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Burden of Proof (2)

WORD COUNT: 7233 MARVEL BINGO FILL: Lawyers WARNINGS: Arrest, police station goings on, slight police brutality, angst, talk of past domestic abuse AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m taking liberty with this story and basing most of it off of what I’ve seen in movies/TV (aka Law & Order eps). I don’t know what actually happens when you get arrested or given a trial to decide about bail, so just give me liberty to play around here. Also, consider that Y/N is getting “special treatment” (be that good or bad) because of who Brock was and how people felt about him.

MASTERLIST

Bucky strolled into the precinct, rolling his eyes at the uniformed officers huddled over their tiny desks, furiously writing. He whistled a tune as he walked to the desk, tapping on it and glancing around. When no one appeared, he tapped the bell more than once with a little more force than was needed, smirking when one of the uniforms glared his way. 

He furrowed his brows when no one came to answer the bell and he glanced at the watch on his wrist. 

“It’s two in the fucking morning. Where the hell is everyone?”

A female officer walked by, arms full of files. He stepped into her path, holding up his hands at the glare she shot him. 

“Where is everyone?” “Who are you?” “Bucky Barnes. I’m a bounty hunter.”

She popped an eyebrow and he rolled his eyes. All the damn cops looked down on him, and he fucking despised them for it. He shook his head. 

“Look, I just need to talk to—“ “Well, we’re all busy, okay?” “What happened?” “I’m not at liberty to discuss—“ “Jesus Christ.”

He turned away from her, shaking his head. 

“Everybody toes that company line, don’t they?” “Excuse me?” “I know how it is, sweetheart. What, somebody try to rob a bank? Mugging in Central Park? Protest gone wrong in Times Square again?”

She clicked her tongue, tilting her head. 

“Murder on Park Avenue.”

Bucky’s eyes widened and she nodded. 

“Thought so.” “What?” “You used to be a cop, didn’t you?” “We don’t talk about that.”

She smiled, shaking her head, stepping closer to him and pitching her voice low.

“You didn’t hear this from me.”

He nodded. 

“Brock Rumlow’s dead.” “What?”

She nodded. 

“The D.A.’s on his way, but there’s no ferries from Staten Island this time of night. Everyone’s in an uproar.” “You got a suspect?” “Interrogating her now.” “Her?”

She nodded. 

“Ex-wife. Found her with blood on her hands. Seems pretty open and shut to me.” “Rumlow had an ex-wife?”

She nodded again. 

“Divorce was kept pretty hush-hush. We heard that she violated their pre-nup, since Brock was from old money, and she got nothing in the settlement. Sounds like pretty good motive to me.”

Bucky nodded, whistling low. 

“Damn.” “My thoughts exactly. You should probably come back another day, when it’s not so chaotic.”

Bucky nodded, and the woman walked away. He tapped his fingers on the front desk again, then turned to leave. 

“—won’t answer a damn question because she’s crying so hard. Tried to tell the bitch that we’ve got her and there’s no way she’s getting out of this, but she just keeps crying.” “I remember Rumlow talking about her. Said he had to teach her how to dress and everything. I don’t even know why he married her in the first place, if he had to force himself to fuck her.”

Bucky let the officers walk past him before he glanced over his shoulder and made sure they hadn’t noticed him. He looked around the room, but with everyone up in arms, he found himself alone. He made his way to the back, to the interrogation rooms, stopping outside one with the blinds partially open. 

A woman sat there, hands bound behind her back, head bowed. Her body trembled, shoulders shaking with every breath she took. Bucky glanced around, shaking his head when he didn’t see anyone. He quickly picked the lock on the door, stepping into the room. 

The woman didn’t move, and Bucky felt a tickle at the back of his neck. He walked closer to her, tapping a finger on the table, but she never looked up. 

“Hey, are you okay?”

No answer. Bucky rounded the table, crouching in front of her when the woman didn’t move. He moved his hands to cup her face, cursing under his breath. 

“Shit. Can you hear me? Hey. Come on, sweetheart.”

Her eyes were staring at nothing, not focusing on Bucky despite him being only inches away. He reached for her wrist, closing his eyes as anger bubbled inside him as he realized her hands were still in handcuffs. He let the anger fester inside him as he saw the blood where the cuffs had dug into her skin and he methodically picked the lock, freeing her from the cuffs. 

He gently moved her arms to hang by her sides and began massaging her wrists, smiling when she winced in pain. 

“There we go. Come back to me.”

He kept massaging, moving his hands to her shoulder and manipulating her arm in the socket. She gasped and he nodded. 

“Come on. You’re alright. Come back to me.”

He moved to the other arm and she gasped, trying to pull her wrist from his grip. 

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here to help you.”

She blinked, moving her eyes to meet his, blinking a few more times. He nodded, smiling softly. 

“Hey there.”

She didn’t speak, just blinked. Bucky kept the smile on his face, keeping his voice gentle. 

“You back with me?” “Wh … what happened?” “I think you kind of blacked out. You were here, but … you weren’t really here.”

She nodded, eyes moving over his shoulder to stare at the wall. 

“I remember walking in here. I remember them asking me questions. And then … I don’t know.” “It’s okay. Can you tell me what happened?”

She met his eyes, her own wide. Bucky shook his head. 

“What?”

She swallowed. 

“No one’s asked me that‍.” “What?”

She shook her head, looking down at her hands in her lap. Bucky licked his lips. 

“What did they ask you?”

Her voice was soft as she stared at her hands. 

“Why did I do it? What was I thinking? Would I prefer the chair or a firing squad?”

She sniffled and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut before he moved a hand to her lap, letting his hand rest there, his fingertips gingerly touching hers. He pitched his voice low. 

“Where’s your lawyer?”

She lifted her eyes to his and he smiled. 

“Is he talking with the officers? On the phone?”

She shook her head. 

“I don’t … I don’t have a lawyer.” “Excuse me?” “I don’t have one. I can’t—“

She swallowed, closing her eyes as more tears slipped down her cheeks. Bucky moved his hand to link his fingers with hers and she gave a sob. She shook her head and met his eyes. 

“I can’t afford a lawyer.” “It’s alright. It’s okay. They’ll appoint a lawyer for you. It’s your constitutional right. Who did they call?”

She shook her head again, and Bucky blinked, keeping his molars clenched together to keep from screaming. He spoke in a much calmer tone than he was feeling. 

“Before they interrogated you, did they ask if you wanted your lawyer present?”

She shook her head, and Bucky spoke again. 

“Did you know you could have a lawyer present?” “I didn’t know I could have one at all. I don’t have the money for one. I don’t have—“

She hung her head, exhaling a shaky breath. Bucky nodded, giving her hand a squeeze. 

“Did you do it?”

She lifted her head and met his eyes. 

“What?” “What they’re saying you did. Did you do it?”

She shook her head. 

“I found him in the library. It used to be my favorite room in the house and he whitewashed it, turned it into an office.”

She lifted the hand Bucky wasn’t holding. 

“I turned the light on, and his blood was on the wall. I didn’t even know.”

Bucky nodded, giving her hand another squeeze before he let it go and stood to his feet. He pulled his phone from his pocket, big hands trembling as he unlocked it and pressed on the screen until a call went through. He held the phone to his ear, pacing slowly as he listened to the ring. He hung up when the voicemail sounded, then dialed again. This time, a sleepy voice answered. 

“You better be fucking dying.” “Get up, get dressed, and get your ass down to the precinct.” “Did you get arrested again? Christ, Buck, I swear—“ “I’ve got a client for you.” “What time is it? It’s—Bucky, it is three in the morning. We have an on-call lawyer for shit like this.”

Bucky swallowed as he looked at the woman at the table. He turned his back to her and lowered his voice. 

“She’s in trouble. Big trouble, and she needs the big guns. Not your on-call lawyer. She needs you.” “Who is it? And what did they do?”

Bucky licked his lips. 

“Brock Rumlow was murdered tonight and I think this woman’s being framed for it.”

The line was quiet for a moment. 

“Are you shitting me?” “She was practically catatonic when I found her. They interrogated her and scared the shit out of her. She didn’t even know she could have a lawyer, and all she keeps saying is she can’t afford one.” “Fuck.”

Bucky could hear rustling on the other end, taking it as Steve crawling out of bed and getting dressed. 

“If Rumlow’s dead, the shit’s about to hit the fan. It’s too early for the ferries to be running, but I guarantee Fury’s on his way there.” “So beat him here. Forget the three-piece suit and just throw on some jeans.” “Give me more credit than that. How is she?”

Bucky nodded. 

“Her hands were still cuffed when I got in here. Probably wouldn’t hurt to have them looked at, since they were practically purple before I picked the lock.” “Picked the … Bucky?” “What?” “Who let you into the interrogation room?”

Bucky didn’t answer, and Steve cursed so colorfully Bucky pursed his lips and nodded in awe. 

“There’s cameras in all of the rooms and not one person has tried to enter in the almost hour I’ve been with her.” “If this hurts her case—“ “I’ll give you permission to kick my ass. Just get here now.” “I’m on my way.”

Bucky hung up his phone and smiled when he saw her scared eyes staring up at him. Bucky knelt beside her and nodded. 

“My friend is a public defender.” “A lawyer.” “A lawyer who works for people like you.” “I can’t pay him.” “You don’t have to.”

She looked down at her hands again and Bucky rubbed a hand over his mouth. He started to speak, closing his mouth when she whispered, a small, sad smile on her lips. 

“I’m not the biggest fan of lawyers.”

Bucky kept his voice low like hers. 

“Did I hear right? You’re Rumlow’s ex-wife?”

She nodded. 

“What’s your name?” “Y/N.”

Bucky nodded. 

“I’m Bucky Barnes.” “Nice to meet you.”

Bucky smiled, lifting a hand to gently move some hair from her face. He tried not to react when she sucked in a breath, able to tell from the look on her face that she was trying hard not to flinch away from his touch. 

He’d never gotten a good feeling around Brock Rumlow, and being with his ex-wife for less than hour proved to Bucky that his gut instinct about the man had been right. She’d clearly been abused, and Bucky was determined to get to the bottom of everything. 

“Okay, we’re … hey. Who the hell are you?”

Bucky stood up, a sneer coming across his lips when the man before him rolled his eyes and sighed. 

“Barnes. Who let the rats back here?” “Cross. Son of a bitch.”

Detective Darren Cross let out a laugh. He crossed his arms over his chest, a menacing smile on his face. 

“Who let you back here, Barnes?” “Doesn’t matter.” “Well, you’re free to go, so you should probably hit the road before we find a reason to throw your ass back in a cell.” “Kinda par for the course tonight, ain’t it, Cross?”

Darren raised an eyebrow and Bucky picked the handcuffs off of the table and threw them at him. Darren fumbled the cuffs, then looked back to Bucky. 

“What the hell is this?” “Those are the cuffs one of your officers put so tight on this woman it was cutting off her circulation.” “Well, we always try to protect ourselves from dangerous suspects.”

Bucky gave a hard laugh. 

“‘Dangerous?’ Get real.” “You didn’t see what she did.” “Oh, so she confessed?”

Darren shrugged his shoulders. 

“She didn’t have to.” “Really? Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty?’” “Well, when you’ve got blood on your hands at a crime scene…” “Where’s her lawyer?”

Darren raised an eyebrow and Bucky grinned. 

“Oh, please tell me you interrogated her without her lawyer present. Please give me a reason to kick your self-righteous ass.” “It’s none of your concern.” “The fuck it’s not. You remember due process, right?”

Darren rolled his eyes and Bucky clenched his fists to keep from lunging for the other man’s throat. Bucky shook his head and pointed towards the woman cowering at the table. 

“The state I saw her in when I first came into this room is nothing short of police brutality, and I can bring the wrath of God and everyone else down upon you with one phone call. You know I can, Cross. Give me a reason to do it.” “How? By calling your boyfriend?”

Bucky grinned at the way the man spat the word at him. And the way Darren’s eyes widened after he spoke just egged Bucky on more. 

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. Police brutality, homophobia, what else can I add to the list? Clint’s been itching for a big story and by God, here’s one.” “She killed the city’s ADA! We’re not going to treat her like a queen.” “Doesn’t give you the right to treat her like a dog! Hell, I wouldn’t even chain a dog up the way you did her. Kiss your fucking badge goodbye, Cross. You’ll be lucky if they’ll let you walk through the doors when we’re done with you.” 

Darren took a step forward, stopping when the door opened. He rolled his eyes, the breath leaving his lungs when he saw who was standing there, briefcase in hand. 

“Gentlemen. Is there a problem here?”

Steve raised an eyebrow and Darren pushed a smile onto his face. 

“Counselor, I don’t recall asking anyone in this office to give you a call.” “That’s precisely the problem, Detective. Did you interrogate my client without an attorney present?”

Darren sighed. 

“It wasn’t an interrogation—“ “Did you tell her she could have an attorney present?” “I wasn’t the one who read her—“ “Did you tell her she could have an attorney period?” “I didn’t read the Miranda rights to her.”

Steve smiled.

“So you’re telling me you arrested her without reading her her rights, interrogated her without an attorney, and didn’t bother to grant her constitutional right to an attorney?”

Darren sputtered and Steve shook his head. 

“Let me talk to my client while you go grovel with your boss to try and save your own ass, okay?”

Darren turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Bucky huffed across the room. 

“Self-righteous prick.”

Steve huffed a laugh, nodding his head at Bucky as he set his briefcase on the table. 

“They read me my rights.”

The men looked to the woman who’d kept her head bowed even now, hands folded together in her lap. She nodded, not taking her eyes from her hands. 

“The lady officer read me my rights when she walked me out of the house. I was kind of panicking, so I didn’t really hear her, but she did read them to me.”

Steve pursed his lips, then nodded. 

“Well, Cross could have double-checked.”

Steve sighed, pulling out a chair across from her, sitting in it and taking a notepad and pen from his briefcase. 

“I’m Steve Rogers. I’ll be your attorney for now, until we get a game plan going. Can you tell me your name, for starters?” “Steve?”

He lifted his head, pen in his hand, poised to write on the pad. He met her eyes and his face went slack, all the color draining. 

“Holy shit.”

The pen fell from his hand as he stared at the woman across the table. Bucky’s eyes darted from her to him and back again, seeing the confusion on both of their faces. 

“Uh … can I interrupt?”

Steve blinked and Bucky whistled until Steve looked his way. Bucky raised his eyebrows in question and Steve shook his head, looking back across the table.

“Y/N?”

