#flitting back to his table or spot at the bar between seating new guests and taking orders

[bunnions]

twirling my hair thinking about cowboy!bakugo and saloon hostess!bunny. after a long day at the ranch, katsuki likes to head down to the sometimes quiet, often rowdy saloon down in the main part of town. the food's good and the whiskey sharp, but he doesn't make himself a regular for the eats. no, it's the pretty hostess that waits on him, polishing a new glass before serving him his usual. it's the way she shyly smiles at him, dark and hungry eyes trying not quiver as they roam over his face, that fills the ache in him.

dollmaker for anyone that wants to make their own and share their cowboy!au ☆

[some-cookie-crumbz]

Huwumi betting kiss in a bar?

I had way more fun writing this than I should have! Flirty Fuyumi is something I’ll have to indulge in more often! 

Gonna say this is rated T/ PG 13 so behave yourselves!

Also, Minor Trigger Warning: Aggressive Swearing, References to Sexual Content (Non-Explicit), Cheating (Don’t worry; neither Hawks nor Fuyumi are involved in this one!), Of Age Binge Drinking

Every time Misa had a rough break up, Fuyumi knew that their whole group was going to end up spending a night in a bar making questionable life choices. For as much as she loved Misa, the girl did not handle her heartaches well. Fuyumi was willing to wager that it was most likely because Misa wasn’t exactly the best judge of character. Many a time, she ended up letting partners slip into her life without focusing on the glaring red flags. She’d fuss and accuse and scream at everyone else in the group that they were being unfair, that her newest sweetheart had just been mistreated and needed love to guide them back on to the proper path. Every single time, the rest of them would agree that this was the last time they were going to deal with this from Misa. If she couldn’t be bothered to listen to their concerns and cool her heels just a little, then why should they constantly dab her eyes and pat her back when her ignorance got her hurt?

Because everyone has their weak moments, just like Misa, Fuyumi thought wistfully. She sipped at the sparkling water in her hand while Taigen slipped into their booth. “Well if it isn’t my most favorite people in the world,” he said with a tired huff, slumping down beside her.

“Hey, Tai,” Akiko, sitting to Misa’s left and rubbing her back, said with a quick wave of her other hand.

“Howdy hey Tai-Kins,” Nagisa sang, her tone only the slightest bit less chipper than usual. She was on Misa’s right, gently patting her head.

Misa herself had thrown her whole upper body against the table, hiding her face in her arms, and was wailing shamelessly. A part of Fuyumi was almost jealous at how unbridled her friend was in her grief. There had only been one or two instances in her own life where she’d ever dared to make such a spectacle of herself over anything. And she learned quite quickly to never do it again.

“So what was it this time?” Taigen asked, leaning over to flag down one of the servers, and then leaning back in his seat. “What caliber of douchebag are we labeling this guy as?”

Misa let out a particularly loud, hysterical wail at the prodding, making the other’s at the table wince. Fuyumi motioned Taigen closer to whisper, “Misa-Chan caught him and Akane-Chan touching each other in places where they really shouldn’t be.” He balked and stared at her, expression jumping between horror, anger and then settling comfortably to mortification. Fuyumi couldn’t blame him, though; she had probably made very similar expressions. And she couldn’t really blame Misa for being particularly upset, either, since she didn’t think she’d feel much better if she caught her significant other getting down and dirty with one of her younger siblings.

“Okay. Wow. That’s… certainly something,” Taigen trailed uneasily.

“That filthy motherfucker!” Misa outright shrieked, causing a few patrons at the bar proper to give them a sideways glance.

“That’s right, get it all out,” Nagisa encouraged quietly.

“They’re all motherfuckers, hun,” Akiko agreed, her own tone taking on a soothing note.

Taigen made quick work of ordering their first round of drinks – excluding Fuyumi, who insisted she really couldn’t tonight – and some appetizers to get started. When the food and drinks arrived, they managed to coax Misa up enough to eat and down her first two drinks, which seemed to put her in higher spirits. They let her vent what she felt comfortable venting and took her lead on when to sidetrack to a new subject.

The distractions were clearly having a good impact on Misa as she moved on to her third, fourth, fifth and sixth drinks.

“You bastards,” Misa slurred with a small hiccup, waving her glass about in a semi-circle to indicate them all, “make it seem so easy to just meet someone! Like I can just pluck any ole’ person off the street and BAM! SOULMATE FOUND!”

“Don’t you already just pick the saddest looking sack o’ flesh outta the gutter? At least if you pick someone off the sidewalk instead they might have their shit more stitched together,” Taigen scoffed, a sly smirking taking over his face as he sipped his own drink. “Well, that or if you just gathered your courage to actually make the first move instead of waiting for these parasites to catch a whiff of your desperation.”

Akiko started to outright cackle while Misa’s face turned a much darker shade that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Fuyumi was quick to set her drink down and lift her hands, ready to step in between any ensuing fight. Nagisa took everyone else being distracted as a chance to stuff another pot sticker in her mouth. “Say that again, you angsty twink!” Misa squeaked angrily.

Taigen’s eyes narrowed, the dark blue tint of them gleaming dangerous. “What did you just call me?”

“Ya heard me!”

“Okay, Misa-Chan, Tai-Chan, how about we settle down and take a breath? We don’t ended things to esca-!”

“Sorry for giving you some practical advice, damn! Maybe if you actually listened you wouldn’t constantly be getting pumped and dumped!”

“Oh, no! Tai-Chan, that is incred-!”

“Well not all of us can hook up with some dimwit from work! Besides, a truly worthy suitor prefers a lady who waits to be chased!”

“Misa, I don-!”

“Masaki is an absolute angel and you fucking know it, you jealous little asshole! And you know what? I’m gonna prove my fucking point that your fucking point is stupid!” he snapped back, slamming a hand on the table. There was a beat of silence before he whirled his head around to face Fuyumi. “Yumi! Go over to the bar and get you a smooch!”

“What?” she squawked indignantly. 

Akiko started giddily giggling into her hand. “Oh, yes, yes! It has to you, Yumi, babe!”

“But why me?” she argued. “I wasn’t even involved in their little wager!”

“But you’re the only one that’s single, aside from Misasasasauce,” Nagisa slurred, swaying a bit in her seat. “You’re the only one that can really prove Taikadaikado’s point.” She shifted the glass in her hand to take another sip but then stared at in horror as she realized it was empty.

“‘Sides, it’s good for ya!” Akiko chimed in, swaying to lean heavily on the table. She looked about to topple over at a moment’s notice.

“There’s no way for me to get out of this, is there?” Fuyumi sighed.

“Nope!” Taigen said, making a popping noise with the word as he shimmied out of his seat. He gestured grandly towards the bar across from them. “Now go, dearest Fuyumi, and find yourself a hottie to mack on! Make me proud!”

“No, make me proud, Fumi!” Misa shot back.

With a resigned sigh, she carefully slipped out of her seat and made her way towards the bar. She loved her friends, but they were ridiculous, honestly. She slid into one of the many empty seats at the bar a few spots away from a cute young woman in a halter dress, but opted against making the pass when she noticed the ring on the woman’s finger. There were mostly just groups there, all settled up together in proper booths. The only other two people that were at the bar proper were all the way at the other end from her and seemed much more focused on some hushed debate they were having. She flagged down the bartender, instead, to request a fresh water and a small bowl of cherries.

“My, what an odd order to place at a bar,” A deep voice chimed from beside her, dripping in amusement. She jumped and glanced at the young man making his way into the stool beside her. He seemed to be about her age with just the right amount of scruff gracing his jawline, baggy clothes that screamed workout attire to her, and a hat tugged down low over his head, hiding most of his hair. What caught her attention most, though, with the blazing gold eyes fixed on her like a predator on prey.

He didn’t strike her as being her usual type, but she kind of liked the way he was watching her. She admittedly did like the ones that seemed confident. Nine times out of ten they weren’t nearly as self-assured as they played at, so it was always cute watching them get flustered when she called a bluff. A smile flitted across her lips as her water and dish were set in front of her. “It’s called the Responsible Friend drink. Not for the faint of heart or low of impulse control,” she purred teasingly, plucking a cherry from the dish.

He hummed quietly beside her as he watched her split the cherry open and drip the cherry juice on top of the ice inside, being careful not to drip too much on herself. “That seems like an insult,” he hummed back.

“If you take offense,” she hummed, stirring the juice in, “that seems more like your problem than mine.”

He seemed taken aback by that, tilting his head at her curiously. “Do you… Not know who I am?”

She cocked her head and gave him a look at that. She tilted her head to try and get a better look at him, letting out a thoughtful hum. Now that she thought about it, there was something familiar about his face, but she couldn’t place it. Perhaps a model or something? Or maybe he’d had a short guest role on one of her television dramas? She shrugged instead and began dripping another cherry into her drink. “Kinda but… Not particularly. Why? Should I?”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before shaking his head. “Actually, you know what? I like this better,” he mused, leaning one elbow on the counter and cupping his head in his hand. “So, you’re the friend staying sober? Or just keeping your wits so no creeps try to take advantage?”

Fuyumi nodded her head back towards her friends, who had seemingly forgotten their beef and were now aggressively singing some anime opening at each other, just barely keeping their volume manageable. “Those are my wards for the night,” she said.

He snorted. “You sure you don’t want something a little stronger than cherry water? Which, by the way, is still incredibly unusual. I mean, lemon water I expect, or even lime water, but cherry? Not so much,”

“But you’ve never tried it,” she retorted, taking a sip and resisting the urge to sigh contentedly. He made a small noise of agreement as a thought occurred to her, her smile turning mischievous. “I could give you a little taste if you want.”

“Oh?” he mused, perking up. He shifted a bit closer, clearly intending to swipe her glass, but instead she moved closer to him herself. He seemed a bit stunned as she leaned forward to press her lips to his, one of her hands cupping the side of his neck. The spark of surprise left his eyes quickly enough as he melted into the kiss with a throaty groan, instead sliding shut to bask in it. She tilted her head to give a playful nip to his lower lip. Getting the hint, he opened his mouth and allowed her tongue to slip inside, prodding his to press along her own. The taste of spearmint from his mouth mingled with the cherry juice on her tongue, making for an odd but not entirely unpleasant combination.

It was the scandalized squeals of her friends that pushed her to pull away from the stranger, making a show of smirking and licking her lips at him. There was a blush dusting up along his cheeks and, if she was honest, she couldn’t help but think about how good he looked like that. “There, I gave you a little taste. Maybe we’ll see each other again, sometime,” she hummed, grabbing her drink and cherries to head back to her table. She would blame her behavior, uncouth as it was, on the energy her friends had been pumping out all night. Plus, she reminded herself, she was likely never going to see the guy again. Despite what he’d said, she doubted that he was anyone that noteworthy.

Three days later, Fuyumi’s heart leapt into her throat when, grinning up at her from glitzy headlines about Number Three Pro Hero Hawks, was her bar stool beau.

[cythieus]

Mario/Peach Fic Rough Draft

Tasteful flower arrangements and buffets flanked by smaller round tables had transformed the palace courtyard from a spot for solitary reflection into somewhere guests were entertained. Clustered people engaged in conversation wherever room permitted, though no one had taken a seat yet. A semicircular bar guarded the southern side of the fountain, staffed by three Mushroom people. Servers used the bar as a kind of base, but spent most of their time flitting between guests and tables.

Most in attendance were Mushroom people or humans. There were a trio of Tostarenans noticeable because of their neon colored skull-like heads and short stature and a single Pianta with blue skin, his long nose jutting out from under the tree that grew from the top of his domed head. The ease with which Mario had become used to creatures that had no parallel on Earth was amazing, but everything on this side of the warp pipe was bit jarring.

If only he could get used to the reverent splendor of the Mushroom Kingdom and its Princess.

The kind of parties that Mario knew typically took place in cramped rent controlled apartments or the darkened spaces of Brooklyn bars that might have been built in repurposed alleyways. He never would have dreamed he would attend something hosted by royalty just a few short years ago.

You also didn’t think you would be breathing the same air as or get a kiss from an honest to God Princess, yet here we are.

