Five times Gilbert Blythe tried to convince himself that he could only be friends Anne Shirley…and the time he gave up trying.
The moment Anne Shirley brought that slate down on Gilbert Blythe’s head, he knew he was a goner.
Up until that point, Gilbert had been swimming quite happily, being the biggest fish in the pond that was Avonlea school. Even after being away, he’d known what to expect: the pranks that other boys will initiate with him, the giggling and sideways glances of all the girls, Mr. Phillips mooning away over Prissy Andrews…
All that self-satisfaction cracked in half like the slate over his head.
But it didn’t start that way, no. Mrs. Rachel Lynde had already carried tales through all of Avonlea of how sensible, stolid, unsurprising Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert had done the most surprising thing imaginable: adopted an orphan girl from who knows where, a terrible temper, a match for her hair, and the strangest way of talking anyone had ever heard.
“Poor child,” Sarah Blythe remarked once Mrs. Lynde had departed, having given her news. “She’ll have a hard time of it here, I think, especially if she’s all alone at Green Gables, with only Marilla and Matthew for company.”
“Mrs. Sloane says she saw her wandering down the lane by herself, talking to the trees,” John replied, looking up from he was carefully mending the well-worn soles of his boots. “She seemed happy enough.”
“She’s crazy, is what she is,” had been Josie Pye’s opinion when Gilbert saw her and her father at Blair’s store. “She came to Sunday School wearing the most ridiculous hat you’d ever seen, all covered in pink and yellow flowers. They didn’t suit her at all. ”
But the Pyes never had anything good to say about anyone, so Gilbert decided he could forego taking Josie’s word as fact.
So Gilbert had had an idea, of course. But that hadn’t really prepared him for the reality of Anne Shirley.
read the rest on ao3
@philtstone, here is the fic known as "down bad (gilbert's version)." I hope you enjoy it
Walter, what seemed like a dozen lifetimes ago, at Courcelette if his last letter to Rilla was to be believed; Diana had often wondered whether he had already considered himself a dead man walking before the day of the last battle, the boy he’d been destroyed beyond repair or rebirth.
Aunt Leslie, whom she’d found it easier to talk to than her own mother, perhaps because she’d also had a brother she adored. Perhaps because she’d left Glen St. Mary and never missed it.
Perhaps because Leslie liked whiskey better than tea, newspapers better than poetry.
Una, who’d been too pale since she barely survived nursing her father and stepmother through the Spanish flu, who’d been someone everyone underestimated or decided to treat as a martyr, who would not have judged Di the way her own sisters would.
Rosalind Foyle, whom she’d had to ask about as discreetly as she could, counting on her general reception as a cheerful and polite Canadian, not much like a bossy Yank, to yield her the few details she’d squirreled away. An artist, a mother. A beauty. Better-bred than her husband, well-liked, she’d had elegant hands and never forgot to wear gloves.
Diana only wore gloves to operate and if an actual gale was blowing in a blizzard.
Who had thought all she wanted was to go to France, to make something of her life that would last her the rest of it. That might make the rest of it of a duration she could bear, an end her family could cope with or justify why she’d never return to PEI.
Dear Una,
You’re the best one to write to, I think. The one who’d mind the least, like it the most. The least awkward for me to imagine reading this, the least likely to tell me something I don’t want to know. I leave for France in a few weeks and now I don’t want to go. Or rather, I do and then I don’t. There’s something holding me in England now, something to do with Walter, a mystery. Men, who’ve died. A man who’s alive, very much so.
A man I want to know. His name is Foyle. Christopher. He knew Walter, said Walter knew him as Kit. Everyone calls him Foyle or sir or Superintendent.
Christopher.
Oh Una, I thought this was behind me. That it was something I’d never have to deal with, some sort of consolation of being a woman in a world missing a generation of men. I thought I wouldn’t know this and that was a relief, watching you and Rilla and Nan. Faith. Mary. I thought it was fair, that I’d never know heartbreak like this.
