#and so i sit here alternating between staring at several different screens & also the wall

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

shoutout to those nights where the brain says We Literally Cant Do Anything Even Though We Really Want To <3

[leowenila]

Shepherd’s Superheroes

Hello! During last season’s hiatus and before posting stories publicly; I wrote this and it might be one of my most favorite (out of my own writings) stories ever! A few days ago I sat down to reread it and make a few changes with more information we have gotten this season. This story is mostly an alternative-universe but mostly it’s a lot of fluffy-comfort with a small portion of angst. This is a long one!! I hope you all enjoy this one as much as I do! PS; if anyone is interested, there is a part two still in my drafts 💗��

Traveling with an eleven month old proved to be tremendously different to Owen and Amelia than they initially it would be like, once landing, they realized it was totally worth it. The couple did not travel much due to their busy career lives but shortly after Miranda Bailey discussed with the neurosurgeon about having too many vacation days built up; both her and her fiance thought it was the perfect time to go visit and introduce the family she built with Owen, to her family. No matter how many years had passed; she has always missed them in a way that is impossible for her to describe to the average person. Half of Amelia missing her family was due to curiosity over the question of if they would be proud of her new life or not.

Eventually after their plane safely landed and the purchase of their rent-a-car was confirmed; Owen and Amelia along with Leo reached their destination and began walking towards the same red brick building that held countless amount of memories for the neurosurgeon. Once in the building the family stepped into the elevator and rested their backs on the wall, Amelia sighed causing the small boy to giggle at his mom and later causing all three of them to laugh. Watching Owen bounce Leo on his hip bone made the brunette realize that what she found attractive in Owen was drastically different than what she found attractive many years ago; as she was in the same exact elevator.

“Shut up; bitches. I need to get laid. I need to get laid, really bad.” The young brunette shared with the other two women on the elevator- in her true, non-existent filter self. Both Addison and Violet brought their conversation to a pause once hearing Amelia’s declaration. The psychologist grew concerned due to the fact of not knowing the neurosurgeon well.

“So bad that I’m going to run naked through the street and grind a cop, if something doesn’t happen soon. Wouldn’t one of you just lie on top of me and rub around, for like ten minutes.”

Her laughter amplified once the particular memory of her, Violet and Addison after Amelia returned from her Seattle trip. Owen stared at the same beautiful smile he could watch all week long and noticed how truly happy she seemed once breathing in the California air. Choosing not to question her about why her laughter changed, the two walked off the elevator with Leo beside them, towards a blonde receptionist at the desk and allowed the brunette to take charge with the plan she had in mind since sitting on the plane.

“Hello, our son; Leo, has an appointment with Dr. Cooper Freedman for his yearly checkup.” Amelia informed the blonde receptionist that appeared to be new from since her sudden departure from the group nearly six years ago.

With a confused expression upon her face, the receptionist looked up and down her computer screen to find the brunette’s name.

“I’m sorry, but are you positive his name isn’t under a different name? Maybe you are scheduled for a different day or-?” The not-so-friendly but unamused receptionist asked Amelia. Owen watched Amelia for a second before he noticed a small invisible light bulb, lit up inside of her beautiful brain. Knowing his fiancé well, the trauma surgeon took it as a cue before speaking to the blonde in front of him.

“Excuse me; ma’am? Could you please point me in the direction of the restrooms. We had a very long drive and did not think to find a place before arriving.”

The receptionist removed herself from the back of the desk; where she had been sitting and started walking with Owen and Leo, and made their way to the restrooms. Once the woman was gone and Owen’s back was turned, Amelia began to walk back to the familiar area. The area that hasn’t changed a bit. The area that so many memories were made. And that’s when she saw her family.

Deciding to have her identity remain anonymous the brunette kept her dark-shaded sunglasses on her cerulean eyes and slowly walked into the legendary kitchen of Seaside Wellness Group. Every doctor from the practice was enjoying sandwiches that appeared to be catered by a local sandwich shop.

“I was wondering where I could maybe find a doctor?”

“Oh hello; I’m sorry ma’am, but this area is for employees only. The receptionist should be able to point you in the direction of the waiting room.” The familiar and ever-so-kind male psychologist suggested to who he thought was a stranger.

Amelia continued to stand she removed her sunglasses and before she had time to fix her short hair, every person in the room gasped at who was standing in the kitchen across from them. As if on an impulse all of them stopped what they were doing and practically ran over to Amelia.

“Amelia? Amelia Shepherd? What the hell are you doin’ here?” Charlotte asked with her thick southern accent still very present, after hugging her “junkie best friend” tightly and they smiled at one another.

“Vacation! I need a vacation and I thought what better people to visit my favorite people.”

From afar stood her former sister-in-law, grinning ear to ear with tears shining in her electric blue eyes. Addison shook her head once Amelia removed herself from the blonde’s hug, neither one of them moved for a few moments until they couldn’t take a second more apart. Addison wrapped her longer arms around Amelia and held on for longer than she thought she would, the brunette buried her head into Addison’s shoulder and silently started to allow happy tears to pour out of her eyes. After reconnecting with the people Amelia loved the most, she wiped her tears away as Addison escorted her sister towards the sandwiches where she began to enjoy lunch with them just like old times.

“I have to catch up on some charts; but it is so wonderful to see you again, Amelia.” Jake told Amelia as he held several patient charts in one arm and hugged her from the side. Once done hugging him, Amelia returned to the crafting of her sandwich.

Moments later after returning from the restroom with Leo; the trauma surgeon began to wander the hallways of the welcoming practice and noticed a quiet yet beautifully lit, to his left; with the door slightly open already, he made his way inside. Unaware of a unique calmness that coursed through his body, Owen felt guided to walk towards the wall with multiple framed photographs.

“Bradley S. Kramer. Detroit, Michigan

Lucile “Lulu” E. Allen. Los Angeles, California

Sarah G. Tanner. Chicago, Illinois

Gideon T. Yang. Los Angeles, California”

The trauma surgeon read the four names to himself and saw their photographs. Confused as to what and why the four children were standing beside his fiance; Owen slightly jumped upon hearing one of the doctors at the practice he assumed was Addison’s husband based on photos Amelia has shown him in the past.

“That was an incredible day for all of us; but definitely for Amelia.” Jake told Owen as he also focused on the wall in front of the two men, a smile washed over his face as he remembered that day clearly.

“What is this exactly? Why was it such an incredible day?” The dumbfounded trauma surgeon asked the dark haired man with several patient files in between his arm muscle and his side.

“You see this little guy; right here?” Jake pointed to the photograph in the center of the wall; a small baby boy wrapped in a sky blue blanket, held by his mother. His eyes were closed and his body was small and fragile like. Some moments after fixing his eyes on the small baby; Owen noticed the woman holding the baby, none other than Amelia with a giant smile on her face holding her perfect son. The same son she had told Owen that only lived for forty three minutes, several years ago.

“This is Christopher. Amelia’s son. And children like Gideon and Lulu and Bradley are just some of the children he saved because Amelia decided to donate all of his organs so other kids could leave the hospital. He was, or should I say still is her little superhero.”

No words came to the trauma surgeon’s mouth as he remained speechless, a few months ago was one of the first times that Amelia spoke about her son and told Owen his name but she never talked about what had happened after forty three minutes had passed. She told him that she will tell him the rest of the story one day. Jake left Owen with the bright smile on his face after his visit. Removing Owen from his thoughts; the trauma surgeon heard a knock on the glass door, he looked up and saw the brunette.

“That was a spectacular day.” She said as she walked into the office in which used to be Pete’s office, the brunette watched her fiance continuing to look in shock.

“Remember when I ran away because I was afraid to have your baby?” The brunette asked him; without saying a word, Owen shook his head and turned his attention on her to agree with her.

“Well I didn’t only run away to Stephanie’s.. I flew to Los Angeles to be apart of the grand opening of this office, in my happy place. This little boy is my superhero. Each one of these kids are my superheroes.” Amelia told Owen after she hugged him tightly in a place she never imagined she would be with the love of her life. A place from her past but also a place of her present. A state that she considered home. From afar on the couch in the same somewhat large room; Leo watched on has his parents embraced and giggled. Causing all three of them to laugh.

Hope you all enjoyed!

[virmillion]

Coffee’s for Closers

alternative title: lab has absolutely no chill when airing out their dirty laundry

Summary: Virgil is a barista. Logan is a barista. Everyone is gay—it's just that this gayness only occurs at Logan's cafe. Warnings: cursing, rude customers and coworkers, let me know if you think of any more Ships: romantic analogical, romantic royality, platonic LAMP+Remy Words: 22,222

Check it out on ao3!

    Grande white mocha latte. Steam milk to the third line, four pumps of syrup, two shots of espresso, put on a sleeve, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Kid’s hot chocolate. Steam milk to the bottom line at one-twenty seven degrees, two pumps mocha, one pump vanilla, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Venti iced caramel macchiato upside down with coconut milk and an extra shot. Pull two shots of espresso into each teacup, six hits of vanilla in the cup, espresso over the vanilla, coconut milk to the top line, ice to the rim, caramel drizzle of seven vertical, seven horizontal, two circles, lid, hand it off, next. This is literally the only thing running through Virgil’s mind anymore.

    Alright, maybe not the only thing. There is the odd customer who gets annoyed at receiving a small cup when they asked for a tall, because ‘I thought tall meant large!’ and Virgil has had just about enough of people not understanding the price difference. There’s also a regular here and there that hands off their reusable cup with a grin, so he can fill it with caramel and decaf and nonfat milk for the regular’s wife, and the guy can get a tall pike place roast with caramel syrup in a grande cup, and Virgil can hand it off and feel proud of himself for knowing a regular’s order so precisely. Oh, and lest we not forget the ever-present parents thinking it’s cool to let their toddlers run wild and knock down his signs and spill drinks everywhere because ‘it’s okay, honey, he gets paid to clean that up!’

    Okay, so there are several things running through Virgil’s mind right now. At this incredibly specific moment, one of those several things is the fact that he only has to survive twelve. More. Minutes. With the literal worst coworker on the face of the earth. He can’t speak to the quality of workers beneath the earth’s crust—sorry, team members—but for air breathing losers such as he, his buddy here just. Takes the damn cake. Stole the candles. Blew out his wish. On his birthday. Without a birthday gift. Spit on the frosting. Grabbed two chunks with her bare hands. Ate them like a toddler. Complained when she was the only one eating cake. Took the cake anyway.

    Virgil doesn’t particularly care for cake.

    “Hey, how’re you doing?” Kim asks the next guest, plastering the absolute fakest smile Virgil has ever seen on her face. Like, he’s pretty sure it’s bordering on genuine. That’s how fake it is.

    Virgil doesn’t particularly care for Kim, either.

    “I’m good, how’re you?” the guest replies, staring up at the trifold menu and holding up a line of seven people behind them because they didn’t have the foresight to decide on a drink during the fifteen minutes they spent in line. “I’ll take a grande salted caramel mocha.” Virgil ignores Kim as she delivers the spiel about the limited supply of whipped cream, instead focusing on the measurements of all the drinks waiting to be finished. Sure, he admires that one lady for getting eight shots of espresso—he could definitely do with some of what she’s having—but her drink is doing a terrible job of holding up the line when their dinky little store only has one mastrena.

    Ten minutes.

    “Venti double quad for Debra?” Virgil calls, ignoring the line of drinks that haven’t been claimed yet. Seriously, if these people are as intent as they seem to be on getting out of here quickly, you’d think they’d jump at the chance to take their drinks. Virgil doesn’t really care either way, as he only has to survive nine more minutes.

    “Hey, we need a milk run before tomorrow,” Virgil tells Kim, shuffling down the line of drinks. To be fair, they’re moving much more quickly now that the whole espresso machine isn’t focused on one drink from five minutes ago. “Want me to do it?”

    “Ugh, yeah,” Kim groans, rolling her eyes. She waves off the concerned look from the next guest, eyeing Virgil’s obscenely long queue of drinks. “I’ll finish those up, you go get the milk, peace out in ten?”

    “Something like that,” Virgil agrees, topping off the last row of grande hot chocolates. “You know where the button is for extra help?”

    “Duh, of course I know where it is.” Rather than give a sarcastic remark to her attitude—which is what he wants more than anything—Virgil smiles brightly, pushing his way past the swinging door and straightening the hat that never sits quite right on his head. In the near back, he pulls out his constantly dying phone to snap a picture of the barren fridge. All the way to the back of the main store and into the freezer, he trundles one of the squeaky-wheeled carts between the aisles, dodging oblivious mothers and manspreading dudes with man-buns and ratty tennis shoes.

    “Okay, twenty two blue, five pink, seven red,” Virgil mumbles to himself, double- and triple-checking the picture to reassure himself of what they need. “Maybe just seventeen blue, five pink, five red.” These corrections continue as he sets about pulling every jug he can find from the crates, absently tugging down his sleeves as the cold sends goosebumps skittering over his skin. “Two more red, maybe a few half and half?” Thinking back, he’s pretty sure corporate didn’t ship any half and half this week, either. Sunday’s gonna be a blast. “Still no heavy whipping cream, no surprise there. The rations thin. The plot chickens.” Allowing himself a small laugh at his own nonsense, Virgil backs the cart out of the fridge and deepens his chronic slouch to put more force behind the wheels. They squeal and scream in protest as he shoves the—trolley? Is that what they call it?—back to the front, practically spilling it everywhere as he swerves around a narrow corner to avoid a stray child pinballing off the end cap displays.

    Finally at the near back again, Virgil fights with the cart to get it through the doors and over the floor mats covering the little alley, very nearly ramming his head into the sink when the wheels free themselves with no warning. “Okay, freakin’ ow,” he mutters, rubbing the bruise on his side from the impact. “Whatever, just a few more minutes, and I can go somewhere that doesn’t totally suck or drain the life from its patrons.”

    True to his word, Virgil eventually succeeds in restocking the rest of the milks, popping his head out to check on Kim’s status in regards to whether she’ll survive the next three minutes. One severely long line that’s steadily trickling out, most of them with drinks in hand, and if the flurry of legs outside the shuttered window is anything to go by, another slam is hot on its heels. Virgil tosses out a flippant farewell to Kim and makes a break for the punch clock, having absolutely no desire to stick around for the hell that awaits.

    “Okay, cool, cool, love driving in the rain, favorite part of my Saturday,” Virgil sighs, glancing at the window. If nothing else, should customers not be deterred by the weather? Seriously, just go home. Go home!

    Of course, no one is listening to Virgil’s complaints. All too aware of this fact, he rolls his shoulders forward to shrug on a hoodie over his work-mandated black shirt—at least the uniform doesn’t suck, he supposes. Flipping his hood up to protect his hair and tucking in his earbuds, Virgil strolls out into the clogged aisles of people and things, easily blending in with the other loners that would rather be literally anywhere else, were it not for their families dragging them along. Virgil has no such ties, and accordingly escapes from the store with ease.

    And no, he won’t lie—Virgil absolutely walks slower in the rain to the beat of the song in his ears, and he absolutely imagines some cheesy pathetic music video happening around him, and he absolutely would deny that if you confronted him with it.

    By the time Virgil reaches his car—neon blue, mind you, because it was the cheapest model he could afford—his hoodie is sopping wet, and he has had just about enough of this whole ‘existing’ nonsense for today. But no, no, he wants to go to that new cafe one of the regulars told him about. Stupid stubbornness. Of course, he’s too stubborn to get rid of it. So. On he drives.

    You might think this is where the stars align—where Virgil stumbles his way into a warm cafe from a cold car, where he bumps into his soulmate on first sight, where he knows in an instant that this is where he belongs, that this new place is the home he was always meant to find.

    You would be wrong.

    “Damn broken phone,” Virgil scowls, shaking his phone as the screen refuses to wake up, despite being at a solid seventy percent. He keeps his gaze toward his shoes and the tiled floor beneath them, pressing the home and lock buttons harder than he probably needs to. “If anyone dares to so much as look at me the wrong way, I am chucking you out the window and letting you electrocute yourself like a tiny toaster in the rain.”

    “—Upside down, iced, and pick your poison for the milk,” the person waiting at the register is saying, leaning forward as if they have all the time in the world. Virgil’s frown deepens as the person starts to socialize with the barista.

    “Ah, Roman? I believe there might be someone waiting behind you,” the barista says, their voice carrying over past the pompous person that’s basically a wall at this point. As the guest scuttles away to wait for his drink, the barista beckons Virgil forward, saying, “sorry about him. Never seems to understand that other people occupy this world besides himself.���

    “It certainly would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” Virgil says out of the corner of his mouth, not looking up to meet the barista’s eyes. Regardless of whether they’re the social type, he isn’t about to find out the hard way. The hard way being the only way, of course. Virgil does not want to talk to this person, is what he’s saying. “I’ll just take a small of whatever the cheapest thing you have is that isn’t brewed coffee. Please.”

    “Sure, that’ll be one fifty.”

    “Keep the change.” Virgil passes over the first crumpled bill he can find in his pocket—a five—and moves for a table around the corner of the bar to wait. According to that regular, the baristas here are competent enough to hunt down the guests when their drinks are done. So. Hiding around the corner. His modus operandi.

    The worn chair at a table for two is more than welcoming enough, offering a decent view of the crying clouds outside and the over-soaked flowers decorating the windowsill. Virgil dusts off the plum colored seat, which probably used to be plush when it was new—at this point, it’s so well-loved that there can’t be more than an inch of fabric separating Virgil’s rear from the wooden underside. He tucks one leg beneath himself, propping the other foot along the reddish brown window edge. The beaten-up greys and purples of his sneakers offer a painful contrast to the flowers, shining dull under the relentless rain.

    “Hey, haven’t seen you here before,” a new voice says. The same guy that was bugging the barista plonks himself down across from Virgil, pressing his nose to the window. What was his name, Ho Man? “Did the rain scare you away from a main chain trash place like Starbucks?” Rather than dignify him with a response, Virgil holds up the too-small black cap he’s supposed to wear to work. Proudly displayed in white stitches is the Starbucks logo. The way Ho Man’s face turns beet red as he fumbles to cover up the mistake is almost enough to make Virgil laugh. Almost. “Okay, wait, I didn’t mean—it’s not like I wanted to—obviously I don’t disrespect your profession—not that it’s like you have to have it! I mean, unless you like it, but I didn’t want to assume—that’s what they always say about assuming, isn’t it, ass out of you and me, right?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Okay, yeah, yeah, cool! I, uh, I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go sit over there now.” Ho Man jabs his thumb back over his shoulder, loudly scraping his chair back under the table as he stumbles over his own feet in a mad scramble for the front area of the cafe.

    “He seems fun,” Virgil mumbles to himself, resting his chin on a knee and pressing his forehead to the window. Out in the parking lot—if you can even call it that, it’s basically just ten rectangles that happen to be outlined in white—his car looks incredibly crowded in. Neon blue trapped by dark greys and flat reds, all of them reduced to shields sending rain shooting to the concrete.

    A few tables away, Ho Man has plonked himself at a bigger table, facing off with someone turned away from Virgil. They certainly seem to be in deep conversation about something, but Virgil doesn’t care enough to figure out what, much less elaborate on it. To drown out the light conversation of a considerable amount of quiet patrons around him, he digs his laptop out of his shoulder bag and unfolds it on the table. In any fantasy story he’s ever imagined, this is probably the part where his one true love appears in the vacant chair across from him, reaching out to close the laptop and reveal sparkling blue eyes that dance like the stars on a dark and clear night.

    Yeah, no thanks.

    “There you go, cheapest thing we’ve got that isn’t brewed coffee,” the barista says, appearing very much in Virgil’s field of view to hand over a ceramic mug decorated with tinier cups in every shade of blue and purple. “Apple cider with cinnamon and caramel.”

    “That’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?” Virgil sputters in disbelief. “That’s, like, four bucks at a chain place.”

    “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized we were on par with a ‘chain place,’” the barista replies, making air quotes around the words. “Anyway, make sure you return the mug when you leave. If you take it with you, bring it back next time for a refill, five cent discount.”

    “Seriously? Cool,” Virgil says, reaching for the mug as the barista turns away. “Seems like a good way to encourage people to steal the mug if you ask me, but alright.” The barista hesitates, looking from the bar to Virgil and back. No guests demanding service. Without asking permission or begging forgiveness, the barista slips into the seat across from Virgil. “Yeah, sure, have a seat.” Virgil closes his laptop, bringing the mug to his lips.

    “So I’m not even going to ask whether this is your first time, since it’s pretty obvious,” the barista says. “For one, you didn’t even make eye contact when you ordered your drink, which, okay, rude, and for another, you don’t know the system with the mugs, not to mention that you didn’t even say hi to—”

    “Yeah, yeah, cool, great, can I just enjoy my cheap drink in peace here?” Virgil interrupts. He certainly wouldn’t admit it if this guy asked, but it’s better than what they make at Starbucks. “Yes, my first time, I don’t like eye contact, I certainly don’t like conversation—actually, come to think of it, I have a long list of dislikes, and you are quickly working your way to the top. Please go away.”

    “My name’s Remy.” The barista sticks his hand out, prompting Virgil to merely stare at it with thinly veiled disdain until he retracts it with an awkward laugh. “I run this place with my brother, since he bought the building when the lister needed to move before the taxes got too high, and he pulled me in on the deal for my sparkling charisma—”

    “Of which you have none.”

    “—and because he likes dealing with the numbers more. He’s actually sitting right over—”

    “Don’t care. Why are you sitting here?” Remy wags a finger at Virgil, biting his lower lip and puffing out his cheeks. “Spring a leak much?”

    “Mostly ’cause I was bored. You seem interesting, I don’t know. Thought I could educate you on the mystical ways of how we don’t go bankrupt from people stealing our mugs.”

    “Okay, yeah, sure, cool. Great. Educate away. Special tip, though? You kind of suck at educating so far. Like, a lot.”

    “Noted. We’re small enough that we don’t get many guests, and the ones that come in pretty often usually have their own mugs reserved. Picked yours out for you when I saw you walk in. Brand new, never used. Just for you. So special.”

    “Alright, let’s lay off the dramatically short sentences, Mettaton. You still haven’t convinced me why I should care.”

    “I mean, I think you’re cute, so there’s that. Anyway, we use the same mugs for our regulars, and we get so few one-timers that we barely ever lose a cup. Even when we do, they normally come back out of guilt for keeping the cup, and get another drink at a crap discount. That’s our motto, you know? Come for the guilt, stay for the five cents you save. Well, not really our motto. We don’t have a motto. I’ve always wanted one, but we never set one in stone, since my brother isn’t exactly into all that stuff. Speaking of which, you wanna meet him? He’s right over—”

    “I do not want to meet your brother,” Virgil says. He shakes his head, trying to force his mind to register Remy’s nonstop babbling. “I literally just want to finish my drink in peace.”

    “You’ll be back,” Remy replies, tapping out a rhythm on the table. “The cute ones always come back.”

    “I have literally never wanted to come back to a place less than I do right now. Please go away.” Finally, miracle of miracles, Remy takes the hint, scraping his chair back and moving for the table where Ho Man is still chatting up whoever it is that probably doesn’t want him there.

    Alone once more, Virgil exhales, scraping off part of the dollop of whipped cream on his drink with a finger. Before the caramel drizzle can drip down his hand, he fwips it off with a sharp inhale, pretending like he doesn’t care that he’d probably be drawing thousands of weird looks if anyone were paying attention. Over at Ho Man’s table, Remy slams his fists down on the tiled surface, making the collection of mismatched mugs bounce around dangerously. Ho Man’s friend relaxes their perfect posture by half an inch before straightening again as Remy leans forward to whisper something. Virgil quickly shifts his focus to stare out the window.

    While the rain seems to finally be letting up, its aftereffects are long from forgotten. Orange tulips and red roses in the distance are wobbling on thin stems, desperately holding onto the last of their leaves as the wind does everything it can to wrench them away. Even the trees are mourning the early summer storm, their overgrown leaves tearing away and drifting across the streets to stick themselves to windows. Virgil fights back the urge to recoil as a particularly large leaf smacks into the other side of the glass, tiny drops of water peeling away to race for the flowerbed below.

    When he lifts the mug to his mouth again, it’s empty. Smalls are always so much smaller than larges. Time to go.

    “Hey, uh, where do I, um…?” Virgil calls to Remy as he moves for the door, lifting his empty cup as indication. “Like, do I just leave it on the table, or…?”

    “Just keep it,” Remy replies, waving off Virgil’s annoyed sigh. “Seriously, keep it.”

    “Seriously, no.” Rather than take the mug and run, which would be immensely gratifying if it were, you know, actually against the rules, he deposits it on the island with cream and sugar for coffee. Dammit, even their carts are nicer than the crappy little nothings that Starbucks has.

    “See you later?” Remy yells as Virgil wills the door to close faster behind him.

    “Maybe. Probably not, but maybe.” Before the bell over the door frame has even finished chiming, Virgil is already at his car, not bothering to dodge the few remaining raindrops. “Weirdo. Hate to see how much of a disaster his brother is.”

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

    “How long, exactly, did you talk to that poor guy?” Remy appears none too impressed by the question, much less the implication of how annoying he probably was to said poor guy.

    “Look, bro, he looked lonely, I thought I’d just pop in on his day and—”

    “And encourage him to leave my cafe without taking the mug for a discount next time? Try harder to cover for yourself. And stop calling me ‘bro,’ it makes you sound like a teenager.”

    “Alright, Logan,” Remy retorts, letting the mocking tone dangle in the air, “FYI, I am a teenager, so lay off for a hot sec, why don’t you?”

    “I would rather not. Don’t use acronyms out loud, you sound like a preteen. You turned twenty last week. Roman, kindly refrain from displaying the inside of your mouth like that.”

    “Dude, what? Happy birthday, man! Why didn’t you tell me?” Roman demands, leaning his elbows on the table and forcefully inserting himself into a conversation where he’s decidedly not welcome.

    “I’m having a surprise party for myself,” Remy hisses in a stage whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, Logan thinks I don’t know about it.”

    “I am not planning you a surprise party,” Logan says. “There is literally not one person planning you a surprise party, in this cafe or otherwise. Go help that next guest, I never said you could take a break for this long, anyway.”

    “You aren’t the boss of me,” Remy grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching lower in his chair.

    “Technically, I am, having been the one to buy the place, not to mention that I was born first. Go help the next guest.” Logan rolls his eyes as Remy trudges over to the bar, a completely different demeanor washing over him like a wave as he steps behind the register and turns into a cheerful mannequin. Shifting his focus back to Roman, Logan presses his glasses up higher on his nose and releases a low, steady, frustrated groan.

    “Talk to me, man, what’s goin’ on?” Roman asks. “Are you really that mad that what’s-his-nuts didn’t take his mug? You didn’t even pick it out, Remy did.”

    “Mmm, no, that’s not it.” Logan rubs his knuckles against a sore spot on his forehead, considering Roman’s earnest look. “We haven’t been doing too well in sales lately, not that many new guests coming in, much less any of them returning for the discount, and I’m still waiting on your list of ideas for how to make myself more welcoming.”

    “Well, for one, don’t dump all your emotional baggage on the first person to ask.” Roman waves his hands quickly as Logan moves to get up, trying to fan whatever flames of frustration are boiling in his brain. “Kidding! Kidding, I am totally, completely, legit-ly kidding.”

    “Legitimately.”

    “Tomato, potato.”

    “To-mah-to.”

    “I’m pretty sure it’s tomato. Anyways, I did draw up that list for you, which, objectively, is the literal best thing in existence ever to be created. In existence. Ever. Objectively.” To be perfectly frank, Logan is incredibly close to shutting the cafe down and locking himself in the fridge to cool down, both literally and figuratively. Nevertheless, he endures, propping his chin on his fist and sighing heavily as Roman draws a stack of bent and ruffled papers out from who-knows-where. At the very least, if Roman’s antics don’t put him out of business, he’ll be able to end the month with a bang. Maybe.

    Roman smooths out the uppermost pages on the tiled table, letting the bottom sheets flare out like a background for the top nonsense. Pointing to each piece of paper as it comes up,  he fumbles his way through the chaos, periodically looking up to make sure Logan is paying attention. Against better judgement, he is.

    “Okay, so first off, it’s June, right? Pride month, bay-bee! Break out a new collection of mugs—”

    “I am not changing the mugs.”

    “He is not changing the mugs,” Remy seconds, returning from the last guest.

    “Alright, alright, truce, no new mugs. I know you don’t totally go for the pizzazz side of things, but—and hear me out here, just something small—we could put different colors of powder on each drink, like purple sprinkles on a latte can be called a purple drink—”

    “We cannot do that, Starbucks already has pink and violet drinks, and I will not associate with them.” Logan straightens his glasses again, pulling one piece of paper out from beneath the rest. “Are all of these ideas centered around pride month?”

    “No,” Roman grumbles, scraping about half of the papers off the table. “I do think it would be cool if you did pride stuff, though. Show support to everyone.”

