fic: no wonder, no wonder (other half) (1/ probably 7)
Maybe weekly updates?
Title: No Wonder, No Wonder (Other Half) (1/7?)
Rating: R eventually, PG for now
Word Count: 1,415 for this chapter.
Disclaimers: boys belong to themselves, not me! Title, opening, and eventual closing lines from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Hysteric”.
Summary: in which Michael gets a job in a pub, James has a past that no one talks about and is probably not magical, and every good fairy tale earns its happy ending.
Notes: for the McFassy Autumn Extravaganza, for
significantowl’s prompt #47: The steps on the hillside lead to a cabin covered in moss and ivy, and James is the man who lives inside - that is, if man is entirely the right word. Some say fairies live in these woods, some whisper of other things... not that it particularly matters one way or another, but Michael can't keep himself from wondering…
The cottage was enchanted. That was practically the first bit of information Michael heard upon arrival, and, as he’d walked by it earlier that afternoon and seen the silent ivy-shrouded sides, the fairy-ring of trees encircling soft white walls like a fortress, he could just about believe it.
“It’s haunted,” said one of the older men cheerfully, in the pub. “Ghosts and all. Tragic love story, et cetera.”
“Loon,” said his companion, affectionately. “You just say that to scare the tourists.”
“Ah, we barely even get tourists…”
This was true; their particular English-idyll village sat tucked away from major roadways and historic attractions. They had sheep and cheese and an ancient pub and an old Iron Age hill-fort up the road, so overgrown with grass that historically-minded visitors got lost looking for it. Michael smiled to himself, and drew another pint, and slid it over.
“It’s fairies, isn’t it,” Hugh said in passing, which prompted everyone in the sleepy low-roofed place to stop and look at him. Hugh rolled his eyes. “The story. About that place. Conan Doyle went out there once in the eighteen-nineties. Thought he’d find winged people in the garden.”
Michael raised an eyebrow at him.
“It’s true,” Hugh said, perfectly deadpan, “the man was mad for fairies, you should’ve talked to him,” and headed back into the kitchen to produce extra sausage rolls.
“You weren’t there!” Michael shouted at his back, and Hugh announced, “Maybe I was!” before vanishing. Michael laughed; so did Ian and Patrick, from the other end of the bar.
“He might’ve been,” Ian observed, “one never knows. Our Hugh could be a fairy.”
There was a moment’s pause, while they all considered this.
“…no.”
“No.”
“Probably not. Michael, were you really curious about the place? It’s not available.”
“I was just wondering.” He flicked the shaker into the air, caught it on the back of his hand, poured. Ian applauded the bright pink concoction and the skill. “Dear boy, you are a marvel. How did you end up here?”
“I was trying to be an actor,” Michael said, which was more or less true, if not the whole of the truth. The rest of the story belonged to one other person, along with the unhealed pieces of his heart; nobody else needed to know.
The bit he’d offered, though, was more than sufficient for the two retired Shakespeareans currently settled in at the King’s Bacon. The pub in fact belonged to a person named Kevin Bacon, though the name was a coincidence; the place’d been standing since before Cromwell, and was currently snug and safe against the autumn howl.
Kevin had hired him on the spot, no questions asked, the previous week. Michael’d found out later that the previous bartender’d quit that morning, off to London and the world of excitement; his timing had been perfect. If one could call it that, given the circumstances.
Both Patrick and Ian glanced at each other; Patrick leaned over to pat him on the arm. “We do know that story. It’s all right, though; sigh no more, and all that. Blithe and bonny.”
“Converting all your sounds of woe,” Ian jumped in, apparently just to top the line, because they’d previously established that everyone in the current conversation knew Much Ado backwards and forwards and inside out.
“Yes,” Michael retorted, “thank you, Beatrice and Benedick,” which earned two delighted smiles and a brief squabble about who was whom in the relationship. Michael, who was of the opinion that it depended on the day and anyway he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, displayed entertained teeth at them and went back to drying glassware.
Hands occupied, he ventured, “I was only curious,” which was true. He’d been out walking, when he’d seen it nestled away among the trees. Gold-leaf light splashed over the windows, and tangled on the path before the door. He’d nearly followed that path, entranced.
