hello my name on twitter is literally mary poppins stan account you have written the fic that I think I have been waiting for my entire life. you have my eternal devotion as a fic reader and i just thought you should know
HAHAHA omg amazing. I’m so glad you are enjoying it. Omg tell me what you like so far??? I’m dying.
just wanted to say I love your outlook!!! it's so balanced and reasonable, I wish everyone on twitter was like you I'm ngl. so excited for more dowry, I'm obsessed
thank you!
in private, i am not balanced or reasonable at all, but writing things out helps me gather my thoughts and recalibrate my perspective on an issue, which can often be knee-jerk and emotional at first.
and yes, as soon as i finish, ch. 3 will be posted. probably within the next two days!
take your pick or do them all: emma swan, regina mills, veep selina, veep amy, american paige, american phil, american elizabeth, amy pond (- zohra)
HELLO,I won’t do them all bc that’d take agesAmy Brookheimer
2-4 songs that are probably on their iPod I’m Going Down-Vampire WeekendCan’t Pretend-Tom OdellThe District Sleeps Alone Tonight-The Postal ServiceClothes Off-Ria Mae
the one place they sometimes end up falling asleep – where they’re not supposed toDan’s bed??? Mostly bc they agreed to no sleepovers (though that rule has basically been thrown out the window)
the game they'd destroy everyone else atI’m going to say Risk or Monopoly
the emoticon they’d use most oftenthe aubergine or the tongue
what they act like when they haven’t had enough sleepshe usually operates on about 3-5 hours of sleep so any less than that she’d probably kill a man (andrew)
their preferred hot beverage on really cold nights. or mornings. or whenever.coffee, black
how they like to comfort/care for themselves when they’re in a slumpwishing people’s vaginas fall off and drinking also, getting revenge
what they wanted to be when they grew upoh i can get sad about this bc i can imagine young teen amy wanting to Make A Difference and now she’s a babysitter to an erratic world leader. she probably wanted and still wants to be president
their favorite kind of weatheri hc her coming from Chicago so i’m going to say the cusp of fall/winter
thoughts on their singing voice (decent? terrible? soprano? alto?)bad so bad but enthusiastic
how/what they like to draw or doodleuncoordinated scratchy angled scribbling during meetings selina is having
Elizabeth Jennings
2-4 songs that are probably on their iPod WalkmanI Fought the Law-The ClashSomething by TchaikovskyOther Russian songs??
the one place they sometimes end up falling asleep – where they’re not supposed toI’m sure she still sometimes falls asleep in Paige’s room after a particularly difficult day
the game they'd destroy everyone else atChess
the emoticon they’d use most oftenOne off the weapon page, probably the gun
what they act like when they haven’t had enough sleepShe’d also kill a man (apparently i have a type)
their preferred hot beverage on really cold nights. or mornings. or wheneverhot chocolate
how they like to comfort/care for themselves when they’re in a slumpreading
what they wanted to be when they grew uphonest to god she probably wanted to become KGB, she was so young when she joined she couldn’t have wanted anything else
their favorite kind of weatherOvercast
thoughts on their singing voice (decent? terrible? soprano? alto?)v nice soprano
how/what they like to draw or doodlelil russian characters, lots of loopy things
"fantasy movie meme! give me a cast and i’ll make up a movie!" gugu mbatha-raw, priyanka chopra, lupita nyong'o, karen gillan, mk wiles (i forgot men exist. we don't need men) and renee elise goldsberry. also gina rodriguez and lana parrilla. good luck
okay….listen….bear with me on this…..lesbian pride and prejudice. the ages get a little wonky compared to the original but i don’t care. late-in-life lesbian romance is where it’s AT.*
*by ‘late-in-life’ clearly in mean like….30s…..anyway
so lizzie bennet (gina rodriguez) is 30 flirty and thriving, right? she doesn’t need a man, especially not any of the men her mum (renee elise goldsberry, I KNOW SHE’S ONLY LIKE SEVEN YEARS OLDER THAN ANY OF THE OTHERS but I JUST THINK SHE WOULD BE REAL FUNNY AS MRS BENNET) keeps trying to set her up on dates with.
lizzie’s got her sisters jane (gugu mbatha-raw), who is so sweet and kind and lovely, and lydia (mk wiles………honestly i don’t know what you expected me to do), who is the YOUNGEST and the WITTIEST and the GOSSIP in LONGBOURN is INSIDIOUS -
and did you hear that the netherfield corporation is re-opening??? yeah the daughter of the late CEO, miss charlotte bingley (priyanka chopra) just took over! she’s hosting a party and everyone’s invited! jane lizzie and lydia go, obviously, and WHOM should they meet but FITZWILHEMINA DARCY (LANA PARRILLA) who is RUDE and AWFUL and MEAN and REALLY NASTY ABOUT LIZZIE.
