Archive of Our Own

“And if we are to die tonight, is there moonlight up ahead?
And if we are to die tonight another rose will bloom.
For a faded rose, will I be the one that you save?”
(Tom Waits)

~ 🌒 ~

“Do you need me to do a murder? I’d do a murder for you.”

“You’ve known me six months and you’d already do a murder for me?” Helen teased. “Must be love.”

“Yep, I think it might be.” Jenny grinned back from her side of the bed. “Or maybe I just really want to do a murder? Mwahaha.”

Helen smiled at her girlfriend fondly but cynically. “You’re not very convincing, my dear.”

Jenny pouted. “I could do a murder. I’m evil. Chaotic evil at that. See, says so right here on my tat.”

She rolled onto her stomach to show Helen the offending ink, a black and red mess on her left shoulder. Skulls and flames featured prominently. It was the result of an ill-advised drinking session in her last year at school – some tattoo artists would work on anyone that had cash and could still stand, and they generally weren’t the better ones. She had no regrets though – Jenny wasn’t a ‘regrets’ kind of person, or at least, that’s what she liked to claim. Life was too short.

Helen ran her fingers over the tattoo adoringly – she was no fan of the design, like everyone else with something approaching actual taste, but she was head over heels for its bearer.

Jenny certainly looked the part – she put effort into it. She had ghostly pale skin, which she carefully emphasised with make-up so that half the people she met assumed she was ill. Her mousy brown hair was viciously dyed flame-red as if she was resentful that it hadn’t come that way naturally. The relentless bleaching left it frizzy and brittle but she didn’t care – it fit the image anyway. Her eyes were an unremarkable bluey-green, which she probably also resented, but with the little gold rings around the pupils that some people just seemed to have. Helen found them intoxicating and had done so right from the start.

“Well, I don’t need you to do a murder,” Helen said, then sighed. “Though if Derek doesn’t keep his hands to himself next month, I may need you to cover for me while I do one.”

Jenny frowned. “He’s that bad?”

“He’s a prick. Everyone in the department knows. There’s a whole, what’s the thing? Whisper network. I hear the department head’s trying to get rid of him but she can’t pin anything on him, the slippery bastard.”

“That blows.”

“Aye. I’m fine though, I’m a couple of dress sizes up from his usual targets. It’s the other girls I need to look after.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Saved by a creep’s preference for stick insects. Truly the Lord’s work.” She ran an appreciative hand up Helen’s side, hip to waist to back and shoulder. Helen closed her eyes and leaned closer, smiling sleepily.

“How long is this trip again?” Jenny asked.

“A month.”

“A month? That’s aaaages,” she sulked.

“It’s not that bad. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Take me with you?”

Helen opened her eyes again. “You want to come on an archaeology dig? You’d be bored out of your mind, dear.”

“Yes, alright, probably. Never gonna get your fascination with old stuff.”

“Mm, I know. I’ll never get your fascination with new stuff, either.”

In truth, Helen didn’t really believe her own assurance – she’d never been less enthusiastic about a trip abroad. Especially one like this, a rare opportunity to work on a prestigious site and an ideal start to her academic career. She was still looking forward to it, lecherous senior colleagues aside. But a month away from Jenny was a very long time.

They’d met at a student event of course, a Halloween party that Helen had been dragged out to by friends worried about her rapidly developing reclusiveness. She attended fully expecting to have a couple of terrible cocktails and then head home for a nice quiet bit of reading and an early night.

A few doubtful sips into her first drink, she’d spotted Jenny, who was dressed as an angel. It hadn’t suited her at all. Each to their own, Helen supposed – she seemed to be having fun anyway. But then she'd spotted her again later, when the long white skirt had disappeared to reveal slinky black leggings and the jacket had been turned inside out to show off a black and red lining, and the halo had been folded in half to turn it into horns, and Helen had fallen in love on the spot. That sort of thing was only supposed to happen in films. The rest of that evening was something of a rosy blur.

Jenny turned out to be a final year Psychology student – and a Leither. It was odd, Helen thought, how you could go all the way to London to go to university, and while you were there meet the love of your life, as people often do, and then find out you were born in the same hospital. Life could be funny like that.

“Jen?” she said, stroking her hair.

“Hm?”

“You know I’m heading back to Edinburgh for a few days in October? For my brother’s birthday? Will you come with me on that one?”

Jenny tensed, just a little. “You want me to meet your family?”

“Please. Mum’s been pestering.”

“She won’t like me.”

The statement was matter-of-fact, but Helen had known Jenny long enough by now to spot the hint of vulnerability behind it, carefully walled up and constantly guarded, where no-one could get to it and use it against her. Helen suspected she was the only one to see it in quite some time. Possibly ever. She didn’t yet know what it was that Jenny didn’t talk about, but whatever it was, Helen would be there for her. Forever, if at all possible. She didn’t know how she knew, she just did.

“Oh, she will,” she said. “My mother has never not liked one of my girlfriends. Even the one who threw up in the rose bushes and keyed Dad’s Volvo.” She watched Jenny’s eyebrows rise, then added “Actually, I think she might have been quite pleased about the keying of Dad’s Volvo.”

Jenny huffed a little, then looked distant. “What if she doesn’t?”

Helen scooped her into a hug.

“Then you just don’t like each other, that’s all. It won’t be the end of the world.”

~ 🌓 ~

~ 🌓 ~

“I can not believe it’s been a year,” said Aylin, smiling happily and playing with a ringlet of her hair.

Chris gazed softly back across the table. “Nor can I. It seems like a moment.”

