#gotta readjust the height of my desk still

[nabaath-areng]

My knee feels better today? It's still feeling jello-y, and stairs make it feel icky and burn slightly, but little to no pain whatsoever! No idea what caused it but I'm more than happy if it solves itself—

[harlot-of-oblivion]

The Devil’s In The Details

You wait in the diner for a pesky devil to arrive before launching into more detail about the case. After some flirty banter and a heated rant, both of you come to an accord and you walk away with a new partner what may know how to melt your icy walls.

Chapter 4: The Devil’s New Partner 

You knew from reading Dante’s profile that he would be unpredictable and possibly dangerous. And after some light digging around outside the city, you have learned just how much of a troublemaker he really is before setting foot into Devil May Cry. But you were not prepared for this the undeniable truth that came to light after your meeting with him:

The Legendary Devil Hunter annoys the fuck out of you.

You are hunched over a table in the corner booth of the Simmer Down Diner, still reeling from your first encounter with the infamous Dante while you wait for your food. The only saving grace from your irritable thoughts are your pensive drawings. You put the finishing touches on the Devil May Cry sign and readjust your glasses before turning a page of your sketchbook to doodle the shop itself…which is just a total mess. That didn’t really surprise you at all, but the sheer amount of empty whiskey bottles tells you that his carefree attitude might all just be an elaborate act. And as for the rest of the trash…you get the impression that he really loves pizza and doesn’t even bother paying the bills on time.

Your pencil glides across the paper as you draw a rough sketch of the jukebox and the rotting demon pinned to the wall with swords before moving onto the exasperating owner himself. Everything about him just irks you for some reason; maybe it’s the lack of professionalism or his not so subtle flirting in between the jabs at your profession. Never in your life have you felt such a strong urge to punch someone immediately after meeting them. Not even Fuller has ever managed to get this far under your skin after years of knowing him…and yet Dante somehow has you breathing fire in just a few short minutes!

The lines of your drawing get darker as you press the pencil harder against the page, being careful not to break it while you channel your anger into the sketch of Dante. You got a good look at him during your little tirade as you leaned in real close over his desk, noticing little details such as the silvery sheen of his messy white hair and scruffy beard. And those striking blue eyes…flashing red for a split second before twinkling with amusement while watching you rant just a few inches away from his face.

You hate to admit it…but a part of you also finds him infuriatingly fascinating.  

The soft ringing of a bell breaks your concentration as the door swings open. You glance up from your sketchbook to see the devil himself entering the diner. Well, this is a surprise, you thought with quirked brow, partly convinced that maybe he’s actually interested in helping you with the case. The striking blue eyes you were just pondering about start scanning through the modest crowd. You straighten yourself up in the booth, revealing your whereabouts with a patient wave while you hastily close your sketchbook.

Dante’s lips curl into a playful smirk when he spots you among the crowd. You take this opportunity to check him out while taking a long sip of your drink. The first thing you notice while he struts on over to your table is just how intimidatingly tall he is compared to you. His long red jacket flares out behind him, allowing you a sneak peek of the guns strapped to his lower back. Your eyes linger over his broad shoulders and muscular chest before moving further down his body. You almost choke on your drink once you get a load of the very prominent bulge at the front of the black leather pants.

Either he’s packing some serious heat down there…or that’s the cleverest way to hide a gun I’ve ever seen!

You casually clear your throat as you set your drink down, hoping that it’s enough to cover up the sudden flush of heat rushing through your body. But the subtle twitch of his mouth tells you that he totally noticed you staring at his crotch. “I know, I know,” he starts when he gets close enough to your table, “if being this sexy was a crime, then I’d be guilty as charged!” he boldly claims while pointing at himself with a confident grin.

“Pff! More like if vanity was a crime,” you scoff with a roll of your eyes before leaning back in your seat while crossing your arms. “I’m assuming since you’re here that you’ve changed your mind?”

Dante doesn’t seem to be bothered by your chilly retort as he rests one hand on the table, really showing off his incredible height as he leans over the table with that stupid grin still on his face. “Lemme hear more about this case of yours and we’ll see, Detective.”

You study him for a moment before letting out a resigned sigh. “Well then, why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Dante?” you offer while pointing to the vacant seat across from you.

“Hey, there’s no need for that…just Dante is fine,” he informs with a charming wink, blue eyes gleaming with mischief as he slides into the booth. He pushes the table a little closer towards you so that he can fit into the small booth comfortably, long legs stretching out until both of his knees are on either side of your own legs. You grunt at the inconvenience but do not complain since you can’t blame him for being so damn tall to begin with. He rests his arms on the table as soon as he’s all situated and gives you his undivided attention as he picks up right where you left off.

“So, what’s this about needing my help to catch a serial killer?”

You slip off your glasses and sit up in your seat. “I believe that either demons or a Devil Arm is involved with some disappearances as well as the five murders,” you explain, but stop short when the waitress approaches your table. She offers you a refill before asking Dante what he would like to drink while batting her eyelashes at him. His roguish gaze never strays from you as he politely declines to order, only giving the simpering young woman a once over from the corner of his eye. The waitress pouts and lets him know that she will be nearby if he changes his mind before sulking away.

“Okay...let’s go back to the beginning,” you sigh while putting your glasses back on. “There’s been a drastic increase of missing people over the past two months. Most of them seem like your typical case of runaways and such, but some of them are highly suspicious. And when I looked a little closer…” you trail off, lacing your fingers on the table as you continue in a more hushed tone. “I noticed a pattern with every single case: all of them exhibited dissociative behavior before disappearing.”

Dante tilts his head and narrows his eyes while considering your first suspicion. “Alright…some people go missing, but what’s that gotta do with demons?” he questions with a small shrug.

“Not a damn thing at first, but I didn’t even see a connection until the murders,” you admit while sliding your sketchbook to the middle of the table, turning it around so that he can see your drawings and notes as you flip to the correct page. “This is the first victim: shot through the chest by a shotgun.” You give him a moment to study your grisly sketch before turning the page. “The second victim was stabbed multiple times.” Another pause to examine the gruesome scene before flipping the page. “The third victim was shot in the back of the head at point blank range.”

You feel his knees twitch against your leg, but you chalk it up to him being lost in thought as he scratches the back of his head. “I dunno…these all seem pretty random, Detective,” he contends, looking back at you skeptically through his silvery hair.

“And yet they all have one thing in common: a wound inflicted by a needle of some kind was found on all their bodies,” you counter while flipping back through the pages, pointing out your depiction of the wound in your autopsy notes. “At first, the medical examiner thought it was from drug use. But when he found the exact same wound again on the other two victims, he took a closer look and discovered the residue of some unknown substance.” You turn to the next macabre drawing and reveal your first break in the case. “It wasn’t until the fourth victim came swinging in that we were able to extract a small sample for testing.”

Your explanation gets put on pause when the waitress appears with your food. Dante picks up your sketchbook as she places a huge plate of the diner’s special down on the table. Your stomach growls hungrily as you stare down at the pot roast sub smothered with gravy resting atop a heaping pile of fries. The waitress asks if you need anything else, looking a bit perturbed going by her pallid face as she hurriedly refills your drink despite doing so just a few minutes ago. That’s what you get for eavesdropping, Sweetie, you thought wryly, showing her some mercy with a shake of your head. She rushes off to the back of the diner while you grab some utensils with an amused smirk.

You take off your glasses and catch Dante staring at you with a quirked brow. You glower right back at him as your mouth twists into an annoyed grimace before digging into your hearty meal. A husky chuckle rumbles from his throat as he nonchalantly flips through your sketchbook, adding more fuel to your already inflamed temper by not even asking permission first. But as you take a bite of the delicious roast beef and gravy, you decide to just let it go since it’s just your investigatory sketchbook; there shouldn’t be anything private in those pages anyways.

“Did you draw all of these?” he asks, genuine curiosity evident in his voice as he continues to look through the various sketches of past cases.

Your head nods while you chew and swallow your food. “Drawing important details helps me organize my thoughts,” you answer before munching on some salty fries.

Dante looks up from your sketchbook. “You’re really good,” he admits, knee bumping playfully against your leg again with the compliment.

“It’s nothing special,” you reply coolly despite feeling warm tingles coiling within the pit of your belly at his sincere praise. “It’s just a glorified version of doodling during class when you think about it...anyway, where were we?” You quickly move on before making a complete fool of yourself in front of the cocksure devil who is currently smiling like a smug cat while brushing your leg with his knee yet again. What are we? Teenagers? you mentally scoff, shooing his knee away with a swift kick against one of his leather boots before carrying on with your explanation.

“This is the fifth and most recent victim,” you continue while reaching across the table towards your sketchbook, barely managing to flip the appropriate page since you are a great deal shorter than him. “We’re still in the process of determining the exact cause of death, but we found the same exact wound on the body as well.”

Dante nods and turns the page while you take a few more bites of your meal. “What’s up with Frankenstein’s wife here?” he chortles, turning your sketchbook around and flashing you with this morning’s drawing made in the morgue.

“Oh!” you gasp, covering your mouth with a cheap paper napkin. “It’s uh…an inside joke,” you mumble with your mouth full, thankful that he cannot see your sheepish grin as you gulp down your food. “The strangled victim’s body is now missing from the morgue.” You dab the corners of your mouth with the napkin and take a sip of your drink before meeting his intrigued gaze. “And the test results for the unknown substance came back completely blank too,” you divulge with frustrated sigh.

“Alright, so lemme get this straight,” he mutters, closing your sketchbook as he leans in closer over the table. “All these people ended up dead with some kinda poison inside them?”

“It’s more like a venom since it has to be injected,” you correct with a brief nod.