    “Me, in particular,” Remy cuts in. “Show some support to my gay ass.”

    “Your ass is trans.”

    “What’s your point?”

    “I guess I don’t have one, Remy. Roman, please, if you would?” Logan gestures with his hand, indicating for Roman to find a new thread of ideas to follow. The watch on his waving wrist boasts of closing time rapidly drawing near, as a solid third of his patrons slowly head for the door, carefully selected mugs clutched between their fingers.

    “Right. Okay, so you said no new mugs, and you said no pride stuff, and you said no fun, so let me just jot that down, and we’ll keep going.”

    “I said no new mugs, I asked for different pride stuff that wouldn’t infringe on corporate coffee franchises, and fun is a subjective measurement on behalf of our patrons. Drop the attitude, or I’m cutting you off.”

    “What? No, I’m your best customer!” Roman whines, wearing a pout for a good few seconds before continuing. “I really do think some nice decorations would probably help the atmosphere, maybe string up some white fairy lights around the ceiling? I know you hate those, but they do wonders for how the interior looks once it’s dark outside. Turn off the main lights, turn on the tiny ones, and bam, you’ve got a fairytale date night. Literally.”

    “I don’t think you know what literally means.”

    “I also think you should hire me. Not with obscenely high pay, I know how frugal you try to be, but Remy and I are basically your best bets for customer service. Let me cover the shifts when he disappears for clubs and stuff, you can make the drinks as precise as you like, and I’ll chat up the guests to keep the drinks coming. If nothing else, it’ll train me for how I should exist in the real world.”

    “You’ve existed in the real world for years without working in a cafe.”

    “What’s your point?”

    Logan is very well aware by this point that the conversation is going nowhere. A few decent ideas, a few pieces of nonsense, and that’s about it. As such, he snaps the piece of paper he already grabbed, watching the top stand at attention at the peak of its arc.

    “I guess I don’t have one. Remy, please, if you would?” Struck by how he’d unintentionally repeated himself, Logan shifts his focus to the paper, blowing a long breath out through puffed cheeks. “We’re supposed to close up soon, and I sincerely do not have the willpower to do it tonight. I have way too many things to deal with behind the scenes, and I can’t just—”

    “Say no more,” Remy interrupts, plucking the paper from Logan’s hands. “Sit here, close your eyes, don’t do anything. I’ll teach Roman how to make your usual.”

    “Seven extra shots,” Logan murmurs, dropping his head to rest on the table. “Actually, make it eight. Please.”

    “Yeah, no, we’re only gonna give him hot tea,” Remy whispers to Roman, dragging him away from the table. A heavy exhale from Logan sends a few more sheets of paper fluttering to the floor. “He doesn’t get caffeine until he can go a full night without waking up to finish whatever piece of work he forgot about.”

    “And you think he can’t tell there’s no espresso in that?” Roman asks, watching Remy move as quietly as possible, considering that he’s dealing with the sound of metal on metal.

    “Oh, no, he can definitely tell. We’re both lying to each other, it’s kind of our thing, you know?”

    “Sounds like a great sibling rivalry.”

    “You could say that. Here, put these gloves on, protects from germs and junk when you’re handling the tea bag.” As the last dredges of guests file out of the cafe, most of them pausing to knock gently on the table in lieu of a soft goodbye to Logan, Remy and Roman fall into an amicable silence.

    “Maybe the pride powder would be fun?” Logan mumbles to himself, dragging his chin to his chest so only his forehead rests on the tiles. “Or I could get some food coloring, dye the whipped creams? We definitely don’t have the funds for colorful cups or anything like that, but maybe I could put a little colored dot on the bottom of each cup, have random chance dictate what color whip they get? But then I might not meet the demands, we could run out of food coloring, run out of whip, it doesn’t let me appeal to vegans or people who abstain from dairy products, not to mention that the color might leech into the actual drink. Maybe the fairy lights, just as a summer thing for softer lighting, quiet hours once they go on, I could probably get some people to do open mic stuff or something, clear out a couple tables…”

    Logan lets his words trail off at the sound of Remy plunking a drink beside his head, and while he knows very well that there’s no caffeine in the cup, he downs the whole thing in one go. Roman appears behind Remy, offering an identical drink in a bigger cup.

    “Whoa, try coming up for air bro—brother of mine. Brother. Is what I was going to say. Was brother. And not bro. Brother.” Remy excuses himself to finish dealing with closing up the bar, letting Roman reclaim his seat across from Logan.

    “Hey, buddy, you want to maybe get home, get some sleep?”

    “Yeah, probably,” Logan mumbles, not lifting his head from the table. “Still got so much to do, though. Barely even touched most of your ideas.”

    “Oh, please, you tore them to shreds!” Logan allows himself the smallest of smiles at that, shaking the back of his head and pressing his forehead deeper into the table. There’s probably a pattern of indents appearing on his skin by now. “And we didn’t even get to the best ones, which you can tackle tomorrow, after you get some sleep.”

    “Get some sleep!” Remy echoes, flitting between the sinks with every possible piece of dishware in the building. “But not at home. Go hang out at Roman’s.”

    Roman splutters indignantly, sending the rest of the papers flying. One lands over Logan’s head like a blanket. He does not remove it. “Why does he have to come to my place?”

    Although he can’t see it happening, Logan would wager a good fifty dollars that Remy has positioned himself atop one of the counters that food doesn’t touch in a dramatic pose. “Because he literally lives at work. Like, the next floor up. He needs to get some distance from this place. Plus, I mean, look at him. I’m not putting him up for the night.”

    “I’m the one paying your rent,” Logan retorts to the floor, watching his heels and toes click together.

    “You’re also the one keeping me awake at three in the morning because you had a sudden idea and are seemingly incapable of restraining yourself from writing with a squeaky marker on a squeaky whiteboard, but no one’s asking me. Just go with Roman. Roman, take him. I am not asking you, I am telling you. Take. Logan.”

    “Taking Logan,” Roman confirms. “Come on, Logan. I, Roman, am taking you, Logan. Onward, to my house, owned by a man named Roman, where I am taking Logan!”

    “Shut up, you goof.” Remy’s semi-humored tone is accompanied by the sound of what is probably a balled-up napkin punting Roman in the head, but Logan still isn’t paying enough attention to see. When he hears Roman’s chair scraping into place, he forces himself to stand on exhausted legs.

    Once he sees Logan steady on his feet, Roman shouts, “dibs on the bed!” and runs for the door. Logan offers a half-hearted wave to Remy before trudging after Roman, wincing against the ringing bell. Sure, the tea was good, but it does absolutely nothing to help his flagging energy.

    “Why would I ever want to take your bed over the couch?” Logan mutters, barely stifling a yawn as he slides into Roman’s bright red car. “Moreover, you knew it was supposed to rain today. Why on earth did you not close your windows?”

    “Because I like how it looks better with the windows down.”

    “I want to make sure that you are aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief. Are you aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief?”

    “I am aware of whatever it is you just said. Now be quiet, I can’t have you talking if I want to see the road.” Logan doesn’t bother to explain just how many levels of incorrect that is, instead reclining in the passenger seat and removing his glasses to watch the lights float by in blurry spirals of red and yellow. “So how ’bout that new guy?”

    “What, the one that Remy assigned a mug to based on first sight? Yeah, no, just another guest. What about him?”

    “Well, super cute, for one, and you’ll never believe this, but he actually works at—” Roman cuts himself off, glancing at a very much asleep Logan. “Alright, fine, I won’t tell you. Let you work it out for yourself.” With that, Roman turns up the radio and hums along quietly, careful to keep the noise low, to let Logan rest. Until tomorrow, at least, when Roman has every intention of screwing with his friends’ love life.

    Come on, you’ve gotta let Roman have some fun.

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

    “Ma’am, I’m sorry, we really don’t have blond espresso beans here, and we don’t have blond roast, and we don’t have decaf roast, as our shipment doesn’t come in ’til tomorrow. Is there anything else we can help you with?” To tell the truth, it is taking every single miniscule last ounce of willpower for Virgil not to vault over this counter and punch the very nice lady in the face.

    “Okay, but could you just do a blond pour over?” The very nice lady seems to be getting very agitated, but Virgil very much does not care. “Like, I get that you don’t have blond roast brewed, but I’m willing to wait for a while for a pour over.”

    Virgil is incredibly close to having to physically restrain himself from saying you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, since that’s when your stupid shipment will come in. Instead, he continues, “Sorry, no, we can’t do that. No blond roast beans.”

    “Yeah, but I’m not asking for blond roast beans. I am asking for a blond pour over.”

    “Pour over machine’s broke,” Virgil finally sighs. Yeah, sure, it just takes a small filter and some hot water, but he doesn’t have the patience for this person, much less to find any missing blond beans. So. Broken and nonexistent machine.

    “Oh, well that’s perfectly understandable!” the very nice lady says. “I’ll just take a medium blond roast, then.”

    Virgil leans over to grab Kim’s shoulder, pulling her closer to hiss in her ear, “if there are any hammers in here, you need to find and hide them immediately, because it will end up inside of this lady’s skull, and it will then find mine in quick succession. Fix her situation, I’ll catch up on the hot bar drinks.” Kim nods quickly, and Virgil is half-convinced that she thinks he’s serious. Maybe he is.

    Nonetheless, he moves past her for the mastrena machine, praying for the end of his shift to come quickly and with reckless abandon. It does not.

    “Grande affogato vanilla bean frap for Jenna?” he calls, handing off the espresso-drenched smoothie. “Thanks, have a nice day.” She probably says something or other about him having a good one,  but Virgil doesn’t even bother pretending to care, already busying himself with the next drink. “Couldn’t’ve possibly picked a better day to start grinding beans slower,” he mutters, wincing against the comparatively louder screams from steaming coconut milk. Of literally all the times for the mastrena to decide that it was being too efficient with the espresso, this is the worst time imaginable—smack dab in the middle of a rush of people, none of whom understand the concept of ‘not having blond espresso.’

    “Venti iced americano in a trenta cup with extra ice for Matthias?”

    The end of his shift literally cannot come fast enough.

    “Okay, dude, I’m really trying here, but I have absolutely no idea what this says,” Virgil informs Kim, showing her the illegible box on the cup. “You need to write the order down, and when you do, you need to make it possible for the most basic computer to decipher.”

    “It’s a salted caramel mocha with two extra shots and almond milk instead of two percent for Tommy,” Kim says. It does not slip Virgil’s notice that she has to squint incredibly close at the cup for a solid five seconds to figure out what it says.

    “Awesome. Great. Try to write it more neatly next time, yeah?” Finding a rare moment of gratefulness for his constantly cold hands, Virgil presses a frozen finger to his temple as he waits for the machine to finish rinsing. Is his shift over yet?

    Miracle of miracles, his boss, Anne, pops her head around the corner of the bar. “Hey, Virge, call for you guys, I’m covering food av, can you take it?” Virgil plasters a fake smile on his face and nods, neglecting to comment on how he never agreed to that nickname as he accepts the phone.

“Gainesville Starbucks north, this is Kim speaking, how can I help you?”

“Breakfast sandwiches.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Breakfast. Sandwiches.”

“I, ah, I apologize, I’m unclear what you’re asking me.”

“Breakfast sandwiches! You got any?”

“Oh! Yes, um, we’ve got tomato mozzarella paninis, sausage egg and cheddar sandwiches, ham and cheese croissants, turkey basil—and they hung up. Cool.” Virgil nods at the dial tone coming from his hand, quirking his mouth to the side. “Just, uh, just gonna stick that right down there.” Dropping the phone on a nearby counter, he returns to the hot bar, where Kim is absolutely drowning in the chaos she caused by sucking so much.

“Virge? Seriously?”

“If you even think about calling me that, I am going to go find that hammer I was talking about and bury it in your spine.” Kim pulls her lips between her teeth and nods, turning back to the register. Sniffing twice, Virgil tops off the next round of drinks. “Salted caramel mocha, two extra shots and almond milk for Tommy?”

“Hey, Virge, over here,” Anne calls again. “Need to see you for a sec.” Virgil bites back a relieved huff for the break from Kim, instead settling for a long exhale through his nose. No, he doesn’t really care for the nickname, but he’ll suffer through it for a brief reprieve like this.

“What’s up?” he asks, leaning over the swinging door. “’Nother phone call?”

“No, it’s just—you’ve got a lot of overtime, you know that?” Virgil glances back at Kim, who is currently occupied with trying to find the serious strawberry frappuccino button.

“Frapp creme, second row, last on the right,” he calls, taking great pride in how he doesn’t roll his eyes at her. Turning back to Anne, he continues, “yeah, I kind of have to have a lot, since she’s kind of, you know…” Virgil trails off, hoping Anne is enough on his page to fill in the blanks.

“Drowning? Yeah, I noticed. You’re doing a great job carrying her, you know that?”

Virgil pokes a tongue against his cheek, unsure how to respond. “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple months.”

“You’re really doing great. Anyway, too much overtime for you, and we aren’t supposed to be letting team members have any overtime. You think you’d be good to head home early?”

“There’s nothing that would make me happier, but are you sure she’ll be okay with this on her own?”

“Definitely not, which is why I’m here. I’ll relieve your position, but you need to get going, like, now.” If Virgil were a more confident person, he would take Anne by both hands and press them to his lips in a show of relieved thankfulness. As it stands, he snaps and offers her a pair of finger guns, skirting the swinging door and making a run for the break room before Anne can change her mind.

“No human has ever existed with a better soul than Anne,” he murmurs, punching out faster than he’d ever done so before. There’s a certain cafe he’s interested in getting to a little earlier today.

In his car, Virgil hisses lightly as he scrapes his bare wrist against the scalding metal of the seat belt buckle. Now safely secured and ready to go, he queues up the route to the cafe on his maps, bopping his head along as a song starts up on the radio. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip, he chants in his head, getting through a solid twenty songs on shuffle before finding one he likes.

The lights of the streets, not yet bright as they battle the sun for dominance over the mid-afternoon sky, pepper the sidewalks with golden flecks between the cracks of beige and white. Virgil tilts his head to avoid the glare of the light reflecting in his eyes, skipping through his chosen song before it’s over. As he flicks on his indicator to pull into the cafe’s parking lot, he belatedly wonders whether the owners will start to think he’s weird for showing up this often. Especially that Remy guy, what was his deal?

This worry chases him past several traffic lights and more than a few disconcertingly fast drivers, right up to pulling into the same parking spot as yesterday—decently far from the doors, but not so far that it’d be a hassle to get there if he happened to be holding seven cups of coffee. He shifts into reverse, triple-checking that he’s perfectly within the lines before parking the car and sliding out.

A cold breeze swipes over his face, startlingly out of place in the mid-June heat. Were it not for this abnormality giving him pause, maybe he would’ve gotten inside safely without drawing the attention of the silver car careening into the parking lot. It beeps brightly as it pulls into the furthest spot from the door, spitting out a driver dressed in bright blues and pale greys.

“Virge, hey, you made it! I was wondering whether you’d ever listened to my suggestions!” he calls, running over to Virgil and ignoring how his loose sleeves smack against his chin. “Find your way okay?”

“I mean, I’m here, so I guess I did.” Virgil shrugs, electing not to comment on the forbidden nickname that he would punch Kim in the face for using again. “And anyway, I always listen to your suggestions. Come here, try your usual—not a fan, by the way—and call you Pat. I’m not really one for nicknames, either, so I’d rather stick with Patton, if that’s okay with you.”

“Whatever makes you happiest!” Patton replies, taking Virgil by the hand and swinging it violently as he leads the barista inside. “So did you get to meet the owner yet, or is this your first time? I can introduce you to—”

“Pantone!” Remy exclaims, vaulting over the register counter to greet Patton. Virgil steps aside, bumping into someone’s shoulders and muttering his apologies as they leave. “I haven’t seen you around here in forever, what the heck, man? Hanging around with the cutest riffraff in town, I see.” Virgil scowls, moving for the register and scanning his eyes over the menus. Handwritten in white chalk, they look much more personal than the ones at Starbucks. Maybe not very colorful, but nice enough.

“Remy, how many times have I told you not to let any part of your body make contact with that counter? It doesn’t know where you’ve been,” someone scolds from a nearby table. The same person Ho Man and Remy were tormenting yesterday. Remy ignores them, still chatting up a storm with Patton. The person sighs, pushing back from a table covered in loose papers and moving to the register.

Virgil sizes them up as they walk, inspecting their carefully strict gait, the tie cinched perfectly around their neck, the strict khakis with only the most uniform of creases. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear they were going out for a job interview at some craphole like Starbucks.

“Sorry about Remy. Little brothers, what can I do, right? What can I get started for you?” Virgil doesn’t answer, his gaze fixated on a speck of dirt marring their sharp glasses. They blink, waiting patiently and having no idea of where Virgil’s attention is directed.

Ho Man appears from around the corner, where only a few other patrons occupy the tables overlooking the windows. “Hey, it’s you! Logan, buddy, he was the guy here yesterday, the one Remy gave the wrong mug to! Wrong mug guy, this is Logan, he runs this joint!”

“Wrong mug?” Virgil repeats.

“Wrong mug,” the new person—Logan, apparently—confirms. “We carefully select mugs based on the person they go to, rather than selecting one at random like Remy does. He refuses to learn the process behind choosing mugs, so whatever he hands you, it’s probably wrong.”

“Sounds about right,” Virgil agrees, glancing back at Remy and Patton, both of whom are staring at him and giggling.

“So what can I get started for you?” Logan repeats. Virgil cocks his head to the side, considering Logan for a long moment.

“Surprise me.” Logan’s steely expression lightens for the briefest of seconds, revealing a soft grin and bright eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came.

“I’ll have that right out for you.”

Virgil offers a small smile in return, passing over a five dollar bill and waving off Logan as he tries to hand him his change. “Just keep it.”

“We really don’t do tips—”

“Just. Keep it.” Virgil slips around the bar and moves for his seat from yesterday, tucking his legs under himself and watching Remy nudge Patton repeatedly. After a solid few bumps to the back, Patton stumbles forward, bumping into Ho Man as he curbs around the bar to straighten the creamer cart. Distracted by the way Patton’s hands flutter around his face as he talks to Ho Man, Virgil hardly notices Logan until he’s positioned himself in the empty seat across from him.

“Drink it first, then tell me what you think it is.” Logan pushes a mug across the table toward Virgil, careful to keep the motion near the bottom so it doesn’t splash. Unlike the cup covered in cups from yesterday, this one is something Virgil might actually consider stealing, if they hadn’t drained the excitement of doing so by explicitly allowing thievery.

Midnight blue and splattered with tiny white dots, this mug looks to be plucked straight from the heavens themselves. The inside offers a pale blue to offset the darkness folding in at the rim, enveloping the top of the drink’s meniscus in hues to rival the sky. Virgil traces a finger over some of the constellations skirting the outside—bright enough against the blue to be recognizable, but not going so far as to connect the dots with garish straight lines. All in all, a good mug. Maybe he will steal it.

Virgil takes a long, slow pull from the cup, pretending to be deep in thought as Logan stares unabashedly into his eyes. He holds the mug over his mouth a few seconds later, waiting for the flush in his cheeks to subside. Why couldn’t Logan have been the one to take his order yesterday?

Virgil lowers the mug, licking away the drink moustache on his upper lid and pulling his tongue back in with a pop. “First guess?”

“First guess.”

“Green tea latte.”

Logan grins, rapping the table three times. “Nailed it.”

“It’s ’cause I’m a genius,” Virgil says, lifting the mug once more. This Logan guy might keep some strange company, but he can make a mean green tea latte. “Eleven out of ten, would order again.”

“That’s an improper fraction,” Logan mutters, but there’s a gleam dancing behind his eyes. The bell chimes over the door, drawing Virgil’s attention to where Ho Man and Patton look to be in a particularly compromising position. With Patton flattened against the door and Ho Man hovering closer than necessary, Virgil can only watch as Remy appears out of nowhere, shoving Ho Man forward without warning. Logan releases a breathy laugh as he watches the debacle—moreover, as he watches Ho Man thrust his hands out to brace himself on the wall, as well as caging Patton in around the shoulders by doing so. If this were a romance movie, they’d probably start kissing right about now.

As it is, Ho Man stammers out some excuse, cheeks almost as red as the roses smattered his white shirt. Patton only smiles back widely, not moving from the wall. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear his eyes were delirious. Maybe he doesn’t know better.

“I see you understand the nonsense I’m forced to endure around here,” Logan says. “With Roman being a flirt and Remy being the charming everyman, I do pretty much everything myself. Any tips on how to better survive it?”

Virgil blinks, unsure why Logan decided to dump all this on him. At least he knows what Ho Man’s actual name is now. Full disclosure, Virgil’s gonna miss calling him Ho Man. “I don’t know that I’m your best bet for help running a small coffee shop.”

Logan huffs something close to a laugh, gnawing on the corner of his lip. “Not a problem, I’m just uncertain where to go from here, and they’re being of little help. All they’ve done is force me to get sleep and toss a couple papers about pride at me, and that’s hardly a reliable way of forming a more successful business.”

“Sleep is important,” Virgil says. “I can’t speak from experience, but I’ve heard a lot of people say so.” Still midway through processing Logan’s words, his mind catches on a certain piece of information. “Did you say papers about pride?”

“Indeed, Roman thinks I ought to spruce the place up for pride month, and he’s even managed to pull Remy into the idea. You’re welcome to help, if you want to, but there’s no obligation on your end.”

“Sounds fun,” Virgil admits, raising the cup again and startling himself as he finds it empty. “I’ll take a look, if you want to show me those papers. Oh, by the way, my name is Virgil, in case I haven’t said that yet.”

“Virgil,” Logan repeats, testing the word and rolling it around his mouth. He peels his lower lip out slowly, savoring the V, puckering his lips out around the R and letting his tongue hesitate against his teeth on the L. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sure one of the other two said it at some point or another, but I’m Logan.”

“Logan,” Virgil confirms. “So, Logan, about those pride papers and this empty mug?”

Logan stands, somehow managing not to scrape his chair as he pushes it back. Virgil attempts a similarly graceful move, wincing at the grating sound of metal on tile. “Let me get that mug from you and I’ll fill you up—do not even think about handing me another five, this one is on the house, and I am returning your three dollars and fifty cents at my first opportunity. These papers, disorganized and chaotic as they are, are the only things we’ve got in the way of ideas to drum up more business.”

Virgil seats himself at the cluttered table, grabbing a sheet at random and letting the distant clanks of Logan behind the bar fill his head. Stuff about colored whipped cream—probably too expensive, not to mention non-vegan friendly, and powdered sugar colors—kind of similar to Starbucks with their colored drink gimmicks, which doesn’t seem like Logan’s style. He pauses on the mention of white fairy lights, glancing around the room and imagining how they might look framing the windows. Maybe a little too winter-holiday for mid June, but the tackiness could very well add to the overall charm of the place. Certainly a warmth that overcrowded Starbucks stores could never hope to have. Or they could line the windows in different colors, if Logan really does want to keep with the whole pride thing, or else—

“Try that, tell me what you think,” Logan says, plunking the blue mug on one of very few clear spaces between the papers. Virgil complies, poking his tongue at a crooked front tooth as he considers the flavor.

“Tastes like cinnamon, but that’s all I’ve got.”

“Cinnamon and almond milk latte, one of our most popular drinks,” Logan confirms.

“You don’t get called out for it being too similar to the one Starbucks does?” Logan goes deathly still, an expression somewhere between fury and shock freezing on his face.

“We are nothing like Starbucks here, and I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to that steaming pile of garbage.” Virgil nods, deciding this probably isn’t the best time to inform Logan about his own line of work. “Anything good come out of that disaster?”

“Maybe.” Virgil takes another swig from his mug, running his tongue over his lips and humming to himself. “The colored powders and whipped creams seem kind of impractical, but the lights and quiet-hour thing doesn’t seem to bad. You could do soft pastels for a warmer tone around the room as a whole, and different colors around each window to fit pride month. I don’t know about open mic, since that’s a lot to organize, but maybe use that empty corner on the other side of the door for some little bookshelves and comfy chairs, have a chill zone when the lights go down and the moon comes up? Oh, and this is definitely just a suggestion, so you don’t, like, have to do it, or anything like that, but it might be cool if you changed up the colors of your menu signs, so they weren’t all just white and plain. You could do one board in blue and purple and pink for bi, and another in purple and yellow and white for nonbinary, and another in pink and yellow and blue for pan, and then do a bunch of little drink drawings on all of them in every color to represent gay pride as a whole?” Virgil bites his lip, suddenly realizing that Logan is staring intently at him. Again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t trying to—you don’t have to do all that, obviously, and it’s not like I’m forcing you to, and I wasn’t trying to—” Virgil cuts himself off, ducking his head down and hiding his face behind his mug.

“No, no, that’s great, really, I love those ideas,” Logan stammers, waving his hands frantically to shake away Virgil’s hesitation. “They’re splendid, exactly what I was looking for.” Virgil nods quickly, not coming out from behind his mug. Logan places a hesitant hand on Virgil’s shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. Against his own volition, Virgil leans into the touch, tilting his head toward Logan’s knuckles before he can stop himself. The moment his ear grazes the back of Logan’s hand, he jerks out of the seat, spilling the rest of his mug all over his work-mandated khakis.

“Oh, jeez, oh man, I mean, shoot, crap, okay, I just, I’m just gonna go,” Virgil rambles, stumbling for the door and clutching his unwittingly emptied mug tightly in his shaking fingers. Before Logan can even think about calling after him, he’s behind the wheel of his car and careening out of the parking lot, already berating himself for being such a dork.

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

“Where’d Wrong Mug Man go?” Remy asks, popping his head over the bar as he pauses midway through restocking the milk fridge. “Scare him off with your utter lack of charm and cold exterior?”

“A little too on the nose,” Roman calls out from his usual spot in the corner. Well, not ‘usual,’ per se—Roman can barely tolerate staying in the same place for more than a week before moving on for bigger, better seating options. He’s had much the same opinion regarding boys for as long as Logan can remember, and the selection of the week seems to be Patton on the windowsill with the Toy Story clouds mug. Practically a real-life version of Clue, with romantic motives to boot.

Remy finger guns at Roman and ducks back down to finish with the fridge. Logan blinks, the exchange flying past him as he tries to come up with a reason for Virgil’s sudden disappearance. The first person to choose his flatter tones over his brother’s exuberance, and they run away like an owl from a forest fire in the middle of Canada.

Logan has never been one for analogies.

He reaches across the counter, startling Remy in the process as he grabs for a clean rag and sanitizing spray. In no less than five minutes, the spilled latte is gone without a trace. At least Virgil took the mug with him—if nothing else, he’ll come back to return it. Maybe even to use it for that discount—not that Logan would charge him. Virgil doesn’t seem like the type to acquiesce not to pay, but Logan is the owner, so what’s to stop him from making every drink free for the short instances when Virgil shows up?

“Roman,” Logan says, “what are the odds you have some colored chalk you don’t need?”

“Fifteen out of three,” Roman calls back, not looking up from the phone tucked in his lap. Across from him, Patton mirrors the position, curled into the corner of the windowsill—not strictly a real seat, but they both seem to be making do well enough.

“So five?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. I’ve got, like, a whole crate full of art supplies that I can’t use, because someone told me not to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming the next Leonardo Dicaprio.”

“Da Vinci. And I would hardly phrase it like that—I merely suggested that, were you to aim for realism, it might be wise to avoid giving your elephants tails for trunks and trunks for tails.”

“Stop stifling my creative energy!”

“Stop stifling his creative energy,” Patton echoes. Oddly enough, Logan doesn’t feel that familiar urge to roll his eyes as he watches Roman glance up from under a curtain of bangs, staring at an oblivious Patton. He’s never looked at one of his weekly obsessions like that before. Or maybe he has, Logan doesn’t pay very much attention to that sort of thing.

“The point being, you do have colorful chalk, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I need some. Bring it in with you tomorrow, if you would be so kind.”

For reasons Logan doesn’t care to puzzle out, Roman tumbles off the windowsill, jumping to his feet and brushing off his knees as he rushes to Logan’s side. “Or,” he whispers excitedly, bouncing on his toes and waving his hands around his face, “I could run home and get them now! I could even go out to a store, buy more stuff you didn’t know you needed, spruce the whole place up! Patton could come with me!”

Patton’s head perks up at this revelation, and he pockets his phone before joining the other two. Even Remy leans over the bar, half-intruding on the conversation as he waits for the next guest to decide what they want. Logan crosses his arms, considering Roman’s eagerness.

“You know very well that I don’t trust you to decorate my cafe to your tastes, much less on your own dime.” Glancing at the menus in plain black and white, Logan does have to admit they look, well, plain. Boring. Virgil wasn’t wrong when he said they might look better with more colors. And yes, Logan would greatly prefer having Virgil here to coach him on how to properly execute the pride color schemes—Logan’s never been one for art—but Patton doesn’t seem totally hopeless. “Tell you what. I’ll close up early tonight, and us three can all go out and stock up on decorations. Keep the place closed tomorrow, and we’ll plan out how to make it look best to ramp up business.”

