#I already have next part sketched out but it's taking soo long to draw it in digital ugh

[modrzewek]

part 2 of my fiddlestan comic (part 1 here)

(part 1) part 2 (part 3)

Fiddleford gets to be angry and also a blanket! I feel like I'm treating him so well

[shipping-receiving]

“Is there a chance you won’t be okay?”

An Analysis of Hwang Si-mok and Han Yeo-jin’s Final Scene in Stranger/Secret Forest Season 2

Alright, it’s been almost a week, I’m still crying every time I re-watch this scene, and somehow I’ve written 3,500 words about five minutes of this damn show, so here we go:

As with Stranger/Secret Forest Season 1, Si-mok and Yeo-jin’s final scene in Season 2 ended with a farewell meal, complete with soju. On a very basic level, this meal felt significant in a season where Si-mok was subject, more than ever, to interrupted meals or meals he didn’t particularly want to be present for – at least until he was able to have a drink with Yeo-jin in 2x12, and then lunch with her in 2x13.

More importantly, though, this scene is the most loaded scene we’ve ever witnessed between these two characters. That’s saying something for such a nuanced, detail-oriented show, in which two people placing their phones in a storage locker at a detention centre can possess such emotional weight, particularly when played by two actors who make very subtle and sophisticated acting choices.

I’m struck particularly by the way this scene bursts with subtext – things unsaid and unresolved – when Lee Soo-yeon could just as easily have written a neater, more light-hearted exchange that reaffirmed their connection, more along the lines of their final scene in 1x16. There are a thousand other ways their farewell could have been presented to us that would have given a greater or at least a more comfortable sense of finality, even taking into account their character development over this season. This lack of resolution is evident not just from what happened during the scene, but also when the scene happened within the episode itself. The meal occurred after Yeo-jin had been bullied by her colleagues, but before she met her new boss – at this point, it seemed to the viewer that her promotion would likely bring not the pride she experienced in S1, but more challenges and isolation.

More so than the Seo Dong-jae cliffhanger, this scene makes me think that this was written with a future Season 3 arc in mind, one in which Si-mok and Yeo-jin’s relationship will continue to evolve and deepen substantially (whether that will be ‘romantic’ remains to be seen). Considering they’re the core partnership of this series, there was a deliberate withholding of stability in their farewell, rather than an affirmation of it. I won’t go so far as to say destabilisation – because despite their separation, I think their bond is more profound than ever – but at the bare minimum an absence of certainty, when it could have been written otherwise.

Anyway, on to the breakdown:

The scene opens with Si-mok carefully folding a napkin and placing cutlery on it for Yeo-jin, a simple gesture of care that Cho Seung-woo plays with a startlingly gentle attentiveness. Immediately, it signals that there’s been a shift in Si-mok – how he’s able, at least with Yeo-jin, to do something that isn’t just polite, but also thoughtful. The director even snuck in a little clue that Si-mok is thinking of Yeo-jin as he’s doing this – Yeo-jin actually appears at the left side of the frame from the start, as the camera pans over to Si-mok: 

In this shot, Si-mok is visually separated from Yeo-jin by a pillar. This could be read on the one hand as a kind of sectioning out of his mental space – a visualisation of his thoughts of her as he prepares her cutlery – and on the other hand, as a foreshadowing of their impending separation. (I do, however, enjoy the first interpretation more. It reminds me a little bit of her sketch of the inside of his head from 1x06.)

Back to the napkin: if you look closer, Si-mok didn’t fold a napkin for himself – his spoon and chopsticks are on the table next to his bowl – so this isn’t just a matter of neatly setting the table for their meal. In a very small way, he’s anticipating her needs, just as she has done with him in much more demonstrative ways in both seasons (helping him with his headaches being the most obvious one). This isn’t something he’s necessarily actively worked on in the past two years; he’s still the person who doesn’t instinctively say ‘hello’ over the phone, or ask after someone’s kids without being reminded. Yet, it’s a capacity for care that has expanded significantly, at least where Yeo-jin is concerned.

Compare his behaviour with the equivalent scene in 1x16 – back then, he only ordered a bowl of noodles for himself and not for her. Interestingly, Yeo-jin’s comment to Si-mok during that part of the S1 scene was, “Gosh, you haven’t changed one bit,” suggesting that he was, by nature, somehow unable to be considerate to someone else. Just from the opening to the S2 scene, we see that that comment is not or no longer true, at least when it comes to the way he acts around her. In both the S1 and S2 scenes, he was the first person to arrive for their meal; in S1, the first thing he said was, “Why are you late?” and had already ordered his soju and noodles. This time, however, Yeo-jin asks him, “Why didn’t you order something first?” – implying that although she was late again, he was patiently waiting for her to arrive.

There’s also a difference in the way he responds to her appearance. Now, I personally don’t think we can frame Si-mok’s connection with and care for Yeo-jin in conventional understandings of romantic attraction (which is not to say romance isn’t possible for them canonically, I just think it will manifest differently). Nevertheless, I’d say that he responds to her haircut in a way that is probably as close to the mechanics of attraction as we could possibly expect from Si-mok – not just the shock of “oh, you cut your hair,” but lingering looks and nostalgia for when they first met; nothing at all like noticing that she’s wearing lipstick and saying, not so kindly, that it looks weird. In fact, in a direct parallel to this moment in 1x16, Yeo-jin asks him if her haircut is “weird”, and he says, “I just meant it’s different.”

