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shyphonics · 7 months ago

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Salad Days, Chapter 7: I Used To Be a Baby, Now I'm Just a Criminal.

(babypunk Rodrick Heffley x reader)

chapter directory

I think this is the longest chapter I've written, I broke 6k words!! Also very excited to finally use the most Rodrick-coded song I can think of, please treat yourself to the music video lol.

I've been working on the next few chapters all at once, so they might come out a little faster. :)

Time is our enemy, we’ve had enough

Let’s get together, let’s show them what’s up

1312, ACAB

Es para la gente, pa todo el mundo

Sale del corazón, queremos ser libres

1312, ACAB

You pull up to the front of The Strike, and it’s bad.

Where there was once a giant, beautiful bay window, almost as tall as the building itself, there is now a giant hole. Flyers which previously coated the window are crushed and ripped, the colorful papers poking out under smashed panes of glass.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You get out to observe the damage, and find Mike sweeping up shards of glass.

“Did you call the cops?” You ask, stepping over a broken barstool.

“They were already here. Didn’t give a shit, of course. Said they had an anonymous tip, but they probably just wanted to go back to doing fuck-all.”

You look around, and notice crude graffiti on the walls.

I burned down the Plainview library on one wall.

And I’ll do the same to this shithole on the other.

RH is spray painted on the mirror behind the bar.

RH…

Rodrick…? You’re pretty sure his last name is something with an H.

And all those cop cars at his apartment…

Either Bryan Kemp is a complete and utter moron, or there’s some other RH out there, and you’ve got it all wrong. One is far more likely than the other.

You head to the back, and find the thick binder of banned IDs.

Before you can open it, the phone rings.

“Strike,” you answer, “we’re closed.”

You tuck the phone into the crook of your neck, and open up The List.

“This is Officer Houston, can I speak to your boss?” A condescending voice creeps into your ear.

“You can speak to me.” You say harshly.

He’s quiet, before you hear a small sigh.

“In relation to the vandalism case at your address, we could not make contact with the perp alleged in the anonymous tip.”

“Because your alleged perp didn’t do it. Rodrick H? Is that the name he gave you?”

“I… can’t disclose that information at this time.” The cop sounds nervous.

“Okay, well, he was with me, all last night and today.” Your voice is low and stable. You really wanna bite this guy’s head off, but you have to stay bare-minimum professional.

“Ma’am, this person was implicated in two separate crimes, with the threat of a third, and we would like to go forward with questioning when we make contact. We will check his alibi when we do.”

You find the most recent pages, with the ID scans from last night. There he is. That motherfucker. You squint, reading his information.

“It was Bryan Kemp, okay? I have his address right here, go talk to him. 452 Spring Hill Lane. On the college campus.”

You hear the sound of a pen scratching paper.

“And your reasoning?”

“We had to kick his ass out of our bar last night for assaulting a performer- assaulting the person he gave you the name of, mind you. He’s lucky we didn’t call you.”

Silence falls over the phone line, save for the sounds of the detective jotting things down. You get impatient, tapping your nails faster and faster on the desk.

“We’ll look into it, ma’am.” He finally says.

You feel anger bubbling up in you, slamming the phone down before you can say something regrettable. Ma’am. Fuck off.

You grab a broom off the wall, and walk back around to the front of the bar. It's a fucking mess.

You duck under the bar to find the stereo, thankfully safe in its little plexiglass prison.

“There’s one thing they can never take from us, Mike.”

“If you’re gonna say our dignity, you’re alone, kid. Mine’s been gone since ‘82.” Mike sits in the middle of the floor, rubbing his temples.

“Nah,” you flip the stereo on, and the typical weekend mix starts playing, gritty and upbeat, “It’s totally cheesy, but I was gonna say the music. Literally and figuratively. Because the stereo still works.” Mike smiles, looking up at the speakers as the room fills with the sweet sounds of T.S.O.L.

