“One round. That’s it,” Brandon said, leaning back in the chair. He would have preferred a booth, hell, he would have preferred to be home, on the couch in sweats with some take-out and some game on the TV, a beer sweating uselessly on the coffee table, one he wouldn’t finish because drinking alone was never a good idea.
“We’re not all lightweights, dude,” Fitz, aka Richard Fitzwilliam, who’d chosen Fitz pre-emptively, not wanting to spend all of officer training as “Dickie,” replied.
“Two rounds and I’ll get the nachos,” Worth offered. He’d had a bad break-up years ago, even though he and Annie had finally gotten back together, reconnecting at a college reunion, and Brandon suspected it was Annie’s idea for the guys to drag him out to the bar on a Saturday night. She was a sweetheart, Annie, and Brandon couldn’t even really begrudge Worth his happiness seeing them together.
They hadn’t been married though. Annie hadn’t cheated on Worth and then gotten pregnant by the other guy and then posted about it all on social media like it was this huge romantic love story, not screwing over your husband while he was deployed.
Was he bitter? Yeah, and he was entitled to be.
“Brandon’s a wing man, you know that,” George said, grinning at Brandon and settling into the seat next to him. He was always late, so busy with his law firm and his rental properties, but he always showed up, even when Brandon knew he’d rather be home with his rescue dogs Harry and Marty. He had a thing for one of the partners at his firm but Brandon knew it would be up to Emma to make the first move, since George was tied up in knots over the murky ethics of the power dynamics.
“Fine, two rounds, nachos and wings, then I’m out,” Brandon said.
“Okay. But you might want to stay. Cottage has a band playing tonight, Barton Park. You like live music,” Worth said.
“At the Philharmonic,” Brandon said. He braced himself for mediocre nachos and some screechy-whiny indie folk rock. Cottage wasn’t a bar that ran to hard rock or country and the owner Jenny, an aggressively cheerful woman with a sleeve of tats who called everyone “darlin’” and hired kids from the local college who didn’t have the first idea about waiting tables but who needed the cash, was not likely to have high standards about the quality of the music.
Was Brandon kind of a snob? Yeah, and he didn’t apologize for it.
He’d said he was sorry for plenty of other shit.
“If they suck, I’ll buy everyone a shot,” George said.
They were half-way through the nachos with one lone wing lingering on the plate when three young women took what what passed for a stage. There was a little elevated area with two stools and a drum kit set up, the women taking their spots without much fuss. They were more professional than Brandon had anticipated but that didn’t mean they’d play worth a damn.
One of them stood at the mic, waited for a beat for everyone to shut up.
“Hey, thanks, hi, I’m Ellie and we’re Barton Park. Meg’s on drums and Marianne’s lead vocals and we hope you enjoy our set,” she said, settling back onto her stool with her guitar gracefully cradled in her hands. She wasn’t particularly remarkable looking, a pretty enough brunette with a nice ass in a pair of snug jeans. Brandon resigned himself to some indie-ish Muzak and the buzz of a shot.
And then Marianne opened her mouth and started to sing.
“Holy shit,” Fitz whispered. Brandon raised his hand to silence his friend but he didn’t need to. The whole bar had stopped talking as soon as Marianne started singing and now that’s all there was, her gorgeous contralto voice filling up every bit of space, yearning and demand exquisitely balanced. She was in total control and Brandon could barely take in anything else about her while she sang, catching the chestnut waves of her hair loose against her shoulders and the peacock color of a fringed scarf hanging halfway to the ground.
He only knew she’d stopped singing when the applause broke out.
“Breathe, buddy,” George said, patting him on the back.
“She’s—”
Brandon couldn’t think of what came next, except that she’d be singing again and that was all he wanted for the rest of his life.
“Looks like Brandon needs our help on a mission. Getting Miss Marianne’s number,” Fitz said.
“I don’t—” he began, but the clapping ended and Ellie strummed her guitar. Marianne shook her hair back from her face and her lips parted.
“Fine, yeah. I want her number,” Brandon said.
Written for @janeuary-month Day 11, prompt "singing."
