#side note why are my joints squeaky?

[i-dont-know-nor-care-go-away]

hogwarts legacy is shitty and if you even pirate it, I will bite you and give you fucking rabies

My Jewish friends,

in conclusion, fuck you people that support that game, all my homies hate that game

[topgun-imagines]

Forget Me Not (ii)

Requested: no

Summary: Jake struggles with coming to terms with new information from your doctor. Rooster and Phoenix try to convince him to tell you the truth.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Amnesia, memory loss, possibly inaccurate medical terminology, injury’s, plane crash, miscarriage, hospitals, angst.

Pairings: Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x wife!reader

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“Lieutenant,” the man started, glancing down at his notes. “I regret to inform you,” He paused once more and Jake really wished that the man would just spit it out already. “Your wife was eight weeks pregnant. Unfortunately, there was nothing that could be done to save the baby.” Suddenly, Jake’s whole world came crashing down around him.

His knees dropped out from under him. Within seconds, Rooster was by his side, grabbing the large pilot before he could crash into the ground. The mustached aviator thanked the doctor quietly as he pulled Jake into him. As the older man stepped away, Jake’s breathing sped up. You were two months pregnant. With his baby. He had no idea and if you did, you probably didn’t even remember by now.

“Jake, you gotta tell me what’s goin’ on.” Bradley murmured as fat tears began rolling down Jake’s cheeks. He hated the fact that he was now crying in front of Bradley and Natasha but at the thought of his wife losing their baby, he couldn’t help it.

Holding him tightly, Bradley waited patiently for the pilot to explain what news the doctor had given him. “She was pregnant,” The pilot eventually choked out. Bradley couldn’t help but focus on the was. “She lost it in the crash. The doctor said that there was nothing that they could do to save it.” Sighing, Bradley squeezed his wingman tighter. He knew that the two of you had been trying to get pregnant ever since you got married. The two of you would make amazing parents, everyone was sure of it.

Now, Jake not only had to deal with the fact that he couldn’t tell you that you were married, he also couldn’t tell you that you were pregnant. He sniffled quietly in Bradley’s arms. Jake had no idea what he was going to do.

You woke up to the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Blinking slowly, you sat up on the squeaky bed and groaned as your joints cracked. A few moments passed as you sat in silence, mulling over everything that had happened since you woke up. You instantly thought of Jake. the man was so familiar and yet you couldn’t even remember him. It was driving you crazy.

Seconds later the same nurse from earlier walked in, interrupting your train of thought. She smiled at you kindly. “How are you feeling now, Dear?” The elderly woman questioned as she began taking your vitals. You watched her silently for a few seconds.

“A bit better,” You started. “My breathing is a little easier and my leg doesn’t hurt as bad,” You gestured toward your leg resting on the bed in a white cast. The nurse nodded, jotting down a few notes before informing you that she would be back later and moving to step out of your room. “Could you actually do me a favor ma’am?” You question shyly. She nodded, looking up and watching you patiently. “Could you please send Jake in?”

With a knowing smile, the elderly nurse nodded and stepped out of your room to fetch the pilot. There were butterflies fluttering all around your stomach as you willed yourself not to stare at the door. You didn’t know why you were so anxious to see him. The gentle knock on your door had your head turning so fast you almost got whiplash.

Jake was standing there with a hesitant look on his face. If you looked close enough, you could see the tear stains on his cheeks. You blushed slightly under his heavy gaze and patted the arm of the chair next to you. “How’re you feeling?” Jake questioned as he sat down on the plastic chair. At that moment you realized that he had spent four days waiting for you to wake up in that same uncomfortable plastic chair, and never complained one bit. Did you really mean that much to him?

“A bit better,” You started, noticing the small smile that rose on Jake’s face. “I still can’t remember anything, if that’s what you’re wondering.” That was all he could have wanted. You assumed that that was all he was worried about.

Immediately, the pilot began shaking his head. “That isn’t all I was asking. I really did want to know if you were okay,” Now it was your turn to smile, cheeks turning a crimson colour at the sincerity of his words. Jake grinned. He was glad that he could still make you smile like that. “I was wondering, if you’re feeling up to it,” He started. “If you would like to meet some friends?” He watched you carefully to gauge your reaction.

You sucked in a breath. Even though you were anxious to meet people that you may not even remember, you knew that it would need to happen eventually. For some reason, You trusted Jake. Part of you knew that he would never purposely put you in an uncomfortable position. You nodded and Jake smiled softly.

After a few last words, Jake stepped out of the room to retrieve Bradley and Natasha. You waited anxiously, plucking at a loose thread on the scratchy hospital sheets.

Phoenix had her head resting on Bradley’s shoulder as she watched him play Candy Crush. His thumb stopped moving across the screen when he heard someone approach them. Through sleepy eyes, Phoenix looked up at Jake. The two tired pilots waited for Jake to begin speaking. “She wants to see you two,” Without further explanation, they stood from the hard chair and followed Jake down the hall. He stopped them in front of your room. “Please, don’t say anything about us or the baby.” Jake practically pleaded with them. They nodded with sympathetic expressions.

When your door cracked open, your head shot up to watch who was going to walk in. Jake came in first, followed by a woman that looked oddly familiar, you just couldn’t remember her name. But you could remember seeing her at a navy bar one night. It was just after you were stationed in Lemoore. And then the second person walked in. You immediately recognized the mustache.

“Bradley?” Jake felt his stomach drop. You remembered Bradshaw, and yet you couldn’t remember your own husband. Bradley spoke your nickname quietly, looking at Jake for permission before sitting in that same uncomfortable chair. “Why,” You started, glancing between Bradley, the strange woman, and Jake. You couldn’t help but notice the empty look in his eyes and the white skin around his knuckles as he clenched his fists. “Why can I remember you and no one else?”

Bradley smiled at you gently. The two of you had been stationed overseas when you first met. It was only a few months before when you met your future husband. You and Bradley had instantly hit it off, and ever since then, he had thought of you as a little sister. “I think it's because we met first.” He was trying to communicate a silent message to Jake. The only reason that you could remember Bradley and not him was simply because you met first. Not because you cared about Bradley more than Jake.

Jake nodded to himself, knowing that whether he wanted to believe it or not, Bradley’s words were true. Seconds later, you were nodding as well.

Standing up, Bradley moved next to Phoenix, encouraging her to introduce herself. The female pilot had tears in her eyes. Over the past three years, ever since you met, the two of you had become best friends. She was your maid of honour when you got married to Jake. Even though you couldn’t remember it, she was there to hold your hair back when you were throwing up, she was there every time you anxiously took a pregnancy test, and she was there for you after each negative result. She knew you better than anyone and the same was true for you.

“My name’s Natasha,” She started. Her words were watery and she willed herself not to cry. “We met a few years ago in Lemoore and we’ve been best friends ever since.” Now you were almost in tears. You couldn’t believe that you had forgotten your own best friend.

Jake watched as you and Phoenix became reacquainted, the female pilot filling you in on all the crazy adventures you had over the past few years. There was a small smile on his face. He loved seeing you happy, and the bright grin on your face was the best sight he had seen in weeks. He shared a look with Bradley, silently thanking him for staying by his side throughout all of this. The two of them sat down on the other plastic chairs in the far corner of the room, watching you and Natasha laugh with soft smiles.

Everything seemed to be taking a turn for the better now. Given everything that happened yesterday, Jake was almost positive that things would never get better. He knew that eventually, he would have to tell you everything. But for now, he was only focused on the wide smile on your face. Maybe everything would be okay after all.

a/n: Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for future parts and let me know if you would like to be tagged! Requests are open <3

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[saynotoshityouhate]

Taking Back Control

Summary: Bucky’s owning his traumatic narrative and taking his life into his own hands. I’m not sure his therapist would approve. 

Word Count: 1,549

Tags/Warnings: Poor stress relief tips, Mind Control, dom!bucky, trauma, therapy, oral (male receiving), facial (not the kind you get at the spa), aftercare

Bucky had texted you as he got ready to leave the office. 

I’ll be home in thirty minutes. Prepare yourself. 

You had been eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s on the couch, still in your PJs, when your phone chimed. “Fuck!” You read the text and scrambled to stand up. You rushed to clean up your mess from earlier before jumping into the shower. He expected you to be squeaky clean before he’d lay even his mechanical hand on you. You also set up your aftercare supplies, making it as easy for Bucky to take care of you as possible. With nervous excitement, you put on his favorite lacy, black lingerie that made you look like a sexy assassin. It was sorta his thing. 

Bucky got into his blacked out Mercedes and raced home. He had a really difficult day at work and knowing he’d be able to see you and have some control over something today was already providing him with some relief. After “graduating” from Wakanda and his Winter Soldier related trauma, he sought to take life into his own two hands - especially the vibranium one. He began learning the science behind mind control - similar to what was utilized on him. You two had been dating for two years at that time, and looking for a way to spice things up in the bedroom. Bucky brought the idea of erotic mind control to you one night, explaining how everything would work, and why it was important for him to try as part of his healing process. He walked you through all of the ground rules and was open to hearing all of your questions and concerns. You loved him and were willing to try anything once. 

Well, one time turned into two, and two turned into three. Now, about a year later, you were going under once a month, for no longer than an hour. He was extremely protective of you, regardless of the pleasure it brought him. You noticed a difference in him, a calmness that wasn’t always present in stressful times earlier in your relationship. He was never hurtful towards you, of course not, but his coping mechanisms for the loudness in his head weren’t healthy either. This allowed him to take back his own narrative and process his internal struggles with you by his side. 

You resumed your movie, as if nothing had changed from earlier, the pint of Hunka Hulka Burnin Fudge almost empty. Nothing had changed other than your outfit and the butterflies in your stomach. Bucky liked you to be calm and relaxed before getting started - not anxious or uncomfortable. He found it to be easier to implement the triggers when you were more comfortable. 

Bucky pulled into the driveway, nervously tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath and exited, walking towards the front door. He carried the stress of the day in his shoulders, draped in an exquisite blue suit and crisp white dress shirt. He had already removed his tie in the car, opening the top two buttons. He ran his hands through his hair before walking inside. 

Your eyes got wide seeing him walk through the door. You smiled at him, face turning to concern as he ignored you, kicking off his dress shoes and whipping off his suit coat. You could see the tension rippling through his back muscles underneath the white button down. He looked back at you and whipped his mechanical arm around, as if to stretch the shoulder joint in preparation. You sat up straighter at that, adjusting the lingerie that had shifted as you lounged on the couch. 

Moving his eyes over to you, his gaze softened as he looked you over. You really were beautiful, he knew that from the first time he saw you. “Ready?” He asked, giving you one last chance to back out of the evening’s activities. You nodded your head in agreement as he made his way over to you. “You know I need to hear you say it, doll. Use those pretty words of yours.” He looked down at you, one eyebrow raised sternly. “Yes, Mr. Barnes. I am ready.” You winked at him. He sat down next to you on the couch, taking both of your hands into his and looked directly into your eyes. His crystal blue eyes were hidden by the darkest black pupils, highlighted by bloodshot whites indicating his increased stress level. “I love you,” he stated clearly, squeezing your hands in punctuation. “I love you too, Buck.” “Alright, let’s begin.”

“Rain.” The smell of an impending rainstorm was one of your favorite things. 

“Fern.” The first gift Bucky got you for your birthday, when you thought you had a green thumb. 

“Crewneck.” The sweatshirt Bucky lets you wear to bed that smells like him. 

“Nashville.” Your favorite city in the world and first place you and Bucky went on vacation together. 

“Butterfly.” The tattoo on your right shoulder you got on a drunken night out in college. 

“Subway.” The place Bucky told you he loved you for the first time. 

“Doll?” Bucky cocked his head to the side, looking into your eyes to see if you were still awake. 

“Ready to comply.” 

Your body was relaxed, but at attention. You maintained your eye contact with Bucky, awaiting instructions. Looking at his wrist watch to note the time, he gave your hands a final squeeze. Standing up, he brought you with him. “Remove my clothing.” “Yes, Mr. Barnes.” 

You dropped his hands and began unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. You pulled it from his arms and shoulders before neatly folding it and placing it on the coffee table. You repeated this step for his undershirt before unbuckling his belt and placing that to the side. “Kneel,” he commanded. “Yes, Mr. Barnes.” Moving to your knees, you unbuttoned his dress pants. Moving the zipper downward, Bucky’s hips jutted forward with just the slightest touch of your fingers on his hardened length. You slid his pants downwards, and while still on your knees, you helped him step out of the pants and folded them as well. Placing them to the side, Bucky became inpatient. “Quicker movements, doll.” You snapped to attention. “Yes, Mr. Barnes.” Grabbing the waistband of his boxers, you ripped them down his legs, freeing his cock in the process. Bucky groaned as you resumed your folding and placing of clothing items. 

“Open your mouth.” “Yes, Mr. Barnes.” Your jaw relaxed, and wasting no time Bucky moved himself into your warm, salivating mouth. Bucky moaned, his head lolling back. He absolutely loved this feeling. He moved his hands to the back of your head, gently moving you in time with his hip thrusts. You gagged, eyes watering and saliva pooling in the corners of your mouth. Even under mind control, your body wasn’t made to handle his size and strength. “Play with my balls,” Bucky grunted, sensing he was getting close. “Yeff, Merrr Brunss,” you replied, mouth too full to clearly speak but still following your directives. You moved your right hand underneath him, feeling for his warm, tightening balls, which you kneaded and squeezed. “Fuuuuck yes, doll, you feel so good,” Bucky moaned, his hips stuttering with the new sensation. 

“Prepare yourself.” Bucky growled the command. Mumbling your acknowledgment, you moved your hand from his balls and placed them on your thighs. You sat back on your heels, his cock falling from your mouth along with a mixture of saliva and pre-cum. You leaned your head back slightly, closing your eyes and keeping your mouth open. Bucky moved his mechanical hand up and down his shaft, gazing with hazy eyes upon his compliant, beautiful doll. How did he possibly get so lucky to have a woman like you to love. And with that thought, Bucky groaned, painting your face with his load. You stayed still, waiting for your next direction, despite the cum dripping into the corners of your eyes and falling from your chin onto your chest. 

Bucky looked at his watch. It hadn’t been an hour yet, but he was already exhausted from the day. He was ready for you to come back to him, the real you. Bucky reached over to the side table, where you had placed water and towels before he got home. He handed you a wet towel. “Clean off your face.” “Yes, Mr. Barnes.” 

After wiping your face clean, Bucky lifted you to a standing position. Holding your hands, he walked you over to the couch, where he began reciting your trigger words in the opposite order. 

“Doll? Come back to me, doll.” You smiled up at him, his shoulders sloped downwards, a sheen across his forehead and chest from the exertion. “Hi.” Bucky leaned in, kissing you deeply. “How do you feel, are you okay?” He held your face in his hands as he wiped away some leftover spend from your cheeks. “Of course, darling,” you replied. “I’m going to go wash my face. You get dressed and then we’ll have some dinner, okay?” He smiled and squeezed your hands again as you stood up to walk away. 

You chuckled to yourself as you entered the bathroom. He’d never find out you were never really under his control.

[dreamescapeswriting]

Taste Of Your Own Medicine ~ PJM [Request]

↬↬↬Word Count: 2.4K

↬↬↬Genre: Fluffy, angst? Savage Reader finally takes a stand, the y/n I want to be

↬↬↬Pairing: Jimin x Fem!Reader

↬↬↬A/N: Hope this Is okay for you my love!

What was supposed to be a relaxing honeymoon turned into a stressed-filled weekend away with Jimin and his girlfriend who hated you, she hated you because you were married to Jimin and not her.

"You said whatever I want I get," You heard her whine as you flicked over the pages of the report in your hand, the weekend was supposed to be spent relaxing in the huge hotel but instead you were working since you weren't having a real honeymoon. Yourself and Jimin were married because of family arrangements, Park Industries and Kim Industries were going into business together and that why you had been married. It had been arranged that way since the day of your 16th birthday so you knew the time had been coming where you would have to marry someone you did not love. Myung stomped her foot down like an immature child who couldn't get their own way and in return, you rolled your eyes, Jimin glanced over at you and then back to Myung as he handed her some more money.

"She's going to run you into the ground Jimin," You stated once she left the hotel room you'd been hiding out in for the last day and a half, luckily you would get to go home soon. That 10 bedroom mansion was looking really good to you right now, plenty of places to hide away from Myung and her high pitched squeaky voice.

"Shut up, I have enough money to spoil her if I want to." You nodded sarcastically and shut the folder you'd been working from, you weren't going to be able to concentrate on anything with either of them around.

"Whatever, but when she finally makes you broke don't come crying to me. We had an agreement." The agreement. He could date whoever he wanted as long as he kept it out of the press and kept it quiet, any of the girls he dated had to sign an NDA to make sure they couldn't talk about anything between themselves and Jimin. You didn't want his player like behaviour coming back and making your company take a hit. You were doing this for a reason and you weren't just going to let him throw it away over some pussy.

"I know we do. You're just jealous it's not you that I'm buying everything for," You scoffed rolling your eyes so hard you thought they might roll out of your head and in front of Jimin but he scoffed back at you,

"Trust me Jimin, if I really wanted something I could go out and buy it for myself since I'm not a gold-digging girl who's never worked a day in her life," You hit him on the shoulder with your folder and walked into the joint bedroom that was in the room, sliding your work into your side bag and looking for your swimming costume.

"She's has a job!" He defended barging into your room as he watched you hunting around for something, he was always doing this. Trying so hard to defend her against you but you didn't care, you never had. As long as she stayed out of your way you wouldn't care.

"Please Jimin, fucking you on your desk at work doesn't count as a job...Unless you've started paying her for that like the last one," You smirked at yourself knowing you were winding him up, it was one of your favourite things to do to him while he was mad about something,

"Just because you wouldn't know real love if it hit you in the face!" He yelled right as you walked out of the hotel room door carrying a small bag with you as you walked away, he was right though. You'd never done the whole falling in love thing because you never had time. You'd studied for most of your life and when you turned 16 your love-life was mapped out for you and marriage was presented to you with a pretty pink bow on top. Not that it was anything like your mother described it to be. It was a living nightmare and you'd only been married a week.

Months began to pass into your marriage and the longer Jimin stayed with Myung the more you began to think he might actually love her,

"Boss?" You frowned turning to your attention back to Jungkook who was waving his hands in front of your face, he was holding up papers that you were supposed to be signing.

"Sorry Jungkook, I'm away with the fairies today." You laughed softly trying to make a joke rather than to tell him what was really bothering you, Jimin had been spending a lot more time with Myung lately and you were beginning to think that he might blow the whole marriage thing for her - it wouldn't be a bad thing but your parents needed this marriage to be able to work.

"Can you call my mother and my lawyer for me, I need to speak with them about something right away," Jungkook wasn't an idiot he knew about the arrangement between you and Jimin, everyone in your office building did since whenever he came to see you he brought her along with him.

"I'll get right on it, you have a meeting this morning though with Namjoon and Jin, Taehyung can't make it." Your adoptive brothers who were also all in on the arranged marriages and had their own to deal with. Maybe you could go to them to get some advice on what to do with Jimin.

"As more time passes the more expensive these gifts are getting for her, I know he's not using my money but he's going to make himself poor." You said to Jin as he plated you up some food, you were having a lunch meeting in the conference room of your building.

