#they can't put the correct intonations i HATE IT

[moinsbienquekaworu]

Damn acting really is a skill. People are really bad at reading stuff correctly out loud and putting the right tone behind things

[justplainwhump]

Not Products

Inspired by @gottawhump and many other wonderful BBU writers. My first piece diving deeper into the safehouse system.

This is set some years in the future of Angel's timeline, and far into her recovery. (Yet right before a certain... setback)

Content - BBU, debts, mafia structures, implied human trafficking, implied forced prostitution, threats, noncon touching, BBU romantic.

The building that Kayleigh stopped in front of was large, elegant modern structures of carefully twisted glass, to make it shimmer in the sunlight.

Orange letters were running down the side of the building, and Angel fought the nausea rising up from looking at them too long, she could read, she just needed to be strong. Coo- Coopers and - and Bard. Att-

She didn't go on trying to decipher the letters of the remaining words. Attorneys at Law. She could deduce those ones.

'Lawyers. Worst kind of people', a voice echoed in her head, followed by hearty laugh. 'But we need them, don't we?'

She didn't know whose voice it was, one of the ghosts that lived on inside her, and she'd learned to live with.

"Wow", Kayleigh whispered, putting her head back and squinting up at the sheer size of the building. "Still can't believe it. Wouldn't have thought that someone like Coopers finds an interest in helping us out."

"They wouldn't if it didn't support their business," Angel remarked dryly. "People like Coopers? They're just the ones who'd still happily own pets if it had remained en vogue."

"Angel," Kayleigh hissed. "I know you hate rich people. Your owner hurt you, I get that, I -"

"Do not go down this road with me ." Angel clenched her teeth. "This is not about me, or my past. I am your colleague, not your charge. This is about the future of our house, and the question, if we want someone like Coopers can help us. All I'm saying is: He has a price, and we'll need to decide if we want to pay it."

"Maybe he just has a conscience?"

"He works with organised crime. We're both aware of this, aren't we?"

"Well, we're criminals, too. You even more than I am. What we're doing is highly illegal. Doesn't make it wrong."

"Well, what Coopers and Bard have their fingers in, is pretty wrong often enough."

"Shut up." Anger flared up in Kayleigh's eyes. "I didn't bring you to talk me out of this. You couldn't - haven't seen our numbers, how bad it looks. We need him, or we'll have to shut down the safe house."

Angel hadn't seen the numbers indeed, she had tried once, but the headache had grown too bad. She had however seen the clumsy system Kayleigh used to track the safehouse's finances. She shouldn't judge her, for doing her best. But she did judge her for her rejection of any advice.

"Yeah," she said, somewhat of a bitter laugh on her lips. "You brought me because I look good in business attire."

She held Kayleigh's gaze, while she pinned a button to the lapel of her blazer. People, not products.

"Don't flash this to me like this." Kayleigh sighed. "I brought you because you know how to read a room."

"Soft skills," Angel intonated with a little sing song. "Yeah. That tracks." She stepped back and gestured at the door. "After you. Boss."

*

Philip Coopers was a tall man with warm eyes and a firm handshake. Auburn hair, a little longer than usually considered appropriate for a business like this, a tailored navy coloured suit, probably from London, expensive leather shoes - Angel couldn't tell how she knew all this, but the she did.

"My assistant, Mx Carter," he introduced the thin person next to him. "Nice to meet you again, Kayleigh, and this is your friend?"

"Colleague," Angel corrected. "Angelina Harris. I am in charge of the practical side of things at our... house."

She felt his gaze take him in, shortly rest on her hands as she shook his. There was a thin silver chain dangling around her wrist, a tiny bracelet, that could hide nothing underneath. And there wasn't anything to hide either. Her skin had healed, the scars from the tattoo removal so tiny they could only be seen when light caught them from a specific angle. Nothing but a faint memory.

"Well, it's a pleasure." He invited them to sit at a conference table set up in his impressive office. "I am looking forward to support you, and to do my part to help you continuing your important work."

Angel bit her tongue to hold back a sarcastic return. This was Kayleigh's turf. Even though it sometimes felt like her own.

"We've talked about the general idea, let's just nail down the specifics." He gestured at his assistant, who took over, and Angel listened - rates, book keeping, conditions, existing and future contacts that needed to be covered.

It was all too easy. Too high amounts, too few conditions. Too good to be true, not from a man like this, running a business like his.

"Oh, and before I forget", he said, and Angel's gaze perked up. He'd never forget anything, his behaviour had made that abundantly clear. This was going to be the thing she'd been waiting for. "We'd like to employ the services of a psychological consultant. To make sure the... refugees are treated according to their needs."

"They are," Angel said. "We're making sure of that."

"That's a little different," Coopers insisted with a condescending little smile. "We would want them to meet the consultant right upon arrival, so they can determine which place is best equipped for them."

Angel frowned. "Are there more safehouses that you support?"

The assistant tilted their head. "*Places*," they said. "Safe spaces."

"And what's the criteria?"

"For the safehouses?"

"No. For the people, contacting *us*, arriving at our doorstep, to be let in or turned down."

"They're not turned down, Ms Harris. On the contrary. They're going to be cared for."

"So. Your only condition for funding us is to be allowed to psychologically screen runaways and then determine whether they go to us or somewhere else." She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"Angel," Kayleigh mumbled. "Calm down."

She didn't intent to. "Running a safehouse is expensive. Food, rent, medical bills, therapies, compensations for the volunteers."

"It is."

"What's your gain?"

"Doing the right thing is not enough?"

"No." Angel shook her head. "Not from you. You know what I think? Prices for a well trained guard dog from WRU start at about 250k, as far as I know. Romantics, similar. Can be much more, depending on specifics. Seven figures, even." She leaned in. "Is that your return? Acquisition for your preferred clients? Private security? Prostitution?"

"Interesting." His mouth twisted into a smile. "You've looked into the more hidden corners of our client list."

She shrugged. "I like to be thorough." She still heard the monotonous voice of the screen reader. Even set high speed, it had cost her many sleepless nights finding the names she'd been looking for.

"I see." He smirked. "But let me ask you. What if these... wild theories were right? Worst case scenario. You'd still run a safe house, one that as I understand it has absolutely no funds otherwise. One that Kayleigh here has put her college fund into, and bet her grandmother's house on."

Metal scrapped on wood when Kayleigh pushed her chair back, pale and trembling. "I... That's..." She shook her head, gaze to the floor, almost feverish in her movements as she pressed her hand to her mouth. "I... need to use the washroom, please?"

Upon their boss' gesture, the assistant jumped to their feet and opened the door. "Of course, Miss. I'll show you the way."

Coopers looked past the two of them, before he turned back to Angel.

