#So... uh... what if I stick my fingers into that empty eye socket. It must hurt. It must be sensitive. A vulnerable spot.

[villain-in-love]

I am having thoughts that I probably shouldn't have.

[lnterjection]

gods of red skies (of this world to comprise)

Based on @quaranmine‘s post “that meme where the FBI shows up at your house because you know too much except it’s DreamXD and Ranboo being the only person who knows what an end portal is,” but I make it angsty.  

-----

“And here’s our table,” Phil said, and Ranboo’s jaw dropped in such standard enderman fashion he would have been ashamed, if he weren’t so preoccupied with the sight in front of him.

Slowly, he took a step forward. Leaned over and traced a finger across the pale, bumpy endstone, its tiny craters and rivers of raised ridges. It had been so long since he felt endstone beneath his skin. 

The empty sockets stare back into him, deep cyans and swirls of black. You’re here, they seem to whisper. We’ve missed you.

“It’s a cool table, but I think this is a bit of an overreaction,” he heard Techno whisper behind him. “Phil, what do we - uh...”

“Do you - do you know what that is?” Ranboo asked. He struggled to keep the awe from his voice. 

Phil glanced over his shoulders with a bewildered expression. “No?” he said, wings slowly fanning out. “What do you mean?”

“It’s-” Ranboo hesitated, taking a step back. Should he tell them? Should - should anyone in this cursed world have that sort of power? Wouldn’t that lead to more sides, more pointless statuses of power to fight over?

He made a split second decision. 

“Um, nevermind,” he said. “I forgot.”

The lie came so easily. Ranboo internally winced at how familiar his muscles were with the phrase. 

Techno eyes him, pupils narrowing, but he doesn’t comment. Phil gives them both a cheery smile and claps his hands in a neat, smooth motion, effectively shutting down the line of conversation.

“So!” he said. “Anarchy!” 

Ranboo nodded along, tried not to be too weird (or well, weirder than he must already seem to them), and that was that.

-

Everything was freezing - his crystalized bed that felt more like ice than wool, his creaking, ramshackle roof with scatterings of icicles that dripped frost and cold, the way every muscle of his body felt like it was contracting into a ball of sharp diamond. 

Ranboo couldn’t complain, though. He had a place to live. He was welcome here, which was so much more than what he deserved after everything he’s done. 

He wasn’t going to freeze to death. Worse case scenario, he takes his blanket and hides under his bed. He’ll be fine. Fine.

His chattering teeth and rapidly shivering body certainly seemed to disagree with him. 

Ranboo tried to draw in a clattering breath. The winds picked up, slicing every exposed inch of skin with an unforgiving glacier.

At least it’s not snowing, he thought weakly. 

And then, through the screeching winds and enveloping blindness of night, he heard it. 

There’s something crunching, outside the fences that made up his home. Ranboo blinked slowly, wondering if he’s finally gone off the deep end. If that last tether to sanity which his mind so desperately clung to was finally slipping away, and this was the moment he succumbed to that relentless war of the mind, never to resurface again.

For a terrible, traitorous moment, Ranboo hoped that it was Phil or Techno, here to invite him into their house of warmth, a sign of friendship or at least care, after he’d been invited into their anarchist group (which wasn’t taking sides, they just didn’t want to be ruled, was that so bad?).

“Not much of a house, is it?”

And like an arrow to his heart, that hope was promptly smashed to pieces.

“Shut up” Ranboo gritted out to the figure that was no doubt leering over him with that stupid smily mask and stupid smug voice. “You’re just jealous you don’t even have one.”

His mind scrambled around desperately as he suppressed a terrified scream. Is this his mind again? But that voice doesn’t show up outside the panic room, or does it? What does he know, really? 

Was this actually Dream, here to kill him? To take revenge on for destroying the community house? Ranboo couldn’t bring himself to drag his face away from the swath of blankets that he was clinging to, but he could hear the whine of the fence gates swinging. Something snapping shut in place. 

Dream was definitely here, unless Ranboo had, indeed, well and truly lost it. Which was a likely possibility. 

Dream, what was Dream doing all the way out here? And why now, of all times, did Ranboo decide to finally grow a spine? 

Well, either he was hallucinating big time, or Dream was here to kill him. Either way, it’s not like anything he did will matter. 

“I have a house,” Dream said, sounding mildly affronted. “Now, this pathetic excuse of a cattle pen certainly can’t be called one.”

“Just shut up and kill me already, Dream,” Ranboo yelled. His voice was muffled and thrown about by the wind, but it echoed through his bones nonetheless, and this was gratifying in some horrifying way because either way it’s not like what he’ll say will make any difference. “What, are you here to finally gloat over me too? Found a different target than Tommy, huh? Just can’t find a better use of your time than torturing teenagers-”

“What? Woah, I am not Dream,” Dream said, and Ranboo took a moment to process this information. 

“What?”

He finally looks up, squinting through the darkness and the biting way the winds attacked his eyes. 

The person that had his arms cross in front of him looked like a carbon copy of Dream, only with a pale blue hoodie instead of the usual lime green one.

“Just because you’ve put on a different outfit doesn’t mean you’ve changed who you are,” Ranboo snapped through chatters. “Fuck off or kill me, Dream. You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I told you, I’m not Dream,” was the reply. “Check your communicator.”

Ranboo, slowly, drew out the device and glanced at the pale, glowing screen. 

DreamXD whispers to you: I’m here.

“Really reassuring,” Ranboo said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be one of the nice ones?” ‘DreamXD’ asked. “I thought you had manners, or something like that.”

“Since when have manners ever helped me?” Ranboo bites, suddenly feeling something sullen draw his stomach down. Bittering clung to every word. “It’s like nothing around here gets done without violence.”

“That’s not my problem.” DreamXD made some shrugging motion, slowly turning his shoulders in an unsteady fashion like he was just getting used to moving his body. “I’m just here to...”

Ranboo flinched as a glimmering stick appeared in DreamXD’s hand. He recognized the telltale sheen of glowing enchantments, but that shouldn't be possible because you can’t enchant sticks. 

Dream, or DreamXD, or Not Dream, whatever the fuck he was - waved his glowing stick above him in what Ranboo assumed was supposed to be a menacing manner. He looked mostly like a deranged serial killer, which was, concerningly, also an apt description for the actual Dream. 

“I need to make an alteration to your book,” he said. “Hand it over.”

Ranboo stared at him for a long, drawn moment. His mind was blank, unresponsive, why would he want the memory book-

And then, his memory book was in the other entity’s hands, and Ranboo began yelling again.

“Give it back!” He lunged forward, but DreamXD teleported to the side and slammed his fist down on Ranboo’s back. He hit a faceful of snow and dirt, and a pained whine escaped his throat as the heel of a boot dug into his neck. 

Everything hurt. His back is now throbbing. Ranboo suppressed a sob as he heard the telltale sound of pages flapping wildly in the wind - and then the sound of ripping paper, grating against every bone of his body. 

Again - no, this couldn’t be happening again, why is this happening again, he was so careful and he hadn’t done anything and surely he had been good this time, hadn’t he?

His mind only just seemed to process what was happening. His memory book - his memory - was being stolen, torn, violated yet again and this time Ranboo could do nothing but listen and cry into the cold, gritty dirt while his neck is on the verge of snapping and what did he do?

He just wanted peace. He just wanted to be loved - not even loved, to just be left alone. To live without constant fear of pain or death or someone destroying everything he held dear. Was that so much to ask for?

Yes, a part of his mind whispered. You blew up the community house. You betrayed L’Manberg. You didn’t even have the spine to tell Techno and Phil, your new allies, what the end portal is. They welcome you onto their land and group and you repay them with more hidden secrets? How else will you betray everyone?

Everything part of him was burning. Ranboo wanted to slice and strip off all his skin, to submerge himself in freezing cold water and close his eyes and not have to worry about any of this anymore and why did he want all of that so much-

“There we go,” the voice above him suddenly said, and Ranboo made a choked noise as something hard kicked deep into his side. He tumbled across the floor with a few soft crunches before going limp, body splayed at unnatural angles that twisted knots around all his muscles. His throat felt more parched than desert sands, scraped raw and bloody. 

Something thudded in front of him, and Ranboo somehow had the strength to claw himself over through a filmy, blotched vision and drag his memory book back into his embrace. There were pages missing, ripped from the spine in jagged chunks like an unfinished puzzle shredded apart from frustration.

He choked again as a hand closed around his neck and dragged him up and something sharp and flaming jabbed into his chest. 

A coarse sleeve muffled his wailing scream. 

This pain was worse, so much worse, worse than the wither skulls and being dunked in water and all the stabs and slices he’s ever endured combined, his insides were burning and burning and on fire and covered in lava and Ranboo thought for a few fleeting moment that he would combust into sheer nothingness and he wanted to forget, forget why am I still here forget everything please I don’t want to be here-

“There we go,” the voice, that Dream voice, said, and it sounded so sickeningly like Dream but also not at all, because whereas Dream‘s voice always held a demeaning smugness about him this one had nothing but cold indifference, and Ranboo wasn’t sure which was worse but he couldn’t focus to think anyway because his entire world was red and white and burning and what the fuck was that stick enchanted with-

At some point, the pressure stopped. It faded away increments, and all Ranboo could comprehend was that eventually, as his mind flopped away from the shelter of nothingness, he was on the ground again and Dream was above him and everything was horribly, horribly silent. 

Why, he wanted to scream again to the howling winds, but his throat was spent and dead and he couldn’t move or do anything except lie there and spasm erratically like a dying animal with its guts already pooling across the stiff, blue grass. 

What did I do why is this happening please I’m so sorry I’m so sorry it’s all my fault please stop I don’t want to die-

“Let this be a warning,” the voice said in a smooth, terribly indifferent way. “If you write down what happened here, or about that end portal, I assure you that things will get much, much worse. And if you tell anyone, anyone else even a hint of what that portal is-”

Ranboo couldn’t even flinch as something cold pressed against his throat, as much as his mind leaped at the feeling. 

“I guarantee you will never see the light of day again.”

Was this what it had all been about? The portal? That he was being punished for his origins after all, for having the - the knowledge itself? For having the power to utilize it, even if he never would? 

“You really are Dream, aren’t you,” Ranboo rasped. He creaked his neck up to stare blankly into that pearly white mask. Every part of him, from his screaming body to his scattered, twisting thoughts felt weighted with magma, smoldering in its own ruins. 

Dream shrugged, a bit faster this time, and disappeared in a shower of flaking purple particles that drifted around like the snow that had, during some part of all this, began to fall. 

His eyes stung. His entire face was covered in tears, sharp daggers flicking the skin across with every movement. Ranboo couldn’t bring himself to care. He cradled his cold, crumpled memory book to his chest and knew that, as much as he hoped it was, this was not just a nightmare. Not in a world like this.

-----

Read on Ao3 here.

[subwalls]

WHUMPTOBER 2021 - 4/30

No. 4 - TRUST FALL “Do you trust me?” | taken hostage | pushed

Also available on AO3!

 Sapnap’s day starts off with his shitty apartment flooding ankle-deep in unidentifiable monsterly fluids, which sucks.

 It’s not as dangerous as that one time the whole building came alive and tried to eat its residents, but it’s definitely messier, which is arguably worse.

 This is the kind of thing most people usually take as a sign from the universe that they should go over to a friend’s place and sulk for the rest of the day. Anyone who’s survived more than a week in this clusterfuck of a city knows to trust their instincts on that—which usually means getting the hell out of dodge.

 Unfortunately, Sapnap has kind of garbage instincts.

 Oh, they’re fantastic at keeping him alive, sure. He’s coming up on his one-year anniversary of being here, and he’ll definitely be celebrating that at one of those dubiously legal and definitely non-human bars, but the fact that he’s      still     here, squelching through monster goop and all…

 Sapnap wrinkles his nose as he sidesteps the still-twitching corpse in the lobby. Some idiot with an organ graft from the End, probably, which explains the goop seeping into everything. Shouldn’t the drawbacks of End tissue be common knowledge by know? Specifically the fact that it implodes at the first hint of water?

 Most apartment complexes these days have sprinklers installed on the doorstep for the explicit purpose of enforcing their dumb Huma-only policies.

 Sapnap, with his Netherborn lungs, counts himself lucky. He looks Huma,      is    legally Huma, and can hold his breath when the sprinkler douses him. So his landlord’s none the wiser.

 Probably.

 Eh, if he was going to be evicted for that, it would’ve already happened. Work comes first, and if Sapnap’s lucky, he’ll be too worn out to even notice if they’ve cleaned up the mess by the time he comes back.

 He pats the left side of his face, checking that his eyepatch is in place like it should be, and walks out into the thoroughfare of SMP City.

 Immediately, the world drops out from under him. Sapnap whirls around, reaching out for the wall that should be right there, but the thin clouds slip through his fingers without so much as a whisper of substance.

 The wind forces his good eye shut. He forces it open again, squinting, all too aware of the warmth smoldering in his chest. His vision blurs weirdly in a way that could’ve been from wind pressure or because he’s been out for longer than he thinks. After a few seconds of blinking furiously, it clears.

 Oh. That’s not the sky.

 That’s the void.

 Those are two very different things. One is up, and the other is… well. All around the city, truthfully; it swallows the ocean and heaven alike into the dragon’s maw, marking out the abyssal boundary of where the other worlds bleed into this one.

 It’s part of what makes commute in and out of the place troublesome, because too-big vehicles that get too close end up attacked by the aforementioned dragon—not that anyone’s every seen the whole breadth of the thing, just an errant wing or tail that swings up to demolish a plane or ship, black scales iridescent against the darkness.

 The fact that Sapnap is standing on a platform in the middle of this beast’s territory is, as they say, Not Good.

 Leaning over the edge, Sapnap sees no support holding up the square of rock he’s somehow ended up on. It’s just floating over the misty emptiness. Looking up yields nothing of note either; he must be pretty low in the void if he can only see the wispy fog instead of the surface.

 Something silver flashes at the edge of his vision, and Sapnap ducks out of the way of a shattered blade. His cheek flares, and he slaps a hand against it, wincing.

 The metal tumbles into the void. Sapnap pulls his hand away, and blinks at the smear of blood left behind.

 “GREETINGS,” bellows out from somewhere overhead. A long scythe of a blade lowers from the fog, and Sapnap backs up to the edge of his floating rock as its tip comes to a gentle rest over his throat.

 “Why am I here?” Sapnap demands. He slouches backward, sticking his hands into his pockets like the perfect image of a begrudged student. If it’s to hide the trembling of his arms, that’s a secret between him and the phone in his pocket. “Who are you?”

 “I AM UNKNOWN, COLLECTOR OF DIVINE INSTRUMENTS, PROSTHESIS MADE BY THE GREATER POWERS,” the voice booms. “I AM HERE TO COLLECT YOURS.”

 “Uh, divine what now?” Sapnap says. He presses his thumb against the cool screen of his phone, making sure it’s facing towards himself so the light doesn’t bleed out. “I don’t know what those are. You’ve got the wrong person.”

 The scythe jerks upward, nicking open his chin, trailing up his face.

 And comes to rest directly over his eyepatch.

 Sapnap stills.

 “THE ALL-SEEING EYES OF THE GODS.”

 “What about them?”

 “YOU HAVE THEM. OR SO I THOUGHT,” the voice adds, and the scythe withdraws a little. “I DID THINK YOU FELL FOR THAT TRAP TOO EASILY FOR A TRUE WIELDER… IT WAS EITHER YOU OR YOUR SYNDICATE FRIEND, THEY SAID, AND THE FANG HUNTER IS MORE TROUBLE THAN I’D LIKE.”

 Syndicate friend. Fang hunter.      Dream.     Sapnap's heart plummets to his heels, but he tries to keep an even keel. “Who’s they?” he asks over the sound of his phone unlocking. As subtly as possible, he drags his thumb across the screen.

 “AH, NOW THAT WOULD BE TELLING, WOULDN’T IT?” A low cackle rolls through the fog like thunder, ruby light flashing faintly in the distance. “OF COURSE, IF YOU GIVE ME WHAT I WANT, I WILL GLADLY TELL.”

 “You… want to take the Eyes,” Sapnap says, slowly.

 “I DO.” A metallic      click     echoes overhead, and two more scythes descend, grinding against each other in a thin shriek of metal on metal. “BUT IF YOU ARE NOT THE ONE WHO WIELDS THEM…”

 Inhale, feel the air warm in his throat, embers into flame. “What’re you gonna do,” Sapnap says, “kill me?”

 “AND WASTE SUCH A RESOURCE? NO, NO. YOU ARE BEST KEPT HERE,” Unknown says, amused. Another blade comes low, and clinks against the phone in his pocket. Sapnap freezes. “GO ON. ASK YOUR FRIEND TO SAVE YOU. CALL THEM HERE. THESE THINGS ARE ALWAYS EASIER TO NEGOTIATE FACE TO FACE.”

 Well now he doesn’t want to do it.

 Sapnap snorts, and a tongue of flame washes over the back of his teeth. “I’m not going to be your good little hostage,” he spits.

 “BUT YOU ALREADY ARE,” says Unknown, and the scythes all turn to slam into the rock.

 Ruptures tear across the surface of the stone, and Sapnap swears as he quickly shuffles onto the biggest piece. The edge crumbles away; far below, the fog shifts. A dull purple glow starts to brighten in the abyss, a tell-tale sign of the dragon waking, and Sapnap throws himself at the scythe in preparation to climb up the weapon-limb if he must—

 His vision      sings.    

 Suddenly, the world takes on a blue tint. Everything jumps into high-definition, and the fog might as well not exist, and Sapnap can see the arching crimson light of a      fucking Blood Breed     looming above him, Unknown is a      Blood Breed,     Sapnap doesn’t stand a chance even if he can read out the letters of their true name from the red aura surrounding them—he looks away, and notices for the first time the golden threads spanning the width of the void, glittering with magic.

 In the back of his mind, he registers that he’s looking at the spell that stopped the Great Collapse, the one that saved the worlds from folding in on each other into utter destruction.

 The rest of his mind is a little busy      screaming,     though.

 A displeased snarl rips through the air as another set of scythes cleave down towards him, and Sapnap exhales a spout of flame that slows them down only barely enough to dodge.

 “OH,” says Unknown, “OH, OH! IS THAT AN EYE? YOU      DO     HAVE ONE! I DIDN’T KNOW YOU COULD HIDE THE GODS’ GIFT LIKE THAT—YOU MUST LET ME HAVE IT, HUMA, IT IS WASTED IN YOUR SOCKET!”

 Sapnap shouts, “You can take it over my dead body!” and throws himself at the ground when a blade tries to cut him in half at the hip.

 “GLADLY!” Unknown dives, now, their nebulous aura now a very clear and vivid blood-red glare into Sapnap’s vision, ruby light spinning down their bony weapon-limbs like latticework.

 Sapnap doesn’t flinch, and even swings his head upward to let the Eye watch and watch and watch—thinking      this is what I go through for you     with only half the bitterness he really feels—which is the only reason he notices the other one.

 Two Blood Breeds in a single day. Fan-fucking-tastic.

 A blade pins him through the shoulder in a burst of hot-eyed pain, but the rest all      miss     as a thin red string wraps around Unknown’s limbs and yanks them upward, into the low-hanging mist.

 Sapnap blinks. He can still see them, thrashing against a thread that yanks Unknown around like a plaything before throwing them aside. It’s connected to the second Blood Breed, which is descending towards him now.

 Okay, okay, it’s fine, he has a little time. A Blood Breed’s weakness is their true name, so if he can just extract that, he might be able to… burn it, or something.

 Sapnap takes a deep breath, gives his vision the middle finger just so the other end of the Eye can see it, and then focuses      hard     on that deep red aura.

 For the most part, it’s just a storm of crimson, red and red and ruby and blood, but Sapnap keeps      looking     and his one working eye whirs like a machine as it narrows, cutting through the noise, piercing down until he can see the heart and the core and… at the very end, a thin string of letters in a language he shouldn’t know.

 The All-Seeing Eye of the Gods pours it all into his head:       red red crimson-winged elder ⍊𝙹╎ᓵᒷ↸╎⍊ᒷ ᓵ∷ᔑℸ ̣ ╎リᒷ ⍑||!¡╎ ̇/ᒷꖌ ℸ ̣ ᒷᓵ⍑リ𝙹ʖꖎᔑ↸ᒷred blood red red war red—  

 “Tech—” he begins, and promptly chokes as a hand slaps over his mouth.

 “Shush,” says the Blood Breed, calm as anything, quite suddenly right beside him. “Yeah, I got there in time, of course I did. Hey, you’re Sapnap, right?”

 Sapnap tries to melt him on pure force of will alone.

 “I’m gonna let go of you now. Maybe don’t be rude and expose me in front of an idiot like that, alright?” The Blood Breed exaggeratedly steps back, and Sapnap immediately flings himself to the opposite side of the very tiny floating rock they’re standing on. “Great, cool, nice talk. Not awkward at all.”

 “What do you want?” Sapnap demands, bristling.

 “You don’t recognize me?”

 Sapnap pauses. He gives the Blood Breed another once-over, taking in the plush red cape and royal garb. Looks at the name again. Nothing rings a bell. “Should I?”

 “Eh. Guess not. We’re a little short on time anyway, so introductions can wait, I guess.” As if on cue, the void begins to rumble. The dragon must be      inches     from rushing out.

 Sapnap waves his hand through what he’s sure is a gear of light blue energy rotating in front of his face, trying to tell his friend to let it go. He doesn’t want him to watch him die.

 The Blood Breed interrupts him with a hand on his wrist. “Hey. Do you trust me?”

 “Hell no.”

 “Smart,” the Blood Breed says, and shoves him off the edge.

[rocksandrobots]

Of Rocks and Robots Ch. 10 - Gogo

Disclaimer:  So, this story is PG. Basically anything you might see come up in an old 90s sitcom, like Boy Meets World, Fresh Prince, Save by the Bell ect, is liable to show up along with anything that the parent shows cover. Nothing unsuitable for family entertainment, but clearly covering more mature subjects than the original source material, including today’s chapter which discusses alcohol.

Varian was hot. The sun beat down on the back of his neck and sweat began to trickle down his forehead. He couldn't remember experiencing a hotter day. In Corona the temperature wouldn't rise more than a balmy 15 degrees Celsius normally, but today, here in San Fansokyo, it had to be close to 20 or more. His phone said it was 73 degrees Fahrenheit specifically, but he was still getting used to the different measurements Americans typically used. All he knew was that he had worn the lightest clothes he had, a tank top and athletic shorts, and he was still burning up. 

Unfortunately, there was nowhere to escape from the oppressive heat. He was standing on the sidewalk next to a stranger's house while Gogo worked on their car. She did repair work on vehicles as a side job. Often exchanging her services for a cheaper price to other students which in turn gave her more flexibility in what jobs she took and when. 

Right now she was helping out another student whose car wouldn't start and didn't want to call a tow to take it to a mechanic. Varian had expressed an interest in learning how automobiles worked, so she had agreed to letting him come along and teaching him some basics. However, there was nothing for him to do at the moment. Gogo was under the vehicle on a rolling board and there wasn't enough room for both of them down there. So all Varian could do was standby and watch, which was difficult as he couldn't really see what she was doing from the position she was in now. 

Instead he surveyed the street and surrounding buildings. There were the tightly packed three story townhouses behind them and on the other side of the street were clothing shops, apartments, a bank on the far street corner, and a single restaurant that read ‘Maggie’s Pub and Grill’. Varian licked his lips at the thought of drinking something cold and wet to stave off the blistering heat. He dug his hands in his pockets to check if he had any cash. He still had a fiver leftover from the twenty Wasabi had given him two weeks ago at the mall. 

“Hey Gogo, I’m going to go get a drink, you want anything?” He loudly asked the girl lying under the car.

“Uhhh, a soda would be nice. Maybe some Mr. Pep.” Gogo yelled back at him, never leaving her position or stopping her work. 

“I don’t know if they sell that there, but I’ll ask” and with that he walked away and headed across the street. 

“Just knock on the door and ask Ashley if she has any...” Gogo said distractedly, not noticing that Varian was no longer there. After a moment or two without hearing an answer, Gogo suddenly rolled out from underneath the vehicle. 

“Wait.” She said to no one in particular as she stared up at the sky and began to put together what had just happened.

---------------------------

Varian squinted his eyes as he walked into the dark pub. The establishment was empty save for the barkeep at the other end wiping down the counter. This surprised Varian. In his world a place like this would be packed at this time of day, filled with field workers and sheepherders stopping to take their mid-day break. Practically his whole village would be gathered at the local tavern to eat, drink, and share gossip before going back to work. Varian had figured it would be even more crowded here given the larger city and the heat of day. 

He shrugged his shoulders. Oh well, maybe the food here wasn’t all that good. Didn’t matter, all he wanted was a drink. He walked over to the bar. 

“Hi, do you sell any, what was it she asked for,” Varian waved hello at the man on the other side and then cupped his chin in thought as he tried to recall what it was Gogo had wanted. “Pep?” He finished.

The large man didn’t answer him back, only to wordlessly reach under the counter and pull out a can of the soda and set it down. 

“Oh, yes, that’s it. Also I’ll have your darkest ale, please.” 

“I.D.” The man said deadpan. 

“Excuse me?” Varian asked, not sure what the man was requesting. 

“I need to see your officially licensed identification.” The man explained tiredly, as if he had to recite this often. 

“Uh, I have my student I.D. if that’s what you want.” Varian said, confused, as his hand went back into his pocket to dig out his wallet and money.   

The big man gave a heavy sigh and pointed to a sign placed in front of the cash register. ‘In Accordance to Federal Law all Patrons must be 21 or older to purchase alcohol and must show valid I.D.’ It read.