“God dammit,’ he sighs, standing up, “C’mere,”

He puts his arms out, and you hug him. It’s comforting, almost parental. You pat each other on the back, soft, then harder. Reassuring, like you’re trying to hype each other up.

“We’re gonna clean this fucking bar up, right?” You say, feeling tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re gonna get all this glass out of here, and- and get paint, fix the window.” Mike sniffles.

“Jimbo has to have a glass guy, have you called him?”

“I’m gonna call him!”

“Hell yeah, you are!”

“Kid. It’s strange to say, but- you’re my best friend.”

You pull away, holding him by the shoulders.

“And you’re the last real punk. What did you always used to tell me? When I was a little street rat?”

“You can do anything you want!” He beams, pointing at you.

“You can do anything you want!” You grin, shaking him slightly.

The two of you are all psyched up, sweeping up glass, playing your brooms like guitars, screaming along to Minor Threat and Adicts and and Stiff Little Fingers.

Other bartenders show up, along with the bouncers. You sit in a big circle on the floor, drinking shitty beer and laughing. Jimbo is up on a ladder- he does have a glass guy. You knew he would. They’re brushing all the broken bits out of the frame and measuring the dimensions. For now, it’ll be plywood, but it’s something. You want to call Rodrick, tell him everything’s gonna be okay, but you realize you don’t even have his number.

You make your way up to the office, and log into your email.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: All good :)

We're getting everything cleaned up over here. Measuring for a new window and everything. I gave the cops Bryan’s address. I think he was trying to frame you. Stupid asshole LOL. I told the cops you were with me all night and day. They’re being jerks, though- kinda their M.O. I guess- but if they come back, you don’t have anything to worry about.

I had a really good time with you.

Call me, okay? 444-7881

You smile as you hit send, and head back downstairs.

You really don't want him to worry- he'd looked so sad when he got out of your car. Everything will be okay. He'll still be waiting for you when you're done taking care of business.

Rodrick sits against the wall, knees to his chest, hyperventilating.

“What does that even mean? Associated with a crime scene- what- what does that mean?”

“Dude, chill out,” Ben crouches next to him, “You didn’t do anything, right? You’ve been with that girl.”

“Yeah, but,” Rodrick puts his head in his hands.

He’s never told anyone what he did.

It was stupid, and reckless, but nobody had gotten hurt. The repairs to that street went over pretty easy, and it never even comes up in the news anymore.

Sure, people assumed.

He'd been the weird kid. Dark hair and eyeliner. Metal band. Nearly a high school dropout. Essentially a pariah. Of course people had assumed it was him.

But they never knew for sure.

There’s no point in telling anyone. He’ll just keep it with him, until one day, it’s barely even a notable memory.

But the bar. That’s on him, as far as he can figure. He could’ve just kept his mouth shut.

“Ben, the bar got fucked up, and it’s all my fault, I shouldn’t have fought back against Bryan, I should have just-”

“Dude,” Ben puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Taken it like I did back home, and now she’s gonna hate me, I fucked up,” He wails.

Sobs rack his body as he sinks further down the wall. Ben sits next to him and stares, agape.

“What are you talking about?”

Rodrick takes a moment to calm down, trying to breathe slow and steady. He wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his denim jacket. He really hates when he cries, especially when he can’t stop it like this.

“Someone- well, Bryan, probably- wrecked the bar, and it’s all my fault, I can never go back.” He hates how whiny his voice sounds.

“Should we go down and see if we can help?” Ben asks gently.

“No. No, I’m never going back there. We can find a different bar, or- or get real jobs. I can’t ever show my face there again.”

“Real jobs? What the fuck has gotten into you?” Ben asks, “That’s not why we’re here, dude.”

“Ward and Chris are at work.” Rodrick pouts, “I just saw Ward. At his job.”

“Yeah. Shit jobs to make rent. We all said we’d get one of those. But you are not gonna sit here and say anything about real jobs.”

Rodrick frowns up at him.

“You gotta calm down, man. I’m sure it’s just a big misunderstanding.”

