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[pantherplush]

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Contact Info-

PANTHER PLUSH

Address- 7234 W North Ave STE 208, Chicago, FL, USA 60707

Phone- +1 (773) 991-0727

Business Email- support@pantherplush.com

Website- https://pantherplush.com

Business Hours- Mon - Fri: 10AM-5PM | Sat: 9AM-5PM | Sun: Closed

Payment Methods- Credit, Debit, ACH, Cash

Year Establish- 2023

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[copperbadge]

[ID: four images; top two show a small plastic shelving unit that has been attached to a wall with zipties, while the bottom two show, on the left, the remains of grey water in my carpet shampooer, and right, my fitbit watch band drying atop the wax melt heater.]

Weekend cleaning continues!

I did a bunch of small things this morning. I've wanted one of those nordic "drying cupboards" forever -- you know, the cupboard over the sink that you can put plates in to dry without having it out on the counter. I can't actually do that, so I did the next best thing and bought a super cheap plastic shelf and put it to one side of the sink where I couldn't keep anything else anyway. It's been useful but it falls over about once a week, so today's first order of business was 1. find the zipties and 2. ziptie it to the wall. Worked a treat!

After using the carpet shampooer I didn't empty the tanks because I knew I'd want to do more cleaning with it, but I'm also going out of town soon and I didn't want it sitting around with water in it, getting gross, so I did the last shampooing today and then emptied it out. I went over the hall rug a second time and then the bathroom rug, and emptying the dirty water tank went fine until I went to rinse it and dumped relatively clean but still "been in the shampooer" water all over myself. Crucially, all over the fabric band on my fitbit, so I had to rinse that out and set it out to dry. Fortunately the wax warmer makes a great warm drying rack for it.

Not pictured: my toilet that I just scrubbed clean, because it's still looking a bit gross so I'm going to try cleaning it a second time at some later point. Also not pictured, the litterbox that I dumped, wiped down, and refilled with new litter, or the blinds that I dusted, because frankly there's not much to see there. Still, felt good to get it all done. No one thing took much time, but I did get through an hour long podcast by Throughline about the Public Universal Friend and 20 minutes of I Don't Even Own A Television's dissection of The Maze Runner from back before it was a movie.

And then I went to see the Remedios Varo exhibit at the Art Institute with a friend! It was AWESOME, everyone who told me to go see it was correct that it's so far up my street it's a surprise I don't live there. If you're in Chicago don't miss it, it's on the second floor of the modern wing and a small but absolutely charming and beautiful set of paintings and studies. I'm definitely going to try to get back before it closes at the end of November.

[ID: A photograph of Remedios Varo's "Simpatia" or "Sympathy" from 1955, which she stated she painted because she likes cats. There is a large, very Polk-like cat leaping onto a table and being soothed by his owner after knocking over a glass of water -- while three more cats at least hide out under the table, only their tails visible. Both the cat on the table and the owner soothing him have bright spiky orange hair that looks like flame, and strange sparkling lines are emerging from cat and owner. It's giving big Hieronymus Bosch vibes.]

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 4 - Push and Pull

Summary: Valerie starts to question her place in Elvis' life after hearing some sage - if not utterly depressing - advice from a Las Vegas veteran. Later, Elvis shows his jealous side and they come to an understanding.

The phone never rang.

In Vegas, silence feels different than anywhere else. Maybe it's because the city itself never truly quiets – there's always the distant chime of slot machines, the hum of air conditioning pushing back against the desert heat, the muffled thunder of jets bringing another load of dreamers to the Strip. Or maybe it's because Vegas operates on its own clock, where three AM is peak hours and noon might as well be midnight.

I spent that morning staring at the phone like a jilted teenager, willing it to spring to life with Elvis's voice on the other end. Every time someone walked past my door, my heart did a little jump-skip-hop routine that would've put his famous moves to shame. But the hours crawled by with nothing but silence and the distant ding of elevator doors.

The International hadn't started feeling like home yet, even after nearly a week. My suite was bigger than my entire Chicago apartment, all cream and gold with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. The view was pure Vegas – neon signs fighting with the sun, palm trees that looked like they'd been shipped in from a movie set, and everywhere that particular sparkle that made you forget the desert was waiting just beyond the city limits, patient as death.

By noon, I'd worn a path in the thick carpet between the bed and window. My reflection caught my eye – hair wild from running my fingers through it, lipstick slightly smeared from nervous lip-biting. I looked like what I was: a fool waiting for a married man to call.

The suite's mirror was unforgiving in the harsh desert sunlight. Three weeks in Vegas had already changed me – my clothes were more expensive, my makeup more carefully applied, my whole being somehow more polished. But underneath it all, I was still that girl from Chicago, still dreaming of something bigger. The irony wasn't lost on me: I'd found something bigger, all right, but at what cost? 

The thing about being involved with Elvis Presley that nobody tells you is how much time you spend waiting. Waiting for phone calls, waiting for shows to end, waiting to see which version of him you'll get today – the superstar, the philosopher, the boy from Tupelo, or someone else entirely. The tabloids never mentioned that part.

The International had its own rhythm, I'd learned. Mornings belonged to the cleaning staff and tired gamblers. Afternoons were for rehearsals and sound checks, the distant thrum of music floating through the hallways like a ghost. But evenings – evenings belonged to Elvis. His energy seemed to electrify the whole building, from the lobby where fans lingered hoping for a glimpse, to the top floor where his suite sprawled like a kingdom in the sky. 

The phone finally rang at six sharp. I nearly broke my neck getting to it.

"Hello?" I tried to sound easy. Like I had not spent the day measuring time between rings that never came.

"Val? It's Joe." Elvis's right-hand man sounded like a dentist with bad news. Behind him there was noise - voices, music, the chaos that followed Elvis everywhere. "Listen, about dinner tonight..."

My stomach dropped faster than a wooden rollercoaster. "Yes?"

"The boss says he has to cancel. Unexpected guests." Joe cleared his throat. "He'll call when he can."

The line went dead before I could respond. I sat there holding the receiver, listening to the dial tone like it might suddenly change its mind and give me better news.

Unexpected guests. The words echoed in my head like a bad jukebox record stuck on repeat. Who were these mysterious guests that had Elvis canceling our plans? Was Priscilla in town? The Colonel? Someone else entirely? In the week I'd been here, I'd learned that "unexpected guests" could mean anything from record executives to karate instructors to spiritual advisors claiming they could teach Elvis to levitate.

I changed into my swimsuit – the new one Elvis had sent up yesterday, a white number that probably cost more than my old car. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, wearing his gifts while he was entertaining "unexpected guests." The price tag was still attached, the numbers making me dizzy. Back home, I'd worked a whole month to afford my last swimsuit.

The International's pool was a miracle of modern engineering, a kidney-shaped oasis surrounded by palm trees that had no business surviving in the desert. The water was always the perfect temperature, the towels always pristinely white, the service always impeccable. Like everything else in Vegas, it was an illusion maintained through sheer force of will and unlimited resources.

I found a lounger partially hidden behind a concrete planter and settled in to perfect the art of not looking like I was looking at his suite windows. The afternoon sun beat down like a hammer, but I barely felt it. My eyes kept drifting upwards, where I knew his rooms sprawled across the corner of the building. Was he up there right now? Was she?

From this angle, I could see the subtle changes in the curtains that meant someone was moving around up there. Every flutter made my heart jump. Earlier in the week, I'd learned that Elvis's suite had its own pool – a private oasis where he could swim without the public's eyes on him. He'd invited me up there twice, both times after his late show when the desert night had cooled enough to make the water inviting. But today, that little private pool might as well have been on the moon.

"Sugar, you keep craning your neck like that, you're gonna need a chiropractor."

I startled so hard I nearly fell off my lounger. A woman who had to be pushing fifty stood there, though she wore her age like a well-tailored dress. Her red hair was styled in a perfect bouffant, and her black swimsuit looked painted on. Everything about her screamed old Vegas – the kind of woman who'd seen it all and lived to tell about it. Diamond rings glittered on her fingers, catching the sun like miniature stars.

"I wasn't..." I started, then stopped. Who was I kidding? "That obvious, huh?"

"Only to someone who's been watching girls watch those windows for longer than you've been alive." She stuck out a perfectly manicured hand. "I'm Ruby."

I shook it, noting the size of the rock on her ring finger. The diamond was the size of a small planet, the kind of stone that had its own gravitational pull. "Valerie."

"I know." Her smile was knowing but not unkind. "Word gets around. You're Elvis's girl."

The label stung like chlorine in an open cut. "I wouldn't say that."

"Honey, in this town, you're either somebody's girl or you're nobody at all." Ruby settled onto the lounger next to mine like we were old friends, her movements graceful despite the skintight swimsuit. A heavy gold anklet caught the light as she crossed her legs. "And trust me – being Elvis's girl is about as somebody as it gets."

I wanted to protest, to say I wasn't "Elvis's girl" or anybody's girl but my own. That I was a singer in my own right, that I'd come to Vegas to audition for Sinatra, that I hadn't planned any of this. Instead, I found myself asking, "So whose girl are you?"

