#Which means he needs to exist as a punching bag before he can hit 'em with the rebound).

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

This wine tastes like pigs blood!

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[riotwritesthings]

Ode to Yoga Pants

OR the continued terrible mating dance of Bucky and Tony

AKA when betting on your friends stops being fun

Title: Ode to Yoga Pants Collaborator Name: Riot Bucky Barnes Bingo Square Filled: K5, Team Dynamics StarkBucks Bingo Square Filled: O5, “I’d like it if you stayed.” Ship/Main Pairing: WinterIron Rating: M Major Tags & Triggers: Mutually pining morons, humor Summary: OR the continued terrible mating dance of Bucky and Tony, AKA when betting on your friends stops being fun Word Count: 2,282

Here on AO3!

-

Tony is heading to the gym for Steve’s newly mandated team training time and yeah, he’s late, but he does have coffee. So at least he’s on brand.

It looks like everyone else has beat him here, which isn’t really surprising, and Tony tosses out a grin and wave in response to the unimpressed look Steve shoots him.

Then his eyes land on Bucky. Who is doing one armed pushups. Completely vertically, pointed toes up in the air and strands of hair falling loose around his face where it’s come loose from the hair tie. And he is in yoga pants.

They hug his calves, his ass, his thighs, tight black spandex with gray piping up sides and Tony is weak.

Forget team bonding, Tony needs to get out of here right now, before he makes a fool of himself. Except he spins too quickly, hot coffee sloshing over the rim of his mug and onto his fingers, and he’s so busy hissing over the sharp burst of pain that he walks straight into the door as it swings shut.

“Ack, fuck,” Tony gasps, more hot coffee splashing out across his hand, rubbing at his forehead and apparently he’s a little dizzy because he goes to take a step back and tilts to the side instead, bouncing off the wall.

He’s almost caught his balance, and then he trips over Sam’s stupid jump rope, and then his thighs hit the weight bench and he tumbles backwards over it, the last dregs of his coffee somehow ending up entirely on his chest.

“Damnit Wilson,” Tony grumbles, “I knew you were out to get me!”

There’s a soft chuckle from somewhere above him, and Tony pries his eyes open. He’s half expecting to see Sam, ready to defend himself and deny that he’s trying to kill Tony with workout equipment even though he very clearly is.

Instead it’s Bucky, leaning over him all shirtless and sweaty and concerned.

“You okay, doll?”

When Tony tries to speak all that comes out is a strangled gurgling sound, and Bucky’s concerned look gets deeper.

-

“Gross, they’re doing it again,” Sam complains, pausing mid situp to shoot a glare across the gym.

When Steve glances away from sparring with Natasha she takes the opportunity to pop him in the throat.

“This isn’t even funny anymore,” Natasha says while Steve coughs and hacks and gives her a dirty look.

“It stopped being funny weeks ago,” Rhodey says as he leans against the ropes of the boxing ring and shakes his head in disappointment.

“You’re just saying that because that’s when you were officially out of the betting pool,” Clint says with a snort.

“I really didn’t think it would take them this long,” he says with a morose sigh, “I’m ashamed.”

Steve makes a sound that might be agreement.

“New bet, how much worse can it possibly get?” Sam tries to joke, but he has a terrible feeling that it’s not a joke at all.

“I think we’re all the losers in that bet,” Natasha says as they all watch Bucky help a still clearly-swooning Tony out of the gym.

The poor pining morons don’t even notice they have an audience. Just like Bucky somehow doesn’t notice that Tony is literal putty in his hands, and Tony mysteriously doesn’t notice Bucky giving him the sappiest heart eyes ever.

It’s shameful, is what it is.

-

Tony lets Bucky drag him into the kitchen, sinks onto one of the stools when gently pushed in that direction, and he’s becoming uncomfortably aware that his shirt is still splattered with cooling coffee and probably clinging to his chest.

He should probably go change, and then maybe go hide out somewhere until he figures out how to deal with Bucky in yoga pants.

But before Tony can figure out how to convince his legs to actually move, Bucky is done digging around in the freezer and by his side again.

“Ow,” Tony says with an exaggerated wince as Bucky presses a bag of ice to the back of his head, and then nearly melts out of his seat when Bucky shushes him with a wide palm running down the back of his neck.

He’s not actually as rattled as Bucky seems to think he is, but Tony certainly isn’t going to correct him. It’s a much safer excuse than admitting his brain went to mush the second he saw Bucky’s thighs, all wrapped up and accentuated in tight black spandex, and it still hasn’t quite come back online.

From here, with Bucky standing beside him and gently holding his head still while Tony stares studiously at the floor, all Tony can see of Bucky is his foot. The tight black fabric ends just above the delicate bones of his ankle, his bare toes wiggling against the tile floor as he pulls the ice away and inspects Tony’s head.

Forget getting his brain working again, Tony is just trying to keep his stupid heart from crawling its way up his throat over ankles. Like some kind of repressed Puritan, Jesus.

Which means he can’t at all stop himself from nervously stuttering out “Those-those are uh, nice... you like yoga pants huh?”

There’s a vague sense of motion beside him, like Bucky is shrugging, as he says “They’re comfortable.”

“Uh huh, they-“ Tony starts to say, and then nearly swallows his tongue when Bucky steps around in front of him again.

His eyes automatically drag upwards, and it takes everything Tony has not to let himself linger, not to get caught staring at the frankly mouthwatering bulge of Bucky’s cock that his skin tight leggings are not doing a very good job of hiding.

He jerks his gaze up higher and it doesn’t help because oh god there’s Bucky’s chest, still bare and so close and by the time he finally manages to make himself look up at Bucky’s face he can’t breathe.

“They- uh, s-sure look it,” Tony stutters out, and furious blushing is totally a symptom of a concussion, right?!

Bucky’s smile stays warm and friendly, so he’s probably alright.

And all Bucky says is “You should try them! I can send you the site I got ‘em from, Nat recommended it to me.”

“Okay,” Tony squeaks and damnit he’s actually going to have to buy some yoga pants now. There’s no other way to play off his sudden fascination with them.

-

A week later, everyone has lost the bet.

They find the two morons asleep together on the couch, legs tangled and blankets wrapped around them both.

The entire team agrees it’s the most disgusting thing they’ve ever seen.

-

Steve is taking his frustrations out on a punching bag when Bucky suddenly ducks behind the bag, grabbing it and holding it still so he can hide behind it.

“What is this, why are you doing this?” Steve demands, rhythm thrown and half-debating just punching the bag anyways in the hopes that it’ll shake Bucky loose.

“Steve,” Bucky hisses, like he somehow hasn’t noticed that he already has Steve’s full attention, “Steve, I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bucky’s head pops out from around the punching bag, eyes fixed on something across the gym as he hisses “Tony bought yoga pants.”

Steve turns and sure enough, Tony and Natasha are standing near the sparring mats in matching black and gray patterned spandex.

“Does Nat get money every time she talks someone into buying those?” Steve has to wonder, because she has been relentlessly texting him the link too.

“Steve,” Bucky hisses again, “Steven. I can’t- how do I even- Steve-“

“What?!” Steve demands impatiently, because he really wants to go back to punching things, and not thinking about the awkward mating dance of his best friends.

“Look at his ass!”

Steve huffs and resists the urge to gag at the open reverence in Bucky’s tone. He does turn though, just in time to watch Tony bend over in a low stretch.

“Perfect little bubble, I just wanna bury my face in it and live there,” Bucky sighs.

“Huh,” Steve says, tilting his head a little to get a better view because damn, Bucky is not exactly wrong- “Ow!” He squawks when Bucky swings the punching bag into him, “you’re the one who told me to look!”

“Not like that!” Bucky snaps back. It looks like he’s considering hitting Steve with the punching bag again, and Steve holds up a single finger in warning.

“Do not,” he says sternly.

Bucky settles for just hugging the bag instead, gaze already drifting across the gym again. Steve has a terrible feeling he’s not going to get back to his workout.

“Please just ask him out,” Steve says plaintively, “pretend to act like a functional person.”

“How am I supposed to function when faced with The Most Amazing Ass Ever™️?!” Bucky demands, and then makes a weird whimpering sound as Tony no doubt does something. Like existing.

Steve refuses to look over, instead just sighing out “Get off my punching bag, you’re making this so weird.”

“I’m filin’ a complaint,” Bucky says, clearly not listening to him anymore and still staring with rapt attention at where Tony is apparently doing something fascinating. “These pants are supposed to be ‘super stretchy’ but they clearly did not count on boners cuz my dick is strangled.”

“Excuse me,” Steve says, already walking away, “I need to go vomit.”

Hell, next week he might skip mandatory team training.

-

Tony is laying on his stomach on the common room floor, propped up on his elbows as he pokes at his phone and kicks his feet lazily in the air.

He’s wearing bright red yoga pants today, and even Clint is not immune.

He catches himself after a couple seconds of staring at the swell and bounce of Tony’s ass, and gives himself a vigorous shake. That’s a good way to earn the Winter Soldier Death Glare.

Even if said Winter Soldier is too much of a disaster to actually do anything about his super obvious crush.

“So are yoga pants just the new thing?” Clint asks, climbing over the back of the couch and keeping his eyes safely on Tony’s face, because he does not want to be assassined to death today. “You’re just gonna wear them all the time?”

“They’re comfortable,” Tony says with an absent shrug, then grins up at Clint and wiggles his eyebrows as he adds “Plus, they make my ass look great.”

And Clint can’t exactly argue that, so instead he just flatly says “You’re going to give Barnes a heart attack.”

Tony looks confused for a split second, and then smiles widely.

“Because I pull them off so much better than he does?” he asks, striking a pose, and Clint seriously considers running away to join the circus. Again.

He’s not even sure if things will actually be better if they eventually get together at this point.

He should make that the new bet.

-

“I’m just saying,” Tony insists, and then raises his voice when Steve put his head down on the table and starts humming under his breath, “If I thought Bucky was actually interested, I would 100% be here for him. With open arms-“

“Well that’s actually kind of-“

“And open legs-“

“Tony-“

“And an open mouth,” Tony finishes, grinning and winking when Steve looks up at him with a glare.

“Tony, please, I don’t want to hear this,” Steve says, hands over his ears and he does actually look a little green.

“This is nothing,” Tony says with a scoff, giving Steve an unimpressed look, because he is weak. “You should hear the shit I say to Rhodey.”

“I would like to hear those things,” says a voice directly behind him.

Tony freezes, his entire body going cold, because he knows that low, warm, rumbling voice. He hears it in his dreams, and oh no oh no oh no, now Bucky knows.

So much for his plausible deniability.

His brain kind of goes staticy with panic for a second, and he’s only dimly aware of Steve rolling his eyes.

“Yeah my part in this conversation is done,” Steve says, and promptly bails.

When Tony’s brain finally reboots he finds that Bucky has taken Steve’s seat across the kitchen table.

Bucky is also just grinning at him, like he doesn’t find Tony’s borderline-obsessive crush at all creepy.

All Tony can think to say is “What.”

And then he realizes he doesn’t actually want an answer, doesn’t want to find out if Bucky is going to make fun of him, or if he thinks it’s all a joke. He can’t decide if that would actually be better or worse than being turned down gently, and he doesn’t intend to stay and find out.

“I’m just...” Tony sputters, face burning as he flails his way out of his chair, “Gonna- gonna go. Run away. Yep.”

“Wait,” Bucky says, eyes wide and halfway out of his own chair.

Tony freezes, because Bucky looks a lot like he feels. Thrown, surprised, confused and so hopeful that it’s terrifying.

“I-I’d like it if you stayed,” Bucky says slowly, then smiles crooked and nervous as he adds “Not that I don’t like watchin’ you walk away.”

It startles a laugh out of Tony, face flushing as he sinks back into his chair. “Okay,” he says, heart racing and smile almost painfully wide, “um, what?”

Bucky laughs, soft and low and warm, and finally finishes reaching across the table to take Tony’s hand in his own.

-

Clint wins the bet on how much worse their lives get once the love-struck morons start making out all over the place.

[malewifegrantaire]

The Birthday Thing

READ PART ONE HERE

READ PART TWO HERE

PART THREE: The titular “Thing.”

Combeferre had put himself in charge of the cell phone bag, a move that Enjolras heartily objected to.

“You really don’t have to do that.” Enjolras said. “You should be having fun!”

“I will be having fun!” Combeferre promised. “But if we’re gonna enforce a no cell phone policy, someone has to keep an eye on them in case someone’s mom calls or something.”

“If my mom calls, do me a favor and send her to voicemail.” Courfeyrac interrupted. Courfeyrac had managed to simultaneously be the first and last person to arrive, even though the party was being thrown in his apartment. He’d set everything up, welcomed Enjolras and Combeferre, and then left to go pick up his plus-one who, Combeferre noticed, was standing very nervously behind Courfeyrac clutching a bouquet of flowers.

“Uh, hi. Thank you, uh, thanks for having me, I know we don’t know each other too well. We met once, I don’t know if you remember-“

“I remember.” Combeferre said, and Marius made a face that said quite plainly he wished he hadn’t remembered him at all. Enjolras only smiled.

“Oh, it’s you! You’re, yeah, you’re that guy, I remember you! Marius. Okay, yeah! Thank you for coming.” he said. Marius’ shoulders relaxed a bit, and he held out the bouquet.

“These are for you. Or for the house, I guess. I know it said no gifts but I thought, but if you don’t want anything I - sorry, I know that, but, it’s fine I can just-“

“These are very nice, thank you. I appreciate it.” Enjolras said graciously.

Combeferre grabbed the tote bag full of cell phones and held it open. “Well, confiscation time. Cough ‘em up, fellas.” he said. Courfeyrac took it upon himself to discard of Marius’ phone, but before he did, something on Marius’ screen made him giggle.

“I didn’t know you had a sister, Marius.”

Marius frowned. “Sister? What are you - oh!”

His lock screen was a selfie of a teenage girl, who was making a silly face into the camera. Marius’ eyes widened, and he quickly snatched his phone away to change the picture. “This isn’t my sister,” he explained, laughing nervously. “It’s, she’s this kid I know, my neighbor.” He set his screensaver to the first thing in his camera roll, a picture of a dog wearing rain boots, and tossed the phone into the tote bag.

“Okay!” Enjolras said brightly. “Thanks again for coming, and for the flowers. Have you met everyone yet.”

“Uh, yeah.” Marius said. “I know Joly and Bossuet, I already said hi to him. And Bahorel, is he here?”

“Yes, he’s . . . I don’t know, actually. He’s somewhere.”

“And uh, Grantaire, I know him. Is he here too?”

Enjolras’ face fell a bit. As a matter of fact, Grantaire wasn’t there. Not that it was unlike him to be “fashionably” late (Enjolras hadn’t a clue what was so fashionable about lack of punctuality, but you know.) But, still, Enjolras thought . . . seeing as it was his birthday and all . . .

“Not yet,” Combeferre cut in. “But he will be. Soon.”

Courfeyrac squinted at him. “Right.” he said. “Well, we’ll go and join the fray. Come on, Enjolras, you should come join us. Combeferre’s not allowed to hog you in the kitchen all night.”

“Well, alright.” Enjolras said with a pleased sigh. “Combeferre, you don’t have to stand guard by the phones all night.”

“Agreed. I expect you to join us for karaoke!” Courfeyrac said, dragging Enjolras and Marius into the living room to mingle.

Combeferre eyed his tote bag, which was now fairly heavy. Technically, the no cell phone rule applied to him too, but rules were made to be broken, no? He scrolled through his recent contacts and hit the call button, turning away from the kitchen island so as not to be spotted.

“Hello?”

“Uh, yeah, hello?” Combeferre whispered into the phone. “Where are you?”

“Hello??”

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you. You’ve reached Grantaire’s voicemail. My phone is either lost or dead or I just don’t want to pick up, so shoot me a text. If it’s an emergency, call literally anyone else. While you’re here, check out this sick beep.”

There was a beep. Fucker.

Combeferre groaned. He should have known this would happen. He looked at Enjolras, who was laughing at something Feuilly was saying. He was a great friend, Enjolras. Maybe the greatest. He didn’t want gifts or even a fancy party. He just wanted all of his friends under one roof for a night. It wasn’t that much to ask for.

He was going to get what he wanted. Combeferre would see to it.

***

Someone was knocking at the door, and Grantaire was pretty sure he knew who it was, but he opened it anyway. Combeferre was standing arms folded, looking angrier than Grantaire had ever seen him (and Grantaire had seen Combeferre argue about politics.)

“Who buzzed you in?” he asked stupidly.

Combeferre didn’t wait for an invitation, he brushed past Grantaire into the apartment. He looked like he was going to throw a punch. Grantaire almost hoped he would. He was usually better with fists than with words.

“What the fuck?” Combeferre asked. It wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Say you got hit in the head and you’re suffering from amnesia, because other than that I can not think of a reason you are in this apartment in pajamas right now.”

Grantaire looked up at Combeferre. “I got hit in the head and I’m suffering from amnesia.” he said.

Combeferre wanted to scream. “Come on.” he said, exercising an impressive amount of restraint. “Get your clothes on. Let’s go.”

“Uh, no, I’m not going. I don’t even know why your here, I already texted Enjolras.”

Combeferre stared at him for a beat, then started rummaging through the tote bag he was carrying. Grantaire blinked in confusion.

“Is that everyone’s phones?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s a screen free party.” Combeferre muttered.

“But you’re here. So nobody at the apartment has a phone. What if there’s an emergency?”

“There won’t be an emergency. Also, Jehan has his phone.” Combeferre had given it to him before he left. He said he was just running out to grab some more drinks, but he was pretty sure Jehan could tell he was lying. He probably should have left the entire bag with Jehan, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly. “Also,” Combeferre added, angrily. “I shouldn’t have had to leave anything with anyone, because you should be at Courfeyrac’s right now.”

Grantaire frowned. Combeferre noticed for the first time how very tired he looked. Very tired, and very unhappy. While he was at it, he also noticed an envelope with Enjolras’ name written in pretty cursive on the coffee table. And an outfit laid carefully out across the couch. Grantaire wasn’t acting his usual self. He seemed . . . more withdrawn. Combeferre always thought of Grantaire as bold and utterly shameless. Maybe this is what it looked like when Grantaire was embarrassed. He went back to looking for Enjolras’ phone.

sorry, can’t make it tonight. wish i could be there, not feeling well. have a blast.

Combeferre read the message aloud. “This is bullshit.” he decided. “I’m deleting this.”

“Oh, you know Enjolras’ password,” Grantaire commented, watching Combeferre. “How sweet.”

“It’s literally 1-2-3-4.” Why did he say that? Now Enjolras would have to change it. Goddamn it.

“Look, I’m actually not feeling well.” Grantaire lied. “So, if you could kindly fuck off? I’d super appreciate it.”

Combeferre looked him up and down. “I think you self sabotage, Grantaire.” he said, earning a mean bark of a laugh from the shorter man.

“Gee thanks. How much do I owe you for this session, doc?”

“Stop, I’m being - I’m trying to be real with you.” Grantaire looked amused by the notion. Combeferre carried on, “Everyone is trying to be friends with you. Why do you insist on making that so difficult?”

“Sorry it’s been such a pain in the ass, I truly am.” Grantaire said, rolling his eyes petulantly. “Look, we all know what kind of friend I am. I’m good for carousing and not much else. It’s no trouble, after all, everyone needs a good drinking buddy, and I am happy to oblige. But this shit? Dinner parties - sorry, not party, thing. And, and, folding laundry together and going for picnics in the park and Saturday brunch or whatever the fuck? That’s not me. Sorry. I really wish it was but, you know. ‘To thine own self be true’ and all that.”

Combeferre folded his arms across his chest. He knew what he needed to ask, but he really, really didn’t want to. Combeferre was a polite person, but what good is politeness if you can’t extend it to people that aren’t always easy to be around? Kind and good, that’s what he tried to be. But maybe he’d find out that he wasn’t kind or good, not really. Not when it counted.

“Grantaire, did I do something to you?”

Grantaire seemed taken aback. “What?”

Combeferre really didn’t want to ask again. “Did I, you know. Is there something I did? Or, I don’t know, do? I just . . . why don’t you like me?”

There was a silence. Grantaire looked at Combeferre, his face twisted in anxiety. This could not be happening.

“Combeferre.” he said slowly. “I don’t dislike you.”

“It’s okay, I shouldn’t have even - but like. You do hang out with the others. Like I know I’m not always down for whatever, but you’re friends with everyone. You’re friends with fucking Marius Pontmercy, who I literally forgot existed until this week. So I know you like all them, obviously you’re friends with Joly and Bossuet, and you go out with Bahorel and Courfeyrac a lot, and you’re always talking to Feuilly and Jehan about whatever, and obviously you like Enjolras so it’s just me, then. I feel like maybe I did something to you but I don’t know what it was or what it is and I don’t know how to fix it? Or apologize? I don’t know, I know we don’t all have to be friends, like I’m not forcing you to be my friend or anything, but I don’t know. I’d like to be.”

Grantaire frowned. “I hate when you do that.” he said, which is not exactly the response Combeferre was hoping for. His heart sunk.

“Do what?”

“Say stuff about Enjolras like that. Like wink-wink nudge-nudge, obviously you like him and oh my god he totally wanted you here. Like I get it, but you don’t have to make fun.” Grantaire’s eyes were fixed on the ground. His pajama pants didn’t have pockets to shove his hands into, so instead they were sort of nervously pulling at the drawstring.

Combeferre didn’t know what to say. He felt absolutely terrible. “I didn’t - I’m sorry. I never meant to make fun. I just meant that I know you guys have like, you know. You have a different relationship than the rest of us, I guess.”

“Fuck off.” Grantaire said, but it came out quiet and unsure of itself.

“Look, I’m only here because I want Enjolras to have a good birthday. I know my best friend, and I know that he will have a great time and be grateful for everyone who came whether you’re there or not.”

“Okay.” Grantaire said, meeting Combeferre’s eyes at last.

“But I also know that he’s going to be thinking all night about why you didn’t show, and he’s going to bring it up for the next month in the way he does whenever he brings you up as if he’s just casually curious even though he’s a terrible actor. And honestly? Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t want to have to deal with all that. Which is why I’m here to bring you to the party.”

“I didn’t know you had a selfish bone in your body.” Grantaire laughed, almost sounding impressed.

“Well, I’m only human.”

“It doesn’t seem like that, sometimes.” Grantaire said. “You three. You seem like something else entirely. Demigods, maybe. Something out of a book.”

“Well, we’re not. We’re people. Get your clothes on, please.”

Maybe for the first time in all of their years of acquaintance, Grantaire nodded and quietly obliged.

***

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Bahorel said, more fond than annoyed. Everyone in the apartment greeted Grantaire with a cheer. He gave a sheepish grin in return.

“You know me. I never miss a party.” he said.

Courfeyrac intercepted Combeferre at the door. “I was wondering where you went.” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “Excellent work.”

“Well, you know. It’s his birthday.”

“Speak of the devil.”

Enjolras had made his way from across the apartment to say hello. He looked more beautiful than Grantaire had ever seen him, his golden hair tucked behind his ears, which were blushing pink. Not that this meant much - every time Grantaire looked at Enjolras he seemed more beautiful than the last.

“Glad you could make it.” he said, and he meant it.

“Better late than never, right?” Grantaire joked, but with much more gentleness and much less bravado than he jokes with any of the others. Enjolras usually had this effect on him. “You look nice.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras smiled, and his teeth were so white it was unfair and his eyes were so bright Grantaire could probably sue for damage to his retinas. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket.

“This is, uh, it’s for you. I know it said no gifts but in my opinion that’s bullshit, so. Here.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras said again. “Can I open it now?”

“It’s your present, so. It’s not much, just a gift card.”

Enjolras tore open the envelope. He looked at the contents curiously. Grantaire felt himself starting to sweat.

“What’s Claire’s?” Enjolras asked.

“The fuck?” Grantaire said, grabbing the gift card. Jesus Christ. “I meant to get a regular one, fuck me. Uh, I’m pretty sure Claire’s is a children’s jewelry store. You could get a phone case. Or pierce your ears, that could be fun! I think I have a receipt at home somewhere, I’ll get it to you and you can get an actual gift card. Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.” Enjolras said, beaming. “Thank you.”

“No, uh, thanks for the invite.”

A phone started ringing from inside of Combeferre’s bag. He fished around for a while before finding the culprit. A familiar looking girl’s contact image lit up the screen.

“Marius, it’s your sister.”

Marius’ eyes went wide, and he rushed to grab his phone. “She’s not my sister. Hello?” he said into the speaker, his face contorting into an indecipherable expression before running into the bathroom to take his call. Combeferre couldn’t help but roll his eyes, which Grantaire noticed with a giggle. Courfeyrac had somehow made his way to the top of a stool, and he was clanging a fork to his glass.

“Everyone! Eyes up here! So, who’s ready for a game?!”

[dlwritings]

Got Your Six | Tom Holland | pt 6

series masterlist found here

general masterlist found here

pairing - mob!Tom x reader word count - 4,956 warnings - swearing, guns

summary - Tom and Harrison agree to teach April and (Y/N) how to defend themselves, and Tom and (Y/N) make a few other deals of their own.

(previous) (next)

I kept rereading the words on the paper over and over again:

She sure is pretty, Tom. You should take better care of her. We’d hate to see someone take advantage of such a sweet girl.

Eventually, my hands started shaking and my eyes got blurry with tears. “Fuck,” I muttered, putting my hand on my forehead. “Fuck. Fuck!” I looked up at Tom, wiping away a tear that had fallen. “This is bullshit! What the fuck does this even mean?” Tom put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Everyone turned their heads to look at him, and I wondered if Tom apologizing was a rare occurrence. From what I knew of him, that didn’t surprise me.

“I don’t understand,” April said. “Why are Mackie’s guys after you all anyway?”

“It’s my fault,” Tom admitted, still not looking up at us.

“It’s not,” Harrison argued with a shake of his head. “And you’ve gotta stop telling yourself it is.”

“Why would it be your fault?” April asked.

“I’m the one who moved us from London to Mackie’s neighborhood,” he explained. “He’s been after us for five years. I took his territory, and he wants it back. If I had kept us in London-”

“-we would’ve had a different set of problems in a different country,” Harrison said. “Trouble’s gonna be wherever we are. We just have to deal with it.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment, then Harry sighed. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve established how they know who April and (Y/N) are, but how did they know (Y/N) was out?”

“And why are they going after (Y/N) and not April?” Sam repeated.

“Well,” Harrison said (slowly, like he was hesitant), “April is associated with me, right? She’s my girlfriend. (Y/N) is, in turn, associated with Tom.”

“How am I associated with Tom?” I said. “By default?”

“I mean, you guys were dancing together at the club that you said Mackie’s guys were at,” April said. “I guess it kind of makes sense.” Tom and I made eye contact for a slight second before we both looked away.

“All that aside,” Harry said, “I still don’t get how they knew (Y/N) was out. And how they knew that’s where she would be.”

“Is someone watching us?” I asked.

“No way,” Tom said. “No one could be watching the house. There’s no way.”

“Okay,” I said. “Then I don’t get it.”

“Let’s forget about how this happened for a second,” Harrison said. “The thing we should be focusing on is making sure that you guys know what to do if this happens again.”

“What does that mean?” April asked.

“I think we should teach you about the job,” he said, “and how to protect yourselves if something happens to you.”

“Like self defense?” April said.

“Like self defense,” Harrison repeated with a nod. April and I looked at each other before we both nodded.

“Okay,” April said. “If that’s what you think is the best idea.”

“I do,” Harrison said. “Tom?”

Tom shrugged. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

“Great,” Harrison said. “So I’ll help April, you can help (Y/N)?” I rolled my eyes, and Tom sighed but nodded. “Why don’t we get started right away, then,” Harrison said. “You girls go put on some gym stuff and come right back. We’ll take you down to the gym.”

Even though this was not how I wanted to spend my morning, I knew Harrison was right. We needed to know how to defend ourselves if something worse were to happen than what happened last night. So, I went into my room and sifted through my clothes before pulling out a pair of cropped leggings and a grey v-neck t-shirt. While I was putting my hair in a ponytail, there was a knock at my door. “Yeah?” I called. Instead of April like I assumed it would be, it was Tom. “Oh,” I said, dropping my arms to my sides. “What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?” he asked. I realized that he actually hadn’t stepped into the room, which surprised me. It was way more like him to just walk right in.

“Uh, sure,” I said. Tom nodded and walked in, closing the door behind him and putting his hands in his pockets. “You’re being weird,” I said.

“Sorry,” Tom said, shaking his hair through his hand. “I just think that we should fix this-” He motioned between the two of us.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped. “Fix what?”

“Jesus,” Tom mumbled. “Do you have to be so dramatic about everything?”

“I’m dramatic?” I shouted. “Let’s talk about how you stalked me and followed me!”