"You can't do anything though...Can she?" Jin directed his question to Namjoon who was reading through the marriage contracts that you and Jimin had both signed. His eyebrows were knitted together as he tried to make sense of everything that was written there, it was nearly impossible since it seemed like a 3-year-old could have written out a better contract.

"You both signed a prenup, right?" You nodded as you poured everyone a drink sitting down and picking up your chopsticks, you had no idea what Namjoon was trying to suggest. The divorce wasn't allowed to happen unless there was a clear reason,

"He's with someone else, you could file for adultery?" You shook your head as you pushed food into your mouth,

"We said he could date whoever-"

"It's not in the contract," He smirked as he cut you off sliding the contract over to you as he began to eat his own food, you skimmed through everything on the pages and it was true. Filing for divorce would be great right now but what would happen if he didn't sign the papers?

"Think you can trick him into signing them somehow?" Jin asked right before he shoved a bunch of food into his mouth and began groaning about how good it tasted, it was like living with pigs.

"No, that wouldn't hold up in court either since it's fraud!" You yelled at him playfully shaking your head and trying to come up with a way that you could do this properly.

Later that night you were sitting in your office reading over everything you could about divorce, your mother had come to see you telling you that it was better to stick the marriage out - even though you weren't happy and never could be. Your lawyer, on the other hand, seemed to think it would be best to file for a divorce and then wait to serve him the documents yourself, Hoseok always had a flair for the dramatics so it was no surprise that he wanted to do it that way.

"Mrs Park." You cringed at the way Jungkook called you that, you'd asked him so many times to just call you Y/n instead but he never did it.

"Yes, Jungkook?" You mumbled tearing your eyes away from the pages to see him standing there holding your coat and an umbrella,

"It's late, you should be going home." You sighed turning to look out of the window, you hadn't even realised it was past midnight until you realised the only places open were the 24-hour supermarkets and a couple of bars.

"I think I'm going to stay here for the night, Jimin and Myung are getting on rather well lately. I don't want to be at home for that." Jungkook walked further into the room shaking his head at you he hated that you tortured yourself this way but that was when he spotted the divorce papers, you'd circled adultery for Jimin and left yours blank.

"You never went to anyone else?" Frowning you looked down at the papers he was staring at and you shook your head,

"Nope, I'm too busy to try and find someone to like me back." You laughed softly trying to cover up the papers but Jungkook insisted on talking about it.

"You'd find someone I'm sure of it boss, you're an amazing woman who isn't afraid to stick up for herself. Men like that." You smiled sweetly at him, he'd always been sweet like this with you and you knew deep down it was because he had a crush on you but you would never do something like that in the workplace. It would be all kinds of wrong.

"I'll go home Jungkook, do you want a ride home? Saves you catching the train?" He nodded and thanked you while he held out your coat for you to slip into.

Jimin was flat out broke, he'd run his money into the ground a few months after you'd spoken to the lawyer about divorcing him. The papers were ready and were just waiting for Jimin to sign it all.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Jungkook said as he watched Jimin walking towards your office, you had glass doors that overlooked everything inside of the building on your floor which meant you could see how upset Jimin was right now.

"Have you seen Myung?"

"Not since last night, why?" She'd been up late in the night with you talking about how she had big plans for her and Jimin to go away together on her new private jet. The third one that Jimin had bought her this month alone, the one thing that sent his money running away from him.

"She's gone, left me some stupid note telling me how she was leaving with someone else." You stared at him and nodded your head, you felt no sympathy for him. For the last three years, you'd warned him that she would do this to him, even before you were married you told him she'd leave him as soon as the money dried up.

"You're broke right?" He nodded his head not seeing what any of if it had to do with Myung,

"I told you she was only after your money." You stood up from the desk and took the papers that Jungkook had in his folder.

"Please sign it, give it to your lawyer to look over in case anything is wrong." Jimin's mouth fell open as he took the papers into his hands to see what it was,

"Divorce papers, you can't do this to me. It's an arranged marriage," You smiled at him sarcastically, you didn't care if the Queen of England had arranged the marriage herself there was no way you were going to stay with him.

"She left with all my money and now you're leaving me?"

"Park Industries is being shut down, we have no obligations to one another anymore." You stated plainly picking up your handbag and going towards your office door but Jimin took hold of your wrist to stop you from leaving him there alone,

"Y/n- We're married, you can't just leave me. She left me! You were right okay! But you don't have to do this to me, please don't leave me with nothing." You stared down at him your heart aching as he yelled at you to help him through this bad time but you looked away from him.

"I'll never do it again, I'll stay with you! That's what you want, isn't it? Me to stay with you?"

"No Jimin! That's not what I want at all, I want a chance at true love with someone that isn't forced to stay with me." You snapped at him scoffing as he started laughing at you, even now he was arrogant and condescending.

"You won't get that, people like us don't get true love, we get people that use us for our money." Your hand locked with Jungkook's as you stared at Jimin,

"I see." He laughed loudly causing people to turn around and look at you as you and Jungkook tried to walk away but he continued to follow you shouting out abuse as he walked.

"I filed for adultery on both parts Jimin, don't scream at me when you did this." You mumbled to him shoving the papers back into his chest, he held onto your hand as you did so and stared into your eyes.

"We're supposed to stick together-"

"Just like you stuck with me when Myung was in your life? Or is that different because you were the one in love?!" You called him out on his bullshit and he took a step back from you as you stood up for yourself, you weren't about to let him away with all of the shit he'd done. Running to you whenever he and Myung would have an argument or he needed a little extra cash to tide him over from another payday. You were done playing those games with him.

"How does it feel to have a taste of your own medicine." You scoffed getting into the elevator and closing the doors before Jimin could say a word back to you. Jungkook squeezed your hand before raising it to his lips and giving you a small kiss to let you know he was proud of you. You felt alive and in power for once while Jimin was staring down at the papers, security escorting him off the premises as he tried to think of a way to explain all of this to his family.

Tagline: @snowy-meowl @jooniesdarlingdimples @lyoongx @mitzwinchester​ @fan-ati--c​ @rjsmochii​ @callingmyangel​ @kneel-begyourpardon​ @taestannie​ @innersooya​ @sw33tnight​

[chiseler]

BUTTER KNIFE SLIDE

In the early ’90s, I was the Editor-at-Large at The Welcomat, a Philadelphia-based alternative weekly. I was living in Brooklyn at the time, but every Thursday I would hop on a NJ Transit commuter train for the three and a half hour trip to Philly. After arriving at 30th Street station, I’d walk across the river into Center City to the paper’s offices, which were housed in a building on the corner of 17th and Sansom. I’d make a right in the building’s small lobby, take the elevator to the Third floor, and walk to the back, where the editorial department was located. Even before saying hi to the other editors, I’d drop my bag on my desk, step over to the office boombox, sort through the small batch of cassettes stacked next to it, throw in Delta bluesman Cedell Davis’ debut album, Feel Like Doin’ Something Wrong, and punch the play button. Without fail, once those first notes hit the air, an audible and pained collective groan arose from every throat in the room.

While my own aesthetic sensibilities were just as offended as my co-workers’, over time I came to have a real and solid affection for Davis, the same way you come to cherish a middle child with a droopy eye or a pet rabbit with the mange.

To the uninitiated, the first moments of the opening track on Davis’ album, “I Don’t Know Why,” might have been produced when a large bull walrus with a head cold and an untuned autoharp were tossed into an enormous blender together. Those same listeners might even cynically conclude the album’s title was a direct reference to the last thing Davis muttered before stepping into the recording studio. At the very least, Davis’ caterwauling guitar and his own strangled yelping vocals might be seen as proof positive there really is such a thing as an authentic Delta Blues singer who is  absolutely godawful. As one friend put it, “If you’re bad enough, you get to be ‘authentic’.’”

That said, over the years Davis idiosyncratic style also earned him some fierce, high-profile defenders. Love and respect him or cringe at the mere mention of his name, no one can deny Davis had a legitimate claim to the blues.

Ellis Cedell Davis recorded Feel Like Doin’ Something Wrong for Fat Possum Records when he was sixty-eight years old,  but his career as a workaday delta bluesman began roughly half a century earlier.

Davis was born in Helena, Arkansas, in 1926. At the time Helena was a bustling Delta port town, where his father ran one of the city’s countless juke joints and his devout Evangelical mother, while working as a cook, was better known among locals as a faith healer. Perhaps on account of all the sordid temptations waiting around every corner in Helena—it was a town rife with bootleggers, gamblers and hookers—young Cedell was sent a ways upstream to live with his older brother on the E. M. Hood plantation. There he became friends with Isaiah Ross, and the pair, only seven or eight at the time, began playing blues. Davis’ mother insisted the music was the handiwork of Satan, but it was the music that surrounded them, it was the music they knew, the pair often sneaking into local juke joints to catch live performances. Davis began with the diddly bow, a single wire nailed to a wall and plucked, before moving on to harmonica and guitar. Ross, meanwhile, stuck with the harmonica and would later be signed to Sam Phillips’ Sun Records as Dr. Ross, the Harmonica Boss.

When he was ten, Davis contracted a severe case of polio which left him nearly paralyzed. He returned to Helena, where it was hoped his mother’s healing powers might be able to save him. Well, Davis survived, but the muscles of his legs were so deteriorated he was forced to walk with crutches. Worse for the budding musician, he lost a good deal of control over his left hand, and his right was gnarled and completely useless. Being a right-handed guitar player, this was bad news.

In the early ’80s, Davis told New York Times music critic Robert Palmer—a tireless champion of Davis’ music—that it took him three years to figure out how to play again.

He flipped the guitar around to start teaching himself to play left-handed, but even then, with his right hand unable to work the fret board, he knew he needed something to use as a slide, so swiped a butter knife from his mother’s silverware collection, using the handle to work the frets.

In 2017, shortly before his death, Davis told an interviewer. “Almost everything that you could do with your hands, I could do it with the knife. It’s all in the way you handle it. Drag, slide, push it up and down.”

To unsophisticated ears, the grinding shriek resulting from the butter knife slide working the strings might be reminiscent of a cat in heat caught in a ceiling fan, but Mr. Palmer, being a rock critic, recognized its virtues, describing it as only a rock critic could: "a welter of metal-stress harmonic transients and a singular tonal plasticity.” Palmer also argued that Davis’ wholly unique sound wasn’t merely the untuned inchoate noise so many claimed, noting the subtleties of the guitar work remained consistent performance to performance.

In the early 1940s, while in his teens, Davis started playing on street corners around Helena, sometimes working as a duo with Ross. Soon enough he found himself booked in the local juke joints, playing house parties, and appearing on local radio blues shows. He became friends with a number of the era’s most notable Delta Blues luminaries, including Sonny Boy Williamson, Big Joe Williams, Robert Nighthawk and Charlie Jordan. In 1953 Davis teamed up with Nighthawk, a famed slide guitarist in his own right, and the pair began playing all over the Mississippi Delta region, eventually relocating to St. Louis. Davis, it was said, had a Buddha like presence on stage, a radiant calm that seemed to defuse even the most unruly of crowds. It apparently didn’t always come through.

In 1957, while the pair was playing a gig at a bar in East St. Louis, someone in the audience pulled a gun. This sparked a panic in the crowd that only escalated when cops raided the place. Davis was caught in the resulting stampede, and trampled under lord knows how many feet. The bones in his legs weren’t merely broken, they were shattered, confining him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

Just as he was determined, for better or worse, not to let polio and a ruined right hand stop him from playing music, he didn’t let the wheelchair slow him down either. Shortly after he got out of the hospital, he and Nighthawk returned to Helena, where the duo continued performing together. When Nighthawk snared them a regular house gig at a nightclub in Pine Bluff, Arkansas in 1961, Davis picked up and moved there.

(As an interesting side note, Pine Bluff was home to an enormous U.S. Army chemical and bioweapons storage facility. It’s unclear if these two things are connected, but if you take Davis at his word, the town also boasted the fattest women in the world, an observation that inspired his song, “If You Like Fat Women,”)

Davis and Nighthawk went their separate ways in 1963, after ten years of playing together. Davis would remain in Pine Bluff for the next few decades, still playing the juke joints around the Delta.

(As another side note, throughout his career Davis remained adamantly vague when it came to questions about his marital status. He might have been married twice, or maybe not at all. It’s unclear. He knows he had a few kids, maybe even some grandkids, but he was no longer in touch with any of them.)

In the mid-’70s, like so many other folklorists inspired by Harry Smith and Alan Lomax, Louis Guida began trolling the Deep South with a tape recorder, hoping to make field recordings of some as-yet-undiscovered authentic blues legend along the way. In 1976 he stumbled across Davis playing in a bar, and those first recordings appeared on Guida’s compilation album, Keep It to Yourself: Arkansas Blues Volume 1, Solo Performances, which came out in the early ’80s.

And here we go. Robert Palmer heard that album and headed to Arkansas to catch Davis’ act, writing the first of many stories about him for the Times and other publications. Over the course of the decade, Palmer’s endless championing of Davis earned the man with the butter knife slide gigs not only all over the country (including a multi-night stand in NYC), but around the world as well. Suddenly Davis, who prior to that had ventured no further than St. Louis, was starting to get some recognition within the international blues community. Not all of it was as laudatory as Palmer, but still. In 1993, it was Palmer, not surprisingly, who brought Davis to the attention of Fat Possum Records.

The indie label had been launched by three white college buddies from The University of Mississippi in 1991, their goal being to promote (which sounds so much better than “exploit”) previously unknown bona fide aging black Delta blues musicians. Along with R.L. Burnside and T Model Ford, Davis became one of the earliest acts signed to the label. In 1994, with Palmer himself producing and assorted label mates like Burnside acting as sidemen, Davis went into the studio to record Feel like Doin’ Something Wrong, which featured a smattering of classic vlues covers mixed in with Davis originals, including “Murder My Baby” and the above mentioned “If You like Fat Women.”

Going back to the album now for the first time in roughly twenty-five years, it doesn’t seem nearly as comically awful as it did back in The Welcomat’s editorial office. In fact it’s pretty good, if you’re a fan of unpolished, dirty, gritty roadhouse blues. If you aren’t conscious that he’s playing with a butter knife, Davis’ guitar work merely sounds a little squeaky and rough, but not all that different from what you might hear from others of the time.

If there is a downside, it’s that the album’s a little one note and generic. Apart from the covers, Davis relies on the same simple blues progression for nearly every song, which, yes, can be a little tiring if you’re listening carefully. But if all you wanted was some generic roadhouse blues to put on as you go about doing other things, it fits the bill.

In a strange move considering he’d only put out a single album at that point, the following year saw the release of The Best of Cedell Davis, this time spearheaded not buy Palmer, but by popular jazz fusion bandleader Col. Bruce Hampton, one of Davis’ newfound fans. None of the album’s ten tracks appeared on Feel Like Doin’ Something Wrong, so I can’t say for sure if these are new recordings or songs taken from his appearances on earlier Delta blues compilations, but a couple, like “My Dog Won’t Stay Home” and “Keep Your mouth Closed, Baby,” are kind of fun.

Shortly after the Best of came out, Palmer died, and Davis lost his most influential benefactor. But Palmer had gotten Davis on the map, and it was up to Davis to carry on as he always had.

In 1998 he released Horror of It All, an album whose title once again played right into the hands of the Davis naysayers. In fact, It’s an album, despite promising song titles like Chicken Hawk,” “Keep on Snatchin’” and the mind boggling “Tojo told Hitler,” that seems determined to prove the naysayers were right all along. With the exception of a new iteration of “If You Like Fat Women,” there are no drums, no side guitars, nothing but Cedell and the naked glory of his butterknife slide. It’s Cedell laid bare, and it can be painful, especially as Davis keeps playing those same simple blues progressions over and over. Yes, he has an absolutely unique sound, a bit like Joseph Spence, but ouch. It really is godawful, but like the equally godawful Godzilla vs. Megalon, may be the album that cemented his reputation among blues critics and fans who weren’t Robert Palmer.

(Oddly, Horror of it All is the album I keep returning to, as it best captures my initial impressions of the Davis sound.)

After Horror of It All came out Davis decided to take a break from recording to write more songs and return to playing the juke joints where he was most comfortable.

It’s a funny thing. If you don’t know the back story, Davis’ music, while perhaps not as awful as I once maintained (and countless blues critics still insist), doesn’t get much beyond the merely adequate. When you do learn his story, though, well, that elevates things, right? Knowing he’s confined to a wheelchair and using a butter knife in his crippled right hand, it’s really something he plays as well as he does. It also sure makes for a swell and effective marketing gimmick. He may not have been the worst bluesman who ever lived, but without that gimmick he was nothing. If he’d merely been blind it would’ve been no big deal—blindness just comes with the territory—but Davis was all messed up, and never let it stop him. Again, for better or worse.

As has happened so many times before, if you have a performer whose abilities make at least a stab toward the adequate, then  add a mental or physical disability on top of it, all you need do is step back for a few moments and wait for the hipster celebrities to start lining up, hoping to get their claws in him. Consider the cases of Larry “Wild Man” Fischer or Daniel Johnston.

Sure enough, when word of Davis’ condition began circulating along with those first couple Fat Possum discs (the label having become quite popular among white hipsters), the white hipster celebrity musicians began clamoring to get on board.

Davis’ returned to the studio in 2002 to record When Lightnin’ Struck the Pine. The accompanying press release claimed he had personally signed R.E.M. guitarist Peter Buck and Screaming Trees drummer Barrett Martin to be in his backing band. Why do I find it hard to believe a 76-year-old black bluesman from Arkansas had ever heard, let alone heard of, R.E.M. or the Screaming Trees, or that he would personally sign a couple white hipsters to be in his band?

Well, whatever. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it really did happen that way, and there wasn’t some heavy conspiring between Buck, Martin, and the white boys who ran the label to get them in on those sessions.

Well, however it came about, the resulting album was, much to my amazement, um, pretty good. The sound is as grungy as ever, but much fuller than it had been on his earlier albums, with the addition of organ, piano and sax together with Buck and Martin. And as it should be, Davis vocals and butter knife slide are front and center. The energy level’s been ramped up considerably, and best of all, Davis, both in the songs and a few candid recordings from the studio, seems to be having a fine time of it.

Three years later in 2005, Davis had a stroke and was forced to move into a nursing home in Hot Springs, Arkansas. This time it was definite and final—he could no longer play guitar. But if polio hadn’t stopped him, and crushed legs hadn’t stopped him, it’s little surprise a stroke and no longer being able to play the guitar wasn’t going to stop him either. He could still sing, and so kept writing songs and recording. And the hipsters kept piling on.

His 2015 album, appropriately if ironically entitled Last Man Standing, featured an 88-year-old Davis working through a greatest hits set in front of a backing band that again included Barrett Martin, as well as  Jimbo Mathus and Stu Cole from the Squirrel Nut Zippers and noted blues guitarist brothers Greg and Zack Binns.

The resulting album, as you might expect, was a far cry from his debut. The production was clean and sterile, with the all-star band’s three guitars pushed to the front of the mix and Davis’ butter knife clearly absent for obvious reasons. At least none of the involved made the mistake of trying to recreate his trademark sound.  It sounded like a bunch of white hipster musicians playing standard blues riffs behind an eighty-eight-year-old mumbling bluesman.

