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marsbutterfly · 3 years ago

Note

Hey ! How are you ? Can I request an imagine for Hanji x f!reader where they both get reincarnated in modern time ? They both died side by side during the rubbling and when they get reincarnated they both have memories of their past life (they were already lovers). Reader thought she was never going to see her girlfriend again but one day she finds her by chance.

Take care and have a nice day !

Note: Thank you so much for requesting this. I had fun writing it and the prompt was *chefs kiss* so I really hope you like it.

In Another Life

Summary: Reincarnation is the doctrine or belief that the soul reappears after death in another and different bodily form.

Wattpad Version! | AO3 Version! |◁ II ▷|

Cold sweat drips down your face as you bolt awake, digging your nails into the bedsheets. The same nightmare has been waking you up in the middle of the night since you were a child.

In your dream, you are a soldier who battles to save humanity in the fight against titans. Somehow, you always manage to kill the gigantic beings and return safely to the world inside the walls.

Always by your side is a brown-haired woman with glasses, her left eye is missing in most of the dreams. In all honesty, you have never seen anyone so beautiful before and, somehow, you remember her name.

Hanji Zoe.

One day, you stood by her side as the world you’ve once known was being left behind, turned into dust. She held your face in her hands as tears streamed down her cheeks, the feeling of her lips against yours is vivid and you can even smell the apple she had earlier.

The scream of your comrades echoes through the plane and into your brain but all you can focus on is the image of Hanji’s body catching on fire as the same flames burn down your back.

She hits the ground seconds before you do and somehow you manage to land by her side, hand touching hand as her lifeless body begins to cool down. You don’t have much time to think before a titan’s massive foot squishes your bodies at the exact same time.

That’s usually when you wake up, when your lungs and heart explode inside your chest due to the pressure of the step. When every blood vessel in your body gives in to the pressure and bursts inside you.

You grab your phone, only to realize your alarm was about to go off anyway. So instead of trying to go back to sleep, you simply push the covers aside and begin to drag yourself to the bathroom in hopes of getting your day started.

Not every dream you have is a nightmare. Some of them are about a life you don’t remember living: The combination of joy and fear after joining the Survey Corps, the warmth of Hanji’s naked body against yours, the delicious smell of freshly made apple pie coming from the kitchen in the middle of the night.

At nights where you don’t dream about that life, you miss it. You miss being around your friends, being able to move around the trees as if you were flying, you miss her. Her deep, brown eyes are all you can think about and time slips away from you.

Once your morning routine is completed, you decide to go for a run in the park behind your house. Since the sun has been out for less than an hour, it shouldn’t be too busy and you’ll be able to enjoy some quiet time.

As the armband slides up your skin, a chilling sensation travels down your spine and nearly every particle of hair in your body rises, even though you can’t understand why. So you simply shake your head and push the feeling down.

Carefully, you select your favorite playlist and check to make sure your laces are tied but before you can actually look, your phone rings loudly in your ear nearly giving you a heart attack.

Without a second thought, you decline the call without even checking to see who it is and you make your way outside.

The cold breeze welcomes you and the sweet smell of the food cart in front of your house hits your nose. Usually after a run, you reward yourself with one of their delicious crepes and that is enough motivation for you to finish your jog.

At this time, the park is the most peaceful place in the city. No crying babies in their strollers or loud business men walking around on their phone, there is only you and maybe three more people.

Your favorite song comes on and you feel the energy pumping through your veins with every beat. It’s the perfect weather for a run and you silently enjoy the calm that washes over your body.

Your mind wanders back to your nightmares and you start to remember the better part of it. The times Hanji would take you to a secret picnic after she became commander or the makeout sessions in the janitors closet.

In some ways, you could even feel her warm skin against yours, her kiss-swollen lips attached to you by a string of saliva. It nearly feels as if you had lived throughout all of it, but it couldn’t be possible.

You’re so deep into your thoughts that you don’t notice the stick on the floor and, when you do, it’s too late and you’re already halfway towards the ground so all you can do is protect your face from the concrete.

The impact itself isn’t too painful but the humiliation is what stings the most. If only you hadn’t gotten that call before leaving your house, you would’ve remembered to tie your shoelaces and therefore they wouldn’t have gotten stuck on the stick on the floor.

This isn’t the first time the woman in your dreams has caused you trouble. In a few of your memories, she would make too much noise when you sneak out and the Commander would eventually catch you.

Ever since you were young and these dreams first started, you’ve been going to a therapist after the other in hopes of understanding what all of this means and why is it happening to you but all came to the same result: inconclusive.

No matter how many doctors you see, no one can understand why you have such vivid dreams about a war nobody has ever heard anything about or creatures that have never once been proven to exist.

With your ass on the ground, you notice you used the word “memories” instead of dreams and for a second you feel as if all air has been sucked out of your lungs by a massive vacuum.

You shake your head, pushing those feelings deep down inside of you and getting on your knee, preparing to tie your laces when a familiar perfume rushes by you.

It’s faint and quick, probably carried by the wind but enough for you to snap your head backwards. A comforting feeling settles in your chest, warm and fuzzy if you could describe it. That’s exactly how the woman from your dreams smelled like.

You notice a brunette in a bright yellow sports bra turning around a bush not too far away, but you can’t see if she’s wearing glasses or if she only has one eye, like Hanji did.

“Y/N don’t be ridiculous!” You say to yourself, standing up and brushing away the dirt from your clothes, “Hanji is not a real person, she’s like an imaginary friend.”

Forgetting all about your fall, you decide to resume your run. The pain in your foot forces you to go a bit slower than you are used to but nothing too serious.

Once you are done running your laps around the park and begin to make your way back home, a few drops of rain begin to fall on your skin, forcing you to rush home.

As you are eagerly awaiting for the crepe you’ve been dreaming about for hours, the owner of the small cart has a sad expression on his face.

“I’m fresh out of batter. My husband just went to grab some more, it should take a little longer than 45 minutes, I am so sorry Y/N.” He says and you sigh, a compassionate smile on your lips and you nod.

“You will save me the first one you make when he’s back right?” You ask and the man eagerly nods.

“Of course. With banana, strawberry and chocolate, right?”

And you laugh, knowing that the only reason why he knows your order so well is because his crepes have been your breakfast each morning since you first moved into this apartment.

Once you are done with the conversation, you rush up the stairs and immediately into the shower. With a washcloth you gently brush the dirt out of your bruised knee, quietly hissing as the burning sensation takes over.

Even though you know you aren’t supposed to do so, you pour hydrogen peroxide on top of the wound and a scream leaves your throat at every step of the way.

“Today really isn’t my day.” You say to yourself as you begin to wash your hair. A few specs of dirt fall to the ground and a prolonged sigh escapes your lips. Everything just seems to be going wrong: rain, no crepe, fell during a run, what’s next? Waiting in line at the coffee shop for over an hour?

As you stand in line, you realize you should have kept your mouth shut. Even though you ordered online, the amount of people surrounding the pick up area was beyond ridiculous and you were definitely getting late for work.

Once your turn finally comes, you thank silently in hopes that you will be able to actually make it in time. So with your chest out and happiness on your face, you loudly say over the many other voices, “Order for Y/N!”

The guy behind the counter looks confused as he checks every cup individually and you watch over him as he does so. He shoots you a sadden and a little annoyed look and you realize that the “Order” button never got pushed.

Your eyes fill with tears of frustration but you brush them away and take your phone out, repeating your online order to the barista on the register and they write it down perfectly.

Your eyes are glued to your phone’s screen while you wait for a message from your boss but the same comforting sensation you felt this morning is back again. Maybe it’s the smell of coffee that reminded you of the trips to Marley or the crowds of different people around, much like eldians and marleyans.

“I have to get this shit out of my brain.” You say, shaking your head and focusing on typing out a message to your friend, complaining and hoping that you won’t get fired today. You worked too hard to get this job and if they let you go over some 20 minute wait, you’ll raise hell on Earth.

“Order for Y/N?” A familiar voice says but you can’t identify from where.

So you walk to the counter, finally putting your phone away and counting the coffees. Your eyes land on the barista’s hand, who carries your regular order. You reach for it and in a split of a second, your hands touch.

The world around you seems to stop and so does your breathing. When you look at her, you realize she is the part of you that has been missing all along. She’s a real person and not a dream. You look at her nametag, just making sure you aren’t going insane and there it is. “Hanji Zoe”

In that minimal touch, you are bombarded by the emotions of a lifetime ago. The first day you met, the first titan experiment you had done together, the first kiss, the first time you’ve had to kill a titan because she would always get too damn close to being eaten alive.

But you are also reminded of the last meal you both ate, the last nose rub, the last time her lips touched yours, the last hand holding, the last breath you both took before you woke up where you are now.

And just like that, feelings you didn’t know were possible for you to have emerged from deep within your chest as if a box that has been sitting deep inside the closet has now just been opened. It even seems like the world has just gotten a bit more colorful.

Tears shine in your eyes as the coffee you just waited so long for hits the ground. With a smile on your face, you wrap your arms around her neck and pull her over the counter. It doesn’t take her more than a second to seal your lips together.

Her breath tastes like the hot chocolate she had earlier that day but it still manages to awaken butterflies that laid dormant in your stomach throughout your entire life. It’s not until your phone rings in your pocket that you are brought back to reality.

“I’m so late for work!” You smile at her and rush out of the store, the container with the other cups in your left hand.

“Wait!!” A voice screams from just outside the coffee shop and you immediately turn around to see Hanji, her hat in her hand as she comes closer to you. “I knew something was missing my entire life and….”

“And now I realize it was you.” You two say in perfect unison and she nods.

“Why don’t we start over? This time, without any titans around.” She asks and you smile.

“Hey, I’m Y/N.” You say, extending your hand.

“I’m Hanji Zoe and I would love to take you on a date sometime.” Hanji meets you in the middle, shaking your hand.

“I really have to go.” You say and a frown appears on her face, you have to fight the will to quit your job and start a nice, little life in the woods with her. Something you’ve always talked about but sadly never got to have.

“I’ll wait for you right here then.” She says, letting go of your hand slowly and you immediately touch the back of her head and bring her in for a long kiss while still managing to keep the cups in your hand still.

This time it was not a goodbye kiss. It was simply the second first kiss you’ve ever had with Hanji and hopefully, it will not be the last.

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years ago

Text

Visibility (Good Omens Fic)

Written for Lesbian Visibility Day, 2021

(26 April, 1972)

“What did you szzay?”

Beelzebub glared at the empty space before zir throne, listening to a pair of feet shuffle awkwardly.

“I just…woke up like this,” Crowley explained, in what was probably supposed to be a casual voice. “At first, I thought I was coming down with something. Flu. Hangover. Allergies. All very contagious this time of year. Really, if you haven’t been to Earth before, April is – just wait at least another month. But then I realized, s’not going away, and I thought: curse. Definitely a curse. Probably one of those angels, thwarting and all, you know how they are.”

“An angel.” The Prince of Hell tapped one finger on the arm of the throne, swarm of flies flitting around, trying to make sense of what zir own eyes weren’t telling zir. “Iszzn’t that hideouszz pieczze of real esztate you live in warded?”

“Probably. You know how it is. Get home late, really tired, swear you locked the door, but…” The footsteps – echoing as those ridiculous heeled boots struck the ground – began to circle the room. Beelzebub didn’t keep many possessions – at least, not the material sort – but Crowley seemed determined to touch them all. “Anyway, you know angels. Clever bastards.” An ornate dagger on the far table began to spin. “Or witches. Not quite as bastardly, but they cause trouble. Oh, or a cursed artifact.” Papers began rearranging themselves. “I just…I haven’t been thrift shopping in years, you know, not really my scene, not anyone’s scene anymore, but I saw this really spectacular jacket, I thought, what the Heaven? Might have some age-old horrific curse, or bedbugs, but it’s going to look stunning on the dance floor.”

Pinching zir nose, Beelzebub tried not to imagine the foolish way she was probably grinning. “And by complete coinczzidenzze,this angel, witch or…garment, juszzt happened to make you completely inviszzible on the day of your department budget review?”

“Yup.” A selection of goblets toppled to the floor with a clatter, bouncing and spinning across the floor. One rolled as if kicked, but not even Beelzebub’s cleverest flies could locate the blasted demon who had caused the mess. “I mean, not just a coincidence. Plenty of reasons. Er. The angel. Just last week, that – uh, that Aziraphale, I foiled one of her plans. Thoroughly. Foiled like…like leftover chicken. So. This could be revenge. Very unfortunately timed, but you know.”

“Indeed.” Beelzebub rose, stalking from zir throne across the floor to the spot that most strongly radiated incompetence. “And the curszze breakerszz haven’t been able to turn you back?”

“I mean, they tried.” More footsteps, hastier now, so that the echoes made them harder to track. “Course they tried. But,” she clicked her tongue, “couldn’t do it. Said they’d never seen anything like it before.” Ze would have to speak with them. No, too much trouble. Beelzebub would send the Hellhounds to take care of those idiots. “But, they did say it should wear off in…twenty-four to forty-eight hours. You know. With bed rest. Pity about the budgetary review.”

“How szzo?” Ze asked, lip curling. Every twenty-five years, like clockwork, like the courses of the blessed stars, the day of Crowley’s review, something – something highly improbably – tried to disrupt things.