“And saved your life!” Tom shouted back. “God, you’re so, so-”

“So?”

“So infuriating!” Tom said. “And if you expect me to help you defend yourself, we need to stop being at each other’s throats all the time!”

“I’ll stop if you’ll stop!” I shouted back.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Tom said. “I’m saying that I’ll stop! I’m saying I’m sorry I’ve been a dick, and I want to stop! So let’s fucking stop!”

My shoulders dropped a little bit. “Oh,” I said. I poked my tongue against my cheek and looked around the room awkwardly. “Okay. Yeah. I guess you’re right.” I paused. “So this is like a truce?” Tom cracked a grin.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess it’s a truce.” I stuck out my hand for him to shake. “Truce,” he said, gripping my hand and giving it a firm shake.

“Truce,” I repeated. His hand gripped mine for a moment longer than expected, and when he pulled away he put his hands back in his pockets.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said with a nod. “Just let me grab my Nikes.”

(Tom stared at her ass as she bent over to grab the shoes that were on the floor, but he looked away just as fast.)

The truce felt weird and slightly unbelievable, but after what happened last night, I knew I needed to learn how to protect myself. I figured that would be easier if Tom and I weren’t constantly fighting, even if our feelings of non-hatred were forced or pretend.

Tom lead me downstairs to the gym which I had no idea even existed. It wasn’t as nice as the rest of the house. It wasn’t like a five star gym. It was like a dull room with a boxing ring in the middle, some weight-lifting machines in one corner, two treadmills in another, and then a few punching bags along one of the walls. April and Harrison were in the middle of the ring stretching. Tom and I went to join them. We did a few basic stretches before going over to the punching bags along the wall. Tom held mine while Harrison held April’s. “Okay,” Tom said. “Let’s wrap your hands.” April and I nodded, so Tom and Harrison each started wrapping our hands. “You start by putting your thumb in the loop,” Tom explained as he did it for me. “Then you’re gonna go three times around the wrist-” He did. “-then three times around the hand.” I was completely mesmerized as Tom wrapped my hand so intricately. “Now, we’ll make three x’s. We’ll go back behind the thumb, and then bring it between the pinky and ring finger and then bring it across the back of your hand and back around your thumb. The second x, you’ll do the same thing except between your ring and middle, then again but between your middle and pointer. Then we’ll go once around the thumb, flip the hand over, and go three times around the knuckles.” We had a little bit of the wrap left, so Tom explained that we’d use the rest of it just by rewrapping the wrists and knuckles a few more times before securing it at the end.

Tom looked up at me after wrapping my first hand and gave me a small smile. “Do you want to try this one on your own?” he asked, taking my other hand and lifting it. I shook my head no.

“You can do it,” I said. “Don’t wanna do it wrong.” Tom just chuckled a bit and nodded, repeating the process on my other hand. When he was done, I thought I noticed him brush his thumb across my wrapped knuckles. I convinced myself I imagined it. “Alright,” he said, clearing his throat a bit. “Let’s do this.”

Tom and Harrison showed us how to plant our feet and told us to punch the bag in sets of three -right, left, right- using the proper form. They said we would do this in twelve sets of two minutes with thirty second rests in between. “Make sure you keep your thumb on the outside of your fist,” Tom said, taking my hand and adjusting how I was making a fist. “If you keep it inside, you’ll break your thumb.” April and I both started hitting our bags, and Harrison started teaching us some lessons.

“If you are in a physical fight,” Harrison said, “go for the vulnerable body parts- eyes, groin, and throat.”

“And if you end up getting taken,” Tom said, “do your best to not get taken to a secondary location.”

“If a car starts to drive alongside you,” Harrison added, “turn around and run in the opposite direction. It’ll buy you some time. But if you do get grabbed and shoved in the trunk, knock out the taillights with your foot and stick your hand out so cars behind you can see you. Do anything so that someone can see you.”

“Don’t some cars have those handles that pop the trunk from the inside?” I asked, wiping some sweat from my forehead.

“Chances are if you’re put in a trunk, they’ve already taken that out,” Tom said. I nodded and continued hitting the bag. “Now,” he said again, “let’s go over the rules.”

“The rules?” I repeated.

“This family runs by twelve rules,” Tom said, holding my punching bag more firmly as it swayed a bit. “We call them the Holland Family Commandments.”

“Cute,” April said, throwing another punch.

“Important,” Harrison emphasized. “If you guys hope to survive, it’s important you know all twelve.”

“Alright,” I said. “Go on and list ‘em.”

“The first four have names,” Tom said. “Number one is omertà. It’s the code of silence”

“Never ever talk to the authorities,” Harrison said.

“Omertà,” I repeated. “Got it.”

“Number two,” Tom continued. “Family Secrets. Members can’t talk about family business to non-members.”

“So,” April said, wiping some sweat from her forehead. “Is this technically breaking that rule?”

Tom shrugged. “There’s an exception to every rule.”

“Or are you just admitting that we’re part of the family now?” I joked.

Tom scoffed and grinned. “Careful what you wish for, love. But no, you’re not part of the family.”

“But I’d say you’re connected enough,” Harrison said. “It’s in your best interest to hear the aspects of the business that will help keep you safe.”

“And it’s not like we’re telling you about or taking you on jobs,” Tom said. “Listing our rules is different than talking about business. I’m pretty sure you can find a list of mob family rules online.” We all chuckled, and Tom nodded for us to start our next set. “Number three,” he said, “is Blood for Blood. If a family member kills another family member, no one can commit murder in revenge unless the boss -me- gives permission.”

“Number four,” Harrison continued. “No fighting among members.”

“Pretty self-explanatory,” Tom said. Tom and Harrison shared a look I couldn’t decipher but didn’t say anything. April and I both nodded, so Tom continued. “Those four are pretty standard in every family,” Tom said, “but the next eight have been a staple in our family since my granddad was the boss.”

With each punch I nailed against the bag, Tom listed a rule:

“Number five: every month, members have to pay the boss and give them a cut on any side deals. Number six: never be seen with cops. Seven: don’t go to pubs and clubs alone. Always bring another family member.”

“That’s why Tom had to come when we went out that night,” Harrison explained. “It kind of just goes with the idea that there’s strength in numbers.”

“Right,” Tom said, then continued. “Eight: always be available for duty. Nine: appointments must be respected. Ten: wives and significant others must be treated with respect. Eleven: when asked for information, the answer must be the truth. And twelve: money cannot be appropriated if it belongs to other families.”

After his speech, I didn’t hesitate to start asking questions. “Where do the members get the money to pay you?”

“Any deal that goes down or assignment I give usually involves money,” Tom explained. “Whether it’s a major assignment or something a family member picks up on their own, I get some of the cut.”

“Well that doesn’t seem fair,” I said with a slight smirk.

“The life of the mob, baby,” he teased. I chose not to let the nickname get to me and instead laughed and rolled my eyes.

“What kind of assignments do you do?” April asked.

“It varies,” Harrison said. “Sometimes we get hired to take someone out, sometimes we work with local businesses and tell them we’ll protect them in crime-ridden neighborhoods if they pay us.”

“Sounds like a scam,” I said.

Harrison shrugged. “Sometimes it is.”

“We really do try to be honest in as many areas as we can be,” Tom said, “but that’s not always possible.”

“So you call yourselves a family,” April said, “but you and Harrison aren’t related.”

“Family is just how mobs refer to each other,” Tom said.

“And you’re the boss?” I said. He nodded. “What’s everybody else?” “Well,” Tom said, “Harrison is my number two. Officially he’s called the consigliere. Harry and Sam are considered capos. They each have men under them that they order around who do the work that we don’t. That’s what Paddy’ll be eventually, too.”

“Paddy?” April asked.

“My youngest brother.”

“How old is he?” I asked.

“15,” Tom said. “He’ll join when he’s 16.”

“Wow,” I set, stepping back from the punching bag for our next thirty second break. “That’s young.”

“That’s when everyone starts,” Tom said. April stepped away from her bag as well, and we both drank a bit of water.

“How long have we been doing this?” April asked.

“That was our twelfth set,” Harrison said, squeezing April’s shoulder. “Good job.”

“That was rough,” I admitted.

“It’ll get easier the more you do it,” Tom said. “Now, though, I think we should take five and then start working specifically on self defense moves.”

The five minutes went by way too fast, but I didn’t complain. The four of us got into the ring, and Tom and Harrison started walking us through a few defenses. “If someone grabs your shoulders or latches their hands around your neck-” Tom did to me as he was describing. “-step back and duck under their arms.”

“And tighten your neck,” Harrison added. “Give yourself a triple chin.” April and I both giggled as Harrison showed us what he meant. “You want to make your neck as hard as you can because it makes it more difficult for them to penetrate you with something.” We moved to the next position.

“If they get you in a chokehold,” Tom said, putting his arm around my neck while standing behind me, “don’t try to pull their arm away from you. Look what happens when you try that.” I did as he said, and Tom just lifted me up and walked backwards. “Boom, now you’re in the van.” I nodded as he put me back down on the ground. “Instead, you’re kind of going to do the same thing. The same kind of ducking under them.”

“This is more like unraveling from the chokehold,” Harrison said. “You’re going to want to turn your body in the direction of the opening.” He motioned to the arm that wasn’t around April’s neck. “Step forward with your left foot, back with your right foot, and unravel yourself from my grip.” April did as he said, slowly, following along with each direction. “Then,” Harrison said, “push me away, and take off.”

We practiced those routines and a few others until April and I were sufficiently exhausted. “You girls did really well,” Harrison said. Tom nodded along with him and tossed me my water bottle.

“We really appreciate this,” I said. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Harrison said.

“Whoo,” April breathed out, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “I think I need a shower.” She looked at Harrison with a devious smirk, and I gagged and rolled my eyes.

“Oh!” Harrison said, his face lighting up. “Right. That’s a great idea.” April sent me a wave as she and Harrison jogged out of the gym and back upstairs.

“Charming,” Tom said with a grin. I laughed and nodded, starting to unwrap my hands. “You really did do well,” Tom said. “I know it’s hard, but you’re off to a great start.”

“You think we’ll do this everyday?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I think it couldn’t hurt.” I nodded and handed Tom my wrap so he could wind it back up.

“How often do you do hand-to-hand stuff?” I asked.

“I come down here about once a day,” he said. “If my schedule’s free enough.”

“No,” I said. “I mean, like, when you’re actually out there doing stuff.”

“Oh,” Tom said, furrowing his eyebrows as he finished winding the first wrap. “I don’t know. I guess I do more with guns than anything else.” I nodded and finished unwrapping my other fist. It was weird having casual conversation with Tom that didn’t feel like it was fueled by anger, hatred, and disgust, but I supposed it was something I could get used to.

“Could you teach me?” I asked. He took the wrap and cocked his head to the side.

“Teach you?”

“How to use a gun,” I said. Tom raised his eyebrows before looking down at the wrap to roll it back up. “You don’t have to,” I said, feeling my heart start to hammer in embarrassment. “I just know guns aren’t April’s thing, but I, I don’t know. After everything that happened last night, it’d be nice to know how to use one in case-”

“I get it,” Tom said, cutting me off and nodding. “I completely understand. I, sure, yeah, I can teach you.” I gave him a short nod.

“Cool,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to start today?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he said.

“I don’t really want April to know we’re doing it,” I said. “I think it would weird her out.”

“That’s fine,” Tom said. “I’ll tell Harrison to keep her occupied for an hour. I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

“Great,” I scoffed, shuddering a bit. “Great and gross.”

Tom laughed. “Come on. You can go shower, and we’ll make some lunch. You’re probably hungry.”

“Starving.”

After I showered, I changed into some jeans and a black t-shirt that said c’est la vie in small white font. We ate lunch -sandwiches- and Harrison and April went out to get some coffee. It was a good thing I had asked for the day off, because we had no obligation to be anywhere. When they were gone, Tom asked if I was ready to go practice shooting. I nodded, slipped my black Nikes back on, and followed Tom outside.

I hadn’t realized how big their property was until we started walking across it. We had been walking along a sidewalk for about five minutes when we came across another building, still in their gated property. Tom opened the door for me, and we both stepped in. No one else was there, and Tom told me it was because the range belonged to them and them alone.

Tom walked me over to the arsenal. Tom stared at it for a moment before reaching for a small-

“Pistol,” Tom said, finishing my thought. “A 9mm pistol. It’s what a lot of beginners use for self-defense.”

“Okay,” I said. I reached for the gun, but Tom pulled back.

“Hang on, babe,” he laughed. “There’s a lot we’ve gotta walk through before you even hold this.”

“Alright,” I said with a grin and slight eye roll. Tom pressed the button on the side of the hand grip, and something ejected from the handle.

“This is the magazine,” he said. “It holds the bullets. This one’s empty.” He had grabbed a box of bullets from one of the drawers and showed them to me. He inserted the bullets one at a time with the rounded side forward until the magazine was full. “Now-” He pushed it back in briskly and firmly until it clicked. “-you lock it into place.” He turned the gun and showed me a small lever on the side. “This is the safety,” he said. “You always want to make sure that’s on unless you’re ready to shoot. That’s how idiots blow their dicks off- by shoving it in their pants with the safety off.” I laughed, and Tom grinned. He nodded his head for me to follow him over to the cubicles where you actual shoot at the targets. It looked like the shooting ranges you would see on cop shows. Tom turned the safety off and put his palm on top of the gun. “You pull this back,” he said. “It’s called the slide.” He used his palm to pull it back. “Now you’ve chambered a round. Since this is semi automatic, you’ll only have to do that once. Not every single time you fire.”

I nodded and watched as he properly gripped the gun. “Hold it in your dominant hand, and make sure your pinky, ring, and middle fingers are on the grip. Your pointer should be outside of the trigger. Do not put it on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Your finger’s gonna slip, and you’ll shoot before you’re ready.”

“Right,” I said with a nod.

“Put your thumb around it,” he said. “You hold it firmly, but don’t put a death grip on it. Now, ideally, you’ll have both hands free. Not like you’re in a movie, you know, like a gun in each hand.” I smirked and nodded. “So you’ll hold this gun in both hands. You’ll put the heel of your other hand on the exposed parts of the grip. This thumb should be right under and a little bit farther up than your other thumb, and all four of your fingers should be wrapped around the base of the grip, just under the trigger guard and around your other hand. It’s going to feel weird, but the more often you do it, the more normal it’ll feel.”

Tom adjusted how he was standing and explained it to me as he did. “Shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent,” he said. “Square your shoulders and lean forward a little bit. Just your torso. Keep it close to you until you have your target. Figure out which eye is your dominant eye.” He looked at me. “It’s not always the same as your dominant hand. We’ll figure that out when you’re holding it.” He put his arms out straight in front of him. “Don’t lock your arms,” he said. “Just like your legs, just stay a little bent at the elbow. Then, aim, and fire.” I cringed, ready for him to shoot, but he didn’t. “I won’t shoot,” he said, putting the gun down and turning the safety back on. “Not when you don’t have your ear protection. But before we even do that, we need to find your dominant eye.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Make a diamond with your hands,” Tom said. He took both of his hands and put the four fingers on his right hand behind the four fingers on his left hand and slightly overlapped his thumbs so that there was a small circle between his thumbs. I did the same and held them in front of me. “Now-” He turned and faced the wall. There was a circular analog clock hanging on the wall. “-put that clock in the middle of your circle.” I mimicked him. “Close your right eye,” he said, and so I did. “Can you still see the clock?”

“Mhm,” I hummed.

“Okay,” he said. “Now, just to double check, open your right eye and close your left.” I did.

“I can’t see it,” I said before he could ask.

“Good,” he said. “That means your left eye is dominant, so that’s the eye you’ll aim with.”

“Okay,” I said.

Tom and I both put some big earmuffs on and slid on safety glasses. We kept one ear open so we could hear each other speak. “Show me what to do,” Tom said to me. He handed me the gun, and I took a deep breath the minute it was in my hand. It felt weird and heavy and wrong. “Talk me through it.”

I nodded. “I’ll check that it’s loaded.”

“Eh,” Tom said, making a fake buzzer noise.

“I already messed up?” I said, dropping my shoulders.

“Check the safety,” he said.

“Fuck you,” I said with a laugh. “I saw you turn it on.”

“Don’t care,” Tom said, grinning. “Check anyway.” I rolled my eyes and did, “making sure the safety was on” before moving on to the next step.

“Now,” I said, “I check that it’s loaded.” I ejected the magazine, proved that it was loaded, and clicked it into place. “Pull the slide back.” I did. “And hold it-” I looked at Tom. “-correctly.” He smiled and nodded. I was standing in my cubicle lane, but I turned my body so I was facing the targets. I held the gun how I remembered Tom teaching me to.

“Freeze,” Tom said. I did, and Tom moved behind me. “Can I help?” he asked. I nodded. “Alright, I’m gonna put my hands on you, okay?” I nodded again, surprised that he was asking for so much permission during the process. He probably didn’t want to startle me into pulling the trigger. He adjusted my hand a bit and moved my arms so they weren’t as locked as I had had them. “Alright,” he said, his lips close to my exposed ear. “Now, remember, use your dominant eye to aim.” He was whispering, and I could feel every breath he took. “Look through that little notch on the top of the gun,” he said. “That’s how you aim.” I nodded and did as he said. There were two targets on the silhouette. One was on its chest, the other on its head. Tom finally stepped back from me. “Obviously you’re aiming for the x in the middle,” he said, “but don’t get mad if you miss.” I nodded and put my earmuff over my ear.

“Aim,” I whispered to myself, looking through the notch, “and fire.”

I pressed the trigger one time and let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. I clicked the safety back on and set the gun on the counter. Tom pressed a button on the side of the wall, and the target mechanically moved towards me. The minute it was in front of us, I took off my earmuffs and let them hang around my neck. My jaw dropped, and Tom was silent.

I hit the x I had been aiming for.

Right in the middle of the head.

“You sure you haven’t done that before?” Tom asked. I just shook my head no, still shocked at myself. Tom cleared his throat but also laughed. “Well, shit,” he said. “You’ve got a better shot than Harry.”

“I can’t believe I did that,” I said. I looked at Tom, feeling a smile spread across my face. “Can I do it again?”

“Alright, Bonnie,” he laughed. He pressed the button to send the target back. Once it was in place, he put his earmuffs back on. I did the same. I resumed the shooting position and fired off the rest of the chamber.

By the time I was done, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. “I’m so good!” I cheered, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

“You are,” Tom laughed with a nod. I reached out and squeezed Tom’s bicep

“Thank you,” I told him. “For teaching me and, and -I don’t know- being nice to me I guess.” Tom gave me another short nod and a tight-lipped smile. I handed him the gun and we both started putting away the earmuffs and glasses.

“Now,” Tom said, taking the gun and emptying the magazine, “no matter how good you actually are at self defense, you should always make sure someone’s got your six.”

“My six?” I repeated, cocking my head to the side.

Tom chuckled. “Your back. Everyone in your family should always have your back, but you should have one person whose loyalty you never, ever doubt. No matter how often you fight or argue or disagree, you need to know this person will always be looking out for you. For me, it’s Harrison. For you, it’s probably April.”

“How do you know he’s always got it?” I asked.

Tom shrugged. “Just do.”

I nodded in understanding, and Tom and I left the shooting range to go back to the house, walking in comfortable silence.

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

TAGLIST

@bangtan-serendipity | @planetdemon | @the-singing-clown406 | @tomshufflepuff | @bluelalal | @grandloser | @jackiehollanderr | @mindset-jupiter | @bisexual-sk8r | @feel-like-gold | @runaway-apple | @miraclesoflove | @marvelismylifffe| @wonderbyers | @coraz0ndcristal| @lizmarvel​ | @hannihannelora

[let-it-raines]

Life Meant Nothing Until You Used My Toothbrush (1/1)

If asked, Emma Swan would easily tell anyone that Killian Jones is her best friend. He makes her laugh, knows all of her favorites movies, and most importantly, he knows how she takes her coffee. Then again, he does own the diner she frequents every single day. 

But they’re just friends. That’s all. It doesn’t matter how many people in the quirky small town of Storybrooke think otherwise. They are not going to date. That’d just be weird, especially considering Killian is her brother’s best friend too. It’s simply not happening. 

Emma is very obviously a liar. 

Rating: Mature

A/N: Not a single one of my stories for @csseptembersunshine is the original fic that I planned on sharing, but inspiration strikes in weird ways! Inspiration for this little thing came from the hope for fall to be here and the obligatory watching of Gilmore Girls (obviously ignoring season seven and the revival lol) when that happens ❤️

Thanks to @captainsjedi for being a sweetheart and organizing this event!

Found on AO3 | Here |

Tag list: @kmomof4 @snowbellewells ​@tiganasummertree @xellewoods @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven  @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl  @searchingwardrobes @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @shireness-says

-/-

“Coffee.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I need coffee.”

“You need to drink three bottles of water and eat about sixteen servings of fruit.”

Emma taps her coffee cup and holds it up in the air. “I need another serving of coffee.”

Killian narrows his eyes at her, the blue disappearing into black slits that are full of trepidation and suspicion as he looks between her face and her coffee mug. She knows that she’s already had two cups – two very large cups – but she spent all last night talking Ruby through her breakup with Victor and eating copious amounts of ice cream so that she desperately needs coffee before she walks across the street and has to sit in her office all day staring at a computer screen as she writes an article for the Storybrooke paper on the paving of the high school parking lot.

Riveting.

But actually boring, and she needs to be on a caffeine high right now so that she can at least make it for the next few hours before she inevitably crashes looking up the density and lifespan of whatever type of concrete they’re using.

It was debated at the town council meeting, but she can’t remember. She usually zones out of those too.

Top-notch reporting from her.

“Fine,” Killian grumbles in his usual cheery-morning tone of voice before he takes the cup out of her hand. For someone who owns a diner and is literally tasked with making charming small talk all day, he doesn’t really turn on the charms for her. Then again, why in the world would he turn on the charms for his best friend’s younger sister? That would just be weird. “But I’m giving you a takeout bag with a salad and some fruit, and I want you to check in with me to show me just how much water you’ve been drinking, aye?”

“You are ridiculous.”

He doesn’t respond to that, taking her mug away, and it’s then that she realizes that he’s taking her mug away instead of refilling it with coffee. The asshole is trying to get away without giving her another cup.

“Hey,” Emma calls out, getting up from her table and following him behind the counter, “what are you doing with my mug?”

“I’m getting you – oh bloody hell,” Killian mutters when he sees her behind the counter, and he immediately puts the mug down on the back counter and places his hands on her hips to walk her out back to the open side of the restaurant. “How many times do we have to talk about the fact that you are not allowed behind the counter?”

“I think around seventeen times, and then I’ll have it memorized.”

Killian rolls his eyes, but there’s a playful smile tugging on his lips that has Emma marking a mental checkmark in her win column of this little back and forth game that they play.

“I’m getting you a to-go cup because I know you have to be at work soon, and I wouldn’t want you to be late. It is such a far walk, you know?”

“It’s like I’m running a marathon every time.”

“Exactly.” Killian places his hand on the small of her back and moves her forward. “Go sit down, and I’m going to bring everything out to you before I have to take care of my actual paying customers.”

“That’s not fair. I’ve told you I would pay.”

“You don’t get to pay, love. It’s your own special discount.”

Emma shrugs her shoulders before pressing up on her toes and kissing Killian’s cheek. “Thanks, Jones. I want – ”

“Hazelnut creamer, I know.”

When Emma leaves the diner ten minutes later, to-go cup and brown paper bag full of healthy food in hand, she steps out the door and into the crisp fall air that has her taking a deep breath and taking it all in. Fall in Storybrooke is a magical time. Even thinking that, she knows that it’s cheesy, but she doesn’t care. There have been so many horrible things that have happened in her life, rough childhood and bad breakups that have left emotional scars that might as well be tattooed on her skin, and if she wants to be someone who simply loves when the leaves begin to change to hues of gold and red that fall to the ground so that there’s a constant crunching under her boots when she walks, she can.

And Storybrooke, well, Storybrooke is special.

It took her leaving for college and living in Boston for four years to realize that, but she did realize it.

Eventually.

This place is full of quirky characters, ones that she still can’t quite believe are real (some of them seem so much like fairytale characters that she has to blink a few times to make sure this is actually real life) and little ticks and oddities that probably exist in every small town in America but feel like they’re entirely unique to this town. Seriously, they have a festival for everything. Last week there was one because the nuns found their lost cat.

Weird but surprisingly fun.

In the middle of November, there’s a festival that celebrates the founding of the town, and there’s all kinds of booths full of games and a big firepit with a s’mores bar and all of the spiked hot chocolate in the world. Okay, so the spiked hot chocolate isn’t for everyone, but Granny makes hot chocolate and Killian brings his flask of rum and pours a heavy dosage into her mug.

Bless him for providing her with all of her liquid needs.

Wait. That sounds weird, but it’s true.

And that festival is just in the middle of the Halloween bash and then Thanksgiving, which always seems to be a town-wide event instead of something they do with all of their individual families. That’s a blessing in disguise because her family involves her brother, his wife Mary Margaret, Mary Margaret’s dad, and Mary Margaret’s evil stepmother.

Emma shudders at just the thought of that, but she pushes it down, takes a deep breath, and walks across the street to go to the newspaper’s office so that she can write the damn article on the concrete.

What a life.

-/-

“Em,” David asks from the kitchen in his loft, “do you want a beer?”

“Do you have any wine?”

“It’s the first day of October, which means we’re celebrating Oktoberfest, which means beer.”

“Technically,” Killian starts from his spot on the couch next to her, “they start Oktoberfest in September, so we’re about ten days late to the party.”

“Shut up, Quiz-master Jones. You don’t have to be a know-it-all.”

“Boys,” Mary Margaret scolds, “be nice.”

“Oh no,” Ruby sighs, very literally popping a piece of popcorn into her mouth, “let them keep going at it. I think it would be pretty hot to have them punch each other.”

Emma throws up in her mouth a little, poking a finger at her tongue to let everyone know it, before shifting her legs on the couch so that she can prop her feet up in Killian’s lap and let him massage her through her socks. She doesn’t even have to ask. She simply wiggles her toes and voila – he knows.

Like magic.

“First of all, that is my brother you’re talking about there.”

“Adopted brother so no actual genetic relationship,” Ruby corrects.

“Still brother,” Emma whines with disgust as Killian’s magical fingers start working at the arches of her foot. “And Killian is basically a brother and – ow shit,” she groans, propping herself up to look at Killian where he absolutely just murdered her foot. “What the hell was that for?”

His jaw ticks for a moment before a shit-eating grin graces his face. “Sorry? It was an accident.”

“You are a liar.”

“I most certainly am not, Swan.”

“Yeah, yeah you are.”

“I am not,” he teases, waggling his brows across his forehead, “and I’ll have you know that I do look hot while throwing punches. Or at least that’s what the woman who hit on me at the gym last week said.”

Her stomach churns, probably in want of the Chinese food that is currently on the way to the loft, and she ignores it in favor of kicking her foot out at Killian only for him to hold her still.

“When did you get time to go to the gym? You are literally always in the diner.”

“I go in the mornings.”

“The mornings? You open at five.”

“I go to the gym at four.”

“Huh,” Emma sighs, glancing over at him. “So there are secretly really buff muscles under all of that plaid?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Her eyes slant at him, wondering what exactly would be the best way for her to answer his question, and there’s a witty retort on her tongue when Ruby speaks.

“Hell, you two need to get a room and bang all of this sexual tension out before we all implode.”

“Talk about gross,” David groans, bottles of beer clanking in his hands that he passes over to everyone. She kind of wants to press the cold glass to her cheeks to cool them down since they’re absolutely flaming right now at the thought of all of that. “Killian sleeping with my sister is a far grosser thought than you saying it would be attractive for me and Killian to punch each other.”

“And just what about that is gross, David?” Emma questions, tugging her feet out of Killian’s lap since he’s stopped massaging them. “I am almost twenty-eight years old. I have sex.”

“With who?”

“Okay, now that’s getting a little personal,” Killian says in between several loud coughs. “We are all sexual human beings who think sex is great, but we don’t have to know who is sleeping with who. Unless, of course, we’re talking about Dave and Mary Margaret since they are obviously sleeping with each other.”

David mock gasps, so dramatic that Emma has to laugh underneath her breath and tuck her cheek into the couch cushions at her brother’s actions.

“Who told you that? I thought it was a secret.”

“I think the wedding rings gave it away, mate.”

“Damn,” Mary Margaret curses as she twists off the top to her beer and takes a sip, “we’ve been foiled. I knew we couldn’t keep the secret for that long.”

“You guys are disgustingly cute, and I hate it,” Ruby groans, sinking further into the recliner and pulling the gray knitted blanket up further over her legs. “Love is dumb, and you guys are dumb for finding it and being all happy.”