His suit sleeves felt rigid and unnatural because of how he was holding his drink up near his chest. It had been some time since he last wore a suit and he felt the need to get a new one for this occasion. He considered letting his arm down to his side and pinching his fingers around the rim of the glass, but years of rooting around in muck as a plumber still made him cautious about the idea of touching a drink with his fingers right where he would be putting his mouth. It was different for food, he didn’t understand the strange quirk, but it was something that he didn’t think he would be able to alter anytime soon.

A chime of laughter broke through the monotony of the distant conversation and clanking dishes. Princess Peach stood on the middle landing of the wide grand staircase that led back into the castle with her head tossed back in enthused laugh. While most of the women in attendance styled their hair up in buns pinned in roll at the back of their head Peach wore her blonde hair down. It cascaded off her bare shoulders and down to the middle of her back.

The crown that she usually wore was accented by a ring of pastel flowers that stayed firmly in place even as she looked down at a pair of children. One of them was tugging on her dress and she turned to the side, her laughing turning into a smile as she addressed them. Mario couldn’t tell if she knew these children otherwise. It was hard to judge with Princess Peach—she had a way of making everyone feel welcome.

Peach stepped in close to the kids and sank down into a squat, presumable so she was at eye level with them. The dress she wore today wasn’t something Mario had seen before; a pink off the shoulder dress that has a much flatter, more ruffled skirt than usual and fell to the midway point between her knee and ankle. She rested her slender, pale arms over her lap (no gloves today) as she spoke to the children.

Though she was across the courtyard he could tell by her smile and the way she squinted her eyes until the skin at the sides of her nose crinkled that she was sharing some irreverent, endearing tidbit with the kids.

Mario lifted the cap off of his head, smoothed his hair back, and placed the hat soundly back into place. It would have felt wrong without something up there. The gray newsboy cap wasn’t quite the same, but it offered a kind of comfort.

Better not stare, someone might notice.

He glanced at a waiter passing with a tray propped up on the bulbous pileus of its head. Mario had come to learn that the Mushroom people’s heads and the patterns and spots on them had all kinds of meanings to them both superstitious and founded in hard fact.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caused Mario to glance in the direction that the waiter had headed. Daisy’s orange dress seemed like a flare in the middle of the pastel and floral print of the worn by everyone else at the party. The big floppy orange hat perched atop her hair bounced as she wove her way around obstacles and people in her bid to get to Mario.

Without slowing her pace, she spun, plucked a pair of champagnes from the tray and used the back of hand to push the sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “I guess it’s sad boy hour over here,” Daisy said before downing one of the champagne flutes.

“Those white trays are for non alcoholic beverages.” Mario kept his eyes forward, not looking at her as he spoke.

Daisy tilted her head down over the glass, letting the liquid empty back into the glass. “This is the worst thing to ever happen to me. And I was kidnapped by fucking aliens once. Is Peaches tying to poison me?” She said as she poured the contents of both flutes into a bush just behind the raised dais where they stood.

“Maybe you could slow down? I can smell vodka on you from here,” Mario said.

“Oh, a bird shit on my dress and I used the vodka to clean it off. I wouldn’t drink that cheap bilge-water they’re serving over there.”

Daisy glanced around as if expecting to see someone. Mario already knew what the next thing out of her mouth was going to be”

“Where’s your sexy brother?”

That hadn’t been how he had thought she would phrase it. “You know how Luigi is about crowds.”

“Right. He’ll eventually turn up.”

Mario nodded.

“Why don’t you stop moping in the corner and go talk to her?”

“And say what?” Mario asked.

“Whatever you normal-types say to each other. She likes you. She claims you’re dating now and here you are hiding from her like one of those little fat ghosts with the nub hands,” Daisy said.

“They’re called Boos. You’ve spent time with several of them over the years; you’ve got one’s number in your cellphone.”

“Know what your problem is?” Daisy asked.

Mario didn’t have time to answer before she leaned in closer to him, the smell of alcohol mixed with floral perfume dominating the air around her.

“You’re hung up in the minutiae of every situation. Go try to put your arm around her while she chats with those children, maybe grab a drink and try to have a little fun? Who knows, maybe she’ll let you turn her guts inside out.“ She said the last part very quickly and before he could cut in or correct her she waved a hand at him.

“—I need to go find something to drink before I have to suck this vodka out of my dress. There is too many boring people out here for me to remain sober.” Daisy rushed off toward the bar in a frantic pace, leaving the glasses resting on the railing behind where she had been standing.

Mario lifted the glass to his lips and drank; the after being clutched in his hand for so long the liquid had warmed considerably, but he found it was often better to have something to take the edge off the things Daisy said.

She wasn’t wrong though.

It was rare that Daisy lied. He wasn’t sure that she had enough shame to know that she should really omit things in most cases. The lies she had told might have just been out of some sense of needing to conceal something for someone else or honest mistakes.

Daisy believed deep down that Mario was right for Peach and that her efforts in talking to him would help. Mario finished his drink and wandered near enough to the bar to exchange his glass for another. For a moment his reflection was visible in one of the decorations on the bar and he noticed his mustache looked a little frazzled. He reached inside of the breast pocket of his coat and plucked out a comb. Careful to tilt it just right to go with the grain of the hair he brushed down and away from his nose in clean, even strokes.

Peach leaned in beside him trying to rest her butt against the bar, but it was obvious that she connected to it with a bit more force than she intended and cause the whole thing to rock. One of the Mushroom People behind the bar grasped it to steady things.

“Oops! My apologies! Sorry, sorry!” Peach went to grab one of the glasses in a bid to keep it from falling over, but she bumped it onto its side instead. “Oh no, I am so sorry—this is my fault.”

A bushy eyebrowed Mushroom Person gave her a deep, close-lipped grin. “It’s fine Your Highness, we’re all used to your little accidents by now.”

Redness crept across the space on either side of Peach’s nose. While he had been admiring her with a kind of starstruck awe from across the room, being this close to her was like staring into the sun. Peach seemed to glow with more than just embarrassment as she pressed a slender hand to one cheek, the blue jeweled ring on her index finger catching the sunlight.

Right, the spill.

Mario tore his eyes away from her and spun to grab for a bar cloth. He pushed in close to Peach where the spill was and mopped it up. “Excuse me, Your Highness. I’ve got that,” he said hurriedly brushing the ice into his hand and depositing it into the glass.

The color in her cheeks faded as she turned to help. She took the glass and sat it behind the bar on the lower shelf before letting out a truncated giggle. Her blonde bangs had were pressed to one side, she seemed to notice at that same moment and used her fingers to fan them back out. She moved a tendril of hair away from her cheek, tucking it back over her ear.

“I haven’t seen you around here before.” She brought the hand that had been up by her ear down to rest against the side of her neck and her bright, blue eyes searched his face before nerves or something else got the best of her and she averted her gaze.

Somehow Peach was both graceful and awkward; he guessed that she fought to compose herself most of the time, but he had seen the woman trip over literally nothing while simply walking around. The only person he could think of less prone to accidents was Luigi.

“Very smooth, Your Highness,” Mario said with a smile. He left bar rag and took the time to remove his hat.

“You’re actually not allowed to call me that,” she said.

“Princess?”

“Uh-uh. It’s Peach, just Peach.” She shook closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Peaches?”

“Daisy only calls me that because when she was a little she had a speech impediment and couldn’t seem to say my name without messing it up. But I will be sure to let her know you’re making fun of her.”

“Don’t put me back in Daisy’s crosshairs…”

“Ha, you’re actually so scared of her! I won’t tell if you do me a favor and walk me around the back gardens.” Peach offered her elbow out to him as she often did when she wanted her to loop his arm through hers.

So he did.

“We hardly got to talk today so I’d—well I think I’d like that,” Mario said. Peach smelled like perfume, some scent that they didn’t seem to have on earth or if they did not one he could place, and sugar and flour from baking earlier.

“We haven’t had time together because you always seem to be as far from as this garden will allow.”

Now Mario was sure that there was some redness in his face. He moved to put his hat back on, hoping it would hide some of the color.

“Toadsworth!” Peach called to her steward.

Toadsworth was an older looked Mushroom Person with brown spots on the cap of his head, unlike most of the others of his race that part of his head was beige. He had a bushy mustache that concealed the bottom half of his face and when he spoke his words were always slightly muffled.

“Yes, Princess?” He said turning, his weight rested partially on a cane at his side.

“Can you watch things here for me? Mario is taking me on a romantic stroll.”

Mario swallowed. How even she shade from his cap’s brim wouldn’t hide the redness in his face. He could feel the heat bubbling up and a shiver shot through him.

[glorious-blackout]

Soooo @rock-n-roll-fantasy wanted me to write an essay on my self-indulgent theory that Muse’s ‘Simulation Theory’ and Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino’ are set in the same universe, and my brain rather predictably used this as an opportunity to develop a novel-length crossover fic instead. I’m starting to doubt that the full idea will ever get written purely because life has a habit of getting in the way, but here’s a bit of an overlong teaser in place of your essay! 😉🥰

*************************************

The trek from Room 521 to the ballroom is a long, monotonous one. Not that that particularly matters; even if Mark didn’t know every corridor like the back of his hand, he no doubt would have been guided to his destination regardless, simply by following the growing ruckus of banal chatter overlying soft musical notes. His own band won’t be the ones playing tonight – thank Christ seeing as he barely has the energy to hold a mic for two hours let alone sing into it – but the prospect of spending the evening alone in his room had hardly been tempting. He could have arranged to meet one of the lads for a drink, he supposes, but he hadn’t wanted to impose. They all have lives beyond the hotel after all, whereas he remains tied to its walls like an obedient dog on a leash.

High-ceilinged corridors eventually lure him towards a set of heavy oak doors, the only veil remaining between him and a horde of guests who by now are likely enjoying their third glass of champagne. Muffled conversations become crystal clear for a moment as one guest stumbles onto the corridor looking considerably worse for wear, but the noise is quickly silenced by an exaggerated slam. The guest sways on his feet for a moment, narrowed eyes struggling to maintain focus on Mark’s face, before he huffs and takes the first step of what promises to be an arduous journey back to his room. No doubt he’ll have collapsed in a pool of his own vomit before he’s even halfway there, adding one more job to the cleaners’ already overflowing pile in the process. Mark sighs, already regretting his decision to be sociable, and forces himself over the threshold before he can change his mind.

The ballroom does ignite a certain pride within his chest, he must admit. The spacious hall - resting beneath a curved ceiling kept afloat by granite columns - is a stark contrast to the narrow claustrophobic corridors leading up to it, and the size is adequate enough that the space never feels too crowded. Waiters flit back and forth between packed circular tables on the fringes, offering blessed champagne or scotch from a well-stocked bar, and an elevated platform at the far-end of the hall proudly showcases the evening’s entertainment.  

It would appear the choice of dance tonight is a simple waltz. Guests dressed to the nines in elegant frocks and sharp tuxedos glide effortlessly along the polished dancefloor; guided by lilting piano notes as they sway beneath the soft light of a glittering chandelier. As usual, Mark feels no particular inclination to join them. On occasion, he himself will be the one sat by the piano, enticing his guests to dance for him whenever the evening feels a little too stagnant, but it would appear that his influence is not needed tonight. Besides, the only thing enticing him for the moment is the bar.

Despite having to make his way through the masses in order to reach his destination, luck must be on his side for no-one takes the opportunity to disturb him. He must have timed his trip well enough that the drinks are already taking hold, to the point where the hotel owner himself has become an unnoteworthy presence. His short walk to the bar goes entirely without a hitch, so much so that it probably shouldn’t surprise him when he arrives to find that his luck has run dry.

There’s someone sitting in his usual spot. Logically he knows this isn’t an issue; there are plenty of free stools lined up against the horseshoe-shaped counter, but the sight gives him pause nonetheless. For as long as he can remember, that centerfold seat has been his and his alone, and the sight of someone new sitting there has unease coiling in his gut for reasons he cannot explain. If that were the strangest thing about this situation then he could have moved on and settled himself elsewhere without another thought, but what truly makes him gape is the appearance of the man who has seen fit to take his place.

