#also this is waaaaaay more than 3 sentences. im not sorry

[charaznablescanontoyota]

for the 3 sentence fic meme - Shaq and Chicago?

He goes to see live theater for the first time in - well, Derrick says it's been over a hundred years that they've been outside the land of the living. Shaq kind of believes him. Anyway, people mostly leave him to himself after the first few weeks in the Firehouse, and he takes the opportunity to actually walk around Chicago, see the parks, eat at restaurants, go to the arcade and the Lyric Opera.

He makes it through one scene of The Magic Flute before he has to slip outside for fresh air.

It's not the quiet, dark, enclosed space that does it, and it's not being packed in a room with so many people. It's fucking O zittre nicht, something about the way the scenery opens up and the Queen of the Night comes out of the moon, larger than life. Something about the glow of the spotlight held like embers in her eyes, the way her dress envelops her like a cloud of black smoke. Panic grips Shaq's chest and won't let go until he's out, whispering an apology to the people sitting on either side of him as he stumbles into the aisle and shuffles to the bright light of the exit doors.

Shaq sits down on the stairs to the mezzanine so heavily it almost knocks the wind out of him, and scrubs his hands over his face. He's being stupid. The last time his heart raced like this at the theater was when his parents took him to see Don Giovanni way too young. It's just playacting - there's nothing to be scared of.

"Goodness," one of the ushers says from the bottom of the stairs. An older woman, dark hair threaded with gray and pinned up at the nape of her neck. "I thought this one was more of a comedy."

"It is," Shaq says into his hands. Then, inanely, as if it matters, "It was my mom's favorite. She had a - a record of it. I used to listen to it to fall asleep as a kid."

"Does it always make you cry?" the usher asks.

"Just the end. Usually."

(And it's a cathartic cry; Pamina and Tamino brave the trials of the elements and prove their love for each other. Who wouldn't cry?)

The usher cocks her head. "What scared you today?"

"The Queen of the Night. " Shaq laughs, watery, like can you fucking believe? He remembers being afraid of the Queen as a kid, but not like this. Not anything that would set his heart hammering this hard.

"Is that how you see me, Shaquille Torres?"

"Fuck," he says. His hands are still over his face - probably not good to look directly at a god, or a city-avatar, or a patron, or whatever. Even if she's currently an usher who looks a little bit like an older version of his tía.

"No," he adds, finally. "I don't know."

"You cried when you first heard the Call."

"I know."

"And when you first heard the Dispa-"

"I know," he says again. Maybe it's rude to interrupt her. Maybe he shouldn't have. The rules aren't clear. "I cry a lot. Surprises make me cry."

"I cannot help being a surprise, at times," Chicago says. "And you were a surprise to me."

Shaq sighs, letting the release of air deflate him, his shoulders sagging. "Great. Then we're even."

(For the record - it is how he's always imagined her, even as far back as Kirby and Josh telling him stories about the city, though he didn't realize it until she asked. He'd never tell her. It feels impolite, to be scared of a city trying its best to welcome him.)

"You have not answered the Call," Chicago says, "to my satisfaction, Shaquille Torres."

"I was dead three weeks ago," he says, pointedly. Sure, he's been using it as a catch-all excuse for most things; in his defense, it's a pretty rock-solid excuse.

"And now you are not," Chicago says. "You are From Chicago. And you have much work to do."

"Cool," Shaq says, maybe a little more derisively than he means to, and gets to his feet.

The usher-that-was-Chicago is gone, predictably. Music is leaking through the shut doors of the theater. He probably hasn't missed much, and he's heard The Magic Flute enough times to pick up where he left off, if and when he goes back inside.

"You couldn't have caught me during Faust or something?" Shaq asks the air. He shoves his hands into his pockets, slouching back towards the theater doors. "The Fiery Angel? Fucking Hamlet? I thought you gods liked thematic cohesion."

He swears he hears a laugh in the opera house's A/C blast.