#*myficbits

Note: Set after ‘A Strange and Feral Creature’, and before ‘Mrs Lombard’.

G-rated, 500 words, un-beta’d.

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The stove in their new house runs hotter than it should. That’s her excuse, Vera decides, looking down at the charred mess that should have been supper, and she’s going to stick to it. No matter what Philip says, no matter the agreement between them, this lie will stand. It’s the stove, not her lamentable cookery skills. And if he knows what’s good for him, she thinks grimly, he’ll accept the lie, this once.

She’s rarely had to fend for herself, food-wise. From orphanage to college, and then in boarding schools, her meals have been prepared for her and served thrice daily. Usually edible, if not always inspired, she’s accepted it all and never imagined she could do any better herself. Oh, she can use a hot plate, can cobble together a soup or a stew in a pinch, but domestic arts had definitely not been her strong point as a girl, and as a woman there’s been little need. Even her summers have usually been spent in catered accommodation of some sort.

Now, though, she has a house. A home. And she has plans for the decorating, and plans for the garden, and somewhere in there she’s entertained plans of becoming a better cook.

It isn’t going to happen. She drops the pan into the sink, runs cold water into it, and opens the back window to let the smoke out. She wonders if there’s enough time to run out and pick something up for dinner. Or she ought to be able to manage something simple; there are eggs, and some potatoes. She could make something with those. The casserole should have been fine, but maybe she’d set the oven too hot, or left it in too long. Or both.

She isn’t cut out for domesticity, she despairs. She never has been. Philip will just have to accept it, if he wants her. There’s no point pretending to be something she isn’t, not with Philip. If he doesn’t like it…well, he should know sooner rather than later. Of all things, this is hardly likely to be what puts him off.

There’s no hope of hiding her disaster, anyway. She hears the front door open, and a few footsteps is all it takes for Philip to come from there to the kitchen. He looks around, still in his hat and coat, eyebrows arched and mouth twisted in amusement.

“You did this?” he inquires.

“The stove overheats,” Vera says, lying through her teeth. His gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the dish in the sink and the open window. Then he meets her eyes. He knows it’s a lie, of course. He always knows. Usually he doesn’t let her get away with it. She lifts her chin, defiant. There is a long moment of silence between them.

“I’ll fix us something,” he says at last. “Do we have any eggs?”

Note: I’m aiming to do all of fictober in my And Then There Were Two ‘verse, posting them here daily, and then at the end I’ll post them all on AO3.

This particular ficlet falls between ‘Strange and New and Unexpected’ and ‘Unwelcome Intrusions’.

PG-rated, 500 words exactly, un-beta’d.

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“I’m going to leave without you,” Philip calls out. His voice is muffled by the door between them; Vera has banished him from the bedroom while she gets ready for their evening out. He’s promised her dancing, because he knows how much she loves it, and she’s been looking forward to it all day. She’d got her hair done, and painted her nails, and dressed with care. Now she’s looking at herself in the mirror, twisting her body this way and that to make sure the effect is just what she wants.

This is the first time they’ve been out since her…accident. It means something. It means a lot. And she’s healthy and well, her injuries healed, not a blemish on her body to show for what happened. Her dress fits like a glove. Her shoes are polished, the seam of her stockings is straight. Everything is perfect. She looks…perfect. Not innocent, never that, but unmarred by blood or pain.

Or at least, unmarred by pain. Blood…well, that’s something else. Red dress, red shoes, red lipstick. Her knife in the pocket of her coat, downstairs. Red attracts, but it warns as well. And Philip will appreciate both the attraction and the warning, she thinks. He does like her in red.

“Vera!” he shouts, his voice a little more distant now. He’s gone down the stairs, she guesses. Inpatient. She’s taken her time, getting ready for this first night out in weeks. She wants to erase from his mind all the lingering traces of that broken body he’d found at the bottom of the stairs. She isn’t broken; she is brilliant, she is giddy from the knowledge of his regard for her. His love. Some days she still can’t believe it, can’t trust it, but some days she feels it deep in her bones. Some days it lifts her up until she’s half-surprised her feet remain on the ground.

