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gifted-burnout-archive · 4 years

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Jim’s Best Friend

Part Twenty Two - Talking Technology, 2/2

Word Count: +3.2K

Author’s Note: Agh, here it is! I was struggling to edit this chapter, get it just right, but I hope you like it! Bit of Jim x Reader fluff for you, not a lot of plot for this one, but Dinner Party is coming soon, but some more Y/N drama sooo... stay tuned.

Warning: none

For previous chapters, click here.

March, 2008.

"Today is the launch party, and I can say with a whole lot of certainty I don't actually want to stay late tonight." Y/N said to the camera, looking over at Jim, who was sat to her left, their hands brushing against each other. He smiled at her words, at her laugh.

"Ryan's party is happening tonight over conference call. And we were planning to appear for exactly 9 minutes and 32 seconds-" Jim began to laugh, Y/N practically bouncing in her seat.

"It's statistically the most comfortable point to leave a meeting." She exclaimed with pride. "Ever since I became receptionist, I started noting down reactions during meetings. 100% the best time to leave anything you don't want to be at is 9 minutes and 32 seconds in."

"Anyway. There's a movie marathon going on at the cineplex, we thought we could spend our night doing something that's actually fun." Jim nodded as he spoke, finally taking Y/N's hand in his and giving it a squeeze.

"Oh, meeting Jim's parents?" Y/N repeated the producer's question, going a little red in the face. "I think they like me, which is great. I don't know what I would do if they didn't." Jim rolled his eyes.

"They love her, just like I..." He trailed off, the pair both blushing. Jim quickly smiled to the team, leading Y/N out into the bullpen, the pair bursting into laughter as they left.

Tonight was the Launch Party for the website, and the past week had been constant prepping and planning on your part. While Angela had been in charge of the party itself, Ryan had brought you on as a languages assistant, as bizarre as it sounded, to make sure translations into other languages were fluent and accessible. You had checked everything out from top to bottom, the task taking up a lot of your evenings, and you were more than glad that you could now just focus on copying files and sending out emails, forwarding calls.

The day of the launch, you sat in the break room, Jim by your side, taking a chance to have a coffee and a catchup. Both you and Jim hadn't seen each other outside of work since the Saturday morning before, your extra hours mixing with something Jim was planning, though he wouldn't say what. Now, having officially signed off papers with Toby to make your relationship official, you could hold his hand in the office without fear of being caught.

"So, uh, I don't know how to tell you this..." Jim started, your face falling immediately. His usual playful tone wavered, his hand squeezed yours tighter. You couldn't help but expect bad news. "Dwight and Angela... They've been dating for like, eight months now." Jim stage whispered, taking a deep breath as he got it off his chest, his undeniable smile returning. And you had to laugh: a mixture of relief and the fact that Jim was totally off the mark. "Yeah, I was going to wait to tell you, but I've been holding back."

"Well, Pam told me otherwise." You responded, taking a drink of your coffee, a smirk on your lips. "Try two years... And they broke up."

"What? When? How?" Jim seemed astounded. "How could you not tell me?"

"You didn't tell me..." You retorted, biting your lip to hold back a giggle. "Before your barbeque, if you can believe. And, from what Pam has reported, it was all sorts of chaos. But, to sum it up, Dwight mercy killed Angela's cat."

"Dwight killed Sprinkles?"

"Dwight killed Sprinkles."

"Wow..." Jim muttered, running a hand through his hair. He had trimmed it again, even taken the time to style it that morning instead of his dashin Boy Charming look he usually went for. Before the pair of you could discuss more, Phyllis knocked on the break room door, and you removed your hand from Jim's, waving her in.

"Phyllis, you don't need to knock, it's the break room." You reminded the older coworker, who smiled and looked you over.

"Your new shoes are nice, Y/N." Phyllis complimented you, and you smiled. "Just so you know though, when a new client calls you can't just transfer them to Jim, there are other salepeople on the floor. You can't base everything off of your sex life." The insult came quick, and you did your best to keep the smile on your face, nodding and waving as she disappeared again, you and Jim sharing a look. It only took you a few more moments to finish your coffee, standing from your chair and dumping the cup in the trash.

"I should go, I have calls to transfer to everyone but you." You said with a nervous laugh, heading for the door before Jim quickly grabbed your hand, spinning you back to face him.

"Don't work too hard, ok? You deserve a break, the last thing you needed was Phyllis on your tail." Jim comforted you, giving your hand a final squeeze before you headed back out to the reception desk, taking your seat, calling back the first voicemail on the machine.

"Of course sir. I can transfer you to a salesperson now." You said after a few minutes on the phone, transferring the call straight to Phyllis, hoping it might get her off your back. By the smile on her face, you had managed to acheive the hoped for outcome.

"Y/N, my dear, sweet Y/N." A voice called to you, Michael stood at his office door, his eyes bloodshot from a distance. "Will you come in here?" He asked, and you quickly grabbed a notepad, used to Michael's ramblings. Last week he had asked you into a meeting to jot down a new casserole recipe. "That won't be needed." He said quickly, walking back to his desk, urging you to follow him. You walked into the office as Jim walked back out of the annex, you sending a shrug his way as you locked eyes.

"Michael, what can I assist with?" You asked, closing over the door and taking a seat. The tissue pile on his desk made it abundantly clear he had been upset. "What did Jan do?" you asked, leaning forward and holding out a hand, with Michael quickly took. Ever since he and Jan had gotten together again, which you often reminded yourself was because of Jan's boobjob, Michael's life had slowly spiralled downhill. He wasn't as happy as usual, he had even sold the Sebring, though he wouldn't say why. Jan wasn't in New York anymore, currently unemployed, and Michael was the sole income maker in that dreadful condo.

"I'm meant to be at this New York for this party tonight, VIP, exclusive, and Jan won't come with me. Said it was stupid..." Michael huffed, throwing a tantrum like a four-year old, causing you to sigh.

"What do you need me to do? Tell her you're in meetings all day?" You asked, and Michael shook his head.

"Would you come to the New York party with me? Be my plus one? I don't want to look like a loser." Michael begged, and you couldn't help but glance at the door. You had noticed the movie tickets on Jim's desk earlier, he had already gone to the toruble of buying them. You looked back at Michael and smiled, quickly standing up.

"Can I get back to you at lunch?" You asked, and Michael nodded, still looking sad. "Thanks, Michael." You smiled briefly, slipping out of the office and being met by Jim's smile, his chair turned to face you.

"No inappropriate conduct in the workplace." Dwight said in a drawl, his eyes not moving from his screen. It might have been the first time you had seen Dwight unshaven, his tie loose and his shirt buttoned wrong. Both you and Jim chose to ignore him.

"What happened in there?" Jim asked, and you took a seat on his desk.

"Michael needs a plus one for the New York party, asked me to go..." You said softly, Jim's hand coming to your leg, rubbing a circle on your thigh. "I think I have to cancel date night. Any chance you can get those tickets refunded?"

"This doesn't sound like taking work easy." Jim said with a smile, and you sighed. "No problem, we can go tomorrow." He assured you, the fax machine beeping and forcing you back to work. It was the last thing you wanted to do, but Jim sent you off with a pat on the leg and a lopsided grin, silently promising you it was alright that you went to New York.

You headed back to your desk, reading the fax from Corporate over quickly, waving Michael out of his office. He moved with little enthusiasm, taking three times the usual amount of time to get to your desk, and huffing as he stood across from you.

"Michael, the Corporate press release." You passed the fax over to your boss.

"The what?"

"I emailed you on Tuesday about it? Ryan wants you to share it with everyone." You reminded him, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile. "Also, I made sure I can go to New York tonight. I'll drive us." You added, hoping to lift his spirits a little.

"He wants me to share it, does he?" Michael asked, a small smile forming as he processed the information you gave him.

"Yes, he does."

"Mm... Ok." Michael sighed, turning to the rest of the office. "Attention Earthlings. I have some news." He started to make beeping noises, and you tried not to groan too loudly. "Ok. Today's the big day that I'm heading to New York to attend a party with sushi and important people. On an unrelated note, if anyone has an interesting anecdote that is not boring and easy to memorise, please drop by my office before I leave. Thank you."

"Whoops." Jim said, his eyes having scanned over the fax in Michael's hand as he spoke. "Was that really what Ryan wanted you to tell us?" He asked Michael, sending a wink your way as you replied with a grateful smile.

"And..." Michael glance at the note in hand quickly. "Today the Dunder Mifflin Infinity website officially launches. The comapny is projecting record high sales, and that by 6 o'clock, the website will be the new best salesman in the company." Michael finished, heading back for his office. "Wow, watch out Dwight."

"That's ridiculous." Dwight responded, monotone. "I'm not gonna be beaten by a website."

"Actually, it sounds like you are." Jim cut in, teasing his coworker.

"Really?" Like always, Dwight fell straight into the trap, getting defensive. "Cause Ryan says so?"

"That's from Ryan?" Kelly asked. "Does it mention if he's seeing anybody?" The last time Ryan had been in the office, Kelly had lied about being pregnant. It was fun to watch Ryan become flustered, you weren't going to lie.

"No, it doesn't. I'll find out tonight." Michael said quickly.

"Yes." Stanley rolled his eyes. "Please let us know." He said sarcastically, causing you to bite back a laugh.

"I can make more sales than a computer." Dwight announced, pulling attention back to his point. "In fact, I challenge that website to make more sales than me today."

"Waste of time..." Angela spoke up, her head in her files, drawing a frown from Dwight's expression.

"What's that, Pipsqueak?" Michael asked, taking a chance to taunt the petite woman. You weren't bothered by it, Angela had said more than enough about you to make you dislike her.

"Waste of time." She reapeated. "The website's going to win."

"You believe a computer can beat me?" Dwight looked genuinely hurt by the insinuation.

"I don't care, but yes."

"Well, I will prove you wrong."

"I don't care and you won't." The two ex-lovers went back and forth, and a text pinged through on your phone.

That's a healthy relationship right there... xx

Jim had texted, and you sent a playful glare his way, making him smile a little wider. The next thirty minutes focused on Andy and Dwight drawing up a plan of attack for Dwight to beat a computer, a computer, at selling paper, Jim taking every opportunity to wind them both up. Angela and Phyllis were focusing on set up for the satellite party, and you pretended your very hardest to look busy, so as to not get roped into anything. Angela and Dwight were both unpleasant to begin with, you didn't need any of it directed at you that day.

Jim came over to your desk just as the website went live, hands in pockets as he walked over to your desk, just as you finished up a call.

"What would you say if I told you we could pull a prank on Dwight and, at the same time, not be working?" Jim asked quietly, quickly adding on to it when your brow furrowed. "You need a chance to chill today, and if we can't do movies, this is a good alternative." He offered. With a smile like his, you could never say no, you knew that. He knew it too.

"Jim, he's just been dumped." You tried one last time to convince your boyfriend it might not be a good idea.

"Yeah, I'm aware of that. But's he's also being super anmoying, and I'm not a perfect person." A sudden air horn followed Jim's words, and your eyes widened.

"What do you have in mind?" You asked, Jim explaining the ruse to you while picking up a file, doing his best to be discreet. You quickly opened up the office's instant messenger system, signing in as 'DunMiff/sys'.

You had a few hours to kill before driving to New York, and the smile Jim gave you as he headed back to his desk, so proud of you both, it made the next few hours of torment seem a lot more fun.

You were kind of glad to leave the office early, even if it meant driving for two hours to New York, and bailing on date night with Jim. You both knew Michael needed to boost, and after Dwight had told you to fuck off in binary code, it seemed like a good idea to leave before it turned ugly.

You were leaving Pennsylvania as the ringing from the bear horn finally subsided from your ears, and glanced over to see Michael reading 'Green Eggs and Ham' by Dr Suess to your right.

"Have you read this?" Michael asked, and you nodded, keeping your eyes on the road.

"When I was four I did, yeah. It's a kids book." You replied, kind of confused why Michael had brought it with him.

"I got it for Ryan. I wanted to get him 'Oh The Places You'll Go' but they were sold out at Barnes and Noble."

"You realise the books are really, really not the same right?" You let out a little laugh, shaking your head. Michael was oblivious at the best of times, and you were quite glad that no-one else in the office was having to ecperience this conversation in your place.

As you finally left Pennsylvania, Michael suddenly blew two kisses into the air.

"It used to be one." You commented. "Whenever you left, you always have blown one before."

"One for me, one for Jan." Michael explained, and you nodded in understanding. "You know, you and Jim should come over for dinner sometime."

"Oh, uh, I don't know Michael."

"What about next Friday?"

"You know Jan and I sort of fell out..." You said honestly, and Michael decideed not to push the subject further. For the past year, Jan and your relationship had been rocky, and you, quite frankly, didn't like the way she treated Michael one bit. "Can you start giving me directions? Tell me where we're going?" You asked, changing the subject. It seemed to be a good idea, Michael perking back up as he read out the information from a printed sheet of paper.

"I can tell you right now, and shall, my good friend. It's a club called Chatroom, and there's a password to get in, which is actually 'password', so..." Michael nodded as he read along, and you let out a sigh, quickly pulling off at the next turn off. "What are you doing?"

"Are there 'w's before the name of the club, Michael?" You asked, pulling into the rest stop and parking the car.

"Yes, why?"

"It's an invitation to the online party..." You said, pulling out your phone to call Jim.

"But... I need to call Ryan." Michael decided, stepping out of the car. You quickly dialled jim's number, glancing at the time. If you were lucky, you might be able to make that movie marathon still.

"Well, hello. What do I owe the pleasure? Aren't you driving?" Jim asked, and you let out a strained laugh.

"It was an invite to the online party, Michael is shouting down his phone to Ryan now... I have a feeling I'll be back in Scranton by the time that satellite party starts, and I really need something fun tonight." You confessed, finally agreeing with Jim. This whole launch had done nothing but stress you out. The dashboard clock hit 6 o'clock.

"I still have the tickets for the movies, and a surprise for when you get back." Jim assured, and you smiled.

"Hey, how did Dwight do?" You asked, and Jim took a moment.

"He won..." The disbelief was real, and it made you smile. Jim always made you smile.

"Is Angela getting on at him?"

"A little."

"Does he look sad?"

"Yeah."

"AI systems are fair players Jim... He needs to be congratulated." You instructed, saying a quick goodbye as Michael got back into the car. "Everything good?"

"Back to Scranton... I have a party to upstage." Michael declared, and you sped off back west, trying to hold onto the idea of a movie date with Jim instead of focusing on Michael's rage-driven ramblings about Ryan.

By the time you got back to Scranton, it was maybe fifty minutes or so until the party began. Michael began marching around, ordering Angela about to make the Scranton brnach party better than the New York corporate one, but by this point you were tired, so mentally exhausted from extra work and the nonsense of the day that you began collecting your stuff, just desperate to get out of the office.

"So, I know you said that you leave 9 minutes and 32 seconds into a party, but is there any chance I could convince you to leave 46 minutes and 13 seconds before one instead?" Jim came up to your desk, placing the movie tickets in front of you. "We could get Alferdo's beforehand, make a proper night of it?" He offered, and Michael seemed to have overheard.

"What are you two lovebirds talking about?" Michael asked, and you and Jim shared a look, rather desperate to not be roped into staying.

"You should order Alfredo's for tonight." You blurted out quickly, and Jim nodded in agreement.

"Alfredo's, huh? Interesting..." Michael muttered, jogging back to his office.

"Go now?" Jim asked, walking to his desk and picking up his shoulder bag.

"Now." You agreed, the pair of you grabbing coats and heading out the door before anyone could call you out on it.

By Monday, the pair of you would be filled in by Andy and Kelly on everything you missed: from Michael's speech calling out Ryan to the abduction of the pizza delivery kid, followed by Andy serenading Angela and Michael heading to New York after all with Dwight. In truth, you couldn't care less.

You spent that launch party night eating good pizza, Alfredo's Pizza Café, and catching a Indiana Jones marathon at the movies with Jim... Followed by other events you would rather keep private for now.

Truth was, Jim knew how to make you happy, and he had proved himself time and time again. It was why you knew you loved him.

Tags: @imsuperawkward @poppirocks @rosie2801 @onceuponahuntersrealm @aziggya @suitelifeofafangirl @legendaryoafhairdozonk

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just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi · 4 years

Text

Some Brody Fanfiction

[Submitted by the 🔋 Anon!]

[Based off this piece - which is not cannon, just for fun]

CWs for pet whump, human trafficking, restraints/muzzling, sedative ment, dubcon touch, very brief bdsm ment, slapping, implied future discipline/conditioning.

Sandie just nearly made it to the pet store before closing. With six minutes to spare, she walked through the door, bell jingling, much to the annoyance of the man behind the counter.

“Can I look at the returns, please?” The salesman popped up, not wanting to spend an hour showing the pets to some lady but she seemed like she knew what she wanted.

“We close in six minutes.”

“I know, I know. Bus was late. I’ll be quick.” She followed him to the back room, past the obediently silent pets on cushions. That most certainly wasn’t what she wanted. “I’m looking for a fighter, but not a dangerous one. Something that wants to be good, but just can’t, yanno?” She spoke with a bit of a valley girl accent, mixing awkwardly with her Midwest vowels.

Jesus fuck, at least most of the jerks that come in here are subtle about it. Whatever. Commission. “Well, I think I may have the right pet for you.” He lead her back past the regular returns chained in cages to the floor, to one pet in particular at the back. Its eyes were angry red, but the expression behind them was one of remorseful repentance.

“This one, the owner brought it back saying it was near feral and defective. Struggled quite a bit when it first got here. But when we told it to stop, it just… stopped. Hasn’t given us trouble since. It misses its old master, I guess.”

Sandie knelt down next to the muzzled pet, lifted its head to stare into its blue eyes. Beautiful. It was really cute. It leaned into her touch, trying to get her to pet it while she held it up by the hair. “How much?”

She haggled with the salesman a bit, he agreeing to a lower price because fuck, I just want to go home already, my shift’s almost fucking over. There wasn’t time for a medical checkup if she wanted it today, so ten minutes later it was ready to go home.

“You want me to sedate it for transport?” “Nah, I’m okay. I got mace.” She did not. She was, however, an amateur boxer on a win streak with a pair of brass knuckles in her pocket. She could sedate it her goddamn self, if need be. This was a good test, having it unsedated in public unless (until) it misbehaves. Nothing like a good public discipline session to knock some sense into a new pet.

The salesman unlocked the cage and the boy looked up, absolutely miserable. There was a little glimmer of hope in those eyes though, not quite excitement but a quiet hopefulness. It stayed still as he unhooked his bound hands from the ring on the floor. The boy stood up, eyes down, when the salesman tugged him up and hooked a leash onto his bound hands.

“I’ll take it from here.” Sandie tugged the pet towards her and it went willingly, albeit a little unsteadily from kneeling for so long and its bound hands. She paid the salesman, and soon enough they were in the bus shelter, waiting for the ride home.

“So.” She started. “I’m going to be your new owner. You will address me as Mistress. You will not bite, scratch, kick, or otherwise physically harm me in any way. You will follow orders, and you will do what you’re told. Do you understand?” The pet nodded enthusiastically. I can do all those things! I promise! I’ll be good for you!

“If you’re good, I’ll take off your muzzle when we get home.” The pet nodded again, staring at her in longing. She smiled at it, running her hand through the pet’s hair. He melted into her hand, head falling slightly and breath shuddering.

“Aww, you really like that, huh?” He nodded through hooded eyes, distracted for the time being from the touch. She gave him one last scratch on the head when the bus pulled up, pulling out her card and pressing it against the reader. Half an hour later they were home.

***

Sandie shoved the pet inside roughly, not expecting it to crumple to the floor when she pushed it. The guy said it was nearly feral, but it can’t take a little shove? Huh. Sandie was distracted from her thoughts by the pet puddle on the floor. The boy was kneeling on the floor, head pressed to the toe of her steel-toed shoe, shaking. Poor guy.

She sat down beside it, sitting cross-legged and pulling it into her lap. “Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay, you’re okay. I didn’t mean to push you.” It didn’t look up, just curled up with its head resting against her chest. She stroked its hair gently, and it shuddered.

“I’m going to take your muzzle off now, okay?” It lifted its head obediently for her to undo the buckle, and she saw its face was streaked with tears. On top of the residual redness from the store, it looked absolutely wrecked. Oh, this was a good feeling. Having absolute power over someone else, knowing you did this to them, knowing they can’t do jack shit about it. This was so much better than the BDSM club.

It didn’t flinch when she reached behind its head, unbuckling the straps and pulling the bit out slowly. She could almost see the cogs trying to turn in his little head, hazy from all the touch but so scared from being in a new place, with a new owner. She threw the muzzle on the floor next to them and wrapped her arms around him, half because she wanted him to feel overwhelmed and half because she was a bit touch-starved herself, too.

“Do you have a name, honey?” It was so nice, not having to be embarrassed or worry about what the other person was thinking. This one obviously wasn’t thinking much.

“B-brody,” He whispered, voice hoarse from unuse.

He was on the floor again in seconds, red handprint prominent on his teary face. “Brody what?”

He took a shaky breath, more of a sob really, and rested his forehead against the cool linoleum. “Brody, Mis- Mistress.”

“Gooood boy, Brody. You learn quick, huh?” He pressed his eyes shut. Good, he did good, he did good…

She picked him gently up off the floor, pulling him upright until he was level with her again, staring into her eyes. Those soulful eyes, so full of hurt and trust and unease. This one will be fun to condition, my lord he’s so sensitive…

She couldn’t wait to start.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BATTERY.

OH MY GOD

I FORGOT HOW TO BREATHE.

This is so, so so so good! I love it! I have so many questions about Sandie. Who is she? How many pets does she have/has she had? What are her plans?

She can’t wait to start? Start what?

She’s gonna be in for quite a shock when he doesn’t lift a hand against her. Oh my gosh Sam screwed over so many people with his little last joke.

She could sedate it her own damn self

Omg honey I could sedate Brody, but you DON”T KNOW THAT BECAUSE SAM LIEDDDDDD.

He IS very sensitive! He will try so hard but he just doesn’t know because nobody ever trained him. I know I haven’t explicitly said this yet, but Brody isn’t a box boy. He’s not a trained pet. He’s a boy that was raised as a pet and learned long ago that obeying and being cute is the only way he can protect himself.

His first master (edward) didn’t train him. he gave him rules and punishments, but never tried to break him down and rebuild him or fully/truly condition him.

Sam never tried, Dylan didn’t care.

He obeys because it makes things easier, not because he believes he is inferior or naturally worse.

(a lot of this comes out with Kayla and Aries but IDK when that will happen)

But all in all, 🔋, I LOVED THIS. It’s amazing and I’m so curious about Sandie! What will happen to this Brody???

Can…can I put it on the masterlist?

[Second part here!]

Tagging @whumptywhumpdump because all things Brody

#pet whump #human trafficking tw #restraints mention #Sedative mention #dubcon touch #slapping #Implied future torture #brody #🔋#AMAZING #submission #AMAZING AMAZING AMAZING #I seriously can't believe it #My eyes were watering and I thought I was going to cry #I can't believe it #I'm shocked #Thank you so much #It means so much to me #thank you thank you thank you

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helloalycia · 4 years

Text

cheater [one] | kara danvers

summary: after catching your girlfriend cheating on you, kara happens to be there for you when you've never felt more alone

warning/s: cheating I guess?

author's note: there's another two parts to this because it was pretty long and I had to split it lol soz guys

part two | part three | masterlist | wattpad

"I think that's a wrap," Kara said with relief, smiling as she closed her notebook. "I can begin writing this up tomorrow."

"I can't wait to read it," I told her honestly, returning her smile. "You've got the quotes, you've got the story, you've got the pictures. It can't go wrong."

Kara chuckled as she began to pack up. "You're right. Thank you for staying late with me to help me finish the prep. I owe you."

"It's nothing." I waved her off as I also stood up and packed away. "You've helped me out a ton of times. It's the least I could do."

She didn't say anything, but the appreciative smile on her lips said enough. I checked the time on one of the many clocks hung on the walls of CatCo and decided to give my girlfriend a quick call.

"Hello?"

"Anna, love, hey," I said, an automatic smile appearing on my lips. "What are you doing right now? I thought we could hang out tonight. I know it's late, but Kara and I finished up some work so I thought I could stop by."

Anna sounded tired as she answered, "Aw, babe, I'm glad that you got your work done, but I'm half asleep between episodes of The Office and I don't think I can stay awake long enough to do something. I'm sorry."

I shook my head, despite being on the phone. "Oh, no, it's okay, no need to apologise. I'll leave you to it... I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"See you tomorrow," she replied. "Love you."

"I love you, too," I said, before hanging up.

"That Anna?" Kara asked, glancing up at me as she grabbed her bag. "She doing good? I haven't seen much of her lately."

"Yeah, she's good, she's been busy sorting out that new summer segment for the fashion section," I said, pocketing my phone and grabbing my own bag.

"Oh, yeah, I saw, that looks pretty cool," Kara nodded as the two of us began to walk to the lift.

"Yeah," I agreed, a little half-heartedly.

It went quiet as the two of us rode the lift down to the lobby, until Kara suddenly spoke up.

"Hey, erm, since you've not got plans, do you want to maybe get some ice cream?" she asked, before a confused smile appeared on her face as if she was unsure to why she was asking me in the first place.

I smiled with amusement. "I guess, yeah. Bit random, I must admit."

Kara rubbed the back of her neck as she glanced down at her shoes. "Yeah, well, I'm in the mood for something sweet. And it can be my treat. Y'know, for helping me."

I shrugged, still smiling. "I won't say no to free ice cream."

She met my eyes, a glint of excitement in her own. "Great. I know a place. It's a little out, but it's really good."

As we walked out of the lift, I nodded. "You know your food, Danvers, you have all of my trust."

She laughed, giving me a glance before leading me outside to hail a taxi.

I'd hung out with Kara a handful of times – we worked together and naturally became work friends, so I was used to her random ideas and acts of kindness from her. So, allowing her to take me to get ice cream downtown at almost midnight was definitely a little out there, but nothing too unusual.

"What d'you think?" Kara asked, a massive grin on her face that made her blue eyes sparkle.

"This is really good," I admitted, chuckling when I saw her first pump.

"I knew you'd love it," she said, before accepting her own ice cream cone off the salesman.

"You know what you'd love?" I asked, a thought coming to mind. She hummed as she dove into her ice cream, unable to speak. I smiled with amusement as I continued. "Mr Whippy."

"Mr what-y?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mr Whippy," I repeated, noting her urge to laugh. "It's an ice cream we have back in England. You get it from ice cream vans in the summer and it's basically a soft, white ice cream. They put sherbet, sprinkles and whatever sauce you want on it. Usually raspberry though. Then they add a flake and it's complete! It's the best thing ever. Immediate sugar rush. You'd love it."

"Sounds like my kind of thing," she said, eagerly.

"Definitely," I agreed, walking out of the ice cream shop with her.

"Right now though, this is definitely hitting the spot..."

I stopped listening to Kara as I looked ahead and furrowed my eyebrows. There was a restaurant opposite the ice cream shop and it looked like my girlfriend was sat inside, laughing over dinner with another girl. Huh..?

"...and you're not listening. What's up, Y/N?"

Kara followed my gaze and judging by the way she tensed up, my thoughts were confirmed. I wasn't imagining it – Anna was definitely sat there with another girl. Or should I say she was now kissing another girl.

"Y/N... I don't... I..."

Kara hesitated, unsure what to say, but I could feel her staring at me with pity.

I reached for my phone and called Anna, waiting as it rang. I looked up and saw Anna interrupting sucking face with a girl who I didn't recognise to check her phone. I swallowed the lump in my throat as she checked the caller ID and declined the call, before getting back to the girl she was with. I chewed on the inside of my mouth as I locked my phone, forcing myself to look away.

"Y/N–"

"Am I alright to go home?" I asked, my voice surprisingly quiet and steady.

Kara tried to meet my eyes, but I avoided hers, embarrassed enough as it was.

"Yeah, of course," she replied, squeezing my arm gently. "I'll get you a cab. Come on."

I nodded and followed her, but not before glancing behind me one last time. I don't know if I expected to not see anything, but that wasn't the case. Anna was still sat there with somebody else, leaning into her and laughing at whatever.

She was still cheating and I was still left hurting.

***

My eyes were glued to my computer screen when I heard her voice, calling for me like usual. Except it wasn't like usual because now I knew the truth.

"Babe, I thought I'd drop by your desk and see how you're doing." Anna leaned down and tried to kiss me, but I moved my head, resulting in her kissing my cheek. She frowned as she pulled away. "Hey, I'm sorry about last night..." No, you're not. "I know you wanted to hang out, but I was falling asleep." No, you weren't. "But you hung out with Kara, right? You said you got ice cream?" Yeah and I saw you cheat on me. "Sounds fun!"

I swallowed hard and forced a small smile as I looked up to her. I tried to understand how this woman who I'd grown to love could throw it all away as if it meant nothing, so she could be with someone else? If she wanted to break up with me, she should have just done it. I would have preferred that over being cheated on and used like an accessory. I used to look at her and feel love. Now all I felt was pain.

"It's okay, I did end up going out with Kara," I said, maintaining my voice and any stutter. "It was nice. But I was thinking that maybe we could go out for lunch today? If you're not too busy?" Too busy making out with other girls.

"That sounds great," she agreed, a plastic smile on her face. "I'll see–"

"Sorry to interrupt," a woman approached, and I widened my eyes when I realised it was the woman from last night. She was the new fashion intern. "Miss Fox, we need you to look at the layout for this week's issue. It's a group effort."

I felt my mouth go dry as I looked between them both. They were smiling innocently, but their eyes spilled a million secrets. She was cheating on me with the intern?

"How many times have I told you, Katy, you can call me Anna," Anna said, playfully. "I'm not that much older than you."

"Right," Katy agreed, playing the part. "My apologies, Anna."

"I should get going," Anna said, looking to me with a smile, "but I'll see you here in a few hours to get lunch."

I nodded, unable to get words out without screaming. Anna blew a kiss towards me before following Katy out of here. My stomach turned at how many times I'd seen them together in the past and how I never knew. I didn't notice Katy much – I was a news reporter, not fashion. I rarely saw her. But she saw me evidently. Everybody at CatCo knew Anna and I were together, so she wasn't exactly in the dark. She was knowingly with my girlfriend. And knowingly playing me, just like Anna.

I tried not to let that sour thought disrupt me from my work, but it was hard. I felt like somebody was sitting on my chest, squeezing it tighter and tighter and making me extremely uncomfortable. I just had to make it to lunch, where I would confront Anna and make her admit that she was cheating on me. That she was a horrible fucking person. That she broke my heart and that she broke me. She... she broke me.

Lunch time rolled around soon enough and I found myself walking towards Noonan's with Anna when I stopped us from going any further. Every second more I spent pretending I didn't know felt like a disgusting coat of shame I was carrying. I didn't know how she did it – the very thought made me feel revolting. I couldn't even walk to the coffee shop with her, let alone sit through a lunch with her. I had to do it now.

"Why did we stop?" Anna asked, confused as she turned around to look at me. "What's–"

"You're cheating on me," I blurted out, before breathing out slowly. No going back now.

"What?" she played dumb, raising her eyebrows. "Y/N, are you crazy?"

I clenched my jaw, shaking my head. How could she keep pretending, even when I called her out on it?

"I saw you last night," I said, meeting her eyes. I needed to see the realisation in hers when she knew I knew the truth. The guilt, if any. "Kara took me to an ice cream place downtown. Not somewhere I usually go. But you knew that. That's why you took Katy to dinner down there. Right?"

Her mouth closed slowly as she stared at me with a blank expression, but I could see the desperation creeping in her eyes.

"How– how long has this been going on for?" I asked, cursing inwardly at my stutter.

"It's not what you think," Anna tried to amend the situation.

"I saw you kiss her!" I shouted angrily, earning the attention of some bystanders, but I didn't care. "And you declined my call! I'm not stupid, Anna! Now, how long?"

She looked down to her shoes, purposely avoiding my eyes. "A few months..."

I breathed out through my nose, feeling my heart begin to ache. A few months. She was with somebody else whilst with me for a few months.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

"Y/N, what good will this do you?" she asked, trying to divert the question.

"None of this is doing me any good, but I deserve to know," I told her sternly, containing my anger. And I'll know just how stupid I was to trust you.

Anna didn't answer straight away, but eventually, I saw her nod slightly. So, that answers that then. She was sleeping with another woman whilst being in a relationship with me. Lovely.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, finally lifting her eyes to mine. "I didn't want you to find out like this."

"Sounds like you didn't want me to find out at all," I got out, my voice cracking.

My eyesight was getting blurry and that's when I realised that I couldn't contain my emotions for much longer. I needed to go. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of watching me get upset.

"I don't want you to speak to me unless it's work-related," I told her calmly.

"Y/N, please let me explain–"

"I mean what I said," I snapped, before turning to leave.

I speed-walked away, hoping to God that she wasn't following me. If she was, she would have seen me wipe the stray tears from my face and suck up a deep shaky breath.

When returning to the office, I made sure I looked presentable in the toilets before heading to my desk. On the way, I passed Kara at her desk and caught her gaze.

After getting a taxi home last night, I never really spoke to her this morning and I felt a little guilty for just leaving so suddenly. She must have felt very awkward to be with me as I found out Anna's secret. I wanted to apologise, but I didn't trust myself right now because I was still pretty sensitive from before.

Kara flashed me a concerned smile, to which I returned with the most convincing smile I could muster, before I headed to my desk to get on with some work.

I didn't see Anna or Katy for the rest of the day which I was glad for – now if only that could last the rest of my life. I did see Kara however, who kindly decided to stop by my desk towards the end of the day.

"Hey...," she greeted, hanging by my desk but not quite committing to staying.

I appreciated her thoughtfulness and decided to give her my full attention, hoping she'd get the hint she could stay. "Hey, Kara."

She offered a small smile as she sat at the edge of my desk. Concern flashed in her eyes though, as she asked, "How are you doing?"

I pursed my lips, ignoring the sharp pain in my heart. "I'm fine."

Kara nodded, and I almost thought she would accept my answer and leave it there, but then she looked back to me with a nervous look.

"I know it's not any of my business, but did you talk to Anna about... you know?"

I nodded slowly, eyes flickering to my desk. "Yeah. I did."

I looked up when I felt Kara's hand rest on mine, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I'm sorry," she said, a frown on her lips. "About what happened."

"You don't need to say sorry for anything," I said with a careless shrug, before adding, "but I'm sorry for letting it ruin our evening. I was having fun for what it's worth."

Kara cracked a small sad smile. "It didn't ruin anything. I just want you to know that I'm here for you. If you wanna talk about it. Or if you just want to hang out and not talk about it at all. Either way..."

"You're here."

"Yeah."

"Thanks." I looked up and met her eyes. They were kind and generous and thoughtful all at once, making me feel like I wasn't completely alone.

She nodded, her smile still present, before standing up and saying, "I'll leave you to it then."

"Bye, Kara."

***

It hadn't even been a day when Anna tried to talk to me again. She obviously didn't respect me enough, nor feel any amount of guilt enough to leave me the hell alone like I asked.

"Can we talk?" she asked for the millionth time, standing in front of my desk, looking down at me with pleading eyes. "Please, Y/N."

I stayed quiet, continuing to ignore her and instead look at my computer screen. I didn't want to speak to her because I had nothing more to say, and she knew that. She broke my heart and I was just trying to forget about it. Forget about her. I couldn't do that if she wouldn't leave me alone!

"Y/N, you have to let me say something," she tried again, making me roll my eyes. "I want to make this right. Or at least explain!"

I gritted my teeth as I tried to keep up my act of pretending she didn't exist. It was growing increasingly difficult however.

"Y/N–"

"Hey, guys," Kara swooped in out of nowhere, and I looked up, never more glad to see her face than I was now. She glanced between Anna and I before directing her question at me. "Everything okay?"

