#oh oh and then she rings up minutes later asking about some other moral dilemma

[fazcinatingblog]

Me: I didn't know how (to deposit refund cheque for overseas client)

Boss: *yelling* Colleen didn't know how to deposit a cheque in the bank?????

I mean????? It's from this year????

[songbirdstyles]

when the levee breaks

summary: you’re a waitress and harry is being stood up.

warnings: brief smut, angst, fluff, love at first sight <3 kind of

song inspo.: when the levee breaks - led zeppelin

word count: 9.5k

There’s always a particular vibe you get from people going on first dates.

It’s an easy one to notice and you and your coworkers love pointing it out - it’s an air of hope and romance, people arriving dressed their very best yet still holding some sort of awkwardness. It’s sweet, actually, and quite adorable and they’re always the nicest to you, needing to impress their date and make sure they know that they’re respectful. It’s the same reason they leave such a hefty tip - likely wanting to show they’re, at the very least, wealthy enough to tip 20% on a $100 tab and not have it hurt their pockets, or to prove that they respect waitresses enough to help you pay your rent. They’re always the tables you’re desperate to serve, not only for the tip they leave you but because you love getting a clue as to how the date goes, and most times it’s good. Once, you’d heard the guy’s date inquire about kids before their meals came, and they’d left barely minutes after paying their bill. Another time, a couple had arrived at 6 and hadn’t left until 11 on a Thursday night - nearly two hours after closing, and you’d nearly had to shoo them out the door when they weren’t going fast enough.

It varies often, but still - first date couples are your favourite, and when you see him walk up to the host stand, you know he’s another one.

The uncomfortableness is what tips you off, fiddling with one of the numerous rings on his finger as he leans back and forth on the balls of his feet, waiting behind an elderly couple hoping to grab a table outdoors for some drinks. He’s dressed well, tucking a loose curl behind his ear and rolling up his sleeves and when he makes it up he’s confirming a reservation f’two, under th’name Harry Styles, please. And the girl at the host stand - the youngest host your boss has hired, you reckon, though you’d need to fact check it to be sure - picks up her pen and crosses his name out in the reservation book, a thick line running through his information and phone number before she’s grabbing a stack of menus (specials, wine, beer, and general, respectively) and telling him to follow me this way, sir as she leads him outside.

Well, you don’t see exactly where Brianna takes him before you remember the four waters that table 306 had asked for, and it’s not like you to get distracted like that by a customer - you’ve been a waitress for nearly three years since starting college and yet, no patron has ever caught your eye like Mr. Harry Styles. It’s a damn paradox, really - you only see attractive guys like him when they’re on dates and, by that point, they’re spoken for. There’s no room for you to mosey in and you wouldn’t do that to another girl, anyway, but still. You suppose it doesn’t matter (he looks wealthy enough to leave a good tip with or without a date, truthfully) but it still has you sighing as you grab four glasses, scooping ice into them and beginning to fill them with water.

Distraction is a bad look on a waitress, your manager had told you the last time you’d gotten distracted by a pretty girl and nearly dropped the plate of pasta you were holding. It makes your smile seem forced. And that was the first month you’d started working, before you’d realized that most customers treated the staff like objects to use to make themselves look or feel better - you’d seldom had to use her advice since then. But there’s a first - or second - time for everything, isn’t there? And he is your second time.

 --

 After you’ve delivered your waters, though, you’re made uncomfortably aware of the fact that Brianna had, indeed, seated Harry in your section. And it isn’t a bad thing, per se, except he is the most attractive man you’ve ever met and you can only imagine what his date is going to look like when they show up - probably dressed to the nines like he is, just a tad too fancy for an establishment like this and you’re sure you’ll feel insecure in your work-issued shirt and jeans but you suppose there’s nothing to do about it.

You try not to make it too obvious as you fix your hair, tying your ponytail higher up onto your head because it had been slipping down and you’re really not a huge fan of low ponytails. Normally you don’t mind but - sometimes the circumstances change. 

He’s at table 305, leaning over his phone, fingers drumming against the table when you walk over to him, clutching two coasters in your hands and he looks up at you with a smile as you approach. And it’s easy - giving the same introductory speech you’ve given thousands of times before, telling him your name and how I’m going to be taking care of you tonight. “Can I get you started with something to drink?” you question, eyes flickering inconspicuously to the empty seat across from him. He’d pulled it out slightly, angling it out towards the sidewalk in clear anticipation of when his date enters so she can gracefully sit down without having to make a fuss about pulling the chair out - so he’s a gentleman, and it only worsens your moral dilemma at the situation. 

“I’ll jus’ have a water, f’now,” he responds, smiling up at you and you nod, reaching down to rest one coaster in front of him and the other in front of the other seat. “M’waiting f’someone - then I’ll get somethin’ else.”

“Sounds good,” you tell him, giving him a smile as if you had no idea he was waiting for someone when, in fact, you’d known the second he walked through the doors. Quickly your eyes dart up and down the sidewalk, checking to see if anyone’s walking with their sights set on your restaurant but there’s nobody - perhaps she’s late, or he’s early, but it’s not your place to speculate anyway. “I’ll be right out with that.”

And so you make your way back inside - you have to stop at table 303 because their daughter, so small her legs barely hang off the seat she’s sitting in, has finished her Coke and wants another and you take their dish of risotto balls with you, practically licked clean (in your opinion, they’re the best appetizers on the menu, and you’ve tried just about everything.) 301 got up, leaving nearly half a plate of polpo sitting there and a full untouched bottle of wine and you can recall them specifically declining your request to take their plates earlier, claiming they were still picking at it and clearly they changed their mind - but Brianna’s rushing out to clean everything up before you tell her to, and that’s good of her. She’s new - it’s always good to see the new workers doing well. You’ll tell your manager the next time you see her, you reckon, though you hope it’s not too soon. And then 306 waves you down, seconds away from screaming for you to notice them because the man wants some red pepper flakes to sprinkle onto his pizza and it all stacks up in your mind, but you just smile and nod and turn to rush inside before anyone else can flag you down.

You don’t notice Harry’s eyes on you, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

One Coke and one dish of red pepper flakes later and you’re returning to Harry’s table, resting his drink on his coaster. It’s barely been two minutes since he last requested the water and his initial look of hope and excitement hasn’t faded, even when his eyes flicker down to his phone as though to check for a notification when he thanks you for the water.

Oh, well. Dates are late all the time, and you don’t have time to ponder on it as 304 noisily stacks their plates on top of each other, and you swoop over to grab them before taking them inside. No, it certainly isn’t your place to wonder about the status of his date because you know that you’ve been late to dates too many times than you should’ve, what with classes and work and everything else you have to do in life. You barely have time to date anymore - when you’re not studying so late you can barely keep your eyes open you’re picking up shifts, working your ass off for a paycheck that goes straight to your landlord. You hardly even hang out with your friends anymore and you’re not sure if it’s a healthy sacrifice, giving up your friends to work and study and get far less sleep than the average 22 year old but you don’t quite have a choice, do you?

Maybe his date is in the same situation - you can’t fault her for it. It certainly makes her more relatable to you.

 --

 It’s been fifteen minutes and Harry still sits on his own, nails tapping against his phone screen, turning his head to glance up and down the sidewalk like you had before but there’s no one there to join him. Part of you feels bad as you rest a plate of mozzarella agnolotti in front of the two men at 302 and they dig into it like fucking heathens who haven’t eaten in months, and when you tell them to enjoy they call out thank you with their mouths full, bits of food flying onto the table, and you feel bad for when one of the hostesses has to clean it later.

It’s times like this that you’re thankful to be a waitress and not a host. Those times are few and far between, but they still come.

303 got their entrees and 304 has their check and you don’t have an excuse not to stop back at Harry’s table, even if feeling his eyes on you has your stomach turning and your face heating. Hopefully he can’t notice (and you have gotten fairly skilled at hiding your emotions with a wide smile that’s just about as fake as they come) and your prayers seem to answer themselves when you walk to his table, ducking beneath the umbrella that hangs above the two-top and meeting his eyes.

“You want a refill on that water?” You ask, motioning with a nod down towards his half-empty glass. It’s certainly not low enough to warrant bringing out the water pitcher but you’ll deal with the hassle - going table to table asking if they need refills and all the other shit you have to do because it seems discriminatory when you only offer it to one table. 

He looks up at his glass, tilting his head and screwing up his eyes as though he really needs time to decide whether he needs more water before shaking his head, curls flopping in front of his face as he pulls his glass closer to him. “S’alright.”

“Is your date running late?” And the second the words are out of your mouth you want to smack yourself - you know it’s unprofessional to comment like that especially when it’s that fucking obvious that you’re right. You may as well have asked him if the sky is blue, or if the time really is 6:15. Irrefutable facts are embarrassing to state aloud, especially when it would get you a stern talking to if your manager were to overhear.

But Harry doesn’t seem bothered by it, nor does he seem fazed by your sudden expression like you’d just bit into a lemon. In fact, he takes the comment in stride, resting his palms on the tabletop as he squints up at you - the sun shines behind you and you’re sure it’s in his eyes, and the fact that he took the sunny seat just adds another reason to consider him perfect. “Yeah, she is,” he confesses, twiddling with his rings again, and it’s nearly impossible not to drop your gaze to his fingers and watch him go. “But - y’know - she’s a nurse, an’ all that. Probably just had t’work late an’ forgot t’text. S’alright.”

You’re not sure what to say to that and for a second you stand there in silence as Harry taps his phone, surely checking to see if he’d received a text that hadn’t lit up his phone with the notification but there’s nothing except for the lockscreen - a blurry shot of a black and white cat, face close to the camera and tongue sticking out just so. Instead you clear your throat before saying, “I’ll go grab you some olives.”

“Olives?”

“Yeah - we give everyone assorted olives.” And suddenly, it sounds stupid, like giving your customers olives is something embarrassing when, in fact, it’s customary, but Harry’s looking at you with a certain curiosity, eyes bemused as if you’re entertaining him. “They’re actually quite good. I’m sure you’d like them.”

(In truth, you tried the olives once and had hated them, but you tell your customers that every single thing your restaurant offers is your favourite and the olives are no exception.)

“Oh.” Harry shrugs, then, leaning back in his seat as you duck back out from under his umbrella. “Well, if y’say so, m’sure I’ll like ‘em.”

You smile in agreement and there’s nothing left to add so you head towards the door, wiping your palms on your apron the second you’re inside. You’re sure you’ve had that exact conversation about olives of all things with ten other customers since you’ve worked here but it feels so different with him and it nearly scares you. There’s no reason you should feel so conflicted about a patron on a date who you’ve never met nor seen before but you suppose some things truly are unexplainable.

306 is ready for their check and as you grab a ramekin full of assorted olives you call to ask Brianna to print it out - there’s nobody at the door, anyway, and you need to find an empty dish for the olives, anyway. When you’ve got that and stashed the check in your apron you head back out and Harry’s sitting craning his neck glancing down the sidewalk and you hope, for his sake, that he’s right and she just got caught up at work. (And, for your own very selfish sake, you hope she doesn’t come.)

