#gonna take them to a jewelry appraiser in town and ask if he can figure out what that stuff is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pagingdoctorbedlam · 3 years

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Ready for zombies, Zoro, and some hurt/comfort? Then take a swig of this potion for @quirkyseastone ‘s “Brew a Love Potion” event! (But please read the warnings first!)

Characters: Zoro x Reader; appearance by Bartholomew Kuma

Genre: Zombie/Apocalypse, Hurt/Comfort (a bit light on the comfort though, woops)

TW/CW: Violence, guns and swords, blood, light gore, mentions of cannibalism, undead bodies

Inspiration: The concept for zombies in this fic is inspired by the novel Breathers by S.G. Browne (at least, what I remember from having read it over 10 years ago...)

Word Count: ~3.1k words

...

"Hold still, we're almost..." You apply the last bit of blush before appraising your handiwork. Not bad, if you said so yourself. At a glance, Zoro doesn't even look dead. "There. Want a mirror to see?"

"I trust you not to doll me up too bad." Roronoa Zoro yawns, even though the legendary zombie hunter no longer needs to sleep, having recently been turned into a zombie himself. Which, contrary to popular belief, is not in and of itself a death sentence. Most zombies act as they did in life, even if their bodies no longer recover the way a living human's does. The danger comes from the zombies who try to stop this decay by feasting on human brains...and sometimes more dangerous are the humans who've decided that every zombie is a ticking time bomb regardless of said zombie's intentions.

At least Zoro had never been that way, but now he's got to hide from the hunters who once considered him a legend. Sure, it wouldn't be hard for him to fight off hunters, even if you've had to stitch each limb back on at least twice (and you're still not sure where one of his eyes ended up). But you'd rather your newfound partner in protecting innocent zombies not cause a scene simply by walking through the market.

"Remember, don't rub your face. This makeup cost me a fortune. And try to fake breathing this time, okay?"

"Yeah yeah, I got it." He manages to take a breath that's believable but isn't so deep that it rattles the loose bones and organs in his slowly decaying chest.

Both of you get to your feet and finish the rest of your preparations for the outside world. Your clothing hides as much skin as possible, even with the warm temperatures outside. You spray Zoro down with cheap cologne so he smells less like roadkill and more like a teenager trying to cover up a bad case of B.O. And you slip on filtration masks in a vain attempt to avoid the ever-present smoke and dust beyond your walls.

No one's sure if the zombies came about because of the bombs, or if the bombs were secretly launched because the powers-that-be learned about the first nascent zombies and failed with their pre-emptive strike. But now much of the world is a wasteland, and bargaining for resources is bad enough without half the population lobbing accusations of cannibalism at the other half. You can't hold off this trip any longer, because you've ended up looking after a number of innocent zombies, and they need medical supplies before they fall apart any further.

You shoo Zoro away from the driver's spot on your motorbike. "Nuh uh buddy, we aren't getting lost today." You've heard a new band of hunters is coming to town, and the last thing you want is to run into them before you have a chance to secure your supplies.

"I don't get lost! They just keep changing where the market is." Zoro still reluctantly waits for you to take your place at the front before he sits behind you and firmly snakes his arms around your waist. You pretend you can feel his pulse when he holds you, even though you know the heart in his chest has long stopped beating.

Markets are supposed to be neutral ground. Everyone needs resources to survive after all, and one of the few things that bombs and zombie outbreaks couldn't kill is commerce. Stalls line the aisles of what was once a grocery store, faded advertisements promoting foods that no one's seen in years, and someone has fixed the speaker system to play the same old pop hits in a vain attempt at normalcy.

You hold tight to Zoro's hand, both to keep him from getting lost and so he stays close in case of danger. He obliges, and even holds bags for you as you pull him around. You might've called this romantic in the times before, back when your purchases would've been far more frivolous than bandages and shelf-stable rations, but you're unsure how close you and Zoro would've been without being thrown together by circumstance.

You pause by one stall, eyes wide. Zoro doesn't notice and keeps walking until he notices that you won't budge. He raises an eyebrow when he finally joins you. "What, some kinda' plastic plant?"

"Not plastic. It's real." You forgive him the mistake though, as the plant has sturdy, waxy leaves that almost look sculpted. It feels like so long since you've seen anything green (aside from Zoro's hair), much less an actual plant. But you note the name scribbled in tape on its battered plastic pot. It's nothing useful, not medicinal or edible in the slightest. Just a begonia that hasn't even bloomed yet.

The shopkeeper asks, "Gonna gawk, or you gonna' buy?"

You know you can't afford a plant, what with how rare they are. You might be able to bargain and beg if it were something more useful, but...

"We'll buy." Zoro slams something down on the table. "This'll be enough?"

You catch the glint of gold peeking from between his fingers. Jewelry isn't useful anymore, but human greed has a hard time giving up old habits. The shopkeeper smiles wide and practically shoves the begonia at you with one hand while snatching up Zoro's earring with the other. You thank him and depart the stall without another word, clutching the flower close to your chest.

"What was that about?" You hiss at Zoro.

"Looked like you wanted it," he says with a shrug. You squint up at his remaining earrings, only to realize that in his haste to remove the one he traded away, he tore the hole in his ear a little in the process. Probably didn't even notice that he'd done so, the stubborn fool...

Well, what's done is done. "Thank you. I'll make sure to take excellent care of it."

"Don't mention it." Which you know is Zoro-speak for "you're welcome". So you smile back at him without saying anything more on the subject, and continue the rest of your trek through the market.

You make the mistake of thinking this is a surprisingly nice day. But you don't realize that someone has noticed how Zoro isn't bleeding.

When Zoro pulls out one sword and tightens his grip around your midsection, you don't have to ask why. You're being followed.

You absently wonder what gave you away. Never removing your masks? A smudge in Zoro's makeup that revealed the deathly pallor underneath? It doesn't really matter, you think. Whoever is after you will chase you down until they can swing their weapons and play at being heroes, so all you can do is fight on your own terms. You avoid going home and swerve the bike toward the burned-out husk of an abandoned store that not even the most desperate zombies would hide in.

You glance at the tilted rearview mirror on your bike. The figures chasing you are hulking brutes, but nothing compared to their ringleader. He's built like a brick house with legs, and his imposing figure is thrown off by the pristine white hat topped with small bear ears. Instead of a holstered weapon, he has a bible strapped to his side. You've heard of this man. Judging by the look in Zoro's eyes, he does too. One of the most notorious zombie hunters in the country: Bartholomew Kuma.

What is he doing here, of all places?

Zoro says, "Soon as we touch down, hide. It's me they want."

"I can't just leave you. You know who that is back there?"

"Doesn't matter. I already died once. They can't do worse than that to me. But they could still hurt you plenty. 'Specially if you came back before they were done with you." In the rearview mirror, Zoro's eyes are sharp and cold as his blades.

You know how to handle a weapon in self-defense, but you're nowhere near the master that Zoro is. And he has a point. You're still human, you can bleed, you can hurt. And that might chew Zoro up worse than anything Kuma and crew could throw at him. You resign yourself to your fate and think of where in that burnt-out building you might be able to hide, preferably while still keeping an ear out for danger.

You speed on, trying to shake your pursuers, but soon the road runs out. The bones of burnt buildings jut out before you like oversized tombstones. You remember scouting here before, trying to usher out displaced zombies before the remnants of the building could collapse on them. Much of the ruins have fallen since you were last here, but there's still a concrete bunker that was once a stockroom, and it's mostly intact. You can lay low there until the fighting's over.

You relay this plan to Zoro, and you tell him, "I'll be safe there, don't worry about me. Once the fighting's done, I'll come back down and patch you up. So don't die on me again, alright?"

Zoro nods, even though he surely knows the claim is more for your comfort than anything. He's a zombie, after all, and they don't heal the way humans do unless they devour human brains. He won't bleed, but if he looses a limb, or even his head? There's nothing you can do to fix that. And to be honest, you're not sure if that'll do him in, or if he'd continue living in pieces. You don't want to find out.

You park. And you know you should hit the ground running, but your heart is hammering in your chest. You turn to Zoro as he pulls out his blades.

You quickly put your warm hands on his cold cheeks and pull him in for a kiss. You two never attached words to what's simmered under the surface for so long, but in case of the worst...you couldn't handle him not knowing how you truly felt. He blinks as you pull away, briefly stunned. You wonder if he'd blush if he could.

