(Rather than write the same vaguedrivel, here is a pretty gif to inspire you, a link to the weather for the week, and a link to londonist, a great resource for all things London related. As always this post is open all week. Tag in, tag others, check back often!)
He didn't work Sundays, but he'd been called in late last night for an emergency operation. It had gone well, but it had taken all night, and Yves looked tired as he sat at a table outside a cafe near the hospital.
He had showered and changed into a spare suit he kept in his office, and he sipped his coffee as he tried to decide if he should just go home and sleep the day away, or if he ought to practice a bit of self discipline and find something to keep him alert today.
It was busy though, and the tables around him were all filling up, leaving the next customer to step outside with nowhere to sit- Unless they were bold enough to ask to share his table.
'Bold' was a fair descriptor of the very tall red-haired man bearing a large cup, balancing a plate of bagel and lox, with a book tucked under his arm. If his height and hair and strange eyes weren't enough, he dressed in blue and violet and patterns that seemed determined to draw attention to himself, no matter how carelessly his designer scarf draped around his neck.
"Pardon me, but I'll be quiet as a church mouse if I could just set this down here," Felix told the man at the only half-occupied table, smiling his can't-say-no smile and nodding to the available chair.
Yves had been reading something on his phone, but he glanced up at the sound of the man's voice. The fae's gaze raked over the ginger peacock, noting everything from his shoes to his miss-matched eyes.
"By all means," he said after a beat, gesturing at the table. "Be my guest."
Since seeing Winter, Faizel hadn't been sleeping well. As though the pixie's face had opened a Pandora's box of bad memories, all which seemed to take turns haunting his dreams.
Tonight he was grocery shopping, but he was fairly certain he'd been staring at the same bag of crisps for nearly five minutes now. ...And his basket was, well, empty.
Rubbing his face, he sighed, picking up the salt and vinegar variety, then setting off to the fresh fruit and veg- And walking right into someone.
Sunny usually did her shopping and cooking on the weekend. That was she could have leftovers through the week to heat up and eat during the week when she was going to classes and working. This weekend...
Well. Okay, so she'd gotten a little into potions rather than actual food. So here she was.
Her attention on produce, she nearly waved it off when someone collided with her. These things happened. But she looked up and her face shifted from recognition to delight to concern. "You look awful," she said in place of a more typical greeting.
She usually allowed for lapses in manners around people she knew better, but it just popped out.
Faizel seemed somewhat startled to see her, offering a dopey little smile that melted into something a bit more confused. That wasn't really the greeting he'd been hoping for when he'd thought about what it might be like to see Sunny again.
"...Oh, um, long week," he replied, picking up a large leek as he spoke.
Clint would have loved to have a good explanation for why he was there, something about being an Iowa farm boy. To say he'd really grown up on a farm would have been an exaggeration at best. Sure, he'd grown up in a farm house and there'd been some chickens but they'd mostly been pets who happened to leave eggs. He and Barney had had a pair of goats for a while but he had no idea what happened to them after they got put in the system.
Hell, he'd encountered more animals at the circus, but here he was at the National Pet Show.
And he definitely hadn't ever encountered an alpaca before. It was a weird-looking thing, with a mean little face. It glared (?) at Clint as it chewed a mouthful of hay, lower jaw moving in tiny circles.
"What was God thinking when He made an alpaca?" Clint asked, moving a handful of hay closer to it to see what it would do.
Anael was walking around the Pet Show because the love people had for animals was just as lovely as any other, really. The question, rhetorical or not, made him stop and smile at the alpaca in question. "Usually, people ask about the platypus."
"Nah, see, a poisonous mammal that looks like a duck makes perfect sense. Looks like a practical joke, but this guy..." Clint jerked a thumb back toward the alpaca, which looked at his hand like it might be delicious. "What evolutionary purpose is there to a bad-tempered sweater?"
Trust Marvin to show up for a meet at the National Pet Show – also his idea – wearing an I ♥ my pig t-shirt and a cap with a curlicue tail in the back. It was Marvin, though, so Victoria shouldn't have been surprised. But doing her a favor or not, a small unprofessional part of Victoria almost started a scene when the information he handed her was on microfiche for no good reason outside Marvin's paranoia.