“Well. I mean. Bed rest. Suggested by your curse breakers. And anyway. Can’t go like this, can I?” One of the goblets floated up from the floor, spinning in an unseen hand. “Might be disruptive.Wouldn’t want to draw attention away from Dagon – I heard, she has some fantastic charts this year. Pie graphs. One of those ones with the dots and the lines. Look at this!” From behind Beelzebub’s throne floated a ceramic pot filled with tall green plants, three dozen flies happily flitting around the attractively scented leaves. “Is this dill? Excellent choice. I’ve been doing some gardening lately, too, and let me tell you—”

“I cannot imagine anything” Beelzebub snapped, snatching the plant out of her invisible hands, “that could make you more diszzzruptive than you already are. But it appearszz you can szztill szzee, hear, and – unfortunately – szzpeak.”

“Just lucky I guess.” More pacing.

“Szzo. Dagon will be exzzpecting you in…four and a half minuteszz. I’m czzertain everyone iszz eagerly awaiting your planszz for the coming quarter-czzentury. Dagon, at leaszzt, could probably uszze the…amuszzement.”

“Course. Right. Perfect.” The footsteps began to lead towards the door. “I’ll just—”

“Szztop.” Beelzebub’s hand flew out, snapping tight around the demon’s wrist exactly as she walked past. “The otherszz will need to szzee where you are.”

“I could whistle,” she volunteered, launching into something that sounded like a tortured bird.

The Prince considered ripping her arm off and stuffing it down her throat, but the last time ze did that, the satisfaction hadn’t been worth the days of cleanup.

“Juszzt put on a hat or szzomething.”

A snap of fingers, and a band of glittering silver cloth appeared around where her waist should be. “Better? Can I go now? I’m…extremely eager to start my presentation. Ngk. Everyone is going to be impressed. This – this decade is going to put me on the map.”

“Go.”

The silver band of cloth sauntered out of the room, echoing the moronic way the demon walked. Checking the dill plant for damage, Beelzebub lowered zirself back onto the throne.

Which had, inexplicably, moved several inches back, causing zir to fall onto the floor, the potted plant shattering. “Crowley!”

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Crowley muttered, stalking down the hall towards the meeting room. She’d spent a week putting this curse together, combining ones from six of Aziraphale’s most obscure grimoires, and yet she still had to make her bloody presentation. “Next time, I’ll just give myself the plague.” That had almost worked in the fourteenth century. Just needed a more impressive plague.

Ahead on the right, a door with a piece of paper taped on it reading Temptation Department Budget Group Lambda. She hesitated, fingers hovering just short of pushing it the rest of the way open. Had Beelzebub warned everyone she was invisible? More often, ze expected demons to take care of such things themselves, on pain of pain. Two minutes to spare; might as well try.

Crowley dropped the silver belt on the floor outside and slipped through the partially-open door, transforming her extremely cool boots into a pair of quieter slippers. That, at least, she could do without being sensed; shifting the shape of her feet didn’t alert the other demons the way a real miracle would.

A dozen of them sat in chairs around the conference table, grumbling about their project proposals, miracle allotments, and soul quotas. An overhead projector sat at the front of the room. It was the one with the cracked glass, projecting a broken circle of light onto a white wall. Dagon stood beside it, shuffling papers.

Crowley could try writing dirty words on a couple of the pre-made transparencies, but that didn’t seem properly demonic. Scanning the room, she spotted the wheeled coffee cart tucked in the corner, laden with a coffee pot, Styrofoam cups, plate of pastries and various flavorings. Horrid stuff. All demons were required to drink three cups of it per meeting, and to eat one of the scones, which this time appeared to be…pickled herring flavored? With orange marmalade?

There wasn’t much she could do to make that worse. She grabbed a few anyway, tucking them down the front of her shirt, and dumped the marmalade into the molten coffee, turning the temperature up as high as it would go. She’d managed to grab a fistful of wet soil and some dill from Beelzebub’s plant. Most of that went into the coffee pot, a little into the sour creamer, and the rest into the alleged sugar – probably an artificial sweetener, those were all the rage lately.

What else? She stole all the spoons, then pulled off an earring and started poking holes in the bottom of the cups with it.

With the perfect sense of timing honed from millennia of avoiding one more second in the company of her coworkers than necessary, Crowley managed to slip out the door, put on the belt, and waltz back in exactly as Dagon demanded, “Where is the demon Crowley?”

“Sorry, sorry. Feeling a bit under the weather today.” Only about three demons glanced her way with some level of surprise; the rest just got up and headed over to get their first requisite cup of coffee. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. And the traffic! The roads just get worse every year. Anyway, here now. Ready and eager. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She snagged an empty seat and dropped into it, crossing her boots on the table with a heavy thud.

Dagon sighed. “Do I even want to know what happened this time?”

“Pissed off an angel. Utterly ruined her plans. Cursed me out in the most unbelievable language, and then, well, you see. Or don’t see.”

It was certainly true enough. Aziraphale had been very upset when the “fine dining establishment” Crowley had selected for their meet-up turned out to be the hottest disco in the city. And the way she managed to express her disappointment while technically not swearing certainly strained credulity.

“Did you kill her?” Ligur asked. So unimaginative.

“No, I did something much worse.” She’d dragged Aziraphale onto the dance floor and managed almost twenty-three seconds of enthusiastic disco next to her before the angel – now bright red and flustered – had stormed out entirely. “But, we’re not here to talk about me. Let’s have it. Numbers. Spreadsheets. I heard a rumor we might see that climate change graph.”

A general groan ran around the table.

“Shut up,” Dagon snapped. “Listen up, you lot – all you idiots, and Crowley in particular. Every one of you worthless wastes of matter needs to explain what you’re going to do in the next quarter-century, how that’s going to secure souls for our Master, and why we should waste any number of miracles on your pathetic hides. Until then—”

With an icy shiver, Crowley felt her miracles vanish.

“Now. Let’s start on the success rate of last quarter-century, and if I hear one word of complaint, you can scream it from the bottom of a sulfur pool. And don’t forget your blessed coffee.”

As Dagon started her presentation, Crowley watched the coffee cart. Someone had helpfully wheeled it next to the conference table, so the demons could more easily torture themselves. Seven managed to soak their shirts and trousers from leaking cups before the marmalade clogged the pot entirely. That, however, would never be enough to cancel the meeting. Heaven, a few of them even said it tasted better than usual. Should have seen that coming.

Still. It was a start.

Crowley played with her earring, then grinned, thinking of a possibility.

“Ow!” she shouted dramatically. “Something bit me!”

“Wasn’t me,” Hastur said sullenly.

“W—no, I mean. Some kind of insect.”

“Don’t see one,” grunted another demon called Krang, sitting right beside Crowley.

“It’s right there!” Silence. Oh, right, no one could see her pointing. “There! On the coffee pot!”

Eyes narrowing, Krang leaned forward, glaring across the table at the pot, which was rattling slightly. Crowley jabbed them in the back of the neck with her earring.

“Arg! It got me!” Krang slapped at the spot, leaping out of their chair. “Did you see where it went?”

“There! On Hastur’s head!”

“Where—?” Hastur managed before Ligur swatted him so hard he fell out of his chair.

“Ah, shit!” Crowley shouted. “It got me again! No, wait, I think it’s a different one.” The demons anxiously glanced at each other, but no one else stood up. Not enough. “Oh, no! My…my hand!” Crowley tried to think of something suitable “It’s burning! Like Holy Water!” She jabbed the earring into the arm of the demon on her other side.

“Bloody—It got me too!” He was on his feet in an instant. “I can feel it burning already!”

“And me!” That demon wasn’t even near Crowley. She grinned. It was working.

“What are these things?”

“I can feel it crawling on my leg.”

“My neck is swelling up!”

“Sit down!” Dagon snapped, baring her teeth. “I don’t want to hear another word about bloody insects. You’re demons. Act like it! Or I’ll make it four cups.”

The room froze – silent, apart from the now-continuous rattle of the coffee pot – as a dozen demons weighed the fear of some sort of terrifying unseen holy insect versus drinking more of the vile brew.

So Crowley ripped a handful of scone out of her top and crumbled it. “What – my hair!” She tossed the crumbs across the table. “Are – are those larvae?”

Everyone shuffled back a few steps.

“I don’t think you heard me—” Dagon started, in a tone that suggested Crowley was about to lose the room. So she went all in.

“Oh, Satan!” She shouted, falling dramatically from her chair. “They’re – they’re crawling into my ears!” That earned a few nervous glances, so she took a deep breath and gave her best horror-movie scream. “That angel! She did something to me!”

“Crowley!” Dagon shouted. “Stop acting out right now,or I swear to Satan, I’ll—”

She never found out what Dagon wanted to do to her, though, because at that moment the coffee pot exploded, lid flying off, scalding brown liquid splashing in every direction, along with blobs of now-runny marmalade.

Never one to let an opportunity go by, no matter how unexpected, Crowley cried, “Eggs! They’re nesting in the coffee! Who drank that?”

A perfect panic set in, and there was nothing Dagon could do to stop all the demons – including Crowley – from evacuating the room.

In the confusion that followed, everyone lost track of a certain invisible demon. How sad. And totally unexpected, Crowley thought, climbing into the Bentley. Too bad I kept the radio off and didn’t go to the cinema. Otherwise, they could summon me back. If she were careful, she could have days to finish coming up with her proposal.

But first, a little fun. Grinning, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what kind of trouble she could get into next.

Well. One way to find out.

The London police were extremely disappointing that morning. It took nearly eight minutes of driving around at top speed, running red lights, and blaring her horn outside rich-looking homes before one finally started chasing her.

Slamming into top gear, she raced down the busiest streets, whipping around corners, weaving through traffic, making sure not to get too far ahead. The second patrol car joined in somewhere near Oxford Street, the third during a quick jaunt up towards Regent’s Park. When she’d collected four, sirens blaring as they struggled to keep up with her flawless driving, she spotted a side street and lurched into it with a complicated 270-degree-spin finished with the nose of the Bentley facing the approaching cars.

Then she settled back in her seat and waited.

The black monstrosity finally slid to a stop. Officer Mills kept her eyes on it while her partner slowed their own car to a stop.

“We sure he’s not just going to run?” She asked, trying to spot the driver. The glare off the windshield must be playing tricks on her eyes; she couldn’t see a thing.

“We surround it,” Harmon said. “Got to be enough of us, even if they try to make trouble.”

Six officers eased out of their cars, silently trying to decide who should approach the window. Mills won – or lost – and took the lead, Harmon close behind her. He was the only one armed; she felt a little better for that, in case the driver turned out to be dangerous, though most likely she figured he would try to plow through the police cars to get away. They couldn’t do much in that case apart from try to kick the tires in passing.

“Think it’s stolen?” Harmon asked as a few others moved to try and block the street beyond the idling nightmare. “Teenagers messing around?”

“Could be,” Mills said doubtfully. “It’s vintage, though. Really old. And whoever was driving knows what they’re doing.”

Anderson waved from the far side of the vehicle. Everyone was in position. Mills nodded and walked up to the window, prepared for a lunatic – or a drunk – or someone on an awful lot of drugs.

Instead, it was completely empty.

“What…” She glanced back at Harmon. “No one. Did he bail out?”

“We’d have seen. Check the back seat.”

“Nothing. Wait. There’s…a tin of biscuits. That’s all.”

Down the street, Anderson crouched, checking underneath. Nothing there, apparently. Slowly, the police approached, one by one relaxing as they confirmed that yes – the car was empty.

The driver side window was open. Mills stuck her head in, glancing up and down. Nothing. No sign of what had happened to the driver. The engine still gently rumbled, and the door was locked. She definitely would have noticed if someone had stayed there long enough to lock it through the window.

“I’ll call to have it towed,” Harmon said, stepping back. She could hear the confused frown in his voice. “Maybe we’ll find…something…when we search it.”

By this point, even the officers who had waited in the patrol cars had joined them, crowded along the sides of the black vintage monster, testing doors and peering through windows. Mills leaned in to unlock the driver side door. “But where could he have gone?”

“She,” a soft voice said near Mills’s ear, and something tapped against her nose. “And I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Mills stumbled back as the radio burst to life.

You know the day destroys the night Night divides the day…

Everyone spun in place, looking for the source of the music from a nearby window or door, shouting at shadows, so only Mills was watching as the pedals and gear stick moved themselves.

Tried to run Tried to hide Break on through to the other side Break on through to the other side…

The ghost car – what else could she be? – shot backwards up the street, faster than should have been possible, spun a full 360-degree turn, then straightened up and drove away, blending into traffic with a cheerful toot of the horn.

Mills finally blinked.

“Harmon?” She called. “You do the paperwork on this one. I need a drink.”

Crowley danced in her seat far more than she usually would, but for once no one could see her.

Made the scene Week to week Day to day Hour to – Crowley!

She nearly slammed on the brakes as Jim Morrison began to sound an awful lot like Dagon. Shit. Forgot about that.

“Ahhhh…speaking?”

“Who, exactly, gave you permission to leave?”

“Oh. Ahhh.” She glanced out the window at a row of businesses and pulled over in front of some kind of barber shop. “I thought, what with all the insects—”

“There were no insects!”

“There weren’t?” Crowley really needed to work on her innocent voice. “I must be hallucinating. Better go home and lie down until it passes.”

“Crowley. Your budget proposal is due by the end of the day. Do you want to be stranded up there without miracles? Do you know what we do to demons who fail to meet their quotas?”

She knew that. She’d been told, several times, exactly what to expect. “Nnnnnh…I’ve got – it’s going to be a big project. Very big. More souls than…than wasps have larvae. Just need to work on my proposal in a secure, bug-free location.”

“Crowley! Do you think for one second—”

“Ah! They’re coming out of the radio!” Crowley cut the sound.

She sat in the Bentley, tapping her fingers on the wheel.