Most Remakes, Reboots, Prequels and Sequels be like...
Original Comic by Phillip M Jackson
Thank god for a good few like Ghostbusters Afterlife, Cobra Kai, The Mandalorian, The A-Team, Dredd, Blade Runner 2049, and a few others that I could not think of yet at this point.
Concept: a modern reboot of GK Chesterton’s Father Brown series, but instead of 1920′s England, featuring a meek Catholic priest, the story is set in the neighborhoods of Los Angeles, from glitzy to grimy, sham to splendor and back again.
Sister Marron is a nun, born in Mexico but now a true Los Angelina, who is fluent in Spanish and English, and learning Tagalog and Mandarin. She is quiet, bespectacled, and often a bit of a clutz, but her kindness never wavers and she is always ready to lend an ear, or a hand. She solves crimes, and has an uncanny insight into the criminal mind, but is always sensitive to the hope of redemption and reconciliation. There’s an Archbishop who thinks Sister Marron is occasionally too meddlesome, what with her taking Confession and granting Last Rites, and occasionally performing weddings, but her Mother Superior (a most admirable Sister Vivian) has no complaints.
Anne Beatrix Russell-Elliot nodded her head, a brief moment of heartfelt gratitude sent towards the universe and her colleague Clementine Smith for insisting she update her peruke.
“Counsel, you may proceed,” she said.
She hadn’t thought their paths would cross again when she told him she couldn’t give up her position in the firm to join him. He’d talked about New Zealand like it was simply another forty minutes on the M1. She’d told him she loved him. He’d replied,
Not enough.
“I had not recognized you. I must recuse myself,” Frederick said.
Written for @janeuary-month Day 23 prompt "court."
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sole proprietorship coffee shop in possession of an ideal location and a reliable source of ethically harvested beans must be in want of adequate staff.
Elizabeth would have taken one measly part-time barista who could create a competent Rosetta in a latte.
Or someone who was not related to her, because when her sisters came to “help out,” she ended up short cash in the till (Lydia and shockingly Mary), running low on clotted cream (Kit), or with the entire kitchen scrubbed clean but with all the shelves rearranged in a way that was completely unintuitive unless you were also deeply influenced by feng shui (Jane, who needed to stop worrying so much about cultural appropriation but also needed to stop moving the espresso cups to the north side of the room.)
It was getting dire and that was not only Elizabeth’s opinion. Charlotte, her closest friend from uni and also her accountant, had started to have an expression halfway between concerned and skeptical when Elizabeth talked about the coffee-shop and had absolutely vetoed the vintage La Marzocco espresso maker.
“You’d need what they call an angel investor in the States to pull that off, Lizzie, and nothing about Bluestockings would attract an angel,” Charlotte said.
“You still think I should have accepted the offer from Collins,” Elizabeth replied.
“I’m not idealistic,” Charlotte shrugged. “Not a romantic like you. He made a solid offer and he had the cash—”
“He looked like a toad in a Fair Isle jumper and he kept calling me Bettina,” Elizabeth said.
“This is London, the costs are only getting higher, between the bloody Tories and the foreign nationals buying up entire streets— You may regret saying no."
“I’d rather that than the alternative,” Elizabeth said. “The look on his face was priceless.”
“Oh, there was a price,” Charlotte said. “You just don’t know how much it’ll cost you.”
“How much?” the tall, dark-haired man in what was very clearly Savile Row asked, after Elizabeth, most definitely not looking her best since not one sister had shown up to help, not even Jane, had pushed across a sloppily poured London fog latte and then had forgotten to ring him up.
“Four quid,” she said, rounding up. He was wearing monogrammed platinum cufflinks and had the attitude of someone with a vast estate he referred to as “the country house.” Plus, he’d ignored her the whole time she’d scrambled around to make the drink, even when she nearly knocked three tins (Jane, why, why?!) from the shelf where the Earl Grey was kept and she’d yelped most unbecomingly.
