#i think coffee is a borin answer for some people but it's my go to and i gotta live that truth

[communist-cat-girl]

Am curious what your fav drink is? ^w^

Oh gods, maybe it's how tired I constantly am but coffee will always do the trick; at this point even decaf tastes incredible to me.

To match the context of Jill bein' your icon (presently), I do enjoy vodka and soda. Usually paired with Dr. Pepper or Mtn Dew, decaf 'cause I live in sugary hellscape America. Just one tall glass, plenty of ice, to sip on for a while. Just genuinely like the taste. Some rum is really good, and honey whiskey is dangerous and I don't touch it even though I love it lol.

Ok gonna' rant about coffee.

UGH I used to work at Starbucks and look, look. Espresso does kinda slap hard, an oat milk cappuccino fills me with an adoration and warmth and love that convinces me religion is real.

Naturally those machines are expensive though, so I mostly have generic drip coffee in my day-to-day. Unless it's particularly bitter I will just have a decent amount of creamer, little to no sugar, and sometimes I make my own cold brew. I prefer coffee quite warm tho.

ok done xoxo

[romi--weiss]

She was grateful when Cyrek didn't get annoyed with her insistence that being sober was boring. Perhaps that was a childish way to put it but that's how she felt. And when he asked if she had any hobbies, she sat in silence for a moment, thinking. Her realization that in fact, she really didn't have any hobbies was kind of pathetic. Why is it borin'? You do anythin' outside work? Besides listen to me. She let out a chuckle and said "It's cute that you actually think I listen to you." Though of course, that was a lie--she did listen to Cy. And she did take her sobriety seriously.

Momentarily bringing her hand up to her eyes, frustrated with her own bullshit, she mumbled "Sorry... No, besides going to work and listening to you, I don't really...do anything. I don't think shopping really counts as a hobby... I mean, I guess I cook but that doesn't really feel like a hobby, more so a necessity." She actually did find joy in cooking but considering that's what she did for a living, it didn't really feel like hobby material. "I guess I should try out some hobbies, huh? You said that Stella likes darts?..." Perhaps she could try that. Suddenly, this whole conversation felt so silly. She's a grown woman, she should have some hobbies.

My chick says I'm not borin', you just make it difficult. "Oh, I never said you were boring--I just don't think you like my sense of humor. But yeah, I guess you could say I'm difficult." She didn't really take it as criticism but more so just a blatant fact. She wondered if Stella had said she was difficult--it didn't really matter where the idea came from, though, because it was true. Dishonesty's a waste of my time. "Who's being dishonest?" she said, her voice a little sharper now. "I may be full of shit but I'm not being dishonest--and yes, there is a fucking difference." She looked at him, her mouth in a smirk but her eyes betraying her true feelings. "Believe me, I'm aware that I'm an annoying fuck. And I'm sorry. But I am trying."

She sat with his question, trying to think of a real, genuine answer this time. "Well, my skin is brighter, for the record, thank you very much. But also... I guess I'm in a better mood most days... I don't feel like I'm gonna' have a fucking heart attack when I wake up, which...wasn't always something I could say. And I feel like I'm not as fucking ditzy as I used to be, now that I'm no longer frying my brain. So yeah, I guess I notice the little things. And it's nice. But... I don't know, I go to NA, I go to fucking therapy--and good luck to that poor bitch because that shit moves at a snail's pace. I feel better physically, but... I don't feel better up here," she said, tapping on her head. "And I'm not sure what to do about that."

Sounds like you're a pretty good chef. Fancy dishes like that, people want real quality. She smiled at the praise and this time, it was genuine. "I'd like to think I am. Anka's taught me a lot, I'm really grateful to them." Think you do better at work now? Nodding, she said "Yeah, I think so. I'd like to continue with it... I think one day, I'd even...I don't know, think about opening my own restaurant or something, maybe..." Taking a sip of her coffee, she said "If I were really smart, I'd quit smoking so I could have a better palette, but... I've gotta' have something, you know?" Vices, she meant. Maybe that was a toxic way to think about it but everybody had something, right? She'd had coke but that was no longer an option. Not if she wanted to live. And she did want to live.

The different universes that they circulated would not have collided were it not for fatefully crossing paths in Scaredy Cat Club. His people-watching and blunt observations happened to pay off and seemingly help another person reflect on the fucked-up chapters in their own life, but he didn't exactly expect the other sponsors to hawk on his predisposal of tolerating Stella at every meeting and single him out. Cyrek wasn't leader material, he insisted, and taking on a charge for no money and no gain was arguably redundancy for him — had Romi not been intrigued with the biker gang and masterfully suggested aid, he wouldn't have ever mentioned it. There were some lows even he wouldn't go at the Bastards' rock bottom, exploitation included.

On the other hand, he had a thin thread of time available for her, and a plethora of other responsibilities running his arse into the ground. Ideally, he was trying to eke through the day with enough energy leftover that he could spend time with his girlfriend. At the blonde's age, he was equivocally devoid of extraneous tasks ( and not run-down by the ever-degrading condition of his body that he'd been biting against the bit obstinately. )

"It takes a while to rewire your brain, or whatever. Stella tried a shitton of hobbies after realizin' she had none, so," he spoke indifferently as he trained his eyes on the menu, narrowing his vision to read the lettering without his glasses, "She's pretty great at darts, and pool. We just came back from seein' the World's Largest Six Pack in fuckin' Wisconsin and she's already tryin' to talk me into these, uh, nature landscapes 'round here." Pausing, the thought briefly filtered that it was unusual for the brunette to select something scenic — maybe for a romantic date, but she didn't enjoy hiking. Huh. Closing the laminated menu, his palms planted against it, arching a brow. Personally, his universe had revolved around music for as long as he could recall, or ice skating, and it hadn't changed significantly since he'd sobered up — navigating it was different, at first, but he hadn't capsized any winds in his sail. "Why is it borin'? You do anythin' outside work? Besides listen to me."

Engaging and stitching connections were an unfavorable suit of his, as charismatic as he could be — once again, he denied that he was cut out for the kind of help she needed. But his job was to keep her on the right path, or support her when she was contemplating gifting it away to the lady-in-waiting of white powder that would turn to quicksand underneath her when it had her back in its teeth.

Lighten up. The punk's expression soured more than pie left in the sun, as he handed off the menu and requested the coconut merengue pie, spinning the glass of water with his fingertips. "My chick says I'm not borin', you just make it difficult," and yes, he had talked to her about Romi a handful of times when she was preoccupied with rubbing his shoulders ( after he'd persisted that he didn't need it, ) "Dishonesty's a waste of my time." Hypocritical, perhaps, considering the big secret he'd been shoving under the rug, out of sight and mind from Annisa — why should she have to swallow another helping of bullshit when she was already dissociating over a fucking robot in her genetic likeness? ( For as stubbornly avoidant as Stella was, she'd always known better than to beat around the bush with him. ) I'm sober and that's what matters. Dark eyes searched the tabletop for answers. Yeah, it sucked. There were days and weeks he was still dopesick when incomprehensible stress sent him into a tailspin mentally. Biting the inside of his cheek, he cocked his head. "What else? A year in, you haven't noticed nothin' that you like about it? Or didn't... appreciate before?"

The slope of his shoulders slackened, mulling it over. Sobriety was different for everyone. He'd talked about it, sometimes. it reignited his passion for music, after a while, and his songwriting had actual substance to it instead of a pubescent teenager's limited range of words, and he had the lucidity to pick up new vocabulary, however sluggish he still was. The rhythm of his moods was less capricious than before; he didn't oscillate from the anger and the sadness without reprieve as horrifically. From what he'd picked up off their pillow talks, Stella was relieved to latch onto a natural flavor of peace that she had been chasing her entire life. ( When her thoughts weren't beating her down, like his were prone to, he'd catch her stealing smiles at pages in her travel books when she'd circle places and scribble in a note. Cyrek and Stella weren't happy people, but it was better. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember a moment when he was high that he would have read one of her sticky notes and smiled, too. Numbness wasn't happiness. ) She took more pride in her work as the right hand, and although confidence was not in her DNA ( exempting select situations, ) her suggestions were lucid and well-thought. What made Romi tick? What needed to be left behind, and what were the small parchments of contentment she could seal in wax? "Sounds like you're a pretty good chef. Fancy dishes like that, people want real quality. Think you do better at work now?"

[a-solitary-marshmallow]

Rewind Chapter 4 - Fiddleford to the Rescue

Stan started when there was a sharp knocking at the front door. He hadn’t thought anyone was coming – but evidently Ford had known, because he jumped up to let them in. The person who stepped inside was a twig of a man, carrying a duffel bag in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The guy looked pretty tired – sorta like those people who sometimes slept under the jetty with bloodshot eyes and cans scattered around them. But this man didn’t reek of beer and cigarettes. Blue eyes darted around behind thick glasses before landing on Stan and softening.

“Ah. This is your brother, I ‘spect?” The stranger spoke with a thick accent. Stan hadn’t heard an accent like his before.

“Yes. Thank you for coming.” Ford was a flurry of motion, darting here and there and packing things in a big shoulder bag. “I need to go, I have to get this barrier up as soon as possible. I should be back by this evening. There’s food in the fridge, I’m not sure what bills I’ve paid recently so there may or may not be hot water, and Stanley, behave!”