She nodded and Steve shook his head again. 

“How …”

He just shook his head and she smiled softly. 

“I know.” “What are you doing here?”

Her voice was soft. 

“Wrong place, wrong time?”

Steve couldn’t help but smile at that, then blinked, shaking his head again. 

“So you … you’re Brock’s ex-wife?”

She nodded, looking back down at her hands. Steve ran a thumb over his bottom lip. 

“Was the divorce amicable?”

She gave a harsh laugh. 

“For him.”

Steve glanced to Bucky, who raised an eyebrow as he lifted his shoulders. Steve swallowed, then looked back to her. 

“Can you tell me about it?”

She lifted her head. 

“My divorce?” “All of it.”

She smiled. 

“A lot’s happened since high school, Stevie.” “Oh, there it is. High school. Oh wait—oh my god. You’re Y/N?!”

She blinked, confusion on her face as she looked to Bucky. Steve shook his head, closing his eyes as Bucky covered his mouth with a hand. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit.” “Can somebody fill me in?”

Steve shook his head. 

“Later. We’ve got more important things to worry about right now. The biggest being getting you out of here.” “Can you?”

Steve met her eyes again and she swallowed before she spoke. 

“Can you get me out of here?” “I’m going to try.”

She nodded. 

“That guy was saying I was never going to see the light of day again. He was going to make sure of it.”

Steve sighed, and Bucky spoke up from across the room.

“That guy’s an asshole. Don’t take anything he’s saying to heart.”

She nodded and Steve reached for his pen, picking it up and poising it over the notepad again. 

“Let’s see what we can do tonight.”

Bucky stayed with you while Steve made his rounds doing … whatever it was he did. You stayed in the uncomfortable chair they’d all but thrown you into hours earlier, but at least your hands weren’t cuffed anymore. They’d taken your mugshot and done your fingerprints when they first brought you in, but Bucky was the one to lead you to the bathroom—the men’s, but you didn’t really care and he loudly threatened to disembowel anyone who tried to say something—and let you wash the blood and ink off your hands. He let you walk around the interrogation room, smiling when you looked at the mirror, checking your reflection before your cheeks flamed and you quickly looked away. 

“No one’s on the other side.”

You glanced towards him and he shrugged. 

“They may not like me, but they trust me.”

You nodded. 

“You work here?” “Sort of. I’m a bounty hunter.”

Your eyes widened and he smiled. 

“I used to be a cop, but …”

The smile drifted from his face and he shook his head. You nodded, fingers reaching out to touch the bars on the frosted window. 

“I used to be a lot of things.” “Like what?”

You smiled. 

“I wanted to be a pastry chef. I was a pretty good baker.” “‘Was?’”

You swallowed. 

“It’s been a long time since I was near an oven.” “Brock didn’t have one?”

You didn’t even realize how you immediately straightened your spine at the mention of his name, and Bucky narrowed his eyes. You licked your dry lips and spoke softly. 

“He had two. Top of the line. Bought them and had them installed just to spite me, because he knew how badly I wanted to bake. He wouldn’t let me touch them, and the one time I did …”

You shook your head, moving a hand to your lower back. You lifted your foot and rolled your ankle in a circle before setting your foot back on the ground. Bucky managed to keep his voice steady as he spoke. 

“Did he hit you?” “Yes.” “More than once?” “All the time.” “Son of a bitch.”

Bucky ran a hand over his face and you crossed your arms over your chest, walking back to the chair and sitting in it. 

“I’m sorry.”

You smiled as you looked at the man across the table from you. 

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.” “You didn’t deserve that.” “No one deserves that. But it’s over now. I got away.” “How did you?”

You glanced at the table, then back to him. 

“I swear it was an act of God. I saw him kiss my best friend—well, who I thought was my best friend, a coworker of his. And when I asked him about it, he slapped me. A cop happened to see it and wouldn’t be paid off. He wouldn’t let it go, and I jumped at the chance he offered to help me get away.”

You shook your head. 

“I had tried for so long, and I’d just given up. But that day, it … it just seemed to fall into my lap.”

You took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. 

“I never did get a chance to thank that cop. He saved my life, and I don’t even think he knows that.”

You sighed. 

“I’m sure Brock made sure he got transferred to Siberia or something.” “Worse. San Francisco.”

You and Bucky turned to the door, where Steve was standing. He had a soft smile on his face as he walked in. 

“Scott Lang was the cop who helped you. He was a friend of mine, told me about how he helped you get away. I didn’t know it was you, because he didn’t give me a name.”

Steve shook his head. 

“If I’d known …”

He glanced down at his feet and you licked your lips. 

“They transferred him across the country?”

Steve smiled. 

“No, he transferred himself. Turns out, he had a little girl he didn’t know about. Scott was a bit wild in his youth, and he couldn’t stand not knowing his daughter. Soon as his ex called him, he started the process to transfer.”

You smiled, nodding your head. Steve cleared his throat and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. You looked up at him and he squeezed Bucky’s shoulder before he turned to you. 

“There’s going to be a hearing in an hour.”

You blinked a few times, but nodded, and Steve continued. 

“The judge is going to decide whether or not to grant you bail.”

Your heart sank, and you looked down at your hands. Bucky and Steve exchanged a glance that went unnoticed by you and Bucky gently tapped on the table. 

“You okay?”

You shook your head. 

“I don’t have any money.” “You don’t have to pay the bail in full. We know a good bondsman who will work with you—“

You shook your head. 

“I don’t have anything I could use as collateral.” “What about your divorce settlement? Brock came from money. You must have gotten something out of that.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. 

“No, the judge—“

Your breath caught in your throat and you gave a pitiful, quiet whine you couldn’t hold back. 

“The judge was a friend of Brock’s and I didn’t get a penny. I’m actually paying all the legal fees for the both of us and I don’t … I can’t even buy food.”

Steve couldn’t take his eyes off of you, watching as you lifted your elbows to the table, covering your face as you sobbed as quietly as you could. Bucky glanced up at him and Steve shook his head, walking to you and turning your chair, crouching in front of you and taking your hands from your face. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped your tear-soaked face, then held both of your hands. 

“Look at me and listen.”

You did as he asked, noticing the lines beside his blue eyes that hadn’t been there the last time you’d seen him. Steve stared at you, giving a shake of his head. 

“I am going to do everything in my power to get you out of here.” “I don’t want to go to jail.” “I know, baby. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen. But these guys … the judges and the D.A., they’re going to try to throw the book at you. They’re out for blood, and I’m going to try my damnedest to save you.”

Bucky covered his mouth with a hand as he pushed away from the table, walking to the far corner of the room. You shook your head, voice shaking. 

“I’m scared.” “I know. But I need you to trust me.”

You nodded. 

“I do.” “When we go in there, let me do all the talking. You stand when they tell you, but don’t say a word. Anything you say can be turned against you, and we’re working against the current here as it is.”

You nodded, and Steve gave your hands a squeeze. 

“I’m going to get you through this. I promise.”

You hung your head, giving a shaky exhale. Steve glanced over to Bucky.

“It’s early enough that Natasha should be up. Give her a call, and get Clint here, too.”

Bucky nodded and you looked to him. 

“Can you … can you call the Scarlet Diner? My friend Wanda owns it, and I … I’m supposed to be there.”

Bucky nodded again, and made his way out of the room. Steve gave your hands a squeeze before he stood up, slowly pacing the room. 

“Tell me everything you did last night.”

You swallowed. 

“I worked all day at the diner. They close at ten, and I stayed to eat and clean up. Maria called—“ “Maria?”

You looked up at him. 

“Maria Hill. She was … I thought she was my best friend, but she was having an affair with Brock. She moved in after I moved out.”

A muscle in Steve’s jaw clenched. 

“Maria Hill, the paralegal that works for the D.A.’s office?”

You nodded, head moving slowly when the words registered with you. You leaned forward, putting your face in your hands again. 

“Oh my god.”

Steve ran a hand over his face, then shook his head. 

“Why did she call you?”

You moved your hand to cover your mouth, holding it there for a few seconds before you spoke again. 

“She said she had a few of my things that I could come by and get. She said Brock was working late and I knew this would be my only chance to get the things I couldn’t take with me when I left.”

Steve nodded. 

“Then what?” “I left the diner and took a bus to the Subway, then rode as close as I could to Park Avenue before I walked the rest of the way to the house.” “This was after ten, you said?”

You nodded. 

“Probably closer to midnight.”

Steve took a pen from his pocket, clicking it and making a note. When he was finished with his furious scribbling, he met your eyes again. 

“Then what?” “Maria had said the front door was open, so I walked inside. I called out, but no one answered. I walked around, trying to find the stuff she’d told me about. I didn’t find anything, so I went upstairs. The library had been at the top of the stairs, and it was my favorite place in the house. Brock had renovated it as soon as I stepped out the door.”

Steve nodded and you went on. 

“I knocked, but no one answered. I opened that door and it was dark. I felt along the wall for the light switch and touched something wet.”

You closed your eyes, stomach roiling at the memory. You shook your head, the next words barely audible. 

“There was blood all over the walls. All over everything. Brock was in a chair in the middle of the room, and he … he was …”

You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. 

“I started out of the room, to … I don’t know. Call 9-1-1, I guess, but there was a cop on the stairs. Jack Rollins, one of Brock’s friends. He pointed his gun at me, said they’d been called because there’d been a murder.”

You shook your head again, looking to Steve. 

“He was dead when I got there, but no one believes that. They saw me there and … that’s it.” “Okay. Okay, just breathe.”

Steve sat at the chair across from you, holding a hand across the table. You moved a shaking hand to rest in his and he nodded. 

“Breathe.”

You did as he said, closing your eyes as he rhythmically squeezed your hand, giving your whirling brain something to focus on. You shook your head, opening your eyes and meeting his. 

“I can’t afford any of this.” “Don’t worry about it.” “How can I not? Every penny I make goes towards the legal fees, and if I’m a minute late with a payment, Brock makes sure they tack on a late fee. I can’t afford clothes or a nice place to live or—“

You pulled your hand away from Steve, putting it over your stomach. You took in a breath, letting it out slowly. 

“If I don’t eat at the diner, I don’t eat. I think Wanda knows that, so she doesn’t make me pay. I got some clothes from Goodwill, but somehow Brock got a copy of my receipt and they added on an extra payment due of exactly that amount. So I don’t buy anything anymore. I don’t have credit cards or a bank account. I only have cash, and somehow they still know exactly how much I have.” “Easy. Take it easy. Just breathe.”

You sobbed as you closed your eyes, and Steve moved to kneel in front of you again. 

“Listen to me.”

You hung your head and he gently rubbed your arm as he spoke. 

“I’m not going to make you pay a thing. Do you understand that? I’m a public defender. You don’t have to pay a public defender. Y/N, Brock is gone. No matter the circumstances, he can’t hurt you anymore. Leave the rest of it to me, okay?”

You lifted your head, staring into his eyes, the pools of blue somehow still familiar after all the years. You slowly nodded and Steve stood just as a knock sounded at the door. The two of you watched the female officer that had read you your rights step into the room. 

“They’re ready for you.”

You stood on shaky legs and Steve slid his notepad and pen into his briefcase. The officer walked to you, an apologetic look on her face. 

“It’s protocol.”

You noticed the handcuffs she held and you nodded. You started to put your hands behind your back and Steve made a noise. 

“Front.”

The officer looked to him and Steve shook his head. 

“She doesn’t deserve to be shackled at all, but look at her wrists from where you cuffed her before.” “I didn’t cuff her. Rollins did.”

Steve shook his head. 

“Cuff her hands together in front of her stomach where I can see or don’t cuff her at all.” “Mr. Rogers, with all due respect, you’re not a cop. You’re not really the one in charge here.” “Miss … Carter, is it?”

Steve leaned in to read her name tag, then straightened. 

“I haven’t worked much with you yet, but if you stick around, that will change. Do us both a favor and try to stay on my good side, will you? Cuff her hands in front, and that’s the last time I’m saying it.”

The officer stared at Steve, then blew out her breath. She took hold of your arm, wincing when she saw the bruises and torn skin where the cuffs had originally been placed. She blinked a few times, placing the cuffs higher up your arms, above your wrists. 

“I’m sorry about that.”

You nodded, glancing at your shackled hands, the cuffs tight enough to stay in place, but not enough to hurt you. You met Steve’s eyes and he nodded to the officer. He took your arm, walking beside you as you started down the hall. He pitched his voice low, just enough for you to hear him. 

“Brock was rumored to be the front-runner to take over when Fury retired, so this will be a media freak show. Microphones and recorders are going to be shoved into your face, but don’t say a word, okay? Bucky or someone on my team will help get you through it if I can’t. Do not trust anyone and remember that anything—absolutely anything—you say can and will be used against you. So don’t say anything at all.”

You nodded, eyes widening when you and Steve rounded the corner to a passel of reporters. Cameras flashed, momentarily blinding you as voices could be heard all around, yelling questions at you, asking for statements, for clarity, for comments. Steve held out an arm, pushing the crowd back as he led you into the small courtroom. 

Thankfully, the media wasn’t allowed in, save for one reporter in the back row. Steve lifted his chin when he saw the man, and the man smiled, holding up his hand with only his thumb and pinky finger extended. You noticed the hearing aids in his ears, and you met his eyes. He looked to you, giving a single nod. You just blinked and walked where Steve was leading, stopping behind a table. Steve leaned over. 

“Judge will be in just a moment. Fury’s right behind us.”

You nodded. You’d met Nick Fury many times, and even though he was Brock’s boss, you couldn’t help but like the man. You didn’t really trust him, mainly because he was a lawyer, but the two of you had shared many a conversation at your dinner parties. 

You figured the easy relationship you’d shared was over and done with now. 

“Don’t look anywhere but straight ahead. Any facial expression can be taken into account.”

You cast your eyes down, because that was how you were comfortable. You’d gotten used to staring at the floor during the first year you and Brock had been married. You heard the door open and felt your breathing speed up, the raucous questioning dying away as Fury walked in, the door closing behind him. He shook his head as he walked to the table across from the one where you and Steve were. 

“Damn vultures.”

He nodded to Steve, laying his briefcase on the table. The judge walked in then, without the fanfare of the bailiff announcing or any call to order. You let your eyes drift up from where you’d had them cast at your feet and you felt a chill slip down your spine. 

Alexander Pierce. 

White noise filled your ears as black spots danced in front of your vision. You were going to jail. There was no question now. Alexander had loved Brock like a son and now … he’d make sure Brock’s killer would pay. Despite the fact that you weren’t the one who had killed Brock, Alexander hated you, and you knew he wouldn’t hesitate to punish you in the most sadistic way he could. 