(I think the way he stares at her is not wholly due to being ‘transfixed’, but also because he’s trying to figure out what such a drastic change means, and why now, and whether he has to worry. Basically, his brain is trying to compute; part of his stare is him trying to analyse her behaviour, just as part of it is him revisiting his memories of her from two years ago, and part of it might well be an attraction he doesn’t quite understand or know how to reel in. He does stare at her for an inordinately long time.)

Switching over to Yeo-jin, I really enjoy this little routine of hers when they have meals together – how she narrows down options for him to a series of questions, and even helps him decide on occasion. It never feels like she’s trying to speak for him, but rather that she knows his likes and dislikes. Her question in this scene – makgeolli or soju – is phrased like her question in 2x02, when she asks him to choose between stir-fried octopus and hot pot; when she specifically requests a lot of cabbages, she must be thinking of how he ate lots of them in 2x12. This kind of care comes naturally to Yeo-jin – we’re talking about the person who took in a murder victim’s mother in S1 – but it’s still a form of intimacy, and one that Si-mok is clearly used to as well.

Soon, though, we have our first indication that things might not be so comfortable – not in the sense that their bond has weakened, but that there are fundamental shifts occurring in both of their lives that affect this bond. Si-mok, after a lot more staring, points out that her short hair reminds him of when they first met. (He wouldn’t have needed to take that much time to come up with that simple observation, which makes me think he was trying to choose his words carefully.) With enthusiasm, Yeo-jin responds with, “I haven’t changed a bit, right?” – echoing her comment about Si-mok in 1x16.

Perhaps Yeo-jin had meant this comment sincerely in the moment, but given context, her cheerfulness feels performative. We’ve just witnessed her crying after being bullied by her colleagues, in contrast to the warmth that she enjoys with her old Yongsan team; we’ve observed her changes – a result of maturity, disillusionment, a loss of innocence – throughout the whole season. In fact, she seems to have cut her hair precisely because she feels weighed down by all that has unfolded, just as one might after a break-up or some kind of painful life event. It’s a decision that seems to say: I acknowledge that everything has changed around me, but maybe doing this will make me feel like myself again, or the ‘myself’ of two years ago.

Si-mok, of course, isn’t quite so able to agree that she hasn’t changed. Multiple times this season, he’s observed the changes in her – “You don’t draw these days?” in 2x06, “Didn’t you want to work in police administration?” in 2x08, “You weren’t the kind of person to postpone things.” in 2x12. Now, he doesn’t respond to her question, and instead looks at her in silence, smiling only ever so slightly when she shakes her head playfully (and we know that she can make him smile wider than that). Perhaps he’s even choosing to withhold any judgment of her. But this is a moment, I think, that factors into his decision to ask her that question at the end of this scene.

Next, we have confirmation that Si-mok was the one who asked Yeo-jin out for dinner, just as he had in 2x02 once he’d settled into his new posting. It isn’t clear in 1x16 if it was Yeo-jin who’d asked to meet Si-mok when she found out he was being posted to Namhae, but it’s been affirmed twice this season that he prioritises this time with her (even more so than meeting his own mother). Then, he breaks the news to her that he is leaving for Gangwon Province this weekend.

In 1x16, Yeo-jin finds out that Si-mok is leaving from the special investigation team, without Si-mok being present. At the time, they still think he’ll be sent to the US for training, and Yeo-jin is visibly disappointed. She has the same crestfallen look on her face in this scene, in front of Si-mok. She doesn’t want to be separated from him, and when she asks about his cases, it seems she’d expected him to stay for quite a while longer to see them through. Mind you, Wonju is only about 1.5 hours drive from Seoul (yes, I mapped it), but Yeo-jin still looks like she’s had the rug pulled from under her. Perhaps, in an uncertain time, she’d hoped that Si-mok would be in her life more than the few weeks he’d spent in Seoul.

Yeo-jin’s responses in both 1x16 and 2x16 are a pretty big indicator that she has feelings for Si-mok (whether she’s aware or willing to acknowledge those feelings is another matter). I suppose one could argue that her reaction is simply out of sadness at the thought of being separated from a friend, but based on certain events in S2 – for example, Choi Bit questioning Yeo-jin about her relationship with Si-mok, and Yeo-jin deflecting – I think the viewer is at the very least meant to question whether their bond is truly ‘platonic’. This isn’t the type of show to include superfluous details just to tease their viewers, and in any case, Si-mok and Yeo-jin’s connection has only deepened through the course of this season despite being on opposing sides of the council. It feels like the emotional stakes are much higher this time than back in S1.

As Yeo-jin is absorbing this news from Si-mok, there are a couple of little details here that feel significant to me, but could be nothing: first, the way Si-mok half-holds out his hand as Yeo-jin is pouring her soju, just as he’d held out his hand when she was pouring makgeolli in 2x13. Second, how she pours out a cup of soju for herself first, but not for Si-mok. In any other situation, it might seem impolite – after all, Si-mok is the one who’d chosen the drink – but here it seems that she’s pouring a drink to steady or busy herself more than anything, and she doesn’t drink from it till after their toast.

Following this, Yeo-jin confides in Si-mok that “I never thought the council would end like this. [...] Will the higher-ups be replaced with more honest people while I’m catching bad men out there?” When he replies with, “Why are you talking as if those two are the same?”, it’s yet another of his probing questions, questions she never seems to have an answer to. The Yeo-jin of old would never have assumed that all the higher-ups are dishonest – she has always seen the good in people – but she feels betrayed by Choi Bit, the one person she sincerely respected. Here, she changes the topic rather than opening up, reverting to her most comfortable mode of showing care for someone else by asking Si-mok why he looks so tired. It’s a guardedness that we’re not used to seeing from Yeo-jin; when Si-mok met with Choi Bit at the start of the episode, he describes Yeo-jin as someone who “opens up easily”, even if she doesn’t “blindly trust or respect just about anybody”.