With that Ford disappeared, the front door slamming behind him. Stan froze, voice squeaking in a totally cool and manly way.

“Wait – Ford? Where are you-”

Yeah, he was already gone. Leaving Stan alone with this strange man. Stan stood self-consciously in the middle of the lounge, hyper aware of those eyes on him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

The stranger broke the silence first, kneeling down to be at eye-level with Stan. “You must be Stanley. I guess Ford forgot ta introduce us. Wouldn’t be the first thing ‘e forgot.” The guy smiled a slightly crooked smile and held out one hand. “I’m Fiddleford, an old… friend of ya brother’s. I’m here to look after ya for a while. Is that okay?”

“…I guess so.” Stan stepped forward hesitantly to shake the man’s hand. Despite its thinness his hand was rough and calloused, worn with work. His smile was infectious and Stan found himself mirroring it. “You can call me Stan. Everyone does.”

“Well then, you can call me Fidds.” Fiddleford’s bright eyes combed over him for a moment before the man started riffling through his duffel bag. “Now, I got some old clothes of my son’s that I figure will fit better than that shirt. You wanna give it a shot?”

Stan nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Who’s your son? Is he coming too?”

“No, Tate’s in California right now.” The man lifted a couple items of clothing. “Alright, let’s take a looksee at what we got.”

 Stanford’s little brother was cute as a button. Well, twin brother apparently, not that that made much of a difference right now. The boy was all gap-toothed grins and twinkling eyes and curious questions. Fiddleford let him choose some clothes he liked – a pirate shirt and a pair of faded yellow shorts – and helped the little kid get dressed. Stan chatted excitedly the whole time.

“S’weird! I just woke up here yesterday and Ford was all old. He’s grumpier now too. So if this is the future how do we know you? When do I meet you? We probably haven’t met yet while I’m this age right? No, I think I’d remember seein’ you even if you were a kid like me! You got a mem-or-ab-le nose. Kinda like mine!” Stan poked his own pink nose to demonstrate. “’Cept mine and Ford’s are wide and yours is long. Does your son have the same nose?”

Fiddleford laughed and slipped the shirt over the squirming boy’s head. There were so many questions, he figured he’d try and answer them in order.

“Ford is grumpy now, isn’t he? And I’m a friend of Ford’s from college. This is the first time we’ve met at all, so you wouldn’t know me even as an adult with all yer memories. And Tate does have my nose, unfortunately.”

Stan blinked up at him owlishly. Fiddleford smoothed down his ruffled cowlick. “So… you know Ford but not me? Why doesn’t future-me know you?” Then Stan shook his head with a smile. “You said college, right? I bet that’s why! Pa says I’m too stupid for college. But o’course Ford got in. He’s real smart, ya know!” The kid finished proudly. Fiddleford hesitated.

“Your father says…” Stanford hadn’t spoken much of his family. Fiddleford was starting to see why. The idea of a man telling his son – his son who couldn’t be any older then twelve – that he was stupid filled his chest with fire.

Fiddleford tried to stamp out the anger before Stan could see it on his face. No sense in scaring the child. Instead he changed the subject, carefully poking at one of Stan’s hands.

“So, ya got hands like ya brother’s?”

“Oh, no, I just got the borin’ five fingers.” Stan waggled his fingers to demonstrate.

“Really?” Well that was interesting. “But yer practically identical otherwise! Well, I guess it makes sense that yer not totally the same, seein’ as you don’t have the same eyesight anyway.”

“Oh, we do.” Stan chirped, leaving Fiddleford flabbergasted.

“But ya don’t have glasses!”

“Oh yeah, I don’t need em ‘cause I’m not smart.” Stan’s smile faltered for a moment before recovering. “Pa says glasses are expensive and Ford needs his, so I don’t. Hey, you got glasses too! You must be smart.”

Fiddleford once again tried very hard to not let his anger show. He must not have done a very good job, because Stan shrank back.

“Er – I’m sorry?”

Darn it, and he’d been trying to get the little tyke to trust him! Fiddleford forced an apologetic smile on his face.

“You got nothin’ to apologize for. I was just thinkin’ I’d like to have a word with yer brother when he gets back.”

Stan still looked dubious, so Fiddleford tried another strategy.

“You know, I reckon Ford’s gotta have a spare set of glasses lying around. Do you wanna look for ‘em, borrow ‘em for a while? The prescription should be close enough. I got some old books a’ Tates you might like and it’ll be easier if you can see ‘em.”

Stan twisted his hands together. “I dunno. Ford got pretty mad when I messed with his stuff before.”

“He’ll be fine. Besides, I’m just as adult as him. I think I can make decisions without that worrywart around.”

Just as Fiddleford had thought he would, Stan laughed. “Yeah, he is a worrywart! An’ Ford’s let me borrow his glasses before when we were switchin’ clothes to play a prank on Crampelter. So he can’t get mad now!”

The kid seemed to have immediately forgotten about his upset. That made Fiddleford’s smile come a little easier, a little warmer.

“Well, now that that’s settled, how about we go look for those glasses? And we’ll see if you like any a’ these books. Ya feel like learnin’ about isopods?”

“I have no idea what that is!” Stan whooped.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

 _______________________________________________________________

It was nice, Fiddleford reflected, having a child around. He hadn’t interacted with kids since he’d last seen Tate. How long ago had that been…?

Fiddleford made sandwiches for lunch, and they ate while flipping through picture books. Stan especially liked the one with krill and whale sharks. Then the kid had started telling delightful stories about old ships and adventures on Glass Shard Beach, and who was Fiddleford to interrupt?

By evening Stan had worn himself out, and Fiddleford made him a cup of hot chocolate while he decided what to fix for dinner. Of course Ford had little in the way of food. There was some frozen and tinned stuff, but little in the way of healthy foods. Stanford was terrible at taking care of himself.

Fiddleford glanced out of the window at the ever-darkening sky. Sure, he was still hopping mad at Stanford, but… he couldn’t help but worry. Not when the man had been gone all day in the snow. And when his adorable little brother was getting antsy.

“Fidds, when’s Ford gettin’ back?” Stan whined, right on time. “You said he’d be back soon.”

Fiddleford busied himself with looking in the fridge. There were some assorted vegetables lying around, wrinkled with age but not rotten – he could make fritters. Satisfied, he started gathering the ingredients.

“He’ll get here when he gets here.” Fiddleford rooted around until he found a grater. Stan sulked into his hot chocolate. He certainly had Stanford’s stubbornness! Fiddleford wondered if it was a family trait.

As if on cue, there was a commotion outside the front door. Fiddleford tensed. It swung open, and thankfully a familiar figure trudged inside.

“Ford!” Stan squealed in delight. He scrambled from the kitchen table to throw himself at his brother’s legs. Ford, looking snow-flecked and rather frazzled, patted his head absently.

“Yes, yes, hello Stanley. Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes and continued making the fritters. Trust Stanford to make a dramatic entrance. Still, he eyed the man as he took off his snow-covered coat and boots. Stanford looked… rough. Not physically, but exhaustion was etched into every line on his face.

Fiddleford tutted and poured the man a coffee. Ford blinked as it was pushed into his hand.

“Oh – thank you, Fiddleford.”

“Didja meet the unicorn?” Stan pulled on his brother’s shirt, his own tiredness evidently forgotten in his excitement. Ford sighed.

“Yes, though she still stubbornly refuses to give me any of her hair. I did manage to obtain the rest of the ingredients though, so as soon as I get the hair I’ll be able to ward the house.”

Unicorn hair? Fiddleford was confused for all of two seconds before he shrugged it off. With Stanford, everything was a surprise. You just learned to roll with it.

And now that Ford was here…

“Stan, wouldja do me a favour?” Fiddleford asked gently. Stan nodded. “There should be a blanket up in the closet upstairs, all red and gold with snowflakes printed on it. It’s my favourite one. Could you go get it for me?”

“Sure.” Stan chirped, darting out of the room. Ford made a sound of confusion.

“I don’t remember that blanket.”

“’Course ya don’t, I made it up as an excuse to get Stan out of the room.” Fiddleford put down the grater and turned to meet Ford’s wary gaze from across the kitchen bench.

“…okay.” Ford said. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Stanford.” Fiddleford fixed him with a serious look. “Yer little brother’s a good kid.”

Ford sighed. “Twin brother. We’re twenty-seven.”

“Well right now he’s just seven. And you’d better not mess ‘im up. I’m watchin’ you.” He added with narrowed eyes.

Ford laughed nervously. “Honestly, what do you take me for?”

“A scientist who’s obsessed with his work and has no idea how to care for a child, ‘specially not a child who’s been abused.”

Ford’s eyes widened. “Abused? I can assure you that Stanley hasn’t been abused.”

“I beg to differ!” Fiddleford said sharply. Ford had the audacity to look insulted. “With what the kid’s been tellin’ me, there’s no way he hasn’t been abused. For god’s sake, he doesn’t have glasses when he needs ‘em! And ‘e flinches when I so much as raise my voice – or my hand, for that matter. E’s got bruises all over, too. What am I supposed to think?”