I just hung up on Dagon. They’re going to kill me. Worse, they’re going to send me down to file in the archives for a thousand years.

Then again, they’d have to find her first.

And, she was finding, her current state presented the kind of temptations even a demon couldn’t ignore…

Graham Palmer had been trying to get into the barber shop for twenty minutes.

The door was stuck fast. No matter how he rattled and pulled, it wouldn’t budge, as if something enormous had pinned it shut. And yet, every time he stepped back to let other patrons try, the door opened easily, but slammed as if pulled shut whenever he approached. He even tried slipping through behind another customer, but then it stayed shut until Graham stepped back. There was just no way in.

Now he hammered on the window, trying to get his barber’s attention. “Stuart! Stuart! What the hell are you trying to pull?”

The barber looked up from his current customer, blinking in confusion, and jerked his head towards the door.

“I tried that, it doesn’t bloody work!” A young man half his age walked past, giving Graham a funny look, and pulled open the shop door. Graham dove to follow him, but again it snapped shut, almost catching his nose. He pounded the door with his fist, glaring at the customers inside. “I’m going to be late!”

Across the shop, Stuart put down his scissors and shouted something. All Graham caught was “…break my glass…”

There was an idea.

He crossed the pavement to where an ancient black car was parked, removing his jacket. Wrapping it around his arm for protection, he charged forward, bracing himself for impact.

The door swung open in front of him and before he could stop himself, Graham tripped over – something – there didn’t appear to be anything – and sprawled on his face, sliding across the linoleum floor.

“Watch yourself, dearie,” a cheerful woman’s voice said, but when he looked up, no one was there.

Crowley strolled around the park, her new domain, another time.

Over there, at the edge of the path, was the Strange Chill area. Anyone who paused there, perhaps studying the slightly askew sign that seemed to indicate the exit was in the fountain, would feel a touch on their shoulder, a tickle on the back of their neck, or hear heavy breathing with no source.

Over here, near the ice cream cart, was the Creepy Bush. Originally just generic ghost noises, Crowley eventually discovered what really freaked humans out was a disembodied voice whispering their name, or something they’d said in private a few minutes before. She followed strolling couples around, listening in on anything good, and when one stopped to by the other ice cream, just really let loose on the one standing by the bushes. They usually started clinging much more closely to their partner after that, so really, Crowley was doing them a favor. Instant relationship counseling.

Across from the fountain sat the Haunted Bench. Crowley really went wild with that one. Children’s songs in a creepy voice. Branches shaking with no wind. Possessions floating away from wherever they’d been set down. Really, anything was allowed.

The narrow path leading through the tulips was the Asshole Road. Anyone Crowley caught being an asshole in her park was subtly sent that direction, pickpocketed, and then beset by bees, or at least a very convincing humming and a few pricks from an invisible earring.

The fountain itself was Rare Coins and Lost Items. Her third pickpocket victim had been carrying a tube of very powerful epoxy, and it turns out the coin-stuck-to-the-sidewalk trick was even better when you glued it underwater. A few pieces of jewelry at the bottom were also glued in place, but most of the valuables were simply tossed in or – if they weren’t waterproof – hung from the sculpture of frolicking animals in an amusing way. Crowley mostly just kept the cash, and even then only if the Assholes had been particularly cruel. So far, she’d accumulated almost five hundred pounds.

It was either the best park in London, or the worst.

She leaned against the clock – now set forty-eight and a half minutes slow – and surveyed the chaos. Two teenagers were frantically trying to get something out of the fountain, while the Asshole who’d sworn at that lovely gay couple was now soaked through, desperately trying to get his watch back from the ear of a sculpted rabbit seven feet high. That had been hard to get into place, but certainly worth it. The couple, meanwhile, were hand-in-hand, clutching ice creams and hurrying away from what had been for them the Creepy but Oddly Affirming Bush. The lady with the dog that had made a mess by the roses was trying to report the Haunted Bench to a cop, who tiredly insisted it was her lunch break and that the lady would not believe the morning she’d had.

Crowley grinned up at the sky. This – this was what it was all about. Forget budget meetings and presentations. Who did that make miserable, apart from the demons themselves? This park had everything: temptation, fear, frustration, justice, ice cream, and perfect weather.

“Hey. Hey you feathered wankers,” someone shouted, followed by the sound of rattling pebbles and angry quacking.

Tipping down her invisible shades, Crowley spotted some young idiot chucking handfuls of rocks at the ducks. Most were fleeing, but one flapped her wings, panicked and possessive, over a nest. One of the eggs had already been broken.

Looks like another volunteer for Asshole Road. Crowley was already eying their watch.

Every bakery has that one customer. Probably every place that sold food.

The one that demands impossible standards, not because of any particular love of fine cuisine, but just because they can.

The one that counts the blueberries in their muffin and lets you know if there aren’t enough.

The one who spends five minutes shouting, “No, not that one, that one,” while providing no other information, until their server had touched everything in the display case.

The one who complains that their brownie is too chocolatey.

The customer who somehow gets away with murder on account of being someone’s spouse, or sibling, or old school friend.

Victoria Lockwood was that customer, and as Riley watched her approach, they held their breath in trepidation.

“This scone,” she snapped, dropping her plate onto the counter, “is not right.” Then she glared at Bailey, waiting for a response.

“Is it…” Bailey’s mind raced, trying to work out what might be wrong. “The wrong flavor?” Victoria’s face only darkened. “Um. Is – is it dry?” But most of that batch had sold without a single complaint. “Did you want…more lemon curd? Or—”

“It is not hot enough.”

“Ah.” Of course. They’d taken that batch out nearly an hour ago; the next was ready to go in. “If you’re willing to wait, um…twenty minutes? I can give you the first—”

“Twenty minutes? What kind of service is that? I want my scone now.” She glanced at the tray coming out of the oven. “Why are you making me wait? What are those?”

Bailey glanced back and relaxed for a moment. “Oh – yes, I can get you one right now. They’re Raspberry Almond Butterm—”

“Disgusting!” Victoria rapped her hand against the counter. “That is not what I ordered! I demand you warm this one up, immediately.”

“I…” Bailey glanced at their coworkers, but everyone was avoiding eye contact. “That’s…I can put it back in the oven but that would probably dry—”

“Fine.” She shoved the plate towards them. “Be quick about it, young lady, I don’t like to wait.” She clearly noticed the way Bailey flinched. “If you don’t want to be mistaken for a girl, I suggest you get a proper haircut. And not that hideous shade of pink.”

“Y’s ma’am,” Bailey muttered, because some arguments would never be worth it. They took back the scone and put it on a baking tray. Maybe if it was only in the oven for a minute or two—

“Victoria Lockwood!” Bailey spun around, searching for who had called out. Not anyone else behind the counter, they all had their heads ducked, concentrating on some other tasks. But there – on the counter – a scone sat on Victoria’s plate.

She looked up from her makeup compact, smiled triumphantly, and took a bite out of it.

Her face immediately went green, and she dropped plate and pastry, running out of the bakery faster than Bailey had ever seen anyone move. They rushed forward, ready to call after her, but very much not wanting to, and picked up the discarded scone – it smelled awful, like vinegar and fish.

There was also an enormous wad of banknotes on the counter, wrapped up in a scrap of paper with a note: Kid – Don’t take that shit from anyone. Flip off your boss when you quit. <3 C

The bakery door opened and shut on its own.

Well, there was an entire day’s pickpocketing gone in a moment, but it wasn’t like Crowley had a better use for it. She still had a few rare coins, but after the fountain, sticking them to the ground seemed an anticlimax. She’d had some fun modifying the haunting routine for the bus or Underground, but both would be filled with commuters now a ghost that swears when you elbow her in the ribs on a crowded train is…not as impressive.

Still. Not a bad day overall. The most expensive foods in the corner marked had all been re-priced, several examples of hostile architecture had been mysteriously destroyed, enough people would be sharing stories of “hauntings” that the whole city would need to be exorcised, and – just for the Heaven of it – she’d followed a particularly annoying human for almost an hour, up and down the streets, buzzing in his ear.

Really, it was the simple pleasures that made the world so enjoyable.

And speaking of simple pleasures, Crowley had left one particular part of the city for last.

Strolling down the streets of Soho, which was just waking up while more respectable – but far less fun – parts of the city were winding down, she kept her eyes open for anyone who might make a good target. A few possibilities presented themselves, but in the end her destination proved the stronger draw.

A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop.

It was just the right time of day, when the customers would still be bothering Aziraphale, and she would be running short of patient ways to refuse them and start turning to biting sarcasm and, on occasion, outright threats. She’d probably appreciate a little haunting to help chase them off, once Crowley had finished stealing her cocoa, moving her bookmarks, and changing the record in the gramophone.

But, glancing in the window, Crowley saw something that poured cold water all over her brilliant day.

Gabriel.

Michael and Uriel, too. Probably Sandalphon lurking around.

Aziraphale stood before her bosses, hands clutched anxiously, that eager, ready-to-please face that made Crowley’s chest ache. Some, when faced with the beings who had hurt them so many times, became afraid, or angry, or distressed. But Aziraphale…just wanted approval. A kind word.

Crowley glared at Gabriel. The Heaven are you up to this time?

For once, she would be able to find out.

“And, I really think,” Aziraphale said, hands twisting like captured rodents as she rambled, “that this past decade in particular,I’ve – I’ve accomplished many things. Um. I – I prepared a list…somewhere…” her eyes darted to the disaster she called a desk, and she started shifting material objects around, smiling nervously. Guiltily.

“Is this going to take long?” Gabriel asked with a pointed sigh.

“No! I just…one moment…”

“We’re already running late,” Uriel commented. “We’d expected you to be better prepared.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale snatched up a book and began flipping through it frantically, as if it might contain the answers she needed. “Only, ah, you didn’t actually say when you would be coming…”

“We did say between the 3rd of January and 28th of October,” Michael pointed out reasonably.

“Oh. Um. I…”

“Something doesn’t seem…right,” Sandalphon said, stepping close to Aziraphale, putting a hand on her shoulder. The book she held tumbled from her fingers. “This whole place has a…smell about it.”

The door slammed behind them. Gabriel glanced back, but couldn’t see it from where he stood. Sandalphon gave Aziraphale’s shoulder another squeeze, then headed over to check on it.

“I thought,” Gabriel said slowly, making sure the slow-witted Principality heard every word, “I told you to lock the door.”

“It was.” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone wide. “I – I mean I did.”

Gabriel pursed his lips and shook his head. This had been a particularly disappointing review. Disappointing in the sense that their agent had once again conclusively failed to present evidence of meaningful victories towards Heaven’s cause. Less disappointing in that, whether she knew it or not, Aziraphale had already given him what he needed to take the arrogant fool down a few pegs.

In six thousand years, she’d barely managed to do a single thing right, yet somehow always came to him simpering and smiling like she deserved all the accolades of Heaven. Well, he’d been patient, as suited an Archangel, as patient as he could. But once per century, he had the opportunity to make his opinion perfectly clear.

Take away her miracles for a start, he thought. Though that didn’t seem to work nearly as well as it had a few centuries ago. Maybe recall her to Heaven for a year or two, re-educate her on the basics of her duty. There might be enough for a period of isolation. With restraints. They’d done that once, about three thousand years before, after a particularly poor review. Seven years chained up in an empty corner of Heaven, and Aziraphale had been wonderfully pliable for centuries after. Perhaps it was time to revisit.

“Look – look here, I have a list of…oh.” Aziraphale held out her book again, which seemed to be filled with irregular scrawl instead of the usual neatly printed words. “I started a list of accomplishments, but ah…I became busy the last few years. Um. Quite a lot has happened since…”

Uriel took the book and studied it, face impressively calm. “Interesting,” they said, not giving anything away as they turned the pages over. Gabriel trusted them to spot anything useful.

As the Archangels waited in pointed silence, Michael walked her fingers across a table. She pressed a thumb against a book, sliding it to the edge. Aziraphale stared as it teetered, then found its balance again. Michael watched it, disinterested, then moved on to another book, sliding that forward as well.

Sandalphon stepped back beside Gabriel, shrugging his shoulders. No sign of anything. Well. More questions for later.

Uriel reached the final page.

“What happened in 1967?”

“Nothing!” At the panic in Aziraphale’s tone, all four Archangels raised their eyebrows. “I – I – I mean, yes, lots, many – many—” One of the books beside Michael fell to the floor with a slap. The Principality winced. “I – I’m terribly sorry, could you be more specific?”

“Your final entry,” Uriel held the book out to Aziraphale, “says 1967 – Prevented… Prevented what?”

“Ahhhhhh.” Aziraphale squirmed. “Well, I…I…there was…ummm…”

“As I recall,” Michael said slowly, “you briefly visited Heaven that year, but didn’t officially report to any of us. And then didn’t return for at least…six months? Very unusual.”

“You haven’t been hiding something, have you?” Gabriel smiled, his heart rising. More than isolation. He could probably take away this shop, for a start, give it to a more trustworthy angel.

“Nnnnno.” Aziraphale gave that particular smile, the one that meant she thought she was about to get away with something. The one she thought Gabriel didn’t know about. “But, ahhh, if you could, um, quite a lot happened in the world in the…the last ten years or so.”

Something crashed on the other side of the building. No, he’d have the place demolished. It was falling apart already. Aziraphale could watch. Maybe he could order her to help. An eminently suitable punishment for wasting his time. “As I understand it,” he said, taking a step forward, “the last decade saw…war, riots, assassinations…”

“Well, well, yes, I…but, if you look at progress with, um, civil rights, ahh…anticolonialism…”

More made-up human terms. Gabriel and Michael shared a pained glance. “Look. Aziraphale.” Gabriel pressed his hands together. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate you taking the initiative, but…what does any of this have to do with your orders?”