"Carl's." She held up her left hand, letting that massive diamond catch the sun. The stone threw rainbow prisms across the concrete. "He owns three casinos and a piece of the Strip. But between you and me?" She leaned closer, voice dropping to a stage whisper. Her perfume was exquisite, something French that probably cost a pretty penny. "The ring's just for show. His wife's got the real claim."

My cheeks burned. "Oh."

"Don't look so scandalized, hon. That's just how it goes in Vegas." Ruby lit a cigarette with practiced elegance, the gold lighter making a satisfying snap. "The wives stay home with their dignity and their diamonds, and we get the fun parts." She studied my face with eyes that had seen too much. The mascara around them was perfect, not a smudge despite the heat. "But you're new to this, aren't you? Still got that fresh-off-the-bus shine."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been around the block a few hundred times." She blew a perfect smoke ring. The gesture was pure Hollywood, like something Lauren Bacall would do. "Let me guess – he's different with you? Shows you his sensitive side? Makes you feel like you're the only girl who really understands him?"

Each word felt like a papercut. "You don't know him."

"Honey, I was playing this game when you were still in pigtails. Men like him? They're all the same when you strip away the shine." She patted my hand with motherly concern. Her nails were the exact shade of red as her hair. "The only difference is, yours happens to be famous."

Ruby took another long drag of her cigarette, watching the smoke curl up into the desert air. A plane passed overhead, so low I could make out the airline logo. Another load of dreamers coming to try their luck. "You know what the funny thing is? I used to be you. Years ago, I was just like you. Sitting in some out-of-the-way restaurant and waiting."

That got my attention. "You and Elvis...?"

She laughed, rich and deep. "Oh God, no. I'm talking about Johnny Roselli. Big shot with the mob back then." Her eyes went distant, seeing something beyond the pool, beyond the present. "He used to give me all the lines. Used to tell me I was different from all the other girls. Special. Used to read me poetry, if you can believe it. Ha! Johnny Roselli, who'd ordered more hits than I've had hot dinners, reading me Keats by candlelight."

"What happened?"

"Same thing that always happens, sweetheart. The wife showed up." Ruby's lips curved in a bitter smile. The lipstick was perfect, not a smear despite the cigarette. "Caught us in bed together. Instead of raising hell like I expected, she just looked at me with these tired eyes and said, 'Honey, you can keep him. I've got the house, the cars, and the bank accounts.'"

I swallowed hard. "And did you? Keep him?"

"For a while." She shrugged, elegant even in defeat. "Then one day I realized I was just keeping his bed warm until the next young thing came along. That's how it goes with men like that – they burn through women like cigarettes, always chasing that first sweet drag."

My throat felt tight. "Elvis isn't like that."

"No?" Ruby's eyebrow arched. "Then why are you down here by the pool instead of up in that suite?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

"Look." Ruby crushed out her cigarette with precise movements. "I'm not trying to rain on your parade. Maybe Elvis is different. Maybe you're the one who's gonna tame him, make him leave his wife, ride off into the sunset." Her eyes softened. "But baby girl, I've been watching this show longer than you've been alive, and it always ends the same way."

"How's that?"

"With some pretty young thing sitting by this pool, watching those windows, wondering why he doesn't call anymore." She stood, adjusting her swimsuit with practiced grace. "Just remember something – in this town, there's wives and there's girls. The wives get the houses and the bank accounts. The girls?" She gestured at herself, at the pool, at the whole glittering facade of Vegas. "We get the stories."

I watched her walk away, her heels clicking against the concrete, her movements still showgirl-perfect despite the years. Her words settled in my stomach like lead weights. Part of me wanted to run after her, to demand more details, more warnings, more of whatever bitter wisdom she'd gleaned from her years in this neon paradise. But a bigger part of me wanted to pretend I'd never heard any of it.

That night, sleep wouldn't come. I lay in my too-big bed, watching the Strip's lights paint patterns on my ceiling, thinking about Ruby's words. About wives and girls, about stories and bank accounts, about men who burn through women like cigarettes.

But the next day, something changed.

Elvis called early, his voice rough with sleep or maybe pills. "Come up," he said. "Want to show you something."

I found him in his suite, surrounded by books. They were everywhere – spread across the coffee table, stacked on the floor, balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa. He sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, still in his robe, hair curling naturally at his temples.

"Look at this," he said without preamble, holding up a book about ancient Egyptian medicine. "They had brain surgery techniques we're just now figuring out. Three thousand years ago, Val. Can you believe that?"

And just like that, I started seeing a different side of him. Over the next few days, then weeks, a pattern emerged. After his shows, when the adrenaline was still coursing through him, he'd read to me from whatever had captured his interest – quantum physics, philosophy, religion. His mind was hungry for everything, consuming knowledge like others might take pills.

Speaking of pills... I noticed them more now, but differently. Not just as something he took, but as part of the machinery that kept Elvis Presley running. Uppers for the shows, downers for sleep, something in between for the rest. Dr. Nick came like a pharmaceutical Santa Claus. His black bag held rainbow promises.

"Just to keep the edge off," Elvis would say. But his hands shook until he took them.

The good days were like something out of a dream. One afternoon, he taught me to float in his private pool, his hands steady under my back as I learned to trust the water. Another night, he spent hours showing me some new chord progressions on his guitar, patient as a schoolteacher even when my fingers fumbled.

"That's it, baby," he'd say, his voice warm with encouragement. "You're getting it."

But there were darker moments too. I watched him snap at Red over some minor security issue, his voice going sharp as a razor. "Goddamn it, don't you know how to do your job?" The pills swung his moods like a pendulum. Brilliant then distant. Warm then cold.

The conversation that shattered my carefully constructed understanding of Elvis happened at the International's service bar – the one where staff gathered after their shifts. I'd gone looking for Joe to discuss dinner plans, but instead found myself frozen behind a pillar, listening to two cocktail waitresses who'd clearly just finished their shifts.

“I still can't believe it happened," the blonde one was saying, stirring her drink. Her name tag read 'Mandy.' "I mean, it's ELVIS."

"When?" Her friend – Kelly, according to her name tag – was practically vibrating with excitement "I need every detail. And don't leave anything out."

"Two nights ago. After the late show." Mandy's voice went low but not low enough. "You know how he sends that guy Red down sometimes? For girls?"

My stomach lurched. Two nights ago. When he'd canceled our plans because of "exhaustion."

"Jenny got the same invitation last week," Kelly said. "Said he was weird."

"Weird how?"

"Well," Kelly glanced around conspiratorially, "she said he was kind of rough. Distracted. Like his mind was somewhere else entirely. Kept asking her to..." She whispered something I couldn't hear, but Mandy's eyes went wide.

"No way! With me, he was so sweet. Like, not at all what you'd expect from someone famous." Mandy took a long sip of her drink. She liked having an audience. "He asked if I wanted to see his book collection, if you can believe it. Has all these books about spirituality and UFOs..." She snickered, rolling her eyes. "I mean, who knew Elvis was such a nerd?"

My chest tightened painfully. Those books weren't just possessions – they were his sanctuary. I'd spent hours with him, curled up on his suite's sofa, listening to him talk about all sorts of things with such genuine wonder in his voice. The way these women were laughing about it, treating his deepest interests like some quirky punchline... it made me sick.

"Eugh, forget the books," Kelly feigned dry heaving. "What was it like?"

"Gentle. Really gentle. He kept asking if I was okay. Called me 'baby' in that voice."

“The stage voice?”

"Exactly. And his hands..." Mandy fanned herself. "God, those hands."

"And?" Kelly moved her eyebrows. "You know. Is he...?"

"The jumpsuit doesn't lie." Mandy giggled. "But it wasn't just that. He was there. Really there. Like I was the only girl in the world."

Each word cut deeper. I had seen that focus. Had felt special because of it. Now I knew how many others had felt the same.

"Did he finish?" Kelly whispered.

"Kelly!"

"Everyone wants to know if Elvis Presley can perform."

"Trust me." Mandy smiled big. "Everything works fine. Multiple times fine."

"Will you see him again?"

"Probably not. I'm no dummy. I know there are others." Mandy shrugged. "But for that one night..."

"Did he give you anything?"

"No. But who cares? The story alone is worth it."

They dissolved into giggles, and something in me shattered. It wasn't just jealousy – though God knows that burned through me like acid. It was deeper than that. They were taking his most private moments, his vulnerabilities, his secrets, and turning them into cheap entertainment. The way they spoke about him, like he was some carnival attraction instead of a human being... my heart broke for him. My stomach roiled, and I felt a deep swell of protectiveness rising in my chest. It took everything I had not to tell them off.

I couldn't take another second. 

Joe would have to wait. I ran to the elevator, jabbing the button repeatedly as tears began to blur my vision. Tears came. In the mirrored walls I saw myself: mascara ran black. Lipstick smeared where I had pressed my hand against my mouth. I looked like all the other girls who had cried over Elvis Presley. But they did not understand. They could not understand.