“I’ve got some olives for you,” you tell him, resting the two ramekins on the table in front of him and he glances down at them with an air of disgust that you most certainly relate to, and your face nearly splits open in a grin. “Well, they’re complimentary, anyway, so if you don’t like them, it’s not too big of a deal.”

“They look divine,” he says, and you know he’s lying but it still makes you smile. “I’ll tell y’how they are.”

“I’ll be waiting,” and that sounds like such a schoolgirl crush response and your face briefly tightens in a cringe before you walk off to 306, pulling their check out and depositing it on their table. None of them even drank their waters that they requested - assholes.

 --

 Holy shit.

You’re really feeling for Harry, now. There’s a new young couple sitting at 301 (certainly not on a first date, you’ll add), holding hands across the table and giggling loudly and they don’t break eye contact even when they place their wine order, and when your eyes flicker over to where Harry’s sitting he’s watching them with an expression that looks just a little like envy. The men at 302 lean over and share a kiss over their pasta and you wish it were socially acceptable to ask every single couple not to fucking look at each other until his date arrives because you can tell it’s killing him - and suddenly, you’re wishing you hadn’t manifested his date not showing up. You’d rather feel the slight tinge of jealousy at watching him woo a girl than feel your stomach turn with every minute that passes without someone taking a seat across from him.

You can practically see the hope leaving his body as a half hour goes by since he’d arrived and he’s still sitting alone, tapping his nails against the condensation that had formed against his glass of water, feet tapping the sidewalk beneath him. The olives sit untouched in their ramekin except for one lonely green out that sits, half eaten, in the empty one you’d given him and after you’ve finished grating parmesan cheese over 301’s calamari and bruschetta, you wrap the cheese back up in its napkin before making your way over to him, ducking beneath the umbrella and sending him a smile that he reciprocates, albeit smaller than it had been before.

“Do you want to put in an appetizer to be here when she arrives?” you ask, pulling your pad and pen out of your apron and watching as he glances down at the menu he clutches in his hands. You know what the answer’s going to be before you’ve even asked the question but it’s unbearable watching him sit doing nothing, and you’re sure he’s hungry. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to eat before a date though you’re not totally positive what kind of guy would - anyway, it’s easy realize he’s yearning for food by the way he’d been sucking on his straw just moments before when you’d been taking 301’s appetizer order, even though all that’s left in his glass are a few measly ice cubes.

“S’fine,” he insists. “I don’t want t’order somethin’ and then have her not like it - y’know?” And he trails his finger along the appetizer section of the menu as if to showcase the amount of options, chest rising and falling in a sigh. You nod, giving him a tight lipped smile as you shut your notepad and slide it and your pen into your apron, smoothing your palms over the front of it again.

“Yeah, I know.”

Then he pushes the olives away from him, ramekins sliding against the tabletop and you grin as you look down at them before glancing back up at him, raising your eyebrows with mock surprise. “I guess you didn’t like the olives, then.”

Harry shakes his head, bringing a hand up to wipe his hair out of his eyes and you almost want to recommend that he put his hair in a ponytail (it seems to get in the way of a lot of stuff for him) but, truthfully, you love seeing his hair down. It looks so soft and luscious and you’re sure it smells spectacular, though you’ll never truly know. “I hated them,” he confesses, and you miss the way his lips turn into a smile as you giggle, sticking the full ramekin into the empty one to make it easier to carry. “D’you seriously like ‘em? They’re horrid.”

You’re supposed to say yes, but you can’t lie to him - not when he’s already having a rough night. “I don’t like them, either,” you agree, scrunching your nose as you look down at the variously coloured olives in your hands. “But, according to my manager, I love everything at this restaurant.”

He laughs at that - a genuine one, too, tossing his head back so his hair falls off his shoulders and you can’t stop yourself from laughing along with him. He’s contagious in every sense of the word and you’ve never met anyone like that - you’re smiling with him and feeling your heart break for him all at the same time and you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced it before. “Well, s’good t’know,” Harry says when he’s stopped laughing, swirling his straw around his glass so the ice cubes clink together. “I’ll take your advice wit’ a grain f’salt, shouldn’t I.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” you insist. “You’re special.” Your tone is teasing and to anyone listening in it’s clearly a joke but you gnaw on your tongue after the words are out anyway - he just smiles down at the table, scratching the surface with his nails.

“M’glad.” And your eyes scan the rest of your tables on instinct - 306 is up and there’s a stack of plates at 303 that you need to bring inside, but if it were up to you, you’d spend the rest of your day ducked into Harry’s umbrella, listening to him speak. But - well - you’re not being paid to talk to a pretty boy, most unfortunately, and you step out from under his covering to check out your other tables when - “Wait!”

You turn back around and Harry’s leaning back, holding his hand over his eyes to look at you and you take a step back over to him, bending down ever so slightly so you can hear him over the shitty music your boss insists on playing too loud to your outdoor guests. “Could I have a coke, please?” he questions, and you nod. “Thanks.”

Your other tables can wait - you scurry back inside, heading to the service station because you’d rather die than make him wait an extra second longer for his coke. Lauren - the other waitress on duty tonight - stands unwrapping a cheesecake to prepare for one of her tables and she looks at you with an arched eyebrow. “Who were you talking to?”

You shrug and you hope it isn’t painfully clear how your heartbeat thumps against your chest like a damn drum. “Just the guy at 305.”

“Oh.” Lauren pauses where she’s mixing the tupperware container of homemade whip cream to place on the cheesecake as you fill your glass with ice. “What’s his deal?”

“I think he’s being stood up,” you tell her.

 --

 Your suspicion is confirmed the next time you drop by Harry’s table, when he’s chugged his entire Coke and the rest of his water and he simply sits there, scrolling on his phone, and it’s like you can see how his battery has drained.

“Hey,” you call, voice soft as though you’re talking to a child, but you need to assess how upset he is about the situation before speaking in any other manner. You’d made the mistake before, started chatting too cheerfully to a lady being stood up and she’d shouted at you, called you a wench and a bastard and all other sorts of names you couldn’t recall before storming out, leaving a $20 for her three glasses of wine.

It’s always better to be safe than sorry.

“Has she texted you?” you ask, motioning down towards his phone. It’s certainly not allowed to speak to customers in such a casual manner about things other than the menu and whether they’d like to split the check but nobody’s around to reprimand you for bending the rules a bit - why not? 

He shakes his head - it’s what you’d expected but your heart still aches for him and you wish you could reach out, perhaps give him a hug if he’d want it or listen to him rant about the situation. Anything to make him feel better. “S’okay,” he insists, and to his defense he can play the part well. Doesn’t seem entirely too torn up about it and he’s looking at you like you’re a friend rather than his waitress and it makes you feel comfortable. “But - f’you don’t mind - can I order an appetizer now?” You smile, already fishing for your notepad and your pen (a sparkly black one, just for the sake of being fun.) You’re glad he’s getting something and if his date happens to show up, she’d ought to eat whatever he chooses simply as an apology for being over a goddamn hour late. “Sure.”

“What’s your favorite?”

The question takes you by surprise but you regain composure quickly, feeling your face and neck heat up because Harry’s staring at you as though you’re some sort of God - like you hold the answer to the meaning of life instead of the best thing on the menu and it makes you feel good. Appreciated. “I love the risotto balls,” you admit, shifting to stand next to him so you can trace your finger along the menu in his hands, pointing to the very first appetizer listed on the page. “And the shrimp and broccoli rabe is delicious.”

“I hope you’re not lying t’me.”

“I told you,” you begin, meeting his small smile with a wider one of your own and it achieves its desired effect - his spreads wider, and you wonder if he thinks that you’re as contagious as you consider him to be. “I’ll never lie to you.”

“And why’s that?”

He’s full of questions. “Because you’re a nice customer.” It’s sort of the truth, though you think you’d scare him away if you told him the full entire truth is that he’s the most gorgeous man you’ve laid eyes on in your life. “When some customers are assholes, I tell them to get the vongole - it’s horrible.”

He raises his eyebrows at that with another grin, resting his menu down on the table and gazing up at you with his full attention. “Well, I trust you. I’ll get the risotto balls, in tha’ case. An’ then - whenever she gets here, I’ll get something else.”

You murmur sounds good and you don’t have to write it down in your notepad to remember it. You’d nearly gotten carried away with the conversation, nearly forgotten that he’s being fucking stood up and probably doesn’t want you to flirt with him like an idiot because you’re sure acting like one. God, no other waitresses act like this with their customers and you really, truly never have before - yet it’s something about him. You can’t fucking help yourself.

You take his Coke to refill it - he doesn’t ask and you won’t charge him for it. He simply deserves it, and you think that’s reason enough to bring the glass back inside, fill it to the top with soda and deliver it back on top of his coaster the next time you go outside to make your rounds. Harry’s appreciative, naturally, and has no reason to question why you gave him another drink to begin with. For all he knows, your restaurant has free refills, and you’ll let him think that. There’s no reason to make him pay for another drink - he’s having a bad enough day already - even though, when you’d glanced down at the watch adorning his wrist as you’d given him his drink and seen that it’s Gucci. 

No amount of money can buy a first date, you suppose, and you hate yourself for thinking it. You’d give him a first date. A million, in fact. And it’ll never happen but you can certainly dream, and you hope it doesn’t show in your eyes as the men at 302 order a panna cotta and cheesecake for dessert - 301 is digging into their pizza, looking so hopelessly in love with each other, and you catch Harry looking at them again.

The risotto balls are ready for him when you’ve delivered the desserts to 302, and you grab the plate and a block of parmesan and head right out to him. His eyes are on you the moment you step out the door, gaze looking ravenous and he’s most certainly just excited for his appetizer but you still let his watchful eye make your stomach turn.

No parmesan cheese for him - well, that’s fine. You tuck the block under your arm and tell him to enjoy, and he tells you he most certainly will before digging in and it only confirms your suspicion that he was fucking starving. In fact, by the time you’ve finished chatting to 304 about how delicious their gamberetti pizza was, one of the balls on the plate is gone and he’s staring at the second one like a man dying of hunger, but he doesn’t touch it. Surely waiting for his date to arrive to feast on it while he can talk about how nervous he was that she wasn’t going to show up that he was even entertaining the flirtatious waitress.

Gentleman.

 --

 The next twenty minutes are a blur - 304 is up and two tables in Lauren’s section are, too, and you don’t have much else to do so you help Brianna clear and wipe and set them all. By the time you’ve finished and returned the hostess’s grateful smile 302 wants more drinks and a chocolate mousse to split, and you pick up their empty panna cotta and cheesecake dishes and rush them back inside. 301 decides they want their check and they look like they’ve gotten into some sort or argument and you’re almost glad - though you’re sure they’ll be too angry to leave a good tip, you’ll take it if it means it may make Harry feel a bit better about being alone.

It’s 8:15 PM the next time you risk a glance at your phone. Only forty five minutes until you close and there haven’t been any new table sat for the better half of twenty minutes and you pray it stays that way - or, at the very least, they go to Lauren’s section instead of yours. Brianna is clearing 301 (they got up and left in a hurry and, as you’d expected, your tip is a few measly dollars) and your other tables have no need for your assistance yet so you make a beeline to Harry’s table the second you get outside and he’s watching you, sad smile toying at the corner of his lips.

