Hey everyone!
I've been incredibly busy lately, and haven't really had any time to write any fanfiction at all. Damn music exams, haha.
So here's a (not really finished) bit of fanfic, about what Newt/Anathema and Madame Tracy/Shadwell did after the Apocalypse. The Them and Crowley/Aziraphale should (hopefully) be posted tomorrow.
Sorry it's so short, I promise I will be writing more frequently now ^-^
It was a nice life, after the Apocalypse.
The witchfinder private had spoken first, at least, presumably so. He'd stared at the witch, glasses speckled with faint grey smudges, looking completely and utterly bewildered. His hair was standing up in all wild directions, streaked with a tarnish of ash. Blinking owlishly, he'd turned to Anathema.
"What the fuck do we do now?" He'd said. And the witch had laughed.
They drove back in the Wasabi, and Newt sung along to the Best of Queen tape he didn't know he owned. Anathema laughed like there was no tomorrow, pretending to hush the witchfinder and threatening him with the breadknife she had forgotten to bring.
And they both felt strangely, oddly, inexplicably happy.
They'd gone back to Anathema's place, and stood in awkward silence for a few minutes, before she decided to screw the rules, and kissed Newt as hard as she could.
In the morning, they drank their bitter black coffee and burned the second book in the fireplace. Newt nearly burnt his hand on the citrus-coloured flames, and Anathema rolled her eyes at him.
The house smelt of smoke for weeks afterwards.
Perhaps it was Agnes haunting her last descendant, with the scent of her last words on paper.
That damn Agnes Nutter. Always had to have the last say.
Sometimes Anathema wondered if Agnes had predicted all this. Predicted all the late night rambles, the wandering walks at sunset, the lustful nights, or the waking moments when the sun filtered through the window. Predicted those memories captured, all those silly photos taken of them with her light blue camera he'd given her for Christmas. Predicted all the time spent with him, the not-really-hero who she'd never realised she needed.
Maybe she had. And maybe she hadn't.
And one day, years too late, she'd answered Newt's question.
"We're going to live, Newt." She said. "That's what we're going to do."
It was a nice life, after the Apocalypse.
It was a comfortable life, after the Apocalypse.
Sergeant Shadwell had done three things after the Apocalypse: Counted his nipples one last time, added 'retired' to his title, and kissed Madame Tracy.
She hadn't complained. Maybe about the nipple-counting. But not anything else.
They'd taken down the signs for the Witchfinder Army that had been taped to the window, and used them as kindling for the fireplace. The cheaply printed words faded and turned to black, as Shadwell shook his head at the signs.
"Whole lot o' lark." He'd said.
Madame Tracy kept bringing him his meals swamped with condensed milk, and one day, she joined him. And he hadn't said a word.
And one Tuesday, she'd decided that they should go out for a proper lunch. It became a sort of tradition, after that.
Surprisingly, Shadwell found that food was actually a lot nicer without so much condensed milk.
Madame Tracy, after a while, started to get bored. She started drawing the veil less and less, only Mondays and Fridays, then only Thursdays, then eventually, not at all. After the Apocalypse, she realised that there was no point doing things that you didn't want to.
She had suggested they move in together, once, nonchalantly. It'd save money, she'd said. And so they had.
And somehow, kind of ended up falling in love.
Shadwell attempted to be romantic, sometimes. It was rather endearing, to Madame Tracy. He'd make her cups of tea with condensed milk and present her squished flowers, hoping she would get the hint.
She always did. In fact, she usually already knew.
Agnes Nutter finally left them alone. She supposed that she'd better, after all that had happened.
It was a comfortable life, after the Apocalypse.