“You need a government issued license or passport, kid.” The barkeep said with annoyance, clearly believing Varian was there to try and pull some scam.

Varian, however, could only stare at the sign in bewilderment, still frozen in place with his hand in his pocket. His mouth hung open in astonishment as he tried to process what was going on. The amount of reliance on forms and identification in this world was odd enough but now there were laws against beer? That was practically all anyone drunk in his world. Coffee, tea, and cocoa were expensive and meant as a treat, and the only drinking water to be had were from the community wells, the river being brackish that close to the sea, and you still had to take time to draw the water. Which you didn’t want to do every time you were thirsty. And while this world did have running water, less expensive hot beverages, and that sugary soda in abundance; he still couldn’t figure out why that would be the cause for preventing anyone from buying an ale, let alone people under such an arbitrary age. 

“But… but why?” He whined in confusion. 

Just then Gogo burst through the door, stormed to up to the front counter, and before Varian could complain to her about this dumb rule, she grabbed him by the ear and proceeded to drag him back outside.

---------------------------

It wasn’t until they had made it back across the street did Gogo relinquish her grip on Varian. 

“What were you thinking!” She whirled on him angrily.

Varian only stood there and looked at her, still befuddled and ruefully rubbing his ear where she had pinched it.  

“You’re only sixteen!” She yelled, as if this was the most obvious explanation for her righteous anger.  

“So? You’re only eighteen.” He retorted back. As if she had any right to berate him in such a manner when she was only two years older. 

“I’m an adult,” She explained. “But that’s not the point. You’re a child. You don’t need to be drinking or trying to trick bartenders that you’re older.”

“I’m not a child!” Varian responded, properly angry now himself. “What makes you any different?” 

“I can hold down a job, pay rent, buy groceries, I can vote.” She began to list off what she thought were requirements for adulthood. 

“Sooo can you drink?” Varian interrupted as he pointed back to the bar. 

“Well, no.” She admitted, temporarily tripped up by that question. However, the smug look on Varian’s face renewed her annoyance with him. “You can’t even buy a hamburger without someone’s help.” 

“Just because I’m new to this world, doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself.” He said, deeply offended by that last remark. 

“Oh really, and when’s the last time you had to buy your own food, or clothes, or live on your own?” She asked skeptically.

“I’ve been on my own since I was fourteen!” He snapped. 

Then just as suddenly he stiffened with surprise, he hadn’t meant for that to come out. Both he and Gogo stared at each other, herself equally in shock by his revelation. He quickly turned his head away, bit his lower lip, and stuck his hands in his pockets. He just stood there awkwardly unwilling to look her in the eyes.

For Gogo’s part, she felt her heart drop the moment he had said it. What did he mean ‘on his own’? Who’d leave a fourteen year old to fend for themselves? Didn’t he say he had a dad? But before she could ask for some clarity, Varian spoke again. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” He said defensively, “I didn’t know about the alcohol rule. It won’t happen again.” He put his hands up in defeat and then walked away from her and the conversion. Making his way back to the car, he picked up a wrench and began to tighten a socket. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing but anything to keep himself busy and to avoid any more uncomfortable arguments. 

Gogo watched him with increasing worry. She wanted to know more, to help him, but she could tell from his stance and his behavior that he wasn’t willing to talk about it. She knew all about avoiding feelings and bottling up one’s problems. Not that long ago she had been a moody teenager who shoved people away, too. Heck, she still was a moody teenager that shoved people away. Though she had gotten better since she started college. It was amazing how much difference only two years could make. 

Before she had met Tadashi and her other friends, she had been a pretty lonely person. Constantly bullied in grade school and struggling with depression, she was considered the weird emo kid that always sat quietly in the back of the class. However, no matter how bad things had gotten, no matter how many fights she got into at school, nor now many times she cried into her pillow at night, she had always, always had her dad to turn to. Even now she still relied on the man, rushing to him to bare her soul when Tadashi had died, unable to bring herself to talk to anyone else about her recent loss. 

Who did Varian have? She wondered. If his father wasn’t there for him, then who did he turn to for help? Why had he even been left alone? 

Her thoughts were broken when Varian let out a yelp of pain. He had burned his hand on the hot metal and proceeded to stick his fingers in his mouth to suck on the injured digits, still not looking at her, embarrassed by his clumsiness.   

She let out a weary sigh. He was a mess. But so was she, and she didn't know how best to reach him. What would dad do? She thought. Try to get her to open up about a subject that she did enjoy or distract her with a project, she decided. 

"Sooo, Wasabi tells me you want to learn how to drive." Gogo said, changing the subject while she slowly made her way over to stand next to him. 

"Yeah." Varian agreed quietly, keeping his eyes on the engine, still choosing to not look at her. "But because I just moved here I wouldn't be able to get my license for another six months. I'm not sure I'll still be here by then." And with that he ducked back under the hood. 

This didn't sound encouraging to Gogo. If he truly was on his own then what was he going back for? But she knew bringing her doubts up would only push him away further. 

"Well, if you are still here in six months, you'll need a car to drive around in." She suggested instead. 

This grabbed Varian's attention and he finally stopped to look back at her. "Whatd'ya mean?"

"Well it's just, if you want to still learn how cars work, then perhaps we can build one, together. That way if Wasabi helps you get your license then you'll have your own vehicle to ride in." She continued slowly.

"You… you mean it?" Varian hopefully asked. 

"Sure, we can work on it in our free time." She said encouragingly. 

"Yeah? Yeah! That... that’d be great. I'd really like that." Varian agreed. 

He smiled appreciatively at Gogo and she returned it in kind. 

"Of course the first thing you'll need to learn is what socket you need to tighten or not." She gently teased, pointing to the socket he had busied himself with for the past few minutes to no avail. 

"Oh, right." He laughed in embarrassment and finally stopped trying to use the wrench. 

"Here, let me show you how to check the oil." She said and thus the day passed without further incident, just the two of them laughing and bonding over cars.

[imaginetonyandbucky]

Tony Stark’s Guide to Being a Functional Adult

Step 4: More Basic Adulting (AO3)

“Tony? Did you run the dishwasher this morning?” Bucky asked in an odd voice.  The kind of voice that sounded like he already knew the answer but he just wanted Tony to admit guilt first before chewing him out.

“Uh, yeah?”  The bottom dropped out of Tony’s stomach as he and joined Bucky in the kitchen where he was staring down into the dishwasher. He looked at the dishwasher too but didn’t see a problem.  “Why?”

Bucky stared at him in disbelief.  “There’s like, five dishes in here.”

“It was my turn to do the dishes,” Tony said defensively.  “So I did them.”

“Well, yeah, thanks for that, but don’t run the dishwasher unless it’s full.  That’s a huge waste of water,” Bucky said slowly, making Tony feel like even more of an idiot.  “If you do that after every meal our water bill is going to be astronomical.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that, I’m sorry.”

“Why don’t you-” Bucky stopped and pressed his lips together into a thin line.  He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly and exhaled even more slowly.  “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I get these, you know, days where I feel really anxious and stressed out and it makes me…” he drummed his fingers on the counter. “Snappish, I guess. Pissy.”

Tony stared for a minute. “It’s okay,” he said, confused about why Bucky was apologizing.  Howard had never apologized, not even the time he had given Tony that scar on the bottom of his chin.  “I’ll do better next time, I promise”

“How about from now on, I load the dishwasher, and you do whatever is left in the sink and wipe down the counters?”

“Sure, yeah, sounds good.” He paused, watching Bucky as he started to grab the few dishes out of the dishwasher and said hesitantly, “Are you feeling stressed out right now?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”  Bucky’s movements were jerky and his shoulders were tight, so Tony put a hand on his arm.

“Hey, I’ll straighten this up,” he said, taking the plates from Bucky’s hands.  “Is there something you usually do when you feel like this?”

Bucky let him have the plates and sighed, leaning against the counter and running his hand through his hair.  “Yeah, my therapist gave me tips to deal with days like today.”

“Well, then go do what you need to do, I got this.  I’ll even open up the garage if you want, just come down when you’re ready.”

(More after the break!)

Bucky nodded gratefully and disappeared into his bedroom.  Tony put the dishes away and wiped everything down until he was pretty sure that even Jarvis would be impressed, then went down to the garage.

Tony opened up the big metal garage doors so he could hear and see the pounding of the rain outside; it had been the sound of the rain on Bucky’s roof that had woken him up that morning, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Tony felt at peace while he laid there and listened to it.  They didn’t have any cars in yet, so as Tony surveyed the shop he figured that if there was one thing he could clean properly, it was a garage, so he metaphorically rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a shop cloth, and got to work.  He made it halfway through the tool cabinet when his phone rang, so he wiped his hands on his jeans and answered. “Hey, Rhodey, what’s up?” he said cheerfully.

“Not much. How are you doing?  Sleeping in your car or did you find a place to stay?”

“I found a place to stay,” Tony said, straightening all the socket wrenches so they were lined up neatly according to size. “I found a guy renting out a room who also owns a garage, so I found a place to stay and a job all in one.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tony could tell that Rhodey’s attention had been piqued by something from the way his tone sharpened. “Tell me about this guy.”

“Not much to say,” Tony said, suddenly wary.  He found a couple of lug wrenches leaning against the bench so he hung them up on the wall. “His name is Bucky and it’s his family’s business, he bought them out when he got out of the Army.”

“So he’s cute.”

“What?” Tony protested as he started separating the spanners from the adjustable wrenches. “I never said that.”

“You just did.  Methinks you are protesting too much.”

“Methinks you are an asshole,” Tony muttered.

“Let me guess. Is he tall?”

Tony sighed because he was so busted. “Yes.”

“Dark hair?”

“Yes.”

“And military, huh?”

“Ok, look, I don’t know where you are going with this-“

“Just saying, Tones, you have a type.”  Tony could hear Rhodey’s grin through the phone and he scowled.

“I never should have told you I had a crush on you in college,” Tony complained. “I take back all the nice things I’ve ever said about you.”

“Nah, you still love me.  So how’s everything else going?”

It wasn’t much more than a couple of hours before Bucky came downstairs to find Tony organizing and wiping down everything on the tool bench.  The radio was on, playing something soft and low, and Tony was humming along, swaying gently to the music. Bucky whistled, impressed by how nice the garage looked.

Tony looked up, and his smile made Bucky’s heart turn over in his chest.  Tony’s smile was rapidly becoming something that Bucky looked forward to every day. “Hey, Buck.  Feeling better?”

Bucky shrugged.  “Rainy days are usually not the best for me,” he said, trying and probably failing to sound casual.  “It was raining like this when, you know,” he gestured towards his empty sleeve.  For some reason, when Tony’s eyes went soft and sympathetic it made him feel understood, not patronized.  Perhaps because his look didn’t immediately turn to morbid curiosity.

“I’m sorry, B,” he said simply.  “I’m glad you’re feeling up to working today, but if you need to go back upstairs, I can-”

“No, I’m okay,” Bucky said, not wanting to seem like an invalid.  “I mean, a while ago I would have been spending all day in bed with a rainstorm like this, but it’s…” he wanted to say fine, but it wasn’t, really, he still couldn’t go out in the rain and listening to it drumming on the sidewalk was making the hair on the back of his neck rise.  “Better.”

Tony smiled at him and patted the now clean work bench.  “Have a seat, I made coffee,” he said, and he turned up the music so the rain didn’t seem quite as loud.

“You know how the Middle East gets these like, huge dust storms?” Bucky said as he accepted the cup from Tony.  “This one time while I was in Iraq we had a dust storm and a rain storm at the same time.”

“So it became a mud storm?”

“Yeah.  Raining mud.”  Bucky took a sip of coffee, eyes far away. “God, that was miserable. Mud in your clothes, your hair, the way you tracked it everywhere you went. You would go take a shower and be muddy again by the time you got back to your CHU.”

“Jesus, that sounds horrible,” Tony said, making a face.  “Must be kind of nice now, to be able to listen to it and know that you can stay inside, safe and warm and cozy.”

“That’s true,” Bucky said slowly. He hadn’t really thought about it that way before, but knowing that if the sound of the rain got to be too much he could go get on the couch under a blanket and know that someone was around to still take care of things actually made him feel better.  “Thanks.”

It didn’t take long for them to fall into a sort of easy rhythm of living together; Tony still screwed up basic chores sometimes, like using the sponge for the dishes to scrub the bathroom or putting dishwashing liquid in the dishwasher when they were out of the little dishwasher pods, and there was that one time the vacuum was making a weird sound so Bucky woke up one morning to find it completely disassembled in their living room, but Tony was grateful that Bucky never blew up at him about any of it. In return, trying to make up for the fact that Bucky had pretty much given him a whole new life, Tony tried to find ways to make things easier on Bucky around the house.  He repurposed a clamp from the garage to help Bucky open jars and mounted a shampoo dispenser in the bathroom when Bucky complained one night that he had accidentally dumped too much shampoo in his hair in the shower.

Mostly he puttered because he genuinely wanted to be helpful, but it didn't hurt that italso distracted him from the looming issue of his grad school application; the truth was, he’d lost all inspiration for the projects he’d been so excited about before.  Ironic for him to do all of this, the fight and moving out and everything, only for nothing to come of it because he couldn’t figure out what the hell to do for his proposal.

Tony stared fruitlessly at his computer, fisting his hands in his hair with frustration.   All of the ideas he’d had a month ago that seemed so rife with possibilities were just…blah. “Dammit,” Tony sighed.  At the corner of his draft paper he drew a stick figure with sunglasses and then drew a big missile flying at him and flames all around.

Just then Bucky knocked and said through the door, “There are new episodes of that cop show you like, do you want to watch it with me?”

“Sure, just a second,” Tony called back and shut his laptop.  He crammed the papers in his desk so he wouldn't have to look at them anymore and joined Bucky in the living room.

"I’m sorry, where you working?” Bucky asked as he came out, pushing the button on the microwave for popcorn.

“Only in theory,” Tony sighed as he grabbed two beers from the fridge.  “Still having problems with my application.” He’d complained about his lack of inspiration for his proposal enough times that he didn’t bother going through it again.

Bucky made a sympathetic face and said, “That sucks. Maybe some time off will help.”

“Can't hurt, I guess,” Tony said.  Bucky dumped the popcorn into a bowl and joined him on the couch as Tony hit play on the TV.  They didn’t talk much during the episode but the silence was comfortable, a far cry from the stilted few times that they’d hung out when Tony had first moved in.  

Glancing over halfway through the second episode, Tony realized that Bucky had fallen asleep leaning against the arm of the couch with his feet on the coffee table.  Tony smiled and leaned over to tuck the blanket over Bucky and settled back against the couch.  After the episode, the app automatically played another episode, this time from a different series.  Too lazy and comfortable to get up and get the remote, Tony was idly watching MacGyver when an idea occurred to him. He stilled and turned the idea over in his head, examining it from all angles.  “Holy shit,” he breathed. He carefully climbed off the couch so he wouldn’t wake up Bucky and tiptoed quickly to his room before the inspiration was gone.  Sometime in the middle of the night he came out for something to drink, shaking out his cramping hand, and noticed that Bucky must have gone to bed.  Finally, at the small hours of the morning, he put his pencil down and flipped through the pages and pages of schematics and diagrams and notes with satisfaction.   Not only would the new arc reactor design turn the clean energy market on its head, but Howard hadn’t made any breakthroughs on it in decades so when Tony showed him up he was going to look like a real asshole. Bonus.

“Wakey, wakey,” Tony said, knocking on Bucky’s door. When he answered, looking adorably sleep-rumpled and kind of grumpy, his heart flipped and he knew he probably had a stupid look on his face, but at this point he was too proud of himself to care. “I made you an omelet,” he said, presenting the plate to Bucky. “Took me three hours, but I did it.”

“This looks amazing,” Bucky said sincerely. “Let me put on a shirt and I’ll be right out.”

“Oh, uh…” Tony had been so excited he hadn’t even noticed that Bucky was only wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else; it occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever seen Bucky shirtless, and damn.  “Sure,” he said, jerking his eyes back up to Bucky’s face, hoping his voice didn’t sound squeaky. “I’ll just, um, be in the kitchen.  There’s coffee, too,” he babbled as he backed away. “And OJ, and, uh…”

“Coffee sounds great,” Bucky said with a small smile. The smile told Tony that Bucky noticed that he was checking him out and that realization made his face burn.  He made his escape and was tempted to stick his face in the freezer to try to cool it off, but instead he just sat down at the table and thought about car engines until all of the inappropriate reactions subsided.

“So what’s the occasion?” Bucky said as he came to sit down at the kitchen table.  “You’re up early.”

“I am actually up late, I didn’t sleep.  But I wanted to celebrate because I submitted my grad school application!” Tony said proudly, doing a little drumroll on the kitchen table.

“That’s amazing, Tony! Congratulations!  So you finished your proposal and everything?”  Bucky sounded so sincerely happy for him that Tony found himself blushing again.

"Yeah, I had a breakthrough last night while we were watching that movie, and then all of the ideas just wouldn’t stop coming.”  Last night it had seemed like his hands couldn’t keep up with his brain; in a flash of inspiration, he had suddenly seen the arc reactor and everything that needed to be done to make it smaller and more efficient and all of its potential applications, and after that it felt like the proposal had written itself.

“That’s really impressive, Tony.  I appreciate the omelet, but with news like that, I should be making breakfast for you,” Bucky teased, gently poking Tony in the arm with his fork before he took a bite of the omelet.

“Well, I was already up,” Tony said with a shrug, making a mental reminder to buy more eggs since he’d gone through half the carton trying to make this.

“Dinner, then," Bucky said around a mouthful of food.  "What’s your favorite food?”

“Oh, uh…” Tony stalled as his brain went through food that was actually possible for a amateur chef to make; somehow he didn’t think Bucky would be up for seared swordfish or a white truffle risotto.  “Spaghetti,” he said finally.  Howard hated spaghetti so all of Tony’s memories of it came from eating it in the kitchen with Jarvis and Ana, and sometimes his mom snuck into the kitchen to eat it too if Howard was busy.

“Spaghetti it is, then,” Bucky said with a soft smile.  He speared another bite of omelet. “So what’s the next step?”

“Financial aid, I guess,” Tony said glumly.  The prospect seemed a little daunting; it was going to take some research just to figure out the first step.

“I don’t know how helpful I would be, but if you need anything, just ask.”

“I really appreciate it, but you’ve already done so much for me,” Tony said.  “You gave me a place to stay, a job-”

“C’mon, Tony, you’ve earned all of that stuff,” Bucky said, waving off Tony’s words.  “It’s not like you aren’t paying for the room or earning your keep down at the garage.”

“I know, but…”  Tony didn’t know how to put into words the feeling that Bucky had opened up his entire life to Tony and welcomed him into it, giving him stability and a sense of purpose.  Bucky had been patient with Tony’s myriad fuck-ups and encouraged him when he was down about his application and he was funny and he thought Tony was funny and- “Oh, shit,” he blurted, eyes widening.

“What?” Bucky asked curiously, scraping up the last of his omelet.

I’ve got a crush on you.  “I forgot to return a call yesterday,” Tony said, which was true; his mom had called him last night and he hadn’t even heard the phone ring because he was so busy with his proposal.  “I’ll go, uh, do that, and I’ll see you downstairs.”      

[winterromanov]

she’s the sunset (in the west) - thasmin fic (2/?)

Yaz doesn’t make promises lightly. It’s one of her things. A promise should be taken seriously, carried out. If she’s promised to bake a cake for the school summer fair even though she can’t bake for shit, she’s still going to do it, layering the burnt bits in slightly sloppy buttercream. If she’s promised to take her parents to the airport at 3am on a school day, she’ll set an alarm and turn up to work the next morning on with a coffee stapled to her hands.

If she’s promised to find Poppy Smith some friends, she’s one hundred percent going to do that too. She remembers the warmth in Joanna’s eyes at the thought of it—this feels important, like she could actually change something. It might not work. It might be that in less than a year’s time Poppy will move up into year one and nothing will have changed, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t try.

She brainstorms ideas at her tiny kitchen table as soon as she comes through the door. Ryan’s not home yet so she violently clatters all his dirty crockery into the empty sink, dragging her flipchart paper down the stairs (which she saves only for special occasions). An hour later, her whole kitchen wall is covered in bright pink post-it notes, like she’s attempting some spontaneous redecorating.

“What the—“

Yaz almost jumps out of her skin, black marker sliding out of her fingers and onto the floor. She’d been so absorbed in her new project she’d never heard the front door creak open—and that’s quite a feat considering Ryan’s just come in from football practice, the studs of his boots usually clicking on the laminate like a herd of women in stiletto heels.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” she exclaims, heartrate slowly easing back to normal. Ryan rolls his eyes.

“I literally didn’t, but okay,” he huffs, refusing to look away from the chaos she’s created. He squints as he expertly manoeuvres his dirty kit from his bag to the washing machine—if only he could do that with the socks he leaves stranded in the hallway, she muses. “What the fuck is duck-duck-goose?”

“You’ve never heard of duck-duck-goose?” Yaz asks, open mouthed. Ryan bemusedly shakes his head. “Did you even go to primary school?”

Ryan shrugs. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Not if I could help it, no. Mum was a pushover but Nan never believed me when I told her I had the Japanese flu or whatever.”

“I bet she didn’t,” Yaz hums, because Grace never took any of Ryan’s shit. Not even at the end.

The two of them stand in silence for a moment, like every time Ryan mentions the lost women of his family. Yaz has never felt the pain he has. She can see it in his eyes, sometimes, how it lingers like fog. Dense and dirty but fading, eventually. Slowly.

But it’s okay, he has her. He’s always got her.

(It makes her think of Joanna Smith, again. About the dad that’s not around.)

Ryan snaps out of wistful reverie first, grabbing a beer out the fridge and snapping the lid on the kitchen table. Yaz throws him a look. He knows she hates that, which is probably why he does it. “What’s all this for anyway? Because if you’ve volunteered to lead another year six team-building weekend I’m going to be seriously questioning your sanity. Especially after last time.”

“No,” Yaz tuts, as if she’s going to make that same mistake twice, “There’s this kid in my class who is finding it hard to make friends. I’m trying to…think of something to solve that.”

Ryan takes a long sip of beer, studying more of her responses. “So you think a trip to the aquarium will fix it?”

Yaz shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe? Nothing gets five-year-olds talking more than jellyfish. That, and what they’re going to get at the gift shop on the way out.”

“I guess,” Ryan offers, but he doesn’t look too convinced. “Just… some kids don’t want to make friends, Yaz. As long as they don’t seem too unhappy, what’s the harm in it?”

“This kid is four, Ryan. It’s a very important stage in her social growth. If she doesn’t start developing those skills now when she’s little it could be a really big problem later on.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Ryan says, “All I’m saying…this is a lot of effort for just one kid. As far as you’re concerned, as long as they can count to ten and know most of the alphabet you’ve done your job. And don’t, uh, stick their fingers into plug sockets or something.”

Yaz just about resists the temptation to go off on just how wrong that is and just how Ryan could possibly understand anything about her job, how it’s never just one kid. Yes, she needs to teach them how to read and write and count. But she also needs to teach teamwork, conflict resolution, gratification. How you can’t hit someone with a building block or steal somebody’s sausage rolls at lunchtime. How you must listen to the people around you and acknowledge that sometimes you can’t win, whether that’s the star of the week accolade or someone’s forgiveness, straightaway. How you must be kind, always, forever.

The day she sees a kid in her class that’s struggling to fit in and she thinks it’s just one kid is the day she’ll walk away from teaching and never look back.

“Are you hungry?” Ryan asks, after a moment, “I haven’t eaten yet. Pizza?”

Yaz’s hand relaxes, flexing from a fist to loose. On an outtake of breath she runs a hand through her hair, before nodding. “Yeah, sure.”

“Cool,” Ryan already has his phone out, scrolling through the options on Dominoes. “Hey, Yaz, if you went through this much effort for a bloke maybe you’d finally get laid.”

It’s meant as a joke but—ha. Yeah. Maybe.

-x-

As it happens, it doesn’t matter how many neatly written post-it notes and mind maps you make. Children will always be ridiculously unpredictable, like they’re wired completely different to every single other person aged eighteen or over. She tries class games, seating plans, even outdoor learning in the summerhouse on the grassy quad near the upper school playground—but nothing will encourage Poppy Smith to talk to the other children, or the other children to talk to her.

Instead, Poppy becomes incredibly attached to Yaz. And that is really, honestly, the last thing she wanted.

“You know, it’s really sunny outside today, Poppy,” Yaz says, as in a new turn of events, Poppy refuses to follow the other children out onto the playground during lunch break. Instead, the little girl stays in her seat, taking her dark blue starry-patterned pack lunch box out of her draw and unpacking it onto the table. “I think some of the other girls were thinking about playing with the new skipping ropes. Wouldn’t you like to play with the skipping ropes?”

Poppy shakes her head decidedly. Silently, she removes a small peanut-butter and banana sandwich from her box and places it in front of her. Yaz watches as she nibbles round the corners first before eating the filling.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to go outside?” Yaz asks, somewhat weakly, because she has a feeling Poppy won’t give in to her hints easily. “It’s so dark in here and I have to mark your handwriting worksheets!”

“I want to stay with you, Miss Khan.”

When two little eyes blink innocently back at her, Yaz finds it very hard to resist. Technically, as long as she’s not on her own, it’s not breaking any rules. It’s just—this is not in the plan. It’s not good to let a kid become too attached. It goes against every instinct she has as a teacher, but she knows if she forces Poppy outside she’ll go back to silently stalking the edge of the playground with her book about space, lost in a world of her own.

If she’s in here—just for today—at least she’s in her company. Talking to someone.