“How were the risotto balls?” you inquire, drumming your fingers against his table. It’s a silly question because anyone with eyes can see how he’d gobbled half of the appetizer up, the other still untouched in their bowl of sauce, ricotta lazily tossed on top of it. You’re sure it’s cold now but you don’t quite mind them when they’re chilly - may even taste better than having them sizzling hot. “Looks like you liked them.”

He nods, pushing the plate away from him as though he can’t stand to be near it. “It’s really good,” Harry tells you and pats himself firmly on the stomach twice to prove it. It’s a silly motion that brings a smile to your lips anyway and you really, truly can’t help it. “M’gonna save the other one f’when she gets here.”

Hope is a good thing to have, you decide, and he’s clearly still holding onto it. You’d never been stood up before but you’re sure you’d have given up on the idea of a first date long before he had and you applaud him internally for that - he’s patient and kind and understanding, you decide. Much more tolerant than anyone else you know would be in this sort of situation and it only adds to the growing desire you have for him, but you push it down - for the sake of professionalism. “Well, that’s nice,” you tell him and he smiles, the expression tight and complimentary. “Can I get you anything else?”

“M’good,” Harry says, “but - can y’show me where the bathroom is inside?” He motions with one swirling finger to the empty glasses in front of him and his grin looks rather embarrassed when he looks back up to you. “Think I drank m’drinks a bit too fast.”

You laugh out loud at that and if he notices that your giggling goes on for just a beat longer than  appropriate, he doesn’t acknowledge it and wow, don’t you feel like a damn schoolgirl with a crush. Laughing at his joke-that-wasn’t-a-joke and feeling your face burn up when you look at him and having your stomach turn when he stands up to follow you into the restaurant and holy hell, he’s tall. You feel embarrassed walking in with him behind you because you’re not sure what he’s looking at, and what if you have a stain on your jeans? Or the back of your shirt? He’s dressed so nice and your face is fucking flaming and you avoid eye contact with Lauren as you point him towards the restroom.

“Thanks, love,” he says, voice thick and heavy as he maneuvers through the indoor tables to get to the restroom and you send him off with a small wave - just a jerk of your hand - and the second he’s out of sight you wipe your palms on your apron again.

Lauren’s making a cappuccino and so you flock over to her, naturally. You can tell she just redid her ponytail because it sits higher on her head and you think you should do that too, so you pull your black scrunchie out of your hair and work on assembling it into a better ponytail.

“That’s the guy from 305, isn’t it?” she questions.

“The guy I took to the bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh - yeah.” You swallow, bending down to glance into the metal of the espresso machine to see your blurred reflection, making sure your ponytail is as smooth as possible before tying it up. “Yeah, that’s him. He’s nice.”

She hums softly, grabbing a small spoon and stirring the coffee once then twice before resting it inside the cup, already reaching for another cup to begin another. “Are you sure he’s being stood up?”

You scrunch up your nose, leaning back against the counter and tilting your head in slight confusion. “I’m pretty positive - he’s been here for, like, an hour and 15 minutes waiting for a girl and he’s still hopeful that she’s going to come.” And then you sigh, the noise overly dramatic and your coworker rolls her eyes. “Why?”

“He was checking you out, babe.”

You raise your eyebrows, head turning to the side so fast you swear you nearly get whiplash as you stare at Lauren. She simply stands, making her cappuccino as if she hadn’t just blew you away with her observation and you’re sure it meant nothing but it still has your heart thumping violently against your chest and you exhale. “No, he wasn’t.”

“Girl, I was watching - he was. His eyes never left your ass. He almost ran into the door, too.”

“You’re lying.” “Why would I lie? He’s cute, isn’t he? Aren’t you happy?”

“Laur, he’s being stood up. I know he is. He’s not focusing on my ass - he’s probably crying in the bathroom right now.”

She laughs at that, hooking her finger in the handles of the two cappuccinos, steam billowing from both of them like a fire. “Well, maybe he is being stood up, but - I swear to god - he’s into you.” And then she’s walking back down the aisle between tables to reach the front of the restaurant, headed out the door without another glance as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb on you and you stare after her, mouth agape and palms sweating and you wipe them on your apron once more.

 --

 Harry returns to his seat and, for a while, you don’t check on him.

He seems fine, anyway. Decently enough. Sure, his drinks are still empty  in front of him and he leaves that one risotto ball alone and, every so often, he glances up and down the sidewalk before bringing his gaze back down to his phone but it doesn’t quite look like he needs anything.

Anyway, it’s 8:30. Even if she shows up they wouldn’t be able to stay very long and, no matter what, he deserves a fulfilling first date. Maybe she did get caught at work and, when he leaves, they’ll laugh about it. Reschedule it for a different day where he picks her up from her house, and then who knows? Maybe they’ll go ice skating or see a movie. And this entire situation will be something they’ll laugh out and forget and they’ll probably get fucking married, with your luck.

You’d be happy for him, of course. And even though you’ll likely never speak to him again after he leaves for the night, you do want the best for him, though you think the best for him would be you and not some girl who stood him up with no text.

303 is gone after spending entirely too long sitting and chatting and you wave them off with a goodbye and a bright smile, grabbing their check just as Brianna runs out to begin clearing it off. Full glasses of water are dumped into the plants and you help her bring them inside before going to deposit the check - it’s a nice tip and you’re thankful. They’d been a kind enough table but sometimes those are the type to screw you over with the tip and you’re beyond glad they hadn’t - you’ve had a strange enough night without the added weight of no tip.

You head back outside with 302’s check and drop it at their table, returning their grateful smile with one of your own. There’s nowhere else to go or visit besides 305 and so you head over to him, ducking underneath his umbrella for what seems like the thousandth time that day and it’s then that you can see his face, ever so slightly crestfallen as he stares at his phone and your heart just about drops into your ass, and without a second thought you pull out the empty seat across from him and sit.

“What’s wrong?” you ask and you’re fairly certain you already know, but there’s no shame in inquiring further - his phone is clutched in his hand and he looks up at you before clearing his throat and that’s enough confirmation for you.

“She’s out wit’ her friends - they’re at a bar.” And, as if to prove it to you, he slides his phone across the table to you and you crane your neck to glance down at the screen and it’s an Instagram story - a boomerang of four girls clinking their drinks together, and you scrunch your nose. “She’s the one on the right.”

The one on the right is decently pretty - blonde hair straightened and falling down her back, drink spilling over the edges of her glass when she clicks it too enthusiastically with her friends. Her dress is tight and sparkly and nearly overpowers the entire story and you can already make your mind up about how you feel about her and, needless to say, it isn’t good.

“Oh.” You watch the boomerang for another couple of seconds before pushing his phone back over to him and he gives you a tight lipped grin. “I’m sorry, Harry. That really sucks.”

“S’alright.” He shrugs and you can tell it isn’t alright but you don’t say anything else until he adds, “I wasn’t tha’ into her, anyway. M’friend wanted to set us up. I guess she wasn’t really into it but - I wasn’t either. S’all fair.”

Your heart hurts for him - she wasn’t into it but you know he was and before you can think to stop yourself you reach over, resting your hand over his and holy shit. You shouldn’t do that. He can lie and say he doesn’t mind but you know he does and you’re still his fucking waitress - you shouldn’t touch him like you’ve known him any longer than two hours. Just as you go to pull away with a frenzied apology he’s turning his hand around so your palms are pressed together and then he squeezes your hand with a soft sigh and you’re nearly paralyzed at the motion.

It can’t be more than a few seconds that you two sit like that, his hand tight around yours and you can hardly breathe, heart thumping in your chest before he says, “What time d’you close?”

“Uh -” you clear your throat just as he releases your hand and you withdraw it immediately - your hands are sweating and you press them on the table. “We close at 9, but - I only have one more table, and they’re about to leave … so …”

“What else d’you have t’do?”

“All my closing stuff,” you begin, sticking up your fingers as you list each one. “I need to roll silverware, get ice, put the glasses away, take the trash from the bathroom. And then I’ll probably get something to eat.”

Harry nods, gazing almost wistfully into the night as though he’s some sort of philosopher and you lean in, waiting to hear whatever he has to say next - “Could y’eat with me when y’get your food? If y’don’t mind.” And it takes you a moment to react as he adds, “S’just - you’re nice t’talk to, an’ all tha’. But y’don’t have to.”

You swallow thickly, already feeling your stomach flipping and your knee jiggling and you nod - first a quick jerk of your head, up and down, and then faster. 302 is arranging their stuff to leave, grabbing their boxes and shoving their credit cards into their pockets and you wish you could tell them to get the hell out because you can’t start closing until they leave and now you really have a motivation to leave. “Yeah. That - that sounds good.”

It sounds more than good, in fact, and you don’t even care if you’re some sort of rebound to him in this moment - you’ll take it. You’ll eat your dinner with him and then whatever comes after - you don’t care. You just want tonight, or, at the very least, right now, and anything after that is simply a bonus and you’ll deal with it later because he wants to eat with you. He wants to hang out with you. He likes you, and maybe even in that way, too.

You’re standing up uncomfortably fast, nearly tripping over the seat you’d inhabited as you rub your palms together. “Well - um. My other table is getting ready to leave, so I’m gonna - gonna start doing my stuff.”

“Sounds good,” and he’s so casual with it that it sends heat blazing up your cheeks, and you turn to head back inside with a newly found skip in your step that’s too full of joy to be embarrassing.

Brianna’s already begun the silverware when you get inside - with only 2 tables left, there’s no need for her to stay, but you tell her that you’ll roll if she does the other closing duties and she accepts because she’s horrific at rolling silverware. They’re always loose and lumpy and too big or too small and none of you want to tell her because it’s easier to just make pretend like it’s your favorite closing duty to do - well, whatever. She’s gone downstairs to get a bucket of ice before she can ponder on your insistence and you settle in your seat, grabbing a knife and two forks and resting them in the middle of your linen to begin to roll.

You have the motion down nearly to an instinct and it gives you time to glance outside. Through the windows you can see just the side profile of Harry’s face, only slightly illuminated by his phone screen as his lips wrap around his straw, surely sucking on the dissolved ice cubes in one of his glasses and it makes your heart beat faster in your chest - you nearly drop a fork when you go to begin a new roll.

 --

 Your pasta is ready entirely too soon.

You’re finished rolling silverware and the ice is filled and the bathrooms are stocked and clean but you hadn’t emotionally prepared yourself enough to eat with him. But your fettuccine sits, steaming on the counter ready for you to pick up and you stab the ticket once you’ve confirmed it’s yours, grabbing the burning hot plate with your one hand and grabbing a spoon with the other.

You can still see Harry’s side profile when you peer out the window and he’s glancing around, eyes darting from the sidewalk to the door as though he’s waiting for you and you know you can’t keep him alone for another second, so you inhale a deep sigh and walk out the door, pasta in hand.

He just about perks up when he sees you, back straightening and dropping his phone onto the table. You swear he’s about to get up and pull the chair out for you, too, but you beat him to it - duck underneath the umbrella and rest your plate on the table, slipping into your chair with ease and a soft cough into your fist.