“Y/N!”

You blinked hard, glancing around, not knowing when you’d sat down. Steve was kneeling before you with the reporter beside him, both with worried looks on their faces. Fury was standing behind them, eyebrows furrowed, mouth set in a line. You lifted your hands, remembering only when your movements were constricted that you were handcuffed. You swallowed, taking in a few shaky breaths. Steve’s voice was barely audible, and you wondered if the reporter could hear him even with the hearing aids. 

“Are you okay?”

You slowly nodded, speaking just as quietly as Steve had. 

“Pierce was Brock’s best friend. He’s the … the judge that did our divorce.” “What?”

Steve glanced over his shoulder, seeing Pierce pull a pair of glasses into his face, reading over some pages in front of him. 

“How could he preside over the divorce with such strong ties to it?” “He’s a judge.”

Steve lifted his shoulders. 

“Doesn’t mean he’s above the law.” “I don’t think he knows that.”

You and Steve looked to the reporter, who gave you a smile and patted your leg. 

“Don’t worry. We’re going to help you.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, and the reporter nodded to him, leaning in and whispering something you couldn’t hear. Steve slowly nodded, grasping the man’s hand, the two of them standing up before helping you. 

“Everything okay, counselor?”

The sound of Pierce’s voice sent chills down your spine. Steve nodded, helping you to stand to your feet. 

“Yes, your honor.” “Does your client need medical attention?” “No, sir. She’s just had a long night.”

Pierce snorted. 

“I’d say. Well, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Y/N Rumlow, you stand charged with the murder of ADA Brock Rumlow. How do you plead?”

You looked to Steve, who leaned in to whisper that you had to be the one to say it. You swallowed, speaking as clearly as you could, voice shaking despite your efforts. 

“Not guilty.”

Pierce nodded, looking to Fury. 

“The people are fine with bail. Ms. Rumlow doesn’t have the means to attempt to leave the county.” “Already checking over her bank statements, Fury?”

Fury glanced across the aisle to Steve, a wide smile on his face. 

“You don’t think I’ve checked every step she’s made in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours, Counselor?”

You closed your eyes at the feeling of your head starting to spin, the roiling of your stomach at the fact that your life was no longer your own, if it ever was. Even after getting away from Brock, someone was still checking up on you. 

“Easy.”

You kept your head down, flicking your eyes towards Steve. You weren’t even sure he’d spoken, but it calmed you slightly. Pierce sighed from his spot on the bench, then nodded. 

“Bail is set at five million dollars.”

Pierce lifted the gavel as your mouth fell open. Five million? You barely had five dollars in your possession. There was no way you could come up with even ten percent for the bail bondsman. Steve raised a hand before Pierce could lower the gavel. 

“Five million? Your Honor, that’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?” “Excessive? How much does your colleague’s life amount to you, Counselor?” “Your Honor, Ms. Rumlow has no record. Not even a parking ticket. All of the evidence against her is circumstantial—“ “That’s for the trial to decide, Mr. Rogers. This is a bond hearing. Five million, or she can be remanded until trial.”

You closed your eyes, swallowing hard at the thought of going to jail. At least there you’d have meals and a place to sleep. A tear slipped down your cheek and you went to wipe it away, remembering too late that your hands were cuffed as the rattle echoed through the courtroom. You let your hands fall and sniffled, silence filling the room for a beat before Steve turned back to the judge. 

“What about monitoring her through house arrest?”

Fury gave a laugh. 

“Brock Rumlow’s ex in house arrest is like one of the Kardashians being put under house arrest. Where’s the punishment?” “She doesn’t live anywhere near Brock. She lives at …”

Steve shuffled through his papers, reading off your address. You glanced over to see the look of disgust on Fury’s face, followed by the furrowing of his eyebrows as he spoke under his breath. 

“Staying there 24/7 would be punishment.”

Pierce shook his head. 

“No, if she’s to be under house arrest, it will have to be in a nearby hotel. Something local, where officers can drop by unannounced to check in with her.”

Your body started to tremble and Steve shook his head. 

“She won’t be able to afford that, something I know you know, Fury.”

Fury nodded, and Pierce sighed. 

“If she’s unable to meet the court’s orders, she will be remanded until trial. You know the law, Mr. Rogers.”

He lifted the gavel and Steve cried out. 

“Wait!”

All eyes turned to him and Steve licked his lips, then looked to the judge.

“Release her into my custody.”

Your eyes widened and Steve pointed towards you as he spoke. 

“My penthouse is mere blocks from here. You can put the monitor on her, do the drop-in visits. I’ll clear my schedule where I’ll be able to keep my eye on her 24/7 to satisfy the court.”

Clint sat at the back of the courtroom, unable to do anything but blink. He’d spent most of the trial furiously writing, but this stopped him in his tracks. Fury blinked, exchanging a Look with the judge before he held up his hands. 

“The people are satisfied with that.”

Pierce narrowed his eyes at Steve, then sighed. 

“Do not make me regret this, Counselor. The defendant is to be remanded into the custody of Mr. Rogers until the date of her trial.”

He lifted the gavel, speaking once more before letting it fall. 

“Along with bail being set at five million dollars. Court is adjourned.”

You looked to Steve, shaking your head. 

“I can’t pay that. I don’t have five million dollars. I don’t even have the ten percent—“ “Hush.”

You closed your mouth and he started putting papers into his briefcase. 

“Let me take care of that.” “Steve—“ “There’s a process we’ve got to go through to get you released. Come on.”

He shut his briefcase and took hold of your arm. You started walking with him, stopping when Clint stepped into the aisle. 

“Hey, man. Can I get a quote from you?”

He looked over your shoulder, seeing Fury talking with Pierce, leaning in and hissing at Steve. 

“What the actual fuck are you thinking?!” “Can we do this later, and somewhere a little more private?” “Well where exactly do you suggest, because your bachelor pad is soon to be not so much anymore!”

You cleared your throat, making both men turn to you. You flicked your eyes over your shoulder towards the judge and Clint huffed out a breath. 

“Fine. But I’m coming over later and you know hell’s going to be coming with me.”

Steve nodded as Clint stepped out of the way. The two of you started walking again, and when you went to open your mouth, Steve shook his head. 

“Not a word until we’re out of this place.”

You nodded, moving closer to him as the two of you pushed through the door to the courtroom, the flashes of the cameras and the yelling of the reporters filling your senses while you tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. 

TAGS:  @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan, @captain-rogers-beard, @rhapsody-in-flannel, @iamwarrenspeace, @songforhema, @notyourtypicalrose, @beardburnsupersoldiers, @little-smurf, @capandbuckylvr, @anbrax5553, @hista-girl, @capsiclesdoll, @iminlovewithenchilidadas, @hookaddict, @evanstush, @james-bvcky-barnes, @shygamergirl01, @isaxhorror, @rogerstheheartthief, @icysquares, @juliae03, @cluelessnitwhit, @shhhs3cret, @superpug815, @trickstersteve, @lunatictardis, @bucky-rrogers, @ivoryhazlewood, @abschaffer2, @rainbowkisses31, @queenie4ce, @jordangrace96, @s-ecret--garden, @absolukeyrh, @marvelbingo

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Requiem for a Bitch

Part 5 of Vivian Darkbloom’s White Trash series

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Gabrielle’s other sister comes into town and stirs up as much trouble as possible.

I’m gonna put a CW here for people who may need it: there’s absolutely homophobia in this story, and also just keep in mind that this story is honestly really true to the culture represented, and the times. 

"She would of been a good woman," the Misfit said, "if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."

—Flannery O'Connor, "A Good Man is Hard to Find"

1. Stroll Around the Grounds Until You Feel at Home

It was a joke.

This was what she thought at first. The matron came in, and said that she would be released in a week. Sure, there would be meetings with the therapists, and the medical board, and all that, but it was pretty much a done deal. State cutbacks, the matron said. And you're an adult now. You don't need a waiver from your parents. You're free. Isn't it nice? You can get a job and an apartment and a boyfriend and you can wear whatever you want and do whatever you want and watch whatever you want on TV without Cindy Sue Deaver going nuts if it's not Full House and you can eat whatever you want and rest assured that there aren't behavior-modifying drugs in it—or are there? And the windows didn't have bars on them unless you ended up living in a real crappy, scary neighborhood. And nobody's telling you what to do. Right? Unless it's a boss or a government or a landlord.

Was the outside world really so different? she wondered. She would find out.

So they gave her money for the bus and food, and new clothes. She had to wear something "nice." Although how a beige skirt from Sears and an white blouse yellowed with age qualified as nice, she had no way of imagining. Maybe fashion had changed radically in the last 15 years, and Sears was now on par with Calvin Klein and Jordache.

The world was indeed a scary place.

She didn't say goodbye to anyone, and flipped the finger to the matron and wished death, famine, and endless curses among various inhabitants, including those who thought they had reformed her, had changed her somehow. They hadn't. Stupid fucking doctors. She dragged a small suitcase, filled mostly with packs of cigarettes and soap and towels and other stuff she swiped from the supply closet before leaving.

The bus stop was in front of some ghostly crafts store haunted with the remains of faddish hobbies. It was hot and in a fit of pique she ripped off the nylons she was wearing with the skirt, oblivious to the looks from the old lady in the crafts store, and tossed them in the trash. She rarely copped to emotions other than homicidal, spiteful glee, but she had to admit she just a bit curious to see home, and how everything had changed, and—most of all—how they would all react to her being back.

She shrugged in answer to this conversation in her head, and lit a cigarette. The bus lumbered to the curb, its doors opened, and she climbed in, glaring at the driver, daring the old man to say anything about "no smoking."

*****

The bus let her out about three blocks from Bob's Garage, near the outskirts of town. She walked lazily down familiar streets—too familiar, she thought with disappointment. All this time, and nothing's really changed. Well, what the hell did you expect? So if that's true, Purdy—the damn idiot—should still be working at the garage. And if he's still there...the thought trailed off, mercifully. She just couldn't think about it all right now.

Nonetheless, curiosity won out, and she found herself at the garage, on the pretext of getting a Coke from the machine outside. Then she walked into the dark cavern of the garage. A pair of blue-jeaned legs sprawled out from under some ancient car. Before she could announce her presence, a pair of arms grabbed her from behind.

The world whirled around her, and she found herself sitting atop a metal tool chest and face to face with a grinning, gum-chewing, blue-eyed, androgynous angel wearing a baseball cap backward. "Hiya, baby," the Angel said, declaring her gender in a low but decidedly feminine purr.

Before she could say anything, the Angel devoured her mouth with a greedy kiss, resplendent with lots of rolling tongue, breath, and moistness. Frantic at being kissed by this freak (yes, a freak, and no, I'm not enjoying this, I can't be), she placed her hands on the hard shoulders facing hers and shoved violently.

Contact was broken. The Angel was momentarily thrown off her Zen High Horse. "What's wrong, baby? Don't pay no attention to Purdy." The dark head bobbed in the direction of the legs under the car.

"Don't pay no attention to me," Purdy echoed from under the vehicle.

It was then that she realized that she was now chewing the Angel's gum. "Ack!" she cried, and spat, sending the little gum projectile through the air and onto the dark, greasy floor.

The dark Angel was grinning at her again. Furious, she smacked the creature—hard—across the face.

Purdy groaned, whether from arousal or empathy, it could not be discerned.

It was like bitch-slapping a rock. The baseball chapeau didn't even budge. And the woman laughed heartily. "You're pretty feisty today, Gabrielle," she growled pleasantly, maneuvering an oily hand under the Sears skirt.

Somehow she escaped these foul attentions—she managed to worm around the tall woman and bolted for the exit. She snatched her suitcase from outside, and ran down the street.

Gabrielle?

The name reverberated like an engine gunned over and over.

My sister is a dyke now? Well, now, that's definitely new.

It was an intriguing homecoming for Hope Hockenberry.

*****

Scant seconds after Hope's sudden departure from the garage, Purdy deemed it safe to emerge from his grimy underworld, where he had found himself getting steadily aroused. He had calmed himself with visions of Johnny Cash nude, and was now ready—and curious—to face the world. "What the hell was that about?" he remarked to Zina as he wheeled himself out from the car.

He stood up and saw the firefighter absently rubbing her tingling cheek. She shrugged, took off her cap, thus liberating the rest of her long hair. "I dunno. She gets awful fruity during this time of the month, if you know what I mean." Zina carefully avoided any blatant mention of tampons, menstruation, blood, female cycle, uterus—knowing that Purdy was indeed like all men and crumpled at the mere mention of the female reproductive cycle and its attendant paraphernalia.

"Before, during, and after, it seems like," he muttered. He sighed, and wiped his hands with a rag. "Anyway, thanks for helping me here, with this one." Purdy nodded at the car. "Appreciate it."

"No problem. I was dyin' to get under that hood for a long time."

"Bet you've used that line before."

She laughed, and straddled her Harley. "Later," she said with a kickstart.

2. The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Mane

The salon was called the "The Clip Club," its original owner being a disenchanted lesbian exile from Staten Island. But now the shop had passed into the hands of a permanently bitter middle-aged gay alcoholic who had never been out of Olympus County. Nonetheless, it was the best hairdressers' in the area, and Gabrielle had been getting her bangs and split ends trimmed there ever since she'd been out of high school and had finally wearied of Lila's jagged little cuts.

Hair freshly shampooed, the little poet waited patiently for her regular stylist while reading Redbook or, more precisely, carefully examining a photo layout of the latest lingerie styles for the fall. Finally, she felt a comb running through her damp locks.

"Shirley, I just need everything trimmed—" Gabrielle looked up, and jumped violently. Her regular hairdresser was not in front of her; rather, Natalie—she of the Shimmy Shack and dubious academic reputation—stood before her, twirling a pair of scissors. And dropping them, thus narrowly missing her own sandalled foot. Natalie hopped awkwardly, then grinned sheepishly. "Hi, Gabrielle."

"Uh, hi, Natalie." Her skin crawled. "Where's Shirley?"

"Trying to cash her girlfriend's welfare check."

"Again? Like she needs another tattoo!"

"Yeah. Anyway, she's out the rest of the day. But I just started working here!" Natalie smiled proudly.

"When?"

"Yesterday, in fact. And, um, I'm free now, so I could do you." The ex-professor wiggled her eyebrows.

