#the list might expand down the road if I decide to add more songs

[tinderbox210]

CHENFORD WEEK 2023 - Day 7: free day

-> Out Of The Shade - a Chenford playlist

#the rookie #chenford #lucy chen #tim bradford #tim x lucy #lucy x tim #chenfordweek23 #fanmix #playlist #my fanmix #the list might expand down the road if I decide to add more songs #sadly i wasn't able to create anything for the other days due to a lack of time

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Knick Knack Paddy Whack (BAON)

Summary:  As far as Stretch is concerned, there's only one solution when you're addicted to thrift stores. Selling all the crap you bought so you can buy more!

Notes:  Stepping outside of the main storyline for a moment, we'll get back to the aftermath we're all expecting in a moment. 😁

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Domestic Fluff

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

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Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Stretch was a bonafide thrift-a-holic, he honestly was, and he knew it. It was an important thing to know about yourself, really, because certain problems arose from bad case of oooh-shiny-itis.

Sure, one ceramic zombie hand thrusting up from the dresser to hold his rings and change was an awesome thing to behold, but an entire collection of zombie hands was a tough sell to the person you were living with, especially if that person was Edge. Not that he’d managed to find a collection of zombie hands and if he had, that thrift store would have been on the weekly check list, for sure. But the same premise applied to ‘zombie hand plus an entire horde of other bizarre ceramics surrounding it’.

Stretch wasn’t bitter about the limitations when it came to his collection, nah, he got it. There were certain things you couldn’t ask for from the person you love, and a house filled up with weird tchotchkes that looked like they belonged to the grandmother of the chainsaw massacre family was a step too far. Plus, asking Edge for more space would be unfair. He’d either agree because he didn’t want to tell Stretch no, or he’d say no and feel bad about it. Nah, the set of porcelain dragons playing instruments in a rock band he’d found wasn’t that important, not if it gave Edge a case of the guilts.

Problem was, Stretch really couldn’t resist sometimes. How was he supposed to turn away a wedding painting of Yoda and Kermit the frog? Or a coffee mug with a penguin orgy on it? He couldn’t, that’s how, but his allotted space was filling up in the house proper and soon he’d started to amass quite the collection in his lab, too. It was when the overflow expanded enough to start infringing on his erlenmeyer flasks that he decided he needed a new strategy. Science waited for no one and definitely not anything with the word ‘taxidermy’ included.

That’s when Stretch came up with the plan. Okay, it wasn’t a plan, exactly, more like a flash in the pants of brief inspiration, but hell, he’d been flying by on those his entire life, why stop now?

One of the places he frequented was an antique mall, which was a fancy way of saying one rung on the ladder above actual thrift store, except they rented stalls for people to sell their stuff, so maybe it was more like a glorified garage sale. People carted in their junk for other people to buy and the cashier up front handled all the transactions. Minimal time, minimal effort, that was exactly what he and his kitsch needed, so Stretch went ahead and rented a stall of his own.

The not-exactly-a-plan worked out pretty well. He could buy something at the thrift shop and proudly display it for a while around the house, and then when it came time to replace it with a new find, he’d add it to his stall and whatever money came from it, he donated to the local kid’s charity that the Antique Mall supported. That meant he got in his kicks and joy without looking like a prequel to a Hoarders episode and Edge only had to deal with the octopus tentacle ashtray for a few weeks.

Seriously, it was a win-win all the way around.

A few things did take up permanent residence, of course; he couldn’t give up his zombie hand. But so long as it wasn’t a clown, (clowns were disposed of by Edge immediately and with great prejudice), he was allowed things like his nested Matryoshka dolls of Nicolas Cages for a time.

About once a week he went down to add new things to his stall, mostly during the weekday hours when the buses were on the empty side and he could take up an extra seat with his box of additions. It wasn’t exactly a secret, Andy came along a few times to help, but he never really mentioned it to Edge. Not until today when Stretch realized he’d let things go a little too long and he had some extra boxes to haul down.

Better to take care of it while he was thinking about it, otherwise it tended to turn into an endless cycle of ‘oh, I should do that today’ and him forgetting, but aside from the extra lugging required, it was also Saturday and the bus would be loaded. Hitching a ride would be required, plus a little extra muscle, and his husband was his favorite source for both.

He found Edge in the kitchen, sitting at their temporary table with his laptop and yeah, it was Saturday, time to drag him away from whatever bullshit work he was doing. Stretch put on his best wheedling face and asked, “babe? can you give me a lift today?”

“Of course.” Edge didn’t look up, what a total waste of Stretch’s beguiling charms. His gloved fingertips were soft against the keyboard as he finished whatever he was typing before glancing up at Stretch, and maybe his schmoozing wasn’t entirely wasted; the way Edge closed the lid on his laptop spoke of a guilty conscious for working on his day off. “Where are we going?”

“downtown,” Stretch tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “i need to hit up my junk and disorderly shop.”

That got him a pause, “Your what?”

“heh, you’ll see.” Stretch curled a finger at Edge in a ‘come hither’ motion that his husband didn’t follow, only watched suspiciously. “c’mon, i need you to help me carry some stuff.”

“This ride is starting to sound less like transport and more like a chore.” But Edge followed him to the basement for the boxes, and, surprise surprise, his willingness to help went up a few notches from wary to eager when he figured out what Stretch was doing. Eh, couldn’t blame him. At the top of the pile was a plush frog with the top hat that played ‘hello my baby’ whenever you pushed on its foot, something Red did every single time he walked past it, plus anytime he’d felt like shortcutting in for a quick press. Time to let it damage the sanity of another family.

The boxes were tossed into the trunk of Edge’s car, frog and all, and soon they were on the road, heading downtown. Truth be told, Stretch wasn’t sure what Edge would make of the place. He tolerated thrift stores well enough, but the antique mall was a different kind of beast. An entire building of obscure collections cluttered together into eclectic displays that others were trying to barter and sell.

There were stalls filled with milk crates of old records, shelves and shelves of antique glassware and dishes. Some stalls had vintage clothing, feathery boas mixed in with disco pants and ruffled aprons. Old instruments, rusty farm equipment, strange kitchen gadgets that looked more dangerous than useful, this place had everything and then some.

Plus, the mall had a certain sort of smell, a musty, dusty scent verging on decay that settled into the sinuses and hung around for a while. Stretch thought it was the smell of a life well-lived and he kinda liked it; after years of thrifting, he associated it with finding treasures, but who knew if Edge felt the same. His tastes in smells (heh) ran more to clean and green, not old-timey funk. Could be it reminded him of shower mildew.

Whatever his opinion of the odors, Edge kept it to himself. He helped with the box carrying and checked out Stretch’s stall curiously but didn’t say much. Probably recognized the stuff on the shelves as having once been on a table or Stretch’s nightstand, until the glee wore off and it ended up gathering dust in the basement. He wandered off at some point, heading into the depths of the mall, and left Stretch to restock his meagre wares.

It took longer than he’d expected. Since he’d opened up his stall, not everything Stretch found thrifting found its way into the house proper anymore. Some of it he bought as a straight-to-video option and he was getting pretty good at finding interesting doodads at the thrifty places that might sell better here, location, location, location, that was the ticket.

Stretch always priced his junk reasonably, usually not much more than he’d paid for it. Wasn’t like he needed the money, and besides, Stretch knew himself pretty damn well, therapy did that to a guy. At the end of the day, he knew what this was really about; all an elaborate scheme to satisfy the inner packrat in his soul that struggled sometimes with giving things away.

Bartering had been built in him before he could say the word; in the Underground, he’d gotten damn good at getting deals for what he could scrounge at the dump. This was the same thing, really, just with slightly different stakes. Dinner wasn’t riding on his latest stash of dvds anymore, always a plus, and these days he could simply look at the empty shelves, content in the knowledge that his Smeagol cardboard cutout had found a new home.

Hey, therapy wasn’t the only way to work out a few kinks in your internal lines.

When the last box was emptied, Stretch wandered up to the front desk to give the lady who ran the front register his new inventory list. That was when he heard it.

There was an old piano up front with a sign on it that said, ‘Do not ‘play’ if you cannot play’. Most of the time it sat silently but someone up there was giving it a good try today. The notes were slower, with obvious hesitations as the player searched for the correct keys, but the song was one Stretch knew. Gently melancholy, a match to the cautious playing.

His curiosity piqued, Stretch wandered over to watch and he wasn’t entirely surprised to see Edge sitting on the piano bench, his attention on his hands as he slowly played. It was a tough choice between watching him play and simply listening to the song and Stretch found himself trying to do both. The uncertain skill in hands he knew so well as they coaxed the music free.

When the last note faded, a faint smattering of applause came from the different stalls around them. Stretch waited for it to end before sitting on the bench next to Edge.

Quietly, Stretch said, “i didn’t know you played.”

“I don’t,” Edge said. He smoothed a hand over the keys, not pressing down, simply touching them. “Not really. I can’t read music, but I know a song or two by rote. A friend of mine pushed me to memorize them.”

Welp, Stretch didn’t have to ask what friend, now did he. An old friend back in another world, and people weren’t replaceable even if they wore the same face. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to; Stretch understood in a way only a few people could, and he settled a hand on Edge’s leg, squeezing his knee gently.

“that was really good,” Stretch offered, “you have a good memory, babe.”

“Some of my memories are better than others,” Edge said. The words were more contemplative than sorrowful, and he didn’t look at Stretch, only touched the back of his hand briefly with his gloved fingertips. “You tend to feature in the best ones, love.”

He reached for the keys again and started to play. The song was more confident this time, bright and cheery, with only the occasional missed note. A handful of other people drifted over, some pausing to watch and some moving on, going about their day with a song to carry them along.

Stretch only tapped his toes and listened as Edge played, more than willing to let him go on until he was ready to stop. If Edge wanted to take a brief dive into the past, then the antique mall was a place for it, where memories and times past mingled with the present.

Besides, a new memory to take home was better than any knickknack.

-fin

Note:  The first song Edge was playing was 'Clair de Lune' by Debussy and the second was 'The Entertainer' by Scott Joplin. In case you were wondering. 😁

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

[creativejourneysbct]

My Very First Vlog (assessment)!

For our first Intro to Creative Tech assessment we were tasked with creating a 4-minute vlog explaining why we chose the Bachelor of Creative Technologies, what we expect from it and what we plan to do with it in the future. After weeks of consistently adding ideas to a rolling list of points to include, I spent ages trying to tidy up all those ideas into a coherent script that I used for my final video.

For the video itself, I decided to go with a simple vlog style format consisting of me talking to the camera. Initially, I did this to try and avoid having to do too much editing and use my presenting skills to my advantage. In the end, I did a bit of a mix as I still incorporated a bunch of additional clips and photos for added visual content to help illustrate the points being made.

In the end, I created a video that I’m proud of, but wish it could’ve been longer.

I definitely had a range of mixed feelings throughout this project. During the initial creative process of just putting down ideas of things to include, I was really enjoying it. I only felt a sense of stress when it came time to put all those ideas together and realized that it was way too long for four minutes. It was challenging having to pick things to remove as I had become so attached to all the different points over time. It took me way longer than expected to get a script together that was short enough- this was the most stressful part of the process by far. Especially since 40% of the grade depends on this video- I was so scared of cutting points that would potentially cost me marks. I often just wound up reading and re-reading the script a dozen times to only take out a couple of words each time. It was only when it came crunch time as the deadline approached that I really started slashing away at the word count to get it to a more reasonable length. Again, this was kind of disappointing to me, and I feel as though the result may feel a bit shallow as a result, but that’s the nature of adhering to a time constraint.

The filming part I actually loved though, as this mixes well with my background in performance and acting so that was probably the most fun.

The second most fun part - that I wasn’t expecting- was the editing process. I actually quite enjoyed lining up all the additional clips to align with the dialogue and cutting down the footage whenever I paused to make it sound smoother. The tinkering and playing around part of the process engaged me more than expected.

Thus, even though the content may have been a bit shallow compared to what it used to be, I was really happy with the final product as the filming and editing went well. It actually inspired me to potentially make more of this kind of content for my own personal projects as there were a lot of things that I would’ve love to have included but couldn’t due to the time constraints.

