was in trouble, giving me a heart attack in the middle of the fucking grocery store, instead of finding another one?” His voice rises until he’s nearly yelling, and when he opens his eyes, Sandy is wincing.

“Um,” she answers. “Sorry?”

Ian just sighs, deflating immediately.

“Mick,” he calls up to his husband.

The response he gets back isn’t even addressed to him.

“The fuck did you call him for?” Mickey shouts down to Sandy instead, finally stopping his incessant pacing. “It was supposed to be a fuckin’ surprise!”

“Well, I am surprised!” Ian yells back. “Thought you didn’t like heights?” That just earns him a middle finger, as expected.

“Why aren’t the cops helping?” Ian asks Sandy at a normal volume, but Mickey catches it and responds before she can.

“Cops ain’t here for me,” he grunts, rubbing at his nose and looking to the side. “Shopkeep called ‘em about the burglary, they got the kid ‘round the other side of the building.”

“What did he steal, anyway?” Ian questions, but Mickey goes silent.

Sandy tells him anyway. “He had a big order come in,” she whispers to Ian. “Told me all about it, had me come help pick it up. Something about some fancy booze and chocolate you like?”

Oh. Ian’s heart, now recovered from its scare, warms.

“Come on, Mickey, come down,” Ian cajoles. He wants to hold his husband.

“Oh, brilliant fuckin’ idea man!” Mickey rants. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He pretends to think for a second, then adds with an overdone gesture, “Oh yeah! Cause I don’t wanna break my fuckin’ neck!”

“It’s one story, Mickey,” Ian points out. “I could probably reach the gutters if I jumped.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us are giant gangly fuckers like you!” his husband shouts back.

Ian rolls his eyes.

“I meant,” he says slowly, “that if you hang down off the edge, I can reach you, dumbass.”

Mickey is silent at that, then promptly sits and scoots so his feet are hanging off the roof.

All the warning Ian gets is “don’t drop me, fuckhead,” before Mickey is sliding down right into his arms, sending them both stumbling backwards until Ian regains his footing.

They stay like that, pressed together from knees to chest, Ian’s arms around Mickey’s waist and Mickey’s looped around his neck, until Sandy coughs from behind them.

“Adorable,” she drawls, and they both flip her off this time. Ian hold Mickey tighter instead, and kisses his hair.

“So,” he whispers into Mickey’s ear, “Sandy scared the shit out of me about this.”

Mickey just hums into his neck.

“I think you might need to make it up to me,” Ian adds. “What’s this I hear about a surprise?”

Mickey pulls back just enough to scowl at him. “Surprise got pinched,” he mutters. “Evidence now or something, greedy pig bastards.”

Ian grins. “I’m sure you can think of something else,” he muses, shifting to that they’re side by side, and starting off in the direction of their apartment. He waves over his shoulder at Sandy, a clear dismissal. “You’ve never lacked for ideas before.”

Mickey sighs, but leans into him as they walk.

“You’re gonna make me buy you fruit again, aren’t you?” he asks, resigned, and Ian thinks of the oranges he had left at the store, and the tomatoes that Mickey liked to tease him about.

“Maybe,” he answers, and smiles all the way home.

#this was a fun one #but for once I had no clue how to end it #daily speedwrite #fanfic #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #sandy milkovich #dramatic but silly

[ineffablecolors]

THE WIFE [3/?]

The Wife || Ch 3 ~ 5.3 k || Ch 1 Ch2 || FF.NET&AO3 Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are? A/N: Do check the notes on chapter 1 Eternal thanks to @csmarchmadness - if it wasn’t for this event, I probably wouldn’t have gotten my ass in gear and sat down to actually write this thing that is now so beloved to me already. And to all the ladies in the Discord chat - you bring laughter and fanfiction into my life so you’re basically goddesses and I wanna keep you forever. Hope you all enjoy this and follow along for the rest of the journey cuz I have plansTM! :D

To her utter surprise a week is all it takes for Emma to become more or less attuned to the workings of the Jones household.

Much as she guessed the very first morning, catching Killian Jones in the midst of breaking his fast is near impossible. Every morning, by the time she makes her way down to breakfast, no matter how early she tries to rise, the table is set and waiting but any trace of the master of the house is already gone. Usually, he is just down the corridor in his study but occasionally he is already out of the house, meeting his brother for matters of business, by the time Emma – let alone Alice – takes her first sip of tea.

She notices that he makes a point of always sharing at least one meal with her and his daughter and, more often than even Alice seems to expect, he manages to make time to join them for a ride in the afternoon. Indeed, Emma tries not to let her fancy fly away from her and make her feel more important than she has a right to but she can’t help suspecting that it’s her own timidity and anxiety about riding that makes him lend his services to them, seeing as Alice is an extraordinarily accomplished rider.

Emma herself is moderately pleased with the progress she has made. In all honestly, she suspects it was more daring and youthful confidence that made her a somewhat decent rider when she was much younger rather than any proper form or natural talent. But, contrary to her own musings, both Killian and Alice assert that she appears to be a natural and, most of all, that she has managed to make Buttercup fall in love with her with merely a few words and touches, whereas Alice proclaims that Jolly will still be much happier dashing away on her own and Killian begrudgingly admits – at Peter’s ribbing and his daughter’s teasing – that it took months of time spent on his ass in the dirt for him to prove himself worthy of Roger. After a week of almost daily exercise atop her own mare, Emma feels her tailbone tingle with sympathy at the mere thought.

And yet, she has never felt more pleasantly exhausted in her life. The fresh air of the countryside all around them and the emotional and then simply physically taxation of getting back on a horse have taken their toll but she finds herself unwilling to refuse every time Alice appears in front of her with her riding clothes already on.

Perhaps this is the reason she has been unable to awake early enough to catch her husband in his morning routine but it does not serve to explain why she also has yet to see or hear him retire to bed. Aside from that very first night – that she thinks can hardly be named their “wedding night” – she has never seen Killian heading for his bedchambers.

What she has seen is that the library is not as often engaged as she first thought it might be and thus, Emma has already spent many an hour familiarizing herself with its collection and the numerous artefacts from the brothers’ travels. And still, late as she burns her candle in that room, she never manages to make it to the point when Jones – presumably – heads to bed himself. Ruby and Mrs Lucas have on a couple of occasions now asked if she needed anything and bid her goodnight before retiring to their rooms but heading to bed after her husband has proven as impossible as rising from it before him.