“Excuse you,” Remy cuts in, “but I think you mean us four. Don’t go excluding me from the party.”

“Who said you were invited?” Logan retorts. Roman stifles a snort behind his fist as Patton’s jaw drops in startlingly believable dismay.

“Logan! We have to take Remy with us, he brings half the fun! It wouldn’t be as exciting without him there!”

“Who said I wanted it to be exciting?” Logan mutters to himself, shooting a quick look toward the back of the cafe. Pretty empty, save for a couple patrons here and there nursing at their personal mugs. Casting his eyes to the ceiling, Logan pulls in a long breath through his nose, blowing it out through his lips and wondering why Virgil couldn’t be here to endure this nonsense with him. Immediately thereafter, he wonders why he wonders that. He didn’t even know Virgil’s name yesterday, why is he so set on having him here now?

Remy and Patton’s hopeful expressions drag him back to the moment—specifically, the moment where Logan is being forced to take three overgrown toddlers on a shopping spree to decorate the building that makes up his entire livelihood. No pressure.

“I am definitely going to regret this,” Logan sighs. Pretending as if he hadn’t said that, he continues, “fine, I guess Remy can accompany us. No candy, though—we don’t need to be buying food when we already have some upstairs.”

“Aha, but I have tips!” Remy declares, shaking a paper cup full of coins. “I’m gonna buy so many peanuts with these.”

“Explain how,” Roman says.

“Do not explain how,” Logan says. Not allowing either of them the chance to finish their charade, Logan turns to Patton. “You walked in with Virgil, didn’t you? Do you two know each other?”

“Something like that. I’m a frequent customer where he works.” This catches Logan’s attention. A direct pipeline to the owl that got away.

Again, Logan has never been one for analogies.

“Where does he work?”

A mischievous glint takes residence in Patton’s eye as he nudges Roman’s shoulder.  The latter snickers quietly, nudging right back as the former gets out between giggles, “that’s just something you’re gonna have to figure out on your own. The answer will shock you.”

“If he works as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, I am banning both you and him from this establishment.”

“He does not work as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, but you’ll never guess what he does instead!” Roman hisses in an action-star voice. “This summer, coming directly to your screens, and coming soon to own on video and DVD—” He drops his tone to an impossibly deep register while ramping up his volume, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the room. Patton and Remy join in on the tagline, both yelling at the top of their lungs.

“Are you quite finished?” Logan asks, wholly unimpressed. Having failed to get so much as a huff of acknowledgement, the other three sigh dejectedly and nod. “Good. Remy, finish cleaning up behind the bar. Roman, can you wipe down the tables and start stacking chairs? Patton, I know you don’t work here, but—”

“On it,” Patton interrupts, already moving toward the back to gently rouse the student that fell asleep doing their homework at a table. Morally, Logan has no problem letting people stay as long as they like, even if they don’t buy anything, but it’s a little more difficult to be lenient about that sort of thing when he’s closing up the cafe. He turns his attention back to the papers scattered across the table as the other three flit about their respective tasks, and wonders whether Virgil might try to come back tomorrow. If they close the cafe for renovations, would he even get out of his car? Or would the lack of business  and other patrons scare him off? Maybe Logan should position the other three at various seats in the back as he does all the work himself, making it look like he kept the place open so Virgil would still come in, without being terribly obvious about that being his goal all along. Of course, that brings up the inevitable he knows that I know that he knows situation, but it’s not as if—

“Hello? Earth to Logan? Paging alien squadron fleet two K four one nine oh?” Roman waves a hand in front of Logan’s face, pulling him out of his head. Before him is the only unwashed table in the cafe, still littered with papers that have yet to be picked up. The  only page that managed to find its way into Logan’s arms is the one Virgil was talking about when he made additional suggestions. Logan blinks, gathers up the rest in a haphazard bundle, and steps back to let Roman finish his cleaning.

“Can I drive?” Remy asks. He slides around the bar, dusting his hands off on his pants and tossing a dirty rag over the lip of the sink.

“We need to get you an apron,” Logan replies absently, eyeing the gathering dirt stains on Remy’s thighs.

“I didn’t hear a no!” Remy singsongs, tilting his head to lean against Logan’s shoulder. The top of the mess of hair tickles along the crook where his jaw meets his earlobe, and Logan blinks as his mind unhelpfully conjures an image of Virgil in the same position under a blanket of stars. Where on Earth did that come from?

“No, you cannot drive. Give me Roman’s car keys.”

Roman emits an unholy shriek, somewhere between miffed and scandalized that Remy had managed to steal the keys to his soccer mom car. Granted, those things basically live in various spots around the cafe as it is, but still. Groaning in a pitiful attempt at getting sympathy, Remy tosses the jingling chain to Logan, who snatches them out of the air with ease. Before the owner of said keys can protest, Logan passes them on to him, biting back a laugh as Roman instinctively ducks.

“Hey! No dangerous projectiles in the house!” Roman whines. The keys hit the door and clatter to the tiles below.

“Not a house, and you don’t make the rules here, anyway.” Logan wisely keeps his gaze elsewhere as Patton makes his way to the door, grabbing the keys to pass them to Roman. Of course, the windows are reflective surfaces—this unfortunate reality fails to protect Logan from having to see how Patton’s hand lingers a moment too long on Roman’s. Honestly, the whole point of looking away was to not have to deal with their nonsense in the first place. “Let’s go.”

Lingering at the back of the group, Logan lets the other three exit before him, double- and triple-checking that everything is off, unplugged, cleaned up, closed, and generally in various states of presentable. The last thing he needs right now is for his life’s savings to literally go up in flames. Well, not his life’s savings. He’s got some common sense—everything he hasn’t spent is carefully accumulating interest in various reputable banks. So. The expendable portion of his life’s savings. That’s what he doesn’t want to go up in flames.

“What happened to ‘let’s go,’ sonny boy?” Roman calls, popping his head back in the door and making the bell chime. Logan tilts his head, wondering if anyone would ever question why he picked that bell in particular to greet his guests.

“I’m older than you.”

“Patton dared me to call you kiddo, but I thought mine was funnier,” Roman admits.

“I’m older than Patton, too.”

“You didn’t even tell me Patton’s name until last week!”

“Ever heard of barista-guest confidentiality?”

“No, because it doesn’t exist. Now hurry up and get in the car, or we’re tying you to the roof and I’m letting Patton use the backseat as his own personal lounge area.”

Tossing a sigh to the ceiling and casting one last glance at the way his cafe was always meant to be—before everyone else barges in to redecorate for him—Logan follows Roman out.

He slides into the back on the passenger’s side, not voicing his apprehension at Patton taking the front seat. That’s Remy’s seat, he thinks. Remy doesn’t seem to mind, though, already pressing his nose to the window and bouncing on the worn cushion.

“Seatbelt,” Logan reminds his brother—and the car as a whole, he supposes, as even Roman jolts to comply. “I am hereby imposing a price limit of one hundred dollars on this excursion. Anything over that will be coming off of your dime.”

“I don’t even—” Roman begins, but Logan isn’t having any of it.

“I know, I know, you don’t even work for me, but if you want to? And you want to help, shall we say, ‘spruce up the place,’ you will refrain from exceeding my budget, lest you pay the overages.”

    “If we go to the place on the corner of Eighth and Main, I’ve got an employee discount for ten percent,” Patton offers.

    “By the Texaco?” Roman punches the coordinates into the car, tapping his foot impatiently as Siri attempts to connect with his dwindling internet connection.

    “You really ought to know your way around the town by now,” Logan opines. “You’ve been to the Texaco more times than Remy’s flirted with my guests.”

    “Shut up, Logan!” Remy hisses. Were his face not pressed against the window and his shoulders hunched defensively, Logan is certain his comment would be rewarded with cheeks glittering ruby.

    “Got it!” Roman exclaims, punching the roof. “And I refilled the tank a couple days ago, which means no gas money going into this excursion! Can I get a what what?”

    “You cannot,” Logan says.

    “What what,” Patton agrees.

    “Plus,” Roman continues, shifting into drive and doing a mediocre job of backing away from the building, “with the discount, just think of how much more stuff we can get!”

    “Yay.” Logan has never known his own voice to be more flat. He glances up just in time to see Patton shoot him an apologetic look, mouthing the word sorry. He smiles as he does it, though, so Logan isn’t completely convinced of Patton’s regret.

    The excited conversation of the other three fills up the car as Logan lets his gaze drift out the window, watching the bright greens of summer flash by in bursts between the blemishes of humanity’s invasion upon the world. Traffic lights, street signs, lampposts, telephone lines, couches at curbs, discarded plastic bags, crushed coffee cups, dead patches of grass, cracked squares of concrete, buildings crawling for the skies and stretching to escape the natural world without which they could never dream of existing.

    Logan does not particularly care for the overdevelopment of what used to be a homey nook of nature around his cafe. He can hardly see the stars at night anymore, what with all the city lights pulling his eyes to the ground.

    “Beep beep!” Roman announces, punching the roof again before slipping out of the car.  Logan blinks, suddenly realizing they’d already arrived at the store. Time to suffer.

    “One hundred dollars,” he reminds the others. His words fall on deaf ears as they all sprint for the doors, chattering excitedly amongst themselves about color schemes and bargaining and how to make the most of spending every last dime they can squeeze out of Logan’s pockets. More to himself than anyone else, he murmurs, “I bet Virgil would understand the significance of imposing a spending limit before getting surprised with an obscenely high total crowning the receipt.”

    “Come on,” Remy groans, doubling back to grab Logan’s wrist. Patton and Roman have already vanished, probably traipsing through the birthday party aisles for decoration ideas. “At least pretend you’re having fun, yeah? Show some enthusiasm for Virgil’s ideas, I bet he’d love that.”

    “When did he tell you his name?”

    “He didn’t. You used it when you asked Patton where he worked.”

    “Where does he work?”

    “If you push the price limit up to two fifty, maybe I’ll tell you.”

    “Maybe I’ll stop letting you accept tips.”

    Remy’s eyes widen slightly at that, and he wobbles on his toes before running the rest of the way to the door, waving his hands over his head. “La la la, I can’t hear you, I’m too fast for the sound barrier to keep up!”

    “That’s not how—oh, whatever,” Logan mutters. Hands in his pockets, he dips a chin to the greeters just inside the door and maintains a leisurely pace, waiting for his friends to reveal themselves. Admittedly, he’s a little impressed when he sees them next—they’ve managed to avoid getting covered in streamers and sparkles. So far, at least. Unfortunately for Logan, the night is still young.

    “Hey, what about these?” Patton asks, grabbing a pack of pride-themed playing cards from an end cap display.

    “How are those supposed to drum up business?”

    Patton shrugs, turning the cards over in his hand. “I dunno, they just look neat.”

    “Make it a puzzle,” Roman suggests, picking up a matching set. “Have different fun facts about pride history written on cards from one set, but keep out a piece of important information. Someone finds a card and can tell you the answer without having to look it up, they get a card from the deck you didn’t write on. Get a full suit, get a prize. Maybe they get all the diamonds, then they get to name a drink after themselves. Get all the hearts, they can save ten cents instead of five.”

    Logan has to admit, it isn’t the worst idea Roman’s ever come up with. The worst was probably that time with the stuffed sheep, the empty ramen cup, and the half-eaten ring pop. He shudders at the memory before relenting. “How much for a pack?”

    Patton glances at the sticker on the side, sucks a sharp inhale through his teeth, and sets the deck back where he found it. “More than it’s worth, even with the discount. Come on, I know where the shelf is for stuff we’re trying to get rid of. It’s hidden in the back so we can make more money, but who ever had fun paying full price?”

    “I did, back when it meant doing less damage to my cafe,” Logan grumbles. Nevertheless, he follows dutifully behind, stifling a snort as Roman grabs Patton’s hand and they skip—literally skip—down the aisles. Every few steps, one yanks the other to a stop, cooing over some toy or game meant to catch the eye of passing toddlers. Remy’s eyes sparkle, and he leans over to Logan when he thinks the other two aren’t listening.

    “You know,” he whispers, “I like this one a lot more than Roman’s other flings.”

    “They’ve barely been talking for more than a few days,” Logan retorts, careful to keep his voice low. “You cannot place all your eggs in the basket when the eggs don’t even exist yet.”

    “You lost me, but seriously, bro, look at them.” Tutting to himself, Logan watches the way Roman’s eyes catch on Patton more often than they catch on bargain bin attractions. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe you don’t see it.”

    “That’s hardly any of my business. All I care about is how much they’re making me spend. And what did I tell you about that ridiculous nickname? It isn’t even original.”

    “Nothing’s original, not even originality,” Remy fires back. “A redux of something that already exists is way more fun than not doing it in the first place. Or would you rather have me tell Virgil the real reason you opened up the cafe?”

    Logan yanks Remy to a stop by the neck of his shirt, balling the fabric up in his fists. “If you do that, then so help me, I will have you shipped back home faster than you can spit out that infernal nickname, and you will never set foot in my cafe again.” Remy blinks, laughs, and bops Logan’s nose.

    “I bet Virgil would think you’re cute when you get all angry like that.”

    “That’s not—I don’t—shut up!” Logan sputters. The epitome of elegance.

    When Logan’s first instinct upon releasing Remy is to wonder whether Virgil would think he looked cute like that, he knows he is well and truly screwed.

    Elegance, indeed.

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

    Virgil’s current favorite shift is opening. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he shows up at the ass crack of dawn for work. A solid hour by himself to get the bar set up to his liking, to work in silence without worrying about angry guests, and the knowledge that he’ll be out by noon. The turning stomach of too little sleep is certainly less than ideal, but he’s lying to himself about liking being here this early. Cut him some slack.

    “Just fire her already,” he mutters to himself, moving faster than he’d like to as he restocks the pastries. Not for the first time, Natalia closed last night, and she never does any of the shift’s duties right. Case in point, the expired pastries still being in the serving zone. The milk fridge being barren. Having less than three whips. Forgetting the refresher shaker lid in the washing machine—still dirty, mind you. Not wiping down the tables before stacking the chairs. Not washing the half and half from the little cart. A quick sniff reveals the insides to be well past curdled.

    You know, maybe Virgil just wants to gripe in general about the incompetence of his fellow team members, and it really has nothing to do with the quality of his workplace experience.

    Or it could be that he’s still reeling from the ridiculous note he left Logan on yesterday. That is a very strong possibility.

    Glancing at the clock on the register he has yet to open, Virgil weighs his options. He can either sprint for the milk fridge and pray there’s enough left to restock, or he can stay up here and try to straighten up the place for the off chance that corporate shows up and tears Anne a new one. Though he likes Anne well enough, he’d rather face the consequences of corporate’s wrath than deal with pissed-off customers who can’t have their precious two percent milk.

    Just his luck—the stock fridge is empty. This is the moment Virgil’s mind chooses to remind him that today is Monday, and that they’re supposed to be getting a shipment in later. So no half and half, no two percent, no heavy whipping cream, and an insatiable desire to go home before the whole ‘interacting with the public’ part of his shift has even started.

    As the clock ticks over to eight, his boss’s boss’s boss, Stephen, walks over with his usual fistful of crumpled singles. Virgil doesn’t even bother asking for his numbers, already keying in the discount and punching the order into the register. In the amount of time it takes him to start lingering on yesterday’s disaster, Stephen’s usual—grande mocha, no whip—is already done and gone. Whether this is because Virgil is fast with making drinks or because he’s very adamant about the masochism of reliving embarrassment is open for debate.

    Seriously, what was that? Logan puts a hand on his shoulder and gravity decides to be a little bitch, dragging Virgil’s head to the side to lean on a basic stranger? Naturally followed by the most logical reaction—dumping his entire drink all over himself. Yesterday was the first day he wore those pants after their wash, too; he can usually get three or four days out of a pair before they need to be cleaned. What a waste.

    One singular glimmer of positivity in the hellscape that is the opening shift, though, is how much faster it seems to go by on Mondays. When the mid shows up, they vanish to the back to take care of the order, so Virgil basically has the bar to himself for four hours, then the fifteen minutes of dealing with the other mid. All the better to suffer through his own blunders in peace.

    At least it’s a slower stream of guests.

    “I’ll take a trenta very berry, but with all the kinds of berries in it,” some guy with a greasy man bun says, strolling up and scrolling through his phone. Virgil nods, keying it in and going through the usual polite spiel while he waits for him to pay.

    “Anything else for you?”

    Man Bun glances up from texting, raking his eyes over the purple fading from Virgil’s bangs. “Yeah, can I also get extra blackberries—”

    “Sure.”

    “—and your number?”

    “No. Five twenty-nine.” Virgil turns his back to the register as Man Bun sets about dealing with his credit card, and wonders whether this guy’ll be a nuisance for him as he finishes the drink. “Trenta very berry, extra blackberries, have a good one.”

    Man Bun takes the cup, tearing off the straw wrapper and throwing it on the floor. Literally, the garbage can is, like, right there, dude. Don’t be an ass. “So I seriously don’t have a chance with you?”

    “Definitely not.”

    “What, are you not gay? I mean, with the hair, and with—”

    “I’m gay, just not for you. Have a good one.” To escape any further annoying questions, Virgil vanishes into the near back, organizing the drying dishes to wait out Man Bun. Once the coast is finally clear, Virgil returns to the bar, where Patton awaits with a bright grin. Fantastic.

    “Hi, Virge!” Patton calls, bouncing on his toes. He does a twirl to make sure no one else is in line behind him before propping his elbows on the counter and leaning in as if he were sharing a secret. “I’ll take a venti iced caramel mach-yeet-ato with an extra shot of eek-spresso, if you please.” With another spin, Patton nearly crashes to the floor, the weight of the bag on his back yanking him faster than he can recover from.

    “I got the yeet, but you’re gonna have to explain the eek bit.”

    “I want you to pull three shots like normal, but scream at the fourth one. Scare it into submission. Then I’ll drink it, and get the scared bean energy.”

    Virgil blinks, his pen hovering over the boxes on the side of the cup. “You. Want me. To scream at your espresso?”

    “Only the fourth one! I need the other three to be brave, so I can have the bravery in addition to the terror.”

Virgil opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head. “Okay. Five thirty five.” Patton presses a ten across the counter, refusing as Virgil tries to pass back the change, and slides to the end of the bar before Virgil can force him to take his money. True to form, Patton leans over the counter to watch Virgil making the drink, scrutinizing the pouring shots. “You know,” Virgil remarks, “it’s faster to pull two and two shots than two and one and one.”

“Yeah, but then my drink would be half scared, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”

“I guess not. What if I just pull the last two into two separate cups, and apologize to one to get rid of the scared emotions?”

Patton quirks his mouth to the side and hums. “I guess that could work. Make sure the apology’s genuine though, so I can have some empathy in my drink, too. And you don’t have to actually scream at it, either—just rile it up a bit. Scare it into submission however you see fit.”

This was one of the worst possible things Patton could have told Virgil to do. The barista leans in as the second round of shots pours, putting his mouth as close to the cup as he dares. “I’m going to stand outside your house and chant ominously about your sins while pouring expired coffee grounds on your sidewalk, then I’m going to hack into your sims account, give everyone full autonomy, and age them up to the maximum elderly age possible. Sorry, other espresso—I promise your sims are safe and your sidewalk is clean. For now.”

Patton looks understandably disconcerted by the time Virgil has finished, although the latter isn’t completely convinced that what he said was necessarily scary. He hands off the drink, drenching it in far more caramel than necessary and leaving the lid off. With an unholy grin on his face, Patton brings the cup to his lips and swallows half the caramel drizzle before the scared espresso even has a chance to settle.

“So hey, are you coming by Logan’s cafe today?” Patton asks. Virgil glances at the clock—five more minutes, and no line to be seen. He swings around the bar to sit at one of the guest tables, pulling out a sharpie and setting about dating the pastries. Whoever the mid is, they didn’t bother to show up on time, so they certainly can’t be trusted to do something literally in their job description. “You kind of left in a hurry yesterday.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t need a repeat of that embarrassment. I’m just gonna go home and hide under a blanket.”

“What embarrassment? I think Logan liked talking to you, I bet he’d like to have you come back.”

“Definitely. I’m sure he’d adore talking to the guy who couldn’t even keep his drink in his mug, much less remember to leave the mug there.”

“Virge, that’s the point of the mug system. You weren’t supposed to leave the mug there.”

“It’s not the point of my system, though. Now I’m basically, like, obligated to go back and return the cup, if not use it for that discount. Not to mention—which I already did—how I literally dumped my drink all over myself. I do not want that to happen again.”

“So just don’t drop your drink, and it won’t happen again! Simple.”

“Oh, and I bet you’ll just go ahead and police Logan so he doesn’t touch my shoulder again, prompting the situation that drove me to run out in the first place.” At the way Patton’s eyes sparkle, Virgil rushes to backtrack. “Not that it meant anything! It just startled me, so I shook my hand and my drink spilled.” Virgil glances at the bar, but there’s still no guests appearing to save him from this disaster of his conversation. All the pastries are dated, too, so he doesn’t even have the excuse of occupying his hands. “I do not want to go back.”

Patton grins. “So you’re going back?”

Virgil throws his hands in the air and groans. “I’m going back.”

“Promise?” Holding back a sigh as Patton thrusts out a pinky, Virgil links it with his own.

“Promise.”

“Great! Because your shift just ended, and Logan’s keeping it closed for the day so he can do renovations. Just you, him, and a few other people for as long as we’re there, doing decorations and generally engaging in close teamwork. Forming bonds to last a lifetime.”

“You tricked me,” Virgil hisses. “You scheming snot.”

“But it worked, didn’t it? And oh, look, there’s your mid! Let’s leave.”

Virgil glares behind him, where Natalia is tying her impeccably clean apron around her waist and fastening the hat on her hair. The only reason her stupid apron is so clean is because she’s impossibly slow, so as not to get anything dirty. The one time he could use her tardiness to his advantage, too.

“Fine, whatever, give me five minutes to clock out and I’ll meet you back here.”

Patton takes another sip from his quarter-scared drink and nods. “But if you aren’t back within those five minutes, I’m gonna find your boss and file a missing team member report.”

“You don’t even work here.”

“You don’t even understand the extent of my relentless matchmaking skills.”

“Nor do I want to. See you in five.”

“Make it four.”

This is how Virgil finds himself begrudgingly driving toward Logan’s cafe, with Patton’s car hot on his heels. Clever enough, he supposes, since now there’s a literal heavy piece of machinery holding him accountable for reaching the destination he pinky promised to attend. Virgil would rather be hiding under the covers at home.

Swinging into the parking lot and taking his normal spot, Virgil wonders whether Patton would notice if he just hid out in the bathroom until everyone went home. He glances at the mug nestled in the passenger seat—secured with a seatbelt, of course—and decides against it. If nothing else, Logan would probably get suspicious about the goings-on in there, not to mention he’d be the one to have to clean it. Patton’s cheerful honk rings through the air as he locks his car, scooting over to press his nose to Virgil’s window.

Virgil raps the glass lightly, jolting Patton into taking a few steps back before he not-so-discreetly points at the door and dances on his toes. To tell the truth, Virgil is procrastinating, because he absolutely does not want to go inside and see Logan.

“Hi, Logan!” Patton calls, bursting through the door with Virgil in tow. “We’ve been waiting all day to see you!”

“We?” Virgil repeats skeptically.

“Oh, right, right, my bad,” Patton says, waving his hands sheepishly. “Virgil has been waiting all day to see you!”

“That is not better,” Virgil mutters. He lifts a hand to his shoulder, massaging a sore spot along the slope of his neck and wishing he could be literally anywhere else right now. In an effort to diffuse the awkwardness that Logan hasn’t bothered to notice, he continues, “looks nice in here with the lights down. Kind of home-y.”

    “Indeed,” Logan agrees, balanced precariously on the second-highest rung of an unreasonably tall ladder. At its base, Roman holds the legs steady, grinning as Patton slings his backpack onto a nearby table. “Patton, I assume you brought more decorations I never greenlit?”

    “You know it.” Patton grins, upending the bag and watching every manner of rainbow trinket spill over the tabletop and onto the floor. “Okay, so see these? They look like normal food coloring, but they actually—”

    “If they sparkle or make the drink behave like pop rocks, I do not want them.”

    Patton pouts before tossing the food coloring stuff back in the bag. “Alright, well how about this one? It’s like a DIY mug for—”

    “Don’t use acronyms out loud, and I am not having mugs that guests design themselves. That defeats the purpose of my system.” Patton puts the mugs away.

    “Fine, so I also found these little mythical creature trinkets that—”

    “No.” Patton puts the trinkets away.

    “Or these things that look like scratch off tickets, but instead of the lottery, you can—”

    “No.” Patton puts the tickets away.

    “I found this book of stickers that has—”

    “No.” Patton puts the stickers away.

    “You know, I’m beginning to think you didn’t want me to bring all this stuff.”

    “I did not want you to bring all that stuff.”

    “Well, fine! I’ll just take it back home, then!”

    “Good! I do not want it here! Please remove it from my establishment!” Virgil cocks his head to the side, his thoughts catching on the mock enthusiasm in Logan’s voice. If anyone could possibly be the breathing personification of a sarcastic exclamation point, it’s Logan.

    “Can I help you up there?” Virgil offers. Logan glances down, still precariously balanced on his ladder and stretching out an arm to toss a strand of string lights over the menu boards. “You know, it might be more effective to pull the signs down and write the menu first, then tape some lights to the top, then hang them back up.”

    Thrusting out a hand for stability on the top rung, Logan lowers the spool of lights waiting to be thrown. “You may have a point. Roman, if you even think about shaking this ladder, I am going to ban you from helping any further with the decorations.”

    “Come on, dude, it’s pride month! Show some spirit!” Roman whines. Regardless, he holds the ladder steady as Logan descends.

    “I’ve already shown my spirit by deigning to allow you in my cafe while it’s closed. Don’t push your luck.” At the sound of a yelp and something crashing near the seats around the corner, Logan presses his middle finger to his glabella and groans deeply. “Remy, if you broke one of my windows, I am legally obligated to inform our parents that you are unfit to be an adult, and that I am sending you back to them, effective immediately.”

    “No, nope, everything is totally fine back here. You aren’t legally obligated to do anything whatsoever.” Remy pops his head into view, his cheeks flushed and his hair flopping into his eyes. Taking one look at Logan’s stern face and Virgil’s reserved one, he jerks his head at Roman. “Hey, wanna give me a hand back here? Your boyfriend can come too, I guess.”

    “He’s not my—” Roman begins, but Patton barrels right through it.

    “Sounds fun!” he declares, grabbing Roman by the elbow and dragging him toward whatever chaos Remy already caused. With a quick pause to point from his eyes to Virgil’s and back, Patton winks and vanishes from sight. In their absence, silence reigns supreme.

    “So,” Logan says.

    “So,” Virgil agrees.

    “How’s your handwriting?” Logan asks, clearly just as desperate to fill the awkward silence as Virgil.

    Virgil shrugs, grabbing one of many pens spilling from Patton’s abandoned backpack and twirling it between his fingers. “Not terrible, I guess. I do most of the boards where I work.” For a brief moment, Virgil wonders whether he’s ever mentioned to Logan where he works, but ultimately decides it’s not important just yet. He watches the pen spins for another few moments before continuing, “I have this style of super straight lines, though. Not exactly bubbly and inviting for your guests.”

    “My guests know I own this place. They aren’t expecting any manner of bubbliness, inviting or otherwise. Help me pull down the signs?” Allowing himself the smallest laugh at Logan’s matter-of-factness, Virgil moves for the lower right corner of the trifold board, hoisting it off the wall in tandem with Logan. “I suppose we ought to erase it first, before we go about ruining it.”

    “Do you know what kind of scheme you’re going for?” Virgil asks, shifting into decoration mode as he starts wiping off the first section. He shoves aside any lingering thoughts of yesterday’s fiasco in favor of focusing on the task at hand. Maybe if he pretends to have forgotten, it’ll be like it never happened in the first place.

    “Scheme? I was simply going to write the drink options in various colors,” Logan admits. He scrapes together a pile of chalk from a children’s craft box leaning against the bar, grimacing as he rubs the dust from between his fingers. “Unless you know of a better idea.”