Chris and Aylin were on a weekend trip to London to celebrate a year since their first date, which was arranged on a whim after a chance encounter in a park in Potsdam, where they both lived. Neither of them had been to London before, and they only had time for a few of the many things they’d considered, but they both felt they had made the most of it.

Yesterday they had been to Kew Gardens, where Aylin (a gardener by profession and a hummingbird by nature) flitted excitedly between collections like a child unable to decide which flavour of ice cream to choose. Chris had a more sedate approach to life, and followed along in her wake, basking in the sights and smells wherever he ended up.

Today they had wandered around several of the more well-known parks, where Chris ambled along the paths enjoying the summer sun while Aylin investigated the bushes and flowerbeds and even climbed a few trees. After that, they had indulged Chris’s interests instead and done the Globe Theatre tour, then spent most of the afternoon in the Tate Modern. Now they were sitting in a craft beer bar in Blackfriars, resting their feet before heading back to their hotel to get ready for their anniversary dinner.

“The theatre was very impressive,” Chris said. “It’s a shame we didn’t have time to see a play.”

“Yes, that would have been perfect,” Aylin replied. “Though I think I would prefer something lighter, for an anniversary celebration. They’re doing a tragedy at the moment.”

“Ah, not very romantic,” Chris agreed. “We could come back another time? It’s a nice city and we have barely seen it.”

“I’d like that. Perhaps next year.”

Chris took her hand across the table and beamed. “Next year sounds good to me.”

Their meeting had been fairytale. Chris worked for a publishing house in Berlin, but had moved back to Potsdam to look after his elderly parents. Aylin was from Berlin originally, but had moved to Potsdam when she started her training in the university’s botanical gardens. One summer afternoon Chris went there for a stroll, met Aylin in the rose garden and asked for directions to the orchid house. She took him there herself instead, gushing about every flowering plant they passed on the way, and Chris found himself captivated. The rest was history.

Aylin ran her fingers affectionately over Chris’s knuckles and sipped her beer. “The art gallery was interesting. I liked the piece with all the seeds.”

“I thought you would,” Chris said with a grin. “I liked that one too, it was good, very thought-provoking.”

“They’ve got some of the names wrong, though. I hope it doesn’t affect the intended message.”

Chris burst out laughing. Aylin watched him, smiling widely.

“Which was your favourite?” she said, when he’d recovered his composure.

“The one with the mirror shards and the silver thread, I think – it was the way it reflected little sparks of light onto everyone in the room, made them part of the piece. I don’t know what the intended message was, though.”

“Oh that one was beautiful. The description said it was something to do with soulmates, but I didn’t follow the explanation.”

“No wonder I didn’t understand it,” Chris said, running his finger through the condensation on his beer glass. “I’ve never understood that concept.”

“No, I haven’t either. It makes no sense. How would you ever find them, when there are so many people? How are you even alive at the same time, with so much time to be alive in? You can’t just hope you’ll run into them in a garden, you’d need...”

Aylin had that look in her eyes again, the one she often got when a topic grabbed her and she let it take her along for the ride to see where she ended up. It happened a lot, about all sorts of things. Chris was always spellbound by it, and he was again now. He sat listening to her voice, mind fuzzy around the edges from the beer and the day’s exertion and the sheer joy of being around someone you could never get enough of.

“...I want to choose who I spend my life with anyway, not just get assigned a partner by God or something.”

Chris laughed. “Me too. Though I don’t think I would mind if I got assigned to you. I saw you and I just knew you were worth talking to. I’m so glad you thought I was too.”

“So am I,” Aylin said, and added with a mischievous grin: “Even if you do overfeed your plants.”

~ 🌔 ~

~ 🌔 ~

Idris headed for the table at the back of the coffee shop, where a young woman sat with a coffee and a small pile of papers. She was prettier than he’d expected, but nevertheless he would much rather be somewhere else.

“Excuse me, um. Are you Nasreen?”

The woman looked up at him and smiled politely. “Oh, hello. You must be Idris. Mother said you’d be along at three.”

Idris smiled back nervously and nodded. “Sorry I’m a bit late, the bus broke down. Can I get you anything? I see you already have your, uh—”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, turning back to her reading.

“Right, right. I’ll be right back then.”

He dashed off to the counter, flustered, while behind him Nasreen sighed and turned a page. A short queue and a little dithering later, he returned with a pot of tea and several pastries. He put the pastries in the centre of the table and made a timid ‘please help yourself’ gesture, then busied himself with the milk and sugar.

“So, um, how has your day been?” he asked.

“Busy,” she said, pointedly. “And yours?”

“Also busy,” he said. “I’m only here for a few days and it seems like everyone in the family has errands for me to do.”

Nasreen nodded. “That’s familiar. It’s nice that you still found the time for coffee.” She looked up from the papers and locked her eyes intently on his. “Or does this also count as an errand?”

Idris was a little intimidated – he felt like she wasn’t so much looking at him as through him, like she could see his soul. Nasreen seemed to be very perceptive, and clearly liked to get to the point. He tried not to stutter.

“I, well, it sort of does. They were quite keen for me to meet you.”

She sighed. “So were mine.”

“But you aren’t, I take it?”

Nasreen relented and put her papers away. “I’m sorry. Every time I visit home my mother tries to set me up with another man. I'm sure it's only a matter of time before it's the turn of smarmy Jamil from the mosque. It gets tiring.”

“I completely understand. Mine has been pestering me too. Always going on.” He put down his tea and mimicked his mother: “When will you give me grandchildren, Izzy?”

“Ugh, exactly. Like I’ve nothing better to do.”