Finding and securing the company of his daughter is much easier and that when Alice doesn’t put some scheme of hers into action first. Emma thinks she might be on her way to unravelling another small mystery, that of Alice’s permanent residence away from her home. It takes but a day in the girl’s presence to realize that, charming as it might be, Storybrooke is much too small to contain her. Emma is rather puzzled why Alice does not go more into society here but she can perfectly perceive how the city might be calling to her after a few weeks in her family home.

A home which has proven rather favourable to Emma’s disposition despite the complete chance introduced into her life. So it is with an almost quiet resignation that Emma gasps awake long before dawn on a summer day a little over a week after her nuptials.

Her heart does its damnest to beat out of her chest and the sweat on her back makes her shiver under all the blankets but she regains control of most of her faculties almost immediately and proceeds to deepen her breathing the way she has learnt will help bring awareness of her surroundings and dissipate the dream faster. Her toes are ice-cold but her need to get up makes the bed resemble hot coals beneath her so she dresses quickly, aware that she will not be going back to sleep until night has arrived anew.

As it is, she is forced to take her candle with her, the sun not even peaking over the horizon yet as she makes her way down the stairs as silently as possible. It is only as she heads for the kitchen – her mind on a glass of warm milk – that she entertains the notion that anyone might already be awake.

“—and this girl now. What is the purpose of this?” Mrs Lucas’s voice is gruffer than usual, smudged with sleep and something else Emma cannot place through the door.

“You could be a bit kinder to her,” as for Killian’s voice, it is crisp and clear – he might as well have been awake for hours.

“And you can tell me why it is that you took her in. Lord knows, you probably haven’t told a soul. If any has asked.”

It is in that moment that she realizes herself the topic of their conversation. Perhaps, if it was more in her nature or even, if she stopped to truly consider, Emma might have lingered quietly outside a few minutes longer and gleaned some of that much coveted and hard to obtain knowledge of her husband’s private thoughts. But the sharp shove she gives the door is almost instinctive and has the immediate effect of silencing everyone on the other side.

She may have brought secrets into this house but she does not wish to accumulate new ones while here.

When she walks in, Mrs Lucas looks for all the world as if Emma has been stumbling into the kitchen at ungodly hours of the morning ever since she got here. Killian’s face, however – and Emma has quickly learnt that, for all the coldness and irreproachability that he tries to paint on it, it is a painfully expressive one – is caught somewhere between surprised guilt and uncomfortable suspicion.

But Emma’s state is still rumpled enough and her eyes not quite open enough to alarm anyone and make them believe she could have been eavesdropping.

“Well, there is certainly no need to be this early,” the cook mutters under her breath as she rolls up her sleeve and barely spares Emma a glance.

“Perhaps you should inform Ruby that the sun, as well as us, will be up before her soon enough,” Killian suggests in rebuff and Emma tries not to jump out of her way when the old woman stalks past her, grumbling under her breath that they all might as well not go to bed at all anymore.

“There was no need—“ she starts but Killian waves his hand in the air before he runs it over his face.

“She has been itching to either have it out with me or get out of this room for some moments now. Your appearance ruled rather in my favour.”

Emma nods and clasps her hands in front of her, now questioning her decision to run downstairs from her troubled thoughts. Normally, she uses any opportunity to take a peek at Jones’s inner workings but she questions her current ability for casual conversation, let alone something deeper.

“Were you looking for something?”

“Oh, I was just going to get a glass of milk.”

Killian snaps his fingers as if he should have guessed her reason for being here, already turning toward the stove and thankfully missing her slight jump at the sharp sound. Watching his back, Emma is frozen with indecision.

Far as her sleep-muddled mind planned, she would’ve found the kitchen still quiet and empty and made the drink herself. In the event of Ruby or Mrs Lucas being up already, she most certainly would’ve debated letting them get on with their work and sorting herself out. She did not account for Killian at all and her inexperience with gentlemen of his stature – let alone his manner, which seems rather singular to her – makes her uncertain of how she should proceed.

Certainly it is more befitting for her to take over any tasks in the kitchen rather than him? Yet, she does not feel herself ingrained into the household enough to take any such initiative. So instead she stays where she is and observes with interest the way he moves around the kitchen, operating predominantly with his real hand.

The missing limb seems to impair him extremely rarely when riding and, reading and writing being the other two activities in which she has mainly seen him engaged, Emma has given little thought to what she supposes is a battle wound.

Then he comes to a sudden halt and she straightens along with him, worried that he has somehow sensed, and does not appreciate, her pointed attention.

“Actually… would you like something a bit different?” Killian glances over his shoulder, his manner easy enough that Emma feels her shoulders relax as his lips quirk up the slightest amount. “I believe I already pointed out that a soldier salute is unnecessary.”

Emma frowns in confusion, her brain taking a moment to assimilate the words in the morning light that has barely appeared behind the white curtains, and then she shocks them both with a short burst of laughter. It’s a quick and slightly hysterical thing but with it she feels the last of her dark dreams disperse and drops almost theatrically in one of the hard kitchen chairs.

“Something different?”

“Mm, are you fond of hot chocolate?”

“I cannot answer that, seeing as I have never tried it.”

To his credit, a singular eyebrow expresses Killian’s disbelief before he turns back to his preparations.

“As I told your sister-in-law, sugar is one of my grandmother’s archenemies.”

“Which doesn’t say much about sugar at all with how many she must have.”

“Mrs Jones was equally witty and condemning. You must all have a frightfully low opinion of my family.”

“Rather that singular relation.”

“Well—“ she opens her mouth to say that, vile as the woman is, she constitutes the whole of Emma’s family, before she realizes that is technically no longer the case. “She did say you have a weakness for it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your sister-in-law. She said you also have a weakness for sugar.”

“Ah. Well, Elsa always likes to know where one’s strengths and weaknesses lie.”

“Then surely you must be flattered that is the only one she has found in you.”

“I can assure you that is not the case. But I do appreciate her choosing it as the one to expose on my wedding day. Now—“

He turns around with a pot in his hand and two cups, dangling by their handles from his little finger. Emma forces herself to remain seated, her hands in her lap and an expectant expression on her face.