“Okay,” Yaz smiles tightly, “As long as you promise to go outside tomorrow, yeah?”

Poppy nods happily and returns to her sandwich.

-x-

Quite by chance, today just so happens to be the day that Joanna is late. As one-by-one the kids spot their parents or guardians in the playground and head off back home, rain splattering off bright red wellies and raincoats, Poppy stands on her tip-toes and peers into the murky outside. The weather has turned somewhat since lunchtime.

Yaz looks at her watch. Quarter to four. The playground is mostly empty, other than a group of mums nattering by the gates, restless kids hanging off their arms or in pushchairs.

It’s the second time she’s been left waiting for Joanna Smith, Yaz ponders, and wonders if it’ll be the last time. She sighs, looking at the back of Poppy’s head, watching as the little girl’s eyes lock on to everything and everyone walking past the school.

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon, Poppy,” Yaz says, gently smoothing Poppy’s hair. Poppy looks back up at her, eyes wide and concerned.

“What if she’s gone to the moon without me?” Poppy asks quietly. Yaz shakes her head with a smile, crouching down so their faces are level.

“Your mum wouldn’t do that, I promise,” Yaz says, “She’d always wait for you. I’m sure of that.”

Poppy frowns. “My daddy didn’t.”

Oh. Oh. Yaz freezes for a second, like she always does when a kid says something like that. You know—something unbearably sad, something hanging and poignant, one of those things that just slips out because kids don’t hide anything. Kids have sad stories too. They carry tragedies in their reading folders, hidden under exercise books and friendship bracelets and constellations of gold star stickers.

Yaz takes one of Poppy’s tiny hands in her own. Notices the stars she’s etched on her palms in blue biro pen. “Look at me, Poppy. Your mummy isn’t going to leave you behind. Ever.”

(It’s a big, big promise. She doesn’t realise it at the time, but it’s the biggest one she’s ever made—because sometimes, sometimes people don’t come back. Or you don’t go back to them. Maybe it’s the first promise she’s made that she won’t be able to keep. Sometime.)

Poppy’s disgruntled expression shifts into a smile, and Yaz can’t help but grin back. When she stands, still clutching onto Poppy’s hand, she can see through the raindrops on the window a shaky, grey figure running towards the door. Against her better judgement, she can feel her heart do something she doesn’t want to put a name to.

The glass door opens and Joanna emerges from the cold, her anorak dripping rain onto the floor in mad, abstract patterns. She pulls down her hood and her blonde hair is a chaotic mess of drenched natural waves—it reminds Yaz of tides and sea-salt and white-sand beaches, somewhere cluttered and rugged like the Northern coast. The kind of water that leaves you freezing but dazzlingly awake, shivering in clean, white towels with piles of seashells in your pockets.

Joanna blinks and catches eyes with Yaz. Grins. “I’m making a habit of this, aren’t I?”

Poppy replies first, dashing towards her mother excitedly. She grabs Joanna’s legs in a hug and Joanna laughs, ruffling her hair.

“Oh, baby, you’ll get all wet,” Joanna murmurs, before clearly deciding that Poppy is going to get wet going outside anyway. She scoops her up into her arms and kisses Poppy’s cheek messily, Poppy’s hands looping round her neck.

“You didn’t go to the moon without me,” Poppy says matter-of-factly.

“Of course I didn’t,” Joanna answers, before looking confusedly back at Yaz, forehead scrunching. “I would never leave you behind. Never ever.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Yaz reassures, “Your mummy was just late, Poppy. Nothing to worry about.”

Joanna grimaces, shifting to bring Poppy further up her hip. “Yeah—I’m so sorry about that, I…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yaz responds, smiling comfortingly. Joanna seems to take it, smiling back. “No harm done, eh?”

“No, I suppose not,” Joanna’s eyes seem focussed on Yaz’s face for a second or two, and her heart is doing that thing again, that ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum that she’s only ever really felt when Harry Styles winked at her during a One Direction concert fucking years ago.

(Was it really that long ago, huh? Have men really been that disappointing since?)

“Well,” Joanna says, breaking the silence, “I think you deserve a treat, ay, Pop? Ice cream?”

Poppy looks excited but Yaz laughs, glancing at the deluge outside. “You’ve certainly picked the perfect weather for it.”

“Mummy,” Poppy says pointedly, playing with Joanna’s wet hair, “Can Miss Khan come for ice cream with us?”

“Oh, uh—“ Joanna looks at Yaz expectantly, “I mean, of course she can, if you’re allowed…?”

Yaz pauses, because this is not a situation she’s encountered before, and she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do. It’s probably important to keep a professional distance from the kids in her class and their families. She knows she can’t show favouritism, but… this isn’t that, is it? This is just going for ice cream with a woman that she can’t help but want to get to know better. There’s a magnetic quality in Joanna. A one that makes all her wiring stutter and restart.

“You know what,” Yaz answers, after a moment, “That sounds like a lovely idea.”

(Oh, and this is when she discovers that she’ll do anything for a smile from either of the Smith women.)

[ladywritesthings]

Jack in Wonderland, chapter 2

Fandom: Xiaolin Showdown Pairing: Jack/Kimiko

AO3

Kimiko Tohomiko prided herself on being a good person. She literally spent her childhood directly combating the forces of evil, for God’s sake.

Yeah, she might have let her temper get the best of her once or twice, and okay, sure, maybe she shouldn’t have beaten the stuffing out of Jack Spicer more than once just for shits and giggles, but she couldn’t imagine a reason to deserve this. Raimundo had done way worse things than her in his youth — switching to the Heylin side for starters, hello — and he ended up their leader at the Xiaolin Temple.

He hadn’t woken up one morning as a rabbit.

She heard Jack before she saw him, screaming bloody murder as he plummeted. She couldn’t exactly fault him for it — the fall was terrifying, and even she would have screamed were she able to — but she could find his high pitched screeching incredibly annoying.

She wondered if he’d survive the fall. She had, a few times now — although how, she had no idea — but the spattering of suspicious dark smears that speckled the ground and surrounding walls in the general area around the mouth of the tunnel was… concerning. It always gave her chills, coming back here. Her nose twitched as she inched back a bit, his shrieks rapidly becoming louder as he fell. She remembered him being surprisingly resilient when they were kids, but it didn’t hurt to remove herself from the splash zone, just in case.

He appeared suddenly in a blur of flailing limbs and a resounding crunch as he collided headfirst with the enormous pile of sticks and leaves that served as the only barrier between the freefall and cracked marble tile. For someone as tiny as she was right now, it wasn’t too bad as far as cushions went, but for a grown man… She squeezed her eyes shut just before impact — he might not be her favorite person in the world, but she didn’t need to watch his bloody demise either.

“Oh my God.”

She hesitated very briefly before daring to open her eyes again, and was greeted with the sight of a disheveled, terrified-looking Jack Spicer, sticks in his hair and a smudge of dirt on his nose. He looked around wildly, eyes bulging, only his head visible from her frustratingly low vantage point.

“What… what the fuck?” he breathed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped harshly. “What the fuck?”

He crawled haltingly out of the sticks, wincing as he went, and Kimiko shrank instinctively in the admittedly sparse cover of shadow she was in. He hadn’t appeared to have noticed her yet, and suddenly she was very keen to keep it that way. Except as he extracted himself roughly onto the filthy tile, feverishly trying to dust some of the dirt on his jacket, some of that dust wafted over in her direction.

Oh no.

She tried to hold it in, she really did, but her nose began twitching of its own accord and her eyes were watering with the effort. ‘Not yet,’ she thought desperately, ‘not now. Don’t make me—’

He caught sight of her just before she lost the battle. “You,” he said, blinking at her. “What are you — how’d you get down here?”

‘Shit,’ she thought, and sneezed.

The transformation was violent and instantaneous. One second she was huddled in a corner, face three inches off the ground — the next, she towered over Jack’s quivering form, limbs crying out in agony as the world exploded into color. It almost knocked her off-balance, going so suddenly from four legs to two, her floppy rabbit ears transforming back into long pigtails as her actual ears moved back down her skull in a fraction of a second. She wobbled on her heels, but caught herself before she could face-plant onto Jack goddamn Spicer, gritting her teeth against the pain and the vertigo. She was better than that.

If his eyes had been bulging before, they were practically popping out of their sockets now. His gaze migrated up her figure, cheeks reddening, from her thigh-high socks slinking past the tops of her stupidly impractical high-heeled boots, up her absurdly short skirt and its matching tweed vest, to the top hat perched somehow at an impossible angle on the top of her head. He gulped loudly. “Kimiko?”

She tugged at the hem of her skirt self-consciously and scowled. “Spicer,” she replied shortly.

“What the — But you were…? And how did…? A rabbit?” He shook his head as if to clear it, his hair showering leaves and broken twigs. “I must be dreaming.”

“Sorry, no chance,” she said, but he was still shaking his head.

“No, no, I fell asleep in the woods, and now I’m dreaming.” He eyed her again with renewed interest and a slow, lopsided grin spread across his face. “What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

In an instant she’d laid him flat on his back with a boot to the chest, heel digging hard into his stomach. “Don’t,” she hissed.

“Oh boy, oh geeze, not a dream,” he whimpered, eyes watering. “I’m sorry, okay? Let me go!”

She let him suffer for a few more seconds before she freed him. “Nice to see you’re still just as spineless as I remember,” she commented drily as he wheezed, clutching his chest.

“You’re mean,” he said, rubbing the spot where her heel had been. “And strong. How was I supposed to know? I was at a party, just minding my own business, and suddenly I’m falling and you were a bunny with a top hat, and—”

“Don’t remind me,” she muttered.

“—And now I’m somewhere underground being assaulted, and, and…” He looked around properly for the first time, eyes wide. “Where are we?”

“I…” Kimiko hesitated. She considered lying for only the briefest of moments, but showing temporary weakness in front of Jack Spicer was the lesser of two evils at the moment. “I don’t know,” she admitted reluctantly.

“You don’t know? How could you not know?” He gestured wildly at her. “You were a rabbit!” he exclaimed, as if that would somehow bestow her with encyclopedic knowledge of their current circumstances.

“I know, okay?” She folded her arms, gritting her teeth as the dull ache in her limbs twinged at the action. “But I don’t know why. Or where we are. Or why you’re here.”

He picked at the leaves in his lap with the hesitant air of someone caught between disgust and intrigue. “Why am I here?” he mused vaguely, before fixing her with an accusatory glare. “You brought me here.”

She curled her lip. “Believe me, I already wish I hadn’t,” she spat. “I forgot how annoying you are.”

He stuck his tongue out at her in response.

She rolled her eyes and turned to regard the length of the hallway, which was dim and empty and seemingly endless. She didn’t want to go back down it, but that little anxious tug somewhere in her stomach was back, urging her on. She couldn’t ignore it. She’d already tried.

She got about five steps before his voice stopped her, now tinged with panic. “Wait, where are you going?”

She exhaled deeply through her nose before spinning back on her heel. “Away from you,” she said, which wasn’t technically a lie, but perhaps a tad cruel as his eyes widened comically.

“W-wait! You can’t just leave me here!” He shuffled towards her on his knees, leaves trailing after him.

She rolled her eyes. “Watch me.”

“B-but we were just starting to get along!” he said, making the most pathetic attempt at a winning smile she’d seen in a long time. “What’s it been, five years? Six? There’s so much to catch up on… How’s, uh, the gang these days?”

“First of all, it’s been eight years, and no, we don’t. Also, none of your business. I have to go.” The tugging was more insistent now, and her fingers were starting to twitch.

“Please, no, wait!” He scrambled to his feet and suddenly he was looking down at her now. She blinked at the sudden change. He’d always been taller than her, and had obviously seemed ridiculously so when she first saw him as a rabbit, but he’d seemed like the kind of person who’d done all his growing at once and peaked at 14. On those few times he’d crossed her mind in later years, she’d always assumed she would have kind of caught up to him by now. Clearly that wasn’t the case — the top of her head barely cleared his shoulders, and she had a feeling that was only because of the heels. She scowled.

“Spicer, I don’t have time for this,” she said impatiently, turning away again. “I have to go.”

“Go where?”

“Just… go.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? You brought me here, and now you’re just gonna leave?”

“Looks like it.”

“How am I supposed to get back?”

Kimiko exhaled loudly. “I don’t know, okay? Figure it out.”

He paused, turning to inspect the gaping mouth of the tunnel in the ceiling, which suddenly wasn’t quite so gaping any more. He stared at it. “It’s closed,” he said, unnecessarily.

She’d been dreading that possibility. “So it seems,” she said flatly. “It does that sometimes.”

“Is that… blood?”

Kimiko shrugged. “Might be.”

He looked back at her nervously. “We’re stuck,” he said.

“Yeah.”

His lip trembled. “Have I ever mentioned that I don’t like being stuck? Underground? In the dark? With blood?”

“It’s probably come up at some point,” she said dismissively. “Good luck with that.” She started walking.

In his defense, it took a whole thirty seconds before she heard him frantically running after her. “Hey, Kimiko, wait up!” His voice echoed over the empty tiled hall.

She counted to ten in her head, very slowly. “I’m not your babysitter, Jack.”

“Hey, you got me into this mess in the first place,” he retorted. “I would be happily recovering from a food coma right now if it weren’t for you, you can’t just abandon me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t have to follow me, you know.”

“Well, what was I supposed to do? A rabbit pops up out of nowhere in a suit and a top hat and you expect me to ignore it?” He gestured to her outfit. “I mean, what is this? How do you keep your hat like that?”

“I never pegged you for a fashion geek,” she said, avoiding the question.

“I’m not, I just…” He gestured wildly, and accidentally knocked the hat off her head entirely. It fell to the floor with a muted thump. He froze instantly, expression like a deer in headlights. It would have been funny, if the growing pit of anxiety in her stomach hadn’t been gnawing at her. “I-I’m sorry!” he squeaked. “Please don’t kill—”

The hat was on her head again, although neither of them moved. He stared at it.

“It’s fine,” she said stiffly. “It happens sometimes.”

He knocked the hat off again. It came back.

“I-it…” he began haltingly, and raised a hand to push it again.

She smacked his arm away. “Will you stop that?” she said irritably.

He blinked rapidly, mouth flapping open and closed like a fish out of water, his already pasty skin utterly bloodless at this point. “What is this place?” he whispered hoarsely.

“If I ever find out, I’ll let you know,” she said curtly, and began walking again. The anxiety vanished instantly.

He stumbled after her. “H-hey, I was thinking,” he said, voice wavering and thin. “Maybe I could come with you.”

“Oh, really,” she said flatly.

“Y-yeah, um… You’re going somewhere right? Maybe I could help.”

“Help?” she repeated with a scoff. “What makes you think you could help?”

“Hey, I’m a resourceful guy,” he said, a little defensively. “I have skills.”

She snorted. “Well, if I ever need someone to do a little figure skating or fix a toaster or something, I know who to call,” she said sarcastically.

“Look, we’re all alone down here, and we don’t know where we are or why we’re here, a-and this place is really dark and weird…” He inhaled shakily. “A-and maybe you need a little moral support.”

She side-eyed him. “Moral support,” she repeated in amusement. “From you.”

“Yeah, like, so you don’t get lonely. Or — or scared.”

She fought to keep a straight face. “Scared,” she said. “Let me guess, this would be entirely for my benefit?”

His jaw tightened. “Let’s call it a… mutually beneficial arrangement.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re just going to follow me around no matter what I say, aren’t you?” she asked rhetorically.

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Probably, yeah,” he admitted. “I mean, c’mon, we’re the closest things to allies we have right now, and we stand a better chance of finding a way out of here together, right?”

“You mean, you stand a better chance of finding a way out of here together,” she corrected with a smirk. “I’m pretty sure I’d do just fine without you.”

“Oh, yeah, Kimiko, I’m so sorry! I totally forgot, I’m completely useless without you around to hold my hand,” he snapped. “It’s not like I’m a certified genius or anything. And you can just forget all those times I helped you and your buddies at the temple way back when. Remember when Wuya ruled the world? Because I sure don’t.”

She exhaled in annoyance. “Relax, Jack.”

He held up a hand. “No, no, you’re absolutely right,” he said, “I should just stay here, leave you to your super important secret mission with your magic hat. Wouldn’t want to get in your way or anything.”

She smacked his hand down irritably. “You’re such a drama queen,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Do what you like. It’s a free country. I think.”

Jack’s demeanor changed instantly. “So I can come with you?” he asked brightly.

She groaned. “I regret it already.”

“Sweet.”

Thankfully that was the last conversation they had for a while. She was honestly shocked when fifteen minutes had passed without him saying anything at all, and she took advantage of the silence to examine him out of the corner of her eye. Personality aside — which she was slightly dismayed to report was just as annoying as it had been ten years ago — it was almost hard to believe this was the same kid who used to run around with a monkey tail half the time.

His frame was still lanky, although the precise shape of him was hard to tell under the comically large suit jacket he was wearing. She thought he was rich, or at least had enough money to buy clothes that fit him, but he clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. Those silly fingerless gloves he used to wear covered his hands, and his nails were black and surprisingly well-manicured. The eyeliner was the same, but his face had lost most of the baby fat and he actually had a discernible bone structure now. A jawline, for starters. A pointed chin. His hair, now devoid of sticks, flopped slightly into his eyes, and he’d apparently decided that gauges were still a thing — his were black, of course. Metallic.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “What are you staring at?”

“You look like the eighties threw up on you.”

He sniffed. “And you look like an anime character, but you don’t see me eyeing you like a piece of meat.”

“No, you’re right,” she said. “You did plenty of that back at the tunnel.”

His ears turned pink. “I thought I was dreaming,” he said defensively. “D’you honestly think I’d have — well, I didn’t think you were real.”

“Oh, yeah? Dream of me often, do you?” It wasn’t meant as a flirtation, and he didn’t take it that way.

“No. But if a rabbit turns into a chick in thigh high socks, do you honestly expect me to assume it’s real life?” He looked away again, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sorry.”

She sighed. “It’s fine, I guess.” They fell silent again.

“Geeze, how long is this hallway?” he said finally. “Feels like we’ve been walking forever.”

“It varies, I think.” She frowned slightly. “But this is the longest it’s taken for me, anyway.”

“What do you mean, ‘it varies’?” he said, a tinge of nervousness entering his voice. “We’re not gonna be trapped in here forever, are we?”

“…No?” She hadn’t meant for it to sound like a question, and winced slightly when it did.

Jack stopped in his tracks. “We’re gonna die down here,” he said.

“Calm down, we’re not gonna die,” she said, annoyance starting to rise again. “I’m sure we’ll get there soon.”

“I don’t wanna die down here,” he said tearfully, wringing his hands. “Ashley owes me pudding cups.”

“You’ll get your pudding cups, you big baby, now come on.” She yanked at his sleeve and he followed her automatically, still whimpering. It would probably have been easier to drag him by an actual body part, but she refused to touch his hands, clammy and gross as they probably were.

“Have I ever told you that I don’t like being trapped underground?” he whined piteously.

“You’ve mentioned it,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Because I really don’t like being trapped underground.”

“I don’t seem to remember you having a problem in Wuya’s dungeon,” she said.

“That was different,” he insisted. “There was light. And we weren’t underground. Not like this.”

“Tell you what, Jack,” she said. “How’s about you stop whining, and I don’t leave you here all by yourself, hmm?”

He shut up after that.

It took another five minutes before she felt the tugging again, deep in the pit of her stomach. As uncomfortable as it was, she almost sighed in relief. Something must have shown in her body language though, because Jack snapped instantly to attention. “What?” he said. “What is it?”

“We’re here,” she said.

“Where? You just stopped, and—” He blinked. “Oh.”

The hall had changed, mostly because they weren’t in the hall anymore. They were in a vast room — a chamber, really, long and stretching and spacious — warmly lit and covered, floor to ceiling, in doors.

Tall doors, wooden doors, round doors. Upside-down doors. Metal doors. Doors that started halfway up the wall, doors crammed in the tiny spaces between other doors, doors half-concealed by curtains, and doors with no knobs. Jack gaped. “What the…?” He spun around slowly, taking in the absurdity of it all, and stopped. “Kimiko?” he said quietly, urgently. “Where’s the hallway?”

“We left the hallway,” she said absently. She’d already left his side and followed the tugging, wafting from one side of the room to the other, trying to figure out where.

“Clearly,” he said nervously. “But… where did it go?”

“Somewhere else, I guess.” It wasn’t working. She felt her anxiety building, but this time it wasn’t the artificial kind that came when she was “late.” This was all her, because if she didn’t find the right door, she would be late. She didn’t fully understand why, or what she’d be late for, but…

“What are you doing?” He’d sidled up to her again and she hadn’t even noticed. “You look weird.”

“You look weird,” she retorted.

“No, like… Are you feeling okay? Because if you freak out on me, we’re both screwed.” He tittered nervously.

“I can’t find it.”

His brow furrowed. “Find what?”

“The door, dumbass. The door, the door, I can’t find the door.”

He glanced around them. “Well, have I got some great news for you about where we happen to be right now.”

“This is no time for jokes,” she snapped. “I have to go, I’m going to be late!”

“K-Kimiko, maybe you should calm down,” he said tentatively.

“You calm down!” she yelled.

He skittered back, cowering. “M-maybe we should just try some doors,” he suggested.

She stared at him. “Try some doors?” she repeated.

“Yeah! Do you have a key?”

“…A key?”

“O-or we could try without a key first,” he continued hurriedly. He scampered over to the nearest one, an imposing oak that looked like it belonged in a medieval castle, and jiggled the handle. “See? Locked.” He fumbled through his pockets and fished out a small pocket knife, which he used to gouge a small notch into the wood. “One down, lots to go.” He grinned that stupid, nervous grin at her.

…Yeah, that could work, she supposed. Her anxiety drained instantly.

“I — I’m sorry,” she said distantly.

Jack sagged against the wall when he realized she wasn’t going to attack him. “Oh, thank God,” he said. “Have I told you recently how terrifying you are?”

“Not in the past decade, no.” She fished a hatpin out of the brim of her still-jaunty hat and twisted the handle on the closest door. Locked. She marked it.

This was going to take forever.

[yourslovinglecter]

The Duchess - Part 2

Summary: She hated him, for everything he had done to them, the damage he had caused, the suffering and pain he had left behind. She hated him… Didn’t she? Emilia comes face to face with the leader of the Saviours and is confronted with his true nature, which in turn has her questioning her own.

Warning/s: Eventual smut, slow burner, profanity/swearing, graphic descriptions of violence.

Pairing: Negan/OC

Part 1 | 

Part 2

Rick dropped his eyes and Negan straightened, clapping his hands together in glee as he looked around at their haul and winking at her as his eyes passed over her again.

“Whatever happened to that sick girl? It seemed like a hell of a stressful night for her. The way she was carrying on she was married to number two right?” Rick’s fingers clenched around the baseball bat as Negan continued to bait him. Enjoyment lighting is dark eyes as he relished in Rick’s reaction.

“Widows, especially ones that look like that… They are special. I love ‘em. Right after their husbands go they’re just empty inside.” He turned to look at Emilia again before he continued, his tongue flicked out to wet his lips, his tone was suggestive. “But usually not for lo-ong.”

“Where is she?” He laughed, his eyes carefully observing her, almost as though he was hoping from a reaction from her. “I would love to see her.”

“Would you care to pay your respects?” He broke his gaze from her to spin, turning to see Father Gabriel.

“Holy crap! You are creepy as shit, sneaking up on me wearing that collar with that creepy ass smile.” He looked at Rick, his face suddenly solemn as he connected the dots and asked “She didn’t make it?”

Emilia remained rooted to the spot as they left to ‘pay their respects’, Negan threw one last look at her over his shoulder, flashing her that pearly white smile. It was a clever ruse of Gabriel's, but she still didn’t like him, didn’t trust him. He made her skin crawl almost as much as Negan did…

She made her way back to the house, she needed to check on Judith. Her heart was still pounding in her chest and she was almost oblivious to her surroundings until a gunshot rung out from below her. She froze and waited, praying Judith wouldn’t cry out at the noise. A moment passed in silence and she made her choice, knowing the child was safe with Logan she took the stairs two at a time and went back down to see Carl in the living room, his gun raised at two of Negan’s men.

Negan was first in the front door, however he paused upon seeing her on the final step and his eyes travelled her body as Rick brushed passed him, not even noticing her as he entered the living room.

“He-llo again, beautiful.” He whispered, that smirk was on his face again as he placed his hands in his pockets and licked his lips. “If you’ll excuse me, Milady. Duty calls.” He whispered the last part, pointing to the doorway with his gloved hand before he mockingly bowed and entered the room, just as Rick was begging Carl to lower the weapon.

She heard the exchange but tried to tune it out. She needed to focus, she refused to admit his charm was affecting her. She was used to scumbags, to lowlife men who thought they could get into her pants however they chose. Him though. His manner disarmed her and also put her back up. She didn’t know where she stood with him and that frightened her more than she cared to admit.

When she came back to herself she heard Negan tell Rick he wanted all their guns, she closed her eyes and cursed Carl and his impulsive nature. They’d never know now if they’d have been able to keep any, if he would have even asked for them before this moment had occurred. As they made their way out of the house she got another one of those looks from Negan and her grip tightened on the handrail as he chuckled.

Once they were gone she took a moment to check on Judith. Who, miraculously, was still fast asleep with one chubby arm extended through the wooden bars to grip Logan’s black fur tightly. The canine lifted his head as she entered and she took a step forward to pet him on the head once before she locked the door behind her again and made her way to the lockup. She wouldn’t hide inside and let him hurt anyone and if Judith hadn’t needed watching she’d have taken Logan too, his presence at her side had always bolstered her courage, not to mention made everyone else shit their pants when they saw him.

