#mm designer bags under my everything and everywhere

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 66: Baggage

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 33. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Body horror, joint trauma, nudity, disability-related deprecation/catastrophization. How we carry ourselves.

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The last of the suds fizzled, leaving ‘Choly submerged in cold opalescent bathwater. A similar surfactant quality popped his daze, and he shifted in an attempt to sit up in the tub. The fluid’s inertia instead sloshed him further back against the enameled iron. He grunted with a squint as some water got up his nose. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the real trouble hindering his exit. His joints had fallen as slack as his lucidity. He felt like a marionette without a yoke. His stomach shuddered for him, as the slow continued sway of the water, once more settling, tugged at his arms half afloat.

So it was possible, after all, to relax too much.

He lay there for some time longer, barely able to string together the thought to devise some plan. His state left him reeling beyond the rationality that he might call out for help. Angel would worry itself apart to see him like this, and Sticks might very well toss him out in the Merrimack, beyond salvage. Besides, they hadn’t come to his rescue when he fell hours earlier, and he managed to get himself to the dinner table and back up here with nearly a nonzero amount of assistance. He could do this himself. He needed to learn how to do it himself--for his own safety, in the event something estranged others from coming to his aid.

He prayed this whatever-was-happening wouldn’t endure. But at least, he could in the moment assess his limitations.

His musculature and tendons remained connected and functioning, but necessitated an entirely other manner of physiological prescience: to not simply manage his own proprioception, but to apply it forward like some telekinetic mess of connective tissue cat’s cradle. It took every scrape of mental faculty to process and focus to where he could grasp himself by the wrists, by the elbows, by the shoulders, and so on, to grip each errant joint in turn, and to administer the force and torsion necessary to right the dysfunction. The bangs and bruises from the citywide chaos of the day before only served to compound how his throbbing body resisted total exhaustion.

He pushed himself up by both hands off the side of the tub, to stand. Instead, he spilled over the side and across the concrete flooring of the balcony. Flat on his back and defeated, he flopped back with a wheeze and stared up into the joints of the patio cover. The string lights burned a reverse image in his eyelids when he shut them.

He could hear rummaging inside through the open door yards away. His Stygian eyes fluttered open. The sight of twin mounted radstag heads hanging over the balcony door choked him.

“--Angel?”

The appellation came out far weaker and more broken than he expected.

When Angel didn’t respond, he bristled, and once more underwent the slow, quiet, deliberate process of summoning himself together. He found the Mister Handy had set out on the workhorse nearest to the tub for him a towel, his robe, and his glasses. He managed the loosest sense of drying off, and draped the towel around his neck and shoulders; then, he put on his glasses, and tied off the robe. Unsure exactly whom had come upstairs, let alone what--or whom--they sought, he grabbed an awl from the workbench and edged nearer the door frame on bated breath.

In the dark of the upstairs room, he could only make out the edges of lime split lighting in contrast to the figure’s lit Pip-Boy screen. He shivered at a prickle of draft. The white uniform with black apron. Symmetrical, if not keloid-riddled, features. Sticks rifled through the secretary as though it didn’t belong to him. Unsure how to even begin to ask what the ghoul could’ve needed, 'Choly meekly closed the door behind himself.

“Need more light?”

Sticks jerked up to look at him.

“...Of course, of course.” He loosed a rumbling, agitated chuckle. “It’s all right, pal, that you, ah. Sealed that negotiation for me like that. It’s all right, because... because we’re partners. Isn’t that right? Partners.”

The ghoul rose to flip the switch for the three overhead lamps strung across the roof beams. Right off, ‘Choly noticed the ghoul’s black eye, and a ripped dishevelment marred with bits of fresh blood. ‘Choly chewed at his lower lip.

“Partners... Yeah.” He swallowed, and rubbed at his forearm with his free hand. He’d only been trying to help. “Are you okay? Could we-- talk? We need to talk. If-- if that’s all right.”

The juxtaposition of the encounter startled Sticks to a cautious desperation.

“Everything’s all right between us, right?”

“Of course. It’s not that. ...I need to sit.” He walked over to the secretary and took the desk chair for himself. Sticks sat on the corner of the bed. “I know I fucked up a lot yesterday, but I think I may have fucked up something else.”

He set the awl down on the desk, and swiveled to face Sticks. Picking what he felt he could afford to potentially damage further, he took hold of his left calf and knee, and purposefully loosed it again with a hollow chain of cartilaginous pops. His breath stuttered as he dangled his leg by the foot, but he kept his cool as he gave the ghoul a sardonic glance.

Sticks looked to him agape, with unfiltered, nauseated fascination.

“The cryogenic chemicals damaged my joints and skin, but I’ve managed for months until today. This is... something completely else.” He worked at resetting his knee as he continued, stifling jolts of revulsion. “I mean, even if it is the condition progressing, why all at once? And why-- this? It would be too much of a coincidence if the X-Cell Squared weren’t related... or the inhaler. That fucking inhaler.” He seethed, cupping his face in hand. “I was so tired when she handed me that stuff last night and told me it was Addictol. Fuck me, I’m stupid--”

“--You’re not stupid. She just knows how to trick people. ...Do you really suppose she gave you something that wasn’t Addictol?”

“I checked my Pip-Boy’s health diagnostics earlier. I’m still in withdrawals from chems I took prior to her giving me the inhaler. I could show you, if I-- if I knew where it was.”

“Hey now. I’m sure it’s safe. It’s just you, me, and the robot now.”

‘Choly toweled at his hair again, only to swivel around and look in the secretary for himself. He produced the Walden Drugs catalogue from one slot, and thumbed through it in search of specific pages.

“My current set of orthotics aren’t doing it. The officer’s gloves help, but that’s just my hands. The ankle and wrist braces, the postural corset--they’re just for sprains and such, not full dislocations. Neither you nor Angel seemed to notice earlier, but I fell down the stairs. I’m struggling to put one foot in front of the other. I’m a liability as I am. You called me wet cardboard the other day, and it just keeps feeling more true.“ He slapped the catalogue down in his lap, and shut his eyes to rub at them under his glasses with thumb and forefinger. “Look, I’m bad at asking for help. So: This is me asking for help. I know you don’t have to help me and that it’s probably prudent to ditch me... but I hope having me in your life means more to you than that.”

He held out the booklet turned to the relevant page. Sticks leaned to take it, and looked it over, uncurling the front half to inspect the cover, then back to the items. He face slacked in earnest as he flipped over to a locations listing.

“The closest one was Nashua, you said? Lexington didn’t have them?”

“I lived in the Lexington Walden’s stock room for months before it went up in flames. What I’ve got is the best I could find. Only the warehouses that stocked hospitals would have what’s on that page. They’re surgical grade. ...The Merrimack swallowed up the Lowell General Hospital, didn’t it?“ He slumped, unable to recall the building in the skyline as they’d passed through Downtown Historic. “You have no idea how badly I want to stay put. I love it here, with the bathtub, with the bed, with the you... But...” The idea of it eroded him to trembling. “I know it’s a long way. Especially on foot. But I can’t do it with just Angel. Especially since it’s out of ammo.”

“No, no. If you need this, then we need this. We needed a good reason to blow this place for a while. The Unfolded may seem to want to continue respecting the history this place has, Glenn Johnny’s included... But Lowell as a whole? They weren’t out here on exterminator duty, Mindy. They were doing recon on the locks and channels equipment. For the General.”

That nearly knocked ‘Choly out of the chair. When it clicked, he paled numb.

“The fuck do they want to-- Oh. Oh no.”

“Yeah. I’m not happy about it, either. Bare minimum, it’s gonna be like when a company puts a new building in. Except you and I both know that wont just be, what was it? Skunks? But worst case scenario? I don’t even want to begin to speculate what they plan to do with the river.” Weary, Sticks circled back to the catalogue. “Have you got a time estimate for this little recon? How long you think it’ll take to get there, and how long you intend to stick around?”

“I’m not sure. Does it matter much? We’re in agreement that a change of scenery’s desirable.”

Sticks traced at the details on the page, distant and in deep thought.

“It’s not just a change of scenery, is the thing. It’s a change of climate. I don’t know if you realize this, but Lowell’s on the southern threshold of the Hinter... and we’re coming up on Nor’easter season. Sure, the wildlife has got all big and wild, but so’s the weather. I’ll be mostly all right up there, being a ghoul, provided our shelter’s sound. But you? And the Handy?” The ghoul waved off his own train of thought. “You know what. Don’t sweat it. We’ll manage this. My experience, your grey matter.”

“Nor’easters? You’re worried over a chance there’s one this year? I’ve weathered dozens of ice storms in my life. Even a few hurricanes. And you’re a native Yankee, so you’ve got to have, too. We’ll be fine.” Denial wheezed from his nostrils, his lips pressed together tight. “I know it will put us even further from New Hampshire, but I do have one obligation first. I have to go to Billerica, to escort someone to the Concord suburbs. I should’ve taken them to safety before getting here, but I also didn’t know what I was getting myself into. They’ve been waiting for the Lowell conflict to blow over, and like me, they’re the last survivor of their location. I would have had to go check on them soon even if we stayed here.”

The ghoul squinted at him.

“Hazarding you’re confident they couldn’t just travel there themselves.”

“It shouldn’t take long at all!” ‘Choly threw his hands up. “One day, tops. We just need to get from here to there to Sanctuary Hills. It’s a Mister Handy. I couldn’t have brought it to Lowell and just left it. And it just feels too many kinds of wrong to just leave it all alone there, when it could be among some normal people again for once.”

Sticks weighed the various aspects about the proposition that didn’t sit well.

“If you’re having trouble just walking, do you suppose you’ll be in any condition to ride Angel down?”

“I, I don’t know.” 'Choly wilted into begging that left his companion too tongue-tied to object all the while. “We’ll figure that out, too! And you know what? This trip to Nashua isn’t just for me. Partners. I meant it, that we’re in this together. The long haul. The Lexington Walden was a smaller location, and even it had a sizable chem lab arrangement, with a large cache of stock. The Nashua Walden was classified as a full regional warehouse: it shipped to a dozen locations in the New England Commonwealth. Olivia gave me all those military chem formulas. That is what you were looking for just now, weren’t you? I’m as interested as you, to see what all I can make from a chem cookbook culminated from two hundred years of research.”

Sticks sat up at once and looked to him knowingly. He swatted his knee with the catalogue.

