Happy Holidays, unravels!
Title: Interesting Times
Gift for: unravels
Pairing: Shadwell/Madame Tracey
Rating: PG13
Summary: There was a small grey man standing at the bottom of the garden. Shadwell stared at it for a moment and then went to fetch his matches.
There was a small grey man standing at the bottom of the garden. Shadwell stared at it for a moment and then went to fetch his matches. Just in case. Aliens might not, strictly speaking, count as witches, but really, you never knew with these things.
Madame Tracey glanced up as he rifled through the drawer, taking care not to even touch her Tarot cards lest he catch some awful disease. 1
“Something wrong, love?” She didn’t sound too alarmed about it, not yet. There seemed to be occasions almost on a weekly basis which required Shadwell to get his matches out - and most of them not even bedroom related 2 . Life, since moving to Lower Tadfield, could be downright odd.
It had been funny how that had happened too, although if she tried to focus on that for too long her brain made lalala noises and moved quickly on. There had just happened to be a bungalow big enough for the both of them there, and it just happened to be perfect in every way, right down to the name of Shangri-La. And it was close to Newt and Anathema who dropped by occasionally to check on them in the patronising way that young folk did, as though they were likely to starve to death or walk around with their underpants on their heads unless someone came by to make sure they didn’t 3. And it just happened to be close to a certain young boy, and that wasn’t suspicious, not at all. It wasn’t as though he were keeping tabs on them.
Or, her brain murmured softly on occasion, as though he’s keeping everyone involved close in case it happens again. But think that, and her brain made that lalala noise once more and it was gone again.
And sometimes they got aliens at the bottom of the garden. Tadfield sprouted inexplicable phenomena like mushrooms and she didn’t need to be a psychic to figure out they were standing at the centre of something big. But big didn’t mean it was bad; it was settled and comfortable and if every now and then she had the nagging intuition that it was much like they were using a sleeping tiger for a pillow, she managed to distract herself somehow.
She followed Shadwell out now into the garden, feeling the bite of cold in the November air as the shadows lengthened. Better to go just to make sure he didn’t try setting fire to their extra terrestrial visitors again, particularly as they had landed on the spectacular bonfire pile that Shadwell had been building for Guy Fawkes night. Mostly the aliens had just gotten a bit lost and wanted directions. It appeared Earth was the equivalent of that shortcut you ‘know’ should get you to your destination, quicker but in fact was like the English country lanes that got you hopelessly lost while still being tantalisingly close to their destination. Initially they’d bluffed it through with “second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning” until one ship had left behind an atlas. Oh, a few of them tried it on with the old “take me to your leader”, and one of them had stolen Shadwell’s bicycle and flown off on it, the little bugger, but mostly they were happy enough if given a cup of tea and a biscuit. Especially if it were a chocolate one. 4
“We’re on top of a Rift,” Shadwell growled with authority, once the little ship was on its way again and the biscuit tin was half empty 5.“I’ve been researching.”
“Yes, love?” Madame Tracey said agreeably, turning back to the house. It was easier not to argue with Shadwell’s conspiracy theories, she’d found, especially not as Shadwell’s stock belief was that anyone who disagreed with him was on their side, whoever they were. Besides, listening was far more entertaining.
“Aye. Some bloody American dealing with it over in Wales,” said Shadwell, who hadn’t had much time to watch television before his retirement and was now forming a healthy addiction. “Not that they’re doing much good with it.” He waved his box of matches fervently. “More burning, that’s what they need. I thought they had the right idea with their name but I don’t think they’ve set fire to a bloody thing.” 6font>
“Yes, love.” Madame Tracey agreed easily, eying the detritus he had pulled out of the drawer with a sigh before she started to tidy it back up. She contemplated her séance things for a moment, her Ouija board with the squeaky wheel, the slightly chipped spirit glass and the knocker contraption that she could foot pedal under the table because people knew what should happen at a séance even if the spirits didn’t seem to want to play ball. Perhaps it was time she got rid of those. Séances had just been a little too authentic since they had moved here 7. Ask ‘is there anyone there?’ and you’d be there all night and she hated missing the soaps.