Idris nodded. “I always want to say 'Mother, you will get your grandchildren when I’m good and ready. I only have the one life, I don't see why I should rush it.' But she'll wear me down eventually, I'm sure.” He shrugged and took a bite out of his pastry.

“Me too,” Nasreen replied. She took a sip of coffee, then paused thoughtfully for a moment before setting her mug back down. “I tell you what, you’re pleasant enough. Could we keep this going for a few dates, whether it works out or not? If it looks like it's going well it'll keep her off my back for at least six months. Yours too, I’m guessing. Save us both a lot of trouble.”

Idris found himself intrigued and amused by this little bit of parental deception. “I like the sound of that.” He smiled at her conspiratorially. “It’s a deal.”

“Thank you.” She smiled back and took a pastry, softening a little. “So, what do you do, then, Idris?”

“I’m a doctor. And you?”

“Also a doctor,” she replied.

“Oh! What specialism? Where are you based?”

“Opthalmology at Barts. How about you?”

“I’m at Guy’s. Orthopaedics.”

“Oh, very nice,” Nasreen said. “I never did get the hang of spines.”

“They are a bit complicated, aren't they? Mostly do hips, myself.” Idris laughed awkwardly, then fiddled with his napkin in embarrassment. “So, we both ended up in London, then?”

“Looks like it. Perhaps that’s why mother suggested you. Maybe she has finally accepted that I’m not going to move back.”

“What did she say about me, anyway? That didn’t involve mentioning where I live or what I do?”

“Yes, you would think she would mention those,” Nasreen said, sipping her coffee again. “What she actually said was ‘You remember that nice young Idris? Who gave his ice cream away to his cousin when they were little?’”

Idris groaned. “People still remember that? Of all the things to be known for.”

“At least it's something nice,” she replied. “I'm still that little tearaway responsible for the Marble Incident.”

Idris’s eyes widened in mock horror. “That was you! You menace!”

“You remember it?”

“I nearly fell over onto uncle Amir!” he said, laughing. “But I suppose I did get a free marble out of it.”

“Ah, so that's where the one I didn't get back went.” Nasreen watched Idris’s guilty look for several seconds, with increasing amusement. “Of course I didn't get them all back. I'm teasing you.”

Idris relaxed. He decided it was best not to admit he still had it, an orange and yellow cat’s eye marble with a small chip in it. It was sitting on his desk at work next to the half-dead succulent and the ammonite fossil his little sister had found on a beach when they were children. Idris had liked it, and he tended to hold on to things he liked. This was probably not first date material even when you were only there because your parents had set you up.

“Do you want to know a secret?” he whispered, leaning in.

Nasreen leaned in expectantly. “Go on then.”

“I wasn’t really being nice,” he whispered. “I just don't actually like ice cream.”

“No!” Nasreen looked delighted.

“What? I don’t!” he squeaked, regretting this choice of anecdote just a little. “It’s too cold, and you have to eat it too quickly or it melts and makes everything all sticky! But you can't be a child who doesn't like ice cream, can you? If it's not a rule it might as well be. And Amal had dropped hers, and I didn't want mine, and I could fix both of those and nobody had to know. Hey, stop laughing!”

But she was lost in it, doubled over and rocking in a helpless belly laugh that rang in Idris’s ears like something ethereal and filled him up with light, and suddenly rushing didn't seem like a bad idea at all, because he knew with terrifying and inexplicable certainty that he would never want to spend another day of his life away from this woman.

“You're sweet,” she said, through the rosy haze, with an expression that he desperately hoped meant she might possibly feel the same. “Let's go for lunch.”

~ 🌕 ~

~ 🌕 ~

It had seemed like the right thing to do, once. Join up, do his part, protect his people. A few months on the front lines had put paid to that. This side or the other, the uniforms all looked much the same when they were trampled and blood-soaked.

Like all soldiers must, he had learned to put the soft parts of himself away – locked safely in a box deep down, where they wouldn't be tainted by the things he had to do to follow orders and stay alive. If he made it through this he would go home, and take the soft parts out, and put the hard parts in, and bury that box as deep as it would go, never to resurface. He would choose a comfortable chair and a warm hearth, and an honest trade if his body was still up to it. He would swap the sword for the ploughshare and never look back.

That was for later, though. For now there was mud, and rain, and guard duty, and rumours of an enemy scout.

The soldier was patrolling alone; he shouldn’t be, but the unit was undermanned at present. The reason why danced across the inside of his eyelids nightly, painted vividly in rose reds and ashy greys, a slow parade of absent friends and foes who might in another life have been friends.

In his heart, he knew he was not cut out for this.

He walked along the vague path that marked the edge of his unit’s current position, a faint impression left by patrols that were somewhere else a few weeks ago and would be somewhere else again a few weeks hence. There were few sounds; the wind in the trees, his footsteps in the mud, the patter of the rain, occasional hints of distant activity from soldiers going about their nightly routines or trying to get some sleep.

A sudden, nearby sneeze.

His head snapped round towards the source of the noise, too close to be anyone who was supposed to be there. It had come from a tree-shaded hollow that had previously given good cover but was now useless because of the last shift in the battle lines. Blood suddenly pumping, he crept towards it. A voice in his head screeched that this was a bad idea, that he was probably walking into a trap. He ignored it.

Inside the hollow was a small figure, pressed into the shadows. The soldier raised his weapon and watched for signs of movement – he knew he shouldn’t wait, that it would probably get him killed one day, but he’d never been comfortable with initiating the fight.

The figure didn’t move, just sat in the darkness and watched him. They stared at each other for several minutes. Then, finally, the figure spoke.

“You going to get on with it, then?”

“What?”

“You know. What we’re all supposed to do. There’s only me here, I don’t actually have a chance.”

