#condiments are probably a good idea but sometimes you just don’t give a shit

[are-we-really-doing-this]

The way I make nachos is probably highly pathological but they always end up delicious so I don’t give a shit. Yadda yadda under cut

Blue chips, single layer on some foil, then you can put some chicken beef or shrimp it’s up to you, a chunk per chip, then ketchup, only out of one of those bbq joint style squeeze bottles that’ll get you a rail thin drizzle, drizzle liberally, whole thing under a high broiler, you gotta watch these mfs carefully and rotate the pan to make sure nothing burns, will not take you very long, when they’re tacky take em out and cover with a bunch of extra sharp cheddar, lower the broiler and put them in just long enough for the cheese to melt. Yeh.

[alittledizzy]

29 Things I Love About Dan

1. That he came out to his family via email. Aspirational.

2. Dude really, really loves his grandma.

3. That one time at a book signing when the bookstore overpromised tickets and there was a dad that was really upset because his daughter had been waiting in line so long and didn't get to meet them. The dad was just shouting at Dan and Phil and everyone else was trying to just quickly walk on but Dan stopped, turned around, and talked to the dad.

4. That he's the first person to defend someone he loves in any situation where he even perceives they're being shit upon, but in the same breath will make fun of them himself. He's the epitome of older brother attitude.

5. He spends a lot of money on clothes but then he wears what he buys every single day for a span of at least a year so he does at least get his money's worth.

6. That time on vyou when someone asked him what he looks for in a girl and his answer was the ring that fell off his hand last time that he really wants back.

7. His reaction to the Phil's wife story. I still laugh thinking about Sabrina and Lola. In the process of answering that he made a remark about how Phil leaves to go with his 'real' family and sometimes that just latches itself onto my brain. There was a similar comment during the blue/gold dress debate where Phil referenced Dan in with family and it's just... like, yeah, they're in love, they're in a relationship. But they're not just partners, they are full on out and out family to each other and that Dan found that at a time when he was so scared and felt so isolated with his own family is worth everything.

8. The depth of feeling in his voice during that one "Katie, Katie, Katie... Katie, Katie, Katie. No." liveshow answer. You know the one. He was having none of that and if Katie got verbally incinerated in the process of his answering, so be it.

9. When he'd be doing a liveshow and get on a tangent and end up talking about condiments or dips for like four minutes straight.

10. The way he never minded putting someone on blast that pissed him off but knew that it bothered Phil so he would consult with Phil first sometimes but then if the situation actually involved Phil being hurt in some way all bets were off he Was naming that trainer that made Phil puke he did not Care if Phil gave him an alias for the video Kai deserved what he got for pushing Phil too far.

11. That after a decade he still wants to impress Phil's family by doing things like cleaning before they come and making them all coffee.

12. And yet still made a cake to give to Phil in front of them that talked about wanting to see Phil's ass. The duality of man is real, indeed.

13. Nicer Internet. Young Minds. Make-a-Wish. Mermaids. He only just came into his own with being charity-minded in the last few years and I don't for a second doubt he does more privately than publicly and probably has some mental spirals about using his platform vs being accused of virtue signaling. But this is just one way I love watching him find his footing in the world as an adult with privilege.

14. He introduced an important word to my personal lexicon with Haru and I'd like the rest of the world to catch on because it's just a very specific action of lying while obviously lying and pretending you aren't lying and I love it.

15. When he was fifteen he was so in his emo kid feelings that he wanted black angel wings tattooed on his back.

16. That little tune he'd hum when he was trying to space out thoughts during liveshows.

17. That somehow he beat all the odds and is best friends with the first person he subscribed to (Bryony) and in a relationship with his teenage self's favorite youtuber (Phil, obviously). Teenage Dan had a really shit time of almost everything but in that one specific 'meet your idols' area he was truly blessed with all of the luck.

18. "All I can taste is cherry, all I can smell is cherry, all I can hear is cherry and all I can feel is cherry. Can't really see much though."

19. The fact that he owned up to previous bad takes and opinions and deleted old videos and tweets.

20. Litralee.

21. They originally wanted Phil to run the board at the radio show but he did such a bad job of it after the first episode that they gave it to Dan instead, and I think for someone with zero radio work experience or training Dan did an amazing job. He may spend a lot of time doubting himself but when a spotlight is on him he's clever and confident and adapts quickly.

22. The way when he says 'at all' he still sounds like his five year old self.

23.  That he tried to run the marathon last year, and didn't, and tried again this year. When you're someone that fears judgement for your failures and knows everything you do is scrutinized by a very large audience - not just fans but people waiting for you to fail so they can report on that, too - sharing in that way seems like it would be really hard. It was shit luck that he couldn't run it this year either but I have faith he's gonna cross that finish line because the man Dan Howell has turned into goes after what he wants and fuck what anyone else thinks or expects of him.

24. That one liveshow they did without pants. You know that was Dan's idea. Phil is a respectable young man who does not go live on the internet to thousands of people in just his underwear. But Dan? Dan would. Dan does. And Dan is a terrible blerson.

25. That in a video to ten million people he said with his whole chest that his relationship with Phil made him feel safe for the first time since he was a small child. And like, yeah, sure, I'm infatuated with their relationship so it made me happy on a personal level. But beyond that; putting words to things is clearly not easy for Dan. It took him decades to acknowledge he was gay to himself. It took decades plus a little to tell his family. Sometimes it doesn't matter how much people know things, giving it a label is fucking scary and I think his fear of labeling his relationship with Phil (to the public) felt like a different kind of exposure than just his sexuality and he still faced them both.

26. He clearly has a very complicated relationship with his parents and family in general but that one story he told about being young and on holiday to Disneyland Paris and his mum is terrified of roller coasters but went on one with him like six times because she didn't want him to be alone. I'm glad through all the badness and doubt and fear he's had at how conditional his parents' love might be, that he had those good memories as well.

27. It was Dan that coined the phrase 'post-baking universe.' He's very aware of the stages of their life and his growth and he shares that self-awareness with the viewers even if he doesn't share all the depth of reasoning behind them. (He also coined the term 'phan' but in that instance I think uhh he didn't know what he was doing so.)

28. That he's learned better coping mechanisms than lashing out online. That he's got therapy now and the option for medication when he needs it. That depression doesn't go away but he knows he has options and support now.

29. He's given us almost a decade of content to watch and rewatch and enjoy and view through the different lights of his growth and our own growth, and who knows what the future will hold.

Okay, last minute addition - we'll call it one to grow on:

30. That Starcourt selfie.

[deans-baby-momma]

Wounded Hearts 1

Summary: When John Winchester leaves his two high school-aged sons in a motel in Fairfax IN while he goes off on a hunt, they both make friends. What happens after they have to suddenly leave when John comes to fetch them? Will those friendships endure? Does Dean leave a piece of his soul behind?

Word Count: 3,635

A/N: This is a sequel to Past Haunts, but it’s mostly what happened in the thirteen years between high school and when Sam and Dean return to take care of a haunting in their old stomping grounds of Truman High. The first couple of chapters will be mainly Dean’s POV and then after that, each chapter will switch from Dean’s POV to Rebecca’s POV. I will label them appropriately.

October 14,  1996   Dean’s POV

I watch with pride as Sammy schools some kid. My brother might not look like much but he can fight. I guess all the times sparring with Dad and I have paid off. He gets a few good punches in before laying the bully out. I smile widely as Sam tells the kid that he’s not tough, he is just a jerk. The crowd begins chanting ‘Dirk the Jerk’.

One of the onlookers turns to walk away and slams right into me. I look down to see a girl from a couple of my classes. It takes me a minute to remember her name. Rebecca. Rebecca Quentin.

The blush on her cheeks and the way she pushes her hair behind her ears is adorable as hell! She looks down at the ground after she apologizes but I’ve got to tell her it’s okay. No harm, no foul.

“Hey Rebecca, right?”

I get a glimpse of what a spitfire she is, when I accidentally call her ‘honey’.

“I’m not your honey, Dean!” she rages and honestly it is cute as fuck! 

I smile and try to make up for my obvious mistake. “Listen, Becks,” I begin and cringe at another faux pas. ‘Dammit Dean keep it together.’ “Is it alright if I call you that?”

I sigh and relax when she nods her head that the nickname is okay.

“We got off on the wrong foot. Let me make it up to you. We can go get a bite to eat.” She looks like she is about to reject my offer so I quickly counter. “I’ll even bring my little brother so it won’t look like a date. If that’s what you’re afraid of.” 

When she agrees I can practically feel my heart rate pick up. This girl is beautiful with her gorgeous blue eyes and brown hair. She is a vision and she just agreed to go out with me! Well, Sammy too, but I get to talk more and learn about this angel.

I call Sammy over, never taking my eyes off her. As we leave the school grounds, I wonder if she is aware that she has strategically placed Sammy between us. Was that intentional or just a coincidence? The two of us carry most of the conversation during our trip since Sammy has his nose in some book, the big nerd!

Rebecca Quentin is 17 years old, the same age as me; a senior and is planning on going to college to become a Psychologist. She tells me that she has her heart set on Harvard.

“You must be really smart,” Sam quips glancing up at Rebecca before going back to reading.

On our walk, I learn that she is an only child and lives with her parents on the other side of town. I can’t imagine not having siblings because, although he can get on my nerves, Sammy is my life. I have been protecting him since I was 4 years old, it’s my duty. 

As we pass a movie rental store, I get the bright idea for pizza and a movie in our motel room. After some coaxing, Rebecca agrees and I rush inside to get the movie. ‘All Saints Day’ is one of my favorites. 

Our money situation is getting sparse but I want to splurge for her so I grab a couple bags of popcorn at the checkout and after paying, I join Rebecca and Sammy on the sidewalk.

We walk to the pizza joint and go inside to place our order. I look around the nearly-empty restaurant as we wait. The lighting is bright but is dulled by the amount of wood inside. Dark wooden panels cover the walls with even darker wood beams line the ceiling. The tables are draped with red-and-white checkered table clothes with a candle and a condiment tray in the center. The whole ambience of the place gives off a romantic vibe and I imagine bringing Rebecca here for a date.

‘Get a grip Dean!’ I think to myself. ‘You just met the girl and had to persuade her to hang out with you. She’s probably not even interested in you like that; just too nice to say no.’ The waitress calls our name and I grab the boxes before we continue our trek to the motel. 

At the motel, I am a complete gentleman, holding the door for her to enter first and I even carry her food for her. We settle in, me on the floor and her on the end of my bed. We watch as David Yeager portrays the Hatchet man. Sometime during the movie Rebecca joins me on the floor and when a jumpscare scene comes up she hides her face on my shoulder. I smile as I lean over and whisper, “I’ll protect you.” That earns me a smile and from the look in her eyes, I can tell she actually believes and trusts me. I can’t help myself as I lean over and press my lips to hers, keeping it chaste and innocent because Sammy is right there.  A few minutes later she places her hand in mine and I entwine our fingers, a smile breaking out on my face. I am scared that if I acknowledge it she’ll pull away and that is the last thing I want her to do, so I sit there with a big old goofy grin. We finish the movie and polish off the rest of the food before Sammy begins complaining that he wants to go to the arcade. I only have $20 left for us to live on until Dad returns and the brat is getting on my last nerve.

Suddenly Rebecca speaks up and pulls some bills out of her pocket. “Here ya go. There’s an arcade down at the end. Go crazy!” she tells him, with a laugh.

Sammy’s whole face alights and he begins begging me to go. “Can I Dean? I promise not to go any further. And to come straight back when I’m done. Please?” 

I look at Rebecca and then to Sammy. That means Rebecca and I will be in the room alone, by ourselves. What if she is expecting something to happen. Fuck! I have not watched enough Casa Erotica on stolen pay-per-view for this. I don’t know what I’m doing. Fuck!

I pull Sammy to the side. “No further. And if you see anything...suspicious come back here. You know the codeword.”

Sammy repeats the codeword and is out the door in a flash. Well this just turned awkward. I run my hand across the back of my neck as I turn to look at Rebecca. I take a step closer to her as she steps closer to me. Before long, we are standing toe-to-toe and I can smell her strawberry, I think it’s strawberry at least, shampoo. Her lips are still slightly swollen from the kiss I gave her and I lick mine as I hesitantly reach for her. She walks right into my embrace and wraps her arms around my neck. I lean down and kiss her and OH MY GOD! This kiss is even better than the first. I take a chance and swipe my tongue across the seam of her closed lips and am surprised when she opens to let me lick into her mouth.

She tastes like heaven, if there is a heaven. Her tongue wrestles with mine and she moans as I begin lightly sucking on hers. My hands begin rubbing up and down her sides, the hem of her shirt catching on my fingertips. I pull back and look at her questioningly and she nods so I grab the garment and pull it over her head. She is wearing a little peach bra with a tiny little bow in between her breasts. I swear I could cum right now. She helps me pull my shirt off and then we discard the rest of our clothing until we are left in our skivvies.

We lay down and make out heavily on the bed. I feel like my dick is going to burst, it’s so hard. I slide her bra strap down and then reach behind her to unsnap it. Of course with my bumbling hands, I have trouble but I get it loose and Rebecca pulls it off, dropping it on the floor. 

I stare at the picture before me. Her nipples are hardening to little nubs as I gaze at them. Seeing breasts on television is one thing but fuck me, breasts in real life? There is no comparison. Gathering up all the courage I can muster, I dip my head and kiss one of the stiff peaks, flicking my tongue across it. Rebecca moans above me and her hands land on the back of my head. I continue laving her nipple all the while loving the sounds she is producing.

I slide my hand slowly down her stomach, praying she doesn't feel the tremble in it. My whole body is vibrating with nerves.  I have never gotten this far with a girl and I'm worried I will somehow mess this up. I want to satisfy and please her. When my fingertips meet her panties, I lightly run them along the edge. I look up to see Rebecca's eyes watching me. She wiggles her hips and smiles. I take that as her consent to keep going. 

I push up onto my knees between her legs, almost embarrassed at the obviousness of my arousal. I hook my fingers in her panties and pull them down. Once I get them to her feet I stand up and take them the rest of the way off. I grab the top of my boxers to remove them but my eyes land on her body. Taking my time, I run my eyes down from her face to her neck, over her heaving chest and gorgeous tits down her stomach to….her pussy. Fuck! I palm my dick as I look at the splendor before me. Her outer lips are bare and smooth and I can just see a peek of her clit. How the hell am I going to last, I'm already about to blow my load. I push my boxers down until they fall to the floor.

 Climbing back onto the bed,  I position myself between her legs and lean forward to capture her lips. My cock rubs against her inner thigh and oh my fucking god! How am I getting harder?!

Rebecca's back arches off the bed, breaking our lips apart. "Dean," she sighs and I look into her eyes. Holy shit! This is happening! I'm about to have sex. I sure hope to god Sam doesn't return anytime soon. "Do you have a condom?"

Fuck!! Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Yea I have a condom; one dad gave me when I turned 13, four years ago. Dammit to hell. 

I crawl off the bed,  trying to figure out if I want to take a chance with that old thing. I look around the room and spot a half wadded sandwich wrapper on the table. It keeps sandwiches fresh and dry so it should work right? I grab the plastic and notice a few crumbs stuck to it. I shake them off and proceed to wrap the cellophane around my dick,  making sure that the tip is covered well.  When I am satisfied with the protection, I climb back onto the bed and take my previous place. 

I grab the base of my dick and line it up with her entrance. "Ready baby?" I ask as sincerely as I can.

I’m nervous as hell but I want to make this good for her. I look down as I run the tip of my dick along her slit, her juices warm and slippery. I press in to breach her outer lips and notch myself at her entrance. I don’t know why but I am assuming this is her first time too. Maybe it’s the look of anxiety on her face or maybe I’m just seeing things. Either way, I want to ease her into this. Ok, yea and me too. “This might hurt and I’m sorry.”

I press into her and am immediately met with resistance. Yep, this is her first time too. Has to be, ain’t no way they are always this tight, right? I lean down and kiss her to swallow her cries as I pull out and push back in. A few more tries and our hips are flush, my dick is inside her! Holy shit, I am inside a girl and fuck does it feel wonderful! I have to bite my inner cheek to stave off the desire to shoot my load. It feels that fucking good!

When Rebecca whimpers, I freeze. Oh fuck! Did I hurt her? I should have been more gentle. ‘Good going Dean!’ I silently chastise myself. I wanted this to feel good for her, not to cause her any pain. I pull my upper body off her enough so that our foreheads are touching. Neither of us are moving, just our chests from the heaving breaths we are both taking. 

“Are you okay?” I ask, although if she would say no I think I’d have to kill myself. I don’t want to have harmed her in any way. 

Instead Rebecca grins up at me and nods her head. I feel relieved instantly. “Yea. Just keep doing what you are doing. It’ll get better.”

I start a slow and steady drive of pushing in and pulling out all the while trying to hide the euphoria on my face. I lean down and nuzzle into her neck, kissing the skin behind her ear.

Rebecca starts making these sweet little sounds that are so much better than anything I’ve ever heard on pay-per-view. It is music to my ears. I begin grunting on the push in and moaning each time I pull out. I swear I am in heaven. If there is a god, I want to shake that guy’s hand.

 Oh god! Now her pussy is squeezing me tight, making my momentum wobble. I can feel my nuts drawing up and I know I’m about to meet my end. White explodes my vision and I push in as far as I can, pulsing and shooting my load into that plastic sandwich wrapper. This is so much better than jacking off! 

Suddenly, Rebecca grabs my biceps; her fingers digging into my skin. She throws her head back onto my pillow with her eyes closed as she screams, “Oh god! Dean!”  I can feel her getting wetter and seeping out around my shaft.

I kiss along her collarbone, careful to keep my weight off of her as we both come down from that magnificent high. Now I know what all the excitement is about. Sex with a woman is phenomenal!

After cleaning up and getting re-dressed, the awkwardness creeps in. We stand in the middle of mine and Sammy’s motel room, just staring at one another with small smiles on each of our faces. Mine will probably be etched on and never go away.

“Well, I uh….I better get home,” Rebecca stammers, pushing her hair behind her ear. Does she realizes how fucking adorable and captivating that little habit is? Probably not, but it fucking is.

I don’t want her to go but I know she needs to get home. I look at my watch and balk as I see that it is almost 6 pm. So that means for almost an hour she and I had sex. Wow!

I grab her wrist and pull her toward me, running a finger down the side of her face. “See ya tomorrow, Becks.” I lean in and give her a quick kiss on the lips and wistfully watch as she opens the door.

Before leaving though, she looks back at me one more time and smiles. There is a sparkle in her eye and I can’t help but feel proud; I put that there. After the door closes, I turn to grab my flannel; might as well go hang out with Sammy in the arcade. Maybe whoop him in a game of Mario Kart. A spot on the bed catches my attention and my heart flutters when I realize what it is. There in the middle of my bed, is a splotch of Rebecca’s cum. I’ll sleep great tonight, with the knowledge that I finally got laid. And we both enjoyed it. The proof is right there. 

I pull my flannel on, checking to see if I had the room key before I strut down the side of the building to the room that the arcade is located in. I look through the window to see my nerdy ass brother sitting at a game for dorks; some type of trivia shit. I go to grab the door handle and wonder if Sammy will be able to tell a difference in me. I am no longer Dean Winchester, virgin but I am Dean Winchester, sex god. 

I challenge Sammy to a round of Lethal Enforcers, totally demolishing him. But at 13 Dad hasn’t let Sammy get much practice in with a gun. Not like he has with me; by the time I was Sammy’s age I could take apart, clean and reassemble almost any caliber weapon in Dad’s possession. I ruffle Sam’s hair as we head back to the room, much to his chagrin. 

“What’s got you in such a good mood Dean?” Sammy asks. “You and Rebecca do it?” I can tell by the playfulness of his voice and the smirk on his face, Sammy has no idea what transpired in our room.  In an attempt to play it cool and nonchalant, I puff out my chest and say, “Yea. I rocked her world.”

Sammy rolls his eyes and continues walking towards the room. I shudder at how much of a jerk I sound like. It was nothing like that at all. What happened between Becks and I was magical and wonderful and I wouldn’t mind doing it again. At that thought, I remind myself to invest in some newer condoms. 

The next morning

I can’t wait to get to school. I have first period with Rebecca and I am hoping to be able to sit beside her. That is, if Amanda Heckerling and her flunkies leave us alone. There is a skip in my step as Sammy and I walk the two blocks to the school. But it falls away when the cell phone in my pocket begins ringing. I know there is only one person with this number and there is only one reason he would be calling. Dad is done with his hunt and is on his way to pick us up. I curse as I take the phone out of my jacket pocket and flip it open.

After the call, I tell Sammy the news. “Dad will be here by lunchtime to pick us up. Do you have everything in your bag?” We had long ago learned to carry our personal possessions with us instead of leaving them in whatever motel room we stayed in. Easier for Dad to just pick us up and leave town before any questions or concerns arose. 

“Yep,” Sammy answers and I can tell he is as melancholy as I am at the thought of leaving this town. In the three weeks we’ve been here, we have both made friends and hated leaving them behind, knowing we’d probably never see or hear from them again.

I go about my normal routine, checking in at homeroom and grabbing my shit out of my locker before heading to English Lit. As soon as I walk in I spot Rebecca but instead of the smile I expect to see on her face, she looks down. Is she ashamed of what we did? Did she tell someone and they made fun of her for having sex with the boy from out of town? I walk past her and take my usual seat at the back. I can’t wait for Dad to get here so we can get out of this shithole! Lunchtime cannot come soon enough.

At lunch, I track down Sammy and we go to the front of the school to wait on Dad. As we hear the rumble of the Impala coming we both look up at the building morosely. The best and worst things happened here. I met a girl and had sex just for her to turn around and deny she even knew me. “This place sucks. Come on Sam,” I say as I head around the front of the car to get into the front.

As we pass the sign that thanks us for visiting Fairfax, I silently wish Rebecca Quentin a farewell. My heart constricts and I feel sick. I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes and daydream about blue eyes and dark brown hair and soft silky skin. 

@tftumblin​ @spnbaby-67​ @markofdean79​ @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss​ @travelingriversideblues-x​ @akshi8278​ @keymology​ @hoboal87​ @squirrelnotsam​ @natura1phenomenon​ @drakelover78​ @larajadeschmidt13​ @blacktithe7​ @atc74​ @sea040561​ @delightfullykrispypeach​ @vicariouslythruspn​ @sandlee44​ @mogaruke​  @deanwanddamons​ @supraveng​ @deandreamernp​  @lyarr24​

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #260

“better think twice; your train of thought will be altered.”