“Still upset about Victor then, love?” Killian question as he reaches over and takes Emma’s beer out of her hands and opens it for her since the damn twist top didn’t seem to be working. “He’s a certified asshole, and you deserve better.”

“Oh, believe me, I know that,” Ruby says with all of the confidence in the world, something the girl is never lacking. “It was just really, really  good sex.”

“But not a love connection?”

“No,” she sighs, “not a love connection. It’s…I mean, it’s dumb, you know? I have never been someone who needed a relationship. I still don’t. But there’s something nice about the idea of having someone around who I can talk to about things, honestly talk about things, but then also give me mind-blowing orgasms. Is that too much to ask?”

Emma tilts her beer back so that the cool liquid hits her lips. “Depends. Have you met men in general? They’re kind of lacking in those departments.”

“Okay,” David sighs, clapping his hands together, “let’s move on. What game do you guys want to play tonight?”

“Shit happens,” Emma and Killian both say at once, each of them reaching forward to high five the other. “You picked last time, and it is my birthday month so it’s my turn.”

“You don’t even like your birthday.”

“I do when I can use it to my advantage like this.”

“Fine,” David sighs, walking over to the television stand and opening up the cabinet where they keep the games. “We’ll play Shit Happens.”

-/-

October passes in a quick breath of chilled Maine air that has Emma layering up on sweaters and her far too many jackets and a couple of flannel shirts that she’s pretty sure she borrowed from Killian and never gave back.

(They’re super comfortable and soft and smell like cinnamon, so she’s definitely not giving them back now.)

Work is busy, as always, and Emma continues to spend her days sitting at a desk writing up silly articles about what’s going on in town and very occasionally something of substance like the economic ramifications of a new gas station on the outskirts of the town line. One day maybe she’ll find something different to write, one of those articles that ends up in the New Yorker or the Wall Street Journal and everyone becomes angry with it and sends her hate mail over it, but for now, she’s good with this. It’s relaxing to be able to slam her fingers against a keyboard and create something from nothing when she was very much used to having nothing growing up in foster homes throughout the state of Maine.

Well, it was only three, but it always felt like more.

And then there was sweet Ruth Nolan who adopted her at seventeen, right before Emma’s eighteenth birthday, because she wanted Emma to know that she was never too old to find a family and to be able to keep that family forever. The forever part always felt like a cruel joke when Ruth unexpectedly passed two years later, but Emma will always have David. She’s never been surer of anything than that.

But she’s also sure of the fact that on days when the articles simply aren’t writing themselves from her office, she can walk across the street and around the town square to go into Killian’s diner and bug him while he’s in the middle of the late lunch rush. She used to do this with Granny at her diner, but then Granny very legitimately kicked her out for causing too many distractions with Ruby because they’d talk too much, and she’s only allowed to come back during non-busy times.

(Emma always goes whenever.)

Right now, though, she can’t focus on this preview article for this year’s town-wide haunted house for Halloween, so she closes down her laptop and picks it up before telling Sydney that she’s going out to do research. He knows that it’s a lie. He can always very clearly see her across the street sitting at a barstool, but he never says anything unless she misses her deadline.

She never misses her deadline.

The bell over the door rings when she walks in, and Killian doesn’t even acknowledge her presence. She knows it’s because he most likely saw her walking across the street, and when she settles down at her usual barstool – it might as well have her name monogrammed on it – he quickly slides her a mug of coffee and a bear claw.

“Hi, love,” Killian greets, leaning over the counter to brush his lips over the top of her head. “The internet is a bit slow right now, or so I’ve been very rudely told by the group of teenagers who should be in school, so you might have a bit of trouble working.”

“It’s fine. I was having trouble working and was coming over her to tease you about your never-ending collection of flannel shirts and baseball hats anyways.”

Killian rolls his eyes before taking off the Yankees cap that he has on, his inky black hair a mess underneath, and reaching over to plop it down on top of her head and over her ponytail. “Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll come chat with you to distract you. I’ve got to cook a few more hamburgers.”

“Ooh, make me one.”

“As you wish.”

In her fifteen minutes of waiting for Killian to finish working, not that he ever finishes working, she picks up her bear claw and takes a bite before swiveling around on her barstool and looking out the windows to see what’s going on out on Main Street. It’s nothing much, just the usual foot traffic, but then she notices that each and every storefront has already started construction on their Haunted House contributions, even if some of them are more cutesy than anything else.

Every storefront except this one.

And that’s when she realizes that Killian is trying to get out of participating again like the big spoil sport that he is.

“Jones,” she calls out, walking behind the counter and past the double doors that lead to his kitchen.

“Swan, you cannot be back here. We’ve discussed this.”

She has no idea when he’s ever going to learn that she doesn’t follow the rules. “Why haven’t you started decorating for the Haunted House thing? Halloween is in three days. It’s going to take time.”

There’s a sizzle as he flips over a burger, his back turned to her so that she can’t see his face, but she knows him well enough to know that his brows are likely pinched together in that annoyed way that has to cause him migraines.

“You know I’m not participating. It’s a waste of time and money, and I have no idea how I’d even decorate.”

One of those figurative lightbulbs goes off in Emma’s head, and suddenly she has an idea that’s going to waste all of her time and completely and totally distract her from the work that she’s supposed to be doing.

“Meet me at the craft store when you close.”

“The craft store will be closed and no.”

“I have ways to keep it open,” Emma sighs, walking forward so that she can see Killian’s face and the pinched brows that are, indeed, there. “C’mon, Jones. Please. Don’t be a dud. Participate in Halloween. Do it for me. You gave me an IOU for my birthday present on Saturday. This is my IOU. I’m cashing it in.”

“No,” Killian repeats, grabbing onto her hips and walking her backward out of the kitchen. “I will not meet you at the craft store after hours.”

-/-

“I cannot believe I’m meeting you here,” Killian scowls.

He hasn’t even made it to her yet. He’s still walking down the sidewalk adjusting the sleeves on his black leather jacket, and he’s already in a mood. Not that she blames him. She’s not exactly known as being happy-go-lucky herself, but when it comes to Halloween, everything changes.

It’s only the best holiday of the year.

(Though, she does love Christmas. The decorations and the snow and everything – magical.)

“KJ, we all know that you listen to what I say every single time.”

“Only because you bug me until I do listen.”

“True,” Emma sighs as Killian steps up to her and wraps his arm around her shoulder and tugs her close while a gust of cold wind blows through. “Did you bring your credit card?”

“Unfortunately. How are we even going to get in there?”

Emma digs into her jacket pocket and pulls out a set of keys. “I got the key from Anna, and she told me to ring everything we buy up at the register.”

“Of course. What else could I possibly expect from you? You can convince anyone to do anything.”

She drags Killian inside the store, her mental list already ticking off when she sees ribbons and felt paper and every imaginable size of those bags of creepy googly eyes, and even though she can tell Killian is dragging his feet, he follows along, grabbing the things off of the shelves that she can’t reach and putting them into one of the two shopping carts that they have. It’s a bit excessive, sure, and Killian doesn’t even know about all of the stuff she already bought from the pop-up Halloween store that’s currently residing in the one usually empty storefront on Main Street.

He would probably have an aneurism if he knew about all of the stuff that is currently being placed outside of his diner while they’re in here.

It’s a good thing that they’re such close friends.

There’s a box of giant paper pumpkins that would be perfect to hang from the ceiling (Killian insisted that the place stay family-friendly since he still needs to keep business), but it’s on the shelf that she just can’t reach. She could probably get it if she jumped, but then everything would knock over and she’d have to pay Anna back for all of the stuff she broke.

Writers for a small-town newspaper do not make that much money.

“Hold on, love,” Killian grunts, and before she knows it he’s pressing into her back so that the heat of his body and the overwhelming smell of the food he’s been cooking all day consumes her while he reaches up to grab the box, his fingers reaching those few needed inches above her so that he can pull down the pumpkins. “There you go.”

“T-thanks,” Emma stutters out all the while she tries to catch her breath and figure out why her body is on edge, goosebumps rising along her flesh and the slightest flickering of heat pooling between her thighs.

What the hell?

“So, what exactly are we doing, Swan?” Killian questions, snapping her out of the spiral she was just about to go down. “I’m not exactly understanding all of the things that I’m currently spending my life savings on.”

Emma smiles, the goosebumps staying for excitement now. “You’ll see.”

Killian continues to ask her questions while she rings up all of their items, swiping his credit card through the machine, and he keeps on drilling her on what her plan is as they walk back to his diner. The groan that passes through his lips when he sees the boxes outside makes Emma throw her head back and laugh, and she prepares herself for the night of complaining that she’s about to be in for.

Totally worth it. The only decorations she has at her apartment are two poorly carved pumpkins sitting outside of her front door, so she’s very much compensating by making Killian’s diner look like Halloween threw up in here.

“Isn’t it going to terrify my customers to have skeletons eating among them?”

“It wouldn’t terrify me.”

Emma shrugs her shoulders and starts buttoning up another one of Killian’s shirts over a skeleton. She promised not to use any of his favorite ones, and he’s sent her back upstairs to his apartment above the diner seven times because the shirt she has picked out is apparently a favorite. They all look the same to her, but then again, he says that about all of her jeans and boots even if they are most definitely different.

No two pair of jeans are the same unfortunately.

“It will probably terrify Roland.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“You’re so kind,” Killian huffs from his spot up on the ladder as he hangs all sorts of paper pumpkins and bats and witches’ hats from the ceiling. “Did you finish your work assignment?”

“I did indeed. Did you finish filling the stomachs of half of the people in Storybrooke?”

“I did. I even had some of Granny’s regular customers tonight.”

“No,” Emma gasps, moving from one skeleton to the next so that she can dress up the little guy that’s going to be sitting at the table by the door. “The traitors.”

“I know. I almost thought I was going to get shot serving them. Wasn’t sure if the price of the turkey melts would cover my funeral.”

“It’s still a possibility. There could be a sniper waiting outside for me to move away from you so that he can strike.” Killian hums in response, obviously not ready or willing to play along with this hypothetical situation where he’s going to get murdered, so she figures she might as well ask a question she’s been wondering for awhile now. “Hey, Killian?”

“Yeah?”

“How’d you even come to own this diner? Like, I have known you for ten years, and you’ve always just kind of…been here. But you don’t really seem like the type to own a small-town restaurant.”

“Well,” Killian sighs, clicking his tongue and climbing down his ladder to move it a few feet to the right, “that’s a bit of a long story.”

Emma motions to the half-decorated space around them. “I’ve got the time.”

“My mum,” he starts, his accent thicker than usual which is really saying something, “died when I was a teenager, you know, and my dad was so MIA that the courts couldn’t even find him. So, Liam and I were sent to live here with our aunt, who was in the country because her husband was American, and they owned this place. They live in Portland now to be closer to my cousins and their children, and when I decided not to enlist in the Navy like Liam, they gave me the business.”

“They gave an eighteen-year-old a business?”

“A bunch of dumbasses, right?”

Emma barks out a laugh and walks toward Killian to hand him the thread of fishing line that he forgot to take up the ladder with him. “I mean, I wasn’t going to say anything because it was your family but…”

“Yeah, I know, Swan. Bloody insane. Of course, Owen trained me for about a year before they left for good, so I wasn’t entirely unprepared.”

“You said this is what you wanted to do since you didn’t enlist in the Navy?” Emma questions, handing him a witch’s hat to hang. His ceiling is about to look like the weirdest Halloween store in history. “Why only the two options?”

“Lack of funds. I wanted to go to school to do pre-law, which seems batshit crazy to me now.” He holds up a bat at this, a cheeky grin on his face. “But I screwed around too much in school after Mum’s death and couldn’t get a scholarship anywhere. I didn’t want to take out a loan either because swimming in debt seemed so awful.”

“Huh,” Emma breathes out, ducking underneath the ladder because she’s fearless and doesn’t believe in superstitions before she walks behind the counter to open the glass covering where Killian keeps his donuts. “How did I not know this about you? I feel like I know everything about you.”

“I’m a very complex man, love. It takes more than annoying the hell out of me every day while I’m working to get to fully know me.”

“You love it,” she teases as she takes a giant bite out of a chocolate frosted donut.

Killian stares down at her for a few long seconds, his gaze intense, but then he’s turning around so that all she can see is the defined, stubbled line of his jaw that is so sharp it could cut the ice that’s in his freezer.

“Perhaps I do.”

Six hours and ten beers between the two of them later, Emma and Killian have finished decorating his diner so that skeletons are spread throughout the room eating fake food made to look like eyeballs and brain and every other gross thing that they could think of. Killian was stubborn as hell about it, especially when she insisted that he let her cover the front door with brown paper painted to look like a mouth so that it’s like customers are entering the belly of a monster, but she wore him down.

Or maybe the beers did.

Probably a combination of both.

And instead of walking the very long walk of five minutes back to her apartment, Emma falls asleep curled up on Killian’s bed after insisting that they’re both adults and can share a bed. It’s small, tight quarters that he’s obviously not used to sharing with other people, but when she wakes up in the morning, there’s a solid line of space between the two of them as Killian sleeps on his back next to her, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

He’s peaceful when he sleeps, which is a bit of an odd thing to think but something she’s thinking nonetheless, and his hair is an absolute mess, which is kind of endearing. That thought has her heart beating a little bit more quickly than usual, and she ignores it in favor of groggily walking downstairs to the diner to fix herself a cup of coffee (Killian doesn’t keep any in his apartment) only to come face to face with a diner full of people eating their breakfast.

Holy shit.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

“Killian,” she yells as she runs back up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind her so hard that the frame shakes.

“Bloody hell, darling,” he groans before rolling over in bed. “We were up until three in the morning and had far too much to drink. Why are you yelling?”

“Because I just went downstairs.”

Killian quirks a brow, propping himself up on his elbows. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because that’s where you keep your coffee.”

“But you’re wearing naught by one of my t-shirts since you insisted that you couldn’t sleep in your jeans.”

“I couldn’t,” she huffs, adrenaline running through her. “They’re really tight. Why are there people downstairs?”

Killian runs his hand over his face, brushing the hair out of his face and running his hands over his darkened scruff. “Because I own a diner where people like to eat breakfast.”

“But you’re not down there.” Emma’s whine sounds like one of a petulant child, but she can’t help herself. “How can it be open when you’re not down there?”

“I had Will open it when I knew we’d be up late. You really went down there wearing that?”

“Yes,” she yells, slapping her hands against her thighs. “Do you not see the problem with this?”

He shrugs. “Not really. You’ve got a hell of a set of legs, Swan. I don’t think there’s a shame in anyone seeing it.”

“Killian,” Emma starts, beginning to pace in the room, “this entire town thinks that we’re sleeping together. It’s something that I ignore because of…reasons, but it’s true. Not that we’re sleeping together, obviously, but that people think that. Do you know what’s going to happen now that forty people have seen me stumbling down your stairs at eight in the morning on a Saturday wearing your t-shirt?”

It takes ten seconds for the lightbulb to switch on in Killian’s head, and he falls back onto the mattress when it does, covering his face with his hands. “Fuck. Your brother is going to kill me.”

“Why would David kill you?”

“Because he has described about a million different ways that he’s going to murder me if I ever started dating you.”

“You have got to be kidding me. I’m a grown ass woman. He can’t control who I date.”

“He was protecting you.”

“From who? You? You’re Killian. You’re harmless.”

“I have a pretty fucked up dating history. I’m not exactly harmless.”

“Yeah, well, we all have one of those. We can’t all be like David in our happy-go-lucky marriages. I can’t believe he told you that you had to stay away from me. I mean…wait – ”

She stops her rant and pauses her pacing, staring down at Killian. “Why did David feel the need to tell you to stay away from me?”

Killian scratches behind his ear, his tongue clicking. “I may have…when you came home from college, I may have fancied you. But that was six years ago. It was simply a fascination, and I’d just had my heart broken by Milah.”

Did her heart just drop to her stomach?

Did it?

Why would it?

It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. All she knows is that she is about to have to defuse the town rumor mill, kill her brother, and then relentlessly tease Killian about having a crush on her.

Yeah, that’s what she’s going to do. She’s definitely not focusing on the fact that Killian had feelings for her at one point in time. A crush sounds much less serious.

What has even happened to her life in these past twenty-four hours?

-/-

Killian makes her a donut shaped like a jack-o-lantern on Halloween.

And he wears a fireman’s helmet instead of his usual baseball cap as some kind of attempt to participate in the holiday.

Her stomach flutters at the sight of him smiling at her with that crooked smile of his.

She chalks it up to all of the candy she’s eaten.

(It’s not that.)

Eighteen different people congratulate her on her relationship with Killian.

She gives up trying to explain it after the seventh person.

-/-

It goes on like that for the next two weeks.

She wakes up, goes to work, gets teased by people on the street talking about how they always knew that she and Killian would get together, and then she complains about it to Killian as he supplies her with coffee and cinnamon rolls that are probably going to have her giving up her jeans for leggings if she doesn’t get back into the gym sometime soon.

The cinnamon rolls are worth it. Killian makes them like no other.

Killian is also particularly cocky about the whole town thinking that they’re sleeping together. After his initial (dumb) fears of David being mad (he was, which is still ridiculous) and then the resulting explanation, Killian has taken this whole thing in stride. He openly flirts with her when she’s eating, getting into her space and winking and making innuendos that could make even Ruby blush.

That’s saying something.

They also make her blush, but that’s beside the fact.

It’s not real. The flirting isn’t real.

Once, when she’s helping Killian out by scraping gum off of the bottom of his tables, he tells her that he usually enjoys doing more enjoyable activities with a woman on her back, and her entire body breaks out in goosebumps over the deep tone of his voice and the inclination of what it would be like to have Killian pressing into her, fucking her into the mattress with his forearms braced over her and his lips running across her jaw and…

Those are not thoughts someone who is scrapping gum off of the bottom of the table should have.

But they keep coming whenever Killian’s hands start fumbling with her fingers when they’re lounging in his apartment watching TV. He hates all of her shows, is always complaining about how the plot is too contrived and there’s no need for so much drama, and yet, he’s always waiting for her to watch the next episode. She looks forward to it as well, and it’s definitely so that she can see what happens after the cliffhanger and not because of how it feels to be tucked into Killian’s side as his fingers play with the tips of her hair, his breath warm on her skin when he speaks so that he can mimic the characters.

And they honestly, truly keep coming when she can’t sleep one night, decides she should probably go to the gym to work off all of the food that she’s stress eating, and sees Killian running on the treadmill with no shirt on.

She was right when she joked about him secretly having muscles underneath all of that plaid and black leather.

When the hell did Emma decide that she’s attracted to Killian?

Obviously, she’s noticed his looks before. He’s got that typical attractive guy look with the unruly dark hair that’s always perfectly ruffled and blue eyes that even the ocean can’t replicate. Seriously. His eyes are insane. And then there’s the sharp jawline under the stubble and the white smile that comes with it. Plus the…nope.

No.

She cannot go there.

She’s gone there.

Emma is attracted to Killian, and she’d like to partake in enjoyable activities with him on his back.

More plainly, she’d like to fuck him.

But it’s also…it’s more than that. So much more. But sex is easier for her to think about, easier for her to understand, especially when she can push away the underlying emotions that come with wanting to have sex with her best friend.

She’s not sure that she really wants to push those emotions away, though, even if she’s terrified.

“Swan,” Killian calls, knocking his knuckles against her head so that she has to look up at him and the obnoxious grin stretched across his lips, “are you listening to me?”

“Absolutely I am,” she lies.

He sighs, sitting down next to her in the empty chair at her table and kicking at her foot. “Tell me what I just asked you.”

“Um,” Emma stutters, “if you’re as devilishly handsome today as you were yesterday?”

Killian winks. “As much as I like where your head is, because I am devilishly handsome every day, I was asking if you wanted to go to the festival with me? It’s dead in here, so I think I can close down early so we can head out.”

“But you hate the Founder’s Day Festival. You call it a waste of time.”

“I call every festival a waste of time unless it involves sailing.”

“Well, this does not at all involve sailing, so why do you want to go?”

“Because,” Killian starts as he drums his fingers on the table, “you like it, and I want to go with you.”

That familiar heat flickers across her cheeks, the staccato beating of her heart picking up, and she bites the inside of her cheek so hard that the taste of iron fills her mouth.

“Only if you buy me a box of fried oreos.”

“Those are entirely unhealthy, love.”

“Says the man who serves me unhealthy food every day.”

Killian clicks his tongue. “Ah, ah, ah. That helps my business. This is different.”

“You’re buying me oreos. Grab your coat, KJ. I have money to waste on the weird trinkets that Mary Margaret’s students have made and are selling to fund some kind of new project for the school that inevitably involves a garden that we’ll be forced to eat vegetables from later.”

“My vegetable supplier will be so upset.”

The two of them put their coats on. Emma tugs her beanie on over her ears to keep the mid-November chill from nipping at her ears, and Killian does the same, exchanging his baseball cap for a knit one. His doesn’t have a giant poof ball at the top like hers does, but he’d probably look ridiculous wearing one anyways.

Or not. He could pull off a lot of things.

(She wants to pull a lot of things off of him.)

Killian holds his arm out for her to take, and she does, looping her forearm through and walking by his side as they step out onto Main Street. Gone is the open road for cars to drive by and for people to walk across to get from business to business. Instead, it’s lined with booths, each of them identical except for the items that are being sold inside, and white bulb lights hang from storefront to storefront to add a mythical element of light to the place besides the lampposts that stand ten feet apart. She shouldn’t be so impressed by some simple strings of lights, but she is.

She’s long ago learned that the little things in life are the important things, and that’s exactly how she feels about string lights.

And the fried oreos that Killian buys her despite the fact that he complains about them the entire time.

Seriously. The entire time. It’s almost like this wasn’t his idea to come out here or something.

Once they get some of Granny’s hot chocolate, though, Killian stops complaining so much. It helps that he spikes them with his rum, something she’s thankful for, and even with his penchant for healthy eating, Killian does always cave for the s’mores bar.

Chocolate and marshmallows and graham crackers oh my!

“Is your brother staring daggers at us or is that just me?”

“Hmm?”

Killian nods his head over to where David and Mary Margaret are sitting at a picnic table with Graham and Ruby, who seem to be getting along pretty well. They’ve been on a few dates this month. Good. Ruby deserves that kind of happiness. Graham is much less of an asshole than Whale.

And David is definitely staring Killian down from across the fire pit, and that’s a more terrifying than she thought it would be. Something about the shadows of the light from the fire making David look evil.

Emma knocks her knee into Killian’s. “What’s that about? Did you drink the last beer or something when you guys hung out last night?”

“God, no. I don’t have a death wish.”

“Is he still irrationally mad over the entire town thinking that I was getting some good, good loving from you?”

Killian tilts his head back as he barks out a laugh and lifts his arm to pull her into his side so that he can rest his cheek against the top of her head. “Just to be clear, it would actually be good loving, but no,” he sighs, “we talked that out, as you know. It was bloody annoying, but David finally realized that you and I are adults who can make our own decisions. In fact, I’m pretty sure he gave me permission to sleep with you.”

“Shut up.”

“No, no, I’m serious. He is on board with me making it so that you can barely walk the next day.”

“Stop,” Emma groans, burying her face in Killian’s jacket, breathing in the leather. “I don’t want to talk about me having sex in a context where David is somehow also thinking about it. That’d be like me telling you Liam has – ”

“Okay,” Killian quips, cutting her off. His hand squeezes her shoulder before rubbing up and down and bringing her more warmth than the fire pit. “We have to talk about something else. I don’t like that you’ve brought my brother into it.”

“Exactly.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Killian’s hand never stops rubbing up and down her arm. People keep passing by, laughter on their lips and warm drinks in their hands, and all Emma can think about is how this night is one of those nights where everything just seems perfect.

Perfect doesn’t exist, but this comes close.

Her ass is starting to hurt from sitting on this wooden bench.

And she’s feeling a little fearless.

“Hey, KJ?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever think about it?”

Scruff scratches across her forehead. “Think about what?”

“Us,” Emma whispers, terrified of the words that she’s saying but unable to stop herself. “I mean, every single person in the town thinks that we’re good enough together that they think we actually are together. Have you ever thought about it?”

His hand stills, but it’s only for a second. “When I said that I was attracted to you when you moved back to town, that wasn’t a lie. It’s still not. But the timing never seemed right. You’d just broken up with Neal, and I wanted to give you some space. Then, you started dating Walsh, and as much as I hated that asshole, you seemed happy.”

“He was an asshole. You should have said something.”

“I didn’t want to be the one to break your heart.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“I would have.” Killian’s thumb caresses her chin, a gentle touch that has shivers running down her spine, before he’s tilting her head up so that she can see the blue of his eyes under dark lashes. “The timing was always off. I stand by that. I also stand by the fact that I am incredibly attracted to you, always, and that you are quite possibly my best friend in the world.”

“Even over David?”

“Aye,” he laughs, his eyes crinkling in the way she loves. “Even over David.”

The way she leans up at the same time that Killian leans down seems like the most natural movement in the world, and their lips press tentatively together as emotion builds in the back of her throat. This isn’t something that she has imagined too much, not really, but there have definitely been times, especially lately, when she did let her mind wander to questions of what kissing Killian would be like. Would it be weird? Would his lips feel soft? Would all of the innuendos and swaggering confidence live up to their reputation?

Would it make her happy?

That last one is the most important one, Emma thinks, and it’s what has her smiling into the kiss in a way that doesn’t really allow them to get any traction. But Killian is smiling too, something she can taste and feel as viscerally as the feeling of his thumb still on her chin and his hand tangling into her hair under her beanie. The only part of him that her hands can find are his sides, but that’s fine because then she’s opening up to him and letting his lips truly capture hers in all of their softness.

He tastes like a combination of hot chocolate and rum, possibly the smallest bit of s’mores, and it’s the most delicious kiss of her life.

Is this even real life?

Emma gets her answer when Killian’s tongue caresses hers, warm and wet and achingly wonderful as her skin breaks out in goosebumps, and he captures her sigh while she captures his moan.

Unfortunately, though, neither of them can capture the sound of David’s voice booming over them.

“If you’re going to do that, you might as well get a room so I don’t have to watch.”

Her laugh bursts out of her, and Emma pulls back from Killian only to bury her forehead in his shoulder while his hand rubs up and down her back. She can feel his chest vibrating with his own laughter.

“See, Swan, I told you he was on board.”

That only makes her laugh harder, the butterflies fluttering in her stomach getting jostled around so much that she physically aches from all of the emotions that she’s feeling right now.

(She kissed Killian.)

“It’s still weird.”

“Aye,” Killian chuckles, and when she finally pulls back to look at him, there’s a serious glint to the blue of his eyes.

“What?”

His smile is soft, his eyes crinkled, and all she really wants to do is kiss him again.

“Do you want to get a room? I happen to have one nearby.”

“I think I’d like to be properly courted first, thank you very much.” Killian’s smile falls for the briefest of moments, but she picks up on it and presses forward to peck his lips, one, two, three times to bring it back. “I’m kidding. If you don’t take me back to your apartment and have your way with me right now, I’m going to make you decorate the diner for every single holiday. Even the weird ones.”

“Well, if you put it like that...”

They get up from the bench then, and Emma didn’t realize just how much her legs were trembling until she stands up. Her step falters, but Killian steadies her, much like always, and the two of them grab their things before hurrying back in the direction of the diner to the sound of a wolf whistle that she knows is from Ruby.

The whole town knows that she’s about to have sex, but screw them. She’s the one getting screwed.

Killian, ever the gentleman even though she knows that he’s not one half of the time, places his hand on the small of her back, electricity sparking through his fingers and over onto her skin, and leads her up the back staircase that leads to his apartment.

She’s been in here a million times and knows every inch of this place from the dark wood cabinets in the kitchen to the plush brown couch that has two blue and gray striped pillows on it as well as a white throw blankets that Killian only owns because she insisted. He’s not much for decorating, preferring to keep life simple, but there are small trinkets and books scattered throughout the place that make it so undeniably him that her heart aches.

And maybe it beats a little faster when she sees the plaid comforter covering his bed, the one that’s barely big enough for two people.

A million times, and yet none of them have ever felt quite like this.

“Nice place you got here,” Emma jokes, a bit of her nervousness coming through with the shakiness of her voice. She tries to cover it by turning around and looping her arms around the back of Killian’s neck so that their bodies are pressed together again, arousal humming through her, but the quirk of his brow tells her that he can tell that she’s a bit on edge.

“We don’t have to do anything, love.” He says this with his hands on her hips, placed right above the waistband of her jeans but under her sweater so that his fingers are touching skin, and his touch is warmer than the fire outside. “Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to.”

There’s a gentle nodding of her head. “I want it to.”

Without any hesitation, Killian swipes his tongue into her mouth, a much headier kiss than the one outside, and all she can really think about is the fact that Killian Jones is a damn good kisser. There have been so many thoughts running rampant, so many questions and worries, but she doesn’t feel any of them as he tugs her closer and runs his hands up her sides so that his fingers are messing with the soft material of her bra and his lips can’t stop moving over hers.