I caught sight of Anna rolling her eyes in my peripheral, making me squeeze my hands together with annoyance.

"Yes, everything's fine, Danvers," she spoke up, a hint of frustration laced in her voice. "We're just talking. Do you mind?"

Kara pursed her lips in response, merely ignoring Anna's passive aggressiveness and instead looking to me for a response. I gave her a pleading look and she nodded subtly before smiling.

"Y/N, you up for that coffee run yet?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Already locking my computer and grabbing my bag, I nodded and stood up. "Yeah, sounds good."

Anna groaned quietly as I walked around her to stand by Kara. She tried to reach out to me, but I stepped back as if she had the plague and thankfully, Kara stepped between us, staring her down.

I didn't know what she did, but it seemed to work as Anna backed off, letting Kara and I walk away. I breathed out with relief as we headed to the lift, feeling grateful for the blonde's presence.

“Thanks for that," I said when we were in the lift. I looked up to meet her eyes, offering a small smile.

She returned the smile, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Any time."

Kara was a kind person. It was something I'd always known, I mean, we always helped each other out with our articles and she was always interested in what was new with me at work. We were good friends, but since breaking up with Anna, I truly saw how much our friendship meant to her. A lot more than I thought, apparently.

***

A week had passed since I broke up with her and I was trying very hard not to concern myself with why we broke up. If I sat for too long thinking about the fact that I obviously wasn't good enough for her, or that she would have rather strung me along whilst with someone else than break up with me, or how how I was evidently a shitty girlfriend to be faithful to, then I would have broken down. And I didn't want to be one of those girls who cried her heart out because of a break up. I refused to be that girl, be that cliché.

But sometimes clichés are clichés for a reason.

I was signing off on a parcel at the reception on our floor when I felt Kara's presence beside me.

“Hey," she greeted me. "How are things?"

She'd been checking in on me whenever she saw me around the office, and even took me out for lunch and coffee when she could. I knew what she was doing and I appreciated it a lot. She truly was a blessing.

I smiled, looking up at her. She was already staring at me with sparkling blue eyes.

"I'm good, Kara," I assured her. "Especially since you asked me twenty minutes ago when you stopped by my desk."

She pressed her lips together into a sheepish smile as she looked down to her shoes with embarrassment. One of the few reasons left to smile was Kara's silly antics, and I found it amusing that she felt the need to constantly make sure I was okay. It was cute.

"Sorry, I just wanted to make sure," she said, making me chuckle.

"It's cool," I said, accepting my parcel from the receptionist.

I was ready to walk back to my desk, but the sight of Anna and Katy kissing behind Kara caught my attention. I forgot how to breathe for a moment, feeling like the wind had been smacked out of me, as I saw them making out. She'd moved on already, with the girl she'd cheated on me with. Because she'd done that. Cheated on me. She cheated on me.

I noticed a few people in the hall glancing between them and I, evidently picking up on the fact that we were no longer together. It didn't take a genius to know what they were thinking – I was pathetic. I was supposed to move past all of this, but seeing Anna there, absolutely fine... I couldn't take it anymore. I was sick of bottling it up.

Kara glanced behind her, following my gaze, and gasped a little. I felt my throat close up, my cheeks heating up with embarrassment. I felt like an idiot.

"I'm sorry, I've gotta go," I croaked out, neglecting my parcel at the reception desk and backing up.

Kara spun around to me again, her eyes widened with pity. I hated it, knowing she felt bad for me. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I walked away, eventually running to the toilets so I could escape this suffocating situation.

Fresh tears were flowing from my eyes when I reached the toilets. Thankfully, the cubicles were empty and nobody was here to see me look so pathetic. I stopped by the sinks and clutched my stomach, feeling sick.

My hands began to shake and it was as if all the pain from the past week had reached its boiling point and was spilling over. My heart felt like it was crumbling, the image of Anna and Katy kissing playing in my mind over and over. She didn't want me anymore. She stopped wanting me a long time ago.

I looked to the toilet door when I heard it open, glad to see it was just Kara, though I was still embarrassed because of what she was seeing.

She stopped when she saw me, frowning as she took in my appearance. "Oh, Y/N."

I shook my head, one hand still clutching my stomach tightly. "I– I don't understand h– how somebody can do that."

She didn't know what to say, but when she stepped forward, I moved towards her, falling into her embrace. She held me close as I cried into her arms, finally letting it all out. It felt good to stop avoiding my pain. But it hurt a lot. I was convinced my heart would never recover.

Kara simply held me, rubbing circles on my back and telling me it would be okay. I wasn't sure if I believed her, but she had a special talent of making you want to. She was warm and comforting and her voice was soft and inviting. I wanted to believe her.

I wasn't sure how long we stayed like that, but I eventually ran out of tears, leaving only pure embarrassment as I pulled away from Kara. I avoided her eyes as she kept ahold of my hands, squeezing them comfortingly.

"I think I'm gonna take you home, Y/N," she said quietly, and I could feel her eyes piercing through me. "Is that okay?"

I wanted to tell her it was okay to leave me. That I'd be fine and I could get home myself. I didn't need her help. But the truth was, I didn't want her to leave. Not now. I didn't want to be alone.

I nodded and she breathed out a little, keeping ahold of one of my hands as she held me out of the toilets. I kept my eyes glued to the floor as she told me to wait on the side as she went to grab my bag and hers. It didn't take her long to join my side again, grasping my hand in hers.

She ended up taking me back to my flat, coming inside with me and sitting me on the couch. I was surprised that she joined me.

"When you're ready to talk, I'll be here," she said, and I looked up to see her watching me with certainty. "Even if you don't want to talk, I'll be here."

"Thank you, Kara," I said, my voice dry, making me clear my throat.

"Come on, we can watch some TV," she said, moving forward to grab the remote off the coffee table.

She flicked between the channels and eventually settled on Brooklyn Nine-Nine. It played for the next ten minutes or so, but I wasn't listening. I was trapped in my own thoughts, unable to stop thinking about how I ended up here. How I ended up crying over somebody who I once loved. This time last week, we were happy. And now... now I didn't know what to do.

"Y/N," Kara said, pulling me from my thoughts. I looked up and she was frowning, moving forward to wipe away some tears from my face. I didn't even realise I'd been crying again.

"She did something wrong, yet I'm the one suffering," I said quietly, swallowing hard. "How is that fair?" I paused, my fingers fidgeting uncomfortably. "How is it fair that she's making me feel insecure about myself? I feel like... I feel like this is my fault... I know it's not, but... but it feels like it is. She... she cheated on me. It had to have been my fault. Nobody just cheats..."

"You're not to blame, Y/N," Kara said, resting a hand on my fidgeting ones. They stopped. "You did nothing wrong, you hear me? Cheating on somebody is disgusting. There's no justification. She's the one who should feel insecure. It's all her fault and... gosh, one second."

She let go of me and pulled her phone from her pocket, raising it to her ear. "Alex, what's up?" I watched as she seemed tense, turning around slightly. "But you can handle it, right? ...No, I'm with Y/N... I'd prefer not to... You've got this... Okay, thanks. Let me know how it goes later... Bye."

She turned around and pocketed her phone, relaxing into her seat. "Sorry about that."

"You can go if you need to," I said, feeling guilty for keeping her. "It sounded important."

"No, no, it wasn't," she said, waving her hand, before peering at me with sincerity. "I'm here. And I was saying how none of this is your fault. It's hers. She should feel horrible."

"She seems pretty happy with Katy," I pointed out, smiling sadly. "I'm the one crying on the couch."

"Because you actually have feelings unlike some people." Kara shook her head. "This isn't your fault. I can promise you that. I know it's hurts. It will. Because you loved her. But you'll get through it. It won't hurt forever."

"You make it sound easy."

She cracked a small smile. "I know it's not. But you're not alone."

"You've said."

"Well, I mean it."

"I know." I rested my hand on hers and met her eyes. "Thank you for being here. I don't know if it's because you feel obligated to, since you were there when I found out, but–"

"That's not it," she cut me off.

"Well, thank you," I finished, nodding slightly. "You're gonna get sick of my face eventually, but I'll make the most of having you around, Danvers."

"You can't get rid of me that easily, Y/L/N," she joked, leaning forward to pull me in for a side hug. "I'm–"

"Here, I got it."

"Doesn't seem like it."

I couldn't help but smile as I glanced up at the blonde, seeing the amusement dancing in her blue eyes.

"There's that smile I missed," she pointed out, grinning down at me.

I rolled my eyes and faced the TV again, but my smile was still present. I wasn't getting rid of Kara and I wasn't complaining. I didn't want to be alone and she was better company than I could have asked for. God bless Kara Danvers.

#kara danvers x reader #kara danvers imagines #kara danvers imagine #kara danvers #supergirl x reader #supergirl imagine #supergirl

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mydearsaddiary · 4 years

Text

Speakeasy Tonight Neil Season 3 Fanfic- Chapter 8

Author notes: +16, some subjects may be sensitive to some readers. (Violence and harassment)

Hello! Here’s chapter 8! Can’t believe Im almost done with it! I plan on going until chapter 10 or 11, but we are almost done with the Adler saga! Thank you so much for reading until here! Let’s go on until the end! Enjoy!

Candy (08/16/2020)

Chapter 8- Behind the eight ball

There was a tenseness in the air the whole day while I was at the Ice Box. Vince couldn’t seem to be able to quiet down. Cliff dried glasses that were already dry, Neil was on his third bourbon glass, Donovan grunted every now and then as if he wanted to disagree with something. Even Julius and Cleo sounded off key every now and then

Me and Vince going to dinner that night was messing with everybody’s head in different ways. You could feel in your body that it was like walking into the lions’ den, that you’re putting your life on the line. The anticipation never made me feel so alive before, even if I was scared. My heart palpitated inside my chest, reminding me to be ready, attentive and most of all: careful.

Vince was up and running, but I could tell sometimes he felt pain. His tough exterior and his Italian hot-blooded head didn’t permit him to show weakness for long. That was the Mad Dog alright, no one could keep him down more than a night. Some might say Vince is empty headed due to his lack of skills in grammar, math, manners or anything society deems essential to make it big, but they haven’t been in Vince’s shoes. I didn’t know what had happened to his parents although I heard something about a terrible death when he was a kid, but he was always a survivor. On top of it, he had a way of dealing with people much like I did. He was a salesman whenever he opened his mouth, and people were convinced by his words. And in case they weren’t, he carried his fists and his favorite gun “Pearl”. Having him at my side tonight made my fears controlled enough for me to be sure I could make it out alive out of the mayor’s house that night.

In contrast, there was the man I had fallen in love with. If Vince was the tough man that broke, bent and hurt, Neil was there to fix, put together and heal. The steady hands of the Doc were so much different than the vicious, trained fighter that was Vince Moretti. For this reason he had to stay behind. Someone like the mayor wasn’t his job and he knew it. I could also tell it bothered him to an extreme and that he wished he could do more than just sit still and wait. I reckoned it was the same feeling he had in the war

Whenever the riflemen went ahead to fight, as a medic he must’ve always stayed a little further behind, until he heard a cry for him. I must imagine when they came back many were bleeding and most died. He wasn’t in the thick of action but he always had to deal with the consequences, the aftermath. The admiration for him for doing so grew everyday. Not many would have been able to do it, and even for Neil, the darkness of it almost took over completely. So I couldn’t help but feel he was scared of this dinner, because its the action he wouldn’t be able to partake in, but was wondering if either me or Vince wouldn’t come back unscathed.

The only way I knew how to soothe him was to play leader, act confident. So my feet took me to him, and hugged him around his shoulders from behind. Although his focus remained on the bourbon, I could feel the tenseness in his shoulders ease

-Guess who called me this morning, before I came in?- I said and he turned his head to the side- Your mother

-Mother?-This time he turned to me. It was a weird thing hearing that word come out of his mouth. Being estranged from his family for so long... Hearing him mention a parent made him look younger and softer in my eyes. It wasn’t bad, it was just different- What about?

-She said she’s terribly sorry my last visit to Boston didn’t turn out the way it should have and we should come up again for a formal engagement dinner. I’m betting it’ll be incredibly ritzy and she did invite my family, which means Uncle Charlie will be there!

He seemed to ponder over it for a few seconds- And I’m guessing you agreed, so I have no choice but to attend another social gathering. If I knew a wedding involved meeting with so many people so often I would’ve suggested we did it all in secrecy

-Oh, don’t be a wet blanket! You only get married once!

-Thank the heavens for that- He raised his glass and I punched him in the arm, making him spill some of it- Ow! Hey! Fine, I get it. We’ll go.

-Great. It’s this weekend

-Isn’t it too early? With the whole mayor ordeal?

-It’ll be fine, it’s just a weekend. Besides, the wedding planner did say all the invitations finished being sent out yesterday!-I said with a lot more enthusiasm in me than he had in him. I would’ve taken offense otherwise, but it’s Neil. He never really made a big deal out of most things, wedding invitations included

I asked Cliff for a drink and for a while we were just sitting in a comfortable silence, I was about to propose a chess game when the phone rang

-It’s Charlie, MC. He wants to talk to you- Cliff said

I made my way there, thanking him before picking it up- Hey, Unc

-Hey, Kiddo. Been hearing quite a lot about the mayor from over here- He said cheerfully. He sounded healthier, which made me happier about my decision to send him back for a few weeks, even if it turned out being longer than I expected

-Yea, he’s been some trouble, but we’re actually almost done with him- I mentioned the documents and the dinner, catching up on all of the business recently. Then, we spent some time catching up on family and those little things about relatives like Aunt Mabel or cousin Katrina that didn’t really matter much but if was nice to talk about. I mentioned the Boston dinner and I could hear him smiling through the phone, letting me know he’d tell my family

-Listen, MC. It’s time I went back to Chicago.

-We’re almost done, Uncle Charlie. I’ll let you know!

-I know you were worried about my health. I’m glad you sent this old man away for a few weeks. I needed to call you and tell you that even though I set things up for the long term there for you, it’s time I officially retired from the Ice Box and handed over the keys to you

-Uncle...

-I won’t go anywhere, I’ll come in once in a while. It’d give me the chance to take it easy, now that I know the place is in good hands. We’ll still work together at the appliance store- He paused, thinking about his next words- But before I do, I can’t just drop everything on your shoulders. I know the Ice Box has risks and I’ve been in this business way longer than you have. I have plenty to offer before I step down for good. I wanna work on this one last job together.

I didn’t know if his desire was out of pride, or if he was missing his true home and family that he found within the Ice Box. I knew I couldn’t keep Uncle Charlie away for too long, but there was a resolve in his voice that I had to respect

-I could use you here, Unc- That was my answer

He laughed- I thought it’d take more than that to convince you. When we meet in Boston, I’ll come back to Chicago with you and Neil

-Sounds like a plan. I’ll let everyone know.

____

As the afternoon went on with preparations for the dinner I still had one thing on my mind. I needed to tell Neil I was expecting, that much I already knew. But either something seemed to get in the way, or I got too nervous to say anything. Part of me wondered if it was the universe telling me to tell him later. However, I knew that going to this dinner without telling him would betray his trust

At night when the Ice Box opened and people started to fill up the place, I decided it was time to tell him. With less than an hour before I left and everyone doing their jobs I pulled Neil away from the loud music and excited dancing to the back room

-Did you really pull me here for necking?

I laughed kissing him gently- I could have but... No. I actually need to talk to you. Remember I was trying to tell you something last week? I-

-MC, you in there?-I could hear Vince knocking- We have to go

-Oh for Pete’s sake, this isn’t happening tonight- I grabbed both of his arms looking into his eyes- I’m pregnant.

His eyes weren’t wide with surprise, but the shock was visible, more as if he had just realized something rather than just found something out. His brows twisted, trying to read in my face if I was joking or being serious. Something in my eyes must’ve convinced him, because he let out a sigh, and I could tell he was trying to find the words to say.

-MC!-Vince called again

-I have to go, now... We’ll talk about it tonight- I opened the door

-Wait a second...-He turned to follow me and I knew he was going to try to stop me.

Against my better judgement I forced myself to move to move faster- I have to go!-I repeated myself- There’s no other way

-MC!-I heard Neil’s voice but I was already far away. I could hear him following me outside but I stepped in Vince’s car and told him to drive away

I didn’t allow myself to feel heartless. A decision had to be done and it was the hard one. Although I knew within me I made the right choice by telling him before I went, I knew I had to go. I would probably face the consequences of it later, but what mattered is that the Ice Box would be safe, and Neil would still know.

-You alright, there?-Vince asked while driving

-Yes, there’s just too much going on at once- I answered- Once this night is over it’ll be a weight lifted off our shoulders. Are you ready to steal those documents?

-I am. Going to the John upstairs, his office is third door on the left and the documents are all in folders on the bottom drawer of his desk

-You got it. If you have time though, find out if there’s anything anywhere else, There must be some more important papers laying around.

-I got it, doll. You just focus on distracting the mayor

____

The moment Vince parked and the roar of the engine stopped, I swear I could hear both of our hearts struggling to not beat out of rib cages. Vince was in his fanciest suit, I was in my ritziest evening dress. He got out and in a respectable manner opened the door and offered his hand to me.

On the gate there were two mean-looking goons, keeping the mayor’s palace safe. We said who we were and easier than I imagined, we were allowed the entrance to the grand house that scared me but pulled me in just as much

When we stepped foot in the immense living room, the main door was closed behind us. The noise it made when it shut echoed throughout the room, as if it reminded us that we were outsiders, peasants and minuscule in the presence of the king, the mayor, who we could see ahead of us in the dining room. The table was set and the gigantic chandelier fell right above it like the sun of his world

-Welcome, Vince... Miss Granger. Sit down-He motioned to two chairs in front of his.

Our slow and steady steps took us to the dinner. Each step made my heart beat faster. Me and Vince hadn’t said anything since we stepped foot in the house, but we must’ve been making a pretty good job out of remaining stone-faced, because the mayor kept smiling unknowing of our plans to betray him in his own house. Vince had made a good job of saving his life. He admired him and now, he trusted him

We ended up sitting opposite to him, and the silence was almost unbearable. Adler’s eyes watched the both of us for a few seconds before he started talking- Don’t be shy. It doesn’t fit the personality of the Mad Dog or the Ice Box flapper... Oh!- He paused as if he had realized something- Don’t tell me you’re intimidated!- He looked at me- Let bygones be bygones, Miss Granger. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but... We’re all working to our mutual benefit now.

I breathed deeply, calming my nerves- That’s right. What matters for me is that the Ice Box is safe. As long as that’s the case, everything’s the cat’s pajamas

I looked at the food in front of me, inside I wondered if it was poisoned, or if he was the one fooling us. But with Vince not being the sharpest tool in the box, he dug right in, eating everything in front of him. He didn’t die or started getting sick so I safely assumed I could too

Once the anticipation of the dinner ended, the whole event was actually pretty boring with the mayor talking on and on. It reminded of dinners with Momma’s friends on Sundays. Suddenly, I was a little girl again and I couldn’t wait for it all to be over. This time, however, I knew more things were at stake. As we finished dessert a signaled to Vince discreetly with my eyes

-‘Scuse me, Adler. This was all fine and well and I’ll be right back- He started getting up- I need to go to the john. Where is it?

-Closest one is upstairs, first door on the left- He pointed up. He agreed and was on his way to, instead, steal all the documents we needed. The tick of the clock seemed to slow down, as if it was letting me know this was a very important moment, one that I would never forget

-You’re looking lovely tonight, Miss Granger- Adler said. It was his turn to get up, only to walk around the table and occupy Vince’s spot by my side. The gesture made my skin tingle, as if millions of ants crawled on it. I wanted to run, to scream and escape. However, if I could keep the mayor talking it’d be the chance we needed to end him for good

-Thanks, Adler. I see you didn’t give up on your advances towards me. Even though you know I’m a taken woman, engaged in fact.

-Oh, I know that- He touched my hair. Why was I shivering? Was I not able to control my fear? Why did his dark eyes scare me so much? I impulsively backed off, looking into his eyes seemingly brave- But- He continued either way- I know that women like you, Miss Granger, don’t consider themselves a lady, and I’ve no doubt that you’d hate to be treated like a porcelain doll, a gentlewoman- His face approached me- No... No...-He whispered- You’re different, MC. You’re fierce, you’re the leader of a group of gangsters. You got dangerous men tied on a leash.

-The Ice Box is but a small operation, there are much bigger competito-

-You’re right- He interrupted- But none of them faces the odds of society, of judgement and underestimation. No, you are an incredible woman. Any man would be lucky to call you his wife- He grabbed my jaw making me look at him. I was trying my hardest not to show any fear, but it was hard- And one thing you should know about me is that I hate when somebody claims a treasure before I do. Lucky for me, you are not married, just engaged.

-Mayor Adler- I tried to pull his hands away, but he was bigger and stronger- This wasn’t what we agreed on

-Here’s my new proposition!-He sad grabbing my jaw tighter, making me yelp- Together we should have control of the entire Chicago’s underworld. You’ll be first lady, my wife! And I’ll give you the keys to be the most powerful and biggest operation Chicago, no, the United States has ever seen. Imagine how much power you would give me. Imagine it, the First Lady of Chicago. You’d have your own empire!- His other free hand pushed my dress up my thighs, I could see the disgusting lust he had in his eyes

A force came upon me, I didn’t know where I found the strength, but I punched him on his nose, making him back away from me. I got up, pulling my gun off my leg holster and pointing it at him- Don’t you dare touch me again. I’ll never belong to a man like you.

It gave me satisfaction to see his nose bleed. But it died quickly when he laughed- Take her.

Before I realized two big men grabbed me from behind overpowering me. My screams must’ve been loud enough because I could hear steps coming towards us, and soon Vince had his gun to the mayor- Let her go!

-Vince, watch out!- I said as another one of his goons fired a shot, which hit Vince’s side. He groaned and collapsed on the floor.

Everything was slow once again. The red forming on his side, the blood gushing from his wound onto the floor. The sound of his beloved gun pearl crashing against the tiles. The sound of his body hitting the ground. The way all the documents we needed spread from inside his suit all over the floor, painting a white that contrasted the deep red around my friend. My uncle’s adopted son.

-You were planning to deceive me all along!-Adler said in rage as he saw the papers. Betrayal showed in his eyes towards Vince

-Don’t you ever dare to threaten my family again- Vince said in a quiet, hurt voice- Way to get your skull cracked

-You know what I do to those who betray me? I make them suffer- He approached Vince’s body on the floor. I sentence you to death.

-Wait! No! I’ll do it!- I yelled, but it was too late.

The two men holding me started to take me away until the whole scene was out of my vision. All I heard was a single shot

-Vince!- I yelled, to no avail

____

The next thing I remember was being taken down these dark stairs and thrown into some sort of basement. The two goons climbed back up and locked the door.

I took some time to weep. For my friend, for the fact that we failed, and for the reason that I didn’t know what I would do know.

Once I calmed down, I looked around. The basement was old fashioned, mostly grey. It was poorly lit and there was no sign of anywhere sunlight could come in. For a basement it was pretty spacious. It had a bathroom with a shower, two old mattresses on the floor, a bookshelf that was almost empty, some spider webs and a table.

I went up the stairs to try to open the door to find out it was truly locked. I climbed back down, defeated, and positioned myself on one of the mattresses, unsure of what to do next.

-I can’t believe he’s gonna keep me prisoner here...

-You best believe it. He will. And there’s no way out. Now what did little Miss Granger do to put herself into this situation?- A deep familiar female voice echoed throughout the room. From the darkness the once elegant figure emerged. The one who once was the main source of my troubles

-Vera...-I said looking up. She looked nothing like the glory she once was. Her dirty clothes and messy longer hair indicated that she was in there for too long of a time. It didn’t take me long to put two and two together and realize she had been there since she disappeared

-Well, this is a pleasant surprise. And so we reunite- She sat on the other mattress

-So you didn’t shoot the mayor and ran away from Chicago...

She snorted- You believed that story?

I shook my head- No, I just wouldn’t put it past you

-Nice of you to start with the unpleasantness, MC. Will make our time as roommates much more agreeable- She laid down- Now I’d like to get some sleep.

-Vera, how are you okay with this?!-I got up- We have to escape! He can’t do that

-I tried. There’s no way- She replied calmly, too calmly- I don’t care about any of it anymore. Politics, mayor, Chicago. It can all go to hell.

I observed the woman for a few seconds. The woman I knew would never even say “hell” before. I don’t know if I hated her more or was starting to actually like her

-Well, I ain’t staying here- I said going up to the door again.

I pushed my body against it. Pulled it with all my might, tried throwing stuff against it and everything I could. But it was useless. I was tired and I was getting nauseous. Defeated I walked back to where I was

-Finally giving up?-Vera asked

I didn’t bother answering- Just... Exactly how long have you been here?

She thought about it for a second- Must be... A few weeks now- She shrugged- I stopped counting, makes you go insane.

-He’s the only one who’s insane- I replied- I ain’t staying here!- I repeated myself, trying to give my confidence a boost. I tried to get up again but felt a pain. My hand instinctively went to my stomach, caressing it

She eyed me curiously. Then with amusement, which quickly turned into surprise-MC, you’re pregnant.

-Thanks for letting me know.-I responded sarcastically. Man, I was spending too much time with Neil.

Oh, man, Neil... I rubbed my eyes thinking about how much he must be going bonkers right now. Guilt overcame my body. He knew being the head of a gang meant I was always putting myself in danger. However, he didn’t sign up to be told he was going to be a father, and then have the gal completely disappear and have herself kidnapped. I was being so selfish. Especially after everything Neil had been through I just had to know something

-Is Adler gonna bump us off?

Vera stared at me- No... No- She shook her head- Adler only kills when he’s being merciful. Those he really hates, people like us, he likes to see them suffer.

-Sounds like the cat’s pajamas- I said unenthusiastically

-Don’t let him know you’re pregnant, MC. Don’t let him know- She said before turning away, falling asleep rather quickly for someone who was in her position.

I made a promise to come back home. To be safe. How many times had I said “I’ll be fine”.

Sometimes you just have to realize how young and stupid you really are.

____

Author’s note: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! A sneak peak on what’s coming next:

MC and Vera are stuck in Adler’s basement with no hope of rescue or a way to escape. However, that won’t make the Ice Box Flapper give up.

“I have yet to find a lock I couldn’t open”

Thank you so much! Please reach out if you need anything!!!

Coming next: Chapter 9- First, do no harm

#voltage usa #speakeasy tonight #voltage amemix #voltage inc #voltage #voltage games #lovestruck #lovestruck voltage #neil dresner #vince moretti #1920s fanfic #voltage men #lovestruck usa #lovestruck game

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thunder-the-ranger-wolf · 4 years

Text

Possible Snippet from Had Enough: The Dreamsight Remix

Summary, the tag to follow

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Their nephew would tell you otherwise. Normal people didn’t wake up in a just-big-enough space that he could barely turn around in as he got older. Lately, it felt like he couldn’t even fit in the cupboard. Perhaps it only worked because he was so skinny.

He knew for a fact that Dudley would never fit in this small space. Not only would the bigger boy struggle to get himself in, but he’d also be claustrophobic in under a minute! According to the librarian, it meant that someone was scared of small spaces. Harry couldn’t quite afford to be scared of small spaces since he spent most of his time in a cupboard, but he could imagine that Dudley, Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon wouldn’t last here.

It was early in the morning after a day of cleaning to get ready for Dudley’s birth-week. Two weeks in advance. Aunt Petunia had never really done this before, so it was safe to say that Harry was stunned by the turn of events. Cleaning was never doled out as a punishment, it was just something he had to do because the Dursleys sure wouldn’t.

Now cooking was definitely a punishment. Especially since he often wasn’t allowed to eat what he made for the Dursleys. If he wanted food, he would have to stand at the stove hours before the main meal was to be prepared and it was nowhere near as good as anything he made for the Dursleys. They insisted on that.

It was early in the morning after a day of cleaning and Harry. Could. Not. Sleep. He was sore and his head hurt and the fumes from the cleaning products had followed him into the cupboard, making him feel extremely nauseous. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but he hadn’t been able to sleep that well before tonight either. You see, he’d been having strange dreams over the past month now about people who could do amazing things. Fly, make things move, make things appear out of thin air, or bring something to them… in one set of dreams, he could talk to snakes. In another, an adult crumbled to dust at his mere touch.

The whole thing was right out of a fairytale and it happened at a place called named after a pig with acne! So between the strange dreams and being sore after cleaning, it was safe to say he wouldn’t be doing much sleeping. He tossed and turned but couldn’t find any position to lessen the aches or his headache or the smell. So he quietly pushed open the door to the cupboard. Thankfully, Aunt Petunia only locked it when he was in trouble. So he was able to creep out forward and head for the door.

He passed the kitchen, still sparkling clean because no one had been in it since he left a few hours ago. The wooden table and chairs tucked in the corner had been a struggle to move. Thankfully, he didn’t have to sweep behind the refrigerator on the opposite wall. Harry opened the front door, thankful that the Dursleys had no dog like Aunt Marge did that would wake everyone up at the slightest movement. He locked the bottom lock and walked out of the house.

It was summer, hot in a way that was average for Little Whinging and muggy at that. Harry stood in the center of the sidewalk for a few moments, taking in the surreality of being out this late. Alone with only the calm night to prove that he wasn’t supposed to be outside.

Eventually, he figured he should find somewhere else to be. No one was really out at this time of night but the Dursleys could have heard the door open and come to investigate. Harry chose to turn left and started jogging. There was a crosswalk not long after that and he chose to go straight. It was better than turning since it gave him less of a chance to circle the block.

Going straight turned out to be the better option, so Harry kept going until houses turned into buildings. The library was a few blocks away from the Dursleys. Closed, of course, for this time of night.

Something told him that standing out in the open wasn’t the best idea, even if no one was around. He listened to his instincts and jogged past the library.

He kept going until he found an all-hours store. Aldi’s was nearby, though the Dursleys preferred more upscale places. There had to be a bench or something around here… when he had no luck, he went into the store. Maybe if he looked pitiful enough, someone would get him something.

Or he could find some work to do. Everyone needed someone to clean and he was pretty good at that. Some words were painted on the wall to his right when he walked in. No one was bagging their groceries but the entrance and the exit were the same doors, so it made sense for the counter and the sign to be there:

THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING AT ALDI'S IN LITTLE WHINGING!

The sign proclaimed in navy blue block letters.

Harry looked around for a bit but no one was really there. He figured the staff must have their own place and wouldn’t really notice of he sat by the chips for a maybe a minute or two.

“Hey!” Someone called, immediately proving him wrong. “I know you, you’re the Dursley boy.”

Harry turned, confused, to find one of the neighbors with a trolley full of groceries.

“What are you doing out at this time of night?” The older man asked.

“Hello, Mr. Jacobs. Couldn’t sleep.”

“And I bet your aunt and uncle don’t know you’re out here… or care, really. Feel like doing Melanie’s gardening tomorrow?”

Melanie Baker lived across the street from the Jacobs family. Mr. Jacobs’ son was the one to stop all games of Harry Hunting that Dudley and his gang tried to play.

“I’ll have to see, sir. I did some cleaning earlier so I might not be in the best shape for gardening tomorrow.” Harry admitted, hoping it wouldn’t backfire.

“Yeah, I saw your limping when you came in here. Go pick out a few things you like and add them to the trolley, you must be half-starved.”

“The clothes are pretty big, Mr. Jacobs.” Harry offered defensively. He wasn’t that small.

“I’m sure they are, and that’s not exactly a point in Vernon’s favor.” Mr. Jacobs scoffed. “Go on, then. Two snacks and a drink, maybe.”

Harry nodded his thanks and bolted through the aisles. He had to choose carefully because the longer he was outside the more he realized that he wouldn’t be able to go back in. He settled for a large bag of crisps, a cola the size of his hand, and a chewy the length of his forearm. Mr. Jacobs took them with a knowing smile and rang them up with no problem.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Anytime, kid… I’d take you home, but I’ve got to head into work. Bill is going to get the groceries if you want to stay with him.”

Harry wasn’t sure he could stay in a house. Especially not one still on Privet Drive, where Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would know he’d gone.

“Maybe later, if that’s still alright with you.”

“Sure, sure,” Mr. Jacobs offered easily. Tell you what, if you take all this from the trolley to my boot, I’ll give you ten pounds.”

Harry jumped at the chance. He might be able to come back to the store later and get something for himself! Besides, loading the groceries was no hard task and the smell of cleaner was gone from his clothes. He had less of s headache now and it was easier to lift things into the boot and make sure nothing got squished. Like eggs or bread.

Mr. Jacobs commented on a job well done and gave Harry the money, which Harry immediately slipped into his shoe. Mr. Jacobs was off with one last meaningful look at Harry. He scampered through the cark park with his new fare. Someone’s radio was loud enough to hear the news:

“Good morning, Surrey! It’s a beautiful morning in Little Whinging and despite the hour, it is hot hot hot!”

The man went on to say that it was almost seven so Harry figured he better start looking for someplace to sit. Maybe the park nearby, at least until he could figure some things out when places started opening.

He found the park he was looking for and scarfed down his food. The crisps were half full by the time he was full and the chewy half gone. The cola was untouched so far. Even as the sun rose, nobody passed him. He stretched briefly and kicked out his legs, glad to feel warmth returning to them. The only way out of Privet Drive, let alone Little Whinging, would be to follow a car and hope for the best. People were starting to pull from their driveways, so while it seemed like Mr. Jacobs had an early start, he could just be trying to beat traffic.

Someone called out to Harry and he froze. He’d gotten lucky with Mr. Jacobs leaving him to his own devices, but not everyone would. He knew for a fact that going back to the Dursleys meant never seeing the outside of his cupboard for the rest of his life.

“Morning, kiddo, it’s Mrs. Alfers from Number Ten. I haven’t seen you out this early in a while,” A woman with brown hair and blue eyes wore a sympathetic smile. She leaned out of a powder blue mom-car. It was a small two-door, four-seater with very little trunk space.

“... then again, it is Dudley's birthday so I guess the Dursleys would want you out early… do you want to come with him to work today?”

He jumped at the chance. There was no reason not to.

“Every other time I've offered to take you off their hands for a day they've always got some excuse, but my son has seen how Dudley treats you. It's not right.” Mrs. Alfers insisted as he opened the door.

“Buckle in.” She reminded him before taking off down the road. This he could handle.

“What do you do?” Harry asked quietly. It had been a few minutes since they left the rows of houses so he figured it was safe to talk.

“I'm a secretary in London.” Mrs. Alfers informed him. “I take notes and answer phone calls. My husband is a salesman at Grunnings.”

Uncle Vernon works there, Harry recalled.

London could work. If Mrs. Alfers didn't take him back then he could just stay there. Find some way to get a job.

It’s not like Harry could stay at Privet Drive forever. Not if he wanted to get to the bottom of the strange dreams he’d been having.

▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂

The guard at the door was cheerful enough and saw no problem when Mrs. Alfers declared that Harry was her nephew. He could only assume that her brother or sister was alright with this. There was no point in protesting. He was given a visitor's badge after walking through the metal detector. He didn’t have much contact with Mrs. Alfers, so why would he know where she worked?

He spent a fair amount of time listening to Mrs. Alfers clack away at a keyboard. The motion of her fingers and the resulting taps were foreign to him. It was annoying when Dudley smashed away at his games with big meaty fists but this was… gentler somehow.

They broke for lunch after hours of writing on both their parts. Harry didn't ask and Mrs. Alfers didn't say what she was working on. Likely couldn't. London was foreign to Harry, so he stuck close to Mrs. Alfers, tracking her every move as best he could. Things got awkward when they hurried out the door to a McDonald's not too far from where she worked.

She ordered two fish and chips and bottled waters. It felt off to be at a McDonald's when it was a place Dudley always bragged about. Like he didn’t belong there. They munched on their fare in-store and went back to the office.

“Alright, Harry?” Mrs. Alfers asked, peering at him with concerned blue eyes.