Some areas that I could’ve improved on are as follows;

The initial script should’ve been shorter from the start. As mentioned earlier, I constantly added ideas to it since the assignment was announced, so when it came time to finally sit down and finalize the script it was way too long, and I consequently spent most of my time cutting it down. This resulted in more breadth than depth than I would’ve liked, and next time I’d focus on fewer points and unpack them more. The issue is that I had become attached to all the ideas I’d written, so I couldn’t remove enough. And I’m still somewhat annoyed by the points ideas that I did have to remove. Going forward I’ll try and start with a select few points and expand on them, rather than having kids and shortening them all.

Another area that could’ve been improved on for the script is the style of writing used. I found that when I wrote the initial script, I just wound up writing an essay, which sounded very robotic and unauthentic when being read out to the camera. I found that writing the script while saying each line out loud did wonders in creating something that sounded more natural. Next time I’ll use this approach from the start, as this is something I found out towards the end and would’ve saved me a bunch of time had I implemented it from the very beginning.

Editing- I’m quite happy with the editing I did but would’ve loved to add a backing track for the dialogue -as it can sound quite eerie talking against pure silence - and maybe a cool song at the beginning and end. I also would’ve played around with text in the videos for headers to add more structure. In the end, I decided to leave these elements as we aren’t being graded on the editing, but I’d still like to learn those skills for my own personal gain.

Even with the limited editing I did on this video, I spent ages tweaking all the additional clips to align exactly with the points being made through the audio. And I honestly loved it, even if it was time-consuming. I have to say that this project probably stressed me out the most but it was also the most enjoyable

So it’s something I can look into for future video-based projects, whether for this course or just personal enjoyment.

The equipment used was also very basic and I would love to have been able to use a proper microphone and a decent camera. For this, the only equipment used was a phone stand, with my phone’s selfie camera being the main camera. Again, we’re not being graded on this, but as a personal improvement for future video based projects, I’d love to have proper crisp audio and video. Of the two of these I’d say audio is the most important, so I might invest in a reasonably priced microphone down the road. The lighting also could've been improved, and I’ve seen decently priced ring lights that would enhance the lighting dramatically, so maybe one of those too. The iPhone camera quality is good enough that it doesn’t justify spending large sums of money on a high quality videocamera, so this would definitely be last on the priority list.

All in all, this project was an interesting introduction to the world of vlogging that - while stressing me out a tad - has inspired me to potentially do something more like this further on in the degree or in my personal life. Without the same level of restriction, or having a better understanding of what to do script-wise, it would be a lot less stressful and time-consuming so I’d be able to spend more time having fun with the filming and editing, which were easily the best parts of this project.

TLDR; I had fun with this one but wish it could’ve been longer. Irony 

Here’s the final product! - https://youtu.be/5YruZeokUGI

#ctec502

[theawkwardterrier]

Though It's Called Dancing (to me it's romancing)

A Steggy Secret Santa gift for @plumandfinch​! Here’s some WWII Steggy for you - hope you enjoy, and have a very happy holiday and a great year ahead. 😁✨🎁

Summary: Five times Steve and Peggy almost danced, and one time they did.

AO3 link here.

i.

The girls trust Steve to hold them up for the finale and he hasn’t let them down yet, but after three shows where he either almost gives a showstopping topple tripping on his own feet or steps on one of theirs, they tell Martin the show manager that they’re quitting unless Steve gets some help.

“You have anything to say about this?” Martin grumbles incredulously to Steve, who just shrugs and replies, “Hey, if they listened to me, you’d already be dealing with a union.”

He’s actually glad that someone’s mentioned his clumsiness, his lack of coordination, and come up with a suggestion for how to help him: he came to the theater today with his shoes flopping on his feet because he tore out another pair of laces while trying to tie them. The serum might have fixed a lot of things for him, but it’s changed them as well, and in some alarming ways. It isn’t too likely that he could have been involved in the dance number even before his body got expanded to its new awkward, confusing size, but at least then he knew how much space he was taking up, how much force to exert for simple tasks. He should have just asked the girls for help sooner, but he’s still shy with them.

They don’t let that stop them from putting together a curriculum to help him ease into the new body. Soon he’s stopped having to sew the buttons back onto his shirts, and he doesn’t keep stabbing his fingers with the needle if he does. He can help with the hair before shows if the dressing room doesn’t have a mirror and the others are rushing around worrying about their own costumes (well, he doesn’t expect to be the first choice, at least not yet).

One night after they’ve just arrived in Chicago, Steve and a group of the dancers go out to a late dinner in Chinatown. Steve shows off his use of chopsticks, something that he didn’t even know how to do before the serum.

Sheila, who’s been working on her education degree by correspondence, says thoughtfully, “I just worry that we’ve focused too much on your fine motor skills—”

“I’m happy to focus on any of Steve’s fine skills,” Erin cracks, and Steve, immune to such remarks at this point, just rolls his eyes at her.

“—and we’ve neglected the gross motor skills,” Sheila finishes, glaring at Erin across the table.

“So what does that mean, She?” asks Jackie, leaning her head against Sheila’s shoulder.

Sheila rests her head atop Jackie’s for a moment then sits up straight and grins. “I think it means dance lessons.”

Steve turns down the suggestion that they find a nightclub (he doesn’t particularly feel like showing off his lack of skill in public) and they all turn down Erin’s suggestion that Steve prove he’s truly mastered his fine motor skills by picking the lock on the theater. But the next night, they simply don’t leave after their evening performance, sitting around smoking cigarettes and chatting as the stagehands take down the trappings of the Star Spangled Show. Martin sticks around to confirm that the props and costumes are boxed up for tomorrow’s drive to Cincinnati (or is it Columbus? Or maybe Cleveland). As soon as the last crate is checked off of his list, he gets his hat and coat and heads back to their hotel with an admonishment that they’ll be leaving at 8 AM sharp, which he seems not to care to really enforce.

Susie has already snuck into the theater manager’s office and brought back a portable record player. Steve isn’t sure what they would have done if the man hadn’t had one around; danced to a faraway radio, or someone humming probably.

Jackie takes Steve’s hands in hers and leads him out of the wings toward the stage. Susan puts on a Benny Goodman record at full volume, shimmying her hips a little as the drums and horns start up. Steve suddenly feels nervous, a little wrong, and he isn’t sure that it’s only because the song is faster than he expected, or because the others have started dancing and even without choreography they’re much better than he could ever hope to be. He just...these are his friends, but this isn’t how he imagined going dancing for the first time.

“I don’t know that I—” he starts, but then he hears a throat clear behind him.

“Well, this isn’t precisely what I expected to find, Private Rogers.”

He turns. “Agent Carter,” he says stupidly. He forgets to salute or even stand particularly straight; it’s as if his brief stint of doing something actually military had never even happened. She smiles at him anyway.

“I was taking meetings at Camp Atterbury,” she says, as if he’s done the normal, conversational thing and actually remembered to ask what she’s doing around here. “And I heard that there was quite the entertainment to be had in town. Unfortunately, we were delayed, so I wasn’t quite able to catch the show.”

“Good thing you’re catching us now,” Erin cracks as she dances past. “I think this is actually our best side.” She’s kicked off her shoes, and spins away barefoot, skirt ballooning wide, with what Steve can only describe as joy.

“We’re trying to teach Steve some rhythm,” Jackie explains quietly. “And how to move those big feet of his.”

Steve adds sheepishly, “I’ve told them I’m perfectly happy just tapping my toes on the sidelines. Even I can manage that.”

Agent Carter tilts her head. “I think you can aspire to a little more than that.” Steve suddenly remembers her standing with Erskine on the field at Camp Lehigh, the two of them walking to the mess beside each other. He’s felt a lot of different things since he was declared a failure and sent here, anger and regret and shame at once again not being fit to serve, able to help, but now he feels guilt: Erskine gave his life for Steve to be what he is, and he’s wasting it.

The relentless beat of the song dies off, and Martha trades out the record because she’s the closest. Despite the brassy blare of the opening, the music is slower this time. Steve thinks he recognizes the melody vaguely from some picture show years back.

He clears his throat. “I can probably manage this one,” he tells Jackie, but even as he says it, he notices the way she’s glancing over at Sheila, who’s still twirling by herself in a more sedate solo dance rather than pairing up like some of the others. “Unless you’d rather—”

“I could step in if you—” Agent Carter says at the same time, clearly having noticed as well.

Jackie flashes a smile at the two of them. “Thank awfully,” she says quickly before she twists between the dancers and slides her arms around Sheila.

Steve watches them for a moment before he turns back. “We don’t have to,” he says. “I mean, I think this was more about letting everyone blow off some steam, maybe have a bit of fun. Being on the road all together can be sort of rough - working all the time, and under each other’s feet. Not that there aren’t good parts, and of course we don’t have it as bad as some, obviously, not nearly, but this is just—” Agent Carter is staring at him with a bit of a smile, but Steve assumes that it must just be a politely automatic sort of thing at this point; for all he knows she’s wishing she’d missed not just the show but all of this too. He takes in a breath. “Anyway, we don’t have to dance if you don’t want to.”

“And if I did?”

The simple question stuns him. He almost doesn’t know what to say. Then: “Would you join me, Agent Carter?” It’s a little startled, not particularly suave, but he knows that it’s sincere. He holds out a hand.

When she smiles at him, it is like a secret. “It’s certainly been some time since I had a little fun, so I thank you for the invitation, Private Rogers.” She places her fingers in his.

“You can...You can call me Steve,” he says as they walk over to join the others swaying dreamily. “If you want.”

“Hmm. I well might.” She places a hand on his shoulder. He knows he’s meant to wrap his arm around her waist - he’s watched enough dancing for that - but it takes him a moment to decide exactly where to slide his hand, a moment to gauge the correct angle and force, a moment to actually begin what he came here tonight to do...and in that moment, there’s a familiar whistle followed by the inevitable shout.

“Alright, break it up, there.” The police sergeant here looks nearly the same as his Brooklyn counterparts with whom Steve is familiar: not just the uniform, really, but that bit of smug power to his face. “We’ve had a call from the church about noise coming from in here far too late at night, so break it up, ladies—oh, sorry, didn’t see you there, sir.” There’s a bit of a mocking edge to the tone; Steve is wearing civilian clothes instead of the getup he’s usually forced into onstage, but these days a seemingly able-bodied man still hanging around is something to comment on, especially one who doesn’t seem to be doing much good.

Steve would stand up to him (probably more easily now that they can actually stand nose to nose) but the part about them being here when they aren’t meant to be isn’t wrong. Still, he can’t help but feel the sting of disappointment. Agent Carter is still planted firm and warm beside him. What if things had been allowed to continue, at least a few moments longer?

“Alright, we’re going, keep your socks on,” Erin yells back as Agnes takes the needle off the record. Susan runs it back to the office it came from while the rest of them scramble around, finding shoes and jackets and hair ribbons. The officer seems content to keep an eye until they’re all safely gone.

Steve stands on the side with Peggy. Her uniform is still perfectly put together; there’s nothing for her to gather. The two of them don’t speak until the whole group is ready to go. They allow themselves to be swept out of the building, watching as the cop locks up the theater and stands in front of the doors as if they might try something with him. Instead, they all turn and begin walking in the crisp midnight air.

Steve puts his hands in his pockets. The others around them are walking arm in arm or twirling gently through the streets, taking one night where they aren’t worried about whether the touring company will decide to close up shop or if they’ll hear something terrible from their brothers and beaux overseas. They hum their way along, still lit up from an evening of dancing not for work but only for themselves, and it gives sanctuary for Steve to speak. He doesn’t quite look up at the woman walking next to him, more over to the side of her, when he offers, “We’re on to Ohio next. If you want to see the show there.”

She laughs gently. “I’m afraid that my engagement here isn’t much longer either. I’m expected elsewhere tomorrow evening.”

“Of course.” That’s honest - he isn’t surprised, of course she has bigger, better things to be doing. He does his best not to sound disappointed, though. Then he remembers that he fumbled two of his lines in yesterday’s matinee (when they’re written right there in front of him, for Pete’s sake) and - despite the best efforts of his teachers and his own improvements - nearly pulled the curtain down early when he overbalanced coming in on his cue, and is a bit glad that she won’t be sticking around.

The streetlight where she’s stopped throws her face partway into shadow. “I do have to thank you for the opportunity to dance. It’s been quite a long time for me, and even if it was interrupted, it was—Thank you, Steve.”

“Of course,” he says again, and that’s honest too.

“Next time, I do hope that there won’t be any members of law enforcement to interrupt,” she says, and disappears around a corner before he can ask, with hope or astonishment or both, “Next time?”

ii.

They’ve moved most of the paintings from the National Gallery, but Steve doesn’t know when he’ll have another free day in London so he goes to see what he can see.