She’d got him as a pup from a farm where the farmer’s bitch regularly wandered the fields and had ended up pregnant. The farmer had guessed with some wild dog or neighbours pet as he didn’t have a male. Logan was the only pup who had survived the litter of three and the farmer didn’t have the time or inclination to raise him, she’d fallen in love with the small fluffball as soon as she’d laid eyes on him. Though he’d soon grown out of that stage and fast, his mother had been a pure bred black German Shepherd so she’d known he’d be large, but as he’d grown bigger she began to believe the farmers dog had mated with a coyote or wolf, his build was all muscle and his head came up to her stomach when they stood side by side. She wasn’t exactly tall, standing at 5 foot 3 most people eclipsed her in height, but with Logan at her side she felt 10 feet tall.

He’d been invaluable to her and when the apocalypse had begun, she was terrified of losing him to walkers, but he had the natural instincts of a predator and this world suited him more than that of a house pet. The first time he’d ripped the throat out of a walker she was terrified she’d lose him, he must have swallowed so much of the rotten blood she was sure he’d be infected.

But he never turned, never died, and had watched her back and saved her life on more than one occasion.

She would have loved to see the faces of Negan’s men when confronted with him, but he was where he needed to be.

It would seem she had perfect timing for when she arrived Negan was towering over Rick again, she caught the tail end of their conversation.

“But what I really wanna know is if we’re gonna find all the guns back there or if maybe you’ve got a few just… waiting for their moment. Just like my Lucille.”

“They’re all in there, to the best of my knowledge.” Rick said, turning his face away from Negan whilst the baseball bat still hung from his fingertips.

Those dark eyes captured her as he smirked, the tips of his teeth showing. “Mmm! I am countin’ on that Rick.” He swiftly turned around leaving Rick standing alone, she approached her leader and looked down at the bat with disgust. Rick followed her gaze and his jaw flexed as he ground his teeth together in frustration. She placed a hand on his bicep, trying to offer what little comfort she could. She understood what he was doing, why he was going along with Negan’s games and Rick raised his icy blue eyes to hers and she could see the thanks in his gaze. She smiled at him softly.

“Nuh-uh-uh, I do not like that.” Negan's voice echoed and she looked up to see him stood in the shadows, watching her. “He’s already got his hands on my Lucille, I can’t be lettin’ him have both my ladies. Come on darlin’ you can show me how you handle a dangerous weapon.” The innuendo coated his tone and made her cheeks colour as she met Rick’s eyes, he nodded minutely, telling her to do as she was told.

As always, she followed her leaders orders.

She bit her lip hard as Negan draped his leather clad arm over her shoulder and shot a look at Rick before letting her lead him to the guns.

He soon got bored of watching his men count guns and so made his way outside with Rick. She stayed with Olivia, offering moral support as the strangers surrounded her and whilst most were men, one woman in particular seemed to have a stick up her ass.

“They don’t add up.” The woman glared. “You can explain this to Negan.”

The woman moved to grab Olivia and Emilia immediately grabbed her wrist. “You don’t want to do that.” She warned, hating the way Olivia cowered away from these lowlife bullies.

“You don't want to do that.” She mimicked in a terrible attempt at an english accent whilst her other men laughed. “Yeah? And are you gonna fucking stop me you stupid bitch?” The woman’s lip curled up in contempt as she pushed Olivia backward. Emilia watched her stumble and land hard on the floor, her cry of pain was the final trigger and she finally unleashed the anger that had been building within her since hearing what had happened that night. Emilia drove her elbow up into the other woman’s face and heard a satisfying crunch as she made impact with her nose.

“Ungh!” The woman grunted, her hands going up to her bleeding nose. “Somwub fucking holb her!”

Three men descended on her and Emilia threw her head backward, connecting with the face of whoever had tried to restrain her. They let go in shock and she crouched, sweeping her foot on the ground to knock the other two of balance. She stamped her foot down on the eye socket of the biggest man, enjoying his scream as he rolled over and clutched at his head.

Unfortunately the noise had attracted the attention of Negan’s remaining men and they descended on her en masse. She couldn’t fight them all and It took five to restrain her as the woman with the broken nose repeatedly punched her, splitting her lip and making her jaw throb.

They dragged her upstairs along with Olivia and she heard Rick and Negan’s conversation halt as she was forced in front of them.

“Arat we don’t do that, unless they do something to deserve it.” His voice held something, anger perhaps? She couldn’t tell, the throbbing of her jaw took away most of her thought process. At least she knew the name of the coward who’d had to have her restrained to hit her.

“Yeah, do you call breaking my nose something to deserve it?” Arat removed her hand to show the stream of blood and crooked break in her bone.

“Ouch…” Negan leant in closer, his eyes moved over me and the five men who were having a difficult time restraining me. “She did that to you?”

“I paid her back.” Arat said proudly and Emilia spat blood at her feet, her eyes sparking with fury.

“Only after I’d taken three of you out and you had to get five of these morons to restrain me so you could actually get a hit in. Lets go now, one on one and we’ll see who pays who back.”

Negan’s brows narrowed and his tongue passed over his teeth thoughtfully. “Let her go. Now.”

The hands immediately let go and she fell to the ground, grimacing as her knees met the gravel. His boots appeared in her field of view and she looked up to see him offering her his gloved hand. She took it and stood, aware of the blood dribbling down her chin but she was more concerned about keeping her legs from shaking after the adrenaline come-down.

Negan seemed fascinated as he watched, his dark eyes holding something she couldn’t read as his bare thumb wiped at the split in her lip. She grimaced at the sting and his eyes shot back to hers.

“Three of my men? Well Duchess, I can see I underestimated you. Arat what do you say? I myself wouldn’t mind watching a little girl-on-girl action.” He grinned with barely suppressed glee but his eyes scanned her jaw as he took her chin in his thumb and forefinger to get a better look.

“Sir?…” Arat sounded confused, fearful and reluctant.

“No, of course you don’t want to. Because you know that you’d fuckin’ lose. What started this Duchess?” He turned back to Emilia, indicating toward her face with his large, tanned hand. He clearly liked the new nickname he’d thought of for her, seeing as he’d used it twice in the last two sentences. She licked her dry lips, appreciating the sting of pain and taste of blood as it helped her gather herself. Negan however seemed more fascinated with the sight of blood on her tongue, his eyes watched her mouth intently.

“She went to grab Olivia. I told her not to touch her. She then asked me what I was going to do about it, I took that as an invitation to show her.” Negan chuckled appreciatively and his tongue swiped over his lips, mimicking hers, before he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and lead forward.

“I really fuckin’ like you Duchess. Don't tell them though, Rick might get jealous.” He whispered in her ear and as he pulled back he flashed her that wide grin. He then turned to Arat who told him that the guns were short, which was why she had been bringing Olivia up.

What happened after was a blur, she could hear he was pissed, threatening to kill Olivia, but she didn’t have much strength left after what had just happened. How had she gotten so weak, living behind these walls? Olivia whimpered as Negan approached her, his threatening tone made it clear what his intentions were. Emilia tried to step forward but her limbs shook and the world shifted around her. When she expected to meet the hard floor, strong arms came around her and a waft of leather hit her as her face pressed against the cool material.

“I knew i’d sweep you off your feet.” He whispered against her cheek before turning to talk to Rick, whilst hoisting her bridal style into his arms. She was pleased to hear he was giving Rick time to speak to the others, to find the missing guns. But unhappy to hear that she and Olivia would be remaining with Negan whilst that happened.

She pushed her hands against his strong chest as he walked away from Rick with her in his arms, Olivia following behind meekly, her head bowed over her ever present clipboard.

“Put me down, I can walk.” She said through clenched teeth, her jaw throbbed painfully as she spoke.

“I’ve no doubt of that sweetheart, but I enjoy carryin’ you.” The suggestive tone in his voice made her cheeks flush and she was grateful he couldn’t see from his vantage point. “Up close and personal…” He breathed, bathing her in the scent peppermint and whisky again. She tried not to think about his fingertips on her side, she could feel the heat of his hand through the thin cotton of her tank top and he seemed to be tracing circles over her ribcage. She tried to reach for the disgust she had felt upon their first meeting, but to her irritation it seemed to have momentarily fled.

She was grateful when they reached the house Negan had chosen, though he seemed reluctant to let her down.

“Hm, maybe we should walk round again…” He murmured as he looked disapprovingly at the couch, she’d had enough of his hands on her and his grip tightened as she pushed at his chest again, this time forcing him to let her down. Her legs felt much more stable beneath her and she glared at him, his eyes flicked from hers down to her lips and he smirked at her.

Part 3

[eiznel]

It’s Fine

Summary: It’s not. 

Note: An EXTREMELY late entry for the milkman/housewife writer’s challenge. It was supposed to be smut, but it became decidedly NOT smut. Might be a secondary chapter later that includes smut.

Rating: M for mention of abuse, thoughts on suicide, and just heavy shit in general. light fluff, brief mention of sex

Pairing: Papyrus x Sans , Stretch x Sans

Ao3: Here

Sans sighed softly as he watched the milkman walk down the path leading away his door, a spring in his step. When he reached his truck, he turned and waved at Sans, grinning so widely his eyesockets squeezed shut. Sans lifted a hand and nudged it to the side in a poor approximate of a wave in return. No matter how much he relished the other skeleton’s bi-weekly visits, he loathed spending more energy than was necessary. He sighed softly again, clutching the jar of milk in his hands a little tighter. It was warm outside, even so early in the day, and the coolness of the glass felt amazing against his bones. The perspiration on its surface gathered, beading and being pulled down by gravity to gather on the sides of his fingers. It wasn’t until the truck was out of sight that Sans turned and walked back into the empty shell that was his home.

It wasn’t to say that the house was unfurnished, no – in fact, it was furnished quite well, if not a little sloppily (housewife was he, but orderly and clean was he not) – but it felt devoid of life to him. Maybe because it was usually just him. He didn’t blame his husband, Stretch. The days at the research institute just seemed to grow longer and longer, and Stretch usually was only home long enough to eat, shower, and sleep. It seemed to take a toll on him, his attitude with Sans growing more distanced. He was just distracted, Sans figured. It was fine.

‘no, no it’s not!’ his mind insisted.

…perhaps not. He wasn’t sure what had changed. Stretch used to come home somewhat energized – at least, as energized as Stretch could be – talking about his work, his coworkers, his boss, anything that came to mind, and Sans would get into it, asking questions and presenting ideas of his own.

Despite his occupation as a stay-at-home wife, Sans was brilliant in his own right, self-taught in astro and quantum physics, chaos theory, and physical chemistry. He couldn’t rightly explain why he loved the subjects so much, but he’d wanted to know, and his position in life didn’t allow him the luxury of college. It was shortly before he was of legal age that Sans found himself homeless, no longer able to tolerate the abuse of his legal guardian, Gaster. He refused to acknowledge the monster as his father, for he acted like anything but, insulting and scorning Sans when he wasn’t ignoring him, striking him when Sans annoyed him, which had begun to grow a little too often for Sans’s liking. He ran after Gaster broke his arm in a rare fit of true temper, and the monster had never gone looking for him. The subsequent years found him bouncing from job to job until he was legal age, and then he worked three minimum wage jobs to support himself. Any spare moment was dedicated to reading, losing himself in numbers and theories. It was the same material Gaster had studied, and a much younger, much more naïve Sans had picked it up in an attempt to impress him, to bond. The bond had never taken, but the love of the material had.

That was around the time Stretch found him, or perhaps when he’d found Stretch. The tall skeleton had been idly poring over his class notes, looking bored out of his mind at the restaurant Sans worked at. Sans had glanced at the notes and instantly been intrigued, sifting through the information he’d already learned. His softly spoken question had snapped Stretch out of reading the same sentence for the fiftieth time, and he’d blinked stupidly, prompting Sans to snort in laughter and repeat himself. Sans began seeing more of Stretch after that initial conversation, eventually leading to dating and marriage, with a firm, impassioned promise from Stretch that he’d never have to work again.

Stretch had been different then, laid back but enthusiastic at times, sociable and kind. He might still be that way, Sans mused, but he had no way of knowing with how distracted and deflective he was.

(‘how was your day?’ ‘Just fine, dear,’ accompanied with a thoughtless pat on the head as he moved past.) Sans had tried asking if anything was wrong, but was assured that things were peachy-keen and he had nothing to worry about. And so to ignore the old demons that were clawing at his soul, and the sinking feeling that he was losing his life partner, he returned to his books, once more throwing aside his real life for numbers and theories.

Then Papyrus came along.

His previous milkman (a rather old and forgetful tortoise) had retired, and a bright and boisterous skeleton monster had taken his place. The first time they met, Sans was torn between feeling annoyed and feeling like he’d just been punched in the chest.

--

*ding dong*

‘gimme a minute, gerson,’ he muttered, pawing along his folding table for his bookmark without looking. He stood, shuffling along to the door in his dark blue fluffy robe. Undoing the lock, he slowly pulled the door open and found himself wondering why Gerson had a shirt over his face; then he blinked once, twice, and found his eyelights traveling upwards, eventually locking on the dark sockets of a beaming skeleton that was probably only a fraction shorter than Stretch.

‘uh…can i help you?’

‘GOOD MORNING! I HAVE BROUGHT YOU YOUR SUPPLY OF CALCIUM, THE BEST FRIEND OF SKELETONS LIKE US! ALTHOUGH NOT EVEN MILK COULD BE AS GOOD A FRIEND AS THE GREAT PAPYRUS!’

A part of him, unsettled and unused to the presence of other monsters, wanted to punch this ‘Papyrus’ in the jaw, take his milk, and go stick his face back in a book. The rest of him was struck dumb at the sheer amount of energy the skeleton was pouring off. They could probably power Mountain City for a month with this guy (their town founder wasn’t exactly…creative with names).

‘…right. i uh…you takin’ gerson’s place?’

‘INDEED I AM!’ he boasted proudly. ‘GERSON FELT IT BEST TO RETIRE, AND I AGREE WITH HIS DECISION. OUR CUSTOMERS NEED THEIR BONE-FRIENDLY CALCIUM IN A TIMELY AND EFFICIENT MANNER, AND NONE ARE MORE SUITED TO THE TASK THAN I, THE GREAT PAP--’

‘yeah i gotcha buddy, no need to announce your name all the time,’ Sans cut off quickly. What was with this guy? Was his ego that huge? Or had he been knocked around a few too many times and felt a need to remind himself of who he was on the regular?

‘so. in the spirit of timeliness and efficiency, can i have my milk now?’

Papyrus froze, then wailed loudly, causing Sans to step back in alarm. What the-!?

‘PLEASE FORGIVE ME, I SPENT SO LONG BLITHERING THAT I HAVE FAILED MY DUTY. ALLOW ME TO MAKE AMENDS!’

Two bottles were shoved toward Sans and he grabbed them, wondering if he should just accept the extra bottle or shove it back and tell the monster to get lost. His voice was still ringing in his skull…

‘thanks, i guess?? i dunno if i’ll be able to finish it all, but might as well milk this for what it’s worth, right?’

Sans observed the change in Papyrus immediately, saw how the monster’s shoulders stiffened and his eyesockets grew even wider.

‘WAS THAT…A PUN??’

So that was this guy’s weakness? Sans felt himself begin to smile, something he hadn’t done in weeks.

‘sure was. want an-udder one?’

If Papyrus had eyes, Sans was sure they’d be popping out of his skull with how hard he was trying to maintain a professional face.

‘NO, THAT WILL BE FINE, THANK YOU THOUGH! I MUST BE GOING NOW – GOOD DAY!’

And with that, the skeleton did an about-face and prepared to speed-walk away from him. Sans felt a chuckle escape him and he blinked. Well that was…nice.

‘hold up.’

He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, tilting his head as he watched Papyrus slowly turn around.

‘you comin back in two weeks? that was my schedule with gerson.’

Papyrus straightened his spine and puffed out his chest, making another chuckle bubble up in Sans’s chest. He acted like Sans had just insulted him.

‘OF COURSE I AM! I AM HONOR-BOUND TO BRING YOU YOUR SUPPLY OF CALCIUM! IT IS A SWORN DUTY AND I WOULD NEVER SHIRK IT!’

Sans raised a brow ridge.

‘take your job pretty seriously, huh?’

‘I TAKE ANY TASK TO HEART, SIR.’

‘sans.’

‘I BEG YOUR PARDON?’

‘my name is sans.’

He could see the indecision on Papyrus’s face as he wondered whether he should actually use the name or not, and a pale orange blush sprouted high on his cheekbones. Sans blinked at that and felt his grin widen. Well that was certainly pretty.

‘don’t worry, you can use my name or you can call me whatever. either way is fine. but you should probably get mooving along, no?’

A strangled noise got caught in Papyrus’s throat and he quickly turned around, speeding to his truck.

‘GOOD DAY, SIR!’

Sans chuckled again. That felt good. It was nice to laugh.

--

Papyrus’s exuberance was blinding, overwhelming, and it had a strange habit of making Sans’s soul flop in his chest cavity like a fish out of water. In what was an otherwise gray existence, Papyrus was a breathtaking splash of color. He’d grown to crave Papyrus’s visits, was nearly desperate for them. It was a break from the monotony, a break from the silence.

A break from the nearly crippling loneliness.

The time between visits were practically a blur now, though Sans really couldn’t call them visits, could he? He’d been doing his damnedest to keep Papyrus nearby as long as possible, asking questions and offering information freely. He’d come to slowly learn things about the skeleton, tidbits of information that he hoarded greedily.

Papyrus was five years younger.

Papyrus had served in the armed forces (he sheepishly admitted that he actually never made it past PT).

Papyrus was very fond of puzzles (though he once tried to convince Sans that the horoscope was one of the most difficult puzzles he’d ever encountered).

Papyrus’s favorite food was oatmeal with dinosaur eggs (how cute, Sans had thought, hiding his affectionate smile beneath his hand).

Papyrus’s favorite color was “the sky on the first day of spring”.

The list only seemed to grow longer, and Sans was beginning to think he knew more about Papyrus than he knew about his spouse. He smoothed his hands down his knee-length black skirt and tangled his fingers in the hem of his deep blue blouse. It was hard to remember when he’d started dressing nicely for the monster’s visits. He already wanted Papyrus to visit again. This was bad, he thought with a clenching of his jaw. He’d grown far too attached to a monster that was far too bright for a selfish, messed up monster like him. Who even knew if Papyrus didn’t have someone to go home to? Who wouldn’t love to be with someone like him? And why was he even thinking about Papyrus’s marital status? He was married! ‘for how long?’ his mind whispered, and he froze, his fingers nearly tearing a hole in his shirt. That was a ridiculous thought.

…right?

He would need to think about it more, and carefully.

It took another 12 weeks to come to terms with his failing relationship. He spent his time watching carefully, listening, exploring various means to snag Stretch’s attention, feeling increasingly desperate and dejected.

He bought a sky-blue sundress with white and gold flowers scattered across the fabric.

‘do you like it?’

‘Hm?’ Stretch looked up from a stack of files he was poring over and took in the outfit. Sans swore he saw a flash of wistfulness in Stretch’s narrowed sockets, but it was gone before he could be sure.

‘You look lovely.’

And that was the end of that.

He wore it the following morning, and Papyrus had been speechless for a moment before smiling so brightly Sans was nearly blinded.

He tried engaging in more displays of affection and coaxed Stretch to the bedroom. The taller monster agreed to it only once. The movements were somewhat robotic, and Stretch didn’t really seem to be looking at him. Sans felt unsatisfied afterward, and he had a suspicion that so did Stretch.

He again tried to engage more in-depth conversation, but it never got beyond surface level and if Sans had hair, he would have ripped it out in frustration. Another part of him, a part he regularly shoved down with uncharacteristic violence, said that the past was doomed to repeat itself, and he’d be a failure like he’d always been.

It had fallen apart when he wasn’t looking. He didn’t want to accept it, but what choice did he have? He sat quietly in the living room one evening as Stretch looked over more notes and drank a tea Sans had made for him. He breathed in, shutting his eyesockets.

“it’s not working, is it.”

Stretch paused, tilting his head ever so slightly in Sans’s direction.

“What?”

Sans gestured between them.

“this. it hasn’t been working for a while now, has it?”

The teacup was placed down on the coffee table with a small ‘click’, and Stretch turned fully towards him.

“…What makes you say that?”

Sans huffed lightly, trying not to feel angry.

“kind of a ridiculous question, no? there’s…there’s nothing there anymore. not sure when, not sure why, but it’s gone. i can see it on your face that you feel the exact same way.” Sans grit his teeth together, feeling a surge of bitterness before he smashed it down. “you weren’t exactly subtle.”

Stretch said nothing for a minute, and Sans felt his shoulders drop when Stretch sighed.

“You make it sound like I did it on purpose.”

He stared incredulously at the other monster.

“you mean you didn’t?”

Stretch glared weakly.

“Of course I didn’t. It just…happened. I got really involved in my work and by the time I pulled my head outta the water, the spark had just…I dunno. Evaporated.”

“how long ago.”

“Huh?”

“how long ago was it that the spark disappeared? how long have i had to wonder?”

Sans watched as Stretch bodily cringed.

“…I don’t know. Months ago. I just kept up the idea of being absorbed in work. I mean I still am, but…”

Sans’s eyelights became glued to the ground.

“you’re kind of an asshole.” he remarked casually.

Stretch cringed again.

“I know. I didn’t mean to drag it on this long, but I didn’t wanna really admit that it was gone. You were trying and I wanted to try, too, but…I couldn’t.”

The wistful look on Stretch’s face flashed in Sans’s mind and he felt like laughing. So that’s what it was. He supposed he couldn’t be too angry at Stretch. He was feeling the same way, after all. The causes were different, but the result was the same.

“So who are they?”

The other skeleton’s frame stiffened.

“What?”

Sans snorted, smiling crookedly.

“i’m askin’ who the other monster is.”

Stretch’s eyes narrowed.

“Sans, are you accusing me of cheating?”

Sans shook his head.

“nah, we’re both too lazy to take that extra step and cause that kind of drama. but there is someone, isn’t there?”

Stretch looked down, clasping his hands together as if praying. After a long moment, he spoke. “There’s this monster that comes by pretty often with the wife of one of my coworkers. Best friend, apparently. He’s the exact friggin’ opposite of me – bright, energetic, loud, and such a social butterfly that it makes my head spin.”

Sans felt something like horror well up in his chest. Please let it not be Papyrus, please let it not be Papyrus. How twisted would that be??

“He’s maybe just an inch shorter than you, but he has a thing for boots, so he’s always up a few inches. Has a thing for bows, too, it’s kind of adorable.” Not Papyrus. Good.

The effect on Stretch was immediate. A warm, affectionate smile morphed his face into something Sans had never seen before. He thought he had seen a loving expression on the other skeleton’s face before, but this was on an entirely different plane. The guy was absolutely lovestruck. Sans thought it would have hurt more to see that expression directed at someone other than him, but he felt oddly numb.

“Incredible cook, too. He’ll bring tacos, brownies, these really great honey crisps. Definitely caters to my sweet tooth.”

Papyrus was a terrible cook. He’d found out first hand when Papyrus had brought a small porcelain bowl of his “world-famous gourmet spaghetti” and Sans had nearly spit it out upon tasting. When asked who had taught him, he said it was a combination of self-teaching and his best friend who was a military officer and apparently thought violence was the answer to everything. The following visit, Sans had given him a small book of recipes and a suggestion to watch the cooking channel and YouTube, with a smiling jab to take his friend’s advice with a grain of salt, which earned him a flat glare and a declaration of “YOU ARE UTTERLY IMPOSSIBLE”.

“stretch…why didn’t you just talk about it? i mean you’re my husbonedo, but you’re my friend, too. all this did was make us both suffer.”

Stretch snorted softly and his warm smile cooled to a slightly crooked grin.

“Nice one. If it bothered you so much, why didn’t you mention something?”

“kinda gave you an opportunity really early on, and you lied through your teeth.”

“You didn’t press it.”

Sans raised a hand in a gesture that said ‘are you serious?’ “why did that have to be my responsibility though? you were the one that didn’t want it anymore. i had no idea what was goin’ on and wanted our relationship to be okay.”

“Sans…”

His raised hand flipped up to motion Stretch to stop.

“i’m not tryin’ to sound accusing. i’m just sayin’ if you didn’t feel it anymore, you should have let me know instead of making me wonder. It…kinda fucked with my head a li’l. you know one of my earliest goals was to make the folks important to me happy. it’s all i’d wanted as a babybones ‘cause that asshole was never happy. and having you ignore me like he did…i dunno. i felt like that babybones all over again.”

Stretch looked stricken.

“Shit, Sans I’m sorry, I didn’t realize--”

“i figured. but it’s not your problem, it’s mine. at least, it is now.”

The taller monster wilted visibly.

“Yeah…guess we’re calling it?”

“yeah…we’re calling it. there’s not really any other option.”

Stretch looked uncomfortable.

“Guess so. What now?”

Sans shrugged, feeling the numbness in his chest begin to morph to feel a bit more like a void. He tried to analyze the phenomena and found he didn’t care enough. He tried to focus on Papyrus, that bright ray of light, and felt the growing void falter. He wondered how long he’d be able to cling to that light.

“Tomorrow I’ll go and get the papers so you can sign. I’ll also begin to look for a job, maybe try to put this mind of mine to use.”

Stretch looked even more uncomfortable than before. “I know I promised you’d never have to work again…”

“you kept that promise as long as you could.”

Tilting his head and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, Stretch made an idle gesture with his free hand.

“Look, uh…I’ve been at the research institute for a while now, maybe I could talk to some folks and get you a job at a branch facility? You’ve got the knack for it.”