"Sacrifices," he said, all but savoring the word. "That's what keeps your system running. That's what saves dozens of runaways, who already found shelter in your place, who you managed to get to safety and into a fulfilling life. Your friend sacrificed all she had for the case. And you refuse to reroute a single one of these... sluts, to a place that suits them better?" Carefully embedded between well chosen words, the slur cut into her like a hidden blade.

"Yes," she whispered. Her throat was constricted all of a sudden.

"What is your problem, Ms Harris? We give them shelter, warmth, food, company - they're having each other there, something I hear some of them have missed desperately in their past lives." He cocked his head as he said it, with a soft smile, that mocked understanding and was everything but. These has been her own words once, she herself had talked like that about her past, feeling constantly alone and desperate for company. He couldn't possibly know, she told herself. She was here with Kayleigh, with her colleague, she was an activist with a spotless wrist and a normal past. And she wouldn't let him get through with this.

She raised her chin decidedly. "You want to sell them out. Abuse their conditioning, instead of helping them overcome it."

"Ah," he tutted. "Shush. Selling them out, that's a strong word. They work for a living, like the safehouse system prepares everyone for. Like normal people do. According to their specific... qualifications."

She took a breath, trying to calm her racing heart, setting out to speak, but he talked over her. "Imagine one of them trying to do my job." He reached for a one of the documents scattered over his desk and held it up, presenting it to her. Little letters danced over the paper, twisting and turning, a garbled mess in front of her eyes, all but mocking her. It was sickening. She averted her gaze, and he chuckled. "Some people are made to think, Angelina. To make decisions, to manage large businesses, to read and understand things, you know. Others, however..." He waited until she looked up, holding her gaze for another moment. She couldn't breathe. "Others," he went on, "are simply made to fuck."

She stumbled to her feet, shaking her head. Her elegant blouse was too tight, the collar tightening around her neck. "We're not," she struggled to say, fighting the voices in her head, Handler Nguyen, Handler Parker, Sir, telling her the same words. "We... They, they're not, nobody is."

The man was grinning now, and it took her too long to realize. She'd played right into his hand. "Oh, Angelina. You're making this about yourself, aren't you? How come you're relating so hard, hm?" He closed in, the sort of casual, measured steps that she knew should make her run, but they made her freeze instead. "Tell me," he whispered, tucking a strand of her hair back behind her ear. His touch was soft, almost gentle, his hand warm on her skin, and she knew how she should react, and she knew she shouldn't. "Tell me, Angel, what were you made for?"

[becausethathappens]

Will you please write a super angsty fic where Link is freaking out because he thinks the wedding vows he has written aren't good enough and Rhett helps him go over them and make corrections and says they're perfect but also, just says the vows he would say for Link if it was them like it should've been because he's heartbroken and Link can tell but their hands are tied and they don't know what to do so they soldier on without saying a word, but wordlessly communicating lifelong love and misery and everything, maybe comfort as well?

i'm really really sad and i can't shake it off and i really want some good angst and hurt/comfort and i really love you, maura, you're awesome

I don't do unhappy endings, anon. I'm confident you don't either. In fiction or otherwise. So, pardon this if it’s not what you expected.

Please enjoy? This was done a little hastily to share it with you (and I should be writing other things per usual) but I've had a rough week and I want to hopefully make someone smile. (I have way angstier stuff in the drafts and I will be sure to get those out eventually, too.) You’ll feel better soon.  🤞  Thank you! 💞

-———————-

now or forever

4k - Rhett writes Link vows.

If you were my boy, Blue

I’d bathe you in honeys (sp?)

I’d sing write you a love song

I’d shoot you a star**

If you were my boy, Blue

There ain’t nothing in this life I wouldn’t give

From my heart, to my toes, to my fingers, my nose (**)

Whatever it takes just to watch you live 

continue to ‘ ’ grow with you like a vine ‘round a rose 

If you were my boy, Bue

I wouldn’t want you all for myself

There’s no star bright enough to match your lightin’

In sickness, blue, so certainly while we have health

Hand in hand, no longer fightin’

What’s destiny (**)

You and & me

If you were my boy, Blue

I'd marry you

&

Thank God for Rhett. Giving him, delivering him, blessing him with Rhett.

Link is in the middle of a spiral (what he’ll later recognize as a panic attack) when Rhett arrives, the eve of his wedding. Bailing him out of this with pen, paper, and a smile.

Link has always been good at improv.

Though Rhett tended to find the words to start. These were his own vows and Link has been putting time to sit and start them off for weeks. Now that he has to, he’s dumbfounded, despite being deeply in love.

Amidst all the planning and chaos, writing his vows was such a given that Link left it as priority sixty-seven on a list of many more.

Unfortunately, even as busy as they’ve been, that list was shredded with the “who gifted what” tracking sheet (both literally, accidentally, and figuratively) back around the bridal shower and it’s been anarchy ever since.

So he thanks God for Rhett, who’s here, to stop another needless disaster from happening.

That same generous God, however, watches him plagued with thoughts of utter devotion at Rhett’s willingness to drop everything on a weeknight and rush over to help Link find his words.

His lyrics, really, is what Link has in mind. Since they used to write songs together and this felt much the same. He’s been floundering all night and now that Rhett’s here, he knows he’ll at least get what he needs done. Even if it’s not all he wants, right now.

That same God seeks judgment on his every decision or flinch against His will, for any reason, to spite him.

For this reason.

He wants to smush Rhett’s face and kiss him. Deeply. He doesn’t.

Even if there were sometime in the past that he could get away with a platonic smooch, now he can’t. He simply could not prevent that from escalating.

So, he merely tightens his grip on the wrinkled scrap paper in his hand and scrunches his eyes.

“Why can’t it be you up there…” Link bemoans, loudly, in his frustration.

Rhett’s eyes widen, in horror, and Link slams his other hand at his mouth, rolling his eyes. “Not like - I mean - why can’t you go say my lines for me. You’re so much better at this kinda thing.”

“Let me read what you’ve got,” Rhett says.

After some review, Rhett sighs, not unkindly and sits down next to Link. “Let’s just talk through what you’re trying to say because, yeah, this reads like liturgy.”

“Ain’t is supposed to? It’s in a chapel!”

“What do you like about her?” Rhett asks, ignoring his nitpicking. “Christy?” Rhett stares at him, waiting, too upset for Link to chastise but clearly wanting to.

“She’s patient,” Link says, reminded by the similar. Rhett folds over the book to an open page and clicks the pen in his hand, writing that down. “A-And she’s kind. Like considerate, ‘specially with babies and little animals. Sh-She does this thing where she immediately drops to their eye-level to make sure they don’t feel unheard or seen. Probably ‘cause she’s always been so tall…”

Rhett’s still writing.