In my room, I ran a bath so hot it turned my skin angry pink, as if I could somehow scald away what I'd heard. The steam rose around me as I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to make sense of it all. Ruby's words echoed in my head: "The wives get the houses and bank accounts. The girls get the stories."

As I sat there, watching the water ripple with my shuddering breaths, something shifted inside me. The raw hurt began to crystallize into something else – understanding, maybe. Or resignation. This was who he was. Who he had to be. Elvis Presley was not just a man. He was something else. He was a need that lived in thousands of women's hearts.

Later, I sat by the window watching the Strip come alive with neon. Maybe loving Elvis meant accepting all of it – the public and private, the saint and sinner, the man and the myth. Maybe it meant understanding that his body belonged to the world in some way, just like his voice did.

But his heart... that was a different matter entirely. And the real question wasn't whether he slept with other women. The real question was why he hadn't slept with me.

*

The answer came three nights later, at one of Elvis's infamous suite parties. The night was winding down, most of the guests gone, leaving just the inner circle sprawled across various pieces of furniture. Elvis had disappeared into his bedroom with a headache – or more likely, to take whatever pills Dr. Nick had prescribed for headaches.

I was out on the balcony, watching the Strip's neon battle the stars, when Jerry stumbled out for some air. He was one of the youngest of the Memphis Mafia, closer to my age, and the champagne had clearly hit him hard.

"You're different, you know that?" he said, slumping against the railing.

"Different how?"

"From the other girls. The ones he..." Jerry hiccupped, waving his hand vaguely. "You know."

"The ones he sleeps with?" The words came out sharper than I intended, the conversation from the bar still raw in my mind.

"See, that's just it." Jerry turned to face me, swaying slightly. "He doesn't. Not with you."

"What?"

"Boss has rules. Things he won't do." The words slurred together. "Joe says - shit, I'm not supposed to tell you this - Joe says when boss really likes a girl, when he really cares? He waits. Says it has to be..." He squinted, trying to remember. "Special. Real. Not just a Vegas thing."

My heart moved strange. "Jer-"

"Makes sense, right?" He nodded and almost fell. "Can't make love to someone you might actually love. Too scary. Might make it real."

"Who might make what real?" Joe's voice came from the doorway, sharp with warning.

Jerry went white. "I was just-"

"Getting water and going to bed." Joe took Jerry's arm. He moved him inside. But he looked at me first. The look said sorry. It said something else too. Maybe understanding.

I stayed on the balcony, letting the warm night air wash over me as I processed this new information. Below, a group of women were entering the hotel, probably hoping to catch one of Elvis’ shows.I thought about Mandy. About Ruby by the pool. About all the women who had shared Elvis's bed but maybe never had his heart.

The door opened behind me. Joe had returned, carrying a bottle of something amber.

"Jerry talks too much when he drinks," Joe said. He handed me a glass. "But he isn't wrong."

"About?"

"The boss." Joe leaned on the rail. He looked at the city. "He's built walls. The girls, the shows, the whole Elvis Presley thing - it's armor. Keeps people back."

I took a sip of what turned out to be very good bourbon. "And the ones he lets get close?"

"Those scare him most." Joe looked at me sideways. "Never seen him like this. The way he talks about you. The way he lights up. The way he holds back."

"Because he wants it special?" The skepticism came through.

"Because he wants it true." Joe finished his drink. "Truth isn't something Elvis Presley gets much of."

We stood in silence for a moment, letting the distant sound of slot machines and traffic wash over us. Finally, Joe spoke again.

"Look, what Jer said... the boss wouldn't want—"

"I know." I managed a smile. "Don't worry. I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Yeah," Joe said softly. "I bet you are."

When I finally went back to my room that night, I found myself looking at my reflection differently. Not as one of Elvis' girls, not as a conquest or a groupie or whatever Mandy and her friend were. But maybe as something scarier – someone who might actually matter.

*

The next morning, Elvis called early. His voice had a hint of mischief..

"Come up," he said. "Want to show you something."

I found him in his suite's sitting room, surrounded by books as usual. He was still in his robe, hair curling naturally at his temples, reading glasses perched on his nose – a detail his public never saw. The morning sun caught the gold JB monogram on his pocket, a reminder of how even his aliases got the royal treatment.

"Look at this," he said without preamble, holding up a book. "Did you know the ancient Egyptians had a whole ceremony just for feeding the soul? Not the body – the soul."

But something had shifted in how I saw him. Knowing what I knew now – about Mandy, about his rules, about what it meant when he didn't take a woman to bed – I noticed things differently. The way he kept a careful distance between us on the sofa. How his hand would find mine, then retreat. The constant dance of advance and withdrawal, like he was fighting himself.

"You're thinking real loud over there," he said. He did not look up.

"Just wondering something."

"Mm?"

"Why me?"

That made him look up. Those impossibly blue eyes hit mine. "What do you mean?"

"Why am I different?" I tried to keep my voice casual. "From the other girls who come up here."

His face went still. For a moment I thought he would hide behind the Elvis smile. Instead he took off his glasses.

"Because you see me," he said finally. 

"You mean the guy who reads about Egyptian souls at eleven in the morning?"

"I mean the one who's scared to death of how much he wants you."

The words hung there. My heart did that familiar jump-skip-hop.

"Elvis—"

"Don't." He stood abruptly, started pacing. "Don't make me talk about it. Please."

I watched him move, all that nervous energy seeking escape. The sunlight caught the tremor in his hands – time for his morning pills soon. But he was fighting it, I realized. Trying to stay clear, at least for this moment.

"You know about the others," he said suddenly. "Don't you?"

"Yes."

"And you're still here."

"Yes."

He stopped pacing, looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve. "Why?"

I thought about Mandy's giggles, about Ruby's warnings, about Jerry’s drunken revelations. About all the pieces of Elvis Presley that different people got to see.

"Because I want all of you," I said, cursing myself internally. "The good and the bad. The public and private. The pills and the prayers. The other women and the lonely nights. All of it."

He moved then, crossed the room in three long strides, and pulled me up into a kiss that felt like drowning. His hands framed my face like I was something precious, something that might break. Or maybe something that might break him.

When he pulled back, his breathing was ragged. "Val—"

"I know," I whispered. "Not yet."

The relief in his eyes made my chest ache. He pressed his forehead to mine, just breathing.

"Stay," he murmured. "Just... stay here with me. We can read about Egyptian souls."

So I did. We spent the morning on his sofa, my head in his lap while he read aloud, his free hand playing with my hair. Every now and then he'd stop to share a thought, to make connections between ancient wisdom and modern life. His mind worked like that – always linking things, seeing patterns.

Dr. Nick came by around one with his little black bag of rainbow solutions. I pretended not to notice how Elvis' hands steadied after whatever he took. Just like I pretended not to notice the women who came up to his shows at night, the ones who looked at him like he was salvation in a jumpsuit.

Because now I understood – those women got Elvis Presley, the fantasy, the one-night story they'd tell forever. But I got this: quiet mornings with books, philosophical discussions at 3 AM, the man behind the myth who was terrified of being truly seen. The man with the full bellied laugh and the heart of gold. And yes, the man with his occasional demons. 

*

The Tom Jones situation started innocently enough, though in Vegas, nothing stays innocent for long. He was performing at the Landmark's Crown Room, just down the Strip from the International. The Landmark itself was newer than our hotel, its tower shaped like a space needle. Vegas trying again to stab the sky.

I'd mentioned casually to Joe that I'd never seen Tom perform. After three weeks of watching Elvis's world from the inside, I was curious about how other stars navigated the Vegas circus. It seemed safe enough – just another night of research for my ongoing study of entertainment anthropology, as I'd started thinking of it.

"You should go," Joe said. He checked Elvis's schedule. "Boss has dinner with hotel executives tonight. Paradise Properties people." He looked up. "Tom's good people. I'll call over. Get you a table up front."

I shouldn't have gone. Should have remembered that in Vegas, gossip travels faster than light, bouncing from casino to casino like a pinball made of whispers. But after weeks of watching Elvis perform, of seeing how he handled his public persona, I was curious about how another star managed the same dance.

The Crown Room was smaller than the International's showroom, more intimate. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow patterns across white tablecloths, and the stage was close enough to see the performers' expressions without the need for binoculars. The maitre d' led me to a prime table. Joe’s doing. A waiter appeared immediately with champagne "courtesy of Mr. Jones."

I studied the room with my newly developed eye for Vegas dynamics. The wealthy couples in their jewels and dinner jackets, the casino regulars with their sharp eyes and sharper suits, the inevitable scattering of beautiful women dining alone – all of them arranging themselves in the complex hierarchy of a Vegas showroom.

Tom's voice filled the space like warm brandy when he started singing. He worked the room differently than Elvis did. Where Elvis was all controlled sexuality and dangerous charm, Tom was pure joy – a man who genuinely seemed to love what he was doing. During "It's Not Unusual," he caught my eye and winked. 

The anthropologist in me noted how similar yet different it was from Elvis's stage moves, filed it away for later analysis.