She can feel him over every inch of her, this firm, warm body that has the arousal continuing to grow and is causing her nipples to firm, to ache, and for someone who wasn’t even sure that she actually wanted Killian until about two weeks ago, Emma is desperately aching for him now.

Funny how things like that work.

Killian seems to feel the same way as he carefully backs her across the apartment, familiar creaks of the floorboard happening with each step, and she can feel him through the material of his jeans in a way that has her thighs beginning to quiver.

Her calves hit the end of his bed, and Killian’s lips move from her mouth to her neck while his hands start tugging at her clothes, urging her jacket to come off as she pushes the beanie off of his head so that his hair comes out as a wild, dark mess. It’s only now that she realizes that her hat was lost somewhere along the way.

She doesn’t care.

Emma doesn’t care about anything but the way that Killian is making her feel, and he is making her feel absolutely everything. Clothes are shed, mostly easily, but there is a moment when Killian is trying to get her boots off where he can’t and murmurs something along the lines of bloody buggering fuck  that as her laughing so hard that tears start coming out of her eyes. The laughter quickly stops when Killian lips run over her breast, the soft mouth and scratchy scruff causing sensations that have the hair on her arms standing on edge.

Though, none of that compares to when he aligns himself with her and begins to stroke her with his fingers while the hair on his chest rubs against hers and his teeth bite at her earlobe. She can do nothing but hold on, her nails leaving half-moon tattoos in the skin of his back as her thighs tremble with want and the coil in her belly continues to tighten.

“Do you like that, Swan?”

“Yes,” she moans, biting into his shoulder when his thumb brushes over her clit. It’s gentle, not too rough, and later she’s most definitely going to commend him on his ability to follow instructions. Emma didn’t know that he actually knew how to listen since he never seems to.

That’s a lie.

Killian is always listening to her, always giving her the upmost attention, and she has no idea how she managed to be this oblivious for this long.

None of that matters. They’re here now.

Killian’s voice is gritty as he whispers dirty things into her ear, things that he used to say to her in a joking tone but that he says very seriously now, but it’s difficult for her to respond with the way arousal is pulsing hotly between her legs and her heart is beating so quickly that it may very well overpower itself.

Killian pulls away from her when she thinks she’s about to fall apart, and as much as she wants to yell at him for that, she can’t when she feels his cock pressing up against her – heavy and warm and thick. It’s all too much for her, especially when he rolls his hips against hers as his mouth sloppily moves over hers to kiss her. But then he slides inside, the drag of him delicious, and there’s something about all of this that feels so undeniably right.

It’s the two of them.

They’re right.

Her imagination never got quite this far. It had its moments, these quick little thoughts, but they can’t compare to how he fucks her down into the mattress in a way that’s a perfect combination of being gentle and harsh all the while his lips keep moving over hers so that the only sounds in the room are the wet slapping of skin together and the cacophony of groans and sighs that are escaping the two of them.

“Killian,” Emma whines as he rolls his hips into hers and she hooks her right leg around his back to pull him in deeper. “Just like that. Please.”

“Anything you want if you keep saying my name like that.”

If she were a betting woman, she’d bet that there’s a smirk gracing his lips, but she can’t see with the way that his face is buried in her shoulder, his labored breathing now the only sound coming out of him. But that may also be her.

That’s definitely her.

Her orgasm steals the little breath that she has left and spreads from her toes up her body, at least for a few seconds, and it has been a long damn time since she felt something like that. She wants to feel it again, to feel all of this again – the way that pleasure bursts and curls and explodes across the two of them – but then Killian is muttering quite possibly the filthiest thing she has ever heard in her ear and pulsing within her so that she knows that he’s fallen too.

This is going in the record books for the best Founder’s Day Festival of all time.

No contest.

After, her body feels warm all over and impossibly sated, but Killian still hands her one of his flannel shirts, one that he knows that she loves to steal, and she puts it on without bothering to button it up. There’s definitely going to be a round two sometime soon, but right now she just wants to bask in the glory of it all.

Having sex with someone you care about so damn much seems to have its perks.

Killian’s nose brushes her cheek when he gets back into bed and pulls her into his side before he pulls the covers over them, and Emma is soothed by the sound of his heartbeat in his chest. It’s quick, but solid, and it’s good to know that he was just as affected by all of this as she was.

“So, do you think I’ve effectively made some good, good loving to you that your brother would approve of?”

Emma groans into his chest, and her fingers trail through the thick patch of hair there. “If you ever say something like that again then all of this stops.”

“My lips are sealed then.”

“Good,” Emma sighs, looping her leg around Killian’s while his hand starts tracing words into her back through the flannel. “KJ?”

“Hmm?”

“How long exactly have you had feelings for me?”

His fingers stop their movement, but only for a moment, and then she feels the gentle press of lips to the crown of her head. “I think that’s a rather complex question, love.”

“Give it a go.”

“Aye,” he chuckles. “I think after Milah left me, I wasn’t too sure that I would ever been keen on love again. My romance with hers felt like one of those that could never be replicated, you know? And then you came whirling back into town with such a fire in your eyes that I’d never seen before. Bloody brilliant, I tell you. And at first, you were nothing more than David’s little sister who I happened to be attracted to. But then you started bugging me every day at the diner, coming in and drinking too much coffee and eating too many sweets, and one day I just realized…huh, I actually like this woman. You’ve been my best friend for a long damn time, even if we still have a hell of a lot to learn about each other, but you’ve kind of made me believe in those romances again where I feel like, you know, my life meant nothing until you used my toothbrush.”

Well, damn. She thought she was the one here who was able to weave words like that. But only in her writing after approximately ten edits. Killian can just do it so naturally, and the smile that’s on her face is so large that it hurts.

“To be fair, the one time that I used your toothbrush was an accident. Ours were the same brand, and that trip to New York had been insane.” She tilts her head up at the sound of Killian’s laugh, and she can now see the blue under his half-lidded eyes. They’re so beautiful. He’s so beautiful. “But yeah, I know exactly what you mean even if I took a little bit more time to come around to it all.”

Killian smiles as he tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’ve been more than fine waiting.”

-/-

Killian lets Will open the diner again the next day, and this time Emma doesn’t wander downstairs for coffee. She stays holed up in bed with Killian, the two of them laughing and talking and making each other sigh out the other’s name with the way that their bodies move together.

It’s the first time Killian ever completely misses a day of work.

He starts decorating the diner for holidays after that. Not small ones like President’s Day or Flag Day or anything like that, but in December there’s a tree wrapped in lights and ornaments and in March everything is decked out in green to go along with the special on beer. Granted, a lot of it is her doing and Killian definitely still complains, but the both of them know that his grumpy act is really just an act.

He’s more than happy to do silly things to make her happy.

That includes proposing to her the next year on Halloween as Emma wrestles with a pair of sheets that she’s trying (and failing) to make look like a ghost.

She says yes but only if she’s guaranteed free burgers and fries for life. Plus, her own toothbrush. Oh, and coffee. Always coffee.

It’s a tough negotiation, but Killian agrees.

[victory-cookies]

It’s Curtains, For Sure!

A/N: Alternatively titled “Jonas and Poet go to Walmart”. This is a) the longest one-shot I’ve ever written (for fic or ocs) and b) the first time I’ve ever written a curtain fic story. It was fun. I hope you enjoy. Also, have I ever mentioned that Poet and Jonas are in a QPR? They’re in a QPR.

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

“Y’know, I’m pretty sure that if hell exists, it’ll just be a really big Walmart,” Jonas muttered as he and Poet walked through the entrance to the store. “It’s so loud and crowded and bright and the people, Poet, the people can be so mean!”

Poet rolled her eyes as they walked over to the shopping carts, ignoring Jonas’ exaggeratedly woeful expression. “You didn’t have to come with me, dingus. It’s my shopping week, not yours,” they said, inserting a quarter into the nearest cart and pulling it free of its brethren. 

“And leave you to endure this torture alone? I would never!”

She snorted and began to walk towards the store proper. “Chivalrous of you.” 

“I know,” he replied, hurrying after them.

Once inside, Poet pulled out a list and scanned it. “Alright, so we need, like, the general weekly food stuff, as well as baking supplies for dessert tomorrow, laundry detergent, dish gloves, Mariah wants some yarn, I need some new makeup, and Marcus wants, and I quote, ‘a new boardgame or something because Catan is boring as shit and you all know it’, which, to be fair, he is right about. Anything I forgot?” They looked back up to see Jonas lounging in the cart. 

He shrugged. “Don’t think so? If you’re getting makeup, though, I want some too.”

“Sounds good,” they said, stuffing the list back into their pocket. “Upstairs first? We can grab the yarn and a new game or two and get everything else after.”

Jonas flashed her two thumbs up. 

There was a short pause as she looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “You gonna stay there?” she asked finally.

He grinned, ignoring the uncomfortableness of the metal pressed into his back. “Gotta find some way to have fun in here.” 

They sighed and began to push the cart through the store. 

***

It was only when they arrived at the escalators that Poet realized letting Jonas stay in the cart may have been a bad idea.

“Nuh-uh. No sir. I am all for committing fun and stupid crimes, J, but I am not letting you defile my good name by getting us banned from Walmart.”

In front of them, sandwiched between the up and down escalators, was the shopping cart conveyor, currently ferrying many a customer’s groceries between the two floors. And in Jonas’ eyes, there was a sparkle of mischief that Poet was very much familiar with. 

“You are not riding the cart escalator, Jonas.”

“Oh, c’mon—”

“No, absolutely not, they will see you and they will kick us out and we will never be allowed back into the only nearby Walmart—”

“Can’t see me if I’m invisible,” he said slyly. “Besides, even if we do get banned, you can just shapeshift into someone else and bam. Back in the Walmart, though I don’t know why you’d want that.”

They squinted, looking back and forth between Jonas and the escalators and biting back a smile. 

“I’ll buy you that cream blush you want,” he sang, his eyes sparkling brightly. 

She sighed fondly. Asshole. 

“Deal.”

Jonas pumped a fist into the air and then promptly disappeared.

Poet wheeled him over to the up conveyor and pushed the cart onto it, eyeing the “CARTS ONLY” label on its flaps and the signs above them warning against leaving children in the basket. “I hope you get stuck,” they muttered as the cart began to ascend, and they got the feeling Jonas was flipping them off (though it was hard to tell, him being invisible and all). They stepped onto the up escalator and leaned against the railing as they rode it up, watching the seeming empty cart rise beside them. Eventually, they reached the second floor and she pulled the Jonas’ ride out of the cartveyor, dragging him into a nearby aisle. 

“How was it?” she asked, the cart rattling as Jonas hopped out.

“Thrilling!” he replied, dropping his invisibility and stretching. “And see? No one’ll ever know I did it! It’s a perfect crime.”

They punched him in the arm and swung the cart around. “Sure, Jan. Now shall we get ourselves some yarn?”

***

“Wait, how the fuck does yarn work?”

Jonas shrugged. He and Poet stared at the shelves of yarn in front of them, both somewhat confused by the surprisingly large, colourful selection. “My guess is as good as yours, Poe,” he said. “Did she say how many bundles to get or anything?”

Poet pursed her lips. “I didn’t think to ask. She wants red, though.”

“Alright… but neither of us have any idea how much yarn one would need for… general knitting?”

“No clue.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Let’s just grab lots?”

“Let’s.”

Jonas stepped forward and grabbed an armful of skeins of red yarn, tossing them into the cart. He looked towards Poet, cocking an eyebrow. “Board games?”

“Board games.”

“Cool.”

Jonas took charge of the cart, leading them into what was arguably the best section of the store. They wove through aisles upon aisles of toys, shelves stacked with dolls and toy trucks and far too many brands of surprise boxes, trying to ignore the urge to meander and fuck around with any box that made a noise when you stuck your finger through the front to press demo button. They sped by the shelving unit housing the trading cards because Jonas did not need more, he really shouldn’t, he had so many already— but like one pack couldn’t hurt, right? He tossed it on top of the bed of yarn literally lining the bottom of the cart before sighing. 

“Mariah’s gonna laugh at us, isn’t she? This is so much yarn. There’s no way she needs this much yarn, right?”

Poet shrugged. “I dunno, man. She’ll be stocked up at the very least,” she replied as they came to a stop at the boardgames section. “Anyways, what game should we get?” She picked up an Apples to Apples box, flipping it to read the back.

“Isn’t that just, like, G-rated Cards Against Humanity?”

“Yeah, kinda looks like it… how about, uh—” They grabbed another box. “Trouble?”

J shook his head. “Pretty sure we already have that one.”

“Shit.” They scanned the shelves, searching for something interesting, before they froze and silently pulled a box labelled “Pandemic” down. A Look passed between them and Jonas, and they placed the game into the cart. 

“Okay, you better be glad we don’t have a pandemic going on in this universe or I swear to god…” muttered Jonas as he began to head back towards the escalators. Poet snickered and followed. 

***

The two of them rode the escalator back down to the main floor, Poet having managed to convince Jonas to stay out of the cart this time. They began to knock out some of the more boring tasks on the list, heading over to the home goods side of the store to grab the cleaning supplies they needed before entering the food area to get the main groceries. 

“Whose idea was it to let eight teenagers live together again?” Poet asked, looking at the grocery list to see they needed ten frozen pizzas. “I feel like this isn’t healthy.”

“Eh,” Jonas replied, shrugging as he opened the freezer display to grab the aforementioned pizzas. “We haven’t died of malnutrition yet.”

“Fair.” 

They continued through the store, piling the rest of the week’s food supply into the cart. When they reached the baking aisle, Poet added what could only be described as an industrial-sized bag of chocolate chips to the stash, earning a half-puzzled, half-amused look from Jonas. 

“You never know when you might need ‘em,” they said, grabbing a bag of cake flour. 

***

It was as they bagged and tied the last of the fruits on the list that Poet began to notice how quiet  Jonas had gotten. They glanced over to see him fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist and pursed their lips. “You doin’ alright there, J?” they asked.

He looked up quickly. “Oh, yeah, I just— it’s… a lot in here, y’know? It’s...” he trailed off. 

“You wanna hit the makeup section real quick and then we can blow this popsicle stand?” 

He nodded. “That would be cool.”

They quickly made their way over to the makeup section and Poet made a beeline for the display for the cream blush Jonas had promised her while he walked over to a display of eyeshadow palettes. He deliberated for a moment before grabbing a small palette of blues and purples, wincing slightly as a baby over in the next aisle began to cry loudly. He then felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and turned around to see Poet, holding her blush as well as a tube of mascara and multiple eyeliners of different colours. She reached around him to grab a palette for herself before smiling at him. 

“Shall we?” she asked. 

***

The cart clattered as they rolled it out of the store, packed tightly with bags full of various necessities and absolutely-non-necessities, and Jonas sighed with relief. 

“And we’re free!” he muttered. “Free from the actual, real hell.” 

Poet pursed her lips. “I’m sorry about that,” she said.

“Nah, it’s okay,” he replied. “It didn’t get too bad, all things considering. And hey—” He put his hand on top of theirs as they pushed the cart along. “I may have actually had a little fun. It’s nice spending time with you. Also, you did help me ride the cart escalator, which slapped.”

“Oh, shush, you sappy bastard,” they laughed, grinning and turning away from him. “You’re still paying for that blush, y’know.”

“Of course,” he said, amused. He smiled, bumping into their shoulder. “Love you.”

“Love you too, idiot.” 

[themoonandotherslikeit]

The Hand That Reaches for God -Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

“There are feelings you will never find words for; you will learn to name them after the ones who gave them to you.” – Maza Dohta

-30 Days After-

Being with Dean didn’t erase what Gordon did, no one could do that, but the way he was looking at her helped. That glint in his eyes and shadow of a smile on the corner of his lips dulled that pain that lingered. He made her stomach flip with the possibilities that he held behind his gentle green eyes. It made her dizzy. As their fingers laced together, she thought that maybe, just maybe things would be okay.

She had no idea how wrong she was.

Thunder interrupted their gentle embrace, causing the ground to pulse beneath them. “Dean?” Emerson murmured, her eyes wide as her head turned up to spot the deep burn marks that were streaking down the sides of the tent from the rain.

“Shit,” he said, immediately shuffling to his feet. “Let’s get your stuff, we’ve gotta go.”

She stood up and grabbed her own bag, tossing Dean Pheli’s. They were already packed up. Ever since Gordon attacked her, Em was ready to run. Most of the time she still slept in her boots. “What are we going to do about the rain?”

“Here,” Dean said, grabbing the blankets from the twins bed pads and wrapped them around Emerson.

“What about you?” She looked at him. He wore his flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up. He didn’t exactly look protected.

He rolled down the sleeves and buttoned it up to his neck. “I’ll manage. Let’s go.”

“No fucking way.”

“Listen,” Dean said, grabbing her shoulders gently to make her look at him. His cheeks were flushed under his freckles, and his lips were pulled tightly over his teeth. He looked serious. He looked afraid. “We don’t have time to argue. You trust me?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she said, touching his cheek. They were together, which meant she had to trust him. She owed him that. “But, yeah, I do.”

“I’ll guide you. Stay under the blanket. We are getting Phel and Sam, and we will find cover.” He put the blankets over her head, and his hand rested on her lower back. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

-2 Years Before-

“Ready?”

“No,” Dean grunted. He was gripping two bars on either side of him. His knee was in some kind of metal and fabric contraption, and he hadn’t walked in months. Physical therapy was the bane of his existence. It was the last fucking place he wanted to be. His therapists name was Anna and with her red flowing hair and quick retorts, he often couldn’t look at her without seeing Charlie. Charlie smiling and telling jokes, then Charlie in pieces strewn around him, which usually sent him into a panic attack. He would fall over, sweating, weeping, his heart rate pounding in his ears like an explosive blast echoing through the desert.

“Whenever you’re ready, Dean. I cleared my schedule.”

“Why would you do that?” He gritted his teeth, still avoiding Anna’s face. He could see her scrubs and white tennis shoes, tapping impatiently.

“Because I know you like to stall and run into my next appointment. Now you can’t do that. You’re my last one of the day.”

“But don’t you want to go home eventually?” He groaned, his arms already shaking from having to hold himself up. He was so fucking weak, and the reminder had his eyes stinging.

“Go home to who?” He watched her knees lower as she squatted down so her face could meet his. “I’m here to help you. Being in the hospital is miserable. You’re punishing yourself. I can see that. It won’t get better until you let yourself heal. It’s one step at a time, you just have to start.”

“God you’re really preaching, ain’t ya?” He wanted to spit at her. He wanted to hug her. “As if you know what it’s like.”

“It’s my job to know.”

“Well you better start working a little harder on that, Sweetheart.” He said it like an insult, like venom.

“You want to be mad at me? That’s fine.” Anna stood up, crossing her arms. “Be mad. Be pissed. Just come over here and say it to my face.”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t walk over there. He just wanted to be left alone to atrophy in the dark. He didn’t talk about the dark thoughts that danced behind his eyes, the insomnia that kept him up at night. He didn’t talk about the nightmares that followed him even when he was awake.

“Don’t be a coward, Winchester. You’re better than that.”

“You don’t know me,” he snapped, his eyes finally up level with hers. “You don’t know that I’m better.”

“I know what the people who visit you say when you turn them away. Your brother? The pretty blonde? Your old platoon? They all tell a lot of stories about the kind of man that you are.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” Anna challenged, her eyes narrowed in on him. “Show me the truth, Dean.”

She was touching a live wire, poking a nerve. He hadn’t slept past a nap in over a week. They were weaning him off of the pain medicine to keep him from being addicted. He was awake. He was in pain, and he was fucking pissed off.

“God, shut up will you? I can’t stand it. I can’t fucking stand it!”

“Bradbury! Bradbury, shit, fuck. I can’t see! Call out to me! Charlie!”

His chest hurt and he wanted to hit something. He wanted to punch and scream, break his fingers, and seep into the ground where no one could find him again. His whole life he stayed alive for Sam, but in that moment he felt so fundamentally broken that he didn’t see the point. There was no meaning him. Sometimes something was so unrepairable that it’s better, more humane, to just leave it that way. He just wanted to be left alone.

“Then you don’t want to read this?” Anna pulled out a piece of paper, folded in half twice.

“What the fuck is that?” He asked, a bead of sweat rolling from between his eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose and into his mouth.

“The blonde left it the last time she tried to check in.”

Dean frowned and let out a ragged breath. His fingers curling around the bars tightly. He tried to catch his breath, to not collapse right there. “No, I don’t want to see that.” She was the last person he wanted to hear from. He didn’t want to see her, hear from her. He didn’t want her pity.

“You don’t want to hear this?” Anna challenged, unfolding the page. “Dear Dean, leaving you laying in that hospital bed may have been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Stop it,” he grunted, his head turning up just to catch a flash of her red hair. His eyes brimmed with tears.

“I know that you are hurting. You’re hurting in a way that I can’t possibly understand, but I just need you to know.”

“I said fucking stop!”

Anna went straight to Dean to be there if he fell. He didn’t even notice, he was too focused on the letter, on the words, her words, that he didn’t feel himself take a step. “You’re doing great, come on Dean, lets make it to the end of the bars. You got this.” He stumbled forward, his leg giving out. Anna caught him, her hands in his. He could feel Emerson’s letter crush between their clasped hands.

A tear rolled down his cheek as white hot pain rushed through him, but it wasn’t the pain from his knee, it was something else altogether.

-30 Days After-

Dean and Emerson exited the tent in a sprint. His hand was on her back guiding her. It took everything in him to focus forward and not cry out from the rain pelting onto his skin, sizzling in his hair, melting through his flannel. He put an arm up to cover his eyes, because the last thing he needed was to be blindduring the damn apocalypse.

His hands curled into the blankets covering her back and he hoped to hell that the layers were enough to protect her, as the speckles of deep red rain left droplet sized burns on his fist. His foot landed in a hole, his knee twisting. Pain rushed up his leg right into his gut, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Not while she was on the line. Not after all the pain she already had to shoulder alone.

“Dean?”

He heard Emerson like she was caught on a breeze, stifled by the storm. She was under his fingers, but his head and skin were buzzing. Like always, he felt like he was too far away. He was always too far away.

The world was red. It was the color of the rose he handed Emerson at homecoming.  “Fine, but this isn’t a date. We are going for our siblings.” The color of her dress as she danced with him, their hands brushing. “Why aren’t you always like this?” It was the color of his moms apron as she puttered around the kitchen, trying to make use of herself by pretending she cooked the Kentucky Fried Chicken herself. “I’m not good at this, but you always have something to eat. Don’t you?” It was the color of Charlie’s hair. The wisps that caught in the breeze that escaped her cap. “Sargent Winchester, you can’t lie to me. I’ve seen that look before.” It was the color of blood. Blood pooling under her missing limbs. Blood dripping out of his mouth after his fathers fist connected with his teeth. “You’re no son of mine.” Blood on Emersons bedroll After Gordon attacked her.

Everything was red, and Deans run was slowing. The tent felt so far away, and his head was spinning. Just as he was losing his footing, he felt an arm slide under him. Emerson had flung her blankets over his shoulders as she supported him on his. Her arm was out of the blankets now, as she met his eyes under the blanket. Red liquid rolled down his cheek. She reached up and wiped it without a wince. “There’s room for both of us. We aren’t doing this Titanic, shit, Dean. We will end better than them.”

And they went forward with gritted teeth and squinting eyes. They fell into the Winchester’s tent, having used up all their energy running and fighting the pain that radiated through their skin. Emerson threw off the blanket immediately and rolled Dean over to his back. She pulled his head into her lap. He was barely conscious, but he could see Sam, Pheli, and Emerson’s face in the red haze. “Sweetheart, I think I’ve got a thing for ya.”

Emerson blinked a tear out of her eye and pressed her lip together. “You do, Dean. It’s a big thing.”

“We are running out of time,” Sam said anxiously. “It’s not safe.”

“He’s hurt,” Em said, her voice far away. “I don’t know if we can move him.”

“We don’t have a choice. Get ready.”

-17 Years Before-

“Get ready!” Mr. Maklen said as he pushed a six year old Emerson on her bike. Dean was sitting on his porch and eating a popsicle just watching her.

She petaled hard, her blonde pigtails poking out of her lopsided helmet. She was all elbows and knees, leaning forward with her tongue between her teeth as she focused.

The Maklen sisters were annoying at best. They were in first grade with Sammy and he always got flustered when they were around. “They’re just girls, who cares?” Dean never understood. Girls were the same as boys, except they cried more and never wanted to get dirty.

There was something different, though, about Emerson with her scuffed knees and serious expression. She had no training wheels and Mr. Maklen released her, even though she’d been repeating don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go like it was her mantra, like a battle cry. All Dean could think was, she trusted him. Fathers weren’t supposed to break their children’s trust, he knew. But they still did. He knew that, too.

She pedaled down the road, zipping along the gravel. She wasn’t wobbling, or afraid. She looked good, brave even. Dean grinned at her, moments away from cheering her on, when the front wheel of her bike hit a patch of sand, sending her skittering to the ground. The bike slid out from underneath her, the right side of her body scraping against the asphalt.

Before Dean knew what he was doing he was running to her, his popsicle left behind in the yard. “Em, are you okay?” He fell to his knees next to her, staring at her with wide eyes.

Her face was in the sand, one of her pigtails hung limply where the pink scrunchie was falling out of her hair. She propped herself up on her elbows and spit out some blood before turning to him with a wide, newly toothless grin. “What do you want?”

He looked at Emerson, completely enamored, his mouth hanging open. “I saw you fall.”

“Yeah, so?” She asked, wiping her bloody saliva with the back of her hand. Her brown eyes glistened in the sunlight, with small flecks of gold.

The corners of Dean’s mouth tugged, pulling his lips into a wide grin. She got up and wiped the rocks off her knees and hopped on her bike, leaving her small front tooth behind in the dirt. Emerson Maklen was officially the coolest person that Dean had ever met, you know, for a six year old.

-30 Days After-

Emerson let Dean rest in her lap, his eyes had flickered closed, and her fingers were resting on his pulse point. His heartbeat was a little quick, but he seemed stable. “It’s okay, Dean. I’ve got you.” I can be strong enough for the both of us, she thought. It was the least she could do, since he was always doing It for her. Her own skin ached and tingled, but her time in the rain was a fraction from his.

Sam pulled out their protective gear, gloves, jackets, and gas masks. Pheli slid into her long pants and stuffed them into her boots. “Em, you need to get ready.”

Emerson’s eyes didn’t leave Deans resting face. “What if...”

“No, we aren’t doing that,” Pheli said, putting her hand on her sisters shoulder. “No fucking way, okay?”

Em pressed her lips together and nodded. “Okay, you’re right.” She reaches down and placed a kiss in his hair, before whispering against his ear. “Dean Winchester, I swear to whatever god is listening that if you leave me when we are just getting started, I will never forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he smiled just a little bit. “Think you’ve got a thing for me too, Maklen.”

“Shut up.”

She smiled and she kissed him. It was soft, because he was hurt, and because she was afraid. She spent her whole life being strong. She was strong enough for her and Pheli, for her mom, strong enough to handle her father leaving, and strong enough to watch Dean walk away from her over and over again. No matter how strong she was, Emerson was never strong enough to say yes. To say yes to him, to what she wanted. It was always someone else. The last time she felt close, that forever felt like an option, he was laying in a hospital bed and a few days later she wasn’t allowed to see him again. To say that her heart hurt was a vast understatement. So she kissed him softly, because a brush was all she could handle. Any more pressure and she may burst.

Pheli’s eyes were on them, locked and examining. “Okay, lets get you sitting up, lover boy.”

Dean smirked, though the smile didn’t meet his eyes. The girls helped him sit up, and Sam helped get him into the gear. Emerson and Pheli moved to the back of the tent to finish getting ready and to give the brothers a little space. “So, it’s a thing?” Phel whispered, eyeing Dean.

“What?”

“Don’t what me!”

Emerson smiled and gave her sister a quick nod.

“Yes!” Pheli squealed a little too loudly, throwing her arms around her sister. The girls hugged, despite the itching on Emerson’s burns, she laughed.

She was still laughing when a bright red flash of light shot across the sky, lighting up even the inside of the tent like a flare gun. “What the fuck was that?” Emerson asked, turning her face up.

“No idea,” Sam commented, quietly, his hands still on Dean’s hood, adjusting it.

“We need to go,” Dean agreed as a blaring alarm started ringing through the camp. “Help me up, Sammy.”

Sam gripped his brothers arm, yanking him up, causing Dean to grunt.

“Where are we going?” Emerson asked, gripping her gas mask in her hands.

“We are getting a Jeep and getting the fuck out of here. Don’t worry, Sweetheart. I’ve got ya. I’ll take point, Sam you follow up the end?”

“You got it.”