    “I mean, we could do something like cold drinks here, and hot ones here, and you could have some people personalize based on this third one over here? And then, like, each third can be a different pride flag, like how I was saying yesterday—maybe make the miscellaneous board the pan flag, since it’s basically everything? Unless you don’t like the pun side of that, of course, then we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Or we could do the whole rainbow there, again with the ‘everything’ deal, but it might not look so cohesive as being strictly separated thirds of the menu. We don’t even have to separate by themes, if you wanted the whole menu to be just one section. Maybe we could do the bi flag for the cold drinks—if you decide to go for the cold, hot, miscellaneous boards, I mean—just because the blues and purples could go well with cold drinks, color theory and all? Or I guess there’s also the possibility of stuff like the transgender flag, or the polyamorous flag—maybe you could have a pastry menu, and put it there for a sort of pie-pi pun? I don’t know how well that one would go over, but if it sticks out to you well enough…”

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

    Logan props his chin on a fist, his legs crossed beneath him and his knee supporting his elbow. All of Virgil’s words are floating straight over his head, and he doesn’t even pretend to hide it, so entranced is he by Virgil’s enthusiasm. In all honesty, Logan stopped listening by the third sentence, more focused on how Virgil’s pale lips formed the soundless words, washing the cafe in an ocean of rolling tones and low asides. Not ten seconds into his rambling, Logan is certain he saw Virgil’s eyes light up, ever so slightly, at the prospect of having creative control over something so simple as menu theming.

    “Does that work for you?”

    Shit. Logan forgot he was supposed to be listening.

    “Er, I’m actually somewhat unclear on what you meant. Do you mind rewording your suggestion?”

    Virgil blinks at him, and Logan feels his soul melt—no human has a right to look that much like a confused puppy. “I don’t really know how you expect me to reword ‘I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick while you think about which theme you like,’ but I’m certainly willing to try if you need me to.”

    “Yes, no, I mean—of course, absolutely. Go right ahead, second door on the right in the back.” Logan waves a flippant hand as Virgil pushes off from his knees, tossing a two-fingered salute to the other three working in the back. Logan has no idea what they’re doing back there anymore, nor does he really care. He’s slightly more concerned with that complete social blunder between Virgil and him. Could he have come across any more ridiculous?

    “So what do you think of Virgil, hm?” Patton asks, appearing over Logan’s shoulder. Logan flinches, sitting up straighter and nearly slamming his head into Patton’s chin. “Think he’s got a cute butt?”

    Pausing to absorb the second question, Logan wonders whether he doesn’t look too dissimilar to a computer rebooting itself. “He certainly has an ass.”

    “Do you know any other swear words?” Remy groans, trudging over and draping himself across the bar. Meanwhile, Patton is spluttering in disgust at Logan for daring to use a more crude synonym for the word ‘butt.’

    “You should be proud that he even knows that one,” Roman chimes in. “Why, when I first met Logan—”

    “We are not doing emotional history montages,” Logan declares, getting to his feet and waving a hand at Roman. “We are here only to improve the environment in and around my cafe, so that is what we are going to do.”

    “Actually,” Remy corrects, “I’m mostly here because I want to set you up with Virgil. He was a dick from the moment he walked in that first time, which is exactly your type.” Pointing at Logan with a wink, Remy moves to lean against the wall.

    Logan doesn’t bother to question his motives, and pretends he didn’t hear the first half of Remy’s statement. He does, however, hear the general motivation behind the words, and responds accordingly. The sly grin on his face makes Roman take a subconscious step back.

    “Oh, and you aren’t here to set Roman up with Patton?” Turning his focus on them, Logan wonders in the back of his mind whether Virgil might walk in on this. “Of course, everyone’s talking about it, Remy. Don’t you want to be the first trendsetter with the newest, hottest couple?”

    “Since when does he know what ‘hottest’ means?” Roman hisses in a stage whisper. Patton shrugs, pressing his lips together as his cheeks stay annoyingly neutral, not at all embarrassed by Logan’s tirade. “Do you think he doesn’t know?”

    “I think he doesn’t know,” Patton replies. He doesn’t even bother to lower his voice, which serves only to further infuriate Logan.

    “What don’t I know?”

    “He definitely doesn’t know,” Remy agrees, peeling himself away from the wall. “It’s almost pity full, really.”

    “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You don’t even know the pronunciation.”

    “But I know you use it on me, like, all the time, which is only that much more pity full for you.”

    “Pitiful. Like your tenuous grasp of the English language.” At the sound of the sink faucet turning on around the corner, Logan glances back at Roman and Patton, who are still whispering together intently. Patton is barely hiding his giggles. “So, tell me; what is it, exactly, that I don’t know?”

    “Should we tell him?” Roman whispers. Patton shrugs, pushing his glasses up by pressing his finger directly against the lens. Logan can feel something shattering, deep inside his innermost soul.

    “Oh, tell him, you dorks,” Remy groans. “It’s literally, like, so obvious, it’s almost sad that he hasn’t figured it out yet.”

    “Figured out what?” Virgil asks, materializing around the corner.

    “That me ‘n Patton are dating,” Roman says.

    “Duh, everybody knows that.” Glancing around, a look of concern grows on Virgil’s face. “Was I not supposed to know that?”

    “Well, actually, Logan here—” Remy begins, but with a swift smack to the arm from Logan, he cuts himself off. “Nope, yep, totally justified in knowing that. Seven out of three. Good job. So smart. We stan a clever icon.”

    “Please stop talking,” Logan says. “Can we just get back to decorating?”

    “Way ahead of you.” Virgil drops to his knees, gathering up scattered pieces of chalk and positioning the blank slates in front of him. “Did you decide which theme you liked?”

    Logan very much did not do that. “I like both the gender flags and the sexuality flags. What do you think?”

    Virgil, clearly not prepared to be in control, blinks twice. “Um. Well. Maybe we could make the first board sexualities, and the second one genders, and have each drink be a different flag based on which menu theme they’re under? And Remy likes making up drinks, yeah?”

    “Yes,” Remy unnecessarily confirms. Logan scowls at him until he disappears around the corner with Patton and Roman.

    “Cool,” Virgil continues, “So that way we can do a little of everything on the menus, and then the lights can just look nice in general, and they don’t strictly have to coordinate with the menus.”

    “Where do you work, some interior design place?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow at Virgil’s confidence, which rapidly grows the more he talks himself through ideas. “You really seem to know what you’re talking about.”

    “Not exactly,” Virgil admits. “Where I work doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”

    “Want to work here?” Logan blurts, before immediately clapping his hands over his mouth. “Sorry, that was probably too forward. I don’t even know why I said it, I mean, look at this place, I can barely pay Remy, let alone add another hire, not to mention—”

    “You’re fine,” Virgil says absently, more focused on the menu spread. “Anyway, so the flags. Do you want to start listing off some drinks you serve, and I’ll write them on my phone, and we can just go from there to decide which drink goes with which flag?”

    Logan swallows thickly and nods, launching into his perfectly memorized list of everything he makes on a day-to-day basis. At least Virgil elected to ignore his outburst.

    As the sun makes its trek toward the horizon, shooting beams of light through floating bits of dust in the air, Logan sits back on his haunches to admire Virgil’s handiwork. For how consistently they’d been working all day, he has to admit some small amount of pride in the outcome.

    The first board, comprised of iced and frozen drinks, proudly bears all manner of gender orientation flags that Logan could find, both common and obscure. Each in bright pastels, of course, as neither Roman nor Patton had the foresight to bring darker colored chalk. The second board boasts hot drinks and sexuality flags, and despite himself, Logan quite likes the soft brightness of the middle menu. The third is still blank, with an added wooden board at the bottom to hold chalk.

    “That way,” Virgil explained, “whoever makes the custom drink of the day can draw it there, and write the ingredients without having to hunt for the chalk.” Although Logan doesn’t particularly care for letting guests take control of the menu, he begrudgingly agreed that it was a good idea.

    “You guys took, like, forever to do basically nothing,” Remy complains, now sprawled out across a table.

    “Guests eat off those,” Logan remarks, still more focused on the menus than his brother’s antics. “And you only managed to string up a few sets of lights between the three of you. I would hardly call that an achievement.”

    “Among,” Virgil corrects.

    “What?”

    “You said between the three of them. Since it’s more than two, it’s among the three of them.” Logan can’t decide whether to be horrified or enchanted by how Virgil managed to catch his own grammar mistake.

    “Roman?” Logan calls, drawing attention away from his flub. “What, exactly, might you be doing?”

    Roman merely grins in response, precariously balanced on one of the tables near the front. He lowers his hands from the upper frame of the window and jumps to the floor, trying to duck into a somersault and failing miserably. Patton giggles before helping him up and glancing at what he’d been messing with.

    “This is my cafe,” Logan reminds them, “so I believe I ought to know what you’ve done to it.”

    Offering a shrug and a wince, Roman follows Patton’s gaze to the window. “Mistletoe.”

    “Mistletoe,” Logan repeats.

    “Mistletoe!” Patton agrees.

    “Mistletoe,” Remy choruses. At Logan’s glare, he raises his hands defensively. “Sorry, I just wanted to feel included.”

    “Why, pray tell, is there mistletoe in my cafe?” Logan sighs.

    “Bitchmas in July,” Roman replies. Logan can’t decide whether to throttle him or to simply scream.

    “Roman?”

    “Yes, my dearest friend and barista?”

    “It is June.”

    “Yes.”

    “Bitchmas, as you say, is in July.”

    “Yes.”

    “June is not July.”

    “You lost me.”

    “Actually,” Patton cuts in, “I think I know why Roman put mistletoe there.”

    “Why might that be?” Logan is extremely close to tossing one of the people in this room out the window, and based solely on proximity, it very well might be Virgil.

    “For this.” With no further warning, Patton grabs Roman by the neck of his shirt and yanks him to stand behind the chair he’d been using as a stepstool. Logan hardly has the chance to blink before Patton is pulling Roman in, closing his eyes, and—

    “Yep, nope, super cool, very much did not need to see that,” Virgil announces, mercifully drawing Logan’s eyes away from the scene. “Besides that nonsense, did you guys get the lights all finished? I need to peace out pretty soon here, but I want to see the cafe in its full glory before the guests come and destroy it by existing in its presence.”

    Roman hesitates to answer, still breathless beside a beaming Patton. Remy cuts in first, allowing the other two to regain their composure.

    “We got everything done, so if you wanted to pack up whatever stuff you brought, I’ll get the last of the connections and cords all set up, so you can bask in the splendor before you go.” Leaning in close enough to whisper so that Virgil can’t hear, Remy’s breath tickles Logan’s ear. “His mug is on the side pocket of his bag. Sneak it away while I distract him, and make him a personalized drink. It’ll be totally endearing, I know it.”

    “I am not doing that.”

    Remy dangles the mug from his fingers with a smirk, thrusting it at Logan when Virgil isn’t looking. “You are doing that.”

    Logan frowns and reluctantly takes the mug. “I am doing that.”

    “Unless you want to be doing—”

    “Don’t you dare say it,” Logan hisses, snapping his head around to cast the entirety of his glare at Remy. “If you swear, in this moment, to shut your damn mouth, I will make him a drink.”

    “That’s all I want,” Remy says, dusting his hands off and tugging Virgil to stand in front of the door. The mistletoe dangles a few ominous feet away. Logan’s scowl melts into a vague feeling of contentedness as he watches Virgil taking in the unlit decorations. His hands work on autopilot, making an old favorite of his that has long since outgrown its recipe. When Remy clicks the lights on and Logan catches Virgil’s face in the light, the barista is pretty convinced he might just collapse right then and there, coffee and all.

    Framed in the soft blues and yellows of twinkling artificial lights, Virgil’s pale skin almost seems to glow against his jet black hair, a silhouette of ethereal splendor captured oh-so-perfectly for a split second, before the illusion shatters. Virgil turns to look at Logan as the latter absently slides the full mug across the counter, so entranced is he by the former.

    “You good?” Virgil asks. Logan can only manage the smallest of nods, barely capable of closing his stunned mouth as he watches the way the moonlight flicks off the purple tips of Virgil’s hair. “Dude, you didn’t have to go and make me anything!”

    “It’s one of his oldest favorites,” Remy cuts in, rescuing Logan from himself. “No, no, put your money away, this one’s on the house for helping us remodel.”

    “All I really did was draw on a couple menus,” Virgil protests. Nevertheless, he pockets his wallet and takes a hesitant sip from the mug. A beauty to rival that of his shape against the night sky lights in his eyes as he tips the mug, draining the rest as fast as he can manage.

    “Good, right?” Remy asks. Logan wonders whether his own mouth will decide to start functioning properly any time soon.

    “So good,” Virgil murmurs, still holding the rim of the mug to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Smells amazing, too.”

    With a swift elbow jab to the side from Remy, Logan manages to choke out a broken “thanks,” his voice cracking on the vowel. Miracle of miracles, Virgil doesn’t notice. Or, if he does, he pretends not to, which only makes it worse—or better, Logan isn’t sure.

    “Well, uh, thank you too,” Virgil mumbles. He clutches the mug as tight as he can manage, shouldering his way out the door. Not two feet beyond the threshold of the door, he absently raises his shoulders toward his ears against a cool summer breeze.

    “Logan, close your mouth,” Roman calls. Logan moves his jaw up, realizing all too late that he’d been staring open-mouthed at Virgil for no reason. Turning his face toward Patton’s neck, Roman giggles and whispers, “he’s so head over heels.”

    “That’s an understatement,” Patton replies. “If his head is where it is now, you’d need a cinderblock and the Mariana Trench to get to his heels.”

    “That was a bit of a stretch,” Remy says. “I know you’re trying, hon, but maybe try more puns, fewer metaphors?”

    “Puns,” Patton echoes, rolling the word between his lips and chewing the n. “Pun pun pun.”

    “Now look what you’ve done,” Roman groans.

    “Pun,” Patton repeats, pointing up and nudging Roman to the side. Roman blinks and follows his finger to the mistletoe, which is wobbling dangerously. “Don’t think you used enough tape there, Crumb cake.”

    “Maybe not,” Roman agrees. As he reaches up to adjust the decoration, Logan’s hand thrusts out of its own volition.

    “Do you maybe want to move that over the door instead? Maybe? I mean, you don’t have to, I just—”

    “Logan’s rambling,” Remy announces. “Better do what he wants before he short circuits entirely.” Roman and Patton titter at this before the former pulls down the mistletoe, removing the old tape and producing a new roll from his pocket.

    “Thanks,” Logan sighs, watching Roman stick the mistletoe just to the right of the bell. What he wouldn’t give to be under that with—

    “Closing time!” Logan shouts suddenly, ignoring how the other three flinch. “It was all very fun and nice, but it is time for everyone to go home. Right now. Please leave. This very second. Immediately. Get out.”

    Remy exits first, followed quickly by Patton and Roman, none of whom bother trying to hide their laughter. Logan is the last to leave, still focused on that mistletoe. Still focused on who he wants to see beneath it.

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

    Virgil is having a bad day.

    He woke up with only two minutes to spare before having to leave for work. He stepped on poop from his neighbor’s dog when he went outside. He found a smear of mocha syrup along the seam of his pants in a very conspicuous pattern. He didn’t have any other clean pants ready. His car wouldn’t start fast enough. His USB cord to his phone wouldn’t connect, no matter how many times he turned it. His throat ached, but without a fever, he was still legally allowed to work with food. His voice was all but gone.

    Virgil wants nothing more than to go back home, crawl under a mountain of blankets, and stay there until the sun goes away.

    This would be a task much more easily achieved if Natalia would bother to show up on time. Virgil forces a tight smile onto his face as he mindlessly nods along to the latest guest’s conversation. Ten more minutes and he’ll hit compliance, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and her boss, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and him, which is basically the last thing keeping Virgil from walking out of the store right now.

    Virgil wants to go home.

    “Have you seen Natalia?” Anne asks, appearing on the other side of the bar once the line dribbles down to nothing. Virgil shakes his head, already halfway through making her usual order as she groans. “Okay, well, you’re gonna hit compliance in a second here.”

    “I know that,” Virgil snaps. “There’s not exactly a whole lot I can do about it.”

    “Mind your tone,” Anne chides lightly, and though Virgil can tell she’s kidding, he really isn’t in the mood for it today.

    “Yeah, sorry. Do you mind, uh, you know?” He tilts his chin to the next guest, as well as the cluster of families preparing to queue up behind them. Anne nods and apologizes with a laugh, scurrying off to do whatever it is she deems more important than helping Virgil to keep this line in check.

    This is the part where Virgil is supposed to launch into a spiel of every drink he makes, as well as the struggles that accompany calling out complete orders with a voice that basically doesn’t exist, but based on the morning he’s had so far? He has absolutely zero desire to get into it. Guests are rude, baby boomers are impatient, the sky is blue, Virgil is in hell, next question.

    “Hey, um, excuse me?” Some dude leans over the counter, shaking his empty cold cup at Virgil. Evidently, he did not notice the line waiting to be helped. “Barista boy?”

    Virgil glances where his name tag should be, shrugs at its absence, and nods. Yeah, that’s a fair nickname. “What’s up?”

    “You made my drink wrong.” His empty drink, that is.

    “Oh, I’m so sorry about that, did you want me to remake it for you?”

    “No, I want you to give me a refund.”

    “Sir, I—you already finished your—by store policy, I can only make you a new drink, I can’t give you a refund if there’s no drink to take back in return for the money, sorry.”

    “Yeah, but I didn’t like it.”

    “Then why did you—never mind, would you like me to make you a new one?”

    “No, I want compensation for a miserable drinking experience.”

    This goes on for some time, and while Virgil is largely skilled at keeping his composure when he has to, that’s much more easily said than done when the guest is flinging curse words at him left and right.

    “Sir, I’m sorry, it’s—there’s a long line, so unless you want to have me remake your drink for you, there’s really nothing I can do.” Angry Guest Man rips out a few more choice words before storming off, shouldering patiently waiting customers out of the way. Virgil rolls his shoulders back and moves on to the next guest, relieved when all they want is a grande mocha.

    Virgil.

    Wants.

    To.

    Go.

    Home.

    “Hey, I’m here to cover for Natalia!” Kim announces, prancing behind the bar without a hat on, as if she doesn’t notice the hold up Virgil’s dealing with.

    “Awesome. Get here sooner next time. Put on a hat—or a hairnet, I don’t care which—and start taking orders while I catch up on hot bar. We’re almost out of skim milk, and the almond milk shipment is behind today, so only offer coconut and soy milk.” Virgil tosses out orders almost as fast as he hands off drinks, waving off Kim’s bewildered demands. “I don’t care how or why Natalia got you to show up late—better than not at all—but I need you to kick into gear. I’ll get you as caught up as I can, but I’m gonna hit compliance, so savor this partnership before you’re on your own.”

    Kim bites back whatever protests she might’ve had, instead nodding and moving for the register. She plasters a welcoming smile on her face and starts chatting up the next guest as Virgil slowly but surely picks apart his backlog of orders.

    Virgil does not want to be here.

    Another guest complaining about their cappuccino not having enough foam is incredibly close to being the straw that shatters his back. Virgil bites back a groan as he gingerly takes the unlidded cup from her, nodding his apologies and profusely assuring her he’d remake it. She scowls and mutters something about hurrying up.

    “There you go, sorry ’bout that,” Virgil says, passing off the new cup.

    She removes the lid, glaring at the drink and completely ignoring the swarm of people behind her that would very much like to get their orders. “There isn’t enough foam for the caramel to sit on top.”

    “Yeah, that’s how physics—I mean, yes, my bad, do you want more caramel drizzle?”

    “No, I want you to make it right.” With no further warning, she scrapes off the top layer of foam and flicks it at Virgil, cocking her head to the side as it plops across the bridge of his nose.

    He might just scream.

    “So you’ll have me remake it, then?” Virgil forces himself to smile as she nods with a harrumph. “Right, okay, just give me a minute here, aaand—there you go.” He pushes the latest creation over the bar and comforts his shot nerves with the mental image of throwing the drink in her face.

    “There’s not enough foam.” Before Virgil can even pretend to be sympathetic to her first world problems, she dips her finger into the foam.

    And flicks this one square at his chest.

    “Anne?” Virgil’s voice is sugary sweet as Anne drifts lazily over from across the seating area, moving as if she had all the time in the world. “I’m going to hit compliance in less than two minutes, so I am going to clock out. I will not be coming in tomorrow, as I have a backlog of sick days, and I will be using one to figure out whether I want to come in the day after that. Good luck getting someone to cover for me, since it was obviously such a difficult task for Natalia.”

    “Virgil, if you don’t come in tomorrow, you can kiss this job goodbye,” Anne snaps.

    Virgil considers this, removes his hat, and places it squarely on her head. “If you want me to stay away, I’ll do so happily. In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a whole lot of qualified backup for you here.” Anne can only manage bewildered sputters in response as Virgil unties his apron, drapes it over a chair, and strolls off to the break room.

    Virgil is leaving this hellscape.

    “I really wanna leave this stupid town,” he sings to himself in the car, ignoring his blatantly wrong lyrics as he tears out of the parking lot. “And today, the time has come.” Ramping up his voice to little less than a furious scream, he pounds the steering wheel to the rhythm, and feels an odd lightness when he sees the empty passenger seat. For once, he doesn’t have to have the ever-present company of that obnoxious apron, wrapped up and tucked inside that ridiculous hat.

    Virgil is going home.

    At least, Virgil thought he was going home.

    No one could be more surprised than him when he finds his hands steering the car toward Logan’s cafe of their own volition.

    “Hey, Virgil, what’s going—wait, hey, you walked under the mistletoe!” Roman whines from the counter, where Remy is closely monitoring his work behind the bar. “You can’t just walk past mistletoe without a kiss-letoe!”

    “Stop talking, or that mistletoe is going up your ass-letoe,” Virgil mutters, making a beeline for the mound of bean bag chairs in the corner. A nice touch of comfort amidst the soft lighting and colorful menus they’d added yesterday. Probably Patton’s idea.

    He falls to his knees before he knows what he’s doing, shoving his face into the plasticky surface and letting the rustling beans consume his senses. He’d barely bothered to notice how loudly his pulse was thrumming through his head until it stopped, overpowered by the artificial cushion beneath him. At the sound of footsteps drawing near his head, Virgil briefly considers sweeping out a leg and knocking them to the floor. An action movie sequence fantasy at best.

    He feels them speak before any words come out, and has never felt closer to cussing out someone he met mere days ago.

    “Hey. Rough day?” By some merciful chance, it’s not Roman, or Remy, or even Patton. Logan continues, careful to keep his voice low and measured, “I get that. I had the lights turned down temporarily to test the environment in direct sunlight, but I’ll leave them down for your sake. We also received several compliments on the new menus—all your handiwork, of course.

    “Remy’s training Roman on how to make drinks right now, since I’ve heard many guests discussing how to get their friends to join them on trips here. With that kind of increase in business, I could really use his extra set of hands, no matter how inexperienced. I see you brought your mug, as well—if it doesn’t upset you too terribly, I’ve already had Remy begin teaching Roman how to make up drinks, so you might get an odd flavor combination, what with the steep learning curve and all. Roman is creative, I’ll give him that, but he’s never truly been one for understanding the intricacies of taste and texture among our staple ingredients.”

    With every word out of Logan’s mouth, Virgil can feel his mounting headache slowly, ever so slowly, draining away. In the wake of Anne and Kim’s nonsense, he hadn’t cared to notice the exhaustion, much less how severely it hurt. Even now, his pulse is pounding like a jackhammer against the roof of his skull.

    “When Remy first picked out that mug covered in cups for you, I have to say, I was horrified. As far as I could tell, it was just the first thing he grabbed, which is about as basic a tactic as any other. Your current one, with all the constellations and the blues, just felt right, if you know what I mean. Not exactly a logical way to select your mug, but I can’t really explain it.”

    “I like to call them mug-mates!” Roman announces. “You know, mug, soulmate, mug-mate?” An image crosses Virgil’s mind of throwing his current mug at Roman’s head, and he laughs. “See, Remy, told you I was funny.”

    “I hate to break it to you,” Remy says gently, “but Patton was only lying about you being funny because you suck at everything else.”

    “Shut up,” Logan singsongs, his voice achingly calm against their raising tones. In a voice that somehow manages to be even more soothing than before, almost dulcet, he continues, “most of my guests have a particular piece of clothing or accessory that stands out, matching their immediate mug. You just felt, well, different, somehow.”

    Virgil fights the instinct to flinch as he feels something come to rest against his head. A moment passes, two, before it starts to move, lightly combing through his matted hair and gently scratching at his aching head beneath. Against his own volition, a contented sigh escapes his lips. The scratching continues unaffected.

    If it were possible, Virgil would stay here, just like this, forever. Motionless in a pile of bean bags, with only Logan’s presence to remind him he still exists. Naturally, this isn’t possible, as a gentle set of three raps against the wall over his head jerks him out of his half-conscious state.

    Logan nods with a smile as a guest lowers their hand, moving for the door and stashing their mug in their bag. At Virgil’s questioning gaze, Logan raises his hands and explains, “that’s how my best guests say goodbye. The first few regulars I had liked the peaceful silence, so instead of cutting through the air with words, they’d just knock on the tables. It sort of became habit, I suppose.” Virgil glances from Logan’s mouth to his shoulder and back, releasing another sigh as the scratching shifts down to his back.

    “Feel any better?” Logan asks. His eyes are filled with a warmth that Virgil swears wasn’t there yesterday.

    “Little bit,” Virgil mumbles. “Work sucks.”

    “And where, exactly, do you work?”

    “Starbucks north.”

    The shock in Logan’s expression is almost laughable. “I have never been more disgusted with a single human being in all my life than I am right now.”

    “Yeah, that’s fair. I think I just kind of quit, though. Not exactly a ceremonious end to my shift, if you know what I mean.”

    “Rude guests?”

    “Try obscene and pathetic. One flicked her foam at me.”

    “Wait, don’t you get free drinks when you work there? Why buy my drinks when you can get stuff without paying for it at all?”

    “We aren’t, like, a chain place, since we’re owned by the department store we’re in, so we kind of follow different rules than the regular stores. I only get one grande drink per shift, and it has to be while I’m on the clock.”

    “Okay, but you can still get those drinks. Just make them on your last five minutes and walk out with them. Why bother spending money on what could be free?”

    “I’m not funneling the money I get from that place directly back into it. They are a capitalist regime based on the basic downfall of the foremost man empowering story, and I refuse to fuel their fire.”

    “How closely did you analyze Moby Dick?”

    “Sparknotes.” Virgil pushes himself onto his elbows, still savoring the feeling of Logan’s fingers gently scraping along his back. “Hey, what was that you were saying yesterday about offering for me to work here?”

    Logan’s face colors immediately, flush with about as much red as is humanly safe. “I didn’t mean to impose—I mean, er, I didn’t want you to feel like—”

    “It’s cool,” Virgil interrupts. “Anyway, were you even a little bit serious? Because I don’t really have a reference from my last place, but if you’re willing to accept a new hire with a shady history who knows how to run a coffee bar, I’m your guy.”

    Logan nods quickly, glancing back to where Roman is struggling considerably under Remy’s watch. “You’re hired. You start today.”

    “Actually, I know this is probably a bad first impression on my new boss, but do you mind if I start tomorrow? I’m not really feeling it today.”

    “Indeed, I should probably draw up the paperwork, as well.”

    The finality of this tenuous agreement hangs in the air, an oddly relaxed cloud of, well, something that can only wait to be shattered.

    Roman does a perfectly fine job of carrying out this task.

    “Logan, you’re gonna be so proud of me in a second here—I made my very first drink! Remy said I have to give it to Virgil, since you won’t take it.” Roman passes the constellation-covered mug over to Virgil, who glances warily at the murky substance rippling within. “Relax, it’s literally the easiest drink I can make.”

    “Earl grey tea,” Remy calls over. “Two tea bags, hot water, and honey. I promise he didn’t poison it.” Only after Remy’s reassurance does Virgil take a hesitant sip, admiring the flavor as soon as it hits his tongue.

    “Oh, that reminds me!” Logan exclaims, raising a finger in the air. It takes everything in Virgil not to whine at the loss of the reassuring hand against his back. “I got something as a thank you for helping us with the decorations yesterday—it’s right upstairs, actually. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll have it right back down here for you.” As Logan rises, something jingles and clatters to the floor, escaping his notice as he moves for the door. A keyring, covered in at least ten keys and even more keychains.

    “Hey, wait, you dropped these,” Virgil says, grabbing the keys and following Logan to the door. Logan lifts his chin slightly, taking the keys and shoving them in his pocket—careful enough that they won’t fall out this time.

    “Oh, look at that,” Roman coos. Virgil raises an eyebrow, turning to see where Roman and Remy are excitedly elbowing each other and giggling. Even Patton appears from around the corner and smiles along with them—probably leaving the bathroom.

    “Look at what?” Logan asks, obviously quite finished with their nonsense. Rather than dignify him with an answer, Roman merely points above their heads. Virgil follows the motion to see the last decoration he could’ve expected in June.

    Mistletoe.

    To the tune of the other three quietly chanting, “kiss, kiss, kiss,” Virgil swallows an annoyed moan and glances at Logan, whose face somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of pink.

    “If you don’t want to, I mean, if you didn’t, you know, feel comfortable with—” Logan stammers, every word darkening his cheeks, but Virgil cuts him off with a laugh.