You run into the burnt-out husk of a building. The touch of your lips on Zoro's is replaced by a sword between his teeth.

In another lifetime, before people stopped dying right and the world went to hell over it, this building was a clothing store. You shopped here for outfits you haven't seen in years. Once, a friend who worked here snuck you into the back room, and you ate cheap takeout while surrounded by wall-to-ceiling racks of clothing and shoes. If you took time to wipe away the dust, you might still find graffiti left by the workers during their final shifts. You wonder if your friend left one.

You cannot look because you are huddled on a shelf and trying not to make a sound. The shelves are sturdy metal and easy to climb even without the rolling ladder. You're hidden high above the heads of anyone who might come in and pressed against a wall. No one should find you here.

For awhile, you heard sounds from outside. Speaking at first, though you couldn't make out what was being said. Then battle, swords colliding and guns firing. Screams. Then...nothing. You don't know if it's safe to come out. You'll find out soon. There are footsteps approaching.

A voice you do not recognize says your name.

"Roronoa Zoro is dead. Again. I am sorry that it had to happen." Heavy footfalls contrast a voice that is soft, almost even kind. "I understand why you might want to save him. You've built quite a reputation for that, you know. But I'm afraid it ends here. We cannot allow you to keep any more abominations alive. You understand that is what they are, don't you?"

You know he's trying to goad you into revealing yourself. It takes everything in your power to hold still and silent.

Metal crumples nearby with a shrill squeal, as if it could protest its false bones being broken.

"If you were to go on a trip...where would you like to go?"

The question throws you off guard, almost enough for sound to escape your lips.

"We do not have to kill you. All the government wants is to talk. If you cooperate, you'll be transported somewhere safe. Free of zombies, even." More metal crumples, and you wonder how Kuma is doing it. Does he have a weapon, or is he strong enough to break the storage shelves with his bare hands? "All you have to do is come willingly, and when we're done, you can go wherever you'd like, and you'll be kept safe."

But the only place you can think of is home. With Zoro. No matter what might come after you there.

The shelf under you shifts, and your body spasms as if you fell in a dream and awoke with your mind still lurching. You reach for anything to grab onto, but your fingers only touch air. (For the briefest instance, you spy graffiti drawn by a familiar hand upon the wall.)

You do not immediately recognize the feel of the arms, because they are warm and pulsing with life. You stare up at Zoro's face in disbelief. He's missing an eye and his face is smeared with blood, mouth drawn in a thin line.

"You survived," Kuma intones softly. "You ate them." And you wish you could refute him, but even before he spoke, you knew it to be true. Zoro's bloody fingers dig into your clothes to hold you tight. You hear his heartbeat for the first time, and it rarely skips a beat. Kuma says, "Let your friend down, Roronoa. You don't want to do this."

"Think I'm some mindless cannibal? Think again." Zoro sets you down and looks you dead in the eye. "Told you I wouldn't die. And neither will you. Now, get out of here." Half a second before returning his sword to his mouth, his tongue flickers over his blood-stained lips. "Hurry!"

You do as he asks and flee to the doorway of the building. You know you should run to the motorcycle and drive out of here, but there are two problems with that. One is how you don't want to leave Zoro again. The other is that even if you admit the truth to yourself, that he finally gave in and consumed the brains of his enemies like the zombies he used to put down...you don't want to turn around and see what he did to the corpses of Kuma's followers.

The fight is swift and brutal. You've seen Zoro fight before, but while he's normally a whirlwind with his blades, now he's a demonic torrent. Much as he tries to stick to his traditional fighting forms, they slip into more instinctual slashes when Kuma pushes back, and the only thing that keeps Zoro on top is sheer ferocity. He moves so fast, you swear he's slashing three times faster than a normal man, leaving the afterimages of a three-faced demon. (You've heard rumors of zombies growing entirely new parts when they've eaten too much mortal flesh, but surely those are only rumors, survivors not understanding what they're seeing...)

Kuma is far quicker than his size would suggest. But even he begins to buckle. He blocks one blade with a bible far sturdier than it appears, and then lunges forward in a final desperate attack. Zoro braces to parry an attack, but is taken aback as no blow comes. Something metal and blinking is clasped onto his wrist.

"We will not meet again."

And Kuma is gone. You blink in surprise. You swore you didn't see him leave through the other holes in the building, didn't feel anyone pass you, and yet...

The normally composed swordsman growls as he sheathes his swords and tries to pry the blinking metal bangle (a tracking device, what else could it be?) off his arm. You want to approach him, but are unsure if you should; all you can do is watch as he uselessly paws at the bangle. Until he stops suddenly. You catch a glimpse of fresh crimson.

Zoro freezes as the reality of what he's done, what he's become, finally settles in. He's a statue slowly dripping red, most of which isn't his own. His breath shudders, and that too takes him off-guard. He sways where he stands, almost falling to his knees but somehow staying upright.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you toward him, and you reach out. Your fingers brush against his back. He growls, "Don't. I'm not..."

"It doesn't matter what you are. You're still Zoro."

Gentle pushes at his shoulders turn him around so he faces you. His face has more color than you've ever seen, blood red and flesh pink and mottled blues and violets of bruises. His closed eyelid twitches as the eye underneath regenerates. How long will it be until all the color's gone, and electrical impulses run short to leave his heart to hang heavy and empty in his chest, and how much longer than that until he gets a taste for life again regardless of the cost?

That doesn't matter right now. The future looms taller and more frightening than Kuma, but right now, you're two scared humans in a broken warehouse. You wrap your arms around Zoro and pull him close.

For the briefest moment, you feel his mouth open, hear the click in his jaw. His teeth brush against your ear. You close your eyes and refuse to think about it.

His chin rests on your shoulder. Mouth closed. Arms wrap around you right and your hearts beat together, lungs scramble for air together, blood and worry (and tears, you think, but you're not sure whose) intermingle and crawl to a slow stop until only a numb and temporary peace remains.

"You'd be forgiven for walking away." His voice is raw and tired with the weight of living again and all that took.

"Maybe. But someone has to keep you from getting lost." You give him one final squeeze before letting him go. "Come on. Let's go home and get you cleaned up."

When morning comes, you'll have to face what the future holds for a brain-eating swordsman and the one who looks out for him despite it all. But tonight, the both of you are miraculously alive and breathing, and there's a green new plant in the window ready to soak up all the sunlight tomorrow can offer.

#seas brew a love potion challenge #opfanfic #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #zombie au #hurt/comfort #bedlam writes

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quickeningheart · 5 years

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Eighteen

Charley draped her arms over the back of the sofa, sipping her coffee as she watched her cousin race back and forth, preparing for her first day of school. Vinnie sat beside her on the couch, and Modo and Throttle were in the kitchen, taking surreptitious glances around the doorway as they cleaned up the breakfast dishes. All three mice seemed completely mystified by Alley’s behavior.

When she headed down the hall, abruptly stopped halfway, and turned around to make a beeline back to her bedroom, Charley couldn’t take it anymore.

“Alley. Alley!”

The frazzled blonde screeched to a halt, looking over her shoulder with wide eyes. “What?”

“Will you please relax?” Charley held up her mug with a grin. “You’re makin’ my coffee very nervous.”

Alley blinked, then broke into a sheepish grin of her own. “Sorry. It’s just … I’m nervous. And excited. And nervous.”

“What’s the big deal?” Vinnie scoffed. “It’s just school. Ain’t that a normal thing around here?”

“It’s not just school. It’s college. It’s like … like jumping from the little leagues straight into the big ones!” Alley protested.

“That’s right, boys. Our little Alley has to put on her big girl panties now. She’s playin’ with the grownups,” Charley teased.

“You, shush!”

A pair of balled-up socks was launched her way, almost landing in the mug. Charley managed to catch them without spilling too much coffee, and tossed them back. “And why are you taking an extra pair of socks?” she asked curiously.

Alley blinked down at them, then threw her arms into the air. “I don’t know!” she wailed as she stomped back to her room.

Charley leaned her forehead against the couch and laughed.

“Is she gonna be okay?” Modo asked with amused concern.

“Don’t worry, big guy. First day jitters.” She offered a reassuring grin. “We all got ‘em. College is kind of a big deal, and I think her parents are expecting a lot from her, especially her mom.”

“Did you attend college?” Throttle wanted to know.