“Now that, I like to hear! What initiative! We’ll start out for all this tomorrow. You hear me? Let’s get to gathering things up tonight. We can do a once-over in the morning to make sure we’re not leaving anything important behind.”

“You’re not exhausted after all that stuff downstairs? After cooking for thirty?”

‘Choly felt even more pathetic than he sounded. He hadn’t even lifted a finger with a thing, yet was this worn out.

“We’ll go until we pass out, at least. We’ll sleep better that way. Hey Angel!” Sticks called out for the robot. “Set down that broom and dustpan for a bit and help us out up here!” He chortled excitedly. “Ohh, bless it all. You want to cook chems for me. And you want to wear this for me. I could kiss you.”

Something between a grimace and a grin tore ‘Choly’s face.

“You... you could kiss me, you know.”

“You’re not wrong.” Sticks swept him up in both arms and plopped him back on the freshly made bed, only narrowly taking the care to be delicate with him. He leaned down over the top of him, a hand to each side of ‘Choly’s shoulders, to smooch him. “We’re great together. You know that, right?”

‘Choly squinted awkwardly, and reached to turn off the screen light on Sticks’s Pip-Boy. He pulled him into another kiss, and looked him in the eye with adoration.

“Always have been.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve no intention of leaving this place without first cleaning up after such horrid house guests.” Angel scoffed in frustration as it appeared upstairs, oblivious to the pair making out on the bed. “And I hate to be the bearer of such information, but if I’m to carry Mister Carey, we must pack as light as possible. It’s not to guilt you, Sir, but even with the refinements you’ve made to my hydraulics, the added weight does result in a higher fuel expenditure. My ammunition isn’t the only thing running low after this week.”

“So we’ll make more frequent refueling pit stops for you, buddy,” Sticks mumbled over his shoulder, still pecking all over ‘Choly’s face and neck and shoulders where he could get at it. The little creep soaked it all up, squirming like it tickled. “You just worry about carrying Carey here. Anything heavy I need to bring, I’ll carry myself.”

‘Choly grabbed his face to get his attention.

“Hey. Maybe Angel could carry all the supplies, and you carry me? I’ve got to weigh less than that Flamer did, and you hefted that thing all over town without hardly ever setting it down.”

The ghoul melted into dopey chuff.

“Mindy. Babe. You do not weigh less than a Flamer.” He smiled, heavy lidded. “You’re on something, though. Sounds like it might work. I can guarantee you, that everything I’m bringing totally weighs less than you. So if I carry you, and Angel carries everything I’m bringing, that’s less strain on its flame.”

“Can I entrust you with my most precious cargo, Mister Hawthorne?”

He planted one more forceful smooch on ‘Choly before meeting gazes in a dreamy determination.

“He’s my prize, too, ya know.”

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[cheri-translates]

[CN] Deep Longing Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 心驰之约, which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

More from this collection: Kiro l Victor

[ Released in CN on 24 Dec 2020 ]

The plane is currently flying steadily. I’m entirely focused on the iPad I’m holding, until the end credits of the film gradually appear.

MC: Sigh... I still find it very sweet and warm!

Finally re-watching this Northern European Christmas movie with Gavin, I’m perfectly content, rubbing his arm. 

The fragrance of fresh laundry still lingers on the thick woollen sweater, blending with a familiar cool and refreshing scent. 

Gavin removes his earpiece, tousling my hair. 

Gavin: No wonder you like it that much. The movie is very good.

MC: Of course! It’s precisely because of this movie that I thought of spending Christmas in Northern Europe. 

Pure white snow, burning firewood, colourful lights entwining everywhere, decorated Christmas trees, and streets brimming with a joyous atmosphere... 

MC: I hope it’s really as interesting as in the movie. 

Gavin: It will. 

Gavin looks at me and the anticipation written in my eyes, his expression tender as he keeps the iPad.

“Ladies and gentleman, the plane is about to make its landing at the airport...”

We immediately straighten up, pulling the window shade up--

From high above the ground, a silvery white city embellished with a riot of fairytale-like colours enters our line of sight. 

The homeland of the legendary Santa Claus is quietly awaiting us. 

-

By the time we complete the check-in process, it’s already dusk, and the streetlights are gradually illuminated.

MC: Is the countdown event in the plaza happening at midnight?

Before coming here, I came across a local Christmas custom. Here, the most famous Christmas event is the countdown in the plaza at midnight on Christmas Eve. 

Gavin: Mm, it’s still early. 

MC: Why don’t we take a walk along the street first? It’s Christmas Eve, so there’s definitely lots of good fun and interesting things to see!

A hint of a smile appears on Gavin’s lips, as though he’s long since guessed that I’d say this. 

Gavin: Looks like it was the right decision to make a booking at this hotel. I did some research beforehand - the liveliest local shopping street is nearby. It shouldn’t be far. 

In the midst of our conversation, we’ve already pushed open the doors to the hotel lobby.

The fluttering snowflakes float around like cotton, landing softly on the snow-covered ground and the sharp roof of the lighthouse opposite.

MC: So beautiful...

Gavin and I are standing side by side, our breaths releasing puffs of white mist.

Gavin: The winter here is much colder than in Loveland City. It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen such heavy snow.

Under the eaves, yellow halos from the streetlight fall into Gavin’s amber pupils, revealing an even warmer light. 

Sensing my gaze, Gavin turns his head to the side. The light and shadows outline the handsome bridge of Gavin’s straight nose. 

He chuckles softly, taking my hand.

Gavin: Let’s go.

-

Hearing the rustling of the cold breeze at my ear, and the crunching of snow underneath my feet, a wave of excitement suddenly overflows from my heart. I can’t help but break into a jog. 

Gavin: You’re that happy?

Tugging on Gavin’s hand, I nod in high spirits.

After turning at a corner, street vendors enter our line of sight from not afar off.

Tiny flickering lights intertwine in the air, hanging in front of the small stalls like waterfalls of flowing light, painting the entire street with a riot of colours.

Joyful songs drift in the night air of the city. In the midst of the bustling crowd, every face is brimming with relaxed and unrestrained smiles. 

A movie-like scene unfolds before my eyes, and I feel myself becoming more light-hearted. 

As though he can sense my fascination and elation, Gavin tightens his grip, his gaze lingering on my eager expression, his eyes glistening with a warm light. 

Gavin: Where do you want to go first?

The fragrance of all sorts of food diffuses in the air. Taking a deep breath, I feel the gluttonous worms in my belly stirring. 

Gavin: Shall we try the gingerbread cookies first? I heard the gingerbread cookies here are very famous. 

I didn’t expect Gavin’s suggestion to be exactly what I was thinking. A little excited, I nod several times. 

MC: We could have gingerbread cookies first, then Christmas cake, then drink the distinctive and warm red wine.... Oh yes, I heard there’s even a medieval merry-go-round that we could ride for free.

I count on my fingers, as though listing down family treasures. Suddenly a low chuckle drifts to my ears. 

The moment I turn my head, Gavin’s smiling eyes directly enter my heart, and an unnatural warmth subconsciously blooms on my face. 

MC: Don’t laugh at me. We’re already here, so we must definitely experience everything...

Gavin takes a step closer, helping me brush stray hairs messed up by the wind. A smile remains on his lips.  

Gavin: You’re right. We must do all of these things. You might have been too busy recently, and it’s been a while since I’ve seen you looking so relaxed. It’s pretty nice.

While he speaks, he takes my hand and places it into the pocket of his coat naturally.

Gavin: The pace of life here is very slow. Today, we can take our time. We’ll complete everything you wish to experience slowly.

-

The nearest stall happens to be selling gingerbread cookies fresh from the oven. With an enthusiastic greeting from the owner, I purchase a bag of gingerbread cookies. 

MC: These gingerbread cookies have been made so delicately... 

From the bag, I take out a gingerbread cookie with a snowflake design. Bringing it to my nose, I give it a whiff. Then, I’m filled with anticipation as I take a bite -- It’s fragrant and crispy, and as delicious as expected.

While walking, I hand the bag to Gavin.

MC: Gavin, pick a piece too?

Gavin very quickly takes out a colourful Christmas elf gingerbread cookie.

Gavin: This one. It has a different design, so we can try different flavours.

MC: Sure! I didn’t think you’d actually pick such an adorable design.

Gavin lowers his head to look at the gingerbread cookie elf, then releases an incredibly soft laugh.

Gavin: It could be because... it’s smiling very happily. 

Gavin: Just like you.

Although cold wind blows past by cheeks, I seem to feel a warm sensation instead. Beaming with a smile, I bring the snowflake gingerbread cookie to Gavin’s lips.

MC: Here. You said we’d try different flavours, right? 

He bends down slightly, giving it a bite straight from my hand. Under the illumination of the streetlights, snowflakes land gently on Gavin’s hair.

Gavin: It has a very special taste, and also has the fragrance of ginger. 

While he speaks, I feel the warmth from his lips on my fingertips, enriching the lights and the night scene. 

I can’t help but sigh with emotion--

This seems to be the festival ambience I’ve wanted most.

At this moment, the bell from the plaza chimes from far away. I immediately check the time - it’s almost time to take action!

MC: Cough cough...

I clear my throat. Gavin halts in his footsteps, slightly puzzled. 

Gavin: What’s wrong?

MC: Mm... it’s like this. We’ve already had good food and seen interesting things. So after this--

I deliberately pause. Looking at the crowded street market, a hint of contemplation flashes across the pair of amber eyes which are close enough to touch.

Gavin: Cough. I’ve prepared a gift for you. But you’ll have to wait for a while longer.

MC: ...eh? 

Seeing that Gavin has misunderstood, you can’t help but snort with laughter.

MC: Actually, what I wanted to say was that it’s time for you to receive a surprise!

Gavin’s eyes widen slightly for a second. Then, the corners of his lips bring with them warmth and happiness.

Gavin: Do I need to do anything? 

I hurriedly scan my surroundings. The “prop” that I prepared earlier is already nearby. As such, I blink slyly. 

MC: All you have to do is turn around and wait for me patiently.

Readily following my instructions, Gavin smiles and turns around. 

Just as I take two steps away from Gavin, I whip my head around in unease, plopping myself onto his back and peeping out at him.

MC: I’ll say it first. You must definitely not sneak a peek!

Gavin: Okay. 

MC: And you must wait for me to say that you can turn around before you do so.