Rodrick looks down. There’s no way. He’d felt so good before all this. He should’ve known better. He’s not allowed to be happy. He doesn’t deserve it.

He let you down.

You’re probably back at the bar, cursing his name. Regretting ever taking him home, or spending the day with him, or enjoying his company. Letting him write his band name next to yours. He feels like a total fraud.

Ben is still talking. Rodrick isn’t listening. Ben hoists him up, and puts him on one of the floor mattresses.

“You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Rodrick does not feel better in the morning.

His dreams are loud.

He's on trial for arson. Heather Hills is his defense lawyer, dressed in a pink, tweed skirt suit like the blonde woman in that movie his mom liked.

I'm supposed to defend this loser? She laughs. He totally did it, are you kidding me? Just look at him.

The judge laughs at him. The jury laughs at him. Rodrick realizes they're all people he went to school with.

He's beyond help. He's scary. He's crazy! He's a danger to society. Just let him rot.

Rodrick puts his head in his hands, and when he takes them away from his face again, he’s in orange, long sleeves and handcuffs. His hands are shaking. Two men are gripping his shoulders, leading him down a hallway.

Sent to prison, but it looks… abandoned. Like the ones he's seen on those ghost hunting shows. The walls are filthy, and crumbling. The guards trip him and jeer as he walks by.

He’s thrown into a tiny, concrete cell, with only a tiny window on the door.

He sees his mom’s face through the window. She shakes her head.

Then his dad's voice, He's better off in there. It's better for all of us.

He's buckled into a straitjacket, and a psychiatrist is sent to see him. It's you, dressed in a white doctor’s coat, glowing and angelic against the drab concrete. You have no idea who he is. He tries everything to get you to remember.

C'mon. You know me. From the bar! We played a show together, you took me home and we spent the day together. I'm not dangerous, I just… I fucked up! I didn't hurt anyone. You know me!

Your eyes are cold. You sit with a clipboard, legs crossed, scribbling down notes. Like you're observing a science experiment. He's sobbing, begging for you to say something, but the more desperate he gets, the faster you write. You say nothing. He struggles against his restraints. Maybe he really is crazy.

He wakes up in a cold sweat.

Ben and Ward are standing over him. He jolts up.

“Fuck,” he pants, “what the hell are you guys doing?”

“You were freaking us out, dude.” Ben sits on the couch, looking at him.

“Yeah, you were twitching and talking and shit.” Ward walks back to the kitchen, pouring a mug of coffee.

“I had a weird dream.” Rodrick sighs, rubbing his eye.

The doorknob turns, and Chris walks in.

“Did you guys hear about what happened to The Strike?”

Ben looks at Rodrick. Rodrick panics.

As Chris moves to the kitchen to tell Ward, Rodrick escapes through the front door.

“I’m going out,” he mumbles.

Oh, what happened to my little boy?

It's so fuckin’ sad

He used to be a little baby

Now he's just a criminal

You adjust the neckline on your top, weighed down by a lav microphone. The news crew buzzes, and Mike nervously paces back and forth. You stand in front of The Strike, the boarded up window in view. With the police being seemingly no help, you and Mike had decided to call the media. Mike would rally, you and Jimbo would stand in as support. Local punks of all ages had heard what happened and were milling around on the street, a sea of black leather and bright hair.

The news anchor flashes you a fake smile, smoothing down her coral blazer, and running a hand through her long, brown hair.

“Are you excited to be on TV?”

You grimace, raising an eyebrow. Excited? Is she kidding?

“Yeah…” you answer, choosing not to pick a fight before you’re on air.

Mike can be a very impassioned guy. You’re slightly worried about what he’ll say and do on live TV, but you can’t say you won’t support it. He’s instructed you to do two things: stand next to him, and look angry.

The camera operator starts to count down from 5, pointing at the anchor on 1.