“I meant how much do you need for the back-taxes and the rent. It needs a renovation, but we’d need to get an architect in for that, Annika de Bourgh at Rosings is the best,” he said. “My friend Charlie was here last week, raved about it, said the very pretty barista with the bluest eyes told him you were her sister, the coffee-shop about to go under, even though she’d reorganized the cutlery five times to invite financial well-being, and he’s likely to do something very ill-considered unless I stop him, so how much do you need? The place is tolerable, I suppose—”
“Tolerable?” Elizabeth repeated. Sputtered, not unlike the milk frother which needed a repair.
“I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen better. It has some potential, the location is unimpeachable, the foot traffic alone should make the rent, as long as people want to walk in,” he said. “How much?”
“You’ve some nerve,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes. As well as the acumen and portfolio to back it up,” he answered coolly.
“I’d never take money from someone whose name I don’t know, who hasn’t worked with me a single day,” Elizabeth said.
“Darcy. Will Darcy. I hope you’ve a spare apron,” he said.
“I don’t,” she said.
“Then I’ll wear one of your tee-shirts,” he said, taking off his suit jacket and folding it over one forearm.
“It won’t fit,” she said.
“I’ll be careful then, not to spill,” he replied.
The tee-shirt fit, if by fit one meant that it made it clear how exquisitely well-built Will Darcy was, broad and well-muscled through the shoulders and chest, narrow waisted, the pale blue cotton concealing hardly anything, the swoopy swirly scrawl of Bluestockings seemingly designed specifically to make one consider whether he possessed a six or eight pack. And he didn’t spill a drop.
“Convinced?” he asked, after three hours, the best mid-afternoon rush she’d ever had neatly managed, the counters pristine. He’d rolled his sleeves up after the first hour and Elizabeth had resolutely determined not to give a name to the feeling the sight evoked in her.
(The name would probably include an obscenity, something she could confide to neither Jane nor Charlotte.)
“Give me a week,” she said.
“To decide?”
“Work here for a week. One afternoon doesn’t count. You might be lucky,” she said.
“I don’t believe in luck,” he said.
“Of course not,” she said.
Charlotte had been right. Elizabeth had had no idea what it would cost her.
Written but posted late (on a day when I feel like a lot of us can use a cheerful distraction!) for Janeuary 2025 @janeuary-month, Day 15, prompt: London.
A modern reboot inspired by The Office (American, not British, for a higher percentage of sweetness), in 9 to 5, James is a new hire at Skeldale House, a local business focusing on veterinary supplies. Helen is the secretary who secretly yearns to ditch her job and become a nature photographer, in an on-and-off again relationship with Hugh Hulton, a rich barrister who’d like her to quit Skeldale House. Their boss is the irascible Mr. Farnon, who keeps a bottle of Scotch in his desk drawer and whose first name is only known to Skeldale’s HR director, Audrey Hall. This is a slow-burn featuring lots of mishaps and endless cups of tea. Mr. Farnon’s brother Tristan, not an employee, spends a frankly unconscionable amount of time at the office, largely planning pranks and eating other people’s lunches.
elinor (hannah simone) and marianne (alia bhatt) dashwood’s family lose their fortune and they move to a tiny village. elinor gets a job assisting a beekeeper and throws herself into fixing up their slightly decrepit new cottage. she does not think of the guy she left behind, a gentle man who isn’t calling or texting. marianne isn’t thrilled with the move. she misses the busyness of the city and her friends. one thing hasn’t changed though- she keeps falling for the wrong people.
everythingbutthekitchensphinx and lionkate requested the ghost and mrs. muir
young widow lucia muir (gina rodriguez) moves herself and her precocious daughter (jenna ortega) to a seaside cottage against the wishes of her overbearing in-laws. the cottage is rumored to be haunted, which good-natured lucia sees as an exciting adventure. soon enough, lucia meets daniel (oscar isaac), a roguish but gentle ghost who haunts their cottage. he is a former sea captain, a prankster, and kind of a grump. when lucia runs into financial problems, daniel proposes an idea: he’ll recall his exciting adventures on the sea, lucia will write them up (on his old typewriter- the guy insists), and bam! they’ll have a best-seller! of course, falling in love poses a problem.