In stark contrast to the stylish formalwear adorning the vast majority of guests, this man seems to have made it his mission to break every rule of fashion there is. The loud red jeans and shiny trainers would no doubt have been bad enough on their own, but in comparison to the gaudy nylon jacket and the lit neon sunglasses which remain fused to his face despite being indoors, the lower half of his body looks positively tame. Intricate circuitry is affixed to the front of the jacket, with wires snaking their way into a large pocket which no doubt houses a switch designed to make the jacket as loud as the sunglasses. Mark can’t help but wonder how this man hasn’t attracted any unwanted attention and has instead been left to cradle his glass of bourbon in relative peace. Perhaps this is the current fashion trend on Earth and someone has simply forgotten to give Mark that particular memo.

Shaking his head once and remembering his mother sternly telling him that staring is rude, Mark clears his throat and gestures to the free stool by his side when a pair of concealed eyes turn in his direction.  

“Mind if I take this seat?” he asks, well aware that he of all people shouldn’t need to ask permission.

A knowing smile graces the man’s thin face and he nods graciously, removing his glasses to reveal surprisingly gentle blue eyes. He appears more normal up close than Mark anticipated, barring a pair of impressively sharp cheekbones and a hairstyle so haphazard he doubts an intense combing session would tame it.

“Be my guest,” the man offers in an accent which turns out to be English, to Mark’s not unpleasant surprise. Besides the lads, he can’t remember the last time he encountered someone from home. “Though I imagine that’s usually your line.”

A surprised laugh escapes Mark at the lame joke, causing the stranger to grin proudly before taking another generous sip of bourbon. Mark considers calling the waiter over – the impressive display of booze resting before him is enough to make his mouth water – but the man in question appears to be preoccupied with an uptight elderly couple nearby, and besides, his curiosity is already threatening to consume him. The booze can wait.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” the man interjects before Mark can ask the question weighing on his mind. The words escape like a bullet, so rapidly that the compliment could easily be dismissed as flippant, but the stranger’s smile seems sincere enough. “You’ve got one hell of a mind, Turner.”

There’s a gravity to his tone that Mark can’t quite comprehend, but he doesn’t dwell on it.  

“How did you get here?” Mark asks, aiming for a conversational tone only to flinch when the words emerge as confrontational instead. In an attempt to save face, he adds, “I don’t remember greeting you at the station, is all.”

‘I would have remembered if I had’ goes unsaid, though the implication doesn’t appear to be lost on his new companion.

“Interdimensional portal,” he replies without missing a beat, bringing his glass to his lips once more as he gazes at Mark with mischief in his eyes and a challenge in his smirk.

The ensuing silence is broken almost immediately as Mark bursts out laughing again; an action which appears to serve as an invitation for the other man to join him. The high-pitched giggle is unexpected, but the sound of it is enough to melt some of Mark’s lingering unease.

“I doubt technology’s reached that stage yet,” Mark teases once he’s recovered his composure. “Not unless they’re keeping secrets from me back home.”  

“I wouldn’t sound so sure if I were you,” the man retaliates, that same challenge resting on his lips and a single brow quirked upwards with mocking intent. “How long has it been since you visited Earth?”

The lightness in Mark’s chest vanishes for a moment and his brows knit together as he ponders the question. Strange. Now that he thinks about it, he honestly can’t recall how long it’s been.

When it becomes clear that no answer is forthcoming, his companion simply shrugs before facing ahead once more, demolishing the rest of his drink with a single gulp. It’s impossible to tell how much he’s had already. His current glass barely seems to have touched him, unless his strange approach to conversation is merely the product of drunken ramblings. He makes no move to relinquish his seat however, nor does he signal to the now-free waiter for a refill, and Mark finds himself facing straight ahead as he contemplates the choice lying before him.

On the one hand, this man is clearly strange. The unease which continues to coil in his gut is proof enough of that, and Mark imagines that walking away now would spare him a world a confusion. His eyelids feel heavy enough as it is without his mind being weighed down as well.  

On the other hand, he honestly can’t remember the last time he had a conversation that was so... spontaneous. He’s grown accustomed to forced chats about hotel business and band rehearsals, to the point where he can’t remember the last time anyone made him laugh in pleasant surprise. Until tonight that is.  

And honestly, what is his alternative? Mingling with the guests and sweeping up compliments about the taqueria, or the pool, or the perfect view of Earth offered by the casino’s transparent ceiling? Having to listen to rich businessmen divulge their recent purchases of eye-wateringly expensive yachts or starships, while wives half their age hang onto their arm and pretend to look interested?

It isn’t really a contest in the end.

Decision made, Mark gestures to the waiter, who approaches with what he suspects is a put-on smile. To the man’s credit, said smile doesn’t falter even when he casts a sideways glance towards his boss’s unconventional choice of companion.

“Sixteen-year-old Lagavulin please, Andrew,” Mark orders with an easy smile of his own. “And one for my friend here as well.”

Andrew hesitates for only a moment before preparing the drinks with practiced ease, applying a crystallised ball of ice to Mark’s glass once both whiskies are poured. At his side, the mysterious stranger eyes Mark with what appears to be surprise at this unprompted display of generosity, but the smile returns soon enough as he takes his drink in hand and thanks Andrew with all the grace of a perfect gent.

“You trying to get me drunk, Turner?” he teases, though if he’s opposed to the idea he doesn’t show it.

“Just hoping for some interesting conversation,” Mark responds with a wry smirk of his own. “Scotch usually helps with that, I’ve found.”

Without further ado, he takes a sip and closes his eyes in satisfaction as the golden liquid instantly works its magic. A pleasant burn trails down his throat until warmth settles in his belly, and any lingering stress drifts away like smoke on a breeze.

“You can call me Mark by the way,” he says, raising his glass as an invitation. “It’s about time we introduced ourselves, don’t you think?”

A flicker of unidentifiable emotion crosses over his companion’s face, just for a second, before he returns Mark’s easy smile and brings their glasses together with a soft clink.

“Matthew,” he says, which strikes Mark as such an ordinary name for one committed to looking so extraordinary. “But you can call me Matt. Everyone else does.”

Mark nods in acknowledgement before returning to his drink, and they wile away the following minutes in companiable silence. The band appear to have moved on from classical waltzes and are now playing a smooth jazz number, the seductive groove of the double-bass soothing Mark into closing his eyes and forgetting the hundreds of guests gathered nearby. The chatter has died down slightly since his arrival, but the odd clink of a glass or drunken laugh is enough to assure him that he’s not entirely alone. Not as alone as he would have been had he remained in his room with only the hotel blueprints and a virtual reality mask for company.

In a few more moments he may even have found himself forgetting Matt’s presence, but it isn’t long before his reverie is broken by a now-familiar voice.

“What do you know of ‘Simulation Theory’?” Matt asks flippantly, as though it’s the most ordinary question in the world. The fact that Mark can only stare dumbly for several seconds is likely a sign that his scotch is already beginning to take hold, but he eventually forces himself to give a resigned shrug.

“Not much,” he admits. The name doesn’t sound familiar in the slightest, though he’ll admit that he isn’t known for scouring scientific journals. “I suspect that’s about to change though.”  

That statement seems to be invitation enough for Matt, who downs the rest of his drink without so much as a flinch before launching into what appears to be a well-practiced spiel.

Mark can only try to keep up between finishing one drink and ordering another, as Matt starts explaining the concept of computers advancing to the point where they can simulate the laws of physics, so much so that the future of interplanetary travel may end up being achieved via the means of simulated reality - unlimited by the demands of the fragile human body - rather than old-fashioned means such as starships or satellites as ancient sci-fi shows had predicted. The whole lecture is delivered in what must be Matt’s typical rapid-fire delivery; Mark would likely have been left with little breathing room even if he had been entirely sober, which he is becoming less and less so as the evening wears on. With his keen enthusiasm and eccentric hand movements, Mark reckons Matt would have made an excellent physics professor in another life if the concepts escaping his mind weren’t so utterly ridiculous.

“Which of course poses the question,” Matt concludes eventually, pausing to stop for breath. A pleasant buzz is coursing through Mark’s veins by this point, and he rests his head on one hand as he studies Matt with an amused smile. “If we conclude that it is feasibly possible for technology to exist which is capable of simulating reality so convincingly, who is to say that it hasn’t already happened? What if we’re all just cogs in a machine, believing our decisions are our own and that everything around us is real, when in actuality we’re being watched and studied and controlled? Like ants under a microscope?”

“Hmm,” Mark ponders the question as best he can, taking another sip despite knowing it won’t help. It strikes him that the whisky has already rendered him soft and sleepy, whereas Matt doesn’t appear to have been affected at all despite the fact that he’s clearly had more. As quick as his delivery is, Mark can’t even recall hearing a slur. “Like characters in a videogame or summat?”

“Something like that I suppose,” Matt concurs, though there’s a tension in his skinny frame that implies Mark has barely scratched the surface. “What do you reckon would happen if a videogame character realised they were trapped in a videogame? That their entire lives were a fiction and that someone else was in control?”

“I imagine they’d spiral into existential dread,” Mark concludes with a dismissive shrug, polishing off what must be his third glass and placing it face-down on the countertop. It would probably be best if he stops now, seeing as Matt appears to be in a philosophical mood. “Good thing they can’t think or feel anything then, isn’t it? They just do as they’re told.”

An amused smirk graces Matt’s face and there’s a glint in those blue eyes that implies he wants to add something, but he keeps his mouth firmly shut. For now at least. Mark uses this window of silence to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes before casting a glance around the ballroom. It’s still relatively busy. The band have given no indication that they’re approaching the end of their set, and so long as the drinks keep flowing, there will always be ample opportunity for dancing and conversation. He loses himself for a moment as he observes the movements of the guests gracing the dancefloor; everyone from beautiful newlyweds to elderly couples celebrating their golden anniversaries locked in intimate embraces, with eyes only for each other. Matt’s musings weave their way through his mind and he finds himself searching for flaws in the system; a hint that what he’s seeing isn’t all it appears to be. He scans the faces of the guests to see if he can find any duplication; eavesdrops on nearby conversations in search of generic, repetitive sentences. He feels the warm cotton of his suit and the cool condensation on his glass and the sticky sweat on the palm of his hand, only to conclude that it all must surely be real. He knows all-too-well what it’s like to wander lucidly through a dream, and this isn’t one.

Still, the possibility is fascinating. Ludicrous, but fascinating.  

“Let’s say you’re right,” he starts, taking a moment to select his next words carefully. He doesn’t usually feel the need to be so cautious in conversation, but Matt’s ability to spout ridiculous theories with the utmost confidence has left him feeling like he’s playing catch-up. “And let’s say that we’re the ones trapped in this game, or simulation, or whatever you want to call it.”

Matt turns to him as though shocked that Mark’s actually giving his ramblings any consideration, and he can’t help but wonder how many times he’s been shot down in the past. He pauses, half-expecting an interruption, but Matt’s only response is a smile followed by an encouraging nod.

“What if there’s a reason behind the fiction?” he proposes, more confidently now. “What if we’ve been trapped in a game because reality is terrible.”

“And therein lies our conundrum!” Matt says, eyes lighting up with childlike glee as he leans back and slams his hand on the counter. Tending to a guest a few seats away, Andrew side-eyes him warily, perhaps wondering if he’ll be forced to escort another drunk from the premises soon, but Mark’s total lack of concern seems to reassure him. “Is it better to exist within a terrible reality or a beautiful lie?”

The hypothetical weight of the question stumps Mark for a moment. Any thoughts which had previously been running through his mind fragment like shattered glass, leaving only a warm fuzz in their place. He lets himself imagine what it would be like to have an all-powerful, all-seeing creature manipulate his thoughts - moulding them like clay - and despite the room’s pleasant warmth, he finds himself shivering. It’s not that he believes Matt’s theories – far from it – but pondering the question elicits the same uncertainty planted by movies like his beloved Blade Runner; makes him contemplate deep, existential ‘What-ifs’ until sleep eludes him and a shiver creeps up his spine.

When the power of speech finally returns to him, he finds the words spilling forth without having crossed his mind beforehand.

“I think we’re both a little too drunk for philosophical discussions, don’t you agree?” he says blankly, though upon hearing the words even he is left utterly unconvinced. He may already be able to anticipate the crushing headache that morning will bring, but he’s managed to remain somewhat lucid so far. Matt, damn him, doesn’t appear to have been affected by the alcohol at all. Nor does he seem willing to let Mark back down; instead he pointedly says nothing as his lips curl upwards in an unspoken challenge.  