Dean slid his gas mask on, and the rest of the group followed. The bleep bleep bleep of the alarm still rang in their ears, only slightly muted from the mask over their ears. He held out a hand to Emerson, and she took it eagerly. His gloved hand felt heavy in hers. Dean gave her a nod, and she met his nod with her own.

The rain had lessened outside. It was more of a gentle drizzle, a hiss like a snake hiding in the grass. Emerson gripped Dean’s hand tighter. Apart from the alarm cutting through the air, things seemed quiet. Eerie. Empty.

The main gate was down, electricity pulsing through the air. The trees around the gate were on fire, the medical buildings, and coffee cart were all engulfed. Golden flecks of heat licked up toward the dark sky, deep black bellows of smoke curled and mingled with the clouds. There was a weight in the air. Something palpable. It felt sort of like a post disaster film reel, flickering on aged film without sound.

At least it did, until it didn’t.

The group saw Castiel before they heard him. He was running toward them, gas mask on, waving his arms wildly. Emerson squinted at him. It was hard to see through the smoke, and haze of red drizzle, but from where she stood it looked like he was running from something.

—————

Chapter Twenty-Two

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[thebibliomancer]

50 More Days of Comics! 46/50: The Wedding of Popeye & Olive #1 (1999)

This is weird beyond words.

Popeye has a full head of hair??

What other weird oddities are hiding beneath the poorly understood surface, what Deepest Lore does the sailor man hide, not know to the wider public?

A lot! Popeye lore is a little bonkers!

Lets get into it!

Here’s one. Popeye wasn’t Olive’s first boyfriend. There was a guy called Ham Gravy or Harold Hamgravy who was the main character of the Thimble Theater comic strip (which eventually became Thimble Theater starring Popeye and then just Popeye).

He was Olive’s fiancee but also a slacker who often had eyes for other women if they were rich because he wanted to get rich quick and easy without working for it.

But apparently during his absence from Olive’s life, he has hit it rich and now dresses like a Texan millionaire.

Ham: “Honest, Olive... I never understood what you saw in him... He’s not as good-looking as me, or as rich as me, or as successful as me, or as well-dressed as me-”

Olive, pausing from upending an entire box of chocolates into her mouth: “Wait! -- Back up! Did you say... ‘rich’? You’re... rich?”

Ham: “Oh, yeah! I made huge investments in the stock market!”

Olive, with $ for eyes: “They all paid off?”

Ham: “Well... no... They all crashed! But, my dad got so mad, that when he was yelling at me about ‘em, his brain exploded and I inherited his millions!

“So whattaya say, Olive? Let me do right by you. Marry me! It’s more than that one-eyed sailor ever did for you!”

Olive, still $ for eyes: “Ham, Ham! -- Thi$ i$ $o sudden! What el$e can I $ay but, of cour$e!”

-sees picture of Popeye- “Of... of course... -- NOTTT! I’m... I’m sorry, Ham... I can’t...”

Aww. She loves her sailor man.

Ham accepts this gracefully.

Because he preemptively hired a goon to kidnap her, expecting her to say no.

That’s gracefully, right?

Also, I didn’t really have many thoughts about Olive Oyl prior to this. I had this sense that she’s one of the archetypal gets-kidnapped-so-she-can-be-rescued characters. But she is a delight in this scene.

And yes, she does immediately get kidnapped. But she has a lot of character in this conversation.

Elsewhere, Popeye accidentally saves a Just Married couple when the brake in their car fails. Which he does by standing on the dock, not paying attention, because he found a Jeep (a weird magic creature) stopping to smell the dock flowers and was worried it would get into an ‘askidenk’ not paying attention.

Also:

Popeye: “Ya may be a Jeep, but ya ain’t no car!”

Hah.

The married couple thank Popeye for saving them, by standing on the dock not paying attention so that their runaway car crashed into him, which he didn’t notice, sending them flying safely through the air into the ocean. The bride tells him that he’ll make a wonderful husband for some lucky girl someday.

And this puts him in an introspective mood about marriage.

Popeye: “Marich! A man takin’ a wife... T’sa big step Eugene! Marich... Me an’ Olive, we kin be good t’gedder! -- But I dunno... she can be so... so Olive! Sometimes I wonder.. will Olive ‘n me ever gets t’be hitched?”

But he done introspected in the right location if he wanted answers for his rhetorical questions. Because Jeeps can tell the future! Just go with it! And when Popeye asks whether he and Olive will ever get married, Eugene the Jeep bends over and waves his tail three times which means “Signs point to yes.”

Being no dummy, Popeye asks follow up questions and learns that he and Olive are going to get married soon and not next year or next week but TOMORROW, THE JEEP IS NEVER WRONG!

Popeye: “Then I gots’ta propose, ‘cause if we gets married widdout me proposin’, it ain’t gonna be offiskal! I kin not waits t’tell Olive! I kin jusk hear her muksical voice sayin’ --”

Olive, being kidnapped: “NOOOOO!”

Popeye: “I wuz kinda hopin’ for a yes...”

Hah.

Before Popeye can respond to Olive being kidnapped, goon-napped, gravy-napped, Bluto bursts through the dock. Popeye tries to knock him out but even though he punches the guy many times, he can’t wipe the smile off his face.

Winded and having run “outta soks in me sok drawer” which is an amazing turn of phrase relying entirely on comic book sound effects, Popeye wonders whats going on here.

Bluto: “Things’ve changed, Popeye! Y’see... I found the Wiffle Hen.. and rubbed her head!”

Popeye: “No!”

Bluto: “YESSSS!”

Popeye Deepest Lore is so wild.

Anyway, Bluto punches Popeye across town and then swims out to Ham Gravy’s boat. Wherein he promptly takes over Ham Gravy’s evil plan.

Ham wanted to go to his hideaway in Malta but Bluto was only going along with the plan because Ham could get him the boat he needed. And instead they’re going to Spinachania, the Kingdom of King Blozo, where most of the world’s spinach apparently comes from.

Olive: “I thought his country was called Nazilia!”

Bluto: “Nah... they changed it ‘cause Nazis kept showin’ up!”

... Welp.

Anyway, Bluto is going to eat all the spinach he can, steal what he can’t eat, and then burn the kingdom down. And then he’s going to marry Olive.

Ham: “I’m... I’m sorry, Olive... This hasn’t gone at all as I had planned... I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me!”

Olive: -pounds him into the deck like a nail-

Ham: “-- I’ll take that as a maybe...”

Meanwhile, Wimpy tries to get free hamburgers by claiming that it would be a charitable act and thus tax deductible. Old Man Geezil has finally had enough of this nonsense and is about to stab Wimpy when Popeye falls out of the sky on top of him.

Popeye promptly tries to hire a crew to help him save Olive but since he has nineteen cents to his name, everybody turns him down. Everybody but Wimpy.

Wimpy: “In the interest of our long association, I will sail with you today for a hamburger on Tuesday!”

Awww, Wimpy!

So Popeye sends Wimpy to find a ship (who steals Geezil’s, geez no wonder the man hates him) while he rounds up the ‘fambly’ Olive’s brother Castor Oyl, Olive’s parents Nana and Cole Oyl, Popeye’s reprobate dad Poopdeck Pappy, Swee’ Pea, Alice the Goon, and of course Eugene the Jeep.

On the trip, Popeye explains some Deepest Lore to Wimpy and whoever in the audience. Spinach helps Popeye be strong but rubbing the head of the Wiffle Hen years ago is what made it so nothing can hurt him, apparently.

And he deduces that since Bluto is taking pages out of his book, that he’ll be headed to get all the spinach from Spinachania and then there might be no stopping him.

Meanwhile, Spinachania and the king is having an anxiety attack. He just knows something bad is going to happen. AND HE’S RIGHT, THE KINGDOM IS UNDER ATTACK.

King Blozo: “I knew it! How many attackers? A thousand? -- A million??!”

A general: “Two, sire... B-but they’re annihilating our army!! It’s kind of embarrassing, really--”

And Bluto and Ted the Goon are indeed just kind of stomping the entire army.

They arrive at the Royal Spinach Field but when Bluto goes to grab the spinach, it THWIP!s underground. Like in a cartoon when a mole or gopher or something yoinks a vegetable underground.

But its not mole or gopher or something, its Popeye and he’s eaten all the spinach he yoinked so he’s real roided out.

Popeye rips the bag off Bluto’s back, freeing Olive and the Wiffle Hen.

Bluto calls for Ted the Goon to assist him but Ted has gone and fallen in love with Alice the Goon off-panel and now they’re having a picnic.

So Popeye and Bluto punch each other in the same pose for hours. Yes, really.

And Olive has an idea how to break the stalemate.

Bluto, looking tired: “... I don’t get it... I’m bigger’n you! Tougher’n you! I ate the spinach... rubbed the Wiffle Hen’s head -- an’ as long as the magic of the Wiffle Hen exists, I’ll still be able to-”

Cue Wimpy wandering by with a drumstick remarking how delicious rare magical birds are.

And while Bluto is panicking about not being super-invulnerable anymore, Popeye socks him in the gut. And he tries to sock Popeye back but it makes a KLONG! like punching metal and hurts Bluto’s hand.

He panics that Popeye shouldn’t be super-invulnerable anymore either.

Popeye: “I don’t needs t’be!  ‘Cause I yam what I yam an’ thass all that I yam!”

And then he punches Bluto into the sky.

Popeye then finds out that the Wiffle Hen is fine and wonders what happened so that he was able to beat Bluto if they were both super-invulnerable.

Poopdeck Pappy suggests that confidence is the real super power and that Popeye always has confidence in all things.

Popeye: “Not all... not in th’ one t’ing I shudda had all these years! But I’m fixin’ that... right now!”

And then he proposes to Olive (with a cigar band in lieu of a ring) and she immediately accepts.

Awww!

For a comic titled the Wedding of Popeye and Olive, the actual wedding only takes up the last two pages.

King Blozo marries them. There’s a gag where after they kiss, Popeye’s pipe has wound up in Olive’s mouth. And then she throws the bouquet.

And the Sea Hag of all people catches it. And immediately starts chasing Wimpy to marry him.

The Sea Hag: “Wait! I caught the bouquet!”

Wimpy: “And I’m catching the next plane out of town! -- Happy honeymoon, Popeye and Olive! I’ll drop you a line from wherever I’m hiding!!”

So that was the Wedding of Popeye and Olive and it was funny and it was cute and it has given me a new appreciation for the characters.

Thank you, box of mystery. I never would have read this without you.

[thedancingb19]

As If It’s Your Last

So this is my first attempt at posting fanfiction on here. Please be gentle lol

Damian Wayne x OC

Part 1

The nights were peaceful, as they should be. The city lights glimmered against the black backdrop the night sky provided and gave the city almost an ethereal glow. It almost hid the nasty underbelly the city had to offer. That’s how it always was. The shimmering lights and dazzling views usually distracted eyes from the drug deals, the rapes and anything else that occurred in a city with a high crime rate.

Dark blue eyes hidden beneath a black mask took in the beauty with a different view. They wanted to see the good in all people and all things even after everything that had happened to her. Black curls that had fallen from her braid, hung in ringlets in those sapphire orbs as she was waiting and watching. Patrol was going to be a boring one tonight, especially because she was by herself. Suddenly the com link came to life in her ear and the last voice she wanted to hear came through.

“So when are you going to come home Em?” Grayson’s voice sounded tired. “Running isn’t like you.”

Emerson sighed and stood, the wind whipping against her skin almost burning her in a way. “Is she gone?”

The massive sigh that came through was her answer. Emerson rolled her eyes and leapt down from her perch atop the air conditioning unit to the roof of the Wayne Enterprises building. “Until she leaves,” Emerson bit out, unfortunately showing her age and immaturity. “Consider me out on patrol.”

“Emerson,” A gruffer, sterner voice came on. “Enough of this, get back to the cave now.” A click signaled the lost connection on the link making Emerson grimace. Great, she thought as she jumped over the alley between buildings to the next one in line. She continued this until she hit the pavement where her Ducati Panigale was hidden from the scrappers wandering eyes due to its matte black color. Now Bruce is pissed at me too. Slipping her katanas in the holster she specially built for the bike, Emerson took off towards her home and permanent place of torture at the moment.

                                                                                               *****

She parked her bike in the cave, finding it unusually empty which made her shudder. That means they were already here. Emerson pulled her mask off and ran upstairs through the back staircase so as not to be seen. Once in her room, she threw the mask on her desk before catching a glimmer of red and black lying on her bed. Raising a groomed eyebrow, her blue eyes widened when she realized what it was.

She had gone out shopping with her friend and fellow teen titan, Cassie when they found a dress shop. Emerson had never owned a dress, the Yakuza more focused on making her a killing machine rather than a pretty princess. However she had found a dress that made her heart melt. It was an all-black halter style dress with pleated skirt. Within the pleats, it was a glittering crimson. There were sparkling red bottom heels next to the dress making her realize who bought the dress for her. She sighed softly pulling her curls from the braids and framing them around her face before stripping herself of her patrol uniform.

This was the part that Emerson had grown to appreciate since being adopted by the billionaire Bruce Wayne. She had experienced the opportunity to be what Dick called “girly.” Touching up her makeup and outlining her eyes in black kohl, she slipped the dress on and zipped it up. On her vanity, her eyes drifted to the velvet box containing a necklace she had yet to put on. Emerson swallowed hard and opened the box watching the pink diamonds sparkle in the Sakura blossoms. She lifted it from its velvet confines and stared as it spun in her fingertips. The necklace was a present from the source of her headache and heartache. Just the sight of this made her heart stutter in her chest. Emerson swallowed hard and slammed the necklace back in the box. Slipping her heels on, she fluffed her curls and took a breath before descending the stairs.

Light blue eyes met hers from across the foyer as she descended into the living space. Dick Grayson raised an eyebrow and smiled at her but her eyes were trained on the person with his back turned to her. The glare she felt from her adoptive father though was probably the most apparent. “Emerson,” Bruce stood, as did everyone in the room, including him. “How nice of you to join us, did you finish your project?”

Project? Oh right… She smiled and bowed slightly. “Gomen'nasai, the project took a little bit longer than I was expecting.” Emerson grimaced slightly. Now they definitely knew she was nervous, at least he would. Just like she thought, at the mistake of her using her native language, the billionaire brat looked up.

Damian Wayne was slowly becoming the bane of her existence. Purely, due to the fact that her heart speeding up whenever her looked at her with his emerald gaze. She held his stare evenly before following down his body to his where his hand was on the small of an unknown female’s back. Emerson gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Emerson Sakamoto.”

Finally the unknown female turned giving her a tight-lipped smile. She was pretty. Not ungodly pretty but pretty. Emerson took in her blonde curls, her light green eyes, the splashing of freckles across her nose, how pale she was, how tall she was, everything about her. “So you’re the Emerson I’ve been hearing so much about. I’m Katherine. I think we have third period together.”

Ah yes. Now I know who you are. Emerson smiled as she shook her hand, one of the blondes that sit in the back and focus more on their makeup than their studies. It wasn’t that Emerson was trying to find things wrong with this girl, but she was green with envy because Katherine had Damian’s affections. “Oh third period, right.” Even to her ears it sounded ridiculous. “Um I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other then.”

“Yeah we will.” Katherine gave a sickly sweet smile and cuddled into Damian’s side. “Dami talks about you so much and I always knew you were in my class but I didn’t know you lived here.”

Emerson was seething in her head. Her smile slowly was getting harder and harder to maintain. “It’s not exactly something I broadcast.”

“Well I would definitely broadcast it.” Katherine giggled, a sound that could easily grate on Emerson’s nerves. “I mean why wouldn’t you? You literally have like everything a girl could ask for.”

A small sigh left Emerson’s lips and she had to resist the urge to just unsheathe her katana and gouge the girl’s eyes out. “I don’t rely on personal possessions to make friends. Not to mention, none of this is technically mine.”

“Okay…. Well with that why don’t we sit for dinner.” Dick was beginning to see the problem and ushered everyone into the dining room. Emerson sighed softly and scrubbed a hand through her hair throwing the curls into her eyes. “You know you could be a little more discreet in your dislike for her.”

Emerson looked up and raised an eyebrow at Grayson. “I never said I didn’t like her. I deal with her in class all the time.” She listened to her heels clicking on the granite tile as she walked towards her older “brother.” Her blue eyes locked on to his icy ones. “Damian just deserves better than her anyways.”

Dick leaned against the doorframe and gave his little sister a knowing look. “I think you and I both know it’s not because she’s annoying.” He tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Does he even know?”

“He’s an idiot if he doesn’t.” She strutted past him and moved to take her seat next to Damian, her normal spot but someone clearing their throat and placing their hand on hers stopped her.

Emerson looked into one’s emerald gaze and felt herself freeze up. “What are you doing?” His voice had gotten deeper, product of puberty, and it made a shiver go down her spine. She swallowed hard and paused trying to get her brain to function properly. “Emerson,” her name off his lips was something she could die happy about but before she could fix her short circuiting being, she was pulled from her reverie by him prying her fingers off the chair. “This is Katherine’s seat. She’s sitting by me.”

Emerson felt all eyes on her as she looked up and saw Katherine’s angry green orbs. “Um, yeah……right.” She moved around the table and sat next to Dick, trying to curl in on herself in embarrassment. Damian shook his head and held the chair out for the other girl. Katherine smiled and kissed his cheek. On the inside, Emerson felt like she was watching her mother being gutted like a fish all over again. Maybe she was being dramatic but these feelings had been haunting her for the last two years. Emerson jumped when a hand covered her thigh and squeezed in support. She looked up and saw a smiling Dick watching her closely. She shrugged his hand off and pushed the food around on her plate. A giggle caught her attention and upon looking up, Emerson saw Katherine and Damian snuggled closer to each other. Suddenly her appetite had vanished.

“Can I be excused?” Emerson stood up and strutted from the table without verbal permission. She needed a long training session and fast.

                                                                                               *******

It had nearly been two hours since Emerson dealt with the dinner disaster and since then she had stripped of her dress and heels changing into a sports bra and leggings. She was currently beating the punching bag within an inch of its life. Every little thing that was frustrating her was being dealt to the bag. The sheen of sweat covered her skin like an oily second layer and her curls were plastered to her face. However her eyes were bright with excitement. This is what she was trained for, what she was built for. Emerson was a machine honed to perfection. She was built to fight and to kill. The second however had been dimmed since training with the bat. This took her mind off of everything including him. In fact, the bag was easier to hit when she pretended it was his face.

With one last kick, the bag gave way and a tear formed as sand spilled out onto the black concrete floor. Emerson kneeled and panted wiping her brow on her arm. Her biceps and triceps screamed in overuse but her mind was still too clouded in embarrassment to listen. It was far too clouded to even register the footsteps walking into the training room.

“So would you like to explain what the fuck that was back there?” Emerson turned so fast her ponytail hit her in the face. Damian stood there impassively watching her, his face devoid of all emotion. He was wearing a thin white t-shirt that stretched tight against his muscular torso and basketball shorts, proof that like her, he was probably there to work off steam. His green eyes hardened and he starting coming closer. “Well Emerson? I’m waiting.”

Emerson scoffed and shook her head. “Yutakana buratto,” she whispered under her breath. “You think just because you in come in here and flare your alpha male testosterone bullshit, I have to answer to you.” She turned back to the leaking bag. “I have news for you Damian, I don’t.”

Damian almost growled in frustration. He had known Emerson since she was seven years old, he ten, and they had gotten very close, very fast. The moment she put him on his ass in a sword fight, he knew she was worthy of his time and patience. However within the last few months, she had gotten distant from him, withdrawing in on herself. Damian wasn’t very aware of how girls operated but he knew something was up when he started gaining other females affections. However he didn’t put two and two together. “Let me rephrase this then. Why were you acting like a fool tonight? Why were you late? You knew I was bringing Katherine home to meet the family.”

“You two have been dating for a month. I highly doubt that that is enough time to introduce her to this clusterfuck of a family.” Emerson swung and hit the bag as hard as she could, forcing more sand out onto the ground. “Have you told her that we all run around in tights at night and fight bad guys?” Another hit.

Damian was at his limit with Emerson’s attitude. He grabbed her and slammed her against the bag, forcing the air from her lungs. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you but I highly suggest you stop acting like an impertinent child and fucking talk to me.”

The air left Emerson’s lungs in an instant. Damian had physically lifted her from the ground, a new development since he never could before. That was when she finally looked up at him, her 5’4” height now insanely small compared to his over six foot frame. When did he get so built? She swallowed thickly and placed her small, calloused hands on his chest as if she had enough strength to push him off. His green eyes were strained with unkempt frustration and anger and his breathing was labored as if he had just run a marathon. Emerson had never seen a more beautiful sight. “Damian….” Her voice was a breathy whisper.

The way his name sounded on her lips, Damian nearly combusted right there. Never once had he heard Emerson’s voice take that breathy tone. Not even when she was flirting with the enemies to get them out into the open. It was a sound he wanted reserved for his name and his name alone. Damian’s anger dissipated as he stared down into her sapphire gaze. She was much like him, scarred in the blood of those she had killed to seek revenge for her mother but unlike him she had a softness to her, a lightness. That lightness he had come to love when she would sneak in and lay next to him at night to keep her nightmares at bay. When she would fall asleep next to him on the couch as he read or even when she would push him in passing just to get him to smile at her. He swallowed thickly leaning down to be at her height. “Tell me what’s wrong Emerson.”

Well shit it’s now or never. Emerson took a deep breath and leaned in. She was too afraid to say it with words so she would tell him with her actions. As her lips briefly touched his, he jolted back like someone had electrocuted him. Emerson pulled away quickly blushing bright red and looked away wriggling from his hold. “I’m sorry….I’m sorry.” Her bottom lip was being worried between her teeth as she stayed incredibly still in his hold. Deep in the recesses of her mind she knew she had ruined the friendship that they had built over the last 9 years.

“Em….” Damian was at a loss for words. She had just kissed him, briefly if it was even considered a kiss but she had intended to. His unrequited feelings that he had suppressed long ago starting leaking out but he had to remain firm. “Emerson…. You know I’m with Katherine… Why would you do this?” He released her as if she had burned him. “Are you that jealous that I am not solely focused on you that you feel the need to play with my feelings?”

Emerson couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “No you jackass!” She threw her hands up and pushed herself away from him before she broke his perfect face. “I have loved you since I met you! I just came to terms with my feelings about a month ago and then you show up with that…that….Ushi!” Her accent came roaring through when she was upset but she didn’t care. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes as she turned away from him. “I’m sorry that I tried to kiss you, I was caught in the moment but do not make me out as the bad guy!”

“I am in a relationship Emerson! What part of this do you not understand?” Damian yelled back, both their voices escalating. Luckily the training room was sound proof so no other unwanted guests could interrupt. Not to mention, Damian was getting distracted by the rising and falling of Emerson’s chest and the fact she was half dressed. He may be a trained assassin but he was still a man and Emerson albeit her faults, was a very attractive female. Her black curls were plastered on her face and her freckles were more apparent since her skin was so flushed. With her back turned, he could see the tattoo that was given to her when she was seven years old marking her as an assassin for the Yakuza. The pinks and reds of the tsubaki blossoms stood out the most on her pale skin as her shoulders hunched over. He didn’t want to admit it but he was so far gone for her.

A thought ran across Emerson’s mind. “Ai,” she whispered. That was her nickname for him, love, besides dumbass. “Can you tell me you love her? Admit to me that she is the love of your life and I will drop it.”

He grit his teeth and shook his head. “You aren’t playing fair Emerson.”

“Answer the question.”

There was nothing but pure silence. Emerson moved quickly then so he couldn’t stop her and pressed her lips to his, stretching on her tip toes to reach. Her fingers threaded through his undercutted black hair and pulled him closer to her. Yes she was a bad person but she had wanted this for so long at this point she didn’t even care.

He didn’t move for a while, she didn’t know if that was from shock or the fact that he didn’t want her, but she continued to hold him close. Finally he held her against him and curved her body into him, kissing her with all of his being. The kiss went from sweet and soft to passionate and hot in less than five seconds, a new world record. His fingers ran through her curls pulling them from the ponytail so they would lay and frame her face. Then the fingers began tracing down the pale column of her throat as his lips followed behind nibbling and sucking on the skin there. Damian bit down hard earning a squeak from Emerson’s lips as he marked her. He kissed, sucked and bit his way down her collar bone physically ripping her sports bra from her chest baring herself to him. Damian smiled softly looking up at her and seeing her appearance. Her lips were bright red from being kissed and her neck was splotchy with the bruises he left there. She looked better than he had ever seen her look. “Hayeti,” he whispered against her skin.

Emerson should have stopped him. Hell she should have never initiated the situation in the first place but when his mouth was attached to the sensitive spot on her neck, she truly could have cared less. A small whimper left her throat as he moved lower down her sternum, kissing the valley between her breasts and then paying equal attention to her pert nipples, sucking and nipping them softly then blowing air over them. In the back of Emerson’s mind, she wondered how many lovers he had been with to know how to please a woman, but she remembered who his father and older brother was. It all made sense.

Damian drifted farther down, kissing a path to her navel to the top of her tight pants. He loved when she wore them in training. Back when he was fighting these hormonal urges for her, he could hardly keep his eyes off her figure. Emerson had always been flexible, able to contort her body in ways unimaginable and it made sense because she needed to fit into some tight spaces to take out some targets. However that flexibility constantly made Damian uncomfortable during training sessions, watching her, wanting to contort her that way underneath him. The small little whimpers leaving her mouth only egged him on further. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, he was in a relationship, but Emerson and he had been dancing around each other for too long. His feelings for her seemed to be exploding from his being.

“Habibti,” it had been so long since his native language had left his tongue. Katherine didn’t like being called anything in his language because she didn’t understand what it meant. Based on the shiver that went down Emerson’s spine and the goosebumps that rose across her skin, Damian knew she liked it. His lips trailed down to her hip bones and nipped the prominent bones there. His thumbs hooked into the flimsy material, as much as he wanted to rip it off, he knew she would be pissed about it so he eased the material down her toned legs kissing around her thighs nipping the inside of them. Pushing them all the way down, she stepped from the pants leaving her in a black lacy thong. From his knees, he looked up at her, at his goddess.

Emerson kneeled down straddling his lap and kissed down his neck reciprocating the actions he had done to her. This wasn’t how she wanted to lose her virginity but she had always wanted to lose it to him. “Damian…” She nuzzled against him and rocked her hips, feeling him rock hard against her thigh. She knew he could feel how wet she was as she pulled his white shirt off his person. In the last few months, Damian had bulked up making him nothing but pure muscle and oh how Emerson had noticed. She ran her fingers down his chest, the tips stopping in the divets of his abs. She nuzzled his neck and smiled biting her lip.

Damian bit down on her clavicle and sucked a bruise into the skin there before murmuring sweet nothings against her skin. Katherine never let him touch her like this, be with her like this. Ever since he had turned eighteen, he had felt different when his eyes landed on Emerson. From the way her curls fell and framed her heart shaped face, to the way her eyes lit up every time he stepped into the room. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t been touched like this in weeks since he first started dating Kat or maybe it was the years of sexual frustration of staring at Emerson grow into the beautiful young woman but he couldn’t deny how the young Japanese woman in front of him made him feel. His heart pounded in his chest at the feeling of her fingers down his skin and he pulled back to stare into her eyes, completely and utterly lost.

Pale, lithe fingers traced up between his pectorals to his neck and up underneath his jaw. It was as if she was memorizing the planes of his face. As her fingers ran across his lips, he bit and nibbled on the ends watching her carefully. He was always careful. He never knew when someone was going to turn on him and although they had been together for a long time, Emerson was no different. Not to mention, this wasn’t normal behavior for her. His green eyes flickered to her mouth as her tongue darted out and moistened her lips, a nervous habit she had developed in the last few months.

As much as he wanted to take her here and now, the image of his girlfriend popped into his mind. She didn’t deserve this. He needed to end it with her before this thing he had with Emerson goes too far. However, as he felt her lips against his neck, he realized that maybe he could have the best of both worlds. Technically he couldn’t be seen with Emerson in public because everyone knew they were “siblings” but if his relationship with her remained a secret and the public just saw Katherine, it could actually work. “Em…..” It took every ounce of his being to push her back so he could see those gorgeous sapphire blues but he did it anyways and chuckled at the look of desperation in her eyes. Emerson wanted him as much as he wanted her and the thought warmed him. “We need to talk.”

“I thought we were done talking,” her fingers crept closer to the waistband of his shorts and a guttural moan left his lips but he stopped them before they could hit their main target. “Damian…” A whine left her lips and she bit her lip making his eyes catch on her mouth.

He chuckled and held her out in front of him. “We aren’t not even close to being done baby. But we need to cover something first.” He kissed her jaw and felt her relax in his arms.

“I can’t break up with Katherine.”