And now there’s Christopher. A half-dozen dead men. Walter’s poem. And France, waiting for me. I have to go, I know that, but how do I go wanting to stay here, a place I can’t call home. Wanting to come back.
Christopher. I like writing his name because I oughtn’t say it often. That’s what a young girl does, lovesick, dull, embarrassing herself, making everyone around her smile behind their hands unless it’s Miss Cornelia, scolding you for making a fool of yourself and for what, a man? What’s a man worth, I ask you—can’t you hear her say it, tart, ready to wash her hands of us—
I don’t care what a man’s worth, Una.
Just Christopher.
And I can’t answer the question, not to satisfy Miss Cornelia or you or myself.
You’d write me back something comforting, if you could. If you hadn’t died before your time, twice over, after the telegram, after the epidemic. I should have insisted you leave before me or with me. I should have told your father you were worth more than all the rest of them put together or made Dad send you away to convalesce, somewhere warm, where you might have lolled about, turning brown in the sun.
I’ve said I’ll go to France and sew up the men who need sewing up. Cut off the parts that need cutting off. I’ve said that’s my life, my vocation, as important as Mother’s poetry, as Walter’s, as the babies Jem delivers and the columns Ken Ford writes, and it must be but now there’s murder and Christopher to contend with, a dozen mysteries at the heart of me.
For it seems I’ve a heart after all, Una. It beats and beats and leaps when it oughtn’t. It will break, I know it shall.
Christopher.
I’ll take a dream in lieu of a letter. A flower, out of place, in lieu of a word.
Answer me if you can, Una. You can’t and I know that, but I’ll still hope, silly Di Blythe.
She put the letter in an envelope but left it unsealed and unaddressed.
Left the envelope in an otherwise empty drawer of the desk in her flat. If she didn’t return from France, well, that didn’t bear thinking about too closely. If her papers were sent back to Canada, her father would likely burn the letter rather than let her mother see it unless if gave it to Nan, thinking her twin would derive some comfort and, happily married to Jerry, the bonny wife and mother Di had not made of herself, could weather any pang it gave her.
If somehow it ended up with Christopher, he’d know how she’d once felt.
She could make that happen, writing his name across the white field of the envelope, but that was too much like a dare, and for all she was her father’s daughter, she still had her mother’s wise fear of the fey.
She’d written his name enough. She’d hope she’d come back to say it.
Anne smiled to herself as she finished reading the letter in her hands. It had been about a fortnight since it had arrived at her boarding house and there wasn’t a day she didn’t take it out of her hat box to read it before bed. Even now on the train ride to Toronto, that letter was the only thing that kept her collected until she arrived at her destination.
Some part of Anne felt extremely guilty for lying about this visit to Marilla and Matthew, but it truly wasn’t exactly her fault Marilla had misinterpreted her letter asking for permission. Yes, she had mentioned Cole going with her to the train station and Anne should’ve corrected her when Marilla assumed Cole was chaperoning her visit, but the opportunity was right there.
She missed Gilbert and she couldn’t wait a whole week to see him, not after all these months. Anne just hoped Marilla wouldn’t end up finding out about the whole thing — and if she did, that Anne would already be back at Avonlea to smooth things over with her.
Four months was an eternity and she longed to have Gilbert once more in her arms.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 13/?
Fandom: Anne with an E (TV), Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables (TV 1985) & Related Fandoms
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Diana Barry/Fred Wright, Anne Shirley/Roy Gardner
Characters: Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe, Diana Barry, Royal "Roy" Gardner
Additional Tags: Angst, Romance, Drama
Summary:
A modern day re-imagining of Anne of the Island. Some events that transpired in AoGG and AoA have not/will not occur in this story. Characters will include some originals from Anne with an E. Inspiration was drawn from the books, the 80s mini series, and Anne with an E.