“Though he should be cleaning up his own country first.” Shadwell had had a lifetime of rambling to himself, and needed very little encouragement to keep going. “Right out in the open they are over there. Look at those two brothers they have, roaming the country, messing about with demons and angels. Witches can’t get much more blatant.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so, love. They definitely had the right amount of nipples,” Madame Tracey said mildly. “I took a good long look.” She’d learned back in the Buffy arguments that it was much easier than trying to re-explain the line between fact and fiction. Besides, it was worth it to see Shadwell blush. It was a little like igniting a furnace with a gallon of petrol. You could lose your eyebrows the speed the heat flushed up his neck and cheeks.
He went a deep red now, gaping for a moment as he searched for words. “Shameless hussy!”
“Very much so,” Madame Tracey agreed, and smiled demurely, while trying not to appear a little smug. “Now, why don’t you stop being an old silly and have a nice cup of tea?”
As she put the kettle on, she decided not to mention the man at the window, carefully painting intricate frosty icy swirls and paisley frills. It occurred to her, of course, that this was not exactly normal but normal wouldn’t have suited them anyway. How else would a Witchfinder and a Witch be able to live together if not in a place like this where it seemed stories found happy endings, no matter how improbable. Living out there, ‘normal ‘would have given Shadwell too much time to focus on the idea that he was living with an actual witch, one who had no intention of changing, at that. Better if he had something outside the home to focus on.
And wasn’t it convenient that the move into Lower Tadfield had given him just that?
Here though, the fact there was love was more real than the world around them, and Madame Tracey was, above all things, a realist. So if it meant the occasional alien landing on the bonfire, Tibetan monks playing their singing bowls at midnight despite Shadwell throwing a boot at them, or snowfalls deep and crisp and only on Tadfield on Christmas Eve, then she would take it.
He was frowning at her now, not quite in a sulk but on the edge of one. “Harlot!” he huffed, as though trying the word out. “Seducer of innocents!”
She laughed, and patted his hand fondly which he no longer snatched away. “I’ve told you before, Mr S. That’s only after the tea.”
And as usual, the promise was enough.
1 Certain allowances had been made since moving in together - she still did her readings, and he still glared at her customers as soon as they stepped through the door and informed them of the fiery hell which awaited them. Curiously enough, more often than not it seemed to encourage them. After all, they reasoned, if her husband/partner/boyfriend (most seemed to shrink from even the idea of applying the word “boy” to Shadwell) hated it so much, at least it probably wasn’t fake. No-one would put so much energy into hating an illusion.
The fairies at the bottom of the garden probably didn’t hurt her authenticity either.
2 She hadn’t minded so much when he introduced the nipple-counting but she had drawn the line at actual burning. Candles had been a good compromise there, she felt. In lots of ways.
3 Which they only did on special…and very interesting occasions.
4 Roswell greys seemed to like chocolate hobnobs whereas she always kept a stock of gingernuts in for the green ones with tentacles. Shadwell had threatened to fight a big hairy bear like thing to the death for the last jammy dodger so she never offered them any more.
5 The fairies had started stealing them while Shadwell was occupied in the universal masculine ritual of poring over a map and arguing vociferously about the best way to get to a place he had never been to and never would get anywhere near.
6 Shadwell’s impression of Torchwood was that there was a lot of nakedness which he wasn’t against on principle, but no one seemed to be doing anything useful with it like counting nipples. He hadn’t seen anything like a pin being used either which made him think they were amateurs. Especially the way they put the name of their secret organisation on the cars. On the other hand, despite the fact they were obviously a bunch of southern pansies the lot of them, at least they weren’t as bad as that pair he had banished. They were up to no good that was for sure. Needless to say, Shadwell was in for a shock when he reached the end of season 1.
7 It wasn’t so much that she minded Michael Jackson turning up so much as she minded that he hadn’t actually been dead, and had seemed very confused over the whole thing.