“Then when I’m sick, she forces me to rest. You know I hate that,” Link says, voice rising a little, at the memory. “But you know I need that. You won’t be the last to make me stop and smell the roses or take a break, once in a while.”

“Her hair, write, her hair - the way it looks in the sunshine. Like warm caramel with flecks of gold. She’s a vision, an angel. Especially when she’s wearing all white, like,” Link says, pausing to point to Rhett’s undershirt and pale grey sweats. “Makes blondes look ethereal-like, always has.”

“Oh, and her voice. Sometimes, the way her accent catches, well, you know she don’t like to sing like us, never has, but when she says certain things, asks a question the right way - it’s music. The way it harmonizes with my answer, reminds me of singing, reminds me of us.”

Rhett keeps writing, quiet, and focused.

After a short time, Link can’t stop and wants to crane over to see what he’s come up with. Rhett hands it over after crossing a final “t” somewhere on the page.

“Those’re good, Link, but I think you need to keep closer to what I wrote, leave out the stuff about me.”

“Stuff about you?�� Link asks, having spoken in a stream-of-conscious style, Link forgets most of what he even said

Rhett looks away, shakes his head.

Distracted by the desire to read the rest, Link abandons the lingering questions he has about Rhett’s suggestion and response.

“These are great, man, thanks,” Links says, pushing a soft hand into Rhett’s side.

His eyes scan to the bottom where Rhett’s added a few lines about the journey, the marriage, all the ceremonial aspects of the day for him to close with, but then something more.

Something about him.

Rhett catches him catch it and looks further away. “I know Christy pretty well, too, y’know. Y’all are just alike, in that way. She might need some back-up vows, to have and hold.”

Link reads them.

“You know, just in case.”

Link looks up and tries to laugh.

He doesn’t laugh.

He goes back to reading them.

Rhett shifts uncomfortably, touches the back of his neck, and shuts his eyes.

“Rhett, these ’re…”

“I know, bo, you can forget ‘em,” Rhett excuses, still not meeting Link’s gaze. “You want me to… I can rewrite the others on a different - I can turn the page and write ‘em there so you can just…”

“Hey, hey,” Link interrupts him, mad at Rhett putting down his best friend, and eager to explain his actual thoughts. “Rhett, these are perfect. These are… I’m sad I can’t say anything as nice in return to you.”

Rhett finally looks up to acknowledge that and their gaze heats and lingers.

“Not that I…” Link stutters to clarify. “Y-You’d have to be a - if that’s something that was gonna - you know - if that was gonna work…”

His mind does it’s usual jump to a visual for the worst case scenario depicting the implication he stumbled across. Him out eight grand on the wedding. Not to mention a wife, a family, a future, a faith -

a friend -

Link gulps, pushing that back away, pushing them both forward, in his estimation.

It’s too much to bear to think about for another second. When he glances at Rhett, he can’t get a read on his face what he thinks about it, and that’s scary enough for him to want to abandon the concept altogether.

“Christy’s gonna love them.”

It’s enough, saying his fiancée's name, to ground him again. Enough to make it okay for him to grab Rhett’s palm and squeeze it in thanks, between them.

Rhett’s made his choice to give up on film school.

Link’s made his choice to give up on whatever schoolboy obsession he has with monopolizing all of Rhett’s days and nights. 

He’ll stick to the days or every other weekend, however they can still fit time together, is fine by him. This ceremony, tomorrow, feels as much about his graduation from friend to husband, and all that that entails.

They’re adults.

They both know there’s a lot of sacrifices to be made and this feels like the first time he’s really acknowledging how hard they’re going to be to make. He hopes they’ll still see each other.

He hopes their kids will get along.

He has a lot of hopes.

All of them involve Rhett.

There’s a lot he should write down for when Rhett finds his own bride to wed.

Link notices, suddenly, that Rhett is crying. The same part of him that's nearly broken the headwind of these conflicting emotions turns back to comfort him.

“Hey, don’t cry,” Link soothes, realizing he’s also still holding Rhett’s hand.

“‘M sorry,” Rhett intones, the words bubble up and out of him simultaneously, sounding like water draining in a filled sink. “And the night before your wedding, good Heavens.”

“Hey, I’ve been crying all week,” Link says, waving a hand at the stress that planning a wedding has kept put on him. “Nothing I haven’t seen in the mirror.”

Rhett laughs, rubbing a thumb over his own thigh in a way that brushes upwards against the place Link’s clasping his hand. Link nearly pulls his hand back, thinking Rhett’s trying to get him to sense his want for space, but when he meets his eye it’s clear he’d like nothing less.

“I think I’m just -” Rhett starts to say, trailing off. The light from the lamp on the far coffee table is the only thing on in the room. Link drops his gaze a few inches to try and see more of Rhett’s downturned eyes as he hems and haws. He squeezes their hands together, again, this time clasping it more firmly, still pressing Rhett’s large palm down from above. “I think I’m just a li’l jealous, is all.”

It’s the quietest admission he’s heard from Rhett since he told him he failed their chemistry mid-term in eleventh grade.

Link is also so lost at the innocence of the admission that he can only think of follow-up questions. “Of me?”

Rhett looks at him for a long, long minute and finally, when Link’s gaze remains confused for the whole length of the pause, he shakes his head, no.

Then he waits. 

He waits for Link to realize what he means.

But he’s still waiting when Link, oblivious, moves onward trying to comfort Rhett, instead of understanding him fully.

The tension in the room is palpable as Link talks, but only to Rhett, it seems. Only Rhett pictures air bags being deployed in a car safety video as metal hits cinder block. Only Rhett moves his hand, though it’s all it takes to dislodge them from each other completely.

“I know you’re gonna make an amazing husband some day.” Link is saying.

Rhett’s hand aches where cool air now surrounds it.

“I know your wife is gonna get to hear you say such wonderful things about her.”

Rhett wipes his hand of the misunderstanding on the cotton of his pants.

“I know she’s gonna say the same kind of things about you, when it’s your turn up there.”

Rhett mourns the idea that this would ever be requited.

“I know she’s gonna love you, just as much as I do, so she’ll have plenty to say.”

Rhett looks away, wiping the last of his tears from his eyes. 

 “I’ll make sure she has plenty of ideas where to start.”

Rhett pats Link’s leg, in camaraderie, and nods.

And that’s it. They shoot the shit, they make a plan to meet up at a donut place for the groomsmen’s breakfast to thank them for their help, before the ceremony, and they’ll talk things through if Link’s feeling jittery still. Then Rhett’s gone.

It’s not until the next day at eleven on the dot (everyone has an agenda to follow and every moment is accounted for) that Link understands Rhett’s pain.