Near the end of his set, he told a story about first meeting Elvis in '65 at Paramount Studios in Los Angeles. "There I was, this boy from Wales, and in walks Elvis Presley himself," Tom said, his voice rich with remembered awe. "And you know what the first thing he said to me was? He started singing 'With These Hands' – one of my songs! Knew all the words, he did."

The audience ate it up – everyone loves a story about the King – but I was struck by how the anecdote showed a different Elvis than the one the public usually saw. My Elvis, the one who remembered details. Who paid attention. Who loved what he loved without shame.

When the show ended, one of Tom's people appeared at my table. A sleek man in a sharp suit who introduced himself as Mark.

"Mr. Jones would love it if you'd join him for a drink," he said. "He's friends with Elvis, and we've heard so much about you."

That should have been my first warning. We've heard so much about you. In Vegas, being noticed means being talked about, and being talked about means trouble.

But three weeks of watching Elvis's world, of understanding the complex dance of power and celebrity in this town, had made me bolder. More secure, maybe. After all, I was the one who knew Elvis's real laugh, who'd seen him without his armor of rings and necklaces, who knew how he liked his bacon cooked (extremely crispy, thank you very much).

The private lounge was dark wood and leather. London club, not Vegas flash. Tom Jones in person was different than his stage persona. Smaller somehow, but with an energy that made the room feel electric. He greeted me in that rich Welsh accent, ordering whiskey for himself and asking what I'd like.

"Just a tonic water with lemon, thanks."

"Elvis tells me you're a singer," he said, settling into a leather armchair. Up close, his chest hair seemed to have its own zip code. "He mentioned you're from Chicago," Tom continued, studying me with genuine interest. "Said you've got quite a voice."

That surprised me – the idea of Elvis talking about me to other performers. "Nothing as glamorous as all this," I said. "Just playing dive bars, really."

"Ah, but that's where the real music happens, isn't it?" Tom leaned forward. "You know, first time I met Elvis, I was nervous as hell. This was '65, at Paramount. I'd just done a screen test, was sitting in the commissary feeling sorry for myself because it hadn't gone well. In walks Elvis Presley himself."

"You mentioned that story on stage," I said.

"That was the public version." He smiled. "The real version... well, I was so starstruck I nearly choked on my coffee. But Elvis, he just sat down like we were old mates. Started talking about music, about growing up poor, about how strange Hollywood felt sometimes. Real normal things, you know? Not the usual showbiz chat."

I did know.

As Tom shared stories about Elvis, I found myself relaxing. He had a way of making you feel like an old friend, and his genuine affection for Elvis was obvious in every anecdote.

"He's different than people expect," I said carefully, after Tom finished a story about Elvis sending him birthday gifts three years running.

"That he is. Bright as hell, for one thing. Most people don't know that about him." Tom studied me over his whiskey. "But you do, don't you?"

Before I could answer, one of the waitresses appeared. She was young, blonde, exactly the type both men on stage would flirt with. But her eyes were all business. "Mr. Jones? Elvis Presley is here."

The air in the room shifted subtly. Tom set down his whiskey. "Well, send him in! Haven't seen him properly in ages."

The door opened, and my heart stuttered in my chest. Elvis stood in the threshold, a vision in an oxblood dinner suit that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, the fabric catching the low light like liquid garnets. His hair was still perfectly coiffed despite the late hour, black as midnight and gleaming, though a single rebellious strand had broken free to curl against his forehead. The crisp white shirt beneath the suit practically glowed against his tanned skin, and his gold TCB necklace caught the light as he breathed.

Red and Sonny flanked him like sentries in their matching black suits, their faces carefully blank, but I barely registered them. All I could see was Elvis – the controlled set of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his signet rings caught the light as his fingers flexed almost imperceptibly at his sides. His expression was a masterpiece of restraint, but I'd learned to read the tiny tells that betrayed his real emotions: the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost invisible tension in his upper lip, the way his chest rose and fell just a fraction too quickly.

My body reacted to his presence before my mind could catch up. My mouth went dry, and I felt heat bloom across my chest and up my neck. I shifted in my seat, hyper-aware of how close I was sitting to Tom, of the half-empty drinks on the table between us, of how this must look. The tonic water I'd drunk earlier turned sour in my stomach.

"Well, what do we have here?" His voice was warm honey, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes as he took in the scene – me sitting close to Tom, the intimate lighting, the half-empty drinks between us.

"Elvis!" Tom stood, extending his hand with genuine pleasure. "Brother, we were just talking about you!"

"That so?" Elvis's smile was perfectly crafted as he crossed the room, taking Tom's hand in a friendly grip. "All good things, I hope?" The question had steel under silk.

"The best," Tom assured him. "Was just telling Valerie about Paramount in '65."

"Ah, the commissary story." Elvis settled into the chair between us with fluid grace, accepting a Gatorade from the waitress. His eyes found mine, holding them a beat too long. "You seem to be making quite the evening of it, baby. First the show, now a private audience?"

There was nothing accusatory in his tone – he was too skilled at this game for that – but I felt the weight of the question. My cheeks warmed. "Joe mentioned Tom was performing..."

"Did he now?" Elvis's laugh was genuine enough that only someone who knew him well would catch the slight strain. "Seems like Joe's been mighty helpful tonight. Makes me wonder if I should give him a raise." He turned to Tom, all easy charm. "She's something else, isn't she? Sharp as a tack. Always watching, always learning."

Tom nodded enthusiastically. "We were just discussing music, actually. Valerie was telling me about Chicago—"

"The dive bars," Elvis interrupted smoothly, his eyes never leaving my face. "Quite a jump, isn't it, baby? From those little clubs to private meetings with stars?" The question hung in the air.

"Elvis," I started, but he waved it away with a casual gesture.

He waved it away. "Just curious, darlin'. About what brings a girl like you here." His smile stayed gentle. His eyes stayed hard. "When she knows I'm having dinner with executives. When she knows how people talk in this town."

Tom shifted uncomfortably, picking up on the undercurrents. "Elvis, mate, this was all very innocent—"

"Oh, I'm sure it was," Elvis agreed readily, but his fingers tapped a restless rhythm on his armrest. "Tom's always been a gentleman. Haven't you, Tom?" He turned those blue eyes on his friend. "Always so careful with other people's... interests."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Tom cleared his throat. "Maybe I should—"

"No, no," Elvis said, still maintaining that perfect social smile. "Stay. Tell me more about what you and my girl have been discussing. I'm fascinated to hear what insights she's been sharing about me."

I felt heat creep up my neck. "Elvis, we were just—"

"Talking?" His voice was soft. "Everyone's always just talking in Vegas, baby. That's what makes it so interesting, don't you think? All these conversations happening behind closed doors..."

The fear finally showed itself then – not in anger, but in the way his hand trembled slightly as he lifted his drink, in the tightness around his mouth. I saw it clearly: his terror of losing something real, something that belonged just to him.

"I should go," Tom said quietly, reading the room. "Early show tomorrow."

Elvis stood with him, all Southern courtesy now. "Always good to see you, Tom. Give my best to Linda."

After Tom left, Elvis turned to me, and for the first time, I saw the hurt beneath his perfect control. "You want to tell me what you're really doing here?"

The drive back to the International was torture. Elvis stared straight ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel of his latest Cadillac. I could feel the anger radiating off him in waves. Red and Sonny followed in another car, their headlights steady in the rearview mirror.

"You know," he finally said, his voice soft, "there are easier ways to hurt me than this."

"You didn't have to do that," I finally said. "Tom was being nice."

"Tom's always nice," Elvis said flatly. "Everybody in this town is nice. Right up until they take what they want."

"Is that what you think happened? That he was trying to take something from you?"

His jaw worked. "I think everybody wants something from me. Thought you were different."

The words hit like a slap. "I am different."

"Are you?" He finally looked at me, and the pain in his eyes made my chest ache. "Then why'd you need a private show from him?"

I didn't have an answer. Not one he'd believe, anyway. 

The Strip stretched out before us like a river of neon, but neither of us was seeing it. The silence in the car was thick enough to choke on.

"Elvis—"

"Don't." His voice was tight. "Just... give me a minute."

But I was done giving him minutes. Done being understanding. The anger that had been building since hearing Mandy's story, compressed under layers of anthropological observation, suddenly burst free.

"No," I said. "No more minutes. No more silence. You want to tell me what that caveman display was really about?"

His head snapped toward me. "Caveman display?"

"You practically dragged me out of there by my hair! In front of everyone—"

"Everyone?" He barked out a laugh. "You mean in front of Tom Jones? In front of the man you were getting so cozy with—"

"Oh, that's rich coming from you." I was almost shouting now. "How many women have you gotten 'cozy' with this month? Should we ask Mandy from cocktails? Or maybe Jenny?"

Elvis went still. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. Mandy. Pretty blonde. Loves to talk about her night with Elvis Presley. About how sweet you were. How gentle. How everything works juuuust fiiiine." My voice got high and hard. "Multiple times fine, she said."