Gift for: unravels
Pairing: Shadwell/Madame Tracey
Rating: PG13
Summary: There was a small grey man standing at the bottom of the garden. Shadwell stared at it for a moment and then went to fetch his matches.
There was a small grey man standing at the bottom of the garden. Shadwell stared at it for a moment and then went to fetch his matches. Just in case. Aliens might not, strictly speaking, count as witches, but really, you never knew with these things.
Madame Tracey glanced up as he rifled through the drawer, taking care not to even touch her Tarot cards lest he catch some awful disease. 1
“Something wrong, love?” She didn’t sound too alarmed about it, not yet. There seemed to be occasions almost on a weekly basis which required Shadwell to get his matches out - and most of them not even bedroom related 2 . Life, since moving to Lower Tadfield, could be downright odd.
It had been funny how that had happened too, although if she tried to focus on that for too long her brain made lalala noises and moved quickly on. There had just happened to be a bungalow big enough for the both of them there, and it just happened to be perfect in every way, right down to the name of Shangri-La. And it was close to Newt and Anathema who dropped by occasionally to check on them in the patronising way that young folk did, as though they were likely to starve to death or walk around with their underpants on their heads unless someone came by to make sure they didn’t 3. And it just happened to be close to a certain young boy, and that wasn’t suspicious, not at all. It wasn’t as though he were keeping tabs on them.
Or, her brain murmured softly on occasion, as though he’s keeping everyone involved close in case it happens again. But think that, and her brain made that lalala noise once more and it was gone again.
And sometimes they got aliens at the bottom of the garden. Tadfield sprouted inexplicable phenomena like mushrooms and she didn’t need to be a psychic to figure out they were standing at the centre of something big. But big didn’t mean it was bad; it was settled and comfortable and if every now and then she had the nagging intuition that it was much like they were using a sleeping tiger for a pillow, she managed to distract herself somehow.
She followed Shadwell out now into the garden, feeling the bite of cold in the November air as the shadows lengthened. Better to go just to make sure he didn’t try setting fire to their extra terrestrial visitors again, particularly as they had landed on the spectacular bonfire pile that Shadwell had been building for Guy Fawkes night. Mostly the aliens had just gotten a bit lost and wanted directions. It appeared Earth was the equivalent of that shortcut you ‘know’ should get you to your destination, quicker but in fact was like the English country lanes that got you hopelessly lost while still being tantalisingly close to their destination. Initially they’d bluffed it through with “second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning” until one ship had left behind an atlas. Oh, a few of them tried it on with the old “take me to your leader”, and one of them had stolen Shadwell’s bicycle and flown off on it, the little bugger, but mostly they were happy enough if given a cup of tea and a biscuit. Especially if it were a chocolate one. 4
“We’re on top of a Rift,” Shadwell growled with authority, once the little ship was on its way again and the biscuit tin was half empty 5.“I’ve been researching.”
“Yes, love?” Madame Tracey said agreeably, turning back to the house. It was easier not to argue with Shadwell’s conspiracy theories, she’d found, especially not as Shadwell’s stock belief was that anyone who disagreed with him was on their side, whoever they were. Besides, listening was far more entertaining.
“Aye. Some bloody American dealing with it over in Wales,” said Shadwell, who hadn’t had much time to watch television before his retirement and was now forming a healthy addiction. “Not that they’re doing much good with it.” He waved his box of matches fervently. “More burning, that’s what they need. I thought they had the right idea with their name but I don’t think they’ve set fire to a bloody thing.” 6font>
“Yes, love.” Madame Tracey agreed easily, eying the detritus he had pulled out of the drawer with a sigh before she started to tidy it back up. She contemplated her séance things for a moment, her Ouija board with the squeaky wheel, the slightly chipped spirit glass and the knocker contraption that she could foot pedal under the table because people knew what should happen at a séance even if the spirits didn’t seem to want to play ball. Perhaps it was time she got rid of those. Séances had just been a little too authentic since they had moved here 7. Ask ‘is there anyone there?’ and you’d be there all night and she hated missing the soaps.