Sans felt his soul twist oddly in his chest. A chance to work in a field he loved?

“you’d…you’d do that for me? but i don’t have a degree or anything.”

“I’ve made things bad enough.” Stretch paused, looking down. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, they’d be idiots to turn you away. You remember how many times you helped me with my homework when I was in school, don’t you?”

Sans huffed softly to himself.

“there were times back then where i thought you had no business studying this stuff.”

“Just because you’re a natural genius…” Stretch muttered.

Sans chuckled.

The relationship ended on a neutral note, and Stretch began coming home in a better mood. It was a silent agreement that they kept any future relationships to themselves, so mentions of the Bedazzling and Brilliant Blue were kept to a minimum and Sans made no mention of a more-than-passing interest in Papyrus. A different part of Sans, however, the part from his childhood that he’d tried to keep down, felt that the impending divorce was unacceptable, that he’d not done enough to keep Stretch happy. How was he supposed to keep Stretch happy, though, when the kind of monster he wanted was so very different from him? He couldn’t change that much without no longer being himself. Despite that argument, that part of his mind refused to be silenced, telling him that he was a failure, that this would happen to every relationship. He didn’t make Gaster happy. He didn’t make Stretch happy. What was he doing wrong? As the days passed, Sans fell into himself. The finalization of the divorce was barely even noticed by him.

“Sans, you need to eat something. You look sick,” Stretch told him one day. Sans had stopped keeping track of the passing of time. What was the point? Something in the back of his mind screamed at him to snap out of it, that he should never be the one to put that look of concern on Stretch’s face, on Papyrus’s face.

“don’t worry about me,” he replied quietly. “i’ll be fine.”

“No you won’t. Just…here, eat this, okay?” And then a small pastry was pressed into his hands. It didn’t look store-bought. One of Blue’s creations, no doubt. He couldn’t make something this delicate.

Failure.

With his head bowed so deeply, Stretch couldn’t see the tear that slipped down Sans’s face. He stood and placed the pastry on the coffee table.

“no thanks.” A second later, he heard Stretch curse.

“Sans, I didn’t think, I’m sorry—”

“it’s fine,” he cut off flatly, not stopping in his journey to the guest bedroom where he’d been sleeping.

It wasn’t fine.

Sans sat on the porch in a plain white blouse partially obscured by an open navy-blue hip-length cardigan. A thin black cotton skirt fell just past his knees, showing his legs and bare feet. His attire was a far cry from the more colorful outfits he’d worn in the past that garnered glowing compliments from Papyrus, and Papyrus was more than aware of the difference. The change was also reflected on Sans’s face and frame, his dim eyelights glued to the floor and his posture slumped. Papyrus wanted nothing more than to run up that pathway and sweep the smaller monster into his arms, but he was frozen.

Sans was a customer and despite their friendly banter, it had been a professional relationship. It should stay that way. But Papyrus would be lying to himself if he didn’t find himself drawn to the quiet snarky monster. He wasn’t sure why, though. ‘You know why,’ he whispered to himself. He lived for Sans’s uncommon smiles and even rarer laughs. He loved Sans’s jokes and puns, even if he pretended he hated them, and he admired Sans’s incredible intelligence. The skeleton didn’t like to show it off much, stars know why, but when he began talking about space or some other science-y gobbledygook, Papyrus felt awe-inspired. There was a lot of passion there for science, and he wondered why Sans didn’t pursue it more aggressively. What was holding him back? Before he knew what he was doing, he was stepping out of his car and walking down the pathway that led to Sans. That empty look on Sans’s face was unacceptable, and if visiting him on his day off got him in trouble, so be it.

Papyrus frowned to himself when Sans didn’t even acknowledge his presence, still staring at the floor. In fact… Papyrus squinted suspiciously. Sans was entirely too still.

“SANS?”

No response.

“…SANS?”

No response. Papyrus felt a flash of fear. He’d never touched the smaller monster before, but…

He leaned closer, extending one hand before hesitating. Slowly, he removed one of his gloves and placed it against Sans’s forehead. It was cold, and he flinched back in alarm. How long had Sans been out here!? The beginning of winter was setting in, and the wind had a bite to it that pierced his warm reindeer-patterned sweater. Scrambling to put his glove back on, he hesitated for a split second before swooping down and lifting Sans in his arms. Maneuvering the small body so that it was held comfortably in one arm, he tried the door. Locked. Had he been locked outside? …or had he locked himself outside?

Papyrus wasn’t stupid. He knew what misery looked like, and despite his best efforts, Sans had been swallowed by it in the last couple of months. Gradually it had gotten worse, and now…this. What would have happened to Sans had Papyrus not decided to give in to his urge to see him again? He didn’t want to think about it. Shutting his eyesockets and apologizing silently, he turned and made his way back to his car, Sans as light in his arms as a leaf in the breeze. He deposited the skeleton in the passenger seat then walked around and sat in the driver’s seat, turning on the car and cranking up the heat as high as it could go.

What should he do, he wondered. Should he drive to the hospital? Should he stay here and see if the heat from his car would revive Sans? Should he go home? His grip tightened on the steering wheel, the leather of his gloves crunching audibly.

Keeping Sans in the car could prove to be fruitless. What if something else was wrong? He considered the hospital. It would be the most logical choice. Hospitals had gear he could never dream of having, but what could they really do? Hospitals couldn’t fix maladies of the mind, and if it was what he feared, hospitals were rarely able to treat that, either. The will of a monster was a delicate thing, not easily swayed by strangers. All the magic and medicine in the world could not save a monster that did not want to be saved.

Clenching his jaw, he turned the car around and started driving back the way he came. The hospital was the logical answer, but logic wasn’t his strong suit. He glanced at Sans and felt his soul clench painfully.

“NOT YET, SANS.”

His apartment was tiny, at least compared to Sans’s house, but it was meticulously kept with sparse decorations. His room was likely the loudest in the apartment, lined with shelves and the walls covered with things that held his interest. Perhaps he’d show Sans later. But for now…

He placed Sans on his couch as delicately as possible and pulled a chair from his practically nonexistent dining room to the couch. Papyrus sat down, staring at the limp form in front of him, the eyesockets of the other monster having fallen shut on the way over. What did he do first? Did he get prepare tea? Did he try to talk to Sans? He’d never been in a situation like this before. Breathing in, he tried clearing his head. Panicking would do no good. He remembered the words of his guardian and breathed in again, slower this time.

Do what feels best, child. More often than not, your soul will guide true.

What feels best? He dragged his gaze from Sans’s lax features to his chest and felt his soul clench, only marginally less painfully than before. He took his gloves off and placed them on the arm of the couch, then reached forward, placing his bare hands on top of Sans’s chest. Papyrus bowed his head, mentally apologizing again for what he was about to do. What other choice did he have? Checking another monster against their will was invasive and usually done only under extreme circumstances, such as a life-or-death battle or medical emergency. As he analyzed Sans, he felt his bones bleach of color, his eyesockets growing wide with horror.

HP: 0.1/1

Papyrus’s right eyesocket burst with a surge of orange magic like a sunflare and his hands lit with healing magic. Perhaps it was overkill, but Papyrus was hardly thinking clearly. Why did Sans only have one HP!? He bent over Sans’s prone body, his eyesockets squeezed shut, wisps of orange magic curling upward and disappearing. He mentally projected his voice, willing Sans’s soul to hear.

SANS…SANS PLEASE LISTEN TO ME…I KNOW YOU’RE STILL THERE. I WILL NOT LET YOU GIVE UP! YOU ARE STILL NEEDED! I NEED YOU! SO PLEASE, ACCEPT MY MAGIC. LET ME PULL YOU BACK. STAY WITH ME.

Papyrus knew his soul was glowing brightly through his sweater, and for a moment he thought he saw a responding blue pulse beneath his hands, but nothing came afterward. He pressed down slightly, feeling the fear he felt earlier trying to wrap around his soul. He cast it aside angrily and felt tears gather at the corners of his eyesockets.

SANS, PLEASE. DON’T LEAVE ME BEHIND. NOT WHEN I JUST FOUND YOU.

…

PLEASE…

…

…papyrus…

Papyrus felt a quick and violent pull at his magic, causing him to grit his teeth, but it faded and when he opened his eyesockets, Sans’s soul was pulsing slowly beneath his fingers in a shade of blue that he automatically identified as his favorite.

Sans

HP: 1/1

“Thank goodness…” he whispered. He took several deep breaths and froze when he heard a small exhale of air.

“…why?”

“DID YOU NOT HEAR WHAT I SAID?”

“…i did. but why?”

“WHY NOT?”

Sans tried to move, but Papyrus held him down with a hand on his shoulder.

“YOU WILL LIKELY FEEL WEAK FOR A WHILE. I WOULD RATHER YOU STAY STILL FOR THE TIME BEING.”

The smaller monster tried pushing against Papyrus’s restraining hand, but fell back with a soft sigh.

“i’m not worth it.”

Papyrus wasn’t sure whether to be angry or sad.

“WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU SAY THAT?”

“because it’s the truth. i can’t keep anyone happy. i’m just a failure,” Sans replied with a shrug, ignoring the strange look Papyrus was giving him.

Why would he believe that?

“YOU MAKE ME HAPPY.”

“you haven’t been around me long enough.”

“I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT. THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO WAY YOU COULD MAKE ME UNHAPPY. WELL…UNLESS YOU TOLD ME YOU HATED ME. THAT MIGHT…HURT A BIT.”

Sans huffed shortly.

“i’d be insane to hate you. and it’s probably impossible.”

“OH I’M FAIRLY SURE EVERYONE HATES ME.”

At this, Sans’s eyelights locked on him, narrowed incredulously.

“bullshit.”

“LANGUAGE!”

Sans ignored him.

“there is no way you’re hated by everyone. you’re a ray of friggin’ sunshine,” Sans insisted.

Papyrus smiled softly.

“ONE WOULD THINK SO. AFTER ALL, WHAT COULD ONE DISLIKE ABOUT THE GREAT PAPYRUS!? BUT…” his voice dropped, and his smile became rueful. “It’s quite easy for people to hate me, it seems. I believe the only people who still tolerate my presence is Undyne, my guardian Toriel, and you. It usually comes down to a declaration that I am unforgivably annoying, loud, and full of myself.” Papyrus huffed, crossing his arms indignantly. “Of course I’m full of myself, who else would I be full of?”

Sans bit back the instinctual urge to make a dirty comment, and nodded slowly. He saw that Papyrus’s eyesockets had nearly fallen shut, looking far too sad for Sans’s liking.

“I don’t see my guardian much anymore, and Undyne is constantly traveling. So I guess really all I’ve had for all the months I’ve known you is…well, you.”

“that’s gotta suck. i’m not exactly the best company.”

“I think you’re wonderful company,” Papyrus murmured.

Sans felt his face heat up and Papyrus immediately brightened at the sight of the blue flush.

“YOUR MAGIC IS MY FAVORITE COLOR, DID YOU KNOW?”

His flush darkened.

“what?? don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’M NOT RIDICULOUS, I’M PAPYRUS.”

Sans couldn’t resist snorting in laughter and Papyrus felt his insides warm at the sound.

“I MEAN IT, THOUGH. I NEVER NOTICED BEFORE, SINCE I’VE NEVER GIVEN YOU REASON TO SHOW YOUR MAGIC COLOR, BUT I THINK IT’S QUITE SPECIAL THAT IT’S SUCH A LOVELY SHADE OF BLUE.”

“not as pretty as your magic…” Sans muttered, and Papyrus felt like he was floating. Sans thought the color of his magic was pretty?

“I…Y-YOU MUST BE THIRSTY. ALLOW ME TO MAKE YOU A TEA. YES, I SHALL RETURN SHORTLY, YESSIREE.”

And before Sans could poke more fun at him, Papyrus had disappeared into another room, clanking about loudly. Sans took his time to take in his surroundings and decided that this must be where Papyrus lived. It was…surprisingly plain. He figured there would be a riot of color, but the only color he saw was a single potted plant on the dining room table, meticulously pruned and its flowers a vivid yellow. Everything else, aside from the walls which were a soft cream color, was calming earthy shades that had him relaxing minutely. Spartan, but good taste, he decided.

Why was he with Papyrus anyway? Last he remembered, he’d watched Stretch leave for work and he had gotten up to sit on the porch. He’d been so tired…he just wanted to sleep. No more pain. No more rejection. He felt his soul thump hard against his ribcage and he placed a hand against it gently. Tears slipped quietly out of his eyesockets and he breathed deeply, trying not to let the void consume him again. It wouldn’t do to stress Papyrus more.

“SANS, DO YOU LIKE –”

Sans tried to hide his face, but was too late. He felt Papyrus’s much larger hand grab his and squeeze softly.

“Sans, please speak to me. Why are you upset?” Papyrus hesitated. “Why were you out in the cold for so long?”

“…i wanted the pain to stop.”

This was dangerous territory. Papyrus tried to word himself carefully.

“Could you possibly explain why you’re in pain?”

“it’s a long story.”

Papyrus shifted and squeezed Sans’s hand again. Sans weakly squeezed back.

“I have all the time in the world.”

Sans stared at him for a long moment, then turned his head away and began speaking.

“…i didn’t exactly have the best father in the world. doesn’t deserve the title, really. he did a lot of things i’d rather not talk about. there’s probably no one else on this planet that i hate more. but there was a time where i loved him, where i wanted nothing more than for him to recognize me as his son, to encourage me and treat me like i wasn’t a pariah.” Sans had clenched his other hand into a tight fist and Papyrus grasped it gently, working steadily to loosen his fingers. His eyelights stared straight at the ceiling and were blank, betraying none of the emotions that his hands unfortunately couldn’t hide. “it didn’t work. he ignored me, cast me aside, despite everything i did to try and make him happy. i left when i couldn’t handle it anymore.”

Sans had always seemed so laid-back and content. He’d been hiding this the whole time? Papyrus wasn’t sure how he felt. Normally, he was a very forgiving monster, able to put aside any wrongs for the sake of seeing the good in someone. But to know someone had hurt Sans so badly, and had been a parent at that…

“I’m sorry…”

Sans continued as if Papyrus hadn’t said anything, which led Papyrus to believe that Sans was treating the story as a bandaid and ripping it off in one go.

“i did what i could to survive until i came of age, but that never really bothered me. i was used to being on my own. as soon as i was able, i worked as many jobs as i could so i could have a real place to stay. after that, it was just a blur of time. not sure when, but somewhere in that muck of days, i met someone, this nerdy college kid. his work was on stuff i was interested in, so i mentioned it, and we started seein’ a lot more of each other. i thought that was it, yknow? the end. the person i’d spend the rest of my life with. up until…i dunno. some time ago, i still believed that. may have been weeks, may have been months.”

Papyrus felt his proverbial guts sink.

“he changed a couple years into the marriage. stopped talkin’ to me as much as he did before. i thought maybe he was just busy. every day that went by he got more distant, no matter what i did. and it just felt like i was with gaster again, constantly pushed aside despite how much i gave a damn.” Sans snorted, his expression twisting into an ugly sneer and his left eyesocket flickering with icy blue magic. “didn’t matter in the end. he’d stopped giving a shit about me and become interested in someone else. part’a me isn’t angry about that at all, since i started craving having you around like a crack addict craves fixes, but another part…the broken ugly part…says that it’s my fault, that i couldn’t be what he needed. and i let that part win, because it’s right.”

Sans felt a hand grip his chin and turn his face to lock gazes with Papyrus. He felt a chill go down his spine looking at the steady outpour of fiery orange magic coming from Papyrus’s right eyesocket.

“I WANT YOU TO THANK YOU FOR SHARING SUCH PERSONAL INFORMATION WITH ME, BUT I’M AFRAID I’M GOING TO HAVE TO BE VERY FIRM WITH YOU IN SAYING THAT YOU WERE WRONG.”

Sans felt his eyesockets widen.

“what?”

“YOU WERE WRONG TO LET THAT PART WIN. PERHAPS YOU FOUGHT IT, PERHAPS YOU DIDN’T. IN ANY CASE, YOU BELIEVE IT IS RIGHT, THAT YOU CAN’T MAKE OTHERS HAPPY, BUT YOU ARE WRONG. SANS, I KNOW THIS MAY BE DIFFICULT FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND,” The hand gripping Sans’s chin shifted to cup the side of his face, the thumb grazing against his cheekbone. “BUT YOU ARE NOT AT FAULT. YOU NEVER HAVE BEEN.”

Sans blinked owlishly, not quite accepting the words.

“you’re right, i don’t understand.”

Papyrus’s features set in determination and he leaned closer to Sans, causing the other skeleton to blush.

“uh…”

“YOU ARE NOT AT FAULT, AND I WILL PROVE IT TO YOU, ONE DAY AT A TIME, FOR AS LONG AS I HAVE TO.”

Sans felt tears gather again and tried blinking them back to no avail. He tried laughing, but it sounded more like a sob.

“you might end up sacrificing the rest of your life tryin’, paps.”

“THAT IS A SACRIFICE I AM MORE THAN WILLING TO MAKE.”

Maybe it’d be fine after all.

Ending note: ALRIGHT, SO. That was probably riddled with all kinds of shit, and I apologize, buuuuuuuuuut this is what my brain cooked up when I tried thinking of gentle smut. Whoops. I was thinking of doing a continuation where there’s actually smut. Lemme know what you think.

For any missing explanations: the reason Sans didn’t get a job right away. He was doing his best to fight off that pesky demon, and Stretch was having a hell of a time convincing higher ups that Sans was just as qualified for the job despite having no degree or even a modicum of formal education. The reason Sans is still living with Stretch even after the divorce is finalized is...Stretch may have fallen out of love with Sans, but he isn’t an asshole. He knows what Sans went through growing up and he’s not going to even suggest Sans leaving until he’s absolutely certain Sans can support himself. Even if they’re not married anymore, Stretch still sees Sans as a friend. Yes, Sans locked himself outside on purpose.

[michaelgnomes]

Allow the Unexpected (AHOT6)

All it took was Gavin not shutting up for Michael to become part of the crew.

Well, that and some mini golf, a bar fight, a little torture, bevs on the Maze Bank roof, and a gas station explosion, but who’s counting?

Blood, Language, Violence, Kidnapping, Shooting, Torture, Major Character Kind-of Death(the Fake AH Crew doesn’t have time for that shit).

Inspired by a Vine involving a broke dude, a burglar, and a gun.

Word Count: 13,912 AO3

He wakes up to the sound of someone busting down his front door.

He isn’t scared – his first instinct is to get up and fight, actually, but he decides he would rather stay under his blanket, where he won’t freeze to death. He’s more irritated about the fact that he’s been woken up than anything else, really.

It sounds like a lot of feet, and when they come around the corner and enter his line of sight in his bedroom doorway, he can definitely confirm that. Who travels in groups of five wearing ski masks and casually breaks into random apartment buildings?

One of them - tall, and he’s got biceps from hell - steps toward him, but another at the front of the group lays a hand on Buff and Burly’s arm. He takes offense. “Geoff-”

“Not necessary,” the apparent leader (Jeff? Weirdly average name for a guy in a ski mask.) says, then turns his gaze to Michael. “We’re only here for a little while, to hide from the police. Either you can let us stay, or we can stay anyways.”

“Fine, but leave me alone. I was fucking sleeping when you barged in,” Michael says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and regarding the group sternly. “And stay out of my kitchen.”

One of them seems very disappointed. He’s lanky as fuck, and a moderate height. The only one shorter than him is obviously more dark-skinned, or maybe that’s because the sulking one looks disgustingly pale in the low lighting. Not very intimidating, especially when he’s slouching like that.

“Just because I’m harbouring five criminals doesn’t mean I’m going to let them raid my fridge,” Michael says, looking Pouty in what he assumes is an eye past the mask. “I’m going back to sleep.”

They all stare at him until Geoff leads them away, presumably into the living room.

“This is new,” one of them says. Michael can hear it a bit better than he should be able to, but with almost zero furniture, he isn’t really surprised. It sounds like Buff and Burly. “They’re usually afraid.”

“What, you mean all two times we’ve come into contact with someone like this?” A new voice. Higher. The short one, maybe?

“I want to know where all his furniture’s gone,” one says with a thick accent, and it could be the one with the beard or the pouty one with the nose, but it’s probably the one with the nose, judging by the pitch.

“That’s…a good question,” someone(Shorty?) replies, seemingly surprised, and Michael almost braces for impact.

“It’s cold as dicks in here,” Geoff comments, quieting. “Do you think we just kicked some broke kid’s door in?”

“Probably,” Big Buff Cheeto Puff concurs.

“Wow, what arseholes you guys are,” Accent With a Nose pipes up cheerfully.

“So are you, dickhead,” Geoff replies. “Do we want to stay here until they’re done looking, or go fuck someone else over?”

“Geoff…” Nose says, and it’s silent for a moment. Michael can almost feel the puppy eyes from here.

He takes a moment to consider the situation at hand. Five assholes – obviously criminals – decided to infiltrate his used-to-be-a-bomb-shelter apartment, maybe thinking it was the building’s basement. They are now casually lounging in what is supposed to be his living room. Maybe if he had money for anything but rent, it would look like a living room, too. To make the situation just a little bit worse, they’re talking about how poor he is as if he can’t hear them, and even pitying him for it. He can deal with the rest of it, but this is not what he needs living in the middle of the city with a part-time, minimum-wage job. He makes enough for rent, utilities, and eating when he needs to. Occasionally he can afford his ancient phone. There’s no room for anything else.

“Is he asleep?”

Big Nose pops into the sliver of vision Michael has past the edge of the blanket. “No, and he’s glaring at me.”

"Hey, asshole,” Geoff says from the living room with some exaggerated grumbling(he’s obviously standing), then from the bedroom doorway. “Don’t eavesdrop on people’s conversations.”

“Are you kidding me?” Michael is suddenly very animated. “You come into my house-”

“How broke are you?”

“Gavin-”

“What’s it to you?” Michael asks, eyes narrowed.

Geoff sighs. “You don’t have anything, kid, and Gavin is a curious piece of shit.” No way in hell he’s admitting that he is also a curious piece of shit.

“I have a job,” Michael replies casually as he temporarily pushes the blanket away from his face, hoping they won’t take the avoidance as “I’m dirt poor and I eat ramen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“What’s minimum wage now?” Nose - er, Gavin asks in wonderment.

“Does it matter?”

“What he’s trying to say is that you’re fucking poor, dude,” a voice that must be Shorty’s calls from the living room.

“I’m obviously doing fine,” Michael retorts. “I thought I told you to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Touchy subject, then,” Gavin mumbles as he and Geoff move back into the living room. Michael would give him shit for it, but they’re too far away. He doesn’t have the energy to yell or the heat to get out of bed.

Contrary to his plans to stay awake so they don’t kill him when he isn’t looking, he falls asleep to the sound of them talking in the living room. They aren’t around in the morning, but his door has been mysteriously repaired.

They appear again a few weeks after that. Michael doesn’t see them, but in the morning there is a note left on the kitchen counter stating there are pancakes in the fridge(they’d sent Gavin out to buy mix), and a twenty-dollar bill next to a winky-face. He doesn’t want to think about them going through his almost-empty cabinets. Opening the one above the microwave to pull out a box of cornflakes reveals that they have dumped a few bags of food into them. He tells himself they aren’t coming back just because they pity him. This is fine.

A few weeks later, he comes home from work to find they’ve come and gone again. A lengthier note is left behind mentioning lunch leftovers in the fridge and that they’ve made a key for themselves so they don’t have to keep picking the lock. Michael should be offended, but he’s more relieved they don’t plan on breaking down his door again than pissed they keep welcoming themselves in. They probably would have murdered him by now if that was their plan, and they keep bringing him food.

Besides, there’s something about this group he hasn’t seen before. Maybe it’s the fear they don’t possess – brash and unhesitating, they get to the point. It intrigues him just enough to hope they come back.

He’s stupid, he knows, but he also has nothing to lose.

The next time he sees them, it’s been long enough he’s convinced himself they don’t actually exist. At least they knock this time, and they aren’t wearing masks, which is probably a good sign.

“Why are you here?” He hasn’t even had dinner yet, and he’s still in his work uniform.

“Police,” Shorty says, as if that explains everything, and it’s disappointing because it does.

“Whatever,” he almost sighs as he turns away from the door. “I’m having ramen.”

“We brought food,” Guy With a Beard says, and Michael notices the bags in Buff and Burly’s hands, now. Beard Guy sounds almost exactly like him, in fact. Michael has probably been mixing up stuff they say. Shit.

Jack, as he learns Beard Guy’s name is, helps him cook, which is good, because Michael isn’t sure he even remembers how to make macaroni and cheese, let alone stuff perogies. Most of them end up hanging out in the kitchen-ish area, though eventually Jack banishes Gavin to the living room. He leans against the wall next to the kitchen doorway and occasionally pipes up in conversation instead.

As Michael and Jack are finishing dinner, Ryan(seriously, way too normal a name) and Ray(okay, this one is reasonable) begin to talk about a heist the crew pulled a while back.

“Who made the explosives?“ Michael interrupts Ray when he gets to the blowing-out-the-door part. "That sounds like either faulty wiring or shitty storage to me.”

“You know how to wire explosives?” Ryan sounds a mixture of pleasantly surprised and amused.

“I work for an electrician. I can tell you what a switch plate is and that you shouldn’t stick a fork in a socket, and apparently that explosives have a better shelf life if you don’t store them like a fucking idiot.”

“We had it shipped in by one of our contacts on the west coast,” Ryan supplies, seeming content with Michael’s answer. “It seemed unlikely that it could be sabotage, so we didn’t bother killing anyone over it.”