“Stanley… he refuses to wear his glasses.” Ford said weakly. Fiddleford snorted.

“He’s been usin’ yer spare ones all day. Says ‘e likes bein’ able to see for once. In fact, he basically said yer father refused to buy ‘im glasses after his old pair got broken!”

“He’s been wearing my-?”

“Of course you didn’t notice. Have ya even laid eyes on the kid?”

“Of course I have.”

“So you did notice him wearin’ your spare glasses? No wonder ‘e thinks he’s stupid, he can’t read the words on a page two inches from his nose!”

Ford looked devastated. Right now, Fiddleford didn’t care. “But… no, that’s not right. Stanley always told me he hated wearing them.”

“Even besides that, what about the bruises?” Fiddleford challenged. “The kid’s covered in ‘em. And I’m givin’ you the benefit of the doubt here, because I don’t believe you’re the one who’s been roughin’ him up.”

“I – I-”

“So you’ll forgive me for bein’ a little concerned here! What kinda father would I be if I just sat back and ignored this? Yer brother’s been abused, plain and simple.”

Ford floundered. Fiddleford sighed, a little of his anger evaporating.

“Well... I suppose if ya are really twins, ya probably wouldn’t have had a hand in it. An’ I don’t know the full story. But I do know this.” He leveled a finger at Ford’s face. “That kid trusts ya, more than he probably should. An’ we’re gonna have words if you hurt him, or put him in danger, or do anything that’ll cause him harm. The boy’s suffered enough, I’ll not stand around and let it happen again. Ya understand?”

“Yes.” Stanford said quietly. “Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now that’s outta the way, I gotta ask; why on earth didja not tell me about him before? We went to visit Shermie and his kids during that Christmas break a while back an’ no one mentioned another brother.”

Stanford flushed. “It’s… a family matter.”

Fiddleford leveled a cold stare at him. After a moment Ford sighed and averted his gaze.

“When we were teenagers Stanley sabotaged my one chance at getting into my dream college. He says it was an accident, but… anyway our father kicked him out and I haven’t heard from him since.”

Fiddleford held up a hand. “Hang on. Are my ears decievin’ me? You’re telling me your brother, who got booted outta his own home as a teenager, hasn’t been mistreated? My friend, you’ve got issues.”

Ford opened his mouth to argue, but he was cut off by Stan’s return. Fiddleford turned his attention to the sheepish boy who was currently wringing his hands and wincing at the doorway. “Um, sorry Fidds. I couldn’t find it.”

“That’s alright, I musta left it somewhere else. Now, didja wanna help me with makin’ dinner?”

Stan perked up at Fiddleford’s breezy tone, as if surprised he wasn’t in trouble. “Jeez! Can I?”

“Well sure, why wouldn’t you?” Fiddleford flashed the boy a smile. Stan beamed in return and scrambled to join him in the kitchen.

“Pa says cookin’s for ladies and we shouldn’t do it.”

“Well, your Pa seems to be wrong about a lotta things. Now, you know how ta use a grater? I’ll show you.”

Fiddleford could feel Ford’s gaze searing into his forehead. He flicked his attention up from Stan and cooking, just for a moment, to catch the conflicted stare. Ford looked away when their eyes met and cleared his throat.

“I’ll just – um – put these ingredients away for later.”

“You do that.” Fiddleford agreed coolly.

Stanford walked away, more subdued than usual. The sight of his slumped shoulders was enough to send a spark of guilt through Fiddleford’s chest. He knew he was being too hard on the guy – especially with how wrecked Ford was looking – but his blood boiled for this gap-toothed child with his cute curls and nervous laughs.

Fiddleford couldn’t comprehend the idea of kicking out his son. The idea was as foreign to him as the idea that they should all put sticks of butter under their hats and walk on their hands instead of their feet. Tate was his son – his boy, his child. Fiddleford was sure that there was nothing Tate could do that would made Fiddleford throw him out. The idea of Stanley and Stanford’s father kicking out a helpless teen? No matter what mess that teen had gotten himself into, it shouldn’t have happened. He felt a fierce protectiveness rise up in him.

No, and it most certainly wouldn’t happen again. No kid was getting kicked out on his watch. Nor hurt, even unintentionally by an oblivious scientist of a brother. Fiddleford would make sure of it.

He made sure both the Pines boys were fed before packing up his things with the promise of returning tomorrow. Stanley hugged his legs with a surprisingly strong grip – Fiddleford crouched down to return the hug properly.

“I had a real good time today. We’ll have to do this again some time, huh? Now, you got my phone number? Good. Call me if you need anything. Especially if that brother of yours gets into any trouble, okay?”

“Yes sir!” Stan saluted enthusiastically. Fiddleford laughed and ruffled his hair before glancing up to meet Stanford’s eyes. Ford was hovering in the doorway, seemingly unsure of whether to join them.

Fiddleford took pity on him and offered his old friend a smile. “I’ll see ya later, Stanford. Take care of ya brother.”

Ford smiled back nervously. And maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

 _______________________________________________________________

Stanford couldn’t smother the huge yawns that bubbled out of him. Curse this sleep deprivation! It made everything harder than it had to be. His sentences kept being interrupted by his own body’s involuntary reflexes.

Stanley followed him like a baby duck – a rather apt description, actually – while Ford bustled around the house. Ford sighed in annoyance when he very nearly tripped over his brother yet again, upon doubling back to retrieve a piece of equipment he’d forgotten.

“Stanley, shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Stan glanced away and rubbed his arm. “Well, I guess. But every time I go to sleep I get these weird dreams. I dunno, I was kinda hoping I could hang out with you?”

Dreams – dammit, Ford had forgotten to warn his brother! He dropped down to be at eye-level with Stan, who blinked at the sudden movement.

“Uh, what-?”

“You’re having odd dreams, correct?” Stan nodded so Ford continued. “Rest assured, they won’t be able to harm you, so long as you never make a deal. If you come across anything triangular or yellow while in a dream you must not talk to it. It will talk to you and try to be your friend. Don’t trust anyone with yellow eyes, even if – no, especially if that person is me. Don’t talk to it and never shake its hand. Do you understand?”

“Um, yeah, but why? This is all soundin’ like Ma’s predictions.” Stan perked up. “Can you tell the future too? Does that mean I can as well?”

Ford sighed. “No, I can’t tell the future.”

“…can you make the weird dreams go away?” Stan questioned hesitantly.

“Yes, when I manage to get that unicorn hair – though I fear it may be a hopeless endeavor.” The weight of the day’s events – how could he ever hope to be pure of heart with all the wrong he had done? – sat heavily on his shoulders. Ford lifted a hand to rub at his forehead. “Go to bed, Stanley, and remember what I said about people with yellow eyes.”

“Yeah, yeah, never make a deal, I get it.” Stan paused, eyes flickering to the journal resting in Ford’s pocket and lighting up. “Can you tell me some more stories from your book before bed? Yesterday we got to the hidey-thing!”

“I don’t have time to read you stories, I have important work to do.”

Stan pouted. He looked up at Ford with those big brown eyes that were bigger than usual. It was then that Ford noticed the glasses – yes, Fiddleford had mentioned them, hadn’t he? Stan was wearing Ford’s spare glasses and they threatened to slip down his nose at every movement, far too big for him. They also had the added benefit of making him look very, very cute.

“How about I lend you my journal?” Ford relented. “You can read it by yourself before you go to sleep. I can tell you other stories later.”

Stan hesitated. “…yeah? I can borrow it?”

“So long as you don’t damage it, you may.” Ford dropped the book in his brother’s hands and turned to gather up an armful of equipment. “Go along now.”

Stanley scurried off to read, and Ford descended into the basement where his work waited.

When he emerged at seven thirty the next morning, Stan was gone.

[vanchlo]

MC Profile / Harry / The Assistant

Thanks so much to Court @heart-attack-harry​ again for tagging me to do this fun little character challenge, and this time for the point of view of my character, Harry, from where I’m currently in my story, The Assistant! This was a lot of fun, I enjoyed picking Harry’s brain hehehe. 

Rules: Choose a few favourite photos/aesthetics of your tagged character, answer the questions below from their point of view and tag some characters/authors you would love to see answer next!

1. How do you display affection? What’s your love language? Well, I don’t think ‘m very good at showin’ affection in general or thru words, but ‘m tryna get betta at it. ‘d reckon I show affection by spendin’ time with that person, through touch like hugs, rubbin’ their back, squeezin’ their hand or arm, ticklin’ ‘em, sumtimes gifts, and ‘specially by payin’ all o’ me attention t’ ‘em when we’re talkin.’ I think I like t’ receive love in any o’ these ways, but quality time and touch ‘specially, which may be surprisin’ t’ some people who know me, and othas not so much. 

2. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Bloody hell, if I thought ‘bout it long enough, I could come up with a list a mile long. Hmmm, tha thing ‘d like t’ change most ‘bout meself is I wish I wasn’t so scared all tha time, and that ‘d be mo’ willin’ t’ take risks without bein’ afraid o’ it turnin’ out badly. I also wish I was betta at sayin’ what I feel when I feel it. 