“There’s only me here too.”

The figure leaned forward out of the shadows and into the moonlight, revealing a young man’s head and shoulders: there was mud caked all over his face and clothes as if he’d been rolling in it, his hair was matted, and his eyes looked like they had seen things they could never un-see.

The soldier’s gut twisted. The man was an enemy soldier, of course he was, but he didn’t feel threatening at all – he was clearly very young, even more so than the soldier himself, and he looked scared and tired. The soldier was very familiar with those.

“I don’t want to,” the man said.

“I don’t either,” the soldier admitted. Alone in the dark except for this weary opponent, he found himself thinking something unthinkable.

“Do we have to?” he asked. “You can’t have collected any useful information on us, you haven’t got far enough. I could head back to my side and you could head back to yours, and pretend we never saw each other.”

The man shrugged passively. “I'm just as dead either way.”

The soldier frowned as the realisation hit him. “You're not a scout, are you? You're a deserter.”

The man nodded, just a little, as if ashamed. He was visibly trembling, even in the dim light. “I can’t do this,” he said, shaking his head. “I just can’t. What’s the point of it? Any of it? Why are we doing this?”. His voice cracked. “Whoever wins we lose. We all lose.”

The soldier felt something break open inside him, the lid of a box lifting, just a little. He lowered his weapon and leaned closer.

“Listen. Just beyond those trees there's a ditch with a stream in it. No-one on our side is guarding it because it doesn't lead anywhere useful. Hopefully no-one on your side is either, for the same reason. If you follow it down to the river and turn left, then cross at the old bridge and follow the forest road, it'll take you into neutral territory. You'll need to be quick though, it’s only a few hours until dawn. Don’t let the sun come up on you here. Please. For both our sakes.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Thank you,” the man whispered, gratefully. He scuttled off.

The soldier watched him go – and then reeled under a wild impulse to go with him. No, that was silly. He couldn't possibly go – he was on guard duty, it would leave his brothers-in-arms vulnerable, he couldn't betray them like that. And besides, if he deserted he would never be able to go home, assuming he escaped at all and wasn't captured and executed. He might even get that other young man killed – one can hide more easily than two, and he wasn't built for sneaking like the enemy soldier was. He had to stay, trust his superiors' judgement, do his best.

He put the lid back on the box, closed it firmly, and continued his patrol. It was still dark, and there might still be a scout. He must be vigilant.

The rest of his watch passed uneventfully. He did not find a scout. He waited anxiously for the return of the next sentry, but they didn’t report seeing anyone either. The soldier put his guilt and his relief in the box too, and got on with things.

As the days and weeks wore on, he often thought about the man he’d met, wondered if he’d done the right thing. Wondered if the man had made it. Wondered who he was and why he had felt so familiar. He often wondered if he would ever see him again, and why he wanted to, why the stranger lingered on in his thoughts when he should by rights just be one more opponent.

There were so many shifting sides in this place; peace was never far away but never lasted long. Lines moved and allegiances changed. Perhaps their sides would be on the same side next time. Perhaps they would see each other again in peacetime. The former soldier would invite him in, to sit by his warm hearth, and they could share a drink together, and talk about anything but this. It was something to hope for.

~ 🌖 ~

~ 🌖 ~

J and Ally were best friends. They had been since primary school, when Ally had rescued J from some bullies from the year above and obtained a reputation for righteous smiting that would persist all the way to sixth form. They were at each other’s side for the whole of their schooldays after that, watching each other’s back and keeping each other’s secrets. Neither was short of friends, but nobody else came close to what they were to each other.

When not making playground thugs regret their life choices, Ally had been a model student, very much unlike J, who had more of a ‘poke things until they break’ attitude to learning. It was therefore a cause of considerable surprise (and not a little parental consternation) when J ended up a physics student at a highly-regarded US university, and Ally kicked academic study entirely in favour of a brief flirtation with dance school and then a patchy career as a novelist.

Being on opposite sides of the Atlantic didn’t cool their friendship at all, and whenever they met up they picked up where they’d left off as if they’d never been apart. Eventually their meandering paths brought them back to the same city. Experience had led them both to conclude that romance was not their cup of tea, so they had embraced the companionship and cheaper living expenses of living together, and had been doing so for nearly twenty years now. It worked pretty well.

Today was J’s birthday, and they had celebrated with a takeaway meal, a terrible film from their youth, a children’s birthday cake with ‘I am 5’ on it (a gag gift from Ally), and several bottles of wine. J was sprawled on the sofa, head on one of its threadbare arms and legs over the other. Ally was sitting comfortably on the rug in front of it, head back against J’s jeans, with a wine glass in one hand and sole custody of the TV’s remote control. They were both quite drunk.

“Hey Ally, pass me the crisps?”

Without looking, Ally passed the bowl up from the floor to the sofa, where J raided it, then lowered it again and reclaimed the remote.

“Cheers angel.”

“How long have you been calling me that?” Ally wondered. “Must be a good forty years now.”

“Since Year 9, ‘cos of what you did to Scuzzy Jim. If you’re gonna tell me that wasn’t bloody biblical.”

“Pfft,” Ally said, grabbing a handful of crisps. “He was fine. And he never bothered Kelly and Rose again.”

“I don’t think he bothered anyone again,” J teased. “I think he might be a vicar now.”

“Ha. They’ll take anyone these days.”

“You should show up to one of his services and see if he flinches.”

Ally looked scandalised. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh you were,” J said, sounding nostalgic.

“You’re old and your memory’s playing tricks on you. I was impeccably behaved. Just… forthright. Never started a fight. Unlike Scuzzy Jim.”