She laughs at herself softly, shaking her head. She’s never been foolish, before, the way she is now. The things he’s done to her. And when she feels like this, powerful and cherished and in command, she doesn’t even care about how much he’s changed her.

“I’m going,” she hears. It’s no real threat. He’s just trying to hurry her up, that’s all. Still, Vera gives herself one final glance in the mirror, and then goes to open the bedroom door.

“No, come back!” she calls. “I’m ready.”

He comes to the foot of the stairs, and she stands at the top. Below her feet are the bare floorboards that had been revealed beneath the bloodstained carpet. They’re going to replace it, but they haven’t got around to it yet. It’s not urgent. The evidence is gone, at least.

Philip’s eyes are dark as he stares up at her, watching as she comes down the stairs. “You look good enough to eat,” he tells her, when she reaches him.

“Later,” she promises. “Worth the wait?”

Note: Set between ‘An Untimely Death’ and ‘A Monstrous Thing’. Roughly speaking. PG rated, 750 words, un-beta’d.

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“Unacceptable,” Philip says, far too calm and composed to be anything other than entirely irritating. “Try again.”

Vera pushes her hair out of her eyes and tries to remind herself that she’d asked for this. She’d insisted, even, and she’s not going to give up just because it’s hard. She’s never needed self-defence before, but Philip’s right, she’s involved in more dangerous circles these days. The knife he’d given her on Christmas Eve is of no use if she doesn’t know how to use it without injuring herself. Besides, she’s fit and active, a former games mistress. A little self-defence shouldn’t be taxing. She only needs to know enough to get herself out of immediate danger, after all; her best defence, as Philip keeps insisting, is to escape any attackers. Running away isn’t cowardice, it’s common sense. A careful stab of her knife, a hard knee to the groin, is all it would take to give her time to run.

Philip is a hard taskmaster, though. Exacting in his demands, determined in his drive to ensure she can take care of herself in a physical fight. She’s not sure why she expected any different. He’s the same in this as in everything else. He demands everything and doesn’t accept half-measures. They’ve been at this for over an hour, since not long after she got home, repeating the same few moves over and over while he finds fault in her.

She had asked for him to teach her, she reminds herself yet again. And nobody who wants to hurt her will care if she’s hungry, or if her muscles are aching from the repetition.

All she needs to do is hit him. That’s the goal; one good blow. They’re not using her knife, that would be foolish, but she’s got a length of wood cut from a broomstick to use instead, and there are her hands and feet besides. She knows where to aim. Philip has showed her the moves, he’s talked her through what she needs to do. She just can’t do it. Her body, for once, is disobeying her. She’s a little more sluggish than she remembers, a little slower to respond.

She’s been doing too much sitting at a desk. It’s over six months since she was a games teacher on a hockey pitch, and it’s showing.

“Do you need a break?” he asks. He’s watching her closely, like he’s ready to pounce if she lies. And he is ready, of course he is. But Vera is adept at finding the gaps between words, and she shakes her head.

“No,” she says truthfully. She doesn’t need a break, though she might want one. But she’s as determined, as stubborn, as he is. They agreed the goal, and she refuses to give in before she reaches it. She settles her feet shoulder-width apart, keeps her shoulders lax as he’s instructed. If her broomstick-knife were a hockey stick, she’d know what to do with it. As it is, she feels she’s holding it awkwardly. Loose grip, her focus on him as he shifts his weight from one foot to another. Preparing to pounce. She waits.

In a flash he’s on her, grabbing her wrist and twisting it around behind her back, his other hand grasping her hair before she can react. Faster, more experienced, more used to using his body to attack others. She struggles briefly, and he tightens his grasp of her hair. It’s not quite painful, but nearly. Vera plays it up, though. She whimpers, like she’s hurt, and goes slack in his grasp. Philip curses and lets her go, so suddenly that she doesn’t have to pretend to stumble a little as she’s released. She cradles her wrist to her chest as if it hurts and hisses through her teeth. A lie, but without words.