“Fine, thank you.” He murmured quietly.

The rest of the day passed in a similar flurry of clacking, and by the time Mrs. Alfers was ready to leave, Harry had filled an abandoned notebook with musings of what his dreams could mean. There was a green light and people were flying and waving sticks… He didn't know what to do from there. If he went back to Privet Drive the Dursleys would lock him in the cupboard and forget about him. If they even noticed he was gone. But he didn't know anything about London. He wouldn’t last long here either..

“I can't go back with you.” Harry found himself saying. “I didn't think this through. I couldn’t sleep so I figured I could go for a walk but… if I go back they won't let me see the outside of the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Well, now, that's a rather harsh punishment. But I definitely can't leave you here on your own. Are you sure they won't take you back without harm?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you'll be coming home with me.”

“But they'll know-.”

“Who will tell them?” Mrs. Alfers prompted cheerfully. “Certainly not me. With a bit more meat on your bones, some new clothes, perhaps a switch to contact lenses or maybe just a different pair of glasses, you'd be a whole new person. Jamie always wanted a little brother.”

“And if they try taking me back?”

“Well, Harry… I'm not sure they would. They're obviously not taking very good care of you. You deserve far better than what they're offering. If they truly do want you back then Jamie will have some excuse to come and see you every day.”

“I… okay. I'll go back with you.”

“Perhaps if you sit in the back this time you'll get some rest, take your mind off things.”

Harry did so, and the drive passed by in a blur.

#harry potter #had enough: the dreamsight remix #hp fanfic

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goodticklebrain · 5 years

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Q&A August: Kate Powers of the Redeeming Time Project

Q&A August continues! I first met Kate Powers at the opening reception of the 2016 Shakespeare Theatre Association conference. It was my very first STA conference and I was, needless to say, SUPER NERVOUS about suddenly being in a huge room with hundreds of top-notch Shakespeare experts, artists, administrators, and educators. I felt very much like an impostor and interloper: after all, I was just drawing these stupid little comics, while these people were making Shakespeare come to life, and were changing lives in the process.

I had heard of Kate’s phenomenal work with Rehabilitation Through the Arts at Sing Sing Correctional Facility, so I was already suitably intimidated when I was first introduced to her. However, she took one look at my name tag, said “Oh my god, you’re HER”, and then seized me by the arm and proceeded to lead me around the reception, introducing me to all manner of Shakespearean theatre luminaries and instantly incorporating me into the STA community. And that’s pretty much Kate in a nutshell for you: welcoming and supportive, absurdly generous with her time and energy, and never hesitating to help lift people up in any way she can. Over the past several years she has become a wonderful resource, correspondent, and friend, and I’m so excited to share her with you now.

Take it away, Kate!

1. Who are you? Why Shakespeare?

I am a director, a text nerd, a prison theatre maker. I saw my first production of Shakespeare before anyone had a chance to tell me that this was going to be good for me, or that these people talk funny. I was eight. The play was in a park downtown; we had a picnic and a can of mosquito spray standing by as we watched Petruchio arrive (on a motorcycle, wearing leopard-print hot pants, as it happened) to wed Katharine. I am sure that I missed a lot, but I had a great time.

After a student matinee of my production of Measure for Measure at the Kansas City Rep in 2005, a girl asked at the post-show discussion, with great urgency, if Isabel was going to marry the Duke. When I directed The Winter’s Tale at American Shakespeare Center, I spoke to a lady in the audience who was seeing her first-ever Shakespeare play. She asked me if I had updated the language or if someone else had done it for me. She was stunned when I told her that we had not changed a word. “It’s crystal clear,” she exclaimed. I am all about smashing up the cultural church of Shakespeare and starting the Shakespeare block party.

2. What moment(s) in Shakespeare always make you laugh?

It’s cheap, but it is textually supported cheap. I laugh every time an actor playing Malvolio reads the letter, “If this fall into thy hand, revolve,” takes a beat, contemplates, and then turns in a circle. It’s not actually what the letter writer means (it means “consider,” essentially), but it doesn’t matter. I think you have written a strip about revolving Malvolios, (Mya interjects: I have!) and I would like someone to start a band called the Revolving Malvolios.

3. What's a favorite Shakespearean performance anecdote?

I would probably have to go with Squirrel Butt Romeo.

Mya interjects: Kate is, of course, referring to the immortal anecdote that led to the creation of this comic:

4. What's one of the more unusual Shakespearean interpretations you've either seen or would like to see?

I saw a Czech language production of Hamlet while I was in grad. school. The host at my B&B in Prague strongly discouraged me from going. I think he thought I would be upset when it wasn’t in English. I told him it was okay, that I was fairly familiar with the story. They cast Claudio much younger than I had previously seen. The late king’s much younger brother. He read like an older brother to Hamlet in some ways, and also, he was HOT. I suddenly understood “The king doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, / Keeps wassail and the swaggering upspring reels,” much more clearly, and I also could see the appeal, the sexy appeal, the temptation, the need to believe, for Gertrude.

The interpretation that I have seen far too often is the leather-clad Hamlet wielding an AK-47. Just. Don’t.

Mya interjects: OK, I have definitely seen leather-clad Hamlets, but Hamlet wielding an AK-47? What is that??

5. What passages from Shakespeare have stayed with you?

“It is required you do awake your faith” and “Let be” are perpetually in the front of my consciousness.

Mya interjects: I totally forgot about “Let be”. Is there a more powerful two-word quote in all of Shakespeare?

Right now I hear Sir Thomas More’s “mountainish inhumanity” speech to the rioting mob loudly and insistently:

“Grant them removed, and grant that this your noise Hath chid down all the majesty of England; Imagine that you see the wretched strangers, Their babies at their backs and their poor luggage, Plodding to th’ports and coasts for transportation, And that you sit as kings in your desires, Authority quite silent by your brawl, And you in ruff of your opinions clothed; What had you got? I’ll tell you. You had taught How insolence and strong hand should prevail, How order should be quelled; and by this pattern Not one of you should live an aged man, For other ruffians, as their fancies wrought, With self same hand, self reasons, and self right, Would shark on you, and men like ravenous fishes Would feed on one another.”

6. What Shakespeare plays have changed for you?

Which ones haven’t?

7. What Shakespearean character or characters do you identify the most with?

I pretty much am Beatrice, with a dash of Paulina. Very smart, very punny, often wielding my words as a weapon, tenacious, determined, protective of those around me, and also afraid of getting hurt, yet determined to speak, to name injustice when I see it. “I care not. It is an heretic that makes the fire.”

8. Where can we find out more about you? Are there any projects/events you would like us to check out?

I am the founder of the Redeeming Time Project. Our name comes from Hal’s speech in I Henry IV, “I’ll so offend to make offense a skill / Redeeming time when men think least I will.” We make theatre with men incarcerated in two Minnesota state prisons. I started doing this work over a decade ago with Rehabilitation Through the Arts in New York state. We believe human beings are born inherently good, and we teach critical life skills (such as empathy, critical thinking, communication skills, teamwork, conflict resolution, goal setting, delayed gratification) through making theatre together. At Sing Sing Correctional Facility in 2016, while we were rehearsing Twelfth Night, one of the men said, “Shakespeare gave me words for emotions I didn’t know I had.”

The act of imagination required to play a character can become the spark of compassion that leads to empathy. One can learn empathy through the effort of performing a play, because one must ask, “What is it like to be this character? What is it like to walk in his shoes?” Through rehearsal room disagreements about the interpretation of a scene, or a line, one can learn to tolerate not just different points of view but also ambiguity itself. This newly acquired tolerance and wider understanding of human behavior helps cultivate patience and perspective.

Shakespeare teaches us what it means to be human, in all the nobility as well as all the depravity that it can entail. Again and again, he asks us, “What does it mean to be alive? How should we act? Who am I? What do I love?” Redeeming Time makes Shakespeare accessible to all, restores a voice to the silenced and voiceless, and explores the full complexity of the human condition.

Incarcerated individuals who study and perform Shakespeare challenge. They develop a passion for learning. They explore the full complexity of humanity through Shakespeare, reassessing their past and current choices, as well as their future options, as they do so. Although RTP will work with material written by other playwrights and authors, Shakespeare will always be the firm ground on which we stand.

(Back to Mya) Thanks so much to Kate for taking the time to answer my questions. You can find out more about Kate and her excellent work here:

plainKate.com

The Redeeming Time Project

@_plainkate_ on Twitter

Plus, you can hear Kate on several episodes of the Reduced Shakespeare Company Podcast:

Episode 346: Theatre in Prison

Episode 398: ‘Salesman’ Behind Bars

Episode 498: Year of Shakespeare

Episode 532: Shakespeare and Trump (also featuring yours truly)

Episode 580: Redeeming Time Project

COMING THURSDAY: A fellow Michigander who just happens to be one of my personal Shakespearean superheroes!

#Q&A August #shakespeare

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serenlyss · 5 years

Text

Reach

(Alternatively titled: Reach (for things you thought were gone forever))

Rating: G Pairings: ritshou, very small background terumob Summary: “Are you an angel?” Shou croaks, suddenly very sure that he must be dying, because this boy is so different from the rumors he’s heard from the people in his village that there’s no way he can be a harpy. He finds himself smiling despite the realization that his death is soon approaching, and murmurs, “You’re beautiful. If this is what dying is, I don’t think I’d mind going with you.” As it would turn out, not all fairy tales are born from imagination. Crossposted to AO3: Reach

Oh my gosh it's finally done. This AU was born from a half-baked desire to write a wings au with ritshou and I've been feverishly writing it for like 5 days now. I'm really excited to share it and super proud of how it turned out, so I hope you all enjoy it too! I had a lot of fun writing in a more poetic, descriptive style. Depending on how the inspiration hits I may write more of this au in the future as well, and make it into a little series. For now though, have this 12k+ word monstrosity.

---

Shou’s starting to regret not telling anyone where he’d planned on going.

His thoughts had started out innocently enough. The rumors of mythical creatures and terrifying monsters that lurked in the thick woods near his little village had always intrigued him, drawing his attention to the shadowy woods he’d been reminded from the time he could walk to never wander into.

Some of the stories are very obviously untrue, like the one that claims that a fearsome dragon sleeps within the shade of the forest’s tallest trees, guarding mountains of gold. They’re the kinds of fables meant to scare people from wandering off too far, but everyone is aware that dragons don’t exist. Even if they did exist, Shou doubts one would choose to live in a place as boring and uninteresting as this.

The other tales are slightly more believable to Shou. They’re stories that had probably sprung from a person’s real memories, stories spun with bravado and just a little extra embellishment each time they’d been told until they’d evolved into fairy tales in their own right. These are the ones that speak of monsters lurking beneath fishing boats, waiting to snap up any poor soul who happens to tumble from the safety of their ship, of human-faced animals that draw you in with sweet words only to lure you to your own inevitable death. Terrifying and malevolent creatures whose only interest in a person is to tear them apart.

Of all his people’s myths and fables, there’s only one that manages to pique Shou’s interest enough to draw him away from the safety of his town. These are the stories about the harpies, a horrifying combination of bird and man, a creature with the talons of an eagle and the face of a woman that could never be satisfied, always ravenous, searching endlessly for its next meal. They’re said to be terrifying, bloodthirsty, beautiful creatures, and Shou can’t help but want to meet one in person.

He knows, rationally, that he’s as good as dead if the rumors are true, but it’s not like he has anything more to go off of, or anything better to do. He’s terribly bored of his uninteresting, lonesome daily life, where the only exciting thing to come to his front door is the salesman trying ceaselessly to sell him things he doesn’t need. So, one day he packs up a bag with his sketchbook and some art supplies and a snack in case he gets hungry and sets off into the woods without a word. He knows that if he tells his neighbors where he’s going, they’ll try to stop him, and that sounds like more of a pain than Shou’s willing to put up with, so he doesn’t tell them. It’s not like he’ll be gone for long, anyway.

---

As it turns out, Shou is very, very wrong about the length of time it’ll take to reach the thicker center of the forest, and even more wrong about being confident in his ability to read his map. By the time he’s a few hours into his walk, he can’t tell what direction he’s moving in anymore, and he’s turned the map over half a dozen times trying to reorient himself. Eventually, he gives up and crumples the map into a ball, shoving it into the pocket of his backpack in frustration. Way to go, idiot, he scolds himself, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants as he continues to trudge ever forward, you’ve screwed yourself. This stupid forest is impossible to navigate, and now you’ve gone and gotten yourself lost.

The forest is like a maze, trees so close together that it’s impossible for Shou to see more than a few hundred feet in front of him at any time. It’s huge, too; Shou swears he’s been walking in a straight line since he entered the forest hours ago, but he still hasn’t reached the other side. His feet are starting to ache from the uneven terrain beneath his shoes and his neck is slick from sweat that beads from a combination of the hot, humid weather that accompanies the transition from summer to fall and the fact that he hasn’t stopped walking since he first stepped foot in the woods. He hasn’t even brought any water with him, certain that he’d be in and out in a few hours at most.

Shou walks and walks and doesn’t let himself stop to rest, too worried that if he stops he’ll forget what direction to walk in and never find the edge of the forest. It isn’t until the sun has fallen behind the horizon and the trees in front of him are almost too deep in the shadows to make out that he finally stops to sleep, curled up in the thick grass and undergrowth with his jacket wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

After five days of waking, walking, unfolding his crumpled map and futilely attempting to find his way back to his village, the lack of food and water is really starting to get to him. He hasn’t come across anything salvageable, not even a forest stream he could drink from to stave off the dehydration that makes his limbs feel heavy and his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. His skin shimmers in an ever-present layer of sweat as the liquid slowly seeps from his pores, and he’s powerless to do anything about it. Even though the sun doesn’t touch him very often through the trees, the humidity and heat grips him strongly, their fingers digging in and wringing every last drop of water from his body until he starts to feel the telltale dizziness and nausea shutting him down from the inside out. His brain turns to fog and his legs to jelly, but still he walks, knowing that the moment he stops is the moment he gives up on living.

In the end, it’s a gangly tree root that does him in. It catches him around his toes and makes him lose his footing, and he lets out a hoarse yelp as he’s thrown swiftly and certainly to the ground. He hits it shoulder first, arms not quick enough to catch him on his hands, and the shock of it sends cramps up his arm and down his back. He winces, sure that it’ll leave a terrible bruise.

He attempts to push himself to his feet, to continue his endless walking, but his legs won’t listen to him anymore. His arms can hardly support the weight of his torso, and after a few fruitless seconds he lets himself flop uselessly onto his back. The sun is setting, spots of white appearing against dark blue as the last rays of daylight throw long shadows across the forest floor and plunge his surroundings into a thick and unyielding darkness.

He blinks slowly, eyes falling shut for a few seconds before he forces them open again. His limbs are heavy, not an ounce of energy left over to lift them with, and as he stares up at the open sky above him he finds himself unable to make out the stars anymore, vision too fuzzy to separate the white from black. He lets out a shaky breath, feeling the weak breeze stir the hair that arches away from his face. Why did I come here? he wonders to himself, regret creeping under his skin and settling there. This was so stupid… He feels a tears leak out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his face and disappearing into the creases of his ear. He hadn’t thought he’d have any water left in his body to cry with, and yet here he is. He can’t even reach up to wipe the trail of wetness away.

Behind his head, he hears the sound of tall grass rustling under soft, light footfalls. He doesn’t even try to turn to see what animal has stumbled upon him, eyes half-lidded. He knows he’s as good as dead, and whatever scavenger has happened upon him must know it, too. By morning, he'll be long gone, and the animals will pick him to pieces until there are only bones remaining. Maybe one day, he muses to himself in a delirious haze, some scientist will finally make it out here and find my skeleton. They’ll say I was killed by the harpies, and make up stories about a fantastic battle I must have been in… I’ll become the story they tell their kids to scare them away from the forest. The thought brings a bittersweet smile to his face, a brief flash of humor that quickly dies as the feather-light footsteps draw closer.

He listens as the creature approaches him, crushing grass and dry leaves underfoot, until it pauses right behind his head. Its form casts a shadow over him, and through his hazy vision he sees it bend down to look at him. He furrows his brow, fighting to focus his blurry eyes enough to make out the thing that most certainly will be eating him once he finally kicks the bucket, and finds that it’s not an animal at all.

The creature lowers itself to its knees, half-crouched over Shou’s head. Two hands reach out and brush against his cheeks, soft and incredibly careful, but the touch is not quite human. Through his eyelashes, Shou can make out slim shoulders and a slender neck that leads to a head that is distinctly human-shaped, and he can see the shock of black hair that falls into the creature’s face and frames shining eyes with its long strands. Shou’s eyes open wider, a gasp of awe caught in his throat. Two sprawling, shimmering wings curl around the creature and shield Shou’s upper body from the outside, falling over him like a dome and blocking out what little light the half-set sun provides. Hundreds of pitch-black feathers hover over him now, like the ones from the crows he sees outside his modest house, picking at the neighbor’s garden. Something about this creature’s wings is ethereal, however, the kind of vision that can only be conceived in lucid dreams and supernatural visions. His expression swims into focus gradually, revealing an impassive, boyish face framed with those same dark feathers. There’s something melancholic about his expression, a wistful, empathetic look in his eye that makes Shou’s failing heart skip a beat in his chest.

“Are you an angel?” he croaks, suddenly very sure that he must be dying, because this boy is so different from the rumors he’s heard from the people in his village that there’s no way he can be a harpy. He finds himself smiling despite the realization that his death is soon approaching, and murmurs, “You’re beautiful. If this is what dying is, I don’t think I’d mind going with you.”

The boy doesn’t react to Shou’s words. He doesn’t even know if this mystical, ominous, alluring creature can understand his language, though he likes to believe the near-imperceptible lift of his eyebrows is an indication that maybe he can after all. If he does, he makes no effort to respond, simply slides his hands along Shou’s cheeks to gently cup his face between them. He leans over Shou’s unmoving form until his face is mere inches away, his warm breath ghosting over Shou’s skin. Shou wrinkles his nose instinctively against it, feels feathers tickling the bare skin of his arms, and then the boy closes the gap between them.

Shou feels lips press against his, warm and soft, and he draws in a shocked breath through the corners of his mouth. The kiss is careful and awkwardly angled, Shou’s head turned in the wrong direction for it to feel natural, but there’s no discomfort behind it. The dark-haired boy lets out a long sigh against his lips that fills his lungs with fuzz and butterflies, the sensation sending tremors down his spine and raising goose bumps along his arms. A numbness starts in the pit of his stomach and spreads outward, a comfortable heaviness weighing down his limbs and making his eyelids droop as though he’s about to fall asleep. So this is what dying feels like, he thinks, the last thought his brain can manage before his eyes fall closed and he succumbs to the darkness pulling at his mind for good.

---

Shou regains consciousness in phases. The first thing to return to him is his sense of touch, poking at the edges of his foggy mind in the form of a weight that pushes him down into something soft. He feels pleasantly warm and cozy, his head cushioned by a material that reminds him of the soft wool he sheers off of the sheep in his village every summer. His fingers twitch when he realizes he can feel them again, but he doesn’t dare move lest he ruin the comfort of the moment too quickly.

The next thing to return to him is his hearing. He registers, faintly, the sound of movement not far from where he’s laying, the clang of metal on metal or the shifting of fabric nearby. At one point he hears the sound of someone humming in a voice he doesn’t recognize, a melody that comes across only slightly out of tune. The humming is incredibly alluring, and the more he listens, the more he’s desperate to find the source of the voice so he can tell them how mundanely beautiful it is.

It’s this desire that prompts Shou to open his eyes at last. He blinks a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the light that filters into the room from the skylight overhead. He wiggles his feet experimentally, legs shifting beneath a thin blanket that’s been tucked around him securely. He takes a deep breath, then rolls onto his side with little difficulty, propping himself up on one elbow so he can orient himself in his new surroundings.

It doesn’t take him long to realize that he’s not dead after all, the pains in his head and soreness in his shoulder from when he’d fallen an indicator that this isn’t the afterlife. He lifts one hand sluggishly to rub his eyes before glancing around, taking in the humble room he’s found himself in.

He’s laying on a bed atop a mattress stuffed with sheep’s wool and feathers, it’s edges carefully shaped to allow for a flat, comfortable surface to rest on. The afghan now bunched around his waist is also made of wool, dyed and knit by hand from the looks of it, and Shou takes a moment to run his fingers over the surface of it admiringly before he slides his sluggish legs out from under it. If it isn’t for the ache in his head and shoulder he might think he’s dreaming, with the way his fuzzy mind doesn’t quite grasp reality and the soft but constant hummed tune tries to lull him back to bed. He feels like he’s crossed over into another world, bare feet sinking into the coarse fur of the elk pelt that covers a portion of the house’s wooden floor.

The whole house appears to be one single room. The bed Shou is sitting on is set up against the wall furthest from the front door, nestled comfortably in the corner under a window. A shelf housing rows of neatly-folded clothes sits beside an identical empty one, and on the other side of that he can see a second bed, a matching knit afghan neatly tucked around it. It looks like it’s been tucked in very carefully and deliberately.

Gripping the shelf at his side, Shou hauls himself uncertainly to his feet. He sways slightly, reaching his other hand up to his face for a moment as a wave of dizziness washes over him. It passes, though, the dark spots clearing after a few seconds. He releases his hold on the shelf, taking a shaky breath to steady himself before he continues to explore the little cottage.

A neat kitchenette is set up against one wall, a large wood stove and oven taking up most of the space. A stone chimney rises from it to vent the smoke, disappearing through the sturdy roof of the house. Wooden countertops line the rest of the wall, held up by thin, hand-carved beams slotted into holes in the floor, and on top of them lay bowls of fruit and jars of various spices, filling the house with a mixture of aromas that make Shou’s nose tingle. Above the countertops, rows of shelves hold bowls, pans, pots, plates, and even some utensils. Large spoons and spatulas hang in rows from hooks underneath them, each one just a little different from the others.

In the center of the room is a modest kitchen table, made from smooth wood and accompanied by four matching chairs. In the center of it, a woven doily cushions a tall, thin glass vase, inside of which are resting a handful of sunflowers. A few brown, dry petals have fallen from them, but they look otherwise healthy and alive, their clipped ends half-submerged in clear water. Shou smooths his hand over the natural wood, feeling the veins and notches beneath his fingertips. The table is finished with a lacquer that gives off a pleasant floral scent, like lavender. Shou’s never seen a table this nice before, not even in the huge houses of the richest people in his town. He can’t help but marvel at all the personal touches he sees all over the place, each and every item in the house handmade with a skill and precision that he’s only seen from the master carpenters that come to sell their wares in his tiny village.

The house’s third wall is lined from floor to ceiling with shelves. Some of them contain little trinkets - shiny rocks, wooden carvings, stuffed dolls with embroidered eyes and patchwork limbs, beaded necklaces and polished rings - while others are filled entirely with books. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, brightly colored spines propped up next to black ones. Some of them look like they’ve been bound in a factory, their pages perfectly even and titles printed on, while others are bound with string and leather and are labeled by hand with dark ink. Shou can tell their owner has organized them very intentionally, but he can’t quite figure out how. Fiction novels sit beside textbooks on physics and mathematics, historical journals lay propped between children’s picture books, and in one corner he even manages to find a few books in a different language, all of them written by hand.

He pulls one out and thumbs through it briefly, and finds it filled with still-life drawings between lines of text he can’t read. There are illustrations of mountain scenery, of lakeshores sprouting cattail reeds and waterfalls careening over jagged cliffs. There are sketches of fruits and flowers, animals and cloudy skies, each of them incredibly detailed and true to life. He has to resist the urge to touch them, a habit he might indulge with the paintings and photographs in his home, but he really doesn’t want to smudge art like this.

He turns the page once more and finds himself in awe all over again. Staring back at him is a beautiful sketch of a boy, sitting in a grassy field with his legs drawn up to his chest. His back is facing Shou, his head tilted up to stare at the sky above, and stretched out from his back are two massive, gorgeous wings. They dwarf the boy with their sheer size, and yet they seem to fit him perfectly, arching up over his head and sloping back down until the ends of them just barely brush the grass behind him. On the boy’s face is a serene smile, eyes soft with fondness and bright with innocent admiration. His hair is carefully shaped, blunt bangs brushing his ears and forming a ring around his head, and Shou has the fleeting thought that his haircut would look incredibly stupid on anyone else but him. Instead, the subject of the drawing manages to make it look charming, in a plain sort of way, and Shou can’t help but wonder how accurate the drawing is to how this person must really look, if he exists at all.

Shou closes the book and replaces it as though he’d never touched it at all, and finally wanders toward the open front door of the house. The closer he gets to it, the louder and more clear the humming becomes, the soft sound quickly swallowed by the noise of the empty fields around them. Shou leans against the door frame and peeks around the corner, breathing stalling when he lays eyes on the source of the noise. He recognizes him instantly.

The boy is young, that much is clear to see. In fact, he looked to be around Shou’s age, or maybe a little older. He’s taller than Shou is, though not by much, but his build is much slimmer, a lightness to his stature that Shou doubts he can replicate. Everything about him is long, from his legs to his arms to the fingers loosely holding the handle of the broom that he sweeps in gentle arcs, chasing fallen leaves from the porch’s wooden floor. His skin is sun-dark, turned a muted copper as a result of long hours outdoors, and his back and shoulders are nearly entirely bared by the backless halterneck top he wears. Shou finds his eyes drawn immediately to the soft edges of his shoulders and the gentle curves of his arms, slim but toned, like a runner’s, and to the divot in the small of his back where his spine curves and disappears into the waistband of his pants. His thin feet are protected by a pair of sturdy-looking leather sandals, held unmoving by the fitted leather straps that secure them.

The most amazing part about him, however, is the pair of pitch-black wings that sprout from his shoulder blades, framed by the seams of his backless shirt. Their feathers shimmer in iridescent hues, sometimes appearing more blue or purple or red depending on what angle the light hits them from. Even half-folded, they take up a great deal of space, even more so than the boy himself does: they’re easily almost as tall as he is, the tops of them level with his head and the ends of his flight feathers hovering at the curve of his calves. They’re beautiful, like something from a fairy tale or a fable, and Shou has to stop himself from rushing over and impulsively threading his fingers into the downy feathers that poke out from between the boy’s shoulders just to see if they’re as soft as they look.

Shou isn’t sure how many seconds he stares before the boy notices his presence, instinctively turning his head to look at him with eyes that are wide with surprise. His humming stops abruptly, as does his sweeping, and he stumbles over his own movements just a bit as he straightens himself up and holds the broomstick to his chest in a distinctly protective manner. “You’re awake,” he says, then winces at his own obvious observation.

Shou can’t help the grin that comes to his face. “Nah, I’m just sleepwalking,” he replies teasingly, shifting his weight off the doorframe to just stand on the threshold of the house. Now that he’s not staring at the floor, Shou can get a good luck at the boy’s face, and he takes advantage of it to give him another once-over. His tan face is all soft curves, and his cheeks still hold just a hint of leftover fat from his childhood years, giving it a rounded look. His hair is short on the sides and longer on top, and it spikes out wildly in every direction. Shou can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, but he can’t help but find it charming anyway. Some of the untamed hair falls into his forehead, framing eyes that aren’t quite humanesque. It takes him a few seconds to realize that the boy’s eyes are pale yellow where a normal man’s would be white, and his irises are all black, not a sliver of color coming to them. They flit over him restlessly, taking in his appearance the same way Shou is taking in his. Now that he’s getting a closer look, he can see the small, dark feathers that sprout in odd places, like the strips of skin between the corners of his eyes and his ears, or along the curve of his shoulders. It’s simultaneously fascinating and just a little bit unnerving, seeing someone who looks so much like him but still so different.

The boy’s brow furrows at Shou’s unwithheld snark, lips pursing in a minute frown that Shou finds surprisingly endearing. “Right…” he murmurs uncertainly, moving to balance his broom against the rail that surrounds the porch. He clears his throat into his closed hand, clearly uncomfortable, then adds, “How do you feel?”

Shou hums, grin softening into something a little more genuine in response to the boy’s concern. “Well, I’m not dead, so that’s good,” he answers. “Thanks for taking care of me, by the way. I was, uh, pretty sure I was gonna die back there, before you showed up out of nowhere.”

The boy nods. “Yes, you mistook me for some sort of angel,” he confirms. Shou sees the corner of his mouth twitch, like he wants to smile but has stopped himself before he can. “There’s no need to mention it. You’re lucky it was me, though, and not another human, otherwise there would have been nothing they could have done.”

Well, if that isn’t ominous, Shou doesn’t know the meaning of the word. “I was that far gone, huh?” he sighs, raising a hand to push a few loose strands of hair back into place, slicked away from his forehead. “How did you manage to bring me back from the brink, anyway? I remember that you kissed me, which was… well, it was weird, I guess, and then I totally passed out.” From the time he’d lost consciousness on the forest floor until now he has no memories, no way to know how much time has passed since then.

“Kissed you?” the boy echoes, looking confused for a moment before he seems to realize what Ritsu’s talking about. “Oh, you mean when I lent you my breath? That was just a spell. I put you into a coma, essentially, to conserve your energy output before you starved to death.”

“You can do magic?” Shou breathes, eyes wide with awe. “That’s amazing! No one in my village can do magic, they don’t have the genes for it. Human characteristic, apparently, but I’ve always thought it would be cool to learn. What other kinds of magic can you do?” The words tumble from his lips without much forethought, even as the boy shifts uncomfortably on his feet in front of him.

The boy lifts a hand to absentmindedly rub at his opposite arm, glancing away. “Why don’t we sit down?” he suggests after a moment of silence, gesturing toward the table sitting, lonesome, in the middle of the one-room house. “I think there’s probably some stuff we should talk about, and you should really get something to eat if you want to get your strength back.” That said, he moves into the open front door, not bothering to wait and see if Shou’s following. The wings on his back rustle quietly as he walks, and Shou has to keep himself from falling into another speechless stupor as he watches the way the light touches them.

The growl of his stomach is what saves him this time, and he stifles a laugh at its fantastic comedic timing. “Yeah, food sounds pretty sweet right now,” he agrees. Before he goes inside, though, he drifts over to the rail and peeks out at the scenery that surrounds them. The house is set up on the bank of a river that rushes down from a tall mountain behind them and disappears into the thick forest on the house’s other side. Shou doesn’t recognize the scenery at all, but he can’t bring himself to worry too much when this new change of location is so pretty.

After a few seconds he moves back into the house, spotting the black-winged boy sorting through the bowl of fruit on his countertop. He pulls a few pieces out and moves them into another, smaller bowl, alongside a small loaf of sweet-smelling bread. He looks nervous, Shou notes, and when the boy glances sideways to meet his eyes he’s quick to avert his gaze again. Shou wonders if he looks as strange to the boy as the boy does to him, if they’re both anomalies of their separate civilizations. Judging by the empty scenery all around the little cottage, though, the boy doesn’t have much of a civilization to fall back on, so maybe he’s just nervous to meet another person at all.

“What’s your name?” Shou asks, sliding into one of the four sturdy chairs. It doesn’t even rock under his weight, each of its four legs the perfect length to sit level on the floor. He can’t help but feel another surge of amazement that nearly everything in this house has been crafted by hand.

The boy turns and slides the fruit and bread onto the table between them, hesitating for just a second before taking a seat across the table from Shou. “It’s Ritsu,” he replies, tone soft and uncertain. “What’s yours?”

Ritsu. The name is surprisingly mundane, the kind of name that, if Shou heard it called in his own village on any given day, would blend right in with the rest of the locals. “Call me Shou,” he says, leaning one elbow on the table in front of him and propping his chin up in his hand. “Where is this place? I’ve never been to this side of the forest before. Seems peaceful,” he continues, conjuring up a map of the area surrounding his village in his head. He wonders how far he’d managed to walk before passing out, and his much farther Ritsu had carried him in order to end up here.

Ritsu nods his head, letting one hand rest on top of the natural wood table while the other reaches for a slice of the bread between them. He tears a piece off of it to eat, and it’s then that Ritsu notices his hands. They’re flecked with tiny feathers that sprout from his wrists and shift when he moves, and they’re tipped with talons that look much sharper than Shou’s blunted nails. They remind him a bit of the unnecessarily long nails that the rich women in his town wear, painted in gaudy colors and long enough that it makes it difficult for them to do something as simple as holding a pencil properly. Ritsu seems undeterred by them, however, pulling apart the bread with coordinated hands that are simultaneously gentle and precise. “Not too far from where I found you. I would tell you what I call it, but it won’t mean anything to anyone other than me,” he replies in a very unhelpful way. After a moment, he reaches out and picks up a second slice of bread, holding it out to Shou.

Shou blinks, meeting Ritsu’s expectant gaze across the table, and accepts the bread from his outstretched hand. He tries to ignore the way their fingers brush against each other as he does, tries not to shiver when he feels the little feathers at his wrist tickle his fingertips. “Thanks,” he sighs, bringing it to his mouth and taking a bite of it without bothering to pick it to pieces like Ritsu is.

“So… what’s it like being a harpy?” Shou asks after another moment of tense silence. “You’re so mysterious out here, living by yourself. The stories say harpies thirst for their next kill and are never satisfied, but you don’t seem so bloodthirsty to me.”

Ritsu looks up at him with an expression that Shou can only place as offended, eyes narrowed and brows knit together. Then he scoffs, face screwing up in unhidden condemnation. “Humans will come up with any excuse to rile each other up, won’t they?” he replies contemptuously. “And I’m not a harpy, don’t compare me to those folk tales. Harpies don’t exist, that’s just the name the humans gave to my people after finding traces of us. We’ve never hunted humans.”

Shou tilts his head, leaning a little further forward in his seat. “Then what should I call you?” he asks.

Ritsu huffs out a breath, tearing another piece of bread from his slice. “You can call me by my name. It’s not like you’ll ever meet another one of me again,” he answers quietly, and the bitterness in his words is palpable.

Shou purses his lips, a bit unnerved at the sudden tenseness in the air, and casts a glance at the untouched bed, nestled in the corner beside the empty shelf. “What about the extra bed? It belongs to someone, doesn’t it?” he asks, watching Ritsu’s face carefully to gauge his response.

Ritsu stands up and turns his back to Shou, moving over to the counter and filling two glasses with water from a pitcher. “It used to be my brother’s,” he answers after a quiet moment, “but he’s not around to use it anymore.”

Curious as he is, Shou’s not so confident he should parse this particular subject. He can practically see the muscles in Ritsu’s back tense up as he speaks, his shoulders hunching up a little closer to his ears and his head purposefully turned away. “I see,” he just says instead. By now, his bread is long gone.

Ritsu returns to the table after another minute or so, sliding a glass of water in his direction. “You need to drink lots of fluids to replenish the ones you lost,” he instructs. “It was the dehydration that got to you first. How long were you in the woods for, anyway?”

Shou cups his hands around the glass and sighs. “Five days. It was stupid of me to think I could make it through the forest,” he grumbles, feeling his regrets from his days of walking catching up to him now.

Ritsu just nods, face carefully impassive. “In the late summer heat, it’s no wonder you got so weak so fast. You probably sweated out most of your body fluids in the first couple of days,” he explains. “Speaking of which, you should really change out of those sweaty clothes, they reek.”

Shou jumps, feeling a rush of mortification as he looks down at his bedraggled appearance. Now that Ritsu brings it up, he can definitely smell his own body odor clinging to his shirt, and he’s certain he must be covered in dirt and grass stains. He screws up his face in disgust, nodding his agreement. “Ugh, you’re right, how did I not notice before?” he sighs. He downs the rest of the glass of water as Ritsu moves over to the shelf where all his clothes are carefully arranged, then stands up to follow him, hovering a foot or so away as Ritsu peruses his wardrobe.

Ritsu turns to face Shou for a moment, looking him up and down, and Shou does his best not to squirm under his sharp, meticulous gaze until the winged boy turns away again and begins thumbing through a pile of shirts on one of the middle shelves. At least, Shou assumes they’re shirts, but they look nothing like the tee-shirts and button-ups Shou usually wears. When Ritsu pulls one out of the pile and holds it in front of him, his suspicions are confirmed.

