#i got in dozens of fights for fun as a kid and found them exhilarating because i just fucken like hurting people i guess

[countlessrealities]

SALOMÉ BLAKE ~ hvbris​

Salomé couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her girlfriend. “Babe, I’m obviously kidding. I know your grandfather isn’t 90. I was just insulting him, you know? He’s old and all that.” She let out a little chuckle. “But you’re right about the fact that he’s got the emotional maturity of a teenager.” Another eye-roll, this time directed at Rick, who wasn’t here to retort anything. 

“I would never provoke him on purpose,” she assured Summer, which was true. Salomé was smarter than that. She didn’t pick fights when she didn’t need to, much preferring smoother, more cunning options. But if she didn’t start fights, she sure knew how to end them. And she didn’t like being antagonized by a mad scientist every time she went to visit her girlfriend. 

“Anyway,” she raised her hand, as if to conclude the subject, “I’m here to have fun with my girlfriend, not talk about her family.” She kissed Summer, before sitting down next to her in the ride. 

She still wasn’t feeling super confident about this metallic hell they were about to ride on, but she figured it was too late to back down now. Salomé didn’t want to ridicule herself by chickening down at the last minute! 

As soon as the train started to move, she gripped Summer’s hand, probably strongly enough to hurt a bit. A quick glance at the horrifying free fall, and she closed her eyes, figuring she didn’t have to LOOK while plummeting to certain death. 

A scream escaped her lips, fueled by adrenaline as the fall made her stomach churn and her heart race. The sound was drowned by the dozens of other screams, some more worried than others, than resonated all around them. 

After a few minutes where she wasn’t sure if she was enjoying or hating this, the train came to a halt, and she opened her eyes. 

Summer’s eye lingered for a moment on Salomé, as to make sure that she was telling the truth. She didn’t have any doubts on her girlfriend’s ability to judge whether or not opposing someone was worth the risk, but she was also keenly aware of Rick’s innate talent to cause even the most patient person to blow a fuse.

Hers wasn’t a lack of faith in the brunette, it was concern for how far her grandfather could push it, consequences be damned.

The brief kiss interrupted her the trail of her thoughts and caused her to smile. Salomé was right. They had come there to get away from their families, and talking about them killed the purpose of choosing an amusement park in space, instead of one on Earth.

“Hey, if you can survive a whole afternoon with Grandpa Rick, this ride is gonna be, like, a piece of cake,” she claimed, trying to sound reassuring, but the anxious expression on the other girl’s face told her that she hadn’t succeeded in calming her down.

That left her with hoping that the ride wouldn’t be as traumatising as Salomé was expecting it to be.

Her concerns, however, didn’t linger for long. As soon as the carts start rushing down the first, steep descent, adrenaline filled her system and Summer found herself shouting in terrified delight as they rushed at break-neck speed along the rails, her free hand raised in the air to better feel the too strong friction caused by how fast it was ploughing through the air.

Even for someone like her, who had travelled through space and universes, there was something exciting when in experiencing zero gravity, in the way her stomach felt like it was floating too close to her lungs. It was an odd, exhilarating sensation, so enthralling that she didn’t realise just how tightly her girlfriend was squeezing her hand.

The ride came to an end much too soon for the redhead’s taste and she would have pouted when their turn to get off came, if it hadn’t been for the state of the other girl’s hair. Usually, Salomé’s ebony locks were in perfect state, straight and combed like the ones of a model. Right now, instead, her hair was puffy and messy and Summer found herself pressing a hand to her mouth to muffle a snicker.

“So, how did you like it?” She asked, once she had help her girlfriend dismounting and had led her on the side, away from most of the crowd. “I think it was really fun! But maybe it’s not, like, your thing? I promise that I’ll pick something tamer for our next stop.”

[theawkwardterrier]

Fateful Friends

The surprise part 2 of my Steggy Secret Santa gift for the very cool @sagesiren​/@theeleganteuropeanwoman - a Peggy POV modern AU avec Bucky and Angie because they wouldn’t allow me to fit them in last time. A somewhat belated Chanukah gift for you - or I guess a very early one for next year?

Summary: An afternoon of helping out Angie leads Peggy to a chance encounter. 