"Val—"

"Let me finish. Here's what I can't figure out. You'll fuck some random waitress but won't touch me. You'll give half of Vegas a piece of you, but treat me like glass. You'll throw a fit if I drink with a man I don't want, but you push me away when I want to make love. So what is it? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you!" Now he was shouting too. "That's the whole damn problem!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means those other women don't matter!" His fist slammed against the steering wheel. "It means they're not real! They get what they want – a night with Elvis Presley, a story to tell their friends. And I get..." He ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I get to feel something. Anything. For just a little while."

"And what do I get?" My voice cracked. "To sit in my room knowing you're with them? To listen to them brag about it in bars?"

"You get the real me!" He turned to face me fully, eyes wild. "The mess, the pills, the insomnia, the fear – you get all of it. And I get to wonder every damn day when you're going to realize it's not enough. When you're going to want the ELVISthey all come for."

"I don't want that guy!" The words echoed in the garage. "I want you. The man who reads numerology books and eats hamburgers at 2 am. Who knows more about ancient Egypt than my college professors. Who's so fucking scared of being open and honest with someone that he hides behind pills and women and that goddamn Elvis Presley smile!"

"You think I'm hiding?" His laugh was ugly. "You want real? Fine. I'm terrified of you. Terrified of how much I want you. Terrified that if I let myself have you – really have you – I won't be able to do this anymore. To be what everyone needs me to be."

"So instead you fuck cocktail waitresses?"

"Yes!" He slammed his hands against the wheel. "Once in a while I just need a little different stimulation! Different company . . . that’s all! That doesn’t mean I’m falling in love with anybody else! That doesn’t mean jack shit! I start feeling stifled when I can’t have a little interaction in the outside world! Because with them it's just sex, but with you..." He broke off, breathing hard. 

"With me what?" I asked quietly.

"With you, it would mean something. Everything." His hands were shaking badly now. I watched him reach into his pocket, probably for pills, then stop himself. "You think it's easy? You think I know how to turn it off? Everyone wants a piece of Elvis. The Colonel, the fans, the girls – they all want something."

"I want you, you idiot!" The words hung in the air between us. "Not the jumpsuit or the voice or the legend. You. The man who reads about parallel universes because this one feels too heavy sometimes. The man who's sitting in this car right now, shaking because he needs his pills but is trying not to take them in front of me."

Elvis made a sound like I'd punched him. "Val—"

"Back in Chicago," I said softly, "I teach music at this little community center in Rogers Park. Three nights a week. Kids who couldn't afford regular lessons. There's this one girl, Maria... couldn't carry a tune when she started. Now she's getting ready for her first recital."

"You never told me that."

"You never asked." I met his eyes. "Maybe someday I'll have to give it up because of... all this. But for now, I need to keep that part of myself. Need to be more than just your girl."

"And Priscilla?" I asked after a moment. "Where does she fit in all this?"

Elvis leaned back in his seat, suddenly looking exhausted. "We were so young when we met. She was just a kid, really. And I... I thought I knew what love was supposed to look like."

"Do you still love her?"

"I'll always love her." His honesty surprised me. "But we don't... we're not in love anymore. Haven't been for a while. She's dating someone in California. Makes her happy, I think. Real happy, not the kind we've been pretending at."

"And that doesn't make you angry?"

"Should it? We've both been pretending so long, maybe it's a relief to finally be honest." He turned back to me. "That's what scares me about you, Val. You make me want to be honest. Really honest. Not just about Cilla, but about everything."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"It is when you've built your whole life on being what other people need you to be."

We sat in silence for a moment, the garage's fluorescent lights humming overhead.

"My residency's almost up," he said finally. "Five more shows. Come back to Memphis with me."

I looked at him closely. Past the dinner jacket and carefully styled hair, past both the star and the scared boy, to the lonely man underneath it all.

"If I do," I said carefully, "things have to be different. I wear what I buy with my own money. I live where I choose to live. I keep teaching. I'm not trying to change you, Elvis. The pills, the women – that's part of who you are right now. Part of what you need to be Elvis Presley. But I need you not to try to change me either."

"You'd really be okay with... with all of it?" His voice cracked slightly.

"I'd rather have you honest than perfect. The question is, can you handle me being honest with you?"

His thumb traced circles on my wrist. "Everyone's always trying to control a piece of me. And here you are, saying the only way to keep me is to not try to keep me at all."

"Because the moment you try to someone in a cage – even a gold one – is the moment you lose them."

Something shifted in his eyes then, but I caught the flicker of his need to possess, to control, quickly hidden but unmistakable. Like he was already thinking about how to keep me while pretending not to try.

He pulled me to him suddenly, kissed me with a desperate tenderness that made my chest ache. When he pulled back, his eyes were darker but clearer than I'd seen them in a while.

"Five more shows," he said. "Then Memphis."

"Then Memphis," I agreed. "On my terms."

"On your terms," he echoed, and I could hear in his voice both the sincere desire to mean it and the subtle undertone that suggested he was already thinking of ways around it.

The spell broke when his tremors got worse. I watched him reach for the pill bottle in his pocket, no longer trying to hide it. That was new, at least – this small honesty between us.

"You should get some rest," I said, watching him dry-swallow two tablets. "Early show tomorrow."

"Come up?" When he saw my expression, he added quickly, "Just to sleep."

"Not tonight," I said gently. "I think we both need to sit with everything we just said."

As I walked to the elevator, I could feel him watching me. Could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, trying to figure out how to give me freedom while keeping me safe. How to let me be myself while still being Elvis Presley, who needed to control his world to survive in it.

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped in. Just before they closed, I caught one last glimpse of him in the Cadillac – his head bowed, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, looking both more real and more lonely than any man surrounded by admirers had a right to.

Five more shows.

Then Memphis.

Then reality.

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[dreamcleaningchicago]

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[skepsiss]

Reflection: Robin's POV

This is a 4 part mini-series about the Fruity Four. It's 1989 and Steve, Eddie, and Robin are visiting Hawkins over winter break. Nancy has invited them all over for a little Christmas get-together, and we read from the point of view of each member of the crew across 1 event.

I wrote these pieces to be read in any order, so... enjoy some Steddie, vague Ronance, Vickie x Robin, and just the Fruity Four being... fruity.

Dialogue prompt "You Remember That?" for @thefreakandthehair Spicy Six Winter Fanworks Challenge. Page break/border by @/alderdoodle.bsky.social on Bluesky.

Rating: T Words: 2,521 CW: Swearing, general anxiety

Steve's Part Robin's Part Nancy's Part Eddie's Part

“Now, now, children,” Robin said as she walked into the living room holding two mugs of cocoa.

Steve and Eddie were wrestling with each other-–as usual-–and Eddie seemed to be getting the upper hand this time around.

“Seriously, one of you take this cocoa before I drop it, and we have to spend the rest of the night scrubbing the carpet clean,” Robin said sharply before Steve pushed Eddie’s head into the seat cushion and took the mug from her. 

There was a flash of something in Eddie’s eyes and Robin was worried for a moment that he would shove Steve back, but he settled instead and Steve passed him the cocoa.

Eddie had a hell of a competitive streak, so there was no knowing sometimes if that or logic would prevail—most times, logic lost. 

“I’m glad I called when I did,” Nancy said as she walked in, offering another mug to Steve for him to take. 

Eddie had huddled up with his mug as Robin was trying to seat herself back on the floor. 

“I didn’t realize you guys would be flying in from Chicago,” Nancy was sitting prim and proper on the far couch, positively glittering with her smartly clipped-back hair and her Christmas-themed dress.

“Just easier,” Steve replied. He had sat back and had an arm around Eddie like he was some kind of husband from the 1950s. It was striking how Nancy and him seemed to mirror each other; Robin could understand why they had been a good couple once upon a time. 

“Plus, I don’t want to put that kind of mileage on my car. But I’m still worried about driving that crappy, little Chevy in this kind of weather.”

“Would you get off it?” Eddie grumbled at Steve. He was hunched over his drink and slurping it tentatively, obviously not patient enough to wait for it to cool down properly. “I’ll eat my shorts if that thing can’t get us home, it’s Indiana, we’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah, says the guy that didn’t believe us when we said Chicago winters were something else,” Robin retorted, before messily picking up a piece of shortbread. It crumbled in her fingers, and she awkwardly twisted and leaned over the table to keep from spilling on the rug.

“I don’t remember it being that bad! I was a kid… you remember that kind of stuff,” Eddie grouched back.

“You were like five the last time you were there,” Steve chastised, starting a harmless argument. 

Robin ignored them and instead propped her chin in her hand and smiled at Nancy.

“See what I have to live with?” 

Nancy chuckled, sounding charmed, which made Robin warm up in return. She had been a bit worried about coming over to the Wheeler’s house when Steve announced that Nancy had invited them all over before they had left the city. She hadn’t seen Nancy for ages, and she had been paranoid that all the progress they had made in their friendship during senior year would be wiped out. Nancy was a tough cookie to crack, but it seemed like once you were in, you were in. 

“What’ve you been up to then?” Robin asked before grunting and crawling onto her knees. She picked herself up carefully so she wouldn’t knock any of the plates on the coffee table over and made her way to the couch where Nancy was.