If you hadn’t smelled it already, to drive the Bad Faith of the whole project home, the album also contains three or four tracks of Davis just talking to the band in the studio, clearly trying to tell stories about his life and career to these youngsters who not only don’t know who the hell he’s talking about, but can’t understand what he’s saying. While similar tracks had been included on Lightnin’, this, unlike those, had been recorded after Davis stroke. The clear intention was to say to listeners, “Hey, get a load of this crazy old mumbling Southern black bliuesman! Is that authentic or what?”

Somehow, the following year he released yet another album, Even the Devil Gets the Blues, this time with someone from Pearl Jam in his backing band. Then in September of 2017, Davis had a heart attack, and died from complications a week or two later at age 91. Not surprisingly, at the time of his death, he was still scheduled to play a gig at the end of the month.

I’m not sure who the final  Great Cosmic Joke is on, those hipster musicians who thought playing with a bona fide authentic Delta bluesman would bolster their street cred in some way, or poor Cedell—whom I adore and admire more with each passing day—who might have been conned into believing all that support from white institutions from the NY Times to R.E.M. would push him over the top. Whatever it may be, a mere three years after his death, and after seventy-five years of making a go of the blues against all imaginable odds, Cedell Davis remains virtually unknown and forgotten, even among serious blues aficionados. In fact it seems, and this may be the saddest thing of all, he’s only remembered nowadays by people like me.

by Jim Knipfel

[thewhumperinwhite]

Guardian Angel

OKAY SO LISTEN. this is not the update anyone was hoping for but sometimes the only thing that’s gonna keep my contrary adhd brain from Abandoning a project is to Invest Energy Somewhere else for a while. case in point, I've been plugging grimly away at both café and wkw for weeks and written ~500 words total, and then I wrote this whole thing in About Twenty Minutes.

So uh. You know how FBI is an au of an Actual WIP I have about vampires? Well this is... technically also that but it’s a lot closer to the actual canon of that WIP. If you don’t know anything about FBI or those characters, that’s great, you’re in the same spot Karim is here lmao.

Also this is heavily inspired by this very good spn fic, which I keep coming back to despite not being active in that fandom at all anymore. This goes in a very different direction than that, but they open in similar ways.

Also please note, the main character of this is a young teenager, and there will be some mild underage whump, but this is my official promise that there is no underage sex in this story. 

Anyway uh let’s get this..... car wreck underway I guess

TW for: car accident due to reckless driving resulting in serious injury (or by rights it should anyway); body horror; animated corpse (of a sort); religion/Christianity.

----

For about—let’s say—the first fifteen miles away from his house, the thrill of the stolen car and his notable lack of driver’s license was enough to keep Karim in his own skin, not spiralling into rushing panicky thoughts. After a while that thrill starts to fade into the background and every time it does he hits the gas a little harder, and the new speed is enough for him for another fifteen miles until he has to hit the gas again because his brain is catching up with him.

Which is to say that when the thin pale shape of a human being stumbles out of the bushes along the side of the highway, Karim is going easily a hundred miles an hour, and no amount of slamming on the brakes is going to get him to stop in the hundred feet between himself and this person’s human body.

He hits the white shape at, optimistically, sixty miles an hour. It shoots up the car’s hood, cracks the windshield with its skull, and disappears over the top of the car. Realistically there’s no way the quiet hard thump of the body hitting the pavement many feet behind the car is audible over the sound of the car’s squealing brakes but it feels like Karim can hear it, can hear the accompanying crack of bones breaking against the asphalt.

The car rolls to a stop, and Karim spends several unfathomable seconds staring at the windshield, not bloodied but almost completely starred with a huge spiraling crack just off the center, and all he can think is, no, no, no no no no no oh no oh no.

Then he hears a muffled groan from behind him and dives for the car door, tumbles out onto the pavement on his hands and knees, scrambles back toward the pale body squirming and twitching in the middle of the left lane behind his mother’s SUV.

Somehow there’s still no blood, even back here, but it is immediately clear that there is something seriously, deeply wrong with this body.

“Motherfucker,” it says, and Karim freezes a few feet away from it, still the most horrified he’s ever been and now also very confused and between those two feelings no longer able to move. The voice issuing from the ruined and twisted body sounds, at most, annoyed. It flops horribly onto its back, like a boned fish, and rolls its head awkwardly on its shoulders to face Karim. “Going a fucking million miles an hour on an—” The body stops speaking, and stares up with wide shocked eyes in its colorless face.

“Karim,” the dead thing says.

Karim stumbles back a step, the horror already overfilling his chest growing and mutating so fast he loses his footing and falls painfully backwards, scraping his palms as he catches himself to stop from sprawling completely. The initial all-consuming terror of having killed a person with his mother’s car is turning into a—different, harder to parse all-consuming terror.

Because every instinct he has is telling him that this thing that just called him by his name is a corpse.

Watching it sit up on the pavement, in a hopefully unconscious mirror of Karim’s own half-sprawled pose, is like watching a marionette puppet being controlled by a very unskilled puppeteer. It’s movements are jerky and uneven; it falls back when it puts its weight on one of its arms and the leg on that side is stuck out stiffly in front of it and bending in places that aren’t joints. And above its wide filmy eyes its forehead is starred with cracks like an egg dropped on a hardwood floor.

“You’re alive,” it says. Its voice is—completely normal, which is somehow the strangest thing about it. About—him.

“I—I’m so sorry,” Karim says, starting to run on autopilot now, fumbling in his pocket for his cellphone, “I’ll call, I’ll call an ambulance, I’ll—”

“I don’t need an ambulance,” the dead boy says absently. He leans forward, his mangled arm hanging useless at his side, though he doesn’t move like he’s in any pain at all. “You’re—holy shit, you’re a baby.”

Karim blinks, away from his phone screen, up at the dead boy. He looks—older than Karim, but not by that much, like a college student, maybe. And he’s looking up at Karim with alarm that’s almost horror, like Karim is the weird mangled abomination here.

“I am not,” he says automatically. There’s still no blood, anywhere. There’s—he can see that the skin of the boy’s head is broken, but it’s not bleeding, not a drop. 

The boy searches his face with his weird foggy eyes, still leaning forward. His hair is short, maybe even buzzed in the back, and it’s a dull sandy-brown, above a face that might be handsome if it wasn’t gray-tinged and bloodless and cracked open.

“What year is this?” the dead boy says urgently.

Karim stares at him.

His arm is dangling limply at his side and his leg is definitely broken in more than one place and Karim did that, which will continue to be true regardless of whatever else is going on with this guy medically, and Karim has no idea what to do about that, is almost paralyzed by the desire to physically twist time back ten minutes and have this not be the moment he’s in right now.

But he can’t do that, so he answers, “Uh, 2009?” in a high squeaky voice like it’s a question, instead.

The dead boy’s eyes go even wider.

“It’s,” he whispers. “You’re,” and then he stops and looks at the ground. He raises his still-working arm to scrub across his cracked forehead, maybe tries to raise the other one, winces.

“I’m sorry,” Karim croaks. “I should— I gotta get you to a hospital.”

The dead boy shakes his head. “I don’t need a hospital,” he says, “I need a church.”

Karim feels himself gasp sharply. “Oh god,” he says, “Oh no, I’m— sure you’ll— make it, man, you’re—” He laughs, the sounds grating and hysterical in his own ears. “Look, you’re not even bleeding!”

The dead boy blinks up at him, and then he laughs, throwing his head back, and it’s a full, pretty laugh, sparking up toward the darkening sky— and when he lifts his chin Karim can suddenly see a bizarre pattern of marks all over his neck, a dozen little dots, in pairs, clustered around where you would look for a pulse on someone you weren’t sure was alive.

“That’s not what I mean,” the dead boy says, his eyes squinty and warm with laughter, and then he takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, staring at Karim, the smile fading from his pretty dead face. “Christ,” he says softly, and then, again, “Karim.”

Karim takes half a step back. “How— how do you know my name?”

“Ha,” the boy says, “that’s—” He tries to push himself to his feet and hisses, falling back like his broken leg won’t take any weight. Karim takes a step closer, unable to keep from reacting to obvious pain that he definitely 100% caused. “Actually,” the boy says, “I—would love it. If you could give me a ride. To the nearest church before I try to answer that. Karim.”

Karim stares at him. “What?”

“Catholic would be best if you’ve got it,” the boy says, with the air of somebody who knows he’s saying an absurd thing and is trying very hard to play it off. “I’m sure another kind would work but I’d just as soon not—” He shifts, winces a little; Karim looks down at his leg and squeezes his eyes shut, he’d momentarily forgotten how awful it looks. The boy laughs, sounding slightly hysterical. “I’d just as soon not drive around between a bunch’a churches if it’s all the same to you. Save you some gas money, huh?”

“Why,” Karim says, and he forces himself to look at the boy’s leg for real. There’s a place beside the— crooked, displaced— kneecap where Karim can see a strip of skin missing, and the exposed flesh is pale and bloodless; he feels his stomach squeeze in panicked nausea. “Why would you need a church right now.”

The boy sucks his teeth audibly, bowing his head, and then spreads his still-working hand wide with a fine-you-got-me shrug. 

“Because,” the dead boy says, “I need holy water to put my leg back together.”

Karim blinks. Blinks again, for good measure.

“What,” he says. He shakes his head. “What. Why would that. Why.”

The boy looks away, tilts his head like he’s doing math in his head, and says slowly, in the voice of someone trying a gambit they’re pretty sure won’t work. “Because I’m... your guardian... angel?”

Karim narrows his eyes. The boy could at least have the decency to say it like he means it.

“Okay,” the dead boy says, and nods like he’s trying to psyche himself up. “Okay, yeah, no, that’s fair, I— Hold on, I’ll— I’ll show you.”

The dead boy sighs and shakes his head. “This is gonna fucking suck,” he mutters, and he closes his eyes. 

At first Karim doesn’t think anything weird is happening— that an evening breeze has just kicked up. But as the wind gets stronger and he can see pebbles and bits of loose asphalt skittering away from where the dead boy sits on the pavement, it becomes clear that the sudden rush of cool air is coming from him. His sandy hair is whipping around his head, too, like it’s in a stronger wind than the one Karim can feel, and Karim realizes a second late that there’s— light coming from him too, a cold white glow growing so slowly he didn’t see it at first.

The dead boy lets out a shaky breath, his face creasing in concentration, or maybe pain.

Karim stumbles backward, hitting the back of the car and pressing his back against it, staring at the dead boy. The wind picks up and the light suddenly flashes, so bright that Karim throws up his arm to shield his eyes— and through his fingers, he can just see that the light beaming from the empty air above the dead boy’s shoulder blades, where it almost forms the shape of two enormous wings out of thin air and dust.

The wind and light sputter and die roughly in unison. Karim lowers his hand enough to stare at the dead boy in— he’s not sure what feeling, actually. Possibly terror.

The boy’s hair settles back against his cracked forehead. “Oh, good,” he says, breathing hard, like he’s just run a mile on a hot day. “It worked.”

Then the dead boy sags sideways and flops limply onto the pavement, and lies still, like corpses generally do.

“What the fuck,” Karim Mun says, with feeling.

[ask-de-writer]

Genii’s Junk (1 part) – A tale of the Bizarre Borderland

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to the Bizarre Borderland

GENII’S JUNK

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

© 2014 by Glen Ten-Eyck

2581 words

Writing begun 06/19/14

From an idea by Alte Seely, who wondered what a Bizarre Borderland junk yard would be like.

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of fan activity including but not limited to art, stories, musical compositions, plays or anything else is ACTIVELY ENCOURAGED.

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There were a few old, gnarled trees out in front. The building itself was totally unremarkable. Just an old, cheap sheet metal structure. The peeling, sun-faded sign read “Genii’s Junk – Worth anything or not, I buy it or sell it. If you need it, I have it. But it may need work!”

I parked in the shade of one of the trees and strolled into the slight gloom of the cool interior. There were dozens of racks holding the multitude of things that Genii wanted to keep out of the weather. The sun in Border County is infamous for destroying anything that it shines on, if it shines long enough.

It had obviously not shone on Genii enough to do any harm! Lovely young looking lady. Appearances are deceiving. She is lovely enough to look at, yes. Young? Define your terms. I know for a fact that she helped to found the Ottoman Empire. Lady? Try calling her human if you want an earfull of excellent profanity without a single sleazy four letter word.

Like everyone in North or South America, if you trace back far enough, there are immigrants in the woodwork. Genii is one, sort of. She has been in the same location since at least 1530. That is the year, not the time on a 24 hour clock.

She told me herself that Cortez was one cranky customer.

Today, there was a slight individual with a large head hidden by a bigger hat at the counter. Genii had the oscilloscope and a big, hundred function multimeter out on the counter and three big power leads with clamps and adapters.

A long, too many jointed finger pointed at a stud on the device sitting on the counter. His (?) somewhat squeaky voice demanded, “Positive One go here! Not over there, stupid human!”

Genii’s lovely face curled into a snarl, showing her many fangs. “Watch who you call HUMAN, you gray trash!”

Settling some, she explained patiently, as if to a retarded three year old, “This is the anti-gee element of a 1942 Star Sweeper. From 1951 on, you are right. For any earlier models, if you want to do that test hookup, put your gold on the counter now. You will not be alive to give it to me later but you WILL have destroyed the unit.

“This is from one of the two that US Airforce took down outside of Roswell in 1947.” She turned to a LONG shelf of manuals and other books that sat on top of the massive number of scroll pigeon holes. Taking down a much thumbed manual, she expertly flipped through pages and pointed to a picture for the customer.

“There. Manufacturer’s Manual for the 1942 Star Sweeper. Hookup diagram and warnings…” The Gray examined the manual in something like shock.

“Where you get this? I give you two pound gold for it.”

With a sour expression Genii pointed over her shoulder at a sign in at least a hundred languages. One of them was the same as the one in the book. It read, “NO WRITTEN MATERIALS FOR SALE AT ANY PRICE!”

He (?) started to say something more, while trying to put the manual under his (?) coat. Genii, with a disgusted look, leaped over the counter like an acrobat. She hit the customer with both feet at shoulder level, flattening him (?). She took back the manual and hopped back across the counter to put it away.

She also took the device off the counter and lifted the oscilloscope back to its rack of test equipment.

The test leads and other gear went neatly back to their places. Brightening, she turned to me.

“What can I do for you today, Jimmy?”

Flipply I replied, “You could sell me your bottle, my dear, but I have heard a rumor that your personal home is not for sale.

“Actually, I was looking for a carpet. Something that isn’t a Belgian knock-off of a real carpet.”

Lighting up, she asked, “Hand loomed and knotted or machine made?”

“Hand knotted, I think, Genii.”

“What about a dubious one? I have one out on Aisle 34, about a four or five hundred yards down. I’ll loan you a yard wand to get you there. It is between the NC-2 and the De Haviland bomber. There is a rack there. I am sure that you will have no trouble finding it.

I snickered. “Anything on YOUR aircraft rows is fun. What do you have that is new to you?”

Genii grinned in delight. How about an X-B70? It needs a little work!”

I chortled, and asked, “Which aisle? I should have no trouble seeing a Valkyrie if it is anything like reassembled.”

Genii handed me a wooden pole with a wide bicycle type seat and handlebars on it. With a grin, she said, “Aisle 36! Have fun!”

Leaving the disgruntled Gray behind, I took the handlebars, activating the “Yard Stick” and took off. In only moments, I found the Aisle 34 marker and swooped around the turn, scooting down the Aisle.

The NC-2 was a great locator. The giant WW I sea-going biplane was totally intact. It had a 103 foot wingspan. For wood and wire technology there were few that ever matched its sheer size and NONE that could match it for range and load.

It was meant to launch in Maine and fly antisubmarine patrol all the way to the Florida keys, non-stop. The Great War ended before it and its three sister aircraft were finished.

Congress canceled the contract without payment. Curtis (the C of NC-2) went ahead and finished all four planes on their own dime, while Congressmen all got on the “They will never fly” and “defrauding the War Department” band wagons. When all four launched from the factory in Virginia and flew up to Maine, the world was astounded.

When they refueled, they took on as passengers those few Congressmen and Navy personnel still championing the NCs as practical aircraft. They then flew, non-stop to the Florida Keys, exactly as designed, except that they were carrying almost a 20% overload in passengers, instead of bombs and depth charges. That feat blew away the whole world at the time.

It also shut up the NC program critics more effectively than if they had been hit by the bombs that the planes were designed to carry. Congress quietly tried to pass Curtis the money that they were due, so that the US Navy could claim the aircraft.

Later, the four made a trans Atlantic Flight. The NC-1 disappeared in thunderstorms. Some wreckage was found. The NC-3 was forced down at sea. It was taxiing on only two engines when found. The tow to the Azores caused enough damage to the plane that it could not continue.

The NC-2 got to the Azores a day before the NC-4. It refueled. The weather being good, it took off for Lisbon and was never seen again. The NC-4 landed in the Azores, refueled and later landed safely in Lisbon harbor, the first airplane to fly the Atlantic. It is now in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.

I made a note to ask Genii how she managed to get the NC-2 and set my yardstick down by the rack of carpets. They followed that old law, 90% of everything is crap.

Genii, as usual, was right about it not being hard to find the one that she had spoken of. It had a clearly later, and phony, Antwerp label sewed on. The work had been carelessly done. The metal needle used to sew the label on had damaged the port side lift and control spells, unless my Pocket Dowse and Spell Strength meter was wrong. Judging by the fringe and warp damage, it must have been some crash.

As I rolled up the carpet and strapped it to the Yardstick, I heard a warning siren. It was coming from the vicinity of the X-B70, whose huge nose and forward canards jutted above the intervening aircraft.

No chance to look at it, then. I headed back in to the shop. I got there just before the unearthly scream of the six monster jet engines being fired up. It sounded like the X-B70 was a live bird. If Genii was going to that much trouble, she very likely had a cash customer for it. I wondered who it was.

Sometimes Genii would talk about customers and sometimes not. It was never wise to pry. There was someone new at the counter. The Gray was still there. Still complaining.

Genii turned her back on him and told him, “You are right. I did not sell to you. I will not sell to you. You tried to shoplift PRINTED MATERIAL from ME! I have not let any written things go since Caesar screwed up our deal and BURNED the Library at Alexandria! You have only seconds left to get out of here alive! Go!” She was reaching under the counter when the Gray left - - at a waddling run.

Turning to the new man at the counter, she smiled very professionally and asked, “Sorry about the scene, General. What can I do for the Air Force today?”

Self-importantly, he replied, “What was that? It sounded like a jet engine test!”

Serenely, which is a bad sign with Genii, because it means that she is absolutely certain of her legal footing, Genii replied, “It was. X B-70 engine test. Starboard #2 engine began to develop vibration, so we aborted the test.

“It is ALL covered in my salvage contract. Do you need a copy?”

Sourly, the General replied, “Why bother? You can’t sell it if it is operational. Mass weapon laws.”

Smiling with her fangs but not her lovely eyes, Genii replied, “Loophole big enough to fly a carpet through, General. If I am not selling it on Earth, the laws don’t apply. I am not selling it anywhere that you have any authority.”

Voice hardening and chilling some, like maybe a glacier, she asked, “Do you have any actual business here?”

“Where are those ten computer stabilization systems that we ordered!” More a demand than a question. Bad way to make points with Genii.

Her face froze. “I have been forced to cut off all credit to the United States Armed Services. Proper notices were sent according to the contract. The reason given is failure to render payment of the agreed form or amount. Further, the Military Procurement Office has sent formal notice of refusal to pay and stated that I will receive only 1/10th of the outstanding total and that only by a check drawn on the Government.