Michael looks to Jack, pulling the last perogie out of the water. He feels like a child seeking approval. “That’s done,” Jack says with a grin, picking up the bowl of broccoli from the other end of the counter.

“Come get your dinner, asshole,” Geoff says, and Gavin practically bounds into the room, stopping only when he’s nearly flattened Ray.

“This kitchen was not made to hold six people,” Jack says, laughing. “Get your vegetables and get out.”

It is in that moment, as Gavin attempts to push Ryan out of the way and Geoff yells something about plates, that Michael realises he had forgotten what good company felt like. He also wonders for a moment how the fuck he found himself in this situation, but decides not to dwell on it.

“Here you go, Michael,” Ray suddenly appears, waving a full plate under his nose. Michael doesn’t know if he can eat that much food, but he can damn well try. “How do you know my name?”

“Uh,” Ray says, jabbing a finger over his shoulder at Gavin and Geoff, who are still bickering. “Oops.”

"Gavin is our data-analyst-slash-hacker guy,” Ryan says. “We’ve established he’s a curious piece of shit.”

Geoff pushes between Michael and Jack to get to the food, holding Gavin at bay with one hand. Gavin is doing a weird flail-and-make-weird-noises thing, but, considering everyone is acting like it’s normal, Michael thinks it’s safe to ignore.

It’s a hell of a time trying to get everyone their dinner in Michael’s tinyass kitchen, but they make it work. They’re finally sitting around Michael’s found-for-free-on-the-side-of-the-road coffee table when Michael says, “Why my apartment?”

“It was the closest building, and we thought this was a utility room,” Ray replies, confirming Michael’s theory. “None of our safehouses were in not-get-shot-by-the-cops distance.”

Michael takes a moment to consider the motley crew seated around his coffee table. He isn’t going to think about how much jail time he could get for letting these guys into his apartment. Or that they could definitely kill him right now. “You guys are big time, huh?”

“Fake AH Crew, baby,” Geoff replies with a grin.

“I think I heard about you once,” Michael replies with a furrowed brow, something akin to recognition in his eyes. “Somebody was talking about you at work.”

“Only once?” Gavin squawks in a very offended manner. “What, do you live under a rock?”

Michael arches an eyebrow in Gavin’s direction, waving a hand at the room at large, including his nonexistent TV. “It’s not like I sit down and watch the news.”

“Great, Gavin,” Ray deadpans after a beat of Gavin frowning. “You made it awkward.”

“Ray,” Gavin whines and starts babbling about something else, but Michael’s attention is caught by Jack brushing a hand against his arm.

“Don’t worry about him,” Jack says quietly enough not to interrupt Gavin’s…whatever he’s doing. “He’s kind of an asshole.”

“I noticed,” Michael replies easily. Jack grins at his response, then looks confused as Michael’s smile falls into a grimace.

“What’s up?”

“I need to get this out of the way,” Michael says, regarding the group at large. Gavin stops talking for once. “Am I some shitty poor-kid-charity-case you guys decided was convenient to make yourselves feel better?”

“The million-dollar question,” Geoff grins, Ray mumbles “pun intended” and Geoff shoots him a tired glare. “We don’t do charity cases, kid. Gavin never shut the fuck up about you, so we ended up coming here if we were looking for a place to hide out, but now you’ve gone and made us like you.”

“My bad,” Michael replies. “And, for the record, you’re all a bag of dicks. Stop breaking into my house.”

Jack grins. “You’ll fit right in.”

There it is. A promise of something more. Future visits, at least. Michael isn’t sure how to feel about it. By the time he’s kicked them out late that night with the excuse of work in the morning, he isn’t sure he wants to know.

The next time he sees any of them, Geoff is pulling up to the sidewalk next to Michael in a ridiculously pink sports car and leaning over the passenger seat to yell at him. “You want me to drive you somewhere?”

“I have legs, Geoff, I can walk,” Michael replies with a grin, gesturing vaguely up the street as he continues moving, albeit a little more slowly. “My apartment’s right here.”

“Let me take you out for lunch, then,” Geoff counters, keeping pace with Michael despite the car stuck behind him that is loudly honking, and the few quickly approaching. Michael would stop to consider the offer, but he’s sure the accumulating traffic would band together to murder him. “I don’t have anywhere to be, kid.”

Michael realises that for the poorly-veiled threat it is – either go with Geoff or have him follow at a snail’s pace all the way down the street – and throws a glance over his shoulder before sprinting over to Geoff’s car and climbing into the front passenger seat. He probably won’t get cornered in a dark alley and axe murdered. “You didn’t have to throw threats around, Geoff, Christ.”

“Yes I did,” he replies cheerfully, picking up speed to drive at a clip somewhere within the vague vicinity of the speed limit. “What do you want for lunch?”

“Well, since I’m still in my grease monkey uniform, burgers sound fine,” Michael says, only a little sarcastically. Geoff could hand him a lukewarm, half-eaten takeout pizza and he would be fucking delighted.

“Burgers it is,” Geoff replies, whistling a familiar tune for a moment and pausing to ask, “Aren’t grease monkeys mechanics?”

“I’m close enough,” Michael scoffs as Geoff takes a turn wider than the turning lane, but doesn’t hit anybody. He seems to at least halfway know what he’s doing. “I might as well be an electrician’s slave instead of a guy with a shitload of stuff in his brain about electrical currents.”

“How much is in your brain about electrical currents, exactly?” Geoff asks innocuously enough, pulling up to a Lucky Plucker and turning (more gently, this time) into the parking lot. The building emits Chinese restaurant vibes, but the giant sign says “chicken.”

“You work with that shit long enough and you get a bunch of useless shit in your head,” Michael replies as Geoff presses a button or two and both of the car’s front doors open themselves. They both climb out, and the doors magically close and lock themselves without prompting. “I could reroute a house to turn on the sprinklers every time someone flips a switch if I had the time and convinced myself I had the energy.”

Michael chooses the cheapest combo on the menu(Geoff won’t let him get anything less) and the second they’ve placed their food on the table, Geoff’s phone vibrates. He pulls it out, looks at it for a second, then looks back up and says, “Hey, Michael, have you ever been mini golfing?”

“Dude,” Michael says as he unwraps a chicken sandwich. “I live for that shit. My friends and I used to play all the time in high school. I smoked everybody.”

Geoff chuckles, typing something. “Maybe someone will give Jack a run for his money.

"Am I going mini golfing?” Michael asks, suspicious. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“Okay, buddy,” Geoff’s gaze moves back to meet Michael’s as he slides his phone back into his pocket, clearly amused. “Do you want to go mini golfing with the Fake AH Crew?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s what I thought.”

They pull up to the mini golfing venue - an old arcade with a giant moose statue on the roof - only for Gavin to pull him out of his seat as soon as the door is halfway open. He’s smiling as he drags Michael over to the remaining three crew members, who are lounging on a bench in the shade of the building’s awning. Ray is dozing, practically in Ryan’s lap. Michael saves the image to tease them later.

“Geoff tells me you’re a pro at mini golf,” Jack says with a grin as they come to a stop in front of the bench. Gavin hasn’t released his hand.

“I haven’t played in a few years,” Michael replies with mock humility. Geoff appears from behind him and leans against the bench at Jack’s side. “But I think I can manage.”

Ryan reaches into his pocket and pulls out six tickets. Ray grumbles and moves his legs from atop Ryan’s, but remains leaning into his arm as Ryan offers them to Gavin.

“Thanks, Rye-bread,” Gavin coos with a grin and shoots off toward the beginning of the golf course, Michael in-tow. Geoff and Jack follow more slowly as Michael chooses a putter.

“Gavin, please,” Michael says, taking the putter Gavin’s just chosen, regarding it calculatingly for a moment, and trading it for a much longer one. “You make it look like you’ve never been golfing before in your life.”

“He uses trial-and-error instead of his brain,” Ryan says, pulling a half-awake Ray with him. Gavin sticks his tongue out at him and turns to place a bright yellow ball on the green.

Michael’s a little rusty, but he closely trails Jack in points. By the time the game’s over, Ray and Ryan are tied for third, only a few points behind Michael, and Geoff and Gavin are bickering over who’s in last place.

“What do you say to going out with us?” Jack asks Michael over Geoff’s yelling in the background. The summer sun is setting in the distance - it must be later than it feels. “It’s kind of a tradition of ours.”

“Yeah, we’ll get some bevs,” Gavin is suddenly hanging from Michael’s arm, and Geoff appears soon afterward. “Come on, Michael!”

Maybe it’s the way Gavin puts emphasis on the way he says his name, or Jack’s hopeful smile, but Michael finds himself agreeing. It’s not as if he has anything waiting for him at home.

Soon enough they’ve claimed a corner booth in some low-lit bar he’s seen a few times but never entered. Eventually, everyone has their drinks (alcoholic or not) except for Michael.

“I’ll just go up to the bar and get it myself,” Michael finally sighs, sliding out of the booth. The waitress must have missed his order.

“I’ll go with you,” Jack says, sharing a glance with Geoff, but Michael shakes his head. Maybe he can get out of putting it on Geoff’s tab while he’s at it.

“Nah, I’ll just go myself. I’ll be right back.”

He’s standing at the end of the bar waiting for the bartender to finish mixing his drink when a really drunk dude bumps into him, turns slowly toward him with a furrowed brow, and takes a sloppy swipe at the collar of Michael’s shirt.

“Dude, it’s not even eight and you’re wasted,” Michael sneers, using a hand to hold the guy at a distance by the arm. He thinks it’s probably useless to scold a guy who’s already slam-drunk, but maybe he’ll get confused and wander off if Michael’s lucky. “You don’t want to get in a fight with me.”

The guy punches him in a surprising show of strength - not enough to really hurt him, but it definitely throws him for enough of a loop for the guy to fumble another punch in his direction. He grabs the guy’s wrist and spins him around to pin both hands at his back, slamming his face sideways against the bar counter. The bartender definitely notices that one, but seems to think the situation is under control, looking back down to his work quickly enough.

“You’re a real fucking idiot, aren’t you?” Michael says as his captive struggles weakly. He doesn’t really know what to do with this guy, now. He’ll just get himself run over if Michael takes him outside, and he sure as hell isn’t going to babysit.

“What’s up, Sean?” some guy asks behind Michael and steps around them to stand next to the drunk guy, bending down a little to frown at him. “This kid bothering you?”

A sharp burst of air escapes Michael. Now is not a good time to get aggravated, he thinks, and replies in Drunk Guy’s stead. “He wanted to fight me, man.”

“So you beat him up, instead?” The new guy scoffs, frowning some more, then turns to Michael, already pushing up his sleeves. He’s got some muscle. “Alright, I’ll bite. I haven’t had a good fight in a while.”

Michael glances over his shoulder to see if the booth is in sight, but he must be losing his touch, because that gives the guy enough of an opening to land a solid one on his eye. He reels back, his grip on the guy’s drunk friend loosening enough for Muscle Guy to pull drunk friend behind him, away from the fight. Michael takes that opportunity to recover and return the favour, landing a nice punch to the side of Muscle Guy’s head.

Muscle Guy stands his ground, unfortunately, and his arms lash out, probably to grab Michael, but with a quick dodge and some strategic footwork, one of the guy’s legs collapses and he’s sent crashing to the right, landing on a waitress who is balancing a tray of drinks until they crash to the floor amidst the two people on their way down. The sound of shattering glass fills the bar, and anyone who hadn’t been watching is now.

“Matt?” The guy’s drunk friend watches with mild concern and something akin to confusion as Muscle Guy scrambles somewhat dazedly back to his feet.

Michael’s got him against the bar when he’s pulled practically up and away from the guy by the waist. He doesn’t struggle, quickly realising Ryan is the culprit. He’s put down quickly enough, anyways. The bartender has a phone to his ear, but when he makes eye contact with a very calm Michael, he says something with a shake of his head and hangs up.

“A bar fight wasn’t really in the plans,” Ryan chides with a grin, a hand still on Michael’s waist. “But it looks like you fucked him up pretty good.”

“I’ve had my fair share of fights,” Michael says, then startles as someone grabs his arm and spins him around.

“Michael, you’re beautiful,” Geoff is laughing, and Michael’s heard the guy chuckle before, but this is something new.

“No jostling,” Jack calls from farther back as Gavin sprints toward them. “There’s glass everywhere.”

“You right,” Ray says, picking a shard out of Michael’s hair from where he’s appeared on his other side. “Good job, dude.”

Michael can’t tell if that’s sarcasm or not, but says “thanks” anyways as Gavin bounds up to stand beside Geoff.

“Michael, that was amazing!” he says, a little too excited, then turns to Geoff. “We should bring him to Singleton’s.”

“Not right now,” Jack chides, pushing between Geoff and Gavin to pat Michael down for injuries. “That’s going to be a nasty black eye. Did you not notice the glass in your arm?”

Michael moves his arm to take a look and feels it before he gets that far, wincing as he tries to move it back to his side without jostling anything. “No, but I definitely do now.”

“Cool, adrenaline’s wearing off,” Ray comments, picking another shard of glass out of Michael’s hair and dropping it on the floor, where a different waitress is cleaning up the mess. “You’re bleeding on the floor.”

“Great,” Michael replies grimly. “Just what I’ve always wanted.”

“Let’s get you to your apartment,” Jack says, but it’s more of a command than a request. “Ride with me this time.”

“I’m going to bleed all over your car.”

“Who gives a shit?” Geoff waves him off.

Ryan shrugs. “Hydrogen peroxide exists for a reason.”

He does bleed on the polyester of the car’s seat, but Gavin assures him it isn’t a big deal, and even if it is, Michael’s half-sure Gavin could convince the rest of the crew anyways.

They make it back to his apartment in record time, but considering Jack’s a hell of a driver and they were only in Vespucci to begin with, Michael isn’t really surprised.

“First-aid kit’s in the cabinet under the sink,” Michael says, waving a hand at a door as he sits down on the living room floor. He doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about his empty apartment this time. “Bathroom.”

By the time Jack’s emerged from digging through the cabinet in the bathroom, Ray is seated knee-to-knee with Michael on the living room floor, Gavin leaning against his other side.

“Shoo,” Jack motions Gavin away. “That’s the arm I need.” He gives Jack just enough space to do what he needs, and Jack sighs at him, but sits down to start his work anyways.

“So you’re a fighter?” Ryan asks, sitting across from him on the carpet as Geoff emerges from the bathroom. Jack’s finished his prep and is about to pull the glass from Michael’s arm with a pair of newly-disinfected tweezers. This is clearly an attempt to distract him, and it might be working.

“I wasn’t exactly a model student,” Michael admits, wincing as Jack quickly pulls a small shard. Geoff takes a seat next to Ryan. “I got my start in high school. For a few years after graduation I lived with a few friends and we went out to drink sometimes. The fights usually find me.”

“What happened to your friends?” Gavin asks as Ray mumbles something about what the fuck, man, more of this shit and pulls a few tiny bits of glass from Michael’s hair.

Michael almost shrugs, but decides that’s a bad idea as Jack moves back in with the tweezers. “One of them died. I had a falling out with the other one.”

“Shit, man,” Ray says, and takes his hand when it clenches into a fist as Jack pulls out the second, slightly bigger piece. Gavin leans against Michael’s back, and it’s both a comforting gesture and something of a distraction.

“Last one,” Jack says apologetically, taking a moment to preemptively pull out a few bandages. “On three…one, two-”

It’s the oldest fucking trick in the book, but it works. Michael expresses a quick, deep stab of pain with a sharp intake of breath, and it’s over before he realises he’s been duped.

“Jack, you sneaky bastard,” Michael almost grins as Jack produces another alcohol swab. The sizzle pales in comparison to pulling an inch of glass.

“Works on Gavin every time,” Jack does grin. “Of course, he gets much more offended than you.”

“I do not,” Gavin squawks as Jack applies the first bandage. “You’re a bloody minge, Jack.”

Jack checks out Michael’s eye and instructs him on ice pack application. The crew departs with much celebration despite the circumstances, and Michael goes to bed that night feeling like he’s passed some sort of test.

“Michael,” He has just opened his door to find Gavin, bloodied and on his doorstep, though his tone is pleasant enough. “Can I come in?”

“Sure thing,” Michael replies, stepping back to let the new arrival into his apartment, closing the door behind him. He is still attempting to take stock of the situation. It’s not every day a guy shows up at your door whistling a jaunty tune and covered in blood. “Do you need the first-aid kit?”

“Would be nice,” Gavin replies, stepping into the kitchen where the tiles will be easily cleanable if he drips blood on the floor.

Michael leaves Gavin’s sight for a moment to dig through the under-the-sink cabinet in the bathroom and emerges not long after that, first-aid kit in hand. “Where’s everyone else?”

“I went out to get some bevs,” Gavin says with a grin. “Guy jumped me. I put up a good fight, though.”

“Do you get mugged a lot?” Michael asks with some definite concern as he places the kit on the counter and unzips the cover. He might as well just do it himself – knowing Gavin, something will go wrong. “Where are you hurt?”

“Oh, loads,” Gavin replies, offering a nice slice in his upper arm and pointing out a slight graze on his cheek as Michael produces some alcohol swabs. “We have a betting pool on how long it’ll be. Ray won this time.”

“They just don’t care that you get attacked all the time?” Michael begins wiping away the blood surrounding Gavin’s wounds with a frown. Gavin doesn’t seem to notice the sting of the alcohol. “That’s pretty fuckin’ nice of them.”

Gavin shrugs. “We used to. It’s different, now.”

Michael works in silence for a moment. “Was I closer than a safehouse, again?”

“I would have gone to the house in Little Seoul,” Gavin says as Michael pulls out another alcohol swab and stands up straight so he can work on the superficial wound on Gavin’s face with a sympathetic wince. “But you were closer, and we haven’t seen you in a while. Figured I’d stop by, make sure you weren’t dead.”

Michael pauses for a moment with his hands holding Gavin’s face in place, his gaze moving to meet Gavin’s sternly, then decides to think about it later. Now isn’t a great time to talk about him being a pity case. He is just finishing up with Gavin’s cheek when a phone rings.

Gavin takes a moment to fumble his cell phone out of his pocket with his left hand and answers it without looking. He’s making a valiant attempt to stay as still as he can for Michael, and it isn’t really working, but he appreciates the effort.

“Where are you?” Geoff’s voice, pretty clearly. Gavin must have put the call on speakerphone. “And where’s my beer?”

“Got mugged again,” Gavin replies, and a chuckle sounds from Geoff’s side. Probably Jack - they must be on speakerphone, too. What a fucking party. “I’m with Michael. Say hi.”

“How’re you doing, kid?” Geoff asks.

“Well, I was doing great until Gavin showed up and bled all over my floor,” Michael replies, voice carefully even as he turns to the counter to sift through bandages. He’s keeping his cool about this. “He says you let him get jumped all the time.”

“Yeah, it’s funny as hell,” Ray says from rather far away from the phone. Michael can’t read his tone.

“It’d be just hilarious if he died, right?” Michael is not keeping his cool about this.

“Michael, buddy, it happens all the time.”

“Doesn’t seem funny to me.”

“We’ll explain later,” Geoff says, and he sounds almost pleading. It’s strange, coming from him, and that’s enough to convince Michael to let it go for now.

“Fine,” Michael replies, pulling out a butterfly bandage that was hidden beneath the first-aid guide, placing the gauze and the waterproof tape on the counter and turning back to Gavin. “But don’t think I’m letting you get away with being assholes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack says. “Also, hey, do you want to go out for dinner on Thursday?”

Michael pauses in his application of the butterfly bandage over the slice in Gavin’s arm to frown. “I don’t get my paycheck until Friday.”

Geoff doesn’t miss a beat, offering what is definitely a newly made-up excuse. “On our dime, kid. As thanks for patching Gavin up.”

Michael sighs. He isn’t interested in letting other people pay for his shit, but he also isn’t in a position to refuse. The way he eats, he’ll get leftovers out of it, too. “Sure. It’s a date.”

“Heyo,” Ray pipes up, and what might be a door opening and closing sounds as Michael places the bandage precisely on Gavin’s arm and picks up the gauze and tape to start working on his face again.

“Anything new?” Ryan says, voice slightly muffled. He must be far away from the phone.

“Gavin got mugged again,” Ray says. “Pay up, bitch.”

“Also, we’re going out for dinner with Michael on Thursday,” Jack talks over Ryan’s resigned complaint.

“He patched me up nice and quick,” Gavin supplies as clearly as he can without moving his mouth too much. Michael fixes him with a half-hearted glare.

“I’ll stop here if you keep talking.”

Ryan laughs, voice clearer through the speaker now. “He found his way to your place, huh?”

“Bled on my carpet and everything,” Michael replies, taking the phone from Gavin’s hand and placing it on the counter, then pressing a square of gauze gently against Gavin’s cheek. “Hold this.” Gavin does as told as Michael begins medical-taping the gauze in place.

“I’m impressed,” Ryan says in a tone of appraisal. “First you know how to wire explosives, then you can fight, now you know first-aid. What’s next, archery?”

“I didn’t say I could wire explosives,” Michael replies, placing the last piece of tape carefully and stepping back to view his work. “And I prefer things with a bang. Archery is for babies.”

Geoff laughs, and Jack asks with some curiosity, “How much do you know about first-aid?”

“Enough. You’re good,” Michael nods at Gavin, who takes back his phone, and moves to put everything back in the kit. It’s going to need refilling soon at this rate. “I’m a little rusty, but I got in enough fights back in the day that I learned how to take care of some shit.”

“Well, it sounds like you’re done, so we’ll let you go,” Geoff says, interrupting whatever Jack is about to ask next. “This Thursday, Haute in Del Perro. We’ll text you the time of the reservation.”

“I don’t…” Geoff has hung up before Michael can finish his sentence.

“Do you have a phone?” Gavin asks as he shoves his own into his pocket.

Michael frowns, says “not really” and produces the ancient flip-phone from his jeans. Gavin pockets it and pulls out a smartphone from his own back pocket, placing it in Michael’s still-outstretched hand with a flourish.

“Gavin…”

“It’s encrypted so people can’t hack you, but you can do whatever you want with it – make sure you set a good password or two in case someone gets their hands on it. It’s got unlimited everything,” Gavin supplies with a grin.

Michael finally looks from the phone in his hand to Gavin’s face. “Why are you giving me a phone?”

Gavin shrugs, but his smile does not leave him. “The crew might need to contact you. It was Geoff’s idea, I just did all the dirty work. Our numbers are already in there.”

“No, like, why are you giving me a phone?” Michael might be having a little bit of a moment. “Why did all of this happen to me?”

Gavin’s grin turns into something much more meaningful. “Maybe it was always supposed to be you, Michael.”

Michael steps out of the cab and takes a moment to consider the restaurant in front of him. Reservation’s at seven, they’d said. Dress casual.

Of course they had said this assuming Michael doesn’t own much in way of fancy clothing, and they had been right. This is not a casual-dress restaurant, but Michael also had no doubt they’re more powerful in this city than he knows.

This should scare him. Unfortunately, it does not.

The hostess takes one look at him and brings him past the small crowd waiting to be seated to the back of the restaurant, where five men he now knows quite well are waiting for him in a corner booth, laughing at something. Gavin crows when he notices the hostess leading Michael over, and the rest of the table turns their attention to him with wide smiles and animated gestures. They are in various versions of fancy dress, it seems.

Geoff has gone all out, bowtie and all. Ryan’s cleaned up nice, in some form of badass business casual. Jack is also business casual, but a little less I-steal-shit-for-a-living. Gavin is wearing pink shorts and a dress shirt, a rather strange combination, but he’s forgone his sunglasses in the low lighting. Ray is chilling in a hoodie and jeans. Respectable compared to Michael, but at least he doesn’t look homeless next to them. This is fine.

As he nears them, Gavin springs up to pull Michael into the booth. He only loses his balance a little bit, nearly falling over into Gavin’s lap and by extension Ryan’s, but he catches himself with a hand on the table.

A waitress makes her way over within a minute to take their drink orders, and upon hearing almost all of them order some kind of alcohol, he asks for a beer of his own. Geoff’s smile is approving for just a moment until the waitress leaves and his gaze moves to Gavin, who is leaning into Ryan’s shoulder.

“Watch out for that one,” he warns, waving a hand in Gavin’s direction. “He’s a lightweight.”

“Don’t let him grab you when he’s drunk,” Ray offers lightly. “He clings.”

“Alright,” Michael replies, nothing but amused. “As long as he doesn’t follow me home.”

“No promises,” Ryan says, and Gavin squawks in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t!” he protests. “You’re a right prick, Rye.”

It becomes easier to settle in when the drinks arrive, maybe because he can keep his hands busy with the bottle, or maybe because he’s almost finished his beer by the time the food arrives. He’d ordered one of the cheapest things on the menu, not really looking at the description. Something about pasta. He’d made a good choice, he realises as his plate arrives. Then again, he could probably order anything on the menu and it would be a good choice.

By the time he’s eaten what he can of his dinner, Geoff has ordered him another beer and it’s halfway gone. Michael is feeling a little buzzed. He should stop drinking before he makes a fool of himself, probably, but Gavin is clearly tipsy, and he’s only had one. Would be hard to make more of a fool of himself than Gavin does sober, he figures.

He leaves dinner that night a little tipsy and maybe too content, but his stomach is full and he has leftovers for tomorrow. If that was a date, it was a very silly date, but it had gone well enough that they promised to visit him soon, probably without being on the run from the police this time. That is enough to assure him he hasn’t somehow ruined everything. He exits his taxi in front of his apartment building, sleepily pays the driver, somehow doesn’t fall down the stairs to his apartment door, fumbles his leftovers into the fridge, and falls asleep with his shoes on.

He wakes up to the sound of someone busting down his front door. Again.