Read on AO3

“Carter,” Angie says, tapping a finger against her wrist even though she isn’t wearing a watch. “I love you, and it’s because I love you that I don’t mind telling you that you’re a big liar. You promised 11:30.”

Peggy sighs but saves the document she had been working on. Angie is right. Peggy had said they would leave at 11:30 and it’s already 12:15.

“We can stop at the bakery on the way,” Peggy offers, swiveling her chair around to reach for her purse and coat. “My treat to make up for delaying us.”

“Perfect,” Angie says brightly. She’s a bit flushed: she had refused to remove her parka since she got here nearly an hour ago as a pointed reminder that Peggy had promised only five more minutes, though she had unzipped it after about a quarter of an hour, and she’s also wearing a beret she keeps adjusting even as she insists that it makes her outfit. Still, she hops to her feet readily, hooking her arm with Peggy’s. “And this won’t be a drag, I swear. Just a girl’s day out, the two of us on the town, cleaning out my dead grandmom’s place.” She considers as they stop in the doorway to let Peggy flip off her office lights. “Okay, maybe we’d better get extra of the lemon pound cake to keep things fun.”

Peggy sighs. “Lead the way.”

There had been a bit of extortion involved in the whole business. Six months ago, Peggy had agreed to allow Angie to start setting her up. But after multiple mediocre dates (and one which ended in a well-deserved black eye for the man in question) she had begged off and refused to be convinced otherwise, even when Angie complained that this would ruin her credibility as a romance columnist and swore over and over that she had actually found the absolute perfect guy this time, the one Peggy would truly regret not meeting.

It isn’t that Peggy doesn’t want a relationship. She isn’t being too picky, and she hasn’t decided that her career should be her focus just now. But planning, the precise thing which has served her well her entire life in so many areas, seems to have failed her now. Online dating, singles mixers, allowing herself to be set up by friends, all the tried and tested strategies - nothing has led her to anyone she would even consider as a lifetime companion, and just this once, she has decided that she will leave things up to chance.

Standing firm on the dating question, however, apparently meant that Peggy was required to join Angie whenever requested and to do whatever favors she required in exchange for reneging on their original agreement.

In the end, though, spending a Saturday with her best friend is always enjoyable, even if they’re sorting the belongings of a recently deceased ninety-eight year old woman who Angie refers to as “the old bat.” They try to one up each other for the oddest item found in their cleaning, and eat their way through altogether too many pastries. As they trade off picking playlists, Angie even provokes Peggy’s competitive spirit enough that they both end up showing off their dance moves.

After eight hours of work, Angie decides that they have done enough for one day, even though they’re nowhere close to finished.

“Sixty years of crap isn’t going to shift itself in one try,” she shrugs cheerfully, searching within one of the scattered “keep” boxes for her other glove. “And I was forced to do all this out of oldest granddaughter sexism. I’ll come back next week and make my cousins help.”

Peggy laughs, retrieving the missing glove from beneath the once-fancy living room settee. The two of them gather the rest of their belongings, making certain the lights are turned out before they weave around the boxes to get to the front door.

On the threshold, Angie digs for the keys to lock up the brownstone, a beautiful Brooklyn property which her family couldn’t have bought with the help of a fairy godmother if they had wanted to try today. Peggy breathes in the sharp cold of the night air, turns to comment on it to her friend, then spins immediately back around as a snowball whizzes past her ear and explodes on the façade of the house just beside her.

A man’s voice from somewhere out on the darkened street shouts, “Bucky, what the—” Cutting himself off before actually verbalizing whatever curse he clearly wants to, the man changes tone, calling, “Peppermint hot chocolate for anyone who hits Bucky in the next five minutes.”

In the next second, the street comes so alive with childish chatter that Peggy can’t believe she didn’t notice the apparent army of little ones nearby. Over their whoops and cries, another man yells, “Not my fault that your shot went out of bounds. I just ducked - self preservation instincts, Rogers, if you’ve ever heard of them.”

Squinting into the dim streetlight, Peggy pinpoints where the second man’s voice is coming from, just as the thickly swaddled shape of him is tackled by several smaller forms and pelted with snow from all sides. Another shadow breaks away from the place on the street where last night’s half foot of snow has turned into haphazard forts on either side of a snowy battlefield, jogging toward where Peggy and Angie still stand on the steps.