Dante hums in thought while you go back to eating your meal in silence for a few moments. “Some demons can kill that way,” he muses with a casual shrug before nodding his head in a questioning manner. “But what about the missing people from the start? Did they have this venom too?”

“Some relatives and close friends report seeing what looks like injection marks on some of the missing people prior to their disappearance. I know, I know,” you murmur when that damnable brow of his quirks in disbelief. “It’s a bit of stretch. But when I talked with the victim’s family and friends, they all noticed that something was off with them before their death as well.”

You push your plate aside to lean in closer as you list off some key similarities. “Spotty memory, bouts of dizziness, and just overall despondent to the world around them…it’s the exact same symptoms of the missing people before they all disappeared!” you exclaim softly with a light slam of your fist against the table. “I know it’s a long shot, but everything in my gut tells me that all of this is more than just coincidence. And with the amount of people involved along with the fact that we’re the capital of demon town right now…” You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply through your nose before letting out a shuddering sigh while your mind glosses over old memories.

“Something horrible is going on in Red Grave again,” you murmur, eyes snapping open to meet his intense gaze. “And I’m gonna stop whatever or whoever is behind it all before it gets worse.”

Dante stares at you from across the table, mouth slightly agape while his blue eyes shine with wonderment. Your determined gaze stays on him while you wait for that fiery red flash to appear again, heart skipping a beat when it flickers for a moment before receding back within those stunning blue depths. “You’ve definitely caught my attention, Detective,” he admits huskily, eyes now gleaming with rakish charm as he fidgets around in his seat. “There’s just one thing we need squared away before getting this party started.”

You nod your head, already knowing that he wants to bargain for his services. “The RGC P.D. can’t technically pay you for your assistance, but we can offer you a certain deal in exchange for your cooperation.”

“Like a plea deal?” he quips with a cheeky grin.

“Not exactly…unless you’re guilty of something,” you explain with a puzzling tilt of your head before shooting him with an icy glare. “And if you say anything about your good looks one time-”

“Being this handsome is not the only thing I’m guilty of,” he cuts you off, completely ignoring your warning as he leans in even closer over the table. “But you’re gonna have to do better than that to get a confession outta me, Detective,” he murmurs, eyes darting down to stare at your frowning lips while a suave smile spreads across his scruffy face.

Your eyes squint in suspicion, sensing that he’s purposefully trying to get a rise out of you for some odd reason.  “I’ll have you know that I’m one of the best at conducting an interrogation,” you boast, slowly leaning in so close that you can feel his hot breath blow across your face. “So, don’t think for a minute that this cheap and debonair act will distract me.”

Dante meets your challenging gaze while you hear what sounds like a low and gravelly purr emanating from deep within his chest. The clamor of surrounding customers in the diner seems to fade away as both of you just stare unblinkingly at each other. Neither of you are willing to back down until the waitress hesitantly comes by your table just a few seconds later. You ask for the check while slowly leaning back in your seat without breaking eye contact, feeling his knee buck against your leg in amusement.

As soon as the waitress scurries away, you let out an exasperated sigh while crossing your arms. “Now, as I was saying…in exchange for your help in this case, we promise to wipe your ridiculously long record clean.”

“Record?” he repeats while blinking in surprise. “You guys actually have a file on me?”

“Yep,” you affirm with a nod. “Most mercenaries in your line work have a file in Red Grave, but none of them are as colorful as yours,” you remark with an impressed shrug.

Dante scratches his chin thoughtfully, but then his eyes light up with what is probably a maddening idea. “How about this,” he begins while flipping through your sketchbook, stopping on the page with your most recent drawing before holding it up next to his face. “A clean record plus…you draw me like one of your French girls?” he proposes with a wicked grin while his eyebrows wiggle suggestively.

The last strand of your patience snaps at your sketch of Dante staring back at you. You stab the remainder of your meal forcefully with a fork as you hop out of your seat. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you snarl vehemently while reaching over and snatching your sketchbook away from his grubby hands. “I better not hear anymore pickup lines from that crude mouth of yours if we work together! And while we’re on the subject,” you sneer, not able to hold back the oncoming flood of pure rage surging through your body as you sit back down.

“I will never see you as something more than just my partner during this case because it’s very unprofessional and quite frankly, I find you incredibly annoying! And I can’t believe that out all the hunters I could’ve chosen…I just had to pick the most infuriating man I’ve ever met!”

Some of the babbling conversations nearby noticeably dies down as your explosive rant comes to an end. You pinch your brow and take a couple deep breaths, ignoring the gawking devil sitting across from you as well as the curious stares from some of the customers. Great…I had one shot at this and I fucked it all up, you mentally berate yourself as the angry humming of your mind turns into quiet regret. Nothing new there…I should be used to it by now. You prepare yourself for inevitable rejection and open your eyes…only to be taken aback by the infatuated expression on Dante’s face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask warily, squirming in your seat a little while he continues to gaze at you with that strange look in his eyes.  

Dante smiles as he leans back in his seat. “You’re really cute when you’re mad.”

You scoff and roll your eyes at him. “I’m not mad.”

“I can hear ya buzzing like an angry honeybee from here,” he snickers with a shake of his head. He watches you for a few moments, silently sizing you up while you put your sketchbook back inside your riding jacket. “Just add free pizza and beer to the clean record and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “Really? Even after I was such a bitch to you?” you murmur, wondering why he still insists on helping you despite showing him your cold façade and terrible temper.

“I got nothing else better to do,” he replies with a small shrug. “Plus, you’re one helluva spitfire…I really like that,” he adds with a lascivious wink before turning the flirty tone down to a minimum. “You have a warm heart behind that icy wall of yours…maybe if I stick around long enough it’ll thaw out.”

“Like I’ll ever let you get that close to begin with,” you grumble under your breath while crossing your arms defensively.

Dante chuckles softly at your stubbornness. “We’ll just have to wait and see now won’t we, Detective?” he teases with a roguish smirk while his husky voice ignites the warm tingling in the pit of your stomach once more. “Do we gotta deal?” he inquires, playfully poking your leg with his knee again while raising an expectant brow.  

You grunt and kick his boot again before giving his suggestion some thought. “I do know the best places for pizza and beer,” you muse aloud, listing off all the pizza parlors and bars in Red Grave City in your head. “Fine… It’s a deal,” you accept his terms with a firm nod of your head while offering your hand for a handshake to solidify the agreement.

Dante clenches his fist victoriously before clasping your hand and giving it an earnest shake. You cannot help but notice just how warm his huge hand feels against your skin. The corners of your lips curl into small smile of relief, finally feeling like you’ve successfully taken the first crucial step in cracking this perplexing case. You pull your hand back as the waitress dashes over to drop off your check before zooming away as quickly as possible.  

“So, when do we get started?” he asks, clapping his hands and rubbing them together in anticipation.

“Right away,” you inform while taking out your wallet, throwing down some cash for your meal plus a little extra for any trouble you may have caused while dining here.

“Ooh sounds like someone’s eager for more,” he notes playfully as you slide out of the booth, pushing his leg aside with an aggravated huff.

You make your way towards the exit while Dante follows suit, slipping by you to hold the door open while you exit the diner. “I need to head back and prepare for your arrival at the station,” you proclaim as he follows close behind you. “Don’t want anyone arresting you on the spot,” you explain while walking towards your motorcycle, which is parked just a little way down the street.

It only takes Dante a couple of long strides to get ahead of you. “Wouldn’t mind getting arrested if it meant getting frisked by you,” he jests while spinning around to face you, never breaking his pace as he gives you a flirtatious wink.

“I thought I told you quite clearly that I’m not interested,” you tersely remind him with a harsh scowl.

“Whaaaaat? I’m just enforcing the law of attraction,” he claims while holding his hands up in mock defense.

You scoff at his cheesy pickup lines as you briskly brush past him, never looking back until you arrive at your bike. “Think you can come by the station tomorrow?” you inquire, checking out your ride for any problems before picking up your helmet and turning around to face your new partner.

Dante bends down into a dramatic bow. “It’s a date,” he boldly declares with a quick flick of his wrist.

A single red rose suddenly appears in his hand and he offers it to you with a captivating smile. You look down at the rose skeptically as you reach for it, wondering if he always keeps fresh roses up his sleeve…or maybe he just stopped by a florist shop on the way here. Either way, it still does not stop this warm fuzzy feeling from rising in your chest as you take the rose from him…but you quickly slip your helmet on in hopes of hiding the fact that this romantic gesture had any effect on you.  

“I’ll uh…see ya then, Dante,” you murmur with a small wave, noting the gratifying sound of his name against your tongue as you hop on your bike.

Dante waves back with triumphant smirk. “Adios, Detective. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

And with those final words of farewell, you switch on the ignition and rev your bike a couple times before bolting down the street. The rumbling roar of the engine drowns out all thought while you drive through the city, completely focused on the road and not on the insufferable man that really grinds your gears. Your mind is buzzing with elation despite agreeing to work with a man that takes joy from annoying the fuck out of you. But then again, he just agreed to work with a woman that has no qualms about giving him a piece of her mind at the top of her lungs…and that’s what you find most puzzling about your new partner.

You slowly step on the brakes as you come to a stop light at an intersection. As you wait for the green light, you happen to look down and notice that the red rose still in your hand. A few of its petals have been torn off, but it’s surprisingly no worse for wear from the harsh winds. You flip up the visor of your helmet and hold the romantic flower up for closer inspection before bringing it to your nose. Its signature fragrance rekindles the warm tingles within the pit of your stomach, licking like some smoldering flame at the cold shell that constantly surrounds you. You melt for minute while Dante’s words from earlier whisper in the back of your mind:  

You have a warm heart behind that icy wall of yours…maybe if I stick around long enough it’ll thaw out.