Microfiche. In 2016. For information that couldn't be more than a decade old at best.
She'd save sharing her thoughts with him until the next time they spoke on the phone. For now, she let him wander off while she finished her coffee, then tossed the empty cup in a bin near an alpaca just in time to hear the man's comment. A man she had recognized from her spot on the bench, whom she remembered as very alert and with interesting calluses on his hands.
Interesting. If not troubling.
"Perhaps that's what he was thinking," she suggested, a sly glint in her eyes as she watched the animal more than the man. The man was less likely to spit. One hoped. "An animal that would prompt questions of faith. It's Mr. Barton, yes?"
"I'm not much a man of faith," Clint said, putting some of that Iowa simpleton back into his voice. "I've seen them before but never this close. They kind of look like belligerent sweaters." As he spoke, the alpaca clacked its teeth and Clint scowled, gesturing with two fingers from his eyes to the creature's.
"You bite me and I'll tell them you gave me rabies."
He was an American; he could probably get away with an absurd lawsuit like that.
"God was trolling your cranky ass, that's for sure." That was John, acerbic, perhaps even more so what with his hair the way it had been. He was feeling more like his old self than he thought he would, and wasn't sure what to do about it. "If that thing bites your fingers off, I'm just gonna laugh." He nodded to the alpaca, who seemed more suspicious of the handful of hay than actively hungry.
"Well, that's probably what I deserve for not believing in him," Clint said, as circumspect as ever. Or at least as circumspect as he allowed himself to sound in front of others.
"It better not. I need my fingers. For typing and all that."
Rehearsals had run later than expected, and the rain was still coming down. Not hard, but enough to soak through a light jacket. It would have been nothing to call an Uber, and yet Fin instead bought a decent umbrella from the first shop he passed, opting to simply walk. Lighting a cigarette, Fin seemed to go unnoticed as he strolled along, the gentle tapping of the rain against his umbrella a soothing sound- A sharp contrast the the odd sense of dread that had been following him around all day.
He couldn't explain it really, only that he felt... Off. Had he been human still, he might have assumed he had a cold or something coming on. As it was... Well, he wasn't really sure what it could be. Paranoia, probably, he'd assured himself more than once today.
He was two blocks away from his flat when it happened. His heart fluttered back to life- Something he'd found exciting the first few times it had happened, but now knew to take as a warning. His heart only beat when it was fighting back against the darkness inside him, and this wasn't its usual steady beat. It was rapid, nervous, painful... His vision blurred, and he ducked into a doorway to collect himself as it returned to normal. ...What was that scent though? Sickly sweet and metallic, it filled the air, and it was so familiar.
The caves, that's where he knew it from, the place where he and Will had been lost last Halloween, the night he'd found that book and become whatever he was now.
Willy Silver, Daoine Sidhe, will join his kind in battle before summer comes. He will face me, or I will feast on his heart.
The voice was soft, little more than a whisper- And it felt as though it was in his head. The message repeated twice, and then was followed by a high pitched shriek, a noise so sharp that Fin dropped his umbrella and doubled over as he covered his ears. Though the few others who were out and about didn't seem to hear it, and most seemed to pay him no mind as they carried on with their night.
Had he been the only one to hear it? Or had the message been for Will too? Had anyone with ties to magic been privy to it? Fin didn't know. He only knew that his heart was beating so hard it made his chest ache, and that there was something beneath his skin, slithering and winding around his bones, squeezing until he ached all over.
He'd written off Halloween as a fluke, a blessing with some strings attached- But what if it had all been something more sinister? A dirty tactic to ensure Will didn't stop fighting simply because he was content here.
Willy was only a block away from the flat when he saw Fin across the distance. Rather than head inside he closed the distance between them with a smile on his face. The smile faltered and fell when he saw Fin double over and drop his umbrella. The prince's hands came out of his pocket and he ran the last few steps to Fin and put a hand on his back.
He had heard nothing, but when he touched Fin it was as if he was touching something electric.