“Though he should be cleaning up his own country first.” Shadwell had had a lifetime of rambling to himself, and needed very little encouragement to keep going. “Right out in the open they are over there. Look at those two brothers they have, roaming the country, messing about with demons and angels. Witches can’t get much more blatant.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so, love. They definitely had the right amount of nipples,” Madame Tracey said mildly. “I took a good long look.” She’d learned back in the Buffy arguments that it was much easier than trying to re-explain the line between fact and fiction. Besides, it was worth it to see Shadwell blush. It was a little like igniting a furnace with a gallon of petrol. You could lose your eyebrows the speed the heat flushed up his neck and cheeks.
He went a deep red now, gaping for a moment as he searched for words. “Shameless hussy!”
“Very much so,” Madame Tracey agreed, and smiled demurely, while trying not to appear a little smug. “Now, why don’t you stop being an old silly and have a nice cup of tea?”
As she put the kettle on, she decided not to mention the man at the window, carefully painting intricate frosty icy swirls and paisley frills. It occurred to her, of course, that this was not exactly normal but normal wouldn’t have suited them anyway. How else would a Witchfinder and a Witch be able to live together if not in a place like this where it seemed stories found happy endings, no matter how improbable. Living out there, ‘normal ‘would have given Shadwell too much time to focus on the idea that he was living with an actual witch, one who had no intention of changing, at that. Better if he had something outside the home to focus on.
And wasn’t it convenient that the move into Lower Tadfield had given him just that?
Here though, the fact there was love was more real than the world around them, and Madame Tracey was, above all things, a realist. So if it meant the occasional alien landing on the bonfire, Tibetan monks playing their singing bowls at midnight despite Shadwell throwing a boot at them, or snowfalls deep and crisp and only on Tadfield on Christmas Eve, then she would take it.
He was frowning at her now, not quite in a sulk but on the edge of one. “Harlot!” he huffed, as though trying the word out. “Seducer of innocents!”
She laughed, and patted his hand fondly which he no longer snatched away. “I’ve told you before, Mr S. That’s only after the tea.”
And as usual, the promise was enough.
1 Certain allowances had been made since moving in together - she still did her readings, and he still glared at her customers as soon as they stepped through the door and informed them of the fiery hell which awaited them. Curiously enough, more often than not it seemed to encourage them. After all, they reasoned, if her husband/partner/boyfriend (most seemed to shrink from even the idea of applying the word “boy” to Shadwell) hated it so much, at least it probably wasn’t fake. No-one would put so much energy into hating an illusion.
The fairies at the bottom of the garden probably didn’t hurt her authenticity either.
2 She hadn’t minded so much when he introduced the nipple-counting but she had drawn the line at actual burning. Candles had been a good compromise there, she felt. In lots of ways.
3 Which they only did on special…and very interesting occasions.
4 Roswell greys seemed to like chocolate hobnobs whereas she always kept a stock of gingernuts in for the green ones with tentacles. Shadwell had threatened to fight a big hairy bear like thing to the death for the last jammy dodger so she never offered them any more.
5 The fairies had started stealing them while Shadwell was occupied in the universal masculine ritual of poring over a map and arguing vociferously about the best way to get to a place he had never been to and never would get anywhere near.
6 Shadwell’s impression of Torchwood was that there was a lot of nakedness which he wasn’t against on principle, but no one seemed to be doing anything useful with it like counting nipples. He hadn’t seen anything like a pin being used either which made him think they were amateurs. Especially the way they put the name of their secret organisation on the cars. On the other hand, despite the fact they were obviously a bunch of southern pansies the lot of them, at least they weren’t as bad as that pair he had banished. They were up to no good that was for sure. Needless to say, Shadwell was in for a shock when he reached the end of season 1.
7 It wasn’t so much that she minded Michael Jackson turning up so much as she minded that he hadn’t actually been dead, and had seemed very confused over the whole thing.