“Hmmm.” She finished off her coffee; Vinnie instantly got to his feet to fetch her a refill, and she offered a grateful smile along with the mug. “Sort of,” she replied to Throttle’s question. “I graduated high school a few years ahead of everyone else my age, and I took some courses at a local technical school, just to supplement my knowledge and get an official business degree. I’ve always known what I wanted to do, though, and I already had the work experience, thanks to my dad and uncle. So I never felt the need for the whole college thing like Alley’s doing. Still, I do know how it feels, moving out on your own for the first time and all. It is exciting, and kinda scary. Nobody’s there to hold your hand anymore, ya know?”

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll always hold your hand when ya need it.” Vinnie plopped down beside her, handing her the mug and taking her free hand to press a soft kiss into her palm. His red eyes glowed with impish humor as she blushed at his charming actions. Throttle and Modo looked at each other knowingly and grinned.

Alley made a reappearance, dragging a large, rolling backpack behind her that looked a bit like a miniature, bag-shaped version of her van. She set the gaudy pack by the stairway.

“Are you bringing your entire library?” Charley asked, amused.

“They’re my textbooks. And my computer.”

“Do you need all the books? That’s a lot of extra weight to drag around. What classes do you have today?”

“Lessee … Schedule…” Alley frowned. “Schedule…?” She patted herself down, eyes widening. “Schedule!” She turned on her heel and made a mad dash for her room, much to the amusement of her audience.

“Girl’s gonna give herself a stroke before she makes it out the door,” Throttle observed with a chuckle, shaking his head.

She reappeared with a thick yellow envelope and her phone. “I need a favor. Can someone take my picture? Mom demands pictures of my first day. I’ll never hear the end of it if she doesn’t get any.” She offered the phone with a pleading expression.

Laughing, Charley held out her hand, but Throttle intercepted. “Stand with her. I’ll take one of you together,” he said.

“Great idea!” Alley grabbed her cousin by the arm and hauled her to the bare wall. “Say cheese!” she teased, giggling at Vinnie’s snort.

Charley stood stiffly and managed an awkward smile, clearly not used to being in front of a camera. Alley, on the other hand, snapped off a playful pose, flashing a double thumbs-up with a brilliant grin, hamming it up with practiced ease. The flash went off, and she relaxed, accepting the phone from Throttle. “Thanks!” She studied at the picture. “Hey, this thing has a great camera. Charley, why do you look constipated?”

“Oh, shut up.” The mechanic laughed as she delivered a playful shove.

“Is someone honking outside?” Modo rumbled, head cocking to the side as he listened. They fell silent, and in another moment, the faint sound of a car horn drifted in through the open window.

“Oh! That must be Chex.” Alley slipped the phone into her pocket. “She’s giving me a ride to the campus today since we have some of the same classes.”

“Not Chris?” Charley slid her a coy glance.

“I think he would’ve, except Chex beat him to it,” Alley replied with a laugh, hoisting the heavy bag onto her shoulder.

“That was nice of her.”

“Nah. She only offered ‘cause she’s hoping I’ll convince one of you guys to give her a ride on your bikes.”

They all stared at her. She flashed a hopeful grin. “Just one? Doesn’t have to be far. Around the block, even. Oh, and when I say ‘one of you’, I’m pretty sure she means you, specifically.” She turned her smile on Modo, who straightened at the sudden attention.

“Why me?” he asked, confused.

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe ‘cause you saved her life? And she’s got a serious case of hero-worship as a result?”

He looked flustered as Throttle and Vinnie snickered behind his back. “I’ll, uh, think about it.”

The horn sounded again, sounding even more impatient. “Alright, I’m comin’!” Alley huffed to no one in particular as she bounded down the stairs.

The four of them stared after her for a moment, before Charley sniggered. “So,” she began amicably, “bets on how long it takes her to figure out she’s not wearing shoes?

~*~*~*~*~

“You’re such a blonde,” Chex snorted as Alley slid into the passenger seat of the little, silver-blue Accent (after scrambling back up the stairs to retrieve her shoes amid hoots of laughter from the peanut gallery).

“Yeah, yeah. Just drive,” she grumbled, hauling her heavy pack into the car with her. “Sweet little ride, by the way. I sorta figured you'd drive up in a hearse or something.”

“Don't I wish.” Chex pulled a face. “The step monster gave it to me. Said I needed a reliable car that’s good on gas mileage.”

“She gave you a car?”

“Yeah, she’s the type who likes to buy her way into the hearts of children.” Chex sniggered. “Hey, a free car is a free car. I just make sure I park it way back so people don’t see me in it. It totally does not fit my image.” She was silent a few minutes, before sliding Alley a sideways glance. “Sooooo … did you ask ‘im?”

Alley laughed. “He said he’d think about it. Keep badgering him; I think you’re wearing him down. He's not the type to turn down a lady's request.”

“Sweet.”

“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot. Since we were speaking of step monsters, Chris said yours works a lot with jewelry appraising and stuff. Do you think she could help me and Charley out? We got some antique jewelry and loose gems and wanted to try and sell ‘em, but we need to know the value and find buyers and stuff.”

“Yeah? What do you got?”

Alley opened the front pocket of her bag, withdrawing the sapphire and diamond necklace Stoker had left behind. “Here’s an example.”

Chex’s eyes widened as she took a good look; quickly turned her attention back to the road when someone honked loudly. “Holy shit, is that thing real?”

“As far as I know.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“It was a gift from Stoker.”

“Some gift! And you say there's more?”

“Yeah. I guess precious gems and stuff aren't worth much to the mice. Stoker got what he needed from 'em—like the gold and most of the diamonds—and handed the rest over. Good thing, too, 'cause Charley could really use the money they'd bring in.”

“She in trouble or something?”

“Or something. Can't really talk about it. But do you think your step-mom could help out?”

“Yeah, sure.” Chex shrugged. “I guess you can try and arrange a meeting with Victoria. I’ll give you the number to her office and tell Chris to let her know you’ll be calling. She'd probably be more open to helping if the request comes from him. She doesn't like most of my friends.”

Alley didn't quite know what to say to that. “Well, thanks, that’ll be really helpful. I'm sure Charley and the guys'll be grateful, too.”

“Cool. Think it’ll earn me some points toward scoring a ride?”

Alley laughed and rolled her eyes.

~*~*~*~*~

Chex showed Alley the most direct way to get to the main campus through Chicago, warning her to leave at least two hours ahead of time to avoid any potential delays such as mid-town traffic jams. Most of the professors did not take kindly to tardy students, and wouldn't let her into the class if she arrived late, no matter what sort of excuse she had. Luckily, they had no such issues and made it to the campus with plenty of time to spare. They parted ways in the parking lot with promises to meet for lunch, as their first classes were in different buildings. Alley used the opportunity to give herself another lightning tour of the campus; now that the maps had all been switched back to their proper places, it was much easier to figure out where she was. She also made a mental note to check out the secondary campus in the middle of the city, where her first business classes would be held the following day.

However, it shortly became apparent that she wouldn't be taking those business courses any time soon. Or any of her other courses, for that matter. No sooner had she signed in on the roster and chosen a seat, the young student assistant taking attendance called her back to the desk.

"Sorry, Miss Davidson, but your name isn't on my list," he began, his bored tone suggesting that this wasn't the first time he'd had to make this announcement to a new pupil. "This is Music Composition 101. Check your schedule."

Alley clenched her teeth, annoyed by the insinuation that she'd gone to the wrong class. "No need. I know my schedule," she replied with as much politeness as she could muster. No need to take it out on him; he was just doing his job, after all, and she didn't doubt he'd already had to send other students on their way to the correct classrooms. But she wasn't one of them, darn it!

At his obvious skepticism, she pulled the thick envelope from her bag and riffled until she found her schedule, handing it over with pursed lips. "Right there.” She tapped the page. “Music Composition at ten o'clock. Room 317."

He glanced over it, handed it back with a shrug. "Must be a scheduling error. You'll have to take it up with the office." He went back to his roster, a clear dismissal.

She stared at him. "What, you mean … now? But class is about to start!"

He shrugged again. "Sorry, but the rules are if you're not on the roster, you can't attend the class. Better get it figured out and make sure there aren't any other conflicts." Seeing her expression, he softened. "Look, Professor MacDougall is running late today. Her kid has an ear infection or something and her nanny just quit on her. I'm taking over for her until she can get here. The class lasts two hours. You can probably get it sorted in more than enough time. Come back with a note from the office, and I'll let you sit in the remaining time. If Professor MacD shows up, I'll explain the situation."