When he’d manage to scrape together entry fare (or sneak in) to one of the museums in New York, he’d always get disapproving stares from docents and other visitors for his fraying clothing and aching cough, the generally held knowledge that he did not belong here. And he would manage to put it out of his mind by focusing on the vivid detail on a Japanese drum or how Monet made blurriness into beauty.

Today, people stare at him for a different reason and he ignores them all the same, eyes focused forward to the canvases displayed. So much of it is about the war, ruined buildings and bomb shelters, and Steve concentrates on the brush strokes or crosshatching instead, the clever use of shadow.

He has managed this so successfully that he doesn’t even notice the line forming nearby until it is a dozen or so people deep. When he asks one of them what they’re waiting for, they look at him not with pity for his not knowing but with delight that he will now learn: “It is nearly time for today’s concert.”

Luckily, he has British coins in his pocket, so he pays his shilling and walks in with the rest. The program advertises some Chopin piece. He doesn’t recognize what it is or the player - according to the others around him, Dame Myra Hess, who began organizing these lunchtime concerts at the outset of the war, has herself played here over one hundred times but not today - and he’s never considered himself a musical expert of any means. But he finds that he is drawn in by the tired ripple of excitement that hovers over the crowd as they file in.

And then Peggy Carter seats herself at the end of his row.

He tries to focus on the playing as the concert itself begins, on the slow, spare beginning and all its promises, but he can’t keep himself from glancing toward the last seat on the row.

Ten minutes in, she starts to cry.

Since he arrived, he’s seen other Londoners shedding occasional tears on the buses and street corners (and no wonder, with their city destroyed, so many loved ones dead and the country still soldiering wearily on) and he doubts anyone would judge her for it. But she stands from her aisle seat and sees herself out anyway, quietly, her tears silent and even the click of her heels barely audible over the music

He follows her. (It is much more noticeable.)

Outside, she is leaning against a wall, her hands covering her face. He waits for a moment before actually approaching: though he followed her, had to follow her, he isn’t sure whether she will be exasperated that he has done so, embarrassed that she was even seen by anyone more than strangers. But he can’t just stay frozen watching her forever (surely that must be worse?) so he takes a step forward.

“Agent Carter,” he says softly. “Is there anything I can do?”

She sobs aloud, once, uncovering her face to wipe at her tears with her fingertips. It’s a bit beyond that. He digs around in his pocket to find a thankfully clean handkerchief (you were right, Ma). She accepts it and dabs at her eyes again, glancing up at him only briefly.

“If you’re going to see me in this state,” she says, “you should probably call me Peggy.” She takes in one last decisive sniff, crumpling the handkerchief in her hand.

“Peggy, then.” He tries to say it like any other name instead of with the softness that is his instinct. “Can I help?”

“It isn’t anything—” She smiles but it breaks in a moment. “It isn’t anything that can really be helped.” A sigh. She looks down at her hands. “I had a brother. His name was Michael.”

“I’m sorry,” says Steve, because he doesn’t know what else to tell her. “I’m sorry that you lost him.”

I understand, he could add, or I know it’s hard, it always is but he thinks about whether he would have liked to hear someone say such things to him, and he keeps his mouth shut. She looks at him with care, and he can’t help but admire the way she can evaluate him even through the remains of her tears.

Apparently she makes a decision, because she says, “It happened several years ago now. And it isn’t any sort of anniversary, I was just listening to the piano and...He played. Michael did. Just a bit, when he was young. And he never played that particular piece, but just listening to it, I had the most sudden memory of his picking out carols on our aunt Hester’s piano, making faces at me all the time. Now I know that he was mostly mucking about with it all - he certainly never could have pulled off Chopin - but back then he was the most talented player in the world. I was always following him about and for years he acted as older brothers tend to toward younger sisters. But when it counted, I was able to depend on him. There was a time when he saw me clearly when no one else did, myself included.”

“And now he’s gone.” Steve tries to say it gently, a fact laid before them, but he knows she might hear the words as cruel, regardless of his intentions.

She does, in fact, begin crying again, but more quietly. “Now he’s gone,” she agrees, once again attempting to mop up her tears. “But I know myself again, and I have him to thank for it.”

“Then I’d like to thank him too.”

She regards him with something bordering on caution, not because she is a fearful person but because she is a sharp one and because she recognizes, as clearly as he does, that whatever tender thing is growing unspoken in the silence between them, it will be ill-regarded in the middle of war, in the middle of the work they are meant to be doing together.

“Is he bothering you, dear?” The woman’s voice - pointed and piercing - startles him. He turns to find a glaring, gray-haired lady behind his shoulder. Her stout form is wrapped in a plum wool suit and she grasps a black umbrella with which it seems she would happily stab him. Instead, when he brings his eyes to meet hers, she asks, “Are you bothering her, young man?” drawing herself up as much as she can and glaring imperiously.

“No, ma’am,” he manages. “We were just—” He flounders there: talking about her dead brother, or having another one of these moments that we try to pretend away won’t work very well.

“Going to dance,” Peggy inserts smartly.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, yes.” Peggy speaks as if this is the most natural response in the world, as if she isn’t even now tucking a damp handkerchief into her pocket. “Captain Rogers saw how lovely I found the music, and as we aren’t able to see the concert ourselves, he wondered if we might take advantage another way.”

“Really.” The woman watches Steve suspiciously, as if he might be controlling Peggy through marionette strings or a gun pressed to her back. If only you knew, he thinks wryly as Peggy brushes her hair behind her ear and subtly elbows him in the process.

“May I?” he says in hasty reaction, holding out a hand. She puts hers into it graciously.

“I do wish the piece were a bit better for dancing,” Peggy says as they step away to a free space farther from the wall, though they are still being observed. More quietly she adds, “And I do wish we’d perhaps had time at least to practice before we were put under the microscope, as it were.”

He certainly wishes for that practice too, or even that they didn’t have to be in this situation at all. But there is also...if he’s going to be forced to dance, he would like it to be with Peggy.

And then with a few last flourishes, the music draws to a close. There are applause from within the hall. Steve doesn’t quite let go of Peggy’s hand.

“Well,” says their overseer, giving a couple firm taps of her umbrella against the floor, “it seems that you will have to return for tomorrow’s concert. Or perhaps find a more appropriate venue for dancing than a national museum.”

Peggy says magisterially, “Of course. Thank you for that advice. For next time.”

Next time. Steve knows that she’s just making the next move in the charade, but as she gestures for Steve to join her for the walk back to headquarters, the words play over in his head: next time.

iii.

“Non!”

This is why, Steve reflects, shaking his head, they had not allowed Dernier to have a baton to use while directing his lessons: he would have certainly used it to literally smack Dugan into shape by now.

“Never mind about all this,” Dugan growls, picking up the hat that had fallen on the ground when he had been too ambitious with a turn in his last attempt. “The ladies will just have to accept that not every man can waltz and satisfy themselves with all my other talents.”

Morita holds out his hands again, palms up. “Come on, you haven’t even really tried.” He wiggles his fingers enticingly. “Dance with me, Dugan.”

“I’d do it,” advises Gabe. “No lady should have to...satisfy herself with a badly brewed cup of coffee or the same six Irish songs performed off-key. Good to have at least one usable skill in the pocket.”

“I’ll have you know,” Dugan says, drawing himself up, “that those are ancient family ballads.”

“I’d have brought up a few positive reviews of past performance rather than defending the Irish songs,” Monty says mildly. “But that could perhaps be just me.”

Bucky, chewing on a blade of grass, eyes closed as he lies on his back facing the sky, says with drowsy vehemence, “Well, you are an English bastard.”

Steve, sitting with his back against a tree, laughs at them all. They’ll be moving out soon - they know that there are enemy troops in the area and Peggy had arrived just after dawn with more precise new target coordinates for them - but they can’t go until she’s had at least a couple of hours rest, so in the meantime: dance lessons.

Morita attempts a bit of a tap pattern in the grass and says, “How’m I going to learn now if my partner’s decided to retire?”

“Don’t look at me,” says Gabe. “My dancing talents would only embarrass you in comparison.”

“And while Jones here might take the prize in more modern dances, I was taught to waltz before I could grow chin hairs,” Monty adds.

But Dernier is already charging forward in a spew of delighted rapid-fire French, of which Steve understands perhaps one word in ten, though there’s only one that’s important anyway: “Capitaine!”

“I don’t—” Steve starts, except Dernier’s already hauling Steve to his feet, continuing his flurry of instructions? advice? as he positions Steve’s hands around Morita. Bucky must actually have truly nodded off after his night on watch, or else his radar for teasing Steve would be on alert. (Steve can't help but be grateful, both that he isn't watching, and that he's apparently finally been able to sleep.)

“Well,” Jim says, snickering, “I guess you’re leading.” Steve shakes his head, trying to puzzle out any of what Dernier’s telling him; if he’s going to do this, he doesn’t want to look like a complete fool.

“He says that you should loosen up your hips. You’re holding yourself too stiffly.”

Steve wants to cover his eyes. He’s managed to have several months of entirely normal conversations with Peggy, and now he’s back to embarrassing himself in front of her.

He looks over to where she’s standing to the side, her uniform and hair only slightly mussed (an accomplishment considering she’s had three hours’ rest on the bare ground, and a pup tent isn’t exactly anyone’s idea of luxurious accommodations). “I guess we might be making a habit of this,” he says ruefully and she smiles at him. “And somehow I still haven’t turned into a dancer.”

“Listen to Dernier and perhaps he’ll succeed with you yet.”

“Maybe,” Morita says, teasingly dubious. “So far, no offense, Cap, it’s like holding hands with a concrete pillar.”

“Perhaps I could take a turn trying,” she says, holding out her own hands in offer. She meets Steve’s eyes, but only briefly, turning her gaze over to Monty and saying archly, “Some of us who were taught early are generous enough to want to help others.”

Falsworth waves a hand toward her - go on - and she steps forward to take Morita’s place.

“You really do need to relax a bit,” she says. Even if it's the same sentiment as earlier, now that she’s close to him, it is different. One of her hands rests, ever so lightly, on his shoulder, and he feels as if he can recall the echo of it from months ago and months before that.

“It’s a little hard,” he says. “To relax.”

“Oh?” Those red lips, upturned at the very corners.

“Well, it’s—”

“Shit!”

In the moment of the first gunshot, a million things happen at once: Dugan dives to the side, cursing alternately at the hole in his hat and the fact that they’re being shot at in the first place; Bucky wakes and jumps immediately into a crouch, icy calm instead of frantic; Monty scrambles for his rifle, Morita for Steve’s shield; Gabe scopes out cover; Dernier, bent low, moves toward his explosives.

“Over there,” Peggy says. Her hands are out of Steve’s, pointing, finding her own pistol. He is beside her, focusing on the spot she’s indicated, nodding firmly once.

“Guess we’ll have to write off the lessons,” he says.

“Perhaps,” she offers, “just a postponement.”

“Alright,” Steve says to his own surprise, and he catches the shield Morita tosses him, and puts dancing out of his mind, for now.

iv.

Steve really only shows up at Rainbow Corner looking for a haircut and, if he’s being honest, a doughnut. He gets the first and is headed to the basement cafe for the second, an ASE novel in his pocket, when a hand shoots out of the dance hall and pulls him in.

“Dance with me,” Peggy says, a hiss that he somehow hears over the booming music, the rhythmic stomping of feet, the chatter of the other dancers .

He takes her hands automatically, but before moving further onto the floor he focuses on her face. She’s flushed and looks...perhaps not panicked, but aggravated.

“Can I get you something to drink first?” he asks. “It’s hot in here.”

Something flashes across her face and he thinks for a moment that she will snap a no at him and find someone else who will just dance with her like she asked with no questions asked, but instead she nods. “Only briefly.”

He starts leading her over to the corner where the bar is. It’s slow going through the crowd, and he stays close so they don’t lose each other. She isn’t wearing her uniform tonight, instead in a green dress with a swinging, silky skirt for dancing; the fabric brushes his legs as they walk. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re doing here? Or at least why it was so important that we finally have that dance?”

“Two questions with one answer, actually.” They join the back of the line. Peggy turns her back to the bar, scanning the dancers instead. He bends toward her, both for privacy and so he can even hear her over the band. “We’ve received reports of a GI who might be a spy," she says against his ear, "reporting to the Germans and perhaps even to Schmidt himself. According to our information, he’s come here tonight, and I’ve been trying for the better part of an hour to spot him and cut into his dancing. I’d like to apprehend him quietly before anyone tips him off or he’s able to do the same for anyone he might be in touch with.”