Mark sighs, before forcing himself to answer the question with one of his own.

“If the fiction is so convincing that you could go from birth to death without realising it is a fiction, does it really make a difference?”

“A fair point,” Matt concedes with a shrug, though Mark doesn’t miss the way his expression darkens. A twitch in his jaw implies that his words have struck a nerve, only he can’t possibly see why that would be the case. He expects Matt to elaborate further – to quash his argument with a clever retaliation – but he simply turns back towards the wall of booze and signals to Andrew to bring him another glass of scotch. The temptation to tell him that he’ll need to be carried back to his room on a stretcher if he carries on like this is momentarily overwhelming, but the words remain glued to Mark’s tongue like resin. His mouth feels as dry as sandpaper and the flurry of unease which had been temporarily dispelled returns with a burning vengeance. All he can do is watch as Matt gratefully accepts what must be his fifth glass and gulps half of it down his throat without the slightest hint of hesitation.

Something stirs in the back of Mark’s mind. A distant memory perhaps; a vague flicker of recognition which had lain buried until this moment. He can honestly swear he has never laid eyes on Matt before today, but it strikes him that their camaraderie has been a little too easy tonight. Almost as though he should know Matt from his previous life on Earth.

But he doesn’t. He knows that for a fact, and any treacherous doubts suggesting otherwise are swiftly cast aside with an urgency he can’t explain.

It doesn’t take long for Matt to polish off his glass, setting it down on the counter with a finality which suggests it’ll be his last of the night. Just as well, Mark thinks. He can feel the evening beginning to wind down already, and he can feel fatigue settling into his bones.

Before he can offer to foot the bill, his companion finally decides to pipe up again. Any trace of his earlier bravado appears to have abandoned him, leaving him crouched and visibly exhausted, his voice impossibly small.

“If nothing is real – if everything around us truly is a fiction - then it stands to reason that there’s no underlying purpose to our existence. Our lives are there to serve as meaningless entertainment for something lurking in the shadows and nothing more. So everything we do or say, everyone we love...none of it matters in the end. Not really.”

He looks directly at Mark then, his once gentle blue eyes burning with an intensity that makes him want to shrink back like a frightened child. A silly notion really. Of all the words to describe Matt, ‘threatening’ doesn’t immediately come to mind, but the discomfort lingers regardless. Matt must notice, for he averts his eyes to the floor almost immediately and offers a small, apologetic smile as recompense.

“I just don’t think I could live with that,” he concludes with a certainty that has Mark’s chest tightening. “No matter how beautiful the lie is.”

A beat passes. Then another. Mark becomes all-too aware of his heart pounding in his chest, trying to assure him that he’s okay; that he’s solid and real. It occurs to him that he has forgotten how to breathe, and the discomfort in his chest outweighs the soothing burn the scotch had planted there earlier.  

Matt doesn’t say anything else. Instead he runs a hand through his wayward hair, before ultimately deciding that fidgeting with his discarded sunglasses would be a better use of his time. Against his better judgement, Mark allows the weight of his words to sink in and momentarily imagines an existence in which all of his actions are pre-determined, his thoughts carefully filtered. Where everyone he loves are simply figments of expertly-written code. Where any responsibilities he may have are ultimately unimportant.

A simpler existence perhaps, but a wholly purposeless one.  

“I don’t think I’d want to live like that either,” he admits quietly, so much so that he’s amazed Matt hears him. He must do however, for the words force him to look at Mark again, his expression unreadable besides a hint of sadness in deep blue eyes.  

There doesn’t appear to be anything more to say. Words escape him - even the simple courtesies which usually come so naturally - and yet he cannot bring himself to look away. Matt seems to be in the same predicament. For a moment it’s as though they’re both gazing into a supernova, unwilling to look away despite knowing full well that the sight will blind them.

For the first time all evening he finds himself missing his friends. His Matt would have told him to snap out of it by now and Jamie or Nick would have called him a twat for getting so worked up about meaningless theories, and while Mark may have retaliated with a pointed ‘fuck off’, he no doubt would have felt lighter in their presence.

In the end it’s Matt who breaks the spell first. His eyes are drawn from Mark’s face to something lurking in the background, and a palpable shift overcomes him as thin lips are pulled into a grim line. Beneath soft overhead lights, Matt visibly pales and his pupils dilate with what Mark can only presume is fear, and white fists clench so tightly around his glasses that it’s amazing they don’t shatter. Dread claws into Mark’s chest with no explanation, and before curiosity can swallow him whole, he turns his head to follow Matt’s eyeline.

It only takes a moment to locate what has grabbed his friend’s attention. The new arrivals have barely made an effort to blend in after all. Standing out among the throng of increasingly drunk guests, two men linger at the far end of the hall, eyes obscured by dark sunglasses and twin postures stiff and unyielding. Both are clad in leather jackets which are only slightly less conspicuous than Matt’s own, and once again a treacherous flicker of recognition ignites in Mark’s brain before sputtering into a puff of smoke. The taller man must be pushing six feet, his brown hair cropped short and a 5 o’clock shadow darkening his features as effectively as the scowl on his lips. The smaller man must be around Mark’s height and appears slightly less threatening for it, though from a distance he almost resembles Matt himself with the exception of his dirty-blond hair.  

For a moment Mark wonders if the two men are members of his own security team, seeking out Matt on grounds of a misdemeanor which Mark has been blissfully unaware of all night. Matt doesn’t necessarily look surprised to see them after all, though their presence certainly disturbs him. That thought is cast aside quickly, however. Mark has made an effort to familiarise himself with every member of his workforce, and even if these two are last-minute recruits, their outfits don’t resemble any worn by the rest of his staff.

The not-so-concealed carry lurking on their belts is hardly a feature of his security team either.

Blood freezing as two hidden pairs of eyes settle on the bar and its occupants, Mark turns to Matt in a panic; mouth open with the intention of voicing a warning, or demanding an explanation, or both, but Matt is already one step ahead of him. Those awful neon sunglasses are back on his face, albeit he has the good sense not to activate them this time, and he throws some crumpled notes onto the counter before turning to Mark with what is no doubt supposed to be a reassuring smile. It doesn’t work of course, though he imagines Matt is well-aware of that.  

As a gesture of goodwill, Matt places a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder and offers what sounds like a very final farewell.

“It was good to see you again, Alex.”

And then he’s off, wandering past the quickly emptying dining tables and mixing with the assorted bodies on the dancefloor. Fat lot of good it does; he has about as much chance of blending in here as a giraffe does hiding among a gang of meerkats. Casting a glance towards the mysterious arrivals, Mark spots them making their way towards the dancefloor, the only indication of urgency being the grim determination on their faces. They don’t seem to have any interest in him for the moment, but that prospect brings him little in the way of relief. Instead he simply feels nausea crawling up his throat, and as Matt threatens to escape his eyeline, a new madness takes hold and compels him to follow.  

Keeping Matt in his sights is more difficult than he’d hoped it would be. As much as he stands out among the crowd of dancers, once Mark finds himself trapped within that very crowd, his ability to focus on what’s directly ahead of him falters. The band has gone and a DJ has taken their place, enticing drunk youths to stumble to and fro under the guise of dancing, and Mark finds himself being roughly grabbed more than once by revelers inviting him to join in. One man pointedly tells him to “fuck off” when he manages to free his arm from his tight grip, before swanning off to harass some other poor sod, but Mark forces himself to recover quickly and carries on with his misguided pursuit. Later it will occur to him that he is not usually in the habit of hiring DJs, nor is the ballroom usually so crowded at this late hour as the casino tends to attract the night-owls, but for now all he can focus on is Matt’s retreating back sneaking onto one of the many corridors adjoining the hall.  

Mark follows him seconds later, having escaped the horde with his limbs intact; not daring to look back to check if their assailants have located them. It occurs to him that as hotel owner, he could abuse his status and stand in their way in order to buy time, but he’s not sure he trusts them to resist putting a bullet in his head for insubordination. He may not have the faintest idea of what’s going on, but it feels so much bigger than him somehow. Like he’s been handed solid proof that everything he’s achieved – the hotel, his band, his reputation – is meaningless in the grand scale of the universe.

He stumbles onto the corridor just in time to spot Matt turning right at the far end, and he follows as quickly as he dares. The next turn is a left, then another left, then a right... an endless maze of blinding white walls and hotel room doors, flanked by sprouting monstrosities emerging from intricately painted plant-pots. After a while it seems like Matt has deliberately chosen this route to tease him, and he begins to wonder if this entire evening has been a devilish ploy, but the thought has barely had a chance to take hold when he finally reaches the end of the line.  

There is no turning point at the end of this corridor. Only an unassuming wooden door leading into what appears to be a store cupboard. There aren’t even any hotel rooms remaining in this section; instead the route ahead is lined with marble columns sporting busts with expressionless faces.

Mark only manages one step forward before freezing, as icy fingers of dread crawl up his spine and clutch his heart in a fierce grip.  

No being in the universe knows this hotel better than he does. He knows every room, every corridor, every little nook and cranny as surely as he knows his own name. As well he should; he designed every inch of the place.

And yet, he can say with absolute certainty that he has never laid eyes on this corridor before. Not even in a passing dream.  

Before he can blame the obvious hallucination on the scotch, or even glance back in search of Matt’s pursuers, the silence is shattered by a blinding red light emanating from the cupboard door, illuminating the corridor in time with a sharp, mechanical whine. Mark raises a hand to his eyes as the light pulses in time with his heartbeat - giving untouched walls the appearance of being drenched in blood - and the accompanying noise slams against his eardrums with unrelenting ferocity. Against his better judgement, he presses onward, cowering as the assault on his senses intensifies with every step. No doubt he will be left with nothing but regret as a result of this choice, but he fears the lack of answers will drive him mad if he doesn’t see what lies beyond that door.  

Besides, Matt must be in there. There’s nowhere else he could have gone, and Mark has little desire to leave him for dead.  

The pulsating doesn’t stop until he reaches the door. Body trembling in the quiet aftermath, he takes a moment to recover as the light’s echo persists with every blink of his eyes and a sharp ringing assaults his ears. His breathing sounds painfully uneven in spite of his efforts to remain calm, and he can feel his heart hammering away in an attempt to break free from his chest. He finds himself wishing he could explain away these last ten minutes, but his mind feels numb with uncertainty and the alcohol certainly isn’t helping. Has it even been ten minutes since he’d been sitting at the bar? It simultaneously feels like it’s been mere seconds and several hours since he was enjoying his evening without a care in the world.

The cupboard door remains unopened, the handle a seductive enchantress promising answers he isn’t sure he wants. This new silence doesn’t bode well, and his lack of familiarity with this section of the hotel only increases his chances of running into danger on the way back. There is no doubt in his mind that he’s damned regardless of what he does however; he may as well sate his curiosity in the meantime.  

A cool trickle of sweat slides down his cheek as a trembling hand curls around the door handle, and he pulls sharply before sanity can take hold, expecting resistance but receiving none.  

It seems he will have to settle for not receiving answers either.

The cupboard is empty.

******************************

The details of how he stumbled back to Room 521 and wound up sprawled on his bed are a murky blur. Even as his drunken haze makes way for a pounding headache, he can only recall glimpses of dragging his feet back the way he came; wandering through an almost deserted ballroom followed by similarly empty corridors, before eventually collapsing into bed with a crushing exhaustion. Despite his fears, he never did end up encountering those two assailants on his way back, nor did he glean any further clues as to Matt’s whereabouts. All three men had vanished into the night as mysteriously as they’d appeared, and a numb regret settling over his mind is enough to assure him that he will never see Matt again.

That is, if he even existed in the first place. As the night wears on, he begins to feel more inclined to put the evening’s events down to the drunken hallucinations of a lonely mind. Perhaps if he calls Jamie in the morning, he can put his mind at ease and call him a silly twat, erasing the whole sorry ordeal in the space of one conversation. The urge to pick up the phone now is almost too tempting to resist, but he stays put for now. There’s no need to bother his friend with the drunken ramblings of a madman. Not at this hour anyway.  

Reassurance can wait. For now, he desperately needs sleep which is stubbornly unforthcoming.  