Killian sets the cups down with a clatter and no saucers and starts pouring out a thick, dark liquid that makes her nose twitch with eagerness.

“A few centuries ago they used to stuff it full of spices but, as most good things, it’s best in its simplicity,” he nudges one cup toward Emma and takes his own, sitting across from her. “Though I will admit to a dash of cinnamon and vanilla.”

Emma takes the drink and gives it one more experimental sniff, despite the fact that the aroma has already made her mouth water with anticipation. She takes a small sip at first but that is enough – the warm liquid coasts her tongue in a way that simple milk could not have hoped to do – the taste and texture exquisitely rich, and then the flavours explode – teetering on the line between sweet and bitter, both smoothed and enhanced by the distinct kick of the cinnamon and the softness of the vanilla.

So focused on the sensations inside her mouth, she is quite unaware of what her face is doing, though Killian must not be because in the next second his laugh fills the gradually brightening kitchen. She would be rather offended, if it wasn’t for the fact that the sound is absolutely magnificent. That and he does seem – as is becoming usual – to delight in her reactions rather than mock them.

Emma takes another, more generous sip before she licks her lips and sets her cup down.

“Oh, you have made a believer out of me. Plain milk will never do again.”

“You should tell Mrs Lucas to increase her weekly purchase of the stuff then.”

“Me?” now she is very conscious of how her eyes widen with obvious dread of such an interaction.

“She does not actually bite,” Killian’s voice is reassuring but the glint in his eyes as he lifts his own cup to his mouth is anything but.

“With a bark like that I’m sure she does not need to.”

It’s more a snort than a laugh this time but Emma is much too distracted by the way his tongue flicks over his lips to clean them to mind.

In the golden morning light, now edging its way into every corner and crevice of the kitchen, with his jacket and waistcoat absent, his eyes flashing every once in awhile and his lips fitting themselves against the rim of his cup with obvious pleasure, Emma Jones rather likes her husband.

*****

Her knuckles pop a little as she tries to cover her yawn with the back of her hand.

“Why don’t you just go to bed?” Alice’s voice startles her – the girl has collected about a dozen cushions and pillows in front of the large fireplace in the library and is languidly making her way through The Odyssey and a pot of tea that Emma has refused to partake in. “You should know, tomorrow I will drag you out of doors, if I have to.”

Alice has certainly inherited her father’s cheek though not his preference for comfort of his own home. For it seems there is no greater offense to Miss Jones than remaining indoors on a “perfectly lovely summer day”. Indeed, on most days, Emma agrees with her with pleasure or at least without too much protest.

But the exceptionally early start of her day has left Emma both in good spirits and at the same time very reluctant to risk that pleasant, mellow feeling by quitting the house. So she showed some willfulness for the first time and postponed going to the seamstress from who they were to collect the last of her new wardrobe. Killian, receiving a substantial amount of correspondence before lunch, asked not to be bothered with such trifles and Emma hasn’t seen or heard him leave his study since. Alice was all too eager to exchange a trip to the shops for a long ride and was only temporary put out when Emma expressed her disinclination to join her.

So it is that she has spent most of her day learning the last details about the household from Ruby and going over the shopping lists – adding extra chocolate – with Mrs Lucas. Surprisingly the old woman displayed only her usual amount of annoyance in Emma’s presence and even accepted a suggestion or two she made (while declining another half a dozen, of course).

“You do not have to wait on me, I should be going to bed shortly,” Alice continues, breaking Emma out of her retrospection of her supposedly uneventful day. “And you certainly won’t be able to keep your eyes open long enough to see papa.”

“He was up early,” she replies before she can think to feign ignorance.

“He is always the first to light a candle in the mornings and the last to put it out in the evenings,” it is the first time she sees melancholy on Alice’s face, though, for a moment, something livelier and hopeful flashes through her eyes.

Emma frowns in thought – by her personal observations and calculations, it is simply impossible that Killian gets more than four or five hours of sleep.

They are silent long enough that Alice returns to her book and Emma watches the flames dancing in the fireplace – her own book abandoned on the little table beside her – and listens to the very stillness of the house. When the clock strikes 11, the fire is dangerously low and Emma is starting to feel a slight chill in the air. Alice leaves book, teacup and scattered furniture all as is and stretches her arms to the sides, declaring herself fit to go to bed. Her “goodnight” is rather pointed but her eyes are all softness and comfort and Emma stares after her for a minute or ten.

Then she jumps to her feet with a sudden burst of determination that she knows she must seize before it deserts her. A minute later she enters Killian’s study without knocking – Mrs Lucas would’ve probably dragged her out by the hair, if she had seen her.

“Why did you take me in?”

“I beg your pardon?” Killian’s head shoots up – his eyes are bloodshot from staring at the tiny figures before him under the light of a single candle. There is a half-full tumbler of golden liquid beside him but the room smells of wax rather than alcohol and Emma soldiers on.

“I know Regina was looking for a buyer and I know she didn’t expect to get half as good a deal as this. On top of the expenses of a wife, I’d wager she requested a nice commission for facilitating it all—“

“You would wager what exactly?” his voice is harsher than she has ever heard it directed at her and his scowl tells her how little he appreciates her brashness in this moment.

But she does not wish to be so tempted by answers that next time she has the opportunity to eavesdrop on some conversation, she does betray him.

“Nothing. For I have nothing. Some would say that I have ever less than a common girl and I know Regina—“

“Blast Regina. You think she was looking for a buyer?” Killian doesn’t jump to his feet the way she did earlier but the motion is somehow so powerful and full of agitation that Emma takes an instinctive step back. “Aye, that she was. And she wasn’t selling you the nice way either – quiet and private. She was getting desperate and acting like it was a bloody auction!”

She knew, of course. She knew Regina never cared for her and would sell her to the highest bidder. Her own metaphor aligns perfectly with Killian’s. And yet, hearing it from someone else’s mouth, having it confirmed that her grandmother shamelessly put her on the market like a piece of meat, makes her vision start to swim.

Emma tries to swallow around the lump in her throat and feels the tips of her nails digging into the flesh of her palm. Killian’s sharp exhale makes her vision sharpen a little as she tries to focus on him again – he looks rather stricken and she almost opens her mouth to assure him that he hasn’t really told her anything she didn’t already suspect.

“Emma, I—“ he takes a step forward then halts, looking as if he expects her to back away, and takes the next two slower, keeping his eyes on hers. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to—“

“So why did you bid?”