His mother straightens his tie and flattens the edges of his suit. “You’ll wanna know I heard Christy looks like an angel in her dress, from the girls upstairs.”

“Those actual angels you been talkin’ to, Sue?” Rhett jokes, where he’s twisting his cummerbund around every so often, bored.

“Very funny, honey,” Sue ribs back. “From the cousins, Beth and Hailee Sue. Remember they’re friends with the hairstylist you got to do the curls for Christy’s hair, today? She was over last night getting Christy ready for bed with how to wash and dry it a special kind of way. They were there, too.”

Link starts to tune her out, since there’s a lot on his mind, but then she says more.

“She says the hairstylist was talking about how jealous she was of Christy, all night, getting to marry you,” Sue relays.

“Oh, mama, please,” Link dismisses. The compliments he’s been getting have felt faker than the toupee on his uncle Bruce. That girl has never even met him. “I’m the only person here people should be jealous of, who would be jealous of Christy,” he says, trailing off, muttering his reasoning as he did. “Marrying a trainwreck like me.”

Link looks up in the mirror where some of his friends continue to mingle in various states of undress. Rhett is already dressed, however, and staring straight at Link like he’s been caught with a hand in a cookie jar.

Link’s about to ask what’s wrong when he remembers his words. Then looks again over the planes of Rhett’s face.

Last night’s words slam back into his mind and Link’s mouth drops open.

The church organ belts out an opening flurry of notes before Canon in D begins playing loudly through the sound system built into the rafters above them. Link looks up to see one of the church staff at the door instructing them to join the bridal party to line-up.

Link’s mom dashes off to where she’s paired with her nephew, Link’s favorite cousin, to be escorted down the aisle.

Rhett sees Link’s face rushing through a wash of emotions from a distance, he nods to the staffer in silent understanding that he’ll handle it, and then they’re alone.

He walks up to Link and takes his hand. He squeezes it.

“Hey, you gotta go. We gotta go. It’s showtime,” Rhett insists.

Link looks around like a bomb went off, since in some ways it did, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Rhett seems to pick up on that. He squeezes Link’s hand again.

“I’ll get over it, Link, it’s okay,” Rhett whispers, on the verge of desperation.

That confirmation is enough to fully shatter Link.

Only for a moment. 

The music continues and Rhett keeps his hand hold.

They are adults. They are in love. They have to marry. 

None of these things can be helped.

“I’m gonna be so jealous of Her, too,” Link whispers back. He squeezes Rhett’s hand one last time, as they part.

They leave.

They walk straight.

They part again.

Until later.

They move houses and cities and states.

They move mountains, inside and out.

They move together.

Much later.

They join again.

They run crooked.

They return.

To one another.

Link has spent years worrying a ring that means too much to too few people.

In the beginning, when he cries himself to sleep at what he thinks has been the mistake of a lifetime, it’s His talisman. It reminds him of the expectations upon this life he’s made.

As the years pass, however, the adherence to the bogeymen of their childhood’s rules wears thin. It starts to strictly represent love and patience.

Sacrifice.

It begins to feel like a burden. A representation of what’s been lost, not what’s been found.

He contemplates taking it off, but believes that to be a betrayal of all that it stands for to the people he stands for. 

Then, one day, (surely mid-spin) he hears Rhett tell a story about wanting to change his ring.

He watches the silver twirl as Rhett explains.

He believes he was rushed into a certain type of marriage and a certain type of life by a certain type of person.

It’s a life that he’s grown to love but the ring represents a union forced by custom and not one that’s grown through devotion. 

His ring reminds him of that too often to be good for him.

Link twists his again at the admission.

So, Rhett’s thinking about replacing the ring.

Link returns home that night in a stupor. He’s sure he said one too many things to Rhett to emphasize how wild it felt to hear him talk about changing rings.

Any memories of that day, their wedding, bring up a rush of emotions that he’s never been good at sorting through.

Today’s admission makes him feel the same spur to make use of idle, betrothed hands he feels when he cleans the fridge.

He wants to clean the slate.

He finds an old DVD copy of their wedding ceremony that he paid to have converted from miniDV some years ago. Now he struggles to find a place to watch that DVD. How quickly time has flown by.

Eventually, he ends up in his son’s room - no one’s home for the remainder of the night but he and Christy - now, he’s sitting on a bean bag, squinting at the game console’s controller trying to get the joysticks to move to “play��� on screen.

The ceremony bursts to life and, like it was yesterday, Link’s nerves fizzle awake.

About halfway through the video, Christy finds him like that and sits down next to him in a thwump absorbed mostly by the stuffing of the chair.

They watch themselves smile happily at each other and Christy takes his hand.

“Should I be happy or scared to find you alone watching this on a Saturday night?” she asks, wryly, squeezing his palm.

Link doesn’t know what to say. He’s caught up in Rhett’s bygone script being spoken on screen. Words about Christy and about Link that were not their own, declared loudly in front of the congregation.

“I don’t know,” Link admits, shrugging. He doesn’t. He squeezes her hand back.

“You wanna tell me what’s eating you?”

Link hesitates, but relents. He wants that clean slate, after all. “Rhett’s getting his wedding ring replaced.”

“Replaced?” Christy asks, balking.

“Replaced, yeah,” Link responds, sure he didn’t misspeak.

“With what?” she asks.

“Oh, some new one. Fancy thing, very cool, made of trees or something. Honestly he wears the other one, the slick black one more than his wedding band half the time. He says it feels like the old one? It’s the kind of ring you get in a bauble at a vending machine crank. So, he wants a new one.”

“Jeesh,” Christy says, making a face at the screen. The camera catches Rhett stealing glances at the couple, then at the crowd, beaming at all with unbridled pride.

“Wouldn’t you be mad if I did that?” Link inquires, still baffled at the idea.

“Well, no, but don’t you love your ring? Heirloom and all that,” she says.

Link cringes. “Yeah, yeah. Honestly, I do.”

“So?”

“So, I still kind of want to and I’m not sure what that means.”

They watch the screen together.

“Do you wanna stay married?” she asks, in a small voice.

“Yes,” he breathes out.

There’s a long pause.

“To me?” she asks, her voice even smaller.

“Yes,” he breathes in.

She squeezes his hand, her confidence built back up. She begs him to join her.

“And him?” Christy whispers.

They both look the screen, the lens centered on the two of them, but their gaze is mutually torn to where Rhett stands wiping a tear from his eye at Christy reciting the last of the vows that he wrote her. Wrote him. Wrote them both.

She squeezes his hand again.

“Yes,” he breathes out.

She leans her head on his shoulder.

“You should probably get another ring, then,” she jests. “We shouldn’t have to share everything.”

The slate is clean.