cue all the enemies-to-friends-to-lovers tropes you could possibly ask for, with a side helping of jane and bingley adorable stuff. the main plot mostly kicks off when lydia, desperate to strike out on her own and prove herself as just as good a journalist as lizzie (i have decided mrs renee elise goldsberry bennet runs a media empire a la CatCo), GOES UNDERCOVER TO INVESTIGATE A DRUGS RING RUN BY THE INFAMOUS WICKHAM AKA KAREN GILLAN.
lizzie and darcy have to team up when she gets in way over her head (DARCY IS OBVIOUSLY HER DEFENDING LAWYER), lydia and lizzie tell each other how good and special and important they are, lydia meanwhile falls HEAD-OVER-HEELS for the PR Person (lupita nyong’o) her mum hires after the whole drugs bust-up.
THANK YOU FOR THE SHIP STATS I'VE BEEN SO EXCITED wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (also though chloe bennet who plays skye/daisy johnson is half-chinese and her mother was played by dichen lachman, who may not be chinese but is still POC - sorry to bother you)
Thanks! I’m glad to hear you enjoy my work!
Thanks a lot for the correction - there’s always one or two mistakes I miss. I’ve never watched Agents of SHIELD so I didn’t know, but I’ve now corrected the post.
amy/eleven one-shot. AU. Written for magicallyturningbacktime who prompted a song on shuffle (No You Girls) + Doctor Who.
Mentions of alcohol, slightest allusions to drugs, brief mentions of infidelity.
you know you know yes that i love you (i mean i’d love to get to know you)
The pub is dark and crowded, bodies pressed against each other from the door all the way to the bar, the music loud and heady. Peter pushes through them all, bearing his camera like a white flag – look, it’s fine, I’m not pushing to the front, I’m supposed to be here – until he reaches his alcove by the tiny stage, and can start setting up again.
It’s uncomfortably hot, he’s sweating right through the cheap shirt and the cheaper tweed blazer that he’s had since he was a first year, fresh-faced and bright-eyed and ready to take Edinburgh by storm. The university nightlife had opened up like a gingerbread house, and swallowed the skinny boy from the Home Counties whole – not that he’d put up much of a fuss, rushing into the drinks and drugs and crowded underground clubs with arms wide open. Almost three years older, he’s a little older, a little wiser, a little more careful with his trust; but the threadbare tweed still hangs off his shoulders like’s he’s playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes.
Christ, he’s sweating. And there’s at least three more indie rock ensembles to go, this battle of the bands is starting to feel like a war. That’s funny, write that down, he thinks absentmindedly, his mind wandering from the fourth – or fifth? Time has become a bit meaningless – Arctic Monkeys cover of the night. Freshers. Think they’re so original. Peter sets the camera down then, turning away from the stage to scan the crowd. It’s the usual mix of try-hard first years, too-cool second-years, clinging-on third years and dead-eyed grads; and the odd townie, a bit older, a bit cooler, usually a bit more interesting.
He’d met River at a place not unlike this one, almost three years ago now. He was overexcited and wide-eyed, she stunning and solitary, knocking back cup after cup of red wine and making unflinching eye contact until he got the hint and introduced himself (tripping over his feet in the process, and she’d laughed, but not unkindly). He’d matched her, drink for drink, and she’d smiled as his cheeks growing redder and redder, and that’s how it began.
Peter wonders if he’ll be here tonight; can’t really help scanning the room for her; and then he remembers, tasting acid at the back of his throat, the husband that went with the wedding ring he’d somehow never noticed at first (had she been taking it off, and stopped bothering, a few months in? Was that how it started ending?). The husband, older and greyer and imposing, he’s in finance, sweetie, River had said, and if he had trusted himself to talk right then he’d have demanded to know more –
But he didn’t want to know, is the thing. It hadn’t ended then, and that sits on his heart, still.
He shakes his head, like he’s trying to dislodge some water in his ears, and takes a swig of lukewarm beer. No, she won’t be here. Yes, he looks anyway; looks for the unmistakeable silhouette in a sea of skinny jeans and vest tops, looks for the red-lipped smile and listens for the irresistibly low laugh. His head is swimming, and it’s not just the beer, or his proximity to a dodgy-looking dry smoke machine. It’s the past, and the future – the future, his last university exams looming like an execution date – all crowded into this too-small pub, this too-small present.