“Or, for that matter, with your visit to Heaven?” Michael moved her fingers across the table again, coming to rest on one of those stupid little figurines Aziraphale had accumulated. Like a packrat. A human depiction of an angel, as some kind of soft, happy baby with wings. Not a warrior at all. Michael’s finger tapped against it. “What were you trying to prevent?”

“Did it have something to do with…Holy Water?” Sandalphon suddenly asked.

“That’s right,” Gabriel said. Something clicking in his mind. “There was that storage jar that went missing.” Did Aziraphale look more guilty than usual? “What year was that?”

“1967,” Uriel said.

He couldn’t hold back the smile. If he could prove Aziraphale had taken Holy Water for some sort of personal use, well.

He’d pretty much be justified whatever he decided to do.

“I – I – I can explain.” The Principality tried to back away, but was stopped by her own desk. “There – there was this demon, an – an especially, ah, wily, cunning, um, crafty demon—”

“Was there?” Michael’s finger twitched, sending the false angel off the table. It fell—

Then hovered, halfway to the floor.

Slowly, it lifted, rightening itself in the air before them. There was no trace of a miracle, no power of any kind. It simply…floated. Drifting through the air to land on the desk beside Aziraphale.

“Clever,” said Gabriel, watching the Principality’s face for any sign of deception. “How did you do that?”

“I…”

The pages of a book, laid out on the stand behind her, began to turn, flipping faster and faster, slamming shut.

“This…isn’t me.” Aziraphale said.

Behind her, books began to float off their shelves. One rocketed across the room towards Gabriel. He dodged it easily, but it was followed by another, and another. The lights flickered overhead.

“If it isn’t you,” Gabriel began, but a small table by the door to the next room began to rattle. Atop it lay a black-and-white board covered with formless carvings, which lifted into the air, then exploded, pieces flying at the Archangels. Gabriel easily batted them aside, but now one of the armchairs began to shift.

Without a word, the four prepared for battle, Gabriel stepping back, Michael and Sandalphon moving to the front. At least, that was the plan – the moment he tried to move, Gabriel fell, his feet somehow tightly bound together. The same happened to Sandalphon and Uriel, and even Michael stumbled, knocking over a table in her haste to stay upright.

Glass rattled in the back of the shop.

“It’s…” Aziraphale cleared her throat. “It’s that same demon again! I thought I’d banished her!”

“What?” Banishing wasn’t exactly something angels did.

“The – the Holy Water!” A bottle of something hovered out from the back room, moving slowly but threateningly. “Did you bring any? It’s the only thing that can stop her.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael’s sword manifested in her hand. “What demon?”

“Crowley! She – she seems to have grown even more powerful!”

“Crowley?” Not that worthless snake again. How many times had he been assured – through Michael’s secret back-channel sources – that Crowley was the most useless, incompetent, lazy demon in Hell? And yet somehow, not a single angel had ever successfully dealt with her – except Aziraphale.

“I thought I smelled a demon,” Sandalphon said, pulling his shoes off and tossing them aside. “But I can’t sense demonic power.”

“Obviously not!” Aziraphale’s wings burst from her back, and she held out a hand towards the hovering bottle. It slowly lowered itself to the ground. “Why do you think she’s so difficult to defeat? The power she uses – it’s not of Heaven or Hell! I – I can barely counter it!”

“Let me, then,” Michael said, predatory gleam in her eyes. Like Sandalphon, she’d removed her shoes; Gabriel was working on his own, but somehow the laces had become wound together like snakes, something sticky sealing the knot shut.

Sandalphon and Michael stepped forward, swords at the ready. “No!” Aziraphale turned to block them, and immediately the rattling started up again – this time from the metal stairs to the upper floor. “You – you don’t understand! Wh – when she gets like this – the fires would only make her stronger.”

Something – horrible, screeching noises – began emanating from the back room, like some animal being torn apart.

“That’s – that’s why I need the Holy Water! In the proper ritual, it – it – it’s too complicated to explain!”

A cupboard burst open, revealing a display of holy items – consecrated Bibles, holy symbols, sticks of incense and jars of oil. “No!” Aziraphale shouted, genuine panic in her voice.

The largest, heaviest of the Bibles lifted and shot across the room. It didn’t reach the Archangels, but Gabriel could see smoke rising from its cover.

Next came a crucifix, spinning end over end, which Michael caught out of the air. The wood was burned all along one side.

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale said, eyes round. “Nothing I have in there can stop her! What could a flaming sword even do? I need more Holy Water.” A jar of oil fell to the ground and immediately began to boil, bubbling and steaming. “I’ll try to hold her back as long as I can.” Aziraphale’s face furrowed in concentration as she walked across the shop. “Please, it – it’s far too dangerous for you here…”

“Right.” Gabriel glanced at the other Archangels. Something wasn’t right. But they couldn’t risk themselves against an unknown force. “We’ll…we’ll get some Holy Water. You do what you can.”

With a thought, the ascended to Heaven.

Gabriel quickly stood up, brushing down his clothing and trying to school his expression. “Well. I think the best course of action is to wait a day or two, then go see what the damage is.”

“And Aziraphale’s review?” Uriel asked, face somehow still calm, despite everything that had happened.

“I just hope we don’t have to give her a damn commendation again.”

The Arch-Wankers vanished in a shimmer of blue light.

“Ow, ow, fuck that hurts!” Crowley gasped, stumbling away from the spilled oil and shaking her hands. “What kind of stuff do you keep in there?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale started to rush forward, then froze. “Where are you? Can’t you – reveal yourself, or whatever?”

“Nnnnnnnnope. Rrrrrgh, how does this hurt more than walking in a church?”

“I…I’m sorry, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been worried lately that if – if your side realized what was happening…I thought it best to have a little insurance of my own.”

“Well it works.” Crowley managed to reach one of the shop chairs and sank into it. “Over here…no, here! Where’s…” She nudged the rug with her least-burnt toe, folding a bit of it up. Aziraphale immediately ran over.

“That was – well, that was clever, Crowley, but highly unnecessary. I – I was only having my performance review. I thought I was doing quite well.” Her soft hands found one of Crowley’s and picked it up, fingers tracing across the palm.

“I…” Crowley had seen the way Gabriel’s eyes lit up at the mention of Holy Water, while she was on the ground gluing his shoelaces together, and she counted it among the most terrifying things she’d ever seen. “I’m sure you were, but vanquishing some super-powerful demon? Saving the Archangels? Well, that’s only going to help, right?”

“Hmmm.” Another brush of her fingers, and the sting started to go out of Crowley’s palms. “And, I’m sure, spark a few rumors that might help you?”

“Oh.” Crowley grimaced, looking out the windows. “Unless those rumors spread really fast, I doubt I’m going to get much benefit.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale sank to the ground, patting around until she found one of Crowley’s feet. She gently lifted it, stroking from ankle to toe and giving it the same healing treatment. “And why are you like this?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Crowley.”

“Right. Um. I…may have…borrowed a few of your books and…designed a curse to get out of my quarter-century budget review. But in my defense – it’s so boring.”

Aziraphale sighed – or possibly blew a healing breath across Crowley’s feet. No, probably the sigh, but at least they felt a bit better. “My dear, it’s only a meeting. There’s no need for these – these histrionics.”

“Histri—Angel, that is – I am not – can you grab a dictionary? I need to know how upset I should be.”

“Extremely.”

“Right. I am. And…I thought it would only last a few hours. Have a bit of fun. But…I need my miracles for, you know, ambient healing, and…look, they cut off our miracles during the review, and only give them back once you’ve wowed them with your project idea.”

“And you don’t have one, do you?”

“Not…as such.” Crowley hung her head. “I…I thought I could get an extension. Just long enough to think of something.”

“So you cursed yourself.” That pained look, the I-hate-to-tell-you-how-much-you-failed-but-also-I-love-it look. Only slightly ruined by the fact that it was aimed somewhere over the demon’s left shoulder. “Crowley, did it never occur to you that in the time it took you create such a thing, you could just as easily have come up with a project?”

“Nh.”

“And did you come up with your brilliant idea during your delay?”

“Nnnh.”

“Well. At least you’re sorry now, I assume?”

“Nope.” If she hadn’t skipped out, Crowley wouldn’t have been here to help Aziraphale. She’d saved her friend countless times over six thousand years, but sometimes…she was quite happy the angel didn’t notice. “No, demons don’t get sorry. We get…” she grunted. “We get annoyed at ourselves for…ngk…for hanginupndagonnpissinheroff.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“For hanging up on Dagon and pissing her off.” Crowley rubbed her face. “Unless I can think of the greatest project any demon ever came up with…” Her stomach dropped as the reality of it hit. A thousand years in filing meant a thousand years without Aziraphale’s bastard looks and gentle touches. “I’m…probably going to be gone for a while.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stroked her fingers across Crowley’s foot one more time. “No, that won’t do at all.” She looked up with that icy, determined look. The let-me-speak-to-your-manager expression that made Crowley go completely light-headed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something about all this.”

“Like what?”

“How are your feet?”

“F—hmm? Oh, fine.” They were – Aziraphale seemed to have removed all the pain. Or at least, she’d removed some of the pain, and the fluttery feeling in Crowley’s chest allowed her to ignore the rest. “So. Um. What did you have in mind? Oh!” A grin stretched across her face. “Dagon and Beelzebub already think you cursed me. Maybe we can stage a second fight where they see it. I’ll definitely get an extension that way.”

“Or.” Aziraphale found Crowley’s hands again and laced their fingers together, pulling her to her feet. “We can go for a drive in that beastly car of yours and actually come up with a proper idea. Something convoluted, demonic, and with that…Crowley style.”

“I have a style now?”

“Hmmm. Yes. Not as refined as mine, but I think we can make it work.” Her right hand squeezed Crowley’s, and her left slid up the demon’s arm to her shoulder. “You know, I had a little over a century apart from you. And I have absolutely no desire to repeat that. In fact I…I rather think I prefer your company to, well. Anyone’s.”

“Nnnnh.” Crowley shuffled her feet and clutched Aziraphale’s hand back, guiding the angel to stand just a little closer. Needing to say something. Afraid to say too much. “Ssssss. Mmmm. Yeah. I, uh. I like it better up here, too. Y’know. Where you are.”

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale’s left hand slid further up, coming to rest on the back of her neck. “I can see right through you. My dear Crowley.” With the lightest pressure, she tipped the demon’s head down.

And kissed her, soft lips covering Crowley’s shocked mouth.

“Oh…” Aziraphale gasped, pulling back slightly, hardly at all. “I, ah…I meant to…” Her breath still tickled Crowley’s lips. “I…forehead…”

“Nrrh.” Crowley’s free hand drifted forward, finding Aziraphale’s hip, resting on it, barely a touch. It was all she dared. “Ah…?”

Neither of them moved. Or both did. Or they stood still and the world around them shifted. Whichever way it was, their lips touched again, and held this time. Slowly, they drifted closer, caught in each other’s gravity, a decaying orbit. Crowley would surely burn up on approach, but it was worth every moment.

Eventually they parted, once more just enough to breathe, to speak, to remember that they were two beings and not a single, burning soul.

“Not…” Crowley swallowed. “Not too fast?”

“I…” Aziraphale bit her lip. “I don’t know. But…Crowley…I know…where I want to go. Eventually.”

Their foreheads pressed together. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aziraphale nodded, dropping left hand falling away, right thumb rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open and she gasped. “Oh, my word!”

“What?” Crowley glanced at herself, black cloth trousers flared wide at the legs, tight red sleeveless shirt cut scandalously low in the front and back, boots with heels that made her even taller than usual—

She was visible again.

“I…I suppose I was still healing you when we…oh…oh, Crowley…what are you wearing?”

“Angel, it’s – I look fashionable, you look – have you changed anything in the last century?”

“I…a few things! Were you honestly planning to give a presentation like that?”

“I was going to be invisible, yeah!”

“You…are…” Aziraphale pressed her eyes shut. “I am going to get my jacket. And then I’m going to get you a jacket, because it’s cold at night, and you are cold-blooded.”

“M’not,” Crowley muttered.

“And then we will go for our ride and determine what evil, dastardly plan I will spend the next twenty-five years thwarting. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” After a moment, Crowley said, “Ah, Aziraphale?”

“What is it now?”

“At some point, are you going to let go of my hand?”

Aziraphale glanced down. “Oh. Hmm. I suppose we’ll find out.”

(Fifty Years Later)

Crowley sat beneath the apple tree, her hand clutched tightly in Aziraphale’s, leaning back against her angel’s chest. “And that,” she concluded, “is why we call the 26th of April Lesbian Visibility Day.”

The Them stared at the two supernatural beings, mouths slightly open.

“You…” Pepper started, “are full of so much shit.”

“Oi!”

“Actually,” Wensley said, “that’s…one of the worst stories I’ve ever heard. How are you supposed to budget miracles?”

“If they could cut you off that easy,” Brian jumped in, “why didn’t they do it when you left Hell?”

“Oh, ummm,” she glanced up at Aziraphale.

“Tactics,” the angel said enigmatically.

Pepper didn’t even seem to be listening. “How did you know what all those people were thinking?”

“That’s right,” Wensley nodded. “Particularly Gabriel.”

“He…he has a very expressive face,” Crowley argued.

“How’d you actually move around like that, without anyone hearing you? The whole day?”

“Shouldn’t you’ve been, you know, way more worried about getting killed?”

“At least one of those bookshop attacks wasn’t even possible, unless you were in two places at once.”