“This has totally canceled our contracts and agreements. I filed a notice of repossession for all of the following items.”

She fished out a file box and gave the thunderstruck general a list. She also handed him a file of correspondence.

“That file and notice are copies of the originals. You may keep them or return them. Neither you nor any other armed service gets anything until I have my gold on the counter.”

I will give the General this. He took the whole file and settled himself at a large table. He began at the front and started working though it. Soon he was on a cell phone.

I was walking beside the Yardstick, guiding it with the handlebars. I brought it up to the counter and asked, “Got a Merlin S-multimeter, Genii? I want to check this out pretty carefully. I am certain that this is a Second Caliphate carpet but as near as my Pocket Dowse can show, the counterfeit label was sewed in with an Iron or Steel needle.

“Looks like that caused the control failure that made it crash.” I shook my head at foolishness. “Can you believe knowing enough to get a carpet like this and then sewing in the phony label for tax dodging with a steel needle? It shorted or blew out all the port side lift and control spells.”

Genii grinned hugely which showed off her big fangs wonderfully. She hopped across the counter again. She had five different willow wands and a very well worn Merlin in her hands.

She helped me to unroll the carpet. I showed her the weave and fringe damage that led me to think that the carpet had collided with something pretty solid at high speed.

Genii nodded agreement and plugged the biggest of the wands into the Merlin. Between us, we made sure that the original starboard spells were all intact.

The port side was a total loss. Between that steel needle and the impact damage that distorted the weave, and with it the spells, it was going to have to be totally reworked from fringe to fringe.

She looked up, shaking her head. “I got this out of the Lord Carleton Estate. I just paid a flat fee for it all. I was pretty sure of what this was but that was a LOT of stuff to sort. Drove my Yard Imps nuts.

“I just set it over in aircraft and hoped for the best. You lucked out, Jimmy. This IS a genuine and restorable Second Caliphate. I already have it priced.

“Yours for only five ounces.” She grinned again. I may be weird but I like Genii’s grin, fangs and all. She was holding out her hand.

Like a true gentleman, I dropped in three one troy ounce Krugerands and two Chinese Pandas. Genii, being Genii, closed her hand about them. When she opened it, the coins were gone and a receipt was in their place. It looked for all the world like a magic trick. Which it was. Real. Not slight of hand.

With the General expostulating fiercely into his phone in the background, Genii helped me roll the carpet snugly and secure it with straps for transport.

Carpet over my shoulder, I walked to the door. Looking out, the Gray and a companion were going over my rig, big jumper cables in hand.  They were trailing down from the nearly antique Type A saucer hovering overhead,. They were trying to find the hookup points for a jump-start. One was gabbling in Gray, “No Anti-gravity! How it fly?”

Door partly open, I called back inside, “Genii! The Grays are trying to swipe my rig from your parking lot!”

Snaring her fiercest, Genii came barreling out past me. She had what looked like a shotgun in hand. The double boom sounded like a shotgun all right. The result was not your normal shot shell hit on the tough hull alloy of the Type A saucer overhead.

The blue fire blast was something to behold. A visible hole about a foot across started to trail smoke most impressively. The saucer tilted some and sailed across Genii’s Yard Fence. A few moments later the array of crashes and the crunch of failing metal announced the end of the saucer, and probably, some expensive junk. The Grays ran like rabbits while Genii was reloading. Definitely not normal shotgun ammo.

I stowed my find and climbed under the cloth sunshade of my rig and, taking out my control wand, lifted my old Mohgul Carpet and took off for home. As I flew, I reflected that if Genii had lost some junk in the crash, she had gained a whole, nearly intact Type A saucer for salvage. I think that she was going to come out ahead. As usual.

–THE END–

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to the Bizarre Borderland

[pagankingfinn]

Chapter 1 - The Dying Light

Reminder: Everything posted for this AU here is still a work in progress. Nothing is finalized, but the finalized version will eventually be published on my WattPad(NotYourDeku).

Ps: This chapter is over 2k words long.

Chapter 1

Izuku shot up in his bed. He was breathing heavily, his lungs heaving desperately for oxygen. His hands flung up to his eyes to shield them from the harsh LED lights. He could smell the sterile environment, mostly just the antiseptic fluids. The faint smell of wilting flowers wafted in through the vents in his room. He could feel the cold metal collar around his neck, bandages in various places, and the IV in his arm. 

The walls were sickeningly white and reflective, the floor was hardly any better with the shiny linoleum tiles. In his typhoon of panic, he struggled desperately to escape the heavy blankets draped and wrapped around his legs. His senses were overwhelmed. 

'How did I get here? Why am I here? Why can't I remember anything? What's going on?!' And thoughts of a similar fashion flowed through Izuku's mind. 

His eyes went wide as he tried to get the blanket off only to wince in pain. He fell back with a grunt, immediately moving a hand towards the area of discomfort. Tracing it lightly with his bony fingers while only more questions arose. He shook his head, shuddering, but his curiosity was killing him. 

Ever so carefully, he pulled the hospital gown to the side. His dark green and sunken-in eyes going wide. He quickly covered back up. The sight of his body so bruised and banged up made Izuku nauseated. 

The scars on his body were not manly or cool, in fact, the scars disgusted him entirely. He wanted, no he needed, those damn reminders gone. The voices that plagued him were taken from those he once knew, but distorted and bent. They said things that were never said, or even things that were said by others.

“You’ll never be strong enough to fight back.”

“You’re to blame for what happened to you.”

“Nobody needs a villain like you.”

“I heard that boy has a villainous quirk.”

“He’s a monster!”

No matter how much he wished, the damn things just wouldn't go away. His past was dark, and the things he went through? Nobody would ever understand that he, not having a choice in what happened to him, would never be able to heal. His mind was just as broken and bruised as his body.

Izuku shook his head defiantly while subconsciously scratching at his arms with clipped nails. The doctors likely had to clip them just in case he had a bad reaction. Maybe he had panicked and tried to scratch someone? He wasn't sure and the overwhelming of his senses didn't help.

His next step was to get out of here, out of this place. The white hospital walls gave him chills, they reminded him of the room he was stuck in for so long. All logic was thrown out the window after that. He couldn't make sense of his surroundings, so his brain reacted the only way it could.

His eyes were wide, every nerve in his body trembling. His memories flashed through his brain. Eyes slamming shut as Izuku grabbed at his hair. Every atom in his body raced. His throat became choked with sobs while rivers of tears flowed down his face. 

The heart rate monitor began screeching. His entire body shaking violently. His chest heaved up and down, rattling his ribs silently. Izuku let out an anguished wail that never reached the ears of anyone. His quirk defensively flared to life as it was no longer blocked by the cuffs. 

The elegant shadow flames burst to life from his shoulder blades in the form of blazing wings. The area of contact started to burn and blister. His body had not become accustomed to the scorching heat. Of course, it had been 9 years since it was last used.  

Izuku could hear as the door burst open, his ears ringing as his panic attack heightened. When a blue mist began to swirl around him he became neurotic, overwhelmed as his lungs pounded within his chest. Inadvertently he inhaled the navy blue mist. His body beginning to relax, forcibly calming down. His eyes fluttered as his exhaustion from his quirk usage caught up with him. 

Izuku could feel someone gently coaxing his body into a lying position. The alarmed shouts that came when something major happened ringing out. Immediately his hospital bed was wheeled into the ER wing, doctors and nurses rushing to check the others in the ward. Spots danced around his eyelids, his eyes flickering open and closed.

His body hurt, throbbing with pain. He had trouble focusing, trying to stay awake. Where were they taking him? His head pounded against his skull, he tried to get up and look around but was held down by a nurse. Something was slipped into his arm, and his body grew heavy. Unable to fight the anesthetic, despite trying to stay awake, his body was soon taken over.

That's when he was prepped for the operation. The skin exposed to his quirk was covered in 3rd-degree burns. Blisters bubbled up from his skin, blood dried from the heat. It was a miracle his wings hadn't set the room on fire. 

Doctors frantically worked on him, transferring blood while they worked on the skin graft. He laid there exposed and under anesthetic. Blood had to be transfused his body was too taxed to make enough. Shears were taken to his singed hair. 

The doctors operating on him had nurses scrambling for a skin graft. Healing quirks would take too much of his stamina. The entire room held their breath, the air carrying a grim aura. The heart monitor beeped threateningly in the background. 

The room smelled faintly of blood. Everyone was covered in the red substance. Finally, there was a cry from the hallway. The doors were burst open as a cart was frantically wheeled into the room. No time was wasted as the operation continued, emotions roaring inside every one the entire time. 

Eventually, the doctors emerged from the room. The exhaustion on their faces was mistaken for grief. The nurses on standby became worried. Shocked whispers spread about, feverishly asking questions about the child formerly being operated on. 

"Had he died? Did something go wrong? Was the graft not the correct type?" They chattered back and forth to each other. Their voices clamoring together like a marketplace.

A blue-haired woman was waved over. The doctors spoke to her in a hushed whisper, and she nodded accordingly. She turned around towards the gathered crowd. They held their breath, waiting for her to speak. The words that came out of her mouth immediately changed the atmosphere. 

Izuku had accepted the treatment, he would survive. Afterward, he was wheeled back to his room. The anesthetic would keep him asleep and pain-free for the time being. Hospital life went on like nothing happened while others rushed for various reasons. 

When he came to, he was back in his hospital room. Slowly looking around, he heard the door open. With enough speed to give him whiplash, his head moved to view the door. His back went rigid, old habits die hard. On the border of another outburst, Izuku felt his anxiety mounting. 

His mind settled when the doctor let herself in. The long blue hair she had caught his attention immediately. The healthy, silky navy blue sapphire locks dancing around her waist. 

Some small part of Izuku wanted to ask if she could help him with his hair, but decided against it. He was shaken out of his thoughts by the noise of squeaky plastic wheels being dragged across the floor. He stayed still as she spoke, afraid she would be angry.

"Hello Izuku, I am Senzuki. Senzuki Sorasatoko, the doctor overseeing your recovery. If you don't mind answering do you remember what happened?" She asked the silent boy making sure to keep her tone comforting. She had seen the report on his condition and had decided to try a softer approach. 

"No, everything... is blurred together. It's hard to remember right now... maybe I'll remember everything at a later date." Izuku responded his raspy and hoarse voice barely louder than a whisper. He fidgeted somewhat, feeling the gauze on his back wiggle. He kept his gave level with Senzuki's, gazing her directly in the eyes. 

"Okay, we can come back to that at a later time. I need you to answer some questions for me. However, don't feel like you have to answer anything you don't want to. Can you do that for me Izuku?" Senzuki asked, trying to get her patient to open up. 

However, what her words really meant was, "I'm going to pressure you into answering everything." 

"I think I can manage that... Sorasatoko-san." Izuku responded, gripping the blanket laid across his legs. His hands shook, and he looked down at his knees with a fallen look. He chewed his lip nervously before looking back to Senzuki.

"You can call me Senzuki, Izuku. Alright, how old are you Izuku?" Senzuki inquired while making sure to jot down his actions. Also, she wrote down notes on his behaviors. They needed to be addressed and eradicated. His apprehensive practices were not pleasing in the least. 

"Thirteen Senzuki-san," Izuku answered after some hesitation. His fingers twitched as he stretched them, his joints aching painfully. He wiggled inelegantly in a disturbed fashion. After all, the last time he had been in the hospital was years ago. 

Senzuki struggled to hold her shock. Her voice caught in her throat and she coughed to break the tension. The efforts of Senzuki were wasted in the end. She decided that moving onto the next question would be best. 'Nevermind his age, we need answers!' She reasoned with herself.  

"How'd you get those scars Izuku?" She questioned the green-haired boy sitting in front of her. The pen in her hand feverishly hovered as it begged for the unspoken answer.

"... Next question please." He responded quietly and self-consciously hugging his arms. Izuku looked away, after all, it was bad enough he had them in the first place.

"Izuku, I need you to tell me where you got those scars," Senzuki responded to the neurotic boy. She had to keep a calm tone towards the boy. His jitteriness was likely a side effect of whatever he had faced.

"I... I... I can't tell you. Can... I have the next question please?" He spoke quietly, his voice quivered with every word. Izuku didn't want to remember, those memories terrified him. Often times he'd stay awake because of the nightmares they had caused.

"I need you to tell me." Senzuki snipped at Izuku, getting annoyed. Oh how looking back she would've wished she knew. But that just isn't how the story goes. Her temper was beginning to bubble as she sat there. `How many times do I have to ask?! Why is he being so stubborn, we're just trying to help.' She feverishly thought to herself.

"... Next question, please." Izuku responded while his eyes began to tear up, despite how tightly they were shut. He hugged his torso as he leaned forward. Immediately his mind began to spin. 'Why me? Doesn't she understand that I can't answer?' 

"Izuku. I need an answer. Then we can move on." Senzuki firmly stated, losing her patience with Izuku. First, he nearly set his entire room on fire, and now he dared to deny her an answer. 'How entitled does he think he is?!' 

Izuku's silence spoke a thousand words. Shaking as he kept his eyes shut and curled over. He was fighting to stay calm and losing the battle. His blood becoming angry river rapids within his body. His bony fingers clawed desperately at his sides. His heart pounded against the cage it was locked behind. All the while tears streamed down his face during his silent sobs. 

Senzuki snapped at Izuku, the pitiful shaking of the boy stopping. Her voice ringing down the halls, "Izuku Midoriya! You will answer me, how did you get those scars!" 

Izuku shot up only to curl-in on himself. His arms wrapped around his head to cover his ears. His face was tucked between his legs and chest. Broken cries escaping his mouth, "I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me! I'm sorry. Don't put me back there, please. He'll find me..." His words chanting on in this manner. 

Izuku choked on his tears as his voice warbled. His broken cries decreasing while he tried to protect himself. The screeching of the medical equipment beside him became suddenly muffled. 

Senzuki didn't know how to respond to his sudden reaction. She didn't mean to scare him that much. She hadn't known, god she should've known. 'Why didn't I put two and two together? He showed signs of abuse, of course, he would react negatively.'

Doing the only thing she could think of at the moment, she grabbed a blanket from the cabinet. Bundling the boy in the creme sheet she proceeded to pull him close to her body. A calming dark blue mist began to swirl around the sobbing form.

"It's okay Izuku, nobody is going to hurt you. I promise that we won't send you back," She reassured him. She let out a sigh of relief that she didn't know she was holding as the erratic beeping of the machine calmed down.

Senzuki felt Izuku nod against her chest. Eventually, she parted from the boy and helped him shift in the blanket. Izuku sat there with the heavy fabric draped around his shoulders, rubbing at his face. 

Izuku sniffled, proceeding to try and piece his words together as he spoke. His voice cracked as he spoke, "They... they hurt me... a lot. Everyone h-hurt... me. K-kept a... a set of... quirk cuffs..." 

Senzuki quieted him, watching how he began to shake and begin to cry all over again. The blue-haired woman made sure to keep her hands where Izuku could see them. She took his small bony hands in hers and rubbed them comfortingly.

"It's okay Izuku, you don't have to tell me until you're ready. Why don't we move on to the other questions, okay?" Senzuki inquired to Izuku, keeping her tone calm. She understood that whatever he went through had damaged him. 

"You won't push me for answers?" Izuku responded as he sniffled and rubbed his face. His attempt to clean his face was unsuccessful, between the dried tear tracks and snot running down his face. Senzuki handed him a paper towel, which Izuku used to clean his face.

"I won't push you for answers," Senzuki reassured the pale thirteen-year-old. She picked her abandoned clipboard off the floor and flipped through the pages. She quickly filled out all the information she could from what he had told her. The sound of furious writing filled the room for a moment, then the sound of silence.

"Izuku, would you mind telling me about your quirk?" Senzuki's question broke the silence in the air. 

"My quirk? I don't know much about it, just that I can use shadow flames. And they get stronger with my emotions and the dark, along with they can move locations... Sorry, Senzuki-san." Izuku apologized as he hung his head. He chewed on his lip nervously, fidgeting as he waited for a response.

"That's okay Izuku. From what was observed, and what you told me, the drawbacks of your quirk will be figured out," Senzuki spoke as she wrote down what she could. Her tone was calming and mellow as she continued, "Is there anyone close to your family that we can contact?"

"I... I think so, my auntie Bakugou was close to my mom..." Izuku responded, trailing off after his voice caught on the last few words. He fidgeted hesitantly, wringing his hands together while a cold sweat ran down his skin. He hadn't seen his "aunt" in years, and the last family member he had contact with sold him to the black market.

"But... I'm not sure how she'll react. Most of my family is... pretty bad." The skeletal grass head continued, voicing his anxiety quietly. His chapped lips cracking as he spoke, he swallowed uncomfortably for a minute. He winced as he did so, his throat was raw from neglecting to use his voice. At least until recently, when he had to begin speaking again.

“That’s okay Izuku. Do you have any allergies?” Senzuki moved on, trying her best to keep him from lingering on a single subject for long. She didn’t want Izuku to have another breakdown, today had been eventful enough for both of them. 

“Not that I know of, sorry,” Izuku responded as he meekly tried to hide. Old habits die hard, and trained habits and actions even harder. He jumped as Senzuki let out a soft sigh, mistaking it as a showing of disappointment, and apologized several times afterward.

“Izuku, stop apologizing. It’s alright, you didn’t do anything wrong. Are you in any pain?” She questioned as she comfortingly held one of Izuku’s hands. She could fill out the rest of the information from his file, but strangely he was all caught up on his shots. 

“No… not really,” Izuku told Senzuki after he had stopped apologizing. Senzuki nodded and got up, gently running her fingers through his hair. She watched as he first flinched away only to then relax and move closer to her hand. 

‘Kinda like a kitten,’ Senzuki thought with amusement as she stifled a chuckle. Tucking her clipboard under her arm, she went to leave the room. Before Senzuki got to the door, she looked back at Izuku.

“Try and get some rest, I’ll come back later with some food for you. There’s a button by your bedside table if you need anything.” Senzuki informed him with a small smile, getting a nod in response from the green-haired teen on the bed. With that, she left the room, the heavy wooden door closing behind her with a “click”.

Izuku looked around quietly, suddenly aware of how tired he was. With some effort, he managed to move into a lying down position. His eyes fluttered open and closed for a few moments, only to heavily close as he fell asleep. His chest rose and fell as he slept, and his fearful expression melted into one of peace.

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Casino Heist

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Avengers - Peter Parker/Spider-Man

Rating: PG

Original Idea: I had a lot of feels after Endgame. No spoilers though.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) Endgame gave me a lot of feels and a few pieces of inspiration for some more Marvel one-shots! It’s been a while!

^^^^^

There was something amusing about an illegal hidden casino in the middle of New York City. The whole thing gave off a Las Vegas vibe. I hadn’t been to Vegas since I was fourteen—and back then I was an innocent child who was absolutely horrified by Sin City and thought that the name was 100% deserved—but I could feel the same vibes from this hidden casino.

Shame that I was about to rob it.

More specifically, the owner. I didn’t care about the cash kept in the house. I wanted one of the owner’s personal possessions—that he happened to keep in his administration office. It was the type of possession he’d rather keep at the casino under the—mistaken—belief that it would be safer with all of his security.

I snickered, dodging around the crowded house of gamblers in my nice business suit with my sleek trench coat until I reached the Employees Only sign. There was a guard standing there.