"I dunno, Natalie. It's been a while since I've let anyone else cut my hair." Protectively she clutched a sheaf of her blonde hair. She wouldn't even let Zina trim her hair. Especially not switchblade-enamored Zina.

"Come on, Gabrielle. I'm trying to behave myself now. I'm not stripping, I'm not harassing anyone. I mean, look at me. I'm just trying to make a living here." She pouted in a fairly effective manner. "I think everyone deserves a second chance, don't you?" she threw in plaintively.

Oh damn. Gabrielle's shrug was more of a massive, neurotic body twitch. "Yeah, I guess." Can't argue with that. It wouldn't be fair. Zina got a second chance, and a third, and a fourth, and then a lot of parole time. "Okay, Natalie," she sighed.

The former stripper grinned with delight. "Wonderful!" She walked behind Gabrielle, and gently ran her hands through the poet's wet hair. "I really appreciate this," she purred.

"No problem." Gabrielle shifted nervously in her seat. "I just want it trimmed, okay?"

"Uh-huh." The tips of Natalie's fingers gently scraped against Gabrielle's temple. Then the soft pads began working their magic in earnest, exuding a delicate, massaging pressure that made the poet's body tingle and puddle into mushy nothingness.

"Feel good?" Natalie's voice dropped an octave, and Gabrielle's flooded senses grabbed at the deep tones like a life preserver, mistaking the huskiness for Zina's own rich burr.

"Mmmm, yeah, baby." Gabrielle's own voice fell into a low Austin Powers intonation.

"I knew you'd like that." The voice burrowed into even sweeter depths.

Before Gabrielle knew it, someone sounding like Barry White was telling her that she needed a new hairstyle: "Uh-huh. Child, I bet you've had this same style since you were in middle school. And all through high school. Didn’t you? You had this hairstyle when you smoked your first joint. You had this hairstyle when you flunked your first French test. You had this hairstyle when you lost your virginity to that boyfriend of yours in the bed of his pickup truck, with your head banging against the thin dirty blanket where his dog usually slept and which barely cushioned the metal, in time to the AC/DC blaring from the tape deck while you were secretly thinking of Kate Jackson. Am I right or am I right, girlfriend?"

*****

As Gabrielle exited the salon, she couldn't stop running her hands through her hair: It was so…short. She had awakened from a brief, bleary state of unconsciousness to the sight of herself, in the mirror, with this dashing little pixie haircut. "I only know one style," Natalie had said afterward, in an attempt at an apology, and pointed feebly at her own head.

Gabrielle rushed down the sidewalk in an anxious haze. How I love your hair, Zina had mumbled the other night. It was the closest thing to poetry her taciturn lover had ever uttered, and there weren't even no metaphors or similes or even' fuckin' adjectives for Christ's sake but it's all I got, and now it's gone!

When she reached the garage, Purdy was sitting in his "office," watching baseball. "Purdy!" she shouted. He jumped, and started to rummage through a desk drawer.

"You damn idiot, I'm not a mugger," she snapped. "And if I were, you'd be dead by now."

He stared at her. "Gabrielle? What the hell happened to your hair?"

"I got it cut," she said defiantly, as if it had been a premeditated plan of action.

"Huh," Purdy mused. That was quick. She went, got her hair cut, and changed her clothes, he thought, taking in the short tresses, the baggy jeans, the Carhart jacket. "You're really goin' whole hog into the lesbian look, huh?"

"Not quite," she muttered. She had drawn a mental line in the sand at those funny sandals. "Where's Zina?"

"She's gone."

"Dammit, she was supposed to wait for me!" Gabrielle fumed. "I need her for the video store."

"For Blockbuster? Why?"

"Not Blockbuster. We don't go there. Cyrene says it's an evil corporation."

He frowned, confused. "If you don't go to Blockbuster…" he trailed off. And his eyes widened. "Oh Jesus," he whispered. "You don't go to…"

"Yes," replied Gabrielle solemnly. "We go to Him."

He was the Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy, who worked at the tiny video store in town which seemed to have no name (unlike the Clip Club). But it didn't matter, because everybody knew who Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy was and where he worked.

Gabrielle hated going to the "independent" (as Cyrene called it) video store by herself, because Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy always delighted in giving her a particularly hard time; however, he wouldn't dare do so when she was accompanied by Zina, who once, in a shameless show of prowess, bit the head off a cardboard display of Billy Crystal.

And now she had to face Him all alone.

*****

Gabrielle spent several minutes working up the courage to approach Him all by her lonesome. She cruised the dusty aisles, pretending to look for something else in addition to the box she already clutched. She cast a glance at Him. His hippie head was bent and He looked engrossed in the copy of Spin on the counter, but she knew Him. She knew He was just trying to fake her out. He was watching her every move.

She stood at the counter, and carefully shoved the empty video carton in his direction. He did not look up.

"Long week, no see," He drawled.

Gabrielle said nothing.

Head still down, He continued: "Wild Things again?"

"No." She kicked herself mentally for responding to Him. Don’t encourage Him, that’s what Zina always said.

"Or is it a hard core night? Or how about that Rashomon of the modern day porn, The Sapphic Schoolgirls of Sydney?"

She did not respond to this taunt, and was unsure of how much longer she could hold out.

"If I recall correctly, you’ve rented that one 23 times in the last three months."

Employing the use of her middle finger, she flicked the video box so that it rolled over right onto Spin, or more specifically, a big color photo of Korn.

He stared at it. "Beaches," he murmured aloud. Finally, he turned his blue eyes to her. And smiled. Was it a genuine smile? Or another smirk? It was hard to tell, his face was so obscured by the dark, shaggy beard. He leaned toward her, over the counter, as if ready to divulge a confession. "Every time I see this movie, I cry like a baby," he whispered in her ear.

She blinked, still wary of him. "Really?" she asked cautiously.

He nodded. She thought his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He was squishing his lips together and frowning like Tom Hanks. "Really."

Gabrielle was amazed. He is human after all! She laid a hand on the soft fur of his forearm. At that moment he reminded her of the cocker spaniel she had when she was 7. "Why? Tell me," she urged gently.

He sniffled a little. "I don’t know if I can."

"Maybe you’ll feel better if you tell me." She squeezed his arm.

He took a deep, steadying breath. "Because every time I see it, I realize how fucked up Barbara Hershey’s career is."

Gabrielle saw the triumphant Gotcha! in his eyes, and she took the video box and rapped him—but not terribly hard—on the skull with it. "You asshole."

He straightened, startled. "Violence is not the way, Miss Hockenberry."

"You want violence? I’ll give you violence. I’ll go home and tell my girlfriend you bugged me and she’ll twist you into a pretzel. How’s that for violence?"

Girlfriend? Not…Her! He blurted fearfully, "You mean the Kansas City Bomber?" He had taken to calling Zina that ever since she came into the store one day wearing roller blades, which lead to a discourse upon the classic Raquel Welch vehicle and how it was the cornerstone of her career and undervalued for its campiness, which lead them to stare at him with even greater incomprehension than usual. He waved a hand of surrender at Gabrielle. "Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Jeez." He took the carton, padded into a back room, and reemerged with the videotape. After opening the black box and checking it, he handed it to her.

"Thanks," she grunted.

"Look, I’m glad you’re at least renting something different, y’know?" he said. "It’s a shitty movie, but who knows, maybe in good time you’ll work your way up to better, more ambitious things. Like Orson Welles. Or foreign films. Stuff like that."

"Well," she hesitated. "I’d like to."

He actually looked pleased. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she echoed brightly. Zina would hate it, but there was always NASCAR.

He scrutinized her while scratching his beard. "Hey, I tell you what. I’ll make a list for you, of films I think you should see. Nothing too avant-garde or anything like that, but just some basic classics that you familiarize yourself with. And I’ll give a discount card you can use for renting these movies. How does that sound?"

Gabrielle stared at him, touched. Wow, he’s not so bad after all! "Thank you, Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy!"

Ooops.

His expression was something between a wince and a smirk. "Um, my name's Eli. Okay?"

3. Gabrielle: The Other Other Other White Meat

When Gabrielle entered the house, her first instinct was to bolt upstairs and hide in her study room for about a year, until her hair grew out. She was about the make a mad dash for the stairs when Zina emerged from the kitchen. "Hey," the firefighter greeted, blue eyes focused on the Rolling Rock bottle, "thought that was you."

The young poet and perennial student-teacher felt the sarcasm blooming within her, and even though something within her tried to staunch it, nothing could prevent its fleur du mal, a smart-ass remark, from emerging. "Yeah, I guess it could only be me, or the serial killer who has keys to our house."

It was a terrible mistake, for it drew Zina's attention from green bottle to green eyes. And the hair. Chewing her lip, Gabrielle braced for the worst.

"Your hair. You got it cut."

Gabrielle wondered if Zina got her talent for Stating the Obvious from watching—and listening to—TV sports announcers. She nodded, not sure how to read the paling color of the firefighter's blue eyes. Zina circled her like a farmer checking out a steer at the state fair. It'd been a long time since her girlfriend had really scoped her out like this and, she had to admit, she was having trouble breathing, in a good kind of way. "Well," she asked slowly, "do you like it?"

In lieu of a verbal response, Gabrielle found herself quite literally head over heels, flung over a shoulder, and staring, upside-down, at the disintegrating tag of Zina's Levis as she was hauled up the stairs.

*****

"Comfy?" asked the firefighter.

Gabrielle pulled tentatively on the handcuffs which bound her wrists to the bedpost. Goddamn Minya. Why did she have to give these to Zina? "Yeah, I think I'm fine." Her lover had interrupted some promising foreplay to clap the cuffs on her.

"Good," Zina purred, then barked: "Now spread 'em!"

And Gabrielle did. The tip of the strap-on dildo lingered near her opening, like an unctuous, falsely modest houseguest who was secretly dying to stay for weeks, sleep in late, smoke all of your stash, permanently stain the sheets, and eat all the food in the house. But after much flailing of hips and shameless begging, Gabrielle welcomed the dildo with a graciousness that combined aspects of Donna Reed, Martha Stewart, and Doris Day.

She was close—extremely close—when Zina stopped thrusting for a moment. "Did you hear a car outside?"

"Huh? No, no. Baby, whoever it is, they'll go away," she panted.

The firefighter frowned. Her senses were on alert. "Maybe it's my mother...shit, she'll just come in, if she has her keys." Zina scowled at the insanely aroused Gabrielle. "Or if you left the door unlocked again."

"I did not leave the door unlocked!" Gabrielle snarled. However, she was terribly unsure of that fact. "Zina, please!"

"All right, all right." She picked up the pace once again, and Gabrielle's eager hips followed suit. The poet's orgasm began to build, but, once again, Zina was the school bully who smashed it to bits like an unwieldy Lego tower. "Dammit!" yelled Gabrielle, her body convulsing. "Now what?"

"I swear someone is in the house. I thought I heard something on the stairs!"

"Zina, it's probably just your mom and she knows better by now than to come into our bedroom!"

"No, she doesn't! She always forgets!" The last incident had been particularly bad, and left Cyrene babbling about a "primal scene."

"Oh God, who cares?" Gabrielle shouted. She grabbed Zina's mane of black hair in her teeth and gave a savage yank, forcing her lover's gaze back to her own. Releasing the hair with a pfft, she continued: "She's seen us fucking, and so have Hank, Ed, Effie, Boris, Lao Ma, Ming Tien, and even my idiot sister! Everyone has seen us fucking because of that stupid videotape!"

"Gabrielle?"

"What?" shrieked the poet in sheer exasperation.

"Have your parents seen us fucking?"

Gabrielle followed Zina's glance over to the bedroom door...which was now open. The doorframe held both her parents. Both squat little Hockenberrys looked stunned.

The firefighter answered her own question. "Guess they have now."

"Hi, Momma," Gabrielle offered the feeble greeting.

*****

Zina sat morosely on the steps. Down the hall, Gabrielle was stationed outside the bathroom door. Her mother was barricaded inside said room, wailing uncontrollably. The poet's attempts at comfort and reason were lost in the maelstrom of grief for Gabrielle's presumed heterosexuality. Mrs. Hockenberry was a one-woman wake for perceived normalcy.

The firefighter resigned herself to the fact that the old lady would probably be in there all night, since she was so close to a toilet anyway, and probably left her extra pair of Depends in the pickup. So Zina ambled downstairs, in search of a beer, and curious as to what Gabrielle's laconic father was doing down there. Since his wife had locked herself in the room, he had only muttered, "For Christ's sake, Hermione," and wandered off downstairs.

Hockenberry pere had his bulk spread out comfortably in the couch, watching pro wrestling on TV. Zina saw nothing of her lovely girlfriend in either parent, and began to wonder if the lumpy couple had somehow conceived Gabrielle through a happy accident involving test tubes and Chemical X, as if she were one of the Powerpuff Girls.

Her arrival and observation of him did not go unnoticed. His eyes, actually made more attractive by the glow of the TV, studied her with awe.

Zina indulged in her usual gesture of discomfort: She rubbed the back of her neck. "Wanna beer?" she asked Mr. Hockenberry.

He nodded. She padded out to the kitchen, and returned with two Rolling Rocks. She handed him one. As he mumbled " 'preciate it," she sat down next to him.

He appraised her again. "Yer pretty," he mumbled.

"Thanks." She paused. "So's Gabrielle." But that goes without saying since you caught me boinking her, doesn't it?

"Ain't no skin off my ass," he continued. With only four more words, he would break a personal lifelong record for number of phrases spoken in one day.

She nodded.

"I still like her best," he confided. The record thus broken, the factions of his brain that encouraged language usage broke out the Asti Spumanti, peanuts, and noisemakers.

Zina smiled. "Me too."

"Lila's just dumb, like me, and Hope's plain crazy, like her ma. But Gabrielle ain't like anyone else."

So true, thought Zina. She started to raise the bottle to her lips, but stopped abruptly. Wait a damn minute. She stared at him. "Who's Hope?"

*****

Hours passed before Mr. Hockenberry finally rolled on the couch and announced he was going home, without his hysterical wife. Then Gabrielle came downstairs and threw herself on the couch. "My mother's asleep in the bathtub."

"I bet if you run the shower, that'll wake her up."

"You're not being real helpful, Zina. This whole night has been a disaster. I didn't get to watch Beaches, my parents saw us having sex, they know I'm gay, my mom is freaked out and living in our bathroom, and to top it all off I didn't come."

"Poor baby." The firefighter smirked, then guffawed.

Gabrielle glared at her, having expected a modicum of sympathy. "What is wrong with you?"