Steve nods. “And you stick out less when you actually have someone to dance with.”

“I haven’t had much luck thus far, trying to crane my neck around everyone without seeming too suspicious. It is helpful to find a partner who won’t storm off when he doesn’t receive my undivided attention.”

For a moment he wonders if he should be insulted, but then he hears the real sentiment, the trust in him, something more than a partner for a single dance would ever get. He ducks his head against a smile.

They have reached the front of the line and she orders a mineral water despite the lengthy menu.

“I’m absolutely longing for something with a little more flavor, but I am still working after all,” she says once she has drained half her glass. “Though it was kind of you to remind me to refresh myself a little, considering how beastly hot it is in here.”

“Why I don’t usually find myself in this part of the building,” he nods.

“Is that the only reason?” She tilts her head. In the dimmed lights, he watches a tiny trickle of sweat makes its way down to her collarbone.

He clears his throat as she takes another sip of water. “The kind of partner that I’m looking for isn’t usually around here.”

“Oh? I see a variety of lovely ladies here tonight, and I’m sure that any number of them would be interested in dancing with you.” She gestures around, drawing his eye for just a moment to all of the beautiful women in their careful hairstyles and pretty dresses, their smiles bright and delighted. Then he turns back to her.

“I think I need a particular teacher,” he says. “You’d know that better than most.”

But she hasn’t turned back to face him, caught instead with her eyes gleaming predatorily on a man laughing as he twirls a tall brunette into the song’s finale. Steve thinks he might recognize him from the hallways of SSR headquarters, but really he looks as if he could be one of a thousand soldiers.

Peggy turns quickly to Steve. “I apologize for dragging you in here and leaving you standing, but—”

“Go. Do what you do.”

She leaves him with a fleeting smile and her empty glass. He watches as she cuts in with a neat gesture, a nod, a flourish of skirts, then sets the glass onto the bar and, sliding his hands into his pockets, goes to finally track down his doughnut.

She’ll be busy for the rest of the night, no need for him to hang around bothering her. And they’ll have other opportunities to actually get that dance, he’s sure of it.

v.

Peggy can so clearly picture how it would all have gone. There would have been preparation first, powder and cream, holding dress options up before herself in the mirror to choose between the red or the blue, no, perhaps the green, and then landing back on the red. Tracing her lipstick on last, just before she went out the door, sliding the tube into her clutch for touch-ups, just in case.

She would likely have arrived before he did. Imagine the debrief he would have had to go through - it would be a wonder if he had a chance for a shower and shave. But somehow he would have made time, his hair still a little damp, the scent of soap on his skin. He would arrive wearing his dress uniform, and it would have made her realize that he hadn’t been home since the serum and likely didn’t own much else that would fit his changed form. She might have even had the urge to offer her services in a shopping expedition (the uniform fit him quite well indeed, but couldn’t be worn at all times, and certainly not once the war was truly over).

He would have taken her hand with care, and she would have held fast to him. It would have been new, the two of them touching like that without worry of being seen or commented upon, no one teasing around them, and there hadn’t been years of official courtship to accustom them to it besides. But that time had instead been for them to learn each other, time for things to flower quietly between them, and it would have given some familiarity. She wouldn’t have felt apprehensive about allowing herself that flashing vulnerability.

Supper first, most likely. They both enjoyed good food - he especially - and the military didn’t quite match up to a professional kitchen, but the meal itself wouldn’t have been of real importance. This would have instead been a chance for sharing stories without the threat of gunfire or Colonel Phillips interrupting, for finding new shades in her hair revealed by the candlelight, for learning what his laughter sounded like pitched soft and close above a white tablecloth.

One of them would suggest dessert, but the other would say to wait. The band would be playing something slow, and he would nod toward the dance floor. (“Sounds like our song,” he would say, or maybe, “I’ll try not to step on your toes,” or maybe nothing at all.)

They would stand among the other couples, and it probably wouldn’t be dancing as much as swaying, but that wouldn’t matter. Fancy maneuvers or fast footwork, showing off, that wouldn’t be the point at all. The dancing itself wasn’t what was important; it was about the chance for renewal and discovery, a moment to reflect on all the pain and lessons on the path here and the possibilities for the future, a time to ask all the questions and have them answered yes and yes and yes, always yes.

But no matter how clearly she can picture it, none of that happened, hadn’t and can’t and won’t. And so Peggy sighs and straightens her shoulders and walks herself onward.

+1

It’s not every night, or even every other. They are busy people, she especially, and don’t always have the time or the energy. Sometimes they have had an argument, or one of them wants to finish a book, or it's been a long day, or they aren’t quite in the mood. Those are all gifts too, in their way, the opportunity not to have to grasp every moment, to have a life sprawling out before them, to appreciate even the mundane bits of it all.

But once a week, or maybe more, they find themselves like this. In the sitting room just after she’s come home from work, or after supper, or before bed, on a Saturday morning in the kitchen surrounded by the scene of bacon and pancakes from the stove, in the midnight dark of their bedroom with the baby cradled whimpering between them. The radio, or a record, or no music at all. The specifics don’t matter and matter so entirely that they will be remembered for the rest of their lives.

Palm against palm, fingers interlocked, an easy rhythm to their steps.

“I should probably go take in the laundry. I think it’s dry enough, and it might rain tonight,” he says, and she replies, “Hmm,” but neither of them break apart.

“We have a surveillance team in the field and I should check in soon,” she remarks, knowing that he recognizes and respects the importance of her work, but they just continue to make their slow rotations.

They take these moments just for themselves, a reminder of where they’ve been and what they’ve lost, where they are and all they’ve managed to find. A moment to think of the dances that they didn’t quite get, the ones that brought them here, and to be grateful for the ones they have: this dance and all the others, a lifetime of the two of them wrapped up in each other, dancing all the while.

#Steggy fic #steggysecretsanta #plumandfinch #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #Steggy #I tried to infuse it with WWII specific stuff - historical notes on AO3 #open-ended last segment - is it post-Endgame? is it found Steve? you decide

[theoriginalladya]

Author Interview

**Revised, expanded and edited now that I’ve had some sleep and have been tagged by additional people**

I was tagged by @jedirangerpenguin - thank you so much, and hello!  Nice to meet you!!!  (and I absolutely ADORE your tumblr name!) and @painterofhorizons - thank you, dear!!!