While Yeo-jin is evasive, Si-mok is more willing to be vulnerable in comparison. His openness isn’t surprising, given that Si-mok has shared more about his life and thoughts with her than with anyone else, but it is still heartwarming to see. Instead of brushing off Yeo-jin’s comment, he tells her about his dream of the prosecutors from the Western Office. For anyone else, this might not seem like a significant conversation topic, but for someone who hardly ever dreams (which Si-mok mentioned in S1), it feels like he’s sharing something special with her. This dream, and his factual recounting of it, seems to be a means for his brain to process the traumatic events of two years ago.

Before Si-mok tells Yeo-jin about his dream, there’s a quick insertion here – a lament about seeing your boss in your dreams – that suggests that she is still troubled about Choi Bit, more than she’s letting on. Again, Si-mok doesn’t push her to elaborate, though I think he’s been absorbing all the things that seem off with Yeo-jin since she arrived. Yeo-jin proceeds to analyse his dream in her head, but doesn’t verbalise her interpretation (that Yoon Se-won might be considering suicide, since he went off in the same direction as two characters who have both passed). As she’s deep in thought, Si-mok tilts his head questioningly at her; she says that he probably won’t have time to go anywhere else this weekend, implying that she was thinking of bringing him with her to visit Yoon.

Knowing that Si-mok won’t be able to come with her, however, leaves Yeo-jin resigned. As she announces, “All right, then,” I wonder if this is the moment that she’s choosing to steel herself. The two people she treasures and respects most in her life (Si-mok and Choi Bit) are disappearing from it, and she will have to learn to move forward without them.

Now, we come to their toast. In the corresponding scene in S1, their toast is bittersweet, but has a sense of resolution; upbeat piano music plays in the background as Yeo-jin says, “Goodbye, I won’t be able to see you off,” while Si-mok echoes that with, “Good luck in your new position. Sorry I can’t attend the ceremony.” In S2, the music is quieter, and much more sombre – I’ve been describing it in my head as ‘breathy sad wooooo music’ – even as Yeo-jin laughs and says, a little helplessly: “It feels like we keep repeating this.”

Si-mok, on his part, doesn’t even echo her laugh with anything more than the barest smile. Instead, he says, with a deep sincerity: “Take care, Senior Inspector Han.” As I mentioned earlier, there are many ways that they could have written or played this scene to convey even a little more resolution – choosing different music, or having Si-mok smile along with Yeo-jin, or even giving Yeo-jin a bit more notice of his departure so that she can prepare a gift (as if to say, she doesn’t draw as much these days, but she would for his sake). But the viewer is made to feel all of their reluctance, even sadness at this separation, even if those feelings are hidden beneath pleasantries. “Well, I guess I’ll be okay,” Yeo-jin says, as if there’s a possibility that she won’t be – that this is something she has to recover from in the future.

Si-mok considers her words, her phrasing, her demeanour, tilts his head at her again and says: “Is there a chance you won’t be okay?”

This, above all other lines, shows how much Si-mok has grown in the past couple of years because of Yeo-jin’s influence. Whereas he started S1 cold, guarded, and isolated from the rest of his colleagues, he has arrived at a point where he has cultivated enough of an emotional sensitivity to ask her this question – to show her care, just as she has shown care to him and other people around her. I’d even venture to say that Si-mok feels, himself, that there’s a chance he won’t be as okay with their separation as he might have been two years ago. In 2x05, during the conversation with Seo Dong-jae outside the prison, Dong-jae asks Si-mok: “You don’t feel a tad bit sad even if you’re sent far away, do you?” Si-mok answers, “No.” That doesn’t feel so definitive anymore. There isn’t anything either Si-mok or Yeo-jin can do, given that they both prioritise their careers and understand that these careers follow a certain trajectory, but parting feels a little bit harder this time.

Yeo-jin answers Si-mok’s question as reassuringly as she can, with an adorable smile and shake of the head; she lets out an “ah” after she downs her soju, as if to reorient herself. Yet, her cheerfulness in the rest of the scene – her excitement at the food, her over-enthusiastic chewing – rings empty as the sombre music continues to play in the background. For perhaps the first time in the entire series, there is something about Yeo-jin that seems feigned. Strangely, it is Si-mok’s blank expression that represents the more authentic emotion in this scene – communicating the very resignation that Yeo-jin must be feeling inside, beneath a facade that might read as comical in any other context.

“Is there a chance you won’t be okay?” is, in fact, the last thing that Si-mok says in this whole scene, despite quite a few more lines of dialogue from Yeo-jin. The way he looks at her for the rest of the scene, though, is charged with meaning. It seems to say: ‘I don’t really believe that you’re okay, but I’m going to give you space because I can tell you don’t really want to talk right now.’ It’s not as if Yeo-jin hasn’t confided in him before – their phone call in 1x15 was especially intimate – so it’s not that Si-mok is incapable of listening to her. Still, he respects her choice to deflect, and continues to observe her closely while ignoring the pajeon, even leaning forward right at the end of the scene. This very overt concentration on her is something we’ve never really seen from Si-mok before; even in the rooftop scene in 2x06, which is probably the most loaded scene they share after this one, they’re standing beside each other and rarely make eye contact. Here, his focus on Yeo-jin is palpable.