"Finlay?" he asked with real concern. "My love, what is it?"
Titania, their black, short haired feline, was fairly low maintenance. She kept herself clean, was eager to be brushed, and only very rarely needed any kind of cat shampoo. Oberon, however... His fur was long and white, easily matted and hard to keep tidy. He wasn't much for giving himself a wash, hated being brushed, and was, all around, a bit fussy.
Not that Q really minded. He adored the fluffy beast, and taking him once a month to be groomed was a minor inconvenience in his eyes.
That's what they'd done this morning, and since it was proving to be a beautiful day, Q had decided to stop and have lunch at one of his favourite outdoor bistros. A place that knew both him and Oberon well.
Oberon hated being trapped in his carrier for too long though, and so Q had taken to having him wear a little harness while they were out, something he could easily clip a leash to so the fluffy little prince could be out. Not that Oberon was likely to run off, given how lazy he was, but better safe than sorry.
Currently the pair were seated outside under a white umbrella, Oberon sitting happily on a chair beside Q, lapping at a little dish of cream one of the servers had giddily brought out for him, and occasionally pawing at Q's arm to demand nibbles of the salmon and rice dish he'd selected. The loop of the leash hung loose around the young quartermaster's delicate wrist, and the carrier was tucked away neatly beneath the metal, cafe style table.
"Oberon, you've had nearly as much as I've had now. You'll explode," Q tutted.
Oberon meowed sadly though, and Q sighed as he cut another piece for him.
"Fine, but that's your lot," he insisted for the third time.
"Oh, aren't you pretty?" Sunny said in the way people talked to animals, smiling and a little higher pitch than usual.
What, how could she not stop for a cat? In cities, cats came in two extremes--they were either indoor animals that you didn't see, or... feral. This cat was clearly one of the former.
She had the manners not to reach out and pet it without permission, but she couldn't help stopping to look.
The lunch meeting – on a Sunday, because that was the only time in the busy publisher's schedule – had gone well. The man who had the final decision of it had been impressed with her portfolio and had suggested a contract would be arriving at the gallery within the week. Ollie, who'd helped her put together the portfolio, had promised to meet her at the restaurant after to hear how things had gone and to give her company on the way back to the squat. Only he wasn't there when the meeting was over. In a moment of What Would Sabine Do, Em had a quiet word with the hostess, who re-sat her at a table outside where she could pull out her sketchbook and wait for Ollie.
After texting Ollie, in case he'd forgotten or lost track of time, she ordered a cup of tea and a panna cotta, letting her gaze travel over the scene in front of her for inspiration. The beautiful cat, opposite to Sabine's Missy in every way, drew her attention, and she smiled softly as pencil began to move over the page, rough shaping the man and table, but the picture's focus and most of her effort on the cat.
It had been a good night for fares and D realized he had more than enough to fuck off for a bit. It wasn't as if he needed the fares this week. He'd been part of a deal that had been pure profit and all he'd had to do was load up his trunk and take out some trash. And not ask questions. D was very good at not asking any questions.
So he was flush this week, which was always nice. He was a smart bloke- maybe not in general, but certainly about money- so he'd kept on working just in case.The rain was coming down lightly and he had gotten out of the taxi to have a fag and watch the crowd. To and fro the little people went, scurrying about their lives without cares or worries. D loved to watch them and he leaned against the cab and had his smoke while the rain turned to little more than a misty drizzle.
Someone approached the cab and he put on a wide smile. A fare was a fare.
"Where we headin' tonight, hmm?" he asked, opening his door to get in as well.
Still a bit bruised and broken from his attack, Danny pushed his hair back as he appraised the driver. Always wary now. Always cautious. He had a meeting tonight though, a small gathering where he, and other HIV positive people, got together and discussed their condition. Not that he was eager to go, but he didn't want to worry Hex by skipping so soon after his attack.
"St Michael's," he said quietly.
Usually he'd have taken the tube, but he'd rather be flat broke than jostled about tonight.