"Yeah, okay. I'll do that." Alley wasn't very happy with the solution, but at least he was trying to help. She hoisted her heavy bag and started for the office, grumbling to herself. What a way to start off her college career!

~*~*~*~*~

"What do you mean my scholarship's been revoked?"

Alley gaped at the secretary, wondering if she'd started hallucinating for some reason. Delayed effects of Stoker's miracle cure, by chance? She would skin that mouse alive when she saw him again!

The secretary—Her name was Mary, Alley recalled—was clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, tapping away at the computer and nervously adjusting her wire-framed glasses. "Um, you see, there has been some discrepancy with your SAT scores—"

"What kind of discrepancy?" Alley growled. "I passed those tests with more than enough points to earn my scholarship! I studied my ass off to get those scores!"

"Please lower your voice, Miss Davidson." Looking distressed, Mary adjusted her glasses again. "You see, I am very sorry, but there appears to be some … concern over how you … acquired your high scores."

Alley's eyes narrowed. "I. Studied."

"Are you certain that is the only way you passed?"

She felt like she'd just been kicked in the gut. "Are you actually accusing me of cheating?"

Mary cleared her throat. "Please, lower your voice," she repeated, more firmly. "The fact is, through most of your academic history, your scores have always been … less than spectacular." She adjusted her glasses yet again; Alley was sorely tempted to rip them off her face and stomp on them. "Yet you managed to pass your SATs with scores that put you within the top fifteen percent of the entire country. That is no simple feat. You must realize how … suspicious it all looks."

"Slacking off does not make me a cheater," Alley hissed. "I was just lazy. I never cheated on anything in my life! And I'll have you know that in my last two years, I completely turned it around, got As and Bs in all of my classes. Or does that not count for anything?"

Mary pursed her lips, then calmly swiveled her computer monitor until it faced Alley. Puzzled, she gave it a cursory glance. And then her jaw dropped as what she was seeing registered.

It was her permanent school record. Only it wasn't. All four of her high school years were displayed clearly on the screen, except that for two of them, the high scores that should have been there seemed to have been replaced with grades that could only be described as abysmal. Even her art and writing classes—her favorite subjects in school—barely covered passing ground.

"Are you kidding me?" she screeched, ignoring the secretary's glare. "With scores like that I wouldn't have even passed high school, much less made it into college!"

"Yes, that is exactly my point," Mary replied primly.

Alley massaged her temple, where a headache was steadily forming. "And you seem to be completely missing mine," she growled. "Those are not my grades. I've been … set up or something!"

"Why would anyone set you up?" The secretary looked more than a little skeptical.

"I don't know!" Alley threw her hands into the air. "Maybe some bored student decided to play a mean prank and picked me at random. It happens, right? That thing with the maps? And it's not like computers can't be hacked or anything!"

"Our system security is top-notch. Not just anyone can break into it." Mary looked offended at the very suggestion; Alley decided that mentioning how easily her cousin could probably break in wouldn't really help her case at the moment.

"Then it's some bizarre glitch in the system," she muttered, struggling to think of any answer. "I took those tests a year ago. If I'd really cheated, wouldn't someone have figured it out way before now? I mean, I was in here with the dean's kids last week filling out forms! Remember? Why didn't you bring up this situation then? It sure would've saved me a lot of hassle now."

Finally, a hint of doubt in the secretary's eyes, before her expression firmed. "I am very sorry for all of this trouble, Miss Davidson. I promise I will look into the matter and see if it can be resolved in a satisfactory manner."

"And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Can I go back to class?"

"I'm sorry, but that just isn't possible at this time. As I said, your funding has been revoked. All of your classes have been canceled. Until this situation is resolved, policy states that you cannot attend this school."

Alley started to panic. "But keeping my scholarship depends on me maintaining my grade point average! If I can't attend those classes, I'll flunk out by default, and I'll lose it all anyway, even if I manage to get it back! It could take weeks to get it all sorted. It'll all be for nothing!"

Mary was sympathetic but unwavering. Alley realized she would be getting no more help out of her, turned and trudged from the office as the churning mass of dread, confusion, and defeat sat like a sick lump in her gut.

All she could think of was how in the world she was ever going to explain this to her parents.

#Biker Mice from Mars #BMFM #bmfm fanfiction #main cast #OCs #There's a plot!#And it thickens!

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sirkkasnow · 5 years

Text

04 Advance Planning Is For Sissies

Ao3 link

07/07/13 Sunday

Clary finally started to bust the bicycle out on a regular basis after the excitement of the Fourth. Stan and Dipper helped her swap out the nubby mountain tires for hybrid slicks. She cut a trim, handsome figure in close-fitted shorts, jersey, bandana and helmet when she cruised into town to explore. Stan had overheard Ford giving her a stern albeit somewhat edited lecture on the hazards of Gravity Falls’ woodland trails, and she hadn’t risked the forest yet, which was probably wise.

The bits of conversation he picked up while running his own errands indicated that she was plenty busy as it was, hitting up every farmstand, the museum and Greasy’s within a couple of days. She was already ‘that tourist staying with the Pines’ and the object of bored midsummer curiosity in town.

A tiny aluminum bike trailer had been unearthed from the Fairlane’s wayback. Clary used that to haul all manner of cargo, mostly provisions, as they were mowing through eggs and everything else at a terrifying pace. She’d brought back some odd bits and pieces of costume jewelry and scarves from the thrift store, too, and had promised Mabel a run to the swap meet the next weekend.

Soos had in fact dug the ‘midnight mink’ and was happily working up a new display - ‘Dreaming Denizens,’ or ‘Northwest Nightmares,’ or something else alliterative. Sketches laying out one of the exhibit spaces as a blackout room were scattered across the desk in the office. Stan admitted to himself that it might be fun. Technology had come a long way since the days of glow-in-the-dark paint and twinkle lights.

But what that meant was a new assortment of oddities, and that meant assembly work, and that meant parts, of which the Shack had next to nothing at this point. Stan walked the showroom in late afternoon, taking mental note of what could be repurposed and what they’d need to patch in.

For that matter, he needed parts of another sort for Clary’s station wagon.

“Am I interrupting something important between you and the Goosurkey?” Clary padded up alongside him, hands in pockets. Today’s kerchief was songbirds on pale blue.

“Nope, just thinkin’ ahead. Soos is on a bit of a tear as I’m sure you know.”

“He offered me a job...in case I get stranded here for good. Imaginating Consultant and Staff Accountant.”

Stan half choked before he laughed full-throated. “Thought he had more faith in my repair skills than that.”

“I’m sure he does. He wanted to make sure I felt welcome, that’s all. What are you up to this afternoon? I find myself at loose ends if you could use a spare pair of hands.”

He thought that one over, assessing her through the corner of one eye, piecing together the beginnings of a plan. “…I’ve got a couple errands t’run. You wanna tag along?”

“Depends on what kind of errands you have in mind.”

“The usual weeknight stops. I need a getaway driver and the kids aren’t legal.”

It was her turn to splutter through a laugh. “As if you’d let me lay hands on your precious classic wheels!”

“I don’t know, kid, haven’t you already proven that you’ve got a steady touch?” Watching her go pink with pique was an absolute pleasure. Yeah, this had the potential to be both entertaining and useful. “I’m headin’ out around end of day. Wear black – somethin’ you don’t mind gettin’ dirty.”

To her credit Clary squinted at him with instant suspicion. “You want me to bring extra bobby pins while I’m at it?”

“I’ve got that covered, don’t sweat it.” He winked cheerfully and left her in his wake, mentally plotting out the night’s route.

He’d gathered up all the kit he’d need by the time daylight was winding down into dusk. Stan stepped out onto the porch and nearly tripped over Clary, perched on the top step, tapping who-knew-what into her phone. He yelped, she yelped back and jerked out of the way, and he looked her over critically as he regained his balance. Somewhere in that duffel bag she’d managed to rummage up black jeans, long sleeves and sensible running shoes. The scarves snug at her throat and sleeking back her pinned-up hair were mismatched shades of navy blue, but close enough.

“Wasn’t sure you’d be coming,” he said, though really he’d been pretty sure.

“Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a private late-night tour of Gravity Falls with local legend Mr. Mystery? I can’t pass that up.” Clary rose, toggling the phone to silent and slipping it into her back pocket. “What’s on the itinerary?”

“You’ll see.” She rolled eyes at him but tagged along amiably enough, dropping into the passenger side of the El Diablo and draping a lazy arm along the top edge of the seat while he tossed the backpack of tools and a few other oddments into the trunk. They cruised out into the gathering dark with bad 80s pop for a soundtrack and a mutually-appraising silence.

She pointed an idle thumb down towards Gravity Falls proper as they passed the turnoff. “Not a grocery run.”

“Nope.”

“How far out?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe.”

Her laugh was low and brief as she studied him. “All right. Hobbies?”

“Really?” Stan smiled a little as he drove, his eyes cutting to hers in the mirror.

“I could start singing, but hair metal is really not my bag. I’ll trade mine for yours.”

“Yours‘re probably boring.”

“Ouch. The least you can do is give me a chance to prove otherwise. Besides, didn’t you bring me along to interrogate me in private?”

He did chuckle at that. “Maybe. So, yeah, I make one-of-a-kind art pieces - “ The fingers at the steering wheel’s edge went up in sketchy air quotes. “Fishin’. Monster huntin’ and general explorin’ with Ford, though that’s more the day job these days, I guess.” The quiet weight of her regard didn’t lift and he shifted in his seat. “Boxin’, long time ago. You?”

“Thought you must have been in some kind of sport as a kid. Me, you’ve seen the bike. I read a lot. Thrift store diving, I like vintage stuff. Museums.” One splayed hand obscured her smile as she turned to look out the windshield at the darkening green blur of rural scenery. “Dance, sometimes. Haven’t had much time the last couple of years.”

The likely reasons for that were fairly obvious so he didn’t pry. “There’s not a ton to do out here in the off-season, y’know, so now and then I used t’host somethin’ for the locals. I’ve been gettin’ pestered for a dance party since I got back. You want in?”

“Absolutely. Let me know if I can help out.”

“Maybe we take a turn in the ring while we’re at it. Dipper asked me to show him a few things, might as well teach you too. You’re tall enough to be a decent sparrin’ partner.” Stan spun the wheel easily with one hand, heading down a familiar long gravel drive. “With Dipper I’ve practically got to be on my knees. And I am not that flexible these days.”

There was a hesitation before she responded. “Sure. Though I’m pretty sure I’m better with my feet than my fists.”

The El Diablo eventually pulled up in a little clearing populated by battered sheds, a well-worn pickup and a trailer home that he knew hadn’t budged in decades. Clary took a wary look around, mouth drawing tight in doubt.

“Supplies,” he rumbled, setting the car in park and unbuckling. “Since it looks like Soos is determined to do an overhaul while he’s got me around to help out. Make yourself comfortable. Won’t be long.” He chuckled at her open apprehension. “Relax, kid. Nothin’s gonna pop out of the woods t’drag you screamin’ out of the car. That only happens on new moon and that’s tomorrow.” Stan tapped his chin in mock rumination. “I think.”

“Very funny.”

“You’ll be fine, promise, I’ll be right back.” He was still laughing under his breath as he headed up to the front door.

It was a quick exchange - he’d called ahead and so there was a boxload of stuff waiting for him, cash for critter bits, easy enough. Stan struggled a bit with the driver’s side back door and Clary tucked legs under to kneel on the seat, reaching clear across to pop the door latch. She grabbed the edge of the box once it hit the seat and tugged it over into the middle, peering in at the contents under the wan illumination of the dome light. “Ooh. New skulls!”

“Soos is gonna need a few more mink things, yeah. What is it with you and weasels?”

“Professional courtesy.”

He snorted softly as the car rolled along. “Just how many of those do you know?”

“All of them.” His glance of disbelief was met with her mild smile. “All right, here’s the thing, we tax types are well known as the most humorless beings on the planet. Intimate acquaintance with the IRS, unhealthy obsession with spreadsheets, all that. I figured out pretty early on that people made assumptions. I read up a little. I got to know some of the other folks on the professional circuit in Baltimore...which is a company town, believe me, everyone there is either in government, education or crime….”

“Go on.” He had an inkling where this was going, a slow smile starting to curl.

“I thought I might as well leverage those assumptions.”

“You conned your fellow ambulance chasers.”

“Hey. I am no ambulance chaser and don’t you forget it.” She levelled a fierce glare and an accusing index finger his way. “All I did was win an occasional bar bet by outlasting every loudmouth who thought I was a pushover. If I felt merciful I’d order a glass of the best brandy in the joint and nurse it all night. If I felt less merciful….” Her shoulders rolled in a careless shrug. “There was enough turnover every couple of years that I always had marks.”

“So y’think I can’t keep up?”

“I know for a fact that you’re starting to run out of stuff you can crack in front of the kids.”

Which was true. He coughed into his knuckles as she arched an amused brow at him. “Well,” he said slowly. “Kids aren’t here.”

“Bring it, Pines.”

They batted terrible jokes back and forth for nearly ten minutes as he piloted along the highway to the next destination, dipping into blacker and blacker humor as they went.

“What can a goose do, a duck can’t, and a lawyer should?”

“Stick his bill up his ass. What’s the difference between a lawyer and a rooster?”

“When a rooster wakes up in the mornin’, his primal urge is to cluck defiance! Why do they bury lawyers under twenty feet of dirt?”

“Because deep down, they’re really good people. You know the problem with lawyer jokes?”

This one was so open-ended as to give no clue at all, and Stan cocked his head at her in question.

“Lawyers don’t think they’re funny, and no one else thinks they’re jokes.”

Clary’s smile was a little wry, and he felt an embarrassed flush creep up his neck. “Time for a change of subject, huh?”

“Tell me the best one you’ve got that has nothing to do with lawyers.”

“Oh ho, that’s easy.”

Once they were past the competitive call-and-response - she had definitely won that one, he’d been right on the verge of running dry, but like hell was he admitting to that - they both unspooled longer, loopier jokes, and Stan took real pleasure in coaxing a good laugh out of her. She had a nice laugh, he decided, deep and fearless, growing a little huskier as the drive wore on and she kept talking.

They cruised down one of the more remote county roads, driving nearly on autopilot until they reached the right turnoff. She was still chuckling over his last crack when he pulled over onto the shoulder and killed the engine. Clary frowned over at the tree-screened porch light up the hill. “Wow, okay, this is the middle of nowhere. More parts?”

“Not quite.” Stan drew breath, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he tried to frame what he wanted to say.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Ah. Is this the morally questionable portion of tonight’s program?”

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it. Listen for a minute?”

Clary settled back, attentive, mouth smoothing into a sober line.

“So I’m a collector. I’ve got a thing. For art.” She nodded and he went on. “This jackass up here nabbed a Gustav Klouneng out from under me at auction, he’s rejected all my completely reasonable offers for the thing, and he’s been rubbin’ my nose in it for years now. Pure spite. I’m out here to, ah.” Stan held out both hands palm up, miming the balancing of scales.

“Steal it.”

“Pretty much. I’ve been waitin’ on him to leave town for months.”

She mulled it over, then nodded and cracked her door open. “All right. Show me how it’s done.”

Stan felt a corner of his mouth twitch up. “You sure? You can wait here, if you wanna.”

“I knew we’d be getting into trouble the minute you said ‘wear black’, so let’s get into some trouble.”

They both slid out of the car, Stan chuckling to himself, heading back around to the trunk. He reached in to fish out the gear they’d need, then tossed the spare set of gloves at Clary. She caught them against her chest and tugged them on, wriggling fingers in approval. “You’re pretty light-footed, so just point the light where I need it and stay close, got it?”

“Got it.”

There was no way in hell they were going to make it up to the house in complete silence and the place was unoccupied anyway, so Stan led her the long way around through underbrush to the basement door at a brisk walk. Clary accepted the heavy little black flashlight and aimed it as directed, leaning in to watch the delicate process of coaxing the lock open.

Having an audience was new, but the lock was child’s play. Stan nudged the door open and ushered her in with a flourish. She quirked him a half-impressed grin as she passed, angling the light into a dusty storage room.

“Wait ‘til you see this,” he murmured, deftly picking the lock on the next door under the light’s beam. Clary stepped in after him, silent on the thick carpet, and he cautiously flicked up the switches.