“What?”

She raises her chin and holds his gaze.

“If she was putting me out there like an auction piece, why did you bid?”

Killian slowly tilts his head to the side and regards her in silence and Emma tries to count her breaths so she doesn’t miss any. Finally, he sighs and hangs his head and for the first time since she barged into his study Emma feels like she has stepped out of line.

And for what?

“I will answer that.”

She blinks in surprise.

“Tomorrow. Can we do this tomorrow morning? I—“ he waves almost helplessly toward his desk and gives her a beseeching look.

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

She nods.

“But after the sun has properly risen.”

His mouth ticks up hesitantly on one side and he nods as well.

“After the sun is firmly anchored in the sky.”

“And maybe with that chocolate drink.”

“That can be arranged as well.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

She nods once more and turns on her heel.

“Emma. I am sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

She turns back and lifts her shoulders, her eyes straying from his.

“I shouldn’t have barged in here like that.”

“One offense does not excuse another.”

“Hmm. I like that.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Alright. I am not— You are forgiven.”

She is not sure this is the proper thing to say, it comes out sounding much haughtier than she wanted it to, not at all the sentiment she was trying to convey. But the look on Killian’s face stops her from regretting her choice of words.

“Goodnight, Killian.”

“Goodnight.”

“Go to bed.”

His chuckle behind her is tired but not entirely mirthless.

*****

She makes her way down the stairs and hopes with all her might to find Jones in the kitchen again. The library, let alone his study, will certainly hold the stale feeling of late night confusion and overexposed emotions.

Truth be told, by now Emma almost regrets posing the question that has been foremost in her mind ever since she heard Mrs Lucas put it into words, if not ever since she learnt she was to marry Killian Jones. Fairly gained intelligence is all good and proper but she is not entirely sure she is prepared to receive this particular piece of it.

Finding Killian where she hoped to restores a smidge of her confidence but she is still very conscious of the fact that – were he to act like nothing happened, she will allow it. Alas, if the look on his face is any indication, if he entertained the coward’s path at all, he decided to turn away from it.

“The sun is up, as requested. Should we make use of it and take a walk?”

Emma blinks in surprise. She considered the sturdy walls and dark tones of the house more befitting the conversation before them but now feels immense relief at the thought of fresh air and an open space.

Killian pushes off the counter and hands her a cup of what she assumes is hot chocolate and Emma’s straining nerves relax a little when her hand wraps around the warm cup – this one is bigger than the one he served them in the day before, its rim is not curved and instead it has a lid that she supposes will keep the liquid warm longer. For a moment, she wonders if Killian puts this much thought into every single action, if that is why he requested a whole night before he answered a straight question. It sounds both endearing and exhausting.

He holds the backdoor for her and they slip from the kitchen, the air much crisper than she expected.

“Would you like me to fetch you a coat?”

She shakes her head, knowing she will regret it soon enough and clutching her cup tighter. Then she turns to face her husband and, in the direct sunlight, comes to wonder if he has been to bed at all. His shirt and waistcoat are different but his hair looks like it has met with his hand rather than a pillow, the lines around his eyes seem deeper, the shadow under them – likewise.

He has not taken a drink for himself and – whether for his benefit or hers she wastes no time to determine – Emma slips her free hand in the crook of his right elbow. Killian startles but settles soon enough that she decides the gesture has been deemed acceptable.

“I believe it is of no use to do things by halves. So I’ve decided to give you more information than you were probably searching for, in order to make myself quite clear.”

His voice is gruff but not unkind and her surprise at this pronouncement is genuine but not unpleasant.

“I believe Mrs Mills has been struggling to maintain appearances while her finances have been failing her.”

Emma suspected as much herself but doubts she is aware of the full extend of Regina’s presumed troubles.

“I do not wish to be crude but I… I also believe she took stock of her valuables and decided you were the one she was most willing to part with.”

“I assure you, Regina would consider it much too great a compliment rather than an offense of any sort that I am being listed among her valuables.”

Killian glances at her before quickly looking away. He seems somewhat taken aback by her blasé attitude toward her grandmother’s mistreatment but even more so by the intimacy walking arm in arm has brought. Emma is fully aware that this is the closest she has been to her husband – physically speaking, but her main focus at the present moment is how close he is about to allow her in another sense.

“Yes, well… I think her mounting frustrations made her rather careless and… desperation is never a good calling card when the object is an engagement. Perhaps it wasn’t like that at first but— Emma, I am not sure you quite understand how far removed from society I am personally and how rare it is for gossip to make its way to my ears.”

She feels the blazing heat in her cheeks despite the morning chill that has control over most of the rest of her body. It’s a long time that she has been parted with her grandmother’s good – or at least tolerant – opinion and, as for society, Emma never much cared what gossip may spread about her, seeing as most of it will be deserved and she cared little for the company of people willing to be swayed by it.

Yet the idea of what whisperings might have reached all the way to the inhabitants of the Jones household makes the knot in her stomach tighten even further now.

“I do not wish to… to interrupt but I fail to see how that has led us… here.”

Killian sighs and, likely unconsciously, tightens his arm around her own.

“For that I need to… I will have to go further back. What I meant for you to take from this is that, knowingly or not, your grandmother was destroying your reputation and any future aspirations with an alarming – frankly, almost impressive, speed.”

When she lifts the cup to her mouth, it shakes a little in her grasp and Emma tries to tell herself that if the answer to why Killian Jones brought her into his family is pity, it is not the worst answer she could have received.

“My previous wife did not hold our daughter in much higher esteem than your grandmother seems to hold you.”

The change of topic is so sudden that her neck pops a little when she twists in his direction. He glances at her – his smile is tight and dark and his steps almost cease for an instant before he resumes the brisk pace that has been keeping her from truly suffering the coldness that the sun is still working on chasing away.

“Of course, I do not pretend to know the nature of your relationship but at the very least you were allowed to remain in Mrs Mill’s presence. My wife did not allow Alice the same courtesy and send her away to school as soon as such a scheme was feasible. A-and she could carry it out without my knowledge.”

Emma bites her tongue against the barge of questions bubbling up from inside her. Why would any mother want to be parted from her child? She supposes her indignation might be finding some outlet through her eyes but Killian’s are firmly focused on the trees in the distance. She is glad for it because – even as most of her anger is directed toward a woman now in her grave, she cannot quite understand why Killian would submit to such an arrangement after it was made known to him.