“Wear these,” Ritsu instructs, pushing the top into his hands alongside a pair of loose-fitting cloth pants. “They’re thin and have good ventilation, so you won’t overheat as easily.”

“Uh, thanks,” Shou responds awkwardly, laying the fresh clothes on the bed. He changes his pants first, which is easy enough, then reaches over his head and grabs his shirt by the collar, pulling it up and over his head in a smooth, well-practiced motion. Then he reaches for Ritsu’s lent top, and pauses when he sees that it’s less of a shirt and more of a flat piece of fabric. Backless, like Ritsu’s current top is. “Um, not to sound ungrateful, but how the hell am I supposed to wear this?” he asks, incredulous. “It’s got no back on it!”

Ritsu casts him a confused glance, tilting his head. “Of course not, it’s kind of hard to wear a shirt with a back on it when you have these,” he points out, gesturing to the sprawling wings that sprout from his shoulders. “It’s not totally backless, anyway, it has hooks at the bottom that clasps in the back.”

“This is super weird,” Shou mumbles, mostly to himself, but Ritsu’s indignant snort says that he’s heard as well. Still, it’s better than nothing, so he slips the halter neck of the shirt over his head and fiddles with it until it lays somewhat comfortably against the back of his neck. It rides high in the front, brushing the bottom of his throat, then swoops down below his arms to hug him around his waist. He moves his hands to clasp the back of it like Ritsu had described, his fingers finding the little copper hooks, but as much as he tries, he can’t get the pieces to fit together. “This thing is so complicated,” he curses.

Ritsu lets out a sigh that’s probably meant to be annoyed, and he takes the hooks from Shou’s fingers. “Let me,” he says, more of a demand than an offer to help, and deftly fits the little metal hooks together so the shirt is snug around his waist. The pants are high-waisted, riding up past his belly button, but even with the extra fabric in place the shirt still leaves slivers of his stomach exposed.

“You really wear this stuff everyday?” Shou asks, tugging at the edge of the top and attempting to stare at his own back to confirm that it really is as bare as Ritsu’s is.

“Only in the summer,” Ritsu replies. “Summer clothes are easy, since I don’t have to worry about covering the skin around my wings. My winter clothes are a bit more complicated.” He gestures to his bottom shelf, but without picking up one of the aforementioned winter shirts and looking at it himself, Shou has no way to gauge what ‘complicated’ could possibly mean. “In the summer it’s easiest to wear these kinds of tops, or just not wear a shirt at all.”

Shou nods, figuring it makes about as much sense as it possibly can considering he’s currently standing in front of an honest-to-god winged person.

Ritsu takes a step back and admires his handiwork now that the outfit is properly in place. “You look much better now,” he comments. “Your dull clothes are ridiculously boring, you know. You’d think humans would have some sense of color.”

“We do, that’s just what I usually wear when I go hiking,” Shou replies, scooping up his faded brow tee-shirt and laying it out carefully. “And if you ask me, it’s you who looks more ridiculous!”

Ritsu makes a sound half between a sniff of disdain and a laugh, and when Shou glances over he sees the dark-haired boy fighting another smile. It makes Shou wonder why he feels the need to keep his reactions to himself, what kinds of reservations he has about Shou that keep him from letting loose and expressing himself. “Say, Ritsu,” he starts, moving to fold up his tee-shirt and pants until he figures out what to do with them later, “why’d you save me, anyway?”

The question makes Ritsu stop in his tracks, halfway to the table to gather and replace the bowls and glasses he’d used for breakfast. “Why do you ask?” he retorts, answering Shou’s question with one of his own, and it comes across defensive.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t seem terribly fond of humans,” Shou says, sitting down on the edge of the bed he’d woken up in. He shifts uncomfortably in his borrowed clothes, trying to ignore the way he can feel the drafts on his back now. “I mean, I can see why, humans do some pretty shitty stuff all the time, so what made you want to stop and rescue someone like me?”

Ritsu swallows, picking up the glasses and bowls and dropping them in the sink to be washed later. He lets his hands fall against the rim of the sink, bracing against the surface of it, and is quiet for a few long moments, brows knitted together so tightly that lines form between them. A deep frown tugs at his lips, lips that Shou knows to be soft and warm. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment, quiet and contemplative and maybe just a little lost.

There’s really nothing Shou can say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.

---

Shou finds himself in very little rush to get home, and to his surprise, Ritsu doesn’t rush him to leave. When Shou asks, he brushes it off with empty words, telling him he isn’t back to full strength yet and that he should wait another night, but three days later, when Shou is back to feeling well again, he still hesitates to leave.

He’s not quite sure what keeps him rooted to this barren, empty space. Ritsu is the only humanoid creature for miles, which would normally make Shou ache for the bustle of the marketplace or the empty chatter of the village women gossiping by the church, but instead he finds himself soothed by the noise of the wind in the trees nearby and the lull of Ritsu’s soft humming in the early mornings when he doesn’t realize Shou can hear him.

“Aren’t you weirded out?” Ritsu asks him once, when they’re sitting in the twin porch chairs underneath the hand-thatched awning overhead. The woven straw back of it itches against Shou’s exposed shoulders, but he’s growing more used to it every day. Ritsu continues, “A person with wings like a bird’s, clawed fingers and a feathered face. Doesn’t it make you even a little afraid?”

Shou laughs, loud and unwithheld. “Of course I’m weirded out, you’re like something out of a fairy tale. Afraid, though? You haven’t done anything to make me afraid of you,” he replies, flashing Ritsu a bright grin in return. “You saved my life, after all, it would be kinda rude if I was scared of you after all that.”

Ritsu hums, soft and thoughtful, and runs his fingers absentmindedly through the feathers of one wing. Shou’s caught him doing so a few times now, has watched the way he straightens the crooked feathers and lets the loose ones fall to the ground to be swept up later. He’s preening, Shou realizes, and the thought causes a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. The little quirks he manages to catch Ritsu indulging in only endear him more to his new friend, if he can consider this friendship, and he finds himself feeling just a bit more fond of Ritsu with each day that passes. “I suppose it’s a good thing, that you’re not afraid,” Ritsu says after a long pause, his black-eyed gaze fixed in a point in the distance that Shou can’t follow.

Shou simply shrugs in reply. “I think it is,” he offers, and sees the way Ritsu softens to it, ever-so-slightly.

There’s a stretch of silence between them, comfortable and calm, and then Ritsu blurts, “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Okay,” Shou agrees immediately, sitting up in his seat, and he tries his best not so show how elated he is at Ritsu’s sudden, impulsive request. In the few days they’ve been together Ritsu has already proven himself to be thoughtful to a fault; he refuses to make even small decisions without thoroughly considering all of his options, so that fact that Ritsu has decided to do something without noticeable forethought sends a thrill of excitement through Shou. “Where should we go?” he asks, curious about what destination Ritsu has in mind.

Ritsu pushes himself to his sandal-clad feet, shaking his wings out and scattering a few dark feathers on the porch. “Someplace I used to go a lot. Get what you need, and we can go now.”

Shou doesn’t wait to be asked twice. He ducks into the house and grabs his tennis shoes, the ones in which he’d walked miles to get here, and slips them on over his sockless feet. Then, as somewhat of an afterthought, he snatches up his backpack from where he’d propped it up against the mostly-empty shelf by the bed he’d claimed and hefts it over one shoulder.

When he turns to head back out the front door, he spots Ritsu standing in front of one of his many bookshelves, holding a hand-bound book in his clawed hands. He runs the fingers of one hand over the cover of it, eyes downcast, and Shou is struck by the wistful, melancholic expression that crosses his face for just a moment before he slides the book into his own bag and settles the strap of it over his shoulder. A question perches on the tip of Shou’s tongue, a quiet curiosity that he has to hold himself back from voicing. There are plenty of things about himself that Ritsu’s hasn’t told him, and that’s okay with him. After all, Shou has plenty of things about himself that he hasn’t told Ritsu, either. It doesn’t keep his mind from wandering, though, wondering what those things could be.

They walk, because even though Ritsu says flying would be faster, he’s adamant that walking will be easier. Shou’s not sure whether or not Ritsu can support his weight and fly at the same time, anyway, and he doesn’t mind walking. The hardest part is scaling the hill behind the house, which is steep and a little slippery from the morning dew that still clings to it, and by the time they reach the crest of it both of them are just a little out of breath.

Shou’s breathlessness is partially due to something else, though, as Ritsu gestures with one feathered hand to the little valley nestled in the hills and Shou’s eyes land on what is quite possibly the most beautiful sight he’s seen since leaving his village all those days ago.

At the bottom of the hill is what appears to be a field of wildflowers, though most of them have wilted under the late summer sun’s glaring rays already. The few that are still standing are bright against the green of the rest of the valley, poking out of the tall grass so that their bright petals can be seen by all who pass by. Most notably, clumps of little sunflowers like the ones in Ritsu’s vase at his house can be seen cropping up all over the field, the bright sunlight only serving to make them look even more vibrant than before.

“Woah, this place is awesome!” Shou exclaims, face blooming into a broad grin. He finds himself reaching for Ritsu’s hand on instinct, fingers curling around his palm and pulling him down the hillside. The surprised yelp he lets out only serves to make Shou’s grin widen, but he’s conscious of the way Ritsu squeezes his hand back so he doesn’t lose his grip.

Shou doesn’t let go until the ground beneath their feet evens out again and he finds himself in one of the little sunflower patches. He drops Ritsu’s hand and flops unceremoniously down into the grass with a laugh, kicking his feet into the air in a burst of energy. The grass and dirt is rough against the exposed skin of his back, but he can’t bring himself to mind as he stares up at the great blue sky and the fluffy white clouds that occasionally cross it. The sun is warm, but not unbearably so, and its rays make everything around him look and feel so much brighter than he’s used to. He takes a deep breath of the sweet-smelling air, limbs flopping out all around him starfish-style, and lets himself be blessedly still for a few minutes.

Ritsu continues past him, black wings folded comfortably against his back as he drifts deeper into the field. Shou cranes his neck back and manages to catch glimpses of him through the tall grass as he walks, stopping periodically to bend over and touch the flowers that poke up through the grass. He looks peaceful, Shou notes, expression holding the closest thing to a smile Shou’s ever seen from him, but there’s a hint of bitterness behind it, too, that makes Shou’s own high spirits dip just a bit. He sits up, turning to give Ritsu a proper look, and watches as he sits down cross-legged in the grass not too far away and plucks a small but bright purple flower from the ground. He twists its stem between his fingers, quietly observing it, and Shou is suddenly and surprisingly reminded of the pencil sketch he’s stumbled upon during his first morning at Ritsu’s house.

Hit with a sudden urge, Shou quickly snatches up his backpack from where he’d discarded it at his side and opens it up, removing his sketchbook and a tin of pencils he’d brought with him from his home in his village. He shifts himself to sit cross-legged on the grass, flipping the book open to the nearest empty page.

He’s not sure if he can consider himself an artist, at least not by trade, but the scratch of his sketching pencil on paper is a familiar and comforting noise. Sketching has become somewhat of a hobby over the last few years, a way of relieving boredom or filling time when he has it. Sometimes he sketches memories, or tries to copy down the faces of people passing outside his window. This time, he finds his eyes drawn to Ritsu: to the not-quite-bittersweet expression on his face, to the little purple flower he twirls between clawed fingers, to the long grass that half-hides his legs and sways gently in the warm summer breeze. It’s like a painting, the kind of image that’s surreal enough that it shouldn’t be able to exist in the real world, and yet Shou sits, and stares at it, and has the undeniable urge to cement this moment for posterity in graphite.

His sketches are fast and rough at first as he focuses on copying down the base image and plotting out his canvas with light lines and geometric shapes. He roughs in the shape of Ritsu’s form sitting in the grass, cross-legged, one hand propping himself up in the grass while the other lightly grips the little bloom he’d claimed for himself. He sketches the curve of his shoulder and the arches of his wings, stretched out to accommodate their length while sitting, and attempts to capture the effortless messiness of his wild, untamed black hair. With softer, more deliberate strokes, he brings to life the line of Ritsu’s jaw and the slope of his nose, all soft edges and muted curves. There isn’t a sharp angle on him, and when he moves he does so with effortless grace and purpose that just serves to add to his ethereal beauty.

Shou would be hard-pressed to deny at this point that he does find Ritsu beautiful, and not just for his shimmering feathers or the way he seems to glow in a way only mythical creatures can. There are little things that bring this thought to mind, like his slender, careful fingers, or the annoyed little frown he gets whenever Shou tries to tease him. He’s never seen Ritsu really smile, but he imagines his smile must be beautiful, too. There’s no way it can’t be, coming from him.

He moves his pencil to capture the set of Ritsu’s mouth, but when he looks up to get another look, he finds that his companion has moved. He blinks, momentarily confused, until a distinct shadow falls over his sketchbook.

“What’re you doing over here? You look really intense,” Ritsu comments, leaning over Shou’s shoulder to get a look at what he’s working on. His expression quickly changes from confused to surprised when he recognizes the rough sketch, though. “Is that me?” he asks.

“You moved! Now it’s ruined,” Shou groans melodramatically. There’s no real anger or annoyance behind his words, though, and his sketch is mostly finished, anyway. “Don’t you know that the first rule of modeling is that you have to stay still? Otherwise the artist has to start over.” He tips his head back and offers Ritsu a smile, if only to reassure him that he’s really only joking.

Ritsu raises a brow at him, unimpressed, and turns his attention back to the rough sketch in Shou’s hands. “I didn’t know you were an artist,” he says, rather than trying to pick apart Shou’s attempted joke. “Why me, though?”

Shou shrugs, setting down his pencil for now and craning his neck back to look at Ritsu upside-down. “I just thought it would make for a good drawing,” he replies honestly. “I can leave it unfinished if you’re uncomfortable.”

Ritsu moves to sit at Shou’s side rather than leaning over him, shaking his head. “No, it’s fine, you can finish it,” he replies, and one of his hands drifts to the bag draped over one arm. He hesitates for just a moment before reaching inside and pulling out the hand-bound book Shou had seen him stow away earlier. He turns it over in his hands once, twice, then holds it out to Shou. “I guess you could say I’m a bit of an artist myself. I sketch in my journal sometimes, when I see something nice that I want to remember. You can look, if you want.”

“You’d let me read your journal? Hope you don’t have any deep, dark secrets in here you don’t want me to know about,” Shou quips, cracking open the book’s leather cover.

Ritsu snorts out what might be considered a laugh, tapping the first page with one long nail. “I wrote it in my mother’s language, you won’t be able to read it anyway,” he points out, quirking a brow in an amused manner. He drags a finger to the top of the page. “This is my handwriting, and this,” he adds, running his finger down the page to where the shape of the unfamiliar words changes just a bit, “is my brother’s handwriting. We used to take turns writing little passages in these books.”

The implied “before he left” hangs in the air between them, unspoken but felt and understood all the same. Shou nods, noting the way Ritsu’s neat, even script contrasts with his brother’s more messy, sloped style. He flips through a few pages of indecipherable writing before he reaches the first aforementioned drawing, a sketch of a new garden filled with tiny green sprouts. Each row of plants is meticulously labeled with a little sign written in that same language, unreadable to Shou, but it’s an impressive sketch all the same.

Most of the sketches in the book of are a similar calibre, still life drawings or landscape sketches of places Shou has yet to see. “You’re really talented,” he tells Ritsu after flipping through a few of them. In between the sketches, Ritsu and his brother’s alternating handwriting take up most of the extra space.

“I’ve been drawing since I was a kid,” Ritsu replies, reaching over Shou’s arm to flip the pages of the journal of his own accord until he reaches one in particular. His hand lingers on the page before he sits back and lets Shou look at it himself, pale yellow eyes trained on his expression from beside him.

Shou blinks in recognition when he lays eyes on the sketch Ritsu’s chosen to share with him. It’s different from the rest, far more detailed, and it takes up an entire page of the little journal. The only writing on it is a few letters written in the corner with Ritsu’s neat handwriting: some sort of caption, Shou guesses. A name, or maybe a date.

The sketch is of another boy, one that Shou recognizes, because he has the same face as the boy from the sketch he’d seen in Ritsu’s other book just a few days ago. He looks like he can’t be more than a few years older than Ritsu is, his face carrying the same soft, childlike curves that Ritsu’s does. On his face is a small, tentative smile, shy, like he’d modeled for this but could never get quite comfortable enough to make the emotion come across natural. Faintly, Shou can make out laugh lines around the corners of his eyes, and dimples at the edges of his mouth where his smile shows his teeth. Like the other sketch, his hair is cut bluntly all the way around his head, leaving straight bangs that fall nearly into his eyes. There’s something undeniably endearing about the sketch, as though it’d been drawn with a great deal of affection. “Is this him?” Shou asks. He doesn’t need to clarify who he’s talking about.

Ritsu nods. “His name was Shigeo - is Shigeo, I mean,” he says, catching himself as he begins to refer to his brother in the past tense. “He’s about a year and a half older than me, though he never could really keep up with me, growing up. Where I was quick to pick up concepts and new skills, he always took just a little longer. My parents worried about him a lot.” As he speaks, his eyes flick down to the sketch in the journal, something undeniably sad in the way he speaks.

Shou swallows, watching Ritsu’s face as he speaks. “Where did they go?” he asks. Surely they couldn’t have abandoned him?

“My parents passed away a few years ago,” Ritsu says, letting his hand fall away from the book. He draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, hugging them close to his body. “They were hunted by humans who were scared of them and their magic. They would have killed me, too, but Shige protected me.”

“You care a lot about him,” Shou murmurs, “and he cared a lot about you, so what changed?” After all, Shigeo isn’t here anymore. His bed and shelf are empty and there are no traces of him in the little house that used to belong to both of them, but at one point he’d been as active and present as Ritsu is now.

Ritsu’s expression darkens, and he leans forward to rest his chin atop his bent knees. A frown tugs at his mouth, and his gaze is distant. “He fell in love with a human,” he replies, the words barely travelling over the gentle noise of the wind, and Shou catches the way his voice wavers in an attempt to keep his emotions from coming through. “I didn’t like him. I tried to tell Shige that it was bad idea to get involved with humans, that he’d only get hurt in the long run, but he wouldn’t listen. Growing up, we always got along well, to the point where we only had a few silly little fights as brothers, but this was different. Neither of us was willing to change our mind.” His wings shift slightly against his back, drawing in around his shoulders as though to protect himself. “I said terrible things to him, about how I didn’t want to be his brother if he was going to choose a human over me. I told him that if he was going to make such a terrible decision, he might as well just leave. I didn’t think he’d take me seriously, at the time.”

Shou stares down at the sketch of Shigeo laying open in his lap and tries to imagine him standing beside a younger version of Ritsu, one with wide, dark eyes and arms that are a little shorter and chubbier than the ones he knows. He can easily picture a loving and dedicated siblings relationship between them, the kind Shou has never experienced himself but that he’s seen countless times in the children from his village, can easily wrap his mind around a protective Shigeo eager to please his genius little brother. It makes his heart ache to imagine what such a bad fight between the two of them must have felt like. It’s a vulnerable memory, the one that Ritsu has chosen to impart to him. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asks after a moment, folding the journal shut and holding it tightly with both hands. “Why save me, why let me hang around you for so long, why tell me about your family? I thought you hated humans.”

“I do hate them,” Ritsu says immediately, squeezing his knees closer to his chest, and his gaze hardens with regret and anger and loss. “They took my parents, they took my brother.” He pauses to take a breath, shaky and tense, and buries his face in his arms so that Shou can no longer see his face. “I hate them… but I don’t hate you.”

Shou forgets to breathe for a moment, stunned speechless. He’d known, of course, that Ritsu can’t possibly hate him, but it’s still shocking to have it laid out so plainly. Shou had never considered that he might be the exception to the rule, the lone redeemable human that Ritsu has chosen to place his bets on. That if he had been someone else, Ritsu might not have deigned it necessary to try to save his life. “But why me?” he repeats, desperate to know what part of himself was the part that Ritsu had seen and decided was worthy of saving. “Why am I different from everyone else who tried to cross that forest and never made it to the other side?”

Ritsu lets out a long breath into his arms before he raises his head once more. He still can’t look Shou in the eye, though, and he stares stubbornly at the patches of bright flowers instead. “Did you ever realize why the forest seemed so endless and impossible to navigate?” he asks. “It’s because it’s guarded by a magical trap. My brother and I laid it when our parents were killed, to keep humans from ever finding this place again. Anyone who walks into the forest is cursed to wander it until they die from starvation or are killed by wild animals.”

Shou hums, remembering the way his map had become all but useless once he’d walked deep enough into the forest. Without magic of his own, it would have been impossible to sense a trap laying in wait for him. “So that’s why I could never find the end, even after five days of walking,” he murmurs.

Ritsu nods. “Well, we both helped to lay down the spell, but Shigeo was always far stronger than I was when it came to magic. His powers are deeply rooted in people’s emotions, including his own, and it made it difficult for him to control them,” he continues, picking at the purple flower still pinched between his fingers. He tears a petal from it and lets it fall into the grass, nervous. “His powers created a link between the two of us and the emotions of those who would enter the forest. We could feel their anger and their killing intent, but we could also feel the fear they felt in their final moments, their regret and desire to keep living. I tried to ignore it, but Shigeo never could. He never admitted it out loud, but I could tell it tortured him inside, even as the people walking into the forest become fewer and far between. I think that his connection to the trap is part of what led him to start caring for the humans.” He pauses, lowering his gaze, and adds, “Empathy is a powerful thing.”

“So, you knew I was in the forest the whole time?” Shou clarifies, leaning forward and looking up into Ritsu’s face.

By this point, Ritsu’s plucked the flower bare, nothing but its brown middle left attached to the stem until Ritsu pinches that part off, too. “Yes,” he replies. There isn’t an ounce of regret in his voice, but after hearing his story, Shou can’t find it in himself to be annoyed by it. Ritsu continues, “As soon as you entered the forest, I knew you were there, but you seemed… different from the others. You weren’t scared, and you weren’t angry. You weren’t lost, either, like the children would that sometimes wander into the forest without knowing where they were. There was something driving you, I could tell, but it wasn’t a desire for revenge or self-preservation like the hunters that used to come after my brother and me.” He drops the flower’s browning stem, lets it be swallowed up by the tall grass around him. “I saved you because I could tell you didn’t come to hurt me, and because part of me was curious to see if a human really did exist who could look at me without fear or anger. I thought that maybe then, I could start to understand the feelings that would make my brother want to leave me behind.”

Shou swallows, glancing down at his legs, splayed out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. It hasn’t occurred to him until now just how insanely lucky he is to be alive right now, now fortunate it is that Ritsu had decided to let him be the one to change his mind about humanity. “Do you think you understand any better, now?” he asks, voice soft and curious.

Ritsu squeezes his legs impossibly tighter against his chest. “Yeah, I think I do,” he admits, but when Shou chances another glance at him, he doesn’t find peace or closure in Ritsu’s gaze like he might expect. Instead, Ritsu just slumps with regret. His dark eyes are clouded with grief, as though this discovery has condemned something within him. “I do, and that’s the scary part.”

---

Neither of them speaks on the way back to Ritsu’s house. The sun is beginning to set behind the horizon by the time they make it back, and Shou’s stomach is grumbling. He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl to graze on while Ritsu sweeps the feathers and early fall leaves from off the deck, and he tries not to think too hard about the implications of the day’s revelations. He plops down on the edge of the bed that used to be Shigeo’s, a person who Shou now has a name and a face to attach to it. A person who still has a place in this house, should he ever come back to reclaim it. It’s not a place that Shou can keep for himself much longer, and he knows it. Guess I have to go home sometime, huh? he thinks to himself, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Ritsu comes inside and closes the door behind him, leaning the broom up in the corner by the coat rack. He moves quietly over to his shelf to change into his night clothes while Shou lays on the soft mattress, and when he’s ready to climb into bed himself, he turns to face him. “Shou,” he says, hesitantly, fiddling with the fingers on one of his hands. “I want you to know, I’m… I’m really glad I met you.”

Shou sits up in the bed, eyebrows raised in quiet surprise, but his reply is caught in his throat when he sees the small but undeniable smile on Ritsu’s face. It’s shaky, like he’s fighting the urge to stifle it the way he has so many times already, but it’s still there. It’s slightly crooked and, Shou notices, entirely humanesque, holding the same blunted incisors and sharp canines his own mouth carries. The sight of this little smile, simultaneously remarkable and unremarkable, is enough to send Shou’s heart somersaulting in his chest, the words on his tongue dying before they have the chance to see daylight.

It’s irrevocably beautiful, to Shou.

“I-I’m glad I met you, too,” he finally stammers, once he’s managed to get a grip on his thoughts long enough to form a coherent sentence, though he can’t quite suppress the awe-struck stutter that accompanies his words. “You’re a good friend, Ritsu. I’m really grateful that you decided to save me, that day.”

Ritsu doesn’t say anything in return, just flashes him another little smile and, oh, Shou could definitely get used to seeing that. Then he blows out the candle keeping the room dimly lit and plunges it into darkness, crawling into his own bed for the night.

---

Shou decides the following morning that it’s past time he returns to his village. He has a house and a job waiting for him at home, after all, or at least he hopes he still does, and while he doesn’t have any really close friends, his neighbors are bound to be wondering where he’s gone off to by now. He tells Ritsu as much as he packs up his sketchbook and his pencils and prepares to start the walk back home.

He pretends not to notice the way Ritsu stifles his disappointment under a layer of practiced calm. “Are you sure? If you need an extra day, it really wouldn’t be that big of a deal,” he offers, but Shou just shakes his head and offers Ritsu a bittersweet smile.

“No, I can’t do that. This was never meant to be permanent, anyway, I’ve just been borrowing your extra space from your brother. He’ll need it once he decides to come home,” he replies, gesturing to the empty bed and shelf nestled into the back corner of the house. “Although, it may be a good idea to invest in, like, a bedroll or something, in case he decides to bring his boyfriend with him.”

The suggestion makes Ritsu screw up his face in unhidden disgust, drawing a loud laugh out of Shou’s mouth at the sight of it. Ritsu rolls his eyes, long-suffering. “Yeah, alright,” he sighs, and follows Shou to the door to he can give him a proper send-off.

“You’re sure I won’t get lost again in there?” Shou asks, pointing to the magically trapped forest that lays sprawling in front of him. “I just walk straight, and I’ll make it home?”

Ritsu snorts, raising an incredulous brow at him. “Of course, I know what I’m doing,” he assures. “My brother may have been the one strong enough to lay the trap in the first place, but the illusion on it is all from me. I can manipulate it in any way I want. I won’t take you more than an hour or two to make it back without the trap getting in your way.”

Shou nods, taking comfort in Ritsu’s confidence as the two of them stand side-by-side facing the woods. “Well then, I guess this is goodbye,” he says, and tries not to let show the way the words make his heart fall and his throat feel just a little tighter.

Ritsu shakes his head, laying a hand on Shou’s shoulder. “It’s not ‘goodbye’, it’s ‘see you later’,” he corrects, and lets slip one of those small, kind smiles. “I don’t expect you’ll be able to resist coming back anyway, even if I tried to stop you, so I may as well give you permission to come visit before you end up lost in the forest again.” He plays it off in a casual manner, but the way his neck flushes just slightly pinker than usual gives away his true intentions.

Shou doesn’t bother to fight the grin that comes to his face at this, and before he can think better of it he pulls Ritsu in for a quick, tight hug. He catches the little squeak of surprise Ritsu makes in response to it, but his friend doesn’t pull away, lifting his arms to tentatively return the brief embrace. One of Shou’s hands finds its way into the downy feathers between Ritsu’s shoulders, soft as cotton between his fingers, while Ritsu’s splay against his back and squeeze him once, gently.

“Come back soon,” Ritsu mumbles against Shou’s shoulder before he pulls away, letting his hands linger for just a moment before he lets them drop back to his sides.

“Count on it,” Shou replies with a bright grin, offering Ritsu one last clap on the shoulder before he turns and begins to walk toward the forest. “I’ll see you later,” he adds over his shoulder, raising a hand in an energetic wave as he reaches the edge of the trees. He watches just long enough to see Ritsu return his wave before he turns and disappears into the forest, homeward bound.

---

When he would reach his lonely little house just under two hours later, his neighbors would greet him with worried words and frightened expressions, and when he would tell them where he’d gone and why, they would ask him if he’d found anything worthwhile after so many days away from home.

“No,” he would say, with a helpless little smile. “Nothing at all.”

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #ritshou #kageyama ritsu #suzuki shou #kageyama shigeo #fanfiction #mp100 fanfic #wings au #reach au #winged ritsu #winged shigeo #alternate universe #dehydration #near death experience #serendipitousfics

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runaway-train-works · 5 years

Note

New Year AU!!!! Pls!!! Three months after they get together, if that's okay 💕💕

Drabble based on And Touch Me Like You Never

“And there’s a large cupboard in here where you can store the hoover and ironing board and what not.” The estate agent, Drew, Harry thinks he remembers him saying, opens a door leading off the hallway for Harry and Louis to have a look in. They both nod and smile politely. It’s just a cupboard after all, not exactly worth a zealous ‘oooh’ or ‘aaah’.

“And through here,” Drew continues as he ushers them towards the last door at the far end of the hall, “is the master bedroom.” He waits until both men have joined him, and begins to rattle off the features of the room and it’s accompanying en suite, his hands moving in grand sweeps as if he’s presenting them with the Crown Jewels.

Once he’s finished his somewhat rehearsed pitch, Drew turns to Louis and Harry and raises his palm in a stopping gesture. “Now, I know what you guys are thinking, that this room is much larger than the second bedroom, and has the en-suite, but really, who spends that much time in their bedroom when the rest of the flat is as lovely as this eh? You guys could flip a coin to see who gets which room?” He smiles brightly, clearly hoping he’s winning them both over.

At this point Louis is standing with his arm half pressed to Harry’s. Harry can tell as soon as Louis has properly registered the mistaken assumption this estate agent has made, because he moves a fraction away so they aren’t touching anymore. Harry’s eyes flick to the side of Louis’ face, hoping and praying Louis will correct Drew, tell him the real status of their relationship, but all he does is stare at his shoes. Arsehole.

Harry waits a beat or two in vain, but when it’s clear that Louis is going to say fuck all, Harry takes matters into his own hands. He returns Drew’s high-wattage smile. “We plan to use the second bedroom as an office. I’m a journalist and my boyfriend here is an architect, so it would be useful to be able to work from home when we need to.” Louis at least has the good grace to wince at Harry’s over-annunciation of the word ‘boyfriend’.

Drew’s eyes widen and he stutters out an an apology, eyes darting between the couple. “Oh, sorry, I uh, didn’t um, sorry I shouldn’t assume you weren’t, or like were um…”

Louis clears his throat. “We’re interested in the flat, but we have a couple of others to see tomorrow. What’s the holding fee?

Drew recovers quickly, returning to his salesman extraordinaire persona in a flash at the prospect of a commission. “Fantastic! The holding fee is £200, which is non refundable but does come off the deposit should your references check out.”

Louis nods at the information and glances at Harry bashfully, maybe to try and garner Harry’s support. Not fucking likely. Harry completely ignores him and instead speaks directly to Drew. “What’s the shortest lease available?”

“Oh, um, six months, but you are more likely to be accepted if you take a full year,” Drew replies.

At this point Harry turns to look at Louis in the eye, even though he is answering Drew. “Ah well, a year might be a bit optimistic.” He doesn’t wait to see Louis’ reaction before walking out the door of the bedroom and down the hallway towards the front door, his boots sounding heavy and cumbersome on the wooden floor. His heartbeat feels the same against his ribcage.

He’s out on the street and almost at the tube station by the time Louis catches up with him, his breath a little ragged from the run.

“I said I’ll call him tomorrow morning and pay the holding fee,” Louis tells him. When Harry doesn’t respond, Louis tries to reach for Harry’s hand to hold it but Harry lifts it out of reach to rearrange his scarf around his neck in the early spring breeze before shoving his fist into the pocket of his jacket. “I know you’re mad at me. I’m sorry alright? He just caught me off-guard,” Louis adds, his voice small in the thick crowd as they get swallowed into the busy station.

“Whatever.” Harry swipes his oyster card against the barrier and makes his way through, Louis following close behind, but Louis tugs on his jacket hard to make him stop.

“Why are you heading to the Hammersmith and City line? I thought you were staying at mine tonight?” Harry makes the mistake of turning round to look at Louis properly, whilst continuously jostled by disgruntled commuters that they are standing in the way of. He really shouldn’t have looked at Louis, because he’s gone that small, vulnerable way he does now sometimes, now that they’re together properly. Louis always used to have the upper hand, always used to be the one in control, and Harry used to think that nothing could feel as bad as when Louis wasn’t giving him attention, or was angry with him. But this is so much worse actually, when Louis turns that soft, skittish way he does, because it reminds Harry of that day months ago when he had turned up at Harry’s door in the Caribbean and Louis was nervous, was unsure, was so fucking scared of him, of what Harry might say or do. Harry knows now he never wants Louis to feel like that around him ever again if he can help it.

“Do you actually want me to?” Harry asks, his arms feeling heavy with need to wrap Louis up in them and comfort him. He manages to refrain, for now at least.

Louis reaches out and runs a hand up and down Harry’s covered arm. “Of course I do. And I know we need to talk about what just happened, but can we do it when we get back to mine?” OK, maybe Louis always does have the upper hand after all. Harry doesn’t answer him, choosing simply to intertwine their hands together and lead him in the opposite direction he was walking in towards the District line platform.

***

“So…” Harry drawls from where’s he’s sitting up against the head board of Louis’ bed, legs crossed at the ankles and hands clasped together in his lap. He’s been watching Louis pace back and forth along the rug at the foot of the bed for near enough two full minutes before he said anything.

“So.” Louis’ pacing slows but doesn’t stop. He looks deep in thought. It’s about high time he told Harry what the fuck he’s thinking about.

“Are you going to tell me why you keep doing this then?” Harry can hear the barb in his tone, but keeps it there to stop Louis from kidding himself that he’s going to worm his way out of this without a satisfactory answer. “Why you keep failing to tell people we’re together?”

Louis runs a hand through his hair. “I do tell people. The ones that matter I do.”

“Louis…”

“It’s hard for me ok? I’m still getting used to this, to there being an actual us.”

Harry leans forward at that, bending his knees outwards and resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s hard for you? Do you ever think about how hard it is for me? How I’m the one that gets the raised eyebrows and the sly whispers about me because, shock horror, Harry Styles the dickhead Womaniser has shacked up with a bloke?”

Louis stops dead and looks at Harry with a scowl. “Who’s been saying shit about you?”

Harry shrugs. It’s not worth getting into that right now. “People.”

“Who?” Louis presses.

Harry has to chuckle, shaking his head and looking out the window. The rain has started and Harry watches it for a second or two as it hits the panes of glass. “Now is not the time to get all noble and try and defend my honour when you couldn’t do it an hour ago with some brown-nosing prick.”

“OK, I get that it’s difficult for you, I’m not disputing that at all,” Louis says tentatively. “I know what it’s like, I came out myself when I was seventeen and it wasn’t easy for me either.” Harry assumes it was meant to be a comforting sentiment but it’s not in the slightest.

“So if you know that, then why the fuck won’t you back me up? Why don’t you set people straight as soon as they so much as question what we mean to each other?” That’s all Harry wants, for him and Louis to put up a united front and been in this together a hundred percent. That’s what pisses him off so much, because he knows that Louis knows that’s how Harry feels about it, yet he seems incapable of doing it.

“Because…” Louis trails off.

“Because what?”