Anne heads off to Redmond in this modern-day tale that spans all four years of study. She'll meet new friends, get reacquainted with old ones, and perhaps, find herself along the way.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: Anne with an E (TV), Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables (TV 1985) & Related Fandoms
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Diana Barry/Jerry Baynard, Diana Barry/Fred Wright, Anne Shirley/Roy Gardner
Characters: Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe, Diana Barry, Royal "Roy" Gardner
Additional Tags: Angst, Romance, Drama
Summary:
A modern day re-imagining of Anne of the Island. Some events that transpired in AoGG and AoA have not/will not occur in this story. Characters will include some originals from Anne with an E. Inspiration was drawn from the books, the 80s mini series, and Anne with an E.
Anne heads off to Redmond in this modern-day tale that spans all four years of study. She'll meet new friends, get reacquainted with old ones, and perhaps, find herself along the way.
Anne Shirley has never be one to throw swearwords around carelessly - but then again, we all slip sometimes.
She just really isn’t sure how to feel about the fact that whenever she does, Gilbert Blythe is there to listen.
Shirbert, Modern AU, dedicated to/blamed on @wilderwestqueen
ff.net / AO3
"A fucking idiot, that's what I am!" she cried out with exasperation, tears still glistening in her grey-green eyes as she glared at her loyal friend, who had been trying so unsuccessfully to comfort her for the past quarter.
Gilbert could do little else than sigh wearily at the performance.
"You know this isn't true, Miss Highest-Score-On-The-Island-Last-Year," he said firmly, rubbing his temples, slowly losing hope that his reasoning could be of any help after all. "You made a mistake, and that's true; it could have been avoided and that is true as well. But for the last time, Anne, it doesn't make you a fool."
"Yes! Yes it does!" she objected instantly. "Oh, don't you understand anything?"
"I understand that you have accidentally put one customer's coffee on another customer's tray and then rushed towards their table with a speed of lighting as soon as you'd realised the mistake. You made it right long before either of those girls realised that there had been any mistake at all, not to mention that even if you hadn't, there would be next to no consequence – except maybe having to remake the order this once. Don't you think that maybe it's time to stop making it sound as if you'd killed someone in cold blood today?"
"You're impossible," Anne exclaimed again, burying her face in her hands, and nearly knocking her own tea with her elbow in the process. Gilbert reached out and moved the mug to a safer position, but said nothing. "And this whole situation is unbelievable. How can you not see that it was absolutely, entirely, doubtlessly my fault, all caused by my own cursed tendency to daydream? And that it shouldn't have been possible to even make such mistake, because the task was so silly, so simple. And goodness, Gil, consequences or not, can't you really see how stupid that makes me feel?"
For a few moments Gilbert did nothing but stared at her, carefully weighing his next words. His arsenal of good reasons was still quite well equipped, even with so many of them already presented to his miserable, slightly hysterical best friend. There were many things he could still tell her, remind her of: how she had been working in that shop for more than a month now and yet, it had been the first time when she'd made such a mistake; how the shop had been at its busiest, with students running in an out, ordering the strangest and most complicated drinks when she eventually had; how she herself had spent most of the preceding night studying, ending up with next to no sleep to keep her going through the day that followed after it.
And yet, knowing Anne Shirley as well as he did, Gilbert realised that none of those arguments would be of any meaning to her. She was too damn stubborn for them to be.
"Is that what you would say to me if the roles were reversed?" he asked suddenly, making her look up at him, surprised with this new approach. "Is that how you'd react if I had come here today and told you that I'd made such a mistake myself?"
Anne's eyes were round with shock when she said, "You know this isn't -"
"You know what, forget that," he interrupted her with a wave of his hand, taking her aback again. "You and I have argued enough times for me to imagine you actually saying something of the sort, so it doesn't really take us anywhere. But Diana? What about her? Would you treat her in the way you're treating yourself now?"