Gavin doesn’t respond immediately. He suddenly turns his head, reaching out to tousle my head gently as it rests on his shoulder. 

Gavin: Don’t worry, take your time. I won’t sneak a peek. I can wait for as long as needed for a surprise. I’ll wait for you.

After confirming that Gavin is standing in place, I jog over to the side of the street. The young person who I’d contacted in advance is already waiting not afar off. Behind him is a small and adorable reindeer sleigh.

It’s the first time I’m seeing a reindeer sleigh, and I excitedly bend down to touch the docile reindeer, greeting it softly.

MC: You've worked hard!

With the assistance of the reindeer’s owner, I take the reindeer sleigh and the present, rushing back in a fluster. Everything is ready--

“Cling cling cling”!

Leaning next to the sleigh, I shake the bell on it, then shout loudly towards the tall and straight figure in front.

MC: Gavin, surprise!

Gavin turns around slowly. When he sees the reindeer, his eyes widen in surprise. 

In the next second, an unrestrained smile is on full display. Even his eyes are coated with surprise and a glowing expression.

Satisfied, I use one hand to smoothen the red Santa hat on my head, and use the other hand to support myself lightly on the sleigh. 

MC: The reindeer says that Christmas is here, and it has sent me to give you a present!

I retrieve a red coloured scarf from the sleigh, and show it off as though I'm presenting a valuable treasure. 

MC: Even though it doesn’t look special at first glance, but...

I point at the picture of a golden coloured ginkgo leaf in a corner.

MC: I personally stitched this on needle by needle!

Gavin takes two steps towards me, petting the reindeer.

The colourful lights happen to fall on Gavin’s face. I can clearly see the happiness gradually glowing in his eyes.

He lowers his head, the warm colour of his eyes full of unbridled light. 

Gavin: In that case, could you also personally put it on for me?

Stand on my tiptoes, I wrap the scarf around his neck seriously, and can’t help but admire it. 

MC: My taste is pretty good!

I chuckle playfully. Just as I prepare to step backwards, Gavin grabs my hand. 

Instinctively tilting my head upwards, what fills my vision is a face brimming with happiness and delight. 

Gavin: Thank you. I really like this surprise. Not just because of this scarf. 

While Gavin speaks, his fingers lace with mine, entwining them tightly. The coldness of the winter wind seems to melt into warmth because of the closeness of his breath. 

Gavin: I think the reindeer brought the wrong message. 

He stares fixedly at me, his clear eyes akin to the nicest colours in the snow.

Gavin: What I truly want has only been one thing from beginning to the end. Santa Claus likely heard my heartfelt wish. That’s why he sent the reindeer to bring you to my side. 

Heavy snow drifts in the air, and the coloured lights flicker radiantly across the entire street market. But all the radiance can’t compare to Gavin’s smile before me. 

Gavin: As for the surprise belonging to you... Look forward to it for a little longer, okay?

-

No matter whether I employ hard or soft tactics, Gavin refuses to disclose a single thing regarding the gift. He simply smiles and tells me to wait for a while longer.

Time passes by without us realising it, and the night has already set in. Gavin and I begin heading towards the plaza. 

Along the way, I realise that quite a number of people are chatting excitedly about a “big screen”.

Although I’m aware that there would be a countdown event later, what’s this “big screen”?

As though seeing through my confusion, Gavin explains.

Gavin: The “big screen” they’re referring to should be the one in the plaza. The reason why the countdown event in the plaza is famous is because of the Christmas tree in the middle. It was originally a tree which was already growing in the plaza. Not only that - the tree is over nine hundred years old.

MC: How do you know about this so clearly?

Gavin: ...cough. I did a little research before we came.

A certain warmth and sense of contentment overflows from my heart. Quietly, I tighten my grip on Gavin’s hand. 

MC: Looks like the tree carries the weight of a very ancient history.

Gavin: To the locals, this ancient Christmas tree is akin to the blessings of Santa Claus. Whenever Christmas arrives, people will decorate it diligently, and install a bell switch on its trunk. If you press the switch on the midnight of Christmas Eve, it not only heralds the arrival of Christmas, but also represents that the person who pressed it has received the greatest blessings. This is why everyone wishes to be that lucky person. 

MC: ...I’ve got it! In order to be the lucky person... you’d have to be the person selected on the big screen in the plaza, right?

Gavin: That’s right.

MC: There’s only one chance in the entire year. No wonder everyone’s looking forward it. 

In the midst of our conversation, we arrive at the plaza which resembles an ocean of joy, and I also witness the unique Christmas tree--

At a glance, one can’t seem to see the tip of the tall and towering Christmas tree. The sparkling and flickering star at the top is reminiscent of a brilliant light from high in the sky.

Vivid and adorable decorations and ribbons are strung in layers, filling the entire tree, giving off an especially warm appearance. 

MC: It’s the first time I’m seeing such a tall Christmas tree. It’s so stunning.

Hearing my involuntary gasp of admiration, Gavin’s lips curl slightly.

Gavin: Want to sit for a while at the stall over there?

Perhaps noticing that my cheeks have taken on a reddish hue from the wind, he reaches out to tighten my collar, embracing me gently.

I shake my head repeatedly.

MC: It’s a rare trip. I want to wait for midnight with everyone. There’s also a performance beforehand - it’s so lively.

The crowd gradually grows in size, and the liquid crystal numbers on the big screen start flipping with every second--

In just a few minutes, it’d be midnight. 

Happy and expectant faces appear on the big screen, and everybody waves their hands excitedly and exclaims.

Likely influenced by the surrounding atmosphere, a wave of hope rises in my heart. I whisper quietly to Gavin.

MC: Gavin... do you think we’d be that lucky?

Gavin returns my gaze, a slight yet confident smile on his lips. 

Gavin: As long as you believe it, we definitely will. 

Right after the words leave his lips, the image on the big screen happens to display our side profiles. 

My heart is immediately lifted--

The image pauses for a few seconds, then deviates slightly, finally focusing on Gavin and I!

Staring at my somewhat silly and stunned self on the big screen, I can’t believe this at all.

MC: Gavin, we...

Gavin: Mm, it’s us.

The night breeze tangles with the ends of his hair, blowing off some light snowflakes, and making the smile on his face even more evident.

He reaches out, holding me securely.

Gavin: Let’s go.

Amidst their cheering, the crowd automatically parts to both sides, paving a small path. Gavin leads me step-by-step towards the Christmas tree while I’m still feeling slightly giddy.

When I see the ceremoniously decorated Christmas tree before me, I finally return to my senses. 

Looking into the eyes which contain a smile and are so close to me, I can’t help but reach out to hug Gavin, my face full of excitement. 

Accompanied with a soft chuckle, Gavin encircles me with the scarf. His unique scent burrows into my nose.

I hold onto him, nuzzling myself into his arms. Crinkling my eyes into a smile, I lift my head to look at him.

MC: Gavin, I feel so happy today... It’s like a fairytale which hasn’t been thought of before.

Gavin tightens his grip on me, and light undulates in the amber eyes staring at me.

Gavin: Looks like the mission of letting you experience a different Christmas has been completed pretty well?

MC: Not just “pretty well”! We’re basically extraordinarily lucky today!

Gavin: In that case, I’m a little luckier than you.

MC: Why? 

Gavin: Because the lucky you belongs to me. 

Gavin lowers his head slightly, his lips bringing with them a gentle smile, his eyes filled with seriousness. 

He doesn’t seem to realise just how much the words he said can cause one to turn red in the face.

I open my mouth, wanting to cover the chaotic leaping of my heart. Before the words can come out, I once again feel Gavin’s warm breaths on my forehead.

Gavin: MC, this “biggest blessing” belongs to you. In the year ahead, you’ll have the most blessings. I wish that every day of yours will be happy and blessed. This is my Christmas gift.

My heart surges with emotions. Just as I’m about to say something, I realise something from his words--

Thinking about the surprise gift he mentioned earlier, and the confident tone he used when the big screen was sweeping across, could it be...

My eyes instantly widen.

MC: Gavin, did you...

Before I can finish, the crowd in the plaza begin the countdown, their joyous voices covering my soft exclamation.

Even so, I’ve more or less confirmed the guess in my heart. 

Ba dump. Ba dump. It’s as though I can clearly hear the violent yet excited beating of my heart.

Gavin seems to be in a great mood. The corners of his lips arch upwards, and he pulls me towards the switch on the Christmas tree. 

The countdown from the crowd happens to be reaching its end -- “Three, two, one!”

A second after our gentle push, a gigantic firework scuttles into the sky and blooms. Light-hearted music starts playing, loud and clear.

Beneath the tree, Gavin and I continue keeping our eyes fixed on each other, concealed by the branches. 

Gavin lowers his head, his eyelashes trembling, his clear eyes reflecting my focused yet sparkling eyes.

His fingers glide down my cheek gently, leaving behind a warmth I yearn for.

Gavin: What were you going to say earlier? 

I tilt my head, looking at him quietly.  

After hearing my wish of spending Christmas in Northern Europe, the person before me had started planning this trip, and had given me such a great blessing...

As compared to being selected by the big screen, the person before me is the blessing that I wish to have most. 

I encircle my arms around his neck, shaking my head with a smile. 

MC: Gavin, Merry Christmas!

Gavin: Merry Christmas, MC. 

Without realising it, I tug on his collar tightly, pressing myself to the side of his face. In an instant, all I sense is my heart being filled to the brim.

I can’t see the crowd in the surroundings, can’t see the mottled lights, nor the drifting snowflakes. 

All I can see is this smiling face whose breathing melds with mine. 

At this moment of undulating longing, I wish to convey all the brimming and surging emotions to him. I wish for this familiar scent to more completely encase itself around me--

Encircling Gavin tightly, I stand on my tiptoes, gently closing the distance between us...

-

Phone call: here

Texts: here

[sunsetinmyvein]

You Pick a Fight - P3

I have long since forgotten what prompts from the prompt list that we used for this, but as requested by @imagine-that-100​, the third and final part of You Pick a Fight. Enjoy!

