For the first time in six years, William Bush didn't feel out of place with his uniform coat draped about his shoulders. Not only did the solid, heavy wool keep out the London damp that had descended upon Tabula Rasa along with the scenery, British naval blue also fit perfectly the cobbled streets, and billowing smokestacks, and smokey pubs that had turned their home from tropical paradise to Victorian urbanity. It wasn't quite the England he remembered - Bush had never much liked London, and the fifty-odd years that separated his own time from the vision created here had wrought significant changes, but it was good enough.

It was especially good enough when it meant that Bush could sit in a worn wooden chair in the corner of a cozy pub, an honest-to-God pint in front if him. Never before had he quite been able to put his finger on why drink on the island never tasted quite right, but now he understood. Larger wasn't the same without the heavy smell of damp wood in the air and a fire at one's back.

The pub was largely filled with the slightly eerie ghosts that populated this imaginary London, people that always seemed perfectly normal until one approached or tried to talk to them, at which point they would flit away or all-out vanish. But there were a few more solid and more recognizable people that Bush could see. One of them was a man who had been on the island nearly as long as he had, if the old sailor wasn't mistaken, a writer for the paper and the owner of the strange little art gallery that Bush had always been wary of. Now, sitting a few tables away with a book and sipping a glass of wine, William was reminded, not for the first time when spotting Anthony Blunt, of a certain class of snotty soldier that he'd never had much time for.

Even as the thought occurred to him, the door opened to emit a gust of air and another slightly-familiar face. The young girl, in cape trimmed with sable and flecked with snow, had a striking look about her that made even the imaginary patrons pause, though Bush knew that were this really London, she would have stood out even more. "Good afternoon, Mr. Blunt," Camilla said to the blond man with the book, who only nodded slightly. She then caught William's eye for a moment and smiled fleetingly with mischief before going to the bar.

William whistled through his teeth and leaned back in his chair. A face like that spelled trouble, no matter the place - or for that matter, the time.

Quickly enough, the three residents of Tabula Rasa returned to their own thoughts, though all three looked up again when the door swept open and banged against the wall in a rush of wind as another person entered the pub.

[William Bush, Anthony Blunt, and Camilla Macaulay are all open for tagging! Please indicate which one you want somewhere in your tag.]

The month goes on, and we get closer to the holidays. I bury myself in work, in looking after the girls, in hanging out with my friends, trying to give myself as little time alone as possible. Making sure I don't have too much time to think. To dwell.

It's the first Christmas since Mike. Since Tom. The first Christmas in over five years that I haven't been with someone, in one way or another, and it's harder than I really want to admit to.

Today isn't Christmas, there are a few days left. It's just a regular day at The Winchester, but there's a Christmas tree in the corner, the place done up in tinsel and candlelight, and it feels a little bit like a party. Bill's cooked roast chicken, vegetables and mashed potatoes, Christmas pudding and mince pies, and something he said's called Apple Jonathan. The whole place smells great, and the girls are happy, sipping cocoa and eating cookies, all on a little painted tea set they found in a shop earlier in the week.

It's not bad and I've got people around me who care, but that doesn't stop me from feeling the loss. Knowing that on Christmas morning, I'll be waking up in a bed alone. Still, when I smile, it's real enough. I talk to people, I serve drinks, I make a fucking effort, and it's not too bad. It's not too bad at all.

[[WINCHESTER GATHERING POST. Tag Neil, tag each other. Timed to this evening, during dinner hours. This isn't an official Christmas party, but the place is decorated, Bill's prepared a special meal, and the alcohol is flowing freely. ALSO, mistletoe can readily appear inside the restaurant, so if that hasn't been COMPLETELY overdone yet, please feel free to use it in your threads. ST/LT all welcome.]]

( Another story, another story for a while, someone show meCollapse )

Her thoughts are already, perhaps defensively, shifting to Annie’s situation in Stockholm as she turns to leave, and, by the time she pushes open the door to the street, Joan Campbell, woman and wife, are firmly set aside. She is so focused that she doesn’t notice the chill on the door handle until she has stepped into a blast of icy wind and her heel sinks oddly--

Into snow? What in God’s name?

Her gaze narrows even as her hands come up to rub against her bare shoulders. This is not D.C., the bar behind her is not Allen’s, and someone, whoever has obviously drugged and kidnapped her then turned her loose in what appears to be a themepark version of Victorian London, has a serious problem on their hands.

But first... “Where the hell is the souvenir shop?” She’s going to need at least a sweatshirt.

[First person finds Joan looking for a souvenir shop and gets the explanation. Everyone after, find her shopping for necessities or looking for someplace to stay while she gets her bearings. ST/LT/All Ts accepted. Ping the slated post if you have questions.]

I still think about it.

Don't get me wrong: 3 North helped. 3 North helped in ways that had nothing to do with drugs and everything to know that I wasn't the only one whose brain was broken, the only who didn't know how to cope with really basic things like putting their shoes on or answering emails.

( cut for potentially triggering content about self harm and suicideCollapse )
But, sometimes, I still have to think about breathing.

I found a bike, earlier and, for most of today, I've been riding and breathing, just focusing on dragging the air into my lungs and not really thinking about anything. Because things are so much better than the used to be. I'm not mended. I still get sick, sometimes and I still feel like I'm going to explode. But I kind of see how I can make it through it. I kind of understand how to survive it.