Louis sighs loudly. “Because Haz, I’ve been doing the exact opposite for close to a fucking decade alright? You’ve been dealing with this for a year, yeah, but I’ve spent every waking moment since the day we bloody met burying every real feeling I had for you deep down. I could never set people straight when they questioned what you mean to me, ever, because that would mean telling people I’m so in love with you that it makes my soul ache.” He digs his fingers into his abdomen as if to emphasise his point. “It’s ingrained in me to not tell people how I feel about you, so yeah, sometimes I still find it hard to fight my natural instinct to shut the hell up when anyone questions it.”

And, well… fuck. “Baby, I-”

Louis shakes his head, not wanting to hear what Harry has to say. “I just need you cut me a bit of slack.”

Harry stretches his hands out towards him. “Come ‘ere,” he pleads. He moves back again so Louis can round to the side of the bed and climb on top, moving to rearrange himself curled up in Harry’s lap. When he’s settled, with Harry’s arms wrapped neatly around his waist and his head resting on Harry’s shoulder, Harry mumbles against his temple. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it like that. But you need to tell me these things, even if you think I don’t want or need to hear them. We said no more hiding from each other any more.” He presses a couple of kisses to Louis’ hair.

“I know it’s just…”

Harry squeezes Louis’ hip softly to encourage him to continue. “Yeah?”

Louis wriggles himself further into Harry. He feels warm and docile and like he is wearing too many layers. Harry wants to feel more of his skin, to feel like he’s removing the physical barriers between them as well as the emotional, verbal, mental ones, to feel like he can’t get any closer to Louis if he tried. “I’m scared bubs. I know I shouldn’t say it or even think it, but I’m scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise this isn’t what you really want.”

Harry’s arms tighten briefly before releasing so he can reach up to move Louis’ face to look at him properly. He kisses Louis softly on his lips then his nose. “Lou, this is it. Me and you for keeps. And I know it’s going to take some time for us to really, really believe that after all the shit we’ve put each other through, and even longer for everyone around us to believe it too, but it’s gonna be so worth it when we prove every doubter wrong and go the distance. You’re my whole world and I’m not going anywhere, I swear to you.”

Louis shuts his eyes for a breath and when he opens them again they are crystal clear and not the turbulent hue they were a minute before. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Harry brings their lips together and works to lick in, smoothing their tongues together. They kiss for a few minutes before Louis pulls away and strokes Harry’s cheek.

“So should we get the flat then bubs?” he ask with a small smile.

Harry nods ardently. “Hell yeah, can’t wait to live with you again.”

#my fics #drabble #my drabble #and touch me like you never #hope you like it darling!#💕💕💕

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pengychan · 6 years

Text

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 4

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

To see the version with art by Dara, check it out on Ao3.

Tag for all parts up so far.

A/N: Even more art in this chapter 'cause Dara is a gift.

***

“Oh, there you are. Did you absolutely have to sing in the shower?”

“I did not--”

“I could swear I heard a grito. Or were you just shrieking?”

“Well, if a certain someone hadn’t finished all the hot water…” Ernesto grumbles, causing Imelda - who personally turned off hot water the moment she and Héctor were out of the shower - to smirk.

“Serves you right for getting up last. And to think Héctor and I shower together to save water,” she says, causing Héctor to snicker over his breakfast.

“We’re very environmentally conscious,” he mutters through a mouthful, causing Ernesto to roll his eyes. “But the shower is pretty big. Maybe next time we can all save water and--”

“Absolutely not,” Imelda and Ernesto snap exactly at the same time, causing Héctor to recoil and lift his hands in surrender. Not that it stops either of them from speaking again.

“As much as I’d love to see her melt when water touches her--”

“It’s a miracle he even fits in it on his own, with that ego in the way,” Imelda cuts him off, and he glares at her. She supposes he means to be intimidating; he only comes across as the overgrown pouting child he is. She smirks, and pushes a plate towards him, a couple of tacos mañaneros in it. “Eat. You look like you need the energy to keep up.”

Several things happen in quick succession: Ernesto opens his mouth to retort only for his stomach to grumble loudly before he can utter a single word, Imelda’s smirk widens, and Héctor tries to disguise his laugh with a very unconvincing coughing fit. Ernesto scowls at both of them, but eventually he sits down and starts eating. Within minutes he’s talking about music through mouthfuls, about a producer they absolutely need to meet - he knows people who know him, he can get them in touch - and entirely ignoring Imelda… who, on the other hand, is ignoring him as well and checking her emails for new orders on her phone.

Héctor dutifully nods along with what Ernesto says, and promises he’ll be available whenever this Armando Abascal can meet them, but truth be told he’s only half-listening. What he’s really wondering, as his gaze moves back and forth between his wife and his best friend, is how much time should he let pass before he suggests another night together.

He’s not an idiot; he can tell that as much as they butt heads over everything, the central focus of it all - the thing that keeps Ernesto coming and Imelda letting it happen, the rope they’re both clutching while trying to win an unspoken tug war, the one person who binds them - is him.

They keep trying to outdo each other and, really, that works to Héctor’s advantage given everything that he gets out of it… but now he’s starting to wonder if that is actually the entire story. Maybe it is most of it, yes, but Héctor’s mind keeps going back to how relatively easy Imelda was to convince to invite Ernesto over again, and how quickly Ernesto had been to bend down on their bed again despite all his complaints.

As much as she rolls her eyes and as much as he protests, Héctor can tell they are enjoying the fuck out of this, pun intended. Or at least, they’re enjoying it far more than either is willing to admit. Héctor wonders, for the first time, what it may take to get them to say as much.

A lot, very likely: they are both stubborn and prideful, as much as they like to deny having anything in common. Making them admit something as simple as the fact they’re enjoying the challenge, or at the very least the sex, isn’t gonna be easy. But then again, if you want your life to be easy, you do not pick Ernesto as your best friend, and you do not marry Imelda. Héctor has done both, and regrets neither.

It’s time to up the game.

***

I bought a pair of boots last month, and it was my best purchase in years! They were custom-made to my measurements, fit perfectly form the first day and didn’t give me a single blister as I trekked up a mountain. I cannot recommend these enough!

The review is followed by a smiley as well as a full five-star rating, and Imelda finds herself smiling back at it. Almost all the reviews are like that - the only exception are a few whining about late delivery caused by postage issues she had no control over, as she always mentions in the reply - but she’s always happy to see a new one, giving her credit for a job well done.

When the first glowing reviews began coming in, as well as the beginning of a steady flow of income, it took all of her willpower not to take screenshots and send everything to her parents, writing nothing but I told you so. She held back because she’s not that childish but oh, was she tempted. Told you so has always been one of her parents’ favorite sentences to utter.

Don’t take chances. Don’t attempt anything new. Follow our advice. Stay in your lane. Oh, you tried and failed? Well, we told you so.

Sometimes it was warranted - Óscar and Felipe’s attempt to build a homemade pressure cooker when they were eight was one such occasion - but a lot of the time it was unnecessarily smug and grated her nerves like nothing else. Getting to make things work despite their misgiving was always very, very satisfying.

Moving to Mexico City for a course in business management? They had supported her in the end, but not without a lot of stubborn silences, thinly veiled jabs and grumbling. But she stood her ground, and excelled; Imelda knows they’re proud… but she also knows that they are somehow disappointed for having been proven wrong, for never getting to tell her that they told her it was a bad idea.

Starting her own business, and online? It would never work, they told her, to many people already did the same. And making shoes the old way, to order? Who even does that anymore? Who would pay money for that when you can buy much cheaper shoes elsewhere?

But it did work; she's found herself a niche in the market and her business has grown to the point she now estimates that, in about a year’s time, she might very well think of looking into renting proper premises and employing a few people. Again, the told you so mantra failed to leave their lips, and they were proud of her. They usually are, despite everything.

And then she decided to marry Héctor which, of course caused friction. That too, according to them, was a bad idea. They didn’t dislike Héctor, whom they had seen from time to time when they played together as children; they knew that, while a troublemaker - that was usually Ernesto’s fault, but he had a way to evade all the blame somehow - he was a good kid who had grown into a good man.

When Héctor’s parents had died when he wasn’t yet seventeen - a gas leak, a spark, and they were both gone while their son was a couple of towns over for a gig - hers went to the funeral with her, after donating some money to help pay for it. Imelda has hazy memories of that bleak day, of Héctor standing alone before the coffins until Ernesto reached him and passed an arm around his shoulders. She remembers walking up to them, and squeezing Héctor’s hand, but she cannot recall what she told him.

The following year, both Ernesto and Héctor packed up quite suddenly and left for Mexico city to turn their passion for music into a proper career. Her parents had talked about it over the dinner table, expressed their sympathy for Héctor and wished him luck, and that was the last they'd said of him. Until their daughter moved to Mexico City, met him again, and began dating him. Until she had announced they were going to marry.

A musician, and with no steady job and no family behind him? They hadn’t liked that at all, questioning how he’d even be able to provide for her and pretending to have forgotten how her business was beginning to take off well enough to support them both in bad times if need be.

Óscar and Felipe supported her quite vocally - they always liked Héctor, who was a very willing guinea pig for some of their experimenting back when they were just children - and in the end, while grudgingly, her parents stopped arguing. They came to the wedding, were perfectly polite, but Imelda knew that they were waiting for the day that told you so would be warranted.

So far, it never was: Héctor always finds work. As much as Imelda doesn’t like to admit it, she knows that Ernesto - his used-car-salesman charm, his shameless self-advertising and the fooling around he calls networking - is the main reason why. Héctor has so much talent and plenty of charm of his own, but lacks the ambition and drive Ernesto has; that pendejo is the one who gets them most of the paid work and, for that, Imelda can tolerate him. Grudgingly.

Oh yes, Third Wheel Ernesto. What would your parents think of that development?

The thought makes her laugh aloud - oh God, they would flip if they knew - and she doesn’t realize how loud she was until Héctor’s head peeks into the workshop. “Found another singing cat video, mi amor?”

Imelda rolls her eyes - it was one time she laughed to tears, just one time, can he stop bringing it up? - and turns from her laptop to glance at him. “I was thinking about Ernesto.”

Héctor raises his eyebrows. “What a coincidence. So was I.”

“Not that way.”

“I was thinking we could have him over next Friday.”

“No. I need at least another two weeks without seeing or hearing of that--”

“I have an idea,” Héctor cuts her off, and he’s grinning so widely she can’t help but be intrigued. When that expression appears on his face, she knows he’s thinking something really interesting. She leans back, folds her hands, and crosses one leg over the other.

“... You have two minutes to convince me.”

One minute later, Héctor is already sending out a text message.

***

“Do you really have to go already?”

Sitting on the bed with only the sheets around her, Luciana - or Lucia? He doesn’t remember and just refers to her with pet names to avoid trouble - is pouting. Ernesto kisses that pout.

“I have a meeting. I’d love to stay,” he lies, and follows it up with another lie. “I’ll call you.”

Another number to block, of course. She’s getting attached, he suspects, and Ernesto doesn’t like that, no señor. Best for both of them if he ends this here. Most of all, best for him. He’s a free man, no strings but those of his guitar, and he’d rather keep it that way.

Plus, last night wasn’t even fun. It usually is, with Lucia - or Luciana? - but this time it was… underwhelming. Not that he can pinpoint the reason; she did or said nothing out of the ordinary, and there was nothing wrong with the sex itself. It hasn’t exactly left him unsatisfied, but something was lacking and that gnaws at him in a way he cannot explain.

A few more reassurances, just enough time to throw his clothes back on, and Ernesto leaves the apartment, heaving out a long sigh of relief. He glances at a cab passing by, and digs into his pockets to pull out some change. Not nearly enough for a fare. He shrugs and gets walking towards the bus stop, putting the change back in his pocket - and feels his phone vibrating against his hand. A text from Héctor.

Come Friday at nine. You don’t want to miss this one.

***

"Red or white?"

"Black. You look good in black."

"All right, let me see..." Héctor lets out a hum and rummages in the closet, finally pulling back with some black lingerie in his hands. He unfolds it, glancing at the transparent skirt, and holds it up. "Is this mine or yours?"

"Yours. I'd need to walk in stilts to wear that one without tripping over the skirt."

"Or very high heels," Héctor mutters, glancing at Imelda. She's standing in front of her section of the closet, tapping her chin with a finger. She tilts her head towards him, and the braid falls from her shoulder down her back; Héctor has to ignore a sudden urge to undo it, and run his fingers through her hair.

"Is that a suggestion?" she asks, and Héctor grins.

"You look wonderful in heels."

"Aw, what a charmer."

"Plus, it's nice not having to bend over too much to kiss you."

"Aaaand you ruined it."

Héctor gives her his tried and tested Can't Be Mad At Me smile. It always works. "I'll make sure to kiss you plenty to make up for it. You still love me, right?"

Imelda laughs. "Against my better judgment," she says, and reaches in the closet to pull out some lingerie of her own - the red lacy one that never fails to drive Héctor loco. "This, with the red boots?"

"Sounds perfect."

"I get the feeling you'd say that no matter what I put on."

"You could just stay naked. You're perfect when you're naked."

Imelda's smile turns into a smirk. "Ah, but isn't it better when you get to unwrap me?"

That, of course, is a logic Héctor cannot possibly argue against. Trying to think of something else - anything that will keep him from thinking of the moment he'll get to unwrap her, because this isn't the right moment to get hard - Héctor turns away from her and begins putting on the lacy black lingerie... which, truth be told, was a nightmare to find his size. Maybe he is ridiculously tall, which is why he has so little lingerie of his own and mostly borrows from Imelda, when they feel like it.

Sometimes Héctor still has trouble believing what an amazing woman he had somehow managed to marry. Back when they had been dating just for a few weeks and were learning to know each other in ways they definitely hadn’t as kids, there were very few things about himself Héctor was afraid to talk about... his taste for crossdressing being one of them.

He knew plenty of people would find it ridiculous at best, and break up with him as soon as the confession was past his lips; the thought Imelda could do that - ridicule him and turn away - scared him more than words could say... but when he finally brought it up, his face hot as fire, there was no rejection nor mockery. Imelda had seemed intrigued, and - for the first time - she had told him about her taste for strap-ons, adding that she’d wondered if the mention of it would send him running for the hills. It had been his turn to be intrigued and soon enough they both ended up laughing, their faces bright red but relieved beyond belief, clasping each other's hand.

When they had met at her place the following week, Imelda surprised him with lingerie for them both. It was one very, very interesting evening; Héctor was delighted to find out that Imelda was as aroused as him. Crossdressing soon became normal - not something that happened every time, but often enough. It was exciting, and fun, and if made for some really nice pictures that they took great care to keep in a very, very safe place.

Not long afterwards, they’d tried the strap on together for the first time and it had been more enjoyable than Héctor had dreamed it could be - so much so that he’d lasted… forty seconds, maybe. Likely something closer to thirty.

But practice makes perfect, and they had a lot of practice since.

“When is he going to show up?” Imelda speaks interrupting the reminiscence. She sounds suddenly annoyed, and Ernesto isn’t even there yet. It’s kind of a new record, but Héctor hopes they might begin to get along better, in time. It’s a project he’s actively working on.

Héctor glances at the clock on the wall, slipping on the lingerie and lacing it up. “I told him to come in about half a-” he starts, only to trail off when the doorbell rings. “... Well, there he is.”

“And there he stays.”

“Imelda.”

“He’s got to learn to take you seriously when you give him a set time,” she points out, frowning. Héctor wonders if she even realizes how beautiful she is like this, scantily dressed in red silk and laces as she puts on her boots, the braid falling over her shoulder. “He can’t come and go as he plea--”

Clack.

Imelda freezes. So does Héctor. She turns. He smiles innocently. “I, uh--”

“You gave him the spare key?”

“I figured it would be a good idea, in case one of us got locked out. I mean, he lives downstairs, and we have his spare key.”

Imelda scoffs, lacing up her boots. “We’ll talk about this later,” he says, but Héctor knows she’s conceding the point. “And you go make it clear to him that he’s not supposed to use that key when he damn well pleases.”

“All right.”

“Use those exact words, or I will. Loudly.”

“Fine, fine,” he promises. Of course he doesn’t use those exact words, even even if he did, they would be wasted. The moment Héctor shows up in the living room, Ernesto’s jaw very nearly drops - and so does the bottle of wine in his hands, really, but he manages to catch himself just on time before it slips from his fingers and crashes on the floor.

That would definitely put Imelda in a bad mood.

“You’re early, amigo. How much cologne did you put on?” Héctor asks, tilting his head on one side in the most nonchalant way possible - like he’s fully clothed and they’re having a chat over a drink.

“I… a dash,” Ernesto mutters, gaze running across him, and he swallows.

Héctor raises an eyebrow in doubt.

“All right, maybe two. I… I brought… I… are those earrings?”

“Clip-on ones, no worries. No one had to be subjected to the sight of yours truly crying before a needle. Unlike that poor tattoo artist in Oaxaca who saw you jumping five feet in the air the second the needle touched your skin,” he adds. That is a little story that never fails to make Ernesto defensive, and it doesn’t fail now either.

“I just… I changed my mind, all right? I realized that defacing my skin was a stupid idea.”

“Of course. Was that why you were also holding my hand?”

“I was not--” Ernesto starts, but suddenly there is the clicking of high heels on hardwood floor, and his gaze goes past Héctor, to the door. He doesn’t turn to look, but he can tell the exact moment Imelda stands in the doorway from the way Ernesto’s eyes go wide, and his jaw slack. His brain seems to have crashed and, really, Héctor cannot blame him.

“Oh, there you are,” Imelda says, and walks up to Héctor. She leans on him, and taps her lower lip with a finger as she glances at Ernesto. “You’re awfully overdressed.”

That causes him to recoil, as though snapped out of a trance. The look on his face goes from the personification of a blue screen of death to sudden, clear awkwardness.

“I, er…” he starts, and swallows, his gaze moving back and forth between them. His skin is flushed, and he tugs at the collar of his white shirt. “I thought we. Dinner. First,” he manages.

Ernesto.exe is not working. Please restart.

The thought almost makes Héctor laugh, but he manages to hold back, allowing himself just the smallest quirk of his lips as Imelda shrugs and walks up to Ernesto - who almost, almost steps back… but does not. He just stays still, transfixed, as Imelda reaches to toy with the upper button of his shirt.

“Later. First, let’s get this off you,” she says, her voice soft, and tilts up his head to look at him in the eye, a hand reaching to cup his cheek. Normally, Héctor would expect his best friend to smell the trap from a mile away. Now, however, he's not at all surprised when stares at her and, slowly, he smirks. Look at him, Héctor muses, thinking he knows what’s ahead.

Ay, mi amigo, you won’t see this coming.

He somehow manages to stay serious as Imelda pulls her hand away from Ernesto’s face. Ernesto lifts his own free hand as though to catch it, but he stops himself just on time; Imelda doesn’t seem to notice, and takes the bottle of wine from Ernesto’s limp fingers.

“A good choice,” she practically purrs. “I’ll get the glasses. Héctor, would you be so kind to get him ready?”

Héctor smiles and holds out his hand, gesturing for Ernesto to follow, and he does.

Oh, he's definitely getting the wrong idea of where this is going.

***

Ernesto is very much enjoying the way things are going.

It’s not something he’s ever going to admit aloud, of course, but the fact stays that this is finally taking the direction he wanted - with Héctor and Imelda entirely focused on what mattered. Namely, on him. Oh yes, Ernesto can get used to this.

He was slightly disappointed when Héctor slapped his hands away on the way to the bedroom, but very much willing to let himself be undressed down to his underwear. He was already getting hard and he expected Héctor to get rid of his boxers, too, but he had not. Instead he'd pushed him on the bed, straddled him, and kissed him deeply.

On the mouth.

That caused his mind to go blank for a moment, because despite everything that has happened - the kisses Héctor had dropped on his shoulder and neck and face, the fact Ernesto gave him, all humbleness aside, the best blowjob a man could ask for - a kiss on the mouth was something that had just never happened before between them.

Taken aback, he found himself letting Héctor lead; it was slow and thorough, and entirely too brief. All too soon, Héctor pulled back and grinned down at him. Ernesto opened his mouth to protest, or demand more, but he placed two fingers on his lips and gave him a look that made words die in his throat. His eyes roamed across on his body, on the silk and laces on him and, in that moment, he could have let him do anything.

Which includes, apparently, tying his arms to the bedpost with silk scarves.

“Try to break free,” Héctor tells him. He does, and he can’t. To be fair, it's not like he tried with all his might; he's a pretty strong guy, so of course he could break free if he really wanted to... but for now, he'll play along.

"Good knots," he says, and tries to catch Héctor’s mouth again, only to miss when he pulls back to turn to the door.

Ernesto follows his gaze and there’s Imelda, carrying two long-stemmed glasses of red wine in one hand and a third in the other. She looks down at him, tilting her head on one side, and Ernesto has to make a conscious effort not to squirm when her gaze pauses on his groin.

He’s painfully hard and, he knows, his boxer shorts are doing absolutely nothing to hide it. Suddenly very much aware of how helpless he is, he braces himself for the calm expression to turn into a mocking smirk… but it doesn’t. She just hands two of the glasses to Héctor, and smiles.

“He might need help to drink,” she says, and looks back down at him, calmly sipping her wine.

What game is she playing?

The thought makes it briefly to Ernesto’s mind, but he chases it away before it can fully form - because thinking that would mean that deep down he knew something was up, and that would open up the very annoying possibility that he’d willed himself to ignore it to go along with... whatever Imelda is planning.

If she’s planning something, of course. Which she isn’t, or else like hell he’d have handed over control like that. Ernesto wills himself to believe as much, and turns his attention on Héctor - who has put down one glass and is holding the other in one hand, the other on the back of his head to support it.

“Salud,” Héctor says with a grin, and brings the glass to Ernesto’s mouth. Impatient as he is to get things going, he drinks in slow gulps. It’s good wine, if he says so himself - and he does say so; he picked it, after all - so there is no reason to make it go to waste. Once the glass is empty, Héctor pulls it away. A few drops fall on Ernesto’s collarbone, and before he can even protest Héctor lowers is head and suckles at his skin where the drops fell, causing Ernesto - who now he feels pleasantly warm as well as desperately aroused - to shiver.

He tosses back his head, and his gaze finds Imelda, who’s almost finished his own wine and is staring at him, her expression unreadable.

“Good choice,” Héctor chuckles, and takes the glass he left by the table - guzzling it down way too fast, but Ernesto really doesn’t give a damn whether he properly tastes it; there is one thing he wants Héctor to taste now, and it’s not the damn wine.

The empty glass is placed back, and Héctor is grinning more widely. The next moment he’s back on the bed, crawling towards him, and then he’s reaching to brush back Ernesto’s hair, humming. “Looking good,” he mumbles, and something seems to leap in Ernesto’s chest. Héctor is smiling, Imelda is towering over him, and he has a few moments to savor, once again, their full attention… until they turn to glance at each other, smirk, and are suddenly a few steps away from the bed, in each other’s arms. What the…?

“Hey!” Ernesto calls out in protest, or at least he tries to; all that leaves his mouth is a choked-out noise. He tugs at his bounds, but the knots don’t give in at all - Imelda’s fault, surely, who else may have taught him to tie knots? With a snarl, Ernesto glares furiously at them as they lock lips, hands all over each other. “Seriously? Untie me!”

“Oh, we could do that,” Imelda says, turning to glance at him. She’s leaning her head against Héctor’s chest, and traces abstract patterns over it as she speaks again. Her voice is silk-covered steel. “We could untie you, and you can go home. Or you can stay put, and if you behave you get a reward later. Your choice.”

Ernesto opens his mouth to snap at her to go ahead and untie him, but then Héctor moves to kiss her neck, and words die in his throat. For several moments he can only watch them with wide eyes because oh, they are a sight to behold, heat is pooling in his groin and his cock is so hard it hurts.

“I…” is all he manages in the end, and nothing more. Imelda smirks.

“A rare good choice from you,” she says, and Ernesto wants to hit her, wants to scream, wants to fuck her, and he can do none of those things. He scoffs, and turns away. Fine, so they can tie him up, but they can’t make him watch, and so he won’t. He won’t play along, won’t even steal a glance. He shuts his eyes, and keeps them shut.

For two whole minutes.

***

By the time the last bit fabric hits the ground - once they’ve done unwrapping each other like you do with a gift, as Imelda would put it - Héctor is desperately hard, Imelda is soaking wet… and, unsurprisingly, Ernesto is beyond frustrated.

“Are you always this slow? I think I’m about to fall asleep.”

The moan leaving Imelda as Héctor nips at her breasts turns into a scoff halfway through. She turns to glance at Ernesto, an eyebrow raised. “Are you? There seems to be a small part of you that is still very much awake.”

Ernesto glares at her, and bends his knees to try hiding the very obvious bulge in his underwear. Not that he can hide his flushed skin, or the marks on his wrists from pulling so hard at his restraints. He shifts his gaze on Héctor and his expression turns mocking. “You know, if it were me in your place, your wife would already have forgotten how to talk at this point.”

That annoys Imelda enough to pull away from Héctor. “Another sound from you, and I’ll stick a gag in that stupid mouth,” she warns, crossing her arms over her heaving chest.

Ernesto sputters. “You wouldn’t!”

“One more word, and I will,” she hisses. She is beautiful like this, hair undone and eyes flashing, and her tone makes it clear that she means every word. Ernesto can see that, too, and he goes quiet for a moment… then there is a flash of something in his eyes that Héctor cannot quite pinpoint, there one moment and gone the next, a bolt of lighting against Imelda’s steady fire.

Then, Ernesto sneers. “You wouldn’t,” he repeats, and that’s it. Next thing Héctor knows, Imelda is at the dresser and the ball gag is in her hand. Ernesto has just enough time to sputter again before said ball gag is shoved in his mouth, the strap fastened behind his head. That causes him to give a noise like that of an angry ox, and to shake his head furiously, but of course it isn’t enough to dislodge it.

Imelda grasps his hair, and forces his head back so that he’ll look at her face; he stares at her with wide eyes before he catches himself and glares. She responds with a smile. "I like you best with your mouth busy,” she says, and her free hand reaches down to palm him through the boxer shorts. The glare immediately fades, and buckles into her touch one moment before she pulls her hand away, causing him to whine in the back of his throat. The grip on his hair slackens, and she ruffles it.

“Behave, and Héctor will take care of that,” she says, giving his erection one last pat before she stands and, without another word, she’s in Héctor’s arms again.

They fuck against the wall, with Imelda clinging to him, scratching his back and biting bruises on his neck and shoulder. Even in the midst of it all - skin on skin, his wife’s body so welcoming and warm, the scent of her hair in his nostrils and oh God he’s not going to last much longer - Héctor knows, with utmost certainty, that Imelda is looking straight at Ernesto over his shoulder... and that he’s glaring back.

He loves them both but ay, sometimes they can be so predictable.

***

[Back to Part 3]

[On to Part 5]

#pixar coco #hector rivera #imelda rivera #ernesto de la cruz #coco #mind the gap

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peachhoneii · 6 years

Text

The Way the Cookie Crumbles

Rating: K+ Fandom: DuckTales 2017 Shipping: None (for now) A/N: I wanted a duck dad fist fight, and by George, I was going to get it. Tagging: @donaldtheduckdad, @robinine-blog, @spacedpanini (again for reading through all my ramblings) Summary: It was an unspoken rule within the Woodchucks to never, ever sell their annual popcorn bags on Chickadee cookies territory. Huey wisely adhered to this rule, preventing catastrophe year after year, but the JWG didn't tell him what to do when Chickadee ranks invaded Woodchuck popcorn territory.

Fortunately for Huey, his Uncle Donald wasn’t fond of rules in the first place.

When Huey initially requested to join the Junior Woodchucks, Donald saw no problem. Although he’d been barred from ever joining -- something about his temper, the counselors said, he knew it was impossible to deny Huey something he truly wanted. Of his boys, Huey asked the least.

Besides, Donald reasoned, the Junior Woodchucks’ reputation was foremost the most reputable reputation in all of Duckburg. They went to the recreational center to sign the registration forms. He dragged the pen over the signature lines, pointedly ignoring the counselor’s wary stare. Huey bounced eagerly at his side, clutching the end of his shirt as they returned to the desk, and by the end of the day, Huey was a bonafide Junior Woodchuck.

This decision was one of Donald's best. His boys were resourceful in their unique ways, but there was something about the JW that set Huey apart. He’d always been responsible, energetic, and observant.

The JW cultivated those traits, honing them to perfection, and sharpening them to levels that made Donald’s head spin. Huey’s resourcefulness relieved Donald, but the questions around the houseboat tumbled his brain. Did you know in 1895...Your great-grandfather founded the ….on and on, he went, but Donald didn’t have the heart to stop him.

Still, the Woodchucks was a good trade. Donald occasionally imagined what life would be like had he had a girl around the house, a little girl running up and down the halls, and shivered. She’d wear the traditional Chickadee uniform with its sash and multitudinous badges.

Worse, they’d have to sell cookies.

Coworkers, current and former, rushed around the city in search of potential buyers. Each wanted to sell more than the other. And why? Fifty boxes sold won their little chickadee a Rockerduck Powerwheel Jeep. Seventy-five boxes won them a trip to the Glomgold Inc. Tour - contract applied. One hundred boxes won a trip to Ollie land and so forth.

From what Donald was told, the amount of cookies sold provided a substantial amount of prestige in the organization. Awards were given at the end of the year, made from actual gold.

“Gertie Greylag wanted little girls to be equally efficient to little boys,” one parent elaborated during a monetary exchange.

This was preceded by a no holds barreled brawl. Another parent smashed through a previous transaction attempt just as Donald was reaching for the peanut butter tagalogs. He saw the parent’s head make an almost perfect 90 degree turn, but they bounced back quickly, flattening their hands on the ground and reaching their legs around the attacker’s neck.

“Buy my little girl’s peanut butter tagalogs! They’re 20% sweeter!”

“Impossible! You can’t tamper with the boxes, and he was mine first!”

Donald wisely tossed the exact amount of cash on the battling parents and grabbed a box of peanut butter tagalogs. A crowd formed a tight ring around them, and he wanted to disappear before the cops rolled in.

He learned early on it was equally dangerous to buy a box of cookies despite being easier than selling it.

Schools held annual fundraisers, but they could never match the vindictive competitiveness that was Little Chickadee cookie sales held from January 1 to the middle of March.

The time period relieved Donald of any responsibility. When popcorn season started on March 12, he and Huey visited the local supermarket to set up shop with Huey’s troop. Their sales weren’t high, but the cash intake was accept for Junior Woodchucks.

Separating the seasons and operating on a different item circumvented any potential clashes that could arise from the long standing rivalry between Woodchuck and Chickadee.

Their experience proved the system efficient.

“Where do you want to set up the table, Troop Leader Wolff?”

“Ah. Put it near the doors, but not in front of the doors.” A jovial, black wolf, Robert “Bob” Wolff grabbed the table cloths, “And set out the flavor display. We want them to know their options.”

Donald rolled into the parking lot with healthy drinks and snacks. He’d done this for six years now, and each year was better than the last. Saturday was the best day to sell popcorn.

The day of relaxation and errand running; adults rarely snapped at the children for their children hungered for tasty caramel corn, kettle corn, unbelievable butter corn, and the ever popular dark and white chocolate drizzle. The boys stacked the bags and display on the table, taking their seats behind them, and chattered amongst themselves.

“We can get maybe twenty bags, 22 tops.”

“I was hoping for thirty.”

Huey drummed his fingers on the table, “I think we may get 25. We may not earn our Life of a Salesman badge, but we won’t have to worry about not getting recognized for our efforts.”

Water precipitated on the ice chests propped along the supermarket wall with sandwiches and beverages stuffed inside. Donald was wiping his forehead when he saw the minivan zoom into the parking lot. A shiny cultured shade, its screeching stop grabbed everyone’s attention.

A carmine pump stepped out of the car door, and a voice unlike any other rang sharply, “Hurry girls! We don’t have all day. Set up over there, go, go.”

Donald’s visual acuity of 20/10 and higher was required to dissect the flurry of sandaled and tennis-shoe clad feet. Girls marched out of the minivan on all sides. In their hands were oversized paper brown bags they lifted without strain while the woman click-clacked to the trunk. A table and its cloth she stuffed underneath her arm and toted around until she found the spot she wanted -- the right side of the automatic doors to their left.

The girls huddled the brown bags behind the able as the woman set the table cloth on the table. Bright, orange lilies decorated the grassy green backdrop of the cloth. She pulled display after display onto the table, reaching quickly to snatch another out of the bag closest to her.

Cookie boxes followed and were arranged in punctilious formation; thin mints at the top, samoa/caramel delites and peanut butter patties/tagalongs in the middle, and do-si-do/peanut butter sandwiches and shortbread trefoils were the foundation. She did the same with the less popular flavors on the other side of the table; assuming someone would be interested for an oddity or two, preferably five.

As this storm descended upon them, Donald watched in ominous silence. There was something familiar about the woman; something he could not pinpoint his finger on. Was it her blond hair? No. Or her black feathers? No. Her distinct lisp; pronounced with every dribble of spit that splattered off her tongue struck him familiarly.

Folded chairs were unfolded, and metal scratching on concrete grated their ears. Be it familiar or strangely coincidental, they knew what was about to come.

“Right after twelve, good work!” She snapped her fingers, “And you said we wouldn’t make it.”

A grey rabbit whose brunette hair was plaited with lavender ribbons spoke, “You were driving three times the speed limit.”

“Yes, but we arrived before twelve.”

“Dad isn’t gonna be happy if you get another speeding ticket.”

“He won’t know that I’ve gotten one.” She glared at the girls, “And don’t tell your parents.”

The violet tinted skunk step forward, “Troop Leader you said we could get some snacks.” The woman gasped lightly and fished through her clutch purse, revealing a twinkling platinum credit card.

“Does Dad know you have that?”

“I was given strict instructions to use this card for your benefit, little miss.” She gave the skunk the card, “Get healthy snacks, y’hear me? We may be selling cookies, but we don’t need to raise our blood sugar levels.”

The grey rabbit stared at him, shook her head, and followed the girls into the supermarket, “You really are something.”

“And you’re wasting time, dearie.”

With a frown, she walked backward, revealing a brown wallet she held in her hand. The woman gasped as the girl giggled, running after her friends as the automatic doors closed, reflecting her cheeky expression.

“You’re despicable.” She gritted her teeth, “You are despicable, Babs Bunny,” as an afterthought, “and don’t forget to get my bottled tea!”

Holding a second ice cooler, he observed the woman. Her blonde hair - no, synthetic, a wig, brushed softly against the wind. Black feather glistened under the sun, indicating a special oil moisturizer product. He glanced at Huey’s white feathers. He winced. Light reflected and bounced straight into his eyes. Stepping back, he shield his eyes to see where the line formed and spotted her neck.

What he thought was the traditional white neck line of the American black duck was something brighter, more expensive than he originally thought. A pearl necklace.

“What would the girls do without me?” She contemplated aloud, accent thick with a well articulated lisp, “I need to make sure we sell enough to beat that loud mouth chicken.”

No. Donald’s chest palpitated. No. What did it matter that the extremely low chances were adjacent to impossibility? They were adjacent, not actually impossible.

It was the lisp. Donald hadn’t pushed it back as much as he allowed it to slip away. It’d been a relic of a former life, set aside for something more. He refused to believe the truth in the moment. There was a brief span of absolute nothingness in Donald’s brain before he started to move, started to open his mouth, and questions were spat out with demands trailing quickly behind.

Huey shouted his name in confusion. Wolff tried to pull his arm. One was too quiet, and the other, too slow.

She - he raised his head, and his brow arched contemplatively. Defiance crossed over his expression and chest; his high heel pump tapped impatiently.

Donald stood in front him with clenched fists, having abandoned the ice cooler near the table, and gritted his teeth.

“Daffy Duck.”

“You have grey feathers.”

Donald bristled, “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Spittle popped off his bill, “We’re selling cookies.”

“This is our turf.”