I’ll tag a few people - @swaps55 @urrone @guileandgall @punwolf @askebjorns - and anyone else who would like to participate, consider yourself tagged by me.  (No obligation, no pressure!  If you’ve already participated or don’t wish to, that’s fine by me!)

~~~

Name: theoriginalladya  on tumblr (because my original name, ladyamesindy, was scooped up by some bot during my year-long absence)

Fandoms: Mass Effect Trilogy, Mass Effect Andromeda, Dragon Age (all games), Werewolf the Apocalypse (future)

Where You Post: AO3  as ladyamesindy

Most Popular One-Shot: Oh, good question.  Well, I originally posted to both AO3 and ff.net but left the latter a while back so any of my DA oneshots that might have been popular are not up at the moment (hoping to relocate them over to AO3 at some point).  According to AO3 it’s I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.  Interesting.  It’s a little piece I wrote for a friend over here some years ago who loved the Shakarian romance.  The phrase (from the game) is also one I’ve used many times in my life as well.  A close second is One Last Dance.  This is also Mass Effect, and was a fun little piece focusing on John and Jane Shepard from my ShepShep ‘verse that happened all because of a song I heard and couldn’t get out of my head.  It quickly became ‘their’ song and whenever I hear it, I always think of them.  My most popular Dragon Age oneshot appears to be A Nose By Any Other Name and is a oneshot about a portrait at the royal palace and its uncanny resemblance to Nathaniel Howe ....

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: Not too surprisingly, it’s my Dragon Age fic, Ever Constant, which, coincidentally, is my longest fic at the moment (116 chapters).  It’s a Dragon Age AU where Bryallyn Cousland and Nathaniel Howe were married before the Blight and followed them through its entirety.  I had a lot of fun with that piece.  My most popular Mass Effect fic appears to be Destiny’s Road which started the whole ShepShep thing.

Favorite Story You Wrote: Oh gosh, how to choose???  I have far too many favorites among all of them!  I have 80 works over there, most of which are Mass Effect until I get some more of my Dragon Age titles moved over.  For Mass Effect, it’s probably Destiny’s Road or Shepard in Sherwood.  Oh, also Slow Fire Burn.  For Dragon Age (and for what I have over there at the moment), it’s Smoke and Mirrors and To Get A King, which is still in progress.

Story You Were Nervous to Post: Most nervous?  As of right now, Neverending Winter Nights probably.  It’s about Nathaniel Howe and an original character I used to play on an online RPG site from the DA world meeting and spending the night together.  I’m never very comfortable writing/posting those because I do it so rarely.  That may soon change, however ...

How You Choose Your Titles: Usually they pop right into my head.  Song titles or lyrics, quite often, or possibly some word or theme from the chapter/story resonates and a title is born.  Occasionally they can be bad puns.  

Complete: Most of them?  I’ll list just a few of them here

From Dragon Age:

Ever Constant

Til You Return To Me Again

The Sands of Time

Smoke and Mirrors

We Do What Must Be Done  (my take on Bryce and Eleanor prior to Bioware releasing canon info on them)

From Mass Effect Original Trilogy:

Destiny’s Road

Destiny’s Hand

Til Death Do Us Part

La Vie En Rose

Dream On

Command Decision

Mass Effect: Ascendance

Mass Effect: Liberation

Give Me Peace

Bury Me In Willow

Slow Fire Burn

Never Gonna Give You Up

No More Regrets

Through the Looking Glass

Incomplete: More than I’d like.  I had severe writer’s block a couple of years back because of real life stuff and since returning to writing, I’ve tried to focus on one at a time, though that isn’t always the case.  Right now my big focus is on finishing my ShepShep series and getting more comfortable writing Caleb Shepard with Kaidan.

Here is a list of most of my incomplete fics I someday will finish: (I believe all but one are ME)

After the Rain

Mass Effect: The Lazarus Project

Seeing Reds 

Destiny’s Fate

Destiny’s Fate: Downtime

To Get A King (Dragon Age)

Exilium (Mass Effect Andromeda ‘verse)

Do You Outline? Unless it’s a oneshot, almost always.  Mostly it’s a way to organize major ideas I want to cover, keep track of pieces of dialogue I don’t want to lose, that sort of thing.  I’d never be able to write the longfics I do without them.

Coming Soon/Not Yet Started: More Caleb Shepard/Kaidan Alenko!  Also hoping to start getting some of my Werewolf adventures down on the page.  I’ve been RPG-ing that for over four years now and I have several characters I’d like to share.  Also included here is my OC Serafina MacKinnon from the DA world whose stories will protray my canon view of my playthroughs of the games.

Do You Accept Prompts? ALWAYS!!!  My list of characters and links to their stories is here if anyone ever wants to prompt something specific, or just drop a prompt in the ask and I’ll adapt it to whoever it fits.  

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited to Write: I’m always excited about ALL OF THEM!!!!!!!  Goodness .... Most excited, probably Serafina and her group of stories which will likely take me the rest of my life to write! lol  Also Caleb and Kaidan - I was pulled into that idea by a writing prompt from @swaps55 and I’ll admit, I’ve fallen so HARD for them.  But seriously, I’ve so many ideas and new ones are always hitting me.  Seriously, I have a spreadsheet for all my Shepards and I’m currently sitting at something like 85, I think???  The possiblities are endless!!!  This also goes for any/all fandoms I listed above.  Probably a few others, too.

***I’m going to add one note here:  I tend to categorize most of my fics by Series on AO3 - one of the big reasons I decided to leave ff.net and transport over there.  I have far too many works to list here, but if you’re interested in checking them out, you may want to start with the series tags.  Most oneshots are included under a generic Mass Effect tag, unless specifically related to a separate one.

#Author Interview meme #ladya writes #ladya plots #when the muses attack #writing #my writing

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Lord!!!' I am so in love with The Gateway!!! Thank you for this AU. It is so magnificent. I cannot wait for the next installment. Thank you. This blog is my jam. You all rock!

anonymous asked:

I am eagerly waiting for The Getaway! I love it!

anonymous asked:

Loved the latest Getaway. Those crazy kids.

diversemediums asked:

Could we get another installment of The Getaway please?

anonymous asked:

Any plans to continue The Getaway?

Wrapping her large scarf around her neck, Claire waited in the draughty bus station walking from end to end as she tried to decipher the local routes. Hungry and cold, it’d been just over two days of heavy travelling and the extended journey was beginning to take its toll on poor Claire.

“Ma’am...madam?” Calling out, the conductor waved his hands in front of Claire’s face as she shuddered and focused her energy back onto the poor man who was trying to give her advice.

“S-sorry, what did you say?” she returned, blinking the haze away as she rubbed her hands together in the frigid station.

“The next bus, miss, it’s ready to leave in five minutes from stand two, alright?”

Nodding her head, she glanced the length of the building, her chest constricting as she faced the prospect of finally reaching her intended destination. The whole way here she’d been convinced of her decision, certain that Jamie’s presence would fix the fear that had taken root deep in her bones the moment her suspicions had been realised.

But now, being so close to fulfilling that desire, Claire wondered if she was putting too much pressure on poor Jamie.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the kind gentleman as he tipped his hat and turned on his heel in the opposite direction.

Walking towards the waiting bus, Claire clenched her hands together, trying desperately to warm her frozen digits.

Sitting on the cheap plastic flip-down seats, Claire settled herself, pulling her full rucksack from her shoulders and resting it at her feet. There would be another bus along in thirty minutes, and she’d rather give herself that extra time to settle the uncertainty that was now bubbling inside her belly than set off in such a state.

“Ye look fair fashed, wean…” came a small voice to her left as Claire twisted her head to look at her mystery friend.

Sat on the bench beside her, an older lady sat, her knitting abandoned in her lap as she bent her head to the side, appraising Claire with a kind look in her eyes.

“Ye love him, aye?”

Shocked, Claire jumped a little as the words hit her.

Forced into a corner, there was nothing to say but an honest reply.

“...yes, and I’m about to ruin his life,” she almost choked out, her throat pulsing in time with her pounding heart.

There it was. The facts in black and white.

It wasn’t that she didn’t think Jamie would stand by her, that he wouldn’t do all he could to be her rock --hers and the baby’s.

But the crux of the matter was just that, whatever his plans for the future, she was about the stride into his life and tear them all down.

True enough, they were both responsible for what had happened. But Jamie had been a gentleman. He would have waited. He had forced her to actively contemplate what they’d been committing themselves to and she had thrown caution to the wind.

“I can see the cogs turning, lassie,” the lady broke in, snapping Claire from her maudlin thoughts. “And afore ye dig yer own grave and cover yerself over in the dirt, let me tell ye something…”

Raising her brows, Claire turned herself fully to face her new friend and relaxed her tense shoulders, thankful for the distraction.

“It isne just yers to take on, ken?”

Wetting her lips with her tongue, Claire blinked slowly before speaking. “H-how? Do you...is it obvious?” she stuttered, assuming the lady had guessed her predicament just from the look of her.

“I’m a mother, wee one…and yer rubbing your belly unconsciously, my dear.” Winking, she smiled pleasantly as she picked one stray knitting needle from a bag filled with wool and looped the long scarf-like material around the fresh metal.

“It was an accident, I’ve only just finished my exams.”

“--and ye dinna want an abortion?” The woman asked, playing devil's advocate with Claire’s emotions as she watched the horror play out on her face.

“No...no, I...that was never. No.” Claire returned, absolute certainty lacing her strong words. “She’s a part of me now, I couldn’t do it. Even if he sent me away.”

“Go to him, darling girl. Yer brave, I can see it in yer face. You are here, and ye didna spring it on him over the phone. Whatever ye feel inside,” she continued, standing as she repacked her small wool bag, brushing her short gray hair behind her ears, “going to him is the right thing. I believe in ye.”

Brushing passed Claire, she handed her a small piece of paper with a number written on it in beautiful cursive script.

“I had my son at seventeen, out of wedlock. My husband, the man who fathered my son, he was devastated that I hadna thought he would step up. We were married soon after and not a day goes by that I dinna think how much easier it would ha’ been had I just allowed him to bear some of the burden from the beginning. Trust me, dearie, I ken.”

Tapping her nose, she rested her bag over her arm and shuffled off in the direction of the exit, leaving Claire alone once more.

Folding the tiny strip of note paper, Claire slid it into her jeans pocket just as the next bus pulled into the bay and opened its doors.

Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulled the last of her change and picked up her rucksack. Taking a deep breath she stepped onto the bus and paid her fare before sitting in the closest seat, her knee jiggling up and down as the engine idled, the constant whirring keeping her grounded.

Finally, the doors slammed shut and the driver reversed, the bus leaving the safety of Inverness behind.

Taking her book from the side pocket, Claire busied herself, hardly paying attention to the beautiful scenery as they began to pass along the length of Loch Ness.

It would be nearly an hour before she arrived in central Beauly, and then she’d have to find her own way to Lallybroch.

The kind man in the bus station had assured her the big Fraser house wasn’t too far from the main stop in the middle of the small village. But until she got closer, she decided not to add another worry to her ever expanding list.

It was nearly midday by the time the little passenger bus reached Claire’s intended destination, and the driver had to purposefully stop to remind her that she had arrived.

Thanking him, she slung her backpack over her shoulders once more and typed in the address to google maps on her phone.  

The automated voice read out the directions in her computerised voice as Claire wandered slowly along the main road before turning off when instructed. Her battery was low, but with any luck, she’d have her bearings before it completely died on her.

As it was, luck was on her side and just as the phone beeped to signal its near demise, Claire saw the large sign for ‘Broch Tuarach; Lallybroch’ pinned to a small hand-built wall.

Holding tightly to the straps of her bag, Claire began the meandering walk up the long drive, the sound of her feet crunching against the smattering of gravel keeping her on task.

As the familiar arch came into view, she slowed her pace, her eyes darting here and there as if anyone of the Fraser’s might suddenly appear before she’d had chance to solidify her thoughts and prepare herself.

“Pull yourself together, Beauchamp,” she chastised herself, her words floating off into the surrounding trees as she passed under the arch, “you can do this.”

Clattering rang out from the kitchen, the sound of dishes being washed coming from the open windows as Claire stood in front of the large wooden door. She could hear Ellen humming, the light airy song drifting through the air as she finally knocked, her mouth dry as a bone.

Waiting for someone to open up and let her in seemed to take an age, and by the time the door had begun to open, Claire had all but zoned out.

Ellen’s eyes grew wide as she saw her best friends daughter huddled on her stoop, a large bag filled to the brim hanging from her right shoulder.

Claire looked bedraggled.

Before Ellen could muster the words to ask how she’d travelled here from Oxford, Claire and dropped her rucksack and launched herself into her arms, clinging tight as she buried her face into Ellen’s neck.

“Och, Claire lassie...wha--” she began as she rubbed her hands over Claire’s back. It was as she pulled her off the step and into the main hallway that she felt it, the slight protrusion of Claire’s belly against hers. A sure sign of the babe that grew beneath her almost-daughter’s skin.

“Oh...my…” she muttered, the air leaving her lungs in a massive gust as she swayed Claire from side to side, taking in the unspoken truth of what had actually possessed Claire to make her way to their little home.

Claire said nothing.

Certain that Ellen knew exactly what was going on, she simply accepted human contact for the first time in a while, basking in the closeness she so desperately craved.

“Is he at school?” Claire whispered, her words muffled in Ellen’s woolen jumper.

“Aye, my dear. He is. Dinna fash though,” Ellen replied, her heart breaking for poor Claire; who’d obviously endured so much on her own, “I’ll make ye some willow-bark tea and run ye a bath, how does that suit?”

Stepping away, Ellen held onto Claire by the shoulders with one hand and let her other rest gently against her tear splattered face, her eyes soft and warm.

“I s-should have called, I should have--” Claire began, the words falling from her lips so quickly that Ellen almost didn’t catch the underlying meaning.

“Nay, Claire,” she broke in as she realised why Claire was werriting, “ye did the right thing. Yer alright. This is your home, a leannan, always.”

Nodding, Claire hiccuped and swallowed the last of her apologies, her heart finally calming as Ellen walked her into the sitting room and removed her coat for her.