“When Alice was old enough and confident enough in herself to express her wish to remain at home for longer periods of time – and received my full support of the idea – her mother adopted a new method of keeping her away.”

Killian watches their feet advancing slowly for a few seconds and Emma takes a fortifying breath.

“My daughter found herself in much the same position as you, only much earlier in her life and, sadly, there could be no question of whether her chances and reputation was being ruined on purpose or not.”

“How could she—“

Killian’s jaw tightens and Emma stops herself from finishing the question.

“I do not mean to present my conduct in a more altruistic light than it deserves, Emma. My brother and his wife were much engaged in the task of introducing me to as many ladies as a man who does not attend dances and dinners could possibly meet. And it was my hope – for whose fulfilment I do wish to express my gratitude to you – that my daughter’s age and temperament would not set the two of you at odds and that your introduction into the family will provide sufficient reason for her to remain here for some time.”

She has drawn and discarded a dozen conclusions in the span of the last quarter of an hour and for each question that has been answered in some form a dozen more have arisen, but if Emma is uncertain that she can receive any more information at present, she is quite certain that Killian cannot give any more with additional pain to himself.

And if there is one conclusion that she has drawn and put safely away as fact, it is that she does not wish to cause Killian Jones any pain.

“So how bad is it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How far did Regina go before you could get to her? How bad of a blow is it to be married to me?”

It is the first time since they stepped outside that Killian comes to a firm stop and she tries not to give in to the shiver and stab of pain when he lets go of her arm so he can face her.

“I am a man who has taken many blows in his life, Emma.”

The pointed motion with his wooden hand surprises her but not nearly as much as the warmth of the fingers that settle under her chin and gently urge it up.

“I can assure you, you’re not one of them.”

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[punkscowardschampions]