Have you ever taken a shower with anyone before? I believe Nicole and I did as kids sometimes? Do you wear your seatbelt in the car? Always. Wear your goddamn seatbelt, folks. Do you prefer to spend your time indoors or outdoors? Generally indoors, but it does depend on what I can do outside as well as the weather. How many people have you kissed? Three or four. I really can't remember if *I* ever kissed Girt. Do you just feel awkward when you dance? YIKES YUP, even when I was a dancer. Has the person you have feelings for ever told you that you’re attractive? Yes. Can you get over people easily? MOTHER OF FUCK, NO. Do you believe that there are certain circumstances where cheating is okay? No. Do you like to have long hair or short hair? SHORT. Does the sound of rain at night help you sleep? Ugggghhhh, yes. Especially cuddling while falling sleep in the rain is everything. Have you ever worn a pair of scrubs? Many times. Anything in your room that you’re hiding from your parents or someone else? Well, to a degree. I have artwork in here that I'm just self-conscious of others seeing, but I wouldn't DIE if my mom found them. They're not even really "hidden," just covered. What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic? Strawberry. Do you like hot-dogs? I wish I didn't. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry? A fuckin hot leather, spiked choker with chains draped across it. It's just a bit tight on me now. Worst injury you’ve ever had? I skinned the shit out of my knees on the road as a kid, wound up with cuts near the bones. It was not, NOOOOOT pretty and took literally years for the scars to totally vanish. What song do you want played at your funeral? Probably "Life is Beautiful" by Sixx AM. How many keys are on your key chain? What do they go to? Just the one to the house. Have you ever taken a pregnancy test? Not in the traditional sense. Before surgery, they obviously had to be sure via a urine sample, but otherwise, no. Would you rather live in a mansion or a small cozy home? Whew, the latter, easily. If you were offered to smoke some weed right now, would you accept? Nah. Do you get your eyebrows waxed, or do you pluck them? Neither, really. I just don't care; mine aren't awful, and it's too time-consuming and "required" too frequently for me to bother. They're just eyebrows. Do you and your last ex hate each other? Not at all. Do you believe your most recent ex thinks about you? Well yeah, we're best friends. Have you ever made out for more than a half hour straight? I was literally a madly in love teenager, you can guess. How do you handle people who are overly enthusiastic all the time? "I don’t 'handle' them, they’re actually pretty cool to be around. I appreciate having that kind of energy around me because I don’t generate a whole lot of it myself and I want it to rub off." <<<< Exactly this. Do people say you look like a certain celebrity? Nah. Who do you think you look like? No one I know of. Ever loved someone who didn’t love you back? hnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGALS;KDJFA;LKJEW Ever done karaoke? Did you like it? Nooooo sir. Ever seen a pregnant woman smoking/drinking? Yep. It was an occasion where I had to practice serious self-discipline to keep my mouth shut. :x What was the last piece of candy you ate? Miss Tobey brought me a Reese's yesterday morning so that. Nice breakfast lmao. Do you curse a lot? A real fucking lot. It's not intentional, it's just so ingrained in me as normal diction after being at Jason's so much when his mother is the definition of an Italian New Yorker and thus her son has a mouth too lmao. Personally, I don't believe in "profanity" in the traditional sense so it doesn't bother me in the way of "oh I'm saying too many bad words," I just know my dictionary is wider than "fuck" and "shit" oof. If you could be a Disney character for a day, who would you be? Probably like Kiara. Be a hot princess lion with a hot lion boyfriend and chill lion parents WOW am I a furry yet. Are you wearing anything of any sentimental value? Describe? Yeah, my friendship ring with Sara, a bracelet from her as well, and an ovarian cancer bracelet for my mom. Then tattoos, if you consider myself as "wearing" them. To you, what is especially distracting? The sound of TV when you're trying to sleep. What are some things that are important in your life right now? My mom's health, my mental health, job searching to at least get ideas for when transportation is easier, keeping the house clean, keeping up with Sara's health. When was the last time you did some major cleaning? A couple weeks back when I detail cleaned out both my shelves. Who challenges you the most? In what way?  My psychiatrist, but not in a bad way. He pushes me to keep improving with things. What was the last opportunity that you passed up, and why? I should know this, but I don't. Have you ever contemplated cheating on anyone? Oh no, I couldn't live with the guilt. Who do you know that gives very sound advice? Sara is great at that. What do you think makes a person weak? The will to drag someone down just because you're feeling that way. What makes a person strong? The determination to not give up. Who do you go to when you need comfort? Mom more than anyone. Where is your favorite place to get fries? BOJANGLE'S. You cannot live to your fullest potential until you've received the seasoned blessing of Bojangle's fries. What is the most recent article of clothing you’ve purchased? I think underwear. Have you ever made your own pie from scratch? No. Are there any waterfalls nearby? Definitely no big ones. Hell, maybe even no natural ones. There are lots of dams, but I don't think they count. What are your earliest memories of going to see a doctor? My first time getting my blood drawn and consciously understanding what was about to happen. Freaked the FUCK out, bolted from the room, and clinged like a monkey to a column while sobbing. It literally took multiple adults to get me off of it, and I was very little. And then when I actually got poked, apparently I just said, "... That's it?" Oh, little me, you'd take needles for hours later on in life in the name of art lol. What is your favorite condiment? Maybe ketchup. Do you know anyone who has been to rehab? Well, all the mental hospitals I've been to included addicts seeking recovery, and I befriended a few. For people more in my personal life, I think so. Would you consider yourself to be a picky eater? I am ridiculously picky. Have you ever slept in a car overnight? I'm quite sure no, not a full night. Has someone close to you died of murder? No, thankfully. Does your school offer driver’s ed? My high school did, which is where I took it. Have you ever done volunteering work abroad? No. Do you have a shower stall or a bath tub? A tub. Why do you do these surveys? I'm bored most of the time with absolutely nothing better to do. Sometimes it helps me contemplate some things about myself. Do you like shopping? Eh, depends on what I'm shopping for. What’s a show you wish that was still on air? MM IS COMIN BACK, FUCKERS. Do you like hip hop? Nooo. Do you like pretzels? I do, especially soft ones. You want your next pet to be what? It's probably going to be a tarantula. I'm not being sarcastic lmao. It just depends on if I can convince my mom. Do you like coconut scents? Sure. Would you spend 20 dollars on a candle? Hell no. What is a dessert that you DON’T like? Pie. And one that you love? mmmmmmmmMMMMMMMM ice cream. Would you rather be a vampire or a mermaid? Vampire, ig. Being a mermaid genuinely sounds boring. Where the fuck's the WiFi. Are you happy with your physical features? Bitch no. When you doodle, what are you usually doodling? Meerkats. Do you eat salads? Not enough, but I like them w/ regular lettuce and I'm open to different dressings. Favorite thing to do on your phone? Play Pokemon if I'm actually in a spot to get fckn balls. What magazines do you like? I don't read any. What is your favorite thing about Christmas? The feeling of really being a family. Do you prefer white or black electronics? Black. Firm pillow or soft pillow? S O F T Who was the last person you rode in a car with? Mom. Do you know anyone, personally, who is in an abusive relationship? Are you? Thank fuck no. Are there any people you don’t like for your significant other/crush to talk to? I’m single and don't have like... an "active" crush ig? What was the last alcoholic beverage you drank? I had a bombin' sangria for my birthday @ Olive Garden. Has one of your boyfriend’s best friends ever tried to get with you? Again, single, but for previous ones, no anyway. Are you 100% over the last person you kissed? No. Have any of your friends ever overdosed? I think so, but none died, thankfully. The last thing you downloaded onto your computer? Ummmm probably something for school. How many friends on Facebook do you have? 118. What age is the oldest you would date at the moment? It'd take me seriously liking someone to go slightly beyond 30. Do you want to be single? I don't know. I don't really know if I'm "fit" to be in a relationship right now, like I know I gotta figure shit out, but I think it's natural to want that companionship some days. Are you good at hiding your feelings? Well, I guess it depends on the emotion, but honestly, I don't think so, in most cases. Who did you last share a bed with? Sara. Have you ever been taken to the emergency room in an ambulance? Not in an ambulance, no. What are you listening to right now? An '80s-ish/synthwave cover of "Disturbia" by Rihanna. I've been on a total binge of this kinda stuff lately. Ever been on a golf cart? Ye. Do you have trust issues? Yep. Do you own something from Hot Topic? I think most of my shirts are from there. Have you ever slapped someone in the face? No. Do you have a little sister? Damn, not so little anymore. Turned 22 a few days ago. Have you ever been to New York? The state, yes. City, no. Do you actually read privacy policies when signing up for new things? Nope. Did you have a lot of birthday parties when you were younger? If so, did you invite everyone in the class? I mean, define "a lot?" I did once every year... and no. I was selective. Have you ever participated in one of those “guess how many jelly beans, mints, etc. are in this jar!” contest? If so, have you ever won? PTSD is fuckin weird. I have, and I get anxious and uncomfortable just seeing them. The very last time I hung out w/ Jason was at his brother's wife's baby shower, and something like that was there. Shitty fuckin day. Can you juggle? No. Do you live on an avenue, road, drive or something else? Road. What are your school colors? N/A Have you ever taken a picture with Santa when you were little? Yeah, I think my sisters and I did that every year? What is the population of the city you live in? Google says around 5.5k. Do you like Nerds candy? Yeah man. What’s your favourite flavour of soda, pop or whatever else you call it? Blue raspberry. What level of brightness do you usually keep your phone at? It's on about 70% during the day, and I lower it to about 20% when I'm about to go to bed. Have you ever attended a religious or private school? My previous school was a private & religious college. Do you have any pets and are they cuddly? My cat is STUPID cuddly. Absolute attention hog. My snake seems to enjoy attention, though I wouldn't define snakes as "cuddly;" their brains don't know what affection really is, which I think is mandatory in that definition. She does love to lie against me on the bed, though, when I take her out to let her wander. What’s the worst job you’ve ever had? All three of my jobs have sucked, but considering I lasted in a deli not even two hours, probs that. How many cars does your household own? One. Are there any cracks or scuffs on your phone? No. This shit is literally a Tracphone yet is incredible man, I've dropped it a good few times and it's a great phone. What’s your favourite meat? Out of most forms, probably pork, which I really wish wasn't true. I adore pigs. Or maybe chicken. Which I still feel bad about. Do you need glasses to read or drive or need them all the time? I always need them. Is the internet fast where you live? It's fine. What is your favourite meal of the day and why? Breakfast has the best options and makes me look forward to the morning lmao. Do you like long surveys or short surveys better? Ha ha, obviously long, seeing as I compile shorts ones into these larger ones. I do it because I feel individually posting with EVERY one I pick out would get annoying. Have you ever been to a cocktail bar? No. What’s the best amusement park you’ve ever visited? Disney World. Do you keep the cabinets in your kitchen and bathroom organized? More so in the kitchen. Have you ever had a romantic fling? No. Are you a very forgetful person? To a frightening point. Are your parents married or divorced? They're divorced. Do you believe in Heaven? Not the Christian one, but I do lean towards there being some peaceful existence after death. Do you eat the stems of broccoli? That's obviously the best part. Do you read blogs? No. Would you ever go out dressed like the opposite sex? I pretty much have before? Worn guy's pants and unisex or men's shirts before, I'm sure. Ever been involved with the police? No. What's your favorite shampoo/conditioner and soap? Idk, I'm just very used to Suave. Their body wash smells amazing. Do you feel that you've had a truly successful life? HELL NO. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it? Twirl it. Favorite restaurant? Olive Garden is GOOD SHIT. Have you watched Tiger King yet? Christ, no, and I sure am tired of seeing it everywhere online. Do you try to do something significant and meaningful every day? It's quite clear I don't, even though I really, really want to. What is your favorite pizza topping? Pepperoni. What was the name of the first pet that you loved? Chance. What color hair did your first crush have? Brown. Does anyone know who your first crush was? yeah. Who was your first celebrity crush? Whew, Jesse McCartney, lads. Have you ever had to use an epi pen? No, thankfully. What color was your first phone? Navy, I think. Do you know anyone with Down’s syndrome? Not anyone personally. How much do you weigh (only answer if comfortable)? I'm not comfortable. Have you ever been overweight? I have been since 2016. What color is your Christmas tree? Green. What color Christmas tree do you want to have in your house someday? UGGGGHHHHHHH give me a black one with fake snow on it. Omg. What color house did you grow up in? Uhhhh... I think it was white? I should know this. Have you ever been baptized? If so, how and where? Yes, when I was a baby at the Catholic church I grew up going to. What type of wedding do you want? Give it a gothic vibe ok. Are you taller or shorter or the same height as your mom? We're the same height. What is your heritage? German, Irish, and Polish. Are you excited for the upcoming summer season? Ugh, no. Not at all. At. All. Do you like crackers with your soup? No. Which ex of yours means the most to you? Depending on which way you mean, Jason or Sara. What is something that never fails to make you feel accomplished? Do a decent amount of cleaning. How do you feel about nudity, in person? Uh???? What exactly do you mean by "in person"???? I guess it depends on who, the situation, and location??? Have you taken prescription medications that didn't belong to you? Pain medicine, yes. Do wooded areas freak you out in the evening or night? I mean, to a reasonable degree, I guess. Obviously being in the wild in the dark is dangerous. Have you ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle? No. Do you iron any of your clothes? No. Can you sleep in an unmade bed? Yeah. Did the house you grew up in have a big yard? It was p good. What has been the most difficult class you’ve ever taken? Probably Latin. What was the last website you were on, before this one? I was on Facebook. Is your hometown famous for anything? No. What are some things a house would need to have for you to purchase it? I'm personally very serious about a dishwasher and laundry room. Other than that I'm... kinda blanking? Like I'm not that picky as for what the house HASSSSSS to have, besides those. Well, two bathrooms would be great. What was the last thing you heated up in your microwave? A pancake+sausage on a stick thing for breakfast. When was the last time your internet stopped working? It was having a temper yesterday. Did you ever watch Phil of the Future? Not very much, and never really by choice. Nicole would watch it sometimes though. Were you born somewhere other than a hospital? No. What was the last flavor of ice cream you had? Vanilla. Do you have an online game that you play often? None at the very moment because my personal gaming laptop has been kaput for well over a month now. Maybe close to even two. Is there a trash can near you? No. Have you ever shared sleeping accommodations with someone of the opposite sex without anything steamy happening? No. Is there a fan going in the room you’re in? Yeah, beside me.

[bonneyq]

A Crappy Valentine's Day

AN: Hello! Happy Valentine’s Day, guys! I’m out of the hospital and I hope I’m not too late for the party! Oh, Gray and Juvia have been together for three years in this story, that’s why they are so comfortable around each other.

I tried something new, I hope you like it! Also on [FF.net] and [Wattpad]

Using his Ice Make Magic, Gray made a key to his girlfriend’s apartment. She had moved from Fairy Hills so he could visit her almost three years before.

It was Valentine’s day and Juvia hadn’t gone to his apartment or to the Guild yet and Valentine’s day was her day! She went all out. She baked, baked and baked.

The whole Guild waited for it, actually because there was no way Gray could eat all that. Of course, he got special chocolates and, well... treats, that day that involved no clothes and some whipped cream and chocolate syrup.

To say Gray looked forward to Valentine’s Day was an understatement and that year he finally got her a nice gift: a beautiful bracelet with a cross and blue sapphire – the bracelet version of his necklace. He had to get a hundred jobs to pay for it, but he was sure she was going to like it.

Instead, he hadn’t seen her all day.

He saw some pans, baking trays, bars of chocolate, baking flour and various utensils she’d need to bake cakes, cookies and all types of chocolate goods. They were all just lying there, unused.

Concerned, he called her name as he walked further inside the apartment in the direction of her bedroom and heard a pained moan. He froze for less than a second before he rushed to the bedroom, afraid of what he was going to find.

“Juvia?” He opened the bedroom door and saw his girlfriend on the floor, on her stomach and moaning in pain. “Juvia!” He ran to her side and kneeled next to her, concerned. He didn’t see any wounds, but she sounded in pain. “Juvia?” He pulled the blue curls of her hair from her face and saw she was pale.

“Gray-sama?” She opened one eye, her cheek was glued on the floor so her answer was more like ‘Grayshama?’ and he was just a little relieved to hear her.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, worried. “Why are you on the floor? Are you hurt? Did you fall? I can help you up.” He made to help her but she pushed his hands away.

“Noooo.” She complained. “It hurt less like this. Please.”

“What hurts less?” Gray sat by her side on the floor, a hand on her lower back, clearly confused.

“Everything.” Juvia moaned again and he frowned so she explained. “Juvia has cramps. Awful, from the devil, cramps. And this position plus the coolness of the floor are the only things making her feel slightly better.”

“Oh.” Gray blinked two times while processing her words. “This place is going to start to warm up soon.”

Juvia just snorted and said. “Please. Juvia started over there.” She pointed next to the bed with her chin. “She just moves when it’s not cool anymore.”

Gray couldn’t believe his eyes or ears. There was, his girlfriend, one of the most talented Mages in the country, lying on the floor, wearing her pajama shorts, her shirt was rolled up under her breasts so she could feel the coolness better, he guessed, her hair was a mess of curls and, well… she looked completely ridiculous.

The blunette made a pained face and tried to muffle a groan, but Gray saw it and she gave up of pretending. “Argh, this sucks.”

“Do you have any medicine for this?” Without realize, Gray started to massage her lower back slightly and her sigh was of relief after a moment.

“The strong stuff’s in the bathroom.”

“And you didn’t get it?”

There was silence for a moment. “Juvia would’ve gotten there.” Gray realized she was slowly moving towards her bathroom and he raised an eyebrow. “The pain was bearable at first, she took some medicine and then, all of a sudden, it felt as if Juvia’s uterus had a knife and wanted revenge.”

“You know, for a romantic person during a romantic holiday, this is probably the least romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” The Ice Mage said. “And we fought each other for real a few times, eh? And this is me counting all the embarrassing stuff you’ve said over the years.” Juvia chuckled and Gray smiled when she looked at him. “Alright, tell me what you need and I’ll go to the bathroom to get it. No need to roll all the way over.”

Juvia almost cried in relief. “First aid kit under the sink. It’s in a little blue vial, there are a few, though.”

“Got it.” Gray nodded and went to get the medicine she needed. Juvia had a variety of vials inside the kit, and he read the labels of the blue vials out loud until she said he had the right one. He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and then returned to his position seated next to his girlfriend and with some maneuver he gave her the medicine and when she made a disgusted face, she used her magic to bring the water from the cup to her mouth and then put her head on the floor again, sighing in relief. “Better?”

“Give me a few minutes and Juvia will be able to feel human again.”

“Alright.” Gray put the cup on Juvia’s nightstand and sat back. “You could’ve used your magic to get the medicine.”

Juvia frowned for a moment and looked to her boyfriend. “Juvia was crawling to the bathroom and in pain. She wasn’t thinking much.”

“Fair enough,” Gray granted. “I’ve never seen you like this. Sure, I’ve seen you get some cramps, but never like this.”

Juvia sighed. “Juvia’s cramps aren’t usually this way – just once or twice a year since she can remember, that’s why she has the stronger medicine stashed. Usually the one she took earlier is enough. Besides, Juvia tries to not be around you when she’s on her period.” She shrugged – or the version of it when you were sprawled on the floor. “She usually takes missions. Sometimes she can’t, as you know but the hormones are a good advantage during a fight. You have seen Juvia angry with PMS, now double that when she’s cranky with pain and someone messes with her.”

Gray’s eyebrows shot up. “Poor guys.”

“Good steam relief.” She said. “And Juvia didn’t want you to see her like this when she felt it would happen.” She pointed at herself sprawled on the floor. “Isn’t exactly attractive.”

He snorted. “We saw each other die, I think modesty is a little pointless after that. You don’t have to run to missions every time you need some ‘alone time’, you know? You can ask for a few days on your own or tell me you don’t want me around-” He stopped. “Oh. Well, I’d think you were being controlled if you asked me those things if I didn’t know.” Juvia chuckled.

“It would have been quite unusual for Juvia.”

“Bottom line, just tell me if you want to be alone or if you want me around. It’s been more than three years now, not much scares me anymore.”

“Did Juvia scare you?” She smiled.

“You terrified me, being all open about your feelings, and shit. And you wanted me to explore my own feelings. Who does that?” He told her and it earned a light slap on his leg. “Sorry, sorry. Can you get up, now?”

Juvia thought it over for a moment and then nodded. Gray helped her up, an arm around her shoulder and another around her waist and when she was up, he carried her to the bed.

“Thank you.” She sighed. “Today wasn’t supposed to turn like this. Juvia was going to bake you some things and then, later…” She blushed slightly. Two and a half years of getting down and dirty and she still blushed. “Her period was supposed to start in three days, not today.” The Water Mage complained. “She bought the chocolate syrup and the whipped cream.”

Gray blushed slightly and sat on the bed facing her – apparently he could still blush about it as well. “I think I can survive a Valentine’s Day without your baking and without the sex with condiments.” Gray rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, we can celebrate in a week or whenever you want to, just give me a heads up.” He shrugged. Besides making her happy (the condiment-sex was quite impressive, though), he didn’t care for Valentine’s Day much.

“Are you sure?” She sniffled.

“Positive.” He gave her one decisive nod.

Juvia bit her lower lip. “Alright. But Juvia’s bringing all her game next week when we do celebrate it.”

“Deal.” He didn’t even fight her – he learned a long time ago, it was pointless. Unless it was something very important or life threatening, he knew Juvia would most likely win the argument and she wanted to give good food and excellent sex in a few days, by her look of determination. He would be a fool to argue against that. He was quite looking forward to it, actually.

“The side effect of the medicine is that you fall asleep quickly after taking it.” She mentioned, eyes already getting heavy. “Just for an hour or so.”

“Go to sleep. Crawling your way to the bathroom in pain must’ve been exhausting.” She nodded.

“Could you…?” She looked down to his hand and then to her stomach. With a sigh, he used his magic and cooled his hand a little and put it on her stomach. “Hm… good. Some women prefer a hot compress but Juvia always preferred colder things.”

“You don’t say.” He snorted and she laughed, closing her eyes. “Rest.”

After a couple of minutes, he saw her breathing even out as she fell asleep and removed his hand from her stomach. He shook his head and pulled her shirt down to cover her belly but didn’t pulled the covers, just made sure they were accessible to her in case she needed it.

He still didn’t like to start moments of affection, but before he got up, he kissed her forehead, lovingly. Gray took the velvet box with the bracelet, opened it and put it on her nightstand before he left her bedroom. He didn’t want to leave but there was little to do there while his girlfriend was asleep. Perhaps he could read one of her books.

An idea struck him, though, when he was passing by the kitchen.

How hard would it be?

“What… is this?” Gray heard and looked over his shoulder when he heard his girlfriend’s voice from the kitchen door.

Unlike one might think, the kitchen wasn’t a mess – Gray could cook a little and he always cleaned whatever he used right after and he was finishing doing the dishes. Juvia was surprised to see a tray of cookies cooling on her kitchen counter.

“I... I baked cookies.” He told her, embarrassed. “There was nothing to do and it looked simple on your recipe book.” Gray pointed to the open book on the counter. “You make it look simple.”