And then –
Later, he’ll say it was just like a movie; the music slowed, the noise faded, the crowds parted; and there she was, and here they were, the only two people alive in this whole pub, this whole city –
What really happens is this:
He sees a flash of red in the crowd, and blinks. When he opens his eyes, she’s still there, dancing wildly with her eyes wide open, her red red hair falling over one shoulder then the other. And he thinks, I need to photograph her.
***
After the last band has played their set, the panel of judges – a motley crew of music post-grads with awful beards and media graduates in shiny suit jackets – retreat for half an hour, leaving the audience in limbo. Pretty soon, someone sticks the sound system on, and the dancing resumes in earnest; but people are peeling away, too, to go for a drink or a smoke or just a cab home, and the room starts to clear a little.
Peter’s been aware, intensely aware, of the girl with the red hair since he first saw her; she was dancing in a big group, then flirting her way to free shots at the bar, then sitting outside on the low stone wall, cigarette hanging from her fingers and phone pressed to her ear. She’d looked angry when she walked through the door, and Peter had watched as the smile replaced the grimace, dazzling and distracting, as soon as she was back in the room.
Now she’s leaning against the bar, drinking some kind of mixer and smiling politely while a hulking bloke in a tight t-shirt tells an excruciatingly unfunny-looking joke. Peter watches, then swallows his nerves and swings his camera around his neck, and approaches.
“Excuse me,” he smiles, half-apologetic. “But I don’t suppose either of you have change for a tenner? I’m stuck for the bus fare…”
The red-headed girl just raises her eyebrows at him, bemused, but her – friend? – nods and starts rummaging in his wallet for coins. Peter makes a big show of thanking him, really, life saver, here’s the tenner, I’m Peter by the way, and you’re - ? Jeff, nice to meet you Jeff, and…?
She smirks, and Peter feels oddly unsettled. Surely, that was innocent. Surely, he’s not as transparent as that. Surely.
“Amy,” she says finally, extended a perfectly-manicured hand, the dark blue nails shock against her pale skin.
They shake hands –
And there’s no swelling chorus, no sudden spark, no crystal-clear Moment. It’s just a handshake, but he’ll say, later, that they fit together like they should never have been separated. And then he’ll laugh, his eyes stinging at the sound.
“Any,” he repeats, releasing her hand too slowly. “Amy! Great name, brilliant name. Hello Amy, I’m Peter.”
“You said,” she nods, eyes fixed on him.
“So I did.”
They stare at each other; she’s oddly fascinated by him, somehow, and hasn’t that always been his way? The oddball, the charming veneer, and god forbid anyone gets much further than that –
“Here you go,” Jeff announces, thrusting a fistful of coins at Peter, and Amy hiccups into her glass while he has to dig for an actual ten pound note to corroborate his introduction.
“Should be somewhere in… Here!” Peter crows, all but throwing the note at Jeff and accepting his ill-gotten small change in return. “Thanks, mate.”
Jeff nods, and grins, and waits for Peter to leave.
Peter just smiles at him; smiles at Amy.
“So,” Amy says eventually, raising her eyebrow at him again; he gets the feeling she’s going to be doing that a lot, and somehow he thinks he doesn’t mind. “When’s the next bus?”
“No idea,” he says baldly, quirking his lips into a half-smile, and it’s almost too easy, the way she tries and fails to hide her laugh.
“Right.”
“Amy – “ Jeff sounds almost bored. “I’m gonna go find Jack, yeah? They’re about to come back with the results, want to wish him luck…”
“Sure,” Amy nods, eyes barely leaving Peter; Jeff huffs a small, humourless laugh, and then he’s gone, and Peter and Amy are left staring at each other.
There’s something about her; an itch at the back of his mind he’s not sure he wants to scratch; if he gave a name to it, he might have to say familiarity. But that’s impossible; they’ve never met before.
The way she’s staring at him, though. Almost as if –
He shakes the thought, spooked, and smiles instead. “Drink?”
“Are you buying?” Amy asks, a challenge in her voice.
Peter gestures with his hands, the coins still threatening to spill from his loose fist. “I’ve got change.”
She laughs at that, and leans on the bar next to him. They’re not exactly pressed together, but the points of contact – shoulder; elbow; hip; the heat of her thigh next to his, two layers of denim away – are enough.
***
They make it through four rounds, laughs growing louder, each of them finding excuses to touch the other, bodies orbiting carelessly towards each other.
And then:
“It’s good to be back,” Amy half-shouts over the thudding music. “I left, you know, when I was little. Had to go live in England. Rubbish.”