"Please just drive," Angelique asked, breathless and rushed as she tugged the door shut, and slid with her large handbag to the far side of the cab, away from the sidewalk. Her hair was damp and her mascara rather smudged, and now that she was sitting in the warmth of the cab, she realized how chilled and wet her dress was. Shivering, she started trying to gather her hair back so it would stop dripping down her shoulders. "I'll figure it out in a moment, just..."
Nervously, she glanced through the cab window at the tall, imposing figure bearing down on the cab with a sharp, angry stride. "Oh god. Go, please," she urged the driver. Not frightened, not really, but urgent.
Dutch needed to go home. She knew it, but it had been very difficult to draw herself out of that party. One drink had led to another, one joint to another, one pill to another... She had been in better states, and she was only very vaguely walking in a straight line. She'd finally managed to leave the party, and here she was, in the rain, wondering if she could get back on foot when she spotted the taxi - and its driver spotted her. She stopped walking (and, mostly, swaying), and tilted her head to the side to consider his words. "Yeah, cab might be best." She didn't sound 100% certain, still. She could probably get home on her own.
John thought about heading out for the weekend. Maybe even getting out, just grabbing Bobby and heading to the coast, such as it was - to Brighton or somewhere more historic, like Glastonbury or Tintagel. Visit ruins. Have some space. Ruminate on all things once and future.
But he still had students to worry about and his own thesis that was gnawing at him (a world without mutants was scarcely worth thinking about, as it happened). End of term was coming up. And so John instead grabbed his keys, yelled out something about how he'd be back for dinner, and hit the streets.
He hadn't meant to stop by the barbershop, but his wallet had felt heavy in his pocket as he passed it by. And for all his escape, all his running, his greeting-and-defiance, he stopped, thought about it, and turned on his heel to slip into the store with the jingle-jangle of the bell.
A couple of hours later, and a new John stepped out onto the street, clean shaven, bleached and spiked. He wasn't sure entirely why he did it: it made him look younger and leant his mouth a slight natural sneer, as if reverting to way back when. But John also knew that coming to terms with Pyro was something he still had to do.
Finding his bearings again, it was only a short distance to the nondescript building of the Jewish Museum to stand in the queue like someone who plainly did not give a fuck and enter the Menswear exhibition.
Gazing at yet another exhibit of Bowie's gear, John sighed, hands in pockets. The exhibition had actual clothing As Worn By John Lennon and Mick Jagger, so that was more his style.
"So, are you here for Bowie, Lennon or Jagger?" he asked casually to the person standing next to him. You could tell a lot about a person by their choice of musical idol, he'd always thought. And while he shouldn't speak ill of the dead, really - but Bowie was kind of overrated. I mean, Christ, that glam. What was the 70s thinking? It made Pyro's hair look fucking staid.
"Darling, I'm here for the clothes," corrected Felix, since the fellow nearby had asked. Dressed in a black paisley suit with pink checked shirt, he rather looked like he belonged in the exhibit rather than only observing it -- and in fact, a few onlookers cast him glances in his red-haired glory as if he might be a display mannequin gone wandering.
"However, Messire Bowie is the icon above all," he went on to allow. "Messire Lennon's contributions are not inconsequential, but he only proposed changing the world. Bowie actually did it."
Since John was out for the day, Bobby saw no reason to hang around the house alone, so he headed out not long after to run some errands. He did not expect to run into John on his travels around the city, and when he did, he didn't realize it at first. He glanced at the blond casually, and the sight triggered something, a memory, that had him stopping in his tracks with a frown. He took a second, closer look, and--"...John?" Yeah, that was definitely his fiance, complete with the hairstyle he'd worn when he'd been working for Magneto. It was jarring, the clash of emotions that it summoned up within him.
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Sunday Morning
He had showered and changed into a spare suit he kept in his office, and he sipped his coffee as he tried to decide if he should just go home and sleep the day away, or if he ought to practice a bit of self discipline and find something to keep him alert today.
It was busy though, and the tables around him were all filling up, leaving the next customer to step outside with nowhere to sit- Unless they were bold enough to ask to share his table.
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"Pardon me, but I'll be quiet as a church mouse if I could just set this down here," Felix told the man at the only half-occupied table, smiling his can't-say-no smile and nodding to the available chair.