“Now, do ye want to talk?” Ellen asked, a soft kindness in her voice as she sat next to Claire, holding her cool hands between her warm ones and rubbing her fingers gently.

“I do,” Claire replied, a tiny burst of life fluttering in her stomach as the first feelings of joy began to flow through her veins.

‘I’m going to be a mother.’ She thought, the image of a tiny baby with Jamie’s vibrant red locks appearing before her very eyes just as the feeling subsided and she shook her head.

“But I want to tell Jamie first...please.”

A small smile tugged at Ellen’s lips as she clenched Claire’s hands between her own.

“O’ course, Claire. But I have to ask,” Ellen finished, a glint of happiness sparking behind her eyes, “my darling girl, have ye told yer mam and da that yer here wi’ us?”

Letting her eyes fall to her lap, Claire shook her head. “No, but I can phone them now. It wasn’t that I was a coward, Auntie Ellen, I promise,” she pleaded, her words clear now as let all the anguish leave her system, fatigue taking root in her bones, “but you must understand-- I needed Jamie to hear it from me first.”

Chuckling, Ellen plucked the landline handset from its charging spot and passed the device to Claire.

“That I do, Claire. But now ye must tell them. And all o’ it, ye ken?”

Nodding, Claire began to key in the number of her father’s mobile, her sweaty fingers slipping on the plastic keypad as it started to ring out.

“I’ll be right here,” Ellen whispered, as she crept out of the large sitting room, closing the door behind her until it sat nearly level with the frame.

Taking a deep breath, Ellen listened only for a moment to ensure Claire had reached Henry and Julia before returning to the kitchen for the tea.

Looking out of the window, she gazed down the drive as the clouds began to lower, a soft pattering of rain falling and speckling the clean windows.

“Grandma Ellen,” she muttered, her fingers rapping against the marble countertop, her eyes watering at the prospect. “A wee bit young, weans,” she continued, a grin spreading across her mouth as she pictured Claire holding an infant as she paced in front of the fireplace in the lounge. A stunning image to be sure. “A bit young, aye. But no less perfect.”

Waiting for the kettle to finish its whistling, Ellen poured the boiling water into two cups before straining the decoction of willow-bark through the small infuser, swishing it around in each mug and watching as the faint traces of purple and brown swirled in the heated liquid.

Looking up at the ceiling, Ellen closed her eyes for just a moment and placed her palms together, an almost silent prayer falling from her lips as the family scene disappeared from her subconscious.

“Dear Lord,” she began, unaware of Claire as she peeked into the large kitchen, her eyes fixed on Ellen, “take care of them. Of Jamie, Claire and baby.”

Leaning her head against the wood, Claire smiled at Ellen’s words, the depth of the Fraser matriarch’s feelings for her warming her blood as she stepped backwards and returned to the sitting room.

This journey, she reasoned, would not be an easy one. But with the support of Jamie’s parents --and her own-- she was certain they would all prosper.

Secure in the knowledge that she had Ellen’s blessing, Claire tucked her legs under the throw on the sofa and closed her eyes, the effect of forty-eight hours on the road finally catching up to her as she dozed off.

“Sleep well, beautiful Claire,” Ellen sing-songed, pulling the blanket around her shoulders as she snuck back into the room and kissed her god-daughter on the forehead lightly, “dream sweet dreams, Sorcha…our fair English rose.”

#Anonymous #;Mod MBD #The Getaway #Teenage Jamie and Claire AU #teenage pregnancy

[coloursflyaway]

A Pattern Of Errors [9/ 9]

Pairing: Dirk Gently/ Todd Brotzman

Rating: T

Words: 5.646

Dirk picks Todd up for a road trip he never planned to go on, with a red cabriolet and a bright smile and a thousand places to go. And although Todd doesn’t know what he expected, he definitely gets more than he bargained for.

List of chapters

 The night passes, and Todd isn’t sure if it lasts an eternity or just a blink of an eye. Sunlight starts to filter through the thin fabric of the curtains, Dirk mumbles something unintelligible into the space between Todd’s shoulder and the pillow, and Todd feels his heart in his chest, not speeding up, not swelling, just its presence, a living, beating weight. It’s a strange thing, because it feels like it doesn’t belong to him anymore, but to the man next to him, to auburn hair and blue eyes, to a sunny smile.

They aren’t touching, so Todd fixes that, turns around and puts his hand above the other’s, feels bony knuckles and warm skin. He’d like to lace their fingers together, because holding hands seems to be a fixture in their relationship, but waking Dirk up would be a crime he doesn’t want to be guilty of. There is enough weighing down his conscience already. The sunlight is mellow, softening the lines of Dirk’s face, smudging the fan of his eyelashes into a feathery line, and Todd loves him in so many ways, with such an intensity it takes his breath away, and suddenly, it’s not just the existence of his heart he feels, but who it beats for.

 It takes an hour or so longer until Dirk wakes, all blinking eyes and sleepy smiles, like the sun rising once again in front of Todd’s eyes. The thought that maybe, just maybe, he will have to allow himself to be left behind.

“Good morning”, Dirk mutters softly, looks at Todd with adoration shining out of blue eyes, and turns his hand around so he can do what Todd wanted to for so long, intertwine their fingers. “You haven’t slept well, have you?” “Not particularly, no”, Todd admits, watches Dirk frown, “I’ve been… I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep. Nothing special, really.” It’s clear that Dirk doesn’t believe him, but the other doesn’t push it, doesn’t ask again, but just accepts that Todd doesn’t want to talk about it, squeezes his hand. “Alright. Then I hope you sleep better tomorrow.” He says it with a strange finality, but gives Todd no time to think about it, and kisses him instead.

 They get in the car and Todd finds that he cannot speak. Dirk is chattering happily next to him, all sunshine and warmth, and Todd thinks he should contribute at least a little bit and yet can’t find the words. So instead, he watches. He watches Dirk’s fingers on the steering wheel, the glint of light in his hair, turning it copper, the flutter of his eyelids and the movement of his lips, the shade of his skin. Every aspect of him is familiar to Todd by now, etched into his memory, and yet he cannot stop to look, finds a new kind of beauty in the glow surrounding Dirk, in the love he feels for him. There is no need for Dirk to be stunning, breathtakingly beautiful from the outside, when he’s the best, the most magnificent human being Todd thinks he has ever met.

“…which is why I conclude that Eurovision really should be a vital part in our shared life from now on”, Dirk rambles on, and Todd doesn’t hear it, doesn’t hear anything until the other adds, “Are you listening, Todd?” It startles him a little, the question, but not enough for Dirk to notice; he could lie and pretend that he knows exactly what it was Dirk was talking about, and yet he doesn’t, just shakes his head and watches a hint of the light die in Dirk’s eyes. A small voice at the back of his head tells him that it’s all he’ll ever do to Dirk. It’s unbearably familiar, even if those last weeks managed to drown out its words with happiness. “Well, that is rather unfortunate”, Dirk says a moment too late to sound unaffected entirely; he doesn’t seem angry though, nor upset, just vaguely worried. “But I suppose I can just repeat it, seeing that it is just as important to you as it is to me. Or at least it will be. So let’s see, where to start…”

 Dirk pulls over, their tires having left a trail of dust along the road, which is still settling when they get out of the car. It’s warm outside, even the wind blowing hardly able to bring any relief, and with the sun burning down on them, Todd feels his heart start to ache. It’s expanding, filling up his entire chest, beating and yet seeming to freeze, because it hurts to look at Dirk. It hurts because Todd knows it would hurt a lot worse if he couldn’t watch the other sleep anymore, because he’s fallen hard and knows that Dirk has too, and because he still isn’t sure what to do.

He knows what the old Todd would do, the one who lied and stole and pretended none of that mattered; he’d go on just like before, he’d take without considering that maybe, he doesn’t deserve it, because it feels good to do so. But that’s not who he is anymore, not who Dirk fell in love with anyway.

The sky above them is clear blue, like the heat has soaked up even the moisture it would take to form clouds, and Todd lets his eyes slip close, turns his face towards the sun and tilts his head back, lets it light up his vision in blood red and pink. A car passes them, drowning out the sound of Dirk coming closer; it’s only the hand softly put down on his shoulder which warns Todd before the other starts to speak. “I know you said you’re fine before”, Dirk mutters, his breath a gust of air against Todd’s overheated skin. “And I want to believe you, I really do, it’s just… hard to do so, when you’re like this. Quiet. Like something is eating you up from the inside, not like a ghost shark might, but… slower. And I don’t know what to do to help.”

He’s worried, Todd could tell that from listening to his voice alone, no need for words – because that is how attuned he is to Dirk by now, to his moods, his way of thinking, the gentle changes in his voice and the vast ones on his face – and it’s the thing Todd wants least. Upsetting Dirk feels like conjuring up a thunderstorm on purpose when he knows that neither of them will be able to find shelter for miles and miles.

So he lets his head tip back until it hits the familiar curve of Dirk’s shoulder, paints a smile onto his lips and hums softly. “Dirk”, he says, tastes the name sweet on his lips, “It’s okay. I’m okay. Just feeling a bit off, but that will pass. I promise.” He might be lying, he might not be; it seems impossible to tell, and maybe not only to him. Because Dirk takes a moment, but then lets his hand drift across Todd’s chest, the other one joining and wrapping him into a proper hug, the breath washing over his skin turning into a kiss pressed against his cheek. “Alright”, he answers, and it might be that, might not; Dirk might believe him, might not. “If you say so. But if you need anything, I’m here, you know that, right?”

Dirk is solid, warm behind him, smells faintly of lemon and cheap strawberry milkshakes; he’s here, he won’t leave, and suddenly the thought is almost as terrifying as soothing. It makes Todd smile nonetheless, a real, warm smile this time. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

 They stay too long out in the sun, until Todd feels dizzy, drunk on light and dust and Dirk’s arms around him; when they get back into the car, it’s him who takes the driver’s seat. It’s nothing they discuss, or have to, and most of Todd relishes in it, because it’s so easy with Dirk, so natural. Still, there is one small part which reminds him that, if he left, it might prove impossible to fill the space Dirk has carved for himself in his heart again.

Todd wonders just how much would be left of it without the other anyway.

The car starts easily when he turns the keys, purring in anticipation, and Dirk smiles at him from the other seat; the sun has painted a flush onto his cheeks, and it seems like its light has yet to leave his eyes. “Where to?”, Todd asks, because he doesn’t want to decide, neither now nor later, and watches blue eyes twinkle and shine with excitement. If he had a list of the things he loves about Dirk, this would certainly be on it; the endless enthusiasm, the childlike passion the other holds for everything he does, everything they do. “Oh Todd! We could go anywhere, it doesn’t matter. And isn’t that the beauty of it? Freedom, Todd, empty roads and sunshine and the whole country stretched out in front of us. Let’s live deep and suck out all the marrow of life! Let’s tear our pleasures with rough strife through the iron gates of life, Todd, and let’s do it together.”

His voice is a familiar melody, almost a song, and Todd can’t help but laugh anyway, put one hand on the steering wheel and the other on top of Dirk’s. The happiness he feels at seeing Dirk happy is still laced with a sadness that makes breathing difficult, but for a moment, right now, it is easier to bear. “Yes, okay”, he answers, watches Dirk’s smile bloom into a beam and doesn’t know if he could ever bear to lose this. “But where should we do all that?” “I don’t know”, Dirk says, and beams and beams and beams, “I don’t care. Does it matter?”

It doesn’t.

 They go anywhere, Todd not thinking, just letting intuition take them wherever it wants to, Dirk alternating between rambling and humming, Todd alternating between needing to stay and thinking he has to go. He’d break Dirk’s heart, he knows that, might just shatter it along with his own, but then again, Todd might end up doing that anyway. It’s a thought he has become too familiar over the last few hours, one that seems to have ingrained itself into his very core, tainting every smile, every look, and Todd knows that he has gone days and weeks and months without noticing how he felt for Dirk, just ignoring how he was almost swept away by the sheer intensity, and yet feels his control slip now, within a day. It’s a kind of poison, spreading through his veins, worse than doubt, because Todd knows all about that; it’s the fear of certainty, that when he looks too closely, he’ll see the answer written out in front of him as clear as day, and that the answer will not be the one he wants to hear. That even when he sees it, he won’t be able to accept it.

Dirk is trying to tell him something about ice cream, or maybe some other kind of dessert, and Todd looks over at him, at blue eyes and pale skin, a face that’s all angles and sharp lines, feels his heart ache with the thought of possible doom. And wonders, if any decision could be right if it meant dimming the light in the other’s eyes.

 It might be by chance, it might be by intuition, but the next town they stop in is one Todd has been to before. Coles Corner, it’s called, and it takes Todd a few moments too long to remember why the street he is driving along looks vaguely familiar. Years and years have passed, but there was a time, back when Todd was still a teenager, when his dad used to take him fishing once a year, up to Wenatchee National Forest, where they spent a weekend at different lakes and rivers, but always the same little hotel, the same little room, the same little quips and talks and sparks of wisdom shared between them, until Todd had decided that with sixteen, he was too old for this. In hindsight, he regrets it, thinks that maybe another year, another two, could have changed something, anything, but it’s too late now, like so many things are.

He takes a right, another right, and doesn’t quite remember where he is going or where he should go; it’s like a faint memory of a dream he once had that guides him, whispers of resemblance coating houses and streets alike. “I know this place”, he tells Dirk a little too late and Dirk smiles brightly, even before he has turned around. “My dad used to take me here to go fishing. I don’t think I ever could have found it again on a map, but I remember it now. I used to love it, right until I didn’t anymore.”

“That sounds nice.” Dirk’s voice is light and happy and yet makes Todd remember that the other never had the luxury of shared trips and cold ravioli eaten right out of a can in the car, because the single diner in the town had closed already. “I’ve never fished, which, in all honesty, might be for the best. I don’t know if I could kill anything with my own hands.” Todd cannot help but snort, look over at Dirk a little incredulously. “You killed people before. Not just fish, actual people.” “Well… yes. But also no. I mean, morally that might be true, but technically, it was the shark-kitten that did it. So I stand by what I said, I don’t know if I could kill anything with my own hands.”