“Hi, I’m Sadie Shaw, Port Hanna Channel 7. I’m here with local bar owner, Mike Morello, and two of his employees. Their bar, The Strike, was vandalized early Saturday morning, and they’re putting out a call for justice.”

You try your best to look alive, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow.

“Well, Sadie, I wanna take you back to San Francisco, 1978…” Mike starts, his voice more pronounced than usual, still with its nasally twinge.

Here we go.

“Dan White assassinates Harvey Milk and George Moscone. Milk, a gay icon and a friend to the punks, Moscone, an ally to both. Got a pathetically small sentence because he used to be a cop. We made it known that that was not appreciated.”

The news anchor’s eyes go wide.

“Dianne Feinstein takes over the city. Punishing us because of what they did to us! The cops are putting padlocks on the Art Institute before an Avengers show! They’re coming by the Mab, and the Deaf Club, and 330 Grove and beating up kids who weren’t doing anyone any harm!” He raises his voice, pointing ardently at the camera.

“Uh…” Sadie stutters.

You nod firmly, staring into the lens. A few cheers of yeah! and woo! erupt from the people on the street.

“But we didn’t sit back and take it! We fought back! And we’re not gonna let some frat boy take punk away from us, just like Dan White and Dianne Feinstein tried to take it away from us 30 years ago!” Mike shakes his fist at the sky, like he's making a promise.

People are cheering behind you. You crack a sly smile, still staring into the camera.

“We know who did this! We have his name and address in our ban list! We told the cops! Did they believe us?” Mike looks towards you.

“Nope.” You say, matter-of-factly.

“Of course they didn’t! Look at us! They don’t want anything to do with us! They just want us to shut up and deal with it! Meanwhile, this little douchebag threatened to burn down the bar! So I’m here to tell the cops- do your jobs!”

People laugh and yell behind you, oinking like pigs and parroting Mike.

Do your jobs! Do your jobs, piggies!

“Support your local bars, your local bands, and your only local radio station that hasn’t been taken over by the robots, 98.7!” Mike yells over the noise of the crowd. “And when we're open again, we promise to be more of a nuisance than ever!”

Sadie, with panicked eyes, turns towards the camera.

“Alright, well… you heard it here first! I’m Sadie Shaw, Channel 7.”

The crew starts to put the camera away, looking relieved.

Your microphones are taken off, and after a cold goodbye, the news crew drives off in their van.

As soon as they’re gone, you find yourself bursting into laughter, high-fiving passerby as you turn to follow Mike into the bar.

You check your cell phone, hoping for a call or a text from Rodrick. Hoping he got to see the chaos, too. But there’s nothing. You frown, but you’re quickly snapped out of your thoughts as Jimbo hands you a paint roller.

“Got a perfect match for the old walls. Guy at the store said the color is called 100 MPH.” He grins, flashing horns at you, “Sounds like me on my bike.”

You laugh, taking a peek at the paint lid. It’s the exact same jarring red as before, and the name makes you smile. You mirror Jimbo’s horns and walk inside.

Meanwhile, Rodrick drives aimlessly.

His eyes are dry from crying, and he can barely focus on the road. The radio is off.

He’s getting further and further out of town, and he realizes… his autopilot is taking him home.

He doesn’t want to go home.

He shouldn't even still be calling it home.

But there he is, passing his high school. The diner. And then he’s pulling up on his street.

He sees his family piling out of the car, just getting back from church. He slowly pulls up outside the house, and he sees Greg in the window, his eyes widening when he realizes who it is. He gets out of the van, slowly walking up to the door before knocking tentatively.

“Rodrick, you’re alive!” His mom wraps her arms around him when she opens the door, “You didn’t have to knock!”

“Jesus, mom!” Rodrick recoils slightly as she embraces him, “What? Of course I'm alive. Why wouldn't I be alive?!”

As he sits at the dining room table with his family, he's overcome by a sense of familiarity. He feels like his old self.

“Greg got an A on his geometry final,” His dad says.

“Ha! Dork.” Rodrick lightly punches Greg on the shoulder.