“Oh.” She said.

“How are you feeling?” Gray asked.

“Better. Cramps are still attacking, but less, now. Thank you for coming and helping.”

“Sure.” He shrugged and then spotted her wearing the bracelet. “So you found your gift.”

Juvia looked to her left wrist and smiled. “It’s beautiful. Juvia loves it.” She got closer to him and pulled him for a kiss. She certainly had gone to the bathroom and brushed her teeth before leaving her room. “Juvia will get your gift after she tastes one of Gray-sama’s cookies!” She was excited and it was hard to deny her anything when she was that way.

“Alright, let’s do it.” Both reached for a cookie and took a bite and Gray’s eyes widened at the taste. He put his hand over his mouth and didn’t hesitate to spit it out and then dump it and the rest of the cookie in the trash. “Dear gods, what the fuck.”

He looked at Juvia, who was still trying to eat the unholy thing. “What are you doing? This is disgusting.”

“But” she made a disgusted face “Gray-sama baked” another one “with so much love.”

“And it turned out to be poison.” The Ice Mage told her. “Spit it out. Trust me, it won’t offend me.”

Appearing to have reached her breaking point, Juvia finally spat the cookie on the sink and threw the rest of it in the garbage.

“Urgh.” Gray shuddered and got two glasses of water, offering one to the blunette and taking one for himself. After drinking a couple of sips, he spoke. “Well, that sucked.”

“It was… sweet of you to try?”

Gray snorted. “To try to poison us on Valentine’s Day? Sure sounds like me.” Juvia bumped her shoulder on his arm. “Now how about I go out and get Caramade’s Franks for us to eat and if we get lucky, a couple of slices of chocolate cake while you go take a shower?”

“Aw, Caramade’s Franks. We ate that on our first date.”

He rolled his eyes. “I told you a thousand times: that day, before we went to Edolas, was not our first- You know what, sure. We’re dating now anyways, whatever. Go take that shower, though. I know we’ve been through worse but you stayed lying on the ground for hours and it’s not very sanitary.”

Juvia stepped in front of her boyfriend and wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a peck on the lips. “You say the most romantic things, Gray-sama, you try to bake me cookies and you didn’t think it was weird for Juvia to be lying on the floor. You are a very good boyfriend.”

“I’m just a little above the ‘Not Sucks Too Much’-line, actually, but thank you.” He said. “And it was very weird.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Juvia said. “Since it usually helps…”

“Don’t stop on my account. We all do weird shit.” He kissed her. “Alright. My mission is Caramade’s Franks and cake.”

“Thank you. I love you, Gray-sama.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Happy Crappy Valentine’s Day?” She offered.

Gray actually laughed out loud. “Happy Crappy Valentine’s Day.”

AN: I wanted to write something fun, funny, cute and sweet, but not the same cliché I write every year so I hope you like the break of the babies and big, grand gestures of love and embrace the cramps, crazy people lying on the cold floor and poison cookies. HAHA

[ferritin4]

Titans Together part 2 (Gen Jon Kent/Damian Wayne)

A follow-up to This First Installment of my mildly absurd headcanon about aged-up Damian Wayne and Jon Kent, based off of the recent, and now ongoing, runs of Tomasi’s Super Sons. The first post got more interest than I expected -- the amount I expected was “none” honestly -- so I’m putting this up as well for you few who thought it was fun. It is fun. It’s a fun ship. This is set on the same visit, the next day.

—

“I have a meeting with my advisor,” Damian said, stepping over Jon to get to his desk. Jon pulled his blankets back onto the air mattress and rubbed his eyes.

“Cool,” Jon said. “Is the cafeteria open on Saturday mornings?”

—

The cafeteria was open.

Damian had demanded he go to some restaurant in town where Damian knew someone, but that didn’t matter. Jon hadn’t even intended to stay the night, but if he was here, he was here, and he wasn’t Damian. He could eat at a normal cafeteria like a normal person.

It was pretty sparse still, because Damian got up at like four thirty in the morning every day — Damian slept between zero and four hours a night most days, which still freaked Jon out a little bit, but if he was going to have a heart attack or a seizure or something he probably would have had it by now — so Jon was showered and dressed in his jeans and boots and one of Damian’s plain white t-shirts by five thirty. Damian didn’t just wear t-shirts around anymore, of course, and this was supposed to go under a dress shirt, but Jon wasn’t wearing one of Damian’s dress shirts. No way.

It was pretty warm for September, but he still needed something between a t-shirt and his jacket. Damian’s dorm or whatever was like, a whole studio apartment, with a closet that Jon probably could have slept in instead of next to the desk where Damian kicked him in the side by accident every time he wanted to get a new pen or something.

Damian probably would’ve kicked him in the side by accident even if Jon had slept in the closet. Jon had spent more than enough time in the Titans headquarters. He knew how Damian operated.

Damian had a couple of sweaters that didn’t look too fancy, for Damian. Jon had pulled a dark red one over his head and gotten his wallet and headed out.

The breakfast in the dining hall was eggs and bacon and stuff. Jon got like six pancakes at the pancake station; he was hungry.

“Hi,” he told the person at the cash register. “I gotta pay with money, like. I’m not a student. If that’s okay.”

“That’s fine,” the cashier said, and then the person behind Jon said, “I — are you — um, Kent?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jon said to Ms. Braxton, who looked even smaller standing up. Her hair was in a very ineffective headband and she was wearing a hoodie, pajama pants, and house slippers.

“Wow,” she said.

Okay?

“Good morning,” Jon said.

“I can get your food,” she said suddenly, apparently recovering from whatever she’d been thinking, and shoved forward to give the cashier her ID card.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it,” Jon said. “I can pay for my breakfast, Miss, uh, Braxton. For real,” he added when she blinked up at him.

“You remember my name?” she said. “And, no, I got it. It’s not even real money. It’s part of my tuition.”

Isn’t your tuition paid for with money? Jon thought, but it wasn’t like he didn’t know Damian. It wasn’t like he didn’t know a whole lot of people who ran billion-dollar companies and bought newspapers and banks and thought things like it’s not real money, if they even thought about it at all.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Jon said, following her to the condiments station. “Why wouldn’t I remember your name?”

“Because you were busy getting grilled by the devil himself?” she said. “I think I go into, like, a fugue state most of the time. Like my brain is trying to die while my body’s still alive.” She pumped a giant pool of ketchup onto her plate.

“Oh, yeah,” Jon said. He shrugged as well as he could with a tray in his hands. “It doesn’t bother me anymore. I guess I don’t know if it ever did? But I get it.”

“Other profs don’t bother me,” she said, steering them toward a table. “I’m not, like, a wimp, but he’s like — he’ll fail you as soon as he’ll look at you, did you know that? And he’s, like, I don’t know. He’s so mean. You have no idea.”

“He can be pretty mean,” Jon conceded, tucking into his bacon. He wasn’t going to sit here and try to convince someone that Damian Wayne wasn’t an asshole.

“So,” she said.

“Mgnh?” Jon said. He swallowed. “Yeah? Oh, I didn’t really introduce myself.” He wiped his hand off on his napkin. “I’m Jon.”

“I’m Hafsah,” she said with a weird look on her face. “Mitchell said your name was Jon.”

“Mitchell?” Jon said. He took a sip of his coffee. It tasted okay, but it smelled kind of funny. Whatever, it only cost a dollar.

“Derek Mitchell? He was sitting next to you?” she said, and Jon bit his tongue so he didn’t say, oh, sure, Sweater Vest.

“Yes,” Jon said instead. “He didn’t tell me his name.”

“We don’t talk a lot in that class,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Usually. You did.”

Jon put half a pancake into his mouth and chewed it while he tried to figure out what she was getting at, but it didn’t really help.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said finally. He hadn’t. He had mostly planned to ask Damian about it after class, if he remembered or if Damian hadn’t explained it already by then.

“Do you work with him?” she said, out of nowhere. Jon frowned.

“No?” he said. “He works here?” It was kind of a lie, but like, he didn’t think she was acting weird and confused because she’d figured out the whole Teen Titans thing.

“Liam Kendry, who is a tool and stalks all his professors online like a creep,” she said, “says that he works for some defense contractor sometimes. And that he works for his dad’s company.”

“Well, okay, yeah, but he’s been doing that since he was like si— sssoo long ago,” Jon said. Damian would have had his ass for that. “He works here,” Jon added in an effort to distract her from the world’s lamest half-lie. “He goes to school here. And that’s not how I know him. I’m just here to hang out with him.”

“What?” she said. “You’re here to what?”

“Hang out?” Jon said. She stared at him, eyes nearly as big as Sweater Vest’s — Derek Mitchell’s — had been.

“Is that some kind of weird slang for like, a start-up tech company thing? Or, like, some kind of military exercise?” she asked.

“No,” Jon said a little more sharply than was polite, because he was getting tired of this. “He’s my best friend. We grew up together. We hang out! We watch movies! I made him go mudding on the farm last spring, he hated it,” he added, smiling.

Hafsah’s mouth opened, but she didn’t say anything. It stayed open.

“Are you okay?” Jon asked.

A small piece of potato fell out of her mouth and landed on the table between her plate and her lap.

“Oh my god, that was disgusting, I’m so sorry,” she said, snapping back to life and frantically attacking it with her napkin. “Okay gross, gross, sorry. Ew.”

“It’s okay,” Jon laughed. “Are you okay?”

“Um,” she said. “I don’t know. You seem so nice.”

That was a real non sequitur, but she seemed awfully sincere.

“Thank you,” Jon said, trying not blush. “I, uh. I try to be.”

“Wayne doesn’t,” she said decisively, and Jon didn’t even try to fight his smile.

“No,” he said, “no, he really doesn’t.” He forked the last of his pancakes into his mouth and took a drink of coffee. Something in his coffee still tasted a little off, or smelled weird. It was cafeteria coffee, so he didn’t want to be mean, but it was definitely getting worse.

“Did you really hug him at the end of class?” she asked, her eyes a little wild. Jon grinned.

“He hates that too,” he said. “But he had it com—”

That wasn’t his coffee. Shit.

“I gotta go,” he said, lurching out of his seat. “I’m sorry, I just — remembered something I forgot to do.”

“You what?” she said, but he was already gone, bolting out the doors and onto the quad.

Shit, shit, shit, where was it coming from? Where was his map? Something was burning, something chemical and strange, and Jon didn’t know where anything was, where were the science buildings — he punched CALL on his phone and started running toward the smell. Thank God it was still early. Nobody was out, nobody was there to see him and say, hey, man, are you —

“I am in a meeting,” Damian’s voice said, sharp and annoyed. “Which I know I told you.”

“Where are the labs, the science, like, the lab buildings?” Jon cut in. “Dami, something’s, I don’t know where, something’s on fire and it smells like nitrogen, or metal.”

“Four hundred yards southwest of Waterstone,” Damian said. “This meeting is over,” he said, not to Jon, “I will reschedule at my —” and Jon hung up.

He rounded in the corner, past Waterstone Hall, up a flight of weirdly broad stairs. There were two buildings, pretty much identical, looming up, and where was it — oh. Oh no, he could see the smoke in the windows of the third floor.

Nobody was coming. There was nobody anywhere, no sirens. Smoke was starting to trickle out one of the windows, but no one was helping.

Well, Jon thought as a dark shape landed on the roof. Not no one. Not anymore.

Nobody was out here, though, which meant Jon could fly up and kick in the emergency door on the third floor fire escape without anyone calling the cops or a TV station.

Damian ducked in through the break room window as Jon came down the hall, and oh, whoa. Shit had been the right word. Yikes.

Smoke was pouring out the open door to the lab at the end of the hallway, acrid and sour and foul. Jon’s eyes were burning; his mouth felt like he’d been chewing on pennies.

“Fuck,” Damian said, covering his mouth. “Even I could smell this from the dining hall.”

“Why isn’t the fire alarm going off?” Jon said. “This should be,” he stopped.

“What?” Damian said. He punched the plastic box of the fire alarm until it cracked, then ripped it off the wall. Wires fell out in a tangle. “There's a short in the system. Jon?”

“Somebody is in there,” Jon said in horror.

He could hear their heartbeat.

The fire alarm surged to life, suddenly screaming.

“Okay,” Jon said. “Okay.” He could barely see the door through the smoke, but they were in there and they were alive, and he could find them if he listened hard enough.

“The local fire department’s response time to this location is an average of eight minutes,” Damian said. Jon turned to look at him. “So stop just standing there, Kent.”

Jon smiled.

“Right,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

The lab was a blinding, suffocating wall of smoke, and Jon shut his eyes against the sting and listened.

They were… to his left. Somewhere to his left. He tripped over something, a chair or a stool, but it wasn’t burning. Some of the furniture was on fire, but most of the flames were coming from a fume hood on the far side of the room, nowhere near him, near him or near them.

They were right under him before he was sure of it, but they were breathing. A woman, in jeans and a puffy vest that had half melted in the heat of the room. She was breathing, she wasn’t moving but she was breathing —

Something made a very ominous cracking noise behind him.

He felt it before it happened: a wet splash of liquid on the floor as a bench collapsed and a pipe burst, and then a thunderous shudder of bottles and jars tumbling and rolling toward the side of the room that was mostly flame, and then that awful, familiar inrush of air before an explosion.

He dropped to cover her just in time.

The windows blew out; one of the lab's doors ripped off and went crashing out into the hallway. A piece of a desk hit Jon’s back, hard, and the ceiling on the far side of the room let out a miserable, terrible groan and started to sag.

Jon grabbed her and ran.

Damian wasn’t in the hallway, and Jon spared a terrified thought that maybe the lab's door had hit him, and he was — no, of course not; he was in the break room, halfway down the hall.

“Put her here,” Damian told him. “Is she breathing?”

“Yeah,” Jon said. “Hang on, hang on, I gotta,” he stripped the melted vest off her and threw it on the floor. Damian’s fingers were at her neck. He had a bottle of water from somewhere, and he was opening it as she began to cough.

“Oh, whew,” Jon said. “Wow.”

Damian looked over at him, his eyes sharp chips of green. Jon heard the heavy footsteps of the firefighters start up the stairs on the ground floor.

Damian’s gaze flickered down to Jon’s chest, then back up.

“Oh,” Jon said, looking down. Damian’s sweater was hanging off him in burnt strips, and the whole left shoulder of his t-shirt was missing. His jeans and shoes were okay — he’d kind of laid down next to her and curled up — but there was no way he looked like he should have all his limbs.

“I, uh, I think I need to leave,” Jon said.

“We need to leave,” Damian agreed. “The easiest roof access is just to the east of the window.”

“No, I need to leave,” Jon said. “You need to stay here and explain the fire alarm, and the getting her out of the lab and stuff.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Nobody asks why they didn’t die in a fire,” he said.

“Somebody was obviously here,” Jon said.

“And when they’re gone, no one will—”

“She didn’t crawl out here and onto a table and not —”

“People do all kinds of things in critical, life-threatening situations,” Damian snapped.

“Not like this,” Jon stalled.

“Jon,” Damian said suspiciously.

“In here!” Jon yelled as the firefighters burst through the hallway doors, and then he lunged for the window.

He caught Damian’s eyes as he scrambled up to the roof, and boy, was he doubly glad he was impervious to fire today.

[imaginetonyandbucky]

Crossing Bridges - Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Bucky | Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

A/N: I haven’t managed to finish the whole story yet, unfortunately. So, this weekend, you’ll get some other great content, and then, on Monday, you’ll get chapter 4 of Crossing Bridges. And to make up for the delay, I’ll even write a short epilogue that’ll be posted on my AO3 sometime next week.

“Daddy,” Zach whines, standing on his tiptoes so he can press his face against the oven door, “how much longer?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Bucky says patiently, biting back a smile. “Same as when you asked me twenty seconds ago.”

Zach huffs, put out, and Bucky feels almost bad telling him, “And then they’ll hafta cool for half an hour after that.”

The sound that Zach makes in response to that is one of pure frustration. He glares at Bucky, betrayed, as if Bucky is somehow personally responsible for the baking time of cheesecake brownies, and flops down right there on the floor, sprawling out dramatically.

From his place at the breakfast bar—ostensibly working on a report, but clearly watching the brownie disaster unfold instead—Steve chuckles. “Like father, like son.”

“Screw you, pal,” Bucky snarks back. Before either Steve or Zach can call him out on it, he pulls out a dollar, and stuffs it into the already overflowing swear jar. “There. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” Steve says, deadpan.

“Daddy,” Zach kicks at Bucky’s ankles until Bucky looks down at him, “how much longer?”

(More after the break!)

Bucky’s groan is, luckily, drowned out by Steve’s laughter. “Come on, little man,” Steve coaxes as he gets up, and swings Zach up into his arms. “Why don’t we go draw a picture for uncle Tony while we wait, huh? How’s that sound?”

Zach cheers and agrees enthusiastically, immediately all smiles again. Bucky just rolls his eyes, and sticks out his tongue when Steve smirks at him over his shoulder. He is thankful, though, because it gives him the time to finish cleaning up the kitchen, and change into a new shirt. Baking with a five-year-old always comes with casualties.

Steve comes back while Bucky’s assembling sandwiches for lunch, the brownies cooling on the counter, and snags a piece of bacon. “Zach’s putting the finishing touches on Tony’s drawing. And by that I mean glitter.”

“You’re the worst,” Bucky sighs, resigning himself to vacuuming the living room. Again. “It’s your apartment, too, I don’t know why you do this to yourself.”

“It’s cute, the puppy love thing he’s got going on,” Steve says, shrugging. But then his expression turns sly, and Bucky knows whatever’s about to come out of his mouth can’t be good before Steve says, “Even cuter than your little crush.”

Bucky throws the jar of mayo at his head, confident that Steve’s going to catch it. Or heal quickly, if not. “Stop talkin’ shit.”

“No, sure,” Steve says, all casual, and sets the jar back on the bar. “No crush. Setting a picture of a friend as your phone background is completely normal. As is staring at it with a dumb, lovesick look on your face.”

“It has my kid in it, too, jackass,” Bucky snaps, pressing the top slice of bread down on the sandwich a little harder than strictly necessary. “An’ you’re the one who took it.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “To make fun of Tony for sleeping with his mouth open, yeah.”

“Whatever.” Bucky knows he’s blushing, but he can for damn sure pretend he’s not. “You’re a dick anyway.”

Zach skips into the kitchen right then, of course, covered in glitter and glue, and tells Bucky sternly, “You gotta put a dollar in the jar, daddy.”

Because he really is an ass, Steve doesn’t even try to hide his laughter. As punishment, Bucky plops Zach in his lap, messy as he is, for Steve to feed. Let someone else be sticky with condiments for once. Steve shoots him a knowing look, but dutifully cuts Zach’s sandwich into the requested triangles, and makes the appropriate noises during Zach’s retelling of his morning, even though Steve was there for most of it.

Bucky picks at his own food, absently pushing it around his plate more than actually eating it. Because the thing is, Steve isn’t wrong; Bucky is completely, embarrassingly gone on Tony. He’d noticed Tony was handsome and charming when he’d moved himself and Zach into the tower, of course, and then, later, while Tony’d worked on his arm, come to learn that Tony was incredibly kind and caring under all the distracting bluster of his public personality.

He’d acknowledged that Tony fit his type perfectly, and then immediately decided to ignore that knowledge. Bucky had only recently found back to and recovered himself, at that point, and then discovered Zach, and the fact that HYDRA had screwed him over in even more ways than he’d thought. Getting his dick wet had been pretty low on his list of priorities.

But then he’d had to go to Tony for help with Zach a couple of weeks ago, when Steve’d gone MIA. He’d been reluctant, initially, to trust someone he barely knew with Zach, but also out of other options. And then Tony had turned out to be amazing with Zach, and what’s Bucky supposed to do with that?

Zach hasn’t stopped talking about Tony since, and had thrown one hell of an epic tantrum once he’d realised that his sleepover with Tony had been supposed to be a one-time thing. So Bucky, sucker for his kid that he is, had sheepishly called Tony up to ask if Tony, maybe, would be up to spending an hour or so with Zach, just doing whatever. He’d expected Tony to agree, for Zach’s sake, but not that Tony would actually be excited about the suggestion.

He had been, though, and had taken Zach for an entire afternoon, much to Zach’s delight. After that, there’d been no stopping the inevitable. Zach had started insisting on seeing Tony every other day, Tony had proclaimed that a great idea, and Bucky’d had no reason to say no.

So, now, Tony picks Zach up early from daycare once a week to spend the afternoon ‘doing science’ with him, and then Bucky goes to pick Zach up from Tony’s place in the evening, staying over for dinner more often than not. When both Bucky and Steve are out on a HYDRA related mission that doesn’t require the other Avengers, Zach stays with Tony. And most Sundays, like today, Bucky, Zach, and sometimes Steve eventually end up in Tony’s apartment, bringing baked goods, and the mountains of drawings and crafts Zach’s made for Tony since last seeing him.

It’s not fair. Bucky never really stood a chance; Stark became Tony to him, Tony became uncle Tony to Zach, and Bucky fell. Pretty fucking hard.

“Daddy,” Zach says, and, from his tone of voice, not for the first time. Realising he finally has Bucky’s attention, he starts banging his hands on the bar. “I’m finished! Can we go see Tony now?”

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky says, smiling weakly. “Go wash up, then we’ll go, ‘kay?”

Only Steve’s quick reflexes save Zach from tumbling off Steve’s lap, not that Zach seems to care. He just giggles when Steve catches him by the straps of his overalls, says, “Oopsie,” and dashes away the moment his feet hit the floor.

Once he’s gone, Steve nudges Bucky’s leg with his foot. “Hey. You should tell him. This entire situation’s making you miserable.”

Bucky gets up, collects their dishes, and moves over to the dishwasher to avoid Steve’s eyes. He’s well aware that he’s being obvious, he doesn’t need Steve to point it out to him. Hell, Tony probably knows all about it, too, and is just nice enough—nicer than Steve for sure—to not rub Bucky’s face in it. “Back off, Stevie.”

Steve joins him by the sink, wearing his Disapproving Face, capital letters implied, when Bucky glances over at him. “Buck, c’mon, I’m trying to—”

“Seriously, Steve, back the fuck off,” Bucky hisses harshly, slamming a glass down on the counter.

It shatters, and they both stare at it dumbly for a long moment. Then Steve sighs, and turns away to get some paper towels while Bucky loads the unbroken dishes into the dishwasher. They clean up in tense silence after that, which is only broken when Zach runs back into the room, attaching himself to Steve’s legs.

“Are you coming, too, uncle Steve?”

“Not today, bud,” Steve says, crouching down for a hug when Zach pouts at him. “Next time, okay?”

Zach huffs. “I guess.”

“Say bye to Steve, Zach, an’ go put on your shoes, please,” Bucky instructs, putting tin foil over the brownies. “Don’t forget your drawing.”

“Bye, uncle Steve,” Zach says, and smacks a wet, loud kiss to Steve’s cheek.