“And how d’you accidentally leave your healing on?”

“How could you possibly mistake her lips for her forehead?”

“This was rubbish.”

“What do you think, Adam?”

The former Antichrist looked up from where he was playing with Dog. “I think…” He gave the angel and demon a penetrating look, then shook his head, smiling as if he’d just seen the joke at the center of the universe, and it had turned out to be a truly terrible pun. “I think you should just tell us the next story.”

“Which one’s that?” Crowley asked, settling back into the curve of her angel’s arm, fingers still twined together.

“The one with the greatest project any demon ever came up with.”

“Oh.” Grinning, Crowley tipped her head to meet Aziraphale’s shining eyes. “Wahoo.”

The song is "Break on Through (To the Other Side)" by the Doors, because Queen had not yet put out their first album, though there was a lot of pressure in the Discord to have Crowley dancing to Abba instead.

Final scene set next year because we'll all be sitting together under apple trees with our loved ones and telling BS stories to kids before we know it.

For everyone who contributed non-anonymous suggestions:

@amidst-innumerable-stars @tangle5ancer @fenrislorsrai @feuerkindjana @bowser14456 @taksez @yeahhiyellow @infinitevariety @gargelyfloof118 @lourek @soft-forest-rain @undertaker991 @jules-al-c @lov-lyness2 @thisleadstohollyhocks @marianrios33 @aux-barricades @lostmemimi @joybones @derederest @myusernameispie @mothmans-favorite-lamp and @n0nb1narydemon (yes I did find a way to level up the coin gluing!) and of course @5ftjewishcactus who encouraged me when you really shouldn't. Sorry I couldn't fit in everyone's suggestions!

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theresnosafeharbor4myships · 7 years ago

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December 12, Christmas Caryl

my newest fic: Carol tries to guess Daryl’s favorite Christmas movie (also on 9L)

It’s a Wonderful Life

“Now look here,” Daryl instructed, pointing to some wires underneath the hood of the mustang and holding one between his thumb and forefinger. “This one connects here...” He fiddled with the wire as Carl leaned in close.

Pulling her coat tightly around herself, Carol watched from the opposite side of the hood. She’d learned a lot since Daryl had offered to show them, in rotating shifts, how to check, fix, and up-keep their cars—and sometimes his motorcycle. Just another way they all made each other stronger and bolstered their community, especially now that they had gates and walls and beds and weapons.

Glenn and Maggie continued mapping the tombs, Michonne and Sasha strategized escape routes and employed test runs, Hershel taught Rick farming and gardening, and Daryl educated them on vehicle maintenance and weaponry. Thankfully, they’d raised the outdoor kitchen just before the cold weather hit, and now they spent their days maintaining what they’d acquired. The council had even decided to celebrate Christmas, which had made Carl antsy the past few days.

Carol watched the kid bounce up and down on the balls of his feet as Daryl instructed him on the finer points of car care. He’d already asked Daryl to dismiss him twice, but the man took his teaching role seriously. “Soon’s we’re done, you can head back in to work on your Christmas gifts,” he’d told Carl, ruffling his hair good-naturedly. Carl had sighed but resigned himself.

Daryl’s voice drew her back to the present. “…and the car won’t start if it ain’t connected.” He looked at Carl, who nodded, then flicked his eyes to her, eyebrows raised with a question.

With a small smile, she mimicked Carl, and he bent over the car again.

“Now, Imma take it out, and you can try.” He reached down to undo his work.

“Carl?”

Carl and Carol watched Mika approach just as Daryl cried out.

“Son of a…nutcracker!” he finished, his eyes on the young girl.

Carol turned back around to see Daryl, whipping his hand back and forth, clearly in pain but no worse for the wear. She sucked her cheeks in to refrain from laughing, facing Mika again in order to hide her mirth.

“Carl, Rick said it’s your turn to watch Judith. He needs to check his traps before dark.”

“Go ahead. We’ll pick this up again later,” Daryl affirmed, his voice laced with pain, when Carl looked to him for permission to leave.

The kids ran off together, and Carol sidled up to Daryl. “What happened?”

He peered down at her, mirth in her eyes, though she sounded concerned. “Ain’t nothin’” he assured her, holding his right hand in his left.

“Come on,” she coaxed, reaching for his hand. “Lemme see.”

Daryl watched helplessly as Carol, a force of nature he’d already succumbed to, drew his hand toward her with a commanding but easy pull, her gaze inspecting his smashed fingers, her lingering touch light but sensual.

He cleared his throat, trying to reign himself in. “Will I live, Doc?”

Carol turned his hand over, her fingers grazing his palm, and continued inspecting his hand intently. “I do believe so,” she murmured, slowly dragging her fingertips along his skin as she let his hand go.

He stared at her intently, praying his boiling blood would cool in time not to make a fool of himself, as she looked up at him.

“So…Elf, huh?”

“Pfff,” he puffed out, embarrassed she’d caught the reference. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Oh, come on. ‘Son of a nutcracker’?” She chuckled. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for an Elf-watcher.”

“What’s Elf?” he tried again to play ignorant.

She smiled gently, a look of nostalgia crossing her face. “Sophia watched it for the first time a few years ago. She laughed through the entire thing. And then watched it on repeat the entire Christmas season. I considered breaking the DVD just so I didn’t have to watch it anymore, but it would’ve destroyed her little Elf-loving heart.” Carol came back to herself, focusing on Daryl. “I’d recognize a quote from that movie anywhere.” She smiled at him. “So really…Elf?”

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Was that your favorite Christmas movie?” she prodded, leaning one hip against the car and crossing her arms, a teasing smile lacing her tone.

“It ain’t ‘cause I wanted ta see it,” he defended himself, frustrated, and snatched the red rag from his back pocket to wipe the grease off his hands.“Damn Merle…every time he’d get high or piss-drunk between Halloween and Christmas, he’d put that idiotic movie on and laugh like a fool. Used ta irritate the hell outta me. Til he’d laugh so hard I couldn’t help joinin’ in.” He shook his head in derision. “Bunch a damn hyenas, we were.”

He looked up at Carol to see her smiling, not at him, making fun, but with simple pleasure at his story.

“So…is that your favorite Christmas movie, then?”

He huffed. “Not in a million.” He motioned for Carol to move as he prepared to close the hood of the car.

She stepped around to stand next to him as the hood fell and latched into place. “What is it, then?”

Daryl glanced down at her, not deigning to answer, though one side of his mouth quirked up.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“Ain’t got a favorite,” he stated, cupping his hands around his mouth and blowing warm breath on them. “Come on, let’s go inside and warm up.”

He ambled toward the prison, slowing his gait to match hers.

“Come on, everyone has a favorite Christmas movie. Even a Scrooge like you,” she added playfully when he remained silent.

He chuffed, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, and kept walking.

“Is that it?” She hopped along sideways, facing him, eagerly awaiting an answer. “Is your favorite movie A Christmas Carol?”

Daryl glanced around the courtyard, finding it empty, and took her hand in his. He lifted it to his lips and murmured, “Carol is always my favorite,” before placing a sweet kiss on top of her hand.

Carol blushed, overcome by the sincerity in his tone, the tenderness of his touch, and a shy smile bloomed on her face.

Though they hadn’t spoken any type of commitment to one another, they’d grown closer recently. Close enough she’d almost call them a tentative couple. Even still, she felt much more comfortable with teasing and tempting him into embarrassment than being the object of his compliments and direct but searing affection.

She eased her hand gracefully out of his, willing her heart to calm down, and tried to re-command the conversation. “Nice try, Romeo. So it is A Christmas Carol?”

He shook his head, half-amused. “Here I am spoutin’ romantic shit, and all you wanna talk about are Christmas movies.”

“Some Christmas movies are ‘romantic shit’,” she mockingly chided.

He gave her a doubtful look.

“The Holiday, Love Actually, every single Christmas movie the Hallmark Channel aired each year.”

Daryl chuckled good-naturedly. “Di’you buy into that romantic shhhowcase of Christmas love?” he corrected himself mid-sentence at her look of disdain.

“I didn’t ‘buy into’ it. But it was a nice escape from the Christmas tragedy I lived.”

She watched sorrow and regret tinge his expression.

“None of that,” she reprimanded gently, cupping his face with one hand. “Besides, not all Christmas romance is shit.”

She stood on tiptoes as she guided his head down until their lips met. Shivers ran down her body—and not only from the chill of the air.

“So…” she murmured as she pulled away. “Clearly those movies weren’t your favorite.”

“Carol is, like I said,” he muttered, chasing her lips for another kiss.

She smiled against his hot, eager mouth and sunk into his warmth as he slid his arms around her. She tangled her fingers in his bed-head mess of hair, letting him play out a few moments of his favorite Carol.

“Hmm,” he hummed when she eventually pulled away. “Maybe you were wrong. Maybe I do like romantic Christmas movies.”

She withdrew from his arms, a cheeky smile on her face. “Maybe we can make one of our own then,” she murmured seductively, backing slowly away from him. She watched a light blush grow on his cheeks and eagerness fill his eyes. “As soon as you tell me your favorite Christmas movie.”

“You’re a damn tease,” he growled.

Carol shrugged, slowly walking backwards toward cell block A. “Are you complaining?”

“Right now I am. I told you: I ain’t got a favorite.”

“I don’t believe you for a second,” she admitted cheerfully. “What about Charlie Brown’s Christmas? Or the old claymation movies: Frosty or Rudolph?”

The look of disgust on his face had her giggling.

“Something more spirited like Miracle on 34th Street or White Christmas?”

Daryl shook his head, eyeing the ground where he toed the crack in the cement. “Alright, fine,” he sighed. “But you cain’t laugh.”

Carol signed a cross over her heart with one finger. “No more than you did learning my love for romantic shit Christmas movies.”

He glared, but she just continued smiling cheekily at him. Finally, he spoke. “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Carol glanced around the prison yard. “I wouldn’t say it’s wonderful, but we’re doing better than we have since the Turn.”

He stared blankly at her, her deadpan expression nearly convincing him she’d missed the reference, but he knew better.

“I’m serious.”

“Aww, really?” she gushed, pleasantly surprised at his answer.

“Yeah. ‘S just…that man had it so tough.” He shuffled closer to her as he spoke. “Born into a life he didn’t want, got trapped by his family. He kept pushin’ on but didn’t get anywhere. Didn’t know people cared about him. Thought everyone he knew’d be better off with him dead. I ain’t at all as good as him—never did things to help others like him—but…I know that feelin’. Couldn’t help sympathizin’…”

Carol had closed the remaining distance between them as he spoke and placed a hand against his chest, over his heart.

He peered down at her, at the ache in her eyes for him. “Saw it for the first time when I was…probably 14. My nana used to watch it. Made us watch it, too. Some years, when Merle wasn’t around, she’d tell me…” He swallowed hard, and she stared up at him, riveted by this piece of Dixon history. “She’d tell me he reminded her of me. She’s the only one who thought I was smart. Could do more than just…follow in Merle’s footsteps. She knew I felt trapped, and…well, she’s the only one who saw me as more than another male to carry on the Dixon legacy of tragically failin’ at life.”

“Oh, Daryl,” she sighed with a mixture of ache and love, her heart hurting with each beat at the pain in his past.

He stared down at the woman before him, this woman who’d coaxed a silly memory from Before from him with a few teasing words and her heart of compassion.

“Turned out okay in the end though,” he assured her, “Everyone pulled together. Helped him back on his feet. Made him feel whole again. Let him know they cared about him, that he had more value than just what he could do for them.”

She nodded, understanding the depth of his words carried far beyond the movie she’d so loved.

“He got his ‘Mary’ Christmas,” he punned, sliding a hand through her hair to cup her head, a small smirk on his face. “An’ I got my Christmas ‘Carol.’”

He kissed her again, tenderly, gently, imbuing his affection with all the love that he’d never received.

Though her eyes slid closed, they stung with tears for the man in her arms, this man whom no one had treated kindly but whose arms held her fragile heart like a treasure.

He really was the redneck George Bailey of the apocalypse.

#caryl #carol x daryl #daryl x carol #christmas caryl #caryl fanfiction #christmas caryl 2017 #personal #my writing

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themurphyzone · 7 years ago

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Mystery at McDuck Manor Ch 2

Ch 2- Interrogation

To recap for the absentminded, I, the do-gooder Darkwing Duck, have been called out of my territory to investigate the theft of a painting at the McDuck Manor. I am currently holding a green post-it note and a pair of goggles as evidence. It will take wits, skill, and a little help from Starducks’ Triple Chocolate Mocha with three extra shots of espresso to close this case. I pace in front of all the occupants as I contemplate the best course of action....

“Would you get on with it already?” Donald snaps. “The boys are going to keel over any second now!”

Only the green one seems remotely close to falling asleep. The other two appear extra happy at staying up past their bedtime.

“Fine, fine. People just don’t appreciate a good expository monologue these days,” I grumble. “Now, where did you last see the painting?”

“It was in the garage,” Scrooge replies, pacing back and forth. At this rate he would wear out the carpet within the next hour.

“And you are absolutely certain that you didn’t move it elsewhere and forget?” I ask.

That mere slip of the tongue earns me a jab to the jaw with his cane. “I may be old, but my memory is sharper than a dozen African elephants,” he snaps.

If he disfigures my rather prominent and dashing bill, I’ll be sure to send him the medical costs.

“Noted,” I say, backing up. “Now, I shall have to question the children. With their valuable information, I can catch our suspect red handed!”

“I get to help in an investigation? So cool!” The little girl exclaims.

An elderly woman glares at me. “Questions only. They will not be helping you catch the thief if they’re still skulking around.”