“Mr. Sanders wanted to see me in his office,” I said professionally. In this outfit, with my makeup on and hair done, it was easy to mistake me for being in my early twenties rather than my late teens.

“Mr. Sanders isn’t in his office,” the officer said.

“I know,” I lied. “He told me to wait for him.”

The officer peered me up and down. “You new here?”

“Yup.”

He passed his badge over the lock and let me in. All too easy, I thought as I slipped past him.

“Thank you!” I called as the door shut.

Once it was shut, I ducked into a maintenance closet. I slipped out of my business suit and reversed my trench coat so the pretty white-beige-and-grey plaid was on the inside and the black was on the outside. In my thief gear that I’d been wearing underneath the suit—dark, form-fitting clothes and shoes that were basically socks with a grip on the sole, along with a mask to cover most of my face—I slid into the vent system.

Crawling around, I thought back on the blueprint I’d memorized before coming to the casino. I took a right at the crossroad and made my way silently to the boss’ office.

The guard was right. He wasn’t in.

Carefully, I popped the vent and slid into the office, landing lightly on the floor, my coat bunching on the floor behind me. I crept to his computer and plugged my USB into it, watching the progress bar crawl as it copied the entire hard drive.

Once I had his hard drive, I popped the USB out and erased any trace of my actions from his computer and snuck over to the display case. It wasn’t hard for me to pick the lock. “How thick can you get?” I whispered. Once I opened the case, the alarm would go off and I wouldn’t have much time to get back to my suit and get out of the casino before security came after me.

The problems of working alone—I didn’t have the computer skills to bypass security. I could clone hard drives and download evidence all I wanted but working around a security system was beyond me and I didn’t have someone more skilled hiding behind the scenes surrounded by screens doing the digital work—like in the movies.

I had to rely on myself and my speed to get out of trouble.

“Hello, beautiful,” I whispered as I stared at the fossil I was about to swipe. I prepared my free hand before swooping in.

The moment the display glass was lifted, an alarm went off. A second one triggered when I grabbed the fossil. Two obnoxious klaxons started ringing. I was back in the vent in a flash, my USB and the fossil in my coat pockets.

A quick army crawl through the vents and I was in the closet again. Reverse my trench coat. Pull my business suit back on. Remove my mask. A quick, purposeful stride back into the casino house. The guard had vacated his position to respond to the alarm. I joined the panicking crowd, pretending to be one of them, and made my way out onto the streets of Queens.

Once I was free of the building, I reversed my coat again—the plaid was too distinctive—and headed for the nearest subway station.

Something snagged me around the back and hoisted me into the air. I screamed for a moment before there was a snikt! And something covered my mouth.

“Neat trick,” a voice said from behind me. “Reversible coat, acting like you belong, confidence. You can get anywhere like that.” Something brightly-colored—even in the darkness of the night—swung around me, landing to perch on the side of the building in front of me.

Great, I thought, unable to speak out loud. It’s that Spider-Kid or whatever.

He tilted his head, the eye lenses of his mask narrowing slightly. “Guess I should let you talk, huh? Just didn’t want you to scream.”

I grunted and glared at him.

His voice was slightly higher-pitched than I thought it would be. It was kind of adorable.

“No, yeah. I totally get it. Hang on.” He leapt straight up into the air, disappearing over the rooftop. After a moment, I was yanked after him. The scream of surprise made a little noise, muffled by the web over my mouth.

I landed hard on my side on the rooftop. The web got peeled off my face. “Ow,” I groaned.

“Hey, you deserve that. Don’t steal stuff. It’s bad,” Spider-Kid said.

“We’re you watching me?” I demanded.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on this whole joint for months. Looking for the right time and the right evidence to take them down. And then you blew it by sneaking in and stealing something.”

“Listen Spider-Kid—”

“Man.”

“What?”

“It’s Spider-Man.”

“Whatever,” I growled. “Listen, I guarantee you I need this thing more than he does.”

“A… fossil?” How he lifted the thing out of my pocket without me feeling it, I had no idea. But he was suddenly holding it, examining it closely. “What do you need a fossil for?”

“That’s none of your business. But if you want incriminating evidence against this guy, it’s in my other pocket. I have his entire hard drive. All his business practices. All the money laundering and illegal gambling schemes plaguing the city. Let me go and I’ll bring that parasite down.”

“Or I could just hand that USB to the police.”

I started laughing. “No. They’d ask you how you got it. Your reputation can’t handle the blow of hacking and breaking-and-entering,” I said. The web he’d caught me with was just attached to the back of my coat. If I could slip out of it…

I’d never be fast enough to get away from an Enhanced like him.

Still, I sat up properly and stared at him crouched in front of me.

“Lady it’s not like my reputation is perfect.”

I snorted. “Dude, you’re the best of us. Anyone who wears a mask will admit that you’re the most noble and brave.”

“You wear a mask?”

I pulled it out of my pocket. “Just when there’s a possibility that my face could get seen on security cameras. I’m a thief but I’m not a bad guy. I only steal from jerkbags who deserve it.”

“So you fancy yourself a Robin Hood,” Spider-Man said.

“You could put it that way. Besides, I do need the fossil more than he does.”

“What would a girl like you need a fossil for? Are you making your own Jurassic Park?”

I snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Spider-Man,” I said. “A fossil like that bears the energy of ancient life. Do you realize how hard it is in a city like this to get my hands on Ancient Energy? I could get it from random pebbles out in the woods if there were any woods but there aren’t. This city is too new.”

“Uh… What? What’s Ancient Energy?”

“It’s what fuels my powers. Energy that’s been absorbed by certain kinds of minerals and rocks from life that accumulates over time.”

“Huh,” Spider-Man said.

I sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand, kid,” I growled. I wondered if we were about the same age. “You’re powerful on your own and don’t need fuel apart from food like I do. So just let me go and I’ll take that casino down and we part ways as unlikely allies.”

“You know I can’t let you do that. You’re a criminal.”

“I’m a Robin Hood.” I blinked. “Now. Goodnight.”

“What?”

I swept my hand like I was going to punch him. The fossil responded. It ripped out of his grip and struck him across the head with enough force to knock out an Asgardian. He dropped like a rock.

I shoved the fossil in my pocket and jumped over the side of the building.

Telekinesis was definitely one of those “cheating” powers, but by Thor was I going to use it to my full advantage.

I snickered as I used my telekinesis to cushion my fall. Sanders was going down. That stupid casino and his greed wasn’t going to plague this city ever again. And if it did, I’d be there to tear him down. Again and again.

As long as Spider-Man didn’t get in my way.

^^^^^

“Oof!” I muttered, running into someone.

“Oh man. Sorry!” a vaguely familiar voice exclaimed.

“’S fine. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going,” I muttered.

“I’m Peter—are you new here or have we just never met?”

I met his eyes. They were brown and friendly, with smile lines crinkling at the corners—that quickly turned to surprise. I didn’t have the brain space to wonder why he’d be surprised to see my face. Maybe I looked familiar. I got that a lot. “We’ve just never met before,” I said.

“Oh. Okay,” he said, voice going a little squeaky.

Kinda like…

I grabbed his elbow and shoved him against the bank of lockers. “Spider-Man?” I hissed.

“Wh-wh-what? What—what—what are you talking about?” he stammered nervously.

I snorted and let him go. “Nice to see you again, web-head. No wonder you looked surprised to see me.” I gave him a two-fingered salute. “Well, see ya.” I ducked into the crowds of the hallway and disappeared. It had always been easy for me to get away from people that way. I was good at disappearing into crowds.

I had a feeling I’d see Spider-Man again at this school—he’d probably track me down—but I’d probably have enough time to take down Mr. Sanders before he did. If I knew his type—and I thought I did—he’d try to persuade me to be “good.”

Which I had no intention of doing. Just yet anyway.

I had stuff to do first.

[castcharmperson]

Speed Trap: Part IV

[Start]

This is by far the longest chapter, coming in at just over 3k. Also the most warning heavy chapter, featuring offscreen violence, kidnapping, arson, and general danger.

It wasn’t his final con, Taako decided, but tonight was his final night. Late nights were always busy, lots of cash to be made, but that was also when real crime tended to happen. He’d been calling Ren so frequently, he was worried she was starting to suspect him. She still took him seriously, always sent back up that he’d watch drive by, but her tone was shifting. He’d hear a pen scratching as he talked, taking notes that he was pretty sure weren’t station protocol. Besides, being around actual criminals was skeeving him out- Taako was may be breaking the law but he wasn’t like them.

He wasn’t like Lup or Kravitz either though, a fact he tried to remind himself of as he took his final bribe for the evening. Whoever this guy was didn’t seem to learn his lesson, speeding off again the second Taako was done with him.

“Asshole.” He should maybe follow him again. He didn’t get a license number to call in- the street lamp was too far away and the sliver of the moon was barely casting a glow. But what would be the point? There wasn’t any more cash to get and the guy had paid a generous donation to the ‘officer spring baseball fund’. No one else was on the empty highway. A little speeding wouldn’t really hurt anyone.

He was already back in his own car, flipping off his flashing light, when he heard tires screech. Turning on his brights along the dark road, he drove ahead only a half mile before seeing the car he’d just pulled over wrecked against the sign of an abandoned Pizza Hut. “What the fuck?”

Taako wasn’t about to jump out of his car and rush in, but something about this whole thing was weird. No one was left at the sight of the crash. Weirder still, light was coming from inside the Pizza Hut. Even if the windows weren’t boarded up, it wouldn’t be open at this hour.

There was a scream, decidedly not belonging to the guy he’d pulled over, and that was too much for Taako to sit around waiting on. He grabbing his flashlight from where he’d tossed it onto the passenger seat, killed the engine on his car, and ran out.

Looking over the wreck showed signs of a struggle. He had to do a double take, but it looked like someone had clawed through the backseat from the trunk. Another scream and he focused on the Pizza Hut. “Fuck, I do not steal enough to deal with this kind of shit,” but Taako crept forward, lowering his center of gravity and keeping out of view from the broken down door.

“Cam, you’ve got to stop screaming or we’re really going to have a problem.”

“Get off me, you sadistic fuck!“ There was the sound of a slap, then of duct tape ripping. Taako peered up, seeing the man he’d pulled over tying up someone apparently named Cam.

“Now now, we had a deal. And then you went and crashed my car.” The man stalked around Cam, circling, as though this was his own personal stage instead of an empty fast food joint. As he turned, for a split second, Taako was terrified they had locked eyes. He dropped down, panting as he scrambled for his cell phone and dialed for Ren.

There were footsteps and Taako ended the call before it could connect. He dodged away from the building, rolling along the gravel as he switched off his flashlight.

“Fuck, I don’t have time for this,” the man sounded put upon, like someone brought rain to his barbecue rather than interrupted his kidnapping. “Lydia’s only a few blocks down, we can walk.”

There was some pretty intense scuffling sounds, but Taako didn’t let curiosity get the better of him. The door to the Pizza Hut was kicked open, and the man was leading Cam out with his hands tied behind his back.

“Listen, Edward, Eddie, come on. Our deal is still good. You don’t have to do this. I can get you anything you want. I’ve got connections, you know that, keeping me alive will bring you so many more-“

“If you don’t shut up,” this Edward guy was so terrifyingly calm. There was a quick movement and Taako caught the glint of a knife. “I will shut you up. Understood, dear?”

Cam nodded and the pair started walking through the grass away from the abandoned lot.

Taako was shaking, sitting behind the corner of the crumbling building, gravel digging into the pants of his stolen uniform. He should get in his car and go home. Get in his car and maybe call Ren. Tell her about suspicious activity by the neighborhood he knew was a few blocks in the direction Edward and Cam were walking. He should turn around and pretend he was never here.

That Cam guy was probably scum, talking about connections, probably worked with this Edward and Lydia duo before they got sick of him. Taako owed him nothing. Taako didn’t owe anyone anything! He should go home.

Instead, he stood, following the pair through the tall grass, hiding in the shadows cast around street lamps while they walked through a set of cookie cutter houses, stopping at one. Cam and Edward walked up the porch, and Taako ducked behind a bush to get out his phone. With one last glance back, he froze. Edward definitely saw him this time. He paused in the doorway after pushing Cam inside. His eyes narrowed, then gave Taako a smile that made his skin crawl. Edward placed a single finger to his lips, winked at him, then turned to go inside.

“I’m going to die,” Taako concluded as he sank back down. He didn’t hang up on Ren for the second time, but he got no signal while hiding in this shrub. “I’m literally going to die.”

There was shouting in the house, nothing Taako could understand, but there was the sound of a car starting. “Fuck,” he didn’t have much time. Scrambling away from the bush, he ran to the door. He didn’t even need to pick the lock, Edward had left it open. “Ohmygod, ohmygod I’m going to die,” he whispered even as he pushed the door open, grateful there weren’t any squeaky hinges, and made his way into the house. It was empty, a lone couch stood with a sheet over it, but there was nothing else.

Lup had taken him to a party in this neighborhood, only a few months ago. Something her boss was hosting or whatever. When they left the party, he and Lup walked around the block to her car and laughed at how every single house they passed was the same. That night had been been full of people and different furniture, but the bones were the same as this house. Taako traced along the wall next to the stairs until he found the breaker box. At the party, it had been covered by the ugliest painting he’d ever seen. The host tried to justify that it was covering the equally ugly metal door to the fuses. “It’d be less ugly if I was looking at the door, ma’am.” He’d said and Lup had to choke down a laugh before she slapped him on the arm and apologized to her boss.

It had been a fun night. He wondered if he and Kravitz had only just missed running into each other.

Taako forced himself to focus, flipping down the switch labelled ‘garage’ just as the telltale sound of a mechanical door started to rise. It stopped, then slammed against concrete. “Old house, old power. Next time we’re breaking and entering for real,” someone who sounded almost like Edward shouted. A door slammed and there were footsteps come towards him again.

“I thought I was pretty clear. Keep quiet about this and we wont have any trouble. This looks like trouble.” Edward still sounded so calm. Taako didn’t think twice before slamming all the fuses, plunging the house into darkness. “Now that wasn’t very nice.”

Taako sprinted for the front door and slammed it behind him. Phone in hand, he tried calling the station again as he ran along the side of the house, ducking below the windows. When the line went through, he could have sobbed. “Ren, oh thank god, get Lup to Mirkwood Court in-“

“Who is this! You think I didn’t see you try to get a call in tonight? Think I haven’t listen to you fake an accent every other week? We do not encourage vigilantism in this city!”

“Ren, listen-“

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

“Ren please! I need Lup-“

“I am going to track your number and-“ Whatever rant she was gearing up for stopped. “Sir, are you okay?”

“No! Ren, there is a hostage situation at 51 Mirkwood Court in Winter county. Please get Lup down here now!”

She sucked in a breath, sound crackling through the phone, drawing whatever dreadful conclusion as to how a civilian could know of a kidnapping. “Sir, please stay on the line, we’re sending someone to you right now.”

“It better be fucking Lup,” he hissed, scrambling around the back of the house as he heard the footsteps crunching on the dewy grass.

“She’s out of the office right now, but-“

“Then whoever you’re sending should pray they’re half as good as she is!”

“Sir, stay on the li-“ But Taako had already hung up. Any more sound and he was going to get caught. He looked back, expecting Edward to be towering over him. Instead, nothing. Then all the lights in the house turned on at the same time.

“We might as well close up here,” Edward said. Fuck, he sounded bored. Was chasing a potential witness not important enough to him? What was wrong with this guy? Taako crouched under one of the windows, watching as a woman of Edward’s height dragged Cam into the living room.

“You wanna do it?” She must be Lydia, Taako concluded, as she brought out a much larger knife.

“Oh no, I got to grab him, you can have this part.” They grinned at each other and there was something sickening about their joy right now. Footsteps clacked closer to the window and Taako dropped down again. “But make it quick, we’re going to have company soon.”

Taako’s hand was over his mouth, trying not to breathe too hard, trying not to sob, not to throw up. What the hell did he care what happened to this Cam guy? He called the cops, did all he could do. Why was he still here?

There was a swish, a slick sound, and a muffled scream that felt like it went on forever. Taako was definitely going to puke if he didn’t move right. now.

He should have ran around the back, ran to his car by the Pizza Hut, and gone home. Instead, he was at the front door again and he kicked it open. “This is the Neverwinter Police! Put your hands up!” He dropped his voice, brandishing his flashlight in a strobe, trying to give the illusion of having a weapon ready.

“Ruining all our fun,” Edward sighed, voice carrying through the house. “Lyd, go, I’ve got this.”

“What about Cam?”

“Oh, well, you know how old houses are. So easy to get lost in.”

There was shuffling, doors slamming, and Taako tried to make himself move forward into the house. Lights flashed behind him, red and blue, and he pushed in further. If he could get through the kitchen, maybe find this Cam guy on the way, and avoid Edward, there was a back door he could-

Car tires screeched and something crashed. Taako jumped, whipping around in a frenzy before realizing the bang was only something that fell over further into the house. Lydia was driving away, it sounded like one of the cop cars was following her, but Taako needed to focus on finding whatever made that noise.

“You know,” Edward started and Taako whipped around again. Fuck, where was he? “These old houses, just the worst electricity. Cheap wiring, so prone to…” A match sizzled and struck. “Bad luck.”

Whatever Edward had been hoping for, this blaze wasn’t it. Taako saw the flames start up from the breaker box, but there was no grand explosion, no dangerous wildfire. The sparks were enough though, the flames were spreading to the floor and smoke filling the room.

“Help!” Another bang, from a closet down the hall to Taako’s right, the opposite way of the kitchen.

“You’ve got to make a choice,” Edward said, and god, he sounded so close, but this time Taako refused to turn around. Fear or foolish bravery, he wasn’t sure which kept him in place, but as the fire crackled louder, he tried to listen for footsteps. “Save yourself, or save Cam. I’ve dumped enough gasoline to burn him alive in ten minutes. However, you wont get out before the real police come in if you don’t forsake him.”

There was a bullhorn outside, one of the officers demanding that hostages be released, that folks come out with their hands up and “We’ll talk about all this, calmly, like rational people!”

Nothing about this guy was ration, Taako knew that. Then again, it wasn’t like he was coming out the front of this house any time soon either. “And you think you’re getting out in time?” If Taako could just hear those stupid footsteps…

“So witty. So brave. Honestly, I’m impressed. If you ever want to quit this fake cop thing, definitely give us a call.”

“How did you-“

“Oh dear, you’re dreadfully unconvincing. Now tick-tock.” A single snap of heel on tile and Taako whipped around, smashing the side of his flashlight against something he really hoped was Edward.

“How convincing was that, dear.” Taako sneered, only enjoying his victory for a moment before more footsteps echoed in over the smoke.

“This is the Neverwinter Police! We gave you a warning, now I need everyone to put their hands- Oh shit, is that a fire?” There was a crackling of a radio as Kravitz called for backup.

Wait, Kravitz was here? Taako could recognize that voice in his sleep, but he would give anything to have misheard.

“Fuck,” Taako whispered. He scrambled back, down the hall, throwing open a closet door as Cam tumbled onto him. “Get the hell out of here and if I ever catch you with those assholes again, I am not rescuing you.”

“Yes officer! Thank you officer!” Cam was practically tripping over his feet, pushing past Taako to run for the back door. He was clutching his hand, blood staining the front of his shirt, and Taako felt sick all over again.