Ali & Marlene

Ali: Hey babe, sorry I missed rehearsal, know you rocked it regardless  💋 Marlene: Kind of need our lead singer to do that. Instrumental wasn't the vision for the track, babygirl Marlene: Where did you have to be? We could've rescheduled Ali: I know, I know, my bad! Make it up to you Ali: Ugh, got detention, didn't I Ali: don't even get me started on that Marlene: Make it up to me alone or me and the band? Marlene: Little rebel Marlene: Can't have you getting in more trouble by ditching, can we? Marlene: I'll add in another rehearsal, the girls won't mind Ali: Why not both? Ali: Come over and I'll record the vocals for you Ali: You know it boo 👩🏼‍🎤 Ali: Exactly, even though I'm fully staging a protest tomorrow Marlene: That's my girl Marlene: I'll be there front and centre, lending my voice to the movement Ali: Aww, so supportive Ali: cute 😉 Ali: I've rallied all the usual suspects so it shouldn't be a flop Ali: we have the allotted hours, like, if they fail to control us in 'em, why add more, yeah? pointless, where's the logic Marlene: Making me so proud to have you on my arm Ali: As you should be Ali: Though that arms not bad 💪 Marlene: I wouldn't be the best bassist in this shithole if it was Ali: One track mind 😏 SUCH a bassist Ali: don't you ever break that focus? Marlene: It has been known Marlene: For the right girl Ali: Introduce me to her some time, yeah? Ali: Get some tips Marlene: You know her pretty well Marlene: The name's Alison, like the song Ali: So soft Ali: Still say we do a Elvis Costello and Dolly mashup Ali: idc what you say, Jolene is a bop and you need to own it Marlene: If I can hear you do an original Elvis cover, I'll think about it Ali: Fine, I'll happily sing about myself all day Ali: can even get the accent down, thanks Ma Marlene: I'll be waiting for that Marlene: The girls are asking if you need posters or anything else for the protest? Anything to stick around and drink more Ali: Patience, babe Ali: Gotta save these pipes for the protest Ali: Feel free to go for their lives, like Ali: Bear in mind if they use too many expletives, the School ain't gonna listen tho Ali: creative language, not colourful, ladies Marlene: No promises on getting them to dial back the reclaimed slurs Marlene: But we'll leave off calling the teachers the cunts they are Marlene: For you, our glorious leader Ali: 🙇 down Ali: I'll take it, they're not going to go anywhere near hate speech vibes, too risky Marlene: Tempting offer Marlene: I'll take you up on it when we're alone Ali: Yeah? Gonna skip rehearsal more often then Marlene: For revolution and no less, babe Marlene: But I have missed you Ali: The revolution's always rolling, babe Ali: I can't stop the wheels of change, you know Marlene: I know you want me to make a rock and roll pun Marlene: But I refuse Ali: Boooooo 👎 Ali: too punk for me now? Marlene: Not gonna quote a dead white man either, not even Lennon Marlene: You're still my little punk princess, you know Ali: Throw some Yoko craziness at me Ali: 👑 Marlene: Keeping it back so the protest won't flop. Can't let it Ali: Sure, you just don't wanna get on the rooftop with your mates Ali: someone'd fall, or get pushed 😂 Marlene: Not me or you Marlene: With these arms we're safe Ali: 🔫 pew pew Ali: they wanna try me, bitch Marlene: We should fill up supersoakers for those who are anti our message Marlene: Piss on their negativity in a literal sense Ali: not with actual piss, right? Marlene: You have to start thinking punk rock, babe Ali: I am not pissing into a supersoaker Ali: not dying to prove my aim is as good as a man's like Ali: you do you, babe but I'll leave it at good old fashioned water Marlene: Now who's deserving the boos and jeers Marlene: So regal of you Ali: what can i say? my idea of a good time isn't pissing on my own hands Ali: crazy, i know 😉 Marlene: How true my love is Marlene: Any time's a good time with my baby Ali: 💙 Ali: forreal tho, what are we doing this weekend Marlene: There are a few parties Ali: where Ali: i wanna go as far away as poss Marlene: They're local, usual suspects Marlene: We can do something else Ali: Think of something better, yeah Ali: I'm sick of the locals at the mo Marlene: I'll come back to you with a plan Ali: 💋 Ali: that's my girl Marlene: What am I good for if I can't take you away from this shithole? Marlene: Not like it's that hard Ali: You got your license, 'til I got mine I'm at your beck and call, like Ali: Your Ma will be cool, yeah? Doesn't need to be long, just long enough to breathe Marlene: I'll make a deal with her Marlene: Name drop you since she's a fan Ali: Such a parent pleaser 😇 Marlene: If you sang it she'd do anything you say Marlene: Thinks you've got the voice of an angel for sure Ali: Aww, what a babe Ali: like mother like daughter 😏 Marlene: She had her moments of hell raising Marlene: Would to this day if it was possible Ali: Imma ask her all about it when I see her Ali: fo'sho Marlene: That'd make her happy Ali: Who doesn't love being scandalous? Marlene: Whoever gave you detention Ali: Give you three guesses 😑 Marlene: I don't need them Marlene: Most are in your fan club too Ali: Exactly Ali: Don't teach R.S. if you can't handle healthy debate Marlene: Yeah. We live in Dublin not a dictatorship Ali: Honestly Ali: Some people really wanna take it back to the troubles Ali: Shouldn't have said as much but chill, dude Marlene: Freedom of speech, babe Marlene: I've lost count of how many teachers I've called homophobes Marlene: Gotta speak up Ali: True Ali: you are a bit quick on the draw sometimes, like Marlene: I'm not letting them get away with it Ali: Just sayin', plenty of reasons to give you dirty looks, babe, not all of 'em that you're gay 😜 Marlene: I'm a perfect gentleman and you know it Ali: True Ali: You don't look it tho Marlene: You don't look like a rebel queen Marlene: And yet Ali: I know looks are deceiving, tell it to the homophobes, babe 😏 Ali: also you gotta stop with the compliments 😾 Marlene: But everyone's clearing out. It's the perfect time to shower you with them Marlene: Where do you wanna be? Here or there Ali: When bae only sweet talks you when their mates aren't about Ali: SUCH a fuckboy, darling 💋 Marlene: You know what I was getting at, darling Marlene: We can be alone finally Marlene: But only if you're in the mood Ali: I'll come over Ali: as much as my Ma is also a fan, just yours like, not so much mine Marlene: Let me pick you up Marlene: It's too dark for that shit Ali: Nah, I wanna walk Ali: gotta burn off the energy I didn't get to rock out Marlene: Hold your keys since you won't take my knife off me Ali: Don't worry Ali: My Da beat you to the self-defense lesson, like Ali: I'm sweet Marlene: If I'm not there to protect you, I'm bound to worry Ali: You worry too much, baby Ali: Good thing I'm coming to take all your cares away Ali: and I've got bud, naturally 🚬 Marlene: And I hid some drinks from the vultures Ali: Party of two 😘 Marlene: When you get here. Until you do I'm sitting on the floor alone writing shitty songs about you Ali: Try and write a good one, will ya? Not having it bandied about that I'm a shit muse 😉 Ali: you could never Ali: gonna play for me when I get there? Marlene: Been trying since I met you, babygirl Marlene: It's not you, it's me Ali: Nah Ali: there's a hit in there, I just gotta try harder Ali: as you're so anti-establishment, your brain is noping on writing a bop that everyone will love Marlene: I want you to love it Marlene: You're the one it's for Ali: I'm excited to hear Ali: assuming I don't get shanked on the way by the big bad wolf Marlene: Your tragic early death isn't the inspiration I want or need Ali: Tell it to the TV writers, hun Ali: angry protest song #765 Marlene: I'll sing you my shitty song and you can die laughing Ali: Never Ali: cross my heart Marlene: And fingers that I can patch together a chorus that doesn't make me wanna die before you get here Ali: 🤞 Ali: I have faith enough for two Marlene: As an angel, you kind of have to bring it Ali: No pressure 😓 Marlene: I'm more than okay with you lacking it, stick it to your detention giver over again Marlene: And I love you, so forgiven most sins Ali: A benevolent Goddess you are Marlene: Modeled on the original lesbian in the sky Ali: Debated theology enough today to live and let live on that one babe Marlene: Promise I'll save the angry lesbian god essay recital for another night Ali: You're a doll 💋 Ali: Oh, hold up, I see my ex Ali: ready for this awkward convo in 3 2 Ali: brb Marlene: Bet you want me to pick you up now, don't you? Ali: [15 mins later] Ali: That was wild Marlene: What the fuck, Ali Marlene: I was about to start searching for you Ali: Soz, more chatty than I remember Ali: only gone at got someone pregnant hasn't he Marlene: Dodged a bullet Ali: Tell me about it Ali: Still out on the town tryna get some though Ali: is that the new come on? I'm fertile! Marlene: In this town, likely Marlene: Which ex is it? Ali: #4 good drugs, bad teeth Ali: the one who lowkey stalked me after and my brother had to smack him one Ali: good times, unexpected detour down memory lane there but got us some freebies so Marlene: It took 15 mins to get what you're owed, how long does he take over customers who aren't his stalked exes Marlene: bad business is what you should've called him Marlene: Or manners Ali: names are definitely open to workshopping Ali: he had to show me the scan pics, duh Marlene: Had to do the whole come on Marlene: fucking pig Ali: Bless Ali: have your fun whilst you still can, kid Marlene: not with my girlfriend Ali: don't worry babe, got the drugs for free free Ali: not suck my dick free Marlene: Are you gonna be here soon Marlene: I can still bring the car Ali: Yeah, I'll get a wriggle on Ali: 5 minutes if I run Marlene: If you don't run into any more exes first Ali: cities littered with 'em Marlene: If you didn't date men you could stay friends with them Ali: why would I wanna do that? Ali: I've seen your dyke drama, a no thank you Marlene: I don't have dyke drama Marlene: You're the one trying to avoid the awkward Ali: 😏 Ali: I don't care, its funny Ali: he wasn't that bad, really Ali: don't need to add every ex to my inner circle though, that's a madness Marlene: He stalked you Marlene: He's an asshole Ali: Not properly Ali: Just had issue letting go as fast as I did, who can blame him 😘 Marlene: It's not funny, Ali, it's fucked Ali: So serious 😾 Ali: It ain't like he locked me in his basement, I get to decide how fucked it was or wasn't Marlene: You get to brush it under the carpet too, doesn't make it right Ali: 🙄 you're as bad as my mother Marlene: maybe she's got a point Ali: Ugh, don't need to point score, she already likes ya, babe Ali: he's just a stupid kid, not fucking Bundy, yeah, let's chill Marlene: He doesn't have to be Bundy to be held accountable, babe Marlene: He's gonna be someone's dad Marlene: What the fuck Ali: for what? being a bit of a prick at 16 Ali: s'not a crime, last time I checked Marlene: it doesn't have to be Marlene: Lads think they can do whatever they want Marlene: They can't and shouldn't Ali: Nah, this isn't a soap box moment, babe Ali: we all do things we know are wrong, and ain't proud of Ali: 'cos of how we're feeling Ali: Honestly, not a big deal Ali: and not an exclusively male thing, that's a crock of shit Marlene: If I was heavy handed with one of my exes I'd get so much shit Marlene: He gets boys will be boys Marlene: It's not a big deal because you're making excuses for him Ali: From who? The lesbian mafia? Ali: Straight girls are INSANE Ali: way worse than #4 was ever Ali: I'm not gonna burn him at the stake for something I don't believe in Marlene: Straight girls are a whole other subject Marlene: Last I checked you didn't have any of them as exes so no really the point Ali: That you know of Marlene: I know about every one of your exes Ali: Okay, Liam Neeson Ali: can't be calling out stalkers when you're breathing down the phone like that 😂 Marlene: You're not funny Ali: I am though Ali: but I ain't coming over if you're gonna be such a downer Marlene: Are you serious? Marlene: Your jokes are so bad I can't tell Ali: Duh Ali: Killing my vibe, babe Marlene: You're basically here Ali: So? Ali: I can keep walking into this dark night Marlene: So come in Marlene: I'm sorry, baby Ali: You promise you're gonna stop being lame? Marlene: Cross my heart Ali: Okay, lemme in then