“You alright?” he demands. “Vera?”

He’s standing right behind her; she can feel heat radiating off him. She takes a moment, just to be sure. Then, in one smooth movement, she turns and slams the heel of her hand into his solar plexus.

Philip’s eyes go wide. The wind knocked out of him, he staggers back a step and chokes. Triumphant, Vera stands and waits as he tries to suck air back into his lungs. It takes a minute; he ends up thumping his chest hard before he can inhale properly.

“Alright,” he wheezes at last. “That was impressive. You little liar.”

Note: Set just after 'Fighting Against Instinct’. 500 words, PG rated, un-beta’d.

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The oil heater is giving off just enough warmth that Vera doesn’t feel the need to reach for her clothes. It’s late, and the candles they’d lit are nearly burnt out, but she’s comfortable on the couch. Stretched out across it, covered by a blanket and by Philip, she feels she could stay here, in this moment, forever. Naked, warm and accepted. Cocooned in a world that for once is letting her have something she wants.

Her stomach gurgles, reminding her that she hasn’t eaten since lunch. Philip chuckles, a hot puff of air against her bare skin. His head is resting on her chest, his mouth still close to her breast. He’s more-or-less lying where he’d collapsed, after their most recent round of sex. Boxing Day is nearly over, and though they haven’t quite spent the whole of the last two days naked, they have at least managed to pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. No Christmas, as he’d promised. Nobody else. Just them, alone in their home. He’s kept her fed, kept her warm, and she’s revelled in the sheer hedonism of it all.

She doesn’t want to move. She’s lazy and sated and comfortable, and she doesn’t want to move. She trails her fingers up and down Philip’s arm, feeling soft skin and hard muscle. He hums a little. Then her stomach rumbles again, and he laughs.

“Hungry, darling?” he inquires.

“Not if it means I have to move,” she mutters.

“No, no. I can move.” But he doesn’t; he stays there, draped over her, a weight that’s not unwelcome. One of the candles gutters audibly, and she opens her eyes to watch as the flame fights to stay alive. The wick is nearly gone, though. The flame can’t win.

His stomach grumbles next, and it’s Vera’s turn to laugh. “Go on, then,” she says. “There’s some meatloaf left, I think.”

“Ugh.” He shifts off her, just a little. There’s not enough room on the couch for him to lie next to her; much further and he’ll fall off. They should relocate to bed, really. And they will, eventually. There’s no hurry. “I don’t like meatloaf,” he says. Vera makes an incredulous noise, but doesn’t bother to vocalise an actual question. “Well, I don’t,” he retorts, understanding her meaning anyway. “It’s so…” He makes a noise, words apparently failing him.

“That didn’t stop you before,” Vera yawns. They’d had it for lunch, after all. Hot meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and some sort of sauce that she’d made from a recipe that she’d got from Bridget Bell next door. It would do several meals, she’d estimated. Supper tonight, maybe lunch tomorrow, depending on how hungry they get. And Philip had eaten it, at lunch. He’d tucked in heartily, teasing her about having worked up an appetite.

Note: This is set between ‘Mrs Lombard’ and ‘Fighting Against Instinct’ in the And Then There Were Two ‘verse - after Philip’s been knifed, and before Christmas.

PG-rated, 500 words.

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“You missed a bit up in the corner,” Philip says, not looking up from his newspaper. There’s a teasing note in his voice, but it barely lessens Vera’s frustration. She twists around to scowl at him from her position on a stepladder, from where she’s been trying to strip the wallpaper in the sitting room. He’s sitting on the couch, his foot propped up on a crate. Casually dressed, hair less groomed than usual, he looks utterly at home in his surroundings. Despite her frustration, she finds she likes the sight.