I nod. As a general rule, I don’t care for tact. But if the woman in question looks like she could squish me into a ball with her thumb, then perhaps a bit of tact is in order.

Or a lot.

“I don’t like this. He’s accusing my boys,” Donald mutters. “Nobody accuses my boys.”

“Get it over with already. Just answer the best you can,” Scrooge sighs.

I clap my hands. “Great! Do I have any volunteers?”

No response. Huh. You’d think children would be happy to spend a little time with the daring and dangerously handsome Darkwing Duck.

I am currently in the kitchen area with the red triplet. He watches me as I sharpen my pencil in preparation for note taking, eagerly awaiting the moment I drop my guard so he can gather reinforcements and overpower my otherwise indomitable will....

“Is Huey Duck your full legal name?” I ask.

“Well, as far as I know it’s spelled Hubert on my birth certificate,” Huey replies, scratching his head. “I can pull up the document for you if you’d like. The Junior Woodchuck guidebook states that it’s important to at least have two forms of official documentation at all times.”

Oh, he’s a Junior Woodchuck. I assume he knows how to tie knots, set traps, and make friendship bracelets out of paperclips and bubblegum. He could very well be a crafty individual....

I shall proceed with caution.

“Where were you at the time of the theft?” I ask.

Huey thinks, scratching his chin as he comes up with his carefully crafted answer designed to cover up his involvement. “Webby was showing us the proper way to slide down the banister of the stairs. Please don’t tell Uncle Donald we were doing something that could’ve resulted in a broken arm if done incorrectly.”

“HUEY! YOU AND YOUR BROTHERS WERE DOING WHAT?” A raspy snarl sounds from behind me. Huey flinches and laughs nervously.

I tap my foot to get Donald’s attention. “Excuse me, good sir. I was in the middle of a very important matter. Away with you, and I’ll fill you in on the results when my interrogation is complete.”

“Interrogation, my tailfeathers!” For the sensitive eyes of any youngsters viewing this file, I shall not record the resulting tirade of quacks, swearing, and onomatopoeia that occur when two angry ducks duke it out on a stress-filled night.

(The following is an afterward for my archives at the tower. Let this be a lesson to myself: Make sure prying, short tempered uncles cannot eavesdrop on any future interrogations.)

I humbly apologize to Scrooge McDuck and I have purchased a new pressure cooker that I will send off tomorrow to get his lawyer to stop staking out on the walkway of the Audubon Bay Bridge. How does he even know where my lair is?

Enclosed in the package is an photograph of me posing heroically in front of a defeated Steelbeak. I even perfected my signature for the occasion! It’s a loopy cursive style, my preferred choice of penmanship, by the way.)

Huey Duck admits to being in the same vicinity as the aviator goggles. This is a most peculiar development.

I shall now proceed to the blue triplet.

After I drag myself to the nearest pharmacy for some painkillers....

There is now a screen set up by yours truly that separates the kitchen and parlor to prevent Donald from interrupting my investigation with his irate inanities.

The blue triplet grabs a handful of cookies for a midnight snack. A rebel I presume.

“So do you have a secret identity and stuff?” he asks through a beakful of crumbs. “Maybe I should adopt one myself. But until then, I’m just plain ol’ Dewey.”

I keep my distance so the crumbs don’t hit my newly ironed cape. “A secret identity?” I laugh. “Crimefighting is a 24/7 job, kid. I don’t need one as long as there are criminals to bust.”

“I’ve seen my Uncle Scrooge turn a dragon to stone,” Dewey says, leaning casually on the back of his chair. “I bet you can’t turn a dragon to stone.”

“Hah! I don’t need to!” I growl. Is he challenging my abilities as a vigilante? Well, he had another coming! “I defeated Eggmen with nothing but sunflower oil and a vase! I bested the likes of St. Canard’s thieves, litterbugs, and supervillains time and time again! Can your uncle do that, kid?”

Dewey yawns. “Sure he can.”

I decided to change the subject before my pride as a hero gets dragged through the mud, run over by a dump truck, and thrown into Davy Jones’ Locker.

“What were you doing the night of the theft?” I ask.

“Wait, is this an interrogation?” Dewey looks around, flipping the tablecloth as he looks underneath it for something.

How unusual.

Some might call it suspicious.

“Where are the lights? Did you bug the room?” Dewey asks. “This can’t be an interrogation if I’m not tied to a chair! Oh, maybe I could do the James Pond thing and escape with a laser ballpoint pen! Do you have one of those?”

“Answer the question,” I say, waiting for a response. “Your uncle will tar and feather me if I tie you up.”

Dewey blinks. “Fine. We were sliding down the banister.”

So the story checks out then. “Anything else?” I ask.

“It was pretty funny when Louie went down the banister just as this strangely shaped trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs. He thought it was Uncle Donald in disguise,” Dewey snickers.

A strangely shaped trenchcoat? Now we’re getting somewhere.

“And did you see who was in the trenchcoat?” I ask, clicking my pen as I jot down all the new information. “Or their height? Distinguishing characteristics?”

Dewey shakes his head. “Um, it was kinda long. It was a really big trenchcoat, but whoever was inside it was definitely about average size since we never saw their face.”

“And does this look familiar to you?” I hold out the aviator goggles.

He nods. “That fell out from underneath the trenchcoat when they fell down the stairs.”

“I see. Well, that concludes this round of questioning. Your contribution is much appreciated,” I say proudly.

Dewey huffs. “Uncle Scrooge can burrow through gold like a gopher. Bet you can’t do that.”

I take back what I said about appreciating his contribution.

There’s something shifty about the green one. It must lie in how his hands remain in his pockets as he slumps against the chair. Or how he yawns every few seconds without expressing any strong emotion. Or the half-lidded gaze he gives me when my cape flutters.

“And you are?” I ask.

“Louie. Hey,” he says, as if I was nothing more than his bestie.

“Louie. Do you know what this is?” I dump a crumpled green post it in front of him.

“It’s a post it,” he says.

I must resist the urge to slap my forehead. “I know it’s a post it.”

Louie shrugs. “So why were you asking me then? I mean, I guess you’re old and stuff, not as old as Uncle Scrooge but still a lot older than me.”

He did not just call me a senile senior citizen who slowly walks down the hallway of an assisted care center with a walker and spends the rest of his days playing bingo and gin.

I mean, my feathers aren’t turning gray or anything! I’m not that old!

“Look, kid. I’ll let bygones be bygones. Now, tell me what the post it note was doing near the painting.”

Louie scoffs, folding his arms. “I just put the post its on cool stuff I want to inherit when I’m older. I put them there a few weeks ago. Nothing to do with the theft.”

A red herring. Or a green herring in this case. Seems plausible enough.

“One more question before I let you go,” I say. “Did you happen to see who was in the trenchcoat?”

He shakes his head. “I was kinda more focused on getting back at Dewey for laughing at me when I fell off the banister.”

I sigh. “Fine. Thanks for your help.”

A gas gun falls out of his hoodie.

“Hehe. I thought it needed a little cleaning. There’s a bit of dust on the barrel,” Louie chuckles.

A hero’s intuition is never wrong. I was right to suspect he was up to no good!

“Oh my gosh an actual investigation!” the girl shrieks. She stands on the table in an action pose. I have to admit, she doesn’t look half bad. “And I get to help! I’ve never done this thing before! Can I be your sidekick? Temporary sidekick? I’ll organize any files you have! I’m the best when it comes to organizing!”

“Sorry,” I say. “Darkwing Duck is a loner who bravely champions the moonless nights, weathers through the thunderstorms, and stalks prey with hardly a sound. A tag-along would only slow me down.”

She nods, only looking slightly crestfallen. “Well, I’m Webby, for future reference. So, anything I can help you with then? I mean, there’s got to be something, right?”

“What happened after whoever was in the trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs?” I ask.

“They opened the front door and ran outside,” Webby replies.

Eureka! Then they stole the painting!

“Thanks, kid!” I exclaim. “Now, let us reconvene at the parlor to catch ourselves a thief! But first, you want a picture together? I’m trying to reach out to a younger audience here. It’ll help for marketing in the future.”

She grins.

How Webby hid a selfie stick on her person, I will never figure out.

“I’m done with my questions!” I say, waiting for the onslaught of questions and shouts from my enraptured audience.

Ahem.

“And?” Scrooge taps his foot impatiently.

Tough crowd. People don’t react like they used to.

“From these questions, I have concluded that the thief came in through the upstairs. They would’ve put the trenchcoat on after they entered the manor, though I don’t know why they took the roundabout way instead of just directly heading for the garage. From there, they tumbled down the stairs and made a beeline for the garage, where they stole the painting.”

Donald huffs. “Perfect. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with already. Kids, go back to bed. I don’t want you being all cranky in the morning.”

They groan and protest, begging for a chance to capture the thief.

“Please! I’ll donate a kidney if you’d let me!”

“No one steals from us! We can catch them!”

“I know how to set traps! I just need a lot of rope and duct tape!”

Scrooge taps his cane against the ground, and they instantly quiet down. “We’re dealing with someone who knows their way around the manor. They’ll be back soon enough. Now, I have a plan to catch them....”

As Scrooge announces his plan to reclaim the pilfered painting, I sit back to contemplate the events that transpired during the interrogation.

And I have come to a single conclusion.

I am never having kids. Not even if you bound and gagged me on an exploding motorcycle.

Not now or ever.

#ducktales 2017 #darkwing duck #huey dewey and louie #webby vanderquack

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costcohotdogslut · 6 years ago

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Updated

November 2013

It was just another day at the Palm Woods, and Kendall was, once again, bored out of his mind.

These days, it seemed like Kendall was struggling to find ANYTHING to entertain him, and he could only go around his village talking to his villagers so many times (especially since him and Flurry weren’t on speaking terms at the moment), and he sure didn’t have it in him to do something like clean.

With a sigh, he launched himself up from the couch to see what the others were up to. He knew Logan had a study group over and that they were cramming for their upcoming final, but maybe they’d all be down to go and get some pizza for lunch? Kendall always liked making new friends, and if they were anything like Logan, then they were sure they’d be okay people.

With a rap of his knuckles, Kendall stood at their shared bedroom door waiting for Logan to answer. When the door finally cracked open, just enough for Logan to poke his head out and give Kendall a look of annoyance, Kendall spoke up.

“Sorry to bother you guys, just wanted to see what you were up to!” Kendall said.

“Studying… What do you want?” Logan responded, his question seeming more bothered than quizzical.

“Oh, well I was wondering if you guys wanted to get something to eat? It’s almost lunch time, and I’m sure you’d like to get some brain food to help with all that reading.” Kendall said.

“No. Like I said, we’re busy.” Logan barked back at him.

“Aw.. Too bad, well maybe next time?” Kendall responded, craning his head a bit to see three others guys sitting cross-legged with textbooks in their laps, who for some reason had nothing on their lower halves on apart from their underwear. Glancing down, he saw that Logan was sporting the same look. “Uh, is there a reason why none of you guys are wearing pants?”

“Goodbye, Kendall!”

As the door slammed with a loud bang, nearly hitting Kendall in the nose, Kendall stood at the door for a bit, wondering who he could ask to hang out next, and also trying to process what exactly he just saw.

As he was about to knock on Carlos’s door to see if he was home, he remembered him telling he had a few acting auditions he had today. They were pretty big ones too, apparently, and he had seemed to be pretty stoked about them.

It had been a few months since Big Time Rush was suddenly killed off (yes, yet another part of my fic describing what everybody’s up to dhsjfjsj), and things had definitely changed for all of them.

Carlos decided that he wanted to pursue acting, mostly because he had only had about two solos throughout BTR’s 3 studio albums and one Christmas EP, but also because he liked the idea of putting on a costume and getting to be a new person. Surprisingly enough, Carlos was actually good at it, and while he had gotten a pretty big break doing a TV musical, nowadays he was just doing low-budget holiday movies on basic cable, but he was happy with it, so Kendall couldn’t say anything.

Logan, who had never really been all that into the whole boyband thing, jumped right back into school, once again pursuing his dream of becoming a world-renowned neurosurgeon. This was expected, of course, since he had always said he’d go back to school if the whole being famous thing fell through, and he was easily able to adapt to the whole studying and homework and labs thing again. And when he had free time, he still liked tinkering with his different inventions, all of which never seemed to work as planned.

James… well Kendall hadn’t talked to James in a while. As soon as news broke out that Big Time Rush was on indefinite hiatus, the following morning new news broke out that James Diamond had signed onto an exclusive solo deal with Hawke Records. Within the first month, James had released his first single which was met with universal backlash. It was called amateur, horribly produced, and it sure didn’t help that he no longer had his three beautiful, much more talented band members to back him up and make him sound better by association. He also moved out of 2J immediately after signing his contract, and since then, nobody had had any contact with him.

And with Kendall… he still had no idea what to do with his life now. Going solo was never really an option to him/something he was interested in, and he had always told himself he’d try and go pro with hockey, but all that time he spent on the road, touring, performing, recording new songs, he felt like he was really rusty now and no longer at the top of his game. He was also never a fan of school, so he didn’t know what else to do. He usually just sat at home, playing video games and watching old reruns (he had just discovered The Hills and he and his mom were loving it!). Admittedly, he also did just binge on junk food and his mom’s home cooking all day (who was cooking a LOT more now that her baby boy was always home to appreciate it), and he had put on a tiiiny bit of weight (he was pretty skinny already, so that extra 20 lbs didn’t make too much of a difference he thought).

He always thought that being able to sit at home all day doing whatever you wanted sounded like a dream, but he was starting to realize just how boring and monotonous it can really be.