[pengychan]

Muse - Mother Hen

Before Stanford Pines, throughout the history of humankind, Bill Cipher struck countless deals with many great minds. Some more memorable than others.

A/N: Here’s the tag I use for these oneshots. Partly based on Bill’s backstory as detailed in Flat Dreams and Flat Minds.

***

Emmy Noether

***

14 April 1935

When the light in her Mindscape begins to slowly fade, turning all colors to gray, Emmy Noether is sitting on the couch with her hands folded on her lap. The chalkboard before her is completely empty, but she still looks at it as though she can read something on its surface that Bill cannot. Which is, of course, impossible. He sees everything.

And now he sees her end is not long in coming.

“You’re not gonna wake up again, Mother Hen,” he says. His voice seems to echo around them, as though through a vast and empty space.

The law of conservation of mass states that nothing is created and nothing is destroyed - but it can be changed beyond recognition, taken apart, shattered, and there is hardly any difference at all. Besides, this is not mass. This is a mind.

And soon it will be gone along with its owner.

Emmy Noether turns to look at him. She pays no more attention to her appearance in the mindscape than she does in the real world: hair escaping the messy bun on her head, her blouse crumpled and stained with food, she looks the very definition of a madwoman. Funny thing, considering that the one who’s really insane in there just happens to be dressed up like a real gentleman.

Besides, she’s not mad, not by a long shot. She’s only brilliant, but meat sacks have a tendency to mix up the two things, especially when the package it comes into has the wrong set of chromosomes. The single greatest mathematician of the century, and they even refused to pay her for her work - for as long as they allowed her to teach, that was it.

Then the tide turned. Attitudes shifted. The swastika got back in fashion, an ancient symbol suddenly gaining a whole new meaning that would never be washed away. Students showing at her lectures in uniform, the accusations over her ties with Russian mathematicians, over her heritage - and, before long, she was no longer allowed to set foot in their precious university. Soon, she would not longer be allowed to breathe their precious air, either.

When Bill had come to warn her, she hadn’t seemed surprised.

*** 

“Have a biscuit, dear.”

“Look, this ain’t the right moment, Mother Hen. You gotta listen to--” Bill trailed off when Emmy made a vague gesture with her hand, the other still scribbling madly on the chalkboard, white with chalk powder. A small plate of buttery biscuits floated in the air almost close enough to touch his eye.

“Take a biscuit. I insist. You look far too thin, William.”

Bill rolled his eye. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m flat, I get it. That was funny the first eleven times. Now you’ve kinda beaten that horse into the ground,” he said, but he did reach to take one.

“Ever the gentleman. I am rather sure etiquette would require you to at least fake amusement,” she quipped.

“Oh, ha ha ha. You’re hilarious,” Bill muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Never gonna call me ‘Bill’, are you?” he asked before turning his eye into a mouth and throwing the biscuit in his maw.

Mother Hen chuckled. “I don’t think so, dear.”

“You know, I kinda am a supernatural being of infinite knowledge. Older than your galaxy. Not one of your students.”

“A cup of tea?” she suggested, as though she hadn’t even heard the remark, and Bill sighed before pushing the plate out of the way.

“Yeah, no. This is urgent. This crap they did, kicking you outta the university? It’s just the start.”

“Is it,” Emmy Noether said, very quietly. Her hand paused in mid-air. “Yes. I do presume things are not looking too good. Mr. Einstein has written to me again.”

For a moment, Bill felt a lot like he could give good old Relativity a kiss on the mouth. “Well, he’s right. You should listen to him. Pack up your things and leave for the States as soon as you get a chance. Bryn Mawr College will give you a position. Trust me, I know it.”

She sighed, and put down the piece of chalk, finally turning to look at him. There was some chalk powder across her cheek, too. “I’d love to go, William, I truly would. But my students--”

When even the teachers turn and flee, it is the death of reason.

Oh no. Not this. You ain’t pulling this on me again.

“Your students will be okay. Most of ‘em, anyway,” he added. “Some won’t be, some will go on to be pretty renowned. But you can’t save them all, Mother Hen. Or even one if you tried - Noether’s boys will have to be leave the nest, especially now that you’re not even allowed in it anymore. You already did all you could for them. And what the heck, some of them showed at your lectures with swastikas! Talk about ungrateful, huh? Amazed you still taught them.”

“They are my boys. My lectures are not about personal beliefs. Mathematics--”

“There are plenty of people you can talk logic with,” Bill cut her off. “Those ones? Nope. Not gonna work. They talk about Jewish and Aryan and Marxist mathematics! Makes no sense even by my standards!”