3. What’s your ideal Saturday morning? My ideal Saturday mornin’ would start with a cup o’ coffee and prolly a doughnut which ‘ve been likin’ recently with me coffee. Then a nice slow start t’ me mornin’, preferably watchin’ a li’l news or a fav’ tv show, and mos’ likely playin’ guitar at tha same time. I prefer t’ sleep in, but afta so many years o’ wakin’ up at tha crack o’ dawn, I can neva get meself t’ sleep in past like nine, ‘s rubbish. 

4. What is your drink of choice? Non alcoholic? Alcoholic? My drink o’ choice tends t’ be a coffee, and these days, I drink it black. I used t’ like macchiatos and sumtimes I have one, but they’re too sweet sumtimes. I guess ‘m gettin’ old and borin,’ it even shows in how I take me coffee, and how 'm always drinkin’ water. Othawise, I have a tea e’ry once inn’a while. Then if ‘s past five in tha evenin’, sumtimes ‘ll have a few fingas o’ tequila or whiskey, or a mixed drink with eitha. Sumtimes a Guiness ‘s good, and ‘ll take a beer if that’s all me mate has, or those sissy wine coolers I used t’ get Becks. But I try not t’ go too far, ‘cept tha occasional night out with’a mate. Unsurprisingly, Rory always manages t’ get me drunk, I dunno why I keep goin’ out fer drinks with him knowin’ that’s what’ll happen. I had a bit o’ a problem afta Becks left with drinkin’, but I gott’a handle onnit and don’t drink as much anymo’.

5. How competitive are you? Blimey, ‘m far too competitive fer me own good sumtimes. I guess I found tha perfect profession fer it, bein’ a lawyer. I always wanna win me cases, but ‘s humbled me ova tha years o’ practicin’ that ya can’t win ‘em all. Myles eggin’ me on doesn't help eitha, or bloody Rory. ‘s even worse when we work a case togetha, and then we’re mos’ likely buttin’ heads tha whole time, hence why we rarely work togetha onn’a case. 

6. When did you last have sex? Fook, these questions keep gettin’ worse, don’t they? Um, this ‘s gonna take me a while t’ rememba . . . It was prolly a few months befo’ I broke up with Amber. She was always gone towards tha end and we were fightin’, and I jus’ didn’t feel that way ‘bout her anymo’. Fookin’ hell, that’s bleedin’ ova two years ago now, ‘m pathetic. 

7. What is your idea of a perfect date?��Um, ‘m not very picky when it comes t’ a date, I don’t think. ‘Course I want it t’ be perfect, ‘specially if ‘s early on in tha relationship. I think a nice dinna out would be nice with some good drinks, but ‘d be happy cookin’ fer sumbody and watchin’ a film on tha sofa togetha. I reckon as long yer comfortable with tha otha person and yer havin’ fun, that’s all that really mattas. I admit I do like t’ impress at first tho’, and take ‘em out for a nice meal. 

8. What is your most treasured possession? ‘d hafta say me most prized possession may be my leather journal that I write in often, but not much lately, unfortunately. I just kinda write whateva’s on me mind or songs ‘ve written, which also reminds me my Gibson acoustic ranks fairly close t’ bein’ me most prized possession. ‘s been with me through a hell o’ a lot and holds loads o’ memories fer me seein’ me late granddad gave it t’ me as it was once his. Becks even tried t’ play it once and my was that hilarious, and fookin’ cute. ‘d sure like t’ see her try it ‘gain.  Lastly, e’ryday I use me li’l pink pig tea infuser Becks got me and I think o’ her e’ry time I see it or use it, no wonder I drink loads o’ tea. 

9. Would you ever get a tattoo? Don’t really hafta answer this one, do I? Seein’ as me entire body ‘s almost covered in ‘em. ‘d definitely like t’ get loads mo’ tho’, like tattoo me kids’ names on me one day when I have some, so they’re always with me. I also recently have been wantin’ t’ get anotha flower thanks t’ a certain sumbody ;) 

10. Do you believe in love at first sight? Have you experienced it? Eh, I dunno ‘bout love at first sight, but I reckon ya can tell loads ‘bout a person from when ya first meet ‘em, like whether you’ll get on or not. Ya can’t tell if you’ll fall in love with ‘em, coz that takes far mo’ than jus’ seein’ ‘em fer tha first time. I do think meetin’ fer tha first time can be tellin’ tho’, and ya sure as hell can tell if yer attracted t’ ‘em from tha first sight o’ ‘em. I think tha closest thing t’ love at first sight ‘ve had was ratha promisin’, and it happens nearly e’ry time I see her too, God. I jus’ knew when I saw Becks fer tha first time there was sumthin’ different ‘bout her, sumthin ‘d been waitin’ me whole bloomin’ life t’ feel, and two years on ‘m still feelin’ it. 

*

Hmm I just did one of these so I don’t really know who to tag who I haven’t already, but if anybody would like to do it you can go ahead and say I tagged you! :) 

[theateared]

You’re One Hell of a Guy. ❜

Summary:  But deep inside, you and I are still the same kids.

      Going to Murr’s house was something he barely had time for, but he refused to leave him hanging.  Though the times that he could stop by properly were few and far between, he’d become adamant on at least trying to make them happen.

                                Murr is, after all, my best friend.  I want to see him.

       As he took a swig of his coffee  ( Murr hated the stuff but kept some in his cupboard specifically for when he visited ),  Kuro leaned on the table, cheek cradled in his hand.  The early hours were always the best time for him to visit,  the time he was the least likely to be pulled away.  Over time, Murr had grown less frustrated with him.  He’d realised that it wasn’t his fault when he was called to action.  He was yanked away from everybody equally--  even his beloved wife suffered for it.

      “I’m glad ya could come,”   Murr admitted, sitting at the table with a cup of hot chocolate between his hands.   “I was feelin’ kinda lonely.  Feels like ya’ve been a little MIA recently.”

       "Just work,”   Kuro replied with a heavy sigh, trying to will the recurring ache in his forehead away.  The last thing he wanted was for the little time he did have with his friend to be plagued by the dull thrum of an oncoming migraine.  Gently does it.  Pushing hard only makes it stick more.   “Real fucked up case.  Some kinda gang activity in Vidé.  At first we thought it was just some kids fuckin’ around but it turns out they have some real dons runnin’ the show.  Shit’s a little more serious now.”

       Murr sniffed derisively.   "Yeesh.  Sounds like a fuckin’ party.”

       "Psh, yer invited if y’feel left out.”

       “No thanks, pal.  I like havin’ my organs in my body?  Ya know--  where they belong?"

       Kuro couldn’t help but snicker at the facetious remark.  The knowledge that most Huros had on gang activity was incredibly basic, based almost solely on fiction.  It was all "buying hearts” and “selling drugs”, boisterous street rats and crime lords that struck and then vanished like ghosts.  From a place so peaceful, most had no clue about the horrors that occurred outside of their cosy borders.  Sadly, it was Huron that was the exception, not the districts that were chock-full of violence.

       The topic of his most recent play came up, and he watched as Murr became excitable, one leg crossing over his lap as his hands began to join the conversation.  He’d always been the type to talk with his body too.  Somewhere along the way, Kuro found himself zoning out.  Something disconcerting had been on his mind lately.  Though he’d never stray from his wife,  he’d been thinking a lot about Murr lately.  Innocently, almost in passing, but frequently nonetheless.  The things he never said to his friend were beginning to irritate him, like a rash that wouldn’t go away, and an alien pang of longing arose whenever they shared space like this.  You’re just so easy to be around now that I’ve allowed myself to be.  I feel regret every day now for the way that I treated you.  Maybe if I hadn’t been so one-dimensional, I wouldn’t be feeling the way I do now--

       “Helloooo?  Huron t’Sheriff?”   He refocused to see Murr leaning over the table, waving a hand almost desperately in his face.  Despite this, his expression was full of mirth.   ❛❛ Damn!  If ya really think my ideas are that borin’ ya can just say so! ❜❜

       ❛❛ No, it ain’t that.  It’s just…  I’m thinkin’ again. ❜❜

       His eyes closed as he felt Murr flick his forehead.   “Well don’t.  Ya get sad when ya think too much.  I don’t wanna have ta tell yer wife that I made ya cry, again, so ya’d better stop bein’ a dumbass.”

       “Yeah yeah…  I get it.”   Maybe I don’t.  Maybe we should finally talk about this.  I have some conflicting feelings about you.  It’s making me feel like a bad husband.  A bad person, even.   "Actually...”   For some reason, he felt unbearably nervous all of a sudden, heart speeding up as he thought about how best to pose the question.  Eventually, he settled on an inoffensive:   "Can we talk?”   He watched Murr’s face fall based on his body language, waving a hand at him quickly.    “It’s nothin’ bad.  I don’t think.  It’s just…  somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about lately.  I feel like I should be honest with y’.”

       "Okay...”   Murr tugged at his collar briefly, as if to get air beneath it.   "Yeesh...  way t’make a guy nervous.”