“Oh I know. You finished a few though.”

“Well someone had to,” Ally insisted. “Especially when you’d been making trouble again.”

“Traditionally that’s the PE teacher’s job.”

“I notice you’re not denying it.”

J shrugged. “Nope, it’s a fair cop. I was a little shit in school.”

“You still are.”

J blew a raspberry.

Ally grinned, then went back to scrolling through TV channels looking for something vaguely interesting. Nothing appealed, so it ended up on the news with the volume turned down. J finished the plundered crisps and went back to trying to work out how to drink from a wine glass without having to bother sitting up. Ally was aware of this experiment and fully expected it to end hilariously.

“Oh,” Ally said suddenly.

“What?” J said, narrowly avoiding inhaling the wine.

Ally gestured at the TV. “Look. It’s that weird guy who ran that bookshop in Soho.”

“The one you used to rant about because you could never get in?”

“Yeah, that one. He closed it in the twenties and moved out to the country somewhere. I never did get in, I swear the bastard didn’t actually want customers. Looks a lot older there but it’s definitely him. What’s he on the news for?”

“Haha, you were always so annoyed about that. There are other bookshops in London you know. Ones with coffee and loyalty cards and staff who look pleased to see you. Or two out of three anyway.”

“It wasn’t really about the bookshop,” Ally huffed. “It was the challenge. There was a whole club dedicated to getting in, they had certificates of achievement and everything.”

“And you’re still sore you never got one.”

“Oi.”

The news channel switched to an interview; the caption identified the interviewee as the Chief Librarian at the British Library. Ally turned the volume up. The Librarian was talking about a very large legacy donation of rare books and the plans being drawn up for it.

“She looks like a kid at Christmas,” J chipped in.

“No wonder,” Ally said, reading the accompanying infographic. “Did he leave them everything in that shop? How does some of this stuff even still exist? Why was he keeping it to himself?”

J, who had no interest in any book that wasn’t an astrophysics textbook or a mass-market spy thriller (or, more through loyalty than inclination, one of Ally’s works), shrugged and reached down for the wine again. “Hoarder?”

“Hoarding priceless ancient artefacts? Must have been loaded. No wonder he didn’t want people coming in.”

“Nice of him to share now he won’t be needing it any more, at least.”

“Yeah, very generous,” Ally said sarcastically. “It’s not like he can take it with him.”

“I hope he’s going somewhere nice, anyway.”

Ally turned and looked at J. “It’s that stage of the evening, is it? Drunk theology time?”

“Why not? My birthday, my rules.” J settled back with the newly refilled glass. “I had a college friend who thought people got to come back. She said nobody ever really dies, they just go round and round like the world’s a big rollercoaster or something, and some people go round alone, and some people choose to go round together. They get born at about the same time and place and if they meet they just sort of know they already know each other.”

Ally frowned. “How would you stay going round together? You’d die at different times and end up out of sync.”

“Who says time works the same way when you’re dead?”

Ally snorted. “Time doesn’t work at all when you’re dead. You’re dead.”

“Ah, well...”

“If you try to physics me I’m going to drink the rest of your wine.”

“Fine, fine, I won’t. Gimme.”

Ally passed the wine up again. “Sounds like wishful thinking anyway.”

“That’s what we all said. Well, apart from Anathema. She said she thought it could be true, because sometimes she met people whose auras seemed to be connected to someone else’s, or were putting out feelers like they were trying to be, and she had wondered if it was something like that.”

“I love that you had a college friend called Anathema, who thought people had auras and she could see them. You find the most interesting people.”

J grinned. “Yourself included?”

“Naturally.”

“You don’t forget a name like Anathema, do you?” J continued. “She was convinced she could see auras. No proof obviously. She was very perceptive though, we all had bets on whether she would end up an eccentric academic or a celebrity medium.”

“What did she think?”

J frowned. “Funny thing that. Someone did ask her at a party once. She just said she wouldn’t be around long enough to find out, and then changed the subject. We kept an eye on her for weeks after that just in case, but she seemed to be fine.”

Ally blinked. “Um. Was she right?”

“Nah,” J said casually. “I think she lives in England these days. No idea whether she went with the books or the horoscopes, though.”

“Good to know.”

Ally poured out the last of the wine into both of their glasses and yawned. “Nearly bedtime for me I think.”

“Yeah, same,” J replied, also yawning. “Good day. Good wine.”

“Mmm,” Ally replied. “Good food. Good company.”

“Ally?” J mumbled drowsily. “If it is a big rollercoaster, would you go round with me?”

“Of course,” Ally said, then poked J lightly in the ribs. “Someone’s got to keep you out of trouble.”

~ 🌗 ~

~ 🌗 ~

Rain splattered against the roof of the concourse, filling the space with gentle background noise and giving the station a slightly otherworldly feel. It had been raining relentlessly all day, and showed no sign of letting up any time soon. Nevin fidgeted slightly in their damp leather jacket and scanned the room for free seats.

There weren’t many – the trains were all late because of the weather, and the station was full of bored commuters staring at nothing between glances at the departure boards or sips of coffee. Probably playing games on their gadgets to pass the time. Or maybe they really were just staring into the distance – it was hard to tell.

Nevin finally spotted a seat near the back of the hall; they headed over and flopped into it. The occupant of the next seat, who looked like a lost time traveller or something, glanced at them momentarily then returned to looking at the departure boards. No glasses on – definitely a starer then.

“Hello,” the stranger said. “Are you waiting for the nineteen-sixteen as well? It’s terribly late.”