    “Maybe I do want to. Kiss you, that is. I mean, if you want to.”

    “No, yeah, I mean—yes. I would like that. To kiss you, I mean.”

    Virgil’s face glows like a rose on fire. “Okay, cool, because I also want to do that. Also.”

    So he does.

[blackaquokat]

Bruised Hearts

Fandom: WKM

Pairing: DAtective (Abe x Y/N District Attorney)

Summary: In which an innocent outing turns into a fist fight and the fall out leads to an unexpected consequence.

(Or, alternatively, the author attempts to write in another character with mixed results.)

A/N: Hey guess what? I didn’t forget about this, but I had three different drafts and hated each of them until I finally powered through this one. I ended up going with suggestions by @beereblogsstuff , @dontworryaboutanything , and @skidspace but I did love ALL the suggestions in my inbox, so I will be tackling them at later dates. Something to note: this won’t be canon in Law & Disorder. Instead, this will be part of a different one which will be more in line with the canon suggested in Wilford Motherloving Warfstache. Take from that what you will.

(Spot the Ocean’s 11 Reference in this piece.)

Now, without further ado, here is the DAtective Installment of my 200 Follower Celebration works!

Oo00oO

“This is taking some getting used to…” his partner comments as they adjust their new glasses.

“I thought you had glasses when you were a DA?”

Abe thinks they look rather scholarly with the thick black rims framing their eyes. It’s still a bit of a shock to see his partner in modern-day wear, but…not an unpleasant shock.

Or at least it’s unpleasant in the way that a modern-clothed District Attorney sends his heart into sporadic beats of Morse code.  

“I only needed them for driving before,” they answer, oblivious to the heat rushing into his neck. “Or for going to the theater. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that death impaired my vision…”

Abe shouldn’t laugh, but he does. He also shouldn’t have this urge to grab their glasses and try them on himself, but that’s another problem entirely.

He half-heartedly protests when they drag him out of the biting cold air and into the nearest pub. “What’s going on here?”

“If I have to wear glasses on a regular basis now, then we’re damn well going to mark the start of this hell-fest with a drink.”

And they call him overdramatic.

(One time Abe announces a zombie apocalypse when a dead body twitched in front of him and suddenly he’s overdramatic. At least Wilford didn’t judge him, though he could have done without the gun waving at the time.)

While he’s on that line of thought…

“Shouldn’t we make sure Wilford hasn’t burned the apartment down?”

“It’ll be good to leave him alone a little longer, show him some responsibility, if he’s even at the apartment right now. Shot of whiskey, please,” they order from the bartender.

He orders a beer as his partner’s whiskey is placed in front of them. They banter back and forth, discuss the growing pile of cases waiting for them at home, and overall just…exist.

Together.

Even after a year since his partner’s unexpected return, and a little longer since Wilford destroyed his preconceptions of this nonsensical world they’re all trapped in, Abe still expects to wake up to an empty apartment. He still finds himself staring at his partner while they curse at the coffee pot, or when they sing whatever modern song they most recently discovered (lately it’s been an odd roulette of Beyoncé and some European metal group). Sometimes he’ll do something obnoxious like tug on the sleeves of their sweaters or ruffle their hair to get a rise out of them (which usually involves a hand-swat or a not-so-gentle elbow to his gut) to keep himself tethered to their presence.

(These moments tend to be hijacked by a randomly appearing Wilford, who either says something off the wall or does something rather insane to derail these moments. Abe only puts up with this since he wouldn’t have found the DA again if not for the psycho. He still questions as to when the term “psycho” became a term of endearment.)

He restrains himself from these actions now, since he’s already hyper-aware of how close they’re both standing next to each other at the bar, their glasses reflecting the hanging television screens and highlighting the liquid penny color in their eyes. Long before his partner lost their body and soul at the manor they looked like they’d witnessed eternity and scoffed at its depths, now they’re just tinged with an even darker awareness.

That eternity-tinged gaze is directed over his shoulder, narrowed in suspicion. “Can we help you?”

Abe turns to see three guys standing behind him. The one in the center has bloodshot eyes and keeps swaying from side to side.

(What kind of jackass gets flat-out drunk at eleven in the morning?)

“Hey, asshole, you’re in my seat,” the guy says without preamble. The two behind him do not look like they’re about to discourage him.

Abe chugs the last sip of his beer and settles it back atop the bar with a satisfying thunk. “I don’t see your name on it, bud.” He steps forward enough to keep his partner out of the jackass’s sight.

“I’d like you to move, pal.”

“Who you calling ‘pal,’ friend?”

“Who you calling ‘friend,’ jackass?!”

“Hey!” Abe jabs a finger at the guy. “You’re already ‘jackass’ in my head, we can’t both be jackasses today!”

“You son of a—”

“Ladies, ladies, you’re both pretty,” his partner suddenly interjects, treading between the two. “Please leave us alone before we all get kicked out for causing a scene,” they direct to the strangers.

Ever the attorney, his partner.

The trio of jackasses doesn’t hear the undercurrent of threat in their voice, however. The center jackass looks Abe’s partner up and down with something lewd and dismissive lined in his mouth. “Oh we’re way past that, birdie, now why don’t you back off and let the big boys hash it out? I can deal with you later.”

The word “deal” is emphasized with a shift of his eyebrows and Abe almost throws down right then and there, but his partner holds their arm out, as if sensing the direction of his thoughts.

Abe isn’t surprised when his partner stands their ground. They’ve never put up with being talked down to for long.

He is surprised when they clock the guy in the face without further verbal sparring.

The situation descends into chaos from there as Abe and the jackass’s friends join the fight with flying fists, bruised faces, and two bloody noses along with many other injuries until the bartender threatens to call the police.

Abe grabs the former District Attorney by the waist to keep them from giving one of the guys a second black eye. They fight vehemently against his hold.

“Whoa there, partner, take it easy—”

“Put me down, Abe, I got this!”

“I know you do, but why don’t we not deal with the cops today?”

Abe really shouldn’t enjoy carrying them outside and several blocks down, but he does. They’ve never been tiny, per se, but their solid form against his chest does odd things to his pulse. Their warmth also helps the initial rush of cold air pricking at his skin once again.

He finally releases them and they turn on him with an anger he’s certain could vaporize better men than he. Their glasses are askew, but somehow undamaged despite the peppered scratches on their cheek and split lip.

They jab a finger in his direction, voice going low. “Never. Carry. Me. Again.”

“Fine, but what the hell was that?” Abe demands. “Since when do you pick fights with total strangers?”

“If I recall, you were the one who almost got into that fight, I just beat you to it—”

“Don’t derail me with semantics, partner, what’s the problem?”

They cross their arms. Their knuckles are split and bleeding. “I didn’t realize I needed a license to beat the hell out of a bunch of perverted idiots.”

“C’mon, you know that’s not what I meant—”

But they’re already walking down the block again. Abe groans to himself and trails after them.

He doesn’t press for answers again, though it would be nice to have an answer for why he has a black eye right now.

He catches a glimpse of them shivering at the sudden rush of rain-threatening wind. They stifle the shaking once he catches up to their brisk pace.

At least this is familiar territory.

Abe takes his jacket off and puts it on their shoulders. He watches from the corner of his eye as they slip their arms into the sleeves.

As the rain slowly begins to trickles down around them, Abe spends far too much time wanting to take off their glasses to wipe the water off and maybe kiss their nose while he’s pushing boundaries.

Only the fear of another well-deserved elbow to his gut, or maybe even a punch to his face, prevents him from doing so.

Oo00oO

His partner doesn’t speak to him when they arrive home, but they do wrap up an ice pack for his eye. They head for the bathroom attached to the bedroom before he can try to fix up their own injuries, but not before he catches the guilt in their frown.  

The urge to demand an explanation wells up again, and Abe crushes it.  He can ask later, or they will tell him. He’s hoping for the latter. If he has to ask, it might mean they have no plans to bring it up themself.

And they really need to discuss this.

A quick glance around the apartment tells him that Wilford is not in, and probably has not been in for a while. Abe’s best guess is that the crazy bastard is off dancing again (when did “crazy bastard” also become a term of endearment?). So long as Abe and his partner don’t get any calls regarding any shenanigans Wilford gets up to, perhaps he and the DA can have the talk they need to have. In the meantime, he hangs up his wet jacket to dry and starts up the coffee pot because why the hell not?

A half-hour later, his partner re-enters the main room, their knuckles wrapped and the largest cut on their cheek bandaged. Their glasses rest on their nose still, smudged from a cleaning attempt it looks like. Without a word, they go sit on the couch. They pat the cushion beside them.

Abe sighs in relief. He hops over the couch and lands with a plop onto the cushions.

Before they speak, Abe blurts out, “I’m sorry.”

Their brow furrows. “I—what?”

He didn’t quite mean to jump right into this, but so long as he’s on the subject…

“You were right. I could have walked away, but I didn’t. Had you not stepped in, I definitely would have beaten the guy into a bloody pulp before you. I can’t exactly judge you for getting a head start on me. So I’m sorry for giving you a hard time about it.”

His partner taps their fingers against their forearm and shakes their head. “When I was still a lawyer, I probably would have just pulled you away and we both could have gotten out unscathed. Now…”

Abe hadn’t thought of that, but in retrospect, maybe that’s where his surprise came from. Far as he knows, they’ve only ever gotten into fistfights when no other options were available.

“Now?”

Their head tilts back to gaze at the ceiling. “Most days I still feel like I’m not here. Like I’m still trapped, like…like I still have something clawing to get out of me. When that guy looked at me the way he did…it brought back awful memories and I decided to just let it all out for a moment.” Their laugh is a bitter sound. “At the time, it felt good to let loose and finally tear into a guy without worrying about what it might do to my reputation.”

They look back at him. Their hand takes his, fingers tracing over a bruise on the back of his hand.

“I forgot, for a moment, that just because I wouldn’t necessarily be consequences for myself, didn’t mean there wouldn’t be consequences for someone else.” Their gaze is so intense Abe can barely breathe. “So I’m sorry you got hurt because I couldn’t walk away from a fight either.”

Abe should be thinking about their words, and he is, truthfully.

He remembers how uptight they were Before. Always afraid to stray off the straight and narrow the slightest bit for fear of all their hard work being undone in an instant. Even when they were undermined left and right they would keep silent, or as much as they could bear to depending on the circumstances. Abe can understand how the sudden disappearance of that intense pressure would affect them like this.

He remembers all of that.

But all he can think of now is how alive they looked when they clocked that bastard in the face. The furious fire alight in their eyes, the power of their hits, he never considered fist fights to be romantic, but then again, Abe never really had a specific type before.

Or perhaps his type has slowly taken shape into complicated former attorneys who call him out on his shit as much as they take part in it.

Abe doesn’t realize he’s moved until he’s already taken their glasses off their face and started cleaning the smudges with the bottom of his shirt. He chances a glance at his partner, who is staring at his moving hands like…well, he has no idea. A strange mix of confusion and something indefinable.

He doesn’t even try for an excuse for why he did that. And they haven’t done anything to stop him.

When he’s satisfied that the lenses are far clearer than before, Abe grins triumphantly at his handiwork, holding them up like a trophy.

His partner smiles back. There’s a bruise right on their cheekbone.

Abe means to put the glasses back onto their face, he really does. Instead he shifts closer to them, leaving enough space so they can move away if they wish to.

They don’t move.

“I will gladly have your back in any fist fights we start in the future,” he whispers. Before he can second guess himself, he pulls them in closer by the shoulder with his free hand so he can press a brief kiss to their forehead.

He intended to scurry off right after doing so, but they grab his hand and he stills. There is a long, pregnant pause.

They do not stare so much as probe deep into each other’s eyes like something out of a damn soap opera or something nonsensical and ridiculous along those lines. He wonders if they feel like their skin has been peeled away too. He wonders what they see that keeps them from breaking away from whatever this is.

Are they getting closer to him, or did he start leaning first, or is he just going crazy?

“Quite a storm out today, my friends!”

Abe and his partner jump to opposite ends of the sofa when Wilford suddenly appears, sitting on the middle cushion with his legs crossed. He’s wearing that godawful afro again. The false pink hairs are tipped with pearly raindrops.

His partner brushes their curls out of their face and clears their throat. “Hi, Wilford.”

Abe has no idea how they manage the nonchalance in their voice after the intensity of the moment five seconds before. Then again, they adapted to Wilford’s random and impossible materializing far quicker than Abe did.

“Were you out dancing?”

“Of course I was! Best way to pass a rainy day is a good disco party!”

“And the candy cane?” his partner asks.

“The what?”

They point to Wilford’s afro where, sure enough, the edge of a candy cane is sticking out.

Wilford pulls the treat out of his hair and stares at it for a moment. He shrugs and starts licking the cane, heedless of the synthetic fibers still stuck to it. “Perhaps one of Santa’s elves paid me a dance!” He declares mid-lick. “There were some lovely people there with pointed hats and striped stockings.”

“It’s October,” Abe points out. He doesn’t know why he’s still attempting to apply logic in this wherever-they-are, but it makes him feel better to try.

“An elf is an elf year round, my friend,” Wilford intones with the wisdom of an age-old scholar.

“They might have been witches, that’s all I’m saying. Wrong time of year for an elf to be hanging about.”

“Are you saying elves can’t be witches as well? My dear Abe, I wouldn’t have thought you to be so close-minded!”

“Yeah, Abe, don’t be so prejudiced,” his partner teases. “You might not get a visit from Santa otherwise.”

What the hell are they talking about right now?

His partner holds out their hand, uncaring of Wilford between them. Abe blinks and realizes he’s still holding their glasses. He hands them back sheepishly.

As they put their glasses back on, Wilford comments, “Well, look at you now, dear friend! You look like a scholar ready to prove the existence of dear old Nessie herself!”

They roll their eyes with a smile. “I appreciate that, Wilford.” They wink at Abe and he jerks his head away to hide a smirk of his own. “What are you up to now?”

“Well, now that we’re all on this couch together, I say let’s just enjoy one another’s company!”

Abe glances back to see a bowl of popcorn in Wilford’s lap, and the remote in his hand. “How the hell—?”

“Can we go to that channel that plays classic movies?” his partner asks without missing a beat. “I’ve been in a mood for something like Casablanca or Shop Around the Corner.”

“Oh, alright!” Wilford grumbles. He gestures at them wildly with the remote before switching on the television. “But I say we look for Tom and Jerry after this!”

“Sure. Now pass me the popcorn.”

Abe spares a glance at his partner again and thinks about their shattered moment. He shakes his head as a black-and-white film takes shape on the glowing television before them.

Probably for the best if he pretends there’s nothing between him and his partner. The three of them are already stuck in a world that doesn’t make sense.

Why begin one more thing he barely understands, even if it does stir up parts of him he thought were long dead?

Oo00oO

@skidspace , @peaceiplier , @wkm-detective-abe-squad , @veryobsessivefan , @lizard-in-a-skinsuit , @babymadz , @rainbowkittens97 , @peachythekeen-deactivated201810 , @statictay , @starcrossedforever87 , @dontworryaboutanything , @falseroar , @intemperantiae , @ren-mon , @memetoyoko , @soul-wolf , @musical-jim , @silver-owl413 , @sassy-in-glasses , @chelseareferenced , @sketchy-scribs-n-doods

[welllpthisishappening]

Caught in Your Light (4/4)

Forever. It’s been forever. Or, possibly, longer.

It might honestly be longer.

Killian can’t remember a moment when he wasn’t hopelessly, head over heels in love with Emma. And it’s kind of becoming a problem. Because it’s been forever and they’ve always been friends, but now things are changing and traditions are ending and there’s just one more weekend.

This is it. So it’s time to do something about it. In Boston. With all their friends watching. It’ll be fine.

Rating: Mature. Swearing. Kissing. Rinse and repeat. Word Count: Seriously way too many. 9.3 this chapter. Lolz. AN: Here it is! This is the final part of my @csficformal​ gift for @idristardis​. This story was such a delight to write and I can’t thank you guys enough for continuing to enjoy when I slam keys and spew words at the internet. There are more baseball jokes and pop culture references and you should probably listen to Counting Stars by Augustana because that’s where the title comes from and I want everyone to love Augustana as much as I have since 2006.  Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll. 

It takes him, approximately, forty-seven seconds to exhale.

He’s holding his breath, hoarding it like that will, somehow, make his brain work quicker or fire the appropriate neurons and the room is spinning a little bit. That might be because he’s not breathing properly.

Killian drags a hand over his face, licking his lips and he winces when his head snaps towards the door. Still closed. Or closed again. It doesn’t matter.

The only thing that does matter is that he’s standing alone in the middle of his apartment and he can’t seem to catch his breath.

He tries not to come up with another Marathon joke.

It doesn’t work.

And he’s not really sure what sound seems to just fall out of him, a mix of actual laughter and disbelief and something that feels almost like joy because he can’t seem to stop replaying Emma’s words in his head.

They echo in between horrible jokes and slightly bad puns and I love you seems to brand itself on the inside of his eyelids every time he blinks.

He keeps blinking – like that will make the scene change or prove that he’s still asleep and possibly dreaming, but if he were either one of those things he’d still be in bed with his arm wrapped around Emma’s waist and, really, that’s not all that bad of an alternative.

Killian sighs again, a rush of oxygen that probably deserved a little more time in his body if the burning in his lungs is any indication, and the room continues to shift on several different axises.

I love you.

His legs wobble a bit when he takes a step forward, not entirely sure where he’s going, but positive he needs to move. He has no idea where his phone is and half of Emma’s stuff is still strewn across his bedroom because she’s kind of a mess sometimes, but only when she’s comfortable and he’s always kind of loved that about her and--

“Oh fuck,” Killian breathes.

He throws his right hand out, a flash of pain rushing up his forearm and he’s only slightly concerned about the dent he’s left in whatever the goddamn wall is made out of because he’s fairly positive that won’t be covered in the renter’s insurance he absolutely has.

I love you.

And he stood there.

She kept talking and ranting and pacing and he stood there like a fucking statute staring at her while his mind tried to latch onto the idea that this could actually be reality.

He’s alone in his apartment and there’s still a frame sitting in the corner of his couch.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Killian mutters. He’s going to fix this. He’s going to...do something big and important and both of those things will probably freak Emma out so he can’t do either one, but he has to do something and just screaming I’ve loved you forever in her face probably isn’t the best course of action either.

He needs eighty-two mimosas and several plates of home fries.

Emma has a habit of stealing his home fries.

“God fucking hell, shit, damn,” Killian curses, nearly tripping over his own feet to get down his hallway and this whole weekend is some kind of complete disaster.

It’s not the quickest shower he’s ever taken, but it’s pretty close – the water barely getting hot before he’s out and trying to find a shirt and socks that match. He gives up on the sock thing in, like, ten seconds flat.

He’s half a step away from the door, mind racing and pulse racing and he knows Emma isn’t going to come back here –  home, he called it home and she called it home and he wants to call it home together in a collective way that means something and maybe he should lead with that when he finds her – but his phone is buzzing in his pocket and it feels as if his heart has leapt into his throat and fallen to his feet at the same time.

It’s not the worst feeling in the world, honestly.

His phone buzzes again.

And it’s not the name he’s expecting, or hoping, to see.

David Nolan, 1:05 p.m.: Do we need to stage a search and rescue? I’m not putting out an APB, so either you guys tell me where you are or I’m going to be super annoyed.

Killian squeezes the phone tight enough he’s only slightly worried about doing damage to it, but then it’s making more noise and Ruby has written a goddamn novel.

Ruby Lucas, 1:06 p.m.: Dear Detective David Nolan. CALM DOWN. You know the T runs weird on Sundays and we are not really that late. This cannot possibly be good for your blood pressure. Order something to drink. Come up with some reasons why the Red Sox are going to win the AL East this year to antagonize Jones. Drink the drink you ordered. Stare longingly at your wife. Rinse and repeat until the Boston public transportation system decides to stop being a massive dick on the weekends.

Killian laughs in spite of himself and his body’s seeming inability to do two things at once – like walk and read text messages at the same time. And there are already dots on his screen in the group text that will never end.

Merida Broch, 1:07 p.m.: Killian and Emma aren’t here yet.

Ruby Lucas, 1:07 p.m.: !!!

Ruby Lucas, 1:07 p.m.: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!

Mulan Fa, 1:08 p.m.: You should see her face. She’s doing an almost admirable job of looking genuinely surprised.

Merida Brock, 1:09 p.m.: A for effort, right M’s?

Mary Margaret Nolan, 1:10 p.m.: No comment.

Ruby Lucas, 1:10 p.m.: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? WHAT. DOES. THAT MEAN?!

Killian’s not sure if it’s just his hand that’s shaking or his entire arm or, possibly, his entire being and it might be all three, but he’s not breathing again and that joy he’d felt before was obviously fleeting, inching closer to what feels like fury.

And frustration.

That’s less dramatic than fury.

Ruby Lucas, 1:12 p.m.: Why is no one answering me? We are three stops away. I need updates. I need information. Mary Margaret, I know things about you! I was there the first time you got drunk freshman and tried to do the hand jive in the middle of Beacon Street.

Merida Brock, 1:13 p.m.: The hand jive? David Nolan, 1:14 p.m.: From Grease. Ruby, stop talking.

Ruby sends back a string of emojis that are equal parts immature and impressive in their double entendres, but Killian’s legs have finally decided to be a functioning part of his body and he’s too busy jogging towards the stairwell to spend too much time lingering on meanings.

Or the hand jive.

He’d like to see Mary Margaret drunkenly do the hand jive some time.

If only to tell the story to future Nolan at some indeterminate point in the future.

That, however, will probably revoke his recently granted godparent’dom and maybe he should discuss his ideas with Emma first – just to double check. Or whatever. God damn.

David Nolan, 1:15 p.m.: Killian and Emma if you are not here in ten minutes, we’re going to order without you and I’m not going to let you get mimosas.

Mary Margaret Nolan, 1:16 p.m.: That’s not true. You can have all the mimosas you want. As many as you need.

Killian rolls his eyes, another door slamming behind him and he almost runs into a small family when he rounds the corner outside his apartment building. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, holding both hands up and they stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

He kind of has.

And his phone doesn’t vibrate immediately, staying silent in his hand as he all but sprints towards the T a few blocks away. There appears to be an oxygen shortage in his neighborhood, a stitch in his side that feels as if it’s growing every second he stands on the platform.

He will, eventually, blame that for what he does next.

I’m going to order a mimosa every other minute and then I’m going to dump out every glass David tries to drink and make him pay for both of our meals.

It’s probably not the best response immediately following emotional declarations in his apartment or overly interfering friends, but he knows Emma and neither one of them responded to the group text.

So Killian waits – for the train and a response and several other things that he probably should have dealt with by now, but that would require any of them to act like adults and David was making mimosa-based threats a few minutes before, so by comparison, he feels like he’s doing a pretty ok job.

He’s not counting seconds or stops, but his heel taps impatiently, tucked into the corner of a car to avoid the influx of tourists because some website in February claimed Back Bay was an undiscovered and underexplored neighborhood and Killian nearly takes out a guy with his elbow when his phone makes noise.

Emma Swan, 1:24 p.m.: That’s a lot of mimosas. Can you get alcohol poisoning from shitty champagne?

Killian Jones, 1:25 p.m.: Don’t let Mary Margaret hear you call it shitty champagne. She’ll take umbrage at that and assume it’s an insult to her entire schedule and her questionable decision to pick brunch as her Final Jam choice.

Emma Swan, 1:25 p.m.: Good word.

Emma Swan, 1:27 p.m.: And it’s because Mary Margaret knows we all appreciate brunch, so she gave up her choice so we could have this plus everything else we wanted to do. Presumably because she’s a better person than all of us combined.

Killian Jones, 1:28 p.m.: I’m not disagreeing with you. Emma Swan: 1:29 p.m.: No? Killian Jones, 1:29 p.m.: I don’t think there are many things I’d disagree with you on, love.

He needs to stop breathing through his mouth – quiet sighs and not-so-quiet sighs and he’s going to sue that website because the tourists on the train keep shooting him slightly concerned glances when he can’t seem to stop making noise.

But his pulse is doing something medically impossible in his veins and he can almost hear Emma’s voice in his head, the way her eyes flicker up when she’s trying to make a joke and he wants to be anywhere except going to brunch.

Even if the champagne is good.

Mary Margaret wouldn’t pick a restaurant with shitty champagne.

The train lurches to a stop, tourists grumbling and everyone should be required to take a class on how to maintain their center of balance before getting on public transportation. Killian pushes his way through the door, doing his best to avoid toes and shoes and only kind of doing either, jogging down the stairs towards the restaurant he’s only slightly certain is the right one.

He hopes it’s the right one.

The half-formed plan in the back of his mind is not going to work if he shows up at the wrong restaurant.

Killian will never actually admit to running down Sudbury Street, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t, at least, jog briskly, weaving around people and families and one particularly large stroller making it way towards the patch of green masquerading as a park a few blocks away.

They’re sitting by the window – Merida’s hair making it all impossible to miss them, Ruby’s laugh a close second – and David waves his arms like Killian’s ignoring them and not just waiting for the light to turn.

“Where have you been?” David shouts. “I was almost genuinely worried.”

“Almost genuinely being the operative words here,” Mulan mutters, grinning despite the glare she gets in response and Ruby is fiddling with her phone.

She curses under her breath when the thing doesn’t do what she, apparently, wants it to, bumping a salt shaker in the process and Mary Margaret mumbles something about shoulders and good luck. “We don’t have time for that, M’s,” Ruby says, but Killian is more distracted by the music coming out of her phone.

“What the hell are you doing, Lucas?” It’s that song. Not the Dropkick Murphys, but some other song from the early 2000s about this city and sunsets and Emma absolutely knows all the lyrics.

Killian knows she knows all the lyrics.

She’ll never admit to knowing all the lyrics.

Ruby blinks, twisting her neck and looking for something that obviously isn’t there. Her shoulders sag noticeably. “What is going on?” she asks sharply, narrowing her eyes at Killian like any of this is his fault.

Ok, so some of it is his fault and he really should have said something back to Emma, but now he’s got, at least, three quarters of a plan and he’s going to fix it.

All of it.

In some great, big life-altering kind of way.

“I have no idea what you’re asking me, Lucas,” Killian admits and he’s still standing on the sidewalk. He has absolutely no intention of going in the restaurant.

“How is that possible? What did you do?” “Was it bad?” Mary Margaret asks, apparently joining the conversation that makes no sense whatsoever. “After we left, I mean? It looked like it could be ok. I had a good feeling.” “Wait, you guys saw Emma and Killian already?” Mulan asks. “This morning?” “We had some stuff.” “Stuff.” “Stuff,” David repeats intently and Killian makes a mental note to tell Emma about dad voice and the list of things he has to do keeps growing. “Seriously, Lucas, what is this music? You’re going to get us kicked out of the restaurant before we can order.” Ruby rolls her eyes, her gaze, somehow, never leaving Killian and if he felt like he was going to get grounded with Mary Margaret and David, he kind of feels like he’s going to get reprimanded for every decision he’s ever made now.

“Is this seriously not the moment?” Ruby sighs. “Because I have been waiting for this forever. Years. Actual years. I have schedules for this moment. Outlines.” “It’s been discussed,” Mulan adds, a smile on her face and Mary Margaret looks like she’s about start crying again. “In detail. More than once.” Merida tilts her head, eyeing them both over the top of a glass that is filled with something other than mimosa. “Is that weird? It feels like it should be weird.” “Please, you’re the one who wanted to bet on it.” “What?” Killian shouts, scaring several different members of the waitstaff. He’s fairly certain the hostess is actively trying to get someone else to come outside and ask him to sit down. “Bet on what, exactly?” David does his best to turn his laughter into a convincing cough, but he’s also trying to drink mimosa at the same time and it ends with him nearly choking and Merida cackling and Ruby must have that goddamn song on repeat.

Killian’s not sure if the heat on his cheeks is from the questionable amount of sun or something slightly more emotional.

Emma’s not there.

“Alright, alright,” Ruby says quickly, hooking her chin over Mulan’s still-shaking shoulders. “Tell me, honestly, were you not late because you were fine-tuning your speech? Where’s Emma?” “What speech?” Killian asks. “And I’m only about ninety-two percent certain about that second question.” Mary Margaret blinks, confusion obvious, which is fair. Killian tries to ignore her stare boring into the side of his face. Or David’s. He’s already got his phone out.

“The speech,” Ruby continues, like that makes any sense at all. “The big one. The important one. Where you tell us that you and Emma have been actually dating this entire time and we’re all not insane.” “I mean…” “Do not finish that sentence, Jones.”

He flashes her a smile, a strange twist of muscles and feeling considering the small tempest of emotions currently sitting in the pit of his stomach. Ruby looks stunned. Killian adds that to the list as well.