He misses the presence of moonlight. That notion is so strange that a weak rebellious smile tugs at his lips, before the bitter sting of tears replaces it. Homesickness is unlike him – he has never been inclined to hop on a rocket and return home no matter how easy it would be – but right now his yearning for Earth feels suffocating. He misses the moon’s comforting presence in the sky and the wonder it had elicited from him as a child. He misses it hanging overhead as he wandered along silent streets with friends and lovers, singing and kissing and stumbling drunkenly as joyous laughter broke through the relative peace. He misses waking up with his heart in his throat and a new lyric in his head, only to be soothed instantly by luminous streaks of light.  

All he has here is thick, empty darkness which seems intent on crushing him down to dust.

Those memories of home seem so distant now. Unreachable; locked away in a chest sporting a rusted padlock and buried deep beneath the realm of consciousness. Perhaps it would be best if they remained buried. Even if Mark were capable of digging them up and freeing them from their prison, the sheer weight of the memories within would surely drown him in an instant.    

Mark shakes his head and closes his eyes before bitter tears can trail down his cheeks. It would be best not to dwell on such things. His nights are sleepless enough as it is.  

It only occurs to him later, as unblinking eyes linger on the ceiling above, that Matt had casually referred to him as ‘Alex’ and that the thought of questioning it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Hounds of Justice--Ch. 73

Chapter 73

           The tests had to wait for three days. Dean was beside himself, threatening at least once every few hours to call and bully the hospital into getting me in. It was all I could do to calm him down, to keep him occupied so that his thoughts ended up elsewhere—at least for a little while. Seth watched with an indulgent smile, letting the two of us bicker and soothe like siblings. I think he knew that I needed the distraction just as much as Dean did.

           Space in the Davenport house was at a premium these days. Seth and I were lucky enough to have our bedroom to ourselves—Kevin and Prince notwithstanding. My brother Bran had already laid claim to the guest bedroom. That put Dean on the living room sofa since he refused to go into Davenport and get a hotel. Carl and Hannah were there often, Georgie, Mel, Rickon, and the baby in tow. There were times that it set me on edge, made me always afraid that I was going to run over someone or something with my chair.

           I saw a new side of Seth. With the house full of people, with my nephews and my brothers, he was more than just his charming self. There was something light and easygoing about him. He played videogames with Bran, talked football with Georgie and Carl. Rickon wanted to follow in his shadow every waking moment. Even the baby preferred it when Seth cuddled him.

           It was almost as if his happiness returned without the burden of worrying and caring for me alone on his shoulders.