Stan had been here in person with time to look around only once, on what he thought of sourly as the ‘I’ve got all these great paintings and you don’t, sucker’ tour, but the impact was still the same. Perfect lighting, perfect framing, walls and drapery and paneling fit for a professional gallery. The owner might have been a colossal jerk but he had taste. He took a moment to soak it in with a low sigh of enjoyment, then checked on Clary.

She had an arm folded across her midsection, flashlight loose in her fingers, one hand at her chin, expression neutral save for a faint crease of the brow as her eyes flicked from painting to painting.

“Can you believe this hillbilly chump has a collection like this?”

Her head shook fractionally. “No.”

“Overwhelmed, huh. C’mon, lemme show you the one we’re here to get.” Stan chuckled to himself, padding softly down towards their objective.

Clary’s arms relaxed once she’d taken it all in and she came along after him, voice low. “I will say that these are, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best clown paintings I have ever seen. This is a very carefully curated collection.”

“One day these’ll all be mine, but this’s what we came for.” He dragged a fingertip along the edge of the carved frame, grinning up into the mournful eyes of his Klouneng, all slate blues and velvet blacks and white splashed red. “What d’you think?”

“This is the best one here,” she said without hesitation, stepping in alongside him. “Brave use of color, intelligent framing. Lovely brushwork. The shapes and lighting are pared down into something elegant and stark, which is nice, sort of playing on the underlying theme of life on the edge of the spotlight...this is an artist on a mission.” Her expression finally eased into a faint, thoughtful smile. “Though I wonder why he’s so sad.”

“Y’really do like it?”

“Not sure I’d be brave enough to hang it over my bed, but I can respect anything created with such passion.”

“Afraid of clowns?” he tossed off in her general direction as he reached up behind the canvas to find the wall anchor.

“Of course not. I’m just a sucker for landscapes.”

Stan worked quickly, coaxing the canvas out of its bulky frame and setting it delicately against the wall. Clary had wandered off to take a closer look at the rest; she’d found the closest thing to a landscape in the place, a shadowed Paris alley with a dejected mime slumped against the wall. She didn’t seem afraid, but he crept up as softly as he could and leaned in close to her ear, hands hovering a moment before seizing her shoulders.

“Boo.”

Clary made a strangled, startled noise that wasn’t quite a shout, twisted out of his grip and latched onto his forearm with a downward yank that threw him well off balance. He staggered, she jerked back, then grabbed at him for support as she teetered.

“Stanley, what the hell - “

“Cripes, lady, you tryin’ t’dump me on the floor here - “

They were still trying to disentangle themselves, Clary reddening as she finally let go of his arm and shoved free, when a soft creak from overhead made them both freeze.

Shit, thought Stan, then I know damn well he’s out of town, then time to go. Clary stared at him for a flat second of naked betrayal. They both jolted into motion, Clary flipping down the light switches with a single swipe of her palm, Stan snatching up the Klouneng.

“Who’s down there?”

Yeah, he maybe might’ve miscalculated on the ‘out of town’ bit.

“Pines, if that’s you, I swear to God I’m really gonna shoot you this time.”

The door at the top of the inside stairs slowly swung open, casting a shadow - bathrobe, slippers and a rifle, damn it all - along the wall. Clary’s eyes were saucer-wide as she edged towards the still-ajar gallery door. Stan nudged her out into the dusty basement, half stumbling in haste as he followed. As cautious steps turned into a slapping, hurried stampede downstairs, punctuated by curses, Stan set himself up and at just the right moment kicked the inside door to make hard contact with the owner’s face.

Clary’s fingers hooked into his and she dragged him up the basement steps and outside. They both bolted for the relative shelter of the woods. “Head for the car,” she hissed as they hit the treeline.

Suddenly his hand was free and she took off like a panicked gazelle, dodging shrubs, leaping over roots, waving the flashlight around and generally making an attractive nuisance of herself as she angled off roughly towards the road. She was fast. Apparently all that time on the bike had paid off. Stan bulled straight on through, crashing over a stand of huckleberry. He had the painting jammed protectively under one arm and kept half an eye on the trajectory of the light.

When the gunshot went off Stan nearly went ass-over-teakettle through another clump of underbrush. It wasn’t aimed at him, he could tell that much, but his heart was a lump of ice in his chest as he frantically scanned over in Clary’s general direction. She’d stopped – then he heard a distant hngh! of effort and saw the flashlight go up in a long arc, spinning, the beam slicing at tree trunks until a thwack and an infuriated shout of “Damn you, Pines!” indicated that she’d hit her target.

Clary got there first, silhouette matte black against the vague midnight glint of the El Diablo, diving right through the open passenger window to skid across the front seat and slap the driver’s door open. Stan shoved the painting at her, she pivoted to stash it in the back, and gravel was spitting out from under the tires before she’d even turned around again.

They whipped through a three-point turn that tapped the back bumper against a juvenile pine, setting off a rustle in the forest canopy. Stan nearly floored it all the way back to the county road. Clary was curled up at the far edge of the bench seat, both hands over her face. For a long few minutes there was nothing to listen to but the low drone of the radio and the slowly steadying rhythm of both their breathing.

“Fuck,” she finally gritted through bared teeth, and Stan had to bite his lip near to bleeding not to crack up.

“You all right over there?” By the time he dared to check over to her side of the car she’d uncoiled a little, dragging the seatbelt down and shoving the buckle home with a heavy click.

“Peachy. So, thanks, Stan, that was educational, but I must say my estimation of you as some kind of backwoods Oregon criminal mastermind has taken a total nosedive.” Clary settled back against the seat and draped an arm along the window ledge, eyes half closed. “Holy hell. Never again.”

Stan tried, but this time the laughter won out. He tossed his head back and cackled with glee. She reached across to swat at his shoulder, but her lips were pinched against a grudging smile. “You’d better really love that painting.”

“After all that I swear it’s gonna be the eternal jewel of my collection.”

There wasn’t much to say as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. Stan finally took a moment to latch his own seatbelt as he guided the car back in the general direction of town, humming absently under his breath. The minutes ticked past in companionable silence and occasional, wary checks of the rearview mirror.

Clary’s brows rose as they took the turnoff towards Gleeful’s dealership. “What, we’re not done yet? That wasn’t enough excitement for one night?”

“One last errand...this’s a little one, promise, just need to collect some odds and ends for your vintage rattletrap.”

“You be nice to that car. It was more or less in mint condition before it got intimate with your tourist trap.”

“And it’ll be nice again once we figure out the bodywork, but in the meantime the engine needs help.” Stan pulled up on the roadside forty yards or so down from the dealership, cars and mylar fringe glinting and still under the lot’s lights. He levered himself up and out, stretching muscles that twanged in protest. Clary unfolded herself from the far side and half stumbled, supporting herself on the El Diablo’s hood as she came around to join him.

“I’ve never run that hard in my life. My knees are still jelly.”

“Nice afterburners on you, kid. Nice grip, too.” Stan fished the trimmed end of his most recent cigar out of his breast pocket and raised brows at her in question as she settled against the fender; she nodded and he struck a match, taking his time to wake the tobacco up to a slow burn. Ten minutes left on this one, maybe.

“I had incentive. What’re we here for?” Clary folded arms and looked up to the star-dense sky, her dark figure limned in subtle silver and the sodium gold of the dealership lamps. Stan studied her sharp profile at the edge of his vision.

“Drive belt. Spark plugs. Other bits not worth explainin’.”

“I can pay for the parts, Stan.”

He huffed out a chuckle, angling the smoke away. “Yeah, about that. Gleeful an’ I don’t exactly get along, y’see, he’ll tell you to stuff it purely ‘cause you’re under my roof right now.”

Pfft, she went, eyes closing for a pensive moment. “Nothing else local I imagine.”

“Nope. Portland’s a full day round trip. Bud’s got a nice little assortment of older stuff back there he’s never gonna sell, we nip in, snag what you need, nip out. No one’s even gonna notice. Hour, hour and a half tops. All you’ve gotta do is kill the main power at the office. Fuse box, big switch, cake.” He tipped a thumb over at the cinderblock-and-plate-glass structure that anchored the lot, tucked inside the fence.

“You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

“Been hearin’ it all my life.”

He let her think it over while he worked his way through the last bit of his cigar, smoke dissipating peacefully on the warm night air. Maybe she’d bite, maybe she wouldn’t. Eventually he ground the stub out at his feet and went around to the trunk to retrieve his kit bag. Clary followed, extending a hand, and he dropped a set of pliers into her gloved palm.