"I'm gonna tell ya what is wrong: What got here is a failure to communicate," Zina drawled in her best Strother Martin-Cool Hand Luke tone.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Zina chuckled, shaking her head in amazement. "This is so cool. It's great." Gabrielle looked at her, puzzled. Zina put her beer on top of coffee table, more specifically, on top of the TV Guide.

"Hey, watch it! You'll get it all wrinkly!" the poet cried. When Zina failed to react, she moved the bottle off the guide.

The firefighter ignored this. "Listen, it's like we're in one of those parallel universes, like in Star Trek. 'Cause this time you're the one with the crazy, fucked-up secret in her past, not me." She giggled again. "This is so great. This time I get to be self-righteous hag." The firefighter bit her knuckle in mock melodrama and worked up little ponds of glistening crocodile tears in both eyes. "How could you keep a secret from me, Gabrielle! After all the underwear we've shared!"

Catching on, the poet gasped. "You know about Hope," she breathed. It was her one dirty secret, aside from shoplifting at K-Mart in the 7th grade.

"Yeah, that's right, baby. Your daddy told me about your twin, Hope." Zina guzzled her beer with relish.

Gabrielle was mystified. "He did? But why? Hell, Daddy only says about three words a day, and they're usually, 'where's dinner, woman?' "

"That's why they came here tonight, Gabrielle. 'Cause of your sister. They wanted to tell you she's out of the loony bin."

"Fuck!" Gabrielle exclaimed in a panic. She bounced around on the couch nervously. "I...shit, Zina, she hates me. Is she in town? Do they know?"

"They don't know yet." Zina stroked her chin thoughtfully, the gesture a result of witnessing Artie stroke his goatee for years on end. "Did you show up at the garage today?"

"Well, yeah, but you were gone when I got there. Why?"

"Uh-huh. Was this before or after your haircut?"

"After." Gabrielle went slack-jawed. "Oh my God. She was at the garage?"

"Yep," the firefighter confirmed. "I reckon it was her."

Zina found her Nine Inch Nails t-shirt in Gabrielle's hot, angry hands. "Did you fuck around with my sister?"

"Gabrielle, knock it off! I was in the garage, for Christ's sake. Purdy was right there. Look, I just kissed her, 'cause I thought she was you." Mock indignant, she straightened her t-shirt. “Sure explains the reaction I got."

"Oh boy, she must have freaked."

"She did. She smacked me."

With a squirm and a lustful growl, the poet affirmed this: "You're very smackable, you know?" Gabrielle's thwarted libido was drawing up a petition for another crack at Zina.

"Save it for after we sandblast your mother outta the bathroom." Zina picked up the Rolling Rock and took a pull on it. She rubbed the cold green bottle with her thumb. "So, uh..." She shrugged nervously. "Why'd your sister end up in the sany-tarium?"

"Cause she's an evil bitch, that's why," muttered Gabrielle darkly. "She..." the poet swallowed nervously, and Zina took her hand and squeezed it gently.

"C'mon, you can tell me," the firefighter encouraged her gently.

Gabrielle squirmed uncomfortably, then snuggled closer to her lover for comfort. "She...she tried to throw me in the barbecue pit when we were little. She had me trussed up to a stake and covered in sauce and everything." She shuddered at the memory. "Thank God Daddy wasn't drunk that day."

"Huh. Wow." For Zina, this explained her companion's perpetual dislike of barbecue. But how come she doesn't like coleslaw?

"That was the last straw. Up until then, it had just been minor things, things you pretend were an accident. Like shoving me in front of the school bus. Trying to sell me to a motorcycle gang. Shit like that."

A memory scratched eagerly at the back door of Zina's mind. She rubbed her jaw nervously. "Hey, what motorcycle gang was that?" Gabrielle looked at her, horrified. "It wasn't Hogs and Harlots, was it?"

Gabrielle went pale.

Zina grinned in her charmingly dopey fashion. "I coulda been your first."

"That's just great," snarled the poet sarcastically.

"Yep." She smirked proudly. "I was always head of the line."

*****

At the near-empty counter of the town’s lone diner sat Hope, picking at a ham-and-egg sandwich and ignoring a cup of coffee. A cigarette proved to be a larger temptation than the greasy items before her, and she lit up. Before long she noticed a crazy-looking woman with big crazy brown eyes and big crazy blonde hair was sitting next to her and staring. In a real crazy way.

"The brat smokes," murmured the blonde woman. "Will wonders ever cease?"

"Get outta my face," snarled Hope.

"Tough talk without your bitch girlfriend to back you up," retorted the blonde.

Hope groaned, realizing that—of course—she was being mistaken for her sister once again. "Look, I'm not Gabrielle. Okay?"

"You've been reading Sybil again, dear? Which personality are you today? The crossdressing kindergarten teacher? The kleptomaniac who bites her nails?"

The ex-mental patient flicked cigarette ash in the lap of her tormentor. Callie screeched. "Why you little—" before she could finish the sentence or lay a hand on Hope, the latter had slapped her across the face, the crack echoing in the vast mid-morning emptiness of the formica-laden diner.

The waitress, sitting alone at the other end of the counter, perked up a little.

Callie saw stars and touched her burning cheek. Wow. She blinked through the tears in her eyes. It isn't the brat! "Who are you?" she whispered in awe.

"Hope. I'm Gabrielle's sister. I've been away for a while, but I'm back." Ash dribbled onto her unappetizing breakfast, which made it look heavily peppered.

"Hope," Callie repeated. "I'm Callie." Hope. Hope is a woman named Hope. I'm hopeless about Hope.

"I'd say it's nice to meet you, but it's too early and I'm too pissed off."

"Yeah. That's okay, Hope. So...just got into town, hmm?"

Hope nodded. She stared at the dismal sandwich before her, shrugged, and took a huge bite of it.

Wow. Now here's someone who doesn't give a crap about what anyone thinks. "Got a place to stay?" asked Callie.

"No," Hope grunted sullenly. "My parents won't let me stay with them. Fucking assholes."

Is it possible to fall in love within the span of five minutes, after someone has slapped you silly and repulsed you by eating something undeniably gross? Elizabeth Taylor knew it to be true, this magnetic, sudden rush of love that overwhelmed common sense, good taste, and all concepts of decency. And Callie, off her meds, thought so as well. It's funny, the person I love most in the world and the person I hate most in the world look the same!

Idly, Callie pressed a leg against Hope's. "Well, I'd be happy to let you bunk over at my place. Um, there's only one bed, though...."

Hope, slurping coffee, nearly spat it all over the counter. "What the fuck? Is every woman in this town a lesbo now? Instead of the Stepford Wives, you're all Stepford Dykes?"

The waitress looked rather intrigued at this notion.

Callie hastily withdrew her lunging, lustful thigh. "Um, no, don't be silly!" She gulped—a Plan B would be necessary in this seduction. "I'm a minister of God, for heaven's sake!" Plan B being a good bottle of tequila and Artie.

"Fine," said Hope, finishing off the sandwich with one last large, feral bite, as Callie marveled at the capacity of her mouth. "So I'll take the bed, you take the floor."

*****

Zina lumbered into the house and was assailed, once again, with more of Gabrielle's ongoing spiritual crises. The perpetual academic was sitting on the floor with something that, to the firefighter, resembled a giant bong.

My mother…fumed Zina. "What the hell is that?" she grunted, looming over Gabrielle and the thing.

"Hi, honey! Cool, isn't it?" Absently Gabrielle plucked a string attached to the pseudo-bong, and it made a sharp yet melodious noise. "It's a sitar. Eli lent it to me."

"Eli?" echoed Zina.

"Yeah." Gabrielle smiled proudly. "He's Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy."

"But…how did…?" she trailed off. Zina was dumbfounded, yet impressed at Gabrielle's accomplishment. "You made contact," she murmured, awestruck.

"Yeah. I broke the cycle of bad porn, baby. Thanks to Eli." For herself, Gabrielle too was amazed at having broken through his sarcastic veneer. Who would’ve guessed that Eli had a sitar collection, possessed a spiritual side, and ran his own support group for hirsute pot smokers?

"But I wanted to see Prison Pussy IV!"

"Too bad, Zina. Tonight we're watching Truffaut's The 400 Blows."

The firefighter leered. "Well, that might be okay. Especially if you blow me a couple hundred times during it."

"Oh, Zina." The poet gave both a haughty sigh and a withering look of disdain to the firefighter. "It's not that kind of film." Absently, she plucked out a tune on the sitar, which sounded vaguely like "Don't Fear the Reaper" and made Zina long for a Blue Oyster Cult reunion tour.

Then Gabrielle hit a particularly harsh chord. "Honey, I hate to break it to ya, but you're not exactly George Harrison," Zina jibed.

"Sure. Fine. Go ahead and mock me. Don't be supportive. I'm trying to find my way, find some peace in this raging, violent world, and you have to be a fucking killjoy. Fine. I'll just take my sitar upstairs—" Kneeling, Gabrielle scooped up the sitar from its large round bottom and abruptly lifted it into the air. The instrument's upward mobility met with resistance punctuated by a thud and a twang that made her hands reverberate. And then another nauseating thud as Zina's unconscious body hit the floor.

Gabrielle gasped. She wasn't kidding when she said she had a glass jaw! "Oh, baby!" she squealed.

*****

From the trailer's tiny kitchen Callie could see Hope sitting in the recliner, reading the newspaper. The minister maneuvered herself out of plain sight to practice her Slinky Walk, something she had not done since being ordained by Artie into his church.

But love had called for drastic measures. She had pulled out her Daisy Dukes, thinking that, between these and many a vodka tonic, any woman of worth would turn queer. She did not want to implement Plan B unless it were absolutely necessary—a walking penis like Artie was a dime a dozen, but a good bottle of tequila was hard to find in these parts.

Callie heard the rattling of ice cubes. "Coming, my pet!" she cried gaily. She ran to the refrigerator and pulled out the two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper, checked her hair in the toaster’s greasy reflection, then dashed into the living room.

"Here you go," Callie crooned in sing-song tones as the beverage foamed and sizzled within the grape jelly glass.

Hope grunted, then pointed at an item in the newspaper. "That's her."

"Hmm?"

"That's the sick fuck that my sick fuck of a sister is screwing." Hope pointed at page 2 of the Chakram Creek Daily Independent Morning News Courier. FIREFIGHTER OF THE YEAR FOR THE SECOND TIME, bellowed the headline. The article was accompanied by a large photo of Zina, de rigueur in firefighting gear, cradling her helmet, and sitting on the back of a fire truck with an anemic looking Dalmatian who had been up for a supporting role in the live action version of 101 Dalmatians but blew its chance on becoming a celluloid hero after humping Glenn Close's leg and peeing on her handmade Italian loafers.

Thus spake the article:

For the second year in a row, Miss Zima Amphipolitti of Chakram Cheek has won the prestigious "Firefighter of the Year" award in Olympus County.

In a brief ceremony at the county firehouse yesterday morning, Miss Amphipollittus was presented with a plaque by the Mayor, followed by the county's newly appointed poet laureate, Gabrielle Hockenberry, reading briefly from one of her own works entitled "Ode to Tremulous Thighs." The winner also received a certificate granting her a year's supply of doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, co-sponsors of the award. The ceremony was brief.

"Yeah, it's great," proclaimed the 52-year-old firefighter. A lifelong native of Chakram Creek, the winner attended high school at various locations in the region, including Chakram Creek High, Henabae High, Our Lady of Spamona High, and the prestigious Athens Christian Academy. She received her GED last year. Before embarking on her career as a firefighter, Miss Amphibian overcame serious drug, alcohol, and legal problems in an effort to make her life "not suck."

"This woman is living proof that you can turn your life around 360 degrees on the right track, and that the parole system is preferable to welfare," stated the Mayor. Miss Amphigrafitti will be on parole until the year 2010.

"Ooooh." Callie bit her tongue. She needed a new picture of Zina for her scrapbook; most of the others were either stained or torn violently.

"What the hell is a poet lore-ate?" snapped Hope.

4. The Way, or The Weigh

Zina's mind was, she would gleefully admit to anyone, not of a scientific bent. However, a kind of academic curiosity inflamed her on the very first day she picked up the free doughnuts from Krispy Kreme: How many doughnuts could Gabrielle eat in one sitting? How much weight would she gain? To maintain her current weight and physique, she would have to increase her weekly can-crunching workouts to what amount? Every day? Every hour? Am I going to get to eat any of these doughnuts? she wailed to herself.

She stopped walking down through the parking lot. Hell, yes. Viciously she tore open the box and jammed a powdered creme-filled in her mouth, where it remained as she kick-started the cycle, navigated out of the lot, pulled up to the first red light, tore down the road until the second stop light, made a left, then another left, then a right, saw Cyrene's Volkswagen outside the food co-op, went past the town limits, picked up speed, wind, and the exhilarating pulse of freedom, then saw the speed limit sign, then the poorly camouflaged state trooper cruiser behind an abandoned grain shed, which reminded her of that weird ABBA song, "Super Trouper." Do they have state troopers in Sweden? Maybe they're nicer there than here…sure, they're super! Super, thanks for asking! And then she almost missed the turnoff for the farmhouse, but swerved at the last moment, made it and sped up the dirt road to the house. By the time she shut off the bike, the doughnut was soggy and denuded of its powder, most of which was congealed around Zina's mouth, as if she were a half-hearted, amateur kabuki actress.

The firefighter took a few seconds to fully devour the thing and wipe her mouth, then she burst into the house. "Hey, baby! I'm home!"

Gabrielle, studying at the dining room table, looked up expectantly. "Hi." The green eyes widened. "Oh my God. You have the doughnuts."

"Of course I have the doughnuts. It's time to eat the doughnuts!"

"I can't."

Zina stared at her in shock. "What?"

"I can't, baby, I can't." Gabrielle looked stricken, and torn. She gnawed her lip. "It's a promise I made. Eli and your mom, they want me to go macrobiotic."

"What the hell's that?"

"It's my way, Zina. It's what I was meant to be. Sugar-free, meat-free, dairy-free…"

The firefighter chuckled in disbelief. "Come on, you don't expect me to believe that. You couldn't possibly give up all those things. I know you, Gabrielle!"

"Then you know that when I've made up my mind, I've made up my mind!" retorted the angry blonde.

"Oh yeah?" Zina tossed the carton of doughnuts on the table.

She watched Gabrielle fight with herself—the young woman's nostrils flared, she sucked on her lips. Her jaw trembled. "No. I won't give in. This is the way, Zina, the only way I'm going to clear my mind and my soul from all the non-recyclable crap in it." She stood up and began to gather together her books.