True to his word, Matty absolutely did give me hell for everything I had said and done while in hospital. Word spread pretty fast in our circle of friends about how soft I had remarked his hair was, much to my dismay. But my thumb survived, and that was the main concern. I could tolerate the berating for the sake of still having all of my digits. And to be fair, Matty was very helpful in hospital that day, as much as he didn’t tell anyone else about that half of the story. A part of my anaesthesia haze ramblings stayed with me even past that hectic evening. I suddenly felt like I gave that man too much grief throughout our friendship, maybe a few of my pranks were edging on too mean. Not that I was going to give up entirely on that side of our friendship, but I definitely had a feeling that it was time to pull back from how intense they had been becoming.  When every interaction between us wasn’t laced with sarcasm and spent looking over your shoulder for what could be coming next, spending time with Matty was actually… fairly pleasant? I found myself actually wanting to be around him.

“Mattyyyy.” I spoke into my phone as I propped it up between my shoulder and my ear.

“Yes?” His voice crackled back down the line.

“I need to ask you a favour.” I started. At this point, Matty was no stranger to my random phone calls for help. I mean, come on, he was rolling in it and had connections everywhere, I wasn’t just going to let that go to waste.

“Mm?”

“My high school reunion is coming up…” I stared at the invitation stuck to my fridge.

“And?” He prompted.

“And it would feel extremely vindicating to have a nice date to rub in everyone’s faces.” I finally suggested. Making this call wasn’t easy, I didn’t like the connotations that came with asking this. But, I did really like the connotations that came with rocking up with Matthew Healy in tow. And if I had to go, I wanted to have some fun with it.

  There was a pause, and I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me at first. “Ooo, I’m not sure.” He eventually said, sounding like he was thinking on it. “But I can see why you’d ask.” He added.

“What?” I frowned in confusion, not that he could see my expression anyway.

“I mean, why wouldn’t you want to be seen with someone as drop dead gorgeous as me?” He said. I gave a snort of laughter in response, but he didn’t continue any further.

I let out a deep sigh, then said the thing I knew would get him to go, “There’s an open bar.”

“I’ll be there.” He replied instantly.

“Great. Thanks.” I nodded.

“My pleasure.” I could just see his shit eating grin through the phone. Hopefully this idea didn’t backfire on me.

  * * *

  After a few weeks, the fateful evening rolled around. As promised, Matty drove round to my place, dressed very smartly in a nice button down. Which, after the crocs getup I’d seen him in literally the day prior, this was a vast improvement. But I couldn’t help but notice the bags under his eyes, and the way his eyelids drooped.

“Are… are you feeling okay?” I asked apprehensively as I let him in.

“Huh?” He seemed pretty out of it.

“How long has it been since you’ve sleep?” I asked with a short laugh.

“A week?” He answered, seeming entirely serious about his answer.

“Jesus, Matty. Why? What’s keeping you up?” I asked in concern, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Erm… Album stuff, you know.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“Are you sure you’re good to go to this thing?” He looked in no state to be on a night out. But as soon as I questioned his ability to attend, he perked up.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He nodded quickly, running a hand through his messy curls. As much as he’d dressed up, it seemed that there was no controlling that hair of his. “C’mon, let’s go.” He said as he gestured back to the door.

  We ordered an Uber, neither of us wanting to commit to being the designated driver and passing up on the free booze. Once we had clambered inside, I laid down a few ground rules about what to tell people if they asked. All the stuff about how we met, why we got together, the things that we had to make sure to agree on to get our story straight and seem believable.

“All right, so I’d appreciate if you tried to be a bit more tactful than usual.” I ended my spiel, giving him a serious look.

“Be as embarrassing as possible, got it.” He said with a firm nod.

“Can you please just listen to me for once?” I said as I rolled my eyes.

“Or-” He said, pointing a finger at me for emphasis, “I could not listen to you, and we could pull many fantastic pranks at this stuffy party.” He suggested.

I thought on this for a moment. “What did you have in mind?” I asked with an eyebrow raised.

“We can raise hell together - spike the punch, spread rumours, heckle the speeches, that sort of thing.” He elaborated with a devious smile.

The offer was tempting, but then I remembered that I was meant to be making a good impression. “No, no. I just… would rather be quietly impressive instead of causing a scene like we usually do.” I said, tearing my gaze away from him and looking back out the window.

“Whatever you say.”

  When we rocked up at my old high school, it probably shouldn’t have surprised me that everything looked exactly the same as what it did when I was a student. The buildings were a slight bit more run down, the signs were starting to wear away, it was nostalgic in a very uncomfortable way. We followed the small arrows staked in the ground, making our way through the school to where the reunion was being held. As we approached the doors, Matty stopped me, looping his arm with mine with a smile before walking in. The gesture instantly reminded me of why I had been worried about asking him to come as my faux date. Other than him getting the wrong idea, I didn’t want to dredge up any repressed feelings since that day in the hospital a few months ago. This thought was quickly squashed once we stepped into the room and had the tacky decorations shoved right into our faces. I had no idea what theme they were trying to achieve, but if it was ‘awkward high school disco’ they had successfully done it. However, I was pretty chuffed with the stares that we were getting as we walked through the room. By the look of the whispers that I saw being passed around, clearly Matty was recognised. Most of the people I had spotted I didn’t overly want to talk to, so I was glad to have brought a plus one that I could hang out with to avoid stifled pleasantries with people I’d not seen in over a decade.

  “Why is there a deer in the room?” Matty whispered in my ear as he gestured to the large buck that was sectioned off in the corner.

“School mascot.” I answered.

“What?” He asked with a frown.

“The football team, they’re called the bucks or something.” I explained, pointing out a banner on the wall with the cartoon version of the animal.

“So… they have a deer? A real live deer?” He continued with an incredulous laugh.

“Yep.” I nodded.

“Let’s go tie shit on its antlers.” He said eagerly, attempting to drag me towards the animal.

“No.” I quickly hissed, pulling him back towards the bar. “Let’s go get a drink.” I offered instead.

  With a drink in hand, Matty was much easier to keep under control. We drifted around to a few conversations, dropping stories of accomplishments and various other brag worthy things. After about half an hour, though, he started to get restless.

“Hey, where’s the woodshop?” He asked quietly as his eyes darted around the room.

“Why do you want to know?” I asked back, narrowing my eyes in suspicion.

“No reason.” He said with a shrug. “What about the art room?” He questioned with a smile playing on his lips.

“What are you scheming?” I accused.

“Nothing!” He threw his hands up in defence. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom and then get another drink. You want one?” He asked.

I stared at him for a moment, trying to work out what idea was turning over in that head of his. “Sure.” I conceded, watching as he strolled off.

  I was apprehensive about letting him wander off alone, what with his track record. But I had no reason to stop him. Once left to my own devices, I had to begrudgingly start conversations with my old classmates alone. I didn’t realise how much I missed having Matty to bounce off of in conversation until he wasn’t there. The time ticked by, and he still hadn’t returned. When I finally felt the need to go looking for Matty in case he got lost, I spotted him on the other side of the room sparking up conversation with a group of people. He looked very animated in whatever story he was telling, and then I saw him gesture to his thumb. Oh, no.

“Whatever he’s saying, he’s lying!” I called out, interrupting the person who had been speaking to me. Matty, clearly hearing my voice, looked up and waved with a smirk.

“Why did you even come with him if you were worried about his behaviour?” The guy I was speaking to huffed.

“I’m starting to forget.” I muttered, making my way through the crowd to work out what on earth he was saying. When I made my way to the small crowd that had formed around him, he was indeed telling the story about how I’d nearly cut off my thumb. However, he was telling it in a way I hadn’t heard before. He was embellishing the details about how helpful he was, about how happy I’d been to see him when I woke up, instead of his usual speech about how embarrassing it was for me. It felt pretty heart-warming to actually hear him acknowledge the other side of that night.

“That’s so sweet of you!” One of the girls from my English class cooed.

“She’s worth it.” Matty replied as he planted a kiss on my cheek. I instantly felt myself burning up, before plastering a smile on my face to try and keep up the charade I had concocted.

  When I finally pried him away from his crowd, we went to go get another drink. What was the point of an open bar if you didn’t take advantage of it?

“You really think I’d throw you under the bus in front of your own classmates?” He asked as he nudged me in the ribs playfully.

“I just never know with you sometimes.” I chuckled as I grabbed a bottle of cider. “Are you feeling better, then?” I added, noting his much more jovial appearance than when I first saw him today.

“Hm?” He questioned as he took a swig from his drink.

“You looked pretty sleep deprived when you rocked up at mine earlier today.” I clarified.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Much better.” He nodded, glancing down at his dress shoes.

“What’s been keeping you up?” I asked in curiosity, starting to walk back over to the centre of the room.

“Well, if I’m honest-”

“All right everyone, take your seats.” A voice interrupted over the loud speakers.

  Right, the speeches. People who had been notable in high school had been asked if they wanted to stand up and tell people all about where they were at now. Thank fuck I hadn’t been picked for that. We began shuffling over to the lined-up seats at the front of the room near the stage, Matty and I happily taking a spot near the back. As the speakers went to sit down in their chairs on the stage, all of the legs collapsed beneath them, sending the six people up there sprawling onto the wooden floor. A few quiet laughs came from the crowd. But I recognised that handiwork.

“Did you do that?” I asked, turning to Matty.

“I have no idea why you’d suspect me.” He answered, clearly trying (and failing) not to smile.

“Is that why you were asking about the woodshop?” I realised, my voice growing in volume slightly as it clicked in my head. Someone shushed me from the row behind us.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak dumbass.” He shrugged.

“Real mature.” I mumbled, turning back to the stage to see them bringing new chairs over. He just wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me into his side.

  After that, the speeches continued without a hitch. I had to admit, at least Matty’s antics had brought some fun to the dull event. Because besides the chairs collapsing, the hour-long spectacle nearly put me to sleep. Once they’d finished up, they began playing the music a bit louder than what they had been and packed the chairs in front of the stage away, encouraging people to use it as a dancefloor.

“Do you have any idea on how frustrating you can really be?” I frowned as we made our way over to the corner of the room to speak without people overhearing us. “You could’ve hurt someone.”

“Come ooooon.” He said, rolling his eyes. “You know you want to make this place a bit livelier. You’re never gonna see these people again, right?” He continued, leaning against a rail.

“Right.” I agreed.

“So, let’s have some fun.” He grinned. “You know we make a good team.”

I thought about it for a moment, and he had a point. This event was pretty boring, and we were a good team. Matty had been going out of his way tonight to do what I had asked of him, the least I could do was let him get some enjoyment too. “Fine.” I agreed. Watching as the large buck began chewing on Matty’s arm. “You might wanna keep an eye on your jacket, though.” I said as I gestured to the animal.

