Once, there was an island.... // MPHFPC one shots, imagines, and misc !

Someone to Tuck you in at Night [ Bronwyn Bruntley!!}

quick A/N: this isn't!! an x reader, more of a scenario I always imagined Bronwyn with. Cuz I love her and she deserves better, totally involves a more detailed backstory for her. 
Please give her a chapter of her own one day.... she deserves it she deserves the world. 
I just... motherly Bronwyn, best decision Ransom Riggs ever made. 
Bronwyns POV, btw, set well before the events of the first trilogy. See, mid to late 1950s. 

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I propped open the window, jamming a thick novel in between to keep it up. The house was warm in the summer, leaving myself and my housemates to fan ourselves with book pages while the air conditioner we had was as broken as broken could get. Even when the thing did work, it was noisy and unsafe. Thank you, 1914, for the most useless invention yet. Plus, despite our big home, it didn't count as a theater, so we couldn't have the nice air theaters got during the 1930s. Not that I expected anything else. From what Miss Peregrine told me, the hopeless thing wouldn't work well until the late 1950s. And we were stuck in September of 1940.

Who knew Wales could get so insufferably hot? 

I spent this morning opening all the windows in the house. Millard complained that the breeze would scatter his notes, but I simply stared him down and placed a heavy rock on top of all the pages. Now nothing and no one could mess them up! How could that possibly have any negative outcomes? Claire and Olive rushed about the ground floor, gathering books above their heads and announcing to anyone who would listen that they were going to put on a two man play. 
By noon, the house was empty. Everyone had made themselves comfortable under the trees in the yard, and Emma wanted to go down to the beach before the bird got home. Miss Peregrine was off on ymbryne business— she was at the top of Miss Avocets class and was still brilliantly talented— leaving us children to ourselves. 

So be it. 

We were practically family at this point anyways, so to me, it was just like Mother was out running errands. When I was little, my brother and I would play a game to distract ourselves when Mom was out. We pretended our kitchen was actually a bustling restaurant, and we had to make ourselves lunch quickly before the rush came back— the rush in question was my step-father, I know now— or else we'd be behind. Or we'd be passengers on a steamship, and had to clean up before we left so we wouldn't have trouble later. My brother made our struggles into games I could comprehend, and I still catch myself slipping into that mindset.

I should get lunch out before we leave for the ship, I thought to myself in the homes kitchen, humming slightly as I cooked. Or else we won't be able to eat until supper, and Claire wouldn't like that. 

And when we set off to sea— or go down to the rocky beach, in reality— Emma will probably want to bring snacks. Towels and a change of clothes as well, since the ones at the shore are still dirty from last time and might be damp by now.

" Wyn, I'm going to grab some towels from upstairs, do you want me to grab you one?" Emmas voice popped up from the doorway. I stopped humming.

" Oh, that's a good idea! Maybe I'll pack these up and we can have a picnic on the beach?" 

" I don't think we have a picnic blanket, Wyn."

" Then we'll use some spare sheets. I can wash them when we get back."

" Hmm." Emma seemed to think it over for a minute, then nodded. " Clever. Meet me outside?"

" Of course." 

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So I packed the sandwiches I made into a basket, slinging it over my forearm when Emma came back downstairs. When we stepped outside into the ending summer heat, Claire's eyes lit up.

" Oh, a picnic? Emma, you didn't mention we were doing a picnic!" She said, running up to me and trying to sneak a look into the basket. 

" Why not? It's nice out, and I don't think you'd complain."  Emma ruffled her hair with a warm smile.

In all the years I had known Emma Bloom, I had rarely seen her frown. She carried sadness with her like we all did, but she seemed to force it to be kind. I don't think I'd ever understand exactly how she worked, that brilliant girl beside me was always so calm and collected it made her seem invincible. 

Emma Bloom, the girl on fire and my best friend.

" It was Wyn's idea, you should thank her instead of doting over my beach idea." Emma nudged Claire towards me, and the younger girl threw her arms around my waist. 

" A picnic, Bronwyn!! A real picnic, like the tea parties! Like a princess would have!" She ranted into my clothing, still trying to look in the basket.

" Just like a real princess." I told her, picking her up and planting our lunch in her lap. 

Claire's face lit up in a smile, and I could have sworn her backmouth was smiling too. Whatever did I do to deserve such a wonderful little girl in my life?