       Kuro couldn’t help but chuckle, fingers drumming soundlessly against the pot of his mug.  He wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of saying something about this was filling him with so much apprehension.  It wasn’t like anything was going to come of it.  Not only was he happily married, he was almost certain that Murr wouldn’t be able to live with him after the things he’d done.  Forgiven he may have been, but it didn’t mean that the pain has miraculously been undone.  He’d still prompted Murr to almost take his life;  had still put his parents--  his second family-- through the terrible strain of thinking they were going to lose their son;  had still treated him with aggravated fury every time he’d tried to come back into his life despite having no right to.  In truth, it wasn’t a matter of whether he was truly bisexual or not--  it was that Murr was too good for him.

       ❛❛ … when we were kids…  y’know, befer everythin’ went t’shit, I sorta-- ❜❜   He caught himself then.  He almost wanted to laugh at his feeble attempt to utter an age-old confession.  It was as if he was 140 all over again, flushed and stammering through a halfhearted ‘’I like you!’’.  It was this thought that made him feel better, a tiny sliver of a smile forming on his face as he finished with a blunt:   ❛❛ I had a crush on you.  A pretty big one. ❜❜

       ❛❛ Aheh…  this’s a joke, right? ❜❜

       ❛❛ No. ❜❜

       He watched his friend’s body language closely.  On occasion, his face revealed itself to him too, but now was not one of those times.  He suddenly became very closed, as if trying to fold himself into a small cube and slot himself somewhere safe from his gaze.  The quiet lingered like a cloud, uncomfortable silence stretching between them like wire, and in his head Kuro could hear the same phrase repeating over and over:  please say something, please say something, please say something, plea--

       ❛❛ Oh.  Pfft.  Me too! ❜❜

       He all but gawked at how easy it was for Murr to say such a thing.  Though he knew that Murr had never been the type to act apologetically, there were some things the man treated with an air of secrecy.  His sexuality, for whatever reason, was one of them.  It wasn’t as if Huron was rich with homophobia;  he just didn’t seem to like labels like a lot of other people did.  For that reason, despite being his best friend, Kuro still wasn’t quite sure where on the spectrum Murr sits.  It didn’t matter, wouldn’t affect their relationship any in the slightest, but he was curious.  He’d almost been curious about his own leaning lately.  Had he not withdrawn from Murr during his tens, could they maybe have forged some sort of romance together?  There were certainly feelings involved, and now that he knew they were requited he had to wonder if either of them would have been bold enough to say something at some point.  It was this constant lack of knowledge that was turning his brain to mush.  The relationship he consciously desired with Murr was nothing more than a friendship, but his subconscious seemed to have other things in mind.

       For some reason, he felt a dull form of elation that caused his pulse to flutter.  It wasn’t as if he was still in love--  he never would have burdened a woman with a ring if he was--  but having Murr back in his life again, so close and personal after years of sombre silence, raised some primitive questions in his gut.  Could we have been together?  Could that ring have been yours, or would college have split us apart in a different way?  Would we not have aged well and not remained friends at all?  Did I need to lose you to be close with you again later?  What would have become of us?  Do I strictly like women?  Or was my attraction to you a one-off thing based on friendship?  What do I like?

       "Really?”

       "Well duh,”  Murr chirped airily, hopping up from his seat and beginning to rinse his mug clean.   “We spent all our time together!  And even back then, you were all stoic ‘n’ weird--  I was drawn t’that like a magnet.  It was interestin’.  You were different from the other kids.  So was I.  It made sense ta me.  Us against the world kinda thing, ya know?”  There was a pause as he set his cup down on the drying rack, eyes glued to one drop of water running slowly along the handle until it fell and met the drain below.  In a way, it reminded him of what he thought college would be like:  as if he’d be lowered from his awkward tenner suspension and be reunited with souls that his could understand.  After a moment of thought, he picked it back up, leaving it in his lap to fiddle with.   “… maybe that was why it hurt me so much when ya wouldn’t answer my calls or hang out with me much.  Maybe I was a little homesick.”

       "Homesick?”

       "Yeah.  You were my home, Kuro.  No two ways about it.”

       He should have learned by now to not grow stunned by Murr’s poetic brevity, but he’d always been partial to a heartfelt yet conveniently short verse.  You’re one hell of a guy, Murr.

      “... ‘n’ now?”

     There was a pregnant pause, one that latched onto his insecurities and fed much like a parasite would.  For some reason or another, a heavy sense of dread opened up inside of him, that familiar black hole sucking the life out of everything around him as it so often did.  Then, all at once, Murr released the tension in his shoulders with a shrug.

     “Nothin’s changed about that, bud.”   He moved then, perching on the counter much like a child would, long legs kicking gently.   “... are we good?  Why’d ya feel the need t’bring that up?  It ain’t like we’re the same people.”   His vision wasn’t impaired the same way Kuro’s was;  he could see his face clearly, knew the creases of worry in his brow almost as well as he knew his own hands.

     “I worry that you are the same person,”   he replied quietly, almost as if he’d been holding his breath prior to admitting it.   “‘n’ sometimes I worry that I am too.”

     The air fell still, both men cloaked in silence, and only when Kuro felt something wet on his face did he look up.  Murr’s face was clear  -  and it was pissed.  The empty cup in his hand sat tilted in the Sheriff’s direction, telling him plainly that he’d filled it and then flung it at him as if he’d desperately needed a bath.  Kuro wasn’t one to flinch often, but the scorn in his dearest friend’s eyes shook him to the core.

     “Ya keep sayin’ stupid shit like that, yer gonna flood my house,”   he said through clenched teeth.  There was no way in hell that he could tell the other man why he was so angry.  It would ruin everything he’d worked so hard to piece back together.   “If ya think I’m selfish enough t’split you ‘n’ yer wife up fer some dumb childhood crush then think again.”   The words hurt to say, an all-too-familiar pain blossoming in his chest like a thorn-covered rose, but he knew it was the right thing to do.  If he was ever to tell Kuro that he felt similarly--  that their convoluted history kept him awake at night, that he still fantasised about holding his hand sometimes, that he tossed and turned some nights, unable to sleep, because all he could think about was the what if that had steadily consumed his life--  he knew that they could both be led down a very dark road.  He didn’t believe in cheating, and he certainly didn’t believe in homewrecking.  He also didn’t believe in Kuro’s self-esteem enough to think that he would be above doing either if he was to open the door for him.  I’m saying this for you.  Maybe you don’t realise it now but you will in time.     “We’re not like that.  It doesn’t matter how it was when we were kids.  We’re not kids anymore.  You left.”   He internally cursed the bitterness in his voice at that, cursed the slight stiffen of Kuro’s shoulders even more.  He continued before he could lose his nerve--  before he could truly do something stupid.   “... and that’s just it, Kuro.”  He forced himself to smile, though the expression looked crestfallen at best.   “You’ve got somethin’ good now.  So don’t throw it all away for a couple’a stupid kids that don’t even exist anymore, alright?”

     Kuro stared at him a moment longer before averting his gaze completely.  When he tried to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, he found that his face was blank once again.  The static spiralled tauntingly ahead of him, the dreary squiggles ruining the clear picture he’d set his sights on just moments ago.  Even your anger is better than the static.  A large hand raised to wipe at his face, ridding it of the damp as best he could before he rose from his chair.

     “Alright,”   he said with a grunt, his usual monotone drawl returning with a vengeance.  Murr’s right.  Things are different now.  Living in the past will only fuck up the present  -  and there’s a lot to fuck up now that I’m married.  His coat was shrugged on, hands slid into his pockets.   “... thanks fer the wake-up call.  Yer right.”

     “Of course I am.”   He smiled wider despite the words twisting in his heart like a knife.  It’s selfish, but I want you to stay.   “Ya should go now.  Yer wife’s gonna be askin’ where ya are again.”

     A humourless laugh escaped the other man, head bobbing once in acknowledgement before he turned around and headed to the exit.   “Remember t’mop yer floor by the way.  Asshole.”   The front door clicked shut behind him.  It was quiet, but it echoed with an agonising finality in Murr’s head as the smile faded.

     What was that?  Was he trying to approach the topic of a relationship with me?  Or did I make that up?  Gah…  it doesn’t matter.  He’s gone.  Like he’s always been.

     He hated himself for the weakness that welled up in his eyes, hot and shameful as he tried desperately to keep himself from falling to pieces.  It doesn’t take much these days.  I used to be so much more durable.  Now I’m all sensitive and lost.  A palm dug stubbornly into one of his eyes, ridding it of tears, before he followed suit with the other.  He didn’t feel much better with them dry, but he knew that he at least looked the part now.  He hopped down from the counter, grabbing the mop from inside the utility cupboard, beginning to clean, the wet sound of water spreading across a surface filling his ears like white noise.  He welcomed it, zoned out altogether, and by the time he stopped mopping, half an hour had flown by.

     A vacant feeling had always been there since college, but it ebbed and flowed, came and went in waves, and it often left him stranded in a dangerous spot between ‘okay’ and ‘absolutely falling apart’.  It was an emptiness he couldn’t quite explain;  oxymoronic in that it was so void and yet so full, as if his head was closer to imploding with every second longer that it chose to reside inside of him.  His heart felt like a rock, his brain a grenade.  If only I could reach inside myself and pull the pin.  I want to pull the pin.  I have for a while.