As much as this scene felt heartbreaking to me (thanks breathy sad wooooo music), it actually left me with a lot of optimism for the development of their relationship in the future. Lee Soo-yeon has said that she has enough material for five seasons of the show, and while I’m not so sure we’ll get as many seasons as that, it feels like she’s pushed Si-mok and Yeo-jin out of their comfortable friendship – planting the question, “is there a chance we won’t be okay?” I wonder if we’ll see something quite different in the third season (which is apparently in discussion!), which surely won’t see them on opposing sides again.

I’ve been burned by enough ships that can potentially be read as ‘platonic’ to know that I shouldn’t hope for any overt romance, but Si-mok is such a unique character and has such a unique connection with Yeo-jin that I’m hopeful that their relationship could be deepened with nuance, even if it doesn’t become romantic in ‘recognisable’ ways. (I have other thoughts on his asexuality/aromanticism that I won’t get into here.) It’s precisely because their connection is built on mutual trust, respect, and understanding that it remains so compelling, and I think this scene promises growth, and some resolution, whenever we see them next.

[sirkkasnow]

04 Advance Planning Is For Sissies

Ao3 link

07/07/13 Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

“How far out?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe.”

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

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

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

“Yours‘re probably boring.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very funny.”

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

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

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

“Professional courtesy.”

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

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

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

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

“You conned your fellow ambulance chasers.”

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

“So y’think I can’t keep up?”

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

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

“Bring it, Pines.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh ho, that’s easy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steal it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her head shook fractionally. “No.”

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

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

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

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

“Y’really do like it?”

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

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

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

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

“Boo.”

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

“Stanley, what the hell - “

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

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

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

“Who’s down there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can pay for the parts, Stan.”

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

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

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

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

“Been hearin’ it all my life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pink bunnies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, Stan, we got a job to do.”

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

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

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

“Do you mean commandeer?”

“I dunno!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hsst.”

“What.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know where the pack went down?”

“Yes. I counted fenceposts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I cannot believe I did that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Crystal.”

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

“Why’d you come along?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Want to learn how to really hit?

Play for sympathy.

Get indignant.

[kenjkats]

Notes Between Strangers (Kenji x F!MC Headcanon)

Another request for a Kenji HC by @aliaisreal ❤ You’re gonna have to tell me where you find these fun FUN prompts!!

Based on this prompt:  “We write notes to each other on the desk we share at different times and I never knew who I was talking to until I saw you stay behind after class to write on it and holy shit you’re HOT.”

Note: Hope you don’t mind, it’s easier to HC when the AU is still somewhat linked to their reality, so instead of classmates this is an AU where they’re coworkers, but Alex (Hero name: Asteria) wasn’t put in charge of Kenji and The Grand, so they haven’t met yet.

Note 2: GOD HELP ME this is practically fanfic all the bullets were so long I just clumped them into paragraphs so yeah. Fun fact I used to write. Majored in it even, but haven’t done so in two years, so any measures to convert it from bullet hc notes to fanfic is probably A MESS™ Hope you like at least some of it tho lol

Word count: about 2800 which is RIDICULOUS. If you’ve never heard of a slowburn hc, well here you go.

HC request prompts / HC masterlist

Alex is sitting in the Prescott Industries conference room. She always sits in the same seat near the corner of the room, next to the largest chair in the room where her boss, Grayson is sitting. She’s listening to him talk to a room full of clients and noting down everything that’s happening. Sometimes these things go on for hours and they talk in circles. Alex tends to space out. She absent-mindedly scribbles in the edges of her notebook when this happens: little doodles of stick figures flying and fighting villains shooting fire from their hands, or she writes little notes about how she feels.

I’m tired. This meeting is boring and going nowhere. Wish I was in my tub with a good book right now. Or wine.

“Alex!” Grayson calls out, snapping her out of her daze. 

“Yes, Mr. Prescott?”

“Did you get that last part?”

“Yes,” she replies trying not to look flustered, tearing out the sheet of paper with doodles and thoughts on it and placing it in the tiny shelf area the conference room table has underneath, out of Grayson’s sight. By the end of the meeting Alex is so flustered by all the instructions Grayson’s spouting off on their way out of the room that she forgets the piece of paper.

That afternoon Kenji was called up to the conference room to have a meeting with Grayson and a few important figures involved in The Grand’s opening night later that month. He shakes hands all around the table, flashing his signature charismatic grin, and takes a seat next to Grayson in the corner of the room.

He’s absent-mindedly drumming his fingers on the table as he’s listening to the men in suits drone on, when something falls from the table’s shelf and lands in his lap. Curious, he picks it up and reads it under the table, now ignoring Grayson and the others. He smirks to himself, amused by the doodles of whom he recognized to be Asteria, the other hero he’s been seeing running around the city. Kenji looks up and nods along. He answers a question or two to make sure he still looks like he’s paying attention.

He then picks up his pen and scribbles next to the note underneath the hero doodles: 

Books get wet you know. Wine’s good.  A good Darjeeling tea is even better. ;) 

- K

Kenji folds the sheet of paper and returns it to the small shelf, letting it stick out just a little bit in the hopes that it catches its owner’s attention. He’s not sure why he replied. Or signed his name. But he found the writer amusing and honestly, he was bored of this meeting, too.