“I’m sorry about the snowball attack there,” he apologizes as soon as he’s close enough. “We don’t usually drag strangers into our fights, or at least not before we’ve learned their names.”

Peggy hasn't been in a snowball fight since she was twelve - well, fourteen, if she’s being honest - declaring war on her brother Michael back at their house in Hampstead when they were both home from school for the term holiday. Perhaps she's been a bit infected by the lively afternoon or the stress of the past several weeks is finally catching up to her, but she finds herself turning and saying to a man she has never before met, "My name is Peggy Carter, and I'd be delighted to be recruited if there's room for one more, considering that hostilities have already been accidentally declared."

Apparently he didn’t expect a response like this, a strange woman deciding to take a chance. His eyes widen, but only for a moment before he says, "Well, sure, there's plenty of snow."

Glancing back at Angie, Peggy tells her, "There's no need to wait for me while I indulge myself in a bit of winter warfare, of course. Go off home and put your feet up."

But Angie instead looks delighted in a way that's almost outsized for her best friend taking her recommendation to relax a bit. "Oh, I'd never miss this," she says. "I'll just watch our things and spectate from over here." And she unhooks Peggy's purse from her shoulder and shoos her off toward the battlefield.

"Steve," the man says as they set off up the street together. "I'm Steve. Steve Rogers. By the way."

"Lovely to meet you," she says politely.

She isn't particularly prepared for this sort of activity - her boots are fairly practical for walking from apartment to subway stop to office though clearly are not meant to do much heavier lifting - but she ventures that it can be forgiven considering how spur of the moment the entire thing has been. However, Steve is not, Peggy notices, exactly dressed for the weather either. It’s a bit too cold for a waist length peacoat, thin gloves, and a loosely hanging scarf, and he seems to have half soaked through everything. When they pass under a streetlight, she looks up toward him and observes that his cheeks are flushed red, though it actually suits him quite well, making the blue of his eyes shine.

"Were you pulled into this under similar circumstances?" she asks.

He laughs a little shyly. "No, Bucky—My friend, Bucky - you'll meet him in a minute—Anyway, his mother invited a bunch of their family over for the afternoon, and between all the cousins there are a dozen kids running around these days. We just volunteered to keep them occupied."

She wants to ask exactly where he fits into the structure of his friend’s family, but they are nearing the place where the children are still shouting and pelting Steve's friend.

"I've brought someone else to even out the teams," Steve calls, and the kids leave off, coming to surround the newcomer instead.

After introductions have been made - Steve's friend Bucky gives Peggy a look which is strangely appraising but completely without objectification - Peggy is informed of the rules (no faces, no sand or rocks mixed with your projectiles, ten seconds of reprieve after you've ducked behind the walls of your team's fort) and assigned a team (Steve's, which sends a thrill running through her which she doesn't care to examine, settling for a decisive head nod and a small smile in his direction).

She had forgotten, in the years since she had last participated in a snowball fight, exactly how exhilarating it could be. Her careful plans for methodical stockpiling and adherence to ideal technique are soon thrown out the window in her haste to simply get the next missile prepared and launched at the opposition. As she and a small girl named Iris fling nearly loose snow at the other side of the street, she finds herself laughing more freely than she has in ages. At one point, she and Steve end up huddled against the wall of the fort next to each other.

"Your hands must be freezing," he comments, and when she looks down in surprise at her red fingers, she realizes that he is right. He strips off his sodden gloves and wraps his hands around hers, trying to press some heat back into them. It’s futile, considering that his hands, while larger, aren’t any warmer, but she doesn’t stop him. When he tries to pass his gloves over to her, however, she declines with a smile.

"Oh, I could never allow anything to interfere with my process."

"Right." He unwraps his scarf instead, offering it to her. "Maybe this way at least some of you will be warm, and you won’t lose your edge either."

She won't swear that it's feeling the wool still toasty from his neck which allows her to jump back into the fray with renewed vigor, but she certainly wouldn't swear otherwise.