When all else failed, he usually just went downstairs, got a PINK smoothie, and lounged by the pool for a few hours, usually accompanied by the other residents of the Palm Woods, both old and new, and it seemed like this would be the case once again today.

Grabbing his phone and keys, he locked up behind him and walked down the hallway, hands in his pockets, so bored that he even decided to take the longer, more “scenic” route through the hotel which was only just a few more turns and doors.

As he was nearing the pool, he heard a little bit of clamor and what appeared to be a guy grunting. Poking his head around the corner, he saw the back of a man struggling to get his luggage through the door of what he recognized as Lucy’s apartment.

Getting closer to the stranger, he wanted to make sure that it wasn’t someone robbing her apartment while she was away on tour.

“Hey! You there!” Kendall semi-shouted across the hall, the unfamiliar figure turning around and greeting him with a smile and a glasses-clad face.

“Howdy Neighbor!” The stranger waved back, and upon inspection, Kendall deemed the guy safe. He wanted to figure out what he was doing moving his stuff into Lucy’s apartment, so he walked over to him.

“Hello! I haven’t seen you around here before, you must be new, so let me give you a warm welcome to The Palm Woods.” Kendall said, putting his hand out to shake, which the stranger met as soon as he put his bags down. “I’m Kendall.”

“Thanks! I’m Dustin. I just moved in today, so it’s nice to see a happy face around here.” Dustin responded.

“Need a hand?” Kendall asked, seeing the other male’s luggage laying around him, one suitcase overturned with clothes strewn all over, and Dustin eagerly nodded. “Sorry about earlier, if I came across too strong. It’s just that my friend Lucy actually lives here, and I wasn’t sure what someone was doing moving into her apartment.” Kendall said, helping the other male put everything back into his bags. “Still not sure, either.”

“Oh, right! Sorry, my bad, I really should have specified.” Dustin apologized, putting his hand out for another handshake. “Dustin Stone, I’m Lucy’s brother!”

“Oh! I’ve actually heard about you, Lucy mentioned you a few times before, but she never really mentioned you that often because… um.”

“The whole estrangement thing?” Dustin said matter of factly, but he didn’t seem to be mad at Kendall for bringing it up. “Yeah, I moved out of the house when I was 18, but me and Lucy reconnected recently and we’ve been great! I’m trying to get back on my feet, and since she said this place is for aspiring artists, she invited me to move into her apartment, at least until I can get established enough to get my own.”

“That’s awesome! And judging by that guitar case over there, you’re a musician too I assume?” Kendall said, helping him get the last of his bags into the cramped apartment.

“Totally! Haven’t really made a name for myself yet, but I’m hoping that can change soon.” Setting his bags down, his wiped his hangs and let out a sigh. “Thanks again for everything Kendall. You seemed like you were on your way to do something, so I don’t wanna hold you up. The rest is just a bunch of boring unpacking and clean up, so I think I got it here on my own now.”

“Yeah… well I don’t really mind helping you out! I didn’t really have any plans today, and I’d love to help a new friend out.” Kendall said, looking around him to see where to begin.

“Friend?” Dustin asked with a warm smile. “Well if you’re really sure, then great! Go ahead and start anywhere, there really isn’t any rhyme or reason to all of this.”

An hour had passed, and the two had gotten about half ways through everything.

Kendall had quickly gotten to know more about Dustin, and he was just such a cool person. He found out that he was 23 years old and an aspiring rockstar, and while he hasn’t done much but play small coffeeshops and some minor songwriting, he was eagerly awaiting his big break. He also got to know a lot of other things, too. His ideal weather is cold and rainy, his favorite flavor of sorbet is raspberry mint, he isn’t a big fan of the beach, his favorite show is Buffy The Vampire Slayer, his shoe size is 11 ½, and he’s farsighted. All of which Kendall found absolutely fascinating!

As he was sorting a box labeled “Prized Posessions”, Kendall picked up one of the contents of the box and let out a loud gasp, which made Dustin turn his head to see what happened.

“No way… you have the complete series of As Told By Ginger on DVD?!” Kendall exclaimed, his eyes wide as he held the holy grail in the palm of his hands.

“Yep! Limited edition boxset and all!” Dustin said, walking over to look over it with the blond.

“That’s SO cool! I used to love this show, we need to watch it some time!” Kendall said.

“Well,” Dustin said, putting one of his boxes off to the side. “Why don’t we watch it right now? We already put a pretty big dent in all this unpacking, aaaaand” glancing down at his watch – “It’s already gonna be 4. We can order in a pizza and kick back, my treat after all the help you gave me today. Know any good places?”

“Definitely, I’ll start giving them a call!” Kendall responded.

“Cool!” Walking over to his box of prized possessions, Dustin dug around until he finally found what he was looking for. “Hey Kendall! Not sure if you’ve ever watched it but I also have Braceface on DVD! Maybe we could binge it too?”

Upon hearing this, Kendall nearly dropped his phone.

It was nearing 10 o’clock already, and after devouring an entire large pizza between them, the two were starting the third season of As Told By Ginger. Lucy’s thermostat wasn’t working, so they were wrapped up under a blanket on the couch, since it was November and starting to get cold (by Los Angeles’ standards).

Letting out a sigh, Kendall glanced over at Dustin who lifted his glasses and was rubbing his eyes.

“Getting tired? Me too..” Kendall said, who was starting to yawn too.

“Yeah, I’ve been up since 5 this morning and all that unpacking didn’t help either.” Dustin responded, readjusting himself on the couch and going back to watching the screen, his eyes half-lidded and sleepy.

“I had a lot of fun today, though. It’s been kinda lonely around here and I’m really glad I got to spend the day with someone as awesome as you!” Kendall said, which brought a small smile to Dustin’s face.

“Thanks, I couldn’t agree more.” Turning himself over a bit, Dustin was looking at Kendall now. “And you’ve really been feeling lonely? You have all these awesome people living here though, and I’m sure you must be a hit with all of them!”

“Yeah, don’t get me wrong, a lot of the people here are cool and they’re all my close friends. But they’re all busy and don’t really have the free time I do lately, so it can get kinda boring. But you-“ Kendall said, putting a finger on Dustin’s chest. “You made today one of the most fun ones I had in a while!”

As the pair giggled, they eventually went back to watching TV, but not even 20 minutes later, they were both snuggled together under the blanket sound asleep.

Rubbing his eyes, Kendall stirred on the couch as he looked around the unfamiliar room, taking a second to realize that he was still on Dustin’s couch instead of his bed back at home. Oops, he thought to himself, he hadn’t even realized that he had knocked out last night during their little binge session.

He figured that he ought to get up and get going, but he was WAY too tired for that, so he remained in the same position for the next few minutes, looking over and seeing that Dustin was still asleep.

Might as well watch a little TV, since his phone was halfway across the room. Looking around the immediate area for the remote, he felt something rock hard and VERY large poking his ass. Glad he found it without having to get up, he reached for it and was a little surprised when Dustin let out a moan. Not thinking anything of it, he continued to pull, figuring it must be wedged in the couch.

The other male was starting to stir, and through hazy eyes he smiled over at the blond, greeting him good morning.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but I didn’t think you’d be wanting to do this so soon.” Dustin said, biting his lip as he tried his best not to let out another groan.

“Well yeah, silly! I wanted to watch the morning news. Now can you move your leg and pass me the remote?” Kendall replied.

“Uh… the remote’s over there on the coffee table.” Dustin said, pointing over at the gadget that was in pretty clear view.

“Oh! Then what was that under the blanket?” Kendall said, reaching over to pull off the garment before Dustin quickly stopped him, suddenly flushed red.

“Wait! How about you, uh, make us a pot of coffee?” Dustin quickly blurted out.

“Sure!” Kendall responded, as Dustin let out a sigh of relief once he was out of sight. “Actually, I don’t see any over here. I don’t see much of anything, really.”

Seeing as how Lucy had been on tour for the last two months, it made sense that she hadn’t stocked up on groceries before she left.

“I’ll probably have to go to the grocery store then.” Dustin said.

“Want me to come with you?” Kendall asked, smiling when Dustin nodded yes. “Well you know what they say, the early bird catches the worm! Let’s get going now.”

As he reached over to pull Dustin up to his feet, he had to quickly stop him again.

“You can start getting ready if you want, but I’m…. gonna need a minute.” Dustin said, gulping as he glanced down to his lap.

After spending the morning going shopping with Dustin, Kendall finally got back to 2J around noon, seeing Logan, Carlos, and Katie playing Mario Kart 64, the three of them arguing over what appeared to be who’s turn it was to use Princess Peach, while his mom sat in the armchair adjacent to them, staring intently at her tabloid magazine.

“I’m finally home guys!” Kendall yelled out to the four, only to be met with silence. “I said I’m home guys! Who missed me!?” Kendall repeated once again, figuring that they must have been too focused to hear him the first time.

Still no reply. Kendall made his way over to the living room, awkwardly standing there as everyone was oblivious to his appearance.

“Fuck, I guess I’ll bite.” Jennifer thought to herself. Putting down her magazine, she let out a gasp. “Kendall sweetie! I didn’t even hear you walk in, oh my goodness!”

Standing up to give him a hug, she was shocked but happy to see the huge grin plastered on his face. “My my someone’s glowing, and I can sense you have some news to share!”

“I do!” Kendall beamed. “I made a new friend yesterday and he’s literally the COOLEST person ever!”

“That’s great, honey! What’s his name?” Jennifer asked back.

“Dustin. He just moved into the Palmwoods yesterday, and turns out, he’s actually Lucy’s older brother! He’s really down to earth, and I bet you’d all really like him!” Kendall said in the other three’s general direction, who continued to ignore him. “Hey, are you guys playing Mario Kart? PLEASE tell me I get to use Peach! I always get stuck with Luigi and I am SICK of it.”

“NO!” The three of them shouted in unison. As Kendall joined in on their bickering and Jennifer went back to gasping at the Who Wore It Best section, everything in 2J was how it was supposed to be.

Later that night, when dinner was done and everyone was settled in for the night, Jennifer began delivering the fresh piles of laundry to their respective owners. Lightly knocking on her son and Logan’s shared bedroom door, she heard giggling coming from inside. Hearing Kendall call out for her to come in, she walked in on her son laying on his stomach with a landline phone next to him, twirling the cord around with his finger and looking up to the ceiling cheerfully.

“Haha, nooo! You’re thinking of Beethoven’s 2nd! Beethoven’s 3rd is when him and the family go on the road trip in their RV. Duh!”

“Kendall sweetie, do you know where Logan went?” Jennifer asked as she separated the piles of laundry between the two roommates. Luckily, all of Logan’s clothing was hand embroidered with “Hortense” across the tag, so it was easy to distinguish what belonged to who. Plus the fact that Kendall wore a large and Logan wore a 2XL.

“Something about a party? I don’t know, me and Dustin were talking about our favorite Disney Channel original movies so I didn’t pay much attention to him.” Kendall responded, and as Jennifer went back to her folding duties, she heard the blond let out an audible gasp when the other voice on the line mentioned a Zenon girl or something.

“Okay, well try not to stay up too late talking to your new friend, sweetie!”

“Okay mom! Goodnight!” Kendall said, waving goodbye as his mom shut the door behind her. “Ugh! I love her to DEATH, but sometimes she can be SUCH a Nosey Nancy!”

“Aw, I think it’s cute!” Dustin said on the other line, making Kendall smile.

“Yeah, I guess so….” Kendall replied, suddenly letting out a yawn and realizing his eyes felt heavier than usual. “I’m actually getting kinda sleepy over here, but I don’t want to end this conversation!”

“It’s fine.” Dustin said. “We can continue this tomorrow. Besides, I think I’m ready to go to bed too. Goodnight, Kendall!”

“Night!” Kendall said, and as he held the phone to his ear, he heard the other male still on the line. “Okay, I really need to go to bed, so hang up!”

“No way! You hang up first!”

“No, YOU hang up first!!”

“Okay how about this, on the count of three we BOTH hang up!” Dustin said, which Kendall eagerly agreed to.

As Dustin slowly counted to three, a few seconds went by as there was silence on each line. “……..hello?” The pair said in unison, which caused them to go into a giggling fit, and it took them a good twenty minutes before the conversation was finally over.

Three Weeks Later

It was a chilly winter afternoon, but luckily Kendall and Victoria found themselves nice and warm inside the mall this fine Saturday.

It was the beginning of December, and the festivities all around them were sure to bring a smile to any face. Holiday décor was strung throughout the many storefront, nearby sat Santa Claus asking every kid what they wanted for Christmas, and spirits just seemed to be high amongst everyone walking around (apart from the retail workers who hated their jobs, especially during this shitty period of time).

“So shooting starts in a few weeks, and I’ll be leaving for NYC pretty soon!” Victoria excitedly said, craning her neck a bit to see how much further the line extended.

“That is SO awesome! You’re finally getting your own TV show! Again!” Kendall replied, truly feeling genuine happiness for his bestest friend in the whole wide world.

“Thanks. I’ve already done a read through for the first script and it sounds AMAZING. It’s like this mystery-thriller type of genre and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever done before. I’m so excited! Plus it’s going to be airing on this new late time block MTV’s doing, so it’s definitely something a little more mature.” Victoria replied.

“As you should be! I’m picturing you wearing that hacker headset on the show and I’m already kinda screaming!” Kendall said, causing Victoria to lightly chuckle. “There’s literally NO way this will get cancelled after its first season!”

“Right?!”