He’d thought better of it—no one in any sort of right mind would take kindly to a stranger appearing out of nowhere in the isolated middle of the woods, and anyway he was going to be late getting back—but, glancing over his shoulder, he’d felt the strangest impression that someone was watching him, had seen him too and was equally intrigued.
He’d always been an out-of-doors sort of person, even in the city. Liked the rain on his face, the wind in his hair. Brought back memories of Ireland and an emerald childhood and lilting voices in his father’s restaurant.
“There is some sort of legend about it,” Patrick mused, “but I can’t recall what, at present. Another drink might help.”
“Oh, all right, then…” His hands knew the drill; they’d been tending bar in London for years. This was quieter. Drowsier. Kinder.
The wind rattled the door, companionably.
“Rain tomorrow,” Hugh said, wandering out again. “Anyone want overcooked chips? On the house.”
“How did you ever get a job in a pub,” Michael said, and ate five.
Hugh shrugged, suggested, “Kevin likes me,” and left the basket on the bar, next to the ketchup.
“If Hugh were a fairy,” Ian said, “he’d be a better cook,” and adventured a chip, shuddered, and chased it with a drink.
“It’s a love story,” Patrick said.
“Hugh?”
“No! Though there must be one; he is married. I meant your cottage. I can’t think of the details. A fairy in love with a human, or maybe the other way around.”
“In any case,” Ian said, “it’s occupied, you can’t move in. Sorry.”
“I like my place.” He did. It was temporary—rented rooms in a Georgian brick building a few block down—but it had parking for the motorbike and a lovely little old landlady who didn’t care that he kept nocturnal hours and had turned up with no references. She occasionally brought him tea. He suspected she felt sorry for him. “Occupied, though? Someone lives there?”
Ian and Patrick exchanged glances.
“What,” Michael said, amused, “is it a national secret, that place,” and drowned one of Hugh’s chip disasters in ketchup and consumed it. Pondered whether he could do something with liquid smoke, behind the bar.
“It’s simply not our secret to tell,” Patrick decided, with finality. “Sorry.”
“Hmm. Will this person mind if I go out running, around there?”
Another traded glance, back and forth; Ian conceded, “Not necessarily. You’ll never see him.”
“But he won’t mind?”
“He…won’t talk to you. It’s not personal. Just don’t knock, or try to speak to him.”
Michael instantly felt the desire to knock, to see who hid on the other side of the ivy-twined door. His imagination pulled up all sorts of fanciful ideas: brownies, pixies, a great beast, as in Beauty and the, lurking in loneliness…
More likely it was just a weary hermit, a person who appreciated solitude and the stillness of the woods. Michael could sympathize. He appreciated that peacefulness as well.
“I won’t,” he said, “but if I meet him by accident, I can’t promise I won’t say hello.”
“You won’t,” Ian said, “but that’s all right, now tell us about yourself, we can’t stand not knowing everything, and you’ve been here a week, it’s about time.”
“And one man in his time plays many parts,” Michael said back, Shakespeare for Shakespeare and nondisclosure, and the wind purred like a kitten around the sturdy building. He wondered whether it was also purring around the enchanted cottage, swirling the leaves. He wondered about that mysterious he, and he hoped that the person, whoever or whatever he was, felt warm and safe. Even fairies needed to be cozy, after all.
He wondered, too, whether he would accidentally meet that he. On a walk, perhaps, leaves crunching red-gold underfoot, following a trail around a tree, face to face in surprise…
He’d always been curious. Like a cheetah, his mother’d said once, exasperated: fast and long-legged and easily intrigued. And he’d grown up loving science-fiction, the supernatural, and superheroes; he’d once tied a cape round his neck and pretended to be Superman. Superman would probably be fascinated by fairies.
And then he shook his head, and laughed at himself and his fantasies, and got out another bottle of whiskey for the back table.
Title: No Wonder, No Wonder (Other Half) (1/7?)
Rating: R eventually, PG for now
Word Count: 1,415 for this chapter.