People have called you a lot of things: a buzzkill, a surly hothead, an ice bitch…but no one’s ever called you warmhearted. Hearing those words makes you feel-

The blaring sound of a car horn knocks you back down to reality. You immediately notice that the light has finally turned green, so you quickly put the pedal to metal and take off like a bat out of hell. Your mind focuses on the road once more, but the sight of the red rose still in your hand enduring the rough wind reminds you that you’re no longer working alone…you have a troublesome devil with a pension for rousing your temper on your side.

And together you’re going to find and stop this new threat lurking beneath Red Grave City.

My Ao3

My Masterlist if you want more 💖

Tagging: @bettybattaglia @drusoona and @exsultry

[valmerappreciationhours]

Room 313

Clenny Week Day 4--omg they were roommates

(read on ao3 here)

Clyde Donovan has been looking forward to meeting his college roommate for months. Unfortunately for him, Kenny McCormick isn't quite what he was expecting.

“You smell that? That’s the smell of new beginnings, my compatriots.”

               “Bold to say for s-someone who peaked in hh—hu—high school.”

               “Smells like manure and sweat.”

               Clyde stopped in his trek to turn and glare at his companions, varsity jacket-clad arms crossed. His height certainly wasn’t accomplishing any wonders in terms of intimidation. “You’re just grumpy since your boyfriend didn’t come with us.”

               Craig’s mouth remained set in a straight line, but a small crease formed between his brows. “I’m simply stating facts. And you didn’t say anything about Jimmy’s comment.”

               “Jimmy’s comment was funny.”

               “I aim to please.”

               As the group continued their teasing, a cold autumn breeze picked up, whisking a few leaves past the party. The spare bits of concrete that were visible under throngs of students were littered with empty chip bags and discarded cigarettes. Booths advertising various clubs and events were scattered throughout the square, with a couple of plain buildings filling the space beyond. The clatter of voices and the rustling of bodies generated a cacophony that was a chore to speak over, but the three had plenty of practice.

               “Who has the map? I’m r-ready to get out of this.” Jimmy had cut over to an empty area by a trash can and quickly readjusted his crutches.

               “I second that.” Craig swiftly unfolded the campus map from his jacket pocket. “We’re going to my residence hall first. Token’s waiting with Stripe in the car and I need to get her set up.”

               “Aw, Craig!” Clyde whined but sped up to keep up with the long strides. “You mean they’re not close?”

               “Did you not look at any of your papers?”

               The silence from Clyde was deafening.

               Jimmy laughed. “Nice to know Clyde’s still the same old guy ev-even at a b-b-bi- a big university.” It was not a big university. It may quality as big by some standards, or a university by others, but the community college was far from any Ivy League school. The minimal requirements and low fees were what made the school attractive more than anything else.

               “But I’ll be so quick! I just wanna meet my roommate and then I’ll be right back to help set up! I’ve been waiting forever for this.” Clyde’s excitement and fierce determination sparkled in his brown eyes, and Craig sighed.

               “Do you need the map?”

               “He needs the map,” Jimmy confirmed.

 Clyde raced across campus, dodging other new students and luggage. His backpack thumped uncomfortably against his back, but it was no match for the exhilaration of discovering who he was going to be rooming with. Hopefully someone cool who also loved football and parties! Maybe even a science nerd like Craig, who would be down with making miniature explosions in their dorm. Clyde nearly toppled two boys hefting a crate, and made hasty apology as he scrambled up the stairs. Third floor, room 310, 311, 312, yes, 313! The door was cracked, and Clyde thrust it open to finally reveal…

               An empty room.

               Wait, no, there was a ratty brown backpack on the floor. Clyde glanced around, searching for something, anything more. He couldn’t have run here just to beat seeing his roommate.

               The bunkbeds lacked any personal items, there were no posters, no pets. The beige walls and gray rug stared back, empty and unyielding. The desk, aside from coffee stains and indentations, bore no mark of human life. Clyde stood for a moment more, hoping for something before he left to go help his friends set up.

               His saving grace was an incomprehensible muffle from behind him.

               Clyde whipped around fast enough to produce a neck injury, and was met with an individual ingulfed by an orange coat covered in patches. His jeans were completely torn at the knees, showing off scrapes and bruises underneath. His shoes were unidentifiable simply by the sheer amount of duct tape holding them together. He stared, and the other stared back, blue eyes unblinking. Eventually the muffle sounded again, but now that Clyde was paying attention it sounded much more like “do you live here?”

               “Yeah, I live here.” Clyde flashed a smile, leaning against the doorframe. A surefire way to make a good impression, and if this orange blob was his roommate, he wanted to look like the coolest dude on the face of the Earth.

               The boy under the coat stuck out a hand, showing off fingerless gloves. Clyde took it, wondering if the gloves were a sign his roommate was chill or if he was a former homeless person. At any rate, his hands were clammy anyway.

               “Kenneth McCormick,” he introduced through a thick layer of fabric. “You want top or bottom?”

               Clyde let his hand keep shaking, but his cheeks reddened. “Clyde Donovan, and, uh, that’s pretty straightforward.”

               Kenneth put his hands back in the pockets of the orange monstrosity. “Well, we gotta figure it out before bed.”

               Oh, geez, that was straightforward! “Hey, man, you seem alright and all, and I’m sure you’re attractive under that hood, but…”

               One could practically see the pieces fit their way together in Kenneth’s mind, and his eyebrows shot up. He took a hand and pointed behind Clyde, who turned to see the bunk beds. Well, what did that have to do with---ohh. Oh.

               Clyde turned back in horror, cheeks surely flaming. His roommate’s eyes crinkled at the corners, alive with mirth. “Uh, why don’t you have first pick? My treat.” He quickly started moving around to the exit. “I actually gotta go help my friend set up, so, I’ll see you later, I guess.” Once out, Clyde forced a casual stroll down the hall until he couldn’t see his room anymore, then bolted.

               He was going to run to Craig’s room, and he was not going to cry all over his friends because he totally bombed his first impression. Jimmy would tell a joke and make everything better, and somehow Token would provide a solution that would make perfect sense and Clyde would wonder how he hadn’t thought of it. Yeah, it would work out. Just the thought of his friends lessened the burn in his face. It would probably be brushed off and forgotten by the time he returned.

               Kenneth McCormick had not forgotten. Clyde was sure of this when he headed back to the room, backpack and bags in tow, and his roommate leaned down from the top bunk. Instantly, those blue eyes crinkled. “I chose top,” he said through the coat, and Clyde wanted to scream.

                 “I’m doomed,” Clyde said into his mug.

               “You’re doomed,” Craig agreed, not batting an eye.

               “What is it this time?” Token didn’t look up from his place on the tablet screen. He may be miles away at a fancy university, but he wasn’t getting out of Those Guys hangouts that easily.

               Clyde laid his head on the wood grain of the coffee shop table. “My roommate.”

               “Shame.” Craig blew on the steam billowing off his mug. “My roommate is the coolest person in the world.”

               “I don’t m-mmm-mind my roommate either,” Jimmy added. “What’s the issue with yu-yours?”

               “The worst first impression in the world,” Clyde groaned, wallowing in misery. “And he’s never there so now the only thing he thinks of me is that I think about gay sex.”

               “So, he’s p-pretty much got it.”

               Craig snorted into his tea and even Token howled with laughter through the speaker, Jimmy beaming with pride. Clyde huffed, and Jimmy reached out to poke his cheek.

               “Hey, it’s n-n-not a big deal. Do you really wanna be bent on the op-o-opinn-opinion of someone whose name is Kenneth? Th-that’s a nerd name, Clyde.”

               That was it. The gamechanger. Clyde’s head snapped up. “You’re right! That is a nerd name!” Finally, it felt like things were starting to come together again, when Clyde’s face fell. “Oh no. I already gave him a nickname.” There went that sacred sliver of hope.

               “I thought you didn’t talk to him,” Token pointed out.

               Clyde leaned onto his hand. “I said he’s never there. We’ve talked and stuff.”

               “H-how cool was the nickname, th-though?”

               “I just shortened it to Kenny! I thought, hey, I don’t wanna be saying this long fancy name all the time!”

               “You gave him a nickname!” a new voice yelped, causing three of the four boys to jolt. “Oh god, you’re in it now, Clyde!” Tweek hovered above the table, a full coffee pot in one hand, a navy-blue teapot in the other. Despite the shouting and nervous energy radiating off of him, not a drop of liquid found its way onto the table or anyone’s clothes. After years, Tweek was bound to become an expert on handling drinks simultaneous to freaking out.

               On the screen, Token bowed his head solemnly. “The Tweek has spoken. You can’t come back from this.” Craig nodded as Tweek refilled the cups around the table.

               “C-come on, guys!" Jimmy tried, ever an optimist. “Clyde may have st-st-started out on his dumber foot—”

               “I’m gonna let you continue since you’re defending me.”

               “—b-but he can ssstill pull through!” Jimmy reached out to grab Clyde’s round cheeks. “Who could say no to this ch-charming face!”

               “Gah!”

               “Anyone with sense.”

               “Literally everyone I can think of.”

               “Hm.” Jimmy pulled his hands back and poured more sugar into his mug. “I’ve worked with w-worse audiences.”

               “So, you still have faith in me?” Clyde looked to his friend, brown eyes large and vulnerable. He was a drowning voyager, fighting for his life in the open sea, and Jimmy, his good friend Jimmy, was right there with a lifeboat.

               Jimmy averted his eyes and loudly sipped his coffee. Fake-Clyde was left to die in the cold water.