"Sure," snorted Zina. "Just walk away, like a coward." She peeled off her heavy firefighting coat, its dirty fluorescent yellow stripe dull in the overhead light of the dining room. The suspenders—which held up bulky fireproof pants—were taut and flowing over the munificent bounty of her torso. Gabrielle gulped. Deprived of junk food, she was at least thankful that Eli wasn't insisting on celibacy in this new spiritual pursuit. The firefighter sauntered closer to her. "I want proof, Gabrielle. I want to see that you can really do this. I want you to prove it all night." Zina was very close to her, indeed, almost pressed against her.

Gabrielle moaned and shivered. "Oh baby, you know what you do to me when you quote the Boss," she sighed. She was ready to melt in her lover's arms. But, with panther-like swiftness, Zina pinned her on the floor and handcuffed her to the dining room table. Damn you, Minya! "Do you carry these handcuffs everywhere?" she cried, then struggled awkwardly to sit up.

"Sure. Some people just don't know the difference between a firefighter and a cop." Zina gave a sinister chuckle.

Gabrielle wasn't sure she wanted to know precisely what that statement meant.

Zina knelt before Gabrielle, whose squirming was not the result of pleasure or excitement, but dread. "I'm going to show you my way, Gabrielle." Her purring was richly obscene and slinked its way from her vocal chords to Gabrielle's heart. "Our way. The way it should be. The way it always will be."

In a burst of defiance the little poet gave the handcuffs a savage jerk. "Not fair," she whined. "I don't have any choice, you big bitch."

"Tut-tut, Grasshopper. One always has choices," intoned the semi-wise firefighter.

"Did Lao Ma say that to you? She's as bogus as the new Kung Fu."

"Silence!" Zina hissed. "No more talk. Now is the test, Gabrielle. Now we will see how true you are to your way." The sneering tone strengthened Gabrielle's resolve even further. Until she saw it. It was sudden and swift, merciless in that way Zina could be sometime. The doughnut loomed in front of her like a space station dripped in sickly sweet sticky glaze.

"Krispy Kreme," Zina drawled in a low breathy voice; for added emphasis she ground her hips seductively. Advertising executives would kill their grandmothers, sacrifice puppies to Satan, and deflower Girl Scouts for such endorsements. If they didn't already do so.

Gabrielle wanted it. She wanted it bad. More than anything in her entire life. But, clenching her teeth, she growled, "No!"

"Oooh, very good, Gabrielle. Be strong. Show me, baby. Come on. Show me what you're made of, Grasshopper." Zina unfurled her lovely, languid tongue and swirled it around the moist hole. "I'm gonna eat it, baby," she breathed heavily, "I gonna suck down every sweet drop of it and you'll just have to sit there and watch me. Watch me do it, baby. Watch me."

Gabrielle stopped jerking and panting wildly. She gulped. And she watched as Zina's flawless teeth descended upon the soft, puffy, delicate flesh of the doughnut. "No!" she screamed. With superhuman effort she lurched forward and snagged the other end of the treat in her mouth. Chewing fanatically, she groaned as sugar saturated her mouth. It pumped wildly through her veins as she worked her way to Zina's lips. Mouths crushed together and flakes of glaze exploded from the collision. The firefighter hurried to uncuff her lover, and was indeed successful. They fell to the floor in a love fueled by the Sticky Jewel in the Crown of the American South.

*****

Cyrene, for once mindful of things that she might not want to see, opted to ring the doorbell of the farmhouse. After a few minutes Gabrielle opened it, short hair wild and sticking, clothes rumpled in a fashion that indicated hasty dressing.

The older woman sighed. "Don't you two ever stop screwing?"

"No," replied the poet automatically.

Cyrene's nose twitched as Gabrielle tried to look innocent. "I smell it on you!" the older woman accused. She jammed a crone-like finger in the fair Gabrielle's face.

"I just said we were fucking, what do you expect?" Gabrielle retorted; yet she knew that wasn't what the hippie had meant.

"Nuh-uh, honey. I smell sugar on you. I accuse you…oh man, what's that line in French? Like Zola, said to all those dudes in France: Je…je smellez vous!"

"You can't smell sugar!"

"Can too," the older woman shot back in a petulant tone.

"You can't smell anything, Cyrene. You couldn't even smell the ashtray when you set it on fire last month." Indeed, what was like to be one of Cyrene's senses? They definitely weren't working overtime; in fact, they had been given the pink slip many moons ago. They were the welfare mothers of the sensory world, every Republican's nightmare.

The older woman frowned, relenting. "All right, I can't. But I know you've broken your vow."

"How?"

"You have sprinkles in your hair."

Gabrielle groaned and raked her short blonde locks with her fingers, causing a rainbow of unnatural sugar condiments to shower upon Cyrene's Birkenstocks.

Cyrene stared at her feet. "Just what have you two been doing with those doughnuts?" she asked, suspicious.

"S'all Zina's fault." It was unkind, but Gabrielle hoped her corrupt lover was itching from the powdered sugar in her nether region.

"Isn't it always?"

"As a matter of fact…"

"Aw c'mon, Gabrielle. You can't blame everything on Zina. I know it's easy to do that. When she was younger, I used to blame my lack of boyfriends on her, thinking that guys wouldn't want to be with a woman who had a kid."

"Hmmm."

"But then I realized it was my lack of deodorant. Thank goodness Tom's of Maine started making a decent one!"

"Yeah. That's great."

"Now I beat 'em off with a stick."

"Uh-huh."

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

"No, not really."

"Fine, fine," carped the hippie, sailing past Gabrielle. "I'm just saying you need to take some responsibility," she added haughtily. "And I'm gonna tell Eli at our Legalize Pot Now meeting tonight!"

Gabrielle gasped. "Cyrene, don't! He'll take away my discount card!"

Cyrene heartlessly ignored this plea. "Zina!" she shouted.

The firefighter was pulling a t-shirt over her head when Cyrene entered the living room.

"Honey..."

Zina held up a hand. "Don't say anything, Mom. I know it's my fault. I never should've tempted Gabrielle with sugar."

"Jesus..."

"Please don't be upset."

"But, honey," Cyrene gestured helplessly, "you're going prematurely gray down there."

"That's just powdered sugar."

"Powdered sugar?" repeated Cyrene.

The firefighter nodded.

The hippie pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I never thought I would say this, but I think you guys are getting too weird for me."

5. What Would Jesus Do?

Callie's half-hearted dart toss spiraled toward the ground, but just managed to snag the very edge of the corkboard, where it drooped, impotent and clinging. She sighed, and cut another look at Hope and Artie over at the bar. The little blonde was all over Artie, wriggling in his cheap chino-ed lap. She watched as Hope once again jammed her tongue into Artie's mouth.

Apparently, Callie raged, being a whorish little slut ran in the Hockenberry family.

The ex-minister finally lost it when Hope started un-buttoning Artie's shirt. She stalked over to them, still clutching a dart. She tried to clear her throat in a ladylike manner, but merely ended up sounding like Tom Waits preparing to hock a lugie.

Hope and Artie stared at her. "What the hell do you want?" spat Hope.

You, you little bitch! Callie wanted to scream. She swallowed, and composed herself, forcing a bright, fake smile. "My darlings, what do you say we retire to my place?"

"I want to be alone with my little fuzzy-wuzzy," Hope crooned to Artie.

Artie grinned in pleasure, then winced as she began plucking some chest hairs. "Yeah, Callie. Perhaps the lady and I would like to be alone for the rest of the evening."

Oh, you idiots. Your poor, senseless buffoons. "I have a bottle of tequila back at my place."

Hope paused. "Okay." She stood up.

"I'm in," chimed Artie.

*****

Normally Artie didn't mind being passive while screwing. However, his primary objection in this particular instance—on his back in Callie's bed—was having to stare up at the photo of Charlton Heston taped to the ceiling. It was a still shot from Planet of the Apes, with Chuck dirty and resplendent in his loincloth. Perhaps it was the tequila, but, as Hope straddled him and started riding him, he swore he could hear that deep voice snarling, you damn dirty ape! But then—he smiled in fond remembrance—Zina used to call me that too.

Ah, Zina. He closed his eyes. If he focused hard enough, he could pretend that Hope's breathless panting and squeals were the deep leonine growls of Zina, that he could smell the beer she liked, that he could feel her prison ID bracelet scraping against his skin. "Oh…oh…oh…zzzzzz…." He was close, and in danger of doing something irreparably stupid. Don't say it! he warned himself. No matter how tempting it may be! He clutched the side of the bed. What is she doing? Dear Lord, it feels great!

But, despite his own self-chastisement, he moaned, shuddered, and released. With the cry of "Zina!" on his lips. Damn.

However, in the tiny moment of bliss after he came, he honestly believed that, when he opened his eyes, his beloved sister/cousin/whatever would indeed be there, with her blue eyes, her lush body, and beautiful sneer.

Instead it was just Hope, carrying an insane rage in her glassy eyes. "What the fuck?" she yelled.

*****

The first thing Callie saw when she opened her eyes that morning were Teletubbies scampering playfully across the TV screen. Her neck felt permanently wrenched into its twisted position, courtesy of a long night on the couch. Carefully, she sat up, and tried straightening her head; but the room spun merrily, and she felt like Linda Blair. Plan B didn't work very well, she thought groggily. What the hell went wrong? She tried, slowly, to remember last night's events while rubbing her neck. Then she grew aware of the empty tequila bottle in her lap.

As Hope emerged from the bedroom, clad in t-shirt and bikini briefs, Callie shook the empty bottle and realized that she had indeed finished off the tequila last night, after Artie and Hope had crawled off to her bedroom. "Oh man, I ate the worm," she groaned aloud.

Hope flopped down on the couch, and gave her a pointed look. "Me too."

*****

Artie straightened his tie and settled down behind his desk for another leisurely day of work at Ares Ministries. Actually, today would be busy. He was expecting a call from Pat Buchanan, and had several issues of Road and Track to catch up on. Nonetheless, the day's activities were nothing out of the ordinary, and every day that passed without some insane encounter with Hope was a blessing. He had not seen her in almost two months, since their ill-fated one night stand. Now there's a euphemism, he sneered at himself; being chased naked around a trailer by some hoochie with a butcher knife who was threatening, quite loudly, to cut off certain sated appendages was not exactly ill-fated.

The most amazing thing about the whole escapade was that Callie slept through it all.

He was organizing the condiments in his desk drawer when Hope kicked open the door.

Oh Lord! He jumped up. "Hope!"

"Hello, Worm," greeted the former mental patient. Ever since That Night, she and Callie had taken to calling him that: The Worm. It was their way of bonding. She sprawled in the chair facing his desk. "Haven't heard from you lately, Worm." She picked a paper clip from a pile of the little metal objects on his desk.

He then sat on the desk, facing her. "Hope, must you call me that?" he implored. "I've been very busy doing the Lord's work. You should understand that." He gave her the same condescending smile he used on old ladies for donations.

"Look, pussy boy, save the crap for the congregation. We have some unfinished business."

He held up his hands. "I know, my dear girl. I used you to satisfy my base cravings. It was shameful. I've been praying every day, and doing penance." It was true; giving up the Ding-Dongs had been harder than he ever imagined.

"You called me by that big bitch's name." Hope was glaring into space and twisting the paper clip so that it resembled a miniature sculpture by Giacometti. "I hate that miserable freak!"

Artie blinked in surprise. "You mean Zina?"

"Everyone in this town is obsessed with her. You, my sister, Callie...even Purdy, for God’s sake. She steals Gabrielle from him, and that poor dumb idiot idolizes her."

He admitted this with a shrug. "Well, she is pretty awesome."

The sharp edge of the paper clip sculpture sank into his thigh, right through the thin, paltry J.C. Penney khakis. "Shit!" he cried, abandoning godliness for the moment.

"You pathetic fool," Hope hissed. "I don't even know why I came here."

Artie yanked the paper clip out of his leg with an unmanly squeak of pain. "Well, neither do I," he rasped, pressing his palm against the wound.

She stood up. "Actually, I did want to tell you something."

He looked at her reluctantly, expectantly.

"I'm knocked up."

Artie said nothing, but wondered if Pat's offer to set up a mission in Sarajevo was still good.

*****

The next stop on Hope's itinerary that day was her sister's house. She had no interest in seeing dull Lila, but Gabrielle was another matter. Ever since her arrival back in the Creek, Gabrielle had been steadfast in her resistance to see her estranged twin. Chickenshit, thought Hope. Now there was nothing left but a direct confrontation. And if that meant she had to go through that big dyke to get at her sister, she would.

Sure enough, the freak answered the door. Zina leaned in the doorway, muscular arms folded over her chest. "Guess they haven't put an electronic bracelet on you yet," greeted the firefighter.

"Look, I'm not here to see you. I want my sister."

Zina hitched an eyebrow. "Really? Then we do have something in common, Hopeless. I want her too," she purred with a wink.

"Stop twisting my words, you freak. I want to see Gabrielle. Now."

"Not possible, Hope Floats. Gabrielle's teaching today." Having acquired an undergraduate degree, realizing its inherent worthlessness, and thus ascending rapidly to the graduate level, Gabrielle was now an indentured servant of the college, teaching freshman lit.

"Fine," snarled Hope. "When does she get back?"

Zina shrugged. "I dunno, could be late. You know how those college types like to sit around and yap, Chicago Hope."

"Will you fucking stop that?"

"Stop what, Ryan's Hope?"

Weaponless, she was about to take a lunge at the firefighter, but once again took note of the brawny forearms and thought better of it. "Look, you, I've got to talk to my sister. It's important."

"What about, Bob Hope?"

Hope sneered. "Why should I tell you?"

Zina sneered back. " 'Cause otherwise you don't have a hope in hell of getting past me, Hope Lange."

"Fine." She glared at the firefighter. "I'm pregnant."

Zina whistled. "Huh. Knew Artie was always lying 'bout being sterile." She looked at Hope. "You wanna come in and wait for Gabrielle?"

"My feet are killing me." Translation: Yes. Nonetheless, she hesitated.

Zina laughed. "You think I'm gonna try to seduce you or somethin'? I've already done it with pregnant women. It's kinda fun, until you get in the way when they have morning sickness." The firefighter shuddered at an unpleasant, unspoken memory, then stepped aside so that Hope could enter the farmhouse.