That statement alone made Emerson pull back and stare at him as if he had two heads. “Wh…What?” If he doesn’t break up with her… Then… “Then why the fuck are we doing this?” Her fury was evident in her voice and she pulled back grabbing her sports bra off the floor, covering herself. “What fucking game are you playing?”

“Beloved, listen to me,” Damian gripped her shoulders as he stood and turned her back to him. “I can’t be with you in the public eye. Everyone considers us brother and sister. It wouldn’t be accepted by father, anyone really.” He pulled her closer hooking his chin over her shoulder. “But, what if I stayed with you in secret?”

Emerson was a smart human being. She was the smartest in her class and that showed in her ranking of number one but she was truly dumbfounded. Was he actually suggesting friends-with-benefits? Her eyes widened and she pulled back from him as if she had been burned. “What the hell are you suggesting?”

The look in her eyes made Damian crumble. He was hurting her without meaning to. “What I am suggesting Emerson,” her name almost made him whimper right there. “I’m suggesting that we continue whatever this is but I remain with Katherine in the public eye. It’s a win-win.”

A beat of silence before, “You understand how stupid that sounds correct?”

“How is it stupid? Emerson,” Damian gripped her forearms and turned her towards him and tipped her chin up to look at him. “I want you. It’s very obvious that I want you, but I can’t leave Katherine. Not yet. Father and her family are close and it would create a rift between the parties.” He cupped her cheek and brushed curls back from her face. “I’m not sexually attracted to her. Not to mention she isn’t interested in that.” His green eyes darkened with lust and he leaned down placing a kiss on Emerson’s lips. “But I want you Em. Please.”

Emerson closed her eyes and hated herself for leaning in to the touches. After pulling back she bit her lip and tried to regain her composure. “What are your feelings for me then?”

Damian paused and kissed her once more. “I’m still sorting through my feelings but know that I don’t hold any romantic feelings for Katherine.” He leaned back in and continued his ministrations against her warm skin. If he could bottle her scent he would. She smelled like vanilla, roses and everything he loved wrapped in a single package. “Please consider Emerson. I would treat you like a queen.”

Emerson whimpered as he touched her but she tried to shake off her haze. “But it’s not the same. You don’t actually love me.” How could she honestly accept this? If he continued what he was doing, she could feel her resistance crumbling. “Or do you?”

“I told you I’m still sorting through all the things I feel,” he nuzzled her and moved his hands to the exposed small of her back. “Emerson, please. Trust me. I can make this work.”

Emerson swallowed hard and considered her options. She didn’t have long to weigh them because Damian was all over her. He caged her body against the wall and lifted her so her legs were wrapped around his waist. His member was pressed against her clothed core and made her breath stutter in her lungs. His teeth were on her neck, nipping, sucking and marking her. “Da…..Damian…..” The strength in her arms was slowly dissipating. “Wait…. I didn’t… I didn’t give you an answer.”

Damian growled and the grip on her hips tightened. It was like she had flipped a switch in him and he was no longer thinking with his right mind. “Last chance…. Emerson.” The words were bit out as if he was physically holding himself back from just taking her right there.

Every though ran across Emerson’s mind in that moment. Was this the right decision? Does he actually love me and is too afraid to say it? What if he’s lying to me? She arched as his lips tugged her erect nipple through her sports bra and a breathy moan left her parted lips. Finally the words that Damian had been waiting to hear left Emerson’s parted lips.

“Let’s do it.”

[investigatingregionalscenes]

story about music #8

Winter-Spring, 2013: In order to graduate, I needed a capstone. I chose to do deep reporting project I’d been threatening to do since 2009, and looked into the noise and experimental scene of New England. I recorded seven interview with experimental artists about their lives and work. These are five of them. They were taken in a variety of locales in the Boston area: Cambridge, Somerville, Lowell, and Salem.

In the last year, I’ve been thinking a lot about this period and these conversations as I ask myself, why keep doing this?

above: Ron Lessard, as Emil Beaulieau, performs in someone’s basement in Worcester, Massachusetts.

Music

Music for this episode was created using the following household objects: a desk lamp, a can of beer, a record player, a radiator, and a vacuum cleaner.

With the exceptions of “Fog in the Ravine” by Lejsovka and Freund as well samples from their songs “From Royal Ave” and “Nothing, Just Looking at the Moon” and the song “Blue Line Homicide” by Twodeadsluts Onegoodfuck.

The soundtrack was created with advice from musician Jacob Rosati. It will be made available for download later in the summer. For more info please subscribe to the podcast, tumblr, or follow us on twitter.

Links

Crank Sturgeon still performs and tours regularly. He also builds contact microphones and other circuit bent sundries, one of which was used in the production of this episode. A full recording of his set used in this episode is available here.

Crank Sturgeon, 2012, from Wikimedia.

Shane Broderick spent most of his twenties making music with his friend Ted (and later, their friend Josh Hydeman) under the name Twodeadsluts Onegoodfuck. Their music is a good example of the subgenres Grindcore and Power Electronics. The name is also exemplary of those subgenres. The performance video which is referenced in the documentary, taken in the mid-00s, has been removed from Youtube. A video from that period is visible here, uploaded by the band’s Ted Sweeney. (contains nudity)

Shane Broderick, from Existence Establishment

Ron Lessard still runs RRRecords in Lowell, Massachusetts. He previously performed under the name Emil Beaulieau. A collection of performances, including the one used in the documentary, can be seen in the video compilation below. 

Emil Beaulieau: America’s Greatest Living Noise Artist, from Youtube

Andrea Pensado still makes music and performs live. She composes in Max/MSP. Her most recent release is a pair of live collaborations with Id M Theft Able. Her former project, with Greg Kowalski, is QFWFQ. 

Andrea Pensado live performance, 10-13-13, from Youtube

Angela Sawyer owned Weirdo Records until it closed in 2015. She now performs comedy and experimental music around Boston. 

Angela Sawyer, from her personal website.

The interview with Andrea Pensado was recorded along with my friend Samira, who was producing her own documentary of Boston’s experimental music scene, below. It includes footage from the Andrea interview as well as her own separate interview with Angela Sawyer. 

“The Noise” by Samira Winter, from Youtube

Luigi Russolo’s manifesto is The Art of Noises

Luigi Russolo and the Intonarumori, with his asst. Uglo Piatti, from Wikimedia

Transcript

Brendan: Would you mind telling me about the show at [withheld] , from six years ago, down the street?

Shane: Yeah, um, I was setting up a show with some old-school Detroit noise dudes. When we showed up, the owner was there instead of the doorman, and he was just upset cause he was there on, like, a Tuesday night. 

So what ended up happening was is, uhh, two bands played and he came up to me a said, “show’s over.” “Well there’s still two bands to play,” and he’s like, “I don’t care, the show’s over.” I’m like, “the show’s been booked for two months.” Just because you want to go home and, like, jerk off into a kleenex or whatever it is that you fuckin’ do. It has nothing to do with me. And he got upset, and I was like, well listen dude, how about the last two bands play at the exact same time.” So that’s what we did. Warmth and Twodeadsluts collaborated. It lasted about fifteen seconds, and the owner came over and kicked a table with everyone’s gear on it. So the only logical thing for me to do as a Bostonian–– and I have pride being a Bostonian–– is I just looked at this guy and I was like, “I don’t care how big he is, or how Italian he is, I’m gonna wind up, and I’m gonna punch this guy right in the fucking face.”

Brendan: And what happened?

Shane: That guy hit me back––I-I lost a little bit of time there. He’s a lot bigger than me. Uh, clocks went still. I kinda woke up, I was on the ground, and he was smashing everyone’s gear. Cops came in, they put me in a car, they, y’know told me to leave and blah blah blah.

Brendan: Is that the only time cops have been called on you?

Shane: No. Not even close.

music: “Blue Line Homicide” | Twodeadsluts Onegoodfuck

You’re listening to Stories About Music, a podcast on the subjects of music, journalism, and memories, and how the line between those three things is often not as clear as I’d hoped.

My name is Brendan Mattox, and this is story about music number eight, “Who’s Afraid of the Art of Noise?”.

Room 1 (Crank Sturgeon)

Cars pass by on Massachusetts Avenue, seen out the front window of Weirdo Records in Cambridge. It’s night time. A few young men in their twenties sit on the floor of the small storefront, waiting as Crank Sturgeon sets up in a corner.

Crank: Cool. So, do you think this is our show? Shall we wait, or?

Angela: I think…What time is it? It’s not eight-thirty, that’s probably most of our show. Let me turn that off.

Crank: Not that uh, four’s a wonderful audience, I’ve played for two. One of them was my brother who never saw me before that point…and Id Em Thft Able and I had some very bizarre sexual ritual in front of my brother, involving instant powdered milk and a plastic poster from 1970 of this naked woman holding a stuffed animal…And I had a penis helmet at the time… but alright, well I will perform for you hello, my name is Crank Sturgeon everybody… (6:37) We could do a performance where I have everyone sing introductions of themselves to each other. Everyone up on your feet. 

Crank: Hello! My name is Craaaaaaannnk Sturrrgeon!

Angela: Hello! My name is Angela Sawyyyyyeerrrrrr!

Crank: All at once now!

Brendan: And I am Brendan Mattox!

Crank: Hi Brendan Mattox, my name is Crank, it’s a pleasure to meet you, you have a really firm handshake. And this man in the corner, what’s your name? Andrew, another Andrew, Brendan, Angela.

Angela: Wow, we’re nearly phonemes.

Crank: Ahh, phonies…

Crank Sturgeon sits down behind his instruments: a few tape recorders, a sharpie, and a loudspeaker full of tacks and jelly beans.

Crank: First Piece, oh, wait. My brand new fish helmet, so I can lose even more water to my body. There we go. First piece is improvisations with the letter D. Delirious, Delightful, Delicious, Dumb, Dumbfounded, Dimwit, Diplodocus, Dinosaur, Diana, Dagnasty, Dagnabbit, Diddling, Dawdling, Doodling, Dude Ranch (buzzing noise) Dick, Doofus, Dammit, Darn, Dangle, Drink, Drunk, Dank, Dork, Dusty, Dunce, Distinguished! Development! Duplicitous.

Crank is wearing a black garbage bag over his head, adjusted so his face and white goatee peek through the hole he’s cut in it for air. On either side of the bag are two enormous fish eyes, drawn on card stock, with marker. 

I’m here tonight reporting a story about a couple of loosely associated experimental musicians from Boston, a story whose meaning is starting to exceed my grasp.

Brendan: How would you describe Crank Sturgeon?

Crank: In uhh, a sentence? Brendan: I have no idea. How would you describe the experience of being Crank Sturgeon?

Crank: Well it’s, uh, it’s not a party.

Angela: It is so.

Crank: It is a party. It’s funny because, I’ve survived for awhile, through the many phases of experimental music.

Brendan: What do you mean the many phases?

Crank: The many phases. You’d go to a show in 1996 in a basement in Allston and it was like, a tough guy scene. 

Angela: People sitting on the floor, like indian style, and a dude looking at his belly button going “doonk-doonk-doonk.”

Crank: (laughs) Very true…

Angela Sawyer, the owner of Weirdo, jumps in. She and Crank know each other going back to the nineties, when they were at the beginning of the path that has led to the three of us standing in a circle in her record store.

Brendan:  what’s the trick to growing old with grace within the experimental community?

Crank: Oh that’s a really fun question, because I’m still figuring it out. I think…did you want to say something?

Angela: Well I feel like no one– when I was twenty, or eighteen, and I met people who were much older than me, it never occurred to me to look at myself from their point of view, ever. So I only ever thought, “oh, that person is as old as my mom and my dad, but they’re doing what I want instead of what my parents are doing. Once you get to be–– I’m in my forties…then is when you’re like, oh, I have been there so many times and they have no idea where I am. So that’s when you start to feel marginalized a little bit

Room 2 (Shane Broderick)

The TV in Shane Broderick’s living room is on mute. A weather man gestures in to a map of New England in shades of blue and purple. At the top of the screen is a red banner with the words “Blizzard Warning.” It’s mid-afternoon. Shane and I are drinking cans of beer that Shane brought out of the fridge.

Shane: I was always playin’ music and stuff since I was a little kid. Even when I was, like, twelve years old I’d be up late smokin’ weed and messing with drum machines and stuff like that.

Brendan: Where’d you get your hands on a drum machine at age twelve.

Shane: Uhh, Christmas present.

Brendan: Christmas present?

Shane: Yeah.

Brendan: That’s pretty cool.

Shane: Yeah, I had my beginner guitar and a drum machine. Y’know once I was like, fifteen and stuff I got a job, started collecting equipment…I thought I’d make a career out of it but I ended up just being, like, a lifelong mailroom guy.

When he was 19 years-old, Shane dropped out of college in Florida and moved back to Massachusetts. He started making abrasive music with a friend he knew while working at a gas station in high school. 

Shane: We worked together and every time we finished a shift it would be like a hundred and something dollars under, and I was like, what the fuck this kid man.

They called themselves Twodeadsluts Onegoodfuck.

Shane: We joked around on the internet about how we were going to start the most extreme band ever and how the first record we’d just put a bunch of contact mics in a blender and throw a rabbit in it and whatever it sounded like, that was the first LP. Which we never did. [music in]

Brendan: But what instead came out of it was…

Shane: I stuck my boner in a blender. Which was a demo that we did which was me and him coaching eleven of our friends, we were just trying to make circus music with grindcore parts.

Shane: We got reviewed in something like Metal Maniacs, that was like a magazine that when I was ten years old and my mother would drag me to CVS to grab things, I would sit in the aisle and look at, like, pictures of like, Slayer looking sexy and stuff like that, so I was like “oh shit, I’m in this magazine now.” After that, me and him decided to keep the name and go forward with it.

Shane is in his early thirties and he still makes music, although Twodeadsluts hasn’t been active for awhile. He also still plays shows sometimes, though he doesn’t really enjoy it.

Shane: I don’t know I think it’s just, like, nerves. It was easier with the other guys because we were more like a wrecking crew. Y’know, get blind stinkin’ drunk and it didn’t really matter what happened.

Brendan: What would one night at a TDS show end up being like?

Shane: It would start off sloppy and then I wouldn’t remember then end of it. 

(Indiscriminate yelling)

Shane: We’re Twodeadsluts Onegoodfuck from Boston, and we need the drum machine way fucking louder. Get that shit way the fuck up.

Brendan: When you guys got onstage, there seems to be sort of a pattern. You start off with some harsh feedback, and then it progresses into stuff getting knocked over.

Shane: There was definitely a lot of feedback and definitely a lot of things knocked over.

They were also usually naked. 

Shane: I think we were probably more performative over substance, to be quite honest. In those early shows we were just using five or six microphones, a bunch of fx pedals running back into each other, and just whatever sounds were happening, were happening

[music]

Shane: Either people really liked it or found it very entertaining, and on the flipside– we’d have people picket our shows, feminists thinking that we were, like, um, promoting sexism… Just that band name wipes off at least 70% of the population from even giving you a chance. It’s probably a higher percentage than that…

Brendan: So the choice of the band name then, was it to…

Shane: It was kind of like, a filtering mechanism and also it was like an inside joke that just kept going and going, and no one was really in on it but us. The band wasn’t supposed to last ten years either.

Shane: I can’t even give you any rationale behind it…it really might look pretty forced, but it was actually pretty natural for the people involved in the band.

Brendan: Why was it so natural?

Shane: I don’t know. That’s a question for a therapist. I don’t know.

I sip from my can of beer even though it’s empty. Shane plays with the pull tab on his. On the television, the weatherman predicts a foot of snow is going to cover Boston over the next two days. Shane, still dressed in scrubs from the hospital where he works, says,“I got to work tomorrow no matter what.”

There’s a half-open ironing board against a wall. In the bathroom, the sink is plastered with shavings. Next to the un-flushed toilet sits a stack of musical notation paper. I stare at it, because it says something specific about the person I’m speaking to. I can’t figure out what, or why.

Brendan: If you could maybe, like, point me in the right direction of some people in the area to talk to…

Shane: I think you should definitely talk to Ron in Lowell. He runs triple-R records. He’s kind of, America’s greatest living noise artist. Like a godfather type…

Room 3 (RRRon)

I walk out Shane’s front door and into Ray Robinson’s café in downtown Lowell. Ron Lessard waits for me in a yellow booth along the window. Through the rain on the glass, the world outside is a blur of different shades of gray.

Brendan: Where should we begin?

Ron: (chewing noises) So. Today is Wednesday. I’m eating lunch. I’m almost through with my fries, soon I’ll be starting on my burgers. Fuckin’ awesome.

Ron is the noise expert, one of the engines driving America’s experimental music scene since the 80s. Ron has released about 1000 recordings on Triple-R’s in-house label.

Ron: I was the source. And everybody who ever learned how to play a tape backwards or make feedback decided to send me a demo. And man, I heard so much crap like you wouldn’t believe…I mean, how many Rock’n’roll bands are awesome, and how many suck beyond belief?

Ron first got into noise music around 1981, after he left the Air Force and came home to Lowell.  

Ron: There was a mail-order outlet out of Colorado called Aeon A-E-O-N. When I got their catalog, I couldn’t believe the stuff they had listed. They had, like, Whitehouse albums, New Blockaders, Maurizio Bianchi, and it’s like who the fuck are these guys? So I started buying that stuff  and I was like, woah, this is what I’ve been looking for all these years. The guy that ran it became a survivalist kind of guy, y’know, living out in the woods with his gun type of thing and, actually, he eventually sold me his entire inventory, I bought him out.

Ron: When I first opened I tried to specialize in all the really weird imports, bizarre bands and that kind of stuff, y’know. But at the same time, I knew enough to know that pedestrians, your average everyday person, has no freakin’ clue. They just want to listen to a Barry Manilow or whatever the fuck they like, y’know.  

His store, RRRecords, opened in 1984.

Ron: After Aeon, I was the guy that was thoroughly obsessed, and I just devoted myself to it…Day in day out noise, morning, noon, and night. Listening to tapes, checking out bands all day every day. At that time Heavy metal wasn’t heavy enough, punk rock wasn’t extreme enough, Noise did it for me, it really did.

Ron started performing noise music himself under the name Emil Beaulieau. Footage from from the nineties, like this, show him using vinyl records and their accessories as instruments. 

This is another way to look at noise music: instead of using something like a trombone, or a tuba, a guitar, or a piano, you take whatever you can find, whatever objects appeal to you, and you refashion them into something expressive. The screeching noise you hear is coming from a modified turntable, which Ron stands behind with a goofy look on his face, pretending to polish record.

Ron: Remember to always, always use the circular motion when cleaning your records.

From that perspective, noise is a positive, creative philosophy, and I can see how people get so obsessed with it.

Ron:A lot of people, y’know, they can’t play guitar, they can’t play the drums–– but twisting knobs and screaming your brains out, getting out that primal scream, whatever it is…it’s inside everybody.

Brendan: And speaking of which, what’s your personal experience with it.

Ron: (Darkly) What do you mean?

Brendan: I mean with Emil Beaulieau.

Ron: Yeah.

Brendan: Well you just said that Noise music was this personal experience. How did you get stuff out through Emil Beaulieau?

Ron: I–I’m not sure where your leading, as far as recording or getting the name out?

Brendan: Why did you start Emil Beaulieau?

Ron: ––you know, I just wasn’t any good at sports (laughter).

The uncomfortable moment sticks in the back of mind for the rest of our interview. Though Ron’s eloquent and energetic, as I was warned he would be, he’s also a little guarded. Maybe that’s because I showed up looking for someone to answer the criticisms of noise music or its culture, which he brushes off with a simple:

Ron: Lately? Lately I’m out of it.

Brendan: When was the last time you were in it?

Ron: Seven years ago (laughs)

Brendan: So let’s go back seven years, because this is something that keeps coming up in interviews with people. Seven years ago, things were very…

Ron: Active.

Brendan: Active.

Ron: Wicked, wicked, wicked active.

Brendan: What’s happened?

Ron: The bands that are making noise today sound like the bands that were making noise ten years ago, that sound like the bands making noise twenty years ago, y’know they sound exactly the same, they’re doing the same freakin’ feedback, they’re still screaming the same lyrics, y’know, it’s just the same thing over and over and over and over again. Which is fine, y’know, punk rock exists for a reason, y’know. The young people, they’re totally into it because it’s new for them. It’s like wow this is freakin awesome these guys are screaming their brains out! They’re talking about killing people! But then ten years later it’s the same thing all over again…I mean do you want to listen to that same band for freaking ten years in a row? I mean do you still want to hear Aerosmith? No you don’t (laughs).

He seems tired in a way that I’ve not seen before. As we talk, I get the sense that what Ron and I are doing has become an exit interview.

Ron: I did what I had to do. I did what I had to do and just to keep doing it because somebody else wants me to? Wrong freakin reason. That’s how bands start to suck. So fuck that y’know.

Y’know there was a time when I couldn’t wait to get on stage and scream my brains out. It’s like, well I mean y’know, you ever had a girlfriend? You make out with her it’s like the best! And then one day, you don’t want to make out with her anymore. It’s no different.

I mean, it’s been seven years. I stopped performing seven years ago, March of ’06. It’s now March ’13. It’s seven freaking years that I’ve stopped. Chances are you’re not doing the same thing you were doing seven years ago. And I’m willing to bet, seven years from now, you’re not going to be doing the exact same thing you’re doing now. People change, they move on. Been there, done that, why do it again?

music: “Fog in the Ravine” | Lejsovka & Freund

The scene dissolves. In the darkness, I think of the question that I wish I’d asked. This isn’t just some thing Ron was doing, it was the thing – what can you do when you lose touch with the something that was core to your identity?

Room 4 (Andrea Pensado)

Andrea: I think it’s very important to not to be scared of being in a place of not knowing. To be in a place of uncertainty, is excellent! Even if it is uncomfortable. Honestly, I don’t want a comfortable life. 

I’m sitting in a cozy loft apartment in Salem, while my friend Samira chats with a small, owlish woman in her late 40s named Andrea Pensado.

Andrea: Well if you feel it at twenty than you cannot imagine in your forties.

Samira: I just taste it and I’m like, ‘wow, I’m just feeling all the sugar.’

Andrea: I ate a lot of chips, it was a bad idea. With beer, y’know, not good.

Samira is working on her own documentary about experimental music.

Andrea first got interested in music when she was a little girl, growing up in Buenos Aires.

Andrea: Eh, I was living in an apartment building, and a friend of mine, she started taking piano lessons. She showed me her music and I saw the notation, ehh, and I was fascinated. Honestly I was not aware of such a rich experimental music background until when I was in Poland… 

She left Argentina to study composition in Krakow as an adult. But the music she composed on paper was so complex, that she often had trouble finding people to play it. Andrea likes to think about timbre–– the color of sound, what differentiates one instrument from another.  To wring out some really interesting timbre with traditional instruments, you’ve got to do some out there stuff.

Andrea: Like, I don’t want to be just writing for the drawer.

And then, Andrea went to the Audio Art Festival, a meeting of the minds held in Krakow every November. The festival focuses on objects used to produce sound: musical instruments, but also computers. 

Inspired, Andrea taught herself to program and began using electronics in her work.

Andrea: So I create a wifi for myself just to avoid latency, you can work with any wife…So my controllers are! An iPod–– I say, I look like an apple merchandise stand, which is quite depressing, but you know, what can I do? So this is an iPod with a special application I use to… [iPod click]. Well, first I have to set up the wifi, I show you…

Andrea is wearing a a headset like the kind people use to play video games. She’s sitting at her computer with an iPod Touch in her right hand. 

Andrea: This is a simple wave, just a simple low tone. So if I move it like this, I change the pitch. And then if I do like this, the distortion is the direct result of– 

She twists and bends her arm manipulating the sine wave into a complex pattern.

Andrea: And I can do the same if I had my voice…

Then she flicks on her mic.

Andrea: Hey, hah, that’s my voice! (noise) hello! Hah! (pause, noise ends). So you know it’s quite dramatic.

Andrea: Maybe for somebody who is not a lot in music, this seems harsh. I don’t think this is harsh at all, this is just the way new music is going. I do believe that, even though I don’t think what we do now is better than what was done in the Renaissance, ok, I do believe that there is constant change, and that artistic languages keep having a need of refreshing themselves, ok?…yeah?

Brendan: (18:49) Why do you think music is shifting in that direction?

Andrea: To explore timbre…Because now, thanks to the technology, we have access to it. It’s easier to manipulate. We are like kids, we are, like, playing. (12:26) I compare it to the beginning of the baroque, where they became aware of chords, of verticality, and then for 300 years, they explore that.

Andrea’s grandiosity reminds me of the document that first inspired me to pursue this project. In 1913, a young painter named Luigi Russolo wrote a letter to a composer he admired. The two of them were part of an Italian movement known as Futurism. Russolo’s letter ended up as one of the movement’s major manifestoes, The Art of Noises. 

In The Art of Noises, Russolo laid out a framework for the music of the new industrial world, in which the city itself is both the inspiration and the instrument. 

For centuries life went by in silence, at most in muted tones…Amidst this dearth of noises, the first sounds that man drew from a pieced reed or stretched string were regarded with amazement…and the result was music, a fantastic world superimposed on the real one…

We Futurists have deeply loved and enjoyed the harmonies of the great masters. Now, we are satiated and find far more enjoyment in the combination of the noises of trams, backfiring motors, carriages and bawling crowds than in rehearsing the “er-O-i-ca” or the “Pastorale”.

We cannot much longer restrain our desire to create finally a new musical reality, with a generous distribution of resonant slaps in the face. Discard violins, pianos, double-basses and plaintive organs…

I am not a musician, I have therefore no acoustical predilections, nor any works to defend. I am a Futurist painter using a much loved art to project my determination to renew everything. And so, bolder than a professional musician could be, unconcerned by my apparent incompetence and convinced that all rights and possibilities open up to daring, I am able to initiate the great renewal of music by means of the Art of Noises.

It is, and I am one to talk, very pretentious. And yet, I kind of sympathize with the guy. When I started making a podcast, I was intent on remaking a whole sector of journalism with my own bold incompetence.

A man of his word, Luigi built these giant boxes called the Intonarumori, whose purpose was to make a bunch of noise. A photo of them often accompanies The Art of Noises, and you can see Russolo standing behind one, this thin guy with a mustache, a hand placed on the crank handle at its back. 

Like most manifestoes, The Art of Noises says very little about its writer, except what he wanted to be: a great destroyer come to remake the world in his image. If you’re a certain type of young person, that idea is very attractive, and you can embrace it without really thinking about what other things you might put to the side to achieve that.

Samira: What’s your, I know you’ve done a lot of work with visual, audio and visual.

Andrea: Well that’s with my ex-husband (laughter). Greg, whom I met in Poland, he comes from video, from cinema. We had a duo, eventually, I stopped doing my own to work for our duo, which we worked together for ten years. Greg did the images and I did the sound. And we work on interactivity. Then we split, so now I work just with sound.

Brendan: How is your music different working with your ex-husband, than after?

Andrea: The main goal of our duo was to have real time interaction between images and the sound. So if there was something onstage like a movement or, whatever, it had simultaneously a result in both. It gave some rigidity. So now that the interaction isn’t so important, I have much more freedom to just to improvise. It’s like much, much more freedom.

Room 6 (Angela Sawyer)

Angela: One of the first people I ever met who was interested in experimental music was Ron Lessard. 

I’m standing at the counter in Weirdo Records one afternoon, talking with Angela Sawyer again She’s telling me how she first got involved with the experimental scene, just after she started at U-MASS LOWELL in the early 90s.

I had never been to New England at all, I just flew here on a plane from Denver and I wanted to meet some people, and I didn’t really know what to do, and I heard some other kids saying that they wanted to join the college radio station. They said at the meeting to join up, you have to show up and volunteer…I went back the next day, and there no one was there.

Brendan: How long were you there for?

Angela: Probably an hour (laughs). Finally someone came by…I was just like, “hey, hey, I’m here to volunteer, what should I do?” And they just looked at me like I had three heads. They were like, “why don’t you clean something?” So I found a vacuum and I just started vacuuming…

And I went through all the rooms, and finally I got to a room that I hadn’t been in yet, and there was a person in there, and it was kind of dark in there…So I waited for him to notice me. I said hi, I’m trying to vacuum. I had no idea that it was the air studio and, um, Ron, of course, he’s like a firecracker going off. So he’s like, “OH YES COME ON IN,” he was mic-ing the vacuum cleaner, and I’m just like “oh hi,” and he’s like tell me about yourself, who are you? And uhh, he was really awesome to me

As we walk down memory lane, Angela starts talking about a world that I was once very interested in, the network of noise and experimental artists who connected in the early days of the internet, after decades of being little feudal kingdoms.