“I really thought this was the moment,” Ruby grumbles. “The mutual pining was cute for a while, but now it’s just starting to get kind of obnoxious.”

“It’s not obnoxious,” Mary Margaret corrects, but Ruby gags and Mulan mutters ehhhh under her breath and Killian’s not entirely sure where that other voice is coming from.

It might be Merida’s phone.

It is definitely Merida’s phone.

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Killian admits, another lie that doesn’t entirely feel right on his tongue and he really needs to start coming up with more concise schedules if he’s going to keep having these kinds of conversations.

“Oh, that was bad,” Mulan mutters. “It didn’t even sound like you were trying.” Ruby hums knowingly. “That’s because he wasn’t. Something happened. Something big. With M’s and David and they’re all lying to us. To our faces. During Final Jam. That’s rude, Jones.” “What happened after we left?” David asks, another attempt at dad voice that falls a little short because Killian is not, in fact, a kid. Just possibly a lovesick teenager, for the last ten years, because he might have actually been in love with Emma for the last ten years and his friends have known the entire time.

Killian doesn’t answer immediately and it’s more than enough time for Ruby’s eyes to dart towards Mary Margaret, a smile curling on her mouth and her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek and it’s, suddenly, almost believable that she has a schedule for this conversation.

“Just tell me one thing,” she says. “Have you guys been dating the whole time? Or just, like, recently? You’re not secretly married are you?” “I thought they were married,” the voice on the phone, which is definitely Mac, says and several different people at the table groan dramatically.

Killian closes his eyes. “Not married. Not dating. Friends.” “That’s a worse lie than the last one,” Mulan chuckles.

“And not entirely true,” Mary Margaret adds. Killian’s eyes snap open. “Oh, c’mon,” she says, disbelief in every letter and she sounds genuinely stunned. Ruby’s started laughing again. “Are you kidding me?” “That was almost close to being an insult,” Merida mumbles, most of her drink already gone. “He’s just slow on the uptake.” “I’m standing right here,” Killian hisses. “And you guys are fucking this up.” Ruby makes a noise that is somewhere between a guffaw and the sound a rocket makes when it takes off, leaping out of her chair and the salt is a lost cause at that point. “Did you tell her you’re stupid, crazy in love with her yet? I mean, not like in a Beyonce way, a you way. Is that why she’s not here? Is that why you weren’t here? Was I totally right?”

“What was it like?” Mary Margaret adds. “Epic? Romantic? Slightly cautious and vulnerable, but also incredibly sweet?” Killian’s slightly worried his face is going to freeze this way – twisted into surprise and concern at just how much thought his friends have put into this and he needs Mary Margaret to explain what the hell she meant before.

He doesn’t get the chance. “Oh my God, Mary Margaret, now is not the time,” Mulan says. “Look at him. He’s dying out there. He’s loitering and dying and probably thinking all kinds of things that aren’t true.”

“Ruby brought a soundtrack!” “To be fair, he hasn’t actually said anything,” David points out, earning several hums of agreement and Killian has dislocated his jaw. He’s positive. “But Mary Margaret is right. The friends thing is a joke. It’s been a joke forever, right? I mean since--” He cuts himself off, clamping his lips together tight enough that they all but disappear from his face. Ruby curses again.

The goddamn song won’t stop playing.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Killian asks and he’s not entirely sure who he’s directing the question to. He’s still not entirely sure the entire goddamn day hasn't been a very lucid and slightly convoluted dream. “I need someone to answer me right now. In complete sentences.” “Shit, I feel like I’m getting detention,” Ruby mutters.

“You get a lot of detention in high school, Lucas?” She flips him off, Mary Margaret mumbling oh my God as she tries to pull Ruby’s hand down and they’re going to have to leave a tip to every single person working in that restaurant. Killian’s eyes flit towards David, several empty mimosa glasses around him and both of them try to take a deep breath.

It doesn’t work.

“You’re an idiot,” David accuses. “Both of you are, but you’re the only one here so you can take the brunt of my insults.” “I”m not sure that’s how it works.”

“Too bad. Did anything else happen after that one Final Jam?” Killian’s entire body sags forward, like he’s been punched in the gut and had his legs kicked out from underneath him and David smiles smugly because he’s also an idiot. “Yeah, I figured,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she remembers she told me. It was years ago and she’d gotten into some scrape with a skip and you didn’t answer your phone. There was morphine involved.” “And you never brought it up?”

“Why would I?”’

“What did she say?” “I’m not telling you that,” David says, sitting up straighter and slinging an arm around Mary Margaret’s shoulders. Killian doesn’t try to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “But what I am telling you is that you both have been idiots for years. The pining thing has been as stupid as any of the stupid shit we’ve all done. You’ve convinced yourselves you’re friends when you want to spend most of your time making out in public places again.” “What?” Ruby screams. Mary Margaret’s eyes widen to a size that cannot be appropriate for normal humans. Merida knocks over what’s left of her drink. Mulan appears to have frozen.  

“I’m going to say something,” Mary Margaret warns. “And it’s going to be sentimental. So I don’t want to hear any over the top groaning or anything like that, everyone understand?”

“Understood, Mrs. Nolan,” Killian mutters, mock saluting with two fingers.

“You two have been in love with each other forever. Before forever. But neither one of you is very good with maybe or what if. The thing is, though, neither one of you realized you were both dealing with definitely.” “These are not the complete sentences I demanded a few seconds ago.” “Then try and listen for a change. You love her. She loves you. It’s easy.”

“That’s stupid romantic, M’s,” Ruby grins and she’s got her arm around Mulan now as well, a smile on her face that could probably cut glass or something. Killian really needs to stop making all these science jokes when he doesn’t understand the facts behind them.

And his mind is still jumping from question to question, a string of hopes and optimism and a distinct lack of either because his phone has been almost painfully silent the entire time he’s been loitering on the sidewalk.

“Yeah, it is,” Mary Margaret agrees. “But Killian stares at Emma like she’s the center of the universe and she does the same thing right back, so maybe we’re all due for a little sweeping romance in our lives.” Ruby nods. “See, that’s why I was playing the song. You going to go sweep, Jones?”

He digs his teeth into his lower lip, tugging in a breath through is nose and Ruby only looks momentarily put out by the whole thing.

“Seriously,” David shrugs. “Mac’s not the only one who thinks you guys are married when he sees you. Most cognizant people think that. We’ve been waiting for you two to catch up for years. Have you?” It feels a little bit like a threat and a little bit like several different life-lessons from half a dozen different TV dad’s, the music actually swelling in the background like they’re living life to an early 2000s soundtrack. And Killian’s not entirely sure what the right answer is, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with the sun beating down on the back of his neck and cautious optimism surging through every inch of him.

But then he feels himself nodding and almost smiling and there are tears on Mary Margaret’s face. “Yeah, I think so,” Killian says. Mac actually whoops. Maybe they should invite him to Final Jam from now on. “Alright, listen, I’ve got, like, half a plan and several demands and then I’m done listening to you guys and your shitty sentence structure, ok?”

He doesn’t pause or give any of them a chance to interrupt, grabbing one of the mimosas a slightly frightened waiter leaves on the table when his mouth goes dry. Killian just keeps talking and drinking and there are a few nods and shared, slightly knowing smiles because he’s absolutely been staring at Emma like she’s the center of several different universes for the better part of the last decade.

Mac cheers when he finishes.

Killian grins, taking another swig of mimosa before nodding once and running away – again.

Only this time he feels like he’s running towards something and someone and, hopefully, everything, so that feels like an important distinction.

There is no jogging this time around.

It’s a flat-out sprint, past museums and monuments and he almost breaks both his ankles when his shoes refuse to find any traction on cobblestones.

There are so many cobblestones in Boston.

The entire goddamn city is a bit of a contradiction – as historic as America can get, really, the start of several different moments Killian can recite from memory and a major, metropolitan space with skyscrapers and fancy bridges that several different engineering shows Emma secretly likes to watch on the History Channel have claimed are modern marvels. It’s old and new and tradition and not and it feels like the metaphors are stabbing Killian in the side by the time he leaves the cobblestones behind, stepping on the incredibly green grass in Boston Common.

There are more tourists here – kites and picnic blankets and camera shutters – but he barely gives himself a chance to get his bearings or consider just how quickly he’s run half a mile, before he’s moving again.

It seems to take a small eternity and several lifetimes to cross the Common, eyes darting every direction on the off chance that he’s wrong. And it’s kind of pointless.

Killian knows he’s not wrong.

He knows exactly where Emma is.

There’s a huge line in front of the swan boats – kids shouting and screaming and slightly flustered parents trying to calm them, mixed in with disgruntled teenagers and grandparents and more camera shutters snapping – and he sees her before she realizes he’s standing there.

She’s leaning against the tree closest to the water, hair tugged over one of her shoulders and Killian can just make out the headphones stuck in her ears. They look oddly familiar. Probably because they’re his.

The realization does something stupid to every single facet of his being, standing stock-still in the middle of the pathway while he tries to remember a single letter of the English language.

A kid nearby shouts something, snapping Emma’s attention away from the phone in her hand and her eyes widen when she notices him standing there, lips parting almost audibly. Her shoulders shift slightly, like she’s trying to stay comfortable against the tree or, just, in general and Killian forgets any reason for any of the nerves he’s had all weekend.

She was right.

It was stupid. Is stupid.

Anything that isn’t telling her the absolute truth is stupidest thing he could possibly be doing.

That’s not a word.

“Hey,” she mutters, tugging one headphone out. “You’re uh...how’d you know I was here?”

Killian shakes his head and she’s got no idea.

She has no idea he loves her back.

“Shit,” Killian breathes, which is really not what he hoped to say at all. “Damnit, that’s not..Swan, where else were you going to go?”

Emma’s mouth snaps closed and a minimum-wage employee of the city of Boston is announcing that it’s time to all aboard before this Swan floats away. It draws a laugh out of both of them, eyes flitting towards each other and his feet are moving as soon as the thought lands in the back of his brain.

She’s still sitting when he moves into her space and Killian can just barely make out the NESN announcers coming through the headphone resting on her thigh. He’s going to keep laughing for the rest of the day.

Maybe after he kisses Emma.

He really, really wants to kiss Emma again.

“Are they winning?” Killian asks, nodding towards the phone and the game he can now see playing on her screen.

“Up four, zip and just about to start the second. The Red Sox offense is ridiculous.” “Or the Rays are really bad at pitching.” “Yeah, that too,” Emma says. She hasn’t tried to get up. Killian isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing. He’s also not sure if his knees will actually bend to sit next to her. “How come we didn’t make fun of Craig Kimbrel?” “What?” “Craig Kimbrel,” she repeats. “I feel like we missed a prime opportunity with that one. His windup is ridiculous and absurd and, honestly, just asking to be made fun of. Even with that wicked fastball.” Her eyes flash when she realizes what she’s said and Killian’s smile, somehow, gets even wider. “Ok, do not start,” Emma mutters. “That’s just part of city-wide vernacular.” “Pahrk the cah in Hahvard yahrd,” Killian says, exaggerating every vowel and adding in a few more for good measure.

Emma laughs.

It feels like a walk-off home run.

“That’s not funny,” she growls, but her eyes are still bright and he’s still jogging around the metaphorical bases. Emma huffs when his laughter doesn’t fade immediately, wringing her hands together and Killian is pleasantly surprised to find his knees do, in fact, still work.

Her hands are warm when he tugs her fingers apart, crouched in front of her with his own fingers laced through hers.

“It’s a little funny.” “You think way too highly of your own brand of humor.”

“Got you to almost laugh though, so…” Killian trails off, lifting his eyebrows and hoping and the Rays go down in order in the top of the second.

“We really should have made fun of Craig Kimbrel,” Emma whispers. “It’s so easy. I can’t believe we didn’t think about it.” He’s not an English teacher so he’s not entirely qualified to dissect the deeper meaning behind emotional conversations, but if Killian were writing an essay this would be the part of the story he’d highlight and critique.

Because Emma doesn’t let go of his hand and he’s balancing most of his weight on his heels, but neither one of them can pull their gaze away from the other and the next words out of his mouth feel almost poetic.

“Because it wasn’t a save situation, love. They didn’t need to bring in the closer if they were already winning.” Emma’s answering laugh seems to sink into every inch of him, and, selfishly, Killian hopes he hears that sound every day for the rest of his life because it might be his favorite sound in all of documented history.

He’s good at history.

Or so say several degrees and that one award he got three years ago when Emma flew in to be at the ceremony.

And he’s never really sure how he doesn’t fall on top of her, but Killian surges forward and Emma’s free hand flies into his hair and kissing her, for the third time, and it's better than the first two combined, plus some.

They move against each other like they’ve been doing this for years, a rhythm that’s new and not and as easy as hitting against the Tampa Bay Rays on bullpen day. Killian tilts his head, not entirely sure what he’s trying to get, but certain it’s just more in some kind of overwhelming way.

His hand shifts, brushing against Emma’s side until she’s sighing into his mouth and her whole body flinches when he brushes his tongue over her lower lip.

There’s a goddamn tree root digging into his left knee and Emma’s phone has, somehow, ended up perpendicular between both of them, but it’s as close to perfect as making out in public can be. Killian’s fairly certain they’ve scandalized the tourists.

He doesn’t care.

And Emma’s fingers in his hair might be his second-favorite thing – behind her laugh because, honestly, that’s just other-level.

She shifts, phone falling to the ground in the process, but then her arms are around his neck and they’re going to get arrested for public indecency.

It would probably be worth it.

David would bail them out. Probably.

Killian stops thinking about jail time, nipping at Emma’s lip instead and that manages to work a totally different sound out of her and maybe he’s an enormous creep because he likes that one a lot and might be making some kind of list of noise-type sounds.

“What?”

He blinks at the question, not sure how either one of them is breathing enough to actually form words, but Emma leans back slightly and Killian can’t help but smile at the look on her face – pupils blown wide and the other headphone has fallen out, the cord hanging over her left shoulder, and she kind of looks how he feels.

“You said words,” Emma says and for one jarring moment he’s legitimately worried this is all a dream. “I was just...I couldn’t really hear. I was…” “Preoccupied?” “Yeah, exactly.”

Killian shakes his head, trying to brush away anything that isn’t her and this and them and he dimly wonders if they can get kicked out of Boston Common. He ducks his head to kiss her first, appreciating the way she follows after him and maybe they’ll just stay in Boston Common forever.

“I love you,” he says and it’s the easiest sentence he’s uttered in his entire life. Emma’s breath hitches, tongue darting out between her lips and that's only slightly distracting, but his calves are, finally, starting to cramp and he’s got a plan. He’s going to stick to it.

“I love you....enough to make my head spin sometimes,” Killian continues, brushing his thumb over Emma’s cheek and just below the lip she’s still biting. “I have for as long as I can remember. I honestly can’t remember a time when I didn’t. And I don’t want to not be doing that.”

“God, that’s the worst English I’ve ever heard.” “Swan, I’m trying to get you to swoon here, love.”

She blushes, closing her eyes like she’s trying to preserve the moment, which, honestly is kind of silly because Killian has every intention of this moment just continuing for the rest of their lives, but it’s also kind of endearing and a little adorable and he keeps getting sidetracked by kissing her.

That seems to bode well for the future.

Their future.

As a collective unit.

“Ah, right, of course,” Emma laughs. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Killian makes a face – one side of his mouth tugging up and eyebrows shifting and he’s fairly certain the blush in Emma’s cheeks gets stronger. This whole moment is doing ridiculous things to his ego. “I love you,” he says again, like he’s been saying it and promising it forever and it’s only a little insane that he hasn’t. “And, uh...none of this is ending.” Emma narrows her eyes. “What?” “That’s kind of why I was late. I would have been here two seconds after you left otherwise, but I had, like, seven-eighths of a plan and--” “Seven-eighths? Good thing you’re not a math teacher.” “That’s an appropriate fraction, Swan. And a pretty hefty amount of plan.” “I can’t believe you just used the word hefty in actual conversation.” “Because you keep interrupting,” Killian says, tapping lightly on her chin. “That makes it difficult to stay on point.” She inhales sharply and the makeouts had done a good job of fogging some of his more recent memories. Like the one where she’d walked out of his apartment an hour before. “I’m sorry,” Emma whispers, meeting his wide-eyed stare with one of her own. “No, no, I’m...I know I’m interrupting and I promise I really am swooning here, but I just want to explain. So, let me explain ok?” Killian nods slowly, giving his calves some reprieve when he twists his legs to sit next to Emma. Her hand finds his almost immediately – or the other way around.

The semantics don’t matter.

English is a dumb language anyway.

“I meant it,” Emma starts. “The...whole emotional outburst and blowup and those are really horrible words for it, but I meant it. And that’s terrifying. Because I meant the other parts too. You’re you and you’re my best friend, don’t tell Mary Margaret that either though, but she probably knows already and it’s totally true and now Final Jam is going to end and things are going to change and I can’t cope with that and then you were…”

She takes a deep breath, licking her lips and it’s like the whole world takes a moment to give them this, sitting a few feet away from the swan boats with the sun and the breeze and the incredibly bright blue sky.

So naturally Emma surprises him.

“We are really, really good at making out,” she says, laugh shaky at best when Killian nearly chokes on a sudden surplus of oxygen. “It’s ridiculous how good we are at it.” “With room for improvement, I hope,” Killian mutters and they’re going to draw more curious stares for their inappropriate laughter than anything else.

“That’s not even a good line.” “Yeah, but I think you still want to make out with me, so…” Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat, but then there’s more kissing and it almost feels like he’s trying to breathe her in and his whole brain stops working for a moment. “It wasn’t fair of me,” she whispers, letting her forehead rest against his. There’s hair brushing against his lips. “Because I was scared of what would happen when this was gone and there weren’t any more schedules or plans and it’s exactly what happened the first time. I just wanted you to be mine for a second.”

Killian can just make out her slightly tremulous smile, eyes a bit glossier than normal and she turns her face into his palm when he rests it against her cheek.

It feels like his heart is going to explode.

“For as long as I can remember, Swan,” Killian says and the world pauses again, or possibly shifts slightly and everything seems to audibly fall into place.

It’s the best metaphor he’s come up with all weekend.

“But you never said.” “Yeah, well, neither did you.” Emma sighs, scrunching her nose. “That’s where the whole this is so stupid rant came from. It was like something snapped in my brain this morning. I woke up and you are freakishly warm, did you know that?” “I did not.” “You are! Crazy warm and it was all so easy and you didn’t argue about anything.” “Swan, if you think I’m ever going to argue about making out with you in my apartment or falling asleep next to you, despite your propensity to stealing blankets, then maybe this is as stupid as you keep saying it is.” “Are you just trying to impress me with your vocabulary at this point?” Killian shrugs. “Maybe. Is it working?” “Maybe.” “How come you came here, Swan?” “How come you knew I came here?” “Nuh uh,” Killian objects. “That’s not how this works. You can’t answer a question with another question. We’ve got to go point to point or we’re never going to get to everything else.” “What else is there?” “I told you, I had seven-eighths of a plan. It became a complete eighth when everyone else agreed with me.” Emma’s eyes widen in curiosity, but Killian shakes his head again. “Nope. An answer. Why’d you come here, love?” If she notices the change in endearment she doesn’t say anything, but her eyebrows shift slightly and her thumb hasn’t stopped moving since his hand found hers again. “You said it first, actually. And I really don’t think I steal blankets.” “You do. I said what?”

“Stick around.” Killian eyebrows pull low, confusion flashing down his spine and he’s been flying the seat of several metaphorical pants all morning, but he genuinely has no idea what the hell she’s talking about. Emma groans.

“Seriously?” she sighs. “You really don’t remember? Was it because you were having so much fun being a giant history nerd?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I'm not a history nerd.” “You teach history!” “That does not, by default, make me a nerd.”

“Oh my God.” Emma shakes her head, twisting her lips and she kisses him quick enough that he hopes he didn’t imagine it. She’s smiling when she pulls away. “You were talking about Paul Revere and the Boston Massacre and you told me to stick around and I could learn more history facts, but I got kind of stuck on the first part and, well,” she shrugs, “did you mean it?” David was right. They are the world’s two biggest idiots.

Emma’s staring at him, lips pressed together and breathing shallow, but the muscles in Killian’s face are starting to ache from overuse. “Of course I did,” he says and every sentence is easier to say than the last.

He’s only slightly frustrated he hasn’t been saying them for the last ten years.

“Yeah, yes, fuck, Emma,” Killian continues. He has to take a breath before he says anything else, the weight of emotion pressing down on every inch of him and it’s absurd and probably impossible, but it’s felt like that kind of day. He’s only slightly positive he doesn’t shout in her face. “Stay here,” he says. “You can...I want you to stay here.”

The whole center of the universe joke has never felt more apt.

Something, something...like Killian is looking right into the sun.

“I really don’t want to go back to Chicago,” Emma says.

“So don’t.” “It’s not that easy.” “Why not?” She blinks. And blinks again. “It shouldn’t be, right? There’s got to be more than that.” “There’s not, Swan, I promise. We’ve already done enough of everything else, I think we should get some easy at this point, don’t you?” “Ah, well, when you put it like that.” “Exactly,” Killian says, reaching up to brush a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Not touching her is insane. “Still swooning?” “Not when you have to double check on it. What are all eight parts of the plan?” “There aren’t eight parts. Just one.” “Which is?” “We’re uncancelling Final Jam.”

They’re loading another boat full of tourists and there’s a toddler having a complete meltdown over something a few feet away, but Killian doesn’t pull his gaze away from Emma – watching every shift in her expression as she realizes what he’s said.

He’s going to set some kind of record for continuous smiling in one emotionally-charged conversation.

“It doesn’t have to end, Swan,” Killian says. “Or, more to the point, it shouldn't end. None of us really want it to. We just kind of assumed it would, but that’s ridiculous and so I’ve decided we’re not.” “You’ve decided?” “Yeah.” “And that’s, like, Final Jam law now?” “Eventually we’ll decide that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said,” he laughs, catching Emma around the wrist when she swats at his chest. “And, no, that’s where I was. The rest of them agreed. It might be different and we might not be able to do the same weekend every year, but it’ll happen and we’ve got everything else too.” Emma quirks an eyebrow. “Everything else?” “I’m fairly positive we did agree to joint godparent’dom a few hours ago, love. And that’ll probably be easier if you’re in the same city, learning some incredibly not nerd-like history facts.”

“It’s not the worst plan I’ve ever heard.” “That’s definitely what I was aiming for.” She laughs, easier than it was at any point all weekend, like she’s breathing out at the same time and Killian’s optimism is just that, no lingering caution or unnecessary precursors. He kisses her – mostly because he can’t come up with a reason not to and because they’ve already wasted so much goddamn time.

And they’re really, really good at kissing each other.

“I love you,” Emma says, mumbling the words against his lips. Killian’s going to smile forever. “And I’m also crazy hungry.” They draw a few more stares and few glances when Killian’s entire body shakes from laughing, but he’s so goddamn happy it’s easy to ignore anything that isn’t how easily he and Emma fall back into normal. It is, some reasonable part of his mind is quick to point out, probably because they’ve been doing this forever.

David’s going to be insufferable.

“We can fix that, Swan,” Killian grins, standing up and holding his hand out. She takes it without a word.

They go to Dunkin Donuts, which is only slightly stereotypical Boston, but it’s still, technically, Final Jam and Killian’s kind of hungry too. They split an entire box of Munchkins and he mutters you’re going to burn your tongue when Emma tries to down her Dunkaccino in four gulps.

She sticks her tongue out at him.

And they’re definitely late by the time the Uber gets to the final event on the not-so-Final Final Jam schedule – Killian’s arm around Emma’s shoulders when they try and sneak into the tour group at Harpoon Brewery without anyone noticing.

Mary Margaret notices. It might be the least surprising thing that’s happened in the last seventy-two hours.

She barely contains her screech, one hand flying to her mouth while the other one swats at David’s side and Killian can feel Emma’s grin when she turns into his side. “Deep breaths, M’s,” Emma mutters, but it does no good and they’ve drawn another crowd.

The tour guide looks personally offended that they’ve shown up half an hour late.

“Aw, c’mon,” Ruby shouts. “We’re doing this now? Seriously?” “Play the music, Rubes,” Mary Margaret says, Emma mumbling what under her breath.

Killian rolls his eyes. And wonders if he can make up for the lack of mimosas that afternoon with a copious amount of craft beer samples. “Ignore them,” he says. “We’re not running on a schedule anymore.” “Living on the edge, huh, Jones?” Mulan asks. She’s already got an empty plastic cup in her hand while Merida is, clearly, trying to distract the tour guide by asking questions about hops that no one has ever even considered asking before.

“Something like that.” David is suspiciously silent, eyes darting from Emma back to Killian quickly enough that he’s probably going to give himself a headache. Emma doesn’t appear to be breathing.

“Everything ok there, Detective?”

His eyebrows jump up his forehead. “You tell me. I need to yell anymore?” “Did you yell before?” “He strongly implied,” Killian says. “I think he was trying to parent us a little bit.” “Ah, well, he’s got to practice on someone, I guess. Although I wouldn’t be totally opposed to him not doing that again.” David smiles – it’s not entirely what Killian expects and he’s not entirely opposed to it. Mary Margaret’s sniffle sounds impossibly loud in the middle of a brewery tour they’re ruining and whatever song Ruby’s tiny phone speakers are playing.

“Yeah, ok,” David says. “But if you guys are stupid again, I’m going to be really annoyed.” Mary Margaret sighs, eyes closed lightly and one hand on her stomach and the whole thing is so goddamn domestic it’s almost painful. Emma’s head is resting on Killian’s shoulder.

“What song is that?” she asks and half the tour has already moved on to a different part of the brewery.

“That ‘Boston’ band,” Ruby answers. “You know they were still making music in 2011?” “They’re actually called Boston band?” “No, no, I have no idea what their name is, but the music’s not half bad and it’s whatever was next on the YouTube playlist because you guys ruined my plans for the initial romantic sweep.” “I don’t think any of those words made sense in that order.” Ruby sighs. “You done deflecting? Because it’s been kind of annoying having to text both you and Jones.” “We’re still two different people, Lucas,” Killian mutters, but neither he nor Emma have voiced any actual objections to the new text message procedures. And Ruby totally knows.

“I made no claims otherwise. My point still stands” He glances at Emma, rolling his shoulder slightly to meet her eyes. She presses up on her toes, tugging lightly on the front of his shirt and Mary Margaret actually gets a good amount of air on her jump when she sees it. The blood visibly rushes out of David’s face.

“So, uh,” Merida laughs. “That seems like it’s ok to joint text then.” Killian nods. “Yeah, it’s ok. But, Nolan, seriously, stop jumping up and down. David’s going to pass out.” “Don’t you have CPR training?” David asks.

“Are you asking me to perform CPR on you?” “I mean, you know, in the event of an emergency. And I’ll feel better trusting you with my kid if you know CPR.” “This is the most morbid conversation anyone has ever had in a brewery,” Ruby says. “Shouldn’t we be getting drunk? Or at least buzzed? Sorry, M’s.” Mary Margaret waves a dismissive hand, the other still resting on her stomach and Killian feels Emma’s laugh before he hears it. He assumes there’s a scientific meaning for that. He does not care. “I know CPR too,” she says. “You know, just for the record.” David practically beams. “Noted. And, listen, Em’s, I’ve been thinking about that time vortex in Jones’ hallway and I realized we totally forgot a fandom for name ideas.” “Ah yeah, Doctor Who, God, how did we miss that?” “Because Luthien was better,” Killian mumbles, winking at Mary Margaret when she immediately starts to dispute the idea. “What do you think about T.A.R.D.I.S. as a name, Nolan?” “Didn’t she have a name in that one episode?” Merida asks. They’ve completely separated from the group now. “The one good part of that one season.” “Whoa, harsh opinion,” Ruby laughs.

“Don’t get me started.” “Idris,” Emma answers. “The T.A.R.D.I.S. in human form was named Idris. Idris Nolan? Not bad. Sounds kind of like a warrior princess.” Her eyes flit towards Mary Margaret, something in the back of Killian’s brain sparking with visions and wants and optimism that he’s nothing short of certain of now. He presses a kiss to Emma’s temple.

“We’ll consider it,” Mary Margaret promises.

They do, as Ruby suggested, get incredibly buzzed on free beer samples and the quiet happiness that comes from knowing things are changing, but still, somehow, staying the same. There are goodbyes eventually – Merida has to go save New York and Mulan’s already in the process of moving, which leads Ruby to almost giggling out loud in the middle of Fort Point – but Emma smiles when she tells David and Mary Margaret she’s going to stick around for awhile and Killian nearly slams his thumb through his phone trying to order an Uber back to his apartment.

They make out in the backseat.

It probably affects his rider rating.

But then they’re climbing out of the car and Emma’s hands are everywhere and they barely make it in the front door before Killian’s turning on her, lips dragging across her jaw and the side of her neck and they stand in the foyer for a solid fifteen minutes.