“Rodrick, how was your concert?” His mom grins across from him. He notices his dad looking away.

“Good. Great!” Rodrick smiles, recalling the noise of the crowd and the praise they'd gotten, before everything went to hell.

“Did you get paid?” His dad asks, still not looking at him.

Rodrick gives a pointed look to his dad, waiting a few seconds before answering.

“Yeah, we did. $200, plus we sold half the shirts we had.” He crosses his arms, “And the girl who got us on the show said we should have a lot more offers from other places by this weekend.”

He feels a twinge of guilt, knowing all that probably won't happen now. Knowing you probably hate him, and have already warned the other bars not to book his band. Even if they do get another show… he's too much of a coward to show up, anyway.

Proving his dad wrong comes above everything, though.

Frank scoffs out a laugh.

His mom smiles nervously, looking from Frank to Rodrick.

“That's great!”

“Yeah, great,” Frank rolls his eyes, “Two of the neighbor kids are starting medical residencies, and one is studying for the bar, but… you got $200! That's great!”

“Frank-”

“No, Susan, that's just fantastic! My son is being paid to hang out with bums!” He laughs, a high cackle, slamming his hand on the table.

Everyone is silent. His dad gets up, and disappears into the basement.

"Its, like... a third of our rent." Rodrick mutters, looking down.

“Greg,” his mom says after a minute, “Take Manny and go to the living room, would you?”

Greg looks at Rodrick for a minute, then back at his mom, brows knit in worry.

“Mom…?”

“It's cool,” Rodrick looks at him, smiling as much as he can manage, “Go on.”

Rodrick sits at the kitchen counter with his mom. She takes out two stemmed glasses and fills them with generous pours of sweet white wine.

“Don't listen to your dad.” She slides the glass to him.

“What?” Rodrick’s voice comes out weak.

“Sure, maybe for a while, I wanted you on a different path too, but… you're happy, right?”

Rodrick looks down into his glass. That's a big question. He decides to lie. Pretend that Saturday never happened. He takes a long sip of the wine, wincing at the sweetness.

“Yeah,” he nods, looking up at her, “I am. We… we got accepted, like, right away. Everyone liked us.”

His mom beams, leaning on the counter.

“People said we were really good, and- and we're on the list of bands that can open for big bands now. Like, touring bands.” Rodrick feels his heart skip a beat, knowing he's lying.

“That's great,” his mom puts her hand over his, “As long as you're happy, and you're alive, I'm happy. As for your dad, it might take a while, but I think he'll come around.”

“Mom, I…” he pauses. He wants to tell her everything. Everything. He almost does, then the urge is gone, “...I love you.”

His mom walks around the counter, hugging him tight. This time, he lets her.

He leaves without seeing his dad, giving Greg a noogie on his way out.

The drive back to town is quiet, but more peaceful than the drive in.

On the outskirts of town, he notices the liquor delivery plant he and the guys had visited a few days before, with a giant HIRING sign out front. He stops.

How do you know what my best interest is?

How can you say what my best interest is?

What are you trying to say, I’m crazy?

When I went to your schools?

I went to your churches?

I went to your institutional learning facilities?

So, how can you say I’m crazy?

It's late. You’re on the last leg of one of the most active radio shifts you've ever worked. People have started dropping money in the mail slot for repairs, and you’d had the idea to tell any future donors to include a note with a name and a song request with their cash. You're calling it Donation Roulette.

CDs and tapes sit scattered around you, covered in sticky notes with names, play order, and track numbers.

A song ends, and you get on the mic, picking up CD number 20, track 6. You pop it in and skip ahead.

“Number 20! Big thanks to Dennis Hall for your donation, and a request for one of my all time favorites, ‘Institutionalized’-Suicidal Tendencies. This is the last one before I sign off for tonight, and we’ll have a DJ back on roulette duty first thing tomorrow.”

You smile, finger hovering over the play button.

“All of us here at 98.7 thank you for your support. We can’t do any of this without each other.”