“Yeah, but I’m not going anywhere,” Nevin said, scrambling for innocuous small-talk and settling on the time-honoured rant of the beleaguered parent. “I’m waiting to pick up my daughter, she’s been visiting friends. You know how teenagers are. Think you run a free bloody taxi service.”

The stranger beamed at him. “Oh, that sounds lovely. I hope she had a nice time, weather notwithstanding. Sometimes I miss being that age.”

Nevin wasn’t entirely convinced that this person had ever been that age – they gave the impression of having been about fifty forever. Like they hadn’t been born at all, but painted onto the world complete with hat and tie, and had remained the same ever since. The tweed jacket (with neatly-folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket) didn’t help, nor did the collared shirt or the ornate rose gold cufflinks or the complete absence of wearable tech.

“I’m Mark, by the way,” the stranger said, waving a greeting. “He/him.”

“Mark? Bit old-fashioned.”

“It suits me, you mean?” Mark said dryly.

“You said it, not me,” Nevin replied, unable to stop themself smiling. “But yes.” They waved their own greeting. “Nevin. They/them.”

“Nice to meet you Nevin.”

“And you.”

“Do you live in the city?”

“No, I just come in every now and again for work. Or to ferry Maev about. Do you?”

“Oh no, I’m out in Newbridge, just drop by occasionally to visit the auction house. I’m an antiques dealer.”

That figures, thought Nevin. He does look like he belongs in an antique shop.

“That’s an unusual profession. How did you get into that?”

Mark shrugged. “I don’t know really, just sort of drifted into it. I don’t get on with the modern workplace, it’s all a bit too fast-paced and clinical. I like to be able to stop and hold things, real things, that have weight and smells and a past and whatnot.”

Nevin nodded. “Me too, I like to get my hands dirty. Would never be happy on a computer all day.”

“Exactly. And antiques suit me.” Mark smiled at Nevin, far too genuinely for a stranger. Nevin wondered whether he smiled at everyone like that. “I seem to have a gut instinct for things worth holding on to.”

They smiled at each other for just a touch longer than was usual for a chance meeting between strangers, then looked away awkwardly. Nevin turned their attention to the train’s online status updates – it didn’t seem to have made much progress.

“I don’t think that train’s gonna be here any time soon,” they said with a resigned sigh. “You should probably call home if you haven’t already.”

“Oh there’s no-one to call,” Mark said wistfully. “There used to be, but, well. He decided he preferred a younger model.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, that’s hard,” Nevin replied, feeling sympathetic and a little awkward. “Sounds like you’re better off without him though.”

“Yes, I think I probably am, really. And I’ve never minded my own company anyway.”

“Same. Gets a bit lonely sometimes, but it’s nice to have your own space.”

Mark looked at them again. “You live alone too, then?”

“Yeah, when Maev’s not at my place. Been single since she was little. It’s fine, my ex and I still get on, she sees plenty of us both. We just weren’t right for each other.” They shrugged. “It happens.”

“I suppose it does. I’m sorry to hear it, anyway.”

“Thanks.”

They lapsed back into silence for a bit. Nevin wondered why on Earth they’d shared any of this information, being normally quite a private person. There just seemed to be something about Mark – he didn’t feel like a stranger at all. Nevin couldn’t shake the feeling they’d met before, and wondered how they could possibly have forgotten someone like this.

Nevin’s musings were interrupted by a notification flashing up in their peripheral vision. “Damn,” they said, opening it and reading the text. “Message from Maev. Trains are all cancelled, flooding on the line, probably won't reopen today. She’s staying over at her friend’s place tonight.”

“Oh. Are you sure?” Mark said. The station announcer chose that moment to confirm that yes indeed, there would be no further trains today, to general dismay and grumbling in the concourse. Nevin nodded apologetically. Mark looked like a lost puppy.

“Just my luck. Best find a cab I suppose.”

From an inside pocket he tugged an elderly mobile phone, and a pair of glasses with little round frames which were clearly no variety whatsoever of 'smart'. Nevin boggled a little.

“You use a handheld, huh? Yes, of course you do. Silly of me to ask, really.”

“Oh hush, it's perfectly functional. Those spectacle things give me a headache.”

“Fair enough. My cousin has that problem too.” They watched Mark poke at the screen for a bit, slowly looking more despondent. He paged past cab firm after cab firm with big red 'long wait' banners on their directory entries – there had been a lot of people waiting for trains, and using a handheld was slower than using modern equipment, so he was firmly at the back of the queue. An idea occurred to Nevin, one that surprised them – they hadn't previously considered themself to be a Good Samaritan type.

“I tell you what,” they said nervously. “Seeing as I no longer have to pick someone up and I'm heading your way anyway... can I give you a lift home?”

Mark looked up at Nevin like they'd offered him the world in a basket. And they'd thought the puppy look was bad.

“Oh, would you? Are you sure you wouldn't mind?”

“It's no trouble, really, like I said, I'm heading that way anyway.” It was sort of true. They did live roughly in that direction. Ten minutes in that direction, rather than an hour, but Mark didn't need to know that.

“Oh thank you ever so much. I really am terribly grateful.”

Yes, thought Nevin, I can tell. I bet you’re terrible at poker.

The rain outside the station was torrential. Mark dug out an umbrella that looked like it belonged in a museum and held it over both of them as they dashed along the road to where Nevin’s car was parked.

“Oh my, this is quite a car,” Mark said, sliding into the passenger seat.

“You like it?” Nevin said, settling into the driver’s seat and closing the door. “It’s the only one of its kind still on the road. Has been for quite some time.”

“I expect so! Is it actually road-legal? I’ve never even seen one that wasn’t self-driving.”