“Just school,” Nancy shrugged, looking uncomfortable for some reason. “I’ve got two more years still, but I’m hoping to get an internship this summer.”

From what Robin knew, Nancy had been attending university in New York. She had heard from the gossip vine that Nancy and Jonathan had broken up earlier in the year and Robin had told Steve and Eddie to keep it to themselves under the pain of death. At least that was the last she had heard from Vickie on the matter-–and Vickie had heard it from her little sister who had heard it from Erica Sinclair who was in debate club with her at school. She wasn’t sure if she trusted Erica with this sort of gossip, or if she was more the type to amplify a rumour without vetting her sources. 

Either way, Jonathan wasn’t here. 

“How about you?”

Robin looked up at Nancy, having zoned out, and took a moment to process what was being asked of her. 

Her? What had she been doing?

“Oh!” Robin replied, trying to laugh off her embarrassment. “Just my uh, just my basic credits. I haven’t really decided, not properly yet, well, maybe I have. I don’t know? It’s a big question. I might be transferring to another school outside of Chicago, but I have to think about whether it’s worth it and I haven’t really checked if my credits are going to transfer yet, but uh, Vickie was saying she was thinking of going to… Columbia State, so….”

Robin trailed off as she looked at the ground, trying to cover her blush. Vickie and her had been corresponding over the last several months via mail, and Robin wasn’t sure exactly where they stood. Nothing had happened between them in senior year, but they had been friendly with one another, and it was only by chance that they had reconnected earlier in ‘88. Robin liked to think they were dating-–they talked on the phone at least once a week with one another, and Robin had sent dozens of letters back to Hawkins, but they hadn’t said the word girlfriend yet. Long distance was complicated, and Robin wasn’t sure whether to be hopeful or practical.

“Vickie? Vickie Newberry from school?” Nancy asked, sounding surprised but not accusatory. 

“Her high school sweetheart,” Eddie sighed, making himself sound overly dramatic.

Robin shot him a look, and Steve carried out her disdain by pinching Eddie in the side. 

“Oh… that’s sweet. Are you guys seeing one another?”

Nancy obviously didn’t know what to say, but it wasn’t a secret amongst the four of them that Robin was a lesbian. She could remember Nancy taking her hands and speaking rather sternly when she declared that it didn’t matter, and she was happy to support her. That had been nice to hear, especially from another woman, but Robin couldn’t read the tone of voice Nancy was taking now. 

“Sort of?” Robin replied, clearing her throat and shooting Steve an awkward look. Steve simply rolled his eyes and replied for her.

“Probably, but Robin hasn’t had the guts to ask her if they’re official.”

Robin scoffed at him, but all Nancy seemed to do was nod contemplatively.

“She’s still in Hawkins, right?” Nancy asked, turning the subject around a bit and taking some pressure off of Robin’s anxieties.

“Yeah, her Dad passed away suddenly in the summer of ‘86, and she stuck around to help her mom with her sister and stuff. But, I think she feels like she can move on now, or well, go to school at least,” Robin shrugged as she cradled her cocoa before taking too large of a sip and gagging at how hot it was.

“Speaking of,” Steve interjected as he shook his arm in order to read his watch. “You’ve got to leave in thirty to go meet her, right?”

Robin flushed again and glanced at Nancy, feeling guilty for having to cut and run so quickly. She had genuinely wanted to see Nancy, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t champing at the bit to walk over to Vickie’s place. 

To her relief, Nancy flashed her a smile and seemed to enthusiastically encourage Robin’s departure. 

The next thirty minutes pressed on like that, and Robin found herself relaxing into the atmosphere. Things weren’t dire like they had been in ‘86, but it felt like the four of them fell easily back into a rhythm. 

Idly, Robin thought about maybe talking to Vickie about going to school up in New York… if she was going to move away from Steve and Eddie, she might as well try and move somewhere she had a friend. It would be nice to have a proper friendship with another girl again, and Nancy was great. She was the type of person who went out of her way for you, and Robin had no doubt that if she decided to move to New York, Nancy would be all over offering her help. 

“You should probably get going.”

Robin looked up, not having realized she was being addressed.

“Rob,” Steve snorted, and Eddie snapped his fingers at her to get her attention. “It’s nine, you’re supposed to meet Vickie.”

“It’s nine?!” Robin yelled, standing up abruptly, and knocking the little plate Nancy had in her hand onto the floor.

“Sorry, sorry!”

Thankfully, the dish didn’t break, and instead just strewed crumbs all over the carpet instead. Robin instantly fell over herself to try and sweep up the mess, making a bigger mess of it as she wiped at the spilled food.

“It’s fine, Robin, I’ve got it—you, stop-–you’re fine,” Nancy was placating her and Robin did eventually give up before looking at Steve anxiously.

“Yeah, alright,” he grunted, and got up from the couch to presumably go get the vacuum. Of course, he knew where it was, this house probably hadn’t changed in the last 4 years.

Robin shot Nancy another apologetic look, but she shooed Robin off toward the door.

Robin’s mind was moving a mile a minute as she pulled her shoes on and stuffed her hair under her beanie. She knew she was working herself up for no reason, it just felt like… everything could go wrong. She’d get there, and she would talk to Vickie, and then she’d find out Vickie had a boyfriend, or she had thought the whole time they were just ‘pals.’

As Robin got farther into her own head over whether or not things were actually going to be okay with Vickie, she pulled on her winter wear haphazardly. Her scarf went on second, which meant it got stuck in the zipper of her coat and she had to stop and adjust. Her boots were still untied, but she couldn’t see past the coat properly to do them up, and—god— she could only find one mitten. 

Everything felt overwhelming, and Robin knew she was on the verge of calling the whole thing off and just hiding here at the Wheeler’s house.

“Rob.”

Robin looked up from scouring the floor for her missing mitten and watched as Steve held out the glove toward her.

“It’s going to be fine,” he offered, taking her by the shoulders and rubbing them. “It’s going to be fun and easy, and you’re not going to feel like you’ve even missed a beat. Knowing what I know? There is no way she doesn’t like you.”

Robin whined as Steve spoke, her anxiety still roiling inside of her, but forced back by Steve’s words.

“But what–” she started, only to be cut off by Steve shaking her violently by the shoulders.

“Nuh uh, no. Shut up. You’re being paranoid. If something goes wrong, just call me at Eddie’s and I will wake up at 3 am and walk through the goddamn snow to your parent’s house, okay?”

Despite her nerves, Robin felt a queasy smile inch across her face. Even if shit went south, Steve would be there, and that was more comforting than Robin was willing to admit. Even without a girlfriend, it didn’t feel all that terrible knowing that she’d have Steve; probably until both their dying breaths at this point… even if Eddie protested.

Steve was still staring at her—his brows stretched upward as if he was daring her to doubt him. He was looking for some kind of answer, so Robin nodded and then sucked in a deep breath to calm herself. 

Without missing a beat, Steve turned her abruptly toward the door and yanked the door open, manhandling her to the entrance. 

“Okay… okay, okay!” Robin yelled, laughing a bit at her own stupidity and how ridiculous it was to have Steve hype her up like this. 

She looked up and grimaced slightly as she watched fluffy flakes of snow falling from the sky. She heard Steve whine behind her, but he didn’t let down his guard or let her back in.

“Okay!” Robin huffed once again, less determined and more excited than anything. Even if she was nervous, there was something thrilling about knowing she was very likely going to kiss Vickie tonight. Almost a year of correspondence and a couple of months of proper flirtation, and she was… going to kiss her. 

Robin carefully made her way down the icy path and onto the road, not bothering to check the car that was definitely stuck at the Wheeler’s tonight. 

Vickie didn’t live all that far from the Wheeler’s, actually. She was maybe a ten-minute walk away—more with the snow, but still easy enough to get to.

No one was out at this time of night, but Robin didn’t let herself romanticize the walk over to Vickie’s place. If she got distracted, she ran the risk of psyching herself out again, and she didn’t want to do that. 

Two months. She had been waiting for this for two months. Ever since, she had sworn she’d be back in Hawkins for Christmas.

She could remember a time when she had thought no girl in the world was like her. When she had stared longingly at every pretty girl she came across and yearned to be a boy just so the girls would look at her. She didn’t want to be a boy, she just wanted the girls to be gay.

Robin checked the note in her pocket and scanned the house numbers to make sure she was getting close. She knew the street just fine, but she had never actually been to Vickie’s place before. She hadn’t lived on this side of Hawkins, and her ‘friendship’ with Vickie had stayed within the wall of the school.

Eventually, Robin found the right address and moved toward the little green house, noting that Vickie’s family only put up sparse Christmas decorations. It was a simple bungalow and the quietness of the street paired with the amber glow from Vickie’s porch lights helped a lot in settling her nerves. 

Robin breathed deeply before knocking, her hands shaking slightly as she readied herself for this. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen tonight, but she hoped it went in the direction she wanted. How romantic would it be to sit in front of the fire and kiss Vickie for the first time? To tuck her hair behind her ear and compliment those red curls with her whole chest? To feel shy hand touches and… god, maybe something much bigger than that.