You hit play, and the riff kicks in as you start shutting down. The CDs and tapes are stacked in order for whoever has the morning shift, and you’ve placed a basket underneath the mail slot in case more people drop off money. There’s already another bundle lying on the ground. $20 and a request for Search and Destroy by The Stooges, with the name Marie Parks attached. Your eyes linger on the note for a while, before you add it to the stack with the CD attached, slipping the money into a metal cash box underneath the radio board.

Doesn’t matter, I’ll probably get hit by a car, anyway.

The song comes to a close, and you shut the board down, then the lights, one by one. Quiet. Dark.

The drive home is short, and you unlock the door to your empty apartment. Quiet. Dark.

You'd thought after such a busy day, filled with talking to people and working, that quiet and dark would be what you wanted.

You sit back on your couch, realizing that’s not the case. The absence of people and noise is jarring. Your brain is buzzing. You flip the TV on. You can’t sit still. You check your email and phone, and find nothing from Rodrick on either. You sigh. You don’t want to think the worst, but… what else can you think?

You sit, trying to focus on the mindless sitcom in front of you. Flipping channels, again and again. Nothing catches you. Back out you go.

You walk over to Pyramid, and it’s completely full. This place tends to trend more traditional goth, and the music is proving it. Moody, pumping bass, and girls with teased hair swinging their mesh-sleeved arms.

You see a group of people you recognize, and they yell when they see you. You yell back. As you sit at the table, the doubts start to fade away. You just need people around you right now. And these are good people. Good, good people. Some of the first people you met in this town.

A band called Put Down. Five guys, about five years older than you, Joey, Jake, Gabe, Marcus, and Nick.

They greet you warmly, making room at their table.

Nick- a tall, tall guy, with a high, bouncy sprout of black, curly hair and a beard, grins at you.

“You were so fucking cool on TV.”

“Aw, c��mon, I said one word.” You wave your hand dismissively, bashful.

“Still fucking cool.” He smiles.

A martini glass with a deep purple, glittering liquid is placed in front of you.

“This is called a Musidora. You gotta try it. These goths know what they’re doing.” Joey smiles, a small, stocky ginger with a nose ring.

You sip it. It's incredible. It tastes… purple. You don't know how else to describe it. You finish it, and order another.

Before you know it, you’ve had… 4, maybe? You can’t even remember. You’re having too much fun. It seems like every band in the city got the memo that this was the place to be, and everyone is up and swishing their arms like the goth girls.

You laugh, spinning, the purple lights of the room glinting around you. Every face is familiar, and you feel the best that you have all day. There’s one face that seems to be missing, though. You look for him, but he isn’t there. Your spin slows, and you still your movements, dizzy.

As the bad thoughts start to creep in, you’re saved by someone grabbing your hand and delicately twirling you. You sigh with relief. He’s here, you knew he’d show up eventually. Plus, the two of you actually pulled off a spin!

“I was waiting for you, why didn’t you call me?” You shout over the music as you turn towards him, and his arm coils around you.

A drunken grin spreads across your face as you land against his chest, in his arms, and…

It’s not him.

You frown, looking up.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.” He smiles.

Your eyes widen. It’s your ex.

“...Andy?”

He grins. You start to wiggle out of his hold.

Andy is the first person you'd ever dated in this town, all the way back in your borderline crust punk house show days. He’s a beautiful man, with turquoise eyes and tan skin, a sharp, stubbled jaw. His hair is different; what used to be a high pompadour is now a feathery, chin-length cut. He looks down at you lovingly, and for just a second, you let yourself remember the good times.

You’d been a wreck in your younger days, and as much as you tried to discourage him, he seemed fascinated by you. He just kept following you around, and eventually, you let him in. Late night walks down to the water, 40z beers in hand, running from the cops. He’d kissed you for the first time in the woods, underneath a full moon, and made you feel like a person again.

Then the betrayal.

It started with little whispers all over town.