           Still, he was the one who knelt by the edge of the tub and scrubbed shampoo through my hair, massaged conditioner into my scalp. He was the one who helped me get dressed, who did all of the things that I needed to just function normally. It was his hands that soothed the ache in my back and shoulders. It was him who tickled the bottom of my foot each evening, making certain that the sensation hadn’t flitted away again.

~~~~~~~~~~~

           The scent of roasted coffee beans swirled around me as we crossed the threshold of 392 d-port. I could hear the grinder turning as one of the baristas pulled an espresso. There was the hiss of air as another foamed milk for a cappuccino. I breathed deeply, enjoying the glorious smell of dark roast beans.

           Seth swept to the counter, leaning down on his elbows as he talked to a couple of the kids behind the bar. I rolled toward a table near the back wall, beneath a bank of TVs showing a collection of local news, daytime shows, and ESPN. Dean sank into a chair across from me, his lanky frame spreading out.

           “Of course he has his own coffee shop,” Dean said, shaking his head and watching as Seth walked behind the counter. “And of course he knows what the hell he’s doing back there”

           I leaned against the table, grinning. “He’s good at it. Not just the coffee or the business side of it—running the money or whatever. He’s good with the people who come in here. Sometimes we come down here and he just… hangs out. Gets to know the regulars.”

           Seth appeared at the tableside, his long fingers and strong hands holding three steaming cups. He sat one in front of me, put another in the empty place saved for him, and pressed the last into Dean’s hands.

           “This better not be some fancy bullshit,” Dean said, sniffing at the cup suspiciously.

           I snickered, sipped at the latte Seth had made. A little hum of contentment slipped out. Seth grinned with pride.

           “It’s straight black, bro,” he said, slipping into the open seat. “If you want something in it, just go up and tell them.”

           Dean drank it slowly, doing his best to act like he didn’t trust it. I watched him with a smirk, knowing that he was actually enjoying it.

           “I was thinking,” Seth said quietly, tapping his fingers against the side of his cup. “Maybe we could have the reception here. We could wrap the place up in white lights. If you’d like.”

           Dean’s eyes met mine. A flash back to the conversation in the doctor’s office.

           I want you to be able to walk down the aisle when you get married.

           Warmth in my veins. A sensation of falling, flying in my stomach.

           “I think I’d like that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           I was starting to hate the septic scent of doctor’s offices and hospitals. Seth sat in the chair in the corner, legs crossed with one ankle propped up on the other knee. I watched his foot shake in nervousness from my place on the exam table. He tried hard to hide it, but I knew that he was worried about what the tests might show.

           Dean leaned against the edge of the table near my feet. He had one hand on my still-numb calf. His entire body thrummed with electric energy, an energy that was bound up in anxiety and fear.

           For their sake, I’d keep myself together.

           No matter what the tests said.

           Dr. Thurman pushed into the room, a laptop tablet in her arms. I pulled myself up to sit a little straighter. Whatever she said, I’d always have the Hounds at my side.

           She drew a stool over toward me, a slight smile on her face. “How are we feeling today, Llane?”

           I shrugged. “I’m alright. The ache is starting to fade a little. I’ve still got that pins-and-needles feeling sometimes, though.”

           The doctor nodded, pulled up something on the computer. She looked from Seth to me. “So… I’ve got some good news.”

           Seth dropped his foot to the floor, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Dean started gnawing on his thumbnail.

           “Your MRI shows that your spinal cord has healed amazingly. As the swelling goes down, your nerves are able to function the way they’re designed to.” She turned the computer around so that I could see the images on the screen. She took her time, pointing out how my scans had changed from immediately after the accident to now.

           “Does that mean that it’s going to continue getting better?” I asked the question before one of the others could.

           “It could. But I’m concerned that you’ve only regained the feeling on one side. The scans are showing that the swelling has reduced uniformly from the damaged area.” Dr. Thurman pointed to a spot on the scan. “If you were going to get the sensation back in your other leg, it would have happened at the same time. At this point, I don’t think there’s going to be much more improvement.”

           “Fuck,” Dean swore under his breath. He looked like he wanted to put his fist through the wall. I reached for him, squeezed his hand.

           Seth got up, crossed to stand on my other side. His fingers threaded through mine.

           The three of us faced this together. I just wished that Roman had been there, too.

           “That doesn’t mean there aren’t some options for you,” Dr. Thurman said, glancing between the unit that we had become. “Rehab and a KAFO might be able to help you walk with crutches.”

           I glanced up at Dean, realized he was fighting down the feeling of helplessness in the face of my body’s betrayal.

           A deep breath. Throwing caution to the wind. Promising myself that I would talk it through with Seth later.

           “What about the surgery—the peripheral nerve surgery?”

           Seth’s fingers tightened around mine. I refused to look.

           “Is that an option?” I asked again. “I know there’s a surgeon at University of Michigan who does it and they’ve had good success rates with it. Am I a candidate?”

           For a moment, I didn’t think she would answer. Dean squeezed my hand until it hurt.

           “Yes, you are.”

Tag List

@bethany99stuff-blog @lakamaa12 @sammyfireheartashryver @cburdine @easyobsession @xbutterflius-effectusx @0paint-the-stars0 @echrai @themumbler @bigdunneenergy @queenofthearchitect @vebner37 @reigns-rollins-ambrose @mother-forker

[happy-skittle]

Kansas Collection - Ch. 5: “The Vow” - Recap & Reflections

8/23/2018

Last Thursday, I was able to attend an immersive experience long-awaited!! Read on for a substantial but hopefully entertaining recap!

We bought our tickets shortly after they were released, but I hadn’t realized that many others going through this experience also have hearts of gold. heh. Red-Patchwork Resistance was already sold out!! :O Since we then decided to make the most of a group of four attending, we all picked a different color-faction. My sister chose Black-Ozma because she had met Phoebe’s secret (dark) side in the first chapter, one friend chose Blue-Revolt because that was expected to be quite action-packed, friend’s girlfriend went with White-Newbies because she was new to the series, and I assessed my choices only to end up with Green-Scarecrow King’s Armed Militia! It was time to switch sides!

To prepare for the evening, I carefully reviewed the secrets and code-phrases that I had been entrusted with by the Patchwork Resistance because while I was convinced that I would appear as an upstanding citizen dressed properly and appropriately in green, I would secretly support the good fight because my heart was in the right place. Green on the outside but juicy and red on the inside. An Ozian watermelon.

Spoilerific Recap:

Once the event began, we found ourselves milling about the courtyard with a myriad of options before us. Those overtly supporting the King were reminded to check in with Jo Files and sign the guest book. While there may have been hidden insight in the guest book or some “correct” conversation with Jo, what I took away from the exchange was only to stay close because a special breakaway interaction would soon happen for a select few. Meanwhile, my sister joined many others getting her money’s worth at the bar and the table of ‘light refreshments’. Other guests took photos with a doll-like and docile Dorothea Gale accompanied by a smiling Special Officer Phil Daring. Phoebe Daring (soon to be Her Royal Highness) could be found flitting about receiving congratulations and giving crazy (Ozma) eyes to her followers to assure them of her continued presence. Jack Pumpkinhead and Tik Tok provided some color to the socializing in their interactions that changed dynamically in response to the varying hues worn by guests. The Lion was her usual shady self and only those who participated in her dealings can speak to them. Rounding out the cast of characters was a drunken Wizard (Mr. Diggs) and several other characters that were not extraneous but never quite made an appearance in my story.

We were finally called to audience with the Scarecrow King, who thanked us for our loyal service and proceeded to wax poetic and philosophical about his impending wedding. He questioned why we had chosen to follow him and received responses ranging from those that followed his cult of personality to those of us who wanted to do the “right and proper thing”. He told us of his past (10,000 ft flyover but suffice it say that the person in front of us presented more and more as a flawed and tragic human being rather than a ruthless dictator gone mad) and how he came to be king though unwillingly at first but now determined to put his loved one’s (loved ones’!!!) safety and security above all else. He asked us to join in a toast and to continue to serve him-that we should take seriously the duty to guard him and those around him as best as we could. (Foreshadowing but I was too busy thinking “Yes, sir! I will do my best to protect yoouu!”) I found myself committed to being a royalist loyalist dedicated to preserving the status quo in the best interest of society. *smug smile*

He ended with a strained but hopeful smile and asked us to rejoin the others. Shortly after, the main event began!

We were ushered into the chapel and seated according to our alignments. As if noticing that something was amiss with our placements, Jack re-seated me in a strange spot right behind the Wizard but farthest away from the center aisle and my green companions. At Phoebe’s request (command), the Wizard grudgingly performed the heraldic duties of announcing the wedding party and Lyman took his place at the pulpit to begin the ceremony. When there continued to be strange whispers and worried glances from several others (Phil: *alarmed and anxious face ON*), I looked behind me in the chapel and noticed the Tin Man (+Axe!) lurking and glowering. I alternated between watching the unfolding nuptials and glaring anxiously at the Tin Man/Nick Chopper, who was like those cats that sneakily creep closer each time you turn around. As he reached peak nearness, I heard loud bangs and “GET DOWN!” I obeyed instantly and ducked down into the pew. The Tin Man extended his hand to me and beckoned that I should follow him. I rushed after him (long legs, that one) and he grasped my hand pulling me towards the mysterious back hallways present in all churches.

He opened a door and rushed in. I followed without thinking. He closed the door and turned around.... I slowly realized whom I was alone with and that we were separated from everyone else. He seemed instantly more menacing and threatening when I became aware of the situation. The Tin Man made sure that I understood cooperation was the only option unless I preferred death. :( We scurried from room to room looking for Dorothy, who I hadn’t realized until then must have disappeared in all the commotion. He explained to me that this was his only objective and that while Phil loved Dorothy, Phil was misguided and mistaken as to Dorothy’s fate as well being fooled by her trance-like state. Throughout revealing himself and his past to me, the Tin Man declared that I was only so much cannon fodder for the Scarecrow and that I was easily replaceable; this was meant to shake my beliefs and was incredibly effective when paired with stories of times long-past when four friends set off on the adventure of their lives to end up now more separated than ever before. When asked if I would choose the same path for myself and make the same choices again, I hesitated but answered truthfully that I didn’t know if I would. The theme of regret weaved in and out of our conversations.

Finally, the Tin Man pointed me to a door and told me to open it. I heard loud proclamations and felt queasy at the thought of what I would find inside. We entered to a room of guests bedecked in black.....and Ozma mid-speech addressing her supporters. *dun dun dun* She made it clear that the Tin Man would have what (who) he wanted after all was said and done. She and her followers left the room, but she made quite clear that the Tin Man was by now an unstable free agent that would serve his limited use and no more.

Alone with me once again, the Tin Man took the opportunity to bring up more sins of the past. I discovered that the Tin Man had once fallen deeply in love only to feel like a beetle crushed under foot when that love was not returned. The Tin Man, now a scorned and desperate man with a penchant for insanity, was out for blood. Counter to my assumption that he searched for Dorothy to spirit her away to safety, he proclaimed that he would find her and kill her for to revenge himself for the wrongdoings she had visited upon him and his broken self. When at last he collected himself, he led me out of the room and pointed me once again towards the chamber where we first exchanged words.

Before leaving me, the Tin Man reminded me once more not to trust anyone. :|

Within the room, I finally rejoined my fellow Greens, where Lyman was preparing us for the ceremony crowning the Queen. Lyman reassured us that this was for the best and that the Scarecrow King wasn’t all that great in hindsight/the big book of prophecies. Wait. What? Wait??!?! The King was dead?!?!?!?!??!?! I was very confused and shaken to realize that the “commotion” earlier had actually resulted in the death of the King. I tried to asked those around me, but I think I came off very strangely because what was meant to be an obvious fact already solidly established was something I was barely beginning to wrap my mind around. Feeling like a house plopped down in a foreign land by a wayward tornado, I accepted that I’d need to jump back in to the narrative quickly or get left behind. =_=; We were asked to pledge our loyalty (again with the loyalty) to Oz itself with the understanding that Phoebe (Ozma tho for reals) was our new and rightful ruler. 

We were made to rehearse and then treated to a very real, striking but horrifying, and commanding Ozma being crowned as the new leader of Oz. When Lyman would relay the traditional oath, Ozma twisted the words and made them her own declaration of immediate and total domination of her new subjects. The King is dead. :( Long live the Queen. :( :(

Lavender Pibt, the one person still grieving the deceased King, gathered us on our way out of the chapel; she promised that we would meet again soon and that we should bend our thoughts towards vengeance for our fallen leader.

Then we were released into the night!

Reflections:

Erm. Even though this was less than a week ago, I will readily admit any mistaken or missing details as my error! Lmk if you have a correction on something that I’ve remembered horribly or remembered not at all!

In hindsight, some major events of the evening were hinted at quite strongly. Either I have been ridiculously way too busy to give it any thought (yes) or I hadn’t quite grasped the story straws in the first four chapters (I did miss Ch. 3 - “The Door”) and had only a dim understanding of the characters and plotlines (also yes)! I was so completely enveloped in this experience that almost everything took me by surprise as it happened. I am still in disbelief that I didn’t realize the Scarecrow King had been assassinated until almost an hour after everyone else was presented clearly with the dramatic scene of his death (I heard there was even straw involved!) In comparison, those under Ozma’s track were treated to her delight at being rid of him and glee that his death occurred after their marriage, which guaranteed her right to rule.

The one-on-one interaction with the Tin Man was one of the more challenging ones I’ve come across. Not only was the actor a huge presence that drew me into the character’s story (actually, I feel like it was closer to not being able to escape the character and his story) but was also fantastic at portraying the character as sensitive and relatable but also hostile and violently defensive when bringing up the past (even if he was the one doing the bringing up). The actor was also so so talented at giving me the opportunity to actually emotionally react and engage (verbally/physically) in a way that made everything feel SO real and like I was an equal driver of the story.

Anywho-IT WAS SO AWESOME-O! If only I had more free time, I would have loved to participate again under a ticket of another color. After the night ended and we were still buzzing with adrenaline and excitement, I did share with others as they shared with me; and I think I now have a firm grasp on some of the other events and revelations that unfolded while I was on my own little adventure. I’m  excited to find out how the story will continue to unfold and whether we will have another calm before the storm or whether going forward it’ll be all storm!

Hope you enjoyed this wall of text recap and come back for more! :D

[pocket-anon]

CSJJ Day 22: Captured

Happy Sunday, Oncers! Here’s my submission for CS January Joy, a oneshot based off the following prompt:

You’re the photographer my friends used for their engagement, wedding, and kids. Now I’m graduating, and they’ve called you to document the happy occasion.

I don’t generally write off prompts, and the fic below is a little different than what you might first expect based on the prompt above, but I hope you enjoy it. Many thanks to @katie-dub for organizing @csjanuaryjoy and helping me select this prompt in the first place. It’s been an emotionally-charged week for me as an American, but writing certain parts of this fic was definitely therapeutic. Happy reading! Comments, as always, are welcome!