It’s some kind of race after that – stumbling their way up the stairs and getting another door open and Killian’s belt is half off by the time they make it into his apartment.

He can’t stop kissing her. Or the other way around.

They’re a mess of limbs and lips and laughter and the alliteration is absurd, a line of clothes left in their wake as they try to get back to his bedroom without dislocating or snapping anything.

It’s awfully close, the bed creaking underneath them when they both collapse on it, but there’s more laughter and more smiles and there’s so much skin between them it makes Killian’s heart sputter in his chest.

“Still with me?” Emma asks softly, trailing a finger across his arm. He can’t quite nod when he’s laying on top of a large pile of pillows, but Killian makes an admirable effort and everything feels so normal it’s like they’ve just woken up and settled into their lives.

He hopes that’s exactly what’s happened.

“Consistently, Swan,” he says. Emma doesn’t answer – he swears her eyes get greener, though, a fact he would have voiced if she didn’t catch his lips with hers, slinging a leg over his hips and, suddenly, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The noise he makes when Emma rocks her hips is probably embarrassing, but he’s so far gone for her already it doesn’t make much of a difference. It’s easy and perfect and them in some kind of grand, sweeping way that he’s been waiting for since the very first day he saw her.

He might mutter I love you into her hair and under her jaw and the curve of her shoulder, a mantra that sounds even better when Emma repeats it.

More than once.

They order Chinese food eventually and eat it on his couch with Return of the King playing. Emma’s wearing one of his shirts.

And it’s easy to fall asleep, but exponentially harder to wake up – all of the blankets tugged to her side of the bed and tucked under her chin.

“C’mon, don’t move,” Emma mumbles, cracking one eye open when he slides out of bed. “You were so warm.” “How could you tell through your mountain of stolen blankets?” “Shut up.”

Killian chuckles, brushing his lips over the few inches of her that isn’t covered. It’s mostly hair. “I’ve got to go to work. Mold young minds and whatnot. Explain how fucked up the legislative branch of government is.” “You going to use that exact phrasing, then?” “Probably.” Emma opens her other eye, a small smile tugging on the corners of her lips. “Yeah, that’s definitely the right plan of attack. They’re all going to pass their AP exams, for sure.” “I’ll take even your sarcastic vote of confidence, love. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back later.” “I’ll be here,” she mutters, burrowing further into the blankets and Killian has to move or he’s never going to leave. “I’ll probably break your coffee maker, though.”

She is.

The coffee maker, meanwhile, is unscathed.

It makes him smile every time – settling into this life and this future and, eventually, when the boxes are unpacked and there’s a job lined up for her with David’s connections at Boston PD, they hang some frames on the wall.

There are only three, but Emma says they’re a good start and the one in the middle is his favorite. The sign’s still a little ripped, but there’s some tape involved and it looks pretty fantastic on the wall, the hand-written sentiment truer than ever.

Welcome home, Swan.

And they finally, both, are.

[rottenappleheart]

“if you’re going to liveblog something at least put it under a cut,” i say to myself

majora’s mask, unfiltered notes from opening screens to entering termina

the opening flybys of MM just... show you the world, and the people in it, living their lives, and Link unobtrusively in the middle of it all

various locations (my favorite is the graveyard with link sitting playing games with the skeleton children) but it always ends with the music souring, growing faint, the darkening sky, the lowering moon

the message is clear: this is a good place, it is in danger

(hidden message: it is not your good place, but that shouldn't make a difference, your heart instinctively goes out to these people who look so familiar)

contrast to the openings of the other games

oot: link is very solitary, a hero riding alone, interspersed with very dramatic scenes of his exciting adventures, it is a story of Destiny and Prophecy and Good Versus Evil

which matches as well with the actual first scene and the mood being set in each

oot: the lonely child, dreaming of horrible things and quaking in fear at his own powerlessness, and the friend who comes to him, navi the fairy, the literal Call To Action on his hero's journey

ww: your peaceful life, your idyll, your complete detachment from and indifference to history and destiny, until your idyll is violated by schemes older than you can imagine

tp: cold open on a soft and melancholy mood, a mature conversation between adults and the responsibilities they bear, emphasizing the humble beauty of life and hard work

mm: an even more intensely somber mood than tp - link riding alone, as he does in the dramatic openings of several different games, but slowly and with head down, plodding along through featureless woods... a heaviness and sadness to the scene, into which the ambush and robbery is jarring not only for the violation of your personal belongings but also for a violation of your quiet and inward mood

i just love that deeply unsettlign opening - the sound of a laugh over a dark screen, the mask rushing over your view, alternating between the heart and the horror, the horror and the heart

(the dark heart, the empty heart)

a game that really grips to the power of ungrounded images against the darkness - the mask salesman, some of the stories being told, Link undergoing his transformations where the whole world falls away and there is only darkness and solitude in this moment of pain

unrelated: i really love how they designed the clocks in mm, not just the big one obviously but the little copies scattered throughout the world! my sister and i once sat and stared at one until we could understand how it is tracking time. i love the colors and all the spinning parts.

actually i love all the textures and colors in mm, it's so much more detailed than oot, and one of the many reasons i haven't replayed it in forever is because i wanted to wait until i could play it via hypatia's high-res mod

okay that's enough sitting on the floor watching the loading screens time to go

at the mere feel of an n64 controller i am rushed back to my gentle youth

aw yeah hold R for shield, that's the stuff

the legend was held "dearly" by the royal familk=y

he crept away

a private journey

a beloved friend

link forsaking his own legends

and then the so-familiar sound  of navi's wings

i'm crying

the mask appearing before skull kid himself, a clue to what is going on and who is wearing whom

and that little glimmer of actual eye underneath (because at this point he can still take it off)

i wonder if the "huh? this guy? ... well, that shouldn't be a problem" was a reference to skull kid recognizing link (from their own youth, playing music together in the forest) or if one of the fairies pointed out the Sword, Shield, Steed heroic combo he's got going on

... okay so the thought of "what happens if the ocarina breaks" has played into MULTIPLE vast epics of loz fanfiction that never saw the light of day off my own personal hard drive

but it's a chilling thought! you are so helpless without it, even more than you are without a sword (because your adventures are based in doing the impossible)

for being a voiceless game it actually has a lot of voices, more than i recall in most other zelda games - everyone emotes a little bit, everyone is recorded

i still remember the first time i played this and realized that you do FLIPS when you jump now AND I HAD NEVER BEEN SO EXCITED

oh hang on gotta run through all the long streamery fairies so that they scatter

it's tradition

SWORD OUT

BUSHES TRIMMED

HYA!

and the ability to press Z to rapidly center the camera behind yourself, something a lot of games should continue to implement

looking at you, enslaved

and... acually everything, yeah, let me put the camera behind myself in a single button

omg skull kid's terrifying head-bobble

and the sound of the deku scrubs ecjoing

the blurred camera

i take it back this is terrifying

... for a zelda game

ON THE OTHER HAND, BECAUSE IT IS A ZELDA GAME, IT IS ONLY -SO- TERRIFYING

BECAUSE YOU HAVE BEEN TURNED INTO THE CUTEST CREATURE ON EARTH

A LITTLE SHRUBBERY GIJINKA WITH A FUNNY HAT AND A KILT

WHO PIROUETTES ACROSS STILL WATER AND BLOWS BUBBLES AT HIS ENEMIES

my heart!!!

i agree skull kid it is a good look for him

i disagree that he will be here forever

have you met him

he's the hero of time

even as tatl's dialogue is rude and aggressive she sounds (literally) just like navi, her little excited and sad and exploratory noises

(have i ever decided for myself what is inside a fairy's light sphere? no)

(do i think about what must be going on in link's head when tatl says "why are you looking at me like that," the shock and hope and longing)

i really want to know what... place they are in, during this transition, where worlds have been/are being crossed but also someone has taken the time to paint the walls with murals of flowers blooming, and the ceiling with yellow diamonds, and the doors erupting with scarlet flames

UGH I LOVE BEING DEKU LINK WHAT A CUTIE

THE CUTEST MCCUTERSON TO EVER CUTE

(pulling on my tp-link-is-oot-link theory, i can easily read tatl as practice for midna, and how link just... rolls with the punches of the latest selfish bossy violent girl to fall into his life)

n64 zelda sounds ;____;

OH NO THE PETRIFIED STUMP ;___________________;

the worst ;________________________________________;

THE FIRST RESOUNDING SLOW MUSIC OF THE SONG OF HEALING AND THE CLOCKWORKS

FUCK I'M SO GLAD I'M PLAYING THIS AGAIN

remind me to tell y'all about the "song of endings" please

a move they tried again, with greater success, in TP - beginning with your vision very narrow, literally climbing up from the depths of confusion and decay until you are finally high and out and able to see where you are

i like the moss growing on everything too, it's such a nice touch

this is what i'm saying, every square inch of termina is carved and painted, they stacked layers and layers of patterns onto the same polygon shapes they used for oot and it's so neat, i love heavily-textured and decorated worlds

i've spent a few minutes now looking at the symbol painted on the inside of the clock tower door, and i can't parse it - three green shapes in the midst of red curlicues? maybe it's nothing, but if it has a meaning i want to know what it is

(by the way it has become wine o'clock as i type all this up so be warned)

THERE IT IS

YOU'VE MET WITH A TERRIBLE FATE

HAVEN'T YOU

okay yeah it's overplayed now but that line is just. so good.

and tatl immediately hides from him

SO THE THING IS (yeah you can tell i have wine the capslock is staying on) HE SAYS RIGHT OUT THAT HE OWNS THE HAPPY MASK SHOP, AS IN, THE HAPPY MASK SHOP IN HYYRULE CASTLETOWN

DOES HE KNOW YOU??? IS THE HAPPY MASK SHOP TRANSCENDING TIME AND SPACE???

WHAT DO YOU KNOW HAPPY MASK SALESMAN??????

one of the weirdest possible options for them to have picked as a Recurring NPC for these games, what was going on here

(in my head this is... basically garfield the deals warlock as well)

aaaaaaaugh the abrupt jump cuts in this scene are so effectively unsettling

"I can help you," he says, while immediately behind his head, on his pack hands a mask of a screaming human face lest you get too comfortable

i missed everyone having pointy ears in the N64 zelda games! in ww and even tp it's a lot less common, no longer a given. but an integral part of the zelda world to me was always the hylians with their long ears and the gerudo with their round ones, and that transcendentally racist bit of lore that hylians were better able to hear the gods because of their ears.

my heart racing as i stand before the doors

about to enter termina

about to start that clock running

here we go

[a-mad-scientist-approaches]

Multiverse is a Curse Word (1)

Aaaargh! Just take it, I can’t stand to keep it any longer!

This is a Gravity Falls fic that is sort of a crossover between the Adrift AU, created by @the-subpar-ghost (although not based off the Drifting Stars fic they wrote for it), and the Dimension Jumper AU, created by @hntrgurl13, starring her OC Adeline Marks of whom I am in love with. I guess that kind of makes it a Drifting Dimensions AU, also a creation of hntrgurl13, however it does not follow the plot of that either. All in all I really have no idea how to describe this. Whatever, it’s some Portal!Ford, Portal!Mabel, and Portal!Addi adventures, with a lot of angst, fluff, and family bonding included.

The Addiford ship, which will of course eventually make an appearance, is credited to @scipunk63, and it ruins me. 

Just be aware, I have not read Journal 3, so blame any incongruities with canon on that. Even if they do not relate to Journal 3. 

@deadpool-demon-diva and @thejesterlyfictionista you said you wouldn’t judge me for writing this and I hold you to it. Love you guys.

AO3  1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11

Chapter 1: The Trash Monster

The sky was green in this dimension. It glowed at night, turning the buildings of the city black. Ford speculated that it was probably due to radiation rather than a natural luminescence. He decided they would move on to a safer place tomorrow; there would surely be a portal appearing nearby soon.

A slap on his hands brought him out of his thoughts.

“Grunkle Ford! Attennnnntion! I don’t see those hands moving mister!” Mabel drilled.

Grinning, he replied, “Sorry sir, I was planning out tomorrow’s route so we can avoid sleeping in an alley again,”

They had indeed set up for the night in a back alley among several dumpsters. Mabel inclined her head as she looked around from their position on the ground.

“Well, it’s not too bad, I suppose. I mean, look! Weird, gooey substances!”

Ford eyed the viscous liquid near them with barely concealed disgust.

“Alright, no lying on the floor,”

“Are you gonna be my pillow tonight?”

“Definitely.” He leaned back against the brick wall of a nearby building and opened his arms for his niece to clamber into. While he was arranging the blankets around them, Mabel jerked up once more.

“Wait! I didn’t finish teaching you tick-tack-toe,”

Smiling, Ford eventually appeased Mabel and convinced her to sleep with the promise that they would resume the lesson in the morning.

“Okay then.” She snuggled back into the makeshift nest and nudged him slightly, indicating she wanted more warmth. Happy to comply, he wrapped his arms around her. Ford felt guilty allowing even the merest trace of the thought to cross his mind, but at times like this he was indescribably grateful that Mabel had fallen into his life. He could not imagine it without her now.

“’Night,” Mabel murmured.

“Goodnight,” Ford responded softly.

“Don’t let the trash monsters bite,” his niece continued. The quiet laugh that answered this sent her off to sleep.

⃝

“Dammit,” Adeline said, banging the transmitter against her thigh. The blue pulse that was supposed to be emitting from the screen resolutely fizzled yet again.

Crap signal, flitted through her mind. She was too tired for this.

Sighing, Addi crossed the street, alternating between keeping an eye on the transmitter and the few citizens still shambling around at this late hour. The device crackled slightly, its light strengthening as she moved. She stepped into an alley and the signal picked up considerably.

“Yes!” A little further along and she could read the message clearly.

Let’s see what they have to say …

Movement. Behind her, something was moving. She was certain of it. Trying to act casually, as though she was absorbed in reading, she reached over her shoulder under the pretence of scratching her neck and tapped a button on the hilt of her wicked sharp sword. At the same time her eyes flicked up to the dumpster she was facing. Its metallic surface dimly revealed a figure standing up slowly behind her. They were drawing their gun.

Okay then.

In one smooth movement Addi drew her sword, whipped around – and stopped dead in shock as the past glared back at her.

“Stanford?”

His hair was grey now, but that was no surprise. It had been thirty years after all. As he moved around so that his back was no longer to the wall, she could tell he knew exactly how to use the weapon he kept trained on her. He had traded in a scientist’s suit for a more practical fighter’s trousers and boots, which was also not entirely unexpected – you had to adapt to life on the other side of the portal. He was clutching a child tightly to his side. Now that was very different.

“Who sent you?” Adeline’s old boss demanded.

“I – no one. What are you doing here?” The reply was unpredictable enough to cause him to falter.

“What do you mean ‘what am I doing here?’” he recovered. “This alley isn’t private property! How do you know who I am?”

A flash of annoyance shot through Addi.

“I’m sorry? The person you built the first ever interdimensional portal on Earth with has escaped your memory?”

The girl next to Stanford gasped. “Mr McGucket? How did you find us? Wait a minute, you look a little different.” She frowned critically at the athletic blonde woman.

Now completely nonplussed, Addi stared again at Stanford. He looked no less hostile, but there was some confusion on his face now, too. How could he not know her? There was no way in the multiverse that she would ever forget –

The answer hit her like lightning.

“Multiverse.” She cursed. “You’re not from my dimension, are you?” Their blank looks were enough of an answer.

Bitter disappointment coursed through her. It was stupid to think that. Stupid to think she would ever catch a break, that something would go right for once. Stupid to hope there might be a way home.

Angrily swallowing a lump in her throat, she stowed away Big Bertha. She wanted nothing more than to just talk to this version of her old friend a little while longer. However, Stanford was not about to let down his guard and decide to trust a complete stranger on nothing but their word that they were friends in another dimension. Especially not if he had a kid to look out for.

She stared at him a moment longer before turning away. Every step crushed her.

⃝

Mabel felt Ford relax his grip on her only after the woman had walked away, leaving behind a tight apology.

“She had a cool sword,” she remarked.

Ford nodded his agreement. “It was very unique,”

“Who d’ya think she was? She seemed kinda sad,”

“I have no idea. However, I think we can rule out Fiddleford McGucket,”

“Yep. No southern charm at all.” Mabel shook her head.

Ford made an amused sound. “Let’s get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow,”

“I bet I can bring in more money than you,”

⃝

“How are you doing that?” Ford exclaimed in amazement.

The brightness of the crowded market square was such a contrast to the gloom and quiet of the night before that Mabel might have believed they’d fallen onto another planet – that is, if the sensation of going through portals wasn’t impossible to ignore.

She was sitting on the countertop of one of the gambling stalls, playing a game with the owner while Ford stood beside her and watched. As far as she could tell, she’d won the last eight rounds and the owner was getting antsy.

“I have no idea!” she replied happily. “No really, I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

“Well, you have a talent for it.” Ford scooped their winnings into a pocket. That coat of his never seemed to run out of space.

“Uh huh. Grunkle Stan taught me well,” This time there was only a slight tremble in her voice when she mentioned home. She was getting better.

The stall owner made a frustrated sound. Ford quickly thanked him and took Mabel’s hand, heading into the crowds. Mabel waved a goodbye, but the large, red, five-armed being only glared.

“I don’t think that guy liked me winning all that money off him,” she said slightly nervously. Ford tightened his grip on her hand when he looked back and saw the gambler examining the dice Mabel had been using.

“Let’s get out of here quickly. Gamblers don’t like to lose, and I have seen some accuse their opponents of swindling them simply as an excuse to take back their money. You don’t want to know what they do to the actual cheaters,”

A cold feeling of dread settled in the pit of Mabel’s stomach. Unfortunately, her uncle noticed her unusual silence and looked down at her. She was too late to wipe the guilty expression from her face. Ford’s eyebrows shot up.

“You were cheating?” he said in disbelief.

Mabel swallowed. “Um … I think so?”

An enraged roar from behind them was followed by the sound of thundering footsteps.

“RUN!” Ford shouted, shoving her forwards while drawing his gun. “Get back to the al-”

He was tackled by a murderously snarling blur of red, all six orange eyes fixed on Mabel. Heart in her mouth, she sprinted away. The sound of Ford’s laser gun thinned out the crowd like magic.

Why the heck had she cheated? It had been so easy, sure, but she was usually fine without it. What had she been thinking? What if Ford couldn’t take that guy, what if he got hurt, what if –

Her breath was hitching in her chest and terror was pumping through her veins. She’d been running for a while, and oh no, she couldn’t stop now, she needed to get help, but she didn’t know anyone –

She skidded around a corner and collapsed to her knees, looking around wildly. If she just asked, someone was bound to help, right? She looked desperately around the new square she was in, but no one seemed to care about the gasping kid on the ground or the sounds of laser fire coming from a few blocks over, sweet Moses she could use a familiar face …

With a startled “HEY!” she saw one.

Mabel crashed into the blonde woman’s side, succeeding in getting her attention but failing Step Two in that she could only cough and cling desperately to her sleeve.

“Kid? Are you alright? Where’s Stanford?”

Still valiantly trying to retake control of her lungs, Mabel gestured helplessly towards the sounds of yelling and gunfire. The woman seemed to understand immediately. She drew her sword and took off running, Mabel right behind her.

They arrived just in time to see Ford get thrown against a wall.

⃝

Various swear words swam through Ford’s mind, echoed vehemently by his aching body. He could taste blood, and purple flashes were obscuring his vision. His ears were ringing. He also could not get his legs under him in order to stand up. The dislocated shoulder though, he could feel clearly.

The gambler, now in possession of Ford’s gun, levelled it at him.

Shit.

He reached for a piece of rubble with his good arm, which, if thrown, might just be enough to injure and/or distract the man while he got to his feet …

Yes. All his other attacks so far had failed but if he used a rudimentary projectile –

The treacherous thought did not get the chance to go to completion. Sword flashing, a tall blonde woman stepped between them just as the red giant fired, although instead of the laser burning straight into her it … fragmented. It seemed to break before it reached her, into pieces that dissipated in the air.

Not seeming to believe his eyes, something Ford could not blame him for, the attacker fired again, only for the same thing to happen. With that, a physical hand-to-sword assault was attempted.

Mabel crouched down in front of him, blocking the view.

“Grunkle Ford! Oh my gosh, are you okay? I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen! I’m gonna get you out of here, I promise,”

Unable to coherently reply, Ford was forced to make like a sack of potatoes and have his good arm slung around his twelve-year-old niece’s shoulders while the rest of him was heaved halfway off the ground. He was impressed Mabel managed to do even that much. An absurdly-timed flicker of pride blew through him.

While trying to coerce his legs into taking some of his weight, Ford found himself facing the fight. Blearily, he watched as the woman fended off a blow with one hand, her sword somehow not breaking under the impact of the being’s punch, but also failing to penetrate his skin, just as lasers had.

“Wait!” she called out sharply. She made a quick signal with her free hand. After a tense moment, the red gambler lowered his fists and walked away, all hostility disappearing like smoke. Breathing a sigh of relief, the woman turned and hurried towards them.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her hazel eyes meeting Ford’s as she pulled his dislocated arm around her shoulders.

With an agonised groan, Ford thought that it would be acceptable to now fall into unconsciousness.

[secretlystephaniebrown]

Time’s Running Out: Delta

Gah, sorry for the delay on this chapter; things got a bit hectic. I ended up writing a surprise AU. Thanks everyone who left a comment! You guys are the best <3

Summary: The Reds and Blues; and their respective Freelancers, find themselves stranded on a strange planet named Chorus. Secrets, lies, and the unexpected seem to lie around every corner, and there might be even larger threats looming over the horizon.

They’re possibly even less ready for Chorus than Chorus is for them.

Pairings: Lots of friendships, Suckington, Yorkalina, Chex, eventual Yorkimbalina, possible others.

Start

Previous

Next

Ao3

Church fucked up, okay?

He knew that.

He knew, in his bones, that the crash was his fault, somehow. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d been poking about in the ship’s systems, trying to figure shit out, because hey, what was the point of being a kickass AI if he couldn’t digitally snoop sometimes, and before he knew it, all the alarms were going off, and the ship was crashing.

And now everything had gone to hell.

It had taken them days to bury the bodies, and those were just the bodies on their part of the ship. Tex and Carolina (and Epsilon, Church admitted begrudgingly) were out of range by now, and the entire world had become a canyon again. But it was hard to concentrate. Tex was gone, and there was that terror, that never-ending, constant terror that he still got every time Tex was too far away, the fear that she was gone, and never coming back, and it was worse because she was with Carolina, and what if they both didn’t come back and—

It was a vicious spiral. Church got caught in it a lot, these days. York wasn’t even around and Church felt fucking awful about that, because it was his fault, and if something had happened to York, Delta and Tex and Carolina would be fucking upset, and it wasn’t like Church even liked the guy. But the others would be upset.

It was awful.

And then he fucked up again.

He yelled at Caboose, because Caboose still couldn’t tell the difference between him and Epsilon half the time, and insisted on talking with Church about all the fun adventures he’d had with Epsilon, and all it made Church want to do was scream. Because they weren’t the same,  he hadn’t torn up Wash’s brain for kicks, he hadn’t implanted in Carolina—he’d never implanted in anyone, not really, because he’d been torn to shreds before he’d gotten the chance—and he hadn’t listened to Caboose telling fairy tales for hours and hours on end while lurking in a containment unit.

And so he’d yelled, and Caboose had gone all awful and quiet, which was the worst, and then Caboose had disappeared, and Church had been looking all day, and there was no sign of him. He’d even checked Red Base, and dealt with Grif and Simmons being idiots arguing about something stupid like laundry.

And Tucker and Wash were fighting too, always yelling about bullshit like drills, and sometimes Kai got in it too, so there was no peace at Blue Base, and even worse was the makeup sex, and it was obnoxious and ridiculous and…

He missed Tex. This shit would be a lot more bearable with her.

And then, when he finally found Caboose, it turned out that Caboose had replaced him. With a giant, angry, killer robot.

“Hey,” Tucker said practically. “At least this version of you can do shit. Like Epsilon, when he was in that laser-ball thing!”

Church didn’t look at him. “Shut the fuck up, Tucker.”

“Dude, seriously, why do you care? You’re always the one that says that you don’t like him. It happens every fucking time. You can’t wait to get away from him, but the second he finds a new best friend, you get all sulky and jealous.”

“I don’t hate him!” Church snapped.

“Sure. But what do you want to bet he knows that, when it finally sinks into that thick head of his that you don’t want to spend time with him? He’s not a mind reader, dude. And you’re pretty hard to read.”

Church didn’t even have anything to say to that.

They get the news when they’re raiding one of the strange bases that the pirates seem to flock too.

They picked up a healing unit at the base—it’s similar to York’s, but shiny and new and more efficient. Mass produced, streamlined, and although an AI helped, it wasn’t necessary.

These people weren’t just dealing in Freelancer equipment. They were experimenting and improving on it.

That was… worrying.

Carolina turned it over in her hand; they had torched the rest of the shipment, but this one remained. “Should we… bring it back to the others?” She said tentatively. “I know Kaikaina had that broken leg…”

Tex frowned and tried to do the math. “She’s… probably better by now,” she said. “Besides, there’s not much danger for them in that canyon. You’ll need it, if things go south for us.”

Carolina nodded. “Would it even help you?”

There was still a tension in the air, at the reminder that Tex wasn’t quite human. They still were dancing around the subject—all of the subjects, really. York, the Director, their own partnership… all of them were surrounded with a lot of question marks, and Tex wasn’t sure how to even begin to address them.

But they were fighting well together now, slowly learning each other the way that Tex had learned to fight with York and Wash, previously. Now it was easy, the two of them working together like a deadly, well-oiled machine.

“Never needed it enough to try,” Tex said. She cleaned her gun again; a nervous habit, if AI could get those. One jam in a lifetime was more than enough. Tex couldn’t afford to get sloppy, not when she had a partner with fleshy, vulnerable bits. Even an AI and an armor enhancement couldn’t help a sniper shot—

Tex pushed aside the thoughts of that dark, alternate world. Years had passed. York was still alive. Worrying did nothing to help.

“How much further to Crash Site Alpha, Epsilon?” Carolina asked.

“Straight shot? Another day or so. But…”

“More pirates?” Tex said, looking up. “They’re concentrated here, aren’t they?”

“I think so,” Epsilon said, hovering above Carolina’s shoulder.

Carolina tapped her fingers against the wall. “Do we know what we’d be dealing with at the next base?”

“Nope,” Epsilon said. “Don’t have anything on this server.”

“Hang on,” Carolina said suddenly. “Did you hear that?”

Tex flicked her eyes towards a nearby screen. “It’s from there,” she said, reaching over to turn up the volume.

It was localized radio chatter, close enough to be picked up by the pirate’s equipment.

“I can’t believe it,” a deep voice said. “Private Harris!”

“General Kimball will be tho excited to meet him!”

“I thought the Reds and Blues were like, a bedtime story,” another voice scoffed.

There were several horrified gasps at that, but Tex didn’t hear any of them.

“He’s alive,” Tex breathed.

“Kimball…” Carolina said distantly. “She’s the leader of the New Republic, right?”

Tex shrugged.

“That’s right,” Epsilon said, because he was a know-it-all at heart. “Vanessa Kimball.”

“Well, we’ll keep an ear out,” Carolina said.

Tex blinked. “You don’t want to go check on him?”

Carolina’s hand clenched into a fist. “He’s okay,” she said softly. “And the pirates…”

“Have the equipment,” Tex finished. She looked at the healing unit in the middle of the table, and spun it like a top. It spun a few times then fell onto its side. “We’re in deep shit here, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” Carolina agreed with a sigh. “If Kimball’s interested in the Reds and Blues, she’ll go fetch the others soon enough. They’ll all be in one place.”

Tex nodded. “Well. I guess if we’re no longer headed for Alpha…”

“We can check out that mountain base that was too far off,” Carolina said.

Tex cracked her knuckles. “Sounds like fun,” she said.

Shit was really, really fucked.

That was a fucking scientific term, Tucker was pretty fucking sure about that.

Stranded in a canyon after a ship crash was sucky at the best of times, but Tucker had figured hey! At least he had his kickass boyfriend and girlfriend to keep him company.

But he hadn’t factored in a lot of things. Like the crash convincing Wash that they were all about to die again, so he was pushing Tucker harder than ever. And Kai’s leg was still healing, so she couldn’t even help take some of the attention off Tucker. Which like, on the one hand was kind of sexy, the intense way Wash kept pushing him, his hands on Tucker’s body as he corrected Tucker’s stances, but it was also brutal, and not in the kind of bow-chicka-bow-wow way.

And on top of that, Church was pissy and fighting with Caboose, because even after all these years, Church still didn’t know how to handle him.

The Epsilon thing was confusing at the best of times, sure, and Caboose was easily confused…

But Church was still being a bitch about the whole thing, and what was worse is that the guy knew it.