“Huh? Oh, wha- Hey!” He shouted as he yanked his sleeve out of the deer’s mouth.

  Once he had been given permission, Matty kicked into full prank mode. Shoelaces were tired together under tables, lettering on signs were rearranged, jackets and hats mysteriously changed tables. Most of what he wanted to do was harmless fun, and it was entertaining to watch him dart around the room and work his magic. Tonight was actually turning out to be pretty fun. I had thought that maybe Matty might feel awkward about it, or maybe I’d feel awkward about it, but things were going really well. It was nice to get the chance to have an evening with just him. Normally it was a group of us and I always felt mildly attention seeking for taking up his time. To have his undivided attention for the whole night left me with a warm feeling. Matty eventually wore himself out, and guests were beginning to get suspicious of the guy who seemed to constantly be in the background of every minor inconvenience. When he seemed satiated prank wise, he managed to con me into getting onto the dancefloor with him. Normally I’d be pretty intimidated about dancing in front of such a judging crowd, but between the good company and the many drinks I’d had, I didn’t really care.

  Suddenly, a bunch of glitter starting spewing out through the vents onto the dance floor. The music stopped, drawing everyone’s attention up to the sparkly downfall. To be honest, this looked far better than any theming the school had done themselves. But I knew this was not something that they had planned.

“I admit, this is pretty impressive.” I said quietly to Matty, who just had a very proud smile.

“See? I told you that we should raise hell.” He laughed loudly.

“I guess it was pretty fun.” I confessed.

“You should really listen to me more.” He said softly, taking my hand in his. I watched the glitter fall for a moment, before looking back down to see him still staring at me. I frowned at him, waiting for him to say something. “You have the cutest smile I’ve ever seen right now.”

“You’re looking pretty starry-eyed yourself there, mister.” I shot back, figuring that he was joking.

“Well, it’s hard not to be when you’ve got the best date in the room.” He added, tugging on my hand, pulling me closer to him.

“Wasn’t that meant to be my plan?” I said with a chuckle.

“After speaking to your classmates, I’m pretty sure you got it backwards.” He answered as I placed a hand on his shoulder.

  A moment or two passed before Matty took in a deep breath. “I was up all week because I was worried about ruining this for you.” He blurted out. “I didn’t want to be a disappointment.”

“You’d never disappoint me.” I dismissed.

“Things are always more daunting when you’re doing them with someone that you’re into, you know.” He explained.

“I… you… what?” In my surprise, I couldn’t get my words out right. Had he not been kidding for the last five minutes with everything that he was saying? A lot of moments over the last six months suddenly made a lot more sense.

“You’re not getting me to say it twice.” He said with a small smile.

“How long?” Was all I could manage to ask.

“For ages.” He said simply. “Why do you think I stayed with you in the hospital? Why do you think I spend so much time with you? Why do you think I bother you so much? You think that it’s me who’s teasing you to the guys, but it’s them teasing me about you.” He answered.

  Everything that I had felt in the hospital was now in the forefront of my mind. Maybe I hadn’t been so crazy to want to flirt with Matty then. Certainly, in this moment, his confession had my heart rate picking up and my mind reeling. “Then what was with all the pranks?” I said, shoving his shoulder slightly.

“Kept your attention, didn’t it?” He chuckled.

“I suppose so.” I agreed. “I think I’m into you too.” I said quietly.

“I know.” He nodded.

“What?”

“You told me so when you first woke up in hospital. You slept for a few hours after that, though.” He elaborated. “You don’t remember?”

I shook my head, but for what I did remember, if I had said that, it made sense. “So… is this a real date then?” I asked out of curiosity.

“It can be.” He shrugged.

“I’d like that.” I smiled, leaning up slightly to catch him off guard and kiss him briefly. “But first, we’d better get out of here before they realise what you did.”

Part One

Part Two

[whenisitnottimeforbed]

Unscheduled Change in Procedure (II)

~~

" 'Shields'? Really?"

"Like Brooke, or Sam."

"Who the h*ll is Sam Shields?"

"Football player." Clint and Coulson had both responded quietly while Natasha held back her growls.

"...Packers, Super Bowl 2011-" The thinner agent couldn't help but add, looking off because he knew Natasha was glaring at him over the file she'd been handed. Clint had glanced over his shoulder at the other room where the two children sat in chairs next to each other, Pietro with his arm around Wanda and clearly trying to say something advisory or reassuring to her. Neither room could be heard from the other.

"Don't you think it's a little less than discrete?" Nat had asked while she flipped a page up and looked into more of the information provided. The folder was infuriatingly thin.

"Covert affairs isn't known for their naming creativity. I heard one of them had a baby and named it John Joe. Hmph. But, if you can think of a better name, then by all means-"

"How about Ne Sem'ya. It means 'Not Family' in Russian."

"Shields it is."

"Coulson, really-?" Clint interjected into the exchange, shaking his head. He might be less vocal about it, but he certainly felt the same way.

"This is the only way it will work."

"We have rooms here in the compound- nice ones. And agents who are trained for asset holding and ones who teach. All. Right. Here." Natasha had argued.

"All the details aren't being passed down, but the salient points are that we've been aware of Pietro and Wanda Maximoff for almost all their lives. Much like the rest of the mutant population, we've never gone after them, but others have, and they were once interned. It's after that that we switched from 'aware' to 'monitored'."

"And now 'reared'?"

"Agents, think of it more like babysitting. Once we find suitable replacements, you'll be able to switch out and go back to your regular lives."

"And How long is that going to take?"

"I wouldn't be able to say-"

"Coulson-"