There’s a lot he wants to say to Rhett about it, but just as before, he’s relied on Rhett to give him the right words to say. So, instead of words, he starts wearing Rhett’s ring.

Then, a new one, when he realizes he can match him separate from the other, all told. Have something of Rhett’s, all to himself.

In his unspoken push towards something more, their hands now match along with their steps, as they walk forward.

On the last week in July, they get ice cream at the fifth place that month to mistake them for husbands, but the first one he hears Link crow an affirmative in response.

Rhett waits for him while he triple-tips the cashier (for the guess) and pays for their cones.

“Bad joke,” Rhett says, softly, but firm.

“Who’s kidding?” Link parries back, a smirk dancing it’s way across his lips.

Rhett watches him with a wistful look of disbelief.

“Link, we’re married,” Rhett warns him.

Link shrugs. “I know. I’m just waiting for you to figure that out and minding my ice cream here, all right?”

He’s got a mouthful of vanilla bean and extra cookie crumble, the next second, so his vow ends there.

Later, at home, Rhett startles Jessie awake when he fully realizes Link’s words.

He shakes her awake. He shakes them both awake.

“I’m in love with Link,” he says, like it’s a confession.

She kisses him because so is she. So are most people.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Rhett repeats himself.

So does she.

They stare at each other under the cover of silk and moonlight.

“We’re married,” Rhett whispers, touching his hand to hers. Their rings clink, new and shiny.

“Yeah, and so are we,” she whispers back.

They fall asleep smiling.

The next day, Rhett sneaks up behind Link while he’s working and causes him to spill his cup of coffee. He gets the stink eye for only a minute because it’s the same length of time he can stand Link’s grumpy mug before he has to swoop down and kiss him on the lips.

“You figured it out,” Link says, grinning.

“I did,” Rhett chirps as he kisses Link more.

They take a car to their house. It’s filled with their love and the history of it; before, during, and after.

“What’s this?” Link asks, dazed in their post-sex glow, naked and alive.

He spots an old chord book of theirs from last time they wrote music.

“Oh,” Rhett says, bashful. “I came looking for you here this morning, hoping you slept over again, but, uh,” Rhett stalls, looks away and tries to take the songbook from Link’s hand. Link pulls it far enough he can’t reach. “You were already at the job.”

“And?” Link asks, using his spry, sinewy body as an advantage to slink away from the bed out of Rhett’s grip. He still has the book in hand.

“Those are your vows,” Rhett explains.

Link looks down and squints, confused. These aren’t the vows that Christy read at their wedding. He’s seen that video only a few months back and is sure of it.

“Our vows,” Rhett whispers, explaining further, at Link’s puzzled look.

“It’s a love song,” Link notes, marveling at the gesture. What it means to a young version of himself that once felt like they had surely cut out and mourned the possibility of this - all of this - ever happening. To have that thought coexist with the image of a nude, hulking tree trunk of a husband laid before him smiling up adoringly felt panoptic.

“So are you.”

Link begins to cry.

“Play it for me.”

Rhett wipes his cheek.

“Get my guitar.”

They sing twice more that night, always in harmony (not always in lyric), then spend the rest of their lives together doing much the same.

[spicycreativity]

Soft-Shoe Shuffle - Ch 10

Chapter: 10/12 Additional Notes: See Ch 1 for more information. Read on AO3 under "WizardGlick." Any formatting/italics errors are holdovers from AO3 that I was too lazy to fix. Chapter Content Warnings: N/A; ask to tag Excerpt: "I'm the scary one," Remus muttered in Janus' ear. "Not you. So don't ever scare me like that again, okay?" Janus considered the humor-to-consequences ratio of falling limp in Remus' arms and decided it wouldn't be worth it. "I won't."

If it all falls down, falls down, falls down

I can warm a crowd, I can make them shout

I can juggle verbs, adverbs, and nouns

I can make them dance 'til they all fall down

Janus woke up exhausted, which really wasn't fair considering the amount that he'd been sleeping lately.

Someone was stroking his hair, which was nice. Probably Remus. Remus wouldn't care that Janus' hair was stiff with dried sweat and that he hadn't brushed his teeth in who even knew how many days.

He shifted and nuzzled Remus' thigh.

Realization dawned slowly. Remus' nails were longer than this, Remus didn't smell like this, Remus had never sat still like this.

Janus couldn't even bring himself to be embarrassed at the mix-up. He was too tired and sore to really care who was petting his hair like this.

Except that it was probably Patton.

Subconsciously, Janus pulled the teddy bear closer to his chest. It had to be subconscious, because he would never cuddle a stuffed toy on purpose.

Janus opened his eyes.

Patton withdrew his hand like he'd been burned. "I'm sorry," he said, cheeks coloring. "Did I wake you up?"

Janus shook his head. His skin still tingled where Patton had touched him and he wanted it back so badly , but he didn't know how to ask.

"Remus made me promise I'd go get him next time you woke up. Well. Logan made me promise. Remus threatened me. Anyway!" Patton was already halfway to the door.

He was gone before Janus found his voice. "Don't go," Janus whispered to the air.

A moment later, Remus came barreling in with Logan in hot pursuit. Then came Virgil, then Patton again, and finally Roman.

Logan lunged forward to try to catch the back of Remus' shirt, but he was just a split second too late. Janus braced for impact, but Remus only fell on his knees by the bedside and pulled Janus into a tight hug.

"Awww," Patton cooed from the doorway.

"I'm the scary one," Remus muttered in Janus' ear. "Not you. So don't ever scare me like that again, okay?"

Janus considered the humor-to-consequences ratio of falling limp in Remus' arms and decided it wouldn't be worth it. "I won't."

Remus pulled back and made a lewd hand gesture. "Scout's honor?"

Janus manipulated Remus' fingers into the correct position and held his own hand up as well. "Scout's honor."

Remus nodded in apparent satisfaction, so Janus grabbed his shoulder and used it to haul himself upright. Virgil and Patton fidgeted by his desk while Roman leaned against the doorway and Logan hovered behind Remus.

"Well," Janus said, trying to sound better than he felt. "As you can see, I've died. Virgil will handle my estate, so please direct your concerns to him."

"Like I want all your pretentious steampunk crap," Virgil mumbled, looking around at the leather and brass and hardwood.

"It's art deco," Janus and Logan said at the same time, albeit with very different intonation.

Janus squinted at Logan, who seemed to take this as his cue to speak. "You need to eat something."

"Like a dick!" Remus crowed.

Janus sighed, expecting an uproar, but nothing more dramatic than general collective eye-rolling and awkward throat-clearing occurred in response.

Logan carried on, "Something light like chicken broth or dry toast." He cocked an eyebrow, indicating that this was a question.