(You’re not sick - not in the slightest. It just alleviates your stress, you suppose. Eliminates some awkward silence.)

“Hey,” Harry says, elbows resting on the table so he can look at you in full and you can already feel your body flaming as you pick up your spoon, sifting it through the thick pasta on your plate. Alfredo - God, it’s your favorite. You’ve been trying to branch out and try more things on the menu but it always takes you back to your damn fettuccine alfredo. “I hope this isn’t weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you insist, collecting a spoonful of pasta and bringing it to your mouth. The smell is intoxicating and you pause when the spoon is just an inch from your mouth. “I’m sure you had a rough night.”

He shrugs, leaning back in his seat as you take a bite, chewing slowly and thoughtfully as though you’re pondering something important. “It wasn’t too rough,” he tells you, and you raise your eyebrows. “It would’ve been bad - but you helped.”

“Really?”

“Sure y’did.” You take another spoonful of fettuccine as he continues. “It sucks t’be stood up, but you were nice.”

“I could tell you were upset.”

“An’ you couldn’t tell you were makin’ it better?”

You think for a moment - think back on the countless interactions you’d had with the near-stranger sitting across from you, pulling the plate with one lone risotto ball over to him - and then shake your head. “I just thought you were being sweet.”

He laughs, reaching for his abandoned fork resting on the side of the plate and cutting in to the second risotto ball - you can tell how much he’d been longing to eat it simply from the expression on his face when he takes the first bite - with a shrug. “Sure I was,” and you laugh at that, ripping the piece of bread on the side of your plate and half and dipping it in the sauce, “but you must’ve realized I like you - didn’t you?”

“Well, I did think it was curious that you held my hand.”

“Y’did it first.”

“Well, the technicalities don’t matter.”

It brings a grin to your face to hear Harry laugh at you, curls flopping in his face, crossing his arms over his chest as he chews on a particularly large bite of his risotto ball. Your pasta is already nearly gone (you’d vastly underestimated how hungry you were) and you scrape the sides of the plate with your bread, collecting all of the excess sauce on the dough. “Was feeling a bit guilty,” you confess, drumming your fingertips on the tabletop, and he tilts his head at you, “‘cause I was starting to feel a bit thankful you got stood up.”

For a moment you wonder if you’d said the wrong thing - if you’ve ruined this entire thing before it’s even started, because it’s an uncomfortably real risk -, but then he’s reaching out to rest his hand overtop of yours and your body overflows with relief. “I agree,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand, and you swallow. “Y’had me prayin’ she wasn’t going to show up.”

You smile, looking down at the table and your empty plate and his half eaten risotto ball that he’s already taking another bite of and it all seems so surreal - like you’re going to wake up in your bed an hour before your shift starts, cursing yourself out for creating such an immersive reality - but nothing about his touch on yours is fake. It’s all so spectacular - so real - and you exhale. “We’re closing in 5 minutes,” you tell him, and his eyebrows scrunch together like he’s seen something he regrets. “Reckon we should take this someplace else?” “Someplace else?”

Your stomach flips and you wonder for what feels like the millionth time this evening if you’d made a mistake - read him wrong - took things too far. It’s an unfortunate habit you have and you certainly wouldn’t be shocked if you’ve put your foot in it this early into the relationship - you’ll regret it, but you regret a lot of things. In a couple of weeks, you’ll forget about it, won’t you? You’ve done it before. But you simply shrug, motioning with your free hand to the empty tables among you both. “I live - um - a couple blocks up the road. If you want to come over. And - it’s fine if you don’t - just putting it out there.”

Harry stares at you, expression nearly blank, for a beat too long and you shift in your seat - but then there’s a smile stretching across his face, and he pushes his half-eaten risotto ball in towards the center of the table. “That sounds perfect,” he tells you, and your heart thumps in your chest once more.

 --

 For the record, you hadn’t anticipated having anyone over to your apartment tonight, and it shows.

There’s dirty dishes from the previous two days piled in the sink, shoes strewn all over the entryway and when you peer your head into the sitting room, your pajamas are strewn over the couch next the wine stain you’d spent hours trying to scrub out. Your face burns as you turn the lights on and Harry steps inside, head turning left and right as he examines your living space and you wish you’d cleaned up after yourself before you left for work - you’ve been meaning to do the dishes - why hadn’t you done them?

“It’s - um - not much,” you begin, shutting and locking the door firmly behind you and motioning with your arms to the entirety of your apartment. “And it’s kind of dirty. I just didn’t expect anyone to come here, or I would’ve fixed it up a bit.”

He smiles, peering at the photos adorning your walls. “Don’ worry ‘bout it,” he insists, bringing his finger up to trail along the high school graduation photo you’d taken with all of your friends until he spots you, smack in the middle, holding up your diploma with a wide grin - you don’t speak to half of the people in that photo anymore, but you love it. Love reminiscing on a time before college and work and rent, where you could just relax with your friends. “Y’look awfully pretty in this photo.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, clasping your hands behind your back as you watch Harry examine each photo. None of them are interesting enough to warrant his level of attention and you’re sure he’s simply trying to be polite but you still appreciate it - it’s nice to imagine that he has that much interest in a photo your mother had taken of you and your dog on a hike. “Do you want me to - to pour some wine or something?”

“That’s alright,” he says, turning around to face you and you glance up at him with a soft smile as he rests his hand on your shoulder, fingertips trailing up and down your arm and sending goosebumps popping up over your skin. You can’t remember the last time you’d felt like this about a boy and it’s making you fucking crazy, torn between wanting to wrap your arms around him or have him bend you over the counter - you can’t quite decide. 

“Alright.” You roll on the balls of your feet as Harry steps into your kitchen, leaning against the counter with an air of casual arrogance and adoration as he stares down at you. You pad into the kitchen behind him and press your palms to the countertop, lifting yourself up to sit beside him, and you hum softly. “Well - we could talk, then.”

“Y’wanna talk?”

“I wanna do whatever you wanna do,” you confess, and it’s the truth.

He hums at that, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth and you watch him, breath caught in your throat, as he pushes himself from the counter, doing nearly a full spin before landing directly in front of you and your knees part to allow him in between them like an instinct - your face heats as he pushes himself closer to you, thighs closing around his waist. “Y’seem nervous,” he says, palms pressing to the counter on either side of your body and you inhale a shaky breath, shaking your head.

“I’m not nervous,” you tell him, even if it’s a little white lie. “I just haven’t done this in a while -” and that isn’t a lie in the slightest.

“Ah,” and then Harry nods like some sort of therapist, hands already dropping to your waist, fingertips scratching at zipper of your jeans as if testing the waters. “An’ you’re sure y’want this?”

“I’m positive - please, Harry, I really want this. Wanted this from - from the second I saw you.”

It’s all the approval he needs, undoing the button and zipper of your jeans with ease and you loop your arms around his neck, using him as leverage to lift your hips up and he pulls your jeans off and down your thighs, leaving them bunched up by your knees. The next step is your panties, so damp you can tell he feels it through the fabric when he pressed his fingers against you and your hips jerk into his hands, dropping your head into his shoulder as he exhales.

“I’ll go slow,” he tells you, voice low and raspy and you’re not sure if he’s trying to make it sound like that or if it just naturally happens - well, you can’t decide which one is hotter, truthfully. “Jus’ wanna make y’feel good, love.”

“Mhm,” you nod, gnawing on your bottom lip as Harry hooks two fingers in the crotch part of your panties, pulling them to the side and the cold air of your apartment hits your cunt in a way that has your breathing picking up and he pauses, fingers so dangerously close to where you need them. You know he’s going to ask if you’re okay - if you want him to stop - and you don’t, not by a fucking long shot, and you push your hips into his hand as way of answering his unasked question.

Harry takes the hint, of course. He isn’t stupid.

Two fingers circle your clit, spreading your moisture along the sensitive nub like he’s been wanting to do it all fucking night - there’s some sort of desperation to his movements that has your legs tightening around him, head burying further into his shoulder, and his free arm hooks around one of your thighs, hoisting it further up his waist. His breathing is hot against your head as his digits slide up and down your folds and you’re not sure if he’s attempting to tease you or not but, no matter, it’s working. You’re ready to get on your knees and beg for him if you need to, but just as the thought crosses your mind, his fingers dip down to slide in between your folds.

A soft moan emits from your throat as his hand smooths up and down your thigh, fingers dipping just barely into your cunt before pulling out - and he does it a few times, giving you a bit of what you want and then tearing it away and you whine, thrusting your hips into his hands and Harry presses a kiss to the side of your head before sliding his fingers inside of you. Two to start, just to ease you in, pushing them in slow and steady until you can feel his cool rings pressed against your pussy and you throw your head back with a moan.

He pauses, lip still between his teeth as he stares at you, your chest heaving beneath him and body fucking quivering in his gasp. “Tell me how it feels,” he breathes, tongue darting out to lick at his lips, and you swallow your desperate whine for him to move.

“Feels so good,” you murmur, smoothing your hands up and down his neck as he stares at you as though daring you to break his gaze. “Please, Har -”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me - with your fingers, Har, please - make me feel so good -” and just to top off your request you lean in, crashing your lips so violently against his that your teeth clash and tongues collide, and you can taste everything you’d served him that evening and holy hell it tastes delicious. Perhaps it’s just him, dropping your thigh against the table so he can grab onto the back of your neck and keep your face attached to his, lips parted and wild and dominant as he pulls his fingers out and pushes them back in with a newfound vigor -

The levee breaks, then, with your lips mashed together, and you’re more than thankful for it.

[worldserasingandcreatinginmymind]

Unfaithful | Part Three

Series Summary: After dreaming of your perfect wedding since you were a little girl the big day is almost here. But after meeting the priest you start to question your relationship.

Pairing: Hot Priest x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2828

Warnings: abusive behaviour, a lot of angsty stuff, drunken behaviour and a pinch of fluff

A/N: Please be warned there will be some themes of toxic/abusive relationship in this series. Also, spelling and grammar is not my strongest skill so please be kind :)

Part Two | Masterlist

- - - - -

I sit alone on the bench outside the church, looking out at the empty graveyard in front of me. 

The miserable grey clouds above part and bright sunlight beams down to earth, shining on the Priest who is now walking up the path toward me. The light seems to be following him and as he moves closer I realise he’s dressed in a magnificent purple and gold gown. 

“Why are you wearing that?” I ask

“This is what I’m going to wear when I marry you” 

“Wow, I love it! Not sure Daniel will-”

“Who’s Daniel?” He asks and I laugh, but his serious face tells me he’s not joking.

“Daniel? My fiancé, the man I’m getting married to…”

“What are you talking about? You're marrying me remember?” He sits on the bench next to me, taking my hand and showing me the engagement ring on my finger, a ring I’ve never seen before.

“I- I don't understand. We’re engaged?”

“Are you feeling okay? Yes, we’re engaged and in a few weeks we’ll be husband and wife!” He holds my face gently in his hands and looks deeply into my eyes “I love you Y/N!”