“Officer?” Kravitz turned down the hall and even through the smoke, they could see each other clearly. “T-Taako?”

“Uh, nope. I’m a smoke induced hallucination. You really should get out here, my man. Old houses like this don’t last long under this kind of heat.”

“You’re- you’re not a police officer. You’re a pastry chef and a retail manager.”

“Okay, I specialize in pastries, but I cook other stuff too. Really, Krav, hun, not the time for semantics.” Taako tried to walk past him, tried to get Kravitz to move out of this house. He could hear the beams on the second floor start to creak as they caught fire. “Come on.”

“Why are you wearing a police uniform?”

“Kravitz, this isn’t the- fuck!”

The smart thing to do would have been letting Edward attack. He was behind Kravitz, Kravitz wasn’t paying attention, it would have been an easy escape for Taako. No matter how handsome the officer was, a pretty face wasn’t worth going to jail for, or getting caught in a house fire during a botched kidnapping. Maybe it was more than the pretty face, but Taako was not about to let Kravitz get stabbed. So, like an idiot, he barrelled forward, tackling Edward to the ground.

Kravitz joined the scuffle, but that only succeeded in getting the knife away from Edward. The smoke was thick above them, all the lights of the house flickering in a strange strobe. Taako thought he had the upper hand for a moment. Then he was shoved onto his back. Looking up, he expected death, but it was Kravitz holding him down.

“Tell me you are not working with the Wendor twins!” He shouted, eyes wide like Taako had betrayed him. They’d only just met, what was there to betray?

“The who twins? Look, I’m all for you being strong on top, but he’s getting away!” Taako barely started to struggle when Kravitz released him.

“You’re not working with him.”

“No! I stopped him from killing that other guy. Fuck, who you didn’t see but there was another guy that they took and- whatever! We’ll deal with the details later.” Taako ran down the hall, back into the main living room. He was wheezing, air unbreathable, but Edward was just as affected, swaying as he tried to move to the door, before realizing that’s where the police were and circling back, only to be faced with Taako and Kravitz again. Well, if the blow to the head didn’t knock him out, a concussion was just as good.

Without turning away from their target, Taako moved his hand towards Kravitz. “Gimme your handcuffs.”

“What? No.”

“Krav, trust me,” Taako was already moving forward, keeping Edward’s attention as they circled around the single couch.

“You have done literally nothing to earn my trust.” And yet, the handcuffs flew through the air for Taako to catch.

He lunged at Edward, taking him over the back of the couch. He was hardly successful in keeping him down, but the struggle was enough to get one handcuff on. Edward grabbed Taako’s leg as he scrambled to stand, to get some sort of leverage, and the pain felt impossibly sharp. Another knife? Or was this guy part time Wolverine? Either way, Taako fell back to the ground and Edward rose.

It was distraction enough, and Kravitz secured the remaining cuff. That only slowed Edward. He kept advancing as Taako scrambled backwards until his back hit the wall. A beam above them creaked, a suspended moment in which everyone in the house looked up. Edward stumbled backwards into Kravitz’s grip as the beam fell, bringing a firestorm with it.

“You got him?” Taako asked, forcing himself to his feet. His leg burned, and the stray embers landing on his pants were not helping.

“I got him. Are you okay?”

“Yeah I-” He coughed, bracing a hand against the wall before jerking it back. The heat was unbelievable. This house was not going to stand much longer. “Get out of here! I’ll go out the back.”

Kravitz frowned, but started dragging Edward to the front. Then he paused, and Taako was ready to scream. Why wouldn’t this idiot save himself? “You can’t wear an officer’s uniform. We need to handle this situation.”

“For the love of,” Taako stopped his staggering towards the kitchen. Lit by the eerie orange strobe, Kravitz looked divine. Not the time to appreciate the view, though. “You can handle me all out want later! How about we get out of the burning building first, huh?”

If Kravitz said something more to him, Taako didn’t hear. He turned and limped faster, as more of the second floor collapsed into the living room. Once he was out the back, his leg felt slightly less terrible and he pushed himself to a run. Kravitz would tell the other officers on the scene that there was another criminal escaping and Taako was not about to get caught.

He made it to his car, collapsing into the seat and locking the door. No officers chasing him, no kidnappers to chase. His leg still burned, but he could deal with that once he caught his breath. Taako waited another hour, dressing his leg with the rudimentary first aid kit he kept in the glovebox. No squad cars came his way. However, Edward’s wrecked car sat in front him the entire time. It was just a hunk of scrap metal now, but it felt like it was mocking him.

[Part Three] [Part Five]

Thanks for reading! The hardest part of this chapter was trying to make up a last name for the wonderland twins...

[rwbyremnants]

NOTE: Sorry about the wait there, but I hopefully can get the next chaps out a lot sooner! Thanks for all the reviews, I'm always given a little Mana Boost when I read them!

=Chapter 11

Within a little over a week, Weiss had completed her tour stops at St. Louis, Tulsa, Dallas, Austin, and Little Rock. Each show was a tremendous success, with media attention across all platforms. Thanks to Yang, any unwanted photos were unusable, and there had been seemingly no further slip-ups in security. Business as usual.

Not only that, but many of the fellow security staff and makeup crew had noted that Weiss seemed far happier than she ever had before, and that she was a lot kinder and more forgiving when they made mistakes. Even though there were bigger divas in the business, she had not been exactly “easy” to work with before. She was like a brand new woman, even if they didn’t know precisely why.

There were social benefits for Yang, as well. As time went on, she was growing more and more confident in not just her job, but with the staff and the crowds in general. Despite her flirtatious nature, Yang had an ingrained habit of avoiding talking if she was able to, but now it was no longer an issue. There wasn't the horrible feeling in the background that people would know her secret instantly, and the fear of anyone finding out had simply… vanished. For the first time in her life, she was starting to finally feel not partially, but fully comfortable in her own skin.

Alas, they couldn't allow their relationship to become public knowledge. There was too much of a risk to her career, with not just the media attention, but the backlash from her father. Considering he had pushed her into becoming a Christian singer when she was young, he certainly would not approve of her straying this far from “the path of righteousness”. But that didn't mean that cuddling, kissing and other things had to be off limits. They just had to remain behind closed doors.

As it neared midnight over a week after their relationship became so much more physical, their next destination still hours away, the couple got hungry. The crew had stopped for a nap break, anyway, so she and Yang zipped off a few miles down the road to a small coffee house along the highway. This time of night, there were only a few people inside, but that was preferable; less attention to be raised.

"So, what you having?"

“Hmm,” Weiss mused as she looked down the page of the menu. “I’ll try the… what is a ‘Po Boy’, anyway?”

“Sandwich,” the squat woman taking their order told her. “One of the better ones on the menu, I can tell you that.”

“Oh.” Glancing at Yang, she shrugged and said, “Then I’ll try one of those, and some of your fries with a light sprinkling of sea salt. And a lemonade.” The woman scribbled down the order – though she had rolled her eyes at the salt request – then looked over at the blonde.

"I'll have a fully loaded waffle, extra bacon, and a coffee with cream and sugar." She smiled up at the woman, placing the menu down in the small holster at their side as she left, then gazed over the room. It was a quaint enough little place, neon lights around the front counter to give off a fifties appearance, red leather seating on the booths and bar seats, a jukebox sat to one side that was turned off for some reason. If it were twelve in the afternoon rather than the morning, a place like this would usually draw a decent crowd in such a small town.

“Maybe I should have tried a milkshake,” Weiss hissed to Yang once the woman had moved off. “Or should I say ‘chocolate malt’? It would suit this atmosphere.”

"Milkshakes, fifties-looking joint… I should have worn my leather jacket. We coulda sang ‘Greased Lightnin’!" She glance over at the jukebox again. "Shame that’s out of commission. The quiet makes it a lil spooky."

Shrugging, Weiss pulled a packet of Sweet N’ Low out of the holder and began turning it in her fingertips, simply to busy her hands. They wanted to reach out and take Yang’s, but again, that would be a public display of affection - which they had both agreed was out of the question.

“Guess it does. At least it’s not on and playing one of my songs, though.”

"Good luck trying to get that ol' thing to work,” a rather tall blonde woman behind the bar called up, having either heard part of their conversation, or at least seen Yang staring over at it. “Broke a couple o' weeks ago. Had to hire my lil' brother to come in and play the guitar and sing all last week to keep the lunch hour entertained." As she went to fetch more cream for the coffee, she gestured toward the corner. "Hell, if you want music, guitar's right over there."

Smiling demurely, Weiss said, “No, thank you.” Then she lowered her voice to add, “I don’t want anyone recognizing my singing voice; plus, if I play the guitar I’m sure to break a nail. I only play while we’re recording and I’m not making ‘appearances’.”

Yang continued to stare for a moment, shrugging her shoulders lightly as the woman brought their coffees. One black, the other with cream as requested. Once she had gone, Yang chuckled. "Would you believe me if I told you I used to play?"

“Really?” The polite smile turned into one of genuine interest. “Xiao Long, there are more layers to you than meets the eye. What did you play? Lead, bass?”

"Lead. I only ever had an acoustic guitar before, but I had to sell it when I moved. Haven’t played in a little while, but I still remember some of the little tunes I made up." Taking a sip of java, she began to sink into her seat happily. "Ahhhhh, that's the stuff…"

That made Weiss contemplative for a moment, even as she was watching how happy Yang was to be sipping at her coffee. Eventually, she opened the packet of sweetener and poured it into her cup, but she was still thinking as she sipped the bitter liquid.

Then, right around the time their waitress brought out her lemonade, she suddenly blurted out, “Show me.”

It was said in the middle of her sip, and thus suddenly made her eyes snap open wide, and made her almost spit what she had in her mouth out. Thankfully she could swallow, but it didn’t erase the bug-eyed look.

"S-scuze me?! Weiss, that’s- c’mon, I know you’re suddenly all about dirtying up your ‘squeaky clean’ image, but we’re in the middle of a restaurant!"

"Not that you dolt! You’re terrible! I meant the guitar," Weiss whispered with a coy smile, fingertips playing around the rim of her coffee cup. "Right here, right now. Show me what you got."

Another gaze around the room was needed before she made her decision. It wasn't a very big audience. Weiss, three truckers sat up at the bar, one lonely police officer half asleep in one of the corner booths, and the two waitresses. Even so, she was years out of practice. Would Weiss want to hear her sounding like a cat on a fence?

But as she stared down at the coffee cup, the less she was beginning to care. Weiss liked her, and she was already the musician in their relationship; there was no real impetus to “impress” her when she definitely wouldn’t be impressed. That removed a lot of the stage fright. Besides, they had only come in for a quick meal, then they would be gone. And frankly, Yang could always fall asleep in the bus before it was brought up again.

"Ah, fuck it." Before she could talk herself out of it, Yang stood from the table.

Pleased both that she was getting her way, and that Yang would be displaying whatever level of skill she might have, her employer turned in her chair to face the corner where Yang was just pulling the guitar into her lap. Though the diva promised herself she would not react negatively, even if Yang couldn't carry a tune in a bucket; after all, she did say it had been quite some time since she last touched a guitar.

For a few short moments, Yang ran her fingers over the strings, playing a few quiet chords to test the sound. It seemed in tune, she thought. Then she played a few notes of a simple medley; nothing memorable, just to test its sound and refamiliarise herself with it after so long. Then she made sure her chair was faced as much toward Weiss as she could get it, staring down at the strings as she prepared. Tapping her foot to a somewhat slower rhythm than Weiss's songs would be, she mouthed in time with the beat.

"One, two, three, four…”

The gentle melody that began to flow out of the instrument was one that very much suited the sleepy atmosphere of such a small town at that time of night. It wasn't a song that had been on the radio, or in the background of the movie.

Which Weiss was certainly listening for. Yang wasn't lying when she said she had written a few tunes. Still, the way she had talked about her playing made her think it was a simple three-chord ditty, just something she had messed around with – maybe a slight variance on a popular song. But this was something completely new, and completely beautiful. Rough around the edges, and she heard a few notes in there that Yang had missed slightly, but clearly that was more a by-product of being out of practice than of lack of talent. The tune itself was completely captivating, effortless.

Yang, all of it was Yang.

By the time the strings fell silent and the spell broken, she was startled to see their plates of food were now on the table. So engrossed had she been in the strains of the guitar that she hadn't even noticed them being brought along. Hastening to fill the void left by the song, she began to clap, and the other patrons clapped, as well – one man wolf-whistled, probably mostly because Yang was a beautiful blonde. Maybe they hadn't enjoyed it quite as much as Weiss, but they definitely didn't hate it.

It wasn't something Yang expected at all. Perhaps polite applause from Weiss, but not from everyone present, including the two waitresses behind the counter. Looking toward them with a blush on her face, she placed the guitar back in the corner, offering a small curtsy to those looking her way before she rejoined Weiss.

"That…" The normally self-assured diva tried to form words for several seconds; she only succeeded in gesticulating weirdly. Finally, she reached across the table and grasped Yang's forearms as hard as she could. "YOU!"

Looking back toward her with eyes as wide as she could possibly manage in her somewhat sleepy state, she raised her shoulders hesitantly. Had she really stank that bad? "I told you I was a lil' rusty, but, yeah, that's that."

"Rusty? You… you are just…" Sitting back with wide eyes, Weiss chuckled just a little. "How dare you!"

Taking up her knife and fork, Yang could only keep her hands busy by cutting up her waffle, staring down at her plate to avoid eye contact. "What? I mean I just… I had a lot of free time when I made it up. Never claimed it was gonna take the world by storm, just that it was-"

"How DARE you keep this talent a secret, you jerk! I can't believe that all this time, I've had a gifted musician standing around and beating people up for me!"

Although flattered, which was somewhat obvious by the red cheeks behind the cup as she had another sip of the coffee, Yang continued to be modest about such a performance. Complimenting her looks was something she could accept pretty easy, but anything else was beyond her ken.

"’Gifted’, huh? You don’t have to butter me up. I mean it's nothing like your songs." She put the mug down, tucking into a slice of the waffle to fill the brief silence.

"The hell it’s not!" Taking a breath, she wiped a hand down her face, smearing a tiny bit of her mascara in the process. She was too distracted to notice. "You… I mean, okay yes, my songs are normally more glam-pop-oriented, but there's definitely room on the radio for breezy guitar pop like yours! What do you call that one?"

Looking upward in thought, she quickly swallowed what mouthful she had, already preparing the next bite before she could answer that question – a preemptive escape route. "It… doesn't have a name yet, I guess. Never bothered to think of one. But I remember writing it when…"

"When WHAT?!" But she noticed Yang was wincing at her outbursts, and being evasive, so she cleared her throat and tried to compose herself. "Sorry. I mean, when did you write it?"

“Well...” She began to lean in toward Weiss, quickly gazing around the room to make sure no one was listening in. It was a too sensitive subject to be yelled out loud. "I started writing it before I came out to Blake, as kind of a way of… y’know, venting my feelings. Had to do something. And I kept working on it before I came out to my dad and Ruby, too. I mean, you can't really tell from just a melody with no words, but it's sort of my way of trying to get me to accept myself? I guess. Um, nevermind."

"Oh…" Now Weiss felt stupid for having pushed so much; those parts of Yang's life were still very sensitive, even though she was so far along in her journey. There did seem to be a secret pain behind the melody, but she was so used to hearing songs day in, day out, that she sometimes didn’t pay much attention to the meaning that the music itself could carry. "Well… you can play it for me anytime you need to vent about it again. It's beautiful. Absolutely, hauntingly beautiful."

"Hey, don't sweat it. I don't mind you knowing its origin." But just before she finished the rest of her meal, a thought seemed to have crossed her mind. As much was obvious by the way she stared in the general direction of the guitar and smiled to herself. "It'd be even prettier with lyrics, I think. One of those 'this is who I am' songs rather than 'this is who I'll screw'. Don't think it'd ever sell well on the radio, but it would be nice if it was… out there. For anybody who needs it, or whatever. Not that I’m any kind of singer – trust me. My girl singing voice is almost as bad as my guy singing voice was."

All the diva did while listening was continue to make her way through her po' boy - which turned out to be tasty, even if a tad spicier than her palate was normally comfortable with. Her mind was racing, trying to make sense of all this new and fascinating information she had just been handed. She’d never expected this. Seemed her bodyguard was full of surprises.

A few moments of silence followed as both finished their meals, Yang draining the last of her coffee. Which as it turned out, was doing nothing to really wake her up; she was lucky to have even kept her eyes open all this time. But as she sat and waited for Weiss to finish her drink, she smiled contentedly. It was always nice being out with her girlfriend – even if it was still fresh and new.

“Well, it’s a shame you didn’t show me this talent of yours before now,” Weiss sighed as she set down her own fork. “We could have enjoyed some random duets all along the tour.”

“Stop,” Yang laughed easily. Then she came over wistful, staring down into her empty cup. "Wish I still had a guitar so I could play it more often, if you like it that much. Guess I could do air guitar."

"Do you?" she replied, playing it cool. "Then perhaps you should put aside a little money. We could even make a stop at a music store in a few days, so you can price them. Could lead to a whole new career path of busking in the park."

"Maybe once the tour is over, sure. But for now, I'd rather focus on beating people up for you." She winked. Not quite tired enough to completely change her personality just yet. “But apparently I suck at that and should become a street performer, huh?”

"That's… I was kidding, of course you're good at your job!" Weiss blustered, frowning at Yang as she set down her lemonade for the final time.

"You're damn right I'm good at my job. Saved your ass, remember?" They were at a point now when the subject of the knifeman could be brought up. At least, it could between those two. To anyone else, Weiss would be silent, not want to say a word. But with Yang, making light of the danger was a way of coping.

Finally, Yang rose from her seat, pacing out from their table as she waited for the diva. With a grumbled "Yeah, yeah," she eventually joined her, leaving a twenty on their table to cover the meal. But her mind was still deep in thought about Yang's playing. How could she not know she could play to please the angels themselves?

As they crossed the parking lot to get back to the bike, it seemed Yang's state of tiredness was becoming more and more apparent. She was wobbling in her footsteps occasionally, constantly yawning, struggling to keep her eyes open… How on earth could she ride the bike like this? It was only a five-minute ride, but she knew she wouldn't make it that far. But perhaps…

"Hey Weiss?" she asked tiredly, trying to hold off another yawn. "How about you drive?"

"How ab…" Her eyes went wide as she turned back to blink at Yang. "This is your baby though! You told me over and over – I couldn't dream of trying, I've only driven a motorcycle like, twice!"

"And that's still way more than I expected and throws me off whenever you say it." Passing her one of the helmets, and fastening her own in place, she had to yawn yet again. "Look, you're more awake than me. And it's only five minutes down the road. I'll be right there with you, okay?"

Weiss's eyes went to the motorcycle. There was fear there, and hesitation… but also a gleam of interest. She loved riding on the back of it, and wanted to be in charge of that power herself. Wanted to feel the handlebars thrum under her own palms.

"Are you sure?" she asked, turning away from the bike. Away from temptation. "I mean, I'd pay for everything if I put a scratch on it, of course, but I still don't want to hurt your ride."

"Thought you liked feeling me pressed up against your back." Yet again, she smirked to her, even giving a small wink. Of course Yang would refer to their sleeping habits and the things that drove Weiss mad with need in the middle of a serious chat. It was in her nature.