You got your first job, and your co-worker couldn’t stop gushing about her boyfriend, Andy.

It had to be a coincidence. It's not like Andy is an uncommon name. Yeah. You were being crazy.

But then it happened again. And you were so scared, so hesitant to cut one of your only lifelines in this town.

Then you caught him.

He’d given you a spare key to his apartment, which is really a stupid move if you’re gonna cheat, and you came in late from work.

You saw them, right there on the couch. Undeniably nude bodies, shrouded in shadows. The girl screamed when you opened the door.

You’d burst into tears on the spot.

Fuck you, you bastard!

She'd realized what was happening and laughed at you. Andy didn’t say a thing. You ran off, slamming the door, and you never saw him again.

Until now.

“You looked hot on the news today,” He smirks.

You wrench his arm off of you, mouth twisted into a sneer.

“Get away from me.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he reaches for you, “You were excited a second ago.”

“Because I thought you were someone else.” You hiss, slapping his hand away.

You feel something threaten to break within you. You’ve worked so hard over the years to form this calm, stable shell. You pride yourself on staying cool and getting shit done. Seeing Andy, combined with expecting Rodrick, and 4 or 5 of those purple martinis, just put a crack in that shell.

“I miss you,” He gives you a sad look, “C'mon, let's just hang out, no pressure.”

“No fucking way!” You laugh, bitter, feeling shakier by the second.

“I’ve changed.” He takes you gently by the shoulders.

“I don’t care.” You push him away from you, “It’s been years.”

“I just thought it had been long enough to try again.” His eyes are so sad, but you don’t buy it for a second.

You cross your arms, staying silent, frowning at him.

“Are you really with someone else?” His face drops.

“Yeah. Well, kinda. I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Either way, I don’t want you anymore.”

He looks down, his expression hurt. Good. When he looks back up at you, there's a smug look on his face, and a meanness in his eyes.

“So, what I'm getting is... you met a guy, maybe even slept with him, and you want to be with him, but he hasn't called you? And you're totally freaking out, because you're worried you're letting him walk all over you?”

You stare at him, arms still crossed, still slightly wobbly. You narrow your eyes.

“Shut the fuck up, Andy.”

You disappear into the crowd, hearing him yell wait!, but you don’t go back.

It can’t be true. Rodrick is not walking all over you. It’s only been one day, and something is clearly going on with him, anyway. Andy has no idea what he’s talking about, even if he had been scarily accurate. He hadn't been there. You nod, stumbling through the crowd as you try to convince yourself in your mind. One by one, you find all your friends and let them know you’re leaving.

You exit the bar, and see Nick leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette.

“You heading out?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, walking up to him.

He reaches out to give you a side hug.

“Alright. Hey, festival’s on in a month. You're in. We're gonna put you late in the day on Saturday.”

“For real? Hell yeah,” You smile, his words breaking you out of your funk.

“I'll let you know when everything's all worked out. See you around, D.”

You wave as you walk back to your apartment, trying to get Andy and Rodrick and whatever else out of your head and focus on the positives.

Even if Andy was right, even if Rodrick never calls you again…

You're playing at a music festival in a month. No dumb guy can take that away from you.

“Welcome to the team, kid!” The man who runs the plant, Buck, claps Rodrick on the back, “Now comes your initiation.”

“My… what?” Rodrick looks up, putting his paperwork on the top of a stack on Buck’s desk.

“You gotta come out with us!”

Buck is a large man, hairy and menacing, dressed in a worn-out old work shirt over a ratty white tank top.

“Out?” Rodrick gulps, “I’m kind of trying to avoid, like, the bars downtown and stuff…”

“Downtown?” Buck spits, “No, no, we’re not going downtown. We go to Johnny’s, it’s on this side of town. It’s for the guys, not those weirdos, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Rodrick frowns.

“Weirdos? They’re not weirdos, it’s just-”

“Ricky.” Buck takes him by the shoulders.

“Rodrick,” He corrects.