He leans in and kisses me passionately.

— — — — 

My eyes shoot open and I realise I’m in bed. It was just a dream. Why do I feel slightly disappointed? 

Every night since that night at the church the Priest has been in my dreams, and every night the theme has been the same; the Priest and I are in love. 

I shake the thought out of my mind and roll over, reaching over to hug my real life fiancé but my arm falls straight down on the mattress. He isn’t there. 

I sit up and reach over to grab my phone off the bedside table. 9:30am! I must have needed that lie in. I roll out of bed, wrap my dressing gown around myself and head down stairs to the kitchen. I need coffee. 

Walking into the kitchen I find Daniel sat at the table waiting for me. 

“Morning!” I greet him cheerfully as I fill up the kettle “coffee?”

“No thanks.” He responds dismissively, changing the subject. “The other day, when I came home from the pub and you stormed out… where did you go?"

“I just went for a walk” I answer honestly

“Where?” 

“I don't know, I just wondered around for a bit and found a bench to sit on” 

“Alone?” 

“Yeah” I lie

“So you sat on a bench in the dark and drank all alone” He places an empty silver and green can on the table and looks at me accusingly, waiting for a response. 

“You went through my bag?” I silently curse myself for not throwing the can away yet.

“I was looking for something”

“What?”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER!” He slams his hand down on the can, crushing it against the table “You met him didn’t you? Father whatever his name is. I saw the same can of G&T in his office”

“Okay fine, yes I saw him. I didn’t plan to. I just went to the church to think. I thought it was empty but he was there and we talked for a bit”

“And drank”

“I was upset so he offered me a drink.”

“And then you lied to me about it” he says, getting up and slowly walking over to me.

“Because I knew you’d overreact!” I respond, poring the boiling water into my cup and stirring the coffee.

“Oh I’m overreacting am I? Tell me, how am I supposed to react when another man flirts with my fiancé in front of my face?”

“He hasn’t flirted with me Daniel, he’s our priest! He’s just trying to get to know us, but you won’t let him!” 

“I don’t want to get to know that creep!” 

“You know what? I can’t be bothered with this right now” I roll my eyes before saying three words I would instantly regret “You're being pathetic” 

I can almost see the red mist in Daniel’s eyes as he grabs my coffee cup and throws the boiling hot contents straight in my face. I suppress a scream as I wipe the coffee from my eyes, the liquid burning my skin. I run upstairs as fast as I can and lock myself in the bathroom, immediately  splashing cold water over myself. I soak a flannel in water and hold it over my face for a few minutes, trying to cool my burning skin. Daniel starts banging on the door, begging me to open up so he can apologise. When he starts to mention his dad I shut out the sound of his voice, choosing to ignore his excuses. I’ve heard them all before. 

When my skin finally starts to feel a little less on fire I remove the flannel and examine my blotchy red face in the mirror. A few small blisters have already started to form on my cheek and down the side of my neck. I bring my hand up to gently touch them, and hiss with pain as eyes instantly fill with tears. I cover my face with the flannel again and sit on the floor, leaning with my back against the door as Daniel continues to talk on the other side. I stay like that for however long it takes for him to finally leave me alone. Once I’m sure he’s gone I go silently to the bedroom, quickly get dressed and go downstairs. As I’m putting my shoes on Daniel comes running to me.

“Where are you going?” 

“To the hospital”

“No no, please- please don’t go. I’m sorry!” He panics.

“I need something to fix this” I argue, gesturing to the blisters and peeling skin.

“I can fix it!”

“Not this time” I walk out the house, slamming the door behind me. I hear it open again and I turn back to glare at Daniel as he’s about to step out. “Leave me alone!” I warn him before walking off, surprised that he actually obeys me for once. I hail a passing taxi and climb in the back. 

“A&E please” I say and he looks at me through the rear view mirror, his eyes widen as he sees the state I’m in but he doesn’t say anything. He just silently drives me where I need to go. 

— — — — 

“And how did this happen?” 

“I was carrying a cup of coffee when I slipped and fell, throwing the whole lot over myself.” I lie as convincingly as possible as the doctor examines my skin “I can be such a clutz sometimes”

I let out a small awkward laugh which the doctor ignores.

“Hm. Well you're lucky, there’s no permanent damage. It will be painful for a few days but it will heal. I’ll prescribe you some cream which will soothe it but in the mean time go home and take it easy. No more ‘accidents’ okay?” 

I can tell by her voice she doesn’t quite believe my story. 

“Thank you doctor” I say, taking the tube of cream off her and walking outside.

As I stand waiting for another taxi I realise, I’m not ready to face going home yet. There’s only one person I really want to see right now. 

— — — — 

Once again I find myself stood outside the big wooden doors of the church, suddenly doubting whether or not I should be here. I know I want to be here but I also know that if Daniel found out it would create yet another drama. I’m so trapped in my own moral dilemma that I don’t hear the footsteps approach behind me. 

“Y/N?”

I spin around to see the Priest walking toward me. His face goes from confusion, to horror as he sees my skin.

“Holy shit! What happened to your face?”

“I don't really wanna talk about it right now”

“Thats okay, you don't have to tell me anything” he smiles a gently smile and my heart flutters.

“I know it’s the middle of the day and you're my priest but… I don't suppose you have any more gin?”

“You’re in luck” his smile turns into a grin as he lifts up the bag in his hand and I hear the sound of cans clattering inside it.

— — — — 

A couple of hours and a few too many drinks later, the Priest and I are ever so slightly drunk and currently laughing about… well I don't actually know what. Everything just seems hilarious after a few cans of G&T. 

“You know, I think I’ve laughed more with you in the past week than I have in the past year with Daniel” I say, as he hands me another can “Maybe if you’d have been the Priest here when I was a teenager I wouldn’t have stopped coming. Teenage Y/N would have loved you. The old Priest just seemed so… judgy. I couldn’t think of anything worse than telling him my sins” 

“Hey that’s reminds me, you’ve never confessed to me! We should it now” 

“Oh no no no, absolutely not”

“Come on! It’ll be fun”

“Fun for you maybe, not for me! You just want to find out all my secrets”

“Of course I do, that’s why I do this job. That and so I can wear the outfits”

“You’re terrible” I laugh, shaking my head at him

“I know! That’s why you can tell me anything and I won’t judge you. I’ve probably done much worse” 

I get an idea. 

“Okay fine. I’ll confess to you. But you have to confess to me in return” 

“That’s not how this works”

“It is now! I’ll tell you my sins and you tell me yours”

“I’m a Priest, I don't sin”

“You're drunk in a church in the middle of the afternoon, pretty sure you're sinning right now”

“Good point” he thinks for a moment before getting up out his chair “okay, deal. Lets do this” 

I follow him out into the main church toward the confession box. He pulls open the curtain and gestures for me to enter. I do and he closes the curtain behind me before getting into the next box. I can just about see him through the holes in the wall. 

“You go first” I say quickly.

“Okay, um… I drink alcohol in my office on a regular basis”

“That’s a boring one!” I wine

“We’ll get to the good stuff eventually. Your turn”

“Fine. When I was 8 I stole a pencil topper from a bitchy girl in school because I liked it and I didn’t think she deserved it”

“A pencil topper? You criminal!” He laughs 

“It was shaped like Mickey Mouse!”

“How are you not in jail yet” he says sarcastically and I can hear the amusement in his voice “My turn. Sometimes when I hear Pam calling for me I hide in here and lie to her about where I am”

“I don't blame you, that woman scares me” 

“Right?! She’s terrifying!” 

We both burst into laughter, and as it dies down I realise it’s my turn again. I take a deep breath and speak again. 

“I lied to my Daniel about being with you the other night because I knew he’d get angry.” 

Without thinking my hand comes up to gently touch the burns on my face as my mind takes me back to the incident this morning. I snap out of it and turn to look at the wall. For a brief second I catch the Priest looking through the hole at me, but he turns to face the front. 

“I broke my vow of celibacy last year”

“I’ve been having inappropriate dreams about another man while laying in the same bed as my fiancé” 

“I’m in love with you” 

“What?” I say, trying to see him through the holes in the wall but he doesn’t look at me. He just stares down at the floor.

“I’m-” he pauses “I love you”

He finally looks up at me, the sudden eye contact almost takes my breath away. I don't know what to say, I’m completely lost for words. The intensity of his dark brown eyes is too much and I’m forced to look away, looking down as I fiddle nervously with the sleeves of my shirt. 

“Y/N?” 

I quickly get up and walk out of the booth, but he stays put. I stand for a moment looking at the curtain, wondering if he’s going to come out. When he doesn’t I realise its up to me to make a choice. 

I could tell the Priest how I feel about him. I could admit that I’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss him, to hold him, to wake up next to him.

Or I could leave right now and pretend none of this happened, go back home to Daniel. The man I’m engaged to marry. The man who I’ve loved since school. The man who, just this morning, threw boiling hot coffee in my face. 

I make a decision. 

I open the curtain to see the priest still sat on the tiny bench, and he looks up at me with wide eyes. He watches as I squeeze into the booth with him, placing my hands on either side of his face. He stands up slowly so our faces are inches apart and slowly moves in. 

“I love you too”

He looks into my eyes one last time before I close the gap, our lips crashing together. I keep expecting to wake up any second now, for this to just be another cruel emotionally confusing dream. 

But this is real. 

I’m kissing a priest. 

Part Four

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_domestic_violence_hotlines

[kurtty-drabbles]

Scooby au (Blade)

N/A: Yeah, Blade is here. Jubilee is about to have a bad day.

@djinmer4 @dannybagpipesarecalling @sailorstar9 @discordsworld @look-ma-no-hands336

Blade is a hunter of vampires and a vampire himself, a combination that does not render him many favours in this world. One day, Blade meets young Ororo Monroe and sense that this kid, at time, will be something else and had her number, now, Blade hates older man hitting on young girls and hate Twilight with a passion, so, when he gives his phone was a professional manoeuvre as Ororo did defeat one vampire and Blade can guess the girl will face more vampires in her life.

When Blade´s cellphone rings, smash mouth I´m a Believer, aside from earning a few giggles, it also prompts Blade to answer and get proven correct as Storm, from the X-men asked him a favour, turns out, the X-men are dealing with an ancient vampire and Blade can only pray for the safety of the students.

“Guys, buck up, we´re going to Bayville” Blade answers in a cool fashion, meanwhile, Deadpool raises his hand and speak freely. “Ah, the author remembers me, thanking aside the great mete joke, you can´t just say for us to back up and not give details, life is not a movie”

Blade sighs and adds more details. “Got it, ancient vampire, do they sparkle?”

“Wade, O swear to god, if you don´t stop with those jokes,  you will get your mouth shut” Blade threats and Wade can only answer “Dude, don´t be like Wolverine the origins, don´t be like that”

Scott Summers is looking in the huge crowd of people for one person in specific, and this time, is not Jean Grey, and when his eyes spot Kurt Wagner walking in a relaxed form, Scott finally found his target, without waiting for a proper reply, Scott put an arm on Kurt´s should and is rewards by having his attention.