He squeals when Steve peppers kisses all over his face in return, and yells triumphantly once he gets free, but returns the, “Love you,” Steve calls after him.

“You too,” Steve tells Bucky. He straightens up again so he can sling an arm around Bucky’s neck, and kisses his cheek, too. “Even when you’re being an asshole.”

Bucky elbows him in the ribs. “Swear jar.”

Steve’s known Bucky for the better part of the century, though, and can read the gesture for what it is. He hugs Bucky properly for a moment, slaps him on the ass just to be a shit, and heads out with another, “Bye, buddy!” to Zach.

Tony’s already waiting for them when they step out of the elevator into the penthouse, and immediately picks Zach up to twirl them around. Zach laughs, thrilled, and Bucky’s heart squeezes.

- Potrix | AO3

[the-headbop-wraith]

2_35 The Non-smoking Section

The group came in about around the time the morning shift ended, when the lamps in the diner’s inner rooms bad been shut off.  This is on the verge of the breakfast rush, when the local patrons swarm in for the early bird specials before the time slot expired. Probably students, they weren’t regulars, but I had never seen them before.  The two guys carried a few beaten up books stuffed with pages, a lot of it notebook paper, and the girl carried a laptop.  I guessed they were ready for a day haul or something, that wasn’t all uncommon.

“Just find yourself a seat,” my supervisor chirped, without an upward glance to the newcomers.  He passed by with a tray loaded with plates, headed toward the kitchens walk-in entrance across the room.  “Someone will be with you in a moment.”

“Any open plugs?” the girl queried.  I really wasn’t paying attention, while in the midst of wiping down a table and collecting some coffee mugs.  However, I knew where a few of our plugs were for the cleaning, and the tall guy was a hunk.

“In the back room, over there.  There’s a booth in the back corner by some,” I offered, as I straighten up and motion with my rag hand toward a doorway.  “It’s kind of quiet too.”  I conclude wiping down the tables surface and the seats, then pluck up the mugs and return to the kitchen.  

The clatter of metal pots assaults my ears and the snap-clack of a spatula on the grill.  The kitchen atmosphere is hot and noisy, as the cooks work to fend the grills from scorching smoky eggs and potatoes.  Again I remind myself to appreciate the stifling temperature, the walk to my car will be cold and that’ll last until I reach my apartment, since my heater decided to stop working.

I pass between the tall steel bar where the heating lamps dangle, and the coffee station.  Under the low hanging lamps awaits the next order of pancakes and ham.  My co-worker Stella is over by the coffee station, putting in another filter and filling up the tank.  I pass her on the way to the far side of the kitchen towards the dishwashing rack, and add the mugs to the collection of grungy plates.

“We got a live bunch in the house,” I call, for the kitchen staff. “Is anything needed from the freezer?”

Flames spit from the cast iron grill opposite to the breakfast cook, and he swats at the bluish gust with his tongs.  “Another bag of hash and fries,” he calls at my back.  “And shrimp.”

Shrimp?  This early? Gross.  I don’t argue, I go to the far side of the kitchen and enter the walk in freezer.  Our restaurant carries the most basic food groups of the pyramid, either to be flash heated or burnt fast on the grill.  I deliver the potato and seafood combination to the fryer station, and still beat Stella out into the dining room.

There’s an issue with the dog.  Or a closing issue.  The group had a dog with them and none of them had papers for it, but my supervisor was done arguing.  Probably a good idea too, since the guy really didn’t have an arm.  He probably didn’t want to argue in front of a subordinate either, he was weird like that.  My manager could be a real dummy sometimes, like, what’d he think was gonna happen?  They’d go somewhere else for breakfast and we’d look like total a-holes for turning away a guy with a disability.  Probably wind up with a bad review, but who checked those out anyway?  Just my manager.

I didn’t get the gist of the ending discussion, an older couple arrived and had themselves seated so I had to take an order before getting back to the study group.  What a waste of time.  It gave them a chance to get their stuff settled, without me in the way.  The girl shoved her backpack into the booth and climbed right in, while the two guys put a couple of books on the table and organized these shit torn notebooks.  Some no longer had their covers and were just pages barely tethered by a spiral ring, and pages filled with this really tight half handwritten and most of it cursive, was it even in English?

“Hey, welcome to Cranberries,” I began, after a sharp breath. My warm expression took an immediate plunge, and they probably saw it.  The shorter guy and girl sat on one side of the table and looked really worn out. They sort of glared at me, not a mean glare, but they just kind of projected this suppressed irritation regarding my presence.  I was used to that look after finals week.  The hunk just raised his eyebrow over the edges of the tinted shades he wore.  I couldn’t help but smirk, at least he was nice.  “Um, I’m really sorry about my boss.  We have strict policy about service animals and—”

“Stop right there,” the girl said.  She raised a finger above the blonde guys hunched backside.  The smaller guy was pushing a stack of books toward the tables center, and the hunk was staring at them.  “We need all of your coffee.  And menus.  And silverware….”

“Take it easy, Vi,” the hunk broke in.  Thank you gentle giant.  “She wasn’t the one trying to kick us out.”  A white snout poked out from under the table between small guy and girl. “Sorry, rough night,” he explained, and wilted a bit under the girl’s redirected glower.  “Some coffee to start, and do you have an appetizer this early? What time was it?”

“Er… how ‘bout the family breakfast plan?”  I described it off – a bowl of hash browns, scrambled eggs, a choice of either sausage or bacon.  My voice trails off.  The girl is really scary, she looks at me like I’m here to steal the big guy away. “How ‘bout the menus, then?”  

I nearly forget the older couple’s drinks.  Damn, ten minutes in and the days already ruined. Something’s banging around in the kitchen when I enter.  I hear water and see steam, one of the cooks probably washing out the larger pots. Stella walks by with a stack of used plates and gives me a little nudge with her elbow as she walks through.

“Carter got them nice and worked up for you, did he?” she sniggered. “Isn’t he the most thoughtful?”

I follow her.  “The guy doesn’t know when to mind his own business,” I hiss.  This is after, of course, I give the kitchen a short glance around.  “He’s great and all with help, but unless someone’s being rowdy or obscene, he doesn’t need to get involved.  I mean, I’ve seen worse for fudgen sakes.”

We go our separate ways.  Stella drops off the dirtied plates at the dishwasher, and grabs the new orders from the bar.  I grab one of the freshly steamed trays and return to the coffee station.  The coffee is still brewing but it’s almost done, so I gather up a pot and some mugs from the drying rack and check again.  I fill the pitcher, grab some spare glasses along the way and leave the kitchen.  I loop around the diners perimeter to hit the fountain dispenser, remember the menus from the front desk, and drop off the fountain drinks for the couple.  

The older couple a ways from the doorway to the study tables room, but I can’t see the back corner until I enter the room from this side. It’s a loop, there are two exits or entrances to the dining rooms but only the rooms directly beside the kitchen can be entered from the kitchens side.

I catch a few snips of their conversation.  Something about glamour, and I automatically think of some makeup brand like Loreal, but the guy and girl are talking to the bigger guy. The small guy dabs at his nose with a napkin, at first I thought he was crying.  

“If something comes up, I can duck out quick,” the hunk was saying. “But I have been working on this for a while, y’know, why not?”

“Y-yeah,” the blonde guy murmured, his voice raspy.  “C’see that.”  He has one book open, a crushed page is nearly falling out as he holds it elevated off the table and stares over the top.

As I pour out three mugs of coffee the light above the table pulsed on bright and dims, but doesn’t go out.  In the winter we usually turn the diners lights off at seven, if the weathers good the sunbeams built into the ceiling would have the rooms filled with natural light.

“Here are those menus,” I say, and passed them out.  “If the light keeps giving you problems, you can just unscrew it.”  I breeze away for a bit to nab some silverware off the nearest table.  It helps keep me from staring at the blond guy as he does everything methodically one handed, from pouring out some sugar from its bottle, to undoing the little utensils wrapped in napkin.  I kind of wanted to help him but it’s hard to gauge how handicaps react to assistance.  I’ve had to deal with some certified nuts before, that laid out a garden full of hostile intents and just waited by tending their extreme irrationality until some naïve cinnamon bun stumbled through their field of bristling with agitation.

The littler guy was the saddest sight, his vest barely holding his shoulder up rather the other way around, and he kept his eyes downcast from the guy vertical to him, even when he passed over a menu.  The hunk gave the menu an edgy kind of scowl and set it aside. “Is there anything else I can get you for the time?”  I hold the tray over my legs, hoping for some sort of errand.  I don’t know why, the diner was going to be busy in about a few more minutes and I wouldn’t have a moment to text friends.

“Honey,” the blonde states.  I’m a little taken.  Did he just call me…?  “There are none on the table?”  He tilts his head away.  Oh.

Blue girl checked at the assortment of syrups and condiments at the far end of the table, then turned back.  “Honey would be good.  Oh, and I am sorry for being ticked off at you… y’know, indirectly.”  She straightened her back against the uncomfortable chair and nudged her glasses up a little on her brow.  “He’s right, we’ve had a… long night.”

“You’re fine,” I say, and smile.  Normally I had no trouble with the students coming through on holiday… they looked like students anyway.  It was best to be on good terms, since they looked about ready to move into the diner. “You on vacation?  Or visiting family?”  I motion my thumb off the tray, towards the books piled on the table.

“Could say that,” the blonde mumbles.  He gets poked in the side by the girls elbow, but he doesn’t react much aside from glancing her way, without another word.

“We’re traveling,” the girl says.  She’s working at the bag she shoved into the booth, unzips it and slips out a laptop, the sides of it are scuffed and scratched.  “This is our last stop before we head back.”

I gave a small forced laugh.  “In that case, I’m glad you were able to come by and dine with us this evening.” That was flat out embarrassing.  I grimaced and inched away from the table. They – or just the hunk and the girl, the scrawny guy didn’t look up – seemed to share my inner turmoil for waitresses trademark pre scripted lines.  “Damnit, that was bad.  Wish I had skipped that.  Um, give me a few seconds, and I’ll have your honey and get back to you for those orders.”

It smelt like the cast iron grill cook lost another shred of beef through the bars of the stove.  The beef was one hundred percent, and if it wasn’t packed and rolled right it’d just sort of fall apart before it was cooked through.  I stood off to the side and looked up occasionally, watching as the cook used the scorched tongs to get the piece out before the kitchen was smoked up. I posted about the group that came by, and pined about getting off in six hours.  Hopefully I’d get some customers that actually tipped.

I checked on the old couple, but they were content for the time and only needed a refill of soda.  A few new customers had come in; a family with rowdy kids and a big guy in a big coat which he would not remove.  I went around passing out menus and started people with customary drink orders, a few times I passed by the doorway of the back room and could see the study group being more than antsy about something.  I couldn’t get clean ends of what they were saying, but they weren’t being quiet about.

Rather go directly to that group after my rounds, I doubled back to the kitchen to take up a tray for some glasses of milk, and gathered up some food orders ready for the diner.  I dropped off the food and made rounds; guy in the coat needed more time; the family didn’t know what they wanted, they thought they did but five kids on the extreme spectrum of age, and the eldest wouldn’t stop screaming about ‘Frozen’ happy meals.

“—their eyes aren’t dark cause they don’t manifest the same way,” the blonde was mumbling into his mug.  He stirred the hot drink slowly, hardly looked up when I approached the table and set a bottle of honey down by his cup.  The thin figure was leaning out on the edge of the seat now, one leg bent out from his side.  “Hey,” he said.

“Are you all ready to order, then?”  I heaved a breath.  The dog was now seated on the girls lap, she had a menu open and the dog – this dog had little glasses on his snout – he was scrolling through the lunch selection with great meditation.  “If my boss catches the dog at the table like that….”

“You gotta get down now,” the girl said.  The dog obliged, and slipped between her and the blonde dude to the floor beneath the table.  “I know.  We were keeping an eye out.”

That was very considerate, though it didn’t feel as such. “I don’t wanna lose my job,” I added. “My boss is really kooky about this sort of thing.”  I took the notepad and pen from my apron, and flipped to a semi clean page.  “What can I get you?  Did you find any appetizers to start with?”  I glanced to the hunk guy, but he only had his gaze set on the girl across from him.  She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe it was those tinted sunglasses making my eyes play tricks on me.  The girl tapped away at the computer, then looked beside her.

“You wanna go first?  Art?” she asked.  The scrawny guy gave his head a minute shake, and continued sipping at his black drink. “I’m gonna order you some fish and chips, and you’ll work on those.  Okay?” The guy didn’t look at her as he adjusted himself on his seat.  The dog set its face on his lap, and the small guy lowered his hand to rest on its thick mane. “Fish and chips, an extra buff Chillisaster with a side of Quesadilla, and your ‘I can’t believe it’s not a Texas chicken basket’ special.”

As I jotted all this down, she took the honey bottle and squeezed it into her coffee.  The hunk guy hadn’t moved, aside from a shift of his head.  I read off the order, and looked at him.  “Was that everything?  Are you getting something, sir?  Sir?”

“Huh?  What?” He glanced at his hands, splayed them out onto the two books opened up in front of him and seemed genuinely surprised to see he had hands.  “No,” he answered.  “She ordered for me.”  And that seemed to be the unanimous agreement.  Girl orders everything.

“Maybe they’re closer to residual,” the scrawny guy was saying. His question was directed to the girl, mostly.  He turned away as he raised his hand, and hacked into the crook of his arm.  “Are residual the same as ghosts?” he sniffled.

“There hasn’t been enough case studies gathered to compare the two,” the girl answered, as she typed.  “Is your wifi password secure?” she chimes, without looking up.

“No.  Just look for Cranberries,” I answer.  “I’ll have your orders out as soon as they’re ready.”  She said a thank you as I turn to leave.

The family was still working on getting their decisions organized, but for the most part they made an off menu request for burgers and condiments. Guy in the coat was still fine, he admitted he was just warming up and I suspected he was straight off the streets. I’d have to talk with my manage about the guy.  Another group of people came in, wanting orange juice and milk; I handed them the menus and returned to the kitchen for more glasses.

The diner began to pick up as noon trickled by, the time spent between impatient customers and the zesty smells of the kitchen was tolerable. I announced orders each time I returned to the kitchen, and either food or refreshments adored atop a tray accompanied me out to the customers.  Between the yogurt shack, a clothing store, and a few other odd end shops that shared space in the strip mall, Craneberries always had a steady stream of customers through the course of the daylight hours.

Food went out to the study group, while Carter escorted another arriving group to some seats in the back.  

“But you didn’t do anything to… dispel them, did you?” the blue was asking.  The laptop was slanted across the table beside her elbow, and an open notebook sat to her opposite shoulder.  A couple of the books lay open around the table, the wrinkled notebook paper sticking out of most that I could see.  The trio had been idly flipping through the pages and passing the books around, while they waited for the cycle of fresh mugs and bottomless pots of coffee.  The brass pots always left the table empty and the scrawny guy’s mug was never full but always warm.

I set the cluttered tray on the neighboring table and began passing out plates weighted with food.  “Okay, who got the Chillisaster and Q-dillas?”  The girls hand shot up, and I hovered over with the two plates as she reorganized the collection of cold coffee mugs and books.

The hunk was slouched forward facing the blue, his arms crossed over the book before him.  He opened his palms and motioned his thumbs outward.  “You had everything under control,” he said.  His brows creased behind his shades as he frowned.  “You didn’t expect me to charge in, did you?  That’s part of making a situation worse.  What say we give a little credit, where credit’s due.”

“You were getting fish and chips?” I lowered the plate beside the blonde.  He glanced up from the duo book and scribbled in notepad he was scanning through, and kind of scooted the items aside to make space.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“I was right there,” the hunk added.  “I wasn’t gonna let anything happen, if I could help it.”  I stood there for a total of forty-five seconds before he realized I was waiting on him to take the chicken tender basket. The menu said a whole pound of chicken, I don’t think it exaggerated that enough.

“Can I get some hot sauce for the ‘dillas?” blue asked, then turned back to the big guy.  “Okay. Okay,” she said.  “If we get the chance, I’ll ask you about that later. Art, do you….?”

“Don’t drag me into this.”  The scrawny guy was picking at the thick potato slices on the plate and nibbled on one.

“Are you done with this pot?”  I can feel its empty when I raise it from the table.  “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.  Aside from the sauce, is there anything else I can hurry on by?”  I pointed at the blue when she looked my way, but she shook her head.

“Nope,” the hunk added, as he handed off one of his chicken slices to the girl.  “Good for now.”  The blue accepted the chicken slice and passed it under the table, where the sounds of snapping jaws and content gurgles became audible.  Carter didn’t need to know about this, but I would make sure to do my vacuuming rounds before I got off work later.

Eggs and pancakes, refreshments of juices and dairy gave way to sodas and teas.  The guy in the coat finally ordered the super stack sandwich with a side of mozzarella sticks.  That saved me from getting in the midst of another drama spiel with my manager, justified or not.  The guy in the big coat didn’t give me bad vibes, but he couldn’t just be around taking up space when we had dozens of hungry customers waiting for service too. I hovered around the family with five screaming kids, and balanced them with another family of three – both these tables were always out of some beverage, or wanted more condiments for their burger buns.  For all the trouble neither family left a good enough tip, and I was glad when they gathered up their small clan and left.

People started to fill the back room around mid-noon, and I started to get more snippets from the study group.  They were practically oblivious to the change in activity around them.  After I brought by another pot of coffee and Cranberries trademark picante sauce – which hunk guy curled his nose at (I don’t blame him) – blue needed a pot of hot water and a new mug for tea.  I got a good gist of the books they were reading, on the rare occasion one of them had a book raised off the table.  Stuff about the true ghost stories, medium exploration, the scientific process of paranormal investigations, and poltergeist… something.

“There’s virtually no evidence to back up peoples claims,” the girl went on, voice livid and high pitched.  “They’re hard to explain, but the theory I liked was the pocket dimensions.” She set aside her fork coated in beef chili and mustard, and pressed her hands together forming a circle.  “And it kind of does have something to do with residual haunts.  This scene is just kind of imprinted in a certain area, their home unchanged.  They can be no wiser.”

“There’s a lot of limestone in this region,” scrawny guy said. Aside from poking at his fried potato slices when they first arrived, he really didn’t touch the food.  He poured out another mug of coffee and leaned over, toward the girl beside him.  “So what’s that?”

Meanwhile, as they discussed onward, I was getting an order from the table across from them.  I glance up as my customers trail off, mulling over what had the lowest calorie content. “C’mon, order a burger.  You can’t go wrong with a burger.  Pack it with onion rings, special sauce, bacon, and extra meat.”  I couldn’t make out much of what blue was doing, but the other two seemed absorbed with that spot on the table she worked at. “You know we have a vegetarian deluxe bonus meal plan.”  I offer.

Half are absorbed with an iPad one carries, and she’s showing of pictures or something.  One girl over twiddles her fingers at the touch screen of her phone, and sets it down on the table.  She fixes her hair long hair aside and shifts in her seat, to face me.  “Ya, no, see, we’re not like vegetarians.”  She fanned herself with a hand, her bright fingernails flashing.  “We just ya’know collectively don’t like meat.  Meat’s cruel and we, like, really-really hate it.”

“Yeaah,” chimed the girl beside her.  “It’s sooo cruel.  How can you, just like, handle animal flesh?  It’s so hurtful.”

Honestly, I can’t tell if they’re trying to be funny or what. They can’t be real.  Eventually their veggies ship does set sail.  “So, the low cal stuffed bell peppers with a side of seasoned cucumber bites, and a bowl of berry splash chunks?” I asked the girls, most of them still oogling over the iPad and whatever it displayed.  To be fair, two had noticed the purple vested hunk a few tables over.

“Oh mi gosh, isn’t he the hottest piece around?”  A few others on the side of the table facing hunk zone deemed the sight worthy of a rating.

The ‘it’s so cruel’ girl whined.  “Why can’t my boyfriend be hot like him?”

“Remember H.G. Wells ‘Time Machine’?” The hunk was saying, without a clue to the rabid evaluation the fem. squad had set on him.  “The home is still there, or a version of it in a time and place?  Wait, no. That’s confusing.  Don’t think about it, Art.”

“Too late,” scrawny guy moaned.  A thud came from the table.

I try to sound chipper, energetic. “Okay, is that it?”  That was not It.  They had a whole list of customized orders to dish out, and had to know the precise percentage of the calories in each meal.  I made up some numbers, though it was right there BESIDE THE DISH on the menu if they just looked.

“If they all died around the same time,” I overheard the girl say, “the house then just ‘remembers’ the way things were, maybe they’re attached to the home.”  She said something here, I couldn’t hear with orders being screamed at me and ‘Why wasn’t I faster at writing?’  Blue went on calmly, despite the assault on human vocabulary that I was subjected to. “I mean, that’s an explanation for why they’re still around.”

A low noise hums on the air.  I think it might be the electricity in the wiring, but I can’t place the exact sound of it.  I only noticed when the lights came on again, brightening dully in turn before losing all power.  A few of the customers notice this time.

“How can we be sure it’s not them that’s making the illusion?” The hunk asks, poses.  I don’t know.

“Okay,” I say, and flip the menu shut, “you know you’ll have to pay the difference.”  They’ve done this before.  “It might take a while, but I’ll go ahead and get your short cake milkshakes started.”

“It could work either way,” the girl chirps.

The guy in the coat was waiting for a friend.  I took the new arrivals order, and stole a few empty stacks of plates for the kitchen dishwasher.  I place the super complex orders for the Barbie’s and ask Mabel, part of the noon staff, to mix up a whole round of milkshakes.

Most of our customers stay for only an hour and take off, but a few stick around for several hours on either the internet or read a book (or two or three). The guy in the coat and his friend leave a sizable tip, and I’m glad Carter didn’t get involved with them at all.

I dropped off milkshakes and return to the slightly subdued study group.  A ‘bite’ had been taken from a fish slice, and a few of the potato slices were missing.

“—be better to get an obscure sound,” the blonde muttered.  He was wearing headphones with the cord attached to a small box sitting on the table, the digital device or whatever was by the blank page of a notebook with a column of times written down.  He pulled one ear muff from the side of his head and grinned. “What if, just saying ‘if’, you do some mild manipulation?  Then we can focus on the ghosts as a priority.”

The hunk didn’t look up.  He flipped a page of the book he was reading and handed it across the table to the blue. “No,” he rumbled.  He picked up the next book that lay open on the table. The girl set the book she was given down, and shifted a bit over to check her laptop screen.

“It’s a joke,” the scrawny guy mumbled.  “Take a joke Lew, you need one to lighten up.”  He glanced my way when I reached the table.  At his feet lay the dog, curled up over his white tennies.  The dog has been a model guest, better than some of the people that flooded through after season end games.

“If you’re done with that basket, and the plate,” I say, indicating the blues empty quesadilla plate.  “Thank you.”