"Mm. Don't make any personal plans for at least a month."

~~~

"A month, Clint. A month." Natasha glowered. Pietro quietly herded Wanda toward the white-painted iron gate, minimally designed and shoved it open so they could get onto the driveway. It was a long concrete rectangle surrounded by dead patches of weed-grass and packed dirt with a sidewalk piping to the rear of the house, but they headed toward the front door of the little one story house. It was a bland tan-peach color, possibly sunbleached, with a Spanish styled roof and one smaller window visible at this angle. There was one thin tree adorning front yard, two potted plants in the sliver of dirt between the walk to the door and the house wall. Neither looked well cared for or matched the decor or landscape and were still in their hardware store black plastic buckets, vastly different in size. The piece de resistance though was a very old, faded, peeling satellite dish propped up on one corner of the building.

"Have you ever lived with children for a month?"

"I've babysat for my sister before-"

"But for a month?" She asked, at a loss. With a sigh forced out more like a huff she picked up one of her bags, beginning to head in, "And besides, Laura's kids are practically angels. You can't compare that to what we're about to do."

"We'll get through this, Nat." His dissatisfaction manifested, unlike hers in haughty agitation, but, as usual, in an exhausted sort of submission to his circumstances.

She grumbled back, but headed inside. He couldn't help a little smile, though, when he heard her yell,

"Bags don't go in front of the door!" but got started scanning his surroundings. Around back was another large, quartered concreted area, clearly meant to act as the 'garage', and some more dirt. The fences around were about five feet high in matching stucco with some lattice work design, topped with more far spaced, short, white, iron spires. There was one window near the front door, and the rest at the back of the house were blocked by the 6 foot inner wall, solid that bent around from the front door to the concrete in the backyard. The house was as fortified as one could hope for this location as far as exterior and viewing points were concerned. If he was reading their expressions right, it was apparently pretty soundproof as well.

"You are sleeping! In separate! Rooms!" is what Natasha was currently saying, well, arguing.

"No!" Pietro shouted back, "You can't make us! We sleep together! It's safer!"

"No, it's not-" Natasha approached him quickly, sick of his backtalk, and threw him off guard a little- he stumbled but he held his ground, "If someone comes in the house to take you, then they get both of you at once. OUR way, they only get one."

"We don’t need you- if someone gets in the house, we'll fight them off together-" he growled back at her before mumbling, "If we haven't run away by then."

"Run?" Natasha laughed, "How? On that leg? You won't get two blocks."

"Perimeter’s secure." Clint came in saying and Natasha could hear him stumble over duffel.

"Didn't I tell you to move your bag?" Natasha shoved Pietro at his back toward the door.

"It's too heavy." He stumbled and limped a bit, Wanda skittering over quickly to take his hand again.

"Tough it out; I'm not your mother and I'm not your maid." she pointed at him before turning and rolling her eyes at his wild, angry little face, and heading toward another room, "Complaining never made anyone any stronger."

The house had come furnished, of course, in what was basically a spastic IKEA workers submission to Better Homes and Gardens. The color palette the agency decided to work with was creams, lavenders, and cherry-browns in all the common areas, with a floral or vine theme, and soft edges. Like someone's great aunt might live in. The interior of the house itself- walls and floors and such- was white-white, and spackled with tile flooring everywhere except the bedrooms which had slightly off white carpet.

There were three bedrooms- one clearly catering to a boy raised in the middle of the last century and the other obviously constructed for a girl who had an abnormal fixation with the color pink and polka dots. Finally there was the master and en suite, which, regrettably, was done out in deep burgundys and what appeared to be white fur-shags,  and black wall ornamentation that one could only deduce was chosen by a 1970's fetishist. Leaving that aside was this horribly obnoxious salmon color someone had vomited all over everything in the en suite, presumably to make all the mint green linens and accent pieces pop. Someone who'd peaked in the 80s had been assigned the bathroom.

Venturing beyond the sleeping quarters, there was a kitchen with an 'open concept'- it was small, so raising a wall would have probably made it a closet. Apparently a Martha Stewart magazine must have been lying around because there were a three jars of olives, noodles, and tiny tomatoes stuffed into jars with cork tops about the neck with twine sitting on the window sill above the sink- a window that looked out at 70 % wall, 25 % neighbor roof, and 5 % sky. And that was all the ambiance for what could pass for the cooking space of a mental institution. Three measly jars.

A living room and dining room truncated each other outside the imaginary line that defined the paired kitchen and, beyond the raised counter where two high legged chairs pulled up, the 'breakfast nook' territory. The dining room, a cube with 3 sides across from the kitchenette, held a country style wood table- the top painted creame while the center column remained natural- covered in a long thin cloth down the middle. Surrounding it were four brown wooden chairs with creame cushions tied to their seats.

The living room, nearer the front of the house was furnished with a creme couch, matching loveseat and armchair, with this ribbing striping its entire upholderied body, as though it were an animal warning others not to come near. To counteract this, there was a purple throw provided over it's back and pillows with vinework stitched in placed at it's pockets. On a wall that was nearly bisecting the square footage of this area and yet didn't quite reach all the way to the ceiling, there was a Television mounted, probably 58" and poised above a small entertainment table with a DVD/Blu-Ray player, a wii, and a cable box. And at the end of it all, near the corner of this wall hoping not to draw attention to itself, was was a door where, inside, beyond the view of the rest of the house and cut off from it like a secret, was the set up of all of the agency's surveillance and security equipment. It also included the closet for the tactical and defensive weapons, and the trap door that led to a 'plan z' escape route. After all the effort put in, this house could do little else short of pulling in visitors by their collars and screaming "I AM AN EXACT AVERAGE OF EVERYONE IN YOUR LIFE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN TO PAY ATTENTION TO!" in their faces.

"Ugh." Natasha pulled the door to the surveillance room closed behind her, the autolocking engaging and strode over to collapse into the puffy new sofa. She huffed again and crossed her legs when Clint gave her an eyebrow and a shake of his head.

"I know how to play this part, but we're inside and this is ridiculous- what do they think it is, the '50s?" She sighed, looking out one of the two windows to the beautiful view of the side of the neighbor's fence. Natasha's arrival outfit had been chosen as a red camisol under a thin, white, sleeveless blouse with big photo prints of roses in red, purple on the bottom half. She tucked this into high waisted white, rolled-cuff shorts and a large, rustic brown belt buckled around her waist to match the brown on the oxford flats on her feet. Clearly not something she usually had to don.

"I'm sure there are khakis in there somewhere." Clint chuckled, sitting in an armchair nearby, his smile slowly melting away. He'd been allowed to wear a green plaid shortsleeve button up over a blue hanes, and a pair of jeans and addidas sneakers. Natasha glanced at him and gently shook her head looking off again without giving a response otherwise.

It was quiet, and in that pause in the otherwise hectic day their thoughts were allowed to bubble over. So, they were doing this. It was done. They were taking care of two children on orders from Director Fury himself in some lower suburb of the Las Vegas area with little more to go on than, "Handle Asset Care."

"We shouldn't be here." Clint’s thoughts, almost silent, snuck out of his mouth, “I'm not a-”, just as the kids came back in,

"Now, what are we supposed to do?" Pietro asked indignantly, Wanda watching with wide eyes from where she trotted behind him. Clint fatigue pressed him further staring at their eyes, expectant and confused. What the h*ll was he supposed to do with a couple of kids- why in the world did they put him here? What was this feeling growing every second they stared at him and he sat there unable to figure out this puzzle? Wanda looked him over as he held still for a moment and her eyes fell away, turning instead to the floor. Ah yes, it was so clear when it was on someone else's face; dissapointment. Yeah, that seemed about right. And yet, he couldn’t just sit there forever-

"Well, I guess we should-" Clint tried, right before a roach the size of freaking bird flew from the "foyer" with a buzzing that could have doubled for a powerline, deciding to launch itself at Pietro. They boy was wearing a pushed up black long sleeve over the blue graphic blue t and was probably the darkest colored thing in the house- camoflauge. As if it were an actual monster, the boy made the most unfiltered, childish, whimpering yip through his teeth and swung at it. As soon as his arm made contact, disgusted, it flew back with the rest of him into his little sister who was frightened by his lack of composure and both of them crumpled to the floor. The adolescent kicked his good leg at the grounded beast who was just looking for some dark color in this sterile house to blend in to and hide on. It's scrambling was halted with a the 'ting' of metal as a blade thrust its tip into the tile through the bug's carapace. The children both stared in silent horror at the animal, whose legs thrashed in panic and confusion, and up the hilt of the 4 inch long weapon to its owner who stared at them with eyes that left them feeling empathy with the insect. A soft whimper bubbled from Wanda.

"Nat-"

"No," She held up a hand to stop him before he could continue and stood, going over to her knife and pulling it free.

"Pick it up and throw it back outside." she ordered. Pietro stared at her frozen for a moment longer, but, keeping his eyes on her as long as he dared, reached out toward the two pieces of bug.

"No. You." She pointed the knife under her finger at Wanda who nearly wilted right there.

"I can do it!" Pietro protested.

"But she's going to."

"No, I am!"

"Pick it up."

"Can't you see she's scared?" Natasha dropped to one knee in front of him so quickly his breath caught.

"The world is a scary place. And you can't keep carrying her like dead weight."

"She's not dead weight! You don't know! You don't have anyone who loves you!"

"Kid-" Clint nearly interjected but Natasha signalled that she still wanted control of the situation.

"Oh, yeah? Then show me what that means. Show me how your love keeps both of you alive."

"I will!"

"Then stop me-" And before he could do anything at all, she'd snatched Wanda away from him. The girl was terrified, crumpling like paper into herself while she reached for her brother who started, reaching back and stumbling on his injured leg, nearly falling back down. He looked up at his target though and bit deeply into his lips, jetting forward. Nearly a blur, he grabbed her ankles with a pained moan to pull her away but Natasha shoved his hands away, swinging Wanda a different direction, and he gave chase.

At least three times he had her in his grasp and Natasha was always able to pry her from him, and both children were becoming increasingly distressed and dissatisfied. Finally Wanda reached out herself and took hold of her brother's arm, and when Natasha pulled to break their bond, Pietro, enraged and losing focus, threw his fist out to strike Natasha but his wild punch, engaged with speed, was dead on for his sister's midsection instead. Whipping her away, Natasha reached out her other palm to receive the force of his hand. It stung. Wanda, resting on Natasha's side in the air, had pulled her legs up- a natural reaction to seeing when you're about to be struck. The realization seemed to strike Pietro- his eyes darted between his enemy and his ward in a condition of disbelief frayed with horror.

"Love won't keep either of you safe. If you don't stop carrying her, both of you are doomed to suffer. You're not strong enough to protect her." Natasha spoke, standing up and let the girl go. She scampered off to her brother.

"Pick it up and put it outside." At once, Wanda ran over and grabbed the bug and raced to the door, but Pietro, chin quivering and brows so furrowed he'd probably have an ache, stared back at Natasha until his eyes watered. When Wanda returned she reached out gently and took his arm, breaking his trance and he limped off with her down the hall. After a few moments a slam cracked through the house. Natasha stood there for just a few seconds before she wiped the blade a bit on the cuff of her shorts and tucked it back into whatever sparse hiding space she'd managed to find in the outfit. Taking a moment to glance down the hall, she turned away and came back, face mussed in frustration, and sighed it back to indifference when she sank back onto the couch, resting her chin on her fist and looking at the wall.

"That wasn't too much?"

"I don't even know how they survived this long."

"I just think you could have done that a little later. They're scared, and turning their fear from bugs and shadows on to you doesn't help them. It's just going to make this month harder."