               The next time Clyde truly interacted with his roommate, it was just past two in the morning on a Saturday. The unlocking of the door roused him from a light sleep, in which he was doing a great job at crumpling his textbook pages. Clyde quickly shut the book and looked over to the other boy, expecting to find him drunk or maybe high. What Clyde did not expect was to see Kenny sporting an apron and black slacks, a to-go cup and battered paper in one hand. A scarf wrapped around his face, effectively blocking out wind, as well as Clyde from getting a look at his face.

When Kenny noticed that Clyde was awake, he lit up and quickly closed the distance, shutting the door with his hip. “Hey man, check this out.” Clyde was barely awake, mind still muddled from sleep, but his brain worked hard enough to understand the colorful paper Kenny sat in front of him. “Are you going?”

Clyde rubbed his eye, works still sticking to form. “Sure, I love a good party. Didn’t think you were a party guy.”

Kenny laughed, muffled. “That hurts, man. Why not?”

Clyde yawned, leaning back down to his homework. His words slurred with sleep. “You gotta name like Kenneth. Dassa nerd name.”

He vaguely registered the creak of the bunk as Kenny climbed up. “Hey, you gave me a nickname all on your own. That’s admitting that I’m cooler than my birth name.” The flop of fabric against mattress. “Go to that party with me, I’ll show you how cool I can be.”

Clyde mumbled into his book. “Bet.” If Kenny was still talking, he didn’t tune in, too busy getting drool all over his homework.

                 The closer time got to the awaited party, the more Clyde started hearing about it around campus. It became a hot topic in the halls and overtook class whisperings; what people were gonna wear, who they were going with, how crazy it was bound to be. Clyde was feeling like hot stuff for having already known about it (even if he needed the sight of the flyer to remind him), and all the buzz only made him more excited. This would mark his first real, off-the-chain college party. Quite possibly more important than first steps, if you asked him.

               Clyde’s pile of homework sat untouched on his bunk. Not today; there were more important things, like the crisp varsity jacket laying on the chair and money on the desk for a dinner of tacos before. He was working on the knots of his sneakers when the door banged open.

               “I’m just saying, laser eyes would just be a hazard to itself.” A boy with black hair followed Kenny into the room, still wrapped up in conversation. Clyde may have known next to nothing about the topic, but it sounded like a good one.

               Kenny swung around to face Clyde. “Hey, dude, this is Stan. He’s gonna be going with us since his one true super best friend left him for a fancy school.”

               “And there was no way I was going with Cartman.” Stan’s eyes were intense, practically radiating revulsion toward the Cartman fellow.

               “And there was no way he was going with Cartman,” Kenny agreed, nodding. While he set to work on his parka zippers, Clyde grinned over at the newcomer.

               “The more the merrier, man!”

               “I’m also bringing alcohol,” Stan mentioned, holding up the twelve pack he carried.

               Clyde glanced at the label and humbly dropped to a knee. “The good stuff! You’re a savior, Stan-the-man.”

               “Don’t bother,” Kenny’s muffle advised, “his heart already belongs to a faraway prince.” Clyde turned to respond, but was shocked by lack of the raggedy orange parka. Instead, Kenny was decked out in a marginally better-looking hoodie and a skirt over leggings. That was a surprise, but Clyde couldn’t say it didn’t look great on Kenny. Unfortunately, a surgeon’s mask successfully continued to hide his face, and Clyde couldn’t help from groaning.

               “Am I ever gonna see your face?”

               Kenny strode over and patted Clyde’s back. “I’m too cute; it’s for the good of humanity that I contain it.”

               “He gets sick easy,” Stan supplied from Kenny’s other side. Kenny punched him in the arm, and he glared back. “Dinner, first, right?”

               “Yeah!” Clyde punched a fist in the air. “Ya boy wants tacos!”

                 It was beautiful. So beautiful.

               Music thumped and blared out of the house, alight with strobes and the glowing cherries of cigarettes. People spilled out onto the street, most with drinks in hand. The only ones that looked like they weren’t having a good time were sitting against the side of the house, puffing on cigarette smoke. Clyde thought they looked just a bit menacing in all black with dark stares, but Kenny strode right up and held out a fist to the lone girl.

               “’Ey, Henri!” She huffed and bumped the offered fist. “Glad you could make it!”

               “Whatever.” She took another drag. “We’re just at this conformist party to prove a point that all this is still meaningless and doesn’t drive off the darkness.”

               Clyde grimaced. Geez, these guys hit heavy. Kenny just looked infinitely brighter next to them, with his vibrant orange hoodie and blond hair.

               To Clyde’s surprise, Kenny was agreeing with her. “I hear that,” he said, muffled, “but there’s nothing wrong with postponing inevitable darkness a while. Save me a smoke later?”

               If Clyde wasn’t mistaken, he just saw the girl’s black lips twitch upwards. “I won’t wait around.”

               Clyde looked at Stan for some clarification, mouth agape. Stan shrugged. “Goth kids, that’s Henrietta.” He pointed out the girl. “They’re a bunch of downers, but I’m pretty sure Kenny’s immune to everything the world’s got.”

               Kenny rejoined their trio and led the way in. If the excitement and energy were evident outside, it was even better in the house. Pounding bass, crowded halls, laughter and dancing and so many attractive people. Clyde was sure he’d died and gone to heaven. This was where he was meant to be, and Kenny’s side pushing up against him in the crowd just made it better.

               After a few drinks, the group lost Stan, but neither was too worried. “He’ll be passed out drunk somewhere,” Kenny claimed, and Clyde was too busy being distracted by the lure of beer pong.

               An hour in, Clyde had taken back every worry he ever had about his roommate. Kenny was lively and wild, contrary to the stick-in-the-mud nerd assumption. He couldn’t believe he ever thought he had to be concerned about interacting with his roommate; it was as easy as breathing. The two were hovering to the side of a dim room, taking a quick breather and clinking their red solo cups, when a girl caught Clyde’s eye.

               A goddess in red! The sun burned in jealously of the shine of her golden locks!

               Really, he recognized her from his English class, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t still pretty.

“Go talk to her.” Kenny’s breath was hot on his neck in the crowded room, and it sent chills despite the heat.

               Clyde did not blush. He instead focused on making his way through the throngs of partygoers, dodging cups of unknown drinks and young adults grinding on each other. Finally, he stumbled through past a pair of girls, reaching his destination.

               “Hey, Clyde,” the girl drawled, pushing back a curl. Her lipstick gleamed blood-red.

               Clyde ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to make it look less frizzy and sweaty. “Hey, Bebe!” he half-yelled over the noise. “Having fun?”

               Bebe swirled her drink, smirking. “Yeah, but maybe not as much fun as you’ve been having with your friend over there.”

               Clyde turned his head to see where she was gesturing. Kenny was bathed in a faint blue light, forming a type of halo around windswept blond hair, making him look ethereal amidst the other party-goers. At some point in the night, his hoodie got unzipped, showing off a tank top that complimented his figure in comparison to all those baggy jackets. Kenny was talking with Stan again, who was looking pretty worse for wear. Well, less talking with, more talking to while supporting most of his weight. Kenny was saying something and nodding in Clyde’s direction.

               When they locked eyes, Kenny’s blue ones glittered. He winked. The simple action made something flutter in Clyde’s stomach. Maybe it was the alcohol.

               He turned back to Bebe. “He’s my roommate.”

               Clyde watched Bebe crane her neck to look at Kenny again, maybe noting how cheap his clothes looked. One of the girls that Clyde had pushed past leaned heavily on her friend, voice choked with the heavy emotion characteristic of drunk girls. “Oh my god, they were roommates!”

                 Clyde groaned, slamming his head down onto his jumble of papers.

               “Chemistry?” Kenny guessed, huddled with his own books on the top bunk.

               “Spanish,” Clyde corrected. “There’s so many words!” To rub salt into his struggle, Craig just had to be fluent. Not only did that make Clyde feel worse about his own inability, Craig was preoccupied with his physics project and had turned off all notifications. Help from the local genius was inaccessible. “You wouldn’t happen to be taking it, would you?”

               “Nah, I tested out.”

               Clyde swung around. “You know Spanish? Please help me!”

               Kenny peered down. “Not Spanish, I tested out of language with Mandarin.”

               That sent Clyde for a loop. “Mandarin?” Was that even one of the languages someone could take here? Not to mention the difficulty; English script was hard enough for Clyde to read without getting jumbled; he couldn’t wrap his head around understanding the strokes of Mandarin.

               Kenny flipped a page in his notebook. “I used to work at this local Chinese restaurant. I picked a lot up from the owner.” It was said completely nonchalant, as if he wasn’t talking about casually learning a second language.

               “Dude! Just like that?” The Spanish worksheets lay forgotten. Who would’ve guessed his roommate was so interesting? Maybe Clyde just wanted to avoid his homework, but learning more could totally be a valid excuse here.

               “Mhm.” Aside from the affirmation, Kenny was quiet on his bunk.

               “Could you say something in Mandarin?” Clyde prompted hopefully.

               Kenny thought for just a moment. “Tā mā de.”

               Clyde looked on, starry eyed. “So cool! What’s it mean?”

               Kenny scribbled some notes, but paused to glance back at his roommate. His eyes crunched in the way that meant he was smiling, and Clyde’s heart buzzed. “Fuck.”

               Clyde dissolved into laughter, and was quickly followed by Kenny. “I think I will start peppering that into my conversations starting today.” He picked up his abandoned pencil and flipped a Spanish worksheet over. “How do you say it again?”