"Goodness, however shall I choose," Janus said, trying and failing to keep the venom out of his voice. He did better on stage than he did under a microscope, yet here everyone was, studying him. It was all he could do not to squirm.

Patton's voice echoed in his ears suddenly:

He never asks for anything, he just talks around it until you figure it out on your own.

"Could you…" Janus balled both hands into fists. "I want…" He squeezed his eyes shut and expelled a breath through his nose."I just love that you're all in here staring at me. It's not awkward at all. " He fixed his gaze on the ceiling, only just managing to hold back a frustrated curse. Another failure. Another reason for the others to go back to hating him.

"Oh, gosh!" Patton said, but he didn't sound hurt or angry. "We're sorry; it's probably overwhelming to have us all in here at once, huh?"

Janus nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The feeling had grown uncomfortably familiar as of late.

"We'll let Logan look you over," Patton said. He shuffled out of the room after Roman, waving for Virgil to follow him.

Remus winked and wiggled his tongue at Janus. "Have fun playing doctor." He bounded out and shut the door behind him.

"So," Janus said, fidgeting with one of the teddy bear's ears. "He and Roman can stand to be in the same room as each other now?"

"It helps that they were both quite worried about you," Logan said. A pause. "As was I." He preoccupied himself clearing off a space on Janus' nightstand, willing a plate of dry toast into existence, then methodically taking the cap off a bottle of Gatorade and inserting a white bendy straw.

"Plastic straws are killing the sea turtles, you know," Janus said.

Logan looked at him, puzzled. "Rest assured, this one will not and indeed, cannot find its way into the water supply." A moment later he said, "Oh. You were making a joke."

"It's polite to laugh."

"Please excuse my rudeness, then."

Janus smiled. "I think Remus likes you," he said to cut the tension.

Logan tilted his head at the nightstand. "Why?"

Janus took the hint and began pulling the crust off a piece of toast. "I just have a feeling."

"Hm." Logan thinned his lips, but did not press the issue.

"Logan?"

"Yes?"

"What happened? When I was…"

"Incapacitated?"

"Sure."

Logan pushed up his glasses. "You were in a state of delirium for approximately five days. What is the last thing you remember?"

"Clearly? I had a conversation with Patton about… certain choices I had made in regards to Roman." Logan raised an eyebrow but did not interrupt. "It gets hazy after that. You and Patton were in my room, I think. And… I'm not totally sure this happened, but I seem to recall trying to apologize to Roman."

Logan nodded. "You did. Then you fainted in his room, and the ensuing chaos actually led to the temporary resolution of several interpersonal conflicts we had been experiencing."

"Just according to plan," Janus said, steepling his fingers. Logan didn't laugh. "Another joke."

"Please eat your toast."

"Alright, alright." Janus finished picking the crust off one slice and took a hesitant bite.

"Good." Logan nodded in approval. "To further answer your question, Remus has enacted a truce with Patton, Roman, and Virgil. Which essentially means that he agreed to 'tone down' his more distracting behaviors and the others would refrain from, ah…" Logan checked his note cards. "'Getting their strawberry-flavored edible panties in a twist'."

Janus nearly choked on his toast and made a hasty grab for the Gatorade. "How sweet."

"Yes, the sugar content of Blue Cherry Gatorade is regrettably rather high-- Oh. Yes, I suppose it was rather nice of everyone. Virgil also ceased his self-isolation for the sake of seeing you and talked a little about his feelings, as did Roman."

"Hmph." Janus shoved the rest of the toast in his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk. It had been his goal to fix everything, but not quite like this. Not at all like this, actually. He had become another piece on the chessboard, and not even a powerful piece like the queen. No, he was more like a bishop, moving laterally to move forward. And now he had no idea how to get what he wanted.

"Interestingly," Logan said. "I believe it was your involuntary display of vulnerability that led the others to treat each other more gently.

"I get it, I'm the hero," Janus said sourly. Hooray, he'd solved Patton's problems by running around like an idiot. How impressive.

"I was… I was trying to make you feel better."

Janus smiled despite himself. "Thank you. Really."

"Something is bothering you," Logan said. "I can't tell what it is. I had thought you might feel embarrassed, but you are handling matters very calmly, despite the fact that you have a tendency to raise your voice and lash out when agitated or threatened. This leads me to believe you are experiencing a different negative emotion, but I cannot identify what it is or why." Logan paused and cleared his throat, his eyes downcast. "This bothers me because you are my friend."

"I couldn't possibly be tired," Janus snapped, realizing a split second later he'd inadvertently proven Logan's point. "Oh."

Janus sighed and flicked over his metaphorical king, albeit in his own way. "I'm not thinking about all the ways a relationship with Patton could go horribly wrong."

"But you have a relationship with Patton--" Logan's eyes widened. "I see. Are you concerned that your feelings are unrequited?"

"Well, that and the opposite."

"I don't follow."

"Virgil told me that if I break Patton's heart, he'll break me . Literally."

"You're afraid of Virgil ?"

Janus ran his fingers over his temple and took in a breath while he waited for Logan to put the pieces together.

"You're afraid you'll hurt Patton."

"I'm not exactly known for my communication skills."

"Have you tried speaking sincerely instead of hiding your intentions with sarcasm?"

"No , the thought has never crossed my mind."

Logan smiled. "It was a joke."

Janus didn't hiss at him.

Logan continued, "I do think you should try to be honest with Patton."

"Easier said than done."

"But it can be done."

"I'll...think about it." Janus waved a hand to dismiss the topic.

[duanecbrooks]