A couple of days later Grayson calls Alex into yet another meeting in the conference room. Things are getting hectic with preparations for The Grand’s opening. She sits in her usual seat and spots the folded paper peeking out from below the table. Did she leave something there? Unsure and curious, she takes a peek at the note as others take their places around the table.

Alex recognizes what it is the moment she sees her little Asteria sketch and is a little flustered to see that she had left one of her doodle pages in the conference room. She’s about to crumple it up when she notices something new. Alex stares at the words for a few seconds, a little baffled that someone was writing back to her. The corner of her mouth turns upward in amusement. She barely manages to hold in a giggle when she sees a tiny sketch of whom she recognizes to be Talos, wrestling with her doodle of Caleb. Then another of Talos posing with his muscles flexed and grinning.

Amused, she plays along and responds, 

I’ll try that. Thanks, stranger. So… Talos fan, huh? Is it the bronze abs? 

- A

As the days go by and the opening night of The Grand draws near, the conference meetings become frequent. Alex is usually called in with one group in the mornings, and Kenji with another just before the day ends. To pass the time and to relieve stress, they keep up with the notes. Something about the writer’s humor strikes Kenji, makes him want to play along even more. 

Funny! I like Talos more for his shining (get it?) initiative to protect Northbridge. I mean, if we’re talking about sexy heroes I’d say a guy like me would look better with Asteria. 

(A doodle of Asteria inside a heart is drawn next to the note) 

But more importantly, you noticed Talos’ abs huh? You like those? /:) 

- K

Alex blushes at the thought of this stranger being attracted to her. Well he means Asteria, but she is Asteria. 

Hah! Let’s just say a classy girl like me can appreciate a sculpted figure. And Asteria’s wayyy out of your league. 

She pauses and considers this stranger being so candid with her, and she’s interested in him. 

Who are you again anyway?

 - A

Kenji smirks to himself at the new message. He’s starting to like this snarky mystery girl. 

You wound me! I’m a catch! Better than Talos, even. 

(A doodle of a sad-faced Talos with a large X over his abs and a doodle of Kenji grinning, eyes closed and hands on his hips with fireworks behind him sit side by side underneath the note)

And me? Just a company man. Why? You interested, A? ;) 

- K

It’s been about 2 weeks of notes now, and Alex wonders how she still lets herself get surprised by this cocky stranger greeting her during morning meetings. She sits there in disbelief again, but can’t help smiling at the little flirtation he’s started. There’s something comforting about the way they banter that Alex had been enjoying during these busy days. She wonders if she should encourage this.

“Alex,” Grayson calls to her, a slight frown on his face, “you’ve been distracted a lot in these meetings lately. Mind telling me what’s going on?”

Shit, she thinks. 

“Sorry, Grayson, just a little overwhelmed by all the upcoming things to do on our… to do list,” Alex chuckles awkwardly.

“Yes, there is quite a bit, isn’t there?” Grayson replies, sighing. The conference room empties leaving the two of them. “Well, looks like I need to catch you up. I notice your pad’s blank, and you don’t have your laptop.”

Alex’s eyes dart to the notebook resting on the desk. “Right.”

Grayson pulls his chair in closer to Alex and begins to recap the end of the meeting. Alex is rushing to jot down all the important details, forced to stuff the note from “K” back into the shelf, forgotten.

Kenji is a little shocked, and worried, if he were to be perfectly honest, that he didn’t get a reply when he returned. As confident as he tries to be, his thoughts get the better of him; Maybe she just didn’t have a meeting this week. It’s happened before. Or…was I too forward? That usually works. In person, though. Huh. 

The next day Alex hurriedly sits in her spot and searches for a note. She couldn’t find the time to even write back when there weren’t any people in the conference room because lately, there were always people. Or Grayson always needed her. Her hand feels underneath the table and shelf where they’ve started hiding their notes, in case other coworkers used the shelf space, and she lights up when she feels paper. She quickly reads through it before Grayson and the others come in.

The paper was littered with doodles of Talos in various poses with little speech bubbles telling “A” how much he loves her: Talos making a heart with his hands and grinning, or Talos holding out flowers, or Talos baring his chest with the words “I love you” written all over it.

Sorry if I came on too strong. The shameless flirting kinda gets in the way sometimes. But then again maybe you just need to see my pretty face for it all to work? lol I’m kidding. Really, though. Your messages have been the highlight of my weeks.

- K ;)

Alex giggled. She felt a little embarrassed, too, when she realized how much she was smiling by herself. She quickly regained her composure and wrote a response:

Ha. Alright, you’re forgiven… but honestly it wasn’t you. I just got caught up in a lot of work for The Grand. You might have heard of the project? Idk. Things are getting stressful though.

- A

The next days were busy, but it allowed them more frequent chances to pass notes. They both can’t deny that they looked forward to it.

Well! That’s a load off my mind. Couldn’t have the mysterious A mad at me. What would I do during these god-awful meetings?

Huh, you working on The Grand’s opening, too? We must’ve seen each other already. I haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep actually. Busy busy.

- K

Riiiight. You, too? We would’ve known though, I mean clearly you sit in my seat soo… you work for Grayson, too, then?

- A

Right. Silly me. The lack of sleep and worrying that you were mad at me must have made it slip my mind. Yeah, Grayson’s my boss. Ok, who are you?? 

- K

And just like that the notes went from teasing and funny doodles to little comforts from a stranger. Funny doodles that cheered the other up. Little notes of encouragement. A piece of candy stuck to the back now and then. Alex was liking this side of the elusive K. She realized one day when she didn’t receive a note back that these messages were now the highlight of her workdays, too.