Her watch and phone are buried within her coat, but it cannot be much later when the door to what Peggy guesses is Bucky's mother's house opens and a group of people starts to stream out, each member gravitating over to collect particular children. Peggy stands at the sidelines as Steve and Bucky are kissed on the cheeks and thanked for their babysitting efforts. Angie ambles over just as the last of the kids, little Iris, is taken off with a wave of her cheerfully red mitten.

“Enjoy yourself, English?” she calls, grinning as she picks her way down the sidewalk around the disarranged clumps of snow. “Haven’t seen you have this much fun in ages, although it’s also reminding me why I’m never playing laser tag with you again.”

“My skill doesn’t only apply to snow. I’m a bit of a laser markswoman,” Peggy tells Steve who has returned to her side, apparently having finished being showered with familial affection by Bucky’s relatives.

“Laser sharpshooter,” Angie corrects. “Laser sniper. Laser no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners—”

“Angie?”

Bucky has joined them, looking at Angie with surprise which turns quickly into a smile and a hug.

“Bucky Barnes!” Angie says after they’ve broken away. She’s still framing him with a hand on each arm but she lets go to give him a friendly whack on the shoulder. “I should have known there couldn’t be that many Buckys in Brooklyn.” Stepping back so she can face Steve and Peggy fully, she says, “Bucky and I are...I mean, Bucky’s mom and my mom are...Well, we’re...We must be—” She glances up, clearly trying to mentally map out a family tree.

“We’re cousins, somehow,” Bucky fills in smoothly. “Just like me and half the neighborhood.”

It occurs to Peggy that the situation might be awkward - they had just seen a number of Bucky’s relations leaving a gathering to which Angie clearly hasn’t been invited - but Bucky says, without apparent unease, “I guess you’re in the area to clean out your grandma’s place?” and then adds as an afterthought, “God rest her.”

Angie rolls her eyes, though not, Peggy suspects, at Bucky’s insincere tone. “My mother kept making noises that Jersey was too far to come for just the day and couldn’t I just take care of it, so I finally gave in.” She loops her arm through Peggy’s. “Carter here has been the perfect assistant - without her, I’d have either tried to keep everything or just backed the garbage truck up to the front door and set up a funnel.”

“You’d never - you might miss out on some heirloom to hold over everyone’s heads,” Peggy says with an affectionate elbow to Angie’s side. “And I certainly had my fill of fun sorting through objects from decades gone by, along with that snowball battling which capped things off perfectly. But I think it might be time that I started making my way home.” She truly has had a wonderful afternoon, the sort which will live fondly in her memory (including the feeling of Steve’s hands wrapped with such gentle and precise strength around hers), but the idea of a steaming bath and freshly laundered pajamas sounds absolutely heavenly at the moment.

“Oh,” Steve says softly. He extends a hand. “Well, it was nice to—”

“No,” says Bucky, shaking his head, and “No!” Angie adds with hasty vehemence.

“I’m sorry?” Peggy angles herself to try to see Angie’s face, but it’s Bucky who answers.

“You’re soaking wet, and I’m guessing that you don’t live on the next block. My mother would kill me if she found out I didn’t at least give you something dry to get home in.”

“It’s a lovely offer—” Peggy starts to demur, although she is now noticing that she’s quite chilly and it is going to be a bit of a slog home. Before she can get any farther, however, the door to Bucky’s family home opens up and a woman stands silhouetted in the spilling light.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I hope that you weren’t thinking of leaving these two young ladies out here in the cold without inviting them in to warm up.” She walks carefully down the steps, arms crossed over her chest, but she throws them open as she spots who is standing there. “Angie Martinelli, is that you? Wonderful to see you, sweetheart, come here!”

Angie releases Peggy to submit to a hug and a rapid-fire back and forth of greeting. Peggy suspects that their chances of making a smooth escape have just decreased rather dramatically.

“I’ve known Mrs. Barnes all my life,” Steve says quietly from over Peggy’s shoulder. “She’s never going to let you get away with leaving before you at least have on dry socks. And anyway, I promised hot chocolate to whoever managed to hit Bucky, and I definitely saw you paste him at least once.”

She smiles despite herself. “I believe it was peppermint hot chocolate which was promised.”