The two were getting a head start on their Christmas shopping, stopping at Justice for Katie, Gamestop for Carlos, and Bath And Body Works for his mom (and also himself!). Of course, ALL that shopping was bound to work up an appetite, so they had also made a stop at Cinnabon to indulge in some HEAVENLY mini buns. They had to high tail out of there though when Victoria stole a second sample from the platter when the underpaid girl at the counter wasn’t looking, so they kinda BOOKED it from the stall, adrenaline rushing through both of their veins.

In their mad dash to get away, they had actually ran into Logan, who was carrying bags upon bags from Hot Topic, which was certainly a little uncharacteristic from his usual Banana Republic finds. They didn’t have a chance to say hi (seeing as how mall security would be looking for them in the crowd), but Kendall could have sworn that Logan had a small pair of black studs in his ears, too.

As the two currently stood in the same line, the conversation continued.

“So, what are you doing on Monday? I was hoping that maybe you’d help me with a line reading? I’ll even throw in a pint of Skinny Cow!” Victoria said.

“I would, but I already made plans with Dustin to visit the La Brea Tar Pits! He thinks dinosaurs are pretty cool, and I’ve never been.” Kendall replied.

“Aw nuts, well how about Wednesday?” Victoria asked again.

“Yikes, busy that day too... Me and Dustin were actually planning to make this lasagna recipe we saw Giada De Laurentiis had on her show.” Kendall said, causing Victoria to groan.

“Ughhh…. Well what about Friday? Or do you and Dustin have something planned that day too?” Victoria said.

“Actually, I was gonna drop my mom off at her bikini wax appointment.” Kendall responded, Victoria nodding understandingly. “Buuut… Dustin asked me to come over later that night to help him finish Donald Duck: Goin’ Quackers.” Kendall said, noticing Victoria giving him a bit of side eye. “What?! The game is really hard!”

“Uh huh. You and Dustin sure have been spending a lot of time together, practically every day, really.” Victoria said, chiding the blond a bit.

“Well yeah, he’s super cool! And I still want you to meet him!” Kendall said defensively.

“I’d love to!” Victoria said, staring straight ahead. “So, have you told him you have a crush on him yet?”

“DBSHFJKDSBFKSB” Kendall blurted out. “Ummmmmmm, ahaha, you say some pretty wild things sometimes, you know that?!” Kendall mumbled, the candles in his bag clinking together as he shuffled awkwardly.

“Well I love to have fun. But you didn’t deny what I said, it’s totally okay if you like him, Kendall.” Victoria responded, comfortingly putting a hand on this shoulder that he shrugged off.

“Well I’m not gay! I had a girlfriend before, hello! Does Jo ring a bell?” Kendall said, gulping as Victoria gave him a knowing glance. “I also don’t have a problem with gay people either! Dustin’s gay, actually, and I’m okay with it. I’m just straight!”

“You never told me he’s gay! Even better, now I can’t wait to meet him! You know how much I love gay people!” Victoria said, pointing to the rainbow badge on her denim jacket that said ALLY. “And if you’re not gay, then I’m sorry for insinuating that you were.” Victoria added, Kendall giving her a weak smile. “But HYPOTHETICALLY,” Kendall giving her a look, “if you WERE gay, you know I would have absolutely no problem with it. You’re my best friend in the whole world and I love you with my entire heart.”

“Well…. Thanks.” Kendall said, reaching out to give the brunette a firm hug.

“Excuse me, could you guys please hurry up? We have a birthday party event coming up in twenty minutes that we need to prep for, and you guys are holding up the line.” The Build-A-Bear employee said, the duo embarrassed as they apologized as they quickly paid for their purchases and walked out of the store.

After a few more stores, the two parted way, and as Kendall drove home, looking at the Build-A-Bear box in the passenger seat next to him, he had a lot to think about regarding himself and his true feelings. He had knots in his stomach about it, but it also could have been the 12 mini cinnabons he had eaten earlier.

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lordpiplup · 7 years ago

Text

a story i started writing a lil while back

2010 words

Older, so there’s probably some mistakes

Just the first chapter

It's a wonder how the aspen tree species takes the name 'quaking aspen'. Does the ground beneath it tremble in fear, or perhaps even jealousy, at it's unrequited beauty and bark as light as clouds? Long unnoticeable slashes identically colored to the base of the quaking aspen line around the tree along with unusual charcoal-colored splotches in strange places.

Of course, if you have not witnessed such a thing, the imagination could be quite difficult to form in your mind. Anyone who is at least slightly educated in the quaking aspen knows that the earthquake theory is in fact, not the case.

Their leaves are intriguing because they're flat, small, and attach themselves to the tips and sides of branches. The most interesting part of the leaves however is how even the slightest breeze in a cool summer evening, to a frostbit winter, they begin to quake tremendously, therefore giving the name, quaking aspen.

The leaves are also emerald green at any given time but fall. In fall the leaves turn a smooth, sunny color which makes them the highlight of cliche photographers who return to the same place every year, until they die. Doesn't sound adventurous at the slightest.

Lastly, there's another fact that makes quaking aspens quite unusual. Quaking aspens colonize, meaning that in a forest of these trees, all of their roots are connected underground forming an ultimate chain of these remarkable mutant stalks bearing leaves that tremble in the wind.

These are all things which any mind by the age of 16 should be educated in. However, that is not the case. Certain minds, when raised around certain people, certain environments, and certain situations mold into personalities and memories.

Many children by a young age want to be adventurous and explore the world, yet the sorrowing veracity is that when these children whom are intrigued with the idea of exploring almost seem to completely forget, almost discard the idea, and soon become careless of the occurring events for the rest of their life.

It's as if they take their contentment towards a notion and push it into the ebony-shaded parts of their mind and generally never take the joy and satisfaction of an idea out of the dark ebony-shaded parts of their mind ever again, and it jogs their mind in their dying breaths with regret of vacating the chances they once had for true happiness. Then their hopefully wrinkled eyelids fasten and they slip into a bittersweet eternal sleep. The memories and regrets vanish into thin air.

It's slightly unnerving to know that you may never discover what happens after your death.

Thankfully, there is another species of mind which is scarce these days. The thinkers. These optimistic children often experience the same idea of exploring the vast world, or perhaps becoming a famed singer or painter. The only divergence between these two common types is that these children take a shaky, beaten down, and bruised hand and grasp onto reality and their thoughts and emotions.

They are aware, and they are creative, even if they don't know it yet. Well, I suppose if they don't know it yet then they aren't particularly aware, but the imaginative minds rest either deep below the surface within their thoughts, or the vulnerable shallows of their tongue. Gratefully, but possibly ungratefully, this story is fortunate enough to revolve around the mind of the un-awoken creative type. Not all stories are as fortunate as this. But not all story's introductions are as necessarily truthful as this either.

It begins on a murky, gravelly day in a small town which isn't placed on the map. Bijou structures are the main attraction of this secret town, and minor groupings of townspeople roam the streets daily, wrapped in fleece and leather jackets and coats, and paint-splattered denim jeans. Everyone reacts and appears the same as well. Quaking aspens line the streets yet the leaves are immobile today, and instead of being a emerald green color like described in various archives, they're just a dull, uninviting minty color. The buildings are constructed of brick and plaster for the majority of them. A city that in fact is marked on the map, unlike this shy town, is about 7 miles away from the center of the quaint town, which is considered very close by bike. The world is changing before everyone's eyes, yet no one is aware of such a disastrous analogy. When the clouds shift, the crust underneath the earth does as well. When the sun beams the ground melts. When the seasons change, your mind does too.

Necessary creativity is unnecessary. Unnecessary creativity is necessary. When your heart stops it continues to beat. It beats unless you choose defeat. Never choose defeat.

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

A gust of humid wind ruffles the hatless heads of hair nearby. The townspeople complain and scurry into their shivering homes like rats to food or moths to light. A drop of liquid on the ground signals a rainstorm approaching, and suddenly umbrellas shoot upwards into the spring air in the distance. Spring is supposed to be pleasant, he wonders. Instead the wind along with the weather forces everyone to run and hide, avoiding work or responsibilities.

The boy continues to hurriedly shuffle down the sidewalk to his destination, swatting the drowning mosquitoes begging for safety atop his head. The drops of rain begin to fall more frequently, and the boy picks up his pace as he glares to the left and right for suspicious activity.

It suddenly becomes dark as the charcoal-colored clouds mask the sun behind their floating mass of liquid, and the rain begins to pour. The boy begins to jog, paying no attention to the forming puddles beneath his sopping wet shoes. Doors slammed in the distance presumably suggesting more people escaping spring's drench. In the pursuit of the boy now sprinting, rocks flew beneath his feet knocking into lamp posts and making a cling sound or falling into the cracks of the sidewalks or simply just rolling into the grass to get jammed in a lawn mower in the future. The trees aligning the streets begin to sway back and forth progressively as time went on, and the wind began to blow the rain sideways, leaving everyone outdoors the victim of the soggy downpour.

Breathing heavily, the boy practically leapt across the crosswalk, and making a mad dash to the slight overhead of the door leading to his destination. His destination turned out to be a small, two story white house with a smudged-slightly-damaged-picket-fence in the front yard and windows with the blinds drawn from the interior and a miniature willow tree nearing the back of the house. The house obviously needed a new paint job, but thankfully it was hardly noticeable.

Rain and sweat dripped off the edge of the edge of his nose and his hair looked straightened and flat. His eyelashes wore tiny beads of dew on the tips and nonetheless, his clothes were soaked despite the fact he's wearing a maroon-colored rain jacket.

Taking a mighty sigh he rang the doorbell three times rapidly and eagerly awaited for the sound of the click signaling the door being unlocked and then rushing inside to warmth.

Click.

His eyes widened and as soon as the door swung open he bounded into the house-that-needs-a-paint-job and scurried up the stairs, paying no mind to the woman who's mouth was left gaping at the front door. Once the boy arrived upstairs he carefully slipped his weeping shoes off his damp gray socks and left them next to a door near him. He slipped off his maroon rain jacket and hung it on the curved silver hook next to the bathroom door revealing a plain black shirt with a logo on the bottom right which was worn hardly visible. The floor was gratefully wooden so a bit of rain dripping off of the jacket and shoes is an easy fix.

The boy began to parade to the end of the hallway to knock on the door there when the door creaked open upon his arrival. There stood a tall skinny ebony-haired boy with glasses wearing a turtleneck and jeans, with a massive grin and also a hint of amusement plastered on his pale face. The boy's brow furrows in confusion because the black-haired boy standing before him usually speaks up sooner. Finally the black-haired boy breaks the silence.

"Dallas, where have you been all day?" he questions.

Dallas scratches the back of his leg with his wet sock and looks to the side. "I had to drop off my essay at the school," he began hesitantly, "and Mr. Williams decided to give me a lecture on eating well because I look 'peckish'"

Dallas then noticed the other boy's shirt read his name on the shoulder. He then decided to mention it right as the other was about to speak.

"I see you got a new shirt there, Vincent" Dallas scoffed matter-of-factly. Vincent rolled his eyes and spoke,

"It was for sale, okay?"

"Oh yes I understand. You bought a shirt that looks just like all your others so you could wear your name on your sleeve proudly because it was for sale," Dallas laughed, pointing out that Vincent's excuse was obviously not acceptable.

"Okay yes," Vincent began, "I kind of wanted to walk around wearing my name which happens to be unique by the town's standards"

"Well my name is unique too"

"Touche"

"Shut up"

"Fine"

Vincent punched Dallas in the shoulder playfully before realizing that his friend was still standing in the hallway, shivering. "Oh my bad," Vincent muttered to Dallas and he shuffled into the room with Dallas following close after. Vincent approached the dresser and dug around in the middle drawer for a few moments until he threw a dry t-shirt, jeans, boxers, and socks at the unsuspecting Dallas, who was captivated by his own mind once again. "Thanks," Dallon said, and Vincent smiled in recognition. Dallon blankly stared into his clothing. Vincent's voice startled him. "What're you thinkin' about?" Vincent questioned whilst climbing into the top bunk above Dallas. Dallas shook his head and answered softly, "Nothing".

"Aww c'mon," Vincent begged. He was curious as to what was in Dallas' mind.

"Nothing!" Dallas chuckled.

Vincent leaned over the bed and hung upside-down in front of Dallas, pushing his glasses into place to keep them from slipping off as he hung. Dallas rolled his eyes as Vincent stuck his lower lip out as if to pout. "You should know by now that you wont get facts outta me that easily," Dallas challenged. Vincent raised his eyebrows and a small sound escaped his mouth, but he could not complete his counter statement as Dallas stood up and walked to the bathroom door across the room, holding the dry clothes in the air to signal that he needed to get dressed, because he was starting to become very uncomfortable with the wet clothes on his back. He turned the doorknob lightly and sighed into the bathroom before shutting the door behind him, leaving Vincent to keep himself occupied.

Dallas set the clothes his friend gave him down on the counter and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His chocolate-colored hair was ruffled and damp and was slicked back in the front from Dallas constantly trying to keep his hair out of his face. His hazel-colored eyes looked rather dull today. He pondered that as he slid his clothes off and replaced his cold, worn clothing with dry, warm ones.

He also pondered how he'll return to school the next day. It's just the same thing everyday, over and over again. Dallas already knows more than he should for being a Junior in highschool. He'd rather go out and explore --- or rather, just sit in Vincent's room and read novels all day. He, of course, knew that would never happen. Both Dallas and Vincent are sixteen, almost seventeen, and their adulthood is beginning soon. "Cliché," I mutter quietly to myself as I open the door.

#my writing #this was a really cool story idea in my mind #it was going to turn in to existentialism #but i didn't get around to writing any more

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