A Sight For Sore Eyes     It's what could be called an old-time flick, having been released in--steady yourself--1969.       It features two leads who have long, long, long since gone off the radar, namely Jacqueline Bisset and Jim Brown (Actually, Brown has only sunk from sight as an actor. He has for some time had a third-act career--he began as a pro-football heavyweight, remember?--as an entrepreneur).         Having been released in, as was mentioned, 1969, its filmic style and the motivations of its characters would, in this overflowing-with-political-correctness age, likely be dismissed as greatly dated, even rather philistine.               However...     As the theatrical film The Grasshopper, which first unspooled in said year and which stars said folks--and which, in a leonine change-of-pace, I saw not on DVD but (and this is not a typo) on YouTube--proves, it is very much worth re-visiting, being--say what you will about it being Old Hat--an incisively-written, maturely-directed and, its strongest suit, sensitively-performed drama about following dreams, dealing with what life throws at you while you pursue those dreams, and, at last finally, is a cautionary tale concerning the fate of those who thoroughly, totally surrender their positivism, who allow themselves to be entirely swept up in all the crap that comes their way. The long-popular assertion goes: "Be careful what you wish for, for you might well get it." What The Grasshopper, with considerable style and genuinely impressive intelligence, says is: "Be sure to have a realistic perspective about what you wish for, otherwise there'll be hell to pay."             Let's get to the picture itself.                 We open with its heroine, 19-year-old Christine Adams (Bisset), sneaking down the steps of her house and outside--the latter after leaving a good-bye note for, as we'll come to discover, her parents--carrying luggage and, eventually, getting into a convertible and driving off. After she goes a distance, we see her car conk out and Christine having to hitch a ride. As she and her driver are riding along, she fills him, and us, in on her story: She's going to L.A. to hook up with her boyfriend, who works in that city. Also: Her past home life was far from tranquil, as is demonstrated via a flashback, wherein Christine thinks back to her incessantly warring parents. It all culminates in Christine giving her driver, and us, a verbal sketch of what she wants her life to be ("It's very simple. What I want is to be totally happy, totally different, and totally in love"). In time she's taken up by one Danny Raymond (Corbett Monica, a stand-up performer who was quite popular at the time), a Las Vegas-based comic whose humor fails to impact our girl (He freely acknowledges: "I'm not too funny, but you can't expect brilliance in the middle of the desert").           We press on. While transporting Christine, Raymond stops off at his employment base, namely Vegas, where he attends to some business and Christine takes in the sights and, in time, is summoned back to Raymond's side (He has the hotel announcer intone: "Will Christine The Hitchhiker please report to the front desk?"). Eventually she, and we, meet Tommy Marcott (Brown), a former pro-football star who is employed by the hotel as, well, a lure, as a celebrity whose fame is used to bring in customers. We also see Raymond trying to get close to Christine and she firmly resisting ("No, Danny. I like you. You're a lot of fun") but Raymond not being in the least dissuaded ("Stick around a few more minutes. I hate to be alone"). At last finally Christine gets to L.A. and Eddie, with whom she entreats to have a baby with her. Yet life with Eddie turns out to be far from the Paradise Lost she imagined and hoped it would be, as her job as Eddie's sister bank teller, she finds out to her dismay, is routine and boring (In an attempt to put some life into her life, she hands a customer the following note: "This is a hold-up. Give me your money and don't touch the alarm"). At one point she goes for a walk and, gazing into the windows of the other apartments, she sees the inhabitants fighting between themselves and otherwise engaged in the kind of dullish, mind-numbing activities she hates with a passion. Thus our gal leaves Eddie and returns to Vegas and Raymond.             To go forward: At first Christine's hooking back with Raymond turns out to be very pleasant for both of them (We see Christine happily lying in bed next to Raymond and his saying into the phone: "I gotta go now, 'cause there's this gorgeous girl just dyin' for my body"). Yet it all ends when Christine is informed by Raymond that his ex and their offspring are coming to visit. Next we see our heroine audition for a position as a showgirl. At first her auditioner is quite skeptical (Christine: "I did Little Women in school." Auditioner: "Did you do it nude?"), telling her: "Showgirls gotta have gigantic tickets [breasts]." Christine doesn't shirk at the least upon hearing this, firing back: "In my hometown I was considered one of the over-developed girls." At last finally Christine unbuttons her blouse and proudly shows her auditioner her "tickets," which causes the auditioner to happily hire her (The auditioner asks Arnold, his barber at the time: "Would you pay $12.50 to look at that [Christine's fully-exposed bosom]?" When Arnold smiles affirmatively, that to the auditioner is the deciding factor, which causes Christine to say: "Thank you, Arnold"). From there we witness our girl as part of the hotel's regular showgirl line-up and getting the 411 from a sister showgirl ("There are only two kinds of dancers in this line: great dancers and girls with friends") and, later, catching a performance by the hotel's resident rock group, The Ice Pack, wherein she becomes fast friends with a devoutly homosexual member of the group. Their friendship develops to the point where Christine informs him of her hopes and dreams ("I was thinking of becoming a stewardess...I like people. Maybe I'll meet a nice guy") and, after debating whether God did indeed create the world or whether the human race evolved from monkeys, standing side-by-side one night and gazing at the stars (Christine: "When you look out there, there's got to be a God." Homosexual buddy: "Or one hell of a monkey").     Going on: Christine's former beau Eddie comes to town, accompanied by his wife and their baby, all of whom, after a visit with Christine, make her quite wistful. Afterward she has further association with Marcott, who makes it abundantly clear that he kowtows to nobody unless he absolutely has to ("I used to be eight years old...I don't say anything unless I mean it"), and rebels when, during a conversation with some financiers, his employer casually manhandles him ("Don't do that, man. You make me feel like a piece of meat"). We then see Christine and Marcott riding a merry-go-round and the former further contending what she wants and expect regarding her life ("Sure I know what I want out of life. No, I don't. Yes, I do") and the workings of her inner self ("No matter where I am or what I'm doing, somewhere in the back of my head I'm thinking somebody is having more fun than I am"). They talk more and they exchange dialogue on Christine's priorities concerning her romantic life (Christine: "I hurt that guy I grew up with [Eddie]. And he hurt me." Marcott: "Everybody gets hurt"). Christine fervently urges that she and Marcott live together rather than get married but he loses no time shooting down that notion ("I've been that route. I don't want a chick to shack up with. I don't want a pad, I want a home"). At long last they decide to elope, which, when the woman at the Vegas chapel they turn to sees them with another couple, makes her quite antsy (Woman, into the phone: "I'm serious, Ted. A white girl, a Negro, a Jap, and a sissy").             