“Are you really trying to argue semantics when it comes to murder?” It’s an amusing thought, and one which Dirk doesn’t even try to deny; instead, he looks at Todd a little sheepishly, smiles anyway. “Possibly?” “You are by far the strangest person I have ever met in my entire life, and I am the including body-snatching cultists and the man who thought that dressing up like a steampunk toaster and going back and forth in time was a good idea.” “But you love me anyway”, Dirk chirps, shoots him a blindingly sunny smile, and Todd aches in ways he didn’t know possible. He still can’t deny that it’s true, doesn’t want to either. “Yeah, I do.”

 The old hotel, the one Todd remembers doesn’t exist anymore, but there is another, more modern and less cosy one in its place, which serves them just fine, even if the man behind the reception desk looks at them strangely, when Dirk asks for one room instead of two, insists on it, really. But he still hands them the key, almost returns Dirk’s smile, and for a moment, everything seems right in the world, because the brightness of the other’s curl of lips lights up the room, the world around him.

They make their way up to their room, both holding onto one handle of the duffle bag instead of each other’s hand, and it still feels almost unbearably intimate. “You know”, Dirk says as he turns the key, opens the door for both of them, and Todd doesn’t know anything at all, “I feel like it was a good idea to come here. The right one. Not in a universe-changing way, maybe, but still in an important one.” His smile turns soft, lopsided, and although they are still standing in the hallway, Dirk presses a kiss to Todd’s lips, one that tastes of love and devotion and the possibility of forever and Todd wants and wants and wants.

Maybe Dirk feels it, or maybe Dirk wants it to, because the kiss turns passionate within a few more seconds, hotter and fiercer, like Dirk wants them fused together, two souls in one body instead of two, and somewhere in between stumbling through the door of their room, closing it without looking, and almost stumbling over the duffle bag, Todd realises he doesn’t know if he’s sobbing or moaning anymore.

 Night sets around them, thick and viscous, like it is trying to drown all life within it, and Todd is watching Dirk watching him. He’s tired in a way he used to be familiar with, the burden on his shoulders making every move an almost impossible feat, the soft exhaustion of the afterglow adding to it and smoothing rough edges to something still overwhelming, but less frightening. He reaches out, touches fingertips to Dirk’s red-kissed lips, and feels them curl beneath his touch. What makes it easy to speak all of a sudden, Todd does not know, but there is no time to consider, because the words are pouring from behind his lips, a flood he can’t hold back, no matter the taste it leaves behind on his tongue.

“I don’t know if this is right, Dirk”, he says, and knows his voice sounds rushed, sounds scared. “Not this trip, not this room – I know that’s what you’re thinking about asking – this. Us. Whatever we are, I don’t know – not because of me, but because of you. You’ve made me better, you’ve made me so much better, but I’m not sure if that’s enough yet… or if it ever will be. I know myself, I’m – I hurt people. And I know you’ll say that it’s just another easy excuse, but it’s true.”

He takes a deep breath, sees Dirk do the same, and continues before the other has the chance to speak. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I know that I could. I love you, but what if I wake up one day and find that I don’t anymore? What if I continue to, and still end up in someone else’s bed, because they were there and you weren’t, and I was drunk and weak and me?  I don’t want to put you through that, not when I might have been able to prevent it. You’ve been through so much, and somehow, even if I have no idea how, you’ve come out of it alright, or at least close to it, but even you must have a breaking point. And God, the thought that maybe, just maybe it could be me… it scares me to death.”

The words drip from his lips like poison, half of the thoughts new ones, which he hasn’t had time to consider yet, but knows instinctively are right anyway. It has happened to him before, him cheating on a person he cared for, him waking up one morning and looking at his girlfriend’s face, realising that somewhere between going to sleep and waking up, he had lost all the feelings he had had for her. It adds a layer of fear to the guilt, to the helplessness, because feeling the love inside him fade to indifference sounds like the ultimate kind of torture.

“You don’t deserve something like me”, he breathes out, and it’s the truth; the question is, how they will deal with it. “You deserve someone good, someone stable, someone who is worth your time and your optimism and your smiles and your love, and Dirk, I want that person to be me, I do, but I just don’t know if I am.” A shaky exhale; there are unshed tears glistening in Dirk’s eyes and Todd wants to unsee the look on the other’s face and yet knows he will never be able to. “And I don’t know what your breaking point is, but I think mine might be knowing I disappointed you again.”

He's met with silence, a longer one than he thought Dirk capable of, and then Dirk sits up, not one tear having fallen, even if his eyes are rimmed with red, his lips trembling when he speaks. “Some time back”, he starts, and Todd has not heard something as painful as his voice anymore since Amanda told him she didn’t consider him her brother any longer; it’s fragile, brittle. “You asked me about where I really wanted to go, and I told you about Land’s End. Well, Todd, you’re not the only one who can lie. Get up, I’m going to show you where I wanted to go my entire life.”

 Although Dirk’s request doesn’t make much sense to Todd’s mind, his aching, loving heart, he heeds it anyway, puts on clean clothes and stuffs the old ones into the duffle bag; whenever he looks up, Dirk is watching him. His eyes are gleaming with an emotion Todd cannot name, not pity, not understanding, not pain, but not too removed from any of them either. He hurt Dirk, he knows that, and yet he doesn’t know what to make of the other’s reaction.

They don’t check out, just leave, Dirk getting into the driver’s seat of the car without looking back at Todd, and just like that, they’re on the road again, only that everything easy, light, wonderful about it has disappeared.

 At some point, Todd must have drifted off, lulled to sleep by the silence between them, the humming of the car and his own splintering heart, because when he wakes up, they are back in Seattle. It takes him a moment to realise, because Dirk’s face is the first thing he sees – blue eyes tired and circled with grey, his lips pale and not swollen with kisses anymore, auburn hair tousled – but then, it’s unmistakeable. He knows these street, has known them since he was a little boy, he knows the scent, the sound, the hotel in front of which they are parked.

“What –“, he starts, wants to end the sentence with are we doing here?, because it makes no sense, but Dirk doesn’t let him, stops him with a finger pressed against his lips. It’s the smallest touch, after they spent hours touching earlier this day, and yet it feels like the first one in a decade, makes Todd’s skin sing. “You are not allowed to talk”, Dirk tells him and doesn’t take his finger away, looks at him sternly just for good measure. “You’ve had your little monologue and I’ll have mine, and afterwards, you can say something. But until then, not a sound, okay?” His voice holds no room for disagreement, so Todd doesn’t even try, just nods. And really, it seems fair, to at least listen to what Dirk has to say.

“Good”, the other says, nods as well, and gets out of the car; Todd, like so very often, follows.

 Dirk walks through the lobby of the Perriman Grand at a pace that suggests he owns it, takes them up to the 18th floor, and it’s only when the doors of the elevator slide open that Todd really understands where they are. It’s like he can see himself once more, wearing an oversized fur coat, his left eye slowly swelling shut, yelling and feeling so hurt, so betrayed that he couldn’t see that he was hurting, betraying. “Why-“, he starts, but Dirk shuts him up with one look, with a hand wrapped around Todd’s wrist, pulling.

“This is where I wanted to go”, Dirk tells him and pulls him further until they are standing at that corner, Todd almost pressed up against the wall like Dirk back then, looking up at the taller man. “Ever since I can remember. Yes, I wanted to go on a road trip, and I wanted to stand at Land’s End and scream my entire life into the ocean and believe it listened, and I wanted to see dolphins and the Taj Mahal and a hundred thousand other things, but I didn’t want to see those things alone. I wanted someone next to me, someone who understood and smiled back at me and laughed at my stupid jokes and didn’t mind the occasional cosmic intervention, no matter how ill-timed.”

He's breathing hard, like the words take up more oxygen than expected to be said, and Todd can relate, because they hit him and force the air out of his lungs as well. “I know you think you’re the worst person in the world, Todd, and I know you think I can’t see that, or don’t want to, or am just so scared of being lonely again that it won’t make a difference to me. But I know your faults. I know you lied to Amanda and your parents and your band, I know you scammed Dorian, I know you could have had a life so much better than the one you ended up having, and I know there is no one to blame for that but yourself. I know that you can be selfish, I know that you’re stubborn, that you’re prone to self-sabotaging, that occasionally, you’re daft as hell. That you’re pessimistic and try your best to find the faults in both yourself and others before looking for the good things. I know you pushed me away and called me a monster, and that you can’t say for absolute certain that nothing like that will ever happen again.”

Every word hurts, because it’s true, because Dirk fires them off like other people would a spray of bullets, only that with Dirk, each of them hits its mark. Todd curls in on himself just a little, but doesn’t speak, because he promised not to, and because he deserves it, after all.

“But that’s not all”, Dirk says, and his voice goes softer around the edges. “You are loyal and although you don’t trust easily, when you do, it’s for good, you’re strong when you need to be, you’re witty and clever and you care so much about those few people you let in that, sometimes, I’m afraid it will consume you whole. You’re not just your bad sides, Todd, just like I’m not just my good ones, and I know that, and I don’t mind. I don’t need you to promise me forever. In fact, I don’t even want that, because it would be a lie. You’ll hurt me, I have no doubt about that, and I will hurt you too, because that’s how humans work, and that’s what we both are, in the end, something-that-is-not-psychic abilities or not. But I’d rather have you hurt me later, because of something that matters instead of hurting me now because you think this pain will be preferable to whatever it is to come. If it comes. Because there is no certainty it will, either. We might just work. Even forever.”

Dirk is out of breath, and Todd is stunned, unable to find any words at all, so in the end, he breathes out what he still can; the other’s name. “Dirk…” “No, Todd! I won’t listen to any buts or ifs or whatever else you’re trying to say. Why does it have to be so difficult? Those last weeks, I was the happiest I have ever been in my entire life, and it was because of you. And not even because you were trying, just because you were there, with me. Maybe there are better people out there than you are – in fact, I am sure there are – but there are better people than me out there as well. And I don’t care about any of them, because I don’t love them. I love you and I know you, and I know you love me too, and I know that if you really want to throw all of this away because you think that maybe, one day, which might not even come, you might be my breaking point, then I can’t stop you, but believe me, I will make it as difficult for you as humanely possible. I’ll stay, and I’ll wait, and if I have to –“

Dirk is mid-sentence and Todd knows that he agreed to let him speak, but something happened, which maybe neither of them expected – Todd believes it, believes every word Dirk says, maybe just because he wants to, maybe because they are true. He’ll figure that out later. For now, it’s enough to believe, and to look at Dirk and feel the shadows of guilt and desperation slowly lifting. Because Dirk might not be right about everything, but at least is right about enough for it to matter, and because there is one more thing which Todd hasn’t considered and yet is so important: this is not only his decision to make. It’s theirs.

“Okay”, he says, and it’s just two syllables, but two syllables which lift him off the ground, just like their first kiss did, the first time they held hands on the hood of that ridiculous cabriolet. They feel right, and although there is no way to be certain that they are, Todd decides to believe them.

“-then I will wait for however long- wait, what?” Dirk stops, almost trips over the words, his face uncrumpling, the light Todd has missed in his eyes slowly sparking again, not yet making them gleam, but at least glisten weakly. “Okay”, Todd repeats, and feels a smile touch his lips, curl them slightly; he will hurt Dirk, and he will beat himself up about it for far too long, and maybe at some point it will be too much, but as long as he gets to see the other look at him like this, with galaxies shining out of blue eyes because of a single word Todd says, Todd thinks it might be worth it. “Okay.”

“Okay as in I will stop both this nonsense and sabotaging my relationship with my wonderful boss-slash-best friend-slash-boyfriend?”, Dirk asks, although he must know the answer already, hopeful and a little bit breathless and perfect in so many, if not in all ways, and Todd loves him desperately. “Yes, like that. Exactly like that.” “No matter any breaking points?” And there it is, a choice, which he can make, and maybe, just maybe, this is how Dirk feels on a regular basis, no guide book, no safety nets, but the faint knowledge what to do next anyway. He smiles, and a supernova explodes behind Dirk’s eyes, bright and beautiful; it might just heat him up from the inside, too, for when Todd touches him, takes his hand, it feels like it’s setting him aflame. “I think that if you end up breaking me, it will have been worth it.”

 They end up kissing, their fingers intertwined, until Todd’s back is complaining, his lips tingling with blood. He’d go on for the rest of the night, just because it feels like every kiss makes another layer of doubt disappear, but Dirk pulls away at last with tender, half-lidded eyes and a blush high on his cheeks. Somehow, he feels closer to Dirk than before, like another barrier has broken down that separated them; a set of worries which has always been lurking beneath washed away by words, by kisses.

Their hands are still locked, and Dirk squeezes his fingers gently, brushes their lips together in what feels like a soft farewell for now, and Todd aches, loves, feels. “We should go”, Dirk mutters, as if he was sharing a secret, and Todd takes half a step forward so he can smell the scent of Dirk’s shampoo. “Where to?” He expects Dirk to say anywhere, or where you want to or where the universe wants to take us, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leaves another kiss on Todd’s lips, then steps back, even if he doesn’t let go of his hands yet. “Home”, Dirk says, “I think we should go home.”

 At the door, Todd’s fingers detach from Dirk’s, and while the other turns to look at him, he doesn’t comment, doesn’t even slow down. He gets into the car, and Todd watches, can’t turn away. It’s still the kind of car Todd used to dream about in school, it’s still the same man, and Todd’s heart still skips a beat, just like it did when this whole trip started, only that now he knows that the cabriolet has nothing to do with it.