                 Football practice may not rank as high as triple decker nachos on Clyde’s list of favorite things, but it was up there. The satisfying strain of muscle and delight of messing with his teammates outweighed the yelling of the coaches and the aches the next day by far. It was a time he actually enjoyed, that actually made sense instead of heavy bookwork, so of course the universe wouldn’t let him have it. Ten minutes in, the sky opened up, pouring rain so hard one couldn’t see past their own hand.

               Clyde trudged back to his dorm hall, squinting to see through the sheets of water crashing down. He wiped his soppy bangs from his face, but it did no good. His clothes were drenched and heavy, coupled with the weight of his sports bag of equipment. At least the dorm hall wasn’t too much farther. It was benevolent in its way of offering shelter from the storm, but cruel and unforgiving in its broken elevator sign.

               Clyde was resigned to heaving himself up the stairs, bag hitting every step behind him. A hot shower sounded so good right now. Or maybe lasagna. Or watching bad television in his soft and warm pajamas, snuggled up in blankets. Yeah, his night just got booked.

               He dug in his pocket for his room key, dreaming about the dollar store garlic bread he could cook up. His hand closed on nothing. Clyde switched to his other pocket, then his back pockets, jacket, and bag, growing more desperate with each pocket. Of course.

               Clyde let his weight drop, falling to the ground. Tears welled up in his eyes. He was tired, he was cold, he just wanted to go home! To top it off, Kenny had been talking about meeting up with his friend Eric, and the fact that the two might get arrested and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning.

               Fantastic.

               Clyde tried to ring out his clothes and leaned against the door. Maybe Kenny would get back early. He would love to see that scraggly hair and patched up jacket right now. Until then, well, no point in trying to get anything done.

                 Clyde was jolted out of his half-slumber by the door opening behind him, pushing his back. He looked over his shoulder to see an almost startled Kenny gazing down at him. Clyde quickly lept to his feet. “I thought you were still out.”

               Kenny opened the door further to let his roommate in. “Things went south,” he explained, but didn’t elaborate.

               Clyde pulled his heavy sports bag into the room. “Did you get rained out too?” Most of the water that clung to him had been left in the hall, but his clothes were still damp enough to be uncomfortable.

               Kenny threw himself back into the desk chair, which spun with his weight. “I got shot.”

               Clyde turned with a start, but Kenny looked fine. Clean clothes, smooth movements, a stunning lack of blood. He laughed. “That bad, huh?”

               Kenny’s eyes looked sunken and tired. Clyde quickly decided it didn’t suit him.

               “I’m gonna order a pizza. Proven to heal even the most gruesome wounds! What do you want on it?” He was too tired to make lasagna anyway.

               Kenny leaned back in his chair. “Everything in the store. I’m starving!”

               Clyde dug his phone out and dialed the nearest pizza delivery. His garlic bread was gonna knock Ken’s socks off.

               Nothing screamed procrastination quite like watching dumb shows. Clyde pulled his blanket closer and perused his Netflix options. It would be a good night for a comedy, relieve some stress of classes. The lamps were already turned off, the blue light of the laptop the main source of light in the room. The savory smell of noodles wafted in, and Clyde drooled. Oh yeah, it was all coming together.

               He turned to see his roommate heralding two cups of noodles. Faded pajama pants hung loose around Kenny’s thin frame, and a splash of broth had stained his shirt, which proudly proclaimed that he was the Denver spelling bee champion of 2005. The lighting made it just too difficult to get a good look at the bottom half of his face. Damn. Kenny set the two steaming cups of ramen on the table and crashed down onto the couch.

               “Spelling bee champion?” Clyde finally picked a series to play, and his attention was grabbed by the old tee, the colorful lettering standing out.

               Kenny picked up his noodles. “I stole it from Kyle,” he explained, twirling his chopsticks.

               They settled in, slurping on seasoned noodles and continuing the series started last week. It had plenty of action, but more importantly, it had comedy. There was something special about laughing with Kenny. He had a great laugh.

               Clyde shifted to lean against his friend’s arm. He was expecting maybe a sly comment or for Kenny to gently shove him off; he certainly was not expecting Kenny to take a sharp breath and stiffen. Clyde scrambled to move. “Fuck! Are you okay, dude?”

               Kenny rubbed his arm with his other hand, and Clyde barely hesitated to push up the sleeve and examine. Aside from a few scattered freckles, the skin there was smooth. “Just phantom pain,” Kenny explained. “I hurt it yesterday and I guess I’m still feeling it. Don’t worry about it.”

               Clyde could almost relate, but his sports injuries always left a mark a day later. “What’d you do?”

               Kenny looked like he was considering some options. “Nothing much,” he decided. Clyde frowned, brows furrowed, but Kenny’s face was bright when he looked back. “Don’t worry about it, happens all the time.” He readjusted and leaned back against Clyde. “I always bounce back.”

               With Kenny pressed against him, hot ramen on the table, and the next episode of their comedy beginning to play, Clyde wasn’t about to argue or probe for more information. He was content to just grab his cup of noodles and move closer to his friend’s side.

               “You’re a weirdo, Kenny.” Clyde clapped a hand on his shoulder. “But I’m gonna miss you.”

               Kenny’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “I’m gonna miss you too, you big dummy.”

               Ah shit. Tears started leaking out of Clyde’s doe eyes and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He pulled Kenny into a hug. The shoulder of Kenny’s jacket was getting wet but Clyde didn’t notice. “I mean, you’re just so strange, man! I’ve never known anyone like you. My friend thinks you’re a demon.”

               “Is it the one that’s always hyped up on coffee?”

               “How’d you know?”

               “Lucky guess.” After a few more minutes, Kenny managed to extract himself and put his hands in his pockets. “You’ll see me next year.”

               No, that was way too long. Clyde pulled his phone from his pocket. “We could text over the summer! Maybe meet up?”

               Kenny’s blue eyes lost their shine. “I don’t have a phone. I’m gonna be staying with my brother a few towns over. Sorry, dude.”

               Clyde’s face fell, and he quickly wiped his eyes. “Alright. That’s cool. No worries, man.”

               “Don’t miss me too much!” Kenny put a hand on Clyde’s shoulder as a goodbye, but it was the wrong move, as it sent the other into another death-grip hug. It might be a while.

                 Summer felt like a trade of Kenny for Tweek and Token back in person, and it was seriously messing with Clyde’s emotions. He loved his friends, and seeing Craig happier was always a treat, but without Kenny, things felt duller. It might’ve been easier to mope and forget those bright eyes for a while if relationships weren’t such a hot topic of conversation.

               “Pretty fffunny that you w-worried all that much and all you did was fall in love with him.”

               Clyde floundered. “I did not fall in love with him!”

               Tweek pulled on his hair. “Gah! What if he infects you with alien spawn now that he’s gained your trust!”

               Token poked at his gelato. “I thought the theory was that he’s a demon?”

               Tweek set back to his espresso ice cream. “I’ve been workshopping it.”

               “Don’t make him show you the PowerPoint,” Craig added. “It’s full of spelling errors and he won’t let me fix it.”

               “You guys are the nerdiest couple I’ve ever seen,” Clyde said, annoyance temporarily forgotten over the pair, “and it’s so cute.” Craig flipped him off.

               “S-soon they will be b-b-balanced out by the unt-untamable party couple,” Jimmy snickered.

               “We’re not dating! I don’t even know if he likes boys,” Clyde defended. All the other parties present gave Clyde a long look. “What?”

               “Dude,” Token began. “Kenny likes boys.”

               “And girls. And an-anything that gives consent.”

               “WHAT?” Clyde dropped his ice cream. “How have you guys noticed and I haven’t? Token doesn’t even go to our school!”

               “Clyde,” Craig deadpanned. “He has a pride flag on his jacket.”

               “It was in the—ah! It was in the picture you showed us!”

               The boys all watched as Clyde tore out his phone and scrolled through his pictures until he reached the desired one. Sure enough, once he was looking, the pink, yellow, and blue patch was obvious. “Oh no,” Clyde whispered, horrified, “I’m an idiot.” He looked up just in time to see Tweek smack a hand against Craig, who had an amused look on his features. “But that doesn’t mean I like him!”

               “One thing at a time, buddy.”

               Clyde ripped open his dorm room door, excitement bringing him close to bursting. An agonizingly long summer, three long Kenny-less months. At last, on the other side of that door would be a gross old backpack and an orange parka and everything would fall back into place.

               “H-hey, Clyde!”

               Clyde stood in the doorway, staring blankly. Jimmy was on the bottom bunk, pulling notebooks out of his backpack. His smile was bright and wonderful as always, but that moment marked the only time it made Clyde feel worse.

               “Oh. Hey, Jim.”

               “You didn’t c-c-check anyone else’s room n-number,” Jimmy noted, unfazed.

               “Nope,” Clyde sighed. If you asked him a year ago, rooming with Jimmy would’ve been the dream, but now? He couldn’t imagine staying with anyone but Kenny McCormick.

               “N-no worries.” Jimmy grabbed his crutches, which were propped up against the wall. A confident smile played at his lips. “I know a v-vi-a visit with Cr-Craig will turn that f-frown upside down.”

Clyde didn’t believe it; Craig could be a sourpuss, and his general attitude was not likely to fix Clyde’s mood. Nevertheless, he was still a reliable friend. “CRAAAIIIG,” Clyde groaned, stepping into the dorm, hand over face. He didn’t bother trying to contain his distress. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Craig at his worst, anyway.

               “Nice to see you too, Clyde.”

               Hold up.

               Clyde uncovered an eye to see a mop of blond and a horrendously vibrant orange hoodie. “Kenny!” There was no hesitation in flinging his whole weight at the other, who nearly toppled over. He wrapped his arms tight, and Kenny shifted uncomfortably.