Disclaimers: boys belong to themselves, not me! Title, opening, and eventual closing lines from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Hysteric”.
Summary: in which Michael gets a job in a pub, James has a past that no one talks about and is probably not magical, and every good fairy tale earns its happy ending.
Notes: for the McFassy Autumn Extravaganza, for
significantowl’s prompt #47: The steps on the hillside lead to a cabin covered in moss and ivy, and James is the man who lives inside - that is, if man is entirely the right word. Some say fairies live in these woods, some whisper of other things... not that it particularly matters one way or another, but Michael can't keep himself from wondering…no longer, no longer
what you ask
strange steps
heels turn black
the cinders, the cinders
they light the path
of these strange steps
take us back, take us back
flow sweetly, hang heavy
you suddenly complete me
you suddenly complete me…
what you ask
strange steps
heels turn black
the cinders, the cinders
they light the path
of these strange steps
take us back, take us back
flow sweetly, hang heavy
you suddenly complete me
you suddenly complete me…
The cottage was enchanted. That was practically the first bit of information Michael heard upon arrival, and, as he’d walked by it earlier that afternoon and seen the silent ivy-shrouded sides, the fairy-ring of trees encircling soft white walls like a fortress, he could just about believe it.
“It’s haunted,” said one of the older men cheerfully, in the pub. “Ghosts and all. Tragic love story, et cetera.”
“Loon,” said his companion, affectionately. “You just say that to scare the tourists.”
“Ah, we barely even get tourists…”
This was true; their particular English-idyll village sat tucked away from major roadways and historic attractions. They had sheep and cheese and an ancient pub and an old Iron Age hill-fort up the road, so overgrown with grass that historically-minded visitors got lost looking for it. Michael smiled to himself, and drew another pint, and slid it over.
“It’s fairies, isn’t it,” Hugh said in passing, which prompted everyone in the sleepy low-roofed place to stop and look at him. Hugh rolled his eyes. “The story. About that place. Conan Doyle went out there once in the eighteen-nineties. Thought he’d find winged people in the garden.”
Michael raised an eyebrow at him.
“It’s true,” Hugh said, perfectly deadpan, “the man was mad for fairies, you should’ve talked to him,” and headed back into the kitchen to produce extra sausage rolls.
“You weren’t there!” Michael shouted at his back, and Hugh announced, “Maybe I was!” before vanishing. Michael laughed; so did Ian and Patrick, from the other end of the bar.
“He might’ve been,” Ian observed, “one never knows. Our Hugh could be a fairy.”
There was a moment’s pause, while they all considered this.
“…no.”
“No.”
“Probably not. Michael, were you really curious about the place? It’s not available.”
“I was just wondering.” He flicked the shaker into the air, caught it on the back of his hand, poured. Ian applauded the bright pink concoction and the skill. “Dear boy, you are a marvel. How did you end up here?”
“I was trying to be an actor,” Michael said, which was more or less true, if not the whole of the truth. The rest of the story belonged to one other person, along with the unhealed pieces of his heart; nobody else needed to know.
The bit he’d offered, though, was more than sufficient for the two retired Shakespeareans currently settled in at the King’s Bacon. The pub in fact belonged to a person named Kevin Bacon, though the name was a coincidence; the place’d been standing since before Cromwell, and was currently snug and safe against the autumn howl.
Kevin had hired him on the spot, no questions asked, the previous week. Michael’d found out later that the previous bartender’d quit that morning, off to London and the world of excitement; his timing had been perfect. If one could call it that, given the circumstances.
Both Patrick and Ian glanced at each other; Patrick leaned over to pat him on the arm. “We do know that story. It’s all right, though; sigh no more, and all that. Blithe and bonny.”
“Converting all your sounds of woe,” Ian jumped in, apparently just to top the line, because they’d previously established that everyone in the current conversation knew Much Ado backwards and forwards and inside out.
“Yes,” Michael retorted, “thank you, Beatrice and Benedick,” which earned two delighted smiles and a brief squabble about who was whom in the relationship. Michael, who was of the opinion that it depended on the day and anyway he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, displayed entertained teeth at them and went back to drying glassware.
