“Sam, you can’t be serious!” Andrew exclaimed. His father
could tell this was not the first time she’d brought the topic up, from the
healthy measure of exasperation in his son’s voice, but there’d been no change
to the deep, underlying fondness that colored Andrew’s tone whenever he spoke
to or of Sam, so Foyle only sat and waited. It wouldn’t be long.
“Your Oxford degree is in English literature, Andrew. That
doesn’t make you the authority on every document written in English, you know,”
Sam said stoutly, her knitting needles clacking along without any alteration in
pace. Foyle wasn’t sure what she was making save that it could not be intended
as a gift for either Andrew nor himself as they were frequent witnesses to the
transfiguration of the dark, heathered yarn into some yet-to-be-determined
“Is that what you’re calling it? A document? It’s a letter
from your Uncle Vincent about a magical castle in Scotland. He was clearly in
his cups when he wrote it,” Andrew retorted.
“A castle?” Foyle repeated mildly, less pointedly than he
would have been with Milner, more interested than he would have allowed himself
to be with Brookie.
“My uncle Vincent, he’s a vicar you know, but his parish
isn’t very big and he spends quite a bit of time walking, collecting things,
sort of an amateur naturalist,” Sam explained. Foyle nodded. Sam did seem to
have an endless number of uncles who occupied vicarages through the British
Isles, all with foibles which made them perfectly suited to one of Mrs.
Christie’s mysteries, except that upon meeting them, there was always something
about them that suggested Waugh or Maugham. Her Aunt Jocasta, met only the once
at the small wedding, had no comparison, in literature or anywhere else, and
Foyle had enjoyed telling Barbara about her over a nightcap and the warm look
in Barbara’s pale blue eyes as she had listened.
“Sam, he’s a crock,” Andrew interjected, drawing his wife’s
“Hush! As I was saying, Uncle Vincent likes to go on rambles
and he likes to talk with whoever he meets in whatever pub he fetches up in,
and he met a man who told him there is a castle in Scotland, a magic castle
that you can only see once or twice a year,” Sam said.
“Go on, then,” Andrew said, jostling Sam with his shoulder.
Foyle would have worried about his son’s amatory finesse but for the look in
Andrew’s eyes and the memory of the embrace he had found them in when they
tarried in the tiny kitchen, ostensibly searching for a tin of pilchards.
“It’s a magic castle that’s a school for young magicians.
Wizards he wrote, a school of wizardry and then man told him they do
ride on brooms and there are all sorts of magical beasts and potions,” Sam went
on, trying but failing to suppress her excitement at even the prospect of such
“There are potions involved, that’s certain,” Andrew
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Andrew, and
that’s your precious Bard,” Sam snapped, not angrily, but with a charming
“A mystery, then,” Foyle said, smiling because to do
otherwise was impossible.
“Well, Sam deserves a holiday and seems you could do a
little rambling of your own, talk to a few locals, have a pint. Doesn’t do to
overwork yourself,” Foyle said. He thought of the grey at Andrew’s temples and
shadows beneath his eyes, Sam’s studied brightness and her pale cheeks. Would
there be a warlock with a long white beard casting spells and eating lemon humbugs?
Would they discover witches cavorting around a cauldron, wands raised and a
unicorn called forth from a forest? The Scottish play suggested it was possible
and if not, the break would be good for them, the fresh air and lumpy beds to
be laughed over, heather and gorse to be made into a wreath for Sam’s sunny
hair, Sam’s appetites indulged and Andrew’s encouraged and uxoriously satisfied.
“You miss detective work too much,” Andrew said. Barbara had
said the same and he’d admitted it before saying she might propose an alternate
topic to occupy him. He’d been struck with a hand-worked pillow for that remark
but Andrew would never believe it.
“P’rhaps,” Foyle replied. “Or maybe I’m angling for a spot
of fishing in a Scots loch,” he added, winking at Sam as Andrew groaned at the
pun, the invocation of the fishing that his father and wife delighted in, his
father once again having the last word.
Pairing: husband!SamxWife!reader, husband!deanxsoulmate!wife!reader, crowleyxdaughter!reader Word count: 11,639 Warnings: Swearing, talk of past abuse, smut She’s Leaving, Dean masterlist
You were miserable. The house was livable, but there were always people in and out finishing it up. Your father insisted on having people work on it twenty-four seven, so it would be ready by Christmas. John was due in about three weeks, and you couldn’t wait. Not only did you want to be able to hold him, but you were sore.
The boys were hanging out in the study (because, according to your father, it sounded so much better than ‘library’), so you moved through the halls towards them. Stopping at John’s nursery, you smiled. His nursery was still at the bunker, but your father had recreated it- down to every detail- at your new home. He’d surprised you with it when the three of you moved in.
Imagine drunk dialing the Avengers Tower - that could potentially be so hilarious, so please, I hope that's okay XD
After a long mission you, Thor and Sam had decided to hit a nearby bar while the others were resting at the Tower. “I say we should try Lady Romanoff’s favourite drink.” Thor suggested.”I dunno Thor, vodka is a bit strong.” you replied. “Oh you can handle bad guys and you can’t handle a little bit of vodka?” Sam teased.
“Natasha Romanoff.” Nat picked her phone up. “Ehhhhie, Nattie!!” three drunken voices were heard. “Are you all drunk?” she replied to your slurrings. “Ah a lil tiny tinsy bit.” you said sending the other two in giggles. “Your drink Lady Romanoff was like fire.” Thor let Nat know. “Oh my, how much vodka did you have?’ she asked as she got ready to pick you three up from the bar.
“Three.” you said in unison. “Three what?” “Bottles.” Sam hicked and Nat rolled her eyes. “I am coming to get you.” she said and headed to Steve’s room. Steve and Bucky were in playing Mario Kart and Nat snickered.
“Oh my God, Nat I am a dragon!!” you yelled in the phone startling the two super soldiers. “Now, (Y/N), you aren’t it’s just vodka talking.” Nat replied making the other two chuckle. “Let’s go and get them.” she said and all got up to head to the bar. “Fear me, mortals.” your slurred voice was heard followed by Sam’s squeal.
When they finally arrived they saw you outside of the bar. You were chasing Sam and Thor was laughing with his heart. Natasha got in the middle and you pouted as you saw her knitted brows. Steve got Thor on his arms and guided him to the minivan as the demi-god was squishing Steve’s muscles saying he could make a good warrior. Nat decided to go and get Sam down of the lamp-post and rolled her eyes many times as Sam flirted her with crappy pickup lines.
Bucky approached you and his arm snaked around your waist and he put your hand around his shoulders. “Her, blue eyes, are you single?” you smirked. He tried to fight back his laughter to no avail. Steve had just put Thor in the car and turned to your direction. “What happened, Buck?” he asked. “My drunk girlfriend just asked me if I am single.”