Anne took little time pondering over his question. As soon as she had comprehended the real meaning of it, she snorted impatiently, looking away with a scowl on her already wrinkled forehead.
"Well, first of all, Diana never would have made a mistake so dumb," she answered sharply, turning towards him once more to bestow another glare on his face. "The very notion is absurd, so I really don't think your example is a very good one."
"Alright then," Gilbert didn't give up. "What about Phil?"
"She might do something of this kind, I suppose; but I can hardly imagine her coming here to cry on my shoulder because of that. She's too strong – or too careless – to have a need for that."
"And you're not?"
"No!" Anne's voice was audibly higher this time, as she put down her mug with a clank, only narrowly avoiding spilling the beverage inside it on the table before her. "I'm not like her. I'm not used to people ignoring my mistakes thanks to a sweet smile I give them the next moment. I'm not having fun pretending I'm sillier than I am to appear more innocent or appealing. And I'm definitely not ready to take it calmly that my wit, my only good trait, turns out to be so much weaker that I thought it to be."
Silence fell on the room when she had finished her tirade, or at least this first, angry part of it. Gilbert, who had long ago learnt Anne's habits, knew that there was another part to come, probably even more serious than the one he'd just heard.
As impatient as he was growing, he knew he had to allow her to speak the rest whenever she choose to do so.
He watched her slump wearily and hide her face in her hands, his heart cracking with sorrow that mirrored the one that had so suddenly reflected on her. Careful not to startle her with his movement, he leaned forward and reached his hand to cover her wrist and hopefully drag it away from her face.
"I'm not Phil, Gilbert -" she said weakly a moment later, after she had eventually allowed him to do just that. "and I'm certainly not Diana, either. I'm me. Just me."
A sigh escaped Gilbert's lips, but he didn't let himself forget of the matter at hand. Easing his grasp on Anne's wrist, he slid his hand towards hers and covered it, giving her the little squeeze she undoubtedly needed. She looked up at him then; but it was clear she had no desire to speak anymore.
"Well, first of all, I really don't get that need to add the 'just' before talking about yourself," he said gently. "You're you, that's true; but it doesn't make you any worse than either of your unquestionably fantastic friends. And Anne, your wit really isn't any poorer than you think, as each of your tests and assignments confirms. Not to mention, there really is a lot more to you than your intelligence, you know."
She could hardly bring herself to do more than grumble at him. "Like what?"
"Like that incredible imagination of yours. No, Anne, you don't get to complain about it now, and even less so to blame that cursed coffee shop mistake on it. It is a gift; and like almost everything else, those also tend to be inconvenient at times." He fell silent for a moment, as if weighing his next words, even though he was perfectly sure of what he wanted to say. With a quick glance to her heavy bag that now lay in the corner of her room and the stacks of books that covered more than a few spots in it, he resumed, "You are hard-working and consequent, both in your studies and any other jobs you take upon yourself. You can be determined to the extend no one I know is -"
"I believe you meant to say stubborn, coach Blythe -"
"Even if, then it is in the utterly positive way," he refuted her argument easily, finally letting go of her hand and reaching out for her abandoned mug instead. "It made you catch up and outshine everyone at school and now it's pushing you to do the same here. And yet, even that isn't all. Because you know what else you are, Anne?"
"I can't wait to find out," she muttered under her breath.
"You are kind."
The look she gave him was full of disbelief at first, and was now starting to border with derisiveness as well. It was a look Gilbert had expected; he held it calmly, aware of how much depended on his own show of certainty, of his belief in what he was saying now.
"I'm under a strong impression you no longer know whom you're talking to, Gil," she grumbled eventually, taking her mug from him and resting her lips against its rim. "Either that, or you're just quoting some great motivational speeches without thinking; to be fair, I'd prefer the former to be the case. I would be severely disappointed to find you so utterly unprofessional."