That brings Peter up short like nothing else could, because he’s heard that before. A long, long time ago…
“What?” Amy asks, disconcerted by his silence. “You all right?”
“Why did –“
“What?”
“Why did you say Amy?”
She flinches, and sets her jaw in a stubborn line. “It’s my name.”
“No…” Peter shakes his head. ”No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is!” she stamps her foot, and Peter shakes his head.
“Amelia,” he says then, slowly, trying it out; Amy flinches again, and then turns away. Peter has to run to catch up to her, the night air hitting him like a wall as he follows her out of the pub. “Amelia Pond, you - you’re Amelia!”
“I’m Amelia,” Amy snaps, quickening her pace. “And you’re late.”
“But you didn’t say – you said Amy – “
“Twelve years.”
“You could have told me – “
“Twelve years, and four psychiatrists,” Amy sings out, the sound oddly brittle.
Peter manages to grab a hold of her arm then, and they stop, both breathing heavily. “Four?”
“I kept biting them,” Amy twists her mouth, grimacing at the memory.
“Why?”
And then she raises her chin to stare directly at him. “They said you weren’t real.”
“But – I was there – “
All at once, it comes rushing back.
The high, narrow corridors in the foster home; the long dormitories, the rows of beds. A temporary solution, they called it; there were all kinds of government goals, no child to remain in a temporary care home longer than six months…
He’d been a success story, adopted after only a few weeks. He doesn’t know if they knew what they were getting into, if they knew they were adopting a wild-eyed boy of ten who would wake, screaming, with the stench of fire in his lungs; but he was adopted, a rush job, something about his social worker needing to meet her monthly quota.
And the little redheaded girl who sat in the grass after lights-out, drawing and drawing and drawing, scribbling away until her pencils were reduced to nubs and her fingers were raw. Parents, grandparents, sisters, best friends. I remember them, Amelia says fiercely, when he asks her. That makes them real, she’d said.
“Oh yeah, course,” Amy spits back at him. “My raggedy boy who comes and sits with me when I’m drawing. When I sneak out at night and sit in the garden, there’s a boy who climbs in over the wall from the big kids’ house and sits with me.”
“But I did!”
“And I was drawing pictures of my family that I never even met,” Amy counters, cutting into him with razor-sharp precision. “What’s one more fairy-tale.”
“But I was there!” Peter shouts, child-like in his insistence; she turns away, hugging her arms to herself, and maybe that’s how Amelia sounded, seven years old and raging against a world that didn’t make sense. Oh, no.
Amy shrugs, the nonchalance too practised, and for the first time Peter feels something horribly like guilt settle into the pit of the stomach.
“I didn’t know,” he says quietly, like it will help. Like it means anything. “Amelia – I didn’t know, they just.. Moved me, and I thought I’d be coming back, and then I wasn’t.”
“Right,” Amy nods, frowning; her arms are still folded. “And you couldn’t have written, or visited, or…”
“I – “ Peter falters, and Amy scoffs. “I didn’t think,” he finishes lamely, and then they lapse into silence again.
A lorry drives past, drenching them both in freezing cold gutter water; they both gasp at the shock, and Peter shakes the water off until his hair is falling across his eyes, and when Amy looks at him she gives him a grudging sort of smile.
“Good to see you,” she says into the quiet, while he’s wiping both hands across his face; Peter thinks maybe she doesn’t want him to have heard her, so he doesn’t.
“I’m so glad I didn’t have change for the bus,” he grins instead, laughing when Amy rolls her eyes. “What, Amy?”
“You didn’t need the bus fare,” she smirks. “You’re an awful liar. Never go on stage.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Peter says, tapping his camera, still looped around his neck. “Prefer being behind the scenes. Which reminds me – “
She’s laughing at him under a streetlamp, scarf half-blown across her face, tiny drops of water still clinging to her wool coat and a few strands of red, red hair. He presses the button; the picture takes.
“Oi!”
“Thanks,” Peter smiles, checking the photo in the tiny screen before quickly turning off his camera. “Thank you, Amelia.”
“It’s Amy,” she says, a perfunctory reminder. “And let me see, I bet it’s awful, I wasn’t ready, you’ve got to warn people, Peter – “
“Better like this,” he grins at her, cheeks dimpling. “Not all posed, just… Caught. In one moment.”
“Deep,” Amy says, and Peter ducks his head. “But really, let me see, I don’t want photos of me where I look awful – “
“You don’t,” he says simply; she meets his eyes, faltering. “You really don’t.”