“Are you planning to tell the Hershey’s about the nature of their tenants?” the hunk asked.  He had his finger pressed to some line in the notebook, and slouched to the side with his other arm holding his head up.

The girl hands me a cold coffee mug, and hesitates as I balance it in the chicken tender basket.  “I wanna gather more info.  It’s tedious,” she nods toward the blonde beside her, “but maybe we should focus on getting our facts together?  Hm?”

“Are you ready for your check?” I insert.  “Or is there something else I can get you?”  Without meaning to, I glance to the plate of fish and chips. The scrawny guy leans to the side and pressed his face into his shoulder.

“We’ll be here a bit longer, if that’s all right?” the girl replied. She’s digging around in the backpack beside the wall, until she produces a camera.  With practiced ease she pops the panel in its corner edge open and slips out a tiny SD reader.  “I could do with some more tea, and a glass of plain water, no ice.”  I glance the hunks way, but he just looks away and motions slightly with the hand splayed over the notebook.

As I walk away, I can hear the blue say behind my back, “Art. Try and eat some more.”

There’s a shrill break in his voice, as he coughs.  “I’m doin that.  Don’t pressure me.”

The Cranberries diner reaches its midday lull.  The complicated table gets their meals, and I only have to take five of the seven plates back on three different occasions to fix their orders – why we don’t have regulations for this sort of thing will forever mystify me.  I’m not surprised they don’t tip.  On one occasion while I’m in the kitchens back, I make it a point to warn the cooks about the weird power flares the restaurants been having.  For now, the kitchen seems unaffected.  Carter gets wind of the problem and offers his usual ‘I’ll look in to it.’  The old couple takes some soup and pie to go, the antiquatedness of this conclusion strikes me as endearing.  

Eventually people have stopped screaming at me for refills, and I have enough time for a lunch and send out some text posts to a few friends, finalizing out the evenings plans once my shift is done.  I do my rounds clearing out the used plates and take the bottle of spray cleaner for the tables.  We’re a bit overstaffed and aside from a few regulars and the study group, I look for another task to keep busy with while filling out orders.  I know it gets obnoxious when me and my associates keep coming around to the tables with the same questions, but if we don’t look like we’re looking after the customers, I guarantee you Carter will catch us somewhere and give us his classic undermining talk.  At least, until someone happens upon the scene and it gets ten times more awkward.

“The only article that keeps popping up is this fire, no mention of deaths,” blue muttered.  She sounded irritated, so I only pass through to drop off another pitcher of just hot water and deposit a few teabags, then go.  “There’s absolutely no information about surviving families.”  I walk a little faster and hide out in the kitchen.

One of the cooks had extra onion rings left over from early noon, and I shared them with Mabel and a few of the janitors that popped up around the kitchen for the maintenance cleans.

“He is such a beef cake,” Mabel was saying.  She leaned out from the large entrance of the kitchen and at this precise angle, we could see across to the furthest doorway to the back room and a few of the tables within.  Scrawny guys leg was barely visible through the doorway, but I knew who she was talking about.  “You gonna ask him for his number?”

“Mabel!” I scold, and reach out to slap her shoulder.  She only giggles and chews on her onion ring.  “I think he’s already taken, or has to be. A guy like that.”  I bite my lip as I struggle to suppress a grin, but fail.

“Never stopped you before,” she sniggered.  Mabel waggled her eyebrows and stuck her tongue out at me. She always teased me like this, but I did the same to her when she was waiting on a hot guy.  It didn’t save her from my wrath though.  I knocked the onion ring out of her hand, and she wailed as it hit the tile floor and tumbled up under a rolling cabinet.  “You saboteur!”

“Serves you right.”  I nodded her way, as I crossed the kitchen to the coffee tanks and filled up another pot.  I picked up a tray and a few empty glasses, and hit the fountain dispenser as I circled the dining room.

A new cluster of people had already seated themselves in the front room near the entrance.  “We’ll be with you in a moment,” I called.  I delivered the cold drink to a couple with a baby near the back room, then entered to check on the study group.  Already I can see something’s up, I’m not sure what, but after dealing with enough characters over the years you get to a point where you can kind of detect a shift.  

First off, the plat of fish and chips is virtually untouched since the last time I’ve been by.  The group as a whole is quiet; probably due to the thin guy snuggling into the crook of his arm with his hand curled up by a near empty cup of coffee, the syrupy swill of undissolved sugar languishes in the bottom.  The blue is fully engrossed with her laptop as I come up, and she occasionally jots notes down in her notebook.  Beef cake has his attention on a book, the same book he’s had for the day and he just sort of flips through each page slowly; even without seeing his eyes I can tell he’s not reading.  I’d rather run off again, but I was already here.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I start, softly.  I don’t need to ask if the small guy is asleep, he is or wants to be left alone.  “I brought a new pot.”  That sounded traitorous, but I replaced the old pot with the new pitcher.  I had no idea how many cups the scrawny dude had drunk, or how he managed to sleep under all that sugar.  “Can I take some of your cups?  And, do you guys want a desert or something?”

“Yes, please.”  The blue gathers up some of the empty glasses, and I balance them on my tray. “I’m sorry,” she says, as she hands over the fish and chips.  “I don’t think we’re ready for anything else, aside from more drinks maybe.”  The cold fish pieces have taken on that translucent gummy color, as if the air was toxic to them as they had sat exposed.  “We’re good for now.  Oh, do you have any fruit sodas?”

“We have Purple Stuff,” I say, as I transfer empty mugs onto the tray. The scrawny guy’s knuckles twitch as the ceramic cups clink together.  “You want some of that?  Or something else?”  I look over at the hunk and felt my face heating up.  That’s right, his color theme was purple.  I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.  Oh geez.  Oh geez.  Fix this. Fix this!  “But we have an assortment of fruit themed—”

“Purple Stuff!  Perfect,” blue chirped.  Then, of all derailed conversations, she turned to the hunk across from her. “Huh.  You’re really purple.”  The hunk dropped his book onto the table with a plunk and grabbed at the front of his shirt vest; he stared at blue, then looked over at me.  Scrawny guy gurgled something in his sleep and sort of shifted a bit, his stump twitches at his side.

“Well, I’ll go and get that for you then.”  I shouldered the awkward tray and began backing away a little. All I needed now was to fall down and break something, and probably the hunk would be the first of them to help me and pick up the mess.  I would practically die of embarrassment if that happened.  “Anything at all,” I went on, voice a little creaky.  This is absolutely the worst. “Just give a holler, and someone… I’ll be right by.  Thanks. Bye.  I’ll be back, okay.”  I hasten back to the kitchen, drop off the tray and dishes, then head on out and pass out more menus for a group of newcomers.  After all this, I completely forgot about her drink.

__

Cranberries were a nice little restaurant chain and they offered a large variety of foods from Hawaiian dishes, Irish classics, a lot of American, or whatever else was popular across the continents.  For the assorted range, the quality wasn’t the highest but it was better than Flapjacks, and had customized menus for the adventurous.  It was the perfect place to try for a customized pizza, and Vivi had hopes of encouraging an appetite out of Arthur. The theory had been a good one but, Arthur’s cold was a high stakes factor for his inability to eat.  Vivi was virtually at a loss if not for Mystery’s aid, he had forced Arthur to take a chicken filet, and then threatened to cease eating himself until Arthur had a bite more of some food.

Aside from the meal and some necessary catching up, they were able to analyze the collected media from the previous night.  They wouldn’t dream of dedicating themselves to the critical work of their investigations in the Hirstein home, it wasn’t worth the risk.

The pictures taken the night before rendered undiscernible results at best, and nothing Vivi would dream of bothering Arthur with enhancing later for further scrutiny.  Some of the images did have potential, she felt with her expertise of persuasion she could make the lead paranormal professor see shadows in the photograph. If only she had thought to snap a picture with the phone when she was caught in the former household of deceased members, but if the illusion was as fragile as she suspected then it probably wouldn’t have mattered.

Vivi disconnected the SD card and returned it to the protective slot in the camera.  She raised her hand above her glasses and rubbed at her eyelids.  How long had they been sitting around?  An audible shuffled came from Arthur, as his hand jerked against the coffee stained spoon resting on its napkin.  “At least he’s sleeping,” Vivi murmured.

“Yeah,” Lewis mumbled.  The tone and voice sounded natural, as if he were using lungs, but there remained an off scratchy tang in his utterance while he was distracted.  “Background garble would put me into a comma too.”

Carefully, Vivi pulled the ears muffs out from over Arthur’s head and raised them to her ears.  Verifying there was no audio playing through she plucked up the digital recorder beside Arthur’s head, and tucked it into the backpack beside her.  “He’ll bounce back in a few days,” she assured.  “It’s the worse being sick while on the road.”  She lifts her gaze and sees that Lewis was no longer mindlessly flipping the pages of his book, and was now reading the passage he had found thoroughly.  Or was he? “Do you remember being sick?”

Lewis tensed, and a little flash of ember spiraled from the peak of his pompadour hairstyle.  “How many days was I asleep?”

“Four,” Vivi answered.  “What does that… ah.”  She put her hands around her tea mug and felt the cold ceramic on her palms.  “You knew Art was—”

“Can we change the radio?”  This time Vivi could tell that Lewis was reading something in his book. She didn’t ask what it was, Lewis probably wasn’t as absorbed in the text as he wanted to be.

“I need to stretch my legs for a bit.”  Vivi crawled over the back of the booth, despite Lewis’ protests of ‘Vivi don’t.’  “Vivi, yes,” she proclaimed, and slid out from the neighboring booth.  She smoothed out her skirt and then knelt a bit.  “You wanna come too?”  Lewis was about to glide on out, when Mystery launched himself from under the table and joined her.  “I know you’re a gentleman and you won’t follow.  After all, someone needs to keep an eye on Artie.”  Vivi waved back over her shoulder, and Mystery followed with a few departing yips directed at her back.

Lewis scooted back into his seat and gave Arthur his attention. Arthur was out, like, did Arthur court commas or something?  He reached over and poked at the little sliver of skin visible at the top of Arthur’s forehead, just beneath the dark strands of hair.  A low shudder twittered from Arthur, he stuffed his face down into the crook of his arm and quivered visibly.

From the kitchen in the room over, a muffle scream shot up and the sound of something like a plate or glass cracking echoed to the furthest side of the diner.  Currently, there was no one in the back room where their group set up shop, but Lewis had seen a woman in the next room turn her head up curiously to the sudden commotion. Pretty soon they’d start to see shadow people too.  It was best not to give such a situation much thought, they would be leaving soon… he hoped.

Lewis readdressed his book, and flipped through a few more pages as he scanned the title headings.  It was one of Vivi’s rarer tomes that she had not yet parted with (Duet would absolutely have it if Vivi let on she had found it).  The contents of the book covered haunting manifestos and theories behind poltergeist activities, and recounted some of the earliest recorded documentations of spiritual contact in Western culture.  Much of the content was a challenge to follow, though the greatest disappointment was that it didn’t shed any light on Lewis’… unique predicament. The book was written from the human perspective and was completely biased.

Another one of those stifled whimpers came from Arthur and he jerked, the hand on the table curling into a disjointed fist and then relaxing. The table top was littered with crumpled napkins and the straw covers from the waters that frequented these parts. Lewis set the book atop a stack beside Vivi’s laptop, and began picking up the little pieces of paper and gathered them on his side of the table.  After a while, Lewis stretched out and let his feet hover on the seat across from him, weightless, and he began to crinkle the straw bits into pea sized balls; or, marble sized if you were a person of average height.  Arthur had always seemed very short on his own.

Once Lewis had a satisfactory collection, he began – or attempted – to balance the little arsenal of pellets on Arthur’s spiked hair tips.  That wasn’t so difficult.  Arthur made groggy snore sounds and tucked his face deeper into the side of his shoulder, as per usual, the sounds became little whining mewls.  Lewis tore the covering off the straw that was meant for him, and used its pieces to form a little pyramid right beside Arthur’s hand.  He was going to balance the coffee spoon on Arthur’s wristband and fill the scoop side with more paper pieces, but Arthur gurgled something and jerked.  Lewis casually set the spoon aside and leaned far over in his seat.  Arthur muttered gibberish, none of the slurred syllables Lewis had the slightest clue of.

“Art.  Hey. Not here.”  Lewis reached over Arthur’s head and shook the smaller frame by the back of his vest.  “C’mon,” he says, “Open your eyes.”  Arthur actually convulses a little as he’s raising his head, as if he’s being hit with a blunt object over and over.  Arthur raised his head sideways and opens his eyes blearily, focusing on the person now across from him.

The reaction is something Lewis isn’t prepared for. Arthur slings his arms out, or arm, and thrusts Lewis’ hand away awkwardly.  “Hisus— Yais!” Arthur sputtered and slumped back sideways, nearly clear out of his seat.  One of the half empty cups tumbles over and rolls along the table edge, spilling water over a mess of singed napkins.  Lewis moved his hands to clean the mess but stops himself, as Arthur fumbles around in his seat evidently disoriented.  “Oh man… what are you doing?”  Arthur pulls his hand to his face and digs his palm at the bridge of his brow, his clipped sleeve swivels uselessly along the backseat of the booth seeking fulfillment. “Where?  Where?”

Lewis set his arms before him, over the books, and checked the table where the water had spilt.  He brushed at his shirt sleeve, a little sizzle of cinder puffed off and extinguished on the open air.  “Bad dream?” Lewis ventured.

Arthur was coughing, and trying to speak.  He glanced around the bare back room of the diner, someone from the doorway had looked over in response to the erratic movements.  A bunch of these little… paper balls fell out of his hair.  Arthur shoved himself upright, internally thankful he had fallen on his good side. “I don’t remember,” he answered. Once in a comfortable position, he brushed the remainder of the pellets out of his hair.  “It really… I thought I would’ve….”  He turned his face up to Lewis.  “Where’d Vivi go?”  Slouching sideways, he saw that Mystery was not under the table either.  He might’ve been able to surmise that, had he first taken into stock Lewis legs beside him on the seat.  He scooted away.

“She and Mystery went out for a bit,” Lewis surmised, with a slight flick of his hand.  He moved his fingers to the ascot and was trying to smooth it or remove a crease in his shirt collar, plucked up and bent over the shirt vest.  If one watched carefully, the subtle flaw in Lewis’ illusion could be glimpsed.  The cloth was almost too white, pristine, there were no visible weaving fibers but that on its own was hard to tell.  It was hard to explain what Arthur decided he saw, but clothing couldn’t be a ghost. They had been talking all day about memories.  “She didn’t actually say where.”

Arthur tilts his head down, and murmurs, “I-I see.”  His hand resting on the table before him opens, then relaxes into a loose fist.  His eyes trail to the small puddle of water on the table, and Arthur takes a burnt napkin and blots up what he can.  “She’s not very discreet, huh?”

Lewis chuckled.  “Nope.” He moved one of the open notebooks aside, as the water hurried to escape absorption.  While Arthur was cleaning the table, sort of, Lewis began organizing the stacks of books and collecting up the loose bits of trash into one cup. Lewis waited until Arthur had poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and had a sip.  “The possession.”  Arthur paused as he was lowering the cup from his face, the hot steam burning his lips. He gazed through the mist and raised his thick brows, to those dark sunglasses staring back.  

“I-I’m not ready for this,” Arthur said.  He shook his head, or tried.  His movement became stiff, muscles locked.

“This is important for you to hear,” Lewis replied.  

“No, this isn’t a good time.”  Arthur set the mug down and curled his hand around it.  “Later.  Much later, yes?  Don’t make me do this now.”

Lewis adjusted his voice and leaned forward.  He set his hands on the table.  “I was weakened,” he hummed.  Oddly, his voice had a subtle tremor in it, or a drumming.  “It wouldn’t have worked, unless you were willing.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Arthur mumbled.  He wrapped his arm across his chest and gripped the side of his neck.  He fought off the burning in his chest, the dull pain in his skull that he promised himself had vanished overnight.  “You… don’t know,” he took another shaky breath, “what this means to me.”

Lewis paused.  Arthur shuddered and gripped his shoulder tighter.  “Look, I’m trying to tell you.  That’s…” Lewis stops and tugs his arms back towards himself.  “Arthur, look at me.  Try and hear me—”

“DON’T say that.”  Arthur shoved himself back into the uncomfortable seat cushion and pulled his arm up, his only arm, up to hold the back of his shoulder.  He focused on the coffee mug and the frail little wisps of white, twirling inside the rim of the mug.  “I don’t blame you.”

The sounds of the kitchen came in through from the doorway, dishes hosed out by scorching water, the distant drone of voices from a far off world.  Lewis set a hand to the edge of a book and picked at the loose pages.  On either side of him bright ember flurries sputter out, waved away by his free hand.  “I didn’t want this.”  He stopped and tilted his head up, as their waiter skipped back into the room.

“Sorry to drop by,” she paused, and looked Lewis’ way.  “Just checking to see if you needed anything?” She had another tray pinned behind her back, and a few empty glasses pinned in the other hand.

“Yes,” Arthur said.  He relaxed a tad and twists to her, arm loosening from its vice grip on his shoulder.  “Can I get, do you have fried mushrooms?”

“We… have sautéed mushrooms,” she offered.  She gave the two another once over, her expression conflicted.  “Hey.  Are you guys doing okay?”  Lewis could only nod.  Was she really digging him or something? All day she had hardly given Vivi or Arthur a second look.  Lewis looked behind him to the blank wall.

“No.  I mean, no mushrooms,” Arthur sputtered.  He brought his hand to his brow and took a deep breath, and another.  Steady, slow; one one-thousand, two one-thousand.   “Do you make fajitas?”

She nods, and places her eyes on Arthur.  “We do.  We have chicken, beef, and shrimp.  You can get a full dish—”

“No-no,” Arthur said, and shook his head.  He braced his arm across his chest so he could set it on the table beside him, and keep himself from pitching forward.  “Just a water.  A water and a Sierra Mist.”

“Arthur,” Lewis spoke, gently.  The light above their table flickered and flashed.

“S-some steamed veggies,” Arthur stammered, coughed.  He was trembling from each hack as he pressed his face into his shoulder.  “You can do steamed veggies?”  Keep breathing, don’t think.  Calm, steady.

The waitress backed away, but nodded.  “I can speak to the chef.  Steamed veggies and a water.”

“And a soda,” Arthur groaned, as he bowed his head forward. “That’s right.  Yeah, thanks.”  He pulled his legs around to angle them off the side of the seat, and placed more weight onto his arm.  

Lewis waited until the waiter was out of the doorway.  “You shou—”

“I need some fresh air,” Arthur utters, as he stands.  His voice is jittery, and it takes him a painful few tries to urge himself to stand on his two legs without the tables support. “It’s still daylight.”  He wasn’t actually sure, he couldn’t look up. Lewis isn’t aware he’s giving Arthur any sort of look, until Arthur looks his way and frowns.  Arthur reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tinfoil packet, some of its cells empty.  “I got this, I got it under control.  If you could just stop.”

Lewis leans away and clasps his hands together.  “I really am not the one you should be worrying about,” he rattles.

“I know!”  Arthur counted the little capsules left, before he pocketed his gum.  “This… it’s been helping.  I’ll see you in a bit.”  And he leaves.

Beautiful.  Spectacular. It couldn’t have gone better. Lewis looked to the laptop across from him, facing the empty seat of the booth.  That was something to look at, but he was irritated.  No secret, no hidden agenda.  His eyes gleamed a little brighter, and he began a systematic mission to locate each little pellet and burn them to ash.  One, two, five, eight.

The light flashed for its final time, as Lewis held up a hand. With a red spark the bulb popped and no more betrayed his true nature. Eleven, thirteen, twenty.  He was taking new recruitments, and scorching the crumpled spherical shapes on his palm.  Each time a little more of the flesh faded and flacked away in ember peels, revealing ebony and bone.  He crushed the ash in his palm until there was nothing but dust; dust so fine it settled over the tables top in a fine velvety blanket.  One more page.

When he swivels his head up, he has to take a double take. Here comes Vivi, with a look of utmost… why is she looking at him like that?  Behind her is Arthur, sullen; trailing them is Mystery.  She marches through the doorway into the room, and Lewis sees that her hands are bunched up beneath the collar of her scarf.  Arthur makes a motion with his hand, he can’t do much but poke at his own chest.  Lewis begins to fear Vivi has uncovered some mystic way to maim the nonphysical form of a ghost.

Oh?  Oh! Lewis turns his skull down, his sunglasses clatter onto the table and he can understand what it is that Vivi has sworn her agitation upon.  He’s disappointed, and internally wounded, but better they find him like this now than someone else stumble upon him.

When she’s near the table, Vivi snaps.  “Lewis!  What happened?”  With Lewis sitting and Vivi standing, they’re the same height.  Almost.

“I lost focus,” Lewis crackled.  He was shuffling the books aside on the table, and had a notebook in one hand as he tried to fan off the ash.  Mystery’s paws scratched at the table, slick with soot, as the dog tries to raise himself to inspect the damage.  “Well, Arthur walked away!”

“Too soon,” Arthur gagged.  “I am not.”  He broke off and began wheezing fits.  Probably irritated by the dust kicked up.  “Fix it. You can’t be seen like that.”

“And why not?” Lewis challenged.  Vivi turned away to check around, no one in the other room had happened to look in.  “What is so offensive about my appearance?”

“Damnit Lew, if you—” Vivi bite her tongue.  Mystery was yapping at her, the dog had spun from the table and faced one of the outer diners as the waitress walked past.  Vivi cursed and swung back, she snatched the notebook from Lewis’ hand and held it up.  The notebook unfolded, loose pages skim over the table as they swoop out in descent.  “Would you? For me?”

Lewis had already shuffled away, smacking into the tight confines of the table as he recoiled his feet.  “I need a mirror.  I need something.”

Arthur squeezed into the booth across from Lewis and took up the orphaned tinted sunglasses.  “Here, look at this,” Arthur said.  He turned the shades surface to face Lewis, and let the other take them.  “Any reflective surface works, right?”

Lewis didn’t reply.  “It helps if you’re not watching,” he said, instead.  Lewis raised his other hand and pinched the glossy lens between his thumb and forefinger.  Arthur curled up against Vivi’s backpack, and moved the laptop screen to face him.  Arthur pulls his hand back and finds his skin brushed thick with a gray shade.  

“Is everything all right over here?” the waitress posed.  As she neared Vivi she tries to lean over and see beyond the open notebook.  “’Cause, I thought I saw something strange.”

“I know what you mean,” Lewis’ voice was coming off its scratchy tinge, but it was coming back.  He fixed his sunglasses in place, and leaned over the backside of the neighboring booth to see the waiter.  “Can we, by any chance, see our check?”

The waiter stared at him as she moved away, and began to leave. She cast a few more looks over her shoulder before she was out the doorway and into the main dining room.