Angela: There was definitely a feeling at one point of there being a first-world wide, at least, community, if not worldwide, of people who were listening to the same releases, and they were seeing the same bands, they’d heard some Throbbing Gristle records, and they had a common language and finding out about cool stuff and figuring out how it worked, and they knew what happened when you stuck a clarinet underwater and put delay on it. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about what Angela said at the Crank Sturgeon show, about choosing to live on the Island of Misfit toys without thinking about it very hard. Because I feel, in a lot of ways, that that’s become my life. I’m more devoted now than ever to completing the work I set out for myself, but I’m also deeply unhappy, and more isolated.

Angela: Every town has the person who is like, I’ll become the nun, I’ll sacrifice myself and do all this work and…y’know, I have a store, that’s what I do.

Brendan: Can you talk a bit about sacrificing–– about becoming a martyr for the scene?

Angela: I’m not trying to do that, I actually really dislike that. 

Brendan: How did you fall into the role?

Angela: If you have some job related to underground music, that’s what you’re doing. ‘Cause there’s no money. But that’s one of the only ways you can spend your whole life surrounded by it. 

music: “Fog in the Ravine” | Lejsovka and Freund

Angela: Everything I know about politics and geography and sociology and psychology, and how to sort of figure out how to deal with the world at large, I mostly learned them from records. It’s been a very long time since I’ve had a conversation about anything else. I’m a very narrow person outside of records. Basically, records are sort of my defense system and or window for everything, I think of every record as like a pair of of tinted glasses, and you can look at the whole world through that and see it in a new way, and each good record has a slightly different shade on it, so you never get done figuring out how things work and enjoying new wrinkles in how things are. The bad news is that if you take the glasses off things look terrible, then you have to function like a regular person. And that’s not something I’m very good at.

If I’m being honest, neither am I. I’ve agonized over these interviews for a long time, afraid of saying the wrong thing about the people in them. To call it a “cautionary tale of loving something– an idea– that cannot love you back,” sounded unkind, both to them and to myself. I can’t help but feel at the end that that’s exactly what it is.

I avoided revisiting these interviews for almost five years because they held up a mirror to the shaky logic I built ambitions on. They pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that art cannot save me. It can help me find a way to save myself, by learning to communicate things that I feel deeply in a way that’s truthful, accurate, and honest. But that’s all that it can do. 

And it took losing someone I loved very much to understand that. 

Room 7 (Somerville Ave)

Shane Broderick and I stand on the sidewalk of Somerville Avenue on a cool spring evening. Shane’s arm is in a cast. He’s just finished telling me a story about the time he punched a club owner at a venue up the block. As we’re talking about the reputation that Twodeadsluts Onegoodfuck had amongst Boston’s club owners, some of Shane’s friends emerge from the bar where he’s just finished a gig.

Shane: it’s funny because we never actually gave any of the venues our actual performances, it was more like basement parties and shit like that that they were scared of, that they’d heard about.

Brendan: I can’t remember if I got this on tape last time, would you mind describing what the actual performances were?

Shane: Can’t really do that, I don’t know, you can ask these guys.

Friend 1: What’s that?

Friend 2: You gotta lighter? I just realized I left my backpack down there, I got good beer in there but whatever fuck that shit.

Brendan: Would you guys mind describing to me what a normal show by Twodeadsluts Onegoodfuck was like?

Friend 2: Is this an interview? I wasn’t ready for an interview man I can’t do that! My voice cannot be heard on tape.

Friend 1: (makes jerk-off motion) It’s like this.

Friend 2: Can I get a lighter from somebody?

Shane: (shouting) It’s like looking at something, and gettin’ so excited and just BAM! And then it’s kind of like aww fuck.

Friend 1: I don’t have a lighter!

Friend 2: Do you have a lighter?

Shane: We need to go home. Need to hide under a blanket.

Friend 2: Do you have a lighter buddy?

Brendan: Nah, I’m sorry.

Friend 2: Motherfucker! How can you do an interview without a lighter? (distant) Fuck! Amateur!

Brendan: So, just so I don’t take up the rest of your time, there was something you said during the last interview. You said that, for TDS, there was this joke that you guys…when the joke stopped being funny, you guys were like, ‘alright, I’m gonna do something else.’

Friend 1: The joke didn’t stop being funny.

Shane: Well ok I’m not sure the joke ever stopped being funny but…

Brendan: So, what, in your opinion what was the joke?

Friend 1: The band was the joke.

Brendan: What specifically about the band was the joke?

Friend 1: I don’t know…

Friend 2: (strike lamppost) Do a funny voice c’mon what the fuck! We’re supposed to be entertained by this shit.

Shane: Alright, you can cut my voice here.

Friend 2: It doesn’t matter what you say so long as it’s in a funny voice it’s cool.

Shane: There are a lot of Boston noise bands and people from Jamaica Plain and Allston and they want everyone to be like, onboard with, ‘hey, we’re all friends, this is a scene! come down to our house play a show blah blah blah.’ And what Twodeadsluts was more like, was just like, ‘We’re not even invited. We’re playing a show, we’re trashing your fuckin’ house.’

Brendan: Do you ever miss it?

Shane: Yeah, of course I do. It is what it is.

Brendan: I feel like that’s a pretty good place to end.

Shane: There you go.

I walk off into the night. A block away, I come to a stop on a concrete island in the middle of Somerville Avenue and look back at Shane and his friends. They were still down by the bench we were sitting on, drunk, being loud, but their noise is drowned out by the cars flying past me, headed for the outskirts of Boston.

Standing here, it occurs to me that need room tone, the sound of the place I’m in. Room tone helps smooth out transitions in editing, makes a radio documentary sound more natural. I’ve forgotten to get it for almost every other interview with the noise artists. But that I remember now seems significant to me, an promise to myself that someday I’ll figure what made this experience worth telling.

Credits

Today’s episode was produced with help from Wes Boudreau and Samira Winter. Editing help by Kyna Doles and Jon Davies. Special thanks today to Lejsovka & Freund, Jacob Rosati, Sean Coleman, Elissa Freeden, Brittany Rizzo, Tyler Carmody, and Birgit from Denmark. 

Visit our website, investigating regional scenes dot org, for more episodes and, this summer, some bonus materials. You can find Stories About Music on your local podcast provider. Please leave a review to helps us find new listeners.

From Philadelphia, I’m Brendan Mattox, back soon with more stories about music.

[askthenewhopespeak]

Travellers

*Kuzo teleports into Hope's Peak to see Akane and Nekomaru being swarmed by a large group of Monokuma children*

*Kuzo begins snickering*

Hey! Could we maybe get a bit of help?

Kuzo: Ahahaha, why?! You can handle it on your own, can'tcha, berserker?

Can you not see that there are like, fifty of ‘em?

I think the total’s more like forty…

Kuzo: And you’ve killed hundreds. What’s the problem?

Geez, maybe we’re not trying to kill a bunch of brainwashed kids!

Kuzo: You’re not?

No!

Kuzo: Weird. Why’d you even ask for my help?

I’m wonderin’ that myself now…

Kuzo: Aw well, since you asked so nicely! *Shibakuzo pulls out a gun.*

DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!

*Before Kuzo can fire, something hits her in the gut and knocks her back*

Kuzo: Wow! I try to help out, and you fucking smack me around like a punching bag?! The hell’s up with you?!

Guns won’t help anything here, that’s why!

Kuzo: You want to get rid of the kids! Guns get rid of people! That’s a logical solution to this problem!

You’re not killing any kids.

Kuzo: Urghh, killing’s what I do best when I’m bored! Fine! Have it your way! You want a non-lethal method, don’t you?! Then you really oughta appreciate this!

*All 3 look at her, waiting*

*Shibakuzo reaches in front of her, then pulls her hand back.*

*A redheaded girl stumbles into this plane of existence, before Shibakuzo repeats the action twice. She summons a pink-haired girl and a silver-haired girl, and the newly-arrived trio quickly process the situation.*

Chiaki, Peko, we have a group of rogue destroyer Monokuma units! Four bystanders, high risk of injury and death if confronted!

Should we use electric pulses? Or just deactivate the helmets entirely?

I could also beat them into unconsciousness.

Hold off on the violence, Peko. Focus on the bystanders. These helmets are probably just malfunctioning, so deactivate them, Chiaki. We can bring them back to Kazuichi later so he can fix them.

*In unison* Understood.

*The silver-haired girl starts heading over to Akane, Nekomaru, Kuzo, and Ibuki, fending off any Monokuma kids who get near her.*

If you can run, run. If you can't, I'll make sure nothing touches you.

Wh... Peko-chan?!

So. You recognize me. Then you should know that I don't fail in my duties.

*The pink-haired girl pulls a little remote out of her hoodie's pocket and starts fiddling with it.*

Hey! How big is the radius?! Do I shut down every helmet in a kilometre, ten kilometres, or what?!

Wait...

Kuzo: Brought you here to deal with the kids. And from what I've seen, this place needs you more than your own dimension. You built their society up from nothing, these chumps are still recovering. So make your mark on this world, would ya? *Shibakuzo gives her a two-fingered salute before disappearing.*

*Confused noises from Akane, Nekomaru, and Ibuki*

Well, I’ll just- Ten kilometres, just to be safe!

What if you hit a hospital, too?! You might shut them down in the middle of an operation!

Huh-?

One kilometre for now, we’ll see what sort of situation we’re in after!

Alright then! Starting up the machine! *The pink-haired girl enters a code into her device, shutting down the helmets of the Monokuma kids around her.*

*The kids all look at each other, confused. Most begin to bawl*

Hey, thanks!

Damage control, check their condition and threat level. I'll talk with the bystanders.

*In unison* Understood.

*The two start checking on the kids and comforting them, while the redhead turns to Akane, Nekomaru, and Ibuki.*

You seem to recognize our names and faces, but not us, so I believe an introduction is in order. My name is Mahiru Koizumi, and I'm the leader of the New World Order. It's nice to meet you.

Give us two seconds before we introduce ourselves! *She huddles up with Nekomaru and Akane.* Alternate universe stuff?

Probably…

*The trio turns to the newcomers*

Ibuki Mioda, and this is Akane Owari and Nekomaru Nidai.

So, I assume something strange happened. Do you remember someone putting CR helmet behind you?

A CR helmet? Uh… look, if you knew people like us… well, we’re not them… we’re from an alternate universe… it’s a whole messy thing I don’t think anyone really gets…

Alternate… universe… alright then…?

Like I said, nobody really gets it, but you two *she points at Mahiru and Peko* have other yous here.

I… see… oh dear, it’s a good thing I left Sonia in charge while I was on that trip…

Yeah… we haven’t figured out how to send people back…

That girl said she brought me here though. Along with saying this world needed me… what could that mean?

Beats me, she’s nuts…

Tell me… did this world suffer a tragedy like mine did?

Yeah. We moved past it though, and we’re rebuilding.

In the process of it, or already done?

In the process… I mean, the ‘tragedy’ state really only ended about a year ago…

I see… Peko! Chiaki! Find that girl and find a way back home. Tell Sonia she’s the leader for the time being. I’ll be helping these people for a while.

Nah. I’m not going anywhere without you.

Silver Haired Girl: I would be fine in passing the message, but you’re the only one I trust to lead us.

*Ibuki, Akane, and Nekomaru just wait*

... fine then. Alternate Ibuki, Alternate Akane, Alternate Nekomaru, we'll officially be joining the world's rehabilitation efforts! Please take care of the three of us!

Sure!

*Ibuki turns, leading the new trio off. As she does, Akane notices something attatched to one of the alternate Peko's pigtails... and pales.*

Hm? Are you alright?

Uh... yeah, yeah! Just... uh, hungry! Very hungry! C'mon, old man! *She drags Nekomaru off, seemingly in pursuit of food.*

Maybe it's shock. They were just attacked by malfunctioning helmeted kids.

Well, Akane's pretty much always hungry...

I see... Do you have a kitchen?

We at least did before... not quite sure how much the kids have wrecked...

Are Mikan and Kazuichi's alternate counterparts alive? I'm sure they can repair the CR helmets.

Last I knew, they were...

Great! Collecting them for repair, learning more about this... world? universe? ...whatever's history...

Do you even know if Mikan and Kazuichi know the details of a CR helmet?

I mean, I have no idea what a CR helmet is, so...

Oh! Cerebral Readjustment helmets! Or was it Cranial?  Er, either way, they used to be used as weapons in Naegi's arsenal, forcing people to become suicide bombers and such, but after recovering the technology, we figured out how to use them to help treat illnesses and disorders in the brain!

And by we, she means Mikan and Kazuichi. She has no idea how they work.

Hold on, back up a bit... Naegi's a bad guy on your world?

Er, yeah? I'm not sure why you'd expect the serial killer to be a good guy.

He's not a... Naegi here is like... practically the poster boy for all things good.

What. I'm sorry, but what?

Yeah... instead we had a crazy bitch called Junko Enoshima who screwed everything up.

WHAT.

That's.... wow. *She fidgets with the pin on her tie.* The Junko we know is... well, eccentric, but sweet. She designs everything with cute half-white, half-black bears, but there's no one better to keep up your spirit. She made these pins for us by hand so we could have a symbol for our cause, actually. 

Aren't they cute?

Yeah... about that...

You're about to say something bad, aren't you?

That bear's basically a symbol for death, destruction, and despair...

Aaaaaaaaaand there it is.

Oh. Well. That isn't good.

Yea- wait. Where did Peko go.

Oh fuck.

Uh... why is that a bad thing?

Overzealous, protective girl with a sword who has to be talked out of attacking any perceived threat to her friends and cause.

Ah...

Alone. With two strangers. In an unfamiliar place. And if the bear pin really is death and despair...

Then your Akane and Nekomaru are gonna be suspicious, and then Peko will be suspicious, and then there will most likely be blood.

What're we waiting for, we need to move it!

After you!

*Ibuki starts running back in the direction that Akane had dragged Nekomaru off in. Chiaki and Koizumi start following her. They make it to the kitchen, finding a slightly cut up Akane holding Peko's sword, while Nekomaru keeps ahold of Peko herself.*

What are you all doing?

Your friend attacked us. *She glares at Mahiru and Chiaki* Get the fuck out. You're wearing that symbol, you can't be anything good.

Okay, look. I can explain this. We're used to being attacked by people, so Peko is overprotective, and apparently the bear means death and despair and stuff in this world even though Junko made it our symbol because she likes drawing it. That's basically our end of what happened. Why are you doing what you're doing?

My boyfriend and I are defending ourselves. And you know what... I'm pretty unsatisfied by that explanation. Call it paranoia,  but considering all the shit we've been through...

What you've been through? I'm guessing this is more than just being attacked by rogue forces...

Oh, let's see... try getting brainwashed, doing all sorts of horrendous shit while being fully aware of it but unable to stop it, then getting placed in a simulation that was corrupted in which I had to watch my classmates murder each other. Along with plenty of other shit since. So when people show up wearing that symbol... well, I'm not exactly inclined to trust them

Oh god... *Mahiru hesitantly steps closer.* I know this might mean nothing to you-

Don't take another step.

I know you might not want to listen. And I know you don't trust us. But I'll do everything in my power to ensure no one in this world will ever have to suffer like that again. 

*Mahiru unclips the pin from her tie, and Chiaki immediately does the same. Peko would too, if her hands were free.* I understand why you would hate this so much. Feel free to destroy it. I don't want to wear it in a world where it carries this sort of meaning. *Mahiru holds the pin out to Akane.*

I don't care about your goddamn pin. Just leave. We already have a Mahiru, we already have a Peko, and Chiaki's been dead for years. We don't need you here.

Guess you don't care about getting a way to get rid of those helmets.

Matter of fact, their creator is here. So yeah, we do.

Then you don't need us, and there's no reason for you to help out these three girls who were pulled out of nowhere to help you. I guess that means it's fine for you to kick us out in this unfamiliar, possibly dangerous place right after they got you out of an attack-

Chiaki! It's... it's fine. We can leave. We'll be fine. Just... please let Peko go.

...

*Nekomaru lets Peko go*

My sword.

Thank you, Nekomaru.

*Akane hands it back, glaring*

*Peko takes it back.*

I won't waste more of your time. Let's go.

Thanks for the warm welcome.

Just... don't. It was my fault.

*Mahiru walks out, Peko and Chiaki following after her.*

And by the way, I'm glad I could see you all again. Even if we don't know each other.

Sure. Whatever.

We don't know if there are any safe places to stop and sleep... or where we can get food, or if we can find that girl and go home again...

But we have to try, right?

I will do everything in my power to support you.

Yeah. And a little hope can go a long way.

*As the trio leaves, Ibuki turns to Akane* Akane, I got a big explanation on their world and how-

I don't care.

You should have heard them out, that's all I'm saying.

And like I said, I don't care. They were summoned here by the crazy bitch who shot out Otonashi's eye, who we've let hang around here for no good reason! How do we know she wasn't partially responsible for the kids here?

*Ibuki is silent*

*Nekomaru chooses to break the silence* Come on. Let's go see who we can find…

*Mahiru does her best to keep her face calm and neutral, her posture as dignified and proud as she can managed. She tries not to think about the people behind her or the uncertain future. She fails. Every step is another crack in her bravado. By ten paces, her smile is wavering. Sixteen, and she has to wipe something out of her eyes every couple of seconds. By thirty-seven steps, she's sobbing uncontrollably, depending on Peko and Chiaki to stand.*

Oh god, what are we going to do...? I just got us kicked out of the first safe place we found in this world! A-and, we don't know if there are rioters, or-or bombs, or if the water is safe to drink, or where we can stay...

This isn't your fault. It was mine. I was the one who attacked them.

But I'm the one who couldn't defuse the situation! Oh god, I wasn't even thinking of you two, I was just trying to make sure she didn't snap...! I cut your chances of getting in there too!

I refuse to stay anywhere without you.

But... I might get you two killed... a-and I have no idea what to do now!

*Shibakuzo watches over the scene from a distance for a moment, before grinning. She appears with Ibuki and Akane and Nekomaru, snickering.* Yo, if you were so ungrateful for their help, you coulda just asked! I would've shot them dead in an instant! No need to make them despair!

... You know what? I've had just about enough of you, bitch. I don't know why Naegi's just let you hang around, but fuck that. You have ten seconds to teleport your ass out of here, before I make you leave.

Kuzo: Sure! Go ahead! It'll be hilarious to see how many people cry over their prosperous leader and goddess going missing! Especially if we have a way to bring their corpses back!

Akane, don't let her get to y-

*Akane doesn't listen, and slams a fist into Kuzo's face*

*Shibakuzo might have a broken nose, but she still finds this laughable.* Go ahead and kill us, then, Owari! It's not like there are people that depend on them or something! Or care about them at all!

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Kuzo: Hahahahahahaha! *Shibakuzo just teleports to the other side of the room.* It's not like they're afraid or anything, either! Rejected and thrown out into a cold, dark, mysterious, and dangerous world… ha, not like it matters if they die or not! Right, Akane?

*Akane rushes at Kuzo again, but Nekomaru grabs her*

Akane, let's go.

Kuzo: Hehehehe! Go ahead and do your worst! It'll be hysterical!

*Akane clearly wants to fight Kuzo some more, but Nekomaru drags her away. Ibuki glares at Kuzo*

What Akane said still applies. You're not welcome here. And you should take those people home, if they've got people who need them there.

Kuzo: Nah! You guys do seem to need some people like that more. And it would be hilarious to see what happens if word got out that "Owari" killed the leader and two of her minions, but I just want to see what happens from here on out!

We should have the cops lock you up with Ivanov and Wakatsuki.

Kuzo: Good luck catching me.  Anyways, bored now, I'll see if I can fuck something up with Russia. See ya! *Kuzo waves goodbye and disappears.*

Good riddance. *She goes to follow Akane and Nekomaru*

[iphoenixrising]

Dr. Tim Drabble: The Joker

This was a little hard to write >.< but if you do read it, please be careful. There’s not anything obviously triggering but it is a little dark. It takes place about a year after Tim’s been the pet doctor for N and Hood, but before they get together.

**

As he’s come to learn in the last year of being the go-to physician for a series of scary, self-sacrificing vigilantes, trouble can strike from all possible directions. Really, it’s literally Bat-credo.

Of course, it doesn’t apply to the helpful civilians that might just want to make Gotham’s protectors stay above the game (well, unless you count scaling tall buildings with literally a doctor’s bag and a prayer since some people just have to be ten stories up with massive internal bleeding--Hood), and since he’s the guy that comes in after all the dangerous crime fighting goes down for some very necessary snatch-and-stitch, the criminals are normally pretty well underway to unconscious city when he hits the scene. It’s nice he’s not trying to keep either one of them from bleeding out while dealing with a terrible bad guy monologue-- he’s pretty sure none of them would appreciate his brand of heckling while the details of this week master plan are laid out.

Scarecrow probably wouldn’t appreciate his version of ‘Name that Chemical.’

But since his luck runs about 60/40 most days, he really shouldn’t be shocked when he finally gets out of Mercy for the night, earbuds in so he can calm down from the rigorous pace set by the slew of second-rate thugs baring very distinctive injuries (obviously corresponding from a run-in with one or multiple aforementioned vigilantes), and a jarring amount of victims come through the ER doors with a well-known condition recognizable at first-glance by anyone that’s ever spent time in Gotham. A condition that shakes apart even his calm, cool, and collected when it becomes very obvious what he’s looking at:

Leukoderma: loss of pigmentation in the skin

Myoparalysis of the orbicularis oris: paralysis of the mouth muscles

Symptoms of Pseudobulbar Effect because the only sounds the patients can make are laughing or sobbing.

Everyone in the ER knows it’s time for shit to get real once more than one patient comes in displaying the same characteristics like this. It’s one of the few times he goes balls to the wall in the cramped lab with blood samples and trying to make his hands stop shaking long enough to starting working on a counter-agent to the chemical cocktail making ordinary, perfectly healthy people start showing signs just like these.

It means the Joker is back in Gotham.

Subsequently, it also means he’s running the path between the lab and ER like his ass is on fire to help strap down the most out-of-control victims, treat the injured, run tests on this version of toxin, synthesize a cure as fast as he possibly can with shitty, outdated equipment and a computer system slower than Steph getting out of bed in the morning. On nights like these, he and the rest of the staff at Mercy General’s ER do the best damn job they can to keep themselves sane enough to be the ones taking care of both sides of the equation.

The GCPD usually meandering around watching the fast-and-furious pace with tired eyes and hollow expressions talk loud enough between themselves to give updates so the staff know how the night could possibly end for them:

“That fucking clown managed to get away from the capes.”

“Yeah, but you know ‘em. He won’t be on the run for long. The Bat has it out for the asshole’s blood.”

Great. There’s probably going to be some vigilante owfuck on his fire escape later tonight.

He tries soothing a terrified child who is staring at his mom strapped down to a gurney and laughing while tears roll down her face and the husband is gripping her hand. He’s reeling from the unintended back-hand when one of the thugs gets a hand free and flails. He’s yelling obscenities in the cramped lab when his first try at the antidote completely fucking fails. He’s moving with the new one rolling in through the double doors already in cardiac arrest, the toxin mixing with a pre-existing condition. He’s talking it out with a haggard Steph when the composition finally, finally breaks down the sample of toxin and they’ve hit the fucking jackpot.

By the time the wave is over and the catastrophe calmed as much as possible, the next shift is in and briefed on what they’ve got, which patients have a positive prognosis, which patients are still in distress, what resources they have, and Doctor Drake is almost unconscious on his feet. He might register a few back-slaps on his way out while he’s shrugging into his hoodie, and he probably slurred something acceptable in response since no one is making him take at least a nap in one of the storage rooms before he goes home.

He’s tired enough to be surprised it’s daylight and pulls out his phone just to double-check no messages from bleeding, busted-up vigilantes or anything (but really, if either of them are that bad, they’re probably already on his couch eating cereal and watching The Ranch because Hood has terrible taste in TV shows).

He doesn’t have the wherewithal to put together the sound of the humming engine until the sound of a door to an inconspicuous van sliding back jars him enough to look up--

At plastic clown masks covering faces, faces inside a van, faces with grabbing hands that pull him right the hell in.

**

The hard fact is, as much as he followed the Dynamic Duo back before his parents died, as much as he believed (and still does) in what they were doing, as much as he wanted to help them even as a kid, as much as he could see how he could lend his skills to their mission, he’s never been or going to be one of them.

He’s never going to be Robin.

It’s a fact that exists in the very back of his brain pan and comes to the fore in instances like, well, this.

Because the owfuck right now, is real, and someday, someday, he’s going to learn that not everyone can appreciate his own brand of witty comebacks. Or the fact that, while he is pretty badass in his own right as a civilian, he’s never going to be able to take down five heavily muscled goons without taking a serious beating.

Which, he obviously has since the right side of his jaw and cheekbone are a hot, searing agony from the first few blows. His knee feels like someone kicked it (oh wait, someone did); his lower back is protesting the fact he still has kidneys because damn, right now he could be missing a semi-crucial body part and not feel at all bad about it.

But, at least the clown thugs are smart enough to realize he would need his hands for whatever reason they picked him up off the street. That knowledge doesn’t help the rest of his body when he finally comes to on cold, unforgivable cement, blinking blood out of his eyes and taking stock of what kind of injuries are in this little package of surprise.

His shoulder throbs when his muscles tighten only minutely before he forces himself to relax, to look like he’s still out cold. If he plays possum long enough, maybe some random vigilantes will figure out he isn’t at the hospital or his penthouse. Vigilantes with detective skills would really be nice right about--

“Well, well, well. What do we have here, boys?”

Oh...fuck...

“It’s a little birdy.”

--now. Holy shit, now, now. Right now would be a GREAT TIME--

Footsteps, sharp-looking spats enter his line of sight, and the hard intake of breath makes his everything hurt even more, but it’s not important, it’s not--it’s not-- Oh God. Oh God, it’s him.

Bending at the waist, a face comes in his line of sight, so close, too close.

“Trying to put one over on me, eh? That’s not very smart, kiddo, since I have a tendency to be a little, well, impatient.”

And the mouth twists more, sharp upward curves as the splitting sound of a sharp chuckle makes his blood run fucking cold.

“Get it, Doc? Impatient! Ahaa Ha ha ha, ha. Ah-haaa, ha, ha, ha, ha. Oohwah, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HAA.”

While he’s frozen in terror, staring at the face of Gotham’s most dangerous criminal, the arrant thought flittering across his brain pan is something to the effect that he hopes like fuck Hood and N figure out he’s missing a hell of a lot sooner rather than later.

**

**

Sometimes

You’ve gotta roll with the punches, see?

Can’t let a few bumps in the road stop ya from trying to make the perfect joke.

It’s aaaallllll about the

Punch

Line

Baby

Gets ‘em every time.

And the good people of Gotham know how to take a joke. That’s why he loves this dirty, rat-infested shithole of a city. It’s why he started his career in petty larceny only to take a little dip in the toxic sludge bath to become his

New

and

Improved

(Ha-ha-heh-ha-ha)

And, well, since he’s all shiny, he needed a new gimmic. A new image. Something so dastardly evil it would scare the pants off any inmate in Arkham. Something to get him some respect around this dump.

(hu-hu-hu-hooo)

And that’s when the Joker was born.

It was easy getting the thugs to fall in line when he needed bodies to carry out a little poisoning of Gotham’s water supply--because everyone should wake up with a smile. All he had to do was rip out a few vital organs of their last boss with his bare hands to make sure they all

Got

The

Joke

(A-ha-a-ha-aha-ha)

But that meddling caped crime fighter came right in and ruined the

Punch

Line

right as the water tanks were ready for his special little toxin.

The most beautiful moment of his grand plan ruined by a man dressed like a flying rodent.

Since then, he’s been playing such a game, matching wits and fists off and on for years. Pushing and pulling at everything that makes the Bat tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Wouldn’t it be funny to see the Bat finally break? Oh. Oh. To see him finally snap. (He-he-ha-ha)

To see him lose everything in his little arsenal of trick and traps, to see him get what he deserves.

Killing that little fucking brat was supposed to be enough.

Was supposed to drive ole’ Bats right into the next belfrey, put him next to all his buddies in Arkham, to drive him to the brink. Push him right over the edge of sanity with that little double-whammy.

Poor Batsy. Where’s your little Robin now?

(A-ha-a-ha-ha-ha over there, and a piece over there, ooh, there’s an arm! Isn’t that handy. AH-HA-HA-HA-HA)

It was back to their old fun and games again without the Brat-Wonder pulling Batsy back from the brink. If that new little brat hadn’t come on the scene, he might just have succeeded in having the

Very

Last

Laugh

But there’s always next time, isn’t there Batsy? The game just keeps going and they’ll get on and off this little merry-go-round until it’s all

Broken

Down

**

Leukoderma

Myoparalysis of the orbicularis oris

He gets more of an up close and personal look than he definitely would have liked.

The thugs on either side of him are half-restraining, half-carrying him because a bucket full of hurt, and showing off the hideout of the night is pretty standard protocol for bad guys (or so he’s heard Hood and N bitch about). Between limping steps, memorizing the layout, and hoping the psychopath leading them isn’t going to randomly turn around and beat him with a crowbar.