“Of course. Vintage ones are allowed, as long as they’ve got a tracker beacon and a black box and the driver’s fully certified and has up-to-date medical and training paperwork, bla bla bla,” they said, counting off on their fingers then waving the rest away airily. “I’m a mechanic so I have that stuff anyway.”

“Oh, fair enough. It seems like a lot of trouble.”

“It’s worth it.” Nevin grinned. “It’s a great car. Legend has it the original owner wanted to be cremated in it like a Viking funeral, but the council refused for some killjoy reason like it not being legal.”

“What a character!” Mark said, sounding genuinely intrigued. “Do you believe it?”

“Honestly? Nah. Nobody who owned a car like this would want it to burn. Not even for the most epic send-off. If I were him I’d like the story though.”

“Haha, yes, perhaps. You know who he was, then?”

“Some guy called Crowley. He can’t actually have been the original owner though, he would’ve needed to live to about a hundred and fifty. Best guess is that the first two owners were father and son, same names, got corrupted on the owner database at some point. It’s still a very short owner list. People hold onto this car. Even if they can barely keep it working.”

“At its age I’m impressed it works at all.”

“It works fine for me. But then I am a very good mechanic.” Nevin grinned. “Or perhaps it just likes me.”

“Well, you are likeable,” Mark said, and Nevin could have sworn he actually blushed. No, must be a trick of the light. As if a man like this would have any interest in an ageing car enthusiast with emotional baggage and a morbid sense of humour.

The rest of the journey passed surprisingly quickly, the two of them chatting away about all sorts of things, and it didn’t seem long at all before Mark was directing Nevin down one last street to a row of battered-looking shops with flats above them. Nevin stopped outside the one with the dustiest windows. There were no display lights or infocodes and the sign was hand-painted – they felt no need to ask.

“Cup of tea before you head home?” Mark asked, sliding out of the seat as if he’d done it a thousand times before. Nevin had a brief, crazy thought that he belonged there.

“I’d love to,” they replied, realising they meant it. “But I’d better go. Early start, and that tailback was looking pretty bad.”

“The tailback?” Mark said, looking troubled. “But that was half an hour ago, you said you were near— ah, no, you didn’t, did you? Just in the same direction. Silly me. My dear, how far out of your way have you come?”

Oops. Where had that half an hour gone? “Erm. Well...”

Reluctantly, Nevin told him. Mark winced. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“It’s fine, it was no trouble,” Nevin babbled. “You would’ve been waiting ages, and I like driving, and I had no other plans, and you’ve been good company.”

“I have?” A strange look flitted across Mark’s face, before being shepherded away. “Um. Can I at least make it up to you sometime? Buy you lunch, perhaps? Here, take my card, let’s arrange something.”

The next thing Nevin knew, in their hand was a business card – an actual, physical, made-of-card business card. They mumbled a nervous acceptance and put it in their pocket, then looked up their own contact code and read it out for Mark to write (yes, write) down.

“Thank you again, my dear,” Mark said with an equally nervous smile, stepping back from the car and waving. “Mind how you go.”

~ 🌘 ~

~ 🌘 ~

When Graham’s cancer diagnosis came through, it hadn’t upset him as much as he expected. He was well into his later years after all, with a few of the usual age-related issues competing for attention, and he hadn’t taken the best care of himself when he was younger, and everyone gets their unlucky hand eventually even if they do. It wasn’t the way he’d like to go, and he’d hoped to have a bit longer, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. The kids were both grown up and getting on with their own lives, and they’d be well provided for – both he and David had done reasonably well for themselves. It had been a good life, with good company.

Once they’d come to terms with the condition and the prognosis, and Graham had made his treatment choices and put his affairs in order, they’d drawn up a bucket list and started making their way down it. They even managed to have fun. They knew they had a limited amount of time left together and both were determined to make the most of it.

Next on the list was a trip to Europe, because neither of them had ever been. They were going to go to Paris, Rome, Vienna, Barcelona and London, then home via Dublin. It would be the trip of a lifetime, an ideal capstone to a very happy life. And then Graham had come downstairs one morning and found David slumped over the kitchen table, felled by a massive stroke halfway through his tea and toast. The ambulance arrived in minutes (an eternity to Graham), but it was still far too late. He had bounced off the walls of the vehicle and then done the same in ER until the doctor finally came and told him what he already knew.

Graham didn’t think he would bother with the trip or the rest of the list. What was the point?

He was sitting beside his beloved now, in a neat little room in the hospital, with tissues and silk flowers and other things that didn’t matter. It was too quiet. There were too few people in here – one too few, anyway. He hoped that David had no warning, that he’d been happy when his body failed him. It wasn’t such a bad way to go, really. But it was a horrible way to be left.

(They met at work, sort of, back in the thirties. Graham was a consultant hired to test the security at David's workplace, a legal services firm in Minneapolis. His initial assessments flagged David as a potential way in, as anyone so cheerful and eager to help was probably a good target. He'd been wrong. David's sunny disposition hid an astute and occasionally outright cynical interior; also, it turned out, he was a bit of a bastard. That assignment had been a challenge and a pleasure, and had cost Graham the heart he hadn't previously admitted he had.)

David looked like he was just sleeping, except for how still he was. He had never been that still in life, he didn’t so much wear his heart on his sleeve as plastered across his face. When David loved you, you knew you were loved.

He had a wonderful smile. Graham had seen it nearly every morning for the last thirty eight years, had seen it across dinner tables and on sofas and in doorways and in his arms and, where all else failed, in his mind, when he sat in soulless hotel rooms and said goodnight over the phone, counting down the days until the assignment was over and he could go home to his family. Graham had it burned into his memory like a holy icon. He would sooner forget his own name than let that go.