(Is odd, Scott feels eyes on him, but, no one in the crown is looking at him)

“Kurt, if you have plans for tonight, you got to cancel, cause we´re dealing with an emergency and we need your help” Scott speaks as a leader and Kurt is watching him, blinking in confusion and smirking(again, the eyes are still present)

“Ok, captain, lead the way” Kurt speaks with a kind heart, yet, Scott is uneasy. The eyes are still on Scott and he knows…Jean is not here.

“Kurt, I need you and the rest of the team to be aware of the situation and you, Kurt, need to be strong on this one, ok?” Scott speaks hoping to sound convincing. Sam is the only one who is not pleased with Kurt´s presence here.

Spike, Tabbitha, Bobby, the new mutants, Rogue, Kurt and Scott are in an open space, and, Kurt notices that Jubilee, Jean and Kitty aren´t present and Scott explains why. “Look, I know everyone here does not believe in the supernatural, much less in gods or vampires, but…Jubilee is one and Jean is not something human and I suspect Kitty may be a vampire too or something else”

Kurt chuckles amused hiding his smirk with his hand, of course, the others didn´t believe until Scott give proofs. Rouge, once taking the collar she often wears show the marks, while insisting is just mosquito´s bites.

“Rogue, a mosquito´s bite that resembles teeth? Jubilee is a vampire and to top of all, an ancient one” Scott concludes and the New Mutants explain the situation to Rogue who is in disbelief state, until, realization sink in.

Kurt watches as Sam is avoiding looking at Kurt. “And you think my girlfriend is a vampire?” Kurt asked a little offended, really, comparing Kitty to a fairy Kurt can understand (one of her masks is very fae alike) now a vampire? That´s new.

Scott, noticing how the others don´t want to talk with Kurt about how strange Kitty can be, and a presence of a vampire, and whatever Jean is (“A god relate to fire” “gee, Scott, now is not the time to gush over your crush”) this enhance Kitty´s oddities to 100% and people aren´t sure if she´s human.

“Kurt, she speaks about a Dark Pharaoh with such fondness…I can guarantee the people who spoke about him…aren´t good” Scott replied and Kurt narrows his eyes bemused. “But, we don´t have any proof, maybe, Kitty is human and Jean and Jubilee are using her, what I´m trying to say is…we don´t know what Kitty is and she may be in danger…you as her boyfriend may know and deserve to know what will happen”

Kurt crosses his arms, and Sam as well the other New Mutants, swear this is similar to a pharaoh, or maybe, his presence is making them thinking in one. “And what will happen?”

“We call a great vampire hunter to kill Jubilee, we call Blade”

Jubilee could feel a telltale in the air. Kitty as well and Jean too. Something different is about to happen and Kitty knows and is ready, hardly, anything a mortal can think or conjure will impress Kitty(well, she really like that book and podcast about Galaxy hitcher series way more than that loser of Lovecraft)

“Something is coming….towards you, Jubilee” Kitty warned to the ancient vampire. Jubilee, then, asks one thing “how can you know? You know nothing about humans, but, you know anything else”

Kitty points at Jean bored “Let´s say I´m her boss” and Jean is peeved but does not refute the explanation.

Blade and his crew shows with his guns shooting at Jubilee, the bullets, of course, are made from a rare and special item that can kill vampires, Jubilee as an ancient vampire does not die from the bullet, but, it hurt.

“Ouch!” Jubilee replied attempting to mask the pain with humour and Jean is healing the vampire much to Blade´s confusion. In a solid minute, Jubilee is back at her feet as if nothing happens. “Not cool, little boy, not cool.”

Kitty is only looking at Blade. “Storm called you, Jubilee they found out you´re an ancient vampire” Kitty announced and Jubilee only give a loud duh. Her fangs are ready and as her eyes are red, the woman is not fond of being shot.

Wade jump from the glass and is about to shoot, except, he noticed the vampire´s form and hesitated and this makes him get the throw to the wall. Jean is bemused, some humans are strange and others are stupid.

“Go away, I´m not in the mood to fight” Jean speaks and Kitty yawns as Blade uses his swords to fight Jubilee, however, ancient vampires are far more powerful than regular ones and his blade did little to damage her.

“Humans!” Jean speaks and Kitty nods. Wade is confused as never in his life a vampire shows up as a normal teenager.

“Oh no, the author put me in a moral dilemma! Curse you author!” Wade curses at the wind and Jubilee manages to defeat Blade easily as well shaming him for shot first, talk later. His sword was a break and Jubilee is lecturing Blade as he´s a little boy. “Did no one ever tell you it was rude to shoot like that? Now, listen here, Blade and friend” Her blood eyes are also focused on Wade as they are listening, in a total trance, as the ancient vampire is giving orders. “I´d not want to kill you, Blade, there are many bad vampires out there, however, today you and your team aren´t here…and you, friend,” Jubilee looks at Wade who robotically gives his name making Jubilee blinks surprised “you also aren´t here, in fact, there´s no mission. Go home”

Jean clear her throat and speak about the cellphone. “Don´t forget the cellphone…humans love to track cellphones”

Kitty, to everyone(Jean and Jubilee), surprised did erase the contact and the phone call easily. She may not get humans but she understands their technology. She hopes Storm won´t be too mad, but, Kitty does not want to Jubilee to die nor deal with more vampire hunters.

Then, Blade and Deadpool are leaving realizing there´s no mission today and can use some time off.

“Ok, is the time of the truth, Kitty, who are you?” Jubilee asked confused.

“Zaorva, she´s Phoenix and Kurt is IT” Kitty laughs remembering the movie IT and how, ironically, Kurt does not like clowns.

“Well, isn´t that something?” Jean answer a bit amused, then adds “what we´ll do next?”

“Well, let´s see what the Black Pharaoh is planning, the charade has to end eventually” Kitty speaks calmly and Jubilee nods, after all, humans get old so quickly. Such a fragile life.

[snappedsky]

Fanatics 53

Pepito has a moral dilemma. Previous! Next!

The Break-in

  ��           The kids are in health class. To avoid actually teaching, the teacher has just set up a video for everyone to watch. It’s about the changes a teenage body might go through. Nobody’s really paying attention; Dib is reading a book- probably about the supernatural- Pepito is throwing pencils into the ceiling, and Squee is writing in his notebook.

            The only one watching is Zim. He can’t look away. It’s like seeing a dead thing on the side of the road. It’s disgusting and disturbing but also really fascinating.

            After class they walk to their lockers. Zim shakes his head, as if he’s trying to shake out the memory of that video.

            “The human body is so gross,” he groans.

            “Come on. Like your species is so much cleaner,” Pepito scoffs.

            “Excuse you,” Zim snaps, offended, “Irkens are all about neatness and cleanliness. We despise filth.”

            “I have to agree with Zim on this,” Squee says, “humans are gross.”

            “See, Squee gets it.”

            As they arrive at their lockers, they slow to a stop when they see Kat standing there with Gaz.

            “What do you want?” Zim demands.

            “Pepito,” Kat replies, “I’m calling in my favour.”

            “What, now?” Pepito asks, “we’ve still got like two more periods left.”

            “Relax,” she grunts, “I’m only going to tell you what I want you to do. The actual favour will be completed another day.”             “Alright,” he shrugs and leans against the lockers. “What do you want?”             “Not here. We will speak in the washroom,” she orders.

            “Fine,” he groans and waves to his friends. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

            He and Gaz follow Kat through the sea of students into the girl’s bathroom. There are two kids making out on the counter. They flinch and scurry out when Kat shoots them an evil look.

            “Alright. Gaz has informed me that tomorrow, Zim will be spending the day with Dib at his house,” Kat says.

            “You said that?” Pepito asks.

            “She asked,” Gaz shrugs.

            “This means that Zim’s lab will be unprotected,” Kat adds.

            “No, his security system will still be running,” Pepito points out, “also Gir, Minimoose, and Skoodge should still be there.”

            “That’s where you two come in,” Kat states, “I’ve seen in my surveillance that Zim’s security system does not see you two as a threat so you can just in waltz into his house without so much as knocking on the door. You’re also friends with his minions. So I want the two of you to break me into Zim’s lab.”             “What? No way!” Pepito snaps, “I wouldn’t betray Zim like that!”

            “You don’t have a choice,” Kat retorts, “you owe me, remember? I helped you guys with your stupid video game war.”

            “That Gaz’s thing, not mine,” he points out.

            “Yes, but didn’t you owe a Gaz favour? And she made that favour helping me with whatever I wanted. Are you so dishonourable that you won’t return your favour?”

            Pepito flinches. “But…that…”

            Kat sighs. “We won’t go through with the plan until tomorrow. You have until then to think about it. Be at my house by nine with your answer.”

             She walks past them and leaves the washroom.

            Pepito stares at the wall with confusion, thoughts swirling around his head. Gaz watches him curiously.

            “Do you really care about Zim that much?” she asks.

            “Doesn’t matter how much I care about him,” he replies, “he’s still my friend. I can’t betray his trust like this.”

            “Well, what about me? Am I your friend?”

            “I guess.”             “Then shouldn’t you help honour my debt.”             Pepito looks at her with surprise and groans. “Why do you gotta be so manipulative?”

            Gaz just shrugs. “I don’t like it either but it’s not like we got a choice. We owe her.”

            The bell rings.

            “We should get to class,” Gaz says, “and don’t mention this anyone.”

            Pepito stares after miserably as she leaves before following.

            Throughout the rest of the afternoon, Zim keeps asking Pepito what it is Kat wants him to do but he won’t say. He just answers every question with “I can’t tell you.” Whatever it is, Zim can tell it’s clearly bothering him.

            Later that evening, Pepito approaches his mom nervously.

            “Um, Mom, can I get your advice on something?” he asks.

            “Of course,” she replies.

            Pepito takes a deep breath. “Okay, so let’s say I kind of owe one of my friends a favour, right? And she owes someone else a favour so she basically made me also owe that person a favour. But in doing that favour I would betray another friend. So I gotta choose between not honouring my debt to one friend and betraying another. How do I decide what to do?”

            Rose rubs her chin. “That’s a tough one. Either way you could end up hurting a friend.”

            “Exactly. That’s why I don’t know what to do.”

            “I’m not sure my advice would be helpful here,” she admits, “I don’t know what I would do if I were in your shoes.”  

            Pepito sighs. “I don’t wanna hurt anyone.”

            “I know,” Rose smiles sympathetically as she squeezes Pepito’s shoulder. “But all you can do is follow your gut. And whatever happens, I’ll be here for you.”

            Pepito smiles gratefully. Then he goes up to his room to consider his dilemma.

            He really doesn’t want to hurt Gaz or Zim. But this whole situation is practically pitting them against each other.

            He likes Gaz. He doesn’t want to not help her. But Zim’s his friend too. And he made Pepito second-in-command of the Battalion. In the real world that might seem useless, but it still means a lot. And what sort of commander would he be if he betrayed his leader to his worst enemy?

            Pepito sighs. Isn’t there a way he can do this so he doesn’t hurt anyone?

            He blinks with surprise as a thought enters his head. Wait. Maybe there is.

            The next day, Pepito’s mom drops him off at Kat’s house. As she drives away, Pepito spots Gaz walking down the street.