That seemed to hit the mark at last, for she bit her lower lip and looked away. Bill sighed, reaching up to rub his eye. “Wanna know something? The single most frustrating thing about your species? How you will not listen because you’ve got this pesky, idiotic, suicidal sense of duty. Great minds gone before their time because they refused to flee when they should have, no matter how much I yelled at them,” Bill gritted out, and tore his hands off his eye to glare at her. “Would make me tear my hair outta my head if I had either, Mother Hen.”

A smile curled Emmy’s lips. “You could tear out your eyelashes.”

“Yeah, not happening. Not if you don’t give me a reason to. Bottom line is - I don’t say this often, so you may want to call the press now - you’ve got to be reasonable. Ain’t nothing left for you here in Göttingen. Nothing left for you in Germany. Just go. Take that offer the moment it comes and be off to Pennsylvania as soon as you can. The world can’t afford losing you just yet.”

It was a lie, partly. Maybe the word would benefit from her living a few more of the years of that ridiculously short lifespan, but as far as Bill was concerned the part of her work that mattered was done. Noether's theorem - proving the connection between symmetry and conservation laws, vital for the creation of the portal he wanted to be built someday - was proven. She could come in handy, but wasn’t needed anymore.

Still, he didn’t like the thought of letting some fanatics kill her because of what she was born as, because she was not the right sort of made-up race. It sat wrong with him in a visceral way, too reminiscing of what his dimension had been like for comfort; skin color and heritage just as damning as the number or the regularity of a shape’s sides.

And to think we had hoped this dimension would be better. I know everything and I still can’t tell whether or not it is. If it is, it’s not by much.

With that thought in mind, he kept arguing. He kept insisting. And, in the end, she did as he said. She left for the States, and took on a teaching position there. Surrounded by colleagues and a network of support, entirely immersed in her favorite subjects, she even had a good time.

For a grand total of two years.

*** 

“It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? I don’t think I’m quite ready to go. And I had been recovering so well.” Mother Hen’s voice snaps Bill from his recollection. She’s smiling a bit tiredly, and holding out a plate. “A biscuit?”

Bill Cipher lets himself drop on the couch’s armrest, and reaches to take one. He stares at it, but doesn’t really feel like eating it. “I told you the surgery wasn’t gonna work,” he finally said.

Go figure. One time someone actually listens and saves her skin, and this happens. Such pathetically frail bodies. She may as well have stayed where she was and would have still died before they could get to her.

At least she won’t live long enough to witness what will come next. Bill never told her what he saw coming in the future and, right now, he sees no point in changing that. A lot of mortals claim that ignorance is bliss and, while Bill chalks it up to denial over their pitiful blindness most of the time, there are moments when he almost wonders if there’s any truth in it.

It’s not like he would know. Ignorance stopped being an option a long, long time ago.

Unaware of his thoughts, all too aware of her impending end, Mother Hen smiles. “It seems you were correct. I didn’t really doubt you, William, believe me. But dear Mr. Einstein took such pains to convince me to come to the States. It seemed just so rude to leave this world without even trying to delay it. There is so much work yet to do,” she added, and sighed. “Will you help him now, dear?”

Well, he doesn’t have to lie over this: he started paying visits to good old Relativity quite a while ago, and isn’t gonna stop now. There’s work he still needs to get done, and the guy is his best shot. “You bet,” he says, and stuffs the biscuit in his mouth. It’s nice and buttery, and he knows he’s going to miss it. He’s never been able to create biscuits tasting like it, he who can make anything exist in his dimension by willing it. “Hey, he’s gonna write you a pretty neat eulogy on the New York Times, too.”

She chuckles through her mouthful. “That is so very thoughtful of him. Will he be all right?”

Bill rolls his eye. “You’re doing it again. Would drive me mad, if I wasn’t already.”

“Oh?”

“You’re dying, and all you’re thinking about are others. Your colleagues, your students, your family - just about everyone except yourself.”

This time, Emmy Noether laughs. It is a pleasant laugh, loud and open, with a slight snort at the end. “It seems I can’t help it. You do keep calling me Mother Hen for a reason,” she says. There is a pause, and when she speaks again her voice is quiet. Around them, the light keeps fading. Now her mindscape - a classroom, something so boringly ordinary in that place full of possibility - looks like it would at dusk. “Will it hurt?”

Bill shrugs. “Naaah. It will all go dark and that will be it. Like going to sleep.”

“And is there anything beyond?”

Bill doesn’t think there is, because while he doesn’t really care - why would he? He can’t die - he took a peek once, and saw nothing. So either there really is nothing, or whatever is there is hidden even from his sight. Which is not the explanation he likes, so he just assumes the former is correct. Nothing, he thinks, but it’s not what he says.

“Not tellin’ ya, Mother Hen. You’re gonna find out by yourself. That’s half the fun, isn’t it?” he adds, and lifts himself in the air. “I gotta go. Can’t be in your mind when…” he shrugs, and makes a vague gesture with his hand. “You know. Been great doing business with ya,” he adds, holding out his hand. Like all those before her, she reaches to take it. And, unlike any of those who came before, she pulls him close in an embrace.

“Whoa, hey--”

“Thank you for everything, William.”

Squished against her blouse, Bill goes very still for a few moments. Then he sighs. “Been fun on this side too, Mother Hen. Gonna miss your biscuits.”

“Take another, dear.”

“... Seriously now?”

“Actually, take two.”

Never one for moderation, he takes three. The taste is still lingers when he leaves the darkening Mindscape for the last time, leaving behind a woman sitting on a couch, staring at the blackness of an empty chalkboard.

***

… Beneath the effort directed toward the accumulation of worldly goods lies all too frequently the illusion that this is the most substantial and desirable end to be achieved; but there is, fortunately, a minority composed of those who recognize early in their lives that the most beautiful and satisfying experiences open to humankind are not derived from the outside, but are bound up with the development of the individual's own feeling, thinking and acting.

The genuine artists, investigators and thinkers have always been persons of this kind. However inconspicuously the life of these individuals runs its course, none the less the fruits of their endeavors are the most valuable contributions which one generation can make to its successors.

Within the past few days a distinguished mathematician, Professor Emmy Noether, formerly connected with the University of Göttingen and for the past two years at Bryn Mawr College, died in her fifty-third year…

-- Albert Einstein.

#gravity falls #bill cipher #muse