(They decided to get married during a rest stop on the way home from a vacation: one of their usual rambling conversations took an unexpected turn, and it slowly became clear that both of them liked the idea of settling down and raising a family. When Graham suggested they go for it, David responded primly but fondly that he would not be accepting any proposal delivered in a Burger Lord in Iowa, and that they would be doing this properly later.

They did. In a fancy restaurant, with champagne and candles. And roses. And just the right amount of toe-curling public spectacle.)

Graham couldn’t really remember what life was like before David, he had been a part of it for so long. They cooked together almost every day, dancing round each other in their kitchen with the ease and grace of many years’ practice. They would argue over trivial things of course, like whose turn it was to do some household chore or other, but rarely over anything that was actually serious.

He would miss the bickering and the infuriating little habits and the adorable little quirks and the things that were somehow both at once. He would miss looking after him when he was sick, and being looked after in turn. David could be a proper hypochondriac when the sniffles set in, but he always forgot it quickly afterwards; Graham soldiered through anything, but feared every winter and the wrath of the public transit system.

He would miss his obstinateness and absurdity. David showed up to every birthday, wedding or other special occasion wearing the same dated formal jacket he kept for special occasions, the one he insisted against all evidence to the contrary was ‘stylish’. Both kids had threatened to disown him over it more than once. Their eldest even tried hiding it, in a valiant but doomed attempt to keep it from making an appearance at their high school graduation. He refused any and all attempts to get him to replace it, from begging to bribery. Through sheer familiarity, Graham had almost come to like it. He guarded that secret with his life because if David found out he would never live it down.

(They went out for oysters on the first day of their honeymoon, and then both spent the rest of the week with the worst food poisoning either of them had ever had. For years afterwards Graham couldn’t look at shellfish without feeling a little queasy. He made the mistake of telling David this once, and David showed his sympathy by ordering seafood dishes at every meal out for the next six months.)

“Take me with you?” Graham said, blinking back tears. “Wherever you’re going? Wait for me, yeah? I won’t be long. Just finishing up down here.”

He held David’s hand, his own pale skinny fingers threaded through David’s strong dark ones, squeezing them gently and longing for the squeeze back that couldn’t come. It wasn’t fair. They were supposed to have time left, time to say their farewells, to do a proper final scene with kisses and waves and appropriate amounts of crying. There were supposed to be carefully-chosen last words and a comfortable bed at home, all calm and dignified. They had a plan and everything. That was how it was supposed to be done, wasn’t it? Four score years and ten and then off you get, no big deal, time to let someone else have a go? Not rudely interrupted on some random Saturday morning. It just wasn’t fair.

“What am I supposed to do without you, eh?” he whispered.

(Many years ago, Graham had nearly gone under a truck on the way home from work. David picked him up from the hospital looking like he was on autopilot, and drove them home in silence. Once they were back safely and desperate hugs had been exchanged, David insisted that he was putting his foot down and that Graham could have whatever car he wanted but he had to give up that damned bike. Graham had seen what shape that damned bike was in when it came out from under the truck, and hadn’t argued.)

Graham loved the things David couldn’t do, almost as much as the things he could. He couldn’t give The Talk to the kids because he was too embarrassed – Graham did it instead, welcoming every question they came up with and answering them as best he could. He couldn’t put down traps or bait when they found mice in the basement – he couldn’t bear the thought of killing anything. Graham caught him feeding pigeons more than once, and attempts to explain the link between this behaviour and the frequency with which the car needed cleaning were met with amused chuckling.

The things he could do though, sometimes made Graham giddy. David had a very keen sense of justice, and went into his chosen profession to help people. When he committed himself to a cause, great or small, he would fight like a lion for it. Graham had to remind him to sleep more than once, when he was engrossed in the details for some case or other and completely lost track of time.

He baked cookies and brought them to protests, with legal assistance telephone numbers and protest rights cheat sheets printed on the wrappings. He helped out with local fundraisers and checked on neighbours in the winter. He asked all the questions the candidates least wanted to hear at election hustings and occasionally persuaded door-to-door salespeople to consider alternative careers. He was passionate and terrifying and seemingly unstoppable.

(Once, the kids’ school imposed a draconian hair style standard and their youngest came home in tears with a very rude note. David marched in armed with stacks of information on uniform policies across the state, the racial and gender biases therein and the relevant equalities legislation and put the fear of God (not to mention lawyers) into the Principal himself, personally. The policy had been rescinded the same day. The accompanying uniform policy was harder to challenge, but both David and Graham helped their kids devise ways to meet every letter of the rules and almost none of the spirit.)

The kids and their partners had made it to the hospital several hours ago, once babysitters and dogsitters had been hastily arranged, and each had said their own private goodbyes while the others looked after Graham. Now they were outside somewhere, sipping tasteless hospital coffee and giving him some time alone with David before they all convened again to help each other through the world’s cruellest paperwork. There would be people to break the news to, awkward offers of sympathy, a funeral to arrange. Graham didn’t care about any of it but it would have to be done.

But that was for later.

Neither of them had given all that much thought to the question of what comes after. David had the good fortune to have been raised in an inclusive church, and although his faith hadn't survived into adulthood he had still retained some hope that there might be something in it. Graham was raised by atheists and retained that lack of faith quite firmly, though he did sometimes harbour a secret wish that he'd get more than one go – there was so much to do and so little time, after all. Well, if he was getting a second go, it had better have David in it.

He squeezed David’s hand again and kissed his forehead gently, burying his nose in those sweet silvery curls one last time. "See you next time round, angel."

~ 🌑 ~

~ 🌒 ~