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"By all means," he said after a beat, gesturing at the table. "Be my guest."
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Monday Evening
Tonight he was grocery shopping, but he was fairly certain he'd been staring at the same bag of crisps for nearly five minutes now. ...And his basket was, well, empty.
Rubbing his face, he sighed, picking up the salt and vinegar variety, then setting off to the fresh fruit and veg- And walking right into someone.
"Sorry, sorry," he said quickly. "My apologies."
Re: Monday Evening
Well. Okay, so she'd gotten a little into potions rather than actual food. So here she was.
Her attention on produce, she nearly waved it off when someone collided with her. These things happened. But she looked up and her face shifted from recognition to delight to concern. "You look awful," she said in place of a more typical greeting.
She usually allowed for lapses in manners around people she knew better, but it just popped out.
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"...Oh, um, long week," he replied, picking up a large leek as he spoke.
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Saturday
Hell, he'd encountered more animals at the circus, but here he was at the National Pet Show.
And he definitely hadn't ever encountered an alpaca before. It was a weird-looking thing, with a mean little face. It glared (?) at Clint as it chewed a mouthful of hay, lower jaw moving in tiny circles.
"What was God thinking when He made an alpaca?" Clint asked, moving a handful of hay closer to it to see what it would do.
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Re: Saturday
Microfiche. In 2016. For information that couldn't be more than a decade old at best.
She'd save sharing her thoughts with him until the next time they spoke on the phone. For now, she let him wander off while she finished her coffee, then tossed the empty cup in a bin near an alpaca just in time to hear the man's comment. A man she had recognized from her spot on the bench, whom she remembered as very alert and with interesting calluses on his hands.
Interesting. If not troubling.
"Perhaps that's what he was thinking," she suggested, a sly glint in her eyes as she watched the animal more than the man. The man was less likely to spit. One hoped. "An animal that would prompt questions of faith. It's Mr. Barton, yes?"
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"You bite me and I'll tell them you gave me rabies."
He was an American; he could probably get away with an absurd lawsuit like that.
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"It better not. I need my fingers. For typing and all that."
And firing a bow and arrow. Important things.
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Monday Night
He couldn't explain it really, only that he felt... Off. Had he been human still, he might have assumed he had a cold or something coming on. As it was... Well, he wasn't really sure what it could be. Paranoia, probably, he'd assured himself more than once today.
He was two blocks away from his flat when it happened. His heart fluttered back to life- Something he'd found exciting the first few times it had happened, but now knew to take as a warning. His heart only beat when it was fighting back against the darkness inside him, and this wasn't its usual steady beat. It was rapid, nervous, painful... His vision blurred, and he ducked into a doorway to collect himself as it returned to normal. ...What was that scent though? Sickly sweet and metallic, it filled the air, and it was so familiar.
The caves, that's where he knew it from, the place where he and Will had been lost last Halloween, the night he'd found that book and become whatever he was now.
Willy Silver, Daoine Sidhe, will join his kind in battle before summer comes. He will face me, or I will feast on his heart.
The voice was soft, little more than a whisper- And it felt as though it was in his head. The message repeated twice, and then was followed by a high pitched shriek, a noise so sharp that Fin dropped his umbrella and doubled over as he covered his ears. Though the few others who were out and about didn't seem to hear it, and most seemed to pay him no mind as they carried on with their night.
Had he been the only one to hear it? Or had the message been for Will too? Had anyone with ties to magic been privy to it? Fin didn't know. He only knew that his heart was beating so hard it made his chest ache, and that there was something beneath his skin, slithering and winding around his bones, squeezing until he ached all over.
He'd written off Halloween as a fluke, a blessing with some strings attached- But what if it had all been something more sinister? A dirty tactic to ensure Will didn't stop fighting simply because he was content here.
Re: Monday Night
He had heard nothing, but when he touched Fin it was as if he was touching something electric.
"Finlay?" he asked with real concern. "My love, what is it?"
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Sunday Afternoon.
Not that Q really minded. He adored the fluffy beast, and taking him once a month to be groomed was a minor inconvenience in his eyes.