Grasshopper moves forward. Now Ms. Tommy Marcott, Christine sets herself to getting her new hubby a less degrading job with the hotel. While swimming, she pushes to one of the aforementioned hotel's bigwigs for Marcott to given higher standing and, when the bigwig balks, she flatly spits water in his face. Next we see her with another hotel higher-up making the same case and, again, being unsuccessful (Higher-up: "Only your husband is special at shaking hands." Christine, walking angrily away: "You're a bastard"). The ante is upped when Roosevelt Decker (Ramon Bieri), a particularly wealthy financier, enters Christine's life. She--unwisely, as she, and we, will come to discover--accompanies him to his hotel suite and, not surprisingly, Decker loses no time in making a play for her. Also not surprisingly, she fully rebuffs him ("Mr. Decker, I really enjoy talking to you. Can't we just be friends?"). Decker, alas for her, doesn't take this well, first openly disparaging Christine's hubby ("I'm as good as any nigger"), then going on from there to literally beat the crap out of her. When she arrives home afterward, she shuts herself up in the bathroom. When Marcott forcefully orders her to open the damned door ("If you don't open the door, I'm gonna break it down"), she does and he, along with us, get a full view of her battered and bruised face. Cut to Decker playing golf and Marcott coming after him right there on the greens. Decker runs away but Marcott soon catches up to him and gives him the same aggressive beating that he gave Marcott's wife. The very next scene has the Marcotts in a car, hubby at the wheel, driving away from Vegas and he making it fulsomely clear that from now on their lives are going to be very different ("I'm gonna find myself a job where I don't have to play the clown. And you're gonna be my wife").             We continue. We next see our young lady at a laundromat, washing clothes and unmistakably bored peeless. In an attempt to enliven things, she spreads laundry detergent upon the floor and does an impromptu dance for the others doing their laundry. Following is a scene where Christine's old buddies, The Ice Pack, sneak up on her and following that are scenes wherein she had the same blast with them as before. It all bleeds into her growing disenchantment with her life with Marcott and it culminates in her flat-out confronting him (Christine, standing defiantly over him as he's sitting in a chair: "You don't really like my friends [The Ice Pack], do you?" Marcott: "Look, Chris, are you trying to start a fight?" Christine, still defiantly: "Yeah, maybe I am. Anything to liven things up around here"). Yet Christine comes to shake off her antagonism toward her husband and open herself to him ("I thought if I loved you, everything would be all right"). Things, however, go badly when Marcott, in the midst of shooting hoops on outdoor basketball grounds, is fatally gunned down, no doubt by a fellow specifically hired by Decker. This of course devastates Christine, who deals with her mega-anguish by, during the ride back from the funeral, ordering the driver to stop and pick up these two hippie types whom she sees standing around ("I don't give a damn what you think! Pick them up or I'm gonna jump out!"). We proceed to see Christine pouring her heart out to her homosexual pal ("The worst part is, I can't even grieve for Tommy...If only I knew [my crying] was for Tommy and not for me") and said buddy coming clean regarding whether or not she'll get justice concerning Marcott's murder ("I don't think [the authorities are] even gonna touch Rosie Decker"). Having experienced the real deal in the aforementioned way, Christine returns to Vegas and her former employer, who offers her financial assistance--which she adamantly refuses ("Wait, let me get my tin cup"). Her ex-boss then suggests that she go back to hometown and try for "civilian" work--a suggestion she also rejects ("And be a secretary for $300.00 a week?...I don't want my life to be a cliche"). It's here where her former boss-man throws down the gauntlet: "You're not that talented. You got a pretty face and a nice body...You're an average girl. Why are you knocking yourself out [to Be Somebody]?" Our heroine's response cuts right to the heart of the matter: "Why not?"             Going forth: Christine next hooks up with one Richard Sherman (Joseph Cotten), a highly rich older man who gives her a fur coat. Christine, naturally overjoyed at receiving such a present, hugs Sherman--which brings forth a lighthearted admonishment from him ("Christine, you'll break something!...There are certain rules you must follow when you're dating an older man"). Christine, for her part, solemnly assures him that he really and truly is The One ("I think what I've always wanted was a mature man, someone with whom I can have a real relationship"). Yet we next see the utter insincerity of her words, as we see her making out bare-ass-naked in the shower with Jay (Christopher Stone), a singer with The Ice Pack, who's also jaybird-naked. Christine, along with the rest of us, get the inside skinny on Jay's doings since Christine last saw him ("I didn't leave [The Ice Pack]. They fired me") and she gives him, and us picturegoers, the inside skinny about her actual needs ("I need someone. I'm lonely, Jay. I want to be in love"). Next: Christine is back with Sherman, who warmly extols her ("I'm not going to bore you with the old story of my wife not understanding me...You saved the day"). Afterward we see Chris back with Jay, who angrily lights into her ("Do you love me, Christine, or do you just think you do?...[W]hy don't you try the only thing you were ever any good at--balling?"). Jay winds up leaving Christine a "Dear John" note, and Christine, having reached the end of her rope emotionally/psychologically, gets this pilot to sky-write "Fuck it." (This being 1969, we natch don't see the full statement) As Christine is being taken in by the cops, she's asked how old she is. She replies rather listlessly: "22," which says volumes about all she's been through and the emotional/psychological toll it's all taken on her.             There's The Grasshopper, a skillfully-made cautionary tale about what happens to those who don't take care while pursuing their dreams. Ramon Bieri wholly chills the blood as Christine's eventual assaulter. The men in her life--Brown, Cotten, Monica, Stone--are all virile and appealing, each in their own ways, to make you see why Christine stayed with them as long as she did. The then-red-hot writing team of Garry Marshall and Jerry Belson (also Grasshopper's producers) come up with many engaging characters and many heart-tugging romantic entanglements. And as director, Jerry Paris--who would work with Garry in the future, helming many a Happy Days episode--deftly pushes the proceedings along, never, ever allowing even an iota of schmaltz or grandstanding to show. And one of the picture's key numbers, "Used To Be," is sung with impressive feeling by the intensely-beloved Carol Burnett sidekick Vicki Lawrence.               And at last finally there's Jacqueline Bisset. She is, quite simply, radiant. With her stylish beauty, her beauty-queen charm, and her lightning-rod energy, she absolutely walks off with the picture. Her smooth good looks and her volcanic sexiness positively dominate every scene she's in, easily heralding her breakthrough performance in her signature theatrical film The Deep (Fess up: Is there any one of us men who, when we look back on said picture, does not mightily drool at the memory of the opening when, while underwater, Bisset exposed her oh-so-succulent breasts?). Indeed, it's Bisset's Grasshopper portrayal that brings out this unarguable fact: Motion pictures were the most effective as a visual medium, when they entirely eschewed aesthetic considerations and presented luscious, well-bodied players who enchanted us with their vitality and their charm. It was the 1950s cinematic sexpot Ava Gardner who, in her classic personal/professional memoir, freely acknowledged, concerning her heyday: "I wasn't an actress--none of us kids at Metro [-Goldwyn-Mayer] were. We were just good to look at." In point of fact--and Bisset in Grasshopper abundantly proved this--pictures were at their best when they sidestepped artistic aspirations and simply gave us performers who "were...good to look at." (Television is, in the main, fantastically moronic. But the redemptive factor regarding it is that it's a visual medium. There's none of this crap about the director or about how some star "fell in love with the script." All that's necessary is to put Pamela Anderson or Carmen Electra or whoever on camera showing skin--or to put Kerry Washington on camera, period--and the battle is won)                     It was the fiercely-esteemed big-screen director Bruce Beresford who, in a forward to a compilation of picture reviews by a then-well-known critic, asserted: "I know it's not politically correct to say it...but...watching beautiful girls can do a lot to relieve tedium." It is "watching" Jacqueline Bisset, the "beautiful girl" of The Grasshopper, that "does a lot" to keep said picture from becoming "tedious." And how glad we are to have that specific "relief."