So really, when Caboose responded to the whole situation by bringing home a killer robot with an even bigger boner for the chain of command than Wash, Sarge, and Simmons combined, it really was just the cherry on the shit sundae.

“Wash,” Tucker said, sitting next to Wash, Kai leaning on Wash’s shoulder. Even between the two of them, Tucker could feel that Wash was tense. “Wash, nothing bad is going to happen. Just watch, Tex and Carolina will be back soon, and York’s gonna be with them, and you’ll help them kick the robot’s ass, and things will go back to normal.”

“We should have been found by now,” Wash said, staring at the sky. “We should have been found by now, and they should have been back by now, and we still can’t get a call out—why aren’t you worried?”

“Because you’re here, duh,” Tucker said. “You’ll look after us. Like you always have.”

Wash let out a little broken laugh. “Tucker…”

“We’ll be fine,” Tucker insisted. “Look, I get it. The crash fucking sucked and a lot of people got hurt.”

“You two got hurt,” Wash said fiercely.

“We got hurt,” Kai said. “And like, it fucking sucks because I can’t my ping-pong ball trick with my leg in this cast and I know you missed Tucker’s right hand even more than he did but like, we’re still here. We’re still together, which means that as soon as I get out of this itchy thing I’m gonna fuck you so many ways.”

“Fuck yeah,” Tucker said, reaching over to high five her. Kai grinned at him, and Tucker decided there had been enough sulking and climbed onto Wash’s lap to kiss him, tugging the helmet off.

“Dude,” Tucker said, dropping his forehead against Wash’s. “You’ve got us. We’ve got you. That’s how it works, remember?”

“… right,” Wash said, and then he caught Tucker’s face in his hands, kissing him gently. “Right.”

A few days later, Wash was in the crosshairs of a sniper. It was only luck and Felix that kept Wash alive, and Tucker nearly vomited at the thought of it.

Maybe Wash had a point about training after all, Tucker thought, his blood pounding in his ears as he glared up at Locus and tried to think of how he was going to hurt him for trying to kill Wash.

What a fucking creep.

Church hated Felix, and Tucker wasn’t even remotely surprised.

Kai flirted with him, and again, Tucker wasn’t surprised. If he wasn’t so distracted with keeping an eye on Wash (he switched back to grey armor for some reason, and he wouldn’t give Tucker or Kai a straight answer about why, which was driving them both up the wall), he might have even joined her on that front. Felix hadn’t taken off his helmet, but the guy had a decent voice and Kai was… well, Kai. Hot voices were a huge part of it for her.

“Seriously Tucker,” Church said, giving Felix a proper stink-eye from across the canyon. Tucker was pretty sure that if they’d had milk, it would have curdled by now. “Something’s off about that guy.”

“Church, when was the last time you liked someone we met?” Tucker asked, rolling his eyes. “You hated York. You hated Wash. You hate Epsilon.”

“I liked Carolina!” Church protested, crossing his arms.

“Carolina’s like, your sister or some shit, and you remembered her from Freelancer,” Tucker argued. “She doesn’t count.”

“She totally counts!”

“Church!” Tucker snapped. “The guy saved Wash’s life. If that’s not a good guy move, I don’t know what is!”

Church let out a scoffing noise. “This civil war’s not our problem,” he muttered.

“Did you hear any of us disagreeing? Fuck that noise man, we’ll get out of here as soon as we meet up with Carolina and Tex.”

“And York,” Church added reluctantly. Tucker wanted to laugh. Even now, Church was still grumpy about admitting that he might like the guy. Then again, Church hated admitting he liked anyone. It was like pulling teeth to even get him to admit to liking Tucker, and the guy was practically his best friend.

Tucker elbowed him in the side. “We probably should get ready,” he said quietly. “You heard Felix. Locus is coming back. With an army.”

“You know, I really hate snipers. They’re such dicks.”

“Dude, you literally refuse to let anyone else carry the sniper rifle.”

“Fuck.”

Kimball almost couldn’t believe it when she got the call.

They’d heard the story, of course—the Reds and Blues, the heroes who had brought down Project Freelancer.

And they’d landed on their planet.

Private Harris, she knew from glancing at the article, was a member of the Red Team. Jensen told her he had one eye, and had a bad concussion. So bringing him back to base was slow work. Felix beat him back by a day, and she sent him to the located second crash site to recover the others right away, not wanting to waste any time.

Matthews had said that there had been Feds at the scene, who had killed the other survivors.

Felix had returned with Andersmith, Palomo, and the other two survivors. Beatrice Martinez and Jessica Nguyen; two soldiers with actual skills that could be of some use. A mechanic and a pilot. Kimball knew they’d gotten very, very lucky.

And, from what Nguyen and Martinez were saying, Harris was a large part of that luck.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Martinez said. “Dumbass, don’t get me wrong, but he got us out of that ship. If those Feds had caught us in there, it probably would’ve been a kill box.” She made a finger gun with her left hand. “Bang. That Locus guy’s one hell of a shot.”

“He is,” Kimball agreed, trying not to seem too impatient as she waited for Harris to arrive himself.

Jensen was driving, which made Kimball wince, but they’d all made it back in one piece, so she probably hadn’t been driving for that long.

Harris held his helmet on his lap, and as he got out of the vehicle, Kimball could see why. The visor had been completely destroyed, jagged edges the only thing that remained. The scar over his bad eye was old, but it was clear the sight was mostly gone. He must be thrown off balance, without the HUD of his helmet to help him compensate for it, she realized. She’d have to get someone to help him with repairs or acquiring a new one. The rest of his armor was a dusty, tan color.

“You must be General Kimball,” he said easily, saluting. “Private Nick Harris.”

“Just Kimball,” she said, reaching out to take his hand instead. Pausing, he shook it, but there was a lift to his eyebrow that told her he considered the choice odd. “It’s good to meet you.”

He grinned at her, wide and confident in a way that meant that he thought he was charming.

“Would you walk with me? You probably need to have that concussion checked out,” she said.

“Oh I’m—” he stopped and made a face. “Good point,” he said.

She smiled to herself. Not used to actually admitting he needed assistance, it seemed.

“Felix went ahead to retrieve the rest of your friends,” she said, as they started to make their way through camp. Everywhere, her people were pointing and whispering, fascinated by what they were seeing.

There was a faint buzz in the air that Kimball could feel, and it made her hold her own head just a bit higher.

Hope.

Harris paused. “Felix went on ahead?” He said, sounding slightly faint.

“Yes…” she said, puzzled by his reaction.

He shook his head. “I just—some of the guys are paranoid, that’s all. I just hope your guy has fast reflexes!”

“He’s very good at what he does,” Kimball said, reassuringly as she could.

“I’m sure,” Harris nodded, giving her a slight grin. “So, uh, was everyone there? Is everyone okay?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “The reports mentioned several of them, but not all, but I’m afraid it was short and to the point. They didn’t stick around to observe for very long. Locus was spotted in the area.”

“Locus?” Harris said, and there was something off about his voice. “Like the armor?”

“He’s another mercenary,” Kimball said, pretending that the thick knot of dread in her stomach whenever she thought of that murderer didn’t coil tighter. “He works for the Federal Army.”

“The people you guys are fighting?”

“That’s right.” She paused. “He’s probably the one who killed the rest of your group.”

Harris bowed his head. “Jesus.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly.

He shook his head. “We were lucky to get off that ship,” he said quietly. “Guess luck can’t stretch forever, huh?”

Despite his words, there was a hollow look on his face. He’d lost people before. This was just one more blow, one more loss, more people he’d failed.

Kimball knew that feeling very well. She had to stop herself from reaching out. He didn’t know her. He wouldn’t want comfort from a stranger.

“Can Felix take this Locus guy?” He asked abruptly. “I mean, if he was seen in the area…”

“Felix has a lot of experience with Locus,” Kimball said. “They fought together in the War. From what he’s said… they used to work together. But something changed.”

Harris nodded. “War tends to do that,” he said, with a levity that was so blatantly false that Kimball almost wanted to laugh.

“Do you want me to see if we can requisition you a new helmet?” She asked him. “When your friends are here we can discuss things further.”

He shook his head. “If you can scrape up a few parts, I’ll fix this one myself. I’m pretty fond of it. And no offense, but your guys’ style doesn’t match my color scheme.”

She couldn’t help the small laugh that broke out at that. “I’m sure,” she said. “I’ll see you later, Harris.”

He offered her another grin, but somehow this one felt… solider.

“Same to you, General.”

The battle was chaotic on the surface, but in reality it was perfectly controlled.

Disposing of a portion of the Federal soldiers sent to accompany him was easy, and replacing them with the pirates was easier still. It was imperative the Red and Blue soldiers survive, after all.

Locus had watched them through the scope of his sniper rifle, and wondered.

Who were these men—and woman? What hidden skills did they possess, so that they had survived so many misadventures.

In the end, Locus supposed it did not matter. They would all be dead soon enough. They would die with this planet. But Locus could not help but wonder if it would be possible to get answers out of them before they died. Washington in particular intrigued him; the sole Freelancer remaining in the canyon. Agents Carolina and Texas were missing—Felix had not been able to get a clear answer about their location, only that they were not present, and unlikely to return.

Locus took aim at Washington.

The man went down hard, and Locus heard the aqua soldier yell. The level of attachment in this unit was ludicrous.

Felix began to herd the ones still standing towards the exit. Over the radio, he heard Felix demanding explosives. It was time to begin cleaning up.

Locus decloaked and began to move towards the rebel soldiers who were guarding the fallen simulation troopers. Franklin Delano Donut, the robot known as Lopez, the man called only “Sarge”, and, most curiously of all, a blue soldier who answered to “Church”. A name oddly similar to the deceased Director of Project Freelancer.

He snapped the neck of one rebel, knowing fully well that the simulation troopers who would be with the New Republic soon were watching him. They would fear him, and this fear would fuel their need to reunite with their teammates. It worked best. Intimidation was a tactic like any other, and one that Locus was used to using.

Finally, he made his way towards the place where Agent Washington had fallen. The man was on his knees, being helped to his feet by the woman in yellow—Kaikaina Grif. She looked at him, desperately trying to help Washington up, but refusing to flee herself. Foolish.

Locus did not waste a bullet or a shot from his concussive rifle. Instead, he lashed out with his foot, taking advantage of her vulnerable position helping Washington. She fell to the ground hard as his foot connected with her chest, and Locus moved past Washington, slamming his rifle against her helmet to knock her unconscious.

“Kai!” Washington shouted. Apparently Washington was as susceptible to attachment as the rest of the soldiers. Unfortunate. He’d expected better from a Freelancer.

Locus turned towards Washington, mentally weighing the pros and cons of leaving the man alive. As a Freelancer, Control would understand if Locus said that killing Washington was necessary.

Washington was leaning heavily against the crude barricade they had constructed, staring over Locus’s shoulder, towards Kaikaina Grif and the cave in the distance, where the others were making their escape. His hand curled around the edge of the wall, so tightly that the material crumpled slightly in his hands.

“Freckles!” Washington yelled, his voice surprisingly strong despite his head injury. “Shake!”

Before Locus could move, could do anything to try to destroy the robot, the machine let out a bizarre noise, and slammed a leg down towards the earth, causing a tremor powerful enough to collapse the tunnel the rebels were using.

There was screaming from the direction of the caves—one of the other simulation troopers was protesting Washington’s decision.

Locus was nearly incredulous, but it did not matter. The separation was complete. The fact that it had been Washington’s decision when to do so instead of Felix’s made no difference, in the end. The split had already been decided by then. The only thing that might have changed was the possibility of one of the others being caught in the rock slide.

A message from Felix, however, quickly contradicted that.

An admirable attempt, to be sure. Washington was going to be… interesting.  

Now there was only one thing to do.

“Call for back up,” Locus ordered the Federal soldiers who had survived the battle, before slamming his gun against Washington’s face, causing the man to crumple to the ground.

“We have five survivors in need of immediate assistance,” one of the men said, voice shaky. “I repeat, we have five survivors in need of immediate assistance.”

Private Church, Private Donut, Private Grif, the Sergeant, and Agent Washington. Lopez spared no glance for the two robots, both of which were broken into parts.

“Make sure the docs are ready. He really did a number on them.” Locus was not supposed to hear that part, clearly, but he was distracted by Washington stirring. The man, it seemed, was determined not to stay down.

“Kai?” The man was struggling to sit up, to turn towards where Kaikaina Grif had fallen.

“She's not dead. ...Not yet,” Locus said. He wondered how would Washington react to her death. Through his scope, he had seen… moments, between the two of them. He suspected that Agent Washington’s feelings might not be platonic in nature.

“No,” Washington struggled upwards, as if he thought he could prevent a threat against her in his weakened state.

“I warned you, Agent Washington,” Locus said, moving closer. He nudged Washington with his foot, and the man gasped in pain. Broken or cracked ribs. “I gave you a choice. But you chose to fight.” He fingered the trigger of his gun, considering if the man was more trouble than he was worth. “… I admire that decision,” he said, finally, as he made up his mind. The man had a concussion. And given the sensitive nature of the Freelancer implants, that might be enough. Anything more, and Control would have questions.

“Fuck—you—monster,” Washington growled. Every sound cost him, his breathing ragged, his chest rising and falling far too rapidly. He had sustained other injuries during the fight.  

Locus shook his head. “No. I'm not a monster. I'm a soldier. Like you.”

He moved away to check on the others, and he heard Washington groan again as he passed out.

It was time to begin a new chapter of this game.

At least Locus’s role did not involve old acquaintances, Locus thought, glancing at the message from Felix in the corner of his helmet, ranting again about the presence of “Private Harris”.

A soldier did not think about could-have-beens, Locus reminded himself as he pressed his fingers against Franklin Donut’s pulse. But things would have been simpler had the crash gone according to plan.

[neptunecreek]

Five Tips for Nonprofits to Avoid Virtual Fatigue

Dance Off Energizer on Zoom

It is uncertain exactly when we will be able to work together in our offices, although it is clear that our work will involve primarily digital connections with others for a while longer   While the cloud of the global health and financial crisis are weighing on us, the technology we are using as our life line is prompting a new ailment – exhaustion.  Now more than ever we must create a robust workplace culture and stronger relationships to retain our humanness.

Why Remote Work Is Exhausting

We have shifted to digital-mediated interactions for almost everything in our lives. In the virtual workplace, being on video conference meetings and communicating via online collaboration platforms takes more energy than working face-to-face. Virtual work can easily zap our energy and drain our emotions bringing on a type of malaise called “Virtual or Zoom Fatigue.” 

Experts point to several reasons why we are feeling a loss of vitality, productivity, and wellbeing in our virtual workplaces:

Online-mediated interaction and communications deprive us a full sensory experience as we are only limited to audio and visual experiences (when using video conferences) or just text. We also don’t have a full understanding of the context. This can make the experience lonely. (Psychology Today – Sherry Turkle, Alone Together)

When we communicate through a video conference screen, there is a 1.2 second delay.  This makes people perceive that the other person is less friendly or focused. Silence on video calls makes us anxious about the technology compared to natural pauses that happen during in-person communication.   (BBC – Gianpiero Petriglieri) 

Hyper self-awareness occurs when we are forced to view our own faces while we are interacting with others. We are not used to conversations with another person while we are staring in a mirror.  We are not able to be in the moment with that other person. It feels like there is a wall between us and others.  We also feel self-conscious about our appearance. (Jeremy Bailenson, Virtual Human Interaction Lab – WSJ) 

There is “non-verbal overload” because video conference platforms require us to engage in behavior ordinarily reserved for close relationships—such as long stretches of seeing close ups of people’s faces—has suddenly become the way we interact with casual acquaintances, coworkers and even strangers.  (Jeremy Bailenson, Virtual Human Interaction Lab – WSJ) 

The inability to create a variety of different contexts in our lives including different social roles, relationships, activities and goals.  When these aspects are reduced, people feel more vulnerable to negative feelings.  (Self-Complexity Theory – BBC – Gianpiero Petriglieri)

Social anxiety for some because we are opening up our homes, our personal spaces, in professional contexts (although this can be mitigated with the use of background images or being off camera) (Axios)

Because we are not in full view of each other compared to face-to-face meetings, it is harder to pay attention because we are tempted to multi-task (reply to emails, etc)  (Theory of Zoom Fatigue)

Loss of physical cues like your office conference room, appropriate physical contact (handshake or hug), other things to look at besides each other’s faces.  We are also sensory deprived of smell and touch.  (Steve Blank – Zoom Reminds of What is Missing To Be Human)

Five Tips to Make Virtual Work Less Exhausting

 If your virtual meetings ignore the relational and human aspects, work can feel transactional, boring and lead to disengagement and fatigue.  These type of interactions can improve your team’s engagement and general morale, leading to improved productivity. 

Incorporate Energizers In Your Meetings

Fatigue sets in when we are sitting and listening, not interacting or moving.  In face-to-face meetings, you can feel the energy in the room drop when people get tired by watching their body language or engagement falls off. It is harder to judge on a video call, so establish rituals on doing mini meeting energizers (brief body or playful breaks (no more than 3 minutes) that help shift the energy.  

One of my go to energizers on zoom is “Catch the Stretch,” where you encourage people to stretch and follow one person’s stretch who can call another person for everyone to copy.   It is a fun activity that gets a few laughs, people moving, and replenishes energy.

My absolute favorite, which comes from Katy Grennier, DSIL Global,  is the dance off that can be done on a video conference platform. You have people raise a hand and flatten it in view of the screen.  That is the dance floor. Then the other hand because the dancer on the dance floor using two fingers.   Adding some music makes it more fun.  Here’s a list of dance music.  (Everybody Dance Now or These Boots Were Made for Walking are tunes that I have used recently that made everyone dance).  (see the photo at the top)

Need so more ideas for energizers, check out this list from Dancing With Markers.

Simulate the Office Water Cooler or Open Door Policy

In our offices, we have many opportunities for serendipitous connections for informal communication both non-work and work-related.  These might happen while walking the halls, in the break room or by the water cooler. In fact, it is called “The Water Cooler Effect.”  This where new ideas may be hatched or cross-department pollination occurs.

Incorporate water cooler conversations into your virtual collaboration space. If you are using Slack, you could set up a channel called the “Water Cooler” for this. (Include a photograph of your office common space or actual water color pinned to the top of the channel). Alternately, If you are using Zoom, set up a personal room that is open 24/7 for people to drop into.

Some teams also establish “drop in or open door times,” the real world equivalent of popping your head into a colleague’s office to ask a quick question. These interactions could be distracting or annoying if you don’t establish norms. One way to handle it is to set up “open door” times (on Slack you can customize the slack status message).  These can be useful for 1:1 check-ins.  

The pandemic has inspire  a new breed of online collaboration apps that facilitate drop in video chatting for serendipitous conversations that your team might want to test.

Meeting Check-In or Check-Out Rituals As Part of Standing Meeting

The easiest way to integrate team building activities is to create a ritual of meeting check-ins or check-outs.  These are typically brief (10-15 minutes) simple, low risk activities that are not related to the work at hand, but an opportunity for people to get to know each other as humans.  These are not therapy sessions, but a chance to let people express how they are feeling or let off steam with some fun.

Here is a blog post that includes many ideas for check-ins, relationship building activities for teams that can used in meetings. You can think of these activities as appetizers or dessert.  If an appetizer, you set aside 10-15 minutes at the beginning to help ease into the meeting work. Or it could be done as the dessert, leaving the last 10-15 minutes of the meeting for the activity. Keep in mind not that  everyone may want to participate in these types of activities, so you can also institute the I pass protocol or if done at the end of the meeting people who don’t want to participate can leave early.  And, if you have a lot of introverts on your team, adapt the activities so they are non-verbal.

Dedicated Team Building Games

This would be a regular team meeting that is not focused on a specific work deliverable but on building trust, relationships, and social cohesion.  If you decide to do a dedicated meeting, you might schedule a 60-90 minute meeting every week or every other week depending on morale.  The team building games are all simple, even fun activities, and they will help boost your team’s engagement if designed well. 

One of my favorite sources for these types of virtual activities comes from Hassan Osman’s The Couch Manager’s Blog.  He offers three excellent activities to get started in this post.   The one I like the best is called “Two Pictures” where everyone shares 2 pictures about anything unrelated to work and spends some time sharing it with the team.  Want more ideas?  Check out the “Ultimate List of Team Building Activities.”

Virtual Meals, Coffee  and Walks Together

Before the pandemic, many nonprofits encouraged and supported informal meals or coffee together in small groups or pairs.  If you are using Slack you can use a randomizer app that selects a small group of people to each lunch together once a week. You could offer a modest budget and have each person order takeout/delivery.  One organization does this pizza!  There is also a plugin for Slack called the “Donut Bot” that randomly matches pairs for virtual coffee. 

If your team has done walking meetings before the pandemic or wants to give it a try, you can still walk together at a distance using zoom or face-to-face time. The walk could incorporate unstructured conversation or could be focused on a work topic.  Essentially, everyone loads up zoom or a messenger group on their mobile phones, and then walks around their neighborhood.   Everyone gets a triple bonus – fresh air and exercise, camaraderie, and new ideas (walking meetings are known to be valuable for improving creativity)

Virtual fatigue is likely to be with as long as we have to work from home and function as a virtual distributed workforce.  These are few tips to help your nonprofit team be more energetic, but also productive.

What ways has your nonprofit overcome virtual fatigue?

from Beth’s Blog https://ift.tt/2KOelxi

[knockoutlives]

Are You Ready To Wake Up?

It was okay to be a few minutes early but being this early was out right unfashionable. The room before him was completely empty. Oh well, he would survive this “faux pas”.  In the academic setting he rarely worried about how he appeared to others. To be clear: he was always going to look nice. Today for example, he wore a medium washed pair of Saint Laurent jeans, a pale pink button up shirt courtesy of his mother’s new fashion line, and matching gray shoes and blazer both from a Michael Kors collection.

His hair was also purposely styled to show they he gave effort but not “too much” effort. Whatever that was. He would always give a large amount of weight to his physical appearance but his social appearance tended to take a back seat when he was in the world of writing or between the walls of a school building. Here he relaxed and let his work do all the talking.

Blaise took a seat towards the back of the room and set his brown leather satchel next to him. According to his phone, he still had about twenty minutes to kill before anyone showed up. He really should have stopped for a coffee before he came. In fact, he had enough time to enjoy a good pairing of espresso and biscotti. He rarely passed up the chance to munch on a pastry coffee combo and of course today just had to be one of those occasions.

Determined not to wallow in his awkwardly earliness, he rummaged through his satchel until he emerged with an eyeglass case and a book of The Best American Essays. This class was assigned the 2016 edition as one of its required reading texts but the one Blaise held in his hands was an older edition, a little worn, from the year in which he himself was a student in his class.

 Back when he was undecided, his parents gunned for something practical like accounting or business but in his gut he knew those weren’t the right fit. It wasn’t until he thumbed through the pages of this essay book, highlighting and jotting little notes, did he realize that writing was the path he should take. It seemed fitting that on the day he turned from student to master that he would do so with this book in hand.

Blaise slid on his reading glasses and proceeded to dive into his book. The glasses were a fairly new bi-product of aging.  He was not yet thirty but his near perfect vision insisted on decaying. In the back of an abandoned lecture hall, Blaise could afford to care more about the content of his book than how dorky he looked in his new spectacles. He managed to get through a whole essay before he a vibration from his cell phone pulled him back into the real world.

 Adam Everett has uploaded a new photo to Facebook

 Blaise smirked knowingly at the notification. His cousin Adam rarely posted on social media and when he did it was usually about his budding romance with a silver haired guy named Spencer. Although he teased his cousin relentlessly about being a hopeless romantic, Blaise himself could not help rooting for two people in true love. He clicked on the notification to see the latest “Spadam” adventure.  

Once the notification was opened, several thumbnails of photos flooded the phone screen. The “new photo” of interest was actually a part of a photo set entitled “Hot Chocolate Rune Winter 5k” which contained about twelve photos. Scoff. Prior to Spencer, Adam was definitely not a photoset type of person.  Still, Blaise continued down the rabbit hole of sappiness and clicked on the first picture of the set. It was a selfie of sweaty damp haired Adam and the flawless silvered haired Spencer just after Adam finished his race. The next photo was one of Adam by himself holding his racing number and the photo after showed him just  as he was crossing the finish line. Most of the remaining photos alternated between the race itself and cute selfies of the happy couple. The second to last photo, however, featured a group picture with Adam and his friends including...Troi Bentley

Pining: An Interlude (Draft One)

ive feet away from me you stand. A goodbye on your lips you need not to utter because the remnants of the last goodbye still echo in my ears. Please stay right where you are so we can be suspended in a world in which I don’t have to watch you turn away. I don’t want to see your disappearing act again. Especially if this is the grand finale and you will never return to this stage. I do not know if I can bare to end this show. I do not know if I can bare to see you with a different leading man by your side...Five feet away from me you stand. You make it seem so far...

The words to an old piece of prose poured into Blaise’s head as he took in a picture of its muse. A refined draft of this piece appeared in his senior portfolio years ago, but the words embossed in his brain were from the original version. Blaise jotted down draft one after a particularly ominous evening with Troi Bentley. Somehow that night was not the complete end and they found themselves drifting back toward each other again and again. 

This photo of Troi and Vinny emphasized there would be no return to Troi this time. Or ever. Blaise figured their permanent ending was ultimately for the best. After all, the pining boy needed to be set free and the disappearing boy needed to go back to the one person who could make him stay and remain visible. Blaise paused on the picture for a couple of more beats until he digested this odd feeling that was not quite jealousy.

“Mr. Monroe?” A familiar female voice called for Blaise’s attention. He looked up to see Ms. Elizabeth Martin standing a few feet away from him. The perfect subject on which to purge the words that still clouded his brain.

“Five feet away from me you stand…” Blaise started, “ Please stay right where you are. Let’s stay suspended in a world in which I don’t have to watch your eyes flicker away as they allude to your impending disappearance…” He stood and walked towards her as he recited what he remembered from a slightly newer draft of his prose. When made sure to finish bridging the gap between them just as his piece also came to an end.

 Ms. Martin stared at him in contemplation until something clicked. “‘Pining: An interlude?” she asked.

 “I knew you were in love with me,” Blaise smirked. “What kind of TA can hear random lines from a student’s work and still identify the piece years later?” 

“One who has a substantial memory,” Ms. Martin retorted and turned to take her place at the podium in front of the room. Blaise went back to retrieve his items as well as to cast his reading glasses into hiding. With all his belongings properly organized, he claimed a new spot near Ms. Martin as other mentors and students began to come in.

“As I was saying, it is okay to admit you had a crush on me. You aren’t my TA anymore. I promise you won’t get in trouble.” Blaise’s teasing solicited a subtle eye roll from Ms. Martin. She was not particularly upset or annoyed as much as eye rolling felt like a perfectly natural response to Blaise’s nonsense. “C’mon Liz. You’re attractive, I’m attractive. You’re intelligent. I’m intelligent. We’ve both got the writing thing going on. It’s only natural. Let me take you out to dinner- lunch even. And if you can resist me by the end then fine we’ll still have our great working relationship.”

Ms. Martin, the multi-tasker, had been using the time during Blaise’s monologue to finalize the list of mentor/mentee pairings. She peered over at him from the list once his rambling had came to an end. “You know Mr. Monroe...I am seeing Larry.” She was sure mentioning Lawrence Fisher, a new professor within the English department with whom she went on numerous dates over the past couple of months, would force Blaise to take things down a notch. She should have known better.

“Larry, oh right. He can come too. You know I swing both ways,” he playfully winked at Ms. Martin.

“And that is my queue to get things started.” A somewhat embarrassed Ms. Martin turned her attention toward the classroom that now had full attendance. After a brief introduction and some further instructions she began to call out pairings. “Mr. Joshua Depola and Mr. Blaise Monroe…”

 Blaise smiled and scanned the room for his match. Luckily, even without a raised hand, Joshua would have stood out. There were only a few male students taking the class and no one else had such a rich orange-red set of locks. He gave a nod to acknowledge the raised hand and Ms. Martin continued to call out the pairings. But wait, had she really said Joshua Depola or was it his discovery of the unsettling picture earlier that was warping his perception. He would find out soon enough. Either way, he would also make sure to approach the kid with an open mind. It was his duty as a mentor. 

One all of the pairings were announced, Blaise collected his bag, thanked Ms. Martin for putting up with him, and headed over to where his mentee was sitting. Up close, the younger male was a little cuter than expected and had an aura of...broodiness maybe. Not to worry, Blaise encountered many broody types in his world of art and writing.

“Hi, I’m Blaise Monroe,” he introduced himself and extended his hand for a handshake. “Can I buy you a coffee? I have a good place in mind that is not too far from here.” Getting to know his mentee while sipping coffee at his favorite cafe seemed like a win-win.