“You guys know you can just fucking come in,” Michael says, sliding out of bed. These assholes wake him up one more time and he’ll have to start investing in earplugs. “You’d better fix that shit.”

He steps out into the hallway, is met with something hitting him very hard, and barely feels it when his back meets the carpet.

He wakes again in a large, almost cavernous room, tied to a chair. His first thought is that this seems a little too much like cliché  bullshit for him. His second thought is that, based on the light coming through the many windows near the ceiling, he’s been out for a long time.

It doesn’t take long for him to realise he’s in a warehouse, and it takes even less time for him to realise whoever brought him here has plans, and unfortunately they’re probably for him. The way the ropes tying him to his seat are just a little too tight says as much, as well as the absence of his phone, which he is almost certain had been in his pocket last night.

As if on cue, a door on the wall across from him opens and someone enters the warehouse. A really tall guy with really big muscles leads them in, unfortunately. A shorter, far less intimidating man follows him, and a woman (who is wearing some highly unpractical but fashion-conscious heels) brings up the rear.

“We understand you are connected to the Fake AH Crew,” the shorter man begins, producing a clipboard and pen. “What is your relationship with them, exactly?”

“What the fuck?” Michael is going to keep his cool this time. He has a feeling they will not take too kindly to threats of violence. Nonetheless, he would like some idea of what’s going on. “Why am I here?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“Me first,” He sneers.

“Answer the question,” the tall man says, his voice booming – unnecessarily, really – and Michael suddenly feels the need to comply. He also feels the need to lie. If he gives them the wrong idea, they’ll think he isn’t important enough to bother with, and at the very least they won’t get anything out of him regarding the crew. It’ll be fine.

“We barely know each other,” he says, and immediately knows that was the wrong answer when the woman and the tall man share a glance.

“Yet you’ve been out with them twice and they’ve visited you multiple times,” the short man says, unconcerned. Shit. They’d been watching him longer than just last night. Of course. “Would you like to try that again?”

“We’re friends,” Michael says this time. Half-truths might work. “I don’t know much about them.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” the man with the clipboard replies. “They seem to like you quite a bit. Juna?”

The other two step forward. The woman pulls out a Taser. Michael had been Tased on a dare, once. Doing it again is not exactly his idea of a good time.

It’s too late for that thought, really, because for a few seconds the world burns, and Michael finds himself what seems freshly electrocuted, having tipped himself and his chair over in his convulsions. He feels impossibly sore, he realises as the large man pulls his chair back to its feet with a beefy hand. He might want to cry a little bit.

“First we Tase you,” the woman says, smiling as if Michael hadn’t probably just foamed at the mouth a little too close to her shoes. “Then we start shooting toes off. After that go your fingers.”

“Try me,” Michael spits at her feet. Being Tased does wonders for one’s mood.

He’s met almost immediately with a sidewinder from the tall guy, and for a moment, he’s so dazed he hears gunshots. He realises that’s exactly what they are when the group in front of him shares a glance and the two guys trot off toward the door. The woman directs her attention back to him, producing a pistol and leveling it at his feet.

“Seems like we didn’t get to have as much time together as we wanted,” she says. “A real shame.”

She looks him in the eye as she pulls the trigger, and Michael decides he never wants to get shot again, either, which is a massive understatement. Being Tased hurt a fucking lot, but getting shot is a raw, intense pain he is not prepared for. He feels something that’s either snot or tears run down his face. Maybe both.

She has the gun leveled at his chest when the door bangs open and Geoff enters the warehouse, purpose in every step.

“Pull the trigger and you die,” he says, she lowers the gun, and he shoots the bitch anyways. She falls fast.

Jack isn’t far behind him, and as Geoff is behind Michael cutting the rope that binds him to the chair and telling Gavin “we have him,” Jack is in front of him, hands on him to assess the damage. Michael can’t help but let out an anguished noise when Jack’s foot bumps his. Jack looks down, sees what the kid in the chair hasn’t yet, and says, “Oh, Michael.”

Ryan walks through the door next with a, “Ray is still on the roof,” but his pace quickens when he sees them all huddled together. Michael is leaning forward to spit blood on the floor when Ryan reaches them.

“Michael, I-“

“If one more person tells me they’re sorry, I’ll fucking murder all of you,” Michael interrupts hoarsely as Ray appears in the doorway. “And if you say you regret bringing me into this or whatever, I’ll run you over with a golf cart - it’s not your fault, got it? I’m too tired for that shit.”

“Let’s get you home, Michael,” Jack says, bending down to pick Michael up.

“You are not picking me up like a princess.”

“You’re not walking like that.”

“I have an idea,” Ray says, having joined the group. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Geoff is about to say something, probably to scold Ray, but Michael just sighs and says, “Yeah, that’s reasonable,” and allows Jack to pick him up. He feels unreasonably sleepy on the walk to their car, and no sooner has he been buckled in than he is out like a light.

This time, he does not wake to someone busting down his front door, and for that, he is thankful. Instead, he wakes to find himself in a rather comfortable (and warm, at that) bed, Ray seated at his bedside and fiddling with his phone.

He frowns as a headache becomes very apparent, and shifts to sit up against his pillows, which are numerous and very comfortable. The only explanation he has for this is being either in one of the crew’s safehouses or in their home base itself. Either way, that’s some serious trust they’re showing.

Maybe getting Tased was a good way to prove himself.

“Dude, you good?” Ray says, attention pulled away from his phone by Michael’s movements. Despite his tone, there is something akin to concern in his expression as Michael winces.

“I’ve just got a headache,” Michael replies, voice rough. “Can I get some water?”

Ray departs with a nod, but it isn’t long before Gavin practically barrels through the doorway, talking at warp-speed.

“Michael, boi, they brought you in all bloody, and Jack took you into the room and they wouldn’t let me see you –“

“Gavin, please,” Michael demands hoarsely. “I’ve got a headache.”

“Sorry, boi,” Gavin whispers, his voice returning to a normal volume as he sits on the end of Michael’s bed, carefully avoiding Michael’s feet, one of which is obviously heavily bandaged even through the blanket. “What happened last night?”

“I fell asleep after I came home from the restaurant, and they woke me up banging on my door. I thought it was you guys being idiots, so I got up to open the door, and they knocked me out with something,” Michael explains, picking lint from the hem of his shirt. Well, not his shirt. He suspects it’s Ryan’s. It’s a little too big on him and definitely not the one he went to dinner in. “I should have been more on guard.”

“First you’re telling us you’ll run us over if we say it’s our fault, now you’re taking blame,” Jack says good-naturedly as he enters the room, Ray at his heels with a glass of water and some pills, which he hands to Michael. They are quickly downed. “It’s not your fault either, Michael.”

“You didn’t even know what we do,” Ray shrugs. “That’s not on you, man.”

“I kind of knew,” Michael protests. “You’d told me who you were and mentioned shit before. I had an idea.”

“You didn’t know who we were,” Jack shakes his head. “You knew our name, but that doesn’t mean anything unless you’ve heard it before.”

“We can talk about this later,” Ryan says, automatically matching the volume of the rest of the room much to Michael’s relief as he appears to lean in the doorway. “What’s the prognosis?”

“He hasn’t actually told us what happened,” Gavin supplies. “Says they found him at his apartment, though.”

“Fine, whatever,” Michael says. “I woke up tied to that chair. The guy asked me how I knew you guys. I told him to fuck off. The chick Tasered me, the other guy punched me, the two guys ran off because they heard you guys murdering everyone, and the chick shot me in the foot.”

“She was about to shoot him again when I showed up,” Geoff speaks up from the hallway. The room is filled with frowns.

“Damn, dude,” Ray says. “That’s pretty metal.”

“Thanks,” Michael scoffs. “I live to please.”

“You don’t have to worry about them, Michael,” Geoff says, and Ryan moves back a little so everyone can be seen from the bed, including Geoff. “We took care of it.”

“Fuckin’ merked,” Ray mumbles.

“That should probably scare me,” Michael says casually. “But I think I’m okay with it.”

“Fuckin’ great,” Geoff says, smiling now as he reaches for his back pocket and tosses something onto the bed. “Here’s your phone. When you didn’t answer anything for a long fuckin’ time and your activity logs were nothing but thousands of incorrect passwords, we tracked it to where they had you. The encryption kept them out of your phone, luckily, but it took us a while to get to you because we were busy sending B-Team off in every other direction. We’re lucky they had you and your phone in the same place. If we’d been just a little earlier, we could have spared you a lot, and I’m sorry for that.”

“What would the fun in that be?” Michael replies, and when no one appreciates his morbid joke, waves them off. “It’s not your fault, but apology accepted because that one makes sense, I guess.”

“Great, and even better,” Geoff says. “Tonight is movie night, and you can’t escape us.”

They had told him he shouldn’t be afraid of movie night. He’s starting to think they were wrong.

First it’s Twister, which is fine, but then they put on Birdemic because he’s never seen it, and that one is enough to make him lose faith. It only gets worse from there. He’s starting to think they’re going down a list of Worst Movies Ever Made when they put on Howling II.

“This is the actual worst,” Michael says, stealing another handful of popcorn from the bowl on Gavin’s lap as a bunch of people covered in fur do their thing onscreen.

“No, the worst part is that people thought this was a good idea,” Jack replies with a chuckle.

“Is this movie night every time?”

“Every month,” Geoff grins mischievously. “We’ve watched a lot of shitty movies.”

“I don’t know why you would put yourselves through this,” Michael mumbles and shoves some popcorn in his face.

“For the popcorn, clearly,” Ray says, doing the same with the popcorn in the bowl in his own lap.

“Both of you shut up,” Ryan admonishes jokingly. “I’m trying to watch the movie.”

“You’re trying to watch this movie?” Gavin is incredulous. “You were talking during Twister!”

Ryan turns to look at Gavin over Michael’s head. The three of them and Ray are sprawled on the sectional sofa, Ryan’s arms on the back of the couch behind Ray and Michael. Gavin is more perched on the arm of the couch leaning on Michael than anything, since Jack had scolded him for trying to cuddle earlier. They’d stuck him on the long portion of the sofa to elevate his leg, not so Gavin could smother him, much to the disbelief of Gavin himself.

“I bet I can be quiet for ten minutes,” Gavin says, and there’s a certain tone of seriousness to it Michael doesn’t understand yet.

“Make it half an hour and I’ll go three thousand,” Ryan replies easily.

“You’ve got it,” Gavin says. “Michael, you’re the scorekeeper, starting now.”

Gavin does not make it half an hour. Gavin makes it about seven minutes before he squawks at something that’s happened in the movie, and he reluctantly pulls out his wallet to fork over a wad of hundred-dollar bills once Ryan’s done gloating. Michael realises two things – one, holy shit they were serious, and two, these guys are fucking rich what the fuck.

He’s known they’re wealthy, and that they’re an important crew or whatever, but to be throwing around a few thousand dollars like it’s nothing is a holy shit moment. That’s more than he makes in a month. For a brief moment he’s angry at the system for being shitty and at himself for letting himself be so monetarily in-the-hole, but Gavin must have felt him tense because he asks if he’s alright, and he lets it go. It isn’t worth giving a fuck about, he decides, and takes another handful of popcorn.

A few days after that, while they’re eating lunch, sitting at the bar counter in the kitchen, Michael asks when he’ll be heading home. He’d called in a few days at work after that first day (which, luckily, had already been a day off), which would fuck him a little financially, but he hadn’t been fit to do much of anything. He’d rather take a few days off and suffer a little bit than go in, make it worse, and royally fuck himself later on.

“Actually, we wanted to talk to you about that,” Geoff says with an I-guess-I’m-not-getting-out-of-this-now sigh. Michael panics a little, thinking he’s overstayed his welcome, and Geoff must see his eyes widen because he continues quickly. “We were hoping we could convince you to move in with us.”

“What the fuck?” Michael says in surprise. His gaze moves between everyone at the counter, looking for some explanation. “I mean, why?”

“Well, lots of reasons,” Jack offers with a smile. “You’ve already lived here a while, and it worked out just fine.”

“We happen to like you a lot,” Geoff says. “It would be pretty shitty if you died when we weren’t paying attention.”

“We do like you a lot, boi,” Gavin says, leaning toward Michael slightly in his barstool.

“No homo,” Ray adds.

“And it’s a lot easier to keep track of you if you’re here,” Ryan says. “Like Geoff said, it would suck if you disappeared, and tracking you down when we actually know where you were in the first place is a lot easier than waiting for you to miss a phone call and being too late.”

“Alright, that’s fair,” Michael says, frowning. He’s trying to think of more questions and failing. There should be more to this, shouldn’t there? “What about my job?”

“You won’t need it,” Geoff says with a shake of his head and a slight smile. “Especially not if you become our new demolitions specialist.”

“Your what?”

“The guy who makes the bombs,” Ray supplies half-sarcastically, with hand movements for emphasis.

“You already know some stuff about wiring,” Ryan says. “And storage, apparently. A little practice and you’ll be making your own stuff in no time.”

Michael regards everyone at the bar one more time. “You’re…serious about this, right?”

“We may be assholes, Michael, but we’re not cruel,” Geoff fixes him with a stern gaze. “I expect a lot out of my crew members, but, hell, you’ve already gotten yourself through a lot of shit for us. I don’t know what more I could ask for.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Michael agrees after another moment of consideration. “I don’t have experience with this stuff, but…”

“You have plenty of fighting experience, you like guns, your knowledge of explode-y things – not to mention your stellar fucking attitude,” Geoff grins. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

“When can we go get his stuff?”

“Calm down, Gavin, he only agreed like ten seconds ago.”

“But he’s moving in today, right?”

Michael had quit his job and gotten what little shit he had out of his apartment that same day. Gavin wasn’t the only one eager to get him moved in, apparently. He’d had a little apprehension regarding quitting without giving his two-weeks notice until he realised where he was going, he wouldn’t need references. The criminal business is ride-or-die, he had realised, and that’s also when he realised how nervous he was.

“So I’m getting myself in deep now, and the only way to get out is to go to jail or die,” Michael had confided in Ray that same night, after everyone else had gone to sleep and they were still up playing some old Mario game, much to Jack’s chagrin. Ray had sworn he would make Michael play all the good games he’d missed out on as a poor adult, and he was getting an early start.

“Pretty much,” Ray had replied. “It’s easier if you get into it when you don’t have any other options.”

Michael had frowned, but accepted it as truth, because it sounded unfortunately accurate. Now he is realising it is very true, because then the blame is on something else – like the system – for ruining your life, instead of you.

He is very frustrated.

“Fuck!” Kicking (with his good foot) the leg of his worktable, which is fortunately much sturdier than he wants it to be, he turns away from the mess of wires and vials of powder on its surface. He’s been working on his own explosives since he moved in two weeks ago, and has had nothing in way of results so far. He’d carefully dismantled some explosive products, sure, and deciphered a few hints from that mess, but it wasn’t enough to give him any real progress. He still wasn’t producing anything more effective than a standard grenade, and he still wasn’t confident enough to take any chances with the odds weighed too heavily against him.

“Michael, lunch is almost ready,” Jack knocks on the door a little belatedly. “Should we wait for you?”

Michael runs a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. It almost works. “No, I’ll be out in a minute.”

When he does emerge from the workspace he had been given when he moved in, as he was one of the few that needed a professional space, they have waited for him anyways and are sitting around the dining room table, laughing at something together. He takes a moment to remember the dinner date that had almost gotten him killed with a fond smile.

"If you aren’t making any progress right now,” Geoff says once Michael’s sat down, clearly making an attempt to satiate his frustration. “That’s fine, dude. We weren’t expecting you to even start working on anything for a while.”

“I’m here,” Michael almost sighs, eyes on his plate as he pretends to examine a stray piece of cheese. “I should make myself useful.”

“That’s not why you’re here,” Ryan says sternly.

“I know, but-”

“If we didn’t want you around, we wouldn’t have taken you back here in the first place,” Geoff chides. “I don’t make a business of letting people into my home unless I actually like them.”

“But I’m not helping.”

“We all have times when we can’t do shit. You’ll have them later, too – sometimes one of us is too sick to help out, or shit just isn’t working,” Geoff offers. “Don’t worry about it. We take care of our own.”

“Originally…we were going to ask you to stay here just to keep you safe,” Jack adds with a somewhat wry smile. “But we knew you wouldn’t want to if you thought you were a charity case, so we decided to ask you to join the crew now instead of waiting like we were going to. We sprung it on you. We don’t expect everything to suddenly start working for you.”

“You were going to ask me to join anyways,” Michael repeats, trying to process this new information. “You thought I was that good, huh?”

“Most of us started out not knowing shite,” Gavin grins. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

Michael leaves the table after lunch that day feeling a little more confident. Like they won’t kick him out if he accidentally blows something up. A little more willing to take the risk he needs.

He sits down at his workbench, briefly thinks he needs a haircut as he runs his fingers through his hair again, and looks to the mess of materials on its surface. Everyone has to start somewhere.

Wherever he started is long gone, he thinks as they take the first batch of explosives he’s comfortable with for a field test a month later.

Well, less of a field test and more of a let’s-blow-things-up-to-see-how-these-new-toys-work test. They perform better than he had been dreading, and the rest of the crew decides to have “bevs on the roof of the Maze Bank to celebrate,” which sounds dangerous. Michael doesn’t realize what they’re doing until they’ve got a cooler full of drinks and they’re climbing into a Cargobob.

They assign Michael to the copilot’s seat, since he’s never ridden in a Cargobob before. He’s admittedly a little nervous about four dudes just kind of hanging out in the back, but they have experience, he supposes. He’ll be doing it himself soon enough.

Gavin has a major idiot moment (not like there is ever a shortage of those) and jumps out of the Cargobob before they touch down. Michael is fucking terrified until Gavin rolls easily out of the way of the Cargobob and successfully not over the edge of the building, then fucking angry at everyone in the Cargobob for laughing at Gavin, who could have died, but this is fine.

This is not fine. This is an issue.

“What the fuck?” Michael ignores the rest of them momentarily as he hastily climbs out of the Cargobob, not bothering to close the door behind him, and steps toward Gavin. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Gavin’s hands move to splay defensively in front of him. He shares a glance with someone behind Michael. “Michael, it’s not -”

“It is,” he interrupts, turning around to face Geoff, who is surprisingly close, but he doesn’t back off at the hardness of Geoff’s gaze. Maybe it’s worry that pushes him on, or maybe it’s desperation hot on the heels of almost losing one of the five men he actually finds himself caring for, frustratingly enough. “Would you guys laugh if he got his throat slit? He gets attacked all the fucking time and you laugh it off - maybe that’s some fucked-up coping mechanism or something, I don’t know. What if he -”

“Michael,” Geoff says, voice suspiciously calm for how worked up Michael is getting.

“- he could fucking…what, Geoff?” Michael is suddenly very tired. He isn’t sure he wants to hear an excuse, but he also isn’t sure that’s what is being offered.

“We didn’t want to tell you yet, but…” Gavin is speaking again as Geoff’s arms fold around Michael.

“I’m sorry,” Geoff says. “I don’t know how to explain this.”

“Are you guys dying, or something?” Michael mumbles half-frantically into Geoff’s chest. He’s only a little confused. He’s even more confused when Geoff chuckles.

“The opposite, actually,” Ryan says from somewhere beside the now-silent Cargobob. They’re all way too calm about this. “We can’t die.”

Michael wiggles until Geoff’s hold loosens, and he takes a step back, eyes wide. Geoff’s hands remain on Michael’s arms, a warm presence. “You have got to be shitting me.” “Nah, man,” Ray says, popping the tab on a soda.

“No, this is too weird,” Michael shakes his head as Geoff’s thumb runs circles on his arm. “Whose bet was this? I’ll pay up.”

“No one,” Geoff says, catching Michael’s gaze again and holding it. “I would say we would prove it to you, but…Michael, you’ll just have to trust us for now.”

Michael searches Geoff’s eyes for a moment, for something hidden from him, and comes to a consensus.

“Okay. I still don’t really believe you, but…if any of you assholes actually die, I’ll shoot you.”

“Deal,” Gavin says, tugging Michael away from Geoff to pull him into a hug of his own.

“All this touchy-feely shit,” Michael half-complains, not really trying to escape. “Yeesh.”

“You can die, Michael,” Jack says with some definitiveness, stepping around to their side of the Cargobob. “Because we can’t, we’re a little more afraid you’ll leave us.”

“No homo, though,” Ray pipes up from the Cargobob.

“Nah,” Gavin says, swinging Michael around a little bit. “I love my boi.”

They settle in on the roof in various stages of laze. Gavin and Ray sprawl out on one side of the helipad to watch the sunset and talk about some shitty NES game. Geoff and Jack descend the stairs after dragging two folding chairs out of the Cargobob with drinks in hand to give themselves a bit of distance. Michael finds himself joining Ryan in the back of the Cargobob, one leg dangling out the open side as he watches Gavin pop a beer open. Ray slides away from him for a moment as beer foam hits the concrete of the helipad.

“Gavin was the first one to decide he really liked you,” Ryan says. His gaze must have followed Michael’s to the two pointing out stars that are already appearing amidst the orange glow of the sunset. “I’m pretty sure he was just excited to find someone that would bother getting angry at him.”

“That bad, huh?” Michael replies, smiling behind his beer.

“I figured out he shuts up faster if you ignore him a long time ago,” Ryan says, a fond grin on his lips as he watches Ray point out what Michael is pretty sure is a penis constellation. “No one else gave him the time of day in the first place.”

“How long have you guys known each other?” Michael asks, a little more quietly than he had intended.

“A long time,” Ryan says, his gaze turning back to Michael. “This whole immortality thing is…complicated.”

“I can see that,” he replies with a slight nod. “I’m still trying to make sense of it, honestly.”

“Sometimes I think we still are, too,” Ryan lets out a breath that is almost a sigh. “It gets bad.”

“I’m…” Michael can’t quite find the words he wants, and he hasn’t even had half a beer yet. He shifts to lean against Ryan for a second. “I’m sorry.”

Ryan shrugs. “No one to blame.”

Eventually Gavin and Ray make their way over to pull out two more folding chairs and sit on the helipad beside the Carbobob, facing Ryan and Michael.

“We saw at least three dicks,” Gavin proclaims, pointing at a few stars as Michael spots Geoff and Jack climbing the stairs across the helipad. “The scrote of the big one’s right there.”

“What’s that about dicks, Gavin?” Jack asks, half-laughing already as he opens the cooler and Geoff sets up their seats.

“You assholes are causing a commotion over here,” Geoff says, voice cracking as Jack tosses him a new beer and he fumbles it, nearly tripping over his chair.

“Absolutely,” Ray replies. “It’s a party up here.”

“Good,” Geoff grins as Jack hands Ray another soda and begins passing beers around. Michael passes one to Ryan, first, then takes the one offered to him. “It’s time for the toast.”

“Fuckin’ finally,” Gavin says, protesting as Geoff takes his beer and opens it for him. This one doesn’t spill everywhere.

“To Michael,” Geoff says once Jack’s seated and everyone’s opened their beer in one way or another. “For bar fights, almost beating Jack at mini golf, and taking one for the team.”

Michael meets the B-Team one sunny afternoon when they show up at the penthouse for heist planning. Lindsay is the first one through the door, pushing him aside with an “out of my way, asshole, where’s that piece of shit” and an apology from Trevor. Apparently Lindsay’s had a bounty out on Gavin’s head for two months, something about a bet, a lot of shit Michael should probably be concerned by but doesn’t care about.

He starts to care the second Andy walks through the door.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers almost unintentionally. Ryan looks over from the couch, managing to seem unconcerned. “How?”

“How are you here?” Andy asks, regarding him with apprehension and a wry smile. “You try to fight the wrong guy?”

“Not this time,” Michael grins, waving a hand around to indicate the penthouse. “We…ran into each other a few too many times, and here I am.”

Andy steps closer, holding out his hand. “You know, I never thought I’d get to say this, but it’s good to see you again, man.”

Michael shakes it as Ray says “Great, now kiss.”

“Fuck off, man,” Michael says, grinning. “Andy’s one of my old roommates.”

“The one that didn’t die?” Gavin inquires, and Ryan jabs a finger into his side, muttering something about insensitive assholes.

Michael gets along with B-Team well enough. He catches up with Andy until Geoff appears, and he’s halfway through making up a secret handshake with Matt when Geoff shoos them all out the door.

“Good riddance,” Ray deadpans from his seat at the bar, eyes firmly on his phone.

“Are those guys…immortal, too?” Michael asks, curling into the armrest of the sofa. The question comes out sounding much simpler than it had in his head.

“Nah,” Geoff replies from the couch opposite him. Gavin, having fallen asleep about three beers in, is sprawled across his lap. Not much hope for Geoff getting up any time soon. “I used to work with their boss. He’s a pretty cool guy, but when I found out Jack was like me I split from them to work with him. The rest of the crew kind of just showed up.”

“Ryan said you guys have known each other for a long time,” Michael almost grins. “Am I dealing with a bunch of old dudes?”

“Maybe,” Geoff replies thoughtfully. “We found out we all stopped aging a long time ago and stopped counting. Something about meeting each other, a hormonal thing or something. I don’t know.”

“…How can you tell?” Michael finds himself holding Geoff’s gaze, head tilted in curiosity.

“When someone is immortal?” Geoff asks, but continues before Michael can confirm. “You don’t really know until they die, but by then it’s too late, so we try not to do that. Once you die the first time, though, you start doing shit you wouldn’t have five minutes ago. It would be bad if we didn’t have so much fun making Gavin to do stupid shit.” Michael frowns, but doesn’t object. They seem very convinced.

He doesn’t want to admit he’s starting to hope a little bit, too.