Robin was about to knock a second time when the door opened and Vickie stood framed with her cropped red hair and her oversized Christmas sweater. They both stared at each other for a beat before smiling shyly, and Robin managed to swallow her nerves in order to speak.

“Hey… made it.”

[kamryn1963]

Summary: What if Meredith didn't make it out of the hostage situation in Called in Dead (2x9)?

TW: Murder, death

@angstober Prompt 2: Countdown

Alvin walked slowly back into his house, catching the eye of the one gangster who’s name he still didn’t know, who looked around when he saw just Al standing there. 

“Where’s my brother?” He asked and Al just shook his head slowly, a hand going to his waistband and his gun. 

He made eye contact with Meredith who was silently crying, still restrained in the chair. Al gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, as he turned to the man in front of him who also reached for his gun. 

“He’s not coming”. Al replied his voice quiet, even as he silently hoped Hank would hurry up and get here soon. He had a bad feeling about this. 

“Where’s our drugs?” The man asked next and Al just shook his head. 

“That’s not coming either”. Al responded and the man finally seemed to catch on as he raised his gun pointing it at Meredith’s head. 

“Alvin”. Meredith cried out and Al couldn’t look at her as he raised his own gun. 

“It’s over. Let her go”. Al said, silently cursing Hank for taking so long to get his ass inside. 

“You killed him didn’t you?” 

Al didn’t reply to that. He had his finger on the trigger of his gun, about to warn the man again to let Meredith go. 

Unfortunately he didn’t get that opportunity. 

“You have three seconds! Tell me where Jamal is or I’ll kill her!” The man, who Al later found out was Jesse Seely, screamed. 

“1, 2, 3”. 

The countdown was done before Al could react. He shot but it was too late. Jesse’s gun went off as well leaving what used to be perfectly clean carpets, a mess of brains. 

Al couldn’t tell where Meredith started and Jamal ended. The blood flowed into one, staining the carpets Meredith used to take pride in keeping white. 

Al knelt down, his pants soaking red as he grabbed his wife’s limp body moving her into his arms. Al put pressure on the wound even if he knew deep down it was useless. 

To an outsider, you wouldn’t even be able to tell Meredith’s hair was blond. 

Al could still see the tear tracks on his wife’s face and he felt like he was watching a movie. Felt like he wasn’t in the room. 

“Mer? Mer you have to wake up”. Al begged, unable to focus on anything but the fact Meredith wasn’t moving. Her eyes were still open. Why hadn’t she blinked?

“Al?! Al!”. Al didn’t hear Hank, didn’t realize when he was pulled back into his friend's arms. Didn’t realize when he started sobbing. 

Hank didn’t know what to do. What could he say? He knew firsthand nothing could help right now. 

“I’ve got you”. Hank whispered, but he knew Al was too far gone at this point. Al kept silently begging Meredith, who was now being handled by the paramedics to open her eyes, while Hank kept up his useless words of comfort. 

[seth-whumps]

i am currently working on your questions (i was so sos so excited to get them i missed answering em about my sillies) BUT i have a quick one for you while i do...

PLEASEEE tell me more about jj's midwesternisms. i find his upbringing SO FUN and i love it so so much

follow-up question: does he have any kind of accent/voice claim? same thing for morri!!!! i loveeeee voices for characters and accents so much it tells you so much about them

OK THANKS [viciously shaking your Guys by their shoulders in excitement]

AUGHHH an opportunity to talk about JJ's accent and Midwestern upbringing??? are you aware of the gift you have given me????? bug you are THE BEST

(a lot of this is me talking about growing up in the Midwest because I think JJ should get the good parts too)

JJ spent his time under the stars, a lot. Far away from the city, you get the prettiest view of the sky at night. He would start a bonfire with his brothers and sister, make smores under the night sky. It's some of his fondest memories. He really misses the stars sometimes.

So, JJ is from the outskirts of a very small town in South Dakota. Most of his time was spent either on farm chores or daydreaming during the drive to school, which took an hour at times. He knew how to drive tractor when he was eight; he rode horses and cared for chickens and spent his life doing the dirty work. When he was younger, he was tanned, sported sunburns, and had more freckles and muscle from the work.

Speaking of, he does have siblings! Two older brothers, and one younger sister who could kick any of their asses. There's a scrapbook of family photos somewhere in the boxes of his studio apartment in Chicago (the city may change in the future), and one of her sitting on his shoulders in a corn field. When life is hell, he finds that book.

Despite that, JJ wasn't The Farm Kid in his family. His oldest brother was supposed to take over the farm before he had a kid; then the second oldest moved to Georgia. He was a farm kid, but he didn't know it as well as his brothers. He left for Chicago anyway. Everyone knew why. He couldn't make a difference in a small town like that. He was "born for better things".

Some small midwesternisms!!!

He can drive manual, as said in another post

He can and will kick your ass at pool and at darts. And poker or gin rummy. Lots of bar games

His strength was never superhuman. He was just used to throwing hay bales

He feels very isolated in the city because he doesn't know everyone

He played sports in high school, mainly baseball, but he was also in some theater things. He loved expressions, and playing the heros

He got a box of all of his dad's old comic books and read them all the time

There is a Midwestern custom of if you're on time, you're late, and if you're early, you're on time. This is deeply instilled in JJ. He hates being late

He is very used to picking up problems. This is an odd phrase, but consider: you grow up on a farm that raises several baby animals. Those animals are problems? You pick them up. That habit carries over. He will just pick people up if they're being an issue

If a house isn't carpeted, he wears his shoes. Farm house floors aren't as clean as city houses. The habit is hard to break

His favorite road rage insult is "dipstick" because he didn't swear in the car when his parents drove with him

ACCENTS NOW!!!

For JJ, Midwestern accents are distinct in that they sound almost typical American with just a little bit of strange to it. Often you'll hear an 'e' sound before an 'a' (let's she'are something, can I te'ake that from you), and that is still mildly present in his accent. He also tends to crack down pretty hard on 'r' sounds--take a typical American accent and make all the vowels a little harsher, and you've got the classic Midwest. The faster he talks, the more harsh the vowels and rhotics get.

Morrigan's accent is much more West Coast or Washington. Not a movie popular "sahh dude" kind of accent, but if you took the harshness out of the Midwest and the roundness out of the Southern, you get a sort of California accent. There is a lightness on 'r's and vowels ever so slightly reminiscent of English accents (they also say "aye-ther" instead of "eether"). They're however able to change their accent depending on the situation. (It is hilarious to witness stuffy, professional Morrigan start ranting like they're from New Jersey.)

--

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THESE QUESTIONS rambling about his Midwestern experience was so cathartic you are the absolute best ily bug /p <33333

[mydemonsdrivealimo]

i cannot express how much i missed seeing your bryce/jensen posts- so a question for the blorbos:

setting the scene for when these two are finally settled at their shared apt/house. pick any room- describe the vibes (furniture, decor, paint colors/wallpaper; is it messy/clean? how's the lighting? etc.)

ah ty!!! ive missed thinking and posting ab them lol

okay im gonna pick their living room bc im obsessed, specifically when they move to chicago together

so it's a very open layout between the living room, kitchen, and dining room. the living room (and the rest of the place) is dark hardwood floor, and they painted one of the walls like a rich dark blue. they have all dark blue curtains, a dark blue couch, and then they have this funky tete a tete in a cream color. their center/coffee table is also dark wood (vintage, as is the rest of it bc they are Not about a modern look) on top of a cream colored carpet (the not blue walls are also cream). also bryces 900000 plants

they have So many prints and art pieces. a lot of them were commissions, but they've thrifted quite a few. lighting is mostly natural bc they have big windows, but at night they have lots of lamps (the big light is Never on trust n believe), all warm-neutral light. they have plenty of side tables and shelves for the lamps, as well as a floor one

it's usually pretty clean. bryce is def messier than jensen so his shit tends to be everywhere (especially for a night out dear lord bryce has to try on 1000 outfits ans they end up Everywhere). jensen is jensen though so it's always dusted, sanitized, generally very clean, but also VERY cozy. like you don't walk into their house and feel like you can't touch anything, it's obviously lived in but not a huge mess

some pics for The Vibes ⬇️

[nice-bright-colors]

So It Goes

My 75 y.o. SIL is dealing with the same Crusty Bill Mouth Breather at Social Security, that she had to deal with when my FIL died back in 2017. I kinda thought that some sort of divine intervention would have taken that crusty piece of shit out of the game.

So it goes.

At this point, my SIL is taking a line or two from her recently deceased husband. “I’m gonna call there again tomorrow, and if I have to deal with guy again, I’m going to tell him to take a flying fuck through a rolling donut hole!”

The Wife™️ has cleaned all of her carpets today. My BIL had Parkinson’s for the last few years, with really bad tremors. Everything he ate or drank ended up spilled all over the floor. Tomorrow she’ll attempt to start in the kitchen.

So it goes.