(“That sick son-uh-va-bitch, Timmy. You don’t want no piece of ‘im.”)

Since, you know, that’s one of his things.

Instead, they’re lead to what seems to be an impromptu emergency set-up with a blonde woman laying on a makeshift gurney, pale and obviously in distress.

Shit.

Now the bad guys want him to play Pet Doctor.

(Oh right. This is his life.)

“My poor, widdle Harl, here had an accident--”

But Tim is already pulling out of the hold and walking his ass right past the talking villain, unzipping his hoody and tossing it in one of the broken chairs in the corner. He’s still in scrubs, so the irony isn’t lost here. Just, can they get him a name tag or something?

Before he even starts with the ABCDEs, he takes in a deep, deep breath and feverently hopes he’s not going to get himself killed in a horrific way.

“Hi,” he starts out and moves, “it’s okay, I’m a doctor. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

He focuses on assessing her belly, pulling the dirty blanket off her costumed abdomen and sees the gunshot wound gushing blood. The next steps are running through his head in a calm collection of needs.

“S-shot me. The p-police.” And she’s obviously pale, in pain, maybe even scared (though with the company she keeps, he’s really not sure about that).

“Okay, okay. I’m going to help you. I just need to scrub my hands and get supplies. I want you to let me know if you feel like you’re losing consciousness.”

Sharply, he turns to the thugs and mad man over his shoulder (and he knows it’s a bad thing that the clown masks really aren’t that odd), faces them determined she isn’t going to bleed out, “I need a sink to scrub up. I need gloves, sterile gloves…” he goes on with the necessaries, and the list isn’t extensive, things they could find at Walgreens or Rite-Aid.

The thugs turn to the silently smiling villain, his back straight, with hands clasps behind him and narrow, assessing eyes.

Tim very, very much doesn’t want to know what’s going through that twisted mind right this moment.

The small lean forward, the tiny movement, makes his heart beat painfully hard in fear.

“A new nurse was doing rounds and overheard the surgeon yelling, ‘Typhoid! Tetanus! Measles!’ Curious, she asks another nurse, ‘Why does Doctor So-and-so he keep doing that?’ The colleague replies, ‘Doctor So-and-so likes to call the shots around here.’ Hu-hu-hu, get it, Doc?”

He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t crack a smile because, honestly, that was worse than Superman’s travelling salesman jokes.

But whatever the Joker had been waiting for must have happened because the villain leans back, grinning horribly, “you heard the nice Doctor, boys! Get him what he needs.”

The woman, Harly Quinn, behind him on the gurney sighs in relief, but Tim is the only one that hears.

**

“What did the Doctor say when he removed the patient’s appendix?”

“What?”

“That’s enough outta you!”

His eyes roll up to that maniacally grinning face and back down to the forceps, gingerly pulling another piece of bullet fragment out of the patient’s side.

“What do you call a diseased criminal?”

“A good start?” He tries absently while working.

“A leper-con!”

The wound looks good, clean, no sign of infection.

With a shitty mask and his hair still hanging in his face, the conditions are not ideal. It’s fine. He’s worked in a hell of a lot worse (don’t think of Hood in Crime Alley with a few stab wounds), just with, you know, a little less crazy.

“The patient tells the doctor, ‘I think it’s curtains for me!’ The doctor says, ‘pull yourself together.’”

He sighs a little and starts to close, feeling better about Dr. Quinn’s chances. The two thugs immediately beside him haven’t budged in the last two hours, so some serious dedication there.

The Joker remains directly across from him, leaning over the unconscious patient with his never-ending slew of terrible jokes.

“What do you do for a poor, sick, little bird?”

And that? Is utterly terrifying.

“Give him proper tweet-meant. Aha-ah-ahahaha.”

Tim suppress the shudder of fear working up his spine, refusing to think about the Red Hood and the Robin he was before this, refuses to think about the next second that could be horrendously painful torture or death.

When he finally tapes on gauze pads, the thugs beside him seems to ease down as well. When he moves to check the IVs, thug number one moves without comment, letting him check the bags and pull the cheap stethoscope from around his neck to take her vitals again.

“A kid is in an accident, gets brought to the Emergency Room. The doc says, ‘I can’t work on him, he’s my son!’ The doctor wasn’t the boy’s father, how could that be?”

Tim’s eyes narrow on the Joker’s grinning face, “wait a minute, I thought the other guy told the riddles.”

He doesn’t jump when the Joker’s open hands slam down on the makeshift gurney around the patient’s inert form, the sound snapping off walls. He doesn’t jump, but damn it’s a stretch.

His hand steady regardless of how fucking terrified he is, Tim pulls the mask down under his chin, and leans forward this time to sneer, “the doctor was the boy’s mother. Satisfied?”

But he gets a string of that bone-chilling laughter, catching hints of a very, very big gun holstered in the purple jacket.

“Oh,” the Joker leans in to meet him, those eyes wide and full of unpredictable crazy, “oh, I think I like you, kiddo. You’re good for a laugh, hu-hu-hu.”

He opens his mouth, just about to say something probably unerringly stupid to a mad man with guns and thugs--

When the skyline crashes in on itself to rain glittering glass all over the place, and dark shadows drop down from the sky.

The Batman end up crouching on the gurney, feet braced around the patient, and looking like a whole lot of doom come to call. The thugs are immediately taken down by Nightwing and Robin (and even though they don’t know he knows, he gets why the Red Hood is missing on this little ride), who have no qualms pulling him back from the fast and furious fight about to take place.

When it’s Nightwing’s hands on his biceps, pulling him away from danger, out of that big room and into the fallen night, he lets himself shake in the vigilante’s hold, staring up wide-eyed at the domino and whiteouts.

“Oh...oh my God, N--”

“Are you hurt? Timmy, did he hurt you?” Is the immediate question cutting into his breathless babbling. Then hands are moving over him, Nightwing moving slightly to make sure there’s no visible wounds on him. His face is held between gloved hands, the bruises and busted lip probably terribly purple and black.

“I’m...I’m o...I’m okay,” he manages to rasp, both hands coming up to grip Nightwing’s arms tight while he is definitely not shaking like a leaf. Nope, all good. Nothing to see here.

Which is totally believable until his knees give out and Nightwing is basically holding him up in a stupid princess carry like he’s four or something, and the grip around him is just as tight, Nightwing blowing out a deep breath against his hair.

“You scared the crap out of us. We’ve been tracking you the moment you didn’t make it back to your place.”

What? The hope they might have noticed him missing was really induced by a whole lot of fear and possible I really don’t want this guy to be the one to kill me. There’s better villains out there.

“O-oh, I see. H-hey there, N. Hi. Seriously, thanks for r-riding to the rescue because that was not on my to-do list for today, and-and,”

“There he is,” the modified voice proves he was apparently wrong about the sitch because landing beside them, the Red Hood is already looking him over, a gloved hand under his chin to tilt his face into the soft street light.

“H-Hood? You too? M-must be a light on crime tonight?”

But his eyes are stupidly getting wet and hot, making him blink rapidly because fuck, is he relieved.

“Don’t get snatched, Timmers. Not ever again. Me and Big Wing gonna rip this fuckin’ ‘Burg ta shreds, you feel me?”

The loud clattering and breaking going on inside the abandoned cat food warehouse is getting louder, meaning the fight with the psycho has moved into the next room. The helmet snaps that way, and Hood’s muscles get obviously tight at the faint sounds of laughter.

“Hood,” N quickly delegates, stepping up to lay Tim in Hood’s arms, “get him out of here. He’s hurt. I’ll go help B and Rob.”

The helmet jerks back to him and whatever damage is done to his face, and the Red Hood takes him in the same hold, hoisting Tim up high against his chest, only needing one arms to keep him secured. He’s already got a grapple in the other hand, ready to fly.

“Kick that fucking clown in the nuts f’ me, Big Wing. Get it?”

But Nightwing just smirks and takes off back inside to join the fight.

And Tim grips the Red Hood’s jacket with both hands, not at all disturbed when the helmet stays pointed right at his face even when the grapple fires and they’re off into the night.

**

The next morning, his door and window are like replaced without him even knowing. The reinforced glass and locks are, well, thoughtful? Maybe?

Even better, he gets an ice pack for his face and another for his swollen knee. He also gets masked vigilantes in sweats and t-shirts making food, watching Netflix with him, and seemingly unwilling to leave him alone.

Hood literally carries him from the couch to the table instead of watch him limp his hurt ass twenty feet away, and N is no better, hoisting him up on the kitchen counter when he makes the best smelling chicken parm on the planet.

By nightfall, they’ve told him how they tracked his movements and had a good friend searching through the traffic cams outside the hospital and his penthouse until they knew what happened and tracked the unmarked van down.

It’s...odd to be taken care of and strangely nice at the same time. He lets Nightwing re-wrap his knee and watches those hands work around the pulled muscle carefully, knowledgeably while the whiteout are up and those blue, blue eyes look at him fondly.

He argues with Hood on how Chaucer was just a poser over a game of chess, already planning out the winning moves.

He still amazed at their duck and dodge skills when Steph practically barrels into his apartment and throws her arms around him, sobbing with relief. His eyes roll up to Nightwing bracing all fours on his ceiling, grinning like an idiot before he swings gracefully, silently behind them to disappear again while the Red Hood hiding behind his couch joins him down the hall.

And when she leaves and night falls, they argue with him and each other about leaving him to his lonesome to patrol the city against other crazies that probably have sharp, pointy things and chemical bombs for something different thrown in.

He leaves the window cracked and gets ready for bed, shivering slightly at the cool sheets and the feel of their hands lingering on him in concern and (what he might call) affection. He thinks he might have to whack himself in the head a few times before he sees them again because, seriously, he’s a civilian, not one of them, just an ordinary guy that happens to patch them up from time-to-time. They might even be friends at this juncture since they like to crash at his place after bad injuries and hard nights, they like to eat his food and listen to how his day went, they like to talk haltingly about what minor crooks they stopped that night, and general information about their real lives without giving anything away.

They’re…

They’re…

His heart picks up, beating faster when he realizes how screwed he really is.

[highgaarden]

fic  |  12:51

12:51;

or: Bonnie, Caroline, and a superheroes origin story in five parts.

Bonnie+Caroline; Klaus/Caroline, Bonnie/Damon | wc. 7373 | ch. 2/5

read on: AO3 / ff.net

this fic is an ode of my love for @ishenwulf and @icebluecyanide, and solid proof that headcanons do not just remain screams between us. half of this fic belongs to them, simply because their existence amaze me so much i just had to stuff the evidence of it into this story.

i hope you all enjoy.

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    —

Part Two

Call It Fate, Call It Karma

—

.

.

 Removed from the mayhem and massacre of New Orleans, there wasn’t much for Klaus to do in New York. He tried his hand in being protector of the night, but after Caroline realised he’d been tailing her for some time, she was quite angry with him.

She realised he’d been tailing her when she heard his admiring cheers after kicking a newly-turned vampire in the jaw.

“Couldn’t have done it better myself, sweetheart!” Klaus applauded, pocketing his binoculars.

“How long have you been following me?” she demanded. She craned her neck to look up at him.

From his perch on the rooftop, he said, “A few hours.”

Caroline stared at him, unimpressed.

“Four nights now,” he admitted.

Caroline waited, still.

“Two weeks,” he sighed, figuring it best to be truthful. He crossed his fingers behind his back.

Caroline, without a word, left.

He noticed she was more careful with the way she walked now because he hardly heard her at all. His apologies had been met with silence. He resolved to amend his mistake and reduced his stalking to just twice a week, until it became increasingly harder to track her down.

Klaus visited the apartment four times the following week and managed to miss Caroline every single time. Damon, elbow deep in a tub of Bonnie’s Phish Food, was disgusted to find Klaus in his sanctum sanctorum, poking a finger into the tall stack of books Bonnie had fake-borrowed from the library.

The books fell with a clatter, or would have, had Klaus not put his super speed to good use to pick them up before they hit the floor.

“Bored much?”

“I was locked up for nearly a decade. It doesn’t take much to amuse me.” Klaus had moved on to Caroline’s collection of small cacti lining the windowsill. They used to be grouped in the middle of the kitchen island, but Damon had moved them there to prove a point. When Bonnie easily stepped over them to venture out into the night, Damon figured he might have underestimated the peril of the prickly plants.

“If you like it here so much, why don’t you just move in?” Damon asked with a mouth full of ice-cream. He followed that mouthful with several hasty gulps of JD. “That was rhetorical. Get the hell off my couch.”

Klaus peered owlishly at him. “Are you worry-drinking?”

“No,” Damon said, dumping the now-empty bottle for a new one.

Klaus went ahead on his prowl around the room, studying things, touching things. He had a particular way of observing an object, meaning: if it wasn’t Caroline’s, it was discarded into a pile in a corner of the room.

All of the things in that pile belonged to Damon.

“What are you doing?” Damon screeched, scandalized.

“Making room for me, of course,” Klaus said.

“Of course?” Damon pitched his bottle at Klaus’s head, but forgot that Klaus was more than a thousand years old and knew how to duck. The bottle bounced – miraculously – against the mantelpiece and then landed squarely in the middle of the pile.

Klaus looked satisfied. “Good, that’s the living room sorted. Now which one’s your room?”

 —

 Word of Bonnie and Caroline’s plight for the seemingly-impossible had taken Dumbo by storm. Sometimes, in the middle of Bonnie levitating a drunk werewolf by the ankles, a fan would come and ask for a picture.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” Kieran from the grocery store asked in awe.

“YouTube,” Bonnie answered. She turned her palms upwards and the werewolf crumpled against the alley wall.

“Dude, does he have fur—”

“Hi, Kieran,” Caroline appeared out of nowhere as she greeted him warmly. She made sure to deepen her voice. It sounded a bit like a growl now, and probably diminished the warmth. Kieran looked like he was going to piss his pants from excitement.

“How do you know my name?” he asked, mouth agape. “Should we exchange numbers now? I’m good at texting. Holy shit, your eyes – holy fuck, are you a va—?”

“You short-change me every week. Also? If you’re trying to clean up the environment, why even offer plastic bags at the counter?” Caroline narrowed her eyes, wondering if that counted as criminal activity.

Bonnie inclined her head. It was only a small shake, but Caroline sighed and understood.

“Anyway. You saw nothing. You were probably on the way home to go marathon Homestuck and jerk off to how many people you scam daily with the price of your so-called free range eggs. I checked your supplier, buddy.  All caged! Caged by fiends—”

“Caroline,” Bonnie said in her let’s-get-a-move-on voice.

Caroline finished compelling him and sent him on his merry way. “How’s Fluffy doing?”

“He’ll live,” Bonnie said. She inspected a nick in her arm that Fluffy had managed to scrape with his one sharp canine. His other had fallen off when Bonnie punched his face with a wall. “What’s next on the list?”

After carefully pocketing Fluffy’s freshly inked contract, Caroline pulled out her phone. Her shadowed eyes appeared darker in the light the screen provided in the alleyway. “Gotta check out that warehouse in Midtown. Klaus said it’ll be hot tonight.”

“Klaus,” Bonnie repeated. Her tone implied she didn’t like the idea, but she didn’t despise it either, which Caroline chose to view with optimism. “Is this going to be a thing now?”

“No,” Caroline said too quickly. She straightened her spine and managed to look dignified even as she said, “I just agreed, very unenthusiastically might I add, that he could be our intel. Since he does know the seedy underbelly of this stinkhole city.”

“He probably gave birth to the seedy underbelly of this stinkhole city,” Bonnie muttered. “Anyway, that’s like, what – forty minute walk? Forget it, I’ll Uber there.”

“Jeez, Bonnie.” Caroline rolled her eyes. “Not like you haven’t done this before. Hop on.”

A breeze and thirty-five blocks later they arrive at their destination, Bonnie’s cape whipping behind her as she lopes gracefully to her feet. Caroline grudgingly admired it, despite hating how impractical it was.

But then again, it made Bonnie look incredibly cool, especially when she did that thing where she lifted herself into the air.

“I see you hating,” Bonnie notes, “and I raise you your mask and how it does almost nothing to hide your identity.”

“I like them to be able to hear me talk,” Caroline shot back. “When we start going after actual creatures of the night instead of undead jock types, maybe I’ll take more care—”

“Shh.” Bonnie pressed a finger to her lips. She stood stock-still, chanting something under her breath. A minute later a light wind blew strands of her hair away from her forehead. “I sense at least twelve.”

“Now there’s a party,” Caroline said and snapped out her extendable baton. She didn’t need it, but appreciated the aesthetics.

 —

 Damon returned from grocery duties laden with things they did not usually buy. He knows this because he would edit the grocery list heavily whenever Caroline left it on the counter for Bonnie to find. Today, Bonnie followed him to the corner market because he refused to show her where he’d hidden the list.

“Why do we need kale?” He pulled a face.

“It’s amazing how you still think you’re included in this pronoun,” Bonnie said. She walked right past the pork rinds and into the grains aisle, where she reached for the quinoa. “I spend my nights jumping up buildings. It’s called maintenance, Damon.”

“Qui-NO­­-a,” Damon tossed the pack back on the shelf. “Am I just going to starve, then?”

“There’s Mike’s Pizza right around the corner,” Bonnie replied, unfazed. She grabbed the quinoa again. “Why don’t you just go home?”

Uncharacteristic silence is all that comes from Damon’s mouth, which opens and closes and opens again. His eye twitches, his mouth pulls into something other than his token smirk, for once. “It’s getting… harder.”

Bonnie bites her lip. She’d been avoiding the conversation, clearly. “I see.”

“Seeing you is a nice reprieve,” he offered.

“Got it.” Bonnie sized up the contents of the trolley, then put the quinoa back on the shelf. Damon perks up. “Wanna get a pie to-go? It’s been a while since scrabble night.”

“Are- are you sure?”

“The crime can wait.” She shrugged. “I just got a manicure anyway – not really feeling like punching much tonight.”

“Don’t you usually just—?” Damon waved his arms around, fingers jerking. “Levitate ‘em? Make brain matter leak out of their ears?”

“You tell me,” Bonnie snickered. “Aren’t you supposed to be the first ever foremost best quality expert on my alter ego life?”

Damon gasped. “So you do read WatchOutVillainz.com!”

—

 Caroline’s room was a hive of secrecy. The only person who was ever allowed in there was Bonnie, who usually came in through the adjoining bathroom. Whenever Bonnie did so, they let the shower run and talked in whispers, just because they knew it would grate at Damon.

There was something tugging at the corner of her mind as she swept down the street and climbed up her fire exit and into the window of her room.

The night before last, when she and Bonnie had ambushed those twelve vampires in the middle of their midnight snack, three of them had managed to skedaddle their way out of there. She had beat the others to an inch of their undead lives, Bonnie keeping them in place by simmering the blood in their necks, and only one name had come up.

Her bedroom did not really reflect her work ethic. When she decorated, she had placed comfort, coziness and warmth above efficiency, with quilted throw pillows and Moroccan rugs and a leather ottoman inherited from her late grandparents.

Her walk-in closet told a different story.

Pushing aside winter wear, she found what she’d been looking for: a safe. Inside the safe was a file cabinet, meticulously organized. It took a while to find the file, because she wasn’t sure whether it had been filed under R, E or V.

In the end, it was in the ‘MISC.’ section. She pinched the file firmly between her fingers and out slid all her surveilled information on Raul the Eurovision Vampire.

She had caught him in a shady bar, after he’d eaten the entire room because he’d lost in the Man! I Feel Like A Woman!: A Tribute to Shania Twain karaoke competition. He’d eaten them because in addition to not applauding him after he finished his rendition of You’re Still The One, they also didn’t believe he was the same Raul who had won the annual international TV song competition back in 1959, simply because if he truly had, he’d be dead by now.

Mostly it was the applause thing.

Raul the Eurovision Vampire had on a long cape that trailed across the blood-smeared floor. He liked wearing high-heeled stiletto boots that gave the appearance of him hovering in mid-air, and brought them up in conversation any chance he got. He ditched those boots when he discovered Caroline was not above clawing up a drainpipe to chase after him.

She skimmed through his contract and found his number; a few seconds later she had her phone out.

Raul answered on the fourth ring. “I’m not home,” he hissed, and hung up.

Caroline tried again.

“You are nothing but persistent!” Raul announced despairingly. “Is it not enough that you’ve banished me from the only home I’ve ever known; denied me the simple splendour of finally belonging?”

“Weren’t you born in Romania or something?”

There was a sound akin to a hurricane as Raul breathed into the phone. “Those are fighting words, square and true! I will vomit on your possessions, insolent mushrump!”

“Uh – yeah. I need you to do something for me.”

“A favour, she seeks!” He’s still exclaiming. It’s giving her a complex.

Caroline quickly explained the situation. “…and now I’m pretty sure you’re my one way in.”

“You want me to help you capture my friends?”

“Just draw them out. And are you sure they were your friends?” Her lips twitched. “They gave you up so easy.”

Raul scoffed, but that was all.

Caroline put her offer on the proverbial table. “I’ll let you come back to New York every third weekend.”

“What makes you think I’d ever return?” Raul sniffed. “That vile city was a coxcomb that never wanted me. Never was there a city that made me wish more for the eternal wiles of death.”

Honestly, she thought the same about this phone call. With an eyeroll she said, “I’ll give you back your boots.”

There was a long, ugly pause. It was so long and so ugly that Caroline thought he had put down the phone.

At long last he announced, with vigour, “Seduction certainly becomes you, Lady Distraction.”

“Actually, my name is—”

“Alas, I have a party to plan!”

“Wait, party?”

“Good bye!” Raul exclaimed. The line did not go dead immediately: there was the sound of a fumble and then the background chatter of Raul watching a tutorial on how to cook moussaka, before an incredulous Caroline ended the call for him.

 —

 As luck would have it, Caroline met Klaus at the party. Or rather: Klaus’s hand was conveniently in the way when she was reaching for a cheese stick.

When she looked up, he was looking at her with astonishment.

“Can it, Mikaelson,” she said immediately.

Klaus frowned. “But I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re going tell me how ravishing I look. I’m going to ignore the comment and focus, instead, on why you’re suddenly and miraculously standing by the cheese platter of the first party I’ve been to in three years. Sure, it’s actually a stage for my vamp round-up later, but—I mean, come on. You’ve got to cool it on the stalking.”

“For one, I was going to tell you how arresting you looked,” Klaus corrected. He actually sounded offended. “And despite the evidence of the contrary, I’m not stalking you. I was invited.”

He pulled out an invitation from his pocket, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

Caroline put her cheese stick back on the platter. “You know Raul the Eurovision Vampire. Seriously.”

“You mean Rah-OOL?” Elijah asked.

Caroline could have kicked herself for even being surprised at how suddenly he appeared. They probably spent the better half of a century perfecting the art of making an entrance.

“He’s changed over the years, his vowels not so pronounced.” Elijah had a slight kink between his eyebrows, as if it wasn’t even worth frowning over, but he was anyway. “If you listen closely, you can tell he used to have an Indo-European accent; it’s quite distinct. I detected clear derivations from the original Proto-Indo-European, but it’s unmistakable. A fool he has been making of the people in this room, but not us.”

Klaus nodded quite seriously, sipping his gin.

“It is difficult to find likeminded company these days; people these days hardly have time to consider the nuances of language shifts and devolving case systems,” Elijah was saying with a solemn shake of his head.

“That is so interesting.” Caroline strained to smile and ended up baring her teeth instead. She turned back to Klaus. “How do you know Raul?”

(“Rah-OOL,” Elijah interjected.)

At that moment, Raoul got up on a makeshift stage in the center of the room and started belting out a welcome song he’d penned just two hours before the party (as he’d reminded each one of them as they walked in earlier).

He was back in his cape, boots, and white face paint. Everyone was understandably distracted.

“He’s a mate of Kol’s.” Klaus said absently, and then returned his gaze to her. “Kol turned him some time around the 14th century. He used to sing for Marie Antoinette,” Klaus added, like it was supposed to impress her.

Raoul placed a hand to his chest and screeched.

“Man, what a bummer I wasn’t alive then,” Caroline said dryly.

 —

 Klaus insisted on walking her home after she had ‘created a scene’ by making three grown-ass vampires cry in the middle of Raoul’s fourteen-minute percussion solo.

Caroline’s only response was to rustle their freshly-signed contracts against his jaw.

When they swung open the front door, Bonnie and Damon tumbled, both quite shirtless, from the couch to the floor.

Caroline backed away until her head hit the door. “I didn’t know scrabble was euphemism for sex!”

Damon chose that moment to stand, all the better to deliver his comeback, but Caroline gave a shriek that rivalled Raoul’s, and Klaus quickly ushered her out.

 —

 The sun set in a brilliant burn of orange and red. Caroline and Klaus were sitting on a bench, his coat around her shoulders.

“Why doesn’t Damon have a room?” Klaus asked, once he’d placated her with ice-cream. Copious amounts of it.

Caroline shuddered at the memory of seeing his erect nipples. And then the shudder turned to rage, and she stabbed her spoon into her double chocolate. “Because he doesn’t live with us.”

“But he’s there all the time.”

“So are you,” she pointed out.

Klaus has the grace to look abashed. “Only because my situation at home isn’t… the most ideal.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “But I am leaving tomorrow. It’s time, I think.”

Caroline looked up. She hadn’t expected to hear that, not so soon. He’d been here for maybe a month, skulking around, loudly expressing admiration. He noticed her lack of enthusiasm for Damon’s pancakes whenever she got back from a fight and nudged mugs of blood from questionable origins, but it was always hot and pulled flavours deep and rich from her tongue. Sometimes he’d intentionally give her the wrong addresses to vampire cult gatherings just so he could be there ten minutes earlier to “observe her progress”. Once, after a werewolf had scraped her arm with his teeth, Klaus had readily shown her his wrist.

The look he’d given her that night had sent her to bed with uncertain, dark, thoughts—and a want, too, that made it difficult to sleep.

She stood up, took Klaus’s untouched ice-cream and dumped it in the trash along with hers.

He didn’t object then, nor did he object when she retook her seat next to him, turned her face upwards and closed the space between them with a kiss. Klaus made a sound of surprise, and deepened the kiss.

He didn’t object when she tugged him off the bench onto their feet, nor did he object when she all but dragged him out of the park with great difficulty, because he still insisted on kissing her while she do it. They could have hailed a cab, but it turned out making out in alleyways could be great fun, especially when Klaus put his mouth to her neck and palmed her breasts through her thin cotton shirt.

“Do you mind if we make a detour?” Klaus asked hoarsely when she’d slammed him to the crumbling alley wall and had looked deviously close to getting down on her knees.

“Detour?” she worried at his belt with playful fingers. “Where do you have in mind?”

“My place in the Upper East Side,” he said with a half-grin, because his eyes are closed to the ministrations of her hand through the front of his jeans, which soon stopped when she spluttered.

“You have a place—” she cursed and flashed to her feet, shoving his shoulders. “You sly asshole.”

“Honestly, love – if you can see yourself how you look in the comfort of your own home—” Klaus tried to beseech her, but she snorted and stalked off.

Klaus appeared in front of her and stopped her in her tracks. “You were slipping on your mask one night and I saw how fearless it made you look – how sharp and cunning and ready to strike fear into hearts. You exuded this understated sensuality. I was in love with it.”

Caroline looked at him curiously. “Was?”

“Am,” Klaus amended.

“Good. I’ll have sex with you with that in mind.” She cleared her throat and stared ahead. “Take me there.”

Klaus smiled. He smiled all through hailing a cab, and the smile only just faltered when she was standing in the foyer of his townhouse, looking around with her mouth agape.

“Wait until you see my bedroom,” Klaus tried for a joke, but it died when Caroline started undressing.

Sleeping with Caroline was not like the green call of the forest all those years ago. It was like slipping into sleep, a tumble of instinct and touch, a lull that kept on lulling. He pushed into her with a groan. Her neck was wet with her blood; it had spilled from his mouth when she’d wrapped her thighs around him and squeezed. She cursed and damned him when he thrusted deeper, and then she kissed him with the same mouth.

Ten years shackled behind a wall had left him starving for touch, and she met his need with an urgency – but also with a practiced care, a tenderness she didn’t realise she had kept in her breast all this while. Caroline could be soft when she wanted, and she wanted to be soft now, with him. When she came, she came with his name on her tongue in a long, keening sigh.

Before he left, Klaus woke her up. They shared a kiss in the shower—nothing more.

He was about to duck into his car when he paused, struggled with something internally, and then turned back to her. The kiss he left on her knuckles lingered, and he gave her a long look weighed down by layers of things she didn’t know how to interpret just yet. She just looked back. Whatever he found in her eyes, he seemed content.

And then he said good bye, and was gone.

Caroline didn’t know it yet, but it would be four years until she would see him again.

 —

 tbc