“Your turf?” Daffy scoffed, “This is the Duckburg Supermarket. It is open to all Chickadee and Woodchucks, as long as the required paperwork is signed, and bad for you, I have my sales permit!”

His bill twitched, “We were here first!”

“So?” Daffy straightened one of the displays, and waved flirtatiously at an approaching couple, “Our Chickadee cookies are absolutely delectable. They won’t crack your teeth like those popcorn kernels.”

“You can shove your cookies right up your -,”

“Uncle Donald?”

Spinning around Huey’s pensive expression locked him. He searched from one bill to the other, unasked questions ready to shoot at him, and Donald gulped. Daffy clicked his tongue and returned to the table.

At a loss for words, the question hung precariously between them. Donald thought of what he could say, of what was suitable for a twelve year old boy. He readied the response, whatever its content, when the automatic doors slid open.

“This...this person...is...an…”

“Daffy, we’ve talked about this.”

The grey rabbit and other girls came behind. She dropped the bag of bananas, apples, kiwis, and cans of coconut milk on the table; crossing her arms, she glared irritably at them, “Dad said if you get us banned from another supermarket you’ll be taken off as troop leader.”

Daffy’s arrogance dwindled briefly, “Children are meant to be seen, not heard!”

“We’re selling cookies. We’re gonna have to talk and be seen.”

Noticing their presence, the girl offered her hand to Donald and Huey.

“Sorry, my name’s Babs Bunny.” She glanced at Daffy, “And this is our troop leader.”

Huey gripped her hand back, “Um, aren’t there male troop leaders?”

“Listen kid, when you look me, you want to look your absolute best.” He popped a heel up, “And I like the height the heels give me.”

Donald’s glare dissipated at Babs, “So, you’re here to sell cookies?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, “We got banned from Acme Acres Supermarket,” she cut Daffy’s gasp off with a sharp glare, “we thought we could sell a little in Duckburg, but we forgot popcorn season started today.”

“You don’t have to leave.”

“We don’t?”

Huey shook his head, “We don’t have a lot of bags in the first place, and this is a great hour to sell.”

“Wait, like, you guys have popcorn?” A blond-haired loon pushed through, “Like actual popcorn, please tell me you’ve got chocolatey caramel crunch!”

“Shirley!”

“Like Daffy, it isn’t for me. Pops and Grams love ‘em!” She pulled out a twenty, “I’ll take four bags.”

“Four?”

“Come on, like two bags would keep ‘em happy.” She rolled her eyes and ran to the table where Troop Leader Wolff and the others applauded their first customer of the day.

“Do you think they have the cheese flavor collection?”

“Yeah, we set up a few minutes ago.”

“Merci beaucoup, beau canard!” Hugging him fiercely, the violet skunk raced after Shirley, and was soon followed by the rest, having finished their preparations. Dollar bills and change jingled in their pockets.

“You’re telling me you could’ve bought your own snacks?” Daffy said, “Why did we have to use the card?”

“Because none of us wanted to spend our money on things we knew Dad was gonna buy us, plus, we knew you’d sneak the card.”

Daffy glared and watched as Babs walked to the table.

“So, Huey, do you have classic caramel and unbelievable butter?”

“And who are you buying for?”

“Dad and Buster love unbelievable butter.”

“Oh, right.” His shoulders shot, “And don’t forget my classic caramel!”

“Sure, Daffy.” She smiled at Huey, “I’d like to see your order arrangement.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! The organization is so specific. It’d really help.”

Like their friends, they too went to the table, leaving the adults to themselves.

“I destroyed the dairy aisle.”

“Wait, what?”

Daffy sniffed, shrugging his shoulders, “And the bread aisle, and the fruits, vegetables, yeah, I destroyed 70% of the supermarket.”

“How?” This was Daffy. This was the little, black duck who refused to follow social norms and other rules of propriety, “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but how?”

Crossing his arms, he looked away, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You got into a fight with another parent, didn’t you?”

“No one insults my sweet, darling Babs.” He glanced where she and Huey munched on popcorn, “She’s the light of my life.”

“Doesn’t she have a brother?”

“Buster is my joy. Babs is my pride,” he clarified.

“Wait, I thought she was the light?”

“That’s what I said, my light and joy.”

“Buster is your joy.”

“Who asked you?”

Donald’s eye twitched, and on the right side of his head a headache started to throb.

The last time they’d seen each other, Donald succeeded in destroying Daffy’s white grand piano. In retaliation, Daffy smeared what Donald wanted to believe was mud across his piano keys, as well as booby-trapping the lid.

His fury knew no bounds.

Daffy’s laugh followed him right to the enlistment office.

“Uncle Donald?” Huey ran to them, “Hey, Uncle Donald!”

“Huh, yeah?”

“The Woodchucks and I discussed it.” He beamed brightly at him, “Troop Leader Wolff said we could buy some of the Chickadee cookies.”

“I want ten boxes of Do-si-dos!” Troop Leader Wolff opened his wallet, “And five thin mints, my husband loves ‘em.”

Daffy’s and Donald’s tense glares didn’t go unnoticed.

The long-standing feud between Chickadee and Woodchuck was longstanding. Huey researched the subject vigilantly, spending late hours at the local library when the official Woodchuck archives failed to offer the information he sought. Clinton Coot and Gertie Greylag were close friends, having grown up as next door neighbors, and chose to nurture a healthy relationship between Woodchuck and Chickadee.

Huey theorized the rivalry started after Greylag’s death, ten months after Coot’s, where the grieving members lashed out at each other. It was only then did their healthy, friendly relationship began to weaken.

His research didn’t produce any instances of disaster on one side or another. The rivalry was nothing more than a myth, but this didn’t stop the higher ups for making the tactful decision to maintain a respectable distance during cookie season.

Having purchased four boxes of Chickadee smores, Huey sat along the wall, breaking his personal vow to not snack before his proper lunch.

“What’s Daffy? Your dad’s roommate?” Marshmallow, chocolate, and graham-cracker was mushed together in crunchy delight, Huey stared at Uncle Donald and Daffy, engrossed in unstimulating conversation, “He really knows how to walk in those heels.”

“He’s more than my dad’s roommate.” She sipped her strawberry soda, “He’s my dad’s boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend? You said he has a girlfriend.”

“He does.” Babs grinned, “He has a boyfriend and a girlfriend.”

“How does it work?”

“It’s simple.” She leaned on the wall and let the soda take hold, “Dad goes out with Lola every now and then, she sleeps over. Daffy goes out with Tina every now and then, and sometimes, he stays at her apartment. But we have family dinner, and Dad and Daffy sleep together sometimes.”

All new and different, Huey looked at her as if he couldn’t believe what she was telling him, but she spoke with such normalcy that he couldn’t think of doubting her.

“How’d they meet?”

She shrugged, “The post office. It’s been six years now, and I like it. Buster was already living with us, so it was like we found the last piece to the puzzle...or the last piece found us,” she chuckled, “he said he was crashing but just ended up mooching off Dad. But it’s nice. Dad loves him, and I know he loves us.”

Huey bit into another smore, “Uncle Donald hasn’t dated. I don’t think he’s ever dated.”

“Aw, well, I thought the same about Dad, but he and Mom got along enough to make me.”

“How?”

“They weren't married.” Babs explained, “I think they grew up in the same Brooklyn neighborhood.”

“Do you get to see your mom often?”

“She’s a flight attendant, but she sends us tons of souvenirs and photos.” She showed him her phone, “She passed over Ithaquack.”

He checked the photo and grimaced, “Yeah, that’s Zeus.”

“You’ve met him?”

“My family visited Ithaquack,” visited being a loose term. “We met Zeus and Storkules.”

“Is he as big of a jerk as he is in the myths?”

“Yep, pretty much. Uncle Scrooge beat him at every competition, but then we beat Storkules, who’s my uncle’s best friend.”

Huey stared back at Donald and Daffy. They didn’t appear angry anymore although Uncle Donald’s fists were still partially clenched, and Mr. Daffy’s arms were still crossed against his nonexistent bosom.

“I think they know each other,” Babs said.

“I think so too.”

She slid her phone into her back pocket, “Daffy used to play piano at the Ink & Paint Club.”

“What’s the Ink & Paint Club?”

“I dunno. Dad gave him the look, so he didn’t tell me the rest.”

Huey pulled back, staring at Uncle Donald and Daffy. Irritation tip toed around their bills and the corner of their eyes, and Huey dug for his JWG.

“Huh. Always wanted to see one up close.” Babs got out her LCG, “It’s dense material, ain’t it?”

He flipped through the pages, “Right here,” tapping under the bold print, “the Ink & Paint Club is a legendary Hollywood nightclub known for its numerous celebrity patrons and famous, occasionally infamous performances.”

“One of the most infamous performances was Looney Sailing Piano Duel.” Babs read the article in her LCG, “Known for its merrie melodies these piano duels were regularly performed with vulgar violence and obscenity. The last act resulted in both performers being hooked off the stage, which was how all performances ended.”

“It doesn’t identify the performers.”

Babs shrugged, “Daffy can be obscenely violent, and stupid. He didn’t mention a partner though.”

“The JWG says the last performance included,” reading on he twitched in disgust, “a booby-trapped upright piano. One of the performers was thrown under a grand piano lid, with the top smashing down on them.”

“Both performers were dragged off stage after the booby-trapped piano exploded, destroying the stage, but leaving the audience roaring with applause.”

“It sounds crazy,” Huey closed the book.

“It sounds fun.” Babs wondered aloud, “I don’t see why Dad cut Daffy off.”

"Mr. Duck!”

Mr. Duck, the black feathered one, clutched the underside of his bill in pain. He’d fallen backwards. His precious pumps clicked and snapped in two on the way down. He didn’t stare up at Mr. Duck, the white feathered one, in shock or even disappointment. A slow, wicked curve took hold of his bill, and he sneered, twisting his delicate hands into fists.

“You do know this means war,” he spat.

“Bring it, bub.”

Mr. Duck, the black feathered one, wrapped his hand firmly around Mr. Duck’s throat, and threw him to the ground, punching him right in the eye. The white feathered Mr. Duck shouted in pain, clutched his wounded eye, and rolled on the ground as they scuffle progressed.

“Oh no,” Babs stood and whistled, “come on girls, you know the routine!”

“Wait, Babs!”

But the girls knew what to do, grabbing the tables and bags, they ran to the minivan and tossed them inside. Mr. Wolff ran to separate them, but they were too fast, too strong for the hot-headed ducks. A small crowd formed around the fighting drakes, and Babs ran back, hissing at Huey.

“Take off your badges and hat!”

“But why?”

“Ya’ want those people to know it’s a Woodchuck - Chickadee brawl?” Glaring at him as if it was the most obvious thing, she ran to the tussling ducks holding a small device in her right hand.

Huey was about to ask what she was doing when Shirley threw him a pair of ear plugs. She motioned quickly for him to put them in, and he did without question. He was about to ask what she was doing when she blew into the whistle, and the most annoying, screeching sound came out.

But Huey was deaf to this sound. He watched as Donald and Daffy clutched their ears in pain, curling on the pavement, and the observers who were also ducks ran off in shock and horror.

“Sufferin’ succotash!”

“Turn it off! Turn it off!”

Her breath carried for thirty seconds. Lowering the whistle, she glared and pointed to the minivan, “Get. In. The. Van. Now.”

“But -,”

“I said now!”

Mr. Duck looked back at Mr. Duck and saw the amazed, amused stares beholding them. He grabbed his broken pumps and scurried to the minivan. Huey didn’t get to say goodbye or even wave goodbye before the minivan burnt rubber out of the parking lot, and out of the city.

“Uncle Donald?”

He lied on his back, arm covering his eye, “Yeah, Huey?”

“Are you...are you okay?” He moved Uncle Donald’s arm and winced.

“That bad?”

“No, no.” The crowd started to disperse, suddenly bored with the weak conclusion, “You may want to put a steak on that eye though.”

Donald groaned, covering his darkened eye again.

The drive back to the mansion was uneventful. Fortunately, the authorities were not notified, and the Woodchucks grabbed their belongings and returned home. Troop Leader Wolff was amazed. He’d heard of Donald Duck’s temper, but hadn’t experienced the full length of it. As he said, as long as no actual harm was done, there was no need to worry.

“Let's not make a repeat of this, okay, Donald?”

“Sure, pal.”

The drive back to the mansion was uneventful. Huey replayed each event in his head, trying to spot the actual moment his uncle’s anger was ignited, but the more he replayed, the harder it became. The second Mr. Duck appeared something was off about Uncle Donald. He didn’t restrain his obvious dislike for the man; it was impossible for him to completely conceal his dislike for him. Huey liked to think he had given it a try for his sake.

He sighed.

“Sorry.”

“Huh?”

Uncle Donald gazed into the rearview mirror, “I’m sorry for ruining the popcorn sale.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Uncle Donald.”

He gave him a look.

Huey laughed, “No seriously, you didn’t. Some folks bought the last of the popcorn to watch the fight, so you helped us out.”

“Great.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Huey fidgeted in the backseat. Along with the fight, the Ink & Paint Club cropped in his head. His uncle didn’t discuss much about himself. Huey knew better to ask a direct question about his uncle’s past. He might not have looked the part, but Donald Duck was notorious for evading difficult questions.

But still, Huey knew he had to try.

“Did you know Mr. Duck used to play piano?”

“Huh, you don’t say.”

“Babs talked about him.” He drummed his fingers on the faded cushion, “He’s her dad’s boyfriend, and he used to work at this club he told her about.”

“Oh did he now?”

“Yeah, he didn’t tell her too much, but she said it was the Ink & Paint Club.”

He made a right. His grip tightened around the wheel, “Ink & Paint Club, never heard of it.”

Huey swallowed his gasp. Uncle Donald never lied, except for the time he told them about the potty fairy; Huey knew what his uncle did with their waste. He was horrified.

It wasn’t his place to ask. Although his uncle’s tone didn’t end the discussion, Huey sensed this was the end, and he looked through the window as they drew near to the manor.

He wasn’t upset. Just a little disappointed.

It was then his gaze flickered to the ice cooler, and widened.

An excited grin punctured his disappointment.

Louie was elated to have his phone returned to him. He asked no questions when his brother went upstairs to wash up for dinner, ready to resume Ottomon’s Empire season two. He didn’t check the contacts, the call log, or even the browsing history. Of his brothers, Huey was the one he didn’t have to worry over. His phone was returned perfectly intact, no cracks or smudges; it even smelled of fresh wildflowers.

Lounging in the home theater with Dewey and Webby, he flicked through the channels as the other two discussed some unsolved mystery they were determined to crack. Ottomon’s Empire season two was an improvement of season one, though it’d taken him days to appreciate it.

“Okay, if we go down hill towards the lake we may be able to fish out the artifact.”

“Didn’t Uncle Scrooge say the lake was guarded by a mystical beast?”

“Why yes, Dewey, it is, but I found a magical mirror in the room of mysteries.”

“You mean the garage?”

“Yes, I mean the garage.”

Louie rolled his eyes, “There’s a million rooms in this place. Can’t you have adventure sibs somewhere else.”

“We wanted you to be a part of it.”

“And since you won’t leave until you’ve binged watched the entire season, we decided to stay here until the meeting is adjourned.”

“Huey isn’t here.” Louie groaned and increased the volume, “I’d say he was lucky to go on his JW camping trip this weekend.”

Perhaps, this was the trigger he needed for his phone vibrated on the cushion next to him. Picking it up, the indicator replied he received a new text message.

Sipping his Pep can, he tapped the screen, and his carbohydrate drink lodged uncomfortably in his throat.

Dewey and Webby stared in confusion as he sputtered and coughed, spitting Pep left and right.

“Dude, gross! Beakley just mopped.”

He coughed, patting his chest, “Muygh phooey.”

“My phooey?” Webby looked at Dewey, “What’s a my phooey?”

“No!” Louie snapped, throat cleared, “I meant my phone! I got a weird message!”

Louie didn’t receive weird messages, and during the rare occasion someone sent a text to the wrong number, Uncle Donald swiftly removed it.

But there was nothing weird about this message. Surprising as it was, Louie didn’t feel uncomfortable. Dewey and Webby leaned over his shoulders and chuckled weakly.

“Wait, is that Uncle Donald?

Look at what I found in Daffy’s closet! He totally did work there, and they were partners! Don’t tell ‘em I snuck in. ;)

Within the message was an old, black and white photo. On the right of the photo was a little black duck playing a white upright piano. On the left was their Uncle donald dressed in a black tuxedo playing a black, grand piano. The little black duck wore a cheeky grin dipped in looney mischievousness. Uncle Donald wore an angry, temperamental glare on his face; its temper was directed at the little black duck.

“Who is this!?”

“It’s signed, Babs B.” Webby read, “Didn’t Huey use your phone a few weeks ago?”

“He did.” Louie tapped the photo to enlarge it, “But why is this girl sending us - him a photo of Uncle Donald.”

Dewey pointed to the black duck, “This must be Daffy.”

A multitude of thoughts scurried back and forth through Louie’s mind. Of the many he had latched onto one and only one, and it was the discovery his responsible, ever cautious, ever reasonable brother was capable of the same cruder mannerism as the rest of them. He was speechless.

“Look guys, she’s sending another.”

Another message popped on the screen, Louie tapped it. He winced.

And thanks, dude! We made first place!

Young girls dressed in Chickadee uniforms circled around a great, gold trophy, their faces alight with victory and triumph. Beside them their troop leader, a lean black dack whose platinum blond hair shined through the picture stood nearby, smugly glaring into the camera

Dewey turned his head crookedly at the screen, “Hey, is that lady a dude?”

“I don’t know, but if he is, those heels give him great height.”

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #donald duck #scrooge mcduck #huey dewey and louie #huey duck #mywriting #looney adventures in duckburg au #laid au #i can't believe i typed that out #daffy duck #babs bunny

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toevenexist · 6 years

Text

Snow (Prt 1?)

So I am so so sorry for taking so long with this, life swept me up and tossed me about at bit but I’m back and here is a fic that is loosely based on you prompt, but I hope you like it. Let me know if you want to see a part 2.

Prompt: Hey, I really love all your fan fictions. Especially the one where Owen and Amelia are on the plane is one of my favourites. I was thinking, maybe you could write one about when Amelia is staying at Edwards' place and hides. She's getting sick and tries to play down her symptoms in front of Edwards but as it's getting really bad one night and Stephanie fears it might be appendicitis, she brings her to the hospital where of course Owen has a night shift in the ER. I'd really love to read that one.

Masterpost

Enjoy xxx

“Okay, everything is…” Amelia flinched, feeling a stab of pain lurch across her stomach. April looked across the patient briefly, furrowing her brows. Amelia exhaled, tugging on the hem of her scrub top, “Everything is fine here, so I’m…” Amelia side stepped to the door, running her hand through her hair, she felt hot, flushed. April was about to question her but she ducked out, ambling into the chaos of the main floor of the ER. She ran her eyes about the place, catching sight of Owen leaning over a patient, He began to raise his head and she quickly shifted out of his site, into the hall where she leant heavily against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut.

She pressed her hand to her stomach, muttering “Damn,” swiping the back of her hand across her clammy forehead.

“Amelia,” Amelia was relieved to hear Alex’s voice instead of Owens. She stood up straighter, pushing herself off the wall. “What’s… are you okay?” Alex asked her, placing his hand on her shoulder, looking her over. She smiled tightly, keeping her hand against her stomach, pain rippled beneath it. “I… no, I think I’m sick, I…”

“Do you want me to check you over or…”

“No” She interrupted him, shaking her head. She closed her eyes. “I…” She looked along the hall, remembering that she had come in with Meredith and Maggie. Her stomach cramped again and she winced, pressing her palm against it more firmly.

“I go on a break in 5, I can take you home, to Mer’s?” Alex asked her, leaning down to her height, rubbing her shoulder. She nodded, peering along the hall to the ER. “Alright, meet me at the exit in ten minutes then?” he said, the worry never leaving his face. He brushed her shoulder one last time. She nodded subtly. “I’ll talk to Bailey if you want, saves you having to?” Alex asked her kindly. Amelia smiled thankfully, “Thank you” she said, nodding again.

Alex strode away, leaving her alone. Amelia pushed off the wall. Making her way to the elevator.

“Amelia,” It was Owen’s voice this time, calling from behind her. Amelia closed her eyes, pausing a moment before turning.

“Hey...er… are you okay?” Owen reached her, and eyed her up and down, gaze pausing at her hand where it rest against her stomach. Amelia dropped it, immediately missing the warmth.

“I… I’m okay, just sick. I’m going home, to Mer’s” she clarified, she still thought of him as her home, and the home they had together. He nodded, eyes darting around her face. She felt a pull there, she wanted to hold him, and he felt it too. The elevator chose that moment to open its doors, and Amelia sank into it, relieved that the temptation to fall into Owens embrace was lessening.

Owen held the door, “Do you…. If you need anything…”

Amelia smiled, “I know” is all she said. Residing in his eyes as the doors closed.

“Maybe you should go up to bed” Alex stood beside Amelia as she sank down onto the couch. She shook her head, tugging on the blanket that sat on the back of the couch. Alex sighed, assisting her, he crouched down in front of her. “Are you hungry, or thirsty? I can make you something before I go?” Amelia opened her eyes, meeting his.

“No thank you” she mumbled, breathing in deep. Alex pursed his lips.

“I’ll get you some water, you should stay hydrated at least, take some advil?”

Amelia closed her eyes, nodding.

She took the pills, downed half of the glass of water and fell asleep as the drug began to work. Alex sat with her longer than his break would allow before leaving, turning on the TV and a couple of lamps as he left.

The lights of the Christmas tree twinkled mutely as she slept, The TV hummed quietly, casting a flickering glare across Amelia’s pale, grimacing face. A couple of hours after Alex had left Amelia stirred harshly from sleep, groaning, moving her hands cautiously across her stomach, to where the pain spiked sharply at the right side.

She shivered, not from the cold, but from the pain. Tears welled in her eyes and she inhaled shakily, puffing out a breathe as steadily as she could. Her throat felt dry and she glanced across to the coffee table where the glass of water sat. She looked away from it, deciding it was too far, squeezing her eyes closed.

She began running through all the possible causes of the pain. She depressed her hands against her stomach, feeling pain on the press down and not the release, which told her it was likely not appendicitis, unless it was presenting oddly. She side eyed the glass of water again and decided to see if the pain worsened when moving.

Carefully, she slid her feet off of the sofa, and hoisted herself up using the back of the sofa, screaming at the tearing pain that ripped through her.

“Okay, okay, okay, okay…” she gasped, clenching her fists around the fabric of the blanket. She hadn’t heard the fist knock at the door. She held her breath, unsure if she had misheard. She heard another clear knock and sighed. Feeling her eyes fill with fresh tears at the idea of getting up to answer the door.

She stayed put, hoping it was just a salesman or caroller who would go away. But the knocking only got louder and more frequent. Amelia shuffled along the couch, knuckles whitening as she gripped onto it to get herself up.

The knocking was loud, “Alright” She bellowed, staggering out to the hall, leaning heavily into the wall.

Leaning there she saw and extremely worried, extremely cold, Owen. Snow bellowed at him from behind. He took her in, eyes diving about her figure.

Amelia sighed, leaning toward the door and opening it without moving her feet. Owen bustled in, cold sweeping in with him. Amelia closed her eyes and received the cold against her flushed skin.

“Amelia, are you okay, I was knocking for ages?” Owen said, carefully taking off his coat so not to shake the snow onto the floor. Pain twinged in Amelia’s stomach so she replied with a soft groan, eyes closing. She felt Owens cool hands on her and let him guide her, whimpering with every step, back to the couch.

“Why are you here?” She whispered, grimacing, trying to push Owens hands away as he tried to examine her.

“Mer came to me, asked me to check on you when my shift finished, she’s stuck there tonight, Maggie and Alex too”

Amelia rolled her eyes, and let her head fall back, letting Owen lift her shirt. She prepared herself for pain as he palpated closer to her lower right quadrant, but she still squealed when it hit. He frowned, pulling her shirt down quickly and pressing the back of her hand to her forehead and cheek,

“Owen…” Amelia moaned, pushing his hand away, “I’m okay, you don’t have to…” her fight faded, pain radiating.

Owen knelt at her feet and pushed on her boots, and she offered no resistance. He picked up her jacket, pausing with it in his hands, deciding he’d leave her wrapped in the blanket instead.

“Amelia, come on…” he said, bending at her side, wrapping an arm around her and taking her hand, “No… no… I…” she halfheartedly protested, standing with his help.

“We’re going to the hospital, to figure out what this pain is” he explained walking her to the door, picking up his jacket as they went. Amelia simply closed her eyes, trying her best to ride the pain like a wave.

“Alright?” He asked her, moving around her and pulling the blanket up over her head, picking up a random coat and wrapping it around her, she noted that it smelled of Meredith. She nodded, helplessly leaning into his side as they moved out into the snow.

“Hemorrhagic cyst” Arizona declared, pressing her lips into a tight smile of sympathy at Amelia’s whine. “I don’t want to operate, but I am going to put you on bed rest for a period of watchful waiting and hopefully it will dissolve on its own, but we don’t want it rupturing. If your pain suddenly increases, I want you back here a.s.a.p, okay?” Amelia nodded, frowning, still in pain.

“Cold compresses, and hot, can help with pain” Arizona spoke decidedly to Owen, finding Amelia to be too distracted. “Anti-inflammatories should help, and if she’s really struggling, a hot bath can do wonders, but I need to stress the importance of bed rest right now” Arizona spoke to Owen, who sat beside Amelia, nodding.

“Can we give her anything now?” He asked, running his eyes over her.

“No, no drugs” Amelia retorted, shaking her head.

“Just anti-inflammatories Amelia, nothing else” he assured her, taking her hand. She squeezed it, lolling her head towards him, thankful for his presence, deciding to forget that they were sort of separated. Arizona nodded, leaving to fetch something for Amelia’s pain.

“Are you comfortable?” Owen asked Amelia, sitting at the foot of her bed. She hummed, nodding.

“I’ll get you a hot water bottle to put on your stomach, would you like a hot drink?” Owen spoke as he tugged off his shoes, slinging them under her bed.

“Okay” she muttered, meeting his eyes. “Are you staying?... here with me?” she asked him tiredly, a glimmer of hope flashing in her lidded eyes.

“Of course Amelia, as long as you need me” Owen rest his hand against Amelia’s thigh, rubbing softly.

They heard the kettle tick as it finished its cycle and Owen stood. “Will you…” he stopped at her words, turning back to her. Her eyes were wide, innocent. “Could you open the curtains, I like the”

“Snow” he smirked, finishing her sentence. He knew that about her; they’d once spent an entire morning at the trailer, in bed, holding each other, snow falling in sheets.

Owen pulled the curtains open and the whiteness of the snowy sky pooled into the room. He stood at the window, looking out.

“Is it thick?” She asked him, a small part of her wishing she could stand beside him.

He smiled tightly, “It is, and getting thicker, there’s about a foot of snow” He grinned, turning back to her, “Sledding?” he chuckled. Amelia shook her head, smiling weakly, “Ha ha.”

“I’ll be back in a bit”

“Owen…” she stopped him again. He turned and met her pale blue gaze. “Thanks, for looking after me… I… I really...”

“It’s okay…. I want to” he said, realising his words moments after they fell from his lips. He sat with those words, deciding he wanted her to know… that he wanted to look after her. ‘I love you’ he thought of saying, but didn’t. She knew.

“Thank you” she said again, soothing her hands over where the duvet sat atop her stomach. He smiled softly, nodding.

“I’ll be right back, did you want a hot drink?” he asked again.

She smiled a lopsided smile and nodded, “please.”

Fin xx

Thanks for reading, reblog and let me know what you think!! xxxx

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bearfeat42 · 6 years

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I see them like a very funny couple, no angst between them, just happiness for being together! Like two besties that enjoy the other's company so much and that can't keep their hands away from each other (and Cowbell that likes cuddles and Earth to fuck endlessly :) ) thanks you're such a cutie!

(Hey anon I know it’s been such a long time since you sent this prompt to me and I’ve been wanting to write something for you for a long time, but the story just didn’t come to me. I still wanted to write you something cute, so I hope you like this!)

Earth covered his ears athearing more of the clunking of that fucking stick against that fuckingcowbell.

‘You know!?’ He yelled overthe other ghoul’s banging, ‘Why not go for a more subtle instrument? Like aukulele?’

The ghoul lowered hisinstrument and looked at Earth, a bit baffled. ‘No.’ He said. ‘This is it. Don’tbe jealous of a new percussionist in the band.’

‘One, you’re not with the band.’Earth responded, lowering his hands, ‘and b: I am not jealous. I am in pain.’

The other cackled and shovedhim, making the smaller ghoul stumble a little. He caught himself grabbing anearby drum set.

‘I’ll take this.’ His friendsaid to the salesman of the music shop. Then, he turned to Earth. ‘From now on,I shall be known as Cowbell ghoul!’

Earth reached for hisshoulders and stood on his toes, and as the other was much taller than him, hebowed a little, meeting Earth’s lips halfway.

‘Alright then, Cowbell.’ Earthsaid. He took out his wallet. ‘Let me gift this to you. I am happy you are aghoul now.’ He looked at his feet, feeling a blush creep up from beneath hiscollar. ‘Finally.’ He said softly.

Cowbell wrapped an arm aroundhim, and when Earth looked up to meet his gaze, the other arm too. He sighed contentlywhen Earth leaned his cheek against his chest.

‘Me too.’ He mumbled. Hepressed his lips to Earth’s crown. ‘Thank you, Earth.’

The drummer took his hand anddragged him to the counter, because they were on a limited time schedule. Hepaid, thanked the cashier, and they hurried to the taxi that had been waitingfor them with the meter running. They met the other ghouls and Papa Emeritus atthe venue, where they were getting ready.

‘So, what have we decided on?’Papa Emeritus raised his brow at Cowbell. The ukulele?’

‘What is it with you peopleand ukuleles today?’ Cowbell said theatrically, taking out his instrument. Heproudly showed it to the others.

‘Cowbell ghoul.’ Papa stated.

‘Cowbell ghoul indeed.’

‘You need clothes. Let me see…’Papa Emeritus looked him up and down. ‘Maybe you can have Alpha’s extracostume?’ He looked behind him, seeing the lead guitarist nod at him, and lookthrough his bags.

‘Although…’ Papa continued. ‘Youare kinda leggy. Air?’ The keyboardist turned, already holding an extra pair ofhis pants. ‘Good. Now, Mist is done with her dressing room, so you can use itif you want…’ He trailed off. He left looking for a larger mirror. Earthfollowed Cowbell to the lady’s dressing room.

‘Alright then, Leggy ghoul.’He grinned. He hung his costume over a chair and kicked off his shoes. Cowbelllaughed too as he unbuttoned his shirt. He dropped his pants and kicked themaway, then lifted his leg to place a foot on the vanity.

‘But I am very leggy, am I not?’ He waited until Earth turned to look,then ran a fingertip from his ankle up over his knee. Earth turned red as Cowbellran it over his thigh and up to his hip.

‘Don’t… don’t do that now, mydear.’ Earth said softly.

‘What do you mean?’ Cowbellplaced a hand on his ass.

‘You know what I mean.’ Earth’svoice was a whisper now. Cowbell’s socks weren’t matching. He hadn’t shaved indays. His tight butt was showing perfectly through the underwear tighteningaround it because of how he stood.

A loud knock sounded on thedoor.

‘Sound check!’ They heardAether yell. ‘Five minutes!’

‘Five minutes?’ Earth lookedat the other, hopeful, but Cowbell let out to what sounded to him like cruellaughter. He turned his back to Earth, and bended over the chair to pick up thecollected pieces of his costume. He stepped into Air’s pants. Earth swallowedhard. He felt blood was rushing to a place that wouldn’t get its five minutes,and he covered his crotch with both hand.

‘Can you give me a stick?’Cowbell said, fastening his cumber band. He was almost completely dressed, givefor mask and shoes.

‘What?’ Earth said, feelingthings stir under his hands.

‘A drumstick? To play with?’Cowbell sought for the balaclava. When he finally found it, he pulled it overhis head, turning to Earth again to show him how silly he looked.

‘Earth! Honey, get dressed! Whatthe fuck?’

It was as if Earth was suddenlypulled back to reality. He cursed loudly as he put on pants, anxiously hidinghis erection from his leggy boyfriend.

‘I got distracted!’ He whined,trying to fit himself comfortably in his clothes. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Hehastily pulled a shirt over his head, then buttoned up.

‘Hmm.’ He heard Cowbellanswer. ‘Wouldn’t know what that’s like.’

Balaclava, cumber band, mask.Earth tried to balance himself on one leg as he put on a shoe, moving the spatover it. He looked up when he heard a loud sigh. His mouth fell open. Cowbellsat there, fully clothed, but with his dick in hand. The leggy ghoul strokedhimself languidly, eying the drummer ghoul through the mask.

‘Hurry up, dear.’ He said.Earth could hear the smile in his voice. ‘They are waiting for you.’

‘I…’ Earth started. Cowbelltook him by surprise like this sometimes. What was he to do now? He eyedCowbell’s member, wanting to touch it, please him. Another knock on the doormade them both jump.

‘Earth!’ Aether yelled on theother side. ‘Now!’

‘Unfair.’ The drummer toldCowbell. He pointed a drumstick at him, feeling his restless cock press againsthis waistband. ‘Unfair.’ He said again.

‘See you on stage, dear.’Cowbell ran a thumb over the head of his dick. ‘I’ll come when I’m needed.’

Earth huffed, balled hisfists. Then he fled the dressing room, because the sight was just too temptingand he was sure Aether would not let him have another five minutes.