Kenji hadn’t been called up for a meeting in a while. He’d been forced to run around town meeting contractors and designers and musicians to get ready for the big night. He wondered whether or not he should drop by and give Grayson an update anyway. At least, just an excuse to drop off a note for A, he thought. It’s weird. He actually misses this girl he’s never even met before. Maybe in the morning, he promises himself.

It’s the day before the opening night and Alex is in the last big meeting. She decides she’ll leave another note. Maybe he just got busy like she did last time there was a lapse in notes, she thinks to comfort herself.

Kenji calls Grayson to tell him he’s visitng. 

“Hey I was about to call you in for an early meeting. There are a few things I need to coordinate with you. My assisstant will help you out.” 

Kenji comes over in the morning, clutching his note inside his pocket. He lets his eyes casually wander around Grayson’s floor, trying to see if he could spot A. He laughs to himself. You don’t even know what she looks like. 

He decides to head over to the conference room where Grayson is already addressing a group of sponsors. Kenji stops in his tracks when he looks up and sees a woman sitting in his usual seat, typing away at her laptop, occasionally glancing upwards at Grayson. Something tells him that this is her.

Kenji loiters outside the conference room for a few moments, looking through the glass walls at “A.” He couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. He watched her, observed the way her dark hair draped her shoulders. Her smooth skin. Seductive eyes. She was perfect.

He knocks on the door and Grayson looks up to greet him, “Ah, Mr. Katsaros, come in! Everybody, this is Kenji Katsaros, the manager of The Grand I recently hired. Ah, Kenji, this is my assistant, Alex, Alex, Kenji.”

Kenji nods to the sponsors, shakes Grayson’s hand, then turns to Alex and shakes hers, lingering for a second. She gives him a confused look.

Just then Majorie peers her head in the door and calls Grayson out. He excuses himself, leaving Kenji next to Alex. The rest of the people in the room take this time to talk amongst themselves, and Kenji seizes his chance. He leans over to Alex who’s typing on her laptop and whispers, “So Alex,” he savors the name on his lips, glad he finally knows what “A” stood for, “you’re self-doodles certainly don’t do you justice.”

And Kenji watches her as her face changes from confusion to wide-eyed realization. He smirks back at her and winks. Grayson reappears before she could say anything else, and Kenji leaves his seat to sit across from Alex, with Grayson now in between them at the head of the table.

Kenji is relishing in getting to tease Alex in person. He’s definitely in his element now. He flashes her flirtatious glances with those gray eyes of his.

Alex is fidgeting in her seat, trying to stop herself from cracking a smile at his teasing or roll her eyes. She tells herself she’ll ignore him, just focus on her notes and Grayson and the meeting, but she can’t help but glance back at him, too. And she can’t help but notice how handsome he was. Those gray eyes were doing things her to her that she shouldn’t be feeling right now.

Kenji excuses himself to go to the bathroom during a lull in the conversation. He maintains eye contact with Alex as he stands up and turns to leave, slyly smirking as he went.

Kenji takes this chance to make a move. He’s always been one for surprises. He makes his way towards Grayson’s office, looking around for a sign of where Alex’s office or desk might be. He finds a nameplate on a desk in a smaller office outside of Grayson’s, and sneaks in. Kenji picks up a piece of paper and a pen, scribbles something then leaves it right in the center of her desk.

After the meeting is dismissed Kenji hangs back to walk with Alex and Grayson.

“So Kenji, you excited for the opening night tomorrow?” Grayson asks, taking on a more conversational tone.

“Oh, definitely,” he replies, but his eyes settle on Alex who tries to avoid eye contact while holding back a smirk, “Would it be cool if I brought a date?”

Alex’s eyes dart towards Kenji, an indiscernible look on her face. Kenji smirks in response, but speaks to Grayson, “she won’t get in the way of my duties, don’t worry. But showing off The Grand would be an impressive date, don’t you think?”

Grayson laughs and nods, “Of course. Go ahead.”

He glances at his watch and excuses himself, “Sorry, I’ve got another meeting to get to before the day ends. Alex, would you mind showing him out?”

“Not at all,” she replies.

When Grayson leaves she turns to Kenji and they hold eye contact for a moment before bursting into laughter. 

“You are ridiculous! I can’t believe you!” Alex exclaims, giving Kenji a playful shove.

“Sorry! Couldn’t help it. Was too good a chance to pass up,” he says laughing.

They laugh it off for a bit and make remarks about seeing each other for the first time. They don’t admit it but they’re both in awe of the other.

“Hey so, you’re not my boss, right?” Kenji asks her, as they ride down the elevator.

“Nope. So?”

“So I don’t have a date for tomorrow.”

“I thought you said you had a–”

“I asked if I could bring one, not that I had one,” he smirks. They reach the ground floor and Alex walks him to the door, excited at where the conversation is headed, but trying her best to keep cool.

“Well then,” Kenji says with a grin, “see you around, Alex.” 

He turns to leave and gets on his motorcycle. Alex stands there in disbelief, her expectations shattered. All she can do is laugh to herself. 

“Unbelievable,” she murmurs, making her way back upstairs.

Alex walks over to her desk, still scolding herself out of embarrassment for expecting something from Kenji, when she spots a piece of folded paper neatly placed on he center of her desk, and a large “-K” written on the outside. She huffs at the sight of it .

She opens the note to find a phone number and, written in large letters:

Be my date tomorrow, A? Call me.