“I’m callin’ you Ricky. And all of those people down there? Grade A weirdos. Trust me. Now c’mon!” Buck shakes him.

Rodrick hesitates, looking at Buck’s red face.

“Uh… okay, fine.”

“That’s the spirit, buddy! Follow me, it’s not far.”

Rodrick pulls up to a cinderblock dive bar in a dirt lot, with overgrown brush sprouting up around the edges. The neon sign is green, half-dead, and flashing. Inside, it’s dark. Dollar bills hang from the walls, with profanities and funny faces scribbled over the markings. Old blues rock blasts from the speakers. Rodrick sits at the end, next to Buck, and guys in various work clothes line the rest of the bar. Everyone chatters, yelling and laughing, and Rodrick tries his best to pretend he’s paying attention whenever Buck nudges him. When they’re not looking, he finds himself staring at the bubbles in his beer mug, feeling completely out of body.

This feels weird. It feels wrong. He thought this would just be a job, but now he’s hanging out with these guys? These guys, with their sweaty beards, barking like dogs at the bartender? At the vintage beer ads with pinup girls that line the walls? He can't believe Buck had really had the nerve to call other people weirdos. He makes sure to tip the poor girl behind the bar as much as he possibly can, hearing your voice ring painfully in his head, flashing her apologetic looks.

“She looks pretty wild, eh, Ricky?”

Rodrick looks where Buck is pointing. It’s an old poster of a woman with feathered hair, in a low-cut top and daisy dukes, sitting with a beer bottle in between her legs. He doesn’t answer right away. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say.

“Uh. Yeah, she looks pretty, uh, wild? I guess?” He grimaces.

The guys around him all hoot and holler at his answer. Rodrick looks down the bar, bewildered. Is it really this easy? To be a… guy, as Buck had said?

He keeps downing mugs of watery beer, as the men keep cheering. Soon, he’s drunk, in a game of pool, against a guy who is absolutely schooling him.

“We’re not gonna put any money on the line, Ricky, we wouldn’t do that to you.” Buck laughs.

Rodrick sways, lining up his cue on the table.

“Now, once he gets his first paycheck, that’s a different story!”

Everybody laughs.

He sinks one ball, then fails horribly, as the men around him laugh. Hours seem to go by, as everybody kicks his ass in pool. Maybe this is what Buck had meant by ‘initiation’?

Eventually, he finds himself giving his keys to a large man in overalls.

“You said you lived downtown? I’ll drive you, don’t want the cops on your ass.” His voice is deep, grumbly.

Rodrick nods, nearly passing out as he’s driven home in his own van. The man parks outside his apartment complex.

“I’m Vaughn, by the way.” Vaughn tosses Rodrick his keys, laughing, “I’ll see you tomorrow, if you’re up.”

Rodrick gives a weak wave, shoving his keys into his pocket and stumbling up to his apartment.

“Where have you been?” Ward sits on the couch, legs crossed.

“Got a job.” Rodrick slurs, hanging up his jacket by the door.

“Dude, your girlfriend is so cool.” Ward doesn’t seem to notice, instead grinning at the TV.

He freezes, feeling his heart jump out of his chest.

Rodrick is stunned as he sees you, almost letting himself smile. Then he sees the rage burning in your eyes, looking straight into the camera as Mike rambles and a crowd cheers behind you.

It feels like you're looking right at him.

Guilt washes over him, and he wobbles on his feet.

“She's… not my girlfriend.” Rodrick walks off, shutting himself in the bathroom.

She tries not to shatter, kaleidoscope style

Personality changes behind her red smile

Every new problem brings a stranger inside

Helplessly forcing one more new disguise

tag list: @crumpets-are-better-with-jam

#SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG #I'm having a lot of emotions writing it lol #i just want it to be good #rodrick heffley #rodrick heffley x reader #rodrick x reader #doawk rodrick #rodrick heffley fanfiction #doawk rodrick fanfiction #salad days #my stuff

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