#300 challenge #fics #Earth and Cowbell #legs #banter #something with sticks

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boschlingtumbles · 4 years

Text

Can’t Buy Me Love

Stannis stared at the small gold band in his hand. Simple, elegant, but gods it felt heavy. Was it supposed to feel this heavy? How would she even be able to lift her hand when she was wearing it? Was it too heavy? Was there something wrong with it?? He’d been so sure in the store but now.... Stannis ran a hand through his rapidly thinning black hair in agitation. No, he definitely needed a second opinion. Stannis pressed the intercom buzzer on his desk. “Get me Mr. Seaworth,” he told his secretary brusquely. Ever since his parents’ unexpected deaths two years earlier (airplane crash, yes it was all very sad, thank you for the condolences), Stannis had been feeling a little antsy. Like everyone he loved might be taken from him at any moment. Davos had suggested that he should probably see a therapist, but Stormsend Shipping didn’t run itself. Anyway, it was fine, things were fine. But if there was a silver lining, it was that it had given him the courage to sit down with Melisandre and have a serious conversation about their future. And they had agreed, seven months, two weeks and four days ago, that neither of them could imagine a world without the other and it probably made sense to get married. Only it had taken an infuriatingly long time to find the perfect ring, and Stannis had resigned himself to Melisandre’s look of disappointment every time an unusually fancy dinner or important holiday came and went with no proposal. Now that he had the ring—he just needed Davos to confirm that this ring wasn’t too heavy, that it was indeed the same ring he had found yesterday and seen the salesman put into the little box and hand to him, that there wasn’t some international cabal of jewel smugglers running around and swapping rings—now that he had the ring, everything would be perfect. He had made reservations at Crossroads Inn for Friday night, and then they would walk out to the cliffs and he could propose to her the same way that they had shared so many special moments together. “Stannis?” Davos, Stannis’ best friend since middle school, poked his head into the office. Medium height, medium build, brown hair, green eyes, quiet and unassuming... Davos was almost aggressively unremarkable. Stannis had seen people who had known him since high school walk by without a second glance. Their loss—Davos was the most loyal, practical, intelligent and honorable friend anyone could ask for. “Are you sure this is the right ring?” “Seven hells, YES!!!” Davos groaned. “We have gone to every jewelry store in King’s Landing! I am going to claw out my eyes if I have to consider the cut and clarity of one more diamond!” Well, maybe he was a touch melodramatic. “You’re right,” Stannis conceded, staring at it more closely. “I just feel like I’m forgetting something, like something’s missing.” “I confirmed your reservation, I took your car to be serviced last week...” “I called the photographer...” “I called the backup photographer...” “I called Robert, Renly, Thoros and Beric...” Stannis paused, forehead creasing. “What?” Davos said suspiciously. “I realized what I forgot to do!” “Eh?” “I forgot to ask Melisandre’s family for their blessing!” Davos stared and rubbed his temples. “You want to hunt down her parents, whereabouts unknown, who abandoned her ten years ago, and ask for their blessing?!” “Don’t be silly Davos,” Stannis rolled his eyes. “That would be ridiculous. I want us to get into the car and drive to the Riverlands and ask Thoros for his blessing.” Davos ground his teeth. “And calling him would be...?” “Out of the question. This is an important tradition! It’s only three hours if we leave now and beat the traffic.” It turned out it was more like three and a half hours, but Stannis was buoyed by the thought of having someone tell him that this was okay, that he could marry Melisandre and he wouldn’t completely screw this up. Because every new stage in their relationship they had more or less slid into by accident. Friends, dating, living together... it happened so organically. But marriage was different! It wasn’t offering to let your girlfriend stay in your apartment while she found a place and then waking up six months later and realizing you should probably make her a set of keys. There were marriage licenses to be purchased and wedding invitations to send! And the only times he ever set out to do anything deliberately with Melisandre, he’d managed to totally screw them up. Like when they’d been friends and he’d refused to kiss her because he waiting for the right moment. She’d thought he didn’t like her. Or when they were seeing each other but not actually going on official dates. He’d dragged her on quite possibly the worst first date of all time. Stannis and Davos finally pulled up at the apartment, a dismally sketchy neighborhood. “I think I should probably stay with the car,” Davos said skeptically, eyeing a group of kids across the street. “Right,” Stannis said uncertainly. Davos sighed at his expression. “You don’t need my help. You’ve set up this silly quest for yourself to make yourself feel like you deserve Mel even though you’ve been dating for ten years and she adores you. So have at it. Get Thoros’ blessing and be quick about it so we can leave before it gets dark.” Stannis scowled, but walked over to the building. The door was ostensibly locked but a hard kick forced it open. Then he slowly plodded up the stairs. It was fine. Thoros might not love him, but he certainly didn’t hate him. And he knew Stannis was proposing because Stannis had already invited him to the surprise party Friday night. And Thoros had responded with an emoji of beers clinking. So it was probably fine. Stannis finally got to landing that said “Dondarrion/Asshai” in small neat lettering that had to be Beric’s. He knocked sharply. And then again. And then again. On maybe the twentieth knock, the door opened the inch allowed by the security chain, and Stannis saw Thoros glaring out. “Whoever you are FUCK OFF!” He shouted, sounding a little out of breath. “Thoros,” Stannis said formally. Melisandre’s brother’s glare focused on him. “Stannis. Not a great time. You couldn’t have called?” Stannis really wished that Davos hadn’t stayed in the car. “Um no, sorry, it’s about Melisandre?” The door immediately opened. Thoros was barefoot and wearing boxers and an inside out t-shirt. Stannis, still wearing his suit from the office, felt a smidge overdressed. “Shit what happened?! Is she okay?!” Thoros demanded. “No she’s fine—“ “Somethings wrong with Mel?!” Beric called from the bedroom. “No—“ “Yeah!” Thoros shouted over him. “NO!” Stannis snapped. “There’s nothing wrong with her! We’re getting engaged!” Thoros blinked. “Yeah Friday, I know,” he said. Beric hopped into the room, trying to lace a shoe and button his shirt at the same time, dark blond hair rumpled and eye patch askew. “I’m ready, where are we going, the hospital? You shouldn’t have left her, Stannis, do we need to bring anything? You should have called us, is there something wrong with your phone—“ “THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH MELISANDRE!” Stannis shouted over him. Beric looked at Thoros. Thoros rolled his eyes. Beric collapsed into an arm chair sulkily. “I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Stannis tried to get the conversation back on the right track. “I wanted to ask you,” he turned to Thoros, “if I can marry her.” “Huh?” Thoros scratched his head behind the top knot. His hair was a darker red than Melisandre’s, a perpetually wild and disheveled mess, and though they both had blue eyes as well, Stannis still found it mildly incredible that they were related. “Can I marry Melisandre?” Stannis repeated slowly. “Like are you physically able to? I wasn’t aware that was... um... an issue?” Thoros began hesitantly. Stannis realized the misunderstanding and felt his face start to flush uncomfortably. Thankfully, Beric stepped in. “I think he’s asking if you object to the marriage,” Beric prompted. “What? I don’t care, go forth and multiply,” Thoros flapped a hand. “I mean assuming you...” “It’s not an issue,” Stannis squeaked furiously. He paused, took a breath, forced his voice deeper. “I want your blessing.” Thoros looked bewildered and glanced at Beric for interpretation. Stannis also looked at Beric hopefully, who so far had been much easier to deal with. To his surprise, Beric had crossed his arms and was looking back, good eye narrowed appraisingly. “What is your five year plan?” Beric suddenly demanded. “Excuse me?” Stannis squawked. He suddenly flashed on an unpleasant investor’s meeting from a month ago where he had been asked a similar question. He wondered if Beric would take an answer about emerging trends in Essosi shipping. “Melisandre is entering residency in two years. Are you going to be moving to join her?” “I’m not...” Stannis stammered. Melisandre hadn’t even decided on a specialty yet! “Well it seems like you’re rather chained to King’s Landing. That’s where Stormsend’s headquarters is, isn’t it?” Beric leaned forward. “You know I don’t think Melisandre would approve of this venture,” Thoros began thoughtfully. “Do you want children?” “Yes!” Stannis crossed his arms defiantly. “Does she?” “I think she would describe it as a broken vestige of a patriarchal system where women were sold like chattel,” Thoros continued. “Yes!” Stannis scowled at Beric. This at least they had talked about. “Well how many? When? Will it be when she’s in residency gods know where?” “So if you insist on asking for my blessing...” “I will talk to her about it!” Stannis huffed. Geez, what was with the interrogation?! Beric was being completely ridiculous! “...my price is two chickens.” Beric and Stannis stared at Thoros, and Stannis decided to stick with the five year plan. “How’d it go?” Davos asked, as soon as Stannis got back to the car and collapsed into the driver’s seat. “Indescribably awful,” Stannis groaned. “It can’t have been that bad. I thought he might beat you up.” “And you let me go in by myself?!” Stannis gave him an exasperated look. “I only thought he MIGHT. What did Thoros say?” “Ugh nothing that made any sense. Beric wants to know what my five year plan is. Do you have a five year plan?” Davos frowned. “What’s a five year plan?” “Like when are you proposing to Marya? How many children are you having? When will you have them? Where do you see yourself living long term.” Davos fidgeted uncomfortably. “...do I need a five-year plan?” “According to Beric!” “I take your point. I think it would be best for everyone if I came in next time.” “I told you so,” said Stannis, just a trifle snippily, and it was a testament to their friendship that Davos waited until he thought Stannis wasn’t looking to roll his eyes. By the time Stannis got home, it was long past dinner time, and he was unsurprised to see some boxes of Yi Ti, half eaten, waiting for him on the kitchen counter. He considered himself an average cook (what were recipes after all but instructions he could execute down to the letter), but Melisandre was more of a take out person. Speaking of which... “Bad day at work?” Melisandre lifted her head from the couch where she had been lying and watching tv. Even in her yoga pants and an oversized shirt that was almost certainly his, Stannis felt his breath catch. “You could say that,” he managed, as he watched her turn off the television and walk over to him, her curtain of silky red hair shining in the light, and even as she pressed her lips against his, it seemed utterly bewildering that he had been so lucky. “Well have some sticky rice, I’ve been slaving all day over it,” Melisandre smiled, her light blue eyes sparkling as she made the same joke she always did. “It would be a shame to neglect all your hard work,” Stannis raised an eyebrow. He dumped the remaining boxes into a bowl and stuck it in the microwave. “What are we watching?” “Oh just some legal drama,” Melisandre shrugged. “The knight prosecutor is trying to prove that the witness on the stand is lying—it’s easy to pick up as you go.” The microwave chirped and Stannis collected his bowl, settling down on the sofa next to her. Melisandre hit play. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the protagonist was pacing, looking frightfully grave. “The man you see before you is a criminal, a liar and an oath breaker...” Stannis shifted uncomfortably. Knight prosecutor. Beric was a knight prosecutor in the Riverlands. Stannis scowled. “So I was thinking,” he began. Melisandre paused the show and turned toward him, her usual half smile in place, and he swallowed to quell his nerves. “Have you given any thought to what happens if your residency is somewhere far from King’s Landing?” Stannis asked. Melisandre frowned. “I don’t see why it would be. There are so many good hospitals right here, and I’ve really been leaning toward emergency medicine—there’s no better place to be for that than King’s Landing.” “Okay, but what if it was?” Stannis pressed. “It’s for three years. We’ve been together for ten. We would figure out how to make it work... You could visit on weekends—doesn’t your company have a work remotely policy?” Stannis felt simultaneously relieved about her calmness and irritated at Beric for freaking him out. “Yes, we do. And we would make it work,” Stannis shook his head at himself. Melisandre pushed play, setting the remote back on the coffee table. The knight prosecutor was in the midst of slowly dismantling the witness’ testimony. Stannis squirmed. Tall and lanky, he even looked a bit like Beric. But with two eyes of course. “And another thing!” The prosecutor began triumphantly. Oh fuck. There was another thing. Stannis paused the show. “How many kids do you want?” He demanded abruptly. “Excuse me?” Melisandre arched an eyebrow. “Like I know we said we’d have kids, but how many? When? While you’re in residency? How would that even work? Have you considered the impact on your career?” “Stannis,” Melisandre began sweetly. “If you pause my show again to ask me existential questions, the answer will be irrelevant because they won’t be with you.” “So I should put you down for one?” Stannis scratched his head. Melisandre growled. “I’ll put you down for one,” Stannis pressed play so she would stop glaring at him. “And then she said seven! How are we going to feed seven kids?!” Davos ran a hand through his hair fretfully. Stannis hummed an acknowledgement, keeping his eye on the traffic. Was there really any good time to get to the Riverlands? They had left an hour later this time, but it did not appear to be an improvement. “Where are they going to sleep? Stacked on top of each other like sardines?!” Stannis carefully signaled and then pulled into another lane that was moving incrementally faster. Immediately that lane ground to a halt. “At that point why not go for twelve? Get a discount on items by the dozen?!” Stannis let his head drop against the steering wheel, his forehead hitting the car horn with a full squeak. “Don’t honk, Stannis, there’s no where for them to go,” Davos said absently. Another three hours later, they pulled up to the same neighborhood that appeared to be teetering on the brink of abject poverty as before. If anything it had taken the tiniest step toward the edge. There appeared to be a fire in a steel drum further down the road. At least this time he had Davos, Stannis consoled himself. Davos was good with people. Davos would talk to Beric and then Beric would talk to Thoros and then Stannis could get his blessing and be on his way. After all, he was supposed to propose in two days. Stannis began to knock, and knock. His brow furrowed. What was that thudding sound? He knocked louder to be heard over the thudding sound. The thudding sound stopped. When the door did not immediately open, Stannis started knocking again, with the patience of someone who had created a five year plan and would not be denied an audience. He did wish they would invest in a buzzer though. Finally, the door opened. It was Beric. Stannis considered telling him that his shirt had been buttoned one button off. It was unlike the man to be anything but well dressed. “Why don’t you ever call?” Beric grumbled. Stannis raised an eyebrow. It was also unlike the man to be anything but courteous. “What was that sound?!” Stannis demanded. “What sound?” Beric looked shifty. “That sound!” Stannis narrowed his eyes. “That thudding! I’m lucky you even heard me over that banging noise!” “Oh, that sound,” Beric turned toward the kitchen. “Um can I get you anything to drink? We have...” he took a peek in the refrigerator and sighed, “rum, beer or water.” “I don’t want anything to drink,” Stannis crossed his arms. “I want to give a brief presentation on my five year plan, and I want to know what that sound is in case it would be safer to evacuate the building first.” “Oh it’s nothing like that,” Beric flapped a hand. “We were just um...” his face was going unaccountably red. “Moving furniture,” Thoros slouched in from the other room, finally making an appearance. “Oooh beer? Yes please.” Beric raised an eyebrow. “But moving furniture makes me thirsty!” Thoros smirked. Davos started to blush as well. “I’ll also have a beer, if it’s not too much trouble,” he mumbled. Beric sighed and got two beers and a water. Stannis ignored them and started dragging the chairs in the living room into a semi-circle. He would stand against the far wall and give his presentation there, he decided. “I guess we’ll have to move the furniture again once they leave,” Thoros yawned. Davos coughed. “We’re very sorry to have disturbed you,” Davos said. “Stannis is just nervous about Friday, and wants everything to go smoothly. He was thinking about what you said Beric, and really took it to heart.” Beric beamed at Stannis and Stannis tried to look appropriately grateful. “If you could all sit here,” Stannis gestured to the chairs. They sat. “Melisandre’s MCAT scores and grades in the first two years of medical school put her in the ninety-second percentile of prospective applicants. Seven of the ten best hospitals for emergency medicine in Westeros are in King’s Landing. By creating a graph based on distribution of applicants based on scores and rankings, I have calculated an eighty-six percent likelihood that she will stay in King’s Landing for residency,” Stannis paused. Beric opened his mouth to speak. “If she does not,” Stannis continued doggedly, ignoring him, “the remaining three possibilities would be Sunspear, Oldtown and Hardhome. If she were to live in Oldtown, I would move there and work in Stormsend’s western office. If she were to live in Sunspear or Hardhome, I would spend Friday through Sunday with her, taking advantage of our corporate policy on working remotely.” Beric lifted a finger. Stannis stoically avoided eye contact. “Although elements of the plan remain flexible, we are tentatively planning for one child. She will finish her residency at thirty one, which leaves us with plenty of time for such... activities. Dragonstone has the best public school system of the King’s Landing districts, and of course any child would be a double legacy for King’s Landing Prep,” Stannis slowly exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Are there any questions?” “I think this is terrific,” Beric leaned forward earnestly. “Really, I think you’ve made such an amazing start...” Beric kept talking, but Stannis lost the thread. START?! He’d done everything that Beric had asked for! He’d initiated an excruciatingly awkward conversation with the woman he was trying to convince to spend the rest of her life with him! What more did Beric want?! “Um Stannis?” Davos asked tentatively. “Yes?” Stannis came back to earth. “Beric wants to know why so much of your stock portfolio is tied up in Stormsend Shipping?” “How do you know what my stock portfolio is?” Stannis said suspiciously. “I used my security clearance at work to pull your records,” Beric said brightly like this was a normal and not at all creepy thing to do. “You can do that?” Thoros looked delighted. “For just cause,” Beric said warningly. “because there’s this asshole at work who I’m sure is committing tax fraud—“ “How is this a just cause?!” Stannis interrupted, sputtering. “You want to marry Melisandre,” Beric pointed out. “She’s basically family. I would be remiss if I didn’t do a full investigation—“ “You lived down the street from me for my entire life!” Stannis snapped. “Longer than you’ve known Melisandre, certainly. How can you possibly think—“ “What Stannis means to say,” Davos jumped in soothingly, “is that he thought you had shared your concerns yesterday. He didn’t realize there would be a follow up.” “I’m sorry Stannis,” Beric blinked owlishly. “I just thought you’d want to prepare for your financial future together as well. I mean if you don’t...” “Of course I do!” Stannis protested, immediately feeling terrible. “You were saying you think my stock portfolio is over balanced toward Stormsend Shipping?” Thoros had finished his beer and was spinning the bottle idly on the coffee table. “This is boring,” he announced to nobody in particular. “Employees at companies that provide stock options are often overexposed to their place of business.” “I happen to think that a company that has outperformed the market in three of the past five years is worth investing in.” “My price is three chickens.” “...but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to diversify,” Stannis ground his teeth. “Do you think I need to diversify my stock portfolio?” Davos said thoughtfully as they were driving home. It was pitch black, and the growl in Stannis’ stomach informed him that he had again missed dinner. “Of course not,” Stannis scoffed. “Beric is being ridiculous. I never realized how obsessed he is with RULES.” “Oh?” Davos said mildly. “Is that annoying for you?” “Yes!” Stannis agreed whole-heartedly. “You’re allowed to adhere to the spirit of the law rather than the letter, you know? He’s so rigid and uptight!” Davos blinked. “....what is the makeup of your stock portfolio?” Stannis asked, seeing as Davis appeared to have lost the power of speech. “Oh, you know, just everything in Stormsend.” “Everything?!” “Well yeah, the options vest and they just stack up.” “...some diversification might not be the end of the world for you,” Stannis allowed. But that didn’t mean that Beric WASN’T being ridiculous. “Stannis, come to bed,” Melisandre purred, much later that night. Stannis pinched the bridge of his nose and willed the figures on his screen to make sense again. He’d been researching and making trades for the better part of two hours, and he still thought his portfolio was too heavy on domestic industrials. “I will in a minute,” he frowned as he considered some Volantene bonds. Low yielding, but low risk. Surely Beric couldn’t have any objection to— “Stannis,” Melisandre’s voice dipped into sultry. “You haven’t even seen what I’m wearing.” Stannis turned to look even as his mind registered that this was a mistake. It was a dark purple silk nightie that dipped sinfully low, exposing the white swell of Melisandre’s breasts. Stannis gulped, and then through sheer force of will managed to turn his head back to the screen. “You don’t like it?” Her voice dropped into a pout. Oh gods she was probably doing that thing with her lower lip that he secretly adored. What had he been thinking about? Volantene bonds? “Fine I guess I’ll just take it off,” Melisandre drawled. Stannis squinted at the numbers on the screen. He was proposing in less than forty-eight hours! He needed to get this portfolio in order before work tomorrow morning and then drive back to the Riverlands tomorrow night, there was no other window left. He’d had to wait two months for a reservation at the Crossroads as it was. And the ring in his pocket was growing heavier by the day. “Now I’m not wearing anything at all,” Melisandre said from the bed. Stannis gave an audible groan and stood up. “Going somewhere?” Melisandre said mischievously. “Actually yes,” Stannis sighed. “I’m going to work in the living room.” “Wait what?! STANNIS!” “Are we sure there’s a difference between a stock and a bond?” “Yes, Davos, quite sure,” Stannis answered idly. They had left work a whole three hours early—being the boss did have some perks; and the traffic was nonexistent. “Would you mind calling Beric and letting him know our estimated time of arrival?” “Good idea,” Davos muttered, and oddly blushed again. He pulled out his cell. “Beric? Yep it’s Davos, I’m with Stannis... we’re on our way. About forty minutes out I would say? Thanks, see you then.” Stannis nodded to himself. Everything would go perfectly this time. Everything did not go perfectly. It started so well. Thoros promptly opened the door when they knocked. There were various pleasantries. They hadn’t moved the furniture again after all, because the chairs were still there in a semi-circle where Stannis had put them. Beric was very impressed by his presentation, and said he would probably be making some tweaks to his own portfolio as a result. Davos asked some questions that made Stannis wonder if they really shouldn’t give Stormsend employees some “Investment 101” classes, and Stannis made a mental note to explore further at a later date. Then they finished and Beric actually applauded! Well, it was more like a golf clap, but it was Beric, so that was applause. “So do I have your blessing?” Stannis asked Thoros hopefully. “Four chickens,” Thoros said. Okay, not unexpected, Stannis turned to Beric still brimming with confidence that Beric would step in and tell his roommate/best friend/life partner to give his blessing. “Just as soon as you sign this,” Beric replied cheerfully, gesturing to a document on the kitchen table. Stannis scratched his head. He’d seen it when he came in, but assumed it was one of Beric’s briefs for work because it was stacked approximately 90 pages high. “Um, what is it?” “It’s a pre-nup,” Beric explained walking over. “I’ve tagged where you need to initial in yellow, and tabbed where you need to sign in green. Lucky for you I’m a notary. I assume you brought your driver’s license?” “First, you know who I am, Beric,” Stannis huffed. “You could notarize on personal recognizance. Second, a pre-nup? Mel doesn’t have anything but student debt!” “Oh you’ll be paying that off within a week of marriage, it’s dealt with in Section 5,” Beric sat down and flipped to that section. Stannis peeked over his shoulder. “And what else will I be doing,” Stannis growled. “Well, King’s Landing divorce law provides that the spouse will get half the marital property in the event of divorce—that’s the property that you and she earn during the course of the marriage. But of course when you get married, you’ll have been together for ten years. And Stormsend Shipping has really made exponential strides under your management. The gist is that she’ll be entitled to half the marital property that you have earned since you began dating. But that’s just the financials of course. I also took the liberty of formalizing certain aspects of your five year plan, I’ve included a rider regarding exposure to obnoxious family members—“ “Oh?” Stannis said acidly, glaring at Thoros who had turned on a football game. “Look it’s Robert!” Thoros said cheerfully pointing to the game. “Yes, Robert’s in here,” Beric had his nose in the contract. Stannis came to a grim realization. “No,” he said. Not rudely, just firmly. “Excuse me?” “I’m not signing a contract to govern my marriage with Melisandre. That’s something I have to figure out with her as we go. By talking about it. Not because you stuck a contract in my face. I’m sorry, I appreciate all the work this took. Come on, Davos.” Davos looked proud. Beric looked nonplussed. Thoros was still watching the game. “Good evening,” Davos gave an awkward wave and then the two of them left, shutting the door firmly behind them. Stannis collapsed agains the closed door, eyes squeezed shut. “I know that was hard, but I think you did really well. Remember, this is Melisandre and you love each other and you don’t need some archaic ritual of approval to propose to her,” Davos began. Stannis grabbed his arm to stop him, and cracked open one eye. “Where in seven hells am I going to find four chickens?” “I guess I could make some calls tomorrow—“ Stannis slid down the wall into a sitting position. “I need them tonight.” Davos sighed and sat down next to him. “I’ll call Sal.” It was ten at night by the time they pulled up to the farm, which appeared to be eerily abandoned. “You’re sure this is legit,” Stannis hissed, as Davos began climbing the chain link fence. “Sal said he had it all sorted. The owner’s out of town so he can’t let us in, but he texted the directions to the henhouse and the code to disable the alarm. We just need to grab four chickens and be on our way. And don’t forget to wire the money to Sal.” “How are we going to get back over the fence with four chickens?!” Davos considered the question. “I think I can climb with one hand. If you hold the chickens on this side, I’ll climb them over one at a time and put them in the car.” Stannis considered the answer. And then with the groan of someone at the very end of their rope, he followed Davos up the fence. “I still think a thousand dollars is a bit steep for four chickens,” Stannis muttered as he landed with a soft squelch in some mud. He cast a dismayed look down at his best dress shoes. Or what were formerly his best dress shoes. “Well you have to factor in the finder’s fee,” Davos responded as he squinted at the crudely drawn hand map of the premises that Sal had sent him. “This way,” Davos finally said uncertainly, gesturing with the feeble light of his cell phone to something that could generously described as a path. Stannis held his tongue, reminding himself that it was not Davos’ fault they were in this predicament. And their luck did seem to be turning, for lo and behold, a chicken coop loomed in the darkness. “So we just go in and grab two each?” Stannis squinted at the structure. There was a larger pen enclosed with mesh wiring, at which the coop stood in the center. The door to that was merely closed by a deadbolt from the outside. “It’s not supposed to be rocket science,” Davos shrugged, already jiggling the wiring open so they could pass through. “It smells terrible in here,” Stannis whispered as they proceeded. He wasn’t exactly sure why he whispered but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this venture was not quite as above board as Davos was making it out to be. Maybe because Sal was involved. Stannis detested Sal, although he had never met him. From every anecdote that Davos had told, that was probably for the best. “Just all the chicken shit,” Davos whispered back. Stannis looked sadly down at his dress shoes. He might have to burn them when this was over. Davos unlatched the deadbolt and they stepped inside. It took a minute for Stannis’ eyes to adjust to the absolute darkness and his nose to adjust to the musty smell of chicken. They were some clucks of protestation as he took his own phone out, and the coop was dimly lit by two cell phones instead of one. Sure enough, there were chickens nestled in bales of hay, chickens sluggishly pecking at the floor, a chicken peering down at him from rows upon rows of nests that had been constructed along one wall. The question wasn’t so much how to grab a chicken as which one. Stannis wondered if Thoros had some kind of chicken judgement criteria that affected the enthusiasm with which he gave his blessing. On further reflection, Stannis decided this was an all or nothing deal and he would take any blessing, no matter how tepidly given. He knelt down and scooped up one particularly lethargic looking hen. “Look at all these eggs!” Davos whispered, and Stannis discovered with some alarm that Davos was making his way along the nests and scooping out eggs by the handful and putting them into his pockets. “Davos!” Stannis hissed. “We didn’t pay for any eggs! Put those back!” “It’s a thousand dollars, Stannis, you’re clearly being ripped off. Besides, have you ever tasted a fresh egg? They’re loads better,” Davos continued stripping the nests of their bounty. Stannis opened his mouth to give Davos a stern lecture on ethics and contractual obligations when a sound behind him caught his ear. Something between a squawk and a shriek. Stannis half turned, only to be ambushed in the face by a flailing mass of talons. He staggered backward, striking at his opponent futilely and taking a number of gashes along his arms. He of course dropped the lethargic hen, who made a less than lethargic escape. Finally he managed to grab his assailant by the neck and fling it across the room. The rooster landed in a bail of hay and then hopped upright, still making menacing noises. “Davos!” Stannis called plaintively. The rooster shrieked again, covering the coop in three strides before springing at his face again with some kind of high jump kick attack. Stannis staggered backwards before tripping over a hen, landing hard on his butt. He had just enough time to locate his nemesis before the rooster attacked again, deftly dodging his swings to jump kick at him. Not only were the creature’s spurs gouging rents in his jacket, he’d drawn blood at least twice when Davos turned around. “Get off the floor Stannis, it’s filthy...” Davos petered off as the rooster turned its beady black eyes on him. Stannis stiffly got to his feet, the sounds of Davos yelling and the bird shrieking behind him. He dusted himself off and looked around. There was a spare bit of plywood leaning against the wall of the coop and Stannis picked it up. Thus armed, he turned grimly back to the battle. Davos and the rooster were furiously kicking at each other, the beam of light from Davos’ phone swinging wildly and giving their fight a flickering quality. He seemed to be faring marginally better than Stannis had (a low bar), but the rooster was gradually wearing his less agile opponent down. Stannis marched forward, plywood shield held in front of him. Confronted with a second target, the rooster charged. There was a thud as he hit the plywood harmlessly. A pause. Then another thud. Stannis permitted himself a smirk. Cautiously advancing forward, bumping the rooster backward each time, Stannis forced the rooster into retreat toward the back corner. On reaching their destination, he carefully leaned the plywood against the walls, trapping the rooster within. It gave a series of screeches, each more terrible than the last, but could do nothing. “Right, well done. Grab your chickens,” Davos said, scooping up two hens near him. “I cannot wait to never set foot inside a henhouse again.” Stannis personally would have liked to spend a bit more time dwelling on his victory, but Davos was sensible as always. No need to linger in this cursed place any longer. He put a chicken under each arm and they walked out into the night. Hens were mercifully considerably calmer than roosters. If they objected to being carried about well past midnight, they did not voice said objections, only clucking sleepily amongst themselves. Stannis dared to hope that this ordeal might at last be over. They rounded the bend. There was a police car next to their own, headlights flooding the area, two officers jotting down their plate number and shaking their heads. Behind him, Davos had froze. “We’re not hiding out on a farm from the police tomorrow—I mean today,” Stannis glanced after his watch. “I have to propose. C’mon.” The officers were apologetic but firm. Some neighbors had reported a break in, and the owner of the farm was currently unreachable. Until they could confirm Stannis and Davos’ not entirely plausible story, they would need to come with them to the precinct. The chickens would have to stay. Stannis looked on sadly as the chickens were ushered back to their dwelling place. Now he was going to prison. Great. “I’ll call Sal,” Davos said as they were stuck in the back of the police car. No handcuffs thankfully. “He’ll sort this out.” Personally, Stannis thought Sal had done QUITE ENOUGH already. “I’ll call Beric. He’ll know who to talk to at the station,” Stannis sighed. Beric had been asleep, but upon hearing the situation, promised he would be over as soon as he could. (This was between whisper shouting at Thoros that he’d told him it wasn’t funny, and you know how Stannis is, of course he’d take it seriously, don’t you dare go back to sleep this is your mess too!) Sal had not been asleep, and promised to get in touch with the farmer in question as soon as possible, although there were some time zone issues that meant it might be an hour or two. At the precinct headquarters, they were forced to turn in Davos’ backpack and the contents of their pockets. “Please be careful with that,” Stannis said nervously, eyeing the ring. He’d taken it out of the box so it would fit better in his pocket (and maybe not weigh quite as much), but now he regretted that decision. Fortunately the officer at the desk was a young woman with a ring of her own on her left hand. “Don’t worry,” she gave him a smile. “I think it’s beautiful.” “You don’t think it’s too heavy?” Stannis asked. “NEXT IN LINE!” Barked the officer behind him, who was neither young nor a woman. They were ushered into a cell that was quite large, but empty except for themselves and a fat man snoring on a bench some yards distant. The smell, however, was not an improvement on the chicken coop. Stannis buried his head in his arms. He was in prison and he was supposed to propose to Melisandre in... he checked his watch... sixteen hours. “Cheer up,” Davos nudged him. “At least we’re basically alone in here. I saw a guy get stabbed in a drunk tank once!” Stannis contemplated curling into a ball. After two hours of utter monotony, punctuated only by the soft snores of their unknown companion, several things happened at once. The door back to the front desk opened slightly as an officer backed up against it. With the door cracked, Melisandre’s raised voice cut through the silence like a scalpel. “You heard the man on the phone, it was a misunderstanding! How are they still in there?! So help me Lord, I will sue you for intentional infliction of emotional distress! My brother’s boyfriend is a lawyer you know!” “They do know Mel, I have to work with these people every day and they know I don’t do that type of law,” Beric voice was saying calmly and placatingly. “Who’s side are you on?!” Melisandre wheeled on him. “Your side of course,” Beric said quickly. “I want them out!! YESTERDAY!” Melisandre howled. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down and step back,” said the officer backed against the door. “Are you threatening her?!” That was Thoros. “Are you THREATENING ME?!” That was Melisandre. “Pahl, this farmer guy gave his identification number and his social security number. Everything checks out,” another voice shouted over them. “Thank the gods,” Pahl groaned, sagging against the door, pushing it open even further. Stannis slowly got to his feet as Melisandre came running down the hallway. “There you are,” she said, wrapping her hands around the bars of the cell. “Here I am,” he gave her a wan smile, and wrapped his hands around hers. “I was so scared when you didn’t come home last night, I must’ve called Thoros like thirty times. He called me to let me know that you were okay and what happened, and then I couldn’t just lie in bed knowing you were sitting in a holding cell somewhere!” “It’s fine, I’m happy to see you,” Stannis squeezed her hands. “I just didn’t want to trouble you to drive all the way out here.” She leaned through the bars and kissed him, and Stannis was thinking that drunk tanks weren’t so bad after all when the officer cleared his throat. “So do you just want to make out or do you want me to let you gents out?” “Out please,” Davos said immediately from behind them. Melisandre laughed and stepped back and then they were out. “How on earth did you get picked up in the middle of nowhere Riverlands, trespassing on some guy’s property that you technically had permission to be on? Did you really have permission to her there? Or did Sal just hack into the government website and rip off the guy’s identity and call pretending to be him? Did you know the government has everything on file? Beric showed me once, it’s quite scary,” Melisandre was rambling as they walked down the hall and back to the check in station. “Your backpack,” the lady officer handed Davos his backpack, unzipped. “Why is it full of eggs?” Davos blushed and mumbled something about providing for seven. “And here you go,” the officer handed Stannis an open envelope with a wink. Stannis saw Melisandre glancing over and lunged for the envelope, their hands colliding in midair. There was an exclamation of surprise, something gold falling through the air, a metallic sound as it bounced, and then Stannis was on the ground with the ring in his hands. He turned with relief, only to see Melisandre staring down at him in utter surprise. Stannis looked down at the ring and then back up at Melisandre. Oh. Shit. “It’s not supposed to be this way,” Stannis said forlornly. Melisandre lifted an eyebrow. “I mean...” he backtracked hastily. “It was supposed to be tonight. On the cliffs. At sunset.” Was she mad? Disappointed? He scanned her face desperately. But as always, her features were an impassive mask. “You mean you weren’t planning on proposing to me on the floor of a police precinct at three in the morning?” Melisandre asked drily, and he saw just a spark of joy peeking out at him. “No,” he felt a stupidly large grin spreading across his face. “Melisandre Asshai, will you marry me?” “I think I’d better,” Melisandre said matter of factly. “You’re clearly hopeless without me.” And then she had flung herself into his arms, and Stannis was left looking at the ring and wondering how he was supposed to get it on her finger when she was hugging him like he might die at any moment. It wasn’t until she gave a rather phlegmy sniffle that he realized she was crying. “What’s wrong?” He asked alarmed. “Was this not good enough? We can do it over tonight, I’ll get it right this time, don’t be sad...” He trailed off as she put a finger to his lips. “I’m happy you idiot,” she gave him a watery smile. “I thought you were breaking up with me.” “Wait what?!” Stannis spluttered. “Why?!” “Oh I don’t know,” Melisandre had clearly retained enough of her acerbic wit to snark. “Maybe because three days ago you were acting all weird and intense and quizzing me about the future. And then two days ago you refused to have sex with me—“ “I knew there was an issue,” Thoros audibly whispered to Beric “—and then last night you didn’t come home at all! I thought you were having second thoughts about us, about me,” Melisandre admitted In a rush. Stannis seized the momentary pause to capture her hand, which had been until this point been flirting from gesture to gesture. Now stilled, he put the ring on. “I wasn’t having second thoughts about us,” Stannis said firmly. “I wanted to get Thoros’ blessing to ask for your hand. And Beric said I needed a five year plan, which is why I was asking you all those question. And then he had concerns about my financial planning, which is why I had to stay up all night fixing my portfolio.” “Stannis,” Melisandre stared at him. “Why on earth would I care about those things?” “But Beric said...” “Beric is dating THOROS. He probably does need a five year plan! Because Thoros’ life is like a series of trust falls where he assumes everything’s going to be fine. And he definitely needs a retirement plan, because I’m pretty sure Thoros still keeps all his money in a suitcase under his bed.” “I do not!” Thoros yelped, although from Beric’s raised eyebrow that might not have been entirely truthful. “My point is that Thoros is completely useless at this stuff—“ “I’m right here!” “—but I’m not. You don’t need to worry so much,” Melisandre kissed him. “Right,” Stannis blushed. “In retrospect that makes a lot of sense.” “But you do need to tell me why you didn’t come home last night,” Melisandre poked him in the chest. “Right,” Stannis swallowed. “Thoros said he would give me his blessing for four chickens, so Davos called Sal to get us four chickens but we had to pick them up, and then some neighbors thought we were burglars and we got arrested,” he said in a rush. There was a long pause, Melisandre’s face perfectly blank as she absorbed this. And then her brow furrowed, a single wrinkle creasing her forehead. “Thoros said... what?!” Her voice dipped dangerously. “That he would give me his blessing for four chickens?” “Um,” Thoros started to sidle backwards. “It is and it isn’t. That’s out of context and I was mostly j—“ “YOU SOLD ME FOR FOUR CHICKENS?!” “Technically I sold my blessing for four chickens?” Thoros kept backing away. “I’ll admit it’s a subtle distinction.” Melisandre screamed. And then she grabbed Davos’ backpack of eggs. “I’LL GIVE YOU FUCKING CHICKENS ASSHOLE,” she started pelting him. Thoros ran for the parking lot, Melisandre in hot pursuit, slinging eggs the entire way. Stannis, Davos and Beric stared. “So um, congrats?” Davos offered. Stannis beamed. “Thank you.” “Congratulations, Stannis,” Beric immediately shook off his distraction and gave Stannis a hearty handshake. “I feel terrible that we’ve caused you all this headache—there’s a good 24-hour diner down the street near the courthouse? My treat? Your first meal as an engaged couple!” Davos’ stomach growled audibly. “Breakfast sounds perfect, thank you Beric,” Stannis admitted. Later, as they were all squished in to the booth at the diner (Beric eating an egg-white omelette, Thoros eating a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes extra syrup, Melisandre eating a long stack of chocolate chip pancakes extra syrup, Davos eating a loaded breakfast scramble and Stannis enjoying a quite passable breakfast sandwich), Stannis watched the sun come up. The natural light did not do them any favors. Both he and Davos reeked of manure, and Davos had some stubble growing in. Thoros’ already messy hair was matted with egg yolk. Beric’s one good eye had had a circle under it, and Stannis kept finding feathers on his person. Melisandre looked... he turned to her, and she smiled, mouth full of pancakes. Perfect. Melisandre looked perfect, as the dawn broke on their first day as an engaged couple. And Stannis reflected that it was possible to get engaged by accident after all. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

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thesamesandwicheveryday · 5 years

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After a day of incredible pressure and its different pains, one after the other, follows at least one or two hours of what I can only describe as a kind of ritualistic stateliness; I’m currently working on my posture and self-restraint sitting upright in a computer chair, and whilst there are a good three or four inches between my back and the back of the chair, I’d say enough room for a cushion, I am not utilising a cushion, because I am working on myself, and if I can sit like this as if a cushion were really there, then I’ll have the grace and elegance of a dancer, and not only will I have the grace and elegance of a dancer, but I’ll have the restraint of a monk, and I will learn to find gratification in the simplest of ways, like once every 90 minutes when I feel gratified by just leaning back. In this spirit I’ve got a bottle of Riesling open, but I’m only drinking one glass per half an hour. There’s Mavrodaphne in the cupboard, but that’s more a me-and-Will drink, we’ve got a joke about it now, we even text about the Mavrodaphne. The last time he mentioned it I texted him back saying “Mavrodaph’ me” and he texted back that he laughed aloud, and I really think when someone takes the time to say “I actually laughed out loud” instead of “lol”, they truly must mean it. And there’s probably something in that, some profound key to understanding sincerity and humanity, but I’m not going to go into that now, not with the day I’ve had. No, I can leave that kind of heavy thinking for another day; that’s a Wednesday kind of a task. My first pain was planning a Monday lie-in yet waking up inexplicably at 8am after a missed call from a number I didn’t recognise that didn’t leave a text nor answer the phone when I called back but did in fact leave a voicemail though I can’t access those because it’s 2018 and leaving voicemails is disgusting. I don’t know if the cultural hatred of Mondays has become a superficial preset in all adult humans or if it really is as bad a day as we all think it is, because I don’t have a nine-to-five nor a structured work schedule and I hate Mondays, but the call waking me up and me just knowing I was waking up into a Monday prevented me from falling back asleep again. I try not to be superstitious so I’d be interested in learning the metric factors of how precisely one measures a “bad day”, why Monday is the worst. Why not Thursday? Tuesday’s a bum-note. I’ve never been hugely keen on Saturdays. I digress.