Lewis leaned back onto his seat.  He raised his head when Vivi took the edge of the seat beside him, and pointed a finger to his sleeve.  “It’s okay. That wasn’t too bad,” she said. “Art?  Can you cover the tab, and I’ll pay you back later?”

Arthur wasn’t looking at her, but he nodded.  Perched on the seat with him was Mystery, and Arthur had a hand resting on the dog’s dark mane.  “Don’t worry about it,” Arthur said.  He had found something on the computer screen to distract himself with, for the time. “I’ll pack up then.”

“I’ll help you, there’s no hurry.”  Vivi fixed her glasses.  She tells herself nothing would have happened, it would have all worked out. Really.  “It’s getting late, anyway.  Will you carry some of these books back to the van?”

Lewis agreed.  Only because she asked and he couldn’t say no.  He managed to clean up the table a little better, and organize their gear before the waitress returned.  When Arthur made it out to the van in the strip malls parking lot a little later, Lewis cringed inwardly.  Arthur came with two Styrofoam drinks balanced upon a carryout box, of what he reminded Lewis was steamed vegetables.

[lalka-laski]

Do you always carry breath mints? Nope, although maybe I should with this mandatory mask-wearing.  What is the point of scented pens / pencils / erasers? That’s a good question?  Do you buy / wear band-aids with cartoon characters on them? I may or may not have a box of Disney Princess band-aids in my medicine cabinet right now...  Are you amused by celebrity fashion flubs? Not really. I liked all those red carpet fashion panel shows when I was younger but in retrospect, it’s just a form of bullying. A “Best Dressed” list is fine, but a “Worst Dressed” is unnecessary and cruel.  What do you think your reaction would be upon entering the White House? Pure rage 

Do you buy and wear crazy looking socks? Nope. I occasionally buy cute ones if I can’t resist the design but I don’t like wearing socks in general  Would you run down the street wearing a tutu, fishnets, & flippers? Would I get money for it? Have you ever grown your own sea monkeys or dinosaurs? I don’t think so  Would you want to travel into deep space? The thought TERRIFIES me to no end  Have you ever thrown a game controller (or the game) and broke it? Nope, I don’t play video games Did you ever own an Etch-a-Sketch? Mhm. I wasn’t very good at it though Do / did you ever have glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling? No, sadly  Does your house have an attic that had stuff in it when you moved in? Not that I know of  What movie were you really worked up for that ended up disappointing you? Most movies disappoint me just because they bore me and I don’t have the attention span  Does / did your school have special dress-up days? Yes, and I loved them!  What cartoons did you watch when you were little? Oh God, I have a list! My favorites as a little kid were probably Blue’s Clues and Little Bear. And then Rugrats, of course! Do you eat peanut shells along with the peanuts? I don’t eat peanuts, period.  Would you eat a meal cooked by Hannibal Lecter? That’s a no from me dawg  Have you ever gone white-water rafting? No but I would like to try it  What part of a paper is hardest for you to write? CONCLUSIONS! Does your grandma wear an apron when she cooks? This question is a little raw for me This is your chance to get it out! Place random rant here. I! AM! TIRED!  How often do you need “me” time? Probably more than the average person. I’m very fortunate to be dating/living with someone who not only understands and respects that, but also who needs plenty of his own “me time” too.  Was Jim Morrison truly “an American Poet”, in your opinion? Eh...  Does it bother you that almost everything is done on computers now? No, I enjoy that Have you ever gotten stuck in a revolving door? Nope, surprisingly  Who is your favorite superhero? Batman? I don’t know.  KFC Chicken: original or extra crispy? I’m a vegetarian. But I have heard they’re gonna roll out meatless chicken soon? If so, SIGN ME UP!  Pop-Tarts vs. Toaster Strudels. Discuss. OH this is just plain rude. I love both! I guess if you tied me down and made me choose I’d pick Pop-Tarts though, just because they have a wider variety of flavors and serving options.  Do you believe there are subliminal messages in songs? Sure Think about your first kiss. Did you have any idea what you were doing? Nope. It wasn’t spectacular but it wasn’t necessarily bad either.  Do you “fake bake”? If I do, I should get my money back Would you play Jumanji, if given the chance? Hell no. And certainly not this year!! Does it bother / offend you when someone calls something (not someONE) gay? People don’t really use that word as an insult anymore. And the only people I know who do are LGBT folks who use it ironically.  Do you always make sure your cell phone is charged before going somewhere? I try to. Or I just toss my charger in my purse Did you get Happy Meals just for the toys as a kid? Sometimes  Have you ever seen your parents cry? If so, how did it make you feel? Mhm. Talk about gut-wrenching. UGH!  What are your thoughts on Chuck Norris? I don’t give a shit What is the most annoying sound in the world? Certain people’s voices REALLLLY grate me What would you do if Neil Patrick Harris stole your car? Is this some sort of reference I’m not getting? Do you honestly care about calories and fat content? I try to watch my calories but I’m not insane about it. I’ve down the crazy counting disordered eating thing enough in the past.  How do you feel about animal testing? I find it cruel for cosmetic purposes but for medical reasons? The lines are blurred Do you often shift blame towards others? Sometimes I guess Your very first best friend: Is he / she STILL your best friend? Mhm!  What would you do if a rabid animal was chasing you? Run away?  Do you add condiments to your ice cream, or just eat it plain? Sometimes hot fudge or peanut butter. Mmm.. I wonder what kind of ice cream I’ll get tomorrow!  Have you ever witnessed a crime? Nothing major What’s the coolest personalized license plate you’ve ever seen? They’re all kinda silly if you ask me

[builder051]

Hello! for a prompt: bucky massively overestimating his alcohol tolerance?

Ha!  Nice one!  Here you go.

This is Powers/No Powers.  And it’s Halloween!

________________________

Halloween is boys’ night in.

Steve’d called Clint.  “You know Buck’s not really good with the doorbell, so we’re looking for somewhere quiet to spend Halloween.”

“No one hikes up to our house,” Clint’d assured him.  “Laura’s taking the kids into town, so you’re welcome to come crash with me.”

So they’d made plans for drinks and sloppy joes and Svengoolie

Steve pulls up in the driveway as Laura’s loading the two miniature pirates into the car.

“Arrrgh!”  Leila growls at them, brandishing her plastic hook.

Bucky looks at Steve for a second and whispers, “Am I supposed to act scared?”

“Um.  Yeah,” Steve replies, raising his hands and pulling a girlishly frightened face.

“Ooh.  Scary,” Bucky says flatly, missing the nail on the acting part.

“You boys let yourselves in,” Laura says, dusting off her jack-o-lantern sweatshirt before settling behind the wheel.  "Clint’s…a little excited.”

Laura’s right.  The kitchen is cluttered, and Clint’s bouncing back and forth between the large collection of condiments on the counter and what looks like a full bar on the breakfast table.

“Hey, what can I start you off with?” Clint asks, setting down his down-to-ice-cubes glass and grabbing a couple clean glasses from the cupboard.

“I don’t know…” Steve says unsurely.  Drinks has always meant a couple beers on the back porch, or at least it has since Bucky came back.  Not hard liquor.  Alcohol doesn’t do much for Steve these days, and he’s not sure it’s wise for Bucky to imbibe anything stronger than a Miller Lite.

But it’s not like they don’t have a history.  Steve remembers the days when he was barely legal and three sheets to the wind on scotch and soda, watching Bucky try to pick up everyone in the vicinity.  Maybe Bucky remembers too.  Maybe it’ll be ok.

“What do you recommend?” Bucky asks, looking at the intimidating number of bottles.

“This one’s always been one of my favorites.”  Clint selects Canadian Club from the array and turns to fridge for ice.

“He doesn’t want ice,” Steve says quietly, trying to give a gentle reminder that Bucky’s trigger situation is still…what exactly?  Delicate?

“Maybe I do.”  Bucky’s standing close to Steve, looking at him with an expression Steve doesn’t quite recognize.

“Well, I mean…”

“I know you’re helping me out.  Just.  Maybe I do.”

“Yeah, ok,” Steve concedes.  He’s always know it would come to this someday.  And it’s really a good thing if Bucky starts to see him at too protective.  It means he’s getting better.  More independent.  It’s just hard to see things change when he’s not sure of the outcome.

“Do you want ice?” Clint asks, looking over his shoulder and flicking his gaze from Steve to Bucky.

“No,” Bucky replies, nullifying the argument.

Clint splashes whiskey into the glasses, then tops off his ice cubes as well.  Steve takes his serving and inhales the slightly sweet, almost woodsy aroma before taking a small sip.  Bucky’s already tipping his head back and chugging down a gulp.

“Someone’s a little eager,” Clint comments, raising his brows.

“I think I remember this,” Bucky murmurs after holding the liquor in his mouth for a moment and swallowing it down.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you drank everything you could get your hands on back then,” Steve replies, a smile pressing out of the corners of his worried expression.  “I think scotch and soda was your usual, though.”

“Do you have that?” Bucky asks Clint, draining his glass of Canadian.

“You underestimate my skills as a bartender,” Clint says, rinsing Bucky’s empty glass and setting to work mixing.

“You should probably pace yourself,” Steve warns.  “You haven’t had this stuff in a while.  Don’t know how it’s gonna make you feel.”

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky says.  “Don’t go getting sore about me out drinking you.”  He gives Steve a playful nudge.

“Yeah, well.  A lot’s changed since then.  I wouldn’t go thinking everything’s all the same as it was before the war.”

“Well.  Gotta try before we find out.”  Bucky accepts his refreshed beverage from Clint and takes a generous sip.  He considers for a moment, then slowly nods.  “Yeah.  I did like this.  I think I still like this.”

“Thank you, thank you.”  Clint mock-bows and takes the words as praise for himself.  “I’m a pretty good cook, too, if you’re ready to eat.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty hungry,” Steve agrees.

Bucky looks up from another sizeable sip of his drink and nods.  “Sure.”

The crock pot is plugged in on the counter, and when Clint lifts the lid, the savory scent of meat and tomato sauce and spices fills the air.  “Mm.  Smells great.  You are a multitalented man,” Steve says.

Clint throws buns onto plates, then starts ladling out the filling.  The name sloppy joes ends up being quite accurate as Clint isn’t precise with his plating.

“You know…” Bucky says, an edge of uneasiness in his voice.  He holds his glass against his mouth and clinks it against his teeth.  “I’m…I don’t know if I’m real hungry.”

Steve follows Bucky’s gaze to the red-brown sauce dripping from the edge of one plate onto the counter. And practically in the blink of an eye, things are back to being delicate.

“I’m sure we could get you something else,” Steve says.  “I bet Mr. Master Chef’s a whiz at grilled cheese too.”

“Uh.  Yeah,” Clint agrees, clearly not sure what he’s missing.

“I’m good.  I’m just not hungry yet,” Bucky says.  He drains his glass again.  He’s paled slightly, and his eyes are wide and a tad glazed.

“Do you need a minute?” Steve asks, offering the out that Bucky clearly requires.

“No, I’m.  Um.”  Bucky turns away and sets his glass down on the bottle-laden table.  “How do I mix this?”

“I’ll get you set up,” Clint promises.  Then, a bit unsurely, “You ok to eat in the living room?  You’ll have to promise not to tell Laura.”

“Yeah, here, I’ll take the plates,” Steve says, jumping into action.  He transfers one of the sandwiches to his own plate so nothing will be left out or wasted.  When he’s back in the kitchen, Bucky’s sipping another scotch and trying hard to hide the tremors in his hand.

By the time they’re through the first Svengoolie-commentated film that Clint’s bootlegged from somewhere, Steve and Clint are fed and Bucky’s on his ninth or tenth cocktail.  Steve has to practically bully him into eating a plain hamburger bun, and Bucky keeps insisting he’s fine even though there’s clear evidence to the contrary.

“Think maybe you should slow down a little, Buck?” Steve says, softly patting Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’m good,” Bucky says.  “This is fun.  We should do this more often.”

“You’re going hard, though.  Might be better to take a little break.  Drink some water.”

“We always do what you want,” Bucky grumbles, smacking his glass against his knee so the tablespoon or so of liquid in it slops onto his jeans.  “I wanna…pick what I do.”  He puts his glass on the coffee table and dabs the spill with his fingers.

“I’m just trying to keep you safe.  You know that,” Steve reminds him.

“Yeah, but…I just…That’s not what I want to do.”

“Buck—”

“Just shut up a minute, Stevie.”

Clint comes back from the kitchen where he’s been washing dishes.  “Do you need me to leave so you can have a fight?”

“We’re good,” Steve says.

“Top me off,” Bucky demands nodding at his empty drink.

“Sure.”  Clint picks up all their glasses and heads off to refill.  Steve launches up to follow him.

“You need to cut him off,” Steve says.  “He’s drunk, he’s barely eating, he’s in a bad mood…”

“How many has he had?” Clint asks.

“I don’t know.  You keep refilling him!”

“What?  Oh, fuck, I thought that was your glass, that’s why I kept refilling it.  Shit.  I don’t know either,” Clint admits.  “What was he talking about, making his own choices?”

Steve sighs.  “He thinks I’m smothering him.”  He runs his hand agitatedly through his hair.  “I mean, I knew this would come on eventually as he gets more independent, but… turns out he has to be drunk off his ass and making really immature decisions in order to talk to me about it.”

“Maybe you should let him.”

“Huh?”

“Let him do something stupid and drink himself sick.  He’s in a safe place here.  He’ll learn and get over it and move on,” Clint suggests.  “You can tell him ‘I told you so’ while you’re carrying him to bed.”

“Is that, like, a parenting thing?”  He cringes at the idea of being a father figure to Bucky.

“Eh.  Sorta.  More like a college roommate thing.  Sometimes people have to figure out shit for themselves,” Clint says.

“Yeah,” Steve exhales.  “I still think you should cut him off, though.  Give him a glass of water.  Or at least something else, something maybe he won’t like so much.”

Clint chuckles.  “You got it.”

“What’s that?” Bucky asks when Clint hands him a taller glass of yellow liquid instead of the scotch he’d been expecting.

“Pinnacle Whip and pineapple juice,” Clint replies.  “It’s kind of more Laura’s thing, but like I said, I’m a good bar tender.”

Bucky gamely takes a taste.  He shrugs and sips it again.  “Kind of sweet.”

“You don’t like sweet so much, huh?” Steve poses.

“It’s ok.  Way better than that pumpkin coffee whatever thing you had that one time…”

“Wait, you drink pumpkin spice lattes?” Clint asks, bursting out laughing.

“What?  They’re good!” Steve says in his own defense.

Clint starts another episode of Svengoolie, but they only watch a few minutes before all three of them are laughing raucously at something and Bucky shouts that they should probably play cards.

“That’s what we do, right?” He asks Steve, a little slur tainting his pronunciation.  “Play cards?”

“Um.  We did.  I think.  Before the war?  When we’d go drinking?”  Steve strains to remember.

“No, when I can’t sleep.”

“Oh.  Yeah, we play cards sometimes.  Uno and stuff.”  He tries to lock on Bucky’s blurry gaze.  “You getting tired?”

“Maybe.  I don’t know.  It feels late.”

“It’s 8:30,” Clint says with his own version of buzzed sarcasm.  “So late.”

They dig up a pack of cards.  It takes a while to come up with a game they all know how to play, and finally they just start up with 3-way war, even though Steve thinks it’s a bad idea from the name alone.

Bucky drains his glass for what seems like the hundredth time tonight, then knocks it over as he sweeps a pile of cards toward himself.  The glass doesn’t break, but Bucky jumps when it hits the table and whispers, “Shit.”

“You’re ok,” Steve says, righting the cup and clapping Bucky on the stump shoulder.  Maybe a little harder than he meant to.

“No, I’m not,” Bucky murmurs unexpectedly.  “I was…I’m…I don’t…”  He hiccups.  Then spills all his cards into his lap.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint says.  “It’s really easy to clean cards out of the carpet.”

Bucky belches wetly in response, swallows hard, and brings his fist up to his mouth.

“Barf, though…”  Clint cocks his head.  “Not so much.”

“Ok.  Come on.”  Steve heaves Bucky up from the couch and steers him toward the bathroom.  Bucky gags into his hand before they’re over the threshold, then leaves a brownish spitty handprint on the toilet seat when Steve guides him down to his knees.

Bucky retches hard.  “I don’t feel good, Stevie,” he chokes.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.  “Looks like maybe your tolerance isn’t so high after all.”

A huge slew of liquid splashes into the toilet, and Bucky coughs and groans as his system rejects everything he drank.

The wave of vomit finally lets up, and Bucky turns his head to the side to rest his cheek on the toilet seat. His eyes are red, and spit’s stuck to the stubble on his upper lip.  He looks 18 and naïve.

It brings Steve back to being young and invincible, though more often than not he was the one with his head in the toilet back then.  Even though he’s so much older now, things aren’t that much different.  Not really.

“Sorry,” Bucky breathes.

“It’s ok, Buck,” Steve says.  He pats him on the back, then tries to relieve some of the tension in Bucky’s quivering shoulders.  “You’re really doing ok.  I mean, of all the things that could’ve brought you down tonight, it’s the liquor.”  Steve laughs in spite of himself.

“’S not that funny,” Bucky grumbles, repositioning himself over the toilet to prepare for the next wave of sickness.  He throws up for a while more, then just stays there, bent over the porcelain bowl as Steve rubs his back.

There’s a scuffling of doors opening and closing, then footsteps dashing through the house, which can only mean that Laura and the kids are home.  Steve’s barely thought through what to do next when knuckles softly rap on the door frame.

“You doing ok?”  Laura’s standing there in her festive sweatshirt, looking concerned at the scene playing out in her bathroom.

“Yeah, I’m sure Clint told you,” Steve says quietly.  “Just.  Had a little too much.”

“I’ll put some sheets on the guest bed for you,” Laura offers.  “There are some spare toothbrushes under the sink.”

“No, we’ll get out of here,” Steve says.  Bucky starts retching again.  “Just, give us a few more minutes.”

“You’re staying here,” Laura says with gentle matriarchal authority.  “I don’t know how much you’ve had to drink.  And he really needs somewhere to sleep it off.”

Steve sighs.  She has a point.  “I’m just…really sorry to be…you know.  Those kind of guests.”

“You guys are never bad guests,” Laura smiles.  “Is there something he’ll want to eat in the morning?  Just so I can have it on hand.  I’m sure the kids are going to insist on candy for breakfast…”

“Anything but that,” Bucky mutters into the toilet bowl.

Steve laughs, relieved that of all the possibilities, this is how he gets to spend Halloween.

[finchbeak]

Cairo Travelogue Day 2

I awoke to a semi early sun after an incredibly restful, perhaps even blissful, sleep. I swear the only time I actually sleep through the night anymore is when I’m on vacation. I should probably take a closer look at my general life decisions…

I decided that for my first full day in Cairo I wouldn’t go too crazy or go full on expert level travel. I’d stick with the familiar: museums are museums are museums. And Cairo has an epic, if dilapidated, one.

The Egyptian Museum (or Museum for Egyptian Antiquities. Which I like better because I like the word ‘antiquities’) is smack dab in the middle of Cairo. A pink domed colonial building chock full of Egyptian artifacts. It is both awe inspiring and deeply disappointing. The MEA (my newly minted acronym) is like that child who is wicked smart. So smart they are bored and then get shitty grades because they can’t be bothered. (I get you, MEA, I do).

There are no maps. The signage, if any, is typewritten. As on an actual typewriter. And there are typos galore. There is almost zero climate control. Windows are open. Sun is pouring in. Electric fans giving the briefest respite from the stuffiness. I can’t imagine being able to handle the MEA during peak tourist season. I’m very glad I thought to pack one of my handheld fans. It was a lifesaver.

So I shan’t bother you with a blow by blow of all the amazing things I saw in the museum, but I’ll provide some exemplars/thoughts:

- Mummies are really creepy. I would not be surprised if I had mummy nightmares tonight.

- Sarcophagi! (I don’t know, I just really liked how many there were)

- The Ancient Egyptians really did mummify everything. There was a mummified fish. A crocodile. A cobra. And a pet gazelle. (slight stray: this was the saddest part of the museum. It has really cool and creepy stuff. But it’s dusty and has smudged, scratched glass, and the lighting is shit. I could think of a dozen ways to make this a world class exhibit.)

- King Tutankhamun’s iconic solid gold funeral mask? It is one of those rare things that are ingrained in our general knowledge that manages to exceed expectations (see also: Stonehenge and the Eiffel Tower). It is breathtakingly beautiful.

- HOW DOES THIS MUSEUM NOT HAVE A REAL MUSEUM GIFT SHOP!? Sorry for the allcaps, but seriously? I’m saddened by this. Deeply upset, actually. I have a thing. I Iove Museum shops. I sometimes hurry through exhibits because I know awesome stuff is potentially waiting in the shop. Here? Nothing. A few books. Not even postcards worth buying. Some replicas without price tags. To say it was disappointing doesn’t even cover it. I kinda want to find a way to take over management of the museum and get shit to what it should be**

- And the museum Cafe? Doesn’t exist. Looks like it’s been shuttered for some time. I desperately needed a bottle of water after 3 plus hours in a swampy, hot museum.

So, yeah. That’s how I almost passed out in the streets of Cairo. You allegedly can’t bring liquids into the museum (which is doubly ridiculous now that I know the conditions they keep things in). I also wouldn’t have had coffee with my breakfast if I’d known there’d be no respite at the museum Cafe. Water only. So I’m sweaty and hot and desperately thirsty. It’s a wasteland around the museum. It’s cordoned off for security reasons. (the amount of metal detectors you have to go through…) So I head in the general direction of the Nile, hoping I might find a place to sit, eat, and cool down. I’m coming upon the Semiramis Intercontinental when I start to feel faint. Spots are actually forming in my vision (this is my personal precursor to passing out) so I practically stumble up to the entrance.

I felt like a drunk person trying to act sober. I didn’t want to pass out and I also didn’t want to seem like I was fucked up in anyway (such things are frowned upon in Cairo). So I make myself go through the metal detector and x-ray and sat myself at the hotel bar where I ordered a water and Pepsi. My hands literally couldn’t stop shaking.

The Egyptian sun is real, y'all. I even knew this. Came prepared. And I still almost succumbed.

After a good hour in hotel level air-conditioning and two bottles of water I decided to head out again. Just to see where I could find good food. Because I won’t let a little faintness stop me!

So I head right back into downtown Cairo. I take random streets. I cross into perilous traffic. I have no idea where I’m going. And then, down this random street I took because it had some trees and reminded me, oddly, of Marrakech (it had more than one dude working on his motorcycle with parts everywhere..) I find a little bit of food heaven.

The place had a slight line of Egyptians waiting outside of it. Food nerd spidey sense set off. So I stand in line. And I watch others order, but turns out they are getting take out. Luckily the cashier speaks enough English and directs me upstairs where I’m sat at a metal table surrounded by Egyptian families, couples and groups of friends. I’m the sole single person there. At this point I don’t even know what I’m here for. But it smells good.