Still, that doesn’t mean he can say things like that uncontested. “You could help, rather than criticise,” she says pointedly.

“Bad foot.” Now he does look up, all faux innocence. So fake it’s obvious he’s not doing it to be believed. Though it’s true enough, his foot is still mending. She bandaged it again this morning; the wound is scabbing over at last, but it’s still far from healed. It’s clearly painful for him to put his full weight through that foot. He limps around the house, and hasn’t been able to venture out anywhere for days. It’s chafing at him, the inactivity. The closer healing becomes, the harder it is for him, and his resulting bad moods aren’t always easy to deal with. Vera is trying to be patient, because after all he needs the time to heal, but patience isn’t her strong point. “You told me to rest,” he adds.

“There’s plenty you could do from a chair,” she snaps. Philip’s gaze flickers for a moment, and Vera feels a brief, unfamiliar pang of regret for her shortness. But she’s hot. She’s sticky from the steam she’s been trying to use to peel off the wallpaper. And she could do without anybody’s comments on what sort of a job she’s doing. Any regret she might feel is fleeting; mostly she’s just irritated. “The least you could do is not complain – that’s the easy part of any job.”

He looks up at her, expression blank, his thoughts hidden from her. She looks back at him, both wishing he would argue back and dreading the possibility. He deserves an argument, after the mood he’s been in for the past few days…but she rarely comes off the better, when they argue.

“I’ll make you some tea,” he says eventually. It’s a peace offering; she can see that. He sets aside his newspaper and rises. Vera watches to see if he shows any sign of pain, but there’s only the slightest of winces to betray him. “You got another of those scrapers?”

“You don’t have to,” she says half-heartedly.

Laaaaaaate response but hey, better late than never.

1000 words, un-beta’d. Under a read-more for length.

Sorry this took so long.

Prompt 7 - “I’m cold. Come closer.” Double-drabble (200 words), set post-books at some vague later date.

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“I’m cold,” Ross grumbles. “Come closer.”

“Your feet are too cold,” Demelza protests,but hers are no better; she wriggles closer to him, wraps an arm around hiswaist, and only utters a small squeak of protest when his feet touch hers. Hisfeet are always cold these days, especially his bad foot, with the old wound.But she doesn’t really mind. She’s lived the better part of sixty years withhis cold feet in bed. Besides, her hands are the same now. Cold and stiff, hardto get moving. She burrows one under his armpit, seeking extra warmth.

“We should have lit the fire,” she suggests.

“We still could. Ring for Betsy.”

 “No, no, I don’t want to wake the baby.”

 “That child,” Ross remarks, “is as like Bellaas two peas in a pod. You wouldn’t wake her if a horde of starving wolves camerampaging through the house.” She giggles sleepily. His feet are heating up. Soare her hands. He tucks the blankets closer around her. “You’re warm enough tosleep?”

“As long as you don’t let a draft in,” sheyawns.

(sorry for the delay)

Double drabble - aka 200 words - un-beta’d.

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“Like this,” Demelza says coaxing Jeremy’sarms into the right movement for the dance he’s trying to learn. “Good, Clowance,around and – oh, Jeremy!” He has collided with her, their feet trying to occupythe same space, and they both very nearly fall over. Clowance, who has pickedup the steps with graceful ease, doesn’t hide her giggle. Ross conceals hissmile behind his pipe, but the tobacco is long gone, and anyway, Jeremy learnslike he does: seeing something done is so much easier than trying to understanda verbal explanation.

He sets aside the pipe and steps forward. “MayI have this dance?” he asks, ushering Jeremy aside. Demelza laughs and shakesher head, amused, but pleased. Jeremy takes over tapping out the beat for them.Ross is sure Demelza is imagining music as he bows – to show Jeremy how it’sdone, of course – and takes her hand for the beginning of the dance.

They step this way and that, circle aroundeach other, pretending there are others dancing with them to form the correctfigures. It’s for the children, to teach them. That’s what he tells himself.