     When he put the mop back in its place, he thought only momentarily before stepping inside the cupboard himself, closing the door behind him.  If I put myself away like a broom or a bottle of bleach, will people forget I exist until they need me again?  What if I’m never needed again?  Will I stay undiscovered in this closet until I die?  The smell of chemicals and damp immediately rose to his attention, though it was a welcome distraction.  His head met the closed door gently, eyes opening despite not being able to see anything.  It was an accurate depiction of the void inside of him;  that inky blackness that covered everything in a thick layer of nothing, as if all it touched simply ceased to exist

     I don’t feel real.  I can’t see.  I can’t touch.  Even the smell is beginning to fade away.  I’m just an empty vessel in an empty space.  A cat in a box that is both dead and alive at the same time.  Tired bones rather than tired eyes.

     At some point, he felt himself slip to the floor, content to remain in the dismal darkness a while longer.  He hated that the only thing he could think of was him.  Sitting there alone in the dark, wondering if he’d just ruined his one chance at true happiness, he felt both horribly and wonderfully alone.

[badgerpride96]

A Wild West Experience Part 8

Part 8 is here! If any of you watched The Long Night (one of the last episodes of Game of Thrones), first, congrats on getting through it, and second, I really like the idea of a whole part dedicated to the night before idea, so here, have my take on it. Hopefully I can do slightly better than the GoT writers XD 

Kelly ended up getting to the bar well after 2:00. Still wearing her nice dress, she tied the full kitchen apron around her waist and hurried behind the bar. 

“How’d it go?” Sass whispered to her as she poured Owen a beer.

“He’s coming, no more than two days. Probably less,” she muttered back. Sass swore under his breath.

“Now, have you grown to like me that much, Mr. Sasway?” She said quietly, sliding the pint down the bar to Owen. 

Elek huffed. “Don’t call me Mr. Sasway, reminds me of the schoolroom. How did it go with the Admiral?” 

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. He’s very efficient.”

“That’s him,” Elek said, heading off with a sausage platter for a table outside. Kelly smiled to herself and began taking inventory.

All day, patrons would ask her strange questions. How was she holdin up? How was the case lookin? Did she need anythin? Kelly wanted to tell them, “How do you think I’m doin? My husband was murdered, I’m accused, I standin trial for a sheriff’s crime. I need to win an impossible case; I need to find somewhere I feel safe.” But she assured everyone that she was just peachy. Word had spread remarkably fast in the small town of the Admiral’s involvement, and the impending arrival of the opposing sheriff. Even the bar girls had run out of any gossip but her. One of them even told her of a rumor that Sheriff Gio was helping with more than just her case. “What?! Who says that?” She demanded. The bar girl quickly assured her that no one of any merit believed it, and she would correct any who did, as it was unequivocally false.

The day seemed to drag. Sass mostly left Kelly behind the bar, while he did most of the cooking. There was little conversation to be had; even her regulars seemed to get quiet when she approached. She assumed that by now everyone knew that the opposing sheriff was on his way, and the trial imminent. Now that there was no mystery about the event happening, people were less inclined to be seen with her, lest the verdict be guilty. They all supported her, but were hedging their bets (in some cases, literally). It was a very lonely way to be supported, Kelly thought.

By closing, she was relieved to see the back of Owen, though he had been the only one to act as though nothing had happened. He tipped his hat to her, and disappeared into the night. She was wiping tables down with a rag, taking as long as was reasonably possible, when she noticed Sass leaning on the doorway to the kitchen.

“Are you trying to tell me to get on?” Kelly joked, still wiping. It didn’t come out as light-hearted as she had hoped.

Sass smiled. “No, I’m not. Come on, leave it. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Kelly straightened up. Elek never ‘did it tomorrow.’ Not with the Goose. “Leave it?”

“Yeah. Come on to the bar. If you’re going to try and stay here, you might as well have a drink.” He saw her hesitate. “Oh, now, it’s just a drink. Are you really thinkin I’d do somethin unsavory?”

Kelly laughed. “I can’t imagine you bein unsavory, Sass. I just don’t wish to keep you here if you’d rather head on home.”

“Actually, I find there’s no place I’m wantin to be more.”

Kelly didn’t quite know what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything except, “Oh, alright.” Sass disappeared into the dry room for a moment, and reappeared holding a dark, rectangular bottle. Kelly settled on a stool, eyeing the bottle warily. “What’s that?”

“A while back, one of the guys Gio caught on bounty was transportin stolen bootleg whiskey. Rumor was, he’d pulled off a heist on the mob in Chicago to get it, and was hightailin it to San Francisco. This is the best stuff you can’t buy. We confiscated his cases and I took ‘em for special occasions.”

“You kept his illegal whiskey?”

“Kelly,” Elek said, pouring some sugar, syrup, and whiskey into two short glasses, “Haven is full of criminals. Of course I took the whiskey.”

“Does Gio know?”

“He’s never asked. Where’d you put the muddler?”

“On the third shelf next to the Rye. So he doesn’t know?”

Elek gently muddled some orange peel into the whiskey mix. “He know the crates never made it back to Chicago. The authorities comin to take the guy back never thought to ask for it. Not the cleverest boys. Now here,” he said, pushing her a glass, “try this.”

She took a sip. “Lord Above, but that’s delicious!”

“Oh good, then I’ll have one too.” Sass dropped more orange peel and simple syrup into a glass as Kelly laughed. “Cheers.” They clinked.

“So,” Sass said, leaning forward across the bartop from her. “Tell me about yourself.”

Kelly sighed. “Sass, I really don’t want-”

“No, not about the case. I heard nothin about your case all day.”

“Not about the case?”

“No, you. Who’s the girl workin behind my bar?” Sass watched her over the rim of his glass.

“Well that’s an awfully big question.” Kelly thought for a moment. “I’m an only child. My parents are back in Sheriff Jacob’s town. I miss them, we’re very close.”

“Did you go to school?”

“Yes, I adored it. I was too sassy though. I daresay my teacher was right happy when I got engaged.” She took a drink. “I especially liked grammar and composition. My teacher wanted me to be a writer, but of course, married girls don’t write. Or go to school.”

“Do you still want to write?” Sass swirled his glass.

“I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to be good at somethin, I guess. Writing seems like a good place to start.” She drained her drink and looked at him. “What about you? Who’re you, Elek Sasway?”

“Me? Oh, I’m borin. Born and raised in Haven. Parents got here on the same train as Gio’s, so we grew up together. Mine came from Lithuania, by way of New York. Gio’s maybe four months older than I and mostly what’s happened to him, happened to me. Except Mary, of course. Still not sure how he managed to marry the prettiest girl in Haven.”

“Are we a tad jealous?” Kelly teased, pushing her glass across to him. 

“Oh Lord no. He has his hands full.”

“Oh?”

“Well,” Elek said, muddling her another drink, “she certainly knows what she wants and when she wants it. She’s remarkably focused and bright, and none of this is to blemish her character. Mary is a wonderful woman. Gio loves her more than life itself, and I couldn’t be more thrilled for them. I was Best Man at his weddin, he cried through his vows.”

“And I assume you differ here in that you aren’t hitched?”

“Nope,” Elek said cheerfully, shaking his head. “Never really wanted to be.”

“Why?” Kelly genuinely seemed to want to know his answer, and not to be reprimanding.

Elek slid her newly refilled glass back. “I want to fall in love, get married, have a family, all that posh. But I need to be sure, y’know. I want to marry someone whom I trust; who can love the Goose and Pip like I do myself.”

He saw her smiling behind her glass. “Don’t say ‘that’s just like a man,’ please, I hear it enough.”

Her eyes widened. “Why would I think that? No, your reasonin is excellent. You know what you need, you’re not willin to jeopardize that.”

“Thank you.” Elek clinked his glass against hers.

They found themselves covering every topic people talk about late at night: a mix of hopes, fears, opinions and stories. It was the sort of conversation that was both extremely serious and utterly trivial, deeply meaningful to both of them and yet carelessly held. As the second drink came to a close, Kelly gazed down at her glass and asked, “Hey Sass? What happened to the guy transportin this whiskey?”

Elek was quiet, spinning his empty glass. Finally he said, “We gave him a trial. He lost, so Gio turned him over to the authorities from Chicago.”

“And then?”

He sighed. “And then he was shot. Probably by the mob he cheated.”

“Hmm.” Kelly stared at his spinning glass. Her cheeks had a touch of flush, though now she looked decidedly sober. She looked down at her drink and suddenly threw back the dregs, holding it out again. “Then I suppose I’d better have another. For luck.”

Elek laughed, and grabbed the muddler.

Around 4:00 in the morning, one of the bar girls had to use the restroom. She quietly slipped away from the snoring form next to her, and eased open the door to her room. Instead of hurrying out, however, she froze with the door open just a hair. She took in the shadowy scene before her. Sass was coming up the stairs from the bar, wobbling slightly but securely carrying Miss Rose. The lady was already asleep, and the content smile on her face was reflected in Sass’s eyes. Her white dress bunched in Sass’s arms, falling haphazardly below her. 

The bar girl drew back as they passed, then saw Sass gently open the door to a vacant room. The washroom was next to it at the end of the hall. The bar girl slipped out her door, picked up the hem of her nightgown, and silently ran down the hall. As she dashed by, she glimpsed Sass lying his charge on the bed and tucking her hair back.