The waiter comes up. Me: Can I have a menu? Him: quizzical look. Me: *pulling out phrase book to find word for menu* . Him: laughs. No menu. Small, medium, or large? Me: (playing safe) Small, low samaht! And a water bottle. Shukran.

Minutes later I get a plate of noodles. Lentils. A tomato based sauce. Some chickpeas. FRIED ONIONS. And I don’t know what else. It’s just delicious. And there are random condiments! I literally don’t know what’s in them because they aren’t transparent. But I watch what others are doing and follow suit (although they had an extra thing of something. Gotta figure that out.) Total outlay? About £E100. $5.65. I’m definitely going back and figuring out how to be a koshari expert.

I wander some more, but at this point I’ve sweat through my clothes. And I’m a good 1.5 miles away from my hotel (which normally wouldn’t phase me in the least…) so I head back. I make it home, put my sweat drenched clothes out to dry on my balcony, then lay spread eagle on my bed, AC full blast.

Tomorrow: Giza!

Espressos consumed: 0

Miles walked: 5.98

Number of times I silently sneered at women wearing skimpy shorts and tanktops in the museum whilst I wore ankle length pants and ¾ sleeve shirtsleeves? Countless.

**This is actually a super political issue in Cairo and I won’t get into it now.

[scripttorture]

This blog is extremely helpful. Thank you for running it. I'm gonna try and be as detailed a si can be with this ask since that seems to help you, so forgive me if this runs a bit long. So I'm writing a fanfic in which my MC was in a mobile suit explosion at the end of a war, then captured by enemy troops and held until he was stabilized from his initial injuries, then was repeatedly sold off. Information on the MC: He's in his mid twenties, prior to the explosion he was in fair health, (1/?)

(2/?) He has a history of past childhood family abuse and bulimia but has been recovered from both for several years at the time of the explosion. His physical health is fairly good as he is a well trained and wealthy soldier. The explosion left him with extensive scare tissue and internal damage as well as some muscle damage in his legs, all of which were treated by his initial captors only to the extent of keeping him alive, not making his comfortable.Once he was passed on to new captors(cont.(3/?) (cont.) he was subject to several types of abuse common for prisoners of war: long-term starvation, basic beatings, periods of solitary condiment, sexual abuse, and psychological manipulation. For the last part, since he was being held and traded mostly by his direct enemies, he would be repeatedly told that he was a monster and other worse variations, and they would attempt to force him to hurt other soldiers from his own side and left him with their bodies, or force them to hurt him.(4/5) He would also be made to watch the news coverage of post war damage, and a subsequent war that occurred where his daughter (whom he was unaware of) was used as the "face" of the war. He has extreme guilt for his actions in the first war (as he provoked a lot of trouble and he was aware of it). He also did NOT plan on living through the first war. He survived by chance and because his enemies wouldn't let him die. And they used any information they could get on him and is past against him.(5/5) My questions for this: after he is rescued, would it be realistic for him to be able to put on an act some of the time that he's fine/indifferent, but have extremely low swings and periods of dissociation and self harm if he's triggered? What are some possible symptoms he could have that I may have overlooked/are underutilized in fiction? And what sort of care would best help him learn to function again? He does have a few people who have stood by him after the wars that could help him.

While I realise this probably isn’t the period and placementyou’re going for it’s reminding me a lot of the period immediately post WorldWar 1 in Europe. A lot of people came back with pretty deep psychologicaldamage and that was the first time European society really attempted toconfront it. The ‘treatment’ of veterans with mental health issues was reallynot pretty. There was widespread lack of understanding and sympathy.

Conversely the treatment of physical injuries was pretty good for the time. Popular feeling inmany European countries after the War was strongly in favour of giving veteransthe best possible care. Institutions to help the disabled sprung up quickly anda lot more effort than before was put into helping disabled people remainemployed or learn new skills.

 If you’re based in the UK the Science Museum in London has anexhibit particularly on injuries in WW1, both psychological and physical. Icertainly found it moving and inspiring (though more Curie would always begood). If you’ve got any chance to access it you might as well.

 Back on topic-

 It seems to me that if he wascoming across as fine/indifferent initially that probably indicatesdissociation. It sounds like you’re having him swing from dissociating (andhence ‘looking’ fine) to depressive. That’s a perfectly reasonable pattern ofsymptoms.

 ScriptTraumaSurvivorhas a spread sheet designed to help people keep track of their character’strauma symptoms. You might find it useful. Icertainly found a testing-version useful.

 In terms of under-used symptoms, well honestly there are a lot but I’m going to narrow them down tothe ones that fit what you’ve already described about the character’sresponses.

 With depression particularly I think the physical symptoms are under used in fiction. A common symptom isnausea and difficulty eating. Stomach pains and intestinal trouble are alsopretty common. A feeling of lethargy is common, being tired and yet havingtrouble sleeping. And I think all of these fit pretty well with your scenario.

 At the risk of over-sharing I threw up a lot during my first major depressive episode. I got nausea prettybadly, but I was hungry and/or actually enjoying my food. The result was Itried to eat a ‘normal’ amount for me when I couldn’t manage it and I’d bringit all back up within ten minutes. It took months to figure out how to managethat. (Smaller meals and more of them, plus bland foods. In the meantime I was constantly hungry).

 I’ve never seen a character written with depression manifestthose symptoms. But apparently it isvery common.

 Another symptom of depression that I don’t see very often infiction is the character being….apathetic and lethargic to the point of notbeing able to get out of bed. I’ve seen this in real life but I’ve never seenit in fiction. This would especially tie in if his depression makes itdifficult for him to take care of himself and where he lives.

 A symptom that’s rarely used and fits with dissociation (andself-harm) is……..particularly extravagant self harm fantasies. Things that gobeyond self harm and into self mutilation. Wanting to amputate a limb, orbreak/crush it. Wanting to cut off the nose, scar the face, sew up the lips anddrill a hole in the back are all examples I’ve heard of.

 This can be separate to thedrive for pain that feeds self-harm and more about body image or ratherdisconnection from body image. The character may not feel a strong desire to carry out these fantasies or attemptthem but have repeated intrusive thoughts about, for example, cutting off theirarm.

 You’re giving a strong impression that this character hasvery low self-worth and self-esteem. Following the sort of ordeal he’s beenthrough that’s normal. He might havevery narrow ideas about what he’s ‘good for’. I know that turns up in fiction alot but it does so for a reason.

 I’ve been talking to ScriptTraumaSurvivor about triggersquite a lot over the past few weeks. Theyhave a post on them here, which you might find useful.

 Issues with hygiene are another symptom that comes up a lotin real life but not in fiction. The character suddenly not caring about hisclothes, hair, when he last showered- Not keeping his living space clean andtidy is more commonly how that’s shown.

 Irrational fear of everyday objects (or being triggered bythem) is another one that I’ve not seen come up. I’ve not seen a characterdevelop a fear of the shower, even if they’ve been through something that mightmake confined spaces a problem.

 You said he’s rich. He might well throw a lot of money intotrying to get rid of his injuries and scars. Things like that can serve aspotent physical reminders of what happened. But…money and the best surgeons inthe world won’t necessarily be able to wipe it all away in the sense he mightwant. Surgery, physio and the like take timeand aren’t always successful.

 I’ve seen a couple of things in fiction where people havecovered scars with tattoos in an effort to reclaim them, which does happen inreal life. It probably has a better prognosis than extensive surgery to reducescars that are already pretty old.

 Memory problems also rarely seem to show up in fiction butare hugely common in real life. Or perhaps more accurately the way memory problems show up in fictionisn’t accurate to real life. Victims rarely forget who they are or key elementsof their past (ie childhood before torture). They don’t forget their names orwhere they live.

 But they do oftenstruggle to learn new skills. They often have trouble remembering details oftheir abuse, or conversely remember it in great(but not necessarily accurate) detail. He may have forgotten a lot of littlethings about his friends and family, which could be distressing especially withhis already low self worth (how couldhe forget his best friend’s birthday when they’re so much better than he deserves?Etc-).

 He might have forgotten things about his hobbies. He may wellbe constantly forgetting little things like his keys, or what someone asked himto do that morning and that can feed into someone feeling ‘useless’ or likethey’re ‘going mad’.

 I think….in order to make the symptoms you’re using seem realyou should have him try to reduce contact with the people who care about him.Have him avoid people sometimes and try to reduce contact to....contact on his terms. This means the time periods when he ‘seems fine’are….balanced by long stretches when no one has seen him. The less direct contact timehe has the more likely he’ll be able to come across as normal.

 As to the last part-

 Recovery take a long time and it’s never easy. This charactercan and should access professional help (you should take a look at ScriptShrink’sblog to see what that might look like).

 Having a support network is incredibly important though.Having friends and family who won’t judge him: a character he can rely on toturn up at 3am if he phones because he’s having nightmares, someone else who’swilling to come by every day and make sure he at least eats breakfast. Thatsort of thing.  

 There isn’t a….agreed on treatment method for torture. Weare, to be frank, making this shit up as we go. At the moment we just don’t know.

 But this was a war. And that means this character was not alone. His experience will havebeen shared by other veterans andthere are likely to be groups and societies of these people. Seeking them out(perhaps with encouragement from his friends) could well help.

 It could help put his feelings and experiences inperspective: he isn’t going mad, other people are having these memory problems,he isn’t useless other people have the same low self-esteem.

 I hope that helps, I realise the treatment and recovery stuffis a little vague. A strong support network, shared experience,professional help and being believedwhen he says he was raped/tortured- those are all important. With all of themtogether he’d have a relatively good chance of recovery and learning to livewith his symptoms.

 Oh and if this is a Marvel/Iron Man fic, I’d very much like alink when you’re done.  

Disclaimer

[iluvtv]

Hail Canada Finale: Exceptional Lexicon...

Happy 2019! USA’s number 45 may (or may not) be taking full credit for the country suffering a “partial” shutdown but no worries, Hulu came through for the country this holiday season instead. It’s like Santa (or maybe Daddy Warbucks) works in entertainment! As of December 27th the streaming service proved my previous predictions piss poor and gifted America the full glut of Letterkenny backlog. God Bless America.

             Somebody of influence is clearly reading my blog.  

                                              What does this mean to you, Gentle Reader? Why should it matter that while I started drafting a wee work on just how superb this particular Canadian export really is I got entirely consumed with additional episodes? 

To put it simply, appreciation overload. I am now entirely overwhelmed with Letterkenny’s tasteless charm and thusly totally paralyzed. 

As I consider best communication tactics to portray just how crucial consumption of this rather unlikely Sylv Fan Fav, really is I’m worried I might actually need to “hoover” a huge line of the “devil’s dandruff” to make it through. But if the hicks of Letterkenny have ambiguously taught me anything about casual cocaine use it is that its never a good look to indulge while sober. A lesson taught over a discussion about how much they loath Dan’s six year old cousin (this rivalry circles back in later seasons during a debate over wether or not having a little sister will sort small Samual out, a concept Wayne compares to a celebrity getting a puppy to help them get back on track “Seems like a backwards plan to me,” he says, “the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life is that a baby is smart.”) but I digress... why, Gentle Reader, is this six year old so awful?  Well, the hicks “Saw him snort a line of fun dip the other day.” That, they explain is a “Fun dip Dry rip,” or, when you do a line of schneef before you’ve ingested any booze to alter your judgement. A Dry rip, they warn is a sure sign you have a shneef problem. All the while Dary and Dan concede they did indulge themselves (back in their glory days).

I, however, absolutely refuse to let this blog result in a full blown shneef problem. Instead I’ll do as they do in this fictional little town of Letterkenny from which the show hails its namesake:

and “pitter patter, let’s get at ‘er...”

One caveat: while, I do not want to be completely crippled by comedy, here it wouldn’t be fair to assume that I, a California City Chic who by rule trends away from overtly crass humor can justifiably convey the genius which is Letterkenny, but let’s just try .. 

Most episodes open with landscape views of a very chilly looking Letterkenny and the note that there are 5,000 people in said town (hicks, skids, hockey players, christians and natives) and their problems.

While I’ve casually seasoned a line or two of dialogue throughout this blog I can’t actually adequately quote this show because (and this is important) the creators Jared Keeso and Jacob Tierney (and clearly the rest of the writing staff) are absolute MASTERS OF WORDPLAY and the actors’ timing is so pricelessly perfect that to even try to repeat most moments would be a gross injustice to the medium. 

This team of literary savants brilliantly twists puns (like when Wayne pours out the end of a warm beer Dan responds with “you have some kind of drinking problem? That theres alcohol abuse”), creates complex (and hilarious) characters with compelling, often sad (and hilarious) storylines, weaves interesting narratives, spews non-sequiturs, confronts factual yet controversial stereotypes, invokes compassion for both the absurd and the underdog, shamelessly polks fun at everything, including (but hardly limited to); politics, popular culture, sexual orientation, regions, races, origins, creeds other countries (like when Wayne explains the eating habits of our brethren “Malt vinegar is not a staple condiment on table tops in restaurants” Disgusted, the boys respond “Figure it out, somebody should really write a letter” but then concede, “They do have 6 kinds of Cap’n Crunch though”) and Ostrich Fuckers, all of this is done with sincere (and hilarious) honesty, a clever and often very nuanced style and all the while somehow managing to circle back to previous stories and quips sometimes so subtly that the untrained ear (or eye) might miss out. For example it is somehow terribly notable to me that we frequently find Dary eating small breakfasts’ with absurdly large spoons. 

Regardless of the approach, the through line remains constant: assorted misfit groups of friends flagrantly (and unapologetically) discuss every taboo thought that may (or may not) have ever crossed you or your pal’s mind (only you would have quickly squashed these ideas back down to the deep recesses of your Gentle Reader brain). They procure this unabashed and unapologetic honesty in a very, very fast Canadian dialect that is virtually incomprehensible at times (particularly in the earlier episodes as your ear adjusts to the style). And yet, as one American reviewer put it: I still get it, because I speak funny.

And this is why I genuinely believe no matter who you are or what your usual tastes may implicate if you too are fluent in the language of humor Letterkenny is just an absolute sure thing (given, of course a moment to adapt to the shows distinct language and stylings). 

At first it will probably seem just so stupid and gross but upon closer inspection it just might be the absolute most cleverly written show I’ve ever barely understood.

Kevin Tierney, another television journalist (and proud Poppa to one of the show’s writers and producers) put it best:

“...not to say the show is witless. On the contrary. It is an absolute festival of language, from the very, very local to the bizarrely idiosyncratic, especially when strung together by accents that are … well, different..”

He goes on to say this of the dialogue:

“...they might well change your whole sense of the scatological...”

And that really is the crux of it, isn’t it? So what, Gentle Reader, if it took me (a shamelessly proud California City Chic) until the third season to fully grasp the collective MO of each specific clique in this specific little town? Now I’ve gotten it and I did it with nary a fun dip dry rip in sight. What binds Letterkenny in their fast paced conversationally driven relationships with both their friends and foes was spelled out for all to understand when the dumb hockey players just out and said what I’d been attempting to put my finger on for months:

“Just pick a topic and beat the shit out of it.”

And this really can be any fucking topic from drug use to male models to working out one’s legs. With options just so limitless and with a well informed writing staff even the dumbest of topics are discussed with an odd sense of eloquence and, well... science.

Which is why even I don’t hate an entire episode entitled Fartbook in which the only subject explored for a full thirty minutes is the creation of a social network for your farts. And let’s face it, in the end is it really any worse than your face, Gentle Reader? Probably not.

To quote the farmers:

“No one cares about your cat’s farts.”

“Everyone who has a cat or a kid is going to think their farts are special and unique, they’re not.”

There are full minutes of dialogue spent categorizing snacks. Alphabetically. In verse. An important exercise executed in order to limit options (and thusly not overpack snacks for a fishing trip to Quebec) Dary and Dan have regaled themselves to foods only beginning with the letter C. When Katy questions the beer they quickly retort:

“Cold Beer.”

Obviously.

It is this ability to harp one subject until it is rendered all but useless and then find innovative ways to harp on it some more that defines the misfits of Letterkenny.

The town absolutely must create their very own euphemism dictionary. Or maybe they already have.

And while a fictional dictionary might be of some aid for us partially shutdown Northern Americans, subtitles won’t be. No matter! Consider this a genuine plea: please, please do not to give up before you’ve started! This show is a call for authenticity and friendship and it is looking like those are things all of our 2019s will need a lot of!

[feistyqueerwrites]

15 Things I Learned While Being On My Own At 15

While I wasn’t technically homeless at 15, my mother had disowned me.  I didn’t exist in her eyes because she didn’t approve of my sexuality.  So from around the age of 15 I was financially responsible for myself.  I was lucky and privileged that I was able to stay in school and get merit-based financial aid for college.  I only had to work one job at a time through college.  Part of this privilege had to do with the fact that I am white.  Part of it had to do with coming from a relatively well-off family, so I had resources already in my possession that I was able to use even after being cut off from my family: reasonably nice clothing, school supplies, etc.  Coming from a middle-class family also meant that if I did not disclose my situation to people, they had no idea that my home life wasn’t exactly like theirs.  Here are some things I learned:

First and foremost: there are people out there who will love you just the way you are.  You may not know them right now, but believe me, they do exist.

Never turn down free food, especially veggies because they’re hard/expensive to get otherwise.  To this day I get super excited when someone offers me the zucchini overflow from their garden. Get to know where there are exceptional free condiments, like peanut butter and jelly packets, available in your area.  In my case it was a bagel cart with a self-serve fixings area.  

If you act with confidence and self-posession, people won’t question your right to be there and take up space. White privilege definitely plays a role here, but I think it’s still an important thing for everyone to know and do.

If you can blend in, libraries and universities are great places for shelter and resources.  Student Centers have a great many nooks, crannies, and couches to nap on if you don’t have a place to sleep at night, just make sure you look like you belong.  If you must eat in a library, move someplace inconspicuous so you won’t get kicked out.  There was a certain area of the stacks in my public library that was less frequented, and I would go there if I had something to eat.  And while you’re there, read and learn something useful.  Teach yourself some skills that will help you get into a better situation.  

It’s ok to be shielded or even deceptive about who you are for the sake of survival.  This includes not only what you say and how you say it, but also how you dress and act.  Think of it as a role or persona that you are putting on.  The world may not be open-minded enough for you as you are, and as long as it’s not seriously hurting anyone, it’s ok to dress and act a certain way so that you stay safe and don’t get harassed for calling attention to yourself.  

Don’t spend a single penny that you don’t have to.  Make it a game to see just how much you can do without.  Find other ways of doing what you need to do, or getting what you need to have, or just simply go without it.

Don’t make mistakes that will cost you more in the long run.  Not paying bills and fines is really tempting in the moment, but unless you know for a fact that it won’t follow you, you should always pay them if you can, because they’ll just come back to bite you in the ass.  Seriously, the money-collectors have heard all of the lies and played all of the games, and they’re really good at compounding interest, fees, and penalties.  Likewise, don’t get yourself into trouble.  You may need to do some illegal things to survive, but don’t take foolish risks and whatever you do *don’t get caught*.  You can’t afford to have a record or a reputation.  

Don’t automatically apply for the lowest paying job.  If you have marketable skills, then use them.  My first girlfriend in college settled for the bottom of the barrel when it came to jobs.  She ended up working three jobs at the same time, for bosses who treated her like shit, just because she didn’t think she’d get anything better.  She figured it was just faster and easier to take the shitty jobs that no one else wanted.  It’s a good fall-back plan for when you’re desperate, but if you set your sights on the bottom of the pile, you’ll never climb any higher.  

My best paying jobs usually came through temp agencies.  If you can find one with a lot of clients, and you can prove yourself invaluable, then they’ll keep finding you work. If you really hustle, the jobs will get better and better.  There will probably be a delay in getting your first job, but it will be worth your patience, since these jobs usually pay higher from the get go.  Unfortunately getting these jobs usually involves looking the part: see #5 above.  Imagine their ideal candidate: what they would wear, how they would talk, move, act, etc.  They want someone who *looks like* a known quantity.  Make yourself a chameleon, but do it with clothing and resources that you already have access to, so you’re not spending any money.  You can start being yourself later, once they know what you’re capable of, just knock their socks off with your performance level first.  The advantage to temp jobs is that the employers have very little to lose and so the entry-bar is usually set lower since they figure they can just end your contract if you don’t work out for them.  

Make friends with people who have a similar body shape/size and much bigger wardrobes.  Borrow clothes in exchange for services you can provide, like helping with their homework, chores around their house/home, transportation if you have access, or just be really nice, kind, and dependable if they’re the charitable sort anyway.  These sorts of folks often gladly give you their cast-offs, which are usually in decent shape. The same goes for lots of other resources: tech gear, tools, etc.  To this day I’m often the poorest person in a group of friends.  I usually offer free labor when one of them needs to get a project done (just make sure that they know you’re the sort of person who can be called when the basement is flooded, etc.) and in return they’re usually more than happy to let me borrow their tools when I need them.  

Don’t be a mooch. Be as generous with your resources as you can be and in return people will be generous with you.  I feel like wealthier liberals will often be more charitable out of guilt if they see someone who has less being more charitable than they are.

Make friends with hoarders.  It might be surprising, but often hoarders are just looking for a good home for their collected items.  There are lots of people who hoard because they don’t want perfectly good stuff to go to waste, and often they’ll feel relieved/happy if they can provide for someone in need.  I’ve found this especially true of middle-aged and older women.  I had one coworker who tried to give me all sorts of things: clothes, shoes, etc. She not only hoarded her own stuff, but she would frequent flea markets and yard sales looking for stuff that might be useful to someone some day.  

Your best free resource is your ability to listen and understand people.  Not only will it help you figure out how to blend in and what people might want from you in exchange for what you need, but often having someone just listening to what they have to say is enough by itself.  It can be really rare to find someone who is genuinely listening and interested.  It’s something everyone craves, but rarely happens in real life.  Sometimes listening can be the key to generous friendships, just don’t fake it, because savvy people will be able to smell that.  It’ll also help you do your job better, no matter what that job actually is.  

Train yourself to think 5 steps ahead.  Practice thinking about what options and choices will remain, or present themselves to you, depending on the choices you make today.  Do this with everything.  Practice doing this backwards, too.  What are your ultimate goals/needs/desires? What is required to meet or fulfill them? How do you get there from here? Then remember and do it, even if you have to write it down to remember.

It will be ok.  For now, your job is just to survive, worry about the rest later.  

[tragicbooks]

The uncomfortable truth about tipping, explained with stick figures.

It's about time we got to the bottom of this.

<br>

This post was originally published on Wait But Why.

Tipping is not about generosity.

Tipping isn’t about gratitude for good service. And tipping certainly isn’t about doing what’s right and fair for your fellow man.

Tipping is about making sure you don’t mess up what you’re supposed to do.

In my case, the story goes like this: In college, I was a waiter at a weird restaurant called Fire and Ice. This is the front page of their website (FYI: those lame word labels are on the site, not added by me):

All photos are from the original Wait But Why post and used with permission.