"You can call me whatever you like, Carrots. You know that, unlike some people, I'm immune to name-calling, especially when done by you," he answered her lightly, before saying, "Now if you just let me do what I'm trying to do here, it would be greatly appreciated. Will you?"
"Will I what, exactly?"
"Will you humour me and answer the question I asked you before? About Diana?"
That request earned Gilbert another glare on Anne's part, but she did not protest this time. Swallowing the last of her tea she muttered a quiet "Fine," before she put the mug away and breathed in deeply.
"Okay," she spoke up eventually. "Assuming that by some great disturbance in the Force or another miracle Diana Barry actually managed to mix up her orders and serve the drinks to wrong consumers, and that she would care about such a mishap enough to come to me looking for comfort -"
"You know that she would -"
"In such case, I believe I would tell her to put it behind her and not to worry too much," Anne finished with a roll of her eyes. "I suppose I'd tell her that everyone can make a mistake and that it doesn't make her any less competent, especially as no real harm was done, and that, knowing how well-organised and skilled in the field she is – because honestly, I've never seen a barrister more talented than her – we really must agree that there was some external powers at work for her to make any mistake in the first place."
"Powers like a night spent with Shakespeare?" Gilbert suggested with a smile.
"I was thinking of witches and charms but I guess the Bard is closely enough related to those," Anne admitted with another roll of her big green-grey eyes.
"Good. Now pray tell me: why do those arguments are enough to justify Diana's error but not to justify yours?"
To that Anne had no ready response. She had expected the conversation to head that way, of course; she'd known what Gilbert's plan was all along and could not claim to be surprised by this final question of his.
And yet, she could not answer him, either.
Meanwhile, Gilbert went on. "Why can't you be kind to yourself in the same way you are to her? Why are you so unforgiving towards yourself when we both know how understanding you're always trying to be to everyone around you? They say you can't really go through life happy if you're not your own best friend – so why are you so determined not to be yours?"
For the first time that day Anne laughed quietly with a mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes once more.
"I suppose I'm too spoilt by having you and Diana occupy that post with such fervour," she admitted with a smile at last. "To be fair, I'm not even sure if I could beat you if I tried."
"Well, I dare say Di won't mind stepping down for such a noble cause," came Gilbert's ready answer. "And as much as I hate not coming in first, I certainly am used to you outrunning me by now. So? Do we have a deal, Miss Shirley, or should I really call Diana to support me in that final strive?"
"There's no need for that. At least, that's what my best friend thinks."
Do you know of any fics where Anne runs into the girls who bullied her from the orphanage now that she has found a more stable life in Avonlea.. maybe it be when she was out with Matthew or with Diana or with Gilbert or something like that? And if you don’t know any, would you maybe be able to post this to see if anyone else does? Thank you and also I really enjoy your writing as well- I hope you write more Anne stuff soon!
That sounds familiar, but I can’t remember off the top of my head. Does anyone else know of anything like this? Maybe we should write something?
That is an odd word to describe her relationship with Gilbert Blythe. Friend never sounded right when it concerned him. Diana is her bosom friend, Billy Andrews is her sworn enemy, Jerry is considered a brother at this point and Ruby Gillis is an actual friend of hers. She knows exactly what her feelings towards all these people are and why all those words fit, but not Gilbert.
He was, at first, a stranger defending her from Billy. Then, he was an acquaintance, a forbidden acquaintance dictated by the girls, and soon enough, her sworn rival. The last one was the one who stuck the most, as Gilbert was the one she had to beat to become first in the class and prove to everyone she was more than just an orphan.
But even afterwards, when they’d grown up and actually started listening to one another and the rivalry ceased (well, mostly), there was still no label to describe him. They would occasionally study together for the Queens preparatory class, they spoke amicably whenever one came over the other’s their house, and they even sometimes enjoyed each other’s company, but it never felt like it did with anyone else she was sure about her feelings for.
Friend isn’t a word she’d refer to Gilbert with, but there isn’t a better one, so it has to be it.