Cheeks only pinkening the slightest bit at the provocation, she sauntered over to the bike, calling over her shoulder, "Sometimes I think you like my ass more than the rest of me." But she put on a good show of throwing her leg over the bike, letting Yang get just the tiniest glimpse of her strawberry-patterned underwear under her skirt before it settled.

It only made Yang growl with joy as she climbed on behind her, budging herself forward as much as she could so she was right behind her. Allowing her arms to settle around her, she taunted by deliberately pushing her hips up against Weiss's backside a moment.

"Well, you do let me get pretty close to it. A lot."

A gust of flustered air pushed from Weiss's nostrils. No, she couldn't feel terribly much through all the fabric, but knowing what was back there made a tingling begin that she would have to ignore if she wanted to drive properly.

"Okay, so…" She slipped the key into the ignition, made sure she had the brake applied, and then turned the key. Instantly, the motor roared to life. "Anything else I should remember?"

"Works the same as a regular Yamaha, but the accelerator is tweaked. So just keep it slow and steady; don’t rev too fast," she warned, giving a small squeeze around her waist as she finally lifted her legs off the ground, giving Weiss full control.

They peeled out from the parking lot. Weiss did a good job of taking things rather slow - other than once or twice when her hand slipped and they took off like a shot, but she managed to bring everything back under control again within a block or two. Gradual decreases kept them from wiping out completely.

All the while, the warm presence of Yang against her back was such a comfort that she found it hard to be all that frightened of losing control. They both knew what they were doing; Yang simply had more practice, that was all. Meanwhile, Yang kept her hands on her girlfriend, watching the road ahead as though she were driving herself. Weiss was quite good once she had gained her confidence, just as well as Yang was a decent musician when she gained hers. In her tired state, she did manage to lean into Weiss's neck, giving it a small kiss as they continued the gentle pace.

"Am I doing okay?!" Weiss demanded in a voice nearly an octave higher than usual as they idled at a red light.

"You're doing fine!" She squeezed her slightly closer in the moment they'd stopped, pressing yet another kiss to her cheek. From how soppy she was being on their journey, it was obvious she was on the verge of falling asleep.

When they finally made it back to where the bus was parked, she leaned Yang against the side of the trailer hitched to the back before pushing the bike inside on her own. It wasn't easy for her thin arms, but she managed. Then she locked it up and led Yang inside their living quarters, patting her tired shoulders in sympathy.

By the time they got ready for bed and slid into the sheets, they were already on the road. The driver would be going all night so that they were most of the way back up toward Indianapolis by the time they woke up; he sometimes swapped out with one of the other roadies who wad guiding the bus full of Weiss’s entourage.

"Yang?" she whispered while snuggling up against Yang's back, just to see if she was asleep yet.

Nuzzled into the pillows and the sheets, Yang shuffled her head very slightly when she heard her name called, whispering very quietly, "Yeah?"

The younger woman debated for a moment. "I'm sorry for pushing you for the story about that song. Didn't think it would be so personal - but that's no excuse for me being pushy."

"You didn't push." The words were so quiet compared to her normal voice. Clutching the sheets to pull more of them onto herself, she continued, "Maybe one day, you'll have your own song like that. One about… coming out."

"Maybe," Weiss breathed into her blonde mane as she began to drift herself. "We'll see."

Under the sheets, Yang held the hand that Weiss had on her stomach tightly. At this time of night, it was too late for her to make up jokes, or even to lie; she was at her most honest. She might as well be drunk.

"I know it's hard for you. All this. You didn't want to be like me, because you don't wanna disappoint your dad, or your religion or whatever. But listen – you're not messing up, or hurting anybody. You are who you are. And that's perfect as it is, whatever it is."

Weiss's eyebrows knitted as she listened. Yang was trying to soothe her about things she hadn't even been thinking that deeply upon, but once said… she couldn't deny they were true. Her lyrics stuck to such surface topics as boys and "girl power" and partying because digging into anything deeper was terrifying. She didn't want to put herself out there, to challenge people's perceptions. Especially not those of her family. But Yang was right; she was who she was. Fighting it would have made her miss out on this glorious relationship. So maybe she should push her boundaries a little after all.

As she drifted off to sleep, the awakening diva also thought she might know exactly where to start…

[5hfanfiction]

2 Broke girls - Two

Lauren made her way into the busy dinner half an hour late after an argument with her now ex-roommate who had moved out and left Lauren in the lurch without so much as a warning, meaning Lauren now had to make up half of the rent for her apartment.

Rushing past Dinah and who was sat at the booking booth to grab her apron and notepad from the back, only to bump into the same rich girl from last night, except now she looked well…less rich. Maybe it was the uniform.

“Ugh…watch it, will you?” Lauren snapped already not in the mood for people’s bullshit today.

“I’m so sorry.” The girl apologised, “You’re Lauren right?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Lauren said grabbing the plates of food Ty had placed onto the side to be taken to the desired tables.

“Oh..well Ally said you’d show be the ropes?” Camila she’s more than stated, feeling intimidated by the other girl who seemed so…in her element. Camila had never waitresses a day in her life, despite what she had told Ally. The truth is her dad paid for most of her things or she used the money from her trust fund, which had now been taken away from her as a repercussion of Alejandro’s failed business plans.

Setting the plates on the correct table Lauren huffed at the new girl, who was apparently insistent on annoying the heck out of Lauren with her annoying upper east side voice. “It’s not hard.” Lauren said walking behind the side bar. “This is Ty. Ty gives you the food,” Lauren said picking up more of the plates the new waitress obviously hadn’t decided to deliver and let pile up. “And you take them to the tables. My section,” Lauren said walking over to the furthest tables and setting the two plates down in front of an elderly couple. “Is tables one to eight and your’s is tables nine to eighteen.” She said secretly giving Camila a few extra tables from her own section to decrease her work load.

“Okay.” The Latina nodded in understanding.

“Once the tables are cleared out your job is to wash them. Or don’t, what they don’t know can’t hurt.” Lauren shrugged unbothered as Camila gasped in horror. “This is DJ.” Lauren gestured to her friend at at her station. “DJ books all the tables and shoves people our way. She’s also in control of all the crappy music we play here. Hence the name DJ. ” Lauren spoke as Dinah looked up from her tiny docking station and giving a small wave and a laugh. Though Camila didn’t know what was funny.

“Where the hell did Smallz find this one?” The DJ asked in a loud hushed tone to Lauren allowing Camila to hear.

“I can hear you! You know?!” Camila stepped forward, not liking everyone’s attitude hear. She had had enough from the chef earlier on when Lauren wasn’t hear to help here and Ally left her stranded in the kitchen inhaling the toxic fumes the guy was astonishingly smoking in the kitchen.

“We know.” Lauren said harshly, walking back towards the kitchen leaving Camila to chase after her. “So that’s about it. Oh! And we split the tips.” Lauren said shaking the empty jar that read tips.

“Alright, I think I’ve got it.” Camila nodded stressed as she tried to remember everything she had to do. It was a lot for her, but she needed this job. “I’m Camila by the way.” The young girl introduced herself.

“What kind of name is Camila?” Lauren scoffed, flipping open her notepad and pulling a small pencil from her bra.

“It’s Latin, I was actually named after-”

“Don’t care.” Lauren interrupted and disappeared through the kitchen doors, leaving a shocked and offended Camila alone out front, but Camila wasn’t having it so she stalked after her. Only to be met by Lauren sat on the work surface, near the food, smoking an illegal substance.

“Omg! What are you doing?!” Camila exclaimed.

“Blazing up, you want some?” Lauren offered much to Camila’s dismay.

“No! I don’t not want some. Do you know how dangerous that is? Not to mention the many health and safety regulations you are probably breaking right now.” Camila feuded in her squeaky voice.

“I’m sorry, have you seen this Diner?!” Lauren said jumping of the counter rolling her eyes. “Health and safety is put exactly our main priority.”

“Well it should be! Good people eat here and rely on you to provide them with good food. Safe food. That’s not surrounded by narcotics.”

“Is she for real?” Ty asked Lauren as Camila got increasingly wound up.

“Apparently so.” Lauren said stubbing out the joint in her hand. “Look, I don’t know where you’re from Princess but you need to dial it down, Kay?” Lauren said mocking Camila with the stupid nickname, because Camila wasn’t a princess. Sure she had tea with once, but that didn’t make her a princess,  just a friend of one.

“I’m not a-” Camila’s defence was interrupted by Ally marching into the kitchen.

“What are you guys doing back here?! This diner isn’t going to run itself!” She exclaimed placing both hands on her hips as she attempted to stare everyone down.

“With the amount of mould growing in this place I wouldn’t be surprised if it grew legs and ran away.” Lauren deadpanned with a hint of seriousness and causing Camila’s jaw to drop in shock horror. This place really was disgusting.

“We don’t have mould…anymore.” Ally smiled falsely shooting Lauren a dirty look that screamed ‘shut up’. “Now get out there before I fire you.”

“Please…” Lauren scoffed, “if you fire us this place will be closed down in a day.” And with that Lauren grabbed hold of Camila’s arm and dragged her out into the Diner to finish the rest of their shift.

Camila slowly got the hang of things, but the customers were another story. The were all so…rude.

“Look sir, this is what you ordered. I can go and change it, but it will cost more.” Camila tried to reason with the bald headed man who was in the wrong.

“No. I want what I ordered.” He yelled threateningly.

“Hey!” Lauren came up stepping in front of Camila and latching onto the guy with her menacing stare, as Camila breathed a sigh of relief having never of had to work with actual people before, other than her personal shopper and assistants. “Don’t be yelling a Canola like that. If you don’t like what you ordered that’s not her fault. So you can either order another meal and apologise to Cornflake over here or leave.” Lauren sassed letting her full Cuban accent takeover as she gave the now quiet man ultimatum.

“Um- sorry miss, I’ll just have a hotdog with mustard.” The big guy mumbled, avoiding Lauren’s gaze.

“Better.” Lauren said, grabbing his plate and walking away without so much of a second glance whilst Camila looked on at her in complete awe. Maybe this girl wasn’t so bad after all Camila thought, she did come over just to defend her.

Camila debated going over to Lauren and thanking her, but for some reason she didn’t think Lauren would take kindly to that. She didn’t seem like a 'feelings’ type of person and quite frankly Camila was scared that if she did go to hug her Lauren would shank her and steal her diamond earrings that her daddy had brought her from Paris. They were the only thing of real value she actually had left, well that and her designer shoes and matching bag.

So Camila opted otherwise and continued onto her other tables. Lauren didn’t really say much to her for the rest of the evening, Ty did occasionally but that was only to desperately flirt with her and Ally mostly kept to herself in the small office, whilst Dinah booked tables, played music and bantered with Lauren.

At 8pm Dinah dragged out a mic stand and began setting up the small stage at the front of the Diner that Camila hadn’t even noticed before, seeing as she had been to preoccupied with angry customers and an overwhelming amount of orders.

Once it hit 8:20pm Lauren stood upon the stage and tapped the microphone to check it was all synced up before speaking into the mic.  “Hey, so I’m gonna sing a song for you guys if you don’t mind.” Lauren spoke and for the first time since Camila had meant her she actually saw a flicker of emotion- nerves, she thought it was.

Lauren gave Dinah a thumbs up and the girl cued the music and the intro to Amy Winehouse’s Valarie started playing though the speakers before Lauren started singing the opening verse, flawlessly, Camila might add.

The brunette voice filled the Diner and gave it a new found life and even though Camila had double the amount of tables to wait on she could stop watching the girl singing soulfully through the mic with her eyes shut tight and hips swaying to the music.

It was inevitably the people walking up to the front of the stage pouring coins into Lauren’s upside down grey beanie that caused Camila to tear her eyes away from the girl on the stage and pay attention to her surroundings and an idea to spring up into her head. So Camila quickly walked over to where Dinah was sat in her booth. “DJ?”

“What’s up newb?” Dinah said not looking up from her laptop.

“Do we charge people for live performances at all?” Camila asked as her brain ticked away at ways to make money.

“No, why would we? Lauren just does it because she wants too.” Dinah shrugged finally looking up at the petite brunette hovering around her booth. “…and for tips, obviously.” Dinah added.

“Hmm…that’s interesting. She’s really good.” Camila commended.

“She almost had a record deal, ya know?” Dinah said looking at the girl belting notes on the stage.

“She did?” Camila asked shocked. Lauren didn’t seem the pop-star type.

“Yep. Hey, do me a favour and watch my booth? I need to pee.” Dinah said shuffling out, before Camila could give her an answer. So the new girl moved to sit in Dinah’s seat overlooking the Diner and waited for the girl to come back, praying that Lauren didn’t finish the song to soon and leave Camila with the job of cueing new music.

So, Camila sat tapping her fingers nervously waiting for Dinah to return but she never did and soon enough a customer wandered through the door looking for a table.

“Table for one.” The man in a business suit said obliviously with a phone to his ear and Camila tapped desperately at the computer trying to figure out what to do, but eventually gave up and just picked an empty table from the room.

“Um- table 11 is free.” Camila said and the man nodded continuing his phone call. “Listen, its loud in here so I’m going to have to call you back later.” He spoke, bringing Camila’s attention back to the live music and sparking up and idea in the young girl’s head.  “And that’ll be ten dollars as well, as its live music night.” Camila spoke confidently just like she was taught to in business school. The man pulled out his wallet and handed Camila the ten dollar bill before shuffling off to his table, without even so much of a second thought. So Camila pocketed the money with a smirk on her face just as Dinah appeared to take back over the booth.

“I put someone at that table,” Camila pointed, “I didn’t know how to work your thingy so I just chose an empty table.” Camila explained.

“That’s pretty much what I do anyway.” Dinah shrugged as Lauren finished her song and stepped of the stage handing Dinah the microphone clutched in her hand. “You killed it babe.”

“Thanks DJ.” Lauren smiled.

“Yeah, that was…AMAZING.” Camila agreed. “You should-”

“Whatever.” Lauren cut her off and walked away to the back of the kitchen, leaving a very confused Camila standing in her wake. She only congratulated her, it’s not like she even did anything wrong. “What’s her problem?” Camila asked Dinah feeling slightly annoyed.

“Lauren doesn’t do compliments…especially about her singing.” Dinah explained.

“But you just-” Camila stated baffled.

“It’s different with me.” Dinah shrugged, not even bothering to look at Camila as she spoke. Why was everyone here so rude?

“Then why does she even sing in the first place?” Camila pushed, trying to figure the angsty waitress out.

“Money. We’re not all rich like you.” Dinah said pointedly, like she knew something Camila obviously didn’t want anyone to know.

“How did you-?”

“Please Karla,” Dinah shattered Camilas facade by using her first name. “Your father’s face is plastered over every newspaper article in New York. Did you really think we wouldn’t figure it out?” Dinah said with complete distaste towards Camila.

“I didn’t- So Lauren knows?” Camila questioned. It would explain why she was treating her so badly.

“Yeah, she found it quite hilarious actually.” Dinah bemused. “Look to be honest I don’t care. Just don’t fuck with us okay? We’re broke as it is.”

“I would never.” Camila assured, nodding her head profusely.

“Good.” Dinah said. Camila began to walk away but turned back again when she heard Dinah speak. “Don’t stress over Lauren. She’s like this with everyone. It’s her M.O.”

-

Finally the last of the customers filtered out of the door and Lauren quickly slammed the door shut and flipped the open sign to read Closed, to prevent anymore stragglers from wondering in.

Ally, TY and Dinah had all left, leaving Lauren to close the Diner and Camila to…well Lauren didn’t quite know what it was that Camila was doing, other than wondering around trying to appear as though she was doing something, which she clearly wasn’t.

Lauren moved to grab her jacket from being sprawled across the bar, before turning to Camila. “Are you planning on leaving anytime soon? Because I have to lock up.”

“Oh.” Camila spoke dejectedly, but made no move to leave the shelter the Diner provided.

“So….are you going to go or what?” Lauren huffed after waiting a few beats for the new waitresses response.

“Um- yeah.” Camila mumbled nervously, grabbing her leather jacket and following Lauren outside onto the cold streets of Brooklyn. Lauren quickly locked the doors to the Diner, before turning to a hovering Camila.

Both girls just stared at each other waiting for the other to make a move, but neither did. Instead Camila found herself noticing Lauren’s striking green eyes for the fist time they had met. They provided at stark contrast against everything regarding Lauren’s appearance where her hair fell messily to one side and her skin was slightly blotchy and free from make up. Camila could even recommend a good concealer for her to use.

“Well…see ya.” Lauren blurted out, breaking the silence and turning to walk away.

“Wait!” Camila practically yelled after her.

“What?” Lauren said turning around annoyed, but making no effort to move any closer.

“I have no where to go.” Camila confessed in a whisper barely audible for Lauren to hear.

“…okay?” Lauren shrugged unbothered. “Do what I did when stepdad number 33 came along and kicked me out. Grab a card board box split it open and sleep on a doorstep until someone comes and pours a bucket of water on you.”

“Are you serious?” Camila questioned, astonished that the girl would suggest such a thing. Camila didn’t sleep anywhere less than four stars, so she wasn’t as picky most people on the upper east side, but sleeping on the ground was a ridiculous idea.

“No, come on.” Lauren instructed turning and walking back down the street.

“Where are we going?” Camila asked, quickly following after Lauren, scared of being left alone on the streets of Brooklyn.

“To a drug den.” Lauren rolled her eyes, but Camila couldn’t see because she was slightly behind the older girl.

“WHAT?! LAUREN, NO!” Camila panicked.

“Chillout, you’re staying at my apartment.” Lauren said monotonously.

“Omg! Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Camila squeaked with relief at not having to sleep on the streets.

“This doesn’t mean I like.” Lauren said bluntly.

[cathcacen]

Rei tries to go on a date / Lear tries not to ruin a date. They both fail.

Ortho is kicking her ass. She’s no good at it. Despite all the theory she’s read, actual application escapes her, and she’s having absolutely no fun being told time and again to hold the damn bone properly.

She spends her nights in a spare room on the eighth floor of the hospital, visualising joints and metal parts coming together to fix a person. Just three doors down, a living, breathing specimen is filled with these metal parts and joints, but she doesn't want to be accused of feeling him up.

The Ortho attending gives her a list of research papers to read and makes snide remarks about how she should try to pick her brother’s brains more. Think big, he tells her. It’s not just popping bones back into place or placing a splint. You have to imagine the screws and parts, and you have to be creative.

She drags a skeleton model up to her spare room and familiarises herself with the known methods of putting a compromised musculoskeletal system back together. She ‘borrows’ reconstruction and implant parts from the hospital store, some commonly-used and others less so, and practices fitting them onto cadavers donated to science.

They’re more accommodating than Sagen is.

“You don’t have trouble with nerves and cartilage,” The attending tells her one morning during rounds. “But for some reason, you’re bad with bones.”

Sagen had smirked knowingly at her the entire time.

Three long weeks later, she’s sick to death of Ortho. She’s been on call for the past four nights, running between the ER and OR and ferrying notes to her Ortho attending’s office. She’s exhausted and there’s not enough coffee in the hospital to keep her awake, but Sagen’s just had the first of many scheduled surgeries. His ulna is shattered, and his nerves damaged. They’d fitted implants into the bone and performed an ulnar nerve transposition. She’d been obliged to see him through it.

When he wakes post-op, she’s slumped over several open books spread out on his overbed table. She’s half asleep, but his stirring catches her, and she looks up, smiling. “Hey, soldier.”