He laughs as their eyes meet, though his flick downward just after, a new flush filtering through his cheeks that she suspects has nothing to do with the cold.

“And who do we have here?” Mrs. Barnes asks, clearly finished cooing over Angie.

Peggy turns, smile still on her face. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Barnes. I’m Peggy Carter.”

“Get out of here while you can,” Bucky whispers fifteen minutes later, and Angie nods, telling Peggy, “If I ever need you to take a bullet for me, I expect you to remember this moment.”

“Why on earth would we be standing beside each other with bullets flying?” Peggy asks, eyebrow gracefully arched.

Before either of the others can reply, however, Steve takes Peggy’s hand from behind and tugs her away, whispering, “They’re not wrong,” as Mrs. Barnes returns with arms stacked with twenty-year-old photo albums.

“I promised Peggy something hot to drink,” he tells Mrs. Barnes more loudly. She waves them off, probably half from good hostess instincts and half eagerness to force the remaining two into a walk down memory lane.

It doesn’t escape Peggy’s notice that Steve doesn’t relinquish her hand until they’re safely in the kitchen, although it’s quite apparent where it is. She can’t say that she minds, however. With neither of them wet and frozen any longer, it’s much easier to appreciate the gentle solidity of his fingers, the press of their palms against each other.

Too soon for her to have cataloged the sensation entirely, Steve lets her go and starts moving around to the pantry and cupboards. Peggy stands watching him, curling her toes against the floor in the borrowed socks she is now wearing along with an absolutely divinely plush gray cardigan loaned to her by Mrs. Barnes. The lady of the house had insisted on adding the wettest items to the dryer - “As if I would let you back out into the street like that to freeze. My mother would come back and haunt me!” - which had included Peggy’s blouse and coat, though luckily not her singlet or her jeans (damp, but dark enough to have avoided scrutiny, so Peggy hadn’t needed to strategize a polite objection to wearing someone else’s trousers).

“I hesitate to offer considering my skills in this area, but can I do anything to help?” she finally asks.

Steve shakes his head as he sets a saucepan on the stove. “This is about the only thing I can make, but I can do it with my eyes closed.” He gestures her over to a seat, which she takes.

“Why was peppermint hot chocolate the one recipe you ever learned?” she wonders as he lights a burner and adds together milk, cocoa powder, chocolate chips, and a bit of sugar.

“I learned plenty,” he says, angling himself to see her and stir at the same time. “This was just the only one that stuck. My mom worked a lot, and plenty of night shifts. It was just the two of us, so I wanted to make sure she would come home to something warm and good after all of that. She passed a while back, but I still make it for Bucky’s family when I’m around - they’ve always been great to me.”

“Ah,” Peggy says, trying to sound normal and satisfied with his answer instead of a bit overcome by his factual sweetness, the way he seems completely unresentful of the multitude of Barnes relatives while he apparently has no family left. She clears her throat. “And what is it you do, other than distribute homemade hot beverages?”

He flashes a bit of a smile at her, tucking his hands into the pocket of the sweatshirt he had borrowed from Bucky’s old bedroom upstairs. His hair is adorably mussed from pulling it over his head, and Peggy can’t quite tear her eyes away.

“I run the art program over at the community center,” he says, turning to add a few drops of something to the chocolate mixture. From the scent which suffuses the air, Peggy guesses that it’s peppermint flavoring. “Afternoon classes, activities with the schools, workshops. My under-twelve group just put up a display at the local library if you want to go visit.” He sounds absurdly proud.

“How wonderful.” The words come out even more softly than she had thought they would. She tries to pull herself together with the crispness of tapping straight a stack of papers, but doesn’t quite manage it. The soft smile won’t leave her face and she wonders if it might be a permanent fixture now. Oh, they’ll certainly go their separate ways shortly, but she feels that there was some amount of luck involved in her having had the chance to meet him in the first place.

Blinking a little, he turns away and unwraps a few of the peppermint candies Mrs. Barnes has set out in a dish on the counter. “What do you do?” he asks, crushing the candies with the handle of a knife.