               “Might need some air here.”

               Clyde loosened his arms marginally, but pressed his face into the jacket. “I’m never letting go.”

               “Alright, but I don’t know the last time I washed this hoodie.”

               “Same goes for my shirt, man.”

               Jimmy and Craig each took a step away from the pair. Craig kept taking steps, out the door and down the hall.

               “Should I be worried?” Kenny asked into Clyde’s hair.

               “Nah, he’s gonna go do my laundry.”

               “How did you ever survive before you met him?”

               How did I ever survive without you, Clyde thought. Kenny was the sun, bright and wonderful, even if he didn’t know exactly how it functioned. If he could spend the rest of eternity here with Kenny, reckless, hardworking, witty Kenny, he would be happy. From where he was tucked, Clyde could easily peer over Kenny’s shoulder and get a good view of Jimmy. He was smirking at Clyde knowingly, the kind of look his friends always gave when it was proven that they were right.

               Oh.

               Dammit.

               The group chat chimed a dozen messages, mostly words of encouragement. Clyde puffed his chest and began striding over to his target. The device continued to chime, and it only served to boost his esteem. He positioned himself against a wall, propping himself up against it.

               When Kenny finally reached his point at the sidewalk, Clyde brushed his hair back and tried for an award-winning smile. “Hey, Ken, top or bottom?”

               Kenny was still sporting his work uniform, with the addition of his heavy parka. He looked at Clyde, and his blue eyes were heavy and tired. “We don’t bunk together anymore, Clyde.”

               Clyde only grinned back.

               Kenny’s eyes widened. “Oh fuck.”

               Clyde flashed a finger gun. “You and me, 7:00, sushi shop downtown?”

               Kenny made an “okay” sign with his hand. “Hell yeah! Wanna see if Jimmy and Craig are willing to switch roommates?”

               “They’ll do it, they’re great wingmen.” Clyde took Kenny’s hand in his own, confident.

               Who needed classes or sports or parties or graduation? Hands down, Clyde would say the best thing about college was his super cool, not nerdy, Mandarin-speaking, psych major, idiot roommate. All that other stuff was just extra, pushing him closer to where he needed to be.

               Maybe a class on mysterious boyfriend investigation would be beneficial, though.

[nitewrighter]

Of Blades and Broomsticks Pt. XV

I have no excuse. Have some Widowmaker in a Lestat cosplay.

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 11, 12, 13, 14

Read it on AO3 here.

----

“Seek me if you have the sight.”

“Meet me at the city gates if you’re in.”

“What’s out there?”

The inscription on the cell, the words of the self-proclaimed hunter, and Pharah’s own hunger for answers rang in her head all night, round and round, swapping off with each heartbeat in her ear. Thankfully the continuous exhaustion from trying to cobble Adlersbrunn together kept her from tossing and turning, but she remembered the witch hunter Gabriel in her dreams.

You wish to help me you will be walking a gray and dangerous path. Dogs guard flocks of sheep from wolves, but all dogs were wolves once.

If there is evil in our midst, to treat it with indifference is to enable its existence.

Pharah woke in the dark pre-dawn hours with a sour hunger in her bones. She looked around her bare room, then looked to her window. The moon was shining brightly that night, but the smoke staining the glass rendered it brownish yellow. Pharah wondered if the scent of smoke--not the smoke of a blacksmith forge, but the searing, sometimes sulfurous smoke of magic---would ever leave Adlersbrunn. 

Still so much work to do... It would be very easy, she thought, To let him leave. To keep working on rebuilding the town here. To hope vagabonds like him are enough to keep whatever’s lurking out in the shadows at bay.

She furrowed her brow and looked to the adder stone she kept on her bedside table. No. She wouldn’t leave it like this. And she certainly wasn’t going to leave this situation in the hands of an excommunicated rogue. She rose to her feet, cleaned herself in her washbasin, put on her cleanest, strongest armor, and scrawled out a missive for her fellow guards, establishing the new chain of command in her absence. She sealed the missive with wax and set it on her table in the chamber of the captain of the guards. She wrote another, shorter, more sentimental letter for Torbjörn as well, and left that one on the desk of the castle’s man-at-arms. She packed a few days of supplies for herself and her horse, then mounted a bay rouncey and rode for the city gates.

True to his word, Jehoshaphat Maccrea of Helsing was waiting by the city gates in the mists of the following dawn. She didn’t like the smirk he gave her.

“I like you,” he said as they rode out of Adlersbrunn, leaving the stone of the city walls behind them and heading out into the surrounding farmland.

“And how did you decide that?” said Pharah.

“I like to think everyone’s got that hunger, that curiosity--it’d be too easy to lie down and let death take you otherwise, but few really follow it through to the end,” said Jesse.

“Would you still like me if I had chosen to stay behind?”

“Well I’d respect you, gotta respect anyone who protects their own, but it wouldn’t really matter if I liked you, would it? I’d be long gone.”

Pharah frowned a little, “I suppose so,” she said, looking off.

“I think it makes things more pleasant to like one’s traveling companion, don’t you?”

“I don’t have to like you,” said Pharah.

“It’d make things nicer if you did,” said Jesse with an easy smile.

“I wouldn’t be riding with an excommunicated scoundrel unless it meant making sure what happened to my city never happens again,” said Pharah.

“Scoundrel?” Jesse repeated.

“Yes, scoundrel. It sort of comes with the whole ‘excommunicated’ thing,” said Pharah.

“That is exactly the kind of black and white thinking that’s gonna get you killed out there,” said Jesse.

“I thought you said you’d probably die if you didn’t have me backing you up?” said Pharah.

“I probably would,” Jesse conceded. 

“That’s morbid,” said Pharah as they rode past a pumpkin patch. She wondered if it was the one they found the blood in.

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to be as honest as I can with you?” said Jesse.

Pharah furrowed her brow and readjusted herself in her saddle.

“This is why I don’t have to like you,” said Pharah, looking straight forward as they rode.

“That’s why I like you,” said Jesse with a smirk. She didn’t like that smirk.

-----

Mercy woke the morning after the banquet in a haze of half-sleep. The moans coming from the courtyard of the monastery from the cultists’ revelries lasted into the gray light of dawn. She did her best to try and push what was going on to the back of her consciousness, to treat it like the night birds of the woods or the wind blowing through the trees, but she knew the forests of Adlersbrunn were far behind her now. 

She rose up to a seated position in bed and looked out her window. A part of her was regretting leaving such a remote sanctuary as this, especially with so much still to learn from its library, but at the same time, the previous night had confirmed her feelings that she didn’t really have a place here. The monastery had the feel of a swirling vortex, like the dark portals Zenyatta could summon--and the flame of creation within her thrashed against that void like a wild bird caged. She washed and dressed herself, then proceeded to the library of the monastery for one last look through for anything that might help her better understand the Flame of Creation--a long shot, in a temple to the void, but a shot worth making all the same.

Her perusing though the shelves of the library was half-distracted by her own plans for the journey. She knew she and Genji had agreed to go west, and the Monastery sat on some grim black sea cliffs that.. treacherous as they were, would at least provide a decent amount of visual reference of the area for them to make significant headway in their journey--easier than wandering through the woods, at least. She decided would swing by the refectory for some supplies for their journey when she next met up with Genji. She wondered if he would want human food of if he would prefer to take the form of a sparrowhawk and just swoop up whatever unfortunate creature he could for convenience’s sake. He was certainly strong enough to help carry some supplies--no, no, he was her protector, not her porter. She would carry her pack for herself.

 She was distractedly looking at the illustration in some text of what was supposedly erotic Enochian poetry but just looked like a mass of wings and eyes and circles when Junkenstein suddenly stumbled, swaying as he brought himself to his full height.

Oh that’s right, she thought, with a brief beat of ‘Oh gods, what’s going to happen,’ He was at the banquet too.

“Hoo!” Junkenstein stretched his arms above his head, “What a night!”

Mercy bit the inside of her lip and smiled a little as he walked over. A bit relieved that this was another instance in which she could trust Junkenstein to be Junkenstein.

“You enjoyed the banquet?” said Mercy, glancing up.

“Well that was... anthropologically fascinating. Not a religious man myself but... I understand the appeal.”

Mercy just grinned. “How did they take to your creation?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Oh they like him. I got so much data on his...” Junkenstein cleared his throat, “Social capabilities.”

“Really?” said Mercy.

“Well they aren’t picky about tentacles, so I imagine there’s not a whole lot they are picky about,” said Junkenstein, “And if he has the approval of old Squidface, they’re all over him.”

“Well that’s good,” said Mercy, “I do worry about him... I suppose I worry about all of us having a place in this world...”

“I had to shovel some of them off of him this morning,” said Junkenstein, “Tragically he rolled over on one but, y’know with all the stabbing they do, they don’t get all that upset about that sort of stuff.”

“You still want to leave with us?” said Mercy.

“I told you, you wouldn’t last a second without us,” said Junkenstein, smiling, “Just... don’t mind me if I’m walking funny for the next few days. Well.. funnier than usual.” Junkenstein paused, “You and the demon took off soon as the meal was over, didn’t you?” 

“Well after all the excitement back in Adlersbrunn, I didn’t really have the energy for all that revelry,” said Mercy.

“Right, and you certainly weren’t sneaking off for some moments of privacy with the demon you keep insisting to me that you can’t trust.” 

“He was just making sure I made it back safely to my chambers,” said Mercy, folding her arms.

“Suuuuuure,” said Junkenstein with a wink.

“He was!” said Mercy.

“Nothing happened, I mean--I was covering my face and he kissed my knuckles but that was it. We went to bed---or I went to bed and he... I don’t know. He just flies off at night sometimes. Maybe he turned into a wolf and ate some rabbits or something.”