(A quick and messy doodle of Talos winking is scribbled in the corner)

Grinning from ear to ear and shaking her head in disbelief, Alex dials in the number and calls.

“Yo,” Kenji picks up almost immediately.

“So I saw the note.”

“And?” he says playfully.

“And you’re gonna pay for that little stunt.”

“Promise?”

“You’re absolutely unbelievable.”

Kenji laughs, “I know. Pick you up tomorrow at 8?”

[bygosscarmine]

W: Worlds Apart - Volume 4: Worlds Estranged

Kang Chul X Oh Yeon Joo - Fix-It Fic (T)

Read from beginning or find previous chapters here: Stories

Oh Yeon Joo seems to have saved her father’s life, and ended W’s intrusions into hers. Isn’t that a happy ending?

Chapter 119 - Living in the Epilogue (1168 words)

Yeon Joo stayed on at her grandmother's house with Dad, sending Soo Bong first with the money for a motel room before he drove back to Seoul. They were actually resting in the countryside like she'd claimed. The docility with which Dad agreed to this was troubling, but she was too grateful for a respite to question it.

Not that the respite was particularly easy. As soon as Soo Bong was gone, a next-door neighbor came to snoop on what they were doing, check if they were really supposed to be there. Yeon Joo was able to satisfy the first wave of curiosity, and the crimp-haired woman went away with potentially sincere wishes for Dad's well-being--but she also got a call just hours later from her uncle checking in on them. The neighbor passed the word along, apparently, just in case.

The grace of being a heroine in a story was gone, and all the little inconveniences were back.

Days passed and they didn't speak much about what had happened. Her father did not drink any alcohol, though. After almost a week, she said, "The community center is having a lecture series, and I'm going to one about Toxic Emotions. Would you like to come?"

And he went with her, though she wasn't sure if he was actually paying attention. They went for a treat since they were already out in town, and as they sat in the cafe, mostly quiet, he said, "I'm sorry for what I did to you, most of all. That I took something you made and loved, then made him suffer. None of this would have happened if I hadn't asked to take that from you."

Suddenly, he was crying.

As if he had no memory of how to do it, like it took him by surprise. And Yeon Joo first, selfishly, wished he wasn't doing this in a public place.

Then she took a breath, pretended this was a scene of a comic, and said, "I didn't see it that way. But if you feel that way, I want you to know I forgive you. I forgive you for whatever pain I felt. I can't forgive you on behalf of others, but for my part, what's done is done."

She had to say it that way. She couldn't speak the name or she would be in the same state, though she had more recent practice with tears. And she wasn't sure she really could forgive it all, certainly it wasn't true that she'd already managed it. His acceptance that he'd done wrong was monumental, though.

He moved to leave the cafe, embarrassed, and she followed. In her car, he was busy cleaning up with his handkerchief, but even as they were pulling out of the cafe's street he added, "I have all these memories now. Of the killer who took my face. Of everything he did, while I was unconscious. And I can't tell myself I didn't do it, because I didn't listen to you or anyone. I kept forging ahead trying to just end things on my own terms."

"I'm sorry," Yeon Joo said, because suffering wasn't some kind of justice.

They didn't speak about it more, but having said that much, the air around the house changed.

After another week, Yeon Joo took him back to Seoul.

In the following months, he sold his lovely but now-inappropriate house for an apartment, where his lease could be easily covered by even diminishing royalties the rest of his life. It cost Yeon Joo a pang to have him let go of it, but it had already become a sort of museum to times that were painful, fraught. She'd had to go clean up blood first thing in the morning there, when her father was in recovery, before she went to relieve her mother. So no one would have to see it there but her. Best to let it all go.

Not long after he moved, Yeon Joo received mail from Dad ar her mother's house, a stiff large envelope.

She pulled it open to find a sheet torn from a sketchbook, penciled with slightly inaccurate panel lines enclosing what seemed to be a scene--

of her father talking to Kang Chul.

The art looked strangely naked, with the sketches not inked, no backgrounds filled. She'd grown used to developing an image on the tablet, and it had been some time since she'd seen a new draft her father was working out on paper. Even when the story had been generating itself from her partial drawings, its final form had always resembled the uploaded webtoons. It was weird to think that the comic's sense of itself had included the work assistants like Soo Bong did.

She slid it back into the envelope, swallowing. Not knowing what it was about, she wasn't sure she was braced to read it.

She went and made dinner, and did dishes. Only when she was back in her room, thinking about bedtime, did she have to acknowledge that she wasn't going to be able to go to sleep without looking at it.

She carefully drew it out and set it on her desk.

Oh Seung Moo sits at a table with Kang Chul sitting across from him. The panels show each of their faces in close-up as the conversation continues.

Kang Chul: I don't plan to ask your permission for anything. I want you to know, if your daughter will have me, I will be with her.

Oh Seung Moo: You know this is not acceptable. We've tried to kill each other. How can we ever have a father and son-in-law relationship?

Kang Chul: If it's what makes Yeon Joo happy, we just have to do it. We owe it to her. I owe her my life, you owe her yours. We don't get to choose.

Oh Seung Moo: So what if she wants nothing to do with you? Will you go away quietly then?

Kang Chul: If she sends me away then I will be patient. But I will be always within reach. And I will never give up hope, so I'll go just loudly enough that she will never forget that I am waiting.

Oh Seung Moo: I don't like you.

Kang Chul: How could you? You made me everything you weren't, and my existence showed your weaknesses. But in that way I will always be your child, won't I?