Find it on AO3 and FFN.

Summary:  Killian Jones is a promising student who enters law school with no family left and a hunger for vengeance. But three years under the guidance of the right mentors helps him find hope and a new purpose in more ways than one. (Captain Swan, Outlaw Queen, photographer AU, lawyer AU. Romance/Fluff. Rated G.)

Tagged upon request: @optomisticgirl

He first sees her at a wedding.  It’s a predictably classy, predictably ritzy affair.  His law school professor-slash-mentor-slash-boss, Robin Locksley, and Robin’s legal partner-turned-fiancé, Regina, get married a year after Killian lands a highly sought-after summer internship at their prestigious firm.  

He’s busted his ass for the firm, worked twelve-hour days, taken advantage of his nearly non-existent social life to throw in even more hours overtime, gone on countless runs for coffee and take-out, and dozed off over stacks of legal briefs at 2 AM more than once, but it’s paid off.  The partners have been impressed by his resourcefulness and doggedness and personal charm.  Even the notoriously exacting Regina, in one of her rare complimentary moods, once declared him surprisingly good at research.  But Killian realizes, as he dutifully escorts yet another of Boston’s political royalty down the groom’s side of the grand cathedral and tries not to stare at the woman across the nave, that this, his last-minute recruitment as an usher when one of Robin’s other men fell ill, might just be the biggest reward for all that hard work.  Because the woman?  The wedding photographer?  Bloody hell, she’s beautiful.

Her long blonde hair is the color of morning sunshine and held out of her face with a braid that arcs over her temple and disappears beneath the loose waves that cascade to the middle of her back.  Even in the looming shadows that intersperse the halos of daylight piercing the stained glass, he can make out her delicate features, long lashes, and a becoming flush overlying her creamy complexion.  Her figure is graceful, almost willowy, in a petal pink dress with flowing sleeves and a tastefully plunging neckline and her expression largely business-like as she repeatedly fiddles with her camera and aims her lens experimentally toward the altar from various locations in order to find just the right angles.  Every so often, however, she has to sidestep the bride’s guests as they’re led to their seats, and she smiles demurely, a small upturn of her lips that manages to light up half of the church.  And when the guests she’s dodging are a small pair of excited children in tiny dress clothes with their harried-looking parents in tow, the amused glow of her face and the way her eyes crinkle at the corners is pure radiance.

Killian eventually finds himself on her side of the church with some of the bride’s guests on his arm, though some of Regina’s slightly older, female friends don’t actually take his elbow so much as drape themselves all over him while he escorts them down the aisle.  One such woman, a gaunt-looking specter with a striking half-white, half-black dye job and a blood red smirk, seems particularly enamored with him, but the discomfort is a cross he’s more than willing to bear when they pass the photographer and he shoots her a comically pained expression that causes her to erupt in silent laughter, her mossy green eyes dancing above the hand she holds up to hide her smile.

She vanishes shortly after that, presumably to go take pictures of the bridal party making their final preparations, and Killian preoccupies himself with scanning for a glimpse of her return.  It isn’t until the guests are all seated and the ceremony is minutes away that he finds her again, accompanying the bridal party as they emerge and line up for the processional in a hallway just off the main vestibule.  

Regina looks stunning in an off-the-shoulder white gown he has no doubt comes from some exclusive boutique.  The bodice shimmers with hand-sewn crystals, and intricate lace detailing extends all the way down the skirt that hugs her curves and flares just below her hips.  The dark beauty Robin refers to her as his queen looks every bit the title today, especially surrounded by a small court of bridesmaids in deep plum gowns, the lot of them lovely enough for a magazine spread as they whisper animatedly to one another and do their last-minute preening. Nevertheless, Killian finds his eyes drawn repeatedly to the blonde who stands in the corner as inconspicuously as she can while capturing these precious moments with her camera, her motions fluid and practiced as one hand manually focuses her lens and the other triggers the shutter over and over again in a coordinated flurry of minute but mesmerizing movements.

Her lens finds him standing with the other ushers and catches him watching her, and she pauses, pulling back from her viewfinder in order to blink at him over the top of her camera with those big gorgeous eyes, a blush creeping across her face before she hastily retreats back behind her equipment.  They share barely a second of eye contact, but Killian can feel his pulse quicken, and he swallows and scratches behind his ear, flashing her a bashful smile before looking away.  He’s familiar with his effect on women and uses his charms to his advantage frequently, but under her gaze he suddenly feels uncharacteristically shy and much more self-conscious about the stump where his left hand used to be than usual.  Perhaps it’s the scrutiny of her lens, but he suspects it has more to do with the fact that there’s something about this woman that makes him want to watch her work all day.

The ceremony goes off without a hitch, as is to be expected for any enterprise paid for and overseen by Regina Mills, and Killian observes the joyous proceedings feeling genuinely happy for the couple.  In addition to being incredibly grateful to Robin Locksley for taking him under his wing and giving him the chance to prove his mettle in one of the most highly-respected law firms on the Eastern seaboard, Killian actually likes the British ex pat immensely as a person.  For all his sharp legal acumen and storied courtroom victories, the man is the epitome of decency and generosity, the sort of lawyer unafraid to take on corrupt corporations and ne’er-do-wells on behalf of charities or the little guy.  And Regina, well, Regina may have a sharp tongue and be so demanding that the interns occasionally refer to her in hushed tones as the Evil Queen, but she also has a softer side, and even a blind man could see how happy she makes Robin.  Killian has never seen his mentor look more jubilant as the forty year-old stands at the altar, exceedingly debonair in an immaculate tuxedo, his brown hair highlighted with a few distinguished strands of gray and his face split into an enormous grin.

It’s a fairytale wedding, simultaneously grandiose and yet made intimate by the obvious affection between the bride and groom.  The music is uplifting and ethereal, the bishop’s homily funny and poignant, and the wedding party, which includes Robin’s young son from his first marriage as ring bearer, picture perfect.  And as the elated pair say their vows and exchange rings, the clicks of a camera echoing softly in the hallowed space make Killian’s smile a little wider.

*                             *                             *

The wedding reception is held in a lavish Baroque ballroom done in cream and crystal and gold gilt, and the room is buzzing with guests, the din rivaling the volume of the live brass band. The food is exquisite, the champagne like drinkable stars, and the Killian definitely approves of the tumbler of top shelf rum he appropriates from the open bar.  

He divides his attention between hobnobbing with associates from the firm, ducking the handsy cougars, and trying to keep tabs on the photographer.  She’s easy enough to spot during the traditional events – the toasts, the cake cutting, the bouquet toss, and the formal dances – hovering near the head table and the dance floor, her skirts fluttering around her shapely calves as she flits about on strappy metallic heels to get her shots.

Shortly after the dancing really gets underway, however, Killian loses her again.  He cranes his neck, trying to spot her blonde head, but between the constantly moving crowd and the lights which have been lowered for dancing, he struggles to locate her, and his heart falls as the minutes tick by.  Half an hour without eyes on her, his heaves a resigned sigh, wondering if perhaps she’s gone for the evening and chastising himself for missing his opportunity to talk to her.

“There you are, darling,” a voice purrs from behind him.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.  Bollocks.  Killian plasters on a polite smile and turns to see Regina’s black-and-white-haired friend standing behind him, her spindly arms crossed and a glass of champagne clutched in one gloved hand as she stands with her weight on one hip and surveys him with a predatory leer.  

“Oh hello,” he says. “Ma’am.”

Sadly, she looks more amused than affronted by his greeting.  “Now, now, no need for formalities,” she chuckles with a little wave of her champagne flute.  “We’re all friends here.”  She gestures toward the dance floor.  “It’s a shame to see such a handsome man hanging back from such a delightful party. Come dance with me.”  She tips her head downward, her blue eyes raking over him, and curls the index finger of her free hand.

A flash above his head catches his attention, the intermittent reflection of light off a lens shining like a flickering star, and Killian looks upward, his heart leaping when he sees Emma standing on a balcony, presumably taking wide shots of the party.  Sweet saving grace.  His face blossoms into a genuine smile, and he glances back to Regina’s friend.  “A tempting proposition,” he tells her. “But something else requires my attention rather urgently.  Apologies. Excuse me.”  

With a hurried bow, he spins on his toe before the woman has a chance to voice her indignance and sets off immediately.  A member of the wait-staff points him toward a set of doors and the staircase beyond, and he strides out of the room at a clip just short of a trot.

His heart begins to thunder in his chest as he takes the stairs, and he fiddles absently with his left shirt cuff, his mind racing to figure out the right opening line.  He huffs, silently rebuking himself.  He’s training to be a lawyer for heaven’s sake, a man paid to think fast on his feet, a bullshit artist of the highest order, and here he is unsure what he can say to a pretty girl that won’t make him sound like an imbecile.

Her back is to him when he wanders on to the balcony.  As focused as she appears to be on her work, the subtle sound of his footsteps causes her to raise her head suddenly and turn to look at him over her shoulder.  Surprise flashes over her features before her lips curl into a little smile that makes his stomach flop.  “Hi.”

He manages a grin, shoving his hand and stump into the pockets of his tuxedo and meandering forward. “Hello.”  Good start, Jones.  Good start.  He tears his eyes off her and tips his chin toward the balcony.  “Quite a nice place to take photos.”

“Uh, yeah.”  She nods amiably and follows his gaze down below, chuckling.  “This whole wedding is kind of a photographer’s dream.  Everything about it is beautiful.”

Killian hums in agreement, appreciating the flawless lines of her profile as he settles himself next to her at the balcony rail.  “Yes, well,” he says, “Regina would have it no other way.”

She laughs, and the sound is music to his ears.  “Right.” She glances at him with an arched eyebrow.  “I take it you know her well?”

“Aye.”  His shoulders start to relax as he settles into the rhythm of conversation.  “I’m an intern at her law firm.  Robin is one of my professors.”  He extends his hand.  “Killian Jones.”

He thinks he sees her cheeks darken a shade as she acquiesces to shake, her hand soft and warm in his.  “Emma Swan.”

Lord, even her name is perfect.  He smiles.  “Pleasure.”

She releases him, flushing prettily and turning to aim her camera back over the balcony.  “So tell me, Killian Jones,” she says, eye in her viewfinder, “Why do you want to be a lawyer?”

“Well, brain surgeon was a bit out of the question,” he quips, raising his left arm and giving it a wave.

Emma glances at him, and her lashes brush her cheeks as she gives a little laugh.  If she’s fazed by his lack of a hand, she doesn’t show it before she resumes shooting.

Killian licks his lips, bowing his head and debating whether he should risk saying more. “Seemed like a good way to go after people who are corrupt and powerful and try to hold them accountable for their crimes,” he tells her at last.

Her eyebrows lift as she continues to work.  “A hero.”

He snorts.  “I’m no hero, lass.”

She pauses.  “No?” she asks.

“It certainly doesn’t feel that way.”  He shrugs.

Emma lowers her camera again and narrows her eyes slightly at him, and for a second it feels as though she can see through him, see his secrets, see the resentment he harbors toward the corporation that failed to disclose the toxicity of the chemicals that killed his brother.  For a second, he gets the sense those amazing gray-green eyes are reading his soul. Miraculously, whatever she sees does not seem to merit her disapproval.  Emma’s expression softens, and she hums thoughtfully.  She allows her camera to hang from the strap around her neck and detaches the lens, tucking it away in the leather bag slung over her shoulder. “Well, if you’re not a hero, then what are you?”

He chuckles and scratches the back of his head, putting on his most charming grin.  “Dashing rapscallion?”

This earns him another lovely laugh.  “I could buy that,” she admits with an amused smirk.

He hazards a small step forward, noting the way her eyes widen with a small swell of pleasure.  “Not to seem too forward, love, but would you allow me to buy something as well?” he asks hopefully.  “A drink?  Or dinner?”

“Oh.”  Emma’s brow wrinkles, and she looks conflicted before giving him an apologetic smile.  “As fun as that sounds, I, um, I can’t,” she answers awkwardly.  “I’m kind of seeing someone.”

Disappointment washes over him like a cold shower, but he does his best to maintain a pleasant poker face.  “Ah.  A shame.”  He holds his hand out again, and when she takes it, he lifts her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across her knuckles.  “It was nice meeting you, Emma Swan,” he says.  “If you’re ever in need of not-a-hero…”

“I can come find you?” She grins weakly, and he dares to convince himself she looks a little wistful.  

His wink belies the heaviness of his heart as he takes his leave.  “Always.”

*                             *                             *

Killian unbuttons his wool pea coat as he pads along the polished stone floor of the law firm’s main hallway toward Regina’s office on a crisp October afternoon.  He flashes a quick smile at Regina’s assistant and holds his hand up in a perfunctory greeting as she waves him on through from behind her desk.

The thick panel of glass that comprises the door to the corner office vibrates with a thunk when he raps his knuckles against it, and the high-backed leather executive chair behind the desk rotates away from the floor-to-ceiling window behind it to reveal Regina with a sheaf of papers in one hand and a pen in the other, a pair of elegant reading glasses balanced on her nose.  She glances up and gestures for him to come, and he enters the austere but stylish black and white office, lifting the flap of the messenger bag he wears across his chest with his stump and reaching in to retrieve a fat file folder.

“Here’s that child welfare research you requested,” he announces, handing it over.  “I think there are some things in there you’ll find useful.”

Her face brightens, and she thumbs through the neat stack of computer print-outs and photocopies, eyeing the colorful Post-it tabs scattered throughout with approval.  “You notated everything?”

The corner of his mouth quirks.  “As always.” His eyes fall upon some new picture frames on the console table behind her desk, and he nods toward them.  “Got your wedding photos back, I see.”

She beams and swivels a little to glance at them proudly over her shoulder.  “They turned out well, don’t you think?  Spectacular.”

Killian makes a noise of agreement, studying a photo of Regina and her bridesmaids consorting in front of an ornately carved limestone wall and realizing that it must be one of the shots Emma captured while he was watching her work just before the start of the processional.  The photo is indeed marvelous, beautifully composed with Regina dazzling as the central focal point, his eye drawn to the bold contrast of her dark hair and thick lashes and laughing red lips against her pristine skin, the surrounding purple of the bridesmaids’ dresses adding a vibrant punch of color in an image largely consisting of shades of white.  The slightest blur of motion manages to clearly convey the energy and anticipation of the moment.  

Killian takes a minute to appreciate the other photos on the table, each of a similarly precious spot in time, and though he’s already reviewed Emma’s online portfolio and familiarized himself with the quality of her work, his respect for her grows still greater. “Indeed,” he agrees, smiling politely, “Everything about your wedding was brilliant.”  

As they have been since the wedding, thoughts of Emma are accompanied by a pang of melancholy deep in his gut.  She’s not the girl who got away considering that he never really had her, but he’s discovered, much to his dismay, that he misses her, despite only having spoken to her for all of five minutes.  

Regina admires her wedding pictures a second longer before turning back to the research file.  “Well, thank you for this.”

He lifts an eyebrow at her thank-you.  Marriage has indeed made a new woman of Regina Mills, he reflects with amusement, though he knows better than to risk pointing this out.  No sense in testing how far her new magnanimity stretches.  Killian merely bows his head.  “You’re very welcome.”

There’s another reverberating knock on the door, and Regina’s assistant peeks her head in.  She glances at Killian and visibly blushes before she clears her throat.  “Mrs. Locksley,” she says, “The lieutenant governor’s on line two.”

Regina nods, and the woman ducks back out hastily.  Regina waits until the door is solidly shut.  “You have an admirer,” she simpers.

Killian glances at the petite redhead through the glass and scratches behind his ear.  “A pity.”