Feeling her smile fade a bit into something more businesslike, less touched by gentle joy, Peggy says, “I’m the policy director for a non-profit.” It’s her standard response, the beginning of a slow wade into the more detailed answer. It is also, she has to admit, the beginning of a test, one which nearly all the potential partners Angie had tried to set her up with ended up failing.

“Which one?” Steve asks, gliding unknowingly through the first level of scrutiny as he scrapes the crushed peppermints into a palm and deposits them into the pot, beginning to stir again. (Peggy still sometimes finds herself surprised at how many people are so eager to turn the topic back to themselves that they accept the most simplistic answer and move along.)

“The INRJ,” Peggy says. It seems that she’s holding her breath just a bit as she gives her usual pause. She finds that she does not want Steve to make a misstep in this. She thinks she might forgive him if he did.

“The International Network for Reproductive Justice, right?” The way he gives her a look, double checking, deferring to her knowledge: if there were truly points, he would have earned himself a bonus just then. “Back when it was the International Pro-Choice Network, my mom used to bring me along to play under the table while she was stuffing envelopes or phone banking.” He tilts his head to the side and adds, “Bucky actually reminded me of that a few weeks ago - he saw an ad for the symposium you were holding and thought I should check it out.”

“Oh, yes,” she says, using the reminder of work to shore herself up a bit from melting. “I was meant to speak about the effects of the global gag rule, but I ended up sitting on the tarmac at Heathrow instead.”

He makes a commiserating face. “They did say that the talk about adoption and foster care in eastern European countries was a last minute replacement, although the speaker was really good. I hadn’t realized that was supposed to be your spot. I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to speak; I would have liked to hear what you had to say.”

“Yes,” she says, slightly dazedly, the word nearly lost in the sound as he snaps off the burner. “Natasha is quite talented. She always gives a good presentation.”

“The community health initiatives to reduce parent and child mortality in Sierra Leone sounded like amazing stuff too.” He’s still talking as he reaches into a cabinet for a pair of mugs, apparently not noticing her reaction. “I ended up donating to the hospital building fund after I got home.”

She’s told dozens of men over the years what she does for her job, and the responses have run the gamut from indifference to confusion to polite questions, from furious rants about the sanctity of life to pompous assurances of allyship. This is the first time she’s heard one of them discuss her organization’s projects with true interest, the first time everything seems to have been said genuinely and unprompted and without the aim of impressing her.

Which is why it does all the more.

“I was glad Bucky suggested it,” Steve tells her, setting her mug in front of her. He takes a seat across from her, his own mug in hand. “He’s been trying to get me to go to all of these random places lately, and the symposium was one of the more interesting.”

“I’ve actually been experiencing the same thing with Angie,” Peggy says, seizing on the topic as a way to keep her equilibrium. “In the last month she’s taken me to a wine and cheese tasting, a Broadway play, and an art showing at the Sage Gallery, which I actually think I would have enjoyed if I hadn’t needed to spend most of it in the stairwell on a conference call.”

Steve, who had been about to take a sip from his mug, lowers it back to the table. With care, he says, “Bucky tried to get me to go to a wine and cheese night but I had to fill in running a watercolors class at the senior center. We went to a Broadway play but ended up switching seats with mom and little kid so they could be on the aisle.” Voice dropping a bit, he adds, “And I had a showing of some paintings at the Sage Gallery three weeks ago.”

They glance in unison toward the living room, as if they might establish some facts by merely turning in the direction of their friends, but all they hear is the low sound of chatter and laughter.

“Angie has arranged so many dreadful dates for me in the past,” Peggy says, leaning over the table to speak to him quietly. “I told her she wasn’t allowed anymore.”

Steve nods. “When Buck sets me up, they always think I’m going to be just like him, and it’s awful to see their faces when they realize I’m not. I just wanted a break from having to sit through dinner with someone who was disappointed that it was me there.”

The mug is hot against her palms, and she finds herself taking in deep breaths of peppermint-scented steam. “One of these days, he’s certain to find you someone who isn’t an utter bloody fool, then,” she says, and though she truly means the words, they come out soft instead of sharp, an outstretched hand.

“I sort of think,” Steve says, tipping his chin up so his eyes catch the light even as they lock with hers. “I sort of think that he’s been trying.”