Hands occupied, he ventured, “I was only curious,” which was true. He’d been out walking, when he’d seen it nestled away among the trees. Gold-leaf light splashed over the windows, and tangled on the path before the door. He’d nearly followed that path, entranced.
He’d thought better of it—no one in any sort of right mind would take kindly to a stranger appearing out of nowhere in the isolated middle of the woods, and anyway he was going to be late getting back—but, glancing over his shoulder, he’d felt the strangest impression that someone was watching him, had seen him too and was equally intrigued.
He’d always been an out-of-doors sort of person, even in the city. Liked the rain on his face, the wind in his hair. Brought back memories of Ireland and an emerald childhood and lilting voices in his father’s restaurant.
“There is some sort of legend about it,” Patrick mused, “but I can’t recall what, at present. Another drink might help.”
“Oh, all right, then…” His hands knew the drill; they’d been tending bar in London for years. This was quieter. Drowsier. Kinder.
The wind rattled the door, companionably.
“Rain tomorrow,” Hugh said, wandering out again. “Anyone want overcooked chips? On the house.”
“How did you ever get a job in a pub,” Michael said, and ate five.
Hugh shrugged, suggested, “Kevin likes me,” and left the basket on the bar, next to the ketchup.
“If Hugh were a fairy,” Ian said, “he’d be a better cook,” and adventured a chip, shuddered, and chased it with a drink.
“It’s a love story,” Patrick said.
“Hugh?”
“No! Though there must be one; he is married. I meant your cottage. I can’t think of the details. A fairy in love with a human, or maybe the other way around.”
“In any case,” Ian said, “it’s occupied, you can’t move in. Sorry.”
“I like my place.” He did. It was temporary—rented rooms in a Georgian brick building a few block down—but it had parking for the motorbike and a lovely little old landlady who didn’t care that he kept nocturnal hours and had turned up with no references. She occasionally brought him tea. He suspected she felt sorry for him. “Occupied, though? Someone lives there?”
Ian and Patrick exchanged glances.
“What,” Michael said, amused, “is it a national secret, that place,” and drowned one of Hugh’s chip disasters in ketchup and consumed it. Pondered whether he could do something with liquid smoke, behind the bar.
“It’s simply not our secret to tell,” Patrick decided, with finality. “Sorry.”
“Hmm. Will this person mind if I go out running, around there?”
Another traded glance, back and forth; Ian conceded, “Not necessarily. You’ll never see him.”
“But he won’t mind?”
“He…won’t talk to you. It’s not personal. Just don’t knock, or try to speak to him.”
Michael instantly felt the desire to knock, to see who hid on the other side of the ivy-twined door. His imagination pulled up all sorts of fanciful ideas: brownies, pixies, a great beast, as in Beauty and the, lurking in loneliness…
More likely it was just a weary hermit, a person who appreciated solitude and the stillness of the woods. Michael could sympathize. He appreciated that peacefulness as well.
“I won’t,” he said, “but if I meet him by accident, I can’t promise I won’t say hello.”
“You won’t,” Ian said, “but that’s all right, now tell us about yourself, we can’t stand not knowing everything, and you’ve been here a week, it’s about time.”
“And one man in his time plays many parts,” Michael said back, Shakespeare for Shakespeare and nondisclosure, and the wind purred like a kitten around the sturdy building. He wondered whether it was also purring around the enchanted cottage, swirling the leaves. He wondered about that mysterious he, and he hoped that the person, whoever or whatever he was, felt warm and safe. Even fairies needed to be cozy, after all.
He wondered, too, whether he would accidentally meet that he. On a walk, perhaps, leaves crunching red-gold underfoot, following a trail around a tree, face to face in surprise…
He’d always been curious. Like a cheetah, his mother’d said once, exasperated: fast and long-legged and easily intrigued. And he’d grown up loving science-fiction, the supernatural, and superheroes; he’d once tied a cape round his neck and pretended to be Superman. Superman would probably be fascinated by fairies.
And then he shook his head, and laughed at himself and his fantasies, and got out another bottle of whiskey for the back table.