His boss cocks her head. “Not your type?”

The image of Emma’s laughing eyes flits through his memory, and he shakes his head, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag absently.  “Sadly, no.”

“And what is?”  The corner of Regina’s mouth curls as she reaches for the handset of her phone.  

He throws her a small smile over his shoulder and heads out the door.  “Unavailable.”

*                             *                             *

Killian arrives at the law professors’ department offices late in the afternoon in the spring of his final semester, a couple weeks before graduation.  April rain is soaking Boston today, and he runs a hand through his damp hair absently as he pads down the familiar path toward Professor Locksley’s office, filled with curiosity as to what awaits him.  The text from Robin earlier in the week had been a bit cryptic:

Have something for you.  Care to come by Friday after office hours?

Killian trusts it won’t be an unpleasant surprise – Robin and Regina revealed their decision to hire him at the firm as a junior associate following graduation over a month ago – but his mind still whirls with the possibilities of what could be in store.

The office door is open, and his mentor sits behind his old oak desk at work on his laptop.  The usual neat piles of books and papers cover most of the available surfaces in the wood-paneled room, and a fresh cup of coffee steams on the desk next to Robin’s hand.  

He looks up at Killian’s approach and grins broadly.  “Jones,” he says jovially, waving him in.  “Come in. Shut the door.”

Killian arches an eyebrow, the worn brass knob cool to the touch as he complies.  “What’s up?”  He pulls his bag up over his head and lowers himself into one of the chairs across from desk, settling the bag on the floor next to his feet.

Robin beams and shrugs as he leans back in his chair and considers him.  “Excited about graduation?”

Killian narrows an eye at the silly question.  “Of course.”

“I heard your classmates selected you to give the student address,” Robin comments.

“Oh.  Yeah.”  He colors and leans forward with a chuckle.  “You know they’re mad, the lot of them.”

Robin rumbles happily. “Of course they are.  But it was an excellent choice.  You’ll do a bang-up job.”

Killian’s chest swells, his smile reaching his ears.  “Thank you, Sir.  I’ll try.”

“Do you have any guests coming?”

His lips part a moment, the cheer fading out of his expression, and he closes his mouth and gives a rueful shake of his head.

Robin smiles kindly. “Not even friends?  A girlfriend?”

Killian grins regretfully, his eyes falling toward the floor.  “All my mates are graduating with me,” he says.  “And there isn’t… anyone else… at the moment.”

“Ah.” Robin tilts his head back.  His expression warms.  “Well, that will work nicely then,” he announces, sounding upbeat.

Killian’s brow furrows, and he looks up.  “Sir?”

A smile curls at Robin’s lips.  “Regina and I would like to do a little something for you to celebrate your graduation.”

Killian’s expression softens.  “You mean other than giving me a job?” he chuckles.

Robin laughs.  “Other than that.”  He picks up a framed photo of himself, Regina, and his son, Roland, that sits on his desk.  It shows the three of them playing in the autumn leaves.  It’s an artful upward shot taken from near the ground, the image capturing the trio laughing wildly while loose leaves flutter through the air and the sun shines down upon them through the nearly bare boughs of a great tree. “See this?”

Killian admires the picture. “It’s very nice,” he says with a small nod.

“It’s from the same photographer who did our wedding,” Robin explains.  “Talented girl.  Regina uses her exclusively for all our family events.”

Killian blinks, thoughts of Emma yet again rushing to the forefront of his mind.  He looks back down at the photograph and imagines how she must have lain in the grass with her camera to get this shot, a satisfied smile on her face, stray bits of leaves and grass perhaps embedded in her hair, and the corner of his mouth quirks in a bittersweet grin.  

“We want to hire her for your graduation.”

He freezes.  His wide eyes slowly rise to take in the professor’s amused expression.  “Sorry?”

Robin chuckles. “You’ve worked long and hard for your degree, Killian.  You’re graduating at the top of your class and speaking at commencement, and it’s going to be a big day for you, and we thought it would be nice to have some photos from the occasion.”  He sits forward and clasps his hands on the desk thoughtfully.  “Look,” he says more solemnly, “I hope we’re not overstepping, but it’s usually family members that take pictures at these things, and we know you haven’t any, so we thought perhaps you’d let us see to it if you didn’t have other guests coming.”  He smiles kindly.  “Except I’ll be tied up on stage with the rest of the faculty, and Regina is rubbish with a camera,” he laughs.  “If you let her use one of your guest tickets, Emma will do an amazing job – much better than us or the standard University photographers,” he explains confidently, taking the frame from Killian and setting it back on his desk.

Killian’s heart rises in his throat, and his eyes warm momentarily before he blinks the evidence of his emotion away.   He swallows thickly and nods.  “I don’t know what to say,” he admits.  “You and Regina have done so much…”

Robin smiles and waves it off.  “It’s nothing,” he says.  “You’re a good man, Killian.  You’ve done great work for us, and we know you’re going to having an amazing career. We’re happy to be a part of your success.”  He stands and comes around the desk, extending his hand as Killian jumps to his feet.  They shake, and Robin slaps his back in a quick one-armed hug.  “I trust you’ll allow us to take you out for a celebratory drink after as well?” he says, pulling back, one eyebrow lifted appraisingly.

Killian grins.  “Yes, Sir.”

“Excellent.”  Robin swipes his phone off the desk and brings up his texting app.  “I’ll leave the details up to my lovely wife.  You know how she likes to dictate these things.”

Killian laughs knowingly. “Thank you.” He turns toward the door and reaches for the knob.

“Have a good weekend,” Robin tells him cheerfully, thumbs flying as he taps out a message to Regina. “Oh, and Killian?”

Killian pauses and turns. “Yes?”

“Not that it’s of any interest to you,” he says casually, “But Regina tells me Emma’s quite single at present.”  He locks his phone and looks up with a sly smirk.  

Killian gapes a moment before schooling his features back to neutral.  “I see.”

Robin folds his arms across his chest, looking quite pleased with himself.  “Not much escapes Regina’s notice, you know,” he says proudly, “Not even at her own wedding.”  He winks.

“Indeed.”  Killian’s cheeks grow warm, and he ducks his head with a sheepish smile, pulling the door open. 

*                             *                             *

The day of graduation is warm and breezy, and the university campus is swarming with excited students in a mass of fluttering black robes, square black caps visible in every direction and the air thick with chatter and laughter.  Killian meets up with Robin and the rest of the law school contingent at one of the university’s ancient gates for the class march at seven thirty.

His mentor is resplendent in one of the heavy red faculty robes, a black velvet cap angled atop his head, and he greets him heartily with a firm handshake and a welcoming smile. “Ah!  There he is.  The man of the hour.”

Killian chuckles.  “One of many, Sir.”

Robin steps back and turns, bobbing and weaving a bit to see through the crowd until his face lights up, and he cups his hand to his mouth.  “Regina!”

Killian follows his gaze, and his heart stutters when his eyes fall on Regina, characteristically sharp in a snug skirt and matching suit coat, conferring with the blonde angel he hasn’t seen in a year but would know anywhere.  Emma is just as gorgeous as he remembers, this time dressed in a fitted dark red leather jacket over a knee-length black dress embroidered with colorful flowers at the neckline, her camera bag slung over her torso and her pretty ponytail swaying with every little movement of her head.  High heels accentuate the long line of her legs, and Killian’s mouth runs dry when she turns and sees him, her green eyes sparkling and her cheeks rosy.

The women approach, and Regina smirks knowingly.  “Jones,” she says, “I believe you remember Miss Swan.”

Killian swallows and smiles, bowing his head a touch.  “Hard to forget,” he says.  “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Killian Jones,” Emma drawls teasingly, gripping his outstretched hand.  “My not-a-hero.”

He laughs, his cheeks growing a bit ruddy.  “The same.”

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He beams.  “Thank you.  And thank you for coming.”  He nods to Regina.  “And thank you for having her here, Regina.”

The brunette tosses her head.  “One good turn,” she says agreeably.  “Besides, it’s not every day you get to speak at your law school graduation.”

Emma looks back at him. “Nervous?”

“Do you think I should be?” he asks, the corners of his eyes creasing as he savors her dimpled smile.

She blushes prettily. “Not from what I’ve heard.”

“Oh?”  He arcs an eyebrow mischievously and grins from ear-to-ear at his bosses.  “I smell perjury.”

“Okay,” Regina interrupts flatly, rolling her eyes.  “Perhaps you two can hold off flirting and making eyes until after the Kodak moments are past?”

“We’re not…”  Emma’s protest dies on her lips with one look at Regina’s imperious expression.  She clears her throat, though her smile fails to fade as she hastily preps her camera.  “Right. Sorry.”  She pops the lens cover off and glances behind her before backing up a few steps.  “How about a few shots of the three of you together?”

The day passes like a dream for Killian, a whirlwind of exuberant celebration and congratulations and the repeated shaking of hands, highlighted by the constant underlying awareness that he’s being watched by Emma’s camera, and, more importantly, by Emma herself.  As it was at the wedding, he tries to keep a bead on her without her noticing, but inevitably their eyes meet from time to time, and the open smile she wears for him, as though she’s actually proud of him, makes him want to punch the air in victory.  

As one of the speakers, he’s afforded a seat on the stage with the rest of the faculty following the conferring of individual degrees, and from there he can see the horde of seated guests assembled behind the rows of his classmates.  One ear on the proceedings, he combs the masses until he finds Emma’s gold head.  Her bright face is buried behind her camera, and he smiles.  He’s tempted to wink, knowing that she’ll see it through her lens, but a glance at Regina, who sits next to her, makes him think better of it, and he quickly adopts a look of reverent attention as he redirects his eyes toward the Dean.

When he’s introduced, he stands and takes the podium to applause and some raucous cheers from his classmates, and he chuckles low into the microphone.  “Thank you, Dean Thompkins, for that very generous introduction.”  The assembly falls silent, and for a second the enormity of the crowd strikes him. He folds his lips and takes a deep breath, glancing down at the typed words in front of him.  “Thanks also to you and to this world-renowned faculty for putting up with me and the rest of this class – a lot so unruly that they chose me to speak at this event, partly because they thought it might be amusing and partly because I’m told my accent lends itself to officious occasions.”  He smiles at the laughter that ripples through the audience.  “Thanks also to our esteemed guests and to the family and friends that have come to help us celebrate this important day.”  He looks at Robin and then gives an appreciative nod toward Regina and Emma. “And, of course, a hearty congratulations to you, my fellow graduates.  Well done, mates.”

Killian licks his lips. “We all came here for different reasons, each with a different tale behind our decision to pursue a career in the law.  Some of those stories are happy ones, rooted in tradition or ambition or optimism or selflessness.  My own tale, however, is none of those.  My decision to pursue a career in the law came out of personal tragedy, and while I won’t waste your time over-sharing or rehashing the details of that sad event, suffice it to say that when I entered law school, I did so with a heart full of bitterness and a hunger for vengeance.”  Killian’s brow furrows, heavy with confession, and he finds himself looking nervously to Emma, who has lowered her camera and now listens intently. Her eyes are fixed on him, and though he can’t see into their depths at this distance, he can tell her face is curious and forlorn, and suddenly he feels like he’s speaking just to her.  

My not-a-hero, she’d said.  Hers.  He knows he doesn’t have any right to read too much into her banter, but it isn’t just those words that fill him with hope.  It’s the way she looks him – the warmth in her gaze when they talked at the wedding, the fondness in her expression when they greeted each other this morning, the way she’s looking at him now.  She barely knows him, but despite his insistence that he isn’t a hero, she looks at him as though she knows he could be one, and it makes him want to believe it’s true.  It makes him want to try.

He continues.  “I came to this place driven by anger and wallowing in self-pity, but I have found that life sends you where you need to be, and while my purpose in coming was to gain the skills necessary to try to avenge my family, my time in law school has shown me a bigger purpose – the pursuit of social justice at large.  I have seen just how many opportunities there are to right the wrongs of this world beyond my own personal concerns.  People wrongly imprisoned or punished with harsh sentences that do not befit their crimes.  Members of certain races or faiths or socioeconomic groups who are targeted by unfair laws.  Families separated by legal technicalities and red tape.  Victims of domestic violence with few means of recourse. People who suffer human rights abuses who go unheard.  Refugees who need asylum.  Honest citizens bankrupted or endangered by corrupt people and organizations that see them only as a means to profits and power.”  He swallows hard.  

“The world is full of pain. But I have seen in the last three years, in my experiences here and in the drive and compassion and intelligence of you, my colleagues and my mentors,” he turns and makes eye contact with Robin, “that there is good reason to hope for a better future.  That there are lion hearts out there.  That we can effect change.  That we can find a way to slay the demons and try to right the wrongs. Law school has not only given me the tools with which to fight the good fight, but two things that are equally important – a family of bloody brilliant individuals who are similarly devoted to the cause of making the world a fairer place and the hope to keep chasing justice even when it seems elusive.”  He can see Emma’s eyes shining now, and he answers her watery smile with one of his own. “And if there’s one thing I’m becoming more and more sure about, it’s that happy endings start with hope.”

*                             *                             *

Killian salutes with his tumbler as Robin and Regina, arms around one another, wave and head for the door of the pub.  Perched atop a tall barstool, his elbows planted on the small table they were sharing, he levers his foot against the rung on the stool and bounces his knee when Emma leans over from the seat next to him.

“You know, for not-a-hero, you give a pretty rousing speech,” she says, her voice raised to compete with the cacophony of simultaneous celebrations happening all over bar.

He grins, his eyes dropping to his tumbler, relishing the fact that she’s near enough that he can detect the scent of her perfume.  “What can I say?  I learned from the best.”  He gestures with his glass out the window at his bosses’ retreating profiles.

Emma chuckles and narrows her eyes a little.  “Again with the modesty.”

“Who, me?”  He laughs.  “I’m a lawyer, remember, love?  I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Her eyes glint as she considers him, swirling her own drink around in the glass beneath her nose. “Fine then.  Prove it.  Tell me some things about yourself that aren’t modest.”

Killian hums and straightens his back.  “Oh, I love a challenge.”  He swallows a mouthful of rum, enjoying the pleasant burn as it washes down his throat, and turns back to face her expectant gaze with a raised eyebrow.  “I’m devilishly handsome.”  His smile widens when she rolls her eyes but concedes the point with a nod.  He begins tracing the rim of his glass with a fingertip.  “I’m ace at liar’s dice.  I read 800 words per minute.  I’m kind to children and animals.  I’m always a gentleman.  I’m quite good at making grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Emma laughs, and Killian marvels for the hundredth time at how alive the sound makes him feel.  He tilts his head and looks her square in the eye, his face becoming more solemn.  “And not a day’s gone by since we first met that I haven’t thought of you.”

Her eyebrows rise, and her lips part a little as she sits there and blinks at him in awe.  “Really?” she breathes at last.

He nods somberly. “Aye.”  

There’s a pause, and then Emma moves, slowly closing the distance between them.  His heart races and an expression of almost tearful rapture overwhelms his features when her lashes flutter downward.  

“Good.”  She presses her mouth to his, soft and tentative at first, but he answers with a deep intake of breath and cups her jaw, and they come together as though drawn by gravity, lips parting and moving with one another like they were always made to do this.  He allows his tongue to graze hers, and she responds aggressively in a way that makes him groan, the kiss growing deep and soulful, and it’s so full of longing and happiness that Killian feels as though his chest is going to burst with pure joy.  

He pants when Emma finally breaks away, pulling back just far enough to be able to gaze into his blue eyes with a shy smile while he thumbs the tiny cleft in her chin affectionately.

“I love grilled cheese,” she murmurs.

Killian chuckles, his fingers sliding forward to cradle the back of her head.  “That,” he says, leaning in to seal his lips over hers again, “is excellent.”