Later that night, once she’s tucked away in bed, she thinks about fate and design, the overlap between them, and decides that it doesn’t matter how the moment comes to be if she doesn’t do anything with it. She takes a deep breath and texts him: Your hot chocolate was quite good. Perhaps we could meet sometime so you can show me how to properly prepare it?

Not even a minute later, he responds: I think we can come to an arrangement.

Angie only gloats a little when she hears that a hot chocolate making lesson and a week of texting has led to the arrangement of an actual date. Bucky is not as gracious. Peggy can’t quite bring herself to care, and by the undeniable flicker of Steve’s smile, she suspects he feels the same.

[chaosworthyarchive]

                                                                3.14.3226                                            Location ¦ Green Hill, Johnny’s Bar                                                           ————————

     The bar settled on the bare outskirts of the village was one of the newest structures it had to offer, and yet it was also one of the most lively. Even now in the early afternoon the sound of clinking cups, plates and animated conversation between the Green Hill citizens came from the restaurant. Adults and children alike were laughing over the ambient music playing from the building’s speakers, and despite the noise there was a peaceful air among the small crowd. The air of comradery, of a community that thrived together.

     Among it, gathered on the other side of the building where the bar was settled and currently empty save for them, were three of the six Freedom Fighters. And one, very shiny guitar. It went without saying that Sonic and Mina were passionate about music, and even that was putting it very lightly, but Johnny had a similar interest, or at least he had when the hedgehog mentioned his latest splurge. The rabbit was currently fixated on the purple hued instrument, eyes taking in the off gold trim and extricate bird design on the neck. It was fitting for the hero and even Mina was having a hard time not admiring it as the three of them conversed.  

     They had been talking about nothing in particular, simple day to day things, when the backdoor, the one within the kitchen, opened. A few moments later a rather rugged but, friendly looking, older rabbit walked through the double swinging doors. Upon settling his gaze on the group, a hearty laugh erupted from his throat and he smiled.  

     “Ain’t this a sight for sore eyes,” he began, smirking as he looked from Johnny, his son, to the blue hedgehog. Johnny’s father was a tall, darker furred rabbit with a gruff appearance but a good heart. Kind despite his size, but strong (something the hedgehog was reminded of as the rabbit hugged him outright). Often away on business it was rare that the elder was seen around the village and it had been a long time since the hero had done just that, let alone had a conversation with the man who had been a big part of his childhood. They had both been busy over the last few years, to say the least.

     It was something he could tell was going to be remedied as the older rabbit looked him over, that grin growing in a way both proud and curious. “How've ya been? Other than that mess on the news a few years back, I mean.”

     There was a collective glance from the three younger Mobians towards one another, all three of them thinking the same thing but none of them willing to voice that thought. At least not then, and not out loud. It was probably better they didn’t anyway, no need to drag down a perfectly casual conversation after all.

    “I’m still around, so I can’t complain much about that, I s'ppose.” Sonic couldn’t help but grin back, despite the memory, and made a nonchalant gesture. “As for things...they’ve been good, great actually. An’ after everything that’s happened there’s something almost terrifying about that.”

     “I know what ya mean,” the elder agreed, nodding his head with a particular weight in his voice. It didn’t last long, however, and there was something almost scolding that took over their tone, his eyes fixed on the hedgehog. “But I’ll tell ya what, while the world’s a lot better place with you in it, if ya ever pull a stunt like that crap in the city, you’ll be hearing from me. Got it?”

     The hero did get it, very much so, and even though he could tell there were burning questions on the elder’s end the conversation continued and drifted from there. Something Sonic was thankful for. It didn’t just give the four of them a chance to catch up (or, in the case of Mina and the elder rabbit, a chance for introductions and more than a few shared, embarrassing stories at the hedgehog’s expense) but managed to dispel the weight in the air. In fact, there was something entirely new by the time Johnny’s father pointed to the guitar on the counter. He didn’t need to ask whose it was, he had a pretty good feeling.  

      “Ya still play, right?”

     Sonic would have been lying if he said he hadn’t expected the question sooner or later, and Chaos knew he could already pinpoint the look in the other’s eyes. It was a look he had seen a lot as a kid, even Johnny had recognized it and had laughed as the hero answered with: “occasionally, yeah. Do you?”