That sad guy in the back is one of the waiters. He’s sad because he gets no salary and relies on tips like every other waiter, but people undertip him because at this restaurant they get their own food so they think he’s not a real waiter even though he has to bring them all their drinks and side dishes and give them a full tour of the restaurant and tell them how it works like a clown and then bus the table because they have no busboys at the restaurant and just when the last thing he needs is for the managers to be mean and powerful middle-aged women who are mean to him, that’s what also happens.

Bad life experiences aside, the larger point here is that I came out of my time as a waiter as a really good tipper, like all people who have ever worked in a job that involves tipping. And friends of mine would sometimes notice this and say sentences like, “Tim is a really good tipper.”

My ego took a liking to these sentences, and now 10 years later, I’ve positioned myself right in the “good but not ridiculously good tipper” category.

So anytime a tipping situation arises, all I’m thinking is, “What would a good but not ridiculously good tipper do here?”

Sometimes I know exactly what the answer to that question is, and things run smoothly. But other times, I find myself in the dreaded Ambiguous Tipping Situation.

Ambiguous Tipping Situations can lead to a variety of disasters:

1. The Inadvertent Undertip

2. The Inadvertent Overtip

3. The “Shit Am I Supposed To Tip Or Not?” Horror Moment

I don’t want to live this way anymore. So , I decided to do something about it.

I put on my Weird But Earnest Guy Doing a Survey About Something hat and hit the streets, interviewing 123 people working in New York jobs that involve tipping. My interviews included waiters, bartenders, baristas, manicurists, barbers, busboys, bellhops, valets, attendants, cab drivers, restaurant delivery people, and even some people who don’t get tipped but I’m not sure why, like acupuncturists and dental hygienists.

I covered a bunch of different areas in New York, including SoHo, the Lower East Side, Harlem, the Upper East Side, and the Financial District, and I tried to capture a wide range, from the fanciest places to the dive-iest.

About 10% of the interviews ended after seven seconds when people were displeased by my presence and I’d slowly back out of the room, but for the most part, people were happy to talk to me about tipping — how much they received, how often, how it varied among customer demographics, how large a portion of their income tipping made up, etc. And it turns out that service industry workers have a lot to say on the topic.

I supplemented my findings with the help of a bunch of readers who wrote with detailed information about their own experiences and with a large amount of research, especially from the website of Wm. Michael Lynn, a leading tipping expert.

So I know stuff about this now. Here’s what you need to know before you tip someone.

1. The stats.

The most critical step in avoiding Ambiguous Tipping Situations is just knowing what you’re supposed to do. I took all the stats that seem to have a broad consensus on them and put them into this table:

This table nicely fills in key gaps in my previous knowledge. The basic idea with the low/average/high tipping levels used above is that if you’re in the average range, you’re fine and forgotten. If you’re in the low or high range, you’re noticed and remembered. And service workers have memories like elephants.

2. What tipping well (or not well) means for your budget.

Since tipping is such a large part of life, it seems like we should stop to actually understand what being a low, average, or high tipper means for our budget.

Looking at it simply, you can do some quick math and figure out one portion of your budget. For example, maybe you think you have 100 restaurant meals a year at about $25/meal — so according to the above chart, being a low, average, and high restaurant tipper all year will cost you $350 (14% tips), $450 (18% tips), and $550 (22% tips) a year. In this example, it costs a low tipper $100/year to become an average tipper and an average tipper $100/year to become a high tipper.

I got a little more comprehensive and came up with three rough profiles: Low Spender, Mid Spender, and High Spender. These vary both in the frequency of times they go to a restaurant or bar or hotel, etc., and the fanciness of the services they go to — i.e., High Spender goes to fancy restaurants and does so often and Low Spender goes out to eat less often and goes to cheaper places. I did this to cover the extremes and the middle; you’re probably somewhere in between.

3. Other factors that should influence specific tipping decisions.

One thing my interviews made clear is that there’s this whole group of situation-related factors that service industry workers think are super relevant to the amount you should tip — it’s just that customers never got the memo. Most customers have their standard tip amount in mind and don’t really think about it much beyond that.

Here’s what service workers want you to consider when you tip them:

Time matters. Sometimes a bartender cracks open eight bottles of beer, which takes 12 seconds, and sometimes she makes eight multi-ingredient cocktails with olives and a whole umbrella scene on each, which takes four minutes, and those two orders should not be tipped equally, even though they might cost the same amount.

Effort matters. Food delivery guys are undertipped. They’re like a waiter, except your table is on the other side of the city. $2 really isn’t a sufficient tip (and one delivery guy I talked to said 20% of people tip nothing). $3 or $4 is much better. And when it’s storming outside? The delivery guys I talked to all said the tips don’t change in bad weather — that’s not logical. Likewise, while tipping on takeout orders is nice but not necessary, one restaurant manager complained to me about Citibank ordering 35 lunches to go every week, which takes a long time for some waiter to package (with the soup wrapped carefully, coffees rubber-banded, dressings and condiments put in side containers) and never tipping. Effort matters and that deserves a tip.

Their salary matters. It might not make sense that in the U.S. we’ve somewhat arbitrarily deemed certain professions as “tipped professions” whereby the customers are in charge of paying the professional’s salary instead of their employer, but that’s the way it is. And as such, you have some real responsibility when being served by a tipped professional that you don’t have when being served by someone else.

It’s nice to give a coffee barista a tip, but you’re not a horrible person if you don’t because at least they’re getting paid without you. Waiters and bartenders, on the other hand, receive somewhere between $2 and $5/hour (usually closer to $2), and this part of their check usually goes entirely to taxes. Your tips are literally their only income. They also have to “tip out” the other staff, so when you tip a waiter, you’re also tipping the busboy, bartender, and others. For these reasons, it’s never acceptable to tip under 15%, even if you hate the service. The way to handle terrible service is to complain to the manager like you would in a non-tipping situation. You’re not allowed to stiff on the tip and make them work for free.

Service matters. It seems silly to put this in because it seems obvious, and yet, Michael Lynn’s research shows the amount that people tip barely correlates at all to the quality of service they receive. So while stiffing isn’t OK, it’s good to have a range in mind, not a set percentage, since good service should be tipped better than bad service.

I also discovered some other interesting (and weird) findings and facts about tipping.

1. Different demographics absolutely do tip differently

“Do any demographics of people — age, gender, race, nationality, sexual orientation, religion, profession — tend to tip differently than others?” ran away with the “Most Uncomfortable Question to Ask or Answer” award during my interviews, but it yielded some pretty interesting info. I only took seriously a viewpoint I heard at least three times, and in this post, I’m only including those viewpoints that were backed up by my online research and Lynn’s statistical studies.

Here’s the overview, which is a visualization of the results of Lynn’s polling of over 1,000 waiters. Below, each category of customer is placed at their average rating over the 1,000+ waiter surveys in the study:

Fascinating and awkward. Throughout my interviews, I heard a lot of opinions reinforcing what’s on that chart and almost none that contradicted it. The easiest one for people to focus on was foreigners being bad tippers because, first, it’s not really a demographic so it’s less awkward, and second, people could blame it on them “not knowing,” if they didn’t want to be mean. Others, though, scoffed at that, saying, “Oh they know…” As far as foreigners go, the French have the worst reputation.

People also consistently said those who act “entitled” or “fussy” or “like the world’s out to get them” are usually terrible tippers.

On the good-tipping side, people who are vacationing or drunk (or both) tip well, as do “regulars” who get to know the staff, and of course, the group of people everyone agrees are the best tippers are those who also work in the service industry (which, frankly, creeped me out by the end — they’re pretty cultish and weird about how they feel about tipping each other well).

2. Here are six proven ways for waiters to increase their tips:

Be the opposite gender of your customer

Introduce yourself by name

Sit at the table or squat next to it when taking the order

Touch the customer, in a non-creepy way

Give the customer candy when you bring the check

Of course those things work. Humans are simple.

3. A few different people said that when a tip is low, they assume the customer is cheap or hurting for money.

But when it’s high, they assume it’s because they did a great job serving the customer or because they’re likable (not that the customer is generous).

4. When a guy tips an attractive female an exorbitant amount, it doesn’t make her think he’s rich or generous or a big shot — it makes her think he’s trying to impress her.

Very transparent and ineffective, but she’s pleased to have the extra money.

5. Don’t put a zero in the tip box if it’s a situation when you’re not tipping — it apparently comes off as mean and unnecessary.

Just leave it blank and write in the total.

6. According to valets and bellhops, when people hand them a tip, they almost always do the “double fold” where they fold the bills in half twice and hand it to them with the numbers facing down so the amount of the tip is hidden.

However, when someone’s giving a really great tip, they usually hand them the bills unfolded and with the amount showing.

7. Some notes about other tipping professions I didn’t mention above:

Apparently no one tips flight attendants, and if you do, you’ll probably receive free drinks thereafter.

Golf caddies say that golfers tip better when they play better, but they always tip the best when it’s happening in front of clients.

Tattoo artists expect $10-20 on a $100 job and $40-60 on a $400 job, but they get nothing from 30% of people.

A massage therapist expects a $15-20 tip and receives one 95% of the time — about half of a massage therapist’s income is tips.

A whitewater rafting guide said he always got the best tips after a raft flipped over or something happened where people felt in danger.

Strippers not only usually receive no salary, they often receive a negative salary, i.e. they need to pay the club a fee in order to work there.

8. According to Lynn, tips in the U.S. add up to over $40 billion each year.

This is more than double NASA’s budget.

9. The U.S. is the most tip-crazed country in the world, but there’s a wide variety of tipping customs in other countries.

Tipping expert Magnus Thor Torfason’s research shows that 31 service professions involve tipping in the U.S. That number is 27 in Canada, 27 in India, 15 in the Netherlands, 5-10 throughout Scandinavia, 4 in Japan, and 0 in Iceland.

10. The amount of tipping in a country tends to correlate with the amount of corruption in the country.

This is true even after controlling for factors like national GDP and crime levels. The theory is that the same norms that encourage tipping end up leaking over into other forms of exchange. The U.S. doesn’t contribute to this general correlation, with relatively low corruption levels.

11. Celebrities should tip well because the person they tip will tell everyone they know about it forever, and everyone they tell will tell everyone they know about it forever.

For example: A friend of mine served Arnold Schwarzenegger and his family at a fancy lunch place in Santa Monica called Cafe Montana. Since he was the governor, they comped him the meal. And he left a $5 bill as the tip. I’ve told that story to a lot of people.

Celebrities known to tip well (these are the names that come up again and again in articles about this): Johnny Depp, Charles Barkley, David Letterman, Bill Murray, Charlie Sheen, Drew Barrymore

Celebrities known to tip badly: Tiger Woods, Mariah Carey, LeBron James, Heidi Klum, Bill Cosby, Madonna, Barbara Streisand, Rachael Ray, Sean Penn, Usher

I’ll finish off by saying that digging into this has made it pretty clear that it’s bad to be a bad tipper.

Don’t be a bad tipper.

As far as average versus high, that’s a personal choice and just a matter of where you want to dedicate whatever charity dollars you have to give to the world.

There’s no shame in being an average tipper and saving the generosity for other places, but I’d argue that the $200 or $500 or $1,500 per year it takes (depending on your level of spending) to become a high tipper is a pretty good use of money. Every dollar means a ton in the world of tips.

This post was originally published on Wait But Why, and all photos are used here with permission. Wait But Why posts regularly, and they send each post out by email to over 275,000 people! Enter your email here and they’ll put you on the list (they only send a few emails each month).<br>

[imaginetonyandbucky]

Bucky leaving his cat at Tony's place for a few days and when he takes the cat back it takes every opportunity to run away to Tony's house. Tony spoiled it buying expensive toys and food during the days he took care of it. Solition: move in together.

A/N: Title and idea taken from Old 97’s song bythe same name. Dear prompter, sorry I switched the character relationshipsaround, but @27dragons recently wrote a story with Bucky’s cat that liked Tony,so I didn’t want to copy that. Also, the idea got away from me, so this story will be divided in three parts (like all of Rome)

Murder (or a Heart Attack)

Part One

When Bucky Barnes ran out of food, he did it in style. There wasliterally nothing in his pantry that wasn’t an ingredient (chicken stock orflour or sugar) or a condiment (capers, pimentos, mustard, vinegar) but nothingto make an actual meal with. Even the half empty boxes of pasta were gone,sacrificed to a careful array of timers as he added different sorts of pasta tothe pot and dosed the whole thing with butter and grated cheese and called itfood.

“Fuck,” he said. He was going to have to give up, put on pants andshoes and go to the fucking store.

The worst thing was, he was actually freaking hungry. Like,stomach crawling out of his throat to go hunt down the wild cup o’ soup, can’twait for take-out hungry.

He couldn’t possibly go to the grocery like that, he’d end up withfifty boxes of Twinkies and a 20-pack of ramen. And an apple, if he was feelingparticularly guilty about his terrible life choices, that he wouldn’t rememberhe had and would go bad in his fruit bowl.

Oh, wait. Apples.

Bucky bounced up onto his toes and shoved the bag of flour out ofthe way. He’d had some plans – he always made plans, and he just never fuckingfollowed through – of making an apple tart. Which meant– Aha! Yes! Score! Acan of apple-pie filling.

He didn’t have the time or inclination to actually make a piecrust, although he did know how, and he had some butter in the fridge. Maybenext time. He dug around in his utensil drawer and opened the can of piefilling. He was still chasing the overly sugary and cinnamon-spiced fruitaround the bottom of the can when the doorbell rang.

Bucky shuffled over to the door. No one ever came to visit andrang the bell; Steve had a key. The UPS driver often did a ring and run, andwhile Bucky couldn’t remember ordering anything off the internet recently, hehad been known to do depression-based insomnia-fueled Amazon Prime therapysometimes. That was always kinda like Christmas, because Bucky never remembereddoing it until the banana slicer or whatever it was actually arrived.

So when he opened the door to a man wearing a three-piece suit,Bucky didn’t quite know what to do.

“Um…”

The man looked him up and down. And then up again. Bucky might…not have been wearing pants. Yeah. Bathrobe with the long sleeves that coveredhis scarred left arm, tee, boxers, and his stuffed animal shark slippers thathis sister gave him as a joke and he wore specifically to piss her off.

Bucky leaned against his doorframe. “Yeah?”

“Look, okay, probably a bad time, but my normal pet-sitter is outof town, and I don’t have anyone else I can ask, and um, I don’t have time tomake arrangements for kenneling, and I was wondering – it really is anemergency – if you could just feed my cat for a few days while I’m out oftown?”

Bucky stared at the guy. He was gorgeous, in an upper crust sortof way, with a fancy-trimmed little goatee and a pair of pale orange sunglassesthat should have clashed with the three-piece button up he was wearing andsomehow didn’t.

Mobile readers, more below the break. You can read all of tisfan’s stuff on A03 eventually

“Do I know you?” That probably wasn’t the best question in theworld, because no, of course Bucky didn’t know this guy. Bucky didn’t… dopeople for the most part.

“Um, probably not?” the guy said. “I’m Tony. Tony Stark. I live inyour neighboring unit.” He pointed to the door next to Bucky’s. There weretwelve units total in Bucky’s building, but Bucky usually kept his ball cap onand his head down whenever he left the building at all, so he mostly didn’trecognize his neighbors, except by their footwear. Speaking of… he let his gazedrift downward. He didn’t know those shoes, but he’d recognize those legsanywhere. Yep. Next door neighbor. The one with the great ass.

“Bucky Barnes,” he introduced himself, because that’s what you didwhen someone gave you their name. It was automatic. Instinct.

Shit. Now he’d actually spoken to a neighbor, which meant saidneighbor would probably want to talk to him again, and while this particularneighbor didn’t seem too bad – especially when Bucky could watch him walk away– that would mean other neighbors might start talking to him and… well, maybeSteve could help him get a new place.

Bucky deliberately didn’t think about the fact that Steve wouldprobably not help him get a new place if he said he wanted to avoid talking tohis neighbors. Steve had been adamant that Bucky wasn’t going to leave the cityand live somewhere as a hermit out in the middle of nowhere where Stevecouldn’t at least ocme drag him out of the house once a week.

Not to mention the fact that wanting to move just so he didn’thave to talk to the neighbor – the incredibly hot, exactly Bucky’s typeneighbor – was just pathetic.

Bucky wasn’t quite willing to admit, even to Steve, that he’dmoved all the way from bad-coping mechanisms to pathetic.

“So, can you? I mean, feed the cat?”

“You’re gonna let a perfect stranger into your house,” Buckycommented idly. “What if I turn out to be a psycho?”

“First, you are a perfect stranger,” Tony said, and Bucky was leftblinking trying to figure out what that meant. “Second, if you were a psycho,you probably wouldn’t have brought it up. Third, and maybe you missed thispart, but I know where you live.”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky said, reasonably. “And there’s probably notenough stuff in your place to make it worth the effort of robbing you and thenmoving out.” Wasn’t he just thinking about moving out, though, because he wastalking to the neighbor? Except there was something kinda nice about talking tothis guy. Not quite like talking to Steve, but nice. Not nerve-wracking,weirdly enough.

Tony checked his watch, then grinned. “Just the fact that you’vealready thought of that should worry me.”

You shouldn’t be worried. Bucky didn’t say that.“Okay, so what do you want me to do?”

“Come on, come over,” Tony said. He reached out and grabbedBucky’s wrist, which under most normal circumstances would have had Buckyyanking backward to retreat into his unit. He might even have pushed the deskin front of the front door for a while; forget food, retreat into his sanctumand shudder.

But Tony didn’t set off all those alarms in his head, and just thefact that it didn’t made Bucky’s breath come a little faster.

Bucky got the fastest tour of Tony’s place imaginable. “Here’s thekitchen, there’s the food, here’s feeding instructions. Don’t worry about thelitter, I have an automated scooper, a total piece of shit, ha ha, that was apun, but I did some upgrades to it and now it’s quite efficient and doesn’tscare her.”

“Does she need company?” Bucky asked. He didn’t know much aboutcats, but Steve’s boyfriend had a dog, and the dog got lonely enough during theday that Clint had eventually had to get a pet-walker to come by the apartmenttwice a day while the two of them were at work, and on date night, Clint tookthe dog to a doggy day-care.

“Well, U won’t mind. She’s a lap kitty, but if you don’t want toget covered in orange fur, she’ll be okay for a few days on her own.”

“You named your cat… You?”

“U, like the letter. I dunno, when she was a kitten, I just calledher Hey You while I was waiting for something to occur to me. She’s got anofficial name on her vet records and stuff – Butterfingers – but I just stillcall her U most of the time, so… eh, what can I say?”

“Fair enough,” Bucky said.

“Anyway, here’s a copy of the key, here’s my cell phone number.Text me or something right away so I have your number. Not sure when I’m goingto be back, business can be tricky sometimes, but it shouldn’t be more than aweek, okay? Okay. Thank you very much.”

Tony had said the cat was orange, but what Bucky was expecting andwhat he got were two entirely different things.

Bucky was expecting an orange tabby, what his Ma had calledmarmalade, like Garfield was, theoretically.

What he got was a plush, red Abyssinian cat with huge green eyesand fur the color of the edge of sunset, dark orange, almost red, with blacktips. The cat pounced on him almost immediately when he entered the house byhimself, grabbing hold of his calf with fat, soft paws, claws absolutelynowhere in evidence and a throaty, rusty sort of meow.

“Hello,” Bucky said to the cat. “Hungry?”

The cat gave an answering meow, which seemed like a good enoughanswer, so Bucky went in the kitchen and attempted to figure out the food.There were a lot of instructions written down on a sheet of paper, which Buckyread slowly. U did not appreciate the delay at all, batting at the end ofBucky’s bathrobe and yowing piteously at the delay.

Finally, directions interpreted, Bucky gave the cat her half canof food, plus two treats and a shake of “food seasoning and vitamins” on top.“You eat better than I do,” Bucky commented, putting the bowl down. The cat wassoon eating noisily, but when Bucky turned to leave the kitchen, she cried andchased after him, following him all the way back to the door.

“What? I fed you,” Bucky protested.

“Yow!”

Bucky took a picture of the cat and texted it to Tony. Your catdoesn’t want to eat.

U got between Bucky and the door, stropping against Bucky’s legsand nipping at his ankle whenever he tried to open the door.

New Text from Tony:

She’s a social eater. Go keep her company while she eats, if youhave time. Otherwise, she’ll eat when she gets hungry.

“You want me to sit with you while you eat? Seriously?”

“Yowwwwww.”

Fine, whatever. Bucky trudged back into Tony’s neat little kitchenand pulled out a chair. Satisfied, the cat went back to her bowl and startedeating, making little pleased, purring noises.

Your cat is weird.

New text from Tony:

Like owner, like pet, I imagine.

You’re a social eater? Bucky texted back.

New text from Tony:

I eat with my cat almost every night, so yeah, I guess? Peppersays it’s good for me, I wasn’t eating much before I got the cat. Therapy, Iguess.

Bucky looked around Tony’s kitchen, then curiosity got the betterof him and he found himself peeking in the cabinets and fridge. You could learna lot about people by what they kept in their kitchens and medicine cabinets.

Unlike Bucky, Tony was stocked for some unknown zombie outbreak.Tony had tinned varieties of just about everything, including tinned chickenand tuna, peaches, pears, and jars of chunked pineapple, canned slicedpotatoes, jars of pickles, a veritable mountain of jarred spagetti sauces,plastic containers of individual servings of pudding (chocolate andbutterscotch), multiple packages of bread-maker breads, individual microwavablemug-cakes, four flats of bottled water.

Okay, I know I’m being nosy, but what the hell? Are you expectinga shortage in tinned tuna?

New text from Tony:

I have anxiety. Buying food seems to help. There’s some leftoverpizza in the fridge, if you want it. It’ll probably go stale before I’m home.

Well, so there was. Bucky grinned, delighted.

You eat pineapple on pizza.

New text from Tony:

Yeah, I’m a heathen, I know.

You’re my new best friend and I love you. He probably shouldn’t send that, so Bucky contented himself with, Nah,I like it. My favorite.

Bucky helped himself to the rest of the pizza while U finished herdinner. Then washed her paws and face. Then jumped in Bucky’s lap and turnedaround a few times, eventually falling asleep with her head on Bucky’s knee.

He took another picture and texted it to Tony. Help. I’mtrapped.

New text from Tony:

Ask her if there’s a squirrel at the window.

“Um U,” Bucky said, hesitant. “Tony wants to know if there’s asquirrel at the window.”

The cat was up and out of his lap the instant the word squirrelcame out of his mouth. She raced across the kitchen and over to thedouble-window in the living room, making a little chut-chut sort of noise, taillashing.

Huh. Neat trick.

New text from Tony:

You should see it when there’s actually a squirrel there.

To Be Continued