He stares for another minute at least, until Dirk rolls down the window and sticks his head out, strands of auburn hair being tousled by the wind immediately. “Are you coming?”, he asks, and there is a hint of a smile tugging on his swollen lips. “We have somewhere to be.”

 It must be late, Todd realises as they drive through the almost empty city, the street lights making the world look peaceful and lonely at the same time. Dirk’s fingers are tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel, and occasionally, he looks over at Todd, as if trying to make sure he hasn’t disappeared; Todd answers each glance with a smile, another skip of his loving, mending heart. “I never would have thought this trip would go like it did”, Todd says and it sounds like a confession, but sounds like the truth as well. “Me neither”, Dirk replies, and looks at him, all sunshine although it’s the middle of the night, “But I am glad it did.”

Another smile, a softer one, sweeter one, before Dirk looks back at the street, and Todd’s heart swells, and swells, and swells. He could answer, can even taste the words on his tongue, but the world outside is golden and empty and feels a thousand miles away; they are going home and Todd doesn’t want to speak, not anymore. One of Dirk’s hands is still tapping on the steering wheel, but the other one is lying between them, fingertips turned up as if in invitation, and Todd reaches out and slips his fingers in between Dirk’s, intertwines them. They feel cool against his skin, familiar, and Todd squeezes to say everything he has and hasn’t got words for; Dirk squeezes back and says the same.

Oh well, who would have thought that I'd actually manage to wrap this one up? Sorry for the horrendous delay - there was far too much uni, a new job, a little heartbreak and a writer's block going on since the last chapter, which just kind of took up all my time and attention. But anyway, thank you all so much for reading, for the kudos, and especially, of course, for the wonderful, lovely, amazing comments, which made my day each and every time. I loved writing this story and will miss it dearly, so whenever anyone wants to talk a bit about these dorks holding hands, feel free to come to me ♥

Oh, and as I mentioned on Tumblr already, I might, if I have time and motivation and all that, write another little piece for this, about Dirk and Todd getting married in Las Vegas, because I feel like it would fit too well, so in case you're interested in that, let me know!

#dirk gently's holistic detective agency #dirk gently #todd brotzman #brotzly #dghda

[beastmusic-blog1]

Music junkieism: a retrospective before moving forward...

Every time I ease into the early few weeks of a new year, one of the first things I do is look ahead to upcoming months of the calendar I keep: what music do I have to look forward to? Back in 2014, my fourth year of living in Portland, I began to recognize that my overall happiness was directly linked to the amount of music I exposed myself to. I decided that in addition to haunting record stores and collecting treasures there, I would take advantage of my generous city and try to see at least one concert each month. With a few exceptions, I have so far succeeded.

Last week I kicked off my fourth year of this tradition. Let’s just say that 2017 started with a bang: Dorothy at Doug Fir Lounge. So far I’ve lined up six shows over the next few six months, with many more to come, and it’s already looking beautiful. Before I jump into the next round, however, I’d like to reflect on some of the highlights of 2016...

5. Jason Webley (Holocene, 6/13) - I first discovered Jason Webley, an accordion-wielding fusion of folk and feet-stomping Gypsy punk, back when I lived in Ashland. He would come through town to play for his dedicated audiences in coffee shops and pubs, and my friends and I were always there. His return last June after a long hiatus was just what I’d been missing: high-energy yet intimate, like spending time with an old friend, enjoying both his rich collection of songs and his amusing gift of storytelling. Every person in the room was charmed by his presence. He’s more than earned his place a Pacific Northwest folk music hero.

4. Y La Bamba (Revolution Hall, 8/26) - I have to admit, I’m somewhat proud of my minor relationship to Y La Bamba that once again dates back to my life in Southern Oregon: the coffee shop I frequented was across the street from the tattoo/piercing parlor where singer/guitarist Luz Elena Mendoza worked. We’d see each other around and were friendly enough to say hello. Today she has become quite a fixture on the Portland music scene, and with good reason; she possesses a sound, both vocally and musically, that is entirely her own. This show celebrated the release of Y La Bamba’s third album, Ojos del Sol, one of my favorite records of last year. I may not know Luz well, but I deeply admire her as an artist and am very proud of her.

3. The Kills (Roseland Theater, 6/2) - Of the handful of bands I’ve been lucky enough to see more than once, The Kills are up there as one of my favorites to see. While I’m a huge fan of their records, I feel that they are a band that is most appreciated live. Alison Mosshart in particular is an absolute force of nature; I always marvel at how she never seems to stop moving while onstage. This show was my third time seeing them, the day before the release of their latest album Ash & Ice, which I’ve since nearly played to death. Alison and Jamie Hince are incredible musicians and performers, and even though the sound system of Roseland was disappointing (too loud and unbalanced) they delivered a fantastic show. Extra points scored for Alison smiling at me a few times as I gazed at her from the front of the crowd. Someday I’ll give that woman a hug.

2. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club / Death From Above 1979 (Roseland Theater, 10/21) - I saw BRMC for the first time back in 2013 and have been anxiously awaiting their return ever since. They’ve cemented their status at the top of my list of Favorite Bands Ever and that is enough reason to rank this show as #2 here. They put on a hell of a show and admittedly there are few things that please me more than watching Robert Levon Been manhandle his bass, but I’m praying they never play Roseland again. Back When I saw them at Wonder Ballroom the sound was perfect: loud, but not too loud, with plenty of room for their layers to expand. Roseland cranks their system too high for such a condensed space and as a result most of the band’s nuance was lost and I was left genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of my ears. (DFA1979 didn’t help matters much either.) That being said, I was delighted to see my beloved trio again, particularly badass drummer Leah Shapiro following her recovery from brain surgery. Talk about rock n’ roll.

1. The Veils (Barboza, 11/12) - If I were given the power to create a personally perfect band, the result would be The Veils. My discovery of their sophomore album Nux Vomica five years ago changed the way I loved and appreciated music, and they have continued to enrich my life ever since. Seeing them at Doug Fir Lounge in 2013 was a peak experience for me, so you can imagine my disappointment at discovering that Portland wasn’t a stop on their North America tour this time. I decided that if your favorite band doesn’t come to you, you go to the band, thus inspiring me to recruit my best friend to join me on a whirlwind trip to Seattle. What ensued was a nearly flawless adventure; sharing what might have been the greatest show I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of attending, dancing like maniacs to each of our favorite songs, and enjoying the company of the ever-lovely mad genius singer/guitarist Finn Andrews, who graciously signed a few treasures to add to my collection. Simply put, everything a music junkie could ever ask for. 2017 is going to have to work awfully hard to beat that one.

And there you have it. We’ve now set the stage for a new round of adventures. Stay tuned for my reflections on my night with Dorothy, followed by others down the road, including Devendra Banhart, PJ Harvey, and NICK CAVE (!!!), as well as album reviews, artist discussions, local recommendations, and more...

#dorothy #jason webley #y la bamba #luz elena mendoza #the kills #alison mosshart #jamie hince #black rebel motorcycle club #brmc #robert levon been #leah shapiro #death from above 1979 #dfa1979 #the veils #finn andrews #portland #live music

[atlantamusicguide]

SXSW 2019 Recap – Day 1

  While Austin, TX is already know as the “live music capital of the world,” it’s the 5 days in mid-March, every year since 1987, that they really wear that title with pride as thousands of bands travel from all over the world to perform and attend the South by Southwest Music Festival.

What started off at the Driskill Hotel back in 1987 featuring a handful of up and coming and regional bands, has grown into an enormous gathering of passionate creators and consumers working in film, technology, gaming, comedy and of course, music. To be asked to showcase is high praise in itself but that’s where the work really starts. With thousands of bands in town performing at hundreds of venues over the course of 5 days it can be hard to get noticed and even harder to leave a mark.

This year we made the trek out to Austin to check out a ton of bands, parties, some BBQ and all the sights in hopes of catching the next big thing.

While SXSW is one big 10 day festival it might be more accurate to think of it as a ton of little festivals, both official and unofficial all centered around downtown Austin and local neighborhoods. There are literally bands playing everywhere all the time.

Something that was different from past years was the pullback from the overtly commercial sponsorship connected with the festival. This change help create more engagement and intimacy at shows providing better exposure for the up-and-coming acts, giving them more opportunities to perform and provided more access to those artists for fans attending the festival.

With music starting as early as 10 am on the first day of the festival it always makes for a challenging travel day, especially if you’re headed west a few days after “springing forward” with the time change. 8am flights, losing a few hours of sleep and shows until 2am does not reward the casual fan, but we’re not here to sleep, so let’s get started.

With most of the official showcases happening in the evening there’s a ton of time to check out great bands at the day parties, most of which are free, so that’s where we started.

First up we headed over to the Cedar Street Courtyard for Flood Fest. Nestled between two buildings in the Warehouse District, the outside space is long a narrow with great bars on each side, and great sound.

Illuminati Hotties from Los Angeles were the one of the first bands to hit the stage on Tuesday morning. Out supporting their brand new single, “I Wanna Keep Yr Dog” the band was tight and fun, ripping through a ton of great indie-pop tunes like “boi” and “Paying Off the Happiness” from last year’s full-length album, Kiss Yr Frenemies.

Next up, Priests, a 4-piece post-punk band from Washington, DC. with an experimental edge. At times they reminded me of a less-aggressive Savages with more of a pop slant. Still punk, but with a bit of neon thrown in. Crowd was loving it.

Hælos is a 4-piece trip-hop band from London out on the road ahead of their upcoming record, Any Random Kindness which comes out on May 10th this year. They had the crowd singing along to the older tunes and digging the new stuff too. It might be a little too on the nose to say fans of Portishead would dig them, but if that’s your thing, this will probably be your thing too. They put on a great live show with a ton of energy.

White Denim

One of the best things about navigating the SXSW schedule is the random pairing of bands that you’ll see back to back on the same stage. White Denim was a complete 180 from Hælos. From Austin, TX the band laid down the rock. Heavy, jamming guitar, pounding drums and arrangements that loved to stretch out. Fans of The Grateful Dead, The Allman Brothers and The Flaming Lips would all find something to dig here and they had a great local crown out to see them.

Broken Social Scene

Closing out the day show at Cedar Street was Broken Social Scene from Canada. Out supporting their new record, Let’s Try the After (Vol. 1), they filled the stage with an ever expanding line up of up to 9 people as they ran through songs from Forgiveness Rock Record to the crowd’s delight, kicking off with “World Sick,” “Chase Scene” and “Texico Bitches.” It was a great way to end the first half of the day and for those people that missed them today they had about 6 more times to see them play again at the festival.

Tiny Desk Family Hour

One of the most hyped shows of the first night was NPR’s Tiny Desk Family Hour at the Central Presbyterian Church. There was no posted lineup other than the expectation of “10 bands performing in a once in a lifetime event that you won’t want to miss.” The line to get in the church went around the block so we went to “plan B” which worked out perfectly as we got to see some amazing sets by Lunar Vacation, Locate S,1 and Blushh.

A quick walk a few blocks over from Central Presbyterian Church was a quiet little upscale bar called The Townsend. Upon entering the bar there were only a few people chatting up the bartender and no band in sight. Further investigation revealed some double doors at the very back of the room with a SXSW Official Venue placard on the door. Walking through revealed a great little live performance space with folks crowded in to see one of Atlanta’s finest new indie-pop bands, Lunar Vacation. Sugar-coated melodies, jangly guitar and bouncing steady tunes were on full display and it was hard not to get swept up. Fans of Real Estate and Camera Obscura will find a lot to like here.

Locate S,1 was high on our list of bands to check out this year and we loved their psych-pop grooves. Coming from Athens, GA,  Christina Schneider worked with Kevin Barnes on her latest record and while the temptation to make comparisons to Of Montreal are warranted her music and performance never came across as anything but genuine and fun. If you dig the Elephant 6 bands, you’ll dig ‘em.

Next up on our list of bands to check out was L.A. quartet, Blushh fronted by Shab Ferdowsi. A huge crowd packed into the newly whitewashed 720 Cafe just as Blushh was packing their gear onto one of the smallest stages I’ve ever seen. They stacked amps on top of each other to get everything on stage and then proceed to rock out some fantastic 90s inspired slacker grunge with killer melodies. One of the best sets we saw all week.

Moving Panoramas

We finished up the first night of the music festival under a parachute in the courtyard of Cheer Up Charlie’s, and after threatening all day, the rain finally decided it should have a go. The band ran through a fantastic set of shoegaze-inspired dream pop. Fronted by Leslie Sisson’s wonderful melodies and guitar. The band rocked through a fantastic set of songs like “ADD Heart,” “Baby Blues” and their first breakout single “One” from their debut record of the same name. For the song, “In Tune” off of their new record Two, Matthew Caws from Nada Surf, joined the band to sing along to the crowd’s delight. A great first day and a perfect ending to the night.

Illuminati Hotties

Illuminati Hotties

Illuminati Hotties

Illuminati Hotties

Illuminati Hotties

Priests

Priests

Priests

Priests

HÆLOS

White Denim

White Denim

White Denim

Broken Social Scene

Broken Social Scene

Lunar Vacation

Lunar Vacation

Locate S,1

Locate S,1

Locate S,1

Locate S,1

Locate S,1

Blushh

Blushh

Blushh

Blushh

Blushh

Walker Lukens

Walker Lukens

Walker Lukens

Walker Lukens

Rosie Tucker

Moving Panoramas

Moving Panoramas

Moving Panoramas

Photos and Words by John McNicholas

SXSW 2019 Day One SXSW 2019 Recap - Day 1 While Austin, TX is already know as the "live music capital of the world," it's the 5 days in mid-March, every year since 1987, that they really wear that title with pride as thousands of bands travel from all over the world to perform and attend the…

#austin texas #blushh #broken social scene #illuminati hotties #john mcnicholas photography #Locate S 1 #Lunar Vacation #moving panoramas #priests #sxsw #white denim