     “Hey now, don’t forget who taught ya everything ya know.” The response came with a much heartier laugh, a look of enthusiasm in the older rabbit’s eyes as he jabbed a thumb off to the side, towards a different section of the restaurant they both knew all too well. “How about we give ‘em a show? Show me that natural talent of yours.”

     Oh yes, the hero had been expecting that indeed. It was rare that he got the chance to see one of the people who had practically raised him, apart from Rosie, and yet it never failed that the same request came up every time he did. Though, this time, Sonic would admit he had walked right into it. Had his father not asked the hero had a strong feeling that Johnny would have and he would have ended up playing in some shape or form regardless. Given that the middle part of the building was a small but functional stage only added to that possibility.  

     However, even now, there was hesitance as the hero pondered the question. There was a temptation, but still a reluctance and yet before he could say anything, someone else had taken the decision out of his hands.

     “He’s in.”

     If the look the hedgehog had just shot his girlfriend was anything to go by, they were definitely having a talk later. Something that likely would have happened right then and there had Johnny not added his own response to the pile.

    “So am I.” It was punctuated by the younger rabbit clapping the hero on the shoulder, his grin just as wide and exhilarated as his father’s had become. Honestly, it was times like that when Sonic realized the pair really were the splitting image of each other. But as the older rabbit followed suit, going as far to get up and grab the bass he kept as a spare in the restaurant, the hedgehog realized he no longer had a say in what was happening.  

     He wasn’t the only one either, and as he felt a hand slip into his Sonic looked back to meet Mina's eyes. There was an apology in her jade hues, but also that fire the hero had fallen in love with. Giving his hand a squeeze, she smiled at him, a supportive gesture. "Just this once, alright? For me? It’ll do you some good.”

     “You owe me, I hope you know that.” There was a semi-serious tone to his voice, one that the mongoose answered with a look that spoke volumes as the hedgehog grabbed the guitar from the counter. If he was going to do this, might as well break in a new instrument, right?

     It only took a few minutes for everything to be set up, and Sonic would have been surprised if it hadn’t broken some kind of record. Then again, the stage portion of the restaurant was used just about every weekend so things were ready to go at a moment's notice to accommodate any person or band who wanted to play for the night. It wasn’t the first time the hedgehog had been on the stage but standing there, even with a song already in mind between the three performers, there was still a heavy feeling his gut. A feeling only marginally helped when Mina smiled from a nearby table and Johnny’s voice rang out from the drum set behind him.

     “Ready?”

     The word ‘no’ had almost jumped off the hero’s tongue but he bit it down and nodded. Trying, and failing, to ignore the rapid beating of his heart as there was some more shuffling behind him and the countdown started, the hero let his eyes slip close.

     It was funny, some voice told him, how many things could happen in a few seconds – in just a few bars. How doubts could fester, all at once and suddenly, bringing with it an utter sense of dread that had quite literally turned the hero’s stomach. How all at once, despite shaking hands and the innate desire to hide from the dozens of eyes now on him, hearing the first beats ring out into the air was almost cathartic. Like the voice of an old, cherished friend.

     It was now, or never.

     With one breath, on one beat, he sang:  

          “Standing in the rain, with his head hung low.           Couldn't get a ticket, it was a sold-out show.           Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene.           Put his ear to the wall, then like a distant scream…”

     It was almost instinctual the way his fingers moved, like it was second nature, a gut feeling that he couldn’t think to fight. A feeling he didn’t want to fight, he found. The dread, the trepidation? It had all been nullify, replaced with something far more fierce; far more real.

     He never understood it, likely never would, but just like so many times before a sense of peace washed over the hedgehog, growing stronger with every passing second. Stronger with every passing note until his mind cleared, his body relaxed and those bright eyes opened once more.  

      And he smiled.

     Not the smile of someone forcing their way through a task, not the smile of someone who wanted to flee, but the smile that spoke of a true, unadulterated joy. A joy – fun - that bled into the next few minutes, into each note, each syllable.  

     Because there really was nothing better than music. Not to him.  

[jaspersforever]

🍊

⚠️