After my rude awakening I walked from my bedroom to the living room naked as the blinds were all shut and I’m a really naked person. There are low beams in my living room, these charming, great slabs of thick branch supporting the roof, and whilst they’re certainly characterful, I have to be aware of them all the time or else I’ll bang my head, like I did today, naked, gripping my head with my right hand, dropping my phone on the hard floor in doing so, not breaking the screen at all but there’s a scuff now in the corner that I can only challenge myself to stop thinking about. I tried calling Will a first time, and I got his voicemail: “Hi, this is Will, looks like I’m busy, if it’s an emergency call 999, they’ll be better qualified to deal with it than me”. Hilarious, Will, but I just banged my head on my roof beam and fell over like a naked Buster fucking Keaton, I have no time for your jokes and your japes right now. I tried a second time, then after my morning coffee a third, but still Hi this is Will, Hi this is Will, Hi this is Will. Eventually, as I was forcing myself to eat a bowl of muesli for the sake of health and also hating myself, he texted me: “Can’t talk now, Esther’s come over, had a fight with her mum or something, crying a lot, you know how she gets. Lemme give you a bell when I’m about. W. -X” And this had several flaws. Let’s start from the end and work our ways back. “W.-X” — why is he signing off like that, still, after four massive years of knowing me? Why does Will always have to end texts like he’s closing a deal? Just close me off with the initial and a kiss and — much worse — a full stop between the two? Distanced once more with that, let’s be honest, quite egregious dash? Is he proving some kind of point about being that crucial whole decade older than me, that self-righteous kind of, “oh look at me I love grammar” bollocks, that kind of “I don’t use Face-tube” or “I saw something on the interwebs” humour that the middle-aged employ to indicate superiority? Is that what that is? Because I’ve always wondered it and today I really had to think about it, and I figure it’s because he’s spending the day with Esther who’s always been that bit more Will’s brood, another late-30s horse-girl, another Oxon (that’s the name they give to people who graduated from Oxford and that’s something I have to fucking know), you know I think the only reason he married her in the first place is because it looked good on paper, he’s as good as told me that to be frank, and yeah maybe she is crying today and maybe she’s had a fight with her mum but that’s Will’s job how? Esther, sweetheart, darling, it’s over — and Will’s got the decree absolute to prove it, honey, sweetheart. And because of a fight with her mother? Everyone fights with their mother, I do nothing but fight with my mother but you don’t see me saying to Will “oh Will please can you come over and hold me? My mum still doesn’t love me and doesn’t even respect me”, do you? No you don’t, no matter how true that is, because Will’s not my dad. HE’S NOT YOUR DAD, ESTHER.

And “can’t talk now”? Can’t, or won’t? Why would he write that like I’m placing some mad demand on him when I so very clearly am not? So many times we call each-other and there’s a dead end and it’s always something really innocuous that neither one of us feels the need to explain, we’re not married, and even if we were — the point is, he really felt like he had to say “can’t talk now”, like he’s really frazzled by me at 9am, and I even wonder if that’s for Esther’s benefit, like if she looks through his phone again she’ll see he’s at least been a little cold to me, and she’d love that wouldn’t she. Oh, but Esther’s sad again and so the world must spin off its axis because she’s sad again, Esther’s come off her Prozac, Esther’s cat’s got diabetes, Esther’s troubled by world news, Esther’s accidentally lost weight and now needs new clothes. I thought this whole Esther saga was over, I thought she'd get the hint that once you’ve put legal proceedings into action to separate yourself from someone, the message would hit home loud and clear, but no. Esther needs new brake-lights on her car. Esther’s tripped on an avocado skin and fallen down a haunted well. Esther’s been possessed by the great and powerful Beleth and needs a lift home from the exorcist’s bungalow. He’ll call me when he’s free, capital-double-you-dot-dash-capital-ex. And you’d think I’d get my sandwich and that would make me feel better? Well that's what I thought, too. Eventually I got dressed into the first t-shirt and jeans I saw lolling outside the clothes hamper and got out of my flat as quickly as I could, hoping to save the day before it fell into utter ruin and developed the ability to cause me real harm. The walk from my flat to the market is only a short one and is even shorter angry. I felt as if when I got through the door of the place I suddenly slipped outside of myself, but unable to look back in I instead disappeared, and when I returned back into my host body, I was looking at my reflection in the glass display of vanilla slices at my sandwich stall. I looked flushed. I looked hungry. I was ravenous and needed to see a friendly face. Of course today was the day they let just whoever walks into the market serve sandwiches, it seems, because I was met with a smiling boy-child, with biro scribbled onto his hands. He had mid-brown hair coming down about one inch above his shoulders, I’d say he was into day 10 of not washing it, the kind of bleary eyes that seem used to glasses and look unsettlingly beady when unframed, an unremarkable nose and an offensively weak chin, and whilst it sounds as if I’m describing a hapless teenager with great insensitivity you may in fact be relieved to learn my utter contempt here is directed toward a whole adult human who, if I were to conservatively guess, would be somewhere around the 27 years old marker. 27 years old and an untucked, short-sleeved, blue cotton dress shirt, like some bizarre attempt at formality, what was he, on his way to an interview for a different job or something? Judging by the outfit, a job as a white plastic patio furniture salesman? I wish I'd seen his shoes, they might have saved him, but as he stood, six foot tall before me, his bottom half was hidden behind the counter, so I had to assume he was wearing tan Caterpillar boots with striped yellow and black laces, and on that probably quite correct assumption, I hated him. He asked me my sandwich order and I told him, pretending to be shy to mask my escalating rage, and he threw the thing together like it just didn't matter, and when he asked me why he hadn't seen me round here before I don’t know how I found the strength to sweetly reply, “I just moved, yeah, used to live in Manchester but I’ve always fancied myself as a country mouse” with a smile, so convincingly he introduced himself as Greg and started suggesting local pubs to me, especially the Golden Lion because “you look cool, and they do a lot of cool nights there”. Cool, cool, cool, Greg, thanks for the tip, Greg. I asked him, “I come here every now and then for my lunch and haven't seen you before either?”, and he told me he's helping is mother out who’s at home in bed, sick. I told him that was really sweet of him and he crumpled in on himself slightly and said “nah”, as he limply placed the white, paper sandwich bag onto the counter, because I didn’t want him putting it directly into my hands and therefore did not offer my hands out. I waved goodbye after wrapping the conversation up with false platitudes, and thought again about the Caterpillar boots he might have been wearing, and thought about the beam in my living room, and thought about how many steps I would have to climb up to get back home and eat my sandwich. I made it to the top of my 39 stairs and into my flat without spontaneously combusting, and I sat behind my living room door with my knees up to my chest eating my sandwich which was, predictably, not that great. The onions this time were on the very top layer, the ham beneath those, then the lettuce underneath the ham, then the tomatoes, then the bread, like the whole thing was upside down. I thought about flipping the sandwich upside down to salvage this terrible situation into a bearable one but then the rounded-top half of the bun would be on the bottom, the flat half on the top, and I wasn't about to start creating my own problems. So I ate it, and it was fine. Which would be fine, but I’m not one to settle for fine. Today’s just been really hard. So here I'm sat with my Riesling and my good posture, looking at the long shadow my straight torso makes on the wall by the light of my reading lamp, and I just tried to call Will again, watching the shadow turn angular with my elbow’s movements like an old, German expressionist movie, but this time it went straight to voicemail and immediately I received a text saying: “Can I call you later?”. Will has turned his auto-reply on, and is no longer taking calls today. I’m breaking into the Mavrodaphne, and I'm going to apportion 14 cashew nuts for myself but first I will lean back for a good, long while. I won't call Will again. It’s really none of my business. My head just hurts from the knock from earlier, and I didn't like my sandwich at all, really.

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oodlyenough · 7 years

Text

fic: a vision for the future (1/2)

Rhys had discovered the Luxe Starlines Cruise Gala Mixer, an absurd soiree which existed, as far as Sasha could tell, for the obscenely wealthy to congratulate each other on their innate superiority to every other living thing.

Rhys/Sasha, post-ep5 established relationship, ~5k this chapter. Bit of humour, bit of fluff, bit of angst.

Shoutout to @valoscope and @nosleepforthewatcher for answering my canon worldbuilding questions even though I pretty much went rogue anyway.

Also on AO3

Update: Part 2 on AO3 | Part 2 on Tumblr

“You want me to be your trophy wife.”

“No!” Rhys looked scandalized at the notion. “No, no, no, gross, of course not.” He beamed at her. “I want you to be my employee.”

Sasha raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, okay,” he amended, “not, like, an actual employee, I’m not actually paying you, but…”

Sasha tilted her head.

“I… mean—I—uh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, that… doesn’t sound much better, does it?” He waved his hands. “Anyway, the point is, I need your brain, not your pretty face.” He paused, his expression suddenly cocky in the way it often was before he said something that would make someone want to hurt him. “Although the pretty face is a bonus—ow!”

Sasha showed her appreciation by whacking his stomach and rolling her eyes.

“Can’t you take Vaughn and his pretty face? He’s used to all this corporate… stuff...” She gestured to the air around them.

“Vaughn worked in accounting,” said Rhys, like it explained everything. “This is way more your speed.”

“Hobnobbing with a bunch of jerks?”

“Talking rich people out of their money,” he corrected with a grin.

His enthusiasm was contagious. Sasha folded her arms across her chest and looked away before she caught it and let herself get roped into something she really didn’t want to do: networking.

Even having a self-titled CEO who had recently pillaged an admittedly-disappointing Vault wasn’t enough to save Atlas from its first inevitable, predictable roadblock—a desperate need for cash. To that end, Rhys had discovered the Luxe Starlines Cruise Gala Mixer, an absurd soiree which existed, as far as Sasha could tell, for the obscenely wealthy to congratulate each other on their innate superiority to every other living thing.

More optimistically, or perhaps more naively, Rhys described it as the perfect hunting ground for new investors, venture capital, and various other jargon-y words that sounded to Sasha like a lot of white noise. This, he assured her, was where business really happened, in backdoor deals and handshakes over canapes.

And this year, through pure, dumb luck, it was scheduled to take place in Pandora’s orbit.

All of that was well and good. She respected that Atlas meant a lot to him, even if she couldn’t begin to fathom why. She’d even sort of been looking forward to hearing him recount the stories of his schmoozing.

Right up until the point he’d asked her to go with him.

“C’mon, Sash, it’ll be fun,” he insisted, dipping into her line of sight to catch her eyes. “Like a con, right? Like the old days!”

Sasha regarded him skeptically. He was severely overestimating the amount of nostalgia she harboured for her own not-so-distant past.

“You’re a big boy,” said Sasha, “I think you can handle it on your own.”

“Well, sure, I could, but that’s no fun. Plus Atlas’ll look way more respectable with two whole employees.” He took each of her hands in his, unfurling her arms from her chest as he swung their joined hands back and forth. Apparently out of real arguments, he settled instead on puppydog eyes. “Pretty please?”

It was probably his most compelling case yet, damn him. Sasha groaned and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “Rhys…”

“All right, all right,” he relented, dropping her hands and straightening up. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He took a step back, frowning in thought. “Hmm. I could give Fiona a call...”

That did it. Sasha scrunched up her face, wrestling with herself. The idea of another Rhys-and-Fiona misadventure while she sat on the sidelines suddenly seemed a much worse fate than rubbing elbows with the rich.

She blew out a breath and swatted lightly at his chest again. “Hey. Nuh-uh. My sister is not your date to this… whatever it is. I’ll go.”

“Really? You sure?”

She closed her eyes and sighed again. “Yes, fine.”

“All right! High-five!”

Sasha obliged, her palm stinging a little after sharp contact with his prosthetic. The self-satisfaction in the smile that bloomed across Rhys’ face told her he’d never really intended to invite Fiona in the first place.

Maybe he was a better salesman than she thought.

“I hate it,” Sasha grumbled.

She tugged at the sides of her dress, which—for the amount of fabric involved—had been outrageously priced. The clingy material felt flimsy, and the neckline dipped a little lower than she might have liked, but by far the most irritating part was that the length and tightness of the cut would make sprinting very difficult. The shoes were no help, either, though she appreciated finally being able to see over Rhys’ shoulders.

When she’d said as much to Rhys, he’d said, “There, uh, isn’t usually any sprinting at these things,” and Sasha had realized, not without embarrassment, that she’d never before been in a scenario where sprinting for your life didn’t crack the list of top ten likely outcomes.

Perhaps it should have been comforting, but it only made the whole affair seem more alien. She decided, if she needed to, she’d ditch the shoes, tear the slit higher, and hope for the best.

She tugged once more at the dress, then looked over at Rhys, leaning against the wall, and narrowed her eyes enviously. It was deeply unfair that he got to wear more-or-less what he normally did, just with a sleeker black jacket and an extra helping of hair product.

“You look… I mean… wow,” said Rhys, eyes widening in appreciation as he gave her an up-and-down.

Sasha cleared her throat.

Off her look, he blanched a little, then straightened up. “Uh, but, y’know, you’re uncomfortable and you don’t look like yourself, so, that’s…” He stuck out his tongue and pointed both thumbs down.

Sasha snorted. “Enjoy the view while it lasts, buddy, because I am never wearing anything like this again.” She struck a pose, one hand on her hip, before reaching up up to fasten her hair into a tidy bun.

“Noted.” He moved away from the wall and walked over to her, grinning. “Hey. I got you something.”

Her fingers stilled in her hair as she watched him pull a small gift box out of his pocket, her heart tripping over itself.

“Oh,” she said dumbly, staring at it. “I. Um.”

“Go on.” Rhys shook the box invitingly. Something rattled inside.

Securing the last of her dreadlocks in the elastic, Sasha took the box, trying not to let her imagination get the best of her. Was this a thank-you gift for going with him? She knew it would be well-intentioned, but whether it would be tasteful was always something of a gamble with Rhys.

Torn between excitement and trepidation, she flipped open the lid.

“Oh my God,” she said flatly. She blinked twice to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

“Right!” chirped Rhys.

Sasha blinked again. The contents of the tiny gift box didn’t change.

Business cards.

Business cards, with her name on them.

“Oh my God,” she repeated, duller this time, as she reached into the box to pull one from the stack.

“Now you’re totally legit!” said Rhys. “I mean. Sort of.”

Sasha ran her thumb over the embossed text of the card that bore her name, her mind incapable of much more beyond a static hum. At least the pure shock of it had eclipsed any potential for disappointment.

Looking up at Rhys’ beaming face, she tried to remind herself that this probably was a romantic gesture in his eyes. The freak.

She squinted at the text below her name. “What the hell is a… visioneer?”

He laughed, waving his extra-polished silver hand dismissively. “A job title just vague enough to sound impressive and hip enough that no one will want to reveal themselves by asking what it means. It’s perfect!”

“I couldn’t be your, I don’t know, CFO or something?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his smile dimming. “You wanna talk profit margins and overhead costs and revenue streams all night?”

“God, no.”

“There you go, then. Visioneer.” He smirked. “Atlas’ first.”

“Atlas’ last,” she muttered. But then, seeing his face fall, she amended, “You have to give your employees real job titles, Rhys.”

“Maybe.”

“Seriously. You can’t be that guy.” She adopted as professional an expression as she could, which wasn’t much. “In fact, as Atlas’ foremost visioneer, I’m insisting.”

“Well,” he said, “I mean, if that’s your expert opinion—”

“It is. As visioneer, it’s my solemn duty to tell you when you’re being a douchebag.”

“Sounds like a tough job.”

“Demanding but rewarding.” She lifted her chin. “So rewarding I even do it pro-bono.”

He smirked, and she smirked back at him, tucking the stack of business cards into her tiny bag—it wasn’t like much else fit in there, anyway.

“Such commitment,” he said.

She straightened up. “Well, you not being a douchebag is something I’m very passionate about.”

Rhys stepped closer to her, and as she gauged the reduced distance between his face and hers, Sasha decided these shoes weren’t so bad, pinchy and teetering though they were.

“Atlas appreciates your hard work and dedication,” he told her, resting his right hand on her hip, the metal heavy through the fabric of her dress.

She walked her fingers up the buttons of his jacket until they reached his collar and settled at the back of his neck. “It better.”

His expression changed to the fuzzy sort of smile that usually accompanied his brain fizzling out when she was in close proximity, a phenomenon she still found herself delighted by. She felt herself leaning forward, closing what remained of the gap between them, when—

“Hey,” said Rhys, and from the way it startled her, Sasha had to admit her brain had been fizzling a little, too. “Just—uh—before I forget, I was thinking—at this thing we should probably, um… this is probably… not… we should probably not do this.” He gestured between them with his free hand.

Sasha raised an eyebrow, pulling her head back to take better stock of the look on his face. “Are you… trying to break up with me?”

“No!” he yelped, panicked enough that some affection bled through her irritation. “No, no, no, of course not, I just. Um.” He paused for a second, apparently struggling to formulate a complete sentence. “I just think we probably shouldn’t, you know, advertise that we’re together.”

She took a step back and folded her arms, eyebrow still raised. “Advertise. Right. And here I’d already printed you 500 business cards that say ‘Sasha’s boyfriend’.”

He laughed in the strangled, nervous way he usually did when he knew he was fucking something up. “Look, it’s not… I just think it’ll come across poorly if people think I’m dating my subordinate.”

“Subordinate?”

Rhys’ mouth dropped open—probably so he could try and cram his other foot in there, too—but Sasha waved a hand to cut him off.

“No, no, stop talking before you make it worse.” She stepped out of his reach and pulled the strap of her bag over her neck. “Fine, somehow I’ll find a way to keep from throwing myself at you all night. Can we go and get this over with, then?”

It looked like he wanted to say something else, but decided—wisely—to simply shut his mouth and nod. Sasha breezed past him, heels clacking as she went.

“For the record,” she called back, “that solemn duty I mentioned? Now. Now is a good example.”

“What’s a luxury starliner passing by Pandora for, anyway?” she’d asked, and Rhys had shrugged.

“I dunno. Rich people?” he’d answered, as if that was an explanation unto itself.

Maybe it was. She could imagine them all staring down at Pandora from afar, whispering salacious, exaggerated tales of its danger and its riches, auctioning off bits of it to each other like it was theirs to own. Sasha had no deep love for her planet—she’d spent her whole life wanting to get off it, and it had certainly put her through plenty of hell—but the thought still made her skin crawl.

People like that made Pandora what it was and people like her had to live with it.

But their voyeurism meant that for the second time Sasha found herself heading off-planet. In the shuttle she amused herself with the zero gravity, setting her bag mid-air and marvelling as it hung in place. The novelty of it would be long lost on most of the people she was about to meet. She liked knowing she had something they didn’t.

Still, it was hard not to think of the last time she’d been on a ship—screaming at Finch, Gortys panicking, August bleeding, Fiona and Rhys left behind on a crashing space station. She turned to Rhys, who looked faintly nauseated, and looped her pinky finger around his.

He’d been pretty quiet since his graceless request earlier, probably fearful of irritating her any further before they even got there. She decided to put him out of his misery.

“All right, tell me whatever it is I need to know.”

That was like opening the floodgates. He rambled on for the rest of their trip about tactics and goals and key messages. The objective was simple enough: put Atlas back on people’s radar, pique some interest, and get some cash. The intensity of the infodump reminded her of working jobs with Fiona, hastily trying to fill each other in on all the lies they’d told, and despite it all she found herself enjoying it.

It helped, too, that Rhys was buzzing with excitement. She filtered through his speech for the bits she could retain and let the rest wash over her, appreciating his energy instead. He was running down the guest-list, detailing what he knew of the attendees, when she finally had to cut him off.

“Okay, there’s… no way I’m going to remember all these people,” she admitted. Faces and names were far easier to memorize when the consequence of getting one wrong was getting shot, not getting iced out of cocktail hour. “How did you even get us invited to this thing?”

“I… may have hacked into their system and added our names to the list,” he said with a shrug.

Of course, she thought. But she sent him an impressed smile. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Knowing who you’re meeting with is the name of the game. Then it's just a matter of saying what they want to hear until they say yes.”

Sales, Sasha decided, was not substantially any different from grifting.

“And if you need a cheat sheet…” He winked at her with his ECHO eye. “I was pretty good at sales,” he said, in a voice that implied he was underestimating himself for the sake of modesty.

Sasha’s smile turned to a confused frown. “I thought you worked in data mining.”

“Uh, that too. Also propaganda. And programming for, like, one internship.” He shrugged. “I hopped around a lot. It was the quickest way to move up.” Their shuttle docked with a tiny jerk, and as the artificial gravity kicked in, he stood up, puffing up his chest a little. “I’m a man of many talents, Sasha.”

“Yeah? You should show me some sometime.” She stood to follow him, adjusting the hem of her dress as well as the ridiculous bra that went under it.

Then she blinked.

“Wait, hang on, did you say propaganda?”

“We could just rob a bank instead,” Sasha suggested. It might be more enjoyable.

“Ahh, see, in my five-year plan, ‘major corporate scandal’ isn’t scheduled until year 4, so…”

“Pity.”

He flashed a grin in return, then walked up to the droid that was running registration, checking in for both of them. Sasha hung back, fiddling with the strap of her bag and doing her best not to gawk.

The starliner was even more ostentatious than she had been expecting. In its own way it was worse than Helios, which, for all its horrors, had to leave its peons wanting to give them something to aspire to. Present company excluded, Sasha found it hard to believe anyone else on this ship had ever wanted for much of anything.

Enormous windows on either side of the dining hall offered a panoramic view of Elpis on one side and Pandora on the other. The carpet was thick and plush, the fixtures glittering with gold. Robot butlers whizzed about with trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. An anti-gravity fountain in one corner sent giant balls of glistening water floating up and down like an enormous lava lamp. All around the room, in elaborate spreads, was more food than Sasha had ever seen.

It was the sort of place she and Fiona used to fantasize about when they were sleeping rough in the streets of Hollow Point, making up stories of what they’d do when they finally struck it rich.

What she’d never considered as a kid was how out of place she’d feel.

“All good, we can go in,” said Rhys, approaching her again. He leaned in, lowering his voice to an excited whisper. “They don’t even have name tags or anything! I thought they might, you know—registration and stuff—but I guess they’re too classy for that. Too classy for name tags. That’s classy.” He held out the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”

Sasha looked at his arm, then looked back up at him quizzically, folding her own arms resolutely across her chest.

“No dating subordinates, remember, boss?”

“Oh. Yeah. Uh. Right.” He ran his hand nervously through his hair and beckoned her forward instead.

Sasha shook her head and followed after him, her arms still folded protectively before she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She could take care of herself, had taken care of herself, in far worse scenarios than this; she was absolutely not the sort of person who needed to be escorted somewhere, anyway.

Even if it might have been sort of nice to have a familiar touch.

The room was already buzzing with nicely-dressed people holding champagne flutes, and Sasha cast an analytical look around at all of them, sizing them up as best she could and making mental notes of who looked confident, who looked anxious, whose wealth seemed more performative than genuine. She might not have an ECHO eye, or Fiona’s intuition, but she was good at what she did.

She sidled up next to Rhys, whose golden eye was flickering wildly as he scanned the room. Momentarily she wondered if he knew how freaky it looked when he did that, then realized he probably thought it looked cool.

“Okay, plan B,” she said, voice low, “you chat everyone up, I steal their wallets.”

Rhys’ expression was somewhere between amused and alarmed. “Interesting proposition, I appreciate the initiative, but how’s about this: we both try really hard not to do anything that’s going to get us shoved out an airlock.”

She scoffed. “Pft, like I’d get caught.”

Now his expression was just alarmed.

“Sasha, for once we are doing something together that isn’t dangerous. Please do not make it dangerous.” He pressed his palms together in prayer and pointed them towards her, begging. “Please. Please do not give anyone any reason to murder us, or try to murder us, or even think about murdering us. Please let’s just have one evening where murder is, like, totally off the table, please—”

“Okay, okay, sheesh! Worrywart.” But his relief made her smile, and she nodded her chin towards his eye. “Hey, what’s that thing say about me?”

The eye lit up as he focused on her. “World’s Best Visioneer.”

“Ha ha.” But she was smiling. “Seriously though. I’m curious.”

But Rhys was no longer listening, staring at something just over Sasha’s shoulder. She followed his line of sight over to a smarmy looking man in a suit Sasha found almost offensively ugly.

“Who’s the douchebag?” she asked from the corner of her mouth.

“Apparently someone truly terrible at keeping track of his money, and so fabulously wealthy he can get away with it.” He grinned. “Let’s say hello.”

They did say hello, to the man in the ugly suit and to several after him.

Sasha slipped into character like a worn pair of shoes: a polite smile, calculated movements, a trilling laugh and a voice just a little bit higher than her own. It was easy but boring, and since his enthusiasm wasn’t entirely feigned, she let Rhys do most of the talking.

He was better at this than her, and better than she’d expected. He made easy conversation about trivial things, humoured them in the right spots, waited for a natural opening before bringing up Atlas. It was—more or less—exactly how she and Fiona played the long game, when they could, except that he wasn’t lying. Not really.

She ought to have been impressed. She was, a little bit.

Mostly she was uncomfortable. She didn’t want to think about why.

Instead, she helped herself to a glass of champagne, and then a second. And a third.

“You’re… thirsty,” observed Rhys, as they spent a rare moment alone surveying a buffet table.

Careful to maintain the professional boundary of distance between them, Sasha shrugged. “Free booze, right?”

He looked at her oddly, and Sasha seized the opportunity to grab the the last cracker-covered-in-brown-stuff out from under his shiny chrome hand before he could object. (Whatever the brown stuff was, it was delicious.)

“I think we should split up,” she said simply. “We’ll cover more ground.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is everything—”

“Besides,” she continued, adopting a competitive air, “then you won’t be cramping my style.”

That worked; Rhys sent her a smug grin as he walked away to mingle elsewhere. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

She maintained the smirk until his back was turned, then winced. Not the mark, she reminded herself. Definitely not the person you’re meant to be lying to.

It wasn’t a big lie. Barely even a lie, really. If someone tallied up all the lies Sasha had ever told in the course of her life, and ranked them in severity, this would be at the bottom. It might not even make the list at all.

Valiantly ignoring both her conscience and the voice in her head that said she’d have to confront things sooner or later, she set her sights on a woman standing next to a large ice sculpture. Tipping back the last of her champagne, she reassembled her game face and walked to tap the woman on the elbow.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I had to come over here. I love your shoes.”

In terms of both productivity and overall enjoyment, Sasha figured that working alone about broke even.

On one hand, she really hated most of these people.

One man went an entire conversation without looking up from Sasha’s chest. A woman said her hair was “interesting” in a voice that made it sound like a synonym for “hideous”. Most of them seemed preoccupied with broadcasting their own good fortune; they’d namedrop people or planets or companies as though she should be impressed, casually reference the cost of their belongings in a way that would definitely get them mugged on Pandora.

In the simplest terms, they were assholes. Sasha was used to assholes. What bothered her more was the feeling she couldn’t shake that all of these assholes could see right through her.

Being a fraud was one thing. Feeling like a fraud was another.

On the other hand, working alone made it easier to ignore whatever-it-was that squirmed in her belly when she looked over at Rhys and saw him having the time of his life.

“...is it that you do?” asked the man she was speaking to, mercifully pulling Sasha out of her own head.

As rich jerks went, this one wasn’t so bad. Aldrich was about Sasha’s height, twice her weight and thirty years her senior. He’d been polite, at least. Had maintained eye contact. Had only moved to show off his expensive watch once.

“Oh!” Balancing her wine in one hand, she reached into her bag and handed him one of her cards. “I’m with Atlas, actually.”

She watched his brow furrow as Aldrich looked at the card, but—as Rhys had predicted—if the job title struck him as odd, he didn’t question it.

“Atlas!” he huffed, surprised but not displeased. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Thought you were bought out. ‘Course...”

“We’re rebuilding,” she said quickly, before he got too far along that train of thought. “And under new management. That’s our CEO over there.”

She scanned the crowd to point out Rhys. Standing on the other side of the large room, she could just make out the side of his head, tilted back in laughter with whomever he was speaking to.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass.

“Well,” said the man, “I’m glad to hear it! Never did find anything I liked as much as my old Cyclops.”

The smile that lit up Sasha’s face this time was genuine.

“I’ve got a Silver,” she told him eagerly. “It's art.”

The conversation flowed smoothly after that, as they compared weapon make and models, debated specs, argued over range versus accuracy. She was pretty sure he’d never actually used any of these outside the safety of a firing range and maybe some recreational hunting, but he knew his stuff, or at least the theory, and she appreciated that. She began to relax.

“I’ve gone dry,” Aldrich said after a while, holding up his empty glass. “Can I get you something?”

Sasha lifted her wine glass, still mercifully half-full. “Still got some.”

He didn’t press, which was a relief. “Well, then, excuse me a moment.”

Aldrich turned to head to the bar, and he was only gone thirty seconds or so before Rhys’ voice buzzed in her ear.

“Not to question your methods or anything, but you two seem friendly,” he said.

Sasha lifted a finger to her ear as she looked for the source. Eventually she caught Rhys watching her from across the room, looking smug, eyebrows quirked.

She returned the expression. “You worried?”

“Should I be?”

She shrugged, turning away to look out the window at Elpis. “You did say I was a free agent tonight.”

“That is… not… exactly what I said.”

His voice was slightly strangled, and she smirked at her reflection in the glass.

“Should’ve been more specific, then,” she said lightly. “You know I like older men.”

“Ha ha.”

“And he knows his guns. Unlike some people.”

“Hey, I… am getting better!” But the indignation was quickly overtaken by interest. “That’s good though, right? Gun nut?”

Sasha looked over her shoulder, watching Aldrich negotiate with the bartender. “Oh yeah. Big Atlas fan. Might be something. I’ll keep you posted.”

“See, I knew you’d be good at this.”

The pride in Rhys’ voice had her biting her bottom lip as she looked down at her wine. “Easy guess; I’m good at everything.”

“Yeah, you are,” he agreed, and she felt herself flush.

Elsewhere, Aldrich turned away from the bar, drink in hand.

Sasha ducked her head. “Rhys, gotta go.”

“Go get ‘em.”

She dropped her finger from her ear and straightened up, trying to settle the dopey smile on her face into something more professional as Aldrich approached.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?” Aldrich asked as he reached her, gesturing with his beer towards Elpis.

It really was. Elpis looked remarkable even from the surface of Pandora; here, so close, its cracked surface gleaming against the blackness of space, it was mesmerizing.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “It is.”

“Better without that godawful space station, too,” Aldrich added.

It took Sasha by surprise, and she frowned; she’d expected Helios to be popular with this crowd.

“I shouldn’t say it like that,” he corrected himself. “People lost everything in that crash.”

She looked away from Elpis to study Aldrich, a small but sincere smile tugging the corner of her lips. Maybe she’d underestimated some of these people, the way she’d once underestimated Rhys and Vaughn.

“I mean, people who lost millions,” he continued. “Friends who went bankrupt!”

Her smile flickered from genuine to forced.

“Thousands of people died,” she heard herself say.

Aldrich waved one hand. “Well, death’s an occupational hazard when you work for Hyperion, isn’t it?” His own smile turned to one of self-satisfaction. “Now, myself, I made a lot of money. I’d had lots of Hyperion stock, see, but I cashed out, just about a month before all that business. Moved it all to competitors instead. Prices soared when Helios came down.”

“Lucky you,” she managed.

“Ah, not luck, intuition,” he corrected, smugger than ever. “The writing was on the wall for Hyperion, wasn’t it, after Handsome Jack died? Shame what happened to him.” Noticing Sasha’s face, the tight line her lips were forming, he chuckled. “Oh, I know, I know, you’re probably not his biggest fan, Atlas and all. But you’ve got to admit the man had a vision.”

“A vision?” Sasha repeated. The stem of her wine glass strained in her grip.

“Absolutely. All good leaders do.” He tipped his beer towards her as a sort of toast. “Ask your CEO, I’m sure he’d say the same.”

The laugh that escaped Sasha was high-pitched and jagged.

“I’m sure.” She pounded back the rest of her wine, then set her empty glass on the buffet table. “Excuse me. I’ve gotta go vomit.” Her eyes flicked to the plate of hors d'oeuvres he was holding. “Think the dip’s gone bad.”

She walked away before he could say another word, blood boiling and heartbeat ringing in her ears.

Part 2 on AO3 | Part 2 on Tumblr

#rhysha #tales from the borderlands #rhys the company man #sasha the kid sister #borderlands #oodlyenough i write fic

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