“You’re joking,” said Junkenstein.

“Look, my cat broke a tea leaf pot, we worked out a deal, he held up his end of the deal, and I spat some blood into his mouth so he wouldn’t die, that doesn’t mean we’re soulmates--” 

“Conveniently leaving out the dramatic rescue (with help from yours truly, of course), riding him in dragon form out of the city---”

“Sprouting wings...” Mercy admitted.

“Sprouting wings!” Junkenstein pointed an accusing finger at her, “Not to mention all the dancing by the light of the cultist fires---”

“What is your point, Jamison?” 

“You’re in deep, Gramercy. I know you. You make a point of not getting in deep with anyone, and as your friend I think I have a responsibility to let you know when you are a lot more emotionally involved with someone than you’re telling yourself you are---especially when, as you said, we may have broken something, we may be kicking off something big that none of us has any control over. And I think we should all be on the same page if we’re going to be traveling together---”

He was cut off by the sound of the door opening, not with the usual grunting of whoever was pushing it open. Both Mercy and Junkenstein looked up to see Zenyatta at the doorway of the library. He hadn’t even pushed on the door, but it had opened for him. Perhaps the stone of this monastery obeyed him just as loyally as any of the cultists.

“Witch,” Zenyatta spoke to Mercy, the tentacles of his face slowly shifting with thought, “A word?”

Mercy looked at Junkenstein.

“Don’t let me hold you up,” said Junkenstein with a shrug, “I’ll keep making the preparations.”

Mercy nodded and walked out of the library.

-----

“So you and Genji are departing?” said Zenyatta as they walked on the cliffs outside the monastery, the white waves and green brackish water crashing on the black rocks below.

“With your permission, of course,” said Mercy, “Genji is my protector, but he was your student before that. I would hate to undermine that. And it is nice to have a place to stay where I’m not too worried of being burned at the stake. But seeing as I am not a cultist myself I don’t want to impose too much on your hospitality.”

“You have my permission--” said Zenyatta, “There are few places you or Genji could travel in this plane that I wouldn’t know where you were.”

 A long pause passed between them.

“Was there something in particular you wished to discuss?” asked Mercy.

“Earlier this morning I asked Genji a few questions about the nature of your relationship---what his plans for the future were. He stated that, as payment for his protection, you would give him your first-born.”

“...That was our deal, yes,” said Mercy, pausing to pick some samphire from a cleft in one of the black rocks.

“And are you aware that I have known the Goddess Satya for longer than mankind has walked the earth? And you can assume, thusly, that I was there when we both gathered our first worshippers?”

“I... I can assume that, yes,” said Mercy.

“And as such I am aware of both the abilities and the physical limitations of those who bear Satya’s flame of creation,” said Zenyatta. His voice deepened and suddenly seemed to surge around her like water , “No seed of man can flourish in a field of fire.”

Another long pause passed before Mercy drew herself to her full height.

“Have you told Genji?” she asked calmly.

“That you cannot give him a first-born? No. No, I haven’t,” said Zenyatta, looking out to the ocean, “I am his teacher, but I find some of the hardest lessons are the ones he must learn on his own. I suggest you break the news to him. Do it on your own terms while you still can.”

“I will,” said Mercy.

“Will you?” Zenyatta’s tentacles tensed.

“The only reason I lied in the first place was because--well, I suppose since he was a demon, I assumed he wouldn’t keep his word, so there was no more harm in me not keeping mine. But he saved my life, he protected me, true to his word. So I will tell him,” she bit the inside of her lip, “When the time’s right.”

“Do you fear his wrath?” said Zenyatta.

“I don’t know,” said Mercy, “He’s always going on about how dangerous he is, and his swift and mighty sword but...” Mercy huffed, “I think I fear hurting him, more--but---that’s silly, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t it more horrible of him to want a newborn baby? He’s probably going to--to-eat it or something, isn’t he?”

“He wouldn’t eat it,” said Zenyatta.

“You know why he wants one?” said Mercy.

“I do,” said Zenyatta.

 “You must tell me what for!” said Mercy.

“That is for him to tell you,” said Zenyatta, “Just as this is for you to tell him.”

“For an all-knowing god, that isn’t very helpful,” said Mercy, folding her arms.

“As is the case with most gods, ‘All-knowing’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘helpful,’” said Zenyatta.

Mercy heard a screech and turned her head to see a handsome silvery skua diving amongst the waves. It wheeled in the white foam, then seemed to catch sight of them and swoop toward them with a cry. The skua swept in overhead, turned in a somersault, and then shape-shifted into a scarred man in black and purple cultist robes, landing lightly on his feet.

“I was wondering where you two were!” said Genji, stretching his arms above his head. “I’ve missed the brisk sea air of your monastery, Master, it saddens me to leave it. But the world calls me--does it not call you, Witch?”

“There is a lot to learn out there,” said Mercy.

“If you have a journey, you have a journey,” said Zenyatta, putting a hand on his shoulder, “You will always have a place here.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Genji, before smiling and looking at Mercy, “And what of you, Witch? Are you ready to leave as well?”

Mercy tucked her hair back and found she was gripping the samphire she had plucked with white knuckles, “I--yes--yes I am,” she said, looking up at Genji.

----

“Remind me again, the point of this,” said Gabriel as he and Moira stood in an ornate septagonal chamber. The chamber had six mirrors, one on each wall, with the exception of the wall containing the door they had just walked through to enter.

“You now walk a line between two worlds, Gabriel,” said Moira, walking to the mirror closest to them, “If we are to free you from the witch’s magic, we will need the help of others who walk that same line.”

Gabriel would have frowned if his pumpkin head was capable of any other expression.

“We’re bringing more demons into this?” said Gabriel, “More damned?”

“If the flame of creation is ignited and spreading in the mortal world, then war is coming. A war between the seen and unseen. We will need allies,” said Moira.

“I was already fighting that war,” said Gabriel.

“You were a child digging a line in a sand to catch the waves washing in amongst his ankles. The tide is coming in now,” said Moira, putting a hand to the glass, “I doubt your god is on your side now, so you will have to make do with me.”

The glass seemed to shift and melt under her touch, their reflections dissolving into darkness and mist. Moira held out her other hand to him and he took it, and they both took a few brisk steps through. There was a sound like the last bits of water in a tub rushing down the drain, and then a brief dipping sensation, like reaching the bottom of the stairs, expecting floor, and finding there was another stair, and then they found themselves on a stone threshold in a high-ceilinged stone room. There was a guard slumped against the wall, dressed in a fine uniform of black velvet and partially leaning on his halberd like a drunkard on a lamppost. He shook himself up to attention as Gabriel’s boots thudded clumsily on the stone floor and he flinched hard at the sight of Moira.

“Oh merde--” he drew a horn from the interior of his cloak and blew it in a stumbling fanfare. Four other guards suddenly charged into the room, halberds at the ready and looked genuinely stunned at the appearance of Moira and Gabriel. He had a corpse-like scent hanging about him that Gabriel thought should bother him more than it did. He noticed his sense of smell was a lot stronger now than it had been when he was alive. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t shut out senses to sleep--he wasn’t even sure if he could sleep anymore.

“Announce my arrival to your comtesse and have her gather her court,” said Moira.

“Th-The comtesse is indisposed---” the guard stammered.

“Do you know why she had this mirror in her chateau?” said Moira, stepping forward.

“Y-yes, Madame, but--”

“But? But what?”

There was a brief tense silence in the room.

“But... the last time you were here was, according to the records, 114 years ago,” said another guard.

“And?” said Moira, “Was there an expiration date set on the terms of her recognition of my sovereignty?” 

“N-no, Madame--”

“Then have her gather her court,” said Moira.

“You heard our honored guest,” said another voice, smoky and smirking. There was a purple flash and guards parted to reveal a woman in an armored doublet and a black hood. She seemed to be fussing with the last buckles of her doublet, and a few stray strands of dark hair hung out from under her hood, as if she had just been roused from bed. Human. Gabriel could smell it on her, warm, and distinct from the rest of the guards. He could smell a faint stench of death on her too, but it clung to her skin like a lover. He could smell magic on her, too, but not like the Witch, more like the metallic smell that issued off of his own adder stone after he had it for years.

“Who are you?” said Moira.

“I serve the comtesse. Come with me,” said the woman, walking out of the room. Moira and Gabriel followed after, 

“You would think the comtesse would keep her estate in better condition,” murmured Moira, “Guards in disarray... food lying around...”

All of the guards escorting them toward the throne room suddenly stopped. The woman glanced over her shoulder at Moira and Gabriel.

“What?” said Moira.

One of the guards leaned close to the hooded woman, “What would you have us do, Spymaster?”

The spymaster shrugged, “She is visiting royalty. Let her have her words. They reflect more on her than on me. Just continue escorting our guests to the throne room.”

“Spymaster?” Moira repeated, incredulously, “Since when would the comtesse keep a human spymaster?!”

“We’re very progressive here,” said the spymaster, a smile in her voice.

There was a brief second where Moira’s eyes flashed yellow, cruel and dead like ghost lights, and a few white streaks suddenly threaded through her hair, but she seemed to regain her composure and her eyes and hair returned to normal.

“Hard to keep the glamour up when you’re mad, huh?” said the spymaster, as they continued down the halls. 

“I know saplings older than you, little insect,” Moira scowled.

“Invite them to court, then,” said the Spymaster, pushing open two massive doors into a throne room. 