"We're supposed to be teaching them- that's what I just did. They ought to learn how to protect themselves better. And how to respect… superiors."

"But come on- they're just kids." Clint shook his head sitting forward to lean on his knees trying to look at her.

"So was I." And she felt the need to stand, walking a few steps into the center of the room, arms crossed, shifting her weight to one side, "This is ridiculous. Kids..." she glanced toward the hall and shook her head again, her shiny hair, styled in heavy curls at the bottom waving in small bounces around her neck. Clint caught himself staring at the form she turned away from him and how she kept huffing and looking toward that closed door. As he came to a realization his tire began to melt away and he swallowed a smile, standing up. There was work to be done.

On his feet once again, Clint headed passed her and into that narrow little hall toward the door with a chalkboard nailed to its face where "Pietro" was written. He gave a couple of knocks. Shadows under the door moved around but no sounds were made. He knocked twice more before speaking himself now,

"Alright, come on- come out you guys." There was no response so he leaned in a little closer trying to think for a moment, "No one's going to hurt you," he said as genuinely as he could, "I promise." There was more silence but then that shadow moved and he heard,

"--No, don't trust him. Remember what she did."

"Don't worry about Nat, she's a bit of a brute, huh? But you know, she's just got a hard way of proving points." His shoulder was backhanded and he turned with a small smile to see his partner nodding for him to try saying that again. It was still quiet and both of them stood quietly in this silence sussing out the emptiness for any clues at all about what was going on behind that door.

"It... wasn't a fair fight." a voice responded.

"Oh, yeah? How do you mean?" Clint asked.

"She... she's taller than I am. And, and stronger. I grabbed Wanda, I should have won."

"If you can't get her away from them, you think you can call it a win-?" Natasha interjected and Clint shook his head at her beseechingly to knock that off, signing "stop" at her with his hands a few times off to the side, while Pietro shouted, "You didn't explain the rules good! If I pulled on her I would have hurt her! If I pull you have to let go, you're a cheater!"

"Why don't you come out here and say that to my face?"

"N-no, that's alright, hold on, bud-"

"What are you doing?" Clint threw his hands in silent speech, signing in disbelief.

"What am I doing? What's this 'bud' stuff?"

"We need him to trust us- he doesn't like you."

"So what? I'm his handler- not his mother, and not his friend." She signed back with defiance, "So are you." He shook his head, giving up on the argument before turning back.

"Well, how about you try something else then? Double or nothing. We'll all just forget that first one, like a, like a practice."

"Are you going to do it this time?"

"No." Natasha answered.

"She's a cheater- she'll cheat again, because she's sneaky."

"-Then we'll do something you're good at," Clint continued before Natasha could fire back at him. The quiet dropped in again.

"How do you usually protect your sister?"

"We run." His answer was a bit quieter but he gave it, "Or I'll fight them."

"Alright, we can work with that. How about a spar?"

"Spar?"

"Yeah- all you have to do is land a hit on Natasha and you win. Does that sound good? You'll be the winner." once more they waited.

"N-No!" He pulled back, "No, she'll cheat!"

"Okay, okay, calm down- why don't you just show us your moves then? No winners, no losers- just let us see what you do, hm?" a pause.

"We'll leave you alone for a while if you do." Natasha rolled her eyes and added. The interlude was much shorter, and those shadows came to the door, unlocking and opening it. Wanda hid closer to Pietro when they noticed both adults crowding their door and Pietro glanced back, his arm out toward her comfortingly before glaring up at Natasha.

"You have to leave us alone until tomorrow."

"Done. Let's go."

[cywscross]

Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3 | Pt.4 | Pt.5 | Pt.6 | Pt.7

Lookee what my brain coughed up~~

Peter stays the night again. The man cooks for the two of them, Stiles finishes his homework, Peter uses his shower and poaches more of Stiles’ clothes, and they end up in the fort again, knees and arms knocking together, blankets piled on top of them.

“Should we be expecting your father tonight?”  Peter enquires idly, not sounding like he cares much either way.

“Mm, no, he’s working on a case out of town.”  It’s instinct to check his phone, but there’s no text message waiting for him, and that’s to be expected too.  He sends one off to Scott though, just to check in, just to ask how he’s doing after everything that went down.  He doesn’t get a reply this time either, which doesn’t surprise him one bit.

He tosses the device aside and sighs before pulling his laptop over.  “Wanna watch a movie?”

He feels more than sees Peter shrug, so Stiles goes about setting up Tangled.  He wants fun and light-hearted, and if Peter doesn’t, the werewolf can deal.

Peter mostly just seems entertained though, and interested because oh yeah, coma equals six years of missed media.  Amongst other things.

So they watch Rapunzel venture out into the world and beat people up with her frying pan and defy her mother and finally get her happily ever after, and it’s a nice distraction from the death and destruction here in good old Beacon Hills.  After that, he goes further back and puts on Enchanted.  Stiles has a soft spot for musicals, so sue him, and he refuses to be embarrassed by it even when Peter slants an amused look at him.

As it turns out, Peter doesn’t mind a bit of singing and dancing either, especially when the movie gives such a unique twist to the classic fairy tale, combining live-action and animation together.  Still, he must’ve been more tired than Stiles thought because by the time everyone gets their happily ever after in this one (except the bad guy, obviously), Peter’s dozed off, still sitting but slumped against the wall behind them.

The movie ends, everything goes silent, and Stiles just sits there for a while, watching Peter sleep. Then he sighs, powers down his laptop, and sets about getting ready for bed.  It takes two trips out of the fort because he forgets to line all the windows and doors in the house with the bag of mountain ash under his bed, at least for the night.  He doesn’t feel like dealing with any werewolves who might swing by and break into his house just because they can.  Granted, it isn’t likely.  Scott’s (getting) busy with other people, Boyd and Erica have run off to god knows where, if Isaac shows up, Stiles might actually strangle him with his scarf, and he hasn’t even seen Derek since that night with the kanima and Gerard.  But just in case, Stiles does it anyway.  If any of them do show up, it’ll be because they’ll want him to do something for them, and helpful is about the last thing he feels like being right now.

Peter’s the exception only because the dude’s already inside, and it would be a hassle to shove him back out the window.  Besides, it’s pretty clear the werewolf doesn’t want anything from him aside from a place to bunk, and even if he does, Stiles figures Peter’s allowed to at least ask, if only because he’s cooked for Stiles and even taken his pain a few times.

Although admittedly, the former was still on Stiles’ dime.  But not even Peter Hale can produce money out of thin air, or he wouldn’t even be in Stiles’ house right now.  He came though, to check on Stiles.  Which, pathetically enough, is more than anyone else has done.

What exactly does it say about Stiles that the only one who cared enough about him to come at all is the formerly dead former psycho on a former vengeance bender?

Probably nothing good. Best not to think about it then.  And the pain-drawing thing is true enough.  He’s done that pretty regularly as Stiles’ injuries heal at glacial speeds.

He crawls back into the fort and starts prodding Peter into something more horizontal.  Blue eyes flicker open, hazy to sharp in about 0.5 seconds, but they go drowsy again when they recognize Stiles, and Peter doesn’t do anything to stop him from piling a couple blankets on top of him.

It only takes another minute for Stiles to get comfortable himself, and another few minutes for sleep to creep up on him.  He doesn’t even open his eyes when he feels the bedding shift and the warm line of a body press against his own.

The rest of the week goes about the same.  Peter camps out in Stiles’ bedroom, cooks him meals, and spends the hours between nine and three probably apartment hunting and doing other hopefully not too illegal things.  Stiles goes to school, sits through his classes, and doesn’t bother eating in the cafeteria anymore because it makes him feel like he’s trying too hard to get Scott’s attention, and that’s just pathetic.  Downside, he hasn’t been this alone at school since junior high when Scott transferred in and Jackson stole his inhaler so Stiles tripped him down the stairs.  But on the other hand, every other hour that he isn’t in school means he’s with Peter, and Peter… somehow, Peter makes it very hard to feel lonely, even if they’re not doing anything except sitting side by side and working on their own thing.

By the weekend, Peter’s found a place, a small apartment building on the corner of Wisteria and Clove, near the edge of town.  The paint is faded, the floorboards creak, but the place seems sturdy enough, if a bit shabby and actually not at all what Stiles would picture Peter choosing to live in. It isn’t smack in the middle of downtown either so there doesn’t seem to be many tenants.  Still, even though Peter’s the one who suggests giving Stiles the grand thirty-second tour of the single bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room and attached kitchenette in the first place, a defiant, defensive slant remains in his shoulders the entire time, and he watches Stiles like he thinks Stiles might laugh at him or something.

The mighty ex-Alpha brought low.  Stiles wonders if Derek would taunt him about it.  He’d like to think no, ’cause that’s just kicking someone when they’re already down, and… yeah okay, Stiles is exactly the type to do that if the person is high enough on his shit list, but he’d never do it to his dad no matter how… absent the man is from his life or how much he drinks, or even his mom, no matter how many times she hit him, or even Scott, even though Stiles doesn’t know where they stand these days.  And he won’t do it to Peter.

Peter’s family to Derek though, no matter how much history there is between them, and yet Peter seems used to expecting the worst from those around him.

Of course, then Stiles remembers Derek ripping Peter’s throat out without a beat of hesitation just a month ago, remembers him leaving his crippled uncle behind all those years ago, remembers each and every one of his own interactions with Derek and how Derek’s go-to methods were always to threaten or insult or use violence to get Stiles to do what he wanted or even just to tear him down for whatever reason.  He even remembers the tiny smirk on Derek’s face as he stood by and watched Erica mock Stiles like he thought it was funny.

Right.   Never mind.  Christ.  No wonder Peter killed Laura.  Leaving him to rot was enough of a crime.

Stiles’ absolute favourite part of the tour is the collection of furniture Peter’s amassed. There isn’t much, and it’s not overly expensive stuff, but what the werewolf has somehow managed to get his hands on are new and elegant and moveable, and if he turns all of it over and throws a couple sheets over it, the resulting fort would be almost as spacious as the sitting room.

“I love it,” He announces before he can stop himself, already eyeing the furniture greedily.

Peter blinks, follows Stiles’ line of sight, and then his shoulders finally relax, as if Stiles has passed some sort of test.  He even huffs a laugh and overall looks pretty happy for someone whose guest is more excited about building furniture forts in their home than complimenting the decor.  Then again, Stiles is sort of doing that.

“I thought you might,” Peter smirks.  “Feel free to do some… rearranging anytime you want.”

Stiles gapes at him a bit because he didn’t actually think Peter would- “Wait, you’re gonna let me build-”

He cuts himself and flushes a bit.  Saying furniture forts out loud makes him sound a lot more childish than he’d like.

But Peter just shrugs. “You’re welcome to it.  It isn’t as if I need to sit down to watch the evening news, Stiles.  I don’t even have a TV, and I’m not planning on getting one.”

“…Oh.”  Stiles pauses, uncertain of what else to say.  Thanking the man for something like this just feels plain awkward.

“On one condition of course,” Peter continues, all smug cheer again.  “I get free entry and sleeping space in there.”

Stiles sort of just stares, because for an adult, Peter is so weird.  Only his mom ever called Stiles creative when he upended the house’s furniture, and she was sort of obligated to, being Mom and all.  Dad always called it a mess, exasperatedly amused at first, then just… long-suffering at times, annoyed at others, and forever confused over why his son never seemed to grow out of this phase even as he got older.

“…Well,” Stiles flaps his hand in the vague direction of everywhere.  “It is your place.  So yeah.  But don’t you want to sleep on a bed?”

“I don’t have a bed,” Peter points out, because yeah, Stiles did notice that, but he just thought Peter hadn’t gotten around to buying that yet.  But the werewolf only glances thoughtfully at the sitting room.  “And I don’t think I’ll buy one.  Who needs a bed anyway when I have my own personal professional fort designer?”

Stiles’ ears go pink. Peter grins but it lacks bite despite the teasing.  Stiles rolls his eyes at him.