As she nervously crossed the threshold, Hope heard the door slam suddenly, then felt Zina's hot breath (lightly accented with Rolling Rock) in her ear. "Of course, if you misbehave and lay a finger on Gabrielle, I'll snap your neck before you can say hot pork sandwich."

Hope froze. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Although she had a sudden urge for pork. Smothered in gravy. She made a mental note to call Callie before heading back to the trailer.

"Siddown," Zina ordered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Reluctantly, Hope did so. "Can I have a beer, at least?"

"You shouldn't be drinking. You're gonna a have a baby."

"Look, I was so upset when I found out I was knocked up that I drank all of Callie's peppermint schnapps. The damage is done."

Shit, the damage was done the minute the sperm landed on Planet Egg, thought Zina. "All the same, do your heavy drinking somewhere else, okay?" She offered Hope a can of Coke, then settled on the arm of the couch, where Hope slouched, legs sprawled and tenting her much abused skirt.

Gabrielle's sister cracked open the can and guzzled its contents quickly. She brooded, then looked at Zina. Who was staring at her with those unnerving blue eyes. "So tell me," Hope began, angry voice edged with genuine curiosity. "What is it about you...that makes everyone in this place think you're so fucking wonderful? Why does every man, woman, and child in town either want you or want to be you?"

Zina smiled coolly. The firefighter stood, and assumed a curious stance. She stretched her shoulders, and, with her legs planted apart and one hip jutted forward, holding her right arm just slightly further form her body than the left, she stared at, then through, the ex-mental patient. She looked the very picture of a gunslinger, like Alan Ladd in Shane. Except a whole lot taller.

Hope blinked, and shuddered at a sudden draft between her legs. And she saw that Zina held aloft a pair of suspiciously familiar panties, dangling in flaccid glory from her fingers. Playfully she sniffed them. Then, raising a critical eyebrow, shook her head sadly.

No. She couldn't have. It's not possible. The hysterical thoughts raced through Hope's drug-free mind.

"Now this is definitely where you and your sister part company," Zina said. "Gabrielle would never wear polyester panties." Disdainfully she let the underwear fall to the ground. "So," she addressed her stunned audience of one, "does that answer your question, Hope and Glory?"

6. Seven Months Later

The young man struggled with the straps that bound him to the hospital bed.

"Y'all just settle down there, Pedro," mumbled the male nurse.

"Fuck you, man! MY NAME IS NOT PEDRO. I know I got rights! Where's my car? Where's my CELL PHONE?"

"Sheriff'll be here soon, Pedro, and she'll straighten this all out."

"Stop calling me PEDRO, you stupid cracker!" Simply exhausted, he slumped in defeat against the uncomfortable gurney bed. His best friend had not exaggerated about what people were like outside of Manhattan! They were all inbred and dumber than dirt!

Then he saw an older woman down the hall. She was not a member of the staff, and was holding an infant so well-swaddled that the contents within the blue blanket could have been anything. The woman was dressed like a hippie, he thought, like those old 60s leftovers in the Village who got all nostalgic and mumbly about how much the neighborhood had changed.

Suddenly, he grew wildly, ridiculously hopeful. His eyes bulged. Perhaps this woman could help him get out of here! He wasn’t crazy, he reminded himself, just a drama queen. How was I supposed to know that state trooper would have me committed for observation just for channeling Susan Hayward? Again, he stole a look at the middle-aged hippie, who smiled at him. The woman was the most normal-looking person he had seen since he was caught speeding by said trooper along Shakti Ridge. She might be a beacon of sanity in this white trash hell pit. "Hey!" he cried to her. "Hey, sister! C'mere!"

The woman approached him warily, lightly bouncing the baby in her arms. A motionless dark head poked out from the blankets, the face turned away.

"Hey, man, I can't sell you anything here. Like, this is a state mental hospital! It’s crawling with cops and shit," Cyrene hissed to him in an undertone.

"No, no, lady, lissen, I don't want anything like that." At least not right now. "I need you to help me get outta here. I was arrested just for speeding, and they dragged me in here sayin’ I was resisting arrest and I needed to be restrained for ‘observation,’ which is such bullshit! They won't let me call a friend or my family or nothing! Please, you gotta help me."

"Really, I wish I could, but I can't. I gotta watch the kid here." She nodded at the baby. "Look, they’ll probably let you go after you spend the night, or else they’ll transfer you to Shark Island Correctional…" Cyrene mused, trying to remember particulars from her own experience as the lone Vietnam War protester in the county, and conflating it with her daughter’s extensive criminal record.

"What? Shit!" he shouted.

"Shh!" Cyrene commanded. The baby started squirming and crying. "Aw, man, you woke her up!"

The child turned in Cyrene's arms, facing him.

He gulped in horror. Mami was right! "AYE, MIA MADRE!" screamed Paolo Torqemada. "ES EL CHUPACABRA!"

*****

Hope wasn’t sure if it the was the drugs, the chocolate malted balls that Callie had brought her, or the fact that the goddamn thing was out of her body, but she was happy, and she loved everybody. She smiled as she surveyed her hospital room, head lolling on the pillow, a damp drool stain tickling her cheek. Within weeks she would be back in her old room at the institution and her parents would be saddled with her spawn. Perfect revenge. Let them fuck up another child. Threatening to kill Gabrielle (yet again) was the best thing she’d ever done; it resolved all the problems that this so-called real life had inflicted upon her. Although it had been fun to be out for a while, just given the sheer amount of havoc that she wreaked upon everyone. And the experience did reveal to her that she did not belong out here, in this world, but back in the institution. It was her real home.

She looked away from the window when she heard the door open. It was Gabrielle. She smiled. "Hi, chickenshit! Decided to finally see me, huh?"

The poet lingered near the door for a fast getaway. She had not wanted to see her sister, but Zina—in a burst of wisdom—said that it was better to confront the past and put it to rest, rather than letting things fester like a wound. Not to mention that the firefighter had promised to let Gabrielle use the handcuffs on her tonight.

"Hi," Gabrielle mumbled. "How are you feeling?"

"What the hell do you care?"

"Look, at least I’m trying, Hope. Okay? I’m sorry if I ever did anything to upset you or hurt you. And I forgive you for all the stuff you tried to do to me. And the fact you still want to hurt me."

"You’re lucky that your girlfriend is more of a violent psycho than me. Otherwise you’d be dead."

"I’m forgiving you as we speak." Or trying to, anyway.

"Big of you, chickenshit. Let’s not pretend anymore. I did what I did because I wanted to.

I threatened you ‘cause I wanted them to lock me up again. I wanted to go home. I’ve saddled the brat with Mom and Dad, I beat up Lila, and I scared the crap out of you. I’m feeling pretty damn good right about now." Hope exhaled triumphantly.

Oh, this is useless. Why even try? "That’s pretty impressive, Hope. But just remember one thing."

Hope eyed her sister suspiciously.

"Zina still has your underwear. It’s going in her trophy box." With that, Gabrielle left her sister behind. For good, she hoped.

*****

The firefighter leaned against the wall, close to where the Hockenberrys sat. The reluctant guardians of Hope’s infant had completed the requisite paperwork, and now awaited one last visit with their estranged daughter.

The door of Hope’s room was flung open and Gabrielle emerged, sucking lungfuls of air as if she had just been underwater for the last two minutes.

"How’d it go?" Zina asked, although she could tell, by taking in the pained expression of her companion, that Gabrielle’s conversation with her sister had been less than stellar. Handcuffs and extra doughnuts tonight, she thought. Poor baby.

"She’s fucked," muttered the poet.

Zina, not a doctor and not playing one on TV, nodded sagely.

The baby squalled as Cyrene brought her around the corner, to where the Hockenberrys and Zina awaited. "It's someone else’s turn," she said to them wearily. She thrust the infant at her daughter.

Much in the manner she handed a water hose, Zina took the child, then held her up. The baby silenced in the face of the intense blue stare. "I dunno," the firefighter said to Gabrielle, "how your sister and Artie could make such a damn ugly kid."

"Zina!" chastised Gabrielle, slapping her lightly on the forearm, "stop it! She'll hear you!" Then she stared at the baby and her face fell. "Well, Artie must be hairy, I guess." She looked to Zina for confirmation.

The firefighter winced in memory. "There were times…when I was surprised I just didn’t cough up a giant hairball."

The poet shivered in disgust, then regarded the infant again. "Ah, poor girl."

"Don't worry about her, Gabrielle," Cyrene threw in, "Chupy's made of tougher stuff than that, aren't you, kiddo?" she cooed to the child.

The women looked at Cyrene. "'Chupy'?" echoed Gabrielle.

"Uh, yeah, it's um, Spanish for 'fuzzy one,'" lied Cyrene. She had never gotten a straight answer—or even one in English—from the boy on the gurney, as he had babbled at her in Spanish for five minutes before passing out.

Zina made it official. "Chupy it is then," she declared.

"That's fine for a nickname, but she needs a real name," Gabrielle interjected.

Mrs. Hockenberry took a closer look at the infant and burst into tears. She ran into the bathroom.

"Jesus, somebody's gotta tell Momma that bathrooms are not exactly churches, you know?" the poet complained.

Zina was still contemplating the child. "How about Harley?" she suggested.

"Damn, Zina! You can't be serious. Naming the kid after your stupid bike?" cried Gabrielle.

"Cool!" said Cyrene.

"I like it," agreed Harold Hockenberry.

Gabrielle stared in sheer disbelief, thoroughly amazed at her father taking the energy and effort to formulate an verbal opinion. "Well! I guess I'm outgunned. Welcome to the family, Harley."

"Goin' home, now. Gab, tell your mom not to forget the kid. See y'all later." Harold Hockenberry nodded amiably at all of them, then waddled down the corridor to the exit.

"Shit, now we have to drive Momma home," Gabrielle grumbled. "Actually, first thing, we have to get her out of the bathroom."

Zina turned to Cyrene. "Hey, Mom, go get Mrs. Hockenberry outta the bathroom."

"And just how am I supposed to do that?" retorted Cyrene.

"Smoke some weed. That'll flush her out, so to speak."

With a martyr-like sigh, as if smoking marijuana were a burden akin to eating spinach, Cyrene headed for the bathroom. Zina and Gabrielle were left alone with the kid.

"Guess I'm gonna have to do some stripping again," Gabrielle said.

Zina looked at her, surprised. "Oh yeah, baby? How come? For her college fund?"

Gabrielle was pleased at the fact that Zina was thinking ahead, and thinking of the kid as well. It was a good sign. "Yeah. That and the fact she's gonna need serious electrolysis by the time she's five."

End

[ontherockswithsalt]

A Made Man

/1/ /2/ /3/ /4/ /5/ /6/ /7/ /8/ /9/ /10/ /11/ /12/ /13/ /14/ /15/ /16/ /17/

A/N: So I changed this story’s rating over on ao3 to Explicit because jeez. New year, same shenanigans. Please enjoy a spinach salad and a smutty Joble Saturday afternoon.

Chapter 18.

“I don’t think we’d ever both been in that shower,” I note, sliding onto the barstool at Noble’s kitchen counter. “I might have to reconsider my loyalty to New York with its small-ass showers. That city is stupid.”

He laughs, glancing over at me with this hopeful flicker in his hazel eyes, then checks on the chicken that sits grilling in a pan on the stove.

“Can I help?” I wonder.

“I could use you on prep,” he decides, motioning with his head for me to come back and join him. “Come slice these apples.”

“I thought about having lunch ready for you when you got home from work,” I tell him while he sets out a cutting board and a knife for me. “But. I figured there were other... priorities.”

“Um yeah. I wouldn’t have even pretended to be appreciative.”

“It was the thought that counts.” I muse as I get started. “Like this?”

“Yeah.” He passes by and lightly pinches fingers at my waist, directing, “Thin. For a salad.” Then takes the apple slice I’m offering and bites down on it.

“Yes, Chef.”

Noble returns to the stovetop and turns the chicken on his grill pan before he makes his way to the refrigerator. “So you’d move to Miami for the shower space?”

I smirk. “Something like that.”

“You’re a damn heartbreaker. Don’t even tempt me with these ideas.”

“I’d move here for a few reasons and you know it.”

“Let's get back in bed. I can do all kinds of convincing.”

I have to smile as I glance down to appreciate the memory of that reunion we just had in his shower that continued with a fast fuck in his bed once we got out. I could hardly blame him. It had been a while.

“I know you can,” I chuckle. “After we eat, though. I'm hungry.”

If only it were that easy. If only Noble could lure me away from New York with promises of colorful meals and fulfilling orgasms. I'd let him try, though. With him, I let myself indulge those kind of surface attributes of a relationship. When’s the last time I actually did?

I know it’s more, though. What we’ve become is deeper than anything I’ve ever felt. It seems ridiculous to think that way about someone almost no one knows.

Not long after the chicken is grilled and sliced, Noble adds it to the spinach salad that he’s tossed up with apples, walnuts, and goat cheese, splitting it between two over-sized bowls for us.

“In an ideal world…” I start, moving around him for glasses of water and forks to set out. “Where would you be?”

He doesn’t even glance up or pause for thought when he pulls out his stool and answers. “In New York. With you.”

Slowly, I slide the silverware drawer shut with my hip while I look at him. “Really?”

“You said ideal.”

A smile nudges the corner of my lips and I cross over to my seat. “With a restaurant?”

“Maybe. Maybe cooking for someone else.”

“Apartment in the city or outer borough?”

He tilts his head to consider it as he picks up his fork. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Long term? Maybe Queens.”

My brow curves upward. “Long term?”

“I mean--” His shoulders lift defensively while he chews. “I’d want a place to park my car. I’m not renting a space in the city.”

I nod at his reasoning, amused, and wonder what else in the long term he’s been pondering. “Queens, huh?” I murmur. “No Tribeca?”

“I could do that too. I’d better get my ass some Michelin stars if I want to afford that neighborhood, though.”

“Ideal world.”

“Right.”

“I’ll give your ass Michelin stars.”

Glancing over with a cute scrunch of his cheek, he takes a sip from his water and bumps his knee against mine. “How many?”

“The most.” I shrug. “Exceptional ass. Five stars.”

He laughs, setting down his glass as he shakes his head. “Three is the most. But I appreciate the honor.”

“Of course.”

“Gotta have a big shower,” he lists. “For… quality time with you.”

“Oh, I’m invited?”

“Yeah, you can come over and hang out.” He smirks, cutting me a playful side glance.

I return the look, holding back words to chew thoughtfully instead. I wonder in this long term concept, what kind of relationship the two of us have, if one at all. But with all of this in the hypothetical, it doesn’t really make sense to get specific.