“Fine. Your turf, your people, your judgment call. I trust you.” He flinched in surprise at the phrase, covering with the low thunk of the trunk’s closure. “Prove me right.”

The urge to catch her arm and suggest the day trip to Portland instead was sudden and strong - hell, she was decent company and she’d be good for the gas - but it was already too late as she pivoted and jogged off down along the lot line, choosing a badly-lit spot near the office and scaling the fence with scrabbling feet. Less than a minute later the lights went out with a distant clunk.

Stan shouldered his tools and headed in, tamping down vague apprehension as his eyes adjusted to the faint ambient light. He didn’t bring out the spare flashlight until heavy shadow made it risky to go further. The lot was a maze of gleaming hulks, the footing treacherous on thin, irregular gravel. Clary he eventually picked out by the soft crunch of her cautious steps and an occasional ow as she bumped into one car or another, slowly homing in.

“Gonna take this up as a sideline? You got decent instincts for a glorified accountant.”

Clary snorted softly. “Not on your life. I usually deal with a different caliber of crime.”

Stan grinned to himself. “See anythin’ the same make as yours before you killed the lights?”

“There’s a Fairlane sedan at the back. Not in spectacular shape, but it looked like the right vintage.”

“That’ll work. Here y’go, lead on.” He passed off the flashlight. She kept her head and the light’s beam low, creeping along with complete focus, so serious and so careful that the urge to indulge in a cheap startle eventually became irresistible.

Stan caught up with two silent strides and reached out to clasp her low on the ribs. “Gotcha.”

She didn’t even make a sound this time, convulsing in his grip, the flashlight hitting the ground right about as her elbow caught him smack in the face. Stan tucked and hit the dirt more or less completely on reflex, half stunned - there’d been some real force behind that - and she was almost a carlength away before he could even see straight.

The dim fringe of the light gave him just enough of a read on her expression, flickering through fear to fury and finally settling on horrified contrition as he lifted a hand and found himself stemming a tidal rush of blood from his bruised nose. “Holy smokes, kid.”

“Shit.” She hustled back, dropping to her knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly as he rummaged up a handkerchief and jammed it in place to stanch the flow. “I am so sorry.” A pause. “Please never do that again.”

“Not a chance. I want to keep my head on, thanks.” Stan tipped his chin up, sniffling faintly as he waited for the broken blood vessel to calm the hell down. “Quit lookin’ at me like that, I deserved to end up flat on my ass. Nice solid hit, for a girl, with a desk job.” Budding indignation was definitely an improvement over the guilt and concern twisting her features - he didn’t much want to deal with either of those. “I really could show you how t’do somethin’ with that, y’know.”

Clary seemed reassured that he wasn’t going to die on the spot, at least, as she turned and stretched way out to retrieve the flashlight. “Only if next week is a lot more boring than this one has been. You sure you’re all right.”

He pinched his nose with the hanky, wincing as he tested the bridge, then dabbed with a clean corner which stayed clean. “Not broken. I’ve gotten worse beatings than that, believe me.”

The flicker of concern came and went again, but she kept her mouth shut and stood gracefully, extending a hand down to him. “We’d better wrap up.” Clary leaned back to counterbalance his greater weight and pulled him easily to his feet; Stan snagged the backpack and refrained from any further shenanigans as they came up on the car she’d picked out.

It wasn’t pretty - the color some kind of faded bronze that she called “Sauterne Gold” in passing disgust, chrome pitted along the bumper’s lower edge - but the hood came up quietly. The internals were mostly familiar and more importantly intact.

“Hold the flashlight steady for me an’ keep an eye out.” Stan unzipped his pack, the sound muffled by a liberal coating of beeswax on the teeth, and reached in to feel for the right tools in their flannel wraps. Clary bent for a fleeting moment to squint in and hummed in amusement as she straightened up.

“Pink bunnies?”

“Old PJs of Mabel’s, cut me some slack already. Pliers?” She passed them over, propped her elbow to keep the light roughly aligned, and kept her attention on the road while he set to work. Nothing too complicated. The drive belt was the worst of it, the spark plugs were easy. Clary glanced down at him every now and then as he became absorbed in the process.

He had dumped the tools and miscellaneous bits into the pack and was softly latching the hood when the light cut out and she hissed a warning, dropping into the shelter of the fender as a distant, watery beam raked the lot.

And, inevitably, zeroed in on him. “Hey, what’s going on over there? That you, Bud?”

Blubs. “Pete’s sake,” he spat under his breath, and nudged the backpack with one foot towards Clary’s hiding spot. “Zip that, run for it, toss it over the fence.” Her hand darted out to catch a strap as he half turned. “Uh, yeah?”

“Pines? What the heck happened to your face? And what’re you doin’ here at - Hey, are you stealing parts again?”

“....No?” Clary was inching away deeper into the shadows of the lot. He couldn’t even make her out, but started strolling towards Blubs to cover up the faint crunch of her steps, hands turned out and empty. “You know we got a guest with a busted car, right? Bud an’ I still aren’t speakin’ politely, so I’m here lookin’ for somethin’ trustworthy she can use ‘til she’s fixed.”

“After one in the morning?” Blubs was one to talk; Stan could make out the perpetual sunglasses over the regulation flashlight’s beam.

“D’you really want me crossin’ paths with Bud again?” Somewhere behind him there was a distant rustle of branches, good, then Durland’s voice, far enough off to sound tinny.

“Hey! Where you going, burglar? Yer under arrest - for burglary!”

There was a scuffle, and a sharp, high yelp like a rabbit snatched by an ambitious owl. “Hey!” Stan spun on one heel, and made it about three lengthening steps in the right direction before Blubs full-out tackled him by the knees. One of the car alarms went off, squeep squeep squeep, as he crashed into a door on the way down. “Ah, c’mon, Blubs, I saved the town from an interdimensional demon, gimme a break!”

“Sorry, Stan, we got a job to do.”

Durland herded Clary past him, her back straight, wrists cuffed, expressionless. She caught his eyes for the barest moment - she was pale, a smudge on her cheek, but seemed to be in one piece. Stan let Blubs slap the cuffs on him with an internal groan of resignation. They made a sad little parade out towards the street, the sheriff and his deputy arguing quietly.

“....aw, shoot, Durland, we don’t have the cruiser. Me and my ideas for romantic midnight strolls!”

“Well, why don’t we just commander Stan’s car?”

“Do you mean commandeer?”

“I dunno!”

“Edwin Durland, you are an absolute delight, and I cherish having you as my life partner.”

At least someone was having a good night. Blubs rummaged the car keys out of Stan’s pocket and stuffed him in behind the driver’s seat. Clary ended up on the passenger side, wedged in next to the box of pelts and bones. The Klouneng stayed precariously jammed between his knee and hers. Stan gritted his teeth as Blubs fiddled with the seat back and finally got the El Diablo going.

She stared out into the night the whole way. He could all but hear the mental gears spinning over there and was loathe to interrupt, but finally spoke up, quiet. “You okay, Clary?”

“I’m fine, Stan.” It was the first unambiguous lie she’d told him, smooth as glass. Stan left it at that, letting his temple rest against the window’s chilly surface while he tried to figure a way out of this one.

The station was a bit of a blur as he trudged in, head down, watching Clary’s feet ahead of him. They ended up uncuffed and unceremoniously dumped in one of the cells together. The door closed with a familiar, heavy clang. “You two better get comfortable. We’ll get your prints in the morning.” Blubs really did do a decent job of being intimidating when you didn’t know him.

Stan flopped onto one of the cots. Clary folded her arms, settling against the wall near the bars, angling herself so that she had half a bead on Durland and Blubs talking at the end of the hall. “How do we get out of here?” she whispered after a minute or two.

“Don’t think we can, kid.” Stan settled back onto the thin mattress with a sigh, propping up a knee. “I think I can convince ‘em that you got hypnotized into comin’ along with me or somethin’. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’ve heard this year or hell even this summer.”

Her mouth twitched faintly. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“I don’t have to tell you that you don’t wanna get in trouble with the law. This isn’t my first night in jail, not by a long shot.” He rolled his head a little, the better to catch her eye. “I’ve been in an’ out of this one so many times the cot’s got a dent to fit my butt.” No laugh, but at least she ducked her head to hide the ghost of a smile. “I’ve done time in worse places than this. Whatever they come up with to throw at me, this’s a cakewalk.”