Small town people and their driving quirks. I mean, really? Taking the route home that goes through St. Louis saves you 3 hours. But somehow, all of you are rendered useless and can’t function driving through 30 minutes of traffic in a “major” city like St. Louis? What the actual fuck people. I shudder to think what family would be like driving in New York or Los Angeles. Forget about the fact that I come from Chicago. Not to mention The Wife™️ was with you, she could’ve drove that leg with only a few cuss words.

I don’t want to even start with the other drama around this situation. Perhaps, another time.

So it goes.

I haven’t even left the house today, and barely opened the blinds for some sunshine. Maybe tomorrow Bad Scooter will find his groove.

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

good morning! happy thanksgiving weekly tag thursday!

thank you for tagging me @milkovichrules

if you could switch bodies with anybody for only one hour who would it be and what would you do?

someone who doesnt have a little headache i guess

what's your most trivial / dumbest hot take?

carpeted floors are gross and should be abolished, wood flooring and tile only! rugs are allowable if they are regularly cleaned

shameless related tivial hot takes? i never found jimmysteve attractive even for one single second, not looks personality nothing

if you had to teach a college course what would it be in?

my version of men thinking they could land a plane if they needed to is thinking i could teach literally any highschool class. but college level? i could probably teach a history or english seminar, i went to an art school and could defiantly teach any of the non-architecture art courses I had to take, and i could teach a design studio

season 12 of shameless is suddenly happening and you've been out in charge! what plot point(s) are you gonna make happen?

okay first and formost, lip has had his chance and he blew it hard, multiple times. tami is taking the reigns of their little family for a while

i think debbie got part ways/all the away down to texas and had some kind of rude awakening (sorry yall she needs it) and maybe goes to fiona in florida and they spend a couple weeks repairing their relationship from all the damage that had been brewing for years

carl does buy the alibi with his partner for cheap and finds out anne moved back to Chicago and helps him run it, theres an episode that shows them starting to mirror kev and V and its hilarious

Liam continues to struggle with identity and purpose after Franks death, but his brothers notice how hard he was taking franks death and make an effort to make sure he gets to live more as a kid while also respecting his autonomy

ian and mickey, whew, honestly im working on a couple fics that will expand more on this but they grow together, work together and love each other very much

who would be your godly parent (can be any mythology)?

athena

what's something you love about yourself?

i love helping the people in my life! i am not a touchy feely person but if you need/want something? give me a call we'll get it done and dusted

i also love the way i look and have great style

describe your day in 5 emojis:

🕯🧸🎾🍷🍂

what shameless character do you think you could beat in a fight?

im not even joking , lip

tell us two truths and a lie, we'll try to guess the lie!

do you have a pet/pets? if so, how did they get their name(s)?

please do not come for me, but i am not a pet person. i love animals and i think theyre so cute and funny but theyre also dirty and need space and attention so they do not belong in my tiny apartment

show us a meme (or picture) that captures your essence:

what's your typical coffee / tea / beverage order?

latte with whole milk, hot or iced depending on the season

use a song to describe the last five years of your life:

play along! @jrooc @sweetperversiongirl @thefairytail @stocious @steorie @solitarycreaturesthey @mickeysgaymom @vintagelacerosette

[dangan-infinity]

The Great Chicago Fire - Chapter 1 Execution

Darkness was all there was at first. Then a spotlight on the killer, Ms. Fenna Van Daalen. She stared straight ahead into the shadows, where the barest edge of light caught something or someone standing there--

"Mother?"

For a split second, Fenna believed it. That distant silhouette with its curly hair and limber frame, and that voice... But it couldn't be, right? She'd f-cked it all up. She'd killed a woman. The train was just mocking her now. And yet...

The lights came on.

She was in her club, the Sunflower Lounge, and it was quickly apparent to the spectators how it had gotten its name. Though the lights and the dance floor were modern, the décor was a quaint mix of the decades this building had endured, and the carpet up the stairs was covered with the yellow blooms.

In the distance, framed by the entryway, was a solid black cardboard cutout. A crude facsimile of her son, for whom she'd done the unthinkable, just to see him one more time. How did they know his voice? She laughed, but her own voice rasped with pain.

"I shoulda f-ckin' guessed, huh?"

She turned away and found herself at the bar, bottles and glasses strewn about after a long night's work for other people's play. The motion was automatic-- a relatively clean glass appeared in her hand, a bottle of wine in the other, and she poured. She watched silently as the dark liquid swirled and the earthy aroma filled the air. As good a last supper as any.

There was a spark, then a flicker, then a blaze. The shadow of her son lit up like a torch, and became the tinder that would soon engulf the room in flame.

She had regretted everything, of course, from the moment she'd pulled the trigger. Even without realizing that escape would bring punishment upon everyone else, well, it was still murder. Atsuko was a person like the rest of them, and Fenna had no right to decide her fate. The only winning move was not to play... and that wasn't much of a victory if she could never leave, when her son was in danger. Not that it mattered now.

The fire was raging now-- it had spread so quickly that the fire extinguisher behind the bar wouldn't have made a dent. Fenna would die, and the killing game would continue. All for naught in the end, like so many things in her life.

One last act of defiance remained to her.

Sweat dripping down her face, she raised her glass to the survivors. A toast to the living, with all their myriad problems and budding friendships-- may they get over their bullsh-t, end this terrible killing game, and escape the Infinity Train. She downed the beverage in record time and poured another. A toast to the dead, to a little match girl and a smiley-faced loner... and a washed-up bartender that would soon join them.

The flames drew closer all the while, disintegrating the sunflower carpet, feasting on turn-of-the-century wood and alcohol. Fenna Van Daalen raised her glass one last time, facing death with a smile...

All of her bravado evaporated in a second as she truly caught on fire. She burned like her victim, and her home burned with her, leaving nothing but a scorched husk of a building and the echoes of her screams.

[Forum Post] (more to follow)

[agentcable]

Supernatural Season 1 Ep. 16 "Shadow"

While investigating a death in Chicago, Sam and Dean meet Meg, who is happy to see Sam again. The brothers find out Meg is the murderer and try to catch her. Meg is one step ahead and attacks the brothers with shadow spirits. Sam and Dean realize the trap is for their father.

If you want to watch the series for yourself, stop reading! This post contains spoilers to the storyline.

Chicago, Illinois

Meredith walks through the streets and enters a deserted alley. Her iPod dies and a wind blows. She runs as a figure appears. She locks herself in her apartment and sets the alarm. The shadow enters her house, creeps up behind her, and kills her.

One week later, Dean and Sam show up to investigate the second murder in two months. The landlady says the place was locked up and the alarm was on. She also says Meredith was cut up. Sam thinks it's a good case, and Dean picks up the EMF. Dean checked with the police and found out Meredith's heart was missing. They think it's a spirit. Dean lays out a symbol on the carpet with masking tape. They don't know what it is.

At the bar where Meredith worked, Dean and Sam talk. The two victims have nothing in common. Sam is interrupted when he sees Meg, the girl from "Scarecrow". She didn't make it to California and ended up in Chicago.

She's not impressed with Dean, but Sam covers. Sam gets her number and they meet later. But after they leaave, Sam is suspicious and Dean is upset. Sam thinks there's something wrong with her. He watches her while Dean checks her history and researches the symbol.

Later, they talk and Dean finds out it's a Zoroastrian symbol for a demon. Meg's history shows she's clean. Meg leaves her apartment and enters a factory. Sam follows her. He gets to the top just as she returns and sees her doing a ceremony with a silver goblet at an altar. She speaks to someone and is told to wait for the entity. Sam enters the room and finds the altar with the Zoroastrian symbol.

Sam tells Dean what's going on. Dean says the two victims were from Lawrence, Kansas, where the brothers are from. Dean leaves a message for their father.

As they leave, they talk about what to do next. Dean says Sam needs to go after it's over, but it'll never be over. Dean says he wants them to be a family. Sam says Dean will have to let him go when it's over.

The brothers climb the elevator at the factory as Meg prepares her ceremony. They sneak in, but she invites them in cheerfully. She says she was waiting for Sam. Then the Daēva strikes, knocking them both out.

They wake up bound. Sam thinks it was a trap to lure them in, but Meg says it was to bring in their father. She knows he'll come to rescue them, and there are Daēvas in the room. Meg distracts Sam so Dean can free himself and confront her. Sam uses his knife to cut himself free. He knocks Meg down and destroys the altar. The Daēvas haul Meg out a window and she falls to her death. They go back to their hotel room and find their father there.

They reunite, and John says he knows about the demon and that it knows he'll kill it, but he has to do it alone for now. He says he plans to kill the demon, not just exorcise it. He doesn't know how he'll kill it. They hug, but the Daēvas attack. Meg is nearby, alive and uninjured. She uses an amulet to control the Daēvas.

Sam grabs a flare and dispels the Daēvas. They leave the house and Dean says John should go because he's vulnerable. John and Sam reluctantly agree and leave. Meg watches them leave.

----------

For more behind the scenes, follow up here:

Podcast "Supernatural - Then and Now" hosted by Rob Benedict and Richard Speight Jr.