The comtesse sat on a throne in the center of the room, a guard at either side of her. Her skin was deathly white, her lips were red and wet, her eyes were yellow as an owl’s, and her black hair was tied back in a loose and low ponytail in a red velvet ribbon. She wore a loose white shirt, the frilled collar of it plunging to her sternum, and high-waisted black trousers. She leaned her head against the knuckles of her hand, looking like all patience was already exhausted by the time court was called.

“Queen Máire. It has been some time,” said the comtesse, not making any movement to rise from her seat as the spymaster took her place at her side.

“Comtesse Amélie,” Moira bowed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Amélie.

“Would that I could have called in happier times, comtesse,” Moira started.

“Only had 114 years,” the spymaster whispered into the comtesse’s ear and the comtesse snickered.

Moira briefly bristled but continued, ignoring the slight. “I’m sure by now you have already heard of the events at Adlersbrunn,” she said. 

“Yes,” said the Comtesse, “My spymaster is very good at keeping me abreast of the news of the world.”

“Then you know that that news shall spread. It spreads faster in shadows but soon, more mortal ears will hear of it, and more weapons will be drawn against us,” Moira gestured at Gabriel, “I have with me the first casualty of the war to come--bound by magic in servitude to a human, denied the dignity of death.” 

“So the pumpkin’s not a fashion choice?” said the spymaster, leaning against the throne.

“This is a perversion of what magic is supposed to be!” said Moira, gesturing at Gabriel, “This is pain and suffering, wrought by human hands!”

Thanks, thought Gabriel, who would have rolled his eyes if his pumpkin head allowed it.

“And it was wrought by the flame of creation,” said Moira, “Something never meant for a human to wield!”

The comtesse sat up in her seat slightly, apparently more interested now. “The flame of creation hasn’t been snuffed out?”

“It nearly was, but apparently it has been passed down, from human witch to human witch,” said Moira, “I can see through the eyes of crow and hare and hound, but you, comtesse, have far more eyes on wings. If the flame of creation is spreading through the world, then that means this world will re-make itself. It means that war is coming. And I would ask for your allegiance in the war that is to come. Lend me your eyes. Join your strength with mine, and we may survive it.”

The comtesse kept a steady, yellow-eyed look at Moira and Gabriel, and then sat up in her seat slightly. She put a hand on the shoulder of her spymaster and they shared a few whispers. The spymaster shook her head and the comtesse seemed thoughtful for a few seconds, then whispered something more to the spymaster. The spymaster gave a shrugging concession and the comtesse seemed satisfied before turning her attention back to Moira and Gabriel.

“I do not deny that a war is coming, my Queen,” said the comtesse, sitting up in her seat in a bit more stately fashion, “However, my kind can endure through war, and it has endured by not drawing attention to itself. We will clean up the bodies, we will keep ourselves fed, perhaps even grow our ranks in the bloodshed that is to come, but only a few of my kind can even walk in daylight-and we have come to far more...” she glanced at her spymaster, “Symbiotic relations with the humans in our land rather than isolating ourselves. War may be coming, but I will not seek it. Not until it is fully necessary.”

“But our allegiance--” Moira started.

“Was one of non-aggression,” said the Comtesse, “I remember the terms well. But my duty is to my people, first and foremost. Surely your majesty understands that?”

“Of course,” said Moira through gritted teeth.

“Is there any other way I may be of service to you, your majesty?” asked the comtesse.

“No,” Moira’s voice was sharp and brittle.

“You are welcome to stay in the château for as long as--” 

“I have my own estate,” said Moira, drawing herself up to her full height, “I thank you for your time.”

“I understand. Guards, see to it that her majesty finds her way back to the mirrorgate,” said the comtesse, “It’s been an honor, Queen Máire.”

“Lady Amélie,” Moira said with a bow before turning on her heel and walking out with Gabriel and the guards.

Gabriel didn’t say anything as they were guided back to the room with the mirror in it. And he found it prudent not to mention the streaks of white that where threading through Moira’s hair with fury as they walked. They stepped back through the mirror with little ceremony and after another stomach-turning trip through darkness, found themselves back in the septagonal room of Moira’s own underground queendom.

“Well...” said Gabriel folding his arms, “That was a wash.”

“It wasn’t,” said Moira, looking back in the mirror and inhaling to bring her hair back to its previous red shade.

“Please tell me we aren’t going to try the other five mirrors,” said Gabriel.

“No, not yet. I believe it should be very easy to convince the Comtesse to see our view of things,” said the Moira.

“She sounded pretty sure of herself back there,” said Gabriel.

“There’s more than one way to make your point,” said Moira, alighting a violet sphere of black magic in one hand.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” said Gabriel.

“I said I would help break the magic binding you, Gabriel,” said Moira, “I didn’t say you would like it.”

[societal-writes]

Time for Tea

Disclaimer: This is strictly a work of fiction and I own nothing except the original characters and plot line. Movie Boomerang, as delightfully played by the ever so handsome Jai Courtney.

Genre: Fan Fiction (Captain Boomerang, Suicide Squad)

Warnings: Mention of guns and breaking and entering, as well as some silliness that I needed to get down after chatting about a prompt with @frecklefaceb, who also kindly saved Boomer from sounding Scottish with her mad editing skills ;)

Rating: Anyone that wants to read it

"Hello, dearie. You're here just in time for tea." A quavering, British accented voice stated from just outside the room he was currently rooting around in, causing George to nearly drop the sterling silver desk set he had just been admiring in the small amount of light that was coming through the window from outside. Spinning around whilst pulling a sharp edged boomerang out of his overcoat, he crouched down next to the roll top desk and tried his best to make his large form invisible, all while quietly stuffing his prize into the rucksack on the floor next to him. 

Squinting at the doorway, George could just make out the form of a small, elderly woman, hunched over her cane like the weight of the world was pressing down on her frail shoulders. 

"Dearie? Come on out of there before our tea gets cold." She said again, shuffling further into the room and reaching over to flick on the light. "Leave it off," he grumbled, standing back up to his full height and stepping forward a few paces to loom over her threateningly, " and get outta me way lady." "Oh, my," she exclaimed, lifting a bejewelled hand to her throat, "you're a big one, aren't you? Well, I've put our tea in the front room, so if you're done in here, why don't we go see if we can't fill you up." Somewhat stunned by the turn of events, and the apparent acceptance by the woman that she was being robbed and yet still wanted to share tea with him, caused George to just stand and stare at her in disbelief, his hand that had been holding up the boomerang dropping back to his side. "What ya goin’ on about, lady" He muttered, "Are ya daft? I'm ‘ere tah rob ya, not sit and have tea and cakes with ya." "I know, dearie, but that doesn't mean you can't, now does it?" She asked hopefully, squinting up at him in the darkness. Still somewhat confused, George shook his head and began slowly moving back towards the roll top desk and his loot filled rucksack, while trying to not startle the obviously senile woman into a heart attack. As bad as George is, he's no murderer of sweet little old women. "Nah, I don’t think that's how this works. I'm just gonna take what I found ‘ere, fair ‘n square, and leave yah tah yer evenin’." A quiet "Oh," was the only reply from the woman for a moment, while she readjusted her stance, leaning more weight on her cane with one hand as she used the other to reach into the pocket of her cardigan, "Are you sure, dearie? I made a fresh cake today, and a nice beef and potato pie to have before it." Bemused by her persistence, George smirked as he tucked away the boomerang into the folds of his heavy, shearling overcoat and hoisted the heavy rucksack onto his shoulder before he made his way back to the door where the woman was standing, "Thanks, but I'm gonna hafta decline yah invitation, as tasty as that sounds and all." Just as he reached her, the woman pulled her hand from her pocket and he heard a "Snick", as she cocked a small derringer and pointed it at his midsection, stopping him in his tracks. "I don't think so, dearie." Hands flying up to shoulder level, he indignantly cried out in a high pitched and anxious sounding voice, "Hey now! Whaddya think ya doin’? We’re just havin’ some polite conversatin’, why yah gotta go and pull a piece on me?” "Honestly, dearie?" She asked, sighing a little as she rested her gun atop her other hand still holding her up on her cane, "I'm a little lonely. I noticed you around, checking in the windows all last week, and so I thought I might as well leave the alarm off and see if I couldn't garner myself a little company." Waving the gun in the direction of her front room, she continued, "Alright, now. You head on in there slow and steady, dearie, and we'll have ourselves a nice meal and then you can be on your way with a full bag and a full belly." Muttering under his breath about crazy old ladies, George made his way past the woman, while carefully eyeing her shaky gun hand. Small as her piece was, he knew that at such close range it could do a good bit of damage, something he wasn't willing to risk. If she wanted to eat tea and cake, then it looked like he was going to be eating tea and cake. "Alright, lady. Not that ya givin’ much of a choice. I’m gonna stay and have some tea with ya, but can ya  put that pea shootah away.” He asked, as he sat himself down on the couch and checked out the fine spread on the table in front of him. Not only was there meat and potato pie and a fresh cake, the woman had arranged a tray of various fruits and vegetables, as well as a large pot of tea and to his further surprise, a bottle of his favourite ginger beer. "Bundaberg? How'd yah know?" "No quick moves now dearie, alright?" She quietly stated before sitting herself down across from him, eyeing him closely as she uncocked and tucked her pistol within her reach on the table. "And it was really quite obvious, dearie. You have that look about you. "Bogan trash", my father used to always say. Although, you don't seem a pure bad sort, just a little misguided. Would you like to talk about what led you down such a path, dearie?" She queried, lifting the teapot and pouring out a cup for both of them. Eagerly reaching for his cup, the smell of a good pot of tea overriding any other thought processes, he mumbled back at her, "It's George." Sitting now with a satisfied smile on her face, the elderly woman looked at him, "George. That's a fine name. You may call me Nan."

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