That's what they'd done this morning, and since it was proving to be a beautiful day, Q had decided to stop and have lunch at one of his favourite outdoor bistros. A place that knew both him and Oberon well.
Oberon hated being trapped in his carrier for too long though, and so Q had taken to having him wear a little harness while they were out, something he could easily clip a leash to so the fluffy little prince could be out. Not that Oberon was likely to run off, given how lazy he was, but better safe than sorry.
Currently the pair were seated outside under a white umbrella, Oberon sitting happily on a chair beside Q, lapping at a little dish of cream one of the servers had giddily brought out for him, and occasionally pawing at Q's arm to demand nibbles of the salmon and rice dish he'd selected. The loop of the leash hung loose around the young quartermaster's delicate wrist, and the carrier was tucked away neatly beneath the metal, cafe style table.
"Oberon, you've had nearly as much as I've had now. You'll explode," Q tutted.
Oberon meowed sadly though, and Q sighed as he cut another piece for him.
"Fine, but that's your lot," he insisted for the third time.
Re: Sunday Afternoon.
What, how could she not stop for a cat? In cities, cats came in two extremes--they were either indoor animals that you didn't see, or... feral. This cat was clearly one of the former.
She had the manners not to reach out and pet it without permission, but she couldn't help stopping to look.
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After texting Ollie, in case he'd forgotten or lost track of time, she ordered a cup of tea and a panna cotta, letting her gaze travel over the scene in front of her for inspiration. The beautiful cat, opposite to Sabine's Missy in every way, drew her attention, and she smiled softly as pencil began to move over the page, rough shaping the man and table, but the picture's focus and most of her effort on the cat.
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So he was flush this week, which was always nice. He was a smart bloke- maybe not in general, but certainly about money- so he'd kept on working just in case.The rain was coming down lightly and he had gotten out of the taxi to have a fag and watch the crowd. To and fro the little people went, scurrying about their lives without cares or worries. D loved to watch them and he leaned against the cab and had his smoke while the rain turned to little more than a misty drizzle.
Someone approached the cab and he put on a wide smile. A fare was a fare.
"Where we headin' tonight, hmm?" he asked, opening his door to get in as well.
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"St Michael's," he said quietly.
Usually he'd have taken the tube, but he'd rather be flat broke than jostled about tonight.
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Nervously, she glanced through the cab window at the tall, imposing figure bearing down on the cab with a sharp, angry stride. "Oh god. Go, please," she urged the driver. Not frightened, not really, but urgent.
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But he still had students to worry about and his own thesis that was gnawing at him (a world without mutants was scarcely worth thinking about, as it happened). End of term was coming up. And so John instead grabbed his keys, yelled out something about how he'd be back for dinner, and hit the streets.
He hadn't meant to stop by the barbershop, but his wallet had felt heavy in his pocket as he passed it by. And for all his escape, all his running, his greeting-and-defiance, he stopped, thought about it, and turned on his heel to slip into the store with the jingle-jangle of the bell.
A couple of hours later, and a new John stepped out onto the street, clean shaven, bleached and spiked. He wasn't sure entirely why he did it: it made him look younger and leant his mouth a slight natural sneer, as if reverting to way back when. But John also knew that coming to terms with Pyro was something he still had to do.
Finding his bearings again, it was only a short distance to the nondescript building of the Jewish Museum to stand in the queue like someone who plainly did not give a fuck and enter the Menswear exhibition.
Gazing at yet another exhibit of Bowie's gear, John sighed, hands in pockets. The exhibition had actual clothing As Worn By John Lennon and Mick Jagger, so that was more his style.
"So, are you here for Bowie, Lennon or Jagger?" he asked casually to the person standing next to him. You could tell a lot about a person by their choice of musical idol, he'd always thought. And while he shouldn't speak ill of the dead, really - but Bowie was kind of overrated. I mean, Christ, that glam. What was the 70s thinking? It made Pyro's hair look fucking staid.
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"However, Messire Bowie is the icon above all," he went on to allow. "Messire Lennon's contributions are not inconsequential, but he only proposed changing the world. Bowie actually did it."
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