            “You actually showed up,” she says, “so are you actually gonna do it?”

            “I guess so,” he shrugs.

            “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t really like it either.”

            “You don’t like much of anything.”

            Pepito knocks on the door and Kat answers quickly.

            “Ah, good. You’re both here,” she nods approvingly.

            “Yeah. So let’s get this over with already,” Pepito demands.

            “Zim has left his base?” Kat asks.

            “Yes. He was just arriving at my house when I left,” Gaz replies.

            “Good. Let’s go,” she orders and leaves.

            They hurry through the city to Zim’s house and slow to a stop as they approach the cul-de-sac.

            “Okay. I’ll go inside and distract Skoodge, Gir, and Minimoose,” Pepito explains, “I’ll text Gaz when it’s safe for you guys to go into the lab.”

            “Alright. Make it quick,” Kat orders.

            Pepito crosses the street to Zim’s house and let’s himself in like it’s his own home. Skoodge, Gir, and Minimoose are sitting on the couch watching some weird cartoon on the TV.

            “Hey, guys,” Pepito sings.

            “Pepito?” Skoodge questions, “Zim’s not here.”

            “Oh. Well, that’s okay. I’ll hang out with you guys,” he declares as he flops down on the couch.

            “Horny!” Gir exclaims excitedly as he hops onto Pepito’s head and pokes at his horns through his beanie.

            “Wow, I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he comments.

            “Hey, you know what we should?” Pepito asks as he hops to his feet, Gir still on his head. “We should make waffles!”

            “Waffles!” Gir cries and flies into the kitchen.

            “Yeah, waffles,” Pepito smiles, “you like waffles, Skoodge?”

            “Yeah,” he nods excitedly.

            “Alright, let’s go make some,” he demands and trots into the kitchen. Skoodge and Minimoose follow.

            They get to work at making waffles. Gir splashes batter all the over the place while Skoodge tries to tell him how to do it properly and Minimoose just hovers there. Pepito watches them for a few minutes before pulling out his phone and sending Gaz a quick text.

            The front door creaks open and Gaz peeks inside. Pepito motions for her to be quiet and frantically points to the stairs.

            Gaz and Kat slip inside and tiptoe through the kitchen and to the stairs. Skoodge and the other are too busy making waffles to notice them.

            Once the girls have successfully made it upstairs, Pepito sneaks away and joins them at the elevator.

            “Okay, let’s go. Everyone inside before they notice I’m gone,” he orders and ushers them through the doors.

            “It doesn’t even have a code?” Kat scoffs, “it’s like he wants people to break in.”

            The elevator takes them underground. It opens up to the main lab and they step out.

            Kat looks around with distaste. “Most of this technology looks Vortian. He probably doesn’t even have anything useful.”

            “Then why are you here?” Pepito asks.

            “Destruction mostly,” she shrugs, “anyway, I don’t need you two anymore. You’re free to go.”             She starts to walk away when Pepito takes his guitar off his back and points it at her. “That’s far enough, Tak.”

            Both she and Gaz look at him with surprise.

            “What do you think you’re doing?” Kat asks.

            “You know, this was a real moral dilemma for me,” Pepito says, “I didn’t want to betray Zim but I know I had to help Gaz. So I decided to do both. I’ll help you get inside Zim’s lab, thereby repaying our debt to you and then I’ll protect it, fulfilling my duty as his ally. Pretty clever, right?”

            “I see,” Kat muses, “I suppose it was foolish of me to think you’d actually help the enemy of your ally.”             “Exactly,” Pepito smirks.

            “No matter,” she shrugs. Her human disguise drops, revealing her real cyborg-Irken self. She clangs her robotic fingers together and glares at him. “It’ll be easy enough to defeat you and destroy this lab.”   

            “You wish,” Pepito growls.

            Tak’s PAK opens up, releasing four long spider legs. They shoot purple lasers at Pepito. He dives out of the way and swings his guitar, firing a wave of black energy at her. She ducks under it and charges him.

            Her spider legs stab at him. He sticks out his hand and creates a transparent, black force field, blocking the attack. They hold each other in a parry, growling furiously. 

            Tak leaps backwards and fires more lasers. Pepito dodges them quickly while he runs towards her, then he shoots two energy waves at her. She ducks under one and rolls out of the way of the other.

            They pant as they glare at each other.

            Tak’s cybernetic eye flashes. Pepito gasps and quickly looks away, recognizing her brainwashing technique. When he checks to make sure it’s safe, Tak is in the air in front of him, her spider legs plunging towards him.

            Pepito’s eyes widen as the sharp points near his face.

            Just before they can penetrate, something slams into Tak’s stomach and sends her flying across the room.

            Gaz steps forward, bat in hand. She slams it into the floor intimidatingly.

            “Thanks, Gaz,” Pepito sighs with relief.          

            Tak stands up, glaring angrily and rubbing her stomach.

            Gaz points her bat at her dramatically. “What’s your problem anyway? Why are you so obsessed with revenge?”

            “Zim ruined my life! Countless times!” Tak shouts, “I must do the same to him!”

            “By destroying his base?” Gaz scoffs, “you tried that once before, remember? It just got rebuilt!” [A/N. Referencing my old IZ fanfic, Not Quite Un-Right.]

            “It’s a process!” she insists.

            “This isn’t even about revenge at this point,” Pepito says, “it’s like an obsession now. Like you’ve got nothing better to do.”

            “Maybe I don’t!”

            Gaz and Pepito blink with surprise. Tak’s eye widens, like she’s realizing what she just said.

            “Maybe…maybe I don’t,” she mutters.

            “Tak?” Pepito questions.

            “What do you two know?” she barks, making them both flinch with surprise. “You don’t know anything about me! You’re just a couple of weak humans living your cushy lives. You couldn’t possibly understand!”

            She falls to her knees, visibly deflating from exhaustion.

            “I think I understand quite a bit actually,” Pepito says quietly, “you used to live a life someone else created for you. Everything was already planned out and you just had to follow it. But maybe you didn’t want to or maybe something ruined it all.”

            He starts slowly walking up to her. “Whatever the case everything’s different now. You don’t know what’s going to happen and it’s scary. You’ve never experienced anything like this before. You feel like you’re all by yourself. Sure there are people around, but you’re not sure if they can help. Maybe they can’t.”

            “But sometimes all you really need is for someone to go up to you and say-.” He bends down in front of her so they’re face to face. “-it’s okay.”

            Tak stares at him with surprise. Then tears begin to well up in her one good eye. She quickly looks away.

            “It’s okay to cry,” Pepito says.

            She shakes her head. “D-do you know why Zim is considered a defective Irken?”

            “I imagine it could be any number of reasons,” he replies.

            “It is. But one of the main reasons is because he relies on others.”

            “Irkens- particularly Irken invaders- are supposed to be completely independent. It’s not some ideology we’re taught like it is for humans. It’s how we’re made. It’s why we have PAKs and SIR units. We’re supposed to use them as tools so we don’t have to rely on anyone.”

            “Zim’s not like that. He’d argue that but I’ve seen it in my surveillance. He relies on you guys and his minions not just as subordinates but as…company. It’s…it’s unheard of for an Irken. And completely wrong.”

            “For me to show this emotion in front of you two because of a couple nice words, it’s like I’m trusting you not to attack me while I’m weak,” she concludes, “it’s like I’m relying on you. An Irken invader should not rely on their enemies.”

            “Good thing you’re not an Irken invader anymore,” Gaz grunts as she sits beside her.

            “Yeah,” Pepito adds as he sits on her other side. “And who said we have to be enemies?”

            Tak looks at both of them with surprise before breaking down. She buries her face in her hands and sobs quietly.

            Pepito and Gaz don’t try to touch her or say anything. They just sit patiently beside her.

            They’re sitting there for quite a few minutes when Gaz’s phone suddenly vibrates.

            “Uh, guys,” she says as she reads something off it. “Zim and Dib are gonna be here in a few minutes.”             “How do you know?” Pepito asks.

            “Dib just texted me. He wants to know where I am,” she replies.

            “Damn,” he grunts, “Zim won’t be happy if he catches us down here.”

            “It’s okay,” Tak says as she wipes her eye. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

            “We can sneak you out through the window in the kitchen,” Pepito suggests as they stand up.

            They hurry into the elevator and ride it up to the surface. On the way, Tak puts her human disguise back on.

            They arrive at the second floor of the house and hurry downstairs. Kat and Gaz stay in the stairwell while Pepito checks to make sure it’s safe. Not much has changed since they went into the lab. Skoodge, Gir, and Minimoose are still trying to make waffles and causing a huge mess.

            Pepito quietly motions for the girls to hurry. He slides open the window leading to the back alley while they silently approach.

            “I um appreciate the help,” Kat says quietly as she climbs out.

            “Sure,” Gaz nods.

            “And, hey, I meant what I said,” Pepito says, “we don’t have to be enemies. If you ever want to talk or hang out, feel free to call us.”

            Kat looks at them thoughtfully. She starts to say something, stops, then leaves without another word.

            The front door suddenly opens. Pepito quickly slams the window shut and spins around so he and Gaz are blocking the view.

            “Huh?” Zim grunts as he and Dib walk in. “What are you two doing here?”

            “Oh, you know just-.” Pepito’s cut off by a ball of batter flying past his face. “Uh making waffles?”

            “What about Tak?” Dib asks, “weren’t you supposed to help her with some no doubt nefarious plot?”

            “Oh that. Um,” Pepito muses and looks Gaz hopefully.

            “She changed her mind,” she shrugs.

            “Oh,” Zim and Dib grunt with surprise.

            “Yup,” Pepito nods.

            A handful of batter suddenly splatters all over Zim’s head. “Gir!” he barks.

                        On Monday, Zim, Dib, Gaz, Pepito, and Squee settle down at their usual table in the cafeteria after a long morning of Skool. As they get ready to dig into their lunch, Kat approaches their table.

            “C-can I…sit with you guys?” she asks hesitantly as she looks away with embarrassment.

            “No-!” Zim and Dib start to snap but abruptly shut up when Gaz kicks them both in the shin.           

            “Sure, Ta-I mean, Kat,” Pepito replies happily as he slides over. “Here, you can sit right next to me.”

            Kat sits stiffly on the bench and stares at the table. Zim and Dib glare at her suspiciously; Gaz quietly plays her Game Slave; Pepito talks incessantly about this and that; Squee watches Kat curiously before smiling and eating his lunch.

            It feels weird and unnatural. But maybe, just maybe, Tak can get used to this.

[abutterflyobsession]

Doctor Who AU: Part 19

prelude/one/two/three/four/five/six/seven/eight/nine/ten/eleven/twelve/thirteen/fourteen/fifteen/sixteen/seventeen/nineteen/ao3

“Yoohoo! Us again! Having a little problem with non-native plant toxins! Thought you might be able to help!”

Aura Plum opened the front door of the cottage, looking suspiciously around for any sign of the dark-haired Time Lord. But there was only the other one, the blonde one, looking cheerful and slightly out of breath.

“You parked on my marigolds.”