The bar girl, experienced in gathering such snatched information, avoided the creaky floorboards and managed to close the washroom door without any discernible noise. She completed her business, then waited until she heard Sass’s footsteps on the stairs. She slowly walked back to her bed, turning this scene over in her mind. For now, she would say nothing until something was confirmed, and now she knew what to look for. What would be a new bit of interest for anyone else would be proof of her new discovery. As every bar girl knew, a secret is the most expensive commodity, and Sass’s secrets were worth their weight in gold.

–

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-–

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[scummy-writes]

Hi, can you do a hc about the rfa (and v and saeran, if you write about them) on a mc that they have met before when she was drunk and was flirting with them really smoothly? And then the storylines happens and she doesn't remember them but they do?

(*´ω｀*) np! I wonder if I’d flirt when drunk….So far when I’m tipsy I just get really stubborn. I think the RFA would have a handful dealin with me, haha!

Zen

-When he finally met you in person, he suddenly realized why your voice seemed so familiar.

-You were that chick from about a month back!

-But…You didn’t seem embarrassed? You just smiled and joked just like you did on the chat (albeit with a bit more blushing). Did you even remember?

-He sure did. He remembered just hanging out with his fellow co-actors, just relaxing at a local bar he enjoyed and having a few beers. He was used to women coming up to him and trying to flirt, but uh…Not drunk women who didn’t realize who he was.

-”You- You know? You look a LOT, like a LOT, like this actor guy dude from the local theater. God, you should just see that dude. His name is? Is uh. Zenny? Something I can’t fucking, remember…But god I’d lick his abs, he’s so handsome. You look like that guy man! That cool guy. That beautiful dude.”

-Oh my god. He felt so fucking embarrassed for you. You just kept going and going, not realizing the whole time, until your friends finally dragged you back home.

-He thought of that scene a few times, but oh my god, your friends never told you? (GOOD FRIENDS GOOD FRIENDS)

-He decided NOT to bring it up then, not when the two of you were finally meeting in person for the second first time. 

-(A few weeks later, he finally brought it up. Your face was so red as you called your friends for confirmation. When they finally admitted what had happened, you just stood in embarrassed Shock. Until Zen finally admitted you were the one girl who managed to flirt with him at a bar and he actually got interested in you.)

Jaehee

-Jumin had given her so ‘free’ time. Which was, of course, allowing her to go on a wine tasting event with him. It was a bit better than working (and he’d probably have her set up a few meetings anyway), so she agreed.

-She didn’t drink often, but she could see how some lightweights could become overwhelmed with the all the samples.

-At least, that’s the excuse she came up for you. God, as soon as she heard your voice on the phone, she instantly remembered how drunk you had gotten at that simple wine tasting event. But you didn’t remember her? It stung a little, but you were…Very. Very drunk.

-She remembered you trying to casually walk towards her. She thought you were wanting to talk to her about Jumin, praying that it wasn’t about how you could get a date with him. But when you slid your arm around hers and slurred, she nearly had her heart stop.

-”You-You are literally the only pretty person here. These dudes are so uuugly. Oh my god, how come rich guys can’t even look decent half the time. Do you like girls? I like girls. I’m a girl. You’re a girl. Lets. Lets hang out. Blow this popsicle stands. We’ll have fun.”

-When security dragged you away (Jumin’s doing, with light murmurs of complaints from him), Jaehee had to try her best not to blush and laugh.

-You were cute, but oh my god she had never been flirted with like that.

-As the two of you started dating, she never, ever mentioned it. Not until about a year later after a night you had gotten tipsy again, and thankfully you two just laughed together about it.

Jumin

-As soon as he heard you voice, he knew it was familiar. A nice one, something that didn’t urk him that much.

-Seeing you in person made him immediately want to ban all wine from the RFA party. How you were so shameless he never understood.

-A few months back, he had attended an event that allowed for extra guests to be brought. He didn’t really remember which one. He had went to so many they just blurred together at times.

-He did, however, remember clearly of a drunken woman suddenly grasping his arm. He immediately was annoyed, thinking it was some other woman who had tried flirting with him earlier, but when it was someone new, he gave you a moment to talk.

- “These rich dudes are so. Boring. Are you boring too? You look cool. You look…Cool. Not borin’. Not borin’ at alllllll. Do you wanna be not boring together? Like. The dude who brought me doesn’t even know where I am. Fuck em. Fuck em all. I’d even fuck you if you’d lemme.”

-Oh my god.

-Security had came and gotten you later, and he just sighed and fixed his sleeve. He thought you were ridiculous. 

-So at the RFA party, when you said you were introducing yourself the first time, he called you out on it. It wasn’t the first time you two had met.

-He ended up going in full detail, exactly what you said, how your hair was messed up, how everything about you was just. Embarrassing.

-Your first RFA party was filled with many embarrassing moments after that, especially from a teasing Seven.

Seven

-He was just hanging out with Zen when the drunk you came sauntering up, looking strangely confident and slightly confused.

-He almost pulled his phone out, getting ready to film what was possibly Zen’s most embarrassing moment.

-Instead, his hands froze when you passed by Zen and went directly to him.

-“You’re. You’re weird lookin. Not in a bad way though. Like. You look weird but cool. Cute. Yeaaah. I like redheads. Are you into girls? Or guys? Because i wanna. I wanna take ya out.”

-Omg. He was dying. He never really had this happen before, and Zen’s shocked expression was totally worth it.

-Before he could give you a reply, your friends finally found you and pulled you away while spouting apologies.

-So when he found out exactly who you were when he did his background check, he laughed so hard

-He wouldn’t bring it up with the others around (Maybe Zen), but he’d tease the FUCK outta you about it.

-“I guess you got what you wanted, huh?”

Yoosung

-Poor baby. He’d NEVER bring it up to you, except on his deathbed.

-He had finally agreed to go to the bar Zen wanted to take him to. He was a bit nervous because of how often he was being carded. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking!!

-Of course, to make matters worse, there were girls flirting with Zen constantly. He was just here as a third wheel!

-He watched as another girl kinda. Stumbled over to Zen. Great. He couldn’t even have drunk girls- Oh god she was going to him, not Zen!

-“Heyaaa, cutie? You’re preeeetty young, huh? Barely able to get in here huh? Hahaha.. but you’re so so cute. Hey, cutie, gimme your phone number! I’ll be your girlfriend!”

-Oh my god. Oh. My god. He was mortified. Even Zen was watching! Oh my god.

-Before he could gather the courage to respond, he saw a few girls come and drag you away, full of scolding and giggles.

-That night, Zen just laughed and patted your back.

-Of course Zen wasn’t laughing now as Yoosung kissed you, vowing to keep that memory to himself.

-(Until Zen told you literally a day later)

V

-V didn’t really go to bars or anything of the sort. But when he visited exhibitions, especially ones he was also featured in, they tended to offer wine to drink.

-Unfortunately, not everyone could hold their alcohol.

-He watched a woman stumble a bit, quietly murmuring to several different pictures.

-Eventually she made over to where he was standing.

- “God. I love this one. This. This is a good one. Better than the others. Wait. No, that’s mean. Those are good too. But this one, this one is like. Good good.”

-Oh god. He was trying his best not to laugh. He decided to stand beside his own just in case he could answer questions, or interest people in more of his works. He was not expecting this.

- “But man. This guy has to be sooo fun to be with. I’d love to date this guy! Have coffee! Talk about. Flowers and shit. God, I’d probably sleep with him too.”

- Wow?? He didn’t even know how to respond. So… He didn’t. He watched you sleepily study his picture and… Walk away.

-Flash to him finally meeting you after the RFA party, and you didn’t seem to remember him OR his pictures at all.

-He worried a bit if his pictures just didn’t last well in people, but when you looked as if you never saw them, he concluded maybe you just didn’t remember that day whatsoever.

-Later on, when you two had been together, he always kept you away from the wine at his exhibits. When you questioned him about this, he finally told you about the first time he met you.

-Needless to say, you never drank at exhibitions ever again

Saeran

-The first time he met you, before the whole RFA mess, was at a bar.

-Needless to say, he pegged you as a target before you really said anything.

-He had watched you from a corner, just basically watching everyone. He was just trying to see what the fuss was about with bars.

-The drunks were annoying. And stupid. Annoyingly stupid.

-But… He wasn’t expecting a decent looking one come to him and try hitting on him.

-He watched, slightly amused, as you stumbled over your words.

-“You’re a little black parade looking punk, aren’t you? Lookin. All tough. And like a punk. Very punky. Can I sit with you, punk? You’re. Cute punk. Yeah! I like punk stuff too, imma even gonna get this badass tattoo one day, man! Whoop!”

-He didn’t even manage to give a response before you sat down and promptly conked the fuck out.

-He didn’t really know what to do, and since he didn’t feel like getting mixed up in anything, he left the bar before any of your friends could question him.

-So when the two of you finally met in person, and you introduced himself, he just laughed for a while.

-“Do you not remember me?”

-After a brief explanation, he ended up laughing for a looong time with how red you had gotten. He actually joined Seven in teasing you.