“I’ll bring my spare blankets over then,” He offers.  So you won’t have to buy any, he doesn’t say. He thinks about the text he got today from Jenna.  “Dad’s case is wrapping up and he’ll be returning sometime late tomorrow anyway so I have to clean the house before he gets back.  Actually, we can do it now.  I mean I guess it’ll look kinda weird since neither of us has a working vehicle but we can just stuff them in bags and carry them over here.  You’re a werewolf anyway so it’s not like it’ll be too heavy for you.”

Peter arches an eyebrow and looks like he wants to say something sarcastic.  But he restrains himself and just nods.  “We can straighten up your house first.”

Stiles blinks at that, startled, but Peter’s already heading for the door.  He hurries after the werewolf, tripping over the doorstep and almost doing a faceplant before Peter catches him by his good shoulder and hauls him back up without missing a beat.

He didn’t actually mean for Peter to help him with the cleaning, but he can’t complain either.  It’s always just been his job though, household chores, for almost as long as he can remember.  Nobody’s ever given him a hand before, even in the early days when he was messing up the laundry and burning the food and his fingers.  It’s weird that Peter’s willing to help.  Peter is just… weird.  So weird.

He gives himself a hard mental shake and shunts it all aside.  Whatever. Four hands make faster work than two anyway.

Peter stays one more night at the Stilinski home, and they end up hauling the blankets over to the man’s new apartment in the morning instead, and then Stiles just goes to town on pushing furniture together with all the glee of a five-year-old on a sugar high.  Peter sits at the kitchen counter, half his attention on whatever he’s doing on his laptop, the other half on Stiles, a fond quirk playing at his lips that Stiles pointedly does not look too deeply into.

Noon comes around, and Peter cooks them lunch.  Then they both hole up in the fort with part of the blanket-ceiling pulled back to let the sunlight and breeze filter in through the open window.

It’s four in the afternoon before Stiles finally gets up to leave.  Peter sees him to the door, expression indecipherable, but he reaches out to cup a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck for a last pain extraction before they say their goodbyes.  Stiles wants to ask when (if?) he can come back, and when would be a good time, but in the end, the words get stuck in his throat, and he scarpers without voicing his questions.

He’s back in his bedroom and shucking his sweater before he realizes there’s an extra key on his keyring.

He’s still smiling when his dad walks in through the door.

[olivereliott]

Review: Riding the new Indian FTR 1200

For a brand that only relaunched five years ago, Indian Motorcycle is making some bold moves. The Scout FTR750 racebike has cleaned up in the flat track scene and Indian has now released a matching flat tracker for the street: the hotly anticipated FTR 1200.

When the FTR1200 Custom concept broke cover 18 months ago, everyone with a pulse and a love for two wheels went all giddy. And even though the production-ready FTR 1200 has been watered down by practical and regulatory considerations, it’s every bit as appealing.

It’s as if Indian have taken the classic ‘win on Sunday, sell on Monday’ approach—but that’s only half the story. The motorcycle industry is morphing, and Indian are looking to attract younger, hipper riders; riders that want a slice of Americana, but have no interest in cruisers or baggers. (And yes, they’re obviously riding the wave of flat track racing‘s popularity, too.)

It’s also no secret that the American cruiser market is struggling. But Indian has seen significant growth in Europe—so the FTR 1200 is a bid to appeal to a wider audience, and pitched directly at European motorcycles.

Does it succeed? Does the FTR 1200 look half as good in real life as it does in photos? And does it go as good as it looks? I headed to LA for a day of Californian canyon carving to find out.

Even when parked up, there’s a lot to like about the FTR 1200. It’s closer to a full-on flat tracker than any other production bike out there. Indian very wisely parked it next to their FTR750 racer at the launch, and the shared DNA is unmistakable.

The FTR comes in three flavors: The $13,499 base model (above), the S version at $15,499, and the ‘S Race Replica’ at $16,999. The S is the benchmark and comes in two colors (below right): the base model sacrifices a number of features and comes in plain black, while the Race Replica adds Akrapovič cans, race replica paint and a red frame (below left).

All three share the same chassis, and the same liquid-cooled, 1,203 cc 60-degree V-twin motor. Numbers are respectable; 123 hp at 8,250 rpm, and 120 Nm of torque at 5,900 rpm. Power is handled by a slip assist clutch, a six-speed transmission and chain drive.

The S models also get a TFT touchscreen display, traction control and three switchable riding modes: rain, standard and sport. And they have additional rider aids like stability and wheelie control. The base model has an analog clock, no traction control, and no riding modes. Its fueling is equivalent to ‘standard’ mode on the S bikes.

All three models share the same Sachs suspension; 43 mm inverted forks and a mono-shock, with 150 mm of travel front and back. Both ends are fully adjustable for preload, rebound and compression on the S models, but on the base model, you only get preload and rebound adjustment at the back. Nothing up front.

The ten-spoke alloy wheels are a perfect compromise between flat track style and day-to-day practicality: a 19” up front, with an 18” out back. (The 18” rear offers a wider tire selection than a 19” would.) They’re wrapped in Dunlop DT3Rs—road-ready versions of Dunlop’s popular DT3 dirt track tires, developed in collaboration with Indian for the FTR.

Rounding out the impressive parts spec are Brembo brakes, with twin 320 mm discs up front. ABS is standard on all models, but on the S it utilizes a six-axis IMU, and is switchable.

Everything’s packaged in a steel trellis frame, with an aluminum subframe. And it’s one hella clean package too. From the cable routing on the handlebars to a distinct lack of visible plugs and gadgets on either side of the motor, Indian’s design team went to great lengths to keep things as tidy as possible.

It’s quite a compact design too. The airbox sits right on top of the throttle bodies to improve airflow, with the 13-liter fuel tank dipping down under the seat. So the faux tank you see up top is really just a set of plastic covers, with a shape that mimics the FTR750’s tank flawlessly.

The FTR 1200 has a premium feel, right down to the paint. The base model’s black is a straight-up gloss black, but all three S bikes have a deep flake that’s just stunning when the sun hits it. And the Race Replica is a dead ringer for the race bike, with multi-colored flake in the black paint that’s downright hypnotic.

The FTR 1200 does stray a little from the look of the FTR1200 Custom prototype. But according to the Indian product team at the launch, this was unavoidable. That concept had a one-gallon fuel tank, no airbox, an uncomfortable seat, and a high exhaust that ran hot—making it impossible to homologate and sell.

Still, there’s a lot to love on the FTR 1200. The LED lights at both ends look great, especially the taillight, which even has a subtle Indian script logo in it. I don’t even hate the chunky dual exhausts—though I will say that the Akrapovič option looks miles better, and the catalytic convertor lurking under the bike is an eyesore.

But it’s only when you swing a leg over the FTR 1200 that you realize just how much thought went into its development. Indian has absolutely nailed the ergonomics. It starts with the beefy ProTaper handlebars: they have a flat track feel to them, but the measurements are more suited to street riding.

The foot pegs are ever so slightly back from mid, and titled a touch forward. Combined with the seat height and bar position, it makes for a rider triangle that hits the sweet spot between comfort and control. Oh, and the seat is remarkably cushy too—even for a full day of riding.

The cockpit area is a letdown though. The TFT display on the S models is hit and miss—it packs a lot of information into an easy-to-read package, but the display itself is a lot smaller than the physical enclosure, and the graphics aren’t particularly great.

On the positive side, the touchscreen works great, and the unit has a lot of functionality—like the ability to interface with your phone and Bluetooth comms. But it’s also tricky to navigate.

There are three buttons on the switchgear, and three buttons on the display itself—some of which do the same thing. Switching modes means hitting one button to flick the display to the next screen, then either using the touchscreen or the joystick (which is on the other side of the bars) to pick your mode. (Oh, and you can’t switch traction control and ABS off independently.)

To be honest, I far prefer the analog clock on the basic FTR. Plus, the actual handlebar switches are incredibly dinky too, and the grips look and feel cheap. Which is a downer when compared the level of finish everywhere else on the FTR.

Can you look past these niggles when you’re out on the road? Absolutely. Indian took us on a route that lead out of Santa Monica along the Pacific Coast Highway, and into the twisty hills above Malibu for some spirited canyon riding.

I spent most of my time on the S model, and it was bags of fun in the canyons—as soon as I got used to a couple of things. I applaud Indian for being brave enough to put street-legal flat track tires on the FTR, but it took me half of the day’s riding to get along with them.

I’m not sure if they just suck when they’re cold, or if I’m just not used to the way they behave, but there’s little to no feedback from the Dunlops. By lunchtime I’d figured them out, and realized I could push them a lot harder than I thought—and from a style perspective, they’re perfect.

The 19F/18R wheel combo is not as sharp as a set of 17s would be, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It just makes for a different ride characteristic. Its compactness also belies how heavy it is. At 222 kg dry the FTR 1200 is several kilos heavier than the BMW R nineT, which is 208 dry and 220 full fueled. It’s a lot heftier than it looks.

To put this into perspective with other roadsters with sporting pretensions, the Ducati Monster 1200 is a mere 185 kilos dry, and the Triumph Speed Twin is 196 kg.

Luckily the FTR 1200 carries its weight well, with the low fuel tank helping to centralize mass. But it does mean that you need to manhandle it—rather than simply flick it—through corners.

The spot-on ergonomics help muscle it from turn to turn, and once you’re pitched over, it holds its line like it’s on rails. With the right kind of riding style, and plenty of body English, the FTR’s capable of setting a fast pace.

Thanks to solid suspension and brakes, it doesn’t get bent out of shape too easily either. Those Brembos are sharp and predictable, and the suspension felt dialed out of the box, even on shoddier road surfaces. (With extra room for adjustment, expert riders should be able to fine-tune it to perfection too).

Twisting the throttle will remind you that you’re riding a chunky American V-twin. There’s a lot of torque, but the throttle’s snatchy—even more so when you switch it into ‘sport’ mode. The FTR 1200 gets enough power down to keep you entertained, but current emissions controls have it sounding a little bunged up (even with the optional Akrapovič units).

The slipper clutch is feather light, and shifts from the six-speed box are rock solid. I’ve been riding a lot of bikes with quick-shift systems lately, and immediately missed it on the FTR—but Indian’s people assured me it’s on their radar.

All in all, the FTR 1200 will give as much back as you’re willing to put in. Whack the throttle, trust the tires and throw your weight into it, and it’ll respond. Even the base model FTR is a hoot to ride, and might just be the ticket for riders that want a simpler bike, and don’t need to fuss with suspension settings.

The FTR’s biggest win though, is what it signals for Indian. It’s a far cry from a cruiser or a bagger, but doesn’t sacrifice one iota of the brand’s heritage. Think of it as American muscle, with a European twist.

As for customization, Indian have launched four accessory packs alongside the FTR 1200. But in my opinion, they add too much fluff to what is essentially a super-clean bike, as OEM offerings go. I reckon customers are more likely to pick and choose individual pieces (like the carbon fiber body panels in the ‘Sport’ kit).

I asked Indian’s VP of Industrial Design, Greg Brew, how much room for pukka custom work there is, and he reckons there’s a lot. He has a point too—at the end of the day, the FTR has good bones, and in the right hands we could see some exciting builds come out of the woodwork.

He also mentioned that they’d been playing with a few configurations in-house, but wouldn’t get into specifics. What’s clear though, is that the FTR hints at a whole new platform for Indian, rather than just a one-off.

It’s also carving out its own niche. Its closest competitors in capacity and price are the BMW R nineT, Triumph Speed Triple or Ducati Monster, but none of those are quite the same bike. And Harley-Davidson’s product line is woefully missing anything that could compete.

And that’s really the FTR 1200’s biggest selling point. There’s nothing else like it.

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Pricing US 1200: $13,499 | 1200 S: $15,499 | 1200 S RR: $16,999 EU 1200: €14,690| 1200 S: €15,990 | 1200 S RR: €17,290 UK 1200: £11,898 | 1200 S: £12,999 | 1200 S RR: £17,290

Wes’ gear Rough Crafts Revolator helmet | 100% Aircraft goggles | REV’IT! Stealth hoody | ICON 1000 Nightbreed gloves | Saint Unbreakable Stretch denims| ICON 1000 Varial boots