Dawn glanced back at the TARDIS, “Yeeeah . . . sorry about that. Kind of an emergency, bit of a rush, sort of an army of evil plant soldiers wrecking havoc in the city, stabbing people and spreading some nasty toxins around. Sort of need to whip up an all-purpose antitoxin and I remembered you had a pretty fantastic lab setup, so . . . hi.”

“Plant army?” Aura folded her arms, rings and bangles catching the light, “How did that happen, pray tell?”

“Someone that shouldn't have sort of got hold of the primrose pendant and used it to grown an army bent on causing destruction and chaos. Very unfortunate. We got the pendant back, though!”

“Where is it? And where is Broden?”

“Uh, Bog has the pendant. He's with my sister. Trying to shut down the army. We were helping, but the toxin situation is kind of becoming critical so we got sidetracked. He's perfectly safe.”

“Yeah,” Sunny called, dragging out a plastic-shrouded form from the TARDIS, “We're the ones running around trying to get samples without getting stabbed. Dawn, I feel like a grave robber over here.”

“Help you in a minute!” Dawn assured him.

“I'm calling Broden,” Aura started to shut the door, “I'll see what he says before I let either of you back into my house.”

“Yeah, wait, wait, wait,” Dawn waved her hands until Aura paused with the door still open a crack, “He's kind of in the middle of a thing. The primrose pendent? Kind of a massive database of Cheem history. He's a bit . . . plugged in right now, trying to stop the army. Psychic thing, you know?”

The door swung all the way open, “The pendant is a database?”

“Yup! You'll have a lot of fun going through it, I bet. After we stop the city from getting poisoned, yeah?”

“I suppose you'd better come in,” Aura sighed, waving for them to follow.

“Yippee,” Dawn ran over to Sunny and helped him pick up the body, “I do love a good scientific collaboration!”

“Don't touch anything!” Aura called from inside the house.

“Well, that's not fun at all.”

“You need to stop them from spreading any more toxins.”

“Yeah, you said that.”

“It's important.”

“I know that.”

“Then maybe you should hurry up and stop it.”

“It's a little hard with you jabbering in my ear!”

Bog was still getting the hang of being split up among multiple locations. He was standing in the forest, but he was also flicking through hundreds of sets of eyes, trying to find soldiers in immediate danger of harming people and stopping them. It was tedious searching and wrenching control away from the AI was difficult.

As well, there was more pressure than ever after the Doctor told Bog that Dawn had been unable to find a way immediately unplug him and had to redirect her efforts to stopping the spread of toxins. Removing him from the machine would have to be done later, when there was time to do it slowly and carefully. In the meantime it was on Bog to halt the army.

“Stop channel surfacing and work on reclaiming the AI entirely. You control that, you control the whole army, not just one soldier at a time.”

“I already tried doing that, remember? It didn't work.”

“Then try again! Try harder! Try better!”

Bog ground his teeth together and shut his eyes, turning off the rapid changing of channels and giving himself a moment to breathe. The Doctor was right, this wasn't working and he was getting tired. Just shutting his eyes for a moment to think made his mind attempt to shut down and sleep.

A smack to the side of Bog's head made him come to with a start.

“AI. Override it. Now.”

“Wee monster,” Bog mumbled under his breath, shaking his head and readjusting his hands over the amber, trying to keep his rising temper in check. There must have been some sort of mental bleed-through because although the Doctor did not look it, Bog knew she was feeling desperate and helpless, prompting him to remark, “You're not used to letting anyone else drive, are you?”

“Just—just do the thing!”

“Why do you keep assuming I know what I'm doing?”

“Call up the AI,” the Doctor closed her eyes, taking a moment to compose herself before adding, “please.”

“Since you asked nicely,” Bog rolled his head back dramatically and shouted up at the trees, “Summoning the mighty black cloud of death currently piloting a small army of plant people! You there? We need to talk.”

“No need to shout, I'm right here!”

Bog almost took his hands off the amber when he heard Roland's voice.

The Doctor automatically smacked his hands back down.

Shifting awkwardly around, Bog saw that Roland was indeed there, looking disapprovingly at the various forms of nature that were daring to deface the bright polish of his shoes

“He's supposed to be sleeping it off!” Bog looked accusingly at the Doctor.

“Oh,” Roland waved a hand and laugh a superior little laugh, “I'm not actually Roland! I'm merely a reflection of his brilliant mind and exemplary face.”

“You're the reprogrammed AI,” the Doctor looked disgusted, “I'm not even slightly surprised. Just really, really tired.”

“I'm here to keep you from cheating,” the AI said with a wink, “The rules were set out, sweetheart, and there are still only two choices. You either push the button . . . or you don't. Save countless lives or your precious houseplant. That's it, those are all your options, sweetpea. Anything else is just wasting your time. Oh, and putting thousands of lives at risk.”

Bog looked away from Roland's beaming face and asked the Doctor, “So we have to get past him, then? I don't suppose he's punchable?”

“Try giving him an order.”

“Hey, Marilyn Monroe, turn off the plant army.”

“No can do!” Roland shook his head cheerfully.

“Unplug me from the program.”

“Completely impossible!”

“Um,” Bog hesitated, trying to think of another order worth trying.

“Send him away,” the Doctor ordered.

“Can I do that?”

“You can try.”

“Beat it, prince smarmy.”

Roland vanished without even flashing a parting smile.

“Huh,” the Doctor said, hand on her hip—her other hand still on Bog's, “wish that worked in reality too.”

“In a perfect world . . .” Bog nodded in wistful agreement, “Anyway, if I try and deal directly with the AI I'm dealing with him?”

“Essentially. He's a layer of protection that you have to get past. Your previous attempts to override the AI you tried doing it roundabout, through the part specifically controlling the soldiers. This was direct contact with the new interface.”

“Lovely. What are our options, aside from the dumb ones we're not using?”

The Doctor walked away and sat down on a a tree stump, elbows on her knees and chin propped up on her fists. She stared hard at the empty space of the small clearing. Her face and hands were covered with dirt and grease even though she was in a strictly mental plane of existence and could probably look how she pleased. Bog wondered what that said about her, that her clothing was still dusty, boots scuffed, and hair stuck up in tufts.

Bog left her to her thinking.

He decided to try again at switching off the part of the AI controlling the plants. When that didn't work he tried going through the interface directly.

The next thing he knew the Doctor was guiding his sudden descent to the ground so that he didn't hit his head on anything. Roland's laughter over the failed attempt was still ringing in his ears. The Doctor shoved him around so he was sitting with his back to the tree and dropped herself next to him.

“That way is going to kill you without doing anybody any good.”

“I'm beginning to see that,” Bog replied, his heart racing and ears ringing, “I really hate that AI. I liked it more when it was just a black cloud of death. What do we try next, then?”

The Doctor was staring at the clearing again.

At a box, a couple of feet tall, topped with a large red gem the size of Bog's fist.

“Big red . . . button? Is that supposed to be the kill switch?” Bog asked, still breathing hard, “That better not be the kill switch.”

“It's in my pocket, in reality,” the Doctor said, not taking her eyes off the box, “I've got my hand on it now. I could press it this moment if you told me to.”

“I'm telling you not to!” Bog said quickly, “Definitely not!”

“I assumed. But that's our option, so far as I can see. Don't press the button. Press the button. Save one or save many.”

“He's doing this on purpose,” Bog realized, “This is because--”

“I know why he's doing it,” the Doctor cut him off, “and I might even consider him justified if he didn't keep dragging other people into it! And he knows what choice I'll make, he knows that I'll talk and I'll talk until I have you pressing the button and think it's your own idea, that you're a noble martyr through your own choice. I might as well push the button myself because your death would be on me anyway. Maybe even I'll believe it for a second, the noble philosopher, making hard choices for the greater good, standing on the high moral ground of her principles.”

Coat dragging over the roots of the tree, the Doctor rolled to her feet and went to walk around the box, leaving Bog at the base of the tree, listening dumbly to her ranting.

“And you were only picked and shoved into this dilemma because, apparently, in some aborted time line we would have known each other and that would have been important somehow. Us knowing each other is important, something comes from that which contributes to a fixed point in time so . . . I can't let you die! Because that would break a fixed point in time and have all of time happening at once and that is never fun, let me tell you!”

Clouds were rolling across the sky, casting the clearing into darker shadows, the sunlight outlining the clouds with a halo of red fire.

“If . . .” Bog found his throat was dry and he had to swallow hard before he could continue, “If I died . . . that would save my mom. My aunt Aura. I can't wrap my head around the whole city, but . . . my mom. My band. My boss at the bar.”

“It would,” the Doctor's words were blunt, “it would save them. Everyone like them. But, time--”

“I can't imagine that I'm so important to history that it can't do without me,” Bog laughed, “I'm just some rock star wannabe that no one will ever hear about. And we met. Maybe you'll do something important because you met me, and that's what was meant to happen. Maybe you take my guitar and use it to smash Roland over the head and save the world.”

“It isn't . . . it's not impossible.”

“Then there is a choice. I'm not saying I've made up my mind about it, but that's . . . still a choice. A choice that might, well, make up for some things.”

Some things that could never be undone, or even fixed. But maybe it could just be a little better. Make up for that little boy bleeding out on the floor, dead by Bog’s hand, because he thought the room had been cleared, but . . .

The Doctor dropped back down next to him and leaned her forehead on his shoulder. Bog rather thought there might have been more mental bleed-through and that she had picked up on his train of thought.

“Stop being noble. Being dead doesn’t help anybody.”

“I'm really not. It's just . . . a hard choice. And somebody has to make it.”

“You should never have been put in this position.”

“All because I might have known you someday, huh? I assume the whole, um, romantic angle is just in Roland's head?”

“I can only suppose,” the Doctor shrugged, still leaning on Bog, her fingers playing over the wrinkles in the sleeve of his jacket, “Anything is possible, but some things are more unlikely than others.”

“How unlikely? Because I've believed six impossible things before breakfast today, so, I've not really got a good grasp of probability right now.”

The Doctor lifted her head and squinted at him with an expression of deep confusion, “Sorry, been a stressful day, have to forgive me for not quite keeping up . . . but for a second there it sounded like . . .”

The Doctor struggled to find the proper words, waving her hands slowly around as if she might snatch something out of the air to help her complete the question.

“. . . flirting?”

Bog burst into laughter even as his face turned hot with embarrassment.

“Knew I was wrong,” the Doctor folded her arms and shifted herself to sit forward facing, “This is awkward.”

“I'm sorry!” Bog wheezed through his laughter, “Your face was just amazing! You looked like you were in agony!”

“I am now.”

Bog covered his face with his hands, still choking on his laughter, “You should push that button now, I want to die.”

“Glad to oblige.”

The Doctor began to stand up.

Bog grabbed her arm and she fell back down again, tangled up on the ground next to him, their faces inches apart.

“Look,'” He said, aware that his pale complexion must have been red as a tomato at that point, “It's either the end of the world or the end of me, so . . .”

“So?” the Doctor asked, looking thoroughly lost.

“So, um, I'm going to do something stupid.”

“How stupid--?” the Doctor was asking when Bog leaned down and kissed her.