Oh Seung Moo: I don't like you. I understand, though, that Yeon Joo may be only happy with you beside her. I am willing to pay that price.

Kang Chul: And so am I.

She'd had taken down the reference pictures from her walls, now just reminders of her connection to Chul rather than useful. She tacked this up, though, as a reminder that no matter what she faced now, she had been loved. She had forgiven. The story was over and she had survived. Her father was also surviving.

What more could she want?

[yyhwritingrequests]

K I got a lot for you, hopefully that's ok, firstly: "fragor"- defined as "a crash", and lets go with Hiei and Rinku. Secondly: MORE TOUYA HEADCANNONS please, and thirdly: any yyh characters you want and a list of their hobbies besides fighting (if applicable)

Aaahok! So I tried to look up “fragor” just because I like contextand it’s not obvious if it’s a verb or noun and…I can’t find itanywhere? Like it’s not on dictionary.com and I googled it andnothing comes up, so not sure where you found this word BUT I’lltry?? Also, for future reference, please try and break up unrelatedtopics into different asks to keep asks from getting too all over theplace :)

Fragor:“A crash” soo a noun I’m guessing.

Thiswas the absolute last place Hiei wanted to be. He already wentthrough this on a technicality when he and Kurama had to make sureYusuke and the orange haired fool didn’t screw anything up tojeopardize him being released from Spirit World’s restrictions, andhe swore he wouldn’t do it again. Yet…here he is.

Thereyo-yo strings all over the place, dirty foot prints on the walls,floors, and most of the furniture. This child was too old to need anykind of guardian at this point so why the hell was Rinku even here?!The vein next to his throbbing Jagan Eye was about to pop.

“Ahaha!What’s it with big wigs being so boring? If I’m stuck here at leastkeep me entertained.”

“Iwill do no such thing. I’m here to make sure you don’t-”

CRASH!!!

Therewas an awful fragor from the other side of the room. And thenanother…and another…

Hieistood up at this point to assess the damage this wretched child hadcaused. He took a page out of Kurama’s book, his face a frighteninglevel of calm. There was now a massive pile of broken artifacts thatMukuro had collected over the centuries. The kid was hidingsomewhere, but either way Hiei would be blamed for this somehow.

“Boy,I highly suggest you save yourself a long excrutiating death bycleaning up this mess. But not before letting Mukuro know that youare banned from her fortress for acting like a foolish child.”

“WHAT?!Aw you’re no fun, it was just an accident! It’s just a bunch of dumbjunk, she won’t miss it-” Rinku was lifted into the air in theblink of an eye as black and purple energy circled around him. Hieihad gotten behind him before he even noticed.

“Putme down you ass!” Hiei brought him up to look this brat in theface. He seemed to shut up pretty quickly.

“Ifit was up to me you’d already be cinders, but since you’re on ofYomi’s dogs I’d rather he not create drama in Alaric. Let’s go, Iswear this is the absolute last time I babysit…” Hiei draggedRinku behind him out of the room, ignoring the kicking and crying.

__________________________________________________________

ForTouya headacanons, can you be more specific? There are a MILLIONtopics that they can cover and I’d want to make sure I writesomething that you have in mind! We do have some scenarios andheadcanons existing here, here, and here!

Hobbiesbesides fighting eh?

Yusuke:Outside of fighting, I think he would be super into video gamesspecifically…you guessed it, fighting games! Keiko got him a Wii atsome point and he became irate when he could punch faster than thegame could register and ended up breaking the controllers…so he’sstuck with normal controllers as punishment. He also expands on hiscooking, but doesn’t want too many people to know until he feelsconfident in his abilities.

Kuwabara:He would absolutely volunteer at the local animal shelter and helpgets all the cute kittens adopted while trying not to adopt them allhimself. Sometimes Yukina comes with him too, and the animalsabsolutely love her, and she loves taking care of them. Kuwabara willalso focus

Kurama:Besides focusing on his studies, he would do MORE studying bytutoring some local kids…he knew this would please his mother. Toappease his plant love, he would get a part time job at a florist,but he has to be careful not to get fired if his boss notices he’sbetter at gardening than she is…

Hiei:Fighting has been his entire life and that’s the main thing he knowshow to do, the only thing that’s fulfilling. He also loves napping intrees. I think if he were to do anything else, it would be assessingthe value of jewelry, gems, valuables, and artifacts. He would getinvolved in the black market. He isn’t interested in money, butnegotiating with the undesirables of demon world outside of Alaric isalmost thrilling.

Mukuro(because she’s rarely in asks and I love her): She’s been alive a long time and has done pretty much anything that she has the ability to do: she has her own kingdom and is one of the strongest demons in demon world. Something that she would never EVER let anyone know is that she likes to draw. She finds it calming, and she keep her sketches in a drawer in her room that is forbidden from ever being opened by anyone except her. 

Yomi: This boy likes to read, a LOT. He will grab and speed through any book he can get his demon hands on, including obscure novels from the human world that he somehow gets a hold of. He is also a fancy pants and, since he’s blind, gets into the world of perfumes and scents to the point of making a game out of picking out specific smells and odors that demons wear, and feels very smug when he’s correct (he almost always is).

Genkai: She enjoys her tea, her rest, and her video games. She is also much better at them than Yusuke. When Yukina is around she actually enjoys teaching her about the human world so she can put her own snarky spin on things. She mostly sits in her temple and relaxes in her old age, she doesn’t want to get involved in stupid shit that the young morons in her life get into.