“What else?” I ask.

Inhaling a deep breath, he thinks. “Bianca would be there. Somewhere at a… reasonable distance. Maybe in Jersey or something.”

I laugh softly. “Okay.”

“And that’s it.”

I let a quiet moment sit there while we eat and I contemplate the simple vision. “A few years ago, did you ever think you’d say in an ideal world, you’d live in Queens?”

He laughs into his glass of water, shaking his head as he manages to down another gulp. “Hey, I feel like I need a yard now. At least something. And Brooklyn’s not really an option.”

“My brother in Staten Island has a yard. That’s an option--”

“Oh god, kill me,” he mutters, scoffing at the notion. “I don’t want a parking spot that bad.”

*****

Later after lunch, we make our way to the living room and spend the afternoon lazy, stretched across the couch together. Limbs draped over one another’s, I’m content listening to the rhythmic lull of the breath filling his chest and appreciating the idle tracing of his fingers in my hair.

“So about tonight--” I speak up.

He hums softly, probably almost asleep. “Are you mad?” He murmurs, the inhales deeply as he shifts beside me. “Listen, I don’t even want to go. We can make up an excuse.”

“No, I mean you had already agreed to it when I picked the weekend,” I tell him. “I don’t mind either way.”

In our desperate planning to get me to Miami for a weekend, I had let Noble know about the first Saturday I was free. At the time, he told me about existing plans to go out with a group of guys for a bachelor party. It’s supposedly low-key, just a night of bar hopping with guys from work and friends of friends. We had both just kind of agreed, yeah whatever that I’d tag along for a portion of the night, have a few drinks and we’d slip out. With the holidays approaching, my other weekends for the month were booked.

“I guess it could be fun,” he muses.

“As far as you and me…”

He questions me with a sleepy noise in his chest, his fingertips drawing a line down my shoulder.

“We’re not together, or we are together, or--?”

“Make no mistake, you’re mine, dude.”

I smirk against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. “Okay, but when it comes to this group of people we’re going out with.”

“I haven’t told them.”

My head settles comfortably against his chest. “That’s alright.”

“I can,” he offers. “I don’t care. We can make out on the pool table or whatever and then I don’t have to worry about remembering some just friends act with you after I’ve had a few cocktails.”

“Oh, no no,” I tease as I push my hand under the edge of his t-shirt, my palm coasting across his stomach. “I’d actually like to see you try to keep up that act, Nick.”

“Oh-ho, you're so full of yourself,” he laughs. “You think I'm the only one who gets handsy.”

“I didn't say that.” And easily I shift to slide on top of him. “But none of these people know me. I can be whoever I want.”

Settling into the couch beneath my weight, a little breathy grunt rattles in his throat. “Yeah? Who're you gonna be tonight?” His hands trail my back, down to my hips where he tugs me against him.

My knee bends, inching up by his side when I tilt down, urging a spark of friction between our bodies. “I'll be your friend.”

“Mm-hm. Okay, friend.”

Leaning down, I touch my lips to the ridge of his jaw. My tongue just barely teases the hard angle there below his ear. “Will you be my friend?” I wonder.

“Ugh, fuck,” he sighs. “You're such a jerk.”

I can't help my satisfied smile against his skin. “Well when we get back home, I'll be whatever you want,” I remind him, dragging a hand up his head. I dig my fingers there at his mess of brown hair and rock against his growing hard-on once more.

He groans softly and slides his grip down the back of my gym shorts, beneath the waist and grabs a handful of my ass. “You know what I want. You gonna make me ask for it?”

I nod, brushing parted lips across his cheek before I close my teeth on the edge of his bottom lip. “Oh yeah, you're definitely gonna ask for it.”

“Why do we have to wait ‘til we get back home?”

A content rumble of pleasure sounds in my chest when he pulls me into him. My stiff cock strokes his inner thigh when I grind my hips on top of him.

With both hands in my shorts, he grips my asscheeks, massaging, parting them just enough to tease me. But fuck no I won't let him take over.

“Mm,” I exhale a quiet moan. “Because you're not ready.”

His throaty, taunting laugh vibrates beneath me. “I've been ready. You know this.”

A smile curves on my lips as they touch his. More than once in our time apart, Noble and I had talked about switching up our positions. He'd been curious.  So it's that good huh? He wondered over one of our text exchanges. The way it feels, I told him. To come while you're inside me is so fucking good, I can't even describe it. Needless to say, he's been a little crazed about it since.

“We'll see how ready you are tonight.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, almost a complaint as he arches his head back.

I don't bother saying anything else while I press into him stretching up before my mouth falls hard on his. I reach down for his shorts, grasping the waist and pushing them lower.

Then I sit up, rushed breath escalating and my movements quicken as I finish pulling off his shorts, his boxer briefs. I lean over him again and he helps me drag his shirt off, tossing it to the floor beside the couch before he gets my t-shirt off too.

My hand wraps around him, stroking for a moment. I ease back to look at him, swallowing hard at the rigid temptation of his cock, the solid plane of his stomach. The lines there broaden to a firm chest, his skin perpetually kissed by the sun and good Mediterranean genes. Goddamn he looks good naked, like absolute fucking sin and I remind myself to tell him more often.

“You think I won't beg for it?” He manages, exhaling hard with a laugh as he tips his head back. “Because I will. You know I'm shameless.”

“Beg? No, I wouldn't do that to you.”

“I think you would.”

“Beg for what?”

“For you to fuck me.”

“Mm.” I consider it with a hum of satisfaction.  “Like you'd say please and everything?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Hm.”

“Jamie.”

Another intrigued moan sneaks out of me at that.  “Maybe I will make you beg.”

“Ugh.”

“Later tonight.”

He groans again in frustration and I have to laugh, my hand continuing its idle path up his shaft, beneath his balls. “Some friend you are,” he accuses.

Amused, I slide my hand away, down his leg that's closest to the back of the couch and push up his knee a little. There, I lean into him, urging his knee out until he puts his leg on top of the back couch cushions.

“I'll be a very good friend, I promise,” I murmur as I settle closer between his legs. Glancing up, I drag my tongue along my palm before I close a slick fist around his dick.

His neck arches back, showing off the thick path of his throat as he exhales hard toward the ceiling. Reaching up, he rests his hands in his own hair as he urges himself into my stroke.

Before I can get him too caught up in a rhythm, I release him and inch back a little more. My mouth wet, I suck the length of my index finger before trailing it slow along the center path where it slips between the cheeks of his ass.

My other hand slides beneath his hip and I pull him closer and my fingertip pushes further to gently circle the sensitive rim there.

He flinches, his whole body jumping at the contact. This isn't the first time I've taken my time exploring there but I can tell he's needy as hell for what's to come and every move from me has him restless.

His hands move from his head to the arm of the couch where he reaches overhead and holds on.

Slowly I sink my finger inside, just a little. I practically crush my lips together in restraint, it's so fucking tempting. I put on an act like I'm so in control of him right now but it takes some serious self-discipline not to grasp my own shaft to pull it from my shorts and bury it inside him.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, coughing out a desperate sigh that's almost a laugh as he tilts into me. Pushing his head back against the arm of the couch, he approves with this gravelly, murmured chant of yes yes yes.

He feels so good, my touch delves deeper until eventually, the whole length of my finger fills him.

I come down on top of him, letting my lips fall on his just as he buries an unguarded cry into the heat of my mouth. He kisses me hard but we both pull apart in breathy concentration.

“Do you think you'll want more than this?” I ask him, just barely curving my finger. Balancing on my knees, I reach down for his cock and it twitches in my grip.

A noisy exhale escapes his open mouth and he nods.

It's almost a growl that rumbles in my chest as I watch him. I jerk him a little harder, more determined, and I'm so mesmerized studying the way his climax builds in his breaths, he can't catch it, he just calls out and sinks into the sofa cushions, swearing overhead as his orgasm consumes him.

I ease my stroke, my fist guiding the length of him as he comes hot across his stomach, some on his chest, his whole core contracting with each sharp quake that sneaks up on him.

“Oh my god,” he sighs. “Fuuuuuck.”

Pulling out of him, I slip both hands beneath his hips and lean into him. “Damn,” I muse, offering him a smirk -- the same way he's done to me I don't know how many times as I’ve laid there beneath him, spent and breathlessly unwound.

“Good thing we agreed we're just friends,” I tease him. I move closer and dip my head before I touch a kiss to his stomach. “Otherwise we'd get ourselves in all kinds of trouble tonight.” Then with a subtle stroke of my tongue, I taste the salty trail collected on his skin.

“Holy fff--” Noble coughs in disbelief and his head drops back. But he quickly lifts up once more to watch me, his breath heavy in his chest. “You better watch it, friend.”

Provoking him, I hum an appreciative little moan and taste him some more, working my way across the path that he left.

“You're the best,” he praises, “--nastiest friend I've ever had.”

I laugh there against him and push myself the rest of the way up until I collapse on top, pushing a kiss into the side of his neck, then assure him, “I feel the same way about you.”

[painmanagementbrooklyn]

Managing Pain – Through Various Methods

Pain is a very common situation. The experience of pain rises as people get older. Women are more expected to suffer pain than men.

 There are 2 main types of pain - Severe pain which is a normal response to an injury or medical condition. It starts suddenly and is usually short-lived. Persistent pain which continues beyond the time expected for healing. It generally lasts for longer than 3 months.

 Pain may be anything from a dull ache to a sharp stab and can range from mild to extreme. You may feel pain in one part of your body, or it may be widespread.

 There are various methods to treat pain given below are few: -

 Acupuncture and Chiropractic care, both therapies can help promote full-body healing while focus on a specific injury in the body. The method of acupuncture stimulates the release of endorphins and the flow of blood in the body. Acupuncture works on the energy flowing through the body's meridians. As this energy, or qi, becomes stagnant, it can cause pain in the body. By applying very thin needles to points along the body's meridians, an acupuncturist can push stuck energy and restore wellness. Needles typically remain in place for a half-hour.

 Does Acupuncture have side effect?

Acupuncture therapies hardly cause side effects. Because the therapies cause body internal hormones to stimulate the healing activity, it is possible that the signs of your initial condition may increase for several days as your body adapts and heals. As with massage, some patients may experience mild disorientation directly after receiving acupuncture, but this feeling goes quickly, particularly with proper hydration and good rest. Some patients may experience discomfort or stain at the insertion points.

 Who should go for Acupuncture?

Acupuncture is a low-risk therapy with various benefits, acupuncture is often safe. People with pacemaker, should ensure that their practitioner knows this before he starts therapy. Acupuncture is not advised for women who are pregnant as there is a chance that treatment can stimulate premature labor and delivery. People with bleeding disorders should also stay away from acupuncture as there is a small risk of bleeding and bruising from the needles used for this therapy.

 Preparation for Therapy?

You should ensure that your appointment runs easily, and your therapy is best successful.

 avoid eating a large meal either directly before or after your treatment. Avoid intense exercise before therapy. Avoid consumption of alcohol before and after you receive acupuncture. plan your day so that you can rest after the therapy. Keeping taking regular prescribed medication, if any. Abuse of drugs or alcohol will affect the results.

 Acupuncture has been practiced for centuries and is still being used around the world. Acupuncture is frequently blended with chiropractic alterations, massage, physical therapy, and naturopathy. Many people have gained various benefits from orthopedic specialist Staten Island, Back Pain Specialists Staten Island, Acl Tear Staten Island, Sciatica Staten Island.

[bossymarmalade]

I discovered today (because ppl keep asking for it in the Boyd Holbrook tag) that what we BOFQs used to call self-inserts back in the day are now called “imagines”. Which are a little different because instead of being ultra-beautiful Mhairie who all the X-Folks admire and inevitably bang, it’s LITERALLY YOU in the “imagines”. So being a good fanperson I have decided that I will, in fact, write a few short Boyd Holbrook imagines.

It’s cold on the Staten Island seashore. “Boyd, I’m cold,” you say as you shiver in your inadequate jacket which you will one day miss terribly as you sit high up in the bleachers at some Canucks game some future boyfriend will drag you to. “I just gotta find a couple more pieces of wood,” Boyd says, a chiseled figure in the distance as he scours the beach. “My sculpture of Jesus taking a bath needs a big enough tub for him to sit in, I mean come on.” You smile, admiring his devotion. Jesus is very important, it’s true. You suddenly feel humbled by his artistic quality and ability to sculpt and how he lives with a bunch of other models like Zoolander except instead of mocha orange frappucinos they all love outsider art. “Shit, a crab bit me,” Boyd says.

Imagine you are lying on the sofa while Boyd, your husband, practices his banjo while his dog sings along. His friend Pedro Pascal taught him some songs in Spanish, he says. You listen quietly and intently for every mention of “amor” as he mumble-sings. It’s so warm and cozy tucked up in blankets on the sofa; earlier Boyd gave you a nice full-body massage that he says he learned from Hugh Jackman. Boy, does he ever know a lot of helpful people! Just the other day he introduced something new and exciting to your bedroom games (”Trust me, baby, it’s gonna be funner this way”) and said it was suggested by none other than Liam Neeson! What a life.

You are pregnant and you and Boyd have rented a cabin up in the hills for you to have the baby. Every day is full of comfort -- roaring fires in the woodstove, blankets and quilts, reading, eating banana pudding and drinking Ale8 -- and you couldn’t be happier. Boyd closes his book one night and looks at you, his blue eyes full of his own happiness, and he says, “Reckon I should get some scissors and hot water.” For a moment you’re puzzled, but then he pulls the blankets aside from your legs, reaching between them, and holding up your new daughter. You were so comfortable you didn’t even realize you were giving birth! Boyd brings the baby up so you can cuddle her, fixing you with an ardent gaze. “I love you, (Y/N),” he says with passion, “and I love our little daughter (B/N) too, forever.” 

I hope these small efforts help fill the void! I apologize if they are unsatisfactory since I, an asexual who balks at putting herself in sexy/romantic situations, would be happy with imagines that looked like this:

You go out to try sushi at Tojo’s because it’s across the street from where you work, and Boyd is there because he’s in town filming Predator, and you sit at the counter eating sushi and drinking plum wine and yammering on about shit and then your lunch break’s over but you call in to work sick and take Boyd to Steveston because you want him to try the desserts at The Sweet Spot and he wants to take a photo standing outside that shop that Rumple runs in OAUT. Also he offers to pay for everything and you make a token protest before allowing it and then the two of you get bubble tea and go your separate ways.