Her fingers were tapping a soft rhythm against her sleeve. “And if we can get past the lock?”

“Then we slip out a window and they forget this ever happened, most likely.”

Clary’s features went carefully neutral as she fished something out of her back pocket, then leaned against the bars, hands hanging just through. “Excuse me, fellas?” Her voice smoothed out into a warm dark-caramel register that wouldn’t do a damned thing for the sheriff or the deputy but struck a pleasant thrum in Stan’s chest. “You dropped your car keys.”

Durland wandered back after a minute, squinting. “Where’d you get my keepsake key fob? I’ve been lookin’ for that.”

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t even realize I’d picked it up. Thought they were my keys in the dark.”

“Thank you kindly, miss.” She handed the fob off to the deputy, endured a long, scrutinizing stare, then settled back against the wall. Stan stared at the ceiling and listened to the slow retreat of Durland’s feet, settling in for an uncomfortable night.

“Hsst.”

“What.”

He could practically hear her eyes rolling. “Hst,” again, softer, and he turned his head to look over. Clary had one palm tilted towards him, a glint carefully contained by silencing fingers - the cell keys, how the fuck - expression equal measures smug and profoundly ashamed. Her hands were shaking.

Stan bounced upright in pure shock, feet hitting the floor with a thud. He slapped a hand over his mouth in time to muffle an involuntary laugh. “Holy - you sure you don’t have experience with this kinda thing?”

“Shh,” Clary hissed. She pressed her brow to the bars for a better angle on the hallway, both hands cradling the keys as though they’d evaporate any second. Her trembling fingers set off tiny clinks as she tried them in succession until one finally clicked. The bolt slid back with a faint thunk that made both of them flinch. Stan hovered at her side as she pulled one shuddering breath, two, then carefully, carefully opened the door.

They slipped out into the hall and crept down to the station office. Blubs snored peacefully, sprawled across the front desk. Clary leaned over and pulled a neat little switch, plucking up the Stanleymobile keys and leaving the cell keys in their place.

“Hold on,” Stan whispered as she inched towards the outside door. She held in place and watched in outraged astonishment as he sidestepped into what passed for the evidence room, then reemerged with the precious Klouneng tucked under one arm.

The El Diablo was right out front. Stan matter-of-factly unlocked the passenger side, opened it for Clary, handed her the painting - she pivoted and stashed it in the back again - then slid into his own seat, adjusted it to the proper position, and pulled out smoothly down the road.

Both of them were all but holding their breath for the better part of ten minutes. Flashing lights and sirens failed to materialize behind them.

“You know where the pack went down?”

“Yes. I counted fenceposts.”

“Let’s grab that, then, don’t know how we can get into more trouble tonight.”

Clary knocked on the dashboard in lieu of anything actually wooden. “Please don’t tempt fate any further.”

Stan pulled into the former Tent of Telepathy lot next to Gleeful’s and angled the headlamps in the general direction Clary indicated, since they were officially out of flashlights. She hopped out and delved into the underbrush. His fingertips were drumming impatiently on the steering wheel’s edge by the time she reemerged, pack slung over one shoulder.

He picked a circuitous route out of town for no real reason other than his own peace of mind.

Clary tucked herself against the passenger door, arms defensively folded. Her expression gradually wound tighter and tighter into a frown. “You know, he got it wrong, that wasn’t even burglary. At least he didn’t know we’d already done that bit.”

“Pffft.” It wasn’t even that funny, but all the same Stan propped his head in one hand, fingers splayed so he could see, and started to laugh quietly. She joined him after a few moments. There was a hysterical edge to her staccato giggles but it was better than dead silence.

“I cannot believe I did that.”

“Oh, you did, kid. Pretty professional too.” It was damned near three in the morning and exhaustion weighed down his limbs. The drive home was mercifully uneventful, the Shack dark and silent under a moonless sky. He scooped up the painting and she collected the backpack from where she’d dumped it in the footwell. Stan didn’t bother to flick on any lights until they made it to the kitchen, feet dragging, and they both had to squeeze dark-adapted eyes shut against the sudden glare of the overhead lamp.

Stan propped the Klouneng up on the table and sank heavily into a kitchen chair. Clary paced the floor, hands to hips, the mental gears spinning again. "That was a wild night. Let's see. Breaking and entering, burglary, trespassing, petty larceny, escaping custody. How much do Klounengs go for?" Stan winced; she blinked, lips parting in dismay, and burst into a fresh round of low incredulous laughter. "Grand larceny."

"He's not gonna report anythin'," Stan said, a little wounded. "Half of what he has on the walls down there is already stolen. There's, ah, kind of a runnin' rivalry among collectors of these things."

"Lost any of yours?" She padded over to the sink, turning the tap and waiting on the water to warm up.

"Hell, no, I have mine better hidden than that. None of ‘em are dumb enough to mess with the Shack."

"So that leaves a couple hundred in car parts, and we didn't leave any real traces there. Except, you know, being in physical custody for under an hour. They didn't even book us." Clary drew a long breath through her cupped hands, then let it go slowly. "Screw it," she murmured. "We got out alive. The rest is just details."

She tucked her gloves into a back pocket and scrubbed both hands and face while Stan glared at his interlaced fingers and stewed. This night had not gone as planned and really, none of that was on her.

“Want a drink?” Clary reached up into a cupboard.

“Water, sure.” She set a glass in front of him, then paused to study him carefully before pacing back to the sink. “You did good, y’know. Nerves of steel for a rookie.”

“Baltimore being Baltimore, you develop those nerves or you move someplace a lot more peaceful.” Clary returned with a damp paper towel and an air of quiet determination. “Your face is still kind of a mess. Hold still a moment, let me clean you up and then I’ll get an ice pack.”

“Don’t need ice, I can take a couple aspirin - “ She tilted her head at him a little, brows rising, and Stan heaved a resigned sigh.

Clary rested a cool palm along his jaw and tipped him up until he was looking into her eyes. She wasn’t looking into his. Instead her focus was tight and worried as she swabbed along his upper lip. “Cannot believe I tagged you this hard. I am so damned sorry.” Tiny corkscrew tendrils of her hair escaped the bandana, ash brown washed out to silvered threads by the light bulb’s corona. “You sure you feel all right?”

“’m fine.” There was a flush rising along his neck and it wasn’t embarrassment this time. Stan couldn’t tear his gaze away. He’d seen that shade of grey in her troubled eyes before, somewhere. Maybe in the glint of a tern’s wing or the glimmer of the sea at the edge of dawn. “Like I said, I deserved that one.”

"I hit you, Stan, that is not okay." With one last pass of the paper towel along the edge of his lower lip she stepped back to survey her handiwork. The grey eyes flicked up to meet his, and she seemed at last to realize how close she’d been as she withdrew. “You don’t deserve that. Just - no more grabbing me from behind, clear?”

“Crystal.”

She wrapped a familiar bag of frozen peas in a dishtowel and handed it off. A moment’s rifling through a drawer turned up a bottle of ibuprofen, which she opened and set on the table. “Anything else before I go collapse? You guys are wearing me out so completely that I’m sleeping better than I have in years.”

“Why’d you come along?”

He hadn’t meant to ask that - it slipped out unbidden. Stan pressed the improvised icepack to his forehead, peering out at her from under daisy-patterned terrycloth. She looked as surprised as he felt. “I mean - you knew it’d be trouble.”

“I made a promise,” Clary said after a wary pause, “that I’d take some real chances this year. Stick my neck out for other people.”

“How’s that workin’ out for you so far?”

A tiny smile warmed her weary features. “Mixed bag. Right now, from where I’m standing, I think things might be looking up.” Her palm pressed his shoulder in brief reassurance. “Good night, Stan.”

“G’night, Clary.” She shot him a last oblique glance as she headed out into the hall.

Stan washed down three ibuprofen with water, settled back in the chair and let his eyes slip half closed for a thoughtful while, listening to the distant song of crickets.

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She hovers uselessly at your side, wide eyes flicking between your bleeding nose and the backpack you dropped. “I am so sorry.”

Want to learn how to really hit?

Play for sympathy.

Get indignant.

#Gravity Falls #gfdatingsim #DDtMMW #Swooning Over Stans #Stanley Pines #OClicious #fanfic

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