It’s a shame the first time the immortality theory is tested is during Michael’s first heist. It’s been a few months since that night on the Maze Bank roof – Michael might have been able to forget about the whole thing if it hadn’t been brought back to his attention quite so violently.

Despite (or perhaps because of) the heist’s simplification in an effort to ease Michael into the action, it’s gone well, they’re high on crime, and they’re laughing about their successful getaway until, just their luck, the front driver’s-side tire blows and they skid to a stop in the middle of the freeway.

“Gavin…shit, we’re out of range. Jack, find another vehicle,” Geoff immediately commands and Jack obeys, pulling out his phone. “Everyone else, out. We’re making a stand.” He seems to have forgotten Michael could totally die right now, for which he is glad. They aren’t treating him like porcelain anymore, which in the first place could be because this is his first heist, but he knows it’s more out of fear than anything. He enjoys the adrenaline rush as they pile out of the car and begin mowing down police. He thinks he hears the sound of an RPG being fired, but whoever it is isn’t on this side of the car. Definitely an RPG, he realises as a police helicopter explodes overhead.

He’s hit with some shrapnel as a previously-on-fire police cruiser explodes a few yards away, but he doesn’t notice if he’s bleeding or his aim falters. Michael shoots another cop full of lead and turns slightly to take aim at yet another police officer when Geoff steps toward Michael and is promptly shot in the chest.

Michael doesn’t think much as Geoff’s stance falters with the impact. He’d stepped in front of a bullet meant for Michael, after all. Vision a little blurred, maybe by tears or sweat or rage, he shoots one cop in the head, the one that’s shot Geoff, then that one’s partner, and maybe one more before he’s watching Geoff hit the asphalt. He takes down another officer or two, just to give them a moment’s reprieve, before kneeling next to Geoff, dropping his gun, and waving his hands around as if he has any idea what he should be doing in this situation. This is a little strange, he thinks, I never quite imagined myself kneeling over a dying man in a three-piece suit.

“Fuck, Michael,” Geoff’s mouth is twisted in a strange mixture of a grin and a wince. He sounds tired. Michael can barely hear him over the noise of the firefight surrounding them. “You really got me there.”

“No, no, no, Geoff,” Michael’s hands finally settle on Geoff’s face. Is he supposed to keep him awake or something? “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Hold on, kid,” Geoff replies, somehow managing to sound reassuring though his voice is cloudy. Michael might be hyperventilating a little. “Only takes a minute.”

“Fuck, Geoff!” Michael isn’t equipped to deal with this shit. A few bullets glance off the car next to his head. He growls, “You aren’t allowed to die.”

Geoff closes his eyes, and he is gone, but Michael thinks for a moment there has to be more. Something poetic about the light in his eyes, or some shit, or a proclamation of undying love.

So he picks up his gun, picks off a few more police officers, and waits.

He counts forty-two seconds until Geoff is up again, guns blazing as Jack exits the SUV to take up arms with them.

“I can’t believe you didn’t believe me,” Geoff laughs, firing again. A cop falls back against his cruiser’s open door and slides to slump over the hood of his cruiser.

“Yeah, immortality is a little much,” Michael replies a little hoarsely. Apparently he had cried when he wasn’t looking. “You’ll be explaining that shit later.”

“There’s our ride,” Ryan calls, his voice echoing in their earpieces as a Cargobob appears farther inland, approaching at a fast clip. He shoots off a few RPGs in quick succession, demolishing a police chopper and clearing the road of a few burned-out cruisers as disruptively as he possibly can. “Clear the runway.”

“It doesn’t need a runway, asshole,” Geoff scolds as the Cargobob nears. “Stop blowing shit up. You’ll murder our pilot.”

Trevor lands the Cargobob in the middle of the road and the crew piles in quickly so he can take off again. Michael finds himself sandwiched between Ray and Geoff in a lineup of most-obviously-injured-to-least as Jack pulls a questionably large first-aid kit out of his bag and does his rounds.

“Geoff, again?” Jack admonishes, regarding the bullet-shaped hole and blood on Geoff’s suit jacket with a stern glare.

“Bullet for Michael,” he replies simply, and after a moment Jack seems to accept that as an excuse, because he waves Geoff off and moves down the line.

“What did you get hit by?” Jack asks, waving at the dried blood on Michael’s cheek and arm and digging into the first aid kit, and Michael has to think about it for a moment.

“Car exploded,” he finally says. He’d had to sift past Geoff dying, first.

When Jack’s done with the scolding and the bandaging, he waves Michael off, too, and Michael moves to sit next to Geoff. He’s almost accepted that he died in the first place, sure, but he also isn’t ready to accept that he’s come back quite yet. It’s a dream, he decides until Geoff pulls him in closer and throws an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry about, kid,” he says. “Happens all the time.”

Michael isn’t sure how he feels about that, but, he supposes as he leans into Geoff’s side, maybe he’ll get used to it.

He does not get used to it.

It gets worse, maybe, and that’s probably because at this point he’s waiting for it to be his turn to die. First Geoff, then Ryan in an “accident,” Gavin in an extreme display of idiocy involving some new explosives Michael develops, Ray as a victim of a police chopper’s gunman. Gavin dying again does little to comfort him when Jack dies not long after that trying to keep Michael safe. Jack’s is the hardest death to deal with – he hadn’t wanted to believe Jack could.

The rest of the crew is feeling it, too, he senses. Occasionally one will look up at him to make sure he’s not trying to stick a fork in a light socket or his head in the oven. The first time one of them invites themself into his workshop to sit with him while he works, he wants to be offended, but he doesn’t want to die, either, so he chooses not to say anything. They casually don’t bring him on a few outings, spouting excuses like “this is just a hit and run,” or “B-Team’s plans only call for four of us, stay here with Gavin.” Eventually, Michael is tired of it.

“I’m not a child, Geoff,” he says, arms crossed and gaze hard. “You would do this shit anyways if you weren’t immortal, so you’re being a real fucking hypocrite not letting me go anywhere.”

“I know, Michael,” He scrubs a hand over his face, sighs, and meets Michael’s gaze. “I’m just scared you’ll…we’re scared.”

“Get over it,” Michael replies, but his scowl eases a bit. “I made the decision to join the crew. If I wanted to be safe, I would be sleeping in a freezing apartment right now, not handing you explosives before every heist and definitely not volunteering to ride shotgun. I chose to do this shit, and it’s on me if shit goes wrong. Worry about yourself.”

“Alright,” Geoff says, nodding. He knows he shouldn’t have offered in the first place if he wasn’t willing to take the risk. He’s done being a shithead. “Next heist is yours.”

A few weeks and multiple heists later, they all decide to go out and hit a few convenience stores, Gavin included – they won’t need surveillance to shoot one or two guys in the head and take cash out of the register. A harmless enough plan until a woman decides she’s done filling her gas tank as they near the store’s entrance with guns in hand, drips gasoline all over the asphalt in her panic, and somehow blows everything up. Ryan, being the only one behind Michael, reaches for him, probably to protect him in some way, and Michael is very mildly aware of a little of everything, then a lot of darkness, then way too much light.

“Fuck,” he tries to say, squeezing his eyes shut before they even open, but it comes out as more of a groan.

“Holy fuck,” Jack says very close to him, and he becomes aware of a weight straddling him. Judging by the boniness of the ass, it’s Gavin, and that’s only confirmed when he speaks.

“Michael,” Gavin leans over him to pepper his face with tiny kisses, hands on his cheeks. “Bloody hell, Michael.”

“Fuck, man,” that one is Ray. For once in his life, he seems awestruck.

“That was…very lucky,” Ryan says carefully, and Michael makes an attempt to open his eyes, squinting a bit and pulling a hand up to shield himself from the light. The lights are very white and the floor is very hard.

“Gavin, I know you’re having a grand old fucking time,” Michael complains half-heartedly, poking him in the side. “But this is a super fucking uncomfortable floor.”

Gavin leans back for a moment, smile contagiously genuine, then practically leaps to his feet, pulling Michael mostly-gently up with him. A moment of taking stock of his surroundings reveals that they are inside the now very wrecked convenience store. Shelves are knocked over and the clerk is very dead, but the Fake AH Crew seem absolutely fine. Geoff has him under a hard stare, arms crossed. Something in the group seems to shift a moment later as Michael’s eyes alight with recognition.

“Did I just –"

“Michael, you beautiful bastard,” Geoff proclaims, pulling him in to plant a wet one on his lips. Everyone laughs raucously at his expense. “Why didn’t you tell us you were immortal as dicks?”

“Fuck you, Geoff,” Michael almost grins, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “If I’d known about this shit I would have been taking so many more bets.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll have time to catch up,” Jack says, stepping toward the door. “For now, let’s get you home. The police will be here soon and the first death is never nice.”

“Why am I so sore?” Michael half-complains as he follows Ray out the door. Gavin has claimed his hand and is half-dragging, half-walking him toward the vehicle Jack had apparently called in.

“No homo,” Ray says.

“Regen sleep is what we call it,” Ryan knocks Michael’s shoulder with his own, perhaps unintentionally, or perhaps the newfound high spirits of the group are getting to him. “You just grew back a whole lot of stuff.”

“Yeah, scrubs call it dying,” Ray adds. “But we’re cool.”

“Who dies?” Geoff asks from the front of the group. It sounds like a serious question.

“Babies,” Gavin and Ray chorus, and Michael can’t help but laugh.

Maybe this is actually fine, he thinks. He’s about to live for a long fucking time with these boys. He still doesn’t know what he’s doing in this crew, but now that he knows he has a while to figure it out, learning doesn’t seem like such a daunting task.

“Michael, I will give you five thousand dollars if you wet-willy Geoff,” Gavin whispers, and Michael smiles.

“You’re on, Gavvers.”

[imitzeha-blog]

Just Another Girl

He walks the streets under yawning skies of gray.  People with dead-tired faces shuffle all about him.  Panic simmers in his gut.  He roams quickly his hurry pushing people unaware out of his way.  Gotta get gotta get what I need pounds incessant this single thought in his head.  Gotta get gotta get what I need it’s the heartbeat of his head.  Hard concrete sidewalks and his footsteps are going thud thud the towering skyscrapers reflecting a thin ray of glaring too-bright sunshine from between the clouds at him.  He’s close now and the anticipation almost makes him run.  But no, can’t be in too much of a hurry now.  Play it cool man, play it slow.  You’re a real cool cat ya dig? Yah man.  Lady….killer….. checks his reflection in a building side it looks almost like a mirror.  Reflective sunglasses and a cigarette long unkempt wavy black hair that’s what makes you a cool cat yeah.  People in the restaurant stare at the B-movie chump fussing over himself.  Sweet leather jacket my man real rebel type yeah only the finest flower’s nectars for me yeahhhhh man.  He flourishes his cigarette to his lips a little too far in, the butt gets all slobbery so it doesn’t drag well.  No matter he has four packs so he just flicks it going Fuck ya and it goes squish-hiss in the gutter slime.  Light up another one while walking but the flame won’t stand still so he does for just a second, gets the tip lit and with a puff he’s going.  Takes it away from his lips holds it between two fingertips he’s almost there.  His heart is pounding.  He sees the shitty apartment complex.  There it is man.  

Steel stairs through this courtyard uhhhh make a left here a right here up two flights this is it right?  Knocks, oh shit this isn’t right it’s one flight up quick walk away go up the stairs as he does he hears a tentative “Hello?” just ignore it keep walking he hears the door shut again.  He’s almost there.  Now his entire body is shivering, it is a little cold out but he’s violently shivering almost.  Take a deep breath steady thyself!  His body slightly shakes but nothing anyone can notice.  He almost doesn’t do it.  The feeling is overwhelming.  Excitement.  Hope.  Everything inside trembles.  Knocks.  Takes a few steps back.  Turns his back to the door.  Cooly, he puffs on his cigarette looking out towards that gray courtyard.  The door opens behind him.  He swivels slowly around.  “Yes?” this fumbled word comes to the side of his face as he’s turning.  That’s not her voice.  He sees it’s some dark-skinned little chubby chick.  She’s probably of middle-eastern descent.  “Uh, is like, Lanna here?”  The dark eyes blink and the door closes. He goes “Uh…”  Shuffles his feet a bit.  I can’t fucking knock again.  Shit what do I do? This entire time he’s in turmoil.  He’s wondering if he should knock, if he should call her, if he should text her, if he should do the super cool thing and act like he doesn’t give a fuck and just walk away, get some weed maybe something more maybe both and just chill it’s just another girl anyways.  Instead he just stands there and smokes.  He waits for probably three minutes feels like thirty to him.  He hears the latch in the door click and his stomach lurches and his breastbone clenches.  The door opens widely and there she shines.  He’s all smiles inside but he kind of half smile-smirks and takes a drag of his cigarette blows it out the corner of his mouth making sure the smoke blows away from the door.  “Hey.”

Her chandelier laugh tinkles and her slight-goofy smile shatters his façade and the ropes inside him loosen a little.  His laugh shuffles out like cards moving in a deck, paper dry.  She’s wearing a tank top and her thin shoulders are almost skeletal and he wants to touch her.  Her hair is a metallic-shine pink with hints of ghost-blond like kool-aid oil-slick candy, wispy thin strands that are smooth and soft.  She’s smaller than him and he’s pretty small.  Her breasts are surprisingly large for someone of her size, but not grotesquely so.  She is thin but shapely her curves not outlandish but noticeable.  The tank top is a lime green and hugs her tightly and he sees her dull pink bra straps and feels heat rush to his temples.  He’s smiling as he takes another drag of the cigarette and then she coos in her almost whisper-soft voice that’s like a child’s “Oh, cigarette!”  She steps out onto the landing floating the cold concrete with bare feet not shivering at all the door closes quietly behind her.  “You want one?” comes his voice affected to sound more relaxed deeper calm-like than it does when he’s with other people. She shakes her head says “No just a little” quiet slinking like a cat.  She reminds him of cats.  He holds out the cigarette and she takes it between her thumb and index finger and their fingers brush for a moment hers are warm his cold and it sends an electric spasm of pleasure through his arm and his mind sighs in ecstasy.  She holds it tentatively and takes a small drag barely inhaling and a ghost wisp of smoke exits when she exhales.  He stands there in front of her so close he feels like he could grab her and just kiss her all over now and she smiles her light at him.  He takes out another cigarette from his pocket and holds it in front of him like it’s his protection and sparks it smiling back at her.  

Still smiling she turns her head and looks at him from the corner of her eye and like a nymph on a midnight pond in a secret forest walks to the steel railing.  She’s so short the railing comes to her breasts and she stretches on her tip toes folding her arms crossed over it.  He’s smiling widely and he languidly like in a tar sea slithers his way towards her. And he’s leaning over the railing right next to her, not much higher than her both his arms dangling over.  She’s so close he wants to wrap an arm around her tiny waist and squeeze her too tight so her bones shatter out through her skin.  He wants to bite her neck until dark blood spurts hotly into his mouth and she moans in death pleasure.  He wants her to scratch his eyes out and stick her tongue in his empty eye sockets while she screeches in pleasure as his fingers coated in coagulate squishes and writhes inside her tight pussy.  He’s full of violent lust and he could take her right then and there on the railing slam their bare bodies on the rough concrete until they’re both bleeding and screaming in ecstasy.  He could die with her in the rage moment of fulfillment but he just smokes and looks at a sky he cannot see fully because he cannot think much at all.  His cock is as hard as it can get and he knows the outline must show through his tight jeans.  But he doesn’t care; he’s usually hard around her.  

She takes her arms down from the railing and holds out the cigarette.  He feels puzzlement “What?” He says gentle confused-like.  “I’m done.’ She says in a proud-like way. He feels an itching irritation.  She doesn’t smoke like he does and he wishes she did.  She wouldn’t even smoke pot with him.  Well once or twice he had pressured her and she’d taken a couple hits.  “Just finish it’ he has to check himself that his annoyance doesn’t show and he tries to say it with an almost joking laugh voice.  Her smile stays but its shine seems to falter somewhat.  “I’m done” she says and it’s more matter of fact explanatory.  He laughs now a little. “Ok” he takes it in between the same fingers he’s holding his cigarette with and flings them both from the balcony.  He smiles sleepy sheepishly at her.  She walks to the door and he sees her from behind.  She’s wearing spandex yoga type pant pajamas.  Her ass is round and large but like her breasts not grotesquely so.  It’s the ideal apple-bottom ass he’d heard so many guys talk about.  He knows she attracts attention wherever she goes.  A different kind then the kind he attracts.  Or so he thinks. He doesn’t know how people see him, but he thinks he likes the attention, but not really, or maybe.  She turns the doorknob and pulls the door open with both hands seeming to use her whole body; it’s a big metal door with old hinges.  As it comes open he reaches over her and grabs the door’s edge and heaves it fully open.  She looks back at him with that slight-goofy smile and he smirks thinking yeah I pulled the door open with one arm I’m cool for you see?  She floats inside and he follows. Warmth envelops him.

[exiled225]

Vicious Circle

(Rough draft. Unedited. Recycled idea from the beginning of an old screenplay I never finished for my writing group.)  

 Everything hurt; her legs, her back, her hips, but must of all, her feet as Amelia entered the home stretch of her latest late night shift at Howie’s Diner. Working another double as she once again attempts at building up her savings. A futile attempt, she knows. It was 11:30 PM, only one more hour to go, when she was leaning up against the counter, trying to stretch out her aching muscles.

The diner was mostly empty. There was a few kids in the back corner decked out in black and band t-shirts loudly congregating and tossing crumpled up napkins back and forth at one another, a couple sat in a booth on the far side of the kids having what Amelia can only believe to be the ending of the most boring date ever, a lonely looking man with glasses and his opened laptop, utilizing the free WiFi and free coffee and an older man who comes in every night sat at the counter chomping down on his second burger of the week; grease dribbling from his chin and his eyes lecherously looking Amelia up and down.

“You work a lot.” the greasy man says to Amelia.

Too exhausted to bother with the fake smile and pleasantries, Amelia only nods her head and replies with a curt, “Yup.”

“What time do you get off?”

Thankfully, Amelia is saved from answering the question as a bell on top of the door way chimes and a new customer walks in.

“Sorry, duty calls.” She says with a genuine smile. Thanking whatever god might be up there that has saved her from the inevitable awkward exchange. The new customer is an middle-aged man. In decent shape, but his hair is starting to turn gray. He’s wearing a long leather coat and sitting on his belt is a pistol and a badge. Tucked under his arm is a manila folder

The Detective looks around the diner for a moment, his expression blank before shuffling off to a booth and sitting down on the squeaky leather seat. He sets the folder down in front of him. Amelia, pot of fresh coffee (fresh meaning just a few hours old) in hand, makes her way to where the Detective is sitting.

“How are you doing tonight?” she says pleasantly and sets a mug down in front of the tired looking man.

The Detective simply stares straight ahead as Amelia fills the mug.

“You wanna take a minute to look at the menu?”

Stone faced, the Detective sits quietly and stares forward; his eyes far off and in some other plane.

“Are you- are you okay?” she asks, but the man just continues to stare.

Confused, Amelia looks to where the detective is staring. There is nothing there.

“I’ll uh… I’ll give you a minute.” She says before backing away and heading back to the counter.

The Detective does not reach for his mug of coffee. The detective does not go for one of the menus at the end of the booth. The Detective does nothing. He only stares. Amelia finds herself staring at the statuesque man. So transfixed is she that she does not hear the bell ringing behind her. What the hell is his problem? She thinks to herself. The bell ring. Why is it that only the crazies come out at night? Ring. I just want to go home. Ring.

“Hey! Order up! What the hell is your problem!?” the cook yells from behind the grill. “Daydream on your own dime!”

Amelia snaps out of it and shakes her head. “Sorry, Howie. It’s just that guy-”

“I don’t care, just get this shit out of my window.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” Asshole. Amelia grabs the two plates and heads over to the couple on the far end of the diner. She steals a quick glance to the clock and is dismayed to see that it’s only been fifteen minutes since the last time she checked. She groans inwardly as she plasters on her fake smile and carries the steaming plate of food, passing the unflinching Detective on her way.

“So is there anything else I can get you two?” Sounding so fraudulently cheerful that it actually causes her to wince. You have to be cheery. You have to be sweet. Honey gets money. She tells herself. The couple both shake their head and Amelia once again forces that fake smile and leaves them to their meal.

The metal kids have finished their shenanigans and have begun to file out of the diner. Shoving and leaving behind a booth full of garbage and what Amelia can only imagine is the most lackluster “tip” imaginable.

She tries her best to not make eye contact with the Detective who has still not moved a muscle since sitting down in his booth.

He grabs her arm just as she is about to pass. The movement so sudden and forceful that she feels her breath leave her. He still does not look at her. Howie rings the bell again.

“What are you doing?!”

For the first time since he walked into the diner, the Detective turns his head to look at Amelia. His eyes are glassy and bloodshot. His grip on her arm tightens, fingers digging at the already tired muscles of her bicep.

“In his house of ash and bone; My’Gdala sits on his throne.” His voice quavering.

“What are you talking about? Get off of me!”

Ring.

Time immemorial; world ablaze.You can never stop his gaze.” He continues. His grip tightens as Amelia tries to pull her arm away.

“My’Gdala is watching! He’s always watching!”

“You’re hurting me!”

Ring.

“It won’t end! It will never end! A circle!”

Ring.

“Let go of me you fucking lunatic!” Amelia screams. The old regular gets up off of his stool, seeing his opportunity for heroics. The other customer’s in turn their attention to the commotion.

Ring.

Finally the Detective releases his hold. Amelia backs away from the man quickly. The Detective blinks several times and then brings his hands up to his face; studying his fingers like their some foreign entity. And then, he buries his face into them and begins to weep.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please. Forgive me.” he says in between sobs. Amelia holds her arm with a quivering hand. The old man at the counter stands behind Amelia ready to be called into battle.

“I-it’s alright. It’s fine. Just… just wait here.”

She rushes off to go find Howie, who rings the bell once again.  

“What the hell is going on?” he asks.

“Howie, we need some help out here. This guy is…”

Amelia turns back to the Detective, but sees only the door to the diner closing. Howie comes out from behind the grill and looks around.

“What’s wrong?”

Amelia ignores him as she walks towards the Detective’s booth. The manila folder is still on the table, the gold badge being used as a paperweight. She picks the bag up and rushes to the door.

“Hey! Wait!” she calls out, but there’s nothing there. No sign of the detective, so sign of anyone.

Back in the diner, the patrons have moved on from the night’s excitement.

“You okay? Did he hurt you?” The greasy old man asks.

“Yeah. No. I’m fine. It’s nothing.” She waves him off. The old man shrugs and takes his seat. Amelia flips open the cover of the folder that was left behind.

The first page is a torn piece of notebook paper. In red ink, the word “My’Gdala” is scrawled in different forms of maniacal and haphazard scratches. In between this nonsense word are various crude drawings of a snake eating it’s own tail. In the middle of the circle there is an eye, blood red. The ink is so deep that it pushes through the other side of the paper. Amelia moves the paper aside and recoils in disgust. Underneath is a glossy photograph of a crime scene. Human bodies, women and children, reduced to nothing but chunks of meat. She forces herself to look back, wishing that she hadn’t.

A woman lays on the white carpet floor of a bedroom. Her face smashed into a pulp. An eye hanging limply out of a broken socket. She moves the picture aside.

The next photo shows some kind of art piece of a golden snake eating its own tail. It hangs on the blood splattered walls of someone’s home. She moves this one aside as well and then brings her hand to her mouth when she gets to the next.

A children’s bedroom. A small lump underneath a reddened sheet. Above the child’s bed, ‘My’Gdala’ written in blood.

She can’t stomach anymore. She closes the folder and covers her eyes with her hands.

“What is it?” Howie’s voice from behind causes Amelia to jump.

She shakes her head, wipes away tears and rips her apron off.

“Fuck this. I’m out. I’m going home.”  

It was almost midnight anyway.

  With a bad taste in her mouth, Amelia walked through the door of her studio apartment. Tossing her keys down on the table. She felt dirty. The pictures inside of the folder sticking with her the entire way home. She needed to just take a shower and go to bed, get this rotten day over with. Living alone, the apartment was quiet and quiet was not something that she needed right now and so Amelia turned on the television to fill the apartment and her mind with some kind of distraction.

She could hear the TV from the bathroom as she started the shower. She looked at her arm where the Detective’s fingers have left a series of small bruises.

She spends nearly a half hour in the shower, letting the hot water soothe her aching joints. She wants to hide away in here forever, or at least until the water runs cold. Wrapped in a towel, she looks at herself in the mirror with tired eyes. There’s laughter in the living room. Fake people fake laughing at fake situations. Whatever the sitcom is, she doesn’t feel much like laughing. She can’t get the pictures out of her head. She can’t get the Detective and his thousand yard stare and sobbing out of her mind. The word ‘My’Gdala’ burns in her brain.

She flops down on her bed, emotionally and physically exhausted.

But she can’t sleep.  

 The next morning, Amelia smacks her beeping alarm clock. She’d been waiting for it to go off. She didn’t sleep a wink. The TV played all night long, keeping her company but whatever was on it was too far away to register with her.

She stared blankly at the talk show, the people on television arguing about who might or might not be the father when suddenly, the program was interrupted and instead showed a news anchor.

“We interrupt this program to bring you a breaking news report. An absolutely horrific crime here in the early hours of the morning. Detective Marshall Pewter, a twenty-two year veteran of the Salem Police department found dead in his Beverly home with his wife and two daughters.”

Amelia sits up in bed as the screen shows a picture of the Detective from the night before.

“The sight of a horrific, ritualistic murder-suicide. We go live now to our…”

Amelia doesn’t hear the rest. All she hears in her mind are the words he screamed at her.

“It never ends.”