[jackblankhsh]

Why I Quit:  Genealogy -- The Forest of Family Trees

He stayed in the shadow of the alley, the cherry red glow of his cigarette slightly illuminating his scarred chin.  He exhaled a cloud that immediately blended in with the fog blanketing the street.  

 In a rat like voice he said, "So our mutual acquaintance sez to me he sez you're lookin' fur a jab."  

 I replied, "Yes."

 "Aight, I got two."  He cough-chuckled, "Tonight the begga's a choser."

 "What are my options?"

 He said, "Ones 's real simple.  Der's dis beach out in Cali..."

 "California?"

 "Yeah that one.  Dah beach got all deez seals on it.  Anyway, hippie types like to protest there 'bout, 'Leave dem seals alone.'  And when dey protest you set up a booth to sellz 'em t-shirts -- all kinds uh shit."

 "I think I can handle that."

 He nodded, "Good, good, but dat's only part of it.  See, dah udder part is deez hippies sometimes dey need incentifications."

 I felt a need to probe, "Such as?"

 "Such as," he twirled his hand, cigarette cherry spinning like a comet, "Occasionally you gotta go down, and stab a seal, or put out a ciggie on one, maybe club a pup with a bottle.  It keeps the hippies riled up -- protesting lasts longer."

 Without hesitation, "What's the other job?"

 He shook his head, "Real borin' shit, man.  's like growin' family trees 'n' shit.  Seal jab is way more fun."

 "I'll take the family trees."

 #

 The "jab" turned out to be doing genealogy research for a website called MyRoots.  Here's the thing:  the main documents people need for their genealogy aren't classified papers. Anyone willing to take the time to fill out government forms like NAFT 81, 82, and 84 can get the basic documents necessary to track down ancestors.  However, most folks find even that sentence hard to get through let alone the piles of papers often full of barely legible handwriting which provide bits of useful information.  My first day on the job I watched an intern peel off a fingernail in mute boredom.  

 Basically, the job involved mountains of paperwork requesting documents such as land entry case files, immigration records, and census reports.  When these arrived, rarely in an electronic format, I read them in search of a surname.  This could get tricky with immigration records since names tended to change.  Grandpa may have left Poland as Alojzy Trzetrzelewska, but not wanting to deal with all those letters a lazy official dubbed him Al Zulewski.  

 After days going through whatever bureaucratic breadcrumbs could be gathered I then sat down with clients to disappoint them.

 Address the client smiling, "So your great-great-great grandmother came over from Scotland in 1830..."

 Client predictably interrupts, "What about before that?"

 "Well, we still have to hear from Scotland, but as far as anyone can tell, seems she was a bar maid in Edinburgh."

 "So she wasn't a revolutionary rebel fleeing English assassins?  Maybe Scottish royalty?"

 Not sure what to say, "Is that what you've been told?"

 Obviously disappointed, "That's what I hoped."

 There's nothing quite like the ire of a customer shouting in anger at the revelation their ancestor fought in the Civil War... on the wrong side -- North or South depending on the client.  These folks would yell at me, faces beet red, as if I convinced great-granddad to fight for them damn Yankees, or join up with Johnny Reb.  History is never what we wanted it to be because we have no control over it.  

 "You have sullied the name of this great family, sir."

 To which I might reply, "I didn't convince your granduncle to die of syphilis."

 "Good day, sir."

 "There's still the matter of your bill.  You're credit card didn't go through."  

 "I said, 'Good day!'"

 Occasionally a client would be happy to learn some ancestor left New York, perhaps caught up in the gold rush, and headed West only to stop in St. Louis.  A few months later a marriage certificate is issued.  The details are simple, the story easy enough to extrapolate.  And even with fewer details than that there are those clients who realize the past doesn't have to be epic to be full of wonder. No one will ever really know why Uncle Phil moved to New Orleans, or why Great-grandma Mabel signed all her papers "She-wolf," but it's fun for them to speculate.  

 #

 A matronly figure who wore thrift store clothes with aristocratic grace took a seat.  I introduced myself.  She greeted me with a gloved hand:

 "My name is Roberta Wilcock."

 "How do you do?"

 "Oh, I'm well I suppose.  I could be better."

 I said, "How's that?"

 "My husband recently passed away..."

 Interject, "I'm sorry to hear that."

 "Thank you.  We have children, you see -- well, they're his step-children; I was married before, but Wallace, that's his name, Wallace and I had a connection, we just understood each other in a way my first husband never did.  However, I don't know much about Wallace's family.  I'm hoping to find out more, for our children. Something about him was always a mystery.  I don't like that.  You see, I never knew my parents, I'm adopted, and mystery, well, has a way of gnawing at you."

 "Then I hope I can help."

 I would come to regret that hope.  In the days that followed I seized the slender thread Roberta left me. Starting with census reports, and what little family history she could provide, I followed Wallace back to Seattle. The two met there before moving to Chicago.  Through the census I tracked Wallace to Portland.  He grew up there.  So did Roberta.

 So far so good.  

 The simplicity of this job made it easy to put in overtime. Though that said, mostly I stayed after hours because I liked the quiet.  The faint buzz of headphones roaring in ears, an incoherent hum at a distance, no longer surrounding like a swarm of lethargic bees.  The unpredictable shouting of irate clients, disappointed to discover they aren't descended from famous historical figures; the chug, cah-clunk of the dying photocopier struggling to copy one more document; the office manager drunk by midday, fighting off boredom practicing for her all female barbershop quartet... in the afterhours, once the bulk of staff fled home, I could pour a quiet drink, and calmly peruse the bureaucratic breadcrumbs... on this occasion, to a small Portland orphanage.

 It was no surprise.  Roberta mentioned as much.  In fact, the two of them being orphans apparently helped them bond.  Whatever history the living can offer is invaluable in genealogical research.  It provides starting points as well as giving a sense that one is on the right track. So I expected the orphanage.  Wallace's sister, on the other hand... that is, his twin sister Roberta...

 I chalked it up to coincidence at first.  Some names go through periods of being trendy.  Perhaps a famous singer at the time, or a local Portland celebrity made the name popular.  I pictured headlines like:  Ravishing Roberta Rose Dazzles Audience!

 But the more I dug the more undeniable it became that Roberta and Wallace were twins.  

 The next day I went to my boss, "Becky, I got a problem."

 "You got a problem?  Member of my quartet got punched in the throat last night.  She won't be able to sing, maybe ever again. She wants to go back to the roller derby, says it's less violent."

 "Okay.  Mine's worse."

 "How so?"  Becky put her feet up on the desk.  Sipping a coffee mug full of gin she gestured for me to hurry up with the details.  

 I said, "I just finished confirming the background on this guy. Turns out his wife is actually his twin sister."

 Spewing her drink laughing, "You're shitting me."

 "Nope."

 She sighed, "Oh that's awesome.  I got that beat though.  A while back I had a guy come in, turns out he married his daughter."

 "So this is not uncommon?"

 She shrugged, "It's not common-common, but it seems to happen; and hey, it's usually an honest mistake, so I say fuck it.  It's not like if gramps turns out to be a Nazis.  Lord knows I've had plenty of those."

 "Me too."

 "Anyway, what's the problem?"

 "I can't tell this woman she married her own brother."

 "Why not?" Becky leaned forward, "The look on her face will be priceless.  I promise."

 I returned to my research station -- an oversized cubicle, big enough to allow clients -- where I found Roberta waiting for me.

 She smiled, "They told me to take a seat.  I was in the neighborhood, so thought I'd stop by to see if you've made any progress."

 "Yes, a little."  My phone rang.  Grateful for the distraction I answered it.

 My boss whispered through the line, "Is that her?"

 "Yes," I said, instantly knowing I'd made a mistake.

 "Hold on till I get there."  The line disconnected before I could protest.  Soon Becky began orbiting my cubicle waiting to see what happened when I dropped the bomb.  

 Roberta said, "Whatever you have, well, I think it'll be interesting."

 "You can say that again," Becky said, unsubtly aiming a smart phone at Roberta.

 At that point I realized if I didn't say anything Becky would. So, hoping to deliver the news as softly as possible, I said, "There's no easy way to say this."

 Roberta sucked in a muted gasp, "Oh my, he wasn't," she whispered, "Negro?"

 Suddenly I didn't mind saying, "No, he was your brother."

 Her eyelid twitched.  Her face fell, slackening on one side like melting wax, "I'm sorry.  Wha... wha?"

 "You married your twin brother," Becky said.  She seemed ready to laugh until Roberta's eyes rolled back, and the old woman collapsed onto the floor.  Becky stopped filming, "Oh shit I think she had a stroke. Still posting this online."

 I called 9-1-1.  As the paramedics carted Roberta away I mentioned to Becky, "I quit."

 I didn't feel comfortable being in charge of other people's secrets, especially the ones that induce strokes.  Yet, those seem to be the only ones with any relevance.  After all, an ancestor being a cowboy doesn't make their descendants anymore rugged.  Perhaps interesting to know, it means next to nothing.  It's like people are always looking for what defines themselves outside of themselves -- looking to an incomplete past to inspire their future. Except for the curious who simply wanted to know, it felt like inspiring people to be echoes instead of voices.  

 So I collected my things, and left the orchard of family trees.