He tries to grin at her, but the drugs are strong and he barely manages to let out an incoherent remark before his head lolls, and he goes back to sleep.

He’s properly awake when she checks in on him the next day. “Good evening, dearie. Finally come to work magic with my bone?”

“I honestly have no idea why you haven’t been murdered,” She tells him. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m lucky and charismatic, that’s why.” At her question, he glances at his bandaged, braced, and splinted arm, then shrugs his less-injured shoulder. “Don’t know. We’ll have to see, I guess?” He looks her over, then lets out a soft whistle. “Dressed up today, aren’t we? I like the pink, but I think a nice pale green would look better on you. Match your eyes.”

She rolls her eyes at him. Beneath her lab coat, the fitted dinner dress is stifling her, and she’s already annoyed at the way her heels clack against the squeaky hospital floors. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a life beyond this room.”

“Oh, are you going on a date?” He wriggles around a bit, but the brace on his arm keeps him from sitting up properly. She thinks she sees a something flicker in his eye, but dismisses it as nosiness. “I keep seeing you and that Whelan fellow from Oncology together.”

She peers at him. “How’d you kno—oh, you piece of shit, are you stalking me?”

“Do you like him?” He starts to grin. The insult seems to fly over his head. “Did he give you powder-pink gerberas?”

“No,” She checks his drip and his supply of morphine. “He asked me out to dinner half a year ago, and I’ve been blowing him off.”

“So you don’t like him, but you’re going out with him?” Sagen tsks at her, shaking his head. “Meanwhile, you refuse to give me the time of day.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him.” She reaches for his chart to make the notations. “I’ve just been busy dealing with things.” The heels are already starting to bite into her toes, so she walks around his bed and sits on the chair beside his newly-repaired arm. Leaning forward, she reaches out, carefully navigating around the brace to check the skin around the incision. “Looks good. You don’t seem to be developing any kind of allergy to the metal.”

“Hm,” He’s frowning a bit now, looking back towards the injured hand. There’s a trace of impatience in his gaze. “How long before we start therapy?”

“Let’s try for two weeks.” She pours a cup of water, shoves in a straw, and holds it up to his face. “Try not to aggravate it in the meantime, or it’ll set you back.”

He takes a sip, his eye upon her. When he’s done, she sets the cup back down and smiles at him, folding her hands over her lap.

“So why now?” His voice is softer than before. He looks genuinely curious. “After so long?”

She shrugs. If she’s honest, she’s not sure herself. “I don’t know. I’m tired, I guess. It’s been rough and I could use something to take my mind off work.” She glances up, leaning forward and folding her arms over the edge of his bed. “I’m not on call tonight, so don’t get in trouble, okay?”

He makes a face. “Fine.”

He gets in trouble.

Halfway through her main course, her phone buzzes, and she has to make a mad dash for her car, carrying her shoes in one hand and digging for the keys with the other. By the time she gets back to the hospital, he’s in the OR. Pulmonary complications had resulted in deep-vein thrombosis, and they’d rushed him into surgery to remove the clot. She watches from the gallery, shivering in her dress.

He looks so damn small.

It’s three hours past midnight by the time they wheel him back to his room. She follows the sad procession to the elevator, and her attending tells her to get some rest.

“Rounds at seven,” He says, before disappearing into his office.

She makes her way back to the eighth floor. Most of the nurses have already gone home, and the two that are on call are chatting about the most recent episode of a television series. Neither of them question her presence at this time of night, and she’s somewhat unarmed when one of them actually bothers to look up to give her a pitying sort of smile.

She’s almost afraid to enter his room. He’s pale and his skin is clammy. She tosses her shoes and purse on the armchair by the window, then makes her way to his side. Idiot. Won’t even let me have a nice dinner without developing DVT.

The television is still on. She turns it off, rolling her eyes at his choice of entertainment. By the time she’s changed out of her dress into some spare scrubs, it’s four in the morning, and she’s in dire need of some sleep.

He’s watching her through half-lidded eyes when she wakes sometime before dawn. Her neck hurts; she’d dragged an armchair up, keeping within easy reach of the softly-beeping machines and blood thinners. Then she’d fallen asleep, propped up against the edge of his bed. She rubs at her forehead. That hurts, too.

“Your eyeliner’s running,” He tells her, his voice low and raspy.

“Yeah, well, at least it can run, unlike you.”

He stares at her, then lets out a weak chuckle. “Touche. Did you sleep here? Don’t tell me you’ve started worrying about me again.”

The underlying message is painfully clear. She sits up straight, backing a little to maintain a respectful distance. “The Chief,” She tells him. “He’s going to flay my ass if I let you die, so thanks a lot for that.”

The lie hurts a little bit more than she’d expected.

He shuts his eyes, and his smile deepens. “Did you have a good date, at least?”

“I got to eat exactly one bite of my steak before the hospital called.” She hadn’t realised how hungry she was. Damn it, I should have packed a cereal bar.

“You really should think about your work-life balance, Naveau,” There’s a slightly teasing cast to his voice.

“Bit rich coming from you, isn’t it?” She gets to her feet to pour him some water. The task feels too natural for her liking. Doesn’t he have anyone? This is the job of a loved one. A wife, or a sibling, or a parent. “Drink up.”

He does as he’s told, and she favours him with another smile when he’s done. “Did I set myself back?” His voice is soft. He sounds genuinely concerned.

She wonders how long it’s been since he’s had the luxury of thinking only about himself. Whether he’s ever considered not putting the job first. “Not too much,” She tells him. “Don’t rush yourself.”

They sit in silence while the sun rises, and she checks every ten minutes that his stats are as they should be. By the time her attending arrives for rounds, he’s gone back to sleep.

She drags her stolen skeleton model to his room and sets up a desk by the window. When he wakes again, she tells him to keep the television volume down. He surprises her by shutting it off entirely. She hands him some cue cards, and he quizzes her. When he goes back to sleep, she continues to study by his side.

He doesn’t get DVT again.

[cecinit]

The Car Theft

 A short story about love, divorce, and a road trip 

     Work was long. It dragged on for hours on end, the minute hand slowly ticking towards the end of shift. Papers were signed mindlessly, spreadsheets were filled out slowly. A secretary dropped a pile of papers onto the desk every few minutes, glaring at the ceiling, and walking away with the click-click, click-click of high heeled shoes.

     Sarah left the office each day with her eyes drifting closed and her feet dragging. Her heart ached for dinner, whatever takeout her daughter Kayla ordered. After dinner, she would pour herself a glass of wine and turn on whatever HBO show was streaming. Sarah would fall asleep within the first fifteen minutes. The left side of the bed would stay cold and empty.

     The minute hand shifted to the large, black eleven, tantalizingly close to her clock-out. The final five minutes dragged on. The large black twelve laughed at her, mocked her. Sarah erased the email she was typing. She rewrote it, pressing hard on the sticky ‘w’ key, and pressed send.

     The sudden flurry of motion around her was startling, the workers grabbing their coats and popping their joints. Small talk flooded Sarah’s ears, conversations about anything and everything other than work. She stood up, blinking the bleariness out of her eyes, and followed her coworkers out of the building towards the parking lot.

     The parking lot that held one less car than when she had arrived that morning. The missing car was Jack’s, the man in the cubicle to her left. He walked outside, and sighed in dejection when he saw the empty parking space. Sarah walked right by him.

     “Hey, Sarah!” She started at his yell, and gave him a quick wave, hoping he wouldn’t ask for help. Sarah paused next to her own car, fumbling with her keys. Jack stalked over to her, and gave her a hopeful smile.

     “I swear, this is the third time my car has gotten stolen.” Jack seemed oblivious to her reactionary groan, and continued, “I feel bad asking, but do you think you can give me a ride home?”

     Sarah had been to Jack’s house before. It was a small building forty five minutes from the office. Forty five minutes in the opposite direction of her own house. Sarah thought of her glass of wine and soft bed.

     If it had been any other coworker, Sarah would’ve immediately refused. The thought of driving an extra ninety minutes without any food or rest after a long day of work repulsed her. But Jack was nice, and the kind of person who would drive her home if she asked. Jack would even drive Pete, the creepy man who lived two hours away from the office. Jack was the kind of person who brought extra food for the communal fridge, and threw parties at his house with the good Chardonnay.

     Sarah’s nod was tired and reluctant, lacking the usual polite smile she used for occasions such as this. Jack thanked her, and climbed into her car. Only then did Sarah realize how messy her car was. A few of Kayla’s coats were scattered across the backseat. An old Starbucks coffee cup sat in the cupholder, still carrying the final sip from the morning’s cappuccino. Its green logo mocked her messy habits. The bumper was covered in old stickers and dents, the once shiny paint faded and scratched.

    Jack took no notice, only clambered into the passenger seat and adjusted the seat back as far as its rusty tracks would allow. Sarah stood next to her car for a minute, giving a mental eulogy to her evening plans. She got into her own seat and pulled out of the parking lot.

     Music played softly from the speakers, the only other sounds were the engine running and Sarah’s breathing. They sat in uncomfortable silence until Sarah pulled onto the large frontage road. Sarah slapped the man’s creeping hand away from the volume dial and ignored his protests.

     “Oh come on, this is a great song!” It was a terrible song. But the longer Sarah drove in silence, the more awkward it felt. When Jack’s hand reached toward the volume dial again, she let him turn the music up. A repetitive pop song rang out from her speakers.

     Jack burst into song immediately. He was off pitch and squeaky, but Sarah smiled at him anyway. She joined in a moments later, and the two butchered the song until its end. As the final note buzzed in their ears, Sarah and Jack smiled at each other. Noticing the hint of pride in Jack’s eyes, Sarah wiped the smile off her face, turning back to look at the road. She pretended not to see how Jack’s smile grew.

     The sun had started to set, the first tinges of orange reached the tops of the green-grassed mountains. Ever since Sarah had moved to Colorado, she had been struck by the beauty of the sunsets.

     “You’re not too bad, Jack.” If anyone asked, she would blame her admission on Mother Nature’s incessant need to put truth serum in her sunsets. But Sarah couldn’t fool herself. She hadn’t had that much fun with any person other than Kayla in years.

     While in college, Sarah had gone to a party in one of the sororities. She met a guy named Dave who danced with her to every song playing (each with a smaller connection to the party’s theme of ‘Jamaican me crazy’ than the last) and took her out for coffee the next day. That single coffee trip became weekly coffee dates. He went home with her for Thanksgiving and earned her family’s and friends’ approval within two days.

     They bought each other gifts on the twentieth of each month. Dave got her flowers and chocolate, Sarah got him photo albums and video games. Their relationship was easy, casual even. The epitome of a college relationship. Then Sarah got pregnant. It took her six weeks to build up the courage to even attempt to tell Dave. It took another two weeks for him to pick up on her subtle hints she left around (prolonged glances at cribs, a book about prenatal care perched on her dresser, an ultrasound picture in his math textbook).

     Instead of an immediate breakup, Dave stayed with Sarah. He followed her to doctor’s appointments and helped her move out of the dorms. He visited her over the summer and rented an apartment for the two of them at the beginning of her junior year of college.

     For their one year anniversary, Dave made Sarah dinner and got her a diamond ring. His question was one of the only things that made her happy during her rough third trimester. Sarah gave birth to Kayla a month later with “Jingle Bells” playing on the radio. Wedding planning was put off for five months so that their June wedding was accompanied by takeout from a Mexican resturant and her sister’s Spotify playlist as the DJ.

     They navigated Sarah’s final year of college by passing the baby around between classes and forcing Kayla’s aunt Ally to watch as often as possible. The two young parents graduated that May. Sarah got a job to help pay for daycare and Dave continued on to med school.

    Sixteen years later, Sarah sat in the car without a ring on her finger.

     “My car didn’t really get stolen. I had my friend pick it up so I had an excuse to talk to you.” Jack’s confession startled Sarah out of her reverie, and she barely managed to stop the entire car from swerving into the neighboring lane. The jolt of the car helped her push the depressing thoughts out of her mind replacing them with a mixture of confusion and repulsion.

     “Who would do something like that? That’s the most extreme way of forcing small talk I’ve ever heard.” Sarah couldn’t tell if she was feeling touched or just very put off, the foreign emotion curling in her chest came without a guidebook.

     “It wasn’t just small talk. You always seem so closed off, and I wanted to know why. But I thought just asking outright would cross too many boundaries.”

     “And faking a car theft didn’t?”

     Jack shrugged nonchalantly. “I never claimed to be the smartest.”

     As she drove down the road, Sarah felt her car slowly drifting towards the left lane. She straightened out, only to feel the pull again. Her steering wheel vibrated softly, and a quick whap-whap-whap sound reached her ears. Sarah had a flat tire.

     She turned her signal on and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. She let Jack know about their mechanical difficulties, quickly refusing his offer of help. She knew how to change a tire. Sarah pulled the spare and her tools out of her trunk, slipping bricks behind her two back tires. She felt Jack sidle up next to her, but ignored him in favor of starting to loosen the bolts on the flat.

     Sarah kneeled in the dirt, cringing at the impending trip to the dry cleaners her suit would need, and slipped the jack under her car. She pumped the lever and her car raised off the road. Sarah sat back on her heels and breathed, watching the jack slowly sink back to the ground.

     “Do you need me to hold the pump down or something, just enough so that the car stays up?” Sarah hesitated before accepting Jack’s help. Sure, she could change a tire. But she couldn’t work the bolts off the frame and hold the car up at the same time.

     Jack stepped over the spare tire leaning haphazardly against her car, and kneeled next to her, pumping the jack up and holding it there. As Jack held the car up, Sarah removed the flat tire and swapped it for the inflated one. They were back on the road in no time, the tools and old tire all packed up in her trunk.

     Sarah drove quietly for a few minutes, before feeling like she had to thank Jack somehow. She thought of his previous comment, the one he made before the pit stop. He had called her closed off, and said he wanted to know why. So she started talking, spilling pieces of her life to him quickly, before she could lose her nerve and stop.

     “When I was in college, I went to a party at one of the sororities.” Sarah told Jack about meeting Dave. She told him about her pregnancy, her wedding, her graduation. The more she talked about the good times, the times pre-World War III, the harder it was for her to stop. She finally trailed off, managing to hold herself back from pouring all of her baggage onto Jack.

     “Why haven’t I seen Dave at any of our office parties?” Jack’s voice was hesitant, but he didn’t realize how loaded his question was.

     Sarah thought about her life with Dave after the good days. They had been married for eight years, the first six bright and happy. Then their marriage, one that their parents had called perfect and everlasting, crumbled. Dave had been in the middle of his residencies, while Kayla was starting second grade. Sarah had just gotten a promotion, one that required longer hours, a fact that saw Kayla spending more time in after school day care than at home.

     Then the fights began. Dave complained about a lack of sleep, while Sarah complained about never seeing her daughter, an issue that would have been resolved had Dave gotten a job instead of forcing her to make all the income. Sarah hadn’t realized then how unfair she was being, all she saw were the missed parent teacher conferences and the startling realization that Kayla had never heard of the Tooth Fairy.

     The fights got louder and more frequent. One night after a particularly bad fight, Dave had packed a bag and spent the night in a motel. Sarah was left at home to lie and tell their daughter that “daddy just needed to go to the grocery store.”  

     Dave started spending more and more time away from home, and Sarah spent more money on nannies. Dave filed for divorce in March. A few months later, she was Sarah Lyons instead of Sarah Magruder.

     Sarah blinked out of her daze, realizing that Jack was still watching her, waiting for an answer. She debated what to tell him. The man had held her car in the air, so Sarah felt that she owed him some sort of answer.

     “I’m divorced.” The last rays from the sun sank below the horizon. Sarah flicked on her headlights, the right one was a dim beacon and the left didn’t bother turning on. Jack sat quietly, waiting for her to talk, to explain more.

     She never did. After a few minutes of silent driving, listening to the tires turn and feeling the tension in the air, Jack spoke up. He asked about her daughter, and Sarah breathed with relief at the topic change. She told him happy stories- the time Kayla fell off the trampoline, the adoption stories behind each of their cats- and Jack threw in his own anecdotes about his life.

     Sarah learned more about Jack than she had in their entire two years of working together. He had gone to school for art, originally, and painted in his free time until he could find a steady job in the art field. He was single- a fact Jack had thrown in with a wide smile and an over exaggerated wink- and his last relationship had apparently ended after a pie fight with a clown.

     The more they talked, the more Sarah’s mind forgot about Dave. The walls inside her crumbled down. She hardly noticed the traffic, a feat that would seem impossible to anyone who knew of her insurmountable road rage. However, the talking did nothing to subdue the hunger, a fact that became obvious at the very loud growl her stomach let out. Sarah flushed, and Jack had the audacity to laugh at her.

     “Are you hungry? I would offer you a nice, home cooked meal at my house, but I live with my two brothers and none of us know how to cook.” Jack seemed embarrassed by that fact, as though he thought that Sarah was a gourmet chef.

     “That’s alright, Kayla ordered some takeout that I’ll grab on my way home.” Despite the small amount of pity she felt, there was no way Sarah was going to tell him that she was a bad cook. Or that the last time she tried to cook dinner she pressed one too many zeros on the microwave and set her mashed potatoes on fire.

     She pulled into Jack’s neighborhood and he guided her along the winding roads until they pulled up next to a small, one story house with the brightest green door she had ever seen. Sarah pulled to a top behind Jack’s supposedly stolen Honda Civic and put the car in park.

     Jack stepped out of her car and paused, before thanking her and turning to walk into his house. Each step Jack took placed a brick back up onto her walls, rebuilding them once again as he left.

     Her next words were the wrecking ball that destroyed them once and for all.

     “I might have to take you up on that offer of dinner some other time. Maybe just the two of us in a nice restaurant.” Sarah’s statement came out as a question, and felt like a breath of fresh air finally hit her heart. Jack’s smile made her relief ten times as sweet.

     “I would love that.” Sarah’s own smile was just as wide as they promised to text each other the details of their dinner. Sarah watched Jack walk away, and began her drive home as soon as his green door closed.

     The smile remained on her face until she went to bed. The drive home passed in a daze, the only thing distracting her from her happiness was the enticing smell of the takeout Sarah finally managed to pick up. Kayla welcomed the food with open arms.

     “What’s got you all happy today?” Sarah cursed her seventeen year-old’s perceptiveness. Sarah’s hesitation in answering was evident as she searched for a way to explain that she was finally moving on from Kayla’s dad. The two had been close before the divorce, and Sarah still caught the tail end of a phone conversation every few months.

     “I’ve got a date.” Sarah forced her expression into one somewhat resembling an apologetic smile, hoping Kayla wouldn’t mind.

     “No need to cringe, Mom. I’m okay with this. You deserve someone who makes you happy, and you’ve been hung up on Dad for eight years.” Kayla had a genuine smile on her face. Her approval made a flood of reassurance fill her chest. A feeling that couldn’t be removed, even by the smirk that slowly slid onto Kayla’s face as she opened her mouth to speak.

     “Besides, you watch way too many movies. It's time for you to go out and be social.” Sarah rolled her eyes at Kayla’s comment and sent a pointed “goodnight” her way. She put her leftovers in the fridge and made her way to her bedroom.

     Sarah curled up in bed and turned her TV on, knowing Kayla could hear the sound even from the kitchen. Her phone buzzed a few minutes later.

(10:32) how does olive garden at 7 on saturday sound?

     Sarah rolled over, and fell asleep on her stomach in the middle of the bed.