On one of the bridges over the river, I get off the bike and lean it against the wall and then, before I really know what I'm doing, I'm climbing up onto the wall. The last time I was on a bridge, this high up, it was the Brooklyn Bridge, and I was dreaming of jumping. What stopped me, back then, what made me get back on my bike and ride to the hospital, was the thought of my Mom and my sister and what they'd say...what would happen to them if I was gone. How it would effect them. They're not here anymore but I think that, maybe, I don't need them to be. I close my eyes and think about what Bobby said to me.

You know, what I would do just to be you, for just a day? I would… I would do so much. I would… I don’t know. I would just… I’d just live. Like it meant something.

Standing there, arms out-stretched, I look down at the water and...you know? I feel like, maybe, I've figured out how that might work.


ooc: canon begins with Craig nearly jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. He is in NO DANGER of jumping off the bridge in this EP but feel free to have your pup assume that that is not the case. If your pup knows Craig, they probably know about his mental health. ST/LT totally welcome!

I've been here on the island for over a year now.
Mostly, it's been good.

Better than good. Mostly, it's been...more than I ever expected my life to be. Somehow, I got ridiculously lucky. And, you know, if I believed in God, I might think that I'm, like, being rewarded for...for surviving Zombieland. For everything that we went through. Maybe that's right. Maybe Wichita and me deserve a quiet life together and somewhere, there's...a higher power that recognises that?

But I don't believe in God.

So maybe I think that I get this because I followed the rules. Because I did what I had to do and I tried to stay safe.
Maybe that counts for something.

But I don't think I need the rules anymore. I don't think they're going to get me anywhere anymore. Wichita's never said anything about the notebook, the one that I put into my pocket every morning, no matter waht I'm doing. She's never said anything but I can never shake the feeling that, maybe, she thinks I'm pathetic, because I can't let them go. So there it is. Maybe it's time.

It was never a rule, not really, but it's...totally relevant now.
Time to nut up or shut up.

There's a fire roaring in the rec-room and I crouch down in front of it, notebook in hand. I can feel my stomach lurching, my heart pounding, kind of like running a long way, and I have to do it, I have to do it, it's time to move on and acept that this is my life and, more than that, it's a good one.

So I do it. I let it go.
The pages curl before they start to burn.

Jesus.

ooc: if your pup knows Columbus, they'll have seen the notebook before. While he's visibly agitated, it's not a bad time to meet him.

"Bloody obligate hemi-parasitic plants, yeah I'm talking you." Lois said looking up at the creature currently torturing Metropolis' favourite intrepid reporter. Mistletoe. The current, benign, bane of the islander's existence and of course she'd walked right into it's evil, lurking trap. It was like it knew that she'd been talking about it the day before, crowing about how so far she hadn't managed to get caught by it and right when she'd least expected it- BAM, there it was in all it's evil glory. Where was Smallville when she needed him? "Come on Clark, I haven't got all day."

Taking out her notebook, Lois began to scribble deciding to make the best out of a bad situation. Halfway through her questions, Lois didn't look up at the sound of shoes on floor but instead made a loud, rather annoyed and aggravated noise to warn them of her presence. Lois might be stuck here but she didn't want to be stuck with anyone else. Unless it was Clark which would be an entirely different and enjoyable matter.

"Ah, don't even think about it these lips? Are entirely spoken for and unless you're a plaid aficionado from Smallville then keep those lips to yourself buddy." Lois warned, not looking up as she held out a hand to shoo the person around her. There were very few people who knew how strong willed and bloody minded Lois could actually be sometimes and kissing random people beneath the mistletoe when she was kind of engaged was something she had decided to be stubborn about. Even if that meant waiting all day until Clark turned up. "I can wait all day if I have to."

Except she was getting cramp in her legs. And she'd already worked through most of her preliminary questions for one Mr Sleazy Bruce Wayne, for when she managed to track him down, and was running out of things to do. "You could help a girl out and pass her a chair though," Lois said impatiently. Just because she was stubborn, didn't mean she wouldn't accept a little bit of help.


(OOC: Tis the season for Mistletoe posts! Yay! ST/LT peachy keen. <3)

Normally, Kon liked the winter. It provided a much needed break from the fun in the sun and, by the time it was over, he was ready for it to be bright and warm again. This time, though, he absolutely hated it. It was cold and he was wearing the most godawful clothes he could imagine. They clung in awkward places and they itched and he didn't know how people wore them. He was totally looking forward to the end of the month when he could wear board shorts again.

He'd put up with the clothes for weeks, now, but he was sick of them to the point where he was deftermined to stay in front of the clothes box until he found something more comfortable to wear. He'd already scoured some of the shops in the area and all he'd found were shirts that were high at the neck and made him feel like he was strangling himself and pants that itched. As soon as he was up at the laundry, he shucked out of his shirt. The Victorian era had to have some kind of equivalent of the t-shirt, didn't it? And he would find it.

Okay, maybe a good part of it was that he felt ridiculous. These kinds of clothes weren't for him. He wasn't the suit-and-tie type. He'd leave that to Clark. Or...well...the other Clark. He wasn't sure he'd seen a tie on the Clark that was on the island. He'd have to ask if he ever wore those types of clothes. Or maybe he'd ask Lex. Lex would probably know.

As he went through the box, he started acquiring a collection. Vests and shirts of all types and colors were in the pile, but he still couldn't manage to find a single thing he liked. Was he going to have to go naked?

(Have a half-naked Kon. Open to ST/LT. If you're so inclined, feel free to have there be mistletoe over him, but if you do, please let me know first so he can react appropriately.)