The streetlamp’s orange glow is warm enough to dull everything else into washed-out greys; Peter thinks dimly that he remembers Amelia, remembers the nights they used to sit and talk and draw, remembers how she told him, in a kind of fierce whisper, about home; he’d sneak out snacks from the kitchens in his block, and she’d bring her drawing pencils, and for a few hours things were…okay. Better than, even. And he might have left, but he never meant to; by the time he thought to contact the old foster home, it’d been demolished; she might have only been seven, but he had only been ten. He didn’t mean to.
And he remembers Amelia, but that’s not what’s led him here, not really. Oh, the universe might be aligned just so, the whole galaxy singing out at their reunion, but that’s not real, that’s not what’s here and now. Here, now, he’s just a photographer-slash-student in an old tweed jacket, staring and staring at the girl with red hair and a name that sounds like a question mark.
“Amy,” he says, quiet. Reverent. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at him. Looks and looks and looks, and she’s had twelve years of waiting to get angry about but he didn’t know, and he’s only just met her, really – and it somehow. Doesn’t matter.
“…Amy?”
They both jump. He’s standing very close to her; when did that happen?
Peter takes a step back, and turns to see – a boy. Well, young man – but he looks so much like the word boy that the label somehow fits. Their age, or thereabouts. Tall, sandy-haired. Confused.
It takes Amy a few seconds to unfreeze, but when she does, she springs back into action with vigour. “Hi,” she gushes, tripping over to the boy and grabbing him by the elbow. “Peter, this is Rory, my – friend.”
“Boyfriend,” the boy – Rory – corrects, fondly.
“Kind of boyfriend,” Amy speaks over him, and a little bit of the fondness slips out of his smile.
Peter only nods, claps Rory on the shoulder, shakes his hand. “Rory! Good to meet you, good to meet you – “
“And you are…?”
“Oh, Amy and I are very old friends,” Peter says charmingly; between them, Amy struggles to disguise a snort.
Rory just looks between them, a small frown creasing the space between his eyebrows. “Jack’s lot came in second,” he tells Amy. “They’re going to the finals.”
“That’s brilliant!”
“Yeah,” he smiles. “Everyone’s headed to Jack’s for a bit now, pub’s closing… You coming?”
“I –“ Amy glances at Peter, and he feels a definitely misplaced possessive jolt against his spine. “We –“
Rory looks at them both; it’s a long, measured look. “Amy.”
“Why don’t you come along,” she says quickly, turning to Peter. “You saw them, yeah? When you were taking pictures? They were on third – “
“Fourth – “
“They were on fourth,” she finishes, with a wide smile. “And you know Jeff, a bit. And Rory. And me!”
“Of course, and you,” Peter nods, grinning.
Amy returns the smile, leaning in and tugging on his sleeve a little. “So…”
“So…” Peter mimics her, the tone drawn-out and mocking. “All right. Could be fun.”
She giggles, pleased, then turns back to Rory. “Yeah, Rory?”
“Yeah, great,” Rory says flatly, and for a moment Peter feels the scene tilt slightly; his presence on the pavement fades into insignificance, making space for the line stretched taut between the other two, crackling with something sharp and unmentioned.
And then Amy laughs, and presses a quick peck to Rory’s lips. “Go find the others,” she tells him. “We’ll get a cab, I want to go back to mine and change. Meet you there.”
And just like that, Peter is there again, intensely aware of Amy’s awareness of him. He’s not sure, but he thinks they’re not talking about something, here; Rory definitely seems to think so, but he doesn’t press it, simply nods, and kisses Amy again, and leaves them alone.
***
The cab ride to Amy’s block of flats is filled with giggles, and garbled half-conversations, and casual, occasional touches – they’re both good at this, at talking so long and so fast that they themselves stop paying attention to what else is going on –
And then they’re standing in Amy’s living room.
“I should get changed,” Amy says, without moving.
“Yes,” Peter agrees peaceably, his head slightly clouded, his face warm.
“We should go meet the others.”
“Yep.”
“I should hurry, so we can go.”
“Absolutely.”
“I should get going, then,” Amy suggests, eyes meeting his for a second, before darting away.
Peter takes a step towards her. “Get going,” he repeats. “Yes.”
She matches him, step for step. “I should,” she says, then licks her lips. Tries again. “I should be quick, so we can go meet Rory.”
“Meeting Rory, top of the list,” he says quietly. They’re standing very close now. “Agreed.”
“I should – “
“You should.”
He’ll say, later, that she tastes like fire; starlight; strawberry lip gloss and perfection.
He won’t be lying, exactly, but –
She tastes like rainwater against his lips, her skin still damp with sweat and spilled beer when he drags his fingers